Authors Note: Hello, I'm back with a new fic! This fic is a collaboration between: Cloudsarefluffy, and I. She can be found here: On AO3: /users/cloudsarefluffy
: u/4143590/cloudsarefluffy
I've had a blast working with her! It's the best experience I could ask for! That being said, GO GIVE HER HITS, KUDOS, FOLLOWS, COMMENTS, ETC.
Have a nice time reading!
Dean Winchester's not sure when his job started or ended- it's like an endless blur of days mixing into together and forming a blob in his skull, something he's sure will bite him in the ass later when it counts. It's like the badge he carries no longer has that flare he always saw when he first put it on, that special shine it had dimming when the light hit it. It was like that the five or six years he's been on the job has worn away it's special meaning.
His suit is folded neatly on the arm of the couch- pressed, steamed, clean. It's seen brawls, sobbing victims, a few drunks here and there. Not much considering he started out small and was a complete newbie to the ropes.
Dean lives in the small border city of Atchison, Kansas. It's not much. Hardly anything if you really think about it or look and see it for a split second on a map. People stop here from Missouri to get to Kansas City or Topeka; sometimes it's people from Kansas that finally decided it was time to get out and needed a rest stop along their departure.
Dean scrunches his brow, the fading light streaming softly through his windows and curtains. He's got the late shift tonight, and it's Friday- meaning everyone's going to be out drinking and having a good time, except for him, of course. No, there's going to be a few drunk drivers here and there and an occasional woman who's so plastered she can't walk or talk straight- but Dean's gotten used to it by now. That's what happens to you if you're a cop for too long.
The coffee he makes is burnt and gritty, but he drinks it anyway. He doesn't have the patience to fix another pot- or the money to throw a full one out just because he wasn't paying attention and left it on the burner for too long. Along with the overdone tar that Dean was supposed to call coffee, he made himself a slice of toast. The crust burnt the pads of his fingers a little- but it doesn't matter because it's insignificant just as the taste of his sludge is. It's a shit "breakfast" for him, but it's better than having to patrol on a completely empty stomach.
His phone vibrates; it must be his partner and best friend, a honorary title- Sam Wesson.
He gets up, pulling the mobile off the coffee table and flips it open gingerly, Sam's text on the screen appearing before him, "Hey- we've got a special job tonight. Be over at the office at seven instead of the usual spot."
"Will do- care to explain?"
He swigs a bit more of his well done beverage before he looks at his partner's reply, "It's something I have to do in person, trust me. There's too much to go over when it's a text- but I assure you, you'll get your explanation. At the office. At seven."
"Bitch."
"Jerk."
Dean snorts, setting his mug and plate in the sink to wash later. He catches a quick shower before he has to go down to the station. Right before he gets in his car, he gets his suit on. It fits snugly on him as he drives, the lights overhead whirring past on his way to see whatever the fuck he was supposed to be doing tonight. Dean's a little uneasy as to what Sam is going to tell him- but he's not too sure it's going to be good, considering he was an officer of the law- called upon whenever things went terribly, terribly wrong.
When he arrives to the station, there's a meeting in one of the conference rooms; all of the officers piled up into the small space with coffee and donuts. It seems a little cliche or a start of a bad joke- but as Dean walks up he sees it's a very serious and tense situation.
"We've got to do something!" a woman huffs, "We just can't sit here; having all those people still in there knowing what's going to happen!"
"There's nothing else to do that will work! They'll know about our mole if we try and stop it- or make anything seem out of the ordinary! We just have to come about this right!"
Sam sees Dean and looks relieved, "About time you showed up… The whole damn force is beside themselves."
Dean snorts, "Yeah I can tell- why does it look like some soap opera in there? What's going on?"
"What I was talking about in the text. You know our mole we have in the Morriston drug ring? Well, they recently found out there's some raid about to go down in the Bank of America on sixth tonight."
"You've got to be fucking joking!" Dean's mouth is a little agape as his words rush out to his partner, "They can't be pulling something like that! That's almost suicide! What's there anyways? We're such a small town it shouldn't matter!"
Sam sighs, "It seems so. But think about it. There's only about twelve people who are cops here- us included… That's the point: it's because we're so small and defenseless, Dean. Don't you see it? There's not a huge amount of officers, and we're several hours out of any city who can lend anyone to us. We're practically secluded!"
Dean bites his lower lip, mostly cursing to himself, "Shit..."
"That's right, it is shit. We have no idea what we're gonna do because we can't out ourselves because it'll make it obvious we know what's going to happen."
"So, what's the plan then? If we can't show up with guns blazing, how the fuck are we going to stop them from stealing anything or whatever?"
Sam shrugs, "I have no idea. I think you and I are going to be placed inside while they try to figure out who's behind this. We're going to try to stop them before anything happens."
Dean nods.
They get into the car that's waiting for them; a rental just in case anything like this ever happens and they need something undercover and discrete. Dean's fingers gripping the wheel as he drives, his uneasiness twisting itself onto his nerves like poisonous weeds. He's a little worried about what's going to happen, after all.
Somehow, the Morriston drug ring was managing to run rampant through Kansas in the past few years. Dean doesn't know why- considering there's better states to conduct that kind of business in- but he can't call out the shots for them. It's when they're about two blocks out from the bank Dean shuts off the flow of his thoughts. The pair strips themselves of their uniforms- deciding that they need to be completely undercover so that the ringers don't know they're onto them.
Dean's in faded jeans and a plain gray tee, his suit tucked into the trunk carefully next to Sam's. He's even got the special 1911 Colt with the ivory handles and engravings tucked into the dip of his back just in case. Dean finishes driving up to the Bank of America, eyes scanning the building for any sign of unusual activity. The beat his heart has gets faster.
"We'll just walk in- look for anything suspicious and just do our jobs, okay?"
Dean nods, "Yeah- because knowing about a crime before it happens makes it all the easier, doesn't it?"
They step inside, detecting everyone around them carefully. It's at least an hour before the bank closes, so there's only a certain window the Morristons have to strike. He's staring at and old women clutching her cane awkwardly when Sam motions him over.
"There, over by the potted plant. If he turns just enough you can see the gun on his waist."
Sure enough, as the man in question shifts a little, a shine appears that's obviously not a bell buckle, "Alright- go zero in and I'll try to clear people out and find those sons of a bitches."
It's all a blur really, because Sam's sprinting away suddenly with gun raised and Dean finds that he's running himself- except it's towards another man who has his own weapon pulled with a bank teller to it's barrel.
"Let him go!" Dean spits out, his Colt leaving the small of his back and into his trained hands, "I will shoot you!"
"Go ahead!" The armed man shouts in a mixture of rage and adrenaline. His eyes flicking between Dean and the teller whose forehead is pressing against the end of his pistol, eyes looking towards Dean and the colt. Fear is pouring off of him as he gets shoved a little and put in front, the armed man tightening the grip he has on his jacket when he snickers sinisterly, "See who you'll kill first."
Dean has a perfect aim on the armed man if the teller moves enough- about a square inch to the left. The barrel of his Colt is at the right angle to pierce a kidney or shoot through the man's lower back bone when he can have the split second to pull the trigger. Each is as fatal as the next.
But he doesn't know which he should take- there's too much that can go wrong in those precious seconds that are passing right before him. His finger slides further to the trigger, sweat gleaming on his forehead as he aims the shot up with the person's heart, also in aim with the teller's- those blue eyes going wild as he processes Dean's movements and readies himself for what's going to happen. What he doesn't expect is the explosion.
It's small, but for the compact room and the amount of people inside it's around nuclear in force and sound.
People fall like the gravitational pressure in the room changed tremendously and was forced on them (good edit, Aus. :D). Screams and crumbling concrete pierce through the air as the cop's eardrums slightly ring from the blast. Dean frantically looks through the smoke and building flames, trying to see where the man and the teller went. People sprint past him, more dust and smoke filling his lungs as he coughs into his bare and bloody elbow.
His eyes as stinging as he yells out, "Where are you!?"
"Here! Over by the counter!"
Dean hears the voice, but doesn't see who's speaking because of the smoke and debris flittering through like ashen snowflakes. He holds the Colt tighter in his hands, cursing as he works his way around the bodies rushing past him towards the counter ten or five feet away. Dean finds the teller, the form of his shooter and broken blocks of mortar and the bank lying on top of him as he chokes on the tiles below. The cop sees his blue eyes stick out, the yellow and orange flames dancing on them as he grabs the hand reaching from the rubble and pulls him up.
"Can you walk?" Dean yells into his ear, his voice barely coming through the cracking of the flames around them.
The teller looks at him, "I'm not sure… A huge chunk of the ceiling landed on my leg…"
"Shit..."
He lifts the teller's arm up and wraps it around his shoulder, finding the exit and preparing himself, "Come on, we're getting out of here."
The man leans on him, limping alongside Dean as they both cough and stutter out of the building. There's several bodies they pass- at least six, all still and unmoving. Two pairs of eyes linger on them as they slowly work their way out of the burning building.
There's so much smoke, too much as the wood gives out a bit behind them, specs of flame spit forth and nip Dean's exposed skin. His vision is blurring as hot tears slide down his gritty cheeks, lungs burning as the toxic fumes outweigh the oxygen as he coughs. The teller is sagging more and more onto Dean, his effort growing sluggish and weak. He's starting to feel like dead weight on his shoulder. Dean's just got to push- to make it to the door that's only a few precious feet away.
He collapses on the concrete steps, barely even outside the door, as he gasps out and vomits in the bushes a few inches away. He's coughing instead of breathing, his eyes burning just like the bank directly behind him. He can feel the hands grabbing him and picking him up, dragging him away to flashing lights. It's in slow motion, rain drops hitting his skin and collecting the grime of the building and fire with it. Dean feels the ache in his ribs, the drag of his muscles that are too weak to let him even stand. He feels like one of the corpses they're just starting to bring out from the torched skeleton of the bank- flames reaching up into the black and smoke-filled air.
"Dean!" Sam runs up, eyes darting all over his skin, "I was outside when the building just- exploded. Are you alright?"
Dean feels himself slip into cop mode. He always does when things get too much for him, "I'm fine, Sam. Just make sure the teller is okay- he should be in the other ambulance."
"You seem a little 'on the job' for just being in a building that's about to collapse-" the bank crumples as soon as the words left his mouth, "huh, the irony."
Dean shakes his head, the movement just a little too fast for him as his stomach lurches, "It's fine, Sammy… Just question him."
Sam's mouth is set in a straight line as he replies, "Can't."
"Why? He's right there-"
Dean shuts up as notices he's in the only ambulance left at the bank. People are still running about and the fire's still licking up at the sky, but he's still here. The teller isn't.
"I need to get to the hospital- I need to talk to him."
Dean starts to get up, several nurses and Sam pushing him back down onto the stretcher, "No Dean. Look, they're going to check you out and then we're going to go ask some questions. I don't want to be driving you to the hospital and have something go wrong."
"But I've go to-"
"Get cleared before you go anywhere. It's not a choice for you, Dean. You were in an explosion, were almost shot, and were nearly crushed in a burning building to top it off. You're getting 'okayed' before you do anything else- no other options until they clear you."
Dean grunts, letting the nurses work on him, "Fine.. But you're getting me a damn apple pie for this shit."
His partner laughs, "I'll keep that in mind."
Dean's slumping against the passenger seat as Sam drives. He's too winded to be, nerves too wound up and jumpy for the wheel to be at his control. Besides, it's not best to after the shit he's just been through. Either way it's a little disgruntling because Dean loves driving.
The other thing mainly bothering him are all these damn questions. Why the damn bank? Why the teller than any other pedestrian in the bank? Why was his head so fucking sore?
"Hey, calm yourself. The EMT said you had a mild concussion."
"Tonight's been rough as fuck, Sammy…" Dean groans, his head still aching as he set it against the headrest, "I don't even want to know how I'm going to feel in the morning."
Sam snorts, "Neither do I. Just don't drowse off, we're going to be there in five minutes."
The hospital isn't too much, several stories and up to date enough to take in the steady stream of patients. Tonight there's people rushing everywhere, Dean blinking at how many ambulances are lined up outside the building with their lights flashing about and it makes Dean want to shut his eyes. He feels the drop in his stomach a little, seeing his partner stare at the scene with hard eyes.
"This is the busiest they've ever been in years…" Sam mumbles mostly to himself.
Dean understands. He knows this is Sammy's hometown and it means a lot to him- it's why he joined the force here. He wanted to keep things safe and under control because it's where he grew up, where he scuffed his knees as a kid- where he truly felt at home. Dean gets it, because he sort of feels the same way about Lawrence- probably always will. It means it's so easy to see the slight tremble in Sammy's jaw and the sheen over his eyes, and Dean decides it's best to just leave it at that.
They get out of the car, Dean's legs not in their best condition, but tolerable enough to work. His partner guides him in and goes to the front desk.
"There was a man brought here- black hair and blue eyes, about twenty-two- do you know what room he's in?" Sam asks, pulling his badge out to show the woman.
She nods, "Oh- Castiel Novak- he's in room two hundred and six. Second floor."
Sammy nods, pulling Dean alongside him because he's starting to zone out. Dean knows he's does it whenever something or a case is getting to him, or the hours have taken their toll- but he can't help as the noises around him smush together and make a trainwreck of a soundtrack. It's only when he gets to the door of Castiel's room that his hearing relatively comes back, brain reassessing his surroundings now it's mostly worn off.
"I'm going to do most of the questioning, okay De-"
Dean's already pushing past Sam through the door, his partner huffing behind him. Dean walks in, seeing the teller he had pulled from the building- those same blue eyes from before staring straight at him just like they had as the bank burned around them. It's odd, not to see the fire dancing against them- but it's also a relief.
"I'm police officer Dean Winchester- this is my partner Sam Wesson. I know I'm the one who was in the bank, but we've got some questions to ask you."
Castiel seems to soften a little in his hospital bed, "Thanks for that… Just ask away- I'm really tired for obvious reasons."
Dean nods, sinking back into cop mode, "Do you know why your bank was a target for the Morriston ring?"
"Sadly I do…" Castiel fiddles with the clip on his finger, the pulse reader quickening a little, "Part of my job is to overlook accounts, see if there's any suspicious activity on them and to address it. Just the other day I stumbled on several accounts open with us here in town and they were- well, literally bringing in several thousand dollars a week. Five digits, at least."
Sam pulls Dean over for a quick second, "Can see why he got curious- no one here makes that kind of money."
Dean nods, taking in his partner's words and returning to the man in the bed before him, "So you did something with the accounts, I'm assuming?"
"I did… I froze them…" Castiel bites his lip, "Seems that was a mistake to have made. I guess afterwards they figured out who stopped their money flow and there was my name. I didn't know it was going to get this bad…"
"You say that like it was going on a little before this, why is that?"
Castiel sighs, "Because it was. They've been threatening me for several days. I didn't know it would lead up to… this."
Dean notices the slight tremble of Castiel's chin, foreboding to something Dean didn't want to deal with- at least not tonight. He looks over at Sam, motioning him to watch the door. The cop pulls up a chair, sitting next to Castiel because his legs feel like they're about to give out, his breath sounds like a sigh of relief once his weight is off his legs.
Castiel gets a moment, because Dean knows he needs one. It's from working the job so long that he knows by the gleam in someone's eye when they're pushed too far or it's become too much to process. He's sure Castiel is buckling under some invisible weight- one circumstance saddled him with, or one he gave himself. Either way, the man's trying to gain control of himself and he just needs a few seconds.
"So…" Dean begins softly, "They've been stalking you for a few weeks…"
Castiel nods, their voices hushed because he's more than likely feeling vulnerable, "Yeah… I won't be surprised if they find me here. It'll be obvious where I'm going, shouldn't it? Besides, they're the Morriston ring. Of course they'll find me."
Dean pricks up at Castiel's words, because it's true. As prominent and well funded as the Morriston ring was, they could easily find Castiel and do what they liked with him. The thought unsettled Dean, because as a cop his main rule was to keep everyone safe, or try to. He knows he just can't hand Castiel over to witness protection, that there are so many questionable people there it won't matter how well hidden Castiel might think he is- besides, there's records. What Castiel needs, is to go off grid and stay hidden.
"When's the earliest you can leave the hospital?"
"They said I'm just a little shaken and battered. The worst I got was a minor limp from that piece of ceiling. They said I can walk normally in a few days."
Dean nods, "Anything else?"
Castiel shakes his head, eyes narrowing a little, "No… Why are you asking me this?"
"Because-" Dean thinks about what he's going to do and sighs, "I'm going to make sure you don't get killed."
Castiel is about to ask more, but Dean's not one for giving answers when there's an issue to be dealt with. He's got to convince Sammy, take their car- he doesn't know. The cop does his best to think about what he can do to get himself and Castiel out of there before it's too late from him.
"Hey, Sammy." Dean says, the door open enough to where he can whisper to his partner, "I'm going to stay here with him just in case. You got a ride home you can catch?"
Sam pauses, looking a little confused, but nods eventually, "Uhh- yeah. I'll give Bobby a call and he can drop by. Be sure to drop it back by at later."
Dean nods, knowing full and well Sam will probably never see the car again.
Castiel is eyeing him as Dean runs a hand through his hair, "Try and get some sleep. I'll wake you when something happens."
The teller looks weary at first, then nods. He settles himself in the covers and gives a sigh, his face falling lax and chest rising and falling evenly. Dean stares at Castiel for a moment, letting his face get worn into his memory- because he's going to need it.
All Dean needs to do is get a few hours and then he can go.
…
It's a nurse that wakes Dean up, his neck stiff from passing out in the chair. She's got a smile on her face, it seems sympathetic- oh dear god. She thought Dean was here because Castiel was sick or something. Dean doesn't say anything however, because there's no point to. He's about to be running away with him shortly- or evading the Morristons.
Dean goes into the bathroom while the nurse does whatever she's supposed to with Castiel. Meanwhile, Dean's washing his face off with cold water in the small space to seep some wariness into his aching bones. He looks up into the mirror, seeing his reflection- and he hopes, hopes to whoever's listening that this is going to wind up okay for the both of them. He steps out, noticing that the nurse left and he shakes Castiel.
"Hey- we gotta move."
"But I have to be-"
Dean shakes his head, "Doesn't matter, I'm sure they're waiting till the records show that you're checked out. It's best to leave before you're discharged so they have the wrong information while we gun it. Can you get up?"
Castiel nods slightly, "I should be able to. My leg's not at a hundred percent so I'm unsure how this is going to work."
"Don't worry about it…" Dean helps pull him off the mattress, "I'm going to figure it out."
The cop looks out between the door frame and Castiel's room. He's searching for anyone who looks suspicious or an exit way that will get them outside and on the ground floor without causing too much attraction to them. He tightens the grip he has on Castiel's wrist- because he's got to keep him safe or near him, especially if there could be a Morriston around any corner waiting for them.
"Dean, what are you-"
"I'll explain once we're in the car. Until then, just keep quiet and do as I say."
Castiel still looks confused, but he nods and wraps his fingers onto Dean's belt loop.
"Alright, we're going to have to take the stairs for staff, okay? I'm going to have to get some scrubs for us- just wait here and stay in the bathroom with the door locked and only open it if I come knockin', alright?"
The ex-teller nods, "Okay, Dean. I trust you."
Dean nods, waiting till he hears the click of the lock to move. He's going to be five minutes, tops- and the cop speed walks down the hallway to a staff closet he saw on the way in. It's funny, that they haven't even gotten out of the hospital and Castiel already encloses him with his life. Such blind faith.
Dean unlocks the door with a pick he owns just in case, sliding through the open door. He guesses that he and Castiel are around the same size, the only major difference is the amount of muscle and height, so he grabs two pairs of scrubs that are the same size. Dean slides them underneath his shirt, trying to make it look like belly fat or something other than clothes tucked underneath his dirtied and burnt tee.
He shuts the door, running back up the hallway and entering Castiel's room. Dean does a quick sweep- no one in the room other than him. He raps on the door, quickly shutting the one to the room and waiting for Castiel.
"Dean?"
"Yeah it's me-" he starts untucking the scrubs from his clothes, "I got the stuff. It should fit."
Castiel steps out, taking the few clothes in his hand and looking away awkwardly, "Do you mind? …"
Dean stops pulling at the zipper of his jeans, remembering that he and Castiel are still strangers to each other- and here he is, about to pull down his pants as though he was best friends with him. Hell- he wouldn't do it with Sammy and they'd been working together for at least two years.
"Oh… Sorry…"
Dean clears his throat nervously as Castiel makes a small nod and shuts the door to the bathroom again. Dean's sure he's around a shade of red that would make an apple jealous, but he shrugs it off just like he does his clothes. He pulls bottom part of the scrubs over his skin, a little relieved to have ridden himself of all the cloth that still coated itself in dirt and singe marks.
Castiel steps out- or limps a little- the teal mixing in with the color of his eyes as Dean looks over. His shirt is still lying on the bed, and somehow he makes the look last a millisecond longer than he's comfortable with. Dean flings it over his head, biting his lip in a frustrated manner with his back turned to Castiel.
"Ready?"
"Yeah…" Dean walks over to help Castiel lean on him, "All we have to do is make it down those stairs and to the car."
The steps are a little hard to take, Castiel slumping onto Dean as they work their way down the steps. Dean's too sore and overworked to be doing this for two people, but he knows he has no other choice. That if he takes another way Castiel will be recognized or something else could go wrong. He couldn't have that happen- no, not at all.
Not when Castiel was fighting a war he didn't belong in, that he was a man who knew right from wrong and was only trying to do the moral thing. All it got him were death threats and nearly a building to collapse on top of him. So if Dean had to push himself, had to go rogue cop for Castiel's safety- he knew he could manage, especially when he thought about one of those bodies in the bank being Castiel's instead of someone who got really unlucky with the wrong surroundings and people.
Dean couldn't truly explain it if he tried.