FIC: Pulling Out The Nails, Chapter 12: Safe [13/20]
Back to 11. Trespass, or go to the Masterpost.
Dean didn't attempt the same variety of interrogation tactics with Meg as he had with Castiel. Either he'd run out of energy, or he knew how useless it was; Castiel wondered, not for the first time, if Dean had had a prior run-in with the djinni. It had been several years since Castiel had last run into Meg, after all, and Dean's path could have easily crossed hers in that time. Meg had been a favorite of Alastair's. The two had gotten along as only fellows in inflicting pain could.
Sam resettled the silver outside of the iron bars and closed the door, locking it firmly, just as Meg stirred. She sat up slowly, and as she did, the damage to her projected form began to knit; soon, she was her usual self again, with full smirking lips and dark eyes glinting beneath her tumble of dark hair. She didn't stand up within the cage, and pretended not to notice her accommodations, but Castiel knew better; her essence quailed from the bars, and she was still badly damaged. Sam backed away, close enough to the cage to interfere if she broke free, but far enough that he was not her focus. Dean, with Castiel standing beside him, drew her gaze first.
"Dean," she purred, tucking her legs beneath her. "It's so nice to see you again."
"I don't have the patience for your games today, Meg," Dean said, leaning back in his chair. Meg's eyes flicked briefly to Castiel, fixing on the glow of his collar, before returning to Dean. "The sympathy of this camp is the only thing keeping you alive, but it won't be a comfortable existence."
"Comfort is boring," she dismissed, her eyes dancing. "So, Mr. Patienceless, tell me what you wish of me, if it's so urgent."
"What are you here for?"
The corner of her mouth tugged up. Her eyes moved to Castiel and stayed there this time, one eyebrow cocked. "Your standard surveillance and assassination," she said. "Azazel wondered where you'd got to, Castiel. He was worried when he couldn't seem to summon you." She tsked. "So he sent me to check up on you, and finish the job if you'd failed. I have to admit, even I never expected you to have defected. We just thought you'd finally expired."
"He sent one djinni," Dean said calmly, "when he knew another might have already failed. So cunning. I underestimated your master."
Her smirk froze; it was feral now, with a rabid edge that made Castiel tense. "Azazel is not my master," she said, lifting her chin. "But neither are you, and I won't dance to your tune the way Castiel does. He's always been a little funny. Haven't you?" she directed, a touch smugly, at Castiel. "Don't take offense, kid. It's endearing, in a way." She wrinkled her nose.
"Fine," Dean interrupted, before Castiel could reply. "We'll leave you to rot. If you considered it, though, there are sweeter digs out here than there are in there."
She threw her head back when she laughed, full-bodied and trembling. "How quaint," she sneered when she recovered. "My options are not so limited as Castiel's, Dean. This squabble between you and those puffed-up magicians is peanuts to what comes next."
"Yeah?" Dean leaned forward, elbows on his knees, voice gone soft and dangerous. "And what's that?"
She scoffed. "You make a girl all gooey, talking like that, but I'm done talking. Go run your little revolution. Time's a-wastin'." She smiled and settled back, making herself comfortable in her cage-and if he couldn't see her essence, Castiel would have believed it. She made it out to be a throne, when that same prison had nearly killed him.
"Come on," Dean said, his eyes still on Meg's. "We've got hunting to do."
Sam waited until they were outside the cabin to frown at Dean. "You shouldn't be hunting at all, especially after this."
"You heard her," Dean dismissed. "If Azazel could afford to spare more spirits, he would have sent them already. Besides, if another lone agent decides to strike, I've got Cas."
Sam threw up his hands and stalked back to his cabin, obviously done arguing with Dean. Dean, as though he didn't notice or care about Sam's exasperation, led the way to the Jeep hidden beyond the treeline.
"I would also advise against going hunting right now," Castiel commented, though he knew it wouldn't do any good.
"You drive," Dean said, as though he hadn't heard, and tossed Castiel the keys. "I need to move the security line so it doesn't fry you when we pass over. I'll close it behind us." Castiel considered running Dean over, but instead resigned himself to being on even higher alert during their outing and settled himself behind the wheel. Nothing could keep the man at camp if he wanted to leave-of that, Castiel was absolutely certain.
Dean nudged him into the passenger seat when the security line had been replaced, and they drove on in silence. Dean's brow furrowed as he turned onto the highway, in the opposite direction from their last hunt; he was obviously thinking, and thinking deeply. Castiel left him to it and scanned through the planes, watching carefully for signs of another attack, but as much as it grated him to admit it, Dean was probably right.
Meg's words had not sounded like the desperate lie of a cornered spirit, after all. Even from within that cage, she still played the part of the predator; she affected the stance, her humor was good, and Castiel had seen her in worse situations, when her sharp control of her own demeanor had shattered. Something was still in her favor, or she would be more worried about being held captive in a prison that could eventually kill her, just from proximity.
"You're thinking what I'm thinking," Dean finally remarked when they left the Jeep behind. His rifle was slung over his shoulder, but he hardly looked as if he expected to bring down another deer out here.
Castiel squinted at him. "What am I thinking?"
"That something's up. Something big. She shouldn't be so comfortable. I know Meg. She was one of Alastair's favorites." Dean frowned as though remembering something unpleasant. "If she's in a corner, this isn't how she behaves."
"No," Castiel agreed. "It isn't."
"So what comes next?" Dean asked, idly scanning the trees for any signs of prey. "Do you know?"
"No," Castiel repeated, a little affronted. "I would have told you-"
"Cas." Dean turned to look at him; a smile tugged up the corner of his mouth. "I'm not accusing you of anything. You saved my life, man. Twice," he added, and picked up pace again. "Sure, the first time was under orders, but we both know that you believed in what you were doing. And you could have let me die, the other night. It would have been easy. Quick."
"I wouldn't-"
"I know," Dean interrupted again. "That's what I mean. I trust you." His smile turned a little bewildered. "What the hell, right? You've given me no reason not to."
"I did try to kill you," Castiel pointed out, a little abashed.
"Water under the bridge. That was, what, more than two weeks ago." Dean laughed, scrubbing his hand over his jaw. "Can you believe that? Feels like months. Anyway." He cleared his throat. "What I'm asking is, before you came-had you heard any rumors? Any rumblings? Any spirits getting up in arms about something? Anything at all that might be connected to this?"
Castiel shrugged, appeased. There was something about Dean's camaraderie, now so easy-and so impossible-that lowered his hackles. "I mentioned before," he said slowly. "I told you-there are spirits who have been in the world too long. Humans rub off. They pick up causes, ideas, vengeance. There have been spirits who muttered, but they never did it loudly enough for magicians to hear. Perhaps they have decided to stop muttering and act. I don't see what they could accomplish, though. The magicians are more paranoid than ever after what happened in London."
Dean's jaw tightened. "I know. But she's too comfortable, Cas. It's wrong. And how come he only sent the one djinni?"
"It's off," Castiel agreed. "His summons have felt…strange, when he's bothered to try. He seems distracted. When he gets the energy to try, he feels desperate. Something is happening in Washington."
"Five words I hate to hear," Dean grumbled.
They walked in silence a while longer, and then, compelled to honesty, Castiel said, "I trust you too, Dean."
Dean smiled, though it was more of a grimace. "Don't see why," he replied, ducking his head. "I nearly killed you."
"It makes no sense," Castiel said mildly, his own lips twitching up in answer.
"Come to think of it, most things don't," Dean said, clapping Castiel on the shoulder. "Come on. If you sense deer around here anywhere, let me know."
*
Dean didn't like having Meg in the house any more than Castiel did.
He'd grown used to Castiel's presence quickly, even when the djinni was still imprisoned in the room that Meg currently occupied. Castiel blended well with the cabin. He was unobtrusive, he was useful, he was good to have around. With their misunderstandings behind them, they got along well-too well, sometimes; Dean often forgot that he was laughing and joking with a spirit, at least until he glanced sideways and saw that bone mask with its features turned up in amusement.
But Dean wasn't about to look a gift horse in the mouth. Castiel was a spirit, and that was fine. If Dean didn't know himself better, he'd believe that he'd become fickle in his old age. There was no knee-jerk of revulsion left in him; that was saved for the laughing, singing, annoying demon currently occupying his spare room, not for Cas.
"I hate her so much," Dean said into the darkness, knowing that Castiel would hear him.
The djinni stirred at his feet. He'd taken to draping across Dean's ankles at night, a housecat if Dean didn't look too closely, and purring with enough force to knock out the whole camp. Dean didn't protest. There was precious little that could get him to sleep these days besides imbibing a lot of alcohol, and they were nearly dry. That supply run couldn't wait much longer.
"I hate her more," Castiel intoned, his paws kneading into one of Dean's feet. Dean yelped, jerking his leg back, and Castiel gave a howl of protest. From the other room, Meg's singing stopped abruptly.
"I didn't claw you, did I?" Castiel asked, the mildest of concern in his voice. "I could have sworn I didn't give this form claws."
"No." Dean's cheeks were burning. "No, it just, uh-no, stop that!"
The cat leapt at his withdrawn foot, and Dean wasn't fast enough; when the paws made contact, he let out another uncontrollable guffaw, feebly trying to kick Castiel away.
"The fearless leader of the Resistance is ticklish." Castiel managed to say it without inflection, but the cat was still busily batting Dean's foot around with his paws, clearly delighted. "Do your people know this about you, Dean?"
"No," Dean chuckled, giving Castiel a harder shove in the ribs with his toes, "and if you tell them, I'll-"
"What?" There was definite amusement in Castiel's voice now. "What will you do?"
"I don't know!" The cat dodged his next attempt at a kick and leapt onto his stomach instead. Now that he was primed for it, there was no helping it: every touch tickled. It was a cruel flaw for a man like Dean. The cat's paws kneaded into his belly and he went on laughing-because he couldn't help it, and because this was all a touch too absurd for him, and because Meg had finally, finally shut up. "Something. Something unpleasant. Like make you sit in the room with Meg for a while."
"You wouldn't." Castiel sounded wounded, now. The cat walked up his chest and planted himself just below Dean's chin, purring. "That's torture."
"It would teach you to not tickle me," Dean grumbled, but he relented and raised a hand to stroke the cat's ears. "It's undignified."
It was second-nature, really, and it was only on the second pass that he froze, realizing that the touch might be unwelcome to the djinni-but Castiel butted his hand with a fury head, meowing. Dean knew that it was a manifestation. He did. But the point of a good manifestation, he supposed, was that it looked and felt real, and Castiel the housecat, purring on his chest and imperiously demanding a cuddle felt very real indeed.
Dean's chest didn't even stiffen up the way it was supposed to-the way it did whenever anyone else tried to touch him.
How about that, he thought, running his fingers gently over fur. The electric-shock of essence hummed just beneath his touch.
"I think we're all out of dignity," Castiel commented idly, good humor in his voice despite the sobriety of the statement.
Dean, already drifting off to sleep, didn't answer. The last sensation he clung to was the cat's whiskers, softly trailing over his skin-a cool, damp nose nudging up against his beard. It was awful, how quickly he'd learned to feel safe in Castiel's presence, but he was wrung too dry to do anything but go along with it.
Besides, he really, really needed the sleep.
Forward to 13. Dominoes.