[fic] Moon Flower 1/1
Feb. 24th, 2009 07:44 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
keire_keTitle: Moon Flower
Author: Keiran
Disclaimer: Not mine, intended for free entertainment of the author and the reader only.
Rating: PG
Genre: Romance
Pairing: Dean/Castiel
Warnings: none
Summary: Sam watches and worries and works as Dean wishes he could sleep and if perchance he could avoid dreaming, life would be just peachy.
AN: Written for![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
ukshewolfe as a part of ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
deancastiel Valentine fic exchange.
There are the long days. Sam knows those. They are tedious and problematic and leave them both wrenched and sleeping for days, sleeping so long they are woken by the insistent pounding of the motel owner, anxious for his money.
Then there are the very long days, those that drag forever and ever and however long you sleep the day is never really over. Sam has had days like these; One hundred and thirty nine days that no amount of sleep could end, unless it was the permanent kind.
The long nightmarish day ended, thankfully, but those that followed weren’t much better. Sam snorts wryly. He lies even now he tries to lie to himself. However bad the days got, he has Dean back and is all else fails he is content in the knowledge they are together again, for better or worse, they are a unit again- One serving of Winchesters, coming right up.
Except they are not quite right, and this is upsetting. Dean is suffering, still, and Sam has no idea how to make it better for him. Depressed Dean is upsetting in a number of ways, Sam finds. For one thing, it’s very hard to enjoy simple things without Dean being there glowing over a burger with extra onions, because there is no one to set the example. Sam sucks at enjoying the simple things, he knows, which is why Dean is crucial to his efforts.
He sighs his way through the interviews, partly because now more than ever he wishes he had been in Stanford right now, finish law and earning enough dough to put on a massive “Ghosts Are Real, Ask Me How” campaign. Honestly, he wonders how these people get from day to day, not being able to see past the ends of their own noses.
So maybe they saw something violating the laws of physics and cannot cope. A rational human being would revise the rules by which the universe operates and move on, correct? apparently not in this town.
“So it was like, totally out of this world, yanno?” the kid says, his eyes wide as saucers. “Rainbows and unicorns, man.”
“I see. Thank you for your time,” Sam says and closes his notebook with a snap. He leaves the kid gazing wonderingly at his palms, which apparently were crawling with fairies and butterflies.
This was the last time he interviews people who smoke shit as a hobby. He is desperate though, and running out of witnesses and Dean is getting more depressed by the minute, so it’s high time someone in this damn village stopped smoking pot and took some bloody notes.
He sighs, one more time, and turns towards the motel. This whole case has been a spectacular waste of his time. People saw fairies in this town, and not just kids on pot. Lawyers saw fairies in this town, which was just plain wrong, if you asked Sam.
Actually, the whole thing where people saw fairies seems odd to him, because fairies don’t exist, right? As it is he would be more than happy to write the whole thing off as a pot-induced visions of kids wandering the woods after hours. He is all but ready to pack up the business and move on, to another town. The Impala greets him with a soft purr when he turns the key in the ignition and he pats her dashboard. “We’re going back,” he says, feeling only vaguely silly about talking to the car.
The drive to the motel is mostly uneventful. He speeds a little, but the cop lets him go as soon as he flashes his dimpled smile at her. “Thanks, Officer,” Sam says, feeling only a little bad.
“No problem, Agent Ryan,” she says and grins back. “Just try to keep it under the limit, okay? As a personal favor.”
“I’ll do my best,” he promises, and drives away. He parks in front of the motel and gets out of the car, grabbing the bags from the back seat. He can only hope Dean will be feeling a little better after a day spent reading up on fairies and unicorns and butterflies. He covers a yawn with his hand as he opens the door to their room, but the cheerful “Dean, I have pie,” dies on his lips.
They have a visitor. Or rather, Dean has a visitor.
Sam isn’t really sure what to think or what to do with himself, save perhaps for going for the camera and posting the pictures on every corner, because holy shit, Castiel is an angel, and he is glorious.
His second thought is to rub his eyes, because he sees wings and light and glory.
His third thought is to yell “what the fuck!” really loud, because yes, Castiel is beautiful and terrifying in all his glory, and yes, he has wings and they shine, but most of all he is kissing Dean, Dean, who is sitting on the bed, his hands gripping the trench coat uncertainly.
Sam goes with his third thoughts. “What the fuck!” he yells, and Castiel straightens. The wings and the light are gone and Sam glares at him. Then he glares at Dean, because it didn’t look like assault was involved. “Seriously?” he asks and Dean has the sense to look embarrassed. His ears turn pink and he tries not to look Sam in the eyes.
“It isn’t what it looks like,” he says, looking at the floor.
“The floor doesn’t care, Dean,” Sam says, torn between laughter and anger. Then he remembers. “Did you do something?” he asks Castiel, who stands there looking contrite.
The angel gives him a long, puzzled, stare. “Excuse me?”
“I think I just saw you shining,” Sam elaborates, repressing the memory of the kissing going on under the guise of the light, because there are some things he’d prefer Dean to keep to himself. As much as he loves his brother, he wants him to keep his sex-life out of his sight. And earshot.
Castiel’s brows furrow. “That’s impossible.”
“No, I really did,” Sam says. For a moment there is awe, threatening to swallow him whole, because angels, man! Even though they prove to be bastards, the mere thought of there being angels makes him giddy, still.
“I have to go,” Castiel says, and before Sam has the chance to blink he is gone, leaving him alone with his brother- The same brother Sam just saw kissing an actual shiny angel.
“What was he doing here?” Sam asks, sitting down on his bed.
Dean sighs and the blush recedes. “The usual: Seal breaking; apocalypse approaching; saving the world.”
“Right,” Sam says, because he knows his brother is hot, but hot enough to have angels call on him for a final roll in the hay before the devil hits the fan, well, that’s a little too much information.
“Did you find anything?” Dean asks, and while Sam recognizes it as a desperate ploy to shift the conversation from the uncomfortable topics, he allows it.
“Nothing. The witnesses are kids who got stoned out in the woods. I think we are wasting our time,” Sam says.
“Except you just saw Castiel shine,” Dean says thoughtfully, still staring at the floor.
“Trick of light,” Sam says, even when he knows it was anything but.
“It might have been,” Dean nods and Sam sits up.
“You saw it too,” he says, fascinated.
Dean says nothing, but his gaze raises enough to rest on the chair by the wall.
“Okay, so we both saw something shiny. That doesn’t mean something is up,” Sam says. Something is definitely up, Sam thinks.
Dean shrugs. “I was reading on the fairies. We’d be better off it wasn’t them.” he picks up the book and opens it on a page showing a spidery thing chomping down on a human tooth. The rest of the human was just visible under an onslaught of a swarm of spidery things.
“Gross.”
“Yeah.”
“But what the kids saw was definitely not these fairies,” Sam says. “This kid was going on and on about unicorns and rainbows.”
“Maybe a fairy gay pride parade?” Dean suggests, flipping through the book. “The fae are supposed to have this thing called glamour. It makes them look alluring and beautiful.”
“So…”
“So, if they saw unicorns, this is definitely not the fairy tale we want.” Dean snapped the book shut.
“They were smoking,” Sam says.
“It’s not like we have anything better to do.”
For a fraction of a second Sam considered mentioning the seals and the Apocalypse. “Not really,” he says and opens his laptop.
Three hours later he surfaces from the pixel land with a puzzled from on his face. “Dean,” he says before he looks up. Dean is asleep, lying on top of the bedcovers still fully dressed. His head is resting on his arm and there are dark circles under his eyes. Sam stands up, to cover him with the duvet from the other bed and it speaks volumes that Dean doesn't stir. Sam stands there for a few moments, his heart in his mouth, because this is Dean, and yet he looks fragile like a glass figurine, like he would break if Sam came too close.
Sam doesn’t have the heart to wake him. He returns to the laptop and amuses himself for another hour, which is when Dean gasps and sits up.
“Dean!” Sam is out of his chair and halfway across the room. “What is it?”
“She sleeps,” Dean says. His eyes are rolled up in his head, Sam notes with alarm, and his voice sounds throaty, as if it’s coming from someplace not often visited. “She sleeps too far to see what she does.”
“Dean!” Sam calls again and this time Dean blinks and wakes.
“What the hell?” he mutters, rubbing at his eyes.
“You okay?” Sam asks, and if it comes out a little too high pitched, Dean doesn’t notice.
“Yeah. I had a dream,” he says.
“Thank you, Dr Luther.”
“There was this lady,” Dean continues, ignoring Sam. “She’s asleep, I dunno, comatose probably. There was an IV and sunshine. And fairies,” he adds with considerable distaste.
“Fairies.”
“Yeah. Kinda short, thin dude. Pointy ears, no shoes.” Dean clearly doesn’t believe what he is saying, or that he is saying this.
“You saw a gnome,” Sam says then he rolls the statement in his mind. It’s just as crazy with time around.
“Believe me, I wish was kidding.”
“I think I found something, too,” Sam says, because it’s easier to accept reality as it is and move on. “Look, all the sightings started in town seven months ago. I looked through the local news, around that time, and what I managed to find was a local psychic being in an accident.”
“Where’s she buried?”
“She wasn’t. She’s comatose.”
“Right,” Dean says. “How does that help?”
“Comatose means her spirit might be roaming the town.”
“And procuring unicorns? Because I’m telling you, man, the fucking hobbit seemed real enough.”
“You were dreaming, Dean.”
“Yeah, well, it looked real!”
“You realize we’re going to have hordes of angry fans after our lives if we off a hobbit?”
“Hobbits are tenacious little buggers,” Dean says. “Someone will thank us, in the long run.”
Sam makes no comment, because what does one say to offing a hobbit? Hurray? Shame on you and your family?
Their first stop in the morning is the house of the old psychic. It’s surprising in its normalcy. The paint is peeling, but the drapes in the window are clean, hanging over bowls of petunias. There is an afghan on the porch, still damp from the morning dew. Sam knocks on the door and watches his brother shiver and shift.
No one answers for a long time, so Sam, counting the seconds in his head, crouches and pulls a lock pick out of his pocket. The door offers token resistance and opens with a soft creak. Sam takes a careful peak inside – no one cared about their entry so far. The living room was empty and clean, the sort of clean that suggests hired help and not living dusting.
"That looks cheerful," Dean says, picking up a wicked knife.
"It's ceremonial," Sam says. He's seen a similar illustration in a book. "They were used for slaughtering lambs."
"Like I said, cheerful." Dean looks around the room. "Doesn't look like she's been here in a while."
"She's in a coma, Dean."
"That must suck."
"Being in a coma?"
"Cleaning the house," Dean says, grinning wide. "Don't know why anyone would bother." Sam's not buying it.
The lady upstairs is no Sleeping Beauty. She's wrinkled and old and her hair most resembles a coffee latte, white foam topping a soft brown. She looks peaceful though, with a slight smile on her mouth, and her hands folded comfortably on her stomach.
"Well that is vaguely disturbing," Dean says. "What do we do?" Sam shrugs, because he too is at a loss. There is nothing to indicate this woman is close to death, the medical equipment is limited to a catheter and an IV.
"I don't know," Sam says eventually. "We don't even know if it's her."
Dean stares out the window, at the beds of flowers underneath. "It's her," he says and moves away from the window. "Don’t ask."
Sam knows, in that moment, he really, really wants to know.
"So, back to the drawing board?" he ventures, while Dean scores the room for hex bags and any sign of foul play. "She is over sixty and diabetic."
"She's giving the town visions," Dean points out, though he looks out the windows as he says so.
"They haven't actually harmed anyone."
"They might."
"How's seeing hobbits going to harm anyone?"
"Hobbits are probably harmless," Dean agrees, "But those fairies that eat teeth? That's bound to scar a kid for life, eventually."
"There actually aren't any."
"Explain the one that's on the windowsill then," Dean says and extends a finger to a large insect sitting in the sunbeam. The beetle turns its antlers towards the appendage, considering, and then walks onto Dean's palm.
"That's gross."
"It would be worse, if it were inside out. Or actually trying to eat my teeth."
"It's a beetle, Dean."
"No, it's not," Dean says and Sam starts to worry for his mental health. "It's one of those suckers that can eat you alive." Sam isn't sure what he's supposed to think.
They go back the motel, after the beetle takes wing and leaves Dean's hand for greener pastures. "He was kinda cute," Dean says mournfully, watching as the beetle buzzes away.
"It had six legs."
"Eight."
"It's not helping your case."
"Yeah, I know."
Then they walk into their motel room and the relative adorability of the insect still high on their mind, because it staves off the question of what to do with the psychic, which is not something either of the wants to dwell on.
"We can't kill her," Sam says, shaking his head.
"She doesn't know she's doing it," Dean says. "But someone will sooner or later see something they weren't prepared for and yeah. That."
Sam stares at the wall. "What then?"
Then there is a knock on the door and both of them spring up. The knock is soft and awkward, which immediately puts Sam's mind at ease - not Ruby. Still he picks up his shotgun, because if a salt round would give Uma Thurman pause, no one is immune, and trains it at the door. He nods at Dean, who stands to the side, leaving him a clear shot. "Who is it?" Dean calls.
"Castiel," says the voice and Dean opens the door, his expression just a touch peculiar.
Then Castiel walks in and the expression sails from peculiar to instant classic, because Castiel in his arms carries a bouquet of flowers, of astounding magnitude, the likes of which Sam might have considered after college, when proposing.
"So, um. Should I step out?" he asks, feeling a little awkward and trying really hard not to burst out laughing. "Library," he clarifies, when Castiel holds out the flowers to Dean, expectantly. He makes no move to actually walk out though, because this is too good a show to miss. Dean's face is a picture.
"What?"
"The flowers, Dean," Castiel says and Sam briefly considers ducking under the table. "I brought them for you."
"What the fuck?" Dean asks, gritty and low. Castiel keeps looking at him, wide eyed, still holding the flowers in outstretched hands.
"I'll find a bottle of water," Sam says. He takes another look at the flowers. "Basin."
There is one under the sink, he recalls. He fills it with water and takes the bouquet from the angel, dropping it into the basin. He lacks the ikebana skills, but stepping back he realizes the flowers look awesome enough without arrangement to back them up. When he turns back Dean is still glaring at Castiel, who looks like he always does – unflappable.
"What the hell are they supposed to be?" Dean asks, jabbing a finger at the offending plants.
"Flowers," the angel replies sensibly.
Dean throws his hands into the air. "Flowers!"
Castiel cocks his head, like he tends to when he doesn't follow Dean's train of thought.
"You brought me flowers! What the fuck?"
Castiel waits.
"Do I look like a girl to you?" Dean asks, jabbing a finger in Castiel's chest.
Castiel looks puzzled by the question. "What relevance does that have?"
"Okay, that's it." Dean tears the doors open and storms out. Sam hears the engine of the Impala rumbling as Dean leaves the premises.
Sam turns to the angel, raising a brow. "Was that really necessary?" he asks, awkwardly, because this is the first time he has the chance to speak privately with a mostly benevolent angel.
"Dean's memories are returning faster than I expected," the angel says. "I can't stop them now."
"Now?"
"I blocked them, as much as I could. Dean's mind broke through the block."
A curse leaps from Sam's lips. "There's nothing we can do?"
"I brought flowers," Castiel says and Sam, were he a teenaged girl, would coo, because the angel is adorable at that moment.
"How's that supposed to help? No offence, but romancing Dean with flowers doesn't seem like a solution when you're out in the field all the time."
"They are moon flowers," Castiel says.
“And?”
“I have to go,” the angel says and before Sam can ask for clarification he is gone. He hopes the bastard has the decency to stop by at wherever Dean is, because it would be unfair if Sam was to be the sole beneficiary of all the yelling that’s bound to follow.
Castiel proves he is every inch the asshole Dean says he is. When Dean storms back into the room, mercifully sober, as he cares about the car too much to risk wrecking her, he is still pissed. He has the booze with him and he pauses in front of the flowers to give them his opinion on their existence, an opinion that’s mostly scathing.
“What the fuck was he thinking?” Dean asks, taking a swing of whiskey.
Sam looks up from the laptop. “Probably that you might need some help sleeping,” he offers, because three hours online yielded some insight into the workings of an angelic mind. “These are moon flowers,” he says. Dean opens his mouth but Sam doesn’t leave him room to speak. “Also marijuana and dreamroot. And some other herbs.”
Dean is silent. “What?”
“I think Castiel wants you to have a party, Dean,” Sam says, feeling a smirk coming on.
“A party?”
“Look, the psychic is asleep, right? And now we can talk to her.”
“I fail to see how is that going to help,” Dean mutters, but when, five hours later, Sam approaches him with a foul-smelling concoction (turns out the tiny card wasn’t “love, Castiel,” but a recipe, but he pockets it anyway), he downs it without protest. He does say it’s the most vile thing he’d ever tasted, and that he hates angels, and the universe, and that even the Apocalypse has to be better than this shit, but he drinks it all the same, way before Sam has the chance to even raise his glass.
“Cheers,” Sam says clinking his glass against the one in Dean’s limp hand. He raises the glass again, then decides against it. Dean can handle himself.
Whether it’s the magic of the dreamroot or the flowers or angelic mojo, Dean doesn’t stir for hours. Sam is starting to get worried when the sun comes up and Dean keeps breathing evenly, like a newborn, in and out, like Hell wasn’t even an issue in his subconscious mind.
It is around noon that Dean finally wakes up and Sam breathes out, because there’s only so much staring at his unconscious brother that he can take without flipping out.
“Son of a bitch,” Dean says to Sam as he comes awake, holding a palm to his face.
“Dean, we are brothers,” Sam says, grinning. Dean gives him an evil glare, but he looks rested and healthier than he had for a long while, and so Sam feels giddy. Bless Castiel and the horse he rode in on. “How did it go?”
“Like a lead balloon,” Dean says and sits up slowly.
“But it worked, right?”
“She died, Sam.”
For a moment Sam says nothing. Then: “She died?”
“There was a Reaper with her, the whole time. She thought it was a hobbit, so when it wanted to take her away she refused, said she was waiting for the other two.”
Sam stares at his brother. “Reapers come in hobbit flavor now?”
Dean grimaces, but the image latches itself to his brain and he cannot help but snort. “Hobbit Reapers.” He goes to the bathroom, still snickering, and pauses when he sees the flowers, what’s left of them, floating in the basin. “We’ve got some left?”
“Those weren’t part of the recipe,” Sam says without looking.
“Huh,” Dean says and disappears into the bathroom.
Dean sleeps better, is what Sam notices in the days that follow. He still doesn’t sleep through the night, but he does sleep and more importantly he rests. He also starts to reread Dad’s journal whenever he has time, sometimes when he doesn’t, and Sam feels he deserves an awesome brother award, because of how he doesn’t mention the drying flower he finds between the entry on ghouls and Nessie. He just smiles, packs the notebook into his bag and makes a mental note that he owes Castiel a beer.
END.
Author: Keiran
Disclaimer: Not mine, intended for free entertainment of the author and the reader only.
Rating: PG
Genre: Romance
Pairing: Dean/Castiel
Warnings: none
Summary: Sam watches and worries and works as Dean wishes he could sleep and if perchance he could avoid dreaming, life would be just peachy.
AN: Written for
ukshewolfe as a part of deancastiel Valentine fic exchange. There are the long days. Sam knows those. They are tedious and problematic and leave them both wrenched and sleeping for days, sleeping so long they are woken by the insistent pounding of the motel owner, anxious for his money.
Then there are the very long days, those that drag forever and ever and however long you sleep the day is never really over. Sam has had days like these; One hundred and thirty nine days that no amount of sleep could end, unless it was the permanent kind.
The long nightmarish day ended, thankfully, but those that followed weren’t much better. Sam snorts wryly. He lies even now he tries to lie to himself. However bad the days got, he has Dean back and is all else fails he is content in the knowledge they are together again, for better or worse, they are a unit again- One serving of Winchesters, coming right up.
Except they are not quite right, and this is upsetting. Dean is suffering, still, and Sam has no idea how to make it better for him. Depressed Dean is upsetting in a number of ways, Sam finds. For one thing, it’s very hard to enjoy simple things without Dean being there glowing over a burger with extra onions, because there is no one to set the example. Sam sucks at enjoying the simple things, he knows, which is why Dean is crucial to his efforts.
He sighs his way through the interviews, partly because now more than ever he wishes he had been in Stanford right now, finish law and earning enough dough to put on a massive “Ghosts Are Real, Ask Me How” campaign. Honestly, he wonders how these people get from day to day, not being able to see past the ends of their own noses.
So maybe they saw something violating the laws of physics and cannot cope. A rational human being would revise the rules by which the universe operates and move on, correct? apparently not in this town.
“So it was like, totally out of this world, yanno?” the kid says, his eyes wide as saucers. “Rainbows and unicorns, man.”
“I see. Thank you for your time,” Sam says and closes his notebook with a snap. He leaves the kid gazing wonderingly at his palms, which apparently were crawling with fairies and butterflies.
This was the last time he interviews people who smoke shit as a hobby. He is desperate though, and running out of witnesses and Dean is getting more depressed by the minute, so it’s high time someone in this damn village stopped smoking pot and took some bloody notes.
He sighs, one more time, and turns towards the motel. This whole case has been a spectacular waste of his time. People saw fairies in this town, and not just kids on pot. Lawyers saw fairies in this town, which was just plain wrong, if you asked Sam.
Actually, the whole thing where people saw fairies seems odd to him, because fairies don’t exist, right? As it is he would be more than happy to write the whole thing off as a pot-induced visions of kids wandering the woods after hours. He is all but ready to pack up the business and move on, to another town. The Impala greets him with a soft purr when he turns the key in the ignition and he pats her dashboard. “We’re going back,” he says, feeling only vaguely silly about talking to the car.
The drive to the motel is mostly uneventful. He speeds a little, but the cop lets him go as soon as he flashes his dimpled smile at her. “Thanks, Officer,” Sam says, feeling only a little bad.
“No problem, Agent Ryan,” she says and grins back. “Just try to keep it under the limit, okay? As a personal favor.”
“I’ll do my best,” he promises, and drives away. He parks in front of the motel and gets out of the car, grabbing the bags from the back seat. He can only hope Dean will be feeling a little better after a day spent reading up on fairies and unicorns and butterflies. He covers a yawn with his hand as he opens the door to their room, but the cheerful “Dean, I have pie,” dies on his lips.
They have a visitor. Or rather, Dean has a visitor.
Sam isn’t really sure what to think or what to do with himself, save perhaps for going for the camera and posting the pictures on every corner, because holy shit, Castiel is an angel, and he is glorious.
His second thought is to rub his eyes, because he sees wings and light and glory.
His third thought is to yell “what the fuck!” really loud, because yes, Castiel is beautiful and terrifying in all his glory, and yes, he has wings and they shine, but most of all he is kissing Dean, Dean, who is sitting on the bed, his hands gripping the trench coat uncertainly.
Sam goes with his third thoughts. “What the fuck!” he yells, and Castiel straightens. The wings and the light are gone and Sam glares at him. Then he glares at Dean, because it didn’t look like assault was involved. “Seriously?” he asks and Dean has the sense to look embarrassed. His ears turn pink and he tries not to look Sam in the eyes.
“It isn’t what it looks like,” he says, looking at the floor.
“The floor doesn’t care, Dean,” Sam says, torn between laughter and anger. Then he remembers. “Did you do something?” he asks Castiel, who stands there looking contrite.
The angel gives him a long, puzzled, stare. “Excuse me?”
“I think I just saw you shining,” Sam elaborates, repressing the memory of the kissing going on under the guise of the light, because there are some things he’d prefer Dean to keep to himself. As much as he loves his brother, he wants him to keep his sex-life out of his sight. And earshot.
Castiel’s brows furrow. “That’s impossible.”
“No, I really did,” Sam says. For a moment there is awe, threatening to swallow him whole, because angels, man! Even though they prove to be bastards, the mere thought of there being angels makes him giddy, still.
“I have to go,” Castiel says, and before Sam has the chance to blink he is gone, leaving him alone with his brother- The same brother Sam just saw kissing an actual shiny angel.
“What was he doing here?” Sam asks, sitting down on his bed.
Dean sighs and the blush recedes. “The usual: Seal breaking; apocalypse approaching; saving the world.”
“Right,” Sam says, because he knows his brother is hot, but hot enough to have angels call on him for a final roll in the hay before the devil hits the fan, well, that’s a little too much information.
“Did you find anything?” Dean asks, and while Sam recognizes it as a desperate ploy to shift the conversation from the uncomfortable topics, he allows it.
“Nothing. The witnesses are kids who got stoned out in the woods. I think we are wasting our time,” Sam says.
“Except you just saw Castiel shine,” Dean says thoughtfully, still staring at the floor.
“Trick of light,” Sam says, even when he knows it was anything but.
“It might have been,” Dean nods and Sam sits up.
“You saw it too,” he says, fascinated.
Dean says nothing, but his gaze raises enough to rest on the chair by the wall.
“Okay, so we both saw something shiny. That doesn’t mean something is up,” Sam says. Something is definitely up, Sam thinks.
Dean shrugs. “I was reading on the fairies. We’d be better off it wasn’t them.” he picks up the book and opens it on a page showing a spidery thing chomping down on a human tooth. The rest of the human was just visible under an onslaught of a swarm of spidery things.
“Gross.”
“Yeah.”
“But what the kids saw was definitely not these fairies,” Sam says. “This kid was going on and on about unicorns and rainbows.”
“Maybe a fairy gay pride parade?” Dean suggests, flipping through the book. “The fae are supposed to have this thing called glamour. It makes them look alluring and beautiful.”
“So…”
“So, if they saw unicorns, this is definitely not the fairy tale we want.” Dean snapped the book shut.
“They were smoking,” Sam says.
“It’s not like we have anything better to do.”
For a fraction of a second Sam considered mentioning the seals and the Apocalypse. “Not really,” he says and opens his laptop.
Three hours later he surfaces from the pixel land with a puzzled from on his face. “Dean,” he says before he looks up. Dean is asleep, lying on top of the bedcovers still fully dressed. His head is resting on his arm and there are dark circles under his eyes. Sam stands up, to cover him with the duvet from the other bed and it speaks volumes that Dean doesn't stir. Sam stands there for a few moments, his heart in his mouth, because this is Dean, and yet he looks fragile like a glass figurine, like he would break if Sam came too close.
Sam doesn’t have the heart to wake him. He returns to the laptop and amuses himself for another hour, which is when Dean gasps and sits up.
“Dean!” Sam is out of his chair and halfway across the room. “What is it?”
“She sleeps,” Dean says. His eyes are rolled up in his head, Sam notes with alarm, and his voice sounds throaty, as if it’s coming from someplace not often visited. “She sleeps too far to see what she does.”
“Dean!” Sam calls again and this time Dean blinks and wakes.
“What the hell?” he mutters, rubbing at his eyes.
“You okay?” Sam asks, and if it comes out a little too high pitched, Dean doesn’t notice.
“Yeah. I had a dream,” he says.
“Thank you, Dr Luther.”
“There was this lady,” Dean continues, ignoring Sam. “She’s asleep, I dunno, comatose probably. There was an IV and sunshine. And fairies,” he adds with considerable distaste.
“Fairies.”
“Yeah. Kinda short, thin dude. Pointy ears, no shoes.” Dean clearly doesn’t believe what he is saying, or that he is saying this.
“You saw a gnome,” Sam says then he rolls the statement in his mind. It’s just as crazy with time around.
“Believe me, I wish was kidding.”
“I think I found something, too,” Sam says, because it’s easier to accept reality as it is and move on. “Look, all the sightings started in town seven months ago. I looked through the local news, around that time, and what I managed to find was a local psychic being in an accident.”
“Where’s she buried?”
“She wasn’t. She’s comatose.”
“Right,” Dean says. “How does that help?”
“Comatose means her spirit might be roaming the town.”
“And procuring unicorns? Because I’m telling you, man, the fucking hobbit seemed real enough.”
“You were dreaming, Dean.”
“Yeah, well, it looked real!”
“You realize we’re going to have hordes of angry fans after our lives if we off a hobbit?”
“Hobbits are tenacious little buggers,” Dean says. “Someone will thank us, in the long run.”
Sam makes no comment, because what does one say to offing a hobbit? Hurray? Shame on you and your family?
Their first stop in the morning is the house of the old psychic. It’s surprising in its normalcy. The paint is peeling, but the drapes in the window are clean, hanging over bowls of petunias. There is an afghan on the porch, still damp from the morning dew. Sam knocks on the door and watches his brother shiver and shift.
No one answers for a long time, so Sam, counting the seconds in his head, crouches and pulls a lock pick out of his pocket. The door offers token resistance and opens with a soft creak. Sam takes a careful peak inside – no one cared about their entry so far. The living room was empty and clean, the sort of clean that suggests hired help and not living dusting.
"That looks cheerful," Dean says, picking up a wicked knife.
"It's ceremonial," Sam says. He's seen a similar illustration in a book. "They were used for slaughtering lambs."
"Like I said, cheerful." Dean looks around the room. "Doesn't look like she's been here in a while."
"She's in a coma, Dean."
"That must suck."
"Being in a coma?"
"Cleaning the house," Dean says, grinning wide. "Don't know why anyone would bother." Sam's not buying it.
The lady upstairs is no Sleeping Beauty. She's wrinkled and old and her hair most resembles a coffee latte, white foam topping a soft brown. She looks peaceful though, with a slight smile on her mouth, and her hands folded comfortably on her stomach.
"Well that is vaguely disturbing," Dean says. "What do we do?" Sam shrugs, because he too is at a loss. There is nothing to indicate this woman is close to death, the medical equipment is limited to a catheter and an IV.
"I don't know," Sam says eventually. "We don't even know if it's her."
Dean stares out the window, at the beds of flowers underneath. "It's her," he says and moves away from the window. "Don’t ask."
Sam knows, in that moment, he really, really wants to know.
"So, back to the drawing board?" he ventures, while Dean scores the room for hex bags and any sign of foul play. "She is over sixty and diabetic."
"She's giving the town visions," Dean points out, though he looks out the windows as he says so.
"They haven't actually harmed anyone."
"They might."
"How's seeing hobbits going to harm anyone?"
"Hobbits are probably harmless," Dean agrees, "But those fairies that eat teeth? That's bound to scar a kid for life, eventually."
"There actually aren't any."
"Explain the one that's on the windowsill then," Dean says and extends a finger to a large insect sitting in the sunbeam. The beetle turns its antlers towards the appendage, considering, and then walks onto Dean's palm.
"That's gross."
"It would be worse, if it were inside out. Or actually trying to eat my teeth."
"It's a beetle, Dean."
"No, it's not," Dean says and Sam starts to worry for his mental health. "It's one of those suckers that can eat you alive." Sam isn't sure what he's supposed to think.
They go back the motel, after the beetle takes wing and leaves Dean's hand for greener pastures. "He was kinda cute," Dean says mournfully, watching as the beetle buzzes away.
"It had six legs."
"Eight."
"It's not helping your case."
"Yeah, I know."
Then they walk into their motel room and the relative adorability of the insect still high on their mind, because it staves off the question of what to do with the psychic, which is not something either of the wants to dwell on.
"We can't kill her," Sam says, shaking his head.
"She doesn't know she's doing it," Dean says. "But someone will sooner or later see something they weren't prepared for and yeah. That."
Sam stares at the wall. "What then?"
Then there is a knock on the door and both of them spring up. The knock is soft and awkward, which immediately puts Sam's mind at ease - not Ruby. Still he picks up his shotgun, because if a salt round would give Uma Thurman pause, no one is immune, and trains it at the door. He nods at Dean, who stands to the side, leaving him a clear shot. "Who is it?" Dean calls.
"Castiel," says the voice and Dean opens the door, his expression just a touch peculiar.
Then Castiel walks in and the expression sails from peculiar to instant classic, because Castiel in his arms carries a bouquet of flowers, of astounding magnitude, the likes of which Sam might have considered after college, when proposing.
"So, um. Should I step out?" he asks, feeling a little awkward and trying really hard not to burst out laughing. "Library," he clarifies, when Castiel holds out the flowers to Dean, expectantly. He makes no move to actually walk out though, because this is too good a show to miss. Dean's face is a picture.
"What?"
"The flowers, Dean," Castiel says and Sam briefly considers ducking under the table. "I brought them for you."
"What the fuck?" Dean asks, gritty and low. Castiel keeps looking at him, wide eyed, still holding the flowers in outstretched hands.
"I'll find a bottle of water," Sam says. He takes another look at the flowers. "Basin."
There is one under the sink, he recalls. He fills it with water and takes the bouquet from the angel, dropping it into the basin. He lacks the ikebana skills, but stepping back he realizes the flowers look awesome enough without arrangement to back them up. When he turns back Dean is still glaring at Castiel, who looks like he always does – unflappable.
"What the hell are they supposed to be?" Dean asks, jabbing a finger at the offending plants.
"Flowers," the angel replies sensibly.
Dean throws his hands into the air. "Flowers!"
Castiel cocks his head, like he tends to when he doesn't follow Dean's train of thought.
"You brought me flowers! What the fuck?"
Castiel waits.
"Do I look like a girl to you?" Dean asks, jabbing a finger in Castiel's chest.
Castiel looks puzzled by the question. "What relevance does that have?"
"Okay, that's it." Dean tears the doors open and storms out. Sam hears the engine of the Impala rumbling as Dean leaves the premises.
Sam turns to the angel, raising a brow. "Was that really necessary?" he asks, awkwardly, because this is the first time he has the chance to speak privately with a mostly benevolent angel.
"Dean's memories are returning faster than I expected," the angel says. "I can't stop them now."
"Now?"
"I blocked them, as much as I could. Dean's mind broke through the block."
A curse leaps from Sam's lips. "There's nothing we can do?"
"I brought flowers," Castiel says and Sam, were he a teenaged girl, would coo, because the angel is adorable at that moment.
"How's that supposed to help? No offence, but romancing Dean with flowers doesn't seem like a solution when you're out in the field all the time."
"They are moon flowers," Castiel says.
“And?”
“I have to go,” the angel says and before Sam can ask for clarification he is gone. He hopes the bastard has the decency to stop by at wherever Dean is, because it would be unfair if Sam was to be the sole beneficiary of all the yelling that’s bound to follow.
Castiel proves he is every inch the asshole Dean says he is. When Dean storms back into the room, mercifully sober, as he cares about the car too much to risk wrecking her, he is still pissed. He has the booze with him and he pauses in front of the flowers to give them his opinion on their existence, an opinion that’s mostly scathing.
“What the fuck was he thinking?” Dean asks, taking a swing of whiskey.
Sam looks up from the laptop. “Probably that you might need some help sleeping,” he offers, because three hours online yielded some insight into the workings of an angelic mind. “These are moon flowers,” he says. Dean opens his mouth but Sam doesn’t leave him room to speak. “Also marijuana and dreamroot. And some other herbs.”
Dean is silent. “What?”
“I think Castiel wants you to have a party, Dean,” Sam says, feeling a smirk coming on.
“A party?”
“Look, the psychic is asleep, right? And now we can talk to her.”
“I fail to see how is that going to help,” Dean mutters, but when, five hours later, Sam approaches him with a foul-smelling concoction (turns out the tiny card wasn’t “love, Castiel,” but a recipe, but he pockets it anyway), he downs it without protest. He does say it’s the most vile thing he’d ever tasted, and that he hates angels, and the universe, and that even the Apocalypse has to be better than this shit, but he drinks it all the same, way before Sam has the chance to even raise his glass.
“Cheers,” Sam says clinking his glass against the one in Dean’s limp hand. He raises the glass again, then decides against it. Dean can handle himself.
Whether it’s the magic of the dreamroot or the flowers or angelic mojo, Dean doesn’t stir for hours. Sam is starting to get worried when the sun comes up and Dean keeps breathing evenly, like a newborn, in and out, like Hell wasn’t even an issue in his subconscious mind.
It is around noon that Dean finally wakes up and Sam breathes out, because there’s only so much staring at his unconscious brother that he can take without flipping out.
“Son of a bitch,” Dean says to Sam as he comes awake, holding a palm to his face.
“Dean, we are brothers,” Sam says, grinning. Dean gives him an evil glare, but he looks rested and healthier than he had for a long while, and so Sam feels giddy. Bless Castiel and the horse he rode in on. “How did it go?”
“Like a lead balloon,” Dean says and sits up slowly.
“But it worked, right?”
“She died, Sam.”
For a moment Sam says nothing. Then: “She died?”
“There was a Reaper with her, the whole time. She thought it was a hobbit, so when it wanted to take her away she refused, said she was waiting for the other two.”
Sam stares at his brother. “Reapers come in hobbit flavor now?”
Dean grimaces, but the image latches itself to his brain and he cannot help but snort. “Hobbit Reapers.” He goes to the bathroom, still snickering, and pauses when he sees the flowers, what’s left of them, floating in the basin. “We’ve got some left?”
“Those weren’t part of the recipe,” Sam says without looking.
“Huh,” Dean says and disappears into the bathroom.
Dean sleeps better, is what Sam notices in the days that follow. He still doesn’t sleep through the night, but he does sleep and more importantly he rests. He also starts to reread Dad’s journal whenever he has time, sometimes when he doesn’t, and Sam feels he deserves an awesome brother award, because of how he doesn’t mention the drying flower he finds between the entry on ghouls and Nessie. He just smiles, packs the notebook into his bag and makes a mental note that he owes Castiel a beer.
END.
