Habeus Corpus Chapter 1
Title: Habeus Corpus Chapter 1
Author: primipassi
Rating: NC-17
Genre and/or Pairing: Dean/Castiel, possibly some very light Sam/Gabriel
Spoilers: None
Warnings: Graphic descriptions of blood and gore, copious amounts of angst (though comic relief pops up often), AU, graphic descriptions of sex in later chapters
Disclaimer: I do not own these extraordinary characters.
Word Count: 5,664
Summary: Dean's past comes back to drag him to his Hell, but it doesn't turn out the way he hoped. With things seemingly having taken a turn for the worst, Dean does the only thing he knows how to do. Judge Novak, a man with an eerie past of his own, finds himself intertwined with the Winchester, be it against his will, or not. Many mysteries are uncovered as the two begin to turn to each other to escape their demons.
Castiel stacked the papers on his desk with nicety, and let out a sigh that belied his seemingly untiring demeanor. He leaned back and stared at the white sheets of paper in an almost-daze as the orange sunset fell through the slated gray shades on the window to his left, casting half his face in shadow, and the other in washed-out tangerine.
His hands grasped the papers and straightened them once more, despite the fact that he had already done so once. It was a matter of habit - always making sure everything was perfect. Some people considered that something that would fetter a person down. Castiel, however, believed that the people who shunned such habits were probably, hypocritically, on the other side of the OCD spectrum, and most likely were a step below respectful.
He glanced up wearily when he heard the door knob to his office turn, the beige and tan painted wood creeping open as though the person behind it were unsure as to whether or not they wanted to enter the room. That was just how Chuck was, though. Castiel sympathized with the assistant, knowing that Chuck was the type of guy that looked nervous in any situation that involved interacting. Which would explain why he was always a sputtering, fidgeting mess around Castiel, whose intense gaze, and no non-sense vibe could probably scare off every cute animal in a ten mile radius.
Chuck fumbled with a file in his hand as he trekked towards Castiel like he was trying to avoid getting his hand bitten off whilst feeding a bear. Castiel raised an eyebrow as he approached, more than a little amused, though his face otherwise remained unchanged, making it hard to tell. Chuck opened his mouth and closed it, before opening it up again to finally speak,
“W-we just got a new case for you to glance over, sir,” he stumbled over his words in haste, and held the manila folder out to Castiel. Castiel nodded, taking the folder before looking back up to Chuck,
“Thank you, Chuck, you are dismissed for this evening,” Castiel instructed, and Chuck grinned gratefully,
“Thank you, Judge Novak, see you on Monday,” Chuck proclaimed, and unclasped his hands, wiping the perspiration that had condensed there onto his pants before leaving the room - standing so straight that Castiel could tell he was trying much too hard. When the door shut behind the dark haired male, Castiel chuckled, before opening the file that now laid in the center of his mahogany desk. His gaze first fell upon the mug shot of the man.
Castiel stopped, staring intently at the picture. The man's intense green eyes glowered out from the Polaroid in a fashion that made Castiel feel as though he had given that look specifically to Castiel. It seemed almost demeaning, and Castiel felt himself swallow. It didn't help that this man was quite the opposite of homely. In fact, if Castiel were to have seen him on the street, he would have thought the man to be drop-dead gorgeous.
Castiel tore his gaze away from the man, releasing a breath he had unknowingly held in, in favor of looking at the rest of the file.
The man's name was Dean Winchester, he was just barely six foot, and had just turned twenty about a week before. Castiel glanced over to his history, which consisted of a small number of intrusions on private property and one case of a DUI, though Castiel had the feeling there were many other small things that Dean had managed to conceal.
He had a younger brother, so it seemed, who was 15 years old, and Castiel felt a piece of his rock hard shell melt. He had a fleeting second of hope that perhaps if Dean managed to get out of this unscathed, they would be able to go out for a coffee. Castiel had seen cases where a person tried to provide for their siblings, and winded up getting caught.
However, all hope vanished, the armor around his feelings solidifying back into its' original place once he came to what one Mr. Dean Winchester was being tried for.
Murder in the first degree.
Castiel's throat tightened, and he gazed at Dean's mug shot once more out of the corner of his eye. He tried to convince himself that there was nothing else behind Dean's chilling look, but it was pointless. There was something in the depths of his eyes that made Castiel shiver, and yearn for nothing more than to be back in his own apartment, all his windows and doors locked down tightly. He wasn't necessarily scared of the man as much as he was scared of what the man was doing to his emotions.
Castiel slammed the case file shut, and for a second, he heard a voice inside his head screaming out to open it back up - feel that intense green stare bore into him until every piece of his armor evaporated.
Castiel shook the thoughts from his mind, taking a deep breath before he stood abruptly up, his wheeled chair coming to a stop a fair distance from its originally designated spot. Castiel took another breath, before he made haste, shoving the chair back under the desk, and grabbing his bag. He shut the door to his office with a din muted by the felted frame work.
He made his way around the empty cubicles, shrugging on his blue sweater that hung just outside the dimly lit foyer of the building, which was adjoined to the Court House. Castiel slung his bag over his shoulder and reached for the door. He hesitated, but mentally chastised himself for becoming so worked up as he numbly walked out the door, locking it behind him.
He turned to the sight of the usual evening rush of New York concourse. He shoved his hands into his pockets, and plunged into the crowd, maneuvering around slower people with practiced ease.
His studio apartment was about three blocks away from the office, though one of them was a back road that went much quicker than Main Street, which had a torrential onslaught of people that made weaving through crowds practically impossible.
However, today, he debated taking the slow way around.
Smoke floated across the desolate by-way from a nearby manhole, making everything much harder to see. He squinted, and then mentally smacked himself, rolling his eyes. He was getting so antsy - and over what? Some picture of a guy with an intimidating look? He had taken part in numerous cases of which the likes of the convicted could have made a championship boxer cower and tremble in fear. Yet, here he was, eyes darting around every time a bag shuttered from the wind in his peripheral vision, or a squirrel bolted out from behind a dumpster.
He was acting as though he were being stalked. Which was ridiculous, because he most definitely was not. If there was one thing Castiel was most indefinitely, it was perceptive, and this was no different.
At least that was what he was telling himself as he bull-headedly waltzed down the side road - as though he were making a point that was aimed more towards himself than anyone else.
However, someone else did see. They had been following Castiel for a few days, learning his schedule well like a child learns the bible in catholic school. He was waiting in the shadows as he watched the man come closer and closer to his hiding place. He had to contain a chuckle at how obvious it was that this Castiel - rumored to be so emotionless and impenetrable - was now effectively freaked out.
When Castiel was just out of arms reach, the man slipped out of the shadows, and behind him, casting his own shadow over the smaller framed man.
Castiel froze, and the other man knew what was coming, all too easily pulling Castiel's back against his chest and pressing a chemical soaked rag over his mouth. Castiel struggled, clawing at his attacker's arms, trying to get away, but the arms were locked around him with no hope of being dislodged.
Instinctively, Castiel tried to scream, inadvertently breathing in a plethora of intoxicating chemicals that made him suddenly feel increasingly sleepy, and jello-like. The man held his strong grip on Castiel until all the fight faded from his lithe body, and Castiel went completely limp in his arms.
The man pulled the cloth away from the judge's face, shoving it into one of his pockets. He picked the man up bridal style, and walked back down the alley way, sticking like glue to the shadows. He looked down at Castiel's face, and bit his lip,
“Sorry, beautiful, but it had to be done,” he muttered, though he knew no one could hear.
He looked up, sharp green eyes piercing through the darkness like a knife.
~
one week earlier
Dean attempted to relax as he sat in the old, shabby recliner of a motel. He was leaning forwards, elbows on his knees and hands clasped to hold up his chin. His lips clenched together nervously, and he pulled his thumbs up out of the vise like grip to rest on either side of his face.
All the windows were shut firmly, and the door that was just down the hallway in his line of view was locked. He turned slightly to glance over his shoulder at Sam's form laying on the bed in a deep drug induced sleep.
Dean had slipped a sleeping drug into his coke while they were out partying. It had been a struggle to enjoy the festivities knowing that it was his last birthday. He and Sam would probably never see each other again after this.
Grief rippled though him painfully as he watched his brother sleeping, chest rising and falling peacefully. He would miss his brother so much - but he had made a deal, and he couldn't run away from the likes of 'him'. The one he'd made the deal with.
The man (if that's even what he was) literally had eyes and ears everywhere, and the one time Dean had tried to find a way to kill 'him', or at least run out from under his radar, he'd ended up in a whore house called The Devil's Playpen (or, more formally known as Hell). While he didn't remember much about that experience during the daylight hours, dozens of unwanted memories came in bursts of color and pain in the darkest of his slumbers.
Needless to say, he couldn't run from it, and he certainly wasn't going to risk Sam getting hurt.
He turned back to the door when he heard a rapping at it, and swallowed nervously. He stood shakily from his seat, and reached the door in what seemed like it could have been both two seconds and an eternity. He looked out the peep hole, even though he knew who it was.
Azazel stood calmly outside the door, bright eyes almost glowing in nature. It made Dean feel on edge. He hesitated - maybe he could just kill him now? No one would know, as long as he covered his tracks, and got out of town.
It wasn't a risk Dean wanted to take. Sure, he'd killed his fair share of wackos who thought it would be a good idea to mess with him or his brother, but they'd been off the grid and without relationships - not to mention stupid. Azazel was quite the opposite. He was the kind of insane, yet extremely smart type that was never to be underestimated. He'd done his homework on the man, and knew that even when he was tried for something, he somehow found a way out of it every time.
He was like a phantom - un-catchable.
Dean shook his head, pulling the door open and letting it swing slowly open, coming face to face with the man who would bring the end of his life as he knew it. He felt guilty about leaving Sam on his own, but his little brother had gotten lucky enough to make a couple friends in the city. They were really good people, and Sam would be safe with them, of that, Dean was most certain.
Dean looked up to Azazel, feeling his gut twinge in annoyance at that ever present smirk on the man's face. He hadn't missed that smirk.
Azazel eyed him, and then slowly moved inside the room, motioning for Dean to close the door behind him. Dean did so, securing the lock on the door, just in case. He turned around to fix Azazel with a steady gaze,
“Azazel,” he nodded to the man, his voice even and unfeeling. Azazel's grin widened, and he looked Dean up and down,
“Dean, you grew up so well for us!” Azazel sung, and Dean cringed internally. He knew he was attractive, and maybe if he wasn't always dirty from his job down at the car repair shop, he'd have his own fan club following him around everywhere.
Rarely a day went by that someone - male or female - didn't try to slip him their number. While Dean enjoyed the attention, and sometimes, when he really needed to get away for a while, he'd take up on an offer, he knew that good looks are as easily a curse as they are a blessing.
In this case, they would be more like the curse that would lead him to his living hell. Dean swallowed,
“Thank you,” he said dryly, and coughed, trying to cover up his hoarse throat for being simply caused by the dry air. Azazel raised an eyebrow in gross amusement, and he saw something in Azazel's eyes that told Dean that there was nothing he could hide from this man - including his fear.
Azazel's eyes wandered about the dark room, and stopped when they fell on Sam. Dean tensed immediately, wanting nothing more than to grab the man's face and turn it back towards him - remind him he was here to take Dean away, and not to leisure about checking out his brother.
Which was exactly what he did as he waltzed over to Sam, and leaned over the bed where Sam slept on his back, mouth open. Dean growled lowly in his throat, and Azazel chuckled at him, casting him a glance from the corner of his eye.
Azazel turned back to Sam, crossing his arms as he looked down on Dean's brother as though he were checking out a car he had no doubt he could afford.
“Hmmm,” though Dean could only see Azazel's back side, he could immediately tell that there was a contemplative look on his face,
“Your brother has grown up nicely, as well,” Azazel drawled. Dean's hands tightened at his sides as he tried to hold down the rage that was surfacing inside of him. Azazel didn't appear to notice, but if he did, he didn't care, seeing as he continued,
“Dean, what would you think of a new....deal?” Azazel asked, and Dean could hear the smirk in his voice. Dean gulped,
“And what deal would that be?” Dean questioned tightly, all his muscles electric and powerfully under his skin. Azazel uncrossed his arms, but didn't turn around,
“What if,” he began nonchalantly, his hand reaching down towards Sam, and Dean shook as he restrained himself almost painfully when Azazel's finger traced Sam's jawline,
“I took little Sammy, and,” he cocked his head in a gesture that would seem innocent, if it weren't for the crazy smile plastered on his face. Dean could feel his blunt nails drawing blood from his palms,
“Left you?” And Dean lost it. Azazel's wicked smirk went completely unnoticed as Dean, all muscle and bulking stature, threw himself at the older man, throwing him to the ground like an animal. Azazel fought back accordingly, but Dean had the upper hand. If he hadn't been so enraged and set off, then he probably would have noticed how odd it was that Azazel hadn't brought a single weapon with him.
However, all rational thoughts had been shoved off the ravine of Dean's mind, leaving nothing but red and black rage that clouded his head like fog. He barely took awareness of his surroundings as he kicked, punched, and threw things, until he suddenly had Azazel pinned against the wall, one of his hands gripping mercilessly at the man's throat.
Looking back, he honestly shouldn't have had that much strength, but they say in certain situations, humans can do the seemingly impossible.
Azazel's feet were dangling inches from the ground, and Dean's hold around his neck tightened. He glared into Azazel's eyes, which were sparkling in amusement, despite the fact that his face already looked swollen. A line of blood dribbled from his mouth, and Dean glanced down at it idly, before looking back to Azazel's glowing eyes.
Dean knew he was killing Azazel. He could feel the life seeping out beneath his fingers, and yet, despite the fact that Azazel could do nothing to hurt him right here and now, he still felt fear lance through him when a choked laugh came from the monstrous excuse of a man in front of him. He growled, and Azazel's lips twisted up in an insane smile that made Dean want to snap his neck in half. However, he let the man speak his last words, even though he knew he didn't want to hear them,
“Gotcha,” he taunted, before his eyes rolled back in his head, and he went limp underneath Dean's hand. Dean let him fall with a final thump to the ground. He was breathing hard, and in his minds eye he saw the blood that was splattered random places, like someone took red pain and splashed a little bit here and there in the small room, hoping to give it an artistic touch.
As he came down from his enraged high, and the red began to fade from his eyes, he looked down to his hands, which were covered with blood. He leaned on a nearby desk, his judgmental skills not quite yet coming into play.
He hadn't seen this much blood since...Dean felt himself grow ecstatic, and he deftly tried to calm himself when he saw the still form of someone beside him. He leaned forward to pull Sammy into his arms, when he heard the door slam open behind him, and he spun around quickly, losing his wits once more as people poured into the room, yelling things that Dean was too enraged to understand.
It must have been the mixture of everything - the blood on his hands - the memories - the fear of Azazel's last words - his ever present almost maternal instinct to protect his brother from everything - that turned him into something that, at that moment, made him seem inhuman. Or, more over, act inhuman.
He threw himself at one of the men, knocking him to the floor, and attempting to punch him in the face. He didn't get the chance, however, because soon the other men had crowded him, and were pulling him away, holding him on the ground. Dean growled one last time, before he lost consciousness, and fell into a dark, black pit, a welcome change from vivid nightmares of Hell, and his haunted past.
It wouldn't hit him until he awoke the next morning behind the bars of a local jail that the men who had flooded in - they had been the police. Azazel had set him up to get caught if Dean had killed him.
Somehow, though, he had a bad feeling that wasn't the only thing Azazel had been insinuating when he had uttered his final words.
He was lucky enough to just get an ankle GPS until his trial - meaning he was free to go where he pleased as long as he didn't try to leave the city. He only got off so well because of Azazel's not-so perfect track record. The man had been caught numerous times doing the unmentionable, but he had good contacts, and damn good lawyers, to boot.
Dean had a nerdy little brother, and track record that chaffed more to the side of a juvenile delinquent. Thankfully, most of what he'd been caught for had been before he'd turned 18, meaning it was considered to be of much less importance, and would not be put under a microscope.
Dean had tried to explain the situation, but, of course, no one believed him. Especially after he'd attacked one of the officers so brutally. He had to cringe every time one of the other officers gave him that look like he was some kind of wild animal.
The hardest part, however, had been trying to explain everything to Sam, who had the shock of waking up somewhere entirely different than where he'd fallen asleep. He was waiting for Dean in the lobby of the police station, a vexed look contrasting almost laughably with a slovenly head of hair. When Dean walked out, Sam's eyes found him, a look of relief washing over his features, before being replaced by an abrasive one that made him seem morbidly beyond his years.
Dean nodded to him, knowing all to well that he was going to get an earful from the teenager when they got back to the motel. Sam stood, and moved to take homage beside Dean as he signed a few papers, and received what he hoped would be the last couple of guarded looks he would see for a good month or so. The city officer shot Sam a somber glance,
“Boy, are you sure you're comfortable staying with,” he paused, tilting his head slightly to motion at Dean, “Him,” he said it as though Dean were the son of the Devil, or something. However, it was not as though he could have known what had happened last night. Not to mention Sam couldn't exactly vouch for anything, since he'd been knocked up on sleeping drugs, which the police had no reason not to think Dean had used for ulterior motives. For this reason, Dean didn't expect much from Sam's end, and so was understandably surprised when Sam's eyes narrowed,
“You, of all people, should know not to just assume things about other people's lives,” he fumed, his eyes alight with something akin to disgust. It was his infamous bitch-face. Dean felt particularly sorry for anyone on the receiving end of that look, for, in his experience, it broiled up a certain vibe that made the fifteen year old look more like one of the hard-headed lawyers on the cop shows.
The officer's eyes widened - he'd obviously gotten the message.
It didn't take a genius.
As they walked back to the motel they had been staying at, Sam kept stone silent, his lips shut tightly. Dean chanced a glance or two at his little brother, coughing awkwardly, and leaning down once to straighten the GPS that was hidden beneath his pant leg.
Only when they had made it back to their room (which had actually been moved, since the other one was still considered to be part of an on-going investigation) did Dean dare open his mouth to speak,
“Sam, I-” Sam slammed the door behind him, and turned, catching Dean under the same noxious expression he'd used on the officer earlier,
“Dean, why the hell didn't you just let him take me?” he asked, green eyes ablaze with choler.
Dean froze, staring at Sam in shock,
“How did you...?” He was lost now. How did Sam know what he'd asked? The corners of Sam's lips turned down even further,
“What, you honestly think I didn't hear you the night you made the deal?” he asked, “And it didn't take much to put two and two together, Dean,” Sam added, “You would have gone with Azazel without a problem if it meant you were protecting me,” he finished, glaring at Dean harshly. Dean's eyes narrowed, his teeth clenching together in aggravation,
“Yeah, well what the Hell was I supposed to do, just let him take you?” Dean demanded,
“Yes!” Sam yelled without hesitation, his young voice sounding surprisingly distraught. Dean cringed at his brother's tone. He supposed they'd both had to grow up particularly quickly, their father having left them to fend for themselves when Dean was 12, and Sam 8. Dean had always tried to give Sam the chance to be a kid. He really wanted Sam to at least have a semi-normal childhood. It hadn't exactly worked out that way, though. Sam still grew up, for the most part, just as quickly as Dean had. It hurt Dean to think he had failed his little brother in this way, even if Sam wouldn't agree,
“Sammy, you know I couldn't have done that,” he spoke at length, his voice softer. The sharp edges of Sam's glare dulled slightly, and he ran a hand through his brown hair,
“I know,” his voice cracked, betraying the strength he'd displayed so avidly in his articulation moments before, “I know, but now you're running the risk of life in prison,” Sam trudged over to the bed, sitting down on it with finality, “Or worse, the death sentence,” Sam spoke the last two words as though they were the kiss of death - which they very well were.
Dean didn't doubt that Sam would try to find a way to bring Dean back to life if he were killed - even if it meant selling his soul to the devil, or something. They were just that close.
Dean sighed, making his way over to the other bed,
“Yeah, I know,” he agreed in defeat, grabbing the remote on the bedside table, and flipping on the TV to the news. He could feel Sam watching his every move as though if he didn't, he may suddenly disappear. Dean ignored him, though, leaning back as the peppy voice of the news reporter rang around the motel room.
Dean was about to let his eyes fall shut when he heard his name, and shot up from his spot in the bed, staring at the screen as Sam once more let his gaze rest curiously on Dean,
“Yesterday, a man under the name of Dean Winchester was apprehended at the scene of a vicious murder,” she began, and Dean almost laughed at how happy she sounded as she spoke, “along with him was a young boy who had been drugged - officials believe that this may have been a human trafficking deal gone wrong, but so far the intentions of both parties remain unknown,” she finished, a smile still slapped across her face,
“Yeah, and they're gonna remain unknown, too,” Dean muttered just as a drawing of him popped up on the screen. He groaned,
“Man, that doesn't even look like me!” Dean whined, grimacing. He could feel Sam rolling his eyes - or at least knew him well enough to perceive Sam's reaction to his comment,
“It's close enough, Dean,” Sam warned, and Dean's eyes flickered to his disapproving face before moving back to the TV screen. The lady had begun to talk once more about Dean's trial,
“In about a month he will be tried in court for First Degree Murder,” she started in the same annoyingly bubbly voice, and the screen suddenly flipped to a court room, the judge on the pedestal looking down at what must have been a paper containing evidence. Then, the judge looked up, and Dean froze.
Electrifying blue eyes swept over the gathering in the court room, gaze coming to rest directly into the camera. He only barely caught the name of the judge - Castiel Novak, he was fairly certain - from the bubbly news woman as his mind fell numb to anything but those blue, blue eyes. They somehow managed to look both ethereal (bordering on other-worldly...or heavenly, but Dean felt like a sissy at the thought of using such a word to describe someone - especially another male), and yet, in stark contrast, hardened and sharp like he could kill with merely a look.
Dean felt a strange, almost disgusting thrill run through his veins, shuddering down his spine like a shock. He almost felt sick as an idea speared up in the fog of his mind. He only felt this way for a short while, however, as he continued to stare at Castiel's blue eyes on the screen, and the poison on the tip of the speared idea swept through him, convincing him of its rationality.
He ignored Sam's horrified gaze as he flipped off the TV, and immediately went to Sam's bag to pull out his brother's prized laptop.
He had a lot of research to do.
~
hours later
It was midnight. Sam had disappeared some time during the early evening, claiming that he was going to spend the night at Gabriel's (who, luckily, stayed with his older brother, who was somewhat of an old friend to Dean, meaning he wouldn't say anything about the connection between the news and Sam), and warning Dean that whatever he was thinking about doing - he shouldn't do it.
Dean had merely grunted in reply, and continued looking up every last detail about this Castiel guy that he could. So far, this is what he'd copied onto the notepad sitting next to him; the guy was 25 years old, and one of the youngest judges in the history of judges. This was apparently thanks to a school career that was so flawless, Dean wondered if he'd been through school numerous times already.
He was incredibly smug, and was known especially for his lack of emotions in court. In fact, after watching a couple videos of one of Castiel's trials, Dean began to wonder if the man was even human.
His mother had died from ammonia a few years after Castiel's birth, and he'd spent the next thirteen years of his life moving from town to town with his father, before being sent to live with some of his cousins who were of age to take custody.
He tried to dig deeper, possibly to find out more about the guy's dad, but the only other thing he could find out was that he'd died at the age of 45 from an over dose when Castiel was 15.
Dean also learned that he had a younger sister at the time who had been about 5. He couldn't find anything else out about what had happened to her afterwords, though.
Dean began to understand why Castiel decided to become a judge. He'd probably seen more injustice in his life than Dean had. Which was saying something, considering.
Dean was also perplexed by the fact that he had to spend a week in an orphanage while he waited for his cousin's to get papers signed and finalized. That's not what was so strange, however. The strange thing was that, by the looks of it, he had then spent the next week in the hospital.
Dean suddenly backed away from the laptop, realizing he may have dug deeper into this man's life than he truthfully needed to in regards to his plans.
But he couldn't help it. For some reason he felt a tugging in his gut...or was that his soul?
He shook his head. That sounded too much like one of those corny rom-coms he'd seen laying about his house after his mother's death.
The point was, he didn't feel like he could stop. Now that he'd uncovered more questions than he'd started with, he just couldn't bring himself not to find out more about this mysterious man.
He muttered angrily, though he couldn't decide who it was directed at; himself, or Castiel.
He pushed everything to the back of his mind as he moved back up to the laptop, wiping a hand down his face as he felt lack of sleep catching up to him. He was going to hate himself tomorrow afternoon.
There was fire.
It was hot against his face while the breeze caressed his back, but he didn't move.
He stood, frozen in the grass at the scene in front of him.
The windows were pristine.
They were perfectly clean.
And then, suddenly, they weren't.
Screaming.
There was blood.
So much blood.
Dean gasped, head rocketing up from his arms that were presently crossed on top of the keyboard. Dean looked from side to side quickly in fear, the effects of the dream still lingering in the fog of his mind.
He was in the darkness of the motel room, the screen of the laptop having fallen dark. Dean relaxed a bit, but found it hard as an unsettling feeling had wormed its way into his mind. That dream felt too 'deja vu' for his own comfort, and it was starting to really freak him out.
Dean shook his head, blinking rapidly, and trying to regain control on his own thoughts. He really couldn't afford distractions right now. He was going to need to concentrate on the finer details of his plan, and allowing nightmares taunting him all day really wouldn't make anything easier.
He headed to the bathroom, intent on taking a warm shower, and possibly grabbing something to eat before calling Sam up to make sure he was doing okay.
Dean's thoughts, however, did stray back to Castiel. Though mostly his eyes. And his lips. Dean stopped walking when he realized what he was thinking about. He'd found guys attractive before, sure, but this - this was somehow vastly different. Not the good kind of different, either.
Dean groaned. It was like he could get the fucking guy out of his head!
“What am I, twelve?” he muttered, annoyance directed at his own mind, the likes of which apparently enjoyed sabotaging his every thought.
Author: primipassi
Rating: NC-17
Genre and/or Pairing: Dean/Castiel, possibly some very light Sam/Gabriel
Spoilers: None
Warnings: Graphic descriptions of blood and gore, copious amounts of angst (though comic relief pops up often), AU, graphic descriptions of sex in later chapters
Disclaimer: I do not own these extraordinary characters.
Word Count: 5,664
Summary: Dean's past comes back to drag him to his Hell, but it doesn't turn out the way he hoped. With things seemingly having taken a turn for the worst, Dean does the only thing he knows how to do. Judge Novak, a man with an eerie past of his own, finds himself intertwined with the Winchester, be it against his will, or not. Many mysteries are uncovered as the two begin to turn to each other to escape their demons.
Castiel stacked the papers on his desk with nicety, and let out a sigh that belied his seemingly untiring demeanor. He leaned back and stared at the white sheets of paper in an almost-daze as the orange sunset fell through the slated gray shades on the window to his left, casting half his face in shadow, and the other in washed-out tangerine.
His hands grasped the papers and straightened them once more, despite the fact that he had already done so once. It was a matter of habit - always making sure everything was perfect. Some people considered that something that would fetter a person down. Castiel, however, believed that the people who shunned such habits were probably, hypocritically, on the other side of the OCD spectrum, and most likely were a step below respectful.
He glanced up wearily when he heard the door knob to his office turn, the beige and tan painted wood creeping open as though the person behind it were unsure as to whether or not they wanted to enter the room. That was just how Chuck was, though. Castiel sympathized with the assistant, knowing that Chuck was the type of guy that looked nervous in any situation that involved interacting. Which would explain why he was always a sputtering, fidgeting mess around Castiel, whose intense gaze, and no non-sense vibe could probably scare off every cute animal in a ten mile radius.
Chuck fumbled with a file in his hand as he trekked towards Castiel like he was trying to avoid getting his hand bitten off whilst feeding a bear. Castiel raised an eyebrow as he approached, more than a little amused, though his face otherwise remained unchanged, making it hard to tell. Chuck opened his mouth and closed it, before opening it up again to finally speak,
“W-we just got a new case for you to glance over, sir,” he stumbled over his words in haste, and held the manila folder out to Castiel. Castiel nodded, taking the folder before looking back up to Chuck,
“Thank you, Chuck, you are dismissed for this evening,” Castiel instructed, and Chuck grinned gratefully,
“Thank you, Judge Novak, see you on Monday,” Chuck proclaimed, and unclasped his hands, wiping the perspiration that had condensed there onto his pants before leaving the room - standing so straight that Castiel could tell he was trying much too hard. When the door shut behind the dark haired male, Castiel chuckled, before opening the file that now laid in the center of his mahogany desk. His gaze first fell upon the mug shot of the man.
Castiel stopped, staring intently at the picture. The man's intense green eyes glowered out from the Polaroid in a fashion that made Castiel feel as though he had given that look specifically to Castiel. It seemed almost demeaning, and Castiel felt himself swallow. It didn't help that this man was quite the opposite of homely. In fact, if Castiel were to have seen him on the street, he would have thought the man to be drop-dead gorgeous.
Castiel tore his gaze away from the man, releasing a breath he had unknowingly held in, in favor of looking at the rest of the file.
The man's name was Dean Winchester, he was just barely six foot, and had just turned twenty about a week before. Castiel glanced over to his history, which consisted of a small number of intrusions on private property and one case of a DUI, though Castiel had the feeling there were many other small things that Dean had managed to conceal.
He had a younger brother, so it seemed, who was 15 years old, and Castiel felt a piece of his rock hard shell melt. He had a fleeting second of hope that perhaps if Dean managed to get out of this unscathed, they would be able to go out for a coffee. Castiel had seen cases where a person tried to provide for their siblings, and winded up getting caught.
However, all hope vanished, the armor around his feelings solidifying back into its' original place once he came to what one Mr. Dean Winchester was being tried for.
Murder in the first degree.
Castiel's throat tightened, and he gazed at Dean's mug shot once more out of the corner of his eye. He tried to convince himself that there was nothing else behind Dean's chilling look, but it was pointless. There was something in the depths of his eyes that made Castiel shiver, and yearn for nothing more than to be back in his own apartment, all his windows and doors locked down tightly. He wasn't necessarily scared of the man as much as he was scared of what the man was doing to his emotions.
Castiel slammed the case file shut, and for a second, he heard a voice inside his head screaming out to open it back up - feel that intense green stare bore into him until every piece of his armor evaporated.
Castiel shook the thoughts from his mind, taking a deep breath before he stood abruptly up, his wheeled chair coming to a stop a fair distance from its originally designated spot. Castiel took another breath, before he made haste, shoving the chair back under the desk, and grabbing his bag. He shut the door to his office with a din muted by the felted frame work.
He made his way around the empty cubicles, shrugging on his blue sweater that hung just outside the dimly lit foyer of the building, which was adjoined to the Court House. Castiel slung his bag over his shoulder and reached for the door. He hesitated, but mentally chastised himself for becoming so worked up as he numbly walked out the door, locking it behind him.
He turned to the sight of the usual evening rush of New York concourse. He shoved his hands into his pockets, and plunged into the crowd, maneuvering around slower people with practiced ease.
His studio apartment was about three blocks away from the office, though one of them was a back road that went much quicker than Main Street, which had a torrential onslaught of people that made weaving through crowds practically impossible.
However, today, he debated taking the slow way around.
Smoke floated across the desolate by-way from a nearby manhole, making everything much harder to see. He squinted, and then mentally smacked himself, rolling his eyes. He was getting so antsy - and over what? Some picture of a guy with an intimidating look? He had taken part in numerous cases of which the likes of the convicted could have made a championship boxer cower and tremble in fear. Yet, here he was, eyes darting around every time a bag shuttered from the wind in his peripheral vision, or a squirrel bolted out from behind a dumpster.
He was acting as though he were being stalked. Which was ridiculous, because he most definitely was not. If there was one thing Castiel was most indefinitely, it was perceptive, and this was no different.
At least that was what he was telling himself as he bull-headedly waltzed down the side road - as though he were making a point that was aimed more towards himself than anyone else.
However, someone else did see. They had been following Castiel for a few days, learning his schedule well like a child learns the bible in catholic school. He was waiting in the shadows as he watched the man come closer and closer to his hiding place. He had to contain a chuckle at how obvious it was that this Castiel - rumored to be so emotionless and impenetrable - was now effectively freaked out.
When Castiel was just out of arms reach, the man slipped out of the shadows, and behind him, casting his own shadow over the smaller framed man.
Castiel froze, and the other man knew what was coming, all too easily pulling Castiel's back against his chest and pressing a chemical soaked rag over his mouth. Castiel struggled, clawing at his attacker's arms, trying to get away, but the arms were locked around him with no hope of being dislodged.
Instinctively, Castiel tried to scream, inadvertently breathing in a plethora of intoxicating chemicals that made him suddenly feel increasingly sleepy, and jello-like. The man held his strong grip on Castiel until all the fight faded from his lithe body, and Castiel went completely limp in his arms.
The man pulled the cloth away from the judge's face, shoving it into one of his pockets. He picked the man up bridal style, and walked back down the alley way, sticking like glue to the shadows. He looked down at Castiel's face, and bit his lip,
“Sorry, beautiful, but it had to be done,” he muttered, though he knew no one could hear.
He looked up, sharp green eyes piercing through the darkness like a knife.
~
one week earlier
Dean attempted to relax as he sat in the old, shabby recliner of a motel. He was leaning forwards, elbows on his knees and hands clasped to hold up his chin. His lips clenched together nervously, and he pulled his thumbs up out of the vise like grip to rest on either side of his face.
All the windows were shut firmly, and the door that was just down the hallway in his line of view was locked. He turned slightly to glance over his shoulder at Sam's form laying on the bed in a deep drug induced sleep.
Dean had slipped a sleeping drug into his coke while they were out partying. It had been a struggle to enjoy the festivities knowing that it was his last birthday. He and Sam would probably never see each other again after this.
Grief rippled though him painfully as he watched his brother sleeping, chest rising and falling peacefully. He would miss his brother so much - but he had made a deal, and he couldn't run away from the likes of 'him'. The one he'd made the deal with.
The man (if that's even what he was) literally had eyes and ears everywhere, and the one time Dean had tried to find a way to kill 'him', or at least run out from under his radar, he'd ended up in a whore house called The Devil's Playpen (or, more formally known as Hell). While he didn't remember much about that experience during the daylight hours, dozens of unwanted memories came in bursts of color and pain in the darkest of his slumbers.
Needless to say, he couldn't run from it, and he certainly wasn't going to risk Sam getting hurt.
He turned back to the door when he heard a rapping at it, and swallowed nervously. He stood shakily from his seat, and reached the door in what seemed like it could have been both two seconds and an eternity. He looked out the peep hole, even though he knew who it was.
Azazel stood calmly outside the door, bright eyes almost glowing in nature. It made Dean feel on edge. He hesitated - maybe he could just kill him now? No one would know, as long as he covered his tracks, and got out of town.
It wasn't a risk Dean wanted to take. Sure, he'd killed his fair share of wackos who thought it would be a good idea to mess with him or his brother, but they'd been off the grid and without relationships - not to mention stupid. Azazel was quite the opposite. He was the kind of insane, yet extremely smart type that was never to be underestimated. He'd done his homework on the man, and knew that even when he was tried for something, he somehow found a way out of it every time.
He was like a phantom - un-catchable.
Dean shook his head, pulling the door open and letting it swing slowly open, coming face to face with the man who would bring the end of his life as he knew it. He felt guilty about leaving Sam on his own, but his little brother had gotten lucky enough to make a couple friends in the city. They were really good people, and Sam would be safe with them, of that, Dean was most certain.
Dean looked up to Azazel, feeling his gut twinge in annoyance at that ever present smirk on the man's face. He hadn't missed that smirk.
Azazel eyed him, and then slowly moved inside the room, motioning for Dean to close the door behind him. Dean did so, securing the lock on the door, just in case. He turned around to fix Azazel with a steady gaze,
“Azazel,” he nodded to the man, his voice even and unfeeling. Azazel's grin widened, and he looked Dean up and down,
“Dean, you grew up so well for us!” Azazel sung, and Dean cringed internally. He knew he was attractive, and maybe if he wasn't always dirty from his job down at the car repair shop, he'd have his own fan club following him around everywhere.
Rarely a day went by that someone - male or female - didn't try to slip him their number. While Dean enjoyed the attention, and sometimes, when he really needed to get away for a while, he'd take up on an offer, he knew that good looks are as easily a curse as they are a blessing.
In this case, they would be more like the curse that would lead him to his living hell. Dean swallowed,
“Thank you,” he said dryly, and coughed, trying to cover up his hoarse throat for being simply caused by the dry air. Azazel raised an eyebrow in gross amusement, and he saw something in Azazel's eyes that told Dean that there was nothing he could hide from this man - including his fear.
Azazel's eyes wandered about the dark room, and stopped when they fell on Sam. Dean tensed immediately, wanting nothing more than to grab the man's face and turn it back towards him - remind him he was here to take Dean away, and not to leisure about checking out his brother.
Which was exactly what he did as he waltzed over to Sam, and leaned over the bed where Sam slept on his back, mouth open. Dean growled lowly in his throat, and Azazel chuckled at him, casting him a glance from the corner of his eye.
Azazel turned back to Sam, crossing his arms as he looked down on Dean's brother as though he were checking out a car he had no doubt he could afford.
“Hmmm,” though Dean could only see Azazel's back side, he could immediately tell that there was a contemplative look on his face,
“Your brother has grown up nicely, as well,” Azazel drawled. Dean's hands tightened at his sides as he tried to hold down the rage that was surfacing inside of him. Azazel didn't appear to notice, but if he did, he didn't care, seeing as he continued,
“Dean, what would you think of a new....deal?” Azazel asked, and Dean could hear the smirk in his voice. Dean gulped,
“And what deal would that be?” Dean questioned tightly, all his muscles electric and powerfully under his skin. Azazel uncrossed his arms, but didn't turn around,
“What if,” he began nonchalantly, his hand reaching down towards Sam, and Dean shook as he restrained himself almost painfully when Azazel's finger traced Sam's jawline,
“I took little Sammy, and,” he cocked his head in a gesture that would seem innocent, if it weren't for the crazy smile plastered on his face. Dean could feel his blunt nails drawing blood from his palms,
“Left you?” And Dean lost it. Azazel's wicked smirk went completely unnoticed as Dean, all muscle and bulking stature, threw himself at the older man, throwing him to the ground like an animal. Azazel fought back accordingly, but Dean had the upper hand. If he hadn't been so enraged and set off, then he probably would have noticed how odd it was that Azazel hadn't brought a single weapon with him.
However, all rational thoughts had been shoved off the ravine of Dean's mind, leaving nothing but red and black rage that clouded his head like fog. He barely took awareness of his surroundings as he kicked, punched, and threw things, until he suddenly had Azazel pinned against the wall, one of his hands gripping mercilessly at the man's throat.
Looking back, he honestly shouldn't have had that much strength, but they say in certain situations, humans can do the seemingly impossible.
Azazel's feet were dangling inches from the ground, and Dean's hold around his neck tightened. He glared into Azazel's eyes, which were sparkling in amusement, despite the fact that his face already looked swollen. A line of blood dribbled from his mouth, and Dean glanced down at it idly, before looking back to Azazel's glowing eyes.
Dean knew he was killing Azazel. He could feel the life seeping out beneath his fingers, and yet, despite the fact that Azazel could do nothing to hurt him right here and now, he still felt fear lance through him when a choked laugh came from the monstrous excuse of a man in front of him. He growled, and Azazel's lips twisted up in an insane smile that made Dean want to snap his neck in half. However, he let the man speak his last words, even though he knew he didn't want to hear them,
“Gotcha,” he taunted, before his eyes rolled back in his head, and he went limp underneath Dean's hand. Dean let him fall with a final thump to the ground. He was breathing hard, and in his minds eye he saw the blood that was splattered random places, like someone took red pain and splashed a little bit here and there in the small room, hoping to give it an artistic touch.
As he came down from his enraged high, and the red began to fade from his eyes, he looked down to his hands, which were covered with blood. He leaned on a nearby desk, his judgmental skills not quite yet coming into play.
He hadn't seen this much blood since...Dean felt himself grow ecstatic, and he deftly tried to calm himself when he saw the still form of someone beside him. He leaned forward to pull Sammy into his arms, when he heard the door slam open behind him, and he spun around quickly, losing his wits once more as people poured into the room, yelling things that Dean was too enraged to understand.
It must have been the mixture of everything - the blood on his hands - the memories - the fear of Azazel's last words - his ever present almost maternal instinct to protect his brother from everything - that turned him into something that, at that moment, made him seem inhuman. Or, more over, act inhuman.
He threw himself at one of the men, knocking him to the floor, and attempting to punch him in the face. He didn't get the chance, however, because soon the other men had crowded him, and were pulling him away, holding him on the ground. Dean growled one last time, before he lost consciousness, and fell into a dark, black pit, a welcome change from vivid nightmares of Hell, and his haunted past.
It wouldn't hit him until he awoke the next morning behind the bars of a local jail that the men who had flooded in - they had been the police. Azazel had set him up to get caught if Dean had killed him.
Somehow, though, he had a bad feeling that wasn't the only thing Azazel had been insinuating when he had uttered his final words.
He was lucky enough to just get an ankle GPS until his trial - meaning he was free to go where he pleased as long as he didn't try to leave the city. He only got off so well because of Azazel's not-so perfect track record. The man had been caught numerous times doing the unmentionable, but he had good contacts, and damn good lawyers, to boot.
Dean had a nerdy little brother, and track record that chaffed more to the side of a juvenile delinquent. Thankfully, most of what he'd been caught for had been before he'd turned 18, meaning it was considered to be of much less importance, and would not be put under a microscope.
Dean had tried to explain the situation, but, of course, no one believed him. Especially after he'd attacked one of the officers so brutally. He had to cringe every time one of the other officers gave him that look like he was some kind of wild animal.
The hardest part, however, had been trying to explain everything to Sam, who had the shock of waking up somewhere entirely different than where he'd fallen asleep. He was waiting for Dean in the lobby of the police station, a vexed look contrasting almost laughably with a slovenly head of hair. When Dean walked out, Sam's eyes found him, a look of relief washing over his features, before being replaced by an abrasive one that made him seem morbidly beyond his years.
Dean nodded to him, knowing all to well that he was going to get an earful from the teenager when they got back to the motel. Sam stood, and moved to take homage beside Dean as he signed a few papers, and received what he hoped would be the last couple of guarded looks he would see for a good month or so. The city officer shot Sam a somber glance,
“Boy, are you sure you're comfortable staying with,” he paused, tilting his head slightly to motion at Dean, “Him,” he said it as though Dean were the son of the Devil, or something. However, it was not as though he could have known what had happened last night. Not to mention Sam couldn't exactly vouch for anything, since he'd been knocked up on sleeping drugs, which the police had no reason not to think Dean had used for ulterior motives. For this reason, Dean didn't expect much from Sam's end, and so was understandably surprised when Sam's eyes narrowed,
“You, of all people, should know not to just assume things about other people's lives,” he fumed, his eyes alight with something akin to disgust. It was his infamous bitch-face. Dean felt particularly sorry for anyone on the receiving end of that look, for, in his experience, it broiled up a certain vibe that made the fifteen year old look more like one of the hard-headed lawyers on the cop shows.
The officer's eyes widened - he'd obviously gotten the message.
It didn't take a genius.
As they walked back to the motel they had been staying at, Sam kept stone silent, his lips shut tightly. Dean chanced a glance or two at his little brother, coughing awkwardly, and leaning down once to straighten the GPS that was hidden beneath his pant leg.
Only when they had made it back to their room (which had actually been moved, since the other one was still considered to be part of an on-going investigation) did Dean dare open his mouth to speak,
“Sam, I-” Sam slammed the door behind him, and turned, catching Dean under the same noxious expression he'd used on the officer earlier,
“Dean, why the hell didn't you just let him take me?” he asked, green eyes ablaze with choler.
Dean froze, staring at Sam in shock,
“How did you...?” He was lost now. How did Sam know what he'd asked? The corners of Sam's lips turned down even further,
“What, you honestly think I didn't hear you the night you made the deal?” he asked, “And it didn't take much to put two and two together, Dean,” Sam added, “You would have gone with Azazel without a problem if it meant you were protecting me,” he finished, glaring at Dean harshly. Dean's eyes narrowed, his teeth clenching together in aggravation,
“Yeah, well what the Hell was I supposed to do, just let him take you?” Dean demanded,
“Yes!” Sam yelled without hesitation, his young voice sounding surprisingly distraught. Dean cringed at his brother's tone. He supposed they'd both had to grow up particularly quickly, their father having left them to fend for themselves when Dean was 12, and Sam 8. Dean had always tried to give Sam the chance to be a kid. He really wanted Sam to at least have a semi-normal childhood. It hadn't exactly worked out that way, though. Sam still grew up, for the most part, just as quickly as Dean had. It hurt Dean to think he had failed his little brother in this way, even if Sam wouldn't agree,
“Sammy, you know I couldn't have done that,” he spoke at length, his voice softer. The sharp edges of Sam's glare dulled slightly, and he ran a hand through his brown hair,
“I know,” his voice cracked, betraying the strength he'd displayed so avidly in his articulation moments before, “I know, but now you're running the risk of life in prison,” Sam trudged over to the bed, sitting down on it with finality, “Or worse, the death sentence,” Sam spoke the last two words as though they were the kiss of death - which they very well were.
Dean didn't doubt that Sam would try to find a way to bring Dean back to life if he were killed - even if it meant selling his soul to the devil, or something. They were just that close.
Dean sighed, making his way over to the other bed,
“Yeah, I know,” he agreed in defeat, grabbing the remote on the bedside table, and flipping on the TV to the news. He could feel Sam watching his every move as though if he didn't, he may suddenly disappear. Dean ignored him, though, leaning back as the peppy voice of the news reporter rang around the motel room.
Dean was about to let his eyes fall shut when he heard his name, and shot up from his spot in the bed, staring at the screen as Sam once more let his gaze rest curiously on Dean,
“Yesterday, a man under the name of Dean Winchester was apprehended at the scene of a vicious murder,” she began, and Dean almost laughed at how happy she sounded as she spoke, “along with him was a young boy who had been drugged - officials believe that this may have been a human trafficking deal gone wrong, but so far the intentions of both parties remain unknown,” she finished, a smile still slapped across her face,
“Yeah, and they're gonna remain unknown, too,” Dean muttered just as a drawing of him popped up on the screen. He groaned,
“Man, that doesn't even look like me!” Dean whined, grimacing. He could feel Sam rolling his eyes - or at least knew him well enough to perceive Sam's reaction to his comment,
“It's close enough, Dean,” Sam warned, and Dean's eyes flickered to his disapproving face before moving back to the TV screen. The lady had begun to talk once more about Dean's trial,
“In about a month he will be tried in court for First Degree Murder,” she started in the same annoyingly bubbly voice, and the screen suddenly flipped to a court room, the judge on the pedestal looking down at what must have been a paper containing evidence. Then, the judge looked up, and Dean froze.
Electrifying blue eyes swept over the gathering in the court room, gaze coming to rest directly into the camera. He only barely caught the name of the judge - Castiel Novak, he was fairly certain - from the bubbly news woman as his mind fell numb to anything but those blue, blue eyes. They somehow managed to look both ethereal (bordering on other-worldly...or heavenly, but Dean felt like a sissy at the thought of using such a word to describe someone - especially another male), and yet, in stark contrast, hardened and sharp like he could kill with merely a look.
Dean felt a strange, almost disgusting thrill run through his veins, shuddering down his spine like a shock. He almost felt sick as an idea speared up in the fog of his mind. He only felt this way for a short while, however, as he continued to stare at Castiel's blue eyes on the screen, and the poison on the tip of the speared idea swept through him, convincing him of its rationality.
He ignored Sam's horrified gaze as he flipped off the TV, and immediately went to Sam's bag to pull out his brother's prized laptop.
He had a lot of research to do.
~
hours later
It was midnight. Sam had disappeared some time during the early evening, claiming that he was going to spend the night at Gabriel's (who, luckily, stayed with his older brother, who was somewhat of an old friend to Dean, meaning he wouldn't say anything about the connection between the news and Sam), and warning Dean that whatever he was thinking about doing - he shouldn't do it.
Dean had merely grunted in reply, and continued looking up every last detail about this Castiel guy that he could. So far, this is what he'd copied onto the notepad sitting next to him; the guy was 25 years old, and one of the youngest judges in the history of judges. This was apparently thanks to a school career that was so flawless, Dean wondered if he'd been through school numerous times already.
He was incredibly smug, and was known especially for his lack of emotions in court. In fact, after watching a couple videos of one of Castiel's trials, Dean began to wonder if the man was even human.
His mother had died from ammonia a few years after Castiel's birth, and he'd spent the next thirteen years of his life moving from town to town with his father, before being sent to live with some of his cousins who were of age to take custody.
He tried to dig deeper, possibly to find out more about the guy's dad, but the only other thing he could find out was that he'd died at the age of 45 from an over dose when Castiel was 15.
Dean also learned that he had a younger sister at the time who had been about 5. He couldn't find anything else out about what had happened to her afterwords, though.
Dean began to understand why Castiel decided to become a judge. He'd probably seen more injustice in his life than Dean had. Which was saying something, considering.
Dean was also perplexed by the fact that he had to spend a week in an orphanage while he waited for his cousin's to get papers signed and finalized. That's not what was so strange, however. The strange thing was that, by the looks of it, he had then spent the next week in the hospital.
Dean suddenly backed away from the laptop, realizing he may have dug deeper into this man's life than he truthfully needed to in regards to his plans.
But he couldn't help it. For some reason he felt a tugging in his gut...or was that his soul?
He shook his head. That sounded too much like one of those corny rom-coms he'd seen laying about his house after his mother's death.
The point was, he didn't feel like he could stop. Now that he'd uncovered more questions than he'd started with, he just couldn't bring himself not to find out more about this mysterious man.
He muttered angrily, though he couldn't decide who it was directed at; himself, or Castiel.
He pushed everything to the back of his mind as he moved back up to the laptop, wiping a hand down his face as he felt lack of sleep catching up to him. He was going to hate himself tomorrow afternoon.
There was fire.
It was hot against his face while the breeze caressed his back, but he didn't move.
He stood, frozen in the grass at the scene in front of him.
The windows were pristine.
They were perfectly clean.
And then, suddenly, they weren't.
Screaming.
There was blood.
So much blood.
Dean gasped, head rocketing up from his arms that were presently crossed on top of the keyboard. Dean looked from side to side quickly in fear, the effects of the dream still lingering in the fog of his mind.
He was in the darkness of the motel room, the screen of the laptop having fallen dark. Dean relaxed a bit, but found it hard as an unsettling feeling had wormed its way into his mind. That dream felt too 'deja vu' for his own comfort, and it was starting to really freak him out.
Dean shook his head, blinking rapidly, and trying to regain control on his own thoughts. He really couldn't afford distractions right now. He was going to need to concentrate on the finer details of his plan, and allowing nightmares taunting him all day really wouldn't make anything easier.
He headed to the bathroom, intent on taking a warm shower, and possibly grabbing something to eat before calling Sam up to make sure he was doing okay.
Dean's thoughts, however, did stray back to Castiel. Though mostly his eyes. And his lips. Dean stopped walking when he realized what he was thinking about. He'd found guys attractive before, sure, but this - this was somehow vastly different. Not the good kind of different, either.
Dean groaned. It was like he could get the fucking guy out of his head!
“What am I, twelve?” he muttered, annoyance directed at his own mind, the likes of which apparently enjoyed sabotaging his every thought.