Chapter Text
“Who are you?”
“I am Castiel.”
“Okay … scratch that. What are you?”
The being continues to stretch its hands towards the sky, using streams of rain like lassos to pull the clouds over their heads. It smiles. “Defining what I am is not important, as long as I am and always will be, then the world can continue to grow.”
Beneath his jacket, Dean is shaking. He’s not sure if it’s from fear or from the cold or from the confusion of everything that’s going on, but he can’t still himself, and that is making him angry. “Look, I don’t know how I—”
“Do not worry, Dean. If I see you again, I will explain all of this. For now, you must go—the worst of the storm is on its way.” The being then turns, shoving a cluster of rain from one hand, freeing it, soon grabbing at the coming downpour with open arms and heaving backwards with all its might.
Thunder crashes—lightning cracks.
A wall of sparking clouds tumbles down around them, and Dean shields his eyes; and when he opens them again—the world is sunny.
“What the hell?” he whispers, clamoring upright from the backseat of the impala. “What?” he hisses a little louder, still feeling the rain water on the tips of his fingers, but everything else is dry. The sky is blue. The road stretches dustily ahead of him, and he is utterly and completely alone.
Just like always.
The nightmare, if that’s what it was—was different than the the ones he normally has, because this time, he didn’t wake up crying. He didn’t wake up screaming out for Sam, or for his mom, his dad, for anyone to help as the flames licked the soles of his shoes. This nightmare felt as real as any of them; but unlike the others, this one couldn’t be real.
The flames are memories.
His little brother’s dying cries are memories.
The sight of his childhood home burning to the ground with everything and everyone he’s ever loved inside, that was just a memory.
But a strange man—thing, standing in the middle of a field, commanding the wind and rain with nothing but his bare hands … that all had to be a dream.
Dean must’ve read something like that somewhere. Maybe in one of the books from way back when in the orphanage—or between the covers of some two dollar magazine in an auto shop’s waiting room. It was probably some random, nonsensical tale that’s been locked away for years in the recesses of his mind. Lord knows, he's not creative enough to come up with something like that.
As he stretches out his arms and shakes his head to wake up— Dean tries to figure out exactly where he is, and how the hell he got here.
The last thing he remembers from the night before was stopping for gas. He was just standing there waiting for the pump to click, yawning and dreading the drive ahead— but then everything got foggy ... quite literally. A thick, pale fog began billowing in around the gas station like a flood. Soon, it was hard for Dean to even see his own feet below him; but after that, he can't recall a thing.
"When did I get back in the car?" he asks himself quietly, before slipping out of the rear seat and around to the front. Once there, he looks around the cab, as if it'll give him some sort of clue to finding those missing hours; but there's nothing there to help him. Dean eventually lets out a sigh, slumping behind the wheel while rubbing his eyes. He thinks back on the strange dream. He thinks of the storm and of the creature willing it across the night, and he thinks about the name that the creature called itself. "Cas-tiel" Dean mouths it, slowly, carefully, like he'll be punished if he gets it wrong. "Castiel" he says again with more conviction. What a strange name for his subconscious to come up with! He's almost certain he's never heard that name before, but there it is, on the tip of his tongue—embedded in his memory, filling the mouth of some type of superman, and putting a name to a face that Dean, for some reason, can't even really recall now. He remembers everything else, the clouds, the thunder, the fluidity in which Castiel moved, but when it comes to describing the being itself, Dean finds that he can't. The only thing he knows for certain is that its eyes were blue.
As blue as lightning.
With one last shake and a yawn, Dean gives up on trying to map out the specifics. He was exhausted last night. He probably just got back into his car at the gas station and drove until he couldn't drive anymore. Dean was most likely on autopilot, and it wouldn't be the first time he couldn't remember a drive. And overall, he should be thinking about just how lucky he is that he got as far as he did without any apparent incident. He's safe—his baby is safe. That's about all he can ask for at this point.
The sign up ahead says "Nebraska state line, 48 miles" so Dean puts the keys in the ignition and starts his baby up, knowing that he'll have plenty of time to ponder things as he goes along, but for now— he needs to get back on the road.
It was just a dream ... nothing to get so hung up on.
But it felt so real.
Castiel … he felt real.
***
With Uncle Bobby’s house only a few hours away, Dean decides to pull off at the next place he finds to grab a bite to eat. Ever since his odd awakening this morning, he’s been driving nonstop; he didn't want to miss a thing. He was hyper-focused on every hole in the road and every road sign that he passed, committing it all to memory. Making sure he new the difference ... between what was real, and whatever happened the night before.
This road trip is important—most of his trips are but this one is more so. He wasn’t planning on seeing Bobby again so soon, but he wants to be around family right now, and that old man is as close as he’ll ever get. When he was a child, he’d spend his summers at Bobby’s salvage yard, playing between the junk piles with his brother, Sam while learning how to fix up old cars with their dad. John, Dean's dad, had known Bobby for what seemed like forever, and when John got into auto part sales, he and Bobby would meet up two or three times a year to do business. At one point, John brought the boys with him, and the two ended up loving it so much that it became a regular family outing.
Going to Bobby's was better than Disneyland in Dean’s opinion; but after the fire, he was shipped off by social services and didn’t get to see Bobby again for a few years. Not for a lack of trying though—on both ends. Bobby fought countless legal battles, trying to gain custody of Dean. He wanted to adopt him and call him his own, but the state of Kansas just wouldn’t rule him to be a fit parent for a nine year old boy. Bobby Singer was already up there in age, and lived in a rundown shack that just happened to be surrounded by miles and miles of scrap metal. His income wasn’t steady, he wasn’t in a committed relationship, and it didn’t matter how much he loved the boy, the government just didn’t see that as enough. So Dean bounced between foster homes and schools—some okay, some downright terrifying, until he got old enough to start cheating the system. When he could, he’d run off and visit Bobby— but the cops would always find him and bring him back so that whatever foster parent he happened to be staying with at the time could keep depositing the support checks. When he turned sixteen however, Dean actually came back on his own … this time, in his dad’s old impala. Bobby had taken it after the fire. Apparently, it was always intended to go to Dean—John had told Bobby that years and years before; he wanted it to stay in the family. “That car is just as much a Winchester as any of us”, his old man used to say; so when Dean finally got his license, Bobby was finally able to give him John’s last gift; and his dad’s prized car meant freedom. It meant hope. It meant that maybe, possibly ... he wouldn’t constantly feel so alone.
The last of the Winchesters.
Dean sighs as he runs his fingers across the impala’s dash. She’s running hot—she needs some rest and so does he. It’s been a long drive from Albuquerque and he doesn’t think either of them have really had any peace since doing this last job.
His previous "client" was a real firecracker for being nearly eighty three years old. He hopes that he still has that much spunk by then ... if he makes it that long. "Good ol' Mrs. Stepowitz …" Dean mutters with smile, turning onto a dusty, pot holed driveway with a sign that says "Food" dangling haphazardly above it.
Dean considers himself an entrepreneur of sorts. He has built up a little business and not to mention, a name for himself among certain, affluent crowds. When it comes to charm and schmoozing, he has a real knack … as long as he can make a quick, clean break before anyone finds out he’s full of shit.
Bobby doesn’t approve of Dean’s creative means for income, but it’s not like he’s doing anything illegal, so really—what’s the harm? Old ladies love him; and if those old ladies just so happen to have a crap ton of money and want to overpay Dean for various “services”, then so be it. Everything stays classy. Yeah, he may do some things shirtless every now and then, flex a bit when he knows someone is watching, wear some jeans that are just a little too tight and too thin to hide what’s underneath, but none of that is really wrong.
So, what’s the big deal?
"It's not honest work" the old man always complains, and Dean can't really argue with that; but the money is more than what he could ever make doing random construction gigs, so Bobby will just have to learn to deal with it.
But that saying about old dogs might be true, because the last time Dean saw the man, Bobby didn't waste a moment in guilting him about his next venture. Dean had visited on his way down to New Mexico to meet up with Mrs. Stepowitz—who had insisted that he would be the perfect man to help her clean up her estate in order to sell. They had met in an airport bar— that's where Dean finds most of his clientele; but when she offered to buy him a plane ticket to Albuquerque, Dean refused. Flying was never his thing, and he knew he could stop in to see his uncle on the way down south if he drove. But he didn't stay at Bobby's very long, only a couple of hours so they could catch up and have a beer or two. Yet, even with all the bitching, the short visit only made Dean miss Bobby more. It made him miss having someone familiar to talk to—someone he didn’t have to constantly charm or play. Sure, Bobby’s place is old and dirty and about ready to fall apart—nothing like the mansions that Dean occasionally stays in; but it's far better than the backseat of his car, and more importantly: it feels like a home. He needs that right now, because with the loneliness comes the nightmares, and the nightmares have been non-stop lately, so it’s been harder and harder to shake off that ache that makes getting by, impossible.
“Just a few nights at Bobby’s” Dean mutters to himself as he pulls into the parking lot of a diner off highway 183. “That’ll do it.”
The small restaurant looks run down and older than death, but the smells coming from its doors aren’t half bad. Dean detects a whiff of bacon and fried cheese, also—what could possibly be onion rings … he’s sold!
The impala’s engine hisses and clicks as he shuts her down, and her door creaks sorely when he pops it open to step outside.
“I know, girl Not much longer, okay?” he whispers to her, patting her roof as he swings the door closed behind him. With a soft smile, he then turns away, picking up speed as his stomach starts to rumble. A tiny bell chimes when he enters the diner, and soon, a rotund, sweet faced woman is waving him over to a stool pressed up against the counter.
“Come over here, boy. Sit down—you look like you’re about to keel over!”
Dean smiles, already falling in love with this place. “Yes, ma’am!”
The woman chuckles before nodding approvingly. “Manners. Thank the lord! Most of the men that come in here just spit their orders at me like I was born behind this counter to serve ‘em!”
“Well that ain’t right” Dean grumbles, sitting himself down while picking up a menu. “A lady as beautiful as you should be waited on hand and foot, not the other way around.” Dean peeks back over the vinyl rimmed menu and winks at the woman, who promptly grabs the thing from his hands and thwaps him on the head with it.
“I’m old enough to be your grandmother, boy! Stop actin’ a fool and tell me what you want!”
Dean would protest, but he’s still cowering from the first attack and doesn’t want to incite another. With palms flat and in obvious surrender, he straightens out again and takes the menu back. “Uh … cheeseburger, please. Bacon too … extra if you got it.”
The old woman smirks before taking her leave, muttering something under her breath about “ignorant child” and “what’s wrong with him.”
Dean chuckles as he watches her disappear into the kitchen. He should’ve known better than to keep up his act in a place like this. The types of people that come here, that work here—that live here, they’re all no-nonsense. Hell, his dad would feel right at home in this place! Come to think of it, there’s a good chance his dad has been to this place before. The man used to drive all up and down this route making sales. He probably knew every bar and diner by name and by specialty. And there's something about that thought makes Dean feel warm inside, all the way to the tips of his toes, so he decides that when the waitress comes back—he’s going to do what he doesn’t do very often: he’s going to chat with her just because. No games. No ulterior motives. Just talk about nothing, and enjoy it.
After all, he needs a rest; and by the sounds of it, this old woman needs someone to be kind to her for once.
Dean can do that.
“I’m getting Hank to put a hog’s-worth of bacon on that thing for ya. You may need an ambulance by the end of it, but you’ll enjoy every bite!”
Dean beams when the woman comes back out of the kitchen, talking at the top of her lungs because it’s just Dean who’s out here to hear her. “I appreciate that—I do. Thank you.”
The woman smiles. “You’re very welcome. What’s your name, son?”
“Dean Winchester. Yours?”
The woman’s smile quickly fades, and she seems almost shocked that Dean had asked. “Oh, well … I’m Lynn, but folks around here call me Litty. No earthly idea why” she laughs, shrugging before busying herself with wiping off the far end of the counter.
Dean watches her a moment, noticing how her cheeks tinge with the attention. “Well, which do you prefer? Lynn, or Litty?”
She stops cleaning and turns to look at him curiously. “Um, Lynn … I like to be called Lynn.”
“Lynn it is then. How long have you been working here, Lynn?”
The woman’s curious glare intensifies. “You’re just full of questions, ain’t ya?”
Dean shrugs, but he keeps his ears perked for her answer.
The woman can only sigh. “Hm—well, let’s see. I reckon it’s been nearly forty six years now. Criminy! Most of my life has been spent behind this counter!”
“Well, if you enjoy it …” Dean begins, but he stops just as Lynn shakes her head.
“Not really about enjoin’ as much as it is about survivin’.”
Something about the tone in the woman’s voice breaks Dean’s heart. “If that’s the case … then what would you be doing if you didn’t have to be here?”
With that, Lynn seems to deflate, eventually tossing the rag down into a bucket on the floor. “Lord, son! I don’t know! What are you, some type of psychiatrist or somethin’?”
Dean laughs. “Oh, hell no! I’m the type of guy who causes problems for people—I don’t fix ‘em.”
That makes Lynn laugh too. “Well, you’re certainly causin’ problems for me … makin’ me miss spots!” She soon grabs a clean rag from the shelf beneath the counter and starts wiping it down again.
“Sorry—I've just been driving most of the day, and you’re the first nice person I’ve spoken to in a while.”
Now Lynn is really laughing. “Nice? I just smacked you with a menu! Don't you remember, boy!”
“I deserved it!” Dean yelps. “It was nice of you to set me straight!”
And that makes the old woman give up on cleaning completely, quickly walking over to lean against the counter in front of Dean. “So … you’re just a talker then?”
Dean shrugs. “Not usually … not unless it’s gonna be useful for me to open my big mouth.” He huffs and looks around the small, empty diner, feeling oddly safe here, and he’s glad for it. “But like I said … you’re nice, and that’s kinda rare these days.”
Lynn smiles sweetly but rolls her eyes at him all the same. “Well, you’re nice too I suppose.”
After a few more chuckles, they sit in silence a moment, listening to the grill sizzle from the kitchen.
“So—” Lynn finally sips, wondering at Dean with deep, brown eyes, “What are you doing driving through here? Road trip? Sightseein’?”
Dean shakes his head as he watches her turn around to grab a coffee mug before spinning back and setting it down in front of him. “No, I’m headed to South Dakota to see my uncle.”
“You two close?”
Dean’s mouth twitches as he tries to find the right words. “Yeah—you could say that. I mean ... he’s the only family I got, but I don’t see him as much as I’d like to.”
Lynn nods as she reaches for a pot of coffee to pour some for Dean. “Why’s that? Work keepin’ you away?”
Dean shrugs before taking a sip. “Not really … I don’t have a nine to five job or anything like that.”
“Then why don’t you see him more? Family’s important, boy. You never know when they’ll be gone so you got to cherish the time you have.”
It's sudden and harsh, and if he hadn't been so swamped with memories lately, he probably would've been able to hold it together, but his eyes immediately burn with her words, and Dean has to blink a few times and look away to stop it, hoping that the old woman doesn’t notice his change of face. “Yeah, yeah—can’t argue there” he mumbles pathetically.
“Sorry” Lynn sighs once silence falls between them again, obviously catching Dean’s switch in demeanor despite his efforts. “You just said that he’s the only family you got and here I am, makin’ ya feel guilty about not seein’ him much.”
“It’s fine” Dean mutters, drinking some more of his coffee to try and act nonchalant.
“No—it ain’t. I know a thing or two about loss, so I should be more sensitive.”
Dean peeks over at the woman who is now doing her own acrobatics to avoid eye contact, but he's just grateful to have a way to get the attention back off of him. “Yeah? Who did you lose?”
Lynn begins fiddling with the salt and pepper shakers, rearranging them needlessly around the napkin dispenser. “Well … uh ….”
Dean quickly sets down his mug before lifting his hand and stopping her from saying anything else. “No—sorry, I shouldn’t pry.”
The woman sighs while shaking her head again. “It’s alright. It ain't no secret.” Then, she takes a deep breath before starting to explain. “I lost my husband and my daughter a long, long time ago. Car accident. Someone ran the light and crashed into my husband’s truck.”
Dean slumps in his seat. “I’m sorry—that’s awful.”
Lynn quickly wipes at her eyes before nodding and straightening out her apron. “Yes, well—I get by with believin’ I’ll see ‘em again someday.”
Dean nods. “I’m sure that you will.”
After another beat, she catches Dean’s gaze with a smile. “And—what about you, son? You said that all you got is your uncle ... what happened to the rest of your family?”
He fidgets a little and drops his focus to his hands wrapping around his coffee mug, flinching when Lynn dangles the pot over it for a refill. “Um … well …" He doesn't like to talk about them. It's bad enough that he can't stop thinking about them and what happened, but talking just brings it all back. Every detail. Every feeling. There's no denying it happened if he says it out loud.
"Must be bad if it's this hard for ya to answer" Lynn says worriedly.
Dean looks over his shoulder at the door, partly wanting to walk out and forget this conversation ever started, but this old woman has already had too many people be rude to her, and Dean has too much pride to become another one. With a bated breath, he chokes on the words. "There was a fire—when I was nine.”
“Oh lord” Lynn gasps, setting down the pot to put her hand over her mouth.
“There was a bad storm ...” Dean continues on, memories pulling him back like a riptide, straight into the crashing suffocation of that night. “The lightning was non-stop." The words clump up in his mouth, seeming like they're throwing elbows and punches, just trying to get out in front of one another. "I used to love those types of storms. I always wanted to watch them, but my mom would tell me and my brother to keep away from the windows.” Dean closes his eyes a moment, feeling his chest tighten as he remembers the sounds of his mother’s voice calling out to him in the dark. “That night—I snuck out to the back yard. I wanted to watch the storm from a better spot, so I climbed into an oak tree that was by the fence and I just stared at the sky." Tears build in his eyes, but there's no stopping them now. Dean knows that. "It was so loud— I thought it was exciting, but then the lightning struck the house. It was blinding. Another bolt hit the tree after that, but I don’t remember it. All I remember then was waking up on the ground and smelling smoke. My entire house was on fire … I could hear—” Dean’s voice cracks as Sam's pained cries slash through his mind with glass-like clarity, “I could hear my little brother screaming.”
Lynn reaches out and touches Dean’s wrist, trying to comfort him, but the contact only succeeds in making Dean break down even more.
“I'm sorry” he finally huffs, embarrassed that he's losing it right, in front of this woman— a perfect stranger.
"Sweetheart, don't apologize. It's alright."
"No, it's—"
“Order up!” a call rings out from the back, making Dean instantly clamp shut and cower behind his own hands.
Lynn’s own tears rim her eyes, but she wipes them away before wheeling around and grabbing the burger from the pass-through window. She quickly shoos the cook away as he peeks through the opening at the two of them. “Go on, Hank! Make up that cherry pie … we’re gonna need it.”
The greasy looking man scrunches up his face but eventually nods, turning back towards the kitchen before stepping out of sight.
Dean relaxes once he knows the man is gone.
“Sorry ‘bout that, hun” Lynn whispers, pulling up in front of Dean once more so she can place the plate in front of him.
Dean clears his throat and swipes his eyes with the back of his hand. “No, no—it’s fine. I’m blubbering. It was good timing, actually. I need to put something in my mouth so I can stop flappin’ it.”
Lynn smiles at him again, but this time it’s sad—almost disappointed, and Dean instantly feels bad.
The room falls quiet once more and it makes everything seem stressed and tired, leaving the two to search for ways to break the tension; and Lynn is the first to come up with something.
“You asked me earlier …” the woman starts, after Dean had taken a few bites of his meal, “where I’d be if I wasn’t here.”
He looks up at her, chewing slowly as he nods. “Yeah?” he mumbles around the lump in his throat, as well as a mouthful of meat and bread.
Lynn’s eyes soon glaze over as she looks off into nothing. “I don’t have an exact place I wanna go—if that makes sense? I just know I’d want there to be flowers, lots and lots of flowers.” The woman’s lip trembles on thoughts that Dean can’t read. “My husband … he’d always bring me flowers, all different kinds. He’d never buy ‘em. They were wild, always with dirty roots stickin’ out but they’d last longer that way anyway. He made deliveries and when he’d come home, there would always be new flowers waiting for me on the table. I never knew where he got ‘em, but they were always unique and beautiful. Then when my daughter was born, we named her Primrose, after the flower.”
Dean watches her face fall as her eyes clear back into focus.
“When they died—it seemed like I never saw any flowers anymore. Nothing but weeds grow ‘round here, so if I could be anywhere else … I’d just want there to be flowers.”
Dean had stopped eating, taking a moment to just stare at Lynn instead. Her neat bun sat poised atop her head, grey hairs woven in between the dark strands like braids. Her skin was soft, dark and rippled, like the surface of his coffee, but something about the way the afternoon light caught her between the counter and the dust, she looked young. She looked beautiful—and she looked broken. Like a bloom with only half its pedals.
“Well …” Lynn finally breathes, breaking the sad moment with a huff, “how’s that burger tastin’? Good, ain’t it?”
Dean smiles before picking it up again. “Yes—it’s very good. Everything is wonderful. Thank you, Lynn—really.”
The woman coughs and waves off his sincerity, turning on heels to head back into the kitchen to yell at Hank to get a move on with that pie.
Dean smiles as she fades from his view, wondering how he and an old waitress at a diner in the middle of nowhere, could be so very much alike.
***
He spent nearly four hours in that diner. Lynn got him talking about a number of things— his antics, his wishes, his car (which he proudly pointed out to her through the window. She was impressed) ... all topics that were much more lighthearted than where they started; and she shared a number of things about herself too. He found out that she actually used to work on the air base in Omaha, and that’s where she met her husband. She was a nurse’s assistant there and her husband, Thomas was a pilot, before an injury took him out of the cockpit for good. After their daughter was born, they both needed to find work, so Lynn started up at the diner and he started making deliveries for a small chain of supply stores. Dean listened intently while the woman talked, loving how her eyes would light up over certain things, and hating how they dimmed when she remembered just how much has changed.
When it was his turn to share again, Dean talked about his time in the orphanage— but only telling Lynn about all the trouble he used to get into. He told her about the pranks he would pull on the nuns and she laughed in spite of her disapproval. “You’re a cruel boy” she cackled, slicing up some pieces of freshly baked pie for the two of them to share. Dean didn’t deny it, because it felt good to finally confess a few of his sins, even if it was only to an old woman in a grease-smeared apron.
After the diner began to get dark though, Dean knew it was time for him to go—but leaving felt a lot harder than he expected it to. He enjoyed talking to Lynn—he enjoyed her wit and her short temper. He enjoyed listening to her bicker with Hank over nothing important, and he enjoyed getting to know about her past. She seemed rather fond of him too. She even packed up the rest of the pie for Dean to take with him on the road; so when she was in the back wrapping it up, Dean decided to do a little something as a last minute thank you for the nice old woman who took the time to listen to him.
Once he pulled out the twenty dollar bill to pay for his food, he also pulled out several ones—some for the tip, plus a few others for him to fold. A girl named Agnes taught him how to do this when they shared a room at his first foster home in Topeka, but he can’t say the skill ever really came in handy—not until now.
A few minutes passed before Lynn came back out with the to-go box of pie, but it was just enough time for Dean to fold the dollar bills into the shapes of roses, corners twisted around themselves—little green pedals fanned out and laying atop the counter beside the check. Lynn spotted the paper flowers immediately.
“What’s this?” she asked, setting the box down in front of Dean but never taking her eyes off the money.
Dean smiled. “Well—I couldn’t manage real flowers, but I thought that these might do in a pinch.”
Tears instantly crested Lynn’s eyes, and before he knew it, the woman was around the other side of the counter and wrapping him in a hug.
“You’re a good, good boy, Dean Winchester. For all the bad that the world has given you, you’re still so, so good.”
Dean hugged the woman back, not wanting to have to let go—but it was getting late and he still had a ways to drive before he got to Bobby’s. “Thank you, Lynn.”
“No, thank you, child! Thank you so much.”
***
The moon shined brightly over the grassy fields, making everything tinge blue and gold. It felt like a dream, which reminded Dean of the one he had the night before. At the time, it was scary, but thinking back on it now, he almost misses it. He wishes he hadn’t woken up when he did. The storm, the strange thing that was controlling it—the way that thing spoke, how it moved … it stirred up emotions and thoughts that Dean hadn’t experienced in years—the same kinds of notions that always pushed him to strain his neck when he was young and watch the lightning crack across the sky. After the fire, those curiosities turned to feelings of dread and heartache; but that dream made him remember what it was about those dark grey clouds that always captured his interest, and in spite of the strangeness, he wants to feel it all again.
The road curls beneath his tires and the stars burst overhead, passing like flurries of snow across his windshield. And he’s so lost in thought for a while, that he doesn’t really notice how tightly he’s having to grip the wheel— that is, until he’s almost running off the road. The wind has picked up since he’d left the diner, and now it almost feels like a tornado is brewing; which Dean really hopes isn't the case because that would put a real kink in his travel time. He struggles to keep his tires straight against the gusts—noticing out of the corner of his eye, the way the grass is bending and whipping back and forth in the gale. “Shit—this is crazy” he mutters, avoiding the dirt and weeds that zip erratically across the blacktop. One, large cluster of brush jumps out from the thickets and Dean hits the brakes just in time to avoid running it over, eventually slowing down enough to watch it roll to the other side of the road and into the grass. “Jesus!” he breathes, eyes training up from the wheat and green, only to still as they spot an odd shape in the distance.
There, out in the middle of the field—appears to be a man, walking parallel to the road. He's running his hands along the tips of the grass. His shape wavers in and out of focus, almost as if he’s only being projected onto the earth and he's not really there at all. Dean speeds up, barely glancing at where he’s going because he wants to get a better look at whoever is strolling through the field. The person seems to be cloaked in a whirl of white and blue, but the fabric is seems transparent at times, acting more like curls of steam, and in the moments that it clears, Dean can see the man’s bare back stretching between the reams of long grass; and his tan arms—bending with the wind. Dean presses his foot hard against the gas pedal; but the faster he goes, the faster the strange figure seems to move, yet its pace never actually gears beyond a steady walk.
And that's when Dean realizes— that old curiosity has filled his chest once more. So he races on ahead, trying to catch up; but the thing is always just out in front of him, no matter how much he speeds, always pulling a little beyond his reach. The wind batters the side of the impala relentlessly, and Dean does all that he can to keep her steady on the road, but it’s almost as if the quicker he drives, the stronger the wind gets. For a moment, he tears his eyes away from the figure in the field to gaze beyond it—noticing suddenly how the grass ahead of the being is still, as if the wind only begins at the strange man’s back. Where the dirt imprints below the thing's footfall, a whirlwind arises, but not even a step ahead of him— the night is calm, perfectly silent, just waiting for something to shatter its surface like glass.
A hollowing realization settles in Dean’s mind, and as he looks once more to the being gliding over the flat, dry land, he whispers, “Castiel?”
All at once, the figure slows and turns its head. Bright, familiar blue eyes shine across the field and latch onto Dean’s, and for a brief and blinding second, the thing smiles— and the world goes white.
***
“Dean? What the hell are ya doin’ out here?”
Dean jumps up, surprised as hell to be hearing Bobby’s voice—and even more surprised to be waking up yet again, in the backseat of the impala. “What the—”
“Did you sleep out here?” Bobby asks, and Dean twists around to look at the old man as he props his dirty old baseball hat atop his head and stares at him through the window.
“I uh …”
“Why didn’t ya come in? You know where I keep the spare key.”
“Well, I uh …”
“Stop mummblin’, son. I can’t hear ya” Bobby grunts, finally reaching over to open the back door. “Now get outta there and come inside. Ya nearly gave me a heart attack. Lookin’ out the window and seein’ this old car in front o’ my house is like seein’ a ghost!”
Dean rubs at his eyes, but eventually— he flips over and peels himself out of the impala. “S—sorry, Bobby. Don’t know what I was thinkin’.”
The old man huffs but then quickly pulls him into a hug. “Do you ever?”
Dean laughs and hugs him back. “Not generally, no.”
Once Bobby let’s go, he clasps Dean on the shoulder. “What’re ya doin’ back so soon? Thought it’d be months before I saw your ass again.”
Dean just shrugs, still battling that déjà vu while trying to remember how the hell he even got here. “Uh, guess I missed ya.”
Bobby grumbles again but Dean can see the smile peeking out from behind that overgrown mustache. It makes him smile too. But soon, the old man throws up his hands and starts back towards his front door. “Well, quit all your gushin’ and come in then? I'm cookin’ up some breakfast.”
Dean grins before turning back to grab his bag from the trunk, eventually following at his uncle’s heels, leaving all his confusion behind as he takes in the smell of eggs and bacon, and that familiar musk of home.
***
He spent the rest of the day catching up with Bobby—telling him about all the things he’s been up to, his most recent jobs and how much money he’s made from them. He then spent a couple of hours listening to the old man bitch about how Dean’s asking for trouble and how one of these days, someone’s going to catch on to his little scheme. They bickered and they laughed, and they drank a whole case of beer while wandering around Bobby’s property, looking for things with potential of fixing up.
By the time night fell, Dean had nearly forgotten all about the strange drives he’d taken in the evenings before—that is, until he shut the door to the guest room and the air fell quiet around him, leaving him all alone with his thoughts.
He stumbled over to the bed and stripped off his dusty, sweaty clothes, relishing in the feeling of clean, cool sheets on his back. A real bed is a luxury he’ll never say no to, so he’s not surprised when his eyes begin to flutter closed.
But every time they do, all he sees in the dark is blue, and waving grass, and the long, ghostly lines of the strange man's back as he glides across the field. It doesn’t feel like a nightmare this time—it doesn’t even feel like a dream.
The more Dean rests on the images swirling around his mind, the more he feels like Castiel is also a memory … just like his family. Just like the wonder of the storm. Castiel seems like something he experienced long, long ago.
Something he’d forgotten.
Something he wants back.