A Thousand Lights in Space: December 2

Domestic on a pole

—Day 121—

Dean wakes up to an empty cabin where breakfast—still warm—waits for him patiently on the stove; Cas (and his laptop) are nowhere to be found. A note would have been nice, he thinks a little resentfully as he makes his way through oatmeal and Chitaqua toast (with fruit), because apparently Alicia’s magic cooking skills introduced Cas to the first and only food he’s ever liked and now it’s standard. Then again, apparently Cas is experimenting with cooking these days (seriously, the stew was amazing), so maybe he’s picking up a recipe-based way to interact with people.

Deliberately leaving the dishes on the table—and feeling kind of like a dick and going back to at least put up the food—he looks around the small cabin and tries to figure out what to do. Watching Cas work half the evening isn’t as much fun as it sounds like, and it didn’t sound fun in the first place.

Seeing the box of reports he has yet to get through—they seem to be breeding or something—he drags himself to the couch and takes them out, not even surprised to see these have sticky colored flags attached to indicate team and numbered flags for district, and the new standard formatting (12 pt Times New Roman) includes a header—a header—of name, date, team, and location. He’s also not surprised that despite a full box, there aren’t as many as they appeared at first glance. Dividing them up by team, it’s pretty goddamn obvious that Phil’s escalation is speeding up now that he’s got a keyboard, and his typing speed may not be much slower than Cas’s.

Putting them in order of most annoying to least—otherwise, he’d never finish if he didn’t have something to look forward to—Dean settles himself with Sarah’s team and grimly starts reading.

---

An hour and a half later, Dean pulls the last three weeks’ worth of reports—Cas organizes the boxes by time, which slows him down—and recklessly pulls Phil’s, Alicia’s, and James’ from their boxes, laying them out in date order on the coffee table, and starts from the beginning.

He asked if he wanted Joe in Ichabod. You’re happier now, Cas said. Right to his face. He meant it.

He hopes to God this is, actually, just another product of Phil’s fucked up imagination, but on a guess, no one’s as good as a crazy-ass poet-stalker when it comes to knowing exactly the right metaphor and when to use it.

---

Chuck once told him that when Cas didn’t want to be found, he wasn’t. From experience, Dean’s found this true, though the number of times it’s been deliberate he can count on one hand since that night in Dean’s cabin.

At least those that aren’t a side-trip to a certain unknown location where Cas placed this Dean’s ashes, and he’s pretty happy not knowing where that is and would be a lot happier not knowing the signs of an imminent visit. Some things stick with you, though, and once he recognized it, he couldn’t ignore it, but working out the trigger is still a mystery, and not one he’s sure he wants to solve.

This, thank God, isn’t any of those times; this is Cas being Cas, who can’t stand being bored and needs things to do like other people need to breathe. Maps, home improvement weeks, patrol routes and reports, building a new mess…perching on top of a twelve foot post like it ain’t no thing on the main path through the camp toward the garage, patiently stringing industrial wire peppered with lights through some kind of—ring? brace?—with James and Zack looking up in horror, their attention split with—oh God, Mira’s on the other post, what the fuck?

Dean stops short of the path, eyes flickering to the concrete base and wondering sickly if Nate’s mysterious construction skills are up to date on how to make that so things (holding Cas twelve feet in fucking air) don’t fall to their deaths (or Mira, of course).

“Got it,” Mira shouts, one foot braced precariously on a metal ring as she raises a hand with a thumbs-up at Cas. “It’s secured, now what?”

Before Dean’s disbelieving eyes, Cas leans over impossibly—there’s no way he can hold his balance like that—and tugs the wire firmly before nodding. “It’s secure. We’re done.” Twisting in place, Cas looks down at James patiently. “Check them again before we get down.”

Tearing his gaze from Cas, Dean sees James (who may or may not look a little ashen every time his gaze drifts to Mira) holding what looks a remote; when he pushes the button, the entire left side of main pathway lights up, and even from the ground, he can see Cas smile. Twisting in place—Jesus, Dean loses a year off his life just watching that—he gives James and Zack a nod of satisfaction.

“Well done. Now we will no longer trip over our own feet at night, and everyone will need to revive their skills in subterfuge if they don’t want to be caught sneaking between cabins.” Zack turns a very, very bright red, which Dean assumes means someone’s walk of shame from Nate’s cabin of morning regret will no longer be secret if it ever was. “It will be good practice. Turn them off.”

It only hits Dean that there aren’t any ladders when Cas slides off the post, dangling briefly from one hand, before dropping to the ground so smoothly he doesn’t even realize it’s over until Cas straightens from a crouch, blue eyes finding Dean before he goes still, smile vanishing.

“Dean,” he says blankly, and the entire peanut gallery—including Mira on top of that post—is looking right at him. “I thought—”

“What are you doing?” He doesn’t recognize his own voice, but Cas’s eyes widen, while James and Zack take a discreet step back. “Why…” He gestures to the wires in what he hopes is explanation, like why there aren’t any ladders? and why are you climbing goddamn poles? and without any spotters, because James and Zack gaping from a safe distance don’t fucking count.

“I’ve been experimenting with outdoor illumination,” Cas answers coolly, turning to walk to the other post where Mira’s perched like she’s not twelve feet in the air. “I checked the output of the generator this morning, and it was too high for us to support the previous set, so we’re trying again with LED lights James found yesterday in Kansas City. They don’t require any power from the generators and only activate at night.” Coming to a stop, he looks up at Mira. “Go ahead.”

Dean takes an abortive step toward them, but Mira just braces a hand on the edge of the post and does a picture perfect imitation of Cas up until her hand slips. Dean sucks in a breath, but Cas catches her hips effortlessly, slowing her descent until she’s on the ground.

“…dammit,” Mira growls, glaring up at the post like it personally offended her. “I thought I had it.”

“You moved too quickly, that’s all,” he hears Cas say. “The only bad way to descend is an uncontrolled fall; remembering your body position and full relaxation are the most important factors and you kept both. Even if I hadn’t been here, you wouldn’t have even merited an aspirin for the stumble.”

Mira sighs, giving the post a last long glare. “I don’t even want to know how you got that ranking system.”

“It’s Vera’s,” he answers with a sigh. “In any case—”

“I hate to interrupt,” Dean lies, stepping onto the path, “but you got a minute?”

“Go have lunch,” Cas tells them in the extended silence that follows. “We’ll finish the rest afterward.”

“Take a couple of hours,” Dean says, still looking at Cas. “Have fun.”

Giving Dean surreptitious glances, James hands Cas the remote before they start toward the mess in a fast walk, vanishing behind Cyn and Jane’s cabin while Cas goes to crouch beside a box near one of the posts and places the remote inside. Staring at Cas’s back, Dean takes a deep breath; so this is going well.

Twelve feet up and sure, Cas seemed fine, but come on. “Never heard of a ladder?”

“No, never,” Cas answers, not turning around. “Why?”

“You just…” Dean looks at the posts again, trying to remember a twelve foot fall isn’t necessarily fatal, unless you fall on your goddamn head, and it’s not like that’s never happened in history. “Maybe get better spotters. Ones who actually spot you.”

“On the off-chance I lose my balance,” Cas answers dismissively, “I know how to fall. Human bodies are very fragile, and caring for it did include learning how to avoid killing it outright.”

“Your body,” Dean corrects him, wishing Cas would fucking look at him already. “Just—be careful, is all I’m saying.”

“Spotting can increase the danger if those doing it don’t know how,” Cas answers in the most reasonable voice in the world. “And twelve feet isn’t what I call dangerous.”

“What about for Mira?” he snaps before he can stop himself, and closes his eyes: hell, no. “You know, let me start over.”

“Mira also knows how to fall, possibly better than I do,” Cas tells him calmly. “If you remember, we were fighting with the military in the cities, and not always at ground-level, so that was a standard part of training. However, today Mira wanted to practice landing on her feet and not in a controlled roll, which requires more effort and can result in broken bones if care isn’t taken. She was a gymnast in high school and college, so the same skillsets that make up a successful dismount are in the process of being transferred.” He looks up at the post in disfavor. “I think her hand still expected a bar, which is the reason she slipped.”

Sam’s love of the Olympics—all of it, every fucking event—means Dean does indeed know what those bars (the uneven ones?) looked like and the way girls in bathing suits flew off of them to eventually land like gravity was for losers who never learned how to fly. So right, he’s being irrational and stupid. Good to know.

“Can she still do that—thing where they run across the floor and flip around?” he asks impulsively. That shit was impressive on TV, and on a bet, the real life version is probably even better.

That gets Cas to turn around, a faint smile on his face. “She demonstrated a portion of her senior routine for something called Nationals one day after training,” he answers. “She said the field was larger than what she was used to, so she could make it work.”

“Pretty cool, huh?”

Cas nods, a distant look in his eyes. “Extraordinary. The human body’s limitations seem to exist only to be immediately expanded upon. I learned a great deal from watching her.”

“I could have helped. With the lights, I mean.” That’s not what he meant to say, but it definitely gets Cas’s full attention. Half-turning to face him, he regards Dean through a fall of dark hair. “Fine, I’m pissed because I feel left out of the hanging lights party. Happy?”

Cas’s mouth twitches reluctantly. “You were asleep.”

“You should’ve woke me up.” Patrol still meets in the morning—he thinks—but apparently he missed that, too. Come to think, he can’t remember the last time he went to one of those. “Uh, patrol meets in the morning still, right?”

“Yes.” Standing up, Cas looks at him. “Why?”

Dean looks up at the posts and then the concrete bases, trying to remember how long it takes to do that. At least a couple of days, on a guess. For it to—dry or set or whatever, and not crash to the ground when anyone’s sitting on them. (How long does it take for Cas to run five tests on a range to learn about the heating issue? How many tests did he run on the oven? How long has the new mess really been in progress anyway?)

“So the lights—what round of experimentation are you on now, anyway?”

“Fifth,” Cas says, tilting his head, and Dean lets that number sink in as he adds, “Power is a problem, as I told you. To support more people here, we will need more energy, and my calculations show a substantial increase in the amount of gasoline and oil required for the addition of twenty more people. Reducing our energy needs will be difficult, but I’m working on several solutions to the problem.”

“Yeah. That’s why I was thinking this first group is probably gonna be staying in Ichabod. Since we’re still kind of a work in progress…”

Dean looks around the camp in illustration and pauses, starting over and taking them in. Home Improvement Weeks One and Two caused a massive upgrade in camp living conditions, and the mowing did wonders for looking less third-world, but most of that was interior or maintenance level shit. Now though…

He’s not imagining it; the cabins look visibly better, even the unoccupied ones: broken windows are a thing of the past, existing porches look less dangerous, those without now have some sturdy looking steps from door to ground if needed, and all the doors look new (and possibly weather-proofed). The paths between the rows of cabins are very clearly delineated with short wooden posts strung with wire about ankle-level and layered with fresh gravel.

“Pouring concrete for a sidewalk is difficult,” Cas tells him, obviously noticing what he’s looking at. “Unfortunately, Nate’s experience is limited when it comes to concrete so he’s studying, but James’ work on asphalt is proceeding very well, so it’s something of a race between them to see who gets to try their new skills with the walkways.”

Dean nods wordlessly. The reward for figuring out the problem is implementing the solution. He’d give a lot to have been here to see Cas exercise those proselytizing skills, but he can guess where he was when that was happening.

“You hungry?” Dean asks abruptly. “I’ll make sandwiches and you tell me how the hell you convinced those crazy kids manual labor was a reward for studying. This I gotta hear.”

Cas shrugs. “As you wish.”

---

Here’s the thing about Phil: he’s crazy, but he’s the kind of crazy with one streak of absolute genius, the kind that must come standard for stalkers: they’re observant as hell when it comes to the object of their crazy. That it’s basically in literal metaphorical code just means you gotta know the code, and once learned, it’s not the kind of thing you forget. Dean’s read every report Phil’s ever written (morbid curiosity and duty fuck you forward and back there), but getting the last three weeks of ‘em all at once reveals this isn’t random variation on a theme.

For why should it return but to leave again, as its nature compels it so, and its preference, too? Thanks, Phil: it’s a whole new low to almost be grateful to the fucker, because God knows when he would have figured it out for himself. In blank fucking verse, even.

Getting Cas talking isn’t hard, and Dean sets a world record for the slowest sandwich ever eaten to keep Cas going, nodding and chewing hopefully whenever Cas pauses. Sidewalks, a new mess, improved cabins, worrying about power, Nate’s concrete research, James’ adventures with asphalt, climbing posts for the best night lights: he supposes he could have talked more about Ichabod’s power grid and roads and food, but he had to sleep sometimes, he supposes. He was happier, too, can’t forget that part. Jesus Christ.

When even the crust is a memory, Dean doesn’t give Cas a chance to escape to his laptop of Ways to Make Coming Home to Chitaqua Not a Punishment But a Pleasure and Not Want to Leave Immediately, No, That Wasn’t Just About the Mess, Dean. Maybe if Cas had given it that title, he might—no promises here—have realized the potential problem earlier.

“So where’s the new mess gonna go?” he asks, collecting their plates and not looking guiltily at the dishes from breakfast piled neatly in the sink. Because he’s going to do dishes tonight himself. “We have time before more pole-climbing?”

“As there’s still an hour left before their extended lunch ends, yes,” Cas answers, eyes narrowing suspiciously. “It’s only marked off at this time, however. There’s not much to see.”

“Dude, if I’m gonna be raiding the mess for sugar when we run out, I better get used to the change in location,” he answers promptly, discarding plausibility in favor of herding Cas out the door and down their—fuck his life—repaired porch stairs. A glance on the way down confirms the lack of rotting boards on the porch itself, just in case he missed the point. As they start back toward the main part of the camp, he meets Cas’s faint frown with his best ‘confused.’ “What?”

“You’re being…” Cas visibly consults a mental list of words, obviously looking for just the right one. “Uncharacteristically interested in minutia.”

Dean goes out a limb and translates that to ‘details.’ “Dude, I live here; it’s not just—that.”

“True,” Cas says after just enough of a pause for Dean to know exactly what he’s thinking: until those buildings in Ichabod are done for their new, permanent camp in the town Dean’s spreading capricious fucking beams in, and leaving Cas in solitude in a camp he’s absolutely certain won’t try to assassinate him, which is the saddest standard for livability he’s ever heard of. Because Dean’s happier in Ichabod with fucking power grids.

“You—don’t think I’m moving to Ichabod with the permanent camp, right?”

Cas stops short, and Dean realizes he actually said that out loud and framed as a question. Taking a deep breath, he turns around to see Cas looking at him incredulously.

“Because I’m not,” he adds firmly, which just means Cas’s eyebrows get in on the action, vanishing into parts unknown. “Not even on the table.”

Cas drags out the silence—he may not understand the concept of ‘awkward,’ but he sure as fuck knows how to get a situation there, no sweat—before nodding earnestly. “I do know that,” he says, each word carefully crafted to combine ‘puzzled bewilderment’ with ‘stating the obvious’ in a way that he must have practiced on a Dean past; it works. “However, I appreciate your attempt to reassure me on that point.”

Right. “Good. Glad we talked about this.” Dean inclines his head in the direction they were going—Cas is the one who knows where the mess is, so this is guesswork—and falls into step with him, shoving his hands in his pockets at the unexpected chill in the air. “You are pissed, though.”

“No,” Cas tells him, making an abrupt right halfway down the main path and leaving Dean to jog if he wants to catch up. When he does, he continues with, “You are happier now that you visit Ichabod regularly, however.”

“Yeah—no. It’s—that—” Cas sets a walking pace like this is a race, but years of Sam Winchester taught him how to stretch out and make it look casual. “It’s not like that. It’s just—new, that’s all.” Then, “Why didn’t you say anything before?”

“Yes, I should have,” Cas answers meditatively. “Dean, you’re enjoying yourself a great deal. Please do that less, or at least less vocally, because your attempts at conversation are repetitious in the extreme and it’s very annoying.” He stops short, one arm barring Dean from tripping right over the string stretched out in front of him. “The site for the new mess: explore its wonders. I’ll wait, of course.”

“Thanks, I will,” Dean tells him, shoving his arm down and taking in the string-demarcated bare ground that will one day be a new mess. It looks exactly like all the bare ground in Chitaqua, except for the goddamn string. Pacing the length, he nods every few seconds like he’s seeing the future and not in a silent competition for best in passive-aggressive; that is not a competition where anyone wins. “You know,” he says, turning around to see Cas right where he left him, looking bored out of his mind, “you could just, I don’t know, talk to me. If you want me here—”

“I don’t want you here,” Cas answers, like a quick punch to the gut, airless and over before he even saw it coming. “Not when you don’t want to be. You spend every moment you’re here waiting for a reason to go back, if you don’t already have one already prepared by the time you return.”

“I’m not doing that.”

“The problem isn’t that you have a preference,” Cas tells him. “It’s understandable; Ichabod is closer to what you are used to in your world, or perhaps what you wish Chitaqua could be. That you won’t simply admit it and discard pretense is a problem, not least because of the insult to my intelligence.”

Dean swallows. “Look, after this trip, I’ll stop—”

“This would be why I felt no need to discuss the subject,” Cas interrupts. “You’re allowed to want to be elsewhere, and I’m perfectly willing to accommodate that. I’m not willing, however, to accommodate you when you wish to be elsewhere and are simply here out of either duty or guilt. Duty is flexible; guilt is absurd. I would rather enjoy your willing company than be forced to endure your obnoxious attempts to salve your guilty conscience while you pretend.”

“So going proves I want to be there, not here, but if I stay, it’s because I’m guilty?” he asks incredulously. “What the hell do you want from me?”

“For you not to be miserable,” Cas answers flatly. “How stupid of me to assume you knew that. Are you done here, or can we go back?”

“I’m never gonna be done here.” Inclining his head toward the main path, he adds, “But right now, we got some lights to fix. We’ll start there.”

---

If Cas was totally wrong, this would be a fuckload easier. He’s wrong, that’s not in question; it’s just that he has every reason for believing it, and a few more he probably would think of if he needed more. On balance, Dean’s pretty glad he didn’t; it’s not like he’s not at enough of a disadvantage here.

Sitting on a pole twelve feet off the fucking ground isn’t, in any way, going to do anything in the way of making Cas understand he’s wrong. Yet here he is, stringing fucking lights on a wire, and if anyone asked him what the hell he was thinking, he wouldn’t be able to tell them. He’s honestly not even sure how he got up here; it’s all kind of hazy from the point he said—he actually said this—”I can do that, no problem. Give me the goddamn lights, Cas.”

Sam, right at this moment, just stopped to think how Dean’s sometimes stupid just for the hell of it. Now he does it with altitude attached.

Mira’s voice drifts up to him, sounding worried. He appreciates the thought. “Dean—”

“Almost done,” he says steadily, not looking down or checking to see if his voice just went up an octave on that second word; it did, so everyone needs to just move on. Heights don’t bother me, he reminds himself firmly. I’m just bitter about not remembering as a demon my wings didn’t work and I couldn’t fly. Because that’s so much better.

Gripping the post with his ankles, he attaches the wire on his third try and fails not to notice how far the ground is from his face. Scrubby grass, bare dirt far, far, far below him: that shit hurts any way you land, but face first is definitely gonna be the worst. On a guess, he’s gonna be testing that real soon now.

“Dean!” Zack and James in chorus this time, hitting three registers at once and probably loud enough to be heard across the entire camp. Because what’s needed here is more of an audience than he’s already got.

Straightening dizzily, Dean sucks in a breath, spots dancing before his eyes, lightheaded with utter relief he’s still alive. “I’m fine. No sweat.” He risks a quick glance down, where three worried faces and a very expressionless fourth are staring up at him. “James, check ‘em.”

If he concentrates very hard on the hilarity of James almost dropping the remote in his earnest desire to get this over with, he can almost pretend this is okay. Twelve feet off the goddamn ground, but fine.

“Got it,” James says breathlessly, punching down on the button, and Dean watches in satisfaction as the first set of lights come on. So if he falls to his death, it won’t be after failing at stringing fucking lights. “It worked! Good job, Dean! Now—now you can come down, right?”

“No way,” he announces of his own free will before all the world and Cas. “Whole set of lights behind me to replace while I’m up here. Just need to turn around.” This post is not that big, and he’s not sure that’s possible since he’s not a former gymnast or Cas. “Give me a minute.”

“Oh God,” he hears Mira say in horror. “What’s he doing?”

“At this moment,” Cas answers coolly, “probably deciding which is worse: falling or admitting he has no idea how to turn around. My money is on the latter.”

Dean makes the mistake of glaring down at the group assembled below and wonders if the pole’s gotten taller or something: they’re really far away. “Fuck you.”

“That’s one act that traction will make impossible,” Cas offers from the far distant ground. “Truly a tragedy: I don’t know how I’ll cope with the lack.”

“Or,” James says desperately, “you could come down and we could do the rest later. I think we’re out of lights.”

Dean doesn’t look down at the still-full box; he’ll fall, no question, and he’s not doing that just to confirm an obvious lie. He’ll do it trying to turn on his ass on a fucking post. “I got this. Just give me a minute.”

“Take all the time you need to admit the obvious,” Cas says, sounding bored. “We can wait.”

“You’re wrong,” Dean snaps, shifting his ankles tentatively to see if maybe—no, that’s not gonna work. “So shut up and let me think here! My goddamn camp needs lights, it’s gonna get lights!”

There’s an ominous silence below, but Dean can’t really worry about that right now; is the wind picking up or something? What if he grabs the post—no, that’s not gonna work, and yeah, there is definitely more wind. Gotta have a wind factor to cope with: why not?

“We don’t want lights!” James says, sounding utterly terrified. It’s maybe the saddest thing he’s ever heard, and he really means it. Then, “Cas?”

The sudden confusion in James’ voice makes him wonder what’s going on down there, but not enough to check; the hands thing was the right approach. Brace the heel on the edge, lift, use his ankles to maybe turn…oh God, no, don’t do that, and is someone laughing?

“Cas?” Mira says incredulously, and yeah, of course it is. “Cas, this isn’t funny!”

“You have no idea,” Cas says breathlessly and very, very punchably if Dean was ground level right now, and God does he wish he was. “Dean?”

Dean grips the post firmly between his ankles, trying to remember if it’s tornado season; seriously, what’s up with the wind?

“Dean,” Cas says again, and maybe he’s hallucinating (this whole day, if he’s lucky) but he sounds a lot closer. “Please consider coming down now in a controlled manner instead of waiting for gravity to decide for you.”

Actually, he doesn’t have a problem with that plan anymore. “Okay—”

“But while you’re up there,” Cas continues, and Jesus Christ, he’s still laughing, “I’d like to apologize. While I meant for you to take what I said very personally and upset you, at no point did I anticipate this particular outcome. In my defense, I don’t see who could have.”

Bracing his hands on the post, Dean grimly shifts his ass until he can look down and see Cas just below him. “You what?”

“Are they fighting?” he hears Zack say. “Now?”

“That doesn’t mean it wasn’t true,” Cas says, looking up at him, and while the ground may be a mile down by now, there’s no way to miss the blue of his eyes. “I’m obligated to accept your choice, and in fairness I can’t blame you for it, but that doesn’t mean I have to be gracious about it. What do you want from me?”

“Cas—”

“I want you to be happy,” Cas says, apparently on a ground-level honesty kick from Hell. “But you can’t expect me to not resent that requires you be elsewhere. I resent it, and I don’t see a time in the near future that’s going to change. Adapt as your ancestors did.”

From the peanut gallery comes, “I think they’re breaking up.”

“No, we’re not!” Dean shouts in their general direction, shifting his center of gravity enough not to fall over when he looks back down at Cas between his knees. “You know how you discovered laptops and you spent forty-eight hours trying every goddamn program on there? Forty-five minutes just playing with the calculator? You can do math that hasn’t been invented yet, but two plus two on an LCD screen blows your mind. I dealt.”

Cas’s bewilderment is obvious from a thousand miles away. “Yes, but—”

“Did I shoot the laptop?” The vague sense of motion he assumes is Cas shaking his head. “Did you know I wanted to? People get into new things, they become old things, and it happens; you just deal with it, tell ‘em to cut out that shit if it reaches critical, but you do not turn it into a fucking tragedy for the ages!”

Honest to God, he’s not sure what’s more unbelievable; Cas actually straight-up saying what he’s thinking without having to decode it piece by piece (and read fucking Phil’s feelings about Cas’s lot in life), having this very special first time occur while Dean’s twelve feet in the air, or this discussion is actually happening and for that matter, with an audience. He’s gonna take the blame for not noticing what he was doing, but if Cas doesn’t get yet he’s gonna do stupid shit and need to be called on it, time he learned.

“Are you saying I’m overreacting?”

“You think?” Dean shouts down at him incredulously. “You believe Phil’s capricious beams bullshit or me? And don’t tell me you don’t get it now: I read every fucking word he wrote.”

“He knows about Phil?” Zack stage whispers to Mira, but the wind helpfully carries it to him anyway. He starts to answer and then notes Cas moving and follows, twisting on the post so he can keep Cas in glare-range, digging his fingers into the wood. “Should we—”

“You three, shut up? Everyone knows about Phil, Jesus! Cas…” Hey, there’s a wire in front of him. Way down—two, three miles, maybe—Cas is watching him, arms crossed. “What just—did I…”

“You wanted to turn,” Cas says simply. “So I helped. You’re doing fine.”

Dean surveys the endless miles of wire to the next post, multiplies that by six, and thinks fuck no. “Yeah, I really didn’t. It was fun while it lasted, but—”

“You were having fun?”

“It’s a great view,” he argues, risking a look around; oh God, that’s a mistake. “Our roof’s better. More of it and I know it, and I like it. You know?” He peers down at Cas. “Well?”

“You’re ready to come down?” He nods as clearly as he can: obviously. “Go ahead.”

“Thank God,” he breathes, not even trying Cas and Mira’s trick and just pushing off and nearly sighing in relief when Cas catches him around his upper thighs. Bracing a hand on his shoulder to balance himself, Dean scowls down at him. “Seriously?”

“Permanent base.”

Yeah, okay, he’ll give him that one. “We okay now?”

“I suppose.” Then, “I found that knife for you earlier. It was packed with the others in—”

“Holy shit, you have more?” he exclaims.

“I told you, I collect—”

“Dean? Cas?” someone says uncertainly, and Dean snaps around to see James, Zack, and Mira huddled nearby looking really uncomfortable.

“What?” Cas answers curiously, tilting his head.

Dean waits, but this looks like it may take a while. “Well?”

“Should we…” James’ eyes dart frantically from the post to the box to the ground: it’s weird. “Uh, you still need us here?”

He looks down at Cas, who shakes his head.

“Nope. Get some help—and goddamn ladders—and finish up tomorrow while we’re gone. And spot Mira on the dismount.” He waits, but—right. “You’re dismissed, yeah. Go.” Watching them vanish down the nearest path, he turns his attention back to Cas. “How many knives do you have?”

“Two boxes in the closet and one in the utility closet opposite the Encyclopedia Britannica.”

What the hell is up with that utility closet? No matter how many times he searches it, there’s always something he missed. “Three boxes.”

Cas nods. “I like knives.”

“Show me.” Then he remembers something and squeezes Cas’s shoulder. “Put me down first, okay?”

Cas smiles up at him before slowly easing him to the ground. “Pity. I was enjoying that.”

“Knives, future serial killer,” Dean answers clearly, looking toward their cabin significantly. “Now.”