2529/Boulevard of Broken Dreams

Boulevard of Broken Dreams
Date of Scene:	20 September 2017
Location:	Hell's Kitchen
Synopsis:	The Winchesters smell 'off' and end up with an angel tailing them as a result.
Cast of Characters:	Dean Winchester, Sam Winchester, Castiel

---

Dean Winchester has posed:
The street outside Sam and Dean's apartment is oddly quiet today. But then darkness fell some time ago. The temperature has even begun to indicate the clear markers of fall through the crispness that rips across the New York night. While it may be late, it's not so late that nothing is open. This is New York, after all.

Hell's Kitchen turns around rather rapidly once night really settles in. Young families of all sorts disappear for the night. And a very different crowd takes to the streets afterwards.

But then, the Winchesters have never really been intimidated by people. Fighting ghosts, demons, and the undead has given them enough on their resumes to feel no concern with the switch in the community's occupants.

With his green jacket open over a plaid shirt resting overtop a grey t-shirt, Dean has layered up. Not because it's necessary. He's even taken to adding a splash of colour. It might seem unremarkable to some, but he has shifted from everyday lumberjack to lumberjack with style. Today, at least.

He gnaws greedily on the burger in his grasp. His opposite hand holds a large paper bag. With more burgers. "I figure I have days of eating to make up for."

Sam Winchester has posed:
An amused smile, followed by a brief through-the-nose exhale of amusement, greets Dean's pronouncement. Sam doesn't challenge the reasoning exactly, but it's clear he finds it a little lacking. The smile mingles fondness with exasperation as the big man walks next to his brother. He just wears a V-necked grey t-shirt with a black tactical jacket over it. The big man has his hands in his pockets.

He occasionally checks his surroundings out of habit. He checks their backtrail out of driver's side mirrors in parked cars. He glances up and down the street, knows in general who is close. It's a lifetime of survival habit mingled with a boatload more prudence and less distraction than Winchester the Elder is over there displaying. But Dean's had it rough, and the way Sam figures, he's earned a little watchful vigilance from his brother so he can enjoy his attempts to ensure every artery in his body is as clogged as possible in as close to peace as their sort ever get.

Occasionally he rubs his arm. 30 minutes ago, after days without a single dose, and that after sucking down a white-eye's potent blood only to burn much of the boost away in a desperate bid to save his brother, his friends, and people important to all of the above, he finally was able to inject blood from his captive demon. He was so desperate he jammed in needle after needle, 5 in all, and had sat there gasping from the relief of it all. No rush, not exactly what he craves now, but enough to fight back the shakes, the headaches, the cramps, the nausea. Some of that is still there, mostly the headache, but it's slowly fading, as is the slight shake of his hand.

The scent of woodsmoke tinged with hellfire. Herbal soap enhanced with sulfur. This is how Sam smells all the time now, but re-upping his supply does instantly strengthen both with the bite of demonic magic.

"Just...try not to choke or throw up, okay man?" he says, in tones of soft concern. "Eating after a long period of starvation is like...like bonuses in D&D. They don't necessarily stack."

Castiel has posed:
Time is an irrelevant annoyance when you're an angel, even if you're walking around in a human vessel. Some things might have been left behind, but not all, and there are aspects of humanity that aren't a necessity. Except.. if you walk amongst them, it becomes clear that there are things they do. Things that keep you from being set apart. Things that let you blend into the crowd.

Castiel is learning those things. Like - the fact that humans eat and drink. He's found any number of pizza joins (he's discovered that's what they're called, joints), and places where alcoholic beverages may be had. Sometimes even in the same place. The vessel seems to remember such things with fondness. He's learning to appreciate the subtleties of flavours. Deluxe pizza with extra pepperoni is winning as he makes the rounds.

He's also learned that when the day star goes down, the attitude and aspect of the streets change. People grow wary. Eyes aren't met. Greetings aren't exchanged. A person walks with their head down and their shoulders hunched a little closer to the neck to avoid drawing challenges, and even then, sometimes that isn't enough.

Castiel has been circling this neighbourhood for days now, trying to pinpoint that niggling scent. Sulphur. Brimstone. Something acrid in the back of his throat. Demonic.. but not a demon. It's puzzling.

Tonight, though? Tonight it's stronger. No longer a niggle, but a scent that leads down a street he's walked many times of late. A scent that seems centered on just ahead. The men.

He sets his bear-walking ambol in pace with theirs, about fifteen feet back.

Dean Winchester has posed:
"I would /never/--" the notion of choking OR throwing up visibly offends Dean. His eyes widen, his eyebrows lift, and he even talks around the burger in his mouth, clearly pained by the sheer thought. "Each of these White Castle burgers is going to stay in my stomach. And it's going to live there. Happily," he side glances Sam. "I love burgers like a fat-kid loves cake."

He stares at Sam's arm and then thrusts the bag of burgers towards Sam. This probably counts as brotherly care in Dean's mind. "Have a burger," he wants to tell Sam that it'll take his mind off the pain, but he really has no idea. But if Sam is eating it will bring some relief to Winchester the elder. If only because it'll make him stop thinking about Alistair. About being cut with the demon knife. About--and just like that, his appetite is gone.

His nostrils flare and he ditches the half burger left in his grasp to the garbage. For good measure he manages to smile after. "No vomiting involved," although he does feel queasy. "And some bonuses in D&D do stack. Burger bonuses always stack." But then why did he stop eating?

He doesn't notice Castiel yet; he's far too focused on not loosing his midnight snack.

Sam Winchester has posed:
"I'm not really-- "

But the burger bag is in Sam Winchester's hands. He reaches in with a sigh and a shrug, even as his eyes flick to another rear-view mirror. He has the thing unwrapped and a bite in his mouth and swallowed before he checks again. He keeps right on eating the slider, because it only takes him three bites. He studies the man in mirror after mirror, and murmurs the following words in a low tone of warning. "Dude. 10-66."

It's a police code, not a Marine code, but then the Marines don't really have codes for 'we've picked up a tail.' Point of fact, neither do the cops, but they do have one for 'suspicious person', and that one serves just as well. He waits for Dean to call the play: try to lose this guy? Or try to circle around, trap him in an alley? He'll let his brother take lead as he so often does.

Casually, he throws the burgers in the trash and says in far more normal tones, "Dude, these things taste like grease. /Just/ grease. Day /old/ grease. You should have let me cook. My burgers are ten times better than that."

Because not tipping off the tail that you've seen him is half the battle when it comes to surviving the experience.

Castiel has posed:
Another might have noticed they'd been caught out, but Castiel isn't another. And this form hampers in ways he wouldn't have understood until he took it up. If there's something about the brothers that should tip him off to the fact he's been made, it's lost upon him. All he sees is a bag handed over, and shortly thereafter, a half-eaten burger being tossed.

It all seems mundane.

He does wonder, though about the distinctions of grease. Grease he's discovered. Deep dish pizza comes with it. It sops into napkins and leaves orange stains. There's one lingering at the bottom-most button of his white shirt, reminding him that that experiment didn't go over so well. As the conversation reminds him that humans seem to be fascinated by meaningless things. Their time so short, and yet wasted upon topics of no matter.

Of course, he doesn't hear the low warning. And had he, it wouldn't have made a difference.

One thing he does know, though, the scent is strong with them. Upon the younger in particular. Not possession, but still nothing that should be.

Castiel is careful to keep them in his sights.

Dean Winchester has posed:
Despite the tail code, Dean's skin takes on a pale tone. He leans forward towards the garbage and brings a fist towards his lips. The feeling of dry heaving is enough to leave him in want. He clears his throat though at the 10-66. He doesn't turn around. Instead, he glances at the windows seeking reflections and indications that the pair have someone following them.

Dean ducks his head. "Sam, I'm gonna be sick." But the glint in his eyes indicates otherwise. He tucks his hands into his pockets, preening just a little to show off his green shirt (yeah, he's super happy with the way the plaid matches his eyes, and it shows) as he falls into an easy stroll towards an alley.

It seems that cornering buddy in an alley is going to be the plan. He lowers his voice, "You want front or back." He intends to close the guy in. Two on one seem like good odds.

Sam Winchester has posed:
"Seriously?" Sam asks, in response to Dean being sick. "Man!"

All a ruse, a show, and he mutters, "Front." Because he's the larger. He can block the view a little bit, make it look like he's tending to a sick brother from the way he holds his body, and buy Dean even more time to get behind their mysterious pursuer. It's why he usually runs 'front.' And in many ways, despite the fact that the Younger is the Larger, Dean is the one with the greater intimidation value. Dean can pull off a hardness and steely resolve that is sometimes missing in Sam, and Sam knows it. Intimidation matters when you're the one going 'surprise' from behind.

He wraps his arm around Dean with a soft sigh and hustles him into the alleyway. "Alright, it's alright, ooookay right there," keeping up a whole patter there as he lets his brother go so Dean can get moving. Once he does, he pulls out his phone. It's a sad truth about humanity that quick thumbing the word 'vomit' into Google instantly produces a video he can ramp the volume up on for verisimalatude. Phone goes back to pocket.

Castiel has posed:
Vomit. There's a word Castiel has learned in the past days, too. It seems to happen most frequently at the end of evenings, and generally after pitchers of beer have been consumed. It's not a malady he suffers from - a fact he could probably put to good moneymaking use if he understood it's value as a skill, the fact that alcohol does nothing to him.

Craggy eyebrows furrow into a line of concern. Vomit is usually a sign something is wrong. And with the other scent lingering about the pair, he has more than small reason to be alert. He may wear this suit of human flesh, but he was a warrior of the Lord. Relaxing only fractionally as the sounds of someone being ill issue forth from the darkened mouth of the alleyway.

His pace slows as he approaches the alley the brothers have deked into, pausing at its entrance and peering in. "You are sick." It isn't a question, the statement coming with an odd inflection to it. Hard to pin down, but not unlike worry. Tones low and gravelly.

Dean Winchester has posed:
It helps that Sam's size gives him probable ability to hide behind Winchester the younger. When they move into the alley, Dean slips behind a dumpster, immediately separating him and his younger brother and falling into plan execution mode. And as he slides behind the dumpster, his chin drops, admiring the shirt once again. He even nods approvingly at himself. He'll have to tell Jo about it. She probably won't be nearly as enthused, but he has no idea why.

He waits behind it, hearing Castiel observe his illness while his eyebrows draw together. If Sam could see the expression from his vantage point, it would probably read something akin to confusion. He's seen a lot of strange things since they chose to settle in the area. But observations about someone wanting to ralph? Yeah, that's new one.

He reaches into his jacket and unholsters a gun. It's loaded with salt shells, but even against humans it'll intimidate in a pinch... but he waits for Castiel to tread further into the alley. Cornering someone means first letting them pass you.

Sam Winchester has posed:
Sam does what any suspicious human might do in Hell's Kitchen at night. He pushes forward, curling his body over an imaginary Dean.

For all that May believes his face to be an open book, Sam, like all three of the Winchesters, is an old hat at running all kinds of cons. Plus, he did theatre in college. He does a credible, if not a perfect job, of turning his body just so, of making it seem like he's dragging the weight. "He's fine," Sam says gruffly. "I got it, thanks man." He doesn't look back at Cas, though he tenses like he expects a mugging, and adds, "We're out of cash, man."

At least there's no shortage of vomit smells in a New York City back alley. Or. Other awful things. Eugh. Not that being 'out of cash' necessarily stops a mugging. Sam just doesn't believe they're dealing with a mugger. Actually, he kind of hopes they are. That would be hilarious. If it's just a mugger, a real mugger, he'll pass the guy $50 just for his balls and sheer normalcy.

Castiel has posed:
Money. Ah, yes. That crumpled, bedraggled thing that passes from hand to hand and procures both the pizza and the boilermakers. It isn't, however, a thing he has copious amounts of rattling about his trencoat pockets. Up to this moment, it wasn't a thing he spent much time pondering.

"The other is ill." Again with the statement. Castiel still hovering in the alley's mouth, body entirely too still and too erect for comfort. It's as though his form has frozen in place, and only his voice has chosen to carry on forth.

The two are considered, the angelic pausing for more heartbeats of time than one should if one were going to either mug, or hand over cash. Finally the man seems to make a decision, moving forward, his shoulders looser than the hunch he carried while following them, his trenchcoat settling more comfortably about his form. "I can help."

As he steps forward, he holds his right hand out, palm towards the men - particularly Dean. If this is a mugging, it's a strange one.

Dean Winchester has posed:
When Castiel walks passed the dumpster, Dean waits on an extra two seconds from his hiding place, giving him just enough space to come up behind. His own paces become quick, authoritative, and heavy. Nothing about Dean suggests that he should be trifled with.

"//Hey//, buddy," the colt (but not THE Colt) rests in his grasp as he traipses behind Castiel. Yet he doesn't aim it. Instead, he levels a look at the angel. "Why are you following us?" he virtually hisses the words. Something about his own town makes him ill. It reminds him of when Alistair used his voice, causing his eyebrows to draw together in moderate disgust. Fortunately, the reaction gets quickly replaced by bravado.

His chest puffs and he inhales a deep breath. "We don't like being followed. And you heard my brother, we don't have anything worth taking," except maybe a bevy of weapons that might discourage someone from trying to attack either of them.

Green eyes flit momentarily to Sam. In silence, the arch of a wry eyebrow speaks volumes between them: //I got you//.

Sam Winchester has posed:
Dean is what Castiel sees should he glance behind.

Should he glance in front-- or even keep his gaze directly there-- what he will see is a man who turns around to level his own weapon directly between Castiel's eyes, stepping back to put space between the two of them to discourage any disarm attempts. His pistol is strange-- silvery, with some sort of blue glowing //stuff// in the middle of it. On the off chance this is just a mugger or a PI or something equally ridiculous, Sam has decided to pack the non-lethal heat. Just as Dean has really; they have it covered both ways now. Salt for things that go bump in the night, and ICER rounds direct from SHIELD's vaults, for humans.

He lets Dean do the talking, as he so often does in these scenarios. Hardened hazel eyes reflect no ire in this moment, but manage to communicate he means business, that they both do. He dips his chin towards Dean, acknowledging his brother's silent communication and delivering his own in turn. //And I got you//.

This his eyes flick back to Castiel, and dark eyebrows lift, both of them, an interrogatory facial expression.

He'd really like it if Cas would go right ahead and answer the question now.

Castiel has posed:
There's not even an iota of a physcial reaction from the man, cornered as he is between the brothers, guns fore and aft. Not unless you count lowering his hand to curl against the pocket of his trenchcoat. Or the intent blue gaze that is visited upon Sam, being directly in front of the man.

"Guns. Projectile weapons. At this distance, generally lethal. You do not wish to use them, instead, intend to intimidate."

It's clear Castiel is not intimidated.

"It would be a waste of your time and ammunition." There's a pause - too long for polite conversation, really, especially given he's not the one calling the shots currently. "You were not ill." His head turns ever so slightly to indicate and include Dean in the statement, and ever so slowly, he turns back to regard Sam. "And you dabble in things you should not." Fire and brimstone. Sulphur. He's the source.

Dean Winchester has posed:
/You were not ill/. "Yeah, no shit, Sherlock," Dean sputters with a scrunching of his face. His eyes attempt to meet Sam's. His lips part, his chin tucks towards his chest, and with no lack of ceremony, he rolls his eyes. "We were /grifting/ you," the complete obliviousness of the observation floors Dean. And when his gaze turns back to Sam, it's with unbridled irritation at their stalker's need to observe the obvious.

Less obvious, however, is how Castiel addresses Sam. Dean's nostrils flare and his hand remains on the gun. "What do you mean?" he snarls. Nausea rolls over him and a tremble in his hand indicates the magnitude of how wrong he truly is.

It's not even the moment that's wrong. It's him.

He steels his expression, but his weapon-wielding hand won't stop trembling. His head shakes, telling each of his faculties to control themselves as he does so, but it's useless.

A single voice rolls over his consciousness. Loud. Angry. Masculine.

/Walk it off/.

And in that moment, not even his shirt becomes a source of pride. His gaze hardens and he takes a few more steps forward to literally walk it off.

Sam Winchester has posed:
The implication that he is the way he is because he //dabbles in things he should not// causes Sam Winchester's mouth to thin. Nostrils flare, and hazel eyes narrow. He tilts his head ever so slightly to the side, and back again, his shoulders and neck tensing. A dozen signs of silent outrage, subtle defensiveness, that would be as familiar to Dean as their own names.

Nevertheless, his voice is steady and controlled. He may have let his rage slip while his brother was a prisoner in his own body, but he holds that white hot nuclear fire on its customary tight leash now. It's just one word, a word of warning. "Dean."

It's more code between them. He is the more collected of the brothers, the one whose job it is to help Dean himself keep a handle on that hot-headedness. He has learned over the years how to condense that function down to a single moment of tense tonal short-hand in any dangerous situation. He does so now.

That doesn't mean the weapon wavers, for all Castiel's attempts to tell them how futile it is. Hazel eyes remain locked on blue, and controlled breathing speaks of a man who now perceives himself to be in danger.

With that brief moment of ire brought back under control, he lifts his eyebrows at their prisoner-of-the-moment (or not) once more. Giving that 'answer the question' vibe once more.

Castiel has posed:
Castiel continues to regard Sam, watching the byplay of emotions as the younger of the brothers gets a grip on himself. Waits patiently while he interact in such terse terms with his brother. Then waits even longer before he finally speaks again.

"I think you know what I mean," Castiel's tones low and gravelly as the blue of his gaze remains steady upon Sam. "But if you must, you smell of demons. It is not a thing to be taken lightly. Nor do you smack of one possessed. So you dabble."

And perhaps that is when it occurs to Castiel the oddity of the other, his brows furrowing in an all too human gesture as he contemplates, half turning to address Dean, in disregard of the gun pointed at him. "What happened?"

Dean Winchester has posed:
Dean's eyes darken as he watches Sam rather than Castiel. With the latter's back to him, it's far easier to pay attention to the nuances of Sam's expressions. The sound of his name grounds him. Right. He needs to focus. He needs to breathe and do the job. That's what they do.

He swallows hard when Castiel explains that Sam /smells like demons/. "So what are you, a blood hound?" his eyebrows lift expectantly while his lips purse into a cynical, thin line. He refuses to back down, puffing up further with the assessment of Sam. Yeah, he will defend Sam.

But the question has Dean's face paling again. "Look Lassie, we're not interested in recounting where we've been," he's matter-of-fact about it. Pointed. But undoubtedly, defensive. "We know where we've been. Hell, we're just glad not to be there anymore," but his hand won't stop trembling. Ever uttered threat sounds like Alistair using his mouth again to spew hatred at everyone he cares about.

The dull pain in the back of his head sharpens. But he ignores it. He has to focus. His breathing quickens as does his pulse, much like it had in SHIELD medical. Except he really can't afford to have a panic attack right now.

Sam Winchester has posed:
Panic attacks are a new thing for Dean, but Sam knows what they are, knows what he's seeing. It is vastly strange to him he isn't having some sort of similar reaction. Everything that had been cutting into him, traumatizing him, seems like small stuff thanks to his newly restored memories of perdition, and while he felt every agonizing moment of it for a few short minutes under a South Dakota sky, it has since retreated to something that happened to him 9 years ago. Or maybe he's just compartmentalized it, and it's all sitting there like a series of old buried mines, waiting for someone to tread across them.

It tells him it's time to take control of the situation. Summoning up the sensation of being the steady rock in a storm isn't hard; he's mostly feeling that. More wary, even, than angry.

"Dabbling implies I wanted it. I was assaulted with it." That's the Cliff's Notes. "Now I just deal with it. Anything you smell on him? Also imposed. Now you've heard our story."

He lifts his chin, broadens his stance, mostly just to remind Castiel the weapon is there. "This is no normal gun. I would suggest not assuming you know what it, or we, are capable of. You've heard our stories. Now tell us what you want here, and what your intentions are. I'd as soon resolve this peacefully, but if my brother and I have to hand your ass to you we will. For one thing, I had to throw all his burgers away. And they weren't actually half bad."

It's not said with any kind of levity to indicate he's trying to be a wise ass per se. There's no wavering in his tone. It's still all steady control, said as if he were a bouncer at a bar. But the latter bit is aimed at Dean. Dean's name can ground him; humor can help see him through his panic.

But he never looks at Dean at all, intent on keeping the interloper's attention on //him//. The last thing he wants is for the fellow to realize Dean is being consumed by fear, to find a way to exploit that PTSD response, both gaining the upper hand...and making his brother that much worse in the long term. In this way, he mantles over Dean's mental health the way Dean so often mantles over his physical well-being.

Castiel has posed:
Castiel doesn't have to see Dean at this proximity to smell the fear on him. It's subtle. Just wafts of staleness. The faintest of acrid odours - not unreminiscent of the vomitting the two used as a ruse to get him here. He's waded through enough bodies and blood to know the stench of fear upon another, and oddly, it draws a gentled expression from the man. His shoulders hunching forward ever so slightly, the pace of his feet shifted to just shoulder width apart. Not unlike one who might expect to embrace another... Or stop a flight.

"Ah. If I had to guess, possession then." A faintness of gesture, that might be a nod in another if they allowed the thing to finish, is given by Castiel. "It explains much. There are things that could be done." A soothing of his tormented psyche, perhaps. A small thing, but a thing nonetheless.

He isn't fool enough to ignore Sam, though, the other seeming the most vocal of the pair. Or at least in control of his faculties enough to be the spokesperson. And, as it stands, seemingly the one who is most volatile at the moment as well.

Sam is regarded calmly. Too calmly, and yet, there isn't that of the demonic about him. There isn't that smugness. Or that harsh edge. Instead, there is still that odd gentleness the man. "You, however, would require more thought. As to your weapons, I know what I am, and there is nothing of your mortal ilk that can slay me. I may bleed, but I will not die." He relents, then, "I am Castiel. Late of the Choir. Now mostly mortal. And were I to hazard why I am here, I think you are the answer." Cryptic, but then again, who ever said Angels were wont to be otherwise.

Dean Winchester has posed:
The joke about the burgers does its work. In short order, Dean eases and the panic attack is put at bay. He can feel his heartbeat slow. His breathing calms. Everything feels better. He'd managed in medical, and he'll manage again. If only out of necessity. Sam gets cast a vague nod. It's almost a nod of thanks, but then, that would require acknowledgement of his panic attack.

"Seriously Snoopy, do you just spend all day smelling out demons?" The mention of possession has his eyebrows lifting further though. "What things?" he virtually spits. "Look." His lips quirk into a grim merciless smile. "There's nothing anyone can do. Not now. It sucks, but we keep on. /That's/ what we do."

He squints at the description Castiel gives of himself, "I don't know what any of that means," but the last catches his attention in particular. "Well, hate to break it to you, Buddy, but the dog role in our mystery team is reserved for Scooby Doo. Mostly because I really want to try those Scooby snacks." His smile turns smug. That little bit of geekery makes him happy.

Sam Winchester has posed:
Sam is distantly relieved that his brother has managed to come back to an even keel. Distantly, because Castiel has gathered more of his attention. Something hard and cynical enters his face. Castiel could have been another Hunter, or a wizard, or some other form of mystical vigilante up until this point. "Late of the choir, now mostly mortal," he repeats. "Here for us."

His voice hardens. "Not to put too fine a point on it, but things were not pleasant the last time angels intervened in our lives, Castiel. I haven't forgotten Zechariah rambling on about some scheme he wants to rope my brother into, at his expense."

But he puts the weapon away. He now knows that won't do. His hand may hover near his jacket though. He has something on him which he thinks will. He doesn't draw it though. He wasn't lying when he said he wants a peaceful resolution.

"Long and short of it: kind of feeling Dean on the Scooby Doo thing." His lips quirk into an almost smile.

He //has// always wanted a dog. A talking mystery solving dog wouldn't be the worst dog he could imagine having.

Just saying.

Castiel has posed:
There's that furrow of craggy brow again, as something Dean says draws the man's attention inward, running through the information he has been accumulating of late. Whatever it is, though, is lost as the angelic, catches upon something else Dean says, the matter causing him to give a short bark of a laugh, "I'm an angel, you ass," he growls at the older brother in his gravelly voice. "Not a dog."

That Sam has put his weapon away doesn't change his stance, Castiel seemingly as relaxed as he gets, still in that feet shoulder width apart postition, shoulders hunched fractionally closer to his ears so that his already ill-fitting trenchcoat looks like it truly belongs to another.

"I am not my brother," the man addresses Sam, now, the gravel filling his voice, as well as something else. Edges of irritation. And something more. The barest rumbling hints of what lies behind the vessel he wears.

"I am not my brother," he repeats. "I chose to walk among you with all that entails. The Fall. The Loss. The Sever. I serve where none other would because you should not be pawns."

Dean Winchester has posed:
A smirk follows Cas's declaration. Dean tucks the weapon back into his jacket. There's no reason for that now. But the downward pull of his lips, the saggy creases along his eyes, and the cynical pull of his eyebrows all speak to memory of Zachariah. The encounter that happened over ten years ago had been burned into his memory.

His lips purse and draw downwards into an angry frown while his arms cross tightly over his chest. It's protective. Closed. Altogether determined not to let this angel get a piece of him. His encounter with the last had burned in his memory. And teenage impetuousness had challenged the angel's determination at every corner.

Idle threats invited rebellion.

Like death deals with Crowley.

"You don't think we should be pawns..." he begins slowly. "Others disagree then?"

Sam Winchester has posed:
Something has shifted in this exchange.

Maybe it was Castiel's frustrated growl at Dean, which tugs an unwilling smile from the edges of Sam's lips. Just a hint of a half of one, causing him to cant his gaze downward for half a second to hide the sudden twinkle in his eye. The frustration-- I am not my brother-- and the anger at said brother wins points too. Not that he doesn't love Dean with all his heart, obviously, he does, but even brothers who are close have those moments, those 'hey don't mistake me for HIM' moments. It can only be worse, he supposes, when stakes are high and brothers don't agree on what to do. He sorts through the words, this announcement that this Castiel has basically made himself a fallen angel, a rebel in the eyes of the Lord, because he does not like whatever scheme is being played. Hell has factions. Why not Heaven?

The ball has passed between he and Dean again in the meanwhile, seamlessly, two who have questioned people up and down the United States even as teens to get them to share stories they don't believe anyone will or should believe. They know when to step back and step up without thinking about it. Now Sam drops his hands entirely, interested in the answer, thoughts of violence mostly forgotten. Mostly. They're never really //that// far from his thoughts.

Castiel has posed:
His answer comes without the pause. Without the consideration. It seems that when the man is not his vessel, not trying to fit in, when he allows himself the moments that once were the Grace of the Lord, and all that entailed - what remains of said Grace to him - he's quite capable in speaking in mostly understandable sentences.

"There are those who do not believe your loss is a matter for concern." Castiel sighs, brushing his hand through the unkempt length of his hair - clearly a memory of the vessel. "We forget, too easily, your place in the pattern of things. I do not stand in the majority in my love for your kind. This seemed the easiest way to act upon my intentions."

If he notices the change in Sam's demeanour, he makes no indication. His answer encompassing both, and ending in notes of frustration.

Dean Winchester has posed:
The note of frustration earns Cas more trust. There are few emotions Dean Winchester really identifies with. Frustration, however, happens to be one of them. His hands drop from his chest and find the pockets of his jeans. He leans back on the heels of his feet. He's lounging, no longer defensive against the angel that made itself known.

"Do we have a place in the pattern of things? Seems like humans are little more than collateral damage." His lips purse and he hums quietly. "Look. We met one angel once. He got me sick," made him sick?, "so he could talk to me without coming here." Or, at least, that's what the brothers had decided. Not that they talked about it after the incident. Not with each other, anyways.

Dean does recall a rather pointed conversation with Bobby. But that had little to do with Zachariah. His eyes find the ground. "I gotta talk to my brother." There's a pause. "Do Angels carry cellphones?"

Castiel has posed:
There's a glint to the piercing blue of Castiel's eyes as he turns himself that he might address both brothers now, though mostly Dean gets the answer, as he is the one to ask, "I believe there is a place for you. I believe that the Choir will learn to their lament that they are wrong about you."

He nods, however, to the explanation. The mention of angel past. The gesture is almost human in its fluidity, only slightly stilted, much as if as long as he lets the body be the body, things happen, only getting into trouble when he thinks about it.

"There are those of my brethren who would use anything to their advantage without thought. Perhaps that is what drew me to you." That and the demon stench. Don't forget the demon stench.

"Cell phone?" The question draws a slight furrowing of brow. "You mean technology? No. But if you call, I will answer." He leans in, as if sharing a secret, lips pursed over an amusement of smile, "Castiel will do. I think that there are those who will think twice about tampering with you now that I have set myself your guardian." Whatever /that/ means.

And just as simply, he's erect again. Still as stone. "Go. Talk with one another. I've done what I needed."

Dean Winchester has posed:
Call. "...right." Dean finds that rather freaky, but merely shakes his head and rolls his eyes. He catches Sam's gaze, but Winchester the younger has already begun to make his way to big brother. Dean squints though when Castiel declares himself their guardian. He can't really comment on that. "We both know we're too far gone for any angels to give a damn about us," despite one pushing him into a near-death experience. "But we'll talk. And you're here from us." Unless Dean is lying. It's such a frequent occurrence who would even know.

And then the pair fall into step to tread out of the alley. When they move, Dean calls back: "Take it easy, Cas."