Castiel’s walking back home when he sees: a cat with beautiful russet fur and a fluffy tail unlike any of the cat breeds popular in the area leaps over the curb, twin beams of glaring white backlighting its silhouette—
He stumbles to a halt, shaking his head. There’s no way he could act fast enough, not when he hadn’t seen any real landmarks to guide him to a specific location. The timing just isn’t right.
Then the exact cat lands between Castiel’s feet, crouching low and dashing off again. By the time Castiel realizes it’s the cat, it’s already making for the curb; nearly tripping over his own feet, Castiel chases after it, stooping down to slip his arms around its middle. He falls back onto the pavement with his arms full of a confused and struggling feline, just in time for a speeding truck to blast by in a gust of engine heated air.
As if realizing how narrow of a miss it had been, the cat freezes, still breathing hard from the running it had been doing. Castiel sighs a breathless that was too close as he holds the cat to his chest.
“Oh—” Castiel turns the cat around. It blinks up at him with round, jewel green eyes. “Hello.”
The cat considers Castiel for a moment. “Mrow,” it repeats, a little less irritated, immediately followed by a high, curious trill.
Castiel takes it as permission to pet, smoothing back some of the fur on the cat’s cheeks with his fingers. It doesn’t purr. But the cat does lean into Castiel’s touch, and when his fingers brush up against its neck, Castiel discovers no collar.
“If I take you home with me,” Castiel tells the cat, stern, “you will be good. Won’t you?”
It only blinks, and yawns. Wide enough to give Castiel a good eyeful of all its teeth, small but still sharp enough to cause some proper damage when wielded seriously. Not to mention the claws all cats have. For some reason he can’t explain, Castiel simply knows this cat would have some vicious claws. But it continues lying limp and docile in Castiel’s arms, only supported by his hands holding it up.
“Okay.” Good enough for me, Castiel muses. He’s been sitting on the sidewalk for long enough. “Let’s go, then.”
Castiel slowly gets his legs under him, gradually straightening them until he’s standing. The cat blinks heavily, fighting off sleep — poor thing must be exhausted. He doesn’t know why it had been running, but whatever was chasing the cat hasn’t shown its face. Perhaps it had been frightened off by Castiel’s presence.
He doesn’t understand his urge to reassure the cat, but Castiel nudges a finger along its cheek anyway, dipping his head to murmur, “You’ll be fine, promise. I’ll help you.”
The cat looks up at Castiel, its stare almost too intelligent for a feline, and falls asleep in his arms.
It’s a weighty thing, Castiel discovers. The cat.
At first, it had seemed to be more fur than anything. By the time Castiel’s finally back in his home, the cat’s dead weight is actually straining his arms a little. The fluffy thing’s packing some serious muscle; it must be really active.
It’s also awake again, turning its small head this way and that — tiny pink nose twitching — to glance around as Castiel makes his way to the living room on socked feet. When Castiel moves to set it down, the cat wiggles out of his grasp to land on its paws, near instantly folding its legs to flop onto its side.
Huh. Guess it’s staying there. That saves Castiel some effort, at least. He keeps the cat in his peripheral vision as he rummages in the cupboards, pulling out a wide toothed stainless steel comb meant for pets. It’s stretching lazily when Castiel returns, arching its back and flexing the claws of its front paws, tail flipping carelessly through the air.
Castiel manages to sit down before the cat notices the comb in his hand. Green eyes wide, it rolls to its feet with easy feline grace, backing away; Castiel, accustomed to unruly animals from his work at the shelter, swiftly drops the comb in favour of grabbing the cat. It writhes, pawing angrily at Castiel’s legs when he deposits it into the space between his crossed legs.
Oddly enough, the cat doesn’t hiss. There are no claws sinking into Castiel’s skin. It struggles, with more energy than expected from how tired it had seemed earlier, and its ears are tilted back, but there’s no real violence. Curiously, it’s almost as if the cat doesn’t want to hurt Castiel. That means, no matter how miniscule, Castiel has an advantage.
“Okay— Hey, it’s alright,” Castiel says, sinking a touch more force into the hand he has splayed over the cat’s back. Animals may not understand words, but Castiel’s learned gentle tones with a guiding touch goes a long way in coaxing obedience. Or it goes spectacularly south, but he can’t be thinking of failure already. “I won’t hurt you.”
“Mrooooow,” the cat wails. But it settles down under Castiel’s hand all the same, half of its body draped over his crossed ankles.
Relieved, Castiel picks up the comb and gets to work. He patiently teases out a few knots in the long fur, working slowly and marveling at how warm, beautiful russet fades into soft, sandy brown in a seamless gradient. By the time Castiel’s working through the thick fur near its belly, the cat’s pliant as putty in his hands, eyes closed and purring up a storm, vibrating like an engine against Castiel’s leg.
“Good,” Castiel murmurs, “almost done.”
The cat purrs right over Castiel’s words, its tail batting happily against the inside of his thigh. Castiel turns it over to reach the rest of its fur and the cat only purrs louder, stretching out to knead his other thigh. No claws, again. They do unsheathe every time the cat spreads its front paws, but they’re never pressed to the thin material of Castiel’s dress pants, only grazing lightly before they’re lifted away. Rinse, repeat.
If Castiel didn’t know better, he’d think the cat was purposefully showing him it could claw his eyes out without hesitation.
After teasing one last minor tangle out of the cat’s tail, Castiel runs his hand down its back, pleased by the glossy smoothness of the fur. Still purring without a single pause, the cat butts its head against Castiel’s leg.
“That’s better, right?” Castiel chuckles, scooping up the miniature mound of brown fur he’d collected from between the teeth of the comb. “I’ll make us some meat for dinner, I’m sure you’re hungry.”
A sleek, gleaming black car with bright, unpainted steel accents rolls to a stop behind an empty shell of a factory. It idles for a moment, then the engine — running with a deep, rolling rumble, a caged thunderstorm bottled within walls of steel — cuts, leaving only the thick silence of a rainy night.
With a low, squeaky creak, the driver’s door opens. A man steps out: tall, hair long enough to end just past his ears, all broad shoulders and gangly long legs and broody eyes. He draws a gun from the waistband of his jeans, releases the safety with an audible click, and drags something— no, someone— out of the backseat.
It’s a woman, bound tightly by both chains and thick rope. There’s a cut low on her neck oozing sluggishly, her blood nearly black in the silver light of the moon. She also limps, just slightly, a weak attempt at compelling pity. Snarling, she attempts to wrench herself free, but the man subdues her frighteningly easily, his expression unchanging as he shakes her roughly in warning with one hand and jabs his gun between her shoulder blades with the other.
Several paces away, another man steps out of the shadows. This one is not quite as gifted in height, more of a mousy kind of thing, chestnut hair short and wild on his head. Fear and anger flicker across his face when he spots the woman, but his lips stretch in a feral grin.
“Where’s my brother,” the tall man says, carefully leashed fury seeping into the words.
“Oh, you’ll be joining him soon.”
The tall man removes his gun from behind the woman. Behind him a pair of glowing eyes pierce the shadows. “I won’t ask again,” he growls, pointing his gun at the other man.
Another woman leaps at the tall man’s back, her teeth — canines far too long to be human — bared as she snarls. The tall man pivots around, fast, but clearly not fast enough—
Castiel jackknifes upright, panting. His head spins and he barely registers the cat curled up next to him raising its head with squinted eyes, grabbing for the sketchbook and pen he kept on the nightstand next to his bed.
Frowning in concentration, Castiel flips to a blank page, presses the point of the pen to the rough paper, and begins sketching in broad, sweeping strokes. A rough outline blooms in blue ink on the page: an oval face with a strong jawline, sharp nose and thin lips; broad, slightly hunched shoulders clad in a canvas jacket; long, straight legs in jeans. Castiel hesitates, then adds thick sideburns and long hair framing the man’s face, parted to one side.
The headache Castiel’s long since learned to associate with his visions is bleeding through the focus he’s struggling to maintain. He quickly scrawls fancy black car in an empty space on the page and drops the sketchbook, folding in on himself as he clutches at his temples, pressing his forehead to his raised knees. Distantly, Castiel hears the cat yowl a demanding sound — pay attention to me — but his own distressed whimper tears itself from between his lips without his permission, agony blazing through what seems to be every nerve ending in his head.
This time, however, the pain recedes quickly. It had hurt more than before, yes, but it had also lasted barely a minute. Castiel blinks the unbidden tears from his eyes, sniffling softly, and finds the cat nosing at his elbow, green eyes worried.
He attempts a smile, reaching out to give the cat a reassuring pet. “You snuck in here while I was asleep? It’s alright, I’m fine now.”
“Mrow.” The cat rubs its cheek all over Castiel’s hand, blatantly scent marking him. Its rough, pink tongue even makes a brief appearance, rasping gently over the inside of Castiel’s wrist.
“You’re an affectionate one, aren’t you,” Castiel chuckles, voice slightly hoarse with sleep. He picks up the sketchbook and the cat immediately starts yowling, pawing at the page. “No, don’t do that,” Castiel admonishes, nudging the cat away to flip the book closed, “it’s important.”
Dragging a hand through his hair, Castiel sighs and flips back his comforter, tucking the sketchbook under his arm. The floor is cold against his bare feet, but he doesn’t mind. Tail swishing, the cat pads to the edge of the bed closest to Castiel, ears twitching forward at attention.
Unable to resist, Castiel strokes a hand over the cat’s head, scratching lightly behind its ears. Without skipping a beat, the cat begins purring, eyes falling shut in contentment.
“Let’s have breakfast.”
A few hours later, Castiel climbs into his old Continental, a photo of the sketch in his phone. He puts the car in gear and putters around, searching the parking lots of bars and motels and restaurants.
The vehicle Castiel’s hoping to find isn’t easy to miss; he spots it parked at a cheap motel, late morning sunshine glinting prettily off the car’s glossy frame. Alright. Didn’t take as long as Castiel was expecting, especially since he’s only combed the areas closest to the abandoned factory from his vision, but he supposes he can’t complain. Finding the man so early and so easily — it’s a good thing.
Castiel parks, gets out of his car, and makes for the one door the obscenely flashy car is parked in front of. He straightens his shoulders. Takes a deep breath. And knocks, twice.
Silence. He hadn’t even considered the idea of the man not being there. That certainly puts a damper on Castiel’s (tentative) plan.
Just as Castiel’s debating the merit of buying a coffee and staking out in his own car, the door in front of him opens.
“Yeah?” The voice is a familiar baritone, albeit miles friendlier, much more wary, and no longer what Castiel now recognizes as a defensive but forced lowering in pitch.
As Castiel stares — mentally matching the parted hair and sharp nose, soft eyes and strong jaw, to his sketch from hours ago — the man’s brow furrows, suspicion clear in his expression.
“Do you know me?”
“No,” Castiel blurts. “...Yes!” He sighs. This is not going well. “It’s… complicated.”
The man frowns. Even now, Castiel could see the anguish swirling in the depths of his eyes, frustration tugging at his mouth, desperation weighing on his shoulders. Where’s my brother? His brother must already be missing.
“I’m sorry, this is probably not making much sense. But—” Castiel glances around, lowering his voice. “Please trust me. You are in danger.”
The man narrows his eyes. “Who are you,” he growls.
“I’m trying to save your life—”
A cat yowls loudly from near their feet. Startled, they both glance down with wide eyes. The cat Castiel had saved from a truck yesterday twines around his legs, tail held high.
“I told you to stay—” Castiel starts.
The tall man brightens, interrupting with a relieved, “Dean!”
Castiel blinks, tilting his head to one side. “The brother you were searching for is a cat?”
“...How’d you know I was searching for my brother?”
“Like I said, it’s complicated.” Castiel fishes his phone from his pocket, pulling up the photo. “I sketched this, a few hours ago. Ask,” he looks down at the cat sitting next to his foot, “...Dean.”
The cat — Dean — dips his head in a nod when the tall man raises an eyebrow.
“...Okay.” The man maintains eye contact with the cat, having some sort of unspoken conversation for a long minute. Finally, he nods and drags a hand down his face. “Gimme a few to pack and check out.”
To Castiel’s surprise, Dean stays outside, following at a cat’s leisurely pace when Castiel walks back to his car and leans against the side, next to one of the mirrors. “Are you here to make sure I don’t run off?”
Crouching low on the pavement, Dean bunches up his muscles in preparation to leap, eyeing Castiel’s car disapprovingly — or as close as a cat could get to disapproval. He jumps anyway, landing lightly on the warm hood to saunter up to Castiel and headbutt his arm.
While he’s definitely hesitant to pet a cat he now knows probably isn’t really one, Castiel caves ridiculously easily when Dean flops against his arm and trills a pleading sound. He’s weak when it comes to affectionate cats, okay?
And when the tall man finds Castiel stroking a hand down Dean’s back while Dean sprawls bonelessly on the hood of Castiel’s car, he doesn’t comment.
“Um, would you like a beer?”
Dean’s — supposed — brother gives Castiel a distracted smile. The sketchbook lies open in his lap. “Please.”
Castiel nods. As he heads for the fridge, there’s a low groan from his room, followed by a hissed “ow.” Alarmed, Castiel stiffens; the man on the sofa turns a page, his mouth twitching with the beginnings of an exasperated smirk.
It’s silent for a long, suspended moment. Then, out of Castiel’s room waltzes a man.
And what a man. Short sandy brown hair, thick eyelashes, plush pink lips, broad shoulders and trim waist, delicately bowed legs. An inky dark pentagon surrounded by jagged flames sits high on his chest below his collarbone. There’s a lethal sort of grace in the way he carries himself, lazy confidence over effortless strength, warning signs hiding in plain sight. He’s beautiful and dangerous and he’s wearing only a pair of black boxers pilfered from Castiel’s drawer.
“Make that two beers,” the man drawls, sending Castiel a sly smirk. “Hope ya don’t mind me borrowing these.”
“Um,” is Castiel’s brilliant response.
The beautiful — and practically naked — man blinks one eye closed in a cheeky wink before sauntering to the sofa. He has green eyes, Castiel realizes, bright emerald green, almost exactly like—
“Jesus Christ, Dean, put some clothes on,” the tall man mutters, even as he shrugs out of his jacket.
Dean rolls his eyes. “‘s not like my dick’s hangin’ out, Sammy— Quit bein’ a prude.”
“Seriously,” Sammy groans, “shut up.” He offers up his jacket without looking at his brother. “And it’s Sam.”
“Needa shift back soon anyway,” Dean grumbles, but accepts Sam’s jacket and drapes it over his shoulders.
It’s a touch too big but Castiel catches Dean tugging it closer around himself, sees the bruises colouring Dean’s torso and the way he’s gingerly cradling an arm. Dean’s been injured; recently, and badly. Despite his curiosity, Castiel isn’t too keen on being caught staring, so he turns back to the fridge to grab three bottles of beer.
He sits in a chair next to the sofa, setting the bottles on the coffee table to work the lids off one by one. Sam doesn’t pay Castiel any attention, far too preoccupied with frowning down at the sketch of himself, but Dean watches him intently. It’s rather unnerving.
Castiel avoids eye contact for as long as he could, only looking up to extend one of the open beers.
Dean blinks down at the bottle. “Thanks,” he murmurs, almost shy, the tips of his ears going pink as a faint smile tugs at his lips.
“Anything,” Castiel automatically says, because his brain’s just gone ahead and taken a vacation at the sight of this gorgeous man smiling at him. Anything for you. “Uh,” he coughs, his face heating, “I mean, you’re welcome.”
Leaning forward, Castiel busies himself setting a beer on the table directly in front of Sam, who absently mumbles a quiet thank you. Castiel, however, doesn’t respond, because all of his attention is caught, quick and absolute as a fly in a spider’s web and he can’t tear his eyes away—
By Dean. Dean, who has his lips closed around the round mouth of the beer bottle in the most obscene way. Dean, who lets his eyes slip shut, head tipped back against the sofa to highlight the pale column of his throat as he swallows huge mouthfuls of beer. Dean, who’s downing half of the entire bottle without coming up for a single breath.
It’s… It’s quite impressive.
“Dean, really…” Sam sighs, giving Castiel a weary, apologetic wince. “Sorry about him.”
“Ah, it’s alright— I’m just… surprised.”
Dean finally lowers the bottle, pink tongue darting out to lick a stray drop of beer off his bottom lip with a happy hum. “Mm, that’s good,” he purrs.
Sam rolls his eyes up towards the ceiling. I’m too sober to deal with this, his expression screams as he picks up his beer and takes a large swig. He’s considerably more neat compared to his brother when it comes to drinking, but Sam licks his lips all the same; it’s more of an unconscious sort of action, one he’s obviously picked up from watching his brother.
To his credit, Sam only falters for a second. “Castiel,” he repeats, almost absurdly mindful of each syllable. “I’m sure you already know— I’m Sam. This is my brother, Dean. And we hunt monsters.” He pauses, patiently waiting for Castiel’s reaction with ease stemming from practice and repetition.
“Supernatural creatures. They exist,” Castiel deadpans. It’s not a question.
“All the stuff from your nightmares, yea— You kidnapped me for a day while I was a cat, don’t tell me you’re seriously surprised by this.”
“What, Sam, am I wrong—”
“Drink your beer,” Sam snaps, his irritation gone when he turns back to Castiel. “Yes, they exist.”
Castiel tilts his head to one side. “And you two… hunt them?”
“Kill,” Dean interjects, entirely too indifferent for someone talking about ending lives.
Sam levels a sharp glare in his brother’s direction. Dean quickly glances away, strategically lifting his beer to take another gulp.
“Well,” Castiel murmurs before Sam could tear into Dean for speaking, “I suppose it does clarify things.”
Castiel drops his gaze to the sketchbook in Sam’s lap. “I have… visions.” He looks down at the beer bottle on the table in front of him. “That’s how I recognized your appearance.”
“Dean,” Sam says, agitated and distressed enough to derail the entire conversation. “You good?”
Dean scoffs. “Fine,” he snarks, but even Castiel could see partially concealed misery lingering behind the brightness of alcohol in his eyes. “Got it covered.” He nods at the sketch of Sam. “Watched ‘im do it; dude woke up all panicked and next thing I know, he’s drawin’ your face even though he’s never seen it.”
Sam sits up straight, practically glowing with his interest. “What did you see?”
“Here we go again,” Dean gripes as he leans forward to shrug Sam’s jacket off his shoulders.
In the time it takes Castiel to blink, Dean’s back to having four paws and long fur. Castiel tears his gaze away.
“Um.” What was he supposed to be talking about? Right, his vision. “A car. Your car,” Castiel corrects himself, and makes the mistake of risking a peek; Dean’s on his side, settling underneath the collar of Sam’s jacket, small body dwarfed by the garment. The sight is so adorable Castiel actually loses track of his thoughts for a moment. The car, Castiel. “You drove to the abandoned warehouse factory about an hour from where you were staying— And, uh, threatened the man there with a hostage…”
Sam eyebrows threaten his hairline at those words, just as something paws at Castiel’s ankle.
Dean meows. Somehow, it sounds whiny. Fluffy tail held high, he stares up at Castiel with wide, pleading, positively lethal puppy dog eyes — haha, puppy dog; no, he’s definitely a kitty cat — but Castiel only frowns, absolutely lost. What could he want?
It isn't until Dean gets low to the ground, tail waving just a mere whisper from the floor for maximum balance, does something dawn on Castiel. Dean's quite obviously preparing to pounce. His green eyes are locked in on Castiel's thighs and he even does the little butt wiggle of a cat calibrating, fine tuning his leap before he makes it. Castiel only barely manages to yank his hands out of his lap right on time.
Purring, Dean turns a tight circle on Castiel's thighs, curling up with his paws tucked neatly underneath himself when he deems the location satisfactory. Castiel freezes and tenses at the sudden weight in his lap. Unamused by the reaction, Dean stretches out of his furry loaf position, pushing his paws against Castiel's legs until they reluctantly relax. Content once again, Dean remains sprawled all over Castiel's thighs, pale sandy brown belly exposed.
Sam clears his throat. There's something close to surprise, along with amusement, in his eyes. "When we met, you said I was in danger?"
"Ah, yes—" Castiel puts a hand on Dean's side without a second thought when Dean wiggles restlessly in his lap. Sam's eyes are round, unmistakably shocked by the gesture. Dean goes still. "There was… A woman, she attacked you from behind; she had these— these teeth— Her canines were so long and sharp, like an animal's…"
"Was the moon out?"
Castiel pauses. What a strange question. "I… believe so, yes." He'd been far more focused on the people, not as much for the surroundings. "A full moon."
Sam nods, taking a troubled sip of his beer. "Werewolves."
“Werewolves,” Castiel echoes.
“Werewolves,” Sam confirms. “They eat hearts.”
The next morning, Castiel wakes to the smell of bacon and coffee.
For a heartstopping moment, he's absolutely terrified. Someone's in my house. Then, his brain warms up a little, waking enough to remind him of the new circumstances he'd been introduced to the previous day.
That’s right, he's not supposed to be alone at home right now; he'd invited Sam and Dean to stay the night.
Castiel drags himself out of bed and wanders towards the wonderful promise of coffee with a wide yawn. He finds Sam sitting at the dining table in the kitchen, tapping away at his laptop while a stack of styrofoam takeout boxes in a bag and a tray of coffees sit next to his elbow.
Sam looks up. "Good morning," he says, smiling gently. "Would you like some coffee?"
He feels horrible not speaking when Sam's making a clear effort to be polite and friendly, but Castiel only nods wordlessly, pulling out a chair to sit at the table next to Sam.
"Here you go. It's black, but I picked up a few sugar packets if you want some." Sam chuckles as Castiel gratefully cups his hands around the disposable cup, bringing it up to his face to inhale the steam and blow gently across the dark liquid. "Dean also can't function without his coffee, but he's definitely much more of a jerk about it."
Castiel takes his first sip of caffeine for the day, relishing the bitter taste of dark roasted beans. "Thank you, Sam," he says, the grating gravel of his sleepy morning voice a tiny shock to his own ears. "Good morning."
Sam's smile grows warmer. Then he leans back in his chair to call, "Dean, I know you're awake!"
"Mrooow," Dean yowls, petulant. A moment later, he's trotting out of Castiel's room, long fur hilariously flattened along one side of his body.
"Dude, I'm not giving cat you any coffee. Shift back, I know you're fine."
Dean gives a sharp hiss from the floor, glaring as his tail lashes angrily through the air.
"Jerk," Sam fires back, easy as anything.
Castiel takes another careful sip of his coffee. Then promptly proceeds to choke on it when Dean returns to his human form — still wearing only the boxers he'd swiped from Castiel — and leans over Castiel to rescue a coffee from the tray for himself. Dean's chest nudges up against Castiel's back, his body heat bleeding easily through the worn t-shirt Castiel had gone to sleep in.
Both Sam and Dean look on with worried expressions as Castiel hunches over and attempts to eject his lungs through his throat via explosive coughing. When he finally calms down, gasping like he'd gone and run several laps around the house, Dean rests a warm hand on his shoulder.
"You okay," Dean murmurs. Castiel hangs his head. "Cas?"
Inhaling a deep breath, Castiel sits up. "I'm fine—" He breaks off, yelping quietly; Dean's leaning well into his space, their noses almost brushing as he peers at Castiel through the thick fan of his eyelashes. Heart pounding in his chest, Castiel mumbles a stilted, "You— You're extremely close, Dean."
Dean rocks back on his heels, lifting his hand. Castiel mourns the loss of contact. "Sorry."
"Sit down," Sam says, lifting the takeout boxes from their bag. "Got pancakes, eggs, extra bacon."
Obedient to the reward of food, Dean takes a seat next to Castiel, simultaneously drinking his coffee and holding a hand out. "Mm," he hums, crooking his index finger.
Sam relinquishes a box to Dean without comment, offering the second box to Castiel. "Hope you don't mind greasy food for breakfast."
Castiel shakes his head. "Thank you, Sam."
Just as with dinner the previous day — and even his time spent as a cat — Dean wolfs down his meal like he'll never see food again for the next week, his lips shiny with a combination of syrup and bacon oil. Sam pursues his salad at about the same enthusiasm, although he slows down enough to separate each modest bite so he isn't stuffing his face to maximum capacity every time. Wiping his mouth with a napkin, Dean leaves the table, grabbing a muddy green duffle bag from next to the couch before disappearing into the bathroom.
Castiel clears his throat. "Sam."
"Up…?" Castiel frowns. "The… ceiling?"
Sam blinks. "Nevermind." He pokes at the last few leaves in his salad, scooping them up onto the plastic tines of his fork. "Did you want to talk about something?"
"Yes." Castiel pushes at the edge of his empty styrofoam box until it gives under his fingers. "Last night, I had another vision."
"The… werewolves, they hurt someone."
"What," Dean's voice snaps from the hallway. He storms out of the bathroom, fully dressed in jeans hugging his bowed legs, a black scoop neck t-shirt underneath a collared blue button down (unbuttoned), topped off with a dark canvas jacket. "We can still save 'em; tonight's the full moon. Cas, tell us everything."
"The, um, same man Sam threatened in my previous vision… He pulled a drunk girl into an alley, and you two showed up to save her."
Sam relaxes, expression relieved. Dean, however, only stares at Castiel with determined eyes of a man with a mission, waiting for him to continue.
Castiel can't bring himself to look at Dean. He plucks a strand of russet fur from his t-shirt — evidence of Dean curling up against Castiel's side while he slept — and spins it between his thumb and forefinger. "Dean— He jumped in front of the girl…"
Dean blinks. He doesn't look surprised.
Sam sighs. "Yeah, that sounds like Dean."
"What I don't understand..." Castiel twirls the strand around his thumb. "There were two females and one male in my first vision. But the second female did not appear…"
"Maybe," Sam and Dean muse at the same time, their voices overlapping—
"She's busy," Dean deadpans.
"It's a trap," Sam says.
Both Sam and Dean turn to each other with incredulous eyebrow raises. Seriously , their expressions read.
"I can identify them once I see their faces," Castiel declares.
Their silent brotherly argument interrupted, Sam and Dean shift their attention to Castiel as one, eerily in sync.
"I know what you do. Take me with you."