Beneath Every Layer of Skin - I
He dreams.
“We'll be back. For you.” The ancient, dripping thing inside their friend had burbled out the words, as if the black blood sludging from its pores was filling up its lungs.
Dean would say only so much, but Sam's imagination was good enough. He'd seen enough people die, seen enough good people become warped. He'd seen a thousand possessions and illusions, and nightmares made of the bones of friends. He'd seen enough of that mess of a man go into the water, blood and black stained hands spread wide, like he was expecting to be baptized by the early morning sunlight. The image of Lucifer had backed off, for the minute, but his joyful laughter still clicked near the back of Sam's skull.
Dean had pulled that sodden overcoat from the water and Sam's voice had gotten lodged in his throat somewhere, a lump he couldn't quite swallow down. The grief of death had broken over Dean's face and for a moment Sam really did believe that the world was nothing but a torture.
“Okay. So, he's gone,” Dean had said, voice phlegm thick. His shoulders square, but too rigid, strung taut as if about to snap. “Dumb son of a bitch.”
Bobby had opened his mouth, a small noise breaking out, a half of a cough, before he closed it again awkwardly. He frowned, his eyebrows drawn, and crossed his arms over himself.
The silence stretched, and Dean gulped, as if waiting for something, anything, to break it, something he could latch onto, and build on, to keep himself upright.
Nothing came.
Dean's mask broke. He had not fallen to his knees, or brought his arms up to shield his face - his shoulders had merely fallen, snapped like a puppet without strings.
Sam swayed, dangerously, leaning back against the corrugated metal fencing, knees weak as he watched his big brother cry. Dean was quiet, not a sound to betray him, but only at first. It was the pent up grief of years, dissolved into heavy-hearted sobs that could only have been made by a man shattered.
Sam watched and held his face so carefully blank. He had no right to cry. He had stabbed Castiel in the back, he reminded himself. He'd practically driven Cas into the water, believing in him only when it was convenient. It was not his grief, no matter how much he might have wished for something different.
He did not cry, but he did squeeze his hand so fiercely against the fence that blood oozed from the broken stitches of his mutilated hand, dripping sluggishly from his fingers and down onto the grass. Bobby had covered his eyes, perhaps to spare Dean some small embarrassment or perhaps to scrub away any traces of his own emotions. Sam looked once more to his brother, his chest filled with a hollowing ache at the sight at the hunched, trembling shoulders.
He found himself running. There were no footholds. There was no easy pathway around the reservoir. It was far from the best idea he'd ever had, but he didn't particularly care. Anything was better than listening to the devil jeer at him from the corner of his mind, better than standing stupidly by and just letting life screw them over once again. He heard his brother call out for him from the shore just as he hit the water, heard Bobby curse him and his stupidity.
Icy water hooked its cold claws into his ribs, pulling him down with all the weight of his many layers of clothing, but Sam swam, ignoring the drag of the water and the painful hitching in his chest. The thinking part of his brain finally kicked into action, reassuring him with paranoid clarity that the Leviathans were in the water, were the water, waiting just out of sight in the darkness where they could tear into him at any second. If by some small chance they weren't, if they had moved on to murkier pastures, it didn't change the fact that there simply would be no body to find, but for bloody bits and pieces if the Leviathans had left any scraps of their meal behind. Sam would fail, and he would drown for it.
No, it really was not his best idea.
Sam looked back only once, saw Bobby restraining his brother from the shore, before dark water filled his eyes again and he had to keep swimming, lest his tired body give into the ache of his recently sleepless nights. It took him an age to reach the place where he'd seen Castiel disappear, however small the reservoir might have seemed from the shore. Sam had to take several gulps of air before he could dive.
It wasn't terribly deep, but the water was an impenetrable dark green. Light did not reach the bottom, though reeds - he hoped they were only reeds - and slime filled the water around him, caressing his heavy limbs, inviting him to stay beneath the surface. Sam kept diving, further and further out, expanding his search. In between dives, his brother's hoarse calls rang out from the shoreline, but Sam needed to do this, needed to at least try to do something.
Sam dove again and again, and in each dive the cold water buried itself like needles into his limbs. Little pinpricks of light broke the edges of his vision, his lungs burned, his body ached in every inch, until suddenly, finally, he seized up. His arms couldn't do another stroke. His legs couldn't kick. All the denim, flannel and his heavy boots were dragging him down. It took all of his effort simply to keep his face just above the surface of the water, and though his ears were waterlogged, he could vaguely hear Bobby and Dean's muffled shouting. The morning sun filtered onto his face, warmed it, his eyes drifting nearly closed as the water lapped teasingly at his nostrils. He wanted nothing more than to sink.
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a flash of something pale. It floated on the far side of the lake, barely visible behind the trees, drifting pathetic and aimless near the bank where the reservoir splintered off into a river. It couldn't have been in sight from the tiny piece of shore that Bobby and Dean stood on, nor from the opposite bank at all. He gasped, swallowed a mouthful of algae slick water, sputtered weakly, and turned to the shore. He didn't have the voice to call out through the distance, but he flailed his arm in what he'd hoped indicated to follow. Dean and Bobby took off running into the treeline.
Sam gathered up a last burst of energy, propelling himself mindlessly until he hit the opposite shore and crawled up upon it. It was pure stubbornness that brought him to his feet and got him walking towards the figure sprawled near the rocks. He gasped weakly as he walked, doing his best to get his breathing back. It was a body, nothing more, but it was a body they could bury.
Castiel had washed up on the shore, stretched prostrate on the ground and mostly naked, his remaining clothes shredded. His arms were thrown up, clawing at the sand with the rigidness of the dead, as if he were trying to haul himself from the water. Sam gasped desperately for breath, falling to a crouch nearby with his hands close to the exposed skin of Castiel's back, though his fingers merely hovered. He did not dare to touch the body until Dean and Bobby came crashing across the shallow stream, cursing as water filled their boots. Dean's eyes were an angry red against the green of his irises.
“What the hell were you thinking, you dumb son of a-?!” he bit out, teeth tightly set. Dean saw and said nothing more. Bobby's eyes were wide.
They stood and crouched silently, circling Castiel's- Jimmy Novak's - body, rife with indecision. Bobby was the first to say anything, though he spoke hesitantly. “At least we can give the poor, stupid bastard a proper funeral.” Dean stood frozen, muscles tensed. His teeth were clenched tight in a painful grimace that pulled his whole face and made him look far older than he should.
Reluctantly, Sam spoke, looking anywhere but at the lines crossing deeply over his brother's face. “I'll... I'll carry him,” he volunteered, not sure if he had the strength.
Bobby nodded, mouth drawn, and Dean said nothing to combat him, so Sam tentatively touched the cold, glistening skin of Castiel's back. He rolled him over slowly, trying to avoid looking at the slack face and lips streaked with black blood. He looked anyway, finding himself surprised at how peaceful it seemed, despite the long lashes and limp hair plastered against his skin. The ruined shirt ripped under Sam's grasping fingers, falling off in stained strips and exposing his shoulders. The body was lighter than Sam expected. He hooked his arms tightly under Castiel's chest and knees, pulling him close to his own chest.
“Wait,” Sam breathes, barely daring. “Wait. He's breathing!”
Dean looked at him with bloodshot, unreadable eyes, then bent over the body in Sam’s arms. “Cas,” Dean said with an edge to his voice. “Castiel, you feathery bastard, is that you in there?” The coat was still gripped tightly in one of his hands, belt dragging limply on the ground. No one would be able to tell that Castiel wasn't dead, not when his skin was so pale, purple blooming around his eyes and fingers.
Sam kept Castiel pressed tightly against his own chest. The slow but steady rise and fall of Castiel's breath meshed with his own, reassuring him that something was still alive in the vessel. Something was still there. Sam cradled Castiel's body and dared to wish.
Castiel, or whatever was left keeping the vessel alive, did not stir. Dean dropped the coat and his hands shot up, gripping Castiel's upper arm. The corpse pale skin began to discolor under the pressure of his fingers. “Come on, Cas. You can't just do this again!” Dean's knuckles turned white.
“Dean, come on, that won't help!” Sam wrenched Castiel away, eyebrows knit.
Dean stilled, took a deep breath, his hands falling to his sides, though Sam could see them shaking. Rather than picking up the overcoat, Dean removed his own jacket, draping it over the practically naked man.
Bobby clapped his hand on Dean's shoulder and Sam hauled Castiel tighter into his arms, preparing for the long trek back around the lake.
“Excuse me?” a small voice from the woods said. Bobby had a knife ready in the blink of an eye, though Dean just looked at the intruder with a look that could kill.
The woman recoiled. Her brown hair fell in wiry waves, framing her face. The beginnings of lines traced her eyes and around her mouth. She was dressed like a hiker. She caught her breath and boldly stepped forward again. “You should come with me.” Her eyes became unfocused, as though she was a thousand miles away. She nodded to herself, biting her lip. “My cabin is near here.”
Bobby's eyebrows flew dangerously close to joining his hairline. “Excuse me, Lady, but we don't know who the hell you are.” He didn't lower the knife.
She opened her mouth like a fish, closed it, and her face slid into that far off look again. “Daphne. Daphne Allen is my name.” Her eyes raked over Castiel's limp form. “And he is the one I was told to find here.”
“By who?” Dean asked incredulously.
Daphne shifted her weight, eying all three of them with trepidation. “God.”
Castiel did not wake as they slowly followed Daphne to her cabin, a heavy silence draping over them. Dean and Bobby never lowered their weapons, but Sam didn't have even a spare bit of energy to dedicate to doubting her. True to her word, there was a cabin just down the shore, “a rental” she explained happily as she unlocked the front door with an old fashioned key.
The inside was a wash of pale blue, decorated with off white lace. A cot was all set in the front room, with a new pair of plain white men's sleepwear lying on the sheets. Daphne kindly ripped off the tag, though she seemed a bit too eager to stay behind and watch Sam and Dean slide the unconscious man into them. The pajamas were several sizes too big, and hung off Castiel's frame like drapes. Bobby took Daphne aside to the kitchen and shut the door, where their low voices rose and fell, a dull hum to Sam. He was just so tired. The wall clock read noon, which didn't seem possible. Dean, a cheerful mask in place once more, made him lie down on the couch, and before he knew it, he had fallen into a deep and dreamless sleep.
Sam awoke some hours later to the whisperings of Lucifer, the cabin room dark and quiet around him. He fought off confusion and panic, nearly falling off the couch in the process, which Lucifer seemed to find hilarious. Sam sat for a few minutes in the silence, broken only by Castiel's weak breathing, and the thud of Lucifer's boots as he paced by the door, smiling patiently. The hallucination's clothes and face were stained with slowly drying blood.
The door to the kitchen swung quietly open and Dean entered with two steaming mugs in hand. Lucifer leered at him as he entered, stained hands flexing. “Mornin', sleepy head,” Dean said with false cheer, bringing him a cup of hot tea with more whiskey than tea in it. Sam could smell it from across the room. “Or night, really. It's like midnight, man.” Dean flipped on the front room light, sparing a glance at the motionless form of Castiel.
“Has he woken up yet?” Sam asked quietly, sitting up and folding his stiff and weary legs.
“Nope. Between the two'a you I think you've slept more than I have in my entire lifetime.” Dean was all charm and smiles, but his grin was stretched too tight, his eyes darting away.
Lucifer smiled, practically giggling. “He can barely look at you,” he said, moving behind Dean and raking his eyes over his back. “What have you done to his poor little heart, Sam?” Sam readjusted his legs restlessly, avoiding the hallucination's cutting grin.
“What about Bobby and- uh, Daphne?”
“Both sleepin'. Bobby's passed out on the kitchen table- I think he had a bit too much tea,” Dean said, smiling and gesturing with his own, half empty cup. “Daphne's in the next room. She's crazy as a bat, but she seems to be legit. Passed all the tests, though hell if I know how to test for leviathan. Hasn't tried to kill us though. C'mon,” he said, sitting down beside him on the couch. “Gimme your hand.”
Sam turned and put his injured hand in Dean's. He quietly unwound the dirty bandages and looked over the v-shaped wound on Sam's palm. The skin looked red and puffy, unwell, and Dean frowned at it before feeling Sam's forehead. He kept his hand there, frowned harder, and then poured a bit of his tea over the cut. Sam gasped, but Dean was already winding a fresh strip of gauze around it. Sam kept his mouth firmly shut- Lucifer was making a show of running his hands over Dean's unaware shoulders and down his body. Sam swallowed heavily.
“How long have you been-” Sam choked when Lucifer put a forked tongue in Dean's ear, though he turned it into a cough. “How long have you been up? Have you slept at all?”
Dean gave him a suspicious look. “Are you alright?” he asked, avoiding the question. That meant no.
“Yeah, good,” Sam lied. “Just, still waking up, you know. I feel a bit warm. But it's your turn- take the couch.”
“No dude, I'm fine.” Sam stood and grabbed Dean by the shoulders, firmly making him lie down and take his place.
“I'm not even sleepy,” Dean mumbled. He pillowed his arms behind his head, looking tiredly at his feet hanging over the edge of the couch. “Man, how did you even fit on this thing, let alone sleep on it?”
“By shutting up. Go to sleep, Dean.” Sam's eyes flickered to the image of Lucifer, sitting at the foot of the couch and eying Dean like a bit of meat.
Dean frowned and, for a moment, looked as though he wanted to say something more, but he said nothing, merely rolled over. He buried his face into the cushions of the couch and within minutes his breathing had evened out into the deep sighs of sleep. Sam sat cross-legged on the floor, drinking his whiskey-tea.
“You're terrible at lying, Sammy.” Lucifer whispered, stretching out the nickname and making it sound filthy between his blood-smeared teeth. He sat uncomfortably near Dean's sleeping body, fingers tracing the length of his thigh.
Sam turned away and focused on Castiel's sleeping face. The eyes beneath his lids were not moving at all.
Lucifer pouted, then stood and walked around Sam in a slow, stalking circle. “Maaaybe, he should never wake up,” he said, gesturing to Castiel. He tapped at his chin, considering. “Just killing him again is no fun though. No fun at all-- how many times have I ripped him open for you? It's never as satisfying as it was the first time, though I would have done it so much slower if I'd known you were going to pull that stupid stunt and trap us down here.”
Sam ground his teeth, but said nothing.
“And now I've brought him like a present for you, Sam, all unconscious, and so nice to look at. Dean too. Broken for your taking, But you've never even thanked me. Really, how ungrateful. I've shared your headspace Sammy, I know what you want to do my poor hapless little brat of a brother, and your own. So, very ungrateful.” Lucifer crossed the floor purposefully, and swiftly clamored on top of Castiel's legs, locking them between his blood stained thighs. Castiel remained as motionless as ever.
“Stop it,” Sam croaked out, weakly clutching his head in his hands.
“That's fine. It's fine really. I'll simply have my fun with them,” the hallucination went on, unfazed. He cupped Castiel's jaw almost gently, until his nails dug in. Thin streams of blood flowed down Castiel's face, dotting the white pillowcase. “I think he'll look better in pieces, don't you agree?” Deep rents appeared on Castiel's fine cheekbones.
“Stop it!” Sam shouted, before clapping a distressed hand over his mouth. Silence greeted him. No one in the cabin seemed to have stirred. Lucifer grinned before he disappeared, his laughter ringing out in his wake.
Sam jerked awake again. Soft dawn filtered in through the cabin windows, and the clock read five thirty. He couldn't remember drifting off, only sitting pointlessly awake for several hours, watching Daphne's door and nothing else. His back ached and his legs were asleep, but more importantly, he was looking straight into a pair of wide and panicked blue eyes. Even more importantly than that, the jerking that had woken him had not stopped.
The whole house was shuddering, loose objects bouncing on their shelves.
“Where am I? What the hell is going on?” Castiel said, voice tight and wrong. It was gruff, gravely still, but he sounded far too frightened, too- human.
“Jimmy?” Sam asked, heart bouncing around in his chest.
“I-I don't- What the hell is going on?!” whoever occupied Cas’s vessel repeated. His eyes widened in terror and he pressed himself against the wall behind the cot. Something crashed in the kitchen and Dean shot up from the couch, struggling to wake properly and blinking blearily.
“Whu- What's going- Cas?”
Jimmy or Cas or whomever stared at them with eyes as big as saucers, scrambling and tipping the cot backwards, ending up whimpering on the floor with the cot as a shield between him and the hunters. He ducked when Bobby entered brandishing a kitchen knife. Bobby was just beginning to swear when the shaking suddenly stopped.
“I'm willing to bet that weren't no earthquake,” Bobby stated, almost bored sounding. “You don't think the Leviathans have found us already?”
Castiel started to hyperventilate, back pressed against the wall.
“Whoa, whoa- We're your friends, okay? We won't hurt you, alright?” Dean put his hands up placatingly, and gestured so Sam and Bobby followed suit.
“Relax, son,” Bobby said, shoving the knife in his belt. None of them moved. Slowly but surely, the cabin fell quiet and Castiel started to breathe a bit more normally. He jumped when Daphne entered, clad in a nightgown and robe.
“Oh!” she exclaimed, her face screwing up with deep emotion. She pushed the flimsy cot aside and dropped to her knees before Castiel, her calloused hands seeking his and gripping them tightly. “Oh, Castiel, it's you.”
“What?” Sam and Dean asked in unison.
Daphne seemed not to hear them, too busy running her hands over a once more panicking Castiel. “All of us thought you were dead - I thought you were dead.”
“Hey, lady- Daphne,” Dean interrupted loudly. “Mind telling me what the hell is going on?”
Daphne looked startled, as if she had neglected to notice anyone else was in the room. “The Winchesters. I should have known. Please don't finish that banishing sigil, Robert. I don't wish to hurt any of you.”
Bobby frowned and hesitantly stopped drawing the sigil on the wall, shoving the knife back in his belt and putting pressure on his bleeding forearm.
“So you're an angel.” Dean said, distrust thick in his voice.
The angel spared them a half a glance and nodded. “I am Inias,” they said. “I apologize for my appearance, but I... What happened to you, Castiel?” Inias asked. Castiel was looking at them with just as much panic as he'd shown everything since he'd awoken, not one trace of recognition evident in his expression. “His Grace is- I recognized the shine of it near the prophet, but it's so very faint... and growing fainter.” Inias's voice was barely audible.
“The prophet? Daphne's a Prophet?” Dean asked. “What happened to the last one?”
Inias sighed, irritated. “Heaven was - is in chaos.”
Dean paused for a long moment. “You lost the prophet? And now you're just... riding the new one? Can you even do that?”
The angel frowned. “A prophet can be a vessel, but only higher angels than I are allowed to-- Regardless. My brothers and sisters will not come. There are no archangels left in heaven, and those of us left are always busy. I felt Castiel, and I had to see for myself if he was still alive. You have died too often, brother,” Inias said.
Silence fell. “My name is Castiel?” Castiel finally asked with a forced calm.
The angel's eyes grew wide and wet. “You don't remember?” Inias asked, voice dropping to a low whisper.
Castiel shook his head, his fingers trying to slip away from Inias's loving grasp.
“Nothing? Not that I am your brother?” Inias looked disbelievingly into Castiel's eyes, as if staring into them would make him remember. “The first shore? Your eternal Tuesday?” Castiel shook his head, looking, if possible, even more confused. “Teaching me how to swing my blade? Teaching me...” Dean looked away and Sam wished he could. The scene seemed far too intimate for them to witness, but Sam just could not tear his eyes away.
“What are you talking about?” Castiel whispered the question, shaking below Inias's fingers. “What does any of that mean?”
The angel's shoulders slumped, trembled slightly. Sam cleared his throat. “Can we talk to you? Please?” he asked timidly, simultaneously curious and simply unable to watch any longer.
Inias stood, turned on heel, face emotionless. “Of course.” Inias held himself utterly different from Daphne, back set ramrod straight like a true soldier. They seemed to share a short attention span, however. “But answer me first... I can't see into him. It's as though there is nothing inside him. What happened to him?” Inias's eyes narrowed, Daphne's slender hands balled into fists.
“Uh...” said Sam cautiously.
“See, the thing is...” said Dean.
“Damnit,” said Bobby, glaring at the brothers. “He took that... power trip as I'm sure you remember.”
Inias nodded, frowning heavily. “He killed many of our siblings. They were wrong, to try to start the apocalypse again, but he...” The angel trailed off. Castiel whimpered, barely audible.
Bobby waited with his eyebrows raised, only continuing when the angel did not. “Well, the souls he ate didn't exactly agree with him. Started burnin' him up, takin' control. He had a moment of sanity and we helped him get rid of most of 'em, but some, uh, Leviathans, they dug their suckers in and stayed-”
“Leviathans?” Inias interrupted, looking panicked, eyes flickering over Castiel. “They're locked away. In the deepest places even heaven does not dare travel. You- they couldn't have-”
“Hold your horses, let me finish.” Inias hung on Bobby's words. “Purgatory, right? It's not locked up as tight as you thought it was, 'cause that's where he got the souls from. He, Raphael, and Crowley were all trying to sink their teeth into it, but Cas just got there first. You should probably check your security.” Inias gave Bobby a practically withering look. “So, the Leviathans took control, made him go for a swim, went on to better pastures through the water, s'far as we can tell. This idjit,” he jerked a thumb at Sam, who flushed, “jumped in after him and found his body, and the girl you're ridin' came out of the woods, sayin' your Dad told her to find Cas. And that's it.”
“That can't be it.” Inias gasped, arms crossing over Daphne's chest in a surprisingly human gesture.
“Well, I'm tellin' you, that's it.”
Inias paced across the room, Daphne's nightgown fluttering around their knees. “Orders from God, the Leviathans, Castiel's survival... This is unprecedented.” Their straight shoulders were tense.
“Yeah, you're telling us,” Sam said. “So can you tell us about the leviathans?”
“I- I have to warn the garrison,” the angel said. “Castiel, I will need you to come with me.”
“No,” Dean said, shortly. “No, no, no. Go warn your guys, but leave him here.”
“I might be able to help him,” Inias insisted, voice raising. “Something is wrong with him.”
“Yeah, I know how Heaven helps people,” Dean replied scathingly. You gonna lobotomize him yourself or let your superiors do it?”
“That is not what I want! Listen, Winchesters. I do not have time for this. Castiel, come with me, I will- ” Inias is cut off when Dean rushes across the room and presses a palm into the banishing sigil Bobby had completed as Dean and Inias had argued. Bright, overwhelming light fills the room, Inias shouts with pain, and, when the light fades, is gone.
“Oh, come on,” Sam said in an exasperated moan. “Dean, we should have at least tried reasoning with him.”
“Since when have we ever been able to reason with them?” Dean countered. “You okay there, Cas?” His tone did not ease in its anger, and Castiel curls in on himself.
Castiel's eyes were bugging out of his head, but he was still conscious, at least. “Where did she go? What did you do?” he asked in a small voice.
“Banished 'im. To wherever the hell they go when they're banished.”
“Dean, c'mon, he's freaking out,” Sam said, watching as Casiel stared owlishly around the room.
“What? I'm just bein' honest.”
“Yeah, but don't you think it's a bit much to swallow?”
“Sure, and all the stuff the angel was talking about before wasn't. You can handle it, right, Cas?”
Castiel looked helplessly at them.
“Dean.”
“Sammy.”
“Shut up,” Bobby said firmly. The boys shut their mouths.
“What are Leviathans?” Castiel had regained some colour, though he still crouched against the wall, looking small in his overlarge pajamas.
“Kid, we don't rightly know ourselves yet,” Bobby sighed, after a minute.
“They're... Monsters,” Sam said, slowly.
Castiel swallowed, then nodded. “Monsters. Fine, right.” He looked down at his lap, face drawn together. He laughed humourlessly. “Monsters. You said- you said you were my friends? But I killed... people. My... siblings. A lot of them it sounds like.” The suspicion on Castiel's face grew by the second.
Sam bit his lip. “You didn't really have a choice.” Dean scoffed below his breath and Sam shot him a scornful look. “You did a lot of good. You saved our lives and saved a lot of others, even if you did... You really don't remember anything?”
Castiel's hands laced together before his mouth. For a long moment, he was silent. “Nothing. There's nothing. Nothing you're saying makes any sense.” Castiel's head dropped and his laced hands cupped over the back of his head.
“Alright, I hate to interrupt the soul searching,” Bobby said, eying Castiel warily, “but what are we going to do now?”
“Maybe we should wait call the angel back, so we can get some answers?” Sam asked tentatively.
“Angels, haha,” muttered Castiel to himself, looking pale as he stood and used the wall to brace himself.
“Yeah, no. We're goin' and we're goin' now, before he can get back with all his dick buddies.” Dean was already heading towards the front door.
“I'm staying.” All three hunters looked at Castiel with wide eyes.
“C'mon,” Dean replied, “You don't know what they're capable of, Cas.”
“No, I obviously don't. But I want answers.”
“Yeah, okay, we'll give you answers, dude. But we have to get out of here first.”
“Go then. I'm staying,” Castiel said firmly, matching Dean's hard gaze.
“Maybe we should stay,” Sam said. His head was pounding.
“Shut up,” Dean replied with enough viciousness that Sam closed his mouth, though he stared at his brother with confusion and apprehension. “Goddamnit, Cas, we need to go.”
“Stop calling me Cas,” Castiel ground out. “I don't even know your name.”
Dean looked like he had been slapped. “Come on, man,” Sam barged in, holding his hands up. “Just trust us on this.”
“Stop it! I'm not your friend and I have no reason to trust any of you,” Castiel said scathingly to Sam. Sam's hands dropped piteously to his sides and Dean's hands balled into fists. Bobby frowned at each of the others in turn. “You expect me to follow you blindly, talking about angels and monsters! And I was murderer, but also your friend? You're all crazy. Whoever your friend was is gone, and it sounds like you should be glad.” Dean and Castiel stood face to face, standing tall and gazed equally hard as they matched each other.
Dean took a few hurried strides and punched Castiel squarely in the mouth.
“Dean, no!” Sam called, but Castiel was already falling against the wall with blood on his teeth.
“Damnit boy, what the hell are you doing?” Bobby grabbed Dean's trembling arms, though he pulled out of his hold and stood tall and rod straight. Castiel leaned against the wall, breathing heavy and glaring at Dean with such angry distrust, evident even through the shock on his face.
“Dude, what the hell?” Sam croaked.
Dean turned on his heel. “Come on. Get him and let's go.”
“Dean, don't be such an ass. We leave, and we can't learn what the angels know.”
“Good.”
“Good? Dean we have no idea what we're dealing with!”
“Yeah, and what's new about that, Sam? Nothing. But I am tired, sick and goddamn tired, of the goddamn angels! Meddling in our shitty lives and ruining them more than they were already ruined. I'm done with all of them. So let's go.”
Sam and Dean met each other's eyes held them, before Sam angrily grabbed Castiel by the arm. Castiel said nothing, allowing himself to be led out, though his hostile stare never left Dean's stalking figure before them. Bobby lingered long enough only to roll his eyes.
Part Two