Chapter Text
Dean
Dean was lying on a ratty old motel bed, staring at the stains on the ceiling. Check out was soon and he planned to drive for the next few hours to get closer to Tallahassee. There were some missing person cases that sounded a bit too much like werewolf to be handled by local authorities.
At least he could leave this god forsaken hellhole called Corpus Christi, Texas. No sane person would call a town that, but to be fair, his whole body felt like he spent the last few days in a carcass. Everything was a tiny bit damp and sticky from sweat, the air was unmoving and everything tasted stale. An old black and white movie of smells had dulled his senses, overlaid by dust and sand.
Might as well get it over with. He thinks, and pauses for a moment to decide between black and grey socks, as if any choice of his mattered. Both would be walked through in a few weeks. Every version he could choose was unvaryingly wearing. Driving from Texas to Florida was just exactly what his last fuck to give needed to go up in flames.
Tallahassee was a two day drive away, so he'll probably take a motel close to New Orleans at the end of the day.
On the road he called Bobby to check if he needed some supplies from that witch who lives on top of a voodoo shop. It might as well be useful to be in this area again.
"Where you heading now, idjit?" is what he gets as a greeting.
Dean snorted. "How'd you know I'm done with the last hunt?"
"You're not calling so early unless you're back behind the wheel. What was that last thing by the way?"
"A goddamn Rakshasa" Dean spat out. Even now, in the dry persistent heat and with Baby's calm engine rumbling, he felt a shiver. Shapeshifters who dressed up as clowns so children invited them in were a bigger evil than demons in Dean's eyes. "Sammy was right with his clown thingy, they should all be burned."
He thought for a moment. "Scratch that, don't tell him he was right, but he sure as hell made the right choice by staying in Stanford. That monster would have made him lose his shit."
"That bad?" Bobby asked quietly.
"It turned invisible and I had to stab every corner and closet with an old crusty brass knife, while there was this creepy giggling always a few feet away." Dean confessed.
It sounded like they both just stared into the for a few moments. He knew the old man wanted to talk again about the risks of hunting alone. Bobby knew he would just stop answering until another subject was brought up.
At least he stopped trying to set Dean up with every hunting buddy he knew. It's been a few months since he left the last bumpkin behind at a gas station. The fucker had constantly touched Baby's radio.
"Anyway" Dean gathered himself back together. He shouldn't sound too weary or Bobby would sound concerned when he phoned Sam the next time around. It's been a while since Dean had directly spoken to Sammy. The silent telephone game they're playing with Bobby in the middle was just easier for everyone.
Bobby began to talk slowly "Dean, I have to warn ya. Something's going on out there. I've been trying to track it for a while now, but it's difficult."
"What're you talking about, old man?" Dean asked.
"Hunters are dying on hunts. I know what you want to say about that but lately there have been more dead hunters than usual and their hunts weren't that dangerous. It doesn't smell right to me." Bobby ended, sounding wearily.
"I'm in a greater risk with one of those fuckers at my side, fucking everything up." Dean answered just to make sure their old discussion wouldn't resurface. "Call me though, when you got a location to check out. I'm heading to New Orleans right now, need anything from Luciana?"
Bobby sighed and said "Get me some of that protection potion she made a few summers back. It's the only thing that keeps ticks out of Rumsfeld fur."
Castiel
Being a pharmacist might have his perks but today was Monday and the dermatologist around the corner had his open consultation hours. Castiel had already made sure he had enough cortisone cream to paint a complete cow herd white and prepared himself for a steady stream of conversations about how to apply it.
Missis Ainsworth still stood in front of him and talked, now about her new support stockings it seemed. She was an old lady with a list of medications longer than she was high. The smell of the filling material of her pills lingered around her, strong enough that even her chanel No 5 couldn't overpower it.
Cas decided to zone out again for a bit, he wouldn't need to talk for another five minutes or so, not until she was done gossiping about her new cardiologist at least.
Five minutes later he spotted an ant on her handbag. It was a small red one, a worker ant, possibly Formica rufa or Formica dirksy. He wondered absently where Missis Ainsworth picked up a wood ant, her shoes didn't even touch gravel, much less real soil for all he knows.
He once had tried to plug an interesting weevil specimen from a customer but the look his boss sent him after that made him sink into the ground. Castiel might be a hobby entomologist but he still needed to look professional enough to talk about contraindications and be taken seriously.
The small bell over the entrance jingled, and Missis Ainsworth finally set him free. Castiel shifted his mind back to eczema and rashes. He hoped at least the moth specimen his friend Charlie had sent him would be in his mailbox.
The next customer was an office clerk, who was stocking up on various free pain medications. He stayed under any critical amounts of their internal addiction guidelines.
There was no conversation he could start that wouldn't end in anything else than vastly overstepping his consulting role and ending up in accusatory territory. Castiel spooled down his usual boiled down talk about addiction risks and practically begged the man to at least not combine the different substances.
The man looked at him with the distant expression of horse sedatives. Whatever he had taken this morning, there was nothing on the counter between them that would give him the same feeling. They both knew it was just a temporary bridging. Castiel threw a few free tea samples in the man's bag, wished him a nice day and tried his best to show he wasn't judging him. There was nothing else for him to do.
As Cas went home a note greeted him in his mailbox. It informed him that the moth Charlie sent was lost in shipping. Now he wouldn't be able to help her with the exact taxonomic classification of a 'rad new alien moth' as she had put it. He slumped on his couch and didn't even feel like cooking. Bread with cheese it is then.
A national geographic documentary played in the background, while he just stared in the nothingness of his silent apartment. He could power through a few rounds of running through his neighborhood but it was one of those evenings where only doing nothing felt right.
Castiel had moved half a year ago and he's been living alone for years before that, but the rooms of his new apartment still felt more empty than they should. It was like there was a space for another being left free, waiting and gathering dust. It was one of those evenings where he genuinely missed Gabe. His brother had made enough noise, if nothing else, to not feel like being stored behind archival UV blocking glass.
When Cas drifted slowly to sleep, he was sunken in the thoughts of the gaps in his weevil collection. Empty well protected spaces. Places where not even the dust had a chance to take up the room.
The space for another being started shifting as Cas reached unconsciousness.