Dean stared at the tips of Castiel's fingers, still hovering awkardly in the air. Shit. It had all happened so fast. Gabriel being sick, and then the Fountain of Youth for Christ's sake, then Sam and then whoosh!
Now, it was just the two of them and Dean's panic battering around in his chest—his lunge for his brother aborted. Dean's outstretched arm lowered, and he turned his attention from Cas's hand to his face. He'd sent him away. Didn't even ask, just bang! with the angel mojo and Sam ceased to be. Castiel had decided and acted without hesitation, and yet lines of stress and worry deepened on his face with each passing second. Like maybe he wasn't sure he should have.
"Cas?" Dean's voice came out shakier and breathier than he would have liked.
Slowly, the angel let his arm fall, and he turned to look at Dean, eyes wide and a little wild—a lot wild, shot through with a screaming, painful blue. His white shirt hung open, looking rumpled on his frame, bed-head-sex-hair acquiring the disorder of mania; what had been casually enticing a moment ago now appeared hauntingly desperate.
SamSam, SamSam, SamSam, Dean's heart thundered.
So fast.
So fast, so sudden.
Sam and Gabriel? Gone. Gone beyond reach. "What did you do?" Dean asked, even though he knew the answer. He knew where his brother was, in theory. But all he had was empty space to stare at and fear ripping down his spine and an angel.
Castiel peered back at him. "Sent them to where Gabriel showed me."
But it wasn't where they were that mattered. Dean's brain finally caught up with the rest of him, which was gearing up for a full on freak out. He tried for a moment to collect himself, even as the fear rushed down his limbs. When he moved, he saw an arc and flash of blue and fire that made him jump.
Right! Shit. Sword.
Purposefully, he set Gabriel's sword against the wall, taking extra time to be slow. This wasn't as bad as he was thinking. It'd be fine. Cas had a plan. Nothing wrong with sending Sam off on his own. Even if he did free the Devil. "And, umm, how're they getting back?" He tried to sound casual, tossing the question over his shoulder as he straightened and turned. Nothing to worry about.
"When Gabriel's healed, he will bring them back."
Which made sense. But . . . Dean frowned and took a measured step closer, looking into Cas's eyes to make sure they were both jolted into connection. But . . . His heart hammered, and his mouth went dry. "But if he doesn't make it?"
There was a moment where Dean could see Castiel considering it. Possible futures rolled out in the angel's imagination. His eyes grew wider, his jaw flexed. And then he looked away. God dammit, Cas looked away and pressed his lips together, saying nothing. Nothing! Because there was no plan and he hadn't thought it through and Sam was fucking alone out there. And there was no way, no way!
"Cas!"
In a blink, Dean had him by the shirt, hands fisted in the fabric. Anger and fear blended into a single violent emotion, and Dean was suddenly snarling in his lover's face, shaking him. "How does Sam get back!"
The angel's wild expression snapped into singular focus. His eyes narrowed and his whole self lifted and tensed in defiance. He pushed Dean out to arm's length slowly and with insurmountable force. Sam was not the only one on that mountain. "If my brother dies," Cas ground out, a gathering storm brewing in his expression, "then so does yours."
Dean flinched as though struck, and went cold. No. Nonononono. He looked searchingly over Castiel's features, because the last time he heard that tone, it had ended with ". . . and I can throw you back in." Fuck it. Fuck that. He tightened his grip in Cas's shirt.
"An eye for an eye?" Dean laughed once in bitter sarcasm. "That's your plan? No way man. No dice!" He tried to jerk Castiel closer, intimidate him with his rage, maybe. But Cas lifted his chin and threw Dean off with one shove.
Dean stumbled back and fell heavily onto the sofa bed, his anger ebbing for a second under a crash of surprise at finding himself summarily tossed. When he glanced up, Castiel was staring down at him looking, of all things, terrified. Cas's hand moved and fingers flexed like he wanted to reach out but didn't know if he was allowed. Instead, he drew in on himself and backed away. Dean rose and followed, compelled by the gap of space between them that he could not let grow. There was something here he wasn't understanding. But the quick shifts in emotion were leaving him dizzy and burning and he couldn't take the time.
"There's gotta be another way, man," Dean said, changing tacks and edging closer. He gazed into Castiel's eyes long enough to see the terror break. And then Cas bolted. Or tried to. He got a few steps toward the kitchen before Dean caught up with him.
"Cas, look at me." Dean grabbed his shoulder and spun him around. "Look at me!"
The angel did look. And this time so did Dean, long and deep. What he saw wasn't the cold bastard Castiel had been, the one he'd momentarily turned back into. Just below the defiance, peeking through when Cas heaved an unsteady breath, was fear. The same fear and anger and care that had him hauling Cas around by his shirt and screaming in his face.
Dean's shoulders sank as shame crept up his neck and a sympathetic frown creased his forehead. His whole body heaved with emotion, and now that he was paying attention, he saw Castiel's did too, his natural grace giving way to all too human fidgets.
Slowly, because now he meant no harm, Dean raised a hand toward Cas's face, brushed a thumb along his rough jaw and settled his palm around the side of his neck. They gazed at one another, silent but animated with anger, now with sorrow, then with the urge to comfort.
Eventually, Cas's lips parted as he drew a heavy breath to speak. The air wheezed back out, formless, and when he tried a second time, tears pooled in his eyes, though he did not let them fall.
"He is dying," he said, and looked at Dean with a plea.
"I'm sorry," came the rough reply.
"It's Sam's fault." Cas said it without flinching, tossing a dagger at Dean's heart, not out of provocation, but out of truth. They owed each other that much, and he knew Cas was just trying to explain.
It wasn't true, though. It wasn't. Even so. Dean took the hit because Castiel believed it, and controlled himself enough not to strike back. "It's Azgrathan's fault," he murmured, and then opened his eyes to meet Cas's gaze. "You know that," he said softly.
The angel looked away, shifting and shrugging faintly.
Dean rubbed his fingers along Cas's skin, despair spiking high. He took a sharp breath and then tugged them both together until their foreheads touched.
"Please," he whispered.
"Dean . . ."
"If it doesn't work, if he doesn't make it, there's gotta be something."
"I don't know. I haven't—" Castiel cut himself off and lifted his head. "There's hasn't been time."
Hope spread golden through Dean's chest, checked only by the despair on Cas's face. They were talking about the death of his brother, after all. A fact easily forgotten when Sam was in danger. Even now. Even when Cas meant so much, there was always that. Always Sam. For a moment, new shame flushed Dean's skin, and he traced his fingers up to Castiel's cheek in the hope that he could distract him from seeing it.
"Hey," Dean muttered and leaned in again until their heads touched. His fingers brushed over rough stubble. "Sammy'll get him there."
Castiel was quiet for a moment. Then, "I would like to believe he is worthy of Gabriel's faith. But—"
Dean stopped him with a finger pressed to his lips. But how could they? After everything, how could anyone believe Sam might do the right thing? Dean didn't even believe it. Not really. Hoped, but that was all. He lifted his head so he could look into Castiel's eyes. He saw doubt there in almost equal measure to his own.
"He will," he said, because it was what they both needed to hear.
Cas merely nodded. When Dean took his finger away, the angel added, "I will try to think of something," with such grave seriousness that Dean could only grin. Castiel then slipped out of the tense, intimate space and glanced around their borrowed house. His eyes alighted on Gabriel's sword, flaming cheerfully against the wall by the entertainment center. He turned, speaking over his shoulder.
"You should get Gabriel's things. We need to start getting ready."
XXX
Human emotions don't unwind as quickly as all that, though. Dean's heart still raced from his anger, and his limbs still felt liquid and alive as he strode out the kitchen door and into the back yard wearing nothing but his black T-shirt and boxer-briefs. He didn't even notice the cold. Sam was gone, and there was no way of knowing how he was doing or if he was coming back, and there weren't words in the world that could make that okay. There weren't words that could change it, either. So he moved through the cold, wet grass searching for Gabriel's clothes in the moonlight like it was the most important thing he'd ever done.
They formed a bit of a trail. First the jacket, then the T-shirt. Dean saw something white gleaming against the dark ground just beyond a little dip in the yard. He kicked the archangel's jeans by accident and quickly added them to the pile in his arms. The gleaming thing turned out to be a pair of tightie-whities, and he didn't even try to keep from laughing at that. Not that Cas and his straight-laced accountant had been any different, but he'd at least been able to fix that fashion faux pas.
As he turned to head back toward the house, Dean kicked something hard with his bare foot and cursed loudly. It sounded far more vulgar given the stillness around him. He shifted all the clothes into one arm and bent down, feeling blindly. His fingers glanced upon what he discovered to be one of Gabriel's shoes, and then he spent a good five minutes locked in a search pattern trying to find the other one.
Even if he wasn't particularly mindful of the cold, his body was still feeling it, and by the time he got back into the house he was covered in goose bumps and shivering despite himself.
He found Castiel in the living room, placing the last pillow back on the re-made sofa. The angel turned to the sound of Dean's feet on the hardwood floor and looked over both him and the pile he was carrying. Castiel came closer and without saying a word gripped some of the fabric in his hands. Dean watched him carefully, unsure of what to make of the way Cas rubbed Gabriel's clothes between his fingers. The way he looked at them, so intently, suggested that his angel's eyes saw more than just cotton weave and black leather.
"Cas?" Dean broke the silence with a whisper. "What is it?"
Castiel looked up at him. "May I have these?" he asked delicately, with what Dean thought was unnecessary ceremony. Of course he could have them. And Dean handed the pile over to him. Gabriel's shoes still hung from Dean's fingers, so he set them on the floor near the blazing sword, figuring maybe they could keep each other company.
He watched with interest as Cas set the pile of clothes (Gabriel's armor, Dean had to keep reminding himself) onto the sofa, like they were breakable. Then Castiel lifted and folded each piece, setting them in a neat pile on the easy chair. He was acting weird, even for him, Dean decided.
Almost as if he'd heard the thought, Cas turned and pierced Dean with a look that wasn't so much malice as interest. Still, it was hard not to feel his regard like a quick, sharp pain.
"Take off your clothes," Cas said.
Dean stared at him, not sure at first if he was serious. Castiel stared back with a commanding kind of patience, and Dean could only assume that he was. He'd have laughed at anyone else, but if Cas got the brunt of his anger, he also got the brunt of his occasional compliance. Dean stripped off his shirt and shucked his boxers, thinking that now really didn't feel like the time and this was hardly a way to get a guy going. Not that he was one to turn down sex, like ever, but this felt off.
Cas gave him only a passing glance and then motioned to the arm of the sofa. "Sit."
Dean blinked at him and moved cautiously to follow his directions. He didn't try to reach out as he maneuvered around him, and Castiel didn't make a pass at him either. Almost insulted, Dean sat on the wide, plush cushion and gazed at his angel, his face alight with questions. Their eyes met briefly, then Castiel turned and disappeared around the corner into the kitchen, leaving Dean alone.
There is something profoundly uncomfortable about being naked in someone else's house. Even more, being naked in their living room. Dean knew they wouldn't be coming back home anytime soon. But he felt so exposed among their things, in this space reserved for public activity. Dean hunched in on himself slightly and moved his hands to cover his groin, as though he'd be defiling their house less that way. He swallowed hard and fought the urge to bow his head in embarrassment.
He glanced up eagerly when Castiel returned, and straightened to try to see what he was holding.
"Wh—" He started to ask a question, but Cas gave him a sharp look of warning. Frowning, Dean pressed his lips together in petulant silence and crossed his arms over his chest.
Eventually, Castiel reached him and lowered himself down onto his knees with a strange, graceful folding of limbs. Soapy water sloshed ever so slightly in the large bowl the angel had been carrying. Dean looked from the bowl to the folded towel draped over Cas's shoulder and lifted an eyebrow. But Castiel wasn't looking.
With slow, deliberate motions, Cas took the cloth from his shoulder and set it on the floor. Then he removed his own shirt, folded it carefully, and set it aside. Everything from the flexing of his fingers to the stretch of his arms seemed somehow different, like each movement had been planned long in advance and repeated a thousand times. Like each movement mattered.
Castiel lifted himself on his knuckles and edged closer, bringing his knees nearer to Dean's feet. His warm fingers wrapped around the back of Dean's left foot and then lifted gently, settling his foot on his thigh.
Dean stared at him. He stared with a growing sense of discomfort as Cas dipped the cloth purposefully into the water, wrung it out, and placed it gently against the thin skin along the top of his foot. He couldn't conceive—Castiel was going to wash his feet? That was ludicrous, and nothing an angel should ever have to do. He jerked, but Cas's hand hooked around the top of his knee and held him place with just enough pressure to keep him there without hurting. He didn't look up, as much as Dean wanted him to. Instead, he closed his eyes and stilled his hands and waited for Dean to stop fighting.
With an unsteady breath, Dean relented, though this was wrong, so wrong he felt embarrassed by it and his heart thudded hard in his chest.
He couldn't take his eyes off of Castiel's hands. They dipped the cloth into the water, twisted off the excess with easy precision, and then held his body reverently as his ankle and then calf were cleansed.
Dean had taken plenty of baths in his life and plenty more speedy showers. He'd been sponged by pretty nurses and ugly ones, when he'd been too weak to even lift his own arms. He had never felt anything quite like this.
As he unwound and let the embarrassment fade in the face of wonder, he saw more into each of the angel's motions.
There was, he realized, ritual in this. Castiel was making it so, with his serenity of silence and thoughtful, careful gestures.
The cloth was warm on Dean's skin, rubbing lightly. And then it was gone, only to return a second later with new heat. By the time Cas was up to his knee, he'd stopped using both hands to wring out the cloth and instead kept one in constant contact with Dean's body to preserve this link. His eyes never moved farther than the next area of exposed skin. When he couldn't reach while kneeling, he stood. He moved over Dean's arms, over his chest, damned spots being rubbed out and made clean.
The places Castiel had been touching should have been teasing, lighting a fire in Dean's belly a hundred times over. But they weren't and they didn't, because this was a different kind of love.
When Cas moved the cloth over his cheeks and eyes, Dean lifted his face to meet him. And when the damp fabric touched the back of his neck, he bowed his head to receive it. At some point, their breathing had come into sync. As the angel stood behind him, wringing the cloth into the bowl he had shifted closer, Dean felt the urge to say something. Nothing needed saying, but the silence radiated with more care than he knew quite how to handle. If he could just crack the solemnity, he thought, his heart might stop aching.
But he didn't. A drop of warm water ran down his back, only to be caught in the slow circle of Cas's methodical cleansing, and he couldn't bring himself to step outside the ritual bounds. He let Cas work and felt more and more like hallowed ground. As his arm was lifted, made clean, he wondered if Castiel was leaving symbols of protection across his body like Gabriel had done on Sam. Cas set Dean's arm back down gently at his side. And then Dean thought that maybe it didn't matter if there were sigils in angels' names.
What he felt? The glow that welled up inside, the alien sensation that he was safe and cared for in just this moment—those were magic. Sure as any incantation and deeper than any mark upon the flesh.
Castiel ended just as he had begun, washing the dew and dirt and grass from Dean's foot, as if he was honored to do it.
At long last, he set the cloth and bowl aside and looked up.
Dean didn't know what you said after something like that. He blushed, deeply, and found that any attempts to break the silence they had established galled his senses. Instead, he reached forward, his palms shushing against the rough stubble on Cas's cheeks, and pulled him into a sweet, loving kiss.
"How do you feel?" Castiel asked quietly as they parted.
Dean took a moment to consider his reply, flexing muscles that felt lighter than they had in ages. He felt clean. Young. "Happy," he said finally, with a slight smile.
Cas made a pleased sound and kissed one of Dean's palms before pulling away and levering himself up. "Good. I have to put the wards on you now."
Dean looked astonished and shot a glance at the small stack of Gabriel's clothes. "I thought we had that covered."
"Maybe." Castiel ran his fingers through Dean's hair. "But I'm not willing to risk you."
It. Not willing to risk it, Dean thought, but didn't bother to correct him.
Cas padded quickly between the living room and kitchen, switching the warm of soapy water that somehow stayed warm for a bowl of something that looked like drying mud. That was the result of the ingredients Cas had spent a good portion of the night fluttering around to find. Some of it was dirt from holy places, some herbs, some ground bones of saints' relics, a few rare flowers. A couple times Castiel had responded to Dean's queries with silence, so he didn't know what he'd brought back and probably didn't want to. Beside the bowl Castiel set a few paintbrushes in varying sizes and a long knife from the kitchen.
Dean hadn't been expecting the knife. His eyes were drawn to it, though, and unease settled in his stomach. With the same measured calm that he'd displayed during the ritual bath, Cas picked up the knife in his left hand and slashed across the palm of his right.
Dean's whole body tensed. He couldn't help it, and his fingers dug into his bare thighs as he watched the blood drip into the bowl. After a few seconds, the dripping stopped, and he found that he could breathe. Cas opened his hand to reveal perfectly reformed flesh, and much to Dean's horror, he slashed it again.
Somehow, it was harder to watch the second time. By the third, Dean was freaking out just trying to sit still. This was what you did to torture someone—made a wound, let it heal, made it again. Only angels healed quickly so you could keep doing it, as often as you wanted. His stomach started doing flips, and his hands shook from trying to keep himself from tackling Cas on the spot and tearing the knife from his hand. Dean dug his nails into his palms as Cas started going for a tenth slice, and he just couldn't keep watching in silence.
"Jesus, Cas, stop! Just cut a vein why don't you!"
The angel paused and craned around to look at him, curious at the distress is his voice. He blinked at Dean, glanced at his wrist, and then cut down to the bone.
Dean shrieked. Or he did something. He let out some terrified primal howl, grabbed the closest piece of material, even if it was Cas's white shirt, and launched himself across the short space. There wasn't even thinking involved, just instinct and action. He got Castiel's right arm in a grip and hugged it to his chest pressing the shirt against it with all his strength.
"What the fuck is the matter with you!" He bundled the shirt into a harder ball and pressed with both hands.
"Dean—-"
"Shut up." Panting with anger, he looked over. Castiel was watching him like he was the one who'd lost his sanity.
"Dean, I'm fine."
"You're not a turkey," Dean shot back, then peered down at the hand and arm he held so tightly. He loosened his grip so he could see how badly it was bleeding.
"Well, no." Cas huffed in the way that Dean had come to read as frustration. "But I am fine. And the spell requires my blood." As Dean's grip loosened, he chanced pulling his arm away, not because he couldn't have before, but because he'd rather not have to fling Dean across the room to do it. The attempt, though, only made Dean tighten his hold possessively.
Dean glanced at the bowl and the mingling mud and blood. "It's got enough." He didn't care how much was in there, it was enough.
"The more of my blood there is, the stronger the protection will be."
Dean jerked the bloody shirt hard against Castiel's wrist and glared at him. "It's got enough." Why was this so difficult to understand?
Castiel glared back. His eyes narrowed with a irritated expression. "My wrist is healed, by the way."
"You're welcome," Dean groused and let him go. He sat back, annoyed, and looked pointedly everywhere else in the room but at Cas and the bloody shirt. Eventually he glanced over, just because it was getting awkward. "What?"
"You're covered in blood," came the gentle reply.
Huh. So he was. "Yeah? Well whose fault is that?" Dean got to his feet and headed for the kitchen to find the bowl of soapy water. Turned out there was only the kitchen sink and a dishtowel to be had, but he had special expertise with cleaning off blood. He kept at it until the towel came back clean and then braced his arms against the counter to take a breather, just take a moment. It was too bad, and he couldn't help but feel a lash of shame. He hadn't meant to ruin the bath Cas had given him. He hoped he hadn't, because a thing like that didn't happen too often and it all still felt kind of precious and special, exactly the kind of thing he always broke. This is why you can't have nice things. He'd make it up to him—that was a promise.
When he came back into the living room, Cas was mixing the contents of the bowl with the largest brush. He met Dean's gaze and then nodded toward the armrest of the sofa. Dean sat, frowning and anxious. Castiel went back to his mixing.
Fuck. "Am I that much of a jerk?" His words brought Castiel's mixing to a stop. "Did it even occur to you I might not be okay watching you hurt yourself?" He waited while Cas gave him a ponderous look. Clearly, the answer was no. Dean made a bitter sound and shook his head. Damn, but he couldn't help but be disappointed.
"I'm fine," the angel said eventually, earnest in the face of Dean's distress.
"Doesn't matter," Dean replied with a vehemence that made Cas's eyes flash. "It doesn't matter that you can take it. It doesn't matter that you heal. I can't just sit and watch, dumbass. And that you thought I could? I—" Words stuck in his throat, and Dean just shook his head.
Something shifted in Castiel's eyes. "I'm sorry."
Dean suspected an angel knew a thing or two about powerlessness and watching, and he relaxed under the thought. "Yeah." It still stung though. His eyes flicked toward the bowl. "Is that ready?"
Castiel looked quickly at the bowl in his hands like he'd forgotten it was there and then hurried to mix the contents a few more times. "As it will ever be," he said in a low, rough voice. He gathered the other brushes in his hand and scooted to the place at Dean's feet. As before, he placed Dean's foot on his thigh gently and then dipped the thickest brush in the paint, carefully scraping the excess on the side rim. "Try not to move." He glanced up and caught Dean's eye; Dean nodded back.
The sensation of the brush against his skin brought an involuntary gasp to Dean's lips. It felt alive, like a tongue circling his ankle. It was wet, yes, but also warm with Castiel's blood in a way he tried not to think about.
Cas, Dean thought, could have been an artist. He looked so natural, so in his element drawing lines and symbols on the canvas Dean provided. Some were letters Dean recognized from Ancient Greek or Sumerian. Some were voodoo symbols. Some looked like the Enochian sigils carved into his bones, and he imagined he'd never know what their forms stood for.
Inexplicably, as the warm paint cooled and dried, sometimes chilling under a whiff of breath, Castiel began to sing. Dean knew his voice when speaking, and he knew it cracked with need and scrabbling for ecstasy. He had never heard Cas raise his voice in a song. It wasn't a "Gloria, Hallelujah," either, but a melodic, rhythmic chant that despite the chaos and high emotion of a few minutes before, veiled the room and their bodies again in peaceful ritual.
Once, Dean had heard, perhaps on TV, that some objects trap within them sound waves present at their making—like liquid glass as it becomes a solid. This was what Castiel must be doing, he figured. The paint would dry, imbued with magic from the angel's chant, preserving both his words and voice, suspending them within its being, frozen in a constant state of casting.
Dean lost himself in the sensation and the sound. The symbols rose up slowly over his body, like ivy. Sometimes, he thought he felt an electric buzz at the lick of a brush tip, but then Cas's breath would wash warm over the area, voice flowing with the steady silver song, and Dean would shiver and forget. Cas paid great attention to Dean's arms and hands, limning a web of thin lines so intricately linked they suggested a second skin.
He wore bracers of bone dust and angel blood.
Peering at the careful designs Cas had wrought made Dean's chest swell with determination and dull tip of a brush tilted his chin up, and for the briefest moment he looked into Castiel's eyes as the angel chanted down at him. He grinned. Cas's eyes crinkled at the corners in response. He could not stop his singing to say something more. The notes bore his heart out anyway, so he didn't have to. Dean let his eyes fall shut, and a warm paintbrush stroked across his cheek. That, above all else, was electrifying.
This, he thought, was what men had felt for millennia—being girded for war. He was a Viking eager for battle and glory, a Cherokee carrying the hope and blessing of his people, a soldier smeared with grease paint who left his kinder self back home. He'd never felt quite so powerful, reassured, immortal, as with Cas's symbols scrawled across his face, and never so honored to lift his hand to violence.
This was the last piece, connecting the trail of tribal marks from one shoulder to the other across Dean's neck and face. There was, hidden among it all, an unbroken line, wrapped like a mobius strip around Dean's limbs. He could almost feel it buried under all the rest, hugging protectively.
A few more points and dots, and Castiel pulled the paintbrush back for the final time. He leaned in close, singing into the marks he had made. Dean blinked his eyes open at the sensation of Cas's breath washing over him, and he watched, transfixed, as strange language fell from his lover's lips. Eventually, the chanting ended, and Cas pulled back with contemplative, deliberate slowness. Dean's eyes followed his hand as he dipped a thumb lightly into the blood paint.
At the trace of the angel's thumb, Dean's lips parted and he took a quick breath. Cas was careful, applying the paint like lipstick to Dean's mouth, and then he leaned in for a kiss.
Dean jolted and cried out at the contact, his whole body lit with a single electric shock. He nearly fell from the sofa and gave Castiel a stunned, somewhat insulted look.
"What the Hell was that?" he asked, lowering the arms that had crossed protectively between them.
Cas gave him a small grin. "The sealing of the ward."
Dean glanced at the painted symbols on his hands and moved to get up, Cas shifting out of his way but watchful. He turned his hands over, admiring the work, and then twisted trying to see the rest of it.
Castiel chuckled softly, and Dean shot him a sharp look. "What?"
Humor and affection shone in the angel's gaze. "You look silly," he said, eyes on Dean's lips.
"Yeah? Well, you're no Picasso."
Cas pressed his lips together and turned away to gather his supplies. "For that you should be thankful."
Dean blinked at him for a second and then huffed a soft laugh. Touche. Really would have sucked if his nose had ended up stuck to his ass when he got topside. If Cas had any plan for what was next, he wasn't saying, so Dean scooped up his clothes and redressed. He sat at the dining room table, where he could see Castiel meticulously cleaning the paintbrushes and bowl of the mud and blood. It seemed like a bit of wasted effort, but what did he know? Maybe Cas just didn't want to leave remnants of his blood sitting around where anyone could find it.
Dean spread his fingers on the table top, staring at the patterns that crossed his skin. He heard the water in the sink stop and Castiel quietly come to take the seat across from him.
"You will feel it first in your hands," the angel said, low and serious. Dean glanced up at him. "As the wards are burned away under Asag's influence, it will travel up your arms and legs." He reached out and took one of Dean's hands, turning it over, his thumb on the palm. His eyes focused on the point of contact, and Dean watched the beginnings of a frown crease his brow and then smooth away. "When you feel it reach your shoulders, you must tell me."
Dean nodded.
Castiel looked up sharply, fierce blue eyes shooting right to the back of Dean's skull. "Dean, you must."
"Okay!" he blurted, because he had nodded already, but apparently that wasn't enough. Castiel held his gaze for a few more seconds and then relaxed, letting him go. It was kind of unnerving how worried he was acting. Asag wasn't the first demon they'd fought, and he'd hardly be the last. And if this time was like any of the others, they'd be pulling out by the skin of their teeth anyway. He knew what Cas wanted him to say—that if it came down to it, they'd bail rather than risk him being infected with a super virus. Dean flexed his hand, watching the patterns twist. He wasn't sure how to tell him that if he had to stay past his expiration date to get the job done, then that's what he was going to do.
Every time.
When he glanced up, Castiel was giving him this hard, drilling stare, and he thought maybe Cas did know after all.
"So," Dean said with a sniff, "I've been thinkin'. We've got the armor. Got a sword. Only thing we don't have now is an enemy." He shifted in his chair and sat back. "The way I figure, there are two possibilities. Either Gabriel kicked the demon's ass so hard he's gonna move on to somewhere else, so we've gotta figure out what looks tasty. Or he's playin' possum in Hanover somewhere, and we need a way to draw him out."
Castiel drew a deep breath and let his eyes rove over the table. He took his time in answering, long enough that Dean was leaning forward with his elbows on the table by the time he spoke. "I don't think he will have moved on. He'll be able to sense Gabriel's"—he hesitated over the word—"absence and know that his plan was successful. I think he'll stay until he has what he came for."
"Corpse chow," Dean muttered darkly.
Castiel gave him a grim look.
Dean pushed out from the table and got up, pacing between the living and dining rooms. He paused as he made his way back toward Cas.
"You said the authorities were already here, right?"
"Yes."
"And they were already picking up bodies, right?"
"Yes. They've been moving them to a mobile processing center on the west side of town."
Dean frowned a little at that. "Processing center?"
"They had a number of very large tents for housing the bodies. Many medical units and computers."
Dean's skin suddenly went cold. "And every cop, firefighter, medic, and FBI agent in the Northeast," he intoned, voice dead. "They're in the middle of an All You Can Eat buffet. Man, if we don't get those people outta there, the demon's gonna have a thousand more bodies on his hands." But get them out how? It was the biggest homeland disaster since 9/11. People weren't just gonna walk away.
"We could move the bodies," Cas offered, with an ease that almost made that sound sane.
Dean blinked at him. "Move them. You mean like angel airlines, blip them all out?" Castiel was decidedly Dean's personal favorite kick-ass angel, but that sounded, you know, miracle big.
The fingers of Cas's hand drummed against the dining room table in a gesture so astoundingly human Dean felt the urge to tell him to stop.
"No," Cas said eventually, his voice light, almost giddy. He got up with a surge of energy, crossed to Dean, and hovered just at the edge of his personal space. His face was alight with rare excitement, like when Sam found some stupid translation he'd been after and couldn't keep his geek under control. "Moving each body would be too much all at once or take too long in groups. But, if I moved the space instead of the people," he said, a grin working its way into his words, "I believe we could lure Asag anywhere we wanted."
"Moved the space," Dean repeated, because he was sure that was the important part without quite knowing why.
Castiel grinned. "The dirt beneath them and the tents above them. The space." He held his hands up like he was holding a ball.
Oh. Ohhhhhhhh. Dean turned the thought over. That was actually kind of fucking brilliant, and he flashed Cas a smile that told him so.
"You can do that?"
Cas lowered his hands and nodded. "With the right kind of magic. It would have to be thaumaturgy."
"Right," Dean replied automatically. "Why use anything else but though-ma—"
"Thaumaturgy." Castiel supplied, humor in his voice. "It's symbolic magic. You use a small thing to affect a larger one. Like—" He cut himself off, a flicker of emotion passing over his features. When he spoke again, his voice grated a little more than it had, and he didn't quite meet Dean's gaze. "Like voodoo dolls. It's the same magic Asag used against Gabriel. He infected his vessel to infect his soul."
Dean moved closer, drawn by the strain of pain in Cas's voice. He stopped when he could just feel the heat radiating off the angel's arm, not quite touching but offering his presence.
"So if I understand right," he said, keeping his voice gentle, "you're gonna need a piece of everything you're gonna work this mojo on, yeah?"
Cas nodded. "The ground from beneath the tents and a piece of the tent itself should be enough." He lifted his eyes slightly and frowned a little.
"What?"
"Nothing."
Dean managed not to roll his eyes. "You suck at lying."
Castiel bristled. "I do not suck at—" He pressed his lips together, and Dean could actually see him gathering together little pebbles of patience. He turned to face Dean squarely, and Dean lifted his eyebrows in automatic reply. "This spell will be . . . difficult," Cas said without blinking. "You'll need to be at the destination point to ensure that it's worked."
Dean gave him a narrowed look. Cas may not be the best liar, but half-truths were his specialty. He didn't want Dean anywhere near this house when the magic went down, and that alone was worrying enough that Dean was half-inclined to stay. But the angel's gaze was steady and heated to the point where Dean was starting to feel it in his thighs. He drew back and nodded a little just to squirm out from under it, then started for the stairs.
"I dunno about you, but I'm thinking sleep's kinda out of the question," he said over his shoulder. "Be back in a minute."
And he was, dressed head to foot in some of Erik Talbot's clothes, black jeans and a black hoodie, both a little too big. While he was gone, Castiel had slipped on his dress shirt and buttoned it properly. The rolled sleeves exposed lithe forearms and strong hands, but no more. Dean grinned automatically as Cas watched him approach.
"I was going for urban ninja, what d'you think?" He spread his arms and smiled.
The angel merely grinned fondly and then directed his eyes toward the window in the dining room and out to the night beyond. "We have four hours before sunrise."
"Is that enough time?" Dean asked, following his gaze.
Castiel glanced over. "It will have to be." Then he bent and lifted up a backpack that was resting against his leg. "Here."
With one eyebrow quirked in question, Dean took the pack, surprised at its weight. The contents clanked, and he shot Cas a look. "What's this?"
"Things you will need."
Dean undid the top zipper and peered inside. Garden shears, garden shovel, plastic bags . . . and a kitchen knife. He eyed the knife as he pulled it out.
"In case of . . . complications," Cas provided.
Dean made a small huffing sound and put the knife back. He closed the bag and glanced up to find Cas giving him a confused look. "What?"
"I thought you'd appreciate a weapon."
He smirked. "I do, but . . ." Dean indicated his clothes. "Where am I gonna put it? Plus, we're tryin' to help these people not hurt 'em." He slung the pack onto his back and pulled up the hood. "How oo aye . . ." He tried to speak through a yawn and shook off the effects. "How do I look?"
The angel stepped closer, raking him with gaze. "Tired," he pronounced.
Well, yeah, lack of sleep will do that. Dean grinned, about to make snide remark about Cas's powers of observation, when the angel's fingers tapped him on the forehead. He gasped, shaking once as cold flood flashed across his body, followed by a tingling wave. His heart rate picked up, and suddenly his muscles felt warm and fluid, his mind and senses sharp. He blinked at Cas.
"D-did you just slip me crank?" His voice was high and incredulous.
"What?"
"Crank, speed, black beauty, uppers."
The Cas's eyes narrowed in annoyance. "I didn't give you drugs. I gave you rest."
"Yeah?" Dean jogged a little in place, testing out his new-found energy. "Rest, huh? Well rest feels awesome."
At his blazing smile, Castiel could only grin. And then Dean slapped his hands together with exuberance. "All right! Let's get this moving."
Cas lifted his hand, ready to tap Dean on the forehead again. "Please be careful."
"Cas . . ." Dean flung his arms wide in a dramatic show. "I'm always careful!"
And then the angel's fingertips made contact, and Dean for a brief second felt like he was falling.
XXX
If Dean wasn't as badass as he was, it could've been a problem. But he was badass and ten flavors of awesome that Cas was going to hear about later, so sneaking into Morgue Central went nice and easy. The authorities had basically taken over the high school and its playing fields, so they could have nice flat land to work on. Castiel had dropped him in the parking lot, and there were plenty of cars to hide behind as he got his bearings. Dean pressed against some huge Canyonaro thing and just listened for a second.
He slowed his breathing so he could hear over the roar it made in his ears. The night was that awful kind of quiet enacted only by dead things. He gave it a few minutes, but no one walked by anywhere within earshot, so he slowly turned and peered up over the hood of the car. Huh. When Cas had said "tents", Dean had pictured something like an outdoor wedding. But wow was he wrong on that. His eyes traveled up and down the striped, bloated bodies of some seriously Ringling Bros. big tops, and for a second he just gawked.
Not that it didn't make sense that you'd need something that big. Just . . . damn. And the circus vibe really wasn't helping.
He watched some pinpoints of light make their way back and forth around the entrance of the closest structure. It was too far to tell if they were armed cops or what, but that just meant he'd have to assume they were and count himself lucky if they weren't. The moon was bright enough that it was casting shadows. If he tried to cross 150 yards of open ground, he'd look like a big moving blob, and if he tried to army crawl the whole way, he'd run out of time.
Dean cast around the rest of the area. The school's parking lot hadn't had nearly enough space, so there were cars, trucks, and emergency vehicles parked everywhere, stretching from the space between the high school's main building off to the right and library off to the left out toward the field. People were parked all around the tents, too. Dean dropped back, glancing all around, and then moved deeper into the parking lot, heading toward the library. The black running shoes he'd found in the closet were a size too small, probably, he thought, chagrined, Angela's. But the business shoes that went with the FBI clothes were crap for anything but looking good, and he wasn't about to wear white. They were the best option he had, and pretty damned soundless on the pavement as he darted behind car after car, one hand trying to shush the contents of his backpack.
As he neared the library, he could see that the sports fields cut off onto a pretty steep embankment down the left-hand side. Dean paused to check the walkway that led from the school to the library one more time and then glanced at the library doors just because. He drew a deep breath and made a low run for the embankment, sliding a little on the wet grass. On instinct, he let himself fall and grappled. His fingers dug hard into the dirt, and he found himself face first and spread eagle on the sloping ground. Not bad. Maybe a little undignified, but whatever.
The hill wasn't as steep as he'd thought, though the dark pit at the bottom was probably a pond that he'd be better off avoiding. Dean hurried along, bent as low as he could to keep himself below the edge of the hill. Before long, he was within range of the ambulances and police cruisers filling the field and could start weaving himself between those instead. For all the vehicles, there weren't that many actual people milling around. Dean frowned as he huddled next to a sedan.
That was a little weird, right? All these cars . . . no personnel? Dean peered at the school building and wondered if maybe they were all asleep in the gym or something. He sucked in a slow breath and turned to get a good look at—
A man was sleeping in the passenger's seat.
Dean startled and gasped despite himself but managed not to move. Dude was asleep. Facing totally this way, but his eyes rolled under his eyelids in that REM-state dreaming fashion. Adrenaline washed through Dean's system as he drew back from the car and snuck toward the trunk. He shot a glance at the SUV on his other side and saw a woman's blonde hair plastered against the window. Fuck. Well, screw him for asking questions.
He maneuvered his way into line of sight with the open flap of the tent and waited. Men, by the size of them, paced back and forth. One crossed into the illuminated square of the tent's interior. Cop. Dean could tell by the hat. He stayed slow, flexing the muscles in his legs to keep them from locking up, and waited to see how far his way the guard was going to come. The arc of the guard's flashlight didn't pass within twenty feet of the car Dean was hiding behind, and then the cop turned around and meandered back toward the door.
He wasn't going to get a better chance.
Dean held the pack against his back with one hand and scurried along behind the vehicles until he'd rounded the side of the tent. He made a break for the structure itself, staying as flat against the soft walls as he could manage. The plastic traced at his fingertips as it moved under a slight wind. He edged toward the corner and then peered slowly around the back.
They'd arranged the tents with their entryways facing out. And apparently didn't feel an empty alley was worth guarding. Dean smirked and slipped around the corner, unslinging the bag from his back. He set it down gently to keep the implements from making a racket and set to work. All told, it was the easiest job he'd ever pulled. A few clips from the shears and he had himself a roll of tent material, then a garden shovel full of dirt from just inside the hole he'd just cut . . . easy. And only four more after that.
He tried not to think about the fact that they were filled with bodies. Or wonder just how many could fit inside each big top. Maybe they were on cots, like patients. Maybe on the ground, or maybe stacked—
Dean shook it off and fished his cell phone out of the front pocket of his hoodie.
Beam me up, Scotty.
Dean, who is Scotty?
He was still smirking as the world went wobbly.