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“Sam?” Dean charges out of the motel room into the blackness of a far too early morning or much too late night looking both ways for any signs that may suggest which way he should go. “Sammy?”
The crisp night air bites at his skin but adrenalin, by way of panic, tempers it into a vaguely irritating chill. Dean slams the door behind him and jogs the length of the walkway that creates a path outside the rooms, moving away from the motel’s main desk. He passes by four doors and rounds the corner nearly slamming into a badly placed vending machine. He is able to stop himself in time from colliding with it and looks around, whipping his head right, left, right—
“I told you to handle it or we would.”
Castiel’s sudden appearance, leaning against the front of the vending machine, startles Dean (still, after all these visits) and he tenses his shoulders.
“I’m trying,” Dean says through clenched teeth.
“That’s not good enough,” says Castiel with his trademark flatness of tone that only serves to irritate Dean with its implied callousness. Besides he hates how it emphasizes his own emotional discord in contrast.
Dean collects himself, taking a deep breath, and steps forward. “I need more time.”
“It’s not really on our side,” Castiel stands and faces him straight on.
Dean furrows his brow and becomes more insistent. “You said time was fluid—bendable. So why don’t you pull a Houdini and buy me some?”
“It doesn’t work that way.”
“Says you.”
“You think I’m playing a game?”
Dean searches Castiel’s face for any hint that this is all little more than a nightmare he has yet to wake from. He receives nothing of the sort and becomes increasingly frustrated.
“You tell me. You can mess with it when you feel like it but I ask you and it’s suddenly too much. Your rules keep changing.”
Castiel tilts his head downward while keeping his eyes locked with Dean’s. The light from the machine bounces a red glow across the right side of his face while the murky dark of the parking lot hovers dark shadows over his left side. The flickering overhead light from five feet behind gives the mocking illusion of a comforting white light. The schizophrenic colour display stokes Dean’s uneasiness.
The angel has a way of being forceful, even when he speaks in a seemingly passive voice, and Dean has to work twice as hard to keep up while not turning himself into fodder for Castiel’s confused but ultimately serious demands. There used to be a give and take attitude he could (will himself to) handle but ever since the Sam card had been played he finds himself trying to catch up. Added difficulty is found in the precarious situation Castiel has informed him that they all exist in, while all around him people continue on with their lives, perfectly—happily—blind to what lurks over their shoulders.
Each visit is a reminder of how out of sync Dean and Sam have been since his return trip from Hell. Conversations are stilted and silences brew much longer. Suspicious glances precede fake smiles and secrets pile high between them. Just as Sam has not told Dean where he disappears to in the middle of the night (and with whom), Dean has not shared these nighttime visits, whether explicitly or in a roundabout way—besides the one time he tried to gage Sam’s opinion about the existence of angels, but the conversation had felt too awkwardly forced without accidentally revealing too much and had ended just as soon as it began.
With the hand that has been dealt, then, Dean puts up with the unacceptable. Taking orders from an angel (and one with a relatively pissy attitude when he so chooses) to take on his brother. It all feels like some modern day Cain and Abel with him and Sam cut from the same cloth but walking in parallel on different sides of the shifting line. The question is, will it end the same way?
“When I showed you what couldn’t be changed—destiny—that was a favour. I can’t snap my fingers,” Castiel says.
“Great. A party trick you can’t repeat,” Dean rolls his eyes.
Castiel regards him closely, close enough that Dean instinctively backs up a step, and ponders, “I’m going to assume these snappy attacks are a defensive measure in the face of a very grave reality which you still don’t know if you believe in.”
Moving closer, Castiel quietly adds, “I’d hate to think this is all you’ve actually got. It wouldn’t look good on me and I’d have to rectify that immediately.”
Dean hears the veiled threat in the forceful edge of his tone and looks off to the side before pursing his lips and returning the gaze, although his is much more penitent.
“How much more time can you give me?”
“We’re already out of it—,”
“C’mon!”
Dean angrily walks off the path towards the half filled parking lot then backtracks to where Castiel is watching him. Gesturing his arms outwardly, Dean says, “Even you must get that this is my brother we’re talking about. I’m not going to let you just take him.”
“Then you’ll die.”
Dean smirks, an element of patronizing disbelief flickering across his face. “Been there, done that. Didn’t like it all that much. Besides it would make you pulling me out a big waste of time. So why don’t you do me this one thing?”
“You think buying time will make it easier,” Castiel says, not making any move to close down the distance between them. “But Sam is heading further down a very dark and incredibly dangerous path.”
For a moment he looks past Dean then stares his flat and hypnotic eyes at him. “You think more time will make it easier, but your brother will raise up arms against you and all this leeway you’re insisting on will only make his eventual betrayal all the more painful.”
Castiel takes a step forward and the light falling behind transforms him into a shadow being. “There is no easy here, only what needs to be done.”
“There has to be another way,” Dean says. “A loophole? Some help to get through to Sam?”
Angling his head slightly to the left, Castiel’s expression appears to soften and a tiny smile almost pulls at his lips.
“And here I thought you were the more logical brother.”
“I will do whatever it takes to protect him,” Dean stands tall with willful determination stamped on his cold and unmoving face.
“I’m counting on that,” Castiel says and holds him in a silent standoff.
“Dean?”
Dean jumps and looks to his left. Sam comes around the corner, his eyes heavy with worry.
“Who are you talking to?”
Dean looks around and, unsurprisingly, sees he is alone. Closing his eyes he tries to relax, then conjures up an annoyed expression.
“Stupid machine won’t give me my damn chocolate.”
Sam looks questioningly at him, but with no other apparent alternative Dean knows that he will accept the lie—for now.
“Okay then…”
“Where were you?”
Sam’s eyes go wide and it takes him a few seconds to formulate his response, “I…uh…went to the front desk for info on Marcus Irikkson.”
Disappointment over the blatant lie weighs heavy on Dean but he knows not to let it show. “Find anything good?”
“A couple of possible leads.”
They stare at each other and Dean tells himself that if Sam looks away it will all be okay. It will mean he is uncertain, conflicted over whatever it is he is involved in—and that he can be saved. If Dean could will it he would but all he can do is watch Sam with uncompromising eyes. Sam returns the steady stare.
“Well then,” Dean says and punches the machine lightly for added impact, “We should get some sleep.”
Sam nods and turns around. Dean, tossing a brief glance over his shoulder, follows behind.