Fan fic: Rule # 7: always be specific when you lie (SPN/NCIS)
Dean is working hard on his annoyed façade and on suppressing the voice inside his head that is chanting we’re screwed, we’re screwed, we are so, so screwed, but he has a feeling the agent sitting in front of him isn’t buying what he’s selling. At least they’ve taken the handcuffs off once they put him in the interrogation room.
“Facial recognition program says you’re Dean Winchester,” the agent repeats, sliding two color printouts towards Dean. One is his blue-steel mug shot, the other is a blow up of his current fake ID. He knew he shouldn’t have let them take it, but when a federal agent asks outright there isn’t much choice, unless you’re actively trying to look suspicious.
“Woah, he does look a lot like me! And here I thought I was such a unique special snowflake.” He grins. The agent doesn’t grin back. “Look, Agent Gibbs, I already told you: my name is Ash Campbell, and I’m a music journalist. I have a website called livebytherockdiebytheroll.com. I was supposed to meet the lead from a local band for an interview at the Fisherman’s Pub.”
“Which is a crime scene.”
“I didn’t know that when I sat up the interview! Look, they’re called Powers of Greyskull, you- they have a myspace page, just contact them.”
For the first time the agent grins. Maybe it’s a smirk. It’s very self-satisfied, and not at all reassuring. Dean hopes fervently that Sam really has put up a bitching site like he said he would. Kid really got his geek on during the drive down, talking about layouts and coding and shit. If it works, they are definitely doing it again. Testing it in the field, though... did it really have to be federal agents? Damn.
“Oh, we will Mr. Campbell, don’t worry. In the mean time I’d like to collect your fingerprints. It would certainly clear up things much faster.” Yep, self-satisfied and entirely too sure of himself. And, fuck it, but he has every right to be. In fact, he’s right on the mark. The agent stares at Dean unblinkingly until he receives a text message and has to check his cell. Dean uses the break to try and rustle up some earnestness to go with the annoyance.
“Don’t- shouldn’t I be consulting a lawyer for these kinds of things?”
“If you want... apparently he’s already here.”
This time he doesn’t have to play dumb. He’s genuinely confused. “Who?”
“Your lawyer.”
Dean’s blood goes cold, and he actually prays this time that he hasn’t gone pale and that Sam hasn’t been that stupid, because he can just picture that conversation. My lawyer looks a lot like Dean Winchester’s brother? You don’t say! Unless Bobby’s been hiding a working airplane in his junkyard (and for all Dean knows maybe he is, he’s learned to stop being surprised when it comes to resources and Bobby), Sam must have called in a civilian, and that’s a recipe for disaster if Dean ever heard one. At this point, though, he figures they’ve run out of options.
The agent turns slightly in his seat, looks at the mirror and makes a ‘come’ gesture.
Dean concentrates on sitting still and grinning his best.
After a long, agonizing two minutes of staring contest the door to the interrogation room opens and in walks the younger agent that physically arrested Dean. With him is a familiar, dark-haired man with a trench coat and a loosely knotted blue tie. Dean’s shoulders slump. “Cas?”
“Uh, boss, this is Castiel Smith. He’s Mr. Campbell’s attorney. Mr. Smith, this is Special Agent Gibbs.”
“Agent Gibbs,” says the angel, looking around the room, “I need to confer with my client. Privately.”
“Sure, Mr. Smith. We were just talking about getting your client’s fingerprints and ending this... mistake.”
“My client agrees.”
“Er, Cas?”
“Now if you’ll excuse us...”
The agents make a show of motioning ‘microphones off’ at the mirror and going out, closing the door behind them, but Dean can only stare at Castiel. He’s holding Sam’s battered briefcase for when they play suits, and he clearly has no idea what to do with it. “How’d you get here so fast?”
“Coincidence. I needed to talk to you and- I was appraised of the situation.” Castiel looks curiously at the mirror, takes a couple of steps towards it.
“If you thought you could just come here and mojo our way out when they weren’t looking- I hate to break it to you, but they’re always looking.”
“Yes,” he replies distractedly, looking left and right through the mirror’s span, “I can see that for myself.”
Dean realizes that Castiel is tracking movement behind the damn thing. Probably the agents watching (and listening) in. He gulps again. Apparently there actually is a worse option than bringing in a civilian. “I hope you have a plan B, ‘cause once they get a hold of my fingerprints-“
“I suggest you start praying.”
Dean stops himself from vaulting over the table and strangling Castiel with his tie, but just barely. For one thing, it wouldn’t go down well with a room-full of federal agents in the front row; for another, Castiel would probably intercept him with his pointy fingers to the forehead, and that would be that. “We do things differently now-a-days, Cas. See, there are these things called computers, and they tend to be pretty unmoved by prayers.”
For a moment, Dean thinks he can see something from the other side of the glass himself, like a flash of light, or a spark, but it’s so quick he doubts his eyes. Castiel has the nerve to smirk. Ok, not really smirk, more like grinning a little, and tells him, “Have faith. Even a little would suffice.”
“You know, you’re less creepy if you actually look at me while you’re talking.”
Castiel does that thing where he turns only his head without moving his body or his eyes and, granted, that’s even creepier, but he does take his attention off the mirror and focuses on Dean with one of his patented angel-level intense stares. “Bring your palms together and pray, Ash Campbell.”
Dean isn’t sure if this is angelic for ask nicely or if he is well and truly screwed, wouldn’t put it past the angels to decide to let him rot in prison until they need him again, if they need him again. He still has no faith but he can rustle up a modicum of trust for Castiel -who at least once said he wanted the right things, though he always ends up following orders, even the shitty ones- so he raises his hands and puts them together in front of him.
The thing is, he doesn’t actually know any prayers. “Uh, Exorcizo te, creaturae acquae, in nomine Dei, patris omnipotentis et in virtutae spiritus sancti.” As he stammers out the words, Castiel comes to stand right next to him and puts one hand over his clasped fingers, squeezing gently. The angel’s hand is inhumanly warm, but it’s a heat that feels good, like holding a mug of hot coffee after coming in from the cold.
“Amen,” he finishes, looking Dean in the eyes. The pads of his fingers ignite immediately and Dean gasps, but Castiel’s grip is strong and he doesn’t let him flinch away. When his hands are released the tips of his fingers feel soft and tender, like... Jesus, almost like newly healed skin.
“It would be desirable not to attract attention and end your business satisfyingly, but my time here is limited. If I am called back to duty, we will have to leave my way.”
Dean nods, trying to process what just happened, really, really relieved for the get out of jail free card he’s apparently just been handed, and inexplicably pissed that, on top of his old scars and the broken bones he’s earned as a hunter, now he’s lost his real fingerprints as well. This is the kind of proof that is going to get the feds off their necks for good and he really hopes they’ll stick around long enough, but he’d love to know what the NCIS would make of the two of them simply vanishing in front of their eyes.
There’s a symbolic knock on the door, symbolic as in there for law purposes rather than privacy or politeness. The two agents from before enter again without waiting for permission, the younger one holding a tray with an ink pad and paper, and the older one with an extra chair which he puts in front of Castiel, who looks at it far too long before finally sitting in it. As the door closes again Dean hears the distinctive synthesized noise of a phone camera snapping a picture, but he only manages to catch a glimpse of a be-suited arm before it’s just the four of them, a newly resurrected most wanted man, two federal agents and an angel. For an uncomfortable moment Dean thinks that Castiel probably has a body count that would make his and the agents’ look pathetically childish, even if they pooled theirs together, and pulls his attention to the fingerprinting paraphernalia.
“Huh... looks just like on tv,” he offers, putting on a I’ve never done this before in my life, no sirre face. The younger agent just takes his hand and starts smearing. Dean feels some kind of tension building up in the silent room and when he looks up he sees Castiel with a genuinely curious expression following the process closely, and the older agent looking at Castiel with just about the same level of intense scrutiny.
“Castiel Smith... that’s an unusual name. Where does it come from?” Drawls the younger agent, looking a little troubled at the supposed attorney who seems transfixed by a relatively common procedure. Dean has come to the conclusion that when the angel doesn’t really know what to do with something he just leaves it hanging, like the tie that’s never properly knotted, or the briefcase he’s still holding in one hand, inches from the floor, but most of all his arms, which he sometimes doesn’t even seem aware of having. Sitting like this, leaning forward and this close to crowding the agent, he looks downright weird even to Dean who’s somewhat used to freaky angelic behavior. It doesn’t help that Castiel has a habit of being cryptic and ignoring questions.
“It’s biblical. I’m always ribbing him about it too, right, Cas?” For a moment, the angel’s eyes shift up to meet Dean’s, but that’s as far as his reaction goes. The older agent circles around them and stops behind Dean, crowding his personal space. “Where did you say you got your law degree, Mr. Smith?” he asks in a low, calm voice.
“I completed my credentials online,” is the reply, and Dean is willing to bet that’s not even a lie. He has to hand it to Sam: ID cards are better left to his elders, but the best official-looking documentation and certificates are all his.
“Biblical? Wow, your parents must have really hated you... unless it’s common where you’re from? You a Mormon?” continues the younger agent, as though his is the only conversation going on.
“No.” Then, icily: “My Father loves all his children.” Dean wants to kick him under the table but he doesn’t think he could do it without the agents noticing, and the situation is suspicious enough as it is.
“I’m sure he does,” murmurs the lead agent, so close to Dean that he has to make a conscious effort not to lean away. Castiel looks up and starts another staring contest with the guy. They go on silently and unblinkingly long enough for the other agent to look at them and get as uncomfortable as Dean. He finishes the last two fingers quickly and a little sloppily, and then beats a hasty retreat.
“We’ll have the results shortly,” the remaining agent starts, sitting down with ease in the vacated chair and keeping his eyes on Castiel, “and if it turns out that your client is the not-so-deceased Dean Winchester you’re going to be in a whole lot of trouble. Both of you.”
Dean has enough hard proof of Castiel’s powers to feel secure, so he just rolls his eyes and wipes his fingers on his complimentary napkin, but his ‘attorney’ goes all out and actually smirks.
“Online degree... you might just be in over your head, Mr. Castiel Smith.”
Dean can’t help it: he chuckles. Agent Gibbs glares at him, then leans far into Castiel’s personal space and whispers, dead serious, “Messing with federal agents... I don’t think you appreciate just how much trouble that would be.”
Dean has never thought he’d miss the times when having a federal agency on his ass was the worst of his worries, and yet here he is. He thinks for a moment about Hendriksen before shutting down that mental door hard and tight. Now is not the time.
Castiel just stares, completely focused on the agent. Agent Gibbs holds the stare unblinkingly, and Dean is reluctantly impressed. For no other reason than he’s carefully steering clear of any appreciation for any federal agent at that very moment, he thinks about his dad and wonders what he would have made of angels in general and of this one in particular. He thinks that he would have acted much like this Agent Gibbs, only John Winchester would have done it knowing what he was really dealing with. A touch of phantom pride tickles his mind and one corner of his mouth quirks up.
He’s starting to think that they’re really going to pull this off when the light bulb directly above their heads explodes without so much as a flicker of warning. Dean and the agent flinch instinctively but Castiel, of course, doesn’t even notice. An intercom buzzes to life, filling the room with static. “Boss, we need you back here.” Gibbs leaves with a stern reminder at the both of them to stay put.
There are other lights along the ceiling, so it’s not total darkness, but it’s dim enough that movement bleeds across the surface of the mirror from the other side. When Dean turns to remark just how weird all this must be for the NCIS, he finds a very sheepish-looking angel staring at the tip of his shoes. “Let me guess. That was your mistake.”
“I didn’t mean to,” he admits, sneaking a peek at Dean through his lashes, “I have some trouble with... electricity.”
“Dude, I think electricity has some trouble with you.” From behind the mirror comes a definite, distinct flash of sparks. “Don’t break all of their stuff, okay? They’re probably freaking out enough as it is.”
“I’m trying not to!” he mumbles, and he actually sounds embarrassed. Dean’s wondering whether at this point it wouldn’t just be better to whip out the wings and intone something like ‘fear not!’ before disappearing, but then he reminds himself that civilians have no way of knowing they are the ones responsible for the power fluctuations and, if Castiel can get his act together and they play dumb, they can still get out of here easy.
Then Agent Gibbs storms back into the room, furious, and demands to look inside the briefcase, while the younger agent blocks the door with his body. Castiel just sets it on the table and steps back, appearing disinterested. Dean does his best to look freaked out enough for the both of them, manfully asking about what is happening and throwing in a not-so-veiled reference to Al-Qaeda just because he can, but he’s ignored and all the better for it.
The briefcase turns out to contain only a copy of today’s paper with the obituaries cut out, which is frankly embarrassing. All the praise Dean was going to regale Sam with on his safe return is nullified with that discovery. Thankfully the agents are just as perplexed as the angel, who apparently either didn’t know that you could open it or just didn’t know what was inside. And, from the way he’s looking at it, he doesn’t seem to have much experience with newspapers either.
As they’re all stupidly standing there another, even younger, agent comes in, running full tilt, and points a big chunk of whirring yellow plastic at the mess. “I’ve got it, boss!” he pants, waving the Geiger detector over the table, and Dean remembers him from the crime scene. The machine whines erratically until the agent starts to sweep further up and ends up pointing directly at Castiel. The needle spikes, the angel stares at it intently, and then the whole thing goes abruptly very quiet. The agent tries to wave it up and down some more, but the needle stays stubbornly down. Eventually he has to give up.
“Are we done here?” says Castiel, calm and unruffled and very, very coldly. “Have you performed your tests? Did they yield results? Are we free to go now?”
“Yeah,” adds Dean, “did you get my fingerprints done? Can I go?”
Agent Gibbs shakes his head with a little disbelieving smirk and then sweeps his arm to indicate the open door. “With NCIS’ sincerest apologies,” he mumbles. Castiel simply steps out into the corridor but Dean gathers up every last scrap of newspaper because it has both his and Sam’s fingerprints all over, and if he were an agent and that was the only thing two freaks had left behind after everything that’s happened he’d analyze every last inch of it; he stuffs it all in the briefcase and joins the angel, only to find him already conversing, no, flirting with a beautiful woman.
Ok, so maybe she’s doing all the flirting, the hand to the neck and the chuckling and the hair hanging down while Castiel is just staring at her with his chin dipped low, but, honestly. Dean’s seen her at the crime scene as well, but, with the windbreaker and the baseball cap and the tight bun, he hadn’t realized what a babe she is. “... and I’m Israeli, but when I heard your name I thought it sounded vaguely Arabic.” For all of her playful tone, her gaze is sharp and Dean knows a con man (or woman) working a mark. He shoves the briefcase in the angel’s chest and says the first thing that pops into his mind that might distract her, namely: “Woah, if only all federal agents were as hot as you, I wouldn’t consider this a wasted afternoon.”
She gives him a courtesy chuckle and eyes them both again like two targets on the range, but concedes defeat by telling them she’ll call them a cab. Castiel’s quiet “That won’t be necessary,” is overruled by Dean’s louder “We’d really appreciate that, thanks,” and before anything else weird can happen Dean puts a hand on the angel’s shoulder and marches him down to the elevator. His last glimpse of the agents includes Gibbs looking straight at him like he knows. The guy would probably make a decent hunter, given the opportunity, but Dean hopes he never does.
As soon as the doors close he flattens himself as far away from the angel as possible inside an elevator car and stage whispers “are you actually radioactive?” Castiel keeps facing the doors like he knows elevator etiquette, the bastard, and replies offhandedly that “it’s not harmful to humans.” Dean’s hands instinctively go down to cover his crotch. “What the hell, Cas? You have to warn a guy about these things!”
“It does not affect humans in any way,” he repeats slowly and deliberately. Dean keeps a hold of the family jewels until the angel shoots him a look. “All right. So... thanks for everything, I- I know bailing me out of police custody wasn’t part of your orders, so... I guess I owe ya one, Cas.”
“My assistance does not come without a price,” he replies, frowning so seriously that Dean starts to worry. “However, stop shortening my name and we’ll... call it even, as you say.”
This time, they both smile.
FINAL LITTLE NOTE: Dean's "prayer" is lifted from Season 1's epi Salvation, when John "blesses" the water.
“Facial recognition program says you’re Dean Winchester,” the agent repeats, sliding two color printouts towards Dean. One is his blue-steel mug shot, the other is a blow up of his current fake ID. He knew he shouldn’t have let them take it, but when a federal agent asks outright there isn’t much choice, unless you’re actively trying to look suspicious.
“Woah, he does look a lot like me! And here I thought I was such a unique special snowflake.” He grins. The agent doesn’t grin back. “Look, Agent Gibbs, I already told you: my name is Ash Campbell, and I’m a music journalist. I have a website called livebytherockdiebytheroll.com. I was supposed to meet the lead from a local band for an interview at the Fisherman’s Pub.”
“Which is a crime scene.”
“I didn’t know that when I sat up the interview! Look, they’re called Powers of Greyskull, you- they have a myspace page, just contact them.”
For the first time the agent grins. Maybe it’s a smirk. It’s very self-satisfied, and not at all reassuring. Dean hopes fervently that Sam really has put up a bitching site like he said he would. Kid really got his geek on during the drive down, talking about layouts and coding and shit. If it works, they are definitely doing it again. Testing it in the field, though... did it really have to be federal agents? Damn.
“Oh, we will Mr. Campbell, don’t worry. In the mean time I’d like to collect your fingerprints. It would certainly clear up things much faster.” Yep, self-satisfied and entirely too sure of himself. And, fuck it, but he has every right to be. In fact, he’s right on the mark. The agent stares at Dean unblinkingly until he receives a text message and has to check his cell. Dean uses the break to try and rustle up some earnestness to go with the annoyance.
“Don’t- shouldn’t I be consulting a lawyer for these kinds of things?”
“If you want... apparently he’s already here.”
This time he doesn’t have to play dumb. He’s genuinely confused. “Who?”
“Your lawyer.”
Dean’s blood goes cold, and he actually prays this time that he hasn’t gone pale and that Sam hasn’t been that stupid, because he can just picture that conversation. My lawyer looks a lot like Dean Winchester’s brother? You don’t say! Unless Bobby’s been hiding a working airplane in his junkyard (and for all Dean knows maybe he is, he’s learned to stop being surprised when it comes to resources and Bobby), Sam must have called in a civilian, and that’s a recipe for disaster if Dean ever heard one. At this point, though, he figures they’ve run out of options.
The agent turns slightly in his seat, looks at the mirror and makes a ‘come’ gesture.
Dean concentrates on sitting still and grinning his best.
After a long, agonizing two minutes of staring contest the door to the interrogation room opens and in walks the younger agent that physically arrested Dean. With him is a familiar, dark-haired man with a trench coat and a loosely knotted blue tie. Dean’s shoulders slump. “Cas?”
“Uh, boss, this is Castiel Smith. He’s Mr. Campbell’s attorney. Mr. Smith, this is Special Agent Gibbs.”
“Agent Gibbs,” says the angel, looking around the room, “I need to confer with my client. Privately.”
“Sure, Mr. Smith. We were just talking about getting your client’s fingerprints and ending this... mistake.”
“My client agrees.”
“Er, Cas?”
“Now if you’ll excuse us...”
The agents make a show of motioning ‘microphones off’ at the mirror and going out, closing the door behind them, but Dean can only stare at Castiel. He’s holding Sam’s battered briefcase for when they play suits, and he clearly has no idea what to do with it. “How’d you get here so fast?”
“Coincidence. I needed to talk to you and- I was appraised of the situation.” Castiel looks curiously at the mirror, takes a couple of steps towards it.
“If you thought you could just come here and mojo our way out when they weren’t looking- I hate to break it to you, but they’re always looking.”
“Yes,” he replies distractedly, looking left and right through the mirror’s span, “I can see that for myself.”
Dean realizes that Castiel is tracking movement behind the damn thing. Probably the agents watching (and listening) in. He gulps again. Apparently there actually is a worse option than bringing in a civilian. “I hope you have a plan B, ‘cause once they get a hold of my fingerprints-“
“I suggest you start praying.”
Dean stops himself from vaulting over the table and strangling Castiel with his tie, but just barely. For one thing, it wouldn’t go down well with a room-full of federal agents in the front row; for another, Castiel would probably intercept him with his pointy fingers to the forehead, and that would be that. “We do things differently now-a-days, Cas. See, there are these things called computers, and they tend to be pretty unmoved by prayers.”
For a moment, Dean thinks he can see something from the other side of the glass himself, like a flash of light, or a spark, but it’s so quick he doubts his eyes. Castiel has the nerve to smirk. Ok, not really smirk, more like grinning a little, and tells him, “Have faith. Even a little would suffice.”
“You know, you’re less creepy if you actually look at me while you’re talking.”
Castiel does that thing where he turns only his head without moving his body or his eyes and, granted, that’s even creepier, but he does take his attention off the mirror and focuses on Dean with one of his patented angel-level intense stares. “Bring your palms together and pray, Ash Campbell.”
Dean isn’t sure if this is angelic for ask nicely or if he is well and truly screwed, wouldn’t put it past the angels to decide to let him rot in prison until they need him again, if they need him again. He still has no faith but he can rustle up a modicum of trust for Castiel -who at least once said he wanted the right things, though he always ends up following orders, even the shitty ones- so he raises his hands and puts them together in front of him.
The thing is, he doesn’t actually know any prayers. “Uh, Exorcizo te, creaturae acquae, in nomine Dei, patris omnipotentis et in virtutae spiritus sancti.” As he stammers out the words, Castiel comes to stand right next to him and puts one hand over his clasped fingers, squeezing gently. The angel’s hand is inhumanly warm, but it’s a heat that feels good, like holding a mug of hot coffee after coming in from the cold.
“Amen,” he finishes, looking Dean in the eyes. The pads of his fingers ignite immediately and Dean gasps, but Castiel’s grip is strong and he doesn’t let him flinch away. When his hands are released the tips of his fingers feel soft and tender, like... Jesus, almost like newly healed skin.
“It would be desirable not to attract attention and end your business satisfyingly, but my time here is limited. If I am called back to duty, we will have to leave my way.”
Dean nods, trying to process what just happened, really, really relieved for the get out of jail free card he’s apparently just been handed, and inexplicably pissed that, on top of his old scars and the broken bones he’s earned as a hunter, now he’s lost his real fingerprints as well. This is the kind of proof that is going to get the feds off their necks for good and he really hopes they’ll stick around long enough, but he’d love to know what the NCIS would make of the two of them simply vanishing in front of their eyes.
There’s a symbolic knock on the door, symbolic as in there for law purposes rather than privacy or politeness. The two agents from before enter again without waiting for permission, the younger one holding a tray with an ink pad and paper, and the older one with an extra chair which he puts in front of Castiel, who looks at it far too long before finally sitting in it. As the door closes again Dean hears the distinctive synthesized noise of a phone camera snapping a picture, but he only manages to catch a glimpse of a be-suited arm before it’s just the four of them, a newly resurrected most wanted man, two federal agents and an angel. For an uncomfortable moment Dean thinks that Castiel probably has a body count that would make his and the agents’ look pathetically childish, even if they pooled theirs together, and pulls his attention to the fingerprinting paraphernalia.
“Huh... looks just like on tv,” he offers, putting on a I’ve never done this before in my life, no sirre face. The younger agent just takes his hand and starts smearing. Dean feels some kind of tension building up in the silent room and when he looks up he sees Castiel with a genuinely curious expression following the process closely, and the older agent looking at Castiel with just about the same level of intense scrutiny.
“Castiel Smith... that’s an unusual name. Where does it come from?” Drawls the younger agent, looking a little troubled at the supposed attorney who seems transfixed by a relatively common procedure. Dean has come to the conclusion that when the angel doesn’t really know what to do with something he just leaves it hanging, like the tie that’s never properly knotted, or the briefcase he’s still holding in one hand, inches from the floor, but most of all his arms, which he sometimes doesn’t even seem aware of having. Sitting like this, leaning forward and this close to crowding the agent, he looks downright weird even to Dean who’s somewhat used to freaky angelic behavior. It doesn’t help that Castiel has a habit of being cryptic and ignoring questions.
“It’s biblical. I’m always ribbing him about it too, right, Cas?” For a moment, the angel’s eyes shift up to meet Dean’s, but that’s as far as his reaction goes. The older agent circles around them and stops behind Dean, crowding his personal space. “Where did you say you got your law degree, Mr. Smith?” he asks in a low, calm voice.
“I completed my credentials online,” is the reply, and Dean is willing to bet that’s not even a lie. He has to hand it to Sam: ID cards are better left to his elders, but the best official-looking documentation and certificates are all his.
“Biblical? Wow, your parents must have really hated you... unless it’s common where you’re from? You a Mormon?” continues the younger agent, as though his is the only conversation going on.
“No.” Then, icily: “My Father loves all his children.” Dean wants to kick him under the table but he doesn’t think he could do it without the agents noticing, and the situation is suspicious enough as it is.
“I’m sure he does,” murmurs the lead agent, so close to Dean that he has to make a conscious effort not to lean away. Castiel looks up and starts another staring contest with the guy. They go on silently and unblinkingly long enough for the other agent to look at them and get as uncomfortable as Dean. He finishes the last two fingers quickly and a little sloppily, and then beats a hasty retreat.
“We’ll have the results shortly,” the remaining agent starts, sitting down with ease in the vacated chair and keeping his eyes on Castiel, “and if it turns out that your client is the not-so-deceased Dean Winchester you’re going to be in a whole lot of trouble. Both of you.”
Dean has enough hard proof of Castiel’s powers to feel secure, so he just rolls his eyes and wipes his fingers on his complimentary napkin, but his ‘attorney’ goes all out and actually smirks.
“Online degree... you might just be in over your head, Mr. Castiel Smith.”
Dean can’t help it: he chuckles. Agent Gibbs glares at him, then leans far into Castiel’s personal space and whispers, dead serious, “Messing with federal agents... I don’t think you appreciate just how much trouble that would be.”
Dean has never thought he’d miss the times when having a federal agency on his ass was the worst of his worries, and yet here he is. He thinks for a moment about Hendriksen before shutting down that mental door hard and tight. Now is not the time.
Castiel just stares, completely focused on the agent. Agent Gibbs holds the stare unblinkingly, and Dean is reluctantly impressed. For no other reason than he’s carefully steering clear of any appreciation for any federal agent at that very moment, he thinks about his dad and wonders what he would have made of angels in general and of this one in particular. He thinks that he would have acted much like this Agent Gibbs, only John Winchester would have done it knowing what he was really dealing with. A touch of phantom pride tickles his mind and one corner of his mouth quirks up.
He’s starting to think that they’re really going to pull this off when the light bulb directly above their heads explodes without so much as a flicker of warning. Dean and the agent flinch instinctively but Castiel, of course, doesn’t even notice. An intercom buzzes to life, filling the room with static. “Boss, we need you back here.” Gibbs leaves with a stern reminder at the both of them to stay put.
There are other lights along the ceiling, so it’s not total darkness, but it’s dim enough that movement bleeds across the surface of the mirror from the other side. When Dean turns to remark just how weird all this must be for the NCIS, he finds a very sheepish-looking angel staring at the tip of his shoes. “Let me guess. That was your mistake.”
“I didn’t mean to,” he admits, sneaking a peek at Dean through his lashes, “I have some trouble with... electricity.”
“Dude, I think electricity has some trouble with you.” From behind the mirror comes a definite, distinct flash of sparks. “Don’t break all of their stuff, okay? They’re probably freaking out enough as it is.”
“I’m trying not to!” he mumbles, and he actually sounds embarrassed. Dean’s wondering whether at this point it wouldn’t just be better to whip out the wings and intone something like ‘fear not!’ before disappearing, but then he reminds himself that civilians have no way of knowing they are the ones responsible for the power fluctuations and, if Castiel can get his act together and they play dumb, they can still get out of here easy.
Then Agent Gibbs storms back into the room, furious, and demands to look inside the briefcase, while the younger agent blocks the door with his body. Castiel just sets it on the table and steps back, appearing disinterested. Dean does his best to look freaked out enough for the both of them, manfully asking about what is happening and throwing in a not-so-veiled reference to Al-Qaeda just because he can, but he’s ignored and all the better for it.
The briefcase turns out to contain only a copy of today’s paper with the obituaries cut out, which is frankly embarrassing. All the praise Dean was going to regale Sam with on his safe return is nullified with that discovery. Thankfully the agents are just as perplexed as the angel, who apparently either didn’t know that you could open it or just didn’t know what was inside. And, from the way he’s looking at it, he doesn’t seem to have much experience with newspapers either.
As they’re all stupidly standing there another, even younger, agent comes in, running full tilt, and points a big chunk of whirring yellow plastic at the mess. “I’ve got it, boss!” he pants, waving the Geiger detector over the table, and Dean remembers him from the crime scene. The machine whines erratically until the agent starts to sweep further up and ends up pointing directly at Castiel. The needle spikes, the angel stares at it intently, and then the whole thing goes abruptly very quiet. The agent tries to wave it up and down some more, but the needle stays stubbornly down. Eventually he has to give up.
“Are we done here?” says Castiel, calm and unruffled and very, very coldly. “Have you performed your tests? Did they yield results? Are we free to go now?”
“Yeah,” adds Dean, “did you get my fingerprints done? Can I go?”
Agent Gibbs shakes his head with a little disbelieving smirk and then sweeps his arm to indicate the open door. “With NCIS’ sincerest apologies,” he mumbles. Castiel simply steps out into the corridor but Dean gathers up every last scrap of newspaper because it has both his and Sam’s fingerprints all over, and if he were an agent and that was the only thing two freaks had left behind after everything that’s happened he’d analyze every last inch of it; he stuffs it all in the briefcase and joins the angel, only to find him already conversing, no, flirting with a beautiful woman.
Ok, so maybe she’s doing all the flirting, the hand to the neck and the chuckling and the hair hanging down while Castiel is just staring at her with his chin dipped low, but, honestly. Dean’s seen her at the crime scene as well, but, with the windbreaker and the baseball cap and the tight bun, he hadn’t realized what a babe she is. “... and I’m Israeli, but when I heard your name I thought it sounded vaguely Arabic.” For all of her playful tone, her gaze is sharp and Dean knows a con man (or woman) working a mark. He shoves the briefcase in the angel’s chest and says the first thing that pops into his mind that might distract her, namely: “Woah, if only all federal agents were as hot as you, I wouldn’t consider this a wasted afternoon.”
She gives him a courtesy chuckle and eyes them both again like two targets on the range, but concedes defeat by telling them she’ll call them a cab. Castiel’s quiet “That won’t be necessary,” is overruled by Dean’s louder “We’d really appreciate that, thanks,” and before anything else weird can happen Dean puts a hand on the angel’s shoulder and marches him down to the elevator. His last glimpse of the agents includes Gibbs looking straight at him like he knows. The guy would probably make a decent hunter, given the opportunity, but Dean hopes he never does.
As soon as the doors close he flattens himself as far away from the angel as possible inside an elevator car and stage whispers “are you actually radioactive?” Castiel keeps facing the doors like he knows elevator etiquette, the bastard, and replies offhandedly that “it’s not harmful to humans.” Dean’s hands instinctively go down to cover his crotch. “What the hell, Cas? You have to warn a guy about these things!”
“It does not affect humans in any way,” he repeats slowly and deliberately. Dean keeps a hold of the family jewels until the angel shoots him a look. “All right. So... thanks for everything, I- I know bailing me out of police custody wasn’t part of your orders, so... I guess I owe ya one, Cas.”
“My assistance does not come without a price,” he replies, frowning so seriously that Dean starts to worry. “However, stop shortening my name and we’ll... call it even, as you say.”
This time, they both smile.
FINAL LITTLE NOTE: Dean's "prayer" is lifted from Season 1's epi Salvation, when John "blesses" the water.