Made of Earth - Chapter Eight
Chapter Eight
The leather chair squeaked under Dean’s weight and his shifting. He swallowed and glanced around the office, all of Crowley’s diplomas nailed to the wall, a picture on the desk among the office supplies and knickknacks. Dean had been waiting for twenty minutes. The secretary had given him a smoky look. She licked her lips and winked at him, offered to take his coat.
Finally, Crowley came in and locked the door. “Dean,” he said, approaching the bar in the corner. “What an unexpected pleasure.” He brushed his hands and fingers over the fat glasses, the bottles of expensive liquor. Scotch, gin, a tall bottle of Johnny Walker whiskey, very rare and hard to find nowadays. “Can I make you anything?”
“No thanks.”
“You’re sure?” He poured himself two fingers of scotch into a glass. “Vintage.”
“Yeah.”
“Suit yourself.” He sipped and sat behind the desk. “What brings you here today?”
Dean took a deep breath and tried to keep his leg from bouncing. “I want to leave. The country.”
Crowley chuckled. “Oh darling, who would ever want to leave the great Commonwealth of Republica?” The chair groaned when he leaned back. A toothy grin, knitted eyebrows, pitying.
Of course, Crowley had it easy. Dean cleared his throat, keeping on. “I just need the paperwork pushed along, safe access.”
“Why not ask dear old Father Milton? He has a nice cushy job. Pushes paper all the time. Already keeps Cassie out of trouble.” He took another sip and set down the glass on a coaster. Made of leather, dark brown, like the rest of the decorations.
“He’s done all he’s going to do for his family.” He rolled his eyes. Mr. Milton pushed along the papers so no one noticed Castiel Milton wasn’t working. And the last good thing he did for the family was pair up Anna with someone so high on the ladder.
Crowley glanced out the high-rise window, the curtains pulled way back, letting in the sharp afternoon light. “And where is it you plan on going?”
“Canada.”
Crowley laughed. “Those bunch of ninnies?”
“It’s the easiest place to get to. I need it for me, Ben and Cas.”
The expression on Crowley’s face shifted. His shoulders dropped, his grin faded. He glanced to the picture that Dean assumed was of Anna, then back to him. “That’s what this is about then?”
“You know that he’s sick, and there’s nothing that can be done for him here.”
“The Procedure.” He swirled the liquid in his glass.
“That’s bullshit and you know it. And Anna wouldn’t allow it.”
“No.” He softly exhaled, touching the corner of the picture frame. “I suppose she wouldn’t. But you want to take him away from her? And your son away from his grandmother? And what about your dear, dear Samuel?”
“Sam can get there on his own. Please, I’ve never asked anyone for anything. We can’t stay here and you know it.” He pleaded. He’d get on his knees if he had to. He would beg, he would go through trails, walk through fire.
He licked his lips. “Why the sudden urgency?”
“Doesn’t matter.”
“You’re asking quite the favor. I think I deserve to know.”
His spine prickled like bees, his throat went dry. “Ben is…saying things that could be taken out of context.” He couldn’t look at Crowley, just kept staring at his scuffed boots. His son was three now. Jessica told Dean one afternoon while walking him out to the car. He had drawn a picture of him, Castiel and Ben all standing together and holding hands, and he said something about Daddy loving Uncle Cas. No one else heard, but Jessica said she’d keep an eye on him.
“I’d be fine,” Dean said, crouched over, hands clasped, dangling between his legs. “If taken in for an accusation. But he wouldn’t. They’d take him away.”
“You really love the little pounce, don’t you?”
Dean stood, the chair toppling behind him. He slammed his palms down on the desk. “Stop with the games! I’ll give you everything. Everything I have and own, every penny. Please.”
Crowley regarded him, leaned back in his comfy chair, his large office with the view of the park. He took a long swig from his glass, finishing off the rest of his drink. “I’m not…as terrible as you people seem to think that I am. I love Anna very much.”
“I know.”
He clicked his jaw and placed the glass back on its coaster. He began shuffling through some papers in the bottom drawer of the desk. “Give it a few days,” he said. “Have to fill these things out completely down to the letter. Our boys are looking for any excuse to keep people here.”
Not many people made it out of the country, not even for vacations, especially to Canada where they offered asylum. Dean nodded and stood away from the desk, stuffed his hands in the pockets. “Sure.”
“I’ll send the papers with Sam.”
“Thank you.” He swallowed and head back for the door.
~
Sometimes, Dean forgot that he lived on the eighth floor instead of the sixth. They moved last year, when the surgery was finally paid off and Dean didn’t have to work the night job anymore. A unit smaller than Sam’s, but still two bedrooms. Ben’s the size of a closet; Dean’s the size of a shed, sharing a twin sized mattress with Cas.
Dean opened the door to the unit. Castiel and Ben sat in the living room at the tiny, round table, shoved to the corner of the room, stools for chairs. “You guys okay?” he asked, shedding his coat and hanging the keys.
“Daddy!” Ben squirmed on his chair, eager to get down from his stool. Castiel kept him balanced until Dean strode across the room and bent forward to pick up his son. Ben hugged him around his neck and then pulled at his hair.
“Dude,” Dean said, pulling him down. “Did you just get paint in my hair?”
Ben only laughed, he he he he.
“I like it,” Cas said, clearing up the paint brushes and paper cups filled with water.
Dean put Ben down. “Go wash your hands.” Ben trotted off. “Finger paints?”
Castiel shrugged. “Keeps him occupied. I know how you worry.” As he brushed by Dean, Castiel tipped forward to press his mouth to Dean’s; he kept walking.
“I don’t…it’s not that.”
“I’m stable.” He dumped the brushes and cups in the sink.
Two months without an episode, but that was business as usual. Tomorrow he could be hearing the angels again. He still twitched and paced. He still called Dean every day at three about the dryer. The pills helped; Sam always went on about how sleep helped the mind.
Dean shrugged. “Yeah, I know.”
“How’d it go?”
“Good. Said he’ll be sending the papers with Sammy. Give him a few weeks.”
Cas went rigid and shut off the sink with a hard click and grunt. “Good.”
“’C’mon,” Dean said, standing behind Cas. He moved his hands over Cas’ forearms, down to his waist. “We talked about this. You, me, Sam and Anna, remember?”
He scoffed. “Yes, I remember.”
“Everyone’s fine for it. Anna wants you to get help.”
“She was crying.”
“She loves you.” Dean kissed the nape of his neck, taping salt and cheap laundry detergent.
Ben ran back down the hall. “Daddy, Daddy!” He wrapped his arms around Dean’s legs, and then thrust his hands upwards. “All clean!”
“Great job, buddy. Why don’t you go play with your new cars?”
“I was playing with Cas.” To prove the point, he reached over to tug on Castiel’s hand, swinging it back and forth.
Dean crouched to his level. “I know, but me and Cas have to talk some grown-up stuff.”
Ben twitched his nose and shuffled his feet. He looked up to Castiel and Cas nodded, giving Ben a soft touch to the back of the head. He released Cas and walked over to his pile of new match-box cars spread out on the coffee table. Dean stood and Castiel went back to rinsing the brushes.
“I promise,” Dean said. “This is going to be the best thing.”
He nodded. “I know. I’m just going to miss everyone.”
Sam and Jessica, Anna, Bobby. Dean sighed. “Me too.”
That night, hours after Ben was safely tucked away, Dean fucked Castiel into the mattress, quick and dirty, wanting to just take and take, and Cas was more than happy to give. After they both came and were messy and sweaty, Dean slumped on top of Cas. He pressed his mouth to the space just under Castiel’s throat. “We’ll be okay,” he breathed.
Castiel crisscrossed his fingers along Dean’s spine and at the point of his scar. “I know,” Castiel said, capturing his mouth before Dean could say anything else.
~
They stood in a stuffy airport, trying to appear normal. Anna drove them, after a lengthy goodbye at the apartment between Dean and Sam, Sam and Ben. Jessica was there to hold his hand and Dean prayed that somehow, they would be matched together.
“When we coming home?” Ben asked, swinging Dean’s hand back and forth.
“Just a few weeks, buddy.” They told him it was just trip, they’d be home soon. He had to believe it was real; members of the Authority searched all the airports, checked everyone’s papers and credentials, looking for the smallest reason to deny travel.
Anna pulled the lapels of Castiel’s beige trenchcoat, flattening them against his chest. “It’s cold up there, Cas, keep that in mind.”
“I know.” He didn’t look her in the eye.
She smiled tight, someone might as well have pinned her lips out, like a clown. She adjusted the collar on his shirt, tried to set his hair into place. Her eyes were like the ocean, churning and wild. “I love you,” she said, trying so hard not to cry. She was a wife, high up on the chain, she was supposed to hold it all in. Public was no place for fits or tears.
“Me too,” Castiel answered, low and melancholy.
Then Anna turned to Dean, pulling in him into a tight and threatening grasp. “You take care of him,” she whispered.
“I will.” Dean didn’t know how to do anything else. When she pulled back, she was still smiling, eyes clear, a model lady and wife.
“Bye, bye!” Ben waved. “See you soon!”
“See you soon.”
The bags had already been loaded and the attendants called for passengers with tickets for rows A through G could now board. Anna squeaked, but stood unmoved. Dean wished Sam was there, but if he was, Dean doubted he would have been able to go. He wouldn’t see Sam as an adult, as Dr. Winchester who stood at nearly six-and-a-half-feet tall. He would have seen Sam at age four, crying because Dean got to go to school and he didn’t.
“Okay,” Dean said, bending to pick up Ben. “Keep an eye on Sam.”
“Yes. Better hurry,” said Anna, gesturing. “They’ll leave you behind.”
Stiffly, Dean nudged at Castiel’s shoulder, making him turn and pushed him towards the gate. Over his shoulder, Ben kept waving at Anna and anyone who would wave back at him. The tickets were checked and they got on the plane. Castiel watched out the window as they took off.
“It’s beautiful,” he said. “It looks like a map.”
~
On the ride, Dean ordered two rum and cokes, because that was all they would allow. He’d never been on a plane before, though as they moved through the air, Castiel kept telling him what it was like to fly, and how to be made of clouds and wind.
“Shut up,” Dean told him, sucking on the ice at the bottom of the glass, desperate for any bit of alcohol. “They can still send us back once we get to the airport.” But if they could just get past the gates; Canada wouldn’t extradite refugees.
“Look out the window, Dean,” he said.
“Fuck no,” he exhaled.
Ben had been snoozing until Dean swore. “Daddy said a bad word.” He peeked open one eye.
“Daddy is scared,” Castiel explained, still gazing out the window. “He doesn’t like flying.”
“Why?”
“Because he was made for the ground.” He let out a sigh and Dean sucked on his ice cubes, Ben kicked his legs back and forth. “I was made for the sky.”
~
When they landed, the only thing stopping Dean from dropping to his knees and kissing the ground was the crowd and line behind him. Ben was getting fussy from the long trip, and being cooped up in such a small space. He cried on the descent because his ears popped and people kept looking at their row like Dean was a child abuser.
But once inside the airport, Ben stopped kicking and crying, and just slumped his head on Dean’s shoulder. “We’re almost done, buddy,” he said. Anna had given them money. Once out of the airport, they could exchange it and take a cab to the Refugee Center. She assured him that it was only five miles away, and they would have no troubles. But Dean still feared.
As they walked to baggage claim, Castiel stood close and began twitching. The crowd made him uncomfortable, the unfamiliar scenery. He started tugging at his hair, at the jacket. “Almost done, Cas, I promise.”
They grabbed their bags (all Dean brought was a large duffel, fitting a few of his clothes, some for Ben and his lamb, and a folder of Lisa’s poetry and papers. Castiel dragged a square suitcase on wheels), just a few more feet to go.
At the exterior gates, one last member of the Authority checked their papers. A small woman with dark hair and a dull face flipped through Dean’s papers first. “What is your purpose of visitation, Mr. Winchester?”
“Vacation,” he said, hoisting Ben higher up. “Haven’t been away in a while.” He smiled.
She kept flipping. “And this is Benjamin?”
“Yeah. He buddy, say ‘hi’ to the nice lady.” He nudged at Ben’s ribs.
“No need to disturb him. It’s a long flight from Kansas.” Inside her little office sat a computer, a window where Dean saw the city, just in his grasp. She stamped the papers and handed them back. “Welcome to Canada, Mr. Winchester. Enjoy your stay.”
He stuck them in his jacket pocket. “Thanks.” He stood outside the door and watched for Castiel. He couldn’t stay and help him, prompt him for answers or cover for what he said. Castiel stood close to the window and the woman asked the same questions. His left hand shook and he nodded a few times.
Dean prayed with all his might, with all his thoughts and energy. Please, please let him get past. I don’t need anything else, just let him get past the gate. Please. Please. Please. He rocked on his feet, holding Ben so tight that he started to whine. “Sorry, bud.”
And then, just as quickly as Dean made it through the line, the woman stamped Castiel’s papers and handed them over. He picked up his suitcase and walked out of the airport.
Dean could cry, but he kept it in, just kissed Ben on the cheek.
“Are we okay?” Castiel asked, looking around. The wind blew coldly, the sky winter-white.
“Yeah,” Dean choked. “Let’s just keep walking.”
They walked two blocks straight ahead, until Dean was sure that the airport was out of sight. No members of the Authority sneaking around. They had gotten away. His throat went dry, his mouth quivered and he just stopped.
“What’s wrong?” Castiel asked, turning back to him.
“Nothing.” Dean kind of smiled.
Castiel was still kind of twitchy. He’d undone the first few buttons of his shirt and he kept jerking his head a little bit, trying to brush something away from his hair. The angels. They followed him here, and why wouldn’t they? Dean wondered what they were saying to him, maybe that this was a mistake, that they were going to be caught no matter what.
Dean put a hand on Castiel’s cheek. “Nothing’s wrong.”
“Okay. We should keep going.” He looked back at the direction they were walking. “They say that the Refugee Center won’t be open forever.”
And there it was. They were free, but Castiel would always be sick. He wasn’t going to pray for medicine or anything like that, though they’d look for help once they were settled in; they got past the boarder, and that was already more than Dean could want.
He followed Castiel and reached forward to grab his hand. Instinctively, Castiel grasped back, lacing their fingers, and they kept walking.
THE END
Master Post
Art Post 1
Art Post 2