Several days outside the camp, they finally find a safehouse that's actually still safe -- or relatively so. A last remnant of Bobby's network: the bunker is undisturbed, the big metal door still on its hinges, the escape route intact, the electrified alarm system still hooked up to the generator. Dean drops his pack on a ragged cot and pronounces himself satisfied.
They use the little stove. They heat up a can of beans, and the heat itself tastes like heaven.
(At least, Dean thinks it might, although he isn't the one with first-hand experience and he doesn't actually ask.)
Cas produces half a bottle of whiskey, from somewhere in his bag, and that's an even better kind of warmth. Dean sets his back to the concrete wall, and drinks, and watches with a critical eye as Cas organizes the weapons bag.
He doesn't need to say much, though. Cas is a quick learner, long fingers clever and capable, knives flicking and sharpened and re-sheathed.
"We're running low on holy water," says Cas, and Dean grunts.
"Try for a church tomorrow," he replies. "See if we can find anything."
Most of the churches are burned, but Cas knows that Dean knows and Cas has also learned that sometimes it's better not to point things out.
Except: "You don't have to do this, Dea --"
"Shut up."
So Cas puts the weapons away, and goes to sit by the camp lantern that is lighting the darkness of their little bunker. He pulls a tattered book out from his bag, opens it, and peers at it in the dimness.
"Please tell me that isn't the Bible," mutters Dean, but Cas only shakes his head. He flips pages, and then adjusts to sit cross-legged; a moment later, and he's reading out loud.
Cas says, quietly, "It begins, as most things begin, with a song. In the beginning, after all, were the words, and they came with a tune."
"The hell is that?"
Cas ignores Dean. "That was how the world was made, how the void was divided, how the lands and the stars and the dreams and the little gods and the animals, how all of them came into the world." His voice is low and rough -- not the bass it used to be, when it had heaven behind it, but there's something of Castiel left in Jimmy Novak's larynx.
Dean tries not to think about that too often.
Cas keeps reading. One of Sam's books, probably, Dean realizes, and he lets his head drop back; no, he will not think about Sam, either. He sips the whiskey, and closes his eyes, and listens.
Much later, he wakes to pitch blackness lit only by the tiny, reassuring red light of the security system.
A confused beat after that, he realizes that it is far too quiet, and he is -- yes, of course, fucking of course -- alone.
Dean hopes the vampires don't kill Cas. He wants that pleasure all for himself.
I am doing serious work right now, really
They use the little stove. They heat up a can of beans, and the heat itself tastes like heaven.
(At least, Dean thinks it might, although he isn't the one with first-hand experience and he doesn't actually ask.)
Cas produces half a bottle of whiskey, from somewhere in his bag, and that's an even better kind of warmth. Dean sets his back to the concrete wall, and drinks, and watches with a critical eye as Cas organizes the weapons bag.
He doesn't need to say much, though. Cas is a quick learner, long fingers clever and capable, knives flicking and sharpened and re-sheathed.
"We're running low on holy water," says Cas, and Dean grunts.
"Try for a church tomorrow," he replies. "See if we can find anything."
Most of the churches are burned, but Cas knows that Dean knows and Cas has also learned that sometimes it's better not to point things out.
Except: "You don't have to do this, Dea --"
"Shut up."
So Cas puts the weapons away, and goes to sit by the camp lantern that is lighting the darkness of their little bunker. He pulls a tattered book out from his bag, opens it, and peers at it in the dimness.
"Please tell me that isn't the Bible," mutters Dean, but Cas only shakes his head. He flips pages, and then adjusts to sit cross-legged; a moment later, and he's reading out loud.
Cas says, quietly, "It begins, as most things begin, with a song. In the beginning, after all, were the words, and they came with a tune."
"The hell is that?"
Cas ignores Dean. "That was how the world was made, how the void was divided, how the lands and the stars and the dreams and the little gods and the animals, how all of them came into the world." His voice is low and rough -- not the bass it used to be, when it had heaven behind it, but there's something of Castiel left in Jimmy Novak's larynx.
Dean tries not to think about that too often.
Cas keeps reading. One of Sam's books, probably, Dean realizes, and he lets his head drop back; no, he will not think about Sam, either. He sips the whiskey, and closes his eyes, and listens.
Much later, he wakes to pitch blackness lit only by the tiny, reassuring red light of the security system.
A confused beat after that, he realizes that it is far too quiet, and he is -- yes, of course, fucking of course -- alone.
Dean hopes the vampires don't kill Cas. He wants that pleasure all for himself.