The Game of God: Day 150 - part 1

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— Day 150 —

Running down the dusty alley between the cabins, Dean darts onto the first sagging porch he sees, almost stumbling when a rotten board crumbles beneath his boot, and hits the door with his shoulder hard enough to feel it in his teeth.

Getting his balance, he pounds on the door. “Open up!” he shouts, trying to remember what time it is; it’s night, thanks, he got that part, but how many hours since dusk, he can’t remember. “We don’t have time for this, open the fucking door already! They’re almost ready!”

Through no light squeezes through narrow, shattered windows, cardboard and tape doing fuck-all to seal the cracks, he fucking doubts no one’s home. “Come on!” he yells, rubbing a clean spot in the top corner and peering inside. The shapes of bodies are clear enough, frozen like rabbits in the shine of headlights, and it takes everything in him not to punch through the remains of the goddamn glass.

“Cowards,” he spits, jumping off the edge of the porch and scanning each cabin on his way, dust kicked up with every step. They’re all the same; lights out, all’s silent on the western front, everyone’s home, and no one’s fucking sleeping tonight. Hiding like rats and hoping what they don’t see and pretend didn’t happen will buy them safety with two dead bodies come morning.

“Fuck all of you,” he says, pulling his gun and starting up toward the cabin; he’ll take care of this shit himself, one bullet at a time.

He’s halfway there when the sound of gunfire shatters the quiet, and he breaks into a dead run, but he already knows he was too late again. Shadows rise from the bleak remains of shrubbery around the cabn, faceless bodies with mocking smiles, but they vanish before he can get a shot off, and he can’t take the time anyway, because maybe, maybe—

He nearly falls on the steps, bursting through the beads in a headlong stumble and hits the floor on his knees, but the shock of pain’s forgotten at the sight of Vera slumped face-down over the coffee table, hair dipped into an electric red puddle forming around what remains of her head; she was dead before she even realized she was shot.

“Cas.” Getting to his feet, he searches the room frantically, looking for a blood trail or maybe he’s going after them now, maybe this time he—

—this time, he’s slumped against the wall, chest riddled with bullets and sightless eyes staring into Dean’s; there’s not even enough left for accusation—where were you, why weren’t you here, why did you let them do this. Scrambling over the blood-streaked floor, Dean collapses into the warm pool of blood, reaching to touch skin already gone cold.

No one will need to repair the drywall tonight; just burn the goddamn cabin down and say it was an accident if Dean ever happens to fucking notice. Not like anyone will say it happened any other goddamn way.

“I’m sorry,” Dean tells him hoarsely, watching his fingers leave bloody smears on skin the color of paper. “I didn’t know, I swear. When I told you—I didn’t know. Please, Cas, please….”

Cas doesn’t answer; you can’t get absolution when there’s no one alive to give it.

---

He blinks up at the shadowed ceiling above him, sitting up and almost welcoming the hit of vertigo. Since the fever, waking up has a routine he follows as reflexively as he breathes, and he’s never been more grateful for it than after nights like this. Taking a deep breath, he grounds himself in his body, feeling the weight of it, tracking each stuttered breath and beat of his heart until he can feel them begin to even out. The mattress shifts beneath him in a comforting barely audible squeal, blankets pooled in his lap, and he takes in the four walls of the room around him and the quiet night outside with a barely repressed sigh, almost able to pretend he can’t still taste the ghosts of gunpowder and blood that don’t exist.

An unexpected shift of the bed abruptly reminds him there’s a new addition, and by the way, he’s got about three seconds before.… “Dean?”

Make that two: it can be really inconvenient when your…Cas literally wakes up when you do, because spoils of war and magic, whatever. Great for fever-related nightmares and really wanting a glass of water at three am and can’t be fucked to get it yourself (and you’re attached to a heart monitor and an IV, also a problem), but not so much now, especially when the delay isn’t ‘time it takes to get up, come to the door, knock, wait three seconds (maybe), then come in’ but ‘roll over’ and even that’s optional.

Looking down at the sleepy blue eyes regarding him worriedly from behind a tangled mass of bangs, Dean revises it to ‘inconvenient after dreams of double homicide but otherwise not so bad.’

“I’m fine,” he says belatedly as Cas lazily pushes himself up on one elbow. One eyebrow raises in slow, semi-sarcastic query: one part, are you okay, two parts, really, what terribly unconvincing excuse will you use this time and by the way, I only pretended to believe you all those times in the past you woke up in a cold sweat and said it was indigestion, especially considering some of those times you were on IV or canned sodium- and fat-free chicken broth.

“Give me a minute.” Cas’s eyebrow achieves maximum altitude just as he shoves back the blankets and slides out of bed. He doesn’t need to look back to know Cas is performing ‘patience and concern in the face of Dean’s ridiculous intractability’ because this is Cas and that’s exactly the words he’d use for that expression.

Flipping on the bathroom light, he takes care of important toilet business first before going to the sink to wash his hands and does his routine ‘not looking up,’ ‘don’t be stupid, it’s just a fucking mirror,’ ‘seriously, how long can you wash your hands in avoidance,’ ‘fuck you I’m done,’ to stare into his own eyes grimly and pretend he’s not surprised or relieved to see a person and not a grinning corpse every goddamn time, because he’s over that bullshit.

Shaking himself—Christ, get the fuck over yourself already—he flips the light off and veers straight for the bedroom door. “Be right back.”

---

Dean’s most of the way through replacing the pipes underneath the kitchen sink by the yellow light of the portable bulb clamped just above his head before he finally gives up. Fighting down a sigh, he lifts his head to see Cas slumped on the floor a few feet away, leaning against the kitchen table with a blanket draped over his shoulders, socked feet, and bedhead like the end of the world (which in no way is a bad look for him), watching Dean work like he’s trying and failing to imagine anything that could possibly be more boring.

Boring, maybe, but he’s got a goal to have drinkable water come out of the faucets instead of having to either a.) boil it first or b.) go get refills from the mess. Camp wide water treatment is definitely on the agenda (it’s like fifth on the List) but until then, the home version is going to have to suffice, and the first step is getting new pipes installed.

(He also has all their weapons clean, the storm door installed, and the weather-stripping on the rest of the cabin done. All that’s left is to start the new addition and it’s not like he wouldn’t do it except he’s not sure how. And they don’t have any lumber, which Nate assured him is pretty key to the entire ‘building things’ experience.)

Screwing the new tailpipe into place, he peers at Cas between his upraised knees. “Shitty dream, happy?”

“That’s reassuring,” Cas says blandly, chin resting on his folded arms. “I was worried that your bladder was trying to kill you and you awakened just in the nick of time to save your excretory system from annihilation. Which naturally led to home repair, as it’s known to do.”

He used to think sarcasm was all clever one-liners and irony with expertly timed delivery, but Cas introduced him to the joys of the surrealist narrative form. After some thought, he put that particular development down to a combination of ‘exploring more variety in his efforts at being a dick,’ ‘human life was just that goddamn boring he literally had nothing better to do,’ and ‘three quarters of any given audience would have no idea what was happening and that’s hilarious.’

“It was just—same old, same old,” he says truthfully, and that’s the hell of it. Since he got the details of what happened that night at Cas’s cabin, it’s joined the regular rotation with monotonous regularity. Even horror can become boring—he knows, ask him—but this one apparently saw that coming and likes to mix it up.

It always starts the same: running between cabins trying to get help to stop the team leaders, thinking at first they don’t know before realizing they do, they all do, they knew before Cas and Vera did, but no one told them, no one told Dean, and they never would.

It’s always too late by then; he starts toward the cabin, there’s gunfire, and inside he finds them dead in all the ways you can from an endless round of bullets. Never once—even by accident—was Cas alive, was Vera alive, when he got there, so he could at least apologize and tell them goodbye.

“Could you hand me the—” The wrench is slapped into his left palm before he finishes the question. “Thanks.”

“You’re welcome.” There’s a pause, mostly for drama, Dean suspects, and is halfway through tightening the join when he gets confirmation. “So when you say ‘same old, same old,’ does that refer to the concept of ‘nightmare’ in general, or as in the same one occurring during the last four nights?”

He grimaces and just avoids fucking up the new tailpipes. “Both.”

Weirdly enough, his biggest issue at this moment isn’t how very little he wants to talk about his less than restful nights as policy, because that policy has very little application when it comes to Cas. There’s nothing he can tell Cas that would get a reaction stronger than ‘not entirely expected’ (he’s tested this), because the job requirements of an angel of the Lord aren’t exactly light on unthinkable acts of horror. (Cas’s assessment of the similarities between angels and demons wasn’t a surprise, but that didn’t make it any less a shock to hear it.) There is a difference, though, and Dean thinks there’s something deeply fucked up in that it wasn’t the Host that illustrated that, but Cas while mortal on earth.

Cas doesn’t regret executing Luke any more than agreeing to send Debra on patrol that day or killing the possessed members of Ichabod’s patrol, and guilt doesn’t even make an appearance (Cas’s surprise at the very idea of it was pretty telling). Regret for Cas is in the necessity of the act, not the act itself, and even that much has very sharp limits.

On the surface it sounds simple (and even a little enviable, to be honest), but Chuck’s reminder of the difference between angels and humans was spot-on. Dean knows enough about angels now to discard ‘angels be robots’ as explanation and is honest enough to admit it. If he was guessing (and he is), ‘morals’ and ‘ethics’ and even ‘being good’ are the human-approved, dumbed-down version of a vastly sophisticated (and kind of terrifying) concept of ‘justice’ in which ‘vengeance’ and ‘mercy’ are interchangeable, mandatory, and irrelevant at once. It’s not that angels can’t fuck up (let him count the ways, though it might take a while), but he’d be very surprised if the error rate was higher than ‘zero’ when it came to actions taken in the name of justice itself. (It’s everything else they tend to fail at, and how.)

If he ever needed proof, it was watching Cas with Alison the first time they met, the easy way Cas went from surly to all the judgement in the world. When she opened her mind to him, he evaluated her, judging her against a standard that took an entire life lived into account, the disparity between intentions professed and the actions taken in their name. The road to Hell has never been paved with anything but lies, and the most dangerous are the ones you tell yourself to justify what you do.

(Dean gets this isn’t a guarantee—Cas’s judgment was based on Alison as she was and is, the future unknown territory, free fucking will in action—but the intersection of infinite being and mortal means Cas’s personal feelings are both separate and not the kind of thing he bothers to hide. He might have tolerated Alison’s existence (hostilely, probably with a lot of creepy staring and not just because that’s fun), but no way would he have liked her if he’d sensed anything that didn’t fit that standard. He sure as hell wouldn’t have started teaching her how to use her abilities with what Dean’s suspects is very un-Host-like enthusiasm.)

However—and he can’t believe he’s thinking this—it’s one thing to talk to Cas the former angel about vague not-memories of doing time on (or with) the rack in all its bloody horror. Sure, it’s unsettling as fuck when he stops to think about how reassuring it is that the person who both saw him in action and has listened to him describe some of the Pit’s Greatest Hits (all his, by the way) is also of his own free will sleeping with him (literally and, soon, figuratively, too, please God), but that just means he doesn’t think about it if he can help it. It’s another thing entirely to explain how you spend your nights witnessing your partner’s and his best friend’s brutal assassination in various possible scenarios in vivid detail down to number and location of wounds and the exact color of the coagulating blood.

This is Relationships 101 shit (see, Sam, he’s got the basics down fine), Chitaqua Edition: there are things you just don’t dump on your significant other. There may be circumstances in which this kind of thing should be shared, but he can’t think of any unless they run into a dreamwalker or something who can manifest dreams into reality, in which case yeah, a heads-up would probably be appreciated by all.

(And they’d have a lot more to worry about than the questionable contents of Dean’s dream sequences at that point. There’s fucking Phil’s, for example (getting married to Cas in a church in June while miraculously pregnant with Nephilim triplets over Dean’s dead body). And killing the dreamwalker, of course. (Whether Phil survives that shit’s up in the air.))

Then there’s the timing: it’s not like it’s a mystery to Dean why he’s repeat-one on Massacre Night at Chitaqua (the Remix Edition). There’s a giant party at Ichabod tonight and everyone’s invited, in a town where Cas told an entire fucking room of people exactly what he was and therefore the world (define ‘world’ as ‘people who live in Ichabod and so will definitely be there tonight,’ which is all he cares about right now). Because Dean told him people change, Alison thinks they’re better than they think they are, history doesn’t repeat ever, and it’s not like groups of people haven’t decided to dispose of the entire ‘fear of the unknown’ issue by attempted murder of the unknown in question before.

(And not like Cas is the first almost-victim of that shit, but hey, that’s history and repeat ad-fucking-infinitum. He shouldn’t have needed Vera that day to spell out exactly what she, Amanda, and Sean have dealt with in various forms all their lives and why she had zero reason to trust him on principle. That’s survival.)

Even if Cas hadn’t indulged in a fit of unexpected idealism on humanity’s relative not-shittiness (and God, he’ll never tell Cas how much he wishes he hadn’t, because he’s not that kind of dick), it’s still a whole new world of people (define ‘world’ as ‘everyone who will be coming to Ichabod tonight’) meeting Cas, some for the very first time either at the party or at the Alliance meeting that will be his and Dean’s first formal introduction as Chitaqua’s leaders. Dean’s memories of that dinner party at Alison’s are both vivid and detailed, and the last couple of days have leveled that shit up to critical. While he buys not at all Cas’s ‘used to it and totally not a problem’ bullshit, he for one will admit right now he’s a.) not used to it, b.) never will be, and c.) it’s a goddamn fucking problem.

He can just see the suggestion of a frown and waits for it; Cas doesn’t know (or ever need to know, Christ) the exact nature of the content in question, but it’s not like he can’t do the math on timing himself. That part, he can’t hide so why even try, but he’s curious if Cas will come to the obvious conclusion or manage, against all odds, to think it couldn’t possibly be about him. Because he can take care of himself, it doesn’t bother him, it’s not everyone, no one has expressed any verbal desire to kill him (recently), and also, reasons, not necessarily in that order because variety and because Cas.

Looking at him solemnly from behind tangled bangs, Cas tilts his head. “If someone hurts my feelings tonight, will you beat them up for me? If I ask, I should say.”

Or he’ll say that. “Dude, you don’t have to ask,” he objects, grinning up at the bottom of the sink before sharing it with Cas. “But I’ll wait until you do, okay?”

Cas rolls his eyes, readjusting his slump for maximum comfort. “So noted.”

“Anytime.” He checks the P-traps again while he waits, but the silence continues beyond dramatic timing and is approaching—huh. “So that’s it?”

“What?” Cas asks, managing to sound like he’s about five seconds from expiring from sheer boredom.

“No speech telling me how it’s fine, doesn’t bother you, it’s not all people, they get used to it, not a big deal, and you’re really armed and don’t need anyone to protect you?” Sliding the pliers between his teeth, he turns the light to check for anything he might have missed (like say, a pipe emptying onto the floor), and finds what may or may not be loose couplings around the new P-trap and retrieves the pliers. “Well?”

“Would it reassure you this time, unlike every other time I’ve explained this?”

“Never stopped you before.” Because it’s true. “Ever. About anything, actually, not just this.” Then something else occurs to him as he verifies the couplings are secure. “Why aren’t you telling me all about the dangers of sleep-deprivation or how delicate my health is and that you knew me getting fevers is just how I fuck with you when I’m bored?”

A glance at Cas shows him staring at the refrigerator like it said King Arthur was just a myth (which reminds him to check on Evan before they leave; no way he could have seen ‘joke about Merlin’ becoming ‘Patrol’s Half Hour Lecture on Why Malory Should Have Been Smited At Birth’). “Cas?”

“I forgot to mention there have been two new requests for changes in living arrangements today,” Cas says suddenly. “All of them have already spoken to Joseph and agreed to the three month waiting period he recommends for those who wish to begin cohabitation with their significant others, but….”

“Logistics.” It didn’t take him long to work out why cabin assignments had to be handled officially and why Cas created an actual goddamn process to do it. “So that’s why you were looking at your spreadsheet like it betrayed you before dinner.”

Cas makes a face; yeah, even with three months warning, that’s gonna be a lot of moving people around.

“That brings my total pending requests to four. Fortunately, the cabins we’re repairing for the new recruits should be complete well before then, so I’ll have more options.”

“Kat and Andy still sulking?” he asks, hearing the tired thread in his own voice that has nothing to do with the late night. “They get the delay isn’t to destroy their love here, right? We had reasons.”

“I’m sure they do,” Cas says with the same tired edge; even sarcasm doesn’t work on them anymore. There’s nothing about feeling like you’re the generic evil villain against true love in their great romance that doesn’t grate, and worse, Kat and Andy seem to legit believe it, no matter the existence of ‘facts.’ Christ: they need hobbies. He’s gonna give them some real soon now.

“So who was added—wait, let me guess: one was Sid and Jane, right?” He grins in satisfaction at Cas’s surprise. “They had the look at the party. What do you think?”

Cas raises an eyebrow, ‘what on earth gives you the impression I would care’: whatever.

“Professionally,” Dean adds, because God help them if Cas has to actually admit—even to himself—he does actually maybe care just a tiny bit about their own goddamn people.

“Jane is an excellent influence, and Sidney benefits from her confidence and good sense,” Cas says, then hesitates. “She says he’s fun.”

Dean almost drops the pliers. “What?”

“He’s apparently funny,” Cas continues, sounding baffled. “He plays guitar. And sings.”

“Seriously?”

“He’s very talented, it seems.” Dean ponders how much weirder the world is now than it was five, six seconds ago. “While they’re still in the preliminary stages of building a stable monogamous relationship, she feels that Sidney fulfills all the criteria for a permanent partner and expects that at their current rate of progress, they should be prepared for marriage within eight months.”

He doesn’t need to ask if Cas is quoting her; he is. “Huh.”

“That was my reaction as well,” Cas agrees. “Joseph confirmed she spoke to him regarding his feelings toward conducting a Christian wedding ceremony, and on his affirmation, requested Presbyterian or Episcopalian and gave him the necessary material for him to review.”

“They’re engaged?”

“Not for another four months.” Right, of course not. Too…early? “They’re currently saving their winnings from gambling night to purchase rings from one of our trade partners, since apparently simply taking them from an empty house or requesting James look for them on a supply run isn’t as meaningful.”

Dean wonders how this conversation got here, but he’s committed now. “Do our trade partners make rings?”

“Jane would very much appreciate if we found out. Titanium alloy or cold iron preferred, thrice forged. I’ve been requested to provide the correct protective sigils for the engravings, since she feels they should be more than decorative and symbolic of their union.”

“What’d Sidney say during all this?” Though he thinks he can guess.

“’What she said.’ That’s literally all he said, while staring at her like he worried she might change her mind.”

Dean nods; at least that part’s not—whatever the hell just happened. “And the other request…?” A horrible idea crosses his mind: if it’s Alicia and Kyle….

“Melanie and Liz came to see me today,” Cas says. “They’d like to request a change in living arrangements for themselves and their other two partners.”

“They’ve only been serious about a month, right? That’s fast.” Though considering Lisa, he can’t talk there. “You talk to Joe?”

“Joseph spoke to me first by their request. He’s very pleased by this development,” Cas says, adding, “We had coffee while you were playing—”

“Practicing.”

“—showing off your accuracy with a quarter of our standard arsenal on the practice field,” Cas finishes in amusement. “Your accuracy was superior to everyone’s, from what I understand. With either hand.”

“I had this dick riding my ass every time we went to my range,” Dean admits, grinning up at the sink. “It was get better or kill him, and I had to do the first to have any chance of pulling off the second. Impressed?” He glances at Cas, who shrugs, but he can tell he is, because hell yes he’s that goddamn awesome. “So why’d they send Joe first?”

“Reassurance, I think. Joseph sees Melanie regularly and at their request has met with them all to offer them a neutral third-party when needed,” Cas answers. “While it’s possible they may change their minds in the next three months, he doubts it.”

“Our camp counselor in action,” Dean agrees. “What do you think?”

“The closer the bond between team members, the greater their chances of survival in any given encounter,” he answers obliquely. “In my experience, at least. The original model for training hunters weighed compatibility between individual members of the team equal to if not more important than their individual level of skill. At Alpha, Amy encouraged matching family members or those in strong relationships as often as possible. She used to say—she used to say there was no hell quite like knowing if you’d been there yourself, you might have been able to save someone you cared about.”

Yeah, he gets that. “Who’d she lose?”

“Her first husband, her only brother, and her best friend,” he answers quietly. “Soon after Amy graduated college and began hunting, Danielle was possessed by a demon and embarked on a course of spree killing, motivation unknown but presumed to be ‘fun’ in East Texas. Donovan and Castor tracked her down themselves, not sure that Amy would have the objectivity required if Danielle needed to be killed, but the exorcism they tried to perform apparently failed, reasons unclear. Amy arrived in time to save Danielle’s daughter before completing a successful exorcism.”

Dean wonders if he wants to know. “Did Danielle survive?”

“She took Amy’s gun and killed herself before Amy could stop her,” he answers. “Danielle’s parents, due to their age, agreed to Amy’s request to adopt Catherine.”

The hell of it is, even before the Apocalypse, he wouldn’t have been surprised to hear that story from a hunter. “Yeah.” He tries to think how to say this. “Okay, so—”

“You’re wondering about the connection? Thank you, I thought it was just me,” Cas says in relief. “Her explanation was—if you like someone and they’re about to do something you know is stupid, you try to talk them out of it, but if you love them, you can also punch them in the face.”

“Punch them in the face?”

“I assume she was being metaphorical,” Cas offers to the air above the sink, like no one in this room has ever beaten up or knocked anyone else out for…reasons. “The point stands, however; it’s preferable that team members be emotionally invested in each other.” He brightens. “In this case, Melanie and her team also happen to be responsible for each other’s orgasms, which can only be further motivation to survive any given encounter. I approve of that very much.”

“Anything to raise the odds,” Dean agrees after taking a moment to make sure his voice is steady. “Isn’t Mel living in a one bedroom with Sarah and Kat? They’re gonna need one of the cabins we’re repairing. One of ‘em has got to have at least two bedrooms.”

“I don’t think,” Cas says slowly, like Dean missed this somehow, “that they are going to need separate bedrooms.”

“No, they need one room per person so when they’re fighting, everyone has somewhere to storm to,” he argues, satisfied that coupling isn’t going anywhere. “Doesn’t have to be a bedroom, but there’s gotta be space. Lifetime in motels, Cas: trust me on this one. Now,” he adds casually, “let’s get back to what’s actually bothering you.”

Cas sighs, shoulders slumping unhappily. “I talked to Jeremy this afternoon.”

Without thinking, Dean starts to sit up and comes to an abrupt, teeth-jarring halt, head an inch from the bottom of the sink, newly installed pipes just level with his shoulder. Looking down, he takes in the hand on his chest that saved him from a humiliating home-repair related concussion and Cas crouching between his knees with an annoyed look. “Thanks.”

“Lie back down before you break the pipes,” Cas says irritably, flexing his fingers against Dean’s t-shirt in unmistakable command. “Or break yourself, for that matter. Are you finished?”

Dean squints at the pipes dangerously close to his face. “Yeah, I think so.”

“Good.” A push puts him flat on his back, hands slide under his knees, and he’s pulled out from under the sink in a single smooth movement. Blinking stupidly, he tries to convince himself that wasn’t in any way hot, and neither is the sight of Cas kneeling between his legs. Superpowers aren’t hot. It’s the kitchen, for fuck’s sake. This is plumbing. What the hell were they talking about again?

“Jeremy.” He doesn’t regret it at all when Cas retreats the half foot to the table to wrap himself up in his blanket or try to stop him because this is the fucking kitchen and… they’re talking about Jeremy, right. Also, plumbing. Sitting up, he reaches back inside to flip the water valve before getting to his feet, looking for the stopper and setting it in the sink. “So that would be the important thing you and Vera needed to do this afternoon.” He knew he recognized that vaguely squirrely thing Cas was doing after lunch.

“Vera told me that Jeremy wished to talk to me,” Cas answers as Dean turns on the faucet. “Apparently, his ankle’s been bothering him since they returned from Alpha and he wanted me to make sure it didn’t inhibit his ability to throw his opponent through the nearest convenient wall.”

Watching the sink fill, he reviews the last few days in the camp, which includes Jeremy, James, Mira, and Nate’s impromptu game of tag (wait, no, it was tag no matter how Mira tried to make it sound nothing like what you do when a blizzard stops and cabin fever needs fixing, now). Just watching them was exhausting, and Jeremy showed no sign of a limp.

“So I’m guessing—call me crazy—that was just an excuse?” Turning off the water when the sink’s three-quarters full, he takes a deep breath before pulling the drain and crouches to note in satisfaction the lack of water puddling under the sink or spraying from the pipes. Hell yeah he can do plumbing, and Joe’s gonna be crying all the way to the refrigerator to get him that case of Joe Beer he just won.

“Of course.”

“Why didn’t he just come here if he wanted to talk to you?” Now that he’s thinking about it, he can count the number of times on one hand that he’s seen Jeremy other than in passing before he and Vera left for Alpha, and never outside of patrol meetings. Sure, that could be just luck of the draw, fever, recovery, the list is long, but on the other hand, no, it wasn’t. Getting the caddy of homemade (campmade?) cleaning supplies, he sets them back inside with the stack of ragged but immaculate clean and sanitized cloths and sponges that Cas insists are the only appropriate material for cleaning any surface on which they make or eat food and closes the cabinet door before turning around, trying to look casual. “Because of me?”

“No, of course not. It’s more a ritual,” Cas explains, wrinkling his nose. “Generally, Jeremy would tell Vera that he felt some unspecified anxiety regarding his hunting skills that he felt I should be aware of, she would tell me, and I would arrange a meeting on the training field to evaluate the situation, usually late in the evening when it was guaranteed to be deserted.”

He nods seriously; Christ, he’d give anything to know how the three of them managed to work that out without even once saying Jeremy needed attention, Cas needed to be clean and sober to give it, and privacy would be preferred. (By this he means how Vera worked it out.) Before they went to Alpha, Vera told him about the secret weapon Jeremy didn’t even know he had to get Cas’s undivided attention: so, one, it really does work and two, Cas really doesn’t notice.

Dropping to the floor, he leans back against the sink door and stretches a leg absently, socked foot brushing Cas’s thigh. “What would you do after you met him out there?”

“I’d verify there were no new injuries, ask about any problems with recent ones or check those still healing, assure there had been no unexpected problems during his last three shifts on watch or his most recent mission, and review him on the desired skillset,” Cas answers, leaning his head on one hand. “I’m not conversant with small talk, and it seemed a waste of time when neither of us were at all interested in the weather.”

“And he….”

“Answered each of my questions thoroughly, verified his continuing good health, asked me if teenagers were historically treated as if they were five years old simply because they didn’t like canned lima beans and if they were always required to go to bed at an arbitrary time, described his last three times in combat in detail, and discussed Amanda’s beauty and the impossibility of there being anyone like her in the world.”

Which is pretty much what Dean would have expected (especially the Amanda part, because teenager).

Seeing his grin, Cas shrugs. “Vera said it was normal and healthy for an adolescent to entertain feelings of that nature and that his infatuation was comparable to a youthful crush on a celebrity. It combined a satisfactory lack of hope, as Amanda is a lesbian and almost two decades his senior, with a desire to please, so Amanda could by her responses instruct Jeremy on the appropriate way to treat women as well as any object of romantic interest. Amanda apparently enjoyed it a great deal, especially when it was her turn to do dishes and for additional help on laundry days.”

Yeah, that’s all true (especially the laundry thing), but also. “He was fifteen when he got here.”

“And we lied about his actual age.” Reaching down, he loops his fingers around Dean’s ankle, thumb starting to circle absently around the hard knob of bone, and Dean firmly reminds himself to focus. “I have no objection to adolescents exploring their sexuality when they feel they’re ready, but there was no one here of the appropriate age and experience level, and his emotional state did not in any way reassure Vera that he was capable of giving informed consent even if he’d shown interest. Vera consulted with Joseph as an objective third party and he agreed with her assessment. He meets with Jeremy regularly for joint activities not limited to marathon monopoly tournaments and instruction in the finer points of various games of chance so as to better evaluate Jeremy’s state of mind in a non-threatening setting and assure no one will cheat him at poker.”

God, he has got to get back to this one day (soon), but…. “So why did he want to see you today?”

Cas closes his eyes. “Sex.”

Dean’s suddenly aware of a completely rational need to find out who in this camp propositioned a seventeen year old kid so he can go and explain all the ways that’s a shitty idea and what kind of goddamn person does that. It might take a while and require more than one weapon on hand, but that’s fine, it’s hours until dawn and he’ll be back in time for breakfast.

“Actually, the finer points of the social interactions that eventually lead to sex,” Cas corrects himself while Dean considers his strategy, which he regretfully sets aside for later (no way to tell if he’ll need it, so better be prepared). “More specifically, the various strategies to open conversation with an attractive girl, though he’s open to the possibility of attraction to an individual regardless of sex or gender and plans to explore his options thoroughly.”

Dean stares at him blankly as he translates that twice, just to be sure he heard that right. “He asked you to teach him how to flirt?” Cas nods, looking pained. “You’re kidding.”

“I’m not.”

“What—” He clears his throat hastily: to have been a fly on the fucking training field fence. “So, what did you tell him?”

“I’ve discovered,” Cas says wisely, like someone having just figured out a universal truth, “that adolescents generally have no actual desire to hear adult opinions on any subject, even when they’re the ones who requested advice. They also tend to flow between arbitrarily chosen subjects without warning. So I made appropriate noises of affirmation or negation when needed, and he was reassured, though of what, I’m still not entirely sure.”

He starts to ask for more detail (verbatim, please) when context introduces itself on why a.) Jeremy would be interested in acquiring these kinds of skills right now, and b.) go to Cas to get them. “He’s going to Ichabod tonight.”

“He is,” Cas agrees glumly, tipping his head back against the table leg to glare at the ceiling. “Where there will be a multitude of age and experience appropriate individuals for him to interact with, yes. From what I was able to ascertain, he’s worried that no one will like him and he’ll die a virgin who’s never danced with anyone and will stand in the corner all night drinking water like a loser and be unable to show his face again anywhere ever and he might as well become a monk. Not in that order, I assume, but I didn’t think asking for clarification would help.”

O-kay, yeah. Here’s the thing.

Dean is only vaguely conversant with how normal teenagers work, but these aren’t normal teenagers. Jeremy and the kids living in Ichabod (and for that matter, probably every kid in the infected zone) are probably a lot closer to him in shared adolescent experiences (trauma, dead parents, rampant and justified paranoia, hunting demons, monsters everywhere, check your salt lines after you brush your teeth before going to bed, that kind of thing). He takes a minute to ponder how you just never know how useful a fucked-up childhood will be should you happen to end up in an alternate, Apocalyptic world and need to deal with teenagers.

So he knows that Jeremy is not in any way going to be standing alone against the wall like a loser, ever. Eighteen is the minimum age before limited assignment to patrol is permitted in Ichabod: daytime only, supervised, non-combat, their duties restricted to shadowing experienced patrol members, learning the procedures and responsibilities thoroughly. Despite the fact it’s a dangerous fucking job (because of it), Dean didn’t meet a single seventeen and below who didn’t resent the fuck out of not being allowed to be out there kicking ass and he’s including some five year olds with dangerous accuracy given wooden blocks and a target (him).

Jeremy’s seventeen years old, physically fit, not hard to look at, and has (technically) been a regular, working member of Chitaqua since he was fifteen. In teenager, that means that he gets to go on adventures without adult supervision, fights monsters all the time, lives with a lot of very scary (hot) people, and gets lots and lots of weapons of his very own to use whenever he wants.

(And in no way will it be a drawback that Jeremy was personally trained by the same person who trained Amanda (who is in fact a celebrity in Ichabod and the sum total of the wet dreams of everyone—and he does mean everyone—who’s hit puberty and up). The guy who happens to be—wait for it—a fucking former angel of the Lord and Chitaqua’s second in command.)

Jeremy’s not getting out of Ichabod with his virginity (any virginity whatsoever) intact without a lot of effort and maybe some hiding behind a lot of locked doors (a vault might work, but no promises there), and that’s not gonna happen because Dean remembers seventeen, and it’s pretty much defined as ‘no reasonable offer refused, no really, please.’

How to put this. “So—not saying you and Vera and Joe aren’t doing a great job, but—”

“You’d like to talk to him,” Cas finishes for him, and okay, that was fast. “I was hoping you’d offer, but in case you didn’t, he’s riding with us to Ichabod in the morning. As I’m driving and it will take several hours, I assumed sheer monotony would allow nature to take its course.”

Yeah, he walked right into that one. “Thanks, Cas.”

“You’re welcome,” Cas answers with a faint smile, squeezing his ankle. Dean struggles for some kind of reaction to being blatantly manipulated that isn’t ‘kind of likes it’ and fails miserably. “I’ve been trying to think of an appropriate way to encourage your interaction since he and Vera returned from Alpha, and today’s conversation gave me opportunity and subject matter without undue effort or awkwardness in manufacturing a believable situation.”

Encourage your interaction, that’s…. “You want me to get to know him?”

“Yes.” Like it’s obvious and Dean’s just being difficult for the fuck of it. “Your illness and then his absence from Chitaqua inhibited the development of your relationship, but now that you’re well and he’s in the camp, there’s no reason for it not to progress.”

This can’t be what it sounds like. “Or start, even.”

“That as well.” Cas straightens, looking at him earnestly. “He’s extremely intelligent, competent, has an excellent work ethic, and is very mature for his chronological age.” Dean nods, watching in fascination as Cas does something a lot like bracing himself. “However, he’s given to a certain amount of age-appropriate emotional instability,” moody, Dean interprets, “and on occasion indulges in rather melodramatic periods of brooding over perceived wrongs,” and sulks like it’s his job, got it, “such as feeling he’s being manipulated or unnecessarily restricted in his actions by adults. Which is a perfectly reasonable response,” Cas adds, looking baffled. “Not to mention entertaining to observe, but Vera says it’s very annoying and not to be tolerated and laughing doesn’t help, and I wasn’t sure if you would share her opinion.”

“So he’s a teenager.”

“According to Vera, very much so.” Cas searches his face hopefully, and Dean’s chest inexplicably tightens at the realization that this actually is exactly what it sounds like. “I think you’ll enjoy his company a great deal once you get to know him.”

Christ. “I’m looking forward to it.”

(He’s not going to think about what he’ll do if Jeremy doesn’t like him. He’s already committed to several hours in a confined space and what he’s pretty sure is going to be a very weird conversation about flirting, sex, relationships, and different cultures’ approaches to those three things, and what he doesn’t need right now is more pressure.)

“However, I wasn’t being untruthful regarding Vera and I needing to do something important,” Cas says reluctantly, and Dean has all the warning he needs by the way Cas’s fingers tighten around his ankle before absently stroking up beneath the frayed hem of his sweatpants. “After I talked to Jeremy, she asked me if perhaps Jeremy would be a good addition to Kamal’s team in Ichabod.”

And talk about a tactical exercise: not bad, Vera. Thinking about it, he thinks he can guess the reasons—kids his own age, nice place, good food, a town, the infected-zone equivalent of a normal life—and honestly, it’s not a bad idea. Vera probably had ‘em ready for deployment before Cas even got to drink the coffee she definitely had ready for this very special conversation.

“And?”

“We both agreed it’s a terrible idea that can only end in tragedy but we have yet to articulate a reason why,” Cas answers in a rush, sounding frustrated. “We both tried, but Vera has only recently acquired several books on child psychology from Joseph, and while she’s found some very promising material, she feels more research is required to confirm that our feelings on the subject are the obviously correct ones.”

He swallows frantically: so not the time, but God. “Right.”

“However, he’s nine months from his eighteenth birthday, and so his choice should be the deciding factor,” Cas adds resentfully, which on a guess is a quote from Joe and hey, so that’s why Vera was glaring at Joe at the meeting this morning before Evan, Merlin, and thirty minutes of their lives they’re never getting back (including learning Iceland was part of King Arthur’s empire. Iceland). “Under the circumstances, I think it would be best for you to discover—if you can—what Jeremy would prefer after visiting Ichabod and has had sufficient time to consider his options. While ideally he will hate the town and all those within it, I don’t think we can count on that.”

Don’t laugh, don’t laugh, don’t laugh. “Yeah, no problem.”

Cas sighs, giving Dean a ghost of a scowl. “Are you finished with your insomnia-fueled home repair? It’s cold and I don’t think there’s anything left for you to either repair or clean in the cabin.”

“You know,” Dean starts, “you don’t have to keep me company every night.”

“If I wanted to sleep alone, I’d still be on the couch,” Cas answers, tugging the blanket up enough to stand without stepping on the trailing edge before extending a hand. “Since I’m not, it can be inferred I don’t. As you’re in here and therefore I’m awake, I might as well be awake where you are.”

Logic, Cas-style. Taking his hand, he lets Cas pull him to his feet and follows him back into the dark bedroom, the thick rug James’ team picked up during his totally just a cold a comfortable cushion against the freezing floor.

On a glance, nothing’s really changed since the room’s number of permanent occupants increased from one to two: same shitty mattress and repaired dresser and single worn end table and lamp, same weapon-filled closet-arsenal and AK-47 laundry box, and both their clothes have always been in here. Cas doesn’t have things, even on the bare-minimum level that he and Sam did; no watch or keys on the bedside table, no weird keepsakes or pictures, no old receipts or spare change. Sure, some of that isn’t applicable (for that matter, Dean’s broken watch is still stuck in the closet somewhere); some of it is Cas’s developing powers of organization (keys are hung on a hook by the door; books go in the utility-library; weapons in the closet-arsenal); but a lot probably has to do with Cas being an angel and learning people from Dean goddamn Winchester, life lived from a duffle bag packed in ten minutes or less before you’re gone. And in Cas’s case: a series of boxes, Encyclopedia Britannica (volumes four, ten, sixteen, nineteen, and twenty-one), and an assortment of board games (not random, assumed stripping-friendly, Jesus Christ) in the utility-library-closet.

Cas’s boots neatly pushed against the wall between the dresser and the bed, the nine-millimeter under the mattress at the head of the bed and knife tucked neatly between the pillow and the headboard (boot knife stays in his boot): those come standard. That’s what Cas carries on his body from the moment he leaves the shower in the morning (sometimes noon and afternoon as well) until he goes to bed, what follows him wherever he sleeps: here, in Ichabod, probably in the goddamn field.

On a glance, nothing’s really changed, but that’s because this is Cas, and he’s a goddamn freak.

The thick, heavy woolen socks Cas has worn every night since the temperature dropped appeared the very next day, green-grey wool peering out warily from the shadowy back corner when he opened the drawer of the bedside table. Emerging from the bathroom that night with freshly brushed teeth, he noted the appearance of two of the blankets from the couch folded discretely at the foot of the bed without commentary. The next morning, for no particular reason, Dean checked under the bed for dustbunnies (should anyone ask) and verified the presence of a single flat pillow set on top of two extra blankets pushed against the wall.

For four days, he watched in fascination as pencils, pens, jump drives, and paper reports materialized on the dresser in ones and twos before they vanished, replaced by the pencil box that holds all of Cas’s immediate work-related needs and another for spare drives, both stacked on two sketchpads, a folder, and three notebook, one half-filled. The dresser was reorganized after the last laundry day two days ago—yeah, Cas does that for fun—but the vague division between his clothes and Cas’s (which honestly was more theory than anything) is gone for good, replaced by military-neat rows of mutually-owned balled socks, quartered boxers, and boxer-briefs in the top drawer, folded long-sleeve shirts and jeans in the second and third, thermals and flannels in the fourth, sweaters in the bottom (for someone taught Cas to fold like they did serious time at Abercrombie and Fitch, the poor bastards).

Most tellingly—and he does appreciate the significance—his own personal weapons were integrated into the closet-arsenal so smoothly even he was startled. Over the course of a day, one of the shelves was removed (when, no idea) almost immediately followed by two boxes vanishing into the ether (utility library?), some not at all random migration of Cas’s weapons to the left onto mysteriously appearing pegs, and before dinner, Dean’s materialized almost as if by magic, guns and knives slotting onto the pegs like they’ve always been there and he just didn’t notice.

Finally—he was waiting for this—tonight, Cas shut down his laptop and casually tucked it under his arm and (casually) carried it into the bedroom to set it (casually) on the dresser by the pens and sketchbooks. Luckily, all that casualness gave Dean enough warning to pretend to be really into dental hygiene in the bathroom so Cas could enjoy himself surveying his new domain.

For the ways of Cas aren’t always mysterious; sometimes, they’re just Cas treating moving into their bedroom like he’s conquering an undiscovered country, methodically and unobtrusively marking each piece of newly-claimed territory to avoid the attention of the natives before acquisition is complete and they realize they’re under his benevolent rule. Dean would comment on the feelings of the natives in question (they know, they like it, what the hell?), but then Cas might notice what he’s doing and stop, and he kind of wants to see this through. Sure, this might end with waking up to Cas tattooing his true name on his ass for territorial purposes, but it’s not like he didn’t know what he was getting into here.

Casually scanning the room on his way to the bed for any further efforts at surreptitious colonization, he notes the subtle outline of two giant tackleboxes of mapmaking supplies that wandered out of the utility library earlier today to tuck themselves unobtrusively into the corner near the window. Fighting back a satisfied grin, he ushers Cas into bed before climbing in behind him, straightening the mess of sheets and blankets (and waiting for Cas to patiently spread the blanket he was using over the top) so as to conserve heat, which is actually pretty much eighty percent of what they do in bed.

Apparently the universe (Cas) has decided Dean has to live adolescence over again, and not even his own, but someone else’s, someone who never got laid and only got limited feeling-up privileges when at least two layers of clothing were present (and sometimes, four). If there’s any consolation in this, it’s that Cas has to deal with it, too, but it’s not much, since Cas seems unnaturally (read: what?) okay with all the sex neither of them are having. Which yeah, he was okay with not having it before, sure, but now they could be.

(At this rate the shower’s gonna start talking about commitment, and he’s also starting to kind of consider it a rival for Cas’s affections. In no way does this affect how much he’s jerking off (especially when he knows exactly when Cas was last in there doing the exact same fucking thing) but is making him resent water a little for existing.)

On the other hand, five hours past dusk until an hour before dawn is pretty much the only time he’s guaranteed to get Cas to himself these days, and he’s really starting to wonder about that. Sure, he’s leader and everything, but it’s kind of weird how much suddenly needs his (or Cas’s) attention or how often someone drops by with a question that desperately needs an answer right now. They’re all legit, too, which makes him suspicious: not one dumb question. Winning a game of craps against Cas would get better odds than that.

“I didn’t realize I’d react like this to the possibility of Jeremy leaving Chitaqua for good,” Cas says abruptly, bracing his head on one hand, dark hair in his eyes that for once he doesn’t try and fail to fight into submission. “It helped that Vera told me that she didn’t expect how she’d feel when Joseph suggested it, either, but it was still a very depressing conversation.”

Dean doesn’t laugh (this is serious, okay), but Jesus. News at two (AM, that is): Cas cares about people. Next up: Lucifer’s a dick. “I bet.”

“So under the circumstances, it would be very hypocritical for me to argue that you shouldn’t be worried about me while we’re in Ichabod tonight, because it has nothing to do with ‘should,’ so argument doesn’t help,” Cas continues, and Dean loses the urge to laugh. “At least your concerns have a nominal basis in reality, while Vera’s and mine are ‘reasons, many of them, some quite terrible we’re sure’.”

He keeps his mouth determinedly shut in case he accidentally starts talking and fuck knows what’ll come out, which may or may not include feelings (a lot of them, some he’s not sure have names, in which case will require descriptions). He settles for nodding firmly.

“While I would prefer your enjoyment at the celebration tonight isn’t hindered at all, much less by your concerns regarding me, as there’s no reason for them—”

He makes the required protesting grunt when Cas pauses for it, because Sam told him relationships are all about compromise and he can do that.

“—they exist, and it’s…” Cas stops to check his mental dictionary (English: all editions, ever). “…like when you traumatized the entire watch.”

Okay…. “What?”

“You were upset,” Cas explains, and Dean’s eyes widen at how that is just—no. “Or as Matt put it, homicidal.”

“Second one.”

“I was trying to be tactful,” Cas says, not knowing what ‘tactful’ means or even having a working understanding of the concept. “I told you later that it wasn’t necessary—”

“You can take care of yourself, nothing to worry about,” Dean drones.

“—but I didn’t tell you that I liked it.”

He shuts his mouth so fast he almost bites his tongue. “What?”

“I asked Matt and Amanda to give me a complete verbal report of the events that occurred that night in detail,” Cas continues. “Multiple times, and asked for clarification on several key points more than once, simply to enjoy hearing it again. Your creativity regarding the consequences of such carelessness in the future is to be lauded; I understand at least one of them began to cry.”

“Huh.” That’s kind of all he’s got here (though it was definitely more than one).

“Amanda assured me that more than once she was very close to disarming you to avoid summary execution of all of the watch in the middle of the cabin,” Cas adds, reaching up to push his hair out of his eyes, blue eyes glinting. “And thoroughly described each time she almost had to intervene while Matt assured me they were being one hundred percent accurate in all the particulars.”

So Amanda and Matt are going to be really surprised when bottles of Eldritch Horror mysteriously appear in their cabins (or room at Alison’s) sometime very, very soon.

“So.” Dean frantically clears his throat at the husky sound of his own voice. “Want me to beat up anyone for you?”

Cas smiles slowly. “I might, yes.”

Yeah, talking’s done now. He tugs Cas down into a kiss, tasting the shape of his smile, and rolls him onto the mattress with a cheerful squeal of springs and breathing Cas’s husky laugh.

Pulling back, he strokes back Cas’s hair before leaning in again. “Just tell me who and when.”