Chapter One: "All work and no play makes Dean a Dick."

On a beautiful, quiet Saturday, the logical thing to do is to sleep in. Friday night should be a long party that lasts until the sun peeks its bastard head over the distant horizon. The next ten-to-twelve hours should be spent sleeping, followed by some possible vomiting and definitely the consumption of water and greasy food. Doctors recommend another six-to-eight hours of sleep following that. Saturdays should certainly not be spent in a cheap suit, crawling around in the gutters of a backwater, Bible-Belt wasteland. There most definitely should not be things in those gutters with the intention of killing any and all that invade their territory, and one should absolutely not be in said gutters hunting those things sporting a sprained pinky, a black eye, and naught for defense save a small, silver chiv.

Not only did Dean Winchester's Saturday consist entirely of things it indubitably should not, but it consisted of all of these things before the hour of 10AM and without a single ounce of caffeine in his system. As he began the two-hour drive back to Kansas City with a (far-as-he-could-tell) dead body in tow, Dean huffed an exhausted sigh of exasperation.

Nobody deserves this, he thought. Melancholy music drifted annoyingly from the car stereo. Dean cursed it for not having a tape deck.

He was forced to drive a crappy, company sudan while his own vehicle was undergoing maintenance. Chief Singer had pointed out that the repairs would go much faster if he just "put the damn thing in the shop."

Dean's response had been, "Hell no! Nobody is putting their hands on my Baby but me." And he insisted that all the work be done by himself.

"You love that piece of junk more than you've ever loved me," his brother, Sam, occasionally teased. Dean's 1967 Chevrolet Impala really was his most prized possession. It had been the only constant in his fucked-up world, and he didn't plan on letting anyone ruin that for , that really did mean a longer wait to drive his own car again. That was fine. Dean had known it would be a long-term project, so for the moment he listened to Christian Radio, finding strength in the fact that it was only temporary.

An unexpected pothole jarred Dean nearly out of his seat, which reminded him to check the clock; in about twenty minutes, he was going to have to stop and make sure that the thing in the trunk was staying dead. He sighed. This was going to be a long drive.

Shoulders tight, back straight, head tilted slightly forward, Castiel stepped off of the elevator that had just reached his level. He gave a long, sweeping look at the corridor ahead of him. A white ceiling overshadowed bare, white walls, which met with a dull floor of gray and black tiles. Some red floor moulding looked like it was hastily thrown on to add a touch of color. He wasn't really sure what he expected an FBI field office to look like. Perhaps, he thought, a huge, open room with little cubicles for everyone to hide behind, surrounded by looming glass that allowed sunshine to bathe the good office workers in its rays. Secretaries would bustle from cubicle to cubicle, gofers stopping by the offices of important figures to bring them their coffee while they chatted with coworkers, and everyone would mock the six guys who were actually hunched over their desks, typing away, hard at work.

Instead, he was faced with ten-foot-wide concrete hall of depression. Fluorescent lights flickered, gloomily, overhead. Heels and casual dress shoes pattered down the way. The people were a blur, and their clothing blended with the building, grays and blacks and whites, now pushing past him, some with uneasy stares and glances, to catch the elevator before the doors ding!ed closed.

Castiel stepped aside to let the hurried people past. He straightened the lapels of his (what now seemed too casual) trench coat, and he looked at the notebook clutched in his hand.

Office 427

SC Walker and DC Singer

10:45 AM

He hadn't really needed to write it down. Castiel knew those numbers and names by heart. He'd studied them daily since receiving them three weeks prior to arriving in Kansas City. It was two weeks before he graduated, so he probably could have used the brainpower elsewhere, but this day was a huge one for Castiel. He was going to be given his first assignment that morning. Sectional Chief Gordon Walker and District Chief Robert Singer would evaluate him, find the person best suited to "break him in" (as Castiel heard was done to rookies) during his probationary period, and that was it: Castiel was taking his very first stride toward becoming a real-life field agent.

Gabriel teased Castiel when he first mentioned joining the FBI. "Seriously, Cassy? You want to investigate stuff on Earth? With humans?" He gave a good natured laugh with an uncertain smile, but he eventually warmed up to the idea. In fact, hardly a month after Castiel suggested it, Gabriel actually reassigned him to take care of some business on the ground. They'd received some intel that Castiel didn't have security clearance to hear, and he was sent to Quantico nearly a week later.

Four years later, Castiel stood at the end of an eerie hallway, willing his feet to carry him. He was early.

It was only 10:15. He had no idea if it was bad form to show up to an evaluation half an hour early. He wasn't sure if it would look like he made an effort or if it would look like he hadn't paid attention when being given instructions. He didn't really mind being perceived as eager. However, he was well aware that showing up at the wrong time could demonstrate an inability to comply with orders, and he did not want that at all.

Castiel stood for the next few minutes with his back against the wall. He looked at his paper for a few moments, then up at the bustling employees, then again at his notes. With a final glance at his watch, he finally decided to continue his trek down the hall toward office number 427. He could at least locate the room, possibly talk to a bookkeeper or secretary, and then wait outside.

Dean let out a moan of frustration when the gas light came on and the dashboard gave a polite ping! He had just made it through St. Joseph, Missouri, which meant that he was going to have to stop for gas, which meant that he would be paying for it out-of-pocket. Sure, he would be reimbursed, but that wouldn't be until the Friday two weeks into the future.

"Fuel efficient my ass," he muttered, slamming the driver's side door. He stopped at a gas station/truck stop just a mile from the highway. Its vibe kind of said stay too long and your death will not be by monster but by redneck.

He hastily popped open the gas cover and screwed off the cap, tipping the nozzle into the tank and selecting the cheapest fuel. The dealer had explicitly instructed him to only put premium fuel in the tank. Dean had agreed, but that was before he knew that the car's weak 15-gallon tank wouldn't last him the journey home. There was no way he was paying any $4/gallon to get him seventy more miles. He didn't have time for picky preppy cars.

After topping off, Dean replaced the gas cap and slammed the cover shut. He gave the trunk a good thump with his fist, muttering, "Still dead in there?"

He scoured the convenience store for a Slim-Jim before he climbed back into the driver's seat and headed south again.

Fortunately, the music selection became slightly wider as he neared the city, and he put a little bit of food in his stomach, alleviating some of his distress.

At the front of the Sectional Chief's office was a huge, oak desk. It was modestly adorned with a single wilting flower in a glass vase, a small jar of assorted marbles, and a framed award facing the door. On the other side of the desk was a bulky desktop computer, and behind that computer was an attractive girl with red hair and bright eyes.

She smiled at Castiel when he walked in. "Good morning, sir!" She said. Her tone was chipper. Castiel noted the coffee mug clutched tightly in her right hand. "How can I help you today?"

"My name is Castiel, I, uh..." He fumbled in his pocket and pulled out a state-issued identification card. "I'm here for Chief Singer; I'm the new Probationary Agent."

"Oh! Hi, Castiel." She stood from behind the desk and offered a hand. "Charlene Bradbury. You can call me Charlie," she shrugged, "everybody does. Why don't you have a seat, and I'll tell Mister Singer you're here? He isn't expecting you for another twenty minutes, right?"

Castiel nodded, accepting the handshake and suppressing a look of mild surprise; she was very friendly. He knew there was really nothing to be ashamed of, showing up to an appointment early. Still, a flush crept over his face when he sat down and Charlie disappeared with a quick knock into the adjoining room.

The walls were thin. He could hear Charlie speaking quietly, then was surprised by a gruff man's voice saying, "Here? Already? Dadgum greenies. Too damn eager to get into the field if you ask me." Then a quieter something, muffled, about "twenty minutes" and "Walker ain't here yet," and then a, "Thanks, Charlie."

Castiel pretended not to have been eavesdropping when the secretary returned. She hefted a sigh, smile still plastered on her lips. "Thanks for waiting, Castiel. The Sectional Chief isn't here, yet, so you'll have to wait just a bit longer. Can I get you anything in the meantime?"

He shook his head. "Thank you. I'll be fine."

Charlie made an acknowledging gesture, and she sat again at her desk.

Cas occupied himself by studying the tiles on the opposite wall. They were red and black and white. Below the tiles was a brown wall border, and beneath that a white wallpaper speckled with a stucco pattern. A potted plant sat in the far corner of the room. After looking at it a moment, Cas realized it wasn't a real plant. He struggled to understand the purpose of artificial botany. Fake flowers he could sort of see a reason for; they livened up a room, sometimes, and were occasionally quite pretty. This wasn't a plant with flowers on it, though. It was a swampy, green thing, with long fronds that drooped to the floor.

"So, you're an angel, huh?" Charlie asked.

Startled, Castiel's attention snapped back to her. He had been asked that question and questions like it before, but never in a way that sounded like a genuine inquiry. He was used to hearing a bit of an accusing tone behind the words.

Charlie suddenly looked mortified. "I'm sorry! I didn't mean to-I mean…"

"No," Castiel interrupted, "don't apologize. Your curiosity is only natural. Yes, I am."

"What made you decide to join the FBI?" she inquired, leaning with her elbows on the desk.

"A number of things factored into my decision," he said. "Ultimately, however, it was my brother's decision. There are matters here into which he needed more insight."

"Why not just ask Gadreel?" Charlie suggested. "Why spend all that time sending someone else to school and through qualifying and all that? Doesn't that take a long time?"

Castiel nodded, slowly. "It does take some time," he agreed, "but it is a...sensitive matter. Gadreel is not...generally tasked with these things."

"Oh." Charlie cast her eyes down to look at her beverage. "I didn't know."

"I don't suppose Gadreel mentioned why he joined the FBI."

Charlie gave another little shrug. "Nah. He's kind of secretive. Then again, I can't really blame him. Some of the field agents can be a little…" She trailed off, then cleared her throat.

Castiel understood her meaning. If his experience at the college from which he'd just graduated was any indication, Gadreel probably wasn't held in the highest regard amongst his peers.

"Anyway!" Charlie sighed, and her breath seemed to blow away the tension in the air. "I'm looking forward to seeing you around. You seem like a pretty decent guy."

Unsure of how to respond, Castiel just said, "Thank you."

It was his day off. Why did rich people always have to get into trouble on Saturdays? Couldn't they just, for once, leave it until a work day?

Sam Winchester marched with purpose through the Jackson County Jail, briefcase in hand.

"Dammit, Ruby!" he exclaimed upon coming face-to-face with the offending client. "Can't you keep your hand in your own pocket for one weekend?"

"Sorry," said the bashful brunette from the opposite side of the plexiglass. "Old habits, you know."

"Well, your 'old habits' are interfering with my personal ones." He flipped open his briefcase. "I'm posting bail for you, but I swear to God that I will not back you up if you do this to me again. I have a cocktail party tonight, do you understand? My brother is going to be there. I see him, like, once a month. Now I'm gonna be doing paperwork until Cinderella's carriage turns back into a pumpkin before I can relax."

"C'mon, Sam," she cooed, "You know I'd never hurt you on purpose."

A few conversations later and the two of them were walking through the front doors toward a slightly-busy back road. Sam strode toward his vehicle, but he paused to put an arm out in front of Ruby.

"Uh-uh, no way," he growled. "I called you a cab; you can wait here. If Dean finds out I did this for you…" He shook his head.

"What? You mean you never told him about all the times you've come to 'rescue' me?" She grabbed on to his outstretched arm and gave him her sweetest smile. "What would I do without you, Sammy?"

He pulled away from her and walked to the other side of his car. "Probably have cleaned up your act."

She pouted. "So, I'll see you around?"

He pointed, wearing a scolding expression. "No! Behave!"

"I told you not to kill it." Jo Harvelle seemed genuinely offended when Dean plopped a huge body bag onto her desk.

He made a frustrated face, palms skyward. "Oh, sorry for defending myself."

She unzipped the bag, gave the body a quick examination, and glared up at him. "You defended yourself eight times with a silver knife?"

"In the sewer, in the dark," he added.

Jo huffed in irritation, hanging her head. "Dean, if the Chief gets wind that you did this again…"

"He won't."

She looked at him with a solemn expression. "You are a better agent than this, Winchester. I expect more from you. You are more than capable of detaining all manner of creatures alive and well."

He fidgeted. "They're easier to manage if they can't talk back."

"Dean. I've seen you do it."

There was a moment of silence. Dean took a step forward to peer into the bag, before looking back up at Jo. "Yeah?" His tone was biting. "Well that was then."

With a huff, he spun around and marched out of the dark office.

The interview was going well. Castiel's only impression was that Robert Singer and Gordon Walker liked him. In turn, they each expressed pleasant surprise at his marks and achievements; he wasn't sure why. Castiel himself was a bit shocked to learn that anyone could become an agent with a score lower than 100% on a test required to qualify.

"I guess the big question here, Castiel," Walker closed the file in his hands and set it down on his desk, laying his hands atop it. "Is this: Do you think you're ready to get out there on the front line?"

It took Castiel a moment to understand the question, so he paused, and then he nodded. "Yes. I am ready."

Walker drummed the file beneath his hands. "Good! If you'll step back into the outer office so that the Chief and I can determine which agent would be best suited to you at this time, please."

Cas nodded and stood, extending his hand to respectfully offer a handshake to the gentlemen who were now his superiors.

He didn't have a long wait. It was maybe two minutes before the chiefs stepped through Singer's office door. Walker handed him a small, black leather wallet. "Congratulations, Agent Castiel," he said, "Welcome to Kansas City. We're pairing you up with Winchester. He'll be here for his debriefing any minute. You can meet-"

"Actually, I'd like to get him familiar with HQ before we start introducing him to...people." Singer mumbled the last part with an uncertain look at Walker.

The Section Chief balked momentarily, before nodding. "Right. Go ahead, then!" He nodded to the both of them. "If you'll excuse me, I have some paperwork to finish. I'd like to enjoy myself without burden at the shindig. Again, pleasure to meet you, Castiel."

"Shindig?" Castiel inquired, watching the man leave.

Singer grumbled incoherently, then said, "Bureau's throwing some fancy cocktail dress party. Excuse for the suits to get drunk while they're in town auditing, if you ask me." He sighed and turned, slightly. "Charlie?"

Charlie's attention snapped from her computer screen. "Yes? Sir?"

"Would you mind showing Castiel around? I gotta be here when Winchester gets in."

"Yes sir!" She stood and picked up her coffee cup. "I needed some fresh coffee, anyway! Come on, Cas. I'll show ya the ropes." She smiled and headed toward the door, short skirt clinging tightly to her legs as she walked.

Singer gave him a pat on the shoulder, and Castiel took a deep breath before following the receptionist back into the gloomy hallway.

"No way." Dean's response to the word 'partner' came out of his mouth before Bobby could even finish his sentence.

The chief exhaled slowly, reigning in his temper. "You've been on your own for months, Dean. Don't you think it's time to-"

"Absolutely not! I work better on my own. Thanks, though." In one motion, he plopped into a chair and slammed his report on to Singer's desk. "Here's what happened in St. Peter's."

"How do you already have your report typed up?" Bobby Singer's question was not only suspicious, but accusing.

Dean shrugged. "No biggie, standard snag n' bag."

"Did you already report to Harvelle?"

"Ye-p." Dean popped the 'p,' refusing to make eye contact and bouncing his leg, trying to convey his impatience to leave the room.

"Winchester, is she going to bring me bad news?"

"Shouldn't," he shrugged, "but I guess that's a matter of interpretation."

Singer reluctantly slid the file toward himself and flipped it open.

"Can I go?" Dean asked.

"No." The chief looked up and gave his agent a stern stare. "His name is Castiel. You're going to meet him at the party tonight. You're gonna be cordial and you're gonna make him feel welcome, got that?"

"Yeah, yeah, play nice with the new kid, I got it."

"Dean."

"Understood! Yes. Yes, sir."

By the time 4:00 rolled around, Sam was actually very nearly finished with the day's paperwork. The desk in his home office was completely covered in papers, some large with typed print, some small and ripped with notes scribbled in near-illegible hand. Sam leaned back in a leather seat, taking a moment to crack his neck and stare out the window before him. The small expanse of grass between his home and the back road behind his house was brown and patchy. The winter had been a particularly dry, cold one, and Sam had never been much for yard-upkeep, so his lawn was struggling. It looked so ugly against the neighbor's vibrant, green grass.

A vibration on Sam's desk alerted him to a phone call from his brother. He picked up the phone and held it for a moment, staring with gritted teeth at the caller ID, before answering. "It couldn't wait until tonight?"

"Sorry, man. Just need to vent a little. I'll make it short, I promise."

Sam sighed and turned slightly in his chair to lean his elbow on the desk. "They gave you a partner, didn't they."

"How'd you know?"

"Because literally the only reason you ever call me is to bitch about how much you hate the new guy."

"He's an angel."

Sam quirked an eyebrow. "Really? Huh. I thought that guy already had a partner?"

Dean laughed. "No, this guy's a rookie. Fresh from Quantico."

"Oh, man. What's he like?"

"Dunno, haven't met him yet."

"Why not?"

"I bet Singer wants me to have a drink before I do. Whatever. Can you believe that? They put me with a fucking angel rookie."

"Dean, keep it down," Sam hushed.

"Whatever, Sam, you know I'm not racist."

"Yeah, I know that, but the entire FBI doesn't know that, so how about you don't say anything that could get you fired, okay?"

"Sure. Anyway, you coming tonight?"

"You bet! Had me at 'open bar.'"

"You gonna bring a date?"

"Are you?"

Dean chuckled. "Alright, I'll see ya tonight, little brother."

"See ya, Dean." Ending the call, Sam looked at the probably-hour's worth of paperwork left before him. He sighed and scooped it all into one, neat stack and set it atop his briefcase. It could wait until tomorrow; he had a party to attend.