spnfic: it's the stars that lie, 2/12

Title: It's the Stars that Lie, 2/12
Author: Seperis
Series: Down to Agincourt, Book 2
Codes: Dean/Castiel
Rating: R
Summary: We fight, we lose, everyone dies anyway, I know. However, I don’t see why, if we're going to fight anyway, we shouldn't believe we're going to win.
Author Notes: Thanks to nrrrdygrrrl and obscureraison for beta services, with advice from lillian13, scynneh, and norabombay.
Thanks to bratfarrar for the series name and summary from her sonnet Harry went to Agincourt.
Spoilers: Seasons 5, 6, and 7

Series Links:
AO3 - Down to Agincourt
Book 1: Map of the World

Story Links:
AO3 - All, Chapter 1, Chapter 2
DW - Chapter 1



--Day 70--

Though sitting up on the edge of the bed is exhausting, Dean's way too happy to care. Today, he got to sit up with a tray in front of him, and there was broth (with almost-meat!), wet bread, and vegetable something but definitely not mush, on a plate. Sure, it wiped him out, but whatever, he sat up and ate actual food, or at least something like food was fed to him because using utensils is still a work in progress, but the point is, he did it.

Giving the IV a long look, he decides that today--right now--he doesn't care about it, because he's looking right at the bathroom and in a moment--when he's less dizzy--he's gonna be using it as God intended.

"Dean--"

"Shut up." Dean reaches for the IV line and loops it over his wrist, then looks at Cas until he reluctantly walks over to the pole and kicks off the brake. Dean pulls it closer by its tubing--making Cas twitch and move it the rest of the way, which was the entire goal--before looking up at Cas expectantly. "Okay, operation piss in an actual toilet is a go. Ready?"

"No," Cas says, frowning down at him. "Not at all."

"Whatever." He extends his hand for Cas to help him up, shutting his eyes against the brief vertigo and letting Cas take his weight until his vision clears again and he can focus on the suddenly monumental task of walking a whole ten steps to the bathroom door. From the bed, it seemed a lot shorter.

"Okay," he tells himself as Cas places his now-constantly-tingling right arm over his shoulder, adding a deep breath for good measure before taking a step and gritting his teeth against another wave of vertigo. Jesus. This is gonna take longer than he thinks his current situation is gonna wait.

"Just a moment," Cas says, the arm around Dean's waist tightening, and the fact that he can still feel the floor under his feet is the only way he knows he's even standing up; it's like floating, except well, it's not. Tilting his head to look at Cas, currently maneuvering the IV away from Dean and taking it himself, careful of the tubing, he smiles his approval of preternatural strength, and not just because it's being used for a greater (Dean's) good.

The last couple of weeks have confirmed something Dean's suspected for a while; Cas has really been holding back on what he could do, and it wasn't just about seeing him fight. Cas said he never lived with anyone before, and Dean's pretty sure now that wasn't just the result Cas's highly developed misanthropic tendencies, though that probably helped.

There are things you just can't hide when you live with someone for long, but to give Cas credit, he managed to do it so well it never actually occurred to Dean that what he saw on a daily basis was less important than what he didn't.

Either the result of necessity in the face of extended illness or sheer, constant exposure, Cas is slipping, and in the most ridiculously mundane ways possible: fumbled glasses never hit the floor (Cas never seems to fumble anything, ever, but he and Vera aren't blessed with reflexes that may or not possibly break the sound barrier if required), trays of food are never overturned by anyone's sudden movement (it happens, he's tired, hospital corners, did he mention tired as fuck?), IV lines are never pulled out by accident or tripped over to and from the bathroom, and Dean's steadied before he even notices his loss of balance sitting up or standing. More than once, he's seen Cas move things out of Vera's way when she's distracted before she can trip, catch any number of items falling from the bedside table before even gravity has time to notice, and retrieve pens, books, the clipboard, and Vera's stethoscope before Vera can accidentally sit on them or Dean roll over on them.

That Vera doesn't notice doesn't surprise him; Cas is very good at it, probably from years of practice when being around people was obligatory. What surprises him is that he does, and on a guess, he's supposed to. He's just on the verge of asking for a deck of cards and seeing how much Cas knows about using all that for evil and profit, or at least some awesome practical jokes because Dean's exactly that bored and why not?

Maneuver accomplished, Cas shifts Dean's weight back to the floor before stopping, feet just touching the wood. "Are you going to insist you simply require balance just to prove a point to no one who will actually care?"

Dean scowls at him; he can damn well walk to the bathroom. "Dude--"

"Is the goal to attempt to travel the entire distance into the bathroom--which will inevitably fail, but you may try--or use the bathroom for one of its intended purposes? You'll only accomplish one of those things. Decide now so Vera can--"

"Don't say it." Frowning into the open door, the cool tile beckons temptingly with its lack of invasive instruments and utter horror, he admits Cas may have a point. "Yeah, okay. Let's do this."

"Thank you." The sarcasm is half-hearted at best, Cas's concentration focused on assessing Dean's strength--non-existent, as usual--before the IV pole is placed just to the side of the door, tubing carefully maneuvered to easily slide beneath it--he can't swear to this, but he doesn't remember the bottom of the door having that much of gap--and he's carefully left to lean back against the sink by the toilet in semi-casual triumph.

"I will be right outside," Cas says after a few seconds of Dean staring at him significantly. Some moments aren't meant to be shared (or even exist, but he's accepted he's going to have a lot of moments like that in his immediate future). "Very well, please attempt to avoid falling and concussing yourself before I can stop you."

Dean smiles brightly. "Get out, Cas."

With a dubious look at the toilet, Cas turns to the door, closing it deliberately behind him. Dean squints; yeah, that's definitely a new gap. Dismissing it, he savors his moment of triumph for a moment, then gets down to business, in charity with his scrubs. Hideous teal or not, they definitely make this a lot easier

---

Dean's been hospitalized--wow, a lot--but the advantage of a hospital is that everyone is, for the most part, in the same goddamn position of achieving wellness with the assistance of zero privacy and constant personal humiliation. A cabin in Chitaqua is not a hospital and Vera and Cas are not vaguely medical shaped persons of indeterminate identity who he'll never see again.

On the other hand, Vera is a medical professional and she knows how to turn on the faceless thing well enough that he can deal, given an hour to get over the horror of someone that hot having seen pretty much every inch of his body in the shittiest circumstances possible. Cas, while not a medical professional and--from Dean's observation--intimately interested in and acquainted with human bodies in almost surreally complicated maneuvers in the interests of orgasms, still lacks even the most rudimentary understanding of self-consciousness; embarrassment doesn't even register.

More importantly, unless it's brought to his attention via a lot of explanation, he doesn't even notice it in other people. It can be comforting--oblivious to Dean's discomfort when Vera's examining him--or utterly beyond horrifying--carrying on a one-sided conversation with Dean from the doorway (and dear God it took a long time to get him that far away) as Vera does a catheter removal interspersed with questions to her about the process that will haunt Dean's nightmares---but it's the kind of rock-solid consistency that he really thinks he needs more of in his life.

Cas sees no reason why he shouldn't be in the bathroom for Dean's historic moment, but once Dean explained--using way more words than he should've needed--he agreed to it with the same faint bewilderment at the weirdness of humanity that Dean remembers from a certain newly-vesseled angel. Some things never change.

Slowly, taking his time to savor the moment (and not fall the fuck over), Dean turns to the sink, reaching for the faucet to wash his hands. Glancing up at the mirror, time seems to stop, and something in Dean's mind snaps with an audible crack, like a twig breaking in a quiet forest, or maybe, just maybe, the world really ended after all.

---

"…Dean," Cas is saying urgently, and he stares up at the wide blue eyes--worry, he thinks distantly, terror, what?--but when Cas touches his face, trying to get his attention, Dean flinches hard enough to knock his head against the wall with an audible thump like a splitting watermelon. Cas freezes. "Dean?"

Blinking, he stares over Cas's shoulder at the mirror, now innocently reflecting the ceiling and the far wall, and tries to figure out how to put this. He really should have asked--that fever, it was high, right, so maybe he--this is Cas, and he said he can't resurrect him again, but what if he tried and-- "Am I dead?"

"What?" Cas's gaze follows his to the mirror in bewilderment before returning, color draining from his face. Before he can get away--he's flat against a fucking wall, where he's going to go?--Cas rests a hand on Deans' forehead that he can feel is shaking. "Is the fever--"

"I saw--" Dean swallows--everything's in slow motion and weird and right now, he…doesn't know. Looking down, he shoves up the sleeve the long sleeve t-shirt he wears under the scrub top and stares at his own arm under the bright, harsh bathroom lights, noticing for the first time how thin it is, bones pushing insistently beneath papery yellow skin broken in peeled patches of dead white like they'll break through at any moment--how did he miss that? He thought the scrubs were just stupidly huge, but maybe he's just--he stares at the bandage covering his forearm and looping over his wrist and palm, peeling skin around the edges in curls of pus-white, and it doesn't hurt, it should hurt why doesn’t it hurt? "What happened to me?"

"Dean," Cas says softly, fingers pushing Dean's head up, blue eyes searching his face intently. "What's wrong?"

"I--in the mirror--" Reaching up, he touches his forehead, sliding up to feel the stubble--his hair, what happened, when did that happen--drawing his fingers down clammy skin, trying to find what he saw in the mirror. Sunken cheeks, skin stretched too tightly over bare bone, hollowed out eyes ringed in thick circles of rotting black, patches of peeling yellow and white skin broken with shocks of angry red, smears of green and dots of purple, fleshless lips stretched to splitting over teeth--it had taken a full minute to realize he was looking at himself. It looked dead--it looked dead, days dead, just starting to rot but not bright enough to know it was supposed to stop walking, stop breathing, stop living. "Cas, did you--the fever, did you do something when--did I really recover or--"

"Did I resurrect you as a zombie?" Cas interrupts, so transparently incredulous that Dean snaps back into the room with an almost physical jolt, like he sat down hard enough to jar him to his bones. Which, he realizes abruptly, he probably did; he's sitting on the floor, right. He doesn't remember how that happened. "I--no," he seems to decide. "I lacked the necessary components, such as knowledge, and unfortunately I still possessed sanity, such as it is. Being subject to the constraints of reality was also a problem."

Dean nods, licking his lips and winces, flashing on that fleshless mouth grinning at him from the mirror. He doesn't even realize he's staring at the mirror again until Cas turns to look at it, studying it for a few long minutes.

"Oh," he says, sitting back on his heels abruptly. "Your appearance surprised you?"

There's not a word in the English language that could be less appropriate than 'surprised'. "Yeah, a little."

Cas glances at the mirror again with an expression Dean can't interpret, then shifts off his knees, sitting cross-legged on the floor.

"Vera attempted many different treatments before we found one that worked," he says, watching Dean intently. "There were side effects from those as well as the fever. Vera said that you would find it much less disturbing to not wake up to seeing your hair begin to fall out, and in any case, I assumed even if it was not total, you would find the patches--" he pauses, obviously searching for the right word, "--annoying and wish to shave it yourself for--aesthetic purposes until it began to grow again. I dealt with the problem so it wouldn't be a source of stress."

"Right." He actually doesn't know how he would have reacted to seeing that. Survey says: really fucking badly. "Okay, and--"

"You've lost almost fifty pounds since the fever began," Cas continues, watching him. "Your current diet hasn't been sufficient to do much more than keep your weight static, and you're still dangerously underweight. Currently, your skin is also recovering from the side effects of the combination of medications and the fever itself, and in case you aren't aware of this, you haven't been exposed to direct sunlight since you arrived here. It is temporary, though I can see how you might find it disconcerting." He pauses, blue eyes widening. "Your body did something unexpected and it upset you because you didn't know what it was doing or why it was doing it."

And he looks dead, but Cas's sudden comprehension reminds him that once upon a time, Cas's body wasn't just new to him but new to him. When it started acting human and he--still wasn't. When he had to figure out what to do with it.

"I apologize," Cas says, looking away with a frown. "I should have realized what you would experience when you saw yourself."

"S'okay," he answers. "Well, you not noticing I look like a corpse--"

"You don't," Cas interrupts, looking at him in surprise. "In addition to weight, muscle tone was also lost and your current low level of activity contributes to its slow return. Dean, as the one who is primarily responsible for your daily care, I can assure you, the changes are both temporary and largely cosmetic."

He nods slowly; even knowing that, knowing it was probably shock, the image of the thing in the mirror won't get out of his head. "It doesn't--bother you," he tries, not sure what he's asking. He's been out of it enough to ignore what couldn't be helped--sponge baths, his mind offers in belated horror--but he didn't have any idea what it was Cas and Vera were looking at, touching, dealing with day in and day out. Honest to God, he's never been that fucking hung up on how he looks, not like this.

"You look--" Cas pauses. "You look as if you survived a fever that almost killed you. You look like you woke up and knew who you were and where you were. You knew who I was and who Vera was and then you fell asleep. You look like you woke up again and you still knew those things. Every day, you do these things, and when you have a fever, it goes away, and when you fall asleep, you keep waking up." Cas's voice cracks. "You couldn't look any better than you do right now."

Dean wonders if near-fatal illness is the new drunken confession time.

"Yeah, okay." After a second, he says, not looking at Cas, "Uh, you know, I--haven't said--told you, I mean." Rolling his eyes at himself, he forces out the words. "I get how much this--doing all this--you shouldn't have to. That wasn't part of--" Their agreement, which is looking a lot worse from Cas's side these days. Like, even worse than it did before.

"I have no idea what you--" Cas sighs, looking annoyed, but at least that lost look vanishes. "I understand human discomfort with forcible intimacy due to medical necessity, as Vera explained it to me very thoroughly." Oh God, he's glad he missed that conversation. "If you were in a hospital, it would be--" He obviously has no context for it, so he gestures vaguely to convey what Dean assumes is 'however you feel that is strange to me', "--different. But to remind you, I formed your body from its DNA and that was crumbling bones and some mortifying flesh."

Dean stares at him. "Jesus."

"As I was saying," he continues, eyes narrowing, "I know it very well. In a sense, other than yourself, of course, I'm best qualified to care for it, and I--" He pauses again, obviously trying very hard to be sensitive or something, which is kind of disturbing. "Other than yourself, of course, I have the most right to be chosen to do so. Why you would think otherwise is--" His expression conveys how weird humans are about shit like this and that he's getting tired of it, so stop already. "I suppose your illness makes it difficult to understand."

"Yeah, that would be the reason. Don't know what I was thinking." The sarcasm's totally wasted; Cas just nods, pleased, like Dean's said something unexpectedly reasonable. He'd put this up to Cas trying---very weirdly--to make him feel better, but exposure apparently does wonders for his Cas to English. In a way, he kind of gets how Cas sees it; he supposes if he was having this hideously embarrassing conversation with Sam--with Sam feeling like Dean does right now--he'd be pretty much trying to say something like this, and he probably wouldn't be doing much better. Without, admittedly, any reference to being resurrected from his DNA or his goddamn bones and mortifying flesh, Christ.

"I'm saying thanks," he decides. "Now can we--"

"Get out of here? Yes, please." Cas liquidly shifts to a crouch--what does he do with his bones when he does that, anyway?--then hesitates, glancing at him warily, and yeah, that flinch. Making a monumental effort, he hooks one nearly boneless arm over Cas's shoulder and waits for Cas to ease them both to their feet, content to let him handle the logistics. What's the use of having an ex-angel with residual superpowers if not to use them for personal gain, like moving?

"Jesus, what the hell happened," he wonders, forcing his eyes away from the gleam of the mirror on their way to the door. "Bathroom, just wanted to piss in a goddamn toilet."

Cas doesn’t comment, helping Dean back into bed, fussily arranging his IV--no heart monitor or other things to worry about these days, Dean realizes with a flicker of remembered pleasure--and waiting for him to finish his glass of water and take his medicine, and it's almost like it didn't happen at all. Dean's drifting a little as Cas excuses himself, and sleep is just on the horizon when he comes bolt upright, startled awake by the sound of something shattering.

Dean stares at the bathroom door, utterly floored, as Cas comes back out, checking himself when he sees Dean staring at him incredulously and belatedly trying to hide his bleeding hand. "Dean. I thought--"

"What the--" Okay, fuck that. "Come here. Wait, get the first aid kit and then come here. Now."

Cas sighs, going back into the bathroom before emerging again with the kit. When he reaches the bed, Dean has all the energy he needs to jerk Cas down on the bed.

"Dean--" Cas says in alarm, righting himself in a disorienting blur of speed ending with soft landing in the middle of the bed, barely even bouncing the mattress as he settles to give Dean a scowl, and Dean takes a moment to appreciate watching Cas do that; it's just cool. Then he leaves it for later, because Cas is trying to hide his hand.

"Did you just--Cas, I saw your hand, stop it. Let me see it." Looking even more annoyed, Cas extends his hand, and Dean jerks it closer in malice aforethought to get a better look. Taking in the split skin over the first and second knuckles, the rest reddening with the promise of serious bruising in the near future, Dean checks carefully for slivers of glass before, satisfied, he glares at Cas. "What the hell was that about? Did you break the goddamn mirror?"

"I never liked mirrors," Cas starts.

"Except to shave and you know, not cut your throat," he says incredulously, pulling the kit closer and unpacking it on the bed between them. "What the hell--"

"Every time you go in there, you would've either avoid looking in the mirror or forced yourself to look at it and remembered this," Cas says. "Now you won't have to."

Every once in a while, Cas does shit like this, startling him so badly he can't even get around to working out a way to deny it.

"Seven years bad luck." Cas rolls his eyes; yeah, right, look at his life to date. Doing a quick clean and bandage, Dean almost decides they've hit their limit on how many times Cas misses the concept of 'awkward' in conversations for the day, but the way he said that…. "You don't like mirrors."

"No."

"What do you see?"

Cas meets his eyes. "Exactly what's there."

Swallowing, he thinks of a tiny barn in the middle of nowhere, shadows of something incomprehensibly huge stretching across the walls, contained by a being who defined the impossible. He wonders, really wonders, how often over the years Cas stood there and stared into that goddamn mirror, penance or punishment or masochism or hell, all three, looking at what was missing, and honestly, he's glad he gave Cas a reason to get rid of the fucking thing.

"So how's it going with the camp and everything?" he asks quickly, belatedly letting Cas take his hand back. "Anything new to report?"

Cas raises an eyebrow, a hint of incredulity wiping the blank expression away. "You mean among those that survived after I drew a blood circle to resurrect you as a zombie and used their lives as the sacrifice to whatever god was still available, of which there are none?"

That's his fucked-up angel; there's always time for sarcasm. "Get me some water and we'll start there."

---

Dean's found exploiting Cas's level of comfort a distinct advantage post-fever; he won't mention Dean looks tired as long as he's comfortable, and that chair is a fuckload less comfortable than getting half a mattress to lounge on.

"Joseph's team returned earlier today," Cas says, leaning an elbow on his knee, pillow conveniently in reach to pull out for lounging purposes at any moment; Dean now makes sure of it. He turned in his preliminary report before he went to bed, but he's supposed to report tomorrow after he and his team have slept."

"In a hurry to get back, huh?" Dean asks, finishing his water in quiet triumph. "Sounds good."

"We had more than Joseph expected in the accounts, and he was also able to use all of what we offered in trade, so apparently we saved money we can use for later bribery purposes."

Dean snorts. "I like to think of it as embracing the spirit of giving."

"Then I suppose the use of blackmail at the eastern checkpoint should be considered embracing silence in the spirit of kindness?" Cas asks curiously.

He reaches for his glass of water and takes a drink. "Do I want to know?"

"It's one of the few sexual acts I've never been remotely tempted to try or even know existed. Fortunately, Joseph didn't feel the need to tell me how we found out."

"That would be no." Cas nods in relief. "So what did we use and what did we get?"

"Twenty M16A2 rifles, thirty M-24, and fifteen M-4 carbines from the military supplies we acquired. Ammunition, of course, and several boxes of grenades, as well as a small amount of the C4, though Ana insists we keep the rest of it for our own use, which I assume means we have a use for it."

"You said she was an explosives expert in the Marines, right?" Cas nods. "Ours is not to question why. Ours is to keep the woman who likes to blow things up happy."

"That was my feeling as well."

Dean frowns. "We kept some for ourselves, right?"

"Yes, of course," Cas answers with a snort. "Two teams were assigned to continue inventory of the military outposts and move their supplies here, but as yet, we have yet to complete those in Kansas City alone. Two of the cabins were repaired enough to act as storage, but we'll need another one soon at this rate of acquisition."

"Cas, you ask yourself why the border guards--who are pretty well armed from what I understand--need weapons?"

"They trade them on the black market as well as to those in the infected zones for exorbitant prices; it's very lucrative from what I understand, and some of what we acquired isn't available anywhere else. If you're worried whether it will be traced to us here, don't be; the border is under military rule, and any border guard discovered dealing any supplies to those within an infected state for any reason, especially arms, is shot on sight."

Dean swallows, not sure if he wishes that were a surprise. "And they still think it's worth the risk."

"They make the people in infected zones pay exorbitant prices for seeds to grow food, gasoline to run their vehicles and generators, antibiotics to heal infections and illnesses, and water purification supplies when their water supply is limited to rivers and lakes," Cas answers evenly. "Love of money is the root of many evils, as I'm sure you know, not least what people will choose to become in their pursuit of it. They've become experts in concealing their activities when utilizing the black market to their personal benefit, provided we make it worth their while, and we do."

Yeah, still not surprised. "What about contacting Dean's old dealers?"

"Nothing has resulted from our initial inquiries, but Joseph didn't expect any answer for at least a few months due to the number of channels being utilized," Cas answers, voice losing that chilling edge; only Cas, Dean reflects, can convey so much condemnation in so few words. "We were able to get the current passcodes for all the border checkpoints currently in the United States and on both the Mexican and Canadian borders, as well as all the border patrol routes. They are subject to random change as well every time the border guards are reassigned, but we are guaranteed accurate updates for the next four months, which is when the next change of personnel is scheduled."

"Holy shit." He only asked for the Kansas ones. "Tell Joe nice job."

"The border guards, I assume, have never heard that there are some things money, or sufficient carbines, can't buy," Cas says with the ghost of a smile. "As you requested, we now have an updated list of the infected zones in the United States, both the fictional public version and the actual list, and the current commonly used routes between the infected and non-infected states used by those companies with authorization to deliver goods. The worldwide data on the spread of Croatoan is pending, since international information is difficult to obtain, which I assume means they'll tell us what they want in return for that information at the next scheduled meeting. The other information you requested is also available, but Joseph's preliminary report was only a summary for me to give to you. When we meet with him tomorrow, you can ask him for the specifics."

Dean opens his mouth and forgets the question when he catches the pronoun. "We?"

"Yes, he's coming tomorrow afternoon to give his report to you in person, though I'll be in attendance of course," Cas says casually. "Vera said the risk is very low provided the meeting is short in deference to your strength and Joseph takes the appropriate precautions. I explained them to him before he went to bed, and Vera will examine him before he's allowed in the room."

Dean thinks of the mirror again with a start of horror. "I don't think--"

"He needs to see you," Cas interrupts, something flickering across his face that Dean doesn't quite catch. "He needs to see you alive and breathing and hear you speak to him and know you're getting better. They all do, but Joseph's visit will reassure them--"

"Who?" he asks blankly.

"The camp," Cas answers, like he's wondering about Dean's sanity. "Your soldiers. Those who lived on the porch for two weeks and only with an effort could Vera and I assure them you were well enough that they could leave. There was praying and singing, I'm sure I told you about that. Your entire fever had a soundtrack of morbid hymns, depressing a capella secular music in the key of tone deaf as well as rhythm absent and volume excessive, and terrible drinking songs during frequent periods of mass inebriation, listening to which I'm certain deserves its own circle of Hell."

"You were serious about that." Dean tries and fails to think of something to say to that other than apologize for humanity not being up to the standards of an angelic choir. "Did Joe really threaten to kidnap a doctor?"

"Oh yes," Cas answers easily, starting to look amused. "Once I had to threaten to chain him to his own kitchen sink and tell him his grandmother would be terribly disappointed in his behavior."

Right. "Were he and Dean--"

"No," Cas interrupts, amusement fading into seriousness. "They weren't."

Oh. "He wants to see me."

"Almost as much as I did and still do waiting for you to wake up," Cas tells him. "Anything else or will you attempt to hide beneath the covers when he arrives?"

"I could order him not to come." Cas rolls his eyes, and he wonders why he's even trying. "Fine, whatever. When's the next meeting with the border?"

Cas's expression tells him he didn't miss the change of subject. "In a month." He hesitates, looking--Dean's not sure what that look means. "I thought it might be advisable to stay in closer contact to more quickly receive information on recent events, so Joseph will continue meeting with them regularly once a month."

So this is what it looks like when Cas decides to try something new. "Good so far. Anything else?"

"We're both also still one and two on the current FBI Most Wanted List and the militia is still listed on the terrorist watch list, though as of two weeks ago we're located in Georgia. So we still can't board any flight on the continental United States, assuming air travel wasn't currently banned throughout most of the world."

"Tell me I'm number one."

Cas's mouth twitches. "You are, but only because Dean was actually seen trafficking weapons on the Texas border while I had the sense to stay hidden." Looking satisfied, he adds, "Half of the currently occupied cabins are now up to standard for electricity and plumbing, the generators in the garage repaired and in use, and three quarters of Chitaqua has been mowed, so the fire hazard is all but eliminated."

Dean nods and carefully avoids thinking that one, Cas is probably being literal, and Chitaqua has a lot of fucking lawn. "Awesome."

Cas hesitates for a long moment. "Amanda wished to talk to me in private today."

Dean reminds himself firmly this is his camp and being sick, this is the only way to get to know his people. "Anything new?"

"She thinks she knows who is spending their nights with Kyle. She's narrowed it down to three people, and she has a theory on why one of them is the most likely."

Dean leans forward. "Who?"

"You're aware Kyle is very argumentative on patrol assignments since Cynthia was injured and I replaced her with James? He thinks he should have been consulted on the composition of his team and that I'm overstepping my authority, or so he tells anyone who will listen to him expound on the subject, at length. Excluding me, of course."

"Of course." Dean files that away for future thought. "Keep going."

"You told me the first time you arrived here, you were the subject of an altercation with Risa regarding--"

"Jane, yeah, I--wait. No way." Dean stares at him. "You're fucking with me."

Cas closes his eyes. "They're apparently finding consolation for our cruelty to them with each other."

"Oh God," Dean says, appalled, before forcing himself to get back to the subject. "So what's going on with Andy and Kat?"

---

--Day 73--

Dean appreciates that his recovery is gonna be slow and not every day will be filled with exciting progress reports. He gets this, he does, but the last time he had problems with solid food, he had the flu. Sam, being a giant fucking girl, fed him vegetable broth and grass (sprouts? Whatever) even though he could have done it himself if Sam didn't maliciously given him a spoon that weighed a fucking ton. It was hugely embarrassing, and Sam enjoyed every goddamn minute of it.

It's not the quality of solid food (bread, shredded meat untyped, chopped vegetables untyped, soup in all its terrifying incarnations), or how tiring it is to sit up to open and close his mouth on command, or even the sheer embarrassment of having to be fed two meals of three.

It's that it's difficult, because he's never hungry now: it's hard, because he forgets about meals until one's in front of him: it's an effort, every damn time, because he doesn't want to eat. He recognizes the schedule that Cas adheres to like a goddamn message from God; it's the one he started and made Cas follow to get some goddamn normalcy living here and he follows it to the goddamn second; he has to, because if he doesn't, Dean wouldn't remember to eat.

The only thing that makes this less utterly humiliating is the sheer weirdness of Cas's grim determination to apparently master the complicated art of being a nurse without any actual people skills or even a working idea of what those are or how to implement them. He can't say in all honesty he's helping Cas out with his Interacting With People 101 either, and not just because it's kind of hilarious.

Cas was good at being a junkie and good at being a dick and good at making sure everyone knew those things; it was a script that was easy and simple, almost effortless in a life that was anything but, and Dean gets that, he does, but he figures it's time for a change. Historically, Cas has been fine with going off-script given motivation, and, historically, Dean's been pretty good at supplying it. One way or another, Cas is gonna start actually dealing with having a personality of his very own and letting other people see it live and not whatever he thought up that might be useful in alienating people as much as humanly (post-angelically?) possible.

As Cas impatiently holds out the last spoonful of canned cream of chicken, swimming with may or may not be bits of actual meat, Dean's pretty sure he's about a second away from getting it shoved straight through his throat; so fine, he's also motivated by being fucking sick of being this goddamn sick.

"I don't need--" Dean tries and then it's all shitty metal-flavored cream of and teeth hitting metal and Jesus, they should have let him die. Swallowing frantically, he wipes his mouth and glares at Cas. "God dammit, Cas!"

With a sigh of insulting relief, Cas sets the empty bowl aside and glares back at Dean as if he deliberately contracted a fever just to fuck with his life. "Even if currency were a valid method of exchange for goods and services here," he says bitterly, "I still couldn't pay anyone to deal with this no matter how much I offered them."

That's his surly ex-angel working impromptu. "Do your federal warrants include crimes against humanity? Because I think I'm seeing why." Rolling his eyes, he sighs noisily when Cas touches his forehead, blue eyes distant. At some point, he stopped finding it creepy, which yeah, could be fever-related brain damage, but at this point, he really can't find it in himself to care. "How am I doing?"

"Your temperature is approximately ninety-nine point six two eight three degrees Fahrenheit. As it hasn't risen to a critical level in over two weeks, you continue to respond appropriately to the antibiotics, and you're now able to consume a minimal amount of nutrition at every meal, I think we can safely say the nightmare is almost over."

Short version: still not dead.

"Thanks, Cas. It's been great for me, too." He crosses his arms, careful of the IV line, feeling annoyed with his own exhaustion just from sitting up and swallowing on command. "I can't believe a brownie bite does this."

Vera's started hiding her charts since he started spending more time awake, and she's good, but he's better at pretending to be asleep and catching her reading them--charts, during the Apocalypse, he's not sure why that's funny, but it is--with a bewildered expression.

They went through a lot of treatments, that much he was told, but it wasn't until she left the clipboard on his bed that he understood what that really meant. He pulled out the bottom ten pages before she came back to get it--considering the number, barely noticeable--and read through them during his designated nap times (read: whenever either Cas or Vera decided he looked tired and they were only mostly right) trying to figure out what the hell happened to him. It's not that Cas wouldn't tell him if he asked; it's that whatever happened, he's not sure Cas is ready to talk about all of it. The two times his heart stopped are worrying, but not nearly as much as why the last one has a lot of cross-outs, entire areas of potential prognosis scratched out entirely.

Vera's a very good nurse and a hell of a working doctor. She didn't do that because she thought she made a mistake in treating him or did something wrong--she was the only one who would be reading it, or understand it for that matter, or so she probably thought. She still tests him every morning and evening, and while the quality is less intense, more routine, there's a reason she's still doing it and still making notes on his progress (chart shows: almost insanely good, awesome). The only thing he can guess is that something changed between when she got his heart going the last time, her initial observations (likely at that point, the potential damage) and coming back later and removing it because apparently, she thought they were wrong.

Then Cas says, "It doesn't."

He hesitates, glancing back at the closed door, then at Dean, blue eyes searching. Whatever he's looking for, he seems to find; to Dean's surprise, he gets up and locks the door before settling himself cross-legged on the bed. "At least, I don't think it wasn't entirely the brownie bite."

He nods slowly. "Okay."

"Actually, I'm sure it wasn't, but I was trying to be considerate of your continued weakness and causing you undue stress during your recovery."

The sad part is, Cas probably thinks he's being nice; for him, it probably is. "Thanks," he says between his teeth, remembering that he's got to be sensitive and shit to Cas's feelings here, since he's got to try and model non-dick behavior on the off-chance Cas picks it up. Stranger things have happened, like almost dying from a brownie bite. "You wanna explain?"

"No, I don't, but it seems I'll have to anyway." Cas rubs his eyes tiredly, and Dean feels a faint twinge of guilt before he can suppress it. "You contracted a very mild infection from the bites, one that under normal circumstances you wouldn't have even been aware you had. However, it's not uncommon for it to spread without sufficient treatment, which is why I insisted on treating you when you returned from patrol. Why the team leaders didn't insist on doing so immediately is still a mystery."

Dean doesn't ask what Cas did about that; three quarters of Chitaqua is mowed, after all.

"Instead of simply becoming somewhat ill after a day or two and lasting a week at most, within ten hours, it escalated in a pattern similar to someone suffering from an autoimmune disorder." Before he can start to wonder if this is panic-worthy, Cas adds rigidly, "Or someone who had been thrust into an entirely new environment and therefore, had no resistance to any of the bacteria present."

He wishes he couldn’t follow that. "Dorothy, we're still in Kansas, not Oz."

"You were displaced in spacetime," Cas answers quietly. "It only looks like the same world; it's not."

"Like War of the Worlds, death by goddamn cold? Is that what--"

"Something like that, except no, not at all, so stop interrupting me so I can try to find a way to explain this." Cas looks like he's visibly bracing himself. "In general, moving humans in spacetime is discouraged, though there's no way you could know that, since it seems to happen to you with alarming frequency." There's a general impression Cas feels Dean just didn't try hard enough to avoid it.

"I'm special like that." He almost wishes he hadn't asked. "What does that mean? Is this going to happen every time I get injured?"

"It's complicated," Cas says, avoiding Dean's eyes. "However--"

"You don't know."

"A corporeal body can't survive the process of being moved through space and time without protection, obviously." Dean nods impatiently; that's so not fucking obvious. "What is less obvious is that just being in the wrong time is equally dangerous, though for different reasons."

Dean stills. "Wait, if you knew this could happen, why the hell didn't you tell me when I got here?"

"It shouldn't have happened." Cas slumps, visibly bringing himself under control before he continues. "It's--insert the word 'impossible' here, I don't have a better one, though you're a living example of just that."

He nods carefully, trying to decide how to approach this. "Why?"

"The same reason that the manipulation of time is almost exclusively limited to those that exist outside of time," Castiel answers tightly, and the way he's staring at the bedspread scares Dean like nothing he's actually said. "In a manner of speaking, existing outside of time means that when living within linear time, it is always as a visitor, so that protection is inherent to their very being. Moving someone else in time automatically extends that protection to them by the law of contamination. There's no way to separate one from the other and no possible way to voluntarily withdraw it; in essence, for the purposes of this conversation, you're part of them. When I took you to see your mother, whether or not I was visible, I was there; you couldn't have stayed in that time if I wasn't."

"And there's no way around that?"

"With the exception of literal divine intervention in the laws of Creation themselves--that would be my Father, in case this needs clarification--there shouldn't be, but as you're here….." Cas makes a face; yeah, he gets it. "It's not just that. The power required to do this--to move you from your own timeline into another one entirely--is tremendous, far more than simple time travel, and the knowledge and skill to do it are even more rare. At this point, I've eliminated all the potential candidates, including those that I made up to entertain myself when reality failed me."

"Right." Swallowing, Dean makes himself ask. "So how long until--how long do I have?"

Cas frowns. "What do you mean?"

"What do--" Dean stares at him. "Until I die! Until being here kills me! What the fuck do you think I'm talking about?"

Cas's expression flickers briefly, too fast for Dean to follow. "While this doesn't shorten the list of ways you can die here in any meaningful sense--this being you--we can eliminate 'existing here at all' from consideration."

"You just said--"

"If you stop interrupting me, I would have already finished this explanation." Cas looks at him meaningfully, which he ignores. "In the future, any injuries or infections should follow the same course as they would have in your own world, though the process is uncertain, this being new--"

"Cut to the chase."

"You're adapting to this world." Cas lets out a breath. "Humans do this quite often. That's how you survive your environment; you adapt to it. In this case--Vera could explain better, but it's not uncommon to attempt several different treatments before finding the one that works for a given illness. The challenge was keeping you alive long enough for a treatment to be found that would to slow the spread of the infection enough for your immune system to begin to respond."

Dean licks his lips. "You could tell what was happening to me."

"I didn't know I could until--I felt it," Cas says, looking away. "I knew all we had to do was keep you alive long enough for you to adapt; once you did, you would recover."

"You just needed time."

Cas nods. "From Vera's observations, I think the reason why your condition degraded so rapidly is that in your world, you were never bitten by a brownie. They're non-terrestrial in origin, which gives the human body a limited immunity to the bacteria they carry, but to compensate for that, the infection rate is very high. You, however, had no existing exposure from a previous infection in your world, which might have been enough for your body to note the points of similarity."

"And it won't happen again?"

"There's a small possibility of a slight increase in severity should you contract a virus or another infection for some time--which is inevitable, I know--but this infection acted as catalyst, giving your body the blueprint. Rather like a very drawn out and hideously slow vaccine or--" Cas brightens, looking pleased with himself, "--learning a new language. It's fluency is still in question, but it's only a matter of time."

Like learning a new language: that almost makes sense.

"So that's it? Just bad luck? "It can't be that easy. His life isn't that easy.

"Good luck in one way." Cas hesitates, mouth thinning. "Your body may have adapted faster if it were measles, due to your body having those exact antibodies--one world to the left, that is--and if your vaccinations were up to date, which I doubt considering this is you, but in theory. On the other hand--brownie infections are normally very mild; anything more serious might have killed you before your body could adapt. For that matter, if it was anything that Vera wasn't familiar with or that we didn't have the means to treat, it might have been different."

"And how long are we at plague level precautions here?" Dean asks.

"While your recovery might seem slow, it's actually progressing very rapidly; the problem is the strain your body was under during the fever. We're in a camp, not a hospital, and right now, you're vulnerable to any infection, however mild, which could then result in a relapse, which you don't have the reserves to deal with. This cabin and this room are currently as close as Vera and I could get to something resembling the conditions you would have at a hospital, but now that you're relatively cognizant, a great deal will be up to you and how well you follow Vera's strictures."

Dean nods slowly. "And if I do? Letter and spirit."

"According to Vera, there was no damage to any of your major organs, which--she tries not to use the word 'miracle' but even I can't think of a better word--so if you adhere to Vera's schedule and avoid any further infections during your recovery, she thinks--and I know--that you should be fine." Cas smiles faintly at his dubious expression. "There are certain advantages associated with having an angel resurrect you after your body had already almost entirely decomposed; I'm very intimately acquainted with your specific genetic makeup and its exact parameters. While I won't go into detail, suffice to say, I now better understand why my Father chose to create Eve from Adam's still-living rib; it saved Him a great deal of time and bother. While building an entire human body from DNA fragments is of course far less difficult than starting with bare dirt and an active imagination, I would have done a great deal for just one well-preserved--" He glances at Dean's expression and stops short, fighting back a smirk. "Too much detail?"

"A little, yeah." Dean cocks his head. "Even without Grace you can still tell?"

"Grace only provided the most convenient means to accomplish your resurrection," Cas says slowly. "It was a tool, nothing more. You were an act of Creation, and what I create I will always know."

Mouth dry, Dean can't make himself look away; when Cas finally does, he's not sure whether to be relieved or disappointed. "So--that's it?"

"As soon as Vera clears you and you're stronger, I've suggested performing a series of vaccinations for whatever we can get through the border." Dean makes a face, but he kind of likes living, so. "She agreed, since the ones you would have had in childhood would have expired in any case and being a nurse, she knows the importance of that in this world for anyone. The entire camp will be participating as well, if that makes you feel better."

"And that won't--set this off again?"

"I lied," Cas answers flatly, and Dean's stomach drops. "I know you weren't up to date; the last time was when Bobby took you and Sam when you were ten after Sam almost got lockjaw from stepping on a nail. Unfortunately, your father was far too concerned with--"

"Cas."

"--avenging his dead wife to take the simplest measures possible to prevent the unnecessary death of his youngest son and refused to leave you with Bobby permanently for reasons I have yet to understand, considering he was willing to give up hunting until you both came of age." The look on Cas's face warns him not to push, but mostly, he's too surprised by what Cas said about Bobby to try; he never knew that. "I ordered Joseph to begin negotiations at the next scheduled meeting with the border to get everything he could from Vera's list. What happened to you here has never happened in all of time, and this will hopefully lower the risk to your life. At least in this."

They need a new subject now. "So what was that about selling my soul, anyway?"

Cas abruptly goes still, eyes darting to Dean and away, but not fast enough for him to miss something disturbingly like panic before he tries for casual. "Hallucinations are not uncommon during fevers. Don't let it trouble you; for the most part, you were incomprehensible as well as belligerent."

"Which means there were times I wasn't." Dean sighs in resignation. "What'd I say, Cas? Crossroad, Lucifer, Crowley, who?"

"It wasn't always clear," he answers evasively, "but that could be that during your more vocal periods, I tried not to listen too closely. It was unsettling."

"You're doing a shitty job avoiding the question."

"I can't think of a plausible reason to escape the room without risking you'll drag yourself out of bed to try and follow me and thereby precipitating a relapse," Cas explains depressingly. "Pretend I'm doing a better job and take as a given that one day, you would've eventually found it very, very funny."

"Okay," Dean says, officially unnerved; he's pretty sure he's watching Cas freaking the fuck out. "Would you eventually find it funny, though?"

Cas looks conflicted. "I suppose that might depend on the quality of your aim and my ability to avoid you."

"Twenty question is over," he says, giving up. "Just tell me. Not like I haven't sold my soul before; there's nothing new here."

"Why do you--" Cas looks away, mouth tight. "I don't think I truly understood what my counterpart had done to you, despite what you told me."

…and he was wrong. This is definitely something he hasn't done. "Oh."

"As it turns out, even while drunk, you were surprisingly careful on what details you chose to share." Cas looks into the middle distance with a closed expression. "You thought--you thought he took your brother and you--" He shakes his head. "They were estranged for so long before Sam became Lucifer's vessel, I forgot how much you meant to each other."

Dean wonders if it would be better or worse if he remembered what happened; it's not like he can't guess. "I told him…Christ." He stares at Cas in horror. "I thought you were him once, didn't I?"

Cas doesn't look at him. "It--wasn't just once."

To Dean, Cas had once been someone else entirely; unknown enemy to reluctant ally, who became friend and then family, whose betrayal and death had gutted him alive and left scars that he didn't even realize have begun to heal. It's distant now, like years have passed since that day at the reservoir, a lifetime, another life entirely. He's always thought of them as different people, but Dean's not sure when how he thought of them changed, when this Cas became simply Cas. He doesn't know how to explain that, not now, not and be believed.

"Eventually," Cas continues with grim determination, not quite twisting the bedspread into bare threads, "I understand that we will find this funny. Assuming we survive long enough for it to become a charming anecdote that we unfortunately will be unable to ever share, seeing as it requires knowing you're not from here. And that my counterpart became a god with very poor ethics and a decided strain of rampant megalomania."

"Technically," Dean tries, "it was more pre-god, I think--"

"That doesn't help."

Yeah, he didn't think so. "You're nothing like him. I know the difference."

Cas snorts softly. "I know You were feverish. I don't think--"

"Vino veritas, right? It's a lie. The only truth in liquor is what you're still willing to lie about. So whatever I told you--"

"Worship is not all that he wanted from you."

"Worship was kind of de facto." Dean blows out a breath. "Look, Cas, so I thought you were him. What, did I--"

"What do you think?"

This could be worse, but he can't imagine how. "Cas--"

"I accepted it," Cas says, looking at nothing. "Your offer of worship. And then I made you promise not to die."

"Oh." He may not remember this, but it's surprisingly easy to imagine. "Just--let me get this straight. I offered, what, worship, love, and loyalty--"

"And obedience," Cas interrupts, looking pained. "You threw that in unexpectedly near the end."

"Right, and obedience." Right there, Dean thinks the contract would have failed, possibly accompanied by hysterical disembodied laughter. "And the only thing you asked for--ordered--was for me to not die? Anything else?"

Cas's eyes narrow. "I can think of several things now I should have requested."

"Yeah, hindsight's a bitch." He tilts his head back, thinking. "And I lived. Not bad for a Fallen angel, though kind of shitty for a god."

"Dean, it wasn't a real contract." Cas looks away. "I can't actually--I didn't save you."

"Pretty sure the ice baths and drugs and IV thing helped, though," Dean observes. "More manual labor, less snapping, I get it, but hey, this is how humans have been pulling it off for a while. You're doing okay for a newbie."

Cas blinks at him for a moment, tilting his head; humanity is so strange, it suggests. I really don't know what to do with you at all.

"Anything else I should know?" Dean asks; if there's anything else that's gonna traumatize them, might as well get it over with. This time, Cas's mouth twitches, just a little, but it's enough. This is gonna be okay.

"I suppose you might want to apologize to Vera eventually."

Oh God, did he hit on her? In front of Cas? "Why?" Then, relieved, he remembers. "The demon thing? Yeah, that was--"

"Oh, she got used to that," Cas says, a hint of malice in his voice. "At some point, despite the care both of us took to disarm ourselves when in your presence due your surprisingly improved reflexes, Vera forgot her boot knife. After pinning her to the bed and disarming her, you accused her of being someone named 'Meg' and attempted to exorcise her." Cas frowns faintly. "I thought Meg had been absent from earth for several years now. Did she return?"

Dean closes his eyes and wonders how the fuck this is his life. Meg. Jesus Christ. "Weird. So--"

"Which is when we decided restraints would be advisable, as you continued to address her as Meg until your fever broke, often combined with telling me not to trust her." He has no idea what his expression is telling Cas, but the blue eyes narrow suspiciously. "Dean--"

"Yeah, that fever, Jesus, no idea." Dean raises an eyebrow. "Nice work with the restraints, by the way."

"Thank you." Cas smiles back, blue eyes lightening. "Your safe word was not 'thirsty'."

"Fuck you." Dean hears the rattle of beads that means that Vera's back from her break time on the porch, and glances hopefully at the spiral on his bedside table as Cas returns from unlocking the door. "You have a few minutes for another installment of hippo porn?"

"Good, made it just in time," Vera says as she comes in the room, checking over Dean over with laudable speed before nudging him over with a hip and sitting down. Cas looks between them. "Well?"

Opening the spiral, Cas opens it to where they left off yesterday. "My translations from this point are rather questionable." It's said more in hope than any actual doubt of the accuracy of the translation, which after the last installment Dean understands.

"No problem," Dean assures him, settling his pillows again as Vera leans against his upraised knees hopefully. "We're at how the bare curves of the hippos' backs--how did he say it?--'emerged slick and gleaming from the recesses of the swamp'."

Vera frowns at him. "Wait, there were 'shadowy crevices' in there somewhere."

"'From the murky depths they emerged slick and gleaming in the spill of moonlight, deepening shadows like crevices between each mound of delicately rounded flesh, as if arching into a willing hand.'" Cas stops, closing his eyes with a shudder that Dean and Vera share. "It's a metaphor."

"Still hoping for Tawaret?" It's so not a metaphor.

Cas gives him a flat look. "You have no idea how much."

---

--Day 77--

Vera puts down her stethoscope with a sigh that Dean decides to interpret as a good sign. "So you managed your entire dinner--"

"Delicious wet bread and almost-meat," he says with relish, not mentioning the canned vegetable whatever because he's working on blocking it from his memory. "Any chance of a hamburger? Maybe with actual cow in it?"

"Dream on." She looks at him speculatively. "But you can have your bread dry, how's that?"

"I've never been so happy in my life." Stretching, he feels a faint twinge in his ankle, but it's pretty much healed now, and he looks forward to testing that one day with more than trips to the bathroom. Looking at his right arm, newly bandaged and dressed that morning by Cas after Vera removed the stitches, he flexes his hand, watching the fingers spread slightly in response before he relaxes them, the feel of the soft blanket grainy and rough, the barest sense of pressure against the pads.

Even with the stitches off, his arm's a mess: between the bites themselves, the stitches he tore out several times during the fever, and the spread of infection that needed drainage cuts, all he can really tell is that it looks like shit and won't look much better when the bandages come off permanently. Motor control is an inconsistent and limited work in progress, but at least that's progress and he's got a tennis ball living on his bedside table to prove it. The nerve damage, however, is a lot less certain. Sensation is returning to his fingers in drips and starts, but the space between his elbow and five inches above his wrist on his inner arm is still a dead zone no matter how much Vera pokes at it.

"It's still healing," she assures him when she sees where he's looking, picking up the chart and absently making a few notes. "Dean, we really won't know until you've had more time to work with it, but at this point, practical mobility is a given."

Dean licks his lips and fails to make a fist, fingers struggling briefly toward his distant palm before he lets them relax again. Closing his eyes, he rubs them clumsily against the blanket again, a reminder that at least he can feel them. "I can't even hold that damn ball for more than a few seconds without dropping it.

"You will," she answers, so transparently sure he almost believes her. "Alicia picked up a few more books on physical therapy on her last run. We're gonna take it slow, but as long as you don't rip anything open, progress is up to you. Be smart: if I see you're overdoing it, you lose your unsupervised tennis ball privileges."

"I shoot with that hand," Dean answers; he does, and he will again one day. "I'm gonna be careful."

"Yeah, I believe that," she snorts, finishing her notes before standing up. "Okay, in honor of you not being dead for three weeks and no sign of relapse or secondary infection, I get to leave the cabin for a few hours and Amanda's making me dinner to celebrate. She hates to cook, but she's really good at it, so this is a once in a lifetime event. You wouldn't believe what she can do with canned anything. Do not get sick tonight or I'll kill you myself."

Dean crosses his arms and smirks up at her. "Date night?"

"Get your mind out of the gutter. She's my best friend and my roommate." Vera's eyes narrow. "For some reason, we haven't had a lot of time to talk lately."

"Seriously?" He stares at her. "She's insanely hot, terrifyingly dangerous, and lives with you. And you want to talk?"

"You aren't giving me romantic advice, are you?" she asks incredulously. "Tell me you're not doing that or I'll never stop laughing and Amanda will be pissed I missed dinner."

He scowls at her. "Might help your mood, just saying."

"My mood--"

"Vera, he isn't armed, and you're far too ethical to attack him when he's too weak to defend himself," Cas interrupts from his doorway slouch, ignoring Dean's glare. "I understand it can be difficult to remember under duress, but should you forget, I'd have to stop you and possibly lecture you on how none of us can kill Dean, no matter the provocation in lieu of mowing duty."

"Because he's our leader," Vera snarls, staring at Dean hatefully. "What about hurt him? Nothing serious, I promise. It'll heal. I'm a nurse. I know how to do that."

"Amanda's waiting on the porch to escort you home for dinner," Cas offers, tipping his head against the frame. "Should I tell her that you and Dean are too busy arguing about your potential sex life--"

"Cas!"

"--for you to appreciate the meal she spent several hours preparing, or would you rather join her and complain to her about Dean being…." Cas pauses for a moment, frowning thoughtfully. "Being himself?"

Vera gives Dean a long look, then Cas an even longer one before she heads toward the door, pausing to tell him, "Fine. See you in the morning."

Dean watches her leave, listening to the angry sound of beads and Vera's voice, followed by Amanda sounding soothing as they fade into the distance.

"Provocation?" he asks as Cas makes an elaborate show of getting comfortable on the other side of the bed, frowning at the pillow like it's not up to his standards of fluffiness and its failure makes him doubt his faith in cotton and polyester stuffing. With a sigh worthy of a martyr faced with substandard torture devices, he tugs it closer and proceeds to settle stomach-down on the mattress without a single squeal of springs, which Dean's really beginning to resent. "I was trying to be helpful--"

"Is that what that was?" Settling his chin on his crossed arms, Cas gives him a sardonic look. "Humans and their ways are often strange to me, so elucidation is in order. Please explain how telling Vera that she'd be in a better mood if she had sex with Amanda was supposed to be 'helpful' and not 'incendiary' or an excellent way to wake up in an ice bath for non-fever related reasons?"

"Have you seen Amanda?" he demands, wondering privately where that tub is now anyway. "Cas, don't tell me you haven't noticed--"

"That Amanda is very attractive?" Cas asks. "She was my student, for one--"

"Like pretty much everyone you've had sex with. Try again."

"--and two, she's a lesbian, in case you somehow missed that."

"Doesn't mean you can't appreciate the view," Dean answers reasonably. "Vera's been under a lot of stress. God knows, if anyone should get a little fun, it'd be her."

Cas raises his eyebrows, unconvinced.

"Fine, I was being a dick, too." He blows out a breath, frowning at his bare feet poking from the hem of the yellowest scrub bottoms ever to escape the seventies. God he misses regular clothes. "It bothers me that she's doing all this for me while hating my guts. I mean, she's one fuck of a professional, don't get me wrong, but it's gotta grate a little that after all this time wanting to kill me, she's responsible for saving my life."

"Maybe you should talk to her about it." Under his fascinated gaze, Cas tilts his head thoughtfully, like he's trying to work out something really complicated, like say, human interactions. "Or should I--"

"No, oh God, no." Cas blinks, looking startled. "Uh--okay, quick lesson on people. She's your friend, right?" He nods slowly, which hey, progress. "And you're my friend. I don't need confirmation," he adds when Cas starts to nod again. "Never--and I mean never--be the middle man in that kind of situation. It never ends well for anyone."

"Why?" he asks immediately, because this is Dean's fucking life. "Wouldn't that help dissipate tension if I could--"

"Tell her what? That you're choosing sides for reasons unknown?" Before Cas can start to answer--Jesus, he knows that look, Cas has thought about this--Dean shakes his head and tries not to look too frantic. "Put it another way; it's not your fight. She's your friend, and God knows, it's not like you have a lot of those here."

Cas is quiet for a long moment. "You're my best friend." Dean almost forgets to breathe, staring at him wordlessly. "What happened wasn't your fault, and you suffer for it anyway."

"Was it the right decision?" he asks deliberately. "I've been here long enough to know the answer, but you need to say it."

"Yes," he answers reluctantly. "It was callous, but it was necessary."

"Then it would have been mine. That I wasn't the one who pulled the trigger doesn't mean anything. I would have--and one day I'll probably have to, if I live that long. Telling her to just get over it already--that's a dick move. There's no good reason to do that to her."

"It makes you unhappy," Cas says quietly. "That's reason enough for me."

Dean looks away, trying to remember the last time someone--anyone--other than Sam or maybe Bobby ever cared about something as stupid as him being unhappy. Like that mattered in the entire trauma that is his whole goddamn life: unhappy is a step up in his emotional well-being, now that he thinks about it. But Cas wants to talk Vera into liking him--a conversation even Cas can't pretend not to know will end shitty at best--because Dean wants her to like him and he's unhappy that she doesn't. Because being in a militia camp is more like being in high school than high school, or so he assumes if the most recent drama that's Kyle and Jane's mid-dinner fight in the mess last night is any indication; it's not like he stayed at any one long enough to get past the introductions.

(Or spam and canned pea fights ending in tears (Kyle's) and mowing duty (both). On a guess, that may be specific to his militia camp, though.)

"Thanks," he says. "But I got this one, okay? Just give me time and I'll think of something. I'll wear her down, no problem."

"If you're sure."

"I'm sure." He manages a quick grin. "I appreciate the thought."

"As you wish." Cas doesn't look reassured, but Dean gets the feeling there's something else bothering him. "There's something else we should discuss."

He nods, bracing himself in advance; it's that kind of day. "Hit me."

"Before you provoked Vera, did she have the opportunity to tell you that tomorrow morning, the IV will no longer be necessary?"

"I didn't---fine, no, she didn't. Really?" He really wants to get rid of that IV. "Last night on the drip?"

"Yes, provided there are no unforeseen complications when she examines you in the morning." Cas pauses just long enough for him to wonder what the bad news is before continuing. "Since you don't need to be under constant observation anymore and you can see to your own basic needs, Ana, Brad, and Chuck will be taking turns staying with you during the day. Vera will still examine you every morning, at midday, and in the evening, and I'll be here every night, of course, but you're well enough to be trusted not to die if one of us isn't watching you."

Dean checkmarks 'allowed contact with people' on his mental progress chart. "In the cabin, not the room, right?" Because he'll have to take off half a check for lack of privacy. Vera and Cas don't count; they've seen him in every possible shitty condition, and sheer repetition burned out the humiliation and eroded his boundaries to the point of non-existence. He kind of looks forward to the day he gets those back; basic self-consciousness while naked in front of people he's not related to or fucking isn't so much to ask here. Or at least remember how to fake it.

"In the cabin," Cas assures him. "They'll check on you hourly, but they've been instructed to knock first and wait five seconds for your response before entering the room."

Really. "Five seconds?"

"Vera said that was the standard for good manners," Cas answers with a hint of satisfaction in a new human lesson mastered. "All of them have agreed to limit their interactions with other members of the camp to minimize the danger of exposing you to further infections. They're aware of sterilization procedures while in this cabin and before and after interacting with you directly, but I'll remind them regularly."

Dean feels bad for them already. New shit job: watching the sick guy breathe. "What'd you have to do to get them to agree?"

Cas looks at him like he's being particularly slow, which Dean resents like fuck. "I won't even dignify that with a response. Are they acceptable to you?"

"Sure. I mean, you and Vera gotta be tired of being stuck in here all the time." Belatedly, he realizes what this means and fights back the unexpected rush of disappointment. "And she said it's time you got out of here and rejoined the world. In daylight, anyway."

"That was a surprise to me as well," Cas agrees heavily, sinking more deeply into the mattress and sounding baffled. "I didn't realize I interacted so much with the world that my absence would be noticeable, or it would be to anyone's benefit to change that."

Or if he were Vera, striking while the iron's hot and Cas's non-orgasm-related interactions with the world are mandatory. If there was ever a time to establish a habit, it would be now. "Been running the entire camp from the porch while I was sleeping, huh?"

"It's working very well, and I don't see any reason to change that." He grimaces, adding with noticeable reluctance, "However, she may have had a point in that you need rest, and now that you're not as ill as you were, their presence here will be a disturbance."

Dean makes himself nod. "And there's shit you gotta leave here to do that takes longer than an hour at a time."

Watching Cas making an effort to become one with the bed and almost succeeding, he gets the impression that any kind of effort on his part will bring this plan to a dead halt. It's tempting; to distract himself, he focuses on the people who are going to be his new watchers. Brad's on watch, though off the top of his head he can't remember if he's ever had a conversation with the guy; Ana's on Joe's team, so her life has just got suckier; and Chuck--he tries not to think too hard on the fact that since the day after the team leaders were burned, Chuck's avoided being anywhere near him, but it's not like it's hard to figure out why. So this'll be fun for everyone.

Which reminds him of something. "Not Alicia?"

"No." Cas abruptly focuses on some point over his shoulder; he doesn't straighten, but he looks like he might want to. "Not Alicia."

Uh huh. "What's wrong with Alicia? She's got medical training. Why hasn't she been helping you and Vera out anyway?"

"Nothing's wrong with Alicia." For a second, he thinks Cas may actually try to leave it at that, but then he sighs. "She's very capable and she was very helpful when Vera was doing research on your condition, especially since unlike Vera, she could leave the camp to acquire the books that Vera needed, as well as lead the teams that were searching the hospitals and identify the equipment we needed. However, under the circumstances, everyone who hadn't been exposed to you already were restricted from treating you during the fever."

"Why?"

"I don't know, I made it up," he answers impatiently. "Vera was distracted, so I suppose she accepted that as infinite knowledge, I didn't ask." He shifts in something not entirely unlike guilt. "I couldn't risk anyone seeing you that might be able to make inconvenient comparisons, and while I couldn't be absolutely certain I knew all the people that Dean had sex with, I was absolutely certain who hadn't."

"Oh." Crap, he forgot about that. "Him and Alicia, yeah. Was it--"

"Perhaps we should discuss Dean's past relationships at another time." Cas's expression makes it clear that now isn't a good time and never would be much better. "For now, I didn't realize the end of a relationship could be that--awkward. For that long. And that was just as an observer."

Yeah, he's not up to hearing that pretty much ever; the Jane and Risa thing was enough, thanks. "How noticeable are we talking about here?"

"The most obvious are two major scars, one on his left thigh and one bisecting his left hip; one healing wound on his back, which Alicia stitched herself that would be a scar by now; three tattoos--you don't need them, two were for very specialized rituals, and one when Dean got drunk with a tattoo artist one night…"

"She'd remember that much?" Dean asks uneasily, wondering why he's surprised; Chitaqua is nothing if not creating new planes of paranoia.

"She's not the only one." Cas meets his eyes, troubled. "More than once, our survival has depended on being able to accurately identify something impersonating a member of the camp. Regular sex is an excellent way to become intimately acquainted with someone's body, and Dean's habit of short term serial monogamy and regular injuries assured there was plenty of opportunity for very close observation."

It's not like he wants to bang his predecessors exes (so much no there), but Jesus. "So never let anyone see me when I'm not dressed? Avoid short sleeves, shorts, bare feet, what? Do I need to layer up?"

"As I've not criticized your wardrobe choices yet, I think you can assume anything you've worn in public until now is fine," Cas answers dryly. "Human memory degrades with time, and combined with Dean's habit of isolating himself after being injured, only his most recent sex partners would be able to immediately recognize the differences on sight. Alicia is a special case; our doctor had only recently been killed when Dean needed his back tended to, and that was less than a month before you first came here." He shrugs. "It's less of a concern now than it was before the fever. Losing almost a quarter of your body weight is far more dramatic a change, and if any difference is noticed, it'll be put up to your illness."

"Because being sick makes tattoos and scars disappear?" Dean stops to rewind the conversation with a sinking feeling. "Wait, when did anyone but you or Vera see me before Joe's visit?"

"You put me in charge of the camp, and its members needed reassurance you were alive," Cas answers, irritatingly reasonable. "The window was sufficient to reassure them you were well. Human memory is malleable and I took advantage of that; they'll vividly remember seeing you then and as they watch you during your recovery and after, if they ever notice an inconsistency in your physical appearance--scars heal, recall can be faulty, and the rest will be relegated to imagination."

Huh. "That'll work?"

"Yes," Cas answers. "It will."

Every once in a while, Dean's reminded that Cas is terrifyingly good at the art of manipulation.

"However, for your watchers, I chose those who didn't often interact with Dean directly as well as never had sex with him," Cas continues with a hint of amusement. "For the second criteria, any of the male population would be relatively safe, of course."

Yeah, no surprise there. "And Ana?"

"Like Amanda, she's exclusively interested in women."

Dean thinks of the number of women in the camp that aren't either lesbians or hate him and really doesn't like that uncomfortably low number. "So you don't know how many he--"

"This wasn't my usual lack of attention; I made an effort to know nothing about Dean's activities if it were possible." Cas's expression tells him that was a wasted effort, but denial has been a close and personal friend. "Unfortunately, it was inevitable that there would be overlap unless I restricted myself to the limited male population, and I wasn't willing to inconvenience myself that much just so Dean would feel more comfortable." Before he can brace himself, Cas looks at him curiously. "Why did that bother him? I never did get a satisfactory explanation."

"Uh." Dean blinks slowly, scrambling to find an answer that won't lead to having to actually think about that ever again. "Human thing, we're weird like that. So, Vera's right. About you getting out of here, I mean. Duty calls and everything, I'll be fine."

Cas nods reluctantly. "I'll return to check on you during the day and as soon as my duties are complete every evening, of course, and I'll provide you with a schedule of the days' activities. Ana, Matt, and Chuck will be instructed to get me and Vera immediately if there's any change in your condition, but if you require my presence at any time, don't hesitate to tell them to find me."

"No problem."

"They will enforce my continuing order that no one enter this cabin without your or my explicit permission, but you can begin to receive regular visitors," Cas continues. "When you're ready, I'll create a schedule of appropriate times to visit and how long they're allowed to stay to avoid tiring you unnecessarily."

Trespassers will be faced Chitaqua's endless acres of lawn, on a guess. Then: visitors. Visitors, among whom are an unknown number of women who were involved with Dean Winchester. Fuck his life; he's gonna need Cas to make him a reference list after all, because yeah, he's gonna need to know.

Eventually. "I'll think about it." They really need a safer topic already, where all roads don't lead to the terrifying minefield of this Dean's sex life. "So--"

"You're worried you'll be bored now," Cas says out of the blue. "Fortunately, I have a solution for that."

Maybe talking about creepy sex was safer after all. "Uh--"

"As I told you, I reinstituted full reports from all patrol members after you appointed me to command Chitaqua in your absence," Cas continues brightly. "They're ready for you to review at your leisure, which you now have."

Holy shit. "Everyone?"

"Yes." Very faintly, he sees the uptick of one corner of Cas's mouth. "I feel that you, as my commander, should have the opportunity to evaluate my competence as thoroughly as possible."

"I meant to tell you about the putting you in charge thing, promise," Dean says desperately, doing the math on six four person patrol teams times seventeen days; despite filling the jeep with reams of paper in all its many types, Chuck may need another supply run soon at this rate. "Fever, Cas. Vera was in on it!"

"Vera saved your life," Cas answers. "Despite your best efforts to prevent it."

Seriously? "You're blaming me for almost dying?"

"It was extremely stressful, and perhaps this will encourage you to consider how your actions affect others," Cas says serenely. "I haven't decided yet if perhaps it might be useful to require everyone in the camp to submit daily reports for you to review. It would have the benefit of helping you become more familiar with the daily duties that maintain the camp as well as provide variety in your reading if you think that the patrol reports will bore you. And I certainly don't want you to suspect even for a moment that I'm neglecting my duties. What do you think?"

Dean shuts his mouth, staring at Cas; he'll do it, and then all Dean's got to hope for is a camp-wide revolution to stop it. He's pretty sure that usually, he wouldn't like that. "Patrol's great. Looking forward to it."

"Excellent," Cas says, rising to his feet. "I'll go get them."

---

It's the Stars That Lie, 3/12

Comments

[marycontrary]

http://rivkat.tumblr.com/post/93532907489/sweetsamofmine-whatever-choices-you-make

Also, I am re-(re-re-re-re)reading Map of the World. I am so happy that more is soon.