Rabu, 13 Oktober 2010

Fic: Precious (Chapter 3/3)

Author: clueless_psycho
Fandom/Genre: AU/Drama/Slash
Pairing(s): Dean/Castiel
Rating: R
Word Count: 20,304
Warnings: AU, deaths, but not the major one, war, gore



The potatoes, carrots and parsnips were roasted with garlic and onions, seasoned only with salt and pepper in order to keep their natural flavors as much as possible, and there was a whole roasted chicken and more flatbread to go with them. Castiel also made banana cake for dessert and Dean wasn’t going to question where did the banana come from.

As he was cleaning the kitchen later after lunch, Dean decided that he had to start paying attention to what he ate and he had to exercise again, because otherwise he would end up obese in that house. It was true that there were lots of things to do in the house, there were endless chores, however, it was not like a real exercise. He would ask Ash to spar with him tomorrow.

That’s if Jake didn’t show up.

He knew he shouldn’t feel pessimistic but he had the feeling Jake would never come back. Either he got sidetracked or he couldn’t find his way back here or their superior in the base camp didn’t think it was important to collect him and Ash. It was a scary thought but he knew that if they didn’t hear from Jake, the day after tomorrow he and Ash just had to risk it and leave the house to find their way back to the base camp.

The thought of leaving Castiel alone in that house felt rather unbearable.



He found a bottle of cooled cider and took it to the back porch with him. He sat down on the step, like he did yesterday, and drank the cider as he watched Castiel from afar. Castiel was collecting dry laundry: bed sheets, pillow cases and clothes, piling them in a large basket.

Gulping half of the bottle content, Dean left it on the porch and was headed to Castiel. He pulled a dry bed sheet from the clothesline, folded it carelessly and put it on top of the pile in the basket. Castiel smiled at him.

“Do you often have guests?” he asked Castiel.

Castiel tilted his head, his expression flat. “Guests?”

“Yes. Do you often have them?” Dean asked. “You know, travelers who got lost in this area, like us? Perhaps?”

Castiel didn’t look at him when he said, “No.”

“I saw stuff in the library and the weapon room,” Dean pushed his luck. “They have someone else’s names on them.”

“I can’t remember everything.”

“And the forest there,” Dean jerked his chin towards the cemetery, “how many people have you buried there?”

Castiel didn’t answer. He was still avoiding Dean’s eyes.

“Cas,” Dean pursed his lips. “Tell me something about you. And the house. Make me understand.”

Castiel lowered his eyes. He took a deep breath, then he said, “But why should I tell you about myself and this house? You’re going to leave.”

And then he walked away, leaving Dean with the laundry basket.

* * *

Castiel looked calmer when Dean saw him in the kitchen. He was reading a book. Dean put the basket on the table, and Castiel looked up from the book, asking, “What do you want for dinner?”

Dean smiled. “What do you do when you have no one else in the house?” he asked back. “Do you cook too?”

Castiel closed the book. The leather cover had “Recipes” written on it.

“Let’s do something different,” Dean said. “Let’s do a barbecue outside. It looks to be a clear night. It’ll be perfect for barbecue.”

Castiel looked out of the window. “I think you’re right,” he said quietly.

“I’ll prepare the grill,” Dean said. “Will the patio be all right?”

Castiel nodded, he looked happy.

He went to get Ash so Ash could help Castiel with the food while he would work on making a grill. Ash had his nose buried deep in the books in the library.

“The problem with these books is, they were mostly written in Sabean,” he tapped his fingers on the page he was reading.

Dean tilted his head. “Sabean?”

“Yes. It’s a very old language, like Hebrew and it was a language of power. Most wizards and witches use this language.”

Dean chuckled. “So you really believed that this house was once owned by a wizard?”

Ash snorted. “I really wish now that I studied Sabean instead of Latin and Hebrew, however, those languages seem more important than others and there isn’t actually anyone teaching Sabean. And this symbol, the symbol that’s drawn all over this house, I think it’s a binding symbol.”

“Binding from what?” Dean asked.

Ash shrugged. “I think it’s binding what,” he said.

“Okay. Do you think you can take a break from trying to figure out what is what in those books?” Dean asked.

Ash frowned at him. “Why?”

“I told Castiel that maybe we can have a barbecue for dinner, for a change. I’m going to prepare a grill on the patio. Can you help Cas with the food? He might not have any idea what kind of marinades he would need for a certain meat.”

Ash grinned from ear to ear. “Just leave it to me then,” he closed the book. “I’m the king of barbecue.”

And he waltzed away from Dean.

* * *

Despite that there were only the three of them and there was a lack of beer or other alcoholic drinks, the barbecue was a blast. Ash made beef patties, salad, a big bowl of barbecue sauce, and iced lemon tea, and Castiel made more bread, real bread this time, not only flatbread. Dean grilled the beef patties non-stop and they also had fish and chicken. Ash said that if there was a guitar he would play it and sing. Dean was glad that there was no guitar. laughed at Ash’s non-stop jokes even at the ones that Dean thought weren’t funny at all. However, if Castiel was happy, then he was happy too and he felt he could live like that for the rest of his life.

It was about midnight when they finally called it a night and left the patio in a mess. Dean went to his bedroom, took a bath, changed his clothes and found that Ash had made himself home in his bed again. He was sleeping with his hand clutching Bobby’s journal. Maybe he was about to read some to Dean but his eyes couldn’t hold on waiting for Dean to come out of the bedroom.

Dean pulled the book from Ash’s hand. He didn’t mean to open it, but it flipped open anyway and he ended up reading the page.

March fifteen. In the morning Victor told me that Bill’s knife is in the room holding the weapon collection. I mentioned to him it isn’t possible, we buried the knife with him. I told him that he could be seeing a similar thing. Victor insisted that it’s Bill knife, so we went to the room together so I can prove it with my own eyes. Indeed the knife is there and there’s no mistake that it’s Bill’s knife. It has Ellen & Bill 1970 craved at the base of the blade, it was Ellen’s gift to Bill when they got married last year. But how come something we have buried to resurface? Maybe there’s indeed some ghosts or spirits living in this house. Maybe Bill didn’t die peacefully, maybe his ghost still stayed to tell us something. We should’ve salted and burned Bill’s body and the knife so the soul won’t come back to haunt us.

Dean dug his teeth into his lower lip, thinking. Could it be that the Jesus figurine and rosary were really Kubrick’s and they resurfaced although he had buried them with him?

He closed the book and put it on the nightstand, then he went to Castiel’s bedroom.

* * *

To his surprise, Castiel’s bedroom was much simpler than the bedrooms he and his friends stayed in. The bed wasn’t as big and it was without a canopy. The furniture wasn’t richly carved, they seemed to have been made of left-over planks and woods.

“Why didn’t you take any of the bedrooms?” Dean asked as he climbed into the bed. He hoped the bed was sturdy enough to hold his and Castiel’s weight together.

“Because I’m not supposed to,” Castiel answered. He carefully sat down on the bed, as if he was afraid it would fall off. “I’m only a servant.”

“A servant to whom? There’s nobody else here,” Dean reached out for Castiel’s arm, hinting him to get closer.

“There doesn’t need to be anyone else here,” Castiel answered. He lay next to Dean.

“Then why didn’t you escape? Try to break free?” He stared into Castiel’s eyes, searching for the answers to the many questions written all over this house.

“I’m not a slave, why should I try to break free?” Castiel asked back.

Dean smiled, then he shifted closer. “Are you still going to tell me some bedtime stories?”

Castiel’s eyes softened. “What do you want me to tell you about?”

“The tower. The window.”

“Mujahidin blew it off,” Castiel said solemnly. “Or maybe it was Gengis Khan’s soldiers. I don’t remember. It was a very long time ago.” Castiel rolled his eyes, amusement flickering inside the blueness, betraying his flat expression.

“Liar,” Dean whispered, then he laughed.

Castiel rolled around, giving him his back. Dean pressed his chest there, snaking his arms around Castiel’s shoulders. The bed wasn’t comfortable but this was how he wanted to sleep for the rest of his life.

* * *

Dean woke up before dawn and as much as he wanted to just stay in bed with Castiel, he forced himself to climb out of the bed and returned to his bedroom. Ash was still sleeping too, snoring loudly as usual, so Dean went to use the bathroom and changed his clothes into t-shirt and BDU pants and put on his boots. Then he went running.

It was still dark outside but darkness had never bothered him at the slightest, not even now that he knew the small forest was a cemetery and Kubrick was among the dead buried there. He ran along the perimeter, carefully scanned the area with his eyes, making sure that if Jake’s dead body was there, he didn’t miss it. No dead body meant that Jake may survive until Badakshtan and soon he would come back to collect them.

But if he didn’t come back tomorrow, either he or Ash had to go.

Dean stopped himself from thinking about the latter, he really didn’t want to choose whether to stay or to leave, he didn’t want to have to make the decision, knowing either way, someone would get hurt. He circled the area once again, then he jogged towards the kitchen where Castiel was waiting with two mugs of warm milk.

“You could’ve woken me up before leaving,” Castiel said. “I almost got a heart attack, thinking that you’re gone too like Jake.”

“I will tell you if I’m really going to leave.”

Castiel gave him a look of disbelief, then he went to the stove to start preparing breakfast.

Dean went to the bedroom to take a shower. He was on his way back to the kitchen when he saw that the mess in the patio hadn’t been cleared. Typical Castiel, he must’ve expected him to clean it. He didn’t mind, after all, he was the one who came up with the barbecue idea.

He started collecting dirty plates and glasses and put together left-overs in a bowl. He was picking up a spoon from the floor when he saw Jake’s water bottle leaning at the pond wall.

Frowning, he picked up the bottle. The weight told him that it was still full. He didn’t remember seeing it there last night. Had Jake forgotten about the bottle after filling it up? If he had, how did he survive the desert?

But the water bottle clarified one thing: Jake didn’t survive. Jake couldn’t survive without water.

But he should realize that he had left the water bottle and he should’ve come back.

Dean sat down on the edge of the wall, breathing slowly, eventually, trying not to think the worse.

But it was very obvious: Jake’s dead. His water bottle was here. If he didn’t die from thirst, he would’ve been murdered by the Taliban from whom he might ask for water.

It felt like the world had suddenly stopped moving and time froze and there was no air to breathe in.

Dean closed his eyes and heard Ash shouting, “Dean! Dean! Where are you?”

He opened his eyes just as Ash barged into the patio and Ash saw the water bottle. He gasped with his eyes widened, then he ran away.

* * *

By the time Dean reached the bedroom, which was only a few second behind Ash, Ash had stuffed his belongings into his backpack.

“You know what? I’ve enough of this. I’m leaving. I don’t care if you want to stay here. I don’t want to die here!” Ash blurted frantically.

“Ash, listen to me,” Dean grabbed his shoulders, trying to stop him. “Listen to me!” Ash stopped and glared at him. “Just calm down for a while and we’ll talk about this, okay?”

“I don’t see why I should talk about this. It’s obvious. People died here. It’s written in Bobby’s journal. His friends died. He probably died too. And they were all buried there!” Ash jerked his chin towards the window. “I don’t want to live in a house where there’s a cemetery nearby with probably five hundred dead people who all died here!”

“Ash…” Dean took a deep breath, exercising patience.

‘Dean, how could you be so blind? Cas must’ve bound us with a spell. This house is bound by a magic spell that no one can break. We will all die here and will be buried in the cemetery. Perhaps that’s the price Cas had to pay to live happily ever after. You know what? That makes me feel like Hanzel. He feeds us with good food because he’s going to slaughter us and give our blood and soul to whatever devil he’s worshipping in order to stay young and alive. I don’t want to be the one next on the chopping block.” Ash shook his shoulders, freeing himself from Dean’s strong grip. “And if I have to fight you or kill you to be able to get free, I’ll do it.”

Dean let it go. “Ash, look, this is not wise.”

“Yeah. But I don’t wanna be wise and dead. I’m going.” Ash zipped up the backpack and hauled it up his shoulders. “You see, I think Castiel is also a Wendigo, except that he uses magic to change his appearance.”

“You can get caught by the Taliban out there!”

“I. Don’t. Care. Good bye, Dean,” and Ash brushed past and exited the bedroom. “And good luck surviving.” He ran. Dean didn’t get to stop him, so he ran after Ash.

But Ash was faster. They ran along the corridor and when they were descending the stairway, Dean took the chance and jumped up and they fell, rolling down the stairway to the floor.

A book flopped from an unzipped pocket of the backpack. Dean quickly noticed that it wasn’t Bobby’s journal, but a book with strange characters on its leather cover.

Ash pushed him away with all his might and grabbed the book. Clutching the book with his hand, he got up and escaped. He was as slippery as an eel.

“Ash! Put the book back in the library!” Dean called out as he made to get up too.

Ash took time to turn around and give him a mocking glare. “This is the book Bobby talked about in his journal. I’m taking it and I’m going to find out what is it all about!”

“You can’t!”

But Ash had walked out of the door. Dean sped up, trying to catch up with him. But when he reached the door, Ash had disappeared between the trees. He called out Ash’ name as he ran towards the gate.

But Ash was nowhere to be seen.

* * *

Again, Dean went to check the house’s perimeter, looking for any signs of Ash. Or Jake. But he couldn’t find neither. No matter how fast Ash ran, he didn’t think Ash could be that far that he couldn’t see him at all from where he was standing at the gate.

He leaned on the gate, suddenly not knowing what to do. He supposed he should step out and find Ash. But he couldn’t. What if he dropped dead like Kubrick? He found that he couldn’t even think of leaving the house, leaving Castiel, dead or not.

The air hung heavily around him, making him feel suffocated and high up in the sky, the clouds were pregnant with rain. He decided that he just had to let it pass for the time being and hoped that Ash would survive.

He went back to the house, ignoring the hollowness that the house suddenly felt now that there were only Castiel and himself inside.

“Ash’s gone,” he informed Castiel as he sat down at the table in the kitchen. The air was thick with an aroma that suspiciously smelled like fried sausages. Castiel was still working at the stove and he didn’t turn his head when he heard it. It was almost as if he had expected it. “He took a book from the library with him. I found Jake’s water bottle in the patio.”

Castiel put a plate in front of him and much to his surprise, it indeed consisted of scrambled eggs, fried sausages and toasts. All American breakfast minus bacon strips. Dean forced himself to smile. “Thanks for the effort,” he said. He felt nauseous, like his stomach flipped and churned. He didn’t really want to eat.

“May not taste as good as what you usually have in your hometown,” Castiel commented as he poured a cup of coffee for Dean.

“Jake’s dead, isn’t he?” he asked, ignoring the food.

Castiel stiffened. “I don’t know.”

“His water bottle’s back to this house. Just like Kubrick’s Jesus figurine and rosary.”

Castiel set the coffee pot on the table and sat down.

“Tell me about the house,” Dean said.

“Maybe you should eat first,” Castiel said. “You must be hungry.”

“I don’t want to eat not knowing what happens to Jake and Ash,” Dean steeled his heart. “You know, don’t you?”

Castiel tilted his head, as if considering whether it was worth it to tell the story. Dean supposed that it shouldn’t matter anymore, whether or not he knew the story.

Castiel’s voice floated in the air when he spoke again, “This house was owned by a wizard, a long, long time ago.”

So what was written in Bobby’s journal was true. Dean wanted to comment but he held his tongue back.

“He was strong and powerful and greedy and arrogant. He collected… things… from around the world, not only weapons. He loved his collection so much that he didn’t want anyone to take them away from him even after he died. So he put a spell all over the house, all over the whole land.”

“The symbol on the bed’s ceiling?” Dean asked before he could stop himself.

“You can’t take away anything from the house,” Castiel continued, ignoring Dean’s question. “You’ll die trying.”

It was a little hard to swallow and he was glad he hadn’t started eating. “Kubrick didn’t steal anything, we didn’t find anything that belonged to this house amongst his possession,” Dean said. “Jake swapped the water. Ash took a book, but I haven’t found his dead body.”

Castiel took a deep breath. “Aren’t you going to eat?” he asked, sounding helpless.

Dean picked up his fork. “Where’s your food?”

“I ate already.”

“Liar.” Dean cut one sausage into three and stabbed one piece with his fork. “Open your mouth.”

“No, please.”

“Eat or I won’t.”

Castiel opened his mouth and took the sausage inside, chewing it slowly. Dean ate the other two pieces. He felt that he wasn’t actually nauseous.

“So why did Kubrick die?” he asked.

“Kubrick stole the knife. The knife went back to the room by itself. So did the cigar. It’s part of the spell.”

“And now the water also had made its way back to the house,’ Dean added.

“The wizard… he was a greedy man. Anything belonged to the thief would be possessed by the house when the thief died.”

Dean put his fork down. That explained a lot. The clothes Ash wore, Bill’s hunting knife, Bobby’s journal, Kubrick’s figurine and rosary. He drank his coffee. Putting the cup down, he talked again, “So you’re saying, if you steal something from this house, you’ll die. What if you don’t steal anything?”

Castiel tilted his head, looking straight into Dean’s eyes. “But, can you not try to steal anything from this house?”

* * *

Dean supposed, Castiel was right. There were way too many temptations in the house. Even if you, say, didn’t like weapons, you have to admit the fact that the katana may worth two million dollars. THere were other things, jewels, art and the books. It was easy to just slide them into your backpack and walk away.

The knife that had gone and resurfaced probably belonged to King Arthur, several lifetime ago.

Even the water, people must have known that the water in the fountain healed wounds and illness. It was easy to fill a bottle with it, pocket it and leave.

Except that no one ever made it and left alive. They all died. They ended up buried in the yard.

Dean could see the reasons. Kubrick stole the knife and cigars because he was greedy and he loved luxury. He could sell the knife in the black market and net half amillion dollars and change retiring from the army to spend the rest of his life in the Bahamas. Jake stole the water because it healed and although originally he only needed something to get through to the nearest village, he could sell the water too for a fortune once he was back in the US.

Ash stole the book because it was the root of all knowledge. Ash was like that.

And they all didn’t make it to the next day.

He wanted to believe that Jake and Ash survived but as he entered Jake’s bedroom and saw his back pack on the bed, he knew that it was an empty hope.

Now he knew how Bobby felt at having to bury his friends. He hoped that Kubrick was the only one he had to bury.

He sat down at the edge of the bed, breathing slowly as if every pull was precious to him.

He supposed Castiel must’ve been alive because he figured that he should’ve just stayed in the house rather than stealing something and leave. Or maybe he didn’t dare to know whether he could make it alive if he left the house without stealing anything.

Had Castiel buried his friends too? Was he like Bobby who came to this place on his own will or was he like him, bumping into this place accidentally? How long had he been here? Probably not long, he didn’t look much older than Dean.

He shook his head to stop his train of thoughts. He was hungry but he didn’t want to eat. Not until he knew what happened to Ash.

He wondered, if it took them twenty hours to find Kubrick dead at the gate and almost the same amount of time to know that Jake might not survive, how long would it take him to find out that Ash was dead?

* * *

He saw the book just as the Sun was setting down. It lay on footpath that led towards the gate, as if it had been walking slowly and was taking a break before it continued to the library. Dean practically ran out of the house. He picked up the book and ran to the gate.

Dean couldn’t describe how it felt, to see Ash there, on the grass and he was as stiff as a candle. He crouched down and cradled Ash’s head, holding back tears, wishing he could still feel blood gushing inside his veins, under the skin. But there was nothing anymore, there was no life anymore, no breath, no blood current. Ash had died trying to leave the house, trying to steal something from the house. He didn’t even know whether he had to say something, but he knew that Ash couldn’t hear him anymore so he rocked for a while, which was more to calm himself down.

Then he carried Ash into the house. Castiel met him in the foyer, he didn’t say anything, he just took Ash’ backpack and the book and set them aside. Dean carried him to the patio and laid him on the floorjust like Kubrick the day before.

“It’s too late for the burial, isn’t it?” Castiel asked.

Indeed it had gotten dark and they just had to go through the night with Ash’s corpse on the patio.

“You can rest, I’ll take care of this,” Castiel said. “I’ve cooked dinner if you want to eat something.”

“I’m not hungry.”

Castiel looked at him for awhile, then he asked, “Could you get me some bedsheets and a water jug please?”

Now Dean knew why there were so many bedsheets in the house. It was practical.

Dean wanted to tell Castiel that he didn’t want to take any orders from Castiel anymore, he wanted to just stay there and mourn because Ash was his friend and Ash had been a good friend to him, weirdness aside, and Ash was young and should’ve had a great future, he wanted to start his own online game if he made it out alive from Afghanistan, but he didn’t and...

But Dean Castiel was right. Perhaps it would be easier for him if he do something rather than staying here and at Ash’s rigid body, wishing that this was unreal. Maybe he didn’t have to know that Ash had gone, forever, and he wouldn’t be coming back, for eternity.

He got up and went to find the bedsheets and the water jug for Castiel. He ignored the food Castiel had cooked for him. He didn’t want to eat anymore, knowing that there would be no Ash to share the food with.

When he got back to the patio, Castiel had stripped Ash’ clothes. He asked Dean to fill the jug with water from the fountain and he did, like a robot. When Castiel wiped Ash’s body with the water, Dean wished, he wished that Ash came back to life because perhaps the water didn’t only heal wounds but also brought back lives.

But Ash lay stiff and cold.

He stayed still, watching Castiel work. It took sometime until he finally calmed down, that he didn’t have to make too much effort to hold back tears. He rubbed his face and took a deep breath.

Castiel wrapped Ash tightly with the bed sheet and asked Dean to get a blanket to cover Ash for the night.

Dean obeyed.

When Castiel’s done, he said, “I think it’s better if you take a break. You’ll have a hard day tomorrow.”

Dean looked up, staring at Castiel, not being able to talk.

“You’re going to have to dig the grave for Ash,” Castiel said.

* * *

He didn’t sleep that night, he stayed next to Ash with a candle to give some lights, while Castiel retreated to his bedroom. He tried not to think too much. He supposed he should pray, he still remembered some basic prayers, both in English and in Latin.

But he also knew that Ash didn’t need any prayers. For him, everything had finished. If he prayed, it was for himself.

When the morning broke, Dean went up to his bedroom to wash his face and brush his teeth, then he went to get a shovel from the kitchen. There was a glass of warm milk on the table and a basket of flatbread, fresh from the oven, or so it looked, although Dean believed now that Castiel didn’t need any oven or stove or even flour and eggs to make bread. He ignored them and walked out to the back yard.

The Sun was still slowly rising at the horizon, there was a soft pink color at the base of the sky, if the sky had any base.

He stood for countless minutes staring at the trees that marked the forest. Castiel had never said it was a cemetery. Ash made the assumption. He just had to believe it. Except that, he didn’t want to believe it.

Absent-minded, he began exploring the small forest. He checked the trees one by one, not knowing what to look for, not ready to find anything. He knew that perhaps he should just try to dig, but then, if there were really dead bodies other than Kubrick’s there, it would be a disrespect to the dead.

He finally stopped and went to where Kubrick was buried. He chose a patch of land and began digging, hoping that he didn’t dig up someone else’s grave. It was difficult to dig a grave all by himself, more difficult because he had a thousand emotions swirling inside him with sadness as the most overwhelming one of all.

He was half-way through when his shovel hit something and he cleared the soil and pulled out a silver flask. He brought it closer to his eyes and read “Robert Steven Singer, 1965” engraved there.

Dean sat on the ground. He didn’t know whether he wanted to laugh or shout in anger. It was like a joke to him. Everything that belonged to the dead people went back to the house. Except Bobby’s flask. Did Bobby die clutching the flask so tightly that even the spell couldn’t take it out of him?

Whatever.

But now he knew that Bobby was dead too.

* * *

He helped Castiel carry Ash from the patio and once again, he descended into the grave to arrange Ash’s position while Castiel watched. Then he shoved soil to cover Ash completely, while Castiel chanted his strange prayers. He didn’t bury any of Ash’s possessions with him, he knew that they would just resurface the next day or so and he didn’t want to know that.

“Why didn’t you mark the graves?” asked Dean as he jabbed a tree branch on to Ash’s grave. It felt like a millennium since he last spoke to Castiel, yet it was only last night.

“Because it’s too hurtful to remember,” Castiel answered quietly.

“Did you bury them all?” asked Dean.

Castiel didn’t answer.

“Will you bury me if I die here?” asked Dean.

“I hope I don’t have to do that, but yes, I will.”

Dean left Castiel in the cemetery. He went to the foyer to collect the book Ash tried to steal from the library. He left Ash’s backpack where Castiel left it. He didn’t know what to do with it. Castiel would know.

He went up to the library to put the book back in the shelf, but he found himself sitting on the sofa there, breathing hard. It was surreal, the whole thing was surreal. He opened the book, flipped the pages open, unable to read the characters or understand the symbols. He wished he had internet. It was easy to find almost anything in the interest these days.

A piece of paper fell from between the yellowish pages to Dean’s lap. It was almost as yellow as the book pages. Dean took it and recognized Bobby’s handwriting.

Page 53

I’m binding you here
So you will live on even after I have left this world
You will watch my prizes
You will not be able to take my prizes away
No one will be able to take my prizes away
For my prizes are precious

Bobby must have been trying to translate the book. He opened the book again, thumbed it until he found page fifty three and saw the same symbol with the one on his bedroom’s canopy with a row of characters next to it. That must be the spell.

Dean took a deep breath. Immortality sounded a very long time. It must’ve been very lonely when you have to go through it without a company.

He put the book on his lap and leaned back. He saw Bobby’s journal on the table, it was open.

He supposed that there was no harm anymore in reading the journal now that he had known that Bobby was dead too. He took it and read the open page.

March thirteen. We’re finally here, in the house. It sort of frightening because at one moment you don’t see anything but trees and the rocky mountain, another you see the house, standing tall in front of you like it erupts from the Earth. But the truth is, I didn’t feel any danger about the house. I know danger when I feel it. This isn’t like any of the haunted houses I’ve ever stepped into. I couldn’t feel any ghostly or evil presence. I’m sure what the old woman in the village told us about the cruel wizard is wrong. Besides, how come a wizard in this area bore the name: Shirley? It reminds me of Laverne and Shirley and I miss The Lucy Show now. And why did he choose to live this in the middle of nowhere in Afghanistan? Why did it have to be Afghanistan? Because he didn’t want to people to know? Because he didn’t want people to have access to his house? Because he had seen the future that Afghanistan would be a conflict area that it’s very difficult to get here? There was no turning back and we walked past the gate. The land is beautiful and serene and there’s a small farm at the left side. Bill went up to the door to knock on the heavy wooden panel. We were convinced that no one would listen. We have decided that if that was the case, we would just barge in. But indeed the door was opened from the inside and a man in a long robe and a cloak like an Afghanese held it open. Bill asked, “Are you Shirley?” He neither nodded nor shook his head, he had the expression of one who had seen the rise and fall of the Roman Empire and the Nazi. He said, “No, my name is Castiel.” He has the bluest eyes I’ve ever seen.

* * *

He woke up hungry and found that he had fallen asleep on the sofa in the library. Outside the window, the sky was dark but he knew that it was still afternoon. He checked his watched. It was almost four pm.

He took his watch off and set it on the table. He decided that he didn’t need it anymore.

He got up and went to the kitchen. Castiel wasn’t there. There was no sign that he had cooked something. The flatbread and the milk were still on the table, they had become very cold. The kitchen smelled stale and felt very, very hollow.

He ate a piece of the bread, found it taste like a cardboard, then he washed it down with the milk, which tasted like chalk. Then he began searching the house. But Castiel wasn’t anywhere, not even in his bedroom.

He was about to give up and go back to his bedroom when he saw the door that led to the tower, at the end of the corridor of the third floor. Of course, Castiel could be there.

He opened the door and began climbing the endless stairway.

The stairway seemed to be longer than he remembered it, as he climbed it slowly, he felt like he could see faces of those who had sought fortune and died here. It wasn’t fair. He and his friends weren’t seeking fortune. They only needed a little help. Neither of his friends deserved this. They should be able to return to the base camp and enjoy their future.

But then, what kind of future waited for them? Getting stabbed or shot by the Talibans? Safely going back to America and finding that life wasn’t what they had been looking forward to when they were in the war zone?

An age seemed to have passed when he finally reached the top. However, seeing Castiel there, standing at the window, looking out at the snow top mountains, wiped away the exhaustion. He was wrapped in a goatskin cloak, the wind blowing from the outside made the string float and dance.

Castiel didn’t turn around when he spoke, “It was the Mongol’s soldiers. They were like you, they were wounded and needed shelter and they came across this house. Then one of them decided to smuggle out a little gold statue. It was very very old, even by the standards of this house. But he died at the gate and the statue went back to the living room.” He paused, taking a deep breath. “His friends were scared and figured that they couldn’t walk out of the gate. So they came with the idea of stringing a rope from here to the tree there, just outside the gate. The problem was, there was only a tiny window here. So they blew it.” He stopped.

“Did they succeed?” Dean asked.

Castiel lowered his eyes. “Yes, they did. They used arrows and bows and they managed to slide out.”

Dean remembered the bows in the weapon room

“So they successfully escaped?”

“They fell to the ground just as they passed the fence.”

“How do you know it was the Mongol’s soldiers? Did they leave a note like Bobby’s journal?”

“Because I was here.”

Dean took a deep breath.

“He bound me here to watch over his possessions. I was only five years old when I was brought here. He died when I had just reached adulthood. He was a greedy and arrogant wizard, but he was very powerful and people are scared of him. I couldn’t break the spell. I tried, I read those books. No one can either.

"He had a sick sense of humour, there's one thing in the house, just one, that if taken past the threshold will break the spell, but the only clue he left was that it was the most Precious of all his belongings. I don't know what it is, i never did. So I didn't let people in, so I wouldn't have to bury them,” Castiel paused and lowered his eyes. “But sometimes, it gets very lonely without anyone to talk to when even the birds and insects avoid this place.”

Dean let silence fall between them, then he said, “So you let people in.”

“I shouldn’t have let you in,” Castiel said.

Dean didn’t say anything. He went to stand behind Castiel. Castiel’s hair smelled of spices and sweat and a little musk and he felt a ting of sadness at the pit of his stomach, knowing that he had to eventually leave, like it or not.

“But if I sent you away, you could be killed by the Taliban even if the house didn't kill you,” Castiel continued.

So the choice was: got spellbound or got murdered? But it wasn’t a choice anymore for him.

“I saw you and I couldn’t bear the thought of you getting killed,” Castiel said again. “or the thought of not being able to see you again.”

For him it was when they came up here for the first time to see the full moon. He couldn’t imagine keeping on living without being able to see Castiel anymore.

He felt bad because it wasn’t love at the first sight but if he could turn back time, he would make it right.

“All I want is for someone to stay here, someone I can cook for,” he stopped again and Dean was tempted to continue: someone you can slave around the house, chopping woods, doing laundry, tending the farm. “Someone who can make me feel that I serve a purpose in this world other than a house guard.”

Dean wanted to say that there were worse ways of living than becoming an immortal guard.

“So, are you going to leave like the others?” he asked as he lifted up his chin and stared at the horizon.

Dean remembered Kansas City and Sam and his parents and Las Vegas and the Afghani refuges, and how much he would miss the view of the snow topped rocky mountains, but he didn’t say anything. Instead, he snaked his arms around Castiel’s shoulders and wrapped himself with warmth radiating from Castiel’s body.

Castiel was stiff for one second, but then he relaxed and leaned back on Dean’s chest.

* * *

March eighteen. Bill kept on saying that the water is the most precious and we laughed at him. Victor said: but what could be more valuable than these weapon collection? Do you know how much this sword cost? I bet this came from the Heian era. People will pay as much as forty million dollars for this piece. What can you do with forty million dollars? I know what I will do with that much amount of money. Bill said: ah, but what if you’re rich but sick? This water is like the water of life. It heals. What is more valuable than health? Idjits. I didn’t say anything. I’m in the opinion that the books are the most precious of all.

* * *

~end

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