The Game of God: Day 156 - part 4
The Game of God: Day 156 - part 4
Alea iacta est.
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— Day 156, continued —
At the second one hour check, they break for lunch. Dean and Joe settle in an empty room, Joe glaring at him over really good beef-rice-green-vegetable casserole and tortillas. “What?”
“Anything else you forgot to mention?” Joe asks, tearing off a bite of tortilla like he’s rending Dean’s flesh or something. “Just curious.”
“Alicia’s business,” he says through a mouthful just to see Joe wince (he doesn’t, the fucker).
“You really want to go with that?”
Yeah, he didn’t think that’d work. “Joe, I haven’t even told Cas yet. I wanted to at least talk to Micah before dropping ‘hey, found one of your assassins, how about that?’ on him. Especially with everything else going on.”
Joe’s glare continues for a whole five seconds before he sighs, nodding. “Okay, give you that one.”
Dean uses the next two bites to ignore he still has no idea how to tell Cas, and now also has to explain why he didn’t tell him before.
“So how consistent was he from first rendition to third?” he asks Joe curiously, glancing at the closed notebook.
“Well within margin, especially since he only practiced for one time,” Joe answers, glancing at it as well. “Matches Carol, but no surprise there. I’d really like to know how hospital staff missed him visiting her before the surgery, though. Especially for long enough to get their stories straight.”
“A lot of ways, especially if Carol was doing the hostile thing to minimize anything but necessary medical check-ins,” he answers. “Any word on the idiots two?”
“Nope. Micah told Naresh they didn’t want to deal with guilt by association or something,” Joe says, looking annoyed. “Which I kind of believe. What I’m curious about now is if they’re under contract, too.”
“Or if they know Micah is.” Dean plays with his fork for a moment. “Okay, I gotta now; why does everyone hate him but Carol? Gonna level with you; I barely remember the guy.”
“It helps if you aren’t his distant, mostly-absent leader and have to actually interact with him,” Joe retorts. “A lot of the ones from the first class were dicks, but Micah… he was used to thinking he was the smartest guy in the room and that meaning something.” Joe takes another bite, shaking his head. “Honest to God, Dean, I never would have guessed Alicia and Micah were married.”
“They were living together,” Dean says, scraping the remaining casserole into a tortilla and rolling it up. This would be awesome with cheese, which is officially now restricted to the twelve and under set. “What difference does it make?”
“Not the same thing,” he argues. “There’s Sheila and Mike living together, all weirdly adorable mitten-making shenanigans—or you and Cas, just weird but you do you—”
“You’re a real comedian,” Dean retorts, taking a bite and finding it goddamn fantastic. He’s totally learning to make tortillas.
“Just saying, when you’re together, it shows. Alicia and Micah lived in the same cabin but it wasn’t together, you get what I’m saying?” Actually, he kind of does. “Though yeah, sex was happening I guess, though gonna tell you, I’m pretending it was chaste.”
Dean finishes chewing his late bite before saying casually, “What was Alicia like back then? I don’t really remember much except when she was with Erica’s team.”
“Honestly? I don’t remember, either,” Joe answers. “I mean, she was on missions with Erica a lot, but she might as well have been invisible. Didn’t really get to know her until after training, when Cas started his night classes.”
“How many from the first class showed up to those anyway?”
“Just Risa, Joan—let me think—Kellie, and Ray at first,” he answers, face screwing up in a frown. “No surprises there: Risa was intense, always wanting to get better, and Joan had two very good reasons to want to hang out and watch certain people sweat.”
“Cas and Amanda,” Dean says, remembering what Cas told him about Amanda getting Joan to steal Vicodin for her. “Really?”
“Off and on for about a year; it was kind of a weird symmetry going on there, no idea,” Joe says, looking baffled. “Then again, not so strange—nothing, and I mean nothing fazed her, and in training or after missions, Cas and Amanda took a while to come down. Guess the two afterparties worked for her; talk about living the dream.” He gives Dean a saccharine smile. “You’d know better than I do, I guess.”
Dean rolls his eyes. “And Alicia?”
“Not sure,” he answers, scraping his plate clean and retrieving the last tortilla; Dean has yet to see any food thrown away by any member of Chitaqua. “I’m not kidding about Alicia being invisible. It wasn’t until learning the meaning of fear of sharp objects when I saw Cas putting her through one of the master dances one day that I even remembered she existed, and she was on Erica’s team. I’d already been to the border twice by then with them as escort.”
“Then why did you recruit her to help you out?” Joe makes a face. “She figured it out. Of course she did.”
“She did,” Joe agrees wryly. “Third trip, no less.”
“She ever tell you how she found out?”
“Oh yeah. Apparently, pattern of the cabins I visited one to three days before I left, how long I stayed—both before I left and after I came back—the notebook I had with me only at those times, and why at the border, one of the random techs—just that one—always looked really happy to see me even though I did all my business with the station manager.”
“That’s it?”
“No,” Joe answers with a grin. “That’s just what she’d admit.” After stacking their empty plates together on the tray, he faces Dean, abruptly serious. “I don’t like this.”
“Wanna be more specific?”
“Carol and Micah being incredibly forthcoming during questioning,” he says, picking up the notebook. “The missing idiots two. How easy we found Micah.”
Dean raises his eyebrows. “Easy?”
“We got roughly thirty-five square miles inside the walls—”
“Holy shit. Really?”
“Math doesn’t lie, usually,” Joe answers. “There’s a lot of places to hide and we don’t have a lot of people on this. Yes, he could be stupid or have really bad luck, but what are the chances?”
It’s not that Joe doesn’t have a point; it’s that their list of shit happening is too long already. One simple thing, just one, that’s all he asks. “Or,” he says, because he’s gotta try, “he wants us to protect him. Come on, this is a guy who left his girlfriend to almost be eaten by a Hellhound. And Carol’s committed: she was okay with the almost-eaten part!”
Joe makes a face. “See, I like that too much.”
“How about this,” Dean says. “We split the difference; see if Naresh will release him to us and we’ll store him in Headquarters. If it’s about protection—well, we do that.” They do that, he reminds himself firmly: saving people, helping things, even Micah. “If it’s a threat to Ichabod or whatever, he’s contained.”
“Either way, he’s our problem,” Joe says in gloomy triumph. “Oh yeah, loving this.”
They both startle at a knock to the door, and at Joe’s “Yeah, come in,” Lalitha peers in.
“Prisoner rights have been achieved and he only complained about the food three times,” she says, leaning in the doorway. “Also, he would like me to tell you to please hurry.”
“What, he’s got another appointment?” Dean asks, giving Joe a wry look. “Thanks, Lalitha.”
“Five minutes,” she warns him. “Rights of prisoners don’t include defenestrating them, and I’d hate to become a criminal.”
When the door closes, Dean gets to his feet. “Anything you want me to add this time?”
“Same script,” Joe answers, paging through his notes before motioning Dean over. “For our Item #2, since I know you’re going to ask. Just some suggestions.”
Nodding, he reads through the notes carefully. “Yeah, I got all that.” Straightening, he makes himself look normal. “Anything else?”
“Yeah, one thing,” Joe says, standing up and looking down at him. “It wasn’t your fault. Nothing he says can change that.”
“Right,” he agrees. “Can do.”
Castiel knocks twice for courtesy and waits for five seconds before opening the door to reveal a darkened room. “Alicia? Matt?” He wonders if he should have seen to Alicia and her team sooner; Vera was correct that Alicia requires distraction.
“I’m here,” her voice says tiredly, and Castiel flips on the light to see Alicia pushing herself up from her sleeping bag. In the harsh fluorescent illumination, she looks almost haggard, dark hair loose around her face as she looks up at him from behind unreadable eyes. “Sorry, I—”
“You were sitting in the dark thinking depressing thoughts,” he says, leaning against the doorway and then reconsidering and closing the door behind him. “You told me I wasn’t supposed to do that, for it led to melancholia and rethinking your life and your choices and that is a terrible idea.”
Shifting to a cross-legged position, she smiles faintly. “I did, yeah.”
“Then you said I needed a distraction and provided it yourself,” he adds, joining her on the other side of the sleeping bag. “You’re very good at that.”
She turns to face him, and this close, he can see the grey smudges beneath her eyes, rims reddened. “I am very good at distraction. Sometimes, I think that’s all I do; distract myself. Thinking, terrible idea, who thought of that?”
He tilts his head at the sight of her mouth starting to tremble. “Is there anything I can do to help?”
She lowers her head, dark hair concealing her face. “Any chance you can do a one-off in time-travel? There’s this grocery store, I was twenty-three—Trader Joe’s, steel cut oatmeal—and I need to decide not to try it. Totally not worth it.”
Castiel wonders what difference ‘steel cut’ makes with oatmeal. “Was it bad?”
“I don’t even like oatmeal,” she says, voice quivering. “I can’t even remember why I wanted it. I would have lived happy without it; it was also really bland.”
Shifting closer, he reaches to tilt up her face and sees the track of tears. “Alicia?”
“I’m fine,” she lies dramatically, wiping her eyes. “Tired, Andy, my life and my choices, you know?”
“Where are Jody and Matt?” He is less than impressed with them if they would leave their team leader in this state without warning someone they’d be absent.
“Volunteer Services.” She must see something in his expression, because she shakes her head. “We needed some time apart, it was getting… you know, people? Less of them would be a good thing. Geas, grief, antisocialism… tired?”
“Which one?”
“Could be any of them.” She takes a deep breath and straightens. “Uh. So—uh, anything you need?”
There’s no way to ease into the subject. “Has Dean talked to you?”
She stiffens, shoulders pulling back though she doesn’t move, breath quickening; he’s reminded of how a prey animal reacts when in the presence of a predator. She’d been like that in training as well, but that was true of most of the class; humans are predators, but instinct is instinct. It’s one of the most difficult parts of training to correct it; if a hunter freezes, it’s because the situation calls for it, not because they can’t move.
“No,” she says finally. “Not since—uh. Why?”
It seems his upcoming talk with Dean will have multiple subjects. “We spoke to Carol, and it seems—she’s involved with Micah. Among other things.” The ‘other things’ are still limited, but of all people, he feels Alicia should know; another thing to discuss with Dean. The list grows.
Alicia stares at him, blue eyes blank, before there’s a flash of horror, there and gone. “She’s…” She looks at the door, then at him. “I need to talk to her, where is she—”
“No.” Reaching out, he grabs her arm before she can get to her feet and feels her freeze again; that’s twice. “Sit down.”
She drops back down automatically, and slowly, carefully relaxes each muscle as Kamal taught them.
“She—was very hostile,” he starts, unwilling to so much as consider repeating what he heard. “I doubt she wants to see you, and I personally do not want you so much as share the same floor with her.”
Alicia frowns. “The same floor?”
“Kat wants to see her, I suppose regarding Andy,” he says, and Alicia’s lips part before she looks away. “Alicia?”
Alicia doesn’t respond for a long time. “What did Carol tell you?”
“I forgot.”
“My feelings won’t get hurt, promise,” she says with a terrible attempt at casual. “Was there anything specific she said?”
He briefly considers not answering, but he can’t think of a good reason to deny her request other than his own feelings, and that’s not a good reason. “From Carol, the expected: disapproval of sex. Unless she does it, of course.”
“That’s standard,” Alicia agrees with a flicker of amusement. “Anything else?”
“She was offended on Micah’s behalf by what happened between you before he left the camp,” he says diplomatically (Micah’s thigh and her knife coming in contact with bloody results). “More than I think could possibly be justified under the circumstances.” He watches her face carefully. “Grief can make people—irrational, and I feel perhaps it would be best for all parties to be… separated.”
She frowns. “Separated?”
“Far apart,” he agrees. “There’s an empty room on the third floor—”
“Not the marble office of wrong.”
“No,” he assures her. “Next door to it. Joseph thinks it was a supply room of some kind. It’s very pleasant and the window is very meticulously taped. I think you and your team would be more comfortable there.”
She nods quickly. “It’ll bother them having me this close—”
“I really don’t care if it bothers them,” he says honestly. “While I am currently neutral on Kat, as it is wrong to judge those who are grieving, I disliked Carol before and on renewing the acquaintance have discovered new and untapped reservoirs of dislike. I see no need for you to be exposed to their hostility, and so I’m using my power as Chitaqua’s second in command to move you to somewhere more congenial, which is anywhere they are not.”
Alicia stares at him wordlessly.
“Nepotism,” he explains. “Very useful.”
“Oh.” She swallows, face crumpling suddenly before she looks away. “Okay, yeah. I can—we’ll do that. Uh, where again—”
“I’ll show you,” he tells her, getting to his feet and looking around the room. “Let’s start packing, shall we?”
Fourth repetition, same as the first three (though faster), but then again, that might be Dean; Micah just looks patient, like he could wait all day for Dean to ask.
So he does.
“Tell me about the contract,” he says, ignoring Micah’s there-and-gone smirk. With an effort, he reminds himself of Joe’s advice on how to start.
“Start with the terms.”
“Erica and Luke told me the terms,” Micah answers, “We needed to be better so we could win, and he promised that he could make it happen. Be the best hunters. Which I’m sure Carol told you.”
“Yeah, she followed the script fine, don’t worry,” Dean assures him and sees Micah’s lips tighten in surprise; lawyer, used to thinking he’s the smartest guy in the room, got it. Dean may not be all that smart, but honest to God, two people so eager to spill their secrets is kind of a gimme. “Just almost didn’t believe it. Dude, you’re a lawyer; don’t tell me you actually signed.”
“The terms were defined by ‘hunter’; anything we could do would only affect the supernatural when we were hunting,” he answers stiffly. “Erica decided the terms. Unfortunately, she didn’t consult someone competent before doing it, so she wrote the script for everyone to match hers. Trust me, I could have done better.”
Oh yeah, outsmarting a demon: he’d love to see Micah try. “Got any details or did you just sign on the dotted line like a good future murderer?”
“Strength, speed, accuracy with any weapon, and automatic probability manipulation when we were hunting,” he answers, combining ‘bored’ with ‘condescending.’ “That means—”
“You got lucky in fights,” Dean finishes for him, thinking about Cas’s lesson on probability and beings on the mortal plane. “There were restrictions; did you notice that part or just figure demons made contracts because they’re nice? This is fun for them, you know that, right? If they can fuck you over before they take you to Hell, they’ll do it. You’re lucky they went with the spirit and your superpower isn’t a really cool ability to bring down deer and lure rabbits to you with the power of your hunger.” Though he can’t lie, holy shit would that be useful right now.
Give him credit, Micah simply looks at him, but come on, it’s not like Dean can’t guess how this went down.
“None of you knew,” Dean confirms. “Not until you tried to use your hunter superpowers on a human.” Micah starts, like he didn’t expect Dean to figure out the goddamn obvious. “And?”
“And what?”
“Humans who do magic, prophets, psychics, clairvoyants…” Micah’s expression doesn’t change. “Does it work on them?”
“I don’t know,” he replies, but Dean hears the lie; he does know. Because one of them tested that, too, Jesus Christ. “I was only on patrol a few weeks and went on three missions before I left. It’s not as if I had opportunity to test everything myself.”
Fair enough. “Do you remember the script for the deal?” Micah nods. “I want you to write it down, full and complete. Not now though; let’s talk about the time limit.”
“Ten years or your death,” Micah answers. “With a reversion clause: contract would be canceled if we beat Lucifer before the ten year limit. That much, she got right.”
Dean doesn’t so much as shift position: a reversion clause. That’s unexpected. “Whose idea was it?”
“Erica’s, I think,” Micah answers, looking for all the world like he’s in a courtroom instead of sitting on a sagging cot. “From what I heard, Luke was considering it already, however. He and Erica went together to the Crossroads the first time. They waited for Stanley and Terry to agree before telling them the rest of the plan.”
Yeah, the best part. “They wanted to get the entire camp in on this.”
“That was the idea,” Micah agrees. “From what I understand, they first approached those they thought were certain to agree, then started expanding, but I can’t tell you more than that.”
“Who took the deal?”
“I don’t know.” Micah shrugs at his disbelieving look. “The team leaders wouldn’t tell us much—they didn’t trust us not to talk. They decided who was asked to go, and frankly, I didn’t want to know or care. I just wanted that gun not to be pointed at my head.”
“Any idea how many were killed because they wouldn’t sign?”
“No, but if they died on patrol, there’s a good chance that was why.”
“And they assumed no one would notice the casualty count?” he asks incredulously and knows it’s a mistake when Micah’s eyebrows jump, mouth curving in a faint smile.
“You didn’t,” he answers. “So it didn’t matter who else did; it wasn’t as if anyone would have the nerve to accuse your lieutenants of murder.”
“When did that start?”
“I don’t know, but probably soon after training was complete.” That matches this Dean’s journal, the earliest deaths on patrol that became a pattern over the next month and—though no way to tell, since he wasn’t big on commentary—the reason Dean wanted to recruit again. “They took me just before Castiel started training the second class. They thought you were going to let the team leaders handle the training and wanted as many of the first class as possible finished first. When they found out Cas agreed to do it…”
“They were pissed?” Dean asks. “Why?”
“Erica wasn’t very forthcoming on that,” Micah says slowly, frowning. “It wasn’t just that, though; they didn’t like the new recruits.”
Huh. “What did they do to piss Erica and company off?”
“Nothing, as far as I know. Even before you and Cas got back, they watched them all the time. When Cas started working with them, one of us was assigned to watch them on the field, tell them everything that happened. It was just training,” he adds, sounding baffled. “I still don’t know what they were looking for.”
Cas said this Dean didn’t observe training; the team leaders, however, did, and there might have been a reason for that. “Why’d they go after Cas? Don’t try to tell me it was all about Vera.”
“I wasn’t going to,” Micah says, unruffled. “I don’t know what set them off. I told them it was a bad idea, but the team leaders weren’t listening.”
Dean blinks slowly enough to convey ‘bullshit.’ “You told them not to kill Cas? Because it was… wrong?”
“It was badly planned, badly timed, and stupid to do it in the camp,” Micah answers. “And ridiculously obvious: most of the camp was aware something was going to happen that night, and there was no possible way they could hide what happened from you. Best case scenario, we’d be thrown out of Chitaqua—”
“That was never an option,” Dean interrupts pleasantly and Micah flinches: good. “Why not do it in the field; at least then they could try and claim accidental shooting or something.”
“They did,” Micah answers, and Dean’s breath catches in his throat. “At least, Erica and Luke claimed they tried. They said they couldn’t get a clean shot when Cas was fighting—and he was fast—and he was almost always with you. Erica didn’t think you would take it well if you saw Cas hit right beside you and might not wait for anyone to put up a defense.”
“Got that right.” His entire right hand feels like it’s one giant, massive cramp; even trying to move his fingers hurts.
“In all honesty,” Micah continues thoughtfully, like they’re discussing today’s lunch menu, “I think they were too afraid to try. Castiel in Chitaqua was someone who was constantly stoned and drank his weight in alcohol daily; Castiel in the field was—nothing like that.”
Not a surprise at all. “And they wanted numbers.”
“They said it was to assure everyone would have equal blame and therefore not talk, but knowing Erica, she wanted as many guns trained on Cas’s cabin as possible,” Micah agrees. “They were very confident once they had enough people to cover all possible angles of attack.”
“How’d it go down?”
Micah shifts on the cot before settling again. “The day after Debra died, Erica gave us our instructions,” he starts. “Four hours after dusk the next night, we were to go to our assigned positions outside Castiel’s cabin and wait for their signal. Then we were to shoot until we ran out of bullets.”
Dean hears himself say, “Tell me about the next day. How’d it feel spending a day waiting to become an assassin?”
Micah is quiet for a long moment. “Among the longest of my life.”
Cas said: Rome was built and destroyed an hour after dawn and there were still more to come. It’s forever in here.
“The team leaders called for a stand-down while you were out of the camp,” Micah says, voice distant. “They didn’t even attempt to pretend they weren’t waiting for something; they watched Castiel all day. We all did; they told us to.”
All around the fence, Cas told him. Vera was very clumsy, Joseph fell over Kamal’s feet. Amanda nearly broke her wrist.
“The new recruits…” Micah licks his lips. “They knew somehow. You ever have someone look at you like—” He cuts himself off with a faint grimace. “Even Erica—she knew she might have to kill all of them to keep them from talking, but she and Terry… they said they had work to do, but I think they couldn’t stand how the recruits looked at them. You wouldn’t think so, would you? But it bothered her. Castiel though… he didn’t look at them at all. It was like—like they weren’t even there.”
That must have burned; your victim doesn’t even think you’re worth watching.
“About midmorning,” he says suddenly, “Vera and Amanda went back to their cabin, Erica and I were—I could hear her crying. Thin walls.” Dean closes his eyes. “Ten, maybe fifteen minutes, they come back out, and—she looked right at us, and just—went right back to the field.”
Opening his eyes, he nods. “What did you expect her to do?”
“Cut and run,” he answers in surprise. “If she’d left for good, they probably would have let her and concentrated on Cas. She had two days; all she had to do was steal a jeep and go. All of them knew, they had all day to get out of there, but they—it didn’t make sense.”
“It wouldn’t, to you,” Dean says softly, and Micah looks away. “Keep going.”
“When training was over, they all came back together, then—I didn’t hear anything, but everyone just stopped. And Vera and Castiel went to his cabin.” Micah pauses for a long moment. “And I went home to wait.”
The day was forever, but it was nothing to the countdown starting at dusk. He can’t even imagine what that was like. “Keep going.”
“Four hours after dusk, we got into position,” Micah says. “I had the east window.”
That would be the place in the cabin that can’t keep a chair in front of it: it’s always moved to the center point of the living room.
“I could hear them talking—no idea what—and then I see Vera come to the window and open it. Just stood there,” he whispers. “Like she was daring us to do it.”
She was.
“Then we got the signal and started firing, just like Castiel taught us,” Micah continues. “Until my clip was empty. Erica and Stan were supposed to check, but no one moved, and over the ringing, I—I heard Castiel laughing.” He looks at Dean, and after all this time, just the memory seems to unnerve him. “You could hear it all over the camp. I ran, didn’t look back, and I wasn’t the only one.”
He grins at Micah maliciously. “No one thought of that, huh? What would happen if they failed?”
Micah doesn’t answer, face carefully expressionless.
“They ever talk about how that could possibly have happened?” Dean continues. “Twenty, thirty guns—”
“Double that at least,” Micah interrupts, and Dean marks that down for later thought. “And no, they didn’t. They tried to pretend like it—like it didn’t even happen. For all of a day,” he adds with a flicker of malice. “Then Luke’s dead and—I don’t think any of them ever stopped waiting for Castiel’s next bullet.”
Fuck his life, he’s finding common ground with Micah. “At least they stuck around,” he says. “Couldn’t live with being a potential assassin?”
“Dean, I didn’t want to—”
“You still did it.”
Micah sits back, cocking his head in genuine surprise. “You think I would have signed that contract without a gun to my head?” he asks. “I didn’t want to be part of Erica’s crusade, and I sure as hell wasn’t interested in helping kill two people I barely knew, but it was them or me. Erica and the others were going after them whether I said yes or no; ‘yes’ meant I got to live.”
“You could have left, like you think Vera should have.”
“And go where?” Micah demands. “Dean, I didn’t want to do it, but it’s not like I had a choice.”
“You had a choice.” He’s gotta get out of here, think about this. “And this interview’s over—”
“I’m requesting Chitaqua’s assistance,” Micah says deliberately. “To protect my life from Hellhounds, due to a contract I was forced to make at gunpoint by your team leaders.”
“I’m alive,” Dean points out. “Contract’s not over, so you got, what, eight years—”
“Erica’s here, and she’s going to kill me even if it’s not.”
“She’s Crossroads,” Dean answers. “They can’t do that; those are the rules.”
“I was a professional at interpreting ‘rules’,” Micah retorts. “You know as well as I do there’s always a way around it, and if she hasn’t discovered it yet, she’ll make something up.”
“Give you that,” Dean agrees. “Still haven’t told me why I should do shit for you.”
“It’s your mandate, or so I was taught,” Micah says coolly. “More practically, unless you plan to have me thrown outside the walls—which is possible but unlikely—I’m a danger to anyone and everyone around me. It’s Chitaqua or many, many innocent civilian lives: you decide.”
Dean stares at him wordlessly.
“That’s survival, Dean,” Micah says, sitting back. “I’ll wait.”
Dean waits for Joe to fetch Micah’s guards—who look a little forlorn—before jerking his head toward the empty room they were using earlier. “Got everything?” he asks.
“Got it,” Joe agrees, giving him the notebook that is now pretty well filled and utterly unreadable even when it’s English (he thinks). He’s still working out if that’s a letter or a stick figure when Joe abruptly says, “You get he’s pissed at her, right?”
He jerks his gaze from the maybe-letter ‘A.’ “What?”
“He said ‘us’,” Joe says. “He was trying to imply Alicia was involved.”
Dean tightens his grip on the notebook. “Joe, he said a lot of shit—”
“Yeah, and going down, he’s gonna take her with him,” Joe interrupts urgently. “She wasn’t part of it, Dean.”
“You didn’t even remember her before she started coming to night school,” Dean says, wondering how on earth he can sound so normal. “I get it, everyone’s friends now, but come on. Anyone could have been there.”
“Anyone, yeah, but not her.” Joe leans carefully against the card table. “Dean, I didn’t know her then, but I got to know her after, and cold blooded murderer she is not.”
The memory of Alicia with that knife outside Ichabod, waiting for Micah to get into range, crosses his mind; there was nothing about the way she held herself that said ‘warning’ or ‘flesh wound.’ She meant to kill him, and fuck knows she had a damn good reason not to want him to talk to anyone. The only thing he can’t figure out is how the fuck she planned to explain cold-blooded murder in front of a bunch of volunteer civilians after the fact; if she wanted Micah dead, she knew exactly where he was and he doesn’t doubt she could get the job done without anyone knowing a thing.
“Dean—”
“Dude, come on,” he hears himself say instead of telling Joe that Micah didn’t need to imply shit. “You’re telling me—me—not to trust the honesty of a guy who left his girlfriend to die by Hellhound and that’s not the first or last of his greatest hits?”
Joe hesitates, searching his face, then relaxes. “Right. So are we going to help him?”
From his expression, he already knows the answer and likes it about as much as Dean does.
“I need to meet with the team leaders,” he says evasively. “Update them on what we know, have them talk to their teams—” He stops at Joe’s startled look. “What?”
“You’re going to tell them… what?”
“Everything.” He shrugs, squinting down at the notebook. “Though dude, I’m gonna need this typed up, what language is this anyway?”
“Dean—”
“All of it,” Dean interrupts, meeting Joe’s eyes. “What the team leaders were really doing, the contract, the deaths—everything. Sins of omission, yeah, but this is one fuck of an omission; all this was going on right under my nose and I didn’t see it. They were my team leaders, and they were goddamn terrorists selling souls at the point of a gun in my own camp. I’m not going to pretend it was anything but exactly what it was, and everyone deserves to know exactly what happened and why.”
Joe crosses his arms, brown eyes thoughtful. “You sure about this?”
“Yeah.” He closes the notebook with a snap. “Some secrets gotta be kept, but this? This isn’t one of them.” Joe’s expression doesn’t change. “You think it’s a bad idea?”
“No,” he answers, mouth quirking in an odd smile. “So, you want to keep that?”
“What, your notes? That I can’t read?”
“Yeah,” he says slowly, like Dean’s not paying attention. “For Cas? He can read them just fine. Otherwise, you won’t be sleeping on the couch tonight, but probably on the balcony, you get that, right? You’ll be lucky to get a blanket.”
Dean wants to tell him he’s wrong, but that would be a lie. “Yeah,” he agrees, clutching the notebook against his chest. “I’ll do that, thanks.”
Dean arrives back at Headquarters not sure how he feels or if he feels anything at all. All that speculation about what happened that night, now he knows from outside that cabin and still has what feels like more questions than he had before.
When he gets to the Situation Room, Cas is alone, sitting on the couch with his laptop on a chair, facing the door and typing steadily like there’s nothing more important than the goddamn patrol schedule. Okay, then.
He closes the door behind him and turns the lock. “Okay, let me explain, okay?”
Cas continues typing for a few ostentatious moments before pausing, saving, and slowly closing the lid of the laptop to focus infinite attention on Dean. “All right.”
Dean didn’t prepare a speech (why not?), but one forms for him; it’s reasonable, almost believable, and he may even get off light (maybe a bug-free couch). Instead, he says, “I couldn’t let you in that room with him.”
Cas raises an eyebrow to express ‘bullshit.’ “I appreciate your concern for my safety from an unarmed human prisoner—”
“He was at the cabin,” Dean blurts out and Cas freezes. “Fuck, that wasn’t…” He looks around the Situation Room and realizes they can’t do this here. “Joe’s up front; I’ll leave him to watch the kids. Come on.”
Joe agrees with suspicious alacrity, murmuring “Want me to get a team looking for a couch?” in a way that’s both sarcastic and depressingly sincere. Following Cas up the spiral stairs, he faces the eternal length of the hall to be traversed in dead silence and wonders how the hell this is his life. Then come stairs and another hall: this is gonna be great.
Then he notices a lot of activity going on down the other hall, and what looks like Carol in a wheelchair. “Why is Carol here?” Dean asks, craning his neck to note Vera directing several people carrying what looks like medical equipment. “What’s going on?”
“Kat wants to see her, so I ordered the empty room beside her room outfitted for Carol’s comfort,” Cas says. “Dolores approved it as long as she returns to the infirmary tonight. Under the circumstances, I didn’t think you’d have any objections.”
Any other time, Dean might start to ask why the hell they’re doing anything for Carol, but that day is not today. Under the circumstances, that is. “Kat asked to see her?” he asks instead.
“Apparently.” As they reach the door to the back stairs, Cas hesitates before reaching for the handle, tensing as they go inside, and while he doesn’t exactly run up them, there’s no time for conversation until they emerge into the hall on the third floor.
Dean opens his mouth to ask about that, then sees Alicia on the other side of the creepy marble office and stops short, door swinging closed behind them with a thump. “What’s she doing here?”
Cas stops a few steps away, turning to look at him in surprise. “I moved her team up here.”
“Why?”
“I didn’t want her near Kat or Carol,” Cas answers shortly. “Is something wrong?”
Opening the door to what is apparently her new room, Alicia glances down the hall and stills as she sees him. Reaching for Cas’s arm, Dean turns him toward their room, making himself not look back and wondering what the fuck he’s supposed to do now.
Once their door closes behind them, Dean shoves Joe’s notebook at Cas. “Here,” he says. “Whole thing right here, didn’t miss a thing. Hey, you want some coffee with that?”
Cas looks from the notebook to Dean and nods warily. “Yes, thank you.”
“Awesome,” he says, opening the door again. “Be right back.”
He doesn’t bother knocking; from Alicia’s expression and the way she’s sitting on a newly unrolled sleeping bag, she was expecting him. What she expects him to do is a mystery; he kind of wishes he could ask, because fuck if he knows.
He would have thrown Cyn out on her ass so fast she would’ve been seeing stars and asked no questions of Amanda if she disappeared for a couple of days; Micah, he would cheerfully toss outside Ichabod’s walls and hope for the worst; sure, it helps they’re both dicks and seem to actively work to piss him off, but that shouldn’t matter. Attempted murder is murder; it shouldn’t fucking matter if he likes the person who did it.
“Did you tell him?” Dean demands roughly, shutting the door behind him. It’s a stupid question; he’s pretty sure that Cas might have mentioned that at some point already. And probably not arranged to move her up here.
She shakes her head, tucking her knees against her chest in a painful echo of Cas, and he just stops himself from telling her to sit a different way. It’s not helping.
“Have you told anyone else?”
“No,” she answers tonelessly. For a bitter, painfully honest moment, he wishes she hadn’t told him, that she’d taken it to her grave.
Dean tries to flex his right hand and regrets it; the shock of pain arrows up to his shoulder. “You don’t go anywhere near Cas—” Even he knows that’s stupid.
“I didn’t,” she interrupts. “He came by—to check on me, I guess—told me Carol was here and next thing I know, he’s moving me up here. So I wouldn’t have to be exposed to their hostility only a few rooms away,” she adds, and yeah, he does get the irony, thanks.
“I talked to your husband.” Her expression doesn’t change. “Yesterday, before the Croats attacked, you were going to kill him.”
“Yeah,” she says simply, but something dangerous flickers in the blue eyes. “I was.”
He almost asks why then and not say, when he got here and saved them a shitload of problems; the words are actually on his tongue when he bites them back, startled. He’s actually not okay with outright murder, either, for the record.
“Matt and Jody will be gone until dusk,” she says abruptly, saving him from thinking about that one too hard. “They’re at the Volunteer Center until dusk.”
“Why…” He sucks in a breath. “You sent them away to wait for me?”
“Yes.” Slowly, she straightens, meeting his eyes without hesitation, and he remembers who he’s talking to and what she does when she’s given information and time to think about it. “Dean, I was on Erica’s team. Now I’m a team leader—like they were—and I was involved in the…”
“Attempted assassination of Cas and Vera,” Dean finishes for her.
Her throat works for a moment. “Yeah. Now it’s time for what comes next.”
“What do you think—”
“It’s time for you to finish cleaning house,” she answers reasonably. “Other than Micah, I may be the only one of the assassins still alive, and even if I’m not, I’m definitely the highest ranked. Cas appointed me himself. This isn’t a new verse same as the first; it’s a whole new world you’re making—and you may not believe this, but I approve—but you can’t have a lieutenant even suspected of involvement in anything that went on before. Outright assassination: exile with a ration pack and twenty-four hours to get out of Kansas isn’t going to cut it, not with this. You have to make me an example. That means full, public confession of what I did and who I know was involved, and then you carry out the penalty.”
Mouth dry, Dean stares at her; she can’t be serious. “You think I should kill you?”
“Execute me,” she corrects him with a hint of amusement. “Different thing. See, unlike Vera and Cas, I actually deserve it.”
Dean tries to work out when this conversation went wrong—for that matter, how it went wrong. “Do you get a trial, pick the judges yet? Just curious, looks like you got it all worked out already.”
“I’ve had a few months to think about it,” she tells him. “The chances were fifty-fifty I’d be found out; either you’d work it out yourself or someone—either that you caught in the camp or one of our expats—saw me and would tell you.”
“Why now and not the last two years?”
She tilts her head, surveying him like he remembers her doing to Cas’s art-map and feels a chill travel down his spine. When Cas told him about the physical differences between him and this Dean, Alicia was the one he mentioned by name. She wasn’t allowed in the cabin during the fever; when he had that cold, Cas examined him himself and told Alicia how he was doing and what he needed; she was the one who shouldn’t see him without his shirt; she was the one who became Cas’s source of gossip after Amanda left and was apparently good at it. All that, and that was before they found out she was the one helping Joe get blackmail material on the border guard, before she worked out what was going on with the migration, before she figured out what it was that caused it. Before he found out she was Erica’s tactician.
Before Joe told him how she found out what he was doing at the border on the third goddamn visit.
She’s been in and out of their cabin for months, done morning coffee and gossip with Cas, had access to Vera’s medical records on both him and Cas, and he doesn’t doubt she read them all.
“Doesn’t really matter, you know?” she answers, blue eyes guileless. “I don’t look gift horses in the mouth, you know?” She leans back against the wall. “If you want, I could fake an escape attempt, make it easier to—”
“Shut up.”
Alicia shuts her mouth, eyes fixed on the wall behind him, and he can’t do this. He doesn’t even know how. “Tomorrow, I’m meeting with the team leaders about what Micah told us; Cas is reviewing Joe’s notes now. Look at me.” Her head jerks up. “These are your orders. What you told me, you don’t tell anyone else, you understand?”
“No—”
“Then fake it,” he interrupts. “You’ll be at the meeting tomorrow; I need everyone I got for when the barrier comes down, and one more thing. We’re negotiating with Naresh to have Micah transferred to us; he needs protection, and that’s our mandate, after all.”
“Protection from who?”
“Hellhounds,” he says. “You were right; he’s under contract.”
She straightens, knees dropping abruptly. “He came here knowing… that’s what Andy died for?”
He nods. “And Erica’s collecting.”
“She would,” she murmurs evasively, almost as if to herself. “Sixty years and she’s already working Crossroads: always knew she’d land on her feet.” Abruptly, her gaze snaps to him. “She came all the way here and sent a few hundred Croats after us just to get Micah?”
So he’s not the only one. “Technically, his contract’s not even up.”
Alicia gazes at the wall behind his head, and he can almost see her putting pieces in place, Erica, Micah, contract, Ichabod, marking each blank spot and going through a list of possible connectors. It’s not even a minute before her eyes focus on him, and he can read the suspicion on her face. “When did he sign?”
“You’ll find out tomorrow with everyone else,” he says. “Your job is to work out what she’s actually doing here and why; after the meeting, I’ll give you Joe’s notes on my chat with Micah. Trial’s gonna have to wait. Do you understand your orders?”
She nods slowly. “Yes, sir.”
Okay, he should go get coffee; even with Joe’s handwriting, Cas reads fast. But. “Why’d you do it?”
She closes her eyes, lips thinning for a moment. “I made the wrong choice,” she answers. “I knew it when I said yes, and I still did it.”
“That doesn’t answer my question.”
“I don’t have a better one,” she says. “I was tired and I was scared and I didn’t know them, so why should I…” She shakes her head. “I went along with it because—that’s what I always did.”
“That’s not a reason to do anything.”
“It’s a reason, it’s just a shitty one,” she says with a flicker of heat that vanishes almost before it starts. “They’re all shitty reasons, Dean; no one has a good reason for murder, just excuses. Are you going to tell Cas… you know, before—before…”
“I judge, jury, and execute?” He can’t help the edge in his voice. “Seems like he should know before the trial—is there gonna be a trial, thought that far yet?” She flinches. “Why? Don’t want to face him in the morning after he finds out one of his friends—and partners, Jesus Christ, almost forgot the part where you had sex with him—tried to kill him?”
“I don’t, no.” She takes a quick breath. “But that’s not why… he shouldn’t have to see me after—after hearing that. Neither of them should.”
He wishes that he wasn’t thinking pretty much the same goddamn thing. There’s dealing with the fact someone you care about tried to kill you, and then there’s doing it while having to see them, give them orders… no.
“No, I’m not,” he says, turning to the door in relief.
He’s almost out when Alicia says, “Look, I don’t have the right to ask—”
“You don’t,” he says, opening the door.
“I’d like to go to the fire tonight,” she says in a rush, and Dean slams the door shut, turning around. That is the last place he thought anyone would want to go.
“Why?” he asks. “Some of those people, we…” Shot, just say it. Killed. For suspicion of Croat.
“I know,” she says. “That’s why.” She frowns, staring at her knees for a moment. “When I was here before, I talked to—uh, people. Mostly Karl, I mean. It’s tradition—they’re good at making those, you know what I mean? They—”
“Yeah.” He didn’t even think about it, not unless Andy was going to be there, and he’s pretty sure Cas would have told him if Kat had agreed to that.
She nods quickly. “Yeah, it’s—their thing. Karl said—he said it helped, not just… it helped everyone, even if it didn’t feel like it should. I thought he was full of shit, but… but you know, I can be stupid sometimes.”
Dean searches helplessly for anger to arm himself, but—“Did you work the isolation room when you were here?”
She nods, and like that, he can’t argue anymore. He wants to—for fuck’s sake, she’s a goddamn murderer in intention if not fact, and that’s only if she didn’t help out hiding the bodies—but…
“Your team goes with you,” he says in a facsimile of command, and if she thinks they’re gonna be there to watch her and make sure she doesn’t do—something, even he can’t work out what—that’s all to the best. “Anything else?”
“No,” she whispers, head still bent, and Dean wishes he could believe it was deliberate, trying to get him to feel sorry for her. It’d be so much easier. “Thank you.”
He goes out without another word, shutting the door behind him, and starts determinedly for the stairs; coffee would be good here.
When he gets back to their room, Cas is sitting on the neatly made bed staring down at the open notebook, which from his expression means he a.) actually could read Joe’s handwriting and b.) read it all.
Handing over the coffee—already fixed—Dean sits down on the edge of the bed and tries to work out where to start. Fortunately, Cas doesn’t feel like waiting.
Closing the notebook, he sips his coffee. “It doesn’t make sense.”
“Which part?” Dean asks curiously.
“Telling us, for one thing.” Leaning back against the pillows, Cas frowns at nothing. “If I understand the sequence of events correctly—not having been actually in the interrogation room to hear it myself—” Yeah, he didn’t think Cas could avoid reminding him of that, probably for the rest of their lives. “—Micah, among others at Chitaqua, made a contract to become better hunters, which we’ll leave for now and get to the part where roughly two months ago, he willingly summoned a demon due to his source of information, presumably at Chitaqua, going silent.”
“One of the team leaders, maybe?” Dean asks dubiously, not really believing it; both Alicia and Micah said Erica hated him, and he’s got the impression the four team leaders were uniform when it came to who they liked and who they didn’t. Which makes him wonder why the hell they wanted him in the first place; Dean only spent part of the morning with him and kind of wants to drop him off in the middle of nowhere. With Croats.
“I doubt it. They would probably have seen him as a deserter from their cause,” Cas replies, frown deepening as he takes another drink. “Do you see where this falls down dramatically or is it my imagination?”
“Jeffrey,” Dean agrees glumly. “That guy sure gets around for someone who should have been killed by someone. Anyone, Cas, come on.”
“The same demon who happened to be stalking Chitaqua also happens to be the one that shows up when Micah calls,” Cas continues, though Dean does note the lack of disagreement there. “Micah flees to find Carol. In completely unrelated events, roughly six weeks after this, Ichabod is unexpectedly attacked by Croats led by demons to finish the sacrifice of the children begun at the church. The human infiltrators who helped do that apparently also took the time to set up the mass migration of the state of Kansas that was completed by people unknown due to the barrier collapsing—a barrier erected on your arrival as part of a plan apparently masterminded by demons, which led Micah and Carol here, pursued by Erica and Hellhounds.”
“They’re related.” Okay, that makes sense—maybe?—so now they have to figure out how.
Cas takes another drink with a look that screams ‘I wish we weren’t on duty and could drink heavily.’ “This would be why Crowley wanted you out of Ichabod,” he says, almost as if to himself. “In retrospect, perhaps his—attempt to assist in assuring that—isn’t entirely unjustified.”
Dean interprets ‘assistance’ as ‘demon blood’ and hell no. “Hell. No.”
“Considering the trouble they took to get you here,” Cas says, “I can see why they’d want to avoid you being killed now.”
“Dude, if they were that worried about me being in danger, I think starting off with ‘dropping me in front of some Croats in Kansas City’ was a bad start.”
“I was there,” Cas answers. “There was no danger provided I saw you, and just as importantly…” He looks at Dean wryly. “Crowley told me that the one thing that would always get my attention was Dean Winchester; he was right. They placed you there to assure I survived those Croats. So I’d have a reason to want to.”
Dean nods as neutrally as he can; that much he figured early on.
“As long as the barrier was up and you were in Chitaqua, there was nothing that I couldn’t easily protect you from—barring such events as the fever, which there’s no possible way they could have known would occur—including the collapse of the barrier itself. Behind Chitaqua’s wards: Crowley commented on how powerful they were, and it didn’t occur to me to wonder why.”
“Cas?” Dean says uneasily when the silence goes from ‘kind of weird’ to ‘this is gonna end badly.’
“I told you that Crowley said someone was reporting on you,” Cas says. “But Crowley didn’t’ know about the fever; he wondered why you weren’t ready—whatever that means—which excludes anyone inside Chitaqua from being the reporter in question.”
“No, it doesn’t,” Dean says, then shakes his head at Cas’s querying look. “Later, get back to why Crowley almost killing you is supposed to be a good thing. They knew this was going to happen—”
“Not that you would be here, however,” Cas interrupts. “It was probably anticipated that you’d follow in your predecessor’s footsteps and concentrate on the threat Lucifer posed, probably with my encouragement, since…”
He stares at Cas, cup forgotten in his hand as Cas smiles faintly. “Cas?”
“That’s what I failed to do,” he says, amusement rippling through his voice. “Dean lost Sam to Lucifer; that was why Dean abandoned the earlier plan to build up resistance against him and founded Chitaqua. I was supposed to do as he did—to you. Protect you, and train you as I did Dean’s soldiers in Chitaqua and make you my weapon against Lucifer in revenge for Dean’s death.”
Dean opens his mouth and pauses, remembering his first weeks here, wearing those sigils that made him a ghost and actively anticipating Cas’s hostile company. It was still better than no one at all.
“How—” He stops, clearing his throat. “How’d they think you’d get me to—to go along with that?”
“I was an angel of the Lord,” he says softly. “Despite my usual performance when it comes to Dean—this time, I’d be doing it for him. Perhaps…” Abruptly, he looks away, taking a drink. “Why they thought I’d be better at it now—or that you’d ever go along with it—is a mystery, however. They don’t know you.”
Alone in a world he didn’t know, in a camp that couldn’t even see him, his only company literally Cas; how long would it take for him to break? If Cas abruptly changed his tactics after a couple of weeks of softening him up with weeks of being a ghost? Dean wants to say he wouldn’t have let it happen, but that’s assuming he even realized what Cas was doing. Assuming he’d even care, as long as he wasn’t left alone, and that’s a pretty goddamn good assumption.
Any Dean would get Cas’s attention, sure—but he wouldn’t be the right Dean, just a copy. One Cas would protect but resent, one who would keep the wound of this Dean’s death open and still bleeding whenever he looked at him. Cas was supposed to use him; all that anger and grief and resentment turned into a weapon to make Dean one, too.
Looking at Cas, drinking coffee and pushing his hair out of his eyes—fuck his life, that’s still goddamn adorable—Dean remembers when he thought there was nothing left in Cas but anger; it looks like someone else was counting on just that.
And like Dean, they were wrong; what was left was Cas. A person: who knew the difference between two Deans, that giving someone a choice meant more than hearing ‘yes’ but making sure they could say ‘no’; how grief wasn’t about getting over it, but learning to move beyond it; and twenty-six Croat-infested bodies brought back for their families, so they could learn to do just that.
“They didn’t know you,” Dean says, finishing off his cup.
Cas looks up in shittily-hidden relief. “That much is true. How they could think I would even able to—”
“Dude, you can do anything,” he interrupts, sitting the cup on the wooden crate-slash-bedside table by the lamp. “You wouldn’t. Now—tell me where you were going with the ‘Crowley stuffing you with demon blood’ was okay. Because this plan—which yeah, actually worked, go demons—could have gone wrong anywhere, so why would now be a problem?”
Cas regards him for a moment and then sets down his coffee cup, sliding to the edge of the bed and going to their bags. Twisting around, Dean watches him rummaging and then realizes they’re empty.
Also, the pile of clothes is missing. “Did you do laundry?” He was gonna do their laundry, and not because he needs everything he can get to show how he’s an awesome partner, especially today.
“Frederick and Rosario are doing it for the entire militia now, as Alison is instituting water rationing,” Cas answers, taking something out as he returns to the bed.
“Rationing?” He really doesn’t like the sound of that. Then Cas closes the notebook and sets—“You brought dice with you?”
“I like craps,” Cas says mildly. “I thought we would be attending a party, not—this. I also brought cards and Uno, since I’ve never played and I want you to teach me.”
“You never played Uno?”
“Like chess, I never found anyone I wanted to play with before,” Cas says as he picks up the dice. “Snake eyes.”
The not entirely still surface of the bed doesn’t seem to affect his throw. “I’m not betting this time.”
“Very wise, Boxcars,” Cas agrees, picking up the dice and rolling again: yeah, this is fun and really illustrating… something. “We weren’t supposed to be in Ichabod to stop that attack; the children were supposed to die to prove the sacrificial circle worked and the human infiltrators were supposed to survive and finish the plan to get everyone to Ichabod except for those too stubborn for the geas to work with or those who were part of the sacrifice. All these people here—Alicia was correct, the humans working with the demons were trying to balance the wrong they committed, but only because a demon told them what they could do would accomplish that.”
“They’re all related,” Dean says in glum satisfaction.
“No, it’s much worse than that,” Cas says, picking up the dice. “Three and one.” He rolls again and three and one, right there, then picks them up. “The demons who designed this were so certain of where you’d be—in Chitaqua, being thoroughly brainwashed into taking up your assigned role while Kansas was protected by a barrier—that they didn’t bother to control for any unexpected variables.” Rolling again, he bounces the bed with his heel and the dice roll off onto the bedspread, nestling in the folds. Dean looks from the dice to Cas. “Crowley didn’t know about the migration. He didn’t know you were visiting around the state at all, and sent demons that could have killed you. He didn’t know Erica was at the Crossroad; he never would have risked anyone seeing her break her conditioning.”
Like this Dean: replace ‘mission’ with ‘contract’ and fuck everything else.
“Ichabod isn’t the result of the great master plan,” Cas confirms. “Much like the unintended consequences of using a geas without controlling for mutation during its spread—or what would happen to this many people trapped in a small space with inadequate food and shelter—this is the unintended consequences of a plan that several different people—and groups—are taking advantage of without being aware the plan—such as it is—even exists. All they can see is the parts, and they’re using them. Including Erica.”
Picking up the dice, Dean shakes them idly in his hand, ignoring his right won’t unclench at all now. Just need some hot water and maybe remove the goddamn thing after all. “So do we know which parts are which yet and who knows what or—anything?”
“That would be very helpful,” Cas answers, glaring at him. “So no, we don’t. Even probability couldn’t account for this.”
“Dude, you didn’t need dice to tell me that.”
“I’ve discovered,” Cas says, eyeing Dean’s hand resentfully, “that I have acquired something of a taste for winning, and this might be the last time I do before we all die.”
“Six and two,” Dean says, shaking the dice. “Alea iacta est.” They come up four and one. Reaching out, he flips each one to the correct side and meets Cas’s eyes. “Then we’ll make our own luck. We’re not dead yet.”
Cas is verifying something between interrogation one and three when Dean notices the sun’s almost down and remembers what Alicia said. “Cas?”
“He’s remarkably consistent, too much so,” Cas says without favor. “He was a lawyer, of course, and I instructed everyone on the basics of interrogation protocol. You may be surprised to know he was the best in either class.”
“You want to go to the burning tonight?”
Dean watches as Cas fumbles the notebook before he looks up, the flicker of guilt unmistakable; yeah, he does.
“Why didn’t you say anything?” he demands, trying to keep the edge from his voice. “Dude, if you want to—”
“You didn’t mention wishing to go if Andy wasn’t to be burned,” Cas interrupts.
“That doesn’t mean you can’t,” Dean argues. “Let me grab my coat and we’ll get out of here.”
“That’s why,” Cas says. “You don’t want to, and I won’t make you do something that will—upset you. At least, not unless it’s necessary.”
“Or really funny,” Dean points out in a steady voice, and Cas tilts his head before nodding solemn agreement. “Look, you can’t go alone—”
“I could,” Cas points out.
“—but you’re not.” He slides off the bed, waiting for Cas to put down the notebook and join him, and takes the opportunity to pull him closer, grinning into the warm blue eyes. “Where you go, I go, okay? Grab your coat and let’s go.”
Dean doesn’t look in the mirror, taking care of business—okay, two different kinds of water-related business, and God, water rationing, he’s not going to think about that right now—and looks around the room for a minute before remembering that one, his coat is downstairs in the lobby closet and two, he’s got a different one, courtesy of Alison (he thinks) since his old one was kind of Croat-blood-soaked.
Jogging down the stairs—and pretending that hot water did shit for his hand and the ibuprofen will eventually help—he says, “Cas, did you see a grey coat in the…”
The lobby is filled with people.
Okay, not filled. Alicia and her team—not a surprise—with Matt wrapping a scarf around Alicia’s neck with a frown while Jody nods agreement to something; Mel pulling on a pair of gloves while David buttons his coat; Amanda tucking a shapeless, hideous orange yarn hat over her head while Vera watches with a grin; Jeremy helping Joelle into a soft brown coat; Joe and Mariamne waiting at the door and damned if Joe isn’t fighting not to reach for her hand; and Cas, armed for winter in an orange yarn hat like Amanda’s (that he makes look good, fuck his life) and gloves, and holding Dean’s coat and—another orange hat, he’s seeing a theme here.
“Where—hat,” Dean says vaguely, in lieu of any of the other dozen questions that spring to mind as he crosses the room.
“A gift from someone very kind with a great deal of orange yarn,” Cas says, eyes flickering to those assembled and tilting his head. With something not unlike a sigh, everyone takes out their orange yarn hats and puts them on, and Amanda starts to smile as Vera tucks it over her twists in resignation. “I understand it’s polite to send thank-you notes when one receives a gift,” he continues, holding Dean’s coat open and giving the impression Dean better just go with it. “I expect everyone will have their notes complete by tomorrow morning so they can be delivered to Admin, where Alison can give them to the anonymous party.”
Surrounded by a chorus of unenthusiastic agreement, Dean stands perfectly still as Cas carefully tucks the hat onto his head; sure, that’s kind of embarrassing, but less than if he lost the fight trying to do it himself. Also, that brings Cas closer (always a plus) and he can ask, “Why are…”
“Liz, Daniel, Phil and Drew are taking shifts in Amanda’s place for a few hours, as they abruptly decided they would like to catch up with Carol and Kat,” Cas murmurs, and Dean remembers that Amanda actually lives in Ichabod, even if she didn’t know those that were killed personally. “Before Kyle volunteered to visit with her as well and therefore trapping them all.”
Poor fuckers: no good deed goes unpunished.
“Mark, Kamal and his regular team, and our recruits left about a quarter hour ago. Jeremy is accompanying Joelle and meeting with her mother once we get there; Joe is attending with Mariamne; Mel, David, and Vera weren’t entirely clear on their reasons, but then again, I also didn’t ask.”
They’re crazy, Dean thinks with a flicker of affection.
“Vera,” Cas says, buttoning Dean’s coat with a serious expression (really, he should tell Cas he doesn’t need to do that. Anytime now), “how was Sudha when you left her?”
“Good. Lewis is losing at poker to her, last I checked,” she answers easily, not betraying by a flicker of her expression it’s not just a casual question. “They’ll come get me if there’s any change.”
“You ready?” Joe asks as Cas smooths down the collar of Dean’s coat. “So let’s go.”
Dean didn’t think to inquire on the logistics of burning upwards of twenty bodies (as in, he didn’t want to think about it), but considering Ichabod had to burn three times that number of their residents after the Croat attack a few weeks ago, they seem to know how it’s done. Though granted, the Wall’s kind of absorbed all the houses and places that you might go for easily accessible wood.
The location is about a quarter mile from the east side of Fourth Street—not far from the bonfire on New Year’s Eve, come to think, though the bare, snow-covered ground that seems to stretch out forever, free of rubble, makes it hard to be sure. He’s not sure what was here before, but the giant hole was probably where the foundation of a building once stood, now filled with several neat layers of wood (some looks like firewood, others cleaned branches) and what looks like any flammable material they could find in twenty-four hours. Giant, battery-powered lights are set up in all four corners, and people on the edge are passing down more wood to those inside.
There’s already a good-size crowd gathering, and Dean’s grateful for the darkness; those who look back can’t see who they are (for those playing the home game, five of them are the people who are responsible for the bodies being dead, while three for those bodies being brought back to burn tonight). As they come to a stop near the southeast side, Dean sees Jeremy and Joelle make a beeline for a woman near the back that in the dim light it takes a moment for Dean to recognize as Maimouna, Joelle’s mom, who holds out her arms for Joelle, and he wonders who she knew who’s being burned tonight. He should have asked Jeremy; why didn’t he do that?
“Is there going to be—you know… talking.” He winces; what the hell is wrong with him?
“There was a multi-denominational service earlier in the remains of the church on Seventh,” Cas murmurs in his ear. “It was the only place that had space enough for everyone in the current crowded conditions and also sufficient walls to keep out most of the wind, but for obvious reasons, each religious leader kept it short, with smaller gatherings planned for tonight for those of differing faiths.”
Dean nods, trying to think of something to say, and what comes out is, “Then why the multi first?”
“Alison told me that when they first settled, there were roughly eight religions among less than two hundred people,” Cas says. “And six different Christian sects. It was a way to assure that everyone was able to take consolation with their community and friends as well as still practice their faith. All the families of the victims gave permission to burn them here; even if they could take them home immediately, transportation of an infected body isn’t something any of them would risk.”
As more people arrive, Dean tries and fails not to guess who were the family and friends and who were acquaintances, fighting the urge to duck his head when anyone comes too close. From the corner of his eye, he catches a couple heading in their direction and glancing back, recognizes Karl, shoulder-length dreadlocks emerging from under a soft brown knit hat, though the guy with him Dean only knows he’s seen around town.
They stop near Alicia, and Karl immediately steps forward and hugs her; even without much light, he can see her surprise, hands flailing a little before tentatively wrapping around his waist and head dropping to rest against his shoulder. Behind her, Matt and Jody watch curiously, not surprised, and Dean realizes after a moment that he’s looking for Andy behind them and jerks his gaze away.
“They apparently became friends when she worked in Ichabod’s infirmary after the attack,” Cas says softly, having followed Dean’s gaze. “He and his partner Pedro were her hosts.”
Dean glances back again in time to see Karl transfer Alicia to Pedro. “She worked isolation.”
“Vera thinks she was the one who saw to the children.” Dean stiffens, looking at Cas; even reminding himself what she did doesn’t do anything for the sheer horror. “It’s very rare they lose children to Croat, and never so many. She said there might not have been anyone who had sufficient objectivity.”
Dean flashes on Del and the dead bodies at the stairs, the injured kids that Callie and Emmy took with them into the locked room at the daycare, the ones who were found later, still alive when in a fair world they shouldn’t have been. Then stops, doing the math and coming up with fresh horror. “It was over eight hours before Alicia got to Ichabod.”
“Dolores has a very strict policy about discussing isolation,” Cas murmurs. “I doubt anyone other than a very few who needed to know—including the parents—are aware that—”
“Those kids were already Croat?” Dean demands. “She went in there to shoot up Croat kids…” Bad enough to see the dead bodies, horrible to imagine doing that to any kids, but that… “You’re telling me she volunteered?”
“Apparently, that’s exactly what she did,” Cas answers, eyes fixed on some point in the distance. “If Kyle—somehow—discovered what she was doing and took advantage of her distress…”
“She might have told him,” Dean starts, then shakes his head when Cas looks at him in patent disbelief. “Yeah, he must have followed her or saw something and guessed; son of a bitch.”
“I’m aware,” Cas says in a voice so rigidly controlled that Dean can almost hear the smiting in it, “that it is not within our responsibilities to in any way regulate or interfere—or even show interest in—the private lives of the militia. However, Kyle’s behavior has historically been questionable, and if he deliberately used his knowledge of Alicia’s actions in the line of duty—knowledge acquired by underhanded means—to manipulate her when she was—not thinking clearly—I don’t feel confidence in his integrity as a team leader.”
“Or a person,” Dean says quietly, wondering what they don’t know about what might have happened with Jane, what she didn’t report other than stalking. And why would she, after all? Once you’re living in a camp where the team leaders were suspected murderers and given a pass, it’s not exactly a jump to assume lesser crimes wouldn’t even make the radar.
Looking back again, Dean sees Matt shaking Karl’s hand and Jody talking quietly to Pedro and stops himself from looking for Andy again. To his surprise, Naresh and Suma join them, and as Alicia turns toward them, he sees her face crumple as Suma reaches for her and makes himself look away. Whatever she did, her grief over Andy isn’t a lie, and he’s not going to grudge her getting what comfort she can for that; he’s not and never gonna be that much of a dick.
And nothing can make Kyle’s actions okay. “When we get back to Chitaqua, find a way to talk to Jane,” he says. “And anyone else who has a history with him. Stalking may not be the only thing Jane didn’t want to report.”
Cas nods, shoulder brushing his, and looking around, Dean realizes the crowd has tripled with more people still coming. Glancing at Cas, he sees him gazing toward a woman carrying a kid, two older ones trailing behind her. “Who’s that?”
“Callisto,” he says. “Her cousin was—among those outside the walls.”
Callisto comes to a stop near the northeast edge, close enough to the light that Dean catches a glimpse of her rigid face and her hold on the kid in her arms. “Cousin’s kids?”
“At least two of them,” Cas agrees. “She told me they were very close.”
So there was more than just talk about how to get bodies, okay. Just then, Callisto glances over, expression changing when she sees Cas. He may be imagining it (he’s not), but he’s pretty sure the way she stills is when she sees Dean.
“Go,” Dean says, nudging Cas’s shoulder. “It’s what you do when—you know.”
For a horrified moment, Cas looks like he may ask Dean to accompany him, but then he nods, starting toward Callisto. When he reaches them, Cas reaches politely to shake her hand, and as Callisto indicates each kid, Cas practices his ‘being introduced to new people’ by crouching to solemnly shake each small hand.
“Okay, that’s adorable,” Vera murmurs in his ear, and Dean realizes he’s smiling as Cas listens to one of the kids—both boys, he thinks, but the big winter coats make that a guess—nodding along with the kind of strict attention kids love. “He likes kids, huh?”
“Oh yeah.” As Cas straightens to peer at the kid in Callisto’s arms, murmuring something, the little head lifts and to Callisto’s obvious surprise (though not Dean’s), two tiny red-coated arms reach out. Of course Cas likes kids; the only surprise was that Cas seemed surprised that day in the daycare when he read a story to the toddler room while the other kids from the church watched from outside the door. Of course he’d like them; they’re the one group of people who haven’t learned yet you’re supposed to be afraid of the unknown on principle. And they sure as hell like him.
After a few seconds of what looks like a very earnest conversation with someone under three—Dean’s had a lot of those, and even the ones that have words don’t necessarily make sense—the kid drops her head on his shoulder and looks just about ready to go to sleep. Callisto looks between the kid and Cas in surprise, and even from here, Dean can see Cas shrug.
“Angel thing?” Vera asks softly as Callisto and Cas talk while he gently strokes the red-coated back of the kid in his arms.
“Cas thing,” he replies absently, thinking of Cas’s suggestion that they visit the daycare a couple of nights ago and wishing he hadn’t been too distracted to wonder if maybe Cas wanted to go, too. Hang out in the one place, with the one group of people, who aren’t a crapshoot, who look at Cas and see him.
After only a minute or two, Cas returns the obviously sleeping child to Callisto and says something before starting back toward them. Dean wonders at that until he notices people hovering a short distance from Callisto, their gazes fixed on Cas. They’re too far away and it’s too dark to catch their expressions, but Cas can see in the dark and he doubts Cas missed them.
“Be right back,” he tells Vera and starts to Cas, meeting him halfway and shrugging at his suspicious look. “So what, you’re baby Valium now?”
“Callisto mentioned that,” Cas says, tucking his hands into his coat pockets; nothing about his expression says he noticed the watchers, but then again, this is Cas. “They’ll only stay until Reva’s body is brought out and they begin the burn so her children can say goodbye. It shouldn’t be long now.”
When they get back, Dean casually puts himself between Cas and the gazes of those people and notices Mel and David subtly come up behind them while Amanda and Vera station themselves on Cas’s other side. Glancing over, Vera looks at him before her gaze flickers to those people and back; nodding, Dean relaxes. So she saw it, too.
The sound of a couple of engines gets everyone’s attention, and Dean turns to watch the crowd part as two vans come to a stop and cut the engines. Craning his neck, he watches as several figures emerge from the cabs, dressed in protective gear over their coats and wearing thick rubber gloves as they circle around to open the back doors of each van.
And one just wearing a coat and hat, standing back to direct those who lay out stretchers on the ground for those retrieving the bodies. Dean doesn’t need any light to work out who that is. He’d recognize the shape of Alison’s shoulders anywhere, voice clear and carrying through the crowd even if the words are indistinct, Claudia beside her.
Dean counts the bodies as they’re carried one by one to those waiting in the hole, handing down each stretcher with practiced care and taking a previous stretcher back to do it all again. Sixteen from the first van, sheets blindingly white in the harsh glare of the light. Faintly, he thinks he can hear someone start to sob, but otherwise, it’s almost painfully silent.
When they hit ten from the second van with no end in sight, Dean rouses himself enough to ask, “Who else—”
“Some from the YMCA and library incidents,” Vera answers, voice unnaturally loud in the waiting silence. “They couldn’t get enough material for everyone tonight, so Croat got priority, and the first families they approached who said yes for the six others.” Her eyes follow the bodies, and he guesses at least one was probably among her patients that night.
As the last body is placed on a stretcher, Alison goes to close the first van door herself while Claudia does the second, then both follow the same path the bodies took to the edge of the pit. The gap in the crowd is enough for Dean to get a glimpse inside, but not enough; it’s only when he can see the rows of bodies being covered by the volunteers in the pit that he realizes he’s only a few feet from Alison now and can’t remember actually moving.
Thirty-two bodies: twenty-six of them are his, died by his hand or on his order, and that distinction makes no difference at all. Unable to look away, he counts them again and again, almost resenting the anonymity the sheets provide despite the fact he can’t remember a single one of their faces. He should, though; right now, he can’t even remember if he even bothered to look them in the face before shooting them, a bullet to the head that ended twenty-six lives.
A few feet away from Alison, Dean sees Tony and Teresa standing with a group, among them some faces he recognizes as members of Ichabod’s town council and three Alliance mayors. Two of them, Lourdes and John Henry, Noak and Andale respectively, join Alison and Claudia at the edge of the pit, and Dean wonders distantly who among those twenty-six were theirs.
Then Alison speaks, voice pitched to reach effortlessly across the crowd. “Tonight, we acknowledge our loss. Together, we are infinitely greater, and so follows that the absence of those who died makes us infinitely less than we were. Where they were, we will never again see them: at our tables, in our homes, on our streets, during our celebrations and in our grief.” In the harsh light, Dean can see her gaze deliberately sweep over the crowd like she’s speaking directly to each and every person here. “That is as it should be; we will always remember them. These are their names; please repeat them with me.”
Deliberately, Alison says each name followed by dozens—maybe hundreds—of voices repeating it, and Dean’s with them, learning the shape of them in his mouth and committing them to memory. He should have known them already, should have gotten a list, found out about their families; for fuck’s sake, he didn’t even bother to look at their faces.
A movement to his left gets his attention, and he sees Alicia, flanked by Jody and Matt, watching with tears streaking her cheeks as she says each and every name, and wonders if she’s thinking of the children from isolation and the burn for them she didn’t attend; of Andy, still in Ichabod’s mortuary and waiting for the day they can burn him in Chitaqua.
Andy, who died yesterday, and Dean still hasn’t fucking bothered to ask Cas how old he was.
When the sound of the thirty-second name has faded into silence, Alison signals those in the pit, and the chemical smell of propane among the various accelerants drifts toward them in the cold air, overpowering the aromatic oils. Breathing through his mouth is a mistake; now he can taste it, too.
The volunteers climb out, and it takes a moment for Dean to notice that Tony’s on the far side of the hole, holding something and looking at Alison. When she nods, he looks down at what Dean thinks is some kind of remote, and then the unmistakable sound of crackling is followed by a sudden leap of flames across the bodies.
“Dean?” Cas says when the crowd slowly begins to disperse. “Are you ready—”
“No.” Making an effort, he looks at Cas. “Go back without me, okay? I need to…” It’s hard to think when thirty-two names are scrolling endlessly through his head, but he’s got to try. “An hour, okay? Meet you in our room.”
Cas hesitates, searching his face. “You shouldn’t be alone.”
Oh, he won’t be alone: he’s got thirty-two burning bodies to keep him company. “Please, Cas.” He hopes Cas hears that he won’t ask again; it’ll be an order.
Finally, Cas nods. “An hour, and then I come and find you.”
Dean nods, watching Cas turn, signaling Vera and the rest to follow with the casual, unthinking certainty of being obeyed, and waits until they’re swallowed by the darkness to turn back around. Watching the flames, he repeats the thirty-two names over and over, aware of nothing of the fast burn of the fire and the smell and taste of flowers and wood and burning flesh.