Code Name: Castiel
Title: Code Name: Castiel (Chapter One)
Fandom: Supernatural
Pairing: Castiel/Dean Winchester
Rating: NC-17 (eventually)
Word Count: 2,304
Summary: The first time Dean sees Castiel, he thinks he's come to rescue him. In which Castiel is a BAMF secret agent with a plan and Dean is the Bonnie to his Clyde. Eventually, anyway, after he gets over the whole being held captive against his will thing.
A.N: This is a LONG WIP. So bare with me here people. Also, a million thanks to my beta, cymbalism219
"I'm not comfortable with assigning this mission to him."
"I didn't ask if you were comfortable with it, Uriel."
"Yes, but--"
"Do you want to know why I didn't ask?"
"I'm fairly certain I already know."
"I didn't ask, because I don't care. Your comfort level has no baring whatsoever on my decision-making process. If you value your position, you will do well to remember that."
"Anael, if you would just consider how close he has come to the subject of his investigation, I'm sure you would agree that Castiel isn't the right man for this mission. I can think of a half dozen other AOTL operatives who would be much better suited to the task."
"This conversation is finished. If you have a problem with that, why don't you take it up with Micheal. I'm sure he would be thrilled to hear all about it."
*
The first time Dean sees Castiel, he thinks he's come to rescue him.
Of course, Dean doesn't know it was Castiel at the time. He doesn’t find that out until much, much later. At the time the man who would turn out to be Castiel was no more than a sum of his parts: bright blue eyes, a mass of tangled hair and lips set in a line of grim determination. But Dean’s heart had leaped nonetheless, certain that this man was the glimmer of hope he had been waiting for, come crashing through the door like some sort of avenging angel, ready to risk everything to raise him from the pit of hell he had found himself in.
That feeling had hardly lasted a minute, hope ground out of him in the time it took for Castiel to clasp Alastair on the shoulder and for Alastair to smile in return, but it was there. And, despite everything else that happened afterward, Dean could never quite forget it. That blinding sense of rightness, that ridiculous spike of joy, that coursed through him when Castiel slammed into the room.
*
The absence of pain confuses him. He ought to hurt, ought to feel that bone-deep ache. The pain has been his constant companion for the last four months and not feeling it now is wrong in ways that he can't quite understand. Dean blinks rapidly as the world swims back into focus, and his confusion only doubles at the sight of the clean, white walls surrounding him.
“Where am I?” he tries to say, but the words come out garbled, a broken croak that makes his throat burn. He turns his head to the side, cheek pressing into the soft fluffiness of a pillow and his eyes catch sight of an IV bag. He follows the line down and isn’t at all surprised to find it attached to his wrist. A hospital? he thinks, then quickly rejects the idea. The room is missing the sharp scent of disinfectant that permeates the air in hospitals.
Dean shifts, rolling onto his side with a groan. Pain stabs through him and he welcomes it like an old friend. His new viewpoint allows him to look out the small window, but it reveals nothing about his location. He hears a machine whirl into life, emitting a strange combination of clicks and beeps. Then warmth steals across his body, taking the pain away and leaving an irresistible drowsiness in its wake.
He fights to keep his eyes open, even has his jaw splits wide with a yawn.
"No," he mumbles, tossing his head like that will keep the drugs from doing their job. "No." But his body doesn't listen to his mind and everything goes dark.
*
When Dean wakes again, he's treated to bright blue eyes and a furrowed brow studying him with an intensity that makes Dean's stomach cramp.
"See something you like," he quips. The words come out more coherent than his last attempt, but are still full of broken constants and tortured vowels, leaving his throat aching like he just swallowed cut glass.
"No."
The voice is warm, thick like honey, but rough. Dean shivers in response, and then laughs to cover it up. "Well doesn't that just put me in my place," he replies, coughing a bit at the end.
"Here." The man twists and picks up a cup with one of those long, bendy straws. He brings the cup towards Dean, then holds it steady, using one of his hands to lift the end of the straw to Dean's lips. Dean's eyes linger on the other man's fingers, long and dexterous. "Drink."
The words snap Dean out of the fog his mind has slipped into. He contemplates refusing, but then realizes what a dumb-ass move that would be. Still, he can't help the huff of indignation that escapes him before his lips close around the tip of the straw. He sucks, swallows and sends a silent prayer of thanks up when the cold water coats his throat, soothing away the ache.
"That's enough," the man says, taking the cup away before Dean has had anywhere near his fill. The douche even has the gall to be amused when Dean protests, his eyes crinkling and the barest hint of a smile softening his mouth.
"I hate you," Dean mutters, feeling like a twelve-year-old.
The almost-there smile drops from the man's face, leaving an empty expression in its wake. "That does not surprise me, Dean."
Dean opens his mouth to ask how he knows his name, but then snaps it shut again instantly. Of course this man knows his name. He is the one who took him from Alastair. And by the end of his stay with Alastair the bastard had known everything there was to know about Dean.
Dean closes his eyes, suddenly bone weary. "Are you the good cop, then?" he asks around the lump of disgust that's lodged itself in his throat. "Because, I swear, I told the bad cop everything I know."
"I am not a cop, good or otherwise. And I am well aware of everything you told Alastair."
Dean's eyes pop open at the anger in the other man's voice. "He’s not on your good list at the moment, I take it?"
"No."
Dean snorts. "If you are angling for the enemy of my enemy tack, don’t bother. I saw the two of you together. Looked mighty friendly from where I was sitting."
The man pins him with another of those searching looks Dean, the ones that make it feel like he can see into Dean’s soul. Dean feels awkward under the weight of that stare and clears his throat. He instantly regrets it as he is seized by a coughing fit.
"We have talked enough for the time being." The man shifts on Dean's bed, hands hunting through the tangle of sheets and blankets. He lets out a triumphant noise as he holds up a small, white piece of plastic with a button on it. “Rest now,” he says and he pushes the button.
Dean feels a rush of warmth and snarls. He tries to resist, but drugs are too powerful and his body too weak. "I hate you," he says again, his words barely a whisper.
"Again, I am well aware."
There is a blatant unhappiness in the man's voice that tugs at Dean as he shifts from awareness into sleep.
*
Dean wakes from dreams filled with blood and pain feeling sick to his stomach. He groans, not wanting to return to them, but not wanting to be awake either.
"Good morning, Dean."
Dean startles, snapping fully awake in an instant. He scowls up into those unearthly blue eyes. "Dude, has anyone told you it's creepy to watch people sleep?"
The man blinks at him, his cheeks going slightly pink. “I was merely observing you to make sure you were well.”
“Sure you were, Creepy McCreepypants."
The color disappears from the man’s face and his lips compress into a thin line. "That is not my name."
"Oh really?" Dean gives him an innocent look. "I could have sworn it was. Huh."
He gets a scowl in return. "You may call me Castiel when you need to address me."
"Castiel McCreepypants. Got it."
Castiel's eyes flash. "McCreeypants is not part of my name."
Dean fluffs his pillow a little. "I bet it’s as much your name as Castiel is."
"Castiel is the name I answer to," Castiel says tightly.
"But it wasn't the name your mama gave you, now was it?" Dean narrows his eyes at Castiel. "Give me a little credit, why don't you? I figured you were part of DMON, same as Alastair, but with a code name like Castiel, I'm guessing it's AOTL, right?"
Castiel inclines his head. "You’re correct in your assumption."
"Right. Castiel McCreepypants, Champion King of Starers, it is. Hey, want to tell me when the AOTL started working with DMON? Thought you guys got on like the Hatfields and Mccoys."
“Do not call me that.”
“Just going to ignore my question then?” Dean asks. He gets nothing but a blank face in reply. “Fine. I’ll ask another one, maybe you’ll like it better.” Dean shifts on the bed, trying to find a more comfortable spot. “You AOTLs, always so high and mighty, bringing ‘justice’ to the world. Think you’re better than the rest of us because you’re following quote unquote a higher calling.”
Dean rolls his eyes. “But, see, the higher ground? It doesn’t get the job done, does it? So I’ve got this theory, and I’d like your opinion on it, Mr. You May Call Me Castiel. It goes something like this: you AOTL bastards keep your pretty little fingers clean by contracting out the nasty bits of the job to DMON on the sly. Not that you aren’t dicks in your own right, god knows you are, but you do love to point out how much worse they are about it. But do you ever go after them? ‘Cleanse the world’ of their stank or whatever it is you call it? No. Because someone's got to crack the tough nuts. Someone’s got to be able to stomach the cruel and unusual side of things. And lord knows that someone would never, ever be an AOTL operative. But contracting it out to DMON, who you already think are the untouchables of the IW age. Well that would make perfect sense in AOTL’s fucked up little world.” Dean shakes his head. “Bet you don’t lose any sleep over it at all, do you? After all, you AOTL boys pride yourselves on making the best use of all the tools in your toolbox, don’t you?”
Castiel just sits there, his face as smooth as a fresh piece of printer paper. Dean licks his dry lips and lets the silences stretch.
“You are entitled to your opinion, no matter how misinformed it may be,” Castiel finally replies, his voice prim and disapproving.
“Misinformed?” he gives Castiel a pitying look. “I am one of the best damn Hunters out there, which you already know or you wouldn’t have invited me over for the slumber party. I am very rarely misinformed.”
Castiel narrows his eyes a bit. “You sufferer from a lack of faith, Dean Winchester.”
“And you suffer from uptight-asshole-itist.”
"If you continue with this nonsense, I will leave."
Dean snorts. "Go right ahead, you highness. Ain't no one around here going to be sad to see the back of you. Fucking AOTL bastard."
"I can see why Alastair was so careless with you," Castiel replies, his face blank, but his eyes glowing with indignation. "I am starting to feel as though I owe the man an apology."
Dean gives him his best bitch-face. "Is that your way of saying you'd like to try your hand at a few of that fucker's games?"
The bastard has the nerve to smile at him. "No, Dean. That is not what I'm saying." His eyes flick up and down Dean's body in a way that is downright possessive. "I have much more important things to do with you than that."
Dean's stomach goes hollow and he blanches. "Seriously? I got rescued by an even bigger freak? Just my god damn luck."
Castiel steps closer, his hand held out in denial. "No. Whatever you are thinking, you are wrong. My mission is not to harm you. Quite the opposite, in fact."
"Yeah, because the top brass at AOTL just love me. Pull the other one, why don't you?"
"Pull the other what?"
Dean closes his eyes and lets out a long, drawn out sigh. "And he doesn't have a sense of humor, either. Just peachy."
There is the scrape of wood on wood and Dean opens his eyes to see Castiel sitting in the chair next to his bed, his clasped hands dangling between his knees and a look of concentration on his face. "You have no reason to be afraid, Dean," he says, his voice lowering an octave. "It is essential to my mission to restore you to your peak physical condition."
"And your mission is paramount," Dean says bitterly. "Yeah, yeah, I know. You AOTL guys are all the same. 'My mission this' and 'my mission that' and damn anything that gets in your way."
"I understand your bitterness, Dean. Your previous experiences with AOTL have not been what anyone would classify as pleasant. But be that as it may, you must believe that no harm will come to you while you're under my care."
Dean turns his head away, hand fumbling for the button that will send him back to sleep. "Yeah, sure," he says as his thumb depresses it.
Castiel starts to say something else, but the warmth of the drugs has already flooded Dean's body and he can't find it in him to figure out what the other man's words might mean.
Fandom: Supernatural
Pairing: Castiel/Dean Winchester
Rating: NC-17 (eventually)
Word Count: 2,304
Summary: The first time Dean sees Castiel, he thinks he's come to rescue him. In which Castiel is a BAMF secret agent with a plan and Dean is the Bonnie to his Clyde. Eventually, anyway, after he gets over the whole being held captive against his will thing.
A.N: This is a LONG WIP. So bare with me here people. Also, a million thanks to my beta, cymbalism219
"I'm not comfortable with assigning this mission to him."
"I didn't ask if you were comfortable with it, Uriel."
"Yes, but--"
"Do you want to know why I didn't ask?"
"I'm fairly certain I already know."
"I didn't ask, because I don't care. Your comfort level has no baring whatsoever on my decision-making process. If you value your position, you will do well to remember that."
"Anael, if you would just consider how close he has come to the subject of his investigation, I'm sure you would agree that Castiel isn't the right man for this mission. I can think of a half dozen other AOTL operatives who would be much better suited to the task."
"This conversation is finished. If you have a problem with that, why don't you take it up with Micheal. I'm sure he would be thrilled to hear all about it."
*
The first time Dean sees Castiel, he thinks he's come to rescue him.
Of course, Dean doesn't know it was Castiel at the time. He doesn’t find that out until much, much later. At the time the man who would turn out to be Castiel was no more than a sum of his parts: bright blue eyes, a mass of tangled hair and lips set in a line of grim determination. But Dean’s heart had leaped nonetheless, certain that this man was the glimmer of hope he had been waiting for, come crashing through the door like some sort of avenging angel, ready to risk everything to raise him from the pit of hell he had found himself in.
That feeling had hardly lasted a minute, hope ground out of him in the time it took for Castiel to clasp Alastair on the shoulder and for Alastair to smile in return, but it was there. And, despite everything else that happened afterward, Dean could never quite forget it. That blinding sense of rightness, that ridiculous spike of joy, that coursed through him when Castiel slammed into the room.
*
The absence of pain confuses him. He ought to hurt, ought to feel that bone-deep ache. The pain has been his constant companion for the last four months and not feeling it now is wrong in ways that he can't quite understand. Dean blinks rapidly as the world swims back into focus, and his confusion only doubles at the sight of the clean, white walls surrounding him.
“Where am I?” he tries to say, but the words come out garbled, a broken croak that makes his throat burn. He turns his head to the side, cheek pressing into the soft fluffiness of a pillow and his eyes catch sight of an IV bag. He follows the line down and isn’t at all surprised to find it attached to his wrist. A hospital? he thinks, then quickly rejects the idea. The room is missing the sharp scent of disinfectant that permeates the air in hospitals.
Dean shifts, rolling onto his side with a groan. Pain stabs through him and he welcomes it like an old friend. His new viewpoint allows him to look out the small window, but it reveals nothing about his location. He hears a machine whirl into life, emitting a strange combination of clicks and beeps. Then warmth steals across his body, taking the pain away and leaving an irresistible drowsiness in its wake.
He fights to keep his eyes open, even has his jaw splits wide with a yawn.
"No," he mumbles, tossing his head like that will keep the drugs from doing their job. "No." But his body doesn't listen to his mind and everything goes dark.
*
When Dean wakes again, he's treated to bright blue eyes and a furrowed brow studying him with an intensity that makes Dean's stomach cramp.
"See something you like," he quips. The words come out more coherent than his last attempt, but are still full of broken constants and tortured vowels, leaving his throat aching like he just swallowed cut glass.
"No."
The voice is warm, thick like honey, but rough. Dean shivers in response, and then laughs to cover it up. "Well doesn't that just put me in my place," he replies, coughing a bit at the end.
"Here." The man twists and picks up a cup with one of those long, bendy straws. He brings the cup towards Dean, then holds it steady, using one of his hands to lift the end of the straw to Dean's lips. Dean's eyes linger on the other man's fingers, long and dexterous. "Drink."
The words snap Dean out of the fog his mind has slipped into. He contemplates refusing, but then realizes what a dumb-ass move that would be. Still, he can't help the huff of indignation that escapes him before his lips close around the tip of the straw. He sucks, swallows and sends a silent prayer of thanks up when the cold water coats his throat, soothing away the ache.
"That's enough," the man says, taking the cup away before Dean has had anywhere near his fill. The douche even has the gall to be amused when Dean protests, his eyes crinkling and the barest hint of a smile softening his mouth.
"I hate you," Dean mutters, feeling like a twelve-year-old.
The almost-there smile drops from the man's face, leaving an empty expression in its wake. "That does not surprise me, Dean."
Dean opens his mouth to ask how he knows his name, but then snaps it shut again instantly. Of course this man knows his name. He is the one who took him from Alastair. And by the end of his stay with Alastair the bastard had known everything there was to know about Dean.
Dean closes his eyes, suddenly bone weary. "Are you the good cop, then?" he asks around the lump of disgust that's lodged itself in his throat. "Because, I swear, I told the bad cop everything I know."
"I am not a cop, good or otherwise. And I am well aware of everything you told Alastair."
Dean's eyes pop open at the anger in the other man's voice. "He’s not on your good list at the moment, I take it?"
"No."
Dean snorts. "If you are angling for the enemy of my enemy tack, don’t bother. I saw the two of you together. Looked mighty friendly from where I was sitting."
The man pins him with another of those searching looks Dean, the ones that make it feel like he can see into Dean’s soul. Dean feels awkward under the weight of that stare and clears his throat. He instantly regrets it as he is seized by a coughing fit.
"We have talked enough for the time being." The man shifts on Dean's bed, hands hunting through the tangle of sheets and blankets. He lets out a triumphant noise as he holds up a small, white piece of plastic with a button on it. “Rest now,” he says and he pushes the button.
Dean feels a rush of warmth and snarls. He tries to resist, but drugs are too powerful and his body too weak. "I hate you," he says again, his words barely a whisper.
"Again, I am well aware."
There is a blatant unhappiness in the man's voice that tugs at Dean as he shifts from awareness into sleep.
*
Dean wakes from dreams filled with blood and pain feeling sick to his stomach. He groans, not wanting to return to them, but not wanting to be awake either.
"Good morning, Dean."
Dean startles, snapping fully awake in an instant. He scowls up into those unearthly blue eyes. "Dude, has anyone told you it's creepy to watch people sleep?"
The man blinks at him, his cheeks going slightly pink. “I was merely observing you to make sure you were well.”
“Sure you were, Creepy McCreepypants."
The color disappears from the man’s face and his lips compress into a thin line. "That is not my name."
"Oh really?" Dean gives him an innocent look. "I could have sworn it was. Huh."
He gets a scowl in return. "You may call me Castiel when you need to address me."
"Castiel McCreepypants. Got it."
Castiel's eyes flash. "McCreeypants is not part of my name."
Dean fluffs his pillow a little. "I bet it’s as much your name as Castiel is."
"Castiel is the name I answer to," Castiel says tightly.
"But it wasn't the name your mama gave you, now was it?" Dean narrows his eyes at Castiel. "Give me a little credit, why don't you? I figured you were part of DMON, same as Alastair, but with a code name like Castiel, I'm guessing it's AOTL, right?"
Castiel inclines his head. "You’re correct in your assumption."
"Right. Castiel McCreepypants, Champion King of Starers, it is. Hey, want to tell me when the AOTL started working with DMON? Thought you guys got on like the Hatfields and Mccoys."
“Do not call me that.”
“Just going to ignore my question then?” Dean asks. He gets nothing but a blank face in reply. “Fine. I’ll ask another one, maybe you’ll like it better.” Dean shifts on the bed, trying to find a more comfortable spot. “You AOTLs, always so high and mighty, bringing ‘justice’ to the world. Think you’re better than the rest of us because you’re following quote unquote a higher calling.”
Dean rolls his eyes. “But, see, the higher ground? It doesn’t get the job done, does it? So I’ve got this theory, and I’d like your opinion on it, Mr. You May Call Me Castiel. It goes something like this: you AOTL bastards keep your pretty little fingers clean by contracting out the nasty bits of the job to DMON on the sly. Not that you aren’t dicks in your own right, god knows you are, but you do love to point out how much worse they are about it. But do you ever go after them? ‘Cleanse the world’ of their stank or whatever it is you call it? No. Because someone's got to crack the tough nuts. Someone’s got to be able to stomach the cruel and unusual side of things. And lord knows that someone would never, ever be an AOTL operative. But contracting it out to DMON, who you already think are the untouchables of the IW age. Well that would make perfect sense in AOTL’s fucked up little world.” Dean shakes his head. “Bet you don’t lose any sleep over it at all, do you? After all, you AOTL boys pride yourselves on making the best use of all the tools in your toolbox, don’t you?”
Castiel just sits there, his face as smooth as a fresh piece of printer paper. Dean licks his dry lips and lets the silences stretch.
“You are entitled to your opinion, no matter how misinformed it may be,” Castiel finally replies, his voice prim and disapproving.
“Misinformed?” he gives Castiel a pitying look. “I am one of the best damn Hunters out there, which you already know or you wouldn’t have invited me over for the slumber party. I am very rarely misinformed.”
Castiel narrows his eyes a bit. “You sufferer from a lack of faith, Dean Winchester.”
“And you suffer from uptight-asshole-itist.”
"If you continue with this nonsense, I will leave."
Dean snorts. "Go right ahead, you highness. Ain't no one around here going to be sad to see the back of you. Fucking AOTL bastard."
"I can see why Alastair was so careless with you," Castiel replies, his face blank, but his eyes glowing with indignation. "I am starting to feel as though I owe the man an apology."
Dean gives him his best bitch-face. "Is that your way of saying you'd like to try your hand at a few of that fucker's games?"
The bastard has the nerve to smile at him. "No, Dean. That is not what I'm saying." His eyes flick up and down Dean's body in a way that is downright possessive. "I have much more important things to do with you than that."
Dean's stomach goes hollow and he blanches. "Seriously? I got rescued by an even bigger freak? Just my god damn luck."
Castiel steps closer, his hand held out in denial. "No. Whatever you are thinking, you are wrong. My mission is not to harm you. Quite the opposite, in fact."
"Yeah, because the top brass at AOTL just love me. Pull the other one, why don't you?"
"Pull the other what?"
Dean closes his eyes and lets out a long, drawn out sigh. "And he doesn't have a sense of humor, either. Just peachy."
There is the scrape of wood on wood and Dean opens his eyes to see Castiel sitting in the chair next to his bed, his clasped hands dangling between his knees and a look of concentration on his face. "You have no reason to be afraid, Dean," he says, his voice lowering an octave. "It is essential to my mission to restore you to your peak physical condition."
"And your mission is paramount," Dean says bitterly. "Yeah, yeah, I know. You AOTL guys are all the same. 'My mission this' and 'my mission that' and damn anything that gets in your way."
"I understand your bitterness, Dean. Your previous experiences with AOTL have not been what anyone would classify as pleasant. But be that as it may, you must believe that no harm will come to you while you're under my care."
Dean turns his head away, hand fumbling for the button that will send him back to sleep. "Yeah, sure," he says as his thumb depresses it.
Castiel starts to say something else, but the warmth of the drugs has already flooded Dean's body and he can't find it in him to figure out what the other man's words might mean.