[fic] Triskele - Part V (a)
At first, Dean thought he was dreaming. He heard several voices; no distinct words, but the sounds were recognizable. There were the unmistakable sounds of Sam and Cas, and he even heard Jo's voice chime in once or twice. In the background he could hear Bobby, and then a voice he'd been sure he'd never hear again: Lisa. He wasn't sure what to do, but he did know that try as he might, any slight movement sent waves of dull pain through him. It curled at the wrapped gash on his front, and he quickly gave up. Walking it off was currently not an option. The pain was lessened (save for his front), but it was dulled in combination with not having moved much, making everything that much worse. He did sport a nasty headache, but the throbbing in and behind his eyes was lessened. At least he could open his swollen eye a bit.
He gave a huff, wondering how exactly to get someone's attention, but there was the unmistakable sound of a chair (or something) flying back, followed by the very loud yell of, "He's awake!"
The conversation stopped at the announcement, and the first person he saw hovering above him was Sam. Sam's mouth was moving, and there was definitely sound coming from him, but he was speaking way too fast. Cas was right next to Sam, watching on worriedly, and slowly the others started to come into focus. Their hovering was a tad overwhelming, but still, kind of, really nice.
"Day," he croaked. "What day is it? How long have I been out?" he demanded.
Sam smiled with a few others, and Bobby spoke up. "You arrived a bit after supper yesterday evening. You had a few minutes where you kinda woke up, but that was 'bout all you did. Today's Thursday, the 21st of July."
Thursday, Thursday. Dean lifted an extremely heavy hand, and pointed to Castiel. "It's your day, man." He didn't see Cas' reaction, his eyes closing and arm falling. He yawned, but insisted that he wasn't falling back asleep. Instead, he asked for a few minutes alone with Sam and Cas, a request readily granted. He groaned at the sound of the door closing. "Who knew just thinking would make me sore?" he asked.
Sam laughed, grabbing the fallen stool and sat down. "How are you feeling?"
"Really, Sam? Did you really just ask that?"
"Okay! Sorry, dumb question. But you're feeling better than earlier, right?"
Dean gave the best shrug he could-which wasn't much of one. "Yeah, I suppose. Still can't move without feeling like I've died five times."
"That's because you haven't eaten anything." Castiel stepped away and returned a moment later with a bowl of something-or-other. "It's good."
Dean wasn't quite sure he knew exactly what it was. It smelled all right, but so did a great many other things that proved to taste Not That Great. "Not sure if I trust you."
"Doesn't matter, you'll eat it," Sam admonished.
Carefully, Dean sat up with Sam's help, trying very hard not to let the fresh waves of pain send him back down. He was situated in a cushioned area, almost like a nook, or bay-window ledge, only much larger and able to accommodate him. It wasn't the most comfortable of situations, but it was better than a hay-filled wagon.
"The largest concern left is the gash on your abdomen. It's deep, but not enough to be fatal. Just extremely painful," Castiel told him. "I'm sure that is reassuring news."
"I'm not sure if you're - ow, fuck - getting a grasp on sarcasm, or if you're being serious."
Cas was quiet, but Dean caught the slightest bit of a smirk as he sat upright and breathed hard to try and ignore the coursing agony. "Both. Now open up," he said, taking the seat Sam had vacated.
"You are not feeding me." Dean was skeptical about this, trying to move his arms a bit more defensively. He took notice of the change of clothes - definitely more comfortable than the ribbons he remembered from earlier - but kept it to himself in favor of more delicious things.
"Oh, I was unaware you possessed the strength to do so yourself for more than three bites."
Dean mustered all he could to yank the bowl from Castiel. Glaring, he said, "Not sure if I like the new 'tude, Dude," and took a spoonful of the soup, or stew, or whatever it was. It wasn't too bad, the taste. Certainly lacking in flavor, but it wasn't bad; although he did find himself wishing he had some of his mom's tomato and rice soup. Scooping a second bite, Dean thought he would be fine. Tired, yes, but by the end of the third bite, he wasn't sure he could eat the rest on his own. Which made him feel weak and even more miserable than he already was (because that was possible), but he forced himself through two more bites before handing the bowl back to Castiel. "Five."
He rested his arms in his lap and watched in amusement as Castiel rolled his eyes with a, "Humans." Victorious, this time Dean kept his eyes on Sam, this time daring him to make a comment, or a face, or anything that might prove his amusement at any interaction between Dean and Cas. Being spoon-fed was humiliating enough, but having his brother watch on, his brother who had an inkling of what might or might not have been happening between them? He doubted it was coincidence, and had to wonder if Atropos, that bitch, was doing it for Dean's humiliation. But, rather than waste his thoughts on her, Dean forced a few more bites down, and got to business.
"Death goes by Mordecai here, and Jess said that there are a few people working for Crowley who don't know they're working for Crowlhnghhk."
Castiel forced another bite in Dean's opened mouth (as in Dean didn't see it coming, hello spoon), and Sam ran a hand through his hair.
"That's what we're thinking. It would make sense." Sam paused, and frowned apologetically at Dean. "I'm sorry," he said. "We thought they would at least interrogate you, first."
Dean swallowed hard. "You say that like my torture session was part of the plan," he sighed. "Oh, I was interrogated, and when I gave an answer my interrogator didn't want, which was every single one, by the way, I got a new lash on my back." He shrugged. "Or a new slice on my arm." He took another bite of soup. "Or a fresh burn on places I didn't know I had, and I've been to Hell, and been his living cadaver before. I thought I knew every place on my body in ways far more intimately than I should. I was wrong."
Sam and Cas winced, and Dean could feel the guilt swimming off of them in waves. He wasn't pleased that the plan didn't work out, but it was hardly their fault, and it wasn't like they hadn't apologized-Cas over, and over again. So he tried to shake it off. "Hey, Gordon Ramsey. Food."
Two bites later, Castiel asked, "What things did he ask?" His voice was low, and quiet, and filled with apology.
Dean sat back, staring up at the ceiling and trying to think. It wasn't that he didn't know, he just had to find a way to put it. "Well," he began. "There was stuff regarding Mary and Elizabeth. He kept asking why I wanted to kill the queen, and who I was working for. Jess told me about Crowley when she visited."
Sam and Castiel shot each other those looks that all-too-loudly said, 'Hey, there's something you don't know.' Dean grimaced, and sighed. "What now…?" he asked.
Castiel shifted his eyes away, leaving Sam to explain everything. "You uh, remember that letter he gave you? Crowley?"
Dean nodded.
"Well…. After Death arrested you and Cas took off, we think Crowley had some men, or paid some servants off, to retrieve that letter for him. But it wasn't the letter you think it was."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"The letter you found in the forest was most likely the one that could have him tried for treason, but what he gave you to keep as blackmail was a letter incriminating yourself," Castiel added. "He forged your hand, presented the 'found' letter to the Chamber, and had you thrown in the dungeon for Alastair to interrogate. The letter was crafted to be correspondence between you and another conspirator discussing the assassination of Elizabeth so that Mary Stuart may claim the throne of England."
"It's treason, so if we don't find a way to clear your name, or hurry this Tarot thing up, we'll all be hanged, drawn, and quartered, and it's not going to be an easy task to clear your name without some serious evidence to convict Crowley."
"Wow, Sam, that really helps calm me down, thanks."
Sam shrugged in response. "It's the truth."
In silence, Dean took another bite of the soup, then settled down as well as he could. "Whatever," he groaned. "Anything else you guys wanna hit me with before I go back to sleep?"
"Alastair." Cas huffed, setting the bowl down in his lap. "Did he mention anything else?"
The mention of the name sent echoing laughter to ring in the back of Dean's mind, and it slowly crept itself closer to the forefront. "Honesty," he croaked. "He kept telling me to be honest. Stop lying to myself and to him."
"Then he was the Devil."
Dean's eyes slowly rolled to him, catching Sam's stiff and sudden stance.
"Death. Mordecai, here," Cas continued. "He was the Death card, and Jess was Temperance. It leaves Alastair as The Devil. I'm fairly certain that Death was simple to figure out, yes?"
"I guess, but what was up with Jess?" Dean asked. He rubbed at his eyes. "'Combine my answers.' What does that even mean?"
"Judging by the name, Temperance; just think of tempering something. Like metals. Or combining two opposites to get what you want without really losing what you had." Sam leaned his side against the wall, and had his arms crossed in thought. "You probably would have gotten it, if not for the whole 'question' part throwing you off."
"Right. I'll pretend I suddenly got it."
"Like Sam said, Temperance represents combining things. I believe in your situation, Temperance was trying to tell you how to survive your interrogation with the Devil better than you did. You were confused, and couldn't, therefore, brace yourself in time for it."
"Great. I still don't get it-"
"But I could be wrong. Temperance's ultimate lesson is melding things together. It's more positive than it is at all negative, but it could mean putting a multitude of different things together. In your case, for example, you live a hunter's life, but want something more Suburbia. Who says you can't combine those two?"
"Every hunter I've ever met?" Dean nearly spat. "Once a hunter, always a hunter. No escaping that. I've tried."
Castiel's expression remained light, and he shrugged. "You only say that because no one ever has."
Dean stopped, and turned to Sam. "You let him watch The Princess Bride?"
"It was there, we were bored…?"
"Dude, I had it in that stack of DVD's before we went to Stornoway! We were all gonna watch it together! No more angel-sitting for you."
"As for the Devil, and Alastair," Castiel coughed. "In the story of the Fool's Journey, the Devil is actually represented by Pan, and not Satan. He's not so much cruel as a bit manipulative-" ("Oh, Alastair was both, all right.") "-and the point of the card is acknowledging what you actually want instead of what needs, real or imagined, you've placed upon yourself."
Dean's stare at Castiel turned nervous, and he hated himself for it. He was just giving it all away, wasn't he?
"But like we said before, the cards are taking the course of events into account, so the card used innocence or guilt regarding the queen. It's up to you to figure out what it means for you; what you're not admitting to yourself."
"What would I not be admitting to myself?"
Castiel shrugged, and Sam shook his head in a way that told Dean he knew something Dean didn't know he knew, which made Dean want to just up and disappear, preferably forever. "While the cards themselves may happen in order, the lessons may not. You might find out with the next card, or following. For example, the next is The Tower, but its lesson may not sink in until you've encountered two more cards." With that, Castiel had cleaned up the area without another word, leaving Sam to make sure Dean was comfortable enough to take a quick nap.
Dean had been able to feed himself after that without becoming too exhausted, but moving too much was still a hassle. Despite his work-through-the-pain attitude, this was not going to just let up overnight. He'd been admonished by both Sam and Castiel, but also by Bobby, and Jo.
As it was, Bobby worked as a bower and fletcher from his home in Hatfield (where they were, wherever that was) and Jo would visit from time to time with her mother. This time, Ellen was out with Jess, Ash, and several others trying to get as much information as they could about Crowley, which only made Dean feel worse. He should have been the one out there, but he found companionable commiseration with Jo, who also preferred going out to help catch the bad guy. But the one person he'd caught himself wondered the most about was Lisa.
She was still as beautiful as ever, and though she looked terribly out of place in her simple dress, it still suited her. The most Dean usually received from her was a smile and silence as she went about her business. She was obviously no part of the nobility, and Ben, 13 or 14 years old now (wow), ran around in a shirt and breeches with no shoes on. According to Jo, Lisa was Bobby's god daughter in this universe, and had been living with him since Ben was about a year old.
Distracted perhaps though she made him, Dean never gave up on trying to stand from his nook. Sam had given him Bitchface #21 (Why Are You The Way That You Are?), accompanied by Jo's unending lectures ("You haven't been awake for more than two days. Take it easy!"). Castiel pushed him down continuously, but Bobby had been the worst. Dean had moved to a sitting position and had both feet on the ground, but just as he'd gone to push himself up, Bobby pushed him down. The difference in strength was all too great for Dean to really want to admit; he felt like a schoolgirl who was shoved down by Tommy B. Mean, but it was that much worse because Bobby didn't show any kind of apathy. Where Castiel was careful in pushing Dean down to make sure he didn't hurt him, Bobby just didn't give two shits.
"Brought you some porridge."
Dean was starting to get really sick of porridge, too. Even one of Sam's pro-health pro-vegan salads was starting to sound better than porridge. But he sat up and eyed Bobby warily, reading every move he made so as to not be taken by surprise. (Mostly thanks to Cas, who took advantage of Dean's loose jaw and saw fit to stuff his mouth with the porridge, or soup, or stew, when he was least expecting it.) "Thanks," he said, and he took the bowl. Still his eyes never left Bobby, and he wasn't sure if it was awkward or not, because Bobby's eyes never left him. Well, eating was out of the question for now. "Can I help you?" he asked.
"You been daydreamin' since you got here. What's got you so distracted?"
"What? Nothing," he lied, taking a bite into his porridge. "Just a new environment."
"Sorry my humble abode isn't up to your majesty's expectations. Now tell me what's wrong."
"I'm not lying!"
"And I'm Henry IV."
Dean glared and continued to glare, forgetting about his porridge. (Probably the least flavorful food he'd had since arriving at Bobby's, and that was saying something.) "I dunno what you're talking about. I'm not lying."
"Fine. What's got you tangled up with Crowley?"
Dean couldn't decide if the question was as loaded as it sounded, or if it was just there, and waiting to be answered. On the other hand, wasn't it a bit of a belated question? So he tried a grin, and sarcastic, airy laugh. "You say that like I want to be tangled up with him."
"No one does. What's your plan?"
"…Plan?"
"Well from what I understand, you're in a heap of trouble. You gotta find a way to incriminate Crowley, and that requires returning to London."
The porridge could have really used some salt. "And how do you suggest I do that? He's trying to get me attended-"
"Attainted."
"Sure. And got me sent to Alastair. As long as this plan doesn't involved knives, fire, or whips, I'm game."
"You say that like I got a plan," Bobby parroted. "It's not my ass in trouble, unless you attract Crowley and his cronies here, and I can assure you that they're already on the move. You best get back on your feet, and fast. There are people here and in London risking their own lives for you because they love you. Don't treat that like somethin' you can just ignore, or treat as hopeless."
Frustration and relief filled Dean. Bobby was right, but that was the issue. He was right. Crowley would no doubt have started searching for him, and Dean had no idea just how many people were at Crowley's beck and call. He was putting everyone in danger-Lisa and Ben, again. He let his head fall back to hit the wood, trying to just clear his mind. Not that it ever worked for him, he was always too busy worrying about other things. So he glanced past Bobby to find Castiel talking to Lisa about something or other, and he groaned. It would just figure.
What could they be talking about, together? As far as he knew, they really didn't have much in common. What could they have in common? They both knew him, but the most interaction they'd ever had was Castiel wiping her memory and saving her life. For Dean. (Because in their world, those things were small beans.) He was the only link between them, but he sincerely doubted they would be talking about him.
Then Lisa turned, smiling, and Dean thought that maybe being dead and on display in the town square wasn't such a bad idea. It would have been really, really stupid to say he hadn't given thought to the idea of being with Lisa again, but things were amazingly complicated. First being, of course, that this wasn't his reality and he'd be damned if he didn't get to go home. The second was that it wasn't quite the same as Sam and Jess's situation, at least not anymore. If he was right about that funny feeling, then he had a new set of priorities with someone else.
He could, now, make the realization that this, that Lisa, was just a page out of a short book. It had been thrown under the bed, and surrounded by piles of stuff, and lost socks. It was dusty, the binding was cracked, and the pages were stiff and yellowed. But then he remembered what was on those pages the minute he actually saw Lisa, and he remembered how much he loved that book. The worst part was remembering that no matter how real Lisa might be, right here in front of him, that was all it was: a short story that might have at one time been real, but was nothing more than a fable anymore. And it was a fable with a crappy ending and stupid moral.
"You ain't the only one with problems here, son. Buck up and figure out what you're gonna do, or we're all in trouble."
Bobby stood and left, leaving Dean with a groaned, "Why is it always me that's gotta come up with the answer?!"
He breathed in, and let it out in a rush to find Cas standing over him with an inquisitive gleam in his eyes. It was almost accusatory, even, making Dean just a bit more uncomfortable. So he did what he did best, and returned the challenge, refusing to look away. He felt guilty; why, he didn't know. Wow, that was annoying. "What?"
"You didn't eat." Castiel pointed to the porridge sitting next to Dean.
"Yeah, well, I'm sick of porridge. Is there really no Ye Olde Taco Bell around here?"
Grabbing the bowl, Castiel rolled his eyes. "You are quite possibly the most insufferable man I've had the fortune of saving from Hell."
"I'm the only man, insufferable or not, you've had the fortune of saving from Hell." Dean smiled. "I am a one-of-a-kind pain in the ass."
Cas returned the smile, and this time when their eyes caught, Dean saw That Look for the second time. The look Dean was given when he'd forgiven Cas; when Dean had satisfied The Lovers card. His insides squirmed, and stole just a quick bit of air from him, but he liked to think he covered it well. Dean couldn't avert his attention, and then that's when Something clicked, and he could finally put the proper words to that Something Really Big. Or maybe, rather, finally admit what he'd been trying to deny.
"Hey, uh, I'll." Dean coughed, groping for the bowl in an attempt to distract himself. "Take the porridge back. I'm. Pretty hungry."
(Not that he actually would, of course.)
Cas nodded, and handed it back with an, "As you wish," before turning away to work outside.
At first Dean told himself that no, Cas didn't at all mean it like that, but that idea quickly fizzled to nothing. Castiel knew perfectly well what that phrase meant, and combined with everything else, there was nothing else it could mean. A rush of fright swept through him, easily quelled by the warm pull under his diaphragm, but it left him with a smile horribly disguised as a grin. His thoughts were doing crazy things; they formed the more complete intricate loops that had been teasing Dean in the last several weeks. It was almost a relief.
"Son of a bitch, Cas."
***
As it turned out, The Tower was a pretty confusing card. The interpretation Dean had hated the most was 'the end of something not natural, like an idea'. It took half an hour for Sam and Castiel to try and explain that one to him, and it only made sense when Cas amended it to, "A change of idea, your perception of something changes." Additional explanation revealed discovery of something from the change of view. Of course, with Cas there, the first thing on his mind was Cas. He couldn't easily shake that discovery off. Sam had silently demanded to know what was going on from Dean, so as soon as Cas revealed the next card as The Star, Sam asked to speak to Dean alone. Cas nodded, and left to join the others outside.
"Dude, what's going on with you and Cas?"
Dean tried playing it off and acting cool. "What? Nothing?"
"Stop it, Dean," Sam demanded. "I'm not stupid. Something's been going on with you two since he got his memory back. You can't keep it from me."
"I really have no idea what you're talking about-"
"Yes, you do! Dean, you don't have to keep any secrets from me, you hate it when I keep secrets from you! Don't be a hypocrite!"
"I'm not being a hypocrite!"
"Oh my god, yes you are! Dean, just tell me!"
"You're the only one putting anything there! I'm telling you, nothing's going on between me and Cas!" Dean wasn't sure which was worse: that he was lying, or that he was telling the truth. That thought alone nearly broke his heart.
Sam was quiet only for half of a moment. "I can see it, Dean. I'm not blind."
Dean didn't say anything.
"Something is going on between you. The stares now are horrible. I mean, I thought they were plentiful and awkward before, but now I just feel uncomfortable if I'm in the same room when you two are staring. Which is literally all the time anymore, ever since we pulled you from the dungeon."
Dean shifted his eyes away, trying to focus on the hem of his shirt's sleeve.
"I just want to know you're okay, or if you need help with something that you're too macho to ask for."
"Sam, I'm fine! I don't need your help with anything, but thanks!"
"I know, Dean."
"Great, then stop asking-"
"No! I mean. I know."
Dean returned his attention to Sam, and said as lowly as he could, "Then stop asking what you already know the answer to."
Just briefly, Dean had hoped it was going to be one of those serious moments that Sam would walk away because Dean refused to open up about something. Dean was wrong. Sam no longer appeared to show any sign of leaving him the fuck alone about this.
"Have you said anything to him about it?"
"What-?"
"Did he say something?"
"Sam, what. Nothing's happened! Neither of us have said anything, and it's going to stay that way."
"But you know."
"I'm sorry, are you Becky Rosen?"
"No, I'm your brother and I want to talk about this with you."
"Ever occur to you that I might not want to talk about it?"
"Ever occur to you that I don't care, and don't want you to bottle it up like everything else so that you can become more miserable?"
Dean hit his head against the wall supporting him. "How about I tell you when I feel like telling you, after something's happened?" Which nothing probably would, of course.
Sam was quiet for a moment, but that was all the time he really needed to be quiet. Just long enough so that Dean could take a breath without worrying what words it would be spent on, and just short enough so that the silence wouldn't become awkward.
"Dean, I…" he began. He glanced down, trying not to show his smile. "Dean, the way you two look at each other, it's not like you'd be able to fool anyone. (Which is actually kind of bad in this era….)" He raised his head, and made sure he had all of Dean's attention. "You'd be unhappy without him. You were torn apart when we thought he'd drowned, and when we found him again it was like you got a puppy for Christmas. I want you to be happy, Dean, and if being with Cas makes you happy? Then I want that for you."
Dean didn't know what to say, and he was pretty sure his ears were on fire. So he forced himself to face away with an, "Aaghhh!" and made shooing motions at Sam. "Way too much estrogen in the room, Samantha! This isn't a slumber party! Now help me up. I've been sitting down way too long, and my ass hurts more than my gut."
Sam grabbed a hold of Dean's arm, and with his other hand he grabbed Dean's opposite shoulder. Swinging his legs over the edge of the nook was the easy part. Standing was not so easy, and there were quite a few small but powerful twinges as he tried to straighten as best he could. He laughed. "Could'a done this two days ago!" he forced out, clinging on to Sam like the Life Support Pole he actually was.
Three steps later he faltered and would have fallen into a heap if not for Sam.
"Really?" he asked.
"Shut up, Sam," Dean grumbled. "Outside. Need some god damned sunlight."
For a grey and rainy island, it was actually pretty nice out. A bit cloudy, but it was July and it was warm. The moment they saw him, everyone gathered around Dean to make sure he was okay, but he did to them what he'd done to Sam and brushed them away. When Lisa refused to step back, Dean felt Sam's grip change just the slightest in inquiry.
"I'll be fine, Lis," he insisted. Even with everything he'd thought and-or realized, having her so close was still a little off-setting. Understandably, right?
"How am I supposed to make sure you're healing properly if you won't let me near you?"
"Cuz I know I'm fine!" Dean pressed. "I'm walkin'! See?"
"Walking doesn't mean you're fine."
It was something of a stand-off between them (more like a huddled over stand-off in Dean's case), but Lisa finally gave in with a sigh and let them by. They didn't go far before Ben stopped him to ask how he felt moving around.
"Like I just got out of surgery with no anesthesia or morphine."
They didn't really get it, and that was okay with him. But the morphine actually sounded like a most excellent idea, or at least some vicodin; hell, just some aspirin would be amazing. Too bad Cas couldn't just zap him back to health.
Jo joined Ben after she took her turn checking up on Dean, Bobby had headed back inside to make the next semi-edible concoction, and Sam helped Dean sit down on the rock bench outside the fire pit. His gut felt like it was being pulled in directions it had no business going, but damn it all if he was stuck in that nook another moment without having gone outside for some fresh air at least once. He took a deep breath to try and calm his nerves and slow the pain. It worked (at least a little), and he tried grinning. Endorphins, right?
"Next thing you know, I'll be running a marathon by tomorrow night," he said. Sam and Castiel said nothing, while Lisa stepped up with an amused roll of her eyes.
"You keep telling yourself that," she said. "You have to be careful. If you want to get better, you can't just force it. You might reopen the wound. Patience."
There was that word again, and he found himself desiring a warm seat in the library, playing cards with his mom. He hid his wince with a, "Pah. I'm not pressing anything. Walking is good for you. Blood flow. Helps with healing."
Lisa wasn't convinced. Instead she handed over a small, steaming cup of. Something. "It'll help with the pain. It's an old recipe."
Dean was hesitant, but it couldn't have been worse than Bobby's bland porridge, right? He took a sip. At first it was sweet, but there was a quick aftertaste of bitterness and grossness. He almost spit it out, but that would be rude. Plus, potential pain relief.
"So what are your next plans?" she asked, taking the cup back. "You can't just hide out forever."
"We can try-"
"We'll return to London," Sam interrupted. "We have to wait for Ash to return with some information, then we'll take it as proof to Westminster."
Lisa nodded, this time handing Dean a cup of water. "It's clean," she told him. "Can you afford to wait however long it might take him to return?"
"He should arrive in a week or so." Castiel walked forward between Sam and Dean and grinned ahead at a small sprig of a tree, contemplating something. "Depending on what information we receive…. Who knows how it will go then. If we could just hold out, we might not have to worry about it."
"Hold out for and worry about what?" Lisa asked.
None of them answered her; she wouldn't have understood the answer, anyway. It was a long, and awkward silence with directions of attention shooting every-which-way.
Finally Lisa's lips pulled back with an, "Okay!" and a clap. "Well, then. Just … hold out hope, I guess."
Dean harrumphed, downing the rest of the water. He'd tried that before, holding out hope, and been let down too many times. It was often called being gullible, or naïve, and that was something Dean never wanted to be. He couldn't afford to be.
"You may as well try to be optimistic about it," she said. She sounded just a little chafed, maybe offended, and refilled his cup. "(Porridge you may have gotten your fill of. Water you haven't.) There's no use in looking down on it, right? The chances might be slim, but they're still there. Think of it like your chances are 50-50, and not 1-99. You either win or you lose. Obviously you want to win, so…. Go for it."
Lisa continued standing there, with her feet planted firmly. She wasn't going to be moved so easily. Dean moaned inwardly at the action; why did Lisa decide she wanted to make a point right then? If he could have moved, or gestured, or something, he would happily have done so. Not that Lisa would have moved much more, but it made him feel better. He stared up at her staring down at him, and he sighed. Life hated him, and Beira must have really hated him to do this to him.
"Life sucks sometimes," she said. "But hard work and constant vigilance-"
"There isn't really much of a light at the end of this tunnel, Lis. I'm not saying we're not working hard." He tried giving her the 'even-though-I'm-trying-to-make-light-of-a-tough-situation-all-I'm-doing-is-making-everyone-uncomfortable' smile, but all she did was fix him with an angry glare. "This is a really, really long tunnel, and that light is about to go out."
"Then you run faster. When you get there, you nurture it to keep it safe, no matter how long it takes. And my name's not Lis."
Lisa stalked off and back into Bobby's little house with a louder-than-necessary slam of the door.
Sam had winced just slightly. "Was that The Star?" he asked. "That was The Star, right?"
"I dunno! I didn't sign up for this ride!" Dean played with the scabbed edge of his wound and tested its sensitivity. "I'm sick of this. 'Simplest but longest route,'" he said, remembering Beira's words. "Longest, sure, but simplest? And what the hell, route? Like there are different ones!"
"Maybe cuz you drew The Fool?" Sam tried.
Dean didn't find it as comforting as Sam probably meant it to be, but it didn't matter. What was that saying? Que sera sera, or something? "I ain't doin' anymore Tarot when we get home. If we get home."
"That's rather pessimistic." Castiel walked up in front of them. "I mean, I understand you sometimes are, but there have been plenty of happenstances when you've shown optimism in the bleakest of times."
"Cas, not now." Dean's stare was on the ground. Optimism, pessimism, whatever: He wanted this to be over and to go home, but sometimes it felt that he was just being drained of all of his energy. And for what? Some stupid story. What was the point of any of this? "What light am I supposed to be looking for?" he asked. "Home? Home's a long way from here, and who knows how much longer it'll take with me like this."
"Actually, we're a lot closer to the end of the arcana than you might think," said Sam. "We're on The Star. There's only what, four cards after that? We're almost done, Dean!"
"That's great, but the longer this goes on, the harder it is to identify the cards. I'm not saying 'abandon all hope ye who enter here', but. Get used to hiding out, just in case."
***
There was nothing that could get Dean out of his weird little funk for a while. The longer it went on, the more irritable he became, and he managed to make just about everyone angry.
Sam never said anything pertaining to the issue of home around Dean; he just made sure Dean didn't trip while walking. (Walking, while it provided a few nice minutes, was still painful, but at last it was getting the point where he could brush the pain aside.) Bobby would grumble on about Dean's grumbling, Ben went out of his way to steer clear; Jo tried to fight back, and Castiel tried his best to ignore it but still hadn't gotten out of his, "I am an Angel of the Lord, human," habits when it came to staring Dean down when Dean pissed him off.
Lisa, however, didn't just take what he threw at her. She threw it right back, and for as much as Dean tried to ignore it all, he couldn't. He'd tried very hard in the last year and a half to forget Lisa and everything he'd had, but Fate hated him, so it didn't matter. It would be thrown in his face, and by Lisa? It just figured, because nothing went Dean's way.
Not to say that Lisa wasn't nice. She certainly was nice, every time she approached him with that wide, beautiful smile of hers. Every time she laughed with Ben. It was horrible to watch and be reminded that he couldn't have that kind of innocent life again. It was why he wouldn't give her more than a quick, muttered, "Thanks." Dean was afraid any kind reciprocation to her service would just reel him in, even with the knowledge that he and Cas had this mutual, if unspoken, thing going on. He didn't think he would abandon that, but dammit he missed that life.
"So."
Dean was shaken from his thoughts to find the subject of them handing him a bowl of stew. He took it with a nod, and instead of walking away like she normally did, Lisa took a seat next to him. He watched her, his gaze narrowing.
"You wanna tell me what made the great earl of Smyth want to kill the queen?"
He wasn't even from this year, but his response of, "I don't want to kill the queen!" was automatic, emphatic, and honest. Truth be told, he was quite a fan of Elizabeth. Cate Blanchett had done an excellent job. "I was framed." He took a savage bite of meat.
"I was being a little round-about with it." Lisa straightened her skirts. "Crowley, right?"
Dead nodded. If he opened his mouth to answer, a roar would probably escape him. (Also his meat.)
"Why would Crowley want her dead, though? That makes no sense. I thought he was in good with the queen."
"Scottish. His real name is Fergus MacLeod," Dean said, swallowing. "He wants Mary on the throne."
Lisa remained quiet, thinking about it some more. It actually made Dean proud of himself. He knew something important like this, and Sam wasn't around to steal his thunder. But, rather than give himself a congratulatory smile and pat on the back, he continued to eat his food. The stew wasn't half bad, for having no potatoes in it. He almost regretted not being in Ireland.
"Where is everyone?"
"The men are out hunting, and Jo and Ben went to market."
"So, uh…" Dean began awkwardly. "Where's Ben's dad?" he asked. It wasn't wrong to think it might be different, right? After all, dead people were alive; Lisa's situation might have been different than in the real world.
"Dead," she answered simply. "Went to Calais not long after he was born, and never returned."
"Must have been rough."
"It was, for a while. We moved from Southampton to Hatfield to live here with Bobby, and though it's small and a lot of work, it's nice. I'm not sure I would change it."
Well, now Dean felt like a bigger dick than usual, and it wasn't even in the good way. It wasn't like Lisa hadn't known that hard work was the way to making things work, or getting things to 'okay'. Lisa was, for the most part, the poster child of that. Lisa had known from her own experience, from this reality and Dean's reality, what it was to have a goal so far away and have to work for it, and cut things out of her life to achieve it, no matter how bleak things seemed.
But what was good of that discovery was the renewed assurance that this wasn't his time, and the people here, no matter how real they were, weren't actually real. They weren't the people he knew, and while they acted pretty much exactly as he knew them, they weren't shaped in the same ways. So Dean, almost as much as he felt like a dick, felt like slamming his face into his half-empty bowl. The knowledge that this wasn't his time kept poking at him, and even if he was frustrated beyond belief, he really just wanted to go home. He wanted to go home with Sam and Castiel, and he wanted to have a normal relationship with Sam, and he wanted to have something with Castiel. Lisa, this one or the one who'd forgotten him, had proven to him he could have all of that.
It was just really, really far away.
Part IV (b) | * | Part V (b)
He gave a huff, wondering how exactly to get someone's attention, but there was the unmistakable sound of a chair (or something) flying back, followed by the very loud yell of, "He's awake!"
The conversation stopped at the announcement, and the first person he saw hovering above him was Sam. Sam's mouth was moving, and there was definitely sound coming from him, but he was speaking way too fast. Cas was right next to Sam, watching on worriedly, and slowly the others started to come into focus. Their hovering was a tad overwhelming, but still, kind of, really nice.
"Day," he croaked. "What day is it? How long have I been out?" he demanded.
Sam smiled with a few others, and Bobby spoke up. "You arrived a bit after supper yesterday evening. You had a few minutes where you kinda woke up, but that was 'bout all you did. Today's Thursday, the 21st of July."
Thursday, Thursday. Dean lifted an extremely heavy hand, and pointed to Castiel. "It's your day, man." He didn't see Cas' reaction, his eyes closing and arm falling. He yawned, but insisted that he wasn't falling back asleep. Instead, he asked for a few minutes alone with Sam and Cas, a request readily granted. He groaned at the sound of the door closing. "Who knew just thinking would make me sore?" he asked.
Sam laughed, grabbing the fallen stool and sat down. "How are you feeling?"
"Really, Sam? Did you really just ask that?"
"Okay! Sorry, dumb question. But you're feeling better than earlier, right?"
Dean gave the best shrug he could-which wasn't much of one. "Yeah, I suppose. Still can't move without feeling like I've died five times."
"That's because you haven't eaten anything." Castiel stepped away and returned a moment later with a bowl of something-or-other. "It's good."
Dean wasn't quite sure he knew exactly what it was. It smelled all right, but so did a great many other things that proved to taste Not That Great. "Not sure if I trust you."
"Doesn't matter, you'll eat it," Sam admonished.
Carefully, Dean sat up with Sam's help, trying very hard not to let the fresh waves of pain send him back down. He was situated in a cushioned area, almost like a nook, or bay-window ledge, only much larger and able to accommodate him. It wasn't the most comfortable of situations, but it was better than a hay-filled wagon.
"The largest concern left is the gash on your abdomen. It's deep, but not enough to be fatal. Just extremely painful," Castiel told him. "I'm sure that is reassuring news."
"I'm not sure if you're - ow, fuck - getting a grasp on sarcasm, or if you're being serious."
Cas was quiet, but Dean caught the slightest bit of a smirk as he sat upright and breathed hard to try and ignore the coursing agony. "Both. Now open up," he said, taking the seat Sam had vacated.
"You are not feeding me." Dean was skeptical about this, trying to move his arms a bit more defensively. He took notice of the change of clothes - definitely more comfortable than the ribbons he remembered from earlier - but kept it to himself in favor of more delicious things.
"Oh, I was unaware you possessed the strength to do so yourself for more than three bites."
Dean mustered all he could to yank the bowl from Castiel. Glaring, he said, "Not sure if I like the new 'tude, Dude," and took a spoonful of the soup, or stew, or whatever it was. It wasn't too bad, the taste. Certainly lacking in flavor, but it wasn't bad; although he did find himself wishing he had some of his mom's tomato and rice soup. Scooping a second bite, Dean thought he would be fine. Tired, yes, but by the end of the third bite, he wasn't sure he could eat the rest on his own. Which made him feel weak and even more miserable than he already was (because that was possible), but he forced himself through two more bites before handing the bowl back to Castiel. "Five."
He rested his arms in his lap and watched in amusement as Castiel rolled his eyes with a, "Humans." Victorious, this time Dean kept his eyes on Sam, this time daring him to make a comment, or a face, or anything that might prove his amusement at any interaction between Dean and Cas. Being spoon-fed was humiliating enough, but having his brother watch on, his brother who had an inkling of what might or might not have been happening between them? He doubted it was coincidence, and had to wonder if Atropos, that bitch, was doing it for Dean's humiliation. But, rather than waste his thoughts on her, Dean forced a few more bites down, and got to business.
"Death goes by Mordecai here, and Jess said that there are a few people working for Crowley who don't know they're working for Crowlhnghhk."
Castiel forced another bite in Dean's opened mouth (as in Dean didn't see it coming, hello spoon), and Sam ran a hand through his hair.
"That's what we're thinking. It would make sense." Sam paused, and frowned apologetically at Dean. "I'm sorry," he said. "We thought they would at least interrogate you, first."
Dean swallowed hard. "You say that like my torture session was part of the plan," he sighed. "Oh, I was interrogated, and when I gave an answer my interrogator didn't want, which was every single one, by the way, I got a new lash on my back." He shrugged. "Or a new slice on my arm." He took another bite of soup. "Or a fresh burn on places I didn't know I had, and I've been to Hell, and been his living cadaver before. I thought I knew every place on my body in ways far more intimately than I should. I was wrong."
Sam and Cas winced, and Dean could feel the guilt swimming off of them in waves. He wasn't pleased that the plan didn't work out, but it was hardly their fault, and it wasn't like they hadn't apologized-Cas over, and over again. So he tried to shake it off. "Hey, Gordon Ramsey. Food."
Two bites later, Castiel asked, "What things did he ask?" His voice was low, and quiet, and filled with apology.
Dean sat back, staring up at the ceiling and trying to think. It wasn't that he didn't know, he just had to find a way to put it. "Well," he began. "There was stuff regarding Mary and Elizabeth. He kept asking why I wanted to kill the queen, and who I was working for. Jess told me about Crowley when she visited."
Sam and Castiel shot each other those looks that all-too-loudly said, 'Hey, there's something you don't know.' Dean grimaced, and sighed. "What now…?" he asked.
Castiel shifted his eyes away, leaving Sam to explain everything. "You uh, remember that letter he gave you? Crowley?"
Dean nodded.
"Well…. After Death arrested you and Cas took off, we think Crowley had some men, or paid some servants off, to retrieve that letter for him. But it wasn't the letter you think it was."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"The letter you found in the forest was most likely the one that could have him tried for treason, but what he gave you to keep as blackmail was a letter incriminating yourself," Castiel added. "He forged your hand, presented the 'found' letter to the Chamber, and had you thrown in the dungeon for Alastair to interrogate. The letter was crafted to be correspondence between you and another conspirator discussing the assassination of Elizabeth so that Mary Stuart may claim the throne of England."
"It's treason, so if we don't find a way to clear your name, or hurry this Tarot thing up, we'll all be hanged, drawn, and quartered, and it's not going to be an easy task to clear your name without some serious evidence to convict Crowley."
"Wow, Sam, that really helps calm me down, thanks."
Sam shrugged in response. "It's the truth."
In silence, Dean took another bite of the soup, then settled down as well as he could. "Whatever," he groaned. "Anything else you guys wanna hit me with before I go back to sleep?"
"Alastair." Cas huffed, setting the bowl down in his lap. "Did he mention anything else?"
The mention of the name sent echoing laughter to ring in the back of Dean's mind, and it slowly crept itself closer to the forefront. "Honesty," he croaked. "He kept telling me to be honest. Stop lying to myself and to him."
"Then he was the Devil."
Dean's eyes slowly rolled to him, catching Sam's stiff and sudden stance.
"Death. Mordecai, here," Cas continued. "He was the Death card, and Jess was Temperance. It leaves Alastair as The Devil. I'm fairly certain that Death was simple to figure out, yes?"
"I guess, but what was up with Jess?" Dean asked. He rubbed at his eyes. "'Combine my answers.' What does that even mean?"
"Judging by the name, Temperance; just think of tempering something. Like metals. Or combining two opposites to get what you want without really losing what you had." Sam leaned his side against the wall, and had his arms crossed in thought. "You probably would have gotten it, if not for the whole 'question' part throwing you off."
"Right. I'll pretend I suddenly got it."
"Like Sam said, Temperance represents combining things. I believe in your situation, Temperance was trying to tell you how to survive your interrogation with the Devil better than you did. You were confused, and couldn't, therefore, brace yourself in time for it."
"Great. I still don't get it-"
"But I could be wrong. Temperance's ultimate lesson is melding things together. It's more positive than it is at all negative, but it could mean putting a multitude of different things together. In your case, for example, you live a hunter's life, but want something more Suburbia. Who says you can't combine those two?"
"Every hunter I've ever met?" Dean nearly spat. "Once a hunter, always a hunter. No escaping that. I've tried."
Castiel's expression remained light, and he shrugged. "You only say that because no one ever has."
Dean stopped, and turned to Sam. "You let him watch The Princess Bride?"
"It was there, we were bored…?"
"Dude, I had it in that stack of DVD's before we went to Stornoway! We were all gonna watch it together! No more angel-sitting for you."
"As for the Devil, and Alastair," Castiel coughed. "In the story of the Fool's Journey, the Devil is actually represented by Pan, and not Satan. He's not so much cruel as a bit manipulative-" ("Oh, Alastair was both, all right.") "-and the point of the card is acknowledging what you actually want instead of what needs, real or imagined, you've placed upon yourself."
Dean's stare at Castiel turned nervous, and he hated himself for it. He was just giving it all away, wasn't he?
"But like we said before, the cards are taking the course of events into account, so the card used innocence or guilt regarding the queen. It's up to you to figure out what it means for you; what you're not admitting to yourself."
"What would I not be admitting to myself?"
Castiel shrugged, and Sam shook his head in a way that told Dean he knew something Dean didn't know he knew, which made Dean want to just up and disappear, preferably forever. "While the cards themselves may happen in order, the lessons may not. You might find out with the next card, or following. For example, the next is The Tower, but its lesson may not sink in until you've encountered two more cards." With that, Castiel had cleaned up the area without another word, leaving Sam to make sure Dean was comfortable enough to take a quick nap.
Dean had been able to feed himself after that without becoming too exhausted, but moving too much was still a hassle. Despite his work-through-the-pain attitude, this was not going to just let up overnight. He'd been admonished by both Sam and Castiel, but also by Bobby, and Jo.
As it was, Bobby worked as a bower and fletcher from his home in Hatfield (where they were, wherever that was) and Jo would visit from time to time with her mother. This time, Ellen was out with Jess, Ash, and several others trying to get as much information as they could about Crowley, which only made Dean feel worse. He should have been the one out there, but he found companionable commiseration with Jo, who also preferred going out to help catch the bad guy. But the one person he'd caught himself wondered the most about was Lisa.
She was still as beautiful as ever, and though she looked terribly out of place in her simple dress, it still suited her. The most Dean usually received from her was a smile and silence as she went about her business. She was obviously no part of the nobility, and Ben, 13 or 14 years old now (wow), ran around in a shirt and breeches with no shoes on. According to Jo, Lisa was Bobby's god daughter in this universe, and had been living with him since Ben was about a year old.
Distracted perhaps though she made him, Dean never gave up on trying to stand from his nook. Sam had given him Bitchface #21 (Why Are You The Way That You Are?), accompanied by Jo's unending lectures ("You haven't been awake for more than two days. Take it easy!"). Castiel pushed him down continuously, but Bobby had been the worst. Dean had moved to a sitting position and had both feet on the ground, but just as he'd gone to push himself up, Bobby pushed him down. The difference in strength was all too great for Dean to really want to admit; he felt like a schoolgirl who was shoved down by Tommy B. Mean, but it was that much worse because Bobby didn't show any kind of apathy. Where Castiel was careful in pushing Dean down to make sure he didn't hurt him, Bobby just didn't give two shits.
"Brought you some porridge."
Dean was starting to get really sick of porridge, too. Even one of Sam's pro-health pro-vegan salads was starting to sound better than porridge. But he sat up and eyed Bobby warily, reading every move he made so as to not be taken by surprise. (Mostly thanks to Cas, who took advantage of Dean's loose jaw and saw fit to stuff his mouth with the porridge, or soup, or stew, when he was least expecting it.) "Thanks," he said, and he took the bowl. Still his eyes never left Bobby, and he wasn't sure if it was awkward or not, because Bobby's eyes never left him. Well, eating was out of the question for now. "Can I help you?" he asked.
"You been daydreamin' since you got here. What's got you so distracted?"
"What? Nothing," he lied, taking a bite into his porridge. "Just a new environment."
"Sorry my humble abode isn't up to your majesty's expectations. Now tell me what's wrong."
"I'm not lying!"
"And I'm Henry IV."
Dean glared and continued to glare, forgetting about his porridge. (Probably the least flavorful food he'd had since arriving at Bobby's, and that was saying something.) "I dunno what you're talking about. I'm not lying."
"Fine. What's got you tangled up with Crowley?"
Dean couldn't decide if the question was as loaded as it sounded, or if it was just there, and waiting to be answered. On the other hand, wasn't it a bit of a belated question? So he tried a grin, and sarcastic, airy laugh. "You say that like I want to be tangled up with him."
"No one does. What's your plan?"
"…Plan?"
"Well from what I understand, you're in a heap of trouble. You gotta find a way to incriminate Crowley, and that requires returning to London."
The porridge could have really used some salt. "And how do you suggest I do that? He's trying to get me attended-"
"Attainted."
"Sure. And got me sent to Alastair. As long as this plan doesn't involved knives, fire, or whips, I'm game."
"You say that like I got a plan," Bobby parroted. "It's not my ass in trouble, unless you attract Crowley and his cronies here, and I can assure you that they're already on the move. You best get back on your feet, and fast. There are people here and in London risking their own lives for you because they love you. Don't treat that like somethin' you can just ignore, or treat as hopeless."
Frustration and relief filled Dean. Bobby was right, but that was the issue. He was right. Crowley would no doubt have started searching for him, and Dean had no idea just how many people were at Crowley's beck and call. He was putting everyone in danger-Lisa and Ben, again. He let his head fall back to hit the wood, trying to just clear his mind. Not that it ever worked for him, he was always too busy worrying about other things. So he glanced past Bobby to find Castiel talking to Lisa about something or other, and he groaned. It would just figure.
What could they be talking about, together? As far as he knew, they really didn't have much in common. What could they have in common? They both knew him, but the most interaction they'd ever had was Castiel wiping her memory and saving her life. For Dean. (Because in their world, those things were small beans.) He was the only link between them, but he sincerely doubted they would be talking about him.
Then Lisa turned, smiling, and Dean thought that maybe being dead and on display in the town square wasn't such a bad idea. It would have been really, really stupid to say he hadn't given thought to the idea of being with Lisa again, but things were amazingly complicated. First being, of course, that this wasn't his reality and he'd be damned if he didn't get to go home. The second was that it wasn't quite the same as Sam and Jess's situation, at least not anymore. If he was right about that funny feeling, then he had a new set of priorities with someone else.
He could, now, make the realization that this, that Lisa, was just a page out of a short book. It had been thrown under the bed, and surrounded by piles of stuff, and lost socks. It was dusty, the binding was cracked, and the pages were stiff and yellowed. But then he remembered what was on those pages the minute he actually saw Lisa, and he remembered how much he loved that book. The worst part was remembering that no matter how real Lisa might be, right here in front of him, that was all it was: a short story that might have at one time been real, but was nothing more than a fable anymore. And it was a fable with a crappy ending and stupid moral.
"You ain't the only one with problems here, son. Buck up and figure out what you're gonna do, or we're all in trouble."
Bobby stood and left, leaving Dean with a groaned, "Why is it always me that's gotta come up with the answer?!"
He breathed in, and let it out in a rush to find Cas standing over him with an inquisitive gleam in his eyes. It was almost accusatory, even, making Dean just a bit more uncomfortable. So he did what he did best, and returned the challenge, refusing to look away. He felt guilty; why, he didn't know. Wow, that was annoying. "What?"
"You didn't eat." Castiel pointed to the porridge sitting next to Dean.
"Yeah, well, I'm sick of porridge. Is there really no Ye Olde Taco Bell around here?"
Grabbing the bowl, Castiel rolled his eyes. "You are quite possibly the most insufferable man I've had the fortune of saving from Hell."
"I'm the only man, insufferable or not, you've had the fortune of saving from Hell." Dean smiled. "I am a one-of-a-kind pain in the ass."
Cas returned the smile, and this time when their eyes caught, Dean saw That Look for the second time. The look Dean was given when he'd forgiven Cas; when Dean had satisfied The Lovers card. His insides squirmed, and stole just a quick bit of air from him, but he liked to think he covered it well. Dean couldn't avert his attention, and then that's when Something clicked, and he could finally put the proper words to that Something Really Big. Or maybe, rather, finally admit what he'd been trying to deny.
"Hey, uh, I'll." Dean coughed, groping for the bowl in an attempt to distract himself. "Take the porridge back. I'm. Pretty hungry."
(Not that he actually would, of course.)
Cas nodded, and handed it back with an, "As you wish," before turning away to work outside.
At first Dean told himself that no, Cas didn't at all mean it like that, but that idea quickly fizzled to nothing. Castiel knew perfectly well what that phrase meant, and combined with everything else, there was nothing else it could mean. A rush of fright swept through him, easily quelled by the warm pull under his diaphragm, but it left him with a smile horribly disguised as a grin. His thoughts were doing crazy things; they formed the more complete intricate loops that had been teasing Dean in the last several weeks. It was almost a relief.
"Son of a bitch, Cas."
***
As it turned out, The Tower was a pretty confusing card. The interpretation Dean had hated the most was 'the end of something not natural, like an idea'. It took half an hour for Sam and Castiel to try and explain that one to him, and it only made sense when Cas amended it to, "A change of idea, your perception of something changes." Additional explanation revealed discovery of something from the change of view. Of course, with Cas there, the first thing on his mind was Cas. He couldn't easily shake that discovery off. Sam had silently demanded to know what was going on from Dean, so as soon as Cas revealed the next card as The Star, Sam asked to speak to Dean alone. Cas nodded, and left to join the others outside.
"Dude, what's going on with you and Cas?"
Dean tried playing it off and acting cool. "What? Nothing?"
"Stop it, Dean," Sam demanded. "I'm not stupid. Something's been going on with you two since he got his memory back. You can't keep it from me."
"I really have no idea what you're talking about-"
"Yes, you do! Dean, you don't have to keep any secrets from me, you hate it when I keep secrets from you! Don't be a hypocrite!"
"I'm not being a hypocrite!"
"Oh my god, yes you are! Dean, just tell me!"
"You're the only one putting anything there! I'm telling you, nothing's going on between me and Cas!" Dean wasn't sure which was worse: that he was lying, or that he was telling the truth. That thought alone nearly broke his heart.
Sam was quiet only for half of a moment. "I can see it, Dean. I'm not blind."
Dean didn't say anything.
"Something is going on between you. The stares now are horrible. I mean, I thought they were plentiful and awkward before, but now I just feel uncomfortable if I'm in the same room when you two are staring. Which is literally all the time anymore, ever since we pulled you from the dungeon."
Dean shifted his eyes away, trying to focus on the hem of his shirt's sleeve.
"I just want to know you're okay, or if you need help with something that you're too macho to ask for."
"Sam, I'm fine! I don't need your help with anything, but thanks!"
"I know, Dean."
"Great, then stop asking-"
"No! I mean. I know."
Dean returned his attention to Sam, and said as lowly as he could, "Then stop asking what you already know the answer to."
Just briefly, Dean had hoped it was going to be one of those serious moments that Sam would walk away because Dean refused to open up about something. Dean was wrong. Sam no longer appeared to show any sign of leaving him the fuck alone about this.
"Have you said anything to him about it?"
"What-?"
"Did he say something?"
"Sam, what. Nothing's happened! Neither of us have said anything, and it's going to stay that way."
"But you know."
"I'm sorry, are you Becky Rosen?"
"No, I'm your brother and I want to talk about this with you."
"Ever occur to you that I might not want to talk about it?"
"Ever occur to you that I don't care, and don't want you to bottle it up like everything else so that you can become more miserable?"
Dean hit his head against the wall supporting him. "How about I tell you when I feel like telling you, after something's happened?" Which nothing probably would, of course.
Sam was quiet for a moment, but that was all the time he really needed to be quiet. Just long enough so that Dean could take a breath without worrying what words it would be spent on, and just short enough so that the silence wouldn't become awkward.
"Dean, I…" he began. He glanced down, trying not to show his smile. "Dean, the way you two look at each other, it's not like you'd be able to fool anyone. (Which is actually kind of bad in this era….)" He raised his head, and made sure he had all of Dean's attention. "You'd be unhappy without him. You were torn apart when we thought he'd drowned, and when we found him again it was like you got a puppy for Christmas. I want you to be happy, Dean, and if being with Cas makes you happy? Then I want that for you."
Dean didn't know what to say, and he was pretty sure his ears were on fire. So he forced himself to face away with an, "Aaghhh!" and made shooing motions at Sam. "Way too much estrogen in the room, Samantha! This isn't a slumber party! Now help me up. I've been sitting down way too long, and my ass hurts more than my gut."
Sam grabbed a hold of Dean's arm, and with his other hand he grabbed Dean's opposite shoulder. Swinging his legs over the edge of the nook was the easy part. Standing was not so easy, and there were quite a few small but powerful twinges as he tried to straighten as best he could. He laughed. "Could'a done this two days ago!" he forced out, clinging on to Sam like the Life Support Pole he actually was.
Three steps later he faltered and would have fallen into a heap if not for Sam.
"Really?" he asked.
"Shut up, Sam," Dean grumbled. "Outside. Need some god damned sunlight."
For a grey and rainy island, it was actually pretty nice out. A bit cloudy, but it was July and it was warm. The moment they saw him, everyone gathered around Dean to make sure he was okay, but he did to them what he'd done to Sam and brushed them away. When Lisa refused to step back, Dean felt Sam's grip change just the slightest in inquiry.
"I'll be fine, Lis," he insisted. Even with everything he'd thought and-or realized, having her so close was still a little off-setting. Understandably, right?
"How am I supposed to make sure you're healing properly if you won't let me near you?"
"Cuz I know I'm fine!" Dean pressed. "I'm walkin'! See?"
"Walking doesn't mean you're fine."
It was something of a stand-off between them (more like a huddled over stand-off in Dean's case), but Lisa finally gave in with a sigh and let them by. They didn't go far before Ben stopped him to ask how he felt moving around.
"Like I just got out of surgery with no anesthesia or morphine."
They didn't really get it, and that was okay with him. But the morphine actually sounded like a most excellent idea, or at least some vicodin; hell, just some aspirin would be amazing. Too bad Cas couldn't just zap him back to health.
Jo joined Ben after she took her turn checking up on Dean, Bobby had headed back inside to make the next semi-edible concoction, and Sam helped Dean sit down on the rock bench outside the fire pit. His gut felt like it was being pulled in directions it had no business going, but damn it all if he was stuck in that nook another moment without having gone outside for some fresh air at least once. He took a deep breath to try and calm his nerves and slow the pain. It worked (at least a little), and he tried grinning. Endorphins, right?
"Next thing you know, I'll be running a marathon by tomorrow night," he said. Sam and Castiel said nothing, while Lisa stepped up with an amused roll of her eyes.
"You keep telling yourself that," she said. "You have to be careful. If you want to get better, you can't just force it. You might reopen the wound. Patience."
There was that word again, and he found himself desiring a warm seat in the library, playing cards with his mom. He hid his wince with a, "Pah. I'm not pressing anything. Walking is good for you. Blood flow. Helps with healing."
Lisa wasn't convinced. Instead she handed over a small, steaming cup of. Something. "It'll help with the pain. It's an old recipe."
Dean was hesitant, but it couldn't have been worse than Bobby's bland porridge, right? He took a sip. At first it was sweet, but there was a quick aftertaste of bitterness and grossness. He almost spit it out, but that would be rude. Plus, potential pain relief.
"So what are your next plans?" she asked, taking the cup back. "You can't just hide out forever."
"We can try-"
"We'll return to London," Sam interrupted. "We have to wait for Ash to return with some information, then we'll take it as proof to Westminster."
Lisa nodded, this time handing Dean a cup of water. "It's clean," she told him. "Can you afford to wait however long it might take him to return?"
"He should arrive in a week or so." Castiel walked forward between Sam and Dean and grinned ahead at a small sprig of a tree, contemplating something. "Depending on what information we receive…. Who knows how it will go then. If we could just hold out, we might not have to worry about it."
"Hold out for and worry about what?" Lisa asked.
None of them answered her; she wouldn't have understood the answer, anyway. It was a long, and awkward silence with directions of attention shooting every-which-way.
Finally Lisa's lips pulled back with an, "Okay!" and a clap. "Well, then. Just … hold out hope, I guess."
Dean harrumphed, downing the rest of the water. He'd tried that before, holding out hope, and been let down too many times. It was often called being gullible, or naïve, and that was something Dean never wanted to be. He couldn't afford to be.
"You may as well try to be optimistic about it," she said. She sounded just a little chafed, maybe offended, and refilled his cup. "(Porridge you may have gotten your fill of. Water you haven't.) There's no use in looking down on it, right? The chances might be slim, but they're still there. Think of it like your chances are 50-50, and not 1-99. You either win or you lose. Obviously you want to win, so…. Go for it."
Lisa continued standing there, with her feet planted firmly. She wasn't going to be moved so easily. Dean moaned inwardly at the action; why did Lisa decide she wanted to make a point right then? If he could have moved, or gestured, or something, he would happily have done so. Not that Lisa would have moved much more, but it made him feel better. He stared up at her staring down at him, and he sighed. Life hated him, and Beira must have really hated him to do this to him.
"Life sucks sometimes," she said. "But hard work and constant vigilance-"
"There isn't really much of a light at the end of this tunnel, Lis. I'm not saying we're not working hard." He tried giving her the 'even-though-I'm-trying-to-make-light-of-a-tough-situation-all-I'm-doing-is-making-everyone-uncomfortable' smile, but all she did was fix him with an angry glare. "This is a really, really long tunnel, and that light is about to go out."
"Then you run faster. When you get there, you nurture it to keep it safe, no matter how long it takes. And my name's not Lis."
Lisa stalked off and back into Bobby's little house with a louder-than-necessary slam of the door.
Sam had winced just slightly. "Was that The Star?" he asked. "That was The Star, right?"
"I dunno! I didn't sign up for this ride!" Dean played with the scabbed edge of his wound and tested its sensitivity. "I'm sick of this. 'Simplest but longest route,'" he said, remembering Beira's words. "Longest, sure, but simplest? And what the hell, route? Like there are different ones!"
"Maybe cuz you drew The Fool?" Sam tried.
Dean didn't find it as comforting as Sam probably meant it to be, but it didn't matter. What was that saying? Que sera sera, or something? "I ain't doin' anymore Tarot when we get home. If we get home."
"That's rather pessimistic." Castiel walked up in front of them. "I mean, I understand you sometimes are, but there have been plenty of happenstances when you've shown optimism in the bleakest of times."
"Cas, not now." Dean's stare was on the ground. Optimism, pessimism, whatever: He wanted this to be over and to go home, but sometimes it felt that he was just being drained of all of his energy. And for what? Some stupid story. What was the point of any of this? "What light am I supposed to be looking for?" he asked. "Home? Home's a long way from here, and who knows how much longer it'll take with me like this."
"Actually, we're a lot closer to the end of the arcana than you might think," said Sam. "We're on The Star. There's only what, four cards after that? We're almost done, Dean!"
"That's great, but the longer this goes on, the harder it is to identify the cards. I'm not saying 'abandon all hope ye who enter here', but. Get used to hiding out, just in case."
***
There was nothing that could get Dean out of his weird little funk for a while. The longer it went on, the more irritable he became, and he managed to make just about everyone angry.
Sam never said anything pertaining to the issue of home around Dean; he just made sure Dean didn't trip while walking. (Walking, while it provided a few nice minutes, was still painful, but at last it was getting the point where he could brush the pain aside.) Bobby would grumble on about Dean's grumbling, Ben went out of his way to steer clear; Jo tried to fight back, and Castiel tried his best to ignore it but still hadn't gotten out of his, "I am an Angel of the Lord, human," habits when it came to staring Dean down when Dean pissed him off.
Lisa, however, didn't just take what he threw at her. She threw it right back, and for as much as Dean tried to ignore it all, he couldn't. He'd tried very hard in the last year and a half to forget Lisa and everything he'd had, but Fate hated him, so it didn't matter. It would be thrown in his face, and by Lisa? It just figured, because nothing went Dean's way.
Not to say that Lisa wasn't nice. She certainly was nice, every time she approached him with that wide, beautiful smile of hers. Every time she laughed with Ben. It was horrible to watch and be reminded that he couldn't have that kind of innocent life again. It was why he wouldn't give her more than a quick, muttered, "Thanks." Dean was afraid any kind reciprocation to her service would just reel him in, even with the knowledge that he and Cas had this mutual, if unspoken, thing going on. He didn't think he would abandon that, but dammit he missed that life.
"So."
Dean was shaken from his thoughts to find the subject of them handing him a bowl of stew. He took it with a nod, and instead of walking away like she normally did, Lisa took a seat next to him. He watched her, his gaze narrowing.
"You wanna tell me what made the great earl of Smyth want to kill the queen?"
He wasn't even from this year, but his response of, "I don't want to kill the queen!" was automatic, emphatic, and honest. Truth be told, he was quite a fan of Elizabeth. Cate Blanchett had done an excellent job. "I was framed." He took a savage bite of meat.
"I was being a little round-about with it." Lisa straightened her skirts. "Crowley, right?"
Dead nodded. If he opened his mouth to answer, a roar would probably escape him. (Also his meat.)
"Why would Crowley want her dead, though? That makes no sense. I thought he was in good with the queen."
"Scottish. His real name is Fergus MacLeod," Dean said, swallowing. "He wants Mary on the throne."
Lisa remained quiet, thinking about it some more. It actually made Dean proud of himself. He knew something important like this, and Sam wasn't around to steal his thunder. But, rather than give himself a congratulatory smile and pat on the back, he continued to eat his food. The stew wasn't half bad, for having no potatoes in it. He almost regretted not being in Ireland.
"Where is everyone?"
"The men are out hunting, and Jo and Ben went to market."
"So, uh…" Dean began awkwardly. "Where's Ben's dad?" he asked. It wasn't wrong to think it might be different, right? After all, dead people were alive; Lisa's situation might have been different than in the real world.
"Dead," she answered simply. "Went to Calais not long after he was born, and never returned."
"Must have been rough."
"It was, for a while. We moved from Southampton to Hatfield to live here with Bobby, and though it's small and a lot of work, it's nice. I'm not sure I would change it."
Well, now Dean felt like a bigger dick than usual, and it wasn't even in the good way. It wasn't like Lisa hadn't known that hard work was the way to making things work, or getting things to 'okay'. Lisa was, for the most part, the poster child of that. Lisa had known from her own experience, from this reality and Dean's reality, what it was to have a goal so far away and have to work for it, and cut things out of her life to achieve it, no matter how bleak things seemed.
But what was good of that discovery was the renewed assurance that this wasn't his time, and the people here, no matter how real they were, weren't actually real. They weren't the people he knew, and while they acted pretty much exactly as he knew them, they weren't shaped in the same ways. So Dean, almost as much as he felt like a dick, felt like slamming his face into his half-empty bowl. The knowledge that this wasn't his time kept poking at him, and even if he was frustrated beyond belief, he really just wanted to go home. He wanted to go home with Sam and Castiel, and he wanted to have a normal relationship with Sam, and he wanted to have something with Castiel. Lisa, this one or the one who'd forgotten him, had proven to him he could have all of that.
It was just really, really far away.
Part IV (b) | * | Part V (b)