Fic: What have you learned, Dorothy?, part 15/? in Oz
What have you learned, Dorothy?
3300 words, SPN Dean/Castiel slash. Spoilers for all of season 4.
zelda_zee is my beta and I love her.
Continuing my Welcome to Oz series. Master post of links here.
The morning greets Dean with--if not screams then at least loud rumblings--of protest from just about every muscle in his body. He tries to get up, but instead .
What have you learned, Dorothy?
Day 4
The morning greets Dean with--if not screams then at least loud rumblings--of protest from just about every muscle in his body. He tries to get up, but instead rolls off the too short and uncomfortable couch onto the floor (onto his right shoulder and hip). It’s a harsh reminder that he’s not as young, spry, and capable of folding comfortably into origami-like positions for a good night’s sleep as he used to be. Knots up his back, arms, and legs all vie for his attention in addition to the bruises blooming on his shoulder and hip. He picks himself up off the floor, stretches, and cracks his neck. Feeling the joints pop all over his body is a little satisfying, but mostly sad.
Once he’s done, Dean glances at the clock: noon already. Not that it matters, particularly-it’s not like he has anywhere to be other than anywhere but here.
Dean checks the bedroom next to confirm that Castiel’s still there; he is, but he’s lying so still Dean passes a hand over his face to make sure he’s still breathing. Castiel’s pale, but decidedly less run down looking, bags under his eyes mostly gone. There’s also the distinct growth of stubble now, which strikes Dean as strange-though he’d never stopped to notice before whether Castiel had stubble or not.
Dean slips back downstairs into the kitchen and gets himself a bowl of Smackerdoodles again. It weirds him out a little (among all the other things that weird him out about being in Mountaindale) to be eating cereal out of a real bowl in a kitchen and not a diner for the third day in a row. It feels too domestic, too much like a life Dean never had and had convinced himself he never wanted anyway.
Even when he stayed at Bobby’s, the food was catch as catch can-a plate of hopefully not moldy yet leftovers here, a sandwich there, a can of ravioli here. Not that Dean minded-hell, he’d been grateful for the chance to sit at a table that didn’t threaten to collapse with the weight of a toothbrush on it, and eat with utensils he was relatively certain were clean. But at the end of the day, that house was still Bobby’s. This house feels different-partially because its owner already died in a cloud of angel dust and fury-but also because it feels empty in a way that suggests it’s waiting for someone to come along and fill it up.
Dean finishes his cereal and tries to figure out what to do next. Out of boredom and curiosity, he begins to open and close all the cabinets, checking for anything worth finding. Most of the cabinets are outfitted with the usual: dishes, plates, pots and pans. But in one above the counter he strikes gold: amidst a sea of unopened spice jars is a can of ground coffee. There’s a coffee machine under the sink and it only takes a minute longer for the glorious scent of coffee to begin wafting through the air.
He sits and inhales contentedly after he’s prepared himself a mug. He takes a sip (beautiful) and tries to devise his next plan of action. Usually at this point he’d have Sam to bat ideas around with until one of them stuck, but Castiel’s off playing Sleeping Beauty and Sam isn’t here, so Dean’s on his own for this one.
Dean tries to come up with every plausible scenario for why they’re here and what they’re doing in Mountaindale, but the truth is that there are simply too many unknown variables for him to even make an educated guess. On the one hand, the Mayor could be telling him the truth and the angels really did blast them to the future. On the other hand, the Mayor could be full of shit, and this could all be some crazy hallucination, dream, Trickster game, angel game, or some other annoyingly powerful creature game. Hell, this could even be a damn alternate universe or parallel timeline for all Dean knows, although he’s seen enough sci fi movies to know that when those things come up someone always gets screwed in the end. In any case, the possibilities are literally endless, and he’ll go crazy before he can figure it out on his own with so little information.
He’ll have to try driving to the outskirts of town again, see if there’s a secret way down. Or he could interview all the goodly townsfolk, although if they’re half as creepy as the Rockwells or half as douchy as the Mayor, Dean’s not sure he’s really up to it. He could wait until nightfall and attempt to break into City Hall, hack the computer (Castiel’s probably right about the encryption being way above Dean’s level of expertise though-Dean’s also seen enough movies about hacking into government agencies to have a dim view of his chances). A part of Dean wants to beat the stuffing out of the Mayor until he consents to setting him free, but no matter how much of a bureaucratic ass he is, he’s still human and going down the road of hurting innocent people doesn’t lead anywhere good. It might be worthwhile to schedule another appointment and bring some holy water just in case, though.
Dean sighs at the immense sucktitude of it all.
“Dean.”
Dean jumps in his seat and cranes his head around to look at Castiel. “Have I told you how much I hate that?”
Castiel seems almost contrite as he approaches the table. His hands hover uncertainly over the chair back. “I did not mean to startle you.”
“How are you still so quiet anyway?” Dean takes a sip of his coffee. “We gotta put a bell on you or something.” Castiel blinks at him silently until Dean gives up and motions to the chair. “Have a damn seat already.”
Castiel sits and he looks better-a lot better--than yesterday. He’s probably not going to win any beauty pageants anytime soon, but at least he hasn’t got the crazed serial killer vibe anymore. “It is possible that lack of sleep may have had a negative impact on my judgment yesterday.”
“Possible?” Dean raises an eyebrow.
“It is possible,” Castiel repeats a little more loudly, “that my decision-making process may have been slightly compromised.” He stops, and after a few minutes of silence, Dean realizes this is the closest thing to an apology he’ll probably ever get.
“Alright, well,” Dean puts his empty mug down begrudgingly. “You’re new at this whole Little Mermaid thing. But just for future reference, you can’t breathe underwater and you shouldn’t try.”
“Yes,” Castiel says, and his gaze is tranquil, blue, and steady-almost as if nothing has changed and he’s the exact same dick with wings who yanked Dean out of eternal torment without batting an eyelash. Almost.
“You want some cereal?” Dean pushes his chair back and gets up, waving at Castiel to do the same. “Come on. I’ll show you where everything is.”
It’s strange, showing a grown man how to pour cereal and milk, but Castiel’s a quick study and it reminds Dean, a little, of when he was young and Sammy depended on him for everything. Nowadays, Sam’s too stubborn to realize he still needs Dean around to clean up his messes-though this time, Dean has no idea how to even begin to clean up a mess the size of an apocalypse.
“You want coffee?” Dean offers, glancing at the half full pot.
“What does it taste like?” Castiel asks as he chows down on his Shredded Wheatables.
“Like liquid sunshine.” Castiel stares at him blankly and Dean shakes his head. “I dunno, Cas. It doesn’t taste like curly fries or cereal, I can tell you that much.” Dean pours Castiel a mug.
Castiel takes a cautious sip and his face scrunches up in disgust before he can stop himself. “You drink this voluntarily?”
Dean snorts out a laugh. “Dude, if that’s how you feel about coffee, you’re gonna fucking love beer.”
Castiel pushes away the coffee with a grimace. “We should formulate a plan for escape.”
“I figure we could take a second pass around the outskirts of town again. See if there’s something we missed the first time around. Then talk to some townies, find out if they know anyway to get around the Mayor.”
“And if these searches reveal nothing?”
“One step at a time, Cas,” Dean says. “This could all be some fake dream world or crazy alternate reality or something. We gotta find clues before we can narrow it down.”
“Very well.” Castiel gets up and turns to go.
“Whoa there, cowboy,” Dean says. “Aren’t you forgetting some things? Some hygiene things?”
Castiel frowns. “We do not have time for-”
“Listen, we’re-you’re-human now. And we’re gonna be trying to talk to other humans all day today.” Castiel doesn’t seem to be catching Dean’s point. “You smell, okay? And you look a little bit like you’ve been hiding in an underground bunker for the last six months. People don’t really like to talk to strangers who smell and act weird-it makes them nervous.”
“I see,” Castiel looks down at his sleep wrinkled clothing and lifts an arm to smell his armpit. “Humans are concerned with these appearances?”
“We’re a shallow species, what can I say?” Dean shrugs and gets up. “Come on, I’ll show you the ropes of Daily Hygiene 101.”
Dean spends the next hour instructing Castiel on how to take care of regular human grooming and hygiene needs: shaving, using the toilet, showering properly (Castiel showered yesterday, but apparently only ran water over himself without attempting soap or shampoo), using deodorant, brushing his teeth, and picking out clean clothes. A number of razor cuts on the neck later (Castiel) and severe tests of patience (Dean) later, Castiel emerges from the bedroom with a new polo shirt and khakis, as clean-cut and wholesome a slice of Americana as one could ever desire. On the surface, anyway.
They head to the very outskirts of town first, spending the entire morning and afternoon walking along where the mountain drops away to cliffs and the ‘Cloudtop Scenic Overlook’ begins. The drop is every bit as steeply vertical and un-scalable as Dean remembers. In addition to sending Castiel to peer over the edge every three feet (Dean gets dizzy when he gets too close), they also throw rocks off the side. They never hear anything hit the ground and the possibility that the mountain itself is all an elaborate illusion is not one Dean’s willing to test Indiana Jones style.
After a brief lunch at the Fork ‘N Kork Diner, Dean and Castiel spend a few hours canvassing the downtown stores, interviewing shopkeepers and customers. The interviews reveal a stunning lack of new information, though all the stories line up with the Mayor’s story about Mountaindale being the 21st century’s answer to bomb shelters. Everyone also insists that there’s no way to leave other than by government airlift or hot air balloon.
“When is an airlift coming back next?” Dean asks Henry, the balding, middle aged owner of Gale’s Grocery and Goods.
“I don’t know, but might be never,” Henry says. “You’re the first new people we’ve had here in over six months.”
“And where do the goods come from?” Castiel picks up an orange from the produce stand. “Surely all this food is not grown or produced here?”
“There’s a drop site for food and supplies that we can’t grow ourselves,” Henry says. “Before you get any ideas about hitching a ride, I should tell you that by drop site, I mean a literal drop. The supply planes fly by overhead and drop the supplies in unmanned drones. The planes themselves never touch down.”
“Efficient,” Dean says, hope effectively squashed. “How do they decide what to give you? Is it the same every month?”
“All the storekeepers put in supply orders for the month based on what customers are buying or request. The orders are sent to the Mayor, who approves them and forwards them to the government,” Henry explains.
Dean glances at Castiel, an idea starting to form. “So if you manage a store, you can request anything?”
“Anything within your store’s catalogue, sure,” Henry says.
“Thanks, Henry. You’ve been a great help,” Dean says as he gestures for Castiel to follow him out of the grocery store.
“You thinking what I’m thinking?” Dean asks when they reach the car.
“Doubtful,” Castiel replies.
“I’m thinking maybe if we order enough parts through this supply catalogue, we can build ourselves an escape plan, Batman-style,” Dean resists the urge to rub his hands together in glee.
“What can we possibly build that would enable us to scale a mountain?”
“I dunno, but people do it all the time,” Dean says as he starts up the car. “If you climb to the top of Mount Everest, you gotta climb back down, right?”
“Have you climbed a mountain before, Dean?”
“Maybe not recently,” Dean admits (maybe not ever if his vertigo has anything to say about it). “But I’m just saying, if it can be done, we can do it too.”
Castiel seems less than impressed by the brilliance of Dean’s plan, but he willingly waits in the car while Dean dashes inside Jimmy’s house to grab the folder containing the address and keys to the general store. When Dean returns, he tosses the directions to Castiel. “I picked up the folder with your assignment too. Might as well check out your new school while we’re at it.”
The school turns out to be closer to the house, only ten minutes away. It’s a plain, red brick building with two storeys and small, dreary windows. On the front lawn is a sign that says, “Have a nuke-free summer!”
The general store is located near the end of the downtown strip-about fifteen minutes from the house. It’s a one storey storefront with large plate glass windows on either side of a white front door. There’s an alley around the side of the building too, with a dumpster and a backdoor into the store.
“They want me to run a store called ‘Five ‘n Dime’? Seriously?” Dean asks, mostly rhetorically, when he gets out of the car.
Castiel, of course, does not understand the concept of a rhetorical question. “Yes. Do you not like the name?”
“Are you kidding me? I’m renaming this puppy,” Dean pauses for effect, “Dean’s Cabana of Supreme Awesomeness.” When Castiel has no visible reaction, Dean sighs and goes to unlock the front door.
The interior is clean and empty, blue linoleum flooring with six aisles of empty shelves. There’s a counter to the right of the front door with a cash register, which Dean makes his way over to. He runs his fingers along the wall until he finds a light switch, and the bluish white of the fluorescent lights kick on with a slight buzz.
Dean pops open the register (empty) and then checks underneath the counter. There are various ledgers for bookkeeping and accounts (also empty) as well as another set of keys.
“Dean,” Castiel calls from somewhere in the back of the store. Dean follows his voice to the back, where Castiel is attempting to open a door labeled ‘Employees only’ in black stencil writing. Dean pulls out the second set of keys he just picked up and unlocks the door.
The back room is filled with more shelves, along with a desk lined up against the right wall. There are also stacks and stacks of boxes on the floor-store inventory from the looks of it-containing everything from screwdrivers to canned food to allergy medication.
Dean searches the desk while Castiel goes to investigate the boxes. Dean finds some typical office supplies in the drawers (pens, a calculator, paperclips) and a giant, three-ring binder: the store catalogue Henry mentioned. “Bingo,” Dean says as he flips it open and takes a seat at the desk.
All the items are divided up into categories and smaller subcategories, and then listed alphabetically within the subcategories. There’s no ‘Weapons’ or ‘How to escape a freaky government enclave’ category, so Dean has to go through the whole catalogue one at a time. Nothing jumps out as immediately useful, although he does note the baseball bat and tire iron item numbers.
There’s also a computer on the desk, which Dean flips on. Once again, there’s no internet, but there is Minesweeper and a program for inputting all the supply orders. It’s a straightforward interface requiring only the item name, number and quantity. Dean inputs an order for a few baseball bats, tire irons, rock salt, and copious amounts of beer. After he hits submit, there’s a confirmation screen with an estimated processing and shipping time of two to three weeks.
“Two to three weeks,” Dean says. “That’s how long we have to wait for this special order stuff. Please tell me you found something we can use now.”
“There is an assortment of food, beverages, and household supplies,” Castiel says as he fishes a bottle of ‘Grapefruitina’ out of a box. “Nothing we can use to mount a substantial escape effort.”
“I knew I should have watched more episodes of MacGyver,” Dean mutters as he sifts through one of the boxes of food. There are boxes of macaroni and cheese, cans of beans and vegetables. He’s not wild on the vegetables, but the mac and cheese he can live with, so he bends over and picks up the box. “Grab a box, Cas. Free food.”
They return to the house with their boxes of booty, and Dean turns on the stove while Castiel puts the food away in the pantry.
“What are we doing?” Castiel asks, eying the bubbles rising to the surface of the water in the pot.
“Cooking,” Dean says as he pours in the macaroni. “We’re having mac and cheese tonight, one of my favorites.”
Castiel watches with great interest as Dean empties the cheese mix into a bowl with milk and stirs. “Will I like it?”
“Hope so. Because otherwise you’re getting,” Dean squints at the labels on the cans, “kidney beans and carrots.”
Unaware of the horror that awaits him if he doesn’t like macaroni and cheese, Castiel continues to watch Dean prepare the food. Once he’s done ladling the macaroni and cheese into two bowls, Castiel takes a cautious bite (seemingly still stung by the memory of the coffee from earlier) and chews a few times experimentally. After a moment, his expression relaxes and he begins eating in earnest.
“So now what?” Dean asks, and Castiel looks up at him. “You bringing anything to this escape plan party, or you just going to sit there and look pretty?”
“We could pray,” Castiel suggests without any irony.
Dean sighs. “Alright. You get on that and I’ll work on the plan.”
“We still have no idea what we are dealing with, Dean,” Castiel says and Dean hates to admit it, but he has a point. A whole day later and they have barely anything to show for it besides a few cans of vegetables.
Dean glances at the clock. “I know, but it’s late and I’m tired. I’m gonna take a nice, long shower and crash upstairs. You get the couch this time because my back is still killing me from last night.” Castiel nods, and Dean puts the dirty bowls and pans in the dishwasher before heading upstairs.
After a brief shower that does wonders to undo the knots in Dean’s back, he strips down to his boxers and undershirt before sliding under the beautifully cool sheets. One side of the bed smells a little odd-like something vaguely minty and spicy at the same time-and it takes him a minute to work out that it must have been where Castiel slept. Dean rolls over to the other side of the bed (still plenty of room because the bed is freaking mammoth) and promptly passes out.
Onto the next chapter: By how much you are loved by others
3300 words, SPN Dean/Castiel slash. Spoilers for all of season 4.
zelda_zee is my beta and I love her.
Continuing my Welcome to Oz series. Master post of links here.
The morning greets Dean with--if not screams then at least loud rumblings--of protest from just about every muscle in his body. He tries to get up, but instead .
What have you learned, Dorothy?
Day 4
The morning greets Dean with--if not screams then at least loud rumblings--of protest from just about every muscle in his body. He tries to get up, but instead rolls off the too short and uncomfortable couch onto the floor (onto his right shoulder and hip). It’s a harsh reminder that he’s not as young, spry, and capable of folding comfortably into origami-like positions for a good night’s sleep as he used to be. Knots up his back, arms, and legs all vie for his attention in addition to the bruises blooming on his shoulder and hip. He picks himself up off the floor, stretches, and cracks his neck. Feeling the joints pop all over his body is a little satisfying, but mostly sad.
Once he’s done, Dean glances at the clock: noon already. Not that it matters, particularly-it’s not like he has anywhere to be other than anywhere but here.
Dean checks the bedroom next to confirm that Castiel’s still there; he is, but he’s lying so still Dean passes a hand over his face to make sure he’s still breathing. Castiel’s pale, but decidedly less run down looking, bags under his eyes mostly gone. There’s also the distinct growth of stubble now, which strikes Dean as strange-though he’d never stopped to notice before whether Castiel had stubble or not.
Dean slips back downstairs into the kitchen and gets himself a bowl of Smackerdoodles again. It weirds him out a little (among all the other things that weird him out about being in Mountaindale) to be eating cereal out of a real bowl in a kitchen and not a diner for the third day in a row. It feels too domestic, too much like a life Dean never had and had convinced himself he never wanted anyway.
Even when he stayed at Bobby’s, the food was catch as catch can-a plate of hopefully not moldy yet leftovers here, a sandwich there, a can of ravioli here. Not that Dean minded-hell, he’d been grateful for the chance to sit at a table that didn’t threaten to collapse with the weight of a toothbrush on it, and eat with utensils he was relatively certain were clean. But at the end of the day, that house was still Bobby’s. This house feels different-partially because its owner already died in a cloud of angel dust and fury-but also because it feels empty in a way that suggests it’s waiting for someone to come along and fill it up.
Dean finishes his cereal and tries to figure out what to do next. Out of boredom and curiosity, he begins to open and close all the cabinets, checking for anything worth finding. Most of the cabinets are outfitted with the usual: dishes, plates, pots and pans. But in one above the counter he strikes gold: amidst a sea of unopened spice jars is a can of ground coffee. There’s a coffee machine under the sink and it only takes a minute longer for the glorious scent of coffee to begin wafting through the air.
He sits and inhales contentedly after he’s prepared himself a mug. He takes a sip (beautiful) and tries to devise his next plan of action. Usually at this point he’d have Sam to bat ideas around with until one of them stuck, but Castiel’s off playing Sleeping Beauty and Sam isn’t here, so Dean’s on his own for this one.
Dean tries to come up with every plausible scenario for why they’re here and what they’re doing in Mountaindale, but the truth is that there are simply too many unknown variables for him to even make an educated guess. On the one hand, the Mayor could be telling him the truth and the angels really did blast them to the future. On the other hand, the Mayor could be full of shit, and this could all be some crazy hallucination, dream, Trickster game, angel game, or some other annoyingly powerful creature game. Hell, this could even be a damn alternate universe or parallel timeline for all Dean knows, although he’s seen enough sci fi movies to know that when those things come up someone always gets screwed in the end. In any case, the possibilities are literally endless, and he’ll go crazy before he can figure it out on his own with so little information.
He’ll have to try driving to the outskirts of town again, see if there’s a secret way down. Or he could interview all the goodly townsfolk, although if they’re half as creepy as the Rockwells or half as douchy as the Mayor, Dean’s not sure he’s really up to it. He could wait until nightfall and attempt to break into City Hall, hack the computer (Castiel’s probably right about the encryption being way above Dean’s level of expertise though-Dean’s also seen enough movies about hacking into government agencies to have a dim view of his chances). A part of Dean wants to beat the stuffing out of the Mayor until he consents to setting him free, but no matter how much of a bureaucratic ass he is, he’s still human and going down the road of hurting innocent people doesn’t lead anywhere good. It might be worthwhile to schedule another appointment and bring some holy water just in case, though.
Dean sighs at the immense sucktitude of it all.
“Dean.”
Dean jumps in his seat and cranes his head around to look at Castiel. “Have I told you how much I hate that?”
Castiel seems almost contrite as he approaches the table. His hands hover uncertainly over the chair back. “I did not mean to startle you.”
“How are you still so quiet anyway?” Dean takes a sip of his coffee. “We gotta put a bell on you or something.” Castiel blinks at him silently until Dean gives up and motions to the chair. “Have a damn seat already.”
Castiel sits and he looks better-a lot better--than yesterday. He’s probably not going to win any beauty pageants anytime soon, but at least he hasn’t got the crazed serial killer vibe anymore. “It is possible that lack of sleep may have had a negative impact on my judgment yesterday.”
“Possible?” Dean raises an eyebrow.
“It is possible,” Castiel repeats a little more loudly, “that my decision-making process may have been slightly compromised.” He stops, and after a few minutes of silence, Dean realizes this is the closest thing to an apology he’ll probably ever get.
“Alright, well,” Dean puts his empty mug down begrudgingly. “You’re new at this whole Little Mermaid thing. But just for future reference, you can’t breathe underwater and you shouldn’t try.”
“Yes,” Castiel says, and his gaze is tranquil, blue, and steady-almost as if nothing has changed and he’s the exact same dick with wings who yanked Dean out of eternal torment without batting an eyelash. Almost.
“You want some cereal?” Dean pushes his chair back and gets up, waving at Castiel to do the same. “Come on. I’ll show you where everything is.”
It’s strange, showing a grown man how to pour cereal and milk, but Castiel’s a quick study and it reminds Dean, a little, of when he was young and Sammy depended on him for everything. Nowadays, Sam’s too stubborn to realize he still needs Dean around to clean up his messes-though this time, Dean has no idea how to even begin to clean up a mess the size of an apocalypse.
“You want coffee?” Dean offers, glancing at the half full pot.
“What does it taste like?” Castiel asks as he chows down on his Shredded Wheatables.
“Like liquid sunshine.” Castiel stares at him blankly and Dean shakes his head. “I dunno, Cas. It doesn’t taste like curly fries or cereal, I can tell you that much.” Dean pours Castiel a mug.
Castiel takes a cautious sip and his face scrunches up in disgust before he can stop himself. “You drink this voluntarily?”
Dean snorts out a laugh. “Dude, if that’s how you feel about coffee, you’re gonna fucking love beer.”
Castiel pushes away the coffee with a grimace. “We should formulate a plan for escape.”
“I figure we could take a second pass around the outskirts of town again. See if there’s something we missed the first time around. Then talk to some townies, find out if they know anyway to get around the Mayor.”
“And if these searches reveal nothing?”
“One step at a time, Cas,” Dean says. “This could all be some fake dream world or crazy alternate reality or something. We gotta find clues before we can narrow it down.”
“Very well.” Castiel gets up and turns to go.
“Whoa there, cowboy,” Dean says. “Aren’t you forgetting some things? Some hygiene things?”
Castiel frowns. “We do not have time for-”
“Listen, we’re-you’re-human now. And we’re gonna be trying to talk to other humans all day today.” Castiel doesn’t seem to be catching Dean’s point. “You smell, okay? And you look a little bit like you’ve been hiding in an underground bunker for the last six months. People don’t really like to talk to strangers who smell and act weird-it makes them nervous.”
“I see,” Castiel looks down at his sleep wrinkled clothing and lifts an arm to smell his armpit. “Humans are concerned with these appearances?”
“We’re a shallow species, what can I say?” Dean shrugs and gets up. “Come on, I’ll show you the ropes of Daily Hygiene 101.”
Dean spends the next hour instructing Castiel on how to take care of regular human grooming and hygiene needs: shaving, using the toilet, showering properly (Castiel showered yesterday, but apparently only ran water over himself without attempting soap or shampoo), using deodorant, brushing his teeth, and picking out clean clothes. A number of razor cuts on the neck later (Castiel) and severe tests of patience (Dean) later, Castiel emerges from the bedroom with a new polo shirt and khakis, as clean-cut and wholesome a slice of Americana as one could ever desire. On the surface, anyway.
They head to the very outskirts of town first, spending the entire morning and afternoon walking along where the mountain drops away to cliffs and the ‘Cloudtop Scenic Overlook’ begins. The drop is every bit as steeply vertical and un-scalable as Dean remembers. In addition to sending Castiel to peer over the edge every three feet (Dean gets dizzy when he gets too close), they also throw rocks off the side. They never hear anything hit the ground and the possibility that the mountain itself is all an elaborate illusion is not one Dean’s willing to test Indiana Jones style.
After a brief lunch at the Fork ‘N Kork Diner, Dean and Castiel spend a few hours canvassing the downtown stores, interviewing shopkeepers and customers. The interviews reveal a stunning lack of new information, though all the stories line up with the Mayor’s story about Mountaindale being the 21st century’s answer to bomb shelters. Everyone also insists that there’s no way to leave other than by government airlift or hot air balloon.
“When is an airlift coming back next?” Dean asks Henry, the balding, middle aged owner of Gale’s Grocery and Goods.
“I don’t know, but might be never,” Henry says. “You’re the first new people we’ve had here in over six months.”
“And where do the goods come from?” Castiel picks up an orange from the produce stand. “Surely all this food is not grown or produced here?”
“There’s a drop site for food and supplies that we can’t grow ourselves,” Henry says. “Before you get any ideas about hitching a ride, I should tell you that by drop site, I mean a literal drop. The supply planes fly by overhead and drop the supplies in unmanned drones. The planes themselves never touch down.”
“Efficient,” Dean says, hope effectively squashed. “How do they decide what to give you? Is it the same every month?”
“All the storekeepers put in supply orders for the month based on what customers are buying or request. The orders are sent to the Mayor, who approves them and forwards them to the government,” Henry explains.
Dean glances at Castiel, an idea starting to form. “So if you manage a store, you can request anything?”
“Anything within your store’s catalogue, sure,” Henry says.
“Thanks, Henry. You’ve been a great help,” Dean says as he gestures for Castiel to follow him out of the grocery store.
“You thinking what I’m thinking?” Dean asks when they reach the car.
“Doubtful,” Castiel replies.
“I’m thinking maybe if we order enough parts through this supply catalogue, we can build ourselves an escape plan, Batman-style,” Dean resists the urge to rub his hands together in glee.
“What can we possibly build that would enable us to scale a mountain?”
“I dunno, but people do it all the time,” Dean says as he starts up the car. “If you climb to the top of Mount Everest, you gotta climb back down, right?”
“Have you climbed a mountain before, Dean?”
“Maybe not recently,” Dean admits (maybe not ever if his vertigo has anything to say about it). “But I’m just saying, if it can be done, we can do it too.”
Castiel seems less than impressed by the brilliance of Dean’s plan, but he willingly waits in the car while Dean dashes inside Jimmy’s house to grab the folder containing the address and keys to the general store. When Dean returns, he tosses the directions to Castiel. “I picked up the folder with your assignment too. Might as well check out your new school while we’re at it.”
The school turns out to be closer to the house, only ten minutes away. It’s a plain, red brick building with two storeys and small, dreary windows. On the front lawn is a sign that says, “Have a nuke-free summer!”
The general store is located near the end of the downtown strip-about fifteen minutes from the house. It’s a one storey storefront with large plate glass windows on either side of a white front door. There’s an alley around the side of the building too, with a dumpster and a backdoor into the store.
“They want me to run a store called ‘Five ‘n Dime’? Seriously?” Dean asks, mostly rhetorically, when he gets out of the car.
Castiel, of course, does not understand the concept of a rhetorical question. “Yes. Do you not like the name?”
“Are you kidding me? I’m renaming this puppy,” Dean pauses for effect, “Dean’s Cabana of Supreme Awesomeness.” When Castiel has no visible reaction, Dean sighs and goes to unlock the front door.
The interior is clean and empty, blue linoleum flooring with six aisles of empty shelves. There’s a counter to the right of the front door with a cash register, which Dean makes his way over to. He runs his fingers along the wall until he finds a light switch, and the bluish white of the fluorescent lights kick on with a slight buzz.
Dean pops open the register (empty) and then checks underneath the counter. There are various ledgers for bookkeeping and accounts (also empty) as well as another set of keys.
“Dean,” Castiel calls from somewhere in the back of the store. Dean follows his voice to the back, where Castiel is attempting to open a door labeled ‘Employees only’ in black stencil writing. Dean pulls out the second set of keys he just picked up and unlocks the door.
The back room is filled with more shelves, along with a desk lined up against the right wall. There are also stacks and stacks of boxes on the floor-store inventory from the looks of it-containing everything from screwdrivers to canned food to allergy medication.
Dean searches the desk while Castiel goes to investigate the boxes. Dean finds some typical office supplies in the drawers (pens, a calculator, paperclips) and a giant, three-ring binder: the store catalogue Henry mentioned. “Bingo,” Dean says as he flips it open and takes a seat at the desk.
All the items are divided up into categories and smaller subcategories, and then listed alphabetically within the subcategories. There’s no ‘Weapons’ or ‘How to escape a freaky government enclave’ category, so Dean has to go through the whole catalogue one at a time. Nothing jumps out as immediately useful, although he does note the baseball bat and tire iron item numbers.
There’s also a computer on the desk, which Dean flips on. Once again, there’s no internet, but there is Minesweeper and a program for inputting all the supply orders. It’s a straightforward interface requiring only the item name, number and quantity. Dean inputs an order for a few baseball bats, tire irons, rock salt, and copious amounts of beer. After he hits submit, there’s a confirmation screen with an estimated processing and shipping time of two to three weeks.
“Two to three weeks,” Dean says. “That’s how long we have to wait for this special order stuff. Please tell me you found something we can use now.”
“There is an assortment of food, beverages, and household supplies,” Castiel says as he fishes a bottle of ‘Grapefruitina’ out of a box. “Nothing we can use to mount a substantial escape effort.”
“I knew I should have watched more episodes of MacGyver,” Dean mutters as he sifts through one of the boxes of food. There are boxes of macaroni and cheese, cans of beans and vegetables. He’s not wild on the vegetables, but the mac and cheese he can live with, so he bends over and picks up the box. “Grab a box, Cas. Free food.”
They return to the house with their boxes of booty, and Dean turns on the stove while Castiel puts the food away in the pantry.
“What are we doing?” Castiel asks, eying the bubbles rising to the surface of the water in the pot.
“Cooking,” Dean says as he pours in the macaroni. “We’re having mac and cheese tonight, one of my favorites.”
Castiel watches with great interest as Dean empties the cheese mix into a bowl with milk and stirs. “Will I like it?”
“Hope so. Because otherwise you’re getting,” Dean squints at the labels on the cans, “kidney beans and carrots.”
Unaware of the horror that awaits him if he doesn’t like macaroni and cheese, Castiel continues to watch Dean prepare the food. Once he’s done ladling the macaroni and cheese into two bowls, Castiel takes a cautious bite (seemingly still stung by the memory of the coffee from earlier) and chews a few times experimentally. After a moment, his expression relaxes and he begins eating in earnest.
“So now what?” Dean asks, and Castiel looks up at him. “You bringing anything to this escape plan party, or you just going to sit there and look pretty?”
“We could pray,” Castiel suggests without any irony.
Dean sighs. “Alright. You get on that and I’ll work on the plan.”
“We still have no idea what we are dealing with, Dean,” Castiel says and Dean hates to admit it, but he has a point. A whole day later and they have barely anything to show for it besides a few cans of vegetables.
Dean glances at the clock. “I know, but it’s late and I’m tired. I’m gonna take a nice, long shower and crash upstairs. You get the couch this time because my back is still killing me from last night.” Castiel nods, and Dean puts the dirty bowls and pans in the dishwasher before heading upstairs.
After a brief shower that does wonders to undo the knots in Dean’s back, he strips down to his boxers and undershirt before sliding under the beautifully cool sheets. One side of the bed smells a little odd-like something vaguely minty and spicy at the same time-and it takes him a minute to work out that it must have been where Castiel slept. Dean rolls over to the other side of the bed (still plenty of room because the bed is freaking mammoth) and promptly passes out.
Onto the next chapter: By how much you are loved by others