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Nobody noticed Cas didn’t have a scent.
Everyone smells like something: dean smells like motor oil and human musk, Sam smells like spruce and woodsmoke and his lilac shampoo. Cas often smelled like Jimmy. James Novak’s corpse had lost all scent a few months in but his clothes hadn’t had the same luxury.
Cas struts into a roadside bar, a man on a mission. No matter how comfortable he tried to look, and he looked comfortable, Jimmy wasn’t going anywhere. He smelled like sandalwood and a quick cigarette behind the church with his wife.
Cas had the fear of a widower when he approached the woman, the witch, he was expecting. He alone noticed the sage clinging to what he assumed was her good dress. He missed the smell of a good cleansing in the spring air. Before he could join her she’d left to a young man waiting on her.
Cas took her seat, somewhat relieved. He ordered a beer and promised himself he’d check in on the man whose memories he was wearing. He drank his beer and sat alone, thinking back to a choir he’d never sung in from a church he’d never seen. He wanted a smoke.