It's the Stars That Lie: October 31

Carved into a new animal

Your email client will most likely clip this message because of its length. If so, please read this in your browser.

—Day 89—

So Dean’s new day goes something like this: wake up, breakfast, read about Alpha (wonder if that’s its actual name or a product of Cas’s thing for Greek letters like with the patrol routes), nap, lunch, walk around the camp (slowly) with Chuck or Ana or Joe (who apparently won all Brad’s Dean-walking shifts over the course of three weeks of poker nights, which is just weird enough to be true) with an added every fucking person in the world watching him (or in Chitaqua, fine), read more about Alpha until dinner, nap (during which all Alpha-related material mysteriously vanishes until morning), and coffee on the porch with Cas, followed by dead to the goddamn world before waking up to do it all again.

“I never knew walking was a spectator sport,” Dean tells Cas venomously over a dinner of some kind of casserole that if it had any kind of normal flavor—and maybe actual meat of the non-canned variety—he thinks he might remember from Bobby’s greatest hits. Say what you want about Bobby’s culinary skills, he didn’t have a huge variety, but what he could do with red meat was magic. He wonders if Cas has been introduced to salt yet and decides to make that happen soon. “It’s—”

“Understandable. Since the fever, you’ve been somewhat inaccessible other than during scheduled visits, your random invitations to anyone passes into your line of sight as seen through the front door when you’re awake to come in and say hi, and patrol meetings,” Cas answers reasonably. “Much like any other respectable addiction, the more attention you give them, the more they want, and I don’t think a twelve-step program will help.”

Is Cas saying he’s like heroin? “And Dean was Mr. Social Animal at large?” Dean asks skeptically. “Excluding his sex life, please.”

“Now that you mention it,” Cas answers slowly, as if experiencing a minor revelation, “he wasn’t. You, on the other hand, made a point of engaging in conversation with patrol after the meetings, with the mess staff when you went for coffee, and occasionally indulged in extempore chats with anyone who came within ten feet of you, which probably led them to forget that and now feel neglected when you’re not providing their fix.”

Yeah, definitely heroin: it’s like Cas actually searches out new ways to be weird.

“If they miss anything, it’d be your sex parties,” Dean points out and shoves a spoonful of casserole in his mouth before something else comes out. What were they talking about again?

Cas eyebrows leap briefly. “What?”

“I’m just saying, half the goddamn camp is stalking me and it’s weird. Would it kill them to come over and talk to me?” He stabs a fork into a piece of probably-canned green vegetable (type unknown, taste hideous, seriously, what does Cas have against salt?) and chews frantically before he’s forced to swallow. “Uh—”

“I’m sure they like you,” Cas says calmly, taking a bite of maybe-carrot: very orange, very square, very mushy. “But I can survey the camp to allay your insecurity, if you wish, and offer the option to check ‘Yes’ or ‘No’.”

Dean glares at him.

“’Maybe’?”

“I’m telling Vera you’re slipping me beer when she’s not around and hiding the bottles under the sink behind that bucket we never use.”

“They probably don’t want to overwhelm you and are simply waiting for you to extend them an invitation,” Cas says sullenly, managing to make eating look like only a slight improvement over an eternity on the rack. Looking at him, Dean realizes he’s not the only one benefiting from bland meals at strictly scheduled intervals; Cas has definitely crossed the nebulous line between ‘pre-starvation and how’ to a healthy ‘tragic tapeworm victim’. Buddy eating: it works. Who the hell knew? “Tell Vera to spread the word that you would prefer company. Furthermore, I’ll implicate Joseph if it comes to that, as he’s the one supplying the beer and replace him with Sidney during your daily walks after Vera thoroughly lectures him on care and support of your near-invalid self.”

“Bring it,” Dean retorts, getting another spoonful of casserole and chewing deliberately. “No bridges in Chitaqua.”

“I’ll build one.”

“I grew up with Sam Winchester,” he answers, staring into Cas’s eyes. “You wanna start a war, you’re gonna lose.”

Cas stares back for a long moment before rolling his eyes and stabs the next bite of casserole like he’s imagining it’s Dean’s head, which he takes as a win. He can be gracious in victory.

“You might also tell her that her surveillance technique is a disgrace and I taught her far better than that,” Cas adds casually, surveying his nearly empty plate as Dean drops his fork. Looking up, Cas smiles at him, showing more teeth than Dean knew came in human mouths. Maybe Fallen angels get more or something? “Should you remember during your next attempt at proving that the art of subtlety when arranging clandestine meetings is well and truly dead, of course.”

“Uh—”

“While it’s possible you’re simply uncertain how well I’m performing my duties and wished for an objective third-party to give their opinion, that’s far too reasonable, this is you, and you chose Vera. Which leads me to assume she’s not so much watching me as watching to see who, if anyone, is upsetting me and why and then reporting it to you.” Scraping up the last bite, Cas sits back to stare at him. “Tell me it’s the first. I won’t even ask you to be believable; all I need is the words.”

This would be a great time for a fever, Dean reflects; brownies are just the gift that never fucking gives you anything. “Look, I—”

“There’s no reason to go to such elaborate measures simply to satisfy idle curiosity and obviously, you had no intention of telling me, which means that you want to know so you can handle it.”

“Do you even need me here for this?” Dean asks seriously.

“While discovering what you are basing your definition of ‘upsetting’ on is worrying enough, at this moment I’m far more interested in exactly how you plan to handle it.”

“Yeah, no idea, Vera said she’d think of something,” Dean admits, then makes the mistake of adding, “But shooting’s not on the table.”

“Because she took it off the table.”

Dean slumps in his chair. “Yeah.”

Cas closes his eyes. “Why?”

So maybe dinner counts as the new ‘next morning’. “Luke.”

Less than two feet away across a kitchen table, there’s no way to miss Cas’s reaction, no way to pretend it’s anything but exactly what it is; two years and change later, and Cas is still afraid.

Finally opens his eyes. “That was years ago.”

“For me, it was a month ago,” Dean answers quietly. “You? I’m thinking it’s always been yesterday.”

“I told you that I took care of it.”

“Yeah, and that’s not happening again,” Dean says, wincing at the stricken look on Cas’s face. “You shouldn’t have had to take care of it, Cas. That was on him, and now it’s on me.”

“Dean,” Cas starts, “I doubt anyone here has any plans to assassinate me.”

“Then I won’t have to make Vera a liar by shooting anyone,” Dean answers mildly. “I get you can take care of yourself, but that doesn’t mean you always have to. This is how it works; you watch my back—my camp, whatever—I watch yours. Separation of duties or something. Dude, I’m recovering; anything could throw back progress. You wanna be the reason I don’t get better because I’m worried?”

Cas sits back in his chair, eyeing at him with wary respect. “Well played.”

“When I’m good, I’m good.” He applies himself to the last three endless bites, aware he won’t get away from this table until the plate is clean. It would be embarrassing except Cas feels like he has to set an example, and there’s a lot of truth in the hells you make for yourself. “So, finished most of the letters, still looking at the reports.”

He’s gotta give Phil this one; his may be long and creepy as shit, but the narrative voice really helps when he ignores the fact the latest edition included a entreaty to the heavens that the sun move on to, wait that it’s attentions may wander, as is its wont (What. The. Fuck.). He can also see how months of daily reports under Cas’s paper fist have improved the art of writing a report, at least as far as Vera’s concerned. Her and Jeremy’s reports to Cas (by which he means Chuck) are unreal, packing everything Gloria told her and Jeremy covering three months at Alpha, along with Vera’s and Jeremy’s own observations, into a condensed mass of information not unlike the equivalent of being hit by a very large (textual) rock. They’re interesting, hell yes, but even Vera’s (obviously) limited knowledge regarding this Dean’s history with Alpha is still a few orders of magnitude more than his own.

Also, Chuck’s letters spoiled him, and also taught him a very important life lesson that maybe should be self-evident; gossip isn’t just universal, it’s fucking addictive, and Chuck may not actually sleep.

About anything officially camp related, he was pretty circumspect—noticeably so, which Dean can read as Chuck really not liking the progress of Dean’s descent into dickery and picking his words with care—but camp gossip knows no rules of engagement and Chuck’s keyboard is fucking brutal. Dean passed out reading them this morning, unable to make himself stop, only to pick up right where he left off (dried drool makes a good bookmark, for the record) as soon as he could get rid of his post-walk watcher (Ana today).

The upshot of this is that Dean has a fairly accurate record of every current and former relationship in the camp, as well as a painfully detailed expose on his counterpart’s sexual history: who this Dean slept with, how long he was with them, the inevitable, generally horrifyingly public ways they ended, and why (Risa and Jane: not as uncommon a situation as it should have been). Even more hilariously and disturbingly, he’s now got Cas’s as Chuck observed it, and the fucker observed a hell of a lot.

He thinks he gets why Cas was surprisingly reluctant to go into detail about exactly how much overlap there was between him and this Dean. Even in a camp where he knows, just from observation, sex is everyone’s favorite hobby, this Dean and Cas would’ve only been entirely sure of where they stood in relation to the women here over the last two years if the room contained only Amanda and Ana, who being the only two lesbians, knew nothing in the personal about their cocks or what they did with them. Everyone else was an eternal crapshoot that took a lot of not thinking about it to work at all.

It makes him morbidly curious what the parties in the camp were like back then (excluding Cas’s of course); once the alcohol came out, nothing would be sacred and often at battlefield volume and in groups. If this Dean didn’t ever manage to burn out the weirdness by sheer will….

“Dean?”

Blinking, Dean focuses on Cas, who’s looking at him with a quizzical expression and holding two empty dishes. “Huh?”

“You’ve been staring at the refrigerator and smiling for two minutes and fifteen seconds.”

Dean’s smile widens until his cheeks start to ache. “Just thinking of desserts.”

Cas’s eyes narrow suspiciously, but he finishes gathering up their empty dishes and takes them to the sink, setting them on the tiny counter before meticulously rolling up the loose flannel sleeves of his overshirt and turning on the hot water.

“Do you have parties?”

Cas’s hand stops half-way to the anonymous bottle that contains dish soap, turning around with an incredulous expression, like he’s wondering if Dean’s ever met him.

“Not yours, love guru,” he explains, and Cas rolls his eyes, turning back to the sink and adding soap to the waiting water. “I mean the camp—barbecues or something. We got grills.” Which he suspects were the backup for the generators for those with stoves and anytime Zack had a shift in the mess. “Just—you know, food, everyone gets drunk, hangs out, someone tries to dance, badly thought out hook-ups, that kind of thing.”

“For the entire camp?” Satisfied with the mound of off-white foam, Cas turns off the water and places the bowls, plates, and silverware in the sink and reaches for the sponge. Dean takes a moment to reflect that almost three months ago, Cas didn’t own a sponge, dish soap, or silverware, and seemed hazy on the function of pots and pans in relation to a kitchen or for that matter, what a kitchen was for. Now Cas cooks, cleans, and does laundry before and after work while Dean sleeps the day away, complains about being tired and bored when he gets home, and makes him sleep on the couch when they go to bed at a reasonable hour.

Jesus, he thinks blankly; banging Cas every night is the only scenario here where he doesn’t look like a dick to the entire camp, fever or no fever.

“Yes,” Cas is saying as Dean starts to wonder just what everyone thinks he’s doing with Cas—whose slow days used to be when there were three people or less—and how fucking amazing he must be at it for anyone to believe Cas thinks getting it is worth all of that. “Not for some time, however.”

That box behind the Latin dictionary and Encyclopedia Britannica (volumes four, ten, sixteen, nineteen, and twenty-one: holy shit, that box was big) had things in it he didn’t even know existed and some he thinks probably shouldn’t. If that’s the standard they’re using….

“Dean, did the refrigerator upset you in some way?”

“Huh?” Cas is staring at him again, looking worried. “How was I looking at it?”

Cas tilts his head, thinking. “Like when it’s three in the morning and you realize you’re watching an infomercial for a snuggie, and even though you could simply acquire a robe and turn it backward to achieve the same effect—if you even had a need for a robe or had ever used one, which you didn’t and hadn’t—you suddenly need snuggies in every available size and color.”

Dean shuts his mouth so fast he almost bites his tongue.

“Sizes still confuse me,” Cas explains.

“Huh.” That’s pretty much all he’s got.

“To be fair, Dean didn’t tell me not to use the credit card he gave me for bulk snuggie purchases,” Cas continues, starting to frown. “He also took the cheetah print in turquoise and cinnamon to give to an exotic dancer he was seeing at the time, and that was a limited edition that could not be found in stores.”

“Still mad about that?” Dean hears himself ask.

“That was a long time ago,” Cas answers dismissively. “To err is human, to forgive divine. And he promised never to do that again after he returned the next morning to find all of his clothes were inexplicably on fire in Bobby’s front yard.”

“Huh,” he says, again.

“I fixed them,” Cas adds casually. “After he apologized, of course.”

“Of course,” Dean repeats.

“As I was saying,” before expounding on the Great Snuggie War and clothes burning on Bobby’s front lawn, triumphant victor: Cas. Of course, “am I supposed to continue to pretend not to be curious about what you’ve decided regarding my suggestion?”

“Going to Alpha? Nah,” he answers, sitting back in his chair and grinning at Cas’s back. “I’m just having fun seeing how long it will take you to—wait—articulate your curiosity.” Cas turns around, blue eyes narrowing, and Dean loses it, laughing so hard he nearly knocks himself out on the edge of the table.

“I don’t like you very much,” Cas says eventually.

“Bullshit, you love me,” Dean wheezes helplessly and straightens with an effort, painfully aware of how tired he is already. Adding that goddamn walk apparently sucks for even more reasons than usual, and experience tells him if he goes to bed now, he’ll wake up just long enough to take his meds and be out like a light until morning. “You wanna talk, make it fast,” he says as lightly as he can. “Gonna be another night of the dead.” He wonders vaguely if Cas minds all that much when it gets him an evening free. What he does with it, Dean has no idea, because it’s definitely not sex: seriously, he’s gotta get Cas a goddamn hobby and definitely more books. “Dude, who knew walking was that tiring?”

Castiel finishes the dishes in thoughtful silence, wiping his hands on a dishtowel that appeared at some point (Kitchen Shit Supply Run, probably), then returns to the table. Instead of sitting down, he gives Dean a thoughtful look.

“You’re getting better, even if it doesn’t feel like it now.”

“Recovery—more exhausting than dying: good to know.”

“Under the circumstances….” He trails off, studying Dean intently. “I may have a solution to that.”

Dean glances dubiously at the coffee pot. “Coffee isn’t gonna cut it tonight. You have a better idea?”

“I wasn’t thinking of coffee.” Cas tilts his head, blue eyes speculative. “The question is, do you need a dealer?”

---

“I’m almost certain this is not a medically approved use of prescription central nervous system stimulants,” Cas says thoughtfully as Dean considers the unexpected benefits of having junkie friends. “Fortunately for you, I don’t use them for medically approved reasons either, and I’m also a practicing junkie, so I don’t particularly care.”

“There’s gotta be a moral in this,” Dean admits, “but for the record: Cas, your drug habit? Awesome.”

Cas smiles. “I’ve enjoyed it as well.”

Leaning back against the rails of the porch, Dean marvels at life on the other side of the clean and sober and likes it a lot. The constant fatigue is almost gone, and for the first time in what feels like forever, he doesn’t feel an impossible weight dragging at every muscle when he moves. “The Georgia thing, gotta get that out there. This is important shit, Cas.”

“And your decision?”

“Let’s do it,” he says firmly. “Vera and Jeremy, when will they be ready to go?”

“I told them to start getting ready before I came home tonight,” Cas answers over the rim of his cup, because it’s the porch, it’s after dinner, and that means coffee. “I assumed that would be your answer. We’ll meet with them tomorrow to go over what they’ll be doing, and they can leave the next morning. If that’s acceptable, of course.”

“It’s like you read my mind.” Dean waits for a second, but Cas just sips his coffee. “So anything else? Important business? Anything happen—monsters, plumbing, Sid complaining about the internal combustion engine, Gary makes everyone really uncomfortable in the mess again….”

“Boredom. You generally go to sleep less than an hour and a half after dinner and it’s been a problem.” Cas shrugs. “I solved it tonight with thirty milligrams of D-amphetamine mixed salts from my rapidly dwindling supply and a pot of coffee.”

“You gave me drugs so I could entertain you?” He takes a drink of coffee, feeling inexplicably warm. “Dude, it’s like you’re corrupting with power right in front of me.”

“Ave Maria, gratia plenta,” Cas drones, closing his eyes. “Dominus tecum, benedicta tu in mulieribus, et benedictus fructus ventris tui Iesus. Sancta Maria mater Dei, ora pro nobis peccatoribus, nunc, et in hora mortis nostrae. Amen.” He tilts his head “Usually only legitimate with an ordained Catholic priest, but as an angel, I could forgive human sins, and as I’m currently in a human body, I formally forgive my transgressions, in nomine patri et fili spiritu sancte, Amen. Again.” He raises his eyebrows. “Better?”

Dean bursts out laughing, aware of Cas’s sigh before his cup is taken from his hand, which makes it that much harder to find any kind of motivation to stop. Eventually, he straightens, feeling lightheaded and better than he thinks he’s felt in months. Years. Jesus, he thinks, what the hell, Cas. “So what happened with the camp today?”

Cas blinks. “What?”

“I have no idea what you’re doing.” At Cas’s worried look, he quickly shakes his head and takes back his cup for another drink. “I don’t mean you aren’t telling me what’s going on, or—I don’t want a report, Cas. I’m tired of goddamn reports. I want to know what you’re doing.”

“Then you want me to….”

This may take a while. “Let me tell you about my day. I slept, had breakfast, read reports, took a nap until noon because that’s how I roll, lunch, walk, read, nap, dinner, then my best friend tempted me into wild night of drugs and drinking coffee on the porch before I go to bed and plan how I’m killing every goddamn brownie in the state before I fall asleep.” And this is his life: it’s not all that bad, come to think. “You?”

“My day.” Cas finishes his coffee, setting the cup down to think. “I attempted to skip breakfast, but Vera reminded me that I had to set a good example for you, which is ridiculous since you weren’t even awake, but she was very persistent and it took less time to agree. Speaking of, it’s time for you to rejoin the morning patrol meetings on a regular basis; I already cleared it with Vera. Progress.”

He hates dawn. “Thanks.

“I evaluated Sarah’s team in small arms practice, as I wanted to verify their skills have not degraded due to lack of activity.”

“Did they?” From Cas’s expression, he’s gonna go with ‘yes’, and ‘hell, yes’.

“Their accuracy was appalling with some of our inventory,” he states, blue eyes narrowing. “I’ve given them a week to improve their skills to my satisfaction.”

Dean suffers a moment of severe cognitive dissonance; why does he think he’s heard that before? “If they don’t use them regularly—”

“They should be familiar enough with every weapon we have to use it adequately in combat. There’s no excuse for incompetence. At any moment, they could be faced with something that will without a doubt try to kill them and they might not have a wide selection of weapons to choose from.” Blinking, Dean sits back, fighting down the sudden urge to burst into hysterical laughter: ages five up, that’s Dad on the goddamn range. He’s pretty sure Dad said just that. “Each of our vehicles is outfitted with a full arsenal for a reason, and everyone has a private arsenal of their own weapons. There’s no excuse for not being in practice with every one of them.”

“So you’re taking care of that,” he says, hearing the faint wobble in his voice and ruthlessly crushing it. Dad would be so proud. “Good call.”

“If they don’t require treatment for blisters, I will consider that a form of disobedience and act accordingly,” Cas adds with righteous satisfaction. “Dean wouldn’t even let me off the range until I achieved basic accuracy with every weapon we had with both hands. I assure you, while at that point my Grace was much diminished, it still took a great deal to strain my ability to heal myself, and I had blisters. It was not enjoyable, but I did learn.”

“He was hard on you.” He’s not sure how he feels about that, even though he thinks he knows why. He even kind of agrees, looking at Cas now, Grace-free and so goddamn mortal it almost hurts. This Dean had to have known they were on a time limit, that when Cas’s Grace ran out, he’d have to be ready, more than ready.

He wonders suddenly what that was like, to know—to know with absolute certainty—that what he taught Cas, or more, what he didn’t, what he forgot to—would decide whether he lived or died the first time he fought while mortal. Because Cas wasn’t human, had never been vulnerable the way they were, and that was the one thing Dean couldn’t teach him how to understand before he actually was.

“He was training me so I could teach others to survive.” Like it’s obvious. “I had to know everything to do that. It was difficult to understand at first, but drilling did help.”

“I bet.”

“I suppose the degradation in their skills isn’t a surprise. I haven’t been particularly tenacious in keeping up my own training, either.” After a pensive pause, Cas continues, “Then I was required to have an early lunch and met with Chuck regarding the supply situation. When you can stay awake for at least four hours without the use of prescription stimulants, you will either take over the evening patrol report instead of simply observing it or handle Chuck’s constant updates on the rate our supplies are diminishing. I’m certain it’s very important, but he can be very, very shrill.”

“I don’t know patrol well enough,” Dean tries without any expectation of being believed. “You can give me Chuck and supplies now; he’s here for lunch anyway, might as well do something besides watch him stare at me nervously and clear his throat.” Or apologize, though Dean still hasn’t worked out if it was the ‘hiding shit from you’ or ‘avoiding you’ or ‘reporting to Cas how much you ate and if you finished your plate’. First two, yes: the second one, hell no.

Cas puts on his third-best disappointed look. “You were handling patrol before.”

“You were there.”

“You do realize that almost everything we’re doing now is the result of your orders?” Before Dean can argue who’s been doing the work so far, Cas rolls his eyes. “The only actual change from before the fever is that now I give them your orders instead of you giving them yourself. What, exactly, is the difference?”

“You’re trying to make me feel better.” It’s kind of working.

“For all of my existence, my job description, as it were, was to carry out orders, sometimes in far less detail and with far fewer resources than you’ve provided me,” Cas says impatiently. “You not only tell me what you want done, you tell me why, and when I offer suggestions, you not only listen to them, you use them.”

Dean never thought of it like that. “When the Host told you to keep me in line—”

“Their only suggestion amounted to ‘threaten him with something’, with ‘something’ unspecified.”

“Huh.” He’s kind of unwillingly impressed; Cas kind of failed, yeah, but considering what he’d had to work with…. “So I’m better at this than Zachariah? Not a high bar there.”

“It’s not the height of the bar,” Cas intones, solemn as a judge at an execution, “but that you clear it. You do so regularly. Well done.”

He gives up. “So the rest of your day?”

“This afternoon I observed Sarah’s team at their first practice session on the range, then I remembered that we were out of clean clothing and started the first of three loads of laundry, which I checked on every thirty minutes and completed before I came home to make dinner, which I then awakened you to eat. I want it noted that my cooking apparently is much less objectionable and I’d like to be told so. It’s important to validate your subordinates regularly to provide encouragement and express pleasure in their efforts, and as you seem to be unaware of that, we can start with that.”

“You’re getting better,” Dean admits. “I mean, I can still taste how much you hate food, but the hint of resignation is improving the flavor a lot.”

“I assume that wasn’t a compliment, but I’ll pretend it was.” Dean nods earnestly. “I had dinner with you and then gave you drugs and forgave myself for my transgressions, though I’ll be honest, Dean—using illicit drugs isn’t a sin and it never has been. For my Father’s love is all encompassing and He created marijuana from that love and in that love, we should use it for the purposes for which it was created. Having sampled it, I assure you, this is fact. I have no idea how it escaped becoming a sacrament.”

“Wouldn’t argue doctrine with an angel,” he answers, straight-faced. “So pretty good day?”

“One of my better ones.” Cas studies him for a long moment before he seems to decide something. “Tell me why you’re worried about going to Georgia. I knew you’d decided to do it, but not why you delayed disclosure.”

Dean grimaces; yeah, he’d figured Cas would know that. “You really think I can pull this off?”

“You did it here.” Cas shrugs, leaning back against the step. “In this case, you’ll have an advantage you didn’t before. It’s been over two years since they’ve seen Dean, and he was very different then.” Building camps, attracting random clairvoyants by sheer metaphysical charisma, recruiting legions of adoring families to do his bidding, being unbelievably awesome at everything, getting laid by every woman who saw him and spreading crabs through the greater South, yeah, almost forgot that: thanks for the reminder, Cas. “Human memory is inconsistent and surprisingly vulnerable to the power of suggestion, or in this case, you actually being Dean Winchester in all ways but the rather minor fact that you aren’t native to this timeline.”

“Minor. Really?”

“Your identity is inarguable; you are, actually, Dean Winchester. Who you are now will be far more powerful than memories over two years old. I can give you the chronology of events and acquaint you with the identities and histories of key individuals, but they won’t expect you to remember every detail from when you were there before, since they won’t remember either.”

“You mean they’ll just assume I’m an asshole if I don’t remember something that they do.” Cas cracks a smile, not even bothering to deny it. “I forgot to ask: you said other hunters taught you. Which ones do I need to know about before we get there?”

“I learned from all of them,” Cas answers, leaning an elbow on the step behind him. “But my primary instructor at Alpha was Amy.”

Dean leans forward in surprise. “Alpha’s co-leader? The one that runs the hunters?”

“Yes.” Cas shifts in place, staring in the direction of the camp walls intently. “If I’m fortunate, I can delay the inevitable demand she evaluate me and realize how much my skills have degraded for at least a day or two after we arrive.”

“Whoa,” he says. “I’ve never seen that look on your face before. She that bad?”

“I spent more than one night hoping the Host might find me just so I wouldn’t have to face morning evaluations,” Cas mutters under his breath, looking at his empty cup like he’s wishing for something harder, like whiskey or maybe cyanide. “The first time Amanda complained about an evaluation during training, I told her about Amy. She never did again.” The blue eyes fix on Dean and narrow. “You’ll probably like her.”

Uh huh. “And that’s—bad?”

“You have a type,” Cas says cryptically, getting unexpectedly to his feet. “More coffee?”

“Yeah,” he answers, fumbling for his cup and handing it over. Watching Cas go back inside, he tries and fails to figure out what just happened, but he’s gotta admit it; he’s really looking forward to meeting her now.

When Cas comes back out, looking like nothing happened, Dean takes his cup and decides to go with it. “Question. More an observation: you know how you’re not used to living with anyone? That includes when you get out of the shower, by the way.”

Cas’s cup pauses mid-air as he gives Dean a syrupy smile. “How careless of me. Should I start announcing when I am leaving the bathroom, since the sound of the water being turned off is apparently not sufficient?”

“Try.” Dean gestures toward Cas. “You got three separate stories, or was that just one really bad day? Lower back right of the spine, left thigh two inches from the knee and quarter inch from the femoral artery, left calf graze.” Among other things, but usually at that point Dean remembers staring is wrong. Cas’s eyes widen. “Dude, I’m a hunter. I know bullets, anatomy, and how to fix what goes wrong when those two things meet. When was that?”

“Those weren’t from Luke, or any human,” Cas assures him. “In general, the supernatural doesn’t use guns or need to. When they do use them, however, and they can match my speed, it tends to have unfortunate results. Two demons and a hostile water sprite whose human lover was killed by gunfire and she wanted to keep the theme.”

“You killed him?” Cas nods. “What’d he do?”

“He attempted to perform a human sacrifice with thirteen infants he bought or kidnapped from people in the infected zones. The border guards took his money so he could pass, of course, but they also sent word to Chitaqua about the excessive number of children he had and which border he last crossed,” Cas answers, blue eyes chilling into something beyond anything as simple as ‘cold’. “He used his blood in the binding of the sacrificial circle, which couldn’t be broken without his death, but I didn’t know that until I had time to examine the circle. After making a few alterations to the original design, I buried his intact body beneath it and activated it before I left.”

Dean stares at him, mouth dry. “Hell sounds like a great place for him to learn the error of his ways.”

“Twelve deaths, their agony prolonged with torture done with pleasure for the sake of power,” Cas answers softly, smiling faintly into the distance. “The Host always had the right to claim vengeance for such deaths, but they rarely exercised that power. In any case, the Host wasn’t here, I was, and my former entitlements are difficult to forget. When that circle breaks—and eventually it will, the roof of that house was not in good repair—he’ll be grateful for the relief of the rack.” His smile widens, eyes turned inward. “Though it doesn’t matter how long it takes to break the circle. It’s forever in there.”

“Good,” Dean hears himself say, and Cas snaps back to the porch with a jolt, looking at him with naked alarm, like he just realized what he let Dean see. Infinity, Dean thinks fondly, really needs a change of subject. “You used to go on a lot of missions with Dean?”

“Yes,” Cas answers, making an effort at what passes for normal. “Usually one to three each month. Dean generally gave me two days warning so I’d be prepared.”

Be clean and sober, Dean interprets. “You miss that?”

“I was created to be a soldier. When I fought for the Host, my satisfaction was in doing my Father’s will, of course.”

Right, he believes that. “And in kicking a lot of ass for righteousness.”

“That was part of it,” Cas agrees, beginning to relax. “Enjoyment as you understand it is foreign to an angel.”

“Didn’t answer my question.”

Cas tips his head back. “After I Fell and I became subject to the entire range of human instinct, it was—different. I enjoyed participating in missions, especially when combat was almost certain, which was nearly always.” So the answer is ‘hell’ and ‘yes’. “It also helped me to—understand something I didn’t before. Humanity thinks of themselves as violent—I think the quote is nasty, brutish, and short—but it’s only a very small part of you balanced with many other parts. Angels are different. We are wrath, vengeance, justice—we are our Father’s judgment and we carry out His will with neither compassion nor mercy. Violence is essentially what we are, leashed only by our obedience to our Father; without that leash, we are chaos incarnate.”

He nods, fascinated at this glimpse into what Cas was—still is, really, beneath the human skin and subject to human instinct.

“When you think of Hell, of what we did to find you, you think of its horrors and the deaths of those who failed, but for us—for us, it was—pleasure is not the word,” he continues, looking uncertain. “At least, not then. Our orders were to find you; to do that, all was permitted, nothing denied us in pursuit of that single goal. The Host was unleashed and all of what we are was turned on Hell itself.” He smiles faintly, a faint echo of how he looked talking about the Host’s right of vengeance. “Dean, when we finally found you, Hell must have been somewhat relieved, and not just because of what you were meant to do. At that point, they were starting to run out of places to hide you and each place we failed to find you we destroyed. I’m not sure we could have destroyed all of Hell, but I’m still uncertain as to why we weren’t allowed to try.” He looks wistfully into the distance. “But then I found you and we had to leave. It was—” he glances at Dean and adds quickly, “—very joyous, of course. There was a great celebration afterward.”

“Did you all get drunk and cry about how you could have conquered Hell?” He’s never seen Cas like this, even when he was an angel, maybe especially then. “You’re mortal now.”

“Yes,” he says thoughtfully. “And my only leash is—myself, I suppose.”

“That’s what humans call an upgrade.”

“You would say that.” He shrugs. “Without Grace, the danger I pose to humanity is greatly diminished, but that doesn’t change my nature. There was a reason that our first words to humans were ‘be not afraid’: we were as much monsters as anything you hunt.”

Dean rolls his eyes and starts to take a drink. “You’re not a monster, Cas.”

“I’m an abomination.”

Dean almost drops his cup. “What?”

“Abomination,” he repeats obediently, like it’s nothing, like it’s not obscene. “I’m not an angel, but what this mortal body holds within it isn’t and will never be human. I shouldn’t even exist, much less have survived so long in this form.”

“Like a demon getting his humanity back free and clear?” Dean asks deliberately.

Cas’s eyes widen, the calm shattering. “No, of course not. Demons began human—”

“There’s nothing human,” he interrupts, “in a demon. I know.” Swallowing, he looks away. “You said—you said humans were afraid of you now, but I wasn’t.. You ever wonder if the reason is—because I was a demon?”

Cas is quiet for a long time. “Dean—”

“I mean, torture was—that was my thing. It’s still…” He pauses, thinking of that other Dean. He knows why this Dean did it, why he wanted to train Cas to do it, too; it’s in him, too. It makes him wonder how Cas can call himself a monster and not see the one sitting right in front of him. “You know, stupid question. I don’t even know why I asked.”

“It’s not stupid,” Cas says slowly. “I’m not sure what you’d do with the answer, however.”

“Go ahead,” Dean says, shrugging as if this isn’t scaring the shit out of him. “What?”

“The first demons were created by Fallen angels, those that joined Lucifer in Hell,” Cas says. “The first tortures used in Hell were created in Heaven and practiced by the Host to discipline its members for disobedience.”

“Holy shit,” Dean breathes, straightening. “What they did to you in Heaven when they called you back that first time, when you left Jimmy….they tortured you? That’s what they do to angels when they disobey?”

Cas’s expression doesn’t change, but Dean gets the feeling he’s surprised he remembered that. “Yes. When I returned from Hell, I recognized the methodology. It’s very effective.”

“They did that to you.” No fucking wonder Anna was freaked out, why Cas came back acting like that. It shouldn’t surprise him, considering what they did to him before he Fell, but somehow, it still does. “Your own Brothers. Son of a bitch.”

“Knowing that, you will appreciate what it meant to inflict upon human souls what was only meant for angels,” Cas continues after a moment. “You were created in our Father’s image, and to corrupt that was the goal, of course, but the method they chose— even Fallen, they were still angels. Their purpose was to love humanity, to serve it, to care for it. That couldn’t be denied, but it could be twisted to purpose. They thought humans were weak in their mortality and their lack of purpose, so much less than we were; the solution was to make you as we were.

“You can’t change the essential nature of a human soul,” Cas continues. “But like love, it can also be twisted. I know what the rack is, what it was purposed to do. Angels haven’t changed since time began, not our purpose, our vocation, or even our language. It was not until I was disciplined in Heaven that I understood why. The rack doesn’t hold you, Dean; you can rise at any time, but to do so, all that you are must be left behind.”

Dean licks his lips. “It’s a choice.”

“It’s a lie,” Cas says flatly, startling him. “It’s not a choice when there’s only one answer you can give. You don’t give up because you can’t bear the pain any longer, Dean; it’s when you forget the reason you continue to endure it, when you forget what you will lose when you rise will be far worse.” His mouth tightens. “What rises from the rack can then be formed in our image. Angelic instinct without angelic purpose, our abilities without Grace; you are made all that we are unleashed, and as your creators, you worshipped us in hatred.”

Mouth dry, it takes two tries before he can get the words out. “Did I—did I have wings?”

“Yes.”

Dean wonders if he’s going to throw up.

“Even if you retained all of your memories of Hell, you wouldn’t have the context to understand what you were there.”

“What I remember…” Dean swallows. “Sometimes, I don’t know why I—what I did to Alistair, I didn’t need to even think about how to do it. It pissed me off, because it was nothing to—what I could do, even if I couldn’t remember it. In Hell, I knew I could do—Jesus, anything, and here, there wasn’t enough. Nothing I did came close to what—”

“I know.”

“You remember everything I did,” Dean whispers. “You took my memories so I wouldn’t go crazy when I got back.”

“I did,” Cas answers calmly. “Your mind would have shattered if you were exposed to them, but even had you been able to safely keep them without burning your own mind out, I would have taken them anyway.”

“So I wouldn’t know for sure I’m a sadistic serial killer who gets off on torture?”

“Exactly.” Cas tilts his head at Dean’s expression. “You aren’t, so having those memories would be—well, pointless, for one, and counterintuitive to bringing you back in the second. Hell feared you, Dean, and in a place built of fear, that is an accomplishment, but your memories wouldn’t have let you understand the reason why.”

Dean blinks, startled. “What?”

“It took them thirty years to break you. You compare yourself to your father, but your father is what made it possible to break you at all. From him they had a template; you broke in thirty years, but they had already tried for over one hundred and sixty. Far more importantly, with you, they couldn’t afford a single mistake; you were their last, their only chance to begin the Apocalypse. Their time wasn’t unlimited; we had already broken the perimeter of Hell when they placed you on the rack. Everything in Hell was bent to this single purpose, to breaking you and creating you in Hell’s image, and nothing less could have made Dean Winchester into Alistair’s apprentice. You were their greatest success in all of time and to you they gave everything they were. You were made in Hell’s very image.”

Dean tastes bile. “That’s supposed to help?”

“It took them thirty years to create you, and for ten long years, Hell personified walked among them,” Cas says softly, a ripple of satisfaction in his voice. “All that they were, you were as well, from the moment you rose from the rack; in those years, they watched you become far, far more. You grew more powerful, more ruthless, and it was not merely those demons you created who followed you; you were new in a place that had forgotten the meaning of the word, and you were power that had never learned a limit. Alistair watched for you to turn on him, to gain his power, and Hell watched you, too, because Alistair was among the greatest of demons and when you destroyed him, they knew that would only be the start.”

“What—” Dean licks his lips, mouth dry. “What did they think I would do?”

“Lucifer uncaged might be less dangerous to those who ruled Hell than what they would do for you. The Fallen had ruled Hell for eons to escape bending their knee to humanity, but a human in their own corrupted image would make them kneel, and they wouldn’t just have to, Dean. They wanted to. To serve humanity, after all, was their purpose, and though they could twist that purpose, they couldn’t escape it.”

Dean’s still taking in that when Cas shrugs. “I could take the memories of Hell from you and rebuild your body from its essential parts into a new whole. I could absolve you of your sins and place you within your human body and guide your first breath. But what was done to you was fundamental to your being, and it cannot be changed or altered. In Hell, it made you a demon, but it didn’t make you less human; on earth, you’re still human, and what they changed is still there, but now it is—leashed. By yourself and yourself alone.” He pauses. “It’s a part of you, but among many parts, all of them human; unlike in Hell, however, here you remember that you’re human. That’s what you can’t understand about your time there. When I took your memories, they were true, but that didn’t make them any less a lie.”

“Does that really make a difference?”

“Yes,” Cas answers, certain. “It does. Your very existence is the proof.”

“One person isn’t a good indicator of demons becoming human again.”

“You are the only one who has ever been allowed to try.”

It’s kind of terrifying, how Cas can just do that; he could make Dean believe almost anything.

“So I brought back a thing for torture,” Dean says, ignoring Cas’s frown. “Even if I don’t do it. Anything else?” Cas hesitates, which isn’t comforting. “Cas? Is there something else I do that’s—from there?” He can’t think of anything, but would he even notice something more subtle? “What?”

“I don’t know,” Cas says, and right here, Cas proves his point about the convincing voice, because he’s sure as fuck not using it now. “It’s not traumatizing,” he adds, more certain, giving Dean a thoughtful look. “You probably would never notice.”

Yeah, like that’s gonna help. “What?”

“On the roof that night, you seemed nervous. You said you were usually fighting when you were that far from the ground.”

“Yeah,” Dean answers in surprise. “Why?”

“You aren’t afraid of heights,” Castiel says. “That’s why you don’t notice being afraid of them when you fight. You’re angry at them, and when you aren’t fighting, you don’t understand the source of your anger and assume that it must be fear. It’s not.”

For no reason, Dean remembers sitting by Cas and looking out into the darkness, wishing it wasn’t so dark; from the way Cas looked, it must be amazing.

“When they remade you, they gave you our instincts and our abilities, as much as they could of what they were, but they couldn’t give you Grace.” Cas pauses, mouth tight. “They gave you wings and the desire to use them, but not the ability to fly. Until I raised you from Hell, you still tried.”

Cas looks away with a frown, shifting restlessly on the step; Dean looks at him for a few seconds before it dawns on him that he might be witnessing Cas actually uncomfortable.

“That bothers you?” Even heartwarming stories of Hell can’t compete with the sheer weirdness of Cas being bothered by—of all things—Dean being subconsciously pissed because as a demon he couldn’t fucking fly. That doesn’t even make sense. “Cas, why—”

“It doesn’t bother me,” Cas says sharply, eyes fixed on the step. “I mean, any more than all of your experiences in Hell were an abomination, of course.”

“So why—” Dean cuts himself off, staring at the back of Cas’s head for a few long minutes and decides to switch tracks. “Why are you telling me now? I mean, if you’ve always known that was the reason that I didn’t like heights since I got back—”

“I didn’t know.” Cas really seems fascinated with that step. “Dean never told me heights bothered him, and in general, sharing stories of Hell is not something that either of you—or me, for that matter—do as a way to pass the time.”

“Huh.” Fair enough. “So how did you know?”

Cas hesitates again. “I recognized it.”

“Oh.” Dean sits back against the bannister, too surprised to even feel freaked out that Cas could read him that well. “That’s how you feel when you’re up there?”

“Unlike you, I knew what I was feeling and why,” Cas admits.

“Unlike me, you could remember having wings and actually using them.” Dean really didn’t see this conversation coming. “And you feel it all the time.”

Cas nods, taking a sip from his empty cup and making a face when he realizes what he just did.

It’s not that Dean doesn’t think Cas is that masochistic—he is, Dean’s pretty familiar with the type—but that’s not why Cas had been up there. “Does it help?”

Cas takes longer to answer this time. “When I let it, it does. I only go now when I can let it.”

“Yeah.” Dean thinks of how the world must look from the roof of the cabin; it’s not like flying, nothing like it, but it’s not supposed to be. “View must be amazing.”

“It is, though I suspect you’d enjoy it more during the day,” Cas says abruptly. “I should have arranged time for that. In the summer, there’s—” Abruptly, he cuts himself off, looking annoyed. “Of course, if you simply avoid heights when you aren’t fighting, you won’t notice.”

Well, now he could, which is probably not what Cas wants to hear.

“I liked it,” he answers honestly. “It’s quiet. At night, no one around, no one interrupting you by climbing up the roof to annoy you—”

Cas rolls his eyes. “I told you that I didn’t mind the interruption.”

“Yeah, I believe you now.” Dean kind of thinks he gets this. “You knew I felt it too. I just didn’t know what it was.” He waits a beat before asking, “Did that help? Me being there?”

Cas goes still, eyes searching Dean’s intently. “I didn’t expect it to.”

“So yes,” Dean confirms. Picking up his coffee cup, he takes another drink. “Is it different during the day?”

“You’ll have to judge that for yourself,” Cas answers slowly, looking—Dean has no idea, but he’s pretty sure it’s okay. “When you’re stronger, I’ll show you.”

Dean nods; he’s surprised to realize how much he’s looking forward to it. “Can’t wait.”

---

As Cas helps Dean back to bed—at this point, Dean can’t even bother himself to be embarrassed that Cas has to help him with his boots, it’s just that goddamn normal—Dean glances toward the The Hobbit he left on the bedside table; it was one of Sam’s favorites. He liked the Lord of the Ring movies—though he never dared tell Sam that, see extended edition hell—and he’s surprised to realize he might actually be curious.

Cas sees his glance and smiles as he deposits the boots against the wall, another point for Cas learning to live like a person and putting things away.

“You get a chance to see the movies?” Dean asks, reaching to pick up the battered paperback that Sam took with him everywhere for months. He’s going to go with ‘no’; he just can’t see this Dean picking them up if he didn’t notice Cas’s dangerous affection for television and late-night snuggie purchases. If he’s right, Cas is the type that would comment on the difference between the book and the movie, and if Sam was any indication, combined with Cas’s truly epic grasp of sarcasm, that’s, like, hours of entertainment without even leaving the couch.

Might be a good idea to read them all first, just in case; not like they don’t have a whole goddamn state to pilfer for a TV, a working DVD player, and all the abandoned movie collections a guy could want. Make popcorn, too: he’s really gotta introduce Cas to popcorn with real butter.

“No,” Cas answers, right on schedule. “I did see a great deal of John McClane, however.”

Dean grins at him, shoving the covers back enough to make himself comfortable against the headboard. “Gotta see the classics, Cas.”

“So Dean explained.”

After setting out Dean’s medication, Cas goes to the bathroom for water, leaving Dean to consider glumly that there’s a pretty good chance he may actually get through that box of Sam’s before he’s recovered enough to actually do shit.

“Since you finished off Sam’s collection, why didn’t you get more books?”

Cas looks at him blankly.

“I mean, I’m pretty sure somewhere has an intact bookstore or library or something. Isn’t that where Vera got those medical books and you sent everyone for Home Improvement Week I and II?”

“Yes,” Cas says slowly, giving Dean the impression he’s not seeing the connection between ‘more books to read for fun’ and ‘obvious places to get them that he sends people regularly’. “I didn’t think about it. In general, when I was on missions, there wasn’t a scheduled period for shopping.”

“So why didn’t you just go and grab some when you had some free time? I mean, during supply runs—”

“I wasn’t—I didn’t go on supply missions before you came here.” He picks out an unfamiliar bottle and takes out two pills, handing them to Dean. “Take these as well. Vera gave me these this morning and said to tell you that your iron is still very low and anemia is unpleasant. Joseph and Kamal should return from their hunting trip tomorrow, and if they were successful, we’ll test your tolerance with fresh venison should we be so fortunate as to find some deer. It’s possible your reaction before was due to the freezing process—”

“It’ll be fine,” Dean assures him, doing as he’s told and taking the pills, but he can’t stop wondering what word comes after ‘I wasn’t—’ that he wasn’t supposed to hear and Cas really, really didn’t want him to notice. “Seriously, everything was making me sick then.”

“I wonder if it’s possible to summon a cow,” Cas muses as Dean finishes his water and subtly pulls up his legs, satisfied by the way Cas absently sits down on the edge of the bed. “Surely if spirits can be summoned, there must be some way to bring the corporeal form along with it.”

“Cows have spirits?” He really doesn’t need to know that about his hamburgers.

“It was an analogy,” he answers dismissively, noticeably not answering the question, for which Dean’s forever grateful. “Perhaps a location spell. I could use leather as the base, though I’m not sure if that would qualify as an essential characteristic.” He looks at Dean hopefully. “What do you think?”

“I’ve been sick too long,” Dean admits reluctantly, horrified by his own interest. “I think I have an opinion on this one. Tell me how you’d put it together.”