The Stars Are Not Wanted Now; part 2.
Title: The Stars Are Not Wanted Now (or: Who Killed John Winchester?) - part 2 of ?
Fandom: Supernatural
Characters/Pairing(s): Dean, Castiel, Bobby, Sam/Ruby (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: 3455 (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 probably would have been done a lot sooner if I hadn't spent most of my free time reading Hawaii Five-0 fic. So. This is a sort of ho-hum section, though there is Sam! Exciting! I'm still trying to set the mood, set a few more things up. Um um. This sort of feels all over the place to me and I didn't edit it as much as I did the first part. I do think it's going in a good direction, the direction I want it in, though, so that's all well and good. Anyway, enjoy reading. I'll have the next part in a week!
THE STARS ARE NOT WANTED NOW
or:
Who Killed John Winchester?
.part 2
“What happened?” Dean asked, his jaw clenched tight, his hand in a fist on the table. Tension poured off him in waves, eyes a dark, burnt green as he stared Bobby down. Castiel licked his lips and clasped his hands behind his back, spreading his stance.
Bobby sighed, lifting up his cap to wipe his forehead. “I don’t know,” he said finally, voice weighty in the still air. The room seemed to be on pause - everything heavy with expectancy, as though waiting for the other shoe to drop. Waiting for Bobby to say no, no, no, it's not true. “Not exactly.”
Dean looked off toward the wall, staring at a piece of art of bottle caps and cork board Bobby's late wife had made. “Bobby. What happened?”
“It was murder, okay?” He looked down, breathing through his mouth as one hand held tightly to the brim of his hat. “He was killed. And we don’t know who, or why, just...” He took another deep breath; Dean's muscles in his shoulders shifted, like a spring coiling. “When they found him, his throat had been cut and he’d been... burned. I don’t think they’re going to let you see the body. There wasn't...” Dean watched him swallow, throat trying to force the words. "There's not really a lot left to see."
Dean sat there, rubbing his thumb along the seam of his beer’s label. “Who did it?”
“They don’t know, it was - “
“Bobby.” Dean looked up at him. “Tell me who did it.”
“Damn it, Dean, I don’t know.” Bobby pressed his lips together and then looked off to one side. “You think they'd tell me? The goddamn Officers of Virtue are investigating the case, but you think I'm worth giving info to? Half of them are working directly for Heaven, anyway, those fucking bastards." He gave Castiel a tight look, his face scrunched up, his mouth in a sardonic twist. "Sorry," he said.
"No, you're not," Castiel said quietly, behind Dean, but it's not judgemental - only fact.
"You don't have anyone?" Dean asked. The tension was starting to coil tighter and the stillness was turning quickly into frenetic shifting, energy building up for the inevitable explosion. "We gotta have somebody there, somebody who'll tell us what they know."
"Dean, I don't have the answers you're looking for. No one does right now." And there was defeat in his voice - grief, too, Dean knew. John and Bobby had been close, more than just allies: friends, if John Winchester had friends. But there was something else there, too - something hesitant, something that Dean was certain meant Bobby knew more than he was saying.
"Someone did this to him," Dean said, voice rough, emotion bleeding through. "Someone did this, damn it, and I'm not going to let them get away with it."
"Dean." Dean looked away, not able to meet Bobby's eyes. He didn't need a reminder how interconnected the Winchesters were with revenge. John hadn't ever been able to let what happened to his wife go, had never been quite the father he could have been, obsessed with finding Mary's murderer. Dean had grown up with it; he knew.
"Don't say it, Bobby," he growled out, shooting up out of his seat. The chair rocked back, and Castiel steadied it with one quick hand.
Bobby's eyes met his and held. Dean shifted under his gaze but didn't drop it. "Sam doesn't know yet," Bobby said finally. "Figured you ought to be the one to tell him."
"Yeah," Dean said. He frowned looking down at the floor. "Thanks for the beer." He rubbed his jaw and pushed the chair back with his foot. "Let me know if you hear anything."
"I will," Bobby said. "You'll know the minute I do."
Dean shot Castiel a look and said "Come on. We're going to MedCen."
They walked out of Bobby's in silence. Castiel put his glasses on as soon as the sun hit them, his footsteps steady and quiet behind Dean. He didn't make any fuss about coming with Dean even though he'd worked for John, had been going to Bobby's to see John; now that he was gone, Castiel probably was released from whatever arrangement had been made for him.
Most travel in Lawrence was done on foot or, for people lucky enough to have one, by bike. It was big, yeah, but most people rarely had cause to leave their own district so the size usually wasn't an issue. Medical Central, though, was located in the Thrones, a small, wealthy district in the middle ring of the city. It was huge - it had to be, to cater to the size of the population, being the only medical facility in the entire city-state. Anyone who wanted more than the basic stuff - radiation testing or a quick immune booster - had to go to MedCen.
Dean and Castiel walked through the middle of Limbo - fucking ridiculous name, Dean thought; the city'd been founded by a bunch of whackjobs who still believed in an old religion - to the small public transit station by the big gate. Dean sat down on the single, rickety wooden bench and Castiel followed, his thigh pressed against Dean's. He felt the heat through his pants and shifting, pushing Castiel's leg before drawing his away.
The call button was in a box set on top of a small wooden post. Castiel lifted the dirty, plastic lid and pressed it. The ground rumbled a little as a signal went out to one of the city's buses. "You got any tokens?" Dean asked. He was a fuck-up and proud of it; the only time he ever got any citizen commendation tokens was when we went out hunting.
Castiel's mouth twitched down at the corner and one brow lifted up to the edge of his sunglasses. "You don't?"
"No, you prick, I don't." Dean rolled his eyes and crossed his arms. His body sagged and he sank down lower onto the bench. His legs spread and again his thigh met Castiel's; this time, Castiel moved away. "Do I look like I give a crap about my civic duty? Duty, Christ."
"Yes," Castiel said, fishing in his pocket and pulling out one of the dull, bronzed coins used to pay public transit fare. "I do."
Dean nodded. "Good."
"We are going to see your brother?" he asked after a few seconds of quiet, obviously misinterpreting Dean's question as a desire for conversation.
"Yeah, Sam."
"I have not met him yet," Castiel said.
Dean felt his features slide into an expression of fondness, and he couldn't help a little laugh. "He's in that bitchy fourteen-year-old 'I know better than everyone' stage right now, but goddamn the kid is smart. Like a fucking whip."
Castiel fidgeted, adjusting the knot of his tie. "Are you... close? I was under the impression you didn't get along."
"Of course we're close," Dean said, giving him an incredulous look. "He's my fucking brother. We fight all the damn time - pretty vicious, too, but yeah. Yeah, we're close. I'd do anything for the kid. Practically raised him after our mom died."
"I fight with my brothers, as well," Castiel said, and his voice was halting, rough - almost like he was going off-script for the first time. "But we are not close."
The little blue bus pulled up before Dean could say anything - and he was damn grateful, because he wasn't sure what the hell he could say. Was he supposed to care? He didn't, he thought, not really - but then the way Castiel had sounded made it seem like Dean was the first person he'd ever admitted that to. Dean just grunted and climbed up the three steps, sitting down on one of the old, leather seats.
Castiel put in the token in the slot in the front and keyed in the destination code, then took the seat across from Dean.
The entire transit system was automated, running around the city's three rings and cutting through the districts. Each district - there were eighteen in all - had at least one stop, though places like MedCen had a stop of their own. Each bus was small, seating between six and ten people. There wasn't any set schedule - travelers just pressed the call button at one of the stops and the first available bus went out to pick them up.
"Why are you staring at that poster?" Castiel asked. His head titled to one side and he gave Dean a deliberate look. Dean shifted under the scrutiny.
"You see the woman in it?" he asked, pointing. The walls of the bus were littered with old city initiative posters, and the one Castiel meant, the one Dean had immediately noticed, was of a young, blonde woman standing behind three children. In bright block letters, the caption below her read "We Take Care of Each Other Here." "That," Dean said, "is my mother. Mary Winchester. She was into politics before she died, you know? Apparently they were trying to push the caring mother, we're all one big fucking family thing. God, she was so angry about them using her picture, too." He cleared his throat. "I mean. Well, I was four when she died, so. But Dad told me."
"She's very beautiful," Castiel said.
"Yeah," Dean said, wearing a soft smile. "I know."
The trip doesn't take very long - the buses are fucking fast, and there wasn't much traffic - and soon they're climbing out in front of the tall, white MedCen building. A large wooden wheel is set on the front of the building right above the main door. The middle spoke is just as old, but a slightly different color - it was made from other wood, carved to look like a walking stick, a snake coiled up the length of it.
As soon as they walked in, Dean was recognized. "Hey," he said, walking up to the reception desk. The lighting was dim and the floor covered in grime - the exam rooms and anywhere they see patients were spotless, but the waiting room was as dirty as the rest of the city.
A young man with a nametag that read "Andy" looked up. He gave Dean a quick half-smile. "Hey," he said, "Dean. Dean, right? Sam's brother."
"We're looking for him," Dean said, leaning against the desk. He laid one arm across the top, drumming idly with two fingers. "It's important."
"He's working," Andy said, jerking a thumb towards a door to his left. "Blood repository. Here." He handed Dean two laminated passes. Castiel shot Dean a look, but Dean just shrugged and pulled one of them over Castiel's head. "I'm going to need those back though," Andy said.
"Sure, yeah, whatever." Dean nodded and led Castiel toward the door. No one was paying attention and they pass through without the other people in the waiting room giving them any notice. The door led into a narrow hallway; they passed two closed doors. At the third, Dean stopped quickly, looking around once before opening the door and stepping inside. Castiel followed.
There were metal drawers lining all four walls. Each had a clear glass window, and through it tubes filled with blood were visible. Sam was bent down over a chest, packed with ice and more vials, a drawer open at about shoulder height. The girl beside him nudged his shoulder. "Look," she said. "Your brother's here."
"Yeah, great to see you, too, Ruby," Dean said with a sneer. Something about that girl always made his hackles rise - which of course only made Sam like her more, the little bastard.
"Dean?" Sam frowned and looked up, using his forearm to push his hair out of his face. His hands were covered in loose-fitting latex gloves. "What are you doing here?" His eyes widened and he looked around the room like he was expecting a member of the hospital staff to appear out of thin air. "You're not supposed to be here! Get out, you're going to get me in trouble. Why do you always have to pull this crap?"
"Hey," Dean said, holding up his hands in a gesture of surrender. "Calm down, Sammy, this isn't a social visit."
Ruby gave him a smiled that bordered on sickeningly sweet, tossing her hair over a shoulder with the back of her hand. "Maybe it's not really time for a visit at all."
Dean growled and stepped forward, but Sam moved, too, defiance in the jut of his chin. Ruby just rolled her eyes like Dean wasn't threatening at all.
And Christ, of course Dean wasn't threatening her, not really - Sam was so fucking sensitive. "Shut it," he said, sparing her a quick look. "Look Sam, there's. It's important, okay? So can you spare just a second to talk?"
Sam looked confused then, glancing over at Ruby, who only shrugged. It stung a little, that he'd look to her for guidance instead of his own brother, but Dean had interrupted Sam at what amounted to his job, so. He'd let it go. "Okay," he said. "We can talk. Is something wrong, Dean? Why would - "
"It's Dad," Dean said, cutting in. "It's... it's Dad."
Sam's brows drew in and his mouth turned down in a frown. "What about Dad?"
The weight of his grief still hadn't settled, and Dean fought back the wave of disbelief still clawing at his gut. He kept his expression schooled, hands clenched into fists at his sides. "He's gone, Sammy. He's dead."
"What?" Sam was skinny - gangly limbs stuck to a lean torso - and Dean thought he'd never looked so young. He was still a kid, damn it, and Dean felt sick - reminded again that it wasn't just his loss, but Sam's, too. "Dad's... dead?" He shook his head. "No, he can't be. No."
"God, Sam, I wish it wasn't true."
"He's really gone, then." He looked down, eyes unfocused. Ruby put one hand on his shoulder and Sam shot her a quick, grateful smile.
"He's gone," Dean repeated, "and we have to find the son of a bitch who did it to him."
That made Sam's head snap up, something sharp in his eyes. "What?" he said, and hand closing into a fist. "No, Dean, you can't."
"What the fuck do you mean I can't?" Dean asked, his body thrown forward. Anger and grief swirled around, a heavy black lining in his gut. The room seemed smaller suddenly. "Sam, somebody killed him. They killed Dad. You want me to just let them get away with that?"
"We just lost him, Dean!" Sam said, and his eyes looked wet at the corners. He shook his head, hard. "I don't want them to get away with that - of course I don't. But you can't just deal with it by going after them."
"And why the fuck can't I?"
"Because we just lost Dad," Sam said, his voice loud and ragged. "What makes you think that you'll be safe if you go after them, huh? Somebody strong enough to kill Dad? I'm not going to lost you, too, you asshole! It killed Dad trying to figure out what happened to Mom! I'm not letting that happen to you, too."
A quick jet of air went out Dean's nose, and he struggled hard to keep it together, his face twitching from pained to impassive, muscles tight and strained. He licked his lips and took a deep breath, pushing everything he felt down. "Are you saying you won't help me?"
"Dean - "
"I asked you a goddamn question, Sam. So give me an answer. Are you going to help me?"
"I can't right now," Sam said, putting his arms around himself, looking small and sad and vulnerable. Something in Dean raged, aching to burst loose, and he swallowed, nails biting into his palm. "I can't deal with it, Dean. Not right now, not when I've just found out he's gone." He met Dean's eyes. "And I don't want you to, either."
"I have to, Sam," Dean responded fiercely. "I have to." Sam didn't say anything and Dean straightened up, rolling his shoulders. "I'm leaving," he said. He gave Sam a hard, scorching look. "I'll see you at home, Sam."
"Dean, wait, I - "
But Dean didn't answer, turning on his heel and pushing past Castiel out into the hallway. Ruby was murmuring softly and Dean shut the door hard as soon as Castiel was past it.
"Fuck," he said, pounding his fist into the wall. He breathed deep and hit the wall again, softer this time, anger draining away as he leaned his forehead against the off-white plaster.
"I think it's time to go," Castiel said. He pulled Dean off the way with cautious hands.
Dean shook him off and said, "Yeah. Yeah I... We can go. Let's just give these back to Andy." They walked back through the door, out into the waiting room. Dean yanked his badge off and thrust it at Castiel, stomping out the door, ignoring the stares he was getting from the few people scattered around the room. Castiel gave the two badges back to Andy - who only raised an eyebrow, no questions asked - with a tight smile and a polite nod, and followed Dean outside. There was nothing but wound up silence all the way back to the Winchester's home.
: : :
“So what does this mean for you?” Dean asked. He was sprawled out on an old sofa at home, Castiel in the chair off to the left corner. Castiel seemed obviously startled after he'd said it. Dean hadn’t said anything, barely a word, since they’d gotten back from talking to Sam, and Castiel had probably expected the rest of the evening to pass in the same awkward silence. “I mean, are you going back to your old job now that you don’t have a boss?”
Castiel pursed his lips. “I don’t know,” he said, honest. “I was sent here to foster good relations, so unless they have need of me I assume I’ll stay here. I imagine I work for Mr. Singer now.”
“Or,” Dean said, because Bobby was below John, not above, “you work for me.”
“You can’t just inherit me,” Castiel said with a frown.
Dean sat up. “Yeah, but you’re my bodyguard or whatever, right?"
"As your father assigned me." Well at least Dean's suspicions had been confirmed. But he shook off the knowledge - because it sure as hell hadn't been a surprise - that John hadn't trusted him to look after himself off. "So unless your orders change, that’s what you’ll be doing anyway.”
Castiel shrugged. "I'll need to report back. But your father was not the only person in charge, correct? I might have worked for him for all practical purposes, but really I worked for his..." He paused for a moment, searching for the right word. "For his organization."
Dean scooted closer to him, leaning down over his lap, eyes lit up and his expression intense. “Right. Which I'm a part of. Sam won’t help me,” he said, “but I can’t... Whoever killed my Dad? That son of a bitch is going to pay. Not sure if I can do it alone, though.” His eyes widened marginally and his tongue ran over his bottom lip.
“You want my help,” Castiel said. “To hunt down your father’s murderer.”
Dean’s face grew hard. “Yeah,” he said. “I do.”
Castiel leaned back in his seat and sighed. He looked down at his lap and grabbed the point of his tie. He rubbed it between his fingers absently, thinking only of the feel of the rough silk. The clock on the radio beside him beeped, signally the start of a new hour.
“Cas,” Dean said, “please. Please.”
It was the name that caught his attention. "Cas?" He frowned. "No one's ever called me that before," he said, dropping his tie and looking back at Dean. "Cas. Cas," he said again, weighing the name on his tongue. "It's always been Castiel."
"It's just a nickname," Dean said, wondering why the fuck he was getting so worked up about it. "Your name's too long. And it's stupid. If you're going to stick around, then I'm just going to call you Cas."
The way he said the name made it sound familiar - warm. Dean made the middle round, and ended it smooth, with a soft hiss.
"All right," he said. Dean straightened up, hesitance bleeding away. Cas nodded. "I'll help you."
~~~
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Fandom: Supernatural
Characters/Pairing(s): Dean, Castiel, Bobby, Sam/Ruby (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: 3455 (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 probably would have been done a lot sooner if I hadn't spent most of my free time reading Hawaii Five-0 fic. So. This is a sort of ho-hum section, though there is Sam! Exciting! I'm still trying to set the mood, set a few more things up. Um um. This sort of feels all over the place to me and I didn't edit it as much as I did the first part. I do think it's going in a good direction, the direction I want it in, though, so that's all well and good. Anyway, enjoy reading. I'll have the next part in a week!
THE STARS ARE NOT WANTED NOW
or:
Who Killed John Winchester?
.part 2
“What happened?” Dean asked, his jaw clenched tight, his hand in a fist on the table. Tension poured off him in waves, eyes a dark, burnt green as he stared Bobby down. Castiel licked his lips and clasped his hands behind his back, spreading his stance.
Bobby sighed, lifting up his cap to wipe his forehead. “I don’t know,” he said finally, voice weighty in the still air. The room seemed to be on pause - everything heavy with expectancy, as though waiting for the other shoe to drop. Waiting for Bobby to say no, no, no, it's not true. “Not exactly.”
Dean looked off toward the wall, staring at a piece of art of bottle caps and cork board Bobby's late wife had made. “Bobby. What happened?”
“It was murder, okay?” He looked down, breathing through his mouth as one hand held tightly to the brim of his hat. “He was killed. And we don’t know who, or why, just...” He took another deep breath; Dean's muscles in his shoulders shifted, like a spring coiling. “When they found him, his throat had been cut and he’d been... burned. I don’t think they’re going to let you see the body. There wasn't...” Dean watched him swallow, throat trying to force the words. "There's not really a lot left to see."
Dean sat there, rubbing his thumb along the seam of his beer’s label. “Who did it?”
“They don’t know, it was - “
“Bobby.” Dean looked up at him. “Tell me who did it.”
“Damn it, Dean, I don’t know.” Bobby pressed his lips together and then looked off to one side. “You think they'd tell me? The goddamn Officers of Virtue are investigating the case, but you think I'm worth giving info to? Half of them are working directly for Heaven, anyway, those fucking bastards." He gave Castiel a tight look, his face scrunched up, his mouth in a sardonic twist. "Sorry," he said.
"No, you're not," Castiel said quietly, behind Dean, but it's not judgemental - only fact.
"You don't have anyone?" Dean asked. The tension was starting to coil tighter and the stillness was turning quickly into frenetic shifting, energy building up for the inevitable explosion. "We gotta have somebody there, somebody who'll tell us what they know."
"Dean, I don't have the answers you're looking for. No one does right now." And there was defeat in his voice - grief, too, Dean knew. John and Bobby had been close, more than just allies: friends, if John Winchester had friends. But there was something else there, too - something hesitant, something that Dean was certain meant Bobby knew more than he was saying.
"Someone did this to him," Dean said, voice rough, emotion bleeding through. "Someone did this, damn it, and I'm not going to let them get away with it."
"Dean." Dean looked away, not able to meet Bobby's eyes. He didn't need a reminder how interconnected the Winchesters were with revenge. John hadn't ever been able to let what happened to his wife go, had never been quite the father he could have been, obsessed with finding Mary's murderer. Dean had grown up with it; he knew.
"Don't say it, Bobby," he growled out, shooting up out of his seat. The chair rocked back, and Castiel steadied it with one quick hand.
Bobby's eyes met his and held. Dean shifted under his gaze but didn't drop it. "Sam doesn't know yet," Bobby said finally. "Figured you ought to be the one to tell him."
"Yeah," Dean said. He frowned looking down at the floor. "Thanks for the beer." He rubbed his jaw and pushed the chair back with his foot. "Let me know if you hear anything."
"I will," Bobby said. "You'll know the minute I do."
Dean shot Castiel a look and said "Come on. We're going to MedCen."
They walked out of Bobby's in silence. Castiel put his glasses on as soon as the sun hit them, his footsteps steady and quiet behind Dean. He didn't make any fuss about coming with Dean even though he'd worked for John, had been going to Bobby's to see John; now that he was gone, Castiel probably was released from whatever arrangement had been made for him.
Most travel in Lawrence was done on foot or, for people lucky enough to have one, by bike. It was big, yeah, but most people rarely had cause to leave their own district so the size usually wasn't an issue. Medical Central, though, was located in the Thrones, a small, wealthy district in the middle ring of the city. It was huge - it had to be, to cater to the size of the population, being the only medical facility in the entire city-state. Anyone who wanted more than the basic stuff - radiation testing or a quick immune booster - had to go to MedCen.
Dean and Castiel walked through the middle of Limbo - fucking ridiculous name, Dean thought; the city'd been founded by a bunch of whackjobs who still believed in an old religion - to the small public transit station by the big gate. Dean sat down on the single, rickety wooden bench and Castiel followed, his thigh pressed against Dean's. He felt the heat through his pants and shifting, pushing Castiel's leg before drawing his away.
The call button was in a box set on top of a small wooden post. Castiel lifted the dirty, plastic lid and pressed it. The ground rumbled a little as a signal went out to one of the city's buses. "You got any tokens?" Dean asked. He was a fuck-up and proud of it; the only time he ever got any citizen commendation tokens was when we went out hunting.
Castiel's mouth twitched down at the corner and one brow lifted up to the edge of his sunglasses. "You don't?"
"No, you prick, I don't." Dean rolled his eyes and crossed his arms. His body sagged and he sank down lower onto the bench. His legs spread and again his thigh met Castiel's; this time, Castiel moved away. "Do I look like I give a crap about my civic duty? Duty, Christ."
"Yes," Castiel said, fishing in his pocket and pulling out one of the dull, bronzed coins used to pay public transit fare. "I do."
Dean nodded. "Good."
"We are going to see your brother?" he asked after a few seconds of quiet, obviously misinterpreting Dean's question as a desire for conversation.
"Yeah, Sam."
"I have not met him yet," Castiel said.
Dean felt his features slide into an expression of fondness, and he couldn't help a little laugh. "He's in that bitchy fourteen-year-old 'I know better than everyone' stage right now, but goddamn the kid is smart. Like a fucking whip."
Castiel fidgeted, adjusting the knot of his tie. "Are you... close? I was under the impression you didn't get along."
"Of course we're close," Dean said, giving him an incredulous look. "He's my fucking brother. We fight all the damn time - pretty vicious, too, but yeah. Yeah, we're close. I'd do anything for the kid. Practically raised him after our mom died."
"I fight with my brothers, as well," Castiel said, and his voice was halting, rough - almost like he was going off-script for the first time. "But we are not close."
The little blue bus pulled up before Dean could say anything - and he was damn grateful, because he wasn't sure what the hell he could say. Was he supposed to care? He didn't, he thought, not really - but then the way Castiel had sounded made it seem like Dean was the first person he'd ever admitted that to. Dean just grunted and climbed up the three steps, sitting down on one of the old, leather seats.
Castiel put in the token in the slot in the front and keyed in the destination code, then took the seat across from Dean.
The entire transit system was automated, running around the city's three rings and cutting through the districts. Each district - there were eighteen in all - had at least one stop, though places like MedCen had a stop of their own. Each bus was small, seating between six and ten people. There wasn't any set schedule - travelers just pressed the call button at one of the stops and the first available bus went out to pick them up.
"Why are you staring at that poster?" Castiel asked. His head titled to one side and he gave Dean a deliberate look. Dean shifted under the scrutiny.
"You see the woman in it?" he asked, pointing. The walls of the bus were littered with old city initiative posters, and the one Castiel meant, the one Dean had immediately noticed, was of a young, blonde woman standing behind three children. In bright block letters, the caption below her read "We Take Care of Each Other Here." "That," Dean said, "is my mother. Mary Winchester. She was into politics before she died, you know? Apparently they were trying to push the caring mother, we're all one big fucking family thing. God, she was so angry about them using her picture, too." He cleared his throat. "I mean. Well, I was four when she died, so. But Dad told me."
"She's very beautiful," Castiel said.
"Yeah," Dean said, wearing a soft smile. "I know."
The trip doesn't take very long - the buses are fucking fast, and there wasn't much traffic - and soon they're climbing out in front of the tall, white MedCen building. A large wooden wheel is set on the front of the building right above the main door. The middle spoke is just as old, but a slightly different color - it was made from other wood, carved to look like a walking stick, a snake coiled up the length of it.
As soon as they walked in, Dean was recognized. "Hey," he said, walking up to the reception desk. The lighting was dim and the floor covered in grime - the exam rooms and anywhere they see patients were spotless, but the waiting room was as dirty as the rest of the city.
A young man with a nametag that read "Andy" looked up. He gave Dean a quick half-smile. "Hey," he said, "Dean. Dean, right? Sam's brother."
"We're looking for him," Dean said, leaning against the desk. He laid one arm across the top, drumming idly with two fingers. "It's important."
"He's working," Andy said, jerking a thumb towards a door to his left. "Blood repository. Here." He handed Dean two laminated passes. Castiel shot Dean a look, but Dean just shrugged and pulled one of them over Castiel's head. "I'm going to need those back though," Andy said.
"Sure, yeah, whatever." Dean nodded and led Castiel toward the door. No one was paying attention and they pass through without the other people in the waiting room giving them any notice. The door led into a narrow hallway; they passed two closed doors. At the third, Dean stopped quickly, looking around once before opening the door and stepping inside. Castiel followed.
There were metal drawers lining all four walls. Each had a clear glass window, and through it tubes filled with blood were visible. Sam was bent down over a chest, packed with ice and more vials, a drawer open at about shoulder height. The girl beside him nudged his shoulder. "Look," she said. "Your brother's here."
"Yeah, great to see you, too, Ruby," Dean said with a sneer. Something about that girl always made his hackles rise - which of course only made Sam like her more, the little bastard.
"Dean?" Sam frowned and looked up, using his forearm to push his hair out of his face. His hands were covered in loose-fitting latex gloves. "What are you doing here?" His eyes widened and he looked around the room like he was expecting a member of the hospital staff to appear out of thin air. "You're not supposed to be here! Get out, you're going to get me in trouble. Why do you always have to pull this crap?"
"Hey," Dean said, holding up his hands in a gesture of surrender. "Calm down, Sammy, this isn't a social visit."
Ruby gave him a smiled that bordered on sickeningly sweet, tossing her hair over a shoulder with the back of her hand. "Maybe it's not really time for a visit at all."
Dean growled and stepped forward, but Sam moved, too, defiance in the jut of his chin. Ruby just rolled her eyes like Dean wasn't threatening at all.
And Christ, of course Dean wasn't threatening her, not really - Sam was so fucking sensitive. "Shut it," he said, sparing her a quick look. "Look Sam, there's. It's important, okay? So can you spare just a second to talk?"
Sam looked confused then, glancing over at Ruby, who only shrugged. It stung a little, that he'd look to her for guidance instead of his own brother, but Dean had interrupted Sam at what amounted to his job, so. He'd let it go. "Okay," he said. "We can talk. Is something wrong, Dean? Why would - "
"It's Dad," Dean said, cutting in. "It's... it's Dad."
Sam's brows drew in and his mouth turned down in a frown. "What about Dad?"
The weight of his grief still hadn't settled, and Dean fought back the wave of disbelief still clawing at his gut. He kept his expression schooled, hands clenched into fists at his sides. "He's gone, Sammy. He's dead."
"What?" Sam was skinny - gangly limbs stuck to a lean torso - and Dean thought he'd never looked so young. He was still a kid, damn it, and Dean felt sick - reminded again that it wasn't just his loss, but Sam's, too. "Dad's... dead?" He shook his head. "No, he can't be. No."
"God, Sam, I wish it wasn't true."
"He's really gone, then." He looked down, eyes unfocused. Ruby put one hand on his shoulder and Sam shot her a quick, grateful smile.
"He's gone," Dean repeated, "and we have to find the son of a bitch who did it to him."
That made Sam's head snap up, something sharp in his eyes. "What?" he said, and hand closing into a fist. "No, Dean, you can't."
"What the fuck do you mean I can't?" Dean asked, his body thrown forward. Anger and grief swirled around, a heavy black lining in his gut. The room seemed smaller suddenly. "Sam, somebody killed him. They killed Dad. You want me to just let them get away with that?"
"We just lost him, Dean!" Sam said, and his eyes looked wet at the corners. He shook his head, hard. "I don't want them to get away with that - of course I don't. But you can't just deal with it by going after them."
"And why the fuck can't I?"
"Because we just lost Dad," Sam said, his voice loud and ragged. "What makes you think that you'll be safe if you go after them, huh? Somebody strong enough to kill Dad? I'm not going to lost you, too, you asshole! It killed Dad trying to figure out what happened to Mom! I'm not letting that happen to you, too."
A quick jet of air went out Dean's nose, and he struggled hard to keep it together, his face twitching from pained to impassive, muscles tight and strained. He licked his lips and took a deep breath, pushing everything he felt down. "Are you saying you won't help me?"
"Dean - "
"I asked you a goddamn question, Sam. So give me an answer. Are you going to help me?"
"I can't right now," Sam said, putting his arms around himself, looking small and sad and vulnerable. Something in Dean raged, aching to burst loose, and he swallowed, nails biting into his palm. "I can't deal with it, Dean. Not right now, not when I've just found out he's gone." He met Dean's eyes. "And I don't want you to, either."
"I have to, Sam," Dean responded fiercely. "I have to." Sam didn't say anything and Dean straightened up, rolling his shoulders. "I'm leaving," he said. He gave Sam a hard, scorching look. "I'll see you at home, Sam."
"Dean, wait, I - "
But Dean didn't answer, turning on his heel and pushing past Castiel out into the hallway. Ruby was murmuring softly and Dean shut the door hard as soon as Castiel was past it.
"Fuck," he said, pounding his fist into the wall. He breathed deep and hit the wall again, softer this time, anger draining away as he leaned his forehead against the off-white plaster.
"I think it's time to go," Castiel said. He pulled Dean off the way with cautious hands.
Dean shook him off and said, "Yeah. Yeah I... We can go. Let's just give these back to Andy." They walked back through the door, out into the waiting room. Dean yanked his badge off and thrust it at Castiel, stomping out the door, ignoring the stares he was getting from the few people scattered around the room. Castiel gave the two badges back to Andy - who only raised an eyebrow, no questions asked - with a tight smile and a polite nod, and followed Dean outside. There was nothing but wound up silence all the way back to the Winchester's home.
: : :
“So what does this mean for you?” Dean asked. He was sprawled out on an old sofa at home, Castiel in the chair off to the left corner. Castiel seemed obviously startled after he'd said it. Dean hadn’t said anything, barely a word, since they’d gotten back from talking to Sam, and Castiel had probably expected the rest of the evening to pass in the same awkward silence. “I mean, are you going back to your old job now that you don’t have a boss?”
Castiel pursed his lips. “I don’t know,” he said, honest. “I was sent here to foster good relations, so unless they have need of me I assume I’ll stay here. I imagine I work for Mr. Singer now.”
“Or,” Dean said, because Bobby was below John, not above, “you work for me.”
“You can’t just inherit me,” Castiel said with a frown.
Dean sat up. “Yeah, but you’re my bodyguard or whatever, right?"
"As your father assigned me." Well at least Dean's suspicions had been confirmed. But he shook off the knowledge - because it sure as hell hadn't been a surprise - that John hadn't trusted him to look after himself off. "So unless your orders change, that’s what you’ll be doing anyway.”
Castiel shrugged. "I'll need to report back. But your father was not the only person in charge, correct? I might have worked for him for all practical purposes, but really I worked for his..." He paused for a moment, searching for the right word. "For his organization."
Dean scooted closer to him, leaning down over his lap, eyes lit up and his expression intense. “Right. Which I'm a part of. Sam won’t help me,” he said, “but I can’t... Whoever killed my Dad? That son of a bitch is going to pay. Not sure if I can do it alone, though.” His eyes widened marginally and his tongue ran over his bottom lip.
“You want my help,” Castiel said. “To hunt down your father’s murderer.”
Dean’s face grew hard. “Yeah,” he said. “I do.”
Castiel leaned back in his seat and sighed. He looked down at his lap and grabbed the point of his tie. He rubbed it between his fingers absently, thinking only of the feel of the rough silk. The clock on the radio beside him beeped, signally the start of a new hour.
“Cas,” Dean said, “please. Please.”
It was the name that caught his attention. "Cas?" He frowned. "No one's ever called me that before," he said, dropping his tie and looking back at Dean. "Cas. Cas," he said again, weighing the name on his tongue. "It's always been Castiel."
"It's just a nickname," Dean said, wondering why the fuck he was getting so worked up about it. "Your name's too long. And it's stupid. If you're going to stick around, then I'm just going to call you Cas."
The way he said the name made it sound familiar - warm. Dean made the middle round, and ended it smooth, with a soft hiss.
"All right," he said. Dean straightened up, hesitance bleeding away. Cas nodded. "I'll help you."
~~~
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