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“I’m the law here, and this town ain’t big enough for the two of us!” a young gap-toothed boy says, his entire hand wrapped around Dean’s torso as he forcibly directs him down an imaginary street made of low-pile green carpet. Out of the corners of Dean’s lifeless green eyes, he sees colorful cardboard buildings pass him by on either side while he progresses along toward his inevitable destination. He spots Jo and Sam playing the part of a farmer with her “steed” and, on the other side of the undeveloped road, Garth and Bobby keep watch outside the bank.
And although he is but a plaything within the larger world, Dean chooses to fulfill this purpose, to bring joy to a child. Especially to his kid.
“Let’s have a duel!”
Dean is marched up to where a modern policeman stands at the ready—Bricktor, according to the permanent marker badge scribbled on his chest, though Dean knows his name was Victor before the cotton swab and nail polish remover. The officer’s squared-off form keeps him upright despite exerting no effort to do so. He’s as much at this child’s whim as Dean.
“Five.”
Dean and the policeman are spun around, facing away from one another once more.
“Four.”
Dean takes one forced step and can only assume Victor does as well.
“Three.”
Another step.
“Two.”
Dean’s hand is moved to hover over the pistol tucked against his hip.
“One.”
His view spins, and suddenly he’s watching Victor’s curled hand raise, but before the cop can fire a shot, Dean’s arm draws his Colt revolver and fires it with a reverberating SNAP of one of the caps inside. With a flick of the boy’s fingers, Dean’s opponent is flung across the floor and into the cereal box post office.
“Jack Damien Kline!” a woman’s voice calls out from across the motel room. Kelly’s head pokes up from where she’s reading the paper, legs outstretched on the bedspread and crossed at the ankles. “What did I tell you about snapping that gun indoors?”
The grip on Dean’s body eases as Jack looks down sheepishly. “Sorry, Mom.”
“Thank you for apologizing, but why do we not pop it inside?” she prompts.
“Because we have neighbors and don’t want to make Mr. Crowley mad,” he recites dutifully.
Kelly nods from her seat on the bed. She folds up the newspaper and sets it aside, opening her arms. “That’s right. Come here, sweet pea.”
Dean falls into a boneless heap on the floor, and Jack pads away from the scene of the shootout in his sock-clad feet. Dean can hear the creak of mattress springs as Jack goes willingly into his mother’s embrace and the sound of a muffled kiss being placed into his blonde-brown hair. “I know you’re excited for today. Thank you for trying to remember the rules for me,” Kelly says. “It’s almost time to go. Do you want to open your birthday present now or after school? If you pick after school, it’ll be after dinner because we’re going straight to Grandma’s house.”
Jack inhales on a soft gasp of eager surprise. “I can open it now?!”
“On one condition.”
“Oh… yeah?”
“You can’t take it with you to class. I don’t trust those other boys not to steal it and mess it up like they did with your last birthday gift.”
Quieter, but still clearly spooled up with anticipation, Jack says, “Okay, Mom. I’m ready!”
The rustle of shifting limbs and plastic bags is quickly followed by the crunch of ripping paper and an exultant whoop. “No way! Really?”
Kelly laughs, a light tinkling sound that makes Dean happy to hear because, even if he can’t see what’s going on, he knows it means Jack must be smiling ear-to-ear. At the same time, in the back of his mind, Dean’s nervous. Gift time is always stressful for a toy. The fear of becoming obsolete is ever-present, but especially when the TV advertises some new electronic game or the store passes out holiday catalogs. Birthdays are the worst. All of the adults focused on giving a kid exactly what they want is a recipe for becoming redundant.
“I thought it was time you got an upgrade. Something that isn’t damaged.”
If Dean had a heart, it would be sinking, but he feels the sting of her words anyway. He knows she’s talking about him. He was the one who had been taken by Cole and Gordon, those bullies a grade above Jack. Taller and faster, they’d pulled Dean right out of Jack’s hands and thrown him over the fence into the mud. Jeered as Jack struggled to reach Dean where he’d fallen face-down. In the end, Jack had managed to drag his doll back under the chain link with a stick, but the fiasco had ended in a permanent grass stain on one leg of Dean’s red pants, despite all of Jack’s tearful scrubbing with the motel’s cheap soap.
Jack’s voice cuts through Dean’s reverie. “Thank you, thank you, thank you! I love it.”
“Good, I’m glad,” Kelly says warmly. Dean hears the smack of another kiss, probably placed on Jack’s forehead. “Now go put your shoes on, and get your backpack. We need to get going, or I’ll be late to work again.”
The instant the motel door latches closed and the rumble of Kelly’s old Continental fades in the distance, Dean pushes himself off the floor. The other scattered toys are doing the same, grouping up in the would-be town square. Dean makes his way over to Victor and extends an arm, which the blocky figure grasps firmly in his c-shaped hand. “Up and at ‘em, Vic.”
Dean glances toward Jack’s bed, which is encircled by the discarded bits of wrapping paper and scotch tape like some sort of refuse-based ward. There’s no box to be seen from the floor, so Dean guesses it’s on the mattress along with the new toy. Which means—
“Oh, man. Did Jack put the newbie in your spot?” Victor asks. “Have you been replaced?!” Garth the shark chimes in — unhelpfully, Dean might add — as he wiggles tail and fin across the carpet. This, of course, stirs up an animated chitter amongst the other toys gathered around.
“Hey now,” Dean objects, raising an authoritative palm to hush the crowd, the other hand hanging from the thumb tucked into a belt loop. “No, no. I’m not being replaced. The kid was just in a rush, that’s all. You know how he is. And he hasn’t even had his birthday cake yet.”
“You sure about that? You’re lookin’ a little pale there, cowboy,” Jo Peep says, leaning on her shepherd’s crook with a smirk.
The moose plushie that is Sam plods forward, and the other toys make way for his large frame. He leans in, voice hushed. “Jo and I saw it, Dean. It’s…” the other toys go silent, but Sam notices too late as he says, “...it’s another cowboy doll.”
Everyone gasps, and Dean runs a palm down his face.
Great. Just great.
“Alright, people. That’s enough! I’m going to go up there and sort this out here and now. You can all go back to your business, ya hear?”
With Sam’s help, Dean shimmies up the comforter and hoists himself onto the bed. As he gets his footing, he finds himself facing the backside of a faux buckskin fringe jacket. Nevermind the blue jeans hugging a — literally — perfectly formed physique, accentuated all the more by black leather chaps. Dean yanks his train of thought off that particular track, caboose-first. (Because, hello, there are preschool toys present, for Mattel’s sake!)
But whoever this guy is, he hasn’t even moved to get a better look at the room. Instead, he’s studying the mildewed motel window like it holds the secrets of the universe. Like he can’t be bothered to interact with his new family.
It’s really starting to tick Dean off.
“Ahem,” Dean starts, clearing his throat to get the new toy’s attention.
A few moments of charged silence pass before the ‘upgrade’ turns his head at the neck joint, keeping his feet planted and his hands on his hips. “Not that you asked, but the name’s Castiel,” he says, his voice valley-deep. He sizes Dean up, brow arched, from beneath the wide brim of his traditional cattleman-style hat. “Is it customary for you all to greet a newcomer without words?”
The antagonistic tone leaves Dean flustered, but he keeps himself from sputtering his retort. Barely.
“Well, Cas, I’ll have you know that you couldn’t ask for a better round-up of toys than the one down there waiting to meet you. So I recommend you unbunch your unmentionables.” With a sharp grin, he adds, “That is, assuming you’ve got anything worth mentioning.”
Cas finally turns to stare Dean down head-on, blue eyes alive with a righteous fire inside. He takes a step closer. “You should show me some respect.”
“Sure thing, Ken doll.”
“At least I’m not dressed like a lumberjack.”
The volleyed insult is so unexpected, Dean bursts out laughing. To the point where he has to put his hand on Cas’s shoulder to steady himself, much to the latter’s consternation.
So. Cas has got jokes of his own. Either Dean’s going to kill him, or he’s beginning to like him.
“Okay, listen. We don’t have to trust each other. That’s fine. But seeing as how you’re one of Jack’s toys now, you’ll need to understand the pecking order around here. My name’s Dean. And where we are right now? It’s my spot as Jack’s favorite. So, when he—”
A shout from below (was that Garth?) interrupts his monologue. Something Dean doesn’t quite catch. “Say again?” Dean asks, peering over the comforter.
“JACK’S BACK!” comes a chorus of replies as they all scramble to get back into the places where Jack left them.
“Oh, son of a brick!”
When Dean turns back around, Cas has already gone prone where he’d been dropped before Jack and Kelly left. Sure enough, he hears the sound of their voices, muffled from the barrier of the motel’s walls. He must’ve missed the sputtering sound of Kelly’s car, as wrapped up as he was with his macho show-down. Ugh. He’s got mere seconds, and there’s no way he’ll make it to the center of the toy town before Jack walks in, already fiddling with the lock. Doing the best he can, Dean slides off the edge of the bed and onto the floor, hoping Jack won’t notice the discontinuity.
The very next instant, Jack is flinging open the door, his light-up sneakers blinking in Dean’s line of sight as he races inside. “I’ll be right back, mom!” he shouts over his shoulder, racing to the little dinette table. He grabs a red folder, the book report he’d been working on for the last week, and runs back across the room. Just when Dean thinks he’s going to leave again, he pauses and pivots, making a pit stop at the bed.
“You’re coming with me, Castiel. We just… won’t tell Mom. She’d worry too much.”
This is the opposite of a good situation. If Jack takes Cas to school, one of two things will happen. Either they’ll bond — and then Dean really will get replaced — or, worse, Jack will manage to lose Cas somehow and be heartbroken, just as Kelly suggested. Dean would rather spend all his time at the bottom of the toy box than let Jack down.
Dean makes a split-second decision. As Jack rearranges his backpack to hide Cas, oblivious to what’s happening under the bed, Dean army crawls over to Jack’s shoe. He carefully, carefully tugs at the laces until they’re completely untied and silently congratulates himself.
Just as Dean predicted, Jack immediately realizes the issue when he goes to walk away, his foot nearly coming out of his shoe. “Dang it.”
His mom honks the car once, impatient to get to work.
“Just a minute! I’ll be right there!”
And just as Dean hoped, Jack drops his backpack in order to tie his shoe.
Dean’s never been more grateful for ugly motel carpet. It masks the sound of him tiptoeing perilously close exposing the secret world of toys, but it’s a risk Dean has to take. For his pride and Jack’s happiness alike. Right? Right.
At the next honk — a twofer this time — Dean lifts the zipper just enough to slip inside the bag.
“What do you think you’re doing?!” Cas’s voice hisses in the dark.
“Saving Jack from making a big mistake.”
“You’re ridiculous.” A swipe of Cas’s hand knocks Dean’s foot to one side.
“Shh. Keep it down!”
“Then get your spurs out of my face!”
Dean tries to adjust his position so he’s no longer in danger of forcing Cas to lick his boot (as much as he might’ve liked to see it — metaphorically speaking), when the bag is lifted up, jostling the contents so that Dean falls forward. His nose collides with something metallic. “Oof.”
“Uh, Dean?”
“Yeah?”
“Would you kindly remove yourself from my belt buckle?”
As he squirms to one side, sardining himself beside this stranger whose crotch he was just getting acquainted with, he thinks it’s a good thing toys can’t die of embarrassment.
The ride to school is uneventful, all things considered. A few mutterings of “watch it!” and other assorted grumblings aside, Dean and Cas spend the duration of the trip silently brooding so as not to raise suspicion from Jack or Kelly. At one point, Dean could swear he felt Cas’s pinky brush his, but with how unorganized Jack’s bag is, it could’ve just as easily been the edge of a ruler.
When the car idles in the drop-off lane and the backpack is hoisted onto Jack’s shoulders, Dean buries himself as far down as he can, wedging between the bottom of the bag and a few wadded-up papers so he won’t be seen when Jack goes to retrieve his school supplies. If that sends a colored pencil up Cas’s nose, so be it.
Dean really doesn’t care for the weightless feeling of being flown through the air in a bag—not that a toy often has a choice in the matter, but Dean did this to himself of his own free will. Exhaling softly, he concentrates on his reasons for being here: keeping Cas out of trouble, Jack happy, and himself the favorite toy. He’s not really sure how to accomplish the last one, but he’ll think of something.
Fortunately, it doesn’t take long for Jack to skid through the hallways and zip into his room with an apology to his teacher for being late already on his lips, prepared in advance. The backpack is hung from a hook alongside all the other students’ bags and the red folder withdrawn before Jack seats himself beside his classmates and gets to work listening to the teacher’s instructions.
With the sun now completely above the horizon and the overhead fluorescent bulbs of the classroom on full beam, slivers of light trickle into the bag from all angles. Through the zipper, between the stitching, and even via a hole in the side. Dean uses that worn spot in the fabric like a window, surveying the happenings around him. Mostly, it’s a constant low-level of activity as the kids are given assignments and talk amongst themselves or ask to use the restroom or sneak candy under their desks. He almost forgets Cas is there until an eraser hits him square in the ear. Hard.
“Dude. What gives?” he growls, rubbing at the spot. Hopefully he doesn’t have a giant rubber mark now in who-knows-what embarrassing shape.
Cas is staring at Dean from across the bag, a paperclip in his hand this time, ready to go. He’s seated atop a partially opened pencil case; clearly he has all the ammunition he could need. “What gives? What gives?” He slings the paperclip like a frisbee, and it narrowly misses Dean’s jugular when he dodges at the last instant. The guy’s a good shot.
“I’m chosen, hand-picked to be Jack’s toy. I’m honored that, among all the others, it has been deemed my mission to make this child happy—I’m sure you know how that goes.” He digs another eraser out of the case. His eyes lock on Dean’s as he juggles it one-handed, throwing it into the air and catching it, then doing it again. A threat.
“But then, when I get there, what happens? Less than five minutes into my new life, boots fresh on the ground, Dean Whateveryournameis comes up and makes me feel about as welcome as a rattlesnake at a rodeo.”
A sliver of guilt worms its way into Dean’s throat, but he chokes it down to deal with later. Or never.
“Well, you were in my spot,” Dean blurts, knowing it sounds pathetic before he even says it, exposing both his jealousy and insecurity at once, but unable to keep himself from the raised-hackle reaction anyway.
“So what? It’s not like he threw you in the garbage or something.” Dean flinches, but Cas doesn't notice and keeps going. “The kid obviously likes cowboys. I see no reason why he wouldn’t want to play with both of us.”
“You’re kidding, right? Have you seen you?”
“I haven’t, actually. Not really.”
“Right. Fresh out of the box,” Dean scoffs and drops his eyes, picking at a loose thread in the backpack with sudden interest. “Which is exactly my point. You’re all shiny and fresh and clean. No stains, no scuffs. No scratches or rips.” He’s so preoccupied with describing all the ways Cas might be better than him in the eyes of a child that he doesn’t realize Cas has shifted closer until he speaks again.
“I might not have a lot of experience with children, but I’d wager the good ones don’t just abandon their favorite toys because of a few dents and dings. And you know him better than I do, but Jack may still surprise you.”
The blue sheen of Cas’s eyes seems to sparkle in the speckled light intruding past the backpack’s plain black material. The sincerity would be endearing if Dean weren’t still feeling so guarded.
“Surprising me is what I'm worried about. Jack’s always been a good kid. Consistently takes care of his toys, including the ones he’s gotten secondhand,” Dean says, jerking a thumb at his own face. “But they all move on eventually.”
Cas is about to say something else when the teacher announces that it’s lunch time, effectively saving Dean from more uncomfortable elaboration. Half of the class makes a beeline for where their backpacks and lunch boxes are hanging. Jack doesn’t have a packed lunch—instead taking advantage of the school’s free lunch program each day—but he bounds over to his backpack anyhow, so Dean flattens himself against the bottom of the bag. Jack blindly reaches in and snags Cas for the break.
At the end of the school day, Cas having been returned to the backpack thankfully no worse for wear following recess, the classroom devolves into excited chatter as the kids move to clean up around their desks and split into groups for the bus loop or the parent pick-up line. From where Dean is still hiding snugly in the corner of Jack’s bag, he watches as Jack’s teacher calls him over to discuss something he can’t make out above the rest of the hubbub. Jack is nodding along with a smile, so at least it must be something of value to the boy.
Appeased that this trial is coming to a close and it’s almost time to go home, Dean pulls away from his makeshift window and settles back in, eyes closed, amongst the broken crayons and scraps of construction paper projects past.
His rest is short-lived.
Dean isn’t expecting to feel the bag lifting him, Cas, and all the school supplies airborne so soon, what with the way Jack was just talking to his teach clear across the room, but he doesn’t have time to analyze that before the backpack is slung over shoulders and bouncing up and down as its wearer takes off down the hallway toward the exit.
“No running, please!” another teacher calls out. The kid slows, and Dean eases his death grip on the miniature stapler he was clinging to like a bull rider thrown in a blender.
“I gotta get to the bus first or my brother will steal my seat!” comes the irritated reply—only Jack doesn’t ride the bus, and his voice isn’t pitched quite so high. In fact, stopping to look, Dean realizes that the wavy brown hair cascading around the sides of the backpack is both too long and too dark to belong to his kid.
They’ve been abducted!
Cas pushes around the folder that had blocked Dean from sight earlier when Cas had returned, but kept them separated until now. “Who is that?” he whispers. “What’s happening?”
“I don’t know. I don’t know,” Dean whispers back, trying to keep the panic out of his voice. They can’t let themselves be heard and they can’t do anything about the current situation or else risk being seen. They’re going to have to go along with it for now and the thought makes Dean dizzier than he’d been a moment ago when he was coming to understand what the pebbles inside a maraca must feel like.
They are helplessly carried onto one of a dozen identical school buses. Triumphant at having arrived first, the girl slides across an open bench seat and looks out the window, the backpack resting between her body and the metal bus wall.
The noise level on the bus grows as more children fill in the remaining seats, a cacophony of giggling, talking, shouting, and the restless shifting of small bodies in confined spaces, all ready for the weekend.
One of the last children to board plops down heavily next to the girl who yelps in surprise at the rough landing. “Chuck! You scared me.”
The boy laughs. “Boo!”
“You’re supposed to say that before you scare someone, dummy.”
“Hey! I’m gonna tell Mom.”
“Go ahead! I don’t care. I’ll tell her you stole my banana today.”
“Amaraaaa. You don’t even like bananas.”
“I was going to give it to my friend.”
“How come I’m not your friend?”
“Because you mess up my toys and you stink.”
“Why’d you take the window seat if you aren’t even going to use it?”
“I was using it until you bumped me.”
Seemingly inspired by her words, Chuck nudges his sister with his shoulder and a light shoving match starts, smushing Dean and Cas against each other with no room to breathe. Luckily they don’t need to, but that doesn’t remove the awkwardness of them repeatedly being pressed chest-to-chest in the midst of the squabble.
“Ya know Cas —oof— if you wanted to —ow— hug it out, you could’ve just asked,” Dean says quietly with a goofy grin. Their faces are so close and the bus so loud, he has no fear that anyone will hear.
“What are we going to —ah— do?”
“Gesundheit.”
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“Is that —ack— your answer? Do nothing?”
The bus driver yells back at the kids to settle down, and they finally break apart, giving the hidden toys some relief from being forced together ad nauseum. Even so, they don’t break apart very far. Somehow, Dean finds he doesn’t really mind. He almost misses the feel of being held close. Like a weighted blanket made of broad-chested cowboy.
“Dean?” Cas snaps his fingers in front of Dean’s face.
Oops. He’d been fantasi— thinking. He’d been thinking. Lost in thought. “Uh, what?”
“What’s the plan?”
“We’ll have to think of something when we get to where we’re going… wherever that is.”
A short bus ride later, they’re being dragged into a duplex which, frankly, could use a little love outside and in. Chuck and Amara split up at the top of the stairs, and the toys are carried into what must be Amara’s room. “Hi, Luci,” she says to a cat curled in the corner of the room. The cat responds by blinking up at her, yawning, and repositioning itself closer to the sunlight.
Amara sets her bag on the floor and flops down on her bed, opening a laptop. She plays a game, something about taking care of an online pet, while her actual pet snoozes on, seemingly satisfied with the lack of attention and an abundance of sun rays.
Several minutes go by with her in this state until the bedroom door opens and an adult, presumably a parent, pokes his head into the room. “Hey, I’m home. I’ll start making dinner in about an hour, okay?”
“Okay.”
“Do you have any homework? Chuck said he doesn’t.”
“Just some reading. I can do it before dinner.”
“Alright, honey.”
The door closes and the upper stairs creak with her father’s departure. As he goes, she flips the laptop closed and slides off the bed before stretching and loping over to where the backpack is slumped against the wall. She spots the hole in the side for the first time. “Aw, man. How’d that happen?”
With Amara’s hand on the bag, Dean feels Cas’s body go rigid at the same time as his own freezes in place, and the zipper zigs open. “What? Oh, no! Dad!”
Amara hops up and bolts out into the hallway after her father, knocking over the opened bag and spilling its contents—including the two cowboys—across the floor.
“Dean, we need to—” Footsteps. Mid-sentence, Cas’s face goes blank again. Although he can’t see what’s going on, can only see Cas, Dean follows suit.
“Oh, hellooo.” Still as a couple of corpses, Dean and Cas are both lifted skyward and turned to face Chuck. The boy is wearing a smile, but it belies an inner devil. “Since Amara doesn’t want you, I guess you’re mine, now.”
He must have overheard his sister explaining the backpack mixup and decided to come rifle through Jack’s belongings. Dean wishes he were at least half this kid’s size so he could kick him in the shin. What a jerk.
They’re whisked away to Chuck’s room, and Dean could swear the difference in their bedrooms is like night and day. He had no idea twins could be such polar opposites. Where Amara’s room had been light and clean, Chuck’s is dreary and cluttered. Clothes lie strewn about, full outfits in some cases, giving the room a just-raptured vibe. To Dean’s horror, virtually every surface not occupied by discarded apparel is covered in a mass of everything from empty soda cans to hand tools to parts. Action figure legs, circuit boards, the beak from a rubber ducky. And then there are the creations. A rubber duck with a G.I. Joe for a head. Not just Joe’s head, but his entire upper body sticking out of the duck. A teddy bear in one corner has tongs and a whisk for hands. Toy soldiers with toothpicks sticking out of their torsos.
Pieces of destroyed playthings litter Chuck’s room like he’s turned it into some kind of Frankenstein laboratory. Dean would shudder, if he weren’t being inspected by the Swiss doctor himself.
“I’ve seen a million of you guys out there,” Chuck says to Cas and callously throws the newer toy onto his writing desk, sending draft pages of something or other flying when Cas’s body smacks into the wooden corner. Again, Dean represses a reaction when all he wants to do is cringe in sympathy. “But you are so retro!” he says to Dean.
Chuck spins Dean around, looking him up and down, from the name scrawled on Dean’s boot to the kerchief around his neck. He plucks at Dean’s vest, then, and his eyes go wide. “Woah, what’s this?”
Beneath Dean’s vest, through a hole in the flannel shirt, rests a pull string. Jack doesn’t use it, so it’s something Dean doesn’t advertise with the other toys. It doesn’t work very well anyway, the sound sometimes coming out distorted or malfunctioning entirely. It’s a reminder of how damaged he truly is. But now that Chuck’s discovered it, Dean knows what comes next. Knows it’ll be exploited.
Drawing on the mechanism calls forth a recording that crackles to life inside Dean’s chest. As the string re-coils, it plays Dean’s voice shouting an exuberant “Yeehaw! Ride like the wind, Baby!” and the sound of a horse’s contented whinny in the background.
Dang. He’d almost forgotten what his Baby sounded like. He’s missed that horse somethin’ fierce.
“Oh, man. I wonder what your voice box looks like,” Chuck muses, reaching for a pair of scissors. Dean can see the bloodlust in Chuck’s eyes when his reflection glints off the scissors moving into position right between his shoulder blades. He’d close his eyes if he could. Better yet, he’d close Cas’s eyes if he could. As it is, Cas has a front-row seat for the whole show.
The two halves of the scissors open with a schnick of metal-on-metal, but before Atropos can bring Dean to his ruin, Amara bursts through the door and startles Chuck into dropping the scissors. “Chuck! Give them back! They’re not yours!” she screeches, yanking Cas off the table.
“They’re not yours either, Mara!”
Amara makes a grab for Dean, gaining most of his body in the swipe, and the siblings clash in a vicious tug of war. There’s a shriek and a rip and suddenly both children are on the floor—Amara with Dean, and Chuck with…Dean’s arm.
“Great, you broke him!” Chuck shouts.
“You were going to break him anyway!”
“KIDS! TIME FOR DINNER!” their dad shouts up the stairs.
“Ugh, fine. You win. Take the stupid dolls,” Chuck says, throwing the arm at Amara and stomping out of the room.
Likely as hungry as her brother, Amara throws the two toys back into her room, on her bed, and closes the door behind her.
Dean is stunned silent. The entire interaction happened so fast, and now here he is, not just damaged, but broken. He can’t go back to Jack like this.
Cas sits up with a pained expression. He picks up Dean’s arm from where it had fallen and crawls over to Dean who is staring at the popcorn ceiling, catatonic.
“I think they’re finally gone for now,” Cas says, his deep voice even huskier than usual after the trauma of what they’ve just gone through. Dean doesn’t—can’t—react. If he does, he knows he’ll fall apart worse than his body has. “We have to go. Now. There’s a window up there and the latch looks weak.”
“Just go, Cas,” Dean says.
Cas smacks Dean with his own arm. In any other context, it might be funny. “I’m not going anywhere without you. Do you really want to end up like those monsters in the other room? Damn it, Dean, we can fix this.”
“It doesn’t matter.” Dean finally allows his head to loll to one side. “We’re all going to end up somewhere like this eventually. It happened with Ben and it’ll happen with Jack.”
Eyebrows knit together, Cas tilts his head. “Who’s Ben?”
Now he’s done it. Now he’s gone and shown Cas how deep the wound actually goes. “He was my kid. My first kid. I thought we’d be together forever, but he didn’t need me anymore, so I had to let him go. And now that Jack has you—or will when you get back to him—he’s going to do the same thing to me. Might as well let Chuck do what he wants.”
A scowl as fierce as the one Dean had faced upon their first meeting graces Cas’s face now as he shakes his head. “No. Here’s what’s going to happen. I’m going to put this arm back where it belongs,” Cas starts, lining up the ball with the socket of Dean’s shoulder. “And then we,” a shove, “are going,” another shove, “home!” The arm snaps into place with a resounding pop.
Sitting up slowly, Dean tests the limb. It spins around just as it did before, maybe a smidge more loosely, but altogether functional. Cas leans in, close, and for half a second, Dean gets the crazy idea he’s going to kiss him. Instead, he pulls the edge of Dean’s vest down to cover the ripped seam of his shirt. “Giddy up, cowboy.”
They quickly help each other up onto the window sill and jigger the window latch. Cas had been right; the window is just as poorly made as the rest of the home, making it easy for them to break out. On the roof, their luck seems to have at long last turned: Jack and Kelly’s motel is directly across the street! There’s even an old telephone wire leading from the roof where they are now to the motel parking lot. Maybe if they shimmy their way carefully, they could—
“Look out!”
Behind them, the cat leaps, Cas’s warning coming just in time for Dean to avoid a pair of claws to the face. When Dean looks to find the cat rounding on Cas, he’s baffled to find the other guy taking off his belt. “What are you—?”
“No time!” Cas dodges the cat’s next jump and rolls, coming up to swing his belt over the telephone wire, holding it with one hand. He extends the other. The cat is already rearing back, ready to pounce. Dean jumps at Cas and grips him tight as Cas sends them flying.
Wind rushes around them and Dean’s got his eyes shut tight, screaming against Cas’s shoulder until they’re suddenly tumbling to the pavement, landing in a heap of fabric and plastic limbs.
“We’re alive?” Dean asks. They stare at each other for longer than is necessary before Cas pulls Dean to his feet. “Holy crap, we’re alive! And Jack isn’t even back from dinner. Dude, I’m so happy I could kiss you right now.”
Cas laughs, abruptly shy after all that show of bravado. “So, why don’t you?” he asks, the smallest trace of fear creeping in as he looks up at Dean from under the brim of that hat of his.
Dean’s not about to look a gift horse in the mouth. Not that Cas is a horse. And not that he wouldn’t like to r—
He shuts up his own brain by pulling Cas in by the bolo tie and kissing him so hard his hat falls off. When they pull apart, Dean hears what sounds suspiciously like cheering coming from a particularly familiar suite, but he chooses not to give the other toys the satisfaction of acknowledging their presence, quite yet. He’d rather linger on Cas’s eyes.
“Hey Cas?”
“Yes, Dean?”
“Pull my string.”
Quirking an eyebrow, Cas does as requested.
From the very heart of him, Dean’s voice says, “You’re my favorite deputy!”
