The Stars Are Not Wanted Now; part 1.
Title: The Stars Are Not Wanted Now (or: Who Killed John Winchester?) - part 1 of ?
Fandom: Supernatural
Characters/Pairing(s): Dean, Castiel, Bobby (endgame Dean/Cas)
Genre: dystopian, post-apocalyptic, sort-of-but-also-not-really-mob AU, including always-human!cas, mystery, also a touch of romance!
Rating: overall R
Word Count: 4130 (of ?)
Warnings: some bad language
Disclaimer: Not Mine! I do not own the SPN characters, and the title of this was shamelessly stolen from the WH Auden poem "Funeral Blues".
-Author Notes: This basically came from wanting to write a mob AU, wanting to write post-apocalyptic dystopia fic, wanting to write teenage!Dean, wanting to write a murder mystery fic, and playing Fallout 3. So, uh. There's that. Um! This was originally supposed to be for the cwbigbang, but I missed the deadline and the fic still isn't finished. On its way, but. Not quite. So! I will try to have a new part up every Monday until, finally, it is complete. I am trying to keep up a consistent style, but it is hard and my writing has felt dull lately - I can't seem to find a good compromise between dry and too flowery. Blegh. Also this is an exercise in world-building. I have this little city-state planned out, like. Really intricately, but I am trying to be good and not dump all the exposition at once. We shall see if it worked!
THE STARS ARE NOT WANTED NOW
or:
Who Killed John Winchester?
.part 1
Heat rose in shimmering waves above the flat plains of the Midwestern Wastes, the soft, arid dirt thrown gently in smooth curls by the wind. Dean sighed as he stared out the window, his palm sticking to his cheek, tacky with a sheen of sweat. The area surrounding Lawrence couldn’t boast any worthwhile scenery, that was for damn sure. There was only the flatness, and the parched, tawny earth. The other two men in the vehicle didn’t seem interested in the scenery any more than they were interested in conversation - they’d been nearly silent since they'd cut Dean free and hauled him in the jeep, and while Dean wasn’t in the mood for any sort of talk either, doing nothing but sitting in silence over the bump, bump, bump of the drive was starting to make him twitchy. He sighed again.
"So, uh.” He cleared his throat, the sound jagged and harsh after the long stretch of quiet. “You took out those guys?” he asked, voicing something he’d been wondering about since they’d dragged him out of that hellhole. “Just the two of you?"
The driver grunted and twisted the rearview mirror to look at Dean in the backseat. His fingers were large and rough, and he wore two thick silver rings. "The two of us?" he said as one dark, scraggly brow raised. "Naw.” He jerked a thumb to the passenger seat. “Him. I didn't do jackshit but sit in the damn jeep. This guy did it. Did it all."
"What?" Dean sat up in the back, grabbing the edges of the front seats and leaning up between them to look at the other passenger. "Just you? Seriously?"
Castiel hummed noncommitally, flipping a page in his book. "I had a mission and I completed it. That's all." He glanced over his shoulder and pulled his sunglasses down the bridge of his nose a little to look at Dean. His eyes were deep set and a bright, stunning blue. His tongue passed over his dry bottom lip absently and he blinked, looking like he had a lot less patience than he wanted Dean to think he did. "Please sit back, Mr. Winchester. You're injured."
And the guy was so fucking formal all the time. "Dean," he said, drawing out the vowels. Castiel’s eyes flickered once to the shape of his mouth as it stretched with the syllable. "I’ve told you before. Jesus. Mr. Winchester is my goddamn father." He sighed and sat back, propping his leg up on the seat. His shoulder ached, but he wasn't about to tell Castiel that, because that would have felt like a loss - a reminder that he was, as that smug motherfucker seemed intent on reminding him, injured. Like he hadn't shoved enough medicaps down his throat to heal a horse.
“Very well, then,” Castiel said. “Dean.” He pushed his glasses back up. And the name sounded hardly less formal than Mr. Winchester, somehow, coming from Castiel. A name was meant to be personal, but somehow it fell flat, like he’d seen all the way through to Dean and had found nothing there worthwhile - found nothing personal worth bothering with. “My suggestion holds just as much merit no matter what I call you.”
Dean stared at him as he turned back in his seat, facing forward and taking up his book again. The swick of pages as he turns them was soft, and even though he was so damn unflappable and so damn irritating, he was steady, too, and Dean needed that. Even if he'd rather it be Sam, or his dad, or Bobby, familiar instead of some half-assed acquaintance sent to babysit him, it was still good - good in a basic, unconscious way. The churning in his gut settled and even if he was still cursing himself for getting fucking kidnapped, it was about eight against one, so the odds weren't exactly in his favor. That Alistair guy, though... Christ, Dean thought, he'd be having nightmares for weeks.
Castiel had been around for awhile. Something had happened, one of those big, elusive somethings that no one ever really liked to talk about, and suddenly John didn’t hate Heaven as much as he’d always said he did and Castiel - one of their operatives they called angels - was there, maybe as some sort of outreach program, trying to foster good will between Heaven and the growing movement of unhappy people stuck in the middle.
The wall around the city rose up out of the dust finally and Dean let himself slump down into the hard vinyl seat, feeling an unbidden wave of relief at the prospect of home. He regretted it immediately, a voice just like his father's chastising him for the twinge of what it categorized as weakness, but it was hard to be tough after being held captive and tortured for a couple of days. Dean thought this time he’d let it slide.
The driver parked in one of the hangars outside the city and gave them a half-hearted farewell as they walked over to DeCon. “Don’t wander off without me,” Castiel instructed as they walked towards the large, imposing gate, like Dean was a fucking child. “I was explicitly told by your father to escort you all the way to Singer Salvage.”
“Really, Castiel?” Dean asked, disgusted, widening the space between them. Castiel ignored him and placidly closed the gap, moving even closer, his side pressed to Dean’s. “Cut it out,” Dean snapped. He moved to shove Castiel, but the dick caught his arm. “Damn it, would you just let me breathe? I’m not going to try to run away. I want to get back just as much as you want me there.”
Castiel smiled, a bland, flat look that made Dean want to punch the expression off his face. He put one large, unwelcome hand flat on Dean’s back, thumb set along the length of his spine. And why did Castiel keep touching him - why the fuck did he keep touching him? “Very good,” he said. “I’m glad we understand each other.”
Dean pulled away with a jerk; the asshole was getting way too familiar. Normally tactile was good, was welcome - but he didn't know Castiel, and after what he'd been through - even though Dean planned to repress the shit out of it because he was a fucking Winchester and they didn't let something like torture get in the way of their stoic manliness, no sir - it made him unusually jumpy. They were one of only a few crews coming back in; it wasn't a trade day and it was still too early for any of the other hunters to be back, so there weren't really any people besides the workers around. Good, Dean thought, rubbing the rope burn on his wrist. He wasn't embarrassed, not really, but he'd had to be rescued, and even if under the circumstances it was completely understandable, it made Dean feel less than manly - it really did make him feel like a kid, which was why Castiel kept making him bristle, even though the guy - presumably - meant well. He was someone stronger John had had to sent out to go retrieve Dean; and it made resentment burn in him that his father couldn't even fucking bother to come himself.
One of the guys let Dean and Castiel into the first metal pen, the little swinging door shut and bolted behind them.
They stripped silently down to their underwear. Dean glanced over, as quick as he could, trying to catch a look at Castiel’s back. He’d heard - everyone had heard, in one of those whispered rumors the whole city-state talked about but no one could every really confirm - that the people working for Heaven had wings, these big, beautiful, intricate wings, tattooed across their shoulders. Castiel was almost facing him, though, as he took his shirt off. Dean could see something, maybe, some dark scrawl on the blade of his shoulder, but then Castiel sat down on one of the low benches around the walls, hiding his back entirely, his hands clasped between his knees.
Dean huffed and scrubbed a hand through his sandy hair. He felt dirty - gritty and sore and dusty, body covered in filth. And a lot of that was literal as well as fucking metaphorical. He wanted a real shower, with burning hot water, a fresh, sterile bar of soap, not one from some damn decontamination mist. He sat down on the other side of the room, glancing across to Castiel. For half a second Castiel met his eyes, gave him a look that was probably meant to be friendly, then looked away. Dean’s lips drew back in a scowl.
His first instinct was to be combative. But his frustration with the situation was greater than his irritation with Castiel by a factor of hundreds, so even if he did manage to get him to argue - which he probably wouldn't, because Castiel never seemed to say more than was absolutely necessary - it probably wouldn't make him feel any better. So he just opted to stare. Moodily.
Castiel wasn’t as scrawny as he’d looked in his clothes. A little lean maybe, but strong. Muscles shifted as he moved and Dean traced the strength of his arms, mapping every contour. He was pale, hair a shock of soft darkness on the top of his head. He had a straight nose and full as fuck lips - his mouth was plush and pale. God, and irritating, too; half of what came out of that mouth was bullshit.
There was a faint hiss and then the shower heads above them, on a rod around the perimeter of the room, starting releasing the foggy, green mist used to help fight any lingering radiation from being in the wastes.
Castiel closed his eyes with a long sigh, his lashes dark against the skin of his face. His head tilted back and Dean watched as his neck stretched out, the nob of his adam’s apple prominent, marring the straight sleekness from his chin to his clavicle. The feeling of decon was pretty unpleasant - it made Dean itch, all over - but Castiel just looked completely unconcerned. Placid. He just kept his head up like he was embracing it. Like it was rainwater - pure rainwater, something they didn't often get - falling on his face. Fucking weirdo, Dean thought. His jaw was rough with stubble; the guy probably couldn’t be bothered to remember to shave. Besides that and what was on his head, he had almost no hair on the rest of his body, Dean noticed. Thin on his arms and his legs and a line right below his navel, but other than that almost none.
The bell sounded a few seconds later and the mist began to dissipate, pulled into vents near the floor. Dean didn’t say anything, but he kept an eye on Castiel as they dressed. The angel stepped into his pants with something almost like grace, pulling them up like he didn’t even have two solid legs getting in the way. He was still facing Dean - and damn it, it was so fucking stupid that Dean was interested. He looked away - but it was a second too late, because Castiel caught him staring just before he pulled his white undershirt on.
“What?” he asked. Dean scowled. “Is something wrong?”
“Nope,” Dean answered, pulling his shirt on as quickly as he could and sitting down to pull on his boots. “Nothing’s wrong. Just wondering what’s taking you so long.”
“I have more to put on than you do,” Castiel explained, frowning at Dean as he laced up his boots. Castiel’s arms were still stuck through the holes in his shirt and quickly he tugged it over his head. He didn’t bothering flattening down his hair, just pulled on his plain white button-up he'd had on over it, straightened the collar and started buttoning it up. He tucked it into his pants and then fastened them. He grabbed his tie and half-heartedly knotted it, only tightening it to just below the points of his collar. For someone who always exuded an air of professionalism, and efficiency, Castiel didn’t really give a shit about his appearance.
“Done?” Dean asked as Castiel buttoned his cuffs, still feigning impatience.
Castiel shot him a quick, annoyed look. “Yes,” he said. He cocked his head towards the door. “After you.”
Dean rolled his eyes but started moving, Castiel only a few inches behind him. “Personal space, dude,” Dean muttered. “You might want to try it sometime.” He wasn’t really surprised when he didn’t get a response.
The DeCon officers - big guys, usually, in yellow waders and gloves and stupid orange berets - led them both through one of the black, plastic flap curtains and into the testing area. It was separated into little stalls, because apparently drawing blood was a real private affair. The first officer led Castiel away, into the stall furthest to the right, and Dean stepped up to the line.
“Winchester,” the next officer said, looking like Dean was emitting a particularly bad smell. Which, to be fair, he probably was. “Why am I not surprised you’d be here on my shift.”
“Oh very warm welcome, Henriksen,” Dean said with a tight smile. “It’s great to see you, too.” Officer Henriksen rolled his eyes and turned, gesturing Dean to follow. “Nice hat.”
He and Victor Henriksen went way back - and the history was mostly bad blood, usually involving Dean in some sort of trouble, and Henriksen part of the force meant to combat it. He waited outside the little stall, following behind Dean. Dean sat down on the bench and Henriksen pulled the tattered green curtain shut behind them.
“You must have done something to piss the big boys off,” Dean said, “if they’ve got you on DeCon duty.”
“I don’t need your lip, Winchester,” Henriksen said, his mouth in a tight line. “And this isn’t a punishment. All of the officers have to take a turn here, and I volunteered. Have to keep assholes like you who get dragged off to the wastes from bringing anything back with them.”
Dean’s smirk fell off his face pretty quick at that, and the smug bastard had the gall to look pleased. “Fuck off,” Dean told him, in a much less cooperative mood.
Henriksen ignored him. “Arm,” he said, pulling up Dean’s info on his datapad. He got the meter, a thick white boxy device with a curling plastic cord in bright blue coming out of the side. He pulled a sterile pricker from the plastic container on the wall and hooked it to the end of the cord. Dean held out his arm, curling his fingers into a fist before sticking his middle finger out.
“Cute,” Henricksen said with a huff. He swabbed the crook of Dean’s elbow and then pricked the skin, a trickle of blood coming up in convex red. “Meter says you’re clean,” he announced a second later.
“Shocker,” Dean said.
Henriksen shot him a quick, irritated look. “Kind of on the high side of normal, though. Maybe ought to send you to the showers.”
“Don’t fuck with me, Victor,” Dean said, clenching his teeth. If he’d been just a step closer, Dean would have kicked him. “I’m fine and we both know it. I don’t need a goddamn scrub-down. Just finish up and let me go.”
“Yeah, yeah.” He grabbed one of the small swatches of gauze and let it soak some up of the blood. Then he put it in a clean baggie and sealed it, dropping it down the pneumatic sample tube that would take it off to Med-Cen. “Here,” he said, giving Dean a strip of sterile cloth. Dean knotted it around his elbow. “You can go.”
“Thanks, doc,” he said, standing up and pushing through the curtain. Castiel was already waiting for him, his sunglasses stuck on the knot of his tie. He nodded at Dean and they walked through final processing, out into the city.
“I was instructed by your father to bring you to meet him at Bobby Singer’s salvage lot.”
“Uh, right,” Dean said, bemused. “You already told me this, asshole. And?”
Castiel’s brows furrowed together and he tilted his head as he looked at Dean. “And that’s what I intend to do.”
Dean rolled his eyes. “What the hell is your problem, man? Calm the fuck down; I’m not a damn kid. I can follow a simple instruction without some dick babysitter holding my hand.” He bumped Castiel with his elbow.
“I wasn’t planning on holding your hand,” Castiel told him as they wove their way through the crowded, dusty street. It wasn’t far to go - Bobby’s place was in the same district as the south gate. “But I will certainly consider it if it will make you more cooperative.”
“Oh yeah,” Dean snorted. “That would help.”
Castiel made a soft humming sound and gave him a once over. “That was sarcasm.”
Dean sighed and tried to remind himself how pointless arguing with Castiel was. “We got a smart one here,” he said, rolling his eyes as he side-stepped past a little boy running after a large, orange ball. “Give the kid a fucking prize.”
: : :
Bobby lived in Limbo, the big, sprawling marketplace district at the southernmost end of Lawrence. He had an old salvage yard - mostly full of old, rusted car bodies, sheets of scrap metal, lost toys, pieces of old electronics, piping and broken radios: a lot of odds and ends Dean wasn’t sure had every really been useful to anyone. In fact, it seemed like everything around the city that got abandoned somehow found its way to Bobby’s. Whether that was on purpose or just a happy coincidence, Dean had never been able to work out. Bobby sold some of his shit occasionally, fixed other people's shit up - but that was only his day job - his other gig was of the more secret, confidential, out of Castiel's range of knowledge kind. Which, okay, to be fair, Dean only knew about because Sam was one of his Listeners. But he was still pissed at the angel and he'd take his little victories where he could get them.
Bobby's house was attached to the yard, with a little shack he'd built onto the side serving as an office. There was a little tunnel before his door, made of old metal piping welded into arches, roofed with more random junk he’d found, including what looked like a canvas net and a few old horseshoes. Ropes looped downwards, old antennae stuck in the air, scrap metal was piled on, always looking like it was one big gust of wind away from toppling off. Dean wasn't sure if it was for some sort of protection, or if it was just Bobby's bizarre way of advertising: "this is what I've got, folks! And it's all pretty fucking useless." Right before the door, hanging down on the left, right next to a doll with one chipped glass eye peering down at Bobby's visitors like a half-blind porcelain sentry, was an old lamp. The base was made of bronzed metal, a pane of yellow glass on each of the four sides. One side was broken, a big chunk right out of the middle. And it was cracked, the lines of the break jagged and ugly, but the metal around the glass had intricate cut-outs of swirling lines and stars and crosses. Dean let his fingertips brush against it as they walked by.
Castiel looked about as unfazed as ever, but there was a slant to his mouth that Dean read as disapproving. And on the one hand - Jesus, talk about condescending as fuck; but on the other... Yeah, Dean could understand. Bobby basically lived in a run-down shack. Even to Dean, who'd been over dozens of times, it was still really off-putting - and if Castiel was as big a deal in Heaven as Dean assumed he was, he was probably used to accomodations that were less like a landfill and more like an actual house. The inside was a little more well kept, though.
Castiel knocked on the door with one neatly-curled fist, then took a step back, his arms hanging uselessly at his sides.
After a second or two of awkward silence, footsteps and faint cursing started towards them, and a wild-eyed Bobby threw the door open, one hand tight around the barrel of a shotgun. “Oh,” he said, looking to Dean. “It’s you.” He took a breath and sighed. Dean thought he might be about to say something - maybe explain what the hell was wrong - but then he just looked at Castiel and frowned. “Who the hell are you?”
“I’m Castiel,” he said. “I was - “
“Oh,” Bobby said, leaning his gun against the wall by the door and peering at Castiel with narrowed eyes. “That asshole agent from Heaven?”
Castiel probably had a few issues with his phrasing - though Dean was grinning pretty big about it - but he just nodded. “Yes.”
“Great,” Bobby said, “just what we need.” He sighed again and stared at them for a few seconds before finally stepping back and opening up the door. “Might as well come in,” he said, moving aside so they could enter. He stuck his head out the doorframe for a second afterwards, looking around as though he expected to see someone following them. He seemed satisfied no one was there because he shut the door and bolted it, putting on the two chains and then fastening a padlock.
Dean raised his eyebrows. “Getting a little paranoid there, Bobby?”
Bobby growled and hung the gun on the rack by the door. “Boy, you have no idea,” he said. “Come on. We... Maybe we better talk in the kitchen.” He shuffled past them, his shoulders slumped down, his clothes looking even more worn and dirty than usual.
“What’s going on?” Castiel asked quietly, crowding up close to Dean as they followed Bobby. "Where is your father? He was supposed to meet us here."
“Dude, I have no idea,” Dean said, looking at Castiel over his shoulder. He'd gotten so close that as he turned their faces almost touched. It was unsettling, how close he’d leaned in to whisper that. He could feel Castiel’s breath, warm and wet on his fucking ear.
Bobby pulled out a chair at his old, rickety kitchen table and threw out a hand at Dean, wagging his fingers toward the seat. Dean, a little apprehensive but willing to trust that Bobby had a good reason for acting strangely, just sat. Castiel stood behind him - way too close. Again. Apparently the fucker had forgotten how to sit along with forgetting the concept of personal space.
Bobby sat across from Dean, not commenting on Castiel’s - really fucking obnoxious, Dean thought - hovering. “Dean,” he said, his voice heavy. “I got...” He rubbed a hand across his scruffy jaw, staring down at a long cut in the wood of the table. “I got a few beers in the fridge. Bet you’re both thirsty.” He got up, the chair creaking, looking neither one of them in the eye. He opened his old, avocado-green fridge and pulled out three dark bottles. He set them on the countertop, opened them, and threw the three caps into a chipped mug on the windowsill. “Here,” he said, bringing them back to the table. He set two bottles in front of Dean, then took a long pull from his own.
“Thanks, Bobby,” Dean said. “I guess.” Castiel reached out and grabbed his, brushing against Dean’s shoulder on the way. “But what’s going on? Why’re you acting batshit crazy and sharing your beer?”
“Something happened while you were gone, Dean.” He laid one arm on the table and sighed. His eyes softened and he licked his lips. “Something happened to John.”
Dean swallowed down the sip of beer in his mouth, forcing it past the lump that had settled in his throat. It wasn’t like Bobby to look this sympathetic, to look understanding. He was an old, crochety bastard if Dean ever knew one. At the bottom of his gut, a heavy nausea settled, and Dean knew what Bobby was going to say before he even started to say it.
“He’s dead.”
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Feedback would be greatly appreciated!
Fandom: Supernatural
Characters/Pairing(s): Dean, Castiel, Bobby (endgame Dean/Cas)
Genre: dystopian, post-apocalyptic, sort-of-but-also-not-really-mob AU, including always-human!cas, mystery, also a touch of romance!
Rating: overall R
Word Count: 4130 (of ?)
Warnings: some bad language
Disclaimer: Not Mine! I do not own the SPN characters, and the title of this was shamelessly stolen from the WH Auden poem "Funeral Blues".
-Author Notes: This basically came from wanting to write a mob AU, wanting to write post-apocalyptic dystopia fic, wanting to write teenage!Dean, wanting to write a murder mystery fic, and playing Fallout 3. So, uh. There's that. Um! This was originally supposed to be for the cwbigbang, but I missed the deadline and the fic still isn't finished. On its way, but. Not quite. So! I will try to have a new part up every Monday until, finally, it is complete. I am trying to keep up a consistent style, but it is hard and my writing has felt dull lately - I can't seem to find a good compromise between dry and too flowery. Blegh. Also this is an exercise in world-building. I have this little city-state planned out, like. Really intricately, but I am trying to be good and not dump all the exposition at once. We shall see if it worked!
THE STARS ARE NOT WANTED NOW
or:
Who Killed John Winchester?
.part 1
Heat rose in shimmering waves above the flat plains of the Midwestern Wastes, the soft, arid dirt thrown gently in smooth curls by the wind. Dean sighed as he stared out the window, his palm sticking to his cheek, tacky with a sheen of sweat. The area surrounding Lawrence couldn’t boast any worthwhile scenery, that was for damn sure. There was only the flatness, and the parched, tawny earth. The other two men in the vehicle didn’t seem interested in the scenery any more than they were interested in conversation - they’d been nearly silent since they'd cut Dean free and hauled him in the jeep, and while Dean wasn’t in the mood for any sort of talk either, doing nothing but sitting in silence over the bump, bump, bump of the drive was starting to make him twitchy. He sighed again.
"So, uh.” He cleared his throat, the sound jagged and harsh after the long stretch of quiet. “You took out those guys?” he asked, voicing something he’d been wondering about since they’d dragged him out of that hellhole. “Just the two of you?"
The driver grunted and twisted the rearview mirror to look at Dean in the backseat. His fingers were large and rough, and he wore two thick silver rings. "The two of us?" he said as one dark, scraggly brow raised. "Naw.” He jerked a thumb to the passenger seat. “Him. I didn't do jackshit but sit in the damn jeep. This guy did it. Did it all."
"What?" Dean sat up in the back, grabbing the edges of the front seats and leaning up between them to look at the other passenger. "Just you? Seriously?"
Castiel hummed noncommitally, flipping a page in his book. "I had a mission and I completed it. That's all." He glanced over his shoulder and pulled his sunglasses down the bridge of his nose a little to look at Dean. His eyes were deep set and a bright, stunning blue. His tongue passed over his dry bottom lip absently and he blinked, looking like he had a lot less patience than he wanted Dean to think he did. "Please sit back, Mr. Winchester. You're injured."
And the guy was so fucking formal all the time. "Dean," he said, drawing out the vowels. Castiel’s eyes flickered once to the shape of his mouth as it stretched with the syllable. "I’ve told you before. Jesus. Mr. Winchester is my goddamn father." He sighed and sat back, propping his leg up on the seat. His shoulder ached, but he wasn't about to tell Castiel that, because that would have felt like a loss - a reminder that he was, as that smug motherfucker seemed intent on reminding him, injured. Like he hadn't shoved enough medicaps down his throat to heal a horse.
“Very well, then,” Castiel said. “Dean.” He pushed his glasses back up. And the name sounded hardly less formal than Mr. Winchester, somehow, coming from Castiel. A name was meant to be personal, but somehow it fell flat, like he’d seen all the way through to Dean and had found nothing there worthwhile - found nothing personal worth bothering with. “My suggestion holds just as much merit no matter what I call you.”
Dean stared at him as he turned back in his seat, facing forward and taking up his book again. The swick of pages as he turns them was soft, and even though he was so damn unflappable and so damn irritating, he was steady, too, and Dean needed that. Even if he'd rather it be Sam, or his dad, or Bobby, familiar instead of some half-assed acquaintance sent to babysit him, it was still good - good in a basic, unconscious way. The churning in his gut settled and even if he was still cursing himself for getting fucking kidnapped, it was about eight against one, so the odds weren't exactly in his favor. That Alistair guy, though... Christ, Dean thought, he'd be having nightmares for weeks.
Castiel had been around for awhile. Something had happened, one of those big, elusive somethings that no one ever really liked to talk about, and suddenly John didn’t hate Heaven as much as he’d always said he did and Castiel - one of their operatives they called angels - was there, maybe as some sort of outreach program, trying to foster good will between Heaven and the growing movement of unhappy people stuck in the middle.
The wall around the city rose up out of the dust finally and Dean let himself slump down into the hard vinyl seat, feeling an unbidden wave of relief at the prospect of home. He regretted it immediately, a voice just like his father's chastising him for the twinge of what it categorized as weakness, but it was hard to be tough after being held captive and tortured for a couple of days. Dean thought this time he’d let it slide.
The driver parked in one of the hangars outside the city and gave them a half-hearted farewell as they walked over to DeCon. “Don’t wander off without me,” Castiel instructed as they walked towards the large, imposing gate, like Dean was a fucking child. “I was explicitly told by your father to escort you all the way to Singer Salvage.”
“Really, Castiel?” Dean asked, disgusted, widening the space between them. Castiel ignored him and placidly closed the gap, moving even closer, his side pressed to Dean’s. “Cut it out,” Dean snapped. He moved to shove Castiel, but the dick caught his arm. “Damn it, would you just let me breathe? I’m not going to try to run away. I want to get back just as much as you want me there.”
Castiel smiled, a bland, flat look that made Dean want to punch the expression off his face. He put one large, unwelcome hand flat on Dean’s back, thumb set along the length of his spine. And why did Castiel keep touching him - why the fuck did he keep touching him? “Very good,” he said. “I’m glad we understand each other.”
Dean pulled away with a jerk; the asshole was getting way too familiar. Normally tactile was good, was welcome - but he didn't know Castiel, and after what he'd been through - even though Dean planned to repress the shit out of it because he was a fucking Winchester and they didn't let something like torture get in the way of their stoic manliness, no sir - it made him unusually jumpy. They were one of only a few crews coming back in; it wasn't a trade day and it was still too early for any of the other hunters to be back, so there weren't really any people besides the workers around. Good, Dean thought, rubbing the rope burn on his wrist. He wasn't embarrassed, not really, but he'd had to be rescued, and even if under the circumstances it was completely understandable, it made Dean feel less than manly - it really did make him feel like a kid, which was why Castiel kept making him bristle, even though the guy - presumably - meant well. He was someone stronger John had had to sent out to go retrieve Dean; and it made resentment burn in him that his father couldn't even fucking bother to come himself.
One of the guys let Dean and Castiel into the first metal pen, the little swinging door shut and bolted behind them.
They stripped silently down to their underwear. Dean glanced over, as quick as he could, trying to catch a look at Castiel’s back. He’d heard - everyone had heard, in one of those whispered rumors the whole city-state talked about but no one could every really confirm - that the people working for Heaven had wings, these big, beautiful, intricate wings, tattooed across their shoulders. Castiel was almost facing him, though, as he took his shirt off. Dean could see something, maybe, some dark scrawl on the blade of his shoulder, but then Castiel sat down on one of the low benches around the walls, hiding his back entirely, his hands clasped between his knees.
Dean huffed and scrubbed a hand through his sandy hair. He felt dirty - gritty and sore and dusty, body covered in filth. And a lot of that was literal as well as fucking metaphorical. He wanted a real shower, with burning hot water, a fresh, sterile bar of soap, not one from some damn decontamination mist. He sat down on the other side of the room, glancing across to Castiel. For half a second Castiel met his eyes, gave him a look that was probably meant to be friendly, then looked away. Dean’s lips drew back in a scowl.
His first instinct was to be combative. But his frustration with the situation was greater than his irritation with Castiel by a factor of hundreds, so even if he did manage to get him to argue - which he probably wouldn't, because Castiel never seemed to say more than was absolutely necessary - it probably wouldn't make him feel any better. So he just opted to stare. Moodily.
Castiel wasn’t as scrawny as he’d looked in his clothes. A little lean maybe, but strong. Muscles shifted as he moved and Dean traced the strength of his arms, mapping every contour. He was pale, hair a shock of soft darkness on the top of his head. He had a straight nose and full as fuck lips - his mouth was plush and pale. God, and irritating, too; half of what came out of that mouth was bullshit.
There was a faint hiss and then the shower heads above them, on a rod around the perimeter of the room, starting releasing the foggy, green mist used to help fight any lingering radiation from being in the wastes.
Castiel closed his eyes with a long sigh, his lashes dark against the skin of his face. His head tilted back and Dean watched as his neck stretched out, the nob of his adam’s apple prominent, marring the straight sleekness from his chin to his clavicle. The feeling of decon was pretty unpleasant - it made Dean itch, all over - but Castiel just looked completely unconcerned. Placid. He just kept his head up like he was embracing it. Like it was rainwater - pure rainwater, something they didn't often get - falling on his face. Fucking weirdo, Dean thought. His jaw was rough with stubble; the guy probably couldn’t be bothered to remember to shave. Besides that and what was on his head, he had almost no hair on the rest of his body, Dean noticed. Thin on his arms and his legs and a line right below his navel, but other than that almost none.
The bell sounded a few seconds later and the mist began to dissipate, pulled into vents near the floor. Dean didn’t say anything, but he kept an eye on Castiel as they dressed. The angel stepped into his pants with something almost like grace, pulling them up like he didn’t even have two solid legs getting in the way. He was still facing Dean - and damn it, it was so fucking stupid that Dean was interested. He looked away - but it was a second too late, because Castiel caught him staring just before he pulled his white undershirt on.
“What?” he asked. Dean scowled. “Is something wrong?”
“Nope,” Dean answered, pulling his shirt on as quickly as he could and sitting down to pull on his boots. “Nothing’s wrong. Just wondering what’s taking you so long.”
“I have more to put on than you do,” Castiel explained, frowning at Dean as he laced up his boots. Castiel’s arms were still stuck through the holes in his shirt and quickly he tugged it over his head. He didn’t bothering flattening down his hair, just pulled on his plain white button-up he'd had on over it, straightened the collar and started buttoning it up. He tucked it into his pants and then fastened them. He grabbed his tie and half-heartedly knotted it, only tightening it to just below the points of his collar. For someone who always exuded an air of professionalism, and efficiency, Castiel didn’t really give a shit about his appearance.
“Done?” Dean asked as Castiel buttoned his cuffs, still feigning impatience.
Castiel shot him a quick, annoyed look. “Yes,” he said. He cocked his head towards the door. “After you.”
Dean rolled his eyes but started moving, Castiel only a few inches behind him. “Personal space, dude,” Dean muttered. “You might want to try it sometime.” He wasn’t really surprised when he didn’t get a response.
The DeCon officers - big guys, usually, in yellow waders and gloves and stupid orange berets - led them both through one of the black, plastic flap curtains and into the testing area. It was separated into little stalls, because apparently drawing blood was a real private affair. The first officer led Castiel away, into the stall furthest to the right, and Dean stepped up to the line.
“Winchester,” the next officer said, looking like Dean was emitting a particularly bad smell. Which, to be fair, he probably was. “Why am I not surprised you’d be here on my shift.”
“Oh very warm welcome, Henriksen,” Dean said with a tight smile. “It’s great to see you, too.” Officer Henriksen rolled his eyes and turned, gesturing Dean to follow. “Nice hat.”
He and Victor Henriksen went way back - and the history was mostly bad blood, usually involving Dean in some sort of trouble, and Henriksen part of the force meant to combat it. He waited outside the little stall, following behind Dean. Dean sat down on the bench and Henriksen pulled the tattered green curtain shut behind them.
“You must have done something to piss the big boys off,” Dean said, “if they’ve got you on DeCon duty.”
“I don’t need your lip, Winchester,” Henriksen said, his mouth in a tight line. “And this isn’t a punishment. All of the officers have to take a turn here, and I volunteered. Have to keep assholes like you who get dragged off to the wastes from bringing anything back with them.”
Dean’s smirk fell off his face pretty quick at that, and the smug bastard had the gall to look pleased. “Fuck off,” Dean told him, in a much less cooperative mood.
Henriksen ignored him. “Arm,” he said, pulling up Dean’s info on his datapad. He got the meter, a thick white boxy device with a curling plastic cord in bright blue coming out of the side. He pulled a sterile pricker from the plastic container on the wall and hooked it to the end of the cord. Dean held out his arm, curling his fingers into a fist before sticking his middle finger out.
“Cute,” Henricksen said with a huff. He swabbed the crook of Dean’s elbow and then pricked the skin, a trickle of blood coming up in convex red. “Meter says you’re clean,” he announced a second later.
“Shocker,” Dean said.
Henriksen shot him a quick, irritated look. “Kind of on the high side of normal, though. Maybe ought to send you to the showers.”
“Don’t fuck with me, Victor,” Dean said, clenching his teeth. If he’d been just a step closer, Dean would have kicked him. “I’m fine and we both know it. I don’t need a goddamn scrub-down. Just finish up and let me go.”
“Yeah, yeah.” He grabbed one of the small swatches of gauze and let it soak some up of the blood. Then he put it in a clean baggie and sealed it, dropping it down the pneumatic sample tube that would take it off to Med-Cen. “Here,” he said, giving Dean a strip of sterile cloth. Dean knotted it around his elbow. “You can go.”
“Thanks, doc,” he said, standing up and pushing through the curtain. Castiel was already waiting for him, his sunglasses stuck on the knot of his tie. He nodded at Dean and they walked through final processing, out into the city.
“I was instructed by your father to bring you to meet him at Bobby Singer’s salvage lot.”
“Uh, right,” Dean said, bemused. “You already told me this, asshole. And?”
Castiel’s brows furrowed together and he tilted his head as he looked at Dean. “And that’s what I intend to do.”
Dean rolled his eyes. “What the hell is your problem, man? Calm the fuck down; I’m not a damn kid. I can follow a simple instruction without some dick babysitter holding my hand.” He bumped Castiel with his elbow.
“I wasn’t planning on holding your hand,” Castiel told him as they wove their way through the crowded, dusty street. It wasn’t far to go - Bobby’s place was in the same district as the south gate. “But I will certainly consider it if it will make you more cooperative.”
“Oh yeah,” Dean snorted. “That would help.”
Castiel made a soft humming sound and gave him a once over. “That was sarcasm.”
Dean sighed and tried to remind himself how pointless arguing with Castiel was. “We got a smart one here,” he said, rolling his eyes as he side-stepped past a little boy running after a large, orange ball. “Give the kid a fucking prize.”
: : :
Bobby lived in Limbo, the big, sprawling marketplace district at the southernmost end of Lawrence. He had an old salvage yard - mostly full of old, rusted car bodies, sheets of scrap metal, lost toys, pieces of old electronics, piping and broken radios: a lot of odds and ends Dean wasn’t sure had every really been useful to anyone. In fact, it seemed like everything around the city that got abandoned somehow found its way to Bobby’s. Whether that was on purpose or just a happy coincidence, Dean had never been able to work out. Bobby sold some of his shit occasionally, fixed other people's shit up - but that was only his day job - his other gig was of the more secret, confidential, out of Castiel's range of knowledge kind. Which, okay, to be fair, Dean only knew about because Sam was one of his Listeners. But he was still pissed at the angel and he'd take his little victories where he could get them.
Bobby's house was attached to the yard, with a little shack he'd built onto the side serving as an office. There was a little tunnel before his door, made of old metal piping welded into arches, roofed with more random junk he’d found, including what looked like a canvas net and a few old horseshoes. Ropes looped downwards, old antennae stuck in the air, scrap metal was piled on, always looking like it was one big gust of wind away from toppling off. Dean wasn't sure if it was for some sort of protection, or if it was just Bobby's bizarre way of advertising: "this is what I've got, folks! And it's all pretty fucking useless." Right before the door, hanging down on the left, right next to a doll with one chipped glass eye peering down at Bobby's visitors like a half-blind porcelain sentry, was an old lamp. The base was made of bronzed metal, a pane of yellow glass on each of the four sides. One side was broken, a big chunk right out of the middle. And it was cracked, the lines of the break jagged and ugly, but the metal around the glass had intricate cut-outs of swirling lines and stars and crosses. Dean let his fingertips brush against it as they walked by.
Castiel looked about as unfazed as ever, but there was a slant to his mouth that Dean read as disapproving. And on the one hand - Jesus, talk about condescending as fuck; but on the other... Yeah, Dean could understand. Bobby basically lived in a run-down shack. Even to Dean, who'd been over dozens of times, it was still really off-putting - and if Castiel was as big a deal in Heaven as Dean assumed he was, he was probably used to accomodations that were less like a landfill and more like an actual house. The inside was a little more well kept, though.
Castiel knocked on the door with one neatly-curled fist, then took a step back, his arms hanging uselessly at his sides.
After a second or two of awkward silence, footsteps and faint cursing started towards them, and a wild-eyed Bobby threw the door open, one hand tight around the barrel of a shotgun. “Oh,” he said, looking to Dean. “It’s you.” He took a breath and sighed. Dean thought he might be about to say something - maybe explain what the hell was wrong - but then he just looked at Castiel and frowned. “Who the hell are you?”
“I’m Castiel,” he said. “I was - “
“Oh,” Bobby said, leaning his gun against the wall by the door and peering at Castiel with narrowed eyes. “That asshole agent from Heaven?”
Castiel probably had a few issues with his phrasing - though Dean was grinning pretty big about it - but he just nodded. “Yes.”
“Great,” Bobby said, “just what we need.” He sighed again and stared at them for a few seconds before finally stepping back and opening up the door. “Might as well come in,” he said, moving aside so they could enter. He stuck his head out the doorframe for a second afterwards, looking around as though he expected to see someone following them. He seemed satisfied no one was there because he shut the door and bolted it, putting on the two chains and then fastening a padlock.
Dean raised his eyebrows. “Getting a little paranoid there, Bobby?”
Bobby growled and hung the gun on the rack by the door. “Boy, you have no idea,” he said. “Come on. We... Maybe we better talk in the kitchen.” He shuffled past them, his shoulders slumped down, his clothes looking even more worn and dirty than usual.
“What’s going on?” Castiel asked quietly, crowding up close to Dean as they followed Bobby. "Where is your father? He was supposed to meet us here."
“Dude, I have no idea,” Dean said, looking at Castiel over his shoulder. He'd gotten so close that as he turned their faces almost touched. It was unsettling, how close he’d leaned in to whisper that. He could feel Castiel’s breath, warm and wet on his fucking ear.
Bobby pulled out a chair at his old, rickety kitchen table and threw out a hand at Dean, wagging his fingers toward the seat. Dean, a little apprehensive but willing to trust that Bobby had a good reason for acting strangely, just sat. Castiel stood behind him - way too close. Again. Apparently the fucker had forgotten how to sit along with forgetting the concept of personal space.
Bobby sat across from Dean, not commenting on Castiel’s - really fucking obnoxious, Dean thought - hovering. “Dean,” he said, his voice heavy. “I got...” He rubbed a hand across his scruffy jaw, staring down at a long cut in the wood of the table. “I got a few beers in the fridge. Bet you’re both thirsty.” He got up, the chair creaking, looking neither one of them in the eye. He opened his old, avocado-green fridge and pulled out three dark bottles. He set them on the countertop, opened them, and threw the three caps into a chipped mug on the windowsill. “Here,” he said, bringing them back to the table. He set two bottles in front of Dean, then took a long pull from his own.
“Thanks, Bobby,” Dean said. “I guess.” Castiel reached out and grabbed his, brushing against Dean’s shoulder on the way. “But what’s going on? Why’re you acting batshit crazy and sharing your beer?”
“Something happened while you were gone, Dean.” He laid one arm on the table and sighed. His eyes softened and he licked his lips. “Something happened to John.”
Dean swallowed down the sip of beer in his mouth, forcing it past the lump that had settled in his throat. It wasn’t like Bobby to look this sympathetic, to look understanding. He was an old, crochety bastard if Dean ever knew one. At the bottom of his gut, a heavy nausea settled, and Dean knew what Bobby was going to say before he even started to say it.
“He’s dead.”
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