trying to describe the kingdom (2/2)
The dawn comes slow, its orange-streaked clouds mixed with the sound of mortar strikes. They're close. Too close, Dean decides, and orders the men to dig foxholes. But there's only the one shovel (the others were lost along the way in another strike like this, closer to the shore) so it's a nervous process, taking turns standing around and watching the sky and forest as one person digs down.
Andy, finished with a fourth pit, stands up, wipes his forehead, and-
The trees explode. The bark shatters, pulp flying outwards, whole branches are sheared away, are sent crashing over as Chuck rolls in alongside Andy and the rest scramble, drop to their stomachs and crawl. The mortars are constant now, singing down-
Dean's looking around to make sure everybody's safe, then the truck goes up and Sam grabs his ankle and pulls-
Parts of the truck come back down, and the shelling stops.
The men wait. Then, as the silence rings, they get up, dust themselves off, and here come the infantry guns-
Jakub's shouting, trying to understand, as Chuck drops, curls over-
"The flare," Sam shouts back, thumbing off his safety and firing, firing-
Dean should have made everybody move, but this isn't the time and he has to shoot, convince himself that these are monsters and not humans he's killing-
Bobby's yelling down into the foxhole Gabriele's rolled back into, but then he's hit, knocked back at the shoulder, and swings his attention back to what's in front of him, in front of his friends-
Castiel picks up Andy's rifle (when did he drop it?) and twists on the bayonet, charges, the blade flashing in the sun and oh, it's a sight to behold. The German soldiers fall back before this, yes, force of nature, all whirlwind and wrath, and Dean-
Castiel barks out, "Behind you, Sergeant!" and Dean turns, dives as Castiel lunges and sinks the bayonet deep into another man's chest.
For a moment this is Dean's world: Castiel's harsh breathing and the blood on his face. Then Castiel yanks the blade out-there's the rough choking gasp that comes from dying without a plan-and he wipes it off on his legs, red stripes on the grey like St George's cross decayed. He holds out a hand and Dean, well, he takes it, lets himself be lifted up.
The campsite, a battlefield now, is quiet again. Then Bobby says something about Chuck and Andy-"Shurley and Gallagher," he still calls them-and the men, they don't have to look. The messiness of absence is written into them, they can recite it from memory, and sometimes it's easier to just leave it alone. But Dean goes anyway, he goes over to where they fell, not far from each other the way they always were-still are, really, and Dean wishes he still had it in him to avoid looking at what's left of their faces-and picks up Chuck's rifle.
"Here you go," he says, tossing it at Gabriele. There's something else he could say, something impressive and authoritative about family and blood and all that, but he's tired and the look on Gabriele's face shows he doesn't have to be told so Dean just walks away.
Castiel kneels alongside the bodies, murmurs something Latin that sounds like the last rites, then spreads his hands and descends. Dean freezes.
"Stop that."
"The things they carried-"
"Not yet." He knows it's necessary but that never means he has to like it. And the sprawl of the bodies still feels too human, like a violation.
Something in Dean's expression makes Castiel stand up, back straight, but if there's any emotion showing on his face it's curiosity.
"Sergeant-"
"Dean. Call me Dean." It's an impulse, one that surprises him, but Castiel doesn't seem to notice or be taken aback. "I mean, you saved my life," tries Dean, gesturing vaguely in his attempt to explain. He's not feeling any less angry, but the fact of their bond (or whatever the fuck it is) isn't going away either, even if right now the sight of Castiel's angular and unsettlingly placid mouth sets his temples throbbing, the headache making him turn away again. It's like the guy isn't even human.
"Twice," Castiel says. "Dean." The feel of his name in the pilot's mouth is a weighty one, and it sounds like a threat.
---
The bullet in Bobby's shoulder grates against the bone, staining his tunic with blood and flesh. Standard procedure would be to just press on, maybe dig it out with whiskey-washed fingers first, but Jakub's got the remains of a basic kit in his bag and hands it over. It's just bandages, a needle and some cotton thread, but even these are riches enough. There's a syrette of morphine as well, but Dean lets him keep it for worse times, makes Gabriele hand over another bottle of wine instead.
Andy was the one who usually did the patching up, him and Sam if the patient was wild, but his small hands lie broken on the ground now so it's Sam who sits Bobby down against the remains of the truck, peels off the torn tunic and pours on the alcohol. Bobby hisses, grimaces, but knows that Sam's being gentle, doing what he's been trained to do and with love besides.
With the truck gone, the checkpoints, already farther than they should have been, seem almost unreachable. Dean unfolds the map but doesn't look at it, holding it loose in one hand as he sits and watches his brother. Sam's long since grown into himself, gangly limbs and unkempt hair aside, and his freedom hangs heavy on Dean.
Dean isn't given time to grow moody, though, as Gabriele comes along and stands over him.
"What now?"
"We walk."
"Splendido." Gabriele rocks on his heels. "That sounds like a well-thought-out strategy."
Dean tries to compose a decent reply, but gives up. "Yeah, well, you've been a lot of help, fucking hiding-Jesus, that was worse than your picking the wrong side," he says, with more than anger in his voice. Gabriele's hands clench white by his sides, and his lips tighten with the feeling of being trapped. But he isn't really, only where it counts and nobody else's allowed to pry it all open, so he walks away without saying anything else.
Sam's wrapping up, Dean can see, and Jakub's put what he can back in his bag. So now he looks at the map, despite knowing that the truth is it's a useless thing these days, and ignores the shadow that falls over him until Castiel speaks.
"Hello, Dean."
"Can't a guy get some peace and quiet around here?"
Castiel ignores the outburst and sits down next to him, leaning in to look at the map. He takes it, pulling gently at the edges until Dean acquiesces and lets go. He traces a line along the borders of France, fingertip dragging across the worn paper with the ease of somebody who believes he knows what he's doing.
"Here. This mountain range, Jura-" Castiel underlines the word. "From here I can cross over."
"Too fucking far," says Dean without even looking. Castiel huffs, but there's a touch of amusement in the sound that makes Dean roll his neck and sit up straight.
"This is your problem, Dean. You have no faith." Castiel says this like he's found the answer, the Answer with a capital A, and is looking at him with this expression that-it isn't new, but it feels new, and Dean can't figure out how to read it just yet.
"Then you get us there, okay? I've got too much shit to deal with," Dean says, waving his hand at the remnants of his team, with an eye on Gabriele. Goddamn wildcard.
So. The sun's gone past noon, the heat has reached its height, and the bodies around them have been there long enough. Dean stands, orders everybody to move out, and the long walk starts.
---
There's not much water, very little food, and they can't keep going anymore but they don't stop, there's too many miles ahead of them. Gabriele's in the lead by unspoken agreement (for the next attack, he can be the first to go) and he's stripped off his tunic, has it slung over his shoulder and the others have followed suit. The Americans have got undershirts but Castiel and Jakub wear only suspenders, their wool tunics tucked into the back of their trousers.
Dean can see the differences between them in the light that filters down through the ever-denser trees, in the scars that punctuate Jakub's body and not Castiel's-there's a story there, he knows, but Jakub's busy talking with Gabriele and Castiel's just not talking. So, Dean tries to read it for himself:
On Jakub's legs and arms are what look like the hard marks of childhood; faint em dashes on forearms that didn't climb a tree very well, perhaps, and a white burst that sits low on a hip from the fall. And spread across his shoulder blades is a web of old scars, nearly invisible until the sun hits it, that makes the line of his back look almost unreal in the light, like something opened up one time too many.
But the skin moving over muscle and bone, the wiry hips swinging, the color of the sun on the nape of his neck when he turns his head-these are the same from body to body, which means it's something less tangible, something almost otherworldly and maybe a little frightening, that drags Dean's attention back to Castiel again and again.
Soon, though, he's gone back to worrying over getting to Germany, getting in, finishing the mission his father died for, and whether doing that will really end anything (will it save Sam, does he need to be saved) and just puts one foot in front of the other.
As they walk, Sam and Bobby not quite managing to fill the gap caused by those left behind, Gabriele talks about how he's always wanted to visit the United States, New Jersey especially because they call it the Garden State, and Jakub's smile starts growing thinner and thinner like he doesn't know what to do with it. Castiel's fallen back so he's walking next to Dean, has been for a while now, but Dean doesn't notice until the man speaks.
"What are you doing here?"
"Fuck if I know," Dean replies automatically, then looks over when he realizes who's next to him. Castiel just looks back, something like amusement hovering on his lips, and Dean shrugs. "It's true."
"Perhaps." Castiel watches his feet, matches Dean's rhythm to his. When he looks back up it's not at Dean but ahead, at his brother or something beyond him, and Dean tries to follow his gaze but sees nothing.
"What, you want a Real Answer?" Dean exaggerates, stressing the capital letters, to signal that this is not where Castiel wants to go. But Castiel nods, of course he does.
Dean doesn't reply right off, just watches Sam walking ahead of him, dirty, shirtless, sunburnt, and alive.
"I promised my dad I'd kill a man."
Castiel doesn't ask, keeps walking alongside with his hands hanging curled like nothing could ever truly concern him, and for this Dean is thankful.
"He had an old buddy-well, it was more of an 'enemy of my enemy' thing, really." Castiel's glance prompts Dean to clarify: "Somebody you can work with well enough but wouldn't invite over for dinner. More for swapping favors, I guess, until one of you betrays the other. At least, that's what this was. You've met him-Crowley." Castiel nods, and Dean goes on. "Then the war started."
"Crowley persuaded your father to join an assassination attempt targeting one of the Führer's inner circle, yes?" Castiel's interruption pulls Dean up short, as does the casual knowledge of a life kept private. The warning shows in Dean's expression, and Castiel shrugs. "Corporal Winchester told me."
There's a part of Dean that's angry, to be sure, and he makes sure to show it with a scoff in case Sam's listening in. But the part that loves Sam-which is the rest of him, everything else in him-that part is proud. "Sammy's got good taste in people, then, even if he is way too trusting," and when Sam yells back "Fuck you" Dean grins.
"And Cas? Call him Sam." The nickname slips out and Dean catches it too late. Castiel doesn't seem to care (of course, of goddamn course) but ahead of them Jakub glances back.
---
Camp that night is deeper in the Vosges with gunfire all around. There isn't much by way of dinner, despite there being two fewer people to feed.
As they're eating, Bobby sits down next to Dean and whispers, "Gabriele's a problem."
Dean just keeps eating, watching the fire. It'll have to go out soon; it's getting dark.
"It's not just that we don't have enough supplies," Bobby continues. "When we find some other troops, do you really think he'll be able to act like a prisoner?"
Bobby's got a point there, Dean figures, even if it's misdirected; the question, it seems, is more whether they won't blow it themselves. Sam's chatting with Gabriele, leaning in and smiling, laughing at almost everything. And, Dean has to admit, he's starting to feel the same way towards Gabriele-when the two of them aren't fighting they've got a pretty similar sense of humor, even if the Italian does go too far sometimes. And Gabriele's traveled all over, which makes for some great tall tales. But he eats, he eats so much it's almost surreal.
Castiel, on the other hand, doesn't even seem to eat. The only way Dean knows this isn't true is from how the guy hasn't keeled over yet, and he doesn't look like he's been losing too much weight. Jakub eats about as much as you'd expect the average guy to, which is to say he eats too much for the current situation. They all do.
Dean thinks of maybe cutting rations down even further, but Sam's in a good mood and Castiel and Jakub are already arguing, low and quiet and impossible to understand, so it becomes another issue for later.
It's time to put out the fire so they stand and kick it out, their canteens clanging against their hips. Their water isn't finished, not yet, but there's maybe one or two more days' worth in each one, they think. Then, as their lanterns are gone, lost with the truck, and the moon isn't bright enough to travel by, they go to sleep on the ground where they are.
---
They've reached the valley and Sam's not there. The slow easy rhythm of breathing is the same, but, look-there, just then, didn't you see it? The yellow? Dean grabs him, this person not his brother, and throws him down. You promised, he's saying, but Dean can't go through with it anymore.
He's getting tired of waking up. It's dark, nearly too dark to see his own hands, but he doesn't feel like going back to sleep. Then, a voice close by asks if he would like to have a drink. It's Castiel's voice, he knows this from the rolling syllables, the minor key, and he gets up and follows as well as he can.
Castiel's found a spot where the trees are less crowded and it's easier to see what you're doing, to avoid the empty streambed that would break bones with a wrong step. He's got another bottle of Gabriele's cheap wine and holds it out when Dean steps into the light. They don't have to say anything to each other to know what's needed; this moment is simple enough.
They sit quiet together for a few long moments, passing the bottle back and forth and trying to see into the forest. Then Castiel asks him what it's like, a brother who loves you, and Dean looks at him, tries to see him.
"You left him behind."
Castiel looks away. Close enough, Dean figures. So: "Sam," he says, then falters. How to pull apart their, their whatever it is for a stranger? But Castiel's not really a stranger anymore-or he doesn't feel much like one anymore. So Dean tries and tells him about the runaway week in Arizona, about fear and love all twisted up together, and the whole time Castiel just watches him, eyes dark.
"So, anyway." Dean takes a couple swallows of wine. "That's what it's like, I guess."
Castiel's response is to hold out a hand for the bottle and take a measured swig when Dean gives it to him, neither of them bothering to wipe off the mouth first.
A pause, then: "You know, getting personal stuff out of you is like pulling teeth," Dean says, and there's another of Castiel's rare smiles.
"I could say the same about you, Dean."
Dean lets himself smile back. It's not that bad out here, apart from the sporadic gunfire some miles away. The mountains rising around them makes it hard to tell where a sound starts or ends, so for the moment Dean focuses on the hazy night sky, the constellations a few degrees wrong on this side of the Atlantic, and the wind that comes silent through the trees smelling of mold and smoke. Castiel's face is turned into the wind, the light that comes down from the waning moon hitting almost the right angles to hide his eyes-almost, because Dean can still see a deep dark blue if he looks closely enough. With that and his bare shoulders, suspenders loose at his sides, Castiel could be the cover of one of those Saturday Evening Posts lying around the barracks back home-pinned up on the wall, maybe, but Dean pushes the thought away because Castiel's talking again.
"To what will you go home?"
"Got some acres in Kansas need tending." Dean shrugs. "Hunting. My father was big on that when I was a kid." He smiles at the memory, but there's no heart in it now.
"Sounds peaceful."
"It's not gonna happen."
This shuts Castiel up, but it's not an unhappy silence. Rather, he's gone back to studying Dean like some queer species he'd once thought he understood, and the more Dean sees that particular expression the more it gets on his nerves. He hands over the bottle more reluctantly this time.
"You've earned it," Castiel says after a long while, and it's not clear what he's talking about. Something in his voice, though, makes Dean sure he's still talking about after the war, after the fighting, and it's not naïveté, Dean knows this, but it still feels wrong.
"Nah, I can't picture it," Dean says. "When I go, it's gonna be bloody."
Castiel just takes another drink and gives him that look he still hasn't been able to decipher; that infuriating mix of pity, affection, and something else.
"Wars can end, Dean."
"Not without people dying." Dean takes the bottle back and that's the end of the conversation.
---
Their water runs out the next day. Gabriele suggests switching to his wine-there's still two bottles left-but is turned down; they need to stay alert, says Dean, and Bobby says it's horse piss anyway. On this note, tempers and temperature both high, they move south into the empty streambed. Though they don't know it, they're near a junction of the war, where France, starting its V into Germany, lies above Switzerland. The heat here is not one of metaphor, unfortunately, but of European autumn, though this stream runs dry not because of drought but because of where a horse and man together fell behind them, pulled down and buried under a log jam of trees laid flat by incendiaries from above. Castiel shows no sign of being affected any more than he already has been, and Dean in a fit of pique decides that it's because the Swiss have got ice instead of blood. Or at least the ones from on high do, but before Dean can congratulate himself on the punny phrase he sees Sam and Gabriele walking together again.
"Hey, Sam, can we talk?"
Sam lifts his head and looks back at Dean, trying to see what the reason could be, but Dean does his best to keep his expression impassive. Gabriele says something, and Sam shrugs down at him and slows down until he's closer to the end of the line, falling in with Dean the way they used to when walking with their father.
"What's up?"
Dean takes a minute before responding, kicking a mossy rock ahead of him for a few paces as Sam walks soft besides him. There's not necessarily anything wrong, he just wants to be sure rather than suspicious-nothing wrong with that, thinks Dean, with needing to be able to trust your brother.
"You seem awfully chummy with that guy."
Sam jerks his head around like he's been slapped, and when Dean replays the sentence in his head he winces too. But it's too late to say anything else, Sam's indignation rolling like a wall across his face.
"Says the guy who's been swanning around with foreign weirdoes of his own."
"First, I have not been swanning," says Dean, knowing there's no use now but pushing anyway, "and second, they're neutral."
"Supposedly."
They wind up squabbling in this vein for a good while, like they're ten years old again and in the bed of their old Chevy pickup instead of a dried-out stream five thousand miles from home.
Finally, Sam spreads his arms wide, inscribing an arc of exasperation in the air.
"Jesus Christ, Dean, is it so bad to enjoy having somebody easy to talk to?"
Dean's retort disappears back down his throat, and he sees in front of Sam the space where Andy and Chuck would have been like it's new again. That's what it's looked like every time he's looked so far, yes, but its edges are particularly raw this time, the way Dean imagines Sam's voice would look right now if it were brushed onto a piece of paper. He briefly considers trying to patch it over, trying to dismiss the hanging feeling, but the look in Sam's eyes makes him speechless for too long.
"Maybe you should talk to Castiel more," Sam's saying, "if you're not going to get it off your chest with me."
"What?"
Sam's look this time is that one of exquisite frustration Dean's taken to calling the bitchface, but before the observation can be made for what must be the 47th time Sam points ahead of them. "You have to talk to somebody about Russia, Dean. You have to deal with it."
Oh, that. It's Dean's turn to frown. "I was a prisoner of war, Sam, in one of the worst possible places. And before you say 'exactly'-"
"At least about how hard it was getting out. You're acting too, too paranoid for someone who's dealt with it. Humor me, Dean." Sam doesn't look amused.
Through the window, a hand, and Dean takes it-there, in the light, didn't his eyes flash yellow? "First of all, given the circumstances I think I've got a goddamn right to be paranoid. And second, how do you know it was hard getting out?"
"There, that's exactly what I'm talking about!" Sam puts one hand flat across Dean's shoulders and pushes, sends him stumbling toward Castiel. He waits to see Dean pause by Castiel, open his mouth, and walk past to talk with Bobby. Shrugging to himself, he returns to the front of the line where Gabriele greets him with a wry smile.
"Your brother, he is jealous?"
Sam snorts. "Don't get me started. Dean's insecurity could fill a-" He stops himself, glances back. Next to Bobby, Dean still looks young, yes, but the war is starting to show. "Never mind."
They walk on for a bit, leading the others, and the sun's moved a few degrees before Gabriele turns to Sam again.
"So, when we stop, how about it?" The question is casually abrupt, so it takes Sam a few minutes to readjust, understand the slight parting of Gabriele's lips.
His own expression twists on instinct, and that must be answer enough because Gabriele puts up placating hands.
"Hey, hey. Handsome stranger, far from home and lady? The offer was only polite."
"Still." Sam can't quite smooth the ugly curl to his mouth. "I've put up with your flirting for long enough."
Gabriele's laugh is a short harsh bark. "Let us hope you're more friendly with your brother and his flying friend."
"What do you mean?"
"Oh," says Gabriele, green-gold eyes bright and voice brittle. "This is nice. You haven't seen their eyes when they talk to each other?"
Sam stares at him for a moment. "Are you trying to tell me that they're fucking? Because I knew that."
Gabriele gapes at him, sputters, then flings out a rude gesture before storming off.
With conflicting feelings Sam watches him go; he's won this round by making the Italian speechless, yeah, but there's an uneasy feeling coiled in his stomach that sours the whole thing. Gabriele, for all his quick defenses, seems pretty easy to read, and it had been pretty obvious that whatever they had going, it wasn't about attraction. So this, this power play (he must have known Sam would say no) only serves to drive home that there'd been something odd about the relationship between Castiel and his brother for a while now, whatever it is, and that Castiel cannot be as simple as Dean seems to think he is. Maybe this is a warning-
"Aw, fuck!" Dean shouts from behind them. "Where'd he go, Sam?"
Castiel veers off from the line. "I will find him," he says, offering nothing further as he trots off in the direction Gabriele went, bayonet bouncing bright against his back.
---
It doesn't take long for the trees to swallow up the ones left behind, gunfire sounding closer ahead as Castiel moves quickly over fallen branches. Gabriele's left a path that's clear enough to him, little tell-tale signs here and there like the ones left across Tonbridge on the way to a good sulk.
Now, as then, Castiel finds him sitting under a tree and looking up into the branches. It's a sycamore, bark peeling white like bone, and Gabriele doesn't bother smiling when he sees Castiel.
"Like my lilies at the school, hey?"
Castiel doesn't respond, just stays standing a few feet away. Gabriele pats the ground next to him, and when Castiel shows no indication of moving leans back against the trunk and puts his arms behind his head, closes his eyes.
"You aren't supposed to be here."
Gabriele reopens one eye, his Says who? smirk rising with it.
"You were at Tonbridge for the education, to help your brothers with the family business. You didn't want to fight."
"I'm touched, fratellino. You remember so much."
"Why are you here?" Castiel stares at him, impassive.
Gabriele sighs. "After padre disappeared, my brothers, they fought, wanted me to help decide who should take over the business."
"And so you left. How have they fared, do you know?"
"Poorly, I expect. Not my family business now, is it?" Gabriele's tone is defiant, but he's not quite making eye contact.
Castiel lets this be his answer, the silence that hangs there under the gunfire, then turns to leave. Gabriele stays there, watching him leave, each step away like a door swinging shut.
By the time he gets back to the others, however, Castiel hears the echo of Gabriele behind him and is not surprised. Dean looks relieved to see him, less so when Gabriele rejoins them, and is quick to motion them onward again.
The group walks more quietly now, mood subdued first by the darkening sky and then by the dead body they pass. It's a man, wearing what looks like a German uniform, but his face and most of his head are gone, along with a good chunk of his shoulders and insignia.
"Must be getting close," Dean says; to what goes unanswered.
After another half mile of tense silence, Gabriele pauses and looks back. "He maybe was in my unit."
"So?" Dean keeps walking.
"So they could be nearby. Let me see if I can talk to them, get us supplies." And with that Gabriele leaves again, back the way they came with dry branches snapping underfoot.
Castiel doesn't want to wait with the others-"He can find us," he says. "We don't have time for this." But Dean makes him stay.
Then, gunfire, loud, cracking clear through the spaces between the trees, and Castiel looks down. Gabriele's not coming back, they all feel it, and there's no choice but to move now in case there's a sweep coming. But soon it's like walking through a cave deep underground; it gets dark and cold that fast the higher up the mountains they go. The forest is quiet again, but it's the quiet of a threat, and they pull their bodies closer together. There's no sleeping that night.
---
There's mist hanging among the trees when they set off again, the sun risen just high enough to light their way. The terrain's getting rockier, dipping up and down, and Dean's insisting they haven't gotten turned around but there's Gabriele in front of them, lying there like the day they found him. He's got a hole in his chest, great ugly sucker, but otherwise he looks just the same, and Dean-
Dean's angry at himself for feeling more upset about this death than the two that came before. He didn't ask for this sacrifice, but he didn't ask for the others either, and the worst thing, the worst thing is that Castiel doesn't seem to care.
Sam's doing his sad eyes shtick, what else, Jakub's refusal to look has a certain civilian touch to it, and Bobby gave his perfunctory cap-in-hand bowed-head salute, but Castiel isn't doing a thing. We didn't know him and you went to school together, for God's sake, Dean wants to yell. Grab Castiel and shake him, yes, maybe even hit him. Wrestle with him, make him understand. Throw him to the ground, like-
But it's Jakub who approaches Castiel. "Hey, Jimmy," Sam says quietly as the man passes him by, leading heavy with one foot like someone relearning confidence in his body. Castiel, up front now, waits until Jakub comes up alongside him before greeting him in Czech. Jakub stays quiet, watching his pace and trying to keep his own rhythm.
"I thought God was calling me to something important," Jakub says finally. "I was wrong."
Resignation without acceptance is a hard balance to strike, yet Jakub's found his place. Normally Castiel wouldn't respond, wouldn't write back, but his brother's right here looking at him and he can hear Dean's breathing behind him. "It's not my fault you misinterpreted-"
Jakub cuts him off with a shake of the head, a bitter laugh. "Who wrote me the letters, telling me to come, to leave my family? But," he forestalls that sorrowful sigh of Castiel's that grates on him so. "Then you gave me a choice and I chose you." Another of those laughs. "The war started and your promises, my family-how could I live without you?"
"Jimmy," Castiel starts in English, then stops. Really, to this Castiel has nothing to say and doesn't try, leaving Jakub to carry his weight for longer still.
In response Jakub swings out a bit, stays within sight of the team but walks at a distance for a while. Dean lets him do this, noting how Castiel doesn't seem to pay the situation any mind, and makes himself the same old placebo promise to bring it up later when the timing's better. When they make their camp that night Castiel approaches him as usual, like nothing's happened, and Dean lets him lead them up through the descending fog to a rocky place where there's no telling what's in the valley below.
They sit close together on a damp log, Dean's rifle at his feet and Castiel's bayonet sharp across his back. With the year passing deeper into autumn the temperature's starting to drop again, especially at night, so the men have gone back to wearing their full uniforms and Dean finds himself wondering whether Castiel's better like this, whether seeing him stripped down is too close to an animal flayed. But Dean's a bit south of fond of Castiel right now, and plans to push him on the lack of respect thing right this-
But Castiel turns to him, fixes him with that curious look Dean can't decide whether he likes or hates and asks, "Why are you here, Dean?"
"I told you," Dean says, furrowing his brows in a near-perfect illustration of bafflement.
"No." Castiel shakes his head. "Why are you here?" The way he says it, the slow burn of each clipped word sinking into the space between them, brings with it the impression of something holy.
Dean pauses, seeing in Castiel's gaze his reflection, then shrugs. "I was in Russia," he says offhandedly, watching for a reaction that doesn't come, "and when I got out wound up part of Operation Dragoon, landed in Draguignan," he mangles the pronunciation, "way south of here, and Sam told you the rest."
Thankfully, Castiel doesn't press the question, instead looking out over the valley as a breeze turns and stretches the fog out beneath them. "From the Latin for dragon," he says, and Dean glances at him.
"Yeah?"
"Draguignan." Castiel's still watching the valley. "In my studies, the name was there. Part of the legend of Saint George. Do you know it?"
Dean leans back. "Sure, I guess. Guy killed a dragon that was poisoning a village."
"That is the gist, yes. The dragon lived by a great lake," he begins, voice low and clear, and Dean listens to him tell a tale that starts with a man named Perseus and winds back to Babylon and further before returning to the shores of Silene. But Castiel is a terse storyteller, unsurprisingly, and before long he's wrapping up. "The patron saint of soldiers," Castiel says, his tone indicating an end coming. "He would only kill the dragon after the village people converted."
Dean laughs. "Figures."
Castiel smiles faintly, and puts his hands together in his lap. The loose interlocking of fingers reminds Dean of other familiar hands, limp on the ground, and he gets up and walks to the cliff's edge. He stands like this for a while, looking down into the valley, but it's too dark to see anything there now and so he lets his gaze flick across the horizon. Dean feels the pilot waiting, watching the back of his neck, like Castiel's trying to bring him salvation. All this effort, all these long nights, because, what, the guy thinks he can tell with just a look that Dean needs saving? Because that's shit, is what it is. Dean knows how to fucking take care of himself. Really, if he needs anything it's something lower, more tangible. Whether it's something Castiel can give, well. But that's not something you talk about.
After a while the silence feels heavy on his shoulders but he doesn't want to turn around, look at Castiel just yet, so he takes a deep breath and says into the silence, "Tell me some more about dragons, what you studied."
There's a rustling behind him, then Castiel says quietly, "Green does not have a very auspicious history."
Dean remembers Gabriele's green-grey tunic with its rich new stains. "But it's the color of money," Dean says, trying to sound like he's grinning, and lets himself think that Castiel allows a smile in return.
"But here even the money is different, yes? In the," and Castiel breaks off. "Středověké. When there were knights?"
"The Dark Ages?"
Castiel nods. "In the Dark Ages, their devils were sometimes green, not red. Their dragons, too, because the color could mean base desires, sin to be destroyed. For instance, one was encouraged to be careful of those with green eyes."
"What kind of studies were these?" Dean's facing him again, has moved to stand right in front of him.
"Theology, folklore. Humanity." Castiel doesn't tip his head back, just raises his eyes to meet Dean's.
"Hey, wait. Green eyes, huh? So I guess that makes me the dragon." Dean's smile is all teeth, and in a happier story this is where Castiel would turn away.
But then Dean drops to one knee and takes Castiel's wrists, gripping hard enough to turn the flesh white. "You know what, forget the dragon," and he stops there, daring Castiel to understand, smirking without any of the heart of it.
Instead Castiel just watches him, like he's waiting for something, and then it comes, it does, the feeling of being confronted with something massive and real and Dean can't hold onto it-he bows his head and he can't help but want to cry, it's silly yet not enough but still, he doesn't know what it is, and it isn't until he hears his voice that he realizes he's said these last few words aloud.
"The kingdom," Castiel is saying, but Dean's not listening anymore, he's gone, walking quickly back down the wooded path.
---
The next day Dean takes the lead, far in front of everybody else, and hopes that nobody tries to talk to him. There's an anger that hangs about him, closer to fury, sharpened by the roiling emptiness of his stomach. The last of Gabriele's wine was parceled out several hours ago and the sun's reached its height, meaning the men move slowly and from tree to tree, savoring the coolness of each shadow.
There's no knowing how many miles they've covered when Bobby starts lagging behind, stopping once too often with his hands on his knees. There's a dark stain on his shoulder, spreading down across his back, and if the wind were blowing it would carry the smell of infection. He's old for the army, right at the top edge of the draft age, but he's well able to hold his own in situations where lesser men would stumble (Castiel takes Jakub's bag from him with a practiced ease and Jakub doesn't even resist, focusing instead on keeping his footing steady) yet this is a situation few can endure.
When Bobby doesn't try to catch up, just sits under a tree and stops moving, Dean turns around as the rest go on as far they can. The man's taken off his cap, thin graying hair lifted from time to time by the faint breeze, and the expression on his face as he watches Dean approach is a tired one, peaceful almost. It makes Dean want to be sick.
"What's up, Singer?"
"What do you think?" Even now Bobby's sardonic tone hasn't left him, but something of this vein of thought must show on Dean's face because Bobby's attitude cools. "Don't look at me like that, kid. I knew what I was signing up for and you sure as hell better have too."
Dean shifts, prompting a scowl from Bobby. "And if you think I'm going to ask you to shoot me, you've been reading too much of that March fellow."
Before Dean can protest that March isn't like that and anyway he prefers Thurber these days, Bobby closes his eyes and lets out a long breath.
"What should I do?" Dean's voice is quiet. Bobby keeps breathing but doesn't respond, and Dean stays by him for a while before walking away.
Sam catches his eye when he rejoins the team, more a motley group now, and Dean doesn't feel much better. They can't keep going like this but they have to, and they've been here before. They're not lost, not this time; there's a new set of mountains rolling up in front of them. Sam's already eager to go run recon despite everything, like their father before them yellow did you see that his eyes and this is what it is, everybody he loves will leave him.
"This is not destiny, Dean," Castiel says suddenly beside him, the words thrown out like gravel, and Dean has had enough. It's not even evening proper yet but he tells Sam and Jakub to make camp right here and he'll be back before long, there's just a little talk he and Cas need to have, and with that he leads Castiel up the mountainside ahead.
As they climb Dean makes the mistake of looking behind him. Castiel doesn't vanish, no, this isn't that kind of story. But his eyes snap to Dean's and that's it, they're stuck where they are in the middle of the forest. There's rocks here and there, some boulders a few paces off, and Dean heads for the largest.
"Where do you think you're going," Castiel says, the command in his question making Dean stop despite himself.
Dean says, "I'm not going to fight about this," his fists clenched, and behind him he can hear the gentle crunch of leaves underfoot. Then Castiel's come round, is watching Dean's face, and when he's close enough (too close) lets his eyes open wide.
"You don't think you deserve to-"
"Where do you think you get off with all these judgments of me, huh?" Dean returns the stare, his eyes narrow and the line of his shoulders tight. But Castiel doesn't move away; if anything he leans in (it's amazing there's still the space for it) until Dean swears he can feel each steady pulse of Castiel's breath before it starts.
"Your brother, he loves you," and this is Castiel's mistake.
"Yeah, well, he sure knows how to show it-" Dean cuts himself off and turns away.
"Free will, Dean," says Castiel. "It is a, an..." He trails off, English having failed him. But he fixes his eyes on Dean again quickly enough. "You know why Sam is doing these things."
The headshake Dean gives is an abortive one, like a horse pulled up short, because he does and doesn't; the obsession is not the same but the root is there, Dean's sure of it, and he's seen how it can change a man overnight. But it's the slow festering that's the most dangerous, the rationalization that becomes belief, and now Dean recognizes where he is, what this is. He turns back around, midway along the journey of his father's life, and Castiel is there unmoving among the trees.
"So what should I do?" Dean's tone is near defiant but there's acquiescence in his eyes. He's been here before, yes, and as Castiel looks at him there is a thrumming in the air.
"You have a choice. Make it." The words come out rough, a bit sharp, like Castiel's throat is dry but he doesn't want to risk swallowing.
"All right," Dean says, and they're standing there with nothing else to do but put their hands on each other.
Castiel's fingers and lips are cold; Dean thinks it's because of the mountain air carried in the pilot's blood, heavy against his collarbone and pulse. Then he steps away, lets Castiel's hand drop off.
"Free will, Cas," says Dean, shrugging like he's changed his mind, and there, there's the flash in Castiel's eyes that he's been waiting for.
Now he's borne to the ground, palms pressing him down. It's not gentle, and from the way he lands Dean knows he'll have bruises tomorrow. Then come the blows and the air is thrumming again, grinding in Dean's ears like an engine as he tries to rise, to use his own hands, but Castiel holds him down.
"Do not test me," he's saying, but it's too late-Dean's grinning, he's gotten the result he wanted, even when he lands a blow of his own and there's no response.
With the sun behind him Castiel's a series of lines, put together like a black sketch of something only heard described, and for the briefest moment Dean finds himself again with that feeling of looking at something ancient and sublime but the knuckles against his cheekbone and nose are solid, so solid-Dean gasps, spits dark red. It's first blood.
You'd think this is where it would stop but no, Castiel doesn't need to stop and this is love, the thud of skin against skin and bone, this is love. It's not gentle but it's not cruel either, this hand around his throat and the other across his face, and Dean curls into every hit with a hiss that becomes a groan.
In the middle of it there's a moment when the knee on his chest is lifted away and he can breathe with a sudden clarity. He starts to rise, puts his hands on the ground, feels the dirt gritting under his fingernails, but Castiel's hand lands heavy on his hip, almost soft in the way it pushes him back down. And Dean-he'd never admit it, but he lets himself open up to each bruising strike.
Then he's pulled onto his feet; Castiel's got him by the collar of his tunic and is waiting for him to open his eyes. It takes a short while for Dean to focus, to tell what he's supposed to be seeing. By now the sun's been cut by the horizon and their shadows are longer, the forest dimmer, and it's hard to read the expression on Castiel's face.
Dean coughs, spits again. "You know, there's a word for your sort," he says.
"And there's a word for yours," responds Castiel, voice level. He pauses, looks at the man before him. "I didn't need your kind to teach me about choices." His tone borders on wistful, and the way Castiel says your kind makes Dean look away.
---
They descend the mountain in darkness, night coming fast this late in the year, yet Castiel moves without hesitation over the fallen trees and broken-down boulders. Dean, less sure of his footing, keeps track of the path by watching for the glint of Castiel's bayonet in the moonlight.
Sam's still awake when they find the camp again, and despite his pointed looks there's no attempt to explain the bruises and cuts. But when Dean takes over the watch-"You'll tell me in the morning," Sam says, and since it's not a question Dean doesn't answer.
So, in the morning, when Jakub gets up to relieve himself, Dean sends Castiel off with him on the pretext of protection in these woods where the Germans could be anywhere, and sets about trying to shave without water. It's a raggedy business, one that Sam hasn't really bothered with and Castiel and Jakub only occasionally, and he's just about called it quits for the week when Sam finishes cleaning up the campsite and comes over.
"So what happened?"
The bruises are tender things, Dean found while shaving, and he touches his face without meaning to. "Castiel."
Sam frowns. "Do we need to-"
"No! No." Dean looks at him, wild, and in his eyes Sam sees something-a kingdom, he realizes, like the one he left behind in Palo Alto, and the knowledge that holding it will be a difficult thing. "Germany's off," adds Dean. "We can go home." And with those words Sam knows that their coming fight has gone.
Just to check, though: "We don't need to talk about Russia?"
Dean chuckles, dry. "God no. Do you?"
"Getting you out was hard, sure, but." Sam shrugs, exaggeratedly casual. Dean looks at him, quiet, then grins.
"I knew it was you the whole time, Sammy," he's saying, "Been saying you had it in you the whole time," and Sam lets him say these things because I know what you are and I am not sorry and it is not the world he so loves but Dean; he would give (has given) too much to see it go up with his brother still in it.
"Sure, Dean," says Sam, and doesn't ask anything else about Castiel.
Dean smiles at him, real this time, then closes his kit and stands up. "Can't take that long to piss."
Sam sighs.
---
But he's right; Castiel and Jakub have walked on, again heading up the mountain like it's a rite of passage, though they stop lower down when Jakub turns round suddenly.
"You know what this is about." He starts without preamble, Czech sounding choppier than usual. Castiel watches him pace. "Give me my bag back."
The abruptness of the request is difficult for Castiel to keep up with, his mind visibly trying to piece together the logic behind it, and Jakub scoffs.
"Of course you don't understand. You let me be taken in, left as soon as you could and changed your name, Andel-changed the whole thing. Are you letting me tell them we still share a name because you think it's easier?" His hands slash through the air, his voice rising to a shout. "I can't go home and you don't care because how could you, you're not even-"
"You can go home," Castiel says (Milton, not Novák, that was a lie) but Jakub shakes his head.
"It's not going to be the same. Can't you see that?" He looks at his brother, not knowing what he expected to see but being disappointed anyway. "You're going to leave again, aren't you, with Dean. Do you ever think about anybody other than yourself?"
Oh, but you're wrong, Castiel wants to tell him, it is not myself I think of but the world. But their worlds are different things, the gears of one unable to align with the other, and so he sees no use in trying. "Jimmy," Castiel says, letting his voice get soft because he doesn't know how to make it kind.
Jakub looks at him, this man wearing his face, and sees a stranger. "I gave you everything you asked for," he says softly, "I gave you more, and this is the thanks I get?" The anger's still there, yes, but it's winding past the shouting feeling and settling into something closer to a phantom ache: the pain that comes not from missing something but needing it too much.
And like his favorite author Castiel can see the paradise lost, the rise and fall, but he is not sorry. Jakub, sensing this, opens his mouth and finds himself with nothing more to say. So he lets Castiel keep his leather bag with the photographs of his family, the books, the wedding ring, and when Castiel turns to head back Jakub follows him down.
---
Sam and Dean are ready to go when Castiel and Jakub arrive, throwing them their kits and setting off. It's the same scene as it has been every day before this one; the trees, reaching tall and bony above them, are beginning to lose their leaves, leaving them at that halfway point between bright painted colors and bare branches like fingers burnt and broken. Beneath this patchwork canopy the soldiers, in their olive and their grey, look like game pieces mislaid and with each dragging step they feel it too.
But today they've only walked a few miles before the land starts changing: the forest begins to thin out, the ground beneath their feet goes from packed hard dust to a richer, deeper soil that gives with each step, and because there's no wind they can hear the sound of water.
Water-they break into a run and there it is, there's a river. The Canal du Rhone au Rhin, according to Dean's much-folded map, but that's unimportant information in the face of survival. Sam strips off and jumps in, whooping, and Dean does the same; yeah, it's not exactly covert but they've earned this, they have, and he calls to Castiel with a wave of his hand, grinning at Jakub as well. But the men don't respond because there on the bank of the river, across the water, stands a deer.
"I am going to shoot it," Jakub says, and Castiel lets him take aim. He's earned it, this resumption of their childhood hunts. The deer stills, looks over in their direction, and it's a clear shot yet Jakub doesn't fire. Dean waits in the water, submerged past his mouth, looking up at the creature above him. Then the deer glances away, hearing something in the wind, and breaks into a slow loping run until it disappears once more into the forest.
Jakub re-shoulders his rifle. "Next time," he promises. Castiel stands at the river's edge, unmoving, as Dean climbs out of the river. He's got half a mind to let Jimmy have it, Dean does, because goddamnit it they could have eaten that thing, but one look at the guy's face tells him there's a story there he can't hope to understand.
Sam's gotten out as well, is lying on a patch of grass until he dries off. Dean goes round and gets together their canteens, slips back down into the river, fills them up. He's standing in the water, screwing the top back onto the last one, when he can tell from a slow rippling that starts behind him that Castiel's joined him. The pilot's naked, hands cutting an extra pair of lines into the water, and Dean can't help sneaking glances. But Castiel moves without shame, the sight gradually loses its thrill, and as Dean leaves the water this time a breeze comes through, raising the hairs on his arms and legs and chilling his skin.
Jakub's still on the shore, feet hanging over the edge, when Sam, dry and somewhat cleaner now, walks over. Because his uniform is still filthy (soaking it would only weave the dirt and sweat deeper into the wool) Sam's leaving it off as long as possible, and it's mostly this that makes it difficult for Jakub to meet his eyes.
"Come on, you don't know when your next chance will be," Sam says. Jakub frowns in acknowledgement, watching as Castiel, having gotten his rifle and moved it across, climbs onto the opposite shore. He gets up and mutters agreement, peeling off his uniform and jumping into the water, the ice-coldness of it shocking him into a shout.
Castiel heads off into the woods, feet and body bare, rifle and bayonet weighty in his hands, but the deer's path is hard to find and he stops with the sound of the river still in the air. If he turned around he might be able to see a flash of it here and there, between the trees closing back up behind him, but he stays standing there. Off in the distance the horizon is muddied with a familiar haze: the pollution of Basel, the promise of home away from home. There's no time for memories, however, because ahead of him a crashing noise rattles up, a wild hunt stripped down to its essentials, and Castiel retreats before the patrol comes into view.
The barking of hounds follows him across the water, echoing off the rock around them, and Dean tosses him his uniform as Jakub follows him out of the river. But as suddenly as they began the dogs go silent; Sam and Dean confer in whispers, casting dark glances at the way the forest resumes, grows denser, on the other side.
"They will come at night. We must cross now." Castiel's looking at the same thing they are but again it's like he's seeing something overlaid and they're missing it; he's straining against inaction, Dean can tell now how to see the impatience (it's been there all along) and the pilot's only waiting because-
"Dean," Castiel says. He sounds more annoyed than insistent but even so it's like a bell ringing, faraway yet clear. There's no such thing these days as the cruelest month; humans are cruel enough year round, and Dean doesn't move.
He looks at Sam, not Castiel or Jakub, as he says, "We need to look at our options," and there's the feeling, the one he can't describe, breaking down a part too late defined inside him. The weight of Castiel's gaze is unmistakable, and fury he could embrace but that's not what this is, this is too close to pity.
Dean could walk for years carrying this moment folded up tight in his chest and still be unable to forget: Here, the light's low angle across the pilot's neck and jaw. Here, the blue of his eyes crisp and dark. And here, his collar stained with blood.
Their night on the mountain is still soft on Dean's face, and the unspoken words hang heavy in the air like a hand outstretched. Castiel's still waiting for his answer, arms ready, but on his face Dean can see the choice made. Maybe another year, or in another life, this would end differently; Castiel wouldn't turn to go, wouldn't lead Jakub into the river, their grey uniforms bleeding into black.
"Let's finish this, Sam." The air is heavy in his lungs.
fin.
notes | masterpost | art post