Perception

Quiet Mind

Before the ketamine had washed itself out of Castiel’s system, he had had a distant, kind of glassy look in his eyes, like he wasn’t all there. But it was never was as bad as when the ketamine faded, when Castiel’s illness shined through.

Castiel had been holding a little battery powered radio since they returned, curled up on Dean’s bed with a blank stare. Dean had sat next to him, touching his shoulder and saying his name. Castiel didn’t react.

Sam stayed quiet throughout the affair, casting sad little glances from behind his laptop.

... 

“So,” said Sam after a good four hours of research, “I think I got something.” Dean crowded in around his shoulders eagerly. “There’s this Native American legend about a, uh, a Tailypo? Anyway, the thing has a bunch of variations. One says that the creature leaves its tail in someone’s room, only to return for it later and find it missing, or it gets the tail cut off by a hunter.

“In all of them, the thing attacks whoever last had the tail. And it talks. Says things like ‘Now I got my Taily-po’. I’m quoting, here. But the accounts don’t specify what kind of creature it is. Doesn’t say how to kill it, either.”

“So what?” Dean said finally, a scowl on his face. “We just charge in half-cocked, guns ablazing?”

Sam gave him a Look. “Dude, that’s what you always do. Half-cocked is your middle name.” Dean stared for a moment. “Get your head out of the gutter.”

Dean grinned, but it quickly faded. “We can’t do that anymore, Sammy. We’ve got someone to take care of, now,” he reasoned gently, casting a glance at the still immobile Castiel.

Sighing, Sam said, “Alright, whatever, man. I’ll keep looking in the morning.”

The brothers turned in for the night in their respective beds. When Dean was sure Sam was asleep, he tugged Castiel closer, humming some song he knew Castiel would recognize, though he didn’t know the words.

Castiel shifted, sighed heavily, and gripped the front of Dean’s shirt.

Success.

…

The man - the cop - he was what triggered one of his episodes. Castiel knew, but he couldn’t do a thing about it. At the time, he wasn’t even conscious that his perception had shifted, but when he came out of the fog, held close to Dean, he sighed deeply and clutched at the fabric of his friend’s shirt, focusing on the humming. Dean’s deep voice was melodic, demanding attention. Castiel didn’t mind.

His mind was quieter around Dean. He helped settle Castiel’s sickness, and for that, he was grateful.

…

The shrill ringing from Dean’s cellphone was what woke the trio. Barely two hours had passed since they had fallen asleep. Dean groaned loudly and rolled over, snatching the cellphone off the dresser and answering with a groggy, “What?”

“Don’t take that tone with me, boy,” Bobby snapped from the other side.

Dean sighed. “What do you need, Bobby?”

There was the shuffling and ruffling pages on the other side. “I just got a call from some of the hunters in The Great White North. There’s been an increase in demon activity near Anchorage. Where are you?”

“We have a case in Wisconsin right now; we can’t just leave.”

A groan from the older hunter. “Just get up there, ASAP.” The dial tone rang after a resounding snap.

Sam rolled off the bed and flicked on a light, heading towards the bathroom, before stopping dead and huffing in what might have been amusement.

“What?” asked Dean in the same tone he used to answer the phone. Castiel remained silent, wiggling to curl closer to Dean. Neither brother commented.

Sam bent over, bringing up with him something brown and furry. He held it by the tip carefully. “Looks like we won’t have to go looking for it,” he said dryly, waving it a little. Castiel murmured something into Dean’s side before sitting up and snagging his duffel from the floor. He pulled out the flask and swished around the holy water inside, then settled back down with the cool metal tucked against his chest.

Dean threw his hands up in exasperation. “I need my three hours, man.”

…

It wasn’t long before the thing struck. It was small - little bigger than a housecat - with disproportionate claws and teeth like nothing else. Little yellow eyes glowed from behind the window. Dean drew his knife and Sam cocked his gun, both tensing. Castiel shifted from where he was planted on the bed still, clutching his flask and loosening the cap. He would be ready, if need be.

There was just a gentle scratching at the window at first, before it slid open slowly, and the creature leapt into the room, a cry of “I want my Taily-po!” Dean would have laughed if the voice it used didn’t sound like it came straight out of a Vincent Price movie. It lunged for Sam, but he shot it straight through before it could touch him. It flew back, but healed quickly and lunged again, this time laying into Dean’s arm. He gasped and shook it off. It scrambled around with another cry and raced to Castiel, who was prepared and threw holy water into it’s face.

The sight before them was both fascinating and horrifying. It screeched terribly, its fur falling away from its face in clumps. Skin boiled where the water touched it, and flesh dropped off, revealing bone beneath it. It looked as if it were decomposing right in front of them.

Castiel gasped and scrambled away from it, covering his eyes when he reached the brothers and hiding behind them like a scared child. Dean found it hard to believe this was a so-called Angel of the Lord. Although, with the green tint to Sam’s face, Dean figured he shouldn’t judge.

As the Tailypo’s eyes dissolved in a pool of aqueous humor and it finally died in a heap on the motel carpet, Dean prodded delicately at the claw marks on his forearm. They looked pretty nasty, but they weren’t too deep. The little monster couldn’t get a decent grip on him before it was shaken off. Castiel was beside him the moment he hissed in pain, looking over the wounds with wide eyes before taking him gently by the arm and tugging him into the bathroom, leaving Sam to clean up the mess. Luckily, the stain won’t be discernible from the other mystery spots scattered around the carpet.

Castiel was quick in wrapping Dean’s arm, nimble fingers folding and tightening like he had been doing it his entire life. Dean had to remind himself that Castiel had lived a full life in his head, and had experiences beyond what Dean knew of. Who knew what atrocities teenage Castiel and his older brother had done.

He shuddered at the thought.

…

The trio left the hotel immediately afterwards, dumping the half-melted body of the creature in some unsuspecting citizen’s trash bin. Sam was passed out in the passenger seat, sleeping as only the youngest Winchester could while The Rolling Stones played a few decibels shy of deafening. Castiel sat behind him, frowning at his folded fingers and biting his cheek.

“Dean?” he finally asked after a long silence.

Dean grunted over the music.

“Do you believe in God?”

Dean almost swerved. How to tell an angel you don’t believe in God… “Not really, to be honest.”

Castiel looked over the seat with big eyes and parted lips. “But you know angels exist.”

“The thing is,” said Dean, “knowledge and belief are two different things. Just because I know God’s real doesn’t mean I’m going to believe He’s going to help.”

Wide eyes stared at Dean for several long moments before he stared down at his hands again. “Maybe you’re right. I wouldn’t be like this if He cared.

Dean felt a little bad for crushing Castiel’s spirit, but he didn’t take it back. He just met Castiel’s eyes in the rearview mirror and smiled as reassuringly as possible. It didn’t seem to help.