trying to describe the kingdom (1/2)

[miscellanium]

Yes, in every war story there is a screaming that comes across the sky but this one starts more quietly, with the same sad hum that rises behind the trees every morning to wake Sgt. Dean Winchester just before dawn. It's a long low grind, like the sun's gears are whining, breaking down as it tries to push itself up over the horizon.

Or that's what Dean's younger brother Sam would say, the sap, if he weren't somehow managing to sleep through this din. The hollow they're in helps to muffle sounds beyond the snoring of their comrades a few feet away, but still. Their makeshift camp is in a small dip near the base of the Vosges, the distant mountains ringing the forest-lined valley and scooping the soldiers into a little bowl of nature perfect for burying bodies.

The buzz spikes into a mournful growl and Dean looks up in time to see a black shape cresting the treetops, gunfire and exhaust trailing behind. It's not German-Dean can tell from the sound of the engine-but before he can pin it down the plane skims overhead too fast and disappears again, like it has every other day this week.

Then it's daylight, thin but there on their faces, and Pvt. Andy Gallagher is coming around to get everybody up so he can finish his shift and try to sleep. Even though Dean's wide awake now he stays in his sleeping bag-thin fabric lumped over pebbles and rough grass-and rolls over and closes his eyes. Daytime means he and Sam have to talk, and his brother isn't going to like what he has to say.

"You jerk, you're totally awake." Andy laughs, kicks him in the legs, and Dean gets up.

Getting ready for the day is no big affair, far from shore and cut off from the chain of command. There's not much talking, just huddling in a circle as they pass around the toothpaste and wet washcloths. Sam's hair is getting long, down to his eyes almost, because he's the only one who doesn't bother to take Spc. Bobby Singer up on his occasional offers of a rough haircut; the others, they say yes because they don't have much else to hang onto.

It's Pfc. Chuck Shurley who lets Dean go first today; the NCO has to keep up appearances, after all, and the little man's already got a beard that'll take a long time to shave away. So Dean's sitting on the ground, eyes closed and Bobby's field knife scratching at the nape of his neck, when there's a thud somewhere to his right and a yelp that can only be Sam.

"Sorry, I didn't-"

"See me there?" Sam sounds excited, gleeful almost, and Chuck's silence gives Dean the push he needs.

"Hey, Sammy, come over here, will you?"

Bobby taps Dean on the shoulder, lets him go after a quick swipe at the last few loose bristles of hair, and he stands to try and see Sam eye to eye. Of course he can't, hasn't been able to since high school, but he's sure as shit gonna try.

"I thought I told you to stop calling me that," comes the answer, but Sam lopes over anyway, olive drab and long limbs everywhere like an animal trying to learn how to camouflage itself but not quite managing it.

"You still on that special recon kick?" The words come out more sharply than intended; Dean can see it in the way Sam's half-smile twists before shutting down.

"Dad would have said yes if he would have just-"

"First, he was going insane so he couldn't have said yes to anything, and second, it's Sir to you." Dean barks this out, switching into command mode because it's the most effective rebuttal he knows.

Sam scowls, fists clenching, but everybody's watching them now so he just turns and walks away, tense shoulders a promise of fights to come. It's a look that's more familiar than Dean would like, but he shoves the bitter taste down because he's not going to follow Sam, not going to hold on when he shouldn't, not going to end up standing in a field with arms outstretched screaming about a plane painted with yellow eyes, yellow yellow yellow until the Germans shoot him down.

So he stays where he is, tries to think of a plan for the day as the sun starts to leave the trees. They're not quite lost; give any of them a map of the area and they could circle the fifty-mile range where they must be, but even with Dean doing his best to run things it's more that they're not sure what to do as their K rations weren't meant to last this long and Chuck's SCR-536 walkie-talkie stays silent.

On August 16, 1944, John Winchester broke and led them deep into France, far from the original invasion, far from Draguignan with Alios nutrio, meos devoro carved into every stone, and somewhere during the scrabbling slide from war to war they lost the chance to turn back.

It must be almost a month later now, thinks Dean, judging by how long Sam's hair has grown. He chuckles at his own weak joke before waving at Bobby, over by the beat-up truck brought with them from the beaches of Cavalaire.

The old man finishes rolling up his kit and packing it all together with a tidiness and speed that speaks to his years of combat, yet takes his time walking over to where Dean's standing in the center of the hollow.

"What do you think?" Dean surveys the remnants of Lt. Winchester's proud squad, packing up with no destination in mind. All they've been doing thus far has been trying to find their way out of Axis territory, but as the Germans and Italians flee their holdings it's become harder and harder to tell where the boundaries are meant to be.

Bobby gives him a sidelong look, pushes his cap up his forehead. "Didn't hear much of anything yesterday. Are you really thinking about going on in the same direction? Because I can't say I think that's the best idea."

"But if there's been no fighting-" Dean cuts himself off, remembering the dark hum that comes every morning.

"Why aren't we going south? Back to the shore? There's gotta still be Americans there, or Allies at least."

Andy's awake now, the light having spread across the grass and forced him back up; he and Chuck are over by the clearing's edge, watching the unofficial conference as they have one of their own and share the remains of Andy's whiskey flask. Sam's nowhere to be seen.

"I just have this feeling." Bobby doesn't need him to add anything else; he hears the worrying love in Dean's voice anyway, has spent enough time with him to see it in every line of the man. The brothers have always been close, and neither of them wants to let the other spin out. They saw what happened to their father; the potential's there, it's just a matter of time-

Then Sam's back, but Chuck, turning to greet him, sees something move behind him-

"Kraut!"

Sam opens his mouth but Andy's tackled him to the ground, onto Dean to try and protect them both, and as Chuck and Andy roll into formation Bobby has his Browning ready and aimed in the direction from which Sam came. Dean's still pinned under Sam, M1 carbine trapped by several pounds of fraternal Winchester.

Before Dean can ask what's going on, out of the woods steps a man wearing the sharp silver and black of the Schutzstaffel.

There's two more clicks, three rifles chambered, but the man raises his hands and they're empty.

"You'd fire on an unarmed person? Really now." His voice has had its German edges smoothed away, leaving a vaguely Continental polish on the vowels.

Dean sighs. "At ease, guys. I know him; he and Sir used to talk." He gets up at the same time Sam does. "Would our resident spy like to explain?"

Sam shoots him a dirty look, but goes ahead anyway. "Everybody, meet Crowley. Crowley, meet everybody. He's..."

"In sales." Crowley offers a truncated bow. He's just a bit taller than Chuck, but there's something in the way he stands that makes even Sam feel the need to prove himself. "I give you information, maybe a little more, and if you're out of money, well. I'm sure we can come to an agreement."

The almost-warm coil of Crowley's voice, meant to charm, puts Bobby on edge. He's met too many agents-double, triple, friend or wife; the number and gender never makes a difference-to trust any of them. Letting his fingers slide back down to his Browning's trigger guard, he watches for an indication of something familiar. Crowley just raises an eyebrow, dismisses him.

"Let's go talk somewhere where we won't be interrupted, yeah?"

Dean gestures for Sam to take Crowley on ahead. "Shurley, why don't you get out the map, and you all look for good routes away from here-try northward. We'll be right back."

There's not much grumbling; the group's used to the Winchester way of deciding, for better or worse, and Dean has yet to go wrong.

Dean catches up with the two just inside the woods, interrupting a conversation about espionage techniques-or so he assumes, because Sam clams up as soon as he comes into view. There's a brief silence, then Crowley's saying "Shame about your father," and Sam and Dean don't even have to look at each other to know that this is something they agree on.

"Get to the point." Their voices overlap.

"Tricks like that aren't going to disabuse me of the notion that there's just the one brain between the pair of you, you know." Crowley says this with a smirk, pulling off his peaked cap and looking it over with calculated disinterest. "How's it hanging? Got a few dirty magazines on offer if the answer's 'not well.' Some are in the Greek tradition-if you get my drift." He licks his lips to drive the point home, chuckling when Sam makes a face of disgust.

"How many times do I have to tell you, I'm engaged?"

Crowley shrugs, shifts smoothly from patter to the crux of his business as he motions at the trunk of his black Kommandeurwagen. "Got twenty liters of petrol for that death trap of yours, and as many eiserne Portionen as was safe. A good part of this country is still occupied and we're holding you steady back in Hürtgenwald, so it'd be best if you headed east as soon as possible. That is, if you're still planning on following through with the Lichtträger plan."

"Nick." Dean spits. "He still around?"

"That's Verwalter Lichtträger to you Yanks, and yes, despite John-"

Dean steps forward, gets just inside Crowley's space, and the German shuts up. Sam puts a hand on Dean's arm, drains away some of the punching tension.

"If that's all, I've got a letter."

"I'm not your fucking Pony Express," snaps Crowley, but he takes the envelope Sam's holding out and slides it into a breast pocket. "In about five days' time-you going east?" Dean hesitates, nods. "Good. By no means go north; we've got the Swiss scared enough to eat out of our palm. Anyway, once you feel you've gone far enough, just stop moving for a bit and I'll find you. Or maybe you can train this one to find me, yeah?" His grin is impish, only the effect is undercut by his high-ranking NSDAP uniform and Dean doesn't feel like laughing.

After a short while, Sam clears his throat. "Right, let's get that gas." It's an awkward segue but works nonetheless; Dean and Crowley glance at him then back at each other, calling a silent truce.

With the food and Wehrmachtkanister handed over, Crowley slides back behind the wheel, touches a finger to his cap brim in an insouciant salute and revs the engine, singing as he drives off the way he came. "Frick, Joseph Goebbels, Schirach, Himmler und Genossen, die hungern auch doch nur im Gieste mit."

---

Andy and Bobby are kneeling near the truck, map spread out on the ground while Chuck paces and hogs the cigarette they're trying to share. "Looks like there's really only one good way to go," Andy's saying, then Dean sets the canister of gas down behind him, steel thudding loudly, and he jumps to his feet.

"At ease, Private." They grin at each other; both the action and reaction have long become unnecessary, but there's no undoing some habits.

As Sam goes to refill the gas tank, Dean drops down to peer at the map. "I'm thinking east. How does that look?"

"Well, I was just saying that's-give!" Andy grabs the cigarette out of Chuck's mouth, takes a quick smoke. "That seems to be the best way, really. Otherwise we get surrounded quicker than I wanna think about."

Dean frowns. Crowley had recommended east, sure, but this just makes it seem like they're being herded. As if on cue a humming starts, spreads across the sky until they're all looking up.

It takes him a few seconds to recognize the sound, coming at the wrong time of day, but when the plane skims over their head Dean curses. With their backs to the sun they can see everything, like the squared-off Swiss flags against the steel green, easy enough to identify but there's chalking along the undercarriage, circles with crosses running through them and sharply curving lines striping up beneath the wings-

"What is that, some voodoo shit?" Dean hollers over the engine's roar, pointing upwards, and Sam cranes his neck as the plane comes around again. Dean's smart, but he'll pick something and dig himself in; Sam's always been the more free-ranging one, so it's no surprise when his eyes spark with recognition.

"Alchemical symbols," and the fascinated interest in his voice is so thinly disguised Dean can't help but snort.

"Nerd," says Dean with mock disgust, hitting him in the shoulder as they all turn to watch the plane make another pass. Then, just as suddenly as it appeared, it veers off and disappears once more behind the trees.

"That's new. Before it's only come in the morning."

Chuck looks at him in concern. "You've seen it before?"

"I think so. Same sound, at least." Dean's still trying to see where in the east the plane could have been headed, even going so far as to raise himself up on his tiptoes for all the good that'll do. "But it's always been quick, stayed away." The curiosity slides off his face. "I don't like this."

"Well, I could go find out what's going on." Sam's tone is casual, but the brothers have never been good at hiding things from each other for very long so Dean turns away, takes a deep breath before trusting himself to speak.

"Let's move."

And so they drive, the truck thumping over branches and filled-in trenches that rattle its passengers. The mountains curve around them, still draped in snow despite an August that boiled the bodies left in Falaise, blue crevasses giving way to once-green plateaus. But ahead there's only the trees growing closer together, until even Andy can't maneuver through and they're reduced to a rolling crawl. It's only a few hours past midday, but it feels like it's been night for many miles by the time they finally decide to stop and stretch.

"Where are we?" asks Chuck, digging around in the glove compartment for the map as Bobby and Sam head off in different directions to relieve themselves. Dean looks over his shoulder, puts a finger in one of the creases.

"Round about here, I'd say. On average we've been doing, what, twenty?"

Andy sticks his head into the discussion and nods. "We're almost out of gas again." He's got one of the bags of German rations open; the tinned fish is met with skepticism so he gets to work on the hard biscuits, the first loud crunch startling in the hush of the forest.

"We should have stopped earlier," Chuck says as he scowls at Andy. "That shit's like gold."

Shrugging, Dean takes the map from him, folds it into a fan. "We're calling it quits for the day anyway." Even in these shadows the air is hot and clammy, the worn-thin paper doesn't hold its shape well, and soon he just gives up and tucks it into the waistband of his pants. "I'll go check ahead, make sure there's nothing to clean up."

"How about I go with you?" Sam's back, Bobby close behind, and beneath the dirt on his face is an expression that could almost be called hopeful.

"What if I bite it? Gotta have another Winchester to take over; military's all about tradition, you know," says Dean, his grin light and his eyes flat.

Sam looks at him, mouth pressed thin, but doesn't say anything in front of the others.

"Here's the walkie-talkie," Chuck says. "If you're not back in-"

"Give me an hour."

"If you're not back by then, we'll send...whose turn is it?"

Bobby steps forward. "Mine. So if you don't keep your ass in one piece, I'm gonna give you hell."

The men chuckle at the morbid joke because what else is there to say? Dean tugs his hat down, returns the group salute, and walks away into the woods.

---

The underbrush here in the far reaches of France is not that different from the brambles of Kansas or the craggy fields of the Soviet steppes, but Dean isn't going to let himself be taken away again without putting up a fight, and he's gone over about half of his planned radius when there's a small clearing ahead not marked on any map.

He freezes at the edge, hand going for the handle of his M1 as he scans for movement, and just as he starts to bring the gun around the ground explodes in front of him.

There's gunfire coming from all around, and with a mouth full of dirt he scrambles behind a chunk of upturned topsoil. The radio's lying a few feet away, knocked off by the first attack, so Dean starts swearing and doesn't give a shit if the enemy can hear him. His options are few and he runs through them in his mind alarmingly quickly. Just as he decides to hell with it, this is the way soldiers are meant to die, a shadow covers him, blocks out the sun and rocks Dean flat as it bombs the trenches, shoots up the ones hidden to him and open to the sky.

It's the Swiss plane, that same one he's been seeing for a week, but right now he doesn't care if it's a goddamn spaceship from Mars as long as it's on his side. Dean whoops at each staccato burst, waves his hat into the wind that comes every time the plane makes another run. After just a short while the guns behind the trees are silent, some lying mangled beyond the bushes, and Dean finds it too easy to look away from the fingers still holding on.

Now the plane's making a farewell pass, the pilot raises his hand and the undercarriage bursts out in orange and black and that wasn't supposed to happen-

The rear gunner's swinging around and Dean can hear him screaming, can hear the sobbing curses as he tears up the ground with bullets until there's a shout, a string of German abruptly cut off-

Then there's a snapping, a crunching, and the plane's steel nose wrinkles inward like paper as it drags along the field. Dean stands there as the giant thing folds up, metal whining into the silence as it shears away, but there's no time to feel as though time's standing still or anything because it's not, the rear gunner's pulling himself out of his bucket seat and running towards him.

The language isn't the French or German Dean expected; it's a choppy one, consonants and vowels all tangled up, but he gets the message clear enough so he doesn't wait for the man to yank on his arms, just sprints to the open cockpit and starts hauling the pilot out. The gunner stammers out a few grateful-sounding words then drops to his knees and starts vomiting, concussion catching up with him.

Dean's got his arms around the pilot's chest; the unconscious man's surprisingly light and comes free after just two tries. It's at the clearing's edge, where he came in, that Dean has to stop, pull off the man's flight mask and let him slide facedown onto the grass. After a moment or so to breathe, remind himself that yes, he's alive, he turns the pilot over.

This isn't the time to really think about anything that isn't safe, but the man's got a striking face; wedge-shaped, almost, with sharp cheekbones under a half-day's worth of stubble, then his eyes are open and the blue is shocking in the dusk. But somehow Dean feels like he's seen this before-

Because he has, he realizes when the rear gunner walks over with the same mouth and eyes.

---

It's past midnight when Dean finally gets back to his fireteam, even though he'd tried radioing ahead that he'd picked up some wounded and could they get the truck out here, please? But the downside of deciding that one map was enough when it was time to lighten everybody's loads meant that if Dean could find his way back, nobody was going to risk losing the truck to another ambush.

So he'd tried to explain to the twin airmen that there was nothing to be afraid of, but the pilot just put a hand on his shoulder and gave him a light push as if to say I have faith in you.

Then he opened his mouth. "Shut up."

"Excuse me?" Something about the man's demeanor and deep voice made the words hard for Dean to process, like a priest had just cursed at him.

"Let us get moving. We are not badly hurt," the pilot's saying, abrupt and no-nonsense and if he's going to be like this then Dean really needs to learn his name.

"Okay, okay." Dean starts picking his way through the trees, sidearm ready this time, and over the crunch of branches says, "I'm Sergeant Dean Winchester, by the way. So what's your name and rank?"

There's a silence and for a split second he's alone and afraid. Then close behind, almost too close, comes the pilot's voice. "I am Kapitán Castiel, and this is my-"

"Brother," the other man says like he knows Castiel's going to try and hide something. "I'm his brother, Vojín Jakub Novák."

Dean glances back, briefly, but all he can see is flashes of grey tunic, a white hand in the moonlight, the straight line of a nose, the shadow of eyelashes on a cheek. The twins move at the same time, in almost the same way, like they know each other's bodies but not their own.

With two concussed men Dean knows he shouldn't move quickly, especially in the dark, so he tries to disguise his unease with question after question.

"Wouldn't be polite to call you Thing One and Thing Two, so I'll just use your first names, okay?" He doesn't wait for an answer. "That language of yours, Jakub, it isn't any I know. Where you two from?" His accent turns the name into Jay-kahb, something familiar.

"Czechoslovakia." Jakub's voice is a bit higher than Castiel's, but there's the same edge to it. He pauses. "In English you can call me Jimmy."

Czech in a Swiss plane is a discrepancy, yeah, but Dean files it away. More important is getting back to camp alive. "Well. You're the most talkative folks I've ever met," he says, ripping down a low-hanging branch and throwing it off to the side. "I'd hate to see what you're like without the concussion."

Dean stops moving, having reminded himself that he should check on them after half an hour of steady movement, and Castiel nearly bangs into him.

From the grim look on his face it's clear Castiel didn't catch the sarcasm. "Forgive me. We have not exactly met in the best of circumstances," he starts, but is cut short when Jakub trips.

"'m fine," Jakub says, but he's slurring already so Castiel picks him up, swings him into a fireman's carry.

"We need to keep moving," says Castiel and Dean finds himself unable to say no.

---

That's not how they arrive. Halfway there it's Castiel's turn to collapse, face almost translucent under his thick mess of black hair, the bones of him too abrupt and visible. So Dean pulls Jakub onto his own shoulders, holds a leg with his right arm and grabs Castiel's arm with his left, making sure the pilot stays upright.

He knows he looks like a hero straight out of government propaganda, and if he weren't fucking terrified he'd laugh. Just when it's so dark he needs the flashlight there's no way for anybody to use it, with Jakub only half-conscious and Castiel barely hanging on, in no shape to do anything other than pray. And pray he does, except the Latin is sharp and unfriendly, the sound biting into Dean's attention.

This is how they arrive: stumbling out of the forest into the bright flood of the fireteam's lanterns, feet dragging and breath coming loud and painful. Sam leaps up from in front of the fire and grabs Dean as he falls, holding his brother against his chest as he helps Jakub and Castiel slide to the ground.

There's no crowding around; Bobby gets out his whiskey and takes Chuck's from his lap, handing them to the Nováks and withdrawing with a respectful nod. Sam starts to walk Dean over to the fire, but Dean shakes his head and they sit there on the grass, just outside the ring of light.

Castiel hasn't opened the flask in his hands, frowning when Dean looks questioningly at him. "We are concussed. We should not drink this."

"There's some extra water in the truck," Sam says, as he turns and grabs it from the back seat, barely needing to stand his reach is so long, tossing the canteen over before twisting back around and resting a shoulder against Dean's. "What about you?"

"Fine. Just tired." He raises his hand and Andy gets out of his makeshift bed in the driver's seat, goes around and turns off the lanterns one at a time.

Now the quiet comes in a creeping rush even Sam's warmth can't block out; there's the rustling of the branches, yes, and the whuff of Chuck kicking dirt onto the fire, but there's a deep silence in the shadows, in the chiaroscuro of the moonlight on the high cold lines of Castiel's cheeks.

Jakub's breath is coming soft and shallow, face pained as he tries to sleep with a rattled brain. In the dark Dean can see Castiel bending over him, undoing the buttons of his tunic with this intensity that seems almost familiar somehow-He really needs to sleep, doesn't he.

Dean closes his eyes.

---

Dean's back is to the sun, the grinding hum that rises with the light, but he knows the source so he's not afraid, doesn't turn to look. There's grass up to his knees, a field that rolls on for miles. He takes a step and the grass starts growing, he can hear it. He runs. The plane's shadow covers him, goes before him, curves across the green into a pair of great black wings-

He looks and there's nothing there, except there is, there's a dead forest, black and hollow, and the brothers standing behind him. With their mouths closed Dean can't tell them apart. But the light changes and it's Jakub who's wearing a green ribbon around his neck and it's Castiel who looks like he wants to take it off, his hands opening and closing in the air above Jakub's shoulders. There's a softness in the pilot's eyes that tells Dean he's dreaming, but it's not over.

Castiel undoes the ribbon.

There's a crash and then Dean's somewhere else, deeper in the woods, calling for Sam to come look at this, did you ever see anything like this Sammy, but Sam's walking away with a new patch on his arm, a pair of yellow eyes staring back at him as Sam leaves, yellow yellow yellow in the dark and he wakes up-

He wakes up. The stars are fading but it's still night, everybody's still asleep. No, Bobby's awake and on lookout, but if he noticed Dean's nightmare he's not letting on. Dean closes his eyes again, breathes.

---

In the morning they go back, following the path of broken branches until the smell of burnt steel tells them they're close. It's just after sunrise, so it hasn't gotten hot enough yet for the stench of the bodies to start being noticeable.

Because Jakub, still sliding in and out of consciousness, had no choice but to stay at the camp, Sam came along in case there was anything worth salvaging. When they get to the clearing, though, he goes not to the plane but to the trenches, kicking in enough dirt to cover what's there.

Castiel wanders over to watch him but doesn't help, just stands there with his hands behind his back. When it looks like Sam's done, he mumbles a string of words under his breath that Dean doesn't catch.

"What was that?"

"The Oratio Fatimae," Castiel says as he rejoins Dean, staring at his plane-or what's left of it. Dean's watching for signs of dizziness, but what gets him worried is the coldness in the pilot's eyes. He knows how it looks, what it feels like to try and cover something broken.

"Look, man, the sooner we get whatever we can the sooner we can leave and work on getting you home. And then you can get another one-"

"Another one?" Castiel's laugh is bitter. "Sergeant Winchester, it does not work that way." Before Dean can reply, he pulls himself up into the wreckage.

Sam comes up as Castiel's rummaging around, and frowns when Dean tells him that Castiel's got a bitchy attitude.

"You'll get home, Captain Novák; I promise."

"God, Sammy. You're so sincere I could just puke," Dean says with a grin.

But when Castiel resurfaces with a leather bag, heavily charred but intact, he doesn't give any indication of having heard them. He pulls the strap over his head and climbs back down, bag thumping against his hip, and as soon as his boots touch the ground he heads for the woods.

"Whoa, hold up!" But Castiel doesn't stop. Sam nods, indicates that he'll stay and look for things to save, and Dean runs.

He catches Castiel, grabs him by the shoulder with enough force to spin. Before Dean can open his mouth, however, Castiel's in his face.

"Are you done? It is clear your supplies are low and we are in dangerous country. We must move or die; this is not the time for-"

"What's in the bag?"

Castiel matches Dean's hard tone, does it better. "My brother's belongings. Nothing of import to you, so I ask again: Are you done?"

Dean holds Castiel's stare, then gestures for him to go on ahead.

They stay about a yard apart. As Castiel walks through the trees, the daylight slipping patchwork across his monochrome uniform, Dean watches his hands. They look soft but there's a strength in the curl of his fingers that suggests he carried a weapon long before the war, and there's a wrongness in the way he moves that suggests he doesn't care what happens, isn't quite worth trusting. But they're stuck together for the time being, so may as well work with what you've got, Dean figures as he calls ahead again.

"Move or die, huh? We have next to no gas until our supplier finds us again. Are you saying we should just-"

"Yes."

Dean scowls. "Do you even know where we are?"

"France," comes the answer, bowed taut by the weight of sarcasm restrained. Then Castiel stops, half in and half out of the shadows and Dean can't avoid looking at the push of his shoulder blades through his tunic, sharp and ready for some kind of flight. "I propose," he says slowly, "that you act more like your namesake."

"What?"

"Your namesake. The gun." Castiel still hasn't turned around, and Dean is this close to telling him to go fuck himself when he starts moving once more, leaving Dean standing there.

"That's it? What, you a fan of mystery, always have to get the last word?"

Castiel doesn't look back.

---

Jakub's up, on his feet with eyes open, leaning against the truck with Chuck and Andy on either side of him. From the sound of it he's telling them about a girl, a childhood sweetheart left behind, the usual.

"Privates." They straighten up as Dean approaches. "How is he?"

"Better, thank you, sir." Jakub's voice is a touch reedy, but otherwise normal. His eyes flick to behind Dean. "Is that-"

Castiel holds out the bag.

Jakub undoes the metal latches, flips the top open and slips his hand inside. After a short while he comes up with a small photo, shades of grey to match his uniform.

"This is Amelia and Claire."

Andy holds the photo with his fingertips, not wanting to get it dirty. She's this side of homely, with long blonde hair and a slightly upturned nose, but there's a brightness to her eyes that leaves no doubt of the origin of their love, and the child she holds is looking away at something with a faint smile.

"That's Claire? She's angelic," says Chuck, and Jakub's proud grin goes lopsided.

Sam's still gone so Dean goes to confer with Bobby, leaving Castiel there as Chuck and Andy resume quizzing Jakub-"You met her at school?"

"No, at Tonbridge there were no girls. She lived in the town."

"Did you two go to school together?" Andy asks, looking back and forth between the brothers.

Instead of answering, Castiel reaches out, pulls the photo away from Andy's fingers and hands it back to Jakub. There's the feeling that they are intruding on something unspoken, so Andy and Chuck turn away and make a show out of checking on their supplies. Jakub pushes himself up and off the truck, rocking slightly as he finds his balance. He doesn't need the supporting hand that Castiel offers too late; the weight of the bag pulls him back down, steadies him.

"Corporal Winchester has promised that that we will return home." The Czech, low and choppy, is a small comfort coming from Castiel's expressionless face, but it's a comfort nonetheless.

"And by that he means Switzerland?" Jakub rolls his shoulders. "You know as well as I do that's not our home."

"It is mine."

The look Jakub gives Castiel is not a kind one, and as he turns his head away there's a resigned set to his jaw. Any chance Castiel had to reply, however, is lost when Dean comes over and closes the gap between them.

"You wanted to get moving? My brother'll be back soon with supplies." Dean smiles, like he's trying to be reassuring, but the angry unease in his voice ruins the effect.

"Where will we go? The enemy is all around," Jakub says, turning back to English as he faces them. "The only good way is up."

Dean glances at Castiel, but the pilot's face is as impassive as ever. "Yeah, well. I know somebody who says that heading east is all right for now-"

"Just somebody? Dean, how disappointing. And after I've given you so much, too."

Sam and Crowley are standing together at the camp's edge, carrying another gas canister between them. Next to Crowley's pressed black uniform and clean face it's clear how filthy Sam is with his grime-streaked face and matted hair, and suddenly Dean feels the dirt on his own skin, feels how unclean he is. The Nováks aren't much better, but he's the leader here and if appearances don't still count for something then that doesn't leave him with much else. But right now what matters is that Jakub's got his pistol out and pointed at the German, so Dean reaches out and pulls it down.

"No. This is Crowley. He-"

"That is not a German name." Castiel's staring at him, eyes narrowed.

Crowley returns the stare and adds a smirk to it. "I've got lots of names."

Sam sets down the canister, crosses to where Dean is. Dean shoots him a look that's equal parts relieved and annoyed; Sam should have waited for permission before going off alone with a spy like that, Dean thinks, except that's too close to admitting to being suspicious of his brother so he lets the thought go.

"You're early," mutters Dean, and if Crowley hears this he doesn't let on.

"Picked up some strays, have you?" Crowley says this with a hint of a sneer, but Castiel presses his arm against Jakub's chest and changes the tension to something less dangerous. Crowley makes as though to move forward, then stops when Bobby comes up behind him and presses gunmetal into his neck.

"Watch it," says Bobby.

With a scoff, Crowley reaches up and takes hold of the barrel of Bobby's Browning. "You don't have to put on a show for me every time, hon." He waits for Bobby to step away before continuing, keeping his eyes fixed on Dean all the while.

"Look, boys, I can't keep being your deus ex machina. Ever since von Stauffenberg's fuck-ups in July there's been pressure, all right? It's taken a while to trickle down, sure, but it's there now and I'm in the thick of it." There's an edge to Crowley's voice that wasn't there the last time, and Dean almost feels like laughing.

"Perks of being a double agent, huh?" He deliberately doesn't look at Sam.

Crowley rolls his eyes, takes off his peaked cap and dusts it. His movements are as calculated as ever, but when he puts his cap back on it's a few millimeters off center. "You can manage to get to the checkpoints without me holding your hand, yeah?" Dean nods. "Glad to see somebody here thinks so."

Dean glances over at the Nováks to see how they respond, but they still look as tense as he feels and maybe having them around won't be so bad after all.

"That everything?" Dean points at the gas.

"Like I said, pressure." Crowley shrugs. Then suddenly he sticks out his hand at Dean and holds it there, ignoring the chamber clicks all around him. "Can't say when I'll see you again, or if, so it's been nice working with you, et cetera, give me a shake."

The expression on Bobby's face is one of disgust, but Sam gives Dean a look that says it's only polite, come on Dean, and so he takes the German's hand. Chuck and Andy stay alert, but all that happens is Crowley squeezes Dean's hand with unexpected strength then lets go, tips his hat, and walks away whistling.

After a few moments the forest goes quiet again and Sam pulls Jakub aside to look at the other salvage gathered from the wreck-what little of it there is. The others carry the gas to the truck, start filling up the tank and packing for tomorrow's drive while there's still daylight.

Dean pitches in, of course, helping Andy pull a rope tight or tossing a couple of the ration packages to Chuck as the private gets a fire started. But all the while he can feel Castiel watching him, and when he turns around Castiel's face has gone from carefully neutral to calculating, judging. It's an expression Dean knows well, but seeing it on Castiel makes him...uneasy is the only good word for it, he thinks, because there's something far too old in the pilot's eyes.

"I would like to speak with you, Sergeant." Castiel's voice is clear enough over the crackle of the fire, even when pitched low, and Dean ignores the feel of Jakub's eyes on him as he crosses the clearing. Castiel glances over his shoulder before walking them behind the truck, away from the others.

"What is it?"

"Why are you working with him?" Castiel's frowning and doing this thing where he sighs through his nose-some other time and place Dean would maybe find it kind of endearing, like a stray cat. But as it is, well.

"I don't even know you-why should I trust you?"

Castiel pauses, cocks his head. Then, shrugging, he sits down, leaning back against a tree, with a careful acquiescence that leaves Dean frustrated. There's no sign of annoyance or argument that Dean can read; just an unspoken statement of fact, and Castiel won't look at him.

Castiel's watching the sky instead, hands resting loose in his lap. Dean looks up, half expecting to see clouds gathering or something else equally ominous and overwrought, but everything's clear and he's tired of being jerked around.

"You better start pitching in," mutters Dean as he turns, leaves the pilot on the ground. It smells as though Chuck's got the hot meals cooked by now, or warmed up at least, but before Dean can get his share Sam intercepts him.

"Dean, I've been thinking."

"Oh, good."

Sam rolls his eyes. "From what Crowley said, it could be a good idea to have someone checking ahead more often. To make sure we don't run into any more traps or something-"

"Look, I get it, okay? And the answer is no."

"But-"

"No, Sam!" Dean snaps, not caring who hears. "None of us are going off! We're sticking together as much as possible; too many of us have died already, and there's no room for you to be a hero."

Sam's silent for a moment, eyes hard under the shadow of his bangs. Then he scoffs loudly and shakes his head, turning and walking quickly away into the woods without stopping to take the open can Andy's holding out.

Andy shrugs and takes a spoonful for himself instead, ignoring Chuck's mildly disapproving snort. Bobby doesn't have anything to say either, just comes up behind Dean and puts a hand on his shoulder.

---

Castiel hasn't moved from his seat and the Americans are taking care of themselves, so Jakub's the one who gets his food, a tin of German pork for the two of them.

"There really is not much left," Jakub says, settling back against Castiel's tree. The bark is rough even through the wool of his uniform, but this is easy enough to ignore; his years with Castiel have thickened his skin.

"I'm tired of English today."

Jakub raises an eyebrow, but continues in Czech. "The ammo's all gone, exploded, and what else could be burnt has been. The rest is only good for scrap, but apparently Specialist Singer is good with metal, so."

Castiel takes the spoon Jakub holds out, gets some of the meat. "So that's it."

"Guess so. Oh, wait-" Jakub rummages around in his bag, pulls out a narrow and oddly-shaped piece of green metal, its edges melted off. "Thought you might want this."

Giving the tin back to Jakub, Castiel turns the metal around in his hands. On it is a faint white pattern of lines, remnants of his chalk alchemy. Here's a third of salt, there's half of some aqua vitae-but taken apart now it's just a cold mess of wishful thinking, and he sets it aside.

Jakub pauses. "You got my bag."

"It was the only thing in good condition," Castiel says, matter-of-fact, and now his brother's got that look he's seen before, the one where Jakub's wishing he didn't know why they're still together.

"Typical." Jakub scoffs and gets to his feet, taking the food with him. Across the clearing Dean turns away from watching them with the thought that maybe, just maybe, Castiel's not so strange a thing after all.

---

Dean's back is to the sun, a vast red light that hangs low through the trees. He's been in this field before, where it is not the grass but the rocks that rise, hitting the horizon higher and higher. There's a singing that comes softly, in a language he doesn't understand but knows well, and as the chorus soars he can't help but join in: Polyushko, polye, vidyelo nyealo gorya; Bylo propitano krovyu, proshlogo vryemyeni krovyu-

It's not the meaning of the words but the intent, and over the months (years) he's become familiar enough with both to close his mouth now, close his mouth and run. But the steppes are long and rolling, quiet stretches of brown and white and nowhere to hide. There's stone all around him, curving around and through his legs until he stumbles, falls-

He lands on his feet in a room where the walls are empty. There is one window, high above his head, and whining through it is the wind of the steppes. He's dreaming again, he's sure of it, because this is not the room he remembers.

A hand reaches into the window, strong and hopeful, and Dean takes it, lets himself be lifted, and then he's back on the farm and still holding Sam's hand.

Dean lets go but Sam's still smiling as he reaches up, hooks his fingers into the black ribbon around his neck and it's too late for Dean to say-

He wakes up to Sam shaking him and whispering his name.

"You're back," Dean says, his voice still thick with sleep.

Sam just looks at him, lets the warmth of his hand on Dean's shoulder be his answer.

---

There's no lingering in the morning. Dean's beginning to find the mountains surrounding their range oppressive, and the woods too anonymous. But they're moving east, towards Germany, and if anybody thinks their path is going to get easier rather than harder they're wise enough to keep it to themselves.

So Sam takes it on himself to clear the way, getting the shovel out of the back of the truck and uprooting the trees that block their way; they're young and thin, most of them, and it doesn't take long for them to fall.

Then the team piles into the truck and Andy takes the wheel, as per, only now with the Nováks along the bench seats no longer seem as roomy. The ride is a hushed one, missing most of the chatter and shouts that come with the jostling, because nobody is sure what's right to talk about in front of these strangers in the blue and the gray. After a few long miles, though, Chuck sits forward and clears his throat.

"How long have you been a pilot?"

The conversation-starter sounds as awkward as it feels, but the Americans visibly loosen as Castiel accepts the opening.

"Many years."

"When did you start?" Chuck presses.

And with that Castiel shuts down again, just staring, silent, until a flustered sort of desperation trickles into Chuck's expression. The line of the pilot's mouth is impatient and almost dismissive, to be sure, but there's something else there that Dean can almost read and resolves to explore. But before he can make that push, Chuck turns to his right and tries once more.

"Um, Jimmy, right?" Jakub nods, and Chuck goes on. "You've been with him the whole time, right? What's it like? See, I've kept my feet on the ground-"

Jakub's voice is quiet and harsh. "No, I haven't."

Chuck doesn't try again after that. Jakub, with his back against the wall of the truck, lets himself be rocked by the rough terrain but the curve of his shoulders sets him apart from the other passengers and from his brother, who sits with square shoulders and touches as little of his surroundings as possible.

Next to Jakub and tucked into a corner, Bobby pulls out a small, worn book from his pack when it's clear that the conversation has died for good. He starts at the beginning instead of the dog-eared page near the end because that mark's from him and Dean reading it together, and right now Dean's busy.

Oh sure, his hands are in his lap and his attention on the wordless Castiel, but as a Sergeant and leader of this increasingly motley team Dean Winchester must always be on the alert, poised and focused. And right now he's focusing on picking up details about the Czech guy next to him that could be used offensively or defensively, such as the way Castiel's somewhat wiry frame still carries a suggestion of strength in its stiffness, and he'd like to see that strength-it's always the quiet ones, goes the cliché. If he could just find a release for the anger he knows Castiel must carry somewhere-not the frustration or contempt he's seen so far, but skin-pulling, bone-cracking fury-if he could just pull that out, Dean thinks, he'd be unlocking something worth having.

Castiel turns his head and looks Dean in the eyes. "What is it, Sergeant?"

Maybe that track of thought had gotten away from him, and maybe it hadn't started so well either, but Dean doesn't let himself look away. See, that could imply that he's intimidated or some bullshit and so Dean holds the gaze, stops looking sideways and turns his face to Castiel.

"I was just curious. You're a pretty unusual guy, you know."

Castiel raises an eyebrow but doesn't interrupt.

"What were you doing in that plane?"

"Flying it."

Sam, sitting on the other side of Dean, lets out a snort that he doesn't bother trying to stifle. When Dean gives him the dirty side-eye, Sam just chuckles and goes back to reading a letter; the paper looks new but it's been folded many times already, and Sam's unwashed fingerprints border the small black words that he mouths to himself.

It's not one of the patterns that Dean remembers, though, and his skin goes tight. But just as he's about to ask when Sam got a new letter from Jess-how is she, where did you get that, does she still love you even though you're-there's a shout and the truck jerks to a stop, throwing them all together as the wheels skid over dead leaves.

"What's going on?" Dean calls out, untangling himself from the others.

"There's a guy in the road," responds Andy's voice, sounding halfway between baffled and upset. "Just lying there!"

"Dead?" Sam's half out the back already, one hand on the roof tarp to steady himself.

"No, I don't-it looks like he's breathing."

At that Sam lopes out of sight, gone before Dean can assign somebody else to go. Dean has long allowed the team more leeway than under normal circumstances, but it's Sam's unspoken defiance that bothers him. At least that's one thing that hasn't changed since they left home, he thinks.

"Jimmy, want to make yourself useful?" Dean hooks a thumb in the direction Sam went. "Back him up."

Jakub shoots a look at Castiel, too quick for Dean to catch, then scrambles out. He moves like he's more comfortable on the ground, without the full sharpness of a soldier.

"Wait for the signal, Private."

"Yes sir," Andy calls back, leaving the engine running.

Chuck's frowning anxiously at Dean, mouthing something about wasting gas, but if Dean learned only one thing from his father it was to save as many people as he could. Failing that, you saved yourself. Never mind the object lesson.

---

Sam approaches the man slowly. The grey-green uniform marks him as Italian and the cut suggests paratrooper, yet even though he's sprawled on the ground as though he was dropped from a great height he's still breathing. His eyes are closed despite the sun breaking through the trees and onto his face, which seems a touch too thin beneath its rounded features.

At the sound of footsteps Sam looks over his shoulder to see Jakub coming up behind him, and with this reinforcement in place he prods the stranger's shoulder with the barrel of his rifle.

The man shifts, brings his hands up to his eyes, and rolls over onto his side, away from Sam. Sam and Jakub glance at each other, vaguely amused, and Sam reaches out with his foot instead to tap the man in the ribs.

"Hey. I'm sorry, man, but you gotta get up."

The man rolls back over and looks up, and Sam's struck by how pale his eyes are in the sunlight, an odd green-gold overshadowed by his coppery hair.

"Do you speak English?"

The man nods.

"What's your name?"

He sits up, winces and points to his mouth. Sam hands over his canteen, and after a couple of swallows the man exhales and gives it back with a smile that seems a touch too easy to be real.

"Gabriele. They call me Gabriele."

---

It takes some teamwork to get Gabriele into the truck, as when he tries to stand he stumbles and grabs at his head. When Dean holds out a hand to help pull him in, he pauses.

"Some leverage?"

Jakub's already reclaimed his seat, so it's Sam who pushes Gabriele up, hands linked under buttocks for the most efficient approach. Dean introduces himself as the commander and Sam's brother, and Gabriele's wink is not quite friendly. As the truck starts moving again, everybody settles back down-save for Gabriele, who doesn't take the spot next to Sam but stands over it, supporting himself with a hand wrapped around one of the truck roof's ribs.

Turns out his full name is Gabriele Araldo and all he's got with him is a bag of black market wine. "Only the best from home," he says. The only weapon on him is the dagger of the Paracadutisti, simple, sharp, and tucked carelessly into his belt. Sidearms, stick grenades-Gabriele waves his hands. Unwieldy things, lost along the coastline of Anzio after landing far from his regiment. So what could he do when the fighting started?

"But the armistice," Sam says. "That was a year ago; I thought you guys were wearing Kraut uniforms now?"

"And you're a long way from your drop zone," says Castiel.

The pilot's voice prompts Gabriele to swing himself around. He doesn't turn away when Dean starts talking, but keeps his eyes on Castiel like he's waiting for something.

"Anzio." Dean looks at Sam, then at Gabriele's back. "That's a while ago now. Those must be some rations you Italians have."

"You're not the first Americans to pick me up."

Dean can't help the jolt of hope that comes at this promise of no longer being separated from his army; it's been a long time since home seemed not so far out of reach. But Gabriele's focused on the Nováks, watching both of them and uninterested in much else.

Dean kicks out, taps Gabriele's leg. "Hey. What happened to them?"

"Dead. Non importa." The casual remark is just this side of cruel, and the dash of insouciance doesn't help Dean any. "You have chocolate? Doubt it is as good as the British, with their sugar coating, or the French, of course, but sweet is sweet and-"

"We're out of ours," Dean says shortly. "You're a deserter." It's a statement, not a question, and Gabriele's act of garrulousness is put away, replaced by a look that goes right past scrutiny and lands on testing.

"What about you?" And in the silence Gabriele smiles, teeth sharp.

Chuck coughs with the grace of somebody trying to be subtle and starts to say something about how the Italian's English is really good, as though the idea of foreigners speaking his language is something he's only read about and it still surprises him, this common reality. But Gabriele ignores him, leans in close to Jakub.

"Jimmy, remember?"

Jakub leans away. "What?" He's scanning his memories, it shows on his face, but nothing's coming up yet.

Gabriele pouts, then puts on a loud and affected tone. "Ehi, ragazzo! Lui é un vero figone, no?"

Jakub's eyes widen just a touch, and there's that predatory grin again. "Sì, Tonbridge," Gabriele declares, like a flag being planted, and behind him Castiel's frown deepens.

Dean glances from face to face, not understanding, and Bobby sighs.

"They went to the same boarding school."

Sam sighs dramatically and lets his head fall back. "You're fucking kidding me."

---

Before long they stop again, gas low and daylight fading. It's been another day with not much else to show for it besides another stranger added to their load, and Dean's pissed. He checks the map-it's hard to tell at this scale but it looks like they've done a pretty good job of sticking to the corridor Crowley pointed out, so he sends Chuck and Andy out to check the woods before they set up camp for the night. He doesn't send Sam, despite all the training for recon-or because of it, neither of them says-and the two brothers do such a good job of matching each other's foul moods that nobody feels like talking.

Then Andy and Chuck are back, cheerful and with nothing on their shoulders except their rifles, and the fire they start for dinner fades the tensions. Fades them, that is, until Gabriele reaches for his share of the food and reminds everybody that he doesn't have his own.

"But I do have this wine, a very good year," he says, holding out one of the bottles from his bag to Sam, who lets Gabriele press it into his hand but doesn't open it.

The Nováks, too, have been eating the Americans' German food, and Dean catches Bobby watching them with an expression made hard to read by the combination of beard and cap. But Castiel doesn't eat much. He's busy listening to Gabriele's tales of what life was like after Tonbridge, moving back to belle d'Italia and the women there. Lots and lots of women.

Castiel doesn't even try to keep the boredom off his face.

Soon it's dark enough that the fire makes them a target, visible from the cloudless sky, and Dean is the first to stand, packing up his meal kit and the wine Sam handed off to him. The others do the same, and once his team's started on cleaning up Dean catches Castiel's attention and motions away from the camp, starts walking. After a beat, Castiel follows.

---

With Dean gone, Sam moves more freely. That's not to say he's not concerned about his brother, no, but that there is a space between them too often filled with the wrong thing, filled with a love too great and unspeakable it could make them lose themselves. And so now, while he knows he has the chance, Sam takes a breath and it sounds like he's drowning.

He's leaning against the truck, away from the ashes and the light, and reading the letters he carries with him when Gabriele comes up. Andy's reading one of his dense and impenetrable books to Chuck, Bobby's got first watch again, and Jakub's got a book of his own out of his bag.

"What else does he have in there, I wonder?" Gabriele says this softly, and Sam feels his breath on his cheek and moves away. Gabriele smiles, thin-lipped, as he drops back down off his tiptoes. When Sam shrugs in response, going back to his own reading, Gabriele leans in.

Sam folds up the letter he's holding (Your friends are such gentlemen, Tyson Brady most of all) and shoves it back into a pocket.

"She seems sweet," says Gabriele, sounding sincere enough, and Sam lets himself soften. Just a bit.

"Yeah, she is. We were going to go to Stanford together, get a little place in Palo Alto. We're engaged, good as married," Sam says. There's no ring on his hand and Gabriele doesn't ask.

"You get that letter from Crowley?"

There's no trace of judgment, not the way Dean would have said it, just curiosity. Sam looks at him, trying to see if there's something else there, but Gabriele's face is like a mask.

"All right. Sure. Yeah, I got it from Crowley. He's got connections, delivers mail faster than anybody." Sam pauses, looks at him again. "How do you know about him?"

Gabriele tuts. "We are talking about Crowley, no? How could I not? Besides," and here he affects another pose, hands on hips and lisping German accent, "Italy and Germany are das allianz, ja?"

"Which means I shouldn't even be talking to you," Sam says, but he's laughing despite himself. Gabriele shrugs, giving him a toothy smile.

Then, Gabriele lowers his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "I heard that he's actually Scottish and his real name is Fergus."

Sam snorts. "Now I know you're just fucking with me."

Rocking back on his heels, Gabriele gives him a smug look.

"You still haven't told me how you know him, Araldo."

The Italian winces at the mangled pronunciation. "Please, call me Gabriele."

"Oh, right. Like the archangel, huh?"

A smirk flits across his face. "Sì. The messenger." Sam nods and leans back against the truck, gestures for Gabriele to go on. "Crowley, ah, he's everywhere. Never satisfied, always thinks he can do better than the ones in charge. What will happen when he is the one in charge-" He shrugs again. "If I didn't know better, I'd say that even God doesn't know what his end game is."

Sam watches him, waiting for him to go on, but Gabriele's looking off into the woods, to the north. Above them is a burst of light, a flare that whites out the night and makes the shadows long.

---

"German flare."

Dean glances over at Castiel. "How do you know?"

"Many times they would come near my plane." Castiel sits back against the fallen log, the earth rubbing off on him.

They're not far from the camp-Dean can see Sam, or the shape of him, and the way the lanterns go out-but it's quiet here, the branches and the leaves hanging heavy around them, and Dean sits down as well, holding out the still-unopened bottle of wine.

"All right. Talk."

Castiel looks sidelong at Dean, profile just visible in the light reflected by the glass. "What do you mean?"

"There's too much you're not telling me." Dean's got his pocketknife out and is easing the cork out, blade flashing quick quick dark, and doesn't look up. "Dangerous for the mission."

"The mission for Switzerland, or the mission for Crowley?" Castiel's voice is neutral but there's a certain tension in his posture that Dean can see now, realizing it's probably been there all along.

"The mission of keeping alive." Dean knows that this isn't an answer, not really, but Castiel doesn't seem to mind. In fact, there's something approaching respect in the gaze that he turns on Dean, or at least a changed opinion. He takes the bottle Dean holds out but doesn't drink.

"What is there to say?"

"Jesus Christ." Dean laughs. "How about you start with why the hell we're going to Switzerland and not Czechoslovakia?"

Castiel looks down, turning the bottle around in his hands and listening to the wine slosh around inside. Through the glass and alcohol his fingers are stained a deep bruised purple, as though with the ink of manuscripts unrestored, as though he were not here so far away from the old stone of Graubünden, of home.

"My family," he pauses, looks at Dean and takes a drink. "My family were, ah, spolupracovníky. In 1938, when the NSDAP came, my family worked with them."

"Collaborators." Dean spits out the word, but Castiel considers this then shakes his head.

"They thought it was foretold. That it was necessary."

"And you didn't?"

Castiel tips his head back. "There were others first. The disagreements became violent." When he doesn't elaborate, Dean reaches out for the bottle and takes a few long swallows. It's not a good wine.

"So you ran away. Good for you."

Castiel's eyes flash, quick quick dark, and it feels like there's a hand around Dean's throat. There was the anger almost unlocked, a hint of the lake at the center of him, and this is Dean's chance to turn back.

Then: "I rebelled," Castiel says, and takes Dean down with him.

They don't say anything for a long while, just pass the bottle back and forth until it's almost empty and it's hard to see each other.

"Hey, your English." Dean's slurring a bit now, but not enough that he cares. "How come it's real good sometimes and other times it's like you aren't real sure?"

He feels rather than sees Castiel's smile-it's more a relaxing of the shoulders, but for the pilot that counts, especially now in the dark.

"There was the boarding school-"

"Right, yeah, which explains the good part."

"And then I moved to Switzerland, to Graubünden, where the university required no English."

"Huh." Dean lapses into silence again, cradling the bottle in his lap.

Castiel's watching him now, despite the absence of light, like it doesn't matter that he can't see the man's face, like that's not what he's looking for. The campsite is dark now, no sign of activity, and the path the moon's tracked suggests it's long past time to head back. He lifts the bottle from between Dean's legs, the glass already warm against his fingers.

"A suicide mission," Castiel says, addressing the bottle. Dean knows the pilot's talking to him.

"You don't know what you're talking about." Dean tries for casual, dismissive, but winds up with Castiel turning those big sad blue eyes on him in the fucking moonlight and this is bullshit. He gets up and starts walking back to camp, feeling his way over the roots, and he can't hear anything but he knows that if he turns back Castiel will be there.

part two | notes | masterpost