disclaim ;; I do not own Supernatural.

info ;; Seriously tiny drabble based on a dream I had. Just something that came out of nowhere and would be better written if I wasn't so exhausted right now. Implied Castiel and Dean, if you do read it that way. Enjoy.


This isn't happening.

The gun buckles in the man's hand, and he sees it as in slow motion. Nothing he can do as Dean buckles beneath the weight of the bullet, uttering a cry of surprise. Blood and flesh rip out as the bullet passes, narrowly missing him before embedding in the wall. Inside the room, the stillness and quiet is deafening. There should be something, anything, that he can hear, but nothing but the beating of his heart in his ears. He can't even hear his breathing, hitching sobs as they try to force themselves through.

Because of this man. Marcus Trench, thirty-nine years old, rapist, thief, drug addict. Simple job, the chief had said. Simple job for a simple perp. "He's holed up in the old warehouse outside of town. Kids are calling it the red-light district. Funny, right? Kids these days." Dean had been so nonchalant about it. So confident. He always was. Every day of his life, confident and ready for a fight.

He doesn't notice it until he can move no further, but he's backed himself against the desk. Stumbling over it, both hands thrown back to balance himself, he swallows hard, and his hearing returns enough to tell him his breathing is far too ragged, far too emotional, in front of the murderer. The murderer who is staring at Dean's body, staring at his gun, in total awe and confusion. Wide eyes.

"I have to..." Castiel stops, drowning himself to a mumble. "Tell Sam... Burial costs, Sam can't afford it. The chief will be furious. Focus, Cas, focus, you need to call nine-one-one, you need to... Bring him in, bring in the perp and..." His mumbling is deep and quick, as confused as he himself is.

Castiel brushes aside his coat, pulling out his own M9 Beretta. He levels it at Marcus Trench, hopes the shaking doesn't give himself away. "I can't fix this," he says, more to himself than the man standing before him. "I should shoot you right now. I should claim self defense. But I'd rather see you in the chair." Castiel's voice is hard. "Drop the gun."

As the gun drops to the floor with a clatter, Castiel kneels beside Dean's body, the gun kept on Marcus Trench. Dean is getting pale, the blood pooling from the wound below his neckline, running deep crimson. Castiel grits his teeth, biting back the anger and the tears. Taking the radio from Dean's belt, he switches it on.

"This is Castiel Novak, badge number seven-seven-nine-eight-six, we have an officer down, suspect contained, requesting back-up."