It's the Stars That Lie: October 9

Cas' hit list

—Day 67—

“—I don’t think so,” Cas says thoughtfully, dark head resting in one hand as he flips through the pages with a frown, tucking his hair impatiently behind his ear for the fifth time in the last hour. More than once, Dean’s thought about introducing Cas to the concept of ‘scissors’ to solve the problem for good, but that would rob him of the entertainment value of Cas in a weird, eternal battle with his hair that he’s never gonna win, and Dean’s exactly bored enough for this to be fun.

Currently stretched out on his side in a faded green long-sleeve t-shirt and baggy jeans, relaxed and comfortable, Cas chews on his thumbnail while scanning the original poem in question, one bare foot tapping restlessly against the edge of the mattress. Frowning, he reaches for the pen that now accompanies him to every hippo-porn reading to make a correction, chewing contentedly on the cratered wasteland he’s already made of the cap, tilts his head—and there we go, sixth time, and every goddamn time, it’s a surprise.

Restless, as it turns out, was an understatement; if Cas isn’t in motion, he desperately wants to be. Even when he’s still (rare, and usually medically necessary), it’s obviously under protest, a near-visible vibration growing beneath his skin. From Vera, he knows Amanda’s regularly dragging him to the training field a couple of hours every day when Dean’s sleeping (he assumes as part of the plan to keep Cas occupied and Vera sane: it’s a small cabin to share with a sick guy and a living, breathing example of perpetual motion even when infinite knowledge isn’t being used against her), but from what he can tell, all that does is take the edge off. Even Dean’s constant exhaustion is cowed by all that aggressive, barely contained energy, like he’s getting a contact hit from sheer proximity.

“Most humans wouldn’t understand territoriality among the gods,” Cas says finally, tipping his head sideways to stare at the page, fingers knotting in his hair absently before pushing it back again and rolling bonelessly onto his stomach, feet in the air and looking at Dean solemnly through a fringe of brown bangs. Fuck my life, he thinks in horror, that’s adorable; it’s gotta be the brain damage Vera’s not finding. “He less than most. Or anyone, ever.”

Dean’s about to point out that no one would fight a hydra by calling on Pallas Athena—Jesus, in Egypt? She’d laugh her ass off—when Vera appears at the open door, giving them both a look that’s supposed to be annoyed but is mostly—Dean doesn’t want to say ‘startled’ but it’s kind of hard when her eyes fix on Cas sprawled over the greater part of the bed and then at him.

Cas belatedly notices Dean’s attention and pushes himself lazily upright, hooking an arm around his knees. “Yes?”

“Just time for Dean’s medication,” she answers as she crosses the room, handing him the glass and a few pills and thereby cleverly getting hold of the spiral. Sitting on the edge of the bed, she marks the page with one hand and flips backward, eyes widening. “Holy shit, no wonder Dean sounded like he was dying. What is this?”

“Hippo porn.” Taking the glass from Cas, Dean demonstrates his new talent for holding it without assistance and finishing the water along with his pills without either dropping it or collapsing from sheer exhaustion. Cas checks his temperature at a touch—he hasn’t asked how he does that, figuring the answer is going to be weird (because Cas) so why bother—and Dean watches his face for any developments. “I’m fine.”

“You’re flushed,” Cas says calmly, ignoring Dean’s groan. “Vera—”

“From laughing at hippofucker,” he protests. “Pallas Athena. Falling in love with a guy who only gets it up for—”

“That,” Cas interrupts, “has yet to be proven. Though I admit, I can’t think of a less horrific alternate explanation.”

“Wait, this is what you were translating for Dean?” Vera asks in surprise, focusing on Dean again with an unreadable expression. Flipping it back to the original page, she reluctantly gives the spiral back to Cas and gets out her stethoscope, automatically sliding the end into her hand. “Can you sit up, Dean? Off the pillows.”

“I can do that,” Dean tells her confidently, doing just that as she slips the body-warm metal under his scrub top and against his chest. “I could do this in two, three minutes. All on my own.”

“You’re an inspiration to us all. Deep breath for me.” She nods distractedly, listening, then moves it to his back. “Again. Now just breathe regularly.” It’s so automatic that Dean’s almost surprised when it’s over, and she sits back, looping the stethoscope around her neck with a faint smile. “Solid food at two weeks. You know what that means?”

“That I get wet bread and not-pureed meat?”

“That you and the bathroom can officially become reacquainted.” She grins maliciously at his flush. “Yeah, I thought you might like and be totally embarrassed by that. And my work here is done.”

He touches his chest automatically. “And the monitor?”

She nods, grin softening. “You’re not out of the woods yet, but the trees are thinning a lot. I’m going to get some blood tonight, but if everything checks out—not that I can check much, because say it with me—I’m—”

“—the best doctor ever,” Dean tells her honestly. Her grin wobbles. “Thanks.”

“You’re welcome.” Blinking at him uncertainly, she starts to get up. “Uh, Dean, Cas, can I borrow hippo porn when you’re done? It’s great.”

“Dude, stay for the next installment; you can catch up when I go to sleep,” Dean says. “You gotta hear Cas read it. He hates the hero and the future boyfriend—I mean, everyone, really.”

“I like Osiris,” Cas answers defensively. “He’s the only reasonable person in the entire poem.”

“He wants to kill them both,” Dean explains.

“I’m not sure of the origin anymore,” Cas says, frowning at the open page disapprovingly. “There’s a very strong medieval quality to the hero’s journey—”

“Not a lot of hot virgin guys being pursued by horny failed college students on the Nile in medieval poetry,” Dean answers easily. “Not that I studied the subject, but S—a friend would’ve told me when I made fun of what he took in college . It would’ve gotten my attention, trust me.”

“If there was, I’d have read it,” Vera agrees, not seeming to notice his almost-slip. “I went to Texas State for my bachelor and Nursing at UT. If that was in the curriculum—anywhere, ever—I would have found it.”

“There is that.” Cas gives the spiral a dissatisfied look. “Of course you can borrow it—”

“But you won’t get his ad-hoc lectures on the religious structure of the priesthood.” He smirks at Cas. “Tell us about the nympho priests of the Great and Holy Swamp.”

Cas’s eyes narrow. “Egypt’s priesthood included scholars, musicians, scribes, doctors, lawyers, and architects as part of their service to their gods. They didn’t offer sexual favors to random disreputable youths with laughably terrible language skills, and if they had—they wouldn’t, but they certainly wouldn’t have been refused. That’s insane.”

“Here we go,” Dean whispers, managing to get a surprised Vera by the sleeve and drag her against the bed before saying more loudly, “You played flute or something, right?”

“Three of my vessels were born to the caste and the last one was trained from early childhood as a musician-priest and scribe in her service to Egypt’s gods. I played all of the sacred instruments and acted as scribe for three pharaohs when they were in the temple complexes of Memphis and Thebes as well as in Alexandria,” Cas answers testily. “My services were requested by Cleopatra Philopator herself when she was anointed Pharaoh and god on earth by Ra, not that his presence was necessary to confirm her obvious divinity.” He looks wistfully into the distance. “Ra’s expression when he saw me—I suppose you had to be there.”

Vera blinks slowly. “You knew Cleopatra? The Cleopatra, Queen of the Nile,” Cas stills; first mistake: she was Pharaoh which is totally different because gods, “married Mark Antony—”

“Shut up,” Dean hisses frantically far, far too late for it to matter. Cas’s eyes widen, and he can’t help but wonder if Cas sometimes judges him silently for knowing that goddamn Mark Antony speech.

“If you wish to speak of casting pearls before something that it would insult swine to be compared to, we can discuss that unspeakable union.” From the corner of his eye, Dean sees Vera mentally adding Mark Antony to Calvin and Darwin on the list of people Cas apparently regrets not smiting the fuck out of when he had the chance.

“We don’t,” Dean promises sincerely. “Total dick, no lie, should have been drawn and quartered—”

“Beheaded, his body burned in holy fire, and his ashes scattered to avoid contaminating the earth.”

“That.” Satisfied, Cas returns his attention to the spiral and Dean whispers, “He has a thing for Cleopatra and one of Antony’s earlier wives, it’s—weird. And for fuck’s sake, don’t ever mention Brutus or some guy called Opimius.” At Vera’s quick, grateful nod, he turns his attention back to Cas. “So—”

“In any case, none of the caste of priests would lower themselves to consort with someone who called the Delta a swamp.” He consults the page, then looks at Dean with exaggerated patience. “If I may continue?”

“Sit down,” he murmurs to Vera, shifting enough to give her enough room on the bed to sit down. “We’re about to get to how hippofucker kills a hydra with Athena’s help due to her wanting his loser Athenian ass. Because that would totally happen.”

“I’m glad that Athena didn’t know about this,” Cas murmurs, shaking his head. “’As he regretfully left the weeping priestling upon the swamp shores, lamenting the deathless call of his soul’s respite’—I don’t believe this, Eratosthenes should have killed him and butchered his putrid corpse before allowing him loose upon the world to commit this atrocity upon literature and good taste—’he braced himself for the least great of the great monsters….’”He stops, staring at the page in bewilderment. “What does that even mean?”