Dean had planned to leave the cabin early, but without the booze it had been difficult to sleep, despite his exhaustion. He couldn't remember the last time he'd fallen asleep instead of passing out. Cas had settled into an armchair nearby and when the first half hour of wakefulness had passed he'd offered to read to him, which was too close to being treated like an invalid for Dean's taste. He'd grumbled about it, but there was nothing like falling asleep with Cas nearby at full angel strength. It made him feel safe as few things had. When he finally drifted off Dean slept longer than he'd planned. By the time he cracked an eyelid the sun was streaming into the bedroom, highlighting every dust mote in the air. It was almost noon.
He'd come to Michigan to kill a wendigo and hide the box in a salt mine, but since arriving his priorities had shifted. He needed to establish a source of alcohol as soon as possible. And with his timeline, and the ingredients he could scrape together, it was going to be nasty. He wasn't talking bottom shelf nasty, he was talking jailhouse toilet nasty. Still, it was better than nothing.
While Cas had been birdwatching yesterday Dean had packed the yeast, sugar, and juice into a bag, which he now slung over a shoulder in what he hoped was a casual manner as he strolled into the main room. Cas sat by the window, reading a water-damaged murder mystery, a mug of coffee on the windowsill.
"Good morning," Cas said. "How was your sleep?"
"Fine." Dean poured himself a coffee and took a gulp. "Long." With the afternoon sun streaming in, the angel looked almost human. "Good book?"
"Yes. The objective is to identify the killer." He frowned at the cover, which featured a man in a bowler hat with a curly mustache. "This Belgian is very suspicious. He's at every crime scene."
Dean smirked. "Let me know how it turns out."
"I shall." Cas looked up at him with a defenselessness that made Dean feel broken inside. "I thought perhaps this evening I might give over control of this vessel to Jimmy Novak and the two of you could spend the evening together."
Dean stopped breathing. "Why the hell would you do that?"
"You could play poker. Talk. Increase your level of intimacy."
"Uh thanks for the offer," Dean tried not to look as disturbed as he felt. "But Jimmy and I are fine as is."
"Are you sure? He's not very good at poker."
Dean felt his guts churn. Whatever Cas was getting at, he didn't like it. "Winning at poker sounds great," he said, "but it ain't worth missing an evening with you. Okay?" He liked the way that made Cas smile. And that made him feel even shittier about what he had to do next. He took a step toward the door. "Thought I might grab some exercise," he said, the lie heavy on his lips. "That cool with you?"
"Are you feeling capable of exercise?" Cas's eyes were skeptical.
"Yeah. I think I can manage a stroll through the woods." He hoped. At the moment it felt as if the only thing holding him upright was the weight of his boots. But he needed to get things set up before he lost all dexterity in his hands. "I just need some air, Cas. I'm not making a break for it."
"I'm not your jailer." The angel's gaze returned to his book. "But if you're not back for dinner I will come and find you." It sounded part promise, part threat. Dean added 'sexy hide and seek' to the list of things he'd like to try when he wasn't feeling like death's doggy bag.
Dean got fifty feet from the cabin before leaning against a tree for support and retching until he felt like his guts were going to come up. He rinsed his mouth with water, careful not to drink too much. He'd need it. Retrieving the pressure cooker and copper tubing from the bushes where he'd hidden them yesterday, he made his way into the forest.
The salt mine was a series of shafts, halls, and rooms carved into the rock, abandoned since the 1960s. Dean made his way inside, switched on his flashlight, and followed a seam of quartz to a small side room. The air smelled damp and tasted stale. As quickly as his trembling hands would allow, he assembled the still. The ventilation was crap, but the need for secrecy was vital. He'd have to take the risk, and try not to choke to death on carbon monoxide or blow himself to smithereens. Nothing says 'I have a drinking problem' like accidentally killing yourself for a mouthful of shitty booze.
While the ingredients simmered over a fire Dean ran a hand across the rough floor. It would take some doing, but with the right tools—a hammer and chisel, maybe—he could bury the box in here. At the very least it would help pass the time while he waited for the still to do its thing. He nodded. Next time he'd bring the box.
He brought his eyes back to the pressure cooker and made a face. This wasn't going to be any mellow sipping whiskey. Not by a long shot. He glanced at his watch. He could cook for another three hours, tops, before he had to get back to the cabin. The last thing he wanted was Cas showing up to check on him.
Castiel finished the novel and ran his hand admiringly over the wrinkled cover. The story had not ended as he had expected. But now that the Belgian detective had revealed the truth, everything made perfect sense. This kind of innovative thinking was exactly what he needed in relation to Dean's problem.
The memories trapped in John Winchester's military pin were traumatic, and Dean had been carrying them alone, and blaming himself. The fantasies the memory spell had caught were sexual and violent, but also desperate, even affectionate. Which left the question of why Dean was having such fantasies. He had not seemed interested in spending the evening with Jimmy. If Castiel was reading him correctly, the suggestion had displeased and alarmed him. Dean preferred time with him. He'd said so.
As much as he would like to think Dean returned his feelings, Castiel needed to consider other possibilities. Had his attraction somehow leaked into the man's subconscious? He hoped not. That felt like a violation, even if it were accidental. Perhaps the fantasies were a coping mechanism. Dean's brain may be protecting itself by re-writing his distressing memories. Conceivably, Castiel's image was just the easiest image to substitute for Alistair's—someone strong and familiar who wasn't a demonic psychopath.
He looked out the window at the slow, steady river. The power of water always impressed him. He had watched it shape the landscape, repeating a cycle that led inevitably to the ocean. Like his thoughts led inevitably to Dean. Castiel sighed. He was being a coward. If he really wanted to know the truth about the fantasies in the box he needed to ask Dean.
The tracking spell led Chalmers to the abandoned mine by dusk. He touched the wall and pulled his hand back, hissing as the salt stung his skin. Being surrounded by this much salt was dangerous, but the mineral's purity was tempered somewhat by the smell of old sweat, smoke, and the sharp scent of something rotting. He fingered the dimpled beige uniform hat before pushing it firmly onto his head and entering the mine.
No pain, no gain. Chalmers gritted his teeth, ducked his head and followed the rancid aroma. He soon found himself crouched over a pressure cooker hooked to a coil of copper tubing. Fermenting alcohol, if the wretched mess even deserved the name. He put a hand into the charcoal beneath the pot, still hot.
Dean Winchester had been here, and he would come again. Chalmers smiled, turned off his flashlight, and sat to wait in the dark, pulling his collar up so he wouldn't make contact with the wall when he leaned against it.
When he eventually killed Dean Winchester, and he would, he could fabricate some story about the magical weapon—how it gave the hunter powerful strength or stamina but was tragically destroyed in the melee. As long as he wasn't expected to produce the damn thing, he was golden.
He passed the time imagining what he would do when Winchester arrived. His favorite fantasy involved a chokehold, followed by getting creative with the dead Ranger's hunting knife, secure in a sheath at his waist.
Bobby Singer had been correct. Dean was wily. Castiel could smell the alcohol molecules on him the moment he'd returned from his walk, but he hadn't let on that he knew. Instead they read books while listening to a classic rock station out of Detroit. It was almost midnight when Dean announced he was going to bed.
A thorough search of the cabin once the hunter was unconscious hadn't turned up any suspicious bottles, but it had revealed that a number of items were missing, the pressure cooker and copper tubing among them. Castiel wasn't particularly worried. He'd expected Dean to resist attempts to control him. That was in his nature. His insistence on freedom, even to his own detriment, was intriguing. Admirable, even.
Castiel had given a lot of thought to Dean's self-destructive drinking habit. And of one thing he was certain: Dean drank to dull his pain. As a soldier, Castiel knew what it was to carry painful memories. They could be a heavy burden, and Dean was buckling under their weight. Drinking was a coping mechanism that felt familiar to Dean, maybe even safe. He arranged himself in the worn armchair and contemplated the nature of memory, and of pain.
Dean emerged from the bathroom and gripped the wall for support as he made his way back to the bed. When he'd set up the still he'd had pictured a daily walk that ended at the salt mine, and then a few hours of distilling. Instead he was wrapped in a scratchy wool blanket, feeling like a sweaty piece of demon crap. Just going to the bathroom had been exhausting. There wouldn't be any walks this morning.
The bed squeaked and sagged as Cas sat beside him, looking solemn. He passed him a glass of water and Dean drained it.
"I've been thinking about your problem."
Dean ground his teeth. "For crying out loud, Cas, I don't have a drinking problem." Even to his own ears, the claim sounded ridiculous. He sat on his hands to stop their shaking.
"Oh, I know that." Cas nodded earnestly.
"You know?" Dean hugged the blanket tighter around his shoulders and wondered if an angel could be that gullible. "Then why are we playing Betty Ford here when I could be out doing my job?"
"Drinking is just a symptom." Cas inclined his head toward Dean's duffle. "I was referring to your other problem. The one in the box."
Dean stilled. "What do you know about it?"
"Almost everything."
Dean's eyes went to his bags on the floor by the bed, and he thought about his stolen alcohol. "You opened the box." He slammed a hand on the mattress, sending a bouncy shockwave through them both. "And Sam? Did he…"
"Yes." Cas looked chastised. "He touched it before I realized what it was. I'm sorry."
"You're sorry." Dean laughed, but there was no humor in the sound. "I bet Sammy's friggin' sorry too." He bit his tongue, hard. If he started crying now he didn't think he'd be able to stop. How could he face Sam again? It was one thing to have your brother walk in on you with a nubile waitress, but this was a whole other world of messed up. For a moment Dean never wanted to leave the cabin again. "Is he okay?" He looked the angel in the eye. "Tell me the truth, Cas."
"The visions were only temporary. If it's any comfort, I've noticed that humans have a strong capacity for forgetting."
"And you?" He searched his face, expecting to see judgment, or disgust, but saw neither.
"I have excellent recall."
Dean shuddered. "Great. That's just great."
"I also have questions."
He slapped his hands on his knees. "Well then lay them on me, man. It's not like this day can get any worse."
"Are you sexually attracted to me, Dean?"
"What the hell kinda question is that?" Dean looked at the wall. If he looked into those big blue eyes he didn't think he could lie.
Castiel reached out and put a hand on top of Dean's, which felt rough, and moist. "Do you love-love me?" he asked, using the words he'd no doubt overheard Sam use in Bobby's kitchen. The angel picked up Dean's trembling hand and raised it to his lips. Dean was suddenly aware of the fact that they were on a bed.
"I was wrong. This day can get worse." He pulled away and stood, hiding his hand inside the blanket.
"I've made you uncomfortable. I'm sorry." Castiel shifted on the bed, springs squeaking.
Dean wondered how much weight and force the bed could withstand and then pushed the thought away. He walked to the window, looking out.
"How is this okay?" he asked. "You're walking around in some other dude's body, kissing people. Isn't that a violation of your rental agreement or something?" Dean raised his hand to his mouth, as if transferring the imprint of Cas' kiss from his hand to his lips.
He turned. Cas was watching him.
"Jimmy agreed for me to use his body. Most of the time he's not aware of what I do with it."
"So it's all 'Don't ask, don't tell'?"
"I thought it would be better that way. Safer. For all of us." Cas tilted his head. "I've fought and killed in this vessel. Why would I require permission for kissing?"
"Because…you just do. Sex and violence aren't the same." Dean wondered if he believed that. And if he did, why didn't it make him feel any better?
"You would prefer if I obtained Jimmy's consent." Castiel had that look he always got when trying to understand human customs like wearing ugly Christmas sweaters.
"Yes. No. I don't know. It doesn't matter, because nothing's gonna happen." As Dean recalled, Jimmy hadn't liked him much when they had met, but that may have had to do with his kidnapping the guy and trying to prevent him from seeing his family. Although truth be told, that had been Sam's idea.
Dean could see Cas wasn't listening, his head bent and his focus elsewhere, talking to Jimmy on some private line. Dean was glad he wasn't privy to that conversation. You had to have some kind of super-faith to agree to ride shotgun in your own body, and the guy was married to a woman, so he wasn't sure Jimmy would be down with Cas getting his freak on with anyone, let alone some dude Jimmy barely knew. So Dean was surprised when only a few moments had passed before Cas spoke again.
"Jimmy consents to my use of his body in this way, but only with you."
He said it casually, like he was mentioning there was a chance of rain tomorrow. Just passing along information. Like it didn't tear the bandages off everything raw and frightened inside of Dean.
Dean stood with his back to the window, digging his nails into the wool blanket wrapped around him. His physical distress was increasing, but he was fighting it. Castiel was proud of him, even as he found his unwillingness to accept help absurd.
"Only with me?" The hunter narrowed his eyes at him. "Why?"
"I explained the situation." Castiel blushed. When he said it like that, it sounded so simple. In fact, he had allowed Jimmy to feel his love for Dean, pouring its depth and breadth into his consciousness and allowing him to bask in its intensity and timelessness. Jimmy had understood immediately. He'd been in love too.
"Well. That's great." Dean clutched the blanket and cleared his throat. "But you should talk him into loosening the rules. You know. So you could kiss someone for real."
The evasion was too clumsy to bother challenging. Dean knew exactly how real their kisses had been. Castiel looked at the sweat beading on the hunter's forehead.
"Your detox is going well. If you like, I can alleviate some of your discomfort." He looked to where Dean was trying to hide his hand in the blanket. "Your tremors, for instance."
"Thanks." Dean gritted his teeth in what he probably hoped looked like a smile. "But I'm fine."
Castiel watched Dean suffer. It was unreasonable. Stubborn. Foolish. "Why do you crave punishment?"
"Are you friggin' kidding me?" Dean paced the floor, as if looking for an exit. "You saw what I…you saw."
"What happened in Hell was not your fault." Castiel looked at the duffel bag, where Dean's hellish memories were stored in the fragile box. "If I had gotten there sooner—"
"Damn it Cas, stop apologizing, would ya?" Dean sat on the bed again and patted the angel's back. The patting turned to rubbing and then Dean pulled his arm away. "You don't friggin' get it."
"Explain it to me."
"That stuff I did to those souls down there? I liked it." Dean ground out the words. "It was pleasure. Adrenaline. For a few glorious seconds I forgot I was in Hell. And when you," he motioned to the angel's hands and mouth, "do that…all it does is remind me of it. So thanks, but no thanks." Dean groaned. "I'm a mess, Cas. You don't want anything to do with this. Trust me."
Wary of apologizing again, Castiel chose his words carefully. "It was not my intention to remind you of Hell."
Dean patted his back again. "Don't sweat it. This is my fault and I'll throw myself on that grenade if it means protecting the people I care about."
Castiel's stomach tightened. He had never realized how incompatible love was with bodily comfort. "Am I one of those people?"
"Are you one of—?" Dean closed his eyes and shook his head. "Jesus Cas, you're… we're …." He exhaled loudly. "Man, that is a whole other conversation." He moved as if to stand again but Castiel pulled him back and pinned him to the bed, which shrieked a metallic protest but held their weight.
"What if I don't want a conversation?"