The Game of God: Day 157 - part 4

Right place and time, any tool could do it.

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— Day 157, continued —

When they get to the Situation Room, Joe is talking with Vera and Kamal, and the Micah notebook is open in Alicia’s hands; from where she is in it, she’s reading fast. Vera looks up, expression carefully neutral, and Dean really hopes Ichabod’s benefits package sucks, because seriously. Taking a breath, he pauses, identifying a mix of mint and—sage?—and spots two blue and green striped candles discreetly burning in the far corner, which he assumes is to promote something that includes ‘calm’ and ‘don’t kill Dean.’ Maybe he should have Vera hold one, just in case.

“Almost done,” Alicia says without looking up. Dean’s not surprised she can read Joe’s what the fuck handwriting; she’d probably spontaneously develop the ability to read Sanskrit on sheer Alicia-ness.

“Right,” he starts as Cas joins Vera on the couch, which could be Cas being a supportive friend or wanting to be on hand to stop her from going for another Dean Winchester, and why did he remember that right now?

He’s halfway across the room when the door opens, and not even surprising, it’s Alison with Teresa and Amanda in tow. From Alison’s expression, she’s learned a whole new level of ‘cranky.’ “Hey Alison.”

“Dealing with demons?” she demands before she’s even through the door, and Dean can’t get over how someone in bent wire-rimmed glasses and rocking three pencils in her hair—one about to stab her ear—can swallow up a room with the sheer power of her annoyance with all within her sight. He’s kind of glad that’s not privileged information or anything, because he’s pretty sure the entire building heard that. “Because that worked really well before?”

“The wall—” Cas starts before Dean can give him the ‘shut up’ look because no, the wall is not proof of the okayness of anything.

“You, shut up,” she snaps, and Teresa, looking apologetic, closes the door with a sigh. “Dean?”

Dean realizes everyone is looking at him. Oh, now he’s leader of Chitaqua: when it’s his fault. “Amanda briefed you?” She nods impatiently. “You tell me; what should I have done?”

That stops her—for an entire second. “Called me in to at least be there! Not that you aren’t scary, honey,” she tells Teresa, who nods in resignation at being a delicate flower while carrying almost as many weapons as he does (not including the witch thing). “Just, I don’t know, something.”

“Well, something would definitely have helped, sorry. Could have used some of that.” Dropping casually onto the arm of the couch by Cas, he immediately regrets it; the sharp pain from his inner thigh and—weirdness of other places—come together to create the least fucking appropriate moment in history to… feel that. Shifting carefully, he glances at Cas and knows for an absolute fucking fact he’s not oblivious at all. “Grab a chair and sit down. This won’t take long.”

Looking mutinous—why? Why stand when you don’t have to?—Alison retrieves two, handling Teresa into the first like she’s made of glass before dropping deliberately into the other one directly across from Dean just in case her glare needs the help of direct line of sight. It doesn’t, thanks, but looking her over, Dean wonders if she slept at all last night, and he doesn’t think it’s just the sweater that makes her look so thin. The hazel eyes are too big, too bright in a face with skin stretched too tightly over the high cheekbones. Involuntarily, he thinks of Carol in the infirmary. “Hey, you okay?”

Alison looks her opinion of him asking questions. “Fine.”

“After Dolores kicked her out of the infirmary last night, she toured the big building we just got up off Seventh to see if it was up to spec, tried to help, was herded away from anything involving electricity—tell Sean and Lena thank you—”

“Teresa!”

“—and went back to Admin, where she proceeded to fall asleep on her desk and drool over inventory lists,” Teresa finishes grimly. “At which time, I came to get her and she slept badly in our bed for a whole three hours. We may need to talk pre-nuptial agreement, honey.”

“Bad dreams?” Dean asks, then tenses, because there’s also bad dreams. “Uh—”

“No,” Alison grinds out. “Just normal we’re all going to die, not a preview of how.” She sighs unhappily, slumping. “I never thought I’d say this, but I wouldn’t mind having something this time. A little guidance would be nice.”

“If it helps,” Cas says, “as we discussed before, your clairvoyance is actually useful; it’s personal, not general—which in an Apocalypse you definitely do not want it to be otherwise—and is triggered by a potential decision that you make: in other words, something you yourself can actually do. While you make many decisions every day as a person and mayor—major and minor—there is very little that is affected by your decision alone, and something like this—”

“Too many variables,” Dean says wisely and gets a flicker of a smile from Cas and blank expressions from everyone else. Awesome. “This isn’t craps; it’s poker, and everyone in this town is playing. Can’t make someone less lucky. Or more,” he adds thoughtfully. “Just gotta play the hand you’re dealt, hope for the best, and cheat if you gotta.”

There’s a long pause before Kamal says, sounding strangled, “Was that—was that a life lesson?”

“Could be,” Dean agrees enigmatically: why not? “I do those sometimes.”

Amanda looks at Joe desperately. “He does those?”

“Once,” Joe answers, gazing pensively into the distance, “he almost made us conquer Kansas in his name to teach us a very valuable lesson about friendship.”

“Even Michael was never allowed to conquer the world,” Cas says wistfully. “I even had a tentative design for my standard all would carry and that would become a source of dread and fear to all who would behold it.” Giving the impression of someone letting go of a life’s dream, he sighs. “Friendship and fair trade of potatoes and vegetables is, of course, far preferable. For that is our way.”

“I’m sorry Dean crushed your dreams of conquest,” Alison says sympathetically. “If I go megalomaniac—provided I don’t go crazy in a bathtub of heroin—you’re my first choice for general of my crazy army. Promise.”

Cas smiles at her. “I appreciate it.”

“All right,” Dean says loudly, “back to the crazy demon outside and not the crazy people in here. We have until dawn; who wants to start?”

Alicia lowers the notebook, finger marking the page. “So, Erica planned something.”

“No shit!” Cas gives him a disappointed look. “Sorry,” he adds, not sorry at all but ready to move on. “If we’d kept her talking a little longer—”

“No, not planning—planned; it’s already in progress.” Alicia leans forward in her chair. “She wouldn’t have called you out there unless she was very sure it was working. Terrible chess player, good at poker but not great, won’t play craps to save her life, see what I mean?”

It should weird him out that yeah, he does. “Can’t do long term planning, doesn’t bluff, doesn’t like risk and won’t play on it: whatever it is, she’s already sure—or as sure as she can be—that it’ll work.”

Alicia nods confirmation to assume they’re fucked.

“Even if we give her Micah—which we’re not—he’s not what she’s really after here,” he finishes. “Great.”

“She wants Micah,” Joe disagrees. “She set up an entire goddamn ambush outside the walls to get him, and that doesn’t include what happened on his way here with Carol. Not saying it almost didn’t work or it wasn’t good, but it wasn’t exactly up there with Genghis Khan when it comes to strategy: all it had going for it was surprise—and hey, we were surprised—and numbers, and the numbers were kind of thrown in for the hell of it. Very Erica.” Alicia glances up to nod confirmation before returning to her reading, and Dean fights the impulse to ask her how she would have done it. “This was opportunistic; she saw her chance and took it, using whatever she had on hand to get it done.”

“All that for one guy?” Dean asks skeptically. From the corner of his eye, he watches Alicia’s expression, hoping for something unguarded, but no; there’s an audience and Alicia is a good performer.

“She would,” Alicia agrees in support of Joe. “You know the saying; you send—”

“—Stanley when they won’t talk, Terry if they won’t help, and Erica when you want to win, and don’t care how,” Dean finishes for her.

“For the record,” Alison interjects, “I like the other version of this much better. With the skillsets that don’t have horrifying implications, unspoken but not like you can’t read between the lines.”

“You’re not the only one,” he tells her. “I don’t want to know what they say about me, by the way, in case anyone was going to do that.” Vera doesn’t look at him, which just means she’s making up something right now in her head if there wasn’t anything before.

“Jeffrey warned Micah about her,” Joe continues. “Assuming Micah was telling the truth, which, gonna say, in that one instance, I’m inclined to believe him. Especially considering what else Jeffrey told him about that little talk and shoot he had with Cas.”

“Then why did she want to talk to us in the first place?” he demands. “She had to know we weren’t gonna hand him over to her!”

“Well—” Joe starts doubtfully, having spent quality time listening to Micah talk and transcribing it to boot.

“I’m saying ethics and not being a shitty person aside,” Dean explains, “I wouldn’t give her a bullet to the head if she asked for it. Just knowing she wanted bullets would have me signing anti-gun petitions just so she would never get one!”

He notes in satisfaction that not one person tries to explain how that doesn’t make any fucking sense, because hey, it does.

“Which means,” Cas says blandly, “that she didn’t want to convince us to give her Micah, and there was another reason she wanted to talk.”

“What did she say to you during that cone of silence, anyway?” Amanda asks curiously, but he doesn’t miss the sharp blue gaze. “You know, that made Cas shoot her?”

Dean freezes, mind utterly blank. Yeah, an explanation for that would be good here, and hey, he really should have come up with one.

“She told Dean she fired the first shot at the cabin that night,” Cas says, sounding bored, and in the part of Dean’s mind blessing Cas’s ability to not-lie on demand, he notes Alicia’s head come up sharply. “How much she regretted failing, how she wishes they’d tried again, and then proceeded to taunt him about her actions in Chitaqua under his very nose. It was annoying.”

Joe sits back, looking incredulous. “Let me get this straight—she called us out there just to spend two thirds of the conversation gloating down memory lane with you two? What, she’s taking lessons in how to be a shitty supervillain?”

“It was like having to listen to Lucifer,” Cas replies, wrinkling his nose fastidiously. “But without the megalomania, which might have been terrifying but at least provided variety in conversation.” He frowns, slumping back into the couch. “She also said those who can’t do, teach. It seems to be a day for my abilities to be called into question; at least she didn’t imply that I couldn’t kill a demon—”

“Oh God,” Vera interrupts despairingly, “let it go.”

Cas doesn’t answer, which Dean takes as someday, sure, but not yet. Okay, then, time to subtly change the subject, and since he has no idea how to do that, he’s glad Joe jumps in. “If she wasn’t lying about leaving at dawn, then that’s exactly how long we have to figure out what’s going on. And hope we can either stop it or mitigate it, and I’m betting the latter is best case scenario here.”

So Joe’s optimistic. “Think she’s avoiding the Misborn?”

“Oh yeah, if she knows, and let’s assume she does. In which case, that may not be a hard deadline, just how long she’ll wait.” Joe shrugs. “In other words, she’s probably fucking with us; I seriously doubt she was sincere about sharing her timetable to help us out.”

“So could be done in five minutes or by dawn, we just don’t know? Because Erica.” Joe nods helpfully. “We’re hoping—hoping—this takes a while, then. Whatever it is.”

“Well,” Joe answers thoughtfully, “the longer it takes, the bigger and worse it probably is, so…”

“Having established that, question,” Alicia says before Dean can decide which option here is more horrifying. “Did Crowley authorize this?”

Dean looks at her, then at Cas. Erica as good as admitted that Crowley didn’t authorize the collection of Micah, but that’s about it. “Well?”

“Unfortunately, during our meeting, I didn’t have the opportunity to ask him about things that hadn’t happened yet,” Cas answers seriously. “Nor, if I had, could I speak for his veracity. However—all else being equal—he doesn’t like her, doesn’t trust her, can’t control her, and as Joseph said, this is opportunistic and personal. Unless he’s an idiot, he wouldn’t give her carte blanche to carry out a private vendetta on earth, especially among her own former compatriots; nothing would be worth the risk. Also, I suspect that he, too, would sign an anti-gun petition if Erica wanted a bullet.”

Dean interprets risk to include ‘her going after Dean’ or doing anything to fuck up that first contract that’s already turned into a clusterfuck. He’s got to survive after all; might fuck things up if Erica took out Dean Winchester the first’s replacement, unless there’s another one somewhere. There are a lot of worlds out there… and he needs to not think about that.

“So exactly how long can she fly under Crowley’s radar if he doesn’t know?” Alicia asks. “Ballpark? That little chat—end to end, about an hour? Five days in Hell: Crowley decided to start his weekend nap early?”

Dean opens his mouth and shuts it. “Good question. How the hell is she getting away with this? Why would he give her topside privileges at all when she pissed him off?”

“There’s fucking with your minions’ heads for reasons, and then there’s stupid,” Amanda states. “I’m almost at stupid; why the hell was she even on Crossroads duty in the first place?” She looks around them. “Here’s what we know for sure: about two months ago, Jeffrey told Micah that Erica was after him and he ran; about how long would it take after she rose that she wasn’t still crazy from the rack?”

It can take time—sometimes years, sometimes decades, sometimes never—before a demon is more than mindless cringing and terrorized obedience, but no surprise, she’s off curve there, too. “Her? A year at most,” Dean says without thinking, wondering incredulously how anyone could have missed it—Alistair made that mistake with him, too, you’d think they’d learn—and stiffens, but no one seems to notice. “And more crazy, just a different kind.”

“Point,” Amanda says. “So that’s what, three days on earth? Fast forward to five days ago, Erica answered Cas at the Crossroad; the next day, Micah saw her when that Hellhound went after Carol trying to get to him thirty miles outside Ichabod; two days after that, she’s sending Croats to break the ward line; now today. You’re telling me Crowley is okay with his minions wandering around the greater Kansas area without a leash?”

“He wants her to think he’s weak,” Cas offers.

“He’s doing a good job,” Alicia says thoughtfully, and Dean realizes once again he’s in a room with the smartest person he’s ever met. “Or something’s holding him back. Question is, what?”

That’s exactly what’s starting to worry him. Loose-cannon Erica is terrifying, but somehow, he doesn’t think it’s better if the reason Crowley isn’t controlling her is that goddamn contract might not be letting him. And of course Alicia would jump to that; this rate, she’s gonna stumble over that first contract before they can work out how the hell to explain it to anyone (he doesn’t even pretend keeping that a secret isn’t going to bite them in the ass somehow). Alison, he may be able to get away with some lack of clarity, at least for a little while, but Miss Deux Ex Machina over there is a different story.

“You’re thinking—you are, I know it—’Alicia, give us revelation on Erica’s plan’.” Alicia shrugs. “I can’t. But Micah, that’s a gimme, the golden rule of villainy; if you can’t beat them, join them.”

Amanda closes her eyes. “Micah would be stupid enough to try to deal with Erica. Again. Because that worked out so well for him last time. With the Hellhounds gone, he’d know the precautions to take even if Erica was stupid enough to test the ward line. It was what, about eighteen, twenty hours between when we saw him before the attack and he was caught, so—”

“Amanda,” Alison interrupts, “we have guards on the bricked postern doors, all the gates are sealed but the western one, and we have people on them. No one could get through the gates or the doors; the wall’s new, but defense isn’t.”

“And there hasn’t been a summoning,” Teresa adds, and Dean sees the faint, dark gleam in her eyes.

“He went over it,” Amanda answers. “Go out after dark, get a rope, climb down.”

“We have guards patrolling…” Alison makes a face.

“He knows how patrol and watch work. Probably an hour before the shift change; almost there but not quite, feels like forever, especially when nothing’s going on. Takes time, experience, and sometimes, someone terrorizing the fuck out of you one night in the cabin—”

“Do we really need to bring that up again?” Dean asks.

“—to learn not to glaze over, and yes, until the day I die,” she finishes blithely, turning her attention to Teresa, who looks grim. “Not your fault, Teresa. You have a lot of new people on the wall, and honestly, it’s better no one saw him: otherwise, easy to trip and fall off the wall in the dark with some help.”

Alison’s glare at Dean intensifies. “You’re all ninjas. Of course you are.”

“I didn’t train ‘em. Not all by myself,” Dean protests before he can stop himself. “Cas did!”

“I did,” Cas agrees. “If I didn’t loathe Micah with all my being, I would be very proud he’s retained so much of his training. I’m proud anyway, you understand, but I’m attempting not to be, because it’s Micah.”

“He probably had the idiots two to help do the hard, hard work of finding a rope and pulling him back up,” Amanda adds disparagingly. “His upper arm strength was never anything to write home about.”

“And they’d go along with that?” Alison asks incredulously. “Please help me go over the wall to see a demon?”

“They’re that stupid,” Alicia assures her. “If he even told them anything.”

“They were of the quality one usually associates with minions who choose a substandard leader, as in, they probably didn’t even think to ask why he wanted to climb up and down the wall in what was probably the middle of the night,” Cas confirms. Dean hasn’t even met the guys but is now surprised they know to breathe regularly just from reputation. “I agree: Micah made another deal with her, either for his survival until his contract comes due, or—Micah being a lawyer—a way out of his contract.”

“You can do that?” Teresa asks as Alison frowns into the distance, hazel eyes unfocused.

“It’s not common but it’s certainly not unprecedented,” Cas answers. “However, it’s more complicated than simply making another trade. You’re buying your soul from Hell itself, above and beyond the price the demon demands.”

“Unlike cars,” Dean says brightly, “human souls actually appreciate in value. In case anyone was wondering.”

“If Hell isn’t satisfied by the trade, it’s still binding, but the difference is paid by the demon who authorizes the trade,” Cas continues. “If Erica agreed to release Micah, the price she set must be very high, not just to satisfy Hell, but to satisfy her personally. For the first, that could be anything, but the second… considering how much trouble she’s gone to already, I can’t imagine anything that would.”

“Which might explain why Erica’s plan is in progress; it’s that big.” Cas’s expression tells him he’s not wrong, which means they might have until dawn after all, fuck their lives. This would be the time to get to that extradition thing. “Look, Alison, about Micah—”

“Ichabod agrees to the extradition of the prisoner to Chitaqua’s custody immediately,” Alison says abruptly, blinking at them. “Pick him up whenever you want, but I like soon.”

That was easy, which means somehow, it’s gonna go wrong. “Ichabod’s council—”

“Just cleared it with all voting members of the council, not one objection,” she says with a small, satisfied smile that widens when she meets Cas’s eyes. “I’m getting better at this.” Seeing Dean’s surprise, she snorts. “What? Not like it was a hard sell. You thought we wanted to keep him? Even if we did, Naresh is about to forget to not push him out a window on accident, and I can tell you now, we’ll all forget to care.”

Alicia’s expression darkens. “What’d the asshole do to piss off Naresh?”

“What do you think?” Alison rolls her eyes at Alicia’s bewildered expression. “Naresh wouldn’t repeat, but Micah now knows better than to so much as say your name where he or his people can hear it.”

Unguarded Alicia: she stares at Alison as if she doesn’t understand what she said, and that overpowered brain goes into overdrive trying to work out the obvious. “Oh.”

“So where we gonna put him?” Amanda asks practically. “Anyone check to see if we had a dungeon? Seriously: aren’t there, like, two doors in the basement that we haven’t been able to get the locks off yet? Going by the theme here, I’m going to be genuinely surprised if there’s not one.”

“I doubt they kept prisoners here,” Dean says, though actually, who knows?

Amanda grins. “I’m talking about the other kind of dungeon. Come on, like all those rings bolted to the walls in the showers, saunas, and Jacuzzis—and the bidet—for casual bondage quickies weren’t a clue. You want something a little more elaborate for those extended work lunches.”

“Three doors, Ana’s working out the C4 calculations,” Alicia says, tearing her gaze from Alison to grin at Amanda. “Who knew you could do that with a bidet, am I right?”

“Seriously,” Dean says, making a note to check out the bidet. “Back on subject: Micah?”

“We got a non-locked room down there,” Joe says loudly. “Nice and big, no windows, one entrance and absolutely no places to attach anyone for anything. Used to be a file room,” he adds reluctantly, and suddenly he’s glaring at Dean. “Still had a couple of file cabinets, in fact.”

Dean waits, but… “I give up, why are you pissed at me?” Then, “Any files in those cabinets you happen to have read? Law files, maybe?”

Joe sinks down in his chair as Amanda asks, “What are law files?”

“A bet I just won.” He sees Alison’s eyes fixed in the middle distance before she starts to grin. “What?”

“Naresh. Give him about an hour and a half to finish up, and he wants to know what color bow you would like,” she answers, grinning at them. “It’s a given it’ll be wrapped around Micah’s neck.” She makes a face. “And Tony and Claudia say hi, and I need to take some reports, see some people, do some things. Before I forgot, Teresa: double the watch on the doors and gates, and get a description of the idiots two to everyone. Also, we need a description.”

“I’ll give the order as soon as your babysitters take you off my hands,” she answers sweetly, smiling at Dean. “Don’t worry—Christina’s team is taking a break in the mess. They’ll be on her before she gets out the door. The description—”

“I got it.” Alison scowls half-heartedly, obviously distracted, and belatedly, he realizes she was looking at Cas, who—he’s not sure what that expression means. “Yell if you need me.” Heaving herself out of the chair, she makes a face, and Dean’s reminded of people wearing Bluetooth headsets you can’t see and talking to not-so-imaginary friends. “Yeah, that’s definitely weird,” she says under her breath as she starts toward the door, and Teresa jumps up with a quick wave and follows Alison closely enough to stop her from running into the door if needed (on a guess, that’s happened). “Turn left, focus—there we go, I see it. Okay, probably not, and where would you get a cat to do it? Try not to blink for ten seconds—no, all of you, count of three—and hey, don’t think of any pink elephants—one, two, three… boom, we are on fire.”

Amanda and Joe watch her leave with fond smiles. “She’s getting better,” Amanda says after the door closes. “Didn’t fall over her own feet or run into the wall.”

“Huh,” Vera says. Amanda looks down at her, but she just shrugs. “Okay, anything else? I got a request from Dolores to get to the infirmary when I can, so…”

“Amanda, take Ana’s team to pick up our prisoner,” he says, aware of Joe and Amanda pretending not to look between Vera and him. “Joe, you’re in charge of our first prison in Ichabod; too bad we can’t have a party, but no cake.”

“I’d like to see it first,” Cas says. “Not that I don’t trust your judgement—”

“You want to imagine Micah in it and how uncomfortable we can make him,” Joe says, nodding. “That’s pretty much my reason, too.”

“Before we all conveniently forget—I know I want to—but who’re we getting to interrogate the asshole?” Vera asks brightly, eyes turning to Dean. “Gonna do it yourself?”

“I thought you might want the job,” he responds, smiling back.

“Or you two can get out your whatevers outside the interrogation room, because fuck if this shit is going in there,” Amanda says sharply. Vera crosses her arms, settling back against the couch, and Dean winces, shifting uncomfortably and getting a throb of pain from his thigh for his trouble. “Biggest question: any of us qualified to get anything out of him? Joe, you listened to him and Dean—what’s your feeling on him?”

“He didn’t tell us anything he didn’t plan to,” Joe answers, resting his ankle on one knee and leaning back. “Guy was a lawyer and a really good one—I would have hired him—and we’re kindergarten compared to what he did in a courtroom. And he knows it. Dean threw him off a few times, but—”

“Noticed that,” Alicia says thoughtfully, tapping the notebook. “I’m impressed; he was, actually, that good. Made partner at twenty-six.”

“Didn’t know you knew him that well,” Vera says and Dean belatedly feels the growing charge. “You were together, what, five, six months—”

“Coming up on our eleven year anniversary,” Alicia says, wrinkling her nose. “What is that, not paper, not gold—small household appliances, maybe? Cutlery? I can do that.”

Seeing the surprise on everyone’s faces (and trying not to feel smug at the way Vera looks at anything but Alicia), Dean plows back to the original subject. “Amanda, any thoughts?”

“On how to get divorce papers in the Zone?” She casually rests a hand on Vera’s shoulder, squeezing gently, and Vera relaxes. “Honestly, no. I’d say leave it to Alison, she can read thoughts—if she’d do it—but that’s not what we need…” She looks at Cas, who shakes his head. “That’s what I figured. I tested her a couple of times myself.”

“What am I missing?” Vera asks. “If she can read his thoughts—”

“That’s what he’s thinking,” Amanda explains. “Ask Alison what hearing random thoughts is like: hint, kind of like tripping but without the fun, not a lot of context, and pretty abstract most of the time. Even if we can get him thinking in the right way—and why would he think his entire plan up in order, detailed, just because we’re asking questions? We don’t even know the right questions to ask—there’s no guarantee it’s accurate or even true.” Vera looks up at her in confusion. “What, you never lie to yourself? I’m only borrowing this bread and peanut butter, when Mom and Dad get back we’ll leave them a check, really.”

Dean meets Amanda’s eyes for a moment of shared amusement; you get good at that shit.

“Do it well enough,” she continues, “you can convince yourself of anything. Micah didn’t strike me as the kind to admit he’s ever done anything wrong in his life; he’s had practice, is what I’m saying. Anyway, a truthsayer, very legendary, also a totally different and much suckier skillset from what I’ve read.”

People are better than they think they are, Alison told him; so that’s what she meant. “She can tell something, but yeah, throwing our baby psychic at Micah’s like asking a guy who jogs a couple of times a week to do the Boston Marathon the next day. Cas?”

“I agree, though for this reason as well; she’s become more proficient at shielding, but she’s been jogging up to now and this town is indeed a marathon. With this many minds, the cost is even higher; maintaining them requires far more energy than that required when it was just the town’s residents, lowering them entirely when she rests is a risk she can’t take, even with Teresa’s assistance, and what sleep she gets is frequently interrupted.”

That would explain a lot. “She’s tired.”

“Very, and every day the strain on her is growing. Everyone she speaks to now are minds she’s used to and knows very, very well and can filter through her shields with minimal risk and at minimal cost to herself. While line of sight and proximity helps shorten the amount of time it takes to find him when she lowers her shields, she’d still be exposed to every mind in this town during that time.”

“Same reason I couldn’t call her from the wall the other day,” Amanda agrees. “Too many people: even if she heard me, that’s a lot of minds to get through to find mine.”

“She can hear you, though,” Dean says to Cas without thinking and wonders belatedly if he’s supposed to know that. But Cas just looks at him. “And you her.”

“That’s different; I’m a box she can’t not see,” he answers, mouth quirking. “I’m also her instructor and she’s my student. If I’d been with you outside the walls, she could have easily spoken to Amanda by finding her through me, though granted if I were there, that would have been unnecessary.”

“But if she could find out something—anything,” Vera starts.

“It is my recommendation as second in command of Chitaqua that we do not ask,” Cas answers with a finality that makes Dean wonder how much of this is actually about Alison’s mental health. “I also recommend that if she should offer, we refuse, politely of course.”

Dean looks at him sharply, but then Kamal asks, “What were you saying about her not being able to tell if he’s lying?”

“There’s a reason truthsayers were and still are very rare,” Cas explains. “They’re not popular at the best of times, and that’s if they don’t go insane and kill themselves, which occurs with understandable if deplorable frequency.” Actually, Dean can see that, now that he thinks about it; like Alison said, knowing so much is bad enough, but it can’t be better to know only true versus lie. Maybe even worse: it wouldn’t take long for them to believe they were insane, not the rest of the world. “Alison can sense it somewhat, but it’s at a very rudimentary level, and with the sheer amount of information she receives even from one mind, it’s not consistent. When she’s more comfortable with what she can do now and has more experience with human minds, we’ll begin instruction on how to identify truth in what she reads.”

Dean looks down at Cas. “She can do that, too? Eventually, I mean.”

“Of course.” Like he’s not sure if Dean’s deliberately playing dumb or not.

“Just curious,” Vera starts, and Dean hears the same tone in her voice as that ‘huh,’ “but what all could she do?”

“It would be both easier and take much less time to list what she can’t do,” Cas answers calmly. “The single item would be ‘I’m curious about that as well’.”

Dean fights off a chill with an effort. “Be interesting to find out, I guess—”

“I mean, now,” Vera interrupts. “Sorry, I haven’t been around for all this really important bonding time you’ve all had with Ichabod’s mayor, so maybe I’m the only one who’s curious why we aren’t wondering a little more about her. Mind-reading, truthsensing—okay, bad truthsensing—”

“She can also yell very loudly,” Cas adds like that might help. “Psychically, I mean. The night of the wall, you may have heard—”

“That’s what that was? Her?” Vera asks, jerking straight, and okay, how many potential disasters can happen in five fucking minutes? The brown eyes fly to Dean. “And you’re okay with this? Why am I not surprised?”

“Uh, Vera—” Joe starts: gotta give him credit for courage if not good sense.

“Shut up. Dean? Why do we have people assigned in a town that’s run by a psychic that so far, I’ve seen can talk to anyone she knows in this town, sometimes several at once, may be able to tell if we’re lying, and Cas doesn’t even know what the fuck she could become? Am I crazy or is it just the rest of you?”

“I trust her,” he answers into the waiting silence; okay, now he’d like some support, thanks.

“Because you trust her,” Vera says evenly. “How about we talk about some of the other people you’ve trusted?”

“If you want worst case scenario, you need merely ask,” Cas interjects so smoothly that only belatedly does everyone turn toward him. “The most powerful telepath to walk the earth enslaved an army, and they conquered the world in his name.”

There’s no sound at all, even breathing, until Vera says, “What?”

“He conquered the world,” Cas says. “He stripped countless minds of everything that made them human, everything that made them them, even their names; he implanted absolute devotion and mindless obedience, had them trained to be soldiers, set himself at the head of an army unlike anything this world has ever seen, and began his conquest. Those who met him in battle were faced with seemingly endless numbers of soldiers perfect in their skill, suicidal in their devotion, and unbending in their loyalty; even the greatest general born could not win against an army like that. He enslaved the earth itself everywhere he conquered, taking from it everything it could give until nothing remained, to retain his youth and health; millions starved to death, millions more starved themselves and their children to lay the last of their food under the feet of his armies and watch them crush it into the dead earth. He twisted and destroyed the minds of thousands to create his court and his army; he burned out the minds of captured men and women to be given as sex slaves to his soldiers, and his court’s entertainment included but was not limited to mass torture of prisoners, their bodies cannibalized while still alive for the evening meal; if he could imagine it, he tried to do it, simply because he could. He wanted to create a world in his own image and came dangerously close to achieving godhood.”

“Jesus,” Vera breathes, and Dean sees her dark skin is nearly ashen.

“At the height of his power, he held nine-tenths of the world under his personal control, the last tenth subjugated to the point of surrender. When free will is abrogated at that great a scale, even by another human, the Host could act under their own authority on earth,” Cas continues. “When his army penetrated the startlingly sophisticated defenses of the only humans left on earth who would stand against him, we unleashed ourselves.

“When we came for him, we exterminated fifty million to breach the walls of his capital city; ten million more died to keep us from his fortress, and when we entered its walls, infants and children were thrown on our swords by their own parents to keep us from his chambers. Living human bodies were twisted into anti-angel sigils and warded to keep us at bay, still able to speak enough to banish us almost as quickly as we could manifest; we had to burn them alive with holy fire. The Host walked in blood knee-deep and for all we killed, more came to take their places before the last were even fully dead. One hundred million enslaved minds were joined into a net to protect his, and we had to burn them all out one by one to finally reach his. When he realized he couldn’t win, he captured the minds of every living being in the world he could grasp and began to destroy them, leaving living, breathing husks without consciousness to slowly die where they fell.”

Joe makes a breathless sound, and Dean reaches for Cas’s shoulder, squeezing tentatively.

“Michael led half the Host in holding back his followers while we shattered the warding around his chambers, and Anael planted her sword in his stomach and pinned him to his floor,” Cas says, and Dean’s aware of a vague, unfocused image forming in his head; a massive stone room, each detail more horrific than the last; walls hung with tapestries and floor rugs woven of human hair and organs and skin between still-rotting, screaming corpses, scattered with dead bodies and worse, some still alive. He glimpses a burned-out slice of sky in angry oranges and reds between drapes of tanned human flesh, a less refined version, he realizes, of the leather coat and breeches the outraged man wears as he climbed down from a gleaming, polished throne of human bone and decorated with teeth.

Anael—Anael not as she was on earth, but he knows her anyway—steps forward, wearing a breastplate worked in Enochian sigils and made of gleaming light, kilt plated in silver ice and flame as she slams him to the floor at the base of the dais that held his throne. Flipping her sword over her wrist as he’s seen Cas do so many times, the blade extends as she stabs down through his belly and pins him to that obscene floor with a crack that shakes the earth. For a moment, her face flickers, and Dean glimpses something glowing and stern, ivory and obsidian, vermilion and gold, ageless and expressionless, and filled with cold rage.

“We trapped his mind within the confines of that room,” he hears Cas say as a dozen—a hundred—glowing forms fan into a wide circle, and Dean finds Cas among them without effort, as expressionless and enraged as Anael. “We offered him a choice; would he die, agonizingly over years of endless pain beneath our eyes before he would learn the pleasures of the rack in Hell, or live and atone for his crimes until true repentance is achieved. In return, he may indeed have a world made in his image.”

The throne room begins to shiver, and Dean can see the man’s mouth work helplessly, blood spilling down his chin, before spitting out his answer in contempt.

“He picked the latter,” Vera says confidently, and while it’s not that Dean doesn’t agree—guy definitely did—he also knows why he did and how stupid that was. “Certain death and Hell or live? That type, easy choice.”

“Oh yeah,” Dean says softly as ribbons of light crawl across the throne room floor and up the walls, and outward through the city and then the world, time stopped in an instant; for a moment, Dean feels a sweep of agony and then relief and exaltation and ecstasy multiplied by a billion—by billions—as each human soul is pulled free, reapers gathering them tenderly from their suffering and taking them away. Then something like a pause, followed by something not unlike the slice of a blade across time and space that parts spacetime from itself. As easily as a rug, time and the world itself are rolled backward, a world unconquered, land unpoisoned, an army unmarched: bodies are resurrected in the blink of an eye, lives lived in reverse before they’re within their mother’s wombs again, over and over before abruptly coming to a sudden stop; it takes a second for Dean to pick up what’s so special about that point in time. “How long?”

“Using the age of the first to be born who would die either by his hand, at his order, or in consequence of his actions to the moment Anael’s sword was planted in his belly, eight hundred and sixteen years were divided from this world and placed within its own loop,” Cas answers, and there’s another slice, the roll of time and space free. A pocket is carved into the curves of spacetime, and eight hundred and sixteen years are unrolled within it, begun with the sound of a newborn’s first cry. “He is everyone within it, father and son, mother and daughter, sister and brother, spouse and spouse, soldier and farmer, merchant and professional, murderer and victim, and most justly, himself. And so shall he remain for the sum of the length of the life of each person who died by his hand, at his order, or in consequence of his actions, or until true repentance is achieved.”

“A world,” Dean says softly, watching it form, “in his own image.”

“Such was the judgement of the Host,” Cas answers, an echo of old satisfaction in his voice. “This was our will; so it was, is, and shall be done.”

“Does he know?” Vera asks, hushed, and like that, Cas slides back into human without missing a beat.

“Yes, of course,” he assures them. “Every night when he goes to sleep.”

Dean does his math on Creation and the number of lives involved here, and sure, he doesn’t know the history of the world in detail, but he kind of thinks he may need a lot more math. “So when was this again?”

“I think ‘he’s not close to done now’ is sufficient,” Cas answers, giving Dean an amused look.

From Vera’s expression, she also realizes they’re either missing a surprisingly large chunk of history since they started recording it…or not, since they started recording it again. What did Cas say: they were talking about crazy weather and Cas being lucky, and he said—

Humanity passes points in their development that they can’t easily fall behind, not without a concerted effort. Trust me when I say, humanity has tested this extensively and noticeably failed to do much damage to their long-term development as a species.

That would be why he was so sure that (minus Lucifer) they could get through this; they’d tested it (God, how many times?) and he knew what it took to make them fail.

“How’d we survive?” Dean asks, knowing everyone is thinking the same question but aren’t sure if they can ask. One day, he’ll tell them the only questions Cas won’t answer are those that aren’t asked because you don’t know there’s a question at all. “That last tenth?”

“The human genome and sexual reproduction assure nothing—with the single exception of Croatoan—can destroy all of you, only almost,” Cas explains. “Ten thousand humans had the correct genetic sequence to be partially resistant to psychic manipulation—a tiny part of a very small but very determined rebellion that had been forming against him over generations from multiple countries and ethnic groups around the world—and the damage to their minds was mild enough and their number and genetic diversity just sufficient for viability. Otherwise, your species would have been mercifully made extinct. However, in that case, there were several promising species of primates that—”

“You can stop there,” Dean tells him as Vera makes a strangled sound (and before anyone is tempted to ask about those goddamn primates and this ends in trauma and comparisons to Planet of the Apes because no way someone’s not thinking that right now. Like him).

The uptick of one corner of his mouth tells Dean just how much he’d love to expound on Creation of the Apes and is only deferring because eventually, they’re gonna break down and ask anyway and it’s more fun to watch them torture themselves first.

“Creation itself—not under the auspices of free will and fully under the authority of the Host—was fully repaired en toto. Fortunately, it was within our discretion on which human structures and items are allowed to stand in the event of a major smiting event, so we were able to wipe every trace of his reign from the earth and for reasons I feel no need to explain, the remains of all civilizations in existence at that time. Not that he left much of them.”

“But we would have found something…” Kamal starts and then trails off with a complicated look. “Everything?”

“Some of us,” Cas admits, “may not have been as careful as we should have been. I’m certain when your dating technique is more sophisticated, you’ll be quite surprised: thirty kilometers outside Nairobi and five kilometers south of Mexico City might also prove enlightening. In any case, we resettled the survivors in an area both very pleasant and fertile—we made it very, very fertile for the span of five generations—and watched very carefully to buy them enough time to learn to care for themselves again, as well as double their viable population, before scaling back our protections over the next five generations and letting them begin to be fruitful, multiply, and reclaim the world. They did very well; we were impressed.”

“You said the survivors—they were resistant?” Joe asks. “Partially, whatever. So we are, too, right? We’re their descendants, and Cas, for fuck’s sake, don’t go into detail there, yes or no.”

“Yes, one of the few times selection didn’t fail,” Cas states, crossing his arms mutinously at being denied more fun in traumatizing the humans. “The original problem came about because—”

“We weren’t resistant,” Joe says.

“No,” Cas says with a frown. “It was because the psychic in question was a sociopath, and he would have been a sociopath without his abilities. They made it easier, granted, but in the end, it was simply a tool to gain power, and it was one he knew how to use very well.”

“One fuck of a tool,” Vera says, trying to sound wry and not quite managing. Dean risks another look around, not sure how he feels about what he sees, especially when he’s not sure how the hell he feels about knowing this himself. All he can think about is Cas and Alison the day they met, Cas’s expression when she showed him her mind and the tool she wielded with it: it is one fuck of a tool.

“Not like there aren’t a lot of tools,” Alicia says unexpectedly. “All you have to do is know how to use it, you know?”

“Right place and time, any tool could do it,” Joe agrees, mouth quirking as he looks at Cas. “Two weeks, right?”

Dean feels Cas’s shoulder relax under his hand. “A week if we don’t sleep.”

Joe bursts out laughing, and looking around the room, Dean sees everyone start to relax: not all the way, but enough.

“You can’t stop the creation of tools—I can tell you now that it never works—and you shouldn’t be judged and found guilty for what you might do should you have any given tool,” Cas says. “The solution is—”

“Learn how to defend ourselves,” Amanda says in resignation.

“That’s one part,” he agrees. “And perhaps, to assure you never become a person who would use a tool for evil and teach others to do the same. If everyone does that, you’ll be fine.” He shrugs at everyone’s incredulous expressions, slumping more deeply into the couch. “You’re partially resistant, but you’re not immune, no. So if you’re wondering if that could ever happen again, yes; it would take a great deal more effort on the part of the psychic in question—and some luck—but it’s possible.”

Dean looks around the circle of faces and sees the reflection of his own dawning realization on every face; a street or two away is a woman who can’t fight, barely shoot, and no matter how powerful she could be one day, right now she’s not reading anyone’s minds if she can help it and in any case sure as hell can’t stop a bullet to the head: a tool of their trade to fight monsters. It’s not that he thinks any of them are there right now—not yet, anyway—but that’s where they could go. Might even have to.

Cas would know that, too. It’s been a long time since a powerful psychic walked the earth; they don’t live too long, Cas said. Kill themselves, killed by others, or…killed as kids, for a sin they not only haven’t committed but don’t even know exists. And in case anyone here forgot, there’s a patched hole in the wall of the mess in Ichabod and a wall of invisible patches in a cabin in Chitaqua that illustrates exactly how this kind of thing goes and how it usually doesn’t end.

“She could probably use a lot of friends,” Vera says suddenly. “That’s gotta be miserable; like being at a crappy party and no one will stop talking to you, whether you care or not. Imagine hearing everyone talking shit all the time? Even if it’s not about you… God. All the time.”

“And the earplugs are of substandard manufacture and don’t often work.” Cas and Vera look at each other and Vera smiles reluctantly. “We’re working on that part.”

Okay, time to—what were they doing again? Right, Erica and everything else: it’s almost a relief. “So, anything else?”

“Interrogators,” Amanda says, looking like she regrets reminding him but not as much as she wanted to say pretty much anything to get out of that silence.

“Let me think about it,” he answers: no fucking clue, in other words. “Vera? Can you and Kamal meet with the team leaders before you go to the infirmary? Catch them up on our visitor and what’s going on, tell them to tell their teams.”

“Got it,” she says coolly—yeah, he’s still on her shitlist—and getting to her feet, strides to the door before Kamal can even get up. He quickly turns his attention to Joe.

“Quick question,” he says. “When Rohan’s done with Kyle, Ana wants to know if he’s free to go, or—”

“No,” he answers. “He’s confined to quarters until I get some time to deal with him, which assuming we survive, probably won’t be until we get back to Chitaqua.”

Amanda drifts toward them. “What about Kyle? What’d he do now?”

“Stalking and harassment.” Amanda’s eyes widen. “Speaking of, I’m gonna need you to help out Joe when we get home; we both know this happened more than once, and I want to know who, when, and exactly what he did.”

Amanda and Joe exchange an unreadable look. “Okay, yeah, I can do that. But hypothetically—if I can’t—what happens to him?”

“He’s out of Chitaqua either way,” Dean says. “What else I find out decides if he’s gonna be driven to the border and dropped off with a ten day ration pack as well.” Then, seeing Amanda’s expression, he adds, “If they don’t—hypothetically—wanna do it, fine, but they deserve the chance to report. I got enough from this alone to show him the gate and maybe slam him in the ass with it on his way out.” He returns his attention to Joe. “Confined to quarters, checks every four hours—Cas, who—”

“Literally anyone, but let me check: tentatively, Sheila and Chris, though currently they’re assigned to assist Tyrone with automobiles and Claudia at Volunteer Services, respectively. Joseph, could your team continue until dusk?”

“Sure.”

“Great,” Dean says. “That—wait, where’s the bathroom?” Joe blinks. “Dude, come on, you wanna clean his room?”

“Across the hall,” Joe says belatedly. “Like, three steps.”

“Awesome. Tell him he’s anywhere outside those three steps when not in the bathroom or his room, he gets fulltime guards and my personal attention immediately.” Dean looks between them. “Any questions?”

“Nope,” Joe says, glancing at Amanda. “Stephanie. Noticed how you didn’t bring that up.”

“Same reason you didn’t,” he answers. “And thanks for that; I should have said something before the meeting. Let’s keep that between ourselves until I talk to her.”

“Figured as much. Cas, give me a few minutes and—”

“I’ll wait for you here.” With a sigh, Dean drops on the couch beside him as Joe and Amanda leave and turns his attention to Cas. “I like the ten day ration pack, for the record.”

“I’m leaning that way myself.” He debates for a long moment, but hey, no time like the present. “You sure it was a good idea to tell them about the most evil psychic ever now?”

“There would never be a good time,” Cas answers, which is true and also the point.

“Maybe not telling at all,” he suggests. “Ever? You practically told them if we’re not careful, we might end up as mind-controlled robots under Alison’s psychic domination forever—or until Lucifer kills us all, which may or may not be worse, I’m still thinking.” Cas doesn’t respond, but his jaw is tightening minutely, and that’s what he calls a red flag. “Come on, what’s going on?”

“She hasn’t had a dream.”

He knows it’s irrational to feel betrayed, but Cas just reassured them about that. At least, he felt reassured. “If she doesn’t have a world-changing or whatever decision, she doesn’t have them.”

“There’s that,” Cas agrees, but he doesn’t risk feeling reassured again and is justified with Cas’s very next words. “There’s another explanation. She already had it, and we’re still waiting for what she saw to begin.”

“But she hasn’t had any!”

“The night before Joseph first made contact with Harlin, she woke up screaming.”

“Because her answer to us joining the Alliance was what put off whatever she saw,” Dean argues. “That’s what she told me, anyway.”

“And me as well,” Cas starts.

“Actually, she didn’t say that,” Dean corrects himself. “I asked her if she thought she made the right decision, and she said—she said she thought so, because her worst nightmare hadn’t happened yet. That first attack on Ichabod—we were there because of the agreement to let us join, that helped save the kids. What could have happened to them, that sure as hell would be worth a night of screaming.”

Cas hesitates. “It is possible, yes, but—Dean, even horror can become mundane.”

“You think the deaths of those kids could have just been a day ending in ‘y’?” he demands. “Are you fucking with me? Whatever, human sacrifice in the courtyard, let’s move on now?”

“It would have been tragic and horrific, but this is the infected zone,” Cas answers evenly, suddenly sounding tired. “These people are those that have survived here; it may have been unique in the details, but those that haven’t lived through worse have stood witness to it. As you were a hunter to civilians in your world, so are these people to you; what you did as a job has been their lives for almost three years. Avoiding death in a variety of exotic and terrible ways is only one part of survival; the rest is learning how to live with it—what you’ve seen, what you’ve done, what you haven’t, what you’ve lost—and that can be far harder.”

A long time ago—another life, maybe—he watched the other Dean shoot a guy like it was nothing and couldn’t imagine how he could do it. Three weeks ago, he executed two humans helping that demon in Ichabod’s courtyard without hesitation and doesn’t regret a thing. Two days ago, he gave the order for those people to be killed outside Ichabod’s walls, and it wasn’t hard at all.

“We need to be ready.” Christ, he almost forgot that part. “When she saw me the first time, that feeling—whatever the fuck that means—was we need to be ready. She didn’t know how much time we had, but it’ll be enough.”

“Clairvoyance is rarely useful,” Cas answers, but Dean realizes that he’s avoiding looking at him. “It’s rare it isn’t actively detrimental. But it can provide guidance, at times.”

Guidance. “You have another reason.”

Cas doesn’t answer for way too long. “She’s tired.”

“Tired.” He tries to decide if he really wants to know, not that it actually matters; he doesn’t, but he needs to. “How tired? Cas, what does that even mean?”

“If she didn’t have Teresa, and Tony and Claudia and Manuel and Sudha and Mercedes and Neeraja and Naresh and Njoya…” Cas stops, licking his lips. “Talking to them regularly steals more of her strength, but there are many kinds of strength. They buoy her, give her purpose and focus, and she’ll continue for them when she no longer cares what happens to herself.”

“What’s going to happen to her?” Cas doesn’t answer. “Cas, for fuck’s sake, tell me!”

“Upwards of twenty thousand minds—polite fiction, the entire state of Kansas, give or take a few, are within these walls—are pressing in on her, and all she has to defend herself is those shields,” Cas answers, chillingly calm. “And she’s tired.”

He thinks he knows what might wake up someone in the infected zone and make them scream. “If she can’t hold them… it could kill her? Getting all those minds at once?”

“What would you do if you were suddenly attacked by upward of twenty thousand people?” Cas asks, still way too calm. “It doesn’t matter if they don’t mean to do it; that’s what they’ll be doing to her just by existing. It will be instinctive; the most likely response is she’ll try to burn out every one of their minds to stop them from destroying her. She doesn’t need skill for that, just raw power.” Dean realizes he’s not breathing. “Partial resistance will help, but only in the degree of damage done. There will be damage, and some may die from it.”

It takes him two tries to form words hearing the unspoken: worse, some of them might actually survive even if they shouldn’t. “Can we stop her?”

“We can try to kill her when her shields fail,” Cas answers with the same distant calm. “But we won’t have much time once they fully collapse; it took him only seconds to do the same to the entire world. If she’s still sane once it’s over, she’ll probably try to kill herself if she can. If she’s not—”

“Sociopath Mark II.”

Cas looks up, and Dean stills at the infinite stretch of blue looking back at him, a frozen ocean. “Why would you think that?”

Somehow, he manages to answer. “The story of Sociopath Mark I, maybe?”

“I see.” To his surprise, Cas looks away. “No, not that. Alison will still be Alison. When she’s not the residual of every mind that flooded hers and experiencing their memories of what she did to them on a constant and unending loop, of course.” Dean winces, but Cas’s expression remains distant. “She’ll spare herself nothing but mercy; unlike the Host, she’ll never give herself that.”

He doesn’t know what to say to that. “Does she know…” He remembers her looking at Cas; that’s why they got that heartwarming story of sociopaths gone by. “So she wasn’t just getting a description of the idiots two. She knows what’s going to happen.”

“I do seem to attract requests for merciful homicide from among my not so vast acquaintance with alarming frequency,” Cas agrees distantly, and Dean just stops himself from flinching. “I’m trying not to take it personally, of course, but it does make one wonder—”

“What did she say to you?” Dean demands.

“She presumed to remind me of my duty, again,” Cas answers, a flicker of bitterness in his voice. “A habit of hers, I suppose. At least this time, I don’t have to simply watch…” He stills, eyes turned inward, and Dean feels like he’s standing on the edge of a precipice—or maybe Cas is. But where Cas is, he’ll always be, and so there they are, and that’s a long way down. “I don’t have to watch.”

“Cas?” he prompts.

Cas looks at him, the chill melting away. “I don’t like these options, Dean. I want better ones.”

Right, options: they can do that. “Give ‘em to me.”

“If we can’t stop her, she must be protected after, and that includes from herself. That will buy me time, and I’ll need all I can get.”

“What?”

“We’ll protect her,” Cas repeats. “Her mind will recover, I’ll help her do it, and when she’s ready, I’ll begin her instruction again. I can help her, Dean. I just need time.”

“I’m not saying you can’t,” Dean starts, wondering how the hell this went—here. “But why?”

That, he realizes belatedly, was exactly the wrong question.

“She’s a human being,” Cas answers flatly, and Dean’s pretty sure the room just dropped about a thousand degrees. “Her power doesn’t make her less human or less worthy of help. It’s not a line, it never has been, and even if it was, crossing it doesn’t mean you can’t cross back.”

Right, but they’re not talking about knocking over a convenience store or shooting someone by accident here. They’re talking about upwards of twenty thousand people and what’s left of them when she’s done.

“If she did something…” The entire state of Kansas damaged—whatever that means, but he can’t stop thinking about those living husks that were left after that guy burned out their minds. Living, breathing, mindless bodies, people he knows, his people: he imagines seeing Vera, Amanda, Joe, Alicia, Kamal, Nate, Tony, Sudha like that… “Cas,” he says slowly. “I don’t think I could forgive that. Even if it was an accident.” He’s not sure anyone could forgive that, or forget it.

“As is your right and that of every human being,” Cas agrees. “What does that have to do with anything?”

“Could you? Think about it—our people, our friends—”

“Of course I have!” Shaking his head sharply, Cas is silent for a long moment. “Within a pocket of time is a world that will last eight hundred and sixteen years before starting anew. Beneath the earth is a fortress, and within that fortress lies a man on a floor of human bone and wearing robes made of human flesh, with an angel’s sword through his belly who forever dies and dies not yet. His soul lives the lives of each of those upon the earth; they are all him, the memories of those who once lived within those bodies now and forever made his own.”

“For there to be justice, there must be mercy; they are one. When we set the terms of his atonement, in mercy we also gave him the means by which he could by his own effort bring it to an end.

“He can end it at any time, but it requires this; he must repent his actions, his guilt admitted and felt, remorse be experienced. Every night when he sleeps, he knows all; who he is, what he did, each life he has lived, and it is then that the question is asked while his soul lies bare. He regrets nothing, he feels no guilt, and he wishes only for the chance to do further harm. So he does, forever and ever, world without end.”

“I get it, Cas, but—”

“You don’t.” Cas meets his eyes. “Why is he there? Why him alone and not his armies, his generals, his court, his followers: the atrocities they committed were in his name, but they did commit them and took pleasure in it. The judgement of the Host set them free, their minds restored, their souls clean.”

“He chose to do it; they didn’t.” That’s what Cas was talking about: mercy. “Free will: you couldn’t fix him because he wasn’t broken. Them, he made them what they were.”

“Exactly. I doubt their victims would have cared about that distinction, however, nor should they have to. There is a distinction, however: unlike them, he made himself, and only he can choose to become something else. It’s not about forgiveness: if that was the criteria for judgment, he would be free, for his mother forgave him for all he did to her. Your forgiveness, mine, Teresa’s, Manuel’s, any human born: it’s ours to give or withhold, it cannot be taken or forced, but that is because it is about us. He was no less a monster for forgiveness nor would Alison be more of one in its absence; their choices are what make them who they are.”

“What if…” Dean tries again. “What if she doesn’t want to be saved?”

“No one is defined by a single action or a single mistake; they are defined by all they are and try to be,” Cas says urgently, holding Dean’s eyes. “I would save her, because she’s a human being; I would learn to forgive her, because she’s my friend; I would tell her that she is not a monster, because she’s not and can choose not to be. She may not believe that, but I can believe for both of us until she can.”

“Cas—” He stops, thinking: five minute rule. Can’t kill it, buy time until you can get some options (or run); don’t want to kill it, buy time so you won’t have to. “She won’t be able to stop herself.”

“It’s instinct,” Cas explains. “She’s not trained, Dean, and she’s far too strong for someone so new to her abilities—”

“Like you were,” Dean interrupts. “Too fast, too strong, body not ready for it—but you were trained by Dean and Amy before you Fell, so you could adjust using that.” Looking surprised, Cas nods, and he makes a concerted effort not to feel smug: he can feel it later. “Okay, the shields—tell me about those.”

“Right now, they act as a dam—both to protect her and others, and make it possible for her to be trained at all—but they’re only as strong as her training and her will, and holding them takes practice. If she was able to break them herself to rest—if only for a few hours a day—that might have helped, but she can’t with this many people here or risk exactly what we’re trying to avoid. When they break—and they must, the pressure is enormous and she is only human—she can’t hold back the resulting flood any more than a single person could stop a river. A very big river, it goes without saying.”

This isn’t like with Carol; he’s got to know the right questions to ask. “Any warning for our dam breaking? Anything, Cas—will she know, can she tell someone? How fast is it gonna happen?”

“She’ll know, yes. She’ll try to hold it back when the collapse starts, and this being Alison, might very well succeed from sheer panic; this would be when she would like me to end her life, by the way. Teresa may be able to assist in slowing the deterioration, but not for long. At best, perhaps half an hour.”

That’s better than none: he’ll take it. “Her range now? Safe minimum distance?”

“Thirty miles,” he answers, and Dean wishes that was a surprise; that number’s becoming a theme.

“We’ll put it at forty, just in case.” Cas raises his eyebrows encouragingly. “What if we send a team with her and she leaves Ichabod? Find someplace to hole up, they know warding, or hey, you or Teresa can teach them what to use.” Let her get some sleep, too, Jesus: decades of hunting, and it’s only living with Cas that’s taught him the value of making someone get their ass to bed at regular intervals.

“Now?” Cas’s eyes widen, not a good sign. “That would not be a good idea, or I would have suggested that already.”

He takes a deep breath: easy is for losers or people not him. “Why?”

“For one, Erica.”

And that’s a good (frightening) one. “Right.”

“Erica and the rest of our former compatriots are outside the walls, and if you don’t think they’re watching this town, you were concussed in some way and I’d like to know why you didn’t tell me.” Fine, he missed that; that’s why he’s got Cas. “Alison is a powerful psychic, but she’s tired and not well-trained, especially in offensive techniques; the only way she could protect herself is to try and burn out their minds—considering they’re using meatsuits, that would do nothing but perhaps give them terrible headaches—and opening her mind to do that much might be enough to cause what we’re trying to avoid. Either way, she’d make a truly terrifying and disastrous new outfit for Erica.”

“So definitely not that.” They can marker on an anti-possession symbol, but there’s a difference in strength, and Erica just might be able to sense it. What he wouldn’t do for a tattoo-gun, Christ. For no reason, he remembers what Dolores told him and something he’s been wondering about comes into focus. “They’re digging latrines and using chamberpots north of Fifth.”

Cas’s eyebrows draw together sharply. “I assumed the water restrictions were leading there.”

“It went over well,” Dean continues. “She even got volunteers to help with the digging.” Cas nods agreement. “Also, Naresh needed to change buildings for a jail, Ichabod never needed one.”

“With this many people,” Cas says, “that’s not a surprise. I’m surprised he only needed one.”

“Exactly.” Dean meets Cas’s eyes. “Both infirmaries are working overtime—Dolores said it was all the problems of too many people, not enough space, makes sense, except that’s the only place with problems. Is it just me or are we missing a major problem because it doesn’t exist? Other than catalyst events? Which we notice, sure, but I wonder if we would if they weren’t the only things breaking the peace and serenity of too many people and not enough space living in fear of the unknown? And now without indoor plumbing?”

Cas sits back with a thoughtful look. “That, yes.”

“The teams we assign her—so far their job is to keep her from killing herself; they’ve never reported problems with the new residents during her town-wide tours, and she’s doing them every day. Twice, sometimes, if there’s a problem.” He remembers that first tour with Alison, when Cas was hanging out with Crowley. Giving orders with the expectation of obedience, that was a little surprising, with Ichabod’s mayor being more a settler of disputes between groups, but needs must, as Cas would say. Wading into the refugee centers without hesitation was stressing as hell for him, but Alison—wasn’t stressed. Or not by them, anyway: for them, hell yes, checking everything twice, sending volunteers running for more of this or that. “Cas, give me a history lesson: too many people, not enough space, in a strange place and driven here by a geas promoting fear. Hell, leave off the last part and just say ‘fear, reasons’; is it just me or are we living in best case scenario? Like, the kind that just doesn’t ever happen?”

“The lack of mobs has been something of a relief. I’m not terribly fond of them.” Crossing his arms, Cas looks at him intently. “I know what you’re asking, and I don’t know.”

“Millennia of psychics, and you don’t know if she’s—doing something?”

“Generally, strong psychics who both manage to survive and lack a desire to acquire power tend to prefer being somewhere that lacks people, like the peaks of very inaccessible mountains or the center of very vast deserts. Sometimes remote islands, provided they can find a boat or swim very well. Missouri and Pamela were both exceptions for many reasons. Which reminds me,” he adds. “I should see if Missouri’s house is still in a state to be examined. That would help a great deal.’’

Dean looks his ‘anytime now.’

“Just a thought for the future,” Cas says dismissively. “Even the best shields have a certain amount of leakage, and she’s tired; doubtless some amount is necessary to relieve a little of the pressure. If it was coercive, Teresa—and the earth—would have reacted. If I were guessing, she has a very calming influence. It’s not often a leader means what they say, and her words as well as her actions match her intent, and for that matter, that her intent could be sensed, at least subconsciously.”

“She told me she wasn’t a people person,” Dean says wryly, remembering Alison’s haunted expression when relating her impulse to hug people to make them feel better. “It can’t be helping, to hang out with that many people that close every day.” Cas shakes his head, and yeah, that’s what he thought. “But she does it anyway.” She may even have to, even if she doesn’t know why she’s doing it. Because scared people become dangerous mobs very quickly, and if they use Alison’s daily tour as a guide, maybe in under a day.

So their choices are ‘sudden mobs,’ ‘possible possession by Erica,’ ‘the Misborn (who knows what),’ and ‘upwards of twenty thousand people with damaged minds,’ and now that he thinks about it, this isn’t multiple choice, it’s ‘pick more than one or all of them, they could all happen.’ There are no good choices here. Literally everything is working against them, and new things show up just in case they get a handle on the old ones (he’s waiting for someone right now to knock, enter without waiting for permission, and throw in something else just on the principle of why not). He runs through it all again, looking for something, anything—and for fucking once, that actually works.

“Let’s split the difference,” he says, putting it together and leaving the gaps for Cas to tell him about. “Do nothing until critical; she’s got a team with her already, we’ll switch that to twenty-four/seven and give them a jeep with a full gas tank to chauffeur Alison on her visits around town. We’ll talk to Christina and Sean—and Alison—and their orders are, when she tells them she’s—whatever—they toss her in the jeep, hit the gas, and drive. Not like she wants Apocalypse: Alison either.” Cas nods slowly; okay, so far so good. “I’ll draw—or you will,” he adds, scowling at his right hand, “the anti-possession symbol on Alison; it won’t be all that strong, but it might be enough with four people in the jeep with her that have the permanent version. Micah’s still Erica’s priority; she’s probably not gonna take a break to see if that symbol washes off with soap and scrubbing, and hey, whoever’s driving, don’t fucking stop to find out. If Erica’s already gone…”

Cas picks up his cue. “The Misborn.”

“Hear me out. Just a few humans in a jeep compared to giant city of ‘em: which is gonna win if they’re that close?” Cas opens his mouth. “Cas, this is maybe; I get we’re risking Alison, but we’re also risking everyone in this town, and we’re not getting best case here, so ‘good enough’ is gonna have to do it. We’ll work on it if we have time, but we need something now to get us started.”

“Both,” Cas says discouragingly, but his expression is thoughtful. “However, the jeep won’t be a stationary target, either. They might not even notice them, since their goal is the town itself.” He brightens, which Dean kind of wishes didn’t worry him. “And an ex-angel is very distracting; I can stand on the walls and wave.”

Good enough, Dean reminds himself firmly; he can always knock Cas out and throw him in Sudha’s room for babysitting. “Sounds good. Now, which one of us is gonna talk to Alison?”

Cas opens his mouth.

“Not it,” Dean says smugly. “I wonder who’s left?”