spnfic: it's the stars that lie, 8/12

Title: It's the Stars that Lie, 8/12
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 Takes the Field.
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, Chapter 3, Chapter 4, Chapter 5, Chapter 6, Chapter 7, Chapter 8
DW - Chapter 1, Chapter 2, Chapter 3, Chapter 4, Chapter 5, Chapter 6, Chapter 7



--Day 94--

As many things in his life, this began when Castiel, unambiguously and with full knowledge of the consequences (general if not exact), said, "Yes" to Dean's question: in this case, "Well? You in or what?"

It can be said that free will is at its most essential the opportunity--some might even argue the right--to define self not by what you are but what you choose to be. Say what you will about the quality, advisability, or sanity of the decisions he's made since he first claimed that right, he's never hesitated to make them or accept the consequences that followed. He never felt he had to do with grace, of course, but he would like to see any human born able to do that with some of the ones he's made.

As with many things that involve Dean Winchester and questions, however, the consequences are nothing like he expected. Or even thought might exist.

"Don't disarm," Dean says, again, leveling an impartial glare at them all. "That's an order, by the way. Everyone keeps their weapons this time. We're polite, but we're not gonna be stupid."

He remembers meetings like this, but rarely was he sober or clean enough to truly appreciate the full horror.

"I know," Joe says obediently, again. "I get it."

"You really don't," Dean retorts, rolling his eyes toward the heavens in an unmistakable plea for mercy. "So let's take it from the top."

He should have anticipated something like this, he supposes uncertainly, but for the life of him, he's not sure how. Understanding in theory is one thing, but the reality is unsettling, and not just in the sheer lack of response to each increasingly ridiculous statement or his own horrible sobriety while voluntarily listening to it.

"Remember, this is business, not social hour," Dean continues, one insane word piled on another into sentences that in themselves are correct yet make no sense even as a thought exercise. "They may one day be allies, but they aren't and can't be friends, you get me? We protect them, we don't eat their steak and potatoes and hang with their kids. We're gonna help them and trade with them, but say it with me--"

"This is business," everyone repeats obediently, and Castiel wonders if this is how Dean felt when he first appeared in this world; one moment, all was familiar, and the next, very much not.

An hour past dawn, when Joseph came to do his final check in before leaving to hear the answer from the communities, Dean firmly herded the entire team to join Castiel on the couch, and while there shouldn't have been room, his flat stare encouraged them to defy physics. Which is why Castiel is currently listening to a surreal lecture aimed at Joseph's team with Ana almost in his lap, and he and Mike are acting as a physical barrier between a somewhat ambivalent Joseph and Leah.

(Amanda's bewildered as well; Joseph's been sullen and uncommunicative, Mike confused, and Ana and Leah twice requested a hangover remedy from the mess yesterday. The second time, he understands from Penn, was because the first one didn't work. For some reason, that sounds familiar.)

"If they ask you to disarm, you say 'no'," Dean continues, pinning Joseph to his precarious seat on the edge of the couch with a flat stare. "You don't strip down like this is fucking 'Showgirls' and wait for the dollar bills and vegetables to roll in. Furthermore…."

"Movie," Ana breathes without moving her lips, unaware that's only the most recent source of Castiel's bemusement. "Vegas showgirls, really bad, no actual strippers, but Elizabeth Berkley was--holy shit worth the price of admission--"

Dean turns on them. "What was that?"

"Don't trade sex for potatoes?" Leah asks desperately. She may be the only person in this room who is making sense (though he's now curious about 'Showgirls', more's the pity they don't have a TV or DVD player). "I will not do that."

"For French fries, nothing is off the table," Mike mutters, and it's an effort not to groan.

"You think this is funny, Mike?" Dean demands, coming up to the very welcome barrier of the coffee table and looking in danger of shoving it out of the way at any given moment. Castiel isn't certain what's more disturbing; the content of the lecture, or Dean's tragic and inexplicable loss of his sense of humor. That was rather funny, possibly because this is Mike and it's probably true.

Dean's wearing a pair of Castiel's sweatpants (Disneyland, very faded blue) with a very large The Who t-shirt (no longer sparkly, once black) with a loose flannel (red like few things can hope to be) and is barefoot, unarmed, and his hair is sticking up in the back. Despite all this, he's swallowed up all the available space in the room (cabin, camp, world perhaps), heels leaving visible indentations in the rug with every determined step and each gesture slicing air as if offended him personally and it must pay.

It's utterly fascinating; Castiel could watch him all day, but only if he could discard the soundtrack that's slowly but surely escalating from 'strange but expected' to outright disturbing with no sign of stopping without intervention. A glance at Joseph confirms that the chances of that happening are diminishing more quickly with every pause he lets slip by.

"Fine, let's start at the beginning," Dean says in exasperation, beginning the endless pacing once again. "You go in that town, they aren't your friends and if you think they won't put a bullet in your head, you're an idiot. You can't trust anyone. We need this agreement, and your job is to make sure we get it. You know what's at stake here: no one wants to starve."

"We have MRE's," Castiel offers into the brief silence, wondering if perhaps Dean forgot (and was concussed at some point, as those can cause personality changes; perhaps he should he have checked this morning?), but Dean ignores him so thoroughly he almost doubts he actually spoke (and is beginning to suspect he doesn't exist). How unexpectedly familiar a feeling that is, but he's not used to that anymore.

Turning his attention back to Joseph, who looks as if he regrets both getting up this morning or any in his life, Dean continues to explain exactly what they'll be doing today. It's definitely words and sentences, but put together they are nothing like what Castiel understood their job entailed or that of anyone else here.

"What's going on?" Leah whispers frantically as Dean begins his explanation of all the ways to say 'no' when told to disarm and how to handle the other mayors (firmly? With intent? What does that mean?). Reminders that Joseph disarmed voluntarily and without prompting, however, are a terrible idea, or so the first hour of this slow and endlessly monotonous nightmare have taught them all. "Cas?"

"What?" he whispers, half-hidden by Ana's convenient back.

"Your job," Dean states, punctuating the word with so much intensity the air itself seems to be withdrawing from the room in reaction, "is to get us that agreement. Is this getting through?"

Leah looks at Castiel incredulously, and for a moment, he doesn't see Leah but Risa halfway across the room, sandwiched between a riveted Erica and a worshipful Stanley agreeing with Dean's every word, and the unforgiving brown eyes meeting his.

You're useless, and with an eyebrow adding, And very obedient, by the way.

Useless, of course: obedient, now that's insulting.

"Let's conquer them and save ourselves some time," Castiel hears someone say, and in the utter absence of sound that follows he realizes it was him.

Dean stops short, turning on his heel to inflict on Castiel his full and undivided attention. Dean's attention is a world of its own; it has weight, substance, and can crush you entirely beneath it without apology.

"What?" Dean asks softly, looking at him as if he's never seen him before and perhaps regrets doing so now. "You got something to say?"

Somewhere a clock is ticking down the moments to explosion or implosion, dismissal without explanation, or a reminder if he can't be constructive, he should shut up.

"Well?" Dean asks, starting to look bored, possibly already moving on, and very, very familiar.

Useless, yes, obedient, never, but constructive: let's find out.

"I apologize; I misunderstood your intentions," he answers, gently moving a startled Ana into Mike's equally startled lap and slumping back into the couch. "Trade agreements and negotiation, that's what you said, so you must forgive me for not being aware of our eventual goal. Give me a week and your team leaders, and I'll bring Kansas to its knees in your name.

"Two if we sleep," he adds casually into the electrified silence, and crossing his arm, he waits.

"Holy shit," Joseph breathes. "Cas--"

"What the hell," Dean asks quietly, "are you talking about?"

"The ultimate plan, of course. We'll run the unbelievers out of each town I sack to spread the word of your coming," Castiel drones in pointed boredom, perfected over many long meetings much like this, and often in hopes of getting that exact expression on Dean's face--yes, that one, excellent. "The choice is to kneel or be killed, it works very well; I should know, I've done this before. Fear is powerful, and it will do the work when burning them alive for your greater glory won't; trust me, even war grows monotonous and we'll want to wrap this up quickly."

Somewhere pleasant, he hopes, Risa is laughing.

"Cas--" Ana starts worriedly, like she just might consider de-escalation an option that just might work.

"Shut up," Dean says, never looking away from Castiel. "Where did you get that from?"

"I'm sorry, did I miss anything that didn't point to terror as motivation?" he asks. "You don't do that half-way, Dean; fear is the most dangerous thing in the world, it's a fire set to dry tinder, and we can burn the world alive with it whether we want to or not, so once we light it, we better mean to do just that."

This time, the silence is almost physically painful. Then Dean says, "Keep going."

"It's not about a trade agreement or vegetables, though that would be pleasant, yes, but we can grow food ourselves, provided anyone here understood how things grow," he continues impatiently. "We are dangerous; we hunt that which hunts the people here, and it fears us like it fears nothing and no one else. They know that, every person we meet, it's our stock in trade; the weapons are just accessories. We don't need them; we prove it every time we're not afraid to take them off. Yes, Joseph made the offer first, but no one there didn't guess what it meant that he did without hesitation. Joseph, in that room, where was the door?"

"Behind me, ten feet," Joseph answers quietly. "They gave me choice of seating."

"They made their first mistake before negotiations even began," Castiel says. "The watchers?"

"Line of sight, twenty-five feet, across the table. All the mayors were out of line of fire--"

"Danny was to your right, your strongest hand," Castiel says, pulling up the memory of Joseph's report. "Ana's left isn't bad, and Noak's mayor was right beside her; they, too, underestimated a woman and he sat closer to her than Danny did to you. Get them both, flip the table, use that as defense and tell them to drop their weapons; they wouldn't even have time to get off a shot before you had hostages for their good behavior and to use as human shields on the way to the door. You memorized the route, know what building you were in--they practically gave you a tour of the town on the way there, well done--and passed right by the daycare, a mien of hostages if you needed them--"

"Uh, Cas," Dean starts worriedly.

"--and that's only the most obvious; Joseph probably had half a dozen plans in place before they even entered the room and chose his seating to cover all of them. The risk they knew they took in extending the invitation is nothing to the reality of who they sat down with in that room. They had ten armed people that reacted every time Joseph or Ana moved even disarmed, because they were faced with two people who they knew hunted demons, and as you may be aware, they aren't terribly vulnerable to guns," Castiel finishes flatly. "Joseph's job wasn't to convince them to trade with us, they'd be stupid not to, our terms are excellent; it was to convince them we were asking an actual question and they had a choice in their answer."

Dean cocks his head, a strange expression on his face. "Doesn't seem fair, does it? We never threatened them."

"Life's not fair," he answers, aware of Joseph straightening with an arrested expression. "There are compensations in having the ability to keep experiencing it due to your own skill, which is not an advantage many have, and being able to assure others will also have the opportunity to continue doing the same."

"Saving people," Dean says, nodding. "Helping things."

He's reserving the right to consider that mockery; it's been a very long morning. "Joseph, ignore Dean; disarm when they ask you, do what they request of you, follow the rules they set to the letter, because it's a very tiny window we have to earn their trust in the very narrow space they believe they're safe enough to even make the attempt. The day will come when they will know that what you let them believe wasn't true, they'll realize who they've invited into their lives, and the only thing protecting them from you is yourself, and they have to trust you in that. If you don't have it by then, you never will."

Dean turns his attention to Joseph, cocking his head. "So, just from my own curiosity; what the hell would it have taken for you to tell me I was wrong?"

Joseph, thus called upon, jerks his attention back to Dean with a blank stare.

"All I had left was put a gun to their heads when you see them," he continues, crossing his arms in dissatisfaction. "I didn't think I could hear you say 'Yes, Dean' to that, much less worry for the next few days you might actually do it. I swear to God, if I said jump off that cliff over there, would you just do it?"

"I would," Castiel snaps, glaring at Dean, whose mouth twitches suspiciously. "But I'd go get a rope first, and I'd like to see you stop me."

"You'd tell me to fuck myself first," Dean corrects him with a flickering smile like lightning across a clear sky, there and gone but for the retinal burn. "Remember when you all were training--great stories, thanks," which for some reason make Joseph and Ana look inexplicably alarmed, "the first time you saw what Cas could do? Joseph, tell everyone about the rocks." He grins, all teeth. "You can leave off that part, fine."

Joseph straightens, clearing his throat. "Uh--moving target practice, but we were supposed to avoid hitting anyone, which much harder than you'd think. Kamal's throw was off--"

"He was tired," Castiel murmurs, remembering that. "I should have been watching closer."

"He knew, he was just too pissed to care," Joseph retorts. "He was competing with Amanda--she just never got tired--and that rock went right at James face...." He trails off, shaking his head. "Next thing, James is on the ground, Cas is tossing that fucking rock like we've disappointed every ancestor we had, and Kamal's doing laps around Chitaqua every day after class for a week."

Dean looks at Cas. "Rock dodgeball?"

"It's excellent training to improve reflexes," he offers to Dean's twitching mouth. "And quite entertaining to watch, until the potential for concussion becomes an issue."

"Did that scare you?" Dean asks Joseph, who looks back in genuine surprise. "I mean, when you thought about it later?"

"No," Joseph answers, then sighs. "You're saying we're Cas among the trainees out there?"

"You got it," Dean agrees with an unexpected edge of malice. "And like Cas, you're not going to show them how you can snap their necks before they get a chance to say 'hi' and sign this trade agreement with that in mind. So by the time they find out, they're pretty sure you won't anyway."

"Pretty sure?" Ana echoes uncertainly; yes, he'd like to know the answer to that one, too.

"Ninety-nine percent," Dean assures her. "Not hanging up your towel is dangerous, in case anyone is curious."

Everyone looks at Castiel, and for a long moment, he reconsiders Dean's sanity. "If you hang it up while it's still damp, it doesn't need to be washed as often," he answers. "Doing laundry is tedious enough, there's no reason to increase the number of loads. I apologize if I made you feel I would kill you for forgetting after your last shower. I wouldn't."

"I'm back to one hundred percent."

"For that, anyway." Dean ducks his head to hide the smirk. "We were wishing Joseph and his team good luck, correct? And not--whatever we were doing just now?"

"Life lesson," Dean explains helpfully. "No one passed but Cas: everyone else, you got studying to do. Seriously, what the fuck, people?"

Joe is studying Dean thoughtfully, earlier worry receding before his eyes, and once again, Castiel wonders how Dean can do that so easily. Trust must be earned, but he know from bitter experience it's impossibly fragile even when given freely: so little can shatter it beyond hope of repair. "So--"

"So, you know what to do and how to do it," Dean tells them. "You don't need me to tell you what that is; if you do, you shouldn't be outside these walls. You sure as fuck should be telling me when I'm wrong about how you should do your job, and I'm taking it personally that you think I'll cry for my hurt feelings if you do. Your orders are, yes, no, or call us later, they aren't afraid, and if anything happens--anything at all--they call us to help. But if they say no, get some potato seed or whatever, because Cas is right, MREs are next up." He grins at them. "What have we learned?"

"You're a dick," Joseph says in resignation as he heaves himself off the couch. "And we're not conquering Kansas today."

"Go forth, and for fuck's sake if you can use the words 'be not afraid', do it," Dean answers, slapping Joseph's shoulder as he passes. Castiel watches them exchange a grin before he squeezes Ana's shoulder, nods at Mike and Leah's tentative smiles as they leave.

When they're gone, Dean circles the coffee table to sit down with a sigh before looking at Castiel. "A week to take Kansas in my name?"

"Two if we slept," Castiel offers, still feeling disoriented. "I was a little distracted wondering when you went insane and how I failed to notice."

"You ever try escalating on the fly?" Dean demands. "That shit's hard."

"I have, and yes, I know. It was convincingly insane." Frowning, he slumps into the cushions. "I shouldn't have interrupted you. I knew what you were trying to do."

"You're just mad you lost the bet," Dean says in amusement. "So you got patrol next three mornings."

Castiel gives him a dark look. "So what I've been doing already while you were ill."

"I'm still recovering," Dean says smugly, then sighs. "It wasn't fair. I knew it'd go down like this. Two mornings, fine."

"What?"

"Joe would have argued with me if he was here alone, but not with his team here. Remember what he said about the negotiations, so many men in the room compared to women?" Dean asks. "Same principle. Joe's team was silent because he's their leader and they follow his lead, but to him, that's a lot of people not arguing with me, plus you. In this case, the 'if not with me against me' thing kicked in, so he went along with the majority." The green eyes grow distant. "Fear's dangerous, Cas, and you can't always see the fire; sometimes, all you got is the smell of smoke."

He looks at Dean in surprise. "I have to remember that one. Expressive, yet not clichéd."

"When I’m good, I'm good," Dean agrees, smiling at him. "So that what it was like when Castiel attended patrol meetings way back in the day? Sorry I missed it, and I mean that."

"I didn't call you 'Scourge of evil' and there was no implication you had sexual congress with quite literally anything that would stay still long enough, so--"

Dean bursts into laughter, head dropping back on the cushions.

"--not as much, no. For one," he adds honestly, "Dean would stop me much earlier."

"Yeah, his mistake," Dean says cryptically, then gives him a curious look. "Speaking of, why the hell did he make you go to those meetings, anyway?"

"Irony," he answers with a sigh. "When I volunteered to join Dean's team, I didn't realize at the time that Dean had always intended to ask me. This gave him the opportunity to place certain conditions on that, knowing I wouldn't refuse. One of them was that I was always present for any and all meetings regarding our missions as well as the weekly meetings with the team leaders."

"Talk about the hells you negotiate for yourself with an ex-angel," Dean says in mock-wonder. "And you told him what you thought of his plans?"

"Personality, habits, speculated sanity, as well as that of the other team leaders in detail," he answers in remembered satisfaction. "And plans, of course."

"Did he listen?" As if he somehow missed that last meeting that long ago day before Kansas City. Castiel appreciates the attempt at implying that was an exception and not the rule.

"When it was something he felt was in my area of expertise--I believe he called it 'angel crap'--then yes, of course," he answers absently. "Not being human, of course, I couldn't always understand why some course of action was preferable to another, even after multiple explanations. In retrospect, I'm sure it was more frustrating and disappointing to him than it was to me. However, if anyone needed something killed, I could kill it, so the meetings were often previews of coming events."

"You never stopped telling him he was wrong, though."

Castiel thinks of those meetings, trapped in a room with Dean, Risa, and at least three people who wanted to kill him at any given time (usually more): hatred and contempt, revulsion and barely checked disgust, but always fear above all things. Fear is dangerous, he knows that, so if you plan to use it, you don't do it half-way.

"No," he answers, resting his feet on the coffee table. "It was a way to pass the time. Also, it was convenient. Vera's trips to Georgia needed an excuse for her to be out of the camp, and fortunately, when she finished training, Dean assigned her to extended missions. It was simple enough to assure she received the ones that required considerable travel time with no set return date."

"To avoid her much better aim after training?"

"That," he agrees in amusement, "but Dean did understand why she'd be more comfortable on those missions. She also had a talent for getting the information he needed and rarely failed in her assignments. It was a simple matter to arrange."

"I forgot to ask," Dean says suddenly. "Why'd you tell Vera about the other camps anyway?"

"I didn't." Sighing, he tips his head back on the couch. "It was an unfortunate convergence of circumstances. After Debra died, Vera stayed with me during training and for a short time after that--in a completely platonic manner," he adds suspiciously at Dean's innocent look. "Chuck used to accompany the patrol team to the border as our negotiator, but he was terrible at it. When Joseph replaced him, he didn't have any way to pass the reports to the border guards to deliver to those on the Georgia border. Vera overhead us discussing it when he came to ask me what we should do. I had no idea she was even listening."

Dean raises his eyebrows.

"I told you I wasn't used to living with anyone," he answers defensively. "I wasn't better at it then. Vera generally preferred to isolate herself in misery when not in training--which I understood--and Amanda or Risa would have to coax her out to experience fresh air not dusty from training and conversation with someone, since I wasn't very good at that, either."

"Risa?" Dean asks so casually that he might as well have added 'and this is not a casual question, in case you missed it'. "She was one of the team leaders, right?"

"Recently promoted," Castiel says carefully without reference to reason, assuming Dean will make the appropriate connections. "Sometimes, she didn't even have to grit her teeth before speaking to me, which in all honesty put her far ahead of many in the camp."

Dean nods, and Castiel would do a great deal to know what exactly he's thinking.

"In any case, I didn't realize Vera was present, and she heard enough to put together a fairly accurate guess," he continues. "Explaining the whole took less time than trying to deny it, especially since I couldn't make it believable."

"Huh," Dean says, sitting back. "So she offered to take over the Georgia runs?"

"She was adamant when she realized that Chuck and I were going to stop." Cas gives him a rueful look. "I thought it was probable her goal was to settle in Alpha, so it was something of a surprise when she returned with Gloria's letter and a surprisingly thorough report on what she observed. Not that she went into Alpha itself, which also surprised me; her explanation was that I'd ordered her not to, which was possibly the single strangest thing I'd heard since I Fell."

Dean doesn't bother to hide his smile. "She tell you why she wanted to do it?"

"The same reason I wanted to keep in contact in the first place," he answers slowly. "I suppose, in a sense, she was following your philosophy; she wanted more options. Not that either of us believed we'd ever have the chance to use this one."

"And she never told anyone. Besides Jeremy, I mean."

"The trips were not without their dangers; crossing the border is always a risk, and she has to cross into and out of at least one uninfected state each time. For various reasons, the same route couldn't be used each time, and it was inadvisable to cross certain parts of even infected states. One of the reasons I agreed to train Jeremy myself was because Dean had expressed his desire for her to have a partner on her missions, and Jeremy was the best and safest option as well as the only one she would easily accept. However, I think her other reason for insisting I do it was that she worried about who would do it should she be unable to."

Dean gives him a long look. "And if that happened?"

"I would have sent Jeremy to Alpha with a message to Gloria to keep him there," Castiel answers, staring at the far wall. "Vera's his only family here; without her, he would have no one at all and there would be no reason for him to stay here. In Alpha, he would be safe. Gloria would take him to Elijah, who, much like you, is extremely pliable when it comes to children."

"Jesus, only you," Dean murmurs, then abruptly makes an annoyed sound, and Castiel sees him looking at the eastern window ruefully. "Crap, I miss my watch. Looks like you're gonna be late for the morning lecture to the camp on their assignments on this glorious Apocalyptic day."

"Those are only weekly now and I never used any form of the word 'glory'," he responds absently, reviewing his duties today and what requires his attention or participation this morning: the afternoon he already arranged to his satisfaction. "However, there are a few things I should see to."

Dean grins at him, jerking his head toward the door, but the faint disappointment is impossible to miss. "See you tonight. Have fun."

"Yes," he says as he reluctantly gets to his feet, reminding himself firmly why he can't linger now, "that's what I was thinking, too."

---

Castiel is startled by two things on his return to the cabin just after noon: the first being Chuck's sudden, relieved smile at his appearance--not an expression that he thinks he's ever seen on Chuck's face in response to his mere presence--and the second, the closed bedroom door.

From the early days after the fever, the door was rarely if ever closed unless Dean requested it (sometimes very pointedly and with commentary on privacy). He's never denied Dean's accusation that he's paranoid, which in turn has led to Dean admitting, however reluctantly, that perhaps his habit of becoming deathly ill from minor wounds may provide some justification for it. The rule has been relaxed somewhat in response to Dean's increasing good health, but habit is pernicious; it's rare that Dean closes it without a specific reason.

Glancing into the kitchen, he sees the table is still littered with the detritus of lunch (noted: finished, excellent) but the chairs are still pulled away from the table, as if their inhabitants vacated them unexpectedly, and combined with the above....

"Who's with him?" Castiel asks in vague annoyance. Visitors are frequent and to be encouraged, but he wishes they'd remember to add their names to the schedule; it's there for a reason. Especially during lunch: it's still something of a challenge to get Dean to finish a well-balanced meal and distractions don't help.

"Sid," Chuck says immediately, wringing his hands and looking worried above and beyond an unexpected visitor, even Sidney. "He said he had to talk to Dean and Dean told me he'd be a few minutes. I tried to tell him--"

"Did he disarm?"

Chuck winces, and yes, that would be the reason; the schedule is (reluctantly) optional, but that isn't.

Before he can explain, Castiel is already at the door, knowing it would be pointless to blame him for following Dean's orders and reserving the right to do so anyway at a later time. He just remembers the correct method to request entry and knocks to satisfy half of it before opening the door. Two sets of eyes fix on him with surprise, but only Sidney's also reflect hostility. Dean simply looks vaguely amused from his seat on the edge of the bed, one leg swinging absently.

"Afternoon, Cas," he says, green eyes dancing inexplicably as Castiel scans Sidney. "Miss me?" He jerks his head. "Close the door and sit down. Sid--"

"Dean," Sidney interrupts rigidly, sitting impossibly straight in the chair across from Dean. "This is private."

"Nothing's private from Cas when it comes to the camp," Dean answers easily. "Cas?"

Closing the door on a relieved-looking Chuck, he leans back against it and crosses his arms, smiling at Sidney, pleased to see him stiffen further. "I prefer to stand."

"Suit yourself." Turning his attention back to Sidney, Dean cocks his head. "Okay, so anything else?"

Sidney gives Castiel a venomous look before he shakes his head, lips compressed into a thin, unhappy line. Castiel supposes he could have been less obvious that this discussion was about him, but then again, Sidney isn't known for his grasp of subtlety. The only surprise is that it's taken him this long to approach Dean personally; he expected Sidney to do so as soon as Dean started leaving the cabin regularly.

"All right," Dean says cheerfully, seemingly oblivious to flush rapidly spreading across Sidney's face. "Let me talk to Cas and--"

"Why do you have to clear it with Cas first?" Sidney bursts out angrily, face now resembling that of an overripe tomato. "This is your goddamn camp, right?"

Dean's smile doesn't change. "It's my camp," he agrees mildly, but when Castiel glances at him, the green eyes are watchful. "You got a problem with how I choose to run it?"

"I have a problem with the fact you're not the one running it anymore!" Sidney snaps, lunging to his feet. Castiel stiffens, but Dean flickers a warning glance at him before he's taken more than a step toward them. Sidney glares at Castiel briefly before looking at Dean again. "What the hell is he doing to you?"

"You were doing okay until that part." Dean's smile vanishes, green eyes hard. "Sit the fuck down, Sid."

Sidney obeys instantly, hostility abruptly replaced by uncertainty and the beginnings of fear. "Dean, I didn't mean--"

"I know what you meant," Dean interrupts, voice dangerously even. "Pay attention, Sid: I'm only gonna do this once." Reaching behind him, he pulls out Sidney's gun, weighing it in one hand, and Sidney's eyes widen in almost comical surprise, hand dropping automatically to his empty holster. "You heard what Chuck said about coming in here armed."

Sidney licks his lips, eyes fixed on the gun helplessly. "I didn't--"

"Shut up. Chuck shouldn't have had to remind you; the entire camp got the announcement of the new world order." Dean checks the safety before tossing the gun casually on the pillow beside him, then braces both hands on the edge of the mattress. "Sid, why did you bring a gun into this room against orders?"

The blood drains from Sidney's face in a sickly rush. "I didn't think--"

"That I knew about it? Or did you think I'd let it slide because Cas is the one that gave the order?" Sidney hesitates before shaking his head frantically. "Every order Cas gives in this camp is mine. Do you understand?"

Sidney nods immediately. "Yes, Dean."

"The reason you don't have a new team is that you're a shitty leader," Dean tells him. "That wasn't Cas's decision: it was mine. You almost killed half your team on patrol by sheer incompetence, and today, you got disarmed by a guy who still gets tired from getting up to take a piss and sleeps twelve hours a day and you didn't even notice. Tell me you see the problem here."

Sidney nods again, throat bobbing visibly as he swallows.

"Now, let's talk about what happened in here today." Sidney stills, closing his eyes. "You know the penalty for disobeying orders, I don't need to remind you."

"Expulsion from the camp," Castiel says helpfully at Dean's quick, hopeful glance. "With ten days of rations in MREs, of course."

Sidney licks his lips, peering at Dean's set expression before taking a deep breath. "I understand."

"Good," Dean says. "Then you'll appreciate what I'm about to tell you. I'm gonna give you a choice."

"What?" Sidney blinks, startled.

"Option one: you leave here, go to your cabin and get your shit, grab a ration pack from supply, and leave." Dean pauses, studying Sidney. "Option two: you stay. You'll be confined to your cabin when off-duty for the next month, and Cas will decide what your duties are gonna be, but assume there's gonna be a lot of mowing in your immediate future just to start. After a month, Cas gives me a report on how you're doing, and we'll decide what happens next." Before Sidney can do more than gape, Dean adds, "You show up here at dawn tomorrow, I'll assume you want to stay. You're dismissed."

Sidney swallows, nodding frantically as he starts to his feet.

"Sid," Dean says softly, and Sidney stills, looking up. "This conversation isn't happening again. Next time, I'll just shoot." He jerks his head toward the door. "Go."

Nodding again, he turns toward the door to blink at Castiel warily. Stepping back, Castiel opens the door, watching him hurry past Chuck and waiting for him to vanish outside before saying to Chuck, "You can go," who follows Sidney out immediately.

When he turns around, Dean's looking at him expectantly; it's almost enough to make him forget that when Dean told Sidney he'd shoot him, he meant it. "So? How'd I do?"

"It's your decision," he answers. "Chitaqua is yours, and your orders are final."

Dean jerks his head toward the chair in an invitation just short of an order. Uncertain, Castiel gingerly seats himself, and as Dean fixes him with that relentless green gaze, he feels a flicker of unwilling sympathy for Sidney being the focus of that.

After an endlessly long pause, Dean's mouth twitches. "Thanks for the evaluation."

"I don't…." He rolls his eyes. "It was the right decision. Not that you need my approval, of course."

"Doesn't mean I don't want to hear what you have to say," Dean says, bracing a hand on the mattress behind him. "We'll work on that."

Castiel nods, wondering what that's supposed to mean.

"Less bloodthirsty than I thought you'd go for, though," Dean adds, cocking his head. "Considering your expression when you came in here."

"I liked the last part very much," he confirms, and Dean loses his battle with a grin. "If he'd still been armed when I came in, the temptation to shoot him would have been difficult to resist, but I noticed his holster was empty."

Dean looks as if something is amusing him greatly. "You don't say."

"It's my job," he answers repressively. "I wish you'd had him elaborate on what exactly what it was I was supposedly doing to you to gain your compliance in my authorized coup of the camp, however. Torture would be fairly difficult to hide."

Dean abruptly seems to find the bathroom door inexplicably riveting. "It's a mystery. Anyway--"

"Sidney actually isn't that terrible, at least when it comes to combat." Dean looks back at him attentively, perfectly aware of what he wants to know. "How did you disarm him?"

"It's killing you, wondering if you missed something in training," Dean interprets. "What's bothering you more: that he came in here with a gun, or I got it away from him and he didn't even notice?"

He closes his eyes. "Professional pride may be a factor, yes."

"He's been grounded too long, that's all," Dean answers, giving in gracefully. "I think I get why he fails at leadership--way too easily distracted. I heard him arguing with Chuck and moved the chair to the wall so he'd have to turn his back on me to get it. Between the fight with Chuck, his worry Chuck would go for reinforcements--that being you--and being righteously pissed at you, he wouldn't have noticed me put a gun to his head before I pulled the trigger."

"Why did you disarm him?" Even in his more pessimistic moments regarding Sidney's character, he honestly can't see him attacking Dean.

Dean shrugs, looking pleased with himself. "I wanted to see if I could. And you know, the rule about being armed in here. Why is that again?"

"You attacked Vera with her own knife during the fever, and despite being feverish, dehydrated, and hadn't been able to keep down food for two days, almost managed to cut her throat while reciting an exorcism," he answers practically. "If you need to know why it's in effect now, review the last five minutes for the answer."

"Sid didn't come here to shoot me." Dean cocks his head. "So how long is that rule gonna last anyway?"

"I think it would be prudent that it remain permanent," he admits, ignoring Dean's snort. "But after today, the reason for it will be less pressing."

"Oh?" Dean looks curious, then frowns. "Wait, why are you here anyway? Don't you have--"

"I gave Melanie temporary command for the remainder of the day."

Dean winces. "What do you owe her for that?"

"A bottle of Eldritch Horror," he answers, adding in bewilderment, "I have no idea how that name has spread so quickly or how it became so popular." Dean bites his lip. "Also, possibly my soul: it wasn't my best negotiation. Do you need assistance getting dressed?"

Dean scowls at him. "Hell no, and why?"

"Dress warmly. You'll need your boots," he answers, getting up. "I'll wait for you outside."

---

Dean slowly gets out of the jeep, looking around the quiet countryside in surprised pleasure. "I knew there was a world outside the camp walls, but you know, my memory since the fever…."

"Unlike your fixation on counting imaginary sheep, this is quite real," Castiel answers from the other side of the jeep. Dean gives him a half-interested look before turning back to take in the orchard of fruit trees surrounding them, a riot of red-brown and yellow leaves rustling softly in the light breeze. "I thought that you might prefer to take your daily exercise here rather than within the walls of the camp. Provided it remains safe to do so and you are accompanied, you can choose to go anywhere within a five mile radius of the camp."

Most of the area immediate to Chitaqua was abandoned before they arrived, but he thinks this must have been a small family farm at one time; the overgrown fields in yellow-browns and fading greens surround the remains of what might have been a farmhouse before it collapsed, but the large barn is still standing, the red and white faded but still easily visible. His explorations ended at the ten mile mark, but he remembers coming here several times soon after they settled in Chitaqua, watching the progression of pink blooms that would one day become fruit if an early or late freeze didn't kill them on the branch.

Despite the growingly erratic pattern of the seasons over the last five years, the weather's finally drifted into an uncertain fall, the crisp air promising winter may arrive in the general vicinity of December. As Dean shivers despite the layers of t-shirt and flannel beneath the coat that was acquired when Castiel sent a team to find Dean suitable clothing, he makes a mental note to plan another excursion soon. And for that matter find someone who either knows how to hang a door or he can motivate to learn how to do it or teach him themselves. Surely it can't be that difficult, he thinks; humans have been building their own shelters for millennia when they graduated from caves.

Dean glances at him wryly over the hood. "Which team drew the short straw for babysitting?"

Sighing, he circles to the rear of the jeep. "It was the first meeting I've conducted where I had to order everyone to disarm beforehand, which may be the only reason all the patrol leaders are still alive. However, as all of them are extremely adept at unarmed combat, the consensus was that whatever team was currently on downtime between patrol assignments would have the privilege." Dean looks curiously at him as he opens the back of the jeep. "They accepted the compromise with poor grace."

"To sit out here watching me slowly walk in circles?"

"To spend time with their leader," he corrects him. "Who asks them what Joseph, on your orders, has been able to discover about their families and friends. Who asks for their opinions during patrol meetings and not only listens to them, but on occasion takes their advice."

"And traumatizes them with talk of conquering Kansas in my name," Dean adds. "Oh, wait, that was you."

"Who wants to protect them, who wants to protect everyone, and has started with those in this state by offering to teach them how to protect themselves." He pauses, watching Dean's face. "Who ordered Sidney to his cabin to think about his sins instead of casting him out."

Dean shifts uncomfortably. "Right."

"People like that sort of thing," he observes. "Or so I've heard."

Joining him, Dean braces his shoulder against the side of the jeep and crosses his arms. "You weren't surprised. Sid coming by, I mean."

"He doesn't trust me and believes I'm taking advantage of your illness for my personal benefit." What Sidney could possibly think he's getting out of this other than a constant source of low-grade stress is something he has yet to discover. "And that I'm denying him his right to have his own team from spite, which isn't entirely inaccurate, though his incompetence is my primary motivation."

"Interesting. Cas, how much trouble have you had with him that you didn't tell me about?" A quick glance confirms Dean's not pleased with that. "Not like this is my camp or anything."

"If it became a problem, I would have told you," he responds. "Or Vera would have, per her job description as camp spy."

Dean snorts. "It's just, your definition of a problem is probably different from mine, or historically, that of anyone else in the world. Short version: when it gets to the bullet stage? We are way fucking past what I define as a problem. Who else--"

"He hasn't made any attempt on my life," he answers incredulously. "Sidney is annoying, but he's not suicidal. Or homicidal, for that matter."

"Would you turn your back on him?"

He thinks of Dean's expression when he told Sidney, Next time, I'll just shoot. Sidney wasn't the target; he just put himself in convenient range today.

"Yes," he answers with all the certainly he can muster, turning to look at Dean. This isn't just his friend and his leader he's facing, but a man who doesn't need anything but himself to be dangerous.

He's never made the mistake of underestimating the quality of Dean's mind compared to that of his brother; they complemented each other so well working together that it was sometimes difficult to remember how dangerous they were apart. It wasn't John Winchester that made Dean very familiar to both the supernatural and other hunters well before Sam joined him, and it wasn't Dean alone who made them so dangerously adept together.

Dean had five years longer than his counterpart with Sam Winchester, and it shows, more every day. Sam's carefully analytical mind and neatly organized chains of logical thought, his ruthless pursuit of not only 'how' but also 'why', and the willingness to explore all possibilities made him as skilled a hunter as his brother, invaluable as his partner, and unexpectedly, Dean's most influential teacher. Dean's sharp observation skills married to Sam's analysis, intuition chained to Sam's logic, and the curiosity they shared now fused with the need to not only know but understand.

There's little of John Winchester in Dean now, all of it surface, the fading remainder of childhood conditioning; this is the hunter and man that Sam Winchester shaped from their father's own distorted image. He regrets he didn't make the effort to know Sam better here, or wish, impossibly, that he could meet Dean's brother in his world; Dean's stories give tantalizing glimpses of someone almost as impossible as he is.

(And belatedly apologize for judging him for his relationship with Ruby; in retrospect, the attraction is perfectly understandable. He suspects, however, that isn't something he should ever, even by implication, express to Dean. Especially considering his startlingly hostile reaction to Vera when he thought she was Meg, which Dean has yet to explain.)

"He was very--in training, Dean and I felt that Sidney required more personalized instruction," he starts. "Despite the fact it was for his benefit, he was extremely unhappy being required to do additional drills after his classmates were dismissed."

Dean nods shortly. "That's it?"

"Not--exactly." He's not certain how to explain, but Dean's expression motivates him to try. "Millennia of observation of humanity didn't impart as much practical information as you might assume when it came to human relationships." To his relief, Dean blinks, the tension easing minutely. "Sidney was involved with one of the other hunters in his class, and apparently, they had an argument one night, and--"

"You're kidding." Dean cocks his head, the beginnings of a smile playing around his lips. "You were the rebound?"

"If only." He blows out a breath in remembered annoyance. "What is the correct term when the motivation for sexual intercourse with someone is revenge against someone else? I asked, but no one seemed to know."

Dean covers his face, head dropping against the jeep followed by a muffled sound. "Jesus, Cas."

"It's not as if she told me," he says defensively, eyes narrowing at the hiccuping sound emerging from Dean's general direction. "So I shouldn’t have done that, yes, but when I inquired further, it's inappropriate to ask a potential sexual partner if their motivation for sexual intercourse is revenge, or ask their motivation at all."

Dean wheezes breathlessly in what may or may not be laughter.

"From what I've been able to discover," he continues stiffly, "I should simply know, I assume from divine revelation since I can't think of another way. Then I was told a questionnaire was inappropriate--"

"Oh God," Dean gasps helpfully.

"--and apparently it would break the mood if I requested one be filled out completely before sexual congress commenced to avoid the potential for such situations. There are so many rules, and most of them make no sense at all; how on earth did your species make such a mess of something so incredibly enjoyable, not to mention convenient? It took effort to do this, and worse, it was entirely voluntary on your part. Nothing in your original design explains it, and your history seems to imply an unhealthy and frankly ridiculous resentment of anything even remotely pleasurable."

Dean makes inarticulate sounds against the jeep, shoulders shaking as he buries his face against his arm, which has no effect whatsoever on muffling his laughter. "You had a questionnaire?"

Yes, that would be the part Dean focuses on. "Do tell me when you're done," he says caustically, waiting for Dean to recover. "I'll wait."

After an inordinate amount of time has passed, Dean finally lifts his head, cheeks bright with color and green eyes dancing, and Castiel finds himself unable to look away.

"So," Dean pauses for a deep breath, choking back another snicker before continuing, "that happen a lot?"

It takes him a long moment to remember the subject: Sidney, and unfortunate choices in sexual partners, yes. "Never again," he answers vaguely as Dean wipes his eyes and grins at him. "That I know of, in any case."

"If it did, you'd be the first to know," Dean assures him, but despite the easy grin, Castiel doesn't think he's forgotten the original subject.

"No one, including Sidney, has threatened me or challenged my orders," he says carefully. "Provided they continue to perform their duties adequately, I'm not interested in whether they're particularly enthusiastic about it." Dean cocks his head again, not entirely convinced. "If you trust me enough to run the camp for you, you should trust my judgment on what constitutes a problem while I do it."

"Yeah, throw that in my face." Dean frowns at him. "You get that if you get yourself shot, it's gonna be Joe or Vera and they will, literally, require my soul in payment to take over?"

"I don't think even your soul would be considered adequate compensation." If nothing else, the last few weeks have illustrated how literal Vera was when she said there was no one else who would take responsibility for the camp in Dean's absence. "Come here."

Curious, Dean joins him, gaze flicker down to the back of the jeep before going still. "What--"

"I told you that all our vehicles carry a full arsenal," he answers mildly as Dean almost shoves him aside to catalogue their collection. "However, I took out the usual complement; these are yours. I've checked them all for functionality, and Amanda and I verified all are in working order over the last few days."

"Holy shit." Dean reaches for one of the rifles, checking the salt-load automatically before he stills, looking briefly uncomfortable. "Dude, I saw his closet. Pretty sure functionality was a given."

He thought that might be a problem. "These aren't his," he responds, focusing on the gun in Dean's hand. "I chose them from our inventory in the arsenal for your use. We've always had a large surplus due to the United States' military spending budget and their more is better philosophy, so the military units always had an excess for trade. None of these have been used by anyone before."

Dean's sharp intake of breath tells him he'd been correct in his assumptions, confirmed by the quick glance reflecting nothing but relief and pleasure now.

"Thanks." Setting the rifle down, Dean begins to sort through them with professional curiosity, and Castiel notes the ones he lingers on, marking which he finds unfamiliar. "So where am I putting them when we get back? Not like you have space."

"We'll find somewhere to put them." Perhaps they could build another closet, though construction isn't something he's entirely familiar with, much like doors. Nate's assistance will definitely be needed. "But only after I know you can use all of them."

Dean straightens immediately. "What?"

"You can start today," he adds, tilting his head invitingly to the field just beyond the orchard. "If you don't have other plans."

Dean's eyes follow his, squinting for a moment before he says blankly, "A shooting range. You built me a shooting range?"

"Before I made the decision on rotating the teams who would accompany you, Joseph was winning. He and his team accepted doing this for you as a consolation prize and finished it yesterday." When Dean turns back around, Castiel extends a Smith and Wesson .45; they generally use this gauge or higher, the weight shouldn't be too taxing at Dean's current strength with multiple targets, and it'll be easier to judge Dean's accuracy with both hands before his right begins to show its current limitations. "There are currently fourteen targets. We can add more when you're ready."

Dean takes it, fingers sliding down the barrel in appreciation. "Cas, uh, right now--"

"You're out of practice and your endurance is far below optimum," he agrees, watching Dean's fingers tighten. "The continued weakness in your right hand still bothers you and you still aren't used to using your left though you have worked to strengthen it, I know. I'll promise to refrain from outright mockery."

"Thanks. That means a lot coming from you." Glancing down at the gun, Dean takes a deep breath before grinning at him. "Let's do this."

---

From his seat at the base of an apple tree, Castiel watches Dean disappear behind the edge of the orchard to retrieve another weapon from the jeep, flexing his right hand absently before shoving it in his pocket.

He originally planned to allow Dean no more than an hour of practice today, but as they approach the two hour mark, he acknowledges that short of Dean collapsing in feverish exhaustion, he has no intention of doing anything that might interfere with his enjoyment until he's ready to stop himself. He's shown surprising endurance, in any case, which makes him wonder if the story of Sampson and his hair should be updated for a more modern and very literal parable of the hunter and his guns.

His right arm, however, is far weaker than his left, and it's not simply due to the fever and lost muscle tone. He isn't sure yet how much is the result of permanent nerve damage or the fact it's still healing and muscle is still being rebuilt, but the tremor in his hand that begins after even a short period of use is a concern; that Dean can control it is obvious, and sufficient rest between periods of use seems to help, but it's also obvious it's an effort for him to do so, and more of one every time he uses his right hand.

To his surprise, Dean returns from the jeep unarmed and carrying two of the bottles of water Castiel acquired from the mess tucked under his left arm. Joining Castiel by the tree, he sits down to survey the impromptu target range with unhidden satisfaction, then eye the pile of targets at Castiel's left with smug pleasure.

"Not too bad," he allows, handing Castiel one before twisting off the lid off his own and taking a drink. His left hand is showing a considerable increase in manual dexterity, and just as importantly, Dean's starting to use it reflexively when needed. "Might make it more challenging if--"

"--you were wearing a blindfold and the targets were invisible?" Dean conceals his smirk beneath another drink. "You make it look simple."

Dean rolls the bottle absently between his hands, pressing his right palm more firmly to the cool plastic. "Cas, I've seen you shoot. You're--"

"Fast, yes," he interrupts, taking a drink while trying to decide how to explain. "But that's not enough. I have to think about it, and my accuracy suffers because of that. I compensate for it with faster reflexes, but there's a delay."

"You're more the bladed weapon type of guy."

"Only for all my existence," he admits. "Projectile weapons aren't generally a part of the Host's traditional arsenal. It used to annoy Dean very much when he was familiar enough with my abilities to be able to see the hesitation."

"Holy shit," Dean remarks, taking another drink. "So there's like, levels of vague blur?"

"Apparently," he admits with a sigh. "On the range with Amanda, it was painfully obvious how out of practice I am; she says she can almost tell, which is worrying." Dean tips his head toward the field hopefully, grin widening. "Dean, I can't continue to mock Sidney for not noticing that you disarmed him despite the fact you're still recovering from near death if on the very same day, I'm forced to acknowledge you can also outshoot me."

He gives Castiel a sardonic look that changes into curiosity. "What about after you Fell? Did he--you know--check you again on everything?"

"Just to make sure I retained what I was taught," Castiel answers. "I did, of course, so he focused on helping me adjust to what my body could now tolerate with my speed and strength, then worked until those limits became reflexive. Which is why, I suppose, I don't regularly dislocate anything when in combat." Honesty forces him to add, "Or at least reduces the number."

Dean makes a face before taking another drink. "That was two years ago, though. You got better with the entire human body experience--" Castiel gives him an incredulous look. "You have! Haven't killed yourself yet, so maybe it's time to update your assessment or whatever. I mean, you didn't have a lot of time back then, right? You and Dean started training recruits pretty soon after you got here. So what, you had a month--"

"A week."

Dean visibly startles, gaping at him. "A week?"

"By the time I was--" Sane, he supposes uncertainly; Bobby and Dean were extremely unforthcoming regarding those two weeks, "--well, most of the recruits were at Chitaqua, and we needed to evaluate and begin their training.

"A week," Dean repeats flatly. "Let me get this straight: you Fall, get the full human body experience, the--two weeks to--"

"You can say 'go insane'," he offers when Dean seems at a loss. "Your guess is as good as mine, but from what I understand, I was not entirely--rational. That was time we couldn't afford to lose, and so we did the best we could with what time we had."

For a long moment, Dean simply looks at him, green eyes unreadable. "Right. The mission came first." He nods warily. "And one week to learn not to kill yourself before getting back to business. One week of best guess and use whatever you got then--in a week--for the rest of your life on earth."

Castiel almost answers that he wasn't convinced at the time he'd live long enough for it to be an issue, but Dean's expression suggests that wouldn't be a good idea. In any case, Dean isn't wrong; he didn't consider the probability that over two years of injuries and age would definitely cause a degradation in his performance and adjustments made, and with Dean here, he can't afford not to know all his weaknesses and how to compensate for them.

(Though age is probably less of a problem: his Father's resurrection and recreation of this body, much like what he did with Dean's, gave only the most superficial attention to its actual age, and Grace held his body in perfect suspension until the moment he put the last of it into what would eventually become the camp wards. Resurrection can be very helpful in considerably extending the time they'll be useful in combat. That's extraordinarily convenient when it comes to fighting an Apocalypse, come to think.)

"You're correct," he says when he becomes aware that Dean's waiting for his answer. "But there's no one that has the experience--specifically with me--to do that kind of assessment. Amanda is my student; she can't be objective, for one, and two, she isn't aware of what I could do as an angel in more than theory. It would help to have a precedent to my situation, but as I might have mentioned before--"

"You're very special, Cas," Dean assures him with syrupy sincerity. "Okay, what about Amy at Alpha?"

Castiel bites back his doubt that two and a half years is long enough for Amy to have relegated their interactions in Alpha to fond nostalgia, though he has fond hopes of armed neutrality being a possibility in some nebulous and not entirely impossible future. Anything is possible.

"And there's that look again," Dean observes, tilting his head slowly to the side.

"What do I look like?"

Dean bites his lip, frowning. "Like Sam when I say I got an idea."

"You mean an idea so insane that he wondered if you'd lost your mind?"

Dean points at him. "That one. Except they weren't insane, they were just--you know, different. Off the beaten path."

He considers that description in light of his current feelings. "That's surprisingly accurate."

"I'm good." Casually switching the bottle to his right hand, he starts to add something before he nearly drops it, fingers reddening as they cling determinedly to the plastic as his entire hand begins to shake. Taking it back in his left, he flattens his right on his knee, staring down at it bitterly as it continues to tremble. "Fuck."

"Let me see," Castiel says quietly. After a long moment, Dean takes a deep breath and extends it. Glancing at Dean for permission, he eases Dean's arm down, turning his hand in place to rest it palm-up on his knee. "Relax it."

With an effort, Dean does just that, and the shaking mutes to a visible tremor.

"Five minutes in, it starts," Dean says quietly, a flicker of bitter anger beneath the calm. "I can control it for five more, maybe, but it needs to rest or--" Before his eyes, it slows to near-invisible motion, barely more than a vibration as Dean tries to control it before giving up again. "Yeah, it's shot for the day."

Spreading Dean's fingers carefully, the tremor briefly slows before Dean makes an effort to relax again. The red, swollen skin along fingers and palm promises blisters in the near future; all his gun calluses are gone and will need to be built again. Following the line of Dean's wrist, he studies the still-healing wound; the scar tissue promises to be thick, but regular stretching should assure there's no loss of flexibility when moving it, and the books Vera acquired have various exercises that he knows Dean performs regularly.

Tracing a finger over the scarring, he glances up at Dean, who shakes his head. Holding Dean's eyes, he presses harder, careful not to cause further damage, and uses Dean's nods--both the certain ones and more importantly, the more hesitant--to get some idea of how much sensation was lost and where. The wrist is fine, as well as the palm, dorsal, and heel, but the fingers are more variable; the index, middle, and ring still have decreased sensation.

"What did Vera say before she left?" he asks.

Dean grimaces. "Not her field, but it's still healing, so too early to be sure. Three fingers still feel a little muffled," he wiggles them, confirming Castiel's observation, "but she was pretty sure that would go away. Be careful working it because it's still healing and everything." He flexes his hand and winces, hand twitching involuntarily as the muscles visibly knot beneath the thin skin. "Sorry, cramps."

"So worst case scenario is right now." He shifts his grip until he can rub a thumb against Dean's palm. Dean winces again, but nods hopefully when Castiel pauses for permission. Gently, he traces the knotted muscles with a finger to locate the problem areas before beginning to massage them away, concentrating his attention on the tight tendons and soothing the overworked muscles with care. "I think--today, at least--this is the result of overuse. The shape of the butt of a gun stretches and works the muscles differently than the balls you've been using for exercise. The largest of them is foam; it can be cut into a more appropriate shape for you to use to help your muscles adapt between your visits to the range. I should have done it earlier; you haven't needed to use that one for some time."

Dean nods, but his eyes are half-closed, tension running out of his shoulders, which Castiel assumes means he's doing an acceptable job.

"Doing too much while you're healing could make it worse. There's no reason to believe you'll be significantly limited with most of handguns when it's fully healed," he continues, carefully working toward the heel of Dean's hand and feeling the remaining tension slowly leaking away. "Your accuracy with your right hand is almost unsettlingly good despite how long it's been since you practiced and its current weakness, so the goal is to increase its strength and the length of time you have before the tremor begins. I suggest limiting its use to handguns only for now. With your left, concentrate on increasing your accuracy with the rifles and shotguns as quickly as possible. While it's currently acceptable, there's always room for improvement, and it's not reflexive yet for you to use your left; you still have to think before you shoot."

"Like you--oh, right there." Dean closes his eyes with a soft moan when he obediently concentrates his attention on the dorsal.

Taking a steadying breath, Castiel wonders incredulously what his Father was thinking during the design stage; human bodies are remarkably resistant to understanding context when reacting to stimulus. Especially, he reflects resentfully as Dean makes a quiet noise that he chooses not to identify for his own sanity, when the stimulus is sexually unavailable. Surely some kind of override should have been installed to deal with circumstances like this, especially when the random element of sexuality is a factor, and usually depressingly so.

Much like the platypus and Fibonacci's sequence, he sometimes suspects his Father's sense of humor was involved far too closely in the details of human Creation.

"Better?" he asks, closing his eyes briefly in appalled horror at the sound of his own voice and hoping desperately that Dean's too distracted to notice. With an effort, he makes himself let go at Dean's dreamy nod, opening eyes gone vague and soft before slumping back against the trunk of the tree behind him with an audible sigh of heartfelt satisfaction. With no effort whatsoever, he can think of a dozen ways to assure Dean looks like that several times a day, even taking into account time needed for camp duties, regular meals, Dean's current strength, and his corresponding need for more sleep.

"Thanks," Dean says huskily, as content as Castiel's ever seen him. "You're good at that."

"Massage is a useful skill," he answers as neutrally as possible, which has the effect of making Dean smirk but not less attractive; then again, he has yet to witness a moment that Dean isn't and is starting to suspect he never will. "It was common after difficult or extended missions to have muscle spasms due to overuse."

Dean rolls his eyes. "I'm sure that's where you got in your practice time."

Remembering Dean's horror at his own appearance in the bathroom mirror, he wonders suddenly if he would be more satisfied with it now. While still underweight, he's made a great deal of progress in regaining what he lost, and the bruised hollows beneath his eyes have lightened, sharp cheekbones no longer threatening to cut through skin like paper, and the dark hair is long enough now to offset the thinness of his face. The results of the side effects of the various medications they used during the weeks of the fever have long since vanished, and while the continuing pallor is still in evidence, direct sunlight is still the exception, not the rule. Currently sheened in a light sweat and flushed from exertion, lips curved in a pleased smile, Dean no longer seems so terrifyingly fragile, as if he could shatter on a breath.

Reaching up to scratch the back of his head, Dean's eyes narrow at his attention. "What? Dude, you see me every day. You gotta be used to me looking like crap."

"You don't." Tilting his head, he tries to decide how Dean would react to seeing himself. The improvement in his health is striking, but what's seen in the reflection of the mirror is rarely if ever what's actually there. "No one would mistake you for the walking dead, if that's what you mean."

Dean makes a face. "Thanks."

"I do appreciate the aesthetics of human appearance," he continues as Dean picks up his almost empty bottle and finishes the remainder, the earlier contentment now edged with something unhappy. "It isn't a source of perpetual misery to look at you."

Dean leans an elbow on his knee, the easier to bestow on Castiel the entirety of his incredulity. "That's your pick-up line? 'You're not that bad, so let's have sex'?"

"I wasn't--"

"Thanks, Cas," Dean interrupts, looking into the distance with a resigned expression. "That makes me feel a lot better."

Castiel regards him for a few long moments. "How long can you keep this up?"

"For as long as you're falling for it."

He really should teach Dean chess. The pieces are large and easily visible in motion. "In general, when I ask someone if they want to have sex, it should be assumed I find them attractive," he answers, watching Dean's mouth tremble on a smile. "We live under the constant threat of imminent death. Our time, you might say, is rather limited, and we're very motivated to make the most of it." Before Dean can respond to that, he adds, "And you're extremely attractive and a pleasure to observe for an extended period of time. It's simply questionable whether you could stay awake long enough to indulge in anything more interactive than observation, which I doubt." Though he would have no objections to testing that thoroughly.

Dean cocks his head. "Tell me you don't talk a lot during sex."

"Interestingly enough, I've found that it's the one time that I can be assured of an answer to any question I ask," he answers, watching in fascination as Dean's cheeks darken with new color. "Usually at length and often in considerable detail, provided I offer the proper motivation."

The color deepens appreciably before Dean abruptly frowns, looking into the middle distance and shifting in place. "So while we're here, this would probably be a good time to…." Abruptly, he unfolds himself, getting to his feet and stumbling in his haste before catching himself against the trunk of the tree. Reaching down, he scoops up his empty water bottle almost eagerly. "I'm gonna get more water. You want some?"

"Was that segue supposed to be subtle?" he asks curiously, extending his own bottle.

"That's a good question. Let me get back to you after I've thought about it." He pushes off the tree, grabbing the bottle before continuing on what is unmistakably a retreat toward the jeep with equally unsubtle speed.

Twisting around, Castiel watches him vanish into the orchard, wondering what Dean could possibly consider an uncomfortable conversation at this point. Dean's never shown any Puritanical inclinations regarding sex before; his counterpart certainly had no inhibitions discussing it with Castiel well before it was anything other than a theoretical exercise, and in extraordinarily graphic detail. Though now that he thinks about it, Dean was often drunk during those discussions.

Leaning back against the tree, he closes his eyes, lulled by the peace and quiet of the clearing, broken only by the faint sound of the branches moving in the occasional breeze. It's been a very long time since he went outside Chitaqua's walls for anything other than necessity or a specific purpose. He supposes this would qualify as purpose--Dean needed somewhere to regain his skills without the entirety of the camp in constant observation and nowhere in Chitaqua would that be possible, no matter how many orders Castiel issued to that effect--but the choice of location outside the camp was his own. It was the first place he thought of when Joseph asked him where they would build Dean's range, despite the fact there were several places closer to the safety of the wards and a few with more than sufficient space. It's only advantage is that it has the closest proximity to the local patrol route, which Joseph accepted with a nod and without mentioning he never actually protested Castiel's choice.

Joseph also attempted--with some success--not to smile through his rather protracted explanation of his reasons as they toured the orchard and the overgrown field (now mowed) where the targets would go. He's almost certain at some point he mentioned the advisability of sufficient shade should it become too hot, and not once did Joseph glance up at the perpetually overcast sky or mention the season is now technically fall. Joseph did, however, comment that it must be very lovely during the spring when the apple trees begin to bloom, observing it would be a very pleasant place for Dean to take his daily exercise as well as practice his marksmanship.

It would be, yes: Castiel told him of the unusual variety of flora and pointed out where the wild honeysuckle would drape itself across the branches of the trees, wild strawberry vines weaving throughout the high grass in ropes of verdant green dotted with splashes of vivid red, and how the air was redolent with the smell of mint after it rained.

Joseph nodded again. "He'll like it, Cas, I promise."

"Of course he will," he answered, frowning at the faint tremble in Joseph's voice. "He will have a superlative range where he may practice in peace without feeling he's being stalked or judged by his subordinates."

"Yeah," Joseph agreed, shifting his rifle. "That would be the reason."

"Good," he said suspiciously. "Do you have any questions?"

"Not a one," Joseph assured him. "Just want to mention we'll avoid the strawberry fields."

"That isn't a concern," he said, pointing toward the far less florally-inspired field west of the orchard. "You'll be mowing that one."

"Right," Joseph said, surveying the waves of uninteresting beige grass critically. "Be a nice view of the sunset from the orchard when we're done."

That's what he thought as well; it was pleasant to have his supposition confirmed.

"Finally decided to stop hiding behind those wards of yours, huh?"

Going still, Castiel opens his eyes to the sight of a man standing several feet away, a gun trained on his head. While very tall, the man's heavy frame is gaunt from probable malnutrition, wide shoulders bony beneath a ragged beige t-shirt. A thatch of stringy red hair surrounds a square face, freckles vivid against the yellow-white skin stretched tight over his cheekbones and prominent chin, brown eyes sunken into black circles and thin lips curled into a bloodless sneer. It's not a particularly attractive package, but what it contains is even less so.

As if he were waiting for acknowledgement first, Castiel hears him click the safety. "Stay where you are, Castiel."

Measuring the distance between them at a glance, he keeps his hands resting on his knees, watching the sneer split into a yellow-toothed grin, and the brown eyes flickering briefly to black.

"Long time no see. Now throw me your weapons." At Castiel's hesitation, he snorts. "Come on, Cas. No way you can get me before I get off a shot, and then where will your little friend over by the jeep be?" He can feel the blood drain from his face, and the demon smiles in satisfaction. "That knife, too. I know you're carrying it, so don't even try."

Taking a steadying breath--if Dean were dead, the demon wouldn't bother using him as a threat--he removes his gun, tossing it half the distance between them and noting the demon's lack of reaction before reaching behind him to get the second one, throwing it just short of the first. Pulling up his knee as slowly as he can, he reaches into his boot for Ruby's knife, palming the hilt and evaluating the risk.

If Dean's still alive--and he is, he must be, he will be--there's no margin of error, and it's very rare to succeed with a demon on the first try with a knife, especially one ready for just that. Throwing it to the right and behind the guns, he watches the demon's eyes snap to see where it lands before his posture shifts from blatant threat to overly confident amusement.

"So I hear Dean's alive after all," the demon says conversationally, waving his gun in an erratic circle. Castiel draws in a sharp breath, adrenaline hitting him hard enough to make him nauseous as the demon thrusts his head forward like a particularly dim and malnourished bull, staring at him with malicious glee. "Don't tell me--you resurrected him from salted ashes in Chitaqua! It's a miracle of Biblical proportions!"

Even through the blood pounding in his ears, he manages to answer. "I don't know what--"

"Just one question." He pauses for a melodramatic moment of badly manufactured curiosity, eyes widening to provide unneeded emphasis, and scratches his temple with the barrel of his gun before seeming to think better of it. "How the hell did you get Dean's merry band of psychopaths to go along with that bullshit?"

In general, he's learned that when in doubt, say nothing at all. In this case, it's also necessary, as he has no idea what he's talking about.

"Why you thought anyone would believe that bullshit…." Shaking his head, the demon throws out both arms in an uneven arc of manufactured astonishment, and abruptly, Castiel's right ear is ringing as splintered pieces of wood rain down over his shoulder from the trunk of the tree behind him.

Tipping his head up, Castiel looks incredulously at the bullet buried in the trunk of the tree, then back at the startled demon, who hastily takes aim again.

"Don't move," the demon grinds between his teeth, confidence replaced with something not unlike incipient panic, the barrel wobblingly dangerously. "You understand me?"

Years in Hell tend to erode the memories of how to control and coordinate a physical body, and it takes time and experience for a demon to learn to do so while actively suppressing the personality of the original owner. Trying to look at harmless as possible, Castiel wonders if it's possible that he's being held hostage by a demon who has never actually used a firearm before today while wearing one.

Fixing his gaze on the erratic movements of the barrel as it dips upward briefly before beginning a leisurely journey toward his hips then darting back to his head, he thinks it's also possible that if he isn't careful, he may well be killed by accident.

By an amateur: he wonders if this is what embarrassment feels like. "What did you do with him?"

"Who?" The demon cocks his head, eyes flickering black in bewilderment before comprehension sets in. "Oh, the guy by the jeep?" He smirks. "Chitaqua's standards are slipping, Cas. He didn't even hear me coming up behind him."

For a blissful moment, Castiel indulges himself in the unlikely fantasy that Dean did the sensible thing and returned to the camp for reinforcements, which is as likely as this particular demon being able to approach Dean from behind without him noticing. Which means Dean's currently watching Castiel being held at gunpoint by a demon with poor motor control and an odd inability to get to the point of his visit.

Embarrassment with a potential understanding of the concept of humiliation: it's been a far more productive day than he expected.

"Don't worry, sunshine," the demon continues, smacking his thin lips unattractively. "Little headache, no worse for wear when he wakes up. Why the hell did you pick him up, anyway? You run through everyone who'd fuck you in Chitaqua?"

So they've met: that narrows it down considerably. Familiar with Chitaqua's hunters in general but doesn't recognize Dean Winchester on sight, and if he got this close to Chitaqua, he's been there before. Knows the exact distance necessary to offset Castiel's speed but has no skill with firearms and abysmal conversational skills.

"Jeffrey."

Looking into the black-filmed eyes, Castiel smiles slowly at Jeffrey's reflexive flinch.

"The last time I saw you, you were on your knees begging for me to finish the exorcism." Jeffrey blinks, taking an involuntary step back. "You can't possibly hold a grudge after all this time. I did let you go, as I promised. And all parts were fully intact, for the most part."

Jeffrey swallows, throat bobbing visibly. "You think anything you could do to me compares to Hell?"

"Your sobbing was very convincing." Jeffrey shivers, eyes dropping briefly. "I could always provide another demonstration for your edification."

Jeffrey bares his teeth in blatant threat; it's far less convincing than his sobbing.

"Standards must be slipping in Hell. Is recruitment going so badly for my Brother that those who fail him as dramatically as you did are permitted to try again?" Jeffrey glares at him, finger trembling on the trigger. "If you shoot this time, Jeffrey, you'd better kill me. You aren't fast enough to get off a second shot before I snap your spine and rip it from your still-writhing body."

Jeffrey licks his lips wetly, and Castiel can see the barrel begin to tremble. "You're lucky I'm here with instructions to talk first."

"Rip his spine from his still-writhing body?" a familiar voice murmurs against his ear before he can make the mistake of asking Jeffrey if he understands what 'convincing' means and how telling him he won't kill him doesn't qualify when one wants to appear genuinely threatening. "Sorry I'm late for the party," Dean continues quietly, one warm hand resting on the back of his neck. "I miss anything?"

Castiel shakes his head minutely: if only he had.

"It was like a shitty Halloween remake; he hit every twig in the orchard," Dean adds in disgust. "I didn't want him to see my face, so I went with it. Found that marker I left in the jeep and decided to see how well those sigils of your work on demons. Looks like they do."

"Breathtakingly luck," Castiel says blankly, which has the unintended consequence of making Jeffrey relax, the barrel steadying at this proof of sincerity. "If you're here to talk, then please get to the point."

"Will this invisible thing work for you if I do it while he's looking right at you?" Dean asks him quietly as Jeffrey begins to expound on something that Castiel can't bother himself to listen to. As carefully as he can, he shakes his head in response to Dean's question. "Right. Why make this easy? Okay, let's find out what he's doing here."

"Cas?" Jeffrey interrupts petulantly. "You listening to me?"

"Riveted," Castiel assures him as Dean shifting impatiently behind him and in range of Jeffrey's increasingly terrible control of that gun. "I've always been partial to monologues, especially ones without pause. Just because you don't need to breathe doesn't mean punctuation shouldn't be respected."

Dean snorts quietly. "Is this guy Lucifer's A-game?"

That's a very good question. "Who are you working for now?" Jeffrey's mouth, already open to continue his speech, gapes wider. "Who would risk my Brother's wrath to protect you? For that matter, why?"

Jeffrey glares at him, throat bobbing as he swallows again. "Even now, you angels stick together, huh?"

"Even now, Lucifer would like to slow roast me over a non-metaphorical fire," Cas answers. "So no. Who sent you?"

"Let's just say someone who's interested in what you're up to these days." He cocks his head, smirking. "You think that barrier was gonna last forever? Took a little time, but I got through it. You don't got a lot of time left before it falls, and then whatcha gonna do?"

"He talking about the wards?" Dean murmurs as Castiel tries to remember if there was any sign of the camp wards weakening the last time he checked. From here, the connection is muted, but they don't feel any different. "You wanna take him back and question him or--"

"Cas? Hey!" Jeffrey's voice cuts through Dean's unsettling suggestion, and Castiel remembers again that incompetent or not, he's holding a weapon and Dean may be invisible, but he's still in range of each erratic movement. "Anyone ever tell you the voices in your head aren't real?"

"At least they're interesting," he says, feeling Dean's breath released in a quiet snicker. "So far, you're not. If you have a point, please get to it so we can get to the exorcism part of this afternoon."

Jeffrey raises his eyebrows, surprised. "What, no interrogation?"

"Only on Thursdays and when the subject is interesting enough for me to care."

Something flashes in Jeffrey's eyes, there and gone, before he smirks, waving the gun. "Times have changed: back when, you'd take me back just for practice--"

A high, sharp sound cuts him off, followed almost immediately by a sense of something scraping a burning line just below his shoulder. Over the ringing in his ears, he hears Dean's startled shout almost drowned out by Jeffrey's shrill yelp of surprise. Frowning, he glances down and sees a tear in his jacket surrounded by a rapidly growing stain and realizes Jeffrey, against all the laws of competence and physics (but perfectly in line with Murphy's), has successfully shot him.

By accident. In front of Dean. All things considered, he supposes it was almost inevitable.

"….Cas? You okay? Nod if you're okay!" Dean is saying frantically, and he nods, taking a deep breath at the belated burst of pain radiating outward in nauseating waves before he can control it. "Son of a--you know what? I don't care what the fuck he has to say. Two minutes, Cas. Be ready."

Trying to focus enough to stop Dean before he does something incredibly stupid (failed on concept), he hears as if from a distance Jeffrey saying, in the least convincingly threatening voice he's ever heard, "…kill you, but doesn't mean we can't have some fun first, right? You gonna listen now, Cas?"

"I'm listening," he grinds out, hideously aware of the ominous silence in Dean's absence and unable to look around without risking directing Jeffrey's attention--as well as his poor grasp of how to use a firearm--in Dean's general direction. "What do you want?"

Jeffrey smiles at him with idiotic confidence, as if he has no idea that his time alive is now less than two minutes to account for the potential that blood loss will slow him down. As soon as he's sure of Dean's location.

"Someone likes you, Cas. You got a lot in common with them. They don't want this ending with Lucifer's victory, either, so they want to make you an offer. You wanna hear it or go see if your Brother likes you fried or boiled?"

From the corner of his eye, Castiel detects motion a few trees away and identifies the shape as Dean, head cocked and gun trained unwaveringly on Jeffrey's head as he inches into the clearing.

"Lucifer already won the Apocalypse." If Jeffrey were slightly more competent with that gun, this would be a great deal more certain. "Or did your new master miss the news?"

Jeffrey's expression grows uncertain, along with his aim. "How'd you do it?"

"What?"

"Don't fuck around with me!" Jeffrey's expression darkens. "No one on this world has the power to stop the Apocalypse with Dean Winchester dead. So how the hell did you do it?"

"I didn't," Castiel answers honestly, aware Dean's listening as well. "What makes you think--"

"You're old, Cas," Jeffrey says softly. "Oldest thing alive on this plane, older than time. You been trying to break prophecy since this began. If there was a way to do it--"

"There's not. Even as an angel, I was never that powerful."

"You're not an angel no more." The flick of the safety echoes through the clearing. "And there's a lot of kinds of power. Lucifer may think this is how it's supposed to go, but if he'd bothered to step foot on this plane since Dean Winchester died, he'd know just like everyone else." Almost imperceptibly, the gun begins to tremble. "What the hell did you do, Castiel?"

From the corner of his eye, he sees Dean takes another step, foot grazing the hilt of Ruby's knife, half-buried in the grass. He stills, but the tiny movement catches Jeffrey's attention, and Dean drops into a crouch just in time to miss the wild shot that goes through the air somewhere in the vicinity of where his throat had been, but his eyes and gun never leave Jeffrey, flipping the safety and pulling the trigger.

Pushing off the tree, Castiel lunges forward at the sound of a gun discharging, catching Jeffrey at the knees as he starts to turn back and hitting the ground hard enough to jar an entire new spectrum of pain out of his arm. Fighting back the lurch of his stomach, he realizes from the spread of bright red across Jeffrey's chest that Dean's aim under pressure is, as always, flawless.

"Cas," he hears Dean saying, but he ignores him, flipping Jeffrey on his stomach and setting his knee in the center of his back, the rush of adrenaline making the world almost painfully clear despite the continuing blood loss. "Cas, are you--"

"You should know that policy on the care and handling of demons has changed at Chitaqua, along with its leadership," Castiel snarls to a screaming Jeffrey, pinning one of Jeffrey's wrists to the ground with his one knee as he reaches for his other knife, and really, Jeffrey should know better than to think he wouldn't keep at least one weapon. He's not sure Jeffrey can hear him over his own breathless howls; for a demon, he's surprisingly vulnerable to pain. Tangling his fingers in Jeffrey's hair, he jerks his head to the side so he can watch before setting his knife against the back of his hand and sketching the beginnings of a sigil, aware of the moment Jeffrey realizes what it is and goes blissfully silent. Stopping before adding the final line, he looks at Jeffrey. "You know what this does? Answer yes or no."

Jeffrey makes an incoherent sound, eyes fixed in dawning horror at the incomplete sigil, and Castiel tightens his grip on his hair in encouragement. "Yeah," he says, voice raw. "Cas--"

"I've learned a great deal since the last time you enjoyed Chitaqua's hospitality," he says over the sound of Jeffrey's choked sobs. "You can keep that body alive indefinitely and this takes advantage of that. It's been a very long time since I've had time to enjoy putting that knowledge to use."

Jeffrey's visible eye darts to Castiel in helpless terror. "Please--"

"When I grow bored with your limited charms, I'll skin what remains of you and hang you from Chitaqua's walls and watch you slowly rot with each turn of the season, knowing you are still trapped within." He tightens his hold, watching Jeffrey's face contort in agony and leans closer, thinking of that bullet that just missed Dean; he could have died, here and now, because he let his attention lapse. "I'm not certain how it compares to Hell; considering your expertise on the subject, I'll be sure to inquire before your tongue is too rotted to talk."

"Cas."

He stills, suddenly remembering where he is and who's standing only feet away, listening to this. Swallowing, he pulls the knife away from Jeffrey's hand, the symbol incomplete, aware of Jeffrey's muffled sobs of relief.

"Chitaqua says that Dean Winchester is alive because that is my order," he says to Jeffrey's profile, tear tracks visible in the dirt. "Who sent you?"

Jeffrey sucks in a shaky breath. "Not until you hear the terms--"

"Your master's plans don't interest me. You're right about this much; I was created before Time itself, and on this plane, I'm the oldest being in existence. If your master wishes to fight Lucifer, tell him he's welcome to do so, but I've grown to enjoy this world, and I intend to keep it."

He hears Dean's approach and glances up to see Dean give him an encouraging nod before returning his attention to Jeffrey, gun trained on the back of his head.

"There are many kinds of power," Castiel continues doggedly. "Grace would be useful, but it's limits are inarguable. I could--"

"Open Purgatory," Dean murmurs, sounding oddly muffled.

"--open Purgatory to gain the power to do it." He glares at Dean, who smirks back, unrepentant. "Can you remember that or should I carve it into your back for future reference?"

"Listen. Deal…." Castiel shoves his face into the dirt with a satisfying crunch that with any luck is his nose. Jeffrey howls into the ground, fighting weakly until Castiel loosens his hold. "Tell you whatever you want…." Turning his head, he looks up at Castiel hopefully, face smeared in blood and dirt. "Not. Here."

He hears Dean catch his breath.

"Tell your master that I defied both the Host and Lucifer when they tried to bring me to heel," Castiel says, leaning forward to breathe the words in Jeffrey's ear. "His offer is refused. I kneel for no one and nothing."

"You'll burn for all eternity," Jeffrey whines, then twists abruptly in place and nearly throws Castiel off when one hand slams into his shoulder over the bullet wound. Pain shoots through him so strongly that for a moment, he wonders if he'll black out. "Hell's where you're going either way."

"So I keep hearing." Black circles dancing in front of his eyes, he slams Jeffrey's arm back down and hears his wrist snap like dry kindling. Dean abruptly drops to his knees beside him with a curse, grabbing his arm just below the wound, but when he at him, Dean's staring at Jeffrey's hand with an expression he can't interpret. "But I'm not there yet."

"You're gonna bleed out if we don't get this over with," Dean mutters, letting him go, which is almost immediately followed by the sound of something ripping. "Cas, what can he do with your blood? Anything?"

Castiel frowns, looking down at the bloodstained fingers clenched into a tight fist on the grass. "You said not here. Where?" Jeffrey moans weakly. "Jeffrey, where? I won't ask again."

Jeffrey whimpers, spitting out a mouthful of blood and dirt before saying, "Chitaqua. Nothing can get in there. I'll tell you anything you want to know."

"I've changed my mind," Castiel says breathlessly, the throbbing in his shoulder increasing by the moment. "I was going to let you go in the hopes that your master would kill you for incompetence, but I think I'd rather do it myself." Reaching out blindly, he feels Dean place Ruby's knife in his hand before shifting his balance, flipping Jeffrey so he can see it and draw the correct conclusions. "I'm glad to say we won't meet again."

"No!"

Jeffrey's motions become more panicked under him, mouth opening in a round O before dark, greasy smoke begins to pour out. Despite the growing dizziness, Castiel holds him there until he feels the body beneath him go limp. The brown eyes open again for a dazed moment, a human soul looks back at him, bewildered, too dazed with pain to be afraid as his body begins to respond to the damage to it, including the shredding of his heart from Dean's shot.

To survive for over two years in an infected zone, escaping Croatoan and starvation and everything that hunted humans in this state, only to die like this, far from the home he fought so long to keep, the people that he knows… If there's a kindness to be found, it's that he won't survive long enough to realize what happened to him, and the same can be said for those who know him, if the demon didn't slaughter them for the sheer pleasure of it.

"Don't be afraid," Castiel hears himself breathe, pressing a hand to the man's forehead, skin tacky with drying blood and meeting the cloudy brown eyes, the beginnings of growing pain and fear. The reapers are gone and so is the Host, but while the gates may be closed, Heaven is still there. "My Father's fields are vast, and a place has been prepared for you since the moment of your birth; you don't remember now, you can't, but you will. Your work here is done; go there so you can rest." Swallowing, he sees his hand beginning to shake; he would do anything for Grace to give him comfort, but all he has are his words. "The Host lays claim to every soul on earth without exception, and we will not be denied our right to even one. Your soul is safe, I promise you; now go to your rest."

He can't see a human soul leave at the moment of death, not anymore, but to his surprise, the sense of passing somehow remains; pain and confusion and fear vanish on a breeze of warmth and surprise and dawning hope as the man's eyes fall closed, expression one of peace so vast he can almost feel it himself.

For a moment, he thinks he feels something else as well--a touch, ephemeral as gauze, as bright as the first light of Creation whispering through him--but then it's gone.

When he looks around, he and Dean are alone in the clearing with the husk that once contained the infinite in all its potential, stripped of life before its time by what was left of a human soul when a demon rose from the rack. It's obscene, this; it has never, can never be anything else.

"Cas?"

Blinking, the world abruptly tilts sideways, pain spiraling through him strongly enough to nearly black out. Swaying, he can't find his balance and nearly falls before Dean catches him, guiding him carefully to the ground. Staring up at the churning grey sky wavering in and out of focus, he feels Dean slicing away the arm of his jacket from around the bullet wound, then something being wrapped tightly around his arm; looking over, he thinks it might be strips of Dean's flannel overshirt.

"We need to get back and get Alicia to look at that," Dean is saying, sounding angry about something, but what, he's not sure, and he can't think clearly enough to reassure him. "Fuck, should have stopped before--Cas?" Something comes in sharp contact with his face, and Castiel blinks, focusing on Dean. "You with me?"

"Yes." Distantly, he wonders why he feels like this. The wound wasn't nearly that bad; he's fought through far worse, and he can't suppress it at all. That's new. "It--" Hurts, yes, much like mountains are somewhat big; another wave of pain engulfs him, and he tastes blood as he stops the scream in his throat. Hearing that would upset Dean, he thinks vaguely, and that would doubtless be very stressing to his health.

"Fuck," Dean hisses, verifying that precaution failed as he wraps another strip of torn cloth around his arm. Reaching down, he follows Castiel's hip to the waist of his jeans and dips his fingers into the pocket, pulling out the keys with a too-loud jangle. "Hold still. I'm gonna go get the jeep--"

"I can--" Just speaking sets off another shock of pain far too powerful to even breathe, much less scream.

"You move, I'll fucking kill you," Dean says savagely, getting to his feet and wiping a blood-streaked hand across his forehead. "Don't fucking move. Stay awake, Cas. I'll be right back."

It's easier to agree than argue, and in any case, he isn't feeling particularly enthusiastic about a fight and Dean is already running.

---

It's the Stars That Lie, 9/12