The fear never catches up to Dean until he's running.
See, he can commit any monstrous crime and not feel a thing. He can stare down a policeman in the eye without a racing heartbeat, but nothing is worse than being chased. Sometimes he wonders if it's even worth it to run, that going back to prison would still be better than that rush of adrenaline, like a bad trip.
Like anyone else, he's unstoppable when he's afraid. He can jump fences without catching his breath, he can break through a window with no hesitation and outrun an Olympian. Right now, he's hopping fences, clearing backyards, and it feels more like running than falling, foot falling down after foot, stumbling for cover.
He can hear them behind him, a few fences back, making noise because they have nothing to lose and he has everything to lose. He passes some people gardening, and they yell at him, they demand things he can't hear over the pounding of his heart. Now he's hit the sidewalk, and the street, and the sidewalk again, he shoves some passersby out of the way and jumps this fence and-
His feet don't hit the ground the way they should. He hits something sort of soft and bulky, and it gives way beneath him, and it's a person, and the person rolls over on top of him and shoves his arms to the ground.
He landed on someone?
Dean is desperate to get away and keep running, but he can't move. This person - this man - is way too strong. He flails his legs and kicks him, yells indistinct phrases about needing to get away and who the fuck are you, but nothing works.
"Hey, SHUT UP, stop moving!"
Somehow, Dean shuts up, and stops moving, and turns his head away.
There is a hand on his arm, pulling him to his feet, and he's shoved into a door and shut inside. He leans against it and then lets gravity drag him down to the floor into a heap of black fabric and leather and sweat and dread. He knows he's getting turned in now, but he can't make himself move, like that man's voice filled his body with cement.
"Did someone pass through here?" It's coming from outside, and Dean knows what's gonna happen next, and he hopes he's having a nightmare, that he'll wake up and he can do this whole thing over again, do it better, and he'll get away and he won't have to go to prison again.
"Who?"
"There's a man on the run. Caucasian, wearing all black and carrying a backpack. Have you seen him?"
"Nobody came in here, but I think I heard someone running past the yard that way."
"Thank you, sir."
"Good luck."
Dean keeps still and quiet. He's relieved, but confused, and he doesn't know whether to keep running or talk to this guy who just saved his ass. But before he can decide, the door behind him begins to open, and he jumps to his feet and turns to face him.
Of all things, the man sticks out his hand and nods. "I'm Cas," he says.
"Cas?" Dean says, quietly but not quite a whisper, like he's trying not to wake a baby. He puts out his hand but then forgets what to do with it, and stares at it, so the man takes it and shakes it and gets it over with.
"Yes, Cas, that's what I just said," he continues, firm but not impatient. "Who are you?"
"I'm, uh," Dean's eyes find the floor, "Dean."
"Dean? That's a nice name - sophisticated, classy. It doesn't bring a criminal to mind, but here you are."
Dean feels obliged to answer, but what are you supposed to say to that? So he refuses to succumb to the ensuing silence until finally Cas speaks again, and Dean knows what it's going to be. "What did you do, Dean?"
Dean opens his mouth, but shame closes it. Then he tries again, and he looks Cas right in the eye. "I robbed a bank."
"Why did you rob a bank, Dean?"
"None of your business."
Cas sighs. "You're the one who jumped the fence, and now you're telling me it's none of my fucking business?"
Dean closes his eyes. He thinks he knows everything. He doesn't get it. He doesn't get it at all. There's a pain in his head. It spreads down his spine and through his limbs and converts to nausea. "I'm gonna throw up," he says. Cas grabs his arm and drags him down a hall and into a bathroom. Dean vomits cloudy liquid, then retches, once, twice, three times, but nothing else comes out. He hasn't eaten in days. He feels like he's shrinking. His hands find the floor, and he spreads them out, absorbing the cool tile. Then the toilet seems to get smaller, and Cas is saying something but it all dissolves into white noise, and the nausea has reached his brain, and then Dean slumps sideways into unconsciousness.