Chapter Text
Touchdown in Cambodia is not what Dean expects it to be. The chopper’s blades whip a tepid, dusty wind that slams into him once the door goes down. The air is muggy with humidity and it plasters his shirt to his front. Beside him, Sam staggers onto the grassy earth and together they struggle to push away from the nonexistent tarmac of the landing pad and into… wilderness.
It’s like nothing Dean’s ever seen before and it’s beautiful. It’s terrifying. Dean opens his mouth, tries to say something, but he’s speechless. The foreignness of the world presses down around him and steals the words out of his mouth and mind. Sam’s faring no better, gaping at their surroundings, jostled forward by the rest of the company, who, as it happens, are the United States air force.
“Winchester,” calls someone and Dean snaps to attention. It’s Benny, one of the officers who’d accompanied them. He hands them their duffles. “You’re on the first convoy. It’ll take you to the French embassy. That’s where the rest of the press are.”
“Great,” Dean smiles. Sweat gathers in every crease of skin, rolling down his temples and back. “Thanks, man.”
“It was good meeting you, brother,” Benny says with a broad smile. When he opens his arms for an embrace, Dean goes to squeeze him back. “Try to be safe. I owe you a beer and you better be alive to collect.”
“We’re out on the next flight,” Dean promises.
Sam bristles and holds a hand out to shake instead. “See you around, Benny.”
Dean tries not to roll his eyes and fails. To Benny’s credit, he doesn’t smirk, but his eyes grow softer. Sam’s blanket disdain for the military has Dean feeling irritable. Sam’s snapping at the very people offering them the veneer of security in the middle of an active war zone. Dean had already made the argument on the flight to Bangkok, but it doesn’t look like the message took.
Army or not, Benny’s a good man. Sometimes people make choices. Benny is simply sticking to his and Dean can appreciate that kind of perseverance.
Whatever. Two weeks. Sam can take his stupid pictures and they’ll be on the flight to Thailand en route to peaceful United States.
Day one at the embassy was uneventful. Sam met and hit it off with a duo from the BBC; a sharp, beautiful woman named Bela Talbot and her silver-haired (and tongued) photographer, Balthazar Adler. By the time everyone settled down for dinner, resplendent with lukewarm bottles of champagne and strangely impeccable créme caramels, they’re joined by another american photographer, Ash Harvelle.
Sam’s deep in conversation about the politics of it all and the jetlag hits Dean like a weird high. He feels water-logged, like his brain is itching to waft out of his ears if he doesn’t fall into bed. The sun hasn’t yet set, so he stands up and walks around a bit.
The balcony overlooks the embassy grounds and the roads beyond. It’s been boarded up hastily, but the gentle breeze sluices through the slats like so many sighs. A man leans against the parapet, peering through the gaps, nursing a dark drink. He’s browner than most of the rest of the company, though fairer than the Cambodians. Though he’s tall (probably a few inches shy of Dean’s height), he’s just this side of gaunt to seem fit. Dean walks over.
“Great view,” he quips when he’s within earshot. The man’s head whips around, sombre blue eyes fixing Dean with a hard stare. Dean feels stupid immediately.
“Surely somewhere peaceful in the world, it’s a beautiful sunset,” the man replies evenly, not sounding quite as easily accepting, but not entirely hostile either. His voice is coarser than the stubble sanding his fine jaw. “Castiel Milton.”
Dean clears his throat. “Sorry, I, uh. I’m not used to any of this. Shouldn’t have said that. Dean Winchester. I’m here with my brother Sam. We’re with the New York Times.”
“It’s alright,” Castiel says, nodding in consideration. “I hope you get your story.”
“You from a Washington paper?” Dean guesses.
Castiel shakes his head. “I’m with the embassy.”
“Oh.” Dean returns to his glass of champagne, trying to think of something to say to that. French. Castiel doesn’t sound French. He sounds american. Dean also realizes just how insensitive his opening statement had been. Now that he knows Castiel has probably been here the longest and has the most to lose. He half expects the man to walk away, but instead Castiel breaks the awkward silence first.
“I know a good man who could help you find stories out there and file your copies,” he says. There’s an undercurrent of severity that lends the request a tightly wound desperation. “If you can guarantee his mother safe passage to the States, he will be invaluable.”
Dean stares for a moment, taken aback. The wind caresses the tangled mess of dark hair from Castiel’s forehead back. Even in the dimming glow of twilight, Dean can see the sheen of sweat drying above Castiel’s pinched brows. He’s handsome in a way that catches the beholder off-guard. The tropical air gives his sun-loved skin an almost oily glint that softens the peaks of his cheekbones and the tip of his nose. Despite the lines of fatigue around his mouth and the concaves of his slightly sunken cheeks, his eyes are bright, piercing and intelligent.
“I don’t know if we can do that,” Dean says, feeling helpless. He’s suddenly wide awake and past exhausted. He could try to get word out to Benny and see if anything can be done about it, but he’s afraid to mention it or make promises he can’t deliver on. He ends up saying as much. “I really can’t promise anything.”
Castiel gives him a searching look. Dean finds himself responding to the scrutiny with as much honesty as he can muster without quite knowing why. Finally, Castiel nods minutely, breaking their staring match to drain the rest of his drink.
“I’ll introduce you tomorrow,” Castiel says, turning away, but not before tossing over his shoulder a parting, “Goodnight, Dean.”
Back in the room he’s sharing with Sam, Dean relays his chance meeting. Sam is immediately on edge.
“I don’t like it,” he says from the floor, sorting quickly through his half dismantled camera and rolls of film. Dean passes his bag for Sam to go over and ready for tomorrow. “If he’s with the embassy, why is he coming to us for help?”
Dean shrugs, running a hand over his face. The sun has gone down and he’s mere blinks away from unconsciousness. The only thing keeping him awake is the unfamiliar edge to the air, halfway between a fragrance and a feeling under his skin.
“Beats me, Sammy,” he says heavily. “Sleep on it and see where the morning takes us?”
“We’re not in Kansas anymore, Dean. We’re moving to a hotel that might be bombed tomorrow,” Sam argues, packing away his camera and getting started on Dean’s. “We’re at the mercy of the embassy and the air base. And if shit really hits the fan, then the actual Khmer Rouge itself and I don’t even want to think about that.”
“Relax,” Dean intones, because Sam’s putting him on edge again. His nerves have already been up against the wire for the past forty-eight what with the flight and chopper. “We’ll just say no. It’s not like we know if we can get a word out to Benny. Or if he’ll even be able to help us.”
Sam turns to fix him with a disbelieving look. “What the hell did he say to you? What’s got you so convinced to help him?”
“I don’t know what to tell you,” Dean grimaces, too tired to really be embarrassed by Sam’s accusatory tone. “Something about him just. He seemed trustworthy.”
“Dean, I don’t think you understand that we could really die here,” Sam says, half severe, half pleading and yeah okay.
Jess had opted to stay back and Dean doesn’t know if Sam had begged her into it or if it had been her call after all (though Dean would bet money on the former). Still, Sam was engaged to her. They had their whole lives ahead of them. And Dean would be damned if he was going to let his kid brother die in some godforsaken green hell.
“We’ll just say no,” Dean repeats, sighing heavily. “Fine, look. Seriously. Drop it. I’m running on fumes here.”
Miracle of miracles, Sam drops it and they’re both asleep in minutes.
They’re packed and ready to go before breakfast next morning. But Castiel takes matters out of their hands when he shows up with a young Cambodian boy who looks barely a day over seventeen, if that.
Dean feels Sam tense beside him. One look at Sam over their watery eggs and stale toast and rank coffee tells Dean that this is going to be trouble. Sam’s not going to be able to say no. If he’s being honest, Dean’s not sure he’ll be able to either.
“Hello, Dean.” Castiel waits politely for them to extend an invitation to sit down and then he introduces the boy. “This is Kevin Tran. Kevin, this is Dean Winchester and his brother, Sam Winchester. They’re with New York Times. Dean, Kevin was an interpreter for the Reuters journalists so he knows his way around.”
“I don’t know if you’re aware, but there has been an incident.” Kevin says, wasting no time on pleasantries. His accent is mild but noticeable. “Neak Leung has been bombed. American B-52.”
Sam straightens in his seat. It appears to be news to Castiel as well. Dean tries to swallow the thick, acrid taste that fills his mouth. They’d come here for this, but he’s still been unprepared for it. Sam looks as sickened as Dean feels, but Castiel’s face has turned grim and hard.
“We need to go there,” Sam says, hesitant. “This is what we have to send back home. This is what, hopefully, makes it stop.”
Kevin doesn’t hesitate. “I can take you.”
Neak Leung has been razed to the ground. Pulverized. Kevin leads them through a stumbling path filled with debris and dying civilians.
Sam strides the length and breadth of the clearing. He takes pictures, every click-and-whirr loud as gunshots. Dean’s camera hangs like a lead weight against his chest. He can’t bring himself to tear his eyes from the guttural breathing of a dying child to – take a fucking picture. Instead of helping. He’s going to photograph this tragedy and sell it for money. Profiting off death and destruction. There’s nothing else he can do. He can feel the choking swell of bile rising in his throat and he can’t. This is wrong. Why does he deserve to stand here when –
A hand steadies him by the shoulder and Dean turns to find Castiel right behind him. Words escape Dean. Are there any words for atrocities like this? The size of it is too big for him to wrap his head around, but Castiel looks back at him, unwavering. Castiel understands.
Something in Dean’s chest twists and unlocks and Dean finds himself unravelling without a sound. The next breath he takes is shuddering and deep. Castiel squeezes his shoulder briefly and lets go. Dean tries to soldier on.
“… she’s saying she needs help,” Kevin translates. The woman tugging at Sam’s arm barely comes up to his chest. She’s fairly calm, considering her world just crumbled to dust around her, but she’s insistent, and Sam follows her helplessly. Kevin keeps up his translating, adding, “Her shop was destroyed in the explosion. A big explosion. Her husband is dead. Her children are here.”
Sam stops short and Dean nearly collides into him. Seated on the rubble are three dirty, bloodstained, but otherwise mostly unharmed children. The oldest girl, no older than five, or six, grabs hold of Sam’s knee, imploring him to buy a piece of shiny plastic for a dollar in broken English.
Dean drops to his knees as Kevin continues to converse with the lady. Her youngest, a round-faced toddler grabs Dean by his hair and Dean leans forward willingly. The boy clutches Dean’s face, bringing him close, peering into his eyes and Dean tries not to blink. Unbidden, the small arms circle around his head drawing him into a laughing, innocent, affectionate embrace. Dean hugs the boy back until he feels more than he sees Castiel settle down beside them. Every breath starts to hurt. Dean hates the feeling. It’s sheer, utter helplessness.
The rumble of a jeep causes the survivors of the makeshift, and frankly rudimentary, camp to fall silent. Dean follows when Castiel stands. Sam looks questioningly at Kevin.
“The army has rounded up Khmer Rouge operatives,” Kevin offers, looking worried. He chews his lip and steps back so he’s closer to Castiel.
Four armed men dressed in camo get out of the jeep. They drag two half naked Cambodian boys– roughly Kevin’s age– out and proceed to beat and bully them across the dirt yard. No one else moves. Dean watches in stricken silence as the captives are blindfolded with rags and then summarily shot. Dean doesn’t wince. He doesn’t think he’s breathing. He doesn’t know. His ears ring with the sounds until they fade away and the world is drained entirely of sound. By the time his brain has caught up with his feet, Kevin is tugging at his elbow, begging, “Dean, no, please– they’ll–”
But he’s lifting the camera to his eye, clicking away. The soldiers are distracted from their kills. The next second Dean finds himself staring down the barrel of an AK-47, so he drops the camera and raises his arms above his head in surrender.
“Fuck,” Sam swears in the darkness. “For fuck’s sake, Dean, seriously.”
“The U.S. army will be here shortly,” says Castiel. It’s the first thing he’s said since they were shoved into the dark, dank room.
Dean sits and sweats and breathes, elbows on his knees, head hanging between his legs. He can’t get the sight of the blood and the bodies out of his mind. They’re there, like phosphene imprints on his eyelids, every time he closes his eyes.
“I’m sorry Castiel, Kevin,” Dean says finally. “Shouldn’t’ve dragged you two into this.”
No one says anything in reply and the silent darkness prickles with discomfort.
Finally, Sam asks, “When can you file the copy, Kevin?”
“Few days from now,” Kevin replies.
“Dammit, that’s not good enough,” Sam snaps, frustrated. “This needs to get out and it needs to get out now.”
Before Kevin can reply, Castiel cuts in, stern and disapproving. Dean’s known the guy for barely two days but he can practically hear the frown in Castiel’s voice. “Tomorrow morning is the best he can do.”
“That’s good enough,” Dean says peaceably, willing Sam to shut the hell up and sit tight.
A breeze filters in through the lone barred window and Dan shivers as the sweat cools on his skin. Lights flash through the bars a moment later and everyone’s attention shifts to the scene unfolding outside. The chopper is immediately recognizable as U.S. military, but the people walking closer aren’t just officers.
“International Press Corps,” Castiel supplies helpfully.
Sam swears again. “Are you kidding me? We have to get our copies filed or this is. Jesus.”
“Hey,” Dean growls, sensing Castiel and Kevin tensing at Sam’s outburst. “Simmer down. Shit’s getting done as fast as possible so can the freak out, Sammy.”
Sam huffs, but wisely shuts up. Castiel shoots Dean a look, but it’s too dark to properly discern. It’s certainly not gratitude, but Dean imagines it is to try and feel a little better.
The sun sets. Dusk paints the sky in triboluminescent pink and gold and it’s breathtaking. The ocean waters glitter beyond the gently swaying palm trees. This is another world, so far away from the boxed cubicles back home. Dean sits in a wooden chair thinking that if heavy, sweet rum where a moment in time, this would be it. Right here.
How can it look so peaceful when somewhere not far from here, someone has lost everything? Someone has been orphaned. He can’t help wondering what he’d do if something like that ever happened to Sam. every muscle in his body feels knotted and the adrenaline leaves goosebumps and chattering teeth in its wake despite the relative warmth of the evening.
Castiel sidles up beside him. He leans against the parapet to face Dean; a black silhouette against the canvas of the sky. When Dean looks up, Castiel meets his gaze steadily. Moments pass in silence. After the past two days, it’s no longer awkward and empty, but oddly meaningful and impregnable. The understanding in Castiel’s meditative blue eyes feels like the only solid, beautiful thing in the suffocating green of this country for Dean to gravitate towards. It’s a fixed point in the sky, a beacon, opening up to let Dean in, drawing him away from the oppressing weight of reality.
In the distance, Dean can hear Sam and Kevin talking to some of the officers and the journalists. Sam doesn’t sound like he’s about to prattle off a self-righteous lecture, so Dean tunes it out.
“You did the right thing,” Castiel says after a long time.
Dean shakes his head, throat locking up. “I didn’t do jack, Cas. Took a bunch of pictures and I’m not even that good with a camera. In fact, I went and got us in trouble and basically pissed our work away.”
The nickname slips out easily and Castiel doesn’t appear to register the change. He cocks his head at an angle, pinning Dean with another concentrated, searching look. “The world needs to know what’s happening. You can’t measure a victory by who gets the story out first anymore. It’s not blame that falls on you, Dean. It’s fate. Circumstances beyond your control. This is the reality here.”
“It’s too big. I can’t do this. By all rights, I shouldn’t. This was Sam’s calling. He’s the one that went to college and got caught up in the protests and movements. He actually knows what’s what with the politics and I just… tagged along.” Dean swallows thickly, but the lump stays lodged firmly in his throat.
“We have to stay,” Dean adds and he’s grateful that his voice only shakes a little. He can’t imagine not getting the hell out of here as fast as he can, but he can’t just walk away from it. Not anymore. Not after what he’s seen. He’s useless. He can’t stop the killing. He can’t save the dying. Can’t pull shrapnel out of weeping, broken bodies. He can’t even ease their pain, but he needs to be here.
“No,” Castiel says, with surprising conviction. “You don’t.”
Dean smiles weakly and he hopes the frailty and cowardice of it is lost to the swiftly coming night. “Actually, we do. We gotta make good on a promise. We gotta Kevin outta here, Cas.”