Mandated – Chapter 1

Author's Note:

Cas gets Dean into trouble. Dean takes the rap. Drunk Dean confides in Mal. Destiel (mostly implied). Caution: Dean has a foul mouth when he's drunk.

This fic is atonement for my crimes against Cas in my fic, "Grumpy". Mea culpa. But so help me, I'm unrepentant and may do it again!

Disclaimer: This story is mine: Supernatural isn't. Mal is mine: Dean isn't, dammit!

"Here!" Dean said to the man seated the other side of the desk, not even doing him the courtesy of looking at him directly, as he thrust his hand forward with the tattered pink slip held between thumb and forefinger as if it was infectious.

"Your first time?" the man asked kindly.

"Um, yeah," Dean tried to sound nonchalant but he thought even Cas would hear the embarrassment clouding his voice.

"It's ok, it can be a bit scary, a bit uncomfortable at first but …"

"Ha! I do scary, bring it on!" Dean said, not very convincingly.

He looked at the man properly then. He was a little older than Dean, dark unruly hair, soft blue eyes, an open face – whatever that was. The man reminded him of Cas in some ways. Had that inquisitive, but sympathetic look about him too.

"What I mean is that it can be unnerving for first timers but it's ok to be a bit scared." The man smiled. He seemed genuine; his smile reached his eyes so whilst Dean still wouldn't buy anything this guy was selling, he could relax a little.

But first to business.

"You have to sign this," Dean demanded, waving the little piece of pink paper in front of the other's nose.

"That's not how it works, Mr um … Have you chosen a pseudonym?"

"How many would you like?" Dean smirked his smirk.

"I'm sorry?"

"Skip it," Dean said dismissively, "Steven, er, Steve, Steve Tyler."

"Oh, ok, Steve, I'd have pegged you more as a Joey Kramer but …" then, noticing Dean's discomfort, "It's fine, any name, from Aerosmith or your imagination, it's all good. You'd be surprised how many 'Harry Potters' we get, quite a few 'Hermiones' too."

"Whatever floats their boat," Dean mumbled, shifting his weight, eager to move on, "Just sign this?"

"Ok, Steve," the man said affably, "it doesn't work like that. You spend some time with us this evening. You participate, or you don't, but you do stay. Until the end. Then I sign your release form."

"If you sign it now, I can save you the trouble of all the, … well, whatever it is you do."

"Ok, I know you're not here because you want to be here but …"

"Mandated. That's what they said, 'mandated'. Whatever the fuck that means. But without your scrawl on my slip I don't get my Baby back and I don't get to listen to my Aerosmith tapes again. So sign away and I'll be outta your hair," Dean's eyes flicked up from the paper to the man's shaggy locks, "before you can say 'Dream On'."

"Well, no, actually Steve, I'm gonna say, 'Dream On'. You stay, I sign. In that order. Or you go now and learn to live without your, uh, 'Baby' and without Aerosmith."

The man was still smiling and Dean couldn't decide if that was a good thing. It shouldn't be because it looked like the next three and a half hours were going to hell in a damn tedious hand basket.

"Look, Steve, I get this is difficult for you," the man was looking earnestly into Dean's eyes, "but just go along with it. See if you can get something out of this rather than just let your fear get in the way."

"Buddy," Dean hissed, "you know jack ..."

"Mal. Call me Mal, for Malcolm. And, yes, that's my real name."

"Ok, Mal," Dean stressed the man's name venomously, "you know nothing about me. I handle fear just fine, and this is so far from 'fear' as to be laughable. But do I want to waste the next four hours of my life here? The fuck I do! You might not have anything better to do with your time, Mal, but I sure as fuck have."

"What?"

"'Scuse me?"

"If you weren't here, what would you be doing?" Mal asked gently, still smiling.

And shouldn't that be a smug smile, Dean thought to himself, that self-satisfied, holier-than-thou smile that do-gooders must practise in front of a mirror. Like Cas. Yeah, Mal did remind him of Cas. So where was Mal's self-righteous smug?

"Steve?"

Dean realised he'd missed a beat here. Damn Cas. This was all his fault.

"Um, sorry, Mal, what?"

"What would you be doing now, if you weren't here zoning out?"

"Um, well, you know, I'd be in some bar, drinking, picking up some hot chick, going back to the motel with her …"

"You're not local?"

"No, just passing through," Dean shrugged.

Mal studied him for a moment. "Then how come you were mandated here?"

"Sorry?"

"These evenings are for people who live here in town. Out-of-towners get a night in the cells and a fine that sometimes outstrips the value of their vehicle. So. How d'you get to be standing in front of me waving your mandate release slip?"

"Good luck, maybe?" Dean smiled in what he hoped would be a winning way, cursing himself for falling into Mal's trap. It was a trap, wasn't it? Because no-one would be interested in how Dean was going to spend his evening. Hell, even the chicks he flirted with weren't that interested. Actually, even Dean wasn't that engaged when it came right down to it.

"Wanna try that again? Are you covering for a friend?"

Ok, so the guy thought he was taking the rap for someone else. Well, yeah, he was. But if he admitted that, what were the chances of him getting Babe back tonight? As it was, he'd only have half an hour at the end of the session tonight to get over to the Pound, do the paperwork and get her released.

"Nah, guess it was all my fault," Dean admitted, which it was if you meant that he was the brainless idiot that gave Cas the keys. Surely, they learnt to drive in Heaven?

"You sure?" Mal asked quietly, "The truth?"

"Mal, I can honestly say, may Heaven be my judge, that it was all down to me." Yeah, that covered it nicely.

"Well, ok," Mal seemed genuinely pleased, "so, you're not a local but …"

Oh crap! Only local's get this 'mandated' option. Think, Dean, think!

"DMV still got my old address. The cop cut me some slack, me being a former resident, and I'm also in law enforcement so kinda professional courtesy."

"O – kay."

Dean couldn't tell if Mal believed him on not. If he had to bet, he'd go with 'not'.

Mal's smile widened. "Don't worry, Steve, your secret's safe with me. Pleased you could join us tonight. Ok, look, sign the log here …"

He turned the clipboard in front of him round to face Dean. The page on it was empty of anything but lined columns and typewritten column headings.

"No one else here yet?" Dean asked as he scribbled his signature; an unreadable squiggle that he habitually signed when using any alias.

"The first and possibly the last," Mal said has he got up from his chair. "Tuesdays are always quiet. And the sting at the end of Main Street only runs from 4pm until 7. The City runs it primarily because we had a few nasty crashes involving business men on their way home from Happy Hour. So we run these awareness sessions to start from 7:15, it's nearly that now, and I get a call when they're sending someone over, so, yeah, that's it for the night. It's just you and me then, Steve."

"Well. I'm sure, you have something better to be doing with your evening, even if I don't, so I won't expect you to run this, um, whatever, just for me. We can just call it a day now." Dean smiled his very sweetest smile, the one he usually reserved for one of those cute girls that couldn't see beyond it.

"Like I explained," Mal said firmly, "it doesn't work like that, Steve."

"Aw, who's to know, Mal? You know your secret's safe with me!" Dean was grinning confidently.

"I'd know, Steve. And if you left here and I heard that you'd wrapped your car round a tree tomorrow, how'd you think I'd feel?"

"It wouldn't happen. And if it did, I'd be just another drunk loser. You don't know me, Mal, why would you care?"

"You might take an innocent pedestrian with you," Mal said evenly, "and all human life is precious, drunker losers included. But I don't think you're one of those, are you, Steve?"

"I might be. But like I say, Mal, you don't know me."

"Maybe not, but I have all evening to rectify that. C'mon, let's go through into the lecture hall."

Mal, indicated double doors to his left, smiling, then turned and walked towards them.

"Mal, this is ridiculous," Dean complained. "I can come back another day, save you going through all this again."

"But you're just passing through, Steve," Mal reminded him, holding open one of the double doors.

"Dammit!" Dean muttered, as he strode across the ante-room and through the doors.

As he passed him, Mal said, "I'm sorry, Steve, but we'll finish up early."

"Yeah, yeah," Dean grumbled.

The lecture hall was small – tiny actually. It was on the small side for a regular class room, and the screen at the business end would hardly pass muster as a TV in most homes these days. There were maybe two dozen stackable chairs arranged in a vague semicircle facing the screen and, rather incongruously, an upright piano sat in a corner to the front.

"Don't suppose you got any of the Transporter films on DVD?" Dean asked, ever hopeful.

"At home, yeah," Mal said, smiling broadly, "but here, sadly, no."

"You couldn't download one off the internet?"

"You really don't give up, do you?" Mal asked after stifling a chuckle.

"Nope, not my way," Dean said trying to get comfortable on the cheap chair.

There was silence for a while as Mal fiddled with a laptop and Dean did his usual, 'where are the exits, threats, potential weapons?' risk assessment, whilst appearing completely oblivious to his surroundings.

"Before we start," Mal said suddenly, "I need you to know that I operate a strict confidentiality policy here. In this room anything and everything we discuss is absolutely confidential. No exceptions. That means that you could confess to being the Zodiac killer and I'd say nothing. To anyone, ever.

"But it works both ways, Steve. I tell you something, not about road safety obviously, but anything personal, well, that stays in this room too. You okay with that?"

"Yeah, personal stays personal, I got that."

"So, how about we start with some honesty?"

Dean snapped his attention back to Mal, who looked serious. "Honesty?" he asked suspiciously.

"The group uses assumed names to protect identities from each other. Tonight it's just you here. So how about you drop the Aerosmith persona?"

"Um, yeah, um," oh crap, what was that name he'd given the cop? It wasn't Steven Tyler because that was the one he'd picked out of the hat here, as an alias for an alias. Dammit!

"Well then, welcome," Malcolm looked down at the note he'd made when the police officer had called to tell him to expect his first 'customer', "Special Agent Hamill. Mark, is it?"

Yeah, that was it, Hamill. That was the name he'd given the cop. "Thanks," Dean mumbled.

"Oh, sorry, my mistake," Mal said grinning inanely, "I can't read my own writing. It's Luke, isn't it?"

"'Scuse me?" Dean was frantically trying to remember the mash-up on his ID. Luke, yes, is was Luke, wasn't it?"

Mal looked at him quizzically for a moment. Dean felt like squirming, which was just stupid, right, because he never squirms. No, not ever. Squirm-free zone here, pal.

"I've told you that whatever you tell me in this room stays here. I don't care that you gave the police a fake name. That's your business, and I guess you have your reasons. But while it's just you and me, I'd prefer to call you by your real name, in confidence as I said."

"Does it matter?" Dean asked, wondering why this guy should give a flying fuck what some drunk-driver was called. Half the girls he screwed couldn't remember his name. Scratch that. Probably nearer 90 percent. But then he didn't bother to remember their names 100 percent of the time.

"Yeah, it does. Imagine you're at a party. You hear someone call your name – your real one. What do you do? You turn, look around, try to see who called you. You're invested in the outcome."

"Think I'm not 'invested' in the outcome of this little waste of my time?" Dean challenged, loving the irony.

Mal laughed. "Like you ever would be invested for anything like this! Your name would be good though."

What could it harm? "Dean, name's Dean Winchester."

"Ok! Welcome, Dean. It's good to meet you." Mal was beaming at him.

"Likewise," Dean said, showing he could do 'polite' when needed. "So, how'd you know? That I wasn't Special Agent Hamill."

"I've had a couple of FBI types here before. They say nothing, watch the presentation, keep their heads down and pray to which ever god helps them through the day that their boss never finds out.

"You acted like you didn't care if your boss found out. And you thought you could get your pink slip signed and duck out. Feds and other officials, they know they can't get out of this and they don't want to do anything that might suggest they don't respect local law enforcement.

"I'll bear that in mind next time," Dean said smirking.

"I hope there won't be a next time, Dean," Mal said sincerely. "But I wasn't completely sure, so I took a chance and called you Mark. You didn't correct me."

Dean sighed, "I couldn't remember. Knew it had some Skywalker connection but, well, I've been drinking ..."

"No shit!"

Mal's expletive was unexpected but he was smiling.

"Yeah, but I'm not loaded."

"You weren't driving either, were you?" At Dean's hesitation, Mal added, "It stays here, remember. I asked what I had to ask at enrolment. Out there. You're enrolled now and we're in here. I'm just curious."

"Nah, I wasn't driving. My friend was and he was a sober as you are." Dean grimaced at the memory.

"What happened?"