Chapter Text
“Cas, you got your ears on? We got a problem we could use your help with.”
Dean’s voice resonates deeply in Castiel’s Grace. With a thought he flies to Dean, finding himself on a weathered fishing boat on the East coast. The ocean slaps against its side. The sky is swimming with the promise of rain.
The Winchester’s backs are turned to him, and he watches them bicker over something on the wall of the large metal trawler.
“C’mon man, this is nothin’,” Dean says. “It’s townie mumbo jumbo. End of story.”
“I’m telling you it’s Enochian,” Sam says, a tang of condescension in his voice. His pitch is whiney and Dean’s shoulders are hunched. Castiel turns shoreward, noting the cool temperature of the Impala’s engine. They must have been arguing about this for a while.
“Why’s everything gotta be about angels?” Dean gripes.
“Did you ask Cas?”
“I prayed to him like two minutes ago! The guy is probably busy.”
“Hello Dean,” Castiel says.
Dean whips around, balled fist aimed and at the ready. Sam springs nearly an inch off the deck.
“Speak of the—” Dean starts, before glancing at Sam “—never mind.”
Sam narrows his eyes at Dean, then looks back at Cas. “We’re glad you’re here. Do you recognize this symbol?” He points to a spherical rune etched into the wall.
Castiel takes a step closer to inspect it. “It’s Enochian.”
Sam smirks as Dean scowls.
Cas continues, “Though, it doesn’t appear to be carved by an angel.”
Sam's expression slides into confusion. He looks back at the symbol. “How can you tell?”
Cas runs his hand over the jagged symbol; the marks are uneven. He can feel every desperate scratch under his fingertips.
“The tool wasn’t holy.” Castiel summons his own blade. He slashes a line, quick and clean, along the rusted wall. “Weapons imbued with Heaven’s power are metaphysically sharp and precise. This was carved by a dull blade.”
Sam steps toward the wall, running a hand along Cas’ slash and then the sigil. “Oh, yeah. I see the— ow! ” He pulls his hand back, clutching his thumb.
Castiel watches a ribbon of blood drip down the jagged sigil. He tastes a hint of sulfur on his tongue.
“Nice goin’ Seymour,” Dean says as he swats the back of Sam’s head. “Now the sea monster’s gonna eat— Christ Sam, don’t lick it! ”
Sam takes the pad of his thumb out of his mouth. “What am I supposed to do? Bleed everywh—?”
Castiel heals Sam with a flick of his wing.
“Oh.” Sam looks at his thumb, now healed and clean. He gives Cas a bashful smile. “Thanks.”
“Still.” Dean grimaces. “You dunno what kinda gunk is on here. You’re gonna get some sea disease, like, fuckin’ kelpie or something.”
“That’s not—” Sam huffs as he shakes his head. “Leave it to you to make a Scottish murder-horse sound like an STD.”
“I eliminated any unhealthy bacteria in his body already,” Cas says.
“Good, because we’ve got bigger fish to fry.” Dean gestures to the symbol. “Like, is the klutz gonna die in seven days because he bled on a goddamn mystery sigil?”
Sam rolls his eyes.
Cas tilts his head, looking over the symbol. “Probably not. It doesn’t appear to be a hex.”
“Can you read what it says?” Sam asks.
“Um…” Cas squints. "My pearl, cut for you, lies in the sea. Return my love, return to me. ”
Sam whips out a notebook and writes down the translation.
Dean balks. “Um ?” he mimics. “You aren’t sure?”
“Like I said, an angel didn’t make this. This is a bastardization of Enochian at best.”
“Well, back to the drawing board then,” Sam mutters, tapping his pen against his notebook.
“What do you know so far?” Cas looks to Dean.
He shrugs. “Not much. Couple people drown in this bay every once in a while.” Dean jabs a thumb at Sam. “But wackadoodle over here thinks it’s the boogeyman.”
Sam huffs and slaps his brother’s hand away. “There’s an uptick in drownings every decade. It could be occult, or a hibernating monster, or— something is here.”
With a breath, Castiel stretches his wings through the town. Spiraling nerves of Grace branch through the space, sensing for demons. There’s no sign of Hell nor its gates.
“Have you investigated any of the bodies?”
“We’re on our way to the morgue after this, but—” Dean gives Sam a skeptical look. “I don’t think we’re gonna find anything.”
“There’s something going on in this town.” Frustration flashes on Sam’s face. “I can feel it.”
Dean rolls his eyes. “Because the ‘vibes’ are off? Dude, I told you not to trust your powers.”
“Have I been wrong yet?”
“I still don’t think it’s a good idea.” Dean crosses his arms over his chest.
Castiel glances between the two, then back to the carving.
“What do you feel, Sam?”
“I had a dream about Sloane— about this town. I saw this pier…” Sam gestures to the docks and the boardwalk “…and there was this woman in the water, facing that."
Standing in the middle of the bay, a large rock rises out of the sea. It’s almost big enough to be considered a small island. It has little vegetation and is made entirely of rocks. The ocean waves break around it, haloing the outcrop in a spray of sea foam.
Castiel spreads his wings and flies to the island. When he lands, a flock of seagulls spook into a storm of squawks and feathers. He watches their raucous flight in the air for a moment, then scans the rocky outcropping, looking for anything meaningful. He looks down into the dark water, watching the meek sunlight catch and glimmer on a fish’s scales as it swims by. An Atlantic salmon.
By his feet, he notices a carving etched into the rockface. It’s faded, almost smooth. He crouches down, running a hand along it. Castiel feels a pang in his chest, sharp with familiarity. Then, his hand is submerged in water, along with the mark. He jumps back to the boat.
“A similar symbol is on the outcrop,” Cas informs them.
“What’s the Michaelangelo?” Dean asks. “Angel or human?”
“It’s been eroded by the waves, which makes it difficult to tell how it was carved.” Cas turns to Sam. “Did anything else occur in your dream?”
Sam furrows his brow, thinking. “She walked deeper into the water, then turned around and held out her hand to me.” His gaze flicks over to the horizon. “Her eyes were glowing blue.”
“Great!” Dean says, forcing a chipper tone. “Off-brand angels, a big rock, glowing women, and a soggy water balloon to pop at the morgue. Sounds like we’ve got the next King novel on our hands.”
“C’mon, man. It’s gotta be something ritualistic.”
Castiel tilts his head. “Is there anything strange about the recovered bodies?”
“I—” Sam starts, then deflates. “No. The reports all say drowning.”
“We got bupkis.” Dean rubs his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Sorry for wastin’ your time, Cas.”
Castiel looks back to the carving on the boat.
“I’m coming to the morgue with you.”
The brothers exchange a glance.
“This may not have been physically carved by an angel, but it is still Enochian. I can count on my hands the number of times humans have been exposed to our language.” His eyes linger over the rocky outcropping in the distance. “I want to know why this symbol is here.”
Dean rubs a hand over the back of his head. “Thing is, we already gave our cover story to the coroner.”
“We’re posing as two med students from the University of Maine, trying to gain experience examining bodies,” Sam adds.
“I won’t interfere with your cover story.” Self-satisfaction slips into his voice as he continues. “You two are the only ones who can see me.”
“You serious?” Dean asks.
Cas nods back toward the boardwalk. A haggard looking man is walking quickly towards them.
“Hey! You two chucklefucks! The hell are you doing on my boat?” he shouts.
“Sorry sir! We just noticed this interesting design and wanted to take a closer look,” Sam calls back.
“Think this is some kinda playground? Don’t just wander onto other people’s property!” He barrels onto the ship.
“Sorry, sorry,” Dean placates, giving his best fake grin. The old fisherman pauses, scrutinizing both brothers.
“I haven’t seen you around here before. You tourists or something?”
“We’re med students, here to visit Dr. Chantal at the morgue,” Sam explains.
The fisherman scoffs and points a thumb toward the town. “Morgue’s that way.”
“That’s a neat design you got on your boat. You carve that yourself?” Dean asks tentatively. The fisherman’s eyes narrow.
“Off my boat. Now.”
The two start heading for the ramp. Dean glances back to Cas, who is still standing, unacknowledged, by the symbol. He gifts Dean a parting smirk.
“Med students my ass. Don’t they teach kids any manners these days?” the fisherman mumbles under his breath as he walks past Castiel.
Cas watches the fisherman enter the covered helm, then exits the boat to catch up to the brothers.
“Angels are dicks, but I gotta admit—” Dean shoots a grin at Cas “—you have your perks.”
“You couldn’t have made us invisible too, so we didn’t get chewed out by that fisherman?” Sam whines.
Cas shrugs. “I thought it would be a good way to prove my word.”
***
They all clamber into the Impala. Dean’s in the driver’s seat, Sam’s on the passenger side, and Cas occupies the middle of the back seat. A quiet sigh escapes him. Vehicles are such an ineffective mode of transportation.
As Dean revs the engine to life, Cas hears the whir of a cassette from the car’s stereo. Electric guitar and heavy drums pour out of the speaker, with a whine of vocals overtop. Sam lets out a frustrated groan.
“We are not listening to Mothership again.”
“Sammy! You dare disrespect Zeppelin?”
“C’mon, it’s not that far of a drive to the morgue. Can we just listen to the radio for five minutes?” Sam pleads.
“Ah ah ah. You know the rules,” Dean tuts. “Driver chooses the music—”
“—If you make me listen to Robert Plant sing about California one more time, I’m going to throw up. On the seat,” Sam threatens.
Cas’ eyes drift back towards the large outcrop in the bay, unable to shake the feeling from earlier. The tide is receding, exposing more of the worn rock. He begins watching the shoreline as the car crawls alongside it. A horseshoe crab scuttles between the algae and driftwood that litters the beach. He feels his lips curl upward, thinking fondly of the Cambrian era.
“Drama queen,” Dean scoffs but turns off the cassette player and powers on the radio.
Sam fiddles with the tuning knob, seemingly satisfied when a different electric guitar, more heavy drums, and now growling vocals ring out from the sound system.
Dean gags. “This is your preferred music over Zepp?”
“Give it a chance! If you just tried listening to music made after 1979, you might actually find something you like.”
“This is crap, Sam. Utter crap.”
“You’re so impossible sometimes, I swear—”
“—Oh, college boy thinks he’s so high and mighty with his fuckin’ Nickleback!”
“That’s not even— They have poignant lyricism!” Sam shouts. “There’s more to music than having drug-induced sex on a couch!”
Dean rolls his eyes, looking to Castiel over the seat, “C’mon man, back me up. You gotta prefer the classics over this dogshit, right?”
Cas tunes out the bickering and the current song on the radio, shifting through different broadcasts. Floating from a radio station 8 miles west, he hears one with a chipper piano tune and a harmonic group of voices. He switches the radio to that station with a nod. “I think this is better.”
Both boys look down at the radio. After a beat, Dean settles into the driver’s seat and focuses his gaze on the road, humming under his breath. Sam glances from him, back to the radio, to Cas, then back to Dean.
He lets out a huff. “You won’t listen to contemporary rock, but The Beach Boys are fine?”
Dean offers him a shrug. “I like The Beach Boys. Mom used to play ‘em all the time while she was cooking.” He gives Sam a sidelong glance. “You used to love ‘em. I remember you’d jam out in your highchair, happy as a clam.”
“Really?” Sam sounds skeptical.
“Cross my heart.”
Sam’s eyebrows furrow, but seems to decide it’s not worth arguing over. He looks out the passenger window, tapping along to the beat with a finger resting on the car door.
Dean meets Castiel’s eyes through the rearview mirror. “Good choice, Cas.”
Castiel’s gaze drifts back to the window. The lush foliage of the Eastern coastline crawls past. The sky swirls with gray clouds. He can feel the air polarizing around them. It’s going to storm tonight.
Castiel has always enjoyed this part of the Earth’s creation. He remembers the joy carving out the coastlines brought him. They’ve changed over the eons.
The fluttery tune of the song bounces through the cab. As he listens, Castiel’s eyes drift back up toward the front seat.
“You know it seems the more we talk about it, it only makes it worse to live without it.”
Dean’s eyes flick up to the mirror, meeting Cas’.
“But let’s talk about it.”
Dean’s focus darts back to the road. Castiel looks back out the window. He interlocks his fingers together in his lap, feeling the coolness of his own skin.
“Oh, wouldn’t it be nice?”