—Day 126—
In what Castiel assumes is some odd combination of misplaced guilt and very real enthusiasm, Dean throws himself into Castiel’s tentative plans for renovating Chitaqua’s infrastructure upon their return. This includes spending the last two mornings taking turns with the rest of the camp digging what Castiel was assured is a very necessary hole for the foundation at the site of the projected mess hall.
“I could help,” Castiel offers for the third time that morning when Dean drops onto the thick blanket beside him before collapsing backward with a sigh as he absently rubs his right hand.
“You did enough already,” Dean grunts, turning his head to regard him with a grin, face flushed and streaked with dirt and sweat. Reaching unexpectedly for Castiel’s hand, he flips it over to reveal the healing blisters from extensive shovel use that have joined the gun calluses and gives them a significant look before letting go. “Dude, this is everyone’s mess, and you’re not doing all of it for them. Leadership and life lesson there. Today, you’re supervising.”
“Water or coffee?” he asks, pushing himself to his feet.
“Water,” Dean answers, grinning up at him, devastatingly bright. “Thanks.”
“You’re welcome,” he responds belatedly, turning toward the nearby tables holding bottles of water, coffee in insulated containers, and sandwiches provided by the mess. This is a new addition to the site as well, appearing yesterday morning, and this morning also offering breakfast to early arrivals, of which there are surprisingly many.
Picking up a bottle—and refilling his own coffee cup, as Brenda assured cream and sugar were available—he returns to their blanket, sitting down and removing the top before handing it to Dean, who offers another grin as he pushes himself up on one elbow to take it, stretching out his legs distractingly.
“Not criticizing,” Dean says, taking a long drink from the bottle and wiping his face with the stained sleeve of his shirt, “but why didn’t you make it an order to show up for important digging duty? You always have a reason, so let’s hear it.”
Picking up a clean cloth from the supply he brought—his own efforts were a very valuable lesson in what is needed for people at construction sites—he hands it to Dean, who wets it from the bottle before wiping his face and neck. Despite the rapidly cooling weather, the lack of wind and rain have kept the days remarkably pleasant, enough so that most of the workers have stripped to thermal shirts and t-shirts to dig. It’s excellent exercise for Dean, he reflects, watching him take another long drink as Alicia bounces into the slowly deepening hole to trade off with Matt and attack the ground with a shovel with cheerful enthusiasm.
Dean taps the bottle against his knee significantly, reminding him that he’s waiting for a response.
“Those that volunteered I assumed correctly were those who—shared my interest in the project and seeing it to completion.”
Dean gives him a sideways look. “Didn’t want anyone to rain on your new mess hall parade?” He shrugs, but it’s true. “It’s your first big project, dude. Don’t blame you.”
“When the actual building phase begins, the entire camp will be pressed into regular duty to complete it,” Castiel says. “As much for the actual building as to gain experience for when we no longer have enough residences, though there are still cabins that, while unlivable now, would be acceptable with sufficient repairs.”
“And roofs,” Dean agrees, taking another drink before grinning as Matt trudges toward them. “Matt, you still alive?”
Giving him a sour look, Matt drops on the blanket on Dean’s other side with a massive sigh of relief. Alicia is one of the most consistent volunteers for digging duty, and her team—due to interest, loyalty, or Alicia’s sheer force of personality—join her every time. Andy and Matt’s determined attempts to match her energy have so far been unsuccessful, but Matt, at least, has yet to declare defeat, and has the blisters on top of blisters that Alicia treats regularly to prove it.
As Matt sits up with a murmured thanks to Andy, who joins him with two bottles of water, Castiel follows his gaze to Alicia, making happy inroads in foundation digging, and revises his estimation of Matt’s motivations. A glance shows Dean watching the same thing with a faint smirk before reaching over to slap Matt on the back.
“Dude, no idea how you keep up with her on patrol.”
Matt shakes his head, taking another drink. “She slows down to let us catch up. Sometimes.”
Dean nods brightly, hiding a smirk under the lip of his bottle as Andy and Matt start to discuss either the horrors of manual labor or possibly Andy’s feelings about Kat, which Castiel’s discovered are indeed numerous and comprise two-thirds of his conversation.
“What do supervisory duties include again?” he asks Dean as Jody joins Alicia in the center of the site and begins what looks to be an impromptu digging competition, punctuated with Alicia’s almost constant commentary that can encompass quite literally anything.
“Just watch,” Dean responds, grinning as he surveys their good work. “Worth the price of admission, trust me.”
He has to admit, without the distraction of manual labor, the view is very pleasant, and not just due to the extraordinarily attractive portrait people engaged in manual labor offer (hunters are extraordinarily fit, and aren’t loathe to show exactly how much), though that’s definitely an inducement. It’s rare that the camp has the time or leisure to casually congregate, and it belatedly occurs to him that other than the campwide meetings he or Dean call weekly—which are very different in context—he’s never seen so many of the camp in one place at one time.
Dean’s question about Chitaqua’s past celebrations comes to mind. They were rare, he remembers that much, and the lowered inhibitions that came with alcohol sometimes caused tensions he couldn’t identify (or cared to), but then, he rarely attended longer than it took to find an acceptable sex partner and never sober. He doesn’t think they were ever like this, though; the entire southern perimeter is now spread with blankets for those resting or waiting for an available shovel, small groups gathering and dispersing without any recognizable pattern, and everyone in remarkably high spirits.
Sheila’s sudden burst of laughter—due to what, he’s not sure—gets Dean’s attention and he grins into his next drink before frowning up at Castiel. “Fine, you won. How’d you know?”
“A guess,” he answers honestly as Mike pulls Sheila to her feet, smiling down at her with something more than simple amusement. “Joseph—from what I understand—has acted as impromptu counselor as well as chaplain. He knows Mike very well, and I suspect he didn’t think exposure to outsiders would be of benefit yet. Especially civilians.” He frowns. “I told you that Mike lost his wife and son. His son was infected at daycare with Croatoan in one of the earliest outbreaks.”
“Son of a bitch,” Dean murmurs. “How bad?”
“I don’t know for certain,” Castiel answers. “Joseph does, however, and I suspected that would weigh heavily on who he chose to assign to Ichabod after he had the opportunity to observe Mike in Harlin. I also think he doesn’t wish to retard Mike’s progress; he’s reduced his drinking substantially, is making an effort to maintain casual relationships with others, and his cohabitation with Sheila is proceeding satisfactory.” Dean bites back a smile. “What?”
“Gotta know, what is a ‘successful cohabitation’?”
Before he can answer, Sean passes them on the way to the table, and Dean’s gaze immediately fastens on Zack and Mira, trading their shovels to Frederick and Justin before climbing out to collapse on a nearby blanket. Within seconds—Dean may be counting under his breath—Sean joins them with water, coffee, and sandwiches, and Zack visibly brightens at the attention as Mira watches them in amusement.
Dean leans closer. “When did Sean get back—”
“At dawn,” Castiel murmurs. “His team went to bed immediately after I took their reports this morning, like anyone sane after a four day patrol route.”
“You’re supposed to wake me up for those,” Dean says, frowning up at him.
Every so often, Castiel is once again struck by being in the position of explaining Dean to himself. “Dean, no one is social in the morning, including you. The difference between you and everyone else is that you can’t help but try—duty, I suppose—and they do sincerely want to respond, but they’re tired, and so are you.” Dean’s frown deepens, with the addition of confusion. “If you do it, it takes an hour, and I’m trapped in a room with a minimum of five and sometimes as many as thirteen people who desperately want to go to bed—including you—yet are engaged in horrifically stilted attempts at casual conversation while drinking all my coffee until some arbitrary point passes that they can finally excuse themselves while you desperately wish for them all to die. If I do it, it takes ten minutes, I tell them to leave immediately, and everyone’s happy. Including me and my supply of coffee.”
Dean opens his mouth to protest—how, he can’t imagine, that’s exactly what happens—then subsides. “Evenings are mine, though, right?”
“Yes, I thought it was self-evident by the fact you always do them.” Dean rolls his eyes. “Why were you asking about Sean?”
Taking another drink, he shrugs. “Zack’s looked kind of rough the last few times I saw him. Where’s Nate, by the way?”
“How would I know?” Castiel asks, sipping from his cup. “What the camp does during their time off-duty doesn’t fall under my current responsibilities, and in any case, Amanda is no longer here to share the sordid details of everyone’s terrible life decisions against my will.”
Dean stares up at him and takes another drink of water.
“Nate’s engaged in one of his interminable crises of sexuality, and James is with him because he’s a good leader and wants to help; hint, nothing will, but he’ll learn, as so many before him have,” he answers, blowing out a breath in sheer annoyance. “Alicia came by the cabin this morning, but she does so every morning when she’s not on patrol to give Andy and Kat privacy so they can have sex and talk about their feelings with each other. She mentioned seeing Mira and Zack at breakfast without James, and historically, James doesn’t miss any opportunity to spend time with Mira. Combine that with Zack’s recent moodiness plus Nate’s absence today, and it’s fairly obvious.”
“Cas,” Dean asks seriously, “do you and Alicia have coffee and gossip every morning while I’m sleeping?”
“We talk of many things,” he answers evasively. “Cooking, dream theory, ambush methodology—”
“Dryer elves and camp gossip.” Dean’s skepticism regarding dryer elves is ironic, considering where they are and what they do for a living, as it were. “You told Alicia that Sean was back?”
“It might have come up,” he admits. “Amanda’s regular reports served a function that I noticed the lack of when she went to Ichabod. Alicia’s a team leader as well as our current doctor, so she knows a great deal and relates what she thinks of interest, and since it’s usually in the morning, yes, we have coffee.”
“And you don’t tell me?”
He raises his eyebrows innocently. “You didn’t ask.”
“I’m asking.”
He sighs, put-upon. “Brian and Brenda are alliteratively involved, much to everyone’s immense confusion, but it explains the abrupt increase in quality of the meals at the mess, as Alicia says Brenda told her that Brian’s father was a cook that dealt in food no one can pronounce and therefore is expensive.” Dean raises his eyebrows encouragingly. “She’s warily pleased but says its awkward, as Andy and Kat still use her cabin for their rendezvous and sometimes she’s trapped with two couples speaking of their feelings, as neither will retreat to their—or her—rooms for sex while she’s there.”
“God.” Dean takes another drink, appalled. “What else?”
“Liz has terminated her loose association with Zoe’s weekly gatherings—”
“Den of Carnal Delights, Mark II,” Dean pronounces, waving a hand. “Something Amanda said. So she’s picking up the slack on the love guru and transcendental orgies that’s been missing from everyone’s lives? Totally saw that coming.”
“Alicia says she’s reached the acceptance stage of grief and is moving on,” he agrees. “She’s pacing herself, as I advised her, but I’m running low on LSD, which reminds me, I need a day off soon for manufacturing purposes. It’s not particularly complicated, but chemistry isn’t to be approached with anything but precision. Do you need more water?” Plucking the empty bottle from Dean’s frozen hand, he picks up his cup and returns to the table, selecting a sandwich as well as refilling his cup and acquiring a new bottle, before returning to Dean. “Eat this.”
Dean takes the sandwich, turning it between his hands with a complicated expression.
“If you don’t want me to—”
“Your business,” Dean says, taking a bite and chewing thoughtfully. “Is there a notation for days off for drug making in your spreadsheet?”
“Yes.”
“Of course there is.” To Castiel’s pleasure, Dean finishes the remainder of the sandwich quickly before following it with more water. “So Liz is—what, taking up a life of celibacy or what?”
“From what Alicia said, it’s a territorial issue. Mel has twice-weekly gatherings with her team to promote team-bonding, and—what?”
Dean takes a drink of water before answering. “You don’t even need to tell me what that means, and I’m not surprised, fuck my life. Mel’s not the sharing type?”
“Not even a little,” he agrees. “Joseph confirmed that everyone involved is very enthusiastic regarding the current arrangement, and it’s been extremely beneficial for Liz personally, as she prefers stability and structure in her personal relationships.” At Dean’s interested look, he shrugs. “Joseph also likes coffee. It’s like a compulsion spell, but not ethically horrible and delicious.”
“Our camp counselor in action.” He starts to take a drink from his bottle, then lowers it, looking surprised at something. “And look who just showed up.” Following his gaze, Castiel sees Kyle taking the shovel from a tired-looking Sheila as she and Mike start toward the tables. “Give me odds on Kyle joining in from sheer community spirit.”
He shakes his head. “He doesn’t have any.”
They both watch Kyle start toward the center of the site where Alicia’s working alone—Jody, not gifted with what must be preternatural energy, having taken a break—and doing the least convincing performance of accidentally bumping into someone he’s ever witnessed.
“Wow,” Dean observes, taking another drink as Alicia shakes her head with a grin at Kyle’s probable apology, the pace of her work noticeably slowing as Kyle joins her digging efforts. “Wasn’t he just like, two weeks ago begging Jane to take him back while stalking her through the entire camp?”
“Jane’s otherwise occupied.” Dean must hear something in his voice, swinging his gaze to look at him curiously. “Sidney, in case you’re curious, volunteered to take Sheila’s shift in the garage today so she could spend some time with Mike, since his mission schedule with Joseph is irregular at this time while Joseph performs supply-run based interviews to decide who will replace Leah and Ana.”
“What does Sid have to do with—”
“He’s reading automobile repair manuals and asked me to review him in small arms yesterday,” Castiel continues. “He was sincere in his thanks afterward and we’re to do it again the day after tomorrow so as to assure progress, since his performance, while adequate, could be improved. You may not know this, but Jane is—”
“Don’t say it.” Dean closes his eyes, looking pained. “Jesus.”
“Does it bother you because it’s Sidney—which is understandable, though he improves a great deal when hostility is absent—or because Dean was involved with Jane?” he asks and earns himself a glare. “Dean was involved with many women in Chitaqua, so why…” He stops himself; Dean’s initial inhibitions regarding involvement with anyone in the camp were the result of both unfamiliarity with them and discomfort with the identity he was assuming. Time and familiarity, however, have made both irrelevant, and Jane is admittedly the most physically attractive woman in the camp, if one appreciates Rubenesque brunettes with perfect marksmanship, which is everyone sane.
Dean’s sudden bark of laughter interrupts the inevitable conclusion of that train of thought. “I saw Jane in the mess when I went to get us more sugar, and she actually spoke to me, it was weird. Nice not to have her looking at me like she’s counting imaginary bullet holes, but weird. And you’re telling me I got Sid to thank for that?”
“That’s—” He’s not actually sure.
“Exactly.” Finishing his bottle, he sighs, but shows no desire to return to his labors quite yet. Exercise is all well and good, Castiel reflects, but doing too much is to be discouraged. “Think we can get this done before winter remembers Kansas exists?”
“As winter has a very liberal idea of when it should begin, I’m not sure,” he answers. “However, the foundation work, from what I understand, is the part that is most vulnerable to inclement weather, and at this rate should be completed within the week. Or so Nate explained.”
Sitting up, Dean frowns into the middle distance. “Level with me here—does Nate actually know what he’s doing?”
“Strangely enough, he does, but he’s the only one. Once we begin the actual construction—even using prefabricated buildings—the speed of progress will depend on our learning curve, which will doubtless include a great deal of trial and error.”
“How long until it’s done? Ballpark.”
“Three months,” he says after a few moments of thought, noting Dean’s frown. “Perhaps less, but certainly no more. In two weeks, I’ve scheduled an inspection of all occupied cabins to verify they’re fully prepared for winter, but—”
“No, that comes first, good call.” Dean’s frown deepens. “So what’s after the mess hall? New armory?”
“Why,” he asks, “does this sound like more than idle curiosity?” He would, actually, very much like to expand the armory to accommodate at least a portion of the massive stock of military weapons they’ve acquired and are now being stored in a growing series of temporary buildings that at this rate may outnumber the number of cabins. “Do you have a request?”
Matt abruptly passes them on his way to the south corner of the site, almost snatching the shovel from Evan and jumping down into the six inch progress made there, Andy scurrying after him with a worried expression. Dean’s gaze flickers to Jody, who straightens from her conversation with Mira, and even from here, Castiel sees her alarm.
“Told you,” Dean says, an unholy smile lighting his face as Andy desperately attempts placation while acting as a physical barrier despite being three inches shorter and at least fifty pounds lighter than Matt. “Who’s your money on?”
“Matt,” he answers immediately. “But that’s preference, not actuality. Kyle fights dirty, and Matt’s right is weak.”
Dean sighs. “Probably shitty leadership skills not to stop ‘em.” The green eyes narrow abruptly as Kyle straightens, looking directly at Matt. “Or assume they won’t stop themselves. This isn’t fucking elementary school, what the hell. She’s not a goddamn bone.”
Castiel struggles with temptation—Eve’s difficulties with such abruptly far more understandable—before sighing in resignation. Alicia certainly doesn’t deserve to have to deal with this.
“Alicia,” he says clearly, and Alicia’s head comes up with a startled look, shovel stopping mid-motion. “Are you certain that Vera would approve of Dean being out in this weather? He looks flushed.”
Dean freezes half-way to his feet, looking at him incredulously, then pointedly at the nearly-sunny day: through the cloud cover, you can even see the outline of the sun in a very impressive off-orange.
Grinning, Alicia jogs toward them, oblivious to Kyle’s very satisfactory horror and Matt’s hot flush when they see Dean, handing her shovel to Jody before bouncing out. Biting his lip, Dean stands still as Alicia looks him over, going up on her toes to peer into his eyes with ostentatious care before nodding to herself with a solemn expression, eyes dancing.
“As camp doctor, it is my learned opinion all is well. Go forth and be productive, for the hole will not dig itself.”
“Thanks,” Dean says, straight-faced. “Not dying, good to know.”
“Anytime—ooh, coffee, didn’t see that earlier.” Spying Castiel’s empty cup, she scoops it up on her way to the table. “I’ll grab you some, too, be right back.”
Dean smiles at Castiel, all teeth. “Really?”
“People skills,” he answers sincerely. “Go forth and terrify Kyle thoroughly before he tries to skulk away. You’re right, it’s very pleasant to simply observe.”
“That’s what I’m talking about.” Dean crouches to grab his bottle of water, murmuring, “Good job, by the way. So lunch at the mess, or—”
“We have baked ham—with honey—for sandwiches, and I made potatoes last night, sliced very thin and baked until crisp. Salted.”
Dean stills. “Potato chips? You made potato chips?”
“Not yet,” he answers, frowning. “Very thin fries, perhaps.”
“Home it is.” Dean tosses him a grin before getting to his feet. “Okay, someone got a shovel for me?” he shouts cheerfully, starting back to the quickly growing hole as Alicia drops down beside him, handing him his cup.
Taking it, Castiel freezes, cup half-way to his mouth, as Dean peels away the thermal shirt and tosses it toward the blanket, leaving him in nothing but a very thin, sweat-stained t-shirt before jumping into the hole. He’s almost immediately surrounded by welcoming camp members eager to show him the best places to dig, utterly oblivious to the fact he’s now the center of rapt attention from those observing.
“So,” Alicia says suddenly, “he’s—recovering really well. Getting plenty of exercise, obviously.” She takes a long drink from her coffee. “Little thin, but he—yeah, very healthy. I approve.”
He gives her a sideways look. “Your commitment to your profession is to be admired.”
“Was he always this hot?” she asks plaintively, taking another drink and tilting her head to admire Dean’s ability to bend over, revealing a thin strip of pale skin just above the waist of his jeans that vanishes as he straightens. Oddly enough, it’s just as riveting on repetition, and digging provides many opportunities for repetition. “He couldn’t have been, or I’d been much more okay with the cheating thing last year.” She looks at him worriedly. “Uh, he doesn’t hold that entire threat to gut him like a fish against me still, does he? I was upset, I didn’t even have a knife! Nudity and everything, only conducive to wearing sharp objects when everyone agrees, and Dean never did. No idea why.”
He still regrets that he passed out early that night, but as he pulled a muscle laughing after hearing it secondhand, perhaps that was for the best. Actually witnessing Dean’s brave retreat without his pants across the greater part of the camp might have killed him.
“Of course not,” he says, but despite his best efforts, his voice breaks on the last word. Taking a deep breath, he tries again. “Let bygones be bygones—did you throw his jeans on the roof?”
“All his clothes,” Alicia clarifies, grimacing. “Mine, too, and Amber’s bra, but who sorts out the laundry when engaged in mindless rage? Kind of defeats the ‘mindless’ portion of rage, am I right?”
He nods, swallowing hard.
“Tell Amber that,” Alicia says with a scowl that melts into guilt. “I got it all down, but yeah, she had a point about what a night of rain does to underwire.”
Castiel just manages to set his coffee cup aside before he starts to laugh.
“Tell Dean I still have his boxers if he wants them back,” she adds, sipping from her cup. “Kind of pink, but that bra was very red, so what can you do?” Reaching over, she calmly retrieves his coffee cup before he lands on it. “I’ll get us a refill while you do that.”
He nods helplessly, gasping for breath, and thinks this might take a while.
Dean submits to Castiel’s insistence in treating his blisters with suspicious amenability after they’ve eaten, sitting cross-legged on the couch after a quick shower and extending both hands with barely a protest.
“You ever gonna tell me what set you off?” Dean asks as Castiel examines his right hand for any breaks in the skin. A short, bitterly fought battle commences, won only by sheer will and a warning twinge from his chest not to do that again anytime soon.
“Later,” he promises, and distracts himself with noting a broken blister on the palm of his left hand. After double checking for potential splinters from the wooden shaft of the shovel, he cleans each palm thoroughly and applies a topical antibiotic and mild analgesic before lightly wrapping them against further damage and to encourage quick healing. Fortunately, they’re in the same general places that Dean’s gun calluses are developing, which should speed up the re-acquisition tremendously and will make his introduction to knife fighting much less painful.
Holding up his right hand when Castiel points that out, Dean smiles at the lack of tremor. “Good practice switching, too.”
“I’d expect nothing less,” he answers, indicating Dean should relax so he can check the scar tissue on his inner right arm. Regular application of mild topical lotions recommended by both Vera and Alicia have kept the scar tissue supple and flexible as it heals, and Dean’s never been reluctant to stretch the muscles regularly to assure maximum flexibility is achieved.
“Now that you’re successful in consistently identifying the point that you’ve overworked your right hand and therefore in a very good mood, I’d like you to consider a possible alternative to the wrist brace.”
“Something not fucking firetruck red?” Dean says hopefully. “Hell yes, I’m in.”
“A glove.”
Dean’s eyes narrow. “No.”
“A glove not firetruck red,” he explains to Dean’s set expression. “Something to support your wrist and give some protection to your first and second fingers, since you can’t at this time easily feel if they’re injured without limiting mobility. Or, if I must be graphic, accidentally cutting off your own fingers with your own knife if it slips without noticing their absence.”
“Maybe I’ll leave knifework out of my skillsets,” Dean counters, flexing his right hand restlessly against his knee.
“Is it feeling any strain from today?” he asks, remembering Dean was rubbing his hand during his breaks this morning; he should have asked earlier.
“No—actually, yeah, a little,” he answers, frowning at it before nodding firmly, and Castiel takes out the bottle of oil from the kit, taking his hand and feeling out the places the muscles always grow too-tight by instinct. “Okay, about this glove thing—”
“It will be attractive to the eye,” he assures Dean, starting at the wrist and working slowly upward. When he reaches the palm, Dean relaxes, eyes closing involuntarily, and he works patiently for a few long moments, deliberately drawing out each slow stroke before continuing. “I consulted with Alicia and Joseph, and Ichabod’s efforts at the art of tannery have resulted in excellent quality leather. Heavier grade will be required to support the wrist, but something finer and more flexible will be required for the hand to assure no loss of mobility, and of course we’ll test several designs and your approval will decide which you want to use.”
Dean attempts an unsuccessful glare from half-closed eyes as Castiel works the tight webbing deliberately. “Huh.”
“Maybe something in black,” he offers, biting back a smile at the vague interest Dean isn’t at all successful in hiding. “Protective gear for the hand and arm are common throughout history. Yours would be modeled on the gauntlet instead of a full glove, though not made of metal of course.”
“Gauntlet,” Dean repeats in interest before quickly frowning again. Yes, he thought that might appeal to him. “Dude, I’m not gonna be the creepy guy walking around with one gloved hand, that’s all I’m saying.”
“You won’t be,” he assures him, adding temptingly, “Depending on the design, metal could be added to the knuckles, increasing the damage caused by punching evil in the face.”
Dean’s expression goes through several contortions, all of which indicate a positive response to metal-studded knuckles punching anything, which obviously would include but would not be limited to evil. Kyle, perhaps. “You have something in mind?”
“I do,” he agrees as he finishes, wiping his hands clean. “However, turning that into a practical design isn’t among my skillsets. I’ll send a request to Alison if any of the residents have any experience in leatherwork other than the most basic they’ve already begun to master.” He wonders idly how difficult it would be to learn to do that himself if there’s someone with the experience to teach him. He learned to wrap his own knives and repair their sheaths, but even the most skillful attention—which he won’t pretend he is yet capable of giving—can’t do more than slow the rate of decay. He’d like to be able to make them himself, perhaps with modern adjustments to make them easier to carry and conceal as well. Four simply isn’t sufficient; there’s absolutely no guarantee a werewolf, a fae, a vampire, and harpy won’t join forces and attack them, and there he’ll be, all his best weapons used and nothing but firearms to protect him from certain injury, possibly even bruising.
“You got that look on your face again,” Dean observes, and he realizes that Dean’s smiling at him.
“What look?”
“Here.” Reaching out, Dean traces a light finger between his eyebrows. “This line here; always shows up when you want something and you’re already half-way into a plan on how to get it.” The ghost of warmth lingers even after he withdraws his hand. “First time I saw it was that day in Kansas City, before your adventures in seeing all things. Figured back then it meant trouble, and looks like I was right.”
“I was thinking about learning the art of leatherwork,” Castiel answers challengingly. “It’s a practical and useful skill. Without access to the military, replacements for belts, gun holsters, and knife sheaths are going to need to be ordered from the border at exorbitant markup—”
“Yeah, not if we can help it,” Dean mutters.
“—or we need to either learn to do it ourselves or convince someone in the allied towns who has the skill or is willing to learn it to trade with us.” Thinking of the massive store of military surplus they have that could be of use, he doesn’t think that will be a problem. “I’d far prefer not to enrich the border guard at the expense of the local population if at all possible.”
“You really don’t like them,” Dean says, cocking his head. “The border guards. I mean, above and beyond your thing for justice and their thousand percent markup on toothpaste. This is personal.”
Castiel carefully repacks the oil with the other supplies to return them to the bathroom, trying to think how to answer. “They’re not our friends.”
“Well, yeah. They’re bloodsuckers and the entire infected zone is a goddamn corpse.”
“They want us to believe that they are,” he says slowly, “so no matter what they charge us, no matter how ridiculous the price, they can believe it, too. It’s not enough to have a profit margin that Wall Street itself would envy; we have to be grateful so they can feel better about themselves.”
“And that,” Dean says, “is why you’re not ever gonna be our negotiator at the border.”
“You think I can’t, if sufficiently motivated, put on the appearance of appropriate submission?” he asks, almost offended.
“No,” Dean answers, resting his chin on one hand. “I think, unlike Joe, you couldn’t blow it off afterward.”
“Could you?”
“Nope,” he says. “Which is how I know. Joe, though, entertained himself this last time by convincing Larry we’re getting low on money but desperately trying to hide it just to see if he’d take those shitty semi-automatics off our hands in partial payment. And it worked.”
He makes a face, obviously still somewhat surprised by what comprises their liquid assets, but then again, Joseph was rather startled as well when given the full list of accounts, and more recently, due to Castiel’s own curiosity, how the stock portfolio of Charles Emerson Winchester III of Boston, Massachusetts (of a very old Boston family) was progressing after leaving JP Morgan Chase to buy a Greek island and raise alpacas.
(“You actually told them that was your reason for leaving?” Dean asked incredulously as Joseph looked at him in wonder. “And they didn’t—okay, why Greek island and alpacas? What’s the connection?”
“Wealthy people are always buying islands,” he explained in bewilderment. “I liked Greece a great deal—at least, it was lovely when I was last there, the city-states were very pleasant, peaceful—”
“Two thousand years ago,” Dean interrupted blankly.
“Slightly more than that,” he admitted. “Still, beautiful, and I’d recently watched a very interesting documentary on the future of alpaca breeding, which was guaranteed to replace cattle within a decade and now was the time to get in on the ground floor of this rapidly growing field of animal husbandry for profit. Wealthy people often are involved in enterprises from the ground floor that involve profit. I understand that plays some part in how they become wealthy.”
Joseph and Dean didn’t stop laughing for a very long time, so Castiel ignored them as he paged through his investments, pleased to note that his decision to concentrate his investments domestically instead of overdiversifying in foreign markets worked out very well, considering the current state of foreign markets being utterly unknown and in some instances, possibly non-existent. And making notes for Joseph’s next trip to the border, because as the stock market in the US still seems to exist (how, he’s not sure, but then again, capitalism), there’s no reason not to make some adjustments. He wonders if Joseph knows what to do with real estate.)
When he returns from putting the kit away in the bathroom, a sheet of the paper that Nate insists is to be used for construction plans is spread on the coffee table, secured by two glasses, an unusually attractive rock Castiel discovered when verifying that mowing duty was being adequately discharged in those parts of the camp not easily visible from the inhabited portion, and a pocketknife.
“Check it out and tell me what you think,” Dean says without looking up.
Sitting back down beside him, Castiel surveys the design; it’s oddly familiar. “It looks like—”
“The cabin,” Dean interrupts, then taps a pencil against a large somewhat rectangular structure attached to the right side that is definitely not in existence now. “So what do you think?”
“It’s—a very accurate representation of a rectangle done freehand without use of a ruler?” he hazards, then turns to look at the wall behind them suspiciously. “That will be accessed through a non-existent eastern door. It’s a room?”
“You need a library,” Dean explains, pointing at the innocent utility closet accusingly. “Dude, come on, even I can tell that’s driving you crazy. Books in boxes and stacked on shelves wherever you can get space, not all lined up and organized by geometry or historical color or whatever.”
“It’s been that way for almost three years and it didn’t bother me at all,” he argues, unsettled by the truth of that statement. It does bother him now, and he has no idea why. “And the Dewey Decimal system wouldn’t be an improvement, considering its emphasis on—never mind. When did you—”
“Nate drafted it for me yesterday, just a—you know, not final or anything,” Dean says, then points to the rectangle. “Only thing, can’t move the bathroom, but not a big deal.”
“Why would we move the bathroom to the library?” he asks in bewilderment.
“I was thinking…okay.” Dean sits back on his heels, frowning. “So we make that a bedroom—”
“I thought the point was to build a library.”
“—and turn this bedroom into your library, and we share the new one. It’s big enough,” Dean says quickly, pointing out the straight vertical lines that indicate walls. “Plenty of room for two arsenals—selling point, you can design ‘em—an actual closet for clothes, a couple of beds, whatever.”
Castiel wonders if he’s missing something. “I have no objections to the current arrangement. I like sleeping on the couch.”
“You like sleeping any place that’s not that goddamn room,” Dean answers, staring down at the paper. “Easy fix: make a new place to sleep, and bonus, you get an actual bed to sleep in, not have to wake up looking at…anyway. We’re doing the living like people thing, phase two: everyone sleeps in a bed. Whole camp’s doing it but you; time to get with the program.”
Licking his lips, he stares very hard at the paper as well. “I suppose. Your snoring is very soothing—”
“I don’t snore,” Dean denies, looking up with a tentative smile. “You were hearing things or something.”
Castiel studies the new room thoughtfully. “It would be pleasant to have an expanded space for weapons.”
“So where do you want them?” Dean asks encouragingly, shoving a pencil across the table. “It’s your room, too. Any ideas? I want to start when the mess is done.”
Picking up the pencil, he nods firmly. “A few, yes.”