Chapter Eleven
"What the hell is this?" Dean hissed at Castiel.
"It is exactly what it says on the booklet," Castiel murmured back, leafing through his own.
"I don't wanna do couples communication with you!" Dean muttered. "Any sort of communication with you can be like pulling teeth! 'I don't understand that reference'..."
"Then perhaps we will learn something," Castiel remarked calmly.
"Let's just be clear," Dean growled, "If she wants us to hold hands, and gaze into each other's eyes, and make 'I' statements, I am gonna shove that booklet where the sun don't shine."
"I do understand that reference," Castiel gave him a low wattage version of his authoritative 'I Am An Angel Of The Lord, Mofo' expression, "And you will do no such thing. We are tracking down demons who are killing people. If need be, you will act the persona of my partner to maintain this charade, and we will be convincing as a couple who wish to improve their communication skills. Do not let your chronic pathological terror of any form of intimacy or showing any sort of vulnerability get in the way of this Hunt."
"Don't you take that tone with me!" Dean's whisper rose in pitch with outrage. "Don't you... don't you make me go bossy bottom on your ass!"
He subsided with a final glower as the convenor began her introductory remarks. She congratulated the attendees for recognising that they had room to improve their relationships' communications, and began to talk about the nature of misunderstandings and the pitfalls of assumptions.
"What is this crap?" grumped Dean sotto voce, "The difference between 'hearing' and 'listening'? Sam's the one who swallowed a thesaurus when he was a kid."
"If you were paying attention, you would be finding out," Castiel whispered back, his attention on the speaker.
With barely concealed boredom, Dean tried at least to look like he was tuning in as the presenter moved on to the way that styles of communication learned from childhood were carried into adult life.
"So, let's give the PowerPoint a rest," she announced, "And turn to page four in your booklet. See that list? I want you to take a couple of minutes to fill that in, working on your own. Get to it, people!"
Castiel took one of the multiple pens he'd acquired amongst his convention freebies and bent conscientiously over the page. With a put-upon sigh, Dean turned to his own, and read the top of the table:
Gears We Grind: Three Things We Cannot Agree About
He chewed the end of his pen, then filled in the spaces.
- Your Dad is a deadbeat asshole
- Your brothers and sisters are all dicks
- Personal Space!
After a couple of minutes, the convenor called time. "Now, I want you to compare lists with your partner," she instructed, "And see what you can identify in common."
"Whacha got?" Dean asked, as Cas passed his booklet across to show him:
- blatant disrespect for my Father
- Unhealthy behaviours: drinking to excess, eating an unwholesome diet
- Personal Space?
Blue eyes gazed into green, which gazed right back.
"That sort of language is uncalled for," Castiel said, "I have told you on many occasions that my Father loves me, as I love Him, and He loves you, too."
"He's got a funny way of showin' it, dude," Dean replied. "And don't you dare diss bacon cheeseburgers. Not while you're wearing that vessel."
"My Father seeks to do what He believes is best for everyone, including you," Castiel stated with utter conviction. "He wishes for us all to be happy."
"Good," humphed Dean, "I'll have you know that drinking makes me happy. I think you can relate to that, Mr 'I-Found-A-Liquor-Store-And-I-Drank-It'."
"That was not the same," Castiel protested, "I was... very stressed at that time."
"Right, right," nodded Dean, "So, I get stressed and drink, and it's 'unhealthy', you get stressed and drink, and it's okay?"
"I did not say that," Castiel interjected. "And I do not maintain an entrenched habit of excessive consumption that amounts to alcoholism."
"I'm not an alcoholic!" snapped Dean. "Alcoholics go to meetings! Has it ever occurred to you that if your beloved Father hadn't been asleep at the wheel, I wouldn't have a job that would be enough to make anybody want to crawl into a bottle sometimes?"
"Perhaps it is not entirely my Father's fault," Castiel narrowed his eyes, "Perhaps your own father's derelict behaviour had a hand in this."
"Don't you dare drag my Dad into this," growled Dean.
"You think mine is the only 'deadbeat asshole'?" enquire Castiel with icy politeness.
Dean let out a wordless snarl, then they both heard a polite but firm voice say "Ahem."
They turned to see that the rest of the participants were staring at them.
"Er," stuttered Dean, studying his booklet intensely, "Maybe we could, uh, start with, er, Personal Space?"
...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo...
The STI epidemiology session was fascinating, and left Sam wishing that he'd had time in his college studies to include more science subjects. He put up his hand, and a microphone was passed to him.
"Can these resistance mechanisms be transferred from one type pathogen to another species of pathogen?" he asked, "Like, from one disease to another?"
"Absolutely," the speaker replied, "Horizontal or lateral gene transfer is a major cause of spreading drug resistance, and also other traits, like extoxins, or factors that increase virulence. Following these changes, rather than just a particular strain of a bug, can give us information about where particular control strategies can best be targeted, but it's really difficult to get this information in a timely manner so that we can use it. It can also make trying to track the movement of different strains through a population a total pain in the ass..."
He was taking notes, finding the material so engaging that he had to make sure he kept half his attention in Hunter mode, alert for any indication of demonic scheming. His ears pricked up when another question was asked:
"You've already described how STIs are resurgent amongst the whole of society – is there any plan to take the Lifesaver strategy beyond the GLBT community?"
"We'd love to," the speaker smiled ruefully, "But the funding we're receiving isn't sufficient. It was intended to be GLBT-targeted, so here we are. We share information with a number of other groups that are doing similar work in the wider community, but we figure that it's better to use what we've got in a targeted and effective way, rather than end up so diluted that we don't achieve anything."
Sam made a note to himself: Who funds Lifesaver?
The session chair thanked the speaker, and the audience applauded. "And what discussion of the Lifesaver strategy would be complete without... lifeguards!" Some upbeat music started up, and half a dozen 'lifeguards' came dancing in, to the hooting and cheering of the audience. They danced up and down the aisles, showering the audience with candy and condoms thrown from their baskets. Sam snagged a couple, to run past the dogs later.
He made his way out of the auditorium and headed for a coffee stand, sparing a glance towards the smaller meeting rooms: none of them appeared to have been subjected to any sort of explosion, which suggested that Dean and Castiel's workshop must have been going smoothly...
"Oh!" he bumped into a young woman who was standing on her toes, trying to hang a rainbow banner. "Oh, God, I'm sorry," he apologised, "I was fixated on coffee."
"No harm done," she smiled, picking up the banner, and looking helplessly up at the hook she was aiming for. "Er, could you...?" she gestured helplessly.
"Oh, sure," he smiled back, taking the end of the banner and hanging it up. "FFLAG", he read, turning to her with a questioning look.
"Friends and Family of Lesbians And Gays," explained a grandmotherly woman who was placing items on the table before the banner, "We're here to show we love them, and their sexuality is irrelevant. Here," she reached up and fastened a small stick pin of a rainbow-striped flag to his jacket.
"So," the young lady – Sarah, her name badge read – "Who are you here for? I'm here for my Mom."
"Me?" Sam blinked. "I, uh, that is..." he looked confused. "How did you know?"
The elderly lady made an amused sound. "Oh, you know how it is," she smiled sunnily, "I'd heard about the 'gaydar' thing, and when my son formally came out, I realised that I'd had one all along!"
"You got 'straight' written all over you, kid!" grinned a middle-aged man who picked up the tail end of the conversation as he arrived with a boxful of pamphlets and giveaways.
"My brother's always telling me I look and act 'totally gay'," Sam shrugged. "And he should know," he added, with a small stab of amused malice.
"Are you here for him?" Sarah asked.
"Yeah," Sam smiled widely. "Him, and his... partner. They make such a great pair. They were totally meant to be together. Every time I see them argue like an old married couple, I get a laugh."
"If only everyone had that sort of acceptance from family," sighed the man.
"Well, he's very lucky to have a brother like you," the elderly lady said, sitting down and taking some knitting out of a bag.
"That's what I tell him," beamed Sam.
"Thanks for your help with the banner," Sarah smiled at him, "Hey, you mind if I come and get coffee with you?" She waved a small card. "Stand staffers get half price on drinks and muffins!"
"Sounds great," he replied, with another glance back towards the meeting rooms. There was a reassuring absence of smoke, flames and people running screaming for safety; maybe Castiel was right, and they were both finding the workshop helpful.
There you are, Leahelisabeth, Sam has been outed as straight. I suppose now all I have to do is hurt him a bit, concuss him, tear his shirt, tie him up and shove him into a box and you'll be happy...
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