Fic: SPN/Castle "Bounty"
Chapter 3
Beckett had just finished breakfast and was heading out the door on the way to the precinct when her cell phone rang. She picked up. “Beckett,” she said, as she locked her front door.
“Is Richard with you?” the voice of Castle’s mother came anxiously through the earpiece.
“No, why?”
“He went out last night, and isn’t back yet. He’s not answering his phone, not even for Alexis.”
Beckett didn’t waste time wondering why Castle’s mother would assume her son would be with her if he was out all night. For all of Martha’s dramatic tendencies, she had a strong grounding in sense, and was very fond of her son. If she was worried, there was usually a reason. And Castle always picked up his phone for Alexis.
“When did he leave? Did he give any indication of where he was going?” she asked, walking to the stairwell as she spoke.
“Alexis said he left a little after ten, and didn’t say where he was going. We’re worried he might have had an idea about your case and gone to investigate.”
Beckett groaned to herself. Of course he had. That was what Castle did. Why hadn’t he called her? She’d have kept him out of trouble, or at least gone with him. They had been working together long enough that she was surprisingly open to some of his crazier theories by now, even if she made it look like she was just humouring him.
She arranged for Martha and Alexis to wait at the precinct while she, Ryan and Esposito headed out to search the most likely places for him. “Try not to worry,” she told Martha, “I’m sure he’s just lost his phone or something.” She hung up, trying to ignore the gnawing worry in her belly.
Beckett headed straight out to the apartment where the murder had taken place, calling Ryan from the car with instructions to track Castle’s phone. He and Esposito could head out to start searching afterwards.
The traffic was infuriating, all red lights and people cutting each other off as they hurried to get to work on time, painfully oblivious to her hurry. Finally, she made it to Frank Walter’s (if that was even really his name) building, and stepped out of the car into a light rain and ran inside.
The crime scene tape had been ripped from the door, which hung open, half off its hinges. Beckett pulled her gun from its holster, holding it ready as she inspected the door. There were marks around the lock from an amateur lock-picker. Probably Castle. It seemed strangely incongruous with the rest of the damage. Her chest tightened. It was looking less and less like Castle had just lost his phone. She nudged the door open, and entered, leading with her gun. The room was empty, but ransacked, like there had been a struggle. The couch was knocked over, and one of the armchairs rested, broken, against the wall on the other side of the room. Almost as though it had been thrown. Beckett could hardly imagine the kind of strength it would take to hurl a chair like that across a room. There were shards of crockery on the floor, and the television was mangled. On closer inspection, Beckett found it had been shot. She cleared the room, moving on to the bedroom.
The hollow wall in the bedroom was open. Whoever had opened it hadn’t taken the time to find the secret lever, but had simply kicked it in and ripped the wall out. The weapons had all been seized as evidence the day before, but some of the salt had been left. Now the sack was empty and the floor was white with rock salt, the swirls in it showing signs of a struggle. A silver knife was embedded in the wall beside the door, at shoulder height. Most worrying of all, though, were the drops of blood speckled across the floor, like someone had got a minor cut and not stopped to clean it up, and a flashlight, still turned on, shining out from beneath the bed. And there, right in the centre of the floor, crushed beyond repair, sat Castle’s cell phone. The night vision setting was still blinking on and off.
Castle, where are you? Beckett pulled out her phone to dial the precinct, the tightness and gnawing worry inside her increasing. Just as she went to hit the button, the apartment door creaked on its one working hinge. She pulled out her gun again, crossing the room to stand against the wall by the door.
The man who entered the apartment was huge; too big for Beckett to take in hand-to-hand. She would have to surprise him, get her gun pointed at him.
“Dean?” The man said, peering around the room. Beckett caught a glimpse of a knife in his right hand. It was large and serrated, designed as a weapon rather than a tool. From the hard expression on his face, he was more than capable of using it. “Dean? Are you here?” he asked again, turning to investigate the remains of the television.
Beckett took her chance while he was looking the other way, coming out of her hiding place quickly and quietly and aiming her gun squarely at his back. “Don’t move. NYPD. Put your hands in the air.”
The man raised his hands slowly, the knife still clasped in the right one. From closer, she could see strange symbols carved into the metal and a faint stain of blood down its side. “What have you done with Dean?” he growled.
“Drop the knife and keep your hands where I can see them,” Beckett ordered, keeping her gun trained steadily on him.
The man didn’t move, but he didn’t drop the knife either. From the corner of her eye, Beckett could see the outline of a gun tucked into the back of his jeans. He murmured something.
“Drop the knife, or I’ll shoot.”
The man’s murmurings grew louder, some kind of recitation in a foreign language.
Beckett took a cautious step forward. Suddenly, the man spun, faster than she’d ever seen, and then her gun was on the floor across the room, and his knife was against her throat.
“Tell me what you’ve done with my brother,” he ground out, “If you think for one second I believe you’re a cop…” he trailed off. “Christo?” he said, sounding almost hopeful.
Beckett stood absolutely still. She could feel the serrated edge of the knife making shallow cuts on her skin. “Please put the knife down,” she said calmly.
To her surprise, the man began to back away slowly, hands raised apologetically. Beckett would have preferred it if he’d dropped the knife, but it was a start. “Christo?” he tried again.
“My name is Kate Beckett. I’m an NYPD Detective. Why don’t you put the knife down and we can discuss this calmly?” Beckett did her best to speak soothingly.
“I’m sorry,” the man said, and that was definitely an apology in his eyes, “I don’t want to hurt you, but I need you to leave. It’s not safe for you here.”
Beckett kept her eyes on the knife and opened her mouth to continue the negotiation, but was interrupted.
“NYPD! Put the knife down!”
“NYPD! Put down your weapon!”
“New York Police Department, hands in the air!”
Ryan and Esposito burst through the broken door, guns ready, making a lot of noise. Beckett breathed a sigh of relief as the big man finally dropped his knife. She pulled out her handcuffs, kicking the knife across the floor as she reached to cuff him.
As she was tightening the second cuff, there was a strange movement of air behind her, as if someone had opened a window without warning.
“What the- “ Beckett heard Esposito exclaim.
There was a clatter as Ryan dropped his gun.
From behind Beckett a man’s voice spoke deeply and slowly. “What do you want, Sam? I am busy.”
Beckett froze, and then turned, keeping a firm hold on the handcuffed man.
Sam was apparently the handcuffed man’s name, because he replied, relief evident in his voice. “Hey Cas. Uh, thanks for coming.”
“What do you want?” The new man repeated. He was standing very still, hands at his sides like he wasn’t sure what to do with them. His sharp blue eyes focussed unblinkingly on Sam, as though there was nobody else in the room. “Where is Dean?”
“That’s kind of what I called you about… he’s kind of missing.” Sam wasn’t exactly backing down, but he seemed uncomfortable, almost hesitant. The man in the dirty trench coat and askew tie was obviously more than he seemed, if he was powerful enough to invite respect from someone as clearly dangerous as Sam.
“You have lost your brother?” The statement was not quite accusing, but the he sounded annoyed.
Ryan regained his voice. “How did you do that?”
The blue-eyed man ignored him, speaking directly to Sam again. “You should be more careful. I cannot find him anymore.”
“I thought maybe he’d called you?”
“He has not,” the reply was short, “We must find him immediately. Hell has a bounty out on him. If they get their hands on him, his deaths will not be pleasant.”
“Deaths?” Esposito mumbled wonderingly.
The man - Cas? - turned his head to look at Esposito briefly before returning his attention to Sam. “Dean cannot give his consent if he is dead. Every time is soul enters heaven, they will return it to his body. We must endeavour to find him before the torture begins.” He began to walk towards Sam.
“Don’t move and put your hands in the air,” Beckett ordered, as authoritatively as she could manage given the circumstances. She wished her gun was not on the other side of the room.
Cas turned to look at her. His gaze was enquiring and not at all intimidated. “Do you know where Dean is?” he asked.
“I said, put your hands in the air!”
“Why?” The man tilted his head to the side, examining her. She fought the urge to step back.
Sam turned to look at her as well. “Why are you here?”
Beckett fought for a way to regain control over the situation, but was interrupted by Ryan. “Our friend’s been taken, too. He was looking into the connection between the murder victim and your brother.”
Beckett glared at him, but he kept looking at Sam. “You are Sam Winchester, right?”
Sam Winchester nodded. Beckett was silently adding a whole lot more to the list of things he was under arrest for when he spoke. “Look,” he said, “I appreciate that you’re worried about your friend, and you think you’re doing your jobs, but you need to back off. You don’t know what you’re dealing with, and you’re going to get yourselves killed. Let us handle it. We’ll bring him back.”
Beckett worked to keep her cool, recalling the delusions Castle had told her the Winchesters suffered from. “Because of the monsters? I’m sorry, Sam. Monsters don’t exist, and you are under arrest. Leave the investigation to the police.”
The man in the trench coat spoke again, impatiently: “We don’t have time for this, Sam.” He stretched his hand out towards Beckett’s forehead, and everything went black.
XXX
When Beckett came around, she felt surprisingly well rested, and the thumping pain in her head which would usually follow being knocked out was conspicuously absent. She opened her eyes, feeling only slightly groggy, to see Ryan and Esposito staring down at her as she lay on the floor.
“What happened?” She asked.
Ryan helped her sit up. “I don’t care if monsters don’t exist, that guy was not human.” He and Esposito looked at each other.
“Dude, that made no sense,” Esposito remarked.
“Well, it’s true,” Ryan insisted.
“Oh, come on,” Beckett groaned, blinking around the room. The apartment was exactly as it had been, except Sam Winchester and Cas were gone. “You let them get away?”
“He knocked you out by touching your forehead, and then disappeared into thin air!” Ryan continued.
“Oh, really?” Beckett looked at him sceptically.
“Tell me you saw that, too!” Ryan looked at his partner.
“I dunno, man. Maybe it was just a… trick of the light or something.” Esposito sounded strangely unsure of himself. It made Beckett nervous. Esposito was nearly always sure of himself.
“So they got away.”
“Well, yes,” Ryan admitted, “But we did find something.”
Beckett refused Esposito’s offer of a hand up, and struggled to her feet, no mean feat in 3-inch heels. She followed the others across to the window and looked out at the fire escape. A thin trail of salt and an occasional drop of blood wound down the stairs.
“We’ve got our lead on Castle,” she said.
XXX
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Beckett had just finished breakfast and was heading out the door on the way to the precinct when her cell phone rang. She picked up. “Beckett,” she said, as she locked her front door.
“Is Richard with you?” the voice of Castle’s mother came anxiously through the earpiece.
“No, why?”
“He went out last night, and isn’t back yet. He’s not answering his phone, not even for Alexis.”
Beckett didn’t waste time wondering why Castle’s mother would assume her son would be with her if he was out all night. For all of Martha’s dramatic tendencies, she had a strong grounding in sense, and was very fond of her son. If she was worried, there was usually a reason. And Castle always picked up his phone for Alexis.
“When did he leave? Did he give any indication of where he was going?” she asked, walking to the stairwell as she spoke.
“Alexis said he left a little after ten, and didn’t say where he was going. We’re worried he might have had an idea about your case and gone to investigate.”
Beckett groaned to herself. Of course he had. That was what Castle did. Why hadn’t he called her? She’d have kept him out of trouble, or at least gone with him. They had been working together long enough that she was surprisingly open to some of his crazier theories by now, even if she made it look like she was just humouring him.
She arranged for Martha and Alexis to wait at the precinct while she, Ryan and Esposito headed out to search the most likely places for him. “Try not to worry,” she told Martha, “I’m sure he’s just lost his phone or something.” She hung up, trying to ignore the gnawing worry in her belly.
Beckett headed straight out to the apartment where the murder had taken place, calling Ryan from the car with instructions to track Castle’s phone. He and Esposito could head out to start searching afterwards.
The traffic was infuriating, all red lights and people cutting each other off as they hurried to get to work on time, painfully oblivious to her hurry. Finally, she made it to Frank Walter’s (if that was even really his name) building, and stepped out of the car into a light rain and ran inside.
The crime scene tape had been ripped from the door, which hung open, half off its hinges. Beckett pulled her gun from its holster, holding it ready as she inspected the door. There were marks around the lock from an amateur lock-picker. Probably Castle. It seemed strangely incongruous with the rest of the damage. Her chest tightened. It was looking less and less like Castle had just lost his phone. She nudged the door open, and entered, leading with her gun. The room was empty, but ransacked, like there had been a struggle. The couch was knocked over, and one of the armchairs rested, broken, against the wall on the other side of the room. Almost as though it had been thrown. Beckett could hardly imagine the kind of strength it would take to hurl a chair like that across a room. There were shards of crockery on the floor, and the television was mangled. On closer inspection, Beckett found it had been shot. She cleared the room, moving on to the bedroom.
The hollow wall in the bedroom was open. Whoever had opened it hadn’t taken the time to find the secret lever, but had simply kicked it in and ripped the wall out. The weapons had all been seized as evidence the day before, but some of the salt had been left. Now the sack was empty and the floor was white with rock salt, the swirls in it showing signs of a struggle. A silver knife was embedded in the wall beside the door, at shoulder height. Most worrying of all, though, were the drops of blood speckled across the floor, like someone had got a minor cut and not stopped to clean it up, and a flashlight, still turned on, shining out from beneath the bed. And there, right in the centre of the floor, crushed beyond repair, sat Castle’s cell phone. The night vision setting was still blinking on and off.
Castle, where are you? Beckett pulled out her phone to dial the precinct, the tightness and gnawing worry inside her increasing. Just as she went to hit the button, the apartment door creaked on its one working hinge. She pulled out her gun again, crossing the room to stand against the wall by the door.
The man who entered the apartment was huge; too big for Beckett to take in hand-to-hand. She would have to surprise him, get her gun pointed at him.
“Dean?” The man said, peering around the room. Beckett caught a glimpse of a knife in his right hand. It was large and serrated, designed as a weapon rather than a tool. From the hard expression on his face, he was more than capable of using it. “Dean? Are you here?” he asked again, turning to investigate the remains of the television.
Beckett took her chance while he was looking the other way, coming out of her hiding place quickly and quietly and aiming her gun squarely at his back. “Don’t move. NYPD. Put your hands in the air.”
The man raised his hands slowly, the knife still clasped in the right one. From closer, she could see strange symbols carved into the metal and a faint stain of blood down its side. “What have you done with Dean?” he growled.
“Drop the knife and keep your hands where I can see them,” Beckett ordered, keeping her gun trained steadily on him.
The man didn’t move, but he didn’t drop the knife either. From the corner of her eye, Beckett could see the outline of a gun tucked into the back of his jeans. He murmured something.
“Drop the knife, or I’ll shoot.”
The man’s murmurings grew louder, some kind of recitation in a foreign language.
Beckett took a cautious step forward. Suddenly, the man spun, faster than she’d ever seen, and then her gun was on the floor across the room, and his knife was against her throat.
“Tell me what you’ve done with my brother,” he ground out, “If you think for one second I believe you’re a cop…” he trailed off. “Christo?” he said, sounding almost hopeful.
Beckett stood absolutely still. She could feel the serrated edge of the knife making shallow cuts on her skin. “Please put the knife down,” she said calmly.
To her surprise, the man began to back away slowly, hands raised apologetically. Beckett would have preferred it if he’d dropped the knife, but it was a start. “Christo?” he tried again.
“My name is Kate Beckett. I’m an NYPD Detective. Why don’t you put the knife down and we can discuss this calmly?” Beckett did her best to speak soothingly.
“I’m sorry,” the man said, and that was definitely an apology in his eyes, “I don’t want to hurt you, but I need you to leave. It’s not safe for you here.”
Beckett kept her eyes on the knife and opened her mouth to continue the negotiation, but was interrupted.
“NYPD! Put the knife down!”
“NYPD! Put down your weapon!”
“New York Police Department, hands in the air!”
Ryan and Esposito burst through the broken door, guns ready, making a lot of noise. Beckett breathed a sigh of relief as the big man finally dropped his knife. She pulled out her handcuffs, kicking the knife across the floor as she reached to cuff him.
As she was tightening the second cuff, there was a strange movement of air behind her, as if someone had opened a window without warning.
“What the- “ Beckett heard Esposito exclaim.
There was a clatter as Ryan dropped his gun.
From behind Beckett a man’s voice spoke deeply and slowly. “What do you want, Sam? I am busy.”
Beckett froze, and then turned, keeping a firm hold on the handcuffed man.
Sam was apparently the handcuffed man’s name, because he replied, relief evident in his voice. “Hey Cas. Uh, thanks for coming.”
“What do you want?” The new man repeated. He was standing very still, hands at his sides like he wasn’t sure what to do with them. His sharp blue eyes focussed unblinkingly on Sam, as though there was nobody else in the room. “Where is Dean?”
“That’s kind of what I called you about… he’s kind of missing.” Sam wasn’t exactly backing down, but he seemed uncomfortable, almost hesitant. The man in the dirty trench coat and askew tie was obviously more than he seemed, if he was powerful enough to invite respect from someone as clearly dangerous as Sam.
“You have lost your brother?” The statement was not quite accusing, but the he sounded annoyed.
Ryan regained his voice. “How did you do that?”
The blue-eyed man ignored him, speaking directly to Sam again. “You should be more careful. I cannot find him anymore.”
“I thought maybe he’d called you?”
“He has not,” the reply was short, “We must find him immediately. Hell has a bounty out on him. If they get their hands on him, his deaths will not be pleasant.”
“Deaths?” Esposito mumbled wonderingly.
The man - Cas? - turned his head to look at Esposito briefly before returning his attention to Sam. “Dean cannot give his consent if he is dead. Every time is soul enters heaven, they will return it to his body. We must endeavour to find him before the torture begins.” He began to walk towards Sam.
“Don’t move and put your hands in the air,” Beckett ordered, as authoritatively as she could manage given the circumstances. She wished her gun was not on the other side of the room.
Cas turned to look at her. His gaze was enquiring and not at all intimidated. “Do you know where Dean is?” he asked.
“I said, put your hands in the air!”
“Why?” The man tilted his head to the side, examining her. She fought the urge to step back.
Sam turned to look at her as well. “Why are you here?”
Beckett fought for a way to regain control over the situation, but was interrupted by Ryan. “Our friend’s been taken, too. He was looking into the connection between the murder victim and your brother.”
Beckett glared at him, but he kept looking at Sam. “You are Sam Winchester, right?”
Sam Winchester nodded. Beckett was silently adding a whole lot more to the list of things he was under arrest for when he spoke. “Look,” he said, “I appreciate that you’re worried about your friend, and you think you’re doing your jobs, but you need to back off. You don’t know what you’re dealing with, and you’re going to get yourselves killed. Let us handle it. We’ll bring him back.”
Beckett worked to keep her cool, recalling the delusions Castle had told her the Winchesters suffered from. “Because of the monsters? I’m sorry, Sam. Monsters don’t exist, and you are under arrest. Leave the investigation to the police.”
The man in the trench coat spoke again, impatiently: “We don’t have time for this, Sam.” He stretched his hand out towards Beckett’s forehead, and everything went black.
XXX
When Beckett came around, she felt surprisingly well rested, and the thumping pain in her head which would usually follow being knocked out was conspicuously absent. She opened her eyes, feeling only slightly groggy, to see Ryan and Esposito staring down at her as she lay on the floor.
“What happened?” She asked.
Ryan helped her sit up. “I don’t care if monsters don’t exist, that guy was not human.” He and Esposito looked at each other.
“Dude, that made no sense,” Esposito remarked.
“Well, it’s true,” Ryan insisted.
“Oh, come on,” Beckett groaned, blinking around the room. The apartment was exactly as it had been, except Sam Winchester and Cas were gone. “You let them get away?”
“He knocked you out by touching your forehead, and then disappeared into thin air!” Ryan continued.
“Oh, really?” Beckett looked at him sceptically.
“Tell me you saw that, too!” Ryan looked at his partner.
“I dunno, man. Maybe it was just a… trick of the light or something.” Esposito sounded strangely unsure of himself. It made Beckett nervous. Esposito was nearly always sure of himself.
“So they got away.”
“Well, yes,” Ryan admitted, “But we did find something.”
Beckett refused Esposito’s offer of a hand up, and struggled to her feet, no mean feat in 3-inch heels. She followed the others across to the window and looked out at the fire escape. A thin trail of salt and an occasional drop of blood wound down the stairs.
“We’ve got our lead on Castle,” she said.
XXX
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