Perception

Heaven Beside You

Dean wiped his mouth, screwing up the burger wrapper and tossing it into the trash. Castiel shuffled beside him, inching closer as inconspicuously as he could. The heating unit in their hotel room was shot, of course, in the middle of winter, in Minnesota. So Castiel, being the completely human lightweight that he was, was forced to cuddle with someone.

Dean used the term "forced" lightly. Castiel was enjoying it way more than he should have been.

"Have you found anything yet?" asked Dean, tugging the sheets farther up Castiel's body in an attempt to stop his shivering.

Sam's head popped up from behind his laptop, eye squinting at the sudden lighting change. "Yeah," he said, casting his gaze back to the illuminated monitor. "There's been animal attacks inside people's homes. They were mutilated completely and the furniture is destroyed." He paused, but when Dean tried to speak, he cut him off. "Oh, and get this; after every attack, neighbors say they hear some muffled speaking, but they can't understand it."

"And they're sure it's not some run-of-the-mill serial killer?" asked Dean.

Sam nodded. "There were claw marks on the windowsills and fur on the bed and floor. They couldn't identify it."

"Well," Dean said, sitting up and hauling Castiel with him, as gently as he could. "Looks like we're going - where are we going?"

"Wisconsin."

Dean frowned and squinted conspiratorially. "We're going to need thicker jackets."

'Like the coldest winter chill,
Heaven beside you, Hell within...'

...

"Stay here," Sam said, looking to the back seat, where Castiel sat, looking too small in his trenchcoat.

Dean rolled his eyes. "He's not a kid, Sammy." He threw a grin at Castiel through the rearview mirror. Castiel smiled back, eyes squinting at the enormity of it. Cheeky bastard.

'Like the coldest winter will,
Heaven beside you, Hell within...'

Leaving the radio on for Castiel, the brothers climbed from the Impala and approached the officers standing outside of the latest crime scene. The cheap Feds suits weren't keeping the cold out very well, and those thicker jackets were still waiting in a department store somewhere, waiting to be bought and worn and eventually shredded by something formerly thought to be mythical.

Only two of the cops seemed to notice Dean and Sam approach. The first to speak was obviously the senior of the two, with a graying mustache and a plump body. The other was blonde, in everything he was, with a pair of aviators that were too big for his face. He was staring down his nose at the brothers, but didn't speak. The round one was obviously the boss.

"What can I help you boys with?" the plump copper (his badge read "Officer Brady") asked, hitching up his pants with his thumbs and giving a crooked - if not slightly predatory - smile.

Dean pulled a fake badge from his pocket, flashing it just long enough for the cops to see it but not enough for them to spot the fraud. "Agent Roeser and Bloom. We're here about the murders."

The younger officer - Hester - snorted out an, "Obviously," before Brady shut him up with a stern glare.

"He's new," said Brady with an apologetic grimace. "All I can tell you is that the only thing open was the bedroom window. No blood on the sill, though, and no foot or handprints. There was some hair on the bed, but we can't seem to get a read on it. But I'm sure you Suits know that already."

Dean nodded as seriously as he could while restraining a growl when Hester started giving him Looks. Sam had a carefully repressed bitchface on, only the barest hints of it lingering on his mouth. "Can we see the scene?" asked Sam.

Brady shrugged and lifted the yellow tape. "I don't know if you'll find anything, but have at it."

They entered the house and walked up the stairs, casting cursory glances as they followed the path of police tape and yellow evidence markers to the bedroom. The markers were more abundant inside the crime scene, a line of numbers scattered around the room. The bed was littered with them, and the window sill had several balanced on it. A few were set up on the floor, where a few dark stains remained. The bed was bare, now; stripped of bloody bedding. The walls were still speckled with red, and the carpet would definitely need to come up.

The gouges in the sill looked like that of a small bear's: deep and wide. Some of them looked shallow and light, as if the creature were scrambling to enter - or leave.

Dean considered them for a moment before turning to Sam. "Any ideas?"

Sam raised his eyebrows before looking back at Dean and sighing. "Hell, I don't know. Changeling, maybe? But that doesn't explain the bloody death."

Dean huffed and threw his hands up. "So what? Did effing Chucky do it?"

"Hell, for all I know, it was."

Dean looked at the sill again, but his gaze drifted up, distracted by movement by the Impala. Hester - that bitch - was leaning on the back passenger door, looking in the window and making wild hand gestures.

That bitch.

Dean stormed down the stairs and out of the house, Sam jogging behind him, looking horribly confused and a little worried.

"What in the Hell are you doing?!" growled Dean, snagging the back of Hester's collar and yanking him back. Castiel was staring from the opposite side of the bench, a frown furrowing his brows and his lip swollen and indented.

Too much observation to remain heterosexual, Dean. You'll give the fangirls ideas.

The young officer stammered and stumbled, but Dean wouldn't let him answer, instead shoving him back, away from his baby and the Impala.

Uh.

No.

He didn't say that. His brain is just scrambled with rage.

Once he was satisfied that Hester was thoroughly pushed and scolded, Dean returned to his car, wiping her window with his shirt sleeve and patting her top gently. Sam had climbed in while Dean was busy being a schoolyard bully, and was talking to Castiel in a hushed voice. Dean ignored the fact that they went silent when he slid in, deciding to instead place a hand on Castiel's knee and squeezing. "You okay, man?"

He nodded quietly, resting a hand on Dean's briefly before scooting back in the seat and snapping himself in.

"I'll leave your radio station on," he said, putting the Impala into drive and heading for the closest motel.

'And you know you have it still,
Heaven inside you...'