Chapter Text
The first time Castiel Novak died was in 1945, two weeks after the end of the civil war between the Collective and the old Government. Castiel had been at home for three days when the men from the Office of Safety and Security came to take him. That was the first, but there have been other deaths, smaller deaths. Like the first time he battled with starvation, with exhaustion, with the cold, or with broken bones at the hands of the guards. He lies in his bunk, looking up at the rotting wood of the roof, and wonders how many more there will be before the last.
A siren screech, high and warbling, rips through the snow-heavy forest, and Castiel does not even flinch. The sound is alien, man-made and out of place in the wilderness. The natural acoustic of the valley, with white tipped mountains rushing up toward the sky on every side, amplifies the alarm-call, bouncing it back and forth until it shakes nature awake for miles around. Birds turn their heads towards the source with black-eyed patience, while wolves open their throats in song, calling to each other, barking warnings.
At the camp, the inmates, lodged on nothing but rotten-board and sawdust filled mattresses grown solid from years of use by nameless men, startle awake from hard-won sleep. Their voices lift, cutting through frozen air, adding to the noise. Curses and groans reverberate from the roof, in the shallow space above their heads, shaking icicles that hang like daggers over the men’s heads. The inmates of Hut 17 wriggle free of whatever blankets they have, and climb down the stacked bunks, to grope on the floor, hands out, searching for their boots in the darkness. It is well before dawn, not even close to the start of the working day. The alarm can only mean one thing; they will all be expected in the yard, and soon. And if they don’t want to freeze in the plunging night temperature, they need to dress quick.
Castiel climbs from his bunk. His hands, stiff from the cold, ache as he holds tight to the wooden frame and lowers his weight slowly to avoid trampling the men on the beds below. It is not an easy task in the pitch black, but he isn’t in the mood to quarrel with his bunk-mates. Castiel prefers to keep quiet, keep to his own company; it’s what has kept him alive, so far.
“Watch it,” someone snaps, as Castiel reaches the floor and bumps straight into a solid body. Sounds like Bill Carlton, but he can’t be sure. Castiel doesn’t talk with the others often enough to recognise them by voice alone, when he is blinded by the dark. He mumbles a half-hearted apology and gets a thankless shove in the back for his effort.
Castiel goes back to searching the floor under Father Reynolds’ bunk for his boots, where the priest is keeping them safe for him. There is a moment when he feels a pin-prick of concern that they have been taken; in the labour camps you keep a hold of your possessions, keep them hidden or keep them with you, anything left alone is fair game. But, who would steal from Father Reynolds? The presence of a man of God has been a stabilising influence on the occupants of Hut 17, and anyone from the hut would know better than to try to steal from him. Benny would have something to say about it, and no one would willingly mess with him; a committee man, with more influence than most prisoners, and a vicious right hook that can lay out a man twice his size. No, any theft in Hut 17 is due to outsiders, and Castiel didn’t take off his boots until after the door was barred for the night.
He stretches his arm further, nearly touching the wall, and finally he feels worn leather brush against his fingertips. Someone, somewhere, throws a switch and turns on the lights in the exercise yard. It saturates the over-crowded hut with a dull-yellow that creeps through the tiny, dirty windows, cracked and stuffed with rags to keep out the cold. It is just enough light for Castiel to see by as he pulls on his boots, and wraps a tattered length of knitted wool around his neck, pulling it up over his ears.
He searches his pockets for his hat, while his hut-mates grumble around him, pulling their own caps over bald heads and greasy knots of hair. It is just a dirty old rag-of-a-thing, taken from the head of a dead man a few years ago, but it’s the only one Castiel has, so he pats himself down again, just to be sure. He must have taken it off during the night. There is no time to climb back and search for it now. He will have to make do with what he has on, and hope the guards don’t leave them shivering in the yard for too long. They have done it before, the guards; made them stand outside all night just to see how many men would be left by morning.
An unseen hand thumps on the other side of the door. “In the yard, inmates!” the shout comes through the timbers, deep and sure. The guards have no reason to doubt that the men will do as they are ordered, they have all the advantage of strength, and weapons, and guiltless violence, at their disposal; a prisoner would be a fool to risk pissing them off, and likely, not a fool for long after.
The door shakes, trembling like a cowering dog, as the guard lifts the bar that secures the hut at night. Next, it is flung open, slamming noisily into the tottering frame of the nearest bunks under a shower of dust and debris, which falls from the roof.
“Outside, right now!” The same guard cries, impatient, and loud enough to give away his inexperience. Gordon Walker, and the other long-term guards, all know that threats are more effective whispered in a prisoner’s ear; no need to raise a voice to control the inmates, they have fists, and feet, and bullets if necessary.
The shape of a man looms in the doorway. Light catches on the whites of his eyes as he glances at the prisoners, waiting in the narrow gangway between the bunks, squeezed together with shoulders brushing, waiting to be released from the cramped space. The guard does not make eye contact with them, another sign of naiveté, a lack of confidence in how to handle the situation, with two hundred men and more staring at him, lambent eyes, two-by-two, blinking in the low-light, like a pond full of frogs. One hand rests on the gun at the guard’s side that hangs from his shoulder on a long strap, ready to be lifted in a moment. But, it is not raised, and his finger does not rest on the trigger. Instead, his fingertips move over the metal, the touch almost gentle. Perhaps he is looking for reassurance, for comfort. If so, Castiel thinks, he is looking in the wrong place, there is no comfort to be found in the prison camps, not here, or in any of the dozens of others that have sprung, since the revolution.
“What’s the ruckus, Brother?” Benny says, as he finishes tying the laces on his shiny black boots. He has good boots, sturdy, as is fitting for the leader of Castiel’s work team. It is one of the biggest teams at the camp, in charge of the huge machines that chew up great heaps of raw timber, every single day, spitting it out as something useful, something profitable to the people, to the country, to the Collective. Benny’s position, not to mention his size and strength, makes him a leader among the inmates. He is one of the few people Castiel can stand to talk to.
With the light behind him the guard’s face is all but obscured, yet his reaction is plain. His posture stiffens, fingers curl tight around his gun. “I am no brother of yours, traitor,” he spits on the ground and turns away. Castiel recognizes it as a country superstition; an act to ward off evil, to prevent the taint of association from speaking the names of those who are damned. The guard might be right about the last pasrt. “Now, get out here, all of you, before I drag you out.”
It takes less than two minutes for two hundred men to file out of Hut 17, and into frigid air that rolls off the mountains that circle the camp, holding them all in a cold embrace. Even in the dark, Castiel can see them rising in the distance, white peaks picked out by moonlight against a clear sky, stars winking in ancient patterns above them, like eyes in the black.
“I don’t recognize that one,” someone whispers. Castiel looks back at the guard. He is following behind the jumble of shivering men, urging them along with short sharp words and a scowl. The prisoners arrive in the exercise yard and form up into loose ranks, standing close, bunched together into groups like tattered penguins in the cold. The white flash of identify labels tacked over the breasts of their regulation black coats, does nothing to diminish the effect.
The bulk of the cement block administration building, sharp cornered and austere, looms over them, while prisoners from other teams, other huts, crowd together in the gloom. Some are red-faced from the cold, stamping and blowing into cupped hands, to keep blood flowing. It’s not an affectation. Frost can steal extremities quicker than most people think. And the camp medics, prisoners themselves, will take the pincers from the store room, and clip away blackened fingers and toes, tossing the dead parts out with the rest of the trash.
“He’s new,” Alfie says, with a confident smile. He has fallen in beside Castiel at some point during the walk, as is his usual way. Alfie is under the impression that they are friends, though Castiel has no idea how it came about. There was a tenuous connection to Alfie’s older brother, Bartholomew, who attended one of Castiel’s classes at Columbia, but, that was back before the revolution, and Bartholomew is gone now; everything has changed. “Alistair had him shipped in along with the new allocation of prisoners,” Alfie goes on. “The replacements for the ones they lost in the storm, remember?”
Castiel does remember, though he does not say so. The blizzard swept in from the mountain, howling like a banshee, and suffocating the world under a blanket of snow, five foot deep within hours. They had all been caught out by it, the guards had to suffer through it as well; if they had known there was a storm approaching they would have let the men stay in the sleep-huts. No sense in sending them out just to freeze. The transports stuck and they all had to face the last few miles to the camp on foot, stooped and fighting against a gale that whipped lumps of snow, sharp as knives, into their faces, stinging their eyes. They didn’t all make it back, but the commander allowed the men extra wood rations for their stoves that night—it could have been worse.
“Fresh-faced and right off the farm, by the looks of it,” someone says. Castiel is not inclined to turn around to find out who it is. “Asshole doesn’t have a clue what he’s signed up for.”
“No, he’s a career soldier,” Alfie tells them, turning to look back at whoever was speaking. “Not a war volunteer. Saw the transfer papers.”
“Stop talking,” Castiel snaps, his patience finally worn to breaking point. “Do you want to get us killed?”
“We’re standing in the yard, in the middle of the night, in winter,” Benny adds. He is standing on Castiel’s right, front and centre of the assembled men. “I think some are dead men already.”
“Well, we’ll all be dead men eventually, but I’d rather make it through another day,” Alfie grouses, loud enough to attract the guard’s attention.
He barks an order to, “Quiet down, over there.”
Castiel sighs, and with nothing else to do, he looks around the yard. Searchlights over the gates, and fixed to the roof of the admin building, scan the surrounding trees, making the occasional sweep over the inmates, so they scrunch up their faces, lifting hands to shield wet eyes from the glare; no doubt this is hilarious to whoever is up there behind them. The Commander is putting on a quite a show for the new cohort of prisoners; fresh workers, fresh meat, fresh bodies for the lumber yard and the processing plant to chew up and spit out—all in the name of justice: all in the name of the Collective.
“Line up, and shut up!” the guard shouts. There is more force behind the command now. More authority than Castiel would expect from someone so young. Unlike the other guards prowling the yard, he does not hold his gun ready, he stands tall, watches them from under the fur-trimmed brim of his hat. HIs hands behind his back, in parade mode, like the soldier he is. He looks steady and hard edged. He has seen action before, Castiel thinks, that much is clear. Less so is why a career soldier would chose to work here, isolated, and forced to live among the dregs of the Collective’s new minted society.
Castiel does as he is told. It’s second nature to him now. Stand still, stay quiet, and stay safe—it has kept him out of harm’s way, more or less, over the years. Castiel has no intention of drawing the attention of the guards, now.
“Alistair’s here,” Alfie whispers. The boy should know better, but he is inexperienced, has not had to suffer the hardships, the indignities, of working his hands bloody at the mill or breaking his back in the lumber yard. Alfie has the mixed blessing of work in the administration building, pushing papers around his desk, sitting outside Alistair’s office-door, ready and willing to fetch and carry at a moment’s notice. Alfie’s position does not endear him to the other inmates. They call him turncoat and collaborator, push him around if they find him alone, and insist they would rather die out in the forest, felling trees with a rusted axe, than cosy up to the assholes that put them in the camp.
The natural bravado of youth, and the relative protection of his job with Alistair, makes Alfie thoughtless, and he shrugs, unconcerned, as the men shoot him worried looks and tell him to shut his god-damn mouth.
Castiel does his best to ignore all of them. He stamps his feet on the snow crusting the ground; there is not so much of it now, what is left is hard-packed and dirty with the grit prisoners spread to keep from falling, as it melts and re-freezes, over and over, until the next snowfall.
A guard calls for silence, somewhere at the other end of the exercise yard, and in the hush that follows a door opens, up on the first floor of the administration building. It draws the attention of the gawping men. For a moment the doorway remains empty, a black square cut into the otherwise grey facade, a dramatic pause before the Commander appears. Alistair steps out onto a small metal platform, where the steps lead down to the ground. The raised entrance is a practical consideration, when the snow lays five foot deep, but it doubles as a make-shift platform whenever Alistair wants to show his power.
The commander in full military regalia, and medals in gold, silver, and bronze, honours bestowed by a grateful Collective in the years after the war, shine from his chest in a twisted mirror to the white badges worn by the prisoners. The sprawling camp is his empire, and he looks around the yard slowly, takes in the mass of ragged prisoners, as he leans forward over the metal railing, and gets a good look with his hard little eyes. Distaste twists his face into a sneer and those who have seen it before, guard and prisoner alike draw in a harsh breath, something bad is coming.
“Tonight, a crime has been committed,” Alistair says. He sounds resigned, bored by the words even as he speaks them.
The prisoners look at one another in apprehension, shifting and moving together as a mass, like a flock of starlings in the evening sky. But, there is no sky for the inmates, no way to take flight, stuck fast to the ground, they will all have to face whatever sanctions Alistair wants to hand out. The Commander believes they all deserve punishment, the country believes they deserve it, and after so many years, half the prisoners start to believe they deserve it; because what could this be if not a punishment from God?
“A few hours ago,” Alistair does not raise his voice, but his voice manages to reach every ear. “Two of your fellow prisoners assaulted one of my guards and made the reckless decision to go through the fence.”
“Idiots,” Alfie hisses. “They know escape is useless, there’s nowhere to go. Why would they even try?”
Castiel stays silent, keeps his eyes fixed on the commander. There will be fallout from this and he does not want to be caught up in it.
“It’s lies,” Benny grumbles under his breath. “No one tries to escape in winter. The commander’s a snake, fattening himself on our blood, and picking his teeth with our bones. His words mean nothing.” Benny has somehow acquired a pinch of tobacco, rolled in paper, he lifts it to his lips and sucks. The coal flares, turns from red to orange, feeding on the flow of oxygen that draws the smoke into Benny’s mouth. It crackles next to Castiel’s ear. Blue-grey smoke curls in Castiel’s face; it dances; it bends; it warps into uncanny shapes, surreal, like Dali’s melting clocks—Castiel had seen them at MOMA, what a frivolous thing it now seems, to stare at oil dabbed on canvas just for the pleasure of looking— but, for a moment, the smell of the smoke covers the sour odour of unwashed bodies. And, though Castiel has never been a smoker, he breathes deep and savours it.
Alfie turns, leans out from the ranks so he can look at Benny, instead of talking to the side of Castiel’s head. “What are you suggesting? That the Commander is lying?” Alfie turns back, focusing on Alistair. “I don’t believe it,” he hisses, “You don’t know him like I do.”
“And I thank God for that, daily” Benny sneers, “I’d rather work all night milling timber than spend time with that one, not for twice the special privileges that pretty face of yours gets you.”
Alfie makes an indignant noise. “He appreciates my skills and my work ethic, nothing else. And, I thought you were above listening to prison gossip, Benny.”
Castiel digs an elbow into Alfie’s side in an attempt to distract him. “Be quiet,” Castiel whispers once more. They are attracting attention, turned heads, and squint-eyed glances from the guards in their section of the yard. Their own guard, the new one, steps closer and drops a hand back to the gun at his side, in warning.
Alfie’s cheeks turn beetroot-red, the expression of indignation on his face clear enough that even Castiel can read it. The boy is starting to boil under his skin, and Castiel just wants to shrink down, get out of the line of the crossfire that’s about to start between the two idiots that have him trapped, penned in so tight there is no hope of slipping out.
Tension grows in the air, pulls tight enough to snap, as more and more eyes are cast in their direction. There’s trouble coming, Castiel can feel it in the hairs that stand up and pimple his skin, he can hear it in the silence that seems to rush at them as the other inmates close their mouths, and he can taste it in the bitter burn at the back of his tongue. The guard takes another step forward. He is larger than Castiel thought and manages to loom quite effectively from a few steps away. The moment is broken by the metallic clink of Alistair, making his way down the steps.
“Both escapees were wounded in the struggle,” Alistair says, bringing them straight back to the reason they are gathered in the yard. “Undoubtedly, these prisoners will not last long outside the fences. I’m telling you this because I want to make it clear, to all of you, that escape is not an option for you.” The commander’s nasal voice echoes slightly from the flat planes of the building at his back, and to Castiel’s ear, it makes Alistair’s words sound even more hollow than normal. “This camp is your world. You are here because the Collective has seen fit to forgive your past transgressions, against the people of our great country, and has allowed you to work to repay your debt. While you are here, you are under my command, and my patience is not limitless. You were warned, not six months ago, that any further attempts to escape our generous hospitality would be met with severe punishment.” Alistair stops to look around, lifting his head so he can scan the crowd of dark-coated men more easily. “Not only for the perpetrators of the act, but for all of you. And I am a man of my word.” He pauses, lets the prisoners stew in silent worry as he walks up and down in long-legged strides, heavy black boots on his feet, polished to a glass-like shine, wink with reflected light at each footfall. “You will be on half-rations for the rest of the month,” he declares, “And that includes each allotment of firewood.”
“We’re going to fucking freeze,” Benny mutters under his breath. “Good luck keeping the mill running when half the men lose fingers to frostbite.”
Alistair strides up and down, up and down, wrapped in warm layers of wool and fur while the prisoners’ teeth chatter hard enough to break. He slows to a stop just a few steps from the inmates of Hut 17 and lands a good natured slap on the new guard’s back as he goes by; a favourite, best to stay as far away from him as possible, then. Alistair’s favourites, like Gordon and Creedy, are the ones to be wary of, quick to anger and ready to lash out at the slightest provocation, and sometimes, for no reason at all.
“Could be worse,” Alfie whispers.
“How, exactly?” Benny asks. He throws the end of his smoke on the ground, grinds it into the compacted snow with the heel of his boot, with vicious enthusiasm.
Alfie snorts indiscreetly in his temper, and Castiel has to stamp on the urge to hit him, kick him, anything to stop the noise. “He’s leaving you with half,” Alfie argues, in the commander’s defence. And wouldn’t he? He’s been under Alistair’s protection almost since the day he arrived, looking lost and terrified, cheeks wet though it had not rained.
Alistair swings his gaze towards them. Castiel freezes, he feels Benny shift away to the right, as if putting a few extra inches between them will make him invisible to the hard stare the Commander fixes on the men of Hut 17.
“Who spoke?” Alistair does not address the prisoners directly. Instead, he asks the guard at his side. Alistair’s nasal voice hisses, snake-like, but he doesn’t sound angry—he never sounds angry.
“It was one of them, Commander,” the guard answers, honestly. His gloved hand points in the direction of Alfie, Castiel, and Benny. Alistair does nothing but raise an eyebrow at the guard. Some unspoken understanding passes between them. The soldier darts forward. Castiel is pushed aside and he crashes into Benny, getting a mouthful of his dirty old coat in the process. They manage to stay on their feet with help from their hut-mates, who reach for them with steadying hands, setting them right.
The guard, meanwhile, has his fists curled in the front of Alfie’s coat. There is shock and a dawning fear in Alfie’s eyes as he gasps, reaching for Castiel, just as the guard drags him away. The desperate confusion in Alfie’s face, the silent plea in his last look, these things will haunt Castiel, forever. Still, Castiel does not raise his hand to help. He does not reach back. He does not lift his voice in protest. What can he do? Nothing; he can only watch, or else risk being the next hauled from the line. If he had anything left to feel, Castiel would hate himself for that moment of cowardice. He was not always this person. He would not always have stood by. But, the camp has changed him, as it changes everyone; drained him dry of spirit and heart, and poured sawdust in, where they used to be.
The guard hauls the boy into the open space of yard and away from the other prisoners. Alfie stumbles, tripping on uneven ground as the guard drags him about. When they reach Alistair, the guard is done being the boy’s walking aid, and he lets him go. Alfie drops to the ground in a heap. “This one,” the guard rasps out. “This one was talking,” he says, “Been whispering, this whole time.”
Alistair approaches. He is tall and thin, a body of bone and sharp angles that towers over Alfie, kneeling in the dirt. “How dare you speak when I am speaking,” Alistair says. “Do you think your words are more important than mine? That you are above them?”
Alfie is barely a man, just turned eighteen when he arrived at the camp. He looks small, crouched on the ground, wringing his hands, and cringing away from the man he thought of as a protector, a mentor, a friend. Castiel knew Alfie was too trusting, unable to see corruption in the commander when there was so little of it in himself. He did not know there was danger in just being alive in the world, and now, the lesson had come too late to save him.
“I’m sorry, Commander, I should not have spoken. I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” Alfie says. The guard stands behind, Alistair in front, trapping Alfie between them. He lifts a hand from the dirt as if he’s going to reach out, try and touch Alistair, begging for comfort, or reassurance—he might be the only person in the yard that cannot see death hanging over him, waiting to take his soul. Confusion is written large on Alfie’s face with Alistair’s failure to react, and his hand hangs in mid-air like he’s asking for a blessing.
“You will be sorry, boy,” is all the warning Alfie gets before Alistair kicks out, catches him in the face with the metal capped toe of his boot. Alfie cries out and slumps to the floor. When he lifts his head, a trail of blood leaks from his nose, drips down in a dark line into his mouth until his teeth are tinted with it. The ooze of blood is soon joined by salt-water tears that roll in fat drops down Alfie’s cheeks. Maybe it’s the fear, or maybe it’s the pain—it does not really matter either way—but, that is when Alfie gives up. He bends over, pressing his face close to the ground, the only escape from the thousands of blank-faced prisoners, all waiting for him to die, and he weeps like a child, in great gulping sobs.
The prisoners say nothing.
Stay still, stay quiet, and stay safe, Castiel thinks; it will be over soon. These are the rules Castiel lives by, the rules that have kept his mind intact and his body unharmed, for five long years. There is nothing he can do for Alfie, now.
“Pick him up, Officer Winchester.” The guard nods at Alistair’s order, takes Alfie by the shoulders and pulls him to his feet. Alistair’s eyes dart between the boy and the soldier, head canted to the side, considering. “What do you think we should do with such a creature?” he asks. “He’s a trouble causer, always getting the other prisoners riled up. Do you think we should make an example of him?” It is lies, and everyone in the yard knows it; everyone but the guard.
“Yes, Commander.” It is the only possible reply and the soldier gives it without hesitation.
“Good, good, Officer Winchester. I can tell you are going to be an asset to this camp.” Alistair looks between the two of them again, nods his head and says, “Let’s teach them what happens when a prisoner disobeys orders and disrespects the authority of the Collective. Cut his throat.”
Whatever order the guard was expecting, a death sentence delivered in three clipped words, clearly was not it. The officer flinches, letting go of Alfie as he steps back in surprise. The boy’s legs give out, muscles overtaken by the force of adrenaline, tremors wracking his body as he curls up on frozen ground. Castiel can hear him asking, very quietly, why? Why is Alistair doing this? What did he do wrong? Alfie does not understand. He can’t see what Castiel sees, as Alistair smirks at Officer Winchester over the boy’s head; Alfie has been replaced, Alistair has a new favourite to play with.
To his credit, Officer Winchester looks worried. “Commander?” he asks quietly. His eyes scan the crowd in mild surprise as if he had forgotten there was an audience, and he licks his lips, nervous under the scrutiny.
Alistair smiles, it makes a cruel stripe across his face, lips stretching long and twisting up at the corners. “I’ve given you an order, Officer.”
The guard nods, just once, abrupt, and pulls a knife from his belt. “Kneel,” he tells the sobbing boy. The guard’s voice has taken on a softer tone than when he was ordering them from their beds and out into the cold. He moves to stand at Alfie’s back, grabs a fistful of the boy’s hair and pulls back, lifting Alfie’s chin and exposing his throat. Castiel watches, his brain dulled and empty of emotion, as Alfie draws his last breath. The guard bends and says something in Alfie’s ear. Castiel cannot hear what is said, but Alfie closes his eyes and goes still; his tears stop.
The knife is quick and sure; a glint of silver, a mess of red, and the guard holds Alfie’s shoulder while he jerks and gurgles and bleeds out his life on the snow-packed ground. Blood pools, steaming in the frozen air, dark, almost black in the low light. A prisoner will clear it up; mop the blood that on another day might be his own. Castiel watches each weakening spurt from Alfie’s severed artery, as the boy’s empty heart gives up the struggle, with the clinical detachment of inevitability. Death is a constant at the camp, and Castiel thinks it might be a relief when his own time comes. He cannot remember when it started, but it has been a long time since Castiel cared about living this life he has. He cares about avoiding pain, avoiding suffering and a useless lingering death, but the end itself, he thinks, would be a blessing.
Alfie is still dripping blood from his lifeless body when the prisoners are ordered back to their huts. They are escorted by Officer Winchester so he can lock them back inside their rotten barracks. He does not speak. There are dark splashes on his coat and, though his eyes are narrowed and hard, his face pale, nearly as white as Alfie out in the yard, staring at the stars, open-eyed but sleeping.
There are no tears for Alfie. No one mourns him. Castiel does the only thing he can, and tucks the memory of the boy away, folds him into the dark place inside where he keeps things locked away, the things from before, the things he does not want to think about. In the labour-camp, hidden in the forests and away from the world, tears are better kept for the living. The dead do not need them.
Castiel heaves himself back up the frame and into his bunk. Around him the other men do the same, grumbling at the loss of rations, and loss of sleep.
“How long, Benny?” a voice asks from below Castiel’s bunk.
Benny huffs and turns around in his bunk, if the creaking is anything to go by. Benny has a watch, a privilege of his status and luckily, too old and beat up to be of interest to the guards. “Three if we’re lucky,” he grumbles. Three, three hours till the sirens scream again and drag them from their beds. “Get some sleep, Brother,” Benny goes on. “It’s going to be a hard few weeks on half-measure.” Reduced-rations, how many times have they had their allocations taken away, and they never go back to what they were before. If the men did not have to work Castiel doubts the commander would bother to feed them at all. But, there is nothing to be done about it; the pain of an empty stomach as it turns on itself is just one more hardship to be endured.
Castiel finds his missing hat shoved under his pillow and pulls it onto his head with relief. Then he sets about wrapping himself up tight in his blanket and shoving his feet into the sleeve of a moth eaten coat, a bit of extra protection against the cold. He curls up on his mattress wondering if it might be worth asking someone to share a bunk, if the weather stays bad and the wood for the stoves runs out. It’s always awkward, but the extra warmth of another bundled up body nearby makes it worthwhile. It’s common practice during the coldest parts of the year. Castiel eventually drops back into sleep as the lights in the yard go out, plunging the hut into darkness.
Later, the men are woken for a second time. Wolves are calling to each other deep in the snow-heavy forest. The sound is amplified as it bounces between white-topped peaks. It makes the pack seem closer than they really are. They all know what it means and the moment passes without comment; the escapees are dead. Whether they succumbed to their wounds or were brought down by tooth and claw and jaws fastening tight around vulnerable throats, makes no difference, by morning they will be nothing but scattered bones for the crows to pick at.
Castiel turns over, rolls his hat down to cover his ears, and sleeps.