Rattle and Hum
Aug. 11th, 2013 02:11 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
tikificTitle: Rattle and Hum
Fandom: Supernatural
Author: tikific
Rating: PG-13
Characters/Pairings: Dean/Cas, Sam
Warnings: Cursing. Spoilers up through the S8 finale. Some descriptions of violence.
Word Count: 7,500
Summary: Dean hears a rattle.
Notes: Got stuck on my long fic again. Story of my life.
“There! You hear that?” Dean gripped the steering wheel and leaned forward, his entire body tense as a bowstring.
Sam's features tightened into a moue. Beside him, elbows poked over the front seat, and Cas's face appeared, pale and sleepy. Cas's eyes slid over to meet Sam's skeptical glance.
“I don't hear anything,” Sam told the side of his brother's head, which remained obstinately pitched forward.
Dean was hunched over, one hand on the wheel, the other now fiddling with the stereo knobs. He gestured for quiet. Three men sat in silence for a full three quarters of a mile. “The rattle.”
Sam grabbed the frayed box of cassette tapes from the floorboards and started to sift through it, discarding tapes one after another. “I thought you fixed the rattle.”
“Thought I did. I need to find a place where I can work on her.” Dean peered around. “It's getting dark. We should stop soon anyway.”
“It's still pretty early,” Sam told him. Dean replied by sneezing. Once. And then again.
“Gesundheit. Wanna Volant” Sam extracted a brightly colored plastic tube from his jacket pocket. Dean waved him off. “It was invented by a teacher!” Sam persisted.
“If it's drugs, wouldn't you want it to be invented by, you know, a doctor?”
Sam smirked and popped a couple of the brightly colored pills. He offered the tube to Cas, who waved a hand, retreating back into the darkness of the rear seat. “You guys's loss. I haven't had a cold since I started taking this stuff. It's herbal!”
“So is deadly nightshade,” snarked Dean. He snapped his head around, convinced he'd heard a small chuckle emit from Cas. Cas, who barely even smiled these days. But the occupant of the Impala's back seat was cloaked in shadows.
“Hey, is that bridge out?” asked Sam through a mouthful of herbal remedy.
Dean fixed his eyes back to the road. The suspension bridge up ahead was indeed festooned with a sprig of Dayglo orange tape. “Looks like just the pedestrian part.” And indeed the walkway off to the south side had a No Trespassing sign suspended by the tape.
The hum of the Impala's tires changed to something more hollow-sounding as the vehicle thumped onto the bridge. Dean glanced off to the side, and then immediately regretted it: the descent here was steep as hell, the river framed by a sharp-sided canyon. Dean adjusted his grip on the steering wheel. He fucking hated high places.
“Hey, we're entering Coffeyville!” said Sam.
Dean glanced at his brother, glad for the distraction. “So what? Free fruity espresso like you like to drink?”
“Home to Emmeline Throckmorton.”
“And...?”
“She's the teacher who invented Volant.” Sam waved his tube, triumphant look on his face.
The Impala cleared the bridge and landed back on solid asphalt, much to Dean's relief. He shot another look at Cas in the back seat, and said, “Then it's a plan. We'll get a place where Cas and me can work on the car, and you go visit your idol. And you guys can both act all smug not about having colds together, or whatever.”
Once again, Dean could have sworn he heard Cas laugh, a very soft and low sound.
The car rattled.
“The secret to diagnosing a rattle,” said Dean, leaning into the Impala's well-tended engine, “is to eliminate everything that isn't a rattle.” He tilted his head sideways. “Well, don't just stand there. Hand me a socket wrench.”
Cas picked up the implement from where it was neatly laid down on a tarp draped over the fender, handing it over to Dean, handle first. They had stopped at a motel just outside of town that was actually attached to a real live service station. Even so, Dean had pulled around back, just outside a storage shed, to discreetly work on the car. Sam had volunteered to walk back the mile or so to the diner they'd spotted on the way to get everybody some take out.
Dean spent a moment or two tightening a bolt. And then he said. “Well? Out with it.”
“Out with what?” asked Cas.
“You've been hovering. You got something to say?”
Cas let his head list to the side, his brows knitted. “I've never understood the human compulsion to fill awkward silences with meaningless conversation.”
Dean stood up partway. “You call this awkward? This isn't awkward. Two dudes. Here, working on a car. This is about as un-awkward as you can get”
“Sam believes you are obsessed with the rattle.”
Dean huffed and returned to tinkering. “I'm not obsessed,” he said from under the hood. “I'm concerned. I gotta take care of my baby. We can't just zap around any more. The era of the zap has passed.” There was a pregnant silence, so Dean raised his head again.
“I'm sorry, Dean.” Cas was looking morose, leaning against the fender, wrapping the god-awful oversized red checked flannel he was wearing tighter around him. They still weren't really clear about Cas's actual clothing sizes, and so far the angel had not taken kindly to shopping for clothes. As a result, given that at the present time the majority of his wardrobe was either borrowed from a Winchester or salvaged from Good Will, just about everything he wore was either too loose or too tight.
“Oh come on, Cas,” said Dean. “Remember, we talked about this. No sulking.”
“I'm not sulking,” Cas sulked, tugging at his shirt. Or rather, Sam's shirt.
“Cas, Metatron got your grace, but he didn't get everything. We're training you to hunt, and now I'm gonna train you to be a mechanic.”
This got a small rise. “Really?” Dean had let Cas observe him working before, but had always limited the angel's participation to handing over tools and basically keeping the fuck out of the way.
“Yeah, really. So c'mere.” Cas, as he was wont to do, moved in too close. “Is that Sam's shirt?”
Cas looked down at the flannel nightmare and nodded.
“Let's get it off. I don't want him bitching about grease spots.”
Some time later, Sam's huge flannel shirt draped over a folding chair, billowing in the wind, Cas was stretched out over the engine, straining to tighten some bolts on the intake manifold.
Everything too tight or too loose, thought Dean, as he straightened up to wipe the sweat from his brow with the back of his arm. Cas's Levis were at least a size too big, and the thin white T shirt he was wearing was a size too small. You could clearly see his taut back muscles moving as he strained with the socket wrench, and between the drooping pants and rucked up shirt, a rather expansive stretch of real estate was on view, reaching from just under his ribcage to right above his ass crack.
Dean took a gulp of beer and considered making a comment about Cas needing to buy a damn belt. But instead he felt his mind wandering to what would happen if he placed a hand or two on that stretch of skin. Maybe he would come up in back, holding Cas gently by the hips, and then press his foot into Cas's instep, nudging those thighs apart a little more....
My imagination is a bad porn movie, thought Dean. He could almost hear the cheesy music.
“Hey, check it out!”
Dean whirled around to face his hulk of a brother, who had just sneaked up bearing greasy bags of diner food.
“Don't sneak up on people like that, Sammy,” Dean scolded, snatching away a bag.
“Is that my shirt?” asked Sam, pointing to the many reams of plaid flannel flapping in the breeze.
“Yeah. We were gonna use it to go parasailing on the river,” grumbled Dean, who had unfortunately grabbed the bag with Sam's stupid girlie Chinese chicken salad in it.
“Ha. Ha. Anyway, you know Emmeline Throckmorton?”
“The school teacher whose name is attached to the Volant product,” Cas noted. He had somehow gotten a spot of grease on his forehead. Dean licked his thumb and rubbed at it, causing a bemused look from Cas.
“Yeah. Well, evidently she's not in charge of Volant any more,” Sam told them. “I guess she used to be a regular back at that diner, and then one day just up and stopped coming.”
“She disappeared?” Dean asked. Sam nodded. Dean thought about it a minute, but then shrugged. “Missing schoolteachers aren't exactly our business, Sam.”
“The company was taken over by her nephew, Elias Krumnagel.”
“Are these really people's names?” Dean thrust his greenery-fouled sack back at Sam and grabbed another bag from him. “This should be called, “Weirdfuckingnameville. Or something.”
Sam grinned. “But get this: they say he practices black magic.”
Dean huffed. “Witches, huh? And who exactly are they, Sammy?”
“My waitress.”
Dean's look was dour. There was no pie in his bag. “Your waitress.”
“And the girl at the counter.”
“Oh, the girl at the counter. We're going on that? This case is a little thin.”
“Come on, Dean! We're here, right? And we're a little bored.” Sam spread out his arms expansively.
“I'm not bored!” Dean protested. “Are you bored, Cas?”
“Actually, Dean, I am a little bored,” Cas admitted.
Dean narrowed his eyes at Cas. “No more auto mechanics for you.”
“So I assume you all are here about the suicides, Agent Hewson?” the local sheriff asked a suited-up Sam Winchester a bit later.
For whatever reason, they were out in back of the Sheriff's office, and not inside. The sheriff, a not small individual, was playing a length of rope through his hands.
Dean flashed a “why are we out in back of the sheriff's office hey this guy's got a rope” look at his brother. And, yes, Winchester looks were finely honed enough to convey this message. Sam shot back a “I have no fucking clue let's just push on with the interview but be prepared to run ok?” expression of his own.
“Ah, yeah. We believe there is a … connection, Sheriff Gehaggarty,” Sam improvised.
“Yes, it's all connected,” said Dean.
“What suicides?” asked Cas, before Dean could kick him in the shin. Dean kicked him anyway, just for good measure. They really needed to get Cas up to speed with the expressions.
“You boys don't mind if I practice while we're talkin', do you?” asked the Sheriff, unfurling his lariat. “I'm gonna be demonstratin' my rope tricks at the county fair next week.”
Everyone shook their heads, although Castiel looked even more confused than usual.
Sheriff Gehaggarty stood back just a fraction, twirling his lariat below him. “Welp, all those people takin' a header off the bridge, Agent Clayton,” he told Cas. “You mighta noticed I had to block off the pedestrian walkway. We've had three of 'em in two weeks. I assume that's what attracted the attention of you G-men.”
“We assume nothing,” said Dean. “We just want the facts, Sheriff.”
The lariat went high, and all eyes followed it. “All right there, Agent Evans. Welp, it was a puzzle when the first one did it. Good family man, no sign of depression, and didn't leave a note.”
“Married? He wasn't … being unfaithful?” asked Sam
“No sign of that! Not an enemy in the world. And then we had a second jumper. Same damn bridge, damn same time of night. And then the third, just t’other day.”
“All at night?” asked Dean.
“Yes, and all about the same time, we think. We hadn't publicized that part, but you know how people talk. So as I said, that's what moved me to close off the bridge.” The rope loop was now going vertical. Sheriff Gehaggarty deftly stepped through it, and then back through it. Dean felt like he should applaud.
Cas had stopped watching the rope tricks, and was looking thoughtful. “Emmeline Throckmorton disappeared mysteriously. Do you think-”
“Thinkin' you're on to something, Agent Clayton. My mind didn't go that way at first, but now we've had these here jumpers, I been startin' to wonder myself. We done dredged downstream, but, nosir, we haven't turned up any bodies.”
“Bodies?” asked Dean, making note of the plural.
“Welp.” The sheriff had dropped his rope and was digging for something in his jacket pocket. “There's been some other disappearances in the past. Stuff we marked down to runaways, that kind of thing. Want a Volant?” he offered, pulling out a brightly colored plastic tube. “You know, I ain't had a cold since I started taking these!”
Sam grinned and palmed a couple of the tablets.
Dean frowned and stared up at the old, dilapidated clock tower that dominated the downtown. Loosening his tie, he asked, “So, our next step is this Elias Krumnagel guy?”
“Thought this wasn't our business, Dean?” said Sam, contented smile of triiumph wrapping his features.
“It's just weird to have a mass suicide like this. And all at the same time of night? Smells witchy.”
“Black magic, Dean.”
Cas looked contemplative. “It's possible that it is also a local aquatic deity of some kind.”
“Yeah, good thought, Cas. Maybe a pissy river god or something.” Cas's face lit up at Dean's praise, and Dean felt himself smiling back.
Sam rolled his eyes at yet another Dean-Cas stare-off. “Maybe you guys can take your mutual admiration society off to see Krumnagel, and meanwhile, drop me off at the library so I can dig into the local weirdness.”
Dean grinned and made for the car. “Sure, just see you don't get distracted by any sexy librarians, Sammy,” he said, hopping into the driver's seat.
“And see you don't get distracted by any ex-angels, Dean,” Sam muttered, too low for Dean to hear him.
“Are you certain you won't have any apple tea?” posited Elais Krumnagel, awkwardly using his shoulder to push his perpetually drooping glasses further up his nose.
“No. I'm good,” said Dean, pushing an overly friendly fluffy cat out of his lap. Damn thing was white, too, which meant the fur was gonna show up on his suit.
Krumnagel sat down next to Cas on a ratty couch opposite the fraying easy chair where Dean was sitting, set an old silver tray down on the scarred coffee table, and poured tea into two cups. “As I told you, I only consider myself the caretaker of the Volant Group. I'm just filling in until my dear auntie is back.” He gestured up at a framed portrait of what was presumably Miss Emmeline Throckmorton.
Dean squinted up at the oil painting, shooing away another cat. It looked like some kind of altar, with an array of candles underneath. Was Krumnagel some kind of witch?
Cas picked up the tea and nodded politely, sipping. “You and your aunt … were close?” Dean frowned. It seemed a very un-Cas thing to say.
Krumnagel nodded. “Yes. I'm taking care of her kitties.” He petted the obnoxious white one, which was sitting, pasha-like, on the couch's arm rest. “Auntie Emmeline had started to get … confused, these past few years. But she was all right. Really.”
“And you think she'll come back?” asked Dean.
“She'll turn up,” Krumnagel nodded over his tea. “She had too many things to live for. Her cats. And she was head of the Save the Clock Tower fund!”
“That clock tower we've seen near downtown?” asked Dean.
“Yes. Would you like to make a contribution?” Krumnagel's eyes were bright.
“Uh, maybe not now. On duty,” said Dean.
“Oh, yes. Of course. It's in a terrible state of disrepair. The Sheriff has had to post police tape all over it!”
Dean shooed away an orange tabby, and sneezed. “Uh. 'Scuse me.”
Krumnagel laughed. “I would offer you a Volant. But I'll have to admit,” his voice lowered conspiratorially, “I don't really use the stuff.”
“You don't?” asked Cas.
Krumnagel smiled shyly at Cas. “I love my auntie, but, well, she was no doctor.”
Dean wiped his nose and smiled smugly.
“Was your aunt the one who came up with the Volant formula then?” asked Cas.
“Oh, heavens no,” said Krumnagel, swinging out a hand and barely missing a cat. “That was what the publicity said, but it was actually her old friend at the school where she taught, the chemistry teacher.”
“The chemistry teacher?” asked Dean.
“Yes. Otto von Winkenwerder.”
“So, he's part of the Volant Group now?” asked Cas as Dean rolled his eyes at another goofy-ass name.
“Oh, no. He sold out quite early. For not very much money, actually. He said he wasn’t interested in financial rewards.”
Dean and Cas glanced at one another.
“Otto von Winkenwerder?” laughed Sam, seating himself in the folding chair and cracking open a beer.
“You started it!” his brother insisted.
“What?”
“What kinda name is Throckmorten?”
Sam shrugged and leaned back, glancing over at Cas, who was splayed over the Impala’s six cylinder engine doing god-knows-what. Dean gazed over too, something funny in his expression.
“So I guess tomorrow we go see this von Winkenwerder? And then maybe visit the scene of the crime?”
Dean turned towards Sam. “Uh. You mean that bridge … thing?”
Sam sipped his beer and cracked a small smile. “I mean the bridge with the precipitous drop to the rushing river below.”
“Uh. OK. So maybe you check out the bridge, and Cas and I go visit Winky-Dink….”
“I thought you had Cas fixing the car?”
“We got a rattle, Sammy!”
Sam’s smile blossomed. “The angel needs a belt. And maybe a shirt that covers his ass.”
“He’s fine,” said Dean.
“I have secured the timing cover, Dean,” said Cas, who had suddenly popped up at Dean’s side. “Also, even though I am no longer a celestial being, I can hear you talking about me when I’m only a few yards away.”
Cas had a spot of grease on his nose. Dean licked his thumb and rubbed at it, causing Cas to squint even more than usual.
“You wish to speak with my father?” asked Celeste von Winkenwerder, batting her enormous, cornflower-blue eyes at Sam. “You know, he's already talked to the sheriff.”
While Sam broke into a slight cold sweat, Dean scowled at Celeste, not exactly certain why he was suddenly so cranky. The mad scientist's comely daughter: not so long ago, he would have been vying with his brother to flirt with her. But now? Well, he's got other things on his mind, like recently fallen angels for instance. Castiel was ignoring Celeste. Instead, he was taking in the room, randomly picking up an ashtray and staring at it. Dean had expected that this von Winkenwerder dude lived in a secluded mountaintop lair, but this is just a ranch house.
“Well,” said Sam, every inch of his six-foot-plus-some height screaming awkwardness, trying to fold itself into a too-small space. “We're just clearing up a couple of things. We spoke with Elias Krumnagel earlier.”
“Elias.” This caused Celeste to wrinkle her pretty nose and furrow her unlined brow, just a bit. Dean doubted Sam caught it, as he was staring at the floor, and Cas was just staring into space.
“Yeah, he said your dad invented the formula?” Sam told her.
Celeste was back to flirtatious mode. “Oh, did he?” she cooed. “We did have a non-disclosure clause in the contract.”
“He didn't say much. Just your father was Emmeline's good friend.”
“How kind of him. Please stay right here, I'll go get my father.”
Sam stood there dumbly and watched Celeste float off. “This town is weird,” said Dean.
“Wanna Volant?” asked Sam, popping a couple of tablets.
“You've got a problem with that stuff,” Dean told him. “And there's something off about the scientist's daughter.”
“Jealous?” grinned Sam. It stung, partly because it was true.
“Come on in!” said Celeste, beckoning.
“I’ve already talked to the Sheriff about Emmeline,” were the chemistry teacher's first words, as lightning struck and thunder crashed outside his evil lair.
Or actually, it was less a lair than a finished basement. And the atmospheric thunderstorm was only present in Dean’s imagination. Von Winkenwerder was, in actuality, a cranky middle-aged guy, bald pate hidden under an old-fashioned pork pie hat.
“We’re just trying to follow up,” Sam assured him. “In light of recent events.”
“What? Those nutty suicides? Emmeline wouldn’t have committed suicide that way, if that’s what you’re thinking. She was afraid of heights.”
“Imagine that,” said Sam, smiling at Dean.
“So, you sold the formula?” asked Dean.
“I have no interest in that Volant crap. It's a placebo.”
“Imagine that,” Dean told Sam.
“Mr. Krumnagel was convinced his aunt will return,” Cas said softly. “Would you agree?”
This earned a scowl. Not that von Winkenwerder wasn't already scowling. This made the scowl deeper. “I doubt it. They'll probably find her bones in the bottom of the canyon some day. Early stages of Alzheimers. Elias is in denial about it, but that's the truth.”
Cas was staring intently at von Winkenwerder's collarbone for some reason. Cas was weird, Dean decided. “You hold no grudge against the people who have made a great profit from Volant?”
“Pfft!” Dean was surprised by the vehemence of the snort. “Like I said, the stuff is complete horse shit. I made it to amuse my kid.” His face brightened slightly as he looked at Celeste.
“I think my father has had enough for the day,” said Celeste, glancing at her father with concern. And it was time for them to be hustled out.
“Seriously, Sammy,” said Dean, as his brother ran to catch up at the car. He had paused a moment to get Celeste's personal cell phone number, as it was somehow important to the case.
“What? She's cute. You'd totally do it,” smiled Sam.
“Dean, did you observe von Winkenwerder's chest?” asked Cas.
“What?” Dean turned and gave Cas a disbelieving look.
“He had a tattoo mark,” said Cas, pointing to his own collarbone.
“So? He's got ink. Maybe he's a cool chemistry teacher.”
“It was a small cross.”
“Radiation!” said Sam.
Cas nodded. “Adjuvant therapy for cancer.”
“Oh,” said Dean, as it was finally dawning on him. “That's why the bald head.”
“I would guess it to be lung cancer. I can no longer smell illness on human beings, but I noticed cigarette smoking paraphernalia scattered around the house.”
Dean nodded as they all climbed into the Impala. “So, von Winkenwerder has lung cancer?”
“That one's usually bad,” said Sam.
Dean fired up the engine, listening closely. “Damn! Still rattling.”
Cas and Sam exchanged a look.
“I just don't think the chemistry teacher is our guy,” said Sam, peering into his laptop. “From what I can dig up on the web, he was out of town at a conference the time of at least one of the suicides.”
“Check up on your girlfriend's whereabouts,” said Dean. He was sitting cross-legged on his bed, surrounded by bits and pieces of a gun.
“Ha. Ha.”
“I'm not kidding, Sammy. She seemed squirrely.”
“Celeste von Winkenwerder isn't a witch. Come on, Dean.”
Cas came out of the bathroom and sat down at the table across from Sam. He picked up the empty plastic Volant container next to him. “Volant. It means, winged.”
“Thanks, Mr. Science,” snapped Dean. Cas glared at him, but said nothing.
“Yeah,” said Sam, grabbing the container and upending it to make sure it was empty. “I think they mean it's supposed to protect you from airborne microbes.”
“I knew it,” said Dean.
Sam glanced at him. “Knew what?”
“Germs and angels. They have something in common.”
Sam winced as Cas's chair suddenly clattered back. “I'm going to get a Coke,” the ex-angel said flatly. And then he marched out of the room, not exactly slamming the door, but not shutting it quietly either.
Sam and Dean listened to the slap of his feet on the stair. Sam turned to Dean and made a, “You just said something stupid to the angel go apologize nitwit” face. Dean volleyed back a, “I wasn't trying to piss him off,” expression, but Sam countered with a, “Dean get out of here now and FIX IT,” that brooked no backtalk. So to speak.
Dean ventured downstairs to find Cas standing staring at the Coke machine, breathing hard, his hands balled into fists.
“Hey.”
Startled, Cas turned a full-force glare on Dean.
Dean drew nearer. “Hey. The shit that comes out of my mouth sometimes.... Look, you know me, Cas. You know I don't mean it.”
Cas deflated, all the anger evaporating, leaving him leaning back against the Coke machine, looking utterly defeated. “You were right, Dean,” he whispered. “I'm useless.”
“Oh, fuck.” Dean stepped closer. “No. Don't do this! Remember, no sulking! Besides, you're doing great. You're a hunter. You're a mechanic.”
“We didn't get the rattle.”
“You figured out our mad scientist has cancer.”
“A dead end.”
“Yeah. Sometimes you hit a dead end. And then you keep going.”
Cas turned partway around, placing a coin in the machine and hitting a button. As he tilted his head, the light struck his cheekbone. The vending machine thumped, and Dean saw it, the faint glint of a tear.
He tried to remember when Cas had cried before. He hadn't. Not from pain, or regret.
This couldn't stand. Dean stepped nearer, put out a thumb, and pushed the offending tear off Cas's face. And then Cas's eyes were on him, and Dean let his body get a little ahead of his brain, and he was standing there, right up against Cas, pushing his lips up against him.
He drew back. Cas was staring, eyes wide open, like suddenly a light bulb had gone on somewhere in there. Dean went in for another kiss, because what the hell, and this time Cas kissed back, and they stood there in the dark alcove by the vending machine, Cas now with a hand grabbing Dean's hair, painful but in a good kind of way.
They broke apart again. Dean drew back, his mind reeling. “Maybe we should send Sam for beer. You know. We need time. We gotta look for the rattle.” He blew out an “Oof!” as he felt something cold suddenly pushed into his nether region.
The Coke can.
“Or you could take a cold shower,” said Cas, who was somehow already at the stairs. He glanced back at Dean, about six different emotions playing over his features, and then he mounted the steps.
Dean stood back, clutching the frosty cold Coke, enjoying the view. He cracked open the Coke and took a gulp, and then, grinning, took the steps up two at a time.
Up in the room, Sam was looking at him expectantly. “Dean, I was just telling Cas, I think I have a-”
Sam's phone rang, and he grabbed it, frowning at the caller ID. He picked up the call. “Yes, Sheriff?” He listened for a while. “Yeah, we'll be there.” Sam closed his phone.
“What's up?”
“Suit up. We have another suicide. Or at least another jumper.”
“Anyone we know?”
“They think it's Elias Krumnagel. But I guess there's not much left.”
“Damn. At the canyon?” asked Dean, grabbing his tie.
“No.”
Dean surveyed the tarp covering what was left of Elias Krumnagel, and then glanced up at the clock tower.
He swallowed, hard.
“Welp, I put police tape over that entrance,” protested the Sheriff. “You see that?”
Dean nodded. There was indeed orange tape across the entrance.
“Life would be a whole hoot and a holler easier if people just obeyed my damn police tape.”
Dean was inclined to agree. He cast his eyes towards the smear that used to be Krumnagel, and stifled a shudder. A completely useless siren wailed, and the ambulance arrived, with attendants to scrape up the remains and take it to whatever passed for a morgue in this rathole.
Sam came jogging over. “I got an idea, Dean. I wanna get to the morgue.”
“I'll be goin' that way, if you're wanting a lift,” offered the rootin' tootin' cowboy sheriff.
“Yeah, go ahead,” Dean told Sam.
“Dean!” Cas was crouching nearby, staring at something on the ground. Dean gave Sam a “keep away from the Lariat of Justice” look and went to join Cas, hunkering down so he could see. Cas pointed to a stand of weeds. Dean fished a pen from his jacket pocket, and picked up an empty container of Volant. He looked questioningly at Cas.
“Krumnagel claimed he didn't consume this substance.”
“Doesn't necessarily have to be him, I guess,” said Dean, glancing over at Sam. The deputy was in fact offering him a pill, and Sam happily gulped it before going into the sheriff's vehicle. “People here gobble up the stuff.”
Cas stood, and Dean stood up with him. “Sam was looking into a lawsuit regarding Volant at the time we received the Sheriff's call.”
“You wanna check into it? We left the laptop back in the room.”
Dean nodded. Almost involuntarily, his head jerked up to catch one last glance at the top of the clock tower.
“So, explain this to me. Slowly,” said Dean as Cas stalked around the motel room, stocking-footed, wrestling ineffectually with his tie. “The filed a class action lawsuit against Volant, but not because the crap doesn't work?”
“No, it was not the efficacy,” said Cas, smoothing down his suit jacket, which had been neatly draped over a chair. “They claimed that the formulation somehow caused somnambulism in a select population.”
“Like, sleepwalking?”
“Precisely.”
“Well, that would explain why our jumpers all happened in the middle of the night. But, why did they all jump?”
Cas paced back and forth, yanking at his neckwear. “That's what I don't understand. It was like an archetype. A shared fixation.”
“Cas!”
“Yes?”
“Lemme do your damned tie.”
“What? Why?” Cas looked like a stubborn thirteen-year-old.
“Because. You're stone cold brilliant, and a million years old, and you can't fucking tie a human necktie to save your fucking life.”
Cas looked like he wanted to say something, but hadn't quite mastered the Winchester School for Unspoken Looks.
“Cas. Neck.”
At Dean's word, Castiel slowly approached him, slightly tilting back his head, baring his neck. Dean smiled. It was sort of sweet, and vulnerable.
He made short work of the tie, carelessly tossing it aside.
And then he went to work on Cas's lips, slowly backing him over to the bed. It took a beat or two, but then Cas joined in, sitting down hard when the back of his legs hit Dean's bed. Dean, relentless because this was a great goddam idea, pushed him down so they were both now half-lying on the bed, mouths pressed together, teeth clacking, and now one of Cas's legs was hooked around him.
Dean reared back, gripping the collar of Cas's white dress shirt, and ripped, sending buttons flying everywhere. He saw Cas's big eyes trail to the side, watching them bounce on the carpet. “Dean.” But no, there was gonna be clothes ripping and scratches and maybe even bite marks, and that's just how this thing was gonna go down. Dean would tear down the whole goddam motel if he had to. He'd waited long enough.
Somewhat later they were lying in a sticky tangle of sheets, and Dean had the supremely odd thought that right now he wished that he smoked, because he thought he could use one. It was bad and it would make you die, but it just seemed like the only thing to make this moment even more awesome.
The bed was wrecked, and the room was a mess, clothes splayed out everywhere. He reached behind him, under the pillow, and pulled out a sock. He grinned and tossed it aside.
“A shower,” muttered Cas.
“What.”
“I think I need a shower,” said Cas.
“Oh, you definitely need a shower.” Dean had seen to that.
“I should take a shower,” Cas grunted, going up on one elbow. “Before Sam gets back.”
Dean grinned. “That's a great idea! We'll use up all the hot water, and it'll be cold when Sam tries to use it.”
Cas frowned at Dean, and Dean read it as, “You're out of your frigging mind.” Even though Cas usually didn't actually say, “frigging.” Anyway, Cas getting better at the non-verbal stuff. Cas reached over and grabbed his cell phone from the nightstand. Dean had no clue how it had ended up on the nightstand and not, say, lodged behind the radiator. While Cas checked his messages, Dean reached over to to fondle Cas's thigh. “Mmmm.” Dean quite suddenly found he had no interest at all in the case. He just wanted to stay indoors and make angel porn.
“There's a text from Sam.”
“Yeah?”
“He is going to re-interrogate the von Winkenwerders.”
“Oh, I'll bet,” laughed Dean. “Especially the blonde.”
“Should we go an assist him?”
“He'll be back in a while,” said Dean. “Shower first, and we can head back into town. Maybe grab some lunch. I'm hungry.” He faked gnawing at Cas's chest, for which he got a very confused glance from Cas. “Come on. We got some hot water to waste.” Dean wrestled Cas out of the bed and, as Cas tossed the phone back onto the table, steered him into the bathroom, where he cranked the hot water onto full.
On the nightstand, the phone, unheeded, started to beep.
“I don't believe I have a clean shirt,” said Cas, sadly holding up the remains of his dress shirt.
Dean sat at the table, pulling on his shoes. “Have one of mine,” he said, digging into his bag and lobbed over an AC/DC tee. Cas grabbed it and, tossing the dress shirt aside, pulled it over his head. “We should probably hit the laundry before we split town. Though, I can't say I mind you wearing my stuff.”
Cas looked down at the T shirt. He blushed. He turned his back to Dean, and went to grab his cell phone from the nightstand.
Dean dug into his bag to grab his own phone.
There was silence.
“Dean!” “Cas!”
They looked at each other.
Both wore the most distinct, “We gotta get the fuck out of her NOW face,” face that any Winchester had ever pulled.
Tires squealed, and Dean popped out of the car almost before it had stopped moving.
“Dean!” Cas pointed upwards, and Dean forced himself to look, dreading what he might see.
There was a figure up above, at the top of the clock tower.
“Sammy! Stay there! We're coming!”
He ran to the police tape-bedecked door where Cas was already pushing. “It's blocked,” he said.
Cas stood back as Dean kicked down the door, and the two of them burst inside the dilapidated building. Dean stared upwards: stairs and stairs and more stairs, spiraling upwards, disappearing upwards into the dimness. “Come on! Now!” Cas urged, and he found himself heedlessly following the angel upwards, clattering up the half-rotten wooden stairs. One flight. Two flights. Three flights. Four-
Dean stifled a scream as his boot went right through a step. Splinters of wood fell down and down, down and down. He flailed for the hand rail. And then Cas's hands were at his shirt, pulling him up, dragging him onwards. “Come on, Dean!” Dean chanced a look back down, and broke out in a cold sweat.
“Cas-”
“Now, Dean!”
Dean swallowed hard and let Cas push him in front, where he continued climbing, staring down only at the step ahead of him, another flight, and another.
“There it is!” said Cas. Dean wrenched his head up. They were near the top: two doorways, one at each end of the tower, looked outwards, but the walkway between them had completely rotted away and collapsed.
Dean darted for the nearby doorway and came screeching to a halt on a narrow ledge. He opened his mouth, but nothing came out, too terrified to even scream.
And then he was yanked back by Cas, who pulled him, braced against the doorway. “Who the fuck designed this thing!” Dean wailed.
Cas gestured for silence and pointed. Dean forced himself to look.
Sam. Sam was out on the ledge, hovering near the other doorway. Gazing downwards.
“Sam?” Dean whispered.
Not hearing, Sam crept nearer to the edge.
“Sammy!” Dean said, a little louder. “Get back!” Dean clung to the door frame, his fingernails digging into the wood. A gust of wind hit, and Sam's stupid long hair blew all over the place.
Sam stood tall, stretching out his arms. “I have wings,” he whispered.
“Sam!” Dean shouted, reaching out his own arm, still clinging to the door.
And Cas was off down the ledge, not walking but running over the stupid narrow thing, like a man who had no fear of heights. He tackled Sam, pushing him back into the doorway.
“Cas,” sighed Dean, slumping against his own doorway. But then, to Dean's horror, Sam began to wrestle with the angel. “Wait! Sam! No!”
Cas struggled, but Sam was just so god damn big, Cas was no match for him. Sam walloped Cas but good, and then they were both on the floor, Sam pushing Cas over the ledge, Cas hanging off. “Dean!” Cas cried desperately.
Dean still clung to the doorway. “Sam. No!” He was going to die. They were both going to die.
Dean crouched down, and then he was on his hands and knees, crawling across the narrow ledge, wind gusting in his face. Hand over hand. Hand over hand. Sam grunted, and Cas was hollering for him.
“Sam!” Dean gripped his brother in a headlock and pulled back with all his strength. Sam reared back, digging into Dean's arm. Dean squeezed his eyes shut and stood, letting himself fall backwards, through the doorway, bringing Sam along with him. The came crashing down on the rotten remnants of the stairway landing, which creaked and snapped under their weight.
But it held.
“Dean!” He heard Cas's voice from outside. The angel popped his head in, where Dean lay on his back, Sam still sprawled on top of him.
“You're all right?”
“Yeah. Sam?”
Sam shook his head, seeming to wake up. “I'm fine,” he croaked. He stared at Cas. “Hey, is that Dean's AC/DC shirt?”
Cas broke into a smile, and Dean swore right there and then he was going to do anything that made him smile like that.
“What happened?” asked Dean.
“The sheriff and I. We went to interrogate the von Winkenwerders. Celeste.” He shook his head, remembereing. “It wasn't Otto. It was Celeste!”
“Told you she was squirrely.”
“What happened to the sheriff?” asked Cas.
Sam sat and thought. “The bridge. I think she sent him to the bridge.”
Dean flinched as the phone in his pocket suddenly sounded. He pulled it out and frowned at the caller ID. “Well, either he didn't' make it or-” He punched the speaker button.
“Detective Evans! That you?” came a familiar voice.
“We're all here, Sheriff!”
“I'm here at the goldurned bridge, all tangled up in my damn police tape. What the Sam Hill is goin' on?”
“Sheriff, don't go past your police tape!” said Dean. “You got an arrest to make.”
Celeste von Winkenwerder glared at everyone as the Sheriff guided her into the back of his vehicle.
“When I was diagnosed, Emmeline offered to pay for my treatment,” Otto von Winkenwerder confessed to Dean.
“That's what pissed off Celeste?” asked Dean. “She was being nice to you?”
“It was me. I was really angry at the world for a time. I was angry with Emmeline. For reaching out, and being good to me. Now that I'm in remission, I've found some peace. I had no idea Celeste would resort to something like this. Revenge.”
Dean and Cas emerged from the von Winkenwerder house. Cas quickly flashed a hex bag at Dean, and then stuffed it in a pocket. Dean nodded. “She was doing this for you?”
“Evidently. She must have killed Emmeline, and then I think she was trying to take care of witnesses. But once you start down that path....” He shuddered. He looked up at Dean. “I just don't understand how she did it. I know that stuff causes sleepwalking. I had told them to take it off the market. Even before the lawsuit. But I don't know how that fit with convincing people to....” He trailed off.
“Some things, Mr. von Winkenwerder, they're just … unknowable.”
“Say, you don't happen to have a Volant do you?” the teacher asked. “I feel- I feel a cold coming on.”
Sam tossed over a colorful plastic tube.
“Thanks.” Von Winkenwerder made to hand it back.
“That's OK, said Sam, waving him off. “I think I've had my fill of the stuff.”
“So, we're not gonna tell the teacher that his daughter is a witch?” asked Sam as they piled back into the Impala.
Dean shook his head. “I'm not sure that he would have believed me anyway. There's some things you can't explain, I guess.”
Cas's elbows were poking over the seat. “The rattle,” he said.
“God dammit,” grumbled Dean. “Yeah. The rattle.”
Sam chuckled, but then stopped short. “Dean.”
“Yeah.”
“How long you think the spell will last? Celeste's spell?”
“Why?”
Sam bit his lip. “I just feel this … compulsion, to go climb the clock tower. Again.”
Dean and Cas exchanged a fairly self-explanatory “Oh shit” glance and Dean floored it.
“I think, probably, until dawn,” said Dean, fastening the hasp on the shed out in back of their motel, and clicking on a padlock, just to be sure.
The door slammed, and he and Cas, who was standing on the other side, cringed. “I'm stuck here until dawn?” came Sam's cracked voice from within. As he was out of sight, he could no longer communicate with pregnant Winchester expressions.
“We think so.”
“Do you know so?”
“Look, Sammy, I ain't a chemistry teacher. We burned the hex bag, so Cas and I think Celeste's spell will burn off at dawn. And then you're good.”
There was a pause, and then a noise, like someone settling down. “Shit.”
“It's only a couple hours. Don't be a baby.”
Dean glanced over at Cas, and the both of them, as if by a signal, slid down to sit just outside the door, looking like two fu dog sentries.
“You sure we couldn't just make a run for it? You could handcuff me!”
“You'd get out of handcuffs, Sam,” Cas told him.
“Sam! No more heights today,” said Dean. “I'm done.”
Sam didn't reply, but they heard a grumble from within.
“So,” said Dean, looking at his watch. “Dawn.”
“A couple hours,” said Cas.
“What do you wanna do.”
Cas's eyes drifted over to where the Impala was parked, out in back of the motel, away from view. He smiled and looked back at Dean. “Well, there's always ... the rattle.”
Dean smiled too, and frowned at Cas. “Geez. You're gonna have a shiner,” he said, reaching out a finger to gently touch the area under Cas's eye.
“A black eye?”
“Yeah.”
“Your brother packs a powerful right hook.”
Dean chuckled. He looked up as Cas touched his forehead.
“You are injured as well,” said Cas, his fingers brushing a scrape.
“Shit, I didn't even notice.”
Cas's hand flitted down to cup Dean's chin.
There was silence for a long moment.
“Oh my god! Are you guys making out out there?”
“Don't listen,” Dean scolded.
“So that was Dean's AC/DC T shirt!”
“It was,” said Cas, tugging at the shirt. “Now I believe it's mine.”
“You think it's yours now?” Dean murmured.
“You destroyed one of mine. I think it's fair.”
Silence reigned.
“You know,” came Sam's voice. “There isn't really a rattle. We were just humoring you!”
He snorted, and probably cast another expository glance. Unfortunately, there was no one there to witness it.
And then there was a gentle quiet. As Dean and Cas sought out the rattle.
Fandom: Supernatural
Author: tikific
Rating: PG-13
Characters/Pairings: Dean/Cas, Sam
Warnings: Cursing. Spoilers up through the S8 finale. Some descriptions of violence.
Word Count: 7,500
Summary: Dean hears a rattle.
Notes: Got stuck on my long fic again. Story of my life.
“There! You hear that?” Dean gripped the steering wheel and leaned forward, his entire body tense as a bowstring.
Sam's features tightened into a moue. Beside him, elbows poked over the front seat, and Cas's face appeared, pale and sleepy. Cas's eyes slid over to meet Sam's skeptical glance.
“I don't hear anything,” Sam told the side of his brother's head, which remained obstinately pitched forward.
Dean was hunched over, one hand on the wheel, the other now fiddling with the stereo knobs. He gestured for quiet. Three men sat in silence for a full three quarters of a mile. “The rattle.”
Sam grabbed the frayed box of cassette tapes from the floorboards and started to sift through it, discarding tapes one after another. “I thought you fixed the rattle.”
“Thought I did. I need to find a place where I can work on her.” Dean peered around. “It's getting dark. We should stop soon anyway.”
“It's still pretty early,” Sam told him. Dean replied by sneezing. Once. And then again.
“Gesundheit. Wanna Volant” Sam extracted a brightly colored plastic tube from his jacket pocket. Dean waved him off. “It was invented by a teacher!” Sam persisted.
“If it's drugs, wouldn't you want it to be invented by, you know, a doctor?”
Sam smirked and popped a couple of the brightly colored pills. He offered the tube to Cas, who waved a hand, retreating back into the darkness of the rear seat. “You guys's loss. I haven't had a cold since I started taking this stuff. It's herbal!”
“So is deadly nightshade,” snarked Dean. He snapped his head around, convinced he'd heard a small chuckle emit from Cas. Cas, who barely even smiled these days. But the occupant of the Impala's back seat was cloaked in shadows.
“Hey, is that bridge out?” asked Sam through a mouthful of herbal remedy.
Dean fixed his eyes back to the road. The suspension bridge up ahead was indeed festooned with a sprig of Dayglo orange tape. “Looks like just the pedestrian part.” And indeed the walkway off to the south side had a No Trespassing sign suspended by the tape.
The hum of the Impala's tires changed to something more hollow-sounding as the vehicle thumped onto the bridge. Dean glanced off to the side, and then immediately regretted it: the descent here was steep as hell, the river framed by a sharp-sided canyon. Dean adjusted his grip on the steering wheel. He fucking hated high places.
“Hey, we're entering Coffeyville!” said Sam.
Dean glanced at his brother, glad for the distraction. “So what? Free fruity espresso like you like to drink?”
“Home to Emmeline Throckmorton.”
“And...?”
“She's the teacher who invented Volant.” Sam waved his tube, triumphant look on his face.
The Impala cleared the bridge and landed back on solid asphalt, much to Dean's relief. He shot another look at Cas in the back seat, and said, “Then it's a plan. We'll get a place where Cas and me can work on the car, and you go visit your idol. And you guys can both act all smug not about having colds together, or whatever.”
Once again, Dean could have sworn he heard Cas laugh, a very soft and low sound.
The car rattled.
“The secret to diagnosing a rattle,” said Dean, leaning into the Impala's well-tended engine, “is to eliminate everything that isn't a rattle.” He tilted his head sideways. “Well, don't just stand there. Hand me a socket wrench.”
Cas picked up the implement from where it was neatly laid down on a tarp draped over the fender, handing it over to Dean, handle first. They had stopped at a motel just outside of town that was actually attached to a real live service station. Even so, Dean had pulled around back, just outside a storage shed, to discreetly work on the car. Sam had volunteered to walk back the mile or so to the diner they'd spotted on the way to get everybody some take out.
Dean spent a moment or two tightening a bolt. And then he said. “Well? Out with it.”
“Out with what?” asked Cas.
“You've been hovering. You got something to say?”
Cas let his head list to the side, his brows knitted. “I've never understood the human compulsion to fill awkward silences with meaningless conversation.”
Dean stood up partway. “You call this awkward? This isn't awkward. Two dudes. Here, working on a car. This is about as un-awkward as you can get”
“Sam believes you are obsessed with the rattle.”
Dean huffed and returned to tinkering. “I'm not obsessed,” he said from under the hood. “I'm concerned. I gotta take care of my baby. We can't just zap around any more. The era of the zap has passed.” There was a pregnant silence, so Dean raised his head again.
“I'm sorry, Dean.” Cas was looking morose, leaning against the fender, wrapping the god-awful oversized red checked flannel he was wearing tighter around him. They still weren't really clear about Cas's actual clothing sizes, and so far the angel had not taken kindly to shopping for clothes. As a result, given that at the present time the majority of his wardrobe was either borrowed from a Winchester or salvaged from Good Will, just about everything he wore was either too loose or too tight.
“Oh come on, Cas,” said Dean. “Remember, we talked about this. No sulking.”
“I'm not sulking,” Cas sulked, tugging at his shirt. Or rather, Sam's shirt.
“Cas, Metatron got your grace, but he didn't get everything. We're training you to hunt, and now I'm gonna train you to be a mechanic.”
This got a small rise. “Really?” Dean had let Cas observe him working before, but had always limited the angel's participation to handing over tools and basically keeping the fuck out of the way.
“Yeah, really. So c'mere.” Cas, as he was wont to do, moved in too close. “Is that Sam's shirt?”
Cas looked down at the flannel nightmare and nodded.
“Let's get it off. I don't want him bitching about grease spots.”
Some time later, Sam's huge flannel shirt draped over a folding chair, billowing in the wind, Cas was stretched out over the engine, straining to tighten some bolts on the intake manifold.
Everything too tight or too loose, thought Dean, as he straightened up to wipe the sweat from his brow with the back of his arm. Cas's Levis were at least a size too big, and the thin white T shirt he was wearing was a size too small. You could clearly see his taut back muscles moving as he strained with the socket wrench, and between the drooping pants and rucked up shirt, a rather expansive stretch of real estate was on view, reaching from just under his ribcage to right above his ass crack.
Dean took a gulp of beer and considered making a comment about Cas needing to buy a damn belt. But instead he felt his mind wandering to what would happen if he placed a hand or two on that stretch of skin. Maybe he would come up in back, holding Cas gently by the hips, and then press his foot into Cas's instep, nudging those thighs apart a little more....
My imagination is a bad porn movie, thought Dean. He could almost hear the cheesy music.
“Hey, check it out!”
Dean whirled around to face his hulk of a brother, who had just sneaked up bearing greasy bags of diner food.
“Don't sneak up on people like that, Sammy,” Dean scolded, snatching away a bag.
“Is that my shirt?” asked Sam, pointing to the many reams of plaid flannel flapping in the breeze.
“Yeah. We were gonna use it to go parasailing on the river,” grumbled Dean, who had unfortunately grabbed the bag with Sam's stupid girlie Chinese chicken salad in it.
“Ha. Ha. Anyway, you know Emmeline Throckmorton?”
“The school teacher whose name is attached to the Volant product,” Cas noted. He had somehow gotten a spot of grease on his forehead. Dean licked his thumb and rubbed at it, causing a bemused look from Cas.
“Yeah. Well, evidently she's not in charge of Volant any more,” Sam told them. “I guess she used to be a regular back at that diner, and then one day just up and stopped coming.”
“She disappeared?” Dean asked. Sam nodded. Dean thought about it a minute, but then shrugged. “Missing schoolteachers aren't exactly our business, Sam.”
“The company was taken over by her nephew, Elias Krumnagel.”
“Are these really people's names?” Dean thrust his greenery-fouled sack back at Sam and grabbed another bag from him. “This should be called, “Weirdfuckingnameville. Or something.”
Sam grinned. “But get this: they say he practices black magic.”
Dean huffed. “Witches, huh? And who exactly are they, Sammy?”
“My waitress.”
Dean's look was dour. There was no pie in his bag. “Your waitress.”
“And the girl at the counter.”
“Oh, the girl at the counter. We're going on that? This case is a little thin.”
“Come on, Dean! We're here, right? And we're a little bored.” Sam spread out his arms expansively.
“I'm not bored!” Dean protested. “Are you bored, Cas?”
“Actually, Dean, I am a little bored,” Cas admitted.
Dean narrowed his eyes at Cas. “No more auto mechanics for you.”
“So I assume you all are here about the suicides, Agent Hewson?” the local sheriff asked a suited-up Sam Winchester a bit later.
For whatever reason, they were out in back of the Sheriff's office, and not inside. The sheriff, a not small individual, was playing a length of rope through his hands.
Dean flashed a “why are we out in back of the sheriff's office hey this guy's got a rope” look at his brother. And, yes, Winchester looks were finely honed enough to convey this message. Sam shot back a “I have no fucking clue let's just push on with the interview but be prepared to run ok?” expression of his own.
“Ah, yeah. We believe there is a … connection, Sheriff Gehaggarty,” Sam improvised.
“Yes, it's all connected,” said Dean.
“What suicides?” asked Cas, before Dean could kick him in the shin. Dean kicked him anyway, just for good measure. They really needed to get Cas up to speed with the expressions.
“You boys don't mind if I practice while we're talkin', do you?” asked the Sheriff, unfurling his lariat. “I'm gonna be demonstratin' my rope tricks at the county fair next week.”
Everyone shook their heads, although Castiel looked even more confused than usual.
Sheriff Gehaggarty stood back just a fraction, twirling his lariat below him. “Welp, all those people takin' a header off the bridge, Agent Clayton,” he told Cas. “You mighta noticed I had to block off the pedestrian walkway. We've had three of 'em in two weeks. I assume that's what attracted the attention of you G-men.”
“We assume nothing,” said Dean. “We just want the facts, Sheriff.”
The lariat went high, and all eyes followed it. “All right there, Agent Evans. Welp, it was a puzzle when the first one did it. Good family man, no sign of depression, and didn't leave a note.”
“Married? He wasn't … being unfaithful?” asked Sam
“No sign of that! Not an enemy in the world. And then we had a second jumper. Same damn bridge, damn same time of night. And then the third, just t’other day.”
“All at night?” asked Dean.
“Yes, and all about the same time, we think. We hadn't publicized that part, but you know how people talk. So as I said, that's what moved me to close off the bridge.” The rope loop was now going vertical. Sheriff Gehaggarty deftly stepped through it, and then back through it. Dean felt like he should applaud.
Cas had stopped watching the rope tricks, and was looking thoughtful. “Emmeline Throckmorton disappeared mysteriously. Do you think-”
“Thinkin' you're on to something, Agent Clayton. My mind didn't go that way at first, but now we've had these here jumpers, I been startin' to wonder myself. We done dredged downstream, but, nosir, we haven't turned up any bodies.”
“Bodies?” asked Dean, making note of the plural.
“Welp.” The sheriff had dropped his rope and was digging for something in his jacket pocket. “There's been some other disappearances in the past. Stuff we marked down to runaways, that kind of thing. Want a Volant?” he offered, pulling out a brightly colored plastic tube. “You know, I ain't had a cold since I started taking these!”
Sam grinned and palmed a couple of the tablets.
Dean frowned and stared up at the old, dilapidated clock tower that dominated the downtown. Loosening his tie, he asked, “So, our next step is this Elias Krumnagel guy?”
“Thought this wasn't our business, Dean?” said Sam, contented smile of triiumph wrapping his features.
“It's just weird to have a mass suicide like this. And all at the same time of night? Smells witchy.”
“Black magic, Dean.”
Cas looked contemplative. “It's possible that it is also a local aquatic deity of some kind.”
“Yeah, good thought, Cas. Maybe a pissy river god or something.” Cas's face lit up at Dean's praise, and Dean felt himself smiling back.
Sam rolled his eyes at yet another Dean-Cas stare-off. “Maybe you guys can take your mutual admiration society off to see Krumnagel, and meanwhile, drop me off at the library so I can dig into the local weirdness.”
Dean grinned and made for the car. “Sure, just see you don't get distracted by any sexy librarians, Sammy,” he said, hopping into the driver's seat.
“And see you don't get distracted by any ex-angels, Dean,” Sam muttered, too low for Dean to hear him.
“Are you certain you won't have any apple tea?” posited Elais Krumnagel, awkwardly using his shoulder to push his perpetually drooping glasses further up his nose.
“No. I'm good,” said Dean, pushing an overly friendly fluffy cat out of his lap. Damn thing was white, too, which meant the fur was gonna show up on his suit.
Krumnagel sat down next to Cas on a ratty couch opposite the fraying easy chair where Dean was sitting, set an old silver tray down on the scarred coffee table, and poured tea into two cups. “As I told you, I only consider myself the caretaker of the Volant Group. I'm just filling in until my dear auntie is back.” He gestured up at a framed portrait of what was presumably Miss Emmeline Throckmorton.
Dean squinted up at the oil painting, shooing away another cat. It looked like some kind of altar, with an array of candles underneath. Was Krumnagel some kind of witch?
Cas picked up the tea and nodded politely, sipping. “You and your aunt … were close?” Dean frowned. It seemed a very un-Cas thing to say.
Krumnagel nodded. “Yes. I'm taking care of her kitties.” He petted the obnoxious white one, which was sitting, pasha-like, on the couch's arm rest. “Auntie Emmeline had started to get … confused, these past few years. But she was all right. Really.”
“And you think she'll come back?” asked Dean.
“She'll turn up,” Krumnagel nodded over his tea. “She had too many things to live for. Her cats. And she was head of the Save the Clock Tower fund!”
“That clock tower we've seen near downtown?” asked Dean.
“Yes. Would you like to make a contribution?” Krumnagel's eyes were bright.
“Uh, maybe not now. On duty,” said Dean.
“Oh, yes. Of course. It's in a terrible state of disrepair. The Sheriff has had to post police tape all over it!”
Dean shooed away an orange tabby, and sneezed. “Uh. 'Scuse me.”
Krumnagel laughed. “I would offer you a Volant. But I'll have to admit,” his voice lowered conspiratorially, “I don't really use the stuff.”
“You don't?” asked Cas.
Krumnagel smiled shyly at Cas. “I love my auntie, but, well, she was no doctor.”
Dean wiped his nose and smiled smugly.
“Was your aunt the one who came up with the Volant formula then?” asked Cas.
“Oh, heavens no,” said Krumnagel, swinging out a hand and barely missing a cat. “That was what the publicity said, but it was actually her old friend at the school where she taught, the chemistry teacher.”
“The chemistry teacher?” asked Dean.
“Yes. Otto von Winkenwerder.”
“So, he's part of the Volant Group now?” asked Cas as Dean rolled his eyes at another goofy-ass name.
“Oh, no. He sold out quite early. For not very much money, actually. He said he wasn’t interested in financial rewards.”
Dean and Cas glanced at one another.
“Otto von Winkenwerder?” laughed Sam, seating himself in the folding chair and cracking open a beer.
“You started it!” his brother insisted.
“What?”
“What kinda name is Throckmorten?”
Sam shrugged and leaned back, glancing over at Cas, who was splayed over the Impala’s six cylinder engine doing god-knows-what. Dean gazed over too, something funny in his expression.
“So I guess tomorrow we go see this von Winkenwerder? And then maybe visit the scene of the crime?”
Dean turned towards Sam. “Uh. You mean that bridge … thing?”
Sam sipped his beer and cracked a small smile. “I mean the bridge with the precipitous drop to the rushing river below.”
“Uh. OK. So maybe you check out the bridge, and Cas and I go visit Winky-Dink….”
“I thought you had Cas fixing the car?”
“We got a rattle, Sammy!”
Sam’s smile blossomed. “The angel needs a belt. And maybe a shirt that covers his ass.”
“He’s fine,” said Dean.
“I have secured the timing cover, Dean,” said Cas, who had suddenly popped up at Dean’s side. “Also, even though I am no longer a celestial being, I can hear you talking about me when I’m only a few yards away.”
Cas had a spot of grease on his nose. Dean licked his thumb and rubbed at it, causing Cas to squint even more than usual.
“You wish to speak with my father?” asked Celeste von Winkenwerder, batting her enormous, cornflower-blue eyes at Sam. “You know, he's already talked to the sheriff.”
While Sam broke into a slight cold sweat, Dean scowled at Celeste, not exactly certain why he was suddenly so cranky. The mad scientist's comely daughter: not so long ago, he would have been vying with his brother to flirt with her. But now? Well, he's got other things on his mind, like recently fallen angels for instance. Castiel was ignoring Celeste. Instead, he was taking in the room, randomly picking up an ashtray and staring at it. Dean had expected that this von Winkenwerder dude lived in a secluded mountaintop lair, but this is just a ranch house.
“Well,” said Sam, every inch of his six-foot-plus-some height screaming awkwardness, trying to fold itself into a too-small space. “We're just clearing up a couple of things. We spoke with Elias Krumnagel earlier.”
“Elias.” This caused Celeste to wrinkle her pretty nose and furrow her unlined brow, just a bit. Dean doubted Sam caught it, as he was staring at the floor, and Cas was just staring into space.
“Yeah, he said your dad invented the formula?” Sam told her.
Celeste was back to flirtatious mode. “Oh, did he?” she cooed. “We did have a non-disclosure clause in the contract.”
“He didn't say much. Just your father was Emmeline's good friend.”
“How kind of him. Please stay right here, I'll go get my father.”
Sam stood there dumbly and watched Celeste float off. “This town is weird,” said Dean.
“Wanna Volant?” asked Sam, popping a couple of tablets.
“You've got a problem with that stuff,” Dean told him. “And there's something off about the scientist's daughter.”
“Jealous?” grinned Sam. It stung, partly because it was true.
“Come on in!” said Celeste, beckoning.
“I’ve already talked to the Sheriff about Emmeline,” were the chemistry teacher's first words, as lightning struck and thunder crashed outside his evil lair.
Or actually, it was less a lair than a finished basement. And the atmospheric thunderstorm was only present in Dean’s imagination. Von Winkenwerder was, in actuality, a cranky middle-aged guy, bald pate hidden under an old-fashioned pork pie hat.
“We’re just trying to follow up,” Sam assured him. “In light of recent events.”
“What? Those nutty suicides? Emmeline wouldn’t have committed suicide that way, if that’s what you’re thinking. She was afraid of heights.”
“Imagine that,” said Sam, smiling at Dean.
“So, you sold the formula?” asked Dean.
“I have no interest in that Volant crap. It's a placebo.”
“Imagine that,” Dean told Sam.
“Mr. Krumnagel was convinced his aunt will return,” Cas said softly. “Would you agree?”
This earned a scowl. Not that von Winkenwerder wasn't already scowling. This made the scowl deeper. “I doubt it. They'll probably find her bones in the bottom of the canyon some day. Early stages of Alzheimers. Elias is in denial about it, but that's the truth.”
Cas was staring intently at von Winkenwerder's collarbone for some reason. Cas was weird, Dean decided. “You hold no grudge against the people who have made a great profit from Volant?”
“Pfft!” Dean was surprised by the vehemence of the snort. “Like I said, the stuff is complete horse shit. I made it to amuse my kid.” His face brightened slightly as he looked at Celeste.
“I think my father has had enough for the day,” said Celeste, glancing at her father with concern. And it was time for them to be hustled out.
“Seriously, Sammy,” said Dean, as his brother ran to catch up at the car. He had paused a moment to get Celeste's personal cell phone number, as it was somehow important to the case.
“What? She's cute. You'd totally do it,” smiled Sam.
“Dean, did you observe von Winkenwerder's chest?” asked Cas.
“What?” Dean turned and gave Cas a disbelieving look.
“He had a tattoo mark,” said Cas, pointing to his own collarbone.
“So? He's got ink. Maybe he's a cool chemistry teacher.”
“It was a small cross.”
“Radiation!” said Sam.
Cas nodded. “Adjuvant therapy for cancer.”
“Oh,” said Dean, as it was finally dawning on him. “That's why the bald head.”
“I would guess it to be lung cancer. I can no longer smell illness on human beings, but I noticed cigarette smoking paraphernalia scattered around the house.”
Dean nodded as they all climbed into the Impala. “So, von Winkenwerder has lung cancer?”
“That one's usually bad,” said Sam.
Dean fired up the engine, listening closely. “Damn! Still rattling.”
Cas and Sam exchanged a look.
“I just don't think the chemistry teacher is our guy,” said Sam, peering into his laptop. “From what I can dig up on the web, he was out of town at a conference the time of at least one of the suicides.”
“Check up on your girlfriend's whereabouts,” said Dean. He was sitting cross-legged on his bed, surrounded by bits and pieces of a gun.
“Ha. Ha.”
“I'm not kidding, Sammy. She seemed squirrely.”
“Celeste von Winkenwerder isn't a witch. Come on, Dean.”
Cas came out of the bathroom and sat down at the table across from Sam. He picked up the empty plastic Volant container next to him. “Volant. It means, winged.”
“Thanks, Mr. Science,” snapped Dean. Cas glared at him, but said nothing.
“Yeah,” said Sam, grabbing the container and upending it to make sure it was empty. “I think they mean it's supposed to protect you from airborne microbes.”
“I knew it,” said Dean.
Sam glanced at him. “Knew what?”
“Germs and angels. They have something in common.”
Sam winced as Cas's chair suddenly clattered back. “I'm going to get a Coke,” the ex-angel said flatly. And then he marched out of the room, not exactly slamming the door, but not shutting it quietly either.
Sam and Dean listened to the slap of his feet on the stair. Sam turned to Dean and made a, “You just said something stupid to the angel go apologize nitwit” face. Dean volleyed back a, “I wasn't trying to piss him off,” expression, but Sam countered with a, “Dean get out of here now and FIX IT,” that brooked no backtalk. So to speak.
Dean ventured downstairs to find Cas standing staring at the Coke machine, breathing hard, his hands balled into fists.
“Hey.”
Startled, Cas turned a full-force glare on Dean.
Dean drew nearer. “Hey. The shit that comes out of my mouth sometimes.... Look, you know me, Cas. You know I don't mean it.”
Cas deflated, all the anger evaporating, leaving him leaning back against the Coke machine, looking utterly defeated. “You were right, Dean,” he whispered. “I'm useless.”
“Oh, fuck.” Dean stepped closer. “No. Don't do this! Remember, no sulking! Besides, you're doing great. You're a hunter. You're a mechanic.”
“We didn't get the rattle.”
“You figured out our mad scientist has cancer.”
“A dead end.”
“Yeah. Sometimes you hit a dead end. And then you keep going.”
Cas turned partway around, placing a coin in the machine and hitting a button. As he tilted his head, the light struck his cheekbone. The vending machine thumped, and Dean saw it, the faint glint of a tear.
He tried to remember when Cas had cried before. He hadn't. Not from pain, or regret.
This couldn't stand. Dean stepped nearer, put out a thumb, and pushed the offending tear off Cas's face. And then Cas's eyes were on him, and Dean let his body get a little ahead of his brain, and he was standing there, right up against Cas, pushing his lips up against him.
He drew back. Cas was staring, eyes wide open, like suddenly a light bulb had gone on somewhere in there. Dean went in for another kiss, because what the hell, and this time Cas kissed back, and they stood there in the dark alcove by the vending machine, Cas now with a hand grabbing Dean's hair, painful but in a good kind of way.
They broke apart again. Dean drew back, his mind reeling. “Maybe we should send Sam for beer. You know. We need time. We gotta look for the rattle.” He blew out an “Oof!” as he felt something cold suddenly pushed into his nether region.
The Coke can.
“Or you could take a cold shower,” said Cas, who was somehow already at the stairs. He glanced back at Dean, about six different emotions playing over his features, and then he mounted the steps.
Dean stood back, clutching the frosty cold Coke, enjoying the view. He cracked open the Coke and took a gulp, and then, grinning, took the steps up two at a time.
Up in the room, Sam was looking at him expectantly. “Dean, I was just telling Cas, I think I have a-”
Sam's phone rang, and he grabbed it, frowning at the caller ID. He picked up the call. “Yes, Sheriff?” He listened for a while. “Yeah, we'll be there.” Sam closed his phone.
“What's up?”
“Suit up. We have another suicide. Or at least another jumper.”
“Anyone we know?”
“They think it's Elias Krumnagel. But I guess there's not much left.”
“Damn. At the canyon?” asked Dean, grabbing his tie.
“No.”
Dean surveyed the tarp covering what was left of Elias Krumnagel, and then glanced up at the clock tower.
He swallowed, hard.
“Welp, I put police tape over that entrance,” protested the Sheriff. “You see that?”
Dean nodded. There was indeed orange tape across the entrance.
“Life would be a whole hoot and a holler easier if people just obeyed my damn police tape.”
Dean was inclined to agree. He cast his eyes towards the smear that used to be Krumnagel, and stifled a shudder. A completely useless siren wailed, and the ambulance arrived, with attendants to scrape up the remains and take it to whatever passed for a morgue in this rathole.
Sam came jogging over. “I got an idea, Dean. I wanna get to the morgue.”
“I'll be goin' that way, if you're wanting a lift,” offered the rootin' tootin' cowboy sheriff.
“Yeah, go ahead,” Dean told Sam.
“Dean!” Cas was crouching nearby, staring at something on the ground. Dean gave Sam a “keep away from the Lariat of Justice” look and went to join Cas, hunkering down so he could see. Cas pointed to a stand of weeds. Dean fished a pen from his jacket pocket, and picked up an empty container of Volant. He looked questioningly at Cas.
“Krumnagel claimed he didn't consume this substance.”
“Doesn't necessarily have to be him, I guess,” said Dean, glancing over at Sam. The deputy was in fact offering him a pill, and Sam happily gulped it before going into the sheriff's vehicle. “People here gobble up the stuff.”
Cas stood, and Dean stood up with him. “Sam was looking into a lawsuit regarding Volant at the time we received the Sheriff's call.”
“You wanna check into it? We left the laptop back in the room.”
Dean nodded. Almost involuntarily, his head jerked up to catch one last glance at the top of the clock tower.
“So, explain this to me. Slowly,” said Dean as Cas stalked around the motel room, stocking-footed, wrestling ineffectually with his tie. “The filed a class action lawsuit against Volant, but not because the crap doesn't work?”
“No, it was not the efficacy,” said Cas, smoothing down his suit jacket, which had been neatly draped over a chair. “They claimed that the formulation somehow caused somnambulism in a select population.”
“Like, sleepwalking?”
“Precisely.”
“Well, that would explain why our jumpers all happened in the middle of the night. But, why did they all jump?”
Cas paced back and forth, yanking at his neckwear. “That's what I don't understand. It was like an archetype. A shared fixation.”
“Cas!”
“Yes?”
“Lemme do your damned tie.”
“What? Why?” Cas looked like a stubborn thirteen-year-old.
“Because. You're stone cold brilliant, and a million years old, and you can't fucking tie a human necktie to save your fucking life.”
Cas looked like he wanted to say something, but hadn't quite mastered the Winchester School for Unspoken Looks.
“Cas. Neck.”
At Dean's word, Castiel slowly approached him, slightly tilting back his head, baring his neck. Dean smiled. It was sort of sweet, and vulnerable.
He made short work of the tie, carelessly tossing it aside.
And then he went to work on Cas's lips, slowly backing him over to the bed. It took a beat or two, but then Cas joined in, sitting down hard when the back of his legs hit Dean's bed. Dean, relentless because this was a great goddam idea, pushed him down so they were both now half-lying on the bed, mouths pressed together, teeth clacking, and now one of Cas's legs was hooked around him.
Dean reared back, gripping the collar of Cas's white dress shirt, and ripped, sending buttons flying everywhere. He saw Cas's big eyes trail to the side, watching them bounce on the carpet. “Dean.” But no, there was gonna be clothes ripping and scratches and maybe even bite marks, and that's just how this thing was gonna go down. Dean would tear down the whole goddam motel if he had to. He'd waited long enough.
Somewhat later they were lying in a sticky tangle of sheets, and Dean had the supremely odd thought that right now he wished that he smoked, because he thought he could use one. It was bad and it would make you die, but it just seemed like the only thing to make this moment even more awesome.
The bed was wrecked, and the room was a mess, clothes splayed out everywhere. He reached behind him, under the pillow, and pulled out a sock. He grinned and tossed it aside.
“A shower,” muttered Cas.
“What.”
“I think I need a shower,” said Cas.
“Oh, you definitely need a shower.” Dean had seen to that.
“I should take a shower,” Cas grunted, going up on one elbow. “Before Sam gets back.”
Dean grinned. “That's a great idea! We'll use up all the hot water, and it'll be cold when Sam tries to use it.”
Cas frowned at Dean, and Dean read it as, “You're out of your frigging mind.” Even though Cas usually didn't actually say, “frigging.” Anyway, Cas getting better at the non-verbal stuff. Cas reached over and grabbed his cell phone from the nightstand. Dean had no clue how it had ended up on the nightstand and not, say, lodged behind the radiator. While Cas checked his messages, Dean reached over to to fondle Cas's thigh. “Mmmm.” Dean quite suddenly found he had no interest at all in the case. He just wanted to stay indoors and make angel porn.
“There's a text from Sam.”
“Yeah?”
“He is going to re-interrogate the von Winkenwerders.”
“Oh, I'll bet,” laughed Dean. “Especially the blonde.”
“Should we go an assist him?”
“He'll be back in a while,” said Dean. “Shower first, and we can head back into town. Maybe grab some lunch. I'm hungry.” He faked gnawing at Cas's chest, for which he got a very confused glance from Cas. “Come on. We got some hot water to waste.” Dean wrestled Cas out of the bed and, as Cas tossed the phone back onto the table, steered him into the bathroom, where he cranked the hot water onto full.
On the nightstand, the phone, unheeded, started to beep.
“I don't believe I have a clean shirt,” said Cas, sadly holding up the remains of his dress shirt.
Dean sat at the table, pulling on his shoes. “Have one of mine,” he said, digging into his bag and lobbed over an AC/DC tee. Cas grabbed it and, tossing the dress shirt aside, pulled it over his head. “We should probably hit the laundry before we split town. Though, I can't say I mind you wearing my stuff.”
Cas looked down at the T shirt. He blushed. He turned his back to Dean, and went to grab his cell phone from the nightstand.
Dean dug into his bag to grab his own phone.
There was silence.
“Dean!” “Cas!”
They looked at each other.
Both wore the most distinct, “We gotta get the fuck out of her NOW face,” face that any Winchester had ever pulled.
Tires squealed, and Dean popped out of the car almost before it had stopped moving.
“Dean!” Cas pointed upwards, and Dean forced himself to look, dreading what he might see.
There was a figure up above, at the top of the clock tower.
“Sammy! Stay there! We're coming!”
He ran to the police tape-bedecked door where Cas was already pushing. “It's blocked,” he said.
Cas stood back as Dean kicked down the door, and the two of them burst inside the dilapidated building. Dean stared upwards: stairs and stairs and more stairs, spiraling upwards, disappearing upwards into the dimness. “Come on! Now!” Cas urged, and he found himself heedlessly following the angel upwards, clattering up the half-rotten wooden stairs. One flight. Two flights. Three flights. Four-
Dean stifled a scream as his boot went right through a step. Splinters of wood fell down and down, down and down. He flailed for the hand rail. And then Cas's hands were at his shirt, pulling him up, dragging him onwards. “Come on, Dean!” Dean chanced a look back down, and broke out in a cold sweat.
“Cas-”
“Now, Dean!”
Dean swallowed hard and let Cas push him in front, where he continued climbing, staring down only at the step ahead of him, another flight, and another.
“There it is!” said Cas. Dean wrenched his head up. They were near the top: two doorways, one at each end of the tower, looked outwards, but the walkway between them had completely rotted away and collapsed.
Dean darted for the nearby doorway and came screeching to a halt on a narrow ledge. He opened his mouth, but nothing came out, too terrified to even scream.
And then he was yanked back by Cas, who pulled him, braced against the doorway. “Who the fuck designed this thing!” Dean wailed.
Cas gestured for silence and pointed. Dean forced himself to look.
Sam. Sam was out on the ledge, hovering near the other doorway. Gazing downwards.
“Sam?” Dean whispered.
Not hearing, Sam crept nearer to the edge.
“Sammy!” Dean said, a little louder. “Get back!” Dean clung to the door frame, his fingernails digging into the wood. A gust of wind hit, and Sam's stupid long hair blew all over the place.
Sam stood tall, stretching out his arms. “I have wings,” he whispered.
“Sam!” Dean shouted, reaching out his own arm, still clinging to the door.
And Cas was off down the ledge, not walking but running over the stupid narrow thing, like a man who had no fear of heights. He tackled Sam, pushing him back into the doorway.
“Cas,” sighed Dean, slumping against his own doorway. But then, to Dean's horror, Sam began to wrestle with the angel. “Wait! Sam! No!”
Cas struggled, but Sam was just so god damn big, Cas was no match for him. Sam walloped Cas but good, and then they were both on the floor, Sam pushing Cas over the ledge, Cas hanging off. “Dean!” Cas cried desperately.
Dean still clung to the doorway. “Sam. No!” He was going to die. They were both going to die.
Dean crouched down, and then he was on his hands and knees, crawling across the narrow ledge, wind gusting in his face. Hand over hand. Hand over hand. Sam grunted, and Cas was hollering for him.
“Sam!” Dean gripped his brother in a headlock and pulled back with all his strength. Sam reared back, digging into Dean's arm. Dean squeezed his eyes shut and stood, letting himself fall backwards, through the doorway, bringing Sam along with him. The came crashing down on the rotten remnants of the stairway landing, which creaked and snapped under their weight.
But it held.
“Dean!” He heard Cas's voice from outside. The angel popped his head in, where Dean lay on his back, Sam still sprawled on top of him.
“You're all right?”
“Yeah. Sam?”
Sam shook his head, seeming to wake up. “I'm fine,” he croaked. He stared at Cas. “Hey, is that Dean's AC/DC shirt?”
Cas broke into a smile, and Dean swore right there and then he was going to do anything that made him smile like that.
“What happened?” asked Dean.
“The sheriff and I. We went to interrogate the von Winkenwerders. Celeste.” He shook his head, remembereing. “It wasn't Otto. It was Celeste!”
“Told you she was squirrely.”
“What happened to the sheriff?” asked Cas.
Sam sat and thought. “The bridge. I think she sent him to the bridge.”
Dean flinched as the phone in his pocket suddenly sounded. He pulled it out and frowned at the caller ID. “Well, either he didn't' make it or-” He punched the speaker button.
“Detective Evans! That you?” came a familiar voice.
“We're all here, Sheriff!”
“I'm here at the goldurned bridge, all tangled up in my damn police tape. What the Sam Hill is goin' on?”
“Sheriff, don't go past your police tape!” said Dean. “You got an arrest to make.”
Celeste von Winkenwerder glared at everyone as the Sheriff guided her into the back of his vehicle.
“When I was diagnosed, Emmeline offered to pay for my treatment,” Otto von Winkenwerder confessed to Dean.
“That's what pissed off Celeste?” asked Dean. “She was being nice to you?”
“It was me. I was really angry at the world for a time. I was angry with Emmeline. For reaching out, and being good to me. Now that I'm in remission, I've found some peace. I had no idea Celeste would resort to something like this. Revenge.”
Dean and Cas emerged from the von Winkenwerder house. Cas quickly flashed a hex bag at Dean, and then stuffed it in a pocket. Dean nodded. “She was doing this for you?”
“Evidently. She must have killed Emmeline, and then I think she was trying to take care of witnesses. But once you start down that path....” He shuddered. He looked up at Dean. “I just don't understand how she did it. I know that stuff causes sleepwalking. I had told them to take it off the market. Even before the lawsuit. But I don't know how that fit with convincing people to....” He trailed off.
“Some things, Mr. von Winkenwerder, they're just … unknowable.”
“Say, you don't happen to have a Volant do you?” the teacher asked. “I feel- I feel a cold coming on.”
Sam tossed over a colorful plastic tube.
“Thanks.” Von Winkenwerder made to hand it back.
“That's OK, said Sam, waving him off. “I think I've had my fill of the stuff.”
“So, we're not gonna tell the teacher that his daughter is a witch?” asked Sam as they piled back into the Impala.
Dean shook his head. “I'm not sure that he would have believed me anyway. There's some things you can't explain, I guess.”
Cas's elbows were poking over the seat. “The rattle,” he said.
“God dammit,” grumbled Dean. “Yeah. The rattle.”
Sam chuckled, but then stopped short. “Dean.”
“Yeah.”
“How long you think the spell will last? Celeste's spell?”
“Why?”
Sam bit his lip. “I just feel this … compulsion, to go climb the clock tower. Again.”
Dean and Cas exchanged a fairly self-explanatory “Oh shit” glance and Dean floored it.
“I think, probably, until dawn,” said Dean, fastening the hasp on the shed out in back of their motel, and clicking on a padlock, just to be sure.
The door slammed, and he and Cas, who was standing on the other side, cringed. “I'm stuck here until dawn?” came Sam's cracked voice from within. As he was out of sight, he could no longer communicate with pregnant Winchester expressions.
“We think so.”
“Do you know so?”
“Look, Sammy, I ain't a chemistry teacher. We burned the hex bag, so Cas and I think Celeste's spell will burn off at dawn. And then you're good.”
There was a pause, and then a noise, like someone settling down. “Shit.”
“It's only a couple hours. Don't be a baby.”
Dean glanced over at Cas, and the both of them, as if by a signal, slid down to sit just outside the door, looking like two fu dog sentries.
“You sure we couldn't just make a run for it? You could handcuff me!”
“You'd get out of handcuffs, Sam,” Cas told him.
“Sam! No more heights today,” said Dean. “I'm done.”
Sam didn't reply, but they heard a grumble from within.
“So,” said Dean, looking at his watch. “Dawn.”
“A couple hours,” said Cas.
“What do you wanna do.”
Cas's eyes drifted over to where the Impala was parked, out in back of the motel, away from view. He smiled and looked back at Dean. “Well, there's always ... the rattle.”
Dean smiled too, and frowned at Cas. “Geez. You're gonna have a shiner,” he said, reaching out a finger to gently touch the area under Cas's eye.
“A black eye?”
“Yeah.”
“Your brother packs a powerful right hook.”
Dean chuckled. He looked up as Cas touched his forehead.
“You are injured as well,” said Cas, his fingers brushing a scrape.
“Shit, I didn't even notice.”
Cas's hand flitted down to cup Dean's chin.
There was silence for a long moment.
“Oh my god! Are you guys making out out there?”
“Don't listen,” Dean scolded.
“So that was Dean's AC/DC T shirt!”
“It was,” said Cas, tugging at the shirt. “Now I believe it's mine.”
“You think it's yours now?” Dean murmured.
“You destroyed one of mine. I think it's fair.”
Silence reigned.
“You know,” came Sam's voice. “There isn't really a rattle. We were just humoring you!”
He snorted, and probably cast another expository glance. Unfortunately, there was no one there to witness it.
And then there was a gentle quiet. As Dean and Cas sought out the rattle.
