24th January
"So! Have you had a good day?" Happy, Castiel plops down on the couch next to Dean and tucks one leg underneath him, a steaming cup of hot chocolate cradled in both hands. His cable-knit sweater is a little large from him - a Christmas present from his brother - and he's red-cheeked from sitting too close to the crackling fire as he watched Dean open his birthday presents. His boyfriend's eyes are sparkling and he's gorgeous to behold - Dean can't resist leaning in for a kiss.
"I've had the best day. You spoil me, sweetheart." Dean has the Zepp vinyl on his lap, has been clinging to it ever since he unwrapped it. It's a rare edition, one of the few Dean doesn't have, and he's over the moon with the gift. It must have taken Cas ages to track it down. "Thank you. So much."
Cas shrugs with a smile. "Happy birthday. See, turning thirty-five isn't so bad."
"It could be worse." Dean kisses Cas again, closed-mouthed but considering seeking more, and frowns in confusion when his partner pulls away. "What's wrong?"
"Nothing." Cas fidgets, avoiding his gaze. "I, um, have something else for you. It's only small!" He hurried to add as Dean opens his mouth to protest. "But I hope you'll like it."
Their dog, Ruby, sits up in interest and wags her tail; Dean glances at her and narrows his eyes. What does she know? But suddenly he's looking back at Cas, open-mouthed and rendered speechless. Cas is holding his hand out to Dean, palm up, and there's a green leather box in it and all the feeling rushes out of Dean's hands and feet as his heart pounds with shocked excitement. No… Cas can't be… he's…
"Dean," Cas is blushing furiously, his cup held in one shaking hand as he clearly tries to make out like this isn't the biggest deal in the entire fucking goddamn world. "I've been thinking and I wondered… I hoped… um…"
"Yes?" Dean prompts, unable to stop a shit-eating grin from spreading across his face. He grips the record in his hands so tightly he could fracture it. Cas' eyes shoot up to meet his and he seems to draw confidence from Dean's reaction.
"Do you want… I mean, would you like to… oh, I'm fucking this up." Cas coughs, clears his throat, then says in a voice a few octaves higher than usual: "Dean, I just love you, all right? And I hoped… will you marry me?"
There's a silence, just for the length of a heartbeat, maybe two. Cas' blue eyes are wide with nerves and he's breathing a little fast. Dean is…
"You… I can't believe you…" Dean isn't a crier. He doesn't cry. But tonight he does, his body taking over and sending silvery tears down his cheeks as Cas opens the ring box with a thumb and shows him the platinum band nestled on a velvet cushion. "Yes. Yes, Cas, a hundred times yes."
And he launches himself at Cas, making sure to slide the vinyl to one side and to grip the hand holding the ring with the other to keep it safe as Cas bursts out laughing. Hot chocolate goes everywhere and Cas pushes the ring onto Dean's finger with trembling hands as they laugh and kiss and smile through the happiest tears. It's the best birthday Dean has ever, ever had.
Present Day
Dean should be used to the flashing lights of the emergency services by now. Seven years total in the police force: three as an officer, two as a crime scene investigator, and now he's closing in on his third year as a Homicide Detective. He loves his job, despite the gut-wrenching highs and lows that accompany it, and he's proud of how far he's come. He's not a high-school dropout living in his father's car anymore, no sir. He helps people. He saves people, and even when he can't he brings justice to those who have had their lives cruelly ripped away from them. He brings closure to bereaved families. He takes threats off the streets and chucks them behind bars. He watches the bad guys rot, and it satisfies him. He's known on the force for taking no prisoners, and for being charming right up to the strike point. Mesmerising, gaining trust, then going in for the kill. He sometimes thinks there may be some truth in the nickname of 'Cobra' that his Academy roommate had slapped onto him in their third month of knowing each other.
The lights are like a beacon to him. A signal that he's needed, and they guide him to the destination. When he's working a case he's focused, driven, has sleepless nights and works himself to the bone until he makes a breakthrough. He's been called a workaholic many a time but he just smiles and shrugs it off. It's just the way he works, and it's the reason he has such a high success record. He's relentless, never gives in. Will never, ever give up until every avenue is utterly exhausted. Does it affect his home life? He doesn't think so, and he's never been given any reason to think Castiel is anything but happy with him. Castiel's job is busy too and he keeps odd hours, so they work well as a team. More often than not, Dean will wake with a start after having a sudden breakthrough on a case and come downstairs to head to the station and find Cas at their kitchen table with his glasses on, frowning, and working tirelessly through a translation. They laugh about it: Castiel jokes that they're like passing ships. That he sees more of their Akita-cross-whatever than he does of Dean. But it's never, ever been a problem, not really. It's just the job. The thrill of the chase. The sound of screeching brakes and doors slamming and coffee machines, paperwork rustling, marker pens on whiteboards, voices scrambling to talk over each other in excitement.
But the lights, they still make him feel nauseous from time to time. Still send spikes of adrenaline-fuelled anxiety pulsing through him, still make his palms sweat and his heart beat out a staccato rhythm against his ribs. For he never knows what he's going to find, not really. He can form mental pictures, prepare himself for the worst, but even now he's still shocked and disgusted by the scenes he's forced to confront. He's grown adept at hiding those reactions over the years so that now everyone just sees him as cool, detached, focused and professional. The guy they bring in to make it right. To catch the killer. To close the case. His reputation precedes him by a light year and he's closing in on a promotion. It's only when he's at home after his shift has finished and he's unbuckled his holster that he can finally let his true emotions show through the cracks. It's a difficult job, raw on the nerves no doubt about it. But it's his job, his calling, and he loves the burn.
The lights should be his cue. His command, his on-switch, his instruction to tighten his belt, dust off his palms and slap on his mask of professionalism to tackle a new case. But not tonight. For a reason far beyond his grasp, he can't get out of the car. Something feels wrong, off, disjointed. He's driven with a heavy knot of concern in his stomach, his fingers tapping out a rhythm on the wheel as his favourite Zeppelin album failed to calm his nerves. He had tried calling his husband, seeking comfort, but the call had rolled straight to voicemail. That isn't uncommon: Castiel normally turns his phone off for bed and Dean normally doesn't care. But tonight he aches for reassurance, reassurance that hasn't come. Something is wrong, he can feel it deep in the marrow of his bones. Something has happened, and he can't shake the notion that his life is about to tilt violently on its axis. He wishes fervently that Castiel, his husband of nine weeks, three days and fourteen hours, had answered his call. He still can't get used to the word: husband. He loves it more than he can explain, and every time he says it to anyone a shit-eating grin spreads across his face that he just can't hold in. He introduces Cas as his husband to everyone, pulling him just a little closer as he says the word, blushing and smiling and watching as Cas' reaction echoes his. Their friends laugh at them for it, but they don't care. They're young (relatively) and in love (absolutely). And Dean has never been happier.
He exhales a couple of times and reaches for the handle, opening the door and stepping out into the cool night air. For 3am the street is crowded with folk craning their necks to see what's going on. Damn rubberneckers. They're on the very edge of a bad part of town; right around the corner there's a fancy restaurant with a maître d and expensive wine - he knows it's expensive because the Sauvignon there is Castiel's favourite - and around another corner there are bullet holes in the walls. Hazard of the city, he supposes. But this street, the one he's on, he's familiar with. It's where he and Castiel met, years ago, and he feels a pang of nostalgia as he walks down the street towards the small crowd gathered around the emergency services. He flashes his badge to a stern-looking cop who lets him duck under the tape and immediately spots his Chief, Ellen Harvelle, talking intently with two other officers. One of them is his buddy, DI Lafitte, the one who called him and requested he attend the crime scene. The call had been difficult to understand thanks to constant bursts of static down the line and the wail of an approaching ambulance in the background, but Dean had got the location and hopped in his car right away, never one to drag his feet. But it was on the journey over that things started to feel off; his skin began to crawl and he felt bile rising in his throat for no reason he could fathom. There was something in Lafitte's wording, something in his voice. Something unidentifiable, and he had pressed down on the gas a little harder. He glances up at the bar - it's closed and the white-faced owner is in the crowd, chewing her nails and staring over towards a darkened alley where he can see medics crouching over someone lying sprawled on the ground under hastily-erected floodlights. If they're working on him at the scene the poor SOB likely isn't long for this world. Either that or he needs a miracle. The ground beneath their scrubs and trainers is blood-stained and the air tastes of grim determination. They all want to go home with a success story on their lips. But something tells Dean that ain't gonna happen.
Dean approaches Harvelle and Lafitte at the same time as a blonde, lanky paramedic does. He watches as the other guy strips off blood-drenched latex gloves and wipes sweat from his brow, turning to address the Chief just as Dean reaches the small group, overhearing their conversation.
"He's stable enough to travel, but it ain't looking good. We'll head to City - should we expect to see his any family there?"
"His family has already been called," Harvelle says with a strange, uncharacteristic softness to her voice, and her eyes land on Dean as she speaks, not helping to take the edge off his nerves. She's an older lady who scared the life out of Dean when he first came to work for her, fresh-faced and eager. Now she's like a surrogate mother to him - and is still as scary, he blonde hair pulled back tightly from her face and frown lines between her brows. "We'll follow."
From down the alleyway, there's the sound of another paramedic speaking, a woman this time. "On my count: one… two…" And Dean shivers in the autumnal chill. A few feet away he hears another uniformed cop speaking into a radio - 'rape...aggravated assault...attempted murder...' - and he knows this is going to be a bad one. The expressions on the faces of his colleagues seem more grave than usual, and he doesn't quite like the way Harvelle is eyeing him.
"So, what's the deal, boss?" He tries for a grin and knows it doesn't quite reach his lips. "Did I hear wrong or is the guy still in the land of the living? Because, and no disrespect ma'am, but if there ain't a corpse down that alley then why am I here?"
The very fact that she doesn't clap him around the head for his sass is the giveaway that something is very wrong. This isn't a normal crime scene, not for him. Ellen Harvelle's eyes are grave and she opens and closes her mouth, apparently lost for words. Another fact that sends chills down his spine. His palms feel damp.
"Chief?" Even to his own ears, his voice is hesitant. "What's going on?"
It's Benny Lafitte who answers him; he's Dean's best friend on the force and has been with him since the Academy. He's the one responsible for the nickname. He's a big guy, intimidating to look at but kind-hearted and fair, and with a large amount of affection for those he holds dear. So when Benny's large hand comes to rest firmly on his shoulder, he knows something bad is coming.
"It's Cas, brother," Benny's voice is soft but firm, but the words just don't make sense to Dean. What's Cas?
Down the alley, the paramedics have the victim on a gurney and Dean can see him better now: he's strapped to a backboard and restrained with a neck brace, and there's a tube going into his mouth. One of the female paramedics, blonde hair in a swinging ponytail, is squeezing a bag regularly, pumping air into the man's lungs - he clearly isn't breathing for himself, or if he is then he isn't doing it well. There's a lot of blood matting his hair together and coating his face, combined with what looks like chunks of shredded flesh and, beneath it, the snatches of skin that Dean can see are ashen, a horrible grey colour. Tubes filled with clear liquid tangle together and disappear under ripped clothing to where he knows they'll penetrate skin, seeking veins, and the guy is hooked up to a heart-rate monitor which is beeping out a rhythm: too slow, too weak. The vic looks to be at death's door.
"What's Cas?" Dean can't take his eyes off the victim; he can't see his face properly thanks to the blood and gore, the bodies moving swiftly around him, and the tube forcing his breath into his lungs. "Benny..." He feels a strange sensation of falling and reaches out for his colleague. Benny grips both his hands tightly, grounding him. "What do you mean? Benny, what are you saying?"
"Dean, whatever happens, we're here for you." Ellen, Harvelle, the Chief, she's speaking now and Dean's head is spinning. Nothing makes sense. Castiel is at home, in bed, asleep. Dean knows that, Dean spoke to him only two hours ago. "Whatever you and Cas need, we'll do whatever we can to provide it."
"I don't... I don't understand." Dean shakes his head slowly in an attempt to clear it but there's a low hum in his ears now, white noise, and it's only getting louder. "You're saying that... the vic, that he... no." He comes to a sudden, firm decision and shakes his head, his vision and ears clearing. "You're wrong, sorry, Chief, but you're mistaken. I spoke to Cas a while ago, he's at home. I'm calling him, right now, just let me..." He whips his phone out with trembling hands and speed-dials his husband. The call rolls to voicemail and he hears the low, gravelly voice saying, 'You have reached my voicemail...' and he hangs up with a savage jab at his screen. He almost doesn't dare look up, but when he does he sees Benny's eyes dark and sad, full of concern. "It's fine. Cas never has his phone on when he's asleep. I'll just... I can just..."
At that moment someone nudges him gently, pushing him back, and the paramedics push the gurney past the small group of officers huddled together. Dean can't help it; he takes an automatic step towards the victim, the victim he's certain isn't Cas, then another step. He's still too far away to see his face properly, but as his gaze lands on the man's arm his heart stops in his chest. A white strip of bloody gauze covers part of the man's forearm, and below that stretches an expanse of tanned skin, turned golden from hours spent out running in the sunshine, and a slim wrist with strong hands, fingers curling gently but unmoving, and on the left ring finger is a silver band with deep script etched into it. It's sickeningly familiar and Dean feels his world tilt as he stumbles and Benny grabs him around the waist for support. He knows that ring. He put that ring on Castiel's finger not three months ago, and he's seen it every day since then. Every morning when he wakes up he admires it, thinks about what it means and smiles. He knows that ring. That's Castiel's wedding ring. Bile rises in his throat and an internal voice starts up a low mantra of no, no, no...
"Cas..." His voice breaks as he steps forward again, numb hands shoving a paramedic out of the way a little too roughly. "Cas? Cas!"
Then he's right there, beside the bloodied, pale face of his husband and it's a struggle to breathe. Benny's hands are there, warm and supportive on his back and shoulder, but he can't see anything but Cas. Cas, lying there with his eyes closed looking on the verge of death, face caked with fresh and dried blood, unable to breathe for himself... Dean's vision blurs then clears again. A paramedic tries to move him gently out of the way and he pushes back, hard.
"No! Stop it, what are you doing to him? What have you done? Cas, Cas, wake up! Open your eyes, come on. Cas!" This isn't happening. This can't be happening. This is a bad dream: Dean has dozed off in his car after too many doughnuts and is having a nightmare. Frantic, he pushes up his sleeve and pinches his own skin, hard, but nothing around him changes. He does it again, his nails digging in deep enough to leave crescent moon indents, but the scenery remains the same. The bustling emergency services. The grave, pitying expressions. The bloody gauze and ashen skin. The lights. "Cas..." He leans down, close to his husband and tries to take his hand. "Cas... come on, man, wake up. I love you. I need you. Cas, please..."
Benny succeeds in pulling Dean back just far enough so that the medics can get Cas into the ambulance. And almost immediately there's a horrific sound from one of the monitors and Dean's heart freezes in his chest as the medics move more urgently and one of them shouts something about chest compressions. No. No, no, no...
"What the hell is going on?" Wild, Dean turns on his Chief who stands firm in the onslaught of his emotions and lets him explode. "What the hell is he doing here? And what happened? Who called it in? What leads have you got, what..."
The ambulance doors slam with a terrible, horrifying finality and Dean sways again, his ire flooding out of him as quickly as it had come, to be replaced by... nothing. Terrifying, all-consuming numbness. He's seen this happen to family members at crime scenes and knows exactly why they meet them at the hospital or down at the station where possible. The fear, the anger, the shock... it isn't helpful to anyone, and he starts to shake as his mind replays images of Cas. Cas smiling, Cas laughing, Cas talking on the phone, Cas lying on the sofa asleep after reading, Cas on their first date, on the night they met, at their wedding... Cas lying bloody and motionless in front of his eyes...
"Dean." Benny grips his shoulder once more. "Get in the car, I'll take you to the hospital. C'mon, brother."
"No... I have to ride with... with Cas..." He turns sluggishly, but the ambulance is already pulling away and the sirens wail, making them all start with shock. Benny takes his arm and his other hand comes to Dean's back, supporting him.
"Let's go, brother. We'll meet them there. They need space to work on him."
"Benny," Dean turns wide, unseeing eyes on his colleague, his closest friend. "What the hell happened to him?" The gaze he receives in return is all the answer he needs.
"Do you really wanna know right now, cher?" It's Benny's pet name for him, has been for years ever since they… anyway, it's a long-standing nickname that only comes out in intense circumstances these days. Dean nods wordlessly and Benny visibly tenses up then sighs. "Alright. Call was from a passer-by, found him out cold in the alley and strugglin' to breathe. He's… Dean, he's been raped," The word doesn't register, not really. Dean nods at him to continue, face and knuckles stark white. "Initial medical assessment says broken ribs, broken arm, but they'll heal. That ain't the worst of it. Dean, someone wanted to hurt him. Wanted him never to be able to talk about this." Benny's gaze drifts off, over towards the dark alley where the forensics team are moving in. "Tyre iron to the head. It's bad, Dean. We need to get you to the hospital. You need to be with him."
"But why…" The words stick in his throat. He isn't processing this at all. He's numb, completely. Benny says something to Harvelle who nods once at him then tries to send a reassuring smile in Dean's direction. He can't return it. Benny guides him with a firm hand on his lower back over to his cop car and opens the door for him. When they're both inside and the car is pulling away from the curb, Dean manages to make his vocal cords work. "Why was Cas here? It's 3am, Benny. Why was he out at a bar? He should have been… I thought he was at home."
"I don't know, brother. But we'll find out and we'll catch the monster who dared mess with one of our own and we'll skin him alive. I swear it to you, cher."
Dean leans back against his seat and tries to remember how to breathe. That voice in his head isn't saying no any more. It's asking why. Why Cas, why tonight, why here, why? Just… why?
Benny is mercifully silent on the drive to City Hospital and Dean's hands go numb. He sits ramrod straight, his breath coming in low, shallow gasps and he can't think through the white noise in his mind as the police car speeds through the city in the wake of the ambulance. The sirens wail, agony to his ears, and like all cops he knows the significance of the sirens. Before Dean started as a cop he thought sirens were just a mandatory part of an ambulance journey, and swiftly found out that he was wrong. They're used sparingly so as not to panic the patient or risk causing a crash as drivers scramble to get out of the way. So in most cases, the journey is a silent one. But sirens and lights en route to the hospital? They mean the patient under the care of the paramedics is in a severe condition and their life is hanging in the balance.
The blue and red flashing lights bounce off every surface, casting dark, menacing shadows and hurting his burning eyes.
