The man with hair long enough to be a woman's looked down at the papers in front of him, and then back at Cas. He coughed, before cautiously tucking a few strands of his hair behind his ears, like he didn't know where to start. Cas leant back in the wooden chair. The office was almost completely brown and wooden, devoid of any kind of personal touches, apart from the stars and stripes hanging limply in the corner. Depressing, that.
"Mr Novak," he began awkwardly.
"-Winchester." Cas corrected him.
"Mr Novak," he tried again, "yourself and Mr Winchester were never in any legal contract of marriage, and you have never officially changed your surname."
Cas leant forward, slamming one elbow after another down on the table, before linking his hands to create a decent chin rest. He fluttered his eyelids and produced The Stare he'd spent so long perfecting. "We were married in every way that matters."
The man swallowed. "Mr Novak- Castiel, if I'm going to be your lawyer, I need you to be straightforward with me. I like to achieve a state of mutual respect with my clients."
Respect. Cas mulled it over for a moment, before leaning back again and opening his mouth. "I was five and he was six. We rode on horses made of sticks. He wore black and I wore white. He would always win the fight, bang bang."
"Castiel, this is no time for singing. There's no way you can plead not guilty, so we have to focus on decreasing the length of your sentence-"
"You shot him down, bang bang. He hit the ground, bang bang." Anger flared through his bones and his shuddered as violent memories overloaded him.
"Mr Novak-"
He began to sing. "That awful sound, bang bang." Looking his lawyer directly in the eyes with his ever faithful menacing gaze, he uttered out "you shot my baby down."
Criminal.
Castiel rushed into the old roadhouse, terrified of his own lateness. His mother had been worse than usual that morning, so he'd been in charge of administering his youngest sister, Anna, with the correct flu medicine. Before she'd been sent home from school sick, he hadn't even known they had medicine in their tiny trailer, which the five of them so barely managed to live inside. It must have been something his father left lying around before he left, though he'd checked it was in date so it couldn't have been that old.
His manager, a beer bellied man who looked about ten years older than he should, took one look at him and shook his head. God, Castiel hated Mr Smithson. He took Castiel by the wrist in a swift movement within seconds of him entering the building, growling with his off-white teeth.
"This ain't good, pretty boy." His almost snarl sent shivers down Castiel's spine.
He stared at the floor, fearful of what he might say if he met the man's eyes. "There's a blizzard outside, I couldn't drive."
Mr Smithson released his wrist. "Don't forget how many men your momma had to fuck to get you this job." He turned to leave, slapping Castiel's behind as he went.
Castiel grit his teeth and made a mental note to take an extra-long shower when he got back home, which would probably sometime in the morning. He was meant to get off at two, but Mr Smithson would often threaten to fire him if he didn't work for longer, with little extra pay. The bar was already full, complete with locals, bikers, passers through and what Castiel suspected were a couple of hookers. He sniffed. The ceiling was growing mould, the walls old and plain faded wood, littered occasionally with some neon. The only vaguely interesting thing was the pool table, and even that was broken.
He got to work immediately, as time passed quicker when he was actually doing something. Ignoring the usual comments from the drunk men around him, Castiel managed to clear all the empty glasses and tumblers vaguely efficiently, dumping them by the cook's window for him to clear.
"Get in here boy," he called out in his gruff voice. "It's food rush and I can't clean on my own."
He looked around at the total and complete lack of people eating. Castiel knew he shouldn't hate the man, who looked like he was pushing sixty and hadn't actually done anything wrong, besides being irritating on occasion. Slowly, he went, taking a dish with an ugly splatter of mustard and scrubbing it clean. In the process, he spilt some hot wing sauce down his shirt.
"Give it some elbow grease."
Castiel sighed and forced himself to work harder, making his muscles burn in complaint. He wasn't going to be in a good condition tomorrow, he knew, which was disappointing. Mr Cain was an old man who owned a bee farm just down the road from his trailer park, and (after a lot of pleading) had agreed to Castiel going on the weekends to help out. His mother, unsurprisingly, had not been the most enthusiastic about his business idea, but there was just something about bees that left him fascinated. He wondered, maybe, if it was their wings. It seemed ridiculous, aerodynamically they shouldn't be able to fly with such a tiny wingspan, yet they can. Castiel wished he was a bee.
"Novak!" Mr Smithson called from the bar area. "Quit slackin'."
With a slight bow to his head, Castiel excused himself to attend to the visitors. It had been a hard job at first, but he'd developed hard ears, the ability to mentally block out whatever comments came out of his customer's mouths. That's all he could ever think of them as. He cringed, seeing a large group gathered round a few tables. He'd have to clear round them for this round, rather than discreetly in the background.
"Wait," he felt a hand tug at his wrist, pulling him right back into the kitchen. "We're expecting a powerful visitor tonight. He insists on no weapons, but he won't check you."
Castiel stared the man directly in the eyes, seeing them radiate the same amount of fear as his own. "Am I going to have to-"
A small hand gun was placed in his palm. "Don't get on the bad side of Crowley. Only use it if you have to."
He didn't have the sense to question what the cook meant, but instead accepted it just like everything else in his life. The only place suitable for hiding the weapon appeared to be his belt loop, which was concealed by his small apron. Of course, he checked the safety was on first. Somehow, his regular business felt harder, more restrained, and all because of a small lump of metal. When he was much younger, and his father hadn't disappeared, they used to go to church every Sunday. Michael, his oldest brother, even became a pastor, but of course he had already reached adulthood by the time their father walked out, so his view on religion was less tainted. Perhaps an unknown wisp had been hidden way inside Castiel, as he felt an almost guilt.
Out of the corner of his eye, as he was passing some empty glasses over the counter, Castiel noticed a man he'd never seen before walk in the room. He knew he'd regret it, but he couldn't help himself from turning his head slightly to get a better look. All at once, yet as slowly as a mountain eroding, Castiel felt his pulse quicken. The way the doors parted for him, his walk, and just his general aurora was as if a deity had come down to Earth. Addicted already, Castiel couldn't resist turning his head just a little more.
The man caught his non-discreet gaze, and returned it, looking him up and down before his eyes, green like the grass and pine needles left on the local trees, met Castiel's blue. In that moment, it was as if the very earth quaked beneath his feet, opening in a fiery chasm that could just about swallow him whole. This man, Crowley, presumably, was a walking force of nature.
"A shot of your strongest," he said simply to the bartender, his voice somehow the same sound Castiel would imagine heavy liquor to talk if it could. It all happened so fast, Castiel couldn't keep track. All he could really tell was that a shot had been fired, and the strange man was directing a small gun towards Mr Smithson's face.
Just then, something ignited deep within Castiel. Without any kind of forethought, he turned and pointed his own gun at the man. "Put your weapon down." He attempted to keep his voice steady, but he was vastly unsuccessful.
The man smirked. "Or what?" He cocked an eyebrow.
"I'll shoot!" Castiel shook the gun, as if it was going to make a difference.
Like an effortless gust of wind, the man practically glided close enough so that the mussel was resting on his own chest. "Why?" He leant in, so he was whispering into Castiel's ear. "Are you really gonna be all loyal to them?"
Castiel swallowed. "How would you know?"
"Hmm." He stood back. "When I walked in at least five of them were looking at you like a meal. Your hands are shaking. I bet that lady gun of yours ain't even loaded."
He had no idea what came over him. Half a second after the man finished speaking, before he could even shut his mouth, Castiel aimed the weapon and fired. The very force of it nearly landed him flat on his backside, but by some miracle his legs kept him upright. The bullet, or hole, rather, was not dead in the centre of the dart board he's aimed it at, but it was close, so close that it scared himself a little.
The man, no, felon's gaze bore even deeper into his soul. Like liquid, like the wind, he slipped around. Rather than being stoop opposite to Castiel, he was behind him. Large, calloused hands draped themselves on Castiel's hips and he gasped, frozen in place. The cool metal of the gun pressed against him, directly contrasting the warmth from the hands.
"Why are you staying here, huh?"
Castiel knew what he wanted to say, because I have nowhere else to go, but he didn't feel like sharing his deep thoughts with some (albeit attractive) stranger who was rubbing a firearm against his crotch, whilst surrounded by a room of terrified drunks.
"Huh," the man said, and redirected his weapon towards Mr Smithson. "Open it up," he gestured the cash register. Unsurprisingly, with no real defence, Mr Smithson complied, wads of cash up for the taking. The man didn't waste any time, immediately opening his duffle bag and filling it.
With his back turned, one of the regular drunks took their opportunity, reaching for the pool cue. Castiel panicked, aiming his gun as a knee jerk reaction, with much more confidence than he'd been expecting. It was almost disturbing, how well the thing seemed to fit in his hand.
"Get down," he managed, eyes skirting everywhere. He was no longer an innocent bystander.
The man, apparently done, zipped up his duffle and smirked at Mr Smithson. "Tell Crowley I called. Ya comin', hot wings?"
Castiel realised he had no real choice, he couldn't stay here, not after assisting a robbery. He cursed himself mentally, and his rash actions. He followed behind the man, walking backwards and keeping his gun pointing at the thirty or so men until they were out of the front door.
Outside, where only a few bikes and the occasional junkers were usually parked, was a sleek, black, classic looking car. It was in prime condition, as if it had been waxed only the day before, which clued Castiel onto the fact that this man must take great pride in his vehicles. He opened the trunk, threw the bag in, and opened the door.
The full weight of what had just happened finally dawned on Castiel. With nothing else to keep him steady, he leant against the car for support. "I just assisted a robbery."
"And you'll be arrested for it if you don't get in this car right now."
Perhaps it was the adrenaline, but Castiel didn't even question. He practically dove into the passenger seat, slamming the door shut behind him as the car sped off with a loud screech of its tires. Without a word, they spend down the road at incredible speed, despite the layer of snow covering it. Eventually Castiel managed to sit up properly, still stunned from the whole affair.
The man, apparently satisfied with the distance between them and the bar, slowed down a little and flicked on the radio. A guitar riff boomed around the car at top volume, which the man drummed along to with ease on the steering wheel.
"Wild thing, you make my heart sing. You make everything groovy, wild thing," he sang softly. He looked over at Castiel and said, along with the radio, "wild thing, I think I love you." So sudden that it made Castiel jump in his seat, his voice crescendoed. "But I wanna know for sure."
The music continued to play, but the man turned it down. "You got a name, hot wings?"
He hesitated. "Castiel."
The man gave him a sideways look. "What the hell kind of a name is 'Castiel'?"
Castiel looked down, having had this conversation many times in the past. "My family used to be very religious."
"Mmn, I'll call you Cas."
"Okay," Castiel said, rather dumfounded. Did this strange man mean to use his name often?
"Dean," the man said after a few seconds. "And this is Baby," he patted the dashboard. "I have two rules. One: no disrespecting her, two: driver picks the music, shotgun shuts his cakehole." He was silent for a moment. "Can I getcha anywhere, Cas?"
Castiel was immediately brought back to himself and began to panic. "My family," he lurched forward. "I have to- I can't – what will they- you have to stop the car!"
Surprisingly, the man, Dean, pulled over. "I need you to breathe."
"I have to go home!"
"Okay," Dean said nonchalantly.
Castiel grabbed at his sleeve. "Those men know me, where I live. They're probably already there! They'll kill me," he hissed, "or let me die in jail. You don't understand! There's so much- what about Anna? They-"
"Cas!" Dean barked, the most threatening he'd seemed throughout their short acquaintance. "I need you to calm the fuck down."
He stared straight ahead. "I can't go home."
Dean exhaled. "No, probably not." He chewed his lip. "My old friend has a place in South Dakota, he could hook you up with a couple of IDs," he offered.
Castiel looked over. "That's… at least ten hours away."
"I haven't dropped by for months, I probably should. We can hit up a few places on the way."
With that, Castiel felt physically sick. He'd always been taught, since he was very young, that stealing was wrong. Trusting strangers with guns was wrong. What was wrong with him? He could've gotten on the floor like everyone else, and then he wouldn't be in this mess. Bitterly, he thought that this was what he deserved. At some point, Dean had started driving again, and Castiel just stared out at the plains of white. He used to fantasise constantly about what it would be like to leave his life behind, to have no responsibilities or obligations. But they were that, fantasies.
Dean pulled the car to the front of a motel which didn't look particularly occupied. "You coming?"
Castiel sniffed. "We're staying here?"
He could practically feel the air thicken as Dean eyed him. "I've gotta pay the bills somehow, Cas."
"This is wrong," he concluded. "I won't make it worse."
"Mmhmm." He stalked out of the car, slamming the door behind him, and returned seconds later with the duffle bag. He fished around for a moment before producing a handful of dollar bills. "Here's your cut, have fun finding a bus and, oh, somewhere to go." He left again, closing the door gentler.
Castiel was still. The cash felt heavy in his hands. It was dirty. Moreover, it was more than he'd ever held in his hands before. There was a strange, terrifying sensation of power. He could do so much with this money, like buy Anna some proper medicine, or maybe some food that actually tasted good. Imagine what he could do with more… The thought alone made him feel terrible, but he didn't have much of a choice.
When he entered the building, he found himself scared of what he saw, more so than before. He felt different as he aimed his gun at the terrified looking old man who was behind the cash register. This time, he was making a conscious decision, not just one out of panic. Dean barely even acknowledged him, only lowered his own weapon and began to fill his bag.
It was disgustingly quick and easy.
They worked in sync, exiting the motel in the same way they'd come out of the roadhouse. Too precise, too natural. Castiel continued to feel sick to his core. The man they'd just stole from wasn't evil, he was a good person, giving people a place to sleep at night. But he didn't have a choice, and knew he didn't have a choice. Dean was his ride, his lifeline to get himself out of this mess. Nobody forced you to pull out that gun, he told himself.
Thankfully, as the sun set and the temperature dropped even further, Dean didn't seem to want to stop again for more money. They'd driven in silence, unwilling partners. There were no cars on the road to slow down their substantial speed, but all of a sudden Dean did anyway, turning off onto a side road Castiel didn't recognise. The snow began to fall thick and fast as they went uphill, covering any tracks the car's wheels made.
On the edge of a cliff, Dean pulled to a stop and got out. Seeing this as a signal to follow, Castiel opened the door too. His bones froze as he stood out in the cold, only just co-operating with him when Dean beckoned him forth. He sat down in the snow, his feet dangling over the edge into oblivion. He'd never seen the city like this, all lit up and beaming. It made everything in the damned place seem so innocent, so normal.
"I'm not going to hurt you Cas." The words slipped from Dean's mouth effortlessly, nonchalantly even.
Castiel continued to stare out as snowflakes settled on and around him. One landed on his chapped lips, which he swiped away with his thumb. "You already have."
"Hmm," he almost chuckled. "I didn't make you do anything, angel cake. But I know this life, and I know the men who we pissed off. They're probably waiting there at home for you right now."
"You don't understand," he said, "I have younger brothers and sisters, they-"
"They are in more danger with you there. Whether you like it or not you committed a crime today. You're lucky I'm even offering to help you."
Castiel couldn't believe the man beside him. "You think I should be thankful…" He got up suddenly, tossing the bottle aside into the snow. Dean called out to him as he stalked away, but Castiel couldn't be less interested. He yanked the door of Dean's car open, and prayed sleep would find him.
"You shot my baby down."
Castiel Novak (insists last name is Winchester). 5'11". 168 lbs. One of this generation's most notorious criminals. Worth roughly $1 billion. Undoubtedly accountable for the murders of at least fifteen civilians. Not currently armed, but incredibly dangerous. Experiencing deep grief; believed partner in crime announced dead. Handle with extreme caution.
(AU based on the music video for Avicii's 'Addicted to You')