The cold hit Dean so hard it made him yelp. His knees buckled both from shock and from the fact that the ground beneath his feet was no longer concrete but snow; he sank into it with a jolt, pinwheeled his arms in a vain attempt to balance himself and faceplanted with a soft whump of white powder.
Ten seconds ago he’d been in Florida. He’d been fighting a hydra – an honest-to-God straight out of Jason And The Argonauts hydra, some multiple-headed beast with fangs and claws that screamed like a fire truck and spat venomous gas across the gymnasium they’d cornered it in. He and Sam had been hacking off heads left, right and center while Castiel had been using a flamethrower to cauterize each bloody stump before a new head grew back. The angel had looked like some kind of Terminator wielding the damn thing, his expression resolute and his jaw set firm, and Dean would’ve stopped to stare at him in admiration if he hadn’t been in danger of being ripped to pieces. But the hydra was quick with its teeth, snapping and biting the air around them, and claws had raked the back of Dean’s shoulder only moments before he’d suddenly found himself... here. In the snow. Somewhere that absolutely wasn’t Florida; somewhere frozen and desolate with a gale roaring in his ears and flakes of flying snow smacking into his face so hard it hurt.
“What the hell?” he spluttered, managing to fight his way upright again, scanning the vista around him. Nothing. Whiteness. Not a tree. No rocks, no water, no roads, no houses – nothing. He was in the middle of a blizzard in a wilderness so vast he could barely comprehend it. It occurred to him that perhaps he wasn’t alone here, so he looked around him for his sword to no avail, hissing as he twisted and pulled at the scratches down his back. They felt wet and sore, but the cold seemed way more important right now; he was dressed in nothing but jeans and a t-shirt. If he wasn’t whisked away from here soon he’d be hypothermic in ten minutes flat.
“Cas!” he yelled, in the faint hope that the angel was somewhere nearby – who else could have done this to him? Clearly Castiel had blinked him out of the gymnasium to save him from the hydra’s claws, but hadn’t paid attention to where he’d sent him. Great. “Thanks a bunch, you bastard!” he called again, but there was nothing but the whip of wind around his ears and a whole lot of nothing, so Dean pulled his cell out of his jeans pocket and snapped it open.
Searching for network...
Searching for network...
Searching for network...
No network found.
“Superb,” Dean grunted, pocketing it again. “Now what? Am I supposed to build a fucking igloo?”
In the end, all he could do was walk.
~ ~ ~
There was blood on the snow and Dean stared at it in wonder; it was the only color he’d seen in what seemed like forever. Was it his? He wasn’t sure. All he knew was that he was cold and the red stains on the frozen surface were beautiful in a way he couldn’t quite explain.
“Pretty,” he murmured, feeling water soaking into the denim of his jeans. He was curled up against a snowdrift and had passed the point of feeling cold. Now there was merely a peaceful numbness and a pressing urge to sleep, but he couldn’t stop staring at the blood. It was gorgeous. So red. Someone’s life, spilled right there on the snow. It was important but he didn’t know why.
“Hellooooo!”
The wind was playing tricks with his ears. Dean blinked frost off his eyelashes and sighed, the cold burning his lungs, knowing he hadn’t really just heard that voice.
“You there!”
Except maybe he had. He looked up. A figure was approaching through the storm. Everything was white, the whole world was white, but the person approaching him was dark and moving with purpose among the swirling flakes. As Dean stared, it reminded him of a film he knew very well indeed.
“Han old buddy, is that you?” he muttered dreamily through cracked lips, forcing a smile as the stranger came to stand in front of him. “Hope you brought a tauntaun... they smell bad on the outside…”
The figure tilted its head. “I’m afraid not, sir. And I can’t help but notice that you look as though you require assistance.”
It was a male voice, and as he bent down to place a hand on Dean’s shoulder, making him wince, Dean noticed he had piercing blue eyes beneath the many layers of fur and scarves that covered his head. “Cas?” he mumbled, connecting information in his muddled brain.
The stranger frowned. “Is someone else with you?”
“Huh?”
“Are you alone? Do I need to find anybody else?”
“No. C-cold.”
The man nodded matter-of-factly. “Well, yes, you would be cold right now. That’s because you’ve almost frozen to death.”
It was hard, but Dean summoned up a scowl. The new arrival didn’t seem to notice. He leaned around behind Dean’s back, stared for a few moments and then sat back on his heels. “Those wounds need attention, although the bleeding has slowed considerably because of the cold. I’m going to have to take you with me. Here.” The man removed his massive mittens and jammed them on Dean’s hands; they were furry inside and wonderfully, gloriously warm. “Now, if you’ll excuse me...”
Dean was suddenly hefted into the air and thrown over the guy’s shoulder. He didn’t struggle. He was too tired. He watched the back of the man’s boots as he plodded across the snow, wondering what was weird about them until he saw he had tennis rackets stuck on their bottoms. Snowshoes. Wow, this guy was a regular boy scout. It certainly helped him, though; he moved further in the space of two minutes than Dean had in the last half-hour. Then again, the man wasn’t dripping blood onto the fresh tracks left behind them. Dean stared at the red spots and wondered if he should be worried about them at all.
The man stopped walking and Dean was none-too-gently deposited on several layers of furs and woollen blankets in what looked like some kind of sled. He blinked around him groggily as the stranger pulled free some of the blankets and tucked them over him. Then blue eyes met his and teeth gleamed whiter than snow as he smiled.
“Just enjoy the ride,” said the stranger. “The dogs can do all the hard work now.”
Dean looked over the man’s shoulder at the six huskies attached to the sled. He’d never seen anything like them before. He’d never been in a dogsled before, or lost in the snow, or rescued by a guy in snowshoes. He was tired and utterly frozen but the ridiculousness of it all still registered in his sluggish brain. “You have got to be kiddin’ me,” he declared through chattering teeth, aghast. “Where the hell am I? Alaska?”
The man frowned. “No, sir. To reach Alaska you’d have to head East across the Yukon for at least four weeks by sled – more, if the weather decides to be disagreeable. You’re in the Northwest Territories.”
Dean blinked. “Northwest what?”
“Canada. You’re in Canada.”
And then he was gone, leaving Dean to process the news as the sled bounced as the dogs were mushed into action.
“Huh,” he mumbled, and promptly fell into a dark, seductive sleep.
~ ~ ~
Voices woke him up some indeterminable time later, low, furious murmurings that spoke of some kind of argument. He opened his eyes reluctantly, blinking in the gloomy candlelight as he registered wooden cabin walls, an orange glow coming from somewhere off to the side that could only herald an open fire, and a window firmly shuttered against what looked like a night sky.
He wasn’t cold any more; he was, if anything, too hot, buried between countless layers of fur blankets on a bed that was bigger than any bed he’d lain in for years. He tried to lift his head and grimaced as pain darted down his back, suddenly remembering the hydra’s claws and all the blood – yeah, he’d done himself some pretty serious damage there. But at least he wasn’t freezing to death now. In fact, a solid line of delicious warmth was pressed up against his left side. A solid line of delicious warmth that… was… breathing…
Dean jerked as he realized he was in bed with somebody. A stranger was lying against him, someone who…
…was a dog. Ah.
It looked like a husky, golden-eyed and grey-colored, but there was something a bit wilder about it too. Wolfish, even. It was sprawled beside Dean as though it had been deliberately trying to keep him warm – and wow, Dean must be feeling pretty messed-up to actually think this dog was looking out for him. Everybody knew dogs didn’t do that. Dogs weren’t that clever. It was just a coincidence. Only Lassie did crap like that.
Whatever it was doing there, the dog was staring at him. Dean stared back.
“Good dog,” he said, after a few awkward moments.
“Whuff,” whuffed the dog, and the noise was enough to stop the voices in the next room that had woken Dean a few moments ago. He tore his eyes away from the creature on his bed and looked across at the door as it swung open. Two men walked into the room: one tall and dark-haired, with the blue eyes Dean remembered from the snowstorm; the other slim and blond, with a face that was set in a firm scowl. He looked dangerous, twitchy, and Dean instantly went on guard.
But his companion appeared to be playing the perfect host. “You’re awake,” he announced pointlessly. “Can I assume that you’re feeling better?”
“I’m not a popsicle, so yeah,” Dean said, somewhat ungratefully, but he was too confused to care. He nodded at his furry friend. “I think your dog had something to do with that. Beats a hot water bottle anyday.”
“Oh, he’s not a dog. He’s a wolf, actually. His name’s Diefenbaker.”
Dean opened his mouth and closed it again, unsure of what to do with that information. “Who are you?” he asked instead.
The man who’d rescued him jerked his head towards his friend. “This is Ray.”
“Hey,” said Ray, narrowing his eyes.
“And I’m Constable Benton Fraser of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police.”
Dean wasn’t feeling his best anyway, but this was veering dangerously close to overwhelming, so he closed his eyes for a moment before opening them and saying flatly, “I’m in Canada.”
“Yes.”
“And you’re a Mountie.”
“Yes, that would appear to be the case.”
“Aren’t you supposed to be wearing a red uniform and a silly hat?”
“Don’t insult the hat,” Ray said quickly, as the Mountie looked affronted. “He doesn’t like it if you insult the hat. It’s like insulting his manhood or something like that. He loves his hat.”
“So I’m in Canada?” Dean said again, ignoring him.
The men before him exchanged a look. “Where did you think you were?” drawled Ray, folding his arms.
“Florida,” Dean replied without thinking, then mentally cursed himself. Great – way to sound like some kind of lunatic. He couldn’t exactly explain to these guys that he’d been teleported by a friggin’ angel, after all, but he wasn’t thinking fast enough to come up with an alternative right now. He was sweating and his back was burning; it was starting to sink in that perhaps the hydra had hurt him worse than he knew.
Ray quirked a grin. “You see any flamingos round here, Fraser?”
“No, Ray,” said the Mountie dutifully, raising his eyebrows.
“That’s right. That’s cause we’re not in Florida. We’re in the middle of Ice Cube Central. How the hell did you get here? And what happened to your back? I thought you’d been Freddy Kruegered by a polar bear but Fraser says they’re all further North at this time of year hunting penguins.”
“At first glance, yes, I did think those scratches were…” Fraser stopped, shooting Ray an exasperated look. “You know very well that there are no penguins in this hemisphere, Ray. The bears are hunting seals while the breeding season is underway. Seal pups make delicious snacks.”
“Penguins, seals, Twinkies, whatever. What hit you?” Ray stared at Dean with such a confrontational look in his eyes that Dean recognized it instantly.
“You’re a cop, aren’t you?” he asked, deflecting the question.
“Chicago PD. How’d you guess?”
“I’ve met a few cops.”
“Are you a felon?” Fraser asked, straight-out and sensibly, with such clear expectation for an honest answer that Dean was suddenly reminded of the way Castiel asked questions without understanding the nuances of human behavior. Huh. This guy was kind of weird, come to think of it, in a lot of the same ways that Cas was.
“I’ve met a few cops,” Dean repeated, unwilling to answer. Out of nowhere, he shuddered. “Look, I’m really grateful for you dragging me off the glacier from hell out there, and it’s nice meeting you ‘n’ all, but I really need to make a call and my cell doesn’t work. Can I use your phone?”
“Don’t have one,” Ray said with a grunt. “Grizzly Adams here doesn’t agree with modern technology.”
Fraser shrugged. “Well, it’s not that I don’t agree with it, exactly. It’s more that there’s no telephone cabling or signal towers in a five-hundred mile radius of this cabin.”
“No internet, either,” Ray interrupted petulantly. “Or electricity. Can’t even get here by car – you have to sled it. Even the dogs look at us like we’re insane whenever we come here.”
“Then why do you come here?” Dean queried, as he allowed the concept of no telephone to sink in. Dammit. How the hell could he get in touch with Sam? And, more importantly, Castiel? He needed to get back to them somehow, but thanks to the carvings on his ribs the angel wouldn’t be able to find him without a phone call. He’d prayed enough out on the ice to know that he wasn’t being answered that way, either. Maybe Cas was out of range, just like his phone. This was Canada, after all.
“It’s our summer retreat,” explained the Mountie, and grinned in an ‘I’m proud of this place and love it here’ kind of way. A look of disgust crossed Ray’s face which he quickly hid when Fraser glanced over at him, replacing it with a totally fake grin. Fraser looked back at Dean again, oblivious, and Ray’s face fell. It was almost like watching a comedy routine, but it clued Dean in on a few things about these guys. He felt pretty crappy and disoriented, yes, but he didn’t need all of his faculties to figure out that these two were probably more than friends – either they were brothers or lovers, because nobody acted with their familiarity without it being one or the other. Dean opted for ‘lovers’, simply because there was no way these guys shared the same gene pool.
Whatever they were, Dean was stuck here with them and their wolf. There were no words for how crazy this was. And to top it all off, he felt lousy.
“I’m really hot,” he grimaced, struggling to sit up and wincing as the clawmarks made their presence felt. “Too many blankets.”
Fraser darted forward and removed several of the furs, shooing the wolf off the bed in the process. It bounced to the floor and stretched before jumping up onto a nearby chair and watching proceedings with interest. It creeped Dean out, but then again, he’d never really been that fond of dogs. Or, uh, wolves, probably.
“Better?” asked the Mountie, folding away the blankets neatly. Ray leaned on the doorframe and stared at Dean with eyes that were calculating and not entirely friendly, but Dean was too tired to care that much.
“A bit,” he muttered, and shivered again. He jerked away as Fraser went to place a hand on his forehead, staring at him suspiciously. “What’re you doing?”
“Checking to see if you have a temperature,” said Fraser mildly. He lifted his hand again. “May I?”
“You’re really polite,” Dean said, allowing the palm to lie flat on his forehead after a moment’s deliberation.
“He’s Canadian,” offered Ray, as though that explained everything.
Fraser’s brow furrowed and he pulled his hand away. “Your temperature is two degrees above normal. I think those wounds on your back are infected.”
“Wouldn’t surprise me,” Dean allowed, before registering exactly what had just been said. “How the hell can you tell I’m two degrees above normal? What are you, a human thermometer?”
Fraser sat on the bed and crossed his arms over his chest casually. “Oh, it’s not that difficult to do. Human skin is extraordinarily sensitive to external temperatures, but most people spend their lives insulating themselves from the subtle nuances and fluctuations of the atmosphere. Whereas, I’ve spent much of my life in a colder climate and my skin is particularly predisposed to registering heat, whether it be in the air around me or the body temperature of a stranger who says he should be in Florida but who appeared dressed in nothing but jeans and a t-shirt in the middle of the tundra via no means I can readily determine.”
Dean boggled at him for a few moments before sliding his eyes across to Ray.
Ray shrugged. “Like I said, he’s Canadian.”
“I need to get a message to my brother,” Dean said, his voice hitching around a sudden shiver. “There’s gotta be a way to do it.”
Fraser shook his head. “I’m afraid not. When I found you this afternoon a blizzard was just settling in. I foresee it lasting at least three days. You’re lucky it’s spring – we were once snowed into this very cabin for three months. Thankfully my bookshelves are well-stocked.”
“He made me read poetry,” Ray murmured bleakly.
Dean bowed his head and rubbed the bridge of his nose. Okay, so this was nuts. Castiel zapped him off into the middle of nowhere, a freakin’ Mountie picked him up and now he was trapped in a cabin with no way home. “Good going, Cas,” he mumbled, suddenly exhausted beyond all measure.
“Is Cas your brother?” When Dean looked up, Fraser continued gently, “You mentioned him before, when I found you. Or are you referring to a woman…?”
“He’s a royal pain in the ass,” Dean grunted, before another shiver made his body spasm unpleasantly. “Urgh, I feel like crap.”
Fraser nodded sympathetically. “I need to dress your wounds again. I believe I have a poultice that might help them. Here, let me help you sit up…”
“I can do it,” Dean protested, but it soon became clear that he couldn’t. His arms felt like spaghetti and it was as though all the strength had leached out of his body. Fraser allowed him three attempts before tsking and taking one of his arms, directing Ray to take the other. They heaved together and Dean gasped as the movement sent fire down his spine. Mythological monster or not, hydra claws really hurt.
“So what’s your name?” Ray asked, releasing him the second he was upright and standing back to watch as Fraser shifted Dean forward a little so he could reach his shoulderblade. It wasn’t until then that Dean realized he wasn’t wearing a shirt; a quick pat under the blankets reassured him that he was still clad in his jeans. Phew.
“Dean,” he groaned. “Holy crap, my back really hurts.”
Warm fingers pulled away a dressing Dean hadn’t known was there. Beside them, Ray hissed through his teeth. “Man, that doesn’t look good.”
“Oh dear,” agreed Fraser.
Dean looked up. Fraser’s face had transformed into an expression of abject puzzlement; Ray looked slightly sick. “What is it?”
Fraser swallowed. “The cuts are quite seriously infected.”
“You’re bleeding green!” Ray cut in, pointing. “You’re bleeding green. Who the hell bleeds green, for cryin’ out loud? What the hell is that? Are you Mr Spock?”
“Ray, fetch the first aid kit. And the tub I left on the window ledge earlier today.”
“The putty?”
“It’s not putty.”
“It looks like putty.”
“It’s not putty.”
“You gonna putty up his scratches? Fill them in, like you’re fittin’ a window or something?”
“Ray...”
“Okay, okay, I’m going.”
He raised his hands in the air and left the room. Dean watched him go, feeling his skin prickle and his stomach lurch queasily. Whatever was going on with his back, he had the feeling there was nothing these guys would be able to do: this was a supernatural injury. Antibiotics weren’t going to cut it. Maybe the hydra’s claws had been poisoned?
“I fully respect your desire to keep the details of your arrival here secret,” Fraser said quietly, “but it would really help if you could at least tell me how you were injured.”
“I got clawed.”
“I can see that. But what manner of creature clawed you?”
Dean shook his head. “You wouldn’t understand.”
Fraser ran a knuckle across his eyebrow and sighed. “I think you’d be surprised at quite how much I understand about the world around us, Dean.”
“And I think you’d be surprised at how much you don’t understand, Fraser.”
His companion looked up at him sharply. “I think whatever scratched you has poisoned you.”
“Yeah, me too.”
“And you’re not willing to tell me any more about it, even if it’s detrimental to your own health?”
“I can’t. There’s nothing you can do anyway – I need my friend’s help.”
“So who is this ‘Cas’ you keep mentioning? A doctor?”
Dean closed his eyes. “I guess you could say he’s got the antidote.”
“Perhaps I could fashion one for you,” Fraser offered. “I have a mortar and pestle in the other room and a large selection of moss and lichen. They have medicinal properties beyond the knowledge of modern science. Sometimes, despite the march of progress, the oldest remedies are the best.”
Dean opened his eyes to meet his gaze. Was this guy for real? Who the hell was ever this nice to a total stranger anyway? “Thank you,” he said, heartfelt, and shook his head. “But there’s probably nothing you can do.”
“Here’s your putty,” a voice declared. Ray came through the door – he didn’t walk, he swaggered – and handed a small container to Fraser. He placed a wooden box on the bed and turned to Dean. “Okay, Mystery Man, it’s time to spill yer guts. Tell me who you are and what the hell you’re doin’ here or I’m going to have to punch you.”
Fraser shot him a stern look. “Ray...”
He was completely ignored as Ray steamed on. “How the hell did you get out there? There are no roads for miles. Did you fall out of a plane or something? Skydive? Or did you come by submarine? There’s submarines up here, I’ve seen ’em.”
Dean glared at him. “That’s totally it. I took a sub. I’m a regular Captain Nemo.”
Ray grinned wolfishly. “Oh, so you’re a joker, are you?”
“This really isn’t helping,” Fraser muttered, leaning over the bed and opening the box. He pulled out a selection of dressings and bandages and gestured for Dean to turn slightly. Dean shot Ray a defiant glare and obliged, letting out a shaky breath as he felt the bed sway around him. He would have toppled backwards if a hand hadn’t caught his arm; looking down, and then up, he saw that it was Ray’s.
“You get better and then you and me are having a little talk,” Ray promised, and flashed that slightly unhinged grin at him again.
“Bite me,” Dean hissed.
“Anytime.”
“If you’ve quite finished,” Fraser announced, sounding huffy. An instant later something freezing cold and sticky was pushed onto one of the clawmarks so unexpectedly that Dean cried out in shock and, once the rest of the sensation hit him, pain. It burned. It burned like acid and Dean wrenched away, toppling face-first onto the bed, gasping for breath.
“Guess that hurt, huh?” Ray said with a sniff.
“What the hell was that?” Dean panted, batting Fraser’s hand away.
“It’s a poultice – an old family recipe,” Fraser explained, scooping more grey gloop out of the tub in his hand. “It neutralizes many common bacteria and cleanses the wound.”
“It feels like fire!”
Fraser frowned. “Oh. Oh dear. That’s not right.”
“Is he allergic to it?” Ray asked, raising his eyebrows. “Like, with nuts? Y’know how people get allergic to nuts? One whiff of a peanut and they’re dead, pow, just like that?”
“I’m n-not allergic to nuts,” Dean confirmed shakily.
“There’s nothing in this that would cause a reaction,” Fraser explained, and from the look on his face Dean could see that he was baffled. Well, hardly surprising given that the scratches were caused by an allegedly mythological beast. Even a Mountie couldn’t be prepared for that eventuality.
“Is he gonna die?” Ray asked with disconcerting bluntness.
“Of course not,” Fraser replied cheerfully, but Dean didn’t have to know him well to recognize fakery when he saw it. “Ray, can I have a word with you in the next room?”
They pushed Dean up and back again until he was lying on his side, wound bare to the room, still throbbing under all the ointment. Dean found himself at eye level with the wolf on the chair, who was regarding him with a faintly wistful expression. “Hey, Beefenburger,” he mumbled, feeling a bit woozy.
“Diefenbaker,” the Mountie supplied helpfully.
“What k-kind of name is that for a mutt, anyway?”
“He’s named for John Diefenbaker, Canada’s thirteenth prime minister. He was quite a fascinating man, actually–”
Ray cleared his throat. “Not the time, Fraser.”
“Understood.”
They left, closing the heavy wooden door behind them. Dean tried to hear what they were saying in the next room but their voices were too muffled. He felt sleepy and a little sick; his back tingled and ached and he was way too hot. He shuddered and Diefenbaker let out a small, sympathetic-sounding whine.
“What are you, some kind of Doctor Dog?” Dean mumbled, frowning at him.
Diefenbaker tilted his head, looking like he understood completely what Dean was going through. It was weird how dogs, or wolves in this case, could look so human. “Nice doggy,” Dean murmured, exhaustion sweeping over him. “Nice wolf...”
When sleep came, it wasn’t peaceful.
~ ~ ~
Dean woke up with a moan, lurching upright on the bed until a wave of dizziness overtook him and he slammed back down onto the pillows again. He was really, really hot. He looked around; the room was lit only by the flames from the fireplace, gloomy and shadowed, although there was enough light to see the wolf curled up nose to tail on the floor beside the bed. Dean glanced down at him and almost smiled when he heard him snore.
There were voices in the next room, but he couldn’t understand them. He glanced down at his watch, wondering how long he’d been asleep, but he couldn’t remember what time it had been when he’d last looked so it was pointless. He felt as though it had been at least a few hours, however, and the fire in his back was much worse. He stretched out an arm and twisted until he could pat his shoulderblade, finding a dressing stuck firmly in place. At least his hosts were good nurses.
It was a measure of just how crappy Dean was feeling that he didn’t spot the Mountie standing at the foot of his bed until he spoke. “Hello there.”
Dean jumped. He lifted his head and stared. Red suit, stupid hat, hands clasped firmly behind his back... and a face Dean had never seen before in his life. Old, grey and rugged, like he’d spent every second of his life on a glacier.
“Hey,” he croaked. “You’re a Mountie.”
“I see you Yanks are still fond of stating the obvious.”
Dean frowned. “Who are you?”
The Mountie nodded his head at the door. “Sergeant Bob Fraser. Benton’s my boy.”
“You all live here in this cabin in the middle of nowhere?” Dean asked, slightly aghast. Unless his signals had been crossed, he was pretty sure that the two guys that had taken him in were in a relationship. Having a parent on the premises couldn’t be much fun.
The old man let out a snort. “I don’t live anywhere. I’m dead, son. Shuffled off this mortal coil way back in ’94. I’m a ghost.”
Dean blinked at him. “A ghost?”
“That’s right.”
“Why are you here?”
The Mountie narrowed his eyes. “You don’t seem that surprised.”
Dean went to shrug, then thought better of it. “I’ve met a lot of ghosts.”
“Yes, so I hear. I suppose you’re the one they’re talking about after all.”
“The one they’re... I’m sorry, I don’t get you. Who’s talking about me?”
Sergeant Fraser looked shocked at his ignorance. “Why, everybody, of course. The entire spirit world’s full of stories about you. ‘Dean Winchester can do this, Dean Winchester can do that. Dean Winchester escaped from Hell and hangs around with angels.’ Couldn’t resist a quick visit to see what all the fuss was about.” He squinted through the darkness, looking Dean up and down as he lay huddled on the bed. “You’re shorter than I expected. And you don’t have a manly chin. I thought you’d be square-jawed and heroic, like a proper hero. Can’t compose epic songs of derring-do about a man with a face as delicate as yours. It’s not seemly.”
Dean’s head was spinning, and it wasn’t all from the poison. “Are you seriously telling me that you heard about me in Heaven? Or Hell? Or wherever it is you’ve come from?
That was met by a frown. “All Mounties go to Heaven, son.”
Dean opened and closed his mouth, gaping like a fish. “Right,” he acknowledged. “Yeah, course they do. So, uh, why aren’t you flickering? Most of the ghosts I meet can’t hold their form for as long as you. You should be phasing in and out.”
Sergeant Fraser waved a hand dismissively. “Eh, I’m Canadian.”
“Yeah, the outfit kind of gave that away, but...”
The door swung open. Fraser Jr stood there for a few moments, glancing from Dean to his father uncertainly. Then he deliberately pulled his eyes away from the old Mountie and said to Dean, “Who are you talking to?”
“He’s talking to me, son,” shrugged the ghost. “Who else would he be talking to? The wolf? He’s deaf, there’d be no point.”
Fraser ignored him, waiting expectantly for Dean to reply. Dean juggled what to do for a few moments before deciding to go with honesty. “Your dead dad is standing at the foot of my bed,” he told him, as straight-faced as he could manage.
“Oh,” said Fraser, looking far less shocked than he should have done.
“Nice to see you again, son.”
Fraser shot a look behind him to check he was alone before turning to his father and replying. “You too, Dad. But I thought you’d moved on.”
The ghost raised his eyebrows; they disappeared under his hat. “It’s Heaven, Benton, not jail. I can leave if I want to. And I wanted to.” He jerked his head in Dean’s direction. “This Yank? He’s famous. We all know about him up there. Saved the world, this one.”
Fraser shot Dean a surprised glance. “You did?”
“Sort of,” Dean croaked, embarrassed.
“Ended the Apocalypse,” the old Mountie said smugly.
Fraser swallowed, shook his head as though he was trying to clear it, and nodded. “I see. I, uh, suppose that’s why you can see ghosts.”
“Hunts them,” Fraser Sr added helpfully. “And everything else that’s out there, too.”
From nowhere, Dean’s head spun and he had to brace himself with his hands on the mattress. A hand was on his forehead a moment later and he almost groaned at how cold it was.
“Your temperature’s higher,” Fraser observed, worry clear in his voice.
His father took a few steps closer and pointed at Dean’s back. “What’s up with the wound? All shimmery and glowy. Looks like the aurora borealis on a clear winter’s night. Never seen anything like that before in all my life. Or my death.”
“I got clawed by a hydra,” Dean revealed, deciding that he’d go for broke here. Hell, apparently Mounties got haunted by their dead parents. A hydra probably wouldn’t sound crazy after all.
“A hydra?” asked Fraser, looking totally confused. “As in...”
“The golden fleece hydra, yeah. It scratched me and I got sent here and I have no idea how to get home and I think its claws were poisoned.” The words came out in such a rush that Dean panted when he’d finished. Man, his back was on fire.
Fraser stared at him for a while, then at his father, then back at Dean. “Ah,” he said, as though that explained everything. “Well. Hmm. I suppose now I know why the poultice didn’t work.”
“Oh, there’s nothing you can do for him, son,” Fraser Sr declared gruffly. “He’s done-for. Might as well go and dig a hole in the snow and store him in it until you can get to a town again.”
“Ain’t you a little bundle of ghostly joy?” Dean muttered bleakly, just as Ray walked through the door and stopped dead at the words.
“Ghost?” he snapped, glancing around him. “Where?”
Fraser ran a hand down his face, looking strained. “It’s alright, Ray. It’s just my father.”
Ray froze. “Your father? For real? What, he’s back again? I thought you said he’d moved on?”
The old Mountie grinned. “You told the Yank about me?”
“We don’t have any secrets from each other, Dad,” Fraser said, rather petulantly.
“No, of course not,” Fraser Sr returned. “You know, we never really had the chance to discuss your lifestyle choice, Benton.”
“...Lifestyle choice?” Fraser echoed, as Dean rather giddily tried to keep track of the conversation. He was having more luck than Ray, who, he realized, couldn’t see or hear the ghost at all. He was staring around the room and then at Fraser in total bewilderment, but his eyes narrowed as he tried to figure out what was being discussed.
“Now, now, don’t get huffy,” the old Mountie was saying, raising his hands placatingly. “I know you and the Yank are very close and I’m happy that you’re happy. Your mother is, too. That’s all we’ve ever wanted from you, son. To be happy. Course, some grandchildren wouldn’t have gone amiss, but I suppose that’s out of the question now...”
“Dad, I don’t really think this is the time or place to discuss this kind of thing.”
Ray butted in, “Fraser, is the ghost of your dead Mountie father commenting on our relationship?”
Fraser sighed. “That would seem to be the case, Ray. Yes.”
“If he has a problem you just tell him to go boil his head,” Ray snapped, bristling. He jabbed a finger at where he assumed Fraser’s father was – he was wrong – and carried on, “I don’t like it when people pass judgment on my life and I like it even less when the person doin’ the judging has been dead for years and shouldn’t even be here anyway.” He stopped, taking Fraser by the arm and lowering his voice conspiratorially. “Is he really here? You really weren’t shittin’ me when you told me about him?”
“He’s really here, Ray. Apparently we have an independent witness, too.” He looked down at Dean, who tried to suppress a shudder before nodding.
“He’s there,” he declared, pointing. He stared at his hand. It was shaking so hard he dropped it again quickly.
“You look really sick,” Ray observed in that irritating, stating-the-obvious way that he had. “Is that why you can see dead people? Are you about to cross the veil?” He waggled his fingers in the air, signalling that ‘crossing the veil’ was spooky.
Dean tried to say something appropriately sarcastic back but was felled by a coughing fit. He coughed and coughed, gasping for air and bending double on the bed, and when he finally managed to sit back up again – with Fraser’s help – his mouth tasted of copper. It wasn’t until Ray disappeared and came back with a cloth, wiping his mouth with a surprisingly gentle hand, that Dean saw the blood.
“Urgh, this sucks,” he mumbled, trembling. “Castiel, you son of a bitch, where the hell are you?”
“Everybody talks about him, too,” the ghost announced idly. “Bit of a dark horse, that one. Not very good at following orders. Doesn’t sound like he’d make a good Mountie. Course, he helped end the Apocalypse, so I suppose we could always make a special dispensation if ever he wanted to join up. And a pair of wings would be very useful for tracking prey across ice floes. Could’ve done with a pair myself on a few hunts, especially during the winter of ’59 when I was following Big Bill Monday and all the wolverine pelts he’d stolen from Pine Point.”
“You know about Cas?” Dean croaked, as Fraser pushed him back on the bed, twisting him a little so he didn’t lie on the clawmarks. Dean was so tired he didn’t even object.
Fraser Sr grinned. “I’m dead, you know. Closer to the angels.”
“Closer to the...” Dean closed his eyes, thinking hard, but his head was muggy and his chest hurt. There was something important he should be seeing here. Something really important, but he was so exhausted...
...and then it hit him. “You can find Cas!” he gasped, trying to sit up again. “You’re a ghost, you can go anywhere you want to. You can find Castiel and bring him here!”
Fraser Sr thought about it for a moment. “You want me to track down an angel?”
“Yes! I know you guys, you have that motto – you always get your man. Go get me Castiel!”
“What the hell kind of name is Castiel?” Ray grunted beside him. “Sounds like one of Pokemon’s little friends.”
“It would seem that Castiel is an angel,” Fraser told him seriously.
“Get out of here,” Ray sputtered, after an incredulous pause. “There’s no such thing as angels.”
“There are more things in Heaven and Earth than are dreamt of in your philosophy,” Fraser quoted. “I think it’s time you started to believe.”
“Since when did you go all Mulder on me?”
“Who would this ‘Mulder’ be, Ray?”
“Please,” Dean cut in, stifling a groan as he shifted on the bed. He stared up at the old Mountie desperately. “If you don’t find him, I’m going to die. You’re my only hope.”
“It’s been a while since I had a good old hunt,” Fraser Sr said thoughtfully, clasping his hands behind his back. “And I’ve certainly never hunted anybody across the astral realms.” He tipped his head at his son. “Fancy accompanying your old man on one last case, Benton? You and me, out there against the world, tracking a prey we’ve never tracked before? It could be glorious. It could take us from one end of the Earth to the other, or all across Heaven, or even into Hell. That should shake any cobwebs off us after all these years, eh?”
Fraser blinked at him. “I’m still alive, Dad.”
“Oh.” The old ghost looked disappointed. “Good point. Guess I’ll go alone, then.”
He disappeared. Dean peered up at the two men still left in the room. Fraser was staring contemplatively at the spot where his father had been standing, a wistful look on his face. Ray looked at him and then down at Dean, his eyebrows raised so high it almost looked painful.
“So,” he said, breaking the silence. “Angels, huh?”
“Yeah,” Dean returned, wearily. He lay back on the mattress and shivered.
Ray looked at the floor, the ceiling, the walls, at Fraser and then back at Dean. “This has been a really weird day,” he declared. And that was all Dean heard before the world went away and he fell deeply, frighteningly unconscious.
~ ~ ~
Waking up this time was a battle. Dean kept rising to the surface and then sinking back under it again, lost in fever-dreams of blood and pain, burning up both physically and mentally. He saw shapes around him as the hours passed, people he didn’t recognize talking in hushed, ominous whispers. There was a wolf lying with its chin on the bed beside him at one point, staring at him sympathetically. The room grew light, then dark again, but the flames in the fireplace stayed constant. Dean wanted to scream at them to stop burning, at everything to stop burning, but he was too tired. Everything was too much of an effort. Even breathing was tiring him out. He was dying, but it was a slow spiral downwards, so different to anything he’d ever felt before. He wondered where Sam was and why he wasn’t here, but mostly he just thought about how fantastic he was going to feel when all of this ended.
When he finally opened his eyes to discover that the world made a certain kind of sense again, he found Ray sitting beside the bed with a damp cloth in his hand, pressing it on his forehead and holding it there with a rather uncomfortable look on his face. Dean moaned at the coolness, licking his lips, and Ray made a soft “A-ha,” sound and leaned across to the nightstand. He returned with a glass of water and held it up to Dean’s lips. Drinking it wasn’t an entirely successful affair, true, but Dean was grateful just to have something cool touch his lips after so long in the flames.
“I’d ask you how you’re feelin’, but if you feel the way you look, I think I can probably guess,” Ray observed, with a nervous-looking grin.
“Did he find him yet?” Dean croaked, too exhausted to look around the room.
“Who, the Mountie and the angel and the hoo-ha? Not yet. At least, not that I know, seeing as I can’t see him. It’s funny, all those years back, I thought Fraser’d been snorting some weird mushrooms when he told me he used to be able to see his dad, but I guess I should learn to, I dunno, open my mind or something.” He sniffed, leaning back in his chair. “Kinda weird how you could see him and I couldn’t, seein’ as I know the family and everything and you’re just a stranger.”
“It’s my job,” said Dean, deciding that talking would take his mind off how he was feeling.
“Gotta say, that’s one hell of a weirdass job you got there, bucko.”
Dean summoned up a rueful grin. “You’re telling me. Where’s your friend?”
“Out feeding the dogs. Better him than me – it’s so cold out there if you sneezed your boogers would turn to icicles and hang off your nose. I speak from experience.”
Dean raised a trembling hand, rubbed at an itch on his cheek and dropped it again. His bleary gaze fell on Ray’s Chicago Bulls t-shirt. “How the hell did you go from being a cop in Chicago to living out here in the Fortress of Solitude?” he asked, genuinely curious.
Ray snorted out a laugh. “Just lucky, I guess. I dunno, you think you’ve got your life figured out and then you meet someone who decides to bundle you onto a dog sled and the next thing you know you’re spending half the year in a place so desolate you need to travel for three months just to go to the nearest store. And after that, all they sell is this really gross dried meat made of dead walrus.”
Dean pondered that for a moment. “What about the other half of the year?”
“We stay at my place in Chicago.” Ray looked down, smiling. “I think he hates it there just as much as I hate it here, but he never complains. I try not to complain while I’m here, either, but... I really miss the internet, y’know? And milk and bread. And little things, like, I dunno, spending a Sunday morning lounging in bed reading the papers. And driving. Man, I miss driving. Got a really cool ’67 GTO me and my dad restored together and she just sits waitin’ for me while I’m gone. It’s enough to break a guy’s heart.”
“Good wheels,” Dean murmured.
“Ho yeah. What you got?”
Dean couldn’t keep the smugness from his voice as he replied, “A ’67 Impala. Had her all my life.”
“Neat. Color?”
“Black.”
“Ditto. We got good taste in cars, huh?”
Dean fell silent for a minute or two, fighting to keep from passing out again. When his head had cleared enough he looked round to see Ray standing by the fire, poking at the logs with his foot, a thoughtful look on his face. As if he sensed Dean staring at him, he turned and tilted his head. “Uh, mind if I ask you something?”
“S-sure.”
Ray’s expression smoothed into one of wonder. “You really friends with an angel? You’re not yanking our whatevers?”
“It’s true.”
“What are angels like?”
Dean took a deep breath, considering. “Most of them are like humans,” he revealed. “Mean, selfish bastards out for themselves. They don’t care who they hurt to get their way and they treat us like crap.”
“Oh.” Ray sounded disappointed.
“But Cas is okay,” Dean continued softly. “He was one of them at first. We really didn’t get along – I mean, seriously, he was a douche. But we got to know each other and now he’s a good friend.” He blinked as a sad realization hit him. “Huh. I think he’s pretty much my only friend.”
“Does he have, y’know, wings and a harp and stuff? Or a trumpet?”
“He’s got wings, but it’s not like he goes around showing them off or anything.”
“Cool.” Ray looked impressed. “Does he smite stuff? Do you ever bring a girl home and he’s, like, ‘I don’t like her! SMITE!’”
Despite the way he was feeling, that actually made Dean laugh. “He can smite when he wants to, yeah,” he confirmed, as Ray’s eyes widened. “He’s really powerful and can do anything. Knows a ton of stuff, too, like he’s downloaded a million books into his brain. But he’s also the biggest nerd ever. He doesn’t understand half the stuff we do down here and the other stuff just goes over his head. Most of the time when I talk to him, he doesn’t get when I’m joking or messing around. He’s... innocent, I guess.”
Ray chuckled. “That’s really weird. You just described Fraser.”
“I did?”
“Almost to a ‘T’. Maybe angels are from Canada?”
Dean studied him, ignoring the way his head was pounding. “How long have you and him been together?”
Ray’s expression turned guarded, but as he stared back at Dean he seemed to realize that there was no judgment in his voice and he relaxed. “A while.”
“How did you meet? Can’t be much call for Mounties in Chicago.”
“He was hunting the killers of his father and, for lots of reasons I won’t bore you with, he stayed there as a liaison at the Canadian Consulate. And we ended up working together, catching scumbags and getting stuck on sinking boats and trying to find the Northwest Passage and stuff.” When Dean didn’t say anything, slightly baffled by some of that, Ray added quietly, “I was married before I met him. I was crazy about her but it didn’t work out. I never thought I’d ever feel that way again but he just... kinda... snuck up on me, I guess. You ever feel comfortable with someone? Like, you know they’ve got your back, and you’ve got theirs, and they know you, like, really know you, all your bad points and your baggage and your shit and the things you’re embarrassed about? And they don’t care? That’s all it takes, man. I never thought I’d ever go for a guy but you can’t mistake that kind of feeling. He’d die for me and I’d die for him and that’s all there is, end of.”
The first thing that flashed into Dean’s head after Ray turned back to gaze into the fire was Castiel. He thought about how it must feel to know someone that well – someone that wasn’t family, anyway – and all he could picture was that dumb trenchcoat and that stupid, messy tie and the way Castiel’s eyes narrowed when Dean argued with him. He thought about how Castiel always came when he needed him and how he called Sam his friend and how he’d carried on fighting at Dean’s side even when he’d been human and out of hope. He thought about how Castiel had seen him happy and seen him weeping in misery; how he’d accepted all of his quirks and flaws without a word of criticism. How he’d died for him. Twice. Would Dean do the same for him?
Would he?
Dean risked his life every day to save people he didn’t even know. Of course he’d risk his life for Cas. He wouldn’t even think twice about it.
“I think I’m in love with Castiel,” he said out loud, more out of shock than anything else.
Ray turned to look at him. “Is that allowed?” he queried, so calmly that it helped stop Dean’s heart from bouncing around inside his chest in fright.
“I don’t know. I only just realized. He doesn’t know and I don’t know if he feels that way about me, but... I think it’s true. Everything you just said applies to me and him.”
Ray scratched his neck. “Well, you need to tell him. Don’t waste your time, man. Fraser has this saying: ‘If the caribou looks at you, look back at the caribou.’ Uh, I don’t know what that means but he’d probably say that if he was here. It’s sort of profound or something and it means, uh, carp deem.”
Dean frowned. “‘Carp deem’?”
“You know, it’s Greek. Means ‘seize the day’.”
Dean began to cough. He rolled onto his side and choked, gasping for air, and Ray came over and placed a hand on his shoulder in concern. It didn’t stop. He coughed and coughed and coughed, so much so that Ray started yelling for Fraser, and by the time the Mountie ran into the room, shaking snow off his boots, face full of worry, Dean was hacking up blood and crying tears that fell red onto the bedsheets below his face. He heard Ray swearing; he felt Fraser rub a hand down his back, but after that everything went slow and tunnel-like and wrong.
The last thing he was aware of was a tongue licking his toes. He just had time to hope to God it was the wolf before he was gone.
~ ~ ~
The wolf was what woke him up. Barking, lots of it, frantic and angry, so loud it echoed from the wooden walls of the room and almost deafened him. He grimaced and tried to bury his head in the pillow but the wolf just kept on barking.
Dean opened his eyes. Castiel was standing at the foot of the bed. He was staring down at Diefenbaker in mild irritation, watching calmly yet intensely as the wolf refused to let him move any closer to Dean. Clearly he’d just materialized in that way of his and scared the creature half to death. As far as watchdogs went, however, Diefenbaker was doing a damn fine job of keeping this new threat away from the man he was protecting.
“Dief!” came a stern voice, and Dean flicked his gaze to the doorway. Fraser and Ray stood there; the former holding a hand out to the wolf, the latter staring at Castiel in absolute amazement.
Castiel tried to take a step forward but Diefenbaker blocked him, still barking.
“Stop that!” Fraser commanded. “Dief, it’s okay!”
For a long, tension-filled moment, Castiel and the wolf stared at each other, both of them tilting their heads to one side in an exact mirror-image. Then Castiel opened his mouth. He said something in a language Dean was fairly certain he’d never heard before in his life; something with lots of ‘ts’ and ‘ks’ that sounded vastly complex. The moment he’d finished Diefenbaker sat down on the floorboards, totally silent except for the sound of his tail thumping on the floor behind him as he wagged it happily.
“Ah,” said Fraser, sounding delighted. “You know Inuktitut?”
“I know every language,” Castiel said reasonably, meeting Fraser’s gaze. “I thought Inuktitut would be simpler for your wolf to lip-read.”
“A very commendable line of reasoning,” Fraser replied, nodding. “I’ve used it on many occasions myself.”
“Can we see your wings?” Ray said loudly, as though the words had just jumped right out of his brain and into the silence without him stopping to think them through.
“No,” said Castiel without even pausing, and moved to stand at the side of the bed. “I’m sorry I took so long, Dean. You were hidden from me by interference from the phenomena I believe you call the Northern Lights.”
“Better late than dead,” Dean said weakly. “Just tell me you can get this hydra hoodoo out of my system.”
Castiel placed a hand on Dean’s forehead. A coolness rushed through him that made him gasp: it was like drinking a glass of iced water on a painfully hot day, or diving into a mountain lake just after a thaw. His eyes rolled and he groaned, shuddering, hating yet relishing the feeling of the fire sweeping out from his head, down his body, around his chest and then out, out along his arms and legs, seeping out of his fingers and toes. Suddenly it was all gone – the pain from his wound, the fire in his lungs, the ache in his head; all of it. He was healed.
He sat upright, breathing hard, and looked up at Castiel in stunned relief. “Thanks, Cas.”
“You’re welcome,” Castiel said, a hint of a smile on his lips. He looked across at the two men standing by the door. “Which one of you is Fraser?”
“That would be me, sir.”
“Your father gave me a message for you. He said he is...” Castiel paused, frowning a little, “I believe the words he used were ‘cobweb-free’.”
Fraser smiled, his blue eyes twinkling in the firelight. “Good to know. Thank you kindly.”
“We saved him,” Ray said hurriedly, yanking a thumb in Dean’s direction. “He’d have frozen to death if it hadn’t been for us.”
Castiel looked down at Dean. “I’m very relieved that you were so vigilant.”
Ray cleared his throat, bouncing from heel to toe in his boots. “You could always show us your wings as a kind of thank-you. Y’know, if you were feelin’ generous.”
“Ray,” warned Fraser, trying to shut him up.
“Aw, come on. Dean says you’ve got wings and it’d be so cool to see them.”
“Ray.”
“Just one? Please?”
“Ray.”
“Pretty please?”
“Ray.”
“A feather?”
“Ray!”
Ray stopped, shooting Fraser an annoyed glare.
Castiel looked a little bewildered at all the fuss, but collected himself quickly. “It’s very difficult for me to manifest my wings on your plane of existence,” he explained with a hint of apology in his voice. “To do so requires extra-dimensional manipulation that would alert my enemies to my presence here and possibly bring danger down upon us all. My wings are also larger than your cabin and in order for you to view them in the detail you seem to desire, you would have to get so close to them that their magnificence would burn your eyes in their sockets. To even reveal one feather would require an immense effort on my part not to harm you, and I am not willing to take the risk. Also,” he paused, looking faintly confused, “to do so, I think, could be construed as ‘showing off’.”
Ray looked at him blankly, then turned to Dean, who shrugged. “He’s an angel,” he said flatly.
“Are you sure he’s not Canadian?” Ray replied, rolling his eyes toward Castiel again.
“Dean, we need to go. Sam is waiting and we may have a lead on those demons.”
“Demons?” repeated Ray in a small voice.
Dean threw back the covers and pulled on his bloody shirt, which had been lying on the chair by the bed; it wasn’t until he started buttoning it up that he noticed it was covered in wolf hair. “Looks like Dief left me a present,” he observed, flashing a grin at Fraser.
“My apologies,” Fraser replied, looking scandalized. “He does tend to shed a lot these days. He’s very old, you see. He’s already lived far beyond his years. I can only imagine that he’s simply too stubborn to die.”
To Dean’s surprise, Castiel bent and patted Diefenbaker on the head. “He has lived a full life,” he declared softly, as the wolf licked his wrist. He stilled his hand for a moment, closing his eyes, and then looked up at Fraser. “And he will live for a long while yet.”
“That’s good news,” Fraser said, looking relieved. Dean couldn’t help but wonder if Castiel had just given the wolf some kind of angelic fountain-of-youth enema or something, but Castiel’s face was unreadable when he straightened again.
“We must go.”
“Just a second, Cas.” Dean got to his feet, stretching out his limbs. He reached out a hand and Fraser shook it vigorously. “Thank you for everything.”
“You are welcome in our home any time,” Fraser told him, clapping him on the back. “Er, and with regard to the whole ‘saving the world’ thing... Keep up the good work.”
“Fighting the good fight is what I do,” Dean said, a little embarrassed, and turned to Ray.
To his surprise, Ray reached out an arm and pulled him into an awkward hug. A fierce whisper sounded in his ear a moment later: “That caribou’s lookin’ at you, man. You gotta look back.”
“The what and the who?” Dean whispered back, baffled.
“Tell him how you feel,” Ray returned. “If I can put up with a Canadian, you can put up with an angel.”
“Right,” Dean muttered, and they parted. Ray grinned at him, his smile twisted and a little dangerous. Dean looked from him to Fraser, who was staring at Castiel in polite fascination, and decided that if two people as different as these guys could end up together... well, there was hope for his own love-life yet.
“Let’s go, Cas,” he announced, taking a deep breath. “We’ve got demons to hunt and some staring to do.”
~ ~ ~
“I still don’t understand why a reindeer inspired you to do this,” Castiel observed much, much later.
“It’s a Canadian thing,” Dean replied, nibbling at his ear. “Just go with it, man.”
“Canadians are very wise,” Castiel said wistfully, and after that they were too busy kissing to say anything more.
~ ~ ~