Fic: The Dead Man in the Lab (Bones/SPN)
Title: The Dead Man in the Lab
Author: Sameuspegasus
Fandoms: Supernatural/Bones
Rating: PG
Warnings: Slight violence. AU post season 5 SPN, mid-season 5 Bones (may contain spoilers). Super long.
Characters: Dean, Sam, Cas, Booth, Bones, Sweets, Angela, Hodgins, Daisy, Cam, Crowley. Booth/Bones. Veering dangerously towards Dean/Cas preslash.
Summary: There's a dead man in Booth's interrogation room, and he's having an argument with an angel of the lord.
Disclaimer: Not for profit, just for fun. I have no connection to either show.
Distribution: Cross-posted on Fanfiction.net
Sweets was apprehensive as he entered the interrogation room. All Dr Brennan had told him on the phone was that there were two extremely unbalanced men with her and Booth, one of whom was claiming to be an angel of the Lord, and one who was wanted for several counts of murder and torture and had apparently died several times. Also, he was still a little freaked by the big guy lurking in the shadows outside the building.
Booth looked relieved to see him. All three men and Dr Brennan were sipping coffee. Sweets was of the opinion that it was fairly dangerous to give hot coffee to the criminally insane, but the suspects seemed calm and it never hurt to develop a rapport. He made a mental note to remind Booth to offer soda instead next time.
Dean Winchester and 'Cas' seemed to be having a private conversation. Neither man was wearing handcuffs. It was obvious Booth had lost any semblance of control he may have had.
As Sweets entered, Dean was saying: "So why did you really pop in, Cas? I know you didn't just come for a cup of coffee with the nice FBI agent and his hot anthropologist sidekick with social skills that rival yours. Actually, you guys would be perfect for each other... except for the whole non-believer thing... who are you?"
He looked at Sweets. Sweets felt strangely awkward and young under his gaze.
"Dr Lance Sweets. I'm an FBI psychologist." Sweets extended his hand. Dean shook it. Cas looked unsure about what it was for, but had some sort of silent conversation with Dean, and shook it too.
"Dean Winchester. I'm the Michael Sword." Dean seemed to be subtly mocking him, but the claim was intriguing.
"I'm Castiel. I'm an angel of the Lord." Castiel was not mocking at all.
"We'll be out of your hair in no time. We just need to convince these two to stop interfering with our investigation." That was Dean again. Serious this time. Sweets silently put both of them down for a diagnosis of religious psychosis.
"Do you fix souls?" Castiel asked him.
"Cas. Concentrate."
Sweets hesitated. "I help people escape damaging thought patterns and reduce aberrant behaviour."
"Can you help Dean? He will not let me fix him."
"Cas!"
"Why don't you tell me what's wrong, and I'll try to help?" Sweets sat next to Bones, taking Dean's file from Booth. This was going to be interesting. He couldn't help noticing that Booth was acting a little strange. He seemed to be averting his eyes from Castiel.
Actually, that was one of the main reasons he'd come in such a hurry in the middle of the night. Dr Brennan had sounded concerned on the phone, hissing: "I think Booth believes him! He keeps crossing himself!"
But, back to the more immediate concern - Sweets looked across at Dean.
"So, Dean - How did you become the Michael Sword?"
"It's a really long story."
"Well, why don't you start with how you came back from the dead?"
"Which time?" Dean seemed to be slightly amused by that, but the smirk on his face obviously covered deep, painful emotion. Something bad, serious trauma, had occurred in this man's life, and he did not want to talk about it.
"Why don't you tell me about each time, starting with the shooting in St Louis?"
"That was a shapeshifter."
Belief in the Supernatural. Childhood trauma of some kind. Lack of knowledge of the crime in interrogations after the attack. Obvious reluctance to acknowledge and think about painful times of his life. Dissociative Identity Disorder?
"So when was really the first time you died?"
"He drowned as a small child." Castiel stated.
Dean looked surprised. "What? When was this?"
"Before your mother was killed. Your soul was the talk of heaven. Then it disappeared, and none of the angels knew how it had been taken back to earth."
Sweets was beginning to doubt that Dean was the only one who needed help. He was fairly sure that he for one, and probably Booth and Brennan, would need serious psychiatric help once this case was solved.
Dean looked annoyed. "Why did you not tell me that before?"
"It did not seem relevant."
Sweets interrupted. "And after that?"
"Electrocution. Massive heart attack. Doctors gave me two weeks. Sammy dragged me to a faith healer."
"And the faith healer cured you?" Sweets carefully pretended not to notice the voice cracking on the name.
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Booth nudge Dr Brennan, and mouth: "I told you they worked." Really professional, Booth.
"His wife bound a reaper and transferred my death to someone else. Didn't find out till after."
Dean seemed upset by that. Depression? Suicidal thoughts? It was odd, though. The placebo effect that most faith healing consisted of would not take hold if the sick person did not want to be healed, and yet Dean looked perfectly healthy.
"What about the next time?"
"Car crash. I was in a coma. The reaper's name was Tessa. I was going to go with her. I should have."
Survivor's guilt? This was not a healthy psyche. "Why didn't you?"
"My Dad sold his soul to the demon that murdered my mother, so I could live and look after Sam."
The mask was slipping. Sweets could see the pain in his eyes. Castiel was right. Dean needed to be fixed, and wasn't sure he wanted to be. Unconscious masochism.
"Then Sam died and I made a deal to bring him back. Gabriel killed me every day for a hundred days, to teach Sam a lesson about trying to get me out of the deal. I don't remember it, but Sam said one time a desk fell on me. The last time, I was dead for six months. Gabriel turned back time, though, so it was like I never died."
"Gabriel did not understand, Dean."
"I know he's your brother and everything, Cas, but Gabriel was a massive douchebag. Turned out OK in the end, though."
"I will let him know you said that. He always liked you."
Dean snorted. "Liked me? Funny way of showing it. Decent sense of humour, though. Wait, was he brought back, then?"
"Father rewarded him for his final show of faith to humanity."
Booth spoke up. "Gabriel the archangel?" He asked, with awe in his voice.
Brennan looked at him scornfully. "Angels aren't real, Booth."
Dean's whole demeanour changed at that. He laughed. "Maybe you should show them your wings, Cas."
Cas looked offended. "I do not show my wings to just anyone, Dean."
The lights flickered and a faint breeze seemed to lift Castiel's hair. Suddenly, Castiel seemed bigger.
Sweets decided to ignore the sudden doubt that entered his consciousness. This was simple religious psychosis with a side helping of grief, depression and self esteem issues. There was no way any of it was true. No way.
This relationship, though. This could be interesting to look into. After, you know, the multiple deaths, angel of the Lord thing was sorted out.
"What happened next?" he asked.
"The hellhounds came for me and dragged me to hell." Dean's whole body tensed, and his eyes went vacant. He seemed to be remembering something terrible. "I was there for forty years."
Post-traumatic stress disorder? He certainly had the main personality traits associated with its development - emotional repression and avoidance.
Dean shook himself out of his reverie. "Then Cas here raised me from perdition. Then we accidentally started the apocalypse and Michael wanted to make me his bitch and Sam was Lucy's vessel and some hunters shot us 'cos they thought Sammy was a monster. We went to heaven that time. Not all it's cracked up to be. Discovered God was on vacation. Now, I did what you wanted, you guys have to do what I want, and back the hell out of my case."
"Do you feel better, Dean? Will you let me repair your soul now? I can give you peace." Cas asked, staring into Dean's eyes.
"I don't want you to fix me, Cas! I don't want paradise, I want my brother back!" Dean spat at him. "Let's go. Get us out of here."
Castiel looked sad. He grasped Dean's shoulder. There was a rush of flapping sounds, almost like a giant bird. Castiel and Dean disappeared.
Sweets fainted.
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Sweets eventually recovered enough to go home. He had a lot to think about. As he reached out to open his car door, he felt cold steel on the back of his neck. A gun. He hadn't even heard footsteps behind him.
A voice said coldly: "Where is my brother?"
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