Chapter Text
Online, you can pretend to be anyone, but when the cracks begin to show, the jig is up.
So how far would you go to hide those cracks if you knew ONE HUNDRED THOUSAND DOLLARS was on the line?
Welcome to THE GARDEN – a new social experiment where players don’t meet face to face and only communicate through Eden. Their goal? To successfully pretend to be someone other than themselves without the other players finding out.
The catch? You’ll just have to stay tuned, because nothing is off limits and everything is at stake. Get ready for THE GARDEN!
“One hundred thousand dollars, Dean!”
“Charlie, for the millionth time, I told you, you can’t call me on this phone. It’s my work cell. I have to be available if a customer calls.”
“Oh, so that’s someone else I see running around with your Impala67 username?”
Dean curses, fumbles the phone, and immediately exits the game. Unfortunately for Dean, Charlie can hear both him cursing and the ding from the alert when he leaves the game.
“Oh, look, Impala67 has left the game. What a coincidence,” Charlie says smugly, right before the sounds of rapid gunfire indicate that she’s obliterated some poor fool. “Well, I guess that means I win!”
Sometimes, Dean regrets meeting Charlie when he drove Sam to meet his lovebird fiancé after a double shift.
He sighs and looks mournfully at the blinking screen that was his almost successful game. “Okay, what do you want, Charlie?”
“Honestly, sometimes I swear you never listen to me,” she scolds. “That new Garden show thing? They’re looking for applicants with, um, ‘varied life experiences’ and dude, I think you definitely qualify.”
“What new show?”
“We discussed this two nights ago at the bar.”
Dean tries to cast his mind back and mostly fails. He blames the alcohol. “Yeah, not gonna lie, don’t remember much from that night, Charlie.”
“I’m so shocked. But! But but but. I – your bestest and greatest friend – do remember what we discussed that night, and you, Dean Winchester, had a lot of thoughts on this show and how you could ace it because you – how did you put it? – have a sixth sense for liars and scammers and con artists, especially online.”
“Part of my illustrious checkered past,” Dean says, and then adds, “that may or may not exist.” Because Charlie is amazing and a goddess and a tech wonder, but also he’s pretty sure she’s on an FBI watch list and he doesn’t need to end up in jail, thank you very much.
Again.
Charlie snickers and says, “You looked adorable in your first mug photo.”
“Wait, what?”
“As I was saying, you should go on the show, Dean! I bet you’d suss out all the liars and then, bam, easiest one hundred thousand dollars you’ve ever made.”
And that does sound . . . vaguely familiar to Dean. Very, very vaguely. Dean is good at seeing through lies. See exhibits A-Z: every time Sam tried to pull something during their childhood. And honestly, even into their adulthood. Kid has no poker face, although he is getting better now that he has to be all official and lawyer-like.
But still: “I can’t just leave my business for the, I don’t know, months it would take for this show to shoot,” Dean protests.
“They said five weeks.”
“Yeah, and I’m a freelancer. Two weeks without a job lined up, and everybody thinks you’ve died.”
“They said they’d pay a stipend while you were filming,” Charlie coaxes. “A good stipend because, you know, most of these people are influencers or other such people who already make good money.”
“You know, I still don’t understand what an influencer is,” Dean says, because Sam has tried to explain it five times and each time Dean just ends up more confused than the last.
Charlie ignores that. Instead, she goes straight for the kill. “Listen, Dean, you keep saying how you’ll have to work like a bazillion hours to pay for Sam’s law degree when he goes to the big leagues, right? One hundred thousand dollars would put a huge dent in that. Sam would have fewer loans, you would have actual time to sleep and eat and drink with me and my girlfriend, and I would have the joy of watching you try to figure out how to use Siri. Win-win!”
Dean almost says yeah, that would be nice before a horrible thought occurs to him. Mostly because things are never that easy for Dean. Ever.
“Charlie,” he says suspiciously, “why do I get the impression that you are trying way too hard to convince me?”
Charlie laughs in his ear. It’s high and bright and so not Charlie-like. “No reason at all, you suspicious sour puss! Come on, I’m just trying to get you to live a little, you can’t just always remain trapped in that junkyard you call a house.”
“Charlene Bradbury.”
“Ooooookay, fineee, so I may or may not have started to fill out the application for the show. Um, while we were drinking. And I may or may not have sent it in for you. And you may or may not have been just chosen?”
Scratch that – sometimes, Dean really, really regrets meeting Charlie when he drove Sam to meet his lovebird fiancée after a double shift.
“Charlie!”
“Dude, you were the one who Googled the show to laugh at it, not me.”
“I did not!”
“Who between the two of us has a clear memory of that night?”
“ . . . You,” Dean concedes reluctantly. “But still! I can’t just go off gallivanting for five weeks! How am I gonna explain this to Bobby? Hell, to Sam? And what if I get a call from a customer for a big job? I can’t disappoint a regular customer – ”
“One hundred thousand dollars,” Charlie stresses. “One hundred thousand dollars, Winchester! Also, I already told Sam. He said he was gonna record it.”
“You suck,” Dean says. “Send me the details?”
The Garden is apparently filmed in the most pretentious building Dean’s ever had the misfortune of setting foot in. The walls are green, the windows are tinted green, and every painting is a lush, gorgeous paradise of leaves, flowers, and trees.
Also there’s a literal garden on the rooftop. Just to really hammer the point in.
Fortunately, each player is given a specific arrival time so that they don’t run into each other, so Dean is able to get through registration without too much hassle. He is grateful that he left the Impala with Bobby, since apparently everyone else’s cars are just getting left in the basement parking garage because no one can leave until the show is over or they’re exiled. He is also grateful that Sam yakked his ear off the night before, because it means he has a little bit of an idea of all the papers they have him sign.
A little bit. Honestly, if someone pops up later and is like Actually, sir, you sold us your soul Dean will not be surprised.
After that, Dean is led to the elevator and then to his own personal floor, as each player apparently has their own. He has the M floor, although when he asks what it stands for, he’s given a wink and a cheery “You’ll find out soon, sir!”
At least the M floor looks a lot less like a greenhouse vomited all over it.
“Of course, your suite will have full amenities,” says the perky staff member. “A full kitchen, a luxurious bathroom, a living room equipped with the largest and most beautiful television available on the market today, and, of course, two sumptuous bedrooms!”
Dean blinks. “Two?”
“You won’t be able to use any of your own devices, of course,” the staff member prattles on, “but staff will monitor your cellphone and if there are any emergencies, we will notify you instantly. And your suite will be equipped with every streaming service as well as devices pre-loaded with all of the digital content you could possibly wish to peruse.”
“Uh – ”
“Now, I will note that you won’t be allowed to leave your suite without an escort, but we will set aside time if you want to visit our fully equipped gym or our lovely rooftop garden with its very own private hot tub. You can also request groceries if you wish to cook or meals if you do not wish to cook. And if you think of anything else, you can press that big green G there, and a member of staff will be happy to answer any questions or get anything you might need. Questions? No? Wonderful! Welcome to The Garden, sir, and have a fantastic time not getting exiled!”
“ . . . Thanks,” Dean mutters to the empty air in the wake of the door slamming shut.
On the bright side, the suite does contain everything the attendant had promised. The kitchen has some of the swankiest stuff Dean’s ever seen – touchless faucets, a retracting range hood, and two fridges that beep at Dean when he leaves them open too long and then shut themselves. The living room indeed has the biggest television Dean has ever seen, basically taking up the entire wall. And the bathroom is to die for, with the softest bathrobes he’s ever felt hanging on the door.
There are two bedrooms, which is weird. But at least they’re not the same bedrooms – the furniture is arranged differently, one has a walk-in closet and the other has bureaus, and one has a soft green wallpaper patterned with gold suns and the other is a sky blue with bees.
Lots and lots of bees.
Dean firmly shuts the door on that one and heads into the green room. He wheels his battered suitcase to stand next to the bureau, pokes curiously at the apparently fake plant on the window sill, and then tests the bed.
The bed sinks obligingly when he presses his hand in and then slowly raises back up, which means –
“Aw hell yes!” Dean crows, and throws himself onto the memory foam mattress. He’s wanted one for as long as he can remember, but his money has always gone to Sam first, Bobby second, the Impala third, bills fourth, and Dean last. And most times, there wasn’t anything left by the time things rolled around to Dean. “Totally worth it. Charlie, you are a goddess among – ”
Which is when Dean hears a loud, distinctive pop and sizzle, like a light being blown out.
Slowly, he cranes his head towards the nightstand. The little waterfall lamp is not on, and neither is the overhead light.
Dean ambles out of the bedroom, wondering if he’s going to have to call the staff on day one because a circuit got blown or something, when he walks smack dab into another human being.
“Whoa!” Dean yelps, leaping backwards.
The human being Dean ran full-tilt into cocks his head to the side. “I am not a horse,” he informs Dean solemnly. “Also, you are in my suite, and you do not appear to be a member of staff.”
Dean scowls. “Listen, buddy, I think you’ve got this the wrong way around. You’re in my suite; your escort must have messed up.”
The man blinks. “No, I was told very . . . enthusiastically that my suite was the M suite.”
“Maybe there’s two M suites? Cuz the registration folks said M. M like Mary, so I’d remember.”
The man looks doubtful of this. Fortunately, before they can get into it any further, the television pretending to be a wall comes alive with a jazzy little nature intro of birds chirping and leaves rustling, and Dean hustles into the living room before he misses anything important. He barely notices the man following him at a much more sedate pace.
“Good morning!” says a cheery voice. “Welcome! You both have been selected to participate in the inaugural season of the greatest social media experiment ever put to film: The Garden!”
Dean looks at the man. The man looks at Dean. Both? they mouth at each other.
Unperturbed, the voice continues, “I am Metatron – your host, your scribe, your guide along the path to victory! Why the long and glorious name? Why, because this isn’t just any garden. This is the Garden of Eden! And you, my friends, will have the glory of playing one of the seven archangels. Fail, and you shall be exiled to the wasteland of the earth. But win, and one hundred thousand dollars – yes, that is indeed one hundred thousand, with five zeroes – will be yours to claim!
“Now, you might have noticed that there are, in fact, two people in your suite. And you might be wondering why that is. Fear not! I shall explain.
“As you might remember from signing up for The Garden, you agreed to play as a made-up online persona without giving away that you are, in fact, a made-up online persona. But where’s the fun in that? Where’s the mystique? The challenge? So, my friends, instead of playing one persona by yourself, you shall be playing your persona with your suitemate. Yes, that’s right, that person on your left, or right, or in front of you, or behind you, or – the other person – they will be your esteemed accomplice, your courageous collaborator, your partner in crime! Um, not literally, please.
“So! Dean, meet Castiel Novak! Castiel, meet Dean Winchester! Enjoy your stay in The Garden.”
The voice crackles and fizzes out, and a generic image of a garden paradise appears on the screen, while scrolling text says rules and regulations to follow, stand by for instruction, which Dean takes to mean that he has time to actually look at his suitemate – with whom he will apparently be playing – for more than five seconds.
Dean clears his throat and turns around and – and Castiel is right in his personal space.
Like, they’re almost breathing the same air.
“Uh, buddy,” Dean says with a nervous laugh. “Personal space?”
Castiel immediately steps back. “My apologies,” he says. “I was leaning forward to see if there were more instructions on the screen.”
“Yeah, guess we have to wait til later,” Dean says.
Now that he can get a better look at him, Castiel is, well. He’s wearing the ugliest suit Dean’s ever seen, plus a monstrosity masquerading as what Dean thinks is a trench coat. He has a tie on, except it’s crooked and backwards and Dean’s fingers itch to fix it. And his bedhead is spectacular for after noon.
Also, he has really blue eyes.
Dean breaks his gaze from those blue, blue, blue eyes and sticks his hand out. “Well, um, so, I’m Dean.”
“Castiel.”
“Your parents have an argument or something?”
Castiel shrugs. “Religious. Also, I am told that my mother was on a lot of drugs from the birth.” He eyes Dean up and down, and Dean gets the uncomfortable feeling that he’s being X-rayed down to his very soul. “So. We are partners in this endeavor then?”
“Yeah, I guess we’re in this together.”
“I was wondering why the staff made a point of saying two bedrooms,” Castiel says thoughtfully.
“Oh, yeah. I kinda already took one? But we can flip for it if you don’t like it.”
“I do not put much import into my sleeping situations,” Castiel replies, and Jesus, who talks like that? “I think I shall be satisfied with anything they have provided. We needn’t ‘flip’ for it.”
He actually raises his hands and does air quotes.
“Also, I think I may have blown out a light?”
Which is when Dean remembers that he came outside to investigate the loud popping noise. “It’s the middle of the day. Why the hell were you trying on a light?”
“Well, I was curious if it worked or if it was merely decorative.”
“God help me,” Dean mutters, and sticks his head behind the table the light is balanced on to look at the socket.
Lunch is an almost embarrassing spread of food, delivered piping hot from the kitchens in the basement. There’s something for everyone: miso risotto, bacon cheeseburgers, cheese pizza, broccoli and chicken stir fry, sushi, grilled salmon, salad. By the time the staff wheels in the last cart, Dean’s almost grateful for the ridiculously long kitchen table.
He’s also pretty hungry, but somehow, between him washing his hands and turning around, Castiel has managed to lay claim to one of the cheeseburgers.
“You, uh, really like burgers, huh?” Dean says, watching as Castiel fits bites that look way too big for his jaw into his mouth.
Castiel swallows his latest bite down – how??? – and says, “These make me happy.”
Dean does like burgers, but the entertainment of watching Castiel decimate them is definitely worth the loss of burgers, so he silently slides over the second burger. This earns him a smile from Castiel. It’s a little stiff, like the guy doesn’t smile a lot, but it is sincere – and the muffled thank you through burger and bacon is sincere too.
Which leaves Dean to attack the grilled salmon, because he almost never gets the chance to have fish and it’s nice to not have to cook it himself, and then the pizza.
“Uh, Dean.”
“Yeah?”
“You cannot possibly eat another slice.”
Dean burps. Then he remembers he’s not eating with his brother and winces. “Uh. Sorry. And trust me, dude, I can definitely eat way more.”
“You’re on your seventh piece; you’ll have indigestion.”
Dean pauses with another slice halfway to his mouth. The eighth piece, if Castiel is to be believed, and Dean isn’t sure he does. “ . . . Did you count?”
Castiel tilts his head like he’s a scientist examining a lab experiment. “Of course. Observation is part of the game, isn’t it?”
Dean is, quite fortunately, saved from trying to think up a witty reply to that, because the television in the living room goes off with the nature intro. Castiel and Dean both look at each other before they stuff their last bites in their mouths and dash over.
Metatron is waiting for them. “Well, now that you have been introduced and attended to your ravenous appetites, it is time for the game to begin!”
“About past time,” Dean mutters.
“Dean.”
“What?”
“Dean and Castiel, you may have noticed that there is no window in this room. There is a reason for that. Windows can tell us so much about a room or a house, and indeed a person! So, therefore, your suite is equipped with a ‘window’ into the persona that you shall be playing. Behold!” Metatron exclaims.
The wall to the side of the television releases a series of clicking sounds, and a partition slowly starts to retract into the wall.
At first, all Dean sees are bright lights, like the producers decided that if they couldn’t give them a window, they’d give them the most obnoxiously bright display instead. But then as the partition goes further down, he begins to see exactly what was concealed behind it, and it turns out to be a lot of weapons.
Like, basically enough to equip Dean – and Castiel, really – for a zombie apocalypse.
“Interesting,” Castiel says.
“Wait, is that a sword?” Dean exclaims.
“There are, in fact, several swords,” Castiel says dryly, because he is a boring observation-obsessed man with no fashion sense. “Our persona must be related to fighting, or warfare, or perhaps justice.”
Dean ignores him in favor of reaching out and touching one of the swords. It’s got a gentle curve and is very, very shiny. “This is so awesome!”
“It is probably a replica.”
“Okay, buzzkill,” Dean says, rolling his eyes. “Come on, yeah, I know, they’re probably props, but they look so detailed. I mean, look at this blade! It looks so sharp, they must have paid a fortune to get something so realistic.”
“Dean, I wouldn’t – ” Castiel says sharply.
Dean pulls his now-bleeding finger away from the blade and sticks it in his mouth. “Very sharp,” he tells Castiel solemnly.
Castiel does not roll his eyes, but Dean gets the strong impression that he’s just cemented himself as an absolute moron in Castiel’s eyes. And, like, sure, maybe not his finest first impression, but – swords! Axes! Maces! He almost wishes he had his phone, if only to send a picture to Charlie, who would geek out like a normal person.
They return their attention to the screen, which is paused as though the producers were waiting for a money shot of reactions to the secret wall reveal. Sensible, of course, but it does leave one problem.
Dean squints. “How do we get Meta-whoever to talk again?”
“Metatron,” Castiel corrects.
“Whatever. Hey, dude, wake up! We wanna know who we’re playing.”
The screen remains steadfastly frozen.
“ . . . Did we just lose without even a single day passing?” Dean asks.
“No, there must be a verbal prompt we are missing,” Castiel says in a distracted tone. His eyes flicker between the wall of weapons and the television again. Then something clicks in him – Dean can literally see the missing piece slot into place as Castiel straightens up – and Castiel calls out confidently, “Eden, please resume.”
The television chimes.
“Have you guessed it?” Metatron booms at them. “Have you figured out the first puzzle of our little game?”
“No,” says Dean.
“Yes,” says Castiel.
Dean looks at Castiel. Castiel looks at Dean.
Metatron responds as if they hadn’t spoken. “That’s right, players! For you two, the theme of your persona shall be war and justice! And we have carefully chosen a very appropriate name for this persona – Michael!!!”
A picture of a suave man in a very nice suit pops onto the screen, with a cheesy CGI halo perched on his head, as a literal angelic chorus sound effects plays.
“Now, obviously,” Metatron continues, “you won’t be playing Michael as an angel. But! Extra points shall be awarded for any cameos, shall we say, of canon references. We’ve set up a bio for your Michael persona that we think will best fit the two of you.” Metatron clears his throat, shuffling some papers, and a tiny paragraph appears next to the photo. “‘Michael, age thirty-six, retired air force captain. Likes classic cars and classical music. Dislikes untidy places and backseat drivers.’ You can work with that, can’t you, gentlemen? Well, I suppose we – and the world – will find out!
“Now, you have until dinner to trade stories, discuss strategy, and get to really know one another. After dinner, we’ll have our first game! Don’t miss it!”
The television fades back to its generic paradise garden landscape. Castiel looks contemplative, at least. Dean just feels rather full.
Also: “Of course it’s frickin’ religious mind games,” he mutters.
Castiel gives him a sideways look. “The fact that this game is a reference to the Garden of Eden didn’t give it away?”
Dean opens his mouth to retort and then shuts it, mostly because he doesn’t think I signed up while I was drunk out of my mind, so no, the reference really didn’t occur to me will go over well.
Instead he says, “I think I’m just gonna go take a nap.”
Castiel blinks rapidly at him, as if he has no idea how to react to that statement. Also, he’s still wearing his entire suit get-up, even the trench coat, whereas Dean shed his leather jacket the second he flopped on the bed.
“You should nap too. Or hell, even just relax a little. Might as well enjoy this amazing suite, right?”
“I am relaxed.”
“Dude. You’re still wearing your coat.”
“I like my coat,” Castiel says, and there isn’t an ounce of sarcasm in his voice.
Dean decides to deal with that later. Like after a nap later. He gives Castiel a jaunty little salute and heads straight back to his green bedroom, whereupon he promptly face plants into the bed. The memory foam is still as awesome as it was before lunch.
“Dean, would you like to discuss – Oh. You really are napping.”
“Seriously?”
“I’ll return when dinner is ready,” Castiel decrees.
Castiel does indeed return when dinner is delivered. At least this time he knocks.
Dinner is less of a spread than lunch, but it is still extravagant. There’s filet mignon, and truffle pasta, and lobster frittata. There are also wagyu burgers, which makes Castiel happy. Dessert is lemon honey tarts – Castiel makes a face after a few bites, so Dean trades his burger for Castiel’s share of tarts, and they’re good.
Dean does not overeat this time, mindful of Castiel’s hawk-like eyes, and so they’re back on the couch in front of the television when Metatron returns.
“Welcome, my friends, to The Garden!” Metatron shouts, bursting onto the screen with applause sound effects, flashing lights, and random CGI birds, for some reason. “I am Metatron, your host, your guide, and your scribe! Now, you have all met our lovely contestants, but they have not met each other, so let me take care of the introductions!”
As he rattles off names, pictures flash on the screen, one by one, until a little pyramid of seven is stacked. At the very top, Dean spots their fake persona picture.
The names are also all angels. “Michael! Samael! Raphael! Gabriel! Raguel! Remiel! Jophiel! Give a huge round of applause for our brave contestants, stepping into the inagural season of the greatest – the greatest, I tell you! – social media experiment to ever be put to film!
“Now, these seven contestants shall all be competing for a – wait for it – one hundred thousand dollar prize. All they have to do is spot who’s playing pretend and who is playing for real. Not hard, right? Well, let’s find out! Players, are we ready for our very first game?!?!?!”
“What if we say no?” Dean mutters.
“I think that would be a forfeit,” Castiel says, and Dean startles because he’d almost forgotten Castiel was there.
“Jesus, you’re quiet.”
“Shhh, he’s giving out the rules now.”
Sure enough, the screen has now shifted. All of the pictures on the screen are now lined up on the left side in a single column. They’re all smiling, but Dean spots a fair mix of men and women, which is nice. There are also some clear candids – fuzzy focus, weird angel – and some more professional headshots. Their Michael picture, for example, looks straight out of a yearbook of businessmen.
“Our first game,” Metatron says, “is a lovely little icebreaker I like to call Says Who. Because we are, quite literally, going to be deciding who says what.” He winks, and it’s over the top and awful, and Dean cringes. “So! Players! I am going to list off fifteen facts about everyone. Your job is to figure out which two facts belong to each of our seven players – and which fact is a serpent. What is a serpent, you ask? Why, we can’t have these challenges be boring, now can we? So we have added serpents to all of them: little things meant to trip you up, to add a little poison to the mix, to add a little spice to the game. Good luck, everyone! Guesses are due in three hours! I have faith in you.”
Dean considers the odds. Matching two facts to seven players doesn’t seem too hard. It’s no worse than other icebreakers Dean has played.
He rubs his hands together. “So, I guess we should put together a strategy,” he says to Castiel.
“What a novel idea. If only someone had not napped instead of crafting a strategy.”
Dean bristles. “Listen, dude, I’m human, okay? And sometimes I got human stuff to do.”
“What stuff?”
“In this case, sleep,” Dean replies, matching Castiel’s challenging tone. “I drove, like, sixteen hours straight to get here, man. I just needed four hours.”
Castiel opens his mouth to reply, but they are interrupted by Metatron’s booming voice.
“One last thing! This isn’t just an icebreaker, my dear players. Oh no. This is your first Trial! The winner of the Trial shall receive the flaming sword,” he announces, waving a hand at the literal fiery weapon now filling the screen, “and be granted the right to exile one player! So do your best – or else be exiled to the cold wasteland of normality. Good luck!”
The flaming sword disappears, and scrolling text fills the screen: as promised, their fifteen facts.
Castiel says, “I think we should read all of the profiles, in order to have a good mindset before we start categorizing the facts.”
“What the – there’s fifteen facts! We do not need to categorize any of them. Let’s just skim them and then go read the profiles to start making educated guesses.”
“Educated,” Castiel repeats scornfully. “How can we be educated if we have not yet read the profiles from which they originate?”
And, well. It’s all downhill from there.
Two and a half hours later, they’ve made very little progress, and Dean is honestly contemplating grabbing the cool-looking dagger off the wall of weapons and stabbing Castiel in the chest with it. From the look in Castiel’s eyes, he’s having similar thoughts.
Still. Dean does actually want to win. Or, at the least, not be the first person sent home.
He takes a deep breath. “Okay,” he says, trying to keep his voice calm. “We can’t come to a decision about who this dumping salt on dessert after one bite diet plan fact belongs to. Let’s move on, okay?”
“I still think it’s Gabriel, not Raguel,” Castiel says, because Dean has learned the man does not like to concede. But then he also takes a deep breath, and when he exhales, he seems calmer. “However, your suggestion holds merit. Shall we tackle the fact about a self-made professional next?”
“Uh,” Dean says eloquently.
Castiel, who has been revved up ever since their first disagreement, plows ahead anyways. “The fact states that this person is a ‘self-made professional who put themselves through a GED and community college on their own’. My guess is Raphael – they said they were a healer who forged their own path in understanding the world, I think that makes the most sense.”
“Well – ”
“Oh, you disagree, how shocking. Fine. How about Jophiel, then? He’s searching for his long lost brother, that can’t leave much time for regular schooling?”
“It’s not that I – ”
“And you disagree again. Very well. Then I would suggest Remiel – she lost her parents at a young age, which surely promoted her to mature quickly and – ”
“Cas!” Dean interrupts, because he can’t stand it anymore. “It’s not – I know it’s not any of them.”
Castiel doesn’t appear fazed by Dean shortening his name. Then again, he hasn’t been fazed by anything, including when Dean went back to the kitchen to grab cold pizza for more fuel mid-argument. He leans back on the couch and folds his arms. “Then please, by all means, enlighten me,” he says.
Each syllable is dripping sarcasm. Dean is kind of amazed at how he does it.
To win this thing, you need to work with him, Dean reminds himself. He takes a deep breath. “I know because this fact is about me. So – So it has to belong to Michael.”
Dean braces for more sarcasm, or accusations, or a smug I knew it. Because that’s the general type of response he gets to people finding out that he is a high school dropout who got a GED later on in life, and because he may not know much about Castiel, but he can tell that the guy’s polished and definitely had a proper schooling. He wouldn’t be surprised if Castiel has gone to rich, exclusive schools his entire life.
Except Castiel says, “Dean, that’s amazing.”
Surprise drives him to make eye contact. He finds Castiel leaning forward, all irritation or sarcasm gone from his posture, with only earnest sincerity in his eyes. He looks more like Dean’s just told him he summited Mount Everest than took a GED test.
Just in case Castiel is being polite, Dean says, “Uh, yeah, it kinda sucked, but it was worth it, so, you know, hey! Now we know for sure where one fact belongs, so – ”
“I really admire you for that,” Castiel continues, blithely ignoring Dean. Again. “That must have taken commitment and self-motivation and a lot of studying. You should be proud of that.”
Dean scrubs the back of his neck with one hand. “I mean. I guess?”
“What, you don’t think you’re worthy of it? Clearly, you passed. That’s definitely an achievement – especially since you then went on to put yourself through college.”
And, well, when faced with an uncomfortable situation, Dean falls back to his tried and true solution. He pastes a cocky smile on his face, angles his body, and drawls, “Careful, Cas, I might think you’re starting to like me.”
“I think I actually am,” Castiel says thoughtfully.
Dean is sufficiently thrown by that to not protest as Castiel directs Eden to assign the self-made fact to their persona and then moves on to the next fact.
Dean squints. “What the frick is an apiary?”
“A place to store bees,” Castiel answers promptly, because somehow Dean ended up rooming with the Webster dictionary. “It makes it easier to gather honey.”
“Well, the fact is that this person gathers their own honey to eat and cook, so my money’s on the candy guy.”
“Gabriel,” Castiel corrects. “And it’s not him.”
Dean sighs. And here he thought they were almost getting somewhere. But then again, unless Dean’s liar radar is broken, Castiel was sincere when he said he admired Dean for getting his own GED. So he decides to give Castiel a break.
“Okay, so tell me why you think that?”
Castiel blushes. It’s not much, really, but since Dean is looking at him, he spots a telltale red flush on Castiel’s neck. He can’t see too much because Castiel is still somehow wearing his trench coat, but Castiel is also hunching down and not making eye contact, so he feels confident in labeling the red color as Castiel blushing.
“I, um. This fact. It’s about me,” Castiel says, stuttering a little. “I have. I like bees. They’re . . . calming.”
After a long moment, Dean says, “Well, good thing I didn’t pick the bee bedroom.”
Castiel looks up sharply and then starts laughing at whatever he sees on Dean’s face. Dean gives in and joins after a few moments, because, really, that’s a serious coincidence. Of course, Dean would’ve happily swapped bedrooms if he had picked the bee room, but it’s just kind of nice that things worked out like that – easily and without a fight.
Also: “Wait, is that why you didn’t like the honey tarts?”
Castiel scowls. “That wasn’t honey, that was sweetened water. Real honey tastes so much better.”
“Huh. Well, you know we have a whole kitchen. Maybe we can whip up something that’s better?”
A look of temptation crosses Castiel’s face. But then he shakes himself, like the mission-oriented man Dean is learning he is, and firmly says, “Later, perhaps. For now, we have thirty minutes and five more facts to assign. Shall we?”
“Oh, yeah. Hey, Eden, the bee fact belongs to Michael.”
Somehow, they manage to plough through the remaining facts in record time. They still disagree, but it’s like a barrier has been broken – now they can actually talk and negotiate instead of pissing each other off. Castiel has a vast and sometimes bizarre knowledge of . . . well, almost anything that’s ever been written in a book and Dean has a lot of hands-on knowledge of stuff that isn’t written in books, so between the two of them, they cover a lot of ground.
By the time they finish, Dean has an actual – if tiny – hope that they might actually be able to win.
Then, of course, Metatron appears to announce the results.
“Welcome back to The Garden, my friends!” he exclaims. “I know you’re just dying to find out who shall win and who shall be exiled, so – let’s get on with it. In last place, we have Samael and Remiel. Tsk tsk, my friends, you really must do better. In fourth place, we have Michael and Raphael. In third place, we have Raguel. In second, we have Jophiel. And in first place – our very first ever Trial winner – we have – can I have a drumroll, please? Thank you – Gabriel! Congratulations!”
Dean looks at Castiel. Castiel shrugs back at him. Which, yeah, that’s fair.
“Well, at least we didn’t lose,” he comments, watching as a picture of a short man in a grey shirt is flashed on the screen and emblazoned with a CGI crown.
“We’ll do better next time,” Castiel says confidently.
“Now then,” Metatron says, “Gabriel! Gabriel, Gabriel, Gabriel. Congratulations on winning this Trial! As promised, our flaming sword is yours. You may exile one player from the game, anyone you like. Choose wisely.”
Fortunately, they are not held in suspense for very long. After only a few minutes, a message flashes on the screen. The sender, it says, is Gabriel, and Metatron reads out the content.
“Samael! Samael, I am afraid your time with us has come to an end. You played well and honorably, but alas, not quite well enough. You have been EXILED. To everyone else – get a good night’s rest! The Garden’s Trials begin anew tomorrow. And remember: one hundred thousand dollars are on the table, folks. See you tomorrow!”
Dean slumps back against the couch as the screen fades back to the landscape imagery. Castiel doesn’t quite slump, but he does sort of relax a little from his military straight posture, which is as good as slumping for him.
“Dude, for a second I thought we were about to be exiled on day one,” Dean says to the ceiling.
“Hmm. I must confess, I had a similar thought.”
Dean rolls his head over and surveys him. Castiel is still pretty stuck up, but he’s shown himself willing to work with Dean and he doesn’t judge him. And he has a pretty interesting hobby in beekeeping, apparently. He’s a nerdy and sarcastic little dude, but until his time at The Garden ends, he’s Dean’s nerdy and sarcastic little dude.
“I think we got off the wrong foot,” Dean says. He sticks his hand out. “Hi, I’m Dean Winchester. I guess I’ll be your partner for this adventure. Ready to win this with me?”
Castiel smiles at him, and it’s almost enough to take Dean’s breath away. He shakes Dean’s hand. “Hi, I’m Castiel. I am delighted to be your partner, and more than ready to win it with you.”
“Awesome. Also, sorry for calling you Cas, I know not everyone likes nicknames.”
“Yes, not many people have. But I – I like it.”
“Cool. In that case, I’m about to hit the hay, Cas.”
“Ah, yes, your need for – what was it? Four hours?”
“Oh my god, you’re one of those annoying morning people, aren’t you? Cas? Cas, I swear to God if you wake me up at the crack of dawn, there will be repercussions. Cas!”