It's the Stars That Lie: November 9

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—Day 98—

Castiel doesn’t remember anything as disorienting as the day after Joseph and his team returned.

Dean made the announcement an hour after dawn, standing in front of their cabin in unlaced boots sunk two full inches in mud, wearing nothing but jeans, a thin, long-sleeve t-shirt, and the flannel Castiel hastily threw over him before Dean dragged him down the steps, shouting the news over the pounding rain to sleepy, water-logged camp members who, much like Dean at that moment, effectively went incurably insane.

The events are somewhat hazy after that.

(There shouting, screaming, definitely hugging, far more than he thinks there were people to do it, which explains the muddy handprints on his back but not the ones on his ass, which Dean didn’t find at all amusing. He supposes it’s his lack of interest in food that makes the reaction of the camp such a surprise, though contemplating the MREs does increase his appreciation of canned green beans and tomato soup tremendously. Though not Spam: nothing can do that.)

In the six short hours between Joe’s arrival and Castiel forcibly pushing Dean into bed the night before, Dean not only listened to Joseph’s report and questioned his entire team, read through the relevant sections of the trade agreement and made notes, but apparently planned out exactly how to complete everything they needed to do in Chitaqua in a single day. Soaked to the skin and flushed with laughter (and somewhat dazed after Joseph nearly lifts him off his feet in an enthusiastic hug), Dean sent everyone to breakfast with an order to report back in an hour for their new duty assignments.

The lists provided by the five towns are compared to their current inventory, Chuck directing Kamal and Penn to do a full examination of their supplies. Castiel, having memorized the entire agreement the night before and not unwillingly captive to Dean’s need of his memory, sends Mira, Sean, Mike, and Matt to do the same with their armory as well as the still-growing surplus from the military outposts that now require two cabins. Chuck’s wish lists are unearthed and copies printed, the team leaders (all currently in Chitaqua due to the storm) nearly smothering Dean with attention and offering to help in any way they can.

It’s nearly ten when Castiel surfaces enough to realize the cabin is quiet, empty of everyone but him and Dean. Frowning, he looks down at the last half-page of notes he obediently made during the team meeting, wondering vaguely when it ended and why he’s still sitting here with a half-cup of coffee grown cold.

Looking up, he sees Dean sitting on the floor across from him, head in one hand as he dreamily re-reads his copy of the agreement, more specifically the list of items being requested that might be available in one of the cities. Unsurprisingly, despite the long, active day, Dean has yet to indicate he plans to go to bed. After careful observation over the last week, it’s clear that Dean’s nearly recovered and provided he’s sensible (he snorts before he can stop himself) and not pushing himself excessively, there’s no reason for him not to be considered well enough to take up his duties in full.

“James,” Dean says abruptly.

Startled, he frowns. “What?”

Dean reluctantly tears his eyes away from the page detailing the available livestock. “The supply run to see what we can get from the towns’ list. We need two more teams anyway, so let’s get one started now. Your short list had James on it, and Amanda thinks a month on Kyle’s team is punishment enough for anyone just to get experience.”

“I don’t have a short list,” he answers in bewilderment.

Dean grins at him. “You do, you just don’t know it. Vera said something about how you reorganized patrol in my feverish absence and it got me thinking that you had more than one reason for not letting the patrol leaders pick their own teams.” He smirks. “Though pissing them off was probably a plus.”

“I can’t say it was a deterrent,” he admits, putting down his pencil. “Kyle’s helpless rage was often the most entertaining part of my day.”

“So Kyle: he’s a good leader, even if he’s a dick, so no reason not to give him Cyn back unless you wanted James on there to learn from Kyle, see if he could do the job.” Dean cocks his head. “Well?”

He pauses, turning that over in his mind. “When Vera was unavailable, James was sometimes sent on extended missions for Dean, and I remembered his performance was satisfactory. As he’s never been on regular patrol and Kyle’s team had an available opening, it seemed a good idea to take advantage of the current lack of activity and give more members of the camp the opportunity to work on patrol.”

“Good call,” Dean says approvingly. “So we need to do a supply run and we need two new teams; give it to James and see how he handles it, and kill one and a half birds with one stone.”

Castiel locates the patrol notebook beneath the coffee table and opens it to the appropriate page. “Who do you want on his team?”

“What about Nate and Zack?” Dean asks, thinking. “They’re on mess this week, right?”

“Yes, but from what I understand, their survival was very much in question before you distracted everyone with the announcement.” He makes a note of it, wondering if he should give Dean the notebook now and explain the organization or wait, though worryingly, Dean’s not shown any particular talent for the details of organization or any desire to learn despite Castiel’s repeated attempts. He’ll learn, he supposes uncertainly, spreading a hand over the page protectively; it’s an excellent system, though Chuck’s mention of spreadsheets has made him very curious. “That leaves one more to assign.”

“What about Cyn?” Dean asks. “She’s cleared for duty by now, right?”

“Alicia cleared her,” Castiel answers after a brief hesitation.

Dean makes a face, but his attention is obviously elsewhere. “Cyn was on patrol before I got here, right?” Castiel nods obediently. “Give her to James for his team; that gives ‘em two people with patrol experience.”

“And for Kyle’s team—”

“I think we hit the bottom of the barrel,” Dean continues, reaching out to flip back several pages and craning his neck to read the list of Chitaqua members with experience on patrol before shaking his head. “Everyone we got left hasn’t been out of this camp except for supply runs since that first statewide survey you did—”

“We did,” Castiel corrects him absently, remembering. That night, working with Dean until dawn to create a workable plan to check the entirety of the state in only five days, was a rare bright spot during those first two weeks when nothing else made sense. For the first time since he was placed in charge of the camp, it wasn’t quite so overwhelming, so impossible to understand, even if Dean knew even less than he did.

A sound from Dean interrupts his thoughts. “What?”

Dean has an odd look on his face. “Dude, I remember that night, and trust me, I didn’t do that much.”

“The model was based on your suggestions and was solid,” Castiel says in surprise. “I based the patrol districts off of it, with slight boundary changes to encompass the current population as we understand it. You didn’t recognize it?”

“No,” he answers, sitting back. “I didn’t think to ask where you got it.”

“That would be you” he answers, feeling a smile tugging at his mouth at Dean’s startled expression. “You created it.”

“We did,” Dean answers, smiling back, and for a moment, Castiel almost forgets about tomorrow. “So, about James—if he pulls this off, anyway—how do you want to work him in? We’re losing Amanda and Mark, so what about their teams?”

“Amanda wishes Sean to succeed her,” Castiel answers automatically. “Mark already recommended Damiel as his replacement. All three teams will need new members, but that can wait until your return.”

“Dude, you can—” Dean breaks off for a surprised yawn, looking annoyed.

“You should go to bed.” Dean rolls his eyes as Castiel pulls the agreement from under Dean’s hand. “You need to conserve your strength while you can. Your meeting with Ichabod’s mayor, as well as with their trade partners, will be more tiring than you think.”

“We’re not leaving after noon,” Dean argues mutinously. “Don’t wanna look too eager.”

“After Joseph brought his team back in a storm where visibility was sometimes reduced to six inches, I can see how that would be a concern,” he answers, closing the patrol notebook with a sense of finality. “I’ll—”

“Cas,” Dean starts, something very worrying in his voice. “Look, we haven’t talked about—”

“—put these away,” he interrupts quickly, starting to get up.

“Sit down.” Castiel jerks his head up at the implicit order to see Dean grinning at him unrepentantly. “You know the easiest way to get your attention is give you an order? Even ones you’re okay with, there’s a second where you want to say no just on principle.”

“Habit.” Reluctantly, he sits back down. “I think we covered everything regarding your absence.”

“I think,” Dean says slowly, resting an elbow on the coffee table, “that there’s a couple of things you’ve spent pretty much all evening pretending didn’t bother you. Not your best work, but—”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Maybe the fact that you’re the only one that didn’t say anything about me going to Ichabod during the meeting earlier.” Before he can deny it—which would be pointless, but that’s never stopped him before—Dean snorts. “Cas, I saw your face when Joe mentioned it.”

“It was a surprise.”

“Joe had no idea how close he was to having a pencil through the eye,” Dean says in amusement. “So?”

“What was I supposed to say?” he asks, opening the patrol notebook and retrieving his pencil; he’s found it’s very soothing to have something to do during unwelcome conversations and the maps are too far away to acquire easily.

“Give an opinion, maybe. Since it’s pretty obvious you don’t think I should go.” There’s a brief, frustrated silence before Dean says, “Cas, put that down and look at me. You can be as anal as you want later, okay?”

Reluctantly, he closes the notebook again, marking his place with the pencil before giving Dean his full attention.

“I’m sorry,” Dean says, startling him; the sincerity is unmistakable. “I should have talked to you about it first. Joe mentioned it this morning and I meant to talk to you about it before the meeting—”

“You have no obligation to discuss your decisions with me first,” he says before Dean can continue. “Is there anything else?”

“Yeah, okay.” Dean hesitates, frowning at him. “So you aren’t pissed and that’s not the reason why you didn’t say anything at the meeting?”

“Due to my historical behavior at such meetings—a mild example of which you witnessed less than a week ago—I generally prefer to limit my interactions to observation.”

Dean’s frown deepens. “But you’re pissed.”

“I’m not—”

“Cas, you’re about to snap that pencil,” Dean points out, and Castiel looks down to see the pencil beginning to crack. “You’re pissed, so let’s talk about it.” He pauses, looking pained. “Jesus, I’m quoting Sam now.”

“What do you want me to tell you that you don’t already know?” Castiel asks brittlely, forcing himself to drop the pencil before it breaks entirely. “You know the danger of being outside Chitaqua’s wards alone—”

“Yeah, I get that, but—”

“The agreement was not conditional on your physical presence, only your signature on the copy of the agreement that Joseph brought back with him,” Castiel continues without any expectation of convincing Dean. “You don’t have to go.”

“I do have to go,” Dean counters. “These people made an agreement with us, and I think they deserve to see the guy who signed off on it.”

“If one of Lucifer’s followers should see you—”

“Cas, Jeffrey confirmed what they all seem to think—somehow, you’re doing this,” Dean interrupts. “You said it yourself and Jeffrey confirmed it; Lucifer thinks this is part of the goddamn prophecy. If Lucifer has any followers in Kansas, ask yourself, why would they still be here if they think Dean’s dead?” Dean shakes his head in frustration. “Cas, if we’re gonna do anything—if we even have a hope of trying—I gotta do this. If I’m gonna recruit—”

“This isn’t a recruitment.”

“This is how it starts, how I get people to—you think we can just put up a sign come one come all, join up but never actually see the guy you’re signing up to fight for? Who the hell would trust someone they’ve never actually seen?” Dean sighs, rubbing a hand against the back of his neck. “Cas, I can’t stay locked up here forever. And don’t say,” he adds before Castiel can open his mouth, “that I’m not locked up because I get field trips anywhere I want as long as they’re deserted and I’m not alone.”

Castiel stills. “Do you feel that I’m—”

“I think,” Dean says slowly, reaching for Castiel’s pencil and tapping it against the coffee table, “it hasn’t been an issue because I’ve been sick, and now—I get it, paranoid is a way of life here. Gotta end sometime, Cas: might as well be now.” He searches Castiel’s face for a moment. “Is this about you staying here? That wasn’t to piss you off, Cas.” He tries a smile, faintly teasing. “Not because I don’t like you.”

“You need me here if you’re not,” he answers flatly. “I did, in fact, understand that much.”

Dean winces. “Another thing we should have talked about, I know. I’m sorry. Next time—”

“As I said,” he interrupts, “you don’t have to clear your decisions with me.”

“You want the pencil back?” Dean asks solicitously, extending it. “Might feel better if you break it and throw the pieces at me.”

“I’m not angry,” he grinds out between his teeth. “This conversation is pointless. You’d already made your decision before the meeting, so I see no reason to offer my opinions after the fact.”

“Take the fucking pencil, Cas.”

“It doesn’t matter if I agree with you or not, in any case,” Castiel answers doggedly. “It’s your decision to make.”

Dean starts to answer, then sits back. “Wait. Are we even having the same conversation? Since when does your opinion not matter?”

To his surprise, the words are far more difficult to say than he expected. “You’ve demonstrated that you’re ready to take up your duties as Chitaqua’s leader.” Dean goes still, lips parting as if to speak, but he doesn’t. “I’ll help you, of course, in any way you need, but you know enough now that only experience can teach you the rest.”

“So you won’t even tell me what you think?” Dean asks, looking confused.

“If you’re uncertain regarding a decision, of course I’ll offer my opinion if you ask,” he explains carefully.

“If I ask?” Dean echoes. “Since when do I need to ask?”

“Dean—”

“Why?” Dean bursts out, coming up on his knees. “What the hell did I do to make you think—I forgot to talk to you about this, my bad, I’m still new at this. You have the right to be pissed! What I don’t get is why you….” He trails off. “Hold up. Is this about what happened with Joe’s team before they left? That why you didn’t say anything during the meeting?”

“No—”

“Because I was fine with that,” he continues. “It was fun. You couldn’t see Joe’s face, but dude, it was—”

“It wasn’t real. What you were doing, I knew it was deliberate, but I still—”

“Did your thing,” Dean interrupts. “I know, I was there. What does that have to do with—”

“It wasn’t real,” he repeats as evenly as he can. “It would have bothered you if you believed anything you were saying.”

“If I ever believe what I was saying that day, get some holy water and start an exorcism,” Dean answers, a flicker of amusement in his voice, “because obviously a demon’s involved. Cas, come on—”

“And when it’s actually something you do believe is the right decision?” Dean’s amusement vanishes. “Will you be so complacent?”

“What do you think I’m gonna do?”

“You don’t understand,” he says, frustrated. “It’s not you, it’s—”

“Him,” Dean says with unexpected bitterness, dropping back on his heels. “Historical behavior. You mean what went down at those meetings with him there.”

“It’s me.” Looking up, he meets Dean’s eyes. “You said it yourself; it’s on principle. I spent most of my mortal life on earth doing nothing but opposing everything simply because I could.”

“Your mortal life is two years and change,” Dean argues. “And I was exaggerating! You don’t actually do that!”

“I do do that!” he snaps. “What happened with Joseph’s team—”

“Was exactly what you were supposed to do!” Dean says incredulously. “Say what no one else will, tell people what they don’t want to hear, make them listen—”

“No one listened,” he says before he can stop himself.

“You mean he wouldn’t.” Dean slumps, staring at the coffee table for a long moment. “You said you knew the difference, Cas. I’m not him.”

“It’s not about Dean—”

“It’s always about him,” Dean says softly, green eyes dark. “It was, is, and will always fucking be about him. I get it, Cas.”

“It’s about you,” he says. “History doesn’t improve on repetition. I don’t want…” Two years of endless arguments, protracted silences, wary truces broken almost before they began flash through his mind on endless repeat; he can’t risk it happening, not again, not when this time he has so much to lose, more than he ever imagined he’d have. “We can discuss this in more detail when you return. I can verify James’ suitability in your absence, but adding new team members to the existing teams can be postponed for now.”

Dean doesn’t answer for a long moment. “So you’re gonna handle everything until I get back?”

“Yes.”

“Uh huh.” Dean licks his lips. “And when I get back….”

“As I said, it can wait until your return.”

“It really can’t,” Dean says, expression unreadable. “What are we gonna be talking about when I get back?”

Castiel takes a deep breath, focusing on the patrol notebook. “You’re well enough now not to need me. The team leaders know their jobs, the camp runs with minimal supervision...it’s as good a time as any for you to—when you return—”

“You’re quitting.”

He frowns. “I’m not quitting.”

“When I get back, you’re quitting,” Dean repeats flatly. “Is that what you’re telling me?”

“This arrangement was temporary due to your illness.”

“It wasn’t.” Dean winces, frowning at the coffee table. “So maybe we should have talked about this before.”

This conversation would benefit from—something. Context perhaps. “What?”

“The part where you had to do everything, yes, that was definitely temporary,” Dean assures him. “I think I can pull my own weight now, not a problem.” He pauses, fixing his gaze on the wall behind Castiel’s shoulder. “I just thought the weight would be—-there’d be two of those.”

“Two weights?”

Dean sighs. “Believe it or not, that was actually my best try yet. You see why I was putting this off?”

“Yes,” he agrees a little flatly. “Perhaps you should discard analogies for now.”

“Right. Give me a minute.” Dean stares at nothing for a few moments before nodding to himself and looking up. “Okay, first thing; this is probably my fault. I thought maybe you wouldn’t notice for a little while longer, give me more time, which yeah, that’s on me, but it wasn’t like you were miserable or anything. A warning would have been nice, just saying.”

“Dean.”

“I said give me a minute!” Huffing a breath, Dean scowls before taking a deep breath and looking at him again. “Don’t quit.”

“I’m not quitting.”

“You’re quitting,” Dean counters. “You just don’t know it because you didn’t know it was actually your job.”

“Dean, you will have to be specific. What job?”

“What’s the word for someone who does your job when you’re not there and helps you do it when you are?” Dean asks. “And takes over when you’re—you know, dying? But permanently.”

English, Castiel reflects, doesn’t have a word for something not unlike a coup, but possibly in reverse. “Second in command?”

Dean points at him. “That”

“Of Chitaqua?”

“And the war,” Dean adds. “Which gonna point out, you thinking we can win? Kind of makes it half your responsibility anyway, just saying. Come on, what’s the problem? It’s basically what you’ve been doing all this time. Same job, new title. So, what do you think?”

Castiel stares at him.

“Look, I get the timing is—”

“How long,” Castiel says as calmly as he can, “have you been thinking about this?”

Dean bites his lip. “Since I told Vera to announce it to the camp when I was—you know, between fevers. You were there.”

He closes his eyes.

“Look, I should have asked you about this before, but not like you asked me if I was ready yet,” Dean continues relentlessly. “Or even told me about it! I don’t think you got room to talk here!”

Opening his eyes, Castiel stares at him in disbelief. “I can’t imagine what that must be like.”

“Funny,” Dean answers, eyes narrowing in challenge. “By the way, why today?”

Castiel blinks, startled. “What—”

“Not yesterday, not last week, but today you decided I was ready,” Dean says, resting his chin on his hand. “Not even this morning: you were arguing with me about the priority list, for fuck’s sake! The meeting with the team leaders and I said I was going to Ichabod—that was it, wasn’t it? The argument we didn’t have in front of everyone in the room because you decided the easiest way to avoid repeating history is opting out.”

He hesitates. “Something like that, yes.”

“Because you were pissed I was leaving and didn’t talk to you about it?”

“Of course not—”

“I make one mistake,” Dean says angrily, “and you’re done with me? Jesus, he got more time than that before you wrote him off!”

“I’m not!” The anger he might have expected, but the hurt beneath it he didn’t. “There are—there are other reasons.”

“History repeating itself,” Dean says suddenly, anger vanishing. “Like how Dean’s team leaders thought you were a dangerous influence on him.”

Castiel sucks in a breath.

“And Luke tried to kill you because of it.”

“That was—”

“A long time ago,” Dean interrupts, looking at him with an expression he can’t quite read.. “You keep saying that, like that means something. It was two years and it was this afternoon, too. You, the team leaders, Dean Winchester, and history repeating all over again in this room. All new cast, but you—”

“I don’t think the team leaders have any intention of killing me,” Castiel says immediately. “Obviously. I appointed some of them myself.”

The following silence stretches infinitely, or so it seems, and Castiel wonders uneasily how long this will last. “Dean,” he says finally, “I think—”

“Yeah,” Dean says, focusing on him abruptly; Castiel can’t look away. “Look, you and me, we got off to a shitty start. The barn, the wings, trying to blow out my eardrums, the fucking Host, and that’s just the first time we first met, not the most recent—but we got past that, right?” The pause lasts long enough for Castiel to realize he’s supposed to nod. “Good. We moved on, got to know each other, so—I mean, it works. Time, whatever, some things start bad but they don’t have to stay that way. People change. You know that.”

“I know that,” he agrees. “I feel we’ve—what you said, yes.”

“But that’s nothing, right? Not compared to how you and humanity got started.” Castiel freezes, unable to hide it from that penetrating stare. “So that’s it.”

Castiel swallows, unable to think of anything to say to that.

“All your existence, you loved humanity as your Father’s favorite Creation,” Dean says, never looking away. “You rebelled against the Host, you helped Dean build those camps so humanity could fight back, you Fell, even though by then you didn’t believe you could win, all because humanity was worth fighting for. You taught them everything you knew so they could fight, and what does humanity do? They were scared of you. They hated you. And then the fuckers tried to kill you.”

“I don’t—” Swallowing, he tries again. “I don’t blame humanity for what Luke did.”

“It was a long time ago,” Dean agrees, resting an elbow on the coffee table. “That was then and this is now, or a few months ago; Dean was gone, the camp needed a leader, Vera shows up on your doorstep, and suddenly it’s all let’s forgive and forget that murder shit, time to move on and by the way, keep us alive.” Castiel has no idea what Dean’s seeing on his face, but for some reason, it makes him start to smile. “You didn’t know what you were doing, but did they care? They were happy to obey any order you gave, because you’ve all hugged it out, water under the bridge, it was a long time ago so forget the last two years of your life here, just keep them alive.”

“That’s not—”

“Luke and the team leaders, that was fucked up, but it’s not like the Host wasn’t after you for years,” Dean continues, bracing both elbows on the coffee table. “The fear thing sucked, but you were an angel and ‘be not afraid’ was your catchphrase for a reason. Mortality—yeah, that blew, but eventually, you got used to it. But all of it together—”

“This is ridiculous.”

“—that’s a lot to deal with. And for two years you went on missions, but that wasn’t enough for Dean, the team leaders hated you, period, and half the camp didn’t even notice you did anything but get high and have epic sex parties and were scared of you just because of what you were—”

“It wasn’t their fault,” Castiel gets out in a rush of words. “I know that.”

“But then Dean’s gone, and humanity, after fucking you over, expected you to save them? That was bullshit.”

“I didn’t—”

“Only question I got is why you didn’t kill everyone here—God knows after all that, you probably wanted to.”

“I never wanted that!” Castiel shouts before he can stop himself, half on his knees. “How dare you—”

“I know,” Dean answers, tipping his head back to regard him thoughtfully. “But you’re still kind of pissed at them.”

“I don’t blame the camp for what Luke did—”

“Humanity.”

Castiel drops back onto the floor with a thump.

“The first step,” Dean says, head in hand, “is admitting you have a problem, and that your problem is the same one that everyone on earth has. Someone tried to kill you; that would piss anyone off. You got the extra special edition: it was because you weren’t human, and just like the human they thought you weren’t, you hated the fuckers and threw all their kind in the bargain.”

It takes several seconds for Castiel to find his voice. “I never—”

“Just admit it,” Dean advises him, rolling his eyes. “You’re pissed, you’ve been pissed for two years, you’re not over it, you’re not sure you even want to be, and by the way, humanity can fuck itself. No one, Cas—no one—wouldn’t be pissed about that, and you’re not a fucking martyr.” Unexpectedly, his voice softens. “And you don’t have to be.”

Castiel opens his mouth but nothing comes out.

“So let’s get this out of the way: on behalf of humanity, I’m sorry—”

“Really?”

“—for all our sins against you, great and small,” Dean continues, meeting Castiel’s eyes. “For we knew exactly what we were doing, we do this shit to each other all the time, and there’s no way could you have seen it coming, not like this.”

Picking up the pencil Dean discarded, Castiel stares at the faint, almost-invisible crack in the smooth yellow surface. “It wasn’t like that.”

Dean sighs. “Cas, I don’t forgive humanity for some of the shit they pull; let’s be real here. It’s not like I don’t wake up some days thinking the end of the world would at least end humanity’s bullshit. Hatred—if only, that’d be easy, then it wouldn’t matter, that doesn’t keep you up at night.” He hesitates. “Disappointment, though, that’s different; that shit eats at you every day.”

“I don’t.…” He stops, frustrated, and tries a different tack. “You think I judge humanity considering what my own kind have done to you?”

“Your kind.…” Dean chokes back a startled laugh, grinning at him. “Newsflash, Castiel Gabriel Singer of Chitaqua: we are your kind. You may not be human, Cas, but you do people just fine, including hating most of ‘em. People do that,” he adds with a smirk. “And you’re a fucking prodigy at that.”

“I don’t hate Vera or Jeremy,” he says, transferring his gaze from the pencil to Dean. “Or you. I think.”

Dean’s smirk widens. “What about Joe?” he asks mockingly, widening his eyes in elaborately crafted shock. “He’s awesome!”

“Of course not—”

“And Chuck? Amanda and your nightly playdates in ass-kicking? Alicia, who likes things with blades as much as you do? Ana, who promised to find a DVD player and a copy of Showgirls on the down low to show you next chance she gets?”

“How did you—”

“Gossip,” Dean answers promptly. “Makes the world go around.”

Castiel rolls his eyes, slumping back against the couch. “As I said, I don’t hate humanity.”

“No, you don’t hate them,” Dean corrects him. “Humanity, on the other hand, was scared of you, avoided you, which hurt your feelings, don’t pretend it didn’t—”

He straightens, offended. “Oh please.”

“—hated you, and then they tried to kill you,” Dean finishes, smile fading into something more serious. “I get it, Cas. What you saw that night with Luke: that was the worst of us. But that’s not all we are; we’re more than that.”

Castiel blinks. “What did you say?”

“What?” Dean looks briefly puzzled before continuing. “Look, I get it, but humanity? It’s not just fucking Luke. It’s—”

“You,” Castiel breathes, mouth dry.

“Okay, yeah,” Dean agrees, a small, surprised smile curving one corner of his mouth. “I’m human. And what I am—”

“—is what you all are. What I saw that night was the worst of you.” Dean nods encouragingly, green eyes certain. “And what I see tonight is the best.”

Dean rolls his eyes, but a flush creeps steadily across his cheeks. “If that works for you, sure, why not? Wouldn’t say the best, but—”

“—there will be better?” he offers helplessly.

“I wouldn’t go that far,” Dean protests, the hot color spreading further as he adds, “I’m not the best of us, Cas.”

Castiel nods wisely. “He said something like that as well.”

Dean frowns. “What? Who?”

“Never mind,” he answers, staring at Dean in fascination. “Please keep going.”

After a suspicious look, (being Dean) he does just that. “Look, if fucking Luke gets a starring role in examples of humanity—and can’t lie here, we got a lot of those—Vera should get equal billing, you get what I’m saying? Amanda should be up there. Joe should get an honorable mention at least.”

“Surely a pantheon of the best humanity has to offer,” he says unevenly; it feels like something is lodged in his throat.

“We have a lot of those, too,” Dean offers. “In this camp, even. Even the ones—that was then, Cas. Just because they were dicks to you back then, doesn’t mean they—” He breaks off, making a face. “Look, even the worst of us—”

“—can be the best,” Castiel finishes for him, swallowing frantically; what is that? “Sometimes, it simply takes time for them to find that out for themselves.”

“Yeah,” Dean says slowly, green eyes starting to narrow. “Cas, you wanna catch me up here?”

Heroically, he fights down the obstruction to say, “Can you elaborate?”

“I don’t know, maybe that you’ve heard this before or something?” Dean asks suspiciously.

This time, it’s impossible to stop it; when he opens his mouth again, laughter pours out in great, heady bursts, effervescent bubbles of hilarity filling his chest again with every gasped breath. Dean’s shock doesn’t help; dropping his head to his arms, he laughs until his chest aches and he can’t get a full breath and doesn’t particularly care. It feels like a muscle held too tightly for far too long is finally loosening; it hurts, of course, but two years is a very long time and it’s probably very stiff by now.

Not wrong yet, drifts smugly through his mind, a whisper of laughter beneath it.

No, Castiel thinks shakily; no, not at all. I’m sitting in the presence of the proof.

“…Cas?” The frantic edge to Dean’s voice is enough to give him some modicum of control, even though nothing can erase the smile, even in the face of Dean’s worried scowl. “What the hell is up with you?”

“Just—for my own curiosity,” Castiel begins, swallowing down another burst of laughter at Dean’s expression. “If you were being pursued by a mob intent on murdering you because your ideas were revolutionary for your time, you’d be saying the exact same thing as your last words, wouldn’t you?”

“Uh.” Dean makes a face, eyebrows drawing sharply together. “No, I’d kill their asses first. After, over a beer, sure.”

“That’s an excellent plan,” he answers thoughtfully. “I wish I’d thought of that. In my defense, it probably wouldn’t have been allowed, but—”

“What?” Dean straightens in alarm. “Are we gonna be fighting a mob someday? Did you see that in the future or something when you were an angel and forget to tell me?”

“I’m certain, given the opportunity, you could inspire any number of angry mobs to stalk you to your potential death,” he answers honestly. “It’s a surprisingly common occurrence when faced with people who not only want to change the world, but actually start doing it.”

“When,” Dean grits out between clenched teeth, “and where? Give me date, time, and place—”

“Two thousand, one hundred, and thirty five years ago, late at night, and in the Grove of the Furies,” he recites obediently, just because he can. “And not you, in case that needs to be said.”

Never before this moment has Castiel appreciated his reflexes so much; the table is cleared of projectiles before Dean opens his mouth.

“You would have liked him,” he continues, safely storing notebook, pencil, and both cups safely at his side. “He never gave up on anything, including himself.” His mother did, but now, perhaps far better than then, he understands why. “Though he did take the option of entreating divine revenge of Diana, but truly, it was fully justified. They were even given an opportunity to gain absolution first, but slaughtering the gods’ representative in their own consecrated temple before the Senate went into session….” He shakes his head.

“Slaughtered in—” Dean’s confusion dissipates, incredulity taking its place. “Wait, Diana, temple, the Senate, slaughter—Rome? Ancient Rome, Julius Caesar, all that, that’s what you’re talking about?”

He smiles. “He was a little before Caesar’s time, but yes.”

“How’d you know him?”

“I was ordered to carry Diana’s judgment to him,” he answers, remembering that night in the Grove. “He recognized what I was and he asked me....”

“What?” Dean prompts him gently.

“His country betrayed him, his friends deserted him, his supporters were murdered, his work destroyed, and a group of his own countrymen were pursuing him into the Grove of the Furies to kill him,” he says softly. “Yet he stood there before me as his murderers searched the Grove for him, and the only thing he asked was that I promise to remember that humanity was not just the men who pursued him.” He looks at Dean. “That you’re more.”

“I like him now,” Dean says, equally soft. “They killed him?”

“Of course not. He was a Roman,” he answers. “His life was his own from the moment of his birth; he’d never allow the vermin who hunted him to take it from him. I stayed with him until his shade passed to the Reapers. By the time I allowed them to find his body, he was beyond their reach.” They cut off his head so he’d have no mouth in which to place a coin for Charon, threw his body intact into the Tiber, hoping to doom his shade to haunt the banks of the Styx and Acheron when it was unable to pay the fare to cross them. As if the petty actions of small men could matter: Charon welcomed him gladly, for to host such a man within the shelter of her barge was all the payment she required. “His request for divine vengeance was granted,” he says abruptly, aware of Dean watching him. “Rome would fall to despotism in less than two centuries: the Republic became the Empire before being destroyed in its entirety. Latin isn’t even a living language anymore.” Dean blinks at him. “Gods have a very different frame of reference when it comes to the concept of ‘timely’ revenge,” he explains. “A minute or a millennia seem to....”

“Yeah, immortality probably does that,” Dean agrees, a thread of amusement in his voice. “You okay?”

“I’ve just been very thoroughly schooled by a man who’s been dead for over two millennia,” he answers honestly. “I need a moment to regain my perspective.”

“Take your time,” Dean says soothingly. “Just one question—why were you carrying Diana’s judgment anyway?”

“It was in my job description,” he answers, almost smiling at Dean’s surprise. “Angels aren’t called Messengers for nothing. We had privileges in any consecrated temple or holy place, not just those dedicated to our Father. It was often far less stressful for the gods to petition us for assistance than negotiate with each other; that could take eons, and I do mean that literally.”

“I had no idea,” Dean says, looking intrigued. “Who—”

“I’ll tell you the entire story one night, if you wish,” he interrupts reluctantly in the face of Dean’s interest. “You were right. About me. I’m still—ambivalent regarding humanity.”

Dean blinks at him. “Right, I knew that. Except not ‘ambivalent’; you’re pissed.”

“Somewhat unhappy with—”

“—angry as hell and not taking it anymore.”

“And it’s not fair, I know that.”

“Disappointed.” Castiel lets out a breath, nodding agreement. “And that’s fair, Cas, don’t let anyone tell you different. What happened sucked, and you don’t have to forgive humanity for that.” He cocks his head. “But…you could do it anyway.”

“I told you, I know—”

“There’s no way you could,” Dean counters. “Your world was inside these walls, always has been, from the moment you Fell. All the people you knew were a step from crazy at best, because that was an advantage when Dean was recruiting. That was then, and this is now, two years later, and people change, but you’re still using the same playbook.”

“It kept me alive,” he answers and regrets it at Dean’s flinch. “Though in comparison to the population living here, it was only a very small number who were actively interested in my death.”

“When your world’s the size of a camp, it probably felt like more,” Dean says quietly. “When it could be anyone, it might as well have been everyone.” After a moment, he adds, “If you’re not ready to give humanity another chance yet—and I don’t blame you for that—if that’s the reason you don’t want the job, I respect that.”

Castiel starts to answer, then hesitates. “You do.”

“Doesn’t mean I won’t work on changing your mind,” Dean admits. “And I will, but it doesn’t have to be now.”

“All right.”

“But—just hear me out—why not now, try it out, just to see what happens?” Dean asks in a rush, leaning forward. “I’ll be in Ichabod for a few days, you’ll be here, and hey, you have some free time, so maybe listen to some reports, make sure James isn’t the new Sid and kills his team on a bridge, anything comes up, you handle it. You know, exactly what you’ve been doing before and what you were going to do anyway while I was gone, same old same old, no surprises here.”

Castiel nods at Dean’s hopeful pause. “And?”

“Pay attention,” he says immediately. “Note the sheer lack of people who want to kill you when you give them their orders. Some of ‘em even like you, and I bet you didn’t notice that either, but weird thing, people respond well to someone who isn’t actively trying to piss them off all the time.” Dean sits back with a shrug, elaborately nonchalant. “Get out your playbook, dust it off, and check your interpretations. Dude, even the Bible gets regular updates in translation: why not your Humans And Their Fucked Up Ways? What, the playbook’s more sacred than your dad’s own words?”

Castiel raises an eyebrow at Dean’s triumphant smile. “Perhaps in the future, you could consider some changes to your recruitment speech if this is the one you plan to use.”

“I’m preaching to the won’t admit he’s already converted,” Dean answers smugly. “Weird, how that wasn’t a no.”

It wasn’t.

Dean rests an elbow on the coffee table. “What are you willing to lose?”

“What?”

“Single roll, all or nothing, winner takes all,” Dean answers. “Here’s the point; I go to Ichabod, you do exactly what you’ve been doing basically since I got here, and you realize that yeah, humanity might not be so bad; alea iacta est.”

“’The die is cast’?”

“When I get back, you tell me how I rolled.” Dean grins at him. “Rubicon’s just a river, Cas; all you risk crossing is getting your feet wet.”

“And if you win?”

“You say yes,” Dean answers promptly. “And this: you promise me that if you don’t like something I’m doing, you tell me, in front of the entire camp if you think you have to. Argue, fight it out, I don’t care: I may disagree with you and do it anyway if I think I’m right, but that doesn’t mean I don’t want to know if I’m wrong and why.”

“You’ll grow to resent it if my opinion constantly differs from yours.”

“I’ll get over it.” Dean’s expression is serious. “Here’s what you get in return; I’ll listen, always, even if I don’t agree. And I won’t hold it against you either way: even when you’re right. So, what do you think?”

Castiel swallows. “It’s not the worst offer I’ve ever heard. However,” he continues, ignoring Dean’s smug expression, “you haven’t told me what happens if you’re wrong.”

“I’m not,” Dean answers cheerfully. “Well?”

“Yes.” He’d do far more than this for Dean’s smile, offered to him and him alone.

“Okay, now that that’s out of the way—Rome, the guy with his people speech before he got mobbed? You got a name for me?” Dean asks suddenly.

“Gaius Sempronius Gracchus,” he answers in surprise. “Why?”

“Okay, so—wait, you want coffee before you start? Give me the cups.” He frowns as Castiel stares at him. “What?”

“You’re leaving in fourteen hours,” he says, the list of things Dean needs to accomplish scrolling through his mind in appalling repetition. “You want me to tell you tonight?”

“Why not?” Dean asks, already half-over the coffee table in a distracting stretch of limbs, t-shirt riding up to reveal several inches of his bare back, jeans making an inspiring attempt to escape down his hips. With a triumphant sound, he grabs their cups from the floor and looks up at Castiel from only inches away, cheeks flushed with exertion. “Cas?”

Castiel thinks, blankly: this conversation would have been much shorter if you’d done that much earlier. “As you wish.”

“Cool.” As Dean straightens, cups in hand—and regretfully straightening his shirt with a lack of self-consciousness that makes him wonder uneasily if Dean has entirely grasped that he’s living with someone who isn’t his brother—Castiel manages to remember what they were talking about.

“Why do you want to know about Gaius?” he asks, deciding against mentioning it at this time; he doesn’t want Dean to be uncomfortable, after all.

“Two thousand something years ago, he did half the work for me tonight,” Dean answers on his way to the kitchen. “I’d like to know more about the guy who’s getting half the credit.”