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— Day 155, continued —
Vera returns with Dolores’ permission for Carol to remain, along with a bag of items that may be needed for her care, and reassurance on Alicia. “Just some very shitty bruising. Lewis is keeping her a couple of hours to double check; he’s better at reading x-rays than I am—more experience—and I’m more comfortable having a second opinion.”
Morbid curiosity forces him to ask, “How did Alicia take that?”
“Oh.” Vera surprises him with a soft laugh. “I just met the one and only person on earth who can outtalk her; she didn’t have a chance.” She tips her head curiously. “Drinking start yet?”
“Not yet.” Everyone is waiting for what comes next. Vera nods, giving him a quick hug before going to the stairs.
Returning to the Situation Room, it feels like only seconds have passed when Haruhi appears at the door, expression carefully blank. “Cas?”
What comes next is now. Straightening from checking Victoria’s adjustments, he nods. “I’ll be right there.”
Callisto, a tall African-American woman who organizes Ichabod’s mortuary services, is waiting in the lobby. Their first—and last meeting—was at Alison’s initial dinner party, but he can’t quite recall at this moment the details
“Castiel,” she says, extending a hand; judging by her use of his full name, it probably wasn’t an unqualified success. “I’m sorry for your loss.”
“Thank you,” he answers, shaking her hand politely before his gaze drifts to her assistants—like her, dressed in the proper attire for dealing with Croat-infested bodies—and finally come to rest on the stretcher, two sheets folded discretely on top of a folded body bag.
Staring at them for a moment, he crosses to the stretcher and takes the sheet and bag himself. “Please wait here.”
Alonzo doesn’t comment when Castiel dismisses them, but the sharp eyes don’t miss what he’s carrying, and Castiel closes the door behind him before approaching the cot. Setting aside the bag, he carefully spreads the first sheet on the floor, straightening it meticulously until no creases remain. For the first time since Bobby, he’s the one to prepare a human body for burning, and as with Bobby, he won’t make any mistakes.
Methodically, he searches the pockets of Andy’s sweatpants, removing any personal items he finds; Kat might want some or—for those that can’t be sterilized—she can at least look at them before they’re destroyed. Setting them aside, he double checks him for any other items, sharply aware of the limp weight of a lifeless body, both heavier and yet lighter in the absence of its owner, the looseness of the limbs as he moves him carefully; rigor mortis hasn’t had time to set in.
Lifting him from the cot, he kneels carefully on the floor to place Andy in the precise center of the sheet. He forgot to acquire salt from their supplies, but his own should be sufficient; taking it out, he pours a careful line down Andy’s chest before placing his arms gently over it and begins to fold the sheet around him from memory. Starting at his feet, he reproduces each straight line and careful tuck, smoothing the occasional crease and wrinkle away before inserting it carefully into the bag and sits back on his heels, unable to see through the blurred eyes.
“You were an adequate student,” he tells the still face, mouth still curved in a lingering smile, and bites back a laugh at such an epitaph. “An excellent hunter,” no, “an obedient subordinate,” that’s obscene. “A friend,” he says desperately. “A good friend and comrade, well-liked by all that knew you. A lover,” he adds, thinking of Alicia and his former team, of Kat upstairs in Sarah’s lap, of the jagged wounds that grief leaves, that makes victims of those that still live. “You will be missed.”
It’s not enough, nothing could be. They only encompass the smallest part of what Andy was and nothing at all of what he could have been, the hundreds of people he could have been and now never will. He thinks of Alison’s thousand lights, the infinite stretch of humanity past, present, and future; Andy’s will never grow larger, the space around it potential forever unrealized, a life unlived.
Composing himself takes time, but he takes it, waiting until the tightness in his chest eases, the tears trickling off as he once again asserts the discipline he learned so painfully in the wake of Dean’s death. There are things to do, that must be done, and he must do them.
When he picks up the bag again, the shift of weight within it startles him anew, and it’s only with an effort that he can keep his balance.
When he arrives at the door, it’s closed; it occurs to him that he sent Alonzo away, and that’s a problem, as he can’t reach the doorknob. Surely there’s a simple solution, yet he can’t seem to think of what it might be.
He’s still contemplating the insurmountable problem of how one opens a door when it opens, seemingly of its own accord. Relieved, he steps into the hallway and turns to see what feels like an infinite number of blank faces watching him and stops short; he can’t remember what comes next. What comes next?
Then Vera emerges, eyes meeting his as she joins him, murmuring, “Just start walking. I’ll be right behind you.”
That would be it, yes.
When he starts, the mass parts immediately, becoming faces almost as familiar as his own. He’s aware of the presence of Vera at his back as he descends the endless steps before he’s abruptly on the main floor and the stretcher waits.
The steps between the stairs and that stretcher could be measured in miles, but he can feel Vera beside him, one hand resting on the back of his shoulder, grounding. As he sets his burden carefully down, he hears himself repeating in his native tongue the words he told Andy only hours ago, that he told the man whose body Jeffrey stole before he died:
My Father’s fields are vast, and a place has been prepared for you since the moment of your birth; you don’t remember now, you can’t, but you will. Your work here is done; go there so you can rest. The Host lays claim to every soul on earth without exception, and we will not be denied our right to even one. Your soul is safe, I promise you; now go to your rest.
He doesn’t even know if that exists anymore, and there’s no one to guide them if it does.
For a moment, he remembers that presence at Dean’s range, when the man died after Jeffrey abandoned his body, the empty air that Andy gazed into with surprise before he closed his eyes. A girl with her crook, standing alone to protect her herd: count your sheep.
“He’ll be in the first floor isolation room,” Callisto is saying, and he nods belatedly, stepping back. “We turned on everything for—anyway, it should be fine in case we can’t burn soon.”
Their lives matter. All their lives matter. “Have those at the ward line been retrieved?” he asks.
Callisto’s expression remains impassive. “No.”
They won’t be, not when Croats and Hellhounds wander outside the walls and little chance they’ll be going anywhere else anytime soon. Their bodies are still where they fell instead of being properly gathered, goodbye said by those who knew them, and decently burned. To see them, their families must walk to the walls and search that pile of bodies for a glimpse of someone they love, perhaps even have to watch the remaining Croats consume them before their eyes. They only matter to themselves, to those they love.
“Cas?” Vera murmurs.
You can choose for them to matter to you.
“Cas?” Vera steps closer, hand coming to rest on his shoulder. “You okay?”
Count your sheep. “This is what comes next.” He looks at Callisto.
“Where can I acquire more bags?”
She starts. “What?”
“I’m in,” he hears Sarah say, and Callisto shuts her mouth, eyes traveling up and widening; following her gaze, he sees Chitaqua’s soldiers lining the balustrades of each floor. “When?”
Searching their faces, he wets his lips. “This is not a mission,” he says slowly. “I don’t expect anyone else to—”
“Got it. We’re all in,” Melanie interrupts from beside her and is echoed by dozens of voices. “How long?”
“You’re going out to get them?” Callisto asks, looking at him, but whatever she sees on his face seems to be answer enough. “You,” she snaps at the suited people with her, “get Andy back and get a truck here loaded and ready. You have fifteen minutes.”
As they promptly begin to scurry into motion, Castiel opens his mouth to tell her no. Instead, he asks, “Are you armed?”
“Twenty-two, salt, and silver,” she answers, lifting her chin. “I’m open to suggestions, though.”
“Vera—”
“I’ll get her suited up,” she says, tilting her head at Callisto before starting toward the row of offices behind the stairs. “I’ll show you what we have, and you tell me what you know how to use.”
Looking up at the waiting soldiers, he nods. “You have half an hour to get to the West Gate. Brenda, Gretchen, Bart,” he adds, finding each of them among the moving crowd, “report to me here as soon as you’re ready. I have a job for you.”
“Keep your helpers focused on their duties,” he tells Callisto, who proved to Vera’s satisfaction she can handle an AK-47 before Vera sent them on their way with a hug and a whispered, “Kill everything you see.” Glancing back at the truck slowly following them, the cab and the back filled with people in protective suits, even more following on foot, he wonders how many subordinates Callisto has; he wouldn’t think a town of Ichabod’s size would have quite so many. “I assume they all work well under pressure?”
“In our line of work, I don’t keep anyone who can’t,” she answers, adjusting the strap. “Salt line first, then start bagging; we know how to do it fast.”
“Don’t risk contagion,” he starts and gets a wry look from Callisto—do we look like idiots?—and feels himself smile. “I apologize; you know your duties far better than I do. However, take as much time as you need.”
Callisto opens her mouth to protest as they reach the end of Second Street and then shakes her head. “You know your job better than I do,” she says with a faint, answering smile. “If you think you can keep them back, I’m with you.”
“We plan to kill them,” he states as the gate comes into view, where over half of Chitaqua’s soldiers are waiting impatiently and what feels like half of Ichabod watching from the walls and the streets; apparently, Haruhi was not exaggerating when she said that wall duty was very popular. “Is there anything else I should know?”
“I think we’re good,” she answers easily. “Follow you out, watch the triple salt line on the way, and what happens outside the salt circle stays outside the salt circle, I miss anything?”
“Not that I can think of.”
“Good hunting, Castiel,” she says as she goes to join her people, and almost immediately the team leaders converge on him. Haruhi lingers near the other team members, but perhaps that’s because her team isn’t supposed to be here, nor any of the other recruits; a quick count confirms they’re all accounted for.
“Escort for Callisto’s crew and watch,” Melanie says softly, short brown hair bound at the nape of her neck. “That frees us all for fun and games, especially since we don’t have Amanda and Alicia.” Then, more quietly, “Cas, it’s their town, too, and they have friends out there. We both know they can handle it.”
He looks at Haruhi, Travis, Kara, Alonzo, and Britney before nodding to them, and looking wary, they join the other patrol leaders.
“Generally, escort duty is a privilege only accorded to a team that has proved itself in the field and their judgement found without flaw,” he says, watching their faces. “Your duty is to defend Callisto and her helpers, which includes responsibility for the integrity of the salt lines that protects them. Your first and only concern is their defense; all your attention should be on them and protecting them from what threatens them. Do you understand?”
They all nod, and he reminds himself all of them have served on Ichabod’s patrol, and most recently fought in the attack on Ichabod a few weeks ago and acquitted themselves very well.
“How many of you have experience with Hellhounds?” he asks, and Haruhi and Britney raise their hands. “Review with your teams procedure with something that isn’t entirely corporeal; your best defense is the salt lines; if even one is breached, fix it immediately. Your range of interest is twenty feet from the outermost circle; nothing outside of that should concern you, but shoot anything not human that tries to come within.”
“Yes, sir,” Haruhi says soberly, echoed by Travis.
“Go speak to your teams to assure they understand the exact scope of their duties. Their failure is yours and you will be held responsible for it,” he says. “Go.” Turning, he sees Brenda appears with Gretchen and Bart just behind her, looking winded but pleased, and nods for them to join him. “Where is the largest convergence of Croats?”
“About sixty on their way west from the North Gate,” Brenda reports. “They’ve formed three, maybe four hunting parties so far.”
“Twenty-one south, moving west,” Gretchen says. “I saw a few stragglers grouped just east of the South Gate, but from the way they were moving, they’re the most wounded. Pretty sure they’re hiding from the others.”
“I see.” Croats aren’t mindless, no, only nearly so, but it’s never other than painful to be reminded of those pieces of humanity that survive within them despite the ravages of the virus. Primate tribal behavior is so deeply ingrained in the human genome even Croatoan can only at best suppress it for short periods of time, but the wounded gathering together away from the healthy is far more than instinct. Primate tribal behavior allows them to hunt together, including their own weak in what he assumes is Lucifer’s brutally simplified and mistaken version of Darwin’s survival of the fittest (which despite Darwin’s personality did indeed cover most of the key points, if very boringly); it does not, however, lead to the weak and wounded banding together, seeing each other not as food but as allies against those stronger.
He almost wishes Lucifer could see that and understand what it means; in this small way, humanity defied him even when consumed with the virus that destroys them. Even if he did, Castiel supposes he’d say it didn’t matter, which would be both true and entirely miss the point. Then again, Lucifer’s never quite grasped a point existed at all.
“Come here,” he tells everyone, waiting until they’ve come close enough that he doesn’t need to raise his voice. “Brenda and Gretchen confirmed the Croatoans are exhibiting social behavior and will therefore now exclude each other as ‘food,’ at least while we’re available. As you’re aware, this is when they’re most dangerous; they can and will work together.” Everyone nods, remembering various bouts of urban warfare with an enemy that couldn’t be counted on to be either intelligent or mindless. “Fortunately, they only manifested less than twelve hours ago and are still primarily prey to the artificial compulsion to spread the virus. Also fortunately, their desire to eat you—preferably while still living—interferes with that as well. For my Brother’s work ethic is execrable and he was easily distracted during the design process to privilege ‘horror’ over ‘efficiency’.”
The round of laughter is quiet but genuine; it’s not as if he hasn’t shared his feeling on this subject before.
“We’ll begin with standard containment. Melanie and Ana, select two thirds of those present and take the north; Sean and Christina, one third for the south; Brenda, Natalie, supervise the recruits; they’re aware of the duties of an escort but this may be the first time it’s been brought into practice. Gretchen, select five people to protect the gate and assure there is a clear path of retreat for Callisto and her assistants, and act as the first line of defense for Callisto and her people.” Visualizing the area outside the West Gate, he sets Callisto and her helpers in place, mentally drawing the three salt circles in wide parabolas curling around the bodies and widening as they approach the gate. Adding the recruits and then Gretchen and those watching the gate, he verifies the landscape and nods to himself. “Your first priority is to drive the Croatoans back east and away from those working at the ward line and the West Gate; the hard line should be established at no less than one hundred feet away from the outermost salt line to the south and two hundred feet from the north; doubling that would be better. Once the patrol teams engage the Croatoans, begin containment protocol. Upon successful containment of all living Croatoans, create a hard perimeter and assure no Croatoan within the perimeter survives. Do you have any questions?”
“Any sign of Red Dress?” Melanie asks, and Brenda shakes her head. “I guess when we get out there, we’ll know pretty fast if she stuck around.”
Castiel thinks about how Alicia was pursued and Erica’s control over the Croats. If she’s still out there, without the distraction of a former member of her team, the situation will become far more dangerous; unlike Croats, Erica won’t be handicapped by insanity, and she’s never been overly burdened with empathy. Far worse, she knows them very, very well.
“The demon is Erica.” Mel’s jaw tightens, and Sean curses, but the reaction is mostly stunned silence, and searching the other faces, he sees shock, horror, disbelief, but surprise, none at all. Most of them witnessed the pursuit outside the wall and knew they weren’t dealing with an average demon. “Her ability to control Croatoans in large numbers cannot be underestimated, and she knows us and how we work. If she appears, you are to do the following: break off, return to the West Gate, assist in getting Callisto’s group inside the alcove with the recruits to protect them, and set up a perimeter to defend them.” Getting the gate to open will be another story entirely, but with less than a hundred Croats and a small area to defend, even Erica’s options will be limited.
“We can still try to shoot her first, right?” Melanie asks, and there’s an undercurrent in her voice that reminds him that for a few short weeks before Kansas City, Mel was assigned to her team after Felix’s death.
“If you can, please do,” he agrees sincerely before continuing. “Our second item of concern is the Hellhounds currently circling Ichabod’s walls searching for a break in the salt line. The internal lines at each gate and door are under heavy guard, and for those doorways currently bricked, a salt line was laid beneath each one; when we’re done, we’ll be able to successfully fix the external lines as well as block the opening of each alcove that leads to a brick door and give the city further protection.” Everyone nods, unworried. “Hellhounds generally move in packs and I visually confirmed the presence of five. The attack on Carol and subsequent attempt at disengagement confirms they’ve been purposed to a specific person, but the personal supervision of a demon during the Croat attack—and for that matter, the Croat attack itself—implies this contract is…” How to put this. “Somewhat ambiguous in the terms.”
Sarah raises her eyebrows, which Castiel correctly interprets as ‘bafflement,’ and he can’t help but sympathize; much like the Apocalypse, it seems even contract law is not entirely sure how to interpret the simultaneous death of one Dean while one remains among the living.
“We have a candidate for that?” Mel asks casually.
“We do,” he answers. “We’re awaiting confirmation before officially announcing their identity.” He thinks of Alicia; she has enough to deal with at the moment without that. “Remember: Hellhounds are only partially incorporeal; they do have presence in this world and affect it much like any corporeal being. They compensate for that with their speed of attack and artificially engender perfect silence on approach by muffling all sound within their immediate vicinity. That works very well, except when we’re also fighting something that makes a great deal of noise, and Croats aren’t loathe to be very noisy indeed. Pay attention to abrupt silence in any direction and take action immediately: create a salt line to protect yourselves and wait for assistance. However, I hope that won’t be necessary; I’ll be seeing to the Hellhounds myself—”
Castiel observes a startling demonstration of Dean’s influence as Ana, Sean, and Christina immediately protest (loudly) with other voices joining theirs. Sarah, of all people, looks as if she might be experiencing a feeling (what, who can say) and is dangerously close to both identifying it and perhaps doing something about it.
Melanie simply rolls her eyes. “Yeah, no.”
“I doubt I’ll need to kill all five,” he says, not entirely without regret. “If Erica isn’t here, we aren’t their targets.”
“It’s like you forgot I’ve been on missions with you,” Melanie retorts, and Sarah actually nods with uncharacteristic animation. “You’re always their target.”
“We’ll stay with him,” Sarah says, and beside her, Drew nods. “Phil is with Kat, and with just two of us, we can assist with setup for the kill. In case,” she adds in something that might have once met sarcasm, “Cas needs to kill more than one.”
He looks around them, vaguely tempted to surreptitiously sprinkle Sarah with holy water, just in case. “Very well. Are there any other questions?”
“One,” Melanie asks, tipping her head toward the gate and Hans stoically pretending he’s not very, very worried. “So how are we getting out again?”
Castiel tilts his head, regarding Hans thoughtfully. “I have an idea about that.”
To his credit, Hans’ stoic expression doesn’t change at Castiel’s approach, looking down at Castiel from his four inch advantage and attempting without success to loom. He also doesn’t move from physically blocking the wide double doors, which Castiel both approves of and also finds extremely inconvenient.
“At my signal,” Castiel tells Hans firmly, “open the gate.”
Hans swallows, taking in the group behind him before focusing on him again. “Cas, one, it’s an hour after dusk, and two—”
“Those that died deserve a clean burn, and their families and friends deserve the opportunity to mourn them,” he interrupts. “There are Croats and Hellhounds currently outside the salt line and threatening this town, and they must be eliminated. This is what we do; it’s what we are.” He verifies the integrity of the inner salt line before meeting Han’s eyes. “I hope you choose to open it.”
Hans frowns. “What—”
“Melanie,” he says, “in my absence, you’re in command.”
“See you on the flip side,” she says with a sloppy salute. “Don’t do anything I can’t do yet.”
“What’s he doing?” Castiel hears Hans ask as he starts up the ladder, aware of the confusion of those on the ground and the gaze of those on the walkway as he ascends.
Reaching the top, he nods acknowledgment of the various (bewildered) greetings as he walks to the area just above the gate and scans the area carefully. One Croat just coming into view from the north, no Hellhounds (that’s really only a matter of time), and no sign of Erica in her vividly red dress. Taking a deep breath, he expands his senses carefully, searching; a disadvantage of training a future demon is that she’s very aware of at least some of his abilities due to having told her himself, even if not of his range. He suspects, however, that the injury from Amanda’s excellent shot combined with the amount of power she spent so recklessly controlling the Croats was enough for her to leave, at least for now.
Stepping onto the top of battlements, he hears one of those on patrol say, “What’s he doing?” with the inflection of someone who genuinely seems bewildered on the subject before he steps off.
For some time, Castiel set ten feet as the maximum he could afford to jump (for falling, of course, it was more a hopeful suggestion) without risking an injury that would limit his ability to immediately continue fighting. Familiarity with the human body was still a work in progress, and its limits were not to be tested with impunity; that Dean insisted he approve and supervise any experiment was almost enough for Castiel to immediately do so on his own (and in full view of the camp) but for once, common sense came to the fore and reminded him that pain hurt and more importantly, it was lowering to have to limp toward his opponent to vanquish it.
The question became moot when he agreed to teach a second class of recruits; as Dean wouldn’t be sharing the duty with him, his excursions out of the camp—limited as they were to missions—were at an end as long as training continued. If that restriction wasn’t one of the reasons that he didn’t wish to train another class, it was among the reasons that his second class spent their first week so utterly exhausted that they couldn’t even summon the energy to hate him until after at least two meals and several hours of sleep. Dislike of being trapped within the camp walls was only one part of it; combat was one of the few things that not being human was an advantage, and more importantly, other than sex, it was the only thing about mortality that he enjoyed.
Two months of training his second class had gone from a detested duty to a pleasure he wasn’t entirely comfortable in admitting even to himself, and that was when Mira demonstrated her Nationals floor routine and more importantly, told him about an apparatus called the uneven bars and explained the concept of a dismount from a height of eight feet plus the length of her body (five feet, three inches, apparently not ideal for a gymnast, or so he gathered). Fortunately, she was perfectly willing to discuss—in detail—all the many ways humans achieve short-term altitude before arriving under their own power on the ground without injury (most of the time) and how many years it takes for a person to learn to do that.
Taking into account part of a dismount were the acrobatics that slowed the rate of descent, he set his goal at fourteen feet (eight feet for the bar, six for his height) and concentrated on watching Mira demonstrate the art of how to fall in all its permutations, and there were many. Deliberately, he ignored any and all preconceived ideas of what constituted the limits of the human body and tested different methods at various heights up to ten, slowly and carefully collecting data before turning his attention to his body—now less utterly bewildering, somewhat more familiar, with which he was now involved in something like an armed truce—and examining the requirements of a successful landing from body position and full muscle relaxation to dispersing impact and finding the right combination for what would be his fully successful first attempt at a height of (something near) fourteen feet. With Dean’s supervision, of course: he was there, after all, and one doesn’t stop chasing a very determined chupacabra to ask permission.
Two years and many incidents of both deliberate and accidental experimentation later, he won’t say twenty-four feet is nothing. Unless, of course, he’s asked.
Landing in a modified crouch, body memory and reflex keep him relaxed, body carefully centered to disperse the force of impact, and he verifies everything is in working order before pushing to his feet, vaguely aware of a great deal of activity on the wall above him. Taking out the salt, he fixes the first across the length of the alcove opening before retreating a foot to start the next line, counting down the amount of time he has before the Croat reaches him.
Satisfied he can defend at least one of those two lines if needed, he pitches his voice to reach through the heavy wood and metal (though those on the walkway can probably hear him speak in a normal voice; the wind is in his favor) and says, “Please open the gate at your convenience. I’ll wait, of course.”
Two feet back, he begins the third line of salt, then two more feet, a fourth, before the Croat appears looking—much like a Croat—and unsurprisingly, a Hellhound at its heels, teeth bared in cheerful promise of agonizing death.
A single shot dispatches the Croat (by way of loss of his head), and Castiel finishes a fifth line at exactly two feet from the gate before going to the space between the first two lines, tilting his head to study the Hellhound.
According to his calculations, ten minutes is as long as Hans’ nerves will allow him to stare into the eyes of half of Chitaqua (and Callisto, who he senses has a glare that is equal to any number of Chitaqua hunters or even—possibly—Dean), at which time he’ll attempt to be surreptitious in sending someone for Manuel (or possibly, Dean), argue with Melanie, lose, and the gate will be allowed to open. The wait will be very boring, of course, but then again, much of life is.
He took everything into account but a single, surprising factor: he’s no longer an angel, he’s mortal, and logic vanishes when faced with a Hellhound that stalked Dean, Amanda, and Alicia’s team to Andy’s death. They are creatures purposed for destruction and joy in pain, that tore Dean apart when his contract came due as it has done to more humans than he can ever want to count, that raped Cynothoglys and forced her to bear its offspring, that exists only to destroy. They’re relentless, focused, and once they have your scent, they can follow it forever even past your death. Immortal, nearly invulnerable, invisible to humans not at the end of their contract, its mouth gapes in a grin that promises it will happily kill all within its sight.
Castiel’s questionable life decisions are legion: he rebelled against Heaven, challenged archangels, threatened his superiors, defied his orders until he was sundered from his Brethren, and voluntarily Fell to earth and into mortality. Apparently, he was just getting started: since then, he’s taunted Lucifer over Dean’s dead body, almost killed himself trying to control angelic vision without Grace, threatened a powerful psychic, defended a demon who as a human tried to kill him from Crowley, and most inexplicable of all, agreed to help Dean lead Chitaqua and learned how to cook.
In light of that, he can’t think of a single reason why not add this to the list.
Stripping off his coat, Castiel takes out his knife and steps over the salt line with a rush of adrenaline like a shock from a live wire, feeling a wide grin spread across his face. “Here, boy.”
To say that combat on the corporeal plane was very different from that he engaged in while a member of the Host would be much like saying apples are somewhat unlike plasma discharges from a newborn star. To compare them would be an exercise in futility, and yet. He couldn’t help noticing that while a member of the Host, satisfaction came from the sating of the predatory instincts of an angel, pleasure from doing his duty and winning, joy in obedience, all very well and good and deeply spiritual (incorporeal existence has a great deal of that), but none of that prepared him for the first time he fought as a mortal.
Humans are predators as well. What they gained in brain development didn’t diminish the instincts that made them the most dangerous creatures his Father ever created; nothing is more deadly than a predator that can think.
As first Dean’s student and then Amy’s, he was at best competent, no better nor worse than the average among hunters when his skills were not augmented by strength or speed. It wasn’t a surprise; among the Host, he was neither the best nor worst of its soldiers, and pride being the sin of Lucifer, he resented that fact not at all. For satisfaction came in doing his duty, he was but one of many, service, etcetera ad infinitum.
There was little doubt in his (or honestly, anyone’s) mind that if (when) he Fell and was subject to mortal constraints, there was even odds on him surviving his first engagement before he could gain practical experience in mortality and the human body. That he kept both strength and speed was a somewhat mixed blessing; his odds of survival increased dramatically (provided he wasn’t stupid, which was most definitely in doubt) but controlling it to avoid killing himself with it was something of an issue.
Drilling with Dean, he slowly but surely reconnected with all his training, and his former competence confirmed. And yet—through his mind drifted one of his last conversations with Amy at Alpha and her constant dissatisfaction with his progress even after his training with her was done. Competence wasn’t enough; it was nothing, simply performing the required movements by rote.
Twenty-five days after he left the cabin Fallen and not quite whole but technically very much alive, Dean took him on a mission with several of their new recruits to examine what was left of Kansas City. Only in retrospect does Castiel recognize that there was no possible way that mission couldn’t have gone as it did (new recruits, Dean impatient and bitterly angry (reason now known), Castiel beginning to develop an unhealthy dislike of anything and everything he saw), that being an attack on them from a group of very determinedly hungry Croats the moment they were out of sight of the jeep.
Castiel remembers turning around to see them, all too-fast steps, ragged clothing, and hungry expressions, and the (slow, monotonous, grindingly miserable) world came to an abrupt stop.
The flood of adrenaline slammed into him like a meteorite into living earth, setting off a chain reaction across his brain and changed the too-sharp boundaries of the body he wore. Vision sharpened, time slowed, and he had all the time in the universe to watch them approach and choose his target. Years of conditioning took over, Amy’s grueling reflex training brought into immediate practice augmented by his retained speed, and three Croats were dead before he could think enough to wonder what was happening before two attacked at once and his focus narrowed to them and nothing else.
Panting, he came back to himself crouching on blood-stained concrete surrounded by eight Croat bodies, holding a gun and vaguely aware of the (terrified?) new recruits and Dean, thrumming with exaltation and shock, examining the last ten minutes second by second and seeing a fundamental truth. It was neither speed nor strength that dispatched those Croats (though they helped), but hours and days and weeks and years of Dean’s barked instructions and Amy’s coolly methodical orders, endless drills and repetition, and finally, he understood what Amy meant when she said he should be better than he was.
After an existence in which as he was created he would always be, neither better nor worse, unchanged and unchanging, he knew neither want nor desire for he could imagine nothing else. Now he can. He remembers the last time he glimpsed infinity, existence confined within that discrete brilliance but able to see that stretch of emptiness beyond and wondering what it was; now he knew. Potential unrealized, what could be and wasn’t yet, might and maybe.
He should be better, Amy told him, rare frustration coloring her voice; perhaps now, he should find out exactly what ‘better’ could be.
Dropping flat, Castiel feels the passage of the Hellhound over him and twists sideways before it finishes its landing, crouched and ready as it turns on him, jaws gaping wide and wet with slaver, the low growl reverberating up his spine as it contemplates the odds of catching him this time.
“Tired already?” he asks, fingertips resting in the thin blanket of snow as it hesitates, watching him, but the abrupt bunching of muscle in its hindquarters telegraphs the feint. “Your brother was far more of a challenge to the human who killed it.”
Dodging sideways as it leaps, Castiel slices a thin line along its side when it passes, close enough to smell the acrid-sulfur of its breath. Rolling onto his feet, he darts back as it howls, the snow hissing with every drop of dark blood as it twists to face him. Dividing his attention between his current opponent and listening for the rest of the pack, he follows the wide arc of its stalk around him.
“Do you even have proper names?” he asks curiously. “I like Fido; how about you?”
With an outraged growl, Fido (he does like that name) sprints toward him, and Castiel holds his position until the last moment before dodging to the side, too late for it to do anything but allow inertia to have its way. Skidding several feet in the snow, it twists around for a second pass, but the distance is too short for it to reach full speed and Castiel dodges easily, adding injury to insult by slicing across Fido’s back, too shallow to do anything but annoy it.
Glancing to the north, he verifies the lack of Croats, which could complicate this situation unduly, especially if the rest of the pack decides to grace him with their presence.
Fido circles him again, calculating; Hellhounds aren’t stupid and this one, at least, now has a very good idea of what he can do—
There’s no warning this time, and Castiel has just enough time to turn before the claws can rip out his heart and feels the graze of teeth along his right arm instead. Dropping on his back in the snow and therefore with instead of against the sharp curve of its canines, he kicks it just below the eye, and jerks his arm free as it howls in pain, adding a kick to the chest that sends it skidding several yards away. Keeping his gaze on Fido, he sits up, flexing his fingers and then his wrist, turning his arm and feeling the stab of pain and a sharp pull that reassures him no muscles were severed but tells him he should probably get it bandaged, if for no other reason than to avoid the annoyance of fresh blood slicking his hand and interfering with his grip.
“I need a moment.” Taking out his sidearm, he shoots Fido directly in its sensitive muzzle to give him a few seconds to retrieve a roll of gauze from his inner pocket and manage a workable field dressing before getting to his feet. Howling, Fido shakes himself, what passes for blood hissing as it falls into the snow and raising sulfur-scented steam, which is not the most edifying scent in the world. Growling, Fido focuses on the blood seeping through the gauze before looking at him with the sharp hunger of its carnivore base. Much like Croats, Hellhounds don’t need to eat of flesh, but when they do so, they far prefer live prey that continues to live for as much of the meal as possible and feed upon their horror and pain, drawing out a moment of time to feel like eternity.
Sam screamed for Dean every night as his brother died in endless blood-soaked loops, from the day of Dean’s death until Dean crawled out of his grave whole and alive.
“Fido,” he says softly, switching the knife to his left hand. “Here, boy.”
Without hesitation, Fido sprints toward him, and this time, Castiel doesn’t move, remembering the first nightmare Dean experienced as a human being; the Hellhound that ripped his throat apart but left the arteries intact so he wouldn’t bleed out. So it could feed on his pain and horror and deny him even the small relief of a single scream, only helpless whistles as he slowly choked on his own blood. Andy died quietly, kindly from a needle, but death is still death, and for lack of this thing, he might have lived.
Dropping at the very last moment, Castiel grabs its muzzle and uses its own momentum to slam it into the ground before rolling it on its back, a single swipe of the blade opening it from throat to belly. He closes a hand over its neck and feels the pulse of its life against his fingers before he rips out its throat, crushing the ruins of flesh and blood before dropping it to the smoking, blackened snow, its howls reduced to nothing but acidic bubbles of pain.
You’re not a monster.
Switching his grip on the knife, he cuts through the vertebrae and severs its spine and watches the light vanish from its eyes. You’re not a monster, Dean told him without hesitation, looking upon a being whose existence was defined by efficiency in dealing death in the name of justice. A rabid dog kills without reason and a monster for pleasure; Dean sees a person who is neither, and that person will kill, but the reason will never be pleasure, and it will always, always be clean.
He starts to rise when he realizes he can’t hear the sound of snow crushed beneath his boots and goes still just as a low, triumphant growl ripples through the air with a hot wave of sulfuric breath. Clutching the knife, he has just enough time to consider which part of his body he’s willing to sacrifice for imminent maiming (not a decision that’s easy; he’s rather fond of them all) when the silence is broken by the sound of series of hard thumps not unlike something being beaten to death, a sharp crack, and a high pitched, agonized howl followed by four feet running desperately away.
He turns around in time to see Sarah, ponytail still flawless, flip her rifle back around to study the black streaks on the cracked butt. “I think I can still use it,” she says calmly, turning in place to shoot at a distant Croat and watching it fall before nodding. “Good enough.”
Blinking at her, he looks down at the pool of melted sulfur-tinged slush and the footprints vanishing away toward IH-Ichabod. “How did you—”
“I saw the snow sink behind you,” she answers, walking over to extend a hand and pulling him to his feet. “You stilled but didn’t move, which means it was too close for you to simply retreat. I couldn’t be certain I would be accurate shooting it if I couldn’t see it, and since it was focused on you, I—”
“Beat the general area it might be in with your rifle until it ran away in a great deal of pain,” he finishes as she takes out fresh gauze and precut tape and makes a neat bandage over his rough attempt, wiping the blood fastidiously with a spare piece before tucking it into her jacket. He wonders if a Hellhound’s ever had someone try to simply beat it to death with their rifle; on a guess, considering its reaction to the actuality, no. “Well done.”
“Thank you.” Sliding the rifle back over her shoulder, she studies the area around them and he realizes one, she’s alone, and two, the gate is still closed. Searching the wall, he just catches the faint motion of a rope. “It shouldn’t be long,” she says, following his gaze to the gate. “Anyi called in Ichabod’s patrol to give us support on the walls while arguing with Hans.”
“And you didn’t wait because…”
“You were out here,” she answers with the faintest hint of surprise. “I would have been here earlier, but I had to find a rope.”
Before Castiel can respond, the gate swings open and the militia emerges, half spreading out in a defensive perimeter as the other half rush to draw the first of three elongated parabolas around the bodies, large enough to protect those who will be collecting the bodies and give them room to work as well as access to the gate. Approvingly, he sees the recruits at the mouth of the alcove, blocking Callisto and her helpers before Brenda gives the signal and they spread out to escort their charges in a picture-perfect formation; Amanda’s done an excellent job with them.
As soon as Callisto and her people are within the salt lines, Castiel signals a shaky looking Hans; beyond him, a determined looking Anyi and other members of Ichabod’s patrol are spread out in a row, guns at the ready for anything that might cross the salt line.
“Close the gate until I give the order to open it again,” he says. Eyes flickering to the wall, he sees it’s almost solid with people and wonders vaguely just how many volunteers are on wall duty today; the number seems excessive.
Then Melanie and her team are beside him, looking at him with identical expressions of reproach. “You couldn’t wait?”
“Fido annoyed me,” he explains, wondering if he should apologize. “There are still many enemies to kill.”
Melanie concedes the point, rifle falling into her hands and expression darkening as she turns to face the oncoming Croats. “Cas?”
“On my mark.” He waits until everyone’s in position, checking to assure the gate as well as Callisto and her assistants are protected. Taking out his rifle, he feels Sarah come up beside him and sees another Hellhound courageously skulking in the shadow of Ichabod’s wall. “Mark.” He motions to Sarah, who follows his gaze, working out the position from line of sight. “We’ll call that one Spot.”
The collection of the Croat bodies at this time is impossible—there’s no way to be certain when the three remaining Hellhounds will return—but Castiel tours the field himself, marking each face, reconstructing features sometimes only crushed bone and livid flesh, and committing them to memory before putting a final bullet in their heads. Still running on far more adrenaline than he needs, he sets three teams to watch and assists Callisto and her helpers to finish the gruesome task of sorting and bagging the remains.
This is what will happen once they’re brought inside Ichabod’s walls and taken to Ichabod’s mortuary: each bag will be opened, their identities verified either by view or by photograph, and they will be prepared for a final viewing if possible or desired. After burning, their ashes will be placed in a plot with new stone that records the date of death and beneath a list of names of those who died. Among the dead are two volunteers from Harlin and one from Noak as well as three from towns outside the Alliance; he supposes the final decision on what will be done with their ashes will be with the mayors of those towns and their families.
Three-quarters through their work, Callisto asks him if it’s safe to signal the gate so that the truck can be driven out to carry the bodies (a relief: he was wondering about that). Almost immediately upon their arrival, the gate is closed again, and after drawing a salt line to encompass both the truck and their path back to the gate, the teams not on watch assist Callisto and her assistants in transferring the bagged bodies, her assistants climbing in as well in the scant room that remains when they’re done.
“I’ll meet you there,” she tells them as Castiel verifies Chitaqua’s perimeter is secure before signaling for the gate to open again. She waits for the truck to pass inside the gate, then follows them inside the protective circle of the recruits. After the recruits are safely within the walls, Castiel signals the perimeter to begin contracting, allowing those not on watch to enter and finally giving the command to disperse, keeping watch until they’re inside before following them himself, redrawing the salt line at the opening of the alcove. For reasons unclear, Sarah and Drew refuse to leave his side, which he hazily categorizes as some strange new vagary in human behavior. Once the lines are done, they enter the gate and he gives the command to close the gate.
To his bemusement, the truck is idling at the mouth of Second. Frowning, he starts to scan for any obstructions, absently noting the number of people and wondering just how many people are on wall duty (it is, he admits, a very big wall), then Callisto abruptly appears beside him, a thick robe covering her suit, contaminated outer gloves and mask already discarded to reduce any potential risk, and smelling faintly of alcohol and antiseptic. “Mind walking us back, Castiel?”
“Yes, of course.” Their headquarters are on the eastern side of Second, and the mortuary just past the center point. He signals the teams to take up escort positions; it will be good practice for them.
“Thanks.” Raising her voice, she tells the waiting truck, “Okay, move out. Lead feet will be punished; I’m fucking tired.”
He starts to suggest she ride in the truck herself, but he suspects she knows that already and instead adjusts his stride to match hers. They walk in silence well behind the truck for a few moments before Callisto abruptly says, “So this really was about getting our people back.”
“Yes,” he answers warily, shifting his rifle and reminding himself to check and clean his and Dean’s weapons at the first opportunity. “Though exterminating the local threat was a very pleasant bonus for everyone, so we appreciate the opportunity.”
“I have to admit, it was pretty good for me, too.” Callisto is quiet for half a block before she says, “My cousin—we were raised together, did everything together, even came here…” She trails off, eyes fixing on the truck before them with an unmistakable expression, and he realizes she must have been one of those they collected.
“I’m sorry for your loss.” He takes in her firm stride and set expression and thinks of duty: calmly collecting Andy’s body at Headquarters and then assisting with the collection of those outside the walls, setting her pain aside for later to handle those things that must be done now. Unwillingly, he finds himself comparing Callisto’s strictly controlled grief to Kat and shakes his head sharply, disliking himself for the thought; of all people, he has no right to judge the measure of grief and how it’s expressed.
Belatedly, he realizes something else; the only question is if her cousin was dead before or after Dean gave the order to end the lives of everyone at the ward line. There’s no way to be certain of immediate cause of death; Dean’s order encompassed all of them, whether still living or not.
Something of that must show on his face. “Breathe,” she says roughly, shaking her head. “I work the isolation room, Cas; needle or a bullet, the reason’s the same. The only difference is method.”
Mercy, yes: those that give it to others rarely if ever accord it to themselves as well.
“And not just the isolation room,” she adds more quietly. “Infirmary duty: when Dolores calls for all hands on deck, that means anyone who knows anything about bodies, even if it’s just dead ones. And everyone knows sometimes—there are some things Dolores can’t fix and it’s just a matter of time.” Her eyes fix on the truck ahead of them. “And decide how much time is too much.”
He nods; sometimes, even the time it would take to return to the camp was far too long.
“I wouldn’t have asked Manuel to get them,” she continues. “I know the risks, but—I could see her from the wall, she was right there.” The faint crack in her voice says more than any overt display of pain and so does how quickly she composes herself again. “And I couldn’t get to her. That—that was the part I couldn’t…see my girl, get her ready, get her kids so could we could say good-bye to her together, not have my last memories of her be watching her rot from the goddamn wall, unable to see a goddamn thing but what was done to her before she finally died.” She looks up at him. “Sometimes, the last time we see them alive is watching them die, or hearing exactly what happened and letting imagination do the dirty work on the rest. My job is to make sure their last memory isn’t that. I clean them up, fix what I can and hide what I can’t, so when they see them one last time, they don’t see how they died or why; all they see the person they loved at peace. It helps, and when not much else does—well, you take what you can get.”
He nods slowly, thinking of Andy’s peaceful face, unique in its rarity; peaceful deaths are few and very, very far between. “I understand.”
“What I’m saying,” she continues, “is thank you. You didn’t have to help us get them—”
“Yes, we did,” he interrupts belatedly, annoyed he missed where this was going before he could redirect (though how, he’s not entirely certain, but surely he would have thought of something). “Please, don’t mention it, or whatever goes here that’s more appropriate to the situation. It was our duty.” Adding our pleasure, while very true, seems inappropriate at the moment.
She cocks her head doubtfully. “Didn’t know ‘retrieving bodies for burning from dangerous sitches’ was in a hunter’s job description, Cas.”
“It’s de facto,” he explains, belatedly noting at some point she shifted to calling him ‘Cas,’ and wonders why. “Saving people, helping things: it’s in there somewhere.”
Her expression goes from ‘doubtful’ to ‘suspicious,’ but the full lips twitch minutely. “Really?”
“I was an angel of the Lord,” he answers. “I would know.”
“How often does that line actually work?” she asks curiously. “Historically, I mean.”
“All the time,” he assures her. “Provided your name isn’t Dean Winchester, then never, even by accident.”
Vera’s waiting almost at the door upon their return to Headquarters after they help transfer the bodies into the mortuary, a beacon of calm welcome in a sea of post-combat euphoria. Several families were waiting and joined by others soon after their arrival, and in the confusion, they were able to slip away. Castiel was grateful for it, but Vera’s expression telegraphs he might wish to have mortuary duty tonight. Now, even. Callisto could certainly have used some additional assistance.
Smiling, she meets his eyes and flicks them to the left and yes, there’s Dean, leaning back against the stairs and looking—he’s not sure.
“You know the drill,” Vera says, raising her voice when everyone is assembled in the lobby and taking advantage of a temporary lull in laughter and traded anecdotes. “Any new injuries other than Cas, who’s doing a shitty job hiding it?” Everyone shakes their head. “I set up isolation in the mess. Strip down, everything that isn’t metal goes in the biohazard bag, weapons on the table. There’s a bathroom across the hall; scrub down, grab some scrubs—and say thanks to Dolores next time you see her—and go relax for a while. I left snacks, bandages, painkillers, and alcohol for everyone,” she adds, pausing for the inevitable cheering. “Two hour clock starts now; let’s get going.”
Castiel seriously considers joining them on the principle that he could—somehow—have randomly mutated into a human who could (possibly) be potentially infected.
“Come on,” Dean says, apparently tired of waiting. “Let me check your arm.”
Giving up, Castiel follows him down the hallway to the infirmary, where there’s already a kit and a bowl of clean water as well as a clean cloth on a conveniently placed table accompanied by two chairs.
Resigned to his fate, he removes the ruined flannel and sits down, extending his arm. Dean strips off the gauze with professional efficiency but perhaps more stiffly and with less care than Castiel’s come to expect. Looking at the wounds for a moment, Dean shakes his head. “Couldn’t help showing off, huh?”
He stiffens as Dean dips the cloth into the water and cleans off the dust and dried blood, the sting of antiseptic drowned beneath the pain in response to Dean’s thoroughness. He controls a wince with difficulty, fighting the urge to snap at Dean to be more careful, and it’s only body memory keeping him perfectly still as Dean carelessly drops the bloody cloth in the bowl.
“I wasn’t showing off,” he says evenly, isolating the pain before blocking it carefully from conscious notice. Dean rolls his eyes as he opens the kit and takes out a set of butterfly bandages to hold the deeper wound closed, as they don’t require stitches. “I was—”
“One on one with a Hellhound?” Dean snorts, tugging Cas’s wrist closer before applying the first bandage, and Castiel ruthlessly ignores the distant flare of pain to reluctantly admire Dean’s improved control of his left hand. “Come on.”
“That wasn’t—”
“Look, you want to go play with Croats to get out whatever, fine,” Dean says coolly, ignoring him. “But I left you in command here, and I get word you took half the camp and a whole bunch of civilians straight into a group of Croats and Hellhounds for what?”
“The bodies of the dead,” he answers as Dean applies the last bandage to the deepest cut and starts on the next. “They—”
“Dead bodies,” Dean says flatly, looking up at Castiel with green eyes gone flat. “Croat infected bodies that are now in Ichabod, good job.”
“They know what precautions to take as well or better than we do,” he argues, but for some reason, Dean’s utter lack of care as he closes the wounds is what bothers him most. It’s ridiculous, but he’s apparently gotten used to Dean’s usual level of attention. “Dean—”
“Micah’s out there and we both know he’s involved in this shit somehow,” Dean interrupts as if he hadn’t spoken, adding the last bandage before sitting back. “Instead of finding his ass, I’m here—”
“Why are you here?”
“Because I got word my second ordered the gate open, and I had to come back to find out what the hell was going on,” Dean answers in the same cool voice. “Now half of Chitaqua’s in isolation—”
“For two hours—”
“Don’t interrupt me again.” Castiel stiffens, staring at Dean in confusion. “You risk injuring or killing half my soldiers and get yourself injured fucking around with a Hellhound when you know we may soon be fighting for people’s lives and any injury is a liability.”
Frantically, he collects his thoughts. “I didn’t think you’d object to my decision when you knew the reason,” he answers, wondering how to explain so Dean understands. “They—the families and friends deserve to be able to say goodbye to their dead.”
“The dead,” Dean says flatly, “are dead. You put yo—everyone in danger to get dead bodies. Our job is to keep the living still living, not risk adding more people to the casualty count for fucking… whatever the hell it was you thought you were doing.” Castiel stops himself from flinching at the edge in Dean’s voice. “If you can’t remember that, maybe you shouldn’t be doing the job.” He stares at Castiel for a moment before shoving his chair back, as if— “Look, I wasted enough time with this and need to get back. Want me to send Vera to finish up here?”
Castiel stills, unable to think through the roaring in his ears.
“Cas?” Dean asks impatiently, and yes, he needs to answer.
“No, I’ll do it myself,” he answers, watching himself pull the first aid kit to his side of the table. “Good luck in the search.”
He removes the gauze pads as Dean gets up, chair scraping discordantly against the worn tile, setting them out in a row as footsteps head to the door. Reaching for the scissors and tape, he visually measures the appropriate length and starts to cut, each strip placed on the edge of the table.
“Cas,” Dean says abruptly, sounding annoyed, “stop sulking and wait for Vera—”
“I’ve been treating myself for years,” he interrupts, leaning over to retrieve the washcloth and squeezing it thoroughly before wiping away the blood that’s oozed from the lesser cuts. Drying the area quickly, he carefully sets the first pad in position; he forgot how difficult it is to do this one handed on his own. He’s out of practice.
The footsteps return, and Dean grabs the remaining gauze and pads before he can reach for them. “Fine,” he says roughly, reaching for Castiel’s wrist. “If you’re gonna act like a goddamn five year old—”
He jerks his arm back before he realizes what he means to do and feels it in every abused muscle, a ripple of pain that arrows up to his shoulder. Hellhound claws have trace amounts of sulfuric acid, and that seems only to care he’s wearing human flesh, not whether or not he’s human, which puts a non-sentient chemical ahead of most of the human race as far as that goes. He’s not sure what to make of that other than random associative thought is pernicious and very strange indeed, but at least it’s not a sheepapus except now it is. Mammalian, that breeds in water, possibly with marsupial tendencies; he should ask Alison so they can both be haunted by a sheepapus with a pouch and what a woolless sheepapus looks like in its immature form.
Cradling his arm against his chest, he looks up at Dean, whose expression is stricken. “I said,” he says clearly, “that I can take care of it myself.”
“Look—” Closing his eyes, he takes a breath. “Cas, you gotta understand—”
“My actions were reckless and foolish,” he drones. “I should not have given the order to retrieve the bodies of Ichabod’s dead and endangered your subordinates and civilians with my ill-considered actions. I apologize to my commander for disappointing him with my poor judgment and will offer my apologies to Alison tomorrow for endangering the lives of her people.” The sharp pain metamorphoses into a dull throb that from experience will only get worse. “Now, is there anything else, sir?”
He has the satisfaction of seeing Dean wince; it’s not much, but he’ll take what he can get. “Seriously?”
“No.” Stretching out his arm again, he sucks in a breath at the hot acidic burn and waits for it to fade before reaching for the damp cloth, aware of Dean watching as he cleans away the fresh blood and reaches for the second gauze pad. “You left me in command here while you handled the search, which I assumed meant that I was to use my own judgment. You may disagree with my decision, but I didn’t disobey any explicit or implicit orders.”
“I didn’t say you did—”
“As you are my commander,” Castiel continues evenly, “I accept that your judgment is final and I apologize for my actions, but I will not apologize for not agreeing with you or continuing to believe you’re wrong.”
“They were dead—”
“Their families aren’t.”
There’s a brief, uncertain silence that lasts two sides of tape before Dean blows out a breath. “You forgot one part.”
“I can’t imagine what, I was very thorough.”
“Where you took on a Hellhound, alone, and the only reason you’re not Hellhound kibble from the second one is Sarah got there in time.”
Castiel fumbles the tape, feeling a wash of heat across his face. “I’ll do better.”
“Cas, it’s not about you doing better!” Dean shouts. “It’s that no one—even you—can do everything! Ten minutes, Cas, that’s all you had to do, wait ten fucking minutes—”
“I can take care of myself.”
“I think,” Dean says, dangerously quiet, “that today proved that you can’t. You can’t do everything, Cas, no one can!”
He rips another piece of tape into uselessness, the sound appallingly loud in the quiet of the room. Staring down at the table, he waits until he’s certain his hand is steady before discarding the tape and reaching for another piece. “Are you relieving me of duty?”
“Maybe I should, if my only other choice is watching you get yourself killed!” Dean snaps, and numb, Castiel wonders how long he’s been waiting for this; surely, he never truly thought it wouldn’t.
“Should I consider myself restricted to staying behind Ichabod’s walls?” he asks carefully, smoothing another piece of tape into place. “Or should I not leave headquarters without your permission?”
“Christ,” Dean mutters. “Now you’re being—”
“Or perhaps my room for misbehaving,” he continues, adding another piece of tape and reaching for the last pad. “I’m familiar with the usual terms of my confinement when in Chitaqua, but to clarify: should I assume I’m not to leave Chitaqua at all or only when my services are required for a mission?”
The silence stretches impossibly, and he has to force his fingers to close around the next piece of tape without ripping it apart. Then, finally, painfully, Dean says, “Do you think—do you really think I’d—”
“Lock me up for my own good?” He looks up and wishes he hadn’t; Dean’s white to the lips, and his expression… “You release a rabid dog from its leash when what you want done requires the actions of a rabid dog—”
“What the fuck—”
“Then when you’re done, you put it back on its leash, because its purpose is fulfilled,” he continues ruthlessly, because if he stops now, he may not be able to say it. “The leash is protection, and if it is said to exist to protect others or to protect the dog, what’s the difference? That doesn’t change what it does.”
“You’re not a fucking dog!”
“Then I don’t need to be leashed!” Dean’s lips part, but no sound emerges, and Castiel looks away, staring at the half-finished bandage. “Do you think I haven’t heard this before? It doesn’t improve on repetition.”
He gets another piece of tape in place—he’s beginning to think he shouldn’t need this much tape—when Dean says in an approximation of his normal voice, “I need to get back.”
“So you said,” he agrees, though he does find it somewhat interesting he could delay it to remind Castiel of how illusory is his own freedom but not to finish bandaging his arm. “What are your orders?”
“I may not—this is gonna probably take a while,” Dean persists roughly, and Castiel supposes he shouldn’t be surprised. “You should get some rest. Who’s on duty?”
“I am, until isolation ends,” he answers. “As Vera was on duty most of the day, I thought I’d leave Amanda or Melanie in charge afterward, but if there’s—”
“No, your choice,” he says quickly, then with utterly unconvincing lightness. “Cas, come on. You don’t need to run every little goddamn thing by me.”
“I apologize,” he says very clearly. “Amanda is in charge of Chitaqua as soon as isolation ends.”
Dean seems stumped by that, but Castiel’s lack of surprise is epic when Dean says, “Look, you’re tired, just tell her to check in with you and go to bed. Okay?”
Castiel reaches for another piece of tape, horrified to see his hand is shaking. Even he can’t quite manage to ask if that’s kinder way of confining him to his quarters; if he doesn’t ask, he can pretend it’s not. “All right.” Then, matching Dean’s tone, “I’ll speak to Amanda as soon as I’m done here. Other than assure no one dies of alcohol poisoning tonight, there should be little to deal with.”
“Good. Awesome.” How much tape did he cut? It can’t be infinite, yet there’s still more and he must put it somewhere. “There’s nothing I can say that’s not gonna come out wrong, so we’ll talk tomorrow. Okay?”
“Of course,” he agrees, reaching for another strip of the endless amount of tape and wondering if this qualifies as a temporary reprieve or simply a way to drag out the horror of waiting to hear the inevitable. Dean is kinder, and Castiel thinks he’ll try to make it sound reasonable and even pleasant, but he can feel the walls of his cabin, of Chitaqua, closing around him already: it’s been called safe. Swallowing frantically, he wonders if this room has always been quite this small; it could very much be improved by windows. Or perhaps fewer walls.
“Cas,” and there’s something in Dean’s voice he can’t identify, “are you—”
“I’m fine,” he says, mechanically smoothing down tape and ignoring the sudden leap of his heartrate, a frantic pounding against his chest like it’s as desperate for escape as he soon will be. “Good luck with the search and have a good night.” Before he can stop himself, he adds almost frantically, “Please leave the door open when you leave. I’m almost done.”
“Sure.” Castiel concentrates very hard on the last of the tape until the sound of Dean’s footsteps fade before sitting back and blinking at the solid mass of tape covering the better part of his arm. Shutting the first aid kit, he gets up; he thinks he’s done here.
Acquiring a biohazard bag from the supply in the infirmary, Castiel checks with Vera before going to his and Dean’s room and opening the balcony doors. The hit of freezing cold is welcome, he crosses through the thin coating of snow covering the stone and climbs up on the solid stone railings, the icy cold cutting through his jeans and numbing his palms as he lets his legs dangle over the side and looks at the stretch of Ichabod, the rise of grey-white walls, and the icy-white world beyond, and breathes.
As if she’s standing behind him, he hears Vera say, Don’t panic.
That is a very good idea, yes; he’ll get right on that.
Closing his eyes, Castiel takes a deep breath, then another, tasting something unpleasantly metal on his tongue. Tamping down the adrenal rush and slowing his respiration, he concentrates on returning his heartrate to normal, each breath locking it away until it’s gone. Nausea settles low and unpleasant in his stomach, and he’s aware of a slowly growing headache, which is exactly what this endless day lacked.
When he’s sure everything is as it should be—or what passes for it with him—he slides back onto the balcony, shaking out his numb hands and goes back inside, making a short mental list of what to do next.
Immunity doesn’t mean he can afford to be careless; stripping off his bloody clothes, he carefully seals them inside the bag and sets it in the massive granite sink, eyeing the frosted glass of the shower long enough to annoy himself before stepping inside. The hot water almost makes up for it, but he does his work quickly, watching the bloody water swirl down the drain and keeping his mind carefully blank.
Dressing quickly, he returns to the mess, waiting for Vera to glance up from among the group in isolation which now includes Amanda in blatant disregard for the rules of quarantine. Raising her eyebrows in query, she murmurs something to Amanda and joins him at the door.
Leading her to the infirmary, he asks her, “When did Dean arrive?”
She frowns in thought. “Fifteen, twenty minutes before you got back here. Why?”
Which would be about the time they came back inside the gate. “How was he?”
“Cranky,” she answers, wrinkling her nose before the sharp brown eyes narrow as she looks at him, and only belatedly does he remember how well she knows him. “Hold that thought.”
“I’m fine,” he says shortly as she opens up their drug supply—unlocked because no one here doesn’t know how to pick a lock so why bother—and going through the bottles.
With a satisfied sound, she returns with two pills, then seeing his expression, rolls her eyes, and expertly breaks one in half. “Just a benzo, nothing you haven’t played with before, point five to take the edge off and get some sleep: half-now, half before you turn in.” Her eyebrow jumps when he frowns. “Yeah, Dean did tell me where you’re going as soon as you talk to Amanda, and as your doctor, I agree.” She smiles teasingly, and Castiel unclenches his jaw. “We gonna have to play airplane again?”
It’s always chasing you; sometimes, no matter how quickly you run, it catches you anyway.
“You’re not nearly as amusing as you think you are.” He takes the half and puts the other one and a half pills in the pocket of his sweatpants, glaring at her and wondering if he should ask her if she wants to check under his tongue; she will if he asks, so why bother?
“It can’t all be recreational,” she tells him with mock-sympathy. “Sometimes, they also have therapeutic use. Sit down, and if it helps, there’s a reason I asked for these from Dolores.”
He does as he’s told, making himself not look at the cracked-open door; they’ll need to keep their voices down.
“Anyway, Dean,” she says, joining him. “He went to check up on everyone, asked me about Alicia and Carol, all that.”
Castiel starts to nod when the potential breadth of the word ‘everyone’ occurs to him. “When you say he went to check on everyone—”
“Yeah, straight to Kat first thing,” Vera agrees grimly. “Cas, I swear, I would have thrown myself in front of him if I’d known that was where he was headed. Phil tried,” they both wince, “but he ordered him out of the room.”
“He was alone with Kat?” Vera nods. “Did Phil hear—”
“Not through these doors,” she answers wryly. “Phil said he seemed okay when he came out, but I can tell you Kat isn’t picky about her targets, just that she has one.”
There’s no way to misinterpret that. “What did she say to you?”
“Nothing worth repeating. Grief—it does shit to you, makes you crazy. Not like I can judge,” she adds more quietly, the memory of Debra’s death in her voice. “People do stupid things when they’re hurting.”
“That doesn’t mean you need to stand still and let her inflict her pain on you,” he says sharply, and Vera’s eyebrows rise in surprise. He looks away, unable to explain his walk with Callisto; it wasn’t until they were done and returned that she told him someone she loved was among those that died. She came to collect Andy’s body to fulfill her duty, even though the woman who she thought of as her sister was dead outside the walls and had no hope she would be able to do the same for her. “That wasn’t fair, I suppose. Kat’s loss was immense.”
“I can’t say I’m going to be a frequent visitor,” Vera tells him, and when he glances up, she’s smiling. “I appreciate the concern. Thanks.”
He starts to respond when something occurs to him. “Has anyone spoken to you regarding…” Her faint frown is answer enough. “Wait here.”
“What?”
Going to the doorway of the mess, Amanda immediately rises to her feet on seeing him; a glance verifies how carefully everyone else avoids his eyes.
“You didn’t tell her yet,” he says when Amanda joins him, who shakes her head quickly. “Why?” She opens her mouth. “If you say you didn’t know you were allowed, I won’t even pretend to believe you.”
She grimaces. “We thought it’d come better from you,” she answers, tipping her head toward those in the mess as if they took a vote. They seem to do that a great deal.
He supposes reluctantly that she may be correct. “You’re right,” he says. “As her commander—”
“As her friend,” Amanda interrupts, hand coming to rest on his arm. “And the only other person that was in the cabin that night.” He stiffens, fighting not to pull away as her hand tightens, blue eyes searching. “Neither of you ever talked about what happened.”
“I think it was self-evident what happened,” he answers before he can stop himself. “You were among the first to arrive afterward.”
“Not the first time I broke orders and sure as fuck isn’t the last,” she says, stepping closer. “My timing, though…” She wets her lips, eyes fixing on the bandage peeping out from his sleeve. “I knew I forgot to tell Sarah something.”
“It wasn’t her fault,” he admits reluctantly. “It was—an impulse decision, and she had to find a rope.” Amanda makes a face. “What would you have done differently?”
“I wouldn’t have waited for a rope.”
He considers that. “You would have at least shouted for me to catch you first?”
“God, I hope so.” Her faint smile fades as she searches his face. “Is everything okay?”
“Dean ordered me off-duty to rest, I assume until he says otherwise.” She frowns, but before she can comment, he hastily continues. “After I speak to Vera, inform her of what we learned from Carol and then take charge of the militia until he returns tomorrow.”
“I can do that.” She tilts her head toward the door. “I’ll wait here. Just call if you need me.”
“Thank you,” he says, starting to the infirmary door again. “This shouldn’t take long.”
Returning to his room, Castiel involves himself with the strict routines that precede sleep as demonstrated by Dean. Even so, he can feel the edges sharpening, and taking the other half of the pill, he crosses the room and shoves back the heavy curtains covering the taped glass and plywood of the balcony doors. The chill is immediate, but…
Moving all the bags to the far side of the room, he slides the bed across the floor to align with the wall opposite the balcony, setting the line of sight carefully, and feels himself relax as he finds the perfect position. Moving the wooden crate that holds the lamp to Dean’s side of the bed, he arranges the heavy curtains again to block the rest of the doors, then returns to slide gratefully beneath the covers.
Downstairs in the mess, they’re doubtless gathering together in the first stages of inebriation to dull their grief; that luxury isn’t available to Kat, whose pain is beyond anything ever offered on the rack of Hell; Dean is searching for Micah, and here in their bed, that in Dean’s absence is vast and seems impossible to warm, he wishes, painful and futile, that they hadn’t argued, that he’d asked Dean to come back, that he had stayed, that he was here now.
Self-pity without the excuse of sufficient alcohol is unpardonable; tucking another pillow beneath his head, he thinks of Callisto and the families who met them at the mortuary, the twenty-six bodies they brought home to them tonight.
The shivering eases, then stops. Curling into the growing warmth, he surveys the stretch of Ichabod before him; if he had this night to do again, there’s nothing he would change.