Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Prologue

Boys, an old contact reached out to me tonight — he says he has a lead on our demon. I might be gone for some time while I’m chasing this down, but I have a task for you. I have it on good authority that a blue witch is in the possession of a charm that will help us finally get the fucker. I need you to take it by any means necessary. 

You’re looking for something you’ll recognise. You have until before Samhain. After that, it will be too late. I suggest you start now. I’m sending you the address.

A light shiver ran down Castiel’s spine. He’d been too lost in his own thoughts to notice how low the sun had dipped behind the trees flanking the edges of his garden. The temperature of the crisp autumn air had fallen with it. The end of August had come as a surprise to him and he was holding onto the last remnants of summer with a vice-like grip, refusing to bring out the woven basket with mismatched blankets he usually kept by the couch on the porch overlooking the back yard of his house. Bringing it out meant admitting defeat against the changing of the seasons and he didn’t feel ready to let go of summer just yet.

He respected and celebrated each of the four seasons, of course. That’s what was expected of all witches. Secretly, though, he held summer as his favourite: the long days and short, warm nights, the blue skies, the cotton-ball clouds, the caressing rays of sunshine… As far as he was concerned, there wasn’t anything better. He would have never admitted this to any of the others, however. Showing any preference for a season was akin to blasphemy in the community, so he kept his love for summer close to his heart, the only form of protest against the approaching fall was his refusal to wear warmer clothes until he had no other choice.

A series of eye-watering sneezes shook his shoulders. He would soon have to surrender to the scratchy warmth of his wool sweaters, shoved somewhere at the back of his closet. With a resigned sigh, he unfolded his stiff frame, standing up from the cozy embrace of the couch and grabbed his long-empty mug on the way up. With one last wistful glance over his shoulder towards the setting sun, he walked to the sliding glass door that led to his house and stepped inside.

No sooner had he slid the door shut behind him that a piercing meow greeted him from somewhere inside the house. The kitchen, Cas mused and rounded the corner, entering the small space. Sure enough, Bee, his brown and black cat, was perched on the countertop, her fluffy tail twitching with annoyance. She glared at Cas, her yellow eyes accusing him of starving and neglecting her.

“I’m sorry, Bee, I didn’t mean to get so carried away,” Cas apologised, his voice scratchy from the long disuse. His attempt at reconciliation was met with a death glare and a hungry whine. Chuckling to himself, Cas waved his hand, blue sparks flying from his fingertips. The air filled with the familiar static crack of his magic, cupboards opening, cat food and a pet bowl flying from the shelves. Seconds later, Bee’s meal was prepared and gently placed onto the feeding mat. With a huff, the cat jumped from her spot on the counter, all grudges put on hold, and pounced on her food like the vicious predator she considered herself to be. She seemed to be entirely unaware of the fact that she weighed no more than eleven pounds and most of that weight was just fur.

With Bee taken care of, Cas could now prepare a meal for himself, which he did in much the same fashion - a flick of the wrist, a shower of blue sparks and static and he had a plate of leftover pizza from the day before ready for him. Not bothering to sit down at the table, he leaned his hip against the counter and ate it there, his eyes drifting over the room without landing on anything in particular.

He’d been living at this house for a few years now, ever since he’d come back from the academy. He’d wanted to be close to home and his friends, but after his magic manifested as blue, he wasn’t too comfortable with moving into town permanently. Instead, he’d decided to buy the small two-storey house on the outskirts, bordering the pine forest where he used to play hide and seek in elementary school. He felt safe here, away from the curious and sometimes suspicious eyes of the townsfolk. Here, he could be himself, and most importantly, he didn’t feel pressured to prove he was capable of all the things that were expected of a blue witch.

There were four types of magic; yellow, green, white and blue, each colour having its own purpose. Yellow magic was connected to light and the witches who manifested it could bend even the tiniest of rays to their will. His childhood friend Balthazar was particularly good at creating illusions and making things seem to disappear. They were still there, you could still touch them, but not see them. It was quite an odd experience - Castiel’s brain had felt like it was at war with itself the first time Bal had showed him his powers by making Cas’s plush cat invisible in his own grasp. For a while, Bal’s favourite hobby had been to scatter Legos on the floor and conceal them in the hopes that someone would walk over them. Cas could still picture the way Bal had laughed nearly to tears the time he’d done it to him.

Green magic was the most common type and it related to the natural world. Since witches were so in tune with the changing of seasons and believed their magic was a blessing from the earth itself, it seemed obvious as to why this was the type that manifested most frequently. There wasn’t a plant in the universe a green witch couldn’t bring from the brink of death, and their gardens were nothing short of little slices of heaven. Cas’s other childhood best friend, Anna, had manifested green magic quite early on, when she had been no more than ten years old. She’d paraded around, her red pigtails bouncing on each side of her head, flaunting her magic and teasing Bal and Cas for only being able conjure white magic.

White magic was rare in adults, and only happened when they didn’t manifest any other colour magic growing up. It meant that they possessed low-level control of both green and yellow, but not enough to be able to grow a tree in seconds or fully bend the light to their will. Most white witches, however, decided to focus their magic on more practical aspects of the craft, namely potions and amulet-making. Despite their inability to influence the physical world in any profound way, their magic was still strong enough to help them create some very powerful spells. They were the keepers of knowledge and usually opened practices in witch-populated towns. Some of them even made small fortunes from selling their spells.

That was what Cas had believed was his fate until he was sixteen. Anna and Bal, who’d manifested his yellow magic around his twelfth birthday, had long since mastered a good portion of their powers while Cas had not been able to conjure even a spark or colour. And he’d been okay with it. He’d been more of a nerd growing up anyway, preferring to have his nose buried in a book than to really try to coax out his magic. He’d even started trying out some more basic potions, albeit with little success at the time, though that hadn’t deterred him.

That is, until one fateful day in early fall, only a few months before his seventeenth birthday, when Anna and Bal had been trying for the umpteenth time to determine who was the more powerful witch of the two. Anna had pushed Bal’s temper to a breaking point. The three of them had climbed the roof of the library to watch the sunset and in his spite, Bal had created an illusion that made it seem as though the edge was a bit further off than it really was. Anna, who had been too busy gloating over her winning another round of their made-up competition, had failed to recognise the tell-tale shimmer of Bal’s illusion, which she always claimed to be so good at spotting, and tripped over the edge. In his panic, Cas had jumped towards her, throwing his hand in her direction, as if guided by an invisible force. Blue sparks had burst from his fingertips, the static making his hair stand on end. Anna had frozen mid-air until Cas’s magic pulled her back to the safety of the solid roof where he’d gently released her. Her and Bal never argued who the stronger witch was again. They both knew it was Cas.

Blue magic was the rarest of all, and the most coveted. Sometimes nicknamed ‘celestial’, it granted its wielder both the powers of yellow and green witches, as well as command over the very fabric of the physical world, hence Cas’s ability to make things float with his mind. It had earned Cas much unwanted attention before his mother had decided to ship him off to a specialised academy where he’d spent five tiresome years mastering his powers. When he’d come back home after his prolonged absence, everyone had treated him like a spectacle, trying to get him to use his powers.

But Castiel had refused to satisfy their curiosity. He hated feeling like a circus animal in his own town. It took some time but eventually the townsfolk decided that maybe he wasn’t showing off because there was nothing to show off. Perhaps he wasn’t that powerful after all. Cas hadn’t corrected them and soon enough he’d noticed the thinly veiled disappointed at his assumed inability. The relief he’d felt had been overwhelming. Not long after, he moved to his little house out of town which people took as confirmation of his shame and that was that. But in the confines of his home, he used his powers freely.

Bee’s aggravated hiss snapped his attention into focus. She was perched on the windowsill, looking out into the night. Cas slowly approached the spot, his defences rising along with the static charge in the room. Gently pushing the thin curtain aside, he peered out onto the now fully dark street. Bee’s tail tickled his leg as she whipped it back and forth uneasily. But the street was empty.

“There’s no one there, Bee,” Cas cooed, though his voice was tight with uncertainty. “See? All clear.”

Bee’s ears twitched skeptically. Cas reached for the cat, scratching her soothingly on the back of the neck. “Come on, it’s time for bed anyway. Let’s go.”

With a disapproving guttural noise, Bee jumped off the sill and disappeared into the house. Cas shot one last glance at the deserted street, reassuring himself that nothing and no one was there before he followed Bee upstairs.

It had been a close call.

Thanks to Dean’s quick reflexes and the rose bushes outside the house, he’d managed to hide from that hissing yellow-eyed demon just in time before the witch had pulled the curtain back to look out into the night. Now, after having waited for what felt like eons for all the lights inside to go out, he was limping back to the Impala, plucking thorns from his skin on the way. The only sounds that disturbed the peace were his soft steps on the dry grass by the side of the road and his muttered curses after each thorn he ripped out.

“What the hell, Dean!” Sam yelled from the passenger seat as Dead slammed his door, wincing at the sharp sting of a piece he’d missed on the back of his thigh. Another curse spilled from his mouth as he rolled down the window just a smidge to toss it out.

“What were you thinking? I told you this was a bad idea. I told you—“

“And I told you we had no better ideas, Sam,” Dean cursed again, this time at the realisation that the only plan they had might prove to be not as straightforward as he had envisioned it. And certainly not as easy as their dad had made it sound.

“So now what?” Sam asked after a brief pause.

Dean sighed. “Now we’ll just have to be more careful… Damn that cat.”

“I don’t think the cat makes a difference, Dean. This is a stupid plan with or without it. We can’t break into a blue witch’s house to look for something that… We don’t even know what we’re looking for!”

“We’ve been over this,” Dean said, his voice firmly in that register that meant he was trying very hard to sound reasonable instead of lashing out. “We do as we were told. We go in, we search the house and we’ll know what we’re looking for when we see it.”

Sam was silent, but as was with him most times, that silence didn’t last long. “It could be anything. And it could be anywhere.”

“The house isn’t that big.”

“It is when you don’t know what you’re looking for.”

Dean sighed again, rubbing his eyes with the heel of his palm. “You know we have to. It’s not like we can just walk up to him on the street and ask ‘hey, would it be cool if we grab a magical object of yours?’ I don’t think that would go over very well. Good ol’ breaking-and-entering is our best bet if we want to find it.

“And anyway, that’s what dad said to do, before he had to go, in his voice message. So that’s what we’re doing.”

“You mean before he left us?”

“He didn’t leave us, Sam.” Dean turned to face his brother full-on at that. It was a conversation they’d been having a few times a day lately.

Both brothers stared at each other with challenge in their eyes, neither backing down. This time, Sam looked away first, but only to gaze at the fuzzy outline of the house further down the road from where they had parked the car. Looking at him closely, though, Dean could tell that the wheels in his brother’s mind were turning, which meant he was analysing the best course of action. Dean sat still, with a carefully crafted blank look on his face. He knew not to even twitch a muscle. Even the smallest of distractions could catapult Sam’s mind back to square one - back to ‘being reasonable’ and ‘planning ahead’. So, Dean waited quietly.

Sure enough, after a few agonising minutes of anxious anticipation, Sam huffed an exasperated breath.

“Fine. Tell me what you saw.”

Chapter Text

The plan was simple. Dean would enter through the front door, Sam from the back. It seemed like the only security system in place around the perimeter had been the cat - Dean’s snooping hadn’t seemed to trigger any other source of surveillance. This, he thought, was either very stupid of the witch, or he just didn’t need it. He didn’t want to dwell on what the second option might imply. 

Him and Sam had waited in tense silence for another two hours, just in case the witch and his pet hadn’t gone to sleep right away, but now it was time for action. The two bothers walked the distance between the car and the house, all their senses on high alert. They split with a brief nod of acknowledgment once they came close enough, each taking their designated side of the house. Dean only gave himself a moment to agonise over including Sammy in this ‘hunt’ before he willed himself to focus on the present. At least it wasn’t a real monster hunt, he reasoned with his own gloomy thoughts. Isn’t it?, they whispered back. Dean shook his head sharply. Too late for second-guessing.

Despite how nervous he felt, his fingers remained steady as he picked the lock on the front door, gently pushing it open. He paused for a moment, holding his breath, as he waited to see if he’d triggered an alarm. Nothing.

He crossed the threshold, his footfall nothing but a whisper, and shut the door behind him without a sound. He might not have had a ‘regular’ education, but he was good at what he’d been taught all throughout his childhood.

Dean wasn’t sure what he had been expecting to find in a witch’s house, but it sure as hell hadn’t been this. The short hallway from the front door lead into a cosy living room, scantly illuminated by the muffled light coming through the tall windows from the street lamps outside. The wooden floor was covered in a soft, fluffy carpet that absorbed the hollow thud of his boots. To the left of him was a wide, L-shaped sofa with an array for decorative pillows and throw blankets. Along the wall, he could make out the outline of a sturdy floor-to-ceiling bookcase, stuffed to the brim with tomes of all shapes and sizes. Across the room from the couch was a pretty decently sized TV propped up on a long, open shelf with what he could bet was an extensive collection of DVDs. He gathered all of his willpower to resist the urge to cross the space and rifle through it. Next to that were two staircases, one leading up, the other down to an underground level. 

A faint rustling of clothes to his right put an end to Dean’s ogling. He turned his attention towards the sound to see Sam‘s form coming out of the tiny kitchen into the living room. Dean stifled a sigh of relief. 

Coming up next to him, Sam made the same quick scan of the space with his eyes, finally turning back to his brother.

Not what I expected, he mouthed and Dean smirked. 

He motioned to Sam to take the staircase down, and that he’d head up himself. Sam nodded in confirmation and the two split up once more.

The steps were carpeted as well and either the building was fairly new or luck was finally on Dean’s side because they did not make a sound under his weight. Once he reached the second floor, he headed for the first room to his left. Its door was cracked open and from what he could see, it was some sort of office space. He felt somewhat disappointed that this floor didn’t seem to be any more ‘witchy’ than the one below. It made him feel like he was breaking into a regular person’s home, and that didn’t sit right with him. 

This is not a person, though, he scolded himself. Wondering whether Sam would have better luck finding something less mundane down in the basement, he began his search.

The absence of the familiar ball of warmth that usually cuddled at his side woke Castiel up. Rubbing sleepily at his eyes, he pushed the covers off and sat in his bed, looking around, but Bee was nowhere to be found. A faint breeze coming from the window told him she’d probably snuck out for a midnight stroll around the forest, something she liked to do regardless of the time of year and the temperature outside. Shivering slightly at his warmed skin’s contact with the night breeze, Castiel willed his limbs to stretch out and take him to the chair he’d slung his house robe over. Shrugging it on, he decided to head downstairs and make himself some tea. He hoped it would lull him back to sleep.

Walking silently down the hall, he didn’t notice that the door to his office was not quite as he’d left it the day before. He also didn’t notice the dusty prints on his immaculately clean floors coming from the back door into the kitchen - he was too busy yawning and sending a shower of blue sparks into the water in his mug to cool it down enough not to burn his tongue. 

He probably wouldn’t have noticed that the door to his storage room upstairs was now cracked open when it hadn’t been on his way down to the kitchen either, if he hadn’t bumped into a figure, cloaked with the shadows of the night, at the top of the staircase. The impact sent Castiel’s mug flying from his fingertips, the tea still hot enough to pry a surprised hiss of pain from the intruder in front of him, followed by a curse colourful enough to make a grown man blush. The ceramic exploded at their feet.

It snapped Castiel from his initial shock, all thoughts of burrowing under the covers forgotten. White-hot anger coursed through him, zapping along his nerve endings, fast as a wildfire. The edges of his vision tinted blue and static charge filled the air with breathtaking speed as his magic responded to the threat.

The figure, sensing the change, sprang into action. It shoved past Castiel, gunning for the stairs but the witch’s hand shot out, grabbing its shoulder. He never even got the chance to feel the sense of dark satisfaction at the yelp of pain that answered his touch before the force of his own magic ricocheted, knocking Castiel halfway across the hall. The back of his skull hit the wall, making his ears ring. Through his muddled vision he saw the figure being catapulted by the same force down the stairs, the only difference being that it managed to catch itself in midair and land with a thud below. Castiel scrambled to his feet, pushing himself up with shaking hands. Sharp pieces from the broken mug bit into him palms, but he ignored the sting.

The shadow seemed to be frozen in place, reeling from the shock of what had just happened when a loud crash sounded from the living room, followed by a scream and Bee’s hissing. It bolted towards the noise, all but forgetting about Cas, and the witch had no other choice but to limp after.

“Get that thing off me! Get it off!” A male voice laced with panic boomed loud enough to wake the dead. And, oh, the living room was a mess. The intruder that had escaped Cas now joined a second one, desperately trying to help it escape Bee's claws and undoubtedly getting a few scratches in the process. Good, Castiel thought.

“Who are you? What do you want?” Cas yelled at them, not really expecting a reply. He summoned a ball of energy to the centre of his palm, launching it towards them close enough, he hoped, to scare them off but not hurt Bee. It sizzled past them, crashing into the bookcase and left a charred outline barely distinguishable in the dark. Refusing to dwell on the damage his precious books were going to suffer, he threw more blue fireballs towards them in quick succession that remained all but ignored. 

Finally, the first figure managed to get ahold of the cat and throw it to the side. Cas’s heart jumped in his chest at the sight, but Bee twisted her body inches before hitting the ground and landed as gracefully as the momentum allowed. She did not stop her hissing even for a moment. 

The few seconds it took Castiel to assess her wellbeing were enough for the two to rush to the door and kick it open, sending it flying off its hinges into the night. Cas ran out after them, but they were moving too fast despite their injuries. He tried to slow them down by sending more balls of blue fire aimed at their feet, but they dodged them as if they’d done this a million times before.

Castiel was good at many things, but he was not an athlete. And he was no match for these two. Soon, they ran out of reach for his rapidly depleting power reserves and the sound of a revved engine and squealing tires mocked him. Panting heavily, he came to a stop. He bent forward, hands on his knees, and waited for the world to stop spinning. The fear and anger, his head’s impact with the wall, the unexpected sprint, the erratic, unfocused use of his powers… they had taken quite a toll on his body.

After several minutes and a string of gulping breaths, he willed his legs to carry him back to his house. As he neared the front door - well, more like ‘the entrance’, now that the actual door lay in pieces several feet away from the porch - Bee ran out from inside and jumped straight into Castiel’s arms.

“Umph,” he grumbled at the impact, staggering back slightly. “You sure haven’t been starving a day in your life, have you?” He teased without humour, adjusting the furry ball more comfortably in his grasp.

The crunch of broken glass under his torn-up slippers made him flinch. “You might want to take a nap now, Bee. I’m afraid you and I won’t be getting much sleep for the rest of the night.”

Digging into the pocket of his robe with one free hand, Cas was relieved and somewhat surprised to find he hadn’t lost his phone in the ordeal. Flipping it open with his thumb, his finger lingered over the keys. The last thing he wanted right now was to have more people come to his house, but what choice did he have? With a heavy sigh, he dialled.

About forty minutes later, red and blue police lights painted his driveway.

Chapter Text

The ride to the motel two towns over had been dominated by the roar of the wind beating at the windshield and little else. Dean’s eyes had kept darting to the rearview mirror every few seconds, but the road behind them remained empty. Still, preferring to be safe than sorry, he kept this foot on the pedal the whole way, easing up only to take unnecessary turns through narrow alleys in case they did have a tail.

Sam, to his credit, kept his mouth shut the whole drive back which Dean was grateful for. He didn’t want to hear his I-told-you-so’s right now, though he knew those were fast approaching. And they were probably well-deserved. Okay, they were totally deserved. 

When he was sure they hadn’t been followed, Dean pulled into the little parking lot next to the dingy motel and killed the engine. Climbing out of the car, he circled her to make sure that thing hadn’t hit her with it’s fireballs. But Baby seemed to be okay, albeit a bit dusty from all the dirt he’d kicked up when he peeled off from where they’d been parked. He patted Baby’s hood lovingly and made a mental promise to take her to a car wash tomorrow, somewhere nice. It was the least she deserved after saving their asses tonight.

Sam had already thrown his backpack on one of the beds in the double room when Dean walked in. He slammed the door behind him a little harder than was necessary. He could hear the sound of water running from the bathroom and Sam’s faint cursing as he cleaned his cat scratches.

And thinking of scratches…

The adrenaline pumping through Dean’s veins had started to subside and a sharp sting coming from his upper left arm called his attention. Shrugging off his leather jacket which now sported a charred hole on the sleeve where the witch had grabbed him, he walked over to the mirror by the door. If he hadn’t seen his fair share of nasty wounds over the years, he was sure his jaw would have fallen to the floor just then. An angry burn in the shape of a hand made a stark contrast with his skin. Thinking back on his run-in with the witch, he forced his tired brain to arrange the sequence of events in chronological order. 

He recalled the shock he’d felt at the collision, the frustration he’d felt at himself for not being careful enough, the brief sense or relief that it had been him and not Sammy running into it (because he refused to think of that thing as anything remotely human now) and how the splash of hot water that carried the scent of dried lavender and peppermint had scalded his skin. He could swear he could still feel the shift in the air when the witch had realised someone had broken into its home, the static that crackled along Dean’s skin like tiny needles. 

Then its eyes… They had glowed in the dark in a blue so bright and rich he was sure the image of them would be burned into his own retinas until the end of his days. They had made Dean feel like a bunny caught in a trap. The only reason he managed to wrench himself free of their thrall was the thought of Sam somewhere underneath the house, completely unaware of the fact that the pair of them were now knee deep in proverbial shit.

As he’d tried to run past the witch down the stairs with as little contact as possible, its hand had reached out to him quick as a rattling snake and the bite of its magic had felt like venom flooding his system. The next thing Dean knew, he was being launched into the air from the force of the power as its aftershocks ran down to his very bones. His years of gruelling training had kicked in at the last moment saving him from landing face-first at the bottom of the stairs. 

What he couldn’t understand though was why the witch had been propelled backwards by its own magic too, flying in the opposite direction like a rag doll thrown by a petulant toddler? And why Dean, for a brief moment, had wanted to help it back to its feet and make sure it was okay? It had clearly tried to kill him only seconds before. Perhaps despite John’s warnings, the rumours were true and this particular celestial was not as powerful as the others of its kind?

Shifting his arm this way and that, he hissed at the way the tender flesh around the burn mark pulled. A powerless witch would not have been able to do this, and it definitely wouldn’t have been able to focus this amount of energy into a perfect outline of its palm. It made no sense. Dean didn’t like it when things didn’t make sense, especially pertaining to the supernatural. 

Witches were not the only supernatural creatures, although they were the ones who had managed to establish a sort of delicate balance between themselves and humans. Witches lived relatively peacefully, usually in small communities and tried to keep a neutral coexistence with the humans nearby. In recent years, some of the communities had started to mingle with more open-minded humans, though towns like that were rare. Most humans preferred to stay out of witches’ way, and with good reason. 

Demons, vampires, werewolves… Freaks of nature, all of them, as far as the vast majority were concerned, especially hunters. When a creature went out of line, and it really was a matter of when, not if, there was sure to be a hunter to do away with it. And Dean had been raised to do just that. 

Hunters were an odd group in society, sometimes respected and ever revered, others - not so much. They did the dirty work so regular folk could go about their life with as little threat from the supernatural as possible, but not everyone appreciated their violent methods. The job wasn’t for just anybody and it was usually passed down in families. The Winchester brothers came from a family of hunters on their mother’s side. She had been ‘raised in the life’, as was most common. She had quit after their grandfather had pissed off a powerful demon enough for it to slaughter the entire family, their mother the only survivor. She had barely escaped with her life. She’d run away, cut all of her ties to the hunting world which she’d never truly wanted to be a part of anyway, and for a few years it had seemed to have worked. She had escaped. 

But despite all of this, the demon never forgot about her. And it never stopped looking. Until it had finally found her and killed her. Dean had been just four years old at the time, and Sam - a six-month old. 

Ever since that fateful day twenty years ago, their father had sworn he’d carry on the hunter legacy for her and find the demon. He’d become obsessed with killing it for tearing their family apart. And despite having never hunted monsters himself before, he’d taken the boys and the car and set off on his revenge mission. 

Until he’d disappeared a few weeks prior, leaving only a cryptic voice message behind as guidance for the boys. 

Dean shook his head, refusing to dwell on his father’s absence. Focusing back on his wound, he reached over with his other hand and lightly grazed the edges of the burn. He expected the sting that came along with the touch, but what caught him by surprise was the sudden jolt of static that knocked his hand away. Hissing, he waved his fingers around in an attempt to shake off the odd sensation. He was going to find that bastard and when he did—

“Dean? Are you okay?” Sam’s voice made its way out of the tiny bathroom, quickly followed by Sam himself. Dean made an attempt to cover the burn with his sleeve only to remember the witch had burned through the fabric. Flashing Sam a quick smile, he forced fake cheer into his voice.

“Just peachy,” he replied. Sam didn’t look too convinced as he approached. 

“Let me see.” His little brother insisted. With a resigned sigh, Dean let him examine the wound. Sam let out a low whistle.

“Did he do that?” 

“Not he, Sam. It… Yes. I ran into it on my way downstairs and it tried to grab me.”

“Seems like it did more than just ‘try’,” Sam said, judgement bleeding into his tone. A light scowl twisted his scratched-up face. Most of the marks didn’t seem to go too deep into his skin, except one that ran along his temple, dangerously close to his eye. Dean wondered if it would leave a scar. 

“Looks like it tried to burn you alive,” Sam continued. “You’re lucky he didn’t set us on fire. Honestly, Dean, I told you we should have—“

“First of all, it. Not he. And second, if that thing hadn’t been walking around and had been in bed instead, we might have been able to find… whatever it is that dad wanted us to find.” Dean frowned at his last words, failing to ignore how ridiculous they sounded. 

John Winchester had never been a man of many words, and he was certainly someone who believed most things were on a need-to-know basis, but the instructions he’d left for the boys before he vanished had been more cryptic than usual. Sam and Dean had wasted precious days trying to figure out what their dad could have possibly wanted them to find in that witch’s house, and what purpose it served, but they hadn’t been able to think of a damned thing. The only information they had to go on was that John was convinced he finally had a solid lead on the demon he’d been hunting for the past two decades, and that it was imperative for Sam and Dean to find an object they would recognise once they saw it. He’d told them the address of the witch he’d heard was in possession of this item and that they had to stop at nothing to find it before Samhain. That left the boys with just a little over two months, time that had seemed like it would be more than enough for this task when they’d first played the voice message. Now, Dean wasn’t so sure they would be able to make it in time. They had foolishly exposed themselves to the witch and they needed to come up with a real plan this time, and fast. 

Sam let out a low growl. “This is stupid. He should have told us what we were looking for at least. And you should have listened to me when I told you we should try to speak to the witch before—“

“Absolutely not!” Dean raised his voice, cutting Sam off again. “I can’t believe you’re still on this. This is a monster, Sammy. It’s not a person. A person can’t do that,” he continued, pointing to his arm. “Just because your hormone-riddled brain decided you liked that fox enough to let her go when we were kids doesn’t mean you get to try and humanise all of them. And don’t think I’m not keeping tabs on her still, either. If she so much as breathes the wrong way, I’m going after her. You’re lucky dad never found out.” 

Sam’s face twisted in outrage and a drop of blood ran down his cheek from the scratch along the side of his face as the movement tore the thin scab that had just started forming. Dean didn’t let him respond. “Bring me the first aid kit.”

With one last scathing look, Sam walked to the foot of Dean’s bed and unzipped his duffle bag, rummaging through until he found the small textile bag where Dean kept the ‘first aid kit’. It consisted of a plain metal flask full of cheap whiskey, bandages and two pill boxes - one with painkillers strong enough to put an elephant to sleep for a week and the other with a two slightly curved needles and thread. Going to the hospital with the kind of wounds they got on the job raised too many eyebrows, brought too much attention. That was the last thing the Winchesters wanted. 

Sam shoved the bag at Dean, not slowing down as he walked past him towards the exit. Without another word, he yanked the door open and slammed it shut on his way out with enough force to make the mirror rattle against the wall. Dean stared after his brother before returning his attention to the bag. He fished out the flask. 

He knew he’d hurt Sam by bringing up the kitsune incident, but he couldn’t bring himself to regret it. His mother had let her guard down before and it had cost her her life. Dean was not going to let Sam end up the same way. So what if he hated him for saying that. Somebody had to. Monsters were monsters, no matter how innocent they looked. It was better this way. 

Dean had to believe it for the both of them.

The sky was lit in soft pink and yellow hues by the time the police finally cleared Castiel’s house. They’d searched it top to bottom for any clues that might help identify the intruders, but they hadn’t managed to turn up anything that might point them in the right direction. Or any direction for that matter. They had left no prints behind and Castiel was unable to provide a more detailed description of them other than that they’d both appeared to be male and the one Bee had attacked had been freakishly tall. 

“I’m sorry, Cas,” Sheriff Jody Mills said on her way back to her car. She lingered at the bottom of the porch steps, looking up at Castiel. Her eyes were filled with compassion. “We’ll keep looking. In the meantime, it might be a good idea for you to put up some warding around your house just in case.”

Cas ground his teeth together in annoyance. He knew she only wanted to help.

“Thank you, sheriff,” he said, carefully arranging the muscles in his face into a smile that he hoped looked genuine. With an apologetic smile of her own, Jody climbed into her car and drove off, leaving Cas alone with the mess left behind from the break-in. 

Cas plopped down on the porch bench, utterly exhausted. He knew what ‘we’ll keep looking’ meant. The search hadn’t provided any clues. He’d even tried to scan the energy the pair would have left behind, but there was too much interference. Magic was everywhere in his house and with the amount of power he’d expended when he’d fired at them, any energy traces they would have left behind Castiel had overwhelmed with his magic. 

He leaned back, tilting his head until it rested against the wall.

He’d told himself he’d refrained from waving a hand and rearranging things back to the way they were so that the cops can conduct their search but that wasn’t the truth, at least not all of it. He’d initially thought that the way he’d thrown those fireballs at the men was the reason why his powers bottomed out so quick, but that had been surface-level magic. It shouldn’t have drained him as much as it had. And the training he’d received at the academy had taught him how to ration his power surges. They had even taught him how to use his magic effectively when his body was physically exhausted, so the lack of a full-night’s sleep wasn’t enough to leave him this depleted, either. 

Cas thought back to the man he’d run into and the way his magic had exploded as soon as he’d touched him. If he had to describe the feeling, he would’ve said it felt like a lock within himself he never knew existed had been sprung open. Only he couldn’t even begin to wonder what lay on the other side. 

The shrill sound of his phone ringing made Cas jump forward so fast he saw stars. Digging out the silver device from his pocket, he looked at the small screen on top of the lid. Anna, it read. 

“Hello,” Cas grumbled into the speaker. 

“Cas? Oh, my God, Cas, are you okay?” Her tinny voice answered. “I just got your message. Are you hurt?”

Castiel’s lips turned up in an affectionate smile at his friend’s concern. “I’m okay. I can’t believe you’re awake so early. What happened to sleeping in on Sundays?”

“You can’t send me a message saying your house has been broken into and expect me go back to snoring until noon!” She objected. 

“I thought you’d read the message after you woke up. Unless…?” Castiel’s voice took on a teasing tone.

“Oh, shut up, Castiel,” she groaned, coaxing a cackle from him. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Don’t you? You wouldn’t have spent the night at a certain bar pretending you’re not staring the pretty blond bartender like you want to eat her?”

His jesting was met with a high-pitched scream from the other end of the line. “Be ashamed of yourself, Castiel!”

Cas waited in smug silence for her to continue. After a few seconds, she fell into the trap.

“That being said—“

“I knew it! I knew it, I knew it!” More screaming accompanied his words. “Gosh, I’d pay real money to see your face right now. Did you stay until closing?” Cas pulled the phone away from his ear to look at the time on the screen. 5:23am. 

“I just got home and plugged my phone in to charge,” Anna admitted with defeat which earned her another amused laugh from her friend. “Enough of this. Don’t change the subject. Are you sure you’re okay?”

Brought back to the present, Cas’s mood dropped significantly. “Yes, I’m fine. The house is a mess though.” He ran his fingers through his hair in agitation, pulling at the strands lightly.

“How about this,” Anna offered. “Let’s each take a quick nap now and I’ll swing by later to help cheer you up, huh?”

“Sounds good.”

“Awesome! I’ll just bang on your door once I’m there.”

“Yeah, great. Except,” Cas sighed. “I don’t even have a door.”

Chapter Text

Trying to ignore Bee’s snoring had been quite the feat. She’d been restlessly moving through the house, unable to settle down long after the cops left. She had finally given into her exhaustion hours later and was now curled into a ball on the couch. Her small body rose and fell with each slow breath.

Castiel reached inward for his magic in an attempt to collect glass from the TV that was now a broken mess, but it proved too great a feat. A wave of nausea washed over him and black dots littered his vision. His powers were still too depleted for things that normally felt like second nature. He’d have to tidy up without them - something he hadn’t needed to do in years. The sleepy sounds Bee made only a few feet away from him weren’t helping him in the least, only serving as a reminder of how exhausted he was himself. He almost felt jealous of the little fur-ball. 

She deserves some rest, he thought, struggling to overcome the impulse to collapse on the couch next to her.

Several shallow cuts later, he managed to pick up most of the bigger pieces off the floor. Thinking of going down to the basement, fetching the hoover and carrying it by all the way back up the stairs almost brought him to tears. The image of Sisyphus came to mind, wrenching a giggle from him with a manic edge to it. The smaller shards would have to wait for now.

He tried to think positively — at least most of the damage from last night had been sustained on the first floor. He’d joined Bee on one of her sweeps to assess the state of his house. His office and storage room were in utter disarray, more so than he usually left them, but nothing was broken and as far as he could tell, nothing was missing either.

The basement had surprisingly been left in a more orderly state. If he didn’t know better, he would have assumed that the second intruder had wanted to cause the least amount of trouble possible. Of course, a bottle of detergent had been knocked to the side, all of its contents spilling out; there were cleaning supplies laying on the floor all over and the innards of every single drawer looked like tiny tornados had passed through them, but at least they had been pushed shut after not turning up whatever it was the two had been looking for.

Because Cas knew they must have been searching for something specific. This much was obvious. He had no idea what that might be, but it looked like the two were convinced Cas had what they were after and he had a hunch this wouldn’t be the last he’d see of them. 

It made him glad for the disguise spell he had on the door of the broom closet in the basement. 

When he’d first moved into the house, he’d felt inclined to place a warding spell on that specific room. He had things that were dear to him strewn all over the house, but somehow it had felt important to ward this particular space, making it the only one on the entire premises that had any sort of magical protection. 

His beekeeping was to blame for the lack of warding around his house. The repelling properties of traditional warding magic messed with the less developed nervous systems of insects, causing erratic behaviour and confusion. It was simple, really - if his bees couldn’t find their way home, his hives would die out in a matter of days. 

Balthazar had helped Cas devise the spell he used to conceal the door. It made whatever object or place under its protection invisible to anyone who didn’t explicitly know to look for it and the two men hadn’t been able to find it. It relied more on bending the light rather than messing with one’s reception of a distorted reality. It was by no means a sophisticated spell, but it was quite effective nonetheless. Last night had proved that.

Inside, Castiel kept all sorts of amulets and potions he felt a need to protect. He liked to practise his old white-magic-days skills occasionally, but not every item was made by him. Some had been gifted to him over the years and some… Well… He wasn’t extremely proud to admit it but some he’d stolen when he was younger from a house in the woods.

This is definitely my karma, he mused. 

“Cas?” Came the familiar ring of Anna’s voice. “I’m here.”

Straightening his back, Cas turned towards the sound, but not before knocking his head against the DVD shelf he’d been searching for more pieces of broken glass under. 

“Come in… or whatever.”

Anna rounded the corner, entering the living room. She started toeing her shoes off but Cas held up his hand. “I wouldn’t do that if I were you. There’s still glass in the carpet.”

Anna slid her shoe back on and scanned the room, her eyes the size of saucers. “Oh, my goodness…” she breathed. 

The screen of the TV that Castiel had bought not two months ago sported two big holes, spiderweb cracks surrounding them like halos. He’d been so excited to have it. He’d decided to treat himself after a particularly long day at the honey shop he ran in town. It had cost him a pretty penny, but it had been worth it. Like just a few days ago when he’d had Anna and Bal over before the latter’s trip to England to visit some of his extended family. The three of them had wanted one last night together before Bal left and had watched movies from Castiel’s collection until the small hours of the night. Sometimes they liked to place bets on who’d last without falling asleep the longest. But there was to be no more of that now. They’d probably have to go back to playing board games or pack themselves like sardines in Bal and Anna’s flat in town in front of their not-so-flat screen.

Anna’s eyes stayed on the bookshelf, though. Cas hadn’t had the courage to look at it himself — he’d been waiting for her moral support. Finally facing it now that she was here, the sight of it made his eyes sting. He’d been collecting his books for as long as he could remember. They were his pride and joy. The bookshelf housed every book he’d ever read or hoped to read, including some quite rare copies of spell-books he’d acquired over the years and liked to display. 

Now, a good portion of them had charred holes eating at their spines. Some still held their shape but looked like they would crumble into a pile of dust the moment you touched them. 

Cas didn’t realise he’d finally given into the tears threatening to escape him until Anna wrapped him in a hug.

“Oh, Cassie, I’m so sorry,” she cooed as he sniffled into her shoulder.

“It’ll take years…” he sniffled. “And… even… Princess Bride… Anna… They… And I just…”

“I know, I know.” Anna tightened his grip on him with one hand while gently smoothing down his hair. Cas felt her recoil from the static the black strands still held. His magic made his hair unmanageable, always sticking out in every direction. She persevered, though, which told him the whole situation was even more dire than he imagined. Anna hated the static and teased him about it relentlessly. But she said nothing now. 

Castiel allowed himself a few more moments of mourning before he pulled back from the hug and wiped his cheeks with the back of his hands. He gulped down a few steadying breaths of air that did a piss-poor job at grounding him, but a great one at making him even more lightheaded.

“Hey, listen,” Anna said gently. “Why don’t you go upstairs to get some rest and I’ll finish cleaning up in here, okay? Your eye-bags are the size of suitcases,” she tried poking fun at him to lighten the mood. 

Castiel shot her a dry look. “Gee, thanks. It’s not like I got robbed last night or anything.”

Anna had he decency to look apologetic. “What did they take?”

“Actually… Nothing as far as I can tell. Which is weird. They could have taken the TV at least instead of breaking it, you know? It just makes no sense. And the guy who was upstairs… he was coming out of the storage room, but none of the jewellery was missing, either.”

Castiel’s first order of business once he’d gotten back to his house after chasing the intruders had been to go to the storage room and check on the jewellery his grandmother had left behind. She’d been a lady of fine and expensive taste and she’d left behind pieces that cost a fortune. As Castiel had been her only grandchild, she had left all of it to him, making him swear he’d ‘use it wisely’ whatever that meant. The box had been open when he’d gone to check but nothing was taken. 

“Maybe they were shitty thieves,” Anna offered. 

“Yeah… Yeah, maybe.” But as the hours passed since the break-in, Cas got the sneaking suspicion they had been looking for something that would most likely be hidden in his broom closet. There just had to be something more to this. 

Anna shot a look at Bee who had finally woken up from her nap, her pupils narrowed into thin slits as she stared back at Anna. The two didn’t really get along too well, which had always baffled Cas. Bee was pretty accepting of people, given that they didn’t break in in the middle of the night. She liked Bal well enough and weaved herself in-between his feet wherever he went, tripping him up, every time he came over. But she’d never liked Anna and usually hid away in a different part of the house when she was here without Bal. 

Animals tended to love witches because of their close relationship with nature. This was where the whole ‘familiar’ myth came from. It was rare for a witch not to have at least one pet. But none seemed to be particularly fond of Anna, Bee more so than others. 

Her tail twitched nervously at the prolonged eye contact, her fur bristling slightly. 

“Where was she when all this was going down?” Anna asked, still not looking away from the cat. “I thought she was supposed to be your biggest protector. She certainly thinks she is.”

“She attacked one of them, actually.”

Anna turned to face Castiel now, ending the stare-down. Bee took the opportunity to jump off the couch and sneak off towards the back yard. Her body brushed against the wall on her way out as she tried to put as much distance between herself and Castiel’s guest as possible. 

“Oh, pleaseee tell me she ripped them in pieces and you hid the bodies downstairs,” she squeaked. 

Cas laughed. “Yeah, I actually waited for you to come over so you’d help me bury them in the woods.”

“I’m so down, let’s go,” she said, making a show of rolling up her sleeves. The two descended into a fit of laughter until a big yawn from Castiel put an end to their merriment.

‘Okay, sleepyhead. Off you go,” Anna commanded. “We’ll solve murder mysteries after you get some rest.”

Castiel’s eyebrows knit together. “Huh? Wait, nobody actually died. You know that, right?”

She gave him a dry smile. “Tell that to the flatscreen, silly.”

Dean’s wallet had thinned considerably but he couldn’t bring himself to regret it as he admired the way Baby shimmered under the late August sun. He’d had to ask the bored-with-life teenager at the motel reception desk about all the car washes in town and after a soul-draining conversation with him, he’d finally gotten the information he needed. It had cost him almost as much as renting a room for over a week did. That hadn’t been enough for him to break his promise, though. 

He allowed himself to imagine his beauty parked in a nice front yard of a moderately big family house, with a lovingly maintained garden. She’d never stop hunting, of course, and neither would he, but having a place to call home didn’t seem like too bad of an idea, especially if it meant never having to wonder what the discoloured stains on motel sheets were from. 

All he knew was that Baby did not belong in a cracked-concrete parking lot, littered with the brown leaves of approaching fall. 

Soft, familiar steps sounded behind him.

“I hope you’re not still pouting, Sammy,” Dean said, fishing out the car keys from his pocket. 

“Really?” Sam snapped at him. “That’s all you have to say?”

Dean shot his brother a sidelong glance. “Nothing else comes to mind.”

Sam’s nostrils flared in irritation. He stomped off towards the passenger seat.

The silence between them was so thick, it felt like a third person breathing down their necks from the backseat. It followed them all the way into the run-down diner they had picked to grab lunch and discuss their next moves without having to be particularly mindful of their words or who might overhear them. 

Halfway through their meal, which consisted of greasy sandwiches with fillings better left unquestioned, Dean spoke. 

“Fine,” he mumbled around the food in his mouth. “You were right. It was a dumb plan.” It was the only semblance of an apology Sam would be getting from his older bother. 

Sam pretended not to hear but Dean was good at reading his brother’s face. He saw the tiny muscles around Sam’s eyes relax ever-so-slightly. They were far from being on good terms again. Dean’s comments about Amy, the kitsune which had been Sam’s first real crush, would hang in the air between them at least for the next couple of days, but Dean’s admission that his plan had failed because he hadn’t listened to Sam would placate the younger brother enough to make him talk to Dean about their course of action moving forward. Dean rarely admitted his wrongs, so this was his way of extending an olive branch. Even if it was only on the less severe offence Sam felt had been committed against him. 

Dean finished his meal first and leaned back against the worn-out leather of the booth they shared. He looked out the window as he waited for Sam to be done with his food, too. He watched as a pair of pigeons fought over a piece of bread on the sidewalk. He picked one of them to root for until the rustling of Sam’s backpack brought his attention back to his bother. The pigeons would have to settle their dispute without Dean’s supervision. 

Sam pulled out his laptop and placed in on the table, pushing their plates to the edge for the waitress to pick up whenever she decided to put down her sudoku booklet. 

“So get this,” Sam started in his usual manner. “Last night when I went out I kept thinking back to dad’s voice mail. He said he had it on ‘good authority’ that the item we had to find is being kept by this particular witch.”

“Okayyy,” Dean said, drawing out the word. “How does that help us figure out what we’re looking for?”

Sam lifted his eyes from the screen, pinning Dean with a ‘shut-up-and-listen’ gaze. Dean held his hand up in surrender. 

Sam made sure he wouldn’t be interrupted again before continuing. “Ever since you played the recording I couldn’t figure out why it was that phrasing that seemed important somehow. You know dad. He never takes hear-say at face value, but if he was certain this is where we had to look because he’d checked it out himself, he would have said so.”

Dean nodded thoughtfully. He wouldn’t say his father was prideful necessarily but he liked to assert his authority. His word was law in their family, so it made sense why he’d tell them if he was the one to have discovered this. It would have given more gravity to his instructions. 

“I went to the library in town to do some research and…” Sam’s fingers flew over the keyboard before he turned the screen towards Dean.

“What am I looking at?” Dean asked confused. Sam had opened a page with a map of the general area. On it, he could see the town they were in now, the witch’s town and a few smaller ones dotted around a heavily wooded area. 

“Do you remember when we were little? When dad would go on one of his longer hunts? He’d drop us off—“

Dean’s eyes bugged out. “At Bobby’s house,” he finished. 

Bobby Singer had been the closest thing to extended family the two of them had growing up. They weren’t related by blood, but he had been John’s first and most trusted hunter friend. Bobby had been the one to show John the ropes and the two had gone on a few shorter hunts, leaving the boys alone in Bobby’s house. It had been so much better than having to wait for days on end in dingy motel rooms. It had felt like their part-time home. Until it hadn’t. 

Sam and Dean had been sleeping in the tiny room Bobby had set up for them to stay at whenever they were over when Dean had been roughly woken up by yelling coming from downstairs. He hadn’t been able to make out the words, but a few minutes later John had stormed into their room, shaken them awake and told them to get dressed and collect their stuff. They’d never seen Bobby again. 

A few weeks after this incident Sam had made the mistake of asking when they’d go back to Bobby’s house. 

“Never. Don’t ever mention his name to me again,” John had bit out through clenched teeth. “He’s as good as dead to us.”

John had never worked with anyone else on hunts again, except when he’d started allowing Dean to come along. He’d started telling them hunting was the ‘family business’ around that time. He meant it in more ways than one - yes, the boys were legacies on their mother’s side, but it also served as a warning. They were to never trust anyone outside of the three of them. 

“Think about it,” Sam continued. “Bobby was the only hunter dad ever respected. I mean, he taught him everything he knew. And he knew a lot, Dean. He just so happens to live in the area? It can’t be a coincidence. I can’t believe we didn’t realise this sooner.”

“It’s been so long,” Dean mumbled, his voice distant. He’d loved Bobby like a father. He’d always felt safe with him and he’d secretly wished his dad would leave them both at Bobby’s indefinitely while he chased after the demon. He’d been devastated after the two men’s falling-out, but he’d hid it well. 

A sudden rush of giddy energy flooded his veins. “Alright,” he clapped his hands together before taking the last few bills from his wallet and tossing them on the table. “Let’s go pay Uncle Bobby a visit.”

He left Sam scrambling to catch up. 

Chapter Text

Dean rolled his eyes at the way Sam white-knuckled the side of his seat. His driving hadn’t been that reckless. Sure, he might have avoided a few pedestrians by mere inches and sped through most red lights, but they made it to Bobby’s house alive and without casualties. He deserved some credit for that.

He slammed the breaks and the tires bit into the gravel underneath. A puff of fine dust rolled over the windshield. So much for that car wash. Dean threw his door open before Baby had come to a complete stop, and jumped out. Without missing a beat, he headed for the front door. Behind him, Sam climbed out of his seat. 

“Wait, Dean! I don’t thi—“

Gunshots split the air, cutting him off. Dean halted his advance, but not without an exasperated huff at the dramatics. Really, how hard was it for everyone to keep a level head? 

A man on the north side of middle-age came into view, stepping out from around the familiar house. He held a rifle pointed straight at Dean’s forehead. If he were to shoot, Dean knew he’d nail him between the eyes with deadly precision. 

“Is this how you welcome us after fourteen years, Bobby?” Dean called out to him. 

Bobby ignored the question. “I don’t know who you are, boy, but I suggest you be on your way before my finger gets the twitches.”

“Aw, come on, really? I was hoping you’d at least offer us a beer before you sent us away. You certainly were quite generous with it when I was, what, ten?”

Bobby’s rifle lowered half an inch — Dean had caught his attention. 

“Put the gun down, old man. You’ll hurt yourself.”

Bobby’s eyes narrowed.

“Dean,” Sam interjected. “Shut up, for god’s sake.”

“Bah,” Dean called over his shoulder. “G-O-D doesn’t care about us much these days.”

Bobby lowered the gun fully now, pointing the barrel at the ground. 

“Dean? Dean Winchester? Sam?” Disbelief saturated his voice. 

“In the flesh,” Dean grinned. 

“Boys!” He hurried towards them. “What are you doing here?”

“Oh, you know, we were just in the area and — OW!” Dean yelled out. He had not expected Bobby to strike out at him. Before he knew it, a sharp slice stung his cheek. “What the hell?” He felt hot blood drip down his face. 

“Sorry, kid,” Bobby shrugged, profound lack of remorse on his face. “Gotta make sure it’s you.”

“Yeah, but you could’ve —“ Dean’s sentence was cut off by water being splashed across his face. He coughed when some went up his nose. Sam stood to the side, failing to contain a chuckle. 

“Are you done?” Dean grumbled at Bobby, wiping his face with open palms.

“I am,” Bobby grinned, pulling him into a tight hug. “I wouldn’t be laughing if I were you, boy,” he addressed Sam over Dean’s shoulder. “You’re next…

“Why do you look like you lost a fight to a kitten?”

The afternoon sun cast soft light across Cas’s room when he finally woke up. The early morning, when Anna had arrived at his house, was gone and long shadows snaked around his bedroom, announcing the approach of the evening.

Getting back on his feet was tough. His whole body ached, his eyes refused to open all the way. Although he’d slept for the better part of the day, he knew he’d have no trouble falling asleep again in a few hours. 

He heard a soft hissing coming form the kitchen on his way down the stairs. The sound was accompanied by the mouthwatering smell of fried bacon. 

“Good morning, princess!” Anna chirped when he walked into the kitchen. Her bright red hair was tied back in a ponytail and her frame was wrapped up in Cas’s striped cooking apron. “By the way, your fridge in a disaster. You can’t live like this.”

“My fridge is just fine, thank you very much,” he mumbled. It was a lie, of course, and he knew it. He just didn’t really care to make himself elaborate meals. Takeout leftovers were food, too.

Anna dead-panned him. “Even you don’t believe that. Anyway. I went grocery shopping, you’re welcome,” she emphasised, “and I started a few things for you. There’s some snacks in the pantry, I baked you some sourdough bread,” she pointed to a sizeable loaf placed to cool down on the windowsill where Bee had been perched the night before when she’d started hissing at the empty street. 

Actually, Cas corrected himself mentally, it hadn’t been empty after all. He’d have to apologise to Bee for not taking her seriously. Maybe he’d make an exception to his no-fancy-cooking rule and prepare them both a tuna steak? Would they have recipes for that on the Internet? Where had he stashed his laptop? It had to be around here somewhere…

Anna continued. “I made some soup, that’s in the fridge now. It’s something I saw on a cooking show recently and wanted to try out and,” her face took on a mischievous look, “I didn’t want to make a mess over at my place, so I made a mess here. It turned out great, though, you’ll love it. It’s kind of like chicken soup but—“

“Mess?” Cas said with amusement, placing the back of his hand on her forehead. “Maybe you have a fever, you’re hallucinating. How many fingers am I holding up?”

She huffed out a breath. “You should get prescription glasses.” But Cas could tell by the way her cheeks pinked in delight that she appreciated his compliment on her organisation skills. 

“Thank you,” Cas said, pulling her in hug.

“It’s nothing, really,” her voice came out muffled on account of her face being buried in his shirt. “Besides, I had nothing else to do after I finished cleaning up the living room and mopping the floors since the TV is broken and you refuse to read any of those books I like. If you had any of them, I might have done that instead of pretending to be your underpaid and overworked maid.”

“Poor, little Anna,” Cas teased as he messed up her hair with one hand. She squealed and pulled away from him, swinging her arm in an attempt to smack him. Cas dodged to the side, laughing at her frustrated expression. “The best place to hide a secret from you is inside a book with no shirtless dudes on the cover.”

“Shut up, Castiel,” she growled, her movements jerky as she retied her hair into a neater version of the same hairstyle. “You wouldn’t know good literature if it hit you in the face.” Despite her annoyed disposition, her words were playful. Cas and Bal loved poking fun at the books she liked to read, but she was shameless. She liked to carry the paperbacks in her purse with the sole purpose of reading them in public. As far as she was concerned, she was doing divine work. “Maybe men might start taking better care of themselves if they saw this is what women want,” she’d say. 

“But seriously, though,” she grew somber. “How are you feeling? You look slightly better but not by much.”

Cas wasn’t offended. “I feel like I’ve been run over by a monster truck. I think I could sleep for at least a week,” he stifled a yawn at the mere thought.

“You could stay in tomorrow.” Anna suggested. 

Cas shook his head. “First day of school, so Kevin won’t be in. I’m manning the shop alone,” his expression grew thoughtful. He had been trying so hard not to think about Monday over the weekend. The break-in had been quite the distraction actually, but now he needed to address the issue. “Why did Bal have to go to England right now,” he grumbled. 

Balthazar and Anna kept their own little gardening centre in town. The two of them were a formidable team when it came to looking after plants. With Anna’s green magic and Bal’s ability to turn even the dimmest of natural rays into beams, the plants they grew from seedlings were unmatched. The two of them provided each one with its ideal environment and sold anything from easy-to-look-after snake plants to blood-pressure risers like alocasias. 

Usually, towards the end of summer, one of the two would help cover for Cas at his shop just around the corner from theirs, where Cas sold the honey he collected from the his beehives. This was the time of the year he extracted most of the honeycomb sheets. It was a lot of work for just one person, but he didn’t want to hire someone full-time to help. He liked Kevin, a quiet teenage boy, now in his senior year of high school, who worked part-time for him to save up for collage. Kevin took studying very seriously, often bringing textbooks to keep him company during the slower shifts, and what was most important - he was not a fan of small talk, just like Cas. The two of them either talked about their shard interests, or just sat in companionable silence. It was the perfect working arrangement. Cas was sad he’d have to let Kevin go next year when he graduated. 

“You know I’m just a few doors down, right? If you need anything, I don’t mind closing up a bit early—“

“Don’t be silly,” Cas interrupted, a forced smile stretching his lips thin. “I can manage.” 

He clapped his hands in an attempt to chase away the sudden sadness swirling around him in fast circles. He was staring to feel a little dizzy again. “Let’s try that bacon.” He pushed around Anna to get to the pan, his stomach rumbling. He hadn’t eaten since the night before and some food was sure to make him feel better, right? 

Reaching into the pan with a fork, eager to try the crispy goodness, he didn’t notice the concerned look on Anna’s face. 

Chapter Text

Bobby’s place hadn’t changed much. The house wasn’t small, but it was so crammed with books on the occult that there was hardly any space to walk, or even sit down. Bobby had a big desk in the living room made of dark wood in need of polishing that was always littered with papers on whatever research he was doing at the moment. Maps, pens and odd objects littered every inch of its surface, spilling over to neighbouring pieces of furniture. 

Sam and Dean sat in the chairs opposite the desk and waited for the older man to join. A few minutes later, Bobby came in huffing under the weight of a stack of beers and three plates with sandwiches.

“It would be real helpful if someone cleared some space on this table in the next century,” he drawled in a mock-scolding way that was comfortingly familiar. His hands were starting to shake under the uncomfortable grip. Sam and Dean jumped over themselves to push some of the papers aside, clearing a small patch of worn wood. 

“Careful with that!” Bobby exclaimed when Dean ripped the corner of a map he tried to pull from underneath a heavy tome. 

“Sorry,” Dean replied sheepishly. Sam knocked his brother’s hands away and neatly folded the piece of paper, placing it to the side. 

Having finally set down the precious cargo, Bobby plopped into his own chair. “Not that I don’t love seeing you boys again,” he began, “but what are you two doing here?”

Dean’s mouth was already stuffed full of bread, so the responsibility to reply fell on Sam. “Well, we’re not exactly sure either…”

By the time Sam finished recapping the events from the last few days that led them to Bobby’s house, Dean had cleared his plate and half of Sam’s. Sam gave him a nasty sidelong look, which finally made Dean put the food down. 

Bobby was deep in thought and missed the brief exchange. 

“Your daddy called me a few months ago to ask about a few items he knew I had in storage here, but I told him they got stolen some years ago by the witch he’s sent you after,” he said, confirming Sam’s theory.

“You got robbed?” Dean joined the conversation, still chewing through his last bite. “You almost gunned us down like rabid animals out there. How did they ever get past you?” 

Bobby looked uncomfortable. “I was, uhh, I was occupied at the time.”

Sam raised an eyebrow, concern written all over his face. “What could have possibly made you of all people let your guard down like that?”

Bobby made an unintelligible sound deep in his throat, but didn’t answer.

Dean chuckled. “Sinner,” he said with a shit-eating grin. 

“Oh, shut up,” Bobby’s face twisted. 

“Who was she, huh? Bet she was quite the catch. Where did you hide her?” Dean carried on teasing, pretending to look around. Bobby’s face grew even redder and he shifted uncomfortably in his seat.

“Wait,” Sam said. “It wasn’t a woman. Was it?” Bobby took a long swig of beer to avoid replying. His throat bobbed when he swallowed the yellow liquid but it failed to wash down his embarrassment. 

Sam and Dean shared a look and burst out laughing. “Well, good for you, old man. Do we get to meet him?”

Bobby succumbed to a fit of chocking coughs, his drink going down the wrong pipe. “Never,” he said, his voice grave. 

“Cagey,” Dean put up his hands in a sign of surrender, still smiling. 

“And anyway, it was a one-time thing,” Bobby added, which only coaxed another round of laughter from the boys. Their faces were fond, though, when they finally got themselves under control.

“Right,” Bobby clapped a hands on the desk. “Enough of this conversation. Your daddy has sent you here on a ridiculous mission. I really don’t see how the charm he’s looking for is going to help him find the demon that killed your mother.” 

“To be fair,” Dean scratched at his head thoughtfully, “he didn’t say it will help him find it. He said we just have to take the charm away from the witch and that once we do, we’ll be able to ‘get it’,” he made quotation marks with his fingers. “I guess that’s different than ‘find it’, right?”

Bobby hummed. “Maybe. And he told you you have to take it away from the witch because he’s dangerous?” 

Dean’s eyebrows knit together. “He didn’t have to say it. Just any witch would have been bad enough, but a celestial? Whatever that charm is, it shouldn’t have it.”

Bobby shook his head. “He’s just a kid, not much older than you two,” Bobby took another quick sip of his beer. “He’s harmless. Likes to keep to himself.” 

“And that doesn’t strike you as strange? Witches are social creatures, they need each other,” Sam insisted, Dean grunting in agreement. 

“Not always,” Bobby said, his words full of meaning that was lost on the brothers. He didn’t elaborate.

“If he’s so harmless,” Dean challenged, “then what’s this?” 

He removed the dark denim jacket he’d bought earlier this morning from a thrift store that had ‘FORECLOSURE’ written in big red letters across every window. It had cost less than a cup of coffee and it carried an odd smell he was trying to ignore long enough to get it washed. He rolled the sleeve of his shirt and turned his upper arm so Bobby could see the burn mark the witch had branded him with. “Does this seem ‘harmless’ to you?”

Bobby gave a low whistle, his eyebrows shooting so far up it looked like he was trying to fuse them together with his retreating hairline. His eyes jumped from the mark to Dean’s face, then back again. He didn’t say anything. Dean wasn’t sure how to interpret this reaction, so he covered his arm. 

“We really did piss him… it off,” Sam said with a nervous laugh, correcting himself at Dean’s sharp look.

“I’d say…” Bobby drawled out. 

A few more minutes passed in uncomfortable silence before Bobby focused. “You boys should be more careful. Especially you, Dean.”

“See? I told you,” Sam didn’t miss a beat, using the moment to hammer down his point to Dean about being reckless. 

“Yeah, yeah,” his older brother said, waving his hand dismissively. 

“Do you know what we are actually looking for, then?” Sam turned back to Bobby. 

The man sighed. “I’d just acquired some occult objects from an old friend of mine who died on a hunt. He didn’t have a big collection, but what he did have was powerful stuff, so he left it to me. Most of it was demonic in origin, but I hadn’t gotten around to researching all of it when it got stolen by the blue witch and his friends.” 

Dean’s blood ran a couple degrees cooler at the word ‘friends’. He’d been counting on the witch being solitary. But if he had close enough friends to commit crimes with then that meant he had a support system. People he was loyal to and who were loyal to him in return. It was bad enough that they had caused the anger of one witch, a very powerful one, but add to this its witch friends? This mission was getting more and more complicated with every passing day. It made him doubt if they’d ever be able to complete it. He couldn’t do it alone, that much was clear, which meant he’d have to involve Sam more actively. He’d hoped to avoid dragging his little brother all the way with him into this, but it seemed like his choices on the matter were limited. 

This was one of the rare moments he let himself question his father’s orders. Had the man really thought this through? Witches were not creatures you wanted to mess with. Ever.

He prayed his father knew what he was asking.

Bobby narrowed his eyes. “But your daddy says you two knuckleheads would recognise it when you saw it?”

The boys nodded in unison. Bobby hummed again. 

“I might know which one he’s referring to.” 

Sam’s eyes lit up. 

“Still…” Bobby continued. “I’m not sure how smart it is for you boys to be doing this. I still believe the witch boy to be harmless but…” his eyes took on a faraway look. “There’s no way this doesn’t end in disaster,” he said more to himself than to them.

Hearing his own doubts voiced back to him, Dean felt the need to defend his father.

“Dad says it’s important,” he shook his head. “And he wouldn’t have sent us if he didn’t think we could handle it.” At least he hoped so. 

Bobby seemed less convinced, but didn’t argue. Sam was nearly jumping in his seat with nervous excitement. “What does it look like, Bobby? What are we looking for?”

Dean knew his brother didn’t necessarily care about this because he wanted to get started on their hunt for real, he just wanted to fast-track it. The sooner they were done with all this, the sooner he’d get back to applying to colleges. Dean hated the idea of his brother leaving him, but he wasn’t going to stop him, either. He wanted Sam to be happy and if that included quitting the hunting world altogether, then so be it. That much the better. Maybe he’d live long enough to get all grey and wrinkly. That certainly wouldn’t be Dean’s fate, he was sure. But he wanted it for his little brother. He’d find a way to cope on his own somehow. Hunting would keep him busy. 

And Sam was right. They had to hurry. Samhain was feeling less and less far away in time. With all the new complications, any intel was a treasure. 

“Do you boys remember when you were little and liked to do the exact opposite of what I told you?” Bobby started. The two brothers smiled crookedly. “I had put the box of my friend’s stuff in the panic room when you do idjits picked the keys from me when I was sleeping on the couch—“

Dean’s eyes lit up, meeting Sam’s excited gaze. “The horned man?” 

The horned man had been the find of the decade. They had always wondered what Bobby took in and out of the panic room and when the opportunity presented itself, they had jumped on it. They’d been somewhat disappointed that none of the things they’d found seemed to do anything. They knew now what they hadn’t back then - the reason the objects hadn’t harmed them was because they were in a space so heavily warded it rendered almost all types of magic powerless. 

Except for the horned man. Dean had fallen in love with the trinket the moment he’d seen it. It had called to him. Its golden plating seemed to glow, casting a faint halo of light around itself. It had zapped him with a low current of electricity the moment he’d touched it. Surprised, he’d thrown it back in the box and when Sam had reached for it, he’d told him to leave it. To nobody’s surprise, Sam hadn’t listened. He’d picked it up, confused about his older brother’s reaction. 

“I don’t feel anything,” he’d complained. He’d wanted to be just like his older brother back then and this upset him. “And it’s not glowing, either.”

“You don’t see that?” Dean’d asked, transfixed by the light. 

“No,” Sam had sighed. “Maybe it’s for you. You should have it.” And before Dean had had the chance to protest, Sam had slipped the pendant around his older brother’s neck. It had felt exhilarating, almost like coming home, yet something fundamental missing at the same time.

That’s when Bobby had found them and seeing the pendant around Dean’s neck, he’d flown into a rare fit of rage, yanking it off him and slamming the box back shut with it inside. The moment Dean’s contact with the necklace had been severed, he felt cold, then hot, then cold again all over before returning back to normal. 

A long lecture about the dangers of handling unknown magic objects had ensued, as well as an even longer day of rearranging nearly every piece of furniture in the house only for Bobby to tell them to put everything back the way it had been. No one could say it wasn’t a creative method of punishment.

In the present, Bobby nodded in confirmation. “That’s the one.” 

“What does it do?” Dean said, trying to hide the way his breath got stuck on the way out of his chest at the prospect of getting his hands on the pendant again. He had wondered about it for years. 

“I’m not entirely sure,” Bobby admitted. “Like I said, it got taken before I could do full research and tests on it, but I can tell you it’s powered by witch magic, and not the weak kind either… But,” he continued, “I suspect that’s not all that powers it. Perhaps your daddy knows more about it than I do if he’s sending you to get it.”

Dean’s gut twisted. That sounded bad and the fact that he’d had such a weird reaction to it didn’t help. But he told himself it was duty that drove his sudden need to find it.

He was an expert at lying to himself.

Monday morning was rough. When Castiel’s alarm clock buzzed, he briefly considered frying it before he remembered his depleted power reserves. The dinner Anna had prepared for him last night had done wonders for his recovery, but he still felt weak in the semi-darkness of early morning. He summoned a spark of blue light to his fingertips as a test. His magic was coming back to him, but it was slow going, and he’d have to be mindful about how much of it he used in the upcoming days. 

The clock buzzed again. 

“Shut upppp,” Cas whined, slapping at it. The silence it left behind was somehow louder. He tossed the covers back and stood up, his vision spinning with dark spots. Bee's purr reached him from somewhere below, her fur tickling his ankles as she wound herself around him in greeting. The contact helped ground him.

“Good morning to you, too,” he smiled, bending forward to scratch her back. She ached happily and shook her ears before running off, stomping her paws against the floorboards. Follow me. He obeyed, padding after her to the kitchen for breakfast. 

An hour later, Cas got off his bike in front of his shop. ‘Buzzing Bee’ was open all year round and offered all types of natural remedies, but its main focus was, as the name suggested, bee-related products - honey and wax, even small jars of venom. Some time ago, Anna and Bal had suggested he expand his business by setting up workshops for honey extraction as a way to help with this quite taxing aspect of beekeeping. He’d developed their idea and later added a class in candle making using leftover wax. He’d initially hired Kevin to help with his growing business by leading those, but he’d quickly noticed the boy’s discomfort with the social aspect of the work, so Can had taken over the classes while Kevin handled sales and most of the administrative work. Sometimes the boy did have to make a sacrifice and lead a class or two, but Cas paid him well, so he rarely complained.

The bell above the door chimed, announcing Anna’s entrance. 

“Hey there, friend!” She beamed at him. “How are we feeling this morning?”

“Better,” Cas smiled at her. “Shouldn’t you be at work?”

“I am ‘at work’. Just not my work,” she stuck her tongue out at him. 

“Ha-ha, very clever,” Cas teased, “I don’t need a babysitter, you know? I’ll be okay.” He emphasised his words by making a few blue sparks fly from his fingertips like tiny 4th of July fireworks. Anna’s face took on a disapproving expression at his display. 

“Fine, fine. You caught me,” she carried on. “I’m slacking. But to be fair, it’s still so early. No one will be coming in for at least another two hours. And even if they did, what are they going to do? Complain to the manager?” She grinned. She was the manager. 

Castiel huffed in amusement. “You’re unbelievable.” 

“Don’t I know it. I’m awesome. So awesome, in fact,” her voice took on a sing-song tone, “that I’m going to take you to the Roadhouse tonight.”

“Really? I finally get to meet the girl you’ve been pining over all summer?” He asked, too surprised to fully believe her.

“Yes,” she confirmed. “Besides,” her voice took on a sultry tone, “we might be able to talk some drunken fool with big arms to help you with the honeycombs. Kevin was never good for manual labour anyway. What do you say?”

Cas mulled this over. As much as he hated loud spaces and large groups of people, he had to admit it was an enticing offer. Especially if it meant he’d meet the girl Anna had spent so much of her free time swooning over. He was dying to see what all the fuss was about. 

He pretended to consider, but the playful gleam in his eye betrayed him. “I don’t know…”

Anna squealed happily. “Girls’ night out!”

Cas rolled his eyes with feigned annoyance, but soon he succumbed to his friend’s good spirits. The two spent most of the morning chatting about their evening plans over steaming mugs of coffee he made in the back room. 

Chapter Text

Castiel twisted the key, locking up the shop and putting an early end to his workday. He was considering calling Anna and telling her he still hadn’t recovered enough to take on a night out with her. It had been a slow day, but he hadn’t had much time to sit back after she had left and focus on recovering.

He’d made the most out of the quiet by taking an extended lunch break to go back to his house for the installation of his brand new door and to get the new set of keys. He’d expended energy he couldn’t really afford to spare on maintaining an illusion that there was a door in the frame and his house wasn’t a glorified cave for the last day and a half and it had felt like the weight of the world had been lifted off his shoulders when he’d finally been able to let the magic go. He hadn’t put the new door in the frame himself but he felt as exhausted as if he had.

Fixing this most glaring damage from the break-in hadn’t been enough to bring his spirits up high enough to make him forget about the one suffered by his book collection. He kept thinking it would get easier to look at, but every time his eyes landed on the shelves, his stomach bottomed out. He’d sent Anna a quick text asking her to borrow her car during the weekend for a book-shopping trip out of town. He knew himself well enough to know he would need the trunk of a car at the end of it. And he thought he deserved to treat himself after what he’d endured the past two days. The TV he could let go of, but the books were an entirely different matter. 

“There you are, party buddy!” Anna exclaimed. “So glad to see that you’re closing up shop early because you’re excited for our night out and not because you’re trying to flake or avoid me, or sneak off back home and call me when you’re already there to tell me you weren’t feeling too well and that maybe we should do this some other time!”

Cas smiled sheepishly. “Why do you know me so well?” He asked, not really looking for an answer. He got one anyway. 

“Because you’re predictable and you’ve done this little routine before. I know my audience, Cassie. You should switch up your M.O. if you want to trick me,” she said not unkindly, one hand resting on her hip.

Cas sighed in defeat.

“So, you’re all ready and excited for our Roadhouse evening?” Her sentence was structured like a question, but Cas knew it was meant as a command. 

“Yes… I guess I have to be, don’t I?”

Beaming, Anna grabbed him by the hand and led him to her Ford Taurus that was parked around the corner, shallow dents catching the afternoon sunlight. She chatted happily over the tinny radio the whole drive there, while Cas mostly sat in silence, trying not dwell on the fact his body craved peace and quiet when he was headed towards noise and chaos. He responded whenever it was expected of him, but his mind was preoccupied with what lay ahead.

He was about to step into enemy territory, in a sense. He’d never been big on social hangouts, especially ones that involved unpredictable drunken behaviour. He was cautious by nature and the stories that came from the Roadhouse were in direct opposition with what he considered to be time well spent.

The Roadhouse itself was a weird, liminal sort of space where different creatures intermingled. Witches, as well as demons, werewolves and vampires were some of its frequent patrons alongside humans, most of whom were hunters. A shaky balance existed within the old wooden structure of the diner and it often crumbled under the lightest of pressures. It was all held together by Ellen Harvelle, its long-time owner. She was a force to be reckoned with and the only person who could enforce a temporary truce between her clients. Although human, she had a way with both supernatural creatures and hunters. She commanded respect among her clientele unlike anyone Cas had never met. Unfortunately, that wasn’t enough to put his mind at ease.

Anna pulled up into the lot which was more of a dust field littered with pick-up trucks, haphazardly left behind by their owners, as if they had been in too big a rush to park properly. Or maybe because they thought themselves above order. The Roadhouse was exactly as Cas remembered it from the few times he’d dared to come along with Anna and Balthazar, who spent almost every Friday night here. It was the same old building soaked through with pent-up aggression and spilt beer. Fluorescent lights hung from the ceiling, their faint buzzing overwhelmed by rough laughter, shouting and the crash of resin pool balls. Ash, one of the bartenders, was talking animatedly with a group of burly men. Behind him stood a shelf stocked to the brim with all kinds of liquor. Cas doubted the wood had ever been properly polished, yet it glistened in the dim lighting, decades of sticky booze unevenly coating every inch of it.

He followed Anna to a booth that had a direct eye-line to the bar, not too far from it. She slid onto one of the two benches craning her neck and scanned the room. Cas did the same on the opposite side, face fixed determinately forward so he wouldn’t have to look at the leather bench he was sitting on. He vowed he’d put his jeans in the wash as soon as he got home. His eyes landed on the table between them. The wood was chipped, in places carved with a pocket knife, branded with various symbols. A good portion of them held hateful messaging. Wide, sticky rings from pint-glass bottoms completed the tapestry.

“Sooo, is she here?” Cas asked, aiming for a vaguely interested tone that wouldn’t give away how bad he wanted to fast-forward the meet-and-greet, so Anna would let him go far, far away from this place. 

He wondered what Bee was up to. She was probably curled up on the couch among the soft blankets and plush pillows. What wouldn’t he give to be there with her right now, snuggled with some warm tea and a lighthearted rom-com playing on the TV… If he still had a TV, of course.

Anna shot him a suspicious look, picking up on his mood. “She’ll be here soon, I’m sure. In the meantime, we can soak up the atmosphere!”

“I think it’s already seeping into my clothes,” he grumbled. “It will take ages to take the stench off… And I think my jeans are sticking to the leather.”

Anna’s laugh rung like a bell. “I’d try not to think about why you’re sticking to the seat if I were you. It’s better not to know,” she winked at him.

“Yuck,” Cas whined, doubling his efforts to keeps his balance on the edge of the bench, where he was currently perched. He sniffed at his shirt. It already smelled like smoke. 

Just as he was thinking how he felt like a cigarette butt at the bottom of an old ashtray, Anna’s back shot straight on the other side of the table, her head snapping towards the door behind the bar. A short, blond girl had just stepped out, her cheeks strikingly pink against her otherwise pale skin. She wore dark jeans that hugged her hips like they had been made just for her. She carried herself with poise and confidence. Judging by Anna’s reaction, as well as a good portion of the other customers’, the girl definitely had a mesmerising presence. Despite all the attention she commanded though, her face lit up for Anna when her brown gaze landed on her. She headed straight over to their table. 

“You’re here earlier than usual,” she noted with a sparkle in her eye. 

Anna smirked. “Just trying to get a good spot to watch the smoke show.”

The girl smacked Anna’s shoulder lightly, leaving her hand there. “Don’t tell me I have to get a restraining order against you.”

“Ha! I’d love to see you try to stay away from me,” Anna snorted, failing to hide her grin. 

Cas cleared his throat to remind Anna of his existence. “Oh, yes,” she said, directing an apologetic smile at him. “Jo, this is my friend, Cas. Cas, this is Jo,” she introduced. 

More on reflex than conscious thought, Cas stood to shake Jo’s hand. The leather underneath him was reluctant to let him go and a noise like the tearing of a bandaid signalled its protest. Cas couldn’t school the muscles on his face into an indifferent expression and he winced with disgust. He didn’t have it in him to conceal how tortured he felt just being here, and he almost didn’t care that he might be insulting the girl with the face he was making. But Jo tossed her head back with laugher before she took his extended hand in hers, unfazed by his lack of appreciation for the place. 

“This is a stamp of quality, you know? The stickier the bar, the better the service.”

Cas wasn’t sure the two had any correlation, but he tried to smile politely anyway. “Ah, I see. In that case, this must be a very fine establishment.”

That made Jo laugh even harder, Anna joining in. “It sure is. Now, what can I get you two? If you want my advice,” she stage-whispered, “don’t order a cocktail that requires any amount of shaking. Ash has been a real klutz today.”  

Cas let Anna order for the both of them. She knew the menu by heart and what he liked, so he trusted her. He hoped she would opt for hard liquor, but not for the same reason Jo had suggested. He was anxiously looking forward to having his discomfort dulled enough to make him way less aware of his surroundings. He found himself beyond caring about keeping a clear head.

“Comin’ up,” Jo chimed after Anna had made her decision. She spun around with a lot more flourish then was necessary. The gesture, which was done for Anna’s benefit, did not go unappreciated - she stared at Jo’s retreating form with a look of barely concealed hunger. 

“She is cute, I’ll give you that,” Cas told her, taking her out of her reverie. 

“Isn’t she though,” she turned to face him, stars in her eyes. “She’s so funny, Cassie, and we get along so well. That’s why it took me so long to bring you here,” she said, turning a little shy, “I just wanted to keep her to myself a little while longer.”

Cas felt a smile, a genuine one this time, tugging at the corners of his mouth. “I get it,” he assured her. “She’s so your type, it’s actually eery,” he laughed.

Happiness for his friend momentarily distracted him from his woes. He was excited for her, really. Anna deserved someone who would finally be able to match her energy as well as Jo seemed to be. He hadn’t observed the two interact for long, but he had a feeling they would be well-suited for each other. At the very least, Jo seemed like someone who would be able to handle Anna’s fiery temper, and give as good as she got. 

“I was thinking of taking her to the look-out point past your house sometime,” the sentence was structured like a statement, but Anna’s face was questioning. “To ask her… you know.”

Cas was fully grinning now. “That would be sweet, especially around sunset. Maybe you could even—“

A loud bang cut him off. Both friends looked over to the bar, where Ellen had just emerged from the back room, slamming the door in anger. Behind the counter, Jo abandoned Anna and Cas’s drinks, whispering a quick word to Ash, who picked up where she’d left off with a smile aiming to dazzle and distract anyone who’d seen his boss’s outburst. To people who didn’t know him, and sometimes those who did, Ash seemed like the definition of a devil-may-care type of guy, someone who lived on the edge of this world and one of his own making, but in that moment, Cas saw the instantaneous change in his demeanour. Like a switch being flipped. He might have been distracted earlier but laser-sharp focus was all Cas saw now. Meanwhile, Jo took Ellen by the arm and dragged her outside. Whatever was happening, the two women did not look thrilled about it. 

Cas turned to Anna, looking for clues on her face, but she seemed to be just as confused as he was. “Jo is Ellen’s daughter, right?” He asked in an awkward attempt to distract her. 

“Yes. She only started working here at the beginning of this summer, though. That’s why you probably wouldn’t have seen her. Apparently Ellen didn’t want her to hang around here.”

“Why not?”

“Wanted her to find a job in a human town, she said.”

“Why would she want that?” Cas was baffled. Given that Ellen had been running the Roadhouse for longer than he could remember and seemed to still be enjoying it after all these years, he was surprised she had any opposition to her daughter being in close proximity to supernatural creatures. 

“It’s because of her dad,” Anna clarified. “Jo doesn’t like to talk about him much, but I know he was a hunter.”

The alarm signals in Castiel’s head flashed red. A witch messing with a family of hunters was never a good idea. He could accept Anna’s taste for danger when it was at the somewhat controlled environment of the diner, where she shared the same space with hunters all the time, although he didn’t really understand it - she’d always liked to test the limits, see how far she could push boundaries. But this? It was veering into exorbitant amounts of unnecessary danger.

Unaware of the direction Cas’s thoughts had taken, Anna continued. “From what I gathered, he died a long time ago, when Jo was very little. She doesn’t remember him much,” she shrugged. “She was kind of obsessed with the idea of following in his footsteps when we first met.”

Cas’s jaw went slack. “What?”

Anna giggled at his expression. “Not in the ‘I hate you, filthy creatures’ type of way, but in the ‘my family suffered because of Evil with capital E’ type of way. Humans are at a disadvantage, you know that. They have no other way of protecting themselves against monsters except by knowing how to kill them. That’s the type of hunter her dad was. She just wanted to continue his work.”

“A legacy, then.” Cas mumbled, more to himself. He had conflicting feelings about legacy hunters as well. The further back the legacy, the more likely they were to see themselves as a divine gift to the world. A lot of brainwashing happened in legacy hunter families to ensure future generations continued the hunter lines. Castiel knew those ‘dynasties’ were important to humans, but they definitely did not care to make themselves likeable. And he supposed they didn’t have to. They were there to do a job and do it well. It was a morbid one, too, so there was little space for making nice.

But that didn’t mean he had to tolerate them.

“Yeah, I guess so,” Anna seemed completely unconcerned about her crush’s career aspirations. “Anyway, I’ve only ever seen Ellen this angry whenever Jo talks about becoming a hunter. So I have no idea what else could possibly make her look so upset, since it clearly wasn’t Jo this time. Whatever it is, it’s probably bad.”

Anna stared towards the door where the two women had exited with a faraway look on her face, while absentmindedly picking at some unidentified crust on the table. 

Cas hated to see his friend worried. He reached over and took Anna’s hand in his, in parts because he wanted to comfort her and in parts to stop her compulsive picking. He sent a soothing flash of energy into her skin. It made her jump. She pulled her hand out of his, rubbing it where his magic had touched her with a blank look on her face that was quickly replaced by a reassuring smile. 

“I’m okay, Cas. Conserve your energy. You’re still recovering,” she said. 

Before Cas could reply, the front door swung open again and Ellen and Jo walked in, their expressions downright deadly. Three men followed on their heels. Before Cas had the chance to study the two younger ones who he was sure he’d never met before, his eyes landed on the older one at the back of their small formation.

Bobby Singer. 

Going to the Roadhouse had seemed like a good idea at the time. If the diner was still much the same it had been when Sam and Dean were younger, then that meant it was a place where the human and supernatural worlds collided. It was a good place to gather information regarding hunts and since Bobby was too isolated in his out-of-town house, he wasn’t able to provide everything the brothers needed, like social intel. And one thing establishments like this were good for was lips loosened by booze. 

Bobby had wanted to call Ellen and tell her to expect them, which had seemed a little weird to Dean at first, but he supposed a heads-up was always good, especially when it came to springing surprises on hunters. Or ex-hunters. Whatever. In his opinion, there was no such thing as an ex-hunter. He couldn’t imagine a world where he would know there are people out there getting hurt, or worse, by creatures he knew how to stop, and he wouldn’t drop everything to go and help. It was incomprehensible. Once a hunter, always a hunter. No ifs, or buts.

Ellen had sounded glad over the phone to hear Bobby would be leaving the house until he’d told her who he was bringing along. Her tone had shifted immediately, growing hard on the other end of the line and although Dean hadn’t been able to make out what she was saying, it definitely hadn’t sounded too happy at the prospect of seeing him and Sam. 

He didn’t know what exactly had happened between the Harvelles and his father, but he knew their relationship hadn’t ended on good terms, much like with Bobby. Bobby had been glad to see them again after so many years. Ellen didn’t seem to share the sentiment. Dean couldn’t help but wonder why. But regardless of what grievances she had had with John, they still needed information, so welcomed or not, him, Sam and Bobby found themselves in front of the Roadhouse shortly after the call. 

Baby’s headlights cast a ghostly glow on the building, illuminating it in the descending dusk. Two figures stood out front with their arms crossed tightly over their chests, their expressions shuttered.

Climbing out of the car, Dean opened his mouth to say something that probably wouldn’t have been well-received by their reluctant hosts, but before the words rolled out, Sam shot him a warning look. Dean shrugged and closed his lips, surrendering the fight to his little brother. He would rather have his nails plucked out than have Sam take on an active part in a hunt, but he had no qualms letting him take the lead in battles of the wits. This is where Sam excelled. It was why Dean was so worried his brother would leave him in the dust if he ever left for college. 

“You have some nerve showing your faces here, boys,” Ellen growled at them. Jo stood silent beside her, trying her hardest to look anywhere but at Dean. 

“We’re sorry for springing ourselves on you like this, Ellen. I know you and our dad aren’t on the best of terms, but we were hoping to—“

“Not on the best of terms? That’s the understatement of the century. Tell me, did your daddy ever tell you why he stopped coming here?” 

Sam’s brows knit together. Before he had the chance to respond, Dean cut in.

“If you know John at all, then you’d know he’s not exactly the ‘chit-chat over afternoon tea’ type.”

Ellen and Sam both shot him disapproving looks. 

“What Dean is trying to say,” Sam interjected, “is that our dad only tells us what he thinks is important. Relationships with people aren’t something he talks about much. He just told us we weren’t coming here again, but he never told us why or what happened. I think we were too young at the time anyway.”

Ellen sighed, some of the fight leaving her frame. “Look, I appreciate you don’t know what happened, and I think it’s John who should tell you this story, but I’d still rather you two get in your daddy’s car and drive off. Having Winchesters around is not something that ends well for anyone, if the past is any indication.”

Dean’s nostrils flared in frustration. This was wasting time. “Ellen, if you want to be mad at our dad, that’s fine, but are you really going to stand in the way of us doing our job just because you had a fight with him ages ago? Come on, this is stupid.”

“Listen, Dean, I—“ Ellen began, her face growing stormy, but was cut off by Jo, who finally acknowledged his existence by piercing him with the coldest glare he’d ever been on the receiving end of.

“Stupid? You think getting my dad killed is stupid, Dean? You think leaving me and my mother to take care of ourselves after having to bury the pieces of my dad’s body that were all that was left of him is a misunderstanding?”

“Enough, Joanna Beth,” Ellen barked at her daughter. The two women locked eyes, each fighting for dominance over the other.

Sam and Dean looked to each other as well, but their faces bore twin expressions of shock rather than malice or challenge. There was way more to the story of why John had whisked them away from Bobby’s house in the middle of the night so many years ago than the brothers had suspected. 

Bobby finally joined the conversation. 

“Right, you four, this isn’t getting us anywhere. Ellen,” he scolded her like she was a little girl. “These boys here have nothing to do with Bill’s death. If you want to be angry at John, be my guest, but they were children at the time. They ain’t got nothing to do with it.”

“They are still Winchesters and acting on John’s orders, which makes—“

“Yes, but they ain’t John. I say we stop going in circles and get some work done.”

Ellen was silent for a few minutes, weighing Bobby’s words. Sam, Dean and Jo waited for her response. The air between them vibrated with anticipation.

“Fine,” she bit out at last, “but if anything happens, if anyone gets hurt — it will be on your head, Bobby Singer.”

If Jo’s expression was anything to go by, she was outraged by how easily her mother gave in. Dean could tell there would be hell to pay later. But that was not his problem, he reminded himself. He had other things to focus on. Like finding out as much as he could about the blue witch while keeping Sam as far away from this mess as possible. He had his own family to look out for. In a way, he respected the two women for protecting what was theirs so fiercely, even if it stood in the way of his own plans. But now was simply not the time. 

“Alright,” Bobby uttered, and the deal was struck between them.

Chapter Text

Dean’s memories of the Roadhouse didn’t serve it justice. The place hadn’t changed much as far as he could tell, but his recollection of it was a pale comparison to its glory. He breathed in deep the smell of beer and barely contained chaos, revelling in it. The air was intoxicating, vibrating with delicious tension and fights begging to be had. Bottles asking to be smashed over heads. He could use some of that right about now. 

Ellen and Jo walked ahead of the three of them, desperate to put as much distance as possible. Whatever, Dean thought with annoyance. If he wanted to be honest with himself, there was hurt underneath the flippancy. He’d liked Ellen when he was younger. She had been caring. Safe. Stable. There hadn’t been many people like that in Dean’s life. Jo had been a good friend, too, although she’d had the biggest crush on him growing up, which he’d pretended not to notice. He’d only ever seen her as a little sister. And if he still wanted to be honest with himself, he would have admitted that he’d missed her.

But he didn’t want to be honest right now. Maybe not ever. 

Ellen disappeared behind a door next to the bar without a backwards glance while Jo rushed ahead where she whispered something to a skinny guy with a crazy mullet and a dopey grin on his face. She took two drinks from his hands as she leaned closer. He nodded at her when she was finished and turned towards Dean, Sam and Bobby who had just reached the counter. Jo sauntered away, with the drinks in hand, firmly avoiding Dean’s attempts to catch her eye. Their small group slid onto the cracked red leather of the bar stools in near-perfect sync, which was only broken by Sam’s wobbling under his weight. Dean huffed with amusement. Sam rolled his eyes at his brother’s mockery and shifted cautiously, careful not to lose his balance atop the broken chair.

“What can I get you fellas to drink?” Mullet-man drawled, the spacey grin still fixed on his face. Dean couldn’t help but wonder if that was his normal demeanour, or if he was just stoned. Looking into the clear whites of his eyes, though, he concluded the former. 

“Whiskey for me. Neat.” Dean suspected the guy would grow on him if he stayed around long enough. Which, of course, he wouldn’t. 

As the man turned to take Sam and Bobby’s orders, Dean followed Jo’s trajectory to a booth tucked away in a corner of the room. Her posture seemed to lose its rigidity when she reached her target. She was greeted by the worried expression of a red-headed girl. The two exchanged a few quick words while Jo placed a hand on the girl’s shoulder in a way that suggested familiarity after delivering the two drinks onto the table. Interesting.

Dean was wondering if Jo would ever put her sword up and introduce him to the cute redhead, when the two shifted their attention to a slumped figure on the other side of the booth that Dean hadn’t noticed at first. He could only make out messy strands of short black hair over the backrest, but before he could wonder if this was perhaps the ginger’s boyfriend, he saw blue sparks fly from his fingertips, the second glass shooting from its spot in the middle of the table over to his grasp. 

A sharp sting, like the zap of electricity, on his upper left arm made Dean hiss more in shock rather than pain. He reached over to the spot where his burn mark hid underneath layers of fabric, and cradled it. 

“Dean,” came Sam’s worried voice from somewhere to the right on him. “Are you okay? What’s wrong.”

“He’s here, Sam. The witch. He’s here.”

“One neat whiskey for the gentleman,” the sing-song voice of the bartended announced as he put Dean’s drink down in front of him with a hollow thud. Dean reached for the glass absentmindedly and took a long swig, slushing the liquor around in his mouth before swallowing. 

“I guess we did want to find out more about him by coming here. What better way to do that than to have him actually, you know, here?” Sam tried to joke. It landed flat. 

“Hm,” Dean grunted, his mouth twisting with irony. He preferred it when he went to the hunt, not when the hunt came to him. But he’d be damned if he wouldn’t take this in stride.

A faint awareness, like the scratching of nails along the back of his neck, nearly made Castiel choke on his drink. Mistaking his reaction for not being able to handle his alcohol, Anna giggled from across the table. 

“Oh, come on, Cassie, this one isn’t even that strong. I went easy on you.”

Cas shot her a weak smile. “And I will forever be grateful for your thoughtfulness, even if I think the current circumstances require something stronger.”

“Clearly you can’t even handle this much,” she looked to him sceptically. 

“It’s not the drink that’s the problem,” Cas said, pointedly shifting his eyes to the side, then back to Anna and around again, but she just looked at him with confusion, before coming to the wrong conclusion that Cas was hinting at wanting to leave. She rolled her eyes with annoyance and returned to her hushed conversation with Jo as she tried to get more details about what had upset her, whether she needed to beat somebody up for her, and if there was anything else she could do to make her feel better.

Cas was baffled at the fact that Anna was so utterly unaffected by Bobby Singer being here, so much so that she hadn’t even noticed he’d walked in. The three of them with Bal had been avoiding the man like the plague ever since they broke into his house. They were almost certain he didn’t know it was them who’d done it, otherwise he surely would have confronted them by now, but Cas still had the sneaking suspicion that he knew somehow, despite Anna and Bal’s conviction that they were all in the clear and had been for a very long time. 

The weird feeling that still danced along his nape persisted and Cas accredited it to the old man’s presence having triggered his fight or flight, but even when he sank further into the booth, finally daring to lean on the grimy backrest, it didn’t go away. It only seemed to intensify, as if whatever caused it was coming closer. 

Perhaps the last few couple of days were messing with his head.

Jo bristled and that was enough to cause Cas’s hair to stand on end from the static running over his skin, preparing him for retaliation against whatever attack was headed their way. In some ways, he felt relieved that if his fears were coming true and Bobby Singer was about to confront them about what they had done years ago, he wouldn’t have to live in a nightmare of his own making any longer.

“You really never catch a hint, do you?” She growled at the same time a man in a worn denim jacket came into view.

“Aw, come on, Jo. You’re not gonna introduce me to your friends?” He asked, a shit-eating grin on his face. Cas didn’t know if he felt relieved or disappointed. It wasn’t Bobby, not even close. This man was young, perhaps a year or so younger than him, with dusty blond hair and light eyes he couldn’t make out the colour of in the dim lighting.

He was immediately struck by the man’s poise. He could tell this was somebody who shaped the world around him to his liking. If fact, Cas was sure the world took whatever shape he wanted it to without putting up much of a fight, doing so willingly in a desperate attempt to please him. Whatever this man wanted, he got. The prickling at the back of his neck became almost unbearable. Cas rubbed his hand along the skin there in an attempt to smooth the sensation down, but it remained a steady pressure, taking root, uncaring about the discomfort it caused. 

The newcomer gave Anna a once-over and winked playfully. Cas was caught off-guard by an unexpected wave of jealousy so strong and so sudden it punched the air from his gut. He shot a sceptical look at his drink. How high was the chance Anna had lied to him about ordering something more mellow? How high was the chance that somehow it had gotten spiked on the way over to the table? Pretty high, it seemed, even though he was yet to feel any other tell-tale signs of getting tipsy or drugged. Besides the way his body reacted to this guy. And the feeling along the back of his neck. What was in this?

Jo continued her death glare. Anna’s gaze jumped between the two before she stood up, inserting herself in the space between them, and extended her hand towards the stranger. She positioned her body in a way that separated Jo from the source of her distress. 

“I’m Anna,” she said, voice carefully even, a warning look in her eye. A dare.

The man seemed to find her amusing. “Dean,” he replied with a mock-formal bow of his head, taking her hand in his.

“And you know Jo how?” Anna asked.

“Ah, me and her family go way back. In many ways, I’m still finding out the hows of it,” he said. Cas could tell he was trying to get a rise out of Jo, but underneath that he could spot a sense of fresh hurt. He wondered if him and Jo were ever close… And what that would spell for him… Um, Anna. What that would spell for Anna. And why wasn’t Dean looking at him? Had Cas suddenly become invisible?

A flash of regret flashed across Jo’s face. She cast her eyes down for a moment, which seemed to soothe Dean’s frustration. He rolled his shoulders and caught her eye, a meaningful We’ll talk about this later passing between them. 

“Yeah, uh,” Jo replied, “we used to be… friends when we were kids. Haven’t seen each other in a long time, though.” 

Anna relaxed a little. Cas knew she’d grill Jo for the full story later, but for now it was enough to know there hadn’t been anything between the two she didn’t know about. 

“Right,” Anna drew out, “so what are you doing in town? Just passing by on your way to somewhere else?” She asked. Cas was amused by the hopefulness in her voice that Dean would be on this merry way soon enough and leave Jo alone. 

“Actually, me and my brother are going to stay here for a while. We have, uh, some work to do.”

“What kind of work,” Anna prodded, one thin eyebrow rising ever so slightly.

“You know,” he said growing cagey, “help uncle Bobby with some stuff.”

Cas nearly choked again, a wave of horror crashing over him. His head started spinning. Bobby was a private person and he never liked having people around. Everything he ever did, he did alone. What could he possibly need help with? He must have figured out what Cas, Anna and Bal had done. Yes, that had to be it.

Suddenly, Cas was glad Bal was all the way on the other side on the ocean. Was that why Bobby needed Dean and whoever his brother was to help? Dean didn’t seem like the type of person who would come and help with home renovations, he looked more like a hitman for hire… In fact… Chills ran Castiel’s spine. 

Dean looked like a hunter. A second, more detailed scan of his frame confirmed Cas’s fears. Not much of Dean’s skin was showing but what was - it was covered in scars. Some faint, some deeper. Like a jagged purple one that ran between the knuckles on his right hand. Or the fresh cut on the side of his face that ran along his cheek in a straight line, as if left there by a butterknife. A silver butterknife, if he had to guess. It was a common practice for hunters to cut themselves and each other as proof they were human and not shapeshifters or werewolves. 

Static cracked in the air, an uncontrollable pulse of magic that escaped Cas. Dean’s head whipped in his direction at last, pinning him in place with sharp eyes. Green. His eyes were green. Castiel’s magic retreated back inside him, prey hiding away from the predator.

“Oh, I’m sorry, how rude of me,” Dean said, voice low. Castiel found it equal measures menacing and oddly comforting. “You must be another one of Jo’s friends.” He didn’t extend his hand towards Cas like he had for Anna. Cas was relieved and disappointed at the same time. 

“I’m Castiel,” he replied evenly, proud of the way he managed to hide the agitation from his tone. “I’m a friend of Anna’s,” he supplied. He didn’t know what this guy’s deal was, but he clearly did not approve of Cas and he didn’t want that to cause Jo any more trouble. And really, he’d only just met Jo anyway. It’s not like he was lying.

Dean huffed, a thin layer of aggression falling away. Cas had chosen the right words to say. 

An uncomfortable silence hung over the four of them until Jo’s face broke into a sly grin.

“Hey, Dean,” she said, looking at him full-on now. Dean seemed to stiffen slightly, anticipating that whatever the girl was going to tell him, he wasn’t going to like. 

“Hm?”

“I was talking to Anna earlier today on the phone…” she paused in the middle of her sentence for what Castiel assumed was dramatic effect. Jo looked like she’d thought up a perfect revenge for whatever slight Dean might have done her. “And she tells me Cas here needs some help with his shop now that his assistant is otherwise occupied with school,” she put an emphasis on the last two words, the purpose of which was somewhat lost on Cas. Dean puffed up, sensing a challenge he’d look weak not to accept. “And since you’re going to hang around here a while, maybe you could show us all what an upstanding citizen you are by lending him a hand, too? What do you say, huh? I'm sure Sam and Bobby won't miss you for a few hours.”

Castiel couldn’t read Dean’s face, which was switching between emotions so fast it made Cas queasy. Or maybe it was the fact that he’d somehow ended up in the middle of whatever conflict these two virtual strangers had that made his stomach turn. This was not what he’d signed up for when he agreed to go out with Anna tonight. Not by a very long shot. He directed a death glare of his own at her. Fix. This, it screamed. 

Anna had the decency to look apologetic and slightly terrified.

“Um, Jo,” Anna tried, but Jo cut her off.

“It’s the perfect solution! You were so worried earlier on the phone that Cas would have to do it all alone, that he was spreading himself too thin, right?”

Castiel’s cheeks burned with embarrassment at the ease with which Jo used him as collateral damage in her little pissing game with this dude. 

Dean spared a sidelong glance at Cas before dismissing him again. Castiel felt small, he felt like he was suffocating. His brain was short-circuiting and Anna wasn’t doing anything about this. 

“I’m fine, Jo, really. I don’t need any —”

But betrayal was the name of the game this evening apparently, as Anna interjected, speaking slowly at first, then faster. “She’s right, Cas. No one says you can’t, uh, manage everything on your own, but you need help. This is actually not a bad idea.” She shrugged one shoulder, their conversation from earlier hanging between them. She had proposed they find help for him tonight. He had agreed. It was as simple as that for her. 

“Sure,” Dean nodded before Cas could gather his thoughts enough to continue protesting. “I’ll help.” His words were directed at Jo, laced with annoyance, but accepting her challenge. He didn’t even look at Cas. It seemed like to him, Cas wasn’t even part of this argument. 

Dean’s eyes darted to the side, away from Jo’s face, focusing elsewhere. “I’ll, uhhh… You can give me the details later.”

With that, he was gone.

Jo snickered. She seemed to have forgotten all about Cas, too, as she walked off to the bar after sending Anna a wink over her shoulder. “Make sure to take lots of pictures!” She called back.

“What the hell, Anna?!” Cas exploded once Jo was out of earshot, bringing his friend’s attention back to him. “What was all this? You’re telling people I’m a giant slob? That I can’t take care of myself? Is that how you see me?”

“No, Cas, I—“

“No, save it. Why did you even encourage this? You know I don’t like people I don’t know hanging around my place. Especially hunters! Especially ones that are staying at Bobby Singer’s house! You might as well have drawn a target on my forehead!” He lowered his voice, hissing at her. “His stuff is at my house, Anna. Think about it. Why would Bobby Singer need people to help him. What could he possibly need help with? Huh? You think I live like a hermit, but he’s worse even than me. He never has anyone at his house. Ever. And now he has not one but two? Brothers? Did you see that guy’s hands? They’re covered in scars! His face? 

“What if Singer’s figured it out, what if he’s asked them to come here, so they could help him ‘take care’ of us? They’re hunters! They say they follow a code, but how many stories have we heard of witches getting killed for as little as breathing wrong in a hunter’s direction? Are you out of your mind? How could you—

“Castiel!” His name sounded like the crack of a whip from her mouth. “Stop. It.”

Their conversation had started to gather the attention of those sitting close by.

“Don’t you think you’re overreacting a little?” 

Cas opened his mouth to continue his tirade, but Anna cut him off. “No, listen. Yes, you’re right. You’re right this is weird. But don’t you think that having one of the brothers close might be useful? Especially if he thinks you’re all helpless and stuff?”

Static cracked between them, a blue halo tinting Cas’s vision. 

“I’m not saying you are, dummy,” Anna put her palms up in a calming gesture. “I’m just saying that if they think you are maybe they’ll let their guard down. And we could find out why they’re here and if it’s because of what we took from Bobby’s house, which I doubt it is. It's been so long now he's probably forgotten all about it. And let’s be honest,” Anna waved her hand around, “this is not exactly a place that has no other draws for hunters. Actually, I think our new friend just went outside after some vamps.”

Cas followed the direction of Anna’s stare over the backrest. He made out the back of Dean’s jacket before the closing door blocked his view of the man. More static cracked along Cas’s fingers as he began to stand, but Anna’s voice stopped him.

“I think it was a bad one, Cassie. He was taking a pretty drunk girl outside and I don’t imagine he would have taken her home and waited for her to get inside before driving off like a nice gentleman.”

“Pretty and drunk or pretty much very drunk?” Cas tried to joke in an attempt to subdue his frustration but the words didn’t sound quite right over the tension choking him. 

“Both,” Anna said, sadness in her voice. “I’m sure Dean’ll take care of it. Let’s give it a few minutes and we’ll go home, okay?”

Cas looked to her with surprise. Anna was not usually one to sit out a conflict. She was especially not someone who would trust a hunter to do their job correctly. No, the Anna Cas knew would at least go outside to make sure the girl made it out of this in one piece. This version of Anna he’d seen tonight baffled him. 

“I don’t like this,” he said, not sure whether he meant the indefinite presence of two new hunters in the area or Anna’s out-of-character behaviour. 

She nodded in agreement, but refused to meet his gaze.

Chapter Text

Baby’s tires ground to a stop in Bobby’s yard. Dean killed the engine and climbed out, circling the car to open the trunk. He didn’t like putting bloody weapons inside, but would have rather eaten worms than gone back to the Roadhouse after killing that vampire to rinse the machete. Instead, he’d wrapped it in his ruined leather jacket he hadn’t the heart to part with yet and tossed the bundle in the trunk. 

It had been a sleazy one, that vampire, and Dean had enjoyed taking out his pent-up frustration on him. He knew John would have torn him a new one if he’d seen the way Dean drew out the fight, taunting and toying with the creature before killing it, but he hadn’t been able to help himself. There was comfort in the blows he dealt and received, a rhythm to the dance of death, a relief to the knowledge that one of them would not walk away from this fight. An inner conviction that it wouldn’t be Dean who fell. A wondrous curiosity to see whether he would be proven wrong.

A delicious satisfaction in the end when it turned out he’d been right. 

Dean couldn’t say it’d made him feel significantly better, but it certainly hadn’t made him feel worse. In fact, he’d been a little regretful that the fight was over when stolen lukewarm blood had sprayed his face, signalling the end of yet another monster. One in an ocean of so many more. Yet, one dead monster meant countless drunk girls were spared a less than envious fate and got to live to see another night of mindless fun, followed by a day of splitting headaches and hiding behind thick sunglasses.

After waiting for the would-be victim to throw up half her body weight in tequila, he’d sent a quick message to Sam:

Dean:

killed vamp. taking vic home

Sam:

u ok?

Dean:

y

He’d felt bad leaving Bobby and Sam at the diner without a ride back, but he’d needed to get away for a little after following the girl’s slurred instructions to her flat. Besides, he knew they were resourceful enough to figure out how to get back on their own. Judging by the lights inside the house, he’d been right about this, too. He wondered if he’d ever be wrong about something. In a way, he wished he would. Being right was beginning to get a little repetitive.

Taking his machete out and slamming the trunk closed, he headed inside. The door creaked its greeting as he pushed it. He navigated his way towards the sound of Sam and Bobby’s chatter, swinging by the sink first to run the blade under the tap. He dried it against the sleeve of his jacket, turning the denim purple from the crusted blood that still clung to the metal in places. 

“I’m back,” he announced to the room, propping the weapon against the wall. 

“I see Halloween came early,” Sam teased.

“Huh?” Dean scrubbed his face lightly, then looked at his hand. It was covered in red dusting where it had been clean moments before. “Yeah, it was a sprayer.”

“Nah, you ain’t sittin’ on my furniture like that,” Bobby chided. Dean froze with his knees folded halfway before delivering him onto the couch next to his brother. “Don’t you roll your eyes at me, boy. I don’t suppose you want to clean blood off the upholstery, do you?”

“No, he’ll be too busy for that,” Sam said with an angelic look on his face. 

Dean frowned. “I take down an evil creature of the night, save a damsel in distress and this is how you two greet me?”

Sam burst out laughing and Bobby joined him with a hearty chuckle of this own.

“Jo told us you’d volunteered to help none other than our most-wanted witch,” Sam beamed at his brother.

“Jo can eat me,” Dean huffed. “And I didn’t volunteer. She sprang this on me. I just thought… it might be a good opportunity to get a better idea of what we’re dealing with here.” That was a lie, of course. In fact, he’d just thought of that. When he’d accepted her challenge, it had been purely because of her implication that he wouldn’t be able to do the job of a high school boy. He wasn’t going to let her humiliate him in front of strangers, even if those stranger were witches. His pride would never let him take that hit.

“You’ll get plenty of opportunity,” Bobby agreed. “Honestly, she did you boys a favour. She just doesn’t know it. Otherwise she wouldn’t have suggested it.”

“Yeah, but since she did, you know. How hard can it be to do the work of some kid, right?”

Sam’s face twisted into a smug half-grin. “Oh, you don’t know.”

Dean’s eyes narrowed at him. “What do you mean 'I don’t know'? What don’t I know?”

“What you’ll be doing.”

“What will I be doing?” Dean asked. The slight elation he’d felt after the kill was beginning to dissipate. 

“You see,” Bobby started, “Castiel has a natural remedies shop in town.”

“Right…”

“But he mostly sells honey,” Bobby continued.

“Okay? So?” Dean wasn’t sure how this was worth all the suspense. He supposed it seemed a bit weird for a presumably very powerful witch to be selling honey of all things, but stranger things had happened. 

“Well… Usually he collects the honey on his own, but apparently this year he added a bunch of new hives to expand his business.”

Bursting with anticipation, Sam cracked under its pressure. “You’ll have the honour of helping him collect all that honey. You know, with all the bees.”

The blood from Dean’s face drained which caused another round of laugher at his expense. 

Dean hated bugs, especially ones with stingers. He could kill any monster, endure all kinds of discomfort but insects? That’s where he drew the line. Especially after that time him and Sam had been attacked by a swarm of angry beetles, ants and yes, bees, on a minor hunt earlier that year. Hundreds and hundreds of bees. So many bees. Too many bees.

“That’s not even the best part,” Sam said, trying and failing to contain his laugher. ‘After you left, Jo came by to ask about your height, to pass on to our witch.”

“Huh? Why would she do that?” Dean was still stuck on the prospect of having incessant, menacing buzzing in his ears to even begin to wonder what that psycho witch would need such information for.

“So he can get you one of those beekeeper costumes, of course!”

That did it. 

“What?! No, na-ah. It’s over. We’ll find another way,” Dean protested, but his words were drowned out by the squawking of the other two. How could they find this funny? What had Dean done to deserve this? What sins was he paying for — okay, maybe he hadn’t been the best human being, but people made mistakes, right? Surely his weren’t enough to warrant punishment through utter humiliation? What could he possible have to repent for to have to dress like an unholy mix between an astronaut and a floor lamp?

“Have to buy… camera,” Sam panted through hiccuping laughter. “‘T’ll make… awesome Christmas cards!’

Gaze jumping between Bobby and Sam who looked to be nowhere near getting their glee under control, Dean growled. “I hate you both.” Turning on his heel, he left the living room.

Their laughter followed him out.

The following day, Cas sat behind the counter in his shop writing out the shift schedule for the week, which he’d been too distracted to do yesterday. Kevin was supposed to come in and cover the afternoon shift and go over his work hours for the week with Cas before the latter went back to his house and got started on collecting the honeycombs. 

Finishing up the draft schedule, he set it aside and massaged his eyebrows, trying to ease the dull ache nestled behind them. He didn’t have Dean’s number, he’d been too stunned to ask for it last night, but after an awkward and eye-contact-avoiding conversation with Jo on the matter of Dean’s assistance, the she had assured him that Dean would be at Castiel’s house around 3pm the next day and ready to help. Cas had a few spare protective costumes that he kept in a small shed by the house along with the rest of his tools. Tired, frustrated and a little bit tipsy, he’d taken one out of a storage box with a heavy layer of dust on top, brought it to the house and put it in the wash before dragging his feet to the bedroom and collapsing, asleep before his head hit the pillow. When he’d gone to the washer/dryer in the morning, he’d discovered that had been precisely what he’d done — put the suit in the machine. Nothing more, nothing less. The suit lay crumpled into a heap, perfectly dry and still very much dirty. 

He’d tried to amend his mistake, only to remember that the intruders had spilled his detergent. He’d meant to get a new bottle, but he’d forgotten. Frustrated, he’d stomped up the stairs, mounted his bike and cycled into town. On his way down to the basement, with detergent in hand this time, he’d slipped and twisted his ankle.

He’d been an hour late to work. He supposed it was a good thing he was his own boss, so he at least didn’t have to add a lecture on top of his growing list of ridiculous inconveniences for the day. 

The bell above the door rung, announcing the arrival of a customer and pulling him out of his gloomy thoughts. 

“Hello, Castiel,” came the voice of the only white witch in their town, his baritone the embodiment of whiskey on ice. 

“Crowley,” Cas acknowledged with a minute nod of his head. 

When Castiel was younger, before he’d manifested his blue magic, Crowley had taken an avid interest in him. As the only other white witch in their town, it made sense for the older man to take him under his wing and teach him how to get the most out of the limited powers he possessed. Castiel had been somewhat of a protégé, or an apprentice, much to his mother’s distaste. 

Crowley had a bad reputation around these parts. As the son of a celestial who’d been disgusted by her child’s lack of magical talent, he’d been left to raise himself. What most people failed to consider was the fact that, in order to make it in this world after being abandoned by his own mother after, as rumour had it, she’d tried to sell him off to a demon in exchange for a pair of cursed earrings, Crowley had had to make some unconventional decisions to keep his head above water. 

Cas had been apprehensive about accepting Crowley’s offer at first. He’d heard the whispered stories about him that snaked their way through town. But at thirteen years old, already aging out of the time when most witches manifested a colour, he decided to put his prejudices aside and see what Crowley could teach him. The two had spent almost every day together, studying forgotten crafts. Cas hid most of the books the older witch gave him under his mattress, afraid his mother would forbid him from going anymore if she found out the spells her son was practising. 

It had been a void fear, as it later turned out. The moment blue sparks jumped off Castiel’s fingertips, Crowley had closed his house to him. Castiel hadn’t had time to process the sting of the rejection before he was whisked away to the academy. 

Now, years later, he still felt deeply conflicted on the matter, but he allowed Crowley some grace, considering his experience with blue witches. If he wanted nothing to do with Cas, all Cas could do what honour his wishes, which he dutifully did. If Crowley ever wanted anything to do with Cas again, he’d have to come to him. 

This was the first time Crowley had sought Castiel out since then.

“I’d like to buy some venom,” he said, skipping the small talk. Quite unusual for him, as far as Cas could remember. Crowley loved to hear himself talk, which was one of his lesser traits in Castiel’s opinion. “Please,” he added as an afterthought. 

“Of course,” Cas winced as he stood, his ankle still throbbing with pain from the fall. “How much do you need?” He asked with his back turned to his customer as he went over to the little fridge where he kept it. 

“About a quarter of a litre should do,” he answered in an even tone. Cas’s head whipped around, but before he could say anything, Crowley continued, “Of course, I realise this might be outside your realm of possibility at the moment, so if you’d just put down the order, that’s fine. I would like to collect before the Equinox,” he smiled in a way that looked more like a grimace. “See you then.” The bell above the door announced his exit.

Cas stared at the empty space where Crowley had stood moments before, with his mouth hanging slightly open. There were several things wrong with this request, the first one being the sheer amount of venom. He’d have to hand over everything he had collected all summer and then some. He didn’t collect that often, as venom wasn’t anything anyone needed in big quantities. A little went a long way for most spells, or for medicinal purposes, which were both things people came to him for. But what could possibly require this much? And needing it before Mabon, when the wheel of the year turned in favour of cold and darkness? 

A chill ran down Cas’s spine and it had nothing to do with the faint breeze the other witch had let in when he’d left the store. The old rumours he’d discarded over a decade ago came rushing back to him, this time with a halo of doubt. Whatever Crowley was doing, it didn’t spell anything good for the target of his spell. Cas felt a crushing responsibility of holding someone’s fate in his hands.

He had been sure Crowley was essentric, but not dangerous. He’d come to know and appreciate him during the years he'd spent as his student. He knew what sort of magic Crowley usually got into. Whatever darkness he explored, it had always been with educational purposes, the aim had been to know about it, not spread it. He used to tell Cas he needed to recognise dark magic and understand it, its intricacies and limitations because witches had a responsibility to keep each other in check. After all, there was only so much hunters could do with their ‘scrap metal’ in the face of true power and ancient, forgotten knowledge.

Sometimes… Sometimes, Crowley had told Cas, witches had to stand against their own. Sometimes, a witch was the only creature powerful enough to stand in the way of another.

Cas just never thought he might have to stand in the way of the very person who’d taught him that lesson.

Chapter Text

Kevin crashed through the door of the shop fifteen minutes earlier than he was supposed to, bringing Cas out of his stupor. 

“Castiel… Are you… Okay?” He panted, frantically gulping down air, as if he hadn’t taken a single breath the whole way here.

“Yes, of course,” Cas replied, his forehead creasing with worry. He rounded the counter and put his hand on Kevin’s shoulder to steady him. “Why wouldn’t I be? What’s going on?”

“I heard… you got attacked… by some creeps… I think I might barf,” Kevin shrugged off his backpack, which crashed against the wooden floor. It looked to be as heavy as him. 

“Come on,” Cas rolled his eyes, “come and sit down. I’ll go grab you some water.” 

He led Kevin to the stool at the register, prompting him to sit, while he dragged the bag to the backroom. He had no idea how Kevin had been able to run any amount of distance with this thing strapped to his shoulders. Castiel himself barely managed to lift it off the floor, having to engage his entire upper body in the motion. He couldn’t even begin to imagine how Kevin, skinny, nerdy and human, who avoided PE every chance he got, managed to haul this thing around with him everywhere he went without any magic to help him. Cas didn’t know whether to be impressed or go back out there and scold him. But he had to admit he appreciated how strong humans were, even without powers to help them get by. 

A cold glass of water in his hand, ice tinkling softly against its sides, he came back out and handed it to Kevin, who gulped it up so fast he choked, sputtering water all over the counter. Before Cas could grab any tissues to absorb the moisture, the boy pulled his sleeve over his hand and wiped the surface with his fist. Cas tried not to cringe.

“I heard you got attacked,” Kevin said again, this time with a little more control over his voice, although his chest still rose and fell quicker than normal. “I came as fast as I could, which wasn’t really fast, but I was worried and wanted to make sure you were okay,” he explained, huffing out the last words through laboured breaths. 

“Kevin, that was three days ago. I’m fine,” Cas’s brows furrowed. “How did you even hear about that?” As far as Cas knew, there were only a handful of people who knew about the break-in. He wasn’t really the talk of the town by any means and he’d been very careful for things to stay that way. 

“Alex said practically your whole house had been destroyed, and that you’d fainted. She said they almost killed your cat,” Kevin’s eyes bugged out in question as he recounted the version of the story he’d heard.

Alex was Jody Mills’s adoptive daughter. She’d been abducted by some vampires when she’d been very little and they had used her as bait to lure people to their nest so they can feed without getting their hands dirty. Jody had became her guardian after a group of hunters had killed the vampires she had been living with. She was two years older than Kevin, but she was a senior in high school, just like him. She hadn’t really been able to get much of an education growing up, so she was making up for it now.

Cas suppressed an annoyed huff. He liked Jody as much as he liked any human who didn’t viscerally hate supernatural creatures, but he couldn’t say he appreciated her sharing the details around the break-in with her daughter.

“I thought law enforcement was supposed to keep things like this confidential,” he murmured to himself.

“I think you’re confusing it with therapists,” Kevin supplied, swiping the black hair stuck to his forehead to the side.

“No, I’m pretty sure the police has to do the same,” Cas disagreed, his frown deepening. Kevin just shrugged. “And just so you know,” Cas continued, “my house is mostly fine, Bee is okay and I didn’t faint.”

“Oh,” was all Kevin said. 

“Yeah. And anyway,” Cas shifted to pissed-off mentor mode. “Why didn’t you just call to make sure things weren’t as bad as Alex said? Why did you have to abuse your lungs like that running all the way here?”

After a brief pause, his eyes glazing over slightly, Kevin replied, “I guess I didn’t think of that.”

Cas shook his head in exasperation. “Use your phone next time, Kevin, or you’ll be the one fainting.”

“Next time?” Kevin exclaimed. “You’re planning for there to be a ‘next time’? Was getting robbed once not enough?”

“Next time you decide to believe just about anything people say, Kevin.”

“Oh,” he said again. “Yeah, next time…

“You said we were gonna look at the schedule for the next few weeks?”

Cas suppressed a smile despite his earlier vexation about word of the break-in spreading around town. There was an easy, simple sort of charm about Kevin that not nearly enough people appreciated.

Cas fetched the notebook where he’d scribbled a rough outline of their shifts and the two descended into lengthy debates about how each day should be structured.

Leaving Baby behind and driving off in an old, squeaky truck Bobby had stashed away in a garage had felt like salt and lemon in the wound his impending humiliation was inflicting on Dean’s pride. It had been Sam’s idea, of course, and deep down Dean knew his brother was right. It was probably best to keep Baby hidden away for the time being. It had been dark the other night, but they weren’t sure if the witch wouldn’t have seen the car they drove off in. It wasn’t a popular model which made it inconveniently conspicuous, but her uniqueness was part of the reason Dean loved her so much. He didn’t have many things to call his own, but when his dad had passed on the Impala to him, he’d felt a sense of belonging somehow. It wasn’t a home, or god forbid one of those horrific houses on wheels some hippie douchebags rode around in, but it was something. During all of their travels, all the hunts John took them on growing up, the car had been the only constant in Dean’s life. John had a tendency to vanish sometimes, usually not for as long as he clearly intended to currently, but he had a habit of leaving the boys behind with little to no warning. Sam was growing up and apart from his older brother - he had his own dreams, his own plans for the future that didn’t include his family much, but the car… The car was there. And she wasn’t going anywhere unless Dean was behind the wheel. Through it all, he knew, she would stand by him. 

But this truck was an affront to his impeccable, in his opinion, taste in wheels. An affront to his image. And the fact that he found himself in this situation because of a creature, having to strip himself of what made him him in order to not raise its suspicions made him grind his teeth almost to dust by the time he reached the house. Twenty minutes later than he was supposed to. He’d done that on purpose. He wouldn’t be caught dead making this thing’s life easier. Even if that was essentially what he was here to do. Whatever. 

He jumped out of the truck and slammed the door. A puff of rust burst along the edges of the old metal. Dean’s nose scrunched up in distaste. The universe was surely playing some sort of joke on him and he could practically hear Sam’s laugher bouncing back and forth, banging against the walls of his skull at Dean’s misery. But Dean didn’t find any humour in this situation at all.

This was the first time Dean was seeing the house in the daytime and he begrudgingly had to admit to himself that it was beautiful. He paid spacial attention to the rose bushes he’d fallen into a few nights ago, narrowing his eyes at them, promising revenge. They remained unimpressed. In fact, they looked like they had never been fallen into. With a shudder, Dean remembered that celestials possessed the powers of all other witches, along with their additional ones. The witch would have most likely used its magic to fix up the hedges.

Walking down the pebbled path up to the porch, it hit him just how much danger he’d really been in, how much danger he’d put Sam in the way of. Maybe this humiliation was a relatively low price to pay if it meant he could do the brunt of their work on his own, from the inside. Even if Sam was better at making friends than Dean was. And gaining creatures’ trust, if the past was any indication. This was going to be a challenge for Dean, but one he was glad to take on, as long as it meant he was keeping Sam away from the main action. Research was one of the areas his bother was best at and that was what he was doing now - trying to find out as much as he could about this pendant they were looking for and what it could do. With Bobby’s help and extensive book collection, naturally. 

Dean climbed the porch steps and approached the door. It occurred to him that this was not the same door he had entered from. No, he’d kicked the old one down, too much in a rush to get out of here to open it like a civilised person. He’d gained enough momentum by the time he’d reached it to send it flying off into the dark without slowing down. He suppressed the fleeting feeling of guilt at damaging the property. What was it with this house and the strange feelings it evoked in him?

Before he had the chance to knock, an electric zap rippled over the slowly healing mark on his arm. At the same moment, the door opened. He was met by the bright blue eyes of the witch. 

“Hello, Dean,” it said, its voice wrapping Dean’s name in husky tones.

Dean found himself rooted to the spot. Those eyes. He’d tried very hard not to think about them, about the effect they’d had on him the other night when he’d been caught in their trap. It was like he was sticking to honey, not able to wrench himself free of the sweet snare. Not really having the will to look away. 

The witch tilted its head to the side ever so slightly, studying Dean’s reaction. It narrowed its eyes a little, concealing some of the blue behind its eyelids. It snapped Dean out of his trance. 

“I’m late,” he croaked, then mentally kicked himself for saying what was possibly the dumbest thing that he could have in that moment. Why had he even acknowledged it? 

The witch lifted a corner of its mouth in an amused smile. “You are,” it replied simply, turning away and walking into the depths of the house, leaving the door open for Dean. An invitation to follow it inside.

Dean filled his lungs with air and slowly released it through his teeth. The stream made a quiet whistling sound on its way out. Steeling himself for what was going to be an afternoon of unimaginable horror and unspeakable torture, he stepped over the threshold, this time not as a criminal in the night, but as a guest, and closed the door without a backwards glance.

Chapter Text

Castiel didn’t wait to see if Dean had followed him inside. He could feel the other man hesitate, then step through. And that was the problem. He could feel him. He’d known the moment the hunter had pulled up into the driveway. He’d felt him walk all the way over to the porch, skip every other step on his way up and come face to face with the door. Cas himself had been on the other side of it at that precise moment, urged by an inner impulse to meet halfway. 

This awareness lingered, somewhere on the back of his neck, yet all throughout his entire being. It was suspiciously familiar to the weird tickle he’d felt last night, just before Dean had walked up to their table. Cas didn’t know what to make of it. It wasn’t anything he’d ever experienced before, or had heard of happening to anyone else. It made him more uncomfortable than he was willing to admit to himself. 

Pushing the sliding door that led to the garden open, he greedily breathed in through his nose. This close to the forest the air lacked the extra layer of dust it had in town, but was instead saturated with the scent of pine needles and sap. Cas never really understood why the other witches insisted so much on staying within the confines of the town, even if it meant they would be close to one another, when it was in their inherent nature to need to be close to the wilderness. But then again, he supposed this was what it meant to live in a community in the 21st century. 

The sun was still pretty high up in the sky, wispy clouds brushing past it. It was warn enough for Cas to know that once he put on the protective costume, he’d be boiling inside it in no time. He could feel the approaching fall, however, like a whisper on the breeze. His thoughts drifted to the basket of blankets upstairs.

The new awareness he had of Dean let him know the man had followed him to the back side of the porch, but that’s as far as he’d reached. Cas turned around to look at him. He lingered on the edge of the exit, eyes wide and dancing all over the back yard. A small smile of satisfaction pulled the corners of Cas’s mouth. 

His ‘back yard’ was as much a back yard as the Amazon forest was a garden… Okay, maybe he was exaggerating a little, but he just couldn’t help the pride that filled him when he looked at it. He’d liked the house for many reasons, mainly because it was a comfortable distance from the edges of town and its proximity to the forest, but the expanse behind it was what had sealed the deal for him. He’d known he’d put that space to good use. Now, to the left of the house stretching far into the distance, were dozens and dozens of beehives, the last ones reaching all the way up to the first pine trees. To the right — long and straight dirt paths separated all types of herbs and even some vegetable patches. In a small square, surrounded by fresh lavender and mint, was a round metal gazebo. Around each bar, grape vines twisted themselves all the way to the top, creating shade underneath, where three wooden chairs and a small square table took residence. The image was completed by birdsong coming from a little feathered guest perched on the stone bird bath nearby. 

Cas leaned his hip against the wooden railing. “Have you ever done anything like this before?” He asked Dean casually, expecting his answer would be no.

“Nope,” Dean confirmed, finally unfreezing and stepping out onto the porch, the wood creaking softly beneath his boots. Cas didn’t miss the way he tried to put as much distance between the two of them as possible. “I’d say anything bug-related is my version of hell. As nice as your garden is, I gotta say, they ruin it for me.”

Cas snorted. “I bet that’s why Jo volunteered you to help me.”

“Yep,” was all Dean said. Cas waited for a few moments, before he realised the hunter was done talking. Or at least, he was done talking to him. He didn’t seem to have an issue with talking in general at the diner last night. Cas tried not to take it personally. 

“Right,” he turned on his heel. Dean’s soft steps down the stairs and against the grass followed after another brief delay. “We’re going to start slow today. We’re going to—“

“Wait, wait, wait,” Dean interrupted. Cas turned around to face him. He was staring to severely doubt the toughness of this man. He was supposed to be a hunter. He’d killed a vampire just last night, after all. Surely he faced off with all kinds of monsters, real monsters, not like Cas, although Dean probably didn’t see the difference. But you never would have guessed if you looked at his face now. His eyes were wide, this time not with wonder but with agitation, his body tense and face drained of colour. Cas felt his head tilting as he tried to reconcile the two profoundly different versions of this man he’d only just met. 

“Yes?” Cas prompted. 

“We, um,” Dean hesitated, looking just about ready to bolt. He seemed to be facing some sort of inner struggle. Cas waited patiently. They had already thrown the schedule to the wind. What were a few more minutes of standing around?

“We’re going in,” was what he settled on. Cas wasn’t sure if it was supposed to be a question or a statement.

“Not yet. As I was saying,” Cas turned around and started walking again, finally able to roll his eyes at his new helper who was turning out to be more of a hinderance at the moment, “we are going to smoke the bees first. Then, while we’re waiting—“

“Smoke? Did you say ‘smoke’ the bees?” Dean interrupted again, voice incredulous. 

“Yes, smoke,” Cas nodded, staring straight ahead. “Puffing smoke around the hives makes the bees more docile, so it’s easier to collect the combs. It’s kind of like putting them in a trance.”

“Does that mean they won’t, you know, sting?” Dean asked, and Cas couldn’t help but notice the hopefulness that hid behind the words. It made him smile just a little. He schooled his features into a blank stare before he turned around to face him. 

“Getting stung is always a possibility,” He said, then paused just to mess with the hunter. Sure enough, the fragile hope that had just formed on his face shattered. Cas could almost hear the crash. “But it’s probably not going to happen since you’ll be wearing protective gear.”

Castiel had expected this to cheer the other man up - the prospect of having some sort of defence against the ‘bugs’ he so disliked. So he felt profoundly confused by the way his last words made Dean almost physically recoil. 

“The lamp shade thing,” he spat out, like he had a personal vendetta against the mesh hat. 

“Yes,’ Cas confirmed after a few seconds of hesitation. “Is that a problem? You can go without it if you want?”

“No! No. No, it’s okay. I’ll wear it,” he groaned. 

Too puzzled to bother caring what all this had been about, Cas just shrugged. He had no time to psychoanalyse this very odd hunter. It was time for them to get started. 

Begrudgingly, Dean had to admit he felt some pity towards the little yellow-striped terrors. This smoking business didn’t sound like too much fun at all. He certainly wouldn’t have appreciated being drugged like that. And later - robbed, he realised. Because that’s what he was assisting the witch with today, essentially. Robbing the very creatures it had taken on the role of protector to. Some protector it was. It was about to steal all their hard work, the bastard. And it had recruited Dean, too, as an accomplice. 

He noticed the pattern that was emerging here the last couple of days. He recruited Sam to help him rob the witch. Now the witch had recruited him to rob the bees. Which Dean intended to turn into an opportunity to actually complete his own theft that had failed. And on an on it went. For a minute he felt like he was being used by Fate like a puppet before he had to pinch himself. There was no such thing as Fate and no one was playing with him. No one would dare if they valued their lives at all. If anyone was playing someone else, it was definitely him in the role of the puppeteer. He just hoped he would be good enough to bring the show to a successful conclusion before something blew up in his face. Not that it would. Why would it? He had it all under control here. 

That’s probably what those bees are thinking now before they get taken for a spin, a runaway thought sprinted across his consciousness before he could stop it. 

But it was quickly replaced by more pressing concerns regarding his new attire. He pulled the one-piece suit over himself and zipped it up, praying if any of the bees decided to take their anger out on him, he wouldn’t feel it. When he pulled the metal piece to the end of the zipper, sealing himself inside the costume, a puff of air blew in his face. It was musty and stale, like mildew. He scrunched up his nose in distaste. The surface layer of detergent that coated the fabric was fighting for its life trying to subdue the odour. It was losing the battle big time. 

“Are you ready?” Came the witch’s voice from the other side of the door to the small bathroom on the ground floor of the house where Dean had gone to get changed. He hadn’t taken off his shirt, wanting to avoid as much contact as possible between his bare skin and the white atrocity he’d put on, mostly because the moment Castiel had handed it to him, he’d known it hadn’t been used or really cared for at all in time immemorial. But he’d also been weary of a scenario where the witch saw the burn on his arm. The show would be over then, for all of them. But mostly for him. He didn’t imagine the creature would take very well to having him in its house if it knew this wasn’t his first time here. 

“Yes, I’m coming,” he grumbled, grabbing the wide mesh hat on his way out. He refused to put it on until the last possible moment. He also didn’t want any mirrors around when he did. If he didn’t see himself in it, then it didn’t happen. Those were the rules.

Castiel, of course, had his hat on. He was waiting for Dean out on the porch, his back to he sliding door. He didn’t turn around at the sound of Dean pushing it shut. Instead, he was mumbling something to the railing. When Dean got closer, he realised he wasn’t actually talking to the railing but to what was perched on it. 

A pair of luminescent yellow eyes, with thin black slashes in the middle, pinned him in place. The furry creature growled low in its throat. Dean had dealt with enough monsters to know this was a threat. And the cat meant it, he could tell.

The witch didn’t seem to find this concerning in the least. It chuckled indulgently at the creature, scratching its chin. “It’s okay Bee, he’s just a guest,” it cooed, but the cat ignored it and curved its back. The fur shot up straight like the spikes on a porcupine. 

Dean returned the animal's stare, acknowledging the challenge. He wanted to convey to the creature that he wasn’t here to cause harm. This time. But he would if he had to. If he was attacked. He’d thrown this cat like a rag doll before and he would do it again if he was given reason to. 

Neither of them backed down, continuing the staring contest. 

The witch chucked again, shifting its eyes between the pet and Dean. “She won’t hurt you, she’s just scared. Come,” it gestured with its hand, “she’s really sweet, she just has to get to know you.”

Dean didn’t realise at first the witch was talking to him. It also took him a few more seconds to realise what it was asking him to do. 

“No,” he said, voice firm. “No, I’m not getting anywhere near that thing,” ‘again’, he almost said, but stopped himself just in time. 

The witch huffed an exasperated sigh. “Looks like you two are as stubborn as each other,” it rolled its eyes, but before Dean could reply he was nothing like this evil spirit of death by a thousand scratches, it grabbed his left hand and pulled him closer. 

Despite their skin being separated by a collective two layers of protective gear, electricity zapped from where the witch touched him all the way up his hand and arm to the wound below his shoulder. 

“Ah!” Dean yelled in surprise, pain, or horror, he didn’t know, and pulled away, which only brought him closer to the cat. It hissed in panic at the proximity before freezing, as if reacting to the energy that had just passed between its owner and Dean. It sniffed the air and a second later, after another guttural sound, it lowered its back, fur relaxing back neatly in place. It hopped off the railing down on the grass and stalked off. 

“I’m sorry!” The witch said, its face oddly unguarded. It seemed so much younger like this, when it wasn’t trying not to move any more muscles than necessary, hiding untold secrets behind walls and walls of mental discipline. It looked human. Way too human. 

Dean ripped his gaze from it, looking down at the wood flooring of the porch. He opened his mouth to say it was okay, that he was fine, but the words got stuck on their way out. This wasn’t okay. It wasn’t fine. It was magic. And he didn’t want it touching him.

He didn’t want it branded on his skin. 

He put his opposite palm over the mark, rubbing it mindlessly in an attempt to get the zap still rippling over it to fade quicker. 

“I’m really sorry, I don’t know what happened, I didn’t mean to. I don’t know what’s been happening to my magic lately, it just keeps—“

Dean couldn’t listen to this any longer, and he needed to walk away. Now. He spun on his heel and took the steps down, two at a time, to put as much distance between himself and the witch as possible. As fast as he could. 

Imprisoned by his promise to help, though, he had no other choice but to head for the beehives, but longed to get into his car, floor the pedal and drive, and drive, and drive. As far as the old thing would take him before either he or it broke down.

Chapter Text

Dean had listened to the detailed instructions Castiel gave him. The only times he spoke was to ask the occasional clarifying question, but those were brief and curt, as if he couldn’t bear to waste his breath on Cas. Later, he did as he was told, swift and efficient, his movements jerky and robotic. Every once in a while, Cas would catch him rubbing at his shoulder when he thought he wasn’t being observed. 

In the couple of hours they worked together, Dean tried his best to avoid getting close, and whenever he had to walk around Cas, he did so in a wide curve, his face turned the other way. Like he couldn’t bear looking at him. Like he didn’t want to accidentally breathe in the same air. 

Cas was used to all types of odd behaviour from all types of creatures. Even humans. He’d experienced people’s scorn, pity, curiosity, intrigue, annoyance, anger. All directed at him. But he’d never been treated this way before. Like he was leprous. Like he was something foul on the ground, unworthy of so much as being stepped on. It stung. Even if it was coming from a hunter, which wasn’t unexpected. He’d gotten dirty looks in the past from them too, plenty, but this?

By the end of the afternoon, Cas had begun wondering whether he really wasn’t leprous after all. 

“Okay, I think this is enough for one day,” he hadn’t even finished his sentence before Dean hurried back towards the house, his feet barely hitting the ground. 

Cas sighed as he finished putting the roof back on top of the hive he’d just been working on. He bent down and picked up the last box of honeycomb slabs, gently wiping a few bees off it. They were still too dazed from the smoke to resist him, but the wind had picked up a little, clearing to the air faster than Cas would have liked. Soon his little workers would be waking up and when they realised their honey was missing, they were going to be pissed. This was one thing Cas didn’t like about extraction days. He could never sit on the porch facing the back of the house, unless he wanted to get stung by a swarm of scorned bees. Which he didn’t.

He huffed as he climbed the stairs, struggling under the weight. Dean had been in too much of a rush to get away and hadn’t closed the back door to the house, which played to Cas’s advantage now, since he didn’t have to waste time doing it himself. He walked in and finally set the box down, sliding the glass shut. His bounty would be safe here. 

A shuffling down the hall caught his attention. Dean had just exited the bathroom, wearing dark denim jeans and a long-sleeve olive shirt that fit him like a second skin. He cleared his throat with a rough sound, snapping Castiel’s attention back to his face. Cas could feel his cheeks flushing when he realised he’d let his eyes linger over the hunter’s frame a beat too long. He was glad for Dean’s aversion to looking at him in that moment. He’d probably dig a hole the floor, right here in his own house, and jump in if Dean had caught him. 

“Suit’s on the edge of the bathtub,” Dean grumbled, looking somewhere to the side of Cas. “I’ll be here tomorrow at three.” He headed for the front door, the sound of his boots against the floor echoing. 

“Dean, wait,” Cas said, going after him. He didn’t like the pleading tone in his voice but he didn’t like this awkwardness in the air between them more. “I’m sorry. About what happened out there. I don’t know why… I didn’t mean to do that,” he said, putting force into the words. 

“’S okay,” Dean replied and resumed his quest to get out of the house. But Cas wasn’t finished. 

“Dean,” he called again and, to his surprise, the hunter stopped abruptly. He didn’t turn to face him, but his head tilted just so. An indication that he was listening. Cas took advantage. “I didn’t try to attack you. That was never my intention, if that’s what you’re thinking. I really didn’t—“

“I know,” Dean interrupted. 

“What?” Cas wasn’t sure he’d heard him correctly.

“I said,” Dean repeated, this time louder. “I know you didn’t mean to do that.” He was still turned away from Cas, so the witch couldn’t see his expression. 

“Oh. Okay…” But before Cas could say anything else, Dean let himself out. It wasn’t like he hadn’t been curt with Cas before this afternoon. And it’s not like he’d been sparing many looks his way the night before either, but when he had, he’d not shied away from looking him in the eye. He refused to do so now. This, Cas thought, didn’t make sense for a hunter to do. Hunters couldn’t afford not to look at things they considered a potential threat. They couldn’t afford not to watch, not to track, not to commit every detail to memory in case it might be helpful in a fight at a later time. 

The dying screeches of Dean’s old truck reached Cas, letting him know that he had gone. Not that he wouldn’t have known even if the man had been driving off in a fluffy cloud. The tingling at the back of his neck dissipated in time with the fading noise of the beat-up car. Cas had grown accustomed to it during the few hours he’d spent with Dean and its absence now was oddly jarring. It left him feeling… fractured.

It had to be the unexpected power surges. What was with those anyway? This had never happened to him before. Ever. He’d spent years in that academy perfecting his control over his magic, of gods’ sakes! What was happening to him? 

An unwelcomed thought crossed his mind. If anyone might know what was wrong with him, it would probably be Crowley. He tried to chase that thought away as he heated up some of the food Anna had made for him a few days ago. As he waved his hand to prepare Bee’s food, a shower of blue sparks flying from his fingertips, he told himself he didn’t need to ask his old mentor for help, especially when he didn’t know what the man was up to lately with that spell he was preparing for the Equinox. But the idea was a faint buzz in the back of his mind the entire time he wondered where the hell the cat had gone and why she hadn’t come back for dinner yet. It felt like a ghost floating at his shoulder as he shrugged on his light coat and went out into the chilly night air, a blue ball of light hovering a few inches off his palm that cast an otherworldly glow around him as he went out to search for her along the edge of the forest. 

“Bee? Bee! Come on, baby, it’s time for dinner! Bee?” He called as he walked along the edge of the forest, but besides the soft chanting of the crickets, no one answered his call.

“Bee?” He yelled again, slight panic starting to creep down his spine. “Bee, where are you?!” This wasn’t like her. She never missed a meal. Ever. Where was she? 

Castiel let tendrils of light seep out of him, weaving patterns along the yellowing grass, twisting around tree trunks ahead of him as he stepped into the forest. 

“Bee?” He tried again. Nothing.

It was a few hours later when he decided to give up his search and headed back to his house. The cat food was left untouched in its bowl. 

Fishing out the phone from the front pocket of his jeans, he dialled Anna’s number. Talking to her would help ease his mind. She’d tell him not to worry. She’d tell him it was okay, it was fine, it was normal. Cats did stuff like this all the time, right? They would go somewhere and come back days later, entirely healthy and well, right? Right? It didn’t always mean they were sick. Or in trouble. Or in danger. Or worse. Right? 

Right?

Why wasn’t Anna picking up? 

Dean had made good on his promise to drive as far away from the witch’s house as the old truck would take him. As it turned out, that wasn’t far enough. The truck finally broke down, exhaling its final death rattle breath on the side of a dusty country road. The good news was that it wasn’t smack in the middle of a highway. The bad news was that in his eagerness to get away, Dean hadn’t been paying attention to the direction in which we was going. The worse news was that his phone’s battery was on its final bar. The worst news — he’d driven himself to a spot with no service or traffic. At all. 

How was it possible, he thought angrily as he kicked the rusted metal of the truck, that people had landed on the frigging moon decades ago but still weren’t able to get cell service everywhere. What was the point of these devices if they only worked in areas where you didn’t really need them? Towns had landlines. If you wanted to call someone, you damn well could, from anywhere. But here, in the middle of bleeding nowhere? It was every man for himself.

Damn those stupid service providers, damn this stupid truck and most of all, damn that freak of nature witch. He wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for Castiel. If he wasn’t trying to get away from this… this… buzzing that had been creeping though every nerve ending in his body from the moment that zap hit him. It was like a disease. Like a… a… like a…

He didn’t even know like what, damn him! But he wanted it gone. The further away he drove, the more it would fade, that’s what he’d told himself. Except it hadn’t. Instead, the truck had died on him. But the buzzing had persevered. 

He’d felt it all afternoon, the entire time he was working. It only increased when he looked at the witch, except then it was in his head as well, not just his body. It was in his mind, creating a halo around each of his thoughts. Every time his eyes drifted to Castiel his mind filled with white noise. It was just that creature and its damn eyes. What was with his eyes? Dammit, its. Not his. It was still an ‘it’. He’d had to keep reminding himself of that the whole time. 

Belly up, his upper body beneath the truck with tools scattered around him, he could barely see the mechanisms of the car not only because the light was beginning to fade. Two cerulean irises haunted him. Every time he blinked, there they were, glued to the back of his eyelids. It was disorienting. And annoying. He could barely stand it. 

When the sun plunged behind the tips of the pine trees, Dean gave up on trying to salvage the truck’s ruin. His muscles trembled with relief as he pushed it further to the side and into a cluster of sparse hedges. Determining the car was far enough away from the road, he stepped back and examined his work. He couldn’t help the way his brows shot up his forehead when he saw how far he’d managed to push the dead thing. He was by no means weak, but he found himself marvelling at his strength. He examined his hands, turning them this way and that. They were the same ones he’d always had. Huh. 

It occurred to him then that the buzzing had finally subsided. It was no longer so unbearably loud, but only a faint current of energy that warmed him up from within. 

Driving hadn’t been the solution to the aftermath of being electrocuted by the witch. Exerting energy had. Dean laughed bitterly into the twilight. If only he’d known this before he’d come all the way down this road. 

Sighing, with no other choice left to him, he pulled the musty denim jacket out of the backseat, shrugging it on, fired up the flashlight at the top of his dying phone and prayed to whatever forces might be listening that he may reach civilisation before that went out on him too. 

He marched into the woods.

Chapter Text

Dean was beginning to consider the possibility that he had blacked out when he drove away from Castiel’s house. How far could he have possibly gone? He’d been walking for hours, or at least it felt like it. The low buzz of energy leftover from the witch’s zap had faded almost completely and Dean found himself wishing he had more of it. It had been more helpful than he was willing to admit, mostly because he refused to believe magic could be useful instead of just something he could safely be afraid of in that way people were afraid of things they didn’t understand, and didn’t want to. In the way they just wanted to eliminate a threat. He was comfortable living in shades of black and white. But this magic… this magic was colour. It disrupted his carefully maintained two-colour gradient and he hated it for it.

But try as he might, he couldn’t shake the sense of regret as he felt the last remnants of the extra strength leak out of his body, especially considering he felt completely lost in these woods. Soon, his muscles grew tired and achy, his breathing laboured, his pace slowed down. 

The sun had been low on the horizon when he’d left the truck by the side of the road. Now, when he looked up through the gaps in between the pine needles, he saw the black dome of the night sky littered with twinkling stars. He was so tired it seemed like their light was blinking all the way down to him, flickering in and out, in and out. Until it finally stopped. Dean looked around, confused, his eyes landing on the device in his hand. The flashlight on top of the phone had gone out. 

“Son of a bitch,” he murmured. He hit its side in a desperate attempt to make it turn back on when holding down the red receiver button hadn’t worked. The screen remained as dark as the world around him. 

“Son of a bitch!” He yelled in frustration, then — “Son of a bitch,” he sighed in defeat as he shoved the useless thing in the back pocket of his jeans. He’d only just charged it less than a week ago. In that moment, Dean longed for a future where you’d only have to charge your phone once a month, if that. Having to do this every few days was way too high maintenance. 

Dean lingered in one place for a couple of minutes, waiting for his eyes to adjust to the darkness. When he could sort of make out the shapes of the trees around him, illuminated by the moon’s crescent, he carried on in what he was hoping was a straight line. All he needed was to get… somewhere. Preferably somewhere with lights. He’d been using the moss growing on the north-facing side of the trees to navigate his way, but now that he couldn’t actually see it, he tried to go by the stars — a tough job considering they were mostly hidden behind branches. Still, he hoped he was maintaining the same route he had mapped out in his head. If his assumption based on the map Sam had shown him the day before was correct, then he should be reaching the end of the forest that was closest to Bobby’s house soon enough. He prayed he was remembering that map correctly. His stomach was starting to rumble. 

Noise from somewhere ahead caught his attention. He came to a halt, forced his breathing to slow down, waited for his blood to stop thundering in his ears, and listened. He could make out a voice somewhere in the distance, but he couldn’t determine whether it was male or female. It sounded like both and neither all at once. He bent his knees into a crouch and advanced slowly, taking the gun he’d tucked at his waist before leaving the truck. Its mother-of-pearl grip was cool against his palm, steadying him.

Stalking in between the trees, he drew closer and before long he didn’t need to be guided by the voice — he spotted a small clearing bathed in the orange light of dancing flames. They seemed to stretch towards the sky with grotesque, ever-reaching arms. The shadows they cast looked broken and twisted, and alive. Sentient. Hungry. Desperate to escape, but held by an invisible web that tangled them up and kept them in place. And there, among the shadows, a figure cloaked in black robes stood rooted to the ground and spoke in a language so rough and violent, Dean felt his blood crystallise in his veins. 

His heart stuttered and his breathing hitched. He took cover behind one of the thicker trees and looked on, unable to shake the morbid curiosity that took over him. The flames grew higher, shone brighter, their colour steadily turning from orange to yellow. Their edges were tinted in green. 

The figure chanted louder all the while, and the louder it spoke, its voice seemed to multiply itself into more, varying in register and pitch. But as Dean looked around, he saw no one else. The voices were all coming from the same source. 

He almost jumped out of his skin when the figure finally moved, slow but deliberate, towards a small mesh bag Dean hadn’t noticed until now, its drawstrings knotted tightly. The bag moved frantically as the figure approached. Desperate whines sounded from within, hissing and spitting and wailing in fear. But the figure didn’t seem to take notice. It didn’t seem to care. It pulled the top open, reached inside and drew out a dark cat. The poor creature continued to fight against the fate it knew awaited it. But that wasn’t enough. 

Louder and louder, the voice grew and multiplied. The words sounded gnarled and broken, like shattered glass, edges rubbing together. The figure approached the fire dangerously close. The green colour that had been at its tips had now spread halfway down to the base of the flame. It licked the hems of the cloak, making it smoulder with heat, but didn’t burn it. 

Dean heard the final heart-shattering yelp of the furry creature before it was silenced forever. The hand released its grip on the cat, and the fire swallowed it greedily.

The morning light stabbed Castiel’s eyes through the windows of the living room, squashing his attempts at a fitful sleep. He’d spent the night half-mad with worry, frozen in a spot on his couch from where he could see the cat bowl. He was presently being restrained by throw blankets, his cheek numb from having dozed off on a hard square cushion. Grunting, he rolled himself off the couch, landing on the floor where he kicked himself free of the strangling embrace of the blankets. His shirt was crumpled in a pattern that reminded him of cracked pavement and his jeans had twisted around his legs, the seams leaving long and painful red imprints down his shins. 

He climbed to his feet, his knees clicking in reluctance. Walking over to the kitchen, his heart in his throat, he checked on the bowl despite already knowing what he was going to find. It was still full and exactly as he’d left it the night before. 

“Bee?” He croaked. He’d lost count of how many times he’d yelled her name last night. First in the woods, then, when it had gotten too late to be wandering in the forest, he’d stood on the porch, his hands shaking from anxiety and cold, calling for her until his throat hurt and his voice gave out. 

He’d kept trying to call Anna, but she never picked up. Cas had eventually given up on trying to find her, too. At least with Anna he didn’t have to worry so much. He knew she was fine. And this was not the first time she’d disappeared on him in the last couple of months. She always called back hours later torn between guilt and satisfaction. Regret at having missed Castiel’s calls and contentment over spending time with Jo. This was just the first time Cas had really needed her to pick up.

After a quick shower and another round of calling for Bee inside the house and out, Cas mounted his bike and shot off into town. His tires kicked tiny rocks, sending them flying in outrage at his speed. By the time he reached the library, his hair looked like he’d been poking at an electrical outlet with a fork. 

Dismounting before he’d fully come to a stop, he let the bike fall to the ground at the bottom of the stairs. The bell shrieked at the impact of the handlebars against the cement. Cas took two steps at a time. He yanked the handle towards himself, only to have the door rattle its denial. He pulled harder, but the door stayed in place. The sign taped to the cut-out glass window read the same opening hours it always had: 8am - 6pm Monday to Saturday; 10am - 4pm Sunday. Today was Tuesday. 

Castiel shook the handle in frustration again before it occurred to him to check the time. He’d never been good at wearing watches. He found the sensation of something strangling his wrist at all times too overwhelming, so he searched his pockets which finally turned up his phone. The little screen on the lid read 7:43am. Pinching the bridge of his nose with his other hand, he squeezed his eyes shut until be saw stars. Would there be a day where he’d wake up and things would go the way he wanted them to?

When he finally opened his eyes and climbed down the stairs to retrieve his bike, he felt like the world was tilting. Shaking his head, he picked up the bike and pushed it across the street to the only coffee shop in town. It, at least, was already open. He pushed the kickstand with his foot this time, leaving the bike out front before he went in. 

The cafe, creatively named ‘The Cafe’ was owned by Becky Rosen, a green witch who Castiel tried to avoid as much as possible. Not because they’d ever had a falling out or because she was a bad person. In fact, as far as Castiel could tell, she was a perfectly nice girl. Only, she had one little flaw. She never. Stopped. Talking.

The cheerful chime of the bell above the door announced his entrance. Being this early in the morning, with many people still only just now waking up around town to go to work or school, it was only Becky inside, leaning across the counter. Her face was buried in a book with the spine cracked in evenly spaced-out lines. She dropped the book as soon as she heard the ring. Cas braced himself for what he knew would follow.

“Oh, Cas! It’s so lovely to see you, you haven’t been around much lately, I missed you! Isn’t it such a wonderful morning? The sky was so bright when I woke up I thought ‘wow, today is going to be such a beautiful day’! So, naturally, I rushed here to open the store earlier so I can sit down and read this book I bought the other week. I do kinda fell guilty, you know, working right across from the library and buying books, instead of borrowing them, but they just never have what I like to read. I bet Anna would know what I’m talking about, right? I think she’d really like this one, maybe I should call her and offer to lend it to her when I finish it. Well, it’s a series and this is technically the fourth one, but I have all the books at home because when I saw them, I thought ‘Becky, you know judging books by their covers is bad and you really have no time to be reading an entire series just because the dudes on the covers are sooo hot’, but before I knew what happened I walked out of that store with a whole bag full of them. I didn’t even read the synopsis on the back! But, honestly, when these are the covers,” she turned the front of the book towards Castiel to show him, “who needs to read the synopsis. It’s obviously going to be good, right? And it is! I haven’t been able to put them down. They’ve genuinely taken over my life, I should totally recommend them to Anna… But maybe I should just tell her that I’ve heard they’re good but I don’t actually have them? I don’t think I’d be able to part with them even for a day, let alone however long it’ll take her to read them. No, I can’t give them to her, they’re my babies! Even though I usually like those with Scottish guys on the covers, you know the ones, those historical romance ones? They are the. best. ever. but there’s something about these ones that just…” She growled, bearing her teeth. Cas cringed on the inside, regretting his decision to come here. 

“It’s about these two guys, well, they’re brothers, which, honestly, makes it even. better. and they are hunters, but not like normal hunters,” she rolled her eyes, “although they can be hot sometimes in a ‘prepare to die’ sort of way. No, in this world the supernatural is completely hidden from the human world and they basically fight it in secret which just makes it…” another growl, “so heroic and sexy, wouldn’t you say? Don’t you sometimes wish hunters were just a little bit more secretive about the things they do? Like, I genuinely don’t want to hear about the werewolves someone butchered the other day just for fun, you know? I mean, I know it’s not for fun, but it’s still unsettling to know they spend their lives killing things that look almost human. 

“Well, anyway, so these guys do it in secret and they travel around the country saving people, leaving broken hearts behind, which is so sad, but also kind of romantic in a way, you know? Can you imagine being saved by handsome mysterious men from some evil monster that you’ve never even heard of before but they know everything about and they tell you that all of these scary things are real, but you know there’s someone out there, silently protecting you from them, like you’re a princess in a castle, even when they leave to go fight something else, and you watch them drive away in their vintage black car and you wonder ‘will I ever see them again?’ and maybe you pray every night before bed that something terrible happens to you again, just so you can cross paths with them one more time and when they see you, they realise they’ve been in love with you all along and they’ve been so foolish to leave you behind, so next time they leave they decide to take you along and teach you how to fight, and now you become a warrior princess, strong enough to be their equal, but still weak enough to need to be saved by them from time to time. This is kind of what the books are about, except they haven’t gone back for any of the girls so far, but I hope that’s coming. And if it’s not, I’ve been toying with the idea of writing one of these stories myself, you know, like those people on the Internet? 

“I’ve been coming across a few sites where people write their own stories about characters in books and movies and stuff, like changing a few things here and there. I know you might say, ‘that’s blasphemous, it’s against the author’s vision’, but honestly? I think sometimes authors should be grabbed by the shoulders and shaken, right? They get so lost in their ‘vision’ about things that they miss perfectly good opportunities to write a story that people might respond to better. So that’s what those people online do! And all you need is an account to publish your works. I don’t know, I think I might try. Who knows, maybe it’ll turn out that I’m a decent writer? And then those who like the series will have more stuff to read, so that’s basically community service. Although, to be fair, as far as I can tell, there’s not too many people who’ve read these books yet, even though they’ve been out or a while. Well, all the more reason to tell Anna about them, I bet she’d appreciate them. And we can even start a book club maybe, all about the series and make the rest of town read them as well. We could even host it here, wouldn’t that be so cute? You’d come to our meetings too, wouldn’t you? With Anna being your best friend and all? Friends have to support each other, that’s what I think. How is she anyway? Anna, I mean. I haven’t seen her in a while.”

Cas’s ears rang from the amount of words and guttural noises they’d had to process. Next time, he vowed, he’d wait outside on the curb. 

“She’s been, uhh, yeah, she’s been okay. Just busy,” he replied, still a little stunned. Becky took a big gulp of breath, so Cas rushed to interrupt her before she started on another tirade about some thing or other. “Could I get a latte, please? The biggest size you can make?”

“Oh, yes, of course, of course,” she pushed herself off the counter, turning to switch the coffee machine on. “It’ll only take a few minutes to warm up, you know how these things are. Well, don’t tell this to anyone, but I did sort of forget to turn it on. It’s these books, I’m telling you, they’ve been taking over my life. It feels like I’ve been reading them forever and only for just five minutes or something, you know what I mean? I keep telling myself, ‘Becky, you need to get yourself under control’, but I just can’t help it. Anyway, it will take just a few more minutes than usual to make that latte, but you’re not in any rush, are you? Hm, now that I mention it, what even brings you around this part of town? Oh. My. God! That’s right! I completely forgot to ask you! Yesterday, there were a bunch of kids in here, you know how kids are, always talking, talking, talking, about the most random things, but they mentioned something about you, about your house being broken into? I thought, ‘No way, Cas? Who would even dare?’ But I guess what better way to find out if they were telling the truth than to ask the man himself?” She looked to him expectantly, the whistle of the machine filling in the silence for her. 

Castiel tried his hardest not to walk out right then and there. He’d survived this much in here already, surely he could wait for that latte as a reward for his endurance.

“Umm, yes, it’s true,” he confirmed. Becky slapped a hand over her mouth, a loud intake of breath emphasising her distress. “But I’m okay and nothing was actually stolen, I woke up and they ran, so it’s fine,” the words rushed out of him before she could bombard him with more questions.

She removed her hand from her mouth and slapped it again, this time across her heart, “Oh, thank goodness! I’m so, so, so sorry this happened to you, Cas. You’re, like, the last person who deserves this, you’re always so sweet and gentle.” The coffee machine quieted, signalling it was ready for use. 

Cas smiled uncomfortably, but remained quiet lest he accidentally prompt her to start another monologue. Not that she needed much incentive — just breathing the same air as her was enough. She bent down, opening a small fridge underneath the counter from which she pulled a carton of milk. 

“Oh! I completely forgot to ask you — do you want regular milk for the latte or semi-skimmed? We have lactose-free as well, although to be fair, I don’t really like the taste of it. Not that it tastes that much different to normal milk, I think it might be just on a subconscious level. Or maybe it was conscious? I don’t know, I keep getting confused by these terms, you know? But I read somewhere, or maybe I saw it on TV, I’m not so sure anymore, that your mind sometimes tricks you into seeing differences where there are none if the circumstances under which things are introduced to you are manipulated in some way. Isn’t that fascinating? That your brain can just make stuff up if you ‘suggest’ to it that it should? I think that’s the word they used - ‘suggest’. That’s quite a weird thing to say about a brain, no? I mean, aren’t you your brain? At least I think so, so they’re not lying to your brain, they’re —“

“Regular is fine!” Cas interjected, louder than he intended. 

“Regular what? Ohhh, you mean milk? Yes, sure! It’s my favourite, too. There’s just something about regular milk. Like, yes, this is milk, this is what milk should taste like. It just gives such a nice, velvety taste to coffee. I really don’t get the people who like to take theirs without any milk. It just tastes so bad. Not that I hate the taste of coffee, I mean, duh, I run a cafe after all, but also, what kind of cafe would I have if I only ever did black coffee, or espressos? There has to be some variety, I mean, surely people who like to take their coffee black get sick of it at some point, right? Especially if they do it because they want to keep up some sort of appearance in front of other people. I mean, come onnn, surely your image isn’t going to be affected if you get a mocha every once in a while?” 

Cas couldn’t tell if she ever took a breath during the time she spoke over the shrill noice of the coffee machine as she frothed the milk, poured the espresso shot in a small ceramic mug and then combined both in a paper cup, making a perfect heart on top of the foam. The delicious smell of it almost made Castiel believe he hadn’t lost years of his life to this conversation.

“There’s lids right over there,” she pointed to a little table to the side, “as well as a cinnamon shaker if you want some, sorry, I completely forgot to ask if you wanted any, I’m telling you these books have completely taken over my mind, I can’t think about anything else. Would you be able to ask Anna to come by soon so I can tell her all about them? I’d really like to have someone to discuss them with, it’s just so frustrating not having anyone to talk to about this, I feel like I’m going to burst, have you ever had that feeling?” 

The chime of the bell above the door signalled that Cas was no longer the only customer in the cafe. His knees almost gave out with relief. He hurried towards the table with the lids, sprinkling cinnamon on top of the heart until it was obscured almost entirely. He decided not to waste time mixing it in, instead sloppily snapping the right size lid after several unsuccessful attempts. At least he didn’t spill it all over himself, he thought. Then he would have had to go through the same process all over again and by the time he managed to get out of the store the sun might have already begun setting. 

Thankfully, though, Becky was talking some other poor soul’s ear off now, so he managed to get to the door and slip outside, but not before she yelled out after him one last time to tell Anna about the books. He waved over his shoulder, not turning around, grabbed his bike and crossed the street in a jog. 

By the time he reached the top of the library stairs, it was already 8:17am.

Chapter Text

The hinges croaked when the library door finally opened for Castiel. The smell of yellowing pages and heavy dust filled his lungs as he stepped in. The reception area was dimly lit, the sunlight sluggishly filtering through grimy windows. The floor was covered in a carpet that had once been a luxurious crimson red, but now looked more like curdled blood. Darker spots of irregular shapes created a pattern that didn’t look intentional or as part of its design. A particularly wide worn-out spot at the desk spoke of times past, when countless of feet would have come up to that same place day in and day out. Cas stepped into it, finding himself face to face with a man with snowy white hair and round wire-frame glasses perched low on his nose. Through them, his deep-set eyes scanned the pages of a newspaper.

“Good morning,” Cas greeted politely, wincing a little at the way his voice disturbed the perfect stillness. The man looked up at him, eyes struggling to focus. “I was wondering if… if I could use the printing service?”

The man folded his paper carefully and set it down with a rustle. He stood up and wrapped the grey cardigan he was wearing tighter around himself. “Yes, yes,” he affirmed, sounding distracted. Relieved, Cas brought the coffee to his lips. The motion attracted the librarian’s attention, his eyes growing sharp, like a hawk’s, in a split second. 

“Just leave any liquids you’re carrying on the table there,” he gestured to the far corner of the desk. Castiel’s hand froze just as a tiny drop of coffee landed on his tongue. Sighing, he pulled the cup away from his face and looked in the direction the librarian had pointed. 

Dark rings on the worn wood branded the edge of the table as the designated beverage graveyard. There was a single smaller cup there already, with no lid on. Its insides were crusted with a brown substance that would have been someone’s drink long ago. Dust blanketed the bottom.

The man rounded the desk and set off down a long corridor, leading further into the building. After a moment of hesitation, Cas left his his cup a respectful distance away from its unfortunate predecessor and followed, skipping awkwardly to catch up. The librarian was surprisingly nimble for his age. 

They reached a cramped room at the end of the hallway. It looked more like a broom closet than an office, or really any place you’d expect functioning technology to be stored in. Yet, there it was, a printer that looked to be no less than a hundred years old. The only reason Cas was sure it had to be newer than that was the fact that modern printers hadn’t existed this long. Or maybe they had? If they had, this certainly would have been the very first. 

A small, dinged-up table next to it was home to a dinged-up computer box and a monster of a dinged-up monitor, the glass on its screen curving away from its thick frame. Cas hovered just on the other side of the entrance, giving the man space as he huffed and puffed, kneeling to plug various cables into the wall and seeking out power buttons. The librarian’s efforts eventually paid off and brought the machinery to life. A mechanical buzz bounced off the plain concrete walls, accompanied by the occasional shrill beep. The monitor lit up, block letters in a poison-green colour filling out a black background. 

“Alright,” the man said finally, unfolding from his crouch. A brief wince of pain flashed across his face when his spine popped loudly. “You know how to use all this?”

Cas wasn’t too sure he did, but he didn’t want to bother the man any more than was necessary. “Yes, sure,” he replied, hoping it wasn’t a lie. 

“Alright,” the librarian repeated, shuffling out of the room. “Let me know when if you need anything. And don’t forget to come by the front desk on your way out.”

“Uh, yes, okay, of course.” Cas called after him. “Thank you!” An echoing grunt down the hall was the only acknowledgment he got. 

Taking a deep breath that he immediately regretted on account of all the dust and gods know what else he inhaled, he got to work, coaxing the ancient technology to do his bidding. 

A sweat-inducing forty minutes later, he clutched a stack of ‘missing’ posters with a slightly blurry picture of Bee plastered on each of them along with his contact details neatly listed. Too afraid he might accidentally break the printer if he tried to turn it off himself, he hugged the papers to his chest and walked out, stopping by the front desk as promised. He paid for his printing and thanked the old man once again for the help. He was waved off with a pleasant, but unfocused smile. 

By the time Cas reached the “Buzzing Bee”, he’d halved the amount of posters in his hand. He knew it was unlikely Bee would have wandered anywhere close to town, or that anyone would have spotted her, given the distance to his house from here, but it’s not like he could have put up posters in the forest. Maybe he had magic, but he still hadn’t come across a spell that would make the woodland creatures talk so he could ask them if they have seen his cat. 

What he didn’t expect was to see the person standing by the door waiting for him, anxiously shifting her weight from one foot to the other. 

“Wow,” Cas said sarcastically, “look who isn’t dead after all.” He felt the sides of his face warm up with irritation at the sight of her. 

“I’m sorry, I only saw that you’d called this morning. I left my phone in the car,” Anna explained, wincing at his tone. Regret was written all over her face. 

“What if someone was dying, Anna?” Cas asked sharply. “What if something horrible had happened to someone and they needed your help? What if aliens were invading Earth, huh? This is why we have phones. So if someone needs us, they can reach us! I even called your house phone. Where were you?” But he knew the answer without her even having to say.

“I was with Jo,” she explained sheepishly. “I’m sorry, I forget about everything when I’m with her, you know what that’s like.” 

A sharp sting, like a knife plunged into his heart, left him gaping at her. 

“I mean… Ugh. This is coming out all wrong. I didn’t mean —“

“Forget it. I know what you meant.” He turned his face away from her to hide the hurt he felt at the reminder, even after all the time that had passed. 

Anna dropped the topic. ‘Well… I’m here now. What did you need? Last night?”

Cas sighed, pushing the old pain down where he kept it locked away. “Bee is missing. She didn’t come home last night. Or this morning. I went out to look for her but I couldn’t find her anywhere.” He showed her the left-over posters he clutched. “I put these up around town in case she would have wandered out here, but…” he trailed off, sharing a sceptical look with Anna. 

“Isn’t it normal for cats to go missing sometimes?” She asked. “Like, just to explore, or find a mate, or whatever?”

Cas shook his head. “She’s spayed.”

“Still,” Anna insisted, “it might be stronger than her, you know? Instinct.”

“Maybe,” Cas conceded, be he doubted it. Anna guessed as much. 

“You live next to a forest - maybe she saw a mouse? Or a rabbit? A white rabbit that she chased down a hole where she fell and fell and fell and had to eat a cookie that made her very big and then drank a potion to make her very small, so she could pass through a little door —“

“Anna,” Cas sighed, “I appreciate you trying to make me feel better, but this is serious. I’ve had her for years and she’s never done something like this before.” He looked down at his shoes. “It’s freaking me out.”

She drew him into a tight hug, knocking the air from his lungs. “Don’t worry, Cassie, I’m sure she’s okay. She’ll come back soon, I promise.”

‘I don’t think you can make promises on her account,” He rasped, hands hanging limply by his sides, but made no effort to free himself from the hug. Anna squeezed him one last time before she let him go. 

“Listen,” she said, tugging on his arm, “give me some of these, and I’ll put more around town, okay? I’ll even pin some up on the notice board in my shop. Oh, and I could ask if others are okay with putting some up on theirs, how about that?”

A sudden rush of vengeful giddiness snapped Cas’s head up as he recalled his morning at The Cafe. “Actually,” he purred, a smug smile tugging at the corners of his mouth, “Becky asked for you this morning. She said she has some books to recommend you.”

Anna blanched and her face pinched in distress. “Anywhere but there, Cas, please. I’ll do anything else you want, anything,” she begged. Cas suppressed an evil chuckle.

“Nope.” He said, schooling his features into a hard expression. “This is the only way to make up for your sins, Anna Milton. You have to put up a poster at The Cafe.”

She groaned painfully. “Fine,” she sighed at last. “But only because it’s you. And you’re going to owe me big for this,” she wiggled a finger at him.

“No, I won’t,” he shook his head, a small smile creeping over his features once again. “This makes us even.”

“Okay,” her stature slumped a little as if she regretted having offered to help him. “But just so you know,” she said before she turned to walk away, “you suck.”

“I love you, too!” He called after her. “And by the way, it’s the potion that makes Alice grow, and the cookie that makes her shrink!”

“Same difference!” Anna stuck out her tongue at him.

A few minutes later, having finally opened up the shop for the day, Cas settled behind the counter. He pulled out the accounting book from a nook below the desk and flipped it open with one hand while reaching mindlessly for his coffee cup with the other. When his fingers closed around empty air, he looked up. That’s when the realisation hit him. 

He’d left his coffee, perfectly untouched, on the reception desk at the library.

Long nights without a wink of sleep were something Dean had gotten used to as an essential part of his job. He could function perfectly on no more than four hours of sleep for days, so he found it inconvenient and frankly a little embarrassing that after nearly a gallon of drip coffee his eyes still felt heavy and the muscles on his face were screaming at him to let them stretch into a yawn. He had them under control for now but he wasn’t sure how long that was going to last.

Another hour or so of wandering through the woods had finally spit him out onto a road he’d recognised. He’d followed it to Bobby’s house where him and Sam had been almost too busy to take notice of his prolonged absence. The two had reminded Dean of a pair of nerdy Godzillas, weaving their way through paper high-rises that covered almost every inch of floor in the living room. They’d briefly put down their research to listen to Dean’s recount of what he’d stumbled upon in the forest before picking up their reading with newfound vigour and urgency. Dean had had no other choice but to follow suit. 

“So what if I didn’t see a face? I’m telling you, it must’ve been him.” Dean found himself insisting for the millionth time. “Who else do we know that has the juice to pull off something like this?”

“But you’re not even sure it was the same cat, let alone the same witch! And even if it was, why would the witch throw it in the fire like that? It was quite a fat cat,” Sam countered. Dean looked at him questioningly. “Meaning,” Sam clarified, “it has been very well looked after. Not like an animal for slaughter.”

Dean had the sneaking suspicion his brother was playing devil’s advocate. Surely his little brother knew people fed their livestock to the point of obesity exactly for slaughter? Sam was only disagreeing with him for the sake of the argument. Dean groaned. That kid sure was a lawyer, through and through.

“It’s a witch, Sam. Who knows why they do anything? It doesn’t matter that I didn’t see a face. You know damn well that celestial is powerful enough. And I told you already, even if I didn’t have the opportunity to conduct a veterinary check on the cat to determine if it was the same one or not, it sounded just like the one I had to pry off your stupid face a few days ago, in case you forgot? You think I won’t remember what it sounded like?”

Sam mumbled under his nose. “What was that?” Dean asked, an aggressive edge to his voice. 

“I said,” Sam shot him a cold glare, “that you’ve hit your head enough times in your life to be a little confused about certain things.”

“You wanna say that again?” Dean rose to his feet slowly in a way he was hoping would come across as threatening and not bone-tired.

“Boys!” Bobby’s voice rose from where he was sitting behind his desk. “Would you please stop yammering? If you’re not gonna be doing anything helpful, I suggest you take your old-lady bickering somewhere else. Like, oh, I don’t know, off my property!”

Dean almost snapped at him, too, before he noticed the way the older man ran his knuckles against his brows, pressing hard into the skin. 

“We’re sorry, Bobby,” he said. Sam remained quiet, so Dean looked at him pointedly. 

“Yes, we’re sorry, Bobby. Dean will stop interrupting with unhelpful commentary.”

“You son of a—“ 

“Enough! You two! Get out of my living room! Now!” Bobby yelled, lighting bolts dancing in his eyes.

Dean pinned Sam with an icy stare. See what you did? He brushed past his brother on his way out, knocking his shoulder against Sam forcefully. When he reached the door, he allow himself to wince in pain. It was possible he had done more damage to himself than to Sam. But that was a possibility he was going to ignore. 

“But—“ Dean heard Sam say before Bobby cut him short. 

“You, too, Sam. Out. I’m not kiddin’ around.”

Sam’s footsteps followed Dean’s after a few moments of silence, until they stopped somewhere behind him. 

Dean felt himself relax as he breathed in the dry, dusty outdoors, his boots digging into the sharp stones underneath their soles. The sun shone high overhead, although noon was still a couple hours away. And even though the surrounding area of Bobby’s house had nothing on the witch’s garden, which Dean was woe to admit had been spectacular, he found it had a soothing effect on him nonetheless. Closing his eyes, he honed his hearing in on the faraway sounds of the road. Cars whooshed past back and forth. He’d concentrated so much on trying to figure out the brand of each car based on the noise it made that Sam’s hand landing on his shoulder almost made him jump out of his skin. 

“We should do something useful instead of just standing around outside like grounded children,” Sam said, his face still a little stormy, but beginning to smooth out. 

‘First of all, you heard the old man. He wants us to get out of what little’s left of his hair.” Sam shook his head at that, a small smile breaking through his scowl. “Second of all,” Dean continued, “I don’t know about me but you certainly are a child.” Sam opened his mouth to protest, but Dean ignored him. “And third, you’re lucky I wasn’t holding a gun in my hand. Don’t sneak up on me like that, man.”

Sam took a step back. “I’m sorry. Also, I’m not a child. If anyone’s the child, that’s you, Dean. And I didn’t mean for us to go back in. There’s other things we can do to be useful, you know?”

“Like what? The way I see it, so far we haven’t found jack shit that would be helpful. It’s not like going to the house yesterday turned out to be the gold mine we were hoping for. And in case you haven’t realised, what we need is inside, not outside. So unless you can come up with a plan to get that thing to leave me alone in its house for at least a few hours, I don’t see how me going over to ‘help’ is going to ‘help’ us.”

“You’re not giving up on going just because it didn’t work out the first time,” Sam protested. Dean felt himself frown. He was hoping since nothing had happened yesterday other than getting surprise electroshock therapy and promptly losing himself in the woods, he would be free from the prison of having to go to the witch’s house every afternoon for God knows how long, regardless of what he’d told Castiel before he left. How long would it take for them to extract all the honeycombs? Would that time be enough? Was that all the witch would need from him, or would it make him do other things, too? Like brushing out the bees’ fur or something else equally as unhinged and useless? He should have asked yesterday. But he’d been so shaken after the witch had touched him, he hadn’t been able to think about anything else but getting the hell out of dodge as soon as the opportunity presented itself. 

“And no, I’m not talking about going to the house again, either,” Sam carried on. “We should swing by the Roadhouse to talk to Jo. Maybe now that she and Ellen have had some time to sit with the knowledge we’re in the area, they’d be more willing to talk.”

Dean wasn’t too convinced. Sam pressed on. 

“Think about it. She’s clearly close to the witch’s friend, at least, the ginger girl. We could ask Jo about her.”

“And you think she’d spill all that chick’s secrets to us? No way.”

“No, but she could still tell us something that might be useful. It’s the only direct link to him we’ve got. Or at least the only one we know of so far.”

“It,” Dean corrected, but the usual force with which he did wasn’t behind his voice now. Sam rolled his eyes. Dean paid him no mind. The gears in his mind, tired and sluggish at first, were beginning to turn. He had to admit, Sam was right. But he’d be damned if he would let his brother know that.

“We can swing by the Roadhouse,” Dean allowed, “but only because I’m going to need something with more kick than just coffee to get me thought the day.”

Sam’s smug little smile told Dean his attempt at not admitting defeat had failed. Huffing out an annoyed breath through his nose but saying nothing else, Dean fished out the car keys from his back pocket. Twisting them in between his fingers, he headed over to start up the Impala, Sam following at his heels.

Chapter Text

Although the Roadhouse was officially closed this early on in the day, it was always open to those with the know-how of getting in. And Dean was nothing if not knowledgeable in this department. He was crouched by the entrance, one knee buried in the dusty ground, his fingers expertly coaxing the padlock that hung from metal plates fastened to the door and its frame to open. Sam was leaning on the wall next to his brother, his hands fiddling. 

“Are you checking out your nails?” Dean asked after shooting his brother a quick sidelong glance. 

“No,” Sam snapped a little too defensively and tucked both of his hands behind his back.

“Don’t worry, cupcake,” Dean grinned, amused by his little brother’s touchiness. A soft click announced the releasing of the mechanism. “We’ll book you a mani-pedi on the way back, huh? Whaddya say?” He stood, swiping away the thin layer of dirt that covered his jeans. He sent a wink Sam’s way.

“Shut up,” his younger brother mumbled, pushing himself off the wooden planks. “You’re almost as high-maintenance as a girl. You have no ground to stand on.”

“Me? How exactly do you figure that?”

“You take the longest showers I’ve ever seen anyone take. You wrap your hair up in a towel the same way a girl does, too,” Sam smirked. 

“So what, huh? It dries your hair quicker to do that. The towel soaks up the moisture,” he explained. Sam only chuckled in response. “And anyway, look who’s talking. Mister ‘A-Million-Hair-Products’ Winchester. I might take longer showers, but pigs will fly before you take less than an hour to do your hair.”

Sam’s cheeks pinked in outrage. He didn’t deny it, though. He knew his brother was right. “C’mon, pretty princess. I’ll treat you to a nice fruity cocktail,” Dean patted Sam on the back while nudging the door open with his shoulder. 

Once inside, the two brothers let their eyes adjust to the dim light. Before they even got the chance to step further into the room, soft clicking sounded behind them. A barrel of a gun was placed against each of their backs. 

“Woah, hey,” startled, Dean let out a little laugh. He lifted his hands in the air. Sam did the same next to him. “Believe me, we are just as happy to see you as you are to see us.”

“What are you doing here? We’re closed,” the threatening hiss of Jo’s voice sounded just behind Dean’s ear. At least it would have been threatening if he found her at all scary. Unfortunately for her, he’d seen her get spooked by a butterfly when they were little. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d laughed as much as he had then. He doubted she remembered it, but it was enough for him that he did.

“There’s no such thing as a closed door, Jo,” Dean stated matter-of-factly, “only an unwillingness to find a way through it.”

“Do you ever—“

“Was I not speaking English the other night?” Ellen interrupted her daughter, her gun pointed at Sam’s back. She shoved it harder into his skin as she spoke, catching him by surprise. He stumbled forward half a step. “You are not welcome here when we’re open, and even less so when we’re closed. Now,” she put the safety back on, lowering the weapon, and stepped around to face them. “How about you two get walkin’.”

Jo followed her mother’s cue, going to stand beside her with a hand resting on her hip which she popped to the side. Dean rolled his eyes, but Sam was first to respond.

“We just wanted to ask you a few questions that are going to help us on the hunt.” Ellen started to protest, but Sam continued. “And we’ll leave after. We promise. We’re only here to talk about work, that’s all. The sooner we’re done with this mission, the sooner we’ll leave town and you’ll never hear from us again.”

“Mission,” Jo scoffed. “I swear, Samuel, you’re even more up your own ass now than you were when we were younger. Mission, he says. Ha!”

Sam’s eyebrows furrowed, but he didn’t defend himself. He didn’t want to antagonise her, or Ellen, any further. Dean, however, was not feeling so generous. The lack of sleep and the feeling of exhaustion were staring to catch up to him in the worst way. Maybe Sam was fine with letting Jo land a few shots if it meant it would placate her, but Dean wasn’t having it. The fine hairs on the back of his neck prickled, much like the witch’s cat’s had when she’d seen him the day before. The similarity made him uncomfortable, if he really had witnessed the cat’s end last night. He didn’t want to follow it into any flames, magical or otherwise. But he wasn’t going to let this slide, either. 

“Listen, little girl,” he snarled at Jo, which made her eyes bug out of her face at his attitude. He was beyond caring about being pleasant. “You don’t talk to my brother like that, understand?”

“Or what?” She challenged. 

“Dean, that’s enough,” Sam spoke softly, placing his palm on his brother’s shoulder. “Are you seriously gonna stand here and pretend you don’t say the same stuff about me, too?”

“I can say it,” his words were meant for Sam, but his eyes remained fixed on Jo. “She can’t.”

“Yeah, Dean. That’s really sweet. Now, stop.” But Dean didn’t budge. “Please?” Sam added. 

Finally, after some consideration, Dean straightened up, shaking off his brother’s hand with a jerk. All this pointless yapping was eating away at their time anyway. 

“Alright,” Ellen conceded. “You have an hour. But no more than that, understood?”

“Yes,” Sam nodded. Dean was too busy looking thunderous to reply.

“And mind your tone with my daughter,” she added for good measure. “I’m gonna fix myself something to drink, anyone want anything?” She asked as she turned to walk towards the bar. Jo waited for Sam and Dean to follow her mother, so she could trail behind them. Dean couldn’t help but roll his eyes so far back he was sure he’d seen the innards of his skull. Was she seriously going to treat them like criminals? Did she honestly think she could take them if they decided the social call was over?

Dean slid onto the same bar stool he had picked the other night. Sam was about to do the same until his wobbled dangerously with a loud clatter. It had come more undone since they were here last and was now barely holding onto the bent screw that was meant to fix it to the floor. His disgruntled ‘oomph’ made Dean’s face split into a mocking grin which Sam ignored as he climbed onto the next stool over, leaving an awkward gap between the two of them. It would have been a nuisance had the bar been full. As it were, they didn’t have to shout over anyone to hear each other just fine. 

“I’ll have a beer, thanks,” Dean answered Ellen’s question with a delay. She had already knocked back a shot of whiskey. “And Sammy here will have the fruitiest cocktail you can whip up.”

Ellen turned to Sam, one eyebrow arched high, but besides letting out an annoyed huff, he didn’t correct his brother. He seemed content to let Dean get away with it if it meant it was going to smooth out the sharp edges of his temper.

“I’m serious, man,” Dean whisper-shouted, taking advantage. “As soon as we get out of here, we’ll book you a spa day.” The promise was accompanied by another exaggerated wink. 

Sam’s face remained neutrally bored, while Jo and Ellen shared an exasperated look. Except for the soft clinking of glasses and shuffling of feet on creaky floorboards, the saloon was as quiet as a tomb. 

After a few minutes of tense silence, Ellen served them a beer bottle and a cocktail glass, full of liquid with a soft peach colour, slamming them down with a little extra force than necessary. She leaned on the counter nearby, her expression fixed on Sam and Dean expectantly. Jo was perched on top of a stool a few seats away from Dean, pretending to be busy cleaning a rifle, but he didn’t miss the cautious half-glances she occasionally threw their way. Sam cleared his throat.

“The reason we came here the other night,” he started, attempting for a civil and laid-back tone, “is that our… Um… Well,” Dean could tell he was trying to explain why they found themselves in town without mentioning their father’s name. Not that Jo and Ellen didn’t know they were here on his orders. But, he had to admit, avoiding the reminder of it was probably a smart move. “The long and short of it is that we’re looking for an object with demonic magic infused into it that one of the witches in town has in their possession. We aren’t sure exactly what the object does, but we know it will help us… get answers about what happened to our mother.”

Ellen’s face didn’t change, one eyebrow raised high with a what-does-this-have-to-do-with-us look. They weren’t going to get any sympathy from her. And after what Jo had alluded to before, Dean didn’t blame Ellen for her curt attitude.

“We were hoping,” Sam continued, this time addressing Jo, leaning over Dean to catch her eye, “that you’d be able to help us get some more information on him?”

Jo didn’t look up from her work. “And what do you think I can do about that?”

“Well, you know him, for starters,” Dean cut in. He appreciated the way Sam was approaching this conversation with caution and patience, but Dean’s were running in short supply.

“Do I?” Jo drawled with exaggerated disinterest. 

“Yes. Yes, you do,” Dean ground out. 

Sam shoved at him in silent warning. Dean’s teeth clamped shut with an audible snap. It was taking everything in him not to interrupt his bother.

“What Dean means to say is, you seem to be friendly with him.”

Jo looked at Sam, finally setting down the greasy cloth she had been pretending to clean with. “Are you talking about Castiel Novak?”

The very mention of his name had electricity zapping through Dean’s body. An imprint of the white noise his head had been filled with yesterday flashed in his mind. The mark on his shoulder itched a little, making him jumpy in his seat. He resisted the urge to scratch at it. 

“Umm, yes. Yes, Castiel Novak.” Sam confirmed. 

Jo sighed. “Listen, as much as I’d love to help you, guys,” she paused, twisting the features of her face into an ironic glare, “I only met him the other night, just like you. I don’t know much about him.”

“But you know some,” Dean spoke up again, out of turn, but this time Sam didn’t reprimand him. The expression on Jo’s face confirmed as much. She glanced briefly at her mother before she spoke. Ellen seemed content to stand by and silently observe, without taking part in the conversation.

“He’s friends with the girl I’ve umm… been seeing this summer,” another side glance at Ellen, who continued to look unbothered. “She talks about him sometimes. I mean, they’ve been friends since they were children. She feels responsible for him in a way, so they’re close.” 

“How come you only met him the other night if you’ve been dating…?”

“Anna,” she said, a small smile breaking through the carefully neutral look on her face. 

“Anna,” Dean repeated.

“She… She wasn’t sure how he would react to me.”

“Meaning?” Ellen interjected, acute sharpness settling over her face. Dean remembered this about her - she was very protective of Jo. Maybe a little too much.

“Meaning,” Jo sighed, “apparently Castiel doesn’t really like humans very much. Or, like, at all.”

Ellen scoffed.

“But he seemed to be fine with me, I think,” Jo added.

Sam and Dean shared a confused glance. 

“What?” Jo asked, noticing their reaction.

“It’s just,” Sam began.

“Bobby made it seem like Novak was citizen of the year, every year,” Dean finished, Sam nodding in agreement next to him.

The melody of Ellen’s ringtone interrupted them. She took her phone out of her pocket, checking the name on the screen. Sighing, she headed for the back door.

“As much as I’m enjoying this conversation,” she said to no one in particular, “I actually have work to do. Feel free to see yourselves out when you’re done.” 

The door closed behind her with a definitive thump, silencing the song abruptly. 

“Anyway, —“ Sam started before Jo cut him off. 

“Listen, Castiel… Well, he’s never really been the talk of the town, really. But,” she paused, this time because she seemed to be deciding whether to share something, or keep it to herself. Sam and Dean waited. Their silence paid off. “Apparently, before he manifested his powers, and that was quite late into his teens, he used to spend a lot of time with this white witch, Crowley?” The brothers’ blank looks told her they hadn’t heard of him before. She huffed in exasperation, as if she was disappointed by their lack of knowledge on local gossip. “He has a bad reputation around these parts.”

“What does that mean?” Dean asked, leaning closer. Finally, they were getting somewhere.

“He dabbles in forbidden magic. There was a rumour some years ago that he had demons working for him. Some even say,” she lowered her voice, looking around the empty room, as if expecting someone to be hiding in the darkened corners, eavesdropping. “Some say he was trading with souls. Mostly human, too.”

A chill snaked down Dean’s back, squeezing his spine tight like a boa. Images of the sacrifice he’d seen last night in the woods flooded his memory. The spitting fire, the terrified screams of the cat—

“I heard he trained Castiel for years until his mother sent him away to an academy once his blue magic manifested. She shipped him off quite soon after it happened. Really, I think it was more her wanting to get Cas away from that creep than actually caring about her son developing his powers.”

“Why did she even allow her kid to train with his guy?” Dean asked, still struggling to process the information. 

“He’s the only other white witch in town. Well… the only one, period. It’s not like he had any other options in terms of magical education. White magic isn’t taught in academies.”

“Really?” Sam asked, incredulous. 

“Nope,” Jo said, popping the ‘p’ sound. “It’s not deemed important enough. And it’s not really that common, so…”

“But blue magic is taught,” Sam insisted. “And that’s even less common.”

“But it’s powerful. If you don’t learn how to handle it, you could really hurt someone. White magic in adults might not be as rare, but it’s weak, and it’s usually up to older white witches to pass on their knowledge to the younger ones. At least that’s how Anna explained it to me.”

“That just sounds stupid,” Sam protested, eyebrows knit together.

“Who cares?” Dean chided. “We’re not here to discuss the fairness of magical education.” He turned to Jo once more. “So this Crowley guy—“

“He hasn’t been causing trouble, at least not that I have any recollection of. But people try to stay away from him as a general rule. Even other witches seem… unnerved by him. Well, all of them except Castiel, I guess. I don’t know…” Her face betrayed a sense of confusion. “Cas seems like an alright guy, you know? Anna’s very attached to him, he was polite the other day. People like him. Or, at least, they don’t dislike him. He keeps to himself which makes community members distrust him a little, but, you know. He’s got a shop in town. It’s not like he’s shunned them altogether. To me, he just seems private. And to be honest, I was quite surprised by what Anna said, about him not liking humans very much. You’d never know by speaking to him. But he did spend a good amount of time in his adolescence with Crowley, so who knows?

“I’m sorry. I wish I could give you more concrete information, especially if you say there might be a chance that he’s using dark magic, but that’s all I have,” she shrugged.

“You’ve helped more than you know, Jo. Thank you,” Sam said, a comforting smile on his face.

Dean didn’t have it in him to mirror it. Absentmindedly, he was aware of Sam asking Jo not to repeat their conversation to Anna for the time being, which she begrudgingly agreed to. But Dean’s thoughts were already focused elsewhere. She’d told them so much and yet not nearly enough. But one thing became clear to him in that moment, as he stared, unseeing, at the condensation running down his and his brother’s untouched drinks. 

He had greatly misjudged the danger they were all in.

Getting Kevin to let him go had been quite the feat. The kid barely spoke and sometimes Castiel felt like he had to wring the words out of him like water form a wet towel, just to find out how he was feeling, or if he needed anything. But there seemed to be something in the air today, because it was the second time Cas had been held captive by a one-sided conversation that went on for an age. This time he hadn’t minded nearly as much as he had with Becky, but he found himself equally exhausted by the end of it. 

Kevin had started drafting his college application essays since before summer break and now that deadlines were approaching, he’d made Cas listen to him read out all eleven slightly different versions, and pick his top five. By the fourth version, Cas’s brain had positively melted and run out of his ears, but at least he wasn’t being forced to listen to smutty book recommendations. That, he believed, was something a person kept to the confines of the designated section at the book store between people who had chosen to be there out of their own free will. Not unsuspecting early risers waiting for their morning dose of caffeine.

He’d finally been able to escape the ‘Buzzing Bee’, leaving it to Kevin to man for the rest of the afternoon, but not before he’d picked his ‘top five’ versions at random and exhausted what little brain power he had left to come up with reasons why he chose them exactly.

The bike ride back to the house was refreshing, the autumn chill that creeped into the breeze cooled him down. He almost had himself convinced that he would have a chance to wander around the edges of the forest to look for Bee before it was time for his appointment, if one could even call it that, with the hunter.

Until the odd new awareness twisted around the back of his neck, letting him know his guest was already waiting for him. 

A rusted teal Chevrolet idled in the driveway, a single figure behind the wheel barely distinguishable thought the dirty windows. Cas found Dean’s choice of vehicles fascinating in a confounding sort of way. Yesterday, he’d been driving a barely-functioning truck. Today, his ride defied all logic in the conceivable universe by being used as anything other than scrap metal. It went against everything Castiel would have imagined a hunter would drive. Surely Dean would need something to be able to take him across state lines, given that his work required it?

Looking at this car, he vowed never to knock Anna’s Ford down again. It was a limousine compared to this. 

Cas swung his leg over the seat to the other side of the bike while still in motion, jumping gracefully off in a practised sequence of movements. Dean killed, hopefully not definitively, the engine and climbed out of his pile of rubble. He kicked the door closed and a tortured sound escaped from the machine, drowning out the soft thud of Castiel’s bike falling on the grass. The scathing look of disgust on Dean’s face made Cas question the hunter’s attachment towards the car. He couldn’t imagine a reason why he would be driving it if it didn’t hold some sort of sentimental value. 

“Hello, Dean,” Cas greeted with a nod. Aside from a low growl that one needed to have a strikingly vivid imagination to classify as anywhere remotely in the realm of friendly greetings, Dean didn’t really acknowledge him. The hunter seemed to be lost in his thoughts, which Cas knew he had no hope of ever puzzling out. He tried to pretend it didn’t add to his increasingly fowl mood. 

He jogged up the stairs, Dean’s heavy steps following at a generous distance, and took out the keys from his pocket. He spent a long time getting the new key to turn. He was still getting used to the mechanism of his upgraded lock, which, according to the man who had installed it, had to be virtually impossible to pick. If he hadn’t been fully convinced Dean wasn’t paying any attention to what he was doing, he would have thought he heard him disguise a chuckle with a cough. A quick glance over his shoulder confirmed the hunter was too engrossed in the slow movement of shapeless clouds across the sky to notice Castiel’s struggles. 

Once inside, Cas tripped over his own shoes in his rush to peek around the corner at the feeding mat. The bowl was still full.

He’d known it would be. At least, he’d tried all day not to give himself over to false hope. And he’d thought he’d done a decent enough job at it. There was no reason for his stomach to bottom out now. Yet, he couldn’t stop the slight sense of nausea from filling his throat like a cotton ball. 

“Huh?” Dean’s voice reached him. Cas turned around, meeting his questioning stare. “Did you say something?”

‘What?” Cas replied, cringing at the way his voice rasped.

“Didn’t you say something? Just now?” Dean repeated, his face telling Cas he really couldn’t care less, yet felt like he was required by etiquette to ask. 

‘No?” It sounded more like a question, mostly because Cas wasn’t sure if he hadn’t. “No,” he repeated, his voice stronger this time. Dean shrugged and averted his eyes. 

After another disparaging glance at the full food bowl, Cas took a deep breath, steeling himself for another long afternoon. He was so ready for this day to be over. 

Chapter Text

The brief words they exchanged did little to chase away the silence that veiled the house. Inside Dean’s mind, though, it was anything but quiet. 

Him and Sam had spent the good part of an hour, after they bid goodbye to Jo, in the Impala still parked in front of the Roadhouse, pouring over their conversation with her. Sam was convinced their first order of business was to talk to Crowley. He had offered to seek him out while Dean was at the witch’s house. Dean had tried every tactic of psychological manipulation he knew to get his little brother to let go of that idea. Privately, Dean agreed that they had to look into Crowley as soon as possible, but he’d be damned if he let Sammy anywhere close to that creep, whoever or whatever he was. 

Dean’s attempts at reasoning with Sam had proven fruitless and he’d finally driven off in frustration, delivering his brother and Baby to Bobby’s care before asking for the keys to the only working vehicle left on the property. Bobby had promised to dissuade Sam from running off after Crowley, but even though Dean believed the older man would try his best, he knew his brother better than to hold his breath. They’d probably have to tie him down to stop him.

Dean’s mood soured further once he saw the state of Bobby’s car. The thing looked like it ran on the same dark magic they had discussed earlier. There was just no way the pile of junk barely held together by corroded metal functioned without some sort of demonic influence. 

It had taken several tries for Dean to start it up, and still some more to get it to actually move. But the tired old thing had surprised both of them when it had finally climbed onto the road. Dean hadn’t dared drive it anywhere but straight to Castiel’s house. When he’d pulled into the driveway, he’d realised he was over half an hour early and the house was still empty. 

Great, he’d thought, now I look like a schoolboy too excited for his date to keep it in his pants.

He’d quickly shaken off the thought, startled by the road his mind had taken, thinking of this arrangement as a date. Especially after what he now knew about the witch. He didn’t view this as a date. The notion was too absurd to even consider. And he wasn’t into that sort of thing. Not anymore, that was for damn sure. He’d learned his lesson long ago.

Showing up early had turned out to be a good thing, though, as he’d had time to himself to think without the grating voices of Sam and Bobby to distract him. What Jo had said worried him deeply and doubts about his father weaselled their way in again. They seemed to be doing that often in recent days. Trying to fight them off made him dizzy.

Dean didn’t know much about magic academies, but he doubted the one Castiel had gone to would have erased his earlier training, from before he got his blue magic. Dean wanted to hope for the best, but had to face the real possibility that they might soon be facing the worst.

He had gone over his options moving forward. Getting out of these afternoons with the witch was now out of the question, that much was clear. He had to get as close as possible, alone, if they were ever going to find the pendant. Now more than ever he felt the urgency of the task. He’d replayed the voicemail from his father, desperately looking for clues they’d missed, but coming up empty. Again and again he played the recording, but the words never changed and held onto their secrets.

Grunting in frustration, no longer able to stomach his father’s voice on a loop, he had shoved his phone back in the pocket of his jeans and had decided to focus instead on what he had seen and heard in the past week. He recalled the scene from the woods. He pictured the way the flames had moved, the way they had changed colours. How they seemed to take deliberate, intentional shapes. Then he forced his memory to recreate the figure stoking those flames with chants, concealed within the folds of its black robes. Dean had tried to fuse that image with Castiel’s, but he’d had little success. Logic told him it couldn’t be a coincidence that he would see this while investigating the witch, yet there was something fundamental about the spell-caster and the witch that separated them, making it impossible to reconcile one with the other.

The electric crackle over the slowly healing skin on his shoulder had come too soon, hitting the pause button on his musings. Looking through the caked dust on the windows into the side mirror, he’d seen Castiel, black hair tossing in the wind, turning into the driveway mounted on his bike. 

Moments later, Dean had found himself out of the car and following the witch up the porch steps, his thoughts tangled up in loose ends. He’d tracked each movement the witch made, startling himself by chuckling as he’d watched it struggle to get the door unlocked. He’d pretended to clear his throat in a transparent attempt to hide his amusement, looking off into the distance. 

Entering the house had sobered him up, though. Dean was hit with the memory of the way he’d fled the day before, and the way his skin had reacted to the witch’s proximity. What if this wasn’t just a side effect of getting burned? What if it was something else? Something that marked him, or messed with him somehow? There was so much he didn’t know about Castiel’s magic, but thinking about going out of his way to learn made him feel uneasy and trapped, like he was getting pulled into something he wasn’t sure he’d be able to find his way back from.

Despite every self-preservation instinct in his body screaming at him to run away again, he forced himself to calm his racing heart and focus. Dwelling on his fears wasn’t going to get him anywhere. Neither would avoiding conversation and eye-contact with the witch. It was time he started acting like a hunter. His father had taught him that a good hunter assimilated into his environment, studied it, became one with it. He had to stop trying to keep himself apart, no matter how uncomfortable it made him, or how it messed with his head. The individual was no of importance here. The goal was the only thing that mattered.

“Cat’s not hungry, then?” He heard himself ask, stepping out onto the back porch after the witch. He hadn’t missed the way Castiel had gone to check on the pet bowl. Nor did it escape his attention that said cat was nowhere to be seen as they crossed the house’s ground floor, just as he had expected. He found solace in the detail. To him, it only pointed to the witch’s guilt. And Dean would have preferred it to be guilty, for his own sake. He liked a straightforward hunt. An open-and-shut case. That was what people usually said, right? The easiest explanation was almost always the correct one. There was no reason for this one to be any different.

Dean scrunched up his nose a little as soon as the words left his lips. His question wan’t the most eloquent, or well thought-out, but at least it was going to get him closer to the answer he was looking for. Besides, what did it matter if Castiel thought he was a little dim? It didn’t matter what he thought. It, he corrected himself with annoyance. 

It, it, it, it—

“Missing,” the witch mumbled. 

“Huh?” Dean asked, wondering where he’d lost his vocabulary and the ability to charm his way thought social interactions. How likely was it that the magic that marked him was eating away at his sanity?

“She’s missing. Since yesterday,” the witch repeated, louder this time. 

Dean put everything he had into not scoffing. So this was how it was going to play it. Pretend its cat was gone to avoid suspicion over sacrificing the poor creature to God knows what kind of spell or, heaven forbid, entity it was working with. 

“But she was here yesterday. How come she disappeared overnight?” Dean pushed, wanting to see how far the witch would take this little charade. 

“Yes, until… Well, until I scared her away, I think. With, you know, the electric pulse,” Castiel looked at him then. They were standing in the same spot on the deck where Dean had gotten electrocuted the day before. A phantom charge ran across Dean’s mark at the reminder, but he ignored it. He’d been disappointed in himself yesterday for fussing over the spot. He might as well have taken off his shirt and showed the witch what hid underneath the fabric, that’s how obvious he’d been. He was lucky the witch had been too distracted to notice, or put two and two together. 

“You do that often?” Dean asked and the witch tilted its head in a way he was beginning to recognise as familiar. “Scaring off your cats, I mean.” 

“No, of course not. And I’ve only ever had Bee,” Castiel smiled, although his eyes were sad in a way Dean was struggling to dismiss as fake. “I found her behind a dumpster in town a few years ago. I heard meowing coming from the alley behind a store I had meant to go to, in town. It was late and it was raining, and she was so small. And alone. I waited off to the side for some time, hoping her mum would come pick her up but she never did. By that point the store had closed anyway, so I zipped her up in my jacket and took her home.” Dean saw the witch’s eyes grow glassy, its blue irises shone brighter. He was glad to note it was sadness, not magic, that made them so. Then he briefly considered what his relief said about his priorities, but in the end decided they were sound. Or they should have been, in theory. 

“I never intended to keep her confined to the house,” Castiel continued. “She was always free to go but she chose to stay. She never wanders far, and especially not around meal times,” the witch laughed, the sound a little broken. “I’m just worried is all,” it concluded, sucking in a shaky breath.

And with good reason, Dean thought, once again recalling the furry creature swallowed up by the fire’s gaping mouth. 

He didn’t know what to say, mostly because he was trying to decide if Castiel was being genuine or was a talent Hollywood needed to come and collect, like, yesterday. His silence didn’t seem to bother the witch. 

“Anyway, I put up posters all over town today. It’s unlikely she would have been spotted, but… at least if someone sees her, they’d know to call?” It asked, eyes seeking answers on Dean’s face.

Dean cleared his throat, finding it had stuck together like he’d been dying of thirst and the only thing to drink was liquid glue. “Of course,” he nodded. “I’m sure someone will find her,” he added, his voice surprisingly reassuring and compassionate. 

The words seemed to calm Castiel somewhat. The witch smiled up at him, this time with more hope than despair, eyes glowing. Again, not with magic, just emotion. Dean looked at them, really looked. The colour was deep and nuanced, endless and warm, and so close—

He jumped back, turning away. During the course of their conversation, he’d stepped closer to the witch without realising. Their faces had been only inches apart. 

Why was he comforting him. Dammit, it. 

It, it, it, it, it, it, IT—

Another loud clearing of his throat had him able to speak again. “I’m sure she’ll come back sooner than you think,” he said, self-loathing bleeding into his tone. 

Where the witch’s face had been open moments before, it was now shuttered and closed-off. 

“Yeah. I’m sure you’re right. Thanks,” it replied quietly before turning away and walking off to fetch their protective gear.

Castiel stood on the porch and followed Dean with his eyes as he vanished inside the house, suit draped carelessly over his arm. He had let him go change into his first not because he wanted to be a good host, but because he wanted a few minutes to himself outside, and he thought Dean could use some time alone, too. 

Letting the low buzz of the hives take over his senses, he forced deep breaths into his lungs. The tingling along the back of his neck subsided as the distance between them increased. He felt bewildered by the way talking to Dean about Bee’s disappearance had made him feel a sliver hope, if only briefly, for the first time since she failed to show last night. He’d expected his conversation with Anna to help soothe him, but here he was, feeling better after a two-minute long conversation with someone who, if it wasn’t for the uneasy, unspoken truce between them, would have probably been trying to find a way to eliminate him. 

He’d looked into Dean’s bright green eyes, the afternoon light streaking through them, and had felt safe somehow. Protected. He never realised he’d made a step forward until Dean jumped back like he’d been stung, revulsion plastered plain across face. Cas had felt like a bucket of water straight from the Arctic had been dumped over his head.

What had he been thinking? He hadn’t been, and that was the issue. Dean didn’t care about his cat, or how much he loved her. He didn’t care about how she’d come into his life. And he most certainly didn’t care about her habits and why her absence was so worrying. 

Dean wasn’t his friend and he wasn’t here out of the goodness of his heart. He was here because of a bet, as a way to prove Jo wrong, or to spite her, Cas didn’t exactly know, nor did he care to find out. In any case, he wasn’t here because he actually wanted to help. And, Cas was sure, he’d stop showing up soon enough, probably before the week was through. 

He decided he won’t ask him to pick up honeycomb sheets today. Sighing, Castiel thought about the other problem life had thrown his way - Crowley’s venom order. He’d been too busy worrying about Bee, so he’d had to put getting worked up about his old mentor on the back-burner, but that was an issue he knew he would have to address soon. Unfortunately, before he knew for sure Crowley wanted bee venom for all the wrong reasons, he still had to collect it on the off chance it wasn’t being requested with malicious intent. 

Dean returned, outfitted with with the once-white suit, mesh hat clutched in one hand. His face uncovered, Castiel couldn’t help but study it, mentally preparing himself to see the same distance that had excited between them yesterday. And although there was some of it hiding in the corners of Dean’s eyes, he seemed to be fighting to overcome it.

“Ready,” Dean said, his voice almost non-robotic. Cas would have found his feigned attempt at showing enthusiasm hilarious if he didn’t feel like screaming from the top of a cliff.

“Of course. I’ll be with you in a minute,” he nodded. 

He was back before long, now sporting his matching get-up.

“I was planning on collecting venom today, if you don’t mind,” he announced. Not that it would have made a difference if Dean had minded.

Which he did, if the way the hunter’s face noticeably paled was any indication. “Venom? Like… Getting them to, what? Sting us?”

“What?” Cas couldn’t help the surprised laugh that wrung itself out of his throat. “No, of course not.” He shook his head, still chuckling. “Come on, I’ll show you.”

Pulling the mesh hat over his head, he motioned for Dean to do the same and follow him to the shed. He could hear the deep breath the hunter took before catching up to him.

“It’s quite easy, really. Much easier that taking out the combs,” Cas tried to reassure him. Turning back towards Dean, he could see even through the two layers of mesh separating their faces that he wasn’t convinced. 

The two stepped into the small structure. There was barely enough space for both of them, but soon they figured out a way to fit together. They started piling some of the plastic containers that lined the walls into a foldable wagon. 

“What even is that?” Dean asked, more to himself than to Cas, face inches away from one of the transparent boxes. The witch responded regardless.

“Glass plates. Basically,” Cas said assessing their cargo before nodding with satisfaction and motioning for Dean to follow him to the hives, the wagon bobbing happily behind them. Each wheel was enveloped by a halo of blue sparks. “We put the glass plates in front of the entrance to each hive—“

“Entrance?” Dean interrupted. 

“Yes, of course,” Cas replied, his brows furrowing. “How else do you think the bees get in and out? You didn’t notice them yesterday?”

Dean’s shoulders rose and fell in a shrug. “Dunno. I… I guess I didn’t think about that?”

Cas explained patiently. “The lids we opened yesterday are just for the combs, so we can reach them. They stay closed otherwise. There’s these small rectangular holes there, at the bottom, see?” He pointed and Dean’s hat dipped as he nodded. “That’s where the bees come in and out from.”

“Huh,” the hunter mumbled.

“It’s okay,” Cas allowed himself a soft chuckle, but there was no mockery in it. He blinked when Dean mirrored the sound. It carried a melody, soft like velvet, that had Cas averting his face the other way.“We put a glass plate by the entrance on each hive, and then… Do you see the small black boxes in there?”

“Yes, that I can see, at least,” Dean confirmed, a shade of irony in his tone.

Cas’s mouth lifted at the corners. “They are generators that we switch on. They create electric pulses that go into the glass and annoy the bees, so they start stinging the plate. We leave it for a few hours and then scrape off the venom. Easy-peasy.” 

“Wait,” Dean said, scratching his head through the hat, “doesn’t that kill the bees? Are you gonna have any bees left after this?”

“No, of course not. I mean, it doesn’t kill them. The stinger has nothing to sink into so it can’t get stuck and fall off. They’ll be fine if a little pissed off.” He shrugged.

“You really like pissing off your bees, don’t you?” Dean’s voice rumbled like he truly cared about the bees’ mental health. 

“They’ll be okay, Dean. Don’t worry about them.”

Cas showed Dean how to position the plates and turn them on, then they each picked a side of the cluster to tackle, meeting in the middle once they were done. 

“Good!” Cas complimented, deciding it might have been a good thing Dean’s help was driven by his desire to prove himself to Jo after all. 

“So now they get their anger out?” Dean asked, ignoring the praise. “For how long?” 

“About two hours, I suppose… You don’t have to, you know?” 

“Huh? Don’t have to what?” Dean asked, confused.

“Stay, I mean. I can collect the plates by myself when the time’s up. You’re free to go.” Cas said, his voice quieter now. 

Dean was silent for a few minutes. “Can’t leave now. I gotta see this thing though,” he protested at last, but Castiel had the feeling the words weren’t actually meant for him.

“No, you can. Really, I appreciate the help, but I’m sure you’re busy and you’d rather—“

“How will I finish my beekeeping education if I leave before the lesson’s over, huh?” He interrupted. Cas couldn’t make out the expression on his face, the mesh acting as an impenetrable shield in the shade the sun cast over the hunter’s back. 

Deciding not to fight it, Cas shrugged. “Okay, then. Let’s head back.” He suggested and, without waiting up for Dean, started for the house. 

“Should I take the wagon back?” Dean called out to him.

“No, that’s fine,” Cas replied. “Leave it there, we’ll need it later.”

Chapter Text

An hour later, the two were sitting on opposite ends of the couch that overlooked the garden from the porch. Castiel had offered to make them both coffee and Dean had agreed before remembering he wasn’t at a human’s house. Now, he was leaning as far away as common decency allowed from the witch, clutching the rapidly cooling mug with one hand, as if holding a live snake. The problem was, it smelled incredible. Almost, he’d told himself, too good not to have been magically tampered with - a somewhat ridiculous notion, but one that had to be considered.

The witch hadn’t changed out of its protective suit, explaining it didn’t mind wearing it, but had told Dean he could remove his if he wanted to, which he’d gladly done, eager to get out of the thick fabric’s restraints and its funky odour. The few minutes of solitude the outfit change provided was a welcomed bonus. 

In the stillness of the cramped bathroom, the realisation of what Dean had agreed to out there by the hives had hit him like a freight train - hours of sitting idly next to a witch, with nothing to fill the empty space between them but awkward chit-chat. The prospect made Dean feel light-headed. Oh, he’d exchanged insults with all kinds of creatures before, but those brief conversations, if one could even call them that, always ended with their blood spilling out at his feet.

He’d gripped the sharp edges of the narrow sink, leaning into it, until he could feel it digging hard into his gut. The brief flash of pain had brought him back to himself, restoring his composure. Green eyes flecked with gold had looked back at him sternly from the mirror glued to the white tile. The horizontal light rod above it had accentuated the hard lines of his face. 

This wasn’t his first hunt. It wasn’t his first monster.

And after this morning, that’s the status Castiel Novak had gained in his mind. A monster. Dangerous and unpredictable with murky ties to some of the worst beings this side of Hell. The way it had seemed to genuinely care about its cat wouldn’t sway Dean, nor would its sadness when it had spoken about the pet’s disappearance. Or how hopeful it had looked at him, eyes wide and glowing, when Dean had lost his mind temporarily and tried to comfort it. 

It, it, it, it, it, he’d chanted, lips moving soundlessly. The face in the mirror had repeated it back to him.

He’d walked out of the bathroom, the skin on his abdomen sore, determined to hold onto the malicious image of Castiel he’d created in his mind. The fall of his boots against the ground had been assertive, loud and unforgiving, a perfect representation of his resolve.

But when the sound had stopped as they sat side by side, the monstrous version of Castiel kept slipping from his grasp, like fine desert sand falling through the gaps of a sieve.

Dean occasionally stole glances at the witch, who seemed to be indulging his desire to maintain distance between them on the couch. There was no reason for it to be mirroring Dean’s absurd sitting position, half spilling over the armrest, but it did anyway. At first Dean thought the witch was mocking him, but by the serene look on its face, he realised it was just trying to make him comfortable. 

Dean found his host’s outwardly good intentions aggravating.

That’s why he kept glancing over every few seconds at Castiel. He was keeping a close eye on a potential threat. 

Despite the awkward position of its body, the witch was relaxed, eyes half-shut. It took small sips from the coffee in its mug which was a cousin to Dean’s. They were clearly handmade, with charmingly uneven edges and accidental dimples around the sides, then painted and baked. Castiel’s one was a mural to his cat, no less than a dozen small versions of it laying down, sitting, standing, eating, sleeping, jumping and just about every other activity a cat could get up to. Dean’s one had beehives in every colour of the rainbow lining its circumference, tiny bees flying overhead with looping dashed lines coming out of their butts.

After a particularly long spell of Dean staring at its profile, the witch turned to him, eyes calm and curious. And expectant.

Dean cleared his throat, looking down at his feet then back up. 

“D'you make these?” He asked nodding at the witch’s mug, not wanting to draw attention to his full one. His voice sounded raspy which made him scowl.

“The mugs? No, they were a gift, actually,” Castiel replied, a small smile curling one edge of its mouth. “My friend, B— um… one of my friends. He fancies himself an artist. He gifted them to me about a year after I moved here. I have another set of the same ones, but with Christmas hats. For Christmas,” a chuckle. “Obviously.”

“Just hats?” Dean asked before he could stop himself, his brow raising high.

Castiel seemed to find this question funny. “I mean, the cats have hats. And the hives. And the bees, actually, but that’s only if you ask him.”

“And if I ask you?” The words escaped Dean again before he managed to catch them and hold them down.

“If you ask me, the hives on the Christmas version house miniature Pegasi with very short legs.” Dean’s face must have betrayed his confusion, because the witch explained. “He drew floppy hats on the bees, but because they’re so small, they just look like horse heads. I think you’d agree if you saw them.”

Dean tried for a polite nod, not trusting himself to speak again lest he asked yet another question he really didn’t care about the answer to.

A brief silence descended over them again, before the witch broke it. “That’s a vintage jacket, right?”

“Uh,” this startled a dry laugh from him, “I guess you could say that. I found it at a thrift store a few towns over. My jacket got, um, damaged. So. Had to replace it with something.”

Now it was the witch’s turn to nod. As if the information Dean had given was somehow fascinating. He kicked himself mentally for over-explaining. The witch didn’t need to know that. 

“I haven’t gotten around to actually washing it yet,” he continued, despite his best efforts to keep his mouth shut.

Something about his confession, simple as it was, inspired animation on Castiel’s face. 

“I can do that for you. You know, while we wait. If you want.”

Dean opened his mouth to reject the offer, suddenly feeling cornered, but stopped himself just in time. As weird as it was getting your clothes cleaned by a witch in a witch house, he had to admit there could be some use of this weird sort of intimacy. It was one way to create a sense of baseline trust which he knew he needed if he was ever going to get anywhere closer to finding the pendant. He had no particular attachment to the ugly piece of clothing anyway. Surrendering it to Castiel’s care didn’t bother him. Before he could think better of it, he nodded, shrugging off the worn denim.

Castiel, a surprisingly genuine toothy smile on its face, stood with a flourish, placing the cat mug on the coffee table, only a thin strip of dark liquid sloshing inside, and took the jacket off Dean’s hands. Dean couldn’t help but notice the extra care the witch took to avoid physical contact. He found it oddly comforting, the fact that it hadn’t been just him getting freaked out by the electric shock yesterday. Maybe, Dean allowed, that was the real reason Castiel had sat so far away from him after all. Not because it cared to accommodate him.

With the witch ducking back inside the house, Dean used his time alone on the porch to dash over to the edge and dump a good amount of the coffee, now completely cold in his mug, over the railing. The sound of it splashing loudly against the soft earth was jarring in contract to the gentle, thrumming sounds of nature. Wincing at the waste of caffeine, Dean stopped when he was sure the amount in his mug matched closely, but not exactly, the amount left in Castiel’s. Satisfied with his work, Dean sat back down in his spot on the couch moments before the witch reappeared, now empty-handed. 

“Should be all done for when you leave… You still want to help with the scraping, right?” It asked, as it came to sit on the opposite end, this time more comfortably. Dean ignored the alarm bells in his mind at the one less inch of space between them. This was good. It was working. He could be just as socially charming as Sam, right? Right. 

“Uh, yes. Yes, definitely. Wouldn’t miss it,” he said, forcing more enthusiasm in his voice than the question called for. 

A lopsided smile tugged at the witch’s lips. “Great,” it replied, a playful spark in its eyes. The normal, metaphorical kind, thank God, not the literal witchy one. Which reminded him…

Dean turned his head towards the hive cluster. The wagon sat just to the side, a thin cloud of insects hovering around it. Dean was no beekeeper, but even he could tell the bees were agitated and erratic, checking out the new object offending the sanctity of their space. It looked as though they blamed it for the electrical plates. They weren’t far from the truth. 

But what captivated Dean’s attention at that moment weren’t the bees around the wagon, but the wagon itself. There was something that bothered him about it, something that took him a while to name. He could not recall, try as he might, how it had ended up there. He certainly hadn’t been the one to haul it, that much he was sure of, but he also had no recollection of Castiel dragging it out of the shed, either. And he had been paying attention to the witch during their walk over as it explained what it expected from Dean. So, if neither of them had actually tugged on the metal bar…

“Did you… Did you do something? To the wagon?” Dean asked, eyes trained on it, but his peripheral vision caught the witch’s head tilt. 

“How do you mean?” 

“I mean, did you… make it go by itself?” Dean felt ridiculous uttering the words. In any other scenario he would have sounded like a lunatic. For a moment, he wished that would have been the case this time, but he knew luck wasn’t on his side here.

“Yes.” Castiel replied carefully, sensing the tension oozing off Dean. It was far from subtle. “I’m sorry if that bothered you. I’m usually careful not to use my magic around people, only when I’m home. I guess I forgot to hold back…” it trailed off, voice sounding apologetic and a little scared, the same way it had when it’d accidentally electrocuted Dean the day before.

“No, it’s alright. I just… wasn’t sure,” Dean’s palms felt clammy. He wiped them down the sides of his thighs, but all that did was get tiny pieces of lint and dirt from his jeans to stick to them. 

The witch remained silent and still. Dean was distantly aware of the gesture and felt begrudgingly grateful for it as he fought to regain control over his body. 

He was several paces past the edge of a downward spiral. He hadn’t even noticed. How was he supposed to handle this job if he was so unaware of magic? How was he ever going to be a decent hunter if he was so careless? So inattentive? What would his father say if he could see him now? He was supposed to protect Sam, that had always been his purpose in life, drilled into him by John years before he even lost his first tooth. Being a hunter, a competent one, was all Dean could hope to amount to and he was failing. He might have been able to keep Sam at arm’s length for the time being, but he wasn’t going to delude himself. He wasn’t the big, scary older brother anymore. He wouldn’t be able to stop him if he decided to go off on his own. Hell, the kid towered over him like a mythical giant. The conversation they’d had about Crowley echoed between his ears. They’d only been here less than a week. They were stuck in this town for two whole months. How was he supposed to protect his little brother if he didn’t notice things like this? If he didn’t pay attention? If he didn’t expect others’ actions? If he wasn’t steps ahead of them? How could he hope to protect anyone if he was so sloppy?

He had to do better than that. He had to be better than that. He should have been better than that.

He had to be more like his father.

He always tried to be like his father.

But he never knew how.

And he was failing.

Castiel was afraid to twitch a muscle. He felt like he should scoot away from the hunter. Or better yet, get off the couch altogether. Put more distance between them. Not for his sake, but for Dean’s. Maybe a little bit for his own sake, too. In this moment, Cas grew painfully aware who he was sitting next to. The hunter’s breathing had laboured, his face was completely drained of blood. Beads of sweat dotted his brow. He looked like he was on the verge of exploding. Cas couldn’t help the flash of apprehension as he forced his body into stillness, despite every instinct telling him to run.

Dean was a hunter. Castiel was a witch. This story only ever ended one way.

Shutting his eyes tight for a moment, he forced himself to let the fear go. He was on his own turf. Dean couldn’t hurt him if he tried. By the way he continued not to make a move, Cas was relieved to find it wasn’t his intention. 

Cas opened his eyes again, little black dots dancing at the corners of his vision. He was disappointed in himself for messing up for a second day in a row. Clearly Dean was exceptionally uncomfortable with magic, more so than anyone Cas had ever met before. Gods knew what he’d been told about it growing up to get him to react this way. A pang of unexpected sympathy for the hunter hit him square in the chest. Whatever he was doing in town, Cas hoped he’d be done with it quickly.

Yet, Cas couldn’t help but wonder about Dean’s reaction. He almost looked scared which was odd. Cas would have guessed he’d be disgusted, not frightened. Dean didn’t seem like the kind of hunter, or person, really, to get spooked by something as simple as a wagon moving by itself. It didn’t make sense. He certainly hadn’t behaved like this yesterday when Castiel had fried him with his runaway current. He’d seemed rattled, repulsed, but not nearly this distraught. 

Was it the waiting, the stillness, that set him off? Castiel could imagine someone like him wouldn’t appreciate sitting around for long stretches of time. Dean was definitely a man of action. But he was also a hunter and hunters had to be good at action as much as at managing the strain of anticipating it. 

Maybe this was about something else entirely. Cas was tempted to ask, caught off guard by the desire to help, but he knew he shouldn’t, should wait this out. And definitely not mention it, ever. 

So he sat motionless, waited and waited, and waited some more, until finally Dean seemed to tire himself out. The hunter’s joints clicked with a painful sound when he finally unlocked his muscles and rested his head against the back of his hand, elbow propped up on the arm rest. He squeezed his eyes shut so tight his whole face scrunched up.

After making sure Dean wasn’t going to bolt, Castiel lifted himself carefully off the cushioned seat and headed into the house, the kitchen his target. Grabbing a clear glass from one of the cabinets, by hand, not magic, he brought it under the tap before thinking better of it and pushing it across the counter to the side. The glass slid across the surface, bottom scraping, before it came to a halt, harmlessly knocking itself against the tiled wall. Cas paid it no mind. His head had already found its way to the space between the open fridge door and the shelves it revealed. He shivered a little as he lingered in the wafting cold. He hadn’t realised how much his limbs had chilled from sitting completely still outside in the waning afternoon despite the suit he still wore over his clothes and the barrier it provided against the elements. 

When Cas had come back from putting Dean’s jean jacked in the wash, he’d noticed that the completely full mug Dean had been previously pretending to drink from sat on the table nearly empty. He suspected Dean had used his absence to dump out some of the coffee, which was a little disappointing. Not because Cas cared about Dean not wanting to drink something he’d made for him, but because he’d been looking forward to downing it later himself.

Whatever he gave Dean, he was sure the other man wouldn’t drink or eat if it was prepared by someone not human. After a thorough scan of the refrigerator’s innards, he spotted a forgotten sealed water bottle, lying flat on its side at the back of the bottom-most shelf. The food that would have obscured it had reached dangerously low levels once again. He almost groaned at the prospect of having to go shopping. Feeding oneself was an endless torture. Why couldn’t Anna do it for him every day?, he thought without really meaning it. 

Having secured water, a quick rifle through one of the cabinets close to the ground turned up a fully sealed jar of painkillers to go with it. He checked the use-by date on the bottom and was relieved to find they still had another year of shelf life. Armed with those items, he headed back out. 

Dean had moved only so far as to lean both elbows on his knees, so he could push his forehead onto the heels of his palms, eyes still tightly shut, their corners crinkling. He wasn’t completely unaware of his surroundings, however, as Cas didn’t miss the way his body tensed up at the sound of his approach, although he remained in the same position. 

Castiel stopped as far away from the coffee table as his arms’ reach allowed and placed the water and pills on its edge with a soft click. Dean twitched slightly at the sound, but didn’t look up. Cas decided to give him space, thudding down the porch steps louder than necessary. He wanted to make sure Dean knew he’d been left alone. 

Checking the time on his phone, Cas realised they should be turning off the glass plates soon, then survive through another round of waiting until the bees calmed down. Another half hour of having them on would have been ideal, but he wanted to keep busy while Dean recovered, so he began turning them off one by one, getting stung a few times in the process. In his rush to give the hunter the space and time he needed, Cas hadn’t put the mesh of his hat on properly and several bees snuck underneath the fabric, sacrificing their lives to express their outrage at the prolonged disturbance.

With a regretful hiss, he swiped the dying creatures away, positioned his hat properly and resumed his work, slowly making his way in between the hives. Cas had a hunch the hunter wouldn’t want any witnesses to his distress, and would probably not appreciate it if Cas asked him how he was when he inevitably returned from his task.

Chapter Text

The damned creature was giving him space. It sparked a flare of hatred deep in Dean's chest. The muscles in his arms howled in agony as he restrained himself from striking out across the coffee table and sending the water bottle and pills crashing down. They were mocking him, reminding him of how weak he truly was under all his pretences, all his bravado. They were evidence that the witch now knew it, too. It was trying to exploit his weakness. Make him think of it as something he could trust. Maybe even that they were equals. They were not. Dean would have laughed at the thought had his head not felt like it was being crushed in a hydraulic press. What a ridiculous idea - a kind monster.

Dean was wise to its games. It was just a creature. Creatures didn’t care about humans. And no matter how hard it tried to act human, that’s all it was ever going to be. A thing.

It. It. It.

Dean knew his father would never struggle with something like this. John would have probably already found what he was looking for and he would have left this town in his rear view mirror long ago. Dean was glad his family wasn’t here to bear witness to the humiliation of being babied by a monster. How pathetic was he if this was what his life had come to?

Dean pushed harder against the pain with the heels of his palms. It was so excruciatingly tempting. Reaching out and swallowing a pill. They were only inches away. Promising to make the heavy bangs of phantom hammers against his skull stop. He understood every single sorry son of a bitch that had ever given into temptation. It was as if Satan himself was straddling his shoulders and whispering in his ear. 

His jaw was aching now too, he realised. His teeth were grinding against each other with such force he wondered whether they would shatter if he kept this up. He didn’t want the pills. Accepting them meant losing. And he couldn’t, he wouldn’t lose. He’d never let the witch win. 

But as the moments passed and the pain did not, doubt started to creep in. What would not taking the painkillers prove? What was he actually winning by resisting? He didn’t know. But finally it occurred to him that the longer he withered in agony on this couch, the longer he remained vulnerable to Castiel. And that was worse than losing an imaginary fight.

Fuck this, he thought. The devil on his shoulder rejoiced. He released the hold on his head with one hand and reached out to the little jar with trembling fingers. He was going to punish himself for this later. 

He pulled it towards himself and wrapped his thumb and index finger around the cap but when he tried to twist it, he found it was sealed. Another wave of frustration brought along more pain and almost made him whimper. Thankfully, he stopped himself just in time. Letting go of his head completely, he forced his hands to steady enough to release the lid. The crack of the plastic sounded like a gunshot in his ears. He shook out some of the contents into his palm, uncaring about dosage. His only concern was that it would be enough to make the throbbing go away. He pushed his palm against his dry mouth, then repeated the same process with the water bottle and swallowed the pills. He only meant to drink enough to get the medicine down, but the water’s coolness spreading down his throat and into his belly soothed the angry fire in his body. He drained every last drop. 

He let the bottle slip from his fingers and it clinked against the wooden planks, rolling underneath his seat. Dean reclined his body along the length of the couch, his head landing in the spot Castiel had been occupying not too long ago. He settled in as comfortably as the small sofa allowed.

With nothing left to do but wait for the effects of the medicine to kick in, he tried out some of the breathing techniques he’d heard Sam talk about when he’d been going through a meditation phase. Dean had made fun of him for it, of course. That crap was for chicks to kill time on late Saturday mornings before they went to brunch with their friends. He felt stupid repeating what Sam had described, but he had already hit rock bottom. So what if he started digging?

He tried to empty his mind like his brother had been rattling on about and focus on each inhale and exhale, counting to four in between. After a few minutes of warring against the swarm of thoughts, he gradually surrendered himself to the crisp air that filled his lungs. It cleaned out his airways, and calmed down his simmering blood. The tension in his muscles subsided.

An orchestra of crickets soon began overpowering the afternoon birdsong. Dean found he liked this sound better. The vaguely mechanical quality it possessed reminded him of purring engines. The wind hissed against the crowns of the pine trees as their needles made long, narrow cuts across its belly.

It wasn’t as good a soundscape as a road could provide, but it would do. 

When the darkness behind his eyelids began to solidify, he opened them to descending twilight. Moving carefully, he lifted himself back into a sitting position and was relieved to find the pain in his head had dwindled to a dull ache he could pretend not to notice. Son of a bitch. Who would have thought that hippy crap would actually work? His limbs felt heavy and he knew he was going to crash hard once he reached his bed. He was looking forward to it, but the day wasn't over yet.

He looked out over to the hives where Castiel’s outline stood with its back to the house, still and waiting. Dean checked the time and swore softly. They were supposed to have turned off the plates by now. 

By some miracle, he managed to glue himself off the couch and head inside to the bathroom where he found his discarded protective suit. He pulled it over himself as quickly as he could, clumsy fingers getting the zipper stuck twice on his shirt. He pulled the mesh hat over his head on his way down the porch stairs, annoyed at the way it dimmed his vision further. 

He stopped beside Castiel. The witch didn’t acknowledge him but he knew it was aware of him. Dean opened his mouth to say he was sorry for leaving it hanging, but the words died somewhere in his throat. He couldn’t make himself say them, not to a creature. The mere thought of it was absurd. Dean just wouldn’t do it. And he didn’t want to, either. 

The witch’s head twitched in his direction, then turned back to its original position. It was such a small movement Dean never would have caught it if he wasn’t striving to be hyperaware of Castiel from now on. It gave him the sneaking suspicion that something similar was going on in its mind. Almost like it wanted to ask Dean if he was okay, but knew better. 

Dean was sure it had already figured out he was a hunter. Why it continued to let him into his house was beyond him, but questioning the motives of a monster was above his pay grade anyway. He was trained to kill them when they posed a threat to humans, not psychoanalyse them. The thing still didn’t even have wards around its house. Dean was way past trying to understand why. It only mattered that it made his job a little easier for him. Even when if it made it harder in other ways.

Castiel broke the silence of their stalemate. “I turned them off some time ago. The plates. I think it’s been half an hour now, so we can start picking them up.”

Dean grunted, nodding underneath his hat. He was in the clear - the witch had decided not to mention his meltdown. He was also glad it didn’t offer him to leave again. He was in no mood to be treated like a damsel in distress. The two of them took on their respective sides of the hive cluster, meeting in the middle to stack the plates back in their boxes and in the wagon. The sun dipped low behind the trees and the first stars sparkled playfully against the soft purple of the dying light.

Castiel leaned down and picked up the metal bar that lay on the ground in his hand and tugged, pulling it the human way. The bar clattered in protest. The wagon didn’t budge. The witch tried again, this time leaning its upper body forward. All that resulted in was making the cart move about an inch or so, until it hit a lump of earth hidden beneath the grass.

Without a word, Dean stepped behind the wagon, placing both his hands on the sides of the tall plastic-box tower and pushed in time with Castiel’s pulling. The wagon went over the patch of raised dirt, supported on both ends. 

“Here is fine,” Castiel said when they neared the house. It dropped the handle unceremoniously and shook out its hand.

“Do you want to carry them inside?” Dean asked, all business, and watched as the witch tilted its head in consideration. It started to respond before a loud yawn interrupted it.

“Actually,” it tried again, “I think I’m gonna go to bed early tonight. It’s been… it’s been a long day,” it said, eyes darting back to the edge of the forest, losing some of their focus momentarily before settling on Dean again. Their striking blue colour was visible even behind the mesh curtain. “I’ll do the rest tomorrow morning.”

Dean lifted one shoulder in a shrug. He felt a pang of something he couldn’t describe. It left him feeling… disappointed. He chalked it up to coming across as a wuss. He suppressed the urge to ask whether Castiel even wanted him to come back tomorrow. That would have been a stupid question. He couldn’t afford the answer to it to be ‘no’. And anyway, since when had he become such a girl? Needing to be reassured that he was still needed?

He knew what he did need, though. He needed a stiff drink. He was going to raid Bobby's cabinets. He was sure the old man was hiding his best liquor.

He headed up the porch steps without another word and made his last pitstop to the downstairs bathroom to strip the suit. He was beginning to understand why Castiel hadn’t wanted to take its off during the time they were waiting. This constant changing was beginning to get old.

Finally, the font door was in his sights. A few paces separated him from it, yet he found himself unable to cross them. He was aware of Castiel coming to a stop behind him, close but still a respectful distance away. It was probably waiting to lock the door after him and flip him off once it had shut behind his back.

Hissing with self-hatred, he did what he knew his consciousness wouldn’t let him leave without. He twisted his head and looked over his shoulder at the witch. Its eyes were deceptively mellow and patient. Clear and bright as the sky had been earlier, and just as blinding. Dean cursed the stupid creature in his mind, then huffed, determined to get this over with.

“Thank you,” he bit out. He didn’t wait for a response. His knees unlocked, his feet moved and he walked out at long, long last. He almost felt happy to see Bobby’s ugly car waiting for him in the dusk.

Castiel stood motionless at the end of the short hallway, Dean's still slightly damp jacket hanging from the crook of his elbow. The hunter had walked out of the house like a fury, sudden and abrupt. Thank you, he’d said. It took Cas several seconds to realise those had been his words. He’d though at first he’d said Fuck you. 

“You’re welcome?” Cas responded too late. The door had already slammed shut in his face. The horrible screeching of Dean’s car faded into the evening in time with the warm, steady pressure at the back of Castiel’s neck.

With a shake of his head, the witch hung the piece of clothing on a free hook and returned to the porch. He leaned warily against the railing, lingering for a moment. Then he waved a hand and the boxes rose out of the wagon into the air. Cas led them inside as they floated on a cloud of blue sparks. He descended the stairs to the basement and stacked them neatly by the wall in the far corner.

The subterranean level was cool and dry - the perfect condition for storing bee venom. Cas felt a little peeved at leaving work unfinished but he hadn't been lying when he'd said he was exhausted. And the thought of scraping the glass on his own with no help was extremely unappealing. He knew it was going to take him hours, even with his magic’s help. 

He was halfway back up the the stairs when he stopped, hesitating. There was one more thing on his to-do list, one that at least didn't require him to move too much. The earlier he started on it, the better. His footsteps banged against the wooden floorboards on his way back down. 

Cas approached the magically concealed door and reached out his hand. As his fingertips brushed against the edges of the illusion, he felt the familiar tickle of its magic. It was a subtle change in the fabric of space and most wouldn’t be able to feel it. If for some reason they did, they would probably attribute the sensation to the persistent chill that lived down here. But Cas knew the faint ripple in the air well. It was steady under his touch. It parted to let him through and closed around him once he was within its bounds. The air on the other side didn’t change, except for a low hum that reverberated through him, a byproduct of the spell. A sign that it continued to hold.

It was a relief. Having a hunter at his house for long stretches of time was unnerving on its own but after the way Dean had acted this afternoon… His swift mood changes had been nothing short of terrifying. Castiel did not want to find himself on the business end of his anger, and he was definitely going to be holding his magic under lock and key when he was around him from now on. Not that that hadn't been his intention all along, but he was going to be doubling his efforts.

He was glad at the reassurance that this spell was as strong as the day him and Balthazar had cast it. Dean had no business hanging out in the basement, but still. Cas briefly considered trying to reinforce it, but then dismissed the idea. Better not to fix something that wasn’t broken in the first place.

He hadn’t opened the door in a while. He hadn’t needed for any of the things on the other side of it, some of which reminded him of things he rather wanted to forget. Like the Singer house... trip. Or the end of his white magic days and Crowley’s subsequent disdain for him.

Pushing the memories back, Cas pulled the door open. The shadows of his past lay in stillness inside. He extended his powers to the ground floor, where he caught a beam of artificial light and directed it back to himself, making a path for it just above his shoulder. It illuminated the cramped space and brought colour back into it. Delicious static danced along his skin, tickling him lightly. He sighed in delight at the feeling. Abstaining from using magic in his own home was going to be tough.

‘Closet’ was a generous term for the space Cas walked into. It was nothing more that a nook, barely able to hold two people when it was empty. As it was, he could only get halfway in but that’s all he needed anyway. The narrow walls were lined with metal shelves, a thin layer of dust coating them like powdered sugar. They held all manner of boxes, some ordinary, with spell ingredients that ranged from dried herbs to small animal bones; others were magically reinforced and held objects that he had tried cursing himself under Crowley’s guidance once upon a time. One such was a rabbit’s foot he’d had to come by himself. It gave its owner heaps of dumb luck while they still had a hold of it, but they were doomed to lose it sooner rather than later. Once they did, their luck turned sour and they ended up dead within the day. The memory of preparing it for enchantment alone was going to haunt him forever. That poor rabbit’s luck had certainly run out when it had come across Cas’s path. 

The box that served as its prison was also enchanted by him. It was created especially to neutralise the powers of the foot and they were in perfect balance, cancelling each other out. It was one of the few spells he had cast without any flaw. It had taken him quite a while to get it right, though. He’d kept messing up, time after time, after time. Crowley had grown impatient with his failed attempts and had decided to motive him. He’d tricked him into holding the severed limb with his bare hands which triggered the curse. He’d taken it out of Cas’s grasp with a fancy monogrammed handkerchief, wrapped it up neatly and put it away. In his outrage, the boy had taken in a breath with the intent to protest, to scream, to cuss at his teacher, he hadn’t known. And he’d never found out. He’d immediately swallowed a fly that lodged itself in his throat and he’d almost chocked to death on it before he’d slammed himself against a table, hard, and spat the insect out, cracking a rib in the process. He’d finally gotten the spell right then, but not before he’d briefly set himself on fire. He still didn’t know exactly how that had happened.

At the topmost shelf, almost brushing the ceiling, was a line of nearly stacked books. A wave of his fingers cleared a path in between half a dozen knick-knacks that cluttered the narrow space between the books' spines and the edge of the metal slab for a leather-bound tome to slide out of its hiding place. Cas could have sworn the book resisted his magic at first, refusing to come out. Given its contents and origins, he was inclined to believe it had. The dragging noise it made against the shelf send goosebumps down his spine. Something about it reminded him of a body, heavy with death, being slowly lugged over a rough surface. Just before the book finally dislodged itself from its spot and he reached out to grab it in his hand out of the air, he decided it was best to handle it with magic instead. He always avoided touching it if he could help it, even when he hadn’t had the powers he did now. There was a slick frost about it that seemed to latch onto what was living, draining it of warmth, of its very life source. And he’d never really learned how to seal himself off from that empty, bottomless hunger.

Crowley hadn’t been afraid to touch it, Cas remembered. Either he’d been used to the sensation or he’d figured out a way to subjugate the book’s might to his own. The thought sent dread into the hollows of Cas's bones, sucking on the marrow inside.

Before he closed the door and stepped out of the concealment spell, a gold glimmer near the ground caught his eye. Kneeling, he followed its source to a box which was missing its lid. An uncomfortable prickling feeling that had nothing to do with the black tome made his skin feel overly tender. It was the same box they’d taken from Singer’s house all those years ago. He’d put it far from his line of sight even here, in his hidden closet. He hated looking at it, he hated the cold panic, the guilt, that flooded his veins every time he saw it. He couldn’t help but note the irony in it catching his attention now. 

He grazed his fingers over the course of the light, a little pendant of a man’s head with horns on either side. A hot wave travelled up his arm, followed by a cold one, then hot again. He didn't like to stare at the things they’d stolen from Singer’s house, but he was certain this trinket had never shone before. He was certain it hadn't reacted under his touch, either. Slowly, he let the beam of light he’d been holding go, curious to see if it had been hitting the little golden head at an angle that made it glow. As the light disappeared up the stairs, the halo around the pendant remained. Castiel stared at it, his stomach churning. He felt something inside him twist and he remembered the feeling he’d had the night of the break-in, like his magic had shifted. Changed in a way he didn’t understand.

Fear gripped him by the throat, chocking him. He reached out his hands blindly, feeling for the lid which he found discarded some distance away, as if flung in haste. One of its corners felt dented in the dark, scratching against his palm harmlessly. He slammed it back in its place, drowning out the light.

Standing on shaky feet far too fast, the edges of his vision smudged but he ignored it. He closed the door, and backed up the stairs, refusing to turn away from the closet until he felt his toes sink into the softness of the living room carpet. It almost made him laugh to think how he’d been so confused by Dean’s fear of magic when he was now gulping lungfuls of air like he’d been running for miles. Maybe the hunter wasn’t wrong to fear. Maybe Cas would do well to take notes from the man. 

He wondered what Dean would think if he ever saw that tiny little charm. He hoped he never had to find out.

Driven by sudden hunger, Cas stumbled into the kitchen, the book hovering in the air behind him like a grizzly bear on a dainty leash. He observed the meagre contents of his fridge again. Only a bowl of Anna’s soup remained, as well as some of the sourdough she’d baked. After so many days it was almost hard enough to break teeth. Castiel didn’t care. He felt depleted. Starving like he hadn’t eaten in days. Refusing to waste time heating up the leftovers, he ate them cold, ravenous like an animal. Their temperature and the barely tolerable taste it gave them would have given him pause any other day, but he didn’t even register them now. He made quick work of the food, then washed it down with cold water he drank straight from the tap. When he was finished, he wiped the back of his hand across his dripping mouth, pushing it back against his teeth until they left red dents in his flesh. The sting of it brought him back to the present.

He sent the dishes to the washer, invisible arms of magic extending from him and working in tandem. The book. The had to think about the book. It was important. His eyes latched onto it.

He’d forgotten the way the leather had lightened due to age, going from pure black to faded brown, just as he’d forgotten the serpentine creature etched onto the cover. The book itself didn’t have a name. At least not one used by all. It wasn’t the only one of its kind - it belonged to a small family of identical twins - but they were rare and very difficult to obtain. Crowley had referred to it as the Black Dragon, courtesy of the beast that lived on the leather.

And Cas believed the creature lived. Either that, or he had terrible memory, as every time he thought he had finally learned its shape, it seemed to change positions. He’d been so frustrated in the beginning that he’d spent hours staring at the cover until his eyes smarted trying to catch the creature move. It never did. He’d tried tracing it with a pencil on a piece of paper, but his sketches somehow always matched the original. Then he’d tried taking a picture of it with a camera he’d gotten for his fifteenth birthday, only for the confused shopkeeper at the studio Cas had gone to develop the film at to tell him it had melted inside and that the camera was ruined. 

Castiel still couldn't believe Crowley had never asked for it back, but if Cas's fears turned out to be true, he was glad of it. In the wrong hands, the book was capable of wiping out entire communities in one swift blow.

He decided he didn’t want to tarnish his living room by reading it there, nor the kitchen, nor, most of all, his bedroom. That left one other place in the house - the office - which he rarely used anyway. Before he headed up, he changed the food in Bee’s bowl. Dumping the dried-up, untouched meal sent a pang of loss through his chest. He filled the dish with fresh food and placed it gently onto the feeding mat. He did all of it by hand. As much as he loved the feeling of using his magic, this made him feel a little closer to her. Like the small act would bring her back home, or at the very least would somehow reach her and let her know he was still waiting for her. That he hadn’t given up hope.

Cas snapped his fingers. All the lights went out save for the one closest to Bee’s bowls. He headed up, followed by the Black Dragon.

Chapter Text

The rest of the week went by in similar fashion - Castiel would wake up way too early, go around his property calling out for Bee to no avail, then he’d head off to work at the shop until Kevin replaced him in the afternoons. He’d return to his house and wait for Dean who surprised him by continuing to show up, albeit at varying degrees of lateness, and the two would work side by side under a persistent cloud of awkward conversation, occasionally cleared away by the blissful reprieve of silence. To Cas's utmost relief, there had been no further incidents involving his magic. Not a single spark had jumped between them.

Before Dean had left on Friday evening, Castiel had stopped him by the door. 

“I’m taking Saturday and Sunday off,” he’d informed him, only to be met with a slow nod and a confused crease in between the hunter’s brows. “From beekeeping, I mean. And work, too, I guess.”

“Okay…” Dean had replied hesitantly.

“Thank you. For helping with,” he’d waved a hand in the general direction of the back yard, “all that.” He concluded his sentence firmly, hoping Dean would understand that he didn’t want his help anymore. He was nowhere near done with venom extraction and honeycomb collection, but their arrangement was beginning to weigh on him. He couldn’t shake the uneasy feeling Dean’s presence gave him, and he was scared the hunter might somehow come across his research on dark magic and would jump to the wrong conclusion. Cas’s house was his safe space. Hiding in his own home was not something he was a fan of.

Besides, he hadn’t gotten anywhere close to finding out what Dean was doing at Singer’s house, and if he had to be honest, he didn’t care to anymore. With Bee’s continued absence and reading through the Black Dragon, he had more pressing matters to focus on. Trying to pry information from Dean was like lifting a whale with one hand, there was no point in trying. Whatever the hunters were up to, whether it concerned him or not, he couldn’t afford to waste any more time caring. Surely someone else out there, in the community, would be able to handle it, if a situation needed handling. He was too busy trying to protect them from something that had the potential to be much, much worse already.

Dean had nodded, and Castiel had decided to take that as confirmation that his message had been received. He’d forced a pleasant smile, stretching the tired muscles on his face. “I hope you enjoy your weekend,” he’d chirped as Dean had crossed the threshold and headed down to his rotting car.

“Yeah, um, you too, man,” the hunter had replied awkwardly, shaking his head as he'd opened the screeching door, plopping himself down in the driver’s seat. The whole car had rattled. 

Castiel had closed the door before Dean had even left the driveway. 

Now, the following morning, Castiel sipped his coffee on the back porch, holding it tight with both hands to warm his fingers. The basket of blankets had finally found its way to the spot beside the couch. September had arrived, bringing with it an undercurrent of cool air that only subsided for a few hours under bright afternoon sun. Unfortunately, the sun had refused to make an appearance today and Cas was wrapped tightly in a tan plush throw.

It was pouring. The rain splattered onto the roof, hard and fast. The noise had woken him up too early and he’d greeted the morning with his face pressed against the desk in his home office, the Black Dragon looming over him in the stand where he had it propped up. His cheek still felt numb, no matter how hard he rubbed at it, and his back was angry with him, too, from he way he’d slept slouched over like a sack of potatoes. The reflection he’d caught of himself in the glass of the sliding door had informed him of the dire state of his hair and general countenance, but the fragrant beverage he clutched in his hand had spurred him on. 

It was still too early to call Anna, so all he had left to do was try to make heads or tails of the information he’d read in the past couple of days. 

The Dragon was, for a lack of a better explanation, a manual on summoning and subjugating demons, although that wasn’t all it covered. But it was what Castiel had found himself focusing on. It described in detail what rituals one needed to complete in order to bring forth specific entities from demonic realms, of which there were many. The spells were complicated and Castiel had never attempted anything of this magnitude. It called for flawless discipline, meticulous preparation and precision. Any alternative, even the smallest of mistakes, would lead to horrifying consequences. As if summoning demons wasn’t trouble enough already.

As he had suspected, he’d found several spells which required a staggering amount of various venoms, sometimes more than one within the same spell. Bee venom appeared frequently. Along with a wide assortment of other ingredients and items, the spells that featured it caused various degrees of concern in Cas. Some of them were for banishment and cleansing, particularly after summoning especially negatively charged beings, while others were meant to be used in curses directed towards a specific target. There had been one such that had caught his attention. It was supposed to point the caster to a hidden enemy of sorts, to reveal someone guilty of a crime which was to be defined by the person completing the ritual prior to its execution. Once the spell found the target... it made them suffer.

It was an intricate spell which required a long period of planning and set-up to complete and, coincidentally, was said to be most effective right as the prime bee venom collection time of the year came to a close — the end of September. Mabon. 

Castiel considered this to be the most likely the spell Crowley was preparing for given the time frame, but the amounts he had requested still didn’t match the ingredients' list. None of them did. Sure, they asked for a lot, but just as Castiel knew to be true, a little venom went a long way. And even though its concentrations were higher in the Black Dragon spells, they were still half the size of Crowley’s order. Cas had briefly considered the possibility that Crowley would have asked for a different amount as a way to throw him of his scent, but had then dismissed the theory. He was asking for far too much and anyone would find it hard to ignore if they were in Cas’s place.

But as the rain soaked the earth and the day gained ground, Castiel struggled to come up with a plausible theory. He gave up for the time being when he determined it was late enough to call Anna to come and pick him up. 

“Hello?” She sounded sleepy on the other end of the line. Castiel’s face scrunched up in annoyance. He had most likely just woken her up, despite her assurances that she’d be ready bright and early. 

“Anna? You’re still in bed, aren’t you,” his tone was disapproving, but there was an undercurrent of amusement. He just couldn’t bring himself to be angry with her antics right now. He was too excited to get away from the house and spend the day out with his friend. The weather wasn’t going impact their plans much anyway.

There was a brief silence, followed by rustling and a faint metallic squeak form the springs of a mattress. “Of course not,” Anna said with a raspy voice, then yawned loudly into the receiver.

“Mmmhm,” Cas hummed. “Well, since you’re ready to go, I should get dressed and wait for you by the door, right?”

A faint murmur of a conversation he wasn't a part of was all he heard in response. The words were too hushed for him to make out, but he was beginning to suspect their meaning.

“Listen, Cas,” Anna said finally in a way that had his stomach dropping. “I don’t think I can make it today, I’m sorry. You can still come over and pick up the car, but Jo’s here so I—“

“It’s raining.”

A pause. “What?”

“It’s raining,” Cas repeated, resigned. He shouldn’t have been surprised, really. Anna had been so scattered this past week, and now that she had made Jo officially part of her life, she was going to spend a lot less time with him, he just knew it. It’s what happened every time she got in a relationship. He couldn’t really blame her, but it still sucked being left behind. At least he normally had Bal to complain to, and the two of them would bitch and moan how fucked up it was that she forgot anyone else existed outside of her partner, but Bal wasn’t due to return for another few weeks, which meant Cas would have to suffer alone until then. 

“Oh,” was all she said in response. 

“Oh.”

“I’m sorry, Cassie, maybe we can go tomorrow? I got completely carried away and it’s—“

“It’s okay, Anna, I understand. Don’t worry about it, I’ll think of something else.” He hung up, cutting her off mid-excuse. The sound of the flip phone shutting on itself was drowned out by the distant rumble of thunder.

He didn’t realise how angry he was until the air around him started to sizzle, ominous clouds of condensation swirling around him. People liked to say they were fuming in anger metaphorically, but sometimes Cas did it literally. Not on purpose, only when he accidentally dropped the reigns on his powers. 

He’d been waiting a whole week for Saturday to roll around, so he can go out of town and pick up new copies of the books he’d destroyed. He even considered picking up a new TV, maybe an even bigger one than the one he’d lost. He'd calculated the amount of money Crowley’s order would be worth. He would definitely be able to swing it. He’d planned on giving Kevin a much deserved bonus, too.

At the very least, he wanted to stop by a grocery store and stock up on food. He’d resorted back to living on takeout leftovers and even they were threatening to run out.

Frustrated and beginning to shiver, he pushed the blanket off and went back inside. The house was perfectly still and silent, like a tomb. Or a bunker, he considered. The raindrops were falling like bombs against the windows, hitting as if it they were trying to break through. Cas knew he wouldn’t have been nearly as upset to spend the day inside as he was if he'd had someone to spend it with. Bee was usually all the company he needed, but even she had abandoned him. At least that’s what he was hoping for. That her absence was by her own choosing and not because something horrible had happened to her. His heart constricted, thinking about her in the storm outside, lost, scared and alone. 

He could relate to the feeling. 

Years of being constantly on edge had made Dean a light sleeper. Sam always joked he slept with one eye open, and sometimes liked to play pranks on him, amused by the way Dean jumped and grabbed for a gun, a knife, anything within each, to attack the source of disruption. The kid was a menace. Secretly, Dean liked it when his brother teased him. He’d take all the shit his little brother could dish out if it meant he wouldn’t leave.

This is why it was a surprise for him to find that although his phone rested on the bedside table next to his head, it seemed to have been ringing for a good long while by the time it wrestled him out of sleep’s clutches. 

“What?” He barked in lieu of a hello, his eyes struggling to adjust to the world. 

“Jesus, are you always this rude? Actually, don’t answer that, I know you are.”

“Jo?” Dean questioned, pulling the device away from the side of his face and squinting at the screen. Sure enough, her name flashed at him, bold and unapologetic. “What’s going on?” He asked, insistent, as he put the phone back against his ear and stood, looking around for his jeans.

“Nothing, much,” she replied, but before Dean had the chance to yell at her for ringing so early in the morning - it wasn’t even 11am for crying out loud - she continued, talking fast. “Hey, so, you know how you’re atoning for your sins and winning favours by being a good neighbour?”

“I’m not anyone’s neighbour,” he grumbled, but she ignored him. 

“Yes, you are. And you’re such a good neighbour that you’re going to do me a solid.”

“Am I?” Dean asked annoyed. He needed coffee if he was to get through this conversation.

“Of course, and you’ll even thank me later,” Jo’s words had Dean raising an eyebrow in a sassy expression she couldn’t see. He was sure she could imagine it all the same. “I’m sure it’ll make for an awesome day and you’ll have so much fun. Really, I’m doing you a favour.”

“Jo,” Dean sighed, “whatever it is, can’t it wait until, I don’t know, the 30th of February?”

“Ha-ha. Very funny,” she deadpanned. And then she did something Dean would have never expected from her in a million years. “Please,” she begged, her voice softening and losing its sarcastic edge. “It will mean so much to me and… And I’ll talk to my mum. To ease off on you guys. At least about coming to the diner.”

Dean remained silent, hiding his surprise. Being able to come and go as they pleased would be a huge advantage. Hell, it would at the very least be nice not to have a gun pointed at him and his brother when they did. And since it was the only place in the area a man could get a decent drink, he was ready to do almost anything for this free pass. 

But for Jo to offer it, whatever she wanted was probably something Dean wasn’t going to like. At all. She’d said ‘please’. That wasn’t a good sign. He felt dread creep in and stayed quiet, letting her fill the empty space he left.

“My mum would see it as you being different than your father,” she prompted at last. Her words caused a flash of anger to course through his body. His dad was a hero. He was someone to look up to. Dean knew John wasn’t perfect, of course, far from it. He was not an easy person to get along with, sure. But the good outweighed the bad. He was one of the best hunters out there. He'd saved countless lives. Why the hell wouldn't Dean want to follow in his footsteps?

He didn’t owe Jo anything. At least, he hoped not. He struggled to shake the accusation that his father had been responsible for Bill Harvelle’s death in some way. He wanted to believe there was more to the story. No, his father couldn't have possibly stood by while someone he considered a friend got hurt. And yet...

The silence dragged on. Jo knew he would most likely say no if she pressed, so she waited for him to weigh his options. And even though Dean was annoyed with her for what she’d said and suspected whatever she needed was bound to be the last thing in the world he'd want to do, a part of him was curious. What could possibly make her want to negotiate with him? Maybe he would just hear her out and then decide if he'd help?

If he did, there was unrestricted access to a first-class hunter’s bar on the other side of it. He knew Sam didn’t care so much about the Roadhouse beyond whatever information they could gather there, but Dean needed it. Bad.

“Fine,” he sighed heavily. “What is it?”

Chapter Text

Free alcohol. For. Life. 

That’s what Dean deserved after agreeing to Jo’s request. In fact, all the free alcohol in the world wouldn’t be enough compensation for what she'd asked for. At this rate, she might tell him to move in with the stupid witch full-time by the end of next week. He certainly wouldn’t put such a thing past her.

After ignoring Sam’s snorting giggle and Bobby’s odd silent stare, Dean finally found the courage to shrug on his stupid denim jacket that now smelled like a stupid pine forest and headed out to the stupid scrap-metal car to drive to the stupid house in the stupid rain that made the stupid roads slippery under the stupid worn-down tires.

And to think he’d imagined he’d be driving in his sweet Baby during the weekend, making her engine purr softly. Just him, her and the open road, before he inevitably had to go back to his beekeeping duties on Monday which Jo had warned him would have to last until the end of the month. How naive of him to think he’d have time for himself. During the weekend. When the witch had said it didn’t need him.

He was surprised Bobby’s car didn’t disintegrate in the water. The rain was falling on the roof so hard, he didn’t dismiss the possibility of the ceiling caving in and treating him to a cold shower, just to make his day that much better.

As loud as the downpour was, however, the agonising engine was somehow louder still and announced his approach long before he arrived at his destination. When Dean pulled up into the driveway of Castiel’s house, the door opened and the witch walked out onto the porch where it stayed, under the shelter of the roof. Familiar warmth crackled over Dean’s shoulder. 

The windshield wipers were doing a piss-poor job at cleaning the windows, yet though them Dean could make out the movement of Castiel's face as it tried to shout something to him over the cacophony of the storm and the tortured gurgles of the idling engine. Naturally, Dean didn't hear a word. 

He waited for a few minutes in his seat, growing increasingly impatient, until he realised the witch wasn’t going to come down to him. He wondered if the stories he’d heard about them as a kid, and knew to be false, were actually true to some extent? Was it afraid the water would melt it into a puddle? Dean smirked a little to himself. He would have loved to see it.

Kicking his door open, he ran quickly over, taking most of the steps at once. He was glad he didn’t trip up. That would have been an embarrassment to hunters everywhere. Maybe one would have even jumped out of the bushes and shot him down where he was standing.

“Are you coming, or what?” Dean asked over the roar of the rain. 

“Dean, what are you doing here? Coming where?” The witch asked, brows knitted together. 

Oh, this was just swell. If this was Jo pulling a prank on him, he was going to lose his mind. How far would her cruelty go before she decided she’d had enough of torturing him for his father’s mistakes?

“Didn’t you need to go somewhere?” Dean shouted, and not entirely with the objective to be heard over the noise. The witch didn’t flinch, only tilted its head and narrowed its eyes at him. The gesture made him feel momentarily small, like a toddler throwing a temper-tantrum over nothing. He shook off the feeling. Castiel was trying to understand what he was doing on its porch in the pouring rain on Saturday morning, after it had pretty much told him to stay away from its house. It wasn't reprimanding him for his outburst. 

Dean took a steadying breath and tried again. “Jo called. She said you were supposed to go somewhere today but didn’t have a car.” He resisted rolling his eyes. This witch had no wards around its house and no vehicle. How it had survived this long was a mystery to Dean.

The witch’s mouth formed a little ‘o’, understanding colouring its face, then it shook its head in exasperation mixed with reluctant affection. “Anna and I were supposed to go shopping today, but she couldn’t make it because she’s with Jo,” it explained, an apologetic smile on its face. “It’s okay, though,” it added, “You don’t have to chauffeur me around. It’s the weekend, I’m sure you’ve got other plans.”

Dean would have laughed if he found any of this funny. “Yeah, well,” he replied, “now this is my ‘plan’ and getting out of it isn’t an option.”

The witch studied his face for a beat. “She’s told you to do this in exchange for something.” It wasn’t a question, but Dean found himself answering anyway.

“Yup.”

The witch huffed in amusement, which in turn brought a small involuntary smile to Dean’s lips. The two stared at each other until the witch cleared its throat. 

“Well, then. I’ll just take a few minutes to get ready, if that’s okay?” It asked. 

Dean only now noticed the witch was wearing a long fluffy robe. Loose cotton pyjama pants in a checkered pattern covered its legs and its feet were outfitted in fuzzy house slippers.

“Yeah, sure. I’ll… um… I’ll wait in the car,” Dean stammered and turned to go. 

“You can wait inside if you like. I don’t mind,” the witch offered. 

Dean looked out across the lawn to the car, which was still being brutally assaulted by the rain. It was barely visible through the downpour, which seemed to have kicked up a notch or ten during the time they’d been talking. 

“Uh… Okay, thanks. I guess,” he said, preferring to spend time in the house rather than fight his way through the ocean that was suspended in mid-air to the not-so-appealing sanctuary of the the car. 

The witch nodded and reentered, leaving Dean to follow. It bolted up the stairs.

The hunter stepped inside and kicked off his shoes. He wasn’t one to pay particular attention to the cleanliness of floors, but one thing he’d noticed about this witch was that it preferred to keep its house neat and tidy. Besides, his boots were so muddy he knew they would have ruined the carpet immediately. He didn't find the witch particularly likeable, but the carpet didn’t have to suffer because of it.

He had more time to assess the living room now than when they’d broken in. He nodded to himself. He’d made the right choice waiting here rather than in the pile of junk out front. 

For the first time since he’d started coming over every day, he walked to the couch and sat down, carefully at first, then all the way, letting his back fall against the cushions. It had textile upholstery, and although he’d always preferred leather himself, he had to admit this was a lot more comfortable. It was a couch he wouldn’t mind spending a whole day rolling around on. He could bet taking a nap here would feel amazing.

He looked around the room and stood, unable to sit still for long in a place he hadn't explored top to bottom first. He stopped at the halfway point of his journey to the DVD collection, distracted, and looked down. It was his first time actually stepping on the carpet with no shoes on. His feet were buried in it and he dragged them back and forth, marvelling at the softness of the bristles.

It really was a nice carpet. 

He completed his short walk across the space and kneeled, eager to examine the movie collection. He noticed it wasn’t only DVDs but VHS tapes as well, which he appreciated. He preferred them to disks. He liked the weight and bulk of them. To him, a DVD was always seconds away from snapping in two like a cheap chunk of plastic, which he supposed it was anyway. But you had to put effort into breaking a tape. He also liked the patience and care they required, having to rewind them after each use. He liked the sound the player made as it spun the wheels backwards. He was a big fan of cassette tapes, too, for the same reasons. He wondered if the witch had any laying around. Maybe it wouldn’t notice if some went missing?

He pulled out a few cases at random, looking at the covers. His brows creased and his appreciation for the witch’s collection dwindled. These were mostly chick-flicks. Was Castiel being serious? This was what witches liked to watch in their spare time, in between cackling over bubbling cauldrons and sacrificing baby bunnies to the Devil? Silly movies about humans making stupid decisions for no reason other than creating unnecessary drama for themselves? He would have imagined witches being into horror, or at the very least fantasy. Maybe even some action, although, he reconsidered, maybe that was more of a hunter’s choice. 

He put back the cases in their spots and looked around. The whole room was so… normal. Too normal. Except for a few light spell books on the shelves, the type that told you about the benefits of moon water or whatever, there was nothing to suggest a witch lived here. Dean never would have suspected otherwise if he didn’t know better. 

He thought back to the night of the break-in, the way he and Sam hadn’t been able to find anything. They’d attributed it to the dark and to them being distracted by trying not to get caught, and then, obviously, getting caught. But the more Dean through about this, the more it bugged him. 

Castiel lived way out of town. Had no neighbours. It’d said it used magic freely in its house, but Dean wondered. Besides the witch itself, there wasn’t anything that screamed magic here. Dean knew its powers were strong, the scar on his shoulder was a testament to that. But where was the evidence of that power in its home? 

He realised something that soured his mood further than the rom-coms had. He wouldn’t be finding that pendant any time soon, at least not in any place that would be visible to him. No, he’d have to feel his way through the house and find the magic that had to be hiding around here someplace. It had to be. His nose scrunched up in distaste. 

He’d have to learn to recognise the feel of Castiel’s magic.

Cas took a little longer than he usually did on his fruitless attempts to get his hair to cooperate before he released a resigned sigh and let it do its own thing. It wasn’t like he was seeing anyone who had never seen him before, right? Everyone knew his hair hated him. He usually wasn’t too bothered by the fact. But Dean’s unexpected visit today had prompted him to fuss over it nevertheless. 

He grabbed the clothes he’d picked out for his shopping trip the day before but scowled when he laid them out on his bed. They were comfortable clothes meant to provide a wide range of movement, so he’d be able to carry all the things he was planning on getting without dirtying up anything particularly fashionable. Looking at them now, he decided he just couldn’t go out in joggers and a loose fitting t-shirt. He didn’t have any control over his hair, it was true, but he had control over his clothes. He wasn’t doing to look like a complete mess, not if he was going to be standing next to Dean who always looked like he’d just stepped out of a magazine cover. Regardless of what he was wearing. He even looked good in the beekeeper costume, damn him.

Whoever said the Gods loved everyone equally, was a liar.

Huffing, he dove into his closet. Out of its depths, he retrieved a pair of soft blue 80’s style jeans, as well as a jumper Balthazar had brought him as a gift from England after one of his trips to some relatives up north. It was made of differently coloured stands of wool in shades of brown and blue which formed a pattern abounding in tiny geometrical shapes arranged in neat rows all the way from the collar to the ribbing along the bottom edge. Cas knew the colours drew attention to his eyes and, more importantly, away from his hair.

Shrugging on his new outfit, he turned towards the full-length mirror on the inside of the closet door and appraised his appearance. He looked smart, yet casual enough not to seem like he was trying too hard. Ignoring the way the fibres of the jumper made his skin itch, he grabbed a long beige overcoat which seemed appropriate — it was still not cold enough for a proper winter jacket, but the crappy weather wasn’t compatible with not wearing anything over his clothes. 

He grabbed his wallet from its spot on the nightstand and trotted down the stairs where he found Dean kneeling on the carpet in front of the DVD shelf, a small frown creasing his face and his eyes slightly out of focus. 

The hunter didn’t seem to have heard Cas’s approach, so he used this opportunity to study Dean in a way he hadn’t allowed himself to before. His shoulders were broad, just a little too wide for his jacket. The seams of the fabric stretched over corded muscles. His back was turned to the windows and his face was cast in shadow which accentuated the sharp line of his jaw and the perfectly straight slope of his nose. His expression was serious and thoughtful, fierce even when his body rested onto the plush carpet. But despite his severe look, his face hadn’t lost the roundness of youth; the fullness at the top of his cheeks held on for dear life, refusing to abandon Dean to the brute angles of maturity just yet. 

The colour of his eyes wasn’t visible from where Cas was standing and he suppressed an urge to bend the dim streaks of light so they would slice thought the green prisms, but his imagination supplied the image all the same. It was something he caught himself thinking about every so often. He’d miss working with the hunter under clear skies when he was able to see the way the sun seemed to seek him out, illuminating his eyes like precious stones. 

Reluctantly, Cas let go of his reverie and cleared his throat softly, alerting Dean to his presence. The hunter shot to his feet at the sound, patting down his rumpled jeans. 

“Shall we go?” Cas asked, bemused by the formality of his own words, but he couldn’t help himself. The situation was far too ridiculous and he wasn’t entirely sure he wasn’t dreaming, swaddled in bedsheets upstairs. 

“Yeah. Yeah. Let’s go,” Dean replied, his words coming out a little breathy. Cas tilted his head and studied his face. Yes, he was definitely still dreaming. In no waking reality would Dean be looking at him like this. Jade eyes travelling slowly from his face all the way down to his toes and back up again, their usual sharpness diluted. 

Cas turned away and headed for the door before Dean could spot the treacherous blush rushing to his face.