Wayward Son

Chapter 3

A terrified scream resounded through the vents. Dean's head snapped up along with Sam's. Ruthie. Their eyes met for a split second—long enough for Dean to see his fear mirrored on Sam's face—then they were pounding toward the door. Dean's mind raced as fast as he ran. What could have gotten inside? Who knew they were here? Would they be too late? He didn't even have his gun on him, but it didn't matter. If anything had hurt Ruthie, he'd tear it apart with his bare hands.

Dean flew up the stairs, Sam's footsteps banging right behind him.

"Bathroom!" Sam shouted.

Dean wished she would scream again. Her silence was far worse.

He reached the top and put on a burst of speed. They charged down the hallway, past her bedroom. His wet shoes skidded on the floor as they whipped around the corner. A shriek—

A wet, white blur crashed into Dean and bounced off him. Dark hair, wide brown eyes—Ruthie. Thank God. She was white-faced, soaking, and naked except for the towel she clutched to her chest. Dean reached out and grabbed her arms before she could fall backward.

"Dean!" she cried, clinging to him. Then she spun, pressed her back against him, and pointed down the hallway toward the bathroom. "He's still in there."

Sam aimed his gun at the bathroom door. He motioned for Dean to stay there with Ruthie, and edged forward. Dean curled his hands protectively around Ruthie's shoulders. He'd shove her down the hallway, out of harm's way if he needed to.

The bathroom door creaked open. A man emerged, and walked toward them. His face was wet and dripping. So were the front of his white button-down shirt, blue tie, and trench coat.

Dean scowled at the intruder.

Sam exhaled and lowered the gun. "Ruthie, meet Castiel."

Her head swiveled between Sam and Cas. "You're Castiel? I'm so sorry; I thought you were Dean coming to get me back, so I..." She trailed off; then her tone sharpened. "What were you doing in there?"

Cas raised his hands. "I'm sorry; I didn't mean to startle you. I assumed you were Sam or Dean. I came to talk."

Dean rolled his eyes. On their way down, they landed on Ruthie's wet, bare back. He swallowed hard, and snapped his gaze back up again.

Too late.

He'd just realized that the towel she clutched to her chest hung straight down, leaving her back uncovered, except by him. When she'd first crashed into him and spun around, he'd been too relieved she was okay to think about the fact that she was half naked. Or about the heat of her uncovered skin seeping through his wet clothes. Now, every cell in his body zeroed in, mapping the gentle slope of her back, the round, perfect curve of. . .below her back.

"I shoved an angel," Ruthie said, sounding mortified.

Cas gave his head a jerky little shake, looking flustered. "It's okay."

"But I knocked you over!"

Cas pressed his lips together and looked up at the ceiling.

Sam did a double take, then gaped at Cas while an open-mouthed grin spread across his face. "She did?"

"The floor was wet," Cas muttered. "I slipped."

Sam threw his head back and laughed, but Dean was too distracted to appreciate the humor. Every molecule was working overtime, memorizing each square inch: the resistance of firm muscle, the warmth of soft skin molding itself to him. This was not helping his Stay-Friends-With-Ruthie plan. He needed to put some distance between them. He couldn't just step back from her; she'd be exposed. But if they stood here like this any longer, his body was going to betray him and tell her exactly how he was feeling at the moment—how he'd been feeling for a long time. Well, he could at least stop touching her. He took his hands off her shoulders, but then couldn't figure out where to put them. Crossing his arms was impossible, and letting them hang at his sides would leave his hands way too close to. . .places. He held his hands up by his head. "Uh, Ruthie . . ."