Chapter Text
“So get this.”
Dean looked up from the sandwich he’d been intently destroying. Sam looked at him expectantly, and Dean put down the sandwich with some reluctance. “Yeah?”
“Guy and his cousin are out fishing in Puget Sound, near Seattle, when their dinghy is attacked by something big. Cousin disappears. Guy describes the ‘something big’ as a sea monster.” Sam’s voice had begun to acquire that excited edge of having discovered a case they hadn’t worked before. “Two days later, a woman and her younger brother are out on a boat, same general area. She doesn’t see what happens, but their boat gets capsized too, and the next day her brother’s body washes up on the beach with ‘a pattern of abrasions,’ but they don’t say what kind of pattern. Dollars to donuts it’s teeth marks -- these teeth marks.” Sam spun the laptop so Dean could see the screen, and Dean politely looked.
It was a website typical of most resources they found about monsters: bad formatting, bullet points of sightings, no photographs to speak of. Dean wrinkled his nose at some of the artistic renderings; at least they all agreed on the general shape, though it looked disappointingly like the Loch Ness Monster. “Willatuk?” he asked, eyes scanning the name at the top of the page.
“It’s a Salish name,” Sam confirmed, bringing the laptop back around to face him. “This thing’s been in Native American legends since before white fur trappers showed up in the area. The Suquamish tribe even had a ritual that included it, but I can’t find out what it was.” Sam’s brow wrinkled as he clicked a few more times. “One trapper’s diary says something about ‘sated by the blood of the firstborn son.’ But that doesn’t pan out -- these tribes didn’t partake in ritual sacrifice.”
“It’s always firstborn sons,” Dean grunted. “So, what, you think Flipper’s on the prowl?”
“Well, in both attacks, none of the victims were firstborn sons,” Sam pointed out. “If this monster was a way of life a few centuries back, and it needed some sort of tribute from a firstborn son to make it stop attacking people…” He trailed off, looking at Dean expectantly.
Dean stared at the logo on the back of the laptop screen for several moments, calculating driving distances and fuel costs in his head and weighing them against the likelihood that this was actually a case. “You wanna chuck me in the water to make a prehistoric monster stop attacking fishermen?”
“Well, first I was thinking we could check out the body. Then discover more lore from the cultural center on the island near the attacks,” Sam shot back. “They’ve got people from the area tribes there doing demonstrations -- with the recent drive to preserve native history, there’s a good chance they’ll know more than a website that uses blue Comic Sans on a green background.”
Dean suppressed a sigh. Sam clearly had the bit in his teeth now, and truth be told there wasn’t much of anything else going on. The calm in the eye of the storm between the new state of affairs in Heaven and the barely-controlled chaos of Hell had stretched to a point where Dean suspected it might continue out of habit. Reluctant as he was to leave the center of the country, where any case was no more than two days’ drive away, this was the only action worth checking up on that had crossed their radar for two weeks.
“Let’s do it,” he said finally, picking up the remains of his sandwich. “After lunch.”
The third hour of driving was when things started to get stale, the upholstery and windows oppressive, the endless vibration of tires on asphalt wearying. It was when Dean was always most tempted to make a long pit stop and get out and stretch, flinging his arms out and breathing deeply as though he’d been nearly drowned, but he knew better: if he could hold out for one more hour, everything would fall into the reliable pattern of simply being on the road. He could drive all night long if he could just get to hour four without stopping.
After hour four they could pull off at a gas station. Sam could get his typical Power Bar and orange juice, bring Dean a package of Funyuns and styrofoam cup of coffee sludge with only a slight judgemental look. Dean would screw the gas cap back on and they’d fold themselves back down into the seats and be off again. They could go another four hours before needing gas again, and possibly needing to switch drivers; enough of these tried-and-true cycles and they could get anywhere. Dean didn’t even need to say anything to Sam about it. They’d been doing it for so long that it was almost ritual.
Trust Cas to throw a wrench into the works.
It was just outside Rapid City, South Dakota, when Dean felt his phone vibrate against his hip. He wrestled it free, glancing down at the caller ID before swiping his thumb to answer -- then tossed it to Sam.
“Answer that, will you?”
With a bemused look, Sam thumbed the phone on and brought it to his ear. “Cas. What’s up?”
Dean could hear the rumble of Cas’s voice from the receiver, but not the words. He could guess what they’d been, though, when Sam replied, “He’s driving. We found a case.” A pause. “In Seattle, actually. Sea monster, we think.” Dean chanced a look to the side, timed perfectly to see Sam’s eyebrows rise in surprise. “Coeur d’Alene? That’s a bit far afield.”
“What’s he doing in Coeur d’Alene?” Dean asked, curiosity getting the better of him.
“Getting his car stolen, apparently,” Sam replied before returning to the conversation. “Let me put you on speaker,” he said before Dean could gesture to the contrary.
“Hey, Cas,” Dean said, trying not to sound reluctant and failing.
“Hello, Dean,” Cas replied from the tinny cell phone speaker.
“So. What’s exciting in Coeur d’Alene?” Dean asked after a beat.
“A medical examiner was collecting retinas,” Cas replied in his typical just-the-facts monotone.
“Like you do,” Dean prompted when it seemed the ex-angel was not going to be more forthcoming. Ex-angel? Quasi-angel? Dean didn’t know what Cas was anymore.
“I wasn’t able to figure out what she was doing with them,” Cas replied. “She had them all laid out, preserved, in a grid on her kitchen table. Like a patchwork quilt. Dozens of them. My best guess is some sort of scrying spell.”
Dean shuddered. “God, witches are weird.”
“Your car got stolen?” Sam interjected.
“Yes.” A hint of embarrassment colored Cas’s voice. “There wasn’t anything important in it, but...I’m currently at a loss for transportation.”
This time Sam saw Dean’s wild negative gesticulations, but ignored them. “If we hit 90 going west, we should be able to swing through Coeur d’Alene and get you,” he said, glancing defiantly at Dean, who set both hands to the steering wheel in frustration.
“That would be good,” Cas said slowly, “because I’m beginning to get some unfriendly looks.” A pause. “I think they recognize me.”
“From what?” Sam asked.
“He was all over the TV a few years back,” Dean reminded him, speaking overly loud to ensure Cas could hear him. “When he was playing at being God.”
“This part of town is particularly religious,” Cas added, apparently not catching that Dean’s remark had been an attempted dig. Or, more likely, deliberately misinterpreting it. “No doubt some of them remember.”
“Well,” Sam said, “we’ll be there by noon tomorrow. Try to lay low until then.”
“Right. Thank you, Sam.” The line clicked, and Sam turned off the speakerphone just before the three beeps of the disconnect alert. He wordlessly handed the phone to Dean, who dropped it in his jacket pocket, lips pressed together in a thin line.
Several miles had rolled away beneath them before Dean took a breath. “Wasn’t going to take 90 west.”
Sam blinked. “Dean, that’s the only major highway west from here. What, were you planning on backtracking all the way back down to 80?”
“To avoid Cas? Probably.” Dean flicked on the headlights unnecessarily; dusk was only just beginning to touch the east edges of the sky, but he needed something to do with his hands.
Sam scoffed. “Look, I know you guys fought about something --”
“We didn’t fight.” Dean stared straight ahead.
“Fine. You disagreed. But he’s in trouble -- or he could be -- and I doubt he’s up to stealing another car. Especially if he’s being watched.”
“I know,” Dean interrupted, more snappish than he’d intended. “We can’t just leave him there.” He shook his head. “This is the last time I call his bluff,” he muttered under his breath.
“What?”
“Nothing.” He let his eyes glaze over in a soft focus on the road in front of him. It’d be hours before he had to deal with the complications of having Cas on a case with them, and even then they’d hopefully be distracted by a riveting and intellectually challenging case.
Maybe with enough forced polite proximity, they could forget they’d ever said anything and go back to being the friends they had been the week before.
It was Sam behind the wheel as they pulled into the parking lot of the unimaginatively-named Coeur d’Alene Extended Stay Inn, that particular species of motel that made one want to check to make sure his hepatitis vaccines were up to date. Sam wasn’t sure whether an additional “5” had fallen off the sign in front, or if rooms really were $4 a night -- he was prepared to believe it.
Cas must have been watching for them; no sooner had Sam cranked on the parking brake than the angel emerged from one of the ground floor rooms, a single duffel bag slung over one shoulder. Sam couldn't help but notice that despite the sullen mope that Dean had fallen into these last few hours as they drew near the Idaho town, his brother still visibly perked up at the first sight of the long tan coat.
Sam unfolded himself from the driver's seat and stepped around to the back of the car to pop the trunk. He was slightly surprised when Cas pulled him into a rough one-armed hug; no matter how frequently Cas administered them, Sam didn't think he'd ever get used to the angel showing actual affection.
"Hey," he said, patting Cas's back awkwardly to let him know it was time to stop hugging. Cas was still working on timing. "It's good to see you, too."
"Thank you for coming," Cas said, stepping back and letting the duffel bag slide down from his shoulder into the trunk of the car.
Sam shrugged, turning the gesture into a reach upward to slam the trunk shut. "It was on the way." No use saying that if they hadn't already been on their way, Cas would likely have been hitchhiking wherever he'd planned to go next. Sam wasn't sure how deep the cuts of the fight he'd overheard went, but if Dean was still in a funk about it...
Cas nodded thoughtfully, eyes flicking to the driver's seat, where Dean was settling back in. "Daylight's burning," Dean called, not targeting his voice specifically at either Sam or Cas.
"I'll sit in back," Cas said in a low voice, and Sam nodded grimly. He reached up in a brief clasp at Cas's shoulder.
"It's good to have you back," he said softly. "Despite what he says, I think he's glad to have you, too."
"I wouldn't bet too much money on it," Cas replied dubiously as he yanked the rear door open.
Dean was willing to admit that his affinity towards the cheapest motels possible was a holdover from the numerous times he'd had forty dollars in his wallet and a drunk father he needed to stash away while he worked on turning that forty dollars into four hundred. Certainly since Charlie had set them up with untraceable bank accounts -- she'd never explained where the funds came from before she'd scampered off, and they'd never asked -- they could afford to stay in places where the linens were actually white, and they could undoubtedly manage their own rooms.
But old habits die hard, and Dean would be damned if they were going to pay three hundred a night to stay downtown when they could drive for fifteen minutes the next morning to get where they needed to be. Thus, their motel for the evening boasted hourly rates, and should Dean fancy, there had been streetwalkers of both male and female varieties who were not at all bashful about their professions not a block down the street just outside called Aurora.
He also had to admit that he liked the way it made Cas look distinctly uncomfortable. His hideout in Coeur d'Alene looked like a Four Seasons compared to this place. Dean smirked as he tossed his duffel bag onto the bed. "Rock paper scissors for the rollaway," he announced to no one in particular.
Sam snorted. "Between you and Cas," he said dismissively as he toed off his shoes. "I don't fit on them."
"I'll take my chances on the rollaway," Cas said, setting his bag down on the floor. Dean wondered if he should say something about bedbugs, then decided against it. If the carpet had bedbugs, so did the rest of the room. He was suddenly doubting his wisdom, or lack of it, in his choice of accommodations.
"Thought you didn't need to sleep anyway," Dean said, the first words he'd said directly to Cas all day. He was surprised at how his stomach twisted when he met Cas's eyes. Guilt, he supposed, and yet he couldn't seem to say anything that wasn't limned with malice.
"I could say the same about you," Cas said coolly, but when Dean's mouth shot open to reply, Cas held up a belaying hand. "I'm more human than anything else," he said, looking down, "and I am tired. I could use the sleep."
There was a peace offering in those words, an offer to let it lie and face what the morning brought. If Dean was smart, he'd grasp it.
Sam cleared his throat, and Dean jumped; it occurred to him that he'd been pondering whether or not to let the feud continue for so long that the tension must have been enough for Sam to chew. "What time should I set the alarm for?"
"Seven's good," Dean replied. Cas had taken the opportunity to sit on the edge of the rollaway, which creaked threateningly. Dean shook his head and rubbed at his eyes with the heels of his hands. "I'm going to wash the car off me. If I'm not out in ten, interrogate the shower curtain."
Dean could hear Sam and Cas talking, even over the hiss of the old pipes; about the case, mostly, but after a long pause: "Cas, are you all right?"
"As well as can be expected," Cas replied. "There wasn't much of my Grace left in Claire, but it's mine -- no more countdown clock, which is a relief, but I don't think you could call me an angel by any means." He sounded tired. "I can't hear Angel Radio or prayers, can't heal much more than a papercut..."
Sam cleared his throat. "That's not what I meant."
There was a beat. Dean convinced himself that he wasn't listening, he was overhearing: it was their fault they couldn't keep their voices down. He rubbed his palms roughly over his scalp to dislodge any persistent suds, and almost didn't hear Cas's response of "I don't really want to talk about it."
Well, that made two of them. Dean toyed with the idea of staying in the shower long enough to let Cas feign sleep when he emerged. He decided against it. The shower curtain did look suspicious, and he didn't want it getting any ideas.
Morning found them, if not well-rested, at least not at the tail end of a day and a half of straight driving. In the usual stupor of before-coffee shuffling, the three of them pulled on suit jackets and slacks, straightened ties, stowed badges, and shined shoes with motel washcloths until the wingtips looked presentable. Dean ran a wet comb through his hair as Cas lurked behind his shoulder, studying his reflection in a corner of the mirror, rubbing his chin.
Dean raised an eyebrow at Cas in the mirror. Cas let his hand drop. "Just wondering if I look too unkempt to be an FBI agent," he said, stepping back.
"If you're unkempt, Sam doesn't have a hope," Dean replied lightly, forcing geniality into his tone. It was a tall order, especially before coffee, but the sour knot of resent that had crouched in his stomach the day before had dissipated -- not completely, but enough. It was the prospect of working a case, he was sure. Putting on his game face always pushed unimportant things aside.
"Don't have a hope for what?" Sam asked from the other side of the room.
"This is Seattle. Everyone has hipster beards." Dean turned and patted Cas's unshaven cheek before sidling out of the bathroom, berating himself for the move even as he made it. That sort of thing was exactly what had brought up that goddamned fight to begin with.
Cas didn't say anything, just took his place at the sink with a comb of his own. "So first to the morgue to see the victim. Then what?"
"Well," Sam said, deciding his tie knot was lopsided and pulling it apart to try again, "that depends on if the body's weird. If it is, we go looking for more lore on Willatuk." He shrugged. "I guess even if it isn't, we go looking for more lore on Willatuk."
“If we have to go looking for more lore either way,” Cas said slowly, “why don’t Dean and I go look at the body while you research, and we’ll meet you after?”
Dean paused in the act of checking the load in his gun, looking suspiciously up at Cas, who continued to comb his hair in the mirror with an air of nonchalance. Sam glanced between the two of them, clearly reluctant to weigh in on his opinion. “Are you sure you two…” Sam trailed off.
“We’ll be fine,” Dean decided shortly. “It makes sense. Split up, do our thing, come together and make sense of it.”
“If you’re sure,” Sam said, cinching the knot in his tie.
“Yeah.” Dean shoved his gun into his waistband beneath his jacket. “Yeah, it’ll be peachy.”