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"SO ARE YOU GOING TO tell me what the hell happened back there?"
Cas doesn't mind cars, so long as the people inside them aren't asking questions he has no interest in answering. He grips the wheel tight enough that his veins have become visible contour lines across the waxen map of his skin. His thoughts have become a vast atlas that he can no longer navigate.
"I don't know what you're talking about."
Sam 'call me Harrison' Harrison rolls his eyes dramatically enough that Cas doesn't need to take his own off the road to know he's doing it. A dull headache is still eating away at Cas, not helped by hazy memories of the diner still sending little waves of nausea through him every time his brain decides to replay the events in excruciating detail.
"You don't seriously think I believe that bullshit, do you?" Harrison says with what Cas discerns as a considerable amount of aggression for someone who's supposedly looking out for his mental wellbeing. "I'm not an idiot."
"No," Cas replies with a calm sort of venom as they draw up to a red light. He starts picking at a loose thread on his cuffed sleeve that now sports a noticeably crimson stain. "But what does make you an idiot is if you think I'm going to tell you."
Harrison laughs but doesn't shift his gaze from the road ahead. It's an easygoing laugh; the kind that people trust too easily, only now it's anything but mirthful.
"Would it really kill you to share your thoughts every once in a while, Sinclair?"
A tenuous silence stretches between them. Cas eases the car to a halt at the traffic lights. He doesn't respond.
Harrison looks at Cas, now wary and somewhat skeptical. "Are you on something, Sinclair?"
Wordlessly, Cas looks at his hands locked on the wheel, glowing red under the lights. His voice is distant and somewhat removed from its regular edge as he says, "I wish I was."
"Maybe you are," Harrison says with a crooked smirk that suggests he's probably half joking and wholly oblivious to the fact that Cas isn't. "Waitress spiked your shake back at the diner, probably."
Without warning, as though Harrison's words had opened the floodgate of Cas's subconscious, the memory — hallucination — comes to Cas in stark detail; Harrison draped in the booth seat across from him like he owned the place, tossing easy smiles to waitresses-free coupons for getting your heart broken by Samuel Matthias Harrison. One minute he was a king in his element, the next, he was a boy bleeding liquid darkness.
Cas shivers.
"Hey, light's green."
Staring blankly at the glowing traffic light before him, it takes the sound of the car behind him aggressively blaring its horn to send Cas into action again.
