SPN: Star of the Morning (7/8)

[what_we_dream]

Title: Star of the Morning (7/8)
Series: Supernatural
Pairing: None
Rating: PG-13
Notes: Post The Rapture, AU

Summary: Castiel, removed from his host, is forced to make a temporarily substitution. Dean is so not onboard with this plan.

 

Dean – or rather Castiel – sees to Jimmy’s back, and although they don’t turn it up to 11, he pushes the angel to give it a little more gas, and ends up feeling like he’s got jello for legs.

Sam and Jimmy go together to notify the desk of their imminent check out – if the thing is hunting Jimmy, they don’t need to give it any more advantages than it’s already got – largely to see if Angel Boy gets any vibes off the lady behind the counter.

He doesn’t.

It’s quite possible, points out Castiel, universal wet blanket, while Sam and Jimmy back up in the background, that he can only sense her when her malignancy is bent towards him.

Uh, says Dean, eloquently.

If she were exerting her powers, clarifies the angel. Feeding from his terror.

Great. He’s lying back on the scratchy coverlet, head spinning slow as a toddler’s merry-go-round. He feels kind of high, if you could get high on angel juice. And if not, it’ll just seem like an ordinary person?

Most likely.

Dean sighs. It figures.

“Hey, Dean? We’re ready to go.”

Dean opens his eyes and sits up, waits for the light-headedness to fade. Sam’s got his bag over one shoulder, is standing by the end of the bed watching him with dark eyes. Jimmy’s loitering over by the door with the plastic bag holding all his possessions in one hand.

“Right.” Dean stumbles out to the car and slams down so heavily into the passenger seat he can feel the suspension shuddering while Sam stows the bags. It’s not really so bad though, just an irritating inability to focus on things except those in his peripheral vision, and the shakes. He already feels better than he did 20 minutes ago.

“First things first,” says Sam, sliding into the driver’s seat and slotting the keys into the ignition. Dean winces, just slightly. It’s been a while since he rode shot-gun; after he got back, driving the Impala was one of the few simple pleasures he had left, and he clung to it jealously. Sam, after months of driving his brother’s car solo, didn’t exactly complain. “We find a new place to crash, and get some breakfast.”

Dean shrugs. Jimmy, as usual, says nothing.

It’s late for them, nearly 10 with the arguing and the fall-out from dealing with Jimmy’s back, and the town is bustling in a steady, languid way. Streets not lined but at least peppered with drivers and pedestrians headed about whatever the daily routine is down in Marshall. Sam cuts through the downtown core – as if the thing’s going to have hung out a sign saying Evil Here overnight – on the way to the outskirts on the south side where there’s another crop of cheap motels.

Dean and Jimmy wait in the car while Sam books a couple of rooms in a silence that, if not really companionable is at least not overly awkward. It’s not that cold, but even the few minutes without the car’s heater going makes a noticeable difference in the temperature, and Dean shifts to draw his coat closer. Wonders whether Jimmy misses the lined trench coat.

Sam returns with a pair of adjoining rooms – apparently the busy season hasn’t spread to all corners of Marshall yet – and news of a good diner down the road. Dean’s feeling enough like himself again to be steering straight towards ravenous, and they take off.

Breakfast – bacon and eggs for him, Sammy giving him that “heart-attack before 40 look”; toast and fruit for Mr. Health Conscience; yogurt and muesli for Jimmy, appearing suddenly out of nowhere hard in the running for the title of Hippy Meals Queen (Sam may need to pick up his game). The diner’s laid-back and homey, and although the middle-aged waitresses are a disappointment in the looks department, they take well enough to the group of hearty-eating young men to provide free refills on the coffee. Dean is not above playing it up for free eats, and has them eating out of his hand by the time they’re getting ready to hit the road. Sam can glare all he wants, it’s totally worth it for the free cookie.

Unfortunately, the free cookie turns out to be the highlight of their day.

They make a careful tour of all the places they visited the day before, Dean hanging in the Impala and considering some touch-ups for her, new paint, a good thorough waxing maybe, while Sam takes Jimmy banshee hunting. Or rather, banshee spotting. They aren’t even necessarily expecting him to notice anything. They just need a list of possibilities.

The morgue is a dead write-off (Sam gives him a look, the prude) and they steer clear of the police station – it’s not like it’s one of the two cops they met. They stop by the clothes store and the pharmacy, mark down Suspicious Used Clothes Lady on their list despite her not tweaking Jimmy’s radar. They have a late lunch at the same diner they had dinner at the night before, Sam taking notes in a tiny book while Dean munches on his burger. Jimmy watches the waitresses from beneath his lashes, head bowed, but shakes his head as they leave.

They end up in a cracked and uneven parking lot behind the empty shell of what used to be some kind of grocery store, awnings long gone and even the painted name sign torn away, while dusk settles in around them. The afternoon has been frittered away with Sam and Jimmy going door to door downtown pretending to browse unoriginal and indifferent goods while really scoping out the salesladies and Dean slowly working his way through the corners of his cassette box and labelling the tapes that need to be replaced.

“Let’s hear it,” says Dean, staring up at the Impala’s slightly speckled roof.

“Well, we’ve got a definite three women Jimmy actually interacted with yesterday – the clothes lady and two waitresses at the diner. After that, we have no clues at all. It could be any one of the store salesladies who saw him pass by, or even just someone completely random who happened to be in the area.”

“Uh huh. You didn’t pick up on anything?” asks Dean, glancing in the mirror. Jimmy shrugs, shakes his head.

“No, nothing. But, we’re really sure this thing could be changing its shape? I mean, shouldn’t we just be looking for an old lady?”

Sam picks up the question, splitting his glance between his brother and the back seat. “The original lore is pretty clear that they appear generally in one of three shapes, and in the past that was mostly taken to mean that they come in one of three kinds.”

“We’re not talking about M’n’M’s here, Sam,” says Dean, earning himself a glare.

“But,” continues Sam, “hunters have had theories for decades that rather than three kinds, it’s just one single banshee taking on whichever shape would be most useful. I mean, they’re not exactly numerous, so it would be odd that three different kinds popped up often enough to be recorded. Much more likely, there are just a few switching between shapes.”

“Makes sense,” says Dean. Jimmy just stares blankly – despite his crash course in the supernatural, it seems the idea of shape shifting being more logical something, anything, else is still boggling.

Dean used to wonder sometimes what it must be like to live in a world where the most normal solution is usually true. A world where he’d go out to dinner with the family, mow the lawn, eat sandwiches in a real kitchen.

He doesn’t anymore. Hasn’t for two years. And just like that, Castiel’s staring over his shoulder again. As if waiting for the most opportune moment to screw with him.

We all dream, Dean. The tone is probably meant to be comforting, but Dean doesn’t care. He’s suddenly and deeply furious at the angel’s silent intrusion into his personal thoughts. At the angel’s peeping into secrets he keeps even from Sam. Even, some of the time, from himself.

Even you? he snarls, scathing and sarcastic.

Even me. Castiel’s voice is hardly a whisper.

Not me. Not anymore. What’s the point? The world’ll never run out of things to hunt; there’ll never be an end to this job. And when one the things gets me eventually, all I’ve got to look forward to is going Downstairs again.

Neither of those points are as certain as you take them for.

Don’t you dare try to string me along! shouts Dean gruffly in his own head, hands fisting, until the echoes of his own voice almost drown out the angel’s presence. Don’t you promise me peace and miracles and forgiveness. Not after all the self-righteous bullshit I’ve seen you pull. Not after the lives I’ve seen you destroy.

Castiel holds himself still, hard and fast and bland as stone, and says nothing. Sam’s chattering on about other possible ways the banshee could have picked out Jimmy, oblivious to Dean’s sudden rage.

“Screw this,” says Dean, turning over the engine with a harsh movement and startling Sam into silence. “Let’s get something to eat.”

Sam gives him a searching look, and then turns away without saying anything.

-------------------------------------------------

They have dinner at some café downtown which Jimmy points out, the fact surprising enough to make Dean agree despite the lack of grease on the menu. It’s mostly a soup and sandwich deal, one of those trendy little bistros with white tiled walls interspersed with colourful little scenes that look like they were painted by five year-olds, and crammed with a surfeit of wooden surfaces. They sit down in the back, near a scene of what is probably supposed to be some children frolicking but actually looks like two red dogs and a flamingo engaged in seriously questionable activities.

Jimmy heads off to the can after ordering – soup and sandwich, shockingly – leaving Sam to give him the questioning eyebrows.

“Well?” he adds, Interrogator Extraordinaire, when Dean ignores the brows.

“What?” Dean’s busy building a card house out of sugar packets. He mixes in the three kinds for a kind of hideous ginger-bread house effect; pink artificial sweetner in between regular white and brown sugar tan. The brown sugar’s heavier, and keeps flattening the others.

“Wanna tell me what that was about before in the parking lot? You and Cas fighting again? Seriously, Dean, can’t the two of you get along for five minutes?”

“We got along fine and dandy all damn day while you and Holy Tax Boy were out there turning up squat – nice job with that, by the way.”

Sam neatly sidesteps the attempt to pick a fight in that irritating way of his. Dean’s never really understood how Sam can always manage it with him, but never once did with Dad. “So you were going at it. What was it about this time?”

“Doesn’t matter. Another day or two and he’ll be outta here.” He hopes Castiel’s listening.

“Yeah, if you don’t goad him into frying your brains first.”

“I’ll work on it.”

Sam gives him a concerned look, but Jimmy’s coming back and they drop it. The food arrives a minute later, and the conversation becomes scattered and mundane. They’ve been prodding and picking at their failure all day; by common unspoken agreement they let the matter drop for a while. No point in driving themselves crazy over it.

Dinner isn’t too bad, actually (except for the lack of grease), and they end up lingering by the register while they – okay, he – get a sandwich wrapped up to take away in case of midnight munchies, and Sam takes his turn in the bathroom. Dean’s vaguely contemplating stopping somewhere to pick up something of the pie variety before heading back to the motel for another session of Plans That Go Nowhere when he automatically tenses in reaction to Jimmy startling next to him.

The man’s staring at the wall behind the register, and then turns in surprise. Dean follows his gaze to the clock – it reads 6:55.

“What?” he says, turning to follow the man’s gaze again – across the street this time.

“Dammit, my laundry,” Jimmy says, heading for the door with a really boring rustling of his canvas coat. Man really needs his trench.

“What?” says Dean, again, and then remembers. “Just pick it up tomorrow.”

“If I get it now, I can get the coats fixed up tomorrow. The cleaners is right across the road.” He’s already heading outside the door, a cool breeze slipping in through the open door.

“Hey, wait, I’ll go with –”

At which point the girl coming up from the back with his sandwich, and begins ringing up the meal. Dean freezes, locked between two choices, and watches Jimmy glance both ways and then jog across the street to the dry cleaners. Someone behind the window is just turning out the neon Open sign.

“That’s $30.45,” says the girl, as the register finishes beeping. Dean pulls a handful of bills from his wallet and gives them to her, attention divided between her and Jimmy. There’s a cough from his blind side, and he startles and turns to see Sam standing there watching him with amusement. It fades as he looks around.

“Hey, where’s Jimmy?”

“He ran across to get his laundry.” Dean reaches out to grab his sandwich and change. Turns back just in time to see Sam’s face shift from thoughtful to horrified, and then his brother is slamming out the door and sprinting out into the street with a curse.

Dean knows the job, and Sam, enough not to spend any time standing around staring. He follows immediately, dodging the slow two-lane traffic without much trouble. Sam’s already at the door to the laundry, and shoves it open so forcefully Dean hears the little bell give a thudding jingle as it’s thrown into the wall above the door.

He peers over Sam’s shoulder to see Jimmy and the counter attendant both staring at him in shock, the former completely unmauled, the latter completely normal-looking minus the fear that’s flooding in with Sam’s entrance.

“Uh, sorry,” says Sam breathlessly. Jimmy, apparently catching their line of thought, glances towards the lady behind the counter and then shakes his head slightly. “My mistake. I thought – uh, never mind.” He waits for the lady to hand Jimmy his plastic-wrapped clothes – quite hurriedly – and then they all step out together. The bell sounds distinctly flat as it rattles behind them.

“What was that about?” asks Dean, as they head down the dark street to the Impala. The streetlights are on, but they’re set wide apart here, and a few have burnt out. He keeps his eyes on the concrete, looking for patches of ice.

“The three forms,” says Sam, glancing back at the dry cleaner’s. “One’s a washerwoman.”

“Huh,” says Dean. Behind them, Jimmy follows in silence, plastic wrap rustling in the cool evening breeze.

“Yeah. I mean, obviously it could still be her,” points out Sam, glancing both ways absently as they cross a narrow street becoming an alley.

“Actually,” says Jimmy from behind them, “she’s not the woman that was there yesterday. They must have changed shifts.”

“Surprised they get enough business to maintain that.” Dean looks up and down the empty street.

There’s a dim jingling behind them, and they look back. The woman’s leaning out the door of the cleaners, holding something wrapped in plastic. “Mr. Novak, your coat!”

Jimmy looks down at the clothes in his arms and shuffles hurriedly through the layers of plastic and fabric – just his dark suit – and curses. Turns and jogs back while the brothers wait.

“So, you think there’re any pie joints open around here?”

“You need to cut back, dude.”

They watch as Jimmy meets the woman, who hands him his coat. She’s holding a slip of paper, presumably a receipt, and a pen, while her red hair blows over her face in the biting wind. They step inside.

“Hey, Dean?”

“Yeah?”

“Didn’t the one before have brown hair?”

There’s just an instant of pause, and then:

“Shit.” They’re off like twin shots, pounding down the pavement, the harsh tattoo of their footfalls echoing off the street’s stout brick buildings.

The store, when they reach it, is locked. Lights out. Empty.