March-Stalkers Mighty: 19/22
Passus IX: Pes sinister.
Dean had his suspicions that was Castiel’s “something is bothering me but I am a stubborn son of a bitch and I have to deal with it myself so I won’t tell you what’s going on” face.
That expression was going to need a catchier name. Castiel seemed to make it pretty often.
Miranda: Beleeve me sir,
It carries a brave form. But ‘tis a spirit.
Prospero: No, wench, it eats and sleeps, and hath such senses
As we have, such.
The Tempest, William Shakespeare, c. 1611.
There were eight of them, in the end. Bobby, obviously. Rufus too, because where Bobby went he went. Gwen and Sam and Dean, because none of them would stay behind. Then Samuel Colt, and Jody, who, together with Ellen, was meant to be doing most of the talking.
Demian had tried to insist on coming too, but that had been vetoed right from the get-go by everyone who’d heard it. It was pretty common for civilians who’d just lost someone to go all blinkers-and-vengeance and try to learn to become hunters, and it was never a good idea. For whatever messed-up co-dependent reason, Demian was even more broken up over his best friend getting possessed than even Barnes’ mum, or her sister Pamela. Still didn’t mean he got to go suicidal and be a danger to everyone else, though.
The ground Castiel had chosen for the meeting was a long triangular field, closed in by dark firs on two sides, sliding away steeply towards the swamp that formed the third. The light, dreary rain that never quite went away or committed itself to being rain was mooching its way down the field in little waves, dulling over the vivid green of the mossy grass that spoke of water and thick mud lurking under the surface. Dean suspected, as he stepped out into it and his boots sank to the laces, that the angels had probably chosen it from the air, thinking “oh that looks like a nice wide open space which is a very pretty colour” without considering the logistics of, well, feet.
On the other hand, Cas had sort of teased him about pretty much exactly that when they’d had their stupidly innocent little indoor picnic - only just over a week ago, wow - so maybe he was just being a bit of a dick. He’d obviously noticed the mud by now, anyway, because there he was pacing along the far edge of the field, eyes fixed quizzically on his feet. Not looking at Dean.
Dean shoved his hands deep into his pockets and stubbornly didn’t ache with whiny nostalgia. So what if he missed warm hunger in the curl of Castiel’s mouth, the weirdly endearing way his fingers had moved over Dean’s skin like he didn’t really know what he was doing but thought they could find out together? Like he knew he was welcome, and delighted in it. Dean needed Castiel to look like that again.
And now mud was making him pine. Fuck.
Focus. They were on a job.
There was another pedantically straight line of Cas-sized footprints sunk into the stark black mud not far away from Dean, which looked like it had been trodden over at least twice already. Here and there, the bright green of the groundcover was still visible between the deeply sunken heel and the carefully spread toes, but mostly it was an unbroken line of black, stretching away to Dean’s right and left as he stepped over it until it was hidden in the wispy grey-green of the tall seeding heads of the grass.
Apparently someone had been doing some nervous pacing. For a while now.
Dean whistled, low and piercing, as they crossed the line and made their way out into the open. Castiel’s head, way across the field, came up, and despite the distance and all the other people (and Bobby’s freaking pony cart) spreading out behind Dean to pick their way across the soggy ground, Castiel’s eyes fixed right on Dean’s, and - huh. He smiled. Almost. Maybe. Just that subtle softening in the way his wings were crooked behind him that usually went with the idea of a smile, like the particular kind of floppy Chevy’s ears went when she was sleepy.
Okay, Dean was totally being a girl about all this, but he liked it when his insides went all gooey like that, so screw it. He was gonna make this right, soon as he could.
“Hey Cas!” he heard Sam call, bright and happy behind him, eager as if he hadn’t seen Castiel for weeks instead of just a couple of days and innocent as if Gabriel hadn’t dropped by his dreams to blab really awkward things about him and Dean last night. There was a ripple of movement and colour on a rock high overhead at the peak of the clearing that Dean registered vaguely as said blabbermouth standing up and stretching his wings, but the only colour Dean was concerned with right now was the flash of blue as Castiel’s eyes crinkled up in a brief stab of sunlight, and the sly hint of pink as his tongue snuck out to dab at the corner of dry lips. Dean’s blood was buzzing inside his skin, frustration and all the confused arousal that had been simmering in there for hours. Gabriel’s freaking book, ladies and gentlemen.
And yes, Dean knew perfectly well there were at least seven pairs of eyes on his back as he snagged an arm around Castiel’s waist, ignored the questioning look, and tugged him in for a stubborn brush of a kiss. But firstly, he was allowed to do this, or he had been two days back, so screw everyone who wasn’t them who thought he wasn’t; and secondly, Cas looked tired and battle-steely, which Dean did not approve of; and thirdly, he was so done with pretending and hiding about his angel.
Even if the stupid son of a bitch didn’t believe it.
Castiel’s eyebrows lifted a bit, but his hand crept sort of shyly around Dean’s waist and spread out in the small of his back, holding him there as Castiel opened just a little under his mouth.
Then Dean looked up.
Bobby looked resigned, Sam was blushing and staring at his feet, and Jody was saying something to Ellen about how maybe Demian should have come along after all, whatever that meant.
Castiel nudged Dean in the ribs with a pointy elbow, and Dean looked down into a stern “are you going to tell me what that was about?” face.
Dean shrugged and grinned, in a way that (probably, hopefully) said “hey, relax dude, no biggie,” not “I think someone let loose a clutch of butterflies in my belly, and they are losing a pitched battle with a hive of hornets.”
Castiel rolled his eyes. Dean had deep suspicious suspicions that he might have learned that one from Sam.
“Angel,” Bobby acknowledged shortly, offering pretty much exactly nothing in the way of an opening.
Castiel returned the flat stare with a faintly puzzled head-tilt. “Human,” he acknowledged back, with that careful little half-lift at the end that made it almost a question. Between Castiel’s immobility and Bobby’s, they’d met a grand total of once, which apparently hadn’t been nearly long enough for Castiel to work him out.
Jody nodded at Castiel, and clapped Bobby on the shoulder. “Morning, Captain. Ignore the surly one with the beard, he’s like that with everybody.
Ellen’s faint snort was lost as Sam pounced on Cas for one of his big warm full-body hugs, the kind where he had to bend down and sort of engulf you in enthusiasm. Which weren’t really Castiel’s thing, usually, because he wasn’t exactly casual with his touches. And, okay, the hands that took a moment to settle on Sam’s back were a bit unpractised, and it took a moment more for the wings to curl forward a bit like they wanted to get in on the engulfing action too; but when Sam pulled back, his easy beam was matched by a warm little quirk at the corners of Castiel’s mouth.
“Hello Sam,” he said, dry as a bone.
Then the soft, heavy whump of wings shouldered the air aside. Castiel turned his head to look past Dean, and all at once the tentative, hopeful Castiel of home, the one who was completely clueless socially but felt warm around the edges, fell away. Just a momentary flicker, like the turning of a page, and the picture had changed completely. The angel here was all command and quiet steel, all strategist, with plans and thoughts that Dean couldn’t see.
Bobby lifted his voice pointedly in the direction of the wings. “You gonna join us, pedlar-man?”
“I dunno, Singer,” Gabriel’s voice drawled sweetly. “I was just considering running away to sea and becoming a pirate. You got a better offer?”
The loose feathers closest to Castiel’s spine - the ones Dean privately thought of as the hackles - quivered just a little, so that it could have been only the wind.
“Please forgive my brother,” Castiel said, bland as smooth porridge. “He is like that with everybody.”
“We’re all of us a bit rough around the edges by now,” Jody said, tone brisk and professional. “How’s tricks, Gabriel?”
“Hey look, it’s the lady of the archives!” Gabriel said, a bit brighter, feet squelching nearer through the mud. “How’d they sweet-talk you into this?”
“Who else carries six hundred years of legal precedent in their heads?” Jody pointed out, easy as if Bobby and Rufus and even Ellen weren’t tracking every move and hint of Gabriel’s just a bit too closely. “I don’t think any of us were eager to see what slip-shod sort of treaty these hunters would knock out, left to themselves. And I hear you did a solid by Sam here, and by our Gwen. Thank you.”
“Hey, turn-about’s fair exchange.” Gabriel slipped into the ragged little circle like he belonged there, hands in pockets, forelock over eyes, wings tucked back casual and loose, all charm. “Speaking of, Colt,” as he flashed white teeth at the man who’d soldered the collar around his neck, “I’ve got a half-dozen silver ingots stashed away in there somewhere if you still need ‘em.”
Colt scrubbed a weathered hand over the grey-blond stubble on his cheek, a bit gruff. “Always. Only we’ll have to work out the price again - I guess you aren’t really after those angel-killing blades anymore.”
Beside Dean, Castiel’s silence went heavy and uncomfortable.
“Trading with angels too now, are we?” Jody asked, mildly enough; but Gabriel’s smile turned glass-edged.
“Not angels, sweetheart,” he purred, light and sweet except for the brittle edge underneath. “Just me.”
“Hey, if you can deliver the goods I got no problem with it,” Jody said frankly. “But everyone’s jumpy enough already without us taking more choices out of their hands. And isn’t there anyone back at home you should be clearing that with?”
“I don’t have a home,” Gabriel retorted helpfully. Beyond him, Sam made his mournful cow face, the one that meant he thought everyone else was screwing things up and he really wanted to stick his oar in.
“Gabriel speaks only for himself in this.” Castiel’s voice was flat, the way it went when he was worried and pretending not to be. Only, given Gabriel’s flinch and sour expression, and the looks Jody and Ellen and Rufus shared, it probably just sounded hard in everyone else’s ears.
Castiel blinked at them, like he was a blacksmith trying to work out the problem with his embroidery pattern, and clarified, “Only as a pedlar, not an angel,” shoulders stiff in the arch of his wings. “Archangel he may be, but he abdicated his authority years ago.”
Which was a plain and simple fact, but the way Castiel said it, the way Gabriel looked at him, it sounded like they were trotting out family squabbles. In the middle of this. At least Dean and Sam, no matter how badly they might be arguing in private, knew how to stand shoulder to shoulder when there was anyone else around. And now Jody was looking narrowly at the angels like she was trying to work out which of them was actually in charge.
Dean pressed his fingers into the soft curve of Castiel’s waist, just out of everyone’s sight.
“Oh, for the love of pig slop,” Bobby muttered, and nudged the pony forward past Rufus, shoved his way into the middle of things. “So who’re we actually dealing with here?”
Gabriel rocked back on his heels, sharp and instinctive, bristling.
“Okay, okay guys, keep your feathers on,” Dean butted in, harsher and louder than he’d meant to, because he knew he was crap at politics but he really didn’t like where this was going, all these little rifts and mistrusts distracting everyone all over the place. “People, okay? We’re dealing with people. Screw the details, man. Point is we’re not killing each other. So if a few people back home want to keep on trading with Gabriel and a few don’t, that’s good, yeah? That’s people making their own choices and arguing it all out in the stupid little details.”
Somehow, for some reason, he had almost everyone’s attention. Castiel and Bobby were staring at him oddly, and Jody with this strange mix of amusement and resignation, and Ellen sharp and assessing, and Rufus curiously, and Gwen with her mouth pressed tight, and Sam was torn between listening to Dean and really really obviously wanting to reach out and hug Gabriel until he stopped staring at Bobby like the old hunter was going to lock him up again any moment now, because that was how Sam tried to fix pretty much everything. And it made that dark, protective thing inside Dean want to growl, because here they were, all of them - all people he wanted around, wanted to look after, wanted to get on together - no monsters in sight, and they were going to screw it up all by themselves.
Belatedly, he realised he’d just run his mouth off over things he didn’t know squat about, in front of all the people who were meant to make the long-sighted decisions that Dean was crap at.
“We’re not bees, guys,” he growled, covering sheepishness up with frustration, and ignoring the way Castiel suddenly went very still against his arm, unreachable and remote and untouchable. “We don’t all have to do exactly the same thing to stick together.”
Sam was looking at him with those proud shining eyes like he was some kind of a hero again. Sam had seriously skewed ideas about what was actually impressive.
Jody arched an eyebrow at Bobby, some stealthy little communication that Dean didn’t catch.
“That was beautiful,” Gwen said dryly. “Impractical as hell, but beautiful.”
“Can’t be practical all the time, chickadee,” Gabriel said unexpectedly. The rain was soaking its way into his feathers, turning them bedraggled and copper-bronze, instead of rolling off in little silver beads like it was on Castiel’s. It slid into his eyes too, under the damp curl of his hair, bleak and gleaming bright. “Gotta screw the pooch from time to time, chase the stupid little shiny butterflies, rage down the road to hell over nothing. That’s just the way things are for all of us.”
Castiel made a tiny little wounded noise in his throat.
There was an awkward silence.
“Your horse doing okay?” Ellen said dryly, like she was inviting everyone else to have a bit of a laugh that this was the nearest thing she could come up with to a neutral conversation topic. “Last I heard, she was walking with a limp just before you left.”
Gabriel’s mouth twitched a bit, and his eyes flickered away from Ellen’s as quick as they could, just like they had off Rufus’ and Bobby’s and Colt’s. “Healed her. How’s Owen doing, Mills?”
Jody’s eyes went warm, the way they only did when her son was mentioned. And yes, that was a far better gambit than horses, because the kid was pretty cute, as kids went, and his mum wasn’t the only one happy to talk about him for ages.
As soon as they were settled in some approximation of polite conversation (with Sam leaping eagerly in to wax way too enthusiastic about Owen’s latest little games, because he was as subtle as an excited calf), Castiel pressed Dean’s elbow, pulling him off to one side. Dean went easily, then got distracted by the sharp, unhappy line tucked in against the side of Castiel’s mouth. It made Dean want to shove his shoulder in front of Castiel’s and growl at them all to piss off, all of them who were even part of making him look like that. Only, that instinct had got Cas’ brother killed, and made the town turn on Gabriel, and got them all into this mess in the first place; so he just shoved his hands into his pockets and cocked a grin at the angel.
“Captain, huh?”
“Dean,” Castiel growled reproachfully. “Some of those people are not hunters.”
Dean tossed a glance back toward the strange, awkward little group, where Bobby was muttering something to Gwen and Gabriel was using both hands to demonstrate whatever he was talking about.
“Yeah, and?”
Castiel pressed in, doing that thing he did where he caught Dean’s eyes and held them like there was nothing else in the world more important.“I can’t guarantee their safety here.”
Dean’s fingers were itching with the urge to reach out and pull him in close, smooth the worry away from his face, slide down the pale skin of his back until the little tang of tension thrumming in the air around him faded away. Castiel’s eyes were hot and deep and kind of overwhelming, but there was something closed-down about them. Dean had his suspicions that was Castiel’s “something is bothering me but I am a stubborn son of a bitch and I have to deal with it myself so I won’t tell you what’s going on” face.
That expression was going to need a catchier name. Castiel seemed to make it pretty often.
“Jody can handle a gun as well as most hunters,” he replied, putting the question in his tone. “Plus she’s the one who has to keep us by the book, and write it down after. And Colt’s the one who makes pretty much every weapon we have, so....”
Castiel gave him a pissy sort of a look, like he disapproved of Dean being all flippant over this even when Castiel hadn’t told him yet why shouldn’t be. “You of all people should know that the ability to handle a weapon is rarely the deciding factor in a combat situation, Dean.”
So apparently he just wasn’t going to do direct today. Dean returned a flat “don’t you bullshit me” Winchester stare. “We expecting a combat situation, Cas?”
“Problem, boys?” Ellen cut in, her tone casually pointed.
Dean arched an eyebrow at him, challenging. Castiel’s eyes were shuttered, heavy and dark over bright illegible blue. Like Dean wasn’t quite to be trusted. Like he was a chess piece, not an ally, and Castiel had to play this alone, and Dean was trying really hard not to be fucking sick of it.
“I don’t know, Cas, we got a problem?”
Castiel looked away, up at the sky, at the dark line of trees. “I hope not,” he gruffed.
Ellen shot Dean a sharply questioning look. He shrugged, and flipped her the hand signals for “maybe nothing” and “stay alert” as he turned back in towards the others.
“Gotta say, it’s been damn queer to hear any of your lot actually talking,” Rufus was saying cheerfully. “Gives me the willies.”
“Yeah? Just think how I feel every time I see one of your lot figure out how to wipe his own ass,” Gabriel flashed back, all sweetness.
Jody and Bobby exchanged a look that Dean was pretty confident translating as “what is this fuckery?”.
Dean leaned in against Castiel’s arm to murmur, “Hey. Where’s Anna and Rachel?”
Castiel shot him an inscrutable look. “Backup.”
Before Dean could reply, “Enough foreplay,” Bobby growled. “Quit your yapping and lay your damn hands on.”
“Of course,” Castiel said, back to remote and grave again just like that. “Gabriel.”
The fabric of Gabriel’s pants bunched into dark, damp lines as his hands clenched in his pockets; but his face, as he turned toward Bobby, was bright as a fox in a chicken coop. “Right away, Captain!” he chirped, all stupid sarcastic cheerfulness.
Bobby leaned his elbows on the side of his cart and returned Gabriel’s gaze steadily, looking completely unimpressed by everyone’s little emotional dramas.
“You up for it, pedlar man?”
Gabriel wiggled his eyebrows, took a step closer, and leered. “Care to dance, Singer?”
Bobby gave him the dire eyebrow of “don’t you try me, boy,” and held out his hand. Gabriel eyed it for a moment like he wasn’t sure whether it was a hen’s egg or a basilisk’s, his own hand hovering all curled and tense near his hip.
Dean would have really liked to ask Castiel if he was sure he knew what he was doing here, whom this gesture was meant to be for, but he wasn’t quite sure how to reach him.
Sam fidgeted earnestly in the background, probably wondering whether it would be helpful to proclaim loudly to everyone how it wasn’t Gabriel’s fault he hated being touched. Dean wondered whether it would be helpful to smack Sam around the back of the head.
Gabriel’s eyes darted around at Castiel and Sam and, for some reason, Dean, before settling on Bobby.
“Come on, boy,” Bobby said, gruff and halfway to gentle, the voice he’d used on Dean when he’d been scared to go to sleep as a kid, like he really didn’t see what all the fuss was about. “We ain’t getting any dryer.”
Gabriel’s head tilted very slowly to one side. Then he closed his fingers around Bobby’s hand and turned it over, to rest two delicate fingers on the pulse point.
Nothing happened. No flashy lights, or dramatic writhings. Gabriel didn’t even look like he was trying at all, just had a thoughtful sort of expression on his face and eyes half-lidded, like he was reading a book that he didn’t need to see. Ellen and Rufus both had their eyes fixed on Bobby’s face, Ellen’s sharp and Rufus’ far too casual to be casual, and both right hands just happened to be hidden under cloaks at about belt height.
Then Bobby grunted “Huh,” a soft exhale like a pleasant surprise, and squinted at Gabriel’s fingers where they rested on his skin.
“Bobby?” Sam cut in eagerly, all hope, and Bobby flapped him away with his free hand.
The pony, unperturbed, tore herself another mouthful of grass.
Then Gabriel let go of Bobby’s wrist, shoved his hands as deep in his pockets as they’d go, and stepped back with a long-suffering air.
“Try to take better care of it this time, Singer. Backbones don’t come cheap.”
“Sure, I’ll keep an eye out for idjits dropping rocks on me,” Bobby retorted acidly, without taking his gaze off his legs, curled up under him in the cart.
Then he moved.
Rufus was at his side in a moment, the way he always was when Bobby needed him, no matter how many years they’d been griping at each other and ‘forgetting’ to return each other’s books. Bobby moved stiffly, and he used Rufus’ hand to brace himself more than Dean liked, but his legs were uncurling under him and sliding down to touch the ground. Then, because apparently sometimes the universe forgot to kick them in the teeth just for a day or two, Bobby was standing up on his own feet and staring at the ground like he’d never seen it before.
Rufus whooped.
Bobby raised his head.
“Thanks,” he breathed, and his eyes were shining like Dean hadn’t seen them do for years.
A series of expressions rippled across Gabriel’s face, too quick to follow. “No problem,” he rapped out, without even a quip. Then he fixed his eyes on the sky, because apparently being gracious would give him an apoplexy, or something.
Dean snorted, then laughed, and punched Castiel’s shoulder, because he’d only just noticed that he hadn’t really been breathing much for a minute or two, so he needed to punch something. Castiel gave him a look that was sort of halfway between puzzled and pleased, so Dean grinned obnoxiously at him until he managed to tug that tiny little edge of a smile out to settle on Castiel’s mouth properly, where it belonged. And there he was again: there was that little flash of connection, the hint of warm exasperation held in the corner of his mouth.
Dean considered kissing him again, for no good reason. Just to make a point. Only he wasn’t sure that Castiel would let him, without being taken by surprise again.
He was distracted by Sam’s happy, half-muffled shout, and looked up to see his brother swinging Gwen up in his arms, and honestly, they had so much hair flying around between them it was beyond ridiculous.
Then Sam peeked over Gwen’s shoulder to where Gabriel had apparently been distracted from important sky-staring pursuits, winked, squeezed Gwen tighter for a moment, and mouthed Thanks.
... The sly dog. Proxy-hugging.
Gabriel shook his head, smirked a bit, and took a few steps backwards in a “my work here is done” sort of a way, glancing at the tree line. Which Dean wasn’t having.
“Hey, Ellen,” he tossed over to her, and grabbed Cas’ elbow. “Drinks are on Sam and me tonight, ‘k? Think we can get a keg or two outside the Gates and get these guys in on the action?” Because if there was one way Dean knew to smooth over shaky new friendships, it was having a pint or three together.
Ellen’s smile was exasperated, but kind of indulgent. “Sure can, if you boys want to haul everything out there and keep an eye out for trouble and tidy it all up at the end of the night.”
Sam draped himself over Dean’s back, and Cas’ too, one arm over Dean’s shoulder and the other snugged under Cas’ arm to splay one big hand out easily over each heart. “Come on, Ellen,” he wheedled, all dimples and sweetness in Dean’s ear, squashing the curve of Cas’ wing in against his shoulder and making him grumble bemusedly. “When have we ever snuck out of tidying up?”
“Many, many more times than you ever noticed, Samuel Winchester,” she informed him drily. “And haven’t we got a couple of other things up for discussion first? Like, say, demons?”
“You do remember me,” another voice spoke up, rich and gentlemanlike and cold as steel. “I had wondered.”
Dean felt the shock lash through Castiel’s body like it was his own, the sudden snap of his wings to sharp-edged battle pose (sending Sam stumbling backwards) and the surge of energy that brought his sword to his hand. Even before Dean looked, that was enough to tell him what this was, and that Castiel might have been expecting something like this but that he hadn’t felt it coming. His own blade of salted iron was in his hand a moment later, and he was wheeling with Cas to face it, Sam solid on his other side, to get the civilians covered.
It didn’t look like a demon.
It was tall, though not so tall as Sam, and almost handsome if you liked elegant and sort of distantly tragic. Dean would have thought it was possessing some poor bastard he didn’t know, except for two things. One was the way the air buzzed around it like some beautiful sickening illusion, crackling here and there into little rifts of nothing, like someone had slashed an eraser across the pencil-drawing of reality then sketched it back in again as quick as he could. The other was a hell of a lot more obvious: two great silvered shadows in the air behind it, arching up impossibly wide, large and transparent as a drunkard’s boasts. Not so much wings as the proud idea of them. Or the memory.
Somewhere behind Dean, Gabriel lost all his breath in something between a curse and a sob; and the demon leader blinked at him, grey as the rain, and stretched its illusory wings like they could cover the world.
“Hello cousins,” it said. “Am I not more beautiful this way?”
Dean had his suspicions that was Castiel’s “something is bothering me but I am a stubborn son of a bitch and I have to deal with it myself so I won’t tell you what’s going on” face.
That expression was going to need a catchier name. Castiel seemed to make it pretty often.
Miranda: Beleeve me sir,
It carries a brave form. But ‘tis a spirit.
Prospero: No, wench, it eats and sleeps, and hath such senses
As we have, such.
The Tempest, William Shakespeare, c. 1611.
There were eight of them, in the end. Bobby, obviously. Rufus too, because where Bobby went he went. Gwen and Sam and Dean, because none of them would stay behind. Then Samuel Colt, and Jody, who, together with Ellen, was meant to be doing most of the talking.
Demian had tried to insist on coming too, but that had been vetoed right from the get-go by everyone who’d heard it. It was pretty common for civilians who’d just lost someone to go all blinkers-and-vengeance and try to learn to become hunters, and it was never a good idea. For whatever messed-up co-dependent reason, Demian was even more broken up over his best friend getting possessed than even Barnes’ mum, or her sister Pamela. Still didn’t mean he got to go suicidal and be a danger to everyone else, though.
The ground Castiel had chosen for the meeting was a long triangular field, closed in by dark firs on two sides, sliding away steeply towards the swamp that formed the third. The light, dreary rain that never quite went away or committed itself to being rain was mooching its way down the field in little waves, dulling over the vivid green of the mossy grass that spoke of water and thick mud lurking under the surface. Dean suspected, as he stepped out into it and his boots sank to the laces, that the angels had probably chosen it from the air, thinking “oh that looks like a nice wide open space which is a very pretty colour” without considering the logistics of, well, feet.
On the other hand, Cas had sort of teased him about pretty much exactly that when they’d had their stupidly innocent little indoor picnic - only just over a week ago, wow - so maybe he was just being a bit of a dick. He’d obviously noticed the mud by now, anyway, because there he was pacing along the far edge of the field, eyes fixed quizzically on his feet. Not looking at Dean.
Dean shoved his hands deep into his pockets and stubbornly didn’t ache with whiny nostalgia. So what if he missed warm hunger in the curl of Castiel’s mouth, the weirdly endearing way his fingers had moved over Dean’s skin like he didn’t really know what he was doing but thought they could find out together? Like he knew he was welcome, and delighted in it. Dean needed Castiel to look like that again.
And now mud was making him pine. Fuck.
Focus. They were on a job.
There was another pedantically straight line of Cas-sized footprints sunk into the stark black mud not far away from Dean, which looked like it had been trodden over at least twice already. Here and there, the bright green of the groundcover was still visible between the deeply sunken heel and the carefully spread toes, but mostly it was an unbroken line of black, stretching away to Dean’s right and left as he stepped over it until it was hidden in the wispy grey-green of the tall seeding heads of the grass.
Apparently someone had been doing some nervous pacing. For a while now.
Dean whistled, low and piercing, as they crossed the line and made their way out into the open. Castiel’s head, way across the field, came up, and despite the distance and all the other people (and Bobby’s freaking pony cart) spreading out behind Dean to pick their way across the soggy ground, Castiel’s eyes fixed right on Dean’s, and - huh. He smiled. Almost. Maybe. Just that subtle softening in the way his wings were crooked behind him that usually went with the idea of a smile, like the particular kind of floppy Chevy’s ears went when she was sleepy.
Okay, Dean was totally being a girl about all this, but he liked it when his insides went all gooey like that, so screw it. He was gonna make this right, soon as he could.
“Hey Cas!” he heard Sam call, bright and happy behind him, eager as if he hadn’t seen Castiel for weeks instead of just a couple of days and innocent as if Gabriel hadn’t dropped by his dreams to blab really awkward things about him and Dean last night. There was a ripple of movement and colour on a rock high overhead at the peak of the clearing that Dean registered vaguely as said blabbermouth standing up and stretching his wings, but the only colour Dean was concerned with right now was the flash of blue as Castiel’s eyes crinkled up in a brief stab of sunlight, and the sly hint of pink as his tongue snuck out to dab at the corner of dry lips. Dean’s blood was buzzing inside his skin, frustration and all the confused arousal that had been simmering in there for hours. Gabriel’s freaking book, ladies and gentlemen.
And yes, Dean knew perfectly well there were at least seven pairs of eyes on his back as he snagged an arm around Castiel’s waist, ignored the questioning look, and tugged him in for a stubborn brush of a kiss. But firstly, he was allowed to do this, or he had been two days back, so screw everyone who wasn’t them who thought he wasn’t; and secondly, Cas looked tired and battle-steely, which Dean did not approve of; and thirdly, he was so done with pretending and hiding about his angel.
Even if the stupid son of a bitch didn’t believe it.
Castiel’s eyebrows lifted a bit, but his hand crept sort of shyly around Dean’s waist and spread out in the small of his back, holding him there as Castiel opened just a little under his mouth.
Then Dean looked up.
Bobby looked resigned, Sam was blushing and staring at his feet, and Jody was saying something to Ellen about how maybe Demian should have come along after all, whatever that meant.
Castiel nudged Dean in the ribs with a pointy elbow, and Dean looked down into a stern “are you going to tell me what that was about?” face.
Dean shrugged and grinned, in a way that (probably, hopefully) said “hey, relax dude, no biggie,” not “I think someone let loose a clutch of butterflies in my belly, and they are losing a pitched battle with a hive of hornets.”
Castiel rolled his eyes. Dean had deep suspicious suspicions that he might have learned that one from Sam.
“Angel,” Bobby acknowledged shortly, offering pretty much exactly nothing in the way of an opening.
Castiel returned the flat stare with a faintly puzzled head-tilt. “Human,” he acknowledged back, with that careful little half-lift at the end that made it almost a question. Between Castiel’s immobility and Bobby’s, they’d met a grand total of once, which apparently hadn’t been nearly long enough for Castiel to work him out.
Jody nodded at Castiel, and clapped Bobby on the shoulder. “Morning, Captain. Ignore the surly one with the beard, he’s like that with everybody.
Ellen’s faint snort was lost as Sam pounced on Cas for one of his big warm full-body hugs, the kind where he had to bend down and sort of engulf you in enthusiasm. Which weren’t really Castiel’s thing, usually, because he wasn’t exactly casual with his touches. And, okay, the hands that took a moment to settle on Sam’s back were a bit unpractised, and it took a moment more for the wings to curl forward a bit like they wanted to get in on the engulfing action too; but when Sam pulled back, his easy beam was matched by a warm little quirk at the corners of Castiel’s mouth.
“Hello Sam,” he said, dry as a bone.
Then the soft, heavy whump of wings shouldered the air aside. Castiel turned his head to look past Dean, and all at once the tentative, hopeful Castiel of home, the one who was completely clueless socially but felt warm around the edges, fell away. Just a momentary flicker, like the turning of a page, and the picture had changed completely. The angel here was all command and quiet steel, all strategist, with plans and thoughts that Dean couldn’t see.
Bobby lifted his voice pointedly in the direction of the wings. “You gonna join us, pedlar-man?”
“I dunno, Singer,” Gabriel’s voice drawled sweetly. “I was just considering running away to sea and becoming a pirate. You got a better offer?”
The loose feathers closest to Castiel’s spine - the ones Dean privately thought of as the hackles - quivered just a little, so that it could have been only the wind.
“Please forgive my brother,” Castiel said, bland as smooth porridge. “He is like that with everybody.”
“We’re all of us a bit rough around the edges by now,” Jody said, tone brisk and professional. “How’s tricks, Gabriel?”
“Hey look, it’s the lady of the archives!” Gabriel said, a bit brighter, feet squelching nearer through the mud. “How’d they sweet-talk you into this?”
“Who else carries six hundred years of legal precedent in their heads?” Jody pointed out, easy as if Bobby and Rufus and even Ellen weren’t tracking every move and hint of Gabriel’s just a bit too closely. “I don’t think any of us were eager to see what slip-shod sort of treaty these hunters would knock out, left to themselves. And I hear you did a solid by Sam here, and by our Gwen. Thank you.”
“Hey, turn-about’s fair exchange.” Gabriel slipped into the ragged little circle like he belonged there, hands in pockets, forelock over eyes, wings tucked back casual and loose, all charm. “Speaking of, Colt,” as he flashed white teeth at the man who’d soldered the collar around his neck, “I’ve got a half-dozen silver ingots stashed away in there somewhere if you still need ‘em.”
Colt scrubbed a weathered hand over the grey-blond stubble on his cheek, a bit gruff. “Always. Only we’ll have to work out the price again - I guess you aren’t really after those angel-killing blades anymore.”
Beside Dean, Castiel’s silence went heavy and uncomfortable.
“Trading with angels too now, are we?” Jody asked, mildly enough; but Gabriel’s smile turned glass-edged.
“Not angels, sweetheart,” he purred, light and sweet except for the brittle edge underneath. “Just me.”
“Hey, if you can deliver the goods I got no problem with it,” Jody said frankly. “But everyone’s jumpy enough already without us taking more choices out of their hands. And isn’t there anyone back at home you should be clearing that with?”
“I don’t have a home,” Gabriel retorted helpfully. Beyond him, Sam made his mournful cow face, the one that meant he thought everyone else was screwing things up and he really wanted to stick his oar in.
“Gabriel speaks only for himself in this.” Castiel’s voice was flat, the way it went when he was worried and pretending not to be. Only, given Gabriel’s flinch and sour expression, and the looks Jody and Ellen and Rufus shared, it probably just sounded hard in everyone else’s ears.
Castiel blinked at them, like he was a blacksmith trying to work out the problem with his embroidery pattern, and clarified, “Only as a pedlar, not an angel,” shoulders stiff in the arch of his wings. “Archangel he may be, but he abdicated his authority years ago.”
Which was a plain and simple fact, but the way Castiel said it, the way Gabriel looked at him, it sounded like they were trotting out family squabbles. In the middle of this. At least Dean and Sam, no matter how badly they might be arguing in private, knew how to stand shoulder to shoulder when there was anyone else around. And now Jody was looking narrowly at the angels like she was trying to work out which of them was actually in charge.
Dean pressed his fingers into the soft curve of Castiel’s waist, just out of everyone’s sight.
“Oh, for the love of pig slop,” Bobby muttered, and nudged the pony forward past Rufus, shoved his way into the middle of things. “So who’re we actually dealing with here?”
Gabriel rocked back on his heels, sharp and instinctive, bristling.
“Okay, okay guys, keep your feathers on,” Dean butted in, harsher and louder than he’d meant to, because he knew he was crap at politics but he really didn’t like where this was going, all these little rifts and mistrusts distracting everyone all over the place. “People, okay? We’re dealing with people. Screw the details, man. Point is we’re not killing each other. So if a few people back home want to keep on trading with Gabriel and a few don’t, that’s good, yeah? That’s people making their own choices and arguing it all out in the stupid little details.”
Somehow, for some reason, he had almost everyone’s attention. Castiel and Bobby were staring at him oddly, and Jody with this strange mix of amusement and resignation, and Ellen sharp and assessing, and Rufus curiously, and Gwen with her mouth pressed tight, and Sam was torn between listening to Dean and really really obviously wanting to reach out and hug Gabriel until he stopped staring at Bobby like the old hunter was going to lock him up again any moment now, because that was how Sam tried to fix pretty much everything. And it made that dark, protective thing inside Dean want to growl, because here they were, all of them - all people he wanted around, wanted to look after, wanted to get on together - no monsters in sight, and they were going to screw it up all by themselves.
Belatedly, he realised he’d just run his mouth off over things he didn’t know squat about, in front of all the people who were meant to make the long-sighted decisions that Dean was crap at.
“We’re not bees, guys,” he growled, covering sheepishness up with frustration, and ignoring the way Castiel suddenly went very still against his arm, unreachable and remote and untouchable. “We don’t all have to do exactly the same thing to stick together.”
Sam was looking at him with those proud shining eyes like he was some kind of a hero again. Sam had seriously skewed ideas about what was actually impressive.
Jody arched an eyebrow at Bobby, some stealthy little communication that Dean didn’t catch.
“That was beautiful,” Gwen said dryly. “Impractical as hell, but beautiful.”
“Can’t be practical all the time, chickadee,” Gabriel said unexpectedly. The rain was soaking its way into his feathers, turning them bedraggled and copper-bronze, instead of rolling off in little silver beads like it was on Castiel’s. It slid into his eyes too, under the damp curl of his hair, bleak and gleaming bright. “Gotta screw the pooch from time to time, chase the stupid little shiny butterflies, rage down the road to hell over nothing. That’s just the way things are for all of us.”
Castiel made a tiny little wounded noise in his throat.
There was an awkward silence.
“Your horse doing okay?” Ellen said dryly, like she was inviting everyone else to have a bit of a laugh that this was the nearest thing she could come up with to a neutral conversation topic. “Last I heard, she was walking with a limp just before you left.”
Gabriel’s mouth twitched a bit, and his eyes flickered away from Ellen’s as quick as they could, just like they had off Rufus’ and Bobby’s and Colt’s. “Healed her. How’s Owen doing, Mills?”
Jody’s eyes went warm, the way they only did when her son was mentioned. And yes, that was a far better gambit than horses, because the kid was pretty cute, as kids went, and his mum wasn’t the only one happy to talk about him for ages.
As soon as they were settled in some approximation of polite conversation (with Sam leaping eagerly in to wax way too enthusiastic about Owen’s latest little games, because he was as subtle as an excited calf), Castiel pressed Dean’s elbow, pulling him off to one side. Dean went easily, then got distracted by the sharp, unhappy line tucked in against the side of Castiel’s mouth. It made Dean want to shove his shoulder in front of Castiel’s and growl at them all to piss off, all of them who were even part of making him look like that. Only, that instinct had got Cas’ brother killed, and made the town turn on Gabriel, and got them all into this mess in the first place; so he just shoved his hands into his pockets and cocked a grin at the angel.
“Captain, huh?”
“Dean,” Castiel growled reproachfully. “Some of those people are not hunters.”
Dean tossed a glance back toward the strange, awkward little group, where Bobby was muttering something to Gwen and Gabriel was using both hands to demonstrate whatever he was talking about.
“Yeah, and?”
Castiel pressed in, doing that thing he did where he caught Dean’s eyes and held them like there was nothing else in the world more important.“I can’t guarantee their safety here.”
Dean’s fingers were itching with the urge to reach out and pull him in close, smooth the worry away from his face, slide down the pale skin of his back until the little tang of tension thrumming in the air around him faded away. Castiel’s eyes were hot and deep and kind of overwhelming, but there was something closed-down about them. Dean had his suspicions that was Castiel’s “something is bothering me but I am a stubborn son of a bitch and I have to deal with it myself so I won’t tell you what’s going on” face.
That expression was going to need a catchier name. Castiel seemed to make it pretty often.
“Jody can handle a gun as well as most hunters,” he replied, putting the question in his tone. “Plus she’s the one who has to keep us by the book, and write it down after. And Colt’s the one who makes pretty much every weapon we have, so....”
Castiel gave him a pissy sort of a look, like he disapproved of Dean being all flippant over this even when Castiel hadn’t told him yet why shouldn’t be. “You of all people should know that the ability to handle a weapon is rarely the deciding factor in a combat situation, Dean.”
So apparently he just wasn’t going to do direct today. Dean returned a flat “don’t you bullshit me” Winchester stare. “We expecting a combat situation, Cas?”
“Problem, boys?” Ellen cut in, her tone casually pointed.
Dean arched an eyebrow at him, challenging. Castiel’s eyes were shuttered, heavy and dark over bright illegible blue. Like Dean wasn’t quite to be trusted. Like he was a chess piece, not an ally, and Castiel had to play this alone, and Dean was trying really hard not to be fucking sick of it.
“I don’t know, Cas, we got a problem?”
Castiel looked away, up at the sky, at the dark line of trees. “I hope not,” he gruffed.
Ellen shot Dean a sharply questioning look. He shrugged, and flipped her the hand signals for “maybe nothing” and “stay alert” as he turned back in towards the others.
“Gotta say, it’s been damn queer to hear any of your lot actually talking,” Rufus was saying cheerfully. “Gives me the willies.”
“Yeah? Just think how I feel every time I see one of your lot figure out how to wipe his own ass,” Gabriel flashed back, all sweetness.
Jody and Bobby exchanged a look that Dean was pretty confident translating as “what is this fuckery?”.
Dean leaned in against Castiel’s arm to murmur, “Hey. Where’s Anna and Rachel?”
Castiel shot him an inscrutable look. “Backup.”
Before Dean could reply, “Enough foreplay,” Bobby growled. “Quit your yapping and lay your damn hands on.”
“Of course,” Castiel said, back to remote and grave again just like that. “Gabriel.”
The fabric of Gabriel’s pants bunched into dark, damp lines as his hands clenched in his pockets; but his face, as he turned toward Bobby, was bright as a fox in a chicken coop. “Right away, Captain!” he chirped, all stupid sarcastic cheerfulness.
Bobby leaned his elbows on the side of his cart and returned Gabriel’s gaze steadily, looking completely unimpressed by everyone’s little emotional dramas.
“You up for it, pedlar man?”
Gabriel wiggled his eyebrows, took a step closer, and leered. “Care to dance, Singer?”
Bobby gave him the dire eyebrow of “don’t you try me, boy,” and held out his hand. Gabriel eyed it for a moment like he wasn’t sure whether it was a hen’s egg or a basilisk’s, his own hand hovering all curled and tense near his hip.
Dean would have really liked to ask Castiel if he was sure he knew what he was doing here, whom this gesture was meant to be for, but he wasn’t quite sure how to reach him.
Sam fidgeted earnestly in the background, probably wondering whether it would be helpful to proclaim loudly to everyone how it wasn’t Gabriel’s fault he hated being touched. Dean wondered whether it would be helpful to smack Sam around the back of the head.
Gabriel’s eyes darted around at Castiel and Sam and, for some reason, Dean, before settling on Bobby.
“Come on, boy,” Bobby said, gruff and halfway to gentle, the voice he’d used on Dean when he’d been scared to go to sleep as a kid, like he really didn’t see what all the fuss was about. “We ain’t getting any dryer.”
Gabriel’s head tilted very slowly to one side. Then he closed his fingers around Bobby’s hand and turned it over, to rest two delicate fingers on the pulse point.
Nothing happened. No flashy lights, or dramatic writhings. Gabriel didn’t even look like he was trying at all, just had a thoughtful sort of expression on his face and eyes half-lidded, like he was reading a book that he didn’t need to see. Ellen and Rufus both had their eyes fixed on Bobby’s face, Ellen’s sharp and Rufus’ far too casual to be casual, and both right hands just happened to be hidden under cloaks at about belt height.
Then Bobby grunted “Huh,” a soft exhale like a pleasant surprise, and squinted at Gabriel’s fingers where they rested on his skin.
“Bobby?” Sam cut in eagerly, all hope, and Bobby flapped him away with his free hand.
The pony, unperturbed, tore herself another mouthful of grass.
Then Gabriel let go of Bobby’s wrist, shoved his hands as deep in his pockets as they’d go, and stepped back with a long-suffering air.
“Try to take better care of it this time, Singer. Backbones don’t come cheap.”
“Sure, I’ll keep an eye out for idjits dropping rocks on me,” Bobby retorted acidly, without taking his gaze off his legs, curled up under him in the cart.
Then he moved.
Rufus was at his side in a moment, the way he always was when Bobby needed him, no matter how many years they’d been griping at each other and ‘forgetting’ to return each other’s books. Bobby moved stiffly, and he used Rufus’ hand to brace himself more than Dean liked, but his legs were uncurling under him and sliding down to touch the ground. Then, because apparently sometimes the universe forgot to kick them in the teeth just for a day or two, Bobby was standing up on his own feet and staring at the ground like he’d never seen it before.
Rufus whooped.
Bobby raised his head.
“Thanks,” he breathed, and his eyes were shining like Dean hadn’t seen them do for years.
A series of expressions rippled across Gabriel’s face, too quick to follow. “No problem,” he rapped out, without even a quip. Then he fixed his eyes on the sky, because apparently being gracious would give him an apoplexy, or something.
Dean snorted, then laughed, and punched Castiel’s shoulder, because he’d only just noticed that he hadn’t really been breathing much for a minute or two, so he needed to punch something. Castiel gave him a look that was sort of halfway between puzzled and pleased, so Dean grinned obnoxiously at him until he managed to tug that tiny little edge of a smile out to settle on Castiel’s mouth properly, where it belonged. And there he was again: there was that little flash of connection, the hint of warm exasperation held in the corner of his mouth.
Dean considered kissing him again, for no good reason. Just to make a point. Only he wasn’t sure that Castiel would let him, without being taken by surprise again.
He was distracted by Sam’s happy, half-muffled shout, and looked up to see his brother swinging Gwen up in his arms, and honestly, they had so much hair flying around between them it was beyond ridiculous.
Then Sam peeked over Gwen’s shoulder to where Gabriel had apparently been distracted from important sky-staring pursuits, winked, squeezed Gwen tighter for a moment, and mouthed Thanks.
... The sly dog. Proxy-hugging.
Gabriel shook his head, smirked a bit, and took a few steps backwards in a “my work here is done” sort of a way, glancing at the tree line. Which Dean wasn’t having.
“Hey, Ellen,” he tossed over to her, and grabbed Cas’ elbow. “Drinks are on Sam and me tonight, ‘k? Think we can get a keg or two outside the Gates and get these guys in on the action?” Because if there was one way Dean knew to smooth over shaky new friendships, it was having a pint or three together.
Ellen’s smile was exasperated, but kind of indulgent. “Sure can, if you boys want to haul everything out there and keep an eye out for trouble and tidy it all up at the end of the night.”
Sam draped himself over Dean’s back, and Cas’ too, one arm over Dean’s shoulder and the other snugged under Cas’ arm to splay one big hand out easily over each heart. “Come on, Ellen,” he wheedled, all dimples and sweetness in Dean’s ear, squashing the curve of Cas’ wing in against his shoulder and making him grumble bemusedly. “When have we ever snuck out of tidying up?”
“Many, many more times than you ever noticed, Samuel Winchester,” she informed him drily. “And haven’t we got a couple of other things up for discussion first? Like, say, demons?”
“You do remember me,” another voice spoke up, rich and gentlemanlike and cold as steel. “I had wondered.”
Dean felt the shock lash through Castiel’s body like it was his own, the sudden snap of his wings to sharp-edged battle pose (sending Sam stumbling backwards) and the surge of energy that brought his sword to his hand. Even before Dean looked, that was enough to tell him what this was, and that Castiel might have been expecting something like this but that he hadn’t felt it coming. His own blade of salted iron was in his hand a moment later, and he was wheeling with Cas to face it, Sam solid on his other side, to get the civilians covered.
It didn’t look like a demon.
It was tall, though not so tall as Sam, and almost handsome if you liked elegant and sort of distantly tragic. Dean would have thought it was possessing some poor bastard he didn’t know, except for two things. One was the way the air buzzed around it like some beautiful sickening illusion, crackling here and there into little rifts of nothing, like someone had slashed an eraser across the pencil-drawing of reality then sketched it back in again as quick as he could. The other was a hell of a lot more obvious: two great silvered shadows in the air behind it, arching up impossibly wide, large and transparent as a drunkard’s boasts. Not so much wings as the proud idea of them. Or the memory.
Somewhere behind Dean, Gabriel lost all his breath in something between a curse and a sob; and the demon leader blinked at him, grey as the rain, and stretched its illusory wings like they could cover the world.
“Hello cousins,” it said. “Am I not more beautiful this way?”