Fic: I keep forgetting I'm not in Kansas, part 13/? in the Oz series
I keep forgetting I'm not in Kansas
2300 words, SPN Dean/Castiel slash. Spoilers for all of season 4.
zelda_zee is my beta and I love her.
Continuing my Welcome to Oz series. Master post of links here.
“I’m so goddamned pissed I can’t even look at you right now,” Dean says, clenching and unclenching his fingers almost painfully
I keep forgetting I'm not in Kansas
Day 3
“I’m so goddamned pissed I can’t even look at you right now,” Dean says, clenching and unclenching his fingers almost painfully around the steering wheel. He doesn’t glance over at the passenger seat, where Castiel sits like a wet rag leaking misery and lake water.
“I was never in any real danger,” Castiel says, and Dean wants to punch something-maybe Castiel, he’s not sure. Of course, the last time that happened, it hadn’t gone too well. Castiel might let him take another swing, but instead of Dean ending up with a bruised knuckle or four, Castiel would probably end up with a broken jaw and no angel mojo to fix it. And really, that’s the last thing they need in this creepy ass town on this shitty ass day.
So Dean refrains. He pulls into the driveway of the house, gets outs, and slams the car door behind him. The slamming is somewhat satisfying.
Dean storms into the house and wriggles out of his wet, muddy clothing as soon as he gets inside, leaving a trail of water and clothes behind him as he makes his way upstairs to the shower. As soon as the high pressure jets of water hit him, Dean feels his muscles un-tense, and he leans against the shower wall in relief.
After washing all the grass and dirt out of his hair (and assorted other uncomfortable areas), Dean towels himself off and changes into his clothes-the ones he appeared in Mountaindale with. The shower and the feeling of pants that fit correctly relax him slightly, but Dean still wants Castiel to stay the hell out of his face.
Dean heads downstairs and finds Castiel standing in the foyer, a puddle forming around his feet. “Go take a shower,” Dean says, not looking at him directly. “And change your clothes. You’re gonna flood the place.”
He doesn’t wait for Castiel’s response before heading out the door and into the car again. The seat’s wet and the dampness seeps into his jeans uncomfortably, but it’s a hell of a lot less uncomfortable than the tension hanging around Jimmy’s house. Dean pauses behind the wheel and closes his eyes for a moment before starting up the car.
He drives downtown and stops at the first clothing store he sees. Luckily for Dean, the store (some place with a green sign labeled ‘Morakot’) sells both men’s and women’s clothing. He grabs the first three pairs of jean and shirts that fit and gets out, not in the mood to flirt with the cute salesgirl.
After Dean returns to the car, his stomach rumbles in agitated hunger. He glances around the downtown area and spots a Chinese restaurant (Mr. Delicious Dumpling) only two storefronts over. He heads inside, scans the takeout menu, and orders the usual stuff he gets from Chinese restaurants. After a minute, he also goes ahead and orders all of Sam’s favorites too.
When Dean gets back to the house, all the wet clothes are gone and the floor is clean. Castiel appears at the top of the stairs in dry clothing, wet hair sticking up in tufts, and opens his mouth to say something.
“I got food,” Dean cuts him off before he can. “It’s Chinese and I didn’t know what you’d like so I just ordered whatever.” He doesn’t wait for a reply and heads into the kitchen, drops the takeout bag on the table, and sits down. He opens the bag, pulls out a box, and digs in.
A few minutes later, Dean hears the squeak of a chair next to him at the table that signals Castiel’s arrival. Castiel takes one of the takeout boxes-probably at random-and begins to eat as well.
The meal passes in silence and once Dean is finished, he tosses the trash and gets up. He’s about to leave (to go where he doesn’t know, but he’ll figure it out) when Castiel says, “Alana came by with a package for you. Your assignment.”
Dean lets out a bitter snort. “Right. My assignment. Because I’m gonna be staying a while.”
“It’s in the living room on the table,” Castiel says in his blankest monotone. “There’s also money and a set of keys to a house and a car.”
“My own little dollhouse,” Dean says, remembering the Mayor’s promises about such. “Where he can keep an eye on me, 24/7.”
Castiel doesn’t move or say anything, so Dean goes to the living room and spots the sizable stack of books, papers, folders, and the aforementioned keys. He opens the blank envelope and counts the money first ($750), and then shoves the envelope in his back pocket. He also pockets the two sets of keys, and opens the top folder. The neatly typed paper lists Dean’s assigned house address and provides a map of the town with a star marker: 25 Valhalla Way. The next file is labeled ‘Assignment - General Store’ and Dean throws it down in disgust. Fuck that.
Dean weighs the map of the town in his hand thoughtfully. He doubts that there’s anything at 25 Valhalla that isn’t here, in Jimmy’s house, but it’s probably worth checking out in any case. He is halfway out the door when it occurs to him that this could be a gigantic trap, and since Sam isn’t here, all he’s got is Castiel.
“Cas,” Dean calls back into the house, and Castiel wanders into the foyer after a minute. “I’m gonna go check out the new house the Mayor promised me. Might be a trap. Wanna come?” Dean sees Castiel’s nod at the edge of his peripheral vision and he steps out, leaving the door open behind him. “I still don’t want to talk. Or look at you.”
“Neither do I,” Castiel says as he closes the door behind him.
“Good,” Dean says, and they get into the car. He shoves the map at Castiel and the drive to Valhalla Way is quiet save for the occasional “right” or “left.”
When they pull up to 25 Valhalla Way, the house is exactly the same as Jimmy’s house, with brown trim instead of white, and grey siding instead of blue. It’s set in a suburban development like Elysian Drive: rows of cookie cutter houses spread on square green lawns. The only improvement-and this is, Dean admits, a sizable improvement-is that the car waiting in Dean’s driveway is a smooth black Mustang. Dean parks the Focus next to it and wastes no time in hopping out and running his hand along the curve of the Mustang’s backside-it’s a new model, not a classic, but it’ll do.
Once he’s done inspecting his new car (because by God, if he’s stuck here, he’s driving the best set of wheels he can get), Dean unlocks the front door of the house and steps inside. The size and setup are like Jimmy’s house, with different colored walls and different colored furniture and that sense of overarching sameness that haunts every suburb Dean’s ever been in. There’s furniture in all the rooms and boxes scattered about labeled, ‘My First Living Room’ and ‘My First Kitchen’.
Castiel investigates the lower level while Dean goes upstairs to check the bedroom and bathroom (same sweet get up with grey marble instead of black). When Deans comes back down, Castiel asks, “Will you be staying?”
“Are you kidding me?” Dean replies as he opens the ‘My First Foyer’ box and peers inside at the contents (a welcome mat, shoe rack, telephone, and wind chimes). “This place is probably bugged up the damn wazoo. The Mayor ain’t doing me a solid by giving me own house-he’s making sure I stay exactly where he wants me, in a place where he knows everything I do down to when I take a friggin’ leak.”
“The other house may be similarly monitored,” Castiel points out.
“Maybe. But I’m not taking any gifts from that jackass,” Dean says. He scans the ceiling for cameras and doesn’t spot any, but that doesn’t stop him shouting in the general direction of up, “You hear that, Mayor? You can go fuck yourself!”
“Dean,” Castiel says, and Dean finally takes a look at him for the first time in hours and Jesus fucking Christ but he looks to be in even worse shape than before, skin pale and drawn, eyes bleary and barely focused.
“Anyway,” Dean says, lowering his voice again, “this place ain’t exactly a hop, skip and a jump away from Elysian Drive. It’s not safe for us to split up and not be within walking distance.”
Castiel nods, but it’s hard to tell whether he thinks or feels anything in particular about this turn of events. “We should return then.”
Dean stops to check all the boxes for anything remotely useful or weapon-like, and ultimately comes up with nothing more than a set of kitchen knives. With a shrug, he tucks the set under his arm and trudges back outside to the Mustang, which hums when he turns the key in the ignition.
Castiel raises an eyebrow as he gets in the car. “I thought you weren’t taking gifts?”
“A decent ride isn’t a gift, it’s a right,” Dean says as the engine purrs like a kitten underneath him. It’s not his Impala, but it’s acceptable for now. “Besides, since you took half the lake with you into the other car, the upholstery’s all fucked up.”
The drive back to Jimmy’s house is quiet again, but less tense than before. Dean even finds it within himself to declare magnanimously when they get back inside, “You should hit the hay before you swoon like the star of a Harlequin romance, dude.”
Castiel, of course, fails to appreciate Dean’s tremendous wit, but gets the point nevertheless. “I-I think that might be wise,” he says, and it’s a testament to just how far gone he is that he doesn’t try to argue with Dean. He sways towards the couch in the living room and Dean shakes his head.
“We got a bed, Cas, you might as well use it,” Dean says gruffly as he shepherds Castiel upstairs. When they make it to the bedroom without incident, Castiel sits awkwardly on the edge of the bed.
“Dude, lie back,” Dean says, and gives Castiel’s shoulder a light push in the right direction. He ends up flopping onto his back diagonally across the bed, legs still dangling off the side. “Cas,” Dean starts in exasperation before realizing that Castiel’s eyes have closed and he’s somehow already fallen asleep in the span of the last thirty seconds. “Son of a bitch,” Dean says as he snaps his fingers over Castiel’s face and he doesn’t stir.
Dean contemplates leaving Castiel in his awkward position, legs hanging off the bed, shoes on, but the anger’s mostly worn off, and there’s the distinct possibility that Castiel might simply roll off the bed some point in his sleep, thus defeating the whole point of this exercise. So Dean jimmies his shoes off one at a time, swings his legs up onto the bed, and shoves a pillow under his head. Through it all, Castiel moves not so much as a muscle.
Dean sighs and wanders into the upstairs office. Castiel might be off counting sheep already but it’s still relatively early in the evening and Dean’s wide awake. The boxes at Dean’s dollhouse were a wash, but maybe the ones Jimmy packed contain something moderately helpful, like a shotgun or even a pistol. It’s a long shot, but what the hell. He’s got time, apparently.
Dean proceeds to rummage through all the moving boxes in the house systematically. The upstairs office yields a computer, which he sets up on the desk. It comes with some games (all family friendly stuff like The Sims and Spore and the New York Times Crossword) but no internet. Useless.
The bathroom box reveals cleaning supplies, toiletries, and many rolls of toilet paper. Once again, handy to have but largely useless in terms of escape plans. The bedroom boxes are filled with clothing, sheets, blankets, pillows, and curtains. Lastly, the living room boxes contain a whole freaking library of books-mostly the so called classics that Dean probably would have been forced to read in high school if they’d ever stayed in one place long enough for a teacher to nail him to the wall about it. Other than that, there’s a sound system (which is surprisingly sleek and swanky), some CD’s (Jimmy’s taste in music is alarmingly crappy: everything from Gospel to Gregorian chants), a potted plant, and an assortment of bobblehead dolls. No TV.
Dean sits down on the couch once he’s done with the last box. Hours of scouring boxes and nothing to show for it other than an extremely heavy copy of War and Peace. As he settles back and closes his eyes, the wear and tear of the day start to sink in: the Mayor and his mind games; Castiel losing his mind; and Sam, out there in the completely fucked world alone. At least, if the Mayor is to be believed, which he is not. Regardless of what the truth is, Dean’s been gone at least three days and Sam’s bound to notice that. And the last time he disappeared, Sam got himself a backstabbing ho and a liquid diet of demon blood. Dean doesn’t want to think about what ten years might drive him to.
Dean sighs and tries to fluff up one of the couch cushions into something resembling comfortable-to no avail. He gets up reluctantly and heads back into the bedroom where Castiel’s lying in the exact same position Dean left him. He grabs a pillow and blanket from one of the boxes and marches downstairs to squeeze himself onto the couch (which is way too short for Dean).
Maybe tomorrow will be better than today was. But probably not.
Onto the next chapter: By how much you love
2300 words, SPN Dean/Castiel slash. Spoilers for all of season 4.
zelda_zee is my beta and I love her.
Continuing my Welcome to Oz series. Master post of links here.
“I’m so goddamned pissed I can’t even look at you right now,” Dean says, clenching and unclenching his fingers almost painfully
I keep forgetting I'm not in Kansas
Day 3
“I’m so goddamned pissed I can’t even look at you right now,” Dean says, clenching and unclenching his fingers almost painfully around the steering wheel. He doesn’t glance over at the passenger seat, where Castiel sits like a wet rag leaking misery and lake water.
“I was never in any real danger,” Castiel says, and Dean wants to punch something-maybe Castiel, he’s not sure. Of course, the last time that happened, it hadn’t gone too well. Castiel might let him take another swing, but instead of Dean ending up with a bruised knuckle or four, Castiel would probably end up with a broken jaw and no angel mojo to fix it. And really, that’s the last thing they need in this creepy ass town on this shitty ass day.
So Dean refrains. He pulls into the driveway of the house, gets outs, and slams the car door behind him. The slamming is somewhat satisfying.
Dean storms into the house and wriggles out of his wet, muddy clothing as soon as he gets inside, leaving a trail of water and clothes behind him as he makes his way upstairs to the shower. As soon as the high pressure jets of water hit him, Dean feels his muscles un-tense, and he leans against the shower wall in relief.
After washing all the grass and dirt out of his hair (and assorted other uncomfortable areas), Dean towels himself off and changes into his clothes-the ones he appeared in Mountaindale with. The shower and the feeling of pants that fit correctly relax him slightly, but Dean still wants Castiel to stay the hell out of his face.
Dean heads downstairs and finds Castiel standing in the foyer, a puddle forming around his feet. “Go take a shower,” Dean says, not looking at him directly. “And change your clothes. You’re gonna flood the place.”
He doesn’t wait for Castiel’s response before heading out the door and into the car again. The seat’s wet and the dampness seeps into his jeans uncomfortably, but it’s a hell of a lot less uncomfortable than the tension hanging around Jimmy’s house. Dean pauses behind the wheel and closes his eyes for a moment before starting up the car.
He drives downtown and stops at the first clothing store he sees. Luckily for Dean, the store (some place with a green sign labeled ‘Morakot’) sells both men’s and women’s clothing. He grabs the first three pairs of jean and shirts that fit and gets out, not in the mood to flirt with the cute salesgirl.
After Dean returns to the car, his stomach rumbles in agitated hunger. He glances around the downtown area and spots a Chinese restaurant (Mr. Delicious Dumpling) only two storefronts over. He heads inside, scans the takeout menu, and orders the usual stuff he gets from Chinese restaurants. After a minute, he also goes ahead and orders all of Sam’s favorites too.
When Dean gets back to the house, all the wet clothes are gone and the floor is clean. Castiel appears at the top of the stairs in dry clothing, wet hair sticking up in tufts, and opens his mouth to say something.
“I got food,” Dean cuts him off before he can. “It’s Chinese and I didn’t know what you’d like so I just ordered whatever.” He doesn’t wait for a reply and heads into the kitchen, drops the takeout bag on the table, and sits down. He opens the bag, pulls out a box, and digs in.
A few minutes later, Dean hears the squeak of a chair next to him at the table that signals Castiel’s arrival. Castiel takes one of the takeout boxes-probably at random-and begins to eat as well.
The meal passes in silence and once Dean is finished, he tosses the trash and gets up. He’s about to leave (to go where he doesn’t know, but he’ll figure it out) when Castiel says, “Alana came by with a package for you. Your assignment.”
Dean lets out a bitter snort. “Right. My assignment. Because I’m gonna be staying a while.”
“It’s in the living room on the table,” Castiel says in his blankest monotone. “There’s also money and a set of keys to a house and a car.”
“My own little dollhouse,” Dean says, remembering the Mayor’s promises about such. “Where he can keep an eye on me, 24/7.”
Castiel doesn’t move or say anything, so Dean goes to the living room and spots the sizable stack of books, papers, folders, and the aforementioned keys. He opens the blank envelope and counts the money first ($750), and then shoves the envelope in his back pocket. He also pockets the two sets of keys, and opens the top folder. The neatly typed paper lists Dean’s assigned house address and provides a map of the town with a star marker: 25 Valhalla Way. The next file is labeled ‘Assignment - General Store’ and Dean throws it down in disgust. Fuck that.
Dean weighs the map of the town in his hand thoughtfully. He doubts that there’s anything at 25 Valhalla that isn’t here, in Jimmy’s house, but it’s probably worth checking out in any case. He is halfway out the door when it occurs to him that this could be a gigantic trap, and since Sam isn’t here, all he’s got is Castiel.
“Cas,” Dean calls back into the house, and Castiel wanders into the foyer after a minute. “I’m gonna go check out the new house the Mayor promised me. Might be a trap. Wanna come?” Dean sees Castiel’s nod at the edge of his peripheral vision and he steps out, leaving the door open behind him. “I still don’t want to talk. Or look at you.”
“Neither do I,” Castiel says as he closes the door behind him.
“Good,” Dean says, and they get into the car. He shoves the map at Castiel and the drive to Valhalla Way is quiet save for the occasional “right” or “left.”
When they pull up to 25 Valhalla Way, the house is exactly the same as Jimmy’s house, with brown trim instead of white, and grey siding instead of blue. It’s set in a suburban development like Elysian Drive: rows of cookie cutter houses spread on square green lawns. The only improvement-and this is, Dean admits, a sizable improvement-is that the car waiting in Dean’s driveway is a smooth black Mustang. Dean parks the Focus next to it and wastes no time in hopping out and running his hand along the curve of the Mustang’s backside-it’s a new model, not a classic, but it’ll do.
Once he’s done inspecting his new car (because by God, if he’s stuck here, he’s driving the best set of wheels he can get), Dean unlocks the front door of the house and steps inside. The size and setup are like Jimmy’s house, with different colored walls and different colored furniture and that sense of overarching sameness that haunts every suburb Dean’s ever been in. There’s furniture in all the rooms and boxes scattered about labeled, ‘My First Living Room’ and ‘My First Kitchen’.
Castiel investigates the lower level while Dean goes upstairs to check the bedroom and bathroom (same sweet get up with grey marble instead of black). When Deans comes back down, Castiel asks, “Will you be staying?”
“Are you kidding me?” Dean replies as he opens the ‘My First Foyer’ box and peers inside at the contents (a welcome mat, shoe rack, telephone, and wind chimes). “This place is probably bugged up the damn wazoo. The Mayor ain’t doing me a solid by giving me own house-he’s making sure I stay exactly where he wants me, in a place where he knows everything I do down to when I take a friggin’ leak.”
“The other house may be similarly monitored,” Castiel points out.
“Maybe. But I’m not taking any gifts from that jackass,” Dean says. He scans the ceiling for cameras and doesn’t spot any, but that doesn’t stop him shouting in the general direction of up, “You hear that, Mayor? You can go fuck yourself!”
“Dean,” Castiel says, and Dean finally takes a look at him for the first time in hours and Jesus fucking Christ but he looks to be in even worse shape than before, skin pale and drawn, eyes bleary and barely focused.
“Anyway,” Dean says, lowering his voice again, “this place ain’t exactly a hop, skip and a jump away from Elysian Drive. It’s not safe for us to split up and not be within walking distance.”
Castiel nods, but it’s hard to tell whether he thinks or feels anything in particular about this turn of events. “We should return then.”
Dean stops to check all the boxes for anything remotely useful or weapon-like, and ultimately comes up with nothing more than a set of kitchen knives. With a shrug, he tucks the set under his arm and trudges back outside to the Mustang, which hums when he turns the key in the ignition.
Castiel raises an eyebrow as he gets in the car. “I thought you weren’t taking gifts?”
“A decent ride isn’t a gift, it’s a right,” Dean says as the engine purrs like a kitten underneath him. It’s not his Impala, but it’s acceptable for now. “Besides, since you took half the lake with you into the other car, the upholstery’s all fucked up.”
The drive back to Jimmy’s house is quiet again, but less tense than before. Dean even finds it within himself to declare magnanimously when they get back inside, “You should hit the hay before you swoon like the star of a Harlequin romance, dude.”
Castiel, of course, fails to appreciate Dean’s tremendous wit, but gets the point nevertheless. “I-I think that might be wise,” he says, and it’s a testament to just how far gone he is that he doesn’t try to argue with Dean. He sways towards the couch in the living room and Dean shakes his head.
“We got a bed, Cas, you might as well use it,” Dean says gruffly as he shepherds Castiel upstairs. When they make it to the bedroom without incident, Castiel sits awkwardly on the edge of the bed.
“Dude, lie back,” Dean says, and gives Castiel’s shoulder a light push in the right direction. He ends up flopping onto his back diagonally across the bed, legs still dangling off the side. “Cas,” Dean starts in exasperation before realizing that Castiel’s eyes have closed and he’s somehow already fallen asleep in the span of the last thirty seconds. “Son of a bitch,” Dean says as he snaps his fingers over Castiel’s face and he doesn’t stir.
Dean contemplates leaving Castiel in his awkward position, legs hanging off the bed, shoes on, but the anger’s mostly worn off, and there’s the distinct possibility that Castiel might simply roll off the bed some point in his sleep, thus defeating the whole point of this exercise. So Dean jimmies his shoes off one at a time, swings his legs up onto the bed, and shoves a pillow under his head. Through it all, Castiel moves not so much as a muscle.
Dean sighs and wanders into the upstairs office. Castiel might be off counting sheep already but it’s still relatively early in the evening and Dean’s wide awake. The boxes at Dean’s dollhouse were a wash, but maybe the ones Jimmy packed contain something moderately helpful, like a shotgun or even a pistol. It’s a long shot, but what the hell. He’s got time, apparently.
Dean proceeds to rummage through all the moving boxes in the house systematically. The upstairs office yields a computer, which he sets up on the desk. It comes with some games (all family friendly stuff like The Sims and Spore and the New York Times Crossword) but no internet. Useless.
The bathroom box reveals cleaning supplies, toiletries, and many rolls of toilet paper. Once again, handy to have but largely useless in terms of escape plans. The bedroom boxes are filled with clothing, sheets, blankets, pillows, and curtains. Lastly, the living room boxes contain a whole freaking library of books-mostly the so called classics that Dean probably would have been forced to read in high school if they’d ever stayed in one place long enough for a teacher to nail him to the wall about it. Other than that, there’s a sound system (which is surprisingly sleek and swanky), some CD’s (Jimmy’s taste in music is alarmingly crappy: everything from Gospel to Gregorian chants), a potted plant, and an assortment of bobblehead dolls. No TV.
Dean sits down on the couch once he’s done with the last box. Hours of scouring boxes and nothing to show for it other than an extremely heavy copy of War and Peace. As he settles back and closes his eyes, the wear and tear of the day start to sink in: the Mayor and his mind games; Castiel losing his mind; and Sam, out there in the completely fucked world alone. At least, if the Mayor is to be believed, which he is not. Regardless of what the truth is, Dean’s been gone at least three days and Sam’s bound to notice that. And the last time he disappeared, Sam got himself a backstabbing ho and a liquid diet of demon blood. Dean doesn’t want to think about what ten years might drive him to.
Dean sighs and tries to fluff up one of the couch cushions into something resembling comfortable-to no avail. He gets up reluctantly and heads back into the bedroom where Castiel’s lying in the exact same position Dean left him. He grabs a pillow and blanket from one of the boxes and marches downstairs to squeeze himself onto the couch (which is way too short for Dean).
Maybe tomorrow will be better than today was. But probably not.
Onto the next chapter: By how much you love