It's the Stars That Lie: November 6

November Rain

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—Day 95—

Castiel awakens at dawn for long enough for Alicia and Dean to check his arm and Dean to convince him to take more opiates before his mind clears enough to remember that he doesn’t want them. It’s therefore just past noon before he’s fully aware of his surroundings. Despite his care, he still stumbles into the bedside table, which alerts an obnoxiously solicitous Dean to materialize if by magic before he can steady himself, offering all manner of services, not limited to assistance in the bathroom.

(“I’m trying to show my appreciation for all you did for me, Cas,” he says, eyes wide and unsettlingly anticipatory. “Sponge bath or ice? I’m here for you.”)

Maneuvered onto the couch, he watches in resignation as Dean happily drops a tray in front of him with far, far more food than he has any interest in looking at, much less actually eating. He considers reminding Dean that meals are supposed to be consumed at a table, but that would require moving again, which is even less desirable than eating.

“You’re enjoying this,” he observes, which has the effect of making Dean’s grin widen. Picking up the spoon, he sets himself to completing breakfast.

“Alicia will be by again later to check on your really terrible wound—”

“It’s hardly more than a graze.”

Dean ignores him. “—and you’re on limited duty for one week, because I can order you to do that.” After a moment, he adds reluctantly, “Yeah, just a graze, fine. I checked it this morning when I changed the bandages.”

“You did.” He does remember that Alicia was mostly present in an observational capacity.

Dean shrugs, eyes drifting toward the doorway. “Dude, when it comes to bullet wounds, I’ve probably seen more than Alicia has.”

“You didn’t—”

“—have to?” Dean picks up one of the pieces of toast and takes a bite. “Did it anyway.”

Not sure how to answer that, Castiel grimly applies himself to his meal as Dean entertains himself with one of the journals—which, he can’t tell—and notes that despite the exertions yesterday, he looks surprisingly well, if slightly tired.

At his third surreptitious appraisal, Dean catches him at it, toast halfway in his mouth, and quickly chews and swallows it before saying, “Got up, checked your mortal wound, ate breakfast, took my nap, had lunch and everything. No fever, no ice baths, it’s all good.”

“Patrol this morning?”

“…and took care of patrol, even though I won the bet yesterday.” Dean rolls his eyes. “I’m fine.” Before Castiel can inquire further, he adds, “Keep eating and I’ll catch you up on last night and what Amanda told me this morning.”

With a sigh, he gets another spoonful of soup as Dean makes a production of watching, foot braced on the edge of the coffee table, then his expression suddenly turns serious.

“So open secret: the watch has a gambling problem,” he says finally, looking vaguely disgruntled. “Amanda’s still questioning them, but she’s pretty sure they’re telling the truth about that after five hours on the practice field with her starting an hour before dawn and Alicia’s tender mercies in the infirmary after. There’s a floating craps game that’s been running straight for about a week and among the stakes was Spam, which counts as meat these days.”

He winces. “It’s not food, however.”

“No argument there. She confiscated the cans—along with some socks, a pair of boots, two guns—”

“Gambling weapons is a second degree offense,” Castiel interrupts, straightening, which for some reason makes Dean grin. “Did you discipline them yet?”

“Restriction to their cabins when off-duty with extra training from dawn until noon for the foreseeable future,” Dean answers with huge enjoyment. “I told them you’d be adding to that when you were feeling better while I thought a little more on the subject. Anticipation, Cas. They didn’t piss themselves, but it was close.” The grin fades. “You believe ‘em?”

“The Spam was a deciding factor,” Castiel answers after a bite’s worth of consideration. “As I told you last night, I doubt they even remembered our jeep leaving the camp, and panicked when they realized—”

“I was in the jeep.” Dean’s expression darkens, and Castiel is abruptly reminded of what else he and Dean discussed last night. “Still pretty pissed about that.” In an abrupt switch of mood, he gives Castiel a curious look. “Jeffrey’s been here before?”

He nods, taking another bite before answering. “The wards make Chitaqua difficult to find if someone hasn’t been keyed in or isn’t aware of Chitaqua’s location, and by that I mean, physically driven here while fully conscious and been within the wards. Otherwise, it’s nearly impossible to locate even if they know the location or use a map.”

“Really?” Dean rests his chin on one hand. “Why?”

“It’s in the nature of anything powerful to conceal itself, and the more powerful something is, the more it conceals itself,” he answers. “Much like the proverbial forest, the closer you are to the trees, the less able you are to see the forest.”

Dean makes a face; yes, he didn’t think that quite fit.

“In the case of the camp wards, they also have the advantage using Grace, which is enough like Creation that it blends into the background of the living world. Demons don’t like Grace by instinct and avoid it, but that doesn’t mean they recognize that’s what’s affecting them; demons don’t like many things. Conscious recognition that something is affecting them doesn’t help, either, unless they can suppress the fight/flight response, which is much harder than you may think, and for demons, is also sometimes the only warning they have for something that’s dangerous to them.”

“Huh.” Dean cocks his head. “What about for humans?”

“The amount of Grace within the wards also has a very slight warping effect on perceptions the closer anyone is to Chitaqua, along with a very mild compulsion to stay away from it, which also follows; Grace is dangerous, as you know, and it’s not a power any being other than an angel can safely harness. Or would want to, to be honest.”

“I remember our suicidal environmentalist.” Dean cocks his head, eyes narrowing speculatively. “Range about five miles or so?”

“Yes, that’s why I suggested that as the limit of your solitary explorations around the camp. Jeffrey was well within that, but you observed him; how did he seem to you?”

“Twitchy,” Dean agrees reluctantly. “More than even a demon who doesn’t know guns facing off against you would be. That was the wards doing it?”

“Jeffrey was never the brightest of the bright, but directly challenging me without any intention of killing me is a new low.” He takes another bite at Dean’s significant look. “He did come to talk, and the gun was only for show; he never meant to use it as more than a threat.”

“Even with demon blood on the bullets?” Dean asks skeptically.

“Probably his master’s idea, whoever that might be,” Castiel admits. “And not a terrible one: if he was aware Jeffrey wasn’t familiar with guns, he wanted to experiment with something that might disable me even if he only managed a graze. It was an extremely good bet, as it turned out.”

Dean grimaces, taking a sip from his almost empty cup of coffee. “So you’re saying no one can find Chitaqua unless they’re either keyed in or a former demon visitor?”

“It’s possible,” Castiel says after another bite. “It’s simply extraordinarily difficult. The effects are almost entirely on the subconscious level; once anyone is within five miles of Chitaqua, it’s almost impossible to consciously notice that they’re being affected. It’s like paranoia; it’s very difficult to prove to yourself that they’re not out to get you. Human instincts exist for a reason, and after five years in an Apocalypse, you might say that they have made a very necessary comeback in the human psyche. Even if someone, demon or human, made it in view of our walls, they wouldn’t be in any condition to be subtle about it.”

Dean’s jaw tightens “So the watch definitely missed him.”

“If he came this close….” Castiel hesitates, pushing aside his own responsibility for their lack of discipline for the moment. “We were there two hours before he showed himself; if he was there all that time, he would have recognized you. My best guess—and this is a guess—is he concealed himself near the camp entrance, saw us leave, and waited until the watch went to finish their craps game before following us.”

“Amanda found his car hidden just off the road, about a quarter mile from the crossroad that led to the farm,” Dean says grimly. “Tank was nearly empty, but that doesn’t mean much. Amanda made a list of the nearest towns, and we’ll send a team to check with them for anyone missing.”

Castiel nods, looking at his three-quarters finished plate before taking a deep breath and taking another bite. When he looks up, Dean’s expression is more troubled, not less. “There’s something else?”

“Yeah, I think.” Dean finishes his cup with a frown and stares down at it for a moment. “Amanda didn’t think Jeffrey could see who was in the jeep from any of the most likely places he was waiting, and glare would have been working against him after noon. Joe’s team just finished that range the day before yesterday, which is probably why he knew to go there, and you were there with them at least once, right?”

“The first time and to approve it when they were done,” Castiel answers. “If he was waiting for me, he wouldn’t risk it with the team there. Unlike me, two stayed on watch the entire time.”

Dean makes a face, which he ignores.

“You think he was looking for me?”

“Yeah, that makes sense,” Dean answers slowly, playing with his cup. “I mean, it all makes sense, except the part where he wanted you to bring him back to Chitaqua. There’s stupid and then there’s suicidal.”

Castiel forces himself to finish the last bite before pushing his empty plate aside. “He said the barrier was weakening.”

“Yeah, that’s what I was thinking.” Dean cocks his head. “Is something going on with the wards?”

Closing his eyes, Castiel follows his sense of the wards, trying to decide if there’s been any radical change to them. While his awareness of them is constant, connected by the Grace that was once within him, without physical contact it’s extremely limited, rather like the hum of a car with the engine running.

Opening his eyes, he looks at Dean again. “They don’t feel any different, but without contact, what I can sense is very limited.”

Dean nods, getting to his feet and starting to gather up the empty dishes. “Grab your boots and we’ll go check.”

---

It doesn’t take long; a touch confirms all is as it was. Stepping back, Castiel shakes his head. “Nothing has changed.”

“Time for my walk anyway,” Dean says, jerking his chin in the opposite direction of the camp. “You count as supervised, right?”

“I thought my mortal wound would be of concern.” Falling into step with him, he lets the silence stretch, content to wait for Dean to decide how he wants to approach the subject.

“Okay, give me a ballpark,” Dean says finally. “What are the odds that Kansas—for no reason at all—is actually the only place where the monsters are gone? I mean, the border guards are obviously not our best source of information here, but we know that this—whatever it is—isn’t happening everywhere, so—”

“You want to know if it’s possible the barrier he spoke of—if it exists at all—is somehow related to Kansas being a dead zone for supernatural activity,” he interprets.

He’s rewarded by a combination of scowl and reluctant nod. “It sounds crazy, I get that, but—”

“It’s not crazy,” he corrects Dean, shifting his arm in the sling, aware of a bone-deep ache that will eventually bloom into pain. He can tolerate it, but it won’t be particularly pleasant to do so. “Anything—and I do mean anything—is possible, and as I told you, wards are very flexible. Conceivably, given unlimited power and time, a ward could be created to protect a discrete area for any length of time from anything and everything in existence.”

Dean nods, head bent as he kicks a stone from their path with unnecessary force. “Next thing you tell me is, practically speaking here, probably not happening.”

“It’d be faster and easier to simply kill every supernatural being on this planet with a rusty knife and a distinct lack of self-preservation.”

“Yeah, that’s where I figured this was going.” Sighing, Dean kicks another rock. “What about a god or an angel—in theory, okay?”

“No,” he answers; this is one of the things that’s very, very hard to explain without sufficient context. “In this case, however, it’s not the power required, but….”

“But?”

“The point,” he says slowly. “Why would they build a barrier?”

“To protect their worshippers? I don’t know,” Dean answers impatiently. “Why not?”

“The fundamental difference between humans and everything else in Creation could be the existence of that question,” Castiel says, glancing at Dean. “Even ‘why’ isn’t one anything but humans ask with any regularity or potential for use other than in the most basic self-preservation sense. Dean, if gods required shelter—they don’t, but if they did—they would still be in caves to this day. The cave works, it provides all they need, so there’s no reason to build a hut.”

Dean blinks at him slowly. “So they wouldn’t think of it?”

“Innovation is a human characteristic; gods—and angels—have near-infinite power and infinite knowledge, which is a handicap when it comes to creativity. In this scenario, they might improve the cave if there was a reason—rain got them wet, for example—but they wouldn’t build a house, they’d just—move the rock around, I’m not sure, it’s hypothetical.”

“They wouldn’t think of it?” Dean repeats incredulously.

“You seem to be unclear on the two major characteristics that separate humanity from everything—and I do mean everything—in Creation,” he observes. “Free will and imagination: they come together. Skyscrapers, for example.”

Dean blinks slowly. “You lost me.”

“You keep creating bigger ones, and it’s not for storage space,” he answers. “You just look at them and think ‘I wonder if I can make it taller’ or what would happen using alternate materials or perhaps taller but in a different place with an interesting view, I have no idea; you just do it. The Spring Temple Buddha, Circus Maximus, the pyramids, the Taj Mahal, Mount Rushmore: only three of those had a practical function other than simply to exist for the sake of existence.”

“You mean they’re useless?”

“No, of course not: their use is to exist, of course.” He can’t help but smile in the face of Dean’s scowl. “It’s—take as a given, a god or angel wouldn’t think of skyscrapers or statues—for that matter, they had no concept of art and seemed to labor under the impression it’s something humans do for them. It was absurd.”

Dean blinks at him. “Uh, but—”

“As I was saying,” he says, reluctantly returning to the subject, “humans are unique. You are sentient and sapient, but you’re also mortal and lack both infinite knowledge of all things and unlimited power. Therefore, when faced with a problem, you can’t simply snap it away or use your infinite knowledge to solve it; more often than not, the solution doesn’t exist until you think of it, and often even if a solution exists, you tend to want a better one. A god wouldn’t think of creating a barrier to protect their worshippers; they can simply destroy whatever is threatening their followers if they wish to do so, so what would be the point of creating a supernatural barrier?”

“You got me there,” Dean says blankly. “No idea.”

“They wouldn’t,” he clarifies. “If someone—a human, of course, let’s not pretend anyone else has had a new idea since time began—suggested creating a barrier against all supernatural entities and also had a reason it needed to exist and the god in question had no alternates gleaned from infinite knowledge, they might build one if the human in question could tell them what they had in mind.” Dean’s expression remains blank. “Does that make sense?”

“They wouldn’t think of it,” Dean says firmly. “Got it. So excluding gods and angels—who are gone anyway, except Lucifer—could something like that be made now?”

“It’s not difficult to create a ward that could encompass an entire state—in theory, anyway,” Castiel explains, turning the idea over in his mind; he can think of several possible methods and forms that could be used. “Kansas has a clearly defined boundary—”

“It does?”

“Political boundaries are perfectly acceptable, and the state of Kansas is defined by those,” he explains. “Constructing a prototype using those would simply be a matter of knowing what you’re doing. It’s the power that’s the problem.”

“Just throwing this out there for comparison, the wards here: what about the power in them? Would that be enough?”

“Yes, easily, but there are two differences: for one, the wards here are passive until breached, which wouldn’t be the case for an entire state border, which would be under constant stress from everything outside this state trying to get back in both physically and potentially metaphysically to cover summonings or incorporeal beings; for another, they’re invested in a physical structure, the wall itself, and anchored into the earth beneath it. That makes it easy for the power to hide itself, and as I said, Grace blends into Creation almost seamlessly. In the case of a completely incorporeal barrier based on a political boundary, it wouldn’t just require a great deal of power to do it; it would require getting that power, and nothing I can think of—short of opening Purgatory, that is—would raise that much power all at once.”

“So you’d have to do whatever it is several times to get enough? Why would that be a problem?”

“The structure of a ward to protect all of Kansas—just the structure—would require enormous power just to create,” he explains. “And more to give it functionality as a barrier. While gathering that power, it would be noticeable until it was invested in the structure of the ward. Further all of the ways I can think of to gather it quickly are also obscene, and therefore very, very noticeable to things who like that sort of thing.” He does wonder, unwillingly, if at least part of Castiel’s descent into godhood was caused by the necessity of protecting that power and himself as well; investing the power in himself as a god would be the one guaranteed method of protecting it as well as safely using it. He might not, Castiel admits reluctantly, have entirely grasped what gaining that much power would require. “Until the power is invested, it would be very noticeable as well as extremely attractive, and protecting it would require using some part of it while gathering more.”

Dean takes a deep breath. “When you say the ways are obscene….”

“The best and easiest way would be human sacrifice,” he says reluctantly. “And several times. That’s the other reason gaining the power would be difficult; most require specific types of humans, which limits the number available, they’re ridiculously complicated and any error will neutralize them and require starting over, they’re relatively simple to unmake if you arrive before they’re complete, and to work, they must be completed all at once.”

“All or nothing,” Dean says, trying to look neutral, but the green eyes are shadowed with memories he doesn’t quite remember. “You have to finish it to get the power.”

“Yes.” This subject could benefit from being dropped immediately. “When I said it would be easier with a rusty spoon, I meant it; to get enough for wards that large would take a very long time, and not least because you would also constantly be using some of that power to fight everything that could sense it while you were doing it.”

Slapping Cas’s shoulder, Dean shakes his head before urging him back into motion. “You’re the expert. Okay, the barrier: let’s remember one, this isn’t you we’re talking about,” Castiel frowns at that, wondering what that has to do with anything, “and two, Jeffrey wasn’t the best the rack has to offer Hell when it comes to smarts. Assuming he wasn’t lying—”

“He wasn’t.” That much, he’s sure of. “He believed what he was saying, in any case.”

Dean glances at him. “You met him before, right.”

Castiel hesitates, aware of the question Dean has been careful not to ask. “He was among a group of demons brought to Chitaqua for interrogation a little over two years ago. He didn’t know anything, none of them did, so it didn’t take long.”

“They were working for Lucifer?”

“They were involved with a group of Luciferites in Michigan,” he answers very carefully. Dean’s eyebrows jump. “Apparently ‘Satanist’ was too secular for Lucifer’s followers to embrace, and so they chose a name that both looks and sounds ridiculous to assure no one would mistake them for people with any grasp of sanity or linguistic aesthetics.”

“What’s wrong with ‘Lucites’?” Dean demands. “Keep going.”

“There was a rumor that group was in possession of the Colt, but by the time we tracked them down, all were willingly possessed by demons,” he answers. “There were six; Jeffrey was the only one allowed to leave when we verified he didn’t have any information.”

“You and Dean interrogated them,” Dean asks, eyes fixed on the ground before them. “No one else.”

He nods, forcing himself to say, “Yes,” at Dean’s quick glance.

“That symbol...” Dean hesitates, eyebrows drawing together. “The one you were drawing on Jeffrey’s hand. What did it do?”

Castiel licks his lips before saying, “It would seal him within that body: not only would he be unable to leave it voluntarily, but it would also make it impossible for him to be exorcised from it or killed while within it.“

“Even if he cut off his hand?”

“It’s written into his form, not just the physical body.” Dean’s eyes flicker to Castiel’s left hand. “Like those, yes. That symbol is very ancient, but the same principle governs why I could use the branding iron to mark my true form.” Studying Dean’s frown, he wonders if this might solve the mystery of how this Dean knew of it. “Have you seen it before?”

“No.” Dean’s frown deepens, and to his ear, there’s a faintly uncertain edge to his voice. “At least—maybe I’ve seen the pieces in it before, I don’t know. How do you break it?”

“Unmake it,” he answers promptly. “It’s very simple. Cut across it or burn a single point: anything that disrupts the pattern.”

“And if that part of their body was gone—or rotted away?”

He swallows, keeping his voice even. “Redrawing it again anywhere on the body recreates it, making it part of the original. Disrupting that will then have the same effect as disrupting the original symbol.”

“Contamination,” Dean says with forced brightness, looking at him for his nod of confirmation. “The gift that keeps on giving.”

“Yes.”

“And as long as it’s on there, they’re stuck in a body that won’t die, am I getting this? No matter what you do to it, it can’t die.”

“Demons can’t heal their bodies, only keep them whole with a kind of stasis that delays when injuries appear—that being after they’ve left the body,” he answers. “This breaks the manifestation of injuries, but keeps the body still living.”

“Off the top of my head,” Dean continues, voice painfully neutral, “I can’t think of any good reason to use it when you got ‘em in a devil’s trap for interrogation, so interrogation’s done and run out of ideas for torture—” He breaks off, eyes fixed on the ground. “Tell me that thing has any other possible use other than extending the party for the fuck of it.”

“There are other uses,” he says, not looking at Dean. “But that is one of the more common, yes.”

“Who’s idea was it to use it?” Dean demands, stopping to face him. “And before you answer that, check your memories on what my favorite ways to pass the time in Hell were when I got off the rack. That thing just made possible about half my top fifty on earth.”

“It was mine.” He rubs his shoulder absently as Dean’s eyes fix on him, green eyes flat. “It’s very old and hasn’t been used in a very long time, which—”

“You told him how it could be used, yeah, but you asked if I’d seen it before,” Dean interrupts. “He already knew about it and part of what it did; that’s why you asked. You were wondering if I knew, too, and how we found out about it.”

Castiel grits his teeth at the bitterness in Dean’s voice. “It’s ancient, even by my standards; as far as I’m aware, it hasn’t been used since before Rome was founded. He asked me what it was used for then and why it fell out of use.”

Dean’s expression doesn’t change. “Give me the history lesson already.”

“There was a time when the number of hunters were still far too few and villages were spread far apart and had few protections against the supernatural. Angels couldn’t be everywhere at once, and there are limits to what they—we could do to help. Within the purview of my garrison, one village was subject to a series of vicious attacks, and they wouldn’t survive another.”

“You used it then.”

“I joined the battle, and afterward, the walls of the local temple were hung with the bodies of the demons who survived,” he answers. “They hung there for a year and a day while their human bodies rotted around them as a warning. Hell may be worse in terms of pain, but torture doesn’t have to involve pain to be effective. Demons were human once, and to be forced to exist in a rotting corpse….” He trails off, rubbing his shoulder more urgently; the ache seems to be growing stronger. “It worked; after a year and a day, I returned to the village, cut them down, unmade the sigils, and executed them, as was my right as a member of the Host. The temple and the village were not attacked again.”

Dean hesitates, licking his lips uncertainly. “And what about the people stuck in there with the demons?”

“I sent them to my Father’s fields for their rest after the symbol was drawn,” he answers stiffly, ignoring Dean’s wince. “It can’t restrain a human soul, and it was a simple matter to free them once the demon was trapped.”

“And here? When you hung them from the walls?”

“The wards are formed of Grace; when we hung them on the walls, they sensed the demon within the human body and reacted; the symbol kept the body from dying, but it couldn’t keep the human souls trapped in the body. My Grace broke the binding between the body and soul, freeing it immediately.” He stops, wondering why he feels the need to explain himself. “I don’t know how Dean found the symbol, but it was my choice to tell him how it could be used. Is that sufficient?”

Dean kicks a rock out of his way, shoulders hunching defensively. “Cas—”

“You want to know if I enjoyed it?” Before Dean can answer, he turns, starting back toward the suddenly far too distant camp. “We should return.”

“Cas, don’t—crap, wait.” Dean jogs up beside him, looking annoyed. “Look, I didn’t—”

“Why does that matter so much to you?” he asks bitterly, tucking his hands in the pockets of his jacket, chilled despite the short time they’ve been outside. “Would the act be more or less repulsive to you if I did?”

“I don’t know,” Dean offers after a few moments of silence, eyes fixed on the ground. “He asked you to do it.”

“It was my choice to say yes.” The throbbing in his shoulder increases, and it’s an effort not to reach up again when Dean’s looking at him. “There was no one else who could help him. I don’t expect you to understand, but at the time, it was necessary.”

“It always is.” After another kicked rock, Dean sighs. “Look, I get it, I wasn’t here, and not like I can judge.”

Castiel doesn’t answer, eyeing the distant cabins; surely they should be closer by now.

“Look, it bothers me,” Dean says quietly. “The prime suspect isn’t available, so you get the brunt of it.”

“I deserve the blame as much as Dean does,” Castiel answers flatly. “What judgment you aren’t expressing because you weren’t here applies equally to us both.”

“You didn’t enjoy it.” There’s no doubt in Dean’s voice. “I never thought you did. But he did, and you can’t tell me he didn’t.”

“I didn’t ask.”

“Cas—” Dean abruptly darts in front of him to grab his left arm, a consideration he wouldn’t have expected. “Look at me.”

Reluctantly, he looks up to meet Dean’s eyes.

“Did you ever wonder…” Dean hesitates, searching his face. “Did you ever think maybe he wanted you to? That maybe that was the reason he asked you to help?”

He opens his mouth, but the automatic denial hovers on his tongue, unspoken.

“Forget it,” Dean says suddenly, a faintly coaxing note in his voice, edged in something that might be an apology. “It’s not your responsibility to answer for him, just yourself. It’s a dick move to make you. Sorry.”

He nods shortly. “As you wish.”

“So back to the original subject,” Dean says, tilting his head back toward the cabins and falling in step beside him again. This will be revisited in some form in the future, of course; he never expected anything he’s done to be forgiven, much less forgotten. “The barrier—”

“Yes, the barrier,” Castiel interrupts sharply. “In theory, possible, in reality, hilariously unlikely to the point of myth—”

“Yeah, glad it amuses you,” Dean says agreeably. “Feel better?”

“—except this is a demon and demons aren’t creative, and he less than most,” Castiel continues, wishing the cabins were closer. “The fact that there hasn’t been anything but humans in this state since your arrival is a point in its favor.”

“And brownies,” Dean interjects, looking annoyed.

“They’ve been on earth so long I doubt they know their origin anymore,” he admits. “In any case, while I’m sure there are other explanations, I haven’t thought of any that fit the circumstances, and this one—this one fits all of them.”

Shoving his hands in his pockets, Dean gives him a querying look. “Wanna fill me in?”

“Assuming that you weren’t actually brought here by accident—if I were amoral but practical, and had reason to want you to survive your acclimation to this world, keeping things that would kill you very quickly far, far away would be among my priorities.”

“You mean if endgame was taking his place.”

“Yes; Chitaqua’s population is small, and you would have much to learn before you could lead it, and Chitaqua’s soldiers would be subject to your learning curve as well.” He pauses, looking at Dean uncertainly; it won’t be long at all before Dean won’t need his assistance with Chitaqua. He could easily take back command now, in fact; all Dean would need from him is history and, in the future, his experience in combat. He supposes that’s a good thing. “But that also assumes whoever did this knew you’d decide to take Dean Winchester’s identity here, or at least command of his militia.”

“I think we can safely assume I was brought here to stop the Apocalypse,” Dean says wryly. “There’s amazing coincidence, and then there’s hitting here just in time for Lucifer to think he won and then resetting everything.” He frowns. “Except for the part where bringing me here and keeping me here could kill me.”

Castiel nods; he’s been thinking about that. “Any being who could have brought you here would have known of the danger and that protection is automatic. However, if a way was found that didn’t involve a god or an angel, it’s almost guaranteed that they wouldn’t know about that.”

Dean stops short. “Wait, you said that was impossible.”

“You’re here; that is fact,” he answers impatiently. “The Host is gone and all the gods are gone: that is also fact. When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth, and you are definitely here, so obviously, it’s possible.”

“How Sherlock Holmes of you,” Dean observes. “I know your feelings on morphine, but you ever try the seven percent solution?”

“Of course,” he answers. “However, as I told you, IV drug use had limited appeal. A Study in Scarlet was educational on several levels.”

“Sign of Four,” Dean corrects him absently before making a face. “Not that—”

“You read most of the books in Sam’s box,” Castiel says, not hiding his amusement from Dean’s glare. “Of course you did. How else would you review his homework?”

Dean’s glare takes on a wary edge. “Let’s get back to the barrier,” he says repressively. “I guess just keeping me here when I came the first time wouldn’t work if the idea was to trick Lucifer.”

“A good supposition,” he agrees, relaxing despite himself. “Technically speaking, the Apocalypse wasn’t won as long as you were here and alive, and since he and Zachariah had no intention of killing you, it was necessary for Lucifer to see you leave this plane.” He pauses; it’s also likely that Dean’s place in his own timeline was significant. After his world won the Apocalypse, of course: unfortunately, that method isn’t transferable to this one. “It also created a fairly obvious timestamp for when you should be returned. All that was needed was a single moment without a living Dean Winchester for Lucifer to win; he wouldn’t, of course, expect a reset to occur, so even if he sensed it, he might not have recognized what it was.”

“I’d love to know how they got the ‘where’,” Dean says. “Good thing it was right in front of you, or you’d have been killed by those demons before you even knew I was still around.”

“Nonsense,” Castiel answers irritably, not resisting the impulse to rub his shoulder this time. It hurts, and it’s annoying. “I wasn’t in Chitaqua that time; your leaving, unlike your first arrival here, wasn’t masked by the wards or Zachariah.”

Dean frowns at him. “What does that have to do with anything?”

He sighs. “I knew you weren’t in danger from Lucifer; he wouldn’t risk killing you and upsetting the timeline, and even if he so forgot himself, Zachariah would have assured his good behavior before your arrival.”

Dean nods tightly. “Zachariah made a deal with Lucifer here.”

“He couldn’t risk your life just for a lesson; he wanted to win the Apocalypse. Lucifer killing you here would interfere with causality in both worlds as well as prophecy, which to an angel is sacrosanct. Lucifer has poor impulse control and at our last meeting was showing signs of growing megalomania; Zachariah couldn’t afford to bring you here without a guarantee of your safety.”

“Even Lucifer winning is better than humans doing it themselves,” Dean says bitterly, energetically kicking another rock from his path. “Who saw that coming?”

“Lucifer isn’t the only one whose pride rules him. The Host is no different: better to run in Lucifer’s wake than to stay and admit humanity’s claim to earth.” Giving Dean’s set face a glance, he returns to the original subject. “In any case, when Zachariah used Grace to return you to your own time after Dean’s death, I sensed your departure and so felt free to follow my own inclinations.”

For some reason, Dean looks surprised. “You would have come back for me?”

“Of course,” he answers impatiently. “Dean’s decision was to die if he couldn’t defeat Lucifer, and he had that right; it was his life and his choice what to do with it. You hadn’t expressed a preference to die for nothing, so it was within my rights to save your life, if I could.”

Dean regards him for a few minutes, eyes flickering to his left hand then back up. “When—when Dean shot that guy when I got here the first time—”

“He had Croatoan, already advanced in second stage,” Castiel says reassuringly, though the connection eludes him. The workings of Dean’s mind never cease to baffle him sometimes. “He was already experiencing disordered thought and was a danger to those around him. It’s likely he didn’t even realize he’d been infected. If he’d recognized the signs before Dean did, he probably would have killed himself. It’s possible he was distracted—”

“You came outside after me, though,” Dean interrupts, green eyes unreadable. “Before you knew anyone was infected.”

Castiel nods slowly. “Yes, I did.”

“Yeah.” Dean looks as if he wants to add something to that, then blinks, glancing up just as Castiel feels wetness on his face. Following Dean’s gaze, he surveys the churning grey sky in surprise; he didn’t realize it was noticeably darker than it was when they first came out. As if it was waiting for their attention, a flash of lightning cuts across the sky, thunder following only seconds behind. “Come on,” Dean says, hand resting on his left shoulder to urge him faster. “Looks like we’re finally getting some rain. Should have cut this short earlier; you shoulder’s been bothering you the last fifteen minutes. I should have reminded you to take something before we left.”

“I’ve had worse,” Castiel answers, matching Dean’s accelerated pace as another drop plops wetly on his arm followed by another on his cheek.

“Doesn’t mean you can’t do something about it.” Dean shoves his hands in the pockets of his jacket again, and Castiel notes in approval that even for this walk, he armed himself without prompting, gun riding his right hip in easy reach. Dean catches his glance, following it to his holster, and rolls his eyes. “Shut up.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You were thinking it.” Dean’s eyes flicker down to Castiel’s gun. “You know, first time I met you, never would have pinged you for someone with a gun fetish.”

“Generally I don’t wear them when I’m engaged in sexual congress except by request.” Dean’s mouth twitches as he hoped. “Why?”

“Just noticed, is all.” He gives Castiel a professional once-over, taking in the jeans, flannel shirt, t-shirt, and jacket, lingering on the gunbelt. “I mean—less guru-wear, more freaky survivalist these days.”

“For one, I haven’t had occasion for the former,” Castiel answers, fighting a smile at Dean’s sour look. “For another, I’m trying to set a good example for you, and as you know, habit is pernicious.”

Dean’s eyes narrow.

“My speed generally gave me an advantage as well,” he continues. “As long as a weapon is within five feet of me, the delay is negligible; it still takes less time for me to acquire it than it does for you to get yours. Dean drilled me until we were sure, and obviously, I took advantage of that whenever possible.”

“Where was your gun that day when I busted into your cabin?”

“Ten and a half inches from my hand, behind me, beneath an extremely colorful pillow,” he answers. “I was wearing one knife as well. Not that you were a threat, of course.”

Dean nods, kicking his third rock out of his way, and he realizes what the connection must be.

“It was in my left hand when I came outside.” Dean’s head jerks up, startled but not surprised; of course, Dean noticed very early that he concealed his dexterity with his left hand . “Dean was to be trusted—once he’d verified your identity—but his team and the team leaders, not so much.”

“You would’ve shot them?”

“I don’t carry a gun because it’s decorative, and if I’m holding it, it’s because I plan to use it. Dean taught me that, too.” He tilts his head, wondering what Dean’s thinking.

“He trusted them too much, and I couldn’t risk surprise would delay his response should any of them threaten you.”

Before Dean can respond to that, the sky abruptly opens up, and Dean’s hand closes over his arm as he says, “Time to run.”

---

They reach the steps of the porch only mostly-soaked, and Dean pauses to let Castiel precede him up the stairs before following him inside. For once, he doesn’t even seem to resent the beaded curtain, and Castiel reminds himself to speak to someone about acquiring a door. Dean has always, always preferred privacy as well as exclusivity when it comes to his sexual partners and a door would definitely show…..

Scraping wet hair from his face, he almost stumbles at the reminder of what Dean told him yesterday night.

“Sit down,” Dean says, pointing at the couch. “I’ll grab you a couple of painkillers. And some towels,” he adds, wiping his face impatiently.

As Dean disappears into the bedroom, he strips off his jacket (and after a moment of thought, takes it outside to the porch) and drops onto the couch. The camp’s conclusions, while erroneous, are perfectly understandable in retrospect, and Dean’s reasons for confirming their suppositions were perfectly logical, though he suspects the choice of time and place was more a matter of impulse. Dean knew of this for two weeks and did nothing to stop the rumor in that time, nor instructed Vera to do so. He doesn’t doubt Dean’s assurances that he had every intention of telling him, but he does wonder how much longer he would have waited if he hadn’t confirmed it to the watch (and by extension the entire camp) last night.

Dean’s reasons were perfectly logical (and his conclusions regarding the rumor’s usefulness in confirming his identity are probably correct), but he doesn’t think the ones Dean gave him are the only ones.

“Here,” Dean says as a towel drops onto his head. Scrubbing his hair relatively dry, he automatically folds the towel and sets it aside, staring in dissatisfaction at the strands obscuring his vision before shoving them back, tucking them behind his ears. Not for the first time, he wonders what happened to the scissors; he’s almost certain at one time they were in the small bathroom cabinet. Glancing at Dean on the couch beside him, he gets a glimpse of something he can’t quite define on his face before he smirks, holding out two pills and a glass. “Take ‘em.”

Sighing, he takes them as Dean settles into a corner of the couch with a sigh, giving the impression of someone for whom all is working exactly as planned as a roll of thunder shivers through the cabin. Frowning, Dean’s eyes flicker to the doorway, eyes darting downward to check for imminent water, then to Castiel.

“You seriously lived in Kansas for two years without a door?”

“There’s a—thing in the utility closet, back left corner,” he answers vaguely; he’s still not sure what it’s called, mostly because he forgot to ask when Dean gave it to him after their first month in Chitaqua. “It’s rolled up in its original box. There are tacks on the top shelf to hold it.”

Dean gives him a long look. “This is sad shit, for the record.” With a deep sigh, he goes to the utility closet, and Castiel wishes very much Dean would consider wearing several more layers—perhaps a parka or some kind of snowsuit—instead of traipsing about in a damp t-shirt beneath an open flannel overshirt and jeans that someone obviously sadistic chose for their extremely complimentary fit.

“You know,” Dean says, coming back out with the box, a faded picture of beige fabric on something like a porch still visible on one side, toolbox hanging from one hand, “I don’t know if you know this, but you can hang this up for good with the parts that come with it.”

“I have no idea how to do that,” he admits, turning and bracing an elbow on the arm of the couch to watch. “Tacks worked very well.”

Crouching, Dean removes the roll and then upends the box, dumping out a bag of plastic wrapped pieces with a jaundiced look. “Seriously, Cas.”

“Bobby taught me how to repair a roof if it was leaking and how to caulk things that need caulking,” he explains as Dean tears open the plastic and spreads out the pieces. “I can also paint exterior walls and tile floors.” At Dean’s curious look, he adds, “The kitchen floor caught on fire and we needed to replace it.”

Dean cocks his head, nodding. “Set the floor on fire while learning how to cook?” He blinks, startled, and Dean grins. “Bobby had gas burners, too. The first few times I saw you cooking here, you kept them low and watched them like you expected them to attack you if you looked away. You still do.”

“I turned them too high and the grease was unexpectedly volatile.” Dean snickers quietly as he rummages through the tool box, pulling out a hammer and a screwdriver as well as the case of bits for it. “I won enough the next week to replace the stove, the flooring, and the damaged countertops; in return, he taught me how to do the repairs and gave me that tool box and the tools within as a reward for successfully not destroying his house.”

“Got all the basics in here,” Dean agrees, getting two pieces of metal and after a moment of consideration, a selection of the longer screws. “Get over here. Your job is to hold things and give ‘em to me when I ask for them.”

“And read the directions?” Castiel asks as he crouches beside Dean and notices the folded piece of paper beneath the screws and assorted paraphernalia .

Dean rolls his eyes as he gets to his feet. “Don’t need ‘em.”

---

Castiel pretends that his suggestions at each point of failure are not from the instructions that he memorized before replacing them beneath the screws. Dean, in turn, pretends each suggestion was what he was going to attempt next if Castiel didn’t keep interrupting him.

They will definitely need someone else to install the door for them, and preferably, at a time when Dean is nowhere near the cabin and has no idea it’s happening. When asked, Castiel will tell him in all truthfulness it was supposed to be a surprise.

When they’re finally done, Castiel acquires another painkiller (or two) and retreats to the couch. Dean, however, celebrates his (their) success by rolling and unrolling the fabric using the attached cord that loops between the plastic device attached to the left side of the frame (the directions call it an Exterior Solar Shade) and a matching device attached to the side of the doorway. It’s very soothing and set to the rhythm of the thunder outside, as the storm, as if to make up for nearly five months of cloudy anticipation, shows no sign of stopping in the near future.

“I think I can handle the door,” Dean says in satisfaction as he joins Castiel on the couch, and Castiel makes a mental note to speak to Nate at the very next opportunity. Reaching for the glass of water—and chewing both pills—he forces himself not to linger on the view of Dean’s flushed face, happy smile, and the fact his t-shirt is riding several inches above the waist of jeans and revealing several inches of pale golden skin.

He supposes it’s typical of his life that his first relationship is somewhat imaginary, entirely chaste, and with someone he certainly would have at least attempted to seduce if he wasn’t Dean. Sexuality can be very annoying, true, but happily, he’s learned that a dearth of options often introduces a surprising amount of flexibility.

Setting his empty glass on the coffee table, something else occurs to him; in the eyes of the camp, Dean’s choice to engage in a sexual relationship with him has reaped an unexpected number of advantages for Dean both professionally and personally.

He managed to get Castiel to take up both the duties he abandoned almost two years before as well as the ones he took in Dean’s absence, voluntarily and without hesitation, be clean and sober while he did it, and discard any and all other sexual partners, thereby eliminating all other potential distractions. In addition, Castiel not only voluntarily mapped most of the state (with color coding for road viability and population centers, among other considerations), engaged in a massive overhaul of the camp’s living conditions, reorganized the patrol routes both local and statewide, refreshed the training of both Amanda and Mark as well as his own, and assisted with the extension of Chitaqua’s duties throughout the state, but also voluntarily perform regular household tasks, including laundry, cooking, and cleaning of their living space.

All of it, he realizes in dawning shock, done of his own free will. Some of it, he remembers, he even suggested to Dean himself.

And in the eyes of the camp, all Dean needed to do to bring him to heel after over two years of recalcitrance was offer regular sex, and not even that during his fever and the weeks afterward as he began to recover.

There is nothing about this that isn’t utterly appalling, not least of which is sex at no time was actually a means of motivation.

“I underestimated you,” Castiel says slowly, meeting Dean’s surprised eyes. “You have improved substantially in your deals; Crowley would loathe you.”

Dean’s quizzical expression melts into smug satisfaction as he follows the train of Castiel’s thoughts. “Yeah, and get this one; I’m also fucking amazing in the sack. Not that anyone doubted me or anything.” His grin widens. “Vera kept me updated.”

“Of course she did.” Vera’s antipathy couldn’t survive long when pitted against Dean now, and only a small part of it was Dean’s conscious efforts with her, as well as Joseph and Alicia and everyone else he has met here. However, he has to admit that he didn’t expect it to reach the stage of exchanging gossip, though in retrospect, he can’t imagine why. “You will inform me if we end up married at some point? When it’s happening, if at all possible, but within twenty-four hours seems a more realistic goal.”

Dean rolls his eyes.

“Considering that twice now I’ve been placed in charge of Chitaqua without being informed first, and I just discovered I’m in a relationship with you almost three months after the fact—”

“I just found out myself!” Dean protests.

“—two weeks ago.”

Dean’s eyes narrow. “I’m the current Apocalypse stopper. Those camps in the south. You need me to keep going?”

“I hope we wake up wearing rings with no memory of how it occurred,” Castiel answers viciously, pleased to see Dean’s smirk fade. “And matching tattoos. Applied during an obscure but ridiculously simple binding ritual and unbreakable for the length of our existence.”

“You realize you just basically told the universe what to do next, right?” Dean demands, looking unnerved. “Better be some fucking awesome wedding presents and a cake, that’s all I’m saying.” Then, “A binding ritual? That’s fucked up, Cas.”

“I also forgot to thank you,” Castiel continues, uncomfortably aware that while the universe doesn’t work like that, evidence is beginning to suggest the universe may have forgotten that. “I wouldn’t have thought of threatening Jeffrey with opening Purgatory.”

“Just trying to make it believable,” Dean offers with almost palpable sincerity, which tells him that he simply thought it was funny. “Not that you didn’t sound kind of convincingly egomaniacal, so go you.” He gives Castiel an earnest look. “Compliment. Really.”

“It wasn’t.”

“Actually,” Dean says slowly, looking thoughtful, “it was. Jeffrey was convinced, anyway. He also thinks you figured out how to stop the Apocalypse. Think Lucifer will think that when he finally checks in?”

“Lucifer knows that’s impossible for anyone to do but you.” At Dean’s raised eyebrow, he blows out an annoyed breath. “I’m not sure what he’ll think happened, and I’m not looking forward to when he starts searching for the answer.”

“Jeffrey’s boss thinks you did.”

“His master is an idiot if he thought that Jeffrey was a competent tool to use—”

“Yeah, think that was on purpose?”

Startled, he looks at Dean. “What do you mean?”

Dean shrugs. “Just saying, would you send someone who wasn’t expendable after you of all people? Without any backup? Who couldn’t even use a gun?”

“His master expected me to kill him?” Dean shrugs again. “Then why did Jeffrey want me to bring him here first?”

“That part might have been Jeffrey’s idea,” Dean points out. “His boss, on the other hand, may have just wanted to let you know you had a potential ally. What you did with Jeffrey after was up to you.” He smirks. “And you’re a merciful megalomaniac bent on world conquest after opening Purgatory.”

“In some quarters—those being almost exclusively in Hell—that actually improves my reputation,” he admits wryly, tipping his head back to rest on the back of the couch. “Promiscuity, drug addiction, disobedience, and an excellent track record in dealing death to all who stand against me: delusions of grandeur on earth are to be expected, even lauded. It was only a matter of time, really.”

“Why’d you let him go?” Dean asks. Despite the easy curiosity in his voice, it’s not a casual question. “I was pretty sure you were going to kill him the minute I gave you Ruby’s knife.”

He would have, if he hadn’t been distracted by pleasant thoughts of torturing Jeffrey to death for the bullet that almost killed Dean. He might have enjoyed doing it with the memory of how close Dean came to dying in that clearing still fresh in his mind.

“How did you put it—what are you going to believe—”

“—what you know happened in Kansas City or your own eyes?” Dean finishes for him, starting to grin.

“In this case, I did both at once I verified that Dean was dead and on my order Chitaqua continued to pretend he is alive,” Castiel confirms, wondering how many demons would know Dean Winchester for absolute certainty on sight and also be able to discard the absolute certainty that Lucifer killed him in Kansas City. In Hell, it’s been decades since Dean Winchester was last seen by any demon, and memory can be erratic at best. “Provided Lucifer doesn’t manifest to verify your existence with his own eyes—not to mention finding you to do so—Hell echoing what Lucifer believes is true may buy us more time.”

“Right now, I’m more interested in why Jeffrey wanted to get in Chitaqua so badly,” Dean says quietly. “I could see his face when you had him down and got your blood on him; that’s exactly what he was trying to get. Think that was Plan B if the demon blood worked?”

“It’s possible,” he answers. “It wouldn’t work, of course—”

“It’s only keyed to Dean’s—my blood?” He nods. “Why not yours?”

“Because my blood won’t work for a human,” he answers patiently. “When I said I could be considered a different species, I was only being somewhat facetious. The difference, in this case, is due to the requirements of ritual magic; generally, when it specifies human blood, it means literal human blood. I can pass them and in addition, as long as I’m in contact with someone, I can bring them into Chitaqua without adding them to the key. That’s the only way a demon can get inside the camp, in fact; they can’t be added to the key at all.”

Dean cocks his head. “That the wards or the Grace?”

“Wards are flexible; Grace—is more selective,” Castiel answers. “I shaped it to a purpose—to create the wards—but that didn’t change its nature, simply how it manifests. It would allow you to key someone in, provided you did it yourself with your blood and they used their own blood to draw my true name, but that’s in the design and added by me deliberately; anyone else who tried to do it would fail and nothing would happen. A demon would be killed the moment they touched the wards, no trying needed.”

Dean sits back, eyes distant. “When you were surprised I could—that I knew your Grace was in the wards, it wasn’t just because I’m human, was it?”

“I was very surprised you could sense mine, yes, but humans are sensitive to it sometimes, and you would be familiar with mine specifically. That no one else in Chitaqua—except Chuck—is aware of what is in them would normally stretch the odds considerably, but not unduly.”

“Including Lucifer, even though his Grace is in ‘em?”

“I haven’t tested this with Lucifer standing outside Chitaqua,” he admits.

“Because it’s Grace, and it blends,” Dean says, nodding. “Not like your totally not living at all Grace is hiding itself from him specifically, right?”

“Dean—”

“You’re telling me no one knows or even guesses, including Lucifer, whose Grace is in the wards, because Grace just blends really well?” Dean asks gloatingly. “Except for me, who gets a meet-and-greet? You really want to go with that?”

“I know what you’re asking, and I don’t know.” Dean raises his eyebrows in an eloquent expression of ‘bullshit’. “I told you; it’s not as if angels generally create wards with Grace. Or ever, as far as I know.”

“You said you never told anyone what they were,” Dean says softly. “Because it’d scare them, right? Even if it was for their protection.”

“The fact I was summoning Lucifer might have also been of concern.”

“Shoot into a crowd, you can’t control the bullet once you fire; that’s why Lucifer poked holes in reality,” Dean continues, green eyes dark. “It follows directions, so you gotta tell it what you want it to do. When you were making the wards, you were worried about people being scared of it.” Of you, he doesn’t say, but he doesn’t have to. “Any chance your Grace—you know, that can’t think but can say ‘hi, nice to meet you’—might have—”

“I don’t know,” Castiel snaps, unnerved. “If you think I need the reminder that I didn’t know what I was doing, it’s unneeded; I’m very aware of my limitations!”

Dean’s eyes widen. “Cas—”

“All I had to work with were Bobby’s original design and the very little Grace that was within the wards,” he interrupts bitterly. “It was all I could think to do that it might work, and it did. It’s not as if I can tell the difference!”

Dean frowns. “What difference?”

Castiel licks his lips. “Between his and mine. What’s within the wards now is more than I could have possibly contained within me as a member of the Host, and I know exactly how much I placed within them. Yet all of it responds to me as if it were; if there’s a difference, I can’t sense it.”

Dean stares at him for a long time, green eyes dark.

“I knew there was a risk,” Castiel says quietly. “For all I know, if Lucifer came here, he might be able to not only sense his Grace within the wards, but command it as well, making the wards effectively useless for their primary purpose. I still chose to do it, and the responsibility is mine.”

“Okay,” Dean says finally, still staring at him. “I want to go back to the part before you almost apologized for making the camp’s wards because I have no idea where the hell that came from.”

“I wasn’t apologizing, I was simply explaining why….”

Dean tips his head sideways, crosses his arms, and waits, expression reflecting exaggerated patience.

“It bothers me,” he admits. “That I don’t know everything about how they work or how they respond.”

“That happens with new ideas,” Dean says, looking at him searchingly. “You know, if at first you don’t succeed, try try again, or if you succeed, hope for the best and—yeah, never mind. Look, did it bother you they did the light up greeting thing? You didn’t expect that.”

“No, of course not. They were….” Happy is really the only appropriate descriptor, he supposes: extremely so. “It was pleasant.”

“I wasn’t afraid of them.”

He nods uncertainly.

“If I hadn’t asked you about them…” he trails off, looking as uncertain as Castiel feels. “I kind of put you on the spot there. I mean, I made you promise to answer my questions if you could.”

Startled, Castiel realizes what Dean has been trying to ask him. “No, I thought—I was glad he told you, actually. Though in retrospect, I should have asked you more about that conversation.”

Dean shrugs, but his smile is still uncertain. “I told you the gist on what he knew about the wards.”

“I never told anyone about them but the most basic information required, and with as little honesty as I could get away with,” he admits ruefully. “After you arrived, however, I sometimes thought you—”

“I’d get the joke.”

“Lucifer is just an angel,” Castiel says softly. “An archangel whose petulance began a war that started almost when time began, a war that humanity had no idea it was even fighting and couldn’t possibly hope to win. He has the power of Creation at his fingertips and could conquer or destroy the world with a thought, but he’s just an angel like any other. In a ring of holy fire, he’s as trapped as the least of the Host; when he’s banished, he must leave; to claim his vessel, he must gain their consent; and when summoned by his true name by a Brother—”

“—he’s gotta come to heel,” Dean finishes for him, smiling at him. “And you did it just because you could.”

“And for his Grace,” Castiel corrects him. “But that was a factor as well.”

“The Georgia thing is looking better by the day,” Dean says, slumping back in his seat. “Between Jeffrey and Lucifer and everything else, I am really liking the idea of you being a little harder to track down, especially if someone’s sending demons looking for you.”

A peal of thunder startles them both; glancing outside, Castiel notes the rain is not showing any sign of abating anytime soon and remembers something he’s been meaning to do.

“I left something on the shelf in the closet where the holy water is located,” he says. “Third down, far left. Could you get it for me?”

Leaning his head back against the couch, he looks up again when Dean’s footsteps indicate he’s returned to the living room. Sitting forward, he waits for Dean to kneel on the other side of the coffee table and place the folded case on the scratched and faded wood with a baffled expression. Turning it around, Castiel opens it and begins to remove the pieces.

“Chess?”

Castiel looks up, amused at Dean’s dubious expression. “I found this in one of Sam’s boxes. It contained material that dated from after you began hunting together, so....”

Dean sighs noisily. “Sam tried to teach me,” he admits reluctantly. “Threw the board at me after the third lesson.”

“So you know how to play.”

Dean scowls but pushes his hand aside, unfolding the case so the board on the exterior is visible and begins setting up the pieces. “I remember the moves,” he says grudgingly. “Doesn’t mean I’m any good at it.”

“You have the advantage of me,” he says, watching Dean set up the board. “I’ve watched humans play this game for millennia in its various forms, but this will be the first time I’ve actually played it with anyone. I’ve always been curious as to why humanity seems to enjoy it so much.”

“Huh.” Sitting back on his heels, he frowns at the board before reaching for a pawn. “White move first, I remember that part.” Dean moves it two spaces before turning his attention back to Castiel. “Didn’t invent strip chess along with strip Risk the last couple of years?”

“There was no one I wanted to play it with before,” Castiel answers absently, searching his memories of the countless games he’s seen. It’s very different to observe the moves and the strategies being used as opposed to playing it himself. He moves the pawn to mirror Dean’s. “Your move.”

Dean belatedly looks down at the board, finger resting on the top as he considers his move. “So you’re bad at poker?” He nods. “Why? Didn’t Dean teach you?”

“He did, but as he was already extremely proficient at the game, it seemed a better use of my time to learn something he didn’t. Even now, I can’t ever seem to win, even when statistically, I should have. Even when I was sober.”

Moving another pawn, he braces an elbow on the coffee table and gives Castiel a thoughtful look. “Interesting.”

Castiel tilts his head. “Dean, I assure you, my level of sobriety has no effect on my ability to play the game.”

“That’s because you didn’t know how to play.” Dean makes another move, grinning at him. “You ready to learn?”

“You’re going to teach me how to play it correctly?” He’s not at all opposed to this.

“Yeah. We’re going right back to basics; I’m gonna teach you the right way to cheat,” Dean corrects him gleefully. “Then we’re gonna wipe the floor with the camp.” He glances down at the board, then at Castiel. “Your move.”