An Unkindness of Crows
~Part One~
Castiel Novak was a ghost.
A ghost trapped in a prison of flesh and bone; a body that no longer needed to breathe or eat or sleep. A body without a heartbeat and perhaps without a soul, because what man with a soul would return from paradise with such thoughts of vengeance on his mind? Yet a tiny voice whispered in his brain that he was justified in his quest.
He was due.
He was owed.
He was righteous.
And it wasn’t until he’d walked barefoot across the cold earth of the cemetery, leaving behind the cracked remains of his coffin and reached his half burnt apartment that he started to believe it. He was confused and hurting, wondering where his grandparents were and why he was no longer lounging in a meadow of wild flowers. Why his sister was no longer reading to him while stroking the head of their dog that had been hit by a car when he was seven.
He did not understand the concept of pain any longer. Of a windy chill on his damp skin or why the bright lights burned his eyes until they watered. Everything that used to be so familiar was now so alien.
A shiny feathered crow led him home and once there he remembered why he should be angry. Why he’d been brought back in the first place.
The rope around his neck is squeezing tighter, tighter, tighter and cutting into his soft skin. There are hands on him, delicate and smooth, poking at his fresh bruises and stroking him through his black slacks. It’s the girl with the grating voice saying filthy things. “Wanna suck you down, pretty. Wanna slice you up and make it hurt. Fuck you raw over that expensive countertop with a strap on until we’re both all dewy.”
She squeezes him harder and he’s moaning in pain while she laughs, tells her friends that he’s aching for it.
He can hear Anna crying, shouting please no and pushing at the man on top of her. He’s big yet unassuming; he’s slamming into her on the floor and asking does she like it.
They’re all laughing so loud. The four of them, different as night and day but not because they’re all getting off on the pain. On the screams and the pleading.
“Should have just made it quick,” The black man says behind him. He’s holding the end of the rope and he’s strong, able to heave ho Castiel’s body like he weighs nothing. “This is unnecessary.”
“Come now Gordon, we should take pride in our work.” An older guy smirks. He’s wearing amber-colored sunglasses and they make his eyes look yellow. “The boss says this one deserves something fitting. Something that will put him in the papers. You’ll like that, won’t you?”
Castiel swallows hard; it hurts. “Pl-please. Let Anna go. She-she’s innocent. Take whatever…you want.”
“Cut him down, daddy. I wanna ride him first.” The girl licks his face, tonguing at the cut on his cheek. “He tastes like angel cake.”
“Gordon. Would you do the honors?”
He can’t breathe and his feet are dangling off the floor, black spots are dancing before his eyes. The brunette is watching him and she’s flushed, aroused, but he can’t look away from Anna. Lovely Anna, she’s not making noises anymore. Minutes later…neither is he.
Castiel screamed; falling into the wall as the images kept coming, vivid in his brain and behind his eyes. Everything he touched reminded him of their last moments together. Anna was strangled to death on the once white shag carpet while he hung from a sturdy beam near the window. The moon had been full and they’d been expecting pizza, instead opening the door to their doom. A group of people he’d never seen before barging in, beating him, breaking his bones and splattering his blood. Raping and tormenting and murdering his sister. Murdering him.
“Stop!” He shouted, sinking to his knees. “Please, stop…”
The swift punches.
“No.”
The hard kicks.
“No, no, no!”
The sprays of bright red blood.
“I-I can’t. It-it’s too much!”
The all encompassing helplessness.
The pain. The pain. The pain.
“I said stop it!” Lashing out, he punched a fist through the glass cabinet and stumbled to the dirty floor, panting so hard he expected to be sick at any moment. Trembling violently with sweat rolling down the sides of his face, he tilted his head curiously at the shards stuck between his knuckles. Deftly he plucked them out one by one and watched as the deep gashes healed over, flexing his fingers.
No more pain.
That’s what he wanted-to be numb-but that wasn’t what he needed. No what he needed was…satisfaction. And he was going to get it by any means necessary.
~*~
Dean Winchester heard the deep, exaggerated sigh from the person in front of him but he chose to ignore it for the second time. Instead he focused on the black and white photographs on his desk and the accompany file, trying to decide what he was going to tell Mr. Charles Winston when the man called tomorrow morning. Or this morning as the case would be since it was steadily ticking past midnight-at least that is what the clock said on the wall. In truth he couldn’t be sure because he only paid attention to time when it was time to eat or time to go to bed. And even then he was lax.
But back to Charles Winston. He’d hired Dean two weeks ago to find out if his smoking hot wife was cheating on him. Considering Winston was pushing seventy and popping little blue pills to get it up, and the fact that his wife was twenty five with legs like a supermodel, he was pretty sure that yes she was indeed cheating on him. However he’d taken the case anyway because he needed the money and it sounded easy enough. A few days spent following Mrs. Winston as she shopped, got her nails done, got her dog’s nails done and visited with friends. He was close to suspecting that the chick was actually being faithful until he saw her stick her tongue down her chauffeur’s throat.
He could only guess what they got up to in the back of the expensive Rolls Royce.
Anyway though he had his photographic evidence-he liked the black and white because it made things more dramatic-now all he had to do was spill the beans and collect his five hundred dollars. It was true that being a Private Investigator wasn’t glamorous work but it was relatively safe. He’d only been shot at like three times and only jumped with the intention of bodily harm four. Usually he was very good at keeping a low profile and not being seen. He was sure that Mrs. Winston hasn’t seen him, not that he would care if she had. She weighed like a hundred pounds; what was she going to do? Beat him with her high heels?
“Dean!”
Jerking out of his thoughts, he yawned and rubbed the back of his neck. Joanna Beth ‘Jo’ Harvelle eyed him from her place across his desk, her cute face scrunched up into a deep frown. He had known Jo for a long time now, in that our families are friends with each other kinda way. She was blonde and petite and capable of taking down a man twice her size which is why he liked her. In a totally platonic way though. Once he’d entertained the notion of sleeping with her but quickly decided they were better off as friends. Especially after finding out about her mother’s gun collection.
“What?” He asked and slouched in his chair. “I know I know; you’re ready to go home.”
She nodded. “Duh. Some of us have a life outside of being nosy, Dean.”
He snorted at her choice of words. “I’m not nosy. This is my job. I got a shiny license to do it and everything. ‘Sides not like I twisted your arm to keep you here past your bedtime.”
Growling, she balled up a piece of crisp white paper and tossed it at him. It bounced off his forehead and she smiled. “I stayed cause you looked so pitiful when I got up my stuff to go. What kinda partner would I be if I just left you hanging in your time of need?”
He held up a finger. “You’re not my partner. Look.” He pointed to the open door. “Whose name is it on the glass?”
Jo arched a brow. “Asshole McDumbass?”
“You’re funny. You’re fired.”
“Ha ha. You fire me every day.”
“One day I’m gonna mean it.”
“Sure. Anyway are done perving on those pictures?”
Dean didn’t bother with a witty retort. Instead he shuffled the photos back into their manila folder and pushed them across the desk to her. “Yeah sure. If Winston doesn’t call by four pm tomorrow I want you to get in touch with him. Tell him the deal but don’t let him see the proof until the money is in your hand.”
The pretty blonde sighed, exasperated. “This isn’t my first rodeo, ya know?” She stood, her metal chair scraping loudly on the floor in the otherwise quiet room. “But for the record you should have asked for six hundred. Easy two-way split down the middle.”
Chuckling, he stretched his arms high over his head and vaguely watched as she opened the file cabinet and put his papers away. She wasn’t exactly his secretary since he let her go out on jobs whenever she wanted, but she had a knack for filing that he couldn’t seem to grasp. While yes, alphabetically was probably the appropriate way to go, he often marked things as old guy, hot wife or bald dude skimming money from grandma’s bank account.
In all truthfulness he kept Jo around because she was good company…when she wasn’t being a giant pain in the ass.
“I’m gonna head out then,” Jo related, thumbing behind her. “You should go home and get some sleep.”
“I will mom,” He said teasingly.
She gave him the finger with a smile and walked out, grabbing her coat from the rack by the door before leaving. Dean sat still for a moment and just looked around the room at the cracking paint and mold stains near the ceiling. He shared his floor with one other person-an older man who worked accounting for some of the local businesses around town named Bruce Turner. The rooms above him were empty or used for storage while only one room below had another actual person, a bails bondsman who called himself Tank.
He was certainly big as one.
Things were usually quiet unless Tank got angry. Then he should yell and curse up a storm, most times screaming about money. When his intimidating stature didn’t work, he’d whip out his gun and sometimes let off a few rounds. Dean wasn’t sure why he stayed other than the fact the building itself was rent controlled and any other place would cost twice what he was paying.
It was better than working out of his home; less mess and all.
Pushing back from his desk, he turned off the small lamp and gathered up the things he wanted to take home with him. He slipped on his cracked brown leather jacket-no need to wear a suit; he wasn’t a Detective after all-and fished his keys out of his pocket. Snapping off the fluorescent overhead light, he locked the door and headed down the stairs.
The cool night air hit him in the face once he was outside, making his eyes water as he jogged across the street to his car, his baby, a fully restored black 1967 Chevy Impala. It had belonged to his father before his accident. Now he drove around in a pimped out SUV with special tricks put in for his condition.
Dean stopped at his favorite all night burger joint and then drove to his apartment with the sounds of rock music blasting from his radio. He’d never got into the newer type of stuff, not really. A song would have to be pretty damn good to get him to listen to it if it wasn’t by someone he already liked. Unlike his brother, he didn’t fall in love with whatever poppy tune that happened to be playing. He also wasn’t fond of cds because as far as he was concerned they ruined the bass. Yeah he had to use them cause that’s all there was but he wasn’t happy about it.
Making it to the simple little place he called home, he parked in his usual space and exited the vehicle. His parents still lived in the same two story house he’d grew up in, and his little brother currently lived with his fiancé in some flashy studio apartment, but his residence was more minimal. And cheap. He figured as long as it had a bed, bathroom and kitchen that he was fine.
The trek was short and minutes later he was opening the door, kicking it closed with his boot heel. He flipped on the lights and was greeted by a large black cat rubbing around his legs, meowing loudly. “Dude, you don’t even let me get inside before you’re begging for food?” The cat responded with another meow and he snorted, taking his things into the kitchen. “Yeah, yeah.”
So it wasn’t his cat, not exactly. One morning he’d went outside to find the ass sitting on his car looking more content than an animal ever should. Naturally he’d thrown a rock at it and told it to never come back again. Yeah…it returned every day for that entire week. He’d looked all dirty and skinny that Dean found himself leaving food out for it. Now he couldn’t get rid of the damned thing if he tired, not that he ever did. He would never say it out loud but it was nice to at least have something to come home to that appreciated him.
Before he took off his jacket, he filled a silver food dish with food and scratched behind the cat’s ears. “Enjoy.” He yanked a beer out of the fridge, popped the top and took a long gulp.
Next his phone was ringing and he didn’t even have to check the caller idea to know who it was. “Hello?”
His brother’s voice flowed over the line. “Hey Dean. I didn’t wake you, did I?”
“Nah, Sammy. Just getting in.” He cringed. Shit, and here it comes.
“Dean. Another late nighter? C’mon dude you promised to take it easy,” Sam murmured, sounding much like a mother hen. “And lemme guess, you’re gonna choke down some fatty burger and then crash. I bet your arteries are screaming for a salad.”
Dean laughed. He secretly liked it when Sam made a fuss about his health. “Stop bitchin’ at me, bro. We can’t all dress in big boy clothes and eat rack of lamb every night. I haven’t had a heart attack yet so I must be doing something right.”
Sam was not convinced. “Uh-huh. How is work?”
“The same. All old rich dudes and the smoking hot chicks that cheat on ‘em,” He replied taking the wrapper off his cheeseburger. “How’s Jessica? Give her a sloppy kiss on the cheek for me.”
“Heh she’s great. Said she’s gonna make you a lonely man pie,” Sam mused. “Hey, mom and dad are having a cook out next weekend if the weather permits. You’re gonna be there right?”
Chewing on his bottom lip, he eased himself into a chair. “Um, sure.”
“Cool,” His brother said happily. “I was thinking of inviting my friend Veronica for you.”
“Sam-”
“Look just hear me out, okay? She’s really sweet and nice and I think you’d like her.”
“I don’t need you to find dates for me.”
“Well you’re not finding them for yourself.”
“I don’t have time for chicks. Work and shit…”
“Have you had even so much as a hook up since Lisa left you?”
Grunting, Dean rolled his eyes and purposefully bit into his food so that his voice would be muffled when he continued. “Thatsnoneofyourbusinessjerk.”
Sam smirked. “Fine we’ll do it your way. But you can either have me fixing you up or you can have mom doing it. It’s your decision though we both know whoever she picks will probably be either the opposite of what you want or someone desperate for babies.”
That was a scary thought. “I promise to give one of your lawyer friends a thrill real soon. How’s that?”
The younger Winchester snickered. “It’ll do for now. Ya know if you don’t like Veronica, there is this guy named Max who is right up your alley.”
Dean allowed himself to go cross-eyed just because. “What makes you think I’d want some stuffy, stick up his ass dude?”
Pause. “Max is a fun guy, not that it matters. He could be a figurehead of the Republican party but if he had the right eyes, you’d go all crazy intense over him. Just like Cassie, Jake and Lisa. It’s pretty common knowledge that you got a thing for big pretty eyes…”
Okay so he hit the nail on the head with that one. “They are the windows to the soul or some shit like that. And just because you’re-damn it Jon Bonham what have I told you about getting on the counter!”
Sam was silent for a second before bursting into laughter. “You named your cat after the drummer from Zepplin?”
Frowning, Dean shooed the animal away. “He’s not my cat. He’s a freeloading ass who won’t leave. And Bonham was awesome.”
A soft voice called out to Sam and he said that he’ll be right there. “You love that cat and you know it. Anyway I’ll call you tomorrow night and make sure Jo hasn’t tossed your body in a dumpster for being mean to her. Take care of yourself, Dean.”
“You too, Sammy. Night.”
If there was one person that understood him completely it was his little brother. Well maybe not completely but he tried and that meant a lot. When Dean first began having feelings for guys as well as girls, Sam was the first person he told. Sam helped him break the news to his parents expecting the worst but finding they didn’t care so much as long as he found someone to make him happy. Though he got the feeling his dad wasn’t thrilled, there was no way he was going to risk his wife’s wrath by voicing his concerns.
Sam knew most of his dirty secrets-like how his relationship with Lisa Braeden had blown up in his face. Two years together and he comes home to find her gone and a fucken note in her place explaining how she wasn’t happy anymore. How she needed a change and that she was sorry. She’d totally Dear John’d his ass. He’d thought about calling her and yelling, shouting that she could have gave him more respect than that but in the end he hadn’t. Dean was the type to hold on too tight when he had something but he was also the kinda guy who let go for the good of others, even if it tore him a part inside.
However sometimes when he was drinking he’d call her a bitch to the emptiness of his living room.
There was a time when he’d thought they would end up like his parents, John and Mary. Married for a helluva long time and still making kissy faces at each other. Yet Dean got the feeling she felt like he wasn’t doing enough with his life, and hey, maybe he wasn’t. It’s not like Private Investigator was his first choice as a career. He’d wanted to be a cop like his old man every since he was four years old. And would’ve followed the same path if not for the accident.
John Winchester was a powerful man who believed in right and wrong. He loved his family and he loved protecting the people of their city. His job was dangerous but nothing too bad until some bent outta shape crack head had shot him in the back, making it so he would never walk again. Dean was twenty two at the time. Three years later and he could still remember getting the call in the middle of the night. Rushing to the hospital and not knowing if his father was going to live or die while trying to be strong for everyone else. It’s what they’d expected of him after all.
Before then he’d wanted to be a Detective, and was going through the Police Academy training to become an officer. His mother-so distraught over what happened to her husband-begged him not to do it.
So…he hadn’t. It sounded weird to abandon his dream like that but Dean was a people pleaser, particularly when it came to his family. And they didn’t need to know that sometimes he lent his assistance to the cops…or rather one main Detective who managed to trust him for whatever reason.
Finishing up his food, he tossed the wrapper in the trash and took his beer to the living room. He flopped down onto the couch and turned on the television, toeing off his boots. The perky news reporter was smiling widely and talking about Adler Pharmaceuticals, and how the founder and CEO would be unveiling a new drug within the next few months proven to help fight cancer without the side effects that chemo and radiation often had.
The screen flashed to a press conference where a tall, distinguished bald man was currently speaking among a flurry of reporters. “We are reaching a new era in the field of medical breakthroughs. An era where diseases will no longer have a hold on us. With the help of my very intelligent scientists working day and night, we will usher the next generation into a world where things like cancer or even the common cold will no longer exist.”
“Sounds like a pipe dream to me,” Dean said to no one.
He was answered by a lapful of black fur demanding attention. As long as he kept a bowl of food on the floor he never had to worry about the cat leaving him. It was a small bit of solace really. And he didn’t want to whine; he had a good life and he knew it. Healthy family, a few good friends and a job that paid the bills. It wasn’t amazing and he couldn’t afford to jet to Vegas for a turn on the tables, but things were stable.
Still…didn’t mean that he wasn’t lonely. Didn’t mean that he didn’t want someone to share his mundane life with. Being set up though just wasn’t his ideal way to meet someone. Of course his way-trolling bars-usually ended in one night stands rather than meaningful connections, but it was better than nothing. Sometimes you just needed to feel.
Be reminded that even for one brief instance, somebody gave a damn about you that wasn’t related to you.
Dean was happy for Sam that he had Jessica, he was, but sometimes he got jealous. It was natural. His younger brother had found the love of his life and was preparing to get married and one day start a family, while he was taking pictures of cheating spouses or men committing insurance fraud. There were times when he thought maybe he should have proposed to Lisa but then he slapped himself back to reality. That would have been a fucken nightmare, marrying a chick just so that he wouldn’t have to be alone.
Most likely she was with her ex-boyfriend and her son. She said it was better for Ben to live with his father but Dean never thought she honestly believed it. The guy wasn’t a druggie or whatever, but he wasn’t them most attentive either. In spite of that, whenever he suggested bringing Ben down to stay with them she always had some excuse. Like he wasn’t good enough to play step dad. Well fuck her. One day he’d be an Uncle (if not a father) and he’d have a chance to spoil some kid rotten.
Yawning, he tickled his fingers under his cat’s chin and then stood, moving sluggishly into his bedroom after turning off the tv. He stripped out of his clothes and smelled under his arms, deciding that he could put off showering until in the morning. Not like Jon Bonham would care one way or the other if he was a little ripe. He slept on the pillow beside his head anyways.
He fell face first into bed in his boxer-briefs and rolled under the covers, staring at the ceiling. Dragged his blunt fingernails over the tattoo on his chest he’d gotten at eighteen on a drunken dare from his equally drunk friend Chuck and sighed. Tomorrow would be more of the same and while comforting, it also filled him with a sense of dread. He was drowning in his life and as far as he could tell, there was no one around the corner to pull him to the surface.
Just as well though. Someone had to be the straight man.
~*~
Castiel sat on the floor for a long time staring at nothing, lost in his own thoughts. He couldn’t stop the visions and it took him a while to realize as hurtful as they were, he needed them to fuel him. To give him the anger he required to lash out at the ones who deserved it. And they all deserved it.
The crow cawed impatiently, strutting from one side of what used to be the mantle to the other. Castiel nodded, exhaling deeply as he stood and padded into his bedroom. It was untouched by the fire and most of his things were still there, though he wasn’t sure why. Surely his family would have packed up the place and gave whatever they didn’t wish to keep away to good will. Maybe it was too much for them.
Opening his closet door, he looked at his many suits, one for every day of the week and growled. He yanked them off their pristine hangers and threw them all over the room. They belonged to his other life when all that mattered was the next big scoop-the next big story. He’d wanted to see his name on the front page in big, bold letters and instead ended up in the obituaries. All because he’d stuck his nose where it didn’t belong.
And Anna, she’d been just an innocent bystander. Wrong place at the wrong time. Came over to playfully toast the Pulitzer he would no doubt end up winning some day.
Castiel held back his tears as he stripped out of the dirty, faded suit he’d been buried in and slid into a clean pair of pants. He got dressed like he was going to work, dressy shirt and tie and long beige trench coat. His big blue eyes traveled along the wall and landed on a box over in the corner next to the blank canvas where he’d always been meaning to paint. It was open and in his hands a second later, and he was tossing away the colors he didn’t need.
He sat down in front of his vanity, wiping a hand across the dusty mirror. For what he had to do-for what he wanted to do-he felt the urge to hide who he really was. To be a symbol of fear and extreme horror to those that had harmed him so that their last minutes would be nothing but dread and panic. And so he covered his already pale skin in white paint and then rimmed his eyes and lips in black kohl. He looked like a sadistic clown almost but more masquerade mask in actuality. It made him laugh, and he laughed until he couldn’t remember why he’d begun in the first place.
The crow landed on his shoulder and nuzzled his temple. There was no fear.
“I know,” He whispered. “Find them for me. Show me where they are and I will do the rest.”
He watched the bird sail out of the broken window and then frowned; where was his briefcase? He looked under the bed and in the closet but it wasn’t there, which was strange unless those intruders had taken it. It made sense-he’d known the moment they entered that it wasn’t some fluke home invasion. They’d been sent to complete the hit put out on him so that he wouldn’t be able to print his story.
Now the question was where were his notes and files? Hopefully not destroyed because the message still needed to be put out into the world. People needed to know the truth about everything.
Tilting his head to the side, he blinked slowly and found himself looking through the crow’s eyes. The image of a young man walking down the street singing to himself flooded his retinas in a watery orange color; he knew this man. His face inoffensive like the boy next door even while it was hurting you. He watched the man duck into a bar and shuddered, a feeling of rage overcoming him so terribly that had he been alive he would have had a panic attack.
This person that’d caused him so much grief was just walking around and getting drinks like nothing was wrong. Like he hadn’t forced himself on a young girl and smirked as his buddies hung a man from his own ceiling. He wasn’t in jail because the case had not been solved. He was free-in mind and body.
Castiel went over to the window and kicked out the rest of the glass. He crawled onto the ledge and opened his arms wide, letting himself fall the four stories to the cold cement below. He landed in a crouch that rattled his bones but without enough pressure to do any damage. A homeless man in his cardboard box startled and stared at him, hugging a bottle of whiskey to his chest.
“G-got any change?” He asked warily.
Castiel slipped his hand into his pants and pulled out a five he’d long forgotten was there, handing it to the man. He picked up a discarded newspaper and eyed the date. “Six months-feels like only yesterday. Interesting.” Pause. “You should not exceed the recommended level of alcohol intake. That stuff will kill you…” Smiling, he exited the alley and headed for Rufus’s bar. He had a date with a dead man.
Part Two