It's the Stars That Lie: October 21

That’s his rebel ex-angel...

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—Day 79—

So he’s gone crazy with power?” Dean says sympathetically as late afternoon begins to melt toward evening and Cas’s return to watch him eat a well-balanced meal, literally, because Cas does that. Nostalgic, he remembers when Cas’s stalking didn’t include a paper trail because these days, it’s fucking documented: meals, sleep, every fucking time he goes to the bathroom. He’s even outsourced his stalking, giving it that edge of surreality that honestly, doesn’t even blip the weird radar anymore and God, he misses having some kind of grasp on normal, even if just in theory. “Welcome to my life.”

In honor of three weeks without dying, he gets not only non-scrub clothes, but occasional visits to the living room, which is a production that requires a quarter hour of prep and a panicking watcher. It’s totally worth the unusable arm, shitty ankle, and general post-move exhaustion (requiring an immediate nap) just to see a whole new room and out the front door to the world beyond the confines of the cabin. From here, he’s unable to deny the fact he’s the main attraction at a camp tottering on the edge of either homicide-grade boredom or mass trainwreck syndrome; everyone in the camp seems to find a reason to wander past these days, and subtle they’re most definitely not. Including, he’s noted in interest, Andy and Kat looking like they want to be holding hands and possibly skipping; it’s cute in that way young love visibly armed to the teeth and wearing military surplus camo always is.

Vera makes a face from the armchair she dragged over from the sunny spot left of the couch to the other side of the coffee table, feet braced on the scarred surface and glaring at him with all her might. (That armchair’s new, or new to them, anyway; the old one is now stationed in his room, which makes him really curious about what report covers a furniture supply run.)

Smiling at her, he lounges triumphantly with two glasses of water, a bowl of slightly stale crackers for snacking purposes (the number of which he consumes recorded as well), and the box—box—of reports that make up the current backlog. To his own surprise (he’ll never, ever admit this to Cas), it’s actually interesting reading, which he assumes is either the effects of mind-numbing boredom or, possibly, the most bizarre brain damage in history.

“Cas said to tell you he’ll be running late today,” Vera says finally, eyeing the stack of reports Dean’s failed to make any appreciable dent in (seriously, twenty-one days of reports now, and seven teams now that Vera’s on duty). “You want to eat now?”

“I guess that means the romance is dead,” he observes as he sorts through the stack as subtly as possible to find hers and Amanda’s, who’s showing a hitherto unknown talent at making everything sound like a slapstick comedy routine. Vera’s team is in the middle of a ‘getting to know you’ period on local patrol in the mornings, as this is the first time they’ve actually had a chance to work together. Apparently Amanda and Sean together are the Apocalypse’s answer to Comedy Central, with Jeremy’s more laconic deadpan bringing it all together. No one can be having that much fun on patrol every day; he’s seen the local route, and it’s all sad trees and potholes. “Late from the office, never brings me flowers—I’d take some nice weapons….corpses of my enemies, maybe—”

“Shut up.” She sinks more deeply into the chair as he finds her report, scowling at him. “Did you authorize him to start those up again? Why?”

“You’re a team leader,” he points out reasonably. “Cas thinks team leaders should write reports. Well, everyone writes reports now, but still. How did you not see this coming?”

Most of the patrol leaders seem to have reached the resigned stage of grief or something when it comes to write-ups, because creativity and readability are going way up; Sarah and Mel are both tentatively showing something like a personality, and Mel’s even occasionally funny. Joe’s have changed, too, now some cross between impressively professional and then breaking into hilarious anecdotes from his time in the Israeli army, life in Philadelphia as a network administrator, and doing time at rabbi school when applicable, which is a lot.

The two new patrol leaders Cas appointed when Dean gave him the camp, however, started off with a bang. Alicia’s voice was distinctive from the get-go: very excited, deeply eager, almost crackling with energy, and interspersed with verbatim dialogue excerpts and contemplative passages on what she’d do if they were ambushed at random points on the route (there was something with a tree, a rope, a net, a silver knife, a very old Etruscan curse, and four bottles of holy water that he marked for potential use). Mark’s, on the other hand, are relatively succinct (by value of succinct when the page count is above five at minimum) and intensely matter of fact, conveying the necessary information in the least number of words in well-diagrammed sentences with an easy to follow paragraph structure like an English teacher, which as it turns out he was once on a job years ago (haunted high school, no surprise there) and never got over it.

Then there’s Kyle.

Staring at his latest report, Dean wonders what the hell Kyle thinks he’s going to accomplish writing shitty, passive-aggressive patrol reports other than make Dean assume he can’t do his goddamn job. The only thing that keeps him from writing off Kyle, like, yesterday is that his team’s reports reflect a much less asshole version of Kyle: professional, approachable and friendly with his subordinates while on duty, and almost eerily competent. That Cas both confirmed this alternate-universe Kyle existed and didn’t seem particularly concerned made Dean reluctantly place the Kyle issue on the backburner. This isn’t Sid Redux, but it’s something, and when he’s awake more than a couple of hours at a time, he’s going to find out what it is and deal with it.

“You think it’s funny, don’t you?” She stares at the six pages with an expression that makes Dean quickly put it down, just in case she suddenly develops the ability to set things on fire with her mind. Considering where they are and what’s happened already, it’s not impossible. “You weren’t doing these when you asked me if I wanted my own team.”

“In retrospect, that was a mistake,” Dean replies earnestly. “After thinking about it, Cas had the right idea.”

Her scowl depends. “Only because you’re not the one who has to write them.”

Rank has its privileges. “I read them.” He thinks it counts if he has them nearby; seriously, how many trees died for this? “Everyone’s doing great.”

“Bullshit.”

“Oh please, this is nothing.” Dean sorts through the pile, coming up with a crumpled stack of paper, neatly paper clipped. “See this?”

Vera peers at it. “How long—”

“Twenty-two pages, by Cas, covering his first day in command of the camp. Front,” Vera’s eyes widen as he flips the first page, “and back. Ask me how many of these he wrote?”

“How did he find that much to write about?” Vera asks in wonder, leaning forward to squint at the ridiculously tiny print. “And how does he write that small?”

“No idea, must be some angel thing,” Dean tells her, frowning at it. “This includes everything—and I do mean everything—that occurred in the camp from dawn until dusk, including verbatim reproductions of the meetings with patrol, the team leaders, Chuck, Sheila, Penn, Zoe, you, lunch, bathroom and laundry breaks, and every time he watched me sleep. With timestamps. In case I thought he was slacking off or something.”

Vera sits back, shaken. “You win.”

“Thank you.” Setting it aside—and smoothing the crumpled edges automatically—he thinks of Phil, whose current love letters slash reports to Cas are officially forty-five pages in print almost as small as Cas’s. That sun and moon thing is getting weirder, which he didn’t really think was possible; Phil really resents solar heat for melting the moon’s frozen soul or something, and tells them all about it for ten pages straight. Metaphor, yes: for what, no idea, but he’s getting the impression (thanks to hippofucker) that he’s missing something important here. He slept through key parts of English class, which right now he kind of regrets. “Does he seriously read all of these?”

“Yeah,” Vera answers with a sigh, twirling a loose twist of hair between her fingers and looking bewildered. “He seems to enjoy it.”

“He must miss the internet. All that useless information at the tip of a mouse click.”

Vera nods absently, frowning into the middle distance, and Dean gets the feeling she came by for more than just checking on his health and continuing survival and telling him he’s kind of a dystopian housewife using those exact works. He’s still considering how to get her going (commentary on her sex life or lack thereof is probably a bad idea) when she straightens in her chair with a determined shift of her shoulders.

“Thank God,” he breathes, tossing the reports aside for Cas to deal with when he gets home. “Took you long enough. What’s up?”

Vera blinks. “I wasn’t that obvious.”

“You really are,” Dean observes. “It’s cute, really.”

Fortunately, Vera only struggles for a second before giving up. “I’m just curious what the hell is going on.”

No matter how tempting it is, he just barely avoids saying ‘lying here in boredom’. “Break it down for me.”

“The information Joe got from the last border run was a lot more thorough than for use in obscure ways to track Lucifer.”

“Have you been listening to the radio?” He waves a hand. “Car commercials. Detroit’s still on fire. I need recent events that aren’t fiction. I have hippo porn for that.”

“Only the east end,” Vera says uncertainly. “Maybe Mitsubishi started exporting again, I don’t know. The East Coast is supposed to be clean. Look—”

“I wonder what Impala parts are going for these days,” he muses aloud. Even thinking of the state of the Impala makes him twitchy. He’s not sure any amount of parts short of new everything is gonna be of help.

“Jesus, you’re annoying,” Vera breathes. “Dean, you gotta know people are wondering about the orders Cas is giving now.”

“I can’t even stand up without passing out,” he points out. “My doctor told me recovery’s gonna be a bitch, so the most I’m going to be doing for a while is telling Cas he’s doing a good job and practicing eating with a fork until I’m cleared for duty. Hey, you’re my doctor, right? When’s that happening?”

“It just got a week longer,” she answers grimly. “Dean—”

“Internal plumbing is your friend and so are roofs that aren’t falling in,” Dean interrupts. “And we all discovered Nate knows how to drywall, which, who knew? Seriously, people have a problem with that?”

“No, it’s just—different,” she says, picking her words carefully. “Mowing, setting up a new laundry and mess schedules to be violated on pain of more mowing, which is definitely motivating, don’t get me wrong. It’s just a lot of change.”

“Change is awesome,” Dean tells her. “We need to shake things up. Maybe with working bathrooms and less fucking latrines? Just saying.”

“Patrol leaders don’t choose their members anymore,” she says, watching him closely. “Me, Alicia, and Mark all got teams already picked out for us, and Kyle didn’t get a say in who replaced Cyn. When Sid asked about his team, Cas said he hadn’t decided yet.”

Cas wouldn’t have told her any of that, but he can think of someone who’s extremely good at picking up gossip and lives with her. “People have a problem with change?”

Vera’s gaze sharpens, but he wasn’t trying to be subtle. “Cas has gotten ambitious, that’s all. It’s just talk.”

“That you just happened to hear?”

“I pay attention,” she answers shortly. “Why?”

“Anyone use the words ‘Lucifer’s brother’?”

Vera stills, dark skin noticeably paling, but her voice is steady when she answers. “No, nothing like that.”

“Okay, then just spit it out,” he says, relaxing. “You wouldn’t have started unless you thought it was important.”

“Yeah.” Vera licks her lips nervously. “Okay, fine, they think maybe you—Jesus, this is hard.”

“You gotta do better than that.”

“I’m trying!” She makes a face, slumping back in the chair and looking genuinely unnerved. “They think you gave Cas command because he’s fucking you. Clear enough?”

“Now?” He gazes dubiously at his arm, poking semi-skeletally from the sleeve of the t-shirt, then at her. Fuck being up for it: he’s barely awake long enough to eat, much less anything requiring even minimal participation on his part. “I guess he could,” he says slowly, trying to work out when the hell he’d fit that in between naps, sleeping, resting, and (subtly) throwing up because food hates him now and it’s rapidly becoming mutual, “but gotta tell you, he wouldn’t getting much out of it—”

“No, since before you were sick….” She looks at him incredulously. “You didn’t know?”

“How the hell would I know—” He stops short; suddenly, a lot of things are coming together. “How long? Since I got back?”

“You really didn’t….” she trails off. “Dean, what the hell did you think would happen when you moved in with him and took over his entire goddamn life? And he let you?”

That’s—actually a pretty accurate summary of events, come to think. With a sinking feeling, he remembers what Cas said about this Dean’s serial monogamy slash cabin avoidance and now that he’s thinking about it, the sheer lack of living room orgies he hasn’t been subjected to on a daily basis.

“No drugs, no drinking, no orgies, no—Dean, all Cas’s hobbies were interactive, and now his only interaction is with you,” Vera continues hotly. “He’s doing work—voluntarily—pretends to be interested when people talk to him, and almost never tells anyone to fuck themselves without at least minimal provocation, which is saying something. I say this with affection, but Cas believes celibacy should be considered a mortal sin and grows his own drugs, which by the way he ordered mowed down.”

Dean straightens in alarm. “Tell me someone—”

“No, weed’s safe, Jeremy distracted him just in time,” she reassures him. “Don’t worry, the whole camp is watching out for it now. We take shifts.”

“Consider that an order as of right now,” he says, relaxing against the pillows in relief. “I’ll explain to Cas how weed doesn’t count because everyone likes it a lot.”

“Thank you,” she answers sincerely. “Dean, you get back, start giving all these new orders, Cas becomes a productive person—you really didn’t notice this?—you get sick, and now you give Cas the entire goddamn camp and tell everyone he can do what he wants with it, and he’s doing things with it.”

“He’s not ordering mass executions!”

“He’s giving orders! Cas inspected the cabins for minimal living standard—where he got those I have no idea, but a checklist was involved—but the team leaders were told to use their own judgment when he was drafting the statewide patrol routes, including where they should be checking and how long they should take.”

That’s his rebel ex-angel, getting shit done. “He acted out the meeting for me. Did Kyle really try to argue it wasn’t his job to know what he was doing?”

“Pretty much.” She cocks her head, studying him. “You didn’t even guess—”

“Never occurred to me.” In retrospect, though, he can’t see how it didn’t. Sure, there’s the guy thing, but Chitaqua has been an education in how flexible people get when your options are limited and you live life like an adrenaline rush that never ends. Not to mention this is a group of people in a war zone where the war inexplicably stopped and they have nothing to do but talk. He should know; he’s becoming one of them, but to be fair, Zoe’s incense thing is getting weirder by the day. “Does Cas know?”

“No.” She pauses, looking torn. “I guess if someone asked, he would have denied it, but—he doesn’t think like that. He would have told you if he’d heard anything.”

Yeah, he would have, and how interesting that Amanda left that out of her daily news report. “You don’t think that.”

“I know he’s not.”

“Because you asked?”

Vera rolls her eyes. “Dean, you imagine anyone—anyone—asking Cas that question?”

That would be hilarious, gotta admit. “So how do you know?”

“Well, your reaction, for one,” which yeah, point. “Two….Dean, I practically lived here during the fever and a couple of weeks after. Cas doesn’t hide shit, and you never bothered before. I’m pretty sure something like that—I’d know, okay?” She blows out a breath, mouth quirking in reluctant amusement. “Besides, Cas said something about how long you have to practice to achieve expertise in celibacy.”

“Jesus, he used those words, didn’t he?”

“Pretty much verbatim.”

Right, so. “Why didn’t you tell him?” Vera stiffens warily. “You had a reason.”

“Rumor’s just rumor,” she answers evenly. “It’s bullshit, everyone knows that. Before you got sick—it made sense you’d be a little off, and the team leaders were new and you didn’t know them yet, not like you did the old ones. Cas—life changing experience almost seeing you die, learning the value of life, I don’t know, it’s Cas. It’s not like you were ever into men before.”

“There’s that.” Dean crosses his arms. “That wasn’t your reason, though. Me or Cas?”

Vera starts guiltily. “What?”

“So it’s me.” Vera’s mouth shuts tight: bingo. “You were worried how I’d react when Cas told me.”

She does him the courtesy of not pretending she doesn’t understand. “You’re straight.”

“And that makes me a dick who gives a fuck about who fucks who?”

“Girls doing it are hot,” she says deliberately. “Guys doing it is okay, mostly, depending on the company. But it’s a whole different ballpark when the straight guy hears he may be taking it up the ass. Weird yet true fact.”

“That’s not fair.”

“That’s life,” she answers flatly. “Try being a bisexual Black woman and we’ll talk about fair. Ask Amanda what it’s like to be a gay female hunter and what fair means then. Talk to Sean about life lived gay in fundamentalist country and yeah, I’ll take your definition of ‘fair’ under advisement. Until then, my judgment calls are based on experience, and experience tells me straight guys don’t take that shit well.”

Dean bites back the automatic retort because actually, he’s not sure. He wants to say it wouldn’t have mattered—Jesus, why the fuck would he care, it’s the end of the fucking world, for fuck’s sake—but he’s not sure. He can’t be sure of anything but now, and right now…

“It doesn’t bother me,” he says slowly, almost relieved to realize it’s true. “Knowing that.”

“I’ll give you this one,” she says grudgingly. “Your first reaction wasn’t what I expected.”

“To be honest, that came out of nowhere.” Uncrossing his arms, he tries to think, but for some reason, he keeps remembering Kyle’s reports, Sid’s resentment, how many of the people here he’s only now learning about through reports because before the fever he didn’t try to, not enough. Now’s all he’s got, and now, he’s stuck in this cabin. “If I ask why you’re telling me now—”

“It was me doing it now, risking how long it would take for Ana or Brad to get over their awe, or you finding out from your first scheduled visitor when you get around to having them,” she confirms, eyeing him with reluctant sympathy. “Your health aside, no one should have to deal with being hit with something like this out of the blue.”

“Thanks,” he tells her, surprised. “I appreciate it.”

She blinks at him and looks away, frowning at the threadbare upholstery on the arm of her chair for a moment. “I can try and deny it if you want—I have the cred from living here while you were sick, but…seriously, Dean, drowning your trauma in alcohol and casual sex works for everyone else, including you once upon a time. Just had to shake things up this time?”

“I contain multitudes,” he answers distractedly, wondering what to do with this. It’s a little late to pull off a denial, and best case scenario there is everyone thinking that he’s having a torrid affair with Cas and he’s so ashamed of it that he’s denying it, which isn’t by any stretch of his imagination an improvement. “Other than everyone assuming I trade blowjobs for the worst job in the camp—which means Cas got a shit deal, no surprise there—does this cause more problems or solve some that would happen otherwise?”

“Why would it help….” She stills, letting out a breath. “’Lucifer’s brother’. You knew about that?”

“Cas told me about that a few weeks ago, before the fever,” he answers truthfully, watching the flicker of remembered fear and anger followed by wary surprise, and thinks about what she said about paying attention, like maybe there was a reason she needed to. “You tell me what would be a bigger problem: shooting the guy I put in charge while I’m sick, or shooting the guy I’m sleeping with and then put in charge while I’m sick because of my feelings?”

She doesn’t protest that she didn’t think he had feelings, which is definitely progress. “You don’t think….”

Dean thinks of that day with the patrol leaders, about Luke and Kyle: people do stupid shit when they’re scared, and even if they’re sorry later, you can’t take a bullet back. “Call it post-fever paranoia, but I’ll back it up if I have to. Think that’s clear enough that anyone could work it out?”

She cocks her head, and to his relief, her mouth twitches. “I take it this is my new job?”

“If you choose to accept it,” he answers, straight-faced. “I need a spy. Every good Apocalypse has at least one.” Anyone who can coup the camp—and get Cas to support it after the fact (which to be fair, explains Cas’s mood that day in Dean’s cabin)—isn’t just good at paying attention; they’re good at knowing how to use what they hear.

“This is more a mole-like position, but I’m in.” Vera looks at the wall behind him, obviously thinking. “So I should—”

“I don’t care if you have to state outright that anything happens to Cas, this ends with them looking down the barrel of my gun, just make sure it gets across. It’s the end of the world and the age of bullshit has officially passed.”

Vera stares at him.

“Post-fever paranoia,” he assures her; he can’t quite pull off his counterpart’s thousand yard dead-eyed stare of imminent homicide, which he’s really okay with. “Cabin fever. Two years later a belated reaction to finding out one of my lieutenants tried to kill Cas. Pick one.”

“You know,” she says slowly, “I can probably get it across without outright threat of immediate execution, if that’s okay with you.”

He nods agreeably. “Whatever works.”

“And when Cas finds out?”

He really wishes she used ‘if’. “He’s kind of busy right now. When he’s got some time, I’ll talk to him about it, see what he thinks. I’ll pencil that in for a few years from now.” Vera gives him a dubious look. Reaching across the bed, he pulls out Phil’s report—stapled, they have staples in Camp Apocalypse?—and holds it up. “This is Phil’s patrol report.”

Her expression tells him she, at least, knows what they really are. “Yeah, about that.”

“Phil is—hold up.” He flips it a few pages, blinking at the fucking tiny text and realizes what he’s been reading all this time. “Oh God. I’m the sun fucking the frozen moon that is Cas? Is that what he’s saying?”

“Give me that.” Getting half out of the chair, she plucks it from his hand and squints down at the text, then nods, biting her lip. “Huh. Your cruel rays scorch the moon’s—”

“Don’t remind me,” he interrupts before he has to think about the implications of white-hot solar flares brutally wounding the moon’s fragile fucking feelings—sorry, ethereal surface. Yeah, metaphor: he gets it now. “So how long has Phil—”

“Almost since he got here,” she answers, wincing at something on the page before handing it back. “He writes poetry about Cas’s eyes—’cerulean’ rhymes with something, who knew—and their epic destiny together. It’s kind of romantic, in a creepy way no one really wants to think about.”

Dean stares at it, realizing something else; Phil isn’t just in love with Cas, he’s trying to steal his leader’s putative boyfriend while he’s sick, the asshole. Who does that? “I don’t even know what to do with that.”

“Open secret: he doesn’t want to fuck Cas; he wants to marry him and have his holy nephilim babies. Three, I think: he told us the names last time he was drunk. I got drunker to forget.”

“How could he have his—never mind, I don’t want to know.” And he thought hippofucker was unclear on anatomy and how it worked. “Everyone knows about this?”

“He wants to get married in June in a church.”

“This isn’t happening.” Making an effort, Dean focuses on where he was going before the traumatic (adulterous?) digression. “Cas has no idea,” he says, dropping Phil’s report with a satisfying plunk on top of the others and fighting the urge to wash his hands or set them on fire or something. “I told him about this ten or fifteen pages ago. I told him last week. He doesn’t believe me. He’s gotta be fucking with me here.”

“He’s not,” Vera admits with a pained expression. “I mentioned it, too, and he just looked at me. It’s the flirting thing, I think. It doesn’t process. You know Cas, he’s—”

“Direct, yeah.” Her heartfelt nod tapers off into a speculative look. “What?”

“Just saying,” she says, an unexpected note of teasing in her voice, “your angel.”

Despite himself, he feels his cheeks getting hot. “Okay, for the record? Not my fault, that was independent research on his part. Not like he checked with me. Or that he needed to, because it wasn’t any of my business what he did,” he adds belatedly when her mouth begins to twitch again. “Where were we again?”

“He once said something about your idea of an educational field trip when he was still an angel,” she says, bracing an elbow on the arm of the chair, chin in hand, eyes dancing. For a second, he really wants to pretend he has no idea what she’s talking about. “Figured second time was the charm. Not like you’d learn subtlety in a brothel.”

Oh God. “Again, not my fault, but great story if you leave out the part where we got thrown out of the brothel before anyone actually got laid. I can’t believe he told you about that.”

“He always said it was—educational,” she says. “When he could finally stop laughing. It was one of his favorite stories about you.”

“About me?” He pauses, a warm feeling blooming in his chest. That happened before the break in the timeline. This one is, actually, about them, not just the other Dean.

Vera shrugs casually, but Dean doesn’t miss the wariness return. So she’s testing him; he’s okay with that. “He used to talk about you and him sometimes. Stuff that happened before you came to Chitaqua, I mean. He’d get really high and he’d tell a few of us some stuff, nothing bad.”

“He ever tell you that when we first met he tried to blow out my eardrums?” Dean says with a sigh, relieved by her grin as she shakes her head. “I gotta think of an embarrassing story about him. Which will be hard, since he’s still shaky on what the word means. Anyway, did I cover everything or—”

“Yeah, I think you answered my question,” she says after a moment. “Except what’s going on now.”

“You didn’t ask that yet.”

“Yeah, I did, we got sidetracked,” she says. “I’m talking about your epic love affair with Cas to everyone except the other person supposedly involved in it, you owe me.”

“Yeah, you got a point.” He thinks about how to answer her. “The Colt didn’t work and that was kind of it as far as mythical weapons go. So we’ll have to do this the hard way.”

“You’re calling the last two years easy?”

“I think fucking around for a shortcut when the entire goddamn world is falling apart isn’t gonna cut it anymore.” Vera flinches, and Dean realizes what that sounded like to her. “Look, that came out wrong. The thing is, as of right now, it’s still the Apocalypse, and our one shot at killing Lucifer is gone.” He thinks of those holes in reality in the city and pushes them to the back of his mind again: one thing at a time. “Okay, easy was the wrong word. Let’s say it’s gonna get complicated now.”

“What does that mean?”

“I have some ideas,” Dean says slowly. “It’s still in the planning stage.”

“Joe’s trip to the eastern checkpoint,” she says casually. “I get why you still have him doing it. He used to deal with the American military when he was in the Israeli army.”

“Yeah, and since he’s kind of Chitaqua’s only religious authority figure, the rabbi thing seems to make him appear trustworthy and us less crazy,” Dean agrees, intrigued by her roundabout approach. “Also helps that all his federal warrants are in, like, Kentucky for some reason, which hey, is the south trying to secede again?”

“Third time in four years,” Vera confirms. “Third time may be the charm. Cas told him it’s going to be monthly now, Joe’s visits to the border, which is new. We used to do this once a quarter.”

“We need more information,” he answers firmly. “Though at this rate, we may need to think of alternate sources of bribery. I mean, we could get Cas’s lab back in production, but I’m still not feeling ‘drug dealer to the American military and border patrol’ on my federal résumé if it’s not there already, though at this point, hell, why not try for a complete set?”

“Yeah, and access to the not approved for public consumption zone maps, directory of U.S. border stations, and the domestic terrorism lists along with the FBI’s most wanted.”

Interesting. “You got all that from Joe?”

“Yeah.” Vera radiates sudden wariness in his general direction, and he makes a mental note he was right about why Joe talked to Cas first that day and allows himself a moment of smug triumph. “He didn’t think it was supposed to be secret or anything.”

“It’s not.” He’s gotta be more careful. “It’s really not. I just didn’t think anyone cared. Joe didn’t ask why I wanted most of it.”

“No, everyone figures you’ll tell us when you’re ready.”

“Yeah, that’s gonna be a problem,” Dean murmurs to himself, ignoring her startled expression. “You also read the reports, which is also fine, for the record. Feel free to keep doing that. In fact, all the team leaders should be doing it; I’ll talk to Cas.” He studies her. “What else you got?”

She shrugs so casually that he knows she’s been waiting for this part. “Cas is pulling Amanda and Mark in the evenings for extra training starting today.”

“Everyone could use some improvement,” Dean points out, though he’s gotta wonder what Amanda could possibly be shaky on other than ‘not being a badass’. “We should do a refresher for the whole camp, what do you think? Not like anyone’s getting much done in the field these days.”

“They’re the only two people in the camp now besides you and Cas who were already hunters before they came here,” she says. “Me, Amanda, Mark, and Debra were in the last group that Cas trained. After he did our final evaluations, he held Mark and Amanda back another couple of months but he didn’t tell anyone why, including them.” The implication is that he knows and is holding out on her just to be a dick.

“Yeah?”

“I mean, everyone assumes it was because he wanted Amanda to do our quarterly checks. Work was cutting into his recreation time.”

“Yeah, I forgot about those,” he says sunnily and her expression dissolves into annoyance. “When’s the next one again?”

She doesn’t roll her eyes, and he admires her for that. “Uh, a month ago, I think. Been kind of busy around here.”

He’s gotta see this. “Good, I’ll tell Cas to schedule one of those soon.”

Vera makes a face. “Thanks.”

“Don’t mention it.” He gets why Cas found it difficult to avoid liking her. “Okay, I’m impressed. So you think he pulled them—”

“He didn’t tell them what they were doing or why, but not like it was hard to guess,” she says impatiently. “We don’t need three instructors for new recruits: well, two, I guess, since Cas doesn’t have time right now with everything else. Not for just a few new people.” She cocks her head. “I assume recruitment is on the agenda. He’s been riding the fuck out of Amanda during downtime—which yeah, they both seem to enjoy—but it’s not just for the joy of casual violence.”

“We could use some new blood.”

“Just how much new blood are we talking about here?”

“You haven’t asked Cas about this yet, have you?”

Vera snorts. “No, of course not. He wouldn’t tell me anything and just bring it to you anyway, so might as well cut out the middle man.”

Actually, he kind of needs a middle man right now. “I have a job for you.”

“Besides spying for you?”

“This is an extension,” he assures her. “Everything you just told me? Go ask Cas about it. Except for the entire sex for a shitty job thing; I’ll handle that part.”

“What? Why?”

Dean blinks. “Uh—about the sex thing….?”

“No, not that,” she answers impatiently, adding, “though better you than anyone, ever. I mean, why ask Cas what I asked you?”

“Oh, that.” Dean shrugs. “He said something about extra training the other day.”

Vera nods in bewilderment.

“I just realized I forgot to ask him why.” Dean grins at her. “He’s running late. Hey, you know where he is right now, right?”

---

“Vera says you’re doing very well,” Cas tells him upon his arrival, squinting down at Dean, happily seated on the porch stairs even knowing the only way he’s getting back inside is going to be Cas-assisted. The great outdoors, as seen from the porch; it’s all that he dreamed of, even with the camp walls obscuring his view, with stubby remains of grass a uniform ‘very short’ as far as the eye can see. Dean takes in the messy brown hair, still damp from a surreptitious pre-homecoming shower, and bites back a smirk; subtlety, thy name is not Castiel of Chitaqua. “Are you sure that you should be out here—”

“Cleared it with Vera before she went home.” Leaning back against the pillow cushioning him from the banister of the stairs, he can almost convince himself he doesn’t actually need it to stay upright, then gives the horizon and its lack of a visible light—for a couple of hours now—a pointed look. “So how’s it going?”

“I apologize for being late,” Cas says immediately, which may or may not be evidence for the ‘Dean is a dystopian housewife’ scenario, and wonders who’s been instructing him in fifties human relationship habits; fuck the Lifetime Channel backward. “I was working on something. Did you already eat?”

“It was meatloaf surprise night at the mess. What meat, who can tell? Ana came by to check up on me and I told her to run to the mess and grab you dinner. You should eat.”

Cas stares down at him for a moment, and Dean wants to tell him for completionists, when you’re trying to hide your secret training regime that was apparently the source of the entire lateness issue, take clean clothes with you that are similar to what you were wearing when you left home. The jacket doesn’t hide that his shirt is now faded purple, not off-grey, and it’s not like Cas has a grasp of variety in clothing.

“Go,” Dean adds magnanimously, waving to the door. “Bring it out here so we can work on your human skills. You’re still shitty at the ‘eating at regularly scheduled intervals’ thing. That happens when you’re late. We talk about that yet?”

After a second of glaring—which he ignores as obviously as possible—Cas climbs the stairs and goes inside, coming back out a few minutes later with the horror that is a mess dinner and a blanket and extra pillow (and, Dean notes, sans boots and socks: he really doesn’t like shoes when they aren’t required). Dropping the blanket over Dean’s lap, he sets down the plate and tucks the pillow behind Dean to supplement the one he already had, then sits down on the step a couple of feet away and evaluates the meat for a second, eyes narrowed.

“You don’t know what it is either.” Dean tugs the blanket more securely around him, trying and failing not to be touched by the gesture, which doubles as a tacit acknowledgement that he’s allowed to decide some of his own limits. This may be stretching them—the banister really is his best friend right now—but it’s something that he’s able to sit here at all.

“I’ve never been curious enough to ask,” Cas admits, picking up his fork with the kind of determination Dean usually associates with facing imminent death with dignity. “Though I’m sure if you had eaten more of it, you might have been able to identify it.”

Dean ignores him, reveling in the cool, quiet night as Cas methodically applies himself to the tedious process of avoiding starvation. It occurs to him that, weirdly enough, living in Chitaqua has been among the most peaceful times in his life. All it took was time travel, an Apocalypse in progress, a militia camp, and near-mortal illness to pull it off, too.

When Cas finally finishes, he sets the empty plate to the side—Dean figures the entire putting the dirty dishes in the sink to deal with later can be skipped tonight—and gives him an unreadable look. “What?”

“Don’t tell Vera,” he replies inexplicably, then reaches back for two brown bottles he apparently brought out with him, passing one to Dean. “It probably won’t kill you.”

Despite himself, he starts to grin. “So you’re feeling really guilty?”

Cas hesitates. “Dean, you need to eat.”

Oh, that’s why. “I wasn’t hungry,” he says shortly, irritated with himself for not remembering Cas actually tracks his eating habits for a reason other than being a creepy stalker. “It’s not a big deal; I’ll make it up at breakfast.”

“Were you able to keep any of it down?”

He considers lying, but that’s actually pretty stupid. “No. Ana grabbed me some extra bread and fake cheese from the mess, happy?”

Cas takes a drink before saying, “That was not raccoon.”

He almost drops his bottle. “We eat raccoon?”

“Not today, no.” He grimaces. “It was unusually terrible tonight, yes. I assume Zack’s on mess duty this week.”

“Didn’t think anything could be worse than your cooking,” he says honestly. “Zack proved me wrong. At least yours still qualifies as food.”

“That could almost be a compliment,” Cas answers, one corner of his mouth quirking up. “If it helps, that’s probably not the result of your illness. Consuming wild game can cause problems in the healthy if they’re not used to it. We have enough alternates to it at this time—”

“Cas, I’m not asking the mess to make me my own special meal,” Dean interrupts. He gets the entire privileges of command, but he’s gotta draw a line somewhere, and this is it.

“Vera was very specific regarding your diet,” Cas says patiently, “and as I was saying, I’m relatively sure it can be followed while excluding the local wildlife, such as it is. I’ll talk to Chuck in the morning and see what’s available in inventory. The camp can certainly perform their daily duties without my constant oversight by now.”

“What does that have to do with—”

“Cooking still takes a great deal of concentration for me,” Cas answers, like he’s not sure Dean’s paying attention, “so I’ll require the extra time. Not to mention acquiring sufficient recipes.”

It takes Dean a minute to work out what he’s talking about. “You want to cook?”

“You need to eat to regain your strength. That would be facilitated by food that doesn’t cause you active nausea, and that much I think I can accomplish. Unless you continue to object to my cooking, in which case I should tell you that I have no idea what other kinds of non-domestic meat varieties are in the freezer and Nate’s a worse cook than Zack is, which is why until now he’s been banned from handling food.”

Dean braces himself with a drink first. “And now?”

“Fielding two more teams has left gaps in the camp’s infrastructure,” he answers. “It’s only temporary—if for no other reason than to preserve Nate’s life—until I can work out a new rotation, but until then…”

“I’m okay with your cooking,” Dean tells him. He’s still sick, and there’s nothing about what’s in the depths of the freezer or Nate’s cooking skills that’s not stressing.

“I thought you might be.” Cas takes another drink, looking bizarrely satisfied; Christ, he’s weird sometimes. “Why is Vera asking about your plans to expand the camp?”

“It’s been hours since we talked,” Dean observes, settling himself for a very good time. “What, did she take a nap and go for drinks with Amanda first? Dude, you need a better class of spy.”

“You told her that was her new title.”

“Official spy? Cas, we live in an apocalyptic melodrama. That pretty much requires someone have a spy and I don’t know anyone else here well enough to figure out who can pull it off other than her. Come on, Chuck would suck as a spy, and Joe’s talents are best used manipulating the border guards for fun and profit.”

“I don’t think it counts as spying when you told her what to say and then pointed in what direction to go to find me.”

“Dude, I didn’t need to point, you told me your schedule.” Cas’s eyes narrow further, and Dean grins at him. “I mean, you obviously had a different one today, but—”

“Dean,” Cas interrupts, “if you want surreal conversation, I can accommodate you, but I need several hours, as running this camp for you has interfered with my usual production schedule for hallucinogens.”

“That’s really sad,” he says sympathetically. “I’ll make it up to you: home meth lab okay? Brain cells, who needs ‘em?”

“I don’t think we have any formaldehyde,” Cas answers patiently. “So no. Why did you tell Vera you wanted to expand recruitment?”

“I was actually really careful not to say that.” Dean takes a sip of beer; warm and slightly flat, it’s still awesome. “What did you tell her?”

“That you didn’t give me permission to discuss what you told me.” Cas very unsubtly shifts over until he’s less than a foot away, just in case Dean suddenly passes out and Cas has to save him from death by stairs after almost death by fucking brownie bite. “Under the circumstances, it’s almost true, though for accuracy, it would be more I had no idea there was something to discuss.”

“You didn’t tell me your ‘training exercises’ were to teach Amanda and Mark how to train hunters.” Dean smirks at Cas over the rim of his bottle. “Wanna talk about that?”

“It didn’t occur to me you might have any objections,” he answers in surprise. “I meant to discuss this with you tonight. Joseph is ready to begin negotiations with the communities that seemed the most open to our presence.”

“The ones who didn’t shoot at us on sight?”

“He’s decided to start with those who didn’t shoot at us at all,” Cas answers. “Which admittedly is a rather short list, but hope springs eternal or something like that. In any case, in addition to weapons, ammunition, assistance with retrieving supplies from the cities, and potentially manual labor, I thought we might have something of equal value to offer them. Training.”

“Training.” Dean turns that over in his head. “Like everyone here?”

“If they wish, but I think as our opening offer, knowledge and basic instruction in how to defend themselves against the most common supernatural enemies they face to supplement what they’ve learned already. Of course, that wouldn’t change our duty to protect them, but this could also buy them time to contact us and for us to get there if it’s something they can’t handle themselves. You said something once….” He doesn’t quite meet Dean’s eyes. “We tried to save the world instead of people and failed. So—”

“We’ll try doing it a Kansas town at a time.” Dean feels a smile stretching his face almost wide enough to hurt; he must look ridiculous. “Teach them how to save themselves. Yeah, let’s do that.”

Cas lets out a breath, taking a drink from his bottle in barely hidden relief, and Dean wonders why the hell he’d think he wouldn’t be on board with that. “That’s why I needed to start working with Mark and Amanda immediately. It’s been two years since I initially instructed them, and I wanted to see how much they retained. Others can be assigned to take their places on their teams if Joseph’s successful. If you have no objection, of course.”

“Really don’t.” He waits for a moment. Anything else?”

“With the successful negotiations with the border guards, I don’t think crossing it will be particularly difficult,” Cas says out of the blue. “So within reason, we’re not necessarily limited to staying in Kansas for much longer. I’m relatively certain we can keep both our faces off the cameras after mapping the current patrol routes that they’re using, though doubtless that it will be expensive.”

“True.” Dean cocks his head, wondering where Cas is going with that. Not that he wants to be trapped in the state or anything, but it’s not like there are a lot of other places he wants to go either. At least, not yet. “I have some things to add for Joe’s next visit. If we can afford it.”

“As Joseph told you, between what’s in our accounts and what we salvaged so far from the military outposts, we have more than enough for our purposes. What do you have in mind?”

Sitting back, Dean takes a long drink while he considers his options. Cas said that this Dean taught him everything he knew so he could train other hunters, and he agreed to do it because Dean’s purpose for him became his own.

It’s not a surprise, not really, not when he thinks of the Dean Winchester he met here; if he saw anyone in this camp—hell, in this world—as more than their value or lack of to the mission, he’ll be relieved to hear it but probably wouldn’t believe it. However, four years ago and change, it was different; they were only a little past the break in the timeline, and he and this Dean Winchester couldn’t already be so different that he could look at Cas, still mostly-fresh from a recent resurrection and desperately wanting to be useful, and only think of the best way to use him.

Four years ago, Cas wasn’t Fallen, not yet, and probably never imagined a time he would end a patrol meeting telling Kyle in excruciatingly filthy detail exactly what he could do with the butt of his rifle and his ass before sentencing him to mowing duty (Amanda acted out the entire thing yesterday before Cas got home, it was amazing). He would go along with Dean because it was his purpose, yeah, but that doesn’t mean it was the only reason, or if it was, it would stay that way.

“Domestic terror suspects with federal warrants issued in the last five years with a history of credit fraud, identity fraud, and suspected association with survivalist groups or militia involvement. Preferably with numerous aliases in several states,” he offers blandly into the cool evening, then sits back and waits.

“Potential hunters,” Cas answers promptly. “They are also likely to deal in weapons, as they would have the contacts, the experience to act as intermediaries, and they wouldn’t be easily caught. They probably have at least one federal warrant for weapons trafficking under one of their aliases by now, likely in a southwestern border state, but I doubt that those aliases are linked to any of their others yet.”

Dean nods, fighting to keep his expression neutral. “You know the history here, so you tell me what they’d be doing now.”

“They’re hunters; they’d concentrate their efforts in infected zones providing either supplementary containment of the Croatoan threat in the cities and on the borders or assist the local populations affected by the rising level of supernatural activity. It’s also likely they’re the source of some of the supplies that get passed across the border by the guards, though the markup is probably considerable for the zone residents.”

“Where would they be now?”

“Many established multiple semi-legal aliases in various locations throughout the country before Lucifer rose, so their actual locations would rarely correlate with where they are reported to be. Due to their expertise with creating false identities, they would have established contacts early on to assure they could acquire the necessary papers to pass between infected zones and clean states to assure they can do their jobs as well as acquire supplies that are not necessarily easy to acquire other than through legal channels.

“What should I ask the checkpoints to give me so I can narrow down the possibilities?”

“Individuals can’t acquire passthrough credentials for themselves; they can only be issued to a company or corporate entity that was approved by the government for transporting goods across the borders,” Cas answers, frowning into the distance. “The unexpunged list of those companies legally issued passthrough credentials for the checkpoints would be extremely useful, but that’s very highly classified, and as yet, we haven’t been able to acquire a reliable copy.”

Dean doesn’t like the sound of that. “Why would that be classified?”

“I assume if we saw the full list, we’d be able to identify the reason,” Cas says wryly. “However, in lieu of that, the current public list of those companies issued passthrough credentials and what those credentials are for is sufficient. For now, I’d settle for the schedule of oil deliveries between uninfected states, their origin and destination of record, and the list of regular drivers for each company carrying any oil product.”

“That’s specific,” Dean remarks casually, bottle hanging loosely from one hand.

“For hunters, oil is one of the very few things they can’t manufacture themselves, they need in large quantities, and currently it’s almost impossible to get it other than legally. And oil—”

“The Federal government tracks gasoline sales,” Dean says, keeping his gaze firmly on the camp walls as he takes another sip from his bottle. “Especially now. Knocking over an oil truck would get attention they can’t afford, so they gotta do this as legal as possible. How do you think they’re getting it?”

“That would depend on both the origin and destination of record, whether or not the destination listed is the ultimate one,” Cas answers. “Negotiating with the border guards would be the easiest option, who for reasons best known to the vagaries of advanced bureaucracy, have the power to issue copies of any company’s existing passthrough credentials from the checkpoints with almost no oversight, which is why ours imply we’re associated with General Mills and regularly deliver large amounts of food to Utah, Idaho, Wyoming, and Montana.”

Dean closes his eyes. “Irony or salt in the wound?”

“Possibly both,” Cas admits before continuing. “The border guards are also the most expensive option and it would still require acquiring transportation for the oil and discretion on how much to buy at any given location and how long to wait between purchases in an uninfected zone, increasing the risk of discovery. The remainder, in order of likelihood: negotiating with the oil companies directly; a series of legally existing but highly fictional gasoline stations in an uninfected state or states; or direct negotiation with the military in an infected zone.”

“How’d you decide the order?” Dean asks curiously, taking another drink.

“Experience and a great deal of guessing. The military would be the least expensive if they were able and willing to make a deal similar to the one Dean made here; however, that would depend on the practicality of the commanders. The oil companies are the most reliable source and the most convenient. They have passthrough credentials in all the contiguous United States, Canada, and Mexico, means of transport, and can quickly deliver to any location we indicate. Further, they would only charge the current black market price of triple the already ridiculously high legal price of oil per barrel, which would be a bargain compared to the border’s three hundred percent markup when they’re feeling generous.”

“Holy shit.”

“Which is why Joseph was very pleased they liked our newly acquired weapons so much,” Cas says in amusement. “However, the oil companies are subject to very close government scrutiny and random inspections, and are fined with monotonous regularity when their employees are arrested for selling oil on the black market, completely of their own accord, of course. They’re also very surprised and outraged, with equally monotonous regularity.”

“You sound a little skeptical of their sincerity, Cas.”

“I apologize for misleading you; their regret when caught is quite sincere,” Cas assures him. “They are also startlingly adept at finding the list of buyers that their former employees sold to—apparently, when one illegally sells oil on the black market, it’s necessary to thoroughly document who it was sold to, when, quantity, and how much they paid and leave it somewhere extremely easy to find—and are always willing to cooperate with authorities in any way they can.”

“You really want to smite the entire oil industry right now, don’t you?”

“Sodom and Gomorrah would look like a practice run when I was done,” Cas agrees pleasantly. “For the second—I have no idea what is required to set up non-existent gas stations or what exactly that even means, but I do know it was an option being used by some of Dean’s former contacts and was working very well the last time he made contact with them.”

“That’s why lawyers exist,” Dean agrees. “Okay, other than oil, how else could we find them?”

“Shipments of silver and rock salt in unusually high quantities, perhaps,” Cas says after a moment of thought. “The logs for the Michigan checkpoint—”

“—might show something since that’s one of the biggest natural rock salt deposits in the U.S. And the government’s looking for terrorists, not people who really love salt.”

“This was far less complicated when you simply went to the appropriate bar and waited for your contact to overcome his paranoia. At least then, intoxication wasn’t necessarily a drawback.” Cas looks at him with something not quite satisfaction. “Did I pass?”

Dean grins outright. “Giving you an A. You were a hunter before you Fell. You didn’t tell me that.”

Cas’s expression changes to confusion. “I told you that Dean taught me everything that he knew.”

“You went on jobs with Dean, right?” he asks, remembering what Vera told him about Cas and his stories. “Before you came to Chitaqua?”

“And Bobby,” Cas confirms. “His expertise and skills were invaluable. When I was with him, I could do anything that his wheelchair would make difficult as well as protect him from harm, though Dean explained that part I was not to at any time mention to Bobby.”

“Dean didn’t go with you?”

“Not always, especially when the job required extensive travel and would take many weeks of research at various locations. Also, some of the older hunters of Bobby’s acquaintance found Dean—somewhat abrasive on occasion.”

Oh yeah, he still gets that reaction sometimes. “It’s called ‘cutting the bullshit’.”

“Is that what it’s called?” Cas asks curiously. “It works better, in case you didn’t know this, after a six-shot minimum and no implications anyone had their testicles summarily amputated.”

“Fuck you, Teddy was an asshole….hold on, that happened here?” Sitting back, Dean stares at him. “Outside Seattle, about three and a half, four years ago, may or may not have been a chimera lite?”

“If you mean a substandard magical construct resembling a classical chimera if you squint and have no idea what one actually looks like, then yes. He was the only one who’d—”

“—seen it and survived to tell the tale, okay, this is weird. Sam talked him down, got it out of him. How about here?”

“He was a practicing Roman Catholic and extremely devout,” Cas answers casually. “I performed a miracle and transmuted all the water into wine. Considering what happened to him, he certainly deserved it.”

Dean opens his mouth, then remembers this is Cas he’s talking to. “All the water?”

“Yes, and interesting note: humans have a very dramatic reaction to seeing the sinks or toilets abruptly begin to fill with a 2006 Screaming Eagle Cabernet Sauvignon, despite the fact it’s one of the finest red wines ever produced in this country. As Napa Valley was an early casualty, we won’t be tasting its like for some time, if ever.”

He’s wondered, a little idly, when Cas discovered his sense of humor and how this Dean reacted to it. Now, the big question is if this Dean even recognized what was happening when he saw it; maybe Cas should have told him, but he can see the attraction of seeing how long it took him to work it out for himself. The air, he thinks fatalistically: gotta be the air.

“Dean thought it was an accident.” Cas smiles at him, admitting nothing. “Lecture all the way home?”

“Sixteen and a half hours in the Impala broken by a night at an extremely questionable highway motel, two bathroom stops, and one diner with a very confused waitress.”

Dean bites his lip against laughter at Cas’s smug expression before reluctantly returning to the original subject. “So you went with Bobby; cross-country drives must have been an experience.” Cas’s expression softens, a faint hint of a smile. “How’d that work out?”

“He said that while it was welcome to have someone listen to him for a change, it was—” Cas’s forehead creases, “—like riding with a corpse that blinked occasionally, and I would never learn anything if I didn’t ask him when I didn’t understand what he was talking about.”

Dean would do anything to have been around to hear Bobby and Cas in that truck. Back then, when Cas still had Grace and Bobby came to the horrified realization he somehow picked up another goddamn stray (he can see Bobby’s face now). A stray with epic cosmic powers that even then were starting to fail, the entire history of the world in his head, and even more terrifying, would listen to every word he said like it was Biblical writ. Because Cas wanted to learn, and God knew, Bobby couldn’t have resisted the opportunity to get at least one of his kids on the right track.

“You enjoyed it.” Cas looks startled. “The job, I mean. It wasn’t just because Dean told you to do it. You liked doing it.”

There’s a difference between doing the job because you have to and because something in you just needs to do it. Given a choice, he would have done it, and Sam wouldn’t have, he’s always known that, but it was Sam who showed him that Dad wouldn’t have, either. Not given the choice.

“It was my duty,” Cas answers slowly. “I didn’t object to Dean’s plan for me, and I learned everything that he taught me as quickly as I could so I would be able to help him.”

So he wouldn’t be useless. “That wasn’t the only reason.”

Cas is quiet for a long time, gaze fixed on some point in the distance, bottle loose in one hand. “No,” he says finally, blue eyes dark and shyly surprised; he really never thought about it. “Using the skills that Dean taught me—it became something I needed to do. The more I learned, the more I needed to do it. Does that answer your question?”

“Yeah.” He lets out a breath; he didn’t realize how much he needed to know that. “So your offer to the people in here with us, to teach them—”

“There were never enough hunters, even before,” Cas interrupts, flickering him an unreadable look. “Dean…wanted to even the odds. It’s one of the reasons—before Chitaqua, I trained hunters. We both did. I don’t think I was very clear—on that part.”

That makes sense; this Dean already knew Cas could do the job when he put him in charge of training Chitaqua’s soldiers. He’s really got to make time to ask Cas more about what they did before Chitaqua was founded. “You think you’d be interested in doing it again? Teaching, I mean.”

Cas hesitates, blue eyes suddenly unreadable. “It’s been a very long time since I did that.”

“But you can still know how to do it.”

“It’s not a matter of knowledge,” he answers. “It’s a matter of practice. I’m not human.”

“Cas, that has nothing to do with—”

“I don’t mean human prejudice,” he interrupts. “I mean I could kill them by accident on the training field during instruction.”

“Oh.” Weirdly enough, that never occurred to him, and from Cas’s expression, it probably should have.

“That’s the reason I only train with Amanda and sometimes Mark,” Cas continues, still frowning faintly. “They’re the most skilled in the camp, and they’re constantly aware of the risk of injury even in practice.”

“How’d you do it before, then?”

“When I was first learning, I had Grace, so it didn’t matter; there were numerous ways to protect those I was teaching if necessary. I was also taught very carefully to know exactly what I could risk with those I trained until it was reflexive, in preparation for when I no longer had Grace. After I Fell, when I was both teaching and going on missions, that early training held and was constantly reinforced. However, I’ve spent two years in the field, and it’s become clear that I’m extremely out of practice.”

Morbid curiosity, gotta be. “How out of practice?”

“That’s the other reason I needed to meet with them today. I asked Amanda to evaluate me while working with Mark,” Cas says. “She would prefer I stick to marksmanship for the time being. She’s offered to work with me regularly to simulate someone less skilled, but she doesn’t have active experience in instruction to be certain, so to avoid involuntary manslaughter during a teaching exercise, it’s probably best I avoid doing that for a while.”

Dean makes a note to watch him with Mark. Amanda’s incredibly good, maybe the best he’s ever seen, which makes sense with having access to a former angel taught to train hunters. How much is natural ability, how much is wartime conditions, and how much is training, however, is up in the air. Seeing Mark working with Cas—who noticeably isn’t Cas’s first choice of sparring partner—may give him a better idea about that. It may also help his vague sense of inferiority after watching someone only a year or two younger than him make Cas work to put her on the ground only to bounce back up to do it all again.

“Do you hold back with them at all?” Dean asks, trying to sound casual.

“With Amanda? Only when necessary for her immediate safety,” Cas answers depressingly. “I’m useless to her if I do otherwise; I’m her only opportunity to practice with something—”

“Someone.”

Cas rolls his eyes. “—someone that is comparable to what she faces in the field under controlled circumstances. Greater strength, greater speed, and I know how humans fight and can simulate how many of our enemies do as well.”

“So you’re also a practice dummy.”

“Yes,” Cas agrees, mouth quirking: from what Dean can tell, he’s barely controlling the urge to say it’s probably the most fun he has on planet Earth since he Fell, orgasms aside.

“And you like that.” Dean doesn’t bother waiting for Cas’s enthusiastic nod. “Can a human beat you?”

“It’s possible to defeat anyone, given sufficient time and preparation,” Cas answers. “However, that’s immaterial; there will never be sufficient time when it’s most needed, preparation will never be perfect, and in a straight fight, I’ll always win. So to win, the best course of action is to avoid the possibility of a straight fight and find another option.” Like assassination, Dean thinks, fighting down anger with an effort. One of his students, at least, learned that lesson a little too well. “Anyone who doesn’t understand that won’t survive six months, if that.”

Cas’s voice changes, becoming more thoughtful, with an edge of something like bitterness. “Humans are always at a disadvantage when they fight the supernatural when it comes to both physical and metaphysical abilities. Millennia have passed, but in some ways, you’ve barely advanced beyond the most basic protections of your earliest ancestors.”

Dean raises an eyebrow. “You’re saying hunters have been slacking?”

“No, of course not,” Cas answers distractedly. “Even when angels walked the earth and fought with hunters, they rarely offered hunters anything but the most basic skills of their profession. There must have been a reason for that, but as I never asked why, it eludes me.”

“Bootstraps,” Dean offers, intrigued. “Maybe we were supposed to learn the rest of it ourselves.”

“Why?”

“Huh?”

“Hunters didn’t fight for land or profit against other humans; they fought for the existence of your species,” Cas says hotly. “That’s why we were allowed to give instruction and assistance to hunters in the first place, but why the arbitrary limit on how much? This wasn’t natural law; there was nothing to stop us from offering more, so why not teach you everything we knew? Infinite knowledge: we knew all things, all they would face, yet we let generations die through simple lack of understanding or the inability of hunters to pass on new skills before they were killed. I know the weaknesses of almost everything we could possibly face, and I can simulate exactly how to kill those that can be killed; I could teach in three months what could only be learned over generations of hunters if they survived long enough to pass on their skills. If I could do that when I no longer had Grace, the Host could have done the same in moments.”

Dean blinks. “How long have you been thinking about this?”

“I’m not sure.” Cas slumps back on the step with a frown. “Preparing Amanda and Mark to instruct civilians if the communities agree….even if what they pass on is only theory and the most basic instruction, that considerably lowers the risk of a hunter dying before they gain experience even during an Apocalypse. My experience with Bobby and meeting other hunters—I never realized you were the exception among hunters, not the rule in both knowledge and ability.”

“Me?” Cas nods, and Dean isn’t warmed by that at all, even a little. “Dude, I’ve seen Amanda. I’ve never been that good.”

“Combat is the least of what a hunter needs to know,” Cas answers dismissively, which is news to Dean. “In any case, remedying that is simply a matter of practice; you weren’t instructed consistently in combat techniques and drilled in them until they were reflex. The breadth of knowledge you have, however—anyone can learn the rudiments of fighting, but it’s far more rare for any hunter to be able to learn as much as you and apply it.”

Dean ignores the faint heat at Cas’s assessment. “I had Bobby and Sam, and Dad.”

“And most hunters worked alone,” Cas agrees. “Why?”

“Uh.” Because that’s how it is. Looks like Cas isn’t the only one who doesn’t think to ask why. “I don’t know.”

“I do,” Cas says quietly. “Because that was how you were taught.”

Dean starts to mention that’s stating the obvious, but then reviews the conversation. “From the first?”

“From the very first hunters to walk the earth, it was closely held within family lines or learned by those motivated to find someone to teach them. When Dean asked me why,” Cas continues softly, that edge back in his voice, “I couldn’t give him an answer.”

“And a new way to train hunters is born,” Dean says, reluctantly impressed with the other Dean; he never would have thought of that. “They’re trained in teams?”

“Dean liked groups of three to five; it was more practical,” Cas answers, relaxing at the shift to the practical side. “It wasn’t arbitrary, however. Hunters are suicidal by nature—”

“Hey!” Dean says, offended. “Hunter here.”

“I rest my case,” he answers pointedly, ignoring Dean’s scowl. “Given responsibility for others seemed to help curb that tendency, which could be illustrated by you and Sam’s work together. You and Sam were far more likely to seek out non-suicidal options when you had the responsibility of each other’s lives in your hands.”

Reluctantly, Dean nods. “Fine, I’ll give you that one.”

“The best measure of a hunter’s skill is understanding the art of the possible and settling for that rather than the perfect. While everything can die, practically speaking, it may not be worth the effort or the price you have to pay to achieve it. In this one way, John Winchester impressing responsibility for Sam on you at an early age did have some limited benefit—even when you worked alone, you were already used to finding alternatives to a messy and protracted death, and willingly sought out temporary partners when the job would benefit from that. Both of those are rare qualities in hunters, and even then, trust was always an issue. Dean thought that training new hunters with partners would pass on those qualities as the default, not the exception, as well as encourage them to trust those they worked with. He was correct; the mortality rate was lowered significantly and jobs were finished more quickly and easily than otherwise. A hunter’s job is to protect others, and they can’t do that if they get themselves killed before they can do it.”

“What if that’s the only way to save someone—okay, a town, let’s try that. You still think that?”

“I’d ask what’s wrong with simply finding a means to successfully deal with it that won’t cost you your life.”

“Right,” Dean agrees. “And if that’s not an option?”

Cas tilts his head. “I’ve been told if I don’t like my current options, I should make new ones.”

He grins. “Okay, I’ll give you that one, happy?”

“Ecstatic.”

“So Mark and Amanda are it right now,” Dean says. “Anyone else you think could eventually learn how to teach? I’m going to guess there’s a reason you only taught Amanda and Mark that part.” At Cas’s raised eyebrows, he shrugs. “Very said something about how you kept them longer than the rest of her class. She guessed what you were doing, in case you didn’t know that.”

“Not surprising,” Cas answers cryptically. “Amanda was taught by her parents from early childhood and was primary caretaker for her two younger siblings.” Cas doesn’t need to explain where those younger kids got their instruction; he was the one who taught Sam first, made sure he kept up his training right up until the day he left for Stanford. “She also has the temperament to deal with those less skilled than she is and can adapt to their differing levels of ability. Mark learned from another hunter when his family was killed in his late teens, and while not as skilled in instruction, he was malleable enough to be taught to do it competently.” Cas leans an elbow on the step behind him, frowning at nothing. “Kamal and Alicia have the temperament, and Melanie and Joseph are also possibilities, as they are both patient as well as methodical. The rest—it’s been a very long time since I did their initial and final evaluations for Dean. However, we can’t afford to remove anyone else from duty for the time it would take to train them.” Cas looks down, as if for his Notebook of Everything (now five volumes and counting) and frowns at the realization it’s not there. “Our first priority is to field at least two more teams for patrol without affecting the watch or basic camp functions, especially if any of the communities accept our offer.”

“Any candidates?”

“Yes, but…” Cas’s frown vanishes as he looks at Dean. “I don’t want you to think I don’t respect your judgment, so I feel the final decision should be yours.”

“I don’t—”

“I’ll provide all the relevant information you require to decide,” Cas interrupts earnestly. “I’ll begin the list tomorrow for your perusal.”

Fuck his life: Sid (and possibly Kyle) aren’t exactly shining examples of his judgment here. “Fine, whatever.” Before Cas can decide there’s anything else he should do (technically speaking, his job), he remembers something from earlier. “Vera said something about quarterly checks?”

Cas makes a face. “After I—”

“Opted out?”

“That’s a very kind word for it,” he says wryly. “Dean assigned Amanda to be my assistant in quarterly checks of the camp—I assume in the hopes I’d eventually change my mind—and she technically reported to me after each one. Amanda pretended I was merely testing her memory when I asked for an update….” He straightens, looking annoyed. “There hasn’t been one since Dean received information on the Colt. I should probably—”

“Yeah, tell me when I’m allowed farther than the porch and that’s when we’ll do it.” Dean finishes his bottle absently, knowing he’s officially procrastinating now. “So, I’ve been thinking.”

“You’ve certainly had the time for it,” Cas says mildly. Startled, Dean looks at him and sees the amusement’s back. “Don’t let me interrupt.”

He scowls half-heartedly but puts down his bottle. “We don’t know how to kill Lucifer. If there’s a way to do it that’s not the Colt, we really can’t take another five years to find it anyway. By then, he doesn’t have to have me dead to win this; there won’t be enough people left to make a difference anyway, much less enough organization to do anything if there were.” He tries to decide how to say this. “So—

“You want to expand Chitaqua.” Cas grins at him over the rim of his bottle. “I assumed that from Vera’s first mission as official spy and your very subtle interest in Dean’s training techniques. Do you have a particular number in mind?”

“Not really,” he answers carefully, trying to ignore the headache growing behind his eyes: fuck the goddamn fever. “I mean, no idea how many we could get.”

“Contact other militia groups that may have been founded by hunters?”

Cas is deadpanning this like he’s going for an Oscar. “Eventually, yeah.”

Though not yet: what Cas said about hunters struck a nerve. They hunt alone, but it’s not just that; they think alone, and even short-term partners aren’t ever entirely trusted. For all the weirdness of Chitaqua’s soldiers, just watching the patrol teams and reading the reports from the patrol leaders have taught him a lot about how they think, and it’s never in the singular. Even Sid complaining about not having a team is something; it doesn’t even occur to him he doesn’t need one to go on patrol even when nothing’s happening out there.

He doesn’t just need hunters to do this; he needs hunters who can work together, trust each other, not just know the job but all the possible ways to get it done. So when they fight, they don’t die, because they have time and three other people to find another option.

“You want more people capable of instructing others in hunting,” Cas says before taking a leisurely drink from his almost empty bottle. “So they can protect themselves and others.”

Dean scowls at him. “Now you’re just dragging this out for fun.”

“You seem to be enjoying keeping me in suspense. Or are you simply enjoying how long it takes me to give up and simply ask you if you are planning to start a war against Lucifer?”

“We’re already in a war with Lucifer,” Dean counters, and Cas’s expression changes, amusement supplemented with—something else. “I want us to start actually fighting in it.”

“So let’s do that.” Cas’s grin widens, and Dean’s hit all over again by the difference since the fever. He remembers what Cas told him about not thinking, because he wanted to forget and that was the closest he could get. Today, he wasn’t just dusting off his infinite memory and answering his questions; Cas gave him answers he didn’t know enough to ask for and thinking of ways they can use them. An exceptional computer, bullshit: that’s nothing compared to Cas as (he hopes, secretly, but he does) a partner. “You thought I’d object?”

“Not really,” he answers. “Though you know, we don’t even know how to fight this yet.”

“Then we’ll learn,” Cas answers, putting his empty bottle beside Dean’s and turning to face him. “If your only reason to fight is to win, then you’re not fighting for the right reasons. The reason you fight is because there’s something worth fighting for.”

Dean lets out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding, reaching up to absently rub his forehead, annoyingly aware of the growing headache, temples already sensitive to the touch. Not to mention he’s starting to struggle with the upright thing. Goddamn fever. “Yeah, that.”

“I didn’t Fall because I thought we could win,” Cas adds more quietly. “I did because to win or lose was irrelevant; this world isn’t Lucifer’s to have. If he wants it, he’ll have to fight for it.” Before he can respond, Cas reaches over, pressing the back of his fingers against Dean’s forehead, frowning faintly. “Headache?” Dean nods reluctantly. “The fever is returning. You should go to bed. We can continue this conversation tomorrow.”

Dean drops his head back against the bannister in sheer frustration. Planning a futile war interrupted by a goddamn fever. Why not? “This sucks.”

“You’re still healing; that tends to be exhausting.” Cas sounds way too amused as he pulls away. “I’ll give you something so you can sleep tonight. You’ll feel better in the morning.”

Closing his eyes against the sharpening ache, the memory of fever-images of the camp boundaries and Lucifer flicker through his mind, insistent, like something is desperately trying to get his attention, but it fades before he can work out what it is.

“I need to meet with Joe tomorrow about negotiating with the communities,” he says. “There’s a couple of things….” Another stab of pain interrupts the thought.

“That is an excellent idea,” Cas says, “and I meant to suggest it myself, but this discussion will be far more successful if you tell me after I’ve given you something to help with the headache and you’re somewhat prone.”

Giving up, he lets Cas get him to his feet and take his weight before he can stumble himself into a humiliating step-related death; Jesus, just sitting on the porch doing nothing wipes him out. “I’m getting better?”

“You’re much better,” Cas assures him as they go inside. “And tomorrow morning before meeting with Joseph, you get to sample my first attempt at making an adequate breakfast. It’ll be an adventure for us both.”

Oh God, he forgot about that. “I can’t wait.”