—Day 130—
Alicia’s expression is unrepentant as she saunters up to the porch stairs an hour and a half after dawn, but as she’s carrying a basket containing another bottle of cough syrup, bread, and a gratifyingly large container of soup, he decides to be gracious. “How’s it going?”
“Very well, thank you,” he says pleasantly. “I’m designing a refresher training course for the camp. I think I’ll call it ‘survival of the fittest’.”
Climbing the steps, she sets down the basket near the post and drops beside him with a smirk. “I killed the goblin king with my bare hands and a pocket knife. I fear nothing and no one.”
“All goblins call themselves kings. They do that. And it was a four and a quarter inch dagger of thrice-forged cold iron. A sixteenth century mystic and blacksmith just rolled over in his grave hearing you call it called a pocket knife.”
“Oh, almost forgot.” Pulling the basket closer, she gropes inside for a moment before taking out a handful of papers that she presents him with a hopeful look. “Dryer elf trap, Mark III. Tell me what you think.”
Taking them, he smooths out the creases to examine the elf trap, sigils neatly delineated at the seven corners, and below it the plan of attack in a series of brief sketches. A dotted line shows the progress of the bait toward the trap, in this case, a sock that fulfills all the requirements of temptation: clean, very white, without holes or patches, obviously manufactured for boots, and part of a matching pair that’s been worn at least once and is the only pair of its kind the owner possesses. Nate will just have to deal with the potential loss.
The second page, however… “You added a potential gnome variation?”
“Yes!” she exclaims, leaning over to look at it fondly. “Small, easy to miss, used to hiding in plain sight via invisibility, and annoying as shit: potential dryer gnome. Not like a civilian—or my mom—would know the difference on sight, am I right?”
“Or brownie,” he says, joining her in a horrified shudder. “Luckily, neither brownies nor Fae can pass the wards, so that limits the possibilities somewhat.”
“Brownies are locked out?” Alicia asks in surprise. “Since when?”
“Since they attacked Dean.” He fights down a wince, glancing at Alicia warily. “They—I’m not sure. However, they’re now unable to pass the wards.”
That much, at least, is true.
Brownies have existed on earth for so long and bred so consistently in their corporeal form here that they generally seem to straddle the vague line between the supernatural and terrestrial, and it’s guesswork at best to decide on which side they might fall. English and Scottish folklore might hold them to be useful in household chores, but Castiel has yet to meet one in the Americas that is other than annoying, entitled, or vaguely feral (an unforeseen danger of importing your mystical helpers when invading foreign continents, he supposes), and often all three.
The progress of technology has eliminated many of their traditional duties, which admittedly may be a factor in their recent development, but instead of adapting to the industrial revolution and embracing the possibilities (surely the vacuum would make their jobs immensely less tedious?), they chose the path of maximum annoyance. When not engaged in either sabotage or outright destruction of machinery, attempting to do what it was doing but far, far worse, and then waiting for gifts to show appreciation for their inferior labor, they gather in colonies to attack unsuspecting humans for daring to enjoy running water, electricity, cable television, and automobiles.
Unfortunately, brownies have never qualified as a threat—natural law being not at all surprisingly as oblivious to the modern era as the brownies—and keeping them out of the camp used to be something of an effort. Killing them is anathema due to their technical status as friendly and helpful toward humanity (he doesn’t snort, but it’s a very close thing), so infestations tend to require a miserable blunt-force approach to the problem: knock them unconscious, gather them in boxes with very strong lids (preferably the kind you can nail shut) and take them away from the camp and hope they wouldn’t return (they do anyway).
(Anathema or not, killing them wouldn’t be off the table if he’d found a way to do it. He hasn’t.)
In general, the wards reacting to a threat is the equivalent of background noise, barely discernible unless he happens to be in physical contact with them unless it’s serious or dangerous enough that his attention is required. However, the very recent rejection of a brownie trying to slip through was neither background nor something he could have missed even if he’d been trying, as the wards awakened him from a sound sleep at three in the morning to bear witness. He would be lying to himself if he said he didn’t sense its vicious satisfaction as the brownie ran shrieking its way into the night; it matched his own.
As the wards’ presence faded into the back of his mind again, he remembered Dean telling him how only days after his arrival, when he first touched the wards, they wanted his attention.
“It’s your Grace in there, right? I could—it felt like you. The first time I touched it.”
Dean would be familiar with his Grace, yes, that much makes sense if anything about this is supposed to. That they wanted his notice doesn’t, not when they never showed interest in Dean Winchester before. If Dean was accurate about what he sensed—and this being Dean, there’s little to no chance he wasn’t—the wards knew exactly who he was—and who he wasn’t—well before he took Dean to see the wards that night. More unsettling, however, is the sense that they knew him, the unique person, therefore making ‘impossible’ a loose guideline instead of a realistic assessment of reality. Much like this entire ridiculous Apocalypse.
“No more brownies fucking around with the pipes,” Alicia is saying in profound satisfaction, snapping him back to the present with a jolt. “Okay, so the trap: yes, no, maybe?”
“I think it will work very well,” he says, focusing on the sketch; it’s very good. “Can I keep this copy? I’d like to check a few references before we begin construction.”
“That’s why I brought it,” she answers cheerfully. “You need anything else while I’m here?”
“I can’t think of anything at the moment. Joseph usually takes requests after reporting to me in the morning and evening regarding the camp’s activities.”
“That would be a lot of digging.” Alicia sighs before resting her elbow on one upraised knee. “How’s our fearless leader, anyway?”
“Resting comfortably.” He glances back at the door, behind which Dean is sleeping the sleep of the drugged on hydrocodone-laced cough syrup beneath a mound of blankets with a space heater in convenient proximity. To his lack of surprise, Dean found numerous excuses to avoid sleeping in the bedroom, and Castiel agreed with all of them, even the ones that made no sense, like the paint might be lead-based and kill him in his delicate condition. It’s not as if a sleeping bag on the rug isn’t very comfortable, but listening to Dean breathe at night, he thinks that they may need to acquire a heavier rug for winter to conserve warmth and avoid taxing Dean’s immune system further. Maybe one for each room: it bears investigation, and James does seem to have a gift for finding things. “Somewhat irritable, but that is to be expected.”
“Cranky as shit,” Alicia translates. “What was Dean doing at the daycare, anyway? Wouldn’t have called that one.”
“Building a fortified castle,” he answers, remembering the sight of Dean and two small, very determined children sitting around four low child-sized tables pushed into a rough square on which was placed a passable castle surrounded by a truly inspiring defensive wall in a variety of primary colors. “He’s very fond of children.”
Alicia’s eyebrows jump. “You’re kidding.”
“Not at all. He’s very popular among the caregivers who wish to take an extended lunch.” Tony’s younger daughter eventually wandered over from the group entranced by a program starring a large violet dinosaur to observe proceedings. Evaluating the entire construction with a serious expression, she shook her pig-tailed head before pointing at an arbitrary point (blue?) on the wall and babbling what was unmistakably a command that Dean inexplicably seemed to understand, changing the blue Lego for a yellow one.
“Do you like kids?” she asks curiously.
“I’m not horrified by their existence.” Alicia wrinkles her nose, apparently unsatisfied. “I’ve had too little interaction with the immature version of your species to form an opinion.”
She waits, adding an obnoxiously tapping foot in unneeded emphasis.
“They’re a great deal like the mature version,” he continues, remembering Dean dealing with three children competing for his attention. “Loud, opinionated, stubborn, certain they are always right, somewhat irrational when crossed, and extraordinarily unhappy when they don’t have your undivided attention.”
“You like them,” Alicia decides.
“Why would you assume that?”
“A lot like Dean,” she says triumphantly. “Especially the attention part.”
He raises an eyebrow just as from inside comes the unmistakable sound of Dean’s voice raised in what is obviously displeasure on awakening and realizing anew he has a cold. Ignoring Alicia’s laughter, he gets to his feet and opens the door to see Dean sitting up with an unhappy expression and wiping his nose with a handful of tissue.
“How are you feeling?” he asks as Alicia thankfully muffles herself against her knees behind him. To be sure, however, he carefully shuts the door behind him.
“Fine, just dying,” Dean answers thickly, glaring at him before getting to his feet. “You go have fun outside, I’m gonna take a shower. Hope I don’t fall over or anything and drown.”
“Try to avoid it.” Castiel smiles at him winningly. “Do call if you need anything, I’ll be right outside.”
The only response is a glare as Dean stalks the length of the living room before disappearing into the bedroom. Closing the door carefully behind him, he turns back to Alicia, currently in danger of asphyxiation.
“Enjoying yourself?” he asks as he sits back down.
She lifts her head, face red, but heroically swallows back her mirth to say, “I am, thanks. So you sure you don’t need anything?”
Castiel opens his mouth to reply, then reconsiders. “The four new generators that James and Zack brought for the new mess—are they already running?”
“Hooked up and checking them now,” she answers. “Why?”
“I need one of them. And a few other things.” This is either a very good idea or a terrible one. “You tell me if you can get them here by tonight.”
Alicia nods, intrigued. “Let’s hear them.”
He tells her.
“Holy shit,” Alicia breathes. “That’s genius.”
He rather thought so himself. “So can you—”
“Not a problem,” she interrupts, glancing at the sun speculatively. “I’ll get James’s team to help. Two hours after dusk at the latest. You know how you’re gonna distract Dean?”
He nods thoughtfully. “I think I do, but I’ll need your help.”
“I’m in,” she answers, leaning forward. “What do I do?”
“Why,” Dean asks grimly, unmoving beneath a pile of blankets that has grown exponentially since his cold began, “do I need to go to the infirmary?”
Finishing with the dishes from dinner as casually as possible—and it’s an effort not to speed up the process—Castiel drains the sink and then dries his hands before leaning against the kitchen doorway.
“Because Vera—”
“Fuck Vera,” Dean interrupts, puffy eyes narrowing. “She’s not here, and if it’s just a cold, not like I need Alicia to look me over now and confirm it.”
“—requested, and you agreed, that any illness or injury would be documented thoroughly for her records.”
“You can do that.”
“Alicia is our camp doctor, and it’s both her responsibility and her privilege to fulfill the duties inherent in that position,” he responds. “Not only that—”
“What if she wants me to remove my shirt?” Dean asks, pausing to blow his nose as obnoxiously as possible. “So she can do the thing with the stethoscope? See all those missing scars and tattoos? Think of that?”
“I told her she wasn’t allowed to undress you,” he answers, crosses his arms, and waits.
Dean doesn’t disappoint him. “You told her what?”
“I told her that as I was still not entirely conversant with human customs when it comes to committed relationships, I felt it would be best to avoid even the appearance of infidelity,” he answers, watching as the red of Dean’s nose is lost beneath the general flush of hot color that extends down into the collar of his shirt, though how far he’s sadly unable to determine from here and while Dean’s wearing three shirts. “Nudity with someone other than your committed partner is to be discouraged outside situations that require it, and in my view, this situation doesn’t.”
“You didn’t say that,” Dean breathes, staring at him in growing horror. “Tell me you didn’t tell her—”
“Jealousy is a destructive emotion that does not contribute to a stable and lasting relationship or successful cohabitation,” he explains. “While I told her that I couldn’t be sure that would be my reaction—”
“Jealousy? Because the camp doctor sees me without my shirt?”
“—it might be, and why should we take the risk?”
“You told her you’d be jealous and consider it cheating if she saw me without my shirt?”
“’For thou shalt worship no other god: for the Lord, whose name is Jealous, is a jealous God.’’ He shrugs. “As my Father is, so are his sons—and daughters—and so follows our reaction to perceived competition. I cannot deny my nature, and I’m rather offended you’d want me to. I also understand you should accept people as who they truly are, and I expected better of you.”
Dean opens and closes his mouth helplessly.
“Once I explained it to her, she was very understanding,” he continues. “After all, the consequences—”
“What consequences?” Dean shuts his eyes. “You don’t mean—”
“Ritual combat, of course,” he agrees. “In response to blatant violation of my rights.”
“Your rights?” Dean asks incredulously.
“And your honor,” he adds conscientiously. “Not that I would hold you responsible, of course. Please don’t let that concern you.”
“This isn’t actually happening,” Dean mutters. “Hallucinating, right—”
“As the one challenged, she would have choice of weapon—”
“Where the fuck are those goddam sheep?”
“—which would of course be knives.”
“Knives,” Dean echoes flatly.
“She’s very good with them, as I might have mentioned before,” he tells Dean. “But I’ll win, of course.”
Dean nods jerkily. “Of course.”
“My victory and her death would be confirmation of my claim to you, but traditionally, public sex is recommended as well so it can be witnessed—”
“Oh Jesus,” Dean groans, opening his eyes to glare at Castiel before dropping back onto the couch and covering his face. “I hate you.”
“Did I mention using her blood to…”
“Fuck you,” drifts from the couch, but he can see the faint quivering of his shoulders before Dean rolls over to bury his face against the cushions. Crossing to the couch, he lifts Dean’s legs out the way to sit down, rearranging them in his lap as he waits for Dean’s muffled laughter, interspersed with coughing, to subside.
When Dean rolls back over, he grabs for the tissue, blowing his nose thoroughly and managing a short-lived glare before grinning at him. “How much more was coming?”
“Serving my every whim to show your gratitude that I defended your honor,” he admits, waiting for Dean’s next bout of laughter to taper off. “Sexual favors would be prominent among your duties, of course.”
“Of course,” Dean agrees mockingly. Grabbing a pillow from where it fell on the floor, he tucks it under his head, wiping his eyes impatiently. “How much of that was from your fucked up imagination anyway?”
“Oddly, very little,” he answers, folding his arms over Dean’s legs. “When fighting a challenger for one’s chattel—”
“Chattel?”
“I know you can’t possibly be surprised by how the Host classified human lovers?” Dean makes a face. “Sex would be a human invention that we added into proceedings, however. Also, substitute ‘enemy blood’ for ‘Grace’ to be both proof of possession and warning to other angels or gods.”
Dean raises an eyebrow. “Handprint by any chance?”
“Nothing so vulgar,” he answers. “A form of their public name, usually a translation of their true name from Enochian. Ritual binding, but—”
“Goes only one way.”
He nods, not surprised Dean would recognize the reason for that and wondering why he didn’t redirect this conversation in any other direction other than this one. “Their true name, willingly given and willingly accepted, would be binding to them as well. No angel would give a human equal power over them.”
“So real reason I’m going to the infirmary?” Dean asks abruptly, startling him, but when he looks, Dean’s expression reflects only skepticism. “You want me out of here for some reason, right?”
“Yes.” Something—disappointment? Worry? Unhappiness?—flickers across Dean’s face before it vanishes. “Nothing you’d disapprove of or be interested in. I sent James to procure three new rugs for winter to better insulate the cabin, and I’m using my power for our personal benefit and letting his team assist me in placing them in here and the bedroom.”
Dean’s face brightens. “And you think I’ll bitch at them?”
“I know you will,” he answers easily, smirking at Dean’s unconvincing scowl. “I thought you’d prefer peace and quiet and not have to change rooms while we move furniture, and Alicia agreed to entertain you as well as update your medical records. And you won’t have to remove any clothing, I promise.”
“And you couldn’t just say that?”
“I could have,” he agrees thoughtfully. “But this way was much more entertaining. Your expression…”
“Something,” Dean states flatly, fighting a grin with indifferent success, “is wrong with you.”
“And you like me anyway,” he says. “So how long until you’re ready to leave?”
Castiel arrives at the infirmary to find Dean and Alicia sharing the bed and poring over medical records with matching expressions of horrified fascination, and all hope they’re anyone’s but his dies an immediate death. Shutting the door, he almost sighs as Alicia’s head comes up without even the pretense of guilt, while Dean continues to read for a few more moments, shaking his head sadly before closing the folder.
“I hope I’m not interrupting,” he says as Dean quickly rearranges his expression to one of sad resignation at Castiel’s far too well-documented medical history. “They’re done. Are you ready to come home?”
“We were just getting to the good part,” Dean complains as Alicia takes the folder and slides off the bed, not hiding her smirk as she places it back in the distressingly large case that usually lives in the bedroom closet in the cabin. “All done?”
“I think you’ll approve of James’ selections.” Dean takes the time to sneeze and blow his nose thoroughly before easing to the floor with a faint, nearly indiscernible stumble. As casually as he can, Castiel crosses to the bed as Dean gets another tissue from the box on the pillow behind him, scowling unhappily. “Congestion affects the inner ear and therefore balance, especially after a period of being stationary.”
“I know that,” Dean grumbles. “Can we go already?”
“I’ll walk with you,” Alicia volunteers immediately, locking the case and hefting the strap over her shoulder before gesturing them toward the door. “After you.”
As they emerge outside, Castiel watches carefully as Dean descends the stairs and doesn’t bother trying to be subtle about it.
“You wanna carry me?” Dean asks challengingly before sneezing again, which interferes with his glare.
“Actually—”
“Hell no.” He twists around to include Alicia in his warning glare and immediately stumbles, requiring Castiel to steady him to the sound of Alicia’s delighted laughter. “Shut up?”
“Yes, Dean,” she answers obediently, coming up on Dean’s other side just as the cabin comes into view. “If it helps, you sound a lot better, shouldn’t be more than a couple more days.”
Dean obviously doesn’t want it to help but can’t quite hide the faint relief behind the tissue, though he does try.
When they reach the steps of the cabin, Castiel glances back at Alicia as meaningfully as he can.
“I’ll get the door,” she says, darting up the porch steps and opening the door before looking back solemnly. “I’ll just go inside and put this up. As one does with things one borrows from others, it’s just polite.”
“Yeah, okay,” Dean tells her back as they ascend the steps. After she disappears inside, he glances at Castiel. “She’s acting weird.”
“She’s always like that.” Reaching for the door, he politely holds it open for Dean, who looks at him suspiciously before stalking by him and coming to a dead stop only two steps past the threshold, giving Castiel enough room to enter and shut the door before asking, “So what do you think of the rug?”
Dean doesn’t answer, and he follows his gaze to the television now hanging on the wall and the shelving unit beneath holding a bluray player and a selection of movies, liberated from somewhere Castiel felt no interest in asking about but obviously no longer had any use for them.
“You’re not looking at the rug,” he points out after a long moment, noting James is smiling hard enough to burst, and Zack, Matt, Jody, and Mira are crowded at the kitchen door watching eagerly. “I liked the rectangle motif, but if you prefer—”
“You…” Dean jerks his gaze from the TV to look at him, a slow, wondering smile lighting up his face, and Castiel forgets what they were talking about. “You got me a TV?”
He nods a little vaguely. “While I’m afraid cable is not currently available in this area, we were able to procure a selection of movies—”
“A TV.”
“A list of movies,” Alicia volunteers from the bedroom door, almost bouncing. “And God help us if we couldn’t find at least a few of them. Which, perish the thought: we found all of them.”
Dean doesn’t look away from Castiel, cocking his head. “A list?”
“I know what you like,” he answers automatically and almost winces, not sure if that was a mistake considering the source, but Dean’s smile widens, impossible as that should be. “John McClane fortunately is a popular choice for many, so…” He trails off, not sure what he’s saying anymore. “If you wish to sit down to make your choice—”
“Maybe we should take a vote,” Dean interrupts, finally looking away and bestowing a very different smile at everyone waiting. “Movie night, right? Don’t tell me you did all this shit and think I’m throwing you out without getting to enjoy it?” He laughs at the eager expressions of everyone, then frowns, looking toward the kitchen in surprise. “Dude, is that—”
“Popcorn,” Matt confirms cheerfully. “And a lot of it. Almost forgot how to do that without a microwave.”
“Dude,” Dean says, shaking his head before he closes a hand over Castiel’s wrist and tugs toward the couch, pulling him down beside him. “Okay, so Die Hard okay?” At the general agreement, he grins happily, settling back on the couch, but the hand around Castiel’s wrist remains as he reaches for one of the folded blankets beside the couch. “Let’s get this started. Grab pillows and extra blankets from the bed if you need ‘em and get comfortable.”
As everyone’s attention is turned elsewhere, Dean finally lets go to spread the blanket over them both, and Castiel fights the urge to touch the lingering warmth from Dean’s touch.
“Seriously, you got me a TV?” Dean asks softly, mouth quirking in amusement. “Was I that bad this time around?”
“Of course not. I should have thought of it before.” Absently, he smooths the wool blend over his knees as Matt deposits two large bowls of popcorn and several bottles of Joe Beer and a glass of water on the coffee table before returning to the kitchen. “The daycare in Ichabod has televisions to play movies for the children, though I assumed you wouldn’t enjoy the program involving a giant purple dinosaur as much as they seemed to.”
“You went to the daycare?” Dean asks in surprise, reaching for another blanket. “When?”
“My tour with Alison required visiting all the official buildings.” Dean raises an eyebrow. “I was curious.”
“About kids?”
“Yes,” he answers firmly. “While I’ve never been particularly interested in procreation, per se, I do enjoy the method by which it’s generally achieved.”
Dean bites his lip. “Right.”
“It’s possibly the best part of the human design. Not to mention a superlative example of humanity’s limitless creativity.”
“Jesus, you’re weird,” Dean says wonderingly, shaking his head. “So you like John McClane?”
“Oh yes,” he agrees, as the television flickers to life. “I like when things explode.”
“I’ll get the lights,” Alicia volunteers, picking up two remotes and depositing them before Dean before flipping the lights off, and everyone settles themselves while the FBI warning appears on the screen.
Matt returns from the kitchen as Alicia drops onto the couch beside Castiel and scoots over enough for Matt to join her while Jody curls up in the armchair Zack is using as a backrest. To his lack of surprise, James and Mira have settled together to share a blanket and pillow to the left of the television.
She’s been an excellent influence; like all of James’s team, she wasn’t a member of patrol before, and she’s willing to offer James her advice and ask for clarification regarding his decisions, which has encouraged Zack and Nate to do the same. Her confidence has bolstered James’ as well as the team’s, and not surprisingly, that compatibility is as personally attractive to James as it is professionally, and Mira doesn’t seem unwilling consider the possibility, if her response to James’ eager attentions to her comfort—spreading the blanket more thoroughly for her and unnecessarily fluffing the pillow between them before offering himself as a backrest—is any indication.
Glancing at Dean, he sees him watching them as well, mouth quirked in amusement. “They look cozy,” he murmurs, breath warm against Castiel’s ear. “Anything to worry about if that goes anywhere?”
“Mira’s involvement with Kenneth was terminated several months ago and they’ve remained on good terms,” he answers. “James, as far as I’m aware, has never engaged in anything requiring termination.”
Dean looks at him. “Anything?”
“Literally,” he agrees as Mira leans back against the pillow, head resting against James’s shoulder and thus guaranteeing he won’t have any attention to spare for the movie. “He’s always been rather reserved.”
“Huh. Hey, where’s Andy?” Dean murmurs as he acquires one of the bowls of popcorn and two bottles, grinning at Castiel’s quick glance at Alicia. “Right, Sarah’s team’s back. Remind me to tell Alicia’s she’s welcome to our floor tonight if she needs it.”
He nods as Dean braces his feet on the coffee table, rearranging the blankets before falling into a comfortable slump against his side.
“Alicia,” Dean says, reaching for another blanket and tossing it neatly over her head when she turns around. “Blanket?”
“Thanks,” she says, sounding muffled before tugging it off and spreading it ostentatiously over herself and Matt before getting a bowl of popcorn. “Also, you’re welcome.”
Dean smirks at her before relaxing back, settling the popcorn in his lap and then glancing up at Castiel. “Dude, feet up and relax already.”
“Yes,” he answers, obeying mechanically and thereby achieving contact with Dean’s body from shoulder to knee beneath the two blankets that Dean rearranges meticulously before settling back again. “Comfortable?” He hopes so; unless Lucifer himself appears at the door and is on the point of entering, he has no intention of moving for any reason whatsoever.
Dean turns his head to smile at him from only inches away. “Did I say thank you?”
“It was implicit,” he answers vaguely.
“Not the same thing,” Dean murmurs. “Thanks, Cas.”
He nods, swallowing hard before saying, “You’re welcome.”