Humble Pie [4/20]
‘It was the heat of the moment … Telling me what my heart meant … The heat of the moment showed in your eyes …’
What the fuck is that?
Dean wakes up with a jolt, the loud music blaring through the apartment. Shit, he’d wanted to sleep in this morning, a lazy get up followed by a day full of a lot of eating, a lot of sleeping, and a lot of bad TV. But no, instead, he’s woken by Sam doing his exercises to some god-awful Asia song on the radio.
He looks blearily at the clock on his bedside table. Fuck. It’s only 6:15. Trust Sam to get him up at the crack of fucking dawn on the one fucking day he wants to fucking sleep in.
“Turn that goddamn music down!” he yells in the direction of the noise, before rolling over and shoving a pillow over his head in an attempt to drown out the music.
‘Cause it’s the heat of the moment … The heat of the moment … The heat of the moment …’
Well dammit. There’s no way he’s getting back to sleep now.
He rolls back over onto his back and stares up at the ceiling. It’s a murky gray color that’s decidedly off-putting, and there’s a dark brown stain just above his head that makes him wonder just what the hell made it. Although, actually, thinking about it, he probably doesn’t want to know. At all. Not even a little bit.
He waits stubbornly for a few minutes before deciding that, now he’s awake, he may as well admit defeat and get up. At least then he’ll be able to glare at Sam for having ruined his morning.
He drags himself out of bed, spiky-haired and in a loose-fitting T-shirt and boxers, and decides that before he attempts anything else, he needs coffee.
As predicted, Sam is doing push-ups in the living room, so Dean pointedly ignores him (’Cause come on, seriously? Push-ups at 6am?!) and pads into the kitchen, filling up the kettle with water and setting it to boil before yawning and gazing blearily out of the small window above the sink. They’ve got another job tonight - no rest for the wicked, huh? - this time with Divinity Inc., so it’s another night of driving unmarked vans over the state border for them. Yippee. At least it pays well. Otherwise he’d just throw in the towel and spend the day getting drunk.
The kettle boils and he spends a minute looking for his Batman mug to put it in, as well as the jar of instant coffee. It’s nearly empty - he’ll have to get Sam to go shopping for some more. A spoonful of coffee granules and a mugful of boiling water later, he’s sitting at the kitchen table, blowing lightly on his strong, black coffee, and only then does he realize that he’s probably being watched by Castiel this very moment. He’s not usually a self-conscious guy - and he’s not self-conscious now (he’s not). So that’s all okay then.
Still. He swivels round in his seat and, yes, he was right, there are the two blue eyes, watching him from beneath hooded lids.
“Again with the staring, Cas,” he says, turning back to his coffee and taking a gulp almost angrily. It scalds his tongue on the way down. At least it distracts him from the prickling at the nape of his neck for a moment.
It feels like he sits there for ages, still aware of Castiel’s eyes on his back, while Sam finishes his press-ups and then has another shower afterwards (god, he’s so clean all the damn time), until eventually he comes back into the kitchen, dressed and with damp hair, and sits opposite Dean.
“Morning,” Dean says, his voice still a little croaky from sleep, despite the fact that he’s been up for a good half hour now.
“And to you. We’re working tonight, right?”
Dean raises an eyebrow. “You know we are.”
“Yeah, I know, I know. Just, y’know, checking. So, we’ll have to leave around quarter to one?”
“Make it just after midnight, to be safe.”
“Okay, sure.”
There’s a pause, in which Dean wonders if his brother will ever get around to talking about what he obviously wants to talk about, whatever that is. “I’m not psychic, Sammy. You’re gonna have to give me something to go on, here.”
Sam smiles sheepishly. “Yeah, sorry. So I was thinking I could go down to the library, do some studying. I mean, if we’ve got all day.”
Recently, after months of Dean nagging like an old woman, Sam has started going to the library to read up on law again, so that, one day, maybe he can go back to college and finish his studies, become a lawyer. Dean always thinks it’d be ironic if his brother ended up a lawyer, considering he is on the wrong end of the law more often than not, but he’s glad Sam hasn’t given up on that dream. He’s always felt bad about dragging Sam back into his world. Although, he isn’t sure how much of Sam’s studying is actual studying, because a week ago he coaxed out of Sam the fact that he met a girl, Madison, who’s also a law student, and who - surprise surprise - also goes to the library a lot to work on her studies. Dean didn’t even need to ask if she was hot - Sam’s blush was enough to verify that.
“Good plan,” he says, hiding a smile. “I think I’m just gonna watch TV all day.”
Sam throws him a half-hearted bitch face. “Seriously?”
“Hey, I thought I’d leave the sex to you for once.” He laughs at the expression on his brother’s face - Sam’s all business when it comes to stealing, evading the law, and selling black-market goods under the table, but now, with the thought of talking to Madison, an actual girl, looming in front of him, he’s like a blushing bride, a vestal virgin or some shit like that. It’s hilarious, and rather cute, and Dean snorts into his coffee as Sam stands to leave.
“Oh, hey, remember what we decided last night,” Sam says seriously, and Dean rolls his eyes.
“Yeah yeah, I get it, no ordering the angel about. Mucho no-go zone. Don’t worry, I heard the first time.”
Sam nods and turns to leave. “Good. Just … keep that in mind.”
“Whatever dude. You go have fun with your lady friend now, don’t worry about me. Sweep her off her feet, Sammy!” he shouts after his brother’s retreating back.
“Screw you.”
He chuckles again, leaning back in his chair as the door of the apartment clicks shut, leaving him alone. He checks the time - 6:54 - and stands up leisurely, walking over to the sink to wash up his empty coffee cup. It takes him a moment to recognize the feeling of Castiel’s eyes on him as he moves. He bites back a grin as he realizes what this means, enjoying the power that this gives him. He’s completely in control; he knows that, and Castiel knows that, and he can do whatever the hell he likes. Yeah, it feels good.
When he’s finished washing up, he turns around to face the slave, leaning casually on the kitchen worktop and grinning.
“Hey, Cas,” he says, scrutinizing the calculated look of indifference on the angel’s face, the crossed legs, downturned eyes, fingers plucking at the material of his pants.
Castiel says nothing, doesn’t even look up at him.
“Hey! I spoke to you, look at me when I’m talking.”
Castiel drags his eyes up to Dean’s face, who recognizes the carefully-hidden anger in them. He sure got a feisty slave.
“Sleep well?” he asks amicably.
There’s no reply.
“Aw, c’mon, dude, you’ve got to give me something to work with here.”
Still nothing, and, man, does the guy have a personal vendetta against blinking, or what?
“Hey,’ Dean says again, trying another tactic and inching closer to Castiel, staring down at him. “I’ve been thinking, and I’ve been a bit of a jerk since we got you, and I’d like to apologize.” He nearly loses his poker face when confusion clouds Castiel’s eyes, almost cracks up at the gullibility of the guy, but instead he keeps his head, finishes speaking: “I’d like to make it up to you, let you do something nice, something you’d like - so how about I let you wash up all the dishes? Would you like that? Huh?”
“Go to hell,” Castiel spits.
“I mean,” Dean continues, undaunted, gesturing towards the enormous pile of dirty dishes that he’s been hoping will just vanish if he ignores it long enough, “I know Sam said no making you work and all that, but if you wanted to do it, he can hardly argue with that, can he? And anyway, what he doesn’t know can’t hurt him …” He takes another step closer, about to-
And suddenly he’s slammed against the wall, Castiel’s forearm across his throat, choking the breath from his lungs, his hand on Dean’s chest, forcing him backwards like a vice, and, damn, but Castiel’s stronger than he looks. Their faces are close together, noses almost touching, as Castiel leans in and hisses: “Why?”
Dean looks into the other man’s eyes, which are almost level with his own and filled with an indescribable mix of anger and pain and confusion.
“Why would you choose to be cruel?” Castiel’s voice is deep and passionate and dangerous. “Decide deliberately not to care about the feelings of others? Why is it acceptable, why do you accept it, why do you do it? Am I any less of a person than you, any less human, any less deserving of fair treatment? You should show me some respect.”
Dean recovers enough from the shock of events to be cross - with himself, more than anything, because since when does Dean Winchester let himself get distracted enough to be pinned against a wall?
“You’re a slave,” he snaps, all patience gone. “And that’s your job. Whatever ‘feelings’ you might have don’t matter. You’re made to obey and work, so shut up and get on with it.”
Castiel looks up into Dean’s eyes almost questioningly, anger momentarily replaced with something softer; confusion, perhaps, or hurt. “You really believe that.”
“Of course I fucking do.”
“Well, you’re wrong. I don’t serve man, and I certainly don’t serve you.” Castiel looks away, shaking his head, and the moment’s distraction is all Dean needs. “That’s not-”
Dean shoves Castiel away, breaking the other man’s hold on him, and while Castiel is still reeling, Dean hits him, hard, sending the angel to the floor, where he lands in a crumpled heap.
“Shut up,” says Dean, and he’s angry now; angry because this slave’s talking back, angry because he can’t just sit down and let someone else do all the work for once, angry because of Sam’s stupid rules, angry because this isn’t how he imagined finally getting an angel would be like, because it’s more complicated than he ever thought it would be. “Shut the hell up! You’re wrong - you’re a slave - you’re not allowed to talk to me like that. You will obey me!”
Castiel rolls over onto his back and looks up at him with hatred, but the image of defiance is ruined by the flicker of fear that dances over his face.
Dean rubs a hand over his face in momentary thought, battling with himself. “Get up,” he orders finally. And: “Get up!” he shouts, when Castiel doesn’t move.
Slowly, Castiel obeys, getting to his feet until he’s standing face-to-face with Dean again, the chain still attached to his collar pulled taut.
And this slave is so helpless before him. Dean can do anything he wants to him, anything at all, and no one would be able to stop him. Sure, Sam would be pissed when he got back, but it wouldn’t last long, and it would definitely be worth it. And Dean is so frustrated, so angry, at everything, he’s tired of being the responsible one, tired of always looking out for Sammy, tired of this burden his dad shoved on him as a kid, this burden of being adult all the goddamn time, and it kills, it really kills, because nothing ever goes right, nothing ever turns out the way it should, and it’s just so damn hard.
And then …
Then he looks into Castiel’s eyes - into those blue, blue eyes that were one of the first things he noticed about him - and he sees again how Castiel’s complicated mix of emotions bleed through into those clear orbs - he sees the anger - the defiance - the pain - he sees the sadness - and the knowledge, the resigned acceptance, and yet somehow also fear - of the blows he knows to be coming next.
And then Dean turns and walks away.
The road’s dark, Dean’s bored because he’s not allowed to speed, and his bladder’s been uncomfortably full for the last five miles and it’s starting to get to the point where he can no longer ignore it and pretend it’ll just go away.
He’s in the Impala, driving about half a mile behind Sam, who’s in a large-ish grey van (grey, because grey vans are slightly less obviously trying to be nondescript than white ones). It’s just gone half past two in the morning, so technically they got Castiel the day before yesterday, although thinking about it makes Dean’s head hurt because he’s already had three Red Bulls since they began driving, and even though he slept through most of the day today, he’s still pretty damn exhausted. And they’re not even halfway yet.
And he really, really needs to piss.
They left the apartment at just after midnight, driving in silence for half an hour and arriving just outside the state border, where they waited for a bit (nearly 25 minutes in the end ’cause the other dude was late), and then when the guy finally arrived with the van, Sam got into it and Dean started tailing him, so that when they reach the other end and give the van over to another dude (and it’s around this point that Dean starts to stop caring because his head hurts), Dean can drive Sam back to the apartment and they’re not stranded in the middle of nowhere. It’s the same thing they’ve been doing for Divinity for the last six months, and it’s boring as hell.
When Sam had gotten back from the library this afternoon, he didn’t even mention the bruise that’s forming on Castiel’s left cheek - he’d been too busy gushing about Madison, who, in typical Sam style, he’s fallen for completely and won’t shut up about. Dean found it cute. (Although he’d never admit it, so you’d better not tell anyone either, or I’ll get in trouble for telling you, and there’s no telling what Dean would do to me if his manliness was in question, and I’d rather not wait around to find out. So keep schtum.) He was just glad that he didn’t have to come up with some excuse for Castiel’s latest injury. ‘He tripped and hit his head’ just doesn’t quite cut it.
Dean spent most of the rest of the day in his room. So he’s had plenty of time to think over what had happened this morning, looking for clues as to why he backed out like he did. It just doesn’t make any sense, that’s what bothers him. He’s Dean Winchester, he hardly ever concedes a fight, and his temper is the stuff of legend when aroused, so why did he back out, why didn’t he press home his advantage, take out all his anger and frustration on the one thing that couldn’t hit back? He doesn’t randomly ‘just not feel cross anymore’. Nor does he really feel pity all that much (he trained himself out of that long ago) - if someone openly shows fear, he just feels contempt and mild disgust, not actual pity, and certainly not enough to stop him from doing what he was going to do anyway. So it can’t have been the fear in Castiel’s eyes that stayed his hand.
He replays the scene again in his head, scrutinizing every detail, and when he’s done and he still has jack, he’s just starting to get really frustrated when his phone rings, and it’s Sam.
“Eyes on the road, man. You’re wavering all over the place.”
Dean yawns and attempts to get his car (and his brain) back under control. “Will do. Hey, do you know if there are any service stations around here?”
“Yeah, I think there’s one in a couple of miles, actually. You want to stop?”
Dean pauses for a beat. On the one hand, stopping really isn’t part of what they’re meant to be doing on this job, and they’ve never done it before, and he has the kind of feeling that Alastair might not be too impressed. On the other hand, he’s never actually forbidden them from stopping, and anyway, right now his bladder’s so desperate to be emptied that he kind of doesn’t give a shit about facing Alastair’s possible wrath later, so maybe it’s okay.
“Yeah.”
Sam doesn’t say anything for a second; Dean can hear him breathing down the phone. It sounds like a bear, and for a really crazy moment that tells Dean there’s a possibility he’s high on caffeine, Dean wonders idly whether Yogi popped by and ate his little brother.
“You sure that’s a good idea? I mean, can’t you wait until we’ve made the drop and started heading back home?” No, that’s definitely Sam, as opposed to a bear in a hat and tie.
“Not happening,” Dean says. “This man needs to go now.”
“Okay,” sighs Sam. “We’ll pull over in a few.”
It turns out to be another twenty miles before they reach the service station, so when they finally pull over and reach a stop, Dean’s out the car and hurrying to the toilets as fast as he can while still preserving his dignity.
The toilets are, predictably, disgusting, so he tries to keep his eyes averted from the most unpleasant parts, and not inhale too deeply, because it smells unmistakably of man-piss, the type of stench that hits the back of your throat running and immediately triggers your gag reflex.
“Aw, man, that is so not cool,” he mutters to himself, finishing up and trying not to touch anything as he does so. This is the kind of place that feels like it’s just swimming in deadly bacteria, and although Dean’s not exactly a clean-freak, it’d be kinda ironic if an illness got him rather than a bullet. Although at the moment, it feels more likely that Castiel will be the death of him.
Castiel … Goddammit, why the hell can’t he go five minutes without thinking about him? It’s getting freaky - he never usually thinks about anyone this much, not even a hookup he had a particularly great night with.
It’s probably just because he’s unused to dealing with slaves, Dean thinks as he washes his hands, his mind wandering back to this morning’s events. Hell, he’s hardly ever really been around slaves - let alone an angel - so it’s understandable that he doesn’t know how to treat them, doesn’t know how he should behave around them. The only slave he’s ever really come into contact with for any length of time was Ruby, and he never particularly paid attention to how Ellen treated her. Well, he sure is regretting that now. He never thought that one would come back to bite him in the ass.
If he thinks back, he can remember Ellen complaining periodically about how much of a handful Ruby could be - apparently, she had a bit of an attitude, but surely nothing like what Castiel displayed this morning, or Ellen would’ve sold Ruby off pretty speedily, rather than waiting for something to go wrong? Because Dean doesn’t have to be an expert with slaves to know that Castiel was way out of line, although not as far off the reservation as Ruby was when she attacked Sam - what she did was malicious: she actually intended to seriously injure Sam, maybe even kill him, and she did in fact succeed in hurting him quite a bit. And something tells Dean that Castiel didn’t plan on killing him this morning.
He shakes that thought away, because he doesn’t know where it was going and he’s not sure if he wants to know. He looks up at himself in the cracked mirror over the sink, wondering when he lost his edge. Sure, he was distracted this morning, but Castiel was chained to the goddamn wall, he never should have been able to overpower Dean. And yet, somehow, he managed it. Kinda gotta respect a guy who can pull a stunt like that.
Dean blinks. Respect. He … respects Castiel. Surely that can’t be right? Castiel’s an object, a belonging, a slave, not something to be thought of as a person worthy of any particular feelings other than, maybe, mild displeasure - but respect? He must’ve gotten that one wrong. He must be reading the signs upside-down, or something. There’s no way he respects Castiel. Ellen Harvelle, sure, but that’s only because she’s damn scary. Crowley, yeah, he’s a dick but he’s good at what he does.
But then he remembers the power behind Castiel’s words when he told Dean that he would fight him. He remembers the anger in the other man’s eyes, and the strength with which he pushed Dean into that wall.
‘You should show me some respect.’
Maybe respect isn’t so far-fetched, after all.
He glares at his reflection. “You are so screwed.”