Made of Earth - Chapter Three

[breebree16]

Chapter Three

When Dean received a letter that his wife had been chosen for him, he groaned about it. He walked to the kitchen, rifling through the rest of the mail. Castiel stood at the stove, cooking dinner. He had days like that, where he functioned like an actual human being. He ate, he dressed properly, though he never wore matched socks. Bad things happened, he said, when he wore socks that matched.

When he was in that mood, he was a great chef. Warm bread, great fried chicken, pies from a book of recipes that Dean had managed to keep a hold of that belonged to his mother.

“What’s your problem?” Cas asked.

Dean waved the letter in the air in front of his face. On government stationary with a lovely red printed seal, the outside labeled Marriage Department. Castiel’s smile sank and he started to go through the cabinets, pulling out flour and a bowl.

The Marriage Act was part of the Authority’s ploy at painting the nation as happy and well adjusted. That the citizens hadn’t been adversely affected, they were perfectly happy. Business went on as usual and at an even better rate. Starting at the age of twenty (or later if you were in college) people were put into the pool and paired together based on physical attributes. Dean was a bit off schedule; being in the chair had kept him out of the running, but being physically able again, at twenty-seven, he was plucked and had to meet his potential wife in a week.

Dean wasn’t against the idea of marriage, just never put much thought into it. There were girls in school on occasion when the boys’ academy and girls’ academy had dances or walking down behind the old skating rink with some kids after school to drink a six pack and smoke those clove cigarettes.

Whatever Cas put on the stove began to burn, he had drifted off. “Jesus, Cas.” Dean moved behind him and shut off the burner, yanking back the pan. Castiel didn’t move. His body grew stiff, but Dean heard him sniffling. Dean sighed and pressed his front to Cas’ back, pressed his head against Cas’ neck.

He didn’t know what it was between them. Not anymore. “It’ll be okay,” Dean promised, ghosting his lips over the nape of Cas’ neck, just over the top knob of his spine.

“I know,” Cas answered, taking a deep breath. “I’m going to go read or something.” He walked away from the stove. Dean finished dinner and Cas ate it. They watched TV and Sam didn’t say anything when he came home and found Dean leaning on the arm of the couch with Cas pressed against him.

~

Lisa Braeden. The name had been printed in capital letters along with her age (25) and her occupation (technical script).  “It means ‘consecrate with God’,” Castiel said as Dean dressed.

“What?”

“Her name.”

“Whatever.”

The letter instructed him to meet at a restaurant, a large arena that used to be a hotel lobby, and they were to be observed by Uniforms and Clergy. If things didn’t go well, they’d be put in the pool one more time, or have to wait another five years. Dean didn’t much care either way.

In his suit, Dean sat and waited at a round table, sipping on some water. The other tables were full of other potential husbands and wives.

“Are you Dean?”

He looked up. A woman dressed in dark colors, a matching scarf around her hair.

“Yes.”

“Oh good.” She sat down. “I’m Lisa.” They shook hands. “Kind of weird, isn’t it?”

“Weird?”

“Meeting like this.” She gestured to the cement walls, the other tables filled with other computer chosen pairs, mimicking old times where people dated at fancy restaurants. Tables with dark red table cloths and matching napkins, orb shaped glasses filled with water and crushed ice.

He grinned back. “Yeah.”

Silence filled with forks touching plates, of nervous and forced laughter, squeaky boots moving across the marble floor, filled the room. The kind Dean was accustomed to, those family dinners with John. Potential couples making small talk, waiters ushering people to their tables, taking orders and producing drinks.

“So,” she said.

“So,” he said back.

He had been expecting someone tiny and blond, with a perky disposition, small hands and a shy look. Like how all the other women looked. No eye contact, soft voices.

Lisa sat up straight, hands resting on the table, but not her elbows. He sensed her crossing her legs under the table, right over left. She wore the scarf on her head a little further back than customary, but still within the limits. Her hair dark as raven feathers, a curl sneaked out by her cheek and he had the sudden urge to reach across the table and tuck it behind her ear. Rarely was he struck dumb with beauty anymore. She wore red lipstick that matched the collar of her dress, a black polka dot number, like she just walked out of a 1950s film. He expected large sunglasses in her purse, a martini in her hand.

He cleared his throat and shifted in his chair. “So,” he said again.

She laughed, clapping her hands together in amusement. She leaned forward to glance over the menu set before her. “Have you been here before?”

“No.” It was a building reserved for special functions and this glamorized version of speed dating. As she read over the menu, her dark eyes shielded by equally dark lashes, she wiggled her nose back and forth, like a rabbit.

“I’m starving,” she told him, flipping it over to the back. Drinks on that side, desserts. She kept wiggling her nose.

“Steak looks good.”

She finally glanced up. “I’ll have that then.”

“Really?”

“Why not?”

Dean surveyed the room. Almost all the women were eating salads while their ‘dates’ had burgers or steak, more elaborate, filling meals. One woman nibbled on bread, one picked through her lettuce, picking out the tomatoes. Not that Dean listened often, but there was a radio and television program meant for women, telling them how to be, how to act. Reminding them of everything they learned in school. Skirt at the knees, hair pulled back. Always smile, be polite, quiet. It’s a woman’s job to obey her husband.

Lisa pushed away the menu and started drinking her water. Dean desperately wanted to see her without her scarf, see how her long hair would cascade over her shoulder, feel the silky strands between his fingers.

While they waited for their meal, Dean searched his head for any kind of small talk; he wasn’t used to having interaction outside of Cas and Sam, Bobby at work. Everything that popped into his mind seemed stupid. Commenting on her dress or the fine points of her fingernails. Her mouth or that dark freckle sitting just under her right eye.

“The card said you work at an auto shop,” she said. She ran her index finger along the rim of her glass.

“Yeah, been doing that for a while. Construction too,” he added.

“I can tell. You have nice biceps.”

“Uh, thanks.” Under his suit he felt his biceps flex, like he was going to show her, he bit back the grin. “You uh…what’s a technical script?”

She rolled her eyes. “That. Just a fancy term for typist. I type up instruction manuals for a whole bunch of stuff. It’s dreadfully dull.” She swiped her hands together, dusting her hands of the occupation. “But I’m a writer. Unofficially.”

“Yeah?”

“Yup.” She dug through her bag and pulled out a little business card and slid it to him. “You should come to this little…party. There are some readings. I’m doing a piece.”

He read over the card. Just an address and a number, a time and date, all written in pencil. A gathering over fifteen people was against the law. It was at eight pm though, a few hours before curfew. “Where is this?”

“A friend’s house. Or, a friend of a friend. He still appreciates creative thinking. Colors and whatnot.” She lowered her voice. “So, would you like to come?”

And Dean pictured that they were in a bar, smoke in the room, some old rock song playing on the jukebox. She wore jeans and a low-cut shirt, her hair rolling down her shoulders, a cherry stem between her small teeth.

“Yeah.” His voice came out deep. “Sure.” He’d sip his beer, give her a wink.

“Great.” She smiled. Under the table, her foot stroked the curve of his calf. “You can pick me up at seven-thirty.”

~

“You’re punctual, I like that,” Lisa told him as she slid into the car and he pulled away from the complex. She fiddled with the radio and his cassettes for a while, then scoped out the back seat. “Nice ride.”

“Thanks.”

This guy, she kept calling Balthazar and Dean swore it had to be made up, lived outside the city limits, roundabouts where Anna now lived. Cars parked all along the street, Dean pulled into the driveway. Lisa raised her eyebrow. “What? I’m not parking it on the street.”

“You’re cute,” she said, stepping out of the car. She wore a dark green dress, flat shoes, a green scarf. Polka dots were for special occasions, only the basic colors for work and being out in public.

Balthazar, blond and British, a smile and a drink in one hand, greeted them both with a kiss on the cheek, though he lingered on Lisa. “And who’s this strapping fellow?”

“Oh, him.” She pulled the scarf from her head, her hair falling free and catching in the light, just like Dean had been imagining. “My potential mate.”

“Well.” Balthazar took a sip from his glass. “Quite fetching.”

Dean went red in the face and stuffed his hands deep in the pockets of his coat. “Uh, thanks?”

Lisa looped her arms around his, giving him a gentle squeeze and kissed him on the cheek. “He is, isn’t he?”

He was given a beer and lead to an actual parlor, the house old and Victorian styled. There was a fold-out stage set up at the back of the room, chairs and couches lining the parameter, large and heavy blue curtains drawn shut. Low light, smoke in the air. Lisa sat close to him, real close. Their hips connected, her arm still looped around his, entwining their hands and fingers, like they were already lovers.

He tried to focus on the performers, people speaking of heartache and death. One woman talked about losing her mother in a riot, another talked about finding messages in the passing clouds. Of happier times, of someone who will someday love her.

Then Lisa was called up and Dean reluctantly released her. She shined up there on that wobbly mock-up stage. Her smile, the light in her hair. She winked at him before taking a deep breath and speaking. They didn’t need microphones in such a small space. Her voice was dark and low, like wild honey.

Dean didn’t really know that poems didn’t have to rhyme. As a kid his mother read the nursery school stuff to him, Mother Goose and all that. They didn’t teach poetry or art in school anymore.

Lisa went on for two minutes, about tulips in the spring and how they were so easily crushed, their bright colors faded, the sun sucking the life right out of them. She spoke like a minister, strong and precise. The crowd was her flock, staring at her in awe. People clapped and she actually blushed and thanked everyone before moving back to her spot.

“That was incredible,” he said. He didn’t know much about poetry or art.

“Thanks.” Another kiss on the cheek.

An hour before curfew, people started filing out. Balthazar escorted them to the door, another kiss on the cheek for Lisa, a handshake this time for Dean.

In the driveway, they were alone, most of the guests already driven away. Lisa pushed him against the door of the car. “Do you want to kiss me?”

“Yes.”

He did; she tasted like beer and cherry Chap Stick and he couldn’t help but finally reach up to touch the strands of her hair, tangling it in his fingers. She did the same, taking a tight hold on the hair at the back of his neck.

“So, Dean Winchester,” she said, breathless. Her fingers massaged his scalp. Under the faint light of the full moon, her face was blue, her eyes dark and deep, like a forest out of a fantasy novel. “Do you want to marry me?”

He grabbed her by the hips, tight, and kissed her again, trying to swallow up every word that she had ever said. A month later, they were married.

~

Castiel moped on the couch when Dean started to pack up the apartment that he shared with Sam. “She doesn’t like me,” Cas said.

“She likes you fine.”

They had dinner the week before. Lisa got along famously with Sam, she seemed fine with Cas.

“What if she doesn’t let me stay over?” He started pacing the living room in circles.

“Cas, stop it.” Dean took Cas by the arms and forced him to look at him. “Everything is going to be okay. You believe me, right?”

He chewed on his bottom lip, but he nodded. “Yes.”

“Good.” Dean went on with is business. Castiel retreated back to Anna’s house. He sent Dean postcards painted with watercolors. The way the house looked at night, Anna standing at the sink and washing her hands. Dean kept them all on the refrigerator.

~

Work on the construction site by the new highway only lasted for three hours and Dean only did it twice a week and the pay was good. Three hours well worth the sweat and strained muscles of his back, his legs. After laying asphalt for most of the shift, Dean slipped his time card into the machine and loaded himself into the car and back to the Before/After Care Center. His bag in the backseat with the suit, the tie, and the stupid dress shoes that used to be Sam’s that he had outgrown years ago.

At the front door of the center, Ben went willingly into Dean’s arm when the care worker met him.

“Dada, Dada!” Ben chanted, burying his face in the crook of Dean’s neck.

“He was very good today, Mr. Winchester,” she said. The same woman from before, Jessica. She smiled like summer and her eyes were the color of rain. Curly, long blond hair tied to the side, snaking over the front of her shoulder.

Dean placed a hand on Ben’s back, almost incasing his ribs. Ben was a bit small for his age. “That’s my boy.” Ben kicked and slobbered over Dean’s shoulder with an excited giggle.

“Dada,” he said again.

Dean glanced past Jessica to see the hall was mostly empty, the other Care Workers putting away toys. “Are we the last ones?”

She glanced back too, then back at Dean. “Yes. Most of the kids are picked up by seven.”

Dean checked his watch; it was just past eight.

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be, we are open until nine, just in case.” Curfew was at ten. “We’ll see you tomorrow, Mr. Winchester.” Her smiled weakened, her lovely fingers curled around the edge of the door.

He nodded and turned. As he walked down the sidewalk toward the parking lot, he heard the building’s door shut with a heavy click and be bolted from the inside.

Ben fell asleep in the car almost as soon as Dean started the engine. He played the radio on low. Music played until seven before being turned over to Authority programming. They put on speeches about Republica and the increase in jobs and population. A lot of people had died in the takeover, fighting back, fleeing. At night they had a religious hour. The woman’s program was just ending. Kristen Moore just saying something about holding ones tongue and napkin settings.

As Dean passed what used to be a fancy restaurant, the DJ, some Authority appointed dupe named Chuck, read the news reports. They never reported about anywhere outside of Republica, not even entertainment wise. Chuck spoke of some fighting at the border near Canada. Canada was free, if you could get there. That was the dream. Get into Canada where it didn’t matter if you were broken or not.

At the stop light, Dean shut off the radio and popped in an old cassette tape that belonged to Mary. John had kept them all in a shoebox under the front seat when Dean got the car and John had permanently moved into a small apartment in the city, they had been left behind. Dean stuck in Abbey Road and quietly sang along the whole way home, Ben still dozing in the backseat.

~

Dean struggled to balance Ben on his shoulder while sticking the key into the lock of Unit 24B. “Come on,” he muttered, close to swearing, but Ben was awake and touching his face and mumbling Dada over and over.

Magically, or so it seemed, the door opened and he was face to face with Castiel. Purple rings still under his eyes, stubble on his face a shade darker than earlier that day. He had changed clothes though, into one of Dean’s t-shirts that fit loose on him, like it was still on the hanger, and jeans stained with paint. Cas walked away towards the kitchen.

“Ca!” Ben cheered. Dean put him down and the boy wobbled over to Cas standing by the counter, wrapping his arms around Cas’ leg. Cas bent down to pick him up and held him close.

Dean shut and locked the door behind him. “Where’s Sam?”

“Shower.” He shifted to move to the stove and opened the oven, pulling out a small plate with a slab of meat, some potatoes and green vegetables on the side. “Made dinner.”

Dean grinned. “Looks great, Cas. Thanks.”

Ben and Cas went to play while Dean heated up the prepackaged baby food. Chicken and peas with some sort of cream sauce. He ate his own dinner, which was still warm, in about five big bites and washed it all down with some water and half a beer.

At dinner, Ben liked to try and feed himself. He sat in his little chair at the coffee table and attempted to spoon the veggies and gravy into his mouth, full of new teeth. Most of it ended up on his shirt and the table, mushed in his hair.

“Oh, buddy,” Dean grimaced and wiped a wet cloth over his face. Ben squirmed and squealed. “Stop it. You’re fine.”

Sam walked into the room, showered and dressed in sweats. “More on his face than in his stomach?” He asked.

“Sam! Sam!” Ben kicked his legs and tried to free himself from his chair.

“Look, you’re get him all riled up,” Dean said. He still needed to give his son a bath, and get him to sleep before ten so they’d be up in the morning.

Cas stood in front of the window, watching the search lights against the purple clouds. His head tilted, a hand pressing against the shatter-proof glass. Lots of things that looked normal were really just things to keep them in line. Pretty bars and shiny cuffs.

Ben got his bath and Sam went to bed. After the bath there was a story about ducks, a wet kiss goodnight and Ben lay down with his stuffed lamb and blue blanket. Dean turned off the lights and slipped out of the room.

The unit was quiet, the entire building practically asleep by ten p.m. There wasn’t much to do. Lights were shut off at eleven, TV ran nothing but messages from the Authority, like infomercials and PSAs.

Dean stopped outside of Sam’s room, watching his younger brother sleep. Sprawled out on his stomach, long limbs dangling off the edge of the mattress. He snored lightly, face pressed into the pillow, sheets dragged off his body and bunched at his side. Sammy kept the window opened a crack, that’s as far as it would go. Windows in rooms higher than two stories either didn’t open all the way, or had bars. Suicide prevention was a big deal.

Dean watched a few minutes, the way he watched Ben, always checking for a rising and falling chest. Dean had always been watching Sam, since Mary had been pregnant and all he ever heard was how important of a job it was to be a big brother, to take care of someone; you’ll have to show him how to do things, Mary said while she made pie, pressing the dough with her fingers. Dean stood on a stool next to her, watching her growing stomach.

And when Mary died, and John worked all the time, someone had to watch out for Sam, right?

In the kitchen, in a cabinet above the fridge, Dean hid the whiskey. Liquor was expensive, more expensive than before, close to being damn contraband. Three months of saving just for one bottle. They only saved it for important or tragic situations. Like when ben took his first steps, or when Sam had a patient die.

Dean drank a whole glass instead of just a few fingers. From the counter, he watched Cas, still standing and looking out into the city. The other unit buildings and Authority facilities stuck out of the ground, cut like mountains.

“Why don’t you get some sleep, Cas?” Dean offered, crossing the living room, moving the coffee table with his foot. Baby food stuck to the surface. He stood behind Castiel, nudged his arm with the glass. “Want a drink?”

Cas didn’t drink during good moods.

Dean stepped forward, but didn’t touch. “What do you see?”

“Same thing you see.”

Dean finished off his drink and stalked off to bed. He skipped the shower and quietly slipped off his jeans and t-shirt, crawled into bed and lay on his right side, looking out the window at the same stretch of cityscape that Cas was staring at, twenty feet away.

A picture of Lisa and Ben sat on the nightstand, placed there by Sam. Not that Dean didn’t want it around, he just couldn’t have been assed after she was gone to bother with mementos.

In the photo, she sat with Ben in the rocking chair that Cas had made and given to them as a wedding present. She looked tired, her hair out of its braid, her smile soft. Ben wrapped in a white blanket and a blue cap, in the middle of a yawn.

Dean screwed his eyes shut and clutched onto his pillow.

Three hours later, he was roused from the very light space of sleep by the sensation of someone walking through the room. Instant panic rose in his throat, the constant fear in the back of his mind that someone was going to take Ben. He flipped around and found Cas standing beside him. “Jesus,” Dean sighed, rubbing his face. He checked the clock. “It’s one in the morning.”

“I know,” he said. He messed with the fraying edge of the shirt. “I’m sorry. I’m just tired.”

“Then go to sleep.” Dean eased himself back into the pillow.

Cas stepped further into the room. “Can I lie down with you?”

“We’re grown-ups.”

“I know.” He scratched and twisted, shuffling closer and touching the edge of the mattress. “I just don’t want to be alone.” He looked down and then back up, his blue eyes illuminated by the light just outside, glistening and sad.

They had done this before, throughout childhood, when Dean was in the chair, but they hadn’t been physically close since Lisa.

“Yeah,” Dean agreed, turning down the sheets and fluffing the extra pillow. “Yeah, hop on in.”

Castiel didn’t smile, but he didn’t look sad. He crawled into the queen-sized bed, staying on his side. He pulled on the sheets and they pulled away from Dean.

Dean rolled to face the window again, so he could see Ben out of the corner of his eye. The bed shifted with Cas’ movement, but Cas stopped just an inch away from Dean’s body. He felt Cas’ warmth and breath tickling his neck. 
---

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