Your email client might clip this message because of its length. If so, please read this in your browser.
—Day 29—
It’s an hour after the night patrol goes on duty when Castiel glances up from his book to see Vera hovering on the far side of the cabin. Curious, he nods when she looks a question, and she crosses to the stairs, hesitating at the bottom. For a moment, he wonders why she looks wary, brown eyes fixing on the doorway. Dean, he realizes belatedly; she’s watching for Dean.
“He’s resting.” His supposition is confirmed when her shoulders relax, and smiling more naturally, she slowly ascends the steps, favoring her right knee before seating herself beside him with a sigh, reaching up to tighten the long ponytail, locks of dark hair trailing halfway down her back. It’s been a long time since he’s seen her hair down; on duty, it’s ruthlessly bound from her face, a quiet rebellion against the former team leaders’ disapproval. Setting aside the book, he watches her stretch her leg, frowning at her wince before she settles. “How are you feeling?”
She took a bad fall two days ago on patrol when a bridge on one of the county roads collapsed while she and Joseph were testing it for stability. She managed to get herself and Joseph back to the bank with minimal injury—the water being slow and not terribly deep—but Joseph suffered a minor concussion and was taken off-duty for three days, and she wrenched her knee badly enough to require at least a week before she was cleared for anything outside the camp.
“Fine, swelling’s down already. I was about to ask you the same question.” Despite the smile, the brown eyes are serious. “Everything okay?”
“Dean is still recovering from—”
“I was talking about you,” she interrupts, smile vanishing. “Are you okay?”
“Fine,” he answers in surprise. “Why?”
Vera’s eyes narrow before one corner of her mouth twitches. “Just wanted to see what was going on with you. You’re really quiet at patrol meetings these days.”
“I never used to come to patrol meetings at all if I could help it,” he answers with a frown. “Now that Dean has returned—” Oh. “He asked me to continue to attend, yes. The words ‘unexpected insight’ were used unironically, so it seemed best.” It’s far more interesting than it used to be, when tripping was the only way to make it through one without saying something Dean would very much regret.
“And you’re doing it.” Her eyes flicker to the notebook in his lap. “And taking notes.”
Castiel glances down; it’s still open to where he was finishing a brief explanation of why patrol routes were changed a year ago (trolls) before he remembered Dean’s earlier question regarding the location of the rest of his books and went to find them.
The notebook has become a semi-permanent fixture in his life, pages dog-eared and stained with early morning coffee from Dean’s lack of coordination before dawn, filled with notes to himself, to Dean, reminders and history and patrol schedules and suggestions. He understands better now why both John Winchester and Dean kept a journal, but what he can’t is how they managed to keep only one. It’s only a week old and is already almost completely filled.
“Organizing your thoughts via expressing them in textual form is surprisingly effective,” he answers, flipping the pages idly and noting the progression between the beginning—almost solid with text and nothing else—and now, where text is sometimes surrounded in boxes to draw Dean’s attention, numbered lists, and underlining if needed. The appearance of Dean’s own questions in the margins began three days ago, and now is occasionally supplemented with surprisingly astute commentary on what he’s read as well as requests for clarification that Castiel answers in kind.
“I always assumed the purpose of taking notes was simply to aid in memory retention, but seeing something in writing…” He trails off, not sure how to explain. “It helps me think. I don’t know why.”
She searches his face for a long moment before sitting back in surprise. “How many days have you been clean?”
“I’m not.” She raises her eyebrows. “Anything purely recreational, you mean? Nine days, nineteen hours, and twenty-two minutes, not that I’m counting, of course. It seemed best to continue to abstain in view of Dean’s recovery. How did you—”
“I don’t need to be high to follow this conversation,” she points out, starting to smile, and to his surprise, he finds himself smiling back. “It’s been a while, you understand, but mostly-clean and sober really works for you.”
“Dean is still…recovering,” he says diplomatically, aware of the question she’s not asking. “With everything else…”
“That bad?” she asks with a flicker of unwilling sympathy. “He talk about it yet? What happened in Kansas City?”
“A little.” He has, which makes more obvious the things he doesn’t. “He simply needs time. Or so I’ve heard.”
“By the way,” she says, changing the subject, “Amanda told me to tell you—and I quote—’fuck yes’ and if you’re fucking with her, you’re dead. That last part’s from me. Ten tonight okay?”
Dean’s usually in bed by then; the more time to brood over that journal. “That’s fine.”
“Cool.” She glances at the notebook again, undoubtedly recognizing it from its presence during patrol meetings. “What are you working on anyway?”
“Collating data from the statewide survey against our previous and current routes,” he tells her. “I didn’t realize how much has changed since we arrived here, including the deterioration of public works.” Dean’s comments on the latest news from the radio—in electric green pen, no less—made him curious. It was enlightening, once he was able to confirm he wasn’t high and therefore it wasn’t an auditory hallucination, which took longer than he expected. “While I’ve always been aware the radio’s not particularly reliable, the latest commercials are beginning to resemble not terribly creative fiction.”
“I’m wondering what the Ford ‘Glow’ will be like,” she concedes, digging a toe into the step. “They’re promising something we’ve never seen before. Isn’t Detroit still on fire?”
“Surely by now some of it’s gone out,” he answers uncertainly. “In any case, Ford is located in Dearborn, which is a suburb of Detroit. I think it was unaffected.”
“Angelic knowledge covers the location of auto manufacturers?”
“Possibly, but in this case, Dean once had to acquire parts for the Impala and the garage owner was both very educated in the subject of automobile manufacturers and loquacious. I paid attention. It was interesting.”
“Only you.” She pauses, frowning at him before she seems to come to a decision. “Cas, what are we doing?”
The problem isn’t that he doesn’t have an answer; it’s that he has too many. The years of living within Dean Winchester’s single, unwavering purpose was, for the most part, familiar to him after an existence defined by purpose. The world is so much bigger now that he sees it in more than a help or hindrance to fighting Lucifer.
“As the radio is somewhat unreliable,” Vera snorts agreement, “Dean wants to re-establish our contacts with the border guards and see if we can get more up to date information.”
“We shouldn’t have lost those contacts in the first place,” she says hotly. “With those military units still no-show, the supply situation is going to go to shit if we depend exclusively on salvage operations and wildlife, of which there’s not any.” After a grim pause to ruminate the potential menu choices should this continue much longer, she sighs. “By the way, thanks for updating the maps and making copies for everyone. Sid’s got no sense of direction and it’s a lot easier to argue when I can show him where he’s gone wrong.” She slants a curious glance in his direction. “I didn’t know you could draw.”
“I didn’t either.” It never occurred to him that he inherited anything from Jimmy’s body—considering it was rather questionable if this could be considered Jimmy’s body at all after its resurrection and the lack of Jimmy’s presence—but the ability to accurately reproduce and update their few existing maps isn’t something he thinks would have been included in his initial creation.
Dean’s surprised relief at having a convenient way to learn the new geography of the state was unexpectedly gratifying. In the spirit of exploiting any resource in his immediate vicinity, he sent a team to the city for what supplies they could find to further Castiel’s efforts, and what time he isn’t spending trying to impart years of history is spent reproducing the layout of all the major cities of Kansas and their patrol routes in them as well as the current geography of most of the state from memory, aided by the invaluable reports by the patrol. Stretching his fingers absently, he glances down at the now-constant lead and ink stains on his fingers, new calluses developing from the constant use of a pen.
He’s still surprised that he doesn’t necessarily mind, even if his hands are starting to ache constantly from the unfamiliar activity. There’s something immensely soothing in devoting the entirety of his attention and energy to drawing, rough pencil-sketches he improves over hours before confirmation in pen. When he told Dean that, however, he was inexplicably amused but refused to explain why.
“No wonder you’re clean,” she says teasingly, following his gaze. “Wearing Lady Macbeth’s inkstains there, you don’t have time for anything else. Though really, do we really need to know where each still existing tree in Kansas City is on a street map?”
“The ones growing in the middle of what used to be major thoroughfares qualify as necessary information,” he argues. “Especially considering someone managed to mistake a city park for a thoroughfare in the first place.”
She snickers. “You gotta get over that. Not like Dev was a cartographer. He did the best he could.”
He glares at her. “So he mistook park benches for cars?”
Listening to her laugh, he realizes that this may be the longest conversation they’ve ever had when he wasn’t stoned. It’s been over three quarters of his mortal life since the day they met, but he still remembers that first time she looked at him on Chitaqua’s training field, one of Dean’s newest recruits. Like all humans, she knew he wasn’t what he appeared to be, even if she didn’t know why, not then; she simply didn’t care. It was far too late at the time for him to appreciate it, but it seems that wasn’t true for her.
The sound of beads jerks both their attention to the doorway. Dean pads across the porch, rubbing the back of his head absently, but the green eyes are anything but dulled from the rest he claimed that he needed, a faintly dissatisfied expression curving one corner of his mouth.
Almost immediately, Vera’s smile stiffens and she gets to her feet to face him. With Dean on one side and Vera on the other, he suddenly feels surrounded, the space between them charged with claustrophobic portent. So far, Vera and Dean’s interaction has been sharply limited to patrol meetings, and professionalism and unfamiliarity can cover many things that direct conversation can’t.
“Hey, Dean,” she says with artificial enthusiasm, demonstrating exactly that. “How’s it going?”
Dean smiles back, gaze sharpening. “Don’t let me interrupt or anything, I just needed to ask Cas something.”
“Amanda’s expecting me back.” She glances down at Castiel expectantly. “Talk to you later?”
Aware of Dean watching them both, he nods as casually as he can. “Of course.”
Dean looks after her speculatively until she vanishes from sight before taking her place on the step. “How’s her knee?”
“She said the swelling was down, but your order keeping her off-duty should remain in effect for the full week,” he answers. “Joseph may need another day or two, however. Alicia says he’ll be fine, but he suffers from regular migraines, and this has triggered a severe one.”
“I don’t want that team going out without Vera anyway,” Dean answers with a grimace. “If the bridge is any example, Joe’ll be dead in a day if the other two are all he has to back him up. Sid’s leadership skills need some work if he doesn’t know to come back when two of his team members are injured.”
“He’s a very good fighter,” Castiel says neutrally, “but he wasn’t a team leader before now. He also lacks initiative.”
“Pulling people out of a river doesn’t require initiative, it requires common sense,” Dean says stubbornly. “A rope helps, but that just means problem-solving capabilities are in order when you don’t have one, and he doesn’t seem to have any of that either.” He blows out a breath. “You weren’t kidding about them being new at their jobs. Six people in all four teams were on regular patrol before this, and dude, we know more about the job than they do.”
That’s depressingly accurate. “They aren’t that bad.”
“No,” Dean says slowly, eyes fixed on something in the distance. “They’re just all much better at taking orders than working out what to do for themselves.” He slants a glance at Castiel. “That’s why you were rotating them? I really should have asked about that.”
“It would be more accurate to say I had no idea how to judge who should be doing it, and rotating them was preferable to choosing wrong,” he answers. “Also, I wasn’t in the mood to deal with the issues that come with establishing a hierarchy.”
“Jealousy,” Dean agrees glumly. “Fighting evil at the end of the world, still gotta worry about what you rank fighting it. Why are people like this?”
“The Host had a more caste-based system, but it wasn’t much better.” At Dean’s disbelieving look, he almost smiles. “Having dealt with angels, this surprises you?”
“Zachariah did have the middle management thing going on,” Dean concedes, cocking his head. “You—even when Castiel was sheriffing Heaven, it wasn’t a power thing. I mean—not a power thing because he liked power, not at first, anyway.” Dean’s expression darkens at the reminder. “Power corrupts, huh?”
“So it’s said.” He considers his answer. “I’ve wondered if it’s more that power gives the corrupt the ability to exercise their nature upon more people.”
“And everyone’s corrupt,” Dean finishes in gloomy satisfaction.
“Everyone has weaknesses,” he counters. “Those that know them, and are willing to work against them, are very different from those who neither acknowledge them nor attempt to regulate themselves.”
“‘For an angel is nothing more than a shark well governed’.” Turning on the step, Castiel stares at him, and Dean’s innocent expression cracks almost immediately. “I can also do the entire Mark Antony funeral speech from Julius Caesar.”
“What was her name?”
“Victoria, junior year, fourth high school that year.” Dean’s grin widens. “Couldn’t play football, we were moving too much, so had to work with what I had.”
“That would be Herman Melville and Shakespeare,” Castiel answers blankly, almost ashamed of how surprised he is. “How is your Dante?”
“My Dante is fucking awesome, and so is my Milton and Blake,” Dean confirms smugly. “And unlike anyone else in class, relevant to my life and times. Though I didn’t realize how much then.”
“And useful in picking up young women.”
“Like magic,” Dean answers in satisfaction, eyes drifting in the direction that Vera went again. “Speaking of women, do I want to know why Vera hates me or we gonna pretend that didn’t just happen?”
“She doesn’t hate you.”
“You really want to go with that?” Dean asks him. “I remember what she was like when you were running patrol meetings, and come on. I don’t even rate passive aggressive, and that’s—I don’t know, but I’m guessing bad considering how pissed she was with you then.”
He tries not to wince. “You could tell?”
“Oh yeah,” Dean confirms maliciously. “It was funnier when it was you. So just spit it out and get it over with.”
“She doesn’t hate you,” he repeats firmly. “She doesn’t. She is—ambivalent.”
“Right. About what?”
He considers how to frame his answer and realizes there’s no way to ease into this particular subject. “Her partner—Debra—was infected with Croatoan soon after they arrived here.”
“Does this story end with me shooting her in full view of her girlfriend?”
Castiel almost sighs. “Yes.”
“Jesus,” Dean breathes, closing his eyes before he looks at Castiel speculatively. “Friend of yours?” Did you sleep with her remains unspoken but crystal clear. He nods uncertainly, not sure of the relevance. “Close?”
“Despite the fact that I agreed with Dean’s decision, I had the advantage of not having actually pulled the trigger. She and Debra had only been here a few weeks when Debra died, so she had few people she knew, and as I was one of them, I assume she made the best of a very limited selection.”
Dean’s mouth quirks. “Huh.”
“Sex,” he explains, not sure what’s making Dean look at him like that, “doesn’t indicate any particular intimacy other than that achieved physically.”
“Anyone but you, that would sound cynical,” Dean observes. “I have no idea here, though.”
“You don’t agree?”
“Didn’t say that. I’m saying, she hates me but still comes over here because she wants to check up on you—dude, I saw her face, didn’t hear a thing, promise—she isn’t in it just for the orgasms.”
“It was only a few times and a very long time ago.”
“A few orgasms,” Dean corrects himself, rolling his eyes.
“From my understanding of friendship,” he answers carefully, “I wasn’t making any attempt to have that with her. Or anyone, for that matter.”
He shrugs. “I’m betting she saw whatever it was with the two of you better than you did. Considering you were pretty stoned half the time.”
“She and Jeremy did voluntarily spend time with me when certain experiments with substances I doubt anyone sane would have considered attempting failed. I assumed they were simply very bored. It’s not as if there’s much to do here.”
“Cas, trust me when I say this, that’s the gold standard. The only person I ever held their hair back while they found God in the toilet was Sam.” Getting to his feet, he inclines his head toward the doorway. “You want a beer?”
“Yes,” he answers immediately, watching Dean go back inside before returning to his notebook, flipping the pages thoughtfully.
There’s nothing like occupation—necessary, indispensable occupation—to provide surcease from pain, and Dean’s days are now as full as Castiel can manage to make them. While it doesn’t change the hours of the night he spends awake, it provides an excellent distraction during daylight hours, and sheer exhaustion limits the amount of time Dean can spend brooding before he finally goes to sleep.
It’s helped that Dean’s shown a hitherto unknown love of routine and the need to have one, the novelty of which has yet to diminish. His ruthless enforcement of who has possession of the shower at what time and the appropriate and inarguable time for meals and sleep were something of a revelation, splitting each day into blocks of time devoted to specific tasks that, while not always entirely enjoyable, have the advantage of being extremely predictable, a trait Castiel’s learned to appreciate a great deal after two years of humanity’s sheer lack of same.
Which is why the offer of a beer is worrying; that’s routine, too, but never before dinner for reasons that he suspects probably have a great deal to do with Vera’s comment on his sobriety. He learned very quickly exactly how inadvisable it was to try and do anything when not entirely in his right mind—reading Phil’s first patrol report while coming down still lingers, traumatically—but even so, he supposes Dean doesn’t want to provide excessive temptation.
As Dean returns, handing him the bottle as he sits down beside him with a sigh that’s become very familiar. “Thank you.”
“Anytime.” Resting his elbows on his knees, Dean waves a hand in response, and Castiel finds his attention abruptly fixed on the long line of his throat as he takes a drink. Lowering it, he stares into the distance for a long moment before abruptly saying, “You know, I don’t need a babysitter.”
“I’ll remove that from Chuck’s supply list, then,” he answers, matching Dean’s tone. “Should I write it down?”
“Funny.” Taking another drink—too quickly, he notes in growing alarm—Dean shrugs. “Look, I’m just saying, you don’t have to stick around every night. There’s not an attendance requirement when it comes to roommates.”
Castiel starts to answer, then following Dean’s gaze, confirms the significance of the direction he’s looking. “I’m not having sex with Vera. That was a very long time ago, as I explained.”
Dean scowls at him. “Not what I was talking about—”
“I can make you a list of who I have if you wish,” he offers idly. “Or you could simply ask—”
“I’m saying,” Dean continues with an alarmed frown, “sitting out here pretending to work or read or whatever you’re doing all the time when you could be doing…” He waves a hand in eloquent explanation. “Hang out with your buddies.”
“You mean having sex?”
“Jesus, Cas.” Dean closes his eyes. “Not everything’s about sex.”
“In this case, it is, unless you were under the impression I hosted very enthusiastic Parcheesi tournaments on a nightly basis.”
“Daily,” Dean mutters, rubbing his face helplessly before sighing. “Forget it, okay? Just getting that out there.”
“Your concern for my sex life is appreciated but unnecessary.” The cabin’s plumbing, he’s found, is excellent, and as he has a designated time to use it, he takes advantage of it. Dean’s preference he not engage in chemically assisted sexual congress in the cabin didn’t need to be articulated to be very clear, and it’s not as if he has either the time or the inclination at the moment. “I wasn’t pretending to read, I was reading. I like to read.”
He does, though it’s been a long time since he did so for no other reason than pleasure. Slanting a glance at the book, however, he wonders if that’s something he wants to admit under the circumstances.
“What are you reading, anyway?” Dean asks immediately, craning his neck to decipher the illegible title. Resigning himself, he picks it up and passes it to Dean, who flips it open, squinting at the pages with a dubious expression before turning it sideways. “Okay, I give up, what is it?”
“Evidence suggests it’s the greater part of a very bad epic poem by a disappointed Athenian student who was refused study in the Library of Alexandria,” Castiel tells him. “More specifically, a very grammatically questionable but extremely detailed account of a hero calling on the gods to help him strike down a soul devouring monster who preys on the young and helpless, which in this case is a symbolic representation of the head librarian at the time, Eratosthenes.”
Dean looks back at the page, tilting his head in confusion. “But not in Greek.”
“Depressingly, he attempted to write it in demotic Egyptian during a tour of the Nile, the quality of which explains why he wasn’t accepted to study in the Library. From context, I assume this was a portion of a trip arranged by his family to console him for his failure as a scholar.”
Dean cocks his head. “He didn’t get into college so he went on a road trip and wrote a pre-Myspace poem about it? Two thousand and something years ago?”
“Two thousand, two hundred and fifty-nine years ago, and yes,” he agrees, taking the book back before the binding loosens too much to hold the pages, and with any kind of luck, inhibit further inquiries on the subject matter. Closing it and smoothing the cover, he sees Dean’s grin widen, pink lips still wet from his last drink of beer. “What?”
“Where’d you get it?”
“Oh. It was part of a collection of books that Bobby acquired.” Dean raises his eyebrows in a silent request for more information, and sighing, he gives up. “I originally vetted the contents and identified it as a work of fiction, not a particularly convoluted ritual to summon Tawaret, if the prevalence of hippopotamuses in the narrative is any indication.”
“Goddess with a hippo head, got it. Wasn’t she into childbirth or something? Why would anyone summon Tawaret?” Looking between the book and Castiel, he cocks his head curiously. “Why are you even reading it?”
Yes, that. “I found it again earlier when I was looking for the rest of my books, as you requested,” he answers, then glances toward the doorway hopefully. “Speaking of, they’re in the living room if you wish to…”
“Why do I feel like you’re trying to avoid the question?”
“I’m not. When I saw it, I remembered…” He struggles for the right words. “I was an angel then, and context was often a problem with literary works, especially interpreting subtext correctly. Observation isn’t the same as experience, as you must know, and infinite knowledge is surprisingly limited.”
Dean rests his head in one hand, watching him in fascination. “How long can you keep this up?”
“Not much longer,” he admits, staring resentfully at the cover. “It may be fair to say at this point that I hope Tawaret will eventually make an appearance in the narrative, because otherwise, there are very few excuses for why descriptions of a water-based land mammal are entering the realms of erotic. Admittedly, some of the poem is missing, but I’m less than a quarter of the way through it, and it’s already verging on the unnerving.”
Dean stares at him, eyes wide, then bursts into laughter, collapsing back on the porch beneath the strength of his own hilarity. With a sigh, Castiel sets the book aside for later and takes Dean’s bottle so he can more fully indulge himself.
“You had a question?” he asks politely when Dean finally recovers enough to sit up, flushed and still grinning between breathless attempts to stifle further laughter. It’s an extremely good look for him, Castiel reflects; he has yet to find any look that isn’t, and he’s started to make an effort to do just that. “Other than in regard to my taste in reading material?”
“Dude, whatever floats your boat. Even hippo porn.” He chuckles again as reaches for his beer and takes a long drink before continuing, amusement dimming abruptly, “I was reading Dean’s journal—”
“There are moments I have considered burning it.” So that’s what he did instead of resting. He should have guessed.
Dean’s mouth drops open. “What? Why?”
“You read it for hours every night, and I’m beginning to suspect that you’re using it in an inappropriate manner.”
“Dude, you’re reading hippo porn!” Dean turns on the step so that Castiel has the full benefit of his glare. “I’m not jerking off to descriptions of run-ins with demons and dwarves.”
“I’m not—” Dean smirks at him, unrepentant. “While it would be somewhat unsettling if you were using his journal for masturbation purposes—in which case hippo porn, as you put it, would be a considerable step up—I’d feel better if you were.” He pauses, thinking about how to put this. “Why are you reading it?”
“Croat infection statistics turn me on.”
“The brownie infestation would provide more stimulating material than Croats,” he answers, ignoring Dean’s scowl. “Dean’s journal is information you can utilize, not to mention a somewhat accurate, if not entirely unbiased, historical record.”
“What the hell happened with those brownies that didn’t make the public record?”
“It is not, however, an instruction manual on how to become someone you’re not.” He closes his eyes at the change in Dean’s expression. “I could have put that better.”
“I know what you meant.” Dean takes another drink before staring pensively into the distance. “How else am I supposed to figure out how to do what he did?”
“Why do you need to? If you’re going to do exactly what he did, why learn it at all? I could do it for you.”
“Dude, are you pulling a coup?” Dean sits back, green eyes dancing. “Not judging you here, just didn’t see that coming. And I could sleep later than dawn, so actually, it’s kind of tempting.”
It wouldn’t, he reflects, be the first time he’s inadvertently accomplished a coup; for some reason, he thought they were harder. “Given a choice between again being required to do what you’re doing now and dealing with Lucifer, I’m not sure which one I would choose. Also, you’re never voluntarily awake at dawn. We’ve discussed this.”
“That’s not a no,” Dean points out smugly. “Break it down for me.”
“You told me I should make my own options. While that is still an almost painfully simplistic philosophical point—platitudes have a higher level of sophistication—”
“Jesus, just coup me already,” Dean mutters.
“—in this case, it has the advantage of being true. Dean’s journal can tell you what we did, but it shouldn’t be a guide on what we do now. Using it as anything other than a reference guide can only lead us to repeat the same mistakes. You need something new.”
“So not a coup,” Dean answers with mock sadness before he slumps, frowning at nothing. “Something new. Yeah, I’ll get right on that.” Shaking himself, he straightens, looking at Castiel’s notebook significantly. “Whatcha got for me?”
Flipping it to the correct page, he hands it to Dean. “I finished the alterations to the routes the regular patrol will begin using next week. If my calculations are correct, it will take ten more days for us to find and attempt to contact the communities that were noted during the five day survey with the current number of people in the camp without compromising functionality.”
“We’re almost living like people these days: only two generator failures this week,” Dean tells him, skimming the page. “It’s a new record. Let’s keep that up. How were they running before I got here anyway?”
“I’m not sure,” he answers honestly as Dean flips the page, frowning in concentration. “Dean, is something—”
“He didn’t have much contact with the people stuck in here,” Dean says abruptly. “Even the ones that knew we were even here don’t know where Chitaqua is, just where to put a signal if they need help, which will arrive two days or less, probably guaranteed. Amazon could get me Himalayan rock salt faster than that.” He waves a hand when Castiel looks at him curiously. “Uh, this thing—had to be untouched by human hands and grind it ourselves. Unprocessed or something counts, but there was pink dust everywhere after we were done.”
“Couldn’t find any in black?” Castiel says, fighting down a smile at Dean’s disgruntled expression.
“Amazon India didn’t have it in stock,” he answers, daring him to comment. “The current lack of anything is really working out for everyone, since it was getting kinda dicey for a couple of months there.”
The implicit accusation is impossible to miss. “I could point out the lack of people available to offer assistance, but the actual reason is probably obvious.”
“When he got a line on Lucifer and prepping for death by failure of the goddamn Colt,” Dean agrees caustically. “So that worked out.”
“If it had worked, the Apocalypse would have been over.”
“If it had worked, Lucifer wouldn’t have won,” Dean corrects him. “It’d just be a different kind of apocalypse. We don’t need Lucifer to destroy ourselves.”
Despite several conversations and all they have been able to glean from both the radio and the patrol’s reports, the current state of the world is still hazy, but even so, Castiel’s knowledge of human history is both extensive and exhaustive, and it supports Dean’s conclusions.
“The cities continue to be devoid of activity,” Castiel tells him, deciding to return to a less fraught subject. “So the current weekly patrol schedule should continue, but as there are reports that the animals are beginning to return…”
“Or maybe the cows didn’t actually leave,” Dean says. “Squirrels and deer are still a no-show, and that reminds me, remember what you said about domestic animals—”
“I made that up.” Dean raises his eyebrows meaningfully. “I don’t know why—there’s no possible reason for there to be a difference.”
“There’s no reason we got fleeing animals, either, but a cow was seen, and seriously, we should have gotten Sidney off patrol when he came back without it.”
“Apparently, he didn’t connect it with the current supply situation, though how he could miss that…”
Dean shrugs, taking another drink, but the green eyes are hard. Dean’s dislike of Sidney is becoming more obvious every time they interact, something even Sidney might eventually notice, though the way Dean avoids him should by now be some indicator that there’s a problem. While Dean was genuinely angry regarding what happened with Joseph and Vera on patrol, Castiel can’t quite shake the feeling that he was waiting for just such an opportunity to remove Sidney from duty.
Considering how well Dean gets along with the other members of the camp, the effort he makes to get to know them and their extremely positive response to his attention—something that didn’t surprise him at all, having a great deal of experience with what Dean could do with sheer force of personality even without motivation—Sidney is an aberration.
“Speaking of supplies,” he says, deciding a change of subject is in order, “I’ve reviewed both Chuck’s supply list and our inventory at your request.” He hesitates; Chuck was a wealth of information without sufficient context, but it was clear that Dean’s observations regarding their future needs were accurate. “You were correct; without the regular trade with the military, we’re going to need another means of acquiring supplies very soon.”
“How are the people around here getting food anyway?” Dean asks suddenly. “I got the impression that the government sent supplies in or something?”
“Yes, there’s a quarterly drop, though I couldn’t tell you more than that,” he answers, another thing he somehow missed in the last two years. “Apparently it was organized to assure that those trapped within the zones were kept supplied until Croatoan was eliminated and it was safe to open the borders again.”
“Yeah, check’s in the mail, I didn’t sleep with that waitress, and no idea why that grave’s on fire,” Dean murmurs under his breath. “Translation: they didn’t want to look like total sociopaths by leaving a whole bunch of innocent people to die of starvation unless they got lucky enough to become Croats, not even being sarcastic. Since Croats don’t seem to eat much.” He makes a face. “Except uh, anything living they can get their hands on. Each other when there’s nothing else.”
“They actually don’t need to eat,” Castiel informs him. “They enjoy killing, but they only eat humans or those infected with Croatoan. It’s not required for their survival, however, so I assume it’s an issue of taste.”
Dean stares at him, bottle hanging forgotten from one hand. “The cannibalism thing was just added for fun?”
“And to increase the horror factor exponentially, I assume. Croatoan was designed to offend all human taboos and encompass all human fears as well as destroy the human population. I wouldn’t say it covers all of them, but it does provide an excellent representative sampling.” He pauses, waiting for Dean to look less horrified. “Should I continue?”
“Yeah, please.” Dean makes a visible effort to return to the subject at hand. “So, supply runs for now, see what we can get from what’s left in the cities and go from there. Wait, anyone but us playing salvage yard for supplies?”
“The people here?” he asks in surprise. “No, because—”
“Shot on sight by the military on suspicion of being Croatoan?” Dean asks brightly, finishing his bottle and looking at it as if considering going for another one. “Don’t answer that.”
“The cities were loci of infection, which assured they were avoided by civilians,” he answers. “Not to mention they were controlled by Lucifer’s minions, which is part of the reason they were the focus of our attention. Unlike us, he had access to teleportation and regularly supplied Kansas with more Croatoans whenever we seemed in danger of running out. Keeping them contained in the cities was the only way to lower the risk of it spreading throughout the state.”
Dean doesn’t respond for a moment, frowning into the middle distance. “We could do it for them.”
“What?”
“Cities are empty—now anyway—and military’s on leave or something,” Dean answers thoughtfully. “Not like we’re not all in this together, so why not start acting like it?”
“What do you have in mind?”
“Trade.” Dean looks at him curiously. “So what do you think?”
“There are reasons the location of Chitaqua was secret and our interactions with the people here limited,” Castiel says. “You and I—and probably Chuck—aren’t the only ones in Chitaqua who have warrants for our arrest. Even those who don’t would be arrested for harboring us.”
To his surprise, Dean’s mouth tightens. “Because someone might alert the US government to where their most wanted’s hanging out, right?”
He nods slowly, wondering why Dean’s looking at him like that. “Yes. Dean was extremely didactic on the subject.”
“Cas,” he starts, then seems to change his mind. “We’ll be careful, take it slow, but Cas, it’s this or MRE’s in our near future. So who can we send with people skills?”
“People skills?” he echoes. “I won’t go, of course.”
Dean bites his lip. “Yeah, I forgot; you’ve spent all your life here.”
“Only two years and—”
“Your entire mortal life. Pop quiz: how many weapons are you wearing to sit on the porch?” Before he can grasp the question, Dean continues, “Answer: at least two that I saw, and that’s only because I started watching for it. It’s not just you, don’t get me wrong; getting coffee from the mess in the mornings is stressful as fuck. Way too many sleepy people carrying enough firepower to start a respectable war over the state of the oatmeal; just saying, that shit wakes you up fast.”
Castiel frowns. “You eat in the mess? Then why do you insist on cooking in the morning?”
“Not anymore,” Dean says with a shudder. “At least not until Zack’s off mess duty. I was ready to draw on him myself after the last time I tried. Anyway, not the point—though maybe he needs non-food related duties before we have a mutiny, just a thought…”
“What,” he asks firmly, “is the point?”
“The point is half this camp scares me, and it’s my camp and I’m allowed to shoot them,” Dean says patiently. “Now imagine if you aren’t—well anyone here…Cas, you were an angel, fine, but you gotta remember when people didn’t go to bed like they were expecting an ambush at midnight?”
Castiel hesitates. “I’ve wondered if—”
“They didn’t, they don’t, and I’ll be really goddamn surprised if that’s changed much for the civilian population here,” Dean assures him. “Semi-survivalist apocalyptic militia carrying more weapons than the army equals ‘hide the kids and run far, far away.’” Tipping his head back, he thinks about it. “Joe was one of the ones that used to work with the border guards, right? Send him and maybe Vera—she did missions out of state for Dean when you were looking for the Colt, right?”
“Yes, she and several others generally—oh.” He nods. “People skills.”
“The skill not to scare people,” Dean agrees. “Which I assume if they were good at their jobs, they could do.” He blows out a breath. “Considering most of the people we’ve seen so far weren’t exactly excited to see us—”
“We’ve never been a threat to them.”
Dean snorts. “Dude, we don’t have to do shit to them to be a threat; we are a threat. When they ask us to protect them from anything they can’t handle, we show up—tell me we did that, at least.”
“We did.”
“Thank God,” Dean mutters. “But we don’t need anything from them. You get what I’m saying?”
“They would prefer having a hold over us?”
Dean grimaces, leaning his elbows on his knees. “If I were a fucked up cynic, yeah, but it’s more—” He thinks for a minute. “Reciprocity. We show up and help them out and then walk off like they’re not worth our time.”
“We save them,” he says slowly. “But don’t know why we do it if we’re not interested in interacting with them.”
Dean nods encouragingly. “Human 101: keep going.”
“They don’t trust us,” he continues, putting it together. “They don’t know us, and our actions may help them, but they can’t trust us, because they don’t know who we are, why we do it, or if at some point we’ll—demand payment for it and deny them our help if they refuse. Even if we’ve never done that before.”
“We could, and that’s all they need to know,” Dean answers bluntly. “And I’m gonna bet they didn’t call us unless it was pretty fucking dire, survival-level dire.”
He never considered the possibility there were other times they were in danger and didn’t call them to help. Before now, if he had thought of it, he would have assumed it was something they could handle themselves, but now, he thinks of those calls for help that no longer came, from places the patrols had found empty when they once weren’t.
“You think trade would assist with that?”
“Can’t hurt,” Dean answers. “Vera and Joe, Mel and her team keep out of sight and make this friendly. Maybe find a way for them to communicate with us so they’re in trouble, they can get to us, I don’t know. Jesus, how did hunters work without fucking phones?”
“If Joseph is to negotiate with them, why not assign him his own team and have them regularly visit each of the communities that seem amenable? We can accommodate two more regular teams in the field.”
“Yeah, I was thinking about that. Joe for now; I want to think before we add anyone else.” Another Sidney, his expression implies. “When Joe’s cleared, we’ll start with the border and go from there. Vera should be clear to leave the camp by then.”
Castiel nods, making a note of it for Dean’s benefit. It’s not that Dean won’t remember, but it helps a great deal during Dean’s frequent outbursts that he’s doing nothing compared to what Castiel still does for him to have it at hand to show him. He’s even taking to crossing off items that have been accomplished. “May I continue?”
“There’s more?” Dean asks blankly. “Really?”
“Turn the page,” Castiel says helpfully. “Inventory and supplies, continued.”
“There are headers,” Dean observes, flipping back a few pages in surprise before returning to the correct page. “And bullet points.”
“Ease of reading and to attract attention to the relevant points: Chuck advised it,” he agrees. “Our supply of gasoline is adequate at this time, but my projections suggest that within the next six months we will either need to acquire more or begin rationing use of the generators.” He pauses, surprised at what he just said: six months. As if they’ll be here in six months, or in any condition in which planning for it will be at all useful.
“Do you sleep?” Dean demands.
“Yes, but—”
“Right. When would you find the time if you wanted to?” Dean frowns down at the notebook again before handing it back, mood abruptly shifting into discontent. A glance at the page assures him there’s nothing there that should have elicited that reaction—there are checkmarks showing progress toward their goals, one of which is having a less nebulous goal than ‘something’. That narrows down the potential reasons instantly. “Cas—”
“I will, actually, set that journal on fire, salt the ashes, and bury it in the closest approximation to holy ground I can find,” Castiel tells him and is rewarded with Dean’s undivided attention.
“What?”
“After reading it, you’re invariably moody—”
“Moody,” Dean says flatly.
“—not to mention irritable, and it was bad enough to experience that only in the mornings,” he says ignoring Dean’s expression. “That makes sense at least—no one sane likes mornings, except Alicia, who may be the case to prove the point—and you improve after coffee. However, adding this as a regular feature during daylight hours—which the last two days suggest is a possibility of not probability…if you want my human skills to improve, consider modeling better ones.”
Dean almost drops his bottle. “What?”
“I don’t suggest my former habits were anything but self-destructive,” he continues a little desperately, “but at least they were enjoyable while doing them. What you’re doing isn’t, at all: I tried that. It made nothing better, some things significantly worse, and—”
“Are you giving me human advice?” Dean asks incredulously.
“…no.” It’s not a lie, exactly. “I’m trying to work out why extensive brooding is superior to making life livable via chemical assistance.”
Dean shuts his mouth with an audible click of teeth. “So I’m—driving you to drink? Just to be clear here. I’m driving you to drink?”
“No, of course not…you told me to be honest,” he says, trying a different tack. “You insisted that any disagreement should be discussed like rational people—I have no idea what that means, but I’m deferring to your judgment on that—and this is me, discussing your questionable relationship with that journal before I’m forced to acquire kerosene and take matters into my own hands, which I assume you would disagree with very virulently and at length.”
“Wow.” Dean glances down, looking at the empty bottle with bitter regret; he knows the feeling. “You’re trying to avoid a fight?”
“I think so,” he answers warily. “Nothing’s on fire, in any case.”
“Because I’m annoying you,” Dean says, bottle clenched in one hand in a way that suggests Castiel may need to move very quickly in the near future. “Cas, everything annoys you—”
“When you’re not reading that journal to fuel your feelings of inadequacy, you generally don’t!” he snaps before he can stop himself, and Dean’s expression abruptly goes blank.
“Got it, be better company to the recovering junkie before I drive you to drink again,” Dean says, with an edge that suggests unless he wishes for a fight, this subject is closed. “Anything else?”
Castiel considers it for a full minute as he finishes his own beer, trying to decide if another attempt will actually be useful for anything other than a very uncomfortable evening. An uncomfortable, sober evening, at that.
“Since the cities still seem to be free of supernatural influence as of this morning’s report,” he starts, “this would be a good opportunity for you to become familiar with the regular routes we use on patrol.”
Dean’s set expression softens into wary interest. “And that means…”
“You wanted to see our patrol routes yourself and not merely on a map,” he answers. “I withdraw my objections to you leaving the camp, provided you’re escorted.”
“Really?” Dean brightens immediately, early anger forgotten. “Wait, what does escorted mean? Tell me that you’re not sending every goddamn person in the camp along to watch me.”
“Actually, I was thinking—”
“I swear to God, I get the safety thing, but come on. It’s just the getting a feel for what they’re dealing with, see it for myself. And it’d be suspicious, because why would I need an escort? Cas—”
“One, no one goes outside the camp walls alone willingly,” he interrupts. “However, your point is taken, so as they’re off patrol until Joseph and Vera are well, Sidney and Robert are available.”
Dean’s hesitation is so brief that he almost misses it. “We’re not going over any bridges, right?”
“No.”
“Right,” Dean tells the camp walls. “Just saying, Sid can’t handle organizing a rescue of his own teammates without someone holding his hand.”
“There won’t be any bridges, Dean.”
“Rob’s okay,” Dean continues as if he hadn’t spoken. “Nice guy, quiet, might have a personality but I can’t prove it…”
“Or I could go with you,” he adds casually. “If you wish.”
“You—” Dean’s outraged expression cracks into a grin. “Seriously, you couldn’t just say that and not offer up fucking Sid? I’d take Vera first; if she killed me, at least it wouldn’t be by accident.”
“That’s not what I—” It might have been, actually. “I thought you might prefer it be somewhat private, and you could order them to leave you alone.”
“I could order you to do that,” Dean counters.
“Yes, but they’d actually obey you.”
“Point.” Dean’s grin fades into something more thoughtful. “Kind of surprised you’re okay with that. I figured you’d want one of the teams along, because you’re like that.”
“You think I can’t provide sufficient protection for you?” he asks, wondering if he should be offended. “I’ve improved when it comes to combat on this plane. It was rather necessary for my survival.”
Dean snorts softly. “No, I kind of figured you were good in a fight these days. I just didn’t think you’d want to.”
“I want to.”
Dean nods after a moment. “Okay, mess is doing meatloaf surprise and guess what? I don’t like surprises. So looks like the range is getting another workout tonight.” He looks wistful. “Christ, I miss diners.”
“I could cook tonight.” He’s still not sure what this development means; Dean here never showed the least interest in cooking before, though his comment on Zack’s oatmeal does at least provide some context. “I won’t get better without practice, though I still don’t understand your objection to my efforts.”
“Yeah, I don’t get it, either,” Dean answers, looking baffled. “Everything’s canned. How can you mess that up?”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Which is why you’re not going near the goddamn stove. Hurry up and I’ll let you choose what kind of beans we want tonight.” Dean flashes him a grin on his way inside. “Since there’s only one kind, shouldn’t be too hard.”