Map of the World: September 11
What's better than this? Guys being dudes
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—Day 39—
To his surprise, Dean doesn’t argue when he insists on visiting Kansas City regularly to verify the integrity of the holes—or rather, one specific hole, as he lost the argument to seek out any others at this time. He also lost the argument to perform daily checks, which he now admits—at least to himself—would have been pointless. The rate of degradation is slow enough to be almost imperceptible, even to him. After almost a week and three separate visits, however, he’s able to tentatively revise his estimate to two years before the integrity of the afterimage is less than fifty percent.
Unfortunately, there’s no actual way to know at what point in the progress of degradation it will become actively dangerous to humans, a disadvantage inherent in things that have never happened before.
As he tries to concentrate on observing the hole for any other signs of change, he’s aware of Dean watching every movement he makes from his seat on the hood of the jeep parked nearby. He already knows to the second how long he has before Dean requires verbal confirmation that he’s not attempting to commit an obscure and hideous form of extended suicide with only the lack of power of his mind.
“Well?” Dean asks as Castiel’s silent countdown reaches zero. “Got anything?”
“No,” he answers, trying to relax into passive contemplation and failing utterly. It should be easy; he spent most of his existence doing just that, but human bodies have an annoying habit of interrupting him with demands for attention at the least opportune times. It should be easy, but it’s not; his attention wanders constantly, latching onto anything and everything, including his own random thoughts (Dean), without regard for importance or priority, another irritating characteristic of humanity that, all unwitting, he seems to have adopted as well. “I’m thinking.”
The addition of a faint, arrhythmic tapping on the hood of the jeep doesn’t improve his limited powers of concentration. Taking a breath, he rests his hands on his knees and closes his eyes, tuning out the corporeal world with all its crude, overblown distractions, shallow as a puddle of water after a summer shower already evaporating in the heat of the sun…
“About?”
Opening his eyes, he glares at the jeep, where Dean conveys unrepentant impatience with a lazy slouch. Even for Dean, the restlessness is unusual, and at this point it’s not simply deliberate, but deliberately annoying.
Seeing that he has Castiel’s attention, he makes a production of checking his still non-functional watch. “You got five more minutes, by the way. We got paint to watch drying next: can’t wait.”
“This isn’t particularly entertaining, no,” he says finally. “However, of the two of us, you don’t have to be here; I do.”
“Why,” Dean asks, with every indication of this being a very non-rhetorical question, “don’t you want me to come with you again?”
He does enjoy repeating himself, multiple times. “I don’t like you near it.”
“I don’t like you near it either, and of the two of us, you’ve come the closest to actually dying because of it.”
“You don’t trust me?”
“Have you ever set yourself on fire just because it looked interesting?” Dean asks sincerely, in a triumphant example of non-sequitur as topic. “This is boring now, but the thing is, I can’t risk it getting interesting when I’m not here to stop you—”
“—from setting myself on fire, very descriptive. I assume this is a metaphorical fire?”
“—because you’re always bored and this?” Dean points at the stretch of not-road. “Probably the most interesting thing you’ve run across since you Fell. I mean, eventually, anyway.”
Dean’s appallingly correct in his assessment. “Your appearance here was also interesting.”
“You were stoned out of your mind the first time we met,” Dean tells him. “Dude, vibrating out of time or whatever was probably the only way to get your attention.”
Castiel smiles at him. “If you take off your clothing and let me watch, that would have my undivided attention.”
“And now you know why I’m here.” Dean grins at him. “I even wore button fly in case of emergency.”
He stares at Dean, who looks back with beautiful unconcern. He would probably do it; peel off his (now favorite) jeans, pull off his (their?) t-shit, and the only mystery will be if there’s another layer to consider. He’s rarely if ever noticed clothing other than the need to wear it; now, he can identify particular favorites as showcased by Dean’s body.
“There’s nothing else today.” Getting to his feet, he ignores the flash of Dean’s grin as he takes out his keys. “You realize you’re being a cocktease and that’s extremely annoying?”
Dean shrugs carelessly, climbing inside the jeep without further commentary, and to be fair, the length of his next shower is probably his own fault for baiting Dean in the first place. As they start toward the city limits, Castiel focuses on the road with far more attention than he’s needed to drive since the day he received his first driver’s license.
This isn’t an apology. “Two years, perhaps, before they degrade to fifty percent and possibly become actively dangerous, but it’s only a guess and not an educated one, a pulled out of thin air one.”
“I figured there was a reason you were pissed,” Dean says in magnanimous acceptance. “You get no one knows everything, right?”
“My former job description,” he answers brittlely, ignoring Dean’s second annoyingly insightful observation, “included just that. Call it the remains of professional pride. I like to be relatively good at what I do. Infinite knowledge is actually rather difficult to be bad at; my success in managing it isn’t something to be admired.”
“This is new, though,” Dean observes. “Even when you were an angel, you didn’t get this thrown by shit you didn’t know.”
“Then, it was a novelty, not a constant.”
“So all this time on earth, you didn’t get used to that? You gotta be good at other things by now.” Before Castiel can offer the most obvious answer, he catches Dean’s little smirk and wonders if he thinks up responses beforehand to deploy when needed. It’s possible. He’s making an effort to get along, and that seems to include pre-emptively being prepared for Castiel to anger him with ready replies. It’s somehow both annoying and frustratingly, ridiculously endearing, and neither of those things bring out whatever passes for the best in him.
“You’re better than this”, Dean told him, too angry not to mean it. He still hasn’t ruled out that Dean’s insane.
“It depends on what you mean by good,” he temporizes as they pass the city limits. “Adequate would be generous, but considering I’ve survived, that seems the best available descriptor.”
“I talked to Amanda when she was on the training field yesterday afternoon,” Dean says casually, bracing a foot on the dashboard. “She wanted an hour or two to get her Zen back with mindless violence against air or something. Dude, she’s good. Offered me a one on one—”
Castiel almost swerves off the road. “Tell me you said no.”
“I said fuck no,” Dean assures him, and Castiel relaxes only for the length of time it takes Dean to add, “She was sorry she missed you last night, though. She was enjoying having a sparring partner that could give her a real workout.”
Castiel keeps his attention on the utterly featureless road.
“Not to mention it’s the best entertainment in the entire camp right now. Ten to midnight showing, come one come all, because Castiel’s on the training field for the first time since he dismissed his last class.”
He does swerve then, coming to a stop at the side of the road.
“Bet you didn’t know about the audience,” Dean adds. “Maybe I wasn’t supposed to tell you that part. Think she’ll be pissed?”
The silence between them stretches out until his ears ring with it.
“Honest to God, I’d be pissed you were hiding this, but I’m still trying to figure out why.” The mix of anger and frustration and something else that’s uncomfortably like hurt is too raw for him to ignore it. “Talk about a fucking blindside, thanks for that. If Amanda hadn’t been up on endorphins from beating the fuck out of a practice dummy, she might have been a little suspicious why I didn’t have any idea what she was talking about. Lucky for me, she’s a talker, so nodding along worked out okay.”
He should have thought of that as a potential consequence. “I apologize for putting you in that position,” he answers blankly, loosening his hold on the steering wheel with an effort. “It didn’t occur to me it would be a topic of conversation.”
“You didn’t think…” Dean turns in the seat, outraged expression melting into incredulity. “You really didn’t think it would come up? You trained Dean’s soldiers and you didn’t think it would come up?”
“No,” he answers numbly, eyes fixed on the dashboard, marking out the spots where Sheila and Frederick have failed to perform adequate maintenance. “I didn’t.” At this moment, he has no idea why. From the corner of his eye, he sees Dean slump into the door, green eyes unreadable. “Dean, I—”
“It’s stupid,” Dean says quietly, almost as if to himself. “How the hell could you forget something like that?”
“It helps,” Castiel tells him, “that I don’t think about it if I can help it.”
“Because the junkie thing, that really works for you?”
“You told me you liked the junkie better.”
He knows it’s a mistake the moment the words leave his mouth. The other side of the jeep might as well be negative space, Dean entirely absent except in that strictly controlled anger he’s so careful to keep leashed. Because he’s trying very hard, and ironically, Castiel has been as well.
“You told me,” Dean says in a dangerously even voice, “that if you’d had the choice, you would have left me for Lucifer.”
Before he can summon anything more than the echoes of horror, he hears the passenger door open before slamming shut. Startled, he turns off the engine and is out the driver’s side door before he realizes that Dean hasn’t gone any farther than the hood of the jeep, staring out at the featureless landscape of Kansas beneath the eternally churning grey of the overcast sky.
Uncertain, he clutches the open door, trying to decide if he should offer some kind of explanation immediately or let Dean have his space before attempting it. Dean’s shoulders, usually a determined square, dip into slumped weariness, as if only for this moment, he’s unable to pretend the burden he carries is far too great for him to bear. His hopes are small ones: survival and something other than the constant, grinding misery of his first weeks here. Occupation and activity could provide distraction for his waking hours, as much as Castiel could give him, but he knows how many nights Dean walks the length of his room until exhaustion drives him to a bed that holds the promise of rest only after payment is rendered in nightmares. He doesn’t know how many nights those first weeks they haunted Dean’s rest, but he knows how often they do now.
Before he can organize his thoughts, Dean straightens again, pushing off the hood before circling around the engine toward the passenger side door as he says evenly, “We should get back.”
“You have to stop doing this.”
On the other side of the jeep, the sound of boots comes to an abrupt halt. An ominous pause, filled with portents of things not yet decided, ends with the slow, methodical footsteps circling back to the front of the jeep and coming to a stop.
“It must be pretty useful,” Dean says quietly, “to be able to remember everything anyone says—every fucking thing—so you never run out of ammunition. People forget shit—most of the time they want to, but you—you’re like a living, breathing history lesson of every shitty thing they ever said.”
“If it’s any consolation, I remember everything I do as well. People forget, they blur their own memories of what they’ve done and even why they do it; they can rewrite their own history to suit themselves. I can’t, not like they can.”
“Cry me a fucking river,” Dean says, voice still painfully even. “You done yet? I want to get out of here.”
Castiel tosses the keys across the hood, reaching into the jeep and retrieving his rifle before shutting the door, almost relieved. “I’ll see you back in the camp.”
He doesn’t expect argument, passing Dean as he starts up the road. His only actual regret at this moment is that there’s very little possibility of something attacking him; he wants it far too badly at this moment for the reports to be anything but accurate. Behind him, he hears the jeep start and briefly considers the potential combination of Dean with a jeep directly behind him before it passes him entirely, growing smaller as it approaches the horizon and eventually vanishing from view.
This isn’t the stupidest thing he’s ever done, but he can’t know for sure, not until he knows the reason he’s doing it. Starting down the road again, he supposes he’s given himself plenty of time to find out.
One hour and sixteen minutes later, he hasn’t come any closer to discovering the reason he’s walking from just outside Kansas City to Chitaqua, but he thinks it’s possible he’ll need to resole his boots after this.
Two hours and five minutes later, he considers and discards the unpleasant thought that Dean will order someone to come pick him up. It’s probable he’ll refuse to get in the jeep, and while he’s not yet sure of the reason why, it’s stupid enough that there’s no possible way he’ll do anything else.
The three hour mark finds him sitting on the side of the road, contemplating the lack of wildlife when a jeep abruptly obscures his view. Tipping his head back, he blinks slowly as the window rolls down and Dean regards him like a new species of insect that may or may not need the application of gunfire to eradicate.
Castiel thinks: no, I still don’t know why I’m doing this.
After a pregnant pause—one in which entire worlds are born and die, Apocalypses are ended with time to spare, and after he Falls, he wakes up an actual person, a far better one, one who likes food and people and breathing and living—Dean cuts the engine and climbs out of the jeep, that hideously familiar calm expression on his face, one that promises understanding and rigidly controlled sympathy and counting to ten before every response because someone sadistic once said that was supposed to help and unsurprisingly, humanity is very masochistic.
He thinks, startled: Dean was right. I don’t give up anything. Even if there’s no sane reason not to.
“Tell me,” Dean says finally, “that you actually know what point you’re trying to make here so winning it is worth this kind of effort.”
His lack of answer doesn’t deter Dean in the slightest, and with a sigh, he pushes off the jeep, crossing the few feet between them before dropping onto the grass beside him, long legs bent as he leans an elbow on his knee. Tired, Castiel thinks, yes: I know the feeling. Welcome to my life.
“You never met Ben, did you?” Dean says conversationally, pulling a long piece of grass from the ground between his knees. Castiel shakes his head. “I tried the normal life thing once—definitely an experience. Anyway, baseball practice, I picked him up after, and we argued about—I don’t even remember, kids do shit like that. I told him he could be quiet until we got home and talked to his mother or he could get out of the car and walk home. The little fucker got out of the car.” From the corner of his eye, he sees Dean’s expression soften. “Kids need boundaries, I get that, and you gotta follow through or they won’t respect you. So I left him there, circled around, and followed him for about a mile then gave the fuck up. By then, he could take it as a win and get in the car, and he was quiet all the way back to Lisa’s.”
What’s your excuse, unspoken and crystal clear, followed by right, this is you, and maybe So I was wrong about the better thing, or far worse, I guess this is your better. It’s probably all true.
You’re useless to me. And that, too.
“I don’t know what I was doing,” Castiel tells the closed door of the jeep. “Comparing me to a recalcitrant child under most circumstances would be insulting, but I don’t have a better theory to offer.”
“Kids test boundaries because they want to know if you care.” Dean glances at him with the ghost of an understanding grin, so patently false that there’s no possibility he won’t walk the floor of the bedroom half the night in sheer frustration. “Check if you’re paying attention and shit, it’s a thing, psychology bullshit. Sam took a class once at Stanford and told me all about it.” He pauses, picking another piece of flora at random and twirling it absently between his fingers. “So I really wasn’t supposed to tell you about ten being the new prime time.”
Castiel jerks around, surprised by the rueful expression on Dean’s face.
“Humans forget,” Dean continues, staring down at the piece of flora. “The junkie thing. I forgot about that. Why you—why you wanted people to think that.”
“It’s true.”
Dean nods easy agreement. “Best lies usually are.”
“There was no reason to assume it wouldn’t be noticed,” he says uncertainly, drawing up his legs and resting his chin on one knee. He knew the risk, knew that Amanda would never betray him, but there was no possible way he wouldn’t be noticed eventually. He still needed to do it; with Dean here, he can’t afford to leave anything to chance.
“Amanda has sufficient confidence in her skills that she’s a challenging opponent. Most of what we fight is stronger and faster than a human, so she looks forward to the opportunity to test herself in controlled conditions.”
“Trusts you not to hurt her by accident,” Dean interprets with a sidelong glance “And you get a workout with someone who’s not scared of you. On a guess, not a lot of people will do that?”
He shakes his head. “It can be dangerous, especially now when I’m out of practice with humans. Amanda, however, was already a skilled hunter when she came here, and she enjoys her work a great deal. She considered training here less a reflection of her skills, but an opportunity to become better.”
“So she’s gonna kill me.” Leaning back on one arm, Dean tips his head toward the darkening sky. “I just figured it out. I was supposed to tell the camp to back off so you wouldn’t find out about it so she wouldn’t lose her sparring partner.”
Startled, Castiel looks at him.
“Dude, she was talking really fast, okay? I can fix this; I’ll give the order tomorrow, you don’t tell her I told you, problem solved.” He shrugs at Castiel’s blank stare. “I’m pretty sure the one on one thing was actually a threat, now that I think about it.”
“I doubt,” he says finally, trying to remember how they arrived on this subject, “that she’ll kill you. She’s a member of your camp.”
“If that practice dummy was any example, I’d sure as hell wish I were dead when she was done.”
“You have to stop doing this.” He hears Dean suck in a breath. “It’s been almost three weeks. I understand you don’t have a choice, but—”
“—this isn’t working, yeah. Three fucking hours of driving, that’s a lot of time to think about why you looked so goddamn relieved in the rearview mirror.” Taking a deep breath, he starts to turn toward Castiel, saying, “Look, I get it, okay. Give me a couple of days…” Dean’s eyes widen as they stare at each other. “That…wasn’t where you were going with that.”
“No.” Castiel gets to his feet, scooping his rifle from the ground and heading toward the jeep. Opening the door, he glances back at Dean. “Are you ready to leave? It’s dusk. You can question me once we’re back in the camp.
“What are you doing?” Dean asks in bewilderment.
“Returning to the camp.” He glances at the empty ignition before reaching into his boot and pulling his knife, uneasily aware of how long it’s been since he last did this. “If you’ll—”
“Are you hotwiring the jeep?” Behind him, he hears Dean getting to his feet. “I have the goddamn keys right here!”
“I don’t,” he snaps, reaching beneath the seat. This isn’t hard, it’s a skill, and like any skill, it must be maintained, and he’s neglected it by using his own keys all this time.
“Why,” Dean asks incredulously, “didn’t you just ask me for them?” Then, “Are you going to leave me here?”
“Not for three hours.” He blames the fact that the correct wires elude him—possibly he should have done this before on this particular model—for the fact he isn’t aware of Dean’s proximity until he’s suddenly jerked stumbling from the door, the sound of the automatic locks engaging before it’s slammed shut. Regaining his balance on the shoulder of the road, he watches incredulously as Dean throws the keys into the growing darkness.
That didn’t just happen. “Why did you—”
“You…” Dean trails off, hands fisting at his sides as if considering a potential future of violence with Castiel as the subject. “You said to leave you here!”
“I didn’t expect you to actually do it!”
“You were acting like an asshole!” Dean shouts, face reddening as he takes an abortive step toward him. “I ask you a simple goddamn question about something you fucking admit you were hiding from me—something I needed to know—”
“I tried to explain!” Castiel shouts back. “You got out of the jeep, stared into the distance to emphasize your terrible pain, and then said you wished to return to the camp. Forgive me for not looking forward to sharing the return journey to Chitaqua with both you and your patient disappointment, not to mention however long it takes you after we return to decide to explain why you’re angry so we can discuss it like some mythical race you call ‘rational people’, and I still have no idea what that even means—”
“Why I’m angry? Are you shitting me?” Dean covers another two steps before visibly stopping himself. “You’ve said you’d help me—I asked, Cas, you made the goddamn choice! I thought—and I get this was stupid—that maybe, just maybe, we were at the point where you—” He stops short, the hot anger mixed with confusion. “Drugs, sex, torture, the monotonous fucking details of how you fucked off because you don’t give a shit, that, you have no problem talking about. That once upon a time, you helped Dean train the hunters that came here, that you hid. Tell me how that’s supposed to make sense!”
It doesn’t; at least, not in any way that Dean would understand or respect.
“When you told me that you’d spoken to Amanda, the only actual question you asked me was if I thought that it wouldn’t come up in conversation, not that—”
“Fuck you,” Dean breathes, and turning on his heel, he stalks back to the driver’s side door, seemingly having forgotten it’s locked. “This is bullshit. I’m done with—”
“Me? Please don’t say that. I’ll so miss being constantly aware of the incredible amount of effort you put into interacting with me.”
Dean stares at the door, long fingers closing over the handle until his knuckles show yellow-white from the strain. “This argument. You, I’m stuck with.”
“You don’t have to be.” Dean freezes, turning around to look at him expressionlessly. “That choice is yours. What I don’t understand is why you continue to do it when it’s such an effort for you.”
“So that’s what I’m supposed to stop doing.” He finds himself almost taking a step back at the look on Dean’s face. “You getting tired of me, Cas? You want out?”
It takes two attempts before he can form an answer. “You have the right to be angry with me earlier for not disclosing that information to you before Amanda did. Then—”
“Answer the question.”
“Then you drove away for three hours so I could think about my sins, which, you should be aware, three hours wouldn’t get me past B if I contemplated them in alphabetical order, so I didn’t bother to even begin,” he continues bitterly. “I resent the fact that it’s past five and by the time we return, it will be late and I won’t get to have a pleasant evening—” He has to stop, stop now. “It’s my fault, I know that. I remember everything, always, including the exact sequence of events that led to this moment. I could have responded better, but I didn’t.”
“You’re right about that,” Dean agrees flatly. “Now answer the goddamn question.”
“I’m not tired of you,” he answers, meeting the green eyes. “I’m tired of your disappointment when I don’t meet your expectations.” He takes a breath, wondering why he’s even bothering to try. “Humans forget things, they have that luxury, they’re allowed latitude in memory, so why can’t I have that as well?”
Dean leans a shoulder against a jeep, green eyes narrowing. “You said you remember everything. Make up your mind.”
“Two years ago, I trained two groups of recruits in Chitaqua,” he says. “That’s why Dean trained me; so I could help him when Grace was no longer—so I’d be useful. It wasn’t a secret I kept from you, I didn’t deliberately hide that. It didn’t come up, and other than as history, it’s not important now.”
Dean rubs a hand over his face, visibly making an effort, which Castiel fails to appreciate after having seen it so many times before. “So you just didn’t think about it.”
“Exactly.”
“Right. So—” Dean abruptly drops his hand, eyebrows drawing sharply together. “You didn’t think about it. Because you didn’t want to.”
“Yes,” he agrees tiredly. “I don’t think about it, I haven’t in years. I made an effort not to. I can’t forget, only a human can do that, but this is a human body that exists in linear time and—”
“Infinite memory,” Dean interrupts in a different voice. “Not all of time to search it.”
“An angel’s memory and a mortal body and life aren’t entirely compatible, but in this one instance, that was an advantage. It’s too much, obviously, to think of all at once, so it gets—stored, I suppose. I still have it, but it becomes subject to a system of priorities. All I have to do is not think about something, and once the habit is set, I simply—don’t.”
“Like what you said—seeing all things,” Dean says unexpectedly, expression thoughtful. “That’s why you thought you could do that in Kansas City, focus on one thing. Because you could do that with your memory.”
“Yes,” he agrees, startled. “Though that didn’t work as well as I’d hoped.”
“No shit.” Dean gives him a strange look. “Does that bother you?”
“What?”
“I didn’t ask—” Dean shakes his head, annoyed. “I was pissed you did that to yourself without knowing if it would work, which yeah, you’re still not allowed to do shit like that without talking to me first.” Castiel nods obediently at Dean’s sharp look. “I didn’t even ask you if it bothered you. That you can’t—do that. And the memory thing, I guess. Not being able to know everything at once.”
‘Yes’ is at the tip of his tongue, a response so automatic that he hasn’t thought about it for—years, perhaps. Examining it, however, he’s less certain of its truth, or even its applicability. He lets himself remember how it felt in Kansas City, stripping out the traumatic aspects, and focusing on what he was actually doing.
“It has very limited applicability to my life here.”
Dean frowns. “What does that have to do with missing it?”
“Do you remember how I described it?”
“A big party at a huge house, no lights, everyone getting in the way, machetes, yeah.”
“All that was, is, and will be: I know those things, I always knew those things, I will never not know those things. Imagine from the moment of your birth knowing everything that would happen to you in your life until the moment of your death, in excruciatingly mundane detail.”
Dean cocks his head. “Are you saying that knowing all things is boring?”
“Knowing the span of a life in its entirety isn’t the same as living it, and living it—” He stops, surprised by the obvious conclusion. “Yes, that word, boring: it’s boring. Now, though rarely pleasant, does have the advantage that every moment is new. This moment has never happened before and will never happen again, and I didn’t know about it beforehand. It may also be boring, but not in the same way. Mortal life seems to consist of a great deal of that.”
Dean’s expression is unreadable. “Angels don’t get bored?”
“The concept of boredom is alien to angels; we can’t imagine, so we have no basis of comparison. How can you be bored when that’s all that you are?”
“It’s almost like you’re saying—I don’t know—that it’s not so bad here.” Dean cocks his head. “Something new all the time.”
It does sound like that. “In case this never occurred to you, human bodies require a great deal of maintenance just to keep them functional. Between its demands and the constant drudgery you call survival,” which for some reason makes Dean’s mouth twitch alarmingly, “I had to learn to focus. I don’t forget, I can’t, but I can set things aside, not think of them at all. That’s possible for me here.”
Dean nods.
“That’s not an excuse, however,” he continues. “I reacted badly, and I apologize for that. You are within your rights to be angry with me. I agreed to help you, and this compromised that agreement. I’ll tell you whatever you wish to know about it.”
“Okay.” Before he can decide if that’s an encouraging statement, Dean trudges to the front of the jeep and lithely boosts himself onto the hood. Twisting around, he pats the space beside him. “Get your ass over here, Cas. Let’s talk.”
Dean’s questions, however, aren’t what he expected.
“Weeks?” Dean asks incredulously. “Dean trained you for weeks? Why? You’ve been fighting forever.”
This isn’t at all what he anticipated for his evening, but despite the location, it’s a perfectly acceptable substitute.
“That doesn’t mean I was good at it on this plane,” he answers ruefully, and Dean makes a face, inclining his head in silent agreement. “In a corporeal form, without Grace, it takes practice to use those skills with a vessel, especially those that don’t already possess the skills or training themselves. My body had to be taught as well, and Jimmy wasn’t—inclined toward excessive physical activity.”
“You couldn’t just—” Dean makes an inexplicable gesture. “Use the mojo or something to get it up to speed?”
Yes, he tried that argument once. “The point was to teach me for a time when I no longer had Grace. There was no way to know how much I’d retain later, or if I’d retain anything at all. Dean thought kinetic reinforcement—in this body—might assure that whatever happened, I would at least physically retain what I learned more thoroughly, and my body would still have the necessary reflexes and conditioning. Otherwise, it would be pointless to teach me anything since it wouldn’t be of any use to anyone.”
Dean’s eyes narrow so briefly it’s possible he imagined it. “Learn by doing. The old fashion way.”
“Repetition ad infinitum,” he agrees glumly. “Strangely enough, he was correct. Keeping my strength and speed was a bonus, but without the skill to use them correctly, they have limited practical use. Even with them, I’d be at a disadvantage when faced with someone whose actions are automatic to the point of reflex and have no advantage at all against anything we fought that could match or surpass me in both. Generally, having those abilities comes with the physical capacity to not be damaged by it or to heal at a consummate rate, but for reasons that escape me but do satisfy irony, that wasn’t included in what I retained.”
“And the rest of it?”
“The rest of what?” he asks in bewilderment.
“All you told me is about combat, which—you don’t see it?” Castiel shakes his head in confusion. “Whoa. Yeah, I guess you wouldn’t. Know yourself and everything.”
“See what?”
His grin widens inexplicably. “Cas, you didn’t need to tell me Dean trained you, that I picked up just watching you. Jesus, you clean your guns the same way I do, it’s surreal. You do salt lines in the same goddamn order. That’s not shit you just pick up by observation; that’s—”
“You watch me clean my guns?” he asks in surprise. “When?”
“When you think I’m still asleep in the morning,” Dean answers, still looking far too amused. “Before morning patrol.”
“You never told me you were watching.”
“Pot,” Dean drawls. “You ever meet kettle?”
“I don’t understand that reference.” Dean leans his head against one upraised knee and mouths ‘bullshit’, which he probably deserves. “When I didn’t need sleep, I used to get very—impatient waiting for Dean to wake up, so I offered to do maintenance on our weapons if he would teach me what to do. He took me up on the offer very enthusiastically.”
“I bet he did.”
“It’s very relaxing,” Castiel continues more thoughtfully. “No matter what went wrong the day before, or would in the coming day, for now, there were guns to clean, ammunition to check, and occasionally repairs to be made. I prefer occupation to idleness. I suppose,” he adds reluctantly, “that surprises you.”
“You would be amazed how not surprised I am,” Dean assures him earnestly, looking as if he’s thinking of something else entirely and finds it extremely funny. “So basically, he taught you like Dad taught us. Just faster.”
“There are a few advantages when teaching an angel,” he admits.“I didn’t need sleep, or food, or even rest then, and could heal myself of any injury immediately. As Dean’s purpose for me was my purpose as well, it became the focus of all my attention. That sped the learning curve significantly.”
“Kind of late, I guess, but welcome to the family,” Dean offers after a moment. “Dude, you survive a Winchester training, that’s like adoption.” He stops, frowning suddenly. “Hold up—what’d you mean earlier about healing?”
“That it’s slow, tedious, and boring in a human body?”
“No, about having your speed and strength and fighting—” Dean gestures again. “What did you mean?”
“Human bodies generally aren’t meant to retain the abilities an angel imparts to their vessel without Grace to protect it,” he explains. “There’s a reason why demons have to use a form of stasis on the human body during their occupation of it; it’s still human and subject to human biological limitations. Unlike me, they also don’t have Dean Winchester to train them in how to best use it with those abilities. Not that I have any reliable way to discover the upper limit of what I retained now. While the human body is extremely flexible and adapts, I heal too slowly to test that with impunity, and being mortal—”
“Let me get this straight,” Dean interrupts. “You could hurt yourself by moving too fast?”
“I have hurt myself with injudicious use of speed, yes, and I’ve pulled muscles when pushing them abruptly beyond human tolerance. In retrospect, what happened in Kansas City with my sight shouldn’t have been unexpected.”
“What kind of fucked-up shit is this?” Dean bursts out. “When you Fell, I thought angels became human, but Chuck said you…” He grimaces, looking uncomfortable. “I mean, from what I—heard. Somewhere.”
The other Castiel, yes; there’s a subject he’d prefer to avoid at all costs. “What did Chuck tell you?”
Dean wets his lips. “He didn’t know what happened. He said it was a couple of weeks before you were—okay, I guess.”
Okay: Dean’s being uncharacteristically discreet. “Falling is—erratic in its results when being literally born isn’t involved,” he says slowly. “Before they left, the Host was less than enthusiastic regarding my plans for my continued existence.”
“How’d the Host get you, anyway?”
“They banished me from my vessel when they called me back, which I assume was because without the presence of a soul—”
“Jimmy.”
He nods tightly. “—or some other animating presence within it—or a sophisticated life support system—the human body tends to degrade rapidly. I assume the goal was to assure that when I was able to return to my body, it would already be dead, and I wouldn’t have any place to go.”
“Son of a bitch,” Dean breathes, looking sick.
“Which may explain…” He trails off, surprised at himself.
Dean’s voice is very gentle. “What?”
“I didn’t come back—right.” Dean’s jaw tightens, every muscle clenched tight. “I don’t remember what happened with the Host or the two weeks after I—returned here. Both Dean and Bobby refused to talk about it, and Dean especially…” He stops, remembering how Dean would look at him after. “That time is a blank, and you may appreciate how unsettling that is.”
“Because you don’t forget anything, yeah.”
“Yet I don’t remember any of it,” he answers. “I don’t know how I managed to return to this body, much less how it survived my absence. It works correctly now, in any case, or so I assume.”
“Okay, so what’s the problem?”
“By process of elimination, the problem is me in it.” Dean scowls at him. “Don’t pretend you aren’t aware I’m not very—good with it.”
Dean scowls in blatant disregard of facts. “You can fight in it just fine.”
“What I could learn,” Castiel answers deliberately, “was easy to transfer and accumulate; that’s simply a matter of experience. But there are some things that can’t be learned. They generally come standard,” which makes Dean reluctantly smile. “Those things—instincts, I suppose, and biological functions—they seem to work when left to their own devices, but I’m not very good at interpreting those that require my input. As a human would, in any case.”
“There’s nothing wrong with you.” Dean glares at him, as if by will alone he could make that true. “Besides being crazy, that is. Dude, so you have a learning curve. It happens.”
“Did it happen to Castiel?” Why did he mention him?
“You got sex down just fine,” Dean counters with a smirk. “Which makes sense, now that I think about it. Built-in reward system for getting it, am I right? Motivation to practice.”
“Human reproductive urges are very strong and extremely unambiguous, which makes sense, considering your mandate includes being fruitful.” Belatedly, he realizes he’s smiling back. “And people are remarkably enthusiastic in sharing knowledge when it comes to sex. As often as physically possible, as it turns out.”
Dean’s smirk fades. “And the other stuff?”
“Observation,” he answers. “Trial and error. And repetition ad infinitum,amen. Survival is an excellent teacher, and the human body was not designed to forgive mistakes.”
Dean grimaces. “Everyone’s different, Cas. Humans fuck up knowing their own bodies, and they were born in ‘em.”
“They’re human,” he says shortly. “I’m not, and I never will be. There’s a difference.”
Inexplicably, Dean frowns into the distance, and uneasy, Castiel wonders what he’s thinking.
“We should be getting back.” Sliding off the jeep, Dean hesitates and looks up at him, expression abruptly serious. “You get just because I get pissed doesn’t mean anything. I fought with Sam all the time, and we didn’t kill each other in our sleep. Attempted, maybe, but everyone survived, so doesn’t count.”
“I’m not your brother.”
“Which is good, since it would be weird to offer him a striptease to distract him from doing something stupid,” Dean says casually. “Seriously, do you think about that all the time? Like I’m gonna just…”
“Give up?” he finishes, not quite able to hide the edge in his voice. “You thought I was going to.”
“That’s not…” Dean winces, looking away. “Yeah, look, you’re always cranky after we come here, I knew that. It was a shitty time to ambush you, and I knew better.”
“You’re blaming yourself?” he asks in bewilderment. “Why?”
“Not always you, Cas, believe it or not. It pissed me off, what Amanda told me,” Dean says. “I took it out on you. I could have just asked.”
“I understand why,” he says carefully. “You needed to know what I used to do—”
“Not that,” Dean interrupts, still staring into the distance. “You go practice your smack-down with Amanda at night, fine. You can do whatever you want, not like you need my permission.”
“You thought I was hiding that from you.” Sometimes, he wonders if he’ll ever get this right before multiple failed and traumatic attempts. “That’s what you’re angry about.”
Dean nods shortly. “It’s your business, I get that—”
“I was, actually, hiding that from you.”
Dean looks up, hurt flashing across his face before he can hide it. “Okay.”
“You sleep less than thirty feet away from me,” Castiel says, forcing out the words. “You share a very small cabin with me, and you’re seemingly oblivious to—or pretend to be—what I am. Amanda is unique in being unnaturally comfortable with that.”
“Wait.” Dean straightens, staring up at him incredulously. “Is this actually because I said I liked the junkie better?”
Castiel closes his eyes for a moment. “Dean—”
“Still?”
“It’s not…” Something should go after that; what that is, he has no idea.
“All right, Cas, let’s talk about exactly what happened that day,” Dean says flatly. “You woke me up by kicking me out of my chair, pinned me to the floor, called me slow, told me I was going to sell the entire camp out to Lucifer, and threatened to drug me for the rest of my life. Did I miss anything?”
A great deal, but none of it particularly in Castiel’s favor. “I had a very bad morning.”
“Really?” Crossing his arms, Dean’s eyes narrow. “Sam doesn’t have leftover angel mojo and he can beat me seven out of ten times when we spar and sit on me when he gets bored, so it’s not like I’m not used to losing a goddamn fight. Yeah, I liked the junkie, you know why? The junkie told me I was pretty—”
“I did not.”
Dean smiles at him, all teeth. “You really liked my mouth. You’re not the first, but I appreciate the sentiment.” Castiel stares at him in wordless horror. “The junkie was a fuckup, but at least he was too high to remember he hated me, made me some cool sigils so I could leave the goddamn cabin, and told me I rolled joints better than anyone in Chitaqua. The dick in the cabin that day told me I was into mass murder and buddies with Lucifer and then told me he thought I was gonna murder him in his sleep.” Leaning against the jeep, he adds, “Yeah, what was I thinking when I said that?”
“You were in the city for three nights and if you’d been killed, I wouldn’t have known about it.” Castiel draws in a breath, chest tight. “If Vera hadn’t been worried—if the jeep hadn’t been warm, if she hadn’t known to check—if I’d been stoned that night in Kansas City, if I’d been killed before I saw you…if Lucifer had killed me when I went back for Dean’s body…”
“Cas—”
Castiel ignores him. “I was stoned and drunk for three days, because why not, I had no reason not to be—”
“Dude, to be fair, I helped with that,” Dean admits. “It was kind of like Sam said his freshman year at Stanford was like. Even quoted Dante at me between joints.”
“I let you tell me what excuse to give to all my sex partners and actually used it!” Dean’s mouth twitches smugly. “You said it was the only way you could stay in the cabin without being caught. So at the time, it was the best idea I’d ever heard.”
“It was fun.” He pauses, realization dawning on his face. “Oh.”
“I had to make a choice,” he says bitterly, “between being pleasant company and—keeping everyone alive, and helping you.”
“Being yourself works a lot better. Ever think of trying that? Just to see what it’s like? God knows, you’ve tried everything else, and that may be literal.”
“You don’t know me—”
“I want to.”
Castiel shuts his mouth with an audible click of teeth.
“But it’s your choice if I get to,” Dean continues, almost but not quite hiding a flicker of uncertainty. “You tell me to back off, I will. Or…”
It takes him two tries to ask. “Or?”
“Or next time you throw down with Amanda, you ask me if I want to come and watch.” He’s still struggling for an answer when Dean looks away. “Look, you can think about it—”
“Habit.” Dean looks up, eyebrows drawn together in confusion. “I didn’t tell you, that part was deliberate, but until you asked me today, I didn’t think about why I was doing it. If I had—if I had, I would have realized that didn’t apply to you, of course. You should know how I fight.”
Dean nods warily. “Because Dean Winchester needs to know, yeah.”
“Because I’ve become very good at combat on this plane,” he says slowly. “I teach other hunters. Surely you’re curious how I perform without Grace.”
Dean cocks his head. “Eight demons in Kansas City. Not bad, I guess.”
“So you’ll enjoy watching, and I’ll enjoy watching you pretend not to be impressed.”
Dean’s eyebrows jump before he brings his expression under control, projecting blatant skepticism. “I don’t know. Without your mojo…”
“It takes longer,” he interrupts. “But I’ve found weapons and sufficient practice can achieve similar results, and far more enjoyably.”
“You know that sounds creepy when you put it like that.”
“You know that there’s a very thin line between violence and sex?” he answers, tilting his head and biting back a smile at Dean’s expression. “I can confirm it’s almost non-existent. Humanity did come with some perks.”
“Jesus, you’re a freak.” Dean glances at the night, cheeks beginning to flush. “Guess it’ll be too late by the time we get back—”
“Not if we leave now.”
Dean cocks his head. “Patrol meets an hour after dawn. Don’t wanna fall asleep while they’re reporting…”
“I’ll take patrol in the morning so you can sleep later.”
“Well…” Dean bites his lip against a grin. “Every time I’m up late watching you and Amanda playing? Sorry, sparring.”
He doesn’t even try to fight it. “Of course. Is there anything else?”
“Actually, yeah.” Dean smiles at him, bright as a new morning, before pushing off the jeep and circling to the passenger side door. Sliding onto the ground, Castiel scans the area that Dean threw the keys. “You know how to hot-wire the jeep, right?”
“Of course,” he answers distractedly. “But I can find the keys—”
“Then you know keys are for losers. Start with the locks.” Startled, he looks at Dean, who grins at him over the door. “Come on, Cas. Show me what you got.”
“I didn’t say you had a pretty mouth,” Castiel tells him half-way to Chitaqua.
Dean gives him a bored look from the other side of the jeep. “Not thinking about it again?”
“I said you had a gorgeous mouth,” he says, drawling out the word gorgeous and watching in fascination as the faint heat spreads across Dean’s cheeks again. “And what I’d like to do with it.”
“Get in line,” Dean advises him, bracing a foot on the dashboard and giving him a challenging look. “Not the first to tell me that.”
“I’d like to be the first to actually do it.”
Dean goes still, eyebrows knitting before he nods, almost to himself, then looks at Castiel seriously. “I’ll give you this one. If I’m ever interested, you’re first on my list. Happy?”
Castiel stops the jeep, putting it in park, and ignores Dean’s squawk of bewilderment to collapse against the wheel and laugh so hard he can’t breathe.
flirts, unrepentant grouchy flirts