Notes: See "Where My Demons Hide" for warnings/ratings. You will understand this story better if you read WMDH first, but I'm hoping, eventually, these can be read in any order. Thanks and happy reading!
"I matter to you. Don't I?"
Cas doesn't know how to answer. For years now, this case has been hanging over his head. It's kept him awake at night, it's haunted his dreams. It's been like a thorn in his side, nagging at him, something he knows he has to take care of before he can move on with his life. His White Whale. Of course this case matters to him, but...
Does Dean?
Dean himself? The person? The criminal? The scared little boy?
There's a nutjob desecrating graves across the country. A nutjob digging up strings of seemingly unconnected corpses, and leaving them open and burning. A nutjob with a black car. A nutjob with a license plate a witness has finally managed to grab.
Detective Diana Ballard stares at the idling fax machine, her anxiety reaching roller coaster levels. After a year and half of trailing this sucker- who, as far as they can tell, has been active a great deal longer than that- they are finally going to have a name.
The machine springs to life, spitting out the piece of paper that will change everything.
Licence No. : BQN-9R3
Make/Model: Chevrolet Impala
Year: 1967
Color: Blk
Registered to: John Winchester
Winchester.
Agent Novak picks up on the name and isn't sure why.
It's none of his business. Some of the more senior agents are discussing a case that just came over the wire. From what he can make out, someone has been crossing state lines, digging up graves and setting them on fire. Strange, to say the least. But it seems they'd only just recovered a name: Winchester.
Winchester. Winchester.
Why does that name sound familiar? Why is it setting off that unsettling buzzing beneath his skin? Where has he heard it before?
Agent Milton catches him staring at Cas quickly returns to his own work, running down a list names for possible connections to a rising local drug cartel.
It's nothing to do with him anyway.
Right?
"Get down on the ground and put your hands behind your head," Pete orders.
The middle-aged man obeys, kneeling quickly.
The suspect is a big fish, dangerous, smart, and expertly-trained. An ex-marine, he's known to have violently taken out the police on three separate occasions, not even mentioning all the other times he is suspected of having talked, conned, or snuck his way out of sticky situations with the law.
He has no proven body-count, but has shaky connections to at least a dozen suspicious deaths
Three years, Pete Sheridan has spent tracking down this nutjob. The nutjob with the black car. The nutjob who's been desecrating graves; digging them up in the middle of the night and, get this, salting and burning them. A year, it had taken, to identify the pattern. Another six months for a license plate. And even after they had a name, another eighteen before the guy finally slipped up.
They caught him in a small town near Chicago, digging up the grave of a known runner for the Tiger Lily drug cartel.
And now, finally, they've got him.
Winchester.
The name pops up in a meeting about the Tiger Lily cartel of all topics. Cas has been sitting in, taking notes to assist his boss, Agent Milton, with the case.
Over the past year, Anna has become the bureau's rising star. Only a few years more experienced than Cas, she's already managed to land lead on a case that has the potential to become one the biggest Chicago has ever seen. Within the two short years since it first appeared on their radar, the burgeoning cartel has expanded exponentially, sweeping through the Chicago streets, wiping out or absorbing all the competition, dropping bodies left and right. No one has ever seen anything like it. It seems impenetrable, with no opposition willing to stick its neck out and risk getting beheaded by the massive entity.
Except, perhaps one.
Apparently, the feds have finally figured out a connection between the graves chosen by John Winchester, the "nutjob" responsible for de-earthing and burning corpses all across the country. And it seems at least half of his known crime scenes have been at the gravesites of proven cartel associates. While the others appear random in choice, there is speculation that they, too, are connected to the cartel in some way that only John knows. Or at least, he believes it so.
John Winchester, it seems, has taken it upon himself to do what no one else outside of law enforcement has been willing to do, and is taking on Chicago's largest drug cartel single-handedly. Admittedly, his approach is strange and, as he is only going after those already deceased, ineffective. But then, he is a nutjob after all.
Right?
Winchester. Winchester.
Something about that name drives Castiel crazy. He finds it impossible to focus for the rest of the meeting, instead rolling the name around inside his tingly brain.
Winchester. Winchester.
When the meeting lets out, Cas heads straight for his desk and searches the name. What he finds makes his heart stop.
Having secured the driver, the police team moves in toward the sleek, black car, looking for weapons or accomplices.
"Wait!" The man cries.
But they pull the doors open all the same...
And reveal two young boys huddled in the back, terrified, holding onto one another for dear life.
Shit.
"Daddy," the youngest whimpers. The older shushes him silently.
"Please don't hurt them," the man begs.
Pete has to admit, he's seen a lot crazy shit in his time. But he did not see that coming.
Winchester.
Castiel sits at his desk, staring at his computer with his mouth hanging open.
What are the odds? Too high to be a coincidence.
Years ago, Castiel was part of a team that raided a civilian's house after a 911 call indicated an unidentified suspect had invaded their home and taken the mother, Mary Winchester, hostage. Rather than come quietly, the maniac had chosen to set the house on fire with himself and all the family members still trapped inside. The father had gotten separated from his two young sons, choosing to stay behind in an attempt to rescue his captive wife.
Having failed, John only just made it out of the house and into the crowds of waiting emergency personnel only to find, to his horror, that his boys had not.
Cas and the others were told to wait for the fire department to arrive, but they all knew there was more than just the fire to worry about: There was a madman in that house. Cas, his boss, and a few others snuck off, searching the perimeter as best they could.
Cas is just rounding the back corner when he hears the faint sounds of coughing. He pulls open the door, ignoring the hot metal burning his skin, to find a terrified, ash-covered little boy clutching a swaddled bundle to his chest like it is the most precious thing in any world: his baby brother.
The two are trapped by a fallen beam, stuck behind a growing wall of smoke and fire. There is a terrible odor in the air, like burnt rubber and sulfur. A sticky yellow substance clings to the walls. Cas calls for aid, but the roar of the flames consumes his smoke-raspy voice. Cas takes another look at the suffering boys and steps into the burning building without hesitation. He stumbles on the crumbling floor. As he slips, his hand flies out for support landing in one of the sticky spots on the wall. It could just be his C02-hazy mind, but he imagines the stuff burns like acid.
He trips again, leans over the fallen beam and reaches for the young boy's hand.
"Come with me," he says. But the boy just stares at him, half-delirious with the heat and oxygen-deprivation. He hugs the little bundle tighter to his chest. Cas doesn't have time to think. He reaches over and grips the boy's bare arm, hauling him and his brother up and over the fallen beam with one hand as easily as he would a rag-doll. The boy winces where Cas's goo-coated hand connects with his skin and Cas thinks, slightly guiltily, maybe he hadn't imagined the acid bit after all.
He sets them both down and the boy stares up at him with eyes wide with disbelief.
He coughs, "How- How did you-?" He breaks off in a coughing fit.
The fire department has finally arrived. They and some EMTs are racing over to their location. Cas glances their way then back to the boy who is still staring up at him in unbridled awe.
He stares at his own burning hand, then looks to the boy, silently raising a finger to his own lips. The boy's eyes grow even larger, but he nods, seeming to understand.
Cas crouches down. Afraid to touch the boy again, he simply looks into his shining green eyes.
"You're safe now," he says.
"Thank you."
The EMTs rush in and sweep the boys off into their father's waiting arms.
That was ten years ago.
Ten long, stress-filled years ago.
Now, apparently, the man, John Winchester, has taken up some sort of vendetta against the Tiger Lily drug ring. And they've just brought the nutjob in.
Along with his two sons.
They take all three family members back to the station, throwing the old creep into a detention cell and leaving the boys in interrogation. Together. No one in the station has the heart to split them up, as the younger is constantly teetering on the verge of tears. He keeps asking for his dad, while the older has yet to say a single word except to hush his inconsolable little brother and tell him it's going to be alright.
Pete knew John Winchester had sons, of course. But all his information had suggested that he left them behind. The detective has no evidence to suggest that the man was dragging them around the country with him on his grave robbing slash murder spree. The very idea of it seems barbaric and yet the truth is undeniable: The boys are there. Scared, confused, and covered from head to toe in scrapes, scratches, and bruises.
What the hell has he been doing to these kids?
Social services are called immediately. They arrive and talk to the boys separately and then together. And what they discover is disturbing to say the least. The ten year old can barely keep himself together. Once separated from his older brother, all he does is ask for him, beg for him, his dad suddenly very far from his mind. It quickly becomes apparent his bruises are not the result of little boys' roughhousing. They're layered and repetitive. Like he's been hit in the same places over and over for a long period of time. He flat-out refuses to talk about them, even tries to hide them. Classic signs of abuse.
He asks where his dad is once. Only once. Then goes back to insisting to see his brother.
The older boy is harder to read.
Winchester.
Castiel considers suggesting, oh so subtly, that he be the one to travel to the small township where Winchester and his sons are being held as the federal liaison. But Anna saves him the trouble, assigning herself and Cas to head over and investigate.
Cas is quiet on the car ride, only half-listening to Anna rattle on about nutjobs and drug ring leaders. He stares out the window, feeling the sparks spread across his skin as they grow closer and closer to their destination. Something big is brewing. He can taste it in the air as they move in toward John Winchester and the boys from the fire.
When they arrive, the sensation has grown almost unbearable. Staring at the exterior of the little police station, Cas has the sudden urge to get back in the car and drive as quickly and as far away as possible. But of course he doesn't. Can't.
They meet with the lead detective on the case and he fills them in on the investigation so far, ending with the news that both John Winchester and each of his sons are currently being interviewed. Anna heads off to listen in on John's interrogation, leaving Cas behind with Sheridan.
Something stirs in Cas's gut at the idea of the boys actually being here. The young green-eyed boy from the fire, the only person on earth who knew of his...abilities, the first life he'd ever saved, is here, under the same roof as he is once again. Cas suddenly finds himself wishing he could talk to him, as inappropriate as that might be. But John Winchester only has tenuous ties to his boss's case, and his sons even more so. Nothing short of a miracle would allow him to lay eyes on that child again.
Karen needs a miracle.
"Where's my brother," the boy demands again, "What did you do with Sammy?"
"He's fine. He's with my partner."
In all her years as a social worker, Karen has to encounter a set of abused siblings quite so co-dependent as these boys seem to be.
"I wanna see him. I wanna see him now. You can't keep us apart."
"We're not going to," Karen answers calmly, "I just want to talk to you for minute. Is that okay with you?"
"Does it matter?" The boy huffs, "What do you want?"
"I want to help. If I can."
"What makes you think I need help?"
"You and your brother have got an awful lot of scrapes on you."
"We're kids. Scrapes happen."
"Most kids aren't being hauled across the country by their father."
Dean shakes his head.
"You know you're dad's mixed up in a lot of sketchy things, Dean."
"You don't know anything."
"So, tell me."
"Why? You won't believe me anyway. You've already made up your mind."
She tries and tries, but an hour later she's still gotten nothing out of the fourteen year old but clever blocks and evasive wisecracks. He's unusually smart, incredibly sharp, and impressively stoic. Three factors that, on top of the usual teenage stubbornness, make it near impossible to get a kid to do something he doesn't want to do. Which, in this case, is talk.
After an hour, she decides it's time for both of them to take a break. She leads him out of the room, intending to win him over, at least partially, at the vending machines.
"Hungry?" She asks.
"No."
But suddenly the kid's mouth falls open and his eyes grow to the size of soccer balls.
Karen frowns and turns to look. She sees a couple of detectives standing by a desk, discussing some paperwork. Nothing remarkable, but the kid looks like he's just seen the holy ghost descend.
"It's him," he whispers.
"Who?"
Dean's eyes are fixed on one of the detectives. He's barely even breathing.
"It's the Angel."
"What?"
Dean snaps out of it abruptly and looks up at her with that same air of bitter indifference.
"Who is that?" He asks nonchalantly.
Karen looks back over but she doesn't know either of the detectives.
"I don't know. Would you like to speak to them?"
"No."
"Would you like me to find out?"
The kid hesitates, shuffles his feet.
"Yeah. You know, whatever. It's not a big deal."
But Karen can see it is a very big deal.
"Wait here."
The kid half shrugs half nods. She knows it's the most committal confirmation she's going to get out of Dean.
She leaves him on the bench and approaches the two men.
"Excuse me?"