FIC: Pulling Out The Nails, Chapter 13: Dominoes [14/20]
Back to 12. Safe, or go to the Masterpost.
Dean and Castiel fell into a routine, and the camp fell in around them.
There was no longer a chance that Castiel would let Dean out of his sight for things like meals and chores. He was forever at Dean's elbow, always on guard, Vonnegut abandoned on the bookshelves of Dean's cabin. At first, this caused a disturbance among members of the camp; some people refused to be in the same room as the djinni, and some people shifted in discomfort even if they remained, but Dean ignored them all. At breakfast, Dean had little to say, anyway. He wasn't much of a morning person until he'd downed at least one cup of coffee.
On the second day, Sam and Jess ate with them. The camp relaxed minutely.
At dinner, the pair ate across from Jo and Charlie. Castiel realized that this was what Dean did: ate with his troops by turn, always spreading his attention evenly.
"Caught another one, huh," Jo directed at Dean, just when the silence was about to get uncomfortable. Charlie flashed Castiel a sympathetic smile before ducking her head back to her food. He got the impression that she didn't particularly mind spirits, and wasn't sure whether or not he should disabuse her of that acceptance.
Jo, though, with those tendrils of smoky black folding over half of her face, had every right.
"I'm collecting," Dean sighed, nudging a spoon around in his stew. "Actually, they're just trying to collect me. I'm the one fucking up the plan."
Jo smiled, the slightest tick up at the corner of her mouth. "How'd you manage to catch her?"
"Cas warned me," Dean said, his voice suddenly gruffer than usual. "We were prepared."
Jo's brown eyes turned, surprised, to fix on Castiel. Her suspicion softened as she scrutinized him. "That so," she said slowly.
Castiel shrugged. "I'm a member of the Resistance now, aren't I? Might as well go all in. Save the fearless leader from the inevitable assassin."
Jo laughed, as though the sound had been startled out of her, and went back to her stew. From beneath her red bangs, Charlie winked at Castiel. He stared impassively back, but that only seemed to amuse her further.
There were members of the camp-Robert Singer, Rufus Turner, Ellen Harvelle, Lee Chambers-who would always leave at the sight of him, or at the very least, put as much distance as they could between him and their person, even in cramped meeting rooms. But they seemed to have a grudging understanding that Castiel was there to stay, and even if they didn't like it, they didn't complain. He saw Singer give Dean more than one squinty-eyed glare, but Dean appeared to be ignoring him.
"If you get tired of them," Dean commented idly, on the third day when they took their shift in the garden to pull up weeds, "you don't have to leave the cabin, you know. You can just…stay there."
Castiel leveled him with a glare. "And if a spirit breaks through your defenses and kills you before I can reach you?"
Dean held up his gloved hands in surrender, dirt crumbling from his palms. There was a light drizzle today, but the man didn't seem to notice it; on the contrary, he was in fine spirits, his eyes crinkling at the corners as they did when he was fighting a smile. They still hadn't been on a supply run, and so Dean's beard had evened out into a uniform fur. Castiel reminded himself to make fun of it later.
"I'm only saying," Dean said, going back to the weeds. "I'm sure you'd be able to get to me in time."
"I'd rather not risk it," Castiel grumbled, pulling up a patch of wildflowers with more force than strictly necessary.
Dean chuckled, soft and easy, and let the subject drop.
Despite the less-than-welcoming atmosphere, Castiel liked it here, in this little haven in the mountains. There was something to be said for even being capable of seeing an attack as it arrived; in the cities, so congested with spirit life, he would have had a much harder time keeping Dean safe. Here, the signal was clear enough to spot threats well before they arrived.
And it was peaceful. It wasn't as though he wanted or even needed acceptance from his fellow Resistance members; he had lived long enough without acceptance from anyone that Dean's was balm enough. His existence here was satisfying, more freeing than anything he'd experienced in years, and he realized, on his knees in the dirt, that he was grateful for it.
He wouldn't tell Dean. It would go straight to the man's head.
While Castiel sat quietly in the passenger seat, Dean ran again through the list of things the camp needed in his head. They'd have to go a little further north this time; their usual town had been chock-full of demons when they'd made their last run. Sam had barely gotten out ahead of the horde of magicians clamoring for his blood, and Jess had shouted at Dean for about five hours that night. He flinched at the memory.
Sam was still irritated with him, and he'd looked downright murderous when Dean had announced that he was going on a supply run. He checked his response to a heavy sigh and left his brother to fume, Castiel in his wake. Taking anyone else would undoubtedly attract too much attention, and leaving the rest of them to protect the camp-and Jess-was the best way to get this supply run over with quickly. Hardly anyone approved of him going alone with the djinni, but even if Castiel had retained more strength than the average foliot, he wouldn't have felt unsafe with the spirit at his side.
Even Sam might have called him an idiot for that, if Dean gave him the chance.
But he trusted Castiel, even if he knew he shouldn't, just on principle. Embarrassing personal revelations aside, they were on the same team now. Vengeance was as good a unifier as any.
Besides, there was something...genuine...about the spirit. He seemed more human by the day, and Dean was willing to give him the benefit of the doubt. His anxiety, especially, felt very human indeed; Azazel had not attempted to summon him since Meg had appeared, and Dean could tell that Castiel thought this boded ill.
The Jeep rolled over the last leaves and emerged onto the WV-28. The highway was deserted. He turned the car north; Petersburg would be as good a place as any to stock up. It was small enough not to attract the kind crowd that magicians ran with; it was small enough not to attract magicians, period. If they were really lucky, no one in town would have any resilience, either. Not the kind that would spot Castiel, at least.
It had been three years since they'd fled to the mountains, Dean reflected ruefully, and they'd been living like this ever since: running credit card scams and hustling pool to get enough toilet paper for the whole camp, picking up necessities that they couldn't grow or hunt for themselves by scraping the very lining out of their pockets. They stole, too, when they absolutely had to, and sometimes there were emergencies, but Dean tried not to let it become habit, because it could get them noticed.
They pulled into the Petersburg Foodland an hour later. Dean shrugged into his jacket-not his dad's leather one, which he'd retired three years ago, but a more practical black windbreaker, the kind that would protect him from the renewed rain softly dotting the parking lot-and jammed a baseball cap onto his head.
"Try not to look too suspicious," he said as they got out of the car. The blue glow of the collar was barely visible against Castiel's throat; he reached out to straighten the starched white shirt and snugged up the blue tie while he was at it, effectively concealing the glow from view-on the first plane, at least. On all the others, it was loud and clear, a bright neon sign advertising their presence.
When he glanced up from smoothing the tie down, Castiel was looking at him again, in that hard, staring way of his-but it wasn't hard, not exactly. It was considering, as though the spirit was reading every line in his face, trying to piece together a story from what he saw there. The masked faces that loomed over his shoulders and head considered Dean, too, but the expression here was, for once, more telling than the one on his human face: deep, enduring sadness.
That's enough of that, Dean thought bracingly, and yanked Castiel's trench coat straight. "Come on," he said. "We're burning daylight."
They kept their heads down inside the supermarket, Dean muttering to Castiel the things that he could go pick out for their group. Toilet paper, canned goods, maybe some fresh fruit for once-but Dean cringed at the price and realized the last wasn't an option. There just wasn't enough money to go around. He loaded up in the canned foods aisle, and hoped he wouldn't have a mutiny on his hands when he brought home canned pears in syrup again.
Castiel returned from a few aisles over, balancing an impressive stack of toilet paper in his arms. He dumped it unceremoniously into their basket.
"Anything else?"
"Tuna, I think," Dean said, still yanking vegetables off the shelves. His stomach churned for a good burger; it had been ages since they'd last been able to eat fast food. "See any sales?"
"We're not alone," Castiel said suddenly, and immediately, instead of being beside Dean, the spirit was at his back, wings rustling out on the seventh plane.
Dean saw them: a pack of foliots and what was probably a low-level djinni, sweeping in from both the front and back of the store. Predictably, the cashiers didn't notice anything amiss, chattering on about their weekends across the registers. The foliots were disguised as middle-school children on the first plane, but their disguises vanished on the fourth plane and higher; the djinni's adult visage, bright fanny-pack and all, was intact through the fifth plane.
"Can you handle the djinni?" Dean muttered over his shoulder, already easing his handgun-packed with silver rounds-out of the concealed holster beneath his jacket.
"Of course," Castiel said, unperturbed. "This is a scouting party. No doubt they were hoping you would surface."
If there was a faintly accusatory note in Castiel's voice, Dean ignored it. "We'd better make it count, then. If word gets back to Azazel that you're still alive-"
"I doubt very much we'll escape this encounter without alerting Azazel to my continued livelihood," Castiel said smoothly. "But that, for now, is the least of our worries."
Dean brought his handgun up in one fluid motion just as Castiel raised his palm toward the other end of the aisle.
"It would be better for you to stay out of the way," Castiel remarked, as though he didn't for a second believe that Dean would take his advice. "You can see them, but they can still hurt you."
"Not if I hurt them first," Dean muttered. He thought he heard Castiel voice an exasperated sigh, just before the shelves started coming down in the next aisle over.
Predictably, the cashiers screamed. Castiel felt the prickle in his essence that announced silver close at hand-probably in Dean's handgun, very smart-and gathered what little energy he had into a Detonation that would buy them time. He hoped, anyway. He was sure that on another day, maybe in another lifetime, he and Dean would have made a formidable force together. Today, though, Dean was just a man, and Castiel could hardly be called healthy, even before his recent capture.
One of the foliots appeared at his end of the aisle. Before he could disperse it, Dean fired, quick and automatic, and it fell back howling.
"We've gotta move," was Dean's only response to Castiel's irritated look. He gestured at the shelves, which were teetering dangerously. The spirits had flanked them and were planning to bury them. Not a bad plan, but...
Castiel unceremoniously grabbed Dean by the shoulder-he yelped-and transformed. The griffon shot straight up, Dean clasped in his claws, leaving the shelves to collapse, food and all, directly beneath them. The foliots jabbered angrily. The cashiers, who had by now worked out that something very unusual was going on, had fled for the door. None too gently, Castiel dropped Dean safely out of range of any more falling shelves and landed beside him. The foliots were upon them within seconds.
While Castiel slashed through the air with sharp talons, spilling essence from the shrieking spirits, Dean's shots went off steadily behind him; they had a kind of rhythm, as unfaltering as a metronome, and the wail of injured foliots was overwhelmingly reassuring. Castiel had the djinni to handle at the end of them, though, and that was a bit more complicated than a pack of howling foliots, since he also happened to know the djinni in question.
Through the mayhem going on behind them, Anna called the remainder of her foliots to heel. "Castiel," she acknowledged, her sweet voice echoing; she'd chosen to appear as a kelpie, and looked as though she was drowning, her fiery hair and coat dripping seawater all over the supermarket's ruined goods. "When Azazel summoned me, I thought that you were dead. He seemed to be under that impression. How have you evaded him?"
A last foliot squawked behind him, and Dean gave a satisfied huff before turning around and coming to stand beside the griffon, shoulder to shoulder. "You two know each other?" he asked, sizing up the kelpie.
"Anna and I fought together at Babylon," Castiel explained. "Dean has...devised a method to keep me from Azazel," he added to Anna.
Anna gave an exasperated sigh. Dean was eying the djinni's true form with what looked like distaste. Castiel couldn't blame him; Anna was a lower rank than he, and few djinn had the polished seventh-plane form that he did.
"You should have just finished the job," Anna was saying, exasperated but a little fond. "He might have released you out of sheer drunkenness in the aftermath of his victory."
"I doubt that," Castiel countered.
Anna glanced around at the felled foliots. "I guess this wasn't a great attempt, either." One of the spirits gave a little moan. "We weren't expecting to catch Dean unarmed, but we weren't expecting you to be with him, either."
"Please," Dean snorted. "I did all the work."
"You would be a mashed pile of bone and sinew if I hadn't been here," Castiel gritted out. "Be quiet."
Dean ignored him in favor of reloading his handgun. Anna rolled her brown eyes.
"Come back with me, Castiel," she said, a note of hope in her voice. "Things are...happening. Everything will be different soon."
Dean stiffened beside him. "What do you mean?" Castiel asked. The griffon pawed nervously at the floor. The kelpie glanced warily at Dean.
"Just trust me," Anna coaxed. "If you want your freedom, Castiel, come with me."
"Anna," he said, trying for gentle. She was an old friend, and he had no desire to offend her. "You know that I can't take you at your word."
"I can't do anything with my words when he's standing right there," she said with frustration, rolling her eyes toward Dean. "I don't think he'd approve of our plan."
"Mmm," Dean said noncommittally. "I hate plans."
"It would take some convincing, but I think Lilith would-"
Dean's chin snapped up. He'd only been peripherally watching Anna, but now she had his full attention. Castiel tensed. He had wondered before if Dean remembered the name.
"You're working with Lilith?" Castiel asked, trying to keep his tone neutral.
"I know you've had your disagreements," Anna wheedled. "But we're on the same side, Castiel. What she's doing-it will free us from magicians forever. From humans forever. You can't tell me you don't want that. You've been so trapped, the last few decades. That could all stop. And the magicians will get what's coming to them," she directed at Dean. "Isn't that what your Resistance wants?"
"Depends," Dean said. Castiel was almost surprised at how calm his voice was, given the hard glint in his green eyes. "What's the catch?"
The kelpie tossed her mane. "There doesn't have to be a catch."
"When did you start buying into a high spirit's schemes, Anna?" Castiel asked. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Dean's jaw tighten. "You've always stayed out of it."
"I'm tired of being forced into slavery whenever a magician gets an itch for someone else to do his dirty work," she said forcefully. "You'd think that you would feel the same way, Castiel. Everyone knows that they've kept your nose to the grindstone for the last thirty years."
"That's true," Castiel conceded. "Which is why I've thrown my lot in with Dean."
She neighed a disbelieving laugh. "Are you serious? You think the Resistance has your answers? They'll turn on you, too. And I've heard rumors about this one. He's practically a magician, Castiel. He certainly trained under one. You would trust him with our fate?"
"Trust is a strong word," Dean said dryly. "Call it a mutually beneficial partnership, if you want. I get what I want, he gets what he wants, we all walk away happy. Easy. No catch."
"There's always a catch," Anna parroted.
"What are you planning?" Castiel interrupted. "What makes you so sure that we'll all be left alone?"
"It'll be hard to ignore us when we're running the show," she said smugly.
"I hate the sound of that," Dean muttered. "I know bloodthirsty revenge, and I really, really don't want to get caught in the middle of that fight." He glanced sideways at Castiel. "Go ahead," he said bracingly. "It'd be a shame to kill you, but I'll try my best not to let it get to me."
Despite himself, Castiel let out a startled laugh. "I gave you my word," he said, even as Anna snorted in disbelief. "Besides, I don't think I'd agree with Lilith's methods."
A surprised smile tipped up Dean's mouth. "You'll have to tell me about it later," he said. When he fired off a round of silver at the drenched kelpie, Anna was too shocked to sidestep quickly enough. It caught her in the chest, and as her essence tore and she screamed in pain, the stationary pack of foliots sprang to life.
While Dean picked them off one by one, Castiel swept forward to take care of Anna. With a bullet of silver lodged in her essence, they were on a more even playing field. Dean whooped behind him as Anna, trying to get her hooves back beneath her, glared up at Castiel.
"You're a dumbass," she hissed, "or a sentimental fool, if you're protecting him just because he's the pup precious Jimmy sent you to save-"
"That's enough," Castiel said sharply, just before lodging his talons deep into the kelpie's flank and dragging them down. Anna screamed out again and smashed the griffon's beak with a kicking hoof; the keratin crumbled beneath the assault and Castiel wrenched his talons free, momentarily blinded.
As he staggered, she got her hooves back beneath her, her essence bleeding out in small wisps, and charged forward, knocking him back. He slashed up blindly with his talons, trying to dislodge her weight, but the strikes he landed barely scratched the surface as she trampled his wings, breaking through bones with sharp little crunches of agony. The physical form was just a manifestation, he reflected dazedly, but it was still distractingly painful when someone sank their teeth in.
Just as he gave one last desperate heave to throw her off, Dean shouted and fired; another round of silver caught her full in the face, throwing her back. Dean's footsteps were quick as he approached, still yelling something unintelligible, but Anna was nothing if not smart. She knew when she was beaten. She staggered out of Dean's reach and transformed again, this time into a robin so tiny that it didn't present much of a target, and flew off toward the open door at the back of the store, her path wobbly and prone to sudden drops. Dean was cursing fluidly now, running after her. She was still bleeding essence, but she darted through the door and out of reach.
Still growling under his breath, Dean jogged back to Castiel, prone on the floor. With something of a struggle, he pulled his essence back into Jimmy's form, though Dean's look of shocked horror indicated that this was probably not the most reassuring course of action. A cut across Dean's forehead bled freely, but he didn't seem to notice the blood dripping down his face as he dropped to one knee beside Castiel.
"You're bleeding," he said grimly, touching Castiel's neck. His hand came away bloody. "Not just physically. Your essence is flaking off."
"I noticed," Castiel gritted out. Dean gripped his forearm and hauled him to his feet.
"We've gotta get back to camp," Dean muttered. "Let's grab some bandages, I can't fucking see to drive with blood dripping in my eyes."
Castiel limped after him, skirting the wreckage of their battle. The foliots were all dead, smoking gently on the gritty tile. Castiel reflected, a little morbidly, that he was glad he'd defected to Dean's side. The man was up against a wall, but he seemed to function very well there.
Dean cleaned and bandaged the deep cut in his forehead in the dimly-lit bathroom; he slapped packed cotton over the gash in his arm without so much as a wince and wrapped gauze around it; he carefully applied pressure to his own ribs, as though checking for breaks, and all the while Castiel squinted at him and wondered if he was actually a man at all.
When Dean finally turned around, though, he flinched. "Looking at you hurts," he informed Castiel, who glanced over his shoulder to the mirror. Jimmy's nose was broken; two black eyes gave him the appearance of a raccoon; and his essence was obviously in bad shape, his wings broken and hanging limp, his masked faces bedraggled.
"We can't do anything about it right now," Castiel told him. "We need to leave before the cashiers alert the local authorities. If they report it, Azazel won't be far behind."
Dean rubbed a hand over his mouth. Swelling had started to appear around one of his eyes, too. "Yeah, you're right. Let's get out of here."
They ran to the Jeep-or, rather, Dean ran; Castiel staggered after him as well as he could-and by the time they collapsed inside, the wail of sirens had gone off in the distance. Jaw set with tension, Dean twisted the key in the ignition and slammed down on the gas, squealing out of the parking lot more urgently than Castiel thought was strictly necessary.
"Sam's going to kill me," he muttered. Privately, Castiel agreed.
Forward to 14. Brace.
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