Falling Stars

Chapter Ten

Cas…” I call out for the millionth time. “Castiel?”

“Hey, soldier brat.”

I look up from my spot on the floor, in the corner of the gold and white room. It feels like I’ve been here for days, weeks even. I’m hungry. I’m tired. I want to go back to the motel.

“Congratulations,” Zachariah says with false cheer. “Change of rules. I’m gonna drop you off outside of the box, send you on your way. Dealio?”

“What?” I squint up at the angel in confusion. He sighs.

“You’re free to go, chuckles.”

“Oh.” I can’t even muster up some happiness. “Why?”

Sure, Stirling, question the end of your imprisonment. Slick.

“Somebody loves you,” Zach says. Clearly he is not the somebody in question.

“Okay…” I’m still wary of his intentions. There’s something he’s not telling me.

“Let’s go, then.” Zachariah reaches a hand out to me. I bat it away, one whisker short of hissing. “Oh, please,” he snaps, grabbing hold of my shirt. I yell, caught off guard. Angel wings flutter and snap, and I crash to the ground.

I bend over, dry heaving dust out of my tired lungs. Should sue those angelic bitches, I think bitterly. Manhandling me like that. Mistreatment of hostages. Is that a thing?

I shake my head, push limp hair out of my eyes, and look around. It’s piercing bright out, and hotter than hell. I follow the shadow I’m crouched in with my eyes until I find it’s caster. A city sign. That was easy. Pontiac, Illinois. With the name rises a glimmer of recognition, but I don’t remember where I’ve heard it before.

“Cas,” I croak out, but my throat is so dry from the air and the dust that I barely get the first consonant out before I’m coughing lungs out of my lungs. That’s what it feel like, anyways.

I also notice I’m in a ditch, so I stumble out of it and trip onto the road. I throw my hands out to catch myself, and am met with searing asphalt. I curse, standing.

To the left, It’s road, road road. To the right, it’s road, road, and trees. I decide to set off that way. Trees mean shade, and the back of my neck already prickles with sweat. My hair keeps sticking to my skin and curling around my fingers when I run a hand through it. I pull a rubber band out of my pocket and pull it all into a knot at the top of my head, humming Metallica to try and cheer myself up.

“Bobby Singer?” I call out. As I wait for his appearance, I take in my surroundings. Hardly for curiosity's sake, of course. Before me, piles of old books. The cracked spines make them at least  hundred years old. That’s ancient, for a human. When I turn to look behind me, the hem of my trenchcoat catches a stack of papers. They cascade to the ground, crinkling and swooshing to the dusty floor.

“Cas? What’re you doin’ here? Where’s Sam? And Dean?”

I pause for a moment before answering. “Sam and Dean are at the motel. Dean is drunk. Sam is bored.”

“Shouldn’t you be out lookin’ for Stirling?” WHy do they ask so many questions?

“I found Stirling.”

Bobby starts with surprise. He raises a brow at me, in a sarcastically judgemental sort of way. I feel my vessel would sigh in anticipation of the brand of comment to come.

Sure enough: “Well, what’re you doin’ here, askin’ me to prom?”

“I don’t know what that is, but I can tell you that’s not what I’m doing here.” The necessary words halt in my throat, their wrongness tainting my tongue. “I need… Help.”

“With, uh, with what?” Bobby looks just as awkward as I probably do.

“She called me.” I state.

“Well, where is she? Is she alright?”

“She couldn’t tell me.”

Bobby walks to the fridge, pulling out a cold beer. He goes to offer me one, then seems to think better of it. He sits at the table and looks up at me. I’ve often found that humans find comfort in imitation, so I take the seat across from him.

“What, you mean she didn’t know? Doesn’t sound like her, call without havin’ a damn thing to say.”

I bite my lip, a terribly human habit I picked up from Stirling herself. “I believe she did know, but everytime she tried it came out… Wrong. Like her line was crossing another, and her words got fainter and more jumbled somehow.”

“And you still can’t tap your angel whatchamacallit’s and just track ‘er down?” I shake my head ‘no’. “Well that’s just damned great.”

“Not really,” I say. Bobby shakes his head, now.

“Why’d she go callin’ you anyways? Ya’d think she’d give Dean or Sam a ring first n’ foremost.”

“She said that she couldn’t remember any other number. According to her, she didn’t even know it was mine until I picked up.”

“Funny she couldn’t remember it was you, giv’n that she got you that damn phone.”

“I find no humor in Stirling’s apparent memory gaps,” I blink in confusion.

“It’s an expression, Cas.”

Oh.

“So what’dja need my expertise for?” Bobby takes a gulp of beer, leaning back in his chair.

“I also believe that Stirling’s been cursed. Or she’s been covered in some sort of protective enchantments, preventing us from finding her. The Winchester’s always go to you when they need to find out information. I was hoping you would extend me the same… Assistance.”

Bobby huffs a sarcastic sort of laugh, getting up out of the chair.

“Shoulda led with that, Cas.”