[FIC] Dark Blue Tennessee for linda92595

Dec 19, 2011 22:02

Gift type: Fanfic
Title: Dark Blue Tennessee
Author: rhiles_me
Recipient: linda92595
Rating: Adult
Word Count: 8060
Warnings: None
Spoilers: None
Summary: When Sam goes missing, Dean is willing to try anything to get him back. Even if that means working with a awkward accountant with blue eyes and a trench coat that claims to have a psychic link to Sam.
Author notes: None



Dean’s waist deep in case paperwork when his cell phone goes off, buzzing against the fake oak finish of his desk. It’s after ten and Dean’s doing overtime at the precinct, and he grabs his phone quickly to silence it.

When he sees the caller id his heart pounds a little hard in his chest, surprised.

He flips his phone open and presses it to his ear. “Sam.”

There’s silence on the other side of the line, and Dean pulls his phone back to look at it.

Call connected to Sam glows back at him.

“Sam,” he tries again, and then he hears a stuttered breath.

“Dean?” a voice asks quietly. The voice is distinctly feminine; it’s not Sam.

“Who is this?”

“This is Jess,” she says, her voice stronger now. “I’m Sam’s friend.” She hesitates on the word ‘friend’ in a way that immediately causes Dean to realize Sam didn’t tell him he had a girlfriend.

“How can I help you?” His pen is running out of ink and he presses it hard enough to tear through the paper.

“Is Sam with you?” she asks, and that causes Dean’s hand to stay. His head rises.

“No,” he says.

“Oh,” Jess says and her voice takes a sudden distressed turn.

“Where is Sam?” His heart starts to pound with unease.

The anxiety in Jess’ voice is doing nothing to quell Dean’s. “I haven’t heard from him since yesterday morning. I thought maybe he went to visit you.”

Dean stands abruptly and his chair rakes harshly against the linoleum. “He’s missing?”

“I don’t-…He calls me once every morning and once every night. He hasn’t called or texted, and he’s never done that before. I don’t know what to do.”

Dean’s got his jacket in his fist and is halfway out of the precinct before she speaks again, ignoring the calls from his partner after him. “Call the police. File a missing persons report.”

“Dean, I--,” she sounds afraid.

“Do it now, Jess. I’ll be there in a few hours.”

It takes Dean less than twenty minutes to get to his studio apartment and cram a duffel full of dirty clothes and a toothbrush before he’s on the road. He hits the interstate and jams the accelerator to the floor. The drive to Braden, Tennessee usually takes 9 hours; he plans to make it in five.

He’s past the halfway mark, a small town named Chahinkipa, when he receives a text from Sam’s phone. It’s Jess, and she’s done the task assigned to her.

Sam is reported missing on August 14th, 2010 at 11:45 pm.

Sam’s house is a small, one bedroom affair situated on the outskirts of Braden. A single light on the corner of the garage casts a soft yellow light the east side of the house as Dean pulls up the driveway. The Impala is hissing as Dean kills the engine, overheated, and when Dean walks past it to get to the front door, he pats her apologetically on the hood.

A house key is tucked underneath the door frame as Jess had said, and the front door sticks as he makes his way in.

It’s bigger inside than it looks outside, with a spacious foyer and an open living room. Dean makes his way through Sam’s house and forces himself to keep his hands at his sides. He won’t touch anything until he can go through and look for evidence in the morning.

Sam’s bed is large and neatly made, and it’s difficult, but Dean forces himself to kick off his shoes and lay down.

It’s overwhelming, being in Sam’s house for the first time, smelling Sam on the sheets and seeing pictures lining the walls that highlight how well Sam is able to get on without Dean in his life. He doesn’t let himself think of Sam as missing, not yet at least. The panic that is simmering in his gut isn’t any good to him until the morning when he can focus it into a productive force, so he tamps it down and bites his bottom lip so hard it cracks.

He forces his eyes to close and waits.

He doesn’t sleep.

Dean spends the majority of the next morning talking with Jess on the phone. Dean has to tell her several times not to drive from Stanford to Braden. Her concern is touching, but Dean works best when alone, and having a grieving girlfriend in Sam’s house would do nothing but hurt.

He learns that they went to Stanford together for their undergraduates, and that she teaches elementary education. She’s waiting for a job to open up near Braden so she can move out to be with Sam. Dean feels like he’s intruding on Sam’s private life, one he intentionally kept from Dean, so he tries not to ask any questions which aren’t relevant to Sam’s situation.

He convinces her to stay put with promises of calling her every night with updates.

“Do you think he’s okay?” she asks him as their conversation draws to a close.

“Yeah,” Dean says. “He’s probably just out on a little road trip.” But the answer reeks of condescension and he can tell by her soft sigh that she hears it too.

“Sam’s not the type to just run off, is he?” asks Detective Hendrickson. He’s the head of the Braden police department.

Dean shakes his head. “He didn’t run off. Something happened.”

Hendrickson nods, a frown creasing his features. “I didn’t think so. Sam seemed quite responsible for a kid just out of college.”

The police department is appropriately tiny, just a few rooms for desks and interrogation and a small lobby. Dean’s currently in one such interrogation room.

“We appreciate any help you can offer us,” Hendrickson says, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “With the kidnappings, we’ve been in way over our heads as of late.”

Dean had read about those. Girls going missing from surrounding towns, one every month or two. They’ve been found dead of strangulation a few weeks after being reported missing, like clockwork.

“You don’t think they’re related?” he asks.

“Hard to say,” Hendrickson grunts. “Sam is pretty much the antithesis of their preferred victim, considering they tend to go after weak, teenage girls. The latest is Caroline Prax. She was reported missing the night before Sam was. We haven’t found a single lead on her.”

Dean bites his lip hard and then says, “None on Sam either?”

“Not yet.” Hendrickson’s voice is soft when he continues. “I called your superior over in Lawrence, Detective Singer. He said you and Sam were close.”

Dean makes a noncommittal noise in the back of his throat. It’s none of Hendrickson’s business. “I’ll keep in touch.”

Hendrickson nods. “Keep us up to date and we’ll keep you up to date.”

“Sure thing,” Dean says as he heads out of the room. They’re going to be of no use to him and he knows it.

Braden is a pretty picture in small town America. Its main street holds the small post office, an old book store, a coffee shop and several antique stores. Most people who live in Braden work on these shops on Main, and it takes little time for Dean to make his way through all of them.

He asks everyone about Sam, and in typical small town fashion, everyone has something to say. Their answers are resoundingly the same: Sam is a nice kid, well liked, and respected in the community. He always tipped well and said please and thank you. Everyone loved him, and everyone is worried about him missing.

Dean never knew why Sam chose a tiny, no-where Tennessee town to eventually start his own law firm in, but he soon understands why. Small town American always suited Sam, and Braden is a shining example of that.

The coffee shop in town is called Cuppa Jo, and the owner, a young girl named Jo Harvelle gives him free coffee, and Dean spends most nights after questioning people sitting in the far corner of the shop and reading any local papers he can find.

People offer to help in his search, and he receives several casseroles and hot dishes, usually left on Sam’s doorstep with a note of condolence.

Dean throws them all out. If he eats them, he’s accepting that Sam’s gone, and he can’t bring himself to try one bite.

Three weeks pass. Dean canvases the town four times over. He talks to every local he can find until they all know him by name. He calls the local police department every day, asking for leads, clues, anything.

There’s nothing. Sam is just gone.

Dean goes to bed every night feeling more desperate than before. He has a hard time keeping much food down, and sleep does not come easily.

With each passing day, Dean has to come more to terms with the fact that the search for Sam has likely turned into a search for a corpse instead of a captive.

Dean’s trying to read the fine print of a police report in The Daily Herald when he exits Cuppa Jo, which is why he doesn’t see the man standing in the middle of the sidewalk and consequently crashes into him. The top pops off his cup of coffee when it collides against the man’s chest, and the piping hot liquid burns Dean’s hand as it soaks into the man’s coat.

Dean stumbles back, dropping his half-empty paper cup and shaking the coffee off his hand, cursing under his breath. The newspaper that was held in his other hand is dropped unceremoniously to the ground.

When he looks up, the man is standing there, utterly still, his eyes trained on Dean. The front of his trench coat is dripping with steaming coffee and Dean can see where it’s stained his white shirt underneath.

“Shit, sorry,” Dean mutters. The man’s head slowly cocks, drifting slightly to the side, and Dean reaches out to wipe some of the coffee off of him when he continues to stare.

It has to be burning his skin, and Dean feels bad for that, so when he wipes his hands on the thighs of his jeans asks, “Are you okay?” he’s surprised to see the man’s eyes darken.

“Dean Winchester,” he says. His voice sounds like it’s been boiled in hot water and then drug over gravel for a mile. His skin is a soft pale and his eyes are very blue and very tired.

“Yeah?” Dean’s never seen him around before, and he thought he had met every person in this town multiple times.

“I’ve found you,” the man sighs and he sounds profoundly relieved. “My name is Castiel.”

Dean’s eyebrows rise. “You’ve been looking for me?”

Castiel leans marginally closer. “Yes.” A slight breeze tugs at them and Dean sees a dark suit beneath the trench. He looks like an accountant. A tired, rumpled accountant who doesn’t blink very much.

“I don’t understand.”

Castiel takes a step forward then, setting off personal space bells in Dean’s head. “I need to help you find Sam.”

It feels like a slap, and Dean takes a measured step back. “Do you know something?” He can’t help the quiet steel that colors his voice.

“I can help you find him,” Castiel insists. He sounds oddly desperate and Dean’s gut clenches up with suspicion.

“Do you know something?” he repeats.

Castiel shifts his weight and his eyes scan the pavement before he looks up at Dean and says, “I can sense your brother. I felt it when he was abducted.”

Dean feels sick. “You’re a psychic,” he barely refrains from spitting. His tentative spike of hope deflates painfully fast and he’s left feeling angry.

Castiel watches silently as Dean’s emotion flare. When Dean lets out a shaky breath, he says, “Dean. I understand that faith does not come naturally to you-“

“Fuck off, man,” Dean growls. He shoulders past Castiel and is preparing to tell him to never talk to him again when Castiel reaches out and grabs the sleeve of Dean’s jacket.

“Sam is alive, Dean, please,” Castiel begs, and Dean’s not able to control the fury that roils over him and he spins to face Castiel, fist cocked back.

Dean knows the statistics. If Sam was abducted, it’s a near statistic impossibility that he’s still alive three weeks later. His knuckles pop in agony when his fist cracks against Castiel’s face, and he watches in perverse satisfaction as Castiel stumbles back and trips down to the pavement.

Castiel stares up at him, and Dean’s hit him so hard there’s blood in his teeth. “Dean,” he says.

“Don’t ever fucking talk to me again.”

Dean’s heart is racing when he turns away and makes his way towards Sam’s house. He focuses on the pain spiking in his hand instead of the way his shoulders are trembling and the breeze that brushes against him is cold.

Castiel is on Sam’s doorstep the next morning. His hands are down by his sides and he doesn’t flinch when Dean swings the door open with a little too much force.

“We need to talk,” he says simply, and Dean resists every part of him that wants to slam the door shut in his face. The only thing that stops him is the deep purple bruise that covers Castiel’s left cheekbone and spreads up near his eye. It’s green around the edges and Dean can see the blood pulsing beneath the swell. It looks painful.

Castiel looks at him, face all plain desperation. “Please,” he says, and his voice is so thick that it catches in his throat.

Dean stands there, door half open, and stares. He hasn’t changed clothes since yesterday and Dean can easily see the black stain from his coffee down the front of his shirt and coat. He looks exhausted and pathetic, and despite Dean’s buzzing sense of distaste, he can’t bring himself to shut the door.

“I just want to help,” Castiel reiterates. His hands ball into fists, bunching up his trench coat, and Dean can’t explain why he lets the door swing open but he does.

Later, he’ll blame it on desperation, on his willingness to try anything to find his brother. But the truth is that he sees his own fear reflected in Castiel’s eyes and it’s the most comforting thing he’s seen in weeks.

Castiel is stiff as he looks around Sam’s living room. He looks more at home among Sam’s book shelves and old furniture than Dean does and it makes his stomach roll a little.

He seems perfectly content to peer around the room in furrowed silence, so Dean clears his throat. Castiel’s eyes dart to him and he licks his lips.

“Sam’s alive, Dean.”

The words cause the same reaction in Dean they did the previous day. Anger chokes up his throat and he can see Castiel watch as his frame rocks into a rigid stance.

“I’m a police officer.” Dean forces his voice to be steady.

Castiel nods, eyes impossibly earnest. “Yes,” he says with a certainty to his voice that tells Dean he already knew.

“So you know that I know the statistics. Seventy-five of abductees are dead within forty-eight hours.” Dean hadn’t even allowed himself to think about it, and saying it aloud hurts. “It’s been three weeks.”

Castiel nods again. “I understand it’s unlikely. But I get the feeling Sam was never a very ordinary person.”

And isn’t that the fucking truth, Dean thought. But Sam was always far better at appearing like a normal human being than Dean was, and as far as Dean could tell, the good people of Braden took Sam to be nothing more than a good-natured law school grad with a tiny mortgage and a sweet girl.

There’s five feet of space between them, with Castiel standing in the middle of the living room and Dean hovering around the entrance to the kitchen, and Dean does nothing to close the distance.

Castiel continues to watch Dean, ever patient.

“You’re a psychic?” Dean tries. Conversation with this guy is worse than pulling teeth.

“No.”

Dean blinks, and so does Castiel. Dean can’t tell if he’s being difficult on purpose of if this is just how he interacts with people. He almost hopes it’s the former, because yikes.

“When did Sam go missing?” Dean asks in challenge, arms folding tight over his chest.

Without missing a beat, Castiel says, “The night of August 12th.”

It feels like a slap, and Dean almost takes a step back. Sam was reported missing the 14th. There’s no way Castiel could have known that Jess hadn’t seen him since the 12th.

“How do you know that?” His voice has a slight tremor in it, but he chooses to ignore it.

Castiel breathes out slowly. He moves to the overflowing bookcase to his right and lets his fingers trail on the spine of an old atlas. “I was asleep. I had a long day at work and I had gone to bed early. I was having a nightmare, and I woke up in a full sweat.” He looks at Dean. “I’d never felt more unease in my life. I knew, instantly, that Sam Winchester was in danger.”

Dean’s uncomfortable silence beckons Castiel to continue.

“I didn’t know who Sam was, only that he was in pain and in great fear. I couldn’t sleep the rest of the night. In the morning, I thought my mind had played tricks on me, but then a few days later, I saw him reported missing in the paper.” Castiel’s fingers brush along the ridge of a framed photo of Sam and Jess at a party. “I can feel his fear, even now. It’s weak, but I can feel it.”

Dean forces himself to take a deep breath. He can’t stop staring at Castiel, at the strange man filling his brother’s living room, and Castiel states steadily back.

“I just want to help. Please, Dean.”

“I can’t pay you,” Dean counters, almost cutting him off. “I’m practically broke.”

This confuses Castiel, and his head does that little tilting thing it does. “I would accept no financial compensation. I only,-“

“-want to help, right,” Dean mutters. He runs his hand over his face and pinches the bridge of his nose. He drops his hand and lets his eyes meet Castiel’s. After a moment, Dean feels something cave in him, and he says, “What do you need me to do?”

Castiel wants to touch everything. Dean refuses initially-this is his brother’s stuff they’re talking about, and he’s not about to let a stranger feel up Sam’s law book collection. But Castiel practically begs with his eyes, and Dean says fuck it, and goes to make a cup of coffee, giving permission to Castiel to do as he wishes.

When Dean returns, Castiel has Sam’s old LSAT prep book in his hands. He hears Dean enter the room, and without turning to face him, he says, “I can feel Sam in all of these possessions. Even now, here in his house, my connection to him is growing stronger.” He looks over his shoulder at Dean and lifts the book he’s holding. “There are many hours of study put into this book.” His hand traces over the cover. “I can feel the intensity of it here. Sam is an exceptionally intelligent individual. I imagine he did quite well on the test.”

Dean wants to respond that, yeah, Sam scored in the 99th percentile because he’s smart as fuck, but Castiel is on a roll so he lets it go.

Castiel slides the book carefully back in place and picks up another.

And so it goes. Castiel begins to slowly make his way around Sam’s living room, touching everything he can reach, letting his fingers linger on personal pictures and articles of clothing. Dean eventually settles into Sam’s lone armchair and simply watches, because as much as he should find this creepy and invasive, he’s mostly perplexed by the inferences Castiel is able to make about Sam. About the knowledge Castiel is gleaning that he should have no way of knowing.

“Sam loves her very much,” Castiel says when he finds another picture of Jess. “He was secretly shopping for a ring for her…”

When Castiel finds some of Sam’s college textbooks, he murmurs, “There is much anxiety here. Going to college was a decision that weighed heavily on him.” He thumbs through a Psychology 101 book carefully, ignoring the way Dean’s eyes are boring into him.

He finds a knife stashed above the door frame, and he rolls it in his hand. “You gave this to him,” Castiel says after a moment, looking to Dean.

“How do you know that?” Dean asks, arms crossing again.

Castiel answers, “It feels like you,” so softly that Dean almost misses it.

A loud rapping on Sam’s front door startles Dean from his reverie, and he drops the morning Herald on the kitchen table when he goes to the door.

Castiel is standing outside. His eyes are brighter than Dean’s ever seen them. “Let’s go,” Castiel says.

Dean is still in his pajamas. “Where?” He’s trying not to glare, honest.

“I don’t know. I just…I feel…” He sounds frustrated, and Dean watches him struggle for a moment before he mutters, “Okay, okay, hold on.”

Dean throws on some dirty clothes and dumps his coffee down the drain. When he gets outside, Castiel is standing next to the Impala.

They head east, and quickly leaving town and entering the country side. Castiel directs him, tells him once to take a left down a country road and then another left down another. It’s overcast and chilly, and even with the heat blasting, Dean can see Castiel’s breath fogging up the car.

Castiel looks agitated, sitting bolt straight in the passenger seat, eyes glued to the passing scenery. Dean can see his fingers trembling where they’re gripping his knees, and it’s such a change from the passive, stern man he’s used to seeing that it actually makes him nervous.

“Is…can you feel Sam?” Dean asks, trying to keep his eyes trained on the road. They’re going 75 miles per hour and the Impala is grumbling in protest as they whip around winding corners.

Castiel shakes his head abruptly but says nothing, so Dean has no way to interpret it.

Castiel remains silent for the next few minutes, until they’re nearly twenty miles out of town. The road they’re on is tree lined and has a posted speed limit of 55. Dean’s trying not to let Castiel’s rising anxiety pass on to him by resolutely ignoring the tense line of Castiel’s body next to him, so it scares the shit out of him when Castiel’s whole body jerks and he shouts, “There!”

Dean’s gut reaction is to slam on the brakes and he does. The Impala’s tires screech on the old asphalt, and her back end swerves to the middle of the road as they lurch to a halt.

Dean swallows his heart back down and looks around. Seeing nothing of importance, he growls, "What?” at Castiel, who practically has his face pressed against the glass of his window.

Castiel doesn’t seem shaken and he motions quickly for Dean to turn the car around. Dean curses under his breath but does as he’s told, turning the car in a wide circle until they’re facing the way they came. Now Dean can see a small, overgrown road to the left. It’s gravel and barely noticeable, but Castiel nearly rises out of his seat, breath coming fast when he says, “There,” and points at the road.

The road is narrow and not well driven, and Dean’s only able to pull into it about twenty feet before the underbrush forces him to stop. He puts her in park and turns to ask Castiel what he wants to do, but Castiel is already out, leaving the passenger door wide open.

He takes off like a bloodhound on a scent trail and Dean has to scramble to shut the doors and follow him as he disappears into the wood. “Castiel,” he hisses, voice dropping unconsciously. The air is quite heavy, the moisture in it making it thick and hard to swallow. It’s going to rain soon.

Castiel is just ahead of him, shouldering his way through the weeds and branches. His trench coat gets snagged and torn, but he impatiently tugs it free whenever it sticks, and keeps on.

They’re practically running, moving as fast as the terrain will allow, and despite his years of training, Dean feels himself nauseous with fear. He feels like he’s about to find Sam’s body, and the idea is enough to make him want to throw up.

After what seems like hours, Castiel breaks through an especially thick line of trees and into a clearing. Dean nearly runs into his back when Castiel stops like he hit a brick wall, and Dean stumbles to stand next to him.

The clearing is full of cars. There are rows of them, stacked atop each other or lying in pieces to the side. It’s a junkyard. Dean’s starts counting the cars and gets to twelve in one stack when Castiel starts off again, walking into the maze of cars and disappearing from Dean’s sight.

Dean follows him in, resisting the urge to pull his weapon. The unease in the air is palpable and he feels like he’s not able to draw in enough breath. He keeps a hand on his holster and follows Castiel’s footprints on the dewy grass.

The stacks of cars create walls around them, towering over their heads, and when Dean catches up to Castiel, he’s slowed down and is running his hands over cars slowly, looking up the columns of steel with deliberate care.

There are enough cars that Dean worries belatedly about getting turned around in there. He looks back to track the path they’re taking in his mind, and when he looks forward, Castiel is a few dozen feet away, both hands spread open on the windshield of a blue Honda Civic.

It’s Sam’s car.

The breath rushes out of Dean like it’s been punched out. He approaches the car and pulls Castiel back by his sleeve. “Don’t touch anything,” he murmurs, eyebrows furrowed to a sharp point. He peers into the driver side window, forcing his hands into his jacket pockets. He wants nothing more than to rip the door open and tear through the car, to look for any sign of his brother.

But he can’t. Castiel’s breathing is labored next to Dean, his breath fogging the air, and Dean takes a few long moments to look around the car.

There’s no structural damage to the outside car, and after a minute of looking, no sign of struggle on the inside.

He grits his teeth and pulls out his phone. He doesn’t want to, but he dials the Braden police department and sighs when it’s picked up on the second ring.

Dean clicks his phone shut and lets it fall to the car seat. Castiel looks over at him, raising an eyebrow. It’s dark outside, and they’re about to pull into Sam’s place. They several hours at the junkyard with the police, but were asked to leave when the sun set.

“Detective Hendrickson said they found a small property a mile or so from the junkyard. They searched the house. They said it was a dump but they couldn’t find anything incriminating.”

Castiel nods, streetlights casting a dim glow on his face. “Sam wasn’t anywhere near there.” He sounds exhausted and his eyes are drooping low.

“They’re dusting Sam’s car for prints, but they probably won’t find anything. No signs of struggle.” Dean shifts in his seat. “They think they found that other girl’s car, too. Caroline’s. The plates are off it and its empty so they have to run the VIN, but it’s looking like it’s hers.”

Castiel nods again but remains silent.

“Still, finding Sam’s car,” Dean says, looking over at Castiel. “I mean. That’s really good.”

Castiel does a stiff imitation of a shrug. “It’s not Sam.”

“No, it’s not,” Dean agrees quietly.

The hum of the Impala fills the silence between them as the road stretches out like a long, black ribbon before them.

When they hit the outskirts of Braden, Dean asks, “Where do you want to be dropped off?”

Dean catches the fleeting panicked look that crosses Castiel’s face. “Uh,” he says eloquently.

Dean frowns. “Where are you from?”

Castiel looks trapped, and he looks pointedly out the window. “A few towns over. I told you, I
searched for you.”

Dean’s frown deepens. “Where have you been staying?”

Castiel doesn’t answer. Dean can see the firm set to his jaw and grunts under his breath as he presses gently on the accelerator.

“Don’t steal any of Sam’s shit,” he says when they get to Sam’s place.

Castiel protests profusely, but Dean pushes him down onto the couch and throws him a blanket, and that’s that.

They don’t talk about it. Castiel just stays. In retrospect, Dean figures he should have been a little

more cautious, but he rationalizes it with the fact that if Castiel gets another brain blast about Sam, he wants to be there for it.

Castiel spends most of the day walking slowly around Sam’s house. He looks through photo albums and watches home movies-anything to try and strengthen the connection between him and Sam. Certain objects have more pull to them, and he spends the most time with them.

After a week, he asks if he can sleep in Sam’s bed. Dean says no without hesitation and tells him to go back to pressing Sam’s jacket in his face.

A week later, the police find Caroline Prax’s body in a ditch thirty miles out of town. Her body was naked and the marks around her neck indicated strangulation, like the other victims. They find hair fibers on the body, and at Castiel’s prompting, Dean submits some of Sam’s DNA as a comparison.

It’s a match. Caroline had several strands of Sam’s hair tangled up in her own when she died.

Dean swallows a pit of nausea when he hears the news. And when Castiel comes to him and quietly explains that he’s drained all of Sam’s possession of his aura, Dean brings him to the bedroom and pushes him down onto the bed.

“Find him, Cas,” he says, and can’t bring himself to be embarrassed for the begging in his voice.

Dean has a long day with little results with the Braden police department, and he’s frustrated to the point of wanting to go out and get drunk. Its good Castiel is sitting in Sam’s kitchen when he gets home, table set with paper plates and ham sandwiches, or Dean may have said fuck it to three years sober and gone to Braden’s local dive.

Castiel is unusually quiet while they eat and Dean can’t help but continue to throw him concerned glances. Something’s bothering him, Dean can tell, but Castiel doesn’t open up unless he wants to, and Dean has to let it sit.

His answer comes when Dean is preparing for bed. Castiel’s wearing Dean’s boxer shorts and one of his old t-shirts; Dean felt weird lending him Sam’s clothes. When Castiel stands there in awkward silence, Dean mutters, “Spit it out already.”

Castiel has lost weight since Dean met him. Dean has too, but it’s noticeable in his sunken cheeks. His eyes are impossibly dull. “I need more Dean.”

Dean sits on the bed, back against the headboard. He sighs. He’s too tired for cryptic shit. “More?”

Castiel nods solemnly. “I can hardly feel Sam.” He sees Dean’s eyes flash and he adds

quickly, “He’s still there Dean. Just…muted. I fear I’ve drained his aura from his possessions. Completely, this time.” He looks guilty as fuck and Dean doesn’t get why.

“So you’re useless?” Dean asks, and his voice cuts. He can see it in the way Castiel’s chin drops slightly.

“No,” Castiel responds, voice getting a little hot. “I just need more. I believe there’s a massive source of Sam that I haven’t tapped into yet.”

“His car is in evidence, Cas, I told you that.”

“I don’t want the car.” He’s getting more sure of himself now.

“What then?”

Castiel looks Dean in the eye and says simply: “You.”

Dean blinks. “Come again?”

Castiel moves to the side of the bed and Dean can’t even be bothered to move away. He stares up at him.

“Sam’s hold on you is quite…astonishing,” Castiel says carefully, eyes roving over Dean’s face. “There is a lot of Sam in you. He gave you a piece of his soul the minute he was born.”

Dean wants to glare at Castiel, but he’s just so tired. He looks at his own knees and then back up at Castiel’s face. “You’re losing him, huh?”

Castiel’s frown creases his whole face, but he nods reluctantly. “He’s close, Dean. I just need to feel him a little more. Please.”

It’s been awhile since Castiel had to beg Dean for anything and seeing the desperation on him is what breaks Dean. He rubs his hand on his face and motions for Castiel to sit.

Castiel does, and he leans easily into Dean’s space. He holds out his hands and Dean takes a hard look at his face before placing his hands in Castiel’s. Castiel’s eyes drift shut and he begins to feel at Dean’s fingers.

Castiel’s fingers are slim and cool against Dean’s, and Dean’s calloused finger pads scrape against Castiel’s soft palms. Dean lets his eyes close, forcing himself to breathe out slowly.

Castiel’s breathing is quiet and steady, the only sound in the room, and Dean can hear little noises from him when he feels something desirable-a touch of Sam, somewhere in Dean. His fingers touch the webbing between Dean’s, then trace up his wrists, and goose bumps trickle up Dean’s arm, giving him chills.

“I never knew,” Castiel breathes as his hands slide along the crease of Dean’s elbow. “You two have such a hold on each other.”

Dean nods, eyes still shut, and his breath starts to stutter in his lungs. He doesn’t know what he was expecting, but this isn’t it. He can feel Castiel. He can feel his energy and his essence creeping along Dean’s veins and making his hair stand on end.

Castiel’s energy is cool and crisp, and Dean feels like his breath may be fogging when Castiel’s hand grips Dean’s shoulder tightly and makes his lips part on a soft gasp.

Castiel is making these soft noises, reverent almost, as he lets his fingertips slide along Dean’s skin. His eyes are squeezed painfully shut and he murmurs “Dean,” like he’s amazed at what he’s feeling. He’s practically sitting in Dean’s lap, their chests inches apart.

When Castiel’s hands drift up to Dean’s neck, Dean finds himself tilting in, the breath all rushing out of him, until his forehead nudges against Castiel’s. Castiel lets his fingers run over the skin of Dean’s jaw and their breath mingles together, hot on Dean’s lips.

Castiel’s touch feels icy against Dean’s warm skin, and when Castiel’s thumb traces over his bottom lip, Dean’s tongue touches at it, and the temperature difference makes Dean’s toes scrunch.

Dean finds himself rocking towards Castiel, gone boneless in his hold, and a firm hand on his chest startles him from his trance.

Castiel is staring at him, eyes a deep, dark blue. He looks less tired than before. “Thank you,” is all he can say, and Dean can see how he’s struggling to breathe normal.

“Yeah,” is all Dean can muster. He scrubs at his arms to chase away the goose bumps and pulls away, retreating to the left side of the bed. He turns out the light a minute later and hears Castiel slowly crawl under the covers.

It’s near three am when Castiel awakens with a shrieking gasp. Dean startles awake and hits his fist against the light switch until it flicks on, and by the time he does, Castiel is out of the bedroom and crashing around the living room.

Dean’s heart is pounding out of his chest and he shakes the sleep from his vision and trots out to the main room where Castiel is frantically pulling on jeans. He catches Dean’s eye and his eyes are bright, almost glowing, and he hisses, “Sam,” so strained that it sparks terror in Dean.

Dean pulls on some pants and a jacket and is shoving his feet into his boots when Castiel takes off out the front door. Dean follows him, tripping over his shoe laces, and Castiel is sitting in the passenger seat of the Impala when Dean makes it outside.

Castiel is thrumming with nervous energy and it’s enough to make Dean crazy as he pulls out of Sam’s driveway and jams the accelerator to the floor. Castiel is literally shaking, practically seizing next to Dean, fingers jumping and twitching, eyes darting back and forth as he tries to see outside.

Its pitch black out and Dean can’t see anything as the fly down the road into the countryside.

“Is he okay?” Dean asks as they take a turn so hard the tires squeal. “Is he alive?”

“He’s here, Dean,” Castiel says, voice guitar-string tight.

Castiel directs him with sharp instructions, turn here, turn there. After what seems like ages, the headlights flash on a small gravel road and Dean instinctively slams on the breaks. The Impala fights her momentum and slides, drifting sideways and almost off the road. She’s no sooner stopped than Castiel is opening his door and taking off.

Dean doesn’t even bother to shut his door as he takes off after him as fast as he can. Castiel disappears into the woods that line the road and Dean’s feet hit gravel and he knows-they’re back at the junkyard.

Castiel takes a different route, this time heading east from the road, bypassing the junkyard all together. The woods are less thick here, and in the dim moonlight, Dean can hardly see Castiel’s white shirt glowing as Castiel weaves in and out of trees.

They trip and stumble, Castiel falling more than once after getting tangled in brush, but they keep on. Dean has not a clue what they’re chasing, but Castiel is near frantic, clawing his way through the weeds and it’s all Dean can do to keep up.

Castiel is wheezing for air after a few minutes of their pace and Dean himself is feeling light headed when the woods break and they enter a small clearing. At the far end, Dean can barely make out a dark structure. He realizes belatedly that it must be the property the police searched when they found the junk yard .

Castiel doesn’t come to that conclusion though, or at least, exercises no due caution. He runs at the building, faster than Dean can keep up with, and Dean tries desperately to catch him. They need a plan.

But Castiel hits the front steps running, appearing in the small deck light suddenly, and he throws the front door open.

Dean is just a few feet behind him, so he gets a full view of the man stepping into the door frame and swinging like a batter. A shovel cracks against Castiel’s skull and throws up back, off of the deck and onto the mossy ground. The wielder appears, coming into the porch light to look at Castiel, and when he sees Dean, it’s too late.

Dean slams into him with the full force of his momentum, and it’s enough to knock the man off his feet. He’s a large man, over six feet, and Dean falls hard atop him. They scrabble on the deck, elbows flying into each other’s faces.

But Dean’s faster, and when his fingers close around the handle of the shovel, he doesn’t think. He swings. And swings. And swings. The shovel makes a sickening crack when it collides again and again with the man’s head, and Dean throws his whole weight into it, his shoulders aching from the force of it.

When he drops the bloody shovel, the man isn’t moving, and won’t be.

He’s shaking with adrenaline and he stumbles down the steps to Castiel, who is trying to sit up, but swaying badly.

“Cas, Cas,” Dean says, dropping to his knees and grabbing his shoulders. There’s blood coating Castiel’s face, thick in his hair and dripping down his chin. “Hey, Cas, are you with me?”

Castiel struggles against his hold and a sick gurgle comes out of his mouth. Castiel sits heavily, blood soiling the grass and he pushes Dean violently. “Dean,” Castiel cries in agony. “Sam is in there.”

The house is small and filthy. Every surface is covered in garbage and it reeks of feces. A small light in the kitchen lights the upper level, and Dean makes his way through as quietly as he can, shovel in hand.

It’s completely quiet, unnervingly so, and even as Dean checks each room on the main level, he can hear Castiel gasping for breath outside.

Dean steps on something that feels furry and dead as he heads down the stairs, and he kicks it away with a harsh flick of his ankle.

The basement is in similar shape, full of garbage and shit, and the smell is so overpowering that Dean almost gags. The basement is a single room, and it takes no time to realize he’s alone. The house, save for the bloody man outside, is empty.

Dean lets himself stop, shovel dropping to the ground with a heavy clank, and he breathes in the filthy air. He tries to get his heart rate down, tries to swallow the bitter anger that’s rising in his throat. He grips his knees and puts his head down, trying not to puke, and it’s then that he sees a wooden panel in a far corner, on the floor.

It’s a cellar door. Dean approaches is slowly, wary, and when he tugs on the handle, the doors swing easily open. It’s completely dark.

Dean grabs the shovel and peers down into the black. He hears movement.

“Hello,” he calls, voice rough and wheezing.

The movement stops abruptly and Dean can hear nothing but the pounding of his heart until a weak voice calls up, barely audible. Dean drops the shovel and nearly falls to his knees when he hears his baby brother’s voice call, “Dean?”

It’s a miracle, or so the police say. Sam is starved and bruised and undoubtedly traumatized but he’s very much alive, which is more than Dean had ever hoped to ask for.

He cries when he sees Dean, after he’s pulled from the cellar. Big fat tears rolling down his dirty face, and Dean can’t stop himself from grabbing him and hugging him so hard it has to hurt. They ride to the hospital together, Dean and Sam and Castiel, and Sam keeps getting growled at by the paramedic for taking his oxygen mask off.

He explains that he was at a gas station outside of Braden when he a man ambush Caroline Prax and stuff her into the truck of his car. Sam turned away to call 911, and when he turned back to look, the man was there, and he slammed the butt of a rifle into Sam’s forehead and then shoved him in the trunk with her.

They kept him alive because he was male. Caroline, like the other female victims, was dead within 48 hours. The total victim count was 13.

The police eventually piece together that they had been keeping Sam in a small farmhouse a few miles farther west of the junkyard. They had only moved Sam to the junkyard house that night. And when Sam had gotten geographically close enough, when they threw him in that cellar, Castiel had woken up with a scream.

Castiel is released from the hospital after a few days, after being stitched up and heavily medicated. Dean doesn’t get to see him, as he has a hard time leaving Sam’s side for any definite amount of time.

Sam’s been in the hospital for a week when Dean sees Castiel in the hospital lobby. Castiel sees him and a smile breaks over his face, small, but bigger than Dean’s ever seen on his face.

“Cas,” Dean breathes, putting his hands on Castiel’s shoulders to steady him. The left side of Castiel’s face is dark blue and black, all angry bruise and Dean’s own face aches in

sympathy. He has a line of stitches that runs from his eye down to his jaw, and he basically looks like he lost in a fight with a Mac truck. Or a shovel.

Dean struggles to say anything, eyes roving over Castiel’s beat up face, and Castiel’s hand covers Dean’s. “I’m okay, Dean,” he says softly. His eyes crinkle around the edges when he smiles. “How is Sam?”

Dean shakes his head and tries to pull himself together. “Oh, man, Cas, he’s good. He’s real good. He needs to stay for a while longer to get his strength back, but.”

“Are you okay?” Castiel asks next and Dean laughs.

“Yeah,” he says, and he sucks in a deep breath. “I didn’t think…” Castiel’s head tilts. “I never thought it could end this well, Cas. I have you to thank for that.”

Castiel is smiling at him, almost like a real person, and somehow that’s what hits Dean as most surreal about everything.

“May I?” Castiel asks, and his hands reach out to Dean.

Dean spares a glance around the crowded lobby before grunting and shrugging, uncomfortable.

Castiel takes Dean’s face in his hands carefully and closes his eyes. Dean feels it then, the cool tendrils of Castiel’s energy, flooding his jaw and neck and making his lips fall open in a gasp. He lets his eyes shut and feels Castiel feel him, shivers when goose bumps prickle up his neck.

Castiel breathes out slowly, and Dean can feel his breath fan over his face. “You feel so light, Dean,” Castiel murmurs reverently. “It’s amazing.”

Then Dean’s smiling too, and when he opens his eyes, Castiel is right there, and it’s the easiest thing in the world to tip his head and press his lips to Castiel’s. Castiel’s lips are cool and smooth and when his mouth opens, Dean revels in the cold of his mouth pressed to Dean’s.

They pull back when they hear a throat cleared roughly and Dean can’t help the small laugh that bubbles out of him.

“So impossibly light,” Castiel says happily, and Dean can taste him on his lips and it’s amazing.

“Come on,” Dean says, locking eyes with Castiel’s bright, bright blue ones. “I think it’s time you meet my brother.”

Slinging his arm over Castiel’s shoulder feels like the most natural thing in the world, and Dean can’t believe how happy he feels as he leads Castiel to Sam’s room.

length:5k-10k, #xmas 2011, rating: nc-17, gift type: fic

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