spnfic: it's the stars that lie, 11/12

Title: It's the Stars that Lie, 11/12
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, Chapter 9, Chapter 10, Chapter 11
DW - Chapter 1, Chapter 2, Chapter 3, Chapter 4, Chapter 5, Chapter 6, Chapter 7, Chapter 8, Chapter 9, Chapter 10



--Day 97--

Dean does not, it must be said, take further confinement well.

"God, I miss shitty diner food," drifts from the kitchen in the despairing voice of one surveying a nuclear holocaust in progress. The sound of the pantry door closing--gently, Dean's pain is too deep for violence--is followed by the slow, dragging footsteps of a miscreant whose journey ends with a hangman's noose, or in this case, a miserable slump in the far corner of the couch in a blue t-shirt and mismatched socks, which Castiel as to work very hard to ignore.

(Alicia explained on the last laundry day that the disappearance of individual socks is something of a common hazard of dryers ("My mom told me dryer elves," she said wisely from her seat on the dryer, heels banging cheerfully against the metal. "Is that possible?" "I have no idea," he told her, looking suspiciously at the quickly rotating laundry). It seems her theory bears investigation; he knows all the socks had their appropriate mates when he put them in the dryer yesterday.)

Dean sighs--a full-body effort requiring the use of at least three more lungs than he actually has--and says, "There's nothing to eat."

"There is one five pound bag of brown rice and three of white, one ten pound bag of sugar, two one pound boxes of pasta--spaghetti--eight cans of carrots, six of chicken, two of collard greens, five of corn--two white and three yellow--two of green beans, nine of green peas, and five of spinach in the pantry," he replies without looking up. "In addition, we have two loaves of bread, one--"

"Shut up."

Castiel never claimed he was taking Dean's confinement any better.

Sighing again--that is incredibly annoying--Dean reaches for one of the latest patrol reports with a despondency more suited to reading a casualty list or, perhaps, the terrifying day Castiel thought he was out of single-malt whiskey (he was very high) before remembering in relief there was more under the couch (three bottles, in fact). He could use some now, he reflects grimly as Dean reaches for his cup, starting to take a drink before noticing it's empty. "Out of coffee," he breathes in the hopeless tones of a martyr between the third and fourth turn of the rack. "Of course we are."

"I made a fresh pot ten minutes ago," Castiel answers composedly, consulting Hippofucker's Guide to the Sex Swamp (DeanTM) and making a correction in his translation before looking at him with weaponized sympathy. "Would you like me to get you some?"

Dean's fingers tighten around the body of the mug, knuckles briefly going white; in his mind, it's probably already airborne, flying toward Castiel's head. "I'm fine."

Setting down the cup--with force this time, Castiel notes--Dean returns to the report, shoulders slumping further as he re-reads the number of times they had to stop and push the jeep out of the mud and a detailed description of each individual event. As it turns out, patrolling in a rainstorm the likes of which haven't been seen since one Noah (of Ark fame), is even more boring than usual when visibility reaches six inches or less.

"You know," Dean says suddenly, "we should have sent them to the south, not east."

Pausing in his translation, Castiel searches for context (none) and makes a (wild) guess. "Vera and Jeremy?"

"Yeah," Dean answers slowly, dragging out the single syllable until he runs out of breath (Whatever their actual number, Dean's lungs seem remarkably healthy, and Castiel tries very hard to remember that Dean contracting pneumonia would be terrible indeed), as if Castiel's lack of telepathy is a grievance he has yet to entirely forgive. "South's a military passthrough, and it's not like the military's using it these days. Less traffic."

He tries and fails to connect the concept of 'traffic' to I-70 hosting a maximum of three legally credentialed vehicles per week.

"The military directly supervises the border guards on the military passthroughs," he answers, viciously adding a slight lilt to indicate his personal satisfaction with the world and all that's in it, not limited to his current activities, the rain falling outside, and Dean's tragic level of boredom after two days of contemptuously rejecting every suggestion of constructive activity Castiel could devise. "Their scheduled inspections of those stations are frequent and the unscheduled ones even more so, and the logs are validated daily. Joseph acquired the border patrol routes as well as the duty roster for all ten states they will potentially need to cross; using the east checkpoint assures--"

"--minimal exposure to the military, I know." Dean flips the page of the report, scanning it as if it's undergone a radical change since his last read or has anything at all to do with the subject at hand. "So instead, ten day minimum travel time in at least two uninfected states, probably on the best farm roads the country has to offer."

"Vera's been doing this for two years and knows better than either of us the safest and most efficient method of travel," Castiel says absently, frowning at the page uncertainly. Potential bestiality expressed in hieroglyphs is only moments away from being confirmed or--he would say denied, but that symbol doesn't translate to 'hug' no matter how much he wants it to. Some things would benefit when lost to translation, he reflects; a pity this isn't one of them. "Before we declare her journey an unqualified failure, perhaps we should wait until that actually happens."

Dean's glare suggests rationality is not welcome here, which is as unsurprising as the inevitable horror of how this epic journey down the Nile will come to an end. "You just got an answer for everything, don't you?"

"Yes," he answers distractedly, forcing himself to accept that word indeed, does not mean hug. "Why?"

The silence that follows that statement would be ominous if he could bring himself to care, but if that is indeed not a hug, he has some serious reservations about the logistics of this obscene act against nature. Height alone….

"What if they get caught in a blizzard on the way back?" Dean says challengingly. "Got an answer for that?"

"It's forty-eight degrees Fahrenheit." Though the wind chill and presence of water probably reduces that to something closer to thirty-nine, he supposes, reading his notes carefully to assure he didn't--by some very welcome chance--make a mistake. It's possible. "And raining."

In his peripheral vision, he sees Dean turn to survey the rain-soaked evening as if the weather itself only adds to the unbearable burden that is his life. "Okay, I give up; what the hell is up with the weather?"

Perhaps the author thought that word meant 'hug': he was not, it must be said, a shining example of intellectual profundity. Feeling optimistic, he continues to the next sentence. "What about it?" Though the logistics of hugging a hippo are--

"Where's the snow?"

He squints at the page, frowning; the author's grasp of size seems questionable. Adult hippos are much larger than--

"Cas?"

What if that's not an adult hippo?

"Cas!"

He jerks his gaze from the page only a moment before he passes the outer boundary of plausible deniability. Closing his eyes, he breathes a sigh of relief before smiling in the face of Dean's hateful glare. "What?"

Dean's expression dissolves into confusion, eyes darting to the open book curiously. "What were you--"

"The formation of snow crystals requires an atmospheric temperature at or below zero degrees Celsius," he says, closing the book discreetly. "At this moment, there's no method available for me to verify the current temperature in the atmosphere anywhere in the world, much less search it for crystalized water, so while probability suggests snow is at this moment somewhere on earth, the only answer possible as to its current location that can be considered entirely true is 'not here now'."

Dean blinks slowly.

"Did that answer your question?" he asks politely, surreptitiously shifting his notes to the couch beside him along with the book and covering them with a convenient pillow. "Why are you asking about snow?"

"Because I'm gonna teach you how to make a snow angel," Dean answers, murderously sincere. "Gotta wait until the snow's nice and deep though, so when I push you off the roof to make it, you just might survive."

"You realize," he says evenly, bracing a foot on the coffee table, "the weather is not my fault. Nor Alicia restricting you to the camp out of concern for your potential lung function."

"I don't care," Dean retorts. "I've been here since August and this is the first time it's been other than 'cloudy' and now 'really wet'. What's with that?"

"Global warming."

Dean stares at him. "You just can't help yourself, can you?"

"Not when you continue to give me such obvious opportunities." Bracing both feet on the coffee table, he sighs and dislikes himself for it. "I was being somewhat truthful, however. Do you want the long version or the short?"

Dean rolls his eyes. "Short."

"Cataclysmic environmental change."

"Long."

"Weather is complicated, and I could spend the next five hundred years explaining how nature maintains a very delicate balance that assures that the entire planet is only rarely plunged into an ice age--"

"Shorter than that."

He reminds himself that he likes Dean, at least most of the time. "It's a side effect of living in an Apocalypse."

"It breaks the weather?" Dean asks, as if it's the most ridiculous thing he's ever heard.

He likes Dean, he reminds himself again. "In your world, do you remember the increase of natural disasters as well as supernatural activity before you defeated Lucifer?" Grudgingly, Dean nods. "Normally, everything in the ecosystem is relatively balanced and can deal with the occasional disaster. Some, if not most of them, might be considered more along the lines of features, not bugs."

Dean sighs. "Forest fires?"

"As an example, an excellent one," he says approvingly, which only succeeds in inexplicably making Dean scowl. "Nature is change and adapts to it; that's its entire function. Change, adapt, exist: the first two are mandatory to carry out the third. However, at this moment, it's reacting to a series of natural disasters that are--for lack of a better word--not of natural origin and its attention--so to speak--is rather lacking."

"Even Creation's falling down on the job," is Dean's verdict, looking pensively out the window again with a sigh. "I really wanted to have a snowman contest."

"A tragedy for the ages." Dean doesn't answer that with anything but the ghost of a glare. "Console yourself that when snow does come, it will doubtless be in the form of a blizzard to make up for its tardiness. Possibly a very extended winter will follow."

"So a new ice age isn't off the table," Dean says with gloomy triumph. "Saw that coming a mile away."

He blinks. "I didn't say--"

"We lose to Lucifer, we all die immediately; we defeat him, we all die slowly and really fucking cold," Dean continues as he slumps into the cushions again with a disconsolate expression. "Fighting with sticks and rocks against buffalo or mammoths or whatever as a reward for winning the Apocalypse."

"Dean," he tries again. "I don't think--"

"Live in caves, sleep with one eye open for demons and mammoths," Dean says, warming to the topic. "Telling our grandkids about the internet and electricity--not that they'll believe us--"

"Please stop talking," Castiel interrupts desperately, starting to reach for his translation again (even that may be an improvement on this), and then pauses, considering a world without electricity or running water, which are the only things that makes human excretory system less than utterly horrifying.

Before his mind's eye stretches a vast, frozen wasteland dotted with buffalo and mammoths (possibly ridden by demons?), tiny humans running despairingly away with their small spears and rocks and not a single adequate firearm to protect them, huddled around substandard fires in poorly ventilated caves in questionable sanitary conditions, sharing an oral history of skyscrapers and the internet and prime time TV and possibly--and why this didn't this occur to him before--books.

Who will have time to write them between their desperate fight to survive and running from megafauna? In growing horror, he wonders if their tiny fires are being fed by the collected works of Shakespeare and Catullus and Stephen King. Children may be born, he realizes, who won't read Harry Potter.

"Better figure out how to kill a mammoth with a rock," Dean advises him in cheerful despair, head dropping onto back of the couch and staring up at the ceiling as he heaves yet another sigh. Before he even realizes what he's doing, Castiel echoes it. "Look on the bright side. Maybe the entire global warming thing ends this in a worldwide desert."

"Even oversized sandworms excreting recreational substances couldn't make me high enough to deal with that." Dean turns his head to give him a vaguely curious look. "Dune, Frank Herbert. They consumed the waste of the native sandworms to achieve--"

"So, we could be eating sandworm shit instead of freezing to death. Thanks, Cas."

Castiel closes his eyes, but that just means he has no distraction from the image that brings to mind.

"Where are the dice?"

---

After a protracted search through the kitchen, Dean returns to tumble a worn pair of dice onto the coffee table, giving him an odd look. "You want to play craps?"

"Not really, but it's preferable to listening a narrative of our deaths by hypothermia or megafauna." Castiel pushes the coffee table back enough to place a pillow on the floor and seat himself. Extending the other pillow, he smiles hopefully. "Do you know how to play?"

"Can you?" Dean asks doubtfully as he takes the pillow.

He shrugs. "I know the principles of every form of gambling ever created. It's not as if it's particularly complicated."

"So speaks someone who's never been to Vegas." Dean rolls his eyes as he drops the pillow on the floor and sits down. "So, we gonna make this interesting?"

"You mean bet?" he asks, plucking the dice from the coffee table. Dean sighs noisily. "If you wish. What are you willing to lose?"

Dean raises an eyebrow. "You can't play poker, but you think you can beat me at craps? Really?"

"Do you know what they used to call craps?" Castiel asks, rolling the dice over his palm with a clink of ivory. "'Game of God'."

"Gambling's a sin," Dean intones solemnly. "What kind of angel gambles, Cas?"

"Honi soit qui mal y pense," he quotes, which almost coaxes out a smile before Dean ruthlessly represses the impulse. "It could be applied to all those who condemn pleasure."

"'Evil to he who evil thinks'?" Dean shrugs, but the smile hovers closer. "Personal motto?"

"Six hundred and sixty-six years of knights pledged to the Order of the Garter can't be wrong." He pauses for Dean's mouth to twitch. "Does that satisfy the definition of irony, I wonder?"

"I'm in." Dean smirks at him. "You take morning patrol reports, incoming and outgoing, and I get to sleep in."

"Done," he agrees. "Pie."

"What?"

"I want to try pie." He begins to regret the impulse at Dean's sudden attention. "Pie has sugar, and it seems to be a very common preference among dessert items, though well below ice cream, from what I understand. However, the lack of available cows is a problem."

"We could do ice cream." Dean's face goes through a series of inexplicable contortions before settling on surprised. "I got a militia and a real lack of standards on how I use them for personal gain. Dude, I can find a cow."

Considering who he's talking to, that's very possible. "You like pie better."

"Yeah, so?"

"It's a feature of your conversation when food is the topic, which you seem to find endlessly fascinating to explore." He should have just told him ice cream. "I'm curious."

"Curious." Dean leans an elbow on the coffee table, far too interested for Castiel's peace of mind. "Dean never got you any pie?"

"I've had pie," he answers determinedly and Dean's eyebrows jump. "Just not at a time--you said you wanted me to try and find food I like. Why are you arguing about my choice of stakes?"

"Because pie isn't a stake; it's a necessity," Dean argues, staring at him intently, and he wonders when pie became such a dangerous topic. "Dude, you're not betting access to pie. You want pie, we'll get you some fucking pie, no dice required, got it?"

He nods warily. "All right."

"Good." Relaxing again, Dean cocks his head. "So stakes?"

"I can't think of anything else." Nothing he thinks is appropriate for a casual game of dice between friends who don't have sex, at least. "Do you have any suggestions?"

"Jesus, okay. Let's make this interesting." Dean crosses his arms challengingly. "One time offer, and pay attention, Cas, because no one gets this. One favor--one--of your choice, call it in at any time. How's that?"

"You're joking."

Dean flashes a grin. "I'm really not."

"You're serious." Dean nods. "Anything I want?"

"Anything," Dean confirms, grin widening. "Take it or leave it."

"I'll take it. Street rules, single roll, playing for the pass line, shooter on the come out," he recites, rolling the dice expertly and watching in satisfaction as Dean's grin fades. "Point is hard six."

Dean watches him pick up the dice before looking at him. "You're literally a craps player."

"What else would I be?" he asks curiously, rolling the dice and watching as they settle on a matched set of three. "As you know, I'm terrible at poker."

---

"…pass line and the shooter makes seven on the come out." Scooping up the four and three, Castiel passes the dice to Dean, who takes them with a blank look. "That's three favors."

"Yeah," Dean says, looking at the dice suspiciously. "It is."

---

"Come out is snake eyes on the don't pass," Cas says, surveying the dice affectionately before looking at Dean, who scoops up the dice for his second examination. "Six favors."

Rolling them in his hand, Dean examines them with an expertise not unmixed with desperation before giving him a glare.

Castiel smiles slowly. "Your roll."

---

"What. The. Fuck?"

"That's ten favors," Castiel confirms, scooping up the five and six from the coffee table. "Do you want to try for eleven?"

"Give me the dice," Dean demands, almost snatching them from him and rolling them in his hand suspiciously before letting them drop to the table and observing how they fall. "This is bullshit."

"You've checked them three times," Castiel tells him in amusement, leaning back against the couch. "There's nothing wrong with the dice."

"There's something wrong," Dean answers hotly, letting them fall again before looking at him accusingly. "You're cheating."

"So are you," he answers, ignoring Dean's unconvincing show of innocence. "Who do you think taught me to play?" That was a mistake; the green eyes narrow dangerously, and he files away another example of the times that Dean doesn't want to hear what he learned from his counterpart. Eventually, he hopes to be able to work out for himself which ones are safe to mention and which should be spoken of only under threat of death. Picking up the dice, he says, "Let's try something else. Tell me what to roll for point."

Crossing his arms, Dean sits back, looking mutinous. "You're fucking with me, right?"

He rattles the dice enticingly; gamblers often find it difficult to leave the table, he's noticed. Especially poker players. "Are you in or not?"

Dean glares at him, but after a second, he nods shortly. "Snake eyes." Castiel rolls the dice, not bothering to watch how they land in favor of enjoying Dean's expression darken. "Boxcars." Another roll, six and six. "Yo." Five and six, easy. "Give me the goddamn dice."

"I don't cheat," he tells the top of Dean's head as he examines the dice again. "I don't need to."

Dean's head snaps up.

"Five." Taking back the dice, he closes his eyes and throws. They tumble in a cheerful clink of ivory across the wood surface before coming to a reluctant stop, the silence broken by Dean's sharply indrawn breath. Opening his eyes, he meets Dean's. "Game of God."

"You're doing it." Dean straightens in dawning interest. "Angel thing?"

"Apocalypse thing," he corrects him. "Though yes, that, too."

"Okay, so what are you doing? Something to the dice, the table, the--Grace somewhere?" Dean squints at the table as if suspecting it of housing surreptitious Grace for gambling purposes.

"Probability." Dean blinks, looking confused. "I'm manipulating probability."

Dean looks between Castiel and the dice in his hand, then the coffee table, before sitting back, a thoughtful look on his face.

"You know," he says slowly. "I never asked you and I really should have, since you'd know: is luck real?"

"Yes," he answers positively, extending his hand for the dice. "Hard eight."

They both watch as the dice rattle lazily across the surface of the coffee table before coming up with two fours. A smile begins to stretch across Dean's face before he shakes his head and sits back, looking at Castiel.

"Tell me."

---

"Gambling is the art of chance, which is--among very limited minds--an explicit denial of the will of God," he explains to an unexpectedly rapt audience of one. "To call upon luck was thought to be a form of idolatry; to privilege chaos over order, or evil over good, to put it in the simplest and least accurate terms."

"The more you know," Dean answers in mock-wonder. "Keep going."

"Luck is chaos, in a sense; it's function is to disrupt order and facilitate change. You might also simply call it random chance. What is living must change or it's not living; in very broad terms, luck is a part of that. Otherwise humanity would still lack sentience and fear the presence of fire."

"No pie," Dean agrees. "So everything's luck?"

"Everything is subject to chance," he corrects. "Luck is a part of that, yes, but alone, its effect is generally very small; it's spread very thin, you might say, which renders it effectively neutral in the short term and simply a part of the progression of Creation in the long term."

Dean thinks about that. "The more complex something is, the less luck has any effect on it?" Pleased, he nods. "This wouldn't work on poker, would it? Too much shit going on for luck to work with."

"Blackjack, perhaps," he answers, surprised by Dean's insight. "The simpler the game, the fewer the factors involved, the better it works."

"Factors. You mean other players, right?" Dean shrugs at Castiel's start. "Luck influences everything, you said, but you can't manipulate the luck of everything, right? Or anyone. That's why I won a few times when we were playing earlier."

"Or I could have been trying to throw you off."

"You want to throw me off, don't do a six play run," Dean tells him smugly. "It's just your luck you're manipulating? Tell me I'm right, I'm on a roll here."

"You are." Dean grins widely. "How did you guess?"

"If you could manipulate the luck of the dice--do dice have luck? Never mind, that's too weird--then you could do it to cards, too, so poker should be easy," Dean answers. "But you said simple games and mentioned Blackjack. Card game, complicated, but also a game that you can play with only one other person, the dealer. So it's other people that are the problem. Why?"
'
Castiel tilts his head. "You tell me."

"You can win at craps, but you can't make anyone play against you. Ace-deuce," Dean answers, meeting his eyes, rolling the dice and almost immediately covering them with his hand. "You can increase the probability of getting what you want when you roll, but you can't fuck with what I get." Lifting his hand, he shows Castiel the dice: one and two. "Or how I cheat."

He thought Dean would understand. "Exactly."

"Game of God," Dean agrees in satisfaction. "You said it was an Apocalypse thing and an angel thing; what'd you mean by that? Angels are lucky?"

"Angels have Grace and can effectively manipulate all the forces of Creation," he answers. "They could manipulate probability easily, but remaking the fabric of reality would be equally easy. Which as you know, they're not above doing."

"Stupid question, yeah." Dean grins ruefully. "Why destroy a mountain by hitting with a hammer when you've got a bomb?"

"I can think of several reasons," he answers, and Dean's grin fades into thoughtfulness. "A chisel isn't nearly as noticeable and could get the job done eventually--immortality and the ability to manipulate time does help with long term projects--but subtlety isn't a characteristic of angels."

"Suddenly," Dean says slowly, "I don't think all this was just to stop me talking about the weather."

"It wasn't. Seven." Picking up the dice, Castiel rolls them, watching Dean's expression. "Manipulation of probability. All things being equal--in a scrubbed universe in which the surface of the table, the wear on the dice, and the airflow were constants--the results would still be random because a human threw the dice. All things living embody change, and change requires chaos to exist. Hard eight." Dean doesn't bother looking at the dice, green eyes fixed on him. "Angels are chaos incarnate, but we don't change. Strictly speaking, we may not count as living."

"Now you're just fucking with me."

"I didn't make the rules, I only enforced them." Dean rolls his eyes. "Think of it as another form of balance. My Father's absence unsettled that balance in Heaven, and so it was on Earth, and so it was in Hell. The Apocalypse is the dramatic and impossible to miss--it lacks subtlety. Soft ten."

"How long," Dean says, glancing at the dice briefly, "can you keep that up?"

"More importantly, why am I doing it at all? It was useful, but only if I was careful, if I was subtle, because any legitimate casino would have blacklisted us immediately if I wasn't, drawing attention neither Dean nor I could afford. Street craps is often played with filed dice, so I had to be careful to confine my activities to reputable floating craps games in some truly questionable basements and backrooms. However, when I had Grace, neither of those were applicable. When I had Grace, why did Dean teach me craps so I could manipulate the games well enough to keep us in ammunition, execrable diner food, and remodel Bobby's kitchen?"

Dean opens his mouth, then hesitates. "You were using a hammer on a mountain. The Host would notice you using Grace, but not luck; it's too small."

"Exactly. Boxcars," he says, watching the dice turn up two sixes. "It's almost monotonous, isn't it? Almost as if there's no random element at all, which is impossible, because angels do in fact count as living. We don't change because of divine obedience, not because we can't. I should fail to roll the number I specify, because this game--more than any other--is the application of luck. It's nothing but chaos. Hard ten."

Dean stares at the dice: two fives. "Not so small anymore."

"Very small," he corrects Dean. "But very dramatic."

Dean reaches for the dice before he freezes, gazing at Castiel incredulously. "Hold on. Are you predicting how the Apocalypse is fucking with the world with craps?"

"That's exactly what I'm doing." Castiel grins, plucking the dice from under his hand. "Luck is very small, but as it goes, so goes all things."

"Craps."

"Weather and natural disasters are all well and good," he continues, enjoying Dean's shock. "But you may have noticed we lack a reliable way to track world events with any kind of accuracy. My Grace is in the wards, so I have no access to the whole of Creation itself to do a diagnostic. Manipulation of Creation is inherent to my being, however, and unlike remaking reality or time travel, luck doesn't require power; it requires I exist."

"Because angels are lucky, and seriously, you're predicting the Apocalypse with craps?"

"I thought about using solitaire instead," he muses. "But it's very boring."

"You.…" Dean's shakes his head, sitting back again. "Okay, but if angels are lucky, then how can you tell if you're more lucky?" He makes a face. "Tell me that made sense."

"Angels are lucky," he counters. "Mortals are different. Dean--and I understand if the irony kills you, I'm in danger of apoplexy on a daily basis--there's a reason humans weren't given access to the forces of Creation in their entirety to exercise your own ability to create. What you would do with it isn't the question; it's more what you wouldn't. Technicalities on what I am aside, right now luck is being consciously, deliberately manipulated by a mortal on this plane, something that gets the undivided attention from the forces of Creation under normal circumstances, and trust me, I'm not being subtle about it. And yet."

Dean starts to look alarmed. "What would happen if it noticed? Smite you or something?"

"Nothing so dire. It simply stops letting me do it. When it notices, that is. Soft eight, again, three and five." He rolls the dice, unsurprised to watch it come up with a three and five. "It will, eventually, cut me off. It just depends on how long it takes it to notice with all the other demands on its time to try and maintain balance."

"Remember where you used to at least pretend Creation wasn't alive and had a personality?"

"Remember when craps was a game of chance and not a monotonous exercise in deciding which of eleven numbers I would like to see next?" he asks Dean's glare. "If it's any consolation, even I didn't realize what it meant that I could still do this after I Fell. The first time, I thought I was just very stoned."

"How'd you find out?" Dean asks, widening his eyes in mock-sincerity. "Strip craps?"

"Who would top. I like to win." Dean bursts out laughing. "It shouldn't have surprised me as much as it did: everything I retained was random and either so specialized it was of limited practical use or utterly useless even as a clever party trick. And sometimes caused migraines."

"Or nearly killed you," Dean points out with grim satisfaction, just in case Castiel might have forgotten. "So let me guess; the longer you can go, the worse it's getting out there?"

"Short version: yes."

Dean licks his lips, looking away uncomfortably before meeting Castiel's eyes. "Even if we stopped it now--right now--the balance thing, that would still be a problem."

"Creation would balance itself eventually, and you would adapt," he answers carefully, but the grim resignation in Dean's eyes hurts to witness. "You've watched far too many terrible science fiction movies. You aren't doomed to rocks and megafauna for another ten thousand years before you reinvent the wheel. Humanity passes points in their development that they can't easily fall behind, not without a concerted effort. Trust me when I say, humanity has tested this extensively and noticeably failed to do much damage to their long-term development as a species. At very worst, you may have to rediscover Enlightenment and the Romantic period, which yes, does seem cruel, but you might be fortunate enough to get another Mary Shelley, and I'd suffer any number of terribly underthought philosophical concepts for Frankenstein."

"Gave me nightmares," Dean says absently, still looking troubled. "Weirdly enough, though, that would better than some of the alternatives." He shakes his head, grimness folded away if not forgotten. "So your favor: you want it now or saving it for a rainy day?" He smirks. "Metaphorically speaking."

Castiel makes himself match Dean's light tone; it's the least he can do for him. "I'm not holding you to the stakes, Dean. And it was more than one favor, if I remember correctly."

"You place your bets, you take your chances," Dean counters. "I knew something was going on, but I kept playing to figure out how you were doing it. Eleven favors: now or later?"

Castiel opens his mouth to argue, but instead what comes out is, "One favor, and I can tell you now."

"That's what I thought." Dean makes a show of bracing himself. "What is it?"

"I understand this may take time," he answers carefully. "Since I don't know all that is required, and you probably do, I'll accept it being available to me at a later date. There's no time limit, since I know you're good for it."

"Got it; you can wait," Dean says, nodding with barely leashed impatience. "Now what--"

"--especially since we don't have any milk, or available cows from which to acquire it."

"Ice cream."

"No," he disagrees. "I want a milkshake."

"Why--" Dean stops, blinking. "That's your 'Winning the Apocalypse' snack."

"You remember that?"

"It was a depressing conversation," Dean answers. "So don't want to risk not getting it after all?"

"More I want to take advantage of all the aspects of an open favor while I can," he replies. "This way, I can have you make it. Chocolate, with sprinkles on top."

Dean stares at him for a long moment, and slowly, one corner of his mouth begins to curve upward. "You got it."

"I can wait for us to find a convenient cow," he says, smiling back. "I understand it may be some time, however."

"Oh ye of little faith. You want a milkshake?" Dean nods firmly. "You get a milkshake. We'll find a goddamn cow--"

A series of rapid knocks on the doorframe outside interrupts them, and Castiel blinks in surprise when Joseph's wet head pokes between the shade and the doorway. "Hey. Got a minute"

"Back already?" Dean says in surprise, getting to his feet. They only left three days ago to get the answer from the communities, and Joseph's sober expression isn't encouraging. Reaching for the cord to roll up the shade, Dean smiles at them, but Castiel doesn't miss the look on Dean's face before he composes it for Joseph's benefit. "Get in here."

Disappointment seems like such a small risk until it happens, Castiel reflects as the team comes inside, dripping water all over the immaculately clean floor but thankfully avoiding the rug, which is already becoming dusty due to the rain. It's not as if he's not used to it, and so is Dean, but once--just once--he wants not to be.

Please, he thinks to no one at all in the eternity between Dean lowering the shade and turning to face Joseph, it's not so much to ask. Just this one thing.

"So how'd it go?" Dean asks, gaze flickering over the wet faces of each member of the team before coming back to Joseph.

"Not too bad," he answers, pushing his wet hair back. "So how's it going? We miss anything?"

"Joe," Dean starts in annoyance before he stills, searching Joseph's face again, and Castiel's unaware he's standing up as Dean's shoulders straighten, eyes narrowing. "You son of a bitch."

"You owe me this one," Joseph answers, carefully maintained façade breaking as he gestures to Ana, who drops a thick stack of paper on the coffee table. "All terms were accepted in full, signed by all the mayors and cosigned by the leader of the trade alliance herself, and by the way, Alison of Ichabod sends her regards and looks forward to meeting you." Joseph's grin widens at Dean's expression. "We got 'em."

Dean stares at the stack for a minute, then jerks his attention back to Joseph. "Do they have any cows?"

"Herds of them." Joseph's voice is almost gloating. "Ask me how many hamburgers we're getting. Ask."

"I love hamburgers," Dean agrees, turning to look at Castiel, green eyes filled with all the light in the world. "But I'm really looking forward to the milk. What about you, Cas?"

Castiel nods blankly.

"Game of God," he adds smugly before returning his attention to Joseph and Ana. "Okay, details: lose the coats and sit down already. Cas, grab something to write with. Anyone want coffee?"

---

--Day 98--

Castiel doesn't remember anything as disorienting as the day after Joseph and his team returned.

Dean made the announcement an hour after dawn, standing in front of their cabin in unlaced boots sunk two full inches in mud, wearing nothing but jeans, a thin, long-sleeve t-shirt, and the flannel Castiel hastily threw over him before Dean dragged him down the steps, shouting the news over the pounding rain to sleepy, water-logged camp members who, much like Dean at that moment, effectively went incurably insane.

The events are somewhat hazy after that.

(There shouting, screaming, definitely hugging, far more than he thinks there were people to do it, which explains the muddy handprints on his back but not the ones on his ass, which Dean didn't find at all amusing. He supposes it's his lack of interest in food that makes the reaction of the camp such a surprise, though contemplating the MREs does increase his appreciation of canned green beans and tomato soup tremendously. Though not Spam: nothing can do that.)

In the six short hours between Joe's arrival and Castiel forcibly pushing Dean into bed the night before, Dean not only listened to Joseph's report and questioned his entire team, read through the relevant sections of the trade agreement and made notes, but apparently planned out exactly how to complete everything they needed to do in Chitaqua in a single day. Soaked to the skin and flushed with laughter (and somewhat dazed after Joseph nearly lifts him off his feet in an enthusiastic hug), Dean sent everyone to breakfast with an order to report back in an hour for their new duty assignments.

The lists provided by the five towns are compared to their current inventory, Chuck directing Kamal and Penn to do a full examination of their supplies. Castiel, having memorized the entire agreement the night before and not unwillingly captive to Dean's need of his memory, sends Mira, Sean, Mike, and Matt to do the same with their armory as well as the still-growing surplus from the military outposts that now require two cabins. Chuck's wish lists are unearthed and copies printed, the team leaders (all currently in Chitaqua due to the storm) nearly smothering Dean with attention and offering to help in any way they can.

It's nearly ten when Castiel surfaces enough to realize the cabin is quiet, empty of everyone but him and Dean. Frowning, he looks down at the last half-page of notes he obediently made during the team meeting, wondering vaguely when it ended and why he's still sitting here with a half-cup of coffee grown cold.

Looking up, he sees Dean sitting on the floor across from him, head in one hand as he dreamily re-reads his copy of the agreement, more specifically the list of items being requested that might be available in one of the cities. Unsurprisingly, despite the long, active day, Dean has yet to indicate he plans to go to bed. After careful observation over the last week, it's clear that Dean's nearly recovered and provided he's sensible (he snorts before he can stop himself) and not pushing himself excessively, there's no reason for him not to be considered well enough to take up his duties in full.

"James," Dean says abruptly.

Startled, he frowns. "What?"

Dean reluctantly tears his eyes away from the page detailing the available livestock. "The supply run to see what we can get from the towns' list. We need two more teams anyway, so let's get one started now. Your short list had James on it, and Amanda thinks a month on Kyle's team is punishment enough for anyone just to get experience."

"I don't have a short list," he answers in bewilderment.

Dean grins at him. "You do, you just don't know it. Vera said something about how you reorganized patrol in my feverish absence and it got me thinking that you had more than one reason for not letting the patrol leaders pick their own teams." He smirks. "Though pissing them off was probably a plus."

"I can't say it was a deterrent," he admits, putting down his pencil. "Kyle's helpless rage was often the most entertaining part of my day."

"So Kyle: he's a good leader, even if he's a dick, so no reason not to give him Cyn back unless you wanted James on there to learn from Kyle, see if he could do the job." Dean cocks his head. "Well?"

He pauses, turning that over in his mind. "When Vera was unavailable, James was sometimes sent on extended missions for Dean, and I remembered his performance was satisfactory. As he's never been on regular patrol and Kyle's team had an available opening, it seemed a good idea to take advantage of the current lack of activity and give more members of the camp the opportunity to work on patrol."

"Good call," Dean says approvingly. "So we need to do a supply run and we need two new teams; give it to James and see how he handles it, and kill one and a half birds with one stone."

Castiel locates the patrol notebook beneath the coffee table and opens it to the appropriate page. "Who do you want on his team?"

"What about Nate and Zack?" Dean asks, thinking. "They're on mess this week, right?"

"Yes, but from what I understand, their survival was very much in question before you distracted everyone with the announcement." He makes a note of it, wondering if he should give Dean the notebook now and explain the organization or wait, though worryingly, Dean's not shown any particular talent for the details of organization or any desire to learn despite Castiel's repeated attempts. He'll learn, he supposes uncertainly, spreading a hand over the page protectively; it's an excellent system, though Chuck's mention of spreadsheets has made him very curious. "That leaves one more to assign."

"What about Cyn?" Dean asks. "She's cleared for duty by now, right?"

"Alicia cleared her," Castiel answers after a brief hesitation.

Dean makes a face, but his attention is obviously elsewhere. "Cyn was on patrol before I got here, right?" Castiel nods obediently. "Give her to James for his team; that gives 'em two people with patrol experience."

"And for Kyle's team--"

"I think we hit the bottom of the barrel," Dean continues, reaching out to flip back several pages and craning his neck to read the list of Chitaqua members with experience on patrol before shaking his head. "Everyone we got left hasn't been out of this camp except for supply runs since that first statewide survey you did--"

"We did," Castiel corrects him absently, remembering. That night, working with Dean until dawn to create a workable plan to check the entirety of the state in only five days, was a rare bright spot during those first two weeks when nothing else made sense. For the first time since he was placed in charge of the camp, it wasn't quite so overwhelming, so impossible to understand, even if Dean knew even less than he did.

A sound from Dean interrupts his thoughts. "What?"

Dean has an odd look on his face. "Dude, I remember that night, and trust me, I didn't do that much."

"The model was based on your suggestions and was solid," Castiel says in surprise. "I based the patrol districts off of it, with slight boundary changes to encompass the current population as we understand it. You didn't recognize it?"

"No," he answers, sitting back. "I didn't think to ask where you got it."

"That would be you" he answers, feeling a smile tugging at his mouth at Dean's startled expression. "You created it."

"We did," Dean answers, smiling back, and for a moment, Castiel almost forgets about tomorrow. "So, about James--if he pulls this off, anyway--how do you want to work him in? We're losing Amanda and Mark, so what about their teams?"

"Amanda wishes Sean to succeed her," Castiel answers automatically. "Mark already recommended Damiel as his replacement. All three teams will need new members, but that can wait until your return."

"Dude, you can--" Dean breaks off for a surprised yawn, looking annoyed.

"You should go to bed." Dean rolls his eyes as Castiel pulls the agreement from under Dean's hand. "You need to conserve your strength while you can. Your meeting with Ichabod's mayor, as well as with their trade partners, will be more tiring than you think."

"We're not leaving after noon," Dean argues mutinously. "Don't wanna look too eager."

"After Joseph brought his team back in a storm where visibility was sometimes reduced to six inches, I can see how that would be a concern," he answers, closing the patrol notebook with a sense of finality. "I'll--"

"Cas," Dean starts, something very worrying his voice. "Look, we haven't talked about--"

"--put these away," he interrupts quickly, starting to get up.

"Sit down." Castiel jerks his head up at the implicit order to see Dean grinning at him unrepentantly. "You know the easiest way to get your attention is give you an order? Even ones you're okay with, there's a second where you want to say no just on principle."

"Habit." Reluctantly, he sits back down. "I think we covered everything regarding your absence."

"I think," Dean says slowly, resting an elbow on the coffee table, "that there's a couple of things you've spent pretty much all evening pretending didn't bother you. Not your best work, but--"

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"Maybe the fact that you're the only one that didn't say anything about me going to Ichabod during the meeting earlier." Before he can deny it--which would be pointless, but that's never stopped him before--Dean snorts. "Cas, I saw your face when Joseph mentioned it."

"It was a surprise."

"Joe had no idea how close he was to having a pencil through the eye," Dean says in amusement. "So?"

"What was I supposed to say?" he asks, opening the patrol notebook and retrieving his pencil; he's found it's very soothing to have something to do during unwelcome conversations and the maps are too far away to acquire easily.

"Give an opinion, maybe. Since it's pretty obvious you don't think I should go." There's a brief, frustrated silence before Dean says, "Cas, put that down and look at me. You can be as anal as you want later, okay?"

Reluctantly, he closes the notebook again, marking his place with the pencil before giving Dean his full attention.

"I’m sorry," Dean says, startling him; the sincerity is unmistakable. "I should have talked to you about it first. Joe mentioned it this morning and I meant to talk to you about it before the meeting--"

"You have no obligation to discuss your decisions with me first," he says before Dean can continue. "Is there anything else?"

"Yeah, okay." Dean hesitates, frowning at him. "So you aren't pissed and that's not the reason why you didn't say anything at the meeting?"

"Due to my historical behavior at such meetings--a mild example of which you witnessed less than a week ago--I generally prefer to limit my interactions to observation."

Dean's frown deepens. "But you're pissed."

"I'm not--"

"Cas, you're about to snap that pencil," Dean points out, and Castiel looks down to see the pencil beginning to crack. "You're pissed, so let's talk about it." He pauses, looking pained. "Jesus, I’m quoting Sam now."

"What do you want me to tell you that you don't already know?" Castiel asks brittlely, forcing himself to drop the pencil before it breaks entirely. "You know the danger of being outside Chitaqua's wards alone--"

"Yeah, I get that, but--"

"The agreement was not conditional on your physical presence, only your signature on the copy of the agreement that Joseph brought back with him," Castiel continues without any expectation of convincing Dean. "You don't have to go."

"I do have to go," Dean counters. "These people made an agreement with us, and I think they deserve to see the guy who signed off on it."

"If one of Lucifer's followers should see you--"

"Cas, Jeffrey confirmed what they all seem to think--somehow, you're doing this," Dean interrupts. "You said it yourself and Jeffrey confirmed it; Lucifer thinks this is part of the goddamn prophecy. If Lucifer has any followers in Kansas, ask yourself, why would they still be here if they think Dean's dead?" Dean shakes his head in frustration. "Cas, if we're gonna do anything--if we even have a hope of trying--I gotta do this. If I'm gonna recruit--"

"This isn't a recruitment."

"This is how it starts, how I get people to--you think we can just put up a sign come one come all, join up but never actually see the guy you're signing up to fight for? Who the hell would trust someone they've never actually seen?" Dean sighs, rubbing a hand against the back of his neck. "Cas, I can't stay locked up here forever. And don't say," he adds before Castiel can open his mouth, "that I'm not locked up because I get field trips anywhere I want as long as they're deserted and I'm not alone."

Castiel stills. "Do you feel that I'm--"

"I think," Dean says slowly, reaching for Castiel's pencil and tapping it against the coffee table, "it hasn't been an issue because I've been sick, and now--I get it, paranoid is a way of life here. Gotta end sometime, Cas: might as well be now." He searches Castiel's face for a moment. "Is this about you staying here? That wasn't to piss you off, Cas." He tries a smile, faintly teasing. "Not because I don't like you.

"You need me here if you're not," he answers flatly. "I did, in fact, understand that much."

Dean winces. "Another thing we should have talked about, I know. I'm sorry. Next time--"

"As I said," he interrupts, "you don't have to clear your decisions with me."

"You want the pencil back?" Dean asks solicitously, extending it. "Might feel better if you break it and throw the pieces at me."

"I'm not angry," he grinds out between his teeth. "This conversation is pointless. You'd already made your decision before the meeting, so I see no reason to offer my opinions after the fact."

"Take the fucking pencil, Cas."

"It doesn't matter if I agree with you or not, in any case," Castiel answers doggedly. "It's your decision to make."

Dean starts to answer, then sits back. "Wait. Are we even having the same conversation? Since when does your opinion not matter?"

To his surprise, the words are far more difficult to say than he expected. "You've demonstrated that you're ready to take up your duties as Chitaqua's leader." Dean goes still, lips parting as if to speak, but he doesn't. "I'll help you, of course, in any way you need, but you know enough now that only experience can teach you the rest."

"So you won't even tell me what you think?" Dean asks, looking confused.

"If you're uncertain regarding a decision, of course I'll offer my opinion if you ask," he explains carefully.

"If I ask?" Dean echoes. "Since when do I need to ask?"

"Dean--"

"Why?" Dean bursts out, coming up on his knees. "What the hell did I do to make you think--I forgot to talk to you about this, my bad, I'm still new at this. You have the right to be pissed! What I don't get is why you…." He trails off. "Hold up. Is this about what happened with Joe's team before they left? That why you didn't say anything during the meeting?"

"No--"

"Because I was fine with that," he continues. "It was fun. You couldn't see Joe's face, but dude, it was--"

"It wasn't real. What you were doing, I knew it was deliberate, but I still--"

"Did you thing," Dean interrupts. "I know, I was there. What does that have to do with--"

"It wasn't real," he repeats as evenly as he can. "It would have bothered you if you believed anything you were saying."

"If I ever believe what I was saying that day, get some holy water and start an exorcism," Dean answers, a flicker of amusement in his voice, "because obviously a demon's involved. Cas, come on--"

"And when it's actually something you do believe is the right decision?" Dean's amusement vanishes. "Will you be so complacent?"

"What do you think I'm gonna do?"

"You don't understand," he says, frustrated. "It's not you, it's--"

"Him," Dean says with unexpected bitterness, dropping back on his heels. "Historical behavior. You mean what went down at those meeting with him there."

"It's me." Looking up, he meets Dean's eyes. "You said it yourself; it's on principle. I spent most of my mortal life on earth doing nothing but opposing everything simply because I could."

"Your mortal life is two years and change," Dean argues. "And I was exaggerating! You don't actually do that!"

"I do do that!" he snaps. "What happened with Joseph's team--"

"Was exactly what you were supposed to do!" Dean says incredulously. "Say what no one else will, tell people what they don't want to hear, make them listen--"

"No one listened," he says before he can stop himself.

"You mean he wouldn't." Dean slumps, staring at the coffee table for a long moment. "You said you knew the difference, Cas. I’m not him."

"It's not about Dean--"

"It's always about him," Dean says softly, green eyes dark. "It was, is, and will always fucking be about him. I get it, Cas."

"It's about you," he says. "History doesn't improve on repetition. I don't want…" Two years of endless arguments, protracted silences, wary truces broken almost before they began flash through his mind on endless repeat; he can't risk it happening, not again, not when this time he has so much to lose, more than he ever imagined he'd have. "We can discuss this in more detail when you return. I can verify James' suitability in your absence, but adding new team members to the existing teams can be postponed for now."

Dean doesn't answer for a long moment. "So you're gonna handle everything until I get back?"

"Yes."

"Uh huh." Dean licks his lips. "And when I get back…."

"As I said, it can wait until your return."

"It really can't," Dean says, expression unreadable. "What are we gonna be talking about when I get back?"

Castiel takes a deep breath, focusing on the patrol notebook. "You're well enough now not to need me. The team leaders know their jobs, the camp runs with minimal supervision...it's as good a time as any for you to--when you return--"

"You're quitting."

He frowns. "I'm not quitting."

"When I get back, you're quitting," Dean repeats flatly. "Is that what you're telling me?"

He frowns. "This arrangement was temporary due to your illness."

"It wasn't." Dean winces, frowning at the coffee table. "So maybe we should have talked about this before."

This conversation would benefit from--something. Context perhaps. "What?"

"The part where you had to do everything, yes, that was definitely temporary," Dean assures him. "I think I can pull my own weight now, not a problem." He pauses, fixing his gaze on the wall behind Castiel's shoulder. "I just thought the weight would be---there'd be two of those."

"Two weights?"

Dean sighs. "Believe it or not, that was actually my best try yet. You see why I was putting this off?"

"Yes," he agrees a little flatly. "Perhaps you should discard analogies for now."

"Right. Give me a minute." Dean stares at nothing for a few moments before nodding to himself and looking up. "Okay, first thing; this is probably my fault. I thought maybe you wouldn't notice for a little while longer, give me more time, which yeah, that's on me, but it wasn't like you were miserable or anything. A warning would have been nice, just saying."

"Dean."

"I said give me a minute!" Huffing a breath, Dean scowls before taking a deep breath and looking at him again. "Don't quit."

"I'm not quitting."

"You're quitting," Dean counters. "You just don't know it because you didn't know it was actually your job."

"Dean, you will have to be specific. What job?"

"What's the word for someone who does your job when you're not there and helps you do it when you are?" Dean asks. "And takes over when you're--you know, dying? But permanently."

English, Castiel reflects, doesn't have a word for something not unlike a coup, but possibly in reverse. "Second in command?"

Dean points at him. "That"

"Of Chitaqua?"

"And the war," Dean adds. "Which gonna point out, you thinking we can win? Kind of makes it half your responsibility anyway, just saying. Come on, what's the problem? It's basically what you've been doing all this time. Same job, new title. So, what do you think?"

Castiel stares at him.

"Look, I get the timing is--"

"How long," Castiel says as calmly as he can, "have you been thinking about this?"

Dean bites his lip. "Since I told Vera to announce it to the camp when I was--you know, between fevers. You were there."

He closes his eyes.

"Look, I should have asked you about this before, but not like you asked me if I was ready yet," Dean continues relentlessly. "Or even told me about it! I don't think you got room to talk here!"

Opening his eyes, Castiel stares at him in disbelief. "I can't imagine what that must be like."

"Funny," Dean answers, eyes narrowing in challenge. "By the way, why today?"

Castiel blinks, startled. "What--"

"Not yesterday, not last week, but today you decided I was ready," Dean says, resting his chin on his hand. "Not even this morning: you were arguing with me about the priority list, for fuck's sake! The meeting with the team leaders and I said I was going to Ichabod--that was it, wasn't it? The argument we didn't have in front of everyone in the room because you decided the easiest way to avoid repeating history is opting out."

He hesitates. "Something like that, yes."

"Because you were pissed I was leaving and didn't talk to you about it?"

"Of course not--"

"I make one mistake," Dean says angrily, "and you're done with me? Jesus, he got more time than that before you wrote him off!"

"I'm not!" The anger he might have expected, but the hurt beneath it he didn't. "There are--there are other reasons."

"History repeating itself," Dean says suddenly, anger vanishing. "Like how Dean's team leaders thought you were a dangerous influence on him."

Castiel sucks in a breath.

"And Luke tried to kill you because of it."

"That was--"

"A long time ago," Dean interrupts, looking at him with an expression he can't quite read.. "You keep saying that, like that means something. It was two years and it was this afternoon, too. You, the team leaders, Dean Winchester, and history repeating all over again in this room. All new cast, but you--"

"I don't think the team leaders have any intention of killing me," Castiel says immediately. "Obviously. I appointed some of them myself."

The following silence stretches infinitely, or so it seems, and Castiel wonders uneasily how long this will last. "Dean," he says finally, "I think--"

"Yeah," Dean says, focusing on him abruptly; Castiel can't look away. "Look, you and me, we got off to a shitty start. The barn, the wings, trying to blow out my eardrums, the fucking Host, and that's just the first time we first met, not the most recent--but we got past that, right?" The pause lasts long enough for Castiel to realize he's supposed to nod. "Good. We moved on, got to know each other, so--I mean, it works. Time, whatever, some things start bad but they don't have to stay that way. People change. You know that."

"I know that," he agrees. "I feel we've--what you said, yes."

"But that's nothing, right? Not compared to how you and humanity got started." Castiel freezes, unable to hide it from that penetrating stare. "So that's it."

Castiel swallows, unable to think of anything to say to that.

"All your existence, you loved humanity as your Father's favorite Creation," Dean says, never looking away. "You rebelled against the Host, you helped Dean build those camps so humanity could fight back, you Fell, even though by then you didn't believe you could win, all because humanity was worth fighting for. You taught them everything you knew so they could fight, and what does humanity do? They were scared of you. They hated you. And then the fuckers tried to kill you."

"I don't--" Swallowing, he tries again. "I don't blame humanity for what Luke did."

"It was a long time ago," Dean agrees, resting an elbow on the coffee table. "That was then and this is now, or a few months ago; Dean was gone, the camp needed a leader, Vera shows up on your doorstep, and suddenly it's all let's forgive and forget that murder shit, time to move on and by the way, keep us alive." Castiel has no idea what Dean's seeing on his face, but for some reason, it makes him start to smile. "You didn't know what you were doing, but did they care? They were happy to obey any order you gave, because you've all hugged it out, water under the bridge, it was a long time ago so forget the last two years of your life here, just keep them alive."

"That's not--"

"Luke and the team leaders, that was fucked up, but it's not like the Host wasn't after you for years," Dean continues, bracing both elbows on the coffee table. "The fear thing sucked, but you were an angel and 'be not afraid' was your catchphrase for a reason. Mortality--yeah, that blew, but eventually, you got used to it. But all of it together--"

"This is ridiculous."

"--that's a lot to deal with. And for two years you went on missions, but that wasn't enough for Dean, the team leaders hated you, period, and half the camp didn't even notice you did anything but get high and have epic sex parties and were scared of you just because of what you were--"

"It wasn't their fault," Castiel gets out in a rush of words. "I know that."

"But then Dean's gone, and humanity, after fucking you over, expected you to save them? That was bullshit."

"I didn't--"

"Only question I got is why you didn't kill everyone here--God knows after all that, you probably wanted to."

"I never wanted that!" Castiel shouts before he can stop himself, half on his knees. "How dare you--"

"I know," Dean answers, tipping his head back to regard him thoughtfully. "But you're still kind of pissed at them."

"I don't blame the camp for what Luke did--"

"Humanity."

Castiel drops back onto the floor with a thump.

"The first step," Dean says, head in hand, "is admitting you have a problem, and that your problem is the same one that everyone on earth has. Someone tried to kill you; that would piss anyone off. You got the extra special edition: it was because you weren't human, and just like the human they thought you weren't, you hated the fuckers and threw all their kind in the bargain."

It takes several seconds for Castiel to find his voice. "I never--"

"Just admit it," Dean advises him, rolling his eyes. "You're pissed, you've been pissed for two years, you're not over it, you're not sure you even want to be, and by the way, humanity can fuck itself. No one, Cas--no one--wouldn't be pissed about that, and you're not a fucking martyr." Unexpectedly, his voice soften. "And you don't have to be.

Castiel opens his mouth but nothing comes out.

"So let's get this out of the way: on behalf of humanity, I'm sorry--"

"Really?"

"--for all our sins against you, great and small," Dean continues, meeting Castiel's eyes. "For we knew exactly what we were doing, we do this shit to each other all the time, and there's no way could you have seen it coming, not like this."

Picking up the pencil Dean discarded, Castiel stares at the faint, almost-invisible crack in the smooth yellow surface. "It wasn't like that."

Dean sighs. "Cas, I don't forgive humanity for some of the shit they pull; let's be real here. It's not like don't I wake up some days thinking the end of world would at least end humanity's bullshit. Hatred--if only, that'd be easy, then it wouldn't matter, that doesn't keep you up at night." He hesitates. "Disappointment, though, that's different; that shit eats at you every day."

"I don't.…" He stops, frustrated, and tries a different tack. "You think I judge humanity considering what my own kind have done to you?"

"Your kind.…" Dean chokes back a startled laugh, grinning at him. "Newsflash, Castiel Gabriel Singer of Chitaqua: we are your kind. You may not be human, Cas, but you do people just fine, including hating most of 'em. People do that," he adds with a smirk. "And you're a fucking prodigy at that."

"I don't hate Vera or Jeremy," he says, transferring his gaze from the pencil to Dean. "Or you. I think."

Dean's smirk widens. "What about Joe?" he asks mockingly, widening his eyes in elaborately crafted shock. "He's awesome!"

"Of course not--"

"And Chuck? Amanda and your nightly playdates in ass-kicking? Alicia, who likes things with blades as much as you do? Ana, who promised to find a DVD player and a copy of Showgirls on the down low to show you next chance she gets?"

"How did you--"

"Gossip," Dean answers promptly. "Makes the world go around."

Castiel rolls his eyes, slumping back against the couch. "As I said, I don't hate humanity."

"No, you don't hate them," Dean corrects him. "Humanity, on the other hand, was scared of you, avoided you, which hurt your feelings, don't pretend it didn't--"

He straightens, offended. "Oh please."

"--hated you, and then they tried to kill you," Dean finishes, smile fading into something more serious. "I get it, Cas. What you saw that night with Luke: that was the worst of us. But that's not all we are; we're more than that."

Castiel blinks. "What did you say?"

"What?" Dean looks briefly puzzled before continuing. "Look, I get it, but humanity? It's not just fucking Luke. It's--"

"You," Castiel breathes, mouth dry.

"Okay, yeah," Dean agrees, a small, surprised smile curving one corner of his mouth. "I'm human. And what I am--"

"--is what you all are. What I saw that night was the worst of you." Dean nods encouragingly, green eyes certain. "And what I see tonight is the best."

Dean rolls his eyes, but a flush creeps steadily across his cheeks. "If that works for you, sure, why not? Wouldn't say the best, but--"

"--there will be better?" he offers helplessly.

"I wouldn't go that far," Dean protests, the hot color spreading further as he adds, "I'm not the best of us, Cas."

Castiel nods wisely. "He said something like that as well."

Dean frowns. "What? Who?"

"Never mind," he answers, staring at Dean in fascination. "Please keep going."

After a suspicious look, (being Dean) he does just that. "Look, if fucking Luke gets a starring role in examples of humanity--and can't lie here, we got a lot of those--Vera should get equal billing, you get what I'm saying? Amanda should be up there. Joe should get an honorable mention at least."

"Surely a pantheon of the best humanity has to offer," he says unevenly; it feels like something is lodged in his throat.

"We have a lot of those, too," Dean offers. "In this camp, even. Even the ones--that was then, Cas. Just because they were dicks to you back then, doesn't mean they--" He breaks off, making a face. "Look, even the worst of us--"

"--can be the best," Castiel finishes for him, swallowing frantically; what is that? "Sometimes, it simply takes time for them to find that out for themselves."

"Yeah," Dean says slowly, green eyes starting to narrow. "Cas, you wanna catch me up here?"

Heroically, he fights down the obstruction to say, "Can you elaborate?"

"I don't know, maybe that you've heard this before or something?" Dean asks suspiciously.

This time, it's impossible to stop it; when he opens his mouth again, laughter pours out between in great, heady bursts, effervescent bubbles of hilarity filling his chest again with every gasped breath. Dean's shock doesn't help; dropping his head to his arms, he laughs until his chest aches and he can't get a full breath and doesn't particularly care. It feels like a muscle held too tightly for far too long is finally loosening; it hurts, of course, but two years is a very long time and it's probably very stiff by now.

Not wrong yet, drifts smugly through his mind, a whisper of laughter beneath it.

No, Castiel thinks shakily; no, not at all. I'm sitting in the presence of the proof.

"…Cas?" The frantic edge to Dean's voice is enough to give him some modicum of control, even though nothing can erase the smile, even in the face of Dean's worried scowl. "What the hell is up with you?"

"Just--for my own curiosity," Castiel begins, swallowing down another burst of laughter at Dean's expression. "If you were being pursued by a mob intent on murdering you because your ideas were revolutionary for your time, you'd be saying the exact same thing as your last words, wouldn’t you?"

"Uh." Dean makes a face, eyebrows drawing sharply together. "No, I'd kill their asses first. After, over a beer, sure."

"That's an excellent plan," he answers thoughtfully. "I wish I'd thought of that. In my defense, it probably wouldn't have been allowed, but--"

"What?" Dean straightens in alarm. "Are we gonna be fighting a mob someday? Did you see that in the future or something when you were an angel and forget to tell me?"

"I'm certain, given the opportunity, you could inspire any number of angry mobs to stalk you to your potential death," he answers honestly. "It's a surprisingly common occurrence when faced with people who not only want to change the world, but actually start doing it."

"When," Dean grits out between clenched teeth, "and where? Give me date, time, and place--"

"Two thousand, one hundred, and thirty five years ago, late at night, and in the Grove of the Furies," he recites obediently, just because he can. "And not you, in case that needs to be said."

Never before this moment has Castiel appreciated his reflexes so much; the table is cleared of projectiles before Dean opens his mouth.

"You would have liked him," he continues, safely storing notebook, pencil, and both cups safely at his side. "He never gave up on anything, including himself." His mother did, but now, perhaps far better than then, he understands why. "Though he did take the option of entreating divine revenge of Diana, but truly, it was fully justified. They were even given an opportunity to gain absolution first, but slaughtering the gods' representative in their own consecrated temple before the Senate went into session…." He shakes his head.

"Slaughtered in--" Dean's confusion dissipates, incredulity taking its place. "Wait, Diana, temple, the Senate, slaughter--Rome? Ancient Rome, Julius Caesar, all that, that's what you're talking about?"

He smiles. "He was a little before Caesar's time, but yes."

"How'd you know him?"

"I was ordered to carry Diana's judgment to him," he answers, remembering that night in the Grove. "He recognized what I was and he asked me...."

What?" Dean prompts him gently.

"His country betrayed him, his friends deserted him, his supporters were murdered, his work destroyed, and a group of his own countrymen were pursuing him into the Grove of the Furies to kill him," he says softly. "Yet he stood there before me as his murderers searched the Grove for him, and the only thing he asked was that I promise to remember that humanity was not just the men who pursued him." He looks at Dean. "That you're more."

"I like him now," Dean says, equally soft. "They killed him?"

"Of course not. He was a Roman," he answers. "His life was his own from the moment of his birth; he'd never allow the vermin who hunted him to take it from him. I stayed with him until his shade passed to the Reapers. By the time I allowed them to find his body, he was beyond their reach." They cut off his head so he'd have no mouth in which to place a coin for Charon, threw his body intact into the Tiber, hoping to doom his shade to haunt the banks of the Styx and Acheron when it was unable to pay the fare to cross them. As if the petty actions of small men could matter: Charon welcomed him gladly, for to host such a man within the shelter of her barge was all the payment she required. "His request for divine vengeance was granted," he says abruptly, aware of Dean watching him. "Rome would fall to despotism in less than two centuries: the Republic became the Empire before being destroyed in its entirety. Latin isn't even a living language anymore." Dean blinks at him. "Gods have a very different frame of reference when it comes to the concept of 'timely' revenge," he explains. "A minute or a millennia seem to...."

"Yeah, immortality probably does that," Dean agrees, a thread of amusement in his voice. "You okay?"

"I've just been very thoroughly schooled by a man whose been dead for over two millennia," he answers honestly. "I need a moment to regain my perspective."

"Take your time," Dean says soothingly. "Just one question--why were you carrying Diana's judgment anyway?"

"It was in my job description," he answers, almost smiling at Dean's surprise. "Angels aren't called Messengers for nothing. We had privileges in any consecrated temple or holy place, not just those dedicated to our Father. It was often far less stressful for the gods to petition us for assistance than negotiate with each other; that could take eons, and I do mean that literally."

"I had no idea," Dean says, looking intrigued. "Who--"

"I'll tell you the entire story one night, if you wish," he interrupts reluctantly in the face of Dean's interest. "You were right. About me. I'm still--ambivalent regarding humanity."

Dean blinks at him. "Right, I knew that. Except not 'ambivalent'; you're pissed."

"Somewhat unhappy with--"

"--angry as hell and not taking it anymore."

"And it's not fair, I know that."

"Disappointed." Castiel lets out a breath, nodding agreement. "And that's fair, Cas, don't let anyone tell you different. What happened sucked, and you don't have to forgive humanity for that." He cocks his head. "But…you could do it anyway."

"I told you, I know--"

"There's no way you could," Dean counters. "Your world was inside these walls, always has been, from the moment you Fell. All the people you knew were a step from crazy at best, because that was an advantage when Dean was recruiting. That was then, and this is now, two years later, and people change, but you're still using the same playbook."

"It kept me alive," he answers and regrets it at Dean's flinch. "Though in comparison to the population living here, it was only a very small number who were actively interested in my death."

"When your world's the size of a camp, it probably felt like more," Dean says quietly. "When it could be anyone, it might as well have been everyone." After a moment, he adds, "If you're not ready to give humanity another chance yet--and I don't blame you for that--if that's the reason you don't want the job, I respect that."

Castiel starts to answer, then hesitates. "You do."

"Doesn't mean I won't work on changing your mind," Dean admits. "And I will, but it doesn't have to be now."

"All right."

"But--just hear me out--why not now, try it out, just to see what happens?" Dean asks in a rush, leaning forward. "I'll be in Ichabod for a few days, you'll be here, and hey, you have some free time, so maybe listen to some reports, make sure James isn't the new Sid and kills his team on a bridge, anything comes up, you handle it. You know, exactly what you've been doing before and what you were going to do anyway while I was gone, same old same old, no surprises here."

Castiel nods at Dean's hopeful pause. "And?"

"Pay attention," he says immediately. "Note the sheer lack of people who want to kill you when you give them their orders. Some of 'em even like you, and I bet you didn't notice that either, but weird thing, people respond well to someone who isn't actively trying to piss them off all the time." Dean sits back with a shrug, elaborately nonchalant. "Get out your playbook, dust it off, and check your interpretations. Dude, even the Bible gets regular updates in translation: why not your Humans And Their Fucked Up Ways? What, the playbook's more sacred than your dad's own words?"

Castiel raises an eyebrow at Dean's triumphant smile. "Perhaps in the future, you could consider some changes to your recruitment speech if this is the one you plan to use."

"I'm preaching to the won't admit he's already converted," Dean answers smugly. "Weird, how that wasn't a no."

It wasn't.

Dean rests an elbow on the coffee table. "What are you willing to lose?"

"What?"

"Single roll, all or nothing, winner takes all," Dean answers. "Here's point; I go to Ichabod, you do exactly what you've been doing basically since I got here, and you realize that yeah, humanity might not be so bad; alea iacta est."

"'The die is cast'?"

"When I get back, you tell me how I rolled." Dean grins at him. "Rubicon's just a river, Cas; all you risk crossing is getting your feet wet."

"And if you win?"

"You say yes," Dean answers promptly. "And this: you promise me that if you don't like something I'm doing, you tell me, in front of the entire camp if you think you have to. Argue, fight it out, I don't care: I may disagree with you and do it anyway if I think I'm right, but that doesn't mean I don't want to know if I'm wrong and why."

"You'll grow to resent it if my opinion constantly differs from yours."

"I'll get over it." Dean's expression is serious. "Here's what you get in return; I'll listen, always, even if I don't agree. And I won't hold it against you either way: even when you're right. So, what do you think?"

Castiel swallows. "It's not the worst offer I've ever heard. However," he continues, ignoring Dean's smug expression, "you haven't told me what happens if you're wrong."

"I'm not," Dean answers cheerfully. "Well?"

"Yes." He'd do far more than this for Dean's smile, offered to him and him alone.

"Okay, now that that's out of the way--Rome, the guy with his people speech before he got mobbed? You got a name for me?" Dean asks suddenly.

"Gaius Sempronius Gracchus," he answers in surprise. "Why?"

"Okay, so--wait, you want coffee before you start? Give me the cups." He frowns as Castiel stares at him. "What?"

"You're leaving in fourteen hours," he says, the list of things Dean needs to accomplish scrolling through his mind in appalling repetition. "You want me to tell you tonight?"

"Why not?" Dean asks, already half-over the coffee table in a distracting stretch of limbs, t-shirt riding up to reveal several inches of his bare back, jeans making an inspiring attempt to escape down his hips. With a triumphant sound, he grabs their cups from the floor and looks up at Castiel from only inches away, cheeks flushed with exertion. "Cas?"

Castiel thinks, blankly: this conversation would have been much shorter if you'd done that much earlier. "Yes."

"Cool." As Dean straightens, cups in hand--and regretfully straightening his shirt with a lack of self-consciousness that makes him wonder uneasily if Dean has entirely grasped that he's living with someone who isn't his brother--Castiel manages to remember what they were talking about.

"Why do you want to know about Gaius?" he asks, deciding against mentioning it at this time; he doesn't want Dean to be uncomfortable, after all.

"Two thousand something years ago, he did half the work for me tonight," Dean answers on his way to the kitchen. "I'd like to know more about the guy who's getting half the credit."

---

--Day 100--

"Cas?"

Jerked awake by the unexpected noise, Castiel blinks uncertainly into the gloom of the living room, surrounded by the too-familiar silence of an empty cabin in a tiny camp at the end of the world. For some reason (for no reason), he expected--

(the sound of someone else breathing a room away; the shrill squeal of springs of the mattress as he rolls over in bed; the low, muffled sounds of distress from a nightmare or fever; the unhappy groan that punctuates the moment he awakens to a new morning)

Closing his eyes again, he fights down panic, the sound of his own too-rapid breathing filling his ears: a monotonous day stretches before him, the endless drag of time broken into discrete units and filled with anything, everything he can find to do, sex and drugs, chemical euphoria and the long, slow crash before it begins all over again. His existence stretches to the beginning of time, but since he Fell, he learned the meaning of forever; it's mortality, the march of linear time where seconds last years and days eons and never seems to end.

It's another morning, much like the one before and will be exactly like the next; there's no reason to get up and he can't remember why he thought there was.

(there's no sound of someone who is very cranky in the morning and requires coffee before interaction can commence; there's no one who requires a rigorously researched breakfast that covers the four food groups and is low in unnecessary carbohydrates; there's no reason to verify that the contents of the pantry are adequate or if something is lacking before preparing lunch; there's no day to look forward to, filled with work and people and an endless list of things to do; there's no reason to shower, get dressed; there's no reason to get up)

"Cas? Are you--crap!" Something drops heavily to the floor, and Castiel sits up to see Alicia glaring at the fabric shade covering the doorway. "Sorry," she says, letting go of the cord. "I was trying to lower it slowly, be subtle. That didn't work"

Glancing out the window, he takes in the drizzling rain outside and then Alicia, braided hair damp as she takes off her jacket and looks around before shrugging and shoving it between the shade and the doorway to drop it on the porch and sitting down on the floor to remove her muddy boots. He appreciates the thought; cleaning drying mud from the floor is breathtakingly tedious, but if he doesn't do it immediately, it will spread.

Looking around, Castiel takes in the cabin carefully. The room is clean and organized according to maximum comfort and efficient use of space (though the rug, he reflects unhappily, is becoming dingy since he can't take it outside to clean it; perhaps he should have asked James to acquire a vacuum yesterday?), there are no empty bottles, full ashtrays, unwashed plates, piles of laundry, or a lingering scent of anything but wet and rain and perhaps the lemon-based cleaning product he acquired from Chuck because he and Dean were both becoming nauseated from the smell of bleach and ammonia (though not together; he did learn that much, thankfully before turning the bathroom into an impromptu gas chamber).

He's very sober, relatively clean, and on the coffee table is today's schedule, which includes a discussion with Chuck about the use of spreadsheets but not (he thinks), a dawn meeting with Alicia.

Setting her boots outside as well, Alicia turns to face him with a bright grin, obscenely awake and almost crackling with energy. "Good morning, Cas."

She's a morning person, he remembers belatedly. They're like this; it's not personal.

"Good morning." Dean's having his first breakfast in Ichabod and this is the first full day of his trial period as--he shies away from the word warily--what Dean said. "How are you?"

"Terrorized the watch with Matt--he's in charge of them today, fine, but reinforcement never hurt anyone, am I right?" Her grins fades, replaced by concern. "You okay? You looked…weird there for a minute."

"I didn't sleep well," he answers, not entirely untruthfully. Dean's strict schedule was uncannily effective in regulating his sleep patterns, but last night he found it difficult to fall asleep and woke intermittently throughout the night. Maybe that explains it. "Have you ever woken up and--forgot several months of your life for several very long moments?"

"Once I dreamed I baked a cake," she says thoughtfully. "Looked for it for thirty minutes after I woke up, too. I was so pissed…it was chocolate, too."

Drawing up his knees, he looks at her curiously. "Does that happen often?"

"Not often, but it's weird when it does," she answers, leaning her elbows on the armchair on the other side of the coffee table. "You ever have those weird dreams that last like, years? Then you wake up and you're hours feeling like you should be seventy or married to a sea plumber?"

"What's a sea plumber?"

"Your guess is as good as mine," she sighs. "But we had a lot of tadpoles and one's name was Scott. Anything like that ever happen to you?"

It's a complicated question; REM sleep is a requirement to maintain the health of the human brain, his body is human, so he must dream. "I never remember what I dream. This morning was--strange."

"Huh." She cocks her head. "First time Dean's been gone for the night, am I right? Since you two….you know." He nods uncertainly, not sure of the relevance. "You get used to them being around. When they're not, it can be--" She makes an incomprehensible gesture. "Weird. Like something's missing."

That makes sense. "Oh."

"It's a thing," she assures him, straightening. "What you need is coffee, and a lot of it. Can't go with caffeine and sugar, I always say."

"Yes," he agrees. "I can--"

"I'll make it," she says brightly, already on her way to the kitchen, and belated, he notices a bag hanging over one flannel-covered arm. Flipping on the light, she looks around in approval before spotting the pantry. "So--here we go. You want me to make breakfast while you shower?"

"Yes, thank you--" He stops short, glancing at the open notebook. "Alicia, why are you here?"

"Check your stitches, so just toss the bandage when you get out, it needs air anyway," she calls from the kitchen, and he hears her make a satisfied sound as she opens the pantry door. "Take your time," she adds, studying the contents speculatively. "I got an idea."

---

When he returns, Alicia is turning off the burner beneath the frying pan with a triumphant expression. "Get some coffee and sit down," she says over her shoulder as she takes a drink from her own cup. "I'll be one more second."

Obediently, he does so, looking in approval at the neatly set table, though the position of the fork on the right side is a variation he wasn't aware of. As he sits down, Alicia places a plate in the middle of the table, stacked with several slices of toasted bread and adds a smaller bowl of fruit before crouching to roll up his sleeve and give the stitches a fast, professional once-over.

"Any vivisection-like pain?" He shakes his head and she nods in approval, straightening. "Good. I'll bandage it after we eat. This is French toast, Chitaqua-style," she adds, stabbing a fork into the top two slices before dropping them on his plate, sprinkling them with sugar and adding a spoonful of fruit. "Only legit use of powdered eggs in history. I used creamer for the milk and added the syrup from the fruit to the egg for flavor since we don't have vanilla"

Castiel blinks down at his plate before carefully cutting off a corner with his fork and taking a bite. To his surprise, the flavor isn't offensive, and the texture of the bread is different from whatever she did to it.

"Add sugar as needed," she advises him, adding several spoons to hers and a layer of fruit before taking an enormous bite. "Sugar--"

"--makes everything better," he finishes for her, adding another spoonful and taking a larger bite this time. This is very good; the fruit combines very well with the bread. "I wonder if Dean would like this."

"He does. A lot." When he looks up, startled, Alicia grins at him unselfconsciously. "I'll give you the recipe. So what's on the agenda for today?"

Castiel regards her thoughtfully. "Alicia--"

"Thinking thoughts before two cups of coffee never did anything for anyone," Alicia tells him sympathetically, finishing off her first two pieces and getting two more. "Can't trust 'em. Eat, Cas, my feelings are in the process of getting very hurt by the lack of fake enthusiasm."

"This is very good," he answers defensively, taking another bite to prove it. "Did Dean tell you to--"

"No, of course not," she interrupts before folding half a piece of toast onto her fork and stuffing the entirety into her mouth. Unblinking, Castiel watches her engage in several seconds of enthusiastic chewing (no sign of choking to death) before successfully swallowing (how did she do that?). "Give me something to do."

He pauses, fork halfway to his mouth.

"Bored," she says, finishing the second half of the toast; it's impossible to look away. "And kind of hiding, fine."

"Hiding?"

"Matt's on Watch-terrorizing duty today," she explains. "You know who isn't?"

He finishes the bite and waits; that's what's known as a rhetorical question.

"Everyone, but also, Andy. And you know who's not on patrol right now due to flooding or something?"

He shakes his head and cuts off another (larger) piece of toast.

"Kat," she pronounces despairingly. "Amber and Brenda are on watch today--that's why I'm not on duty, they're my roommates, conflict of interest, or don't want to be shivved in the ass while I sleep, you know?" He nods as he swallows. "Right. So Andy and Kat need somewhere to hang out--their roommates are all home, fuck the rain--look, Andy's team, okay?" He nods again, cutting off another piece of toast with the side of his fork. "When I said, sure, here's fine for you two crazy kids, I didn't know in a few short weeks, we'd be All Rain, All the Time…."

"Hang out?" he asks as she pauses to get another piece of toast (and breathe, he thinks).

"Fuck on Brenda's bed," she answers prosaically, dividing the toast and consuming half in a single, mournful bite.

"Brenda's bed?"

"What she doesn't know--and Andy launders carefully after--won't hurt anyone," she assures him, folding the second half. "But see, that's not the problem. The problem is, they won't until I leave. Imagine it, Cas: three people in the living room making awkward conversation while two of them stare at each other like…."

He shares her shudder as they both finish the last of the toast.

"Andy usually shows up first--hang out, he says," she adds after swallowing, looking at him pitifully over both their empty plates. "Talk about his feelings, he means. All his feelings, and….you can't make me go back there, and it's here or the infirmary, and that's just depressing."

He almost asks why, then remembers: all the patrols are grounded until the rain ends, and other than those in Ichabod with Dean, everyone is in the camp. And very few, he knows from experience, have Kat and Andy's inexplicable inhibitions regarding the presence of others in the same cabin. Or the same room, for that matter.

"I'll be handing out condoms all day," she mutters glumly in confirmation of why even the infirmary is dangerous territory, glaring at her plate before looking at him appealingly. "Weren't those nice stitches? Not even gonna scar, can tell you that right now, I do excellent work."

"You do," he agrees, picking up their plates and taking them to the sink. "Did you happen to go by the mess--"

"That's where I got the powdered eggs this morning for the French toast bribery," she confirms, bringing him the empty fruit bowl and the silverware before leaning against the counter. "Why?"

"Did you see James by any chance?" he asks, turning on the water. It's at least an hour before patrol goes off duty and morning reports here, but he suspects James got very little sleep last night.

"Yeah, he and his team were there." She tilts her head. "Oh, I forgot; this is his first day on local, right?"

"Yes."

"Up at hour before duty?" Alicia shudders delicately. "He'll learn the five minute rule just like the rest of us." At his querying look, she elaborates. "One minute to resign yourself to morning, one to dress, one for coffee, teeth-brushing, and hating everything, one to eat anything that isn't actually decomposing, and a leisurely minute to get from your cabin to here. Fifteen seconds at a sprint, if you have to open a can, and me, I can eat and run. Multitask, only way to travel, I always say."

He regards her blankly as he turns off the water. "You like mornings."

"I like mornings," she agrees. "I deeply resent having to do anything during them, as is my way. Dishtowel?"

"What?"

"Where's the dishtowel?" she asks, already circling around him and ducking to open the door under the sink and peer inside. "Never mind, found it."

"You're--"

"Being useful because Andy's even more a morning person than I am, and his feelings are twenty-four seven," she says, dishtowel in hand. "Feelings, Cas. All the feelings. Her hair gets like, six of them. Long walks on the beach, puppies, and green tea--things she likes," she adds at his mystified expression. "Green bell peppers, not red, and her smile just…." Alicia shuts her eyes tightly and extends a hand, snapping her fingers impatiently. "Dishes, Cas. Give me dishes."

"I'm sorry," he says sincerely, turning off the water and reaching for a plate. "I thought perhaps humans only did that on television."

"Lifetime Channel?" She nods wisely. "That shit fucks you up. Like one minute you're fine, and two hours later, you're crying over the phone because you forgot you don't have a long lost sister to reunite with and heal the twenty-year breach in the family in time for Christmas."

"I saw that movie." There'd been some kind of tragic misunderstanding during their adolescence that could have been easily avoided if Phyllis had simply opened her sister's bedroom door to discover she was watching Showtime's late-night line-up and not fucking Phyllis's crush, Billy, a star football player who did nothing but smile with far, far too many teeth.

"Everyone saw that movie," Alicia tells him as he hands her the first plate. "They're all that movie, no matter which one you actually see. You worried about James?"

He hesitates, remembering when James showed up last night with half the items on the initial list and a stoic expression, apologizing that he didn't find them all while his team hovered supportively nearby (or at least, those that weren't Cynthia, who simply glared at Castiel. He made a note to tell her Kyle's efforts are far superior and encourage her to ask for his assistance if she has any desire for improvement).

This told Castiel two very important things: one, James seems to have gained his team's confidence (again, those not Cynthia) and is extraordinarily competent; and two, perhaps he should have been more clear before James left that the time limit and list of items were a convenience, not a test, and no, he didn't think anyone would be able to acquire one hundred items in less than twelve hours.

Despite Castiel's efforts at validation--acquiring only fifty items in less than twelve hours on his first mission with his new team being an impressive achievement--James and his teammates (exception: Cynthia, who radiated hostility at all and sundry) seemed less than reassured when they left.

"How did he seem this morning?"

"Nervous," she answers promptly, rocking her hand. "Staring at breakfast like it might kill him, but since Penn's cooking…."

Yes, he suspected as much. "His team?"

Alicia makes a face as she takes the frying pan. "Zack and Nate were--worse, honestly. No worries, though: Mira stopped by for breakfast and is talking them down. Just nerves: he'll be fine."

"Good," he replies, aware of her deliberate exclusion and content to simply wait. As the silence stretches over three plates and one fork, he considers possible topics of conversation in the meantime. "So the weather--"

"Rainy, wet, may need an Ark, yeah," she interrupts, snatching the bowl from his hand and drying it industriously. "You know, I just realized; you can't run patrol and take notes. Sure, your memory, but you really wanna transcribe all that when I'm right here with very willing and eager hands that know what a pencil is and how best to use it?"

He shakes his head on cue.

"That's what I thought," she says in satisfaction. "You know, James survived Kyle; kid's got nerves of steel or something."

He nods, handing her the last plate before draining the sink. "More coffee?"

"Yeah, thanks." Putting it away, she drapes the damp cloth over the faucet before turning to lean back against the counter. "He did a good job yesterday, right?"

"Yes," he answers as he carefully pours two cups. "I must not have been as encouraging as I'd hoped."

Taking the cup, she raises both eyebrows in acknowledgement, frowning at nothing.

"Perhaps my people skills need work," he adds casually as he adds cream and sugar to his cup. "As you'll be observing…."

"You know, that's a good idea," she says thoughtfully, taking a sip from her own cup and frowning before making her way to the table and reaching for the sugar. "And after, I can confirm that your people skills? Definitely aren't the problem." She grins at him over her cup before taking a drink. "I'm trying to be subtle. How'm I doing?"

"Very good." He takes a drink of coffee. "I'm looking forward to hearing your observations."

---

It's the Stars That Lie, 12/12