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— Day 150, continued —
Despite the short period of time they were in HQ, Fourth Street already hosts a considerable number of the celebrants, including several vendors of alcohol setting up on the sidewalks as well as those with goods for trade. Unsurprisingly, the eastern side of Fourth Street has the greatest concentration so far. Roughly two hundred feet from the last standing building and within Teresa’s ward line (and the revised patrol route, he assumes), the bonfire is located in what appears to be the parking lot of a strip of stores, though all that remains are concrete foundations and badly cracked asphalt. The rubble was only recently cleared and set in discrete piles for use as another barrier against attacks, which Tony and Walter are currently working on designing.
He slows as they approach the end of the street, watching the flames licking yellow-red tongues over the piled wood and toward the sky. It’s nearly fifteen feet in height and twice that in width, the progress of the fire slower than he’s accustomed to. Insufficient quantities of accelerants, probably; they have to be applied during the construction so as not to miss a single piece of fuel.
“Cas?”
Or they aren’t using them; of course not, why would they? Accelerants are for when your purpose is to burn quickly and thoroughly, increasing the heat to burn flesh and blood into ash, crumbling bone into blackened splinters, not for a fire created for pleasure. An electric orange flare bursts from the top, and for a dizzying moment, he remembers the last burn that he stood witness, consuming the bodies of the team leaders who followed Dean Winchester to that fatal encounter with Lucifer and died in the streets of Kansas City, to buy him the time that he needed.
The one before that didn’t require any fuel but an archangel’s Grace. He watched a single human body burn to ash before his eyes while Lucifer smiled at him over all that remained of his world entire.
“Cas?”
He didn’t even realize he’d stopped until Dean’s hand closes over his arm, tugging him unresistingly until abruptly, he’s leaning against rough brick, the dimly-lit alley stretched cool and quiet around him.
“Hey, look at me.” Gentle hands coax him to turn his head until he looks into worried green eyes. “There we go,” Dean murmurs. “Talk to me, Cas. You okay?”
“I didn’t understand,” he hears himself say, eyes drifting helplessly toward the orange-lit mouth of the alley, streaked with dancing red-gold. “When we were at Alpha when we—when we….”
“Uh-uh,” Dean says, hand tightening on his jaw until the orange vanishes even from peripheral vision. “Me, Cas. Alpha—what happened?” He glances briefly at the mouth of the alley before looking at him again. “Your first burn, right?”
He nods jerkily. “I went to—I was required to attend them all. I resented it,” he adds. “It took time that I could have spent learning everything I needed to know, but Dean said—he said everyone went and so I had to as well.”
“Whole camp went, yeah,” Dean says, nodding. “That’s where Chitaqua got it, I wondered about that. Makes sense.”
“It didn’t to me.” He stiffens at the admission, but Dean’s expression is reassuringly free of frustration and anger, the barely-hidden flickers of distaste that Dean then was unable to entirely hide. “It was simply practical. Human bodies are salted and burned to break their binding with the earth, so that their souls could find rest and their bodies couldn’t be used after their souls left them.” Dean nods encouragingly. “Why they wrapped it in ritual and required there be an audience made no sense. It didn’t mean anything….” He stops at the familiar sound of those words, words that he’d thrown at Dean more times than he wants to count when they were at Alpha and never spoke again after they left. Leaning back against the cold brick, he hears himself start to laugh. “It didn’t mean anything.”
“Until it did.” Dean cocks his head, green eyes searching. “Bobby. It was Bobby.”
“The first burn at Chitaqua.” He tips his head back to stare up at the slice of night sky, roiling in shades of charcoal and soot. “Dean brought him back, and we—Chuck went with one of the new recruits for the correct supplies. We didn’t have them yet.” A melting plastic grin spreads across his face. “You would have hated it, Dean. We had five hundred weapons per person and only two cabins with running water, three jeeps of rock salt and nothing but canned beans and spam to eat in a camp meant to hunt monsters but no provisions with which to care for the remains of the hunters they killed but a few lighters and a great deal of brush. There wasn’t even—even a clean sheet with which to wrap his body.
“When Chuck returned, we—Dean and I prepared his body,” he continues, smile fading. “Decomposition and—it was too much of a risk. I asked Dean to let me bathe and dress him while he prepared his shroud, and we wrapped him together while Chuck directed the recruits on how to build his pyre.”
He closes his eyes, remembering spreading out the sheet without crease, brushing away stray grass and dirt before Dean laid Bobby in the center. Without expression, they stripped Bobby of his belt and cross and salt and knives, checked his pockets and removed his boots. Starting at Bobby’s feet, Dean taught Castiel how to wrap him with every slow, crisp fold, tucking the flaps in with brisk efficiency with hands he refused to let shake.
They opened the door to air as soaked in gasoline as the freshly cut branches layered with grass and dry scrub and salt, the sound of the recruits’ voices cutting off as they laid Bobby’s body carefully in the center of the pile of inexpertly-piled wood. Dean lit the torch just as the sun dipped beneath the horizon, thrusting it into the wood, and the dulled yellows and grey-pink of the setting sun fading before the yellow-gold sparks and flares of bright orange. The minutes passed like days, hours like decades as the flames climbed in inexorable red-orange tongues before hungrily consuming the white-wrapped bundle between one breath and the next. Dean’s hand rested on his shoulder from the first spark until nothing but ash and blackened ground remained, but it wasn’t until dawn that he saw in the mirror the shape of Dean’s fingers picked out in purple-black against his skin, and looked down blankly at the bloody crescents decorating the palm of each hand, fingertips coated in dried blood.
This was mortality, he realized; not this corporeal body that he was trapped within, this finite world and the endless progression of linear time before the final cessation of life. It was a three week absence that would never end, a freshly painted bedroom whose occupant would never see it, a newly-built wheelchair ramp that would never again be used, an oven and refrigerator left unrepaired, a door unhung; it was ashes and dust where there was an extraordinary man, a gaping absence that could never be filled, a grief that ripped and tore with every endless, airless breath in a world so much smaller, so much colder for a single man’s absence. He thought the hardest thing he would ever do is Fall for Dean; he didn’t know the meaning of the word.
Then he’s pulled away from the brick and against the warmth of a living, breathing body, arms wrapping around him before he can pull away or even think to try.
“S’okay,” he hears Dean whisper when he tries to speak and only a choked sound emerges. “Come on, let it out.”
Forehead resting against a strong shoulder, he remembers the pre-dawn hours he spent digging the hole for Dean’s ashes only inches from where he placed Bobby’s. Opening the body bag, they puffed up in grey clouds as he poured them into the salt-lined hole, clinging to his hands and coating his tongue with every sobbing breath. Kneeling by the fresh mound of dirt and hidden by the protective circle of trees, he looked at the two places that he’d buried the breadth of his world entire and wondered at the lie that no one dies from grief. Parts of him lie with them beneath the same cold dirt, have burned to nothing in every fire.
“That night—the team leaders—I didn’t see you, but you were there,” Dean murmurs unexpectedly, fingers threading through his hair. “Drinking on the roof of that cabin by the fire, right?”
Startled, he pulls back enough to look at Dean. “How did you—”
“Bottle was half-empty when you gave it to me,” Dean answers with a faint smile. “No one showing up for the regularly scheduled orgy that night—or the next morning—might have also been a clue.” Despite himself, Castiel chokes on a laugh. “Going to a burn and then drinking alone the rest of the night…don’t even need to ask where you picked up that habit.” Leaning closer, Dean rests his forehead against his own. “You risked Lucifer to make sure Dean’s body was burned while you watched. You hated the team leaders, but you were still there. You go to all of them, don’t you?”
“Every one.” He thinks of Bobby, of Risa and the other team leaders who died in Kansas City; of Luke and Debra and the unknown number of deaths that preceded theirs, the responsibility he bears for them all despite only Luke dying by his hand; of the members of Chitaqua who died in the line of duty in service to humanity. Their bodies were only empty shells that once housed vibrant, living souls, but it felt like a second death to consign them to the flames: ashes to ashes and dust to dust: as they began, so shall they end. He was never sober, never clean, but he stood witness each and every time, watching existence end like the last spark of the fire burning out and leaving nothing behind but a memory to mark their presence on earth. “Now I understand why we do it.”
Dean nods. “Yeah.”
“It’s different for everybody,” he whispers. “Time heals nothing. It’s not a test. If it is, surviving is all I have to do to pass.” Nothing works until you figure out how to even want to.
“Almost,” Dean whispers, tipping his head up and meeting his eyes. “You don’t have to do it alone.”
He looks into the green eyes of the man that made him want to try, cheeks flushed with cold and lips parted on an indrawn breath that shudders to a stop when Castiel kisses him. The stillness barely has a chance to register before Dean’s hand slides up, fingers threading through his hair and cushioning his head from the icy brick of the wall behind him. He eases closer, extending the brief touch into a steady warmth that lasts forever.
The sudden sound of nearby laughter only feet away shatters the fragile silence, and Castiel emerges into the reality of a freezing alley in a southern Kansas town, but when Dean draws back, it’s only far enough to rest his forehead against his own, breath pluming white between them.
“You okay?”
Strangely enough, he thinks he is. Nodding, there’s a brief hesitation before Dean reluctantly straightens.
“We can go cheat at poker for a hell of a lot of brownies,” Dean offers, belatedly shoving his hands in his pockets as if he’s not sure what to do with them. You don’t have to do this, he doesn’t say. It’s not a test.
Castiel glances involuntarily toward the mouth of the alley, the reflection of the dancing fire on the road outside, and slowly shakes his head. Everything’s a test, but this is one he sets for himself; it’s part of the life Dean wants him to live and just surviving isn’t enough to pass. He wants to live it, with Dean. “I want to see it.”
As they pick their way between the various groups and couples—who even in the short time between his first view and now have doubled, perhaps even tripled in number—Castiel finds welcome distraction in the crowd, snatches of conversation and sudden bursts of laughter, the unexpectedly familiar faces appearing among them that smile, wave greeting that he finds himself returning without thought.
Sudha, only a few feet from the outside edge, is seated on a blanket and leaning back against Rabin’s chest as she talks to Neeraja, one hand resting on her protruding stomach as she nods at something that Anthi, sitting on Neeraja’s other side, is saying. On another blanket nearby, Tony is talking to Dennis and two other residents of Ichabod, his youngest daughter asleep beneath a blanket in his lap while the older one, tucked beneath his arm, listens intently while holding a steaming mug with another resident’s child dozing beneath a blanket across her legs.
Studying the crowd again more carefully, he picks out the presence of more children sprinkled among the adults, sleeping or talking or simply watching the fire with wide eyes. Reviewing the celebration thus far, he’s startled to note how many of them have been present, either among the crowd or gathered at tables with their parents or in adult arms, playing hunter-and-demon between piles of rubble or ducking into doorways of buildings, excited shrieks echoing through the dull roar of conversation under indulgent adult eyes.
Humans adapt, he told Dean, and in terms of both evolution and society, what is nature and what is choice, it’s true, but never more than at this moment has it been so visceral. Isolated and rejected by their own governments, preyed on by monsters whittling away their numbers in a world now without any context their lives could have given them to recognize, they adapted. They changed enough to do it, they made themselves fit to survive it, and they’re raising a new generation learning what their parents sometimes paid with their own lives to teach them. In between life and imminent death, however, they have barbecue and masala to eat and alcohol to drink and companions to share it with, lives to be lived before a fire to chase away the winter’s cold.
Lost in his own thoughts, he almost runs into Dean, who’s come to a sudden stop, eyes fixed on a point a few feet away and looking amused. “What—”
“Shh.” Dean covers his mouth with a stern glance, shaking his head firmly before looking back at whatever gained his attention. Following his gaze, Castiel sees Alicia seated by the town’s young engineer, Walter, just a few feet away.
“….engineering,” Walter is telling Alicia, waving a plastic cup with a flaking image of a mouse with surprisingly large ears on the surface and almost hitting a nearby neighbor. Glancing at Dean, Castiel sees him biting his lip as Walter continues seriously, “You have to know exactly how to stack the wood or it could all come down on top of us. Not easy, not gonna lie about that. You know about what went down at A&M in Texas a few years ago, right?”
“Oh yeah.” Alicia nods as she takes a drink from her own cup (a stylized cat, he observes, and the word ‘Hello’ barely legible just above its oversized head, with the second word completely worn away). “Unbelievable.”
Castiel looks at Dean, who shrugs, and he misses yet again Google and the ability to enter ‘+”A and M” +Texas’ into the text box and see immediate results (with ‘+bonfire,’ perhaps?). Even as an angel, searching his infinite memory was only as useful as his own understanding of what it was he searched for, and the lack of keyword capability in their design continues to be an inexplicable oversight by his Father, all things considered. Or at least decent algorithm capabilities, a word that Enochian lacks and desperately needs.
“Gotta give the guy credit for balls,” Dean murmurs as Walter begins to explain the complicated process of selecting and arranging the wood for optimal results with many complicated hand gestures (and nearly concussing a young man behind him). Nodding, Alicia surreptitiously scans the area around her, cup coming to an abrupt halt inches from her mouth when she sees them. Dean gives her a thumbs-up and a malicious smile, ignoring her narrowed eyes to wind a hand in Castiel’s coat and continue their journey toward a still unknown (to Castiel, anyway) destination. “He’s a nice kid. She’ll let him down easy.”
Glancing back curiously, he notes Alicia’s determined attention to Walter’s surprisingly lengthy monologue before turning his attention to Walter himself. While like most of the residents of Ichabod he’s very thin for his height and body type, he seems to satisfy most human aesthetics of attractiveness; the close-cropped, curly black hair surrounds a dark brown face with wide, sharply intelligent brown eyes and a full mouth that seems inclined to smile easily, implying a pleasant personality and adequate sense of humor (having met him, Castiel knows both qualities he has in excess). While lust is biological (and Walter in no way lacks anything that might not incite such), attraction is far more capricious, and the standard changes rapidly, often based on nothing more than availability and proximity.
“Are you checking him out?” Dean breathes in his ear, startling him, and turning his head, it’s another surprise to find Dean watching him. “Seriously?”
The answer to that question is obvious. “Of course not.” At Dean’s raised eyebrows, he assumes elaboration is needed, though from observation, that usually doesn’t help at all. “I don’t see why she wouldn’t consider him a viable partner now that she’s no longer involved with Kyle.”
“Other than he’s just reached drinking age maybe and lives in Ichabod?” Dean cocks his head, eyes narrowing, but Castiel realizes he’s trying not to smile only moments before he does it. “Not a bad idea, now that I think about it. Think she could tempt him to Chitaqua to build us a power grid of our very own?”
“I think Alison might kill us—possibly quite literally with her mind—if we take their only working electrical engineer,” he answers repressively, not certain why Dean begins to snicker before one hand closes casually over his wrist as they start walking again. “And that’s only if Tony doesn’t find out first. Where are we—”
“Dean! Over here!” James’s voice comes out of nowhere, and scanning the crowd, he locates James, Mira, and Nate sharing a blanket a few feet away, an array of half-filled cups and several bottles before them. James gestures toward them frantically, reaching blindly across Mira to jostle Nate, who looks annoyed before seeing them and obediently following Mira’s nudging to move over to provide a narrow space on the blanket. The space increases substantially when Mira pulls James over close enough that with very little effort (that being none at all), she could be in his lap. Both, he notes, look extremely pleased with that development.
“If they were any cuter,” Dean observes, “I’d go into sugar shock just looking at ‘em.”
As they reach the group, Dean starts to remove his coat, muttering, “Jesus, it’s like summer over here,” and Castiel considers the ambient temperature and proximity of the fire and decides to do the same. Dean almost immediately tugs him down on the blanket beside him, taking the offered cup from James and murmuring something that makes James smile back worshipfully, brown eyes bright.
Castiel doesn’t remember James ever looking at Dean’s counterpart like that, eager smiles and confident in his welcome with his leader. Then again, Dean has found reasons over the course of James’ time on local patrol to seek him out and speak to him, as he’s also done with Damiel and Lee, expressing approval for their growing experience as well as asking questions about their lives both here and even before. James is becoming a very competent leader, not least in his developing rapport with his team, especially Nate, who looks less hunted tonight than he has in weeks. Being away from Chitaqua is probably a factor, but Castiel suspects the company may bear equal responsibility.
Vera’s acidic comments regarding Zack as well as Nate were as unexpected as they were revelatory. Zack’s predilection to air his grievances to the camp may have been justified—if somewhat excessive—but the near-universal condemnation of Nate expressed in so small a community was uncomfortable to witness, and Nate’s startlingly well-developed ability to ignore it has been starting to show wear. He hates himself, Vera said; watching Mira nudge Nate to try her drink and laughing at his expression, he wonders if perhaps James and Mira know a great deal about living a life in which some will always think you live it wrong simply because of what you were born and try to teach you to hate yourself for it.
As Dean laughs at a murmured comment from Nate as he hands Mira back the cup, he passes his drink to Castiel to sample, right hand dropping to rest on his knee, thumb stroking over the denim before settling without a single tap. Pausing, he considers the afternoon and evening as a whole; Dean’s never been adverse to physical contact, no, but this is both deliberate and with specific meaning when exercised in public.
As one of the few generally accepted public expressions of intimacy, his observations always suggested its function was to denote simple possession, a silent yet unmistakable warning against trespass. It is most definitely that—this is Dean, after all—but it’s also more. It occurs to him that at no point did he take into account how the object—that being person—would view the casual gesture, possibly because he was far too drunk, high, or involved with generally non-acceptable public expressions of intimacy—that being sex—to particularly care.
“Okay?” Dean murmurs in his ear, tapping lightly against the side of his knee in a sequence that might denote departure, or perhaps he’s asking about the alcohol, which he can’t even remember tasting. He thinks of the way Dean took his hand when the crowd became too close; that was a statement as well, but the quick, reassuring pressure as they walked away wasn’t for observers to witness and take as warning, but for him alone to feel.
“Yes.” Whatever the actual question, the answer is obvious. “Very much, yes.”
“Awesome.” Dean follows that with a brief, approving squeeze, and Castiel looks down at the cup distractedly, studying the faded picture on the surface and trying to identify it since he’s almost sure that suggesting a convenient alley—the one two hundred and thirty-two feet from their current location, quite dark, hopefully empty—is not socially acceptable after only five minutes of social engagement (he thinks). For he must be a good example or something like that, though at this moment the reason for that eludes him.
“The Yankees,” Dean tells him, taking it back and sipping absently, eyes scanning the people around them before nudging him with his shoulder. “Check it out—looks like Alicia’s letting him down easily. Watch this, Cas—this is the most potentially useful people skill you probably never knew existed.”
“I’ve been turned down before, and declined participation as well,” Castiel protests, which for some reason makes Dean roll his eyes. Following his gaze, he watches Alicia gesture, smiling and patting Walter’s shoulder companionably as she fluidly rises to her feet before Walter finishes opening his mouth and adding a wave good-bye. Stepping carefully between several groups, she searches the crowd, and Castiel quickly returns his attention to the very fascinating fire.
Abruptly, Dean reaches back for his coat and tosses it on the bare concrete on the other side of Castiel, which is all the warning he gets before Alicia drops onto it with a sigh.
“Thanks, Dean,” she says, flashing a grin as she pulls up her knees. Dean thrusts a full cup into his hand, jerking his head toward Alicia with a meaningful look, as if that’s supposed to convey—oh.
Turning, he holds it out to Alicia as Dean suddenly engages James in conversation. “Honeyed apple cider and grain alcohol untyped,” he says into the silence between them as Alicia looks at the cup. “The proportions could use some adjustment, but it’s not terrible.”
“Coming from you, that’s as good as an endorsement,” she decides, eyebrows working at the first careful sip. “Not bad, thanks.”
Satisfied with the not-entirely-mediocre flavor, Alicia takes a longer drink. In the flickering light from the fire, the violet shadows beneath her eyes are thrown into stark relief, strain revealed in the tight lines around her mouth, tension lingering in her body even now when it’s at rest, and he doubts any of that is a result of her conversation with Walter. When Amanda asked him how Alicia was this morning before they left, he couldn’t remember, but he wonders if it was as obvious then as it is now; the answer, he suspects, is yes.
“You know,” Alicia starts, hands flexing on the cup frantically before she takes the remaining contents at a gulp. “Nice fire—”
“If you try to make me engage in small talk, you’ll be mowing Chitaqua until there is no grass left,” Castiel interrupts. “You’re worse at it than I am, and this time neither of us have the motivation to get through it that we had the first time we tried.”
Alicia’s startled expression melts into remembrance. “God, I forgot about that. Most of the time, gotta work up toward that kind of thing, admire the paint or furniture or whatever first, like I care, but people get put off for the stupidest reasons, am I right? Just do what you gotta do, that’s what I always say.”
“I still have no idea what you were talking about that day,” he admits, taking her empty cup and passing it to Dean for a refill, who is suspiciously already turned around as if anticipating just that.
“I don’t either,” she agrees, shaking her head. “Glad you stopped me; that could have gone on for a while.”
Dean thrusts the cup back into his hand and leans forward. “Okay, catch me up; what are you talking about?”
“First time I propositioned Cas,” she answers, taking the cup from Dean. “They don’t cover ‘how to ask an ex-angel about getting laid’ anywhere, you know?”
Dean blinks at her, lips parted, but no words seem forthcoming
“I asked around,” she clarifies, taking a drink before offering the cup to Castiel. “Just to be sure. Then Ray was like ‘just wing it’; he was high in a group setting when he did it, so that was useful, thanks.” Shaking her head, she takes back the cup before looking struck. “Wallpaper.”
“Wallpaper?” Dean asks blankly, seemingly unaware he has yet to lower his hand from when he was holding out the cup.
“In the cabin,” she explains, looking pleased.
“The cabin had wallpaper?”
“No,” Castiel says reassuringly. “It’s a frequent subject of small talk, however.”
Dean raises his eyebrows. “It is?”
Alicia nods. “How are you, weather, pictures, furniture, wallpaper, carpet, and coffee table books, though not necessarily in that order. Mix it up, that’s what I always say: predictability is not your friend.”
Dean shuts his mouth.
“Weather, floor—no, I commented on the bed—liked the blanket, extremely red—then wallpaper in noting the lack thereof,” she continues blithely. “Then Cas said, ‘are you here for any reason other than to engage in sexual intercourse, because if so, I don’t care.’ And I said no, definitely sex and now, you up for it, and…wait.” She stops, peering at Dean curiously. “Am I supposed to talk about sex with Cas around you now?”
Castiel waits (he’s rather curious as well) while Dean looks between them. “Uh. I.”
“It was, like, last time was eight months—”
“Six and a half, after your last patrol of Topeka,” Castiel corrects her.
“Right, the not-trolls!” Alicia sighs happily, taking another drink before passing the cup to Castiel. “It was great; they were made entirely of magic mud, bullets no go but stab ‘em with cold iron soaked in holy water, they crumbled into a pile of dirt right before your eyes. Who saw that coming? Answer: me, for I know everything.” He hears Dean snort. “I had such a good time, got like six of ‘em before everyone else got with the program. And an even better time when I got back to camp: thought Cas would want to know about artificial constructs mimicking trolls—and not very well, you know what I mean? It wasn’t even clay, like that was gonna work—and then Cas said, how about we—”
“No, you shouldn’t,” Dean interrupts, looking inordinately relieved when Alicia simply nods, finishing off the cup when Castiel hands it back. “Just—it’s weird.”
“People say that a lot,” Alicia observes wisely, shoving the empty cup into Dean’s still-extended hand. “It’s fine, to each their own, I always say. Refill, please?”
Dean starts to say something before taking a visible breath and turning away to elicit James’ assistance. Leaning her chin on her knee, Alicia frowns at the fire for a moment before looking up at Castiel hopefully. “Bad couple of weeks, needed not to think, terrible idea I know, it’s over now, I can do the long version but it’s the same, just a lot more words. And sorry; I should have started with that, but apologies are stressful and I never remember the right order.”
“What did Matt and Jody say?” he asks curiously; it’s a given that Andy probably didn’t notice due to being very busy having feelings.
“When one is stressed and in need of intensive not-thinking, one informs one’s friends and/or teammates that is what one will be doing,” she recites. “And not hide in one’s bedroom with the door locked and furniture blocking it when they come to find out why one is being a dick.”
“That’s reasonable.”
“I thought so, too,” she agrees, brightening. “Addendum: or leave friends with unfinished dryer-elf traps and a tentative plan to practice surprise ambush strategies on members of the camp to improve their reflexes and awareness of their surroundings, and I was really looking forward to that. We can still do that when we get back, right? I have so many ideas, and we have three nets and six gallons of yellow paint—neon, even—in inventory. I checked.”
Utilizing his already excellent reflexes, Castiel catches the full cup before Dean drops it. “Not on you, of course,” he explains, giving the cup to Alicia. “We just thought—with the lack of active combat—that everyone’s skills regarding watching for unexpected threats may be degrading.”
“What,” Dean says slowly, “are you going to do to my camp?”
“We only just started the list, so really, could be anything,” Alicia answers with a happy sigh. “The possibilities are endless.”
“Right,” Dean says, taking a long drink from his own cup. “So, how about Walter? Nice kid.”
“I know, right?” she answers, shaking her head. “I forgot what it was like to talk to someone who I couldn’t identify by their scars and which ones I’d been responsible for stitching up. Then I realized he was hitting on me—at least, I think he was, that’s what he was doing, right?”
“Yeah, that’s what he was doing,” Dean agrees sincerely.
“I thought so,” she says in satisfaction, resting her arm on her upraised knees. “I’ve been practicing my social skills upon all the residents I meet to demonstrate we aren’t crazy, as you told us at HQ.”
“Oh God,” Dean says.
“Let me demonstrate,” she states, dropping her knees and half-turning to face Castiel. “Are you having a good time at this celebration marking the end of the year?”
“I am,” he agrees, as Dean’s head drops against his shoulder, and if he’s not mistaken, he may be shaking. “It’s been very entertaining. Are you?”
“I am as well,” she answers politely. “Also, I’m not crazy or visibly armed, and as I represent the residents of Chitaqua, this should confirm we are trustworthy and likeable. Would you please tell my leader that if you see him? Use those words, actually: ‘trustworthy’ and ‘likeable.’ He was very adamant that we not terrify you and told us all about it for an hour of my life I’m never getting back.”
“So everyone thinks we’re really well armed social rejects,” Dean mutters before resting his chin on Castiel’s shoulder. “Also, fuck you, it wasn’t an hour.”
“I understand it felt like decades,” Castiel says and tries not to wince at the sharp dig of Dean’s chin. “Or so I heard.”
“Kyle was snoring,” Alicia says maliciously. “Do with that what you will.”
Dean bursts into laughter, head dropping against his shoulder again before James solicits his attention, and Alicia sips from her cup before abruptly pulling her leg closer, tugging up the leg of her jeans and pulling out a familiar looking knife, pure white blade gleaming in the light of the fire.
“So,” she says, putting down the cup and turning it. “Nice knife.”
He nods agreement. “Ceramic coating over titanium alloy core.”
“I noticed that,” she agrees, flipping it one-handed and rolling the narrow hilt between her fingers with the ease of an expert, which she is. “Nice weight, too. And you can split a hair on this blade; I did three, one mine.”
He considers asking who volunteered the other two and decides against it. Alicia continues flipping it idly, speeding and slowing the rotation while testing different holds on the hilt before catching it at different points along the blade. Amanda (looking queasy) always tells Alicia that she’s going to lose a finger one day doing that, which is possible (as all things are) but unlikely, and in any case, Alicia always replies that she has ten and can afford the loss. This close, he can mark out the delicate tracery of scars that decorate both hands up to her wrists, some nearly invisible, others hard ridges when they required stitches to close. Gun and knife calluses overlap heavily, but she also carries on the thumb and first finger on both hands those associated with throwing knives, and the heavily muscled webbing between is an indicator of someone who’s primary weapon isn’t a gun but a blade.
Even Amanda has never quite gained this casual ease, but from the first time Alicia picked up a fighting knife, she’s always been like this. For Alicia, it’s both avocation and devotion; at this moment, it’s also a very thorough demonstration (to him) that she’s already examined it thoroughly and has taken it to the practice field to begin adapting her routines to its specific properties, discovering the best way to use it with her body.
“I gave one to Amanda as well,” he says, picking up the cup and taking a drink to avoid examining why he feels defensive. “I should have done it before, so—you and she would best know how to use it. It’s a necessary part of your arsenal, and I was negligent in providing you with—that part.”
“Right,” Alicia says, catching it between her forefinger and thumb just above the hilt and letting the blade slide between them until she’s holding only the dangerously sharp tip before flipping it higher with a delighted smile, for Alicia also very much enjoys what she can do. “I saw hers at Insert Winter Holiday and didn’t even steal it—though I could have after shot five of vodka and maple syrup—and regretted that I didn’t all night until I saw this on the table the next morning when I got home.”
He nods firmly, taking another drink.
“With a ribbon around the hilt,” she adds, looking at him curiously as she flattens her palm for the next catch, letting the hilt land on the knuckles and roll down to the heel before closing her fingers around it.
“Now you’re just showing off,” he points out.
“Purple,” she says in satisfaction. “No card, but I know everything and also, no one else can tie a bow a la Gordian knot for cutting it purposes.” She turns it in admiration. “This thing can cut anything and I did test this a lot.”
“Did you blood it yet?”
“First thing I did on the practice field,” she confirms, turning her right hand so he can see the new line stretching from just below the knuckle on her thumb almost to the wrist, nearly healed. “Not on Kyle.”
He makes a face. “Of course not: it’s a new blade.”
“Exactly.” Sliding the knife back into its sheath, she gives him a sunny smile. “Thank you.”
He extends the cup to her. “You’re welcome.”
Taking it, she looks around them curiously. Despite being human and certainly far more familiar with the behavior of her own kind, the look on her face as she observes the people around them is much like the one he’s felt on his own tonight.
Glancing up at him, she shrugs, nose wrinkling thoughtfully. “Trying to work out how to make a defensive line around a group this big with no barriers to help out. What do you think?”
Castiel frowns, eyes drawn to the fire and measuring its length again, remembering what he’d heard Walter say about it: an engineering problem. To prevent unexpected collapse, he assumes, but that doesn’t mean there isn’t a way to do it deliberately. Even in its current form, however, it could be very useful.
“The fire would be adequate as a barrier in the short-term,” he answers. “In an attack from the east it could be used as part of the perimeter while everyone is moved to a more defensible location.”
“The nearest building is…” She lifts her head, finding the street and calculating the distance. “Two hundred fifty, give or take, but let’s go with three to four hundred and be excited if the first door opens. First two on either side of the street aren’t marked red, so they’re structurally stable enough to get everyone in, but not so sure about defensibility. We should have checked that when they opened up the street.”
They should have, he reflects in annoyance. “The first problem is how to move everyone quickly enough to minimize casualties.”
“Gunshot, maybe?” she offers, hooking an arm around her knee. “Joe’s on the northwest edge right now; quick shot in the air to get them moving—”
“We can’t risk them responding in uncontrolled panic,” he interrupts, thinking worriedly of Tony and the children cradled in his arms, the elderly and disabled whose wheelchairs and canes and crutches would make evacuation difficult at the best of times. Many of them are currently on the southern side of the bonfire and would be the first victims of a sudden rush, especially one from the northeast. “That will cause as many if not more injuries than those inflicted by their attackers. Nor can everyone run.”
Looking into the darkness to the east, he frowns. All that open land and not a single barrier in sight on this side of the street, the piles of rubble from the destroyed buildings carefully placed for the convenience of cleared streets and easy passage and therefore useless for defense. If there was time, it would be relatively simple to move them, piled strategically to impede attackers and buying time to move everyone to a safer location, and if the piles were placed prudently, very few people would be needed to create a working perimeter and allow the people here time to escape. If he started now…two or three days from now, he might have an easily climbable barrier complete. There must be a better way to do this; humanity invented the internet, after all.
“If only that rubble was closer,” he says, pointing toward the closest pile, “we could use it and the fire itself for the temporary perimeter line and buy time for a more controlled method of escape—”
“I see it,” Alicia interrupts, nodding. “Okay, but what if—”
“Christ, you’re kidding me.” Castiel turns to see Dean watching them and wonders how long he’s been listening. “This is a party. Where we’re supposed to be having fun. Heard of it?”
“I’m having fun,” Alicia answers defensively. “There are lots of kinds of fun. Some of us were talking about Ichabod’s defenses during dinner with the patrol from the other towns who are here, working out how we’d handle this kind of group if there was an attack tonight. I’m guessing if we got enough warning, blocking off the street would work, but Syracuse, Main and Second are the only ones with limited entry and exit points with their alleys blocked. Here, though—” she waves around them, “—not nearly that simple.”
“Huh.” Dean looks between them for a moment, then at the crowd around them. “Yeah, you’re right. We haven’t done anything like this, and Cas’s never even been to a big party before. Cas, how long will it take you to work a couple of options for a sitch like this?”
“What?” He looks between their expectant faces, wondering what he’s missing.
“We’ll get back to you,” Dean tells Alicia, who half-turns at the sound of her name being called. Assured of her distraction, Castiel stares at Dean, who looks back with unconvincing bewilderment. “What? We’re gonna protect people, we gotta figure this shit out.”
“I wasn’t taught this.” Everything he knows came from others, taught to him to pass on to new hunters. He wonders vaguely if he should have already explained what his education had entailed, but Dean’s expression flickers briefly, something looking back at him that he can’t interpret.
“Neither was I,” Dean points out. “Looks like we’ll have to work it out ourselves. I’ll give you a week, okay?”
“I have no idea how to do that.”
“Then what the hell were you doing with Alicia just now?” Looking annoyed, Dean gestures in an arc around them. “Cas, I get it, you learned everything hunters would teach you, and great, you taught ‘em here everything you knew. That’s just the beginning, though. This is where you gotta learn shit maybe no one knows yet, and teach ‘em how to do that, too.”
“Dean, I was a foot soldier in the Host, which made me fit to learn to instruct hunters.” At least, there was a certain amount of crossover, or he could pretend there was. “Not—”
“You’re a hunter,” Dean says flatly. “That’s what you made yourself, and you’re fit to do damn well anything you want to. Now how long?”
Castiel opens his mouth to answer—he doesn’t know how to do that or how to even learn it—but the words drain away unspoken, others spilling out in their place. “I may need more than a week.”
Dean grins at him and picks up his discarded cup. “How about two?”
“Cathy,” Alicia says softly, and Castiel realizes she’s gone still, cup forgotten in one hand. Following her gaze, Castiel sees a thin figure in an oversized coat hovering near the edge of the growing crowd, seemingly unaware of those around her. Even from here, he recognizes the fixed blankness in her eyes as she stares at the flames and thinks he knows what she’s seeing right now. “Where the hell are….”
With a muffled curse, Alicia jumps to her feet as the woman begins to sway. As quickly and easily as another person crosses open ground, Alicia navigates the crowd, reaching the woman and steadying her just before her knees begin to buckle.
“Cathy,” Dean murmurs. “Where have I heard—” He cuts himself off, blowing out a breath. “She lost her kid during the attack. How old—”
“Del,” he answers. “She was two weeks old.” Tomorrow, she would have been a month old, he realizes, watching Alicia wrap an arm around Cathy’s slumped shoulders, nodding encouragingly as two other people hastily join them—her housemates, he assumes, who from their expressions didn’t expect her reaction to seeing the bonfire.
Alicia says something to Cathy, waiting for her nod, before she and Cathy follow the other two toward another group nearby, settling with Cathy on the blankets.
“I forgot,” Dean says abruptly, and Castiel turns to see him frowning at the fire as he takes another drink. “Alicia was here after the attack, wasn’t she?”
“I sent her to assist Dolores.” Her report—much like all of those who came to Ichabod for those two days—was stripped to essentials, a brief businesslike outline of her duties and observations, unlike Alicia’s usual verbosity. Not entirely surprising: as an EMT who’d acted as Darryl’s assistant and nurse, she’d been assigned to Dolores to help with the victims, and even the worst missions never returned with that many injuries.
“Did she….” Dean hesitates, and Castiel knows he’s mentally reviewing every report, the familiar euphemisms that softened the starkness of what Chitaqua’s soldiers witnessed of Ichabod’s loss. “Cas, help me out here.”
“It wasn’t in her report.” Amanda would have mentioned if she’d seen Alicia in the isolation rooms, which only means she didn’t see her. If there was a need for volunteers to assist those in isolation, Alicia would have volunteered without a second thought. There were many in those rooms that would need mercy, and Alicia wouldn’t need oversight, as Amanda did, to administer the shots. “She might have forgotten to mention that.”
“Or didn’t want to talk about it.” Dean finishes his drink in a gulp and immediately refills the cup with a grim expression. “Or even think about it.”
Castiel takes the cup and finishes half; that sounds depressingly relevant now that he has context. “Her team—”
“I think we both know who got in before they noticed something was wrong,” Dean says in disgust, taking back the cup. “He’s that kind of guy, no surprise there.” After a moment, he grimaces. “Might not have helped. She’s the other kind of talker. Amanda would have said something if she knew—who else….”
“Dolores,” Castiel says, watching Alicia passing Cathy a cup and nodding encouragingly as she takes a sip, and tries to remember who else would know. “I’ll speak to her tomorrow, and to Karl, her second; he was in charge of the isolation rooms while Dolores worked on the other patients.”
“Good idea.” Dean plays with the cup for a moment before cocking his head. “So, you wanna hang out here or check out what else everyone’s doing tonight?”
Dean’s restlessness increases as midnight drifts closer, and Castiel obediently follows him on a circuit of Fourth, now bustling with activity. They pause briefly here and there, long enough for Dean to smile, wave at someone he recognizes, engage in a snatch of conversation with a vendor while sampling a drink or survey a tray of goods and comment on the quality to the owners before they move on again. It’s fascinating in a completely different way than he expected when he came here tonight, but the reason for the difference is elusive.
Beneath brightly-colored canopies, the vendors offer a wide variety of goods, some he’s certain were never available to the general population outside some very specialized stores (or, on occasion, garage sales).
The more mundane merchandise on offer includes alcohol, the equipment to make alcohol, firearms (of course) and other types of weapons as well as ammunition, bags of snack foods (dried fruit and nuts: Dean purchases two), leather goods (he memorizes the name of the vendor), metalwork and jewelry (Dean immediately writes down their names and specialties), clothing, and a stunning variety of homespun fabrics of various types and colors with the option to have it turned into clothing made to order.
The more specialized goods include charms of all types, pre-packaged ingredients for DIY spellcasting (an interesting idea; everything you need in neatly labeled baggies), specialized equipment for the working witch or practitioner, various useful herbs for purposes both mystical and mundane, and everything in between. As Dean engages with a couple who seem to specialize in socks (he wonders what they might know about dryer elves), Castiel finds himself fascinated with a booth devoted to candles.
It’s aweing purely on a visual level: portable shelves line all three sides of the booth and are filled with everything from tea candles small enough to fit inside a coffee cup to a set the size of truncated pillars, some with complicated etching in the wax, others smooth and glossy as if polished, and in every color in the rainbow.
“Anything specific?” a voice asks, sounding amused, and Castiel realizes he wandered much closer than he intended, attracted by the sense of muted purpose despite nothing on display showing anything but the most mundane of properties. Looking up, he sees the vendor, an African American woman in her late thirties, smiling at him. “Wendy, Noak,” she adds, extending a hand, and startled, he stares at warily before tentatively shaking it, relieved there’s no sign of incipient hysteria.
“Castiel of Chitaqua,” he answers politely, and her eyebrows rise curiously.
“Nice to meet you.” She doesn’t let go immediately, however, dark fingers firm as the amber eyes scan him thoughtfully. “Specialty?”
That’s what he thought. “Yes.”
“Thought so.” Bending down, she removes a box from under the counter. A glimpse inside shows mounds of tissue-wrapped objects and the sense of power increases. Seeing his reaction, she looks pleased. “I don’t keep everything out on the tables. Practitioner?”
“All of my existence,” he agrees as she unwraps several, setting them between them for his perusal. Picking up one of the more esoteric models the size of his palm, colored in graduated shades of blue, he turns it in his hand, following the subtle sense of power tucked into each complex curve and identifying each individual property: patience, calm, serenity, and focus infusions on an earthy base, scented with mint. “This is interesting.”
“I have a few practicing witches—other than Teresa—who don’t have time to do everything themselves and so buy from me,” she says, leaning an elbow on the counter. “Especially these days: outsourcing is where it’s at.”
“Not everyone has the natural talent for this kind of work.” Any human can, with study, learn to use herbs for basic charms and spellwork, but very few can ever learn to sense their properties, much less isolate, condense, and infuse them into an object like this without degradation, especially in combination without losing individuality. “What did you study during your apprenticeship and where? I didn’t think anyone still practiced the art of infusions at this level. At least, not in this country.”
“Idaho, and the bare bones basics,” she answers self-deprecatingly, long, beaded braids glinting in the Christmas lights strung across her booth. “Never got farther than basic charms, barely any active craft, but I did have some calling for herbal potions, though nothing special. Total hedgewitch. My teacher almost gave up until I started working with wax and stumbled across something I actually had a talent for. Limited field, but when you’re the only one in it, that helps.”
“Infusions may be passive, but they’re still a very difficult craft to master and very few ever reach this level of skill.” Regretfully, he sets the small candle back on the counter; the sense of calm and serenity are very pleasant, and he can imagine how it would feel when burned (not to mention the very pleasant scent). “Do you have a product list available? Charmed and mundane: clarity, focus, patience, inspiration, serenity, endurance, energy, and lemon, if possible. Something citrus, at any rate. I’m tired of the smell of bleach when cleaning the kitchen.”
“I can make a list,” she answers promptly. “I’ll be here until the end of the week; my sister Lourdes is Noak’s mayor, so there’s the meeting plus afterparty. We’re on southeast Second, Building C: electricity, toilets and a working kitchen, kind of. For when you make candles for Teresa of Ichabod, there are perks much better than you get for just being a mayor. Where do you want me to send it?”
“Third Street, northwestern corner. Or Alison and Teresa’s building,” he says, startled when she places the candle back in his hand and closes his fingers over it. “I don’t have anything right now to pay for it.”
“Bread on the water.” She grins at him. “I also take commissions, but lead time is about two weeks for delivery to Ichabod.” She gives him a thoughtful look. “I’m also known for my experimental work. I can’t guarantee success, but that’s the only time I charge.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.” From the corner of his eye, he sees Dean waiting patiently. “I’ll be in touch, probably after the meeting.” Taking the box she finds under the counter, he carefully wraps the candle in paper and places it within before tucking it carefully into an internal pocket of his coat. “Thank you.”
“Looking forward to hearing from you,” she says sincerely, and joining Dean, he realizes he’s rather looking forward to it as well.
Amanda tracks them down just after eleven—how, Castiel isn’t entirely certain—looking amused as Dean charms another bottle of currant wine from one of the nearby vendors of alcoholic beverages before giving a brief report: all is well, and so far, nothing alarming from the still-arriving people.
Dean listens, but for some reason seems distracted, eyes flickering impatiently to the passing people with a faint frown, but halfway through Amanda’s commentary on Laura’s endless soliloquies at the loss of her potential orgasms (“She. Won’t. Shut. Up. Can we send her on a special assignment? To anywhere not here?”), Dean abruptly straightens, yelling “Hey, wait!” as he eases between two of the vendors and back into the street.
Turning, Castiel watches his progress toward a small group of people he recognizes as members of Ichabod’s patrol, stopping as a statuesque blonde turns around with a slow, pleased smile that matches the one that Dean gives her. Together, they move slightly to the side and immediately fall into what appears to be an utterly fascinating conversation.
“…Cas?”
He jerks his attention back to Amanda. “That’s fine, yes. Is there anything else?”
“Nope, we’re good.” Leaning back against one of the support posts that once held a walkway roof, she crosses her arms. “I’ll be staying at Dina’s tonight after poker hijinks if you need to find me, and you know you’re not being subtle here, right? Even a little.”
He closes his eyes, wondering if it’s possible he may actually miss when people avoided him unless they wanted to have sex or required drugs.
“The blonde’s Vanessa, by the way,” she continues, despite the fact he’s certain he didn’t ask and has no reason to care. “Thirty-one, boyfriend died a year and a half ago, no kids but wants them, got moved to patrol when Haruhi was recruited, still on a learning curve to do the job. She’s not too bad,” she adds thoughtfully as Dean’s burst of laughter drags his attention back to the street, where Vanessa is beaming under the influence of Dean’s undiluted attention. “Want me to take her out? I can make it look like an accident, no problem.”
He jerks his gaze to Amanda, who looks back innocently.
“Friends,” she drawls, “help you move bodies. Family gets rid of the bodies for you.”
He considers family as he understands it: his brainwashed, tortured, hunted, and tried to kill him, made him participate in horrific game shows, attempted to tempt him to Lucifer’s side, and also had sex with Dean while Dean was his charge in the back of the Impala in plain view of anyone with eyes, and he won’t pretend not to know exactly who seduced whom that day.
Dean may have been right about the upgrade.
“I appreciate the thought,” he says, ruthlessly suppressing the inappropriate quiver in his voice. “I can handle rivals for Dean’s affection on my own, however.”
“If you’re sure.” She sighs, pushing off the post and coming up beside him. “You know, I could just take the rest of the night instead of handing off to Kamal at midnight.”
“I thought you were going to Dina’s for poker and flirting with Laylah and her girlfriend?”
“Not until two, and anyway, Vera said something about checking out the official poker den, don’t want her to—you know, go alone.” She makes a face and sighs. “Or go not alone with anyone but me, so picking her up from admin at midnight, and God help anyone who gets in my way.”
“Have you thought about—”
“Yeah,” she interrupts moodily. “Take that as answer to anything you could add there.”
“—telling her you won a copy of hippofucker?” he finishes, watching Dean gesticulate and the blonde woman laugh far too enthusiastically with an unnatural number of visible teeth. Annoyed with himself, he turns to face a startled-looking Amanda. “Vera will very likely volunteer to act as courier between Chitaqua and Ichabod for the next few weeks so she can become more familiar with the town as well as convey information and letters and that will require overnight visits. You could offer to read it to her in the evenings.”
“We—have a courier?” she falters.
“We could,” he says thoughtfully. “And now we do: power is useful for so many things.”
A hand unexpectedly clamps down on his shoulder as Dean pokes his head between them, flushed and still grinning as if his conversation with Vanessa was the highlight of the evening’s entertainment. “You done yet?” Castiel nods. “Awesome. Let’s go.”
He resists Dean’s pull long enough to add, “Also, Vera can waltz, polka, tango, and samba.”
Her mouth drops open. “What?”
“Friends help you try to win,” he tells her over his shoulder as Dean (now snickering) tugs him away. “Family cheats to make sure you do.”
Dean is maddeningly silent as they turn at the end of the street and unexpectedly start toward the north. As they pass Fifth, Castiel notes that lights are already being added by one of Tony’s crews in anticipation of future need, but for reasons that pass understanding, Dean doesn’t stop until they reach Sixth.
“Okay, now where….” Dean trails off, eyes traveling upward to scan the buildings despite the darkness, and Castiel starts to ask what he’s looking for before he makes a satisfied sound, hand tightening on Castiel’s arm. “There we go. No questions, now come on.”
Castiel manages to control himself for most of the block, not wondering what Dean seemed to find so interesting about his conversation with Vanessa, feeling no desire whatsoever to ask about it, and uninterested in why Dean seems to feel no particular desire to share what was so amusing that he laughed for a total of two minutes (accumulative). As they reach the next block, the hand around his arm slides to his wrist, tugging him onto the remains of the sidewalk, pace slowing significantly until they stop before one of the boarded-over doors.
Stepping back, Dean glances at the markings by the doorway—yellow-pink, outwardly structurally stable, less so within—before taking out a flashlight and pointing it at the boarded-over door. “Hey, do something about that, would you?”
He seriously considers telling Dean that it’s blocked for a very good reason, then wonders why on earth he even wants to bother. It only takes a few seconds to pull the boards free of the frame, tossing them aside, and ignoring Dean’s scowl, opens the door to check just inside for any dangers (collapse of upper floors, lack of floor altogether) before stepping back to let Dean enter and shutting the door behind them.
The bare wooden floor isn’t in the best condition, every crack and grumble beneath their feet making him wonder nervously about the condition of any potential basement before his entire attention is on the stretch of stairs ascending into darkness, which don’t become any more promising when illuminated by Dean’s flashlight.
He stops, ignoring the increasingly determined tugs. “No.”
“They’re fine, Van double checked to be sure I read the damage reports right,” Dean answers soothingly, leaving Castiel wondering blankly why on earth Dean would be reading random damage reports. “Now come on.”
Dean’s last pull is successful purely from his own curiosity regarding the casual use of ‘Van.’ By the time they’ve creaked their way halfway to the second floor, he’s involved with not wondering when and how Dean met Vanessa, and how long they’ve known each other; the easy use of ‘Van’ seems to indicate a great deal of familiarity, however, especially if she’s doing favors for him. He certainly never mentioned her before, which seems rather—
Castiel thinks, incredulous: what is wrong with me?
“Cas?”
“I thought she was a member of patrol, not city services.” Dean blinks at him, eyebrows drawing together in confusion, and he belatedly realizes that context is both lacking and impossible to explain (even if he wanted to, which he doesn’t). “Vanessa. Van, rather, which I assume is short for Vanessa. I could be mistaken.”
“She used to be city before we got Haruhi,” Dean answers distractedly as they reach the third floor. “She was helping Tony’s crew check the buildings earlier on Fifth and she offered to run over here and see if this one had been re-marked since the last time they did a survey.” He leads them around the splintered wood that when Castiel looks down surrounds a hole showing a shadowy portion of the floor below them. “I asked—hold up, a missing step coming up, just need to—” and Castiel jerks free of Dean just long enough to clamp a hand around his wrist as he starts to jump over the shattered remains of a significant amount of the next two stairs.
“How many more floors?”
“Five.” Dean cocks his head, like he can’t imagine why that’s relevant. “Why?”
“You realize I can’t actually fly anymore?” he asks, joining Dean on the step before jumping with him to the next and ignoring the low, warning groan of the wood on their landing with an effort. “If you fall, so will I, and both of us will be subject to the law of gravity.”
Dean glances down at his captive wrist and raises an eyebrow.
“It was just a reminder,” he says, scanning the stairs ahead of them for any more unfortunate structural weaknesses before continuing their ascent. “Let’s go.”
To Castiel’s relief, the remaining stairs are still more or less undamaged, though every creak is in stereo and echoes through the entire building. Dean takes the lead once they reach the top floor, hunting through a narrow hall and two alarmingly dilapidated rooms before he stops short, turning the flashlight up at the ceiling, where Castiel sees a square access panel. Tucking the flashlight between his teeth, Dean jerks his head significantly before lacing his fingers together, which Castiel assumes means that it’s his job to get it open.
The rusted catch on the access to the roof breaks with unsurprising ease, and pulling himself up, he scans the flat roof for any potential for instantly falling to their deaths. Other than a small building of unknown purpose (air conditioner or heaters, perhaps?), there’s no sign of damage, and the building itself is fully intact, though in desperate need of repair and perhaps a coat or two of paint.
“Well?” Dean asks impatiently from below him. Climbing out, he rests his weight on the balls of his feet, listening for any sign of cracking or breaking, then slowly straightens, taking a careful step, then another. “You gonna help me—fuck it,” drifts toward him, and Castiel hears a thump as Dean jumps, fingers clamped around the edge of the access hole.
Coming back, Castiel crouches to peer down at Dean hanging almost four feet from the floor below, boots dangling mid-air, a smile stretching across his face as Dean’s accusing stare reminds him of the last time he found him hanging from a roof. At least this time, he’s wearing shoes.
“I don’t think,” he says thoughtfully, “that tonight is a nice night for a broken leg.”
The green eyes narrow at him, muscles tensing in his forearms as if he’ll try and pull himself up by sheer will, and biting back another grin, Castiel shifts his balance and reaches down, pulling Dean effortlessly to the roof.
He waits patiently as Dean makes an elaborate show of straightening his coat before asking, “So what are we doing here?”
Dean looks around before abruptly turning Castiel in place and clamping a hand over his eyes. “Trust me, right?” he murmurs against Castiel’s ear, chest suddenly pressed against his back, his other hand resting lightly against his hip under his coat as he turns him. “Ten steps straight ahead, then stop.”
The gentle nudge against his back reminds him to move, and he counts each step, coming to a stop obediently when the hand on his hip tightens warningly, something solid brushing against his knees. “Okay, open your eyes.”
When he does, he’s standing inches from the three foot high ledge surrounding the edge of the roof.
“Come on,” Dean says, bracing a hand on the ledge and boosting himself onto the concrete, finding his balance effortlessly before extending a hand. Startled, he takes Dean’s hand, joining him on the two foot wide ledge, and grinning, Dean cocks his head. “What do you think?”
Abruptly, Castiel realizes he’s over a hundred feet above the earth and stills, breath trapped in his throat. Before him stretches eastern Ichabod and its fields of winter crops; beyond that are miles of uncultivated land broken by clumps of winter-bare trees and dips of greater darkness that might be lakes in the distance. Turning in a slow circle, he takes in the stretch of Creation in all its endless variation sleeping beneath a blanket of winter snow around them, the wind smelling of cold and a still-living world.
“It’s beautiful,” he breathes.
“So what do you get for the guy who doesn’t want anything?” Dean murmurs, shoulder pressing against his own, vividly warm and alive. “This is the highest point in town except the old water tower, but ladder’s rusted to hell in some spots, didn’t want to risk it. I asked Alison about it when we were working out the details for tonight, and she found the survey and maps for me and said it was in the yellows, which I guess means it won’t collapse or anything.” He lets out a quiet laugh. “I gotta check this out during the day; I’m guessing from the look on your face, it’s pretty awesome.”
Tearing his gaze from a tiny copse of trees surrounding a frozen pond like a pool of ink, he glances at Dean in surprise. “You didn’t come up here already?”
“Dude, it was your Christmas present; I wanted you to see it first.” The satisfied grin changes as he looks around them. “Van said—there they are.” Jumping down, he goes several feet away and bends down, retrieving a pile of folded blankets from the shadows and from somewhere in the depths of his coat he produces a bottle that Castiel recognizes as the currant wine that he acquired earlier. “Drinking on the roof. See any drawbacks to this plan?”
“No,” he answers, unable to look away from that brilliant smile. “None at all.”
Dean passes him the half-empty bottle before slumping back against the ledge. “How long until midnight?”
“Twenty minutes,” he answers, demonstrating another almost useless ability retained; provided he’s fully conscious and (mostly) in his right mind, he can always tell the relative time according to a given location’s absolute position within spacetime. It’s ridiculously simple; using the moment the universe came into being after the creation of Time and accounting for the varying rate of speed of passage in universal spacetime since then to find the relative time, he simply translates that to local (earth), calculates the earth’s position in its revolution around the sun and its current position in its (very roughly) twenty-four hour rotation, graft the results onto time zones as established using the Greenwich standard, and gets the approximate time in Ichabod, Kansas within four decimal places.
(Almost useless, but not quite: Dean’s inordinately impressed by this particular ability, so it’s been upgraded in his personal rating system. Anything that gives Dean so much enjoyment must have some value, though in all honesty he has yet to think of any other circumstance that knowing the exact number of seconds since Time began would be at all useful. Unless Walter wants to build a primitive FTL drive, of course, then yes, the equation might be of some use, though navigating foldspace with the fifth-generation model would require some adjustments and a fairly radical approach to interpreting special relativity. Perhaps he should ask Tony about that; he has stated before that Walter likes long-term projects and this would definitely qualify.)
“Awesome,” Dean says in satisfaction. “So could be wrong, but I think it’s resolution time.”
“Trade for a great deal more of this,” Castiel answers, studying the anonymous brown bottle of currant wine before taking another drink. The two blankets folded beneath them make a very adequate cushion and excellent insulation against the cold concrete of the roof, and with their coats behind them, cushioning them from the unforgiving surface of the ledge, they share the other blankets to maximize heat retention. He’s become an expert at maximizing heat retention, as even with Dean’s weather stripping efforts, the cabin is cold, and leaving the electric heating units on all night is to be avoided at all costs. As he explained to Dean, the fire hazard is inarguable, so they must make do with blankets and proximity to assure adequate warmth. Hyperaware of the warm stretch of Dean’s body against his side, he frantically tries to recall what they were talking about. “And discover where Alison gets her supply of coffee.”
Dean nods as he takes the bottle back, but the green eyes are distant. Castiel glances toward the open access to the floor below and wonders if perhaps the request for the current time had a specific purpose. Reluctantly, he starts to straighten. “If we leave now, barring the potential collapse of the stairs, we should be able to return to the others before—”
Dean’s arm snaps out across his chest, stopping him short. “Where,” he asks, “do you think you’re going?”
“Nowhere, obviously.” Dean nods in satisfaction, withdrawing his arm as Castiel settles back again, as if by accident pressing his knee against Dean’s and is rewarded with Dean’s hand dropping to rest on it beneath the blanket. Satisfied, he reflects that successful tactical exercises are not limited to the battlefield. “Tomorrow, we’ll come back here during daylight so you can enjoy the view as well.”
“I’d like that. I never asked—what’s it like anyway?” Dean asks suddenly. “Without light, I mean, seeing this?”
“Much like it is during the day, but without color.” Dean raises his eyebrows in a silent request for elaboration. “In perfect dark, I wouldn’t be able to see any better than you do, but even now, there’s enough light to assure adequate contrast to identify shapes in graduated shades of monochrome. So it’s the equivalent of a very high-resolution black and white photograph, if you need a reference.”
“Why no color?”
“The human eye can’t distinguish color below a certain threshold of available light, and I’m still restricted by that.” Since Dean came, he’s spent far less time thinking of all his limitations in this form and more about what he can still do—for Dean, at his request, what he needs—but that doesn’t mean he can explain it. He can try, though. “The physical limitations of my eye decides the amount and quality of the data provided to my visual cortex, which is also limited in what it can interpret from that, and there’s always degradation. My true form doesn’t have those kinds of limitations, however; it receives, processes, interprets, and records all the data available from the eye, and there’s no organic degradation.” He spares a quick look at Dean, who nods, waving the bottle for him to continue. “On a guess, my true form integrated with my nervous system well enough that it’s receiving the data from the eye first, correcting it as much as possible from its own data, and then giving it to the visual cortex to deal with.”
Dean takes a drink from the bottle before tapping it against his knee thoughtfully. “Your true form is acting like Photoshop?”
“Or Adobe Premiere,” he agrees. “Same principles. The lack of color is due to the limitations of the data received from the eye in the first place. I suppose there’s simply not enough color references to reliably upgrade, so it won’t bother, but as long as there’s enough light for any amount of contrast, it can correct that, though I haven’t tested the exact amount.”
“So you can see in the dark—pretty useful.” Dean glances out at the landscape again before easing from his slump against the ledge, turning in place to give him the full benefit of his undivided attention (his hand, however, remains where it is, and all is well with the world indeed). “So what do you think of your first New Year’s party? That wasn’t also an orgy, I mean.”
“Interesting.” While his previous New Years’ were indeed spent in sexual congress, it wasn’t exactly in celebration of the date, so he can probably consider this his actual first. “Human customs are fascinating when observing from a more immediate perspective—” Dean coughs significantly in what sounds like ‘bullshit.’ Looping an arm around his knees, Castiel smiles at him. “Fun. That was the answer you were looking for, I assume?”
“Only if it’s true.”
He remembers Vera earlier in the evening, asking him about the celebrations he attended at Alpha, before coming to Chitaqua. Dean attended them, of course, and would often persuade or order Castiel to accompany him, but as Dean was usually quickly distracted by the attractions of potential sexual partners or his friends among the other hunters, there rarely if ever was any reason to linger after Dean’s attention wandered. At the time, he was relieved that Dean never questioned him later on where he was or why he left; in time, however, he came to realize that Dean probably never noticed his absence.
Human gatherings were social events, and everyone has species in common if nothing else. While Castiel would occasionally spend time observing their interactions with each other, it quickly became a source of vague, unformed discomfort that even to himself he was unable to articulate. Far more practical to concentrate on fulfilling his purpose, what Dean meant him to do, than concern himself with what was beyond his understanding. Mortality didn’t change that in any meaningful way other than that which involved sexual congress.
Now, however—he still isn’t human, and he still lacks most of the most fundamental experiences that humanity shares, but since the Insert Winter Holiday You Celebrate at Chitaqua, he’s become aware that something’s changed. Dean’s presence is part of it, of course; he’s very personally motivated to retain his company and models his behavior to that end, but it’s not an effort that he has to think about every minute, and the penalty for a mistake…Dean never seems to indicate any dissatisfaction in anything he says or does, in any case.
It was easy, he thinks, startled.
The mandatory social requirements, both at the party in Chitaqua and here, were far easier to fulfill than he expected, and not only because conversation often revolves around things he knows: fighting the supernatural, weaponry, religious iconography, mythical events, ritual magic, and the uses of various types of wards. Sometimes the discussions were about food—which he doesn’t even like, though discussion of various desserts are becoming far more interesting than they used to be—adequate insulation, water purification, animal husbandry, the best times to plant wheat and corn, projected yields from the next harvest, and the interpersonal relationships of people that sometimes he not only knew but has had sexual relations with at least once.
It might also be, he thinks in surprise, that he wants to be here, and other people seem to want that, too.
“It is,” he answers slowly and is rewarded with Dean’s satisfied smile. “How long do these generally last?”
“It’s barely started,” Dean says enthusiastically. “We’re still in the getting to know you phase, where everyone’s eaten and drunk enough to feel comfortable talking to strangers and make friends with everyone else and being sober for midnight toasts and whatever. After midnight when the kids are put to bed, it’ll be strip poker—hell, strip any-game they can use for an excuse—random acts of public affection anywhere there’s shitty lighting, and drunken hookups like it’s a goddamn sacrament.”
“So not entirely unlike my previous experiences with New Years’.” Dean seesaws the bottle. “Or from the bars I used to patronize when we needed information.”
“Christ, all you know about people comes from Chitaqua, hunters, and bars. Which, come to think,” he concedes, “is pretty much mine, too. Came and went, no time for introductions, much less hanging out. Most of the time, even the people we helped couldn’t have picked me and Sam out of a crowd ten minutes later. Not that they had any reason to,” he adds more quietly. “It was just a job, save a few people, helping out where we could.”
“And now everyone who sees you knows that you’re what hunts the monsters that hunt them.” Dean’s mouth quirks acknowledgement; he’s a hunter, his victories counted in people saved and defeat in those lost. Saving the world he may believe is beyond his capabilities, but those here tonight, the residents of Ichabod, the members of Chitaqua, that’s very different; they’re people he knows, and he knows he can save them.
“Later tonight, you’re gonna show me your new and improved poker game,” Dean says, breaking into his thoughts. “With your poker face, we can clean out everyone. That’s a lot of future brownies.”
“Friends help you move bodies,” he hears himself say into the comfortable silence for some reason. “Family gets rid of the bodies for you.” Dean blinks at him, bottle frozen half-way to his mouth. “Something Amanda said. After she offered to kill Vanessa—Van, rather—for the sake of our continued domestic harmony.”
Dean stares at him for a long moment, face blank, before he bursts into laughter. Reaching for the wine before Dean drops it, Castiel takes a drink. “I declined, of course. I can handle interlopers myself.”
“Ritual combat, public sex, I remember,” Dean says breathlessly, squeezing his knee before snatching the bottle from his hand and composing himself enough to take a long drink before handing it back. Wiping his mouth, he stifles another burst of hilarity when he looks at Castiel before saying, voice trembling, “You know Amanda’s the one who introduced me to Van last time I was here? And sent the blankets with her earlier?” Snickering, he takes a deep breath, shaking his head. “I’m gonna kick her ass.”
“Oh.” He considers that as he takes another drink before passing it back to Dean, cold fingers brushing his when he takes the bottle. “Then—”
“Wait,” Dean says suddenly. “When did she—oh, when I was talking to Van earlier? Huh.” He takes another drink. “Didn’t think you noticed.”
Castiel freezes in his reach for the bottle. “Didn’t think that I noticed you abruptly abandon us without explanation at the sight of a very attractive blonde woman with whom you conversed for eight minutes and twenty-three seconds, two minutes of which you spent laughing?” Dean’s eyes widen and it occurs to him he did indeed say that out loud. Grabbing the bottle, he takes a drink in the hope that might—do something (rewind time, but no, it doesn’t). “From what I understand, it’s rude to—do that.”
Bracing an elbow on his knee, Dean rests his chin on one hand and gives him his full and undivided attention. “Rude.”
“Boorish,” he says challengingly. “Churlish. Discourteous. Impolite. Inconsiderate. Loutish. Uncouth.”
“Dude, you’re slipping,” Dean observes, absently stroking Castiel’s knee in a way that’s the opposite of soothing, fingers just approaching his inner thigh before retreating. “Only seven: I heard you can get to fifty without even trying.”
“Are you enjoying yourself?” he asks in annoyance, but not enough to so much as shift his current position.
“German, starts with ‘s,’ give me a second,” Dean says, then brightens. “Got it. Schadenfreude.”
“I don’t see—”
“Theodore,” Dean interrupts, cocking his head, and yes, that. “So?”
That’s unexpected. “Why? I’ve had sex with many people—”
“And that was the first time you ever had a problem admitting it.” Dean shrugs, almost casually. “Just curious.”
Oh. “Nothing terrible—”
“That much I kind of figured,” Dean interrupts, and oh. Schadenfreude.
“And nothing particularly…” There’s a lesson in this, he suspects, but what, he has no idea. “He was my first. Sex partner.”
For some reason, that makes Dean tense, though his expression remains the same. “And he left?”
“That would be the reason,” he explains. “Why I seduced him, I mean. Or he seduced me. Though I suppose it could be considered a mutual endeavor.”
Dean frowns. “What?”
Castiel sighs, playing with the bottle absently. “Despite what you might think, finding a sex partner when you don’t know how to do that isn’t easy,” he starts. “Especially when over two-thirds of the potential candidates are terrified of you, you actively dislike seven-tenths of them, and that’s only the ones you know well enough to dislike. And sexuality….” He really has no words for that.
Dean’s expression melts into sympathy, which he supposes could—somewhere—be considered an improvement. “Okay, that must have sucked.”
“Theodore fulfilled my minimal requirements: living, breathing, willing, and planning to leave, in case experimentation ended in disaster,” he continues and sees Dean’s mouth twitch. “Finding out the willing part was simply good luck; before I could consider how to approach him—which admittedly could have taken years—he came to my cabin one evening. Apparently he’d heard me mention alcohol production and thought I’d be interested in exploring methodology, so wanted to offer his knowledge for my edification.”
“Not bad,” Dean admits. “Gotta give him props for that one.”
“As the only mention I’d made regarding alcohol production was mourning the lack of whiskey in our lives, I’d say so.” Dean tips his head in amused agreement. “He ended up staying two weeks longer than he planned, taught me a great deal about how to make a staggering variety of alcoholic beverages, and it goes without saying, a great deal about sex.”
“Stayed an extra two weeks, huh?” Dean’s grin is becoming less convincing. “What, trying to convince you to run off with him?”
“Nothing like that,” he replies. “That was the final date before formal training began, and he didn’t want to join the militia but anticipated after leaving that regular sex would be somewhat rare in his life. He was a pleasant companion, and as I was still—uncertain with my body, even with Dean drilling me—he was perfectly willing to be the guinea pig, as he put it.” He hesitates. “I also told him that there were rumors that there were other places—in the South—that he might find more palatable, and how he might find them.”
“You told him about Alpha?”
“Not specifically,” he admits. “But if he followed my instructions, it would take a concerted effort on his part to miss finding it. I don’t know if he went there, if that’s your next question. Gloria never mentioned anyone from Chitaqua showing up there, so I assume not.”
Dean is quiet for a long time. “Did you want him to stay?”
“No. It never occurred to me to want him to.” He wonders how to explain something he’s not sure how to explain to himself. “It was—I was different then, I suppose. Training took most of my attention, and Bree soon after indicated interest in guiding my education as it pertained to women. Until today, I hadn’t thought about him since he left.”
“Good memory, though,” Dean says, smiling at him. “I was hoping you had a few more of those in Chitaqua.”
“It is, yes.” He tilts his head. “I’d like you to introduce me to Van at the next opportunity.”
Dean nods in surprise. “Sure, but I’m pretty sure she knows who you are.”
“As your partner.”
“She probably knows—”
“I’d prefer there be no ambiguity whatsoever,” he interrupts. “Where is she now, do you think?”
Dean closes his eyes, laughing quietly. “Fine, I deserved that. Though right now—hey, how long until midnight?”
“Three minutes,” he says, deciding the introduction can wait (not for long, however). “Are there any other New Year’s traditions I should be aware of?”
Dean’s grin returns at its full, baffling power. “We got food, check,” he says, counting them off on his fingers, “drinking, check, dancing, check—me anyway—” he smirks before continuing, “—hanging out with people you know, check, sitting around a fire—no s’mores, but can’t have everything—check, resolutions—”
“You didn’t tell me yours.”
He makes a face. “Save the world?”
“Are resolutions usually expressed in the form of a question?”
“Recruit an army, join up with Alpha, save the world, have a sandwich and a milkshake, and sleep for a week,” he says challengingly. “More immediately, get the water filter working, finish the mess, add a new room to the cabin, find out where the hell to get more cocoa, get laid…wait, you hear that?”
Castiel is still hearing ‘get laid’ on repeat when the dull roar he’d been subliminally aware of resolves into the sound of voices; it takes another few moments to realize that they’re counting.
Forty-nine, forty-eight, forty-seven—
“Forty-six,” he says with them, Dean nodding encouragement. “What are they—”
“Counting down to the new year,” Dean answers. “Forty-two, forty-one, forty, thirty-nine—dude, it’s a countdown. You’re supposed to count. Thirty-five, thirty-four…”
“Thirty-three,” Castiel says obediently. “Thirty-two, thirty-one, thirty.”
Twenty-nine, twenty-eight, twenty-seven… Now that he’s listening, he wonders how he missed it before, a sound like thunder rolling across a clear sky, thousands of people gathered in celebration. …twenty-three, twenty-two… Twenty-fourteen is seconds from ending, but the world hasn’t, not yet. Twenty, nineteen, eighteen….
“It’s not over,” he whispers. “We survived.”
“Yeah, we did,” Dean agrees, resting an arm around his shoulders. “Fourteen, thirteen, twelve, eleven, ten. One more resolution: we’re going to keep doing it. Seven. Six.” The voices grow even louder, but all he can hear is Dean. “Five. Four. Three.”
“Two. One,” he breathes with Dean as 2014 ends and 2015 begins, the new year stretching out before them, glittering with possibility, a blank page waiting for ink and the words they’ll write to define it. Impossibly, the roar explodes into a cataclysm: screaming and laughter and shouting, an undifferentiated mass of sound that’s exultation incarnate: We survived. We’re going to keep doing it.
“We missed one,” he hears Dean murmur, close enough that he can feel the warmth of his breath against his cheek. Turning his head, he stares into green eyes filled with light incandescent, cold fingers curving to cup his jaw. Castiel closes his eyes as Dean kisses him, losing himself in the taste of his mouth, the individual touch of each finger against his cheek, the first moments of the first day of a new year in a still-living world.
“Happy New Year,” Dean breathes against his lips. “Remember how this works. Last resolution: we’re gonna have a lot more of them, so pay attention.”