Authors' Notes:
Lilredd3394: There were so many things that made this difficult, our different writing styles and stuff like that. But hey, as you can tell we managed to make it through the first chapter.
Puffin: It was difficult, but I thought it was fun. Hopefully you guys find it intriguing, though! This first chapter is short, but they'll get much longer. Promise.
Some of you may find the title to be uncannily similar to that of a song, and that's where we got it from. We may explain why later on, but for now our reasoning will remain a mystery!
Read and review, please!
Also, please enjoy!
Disclaimer: We own nothing.
He stared ahead, his eyes stony and gaze nearly unblinking. The voices shouting around him didn't make him flinch; instead, it made already statuesque man even stiller and harder. No emotion shone through; no hint of acknowledgement toward the two other men in the room, trying to pry information; not even a shred of life was visible from the rock still man. Instead, his blue eyes merely focused intently on a small spot in the wall across from him; his years of practice inadvertently prepared him for this moment. Who knew the skills of a professional statue would come in handy?
An exasperated huff and a loud yell erupted from the man closest to him, although Castiel didn't flinch. Not even a blink. He had experienced spit, screams, little kids, and many other worse things; this was child's play to him. The man stormed out of the room, leaving the two remaining men together.
Castiel's mind was elsewhere while the two interrogators were speaking. He hadn't heard half of what the two said, if he were honest. He knew they threatened, although he didn't know what; most likely some charge or another he could face if they found he actually knew something. He knew they tried to play nice, asking nicely if he had any information that could lead to the murderer; that was how they started. He knew they tried giving him a break, tried acting like people he could confide in if he were traumatized, tried scaring him with stories of Gabriel, who was currently being detained in another facility. They tried anything they could conjure up in those procedural minds of theirs, and all of those attempts lead to was nothing.
That was what they found with the others, too. Pamela, Balthazar, all of them discussed nothing of what happened in regards to their dead friend, although maybe cheerily disturbing the poor agents with unknowable knowledge or a crack at charming the two out of the dreary room. Even Gabriel disclosed nothing, all the while keeping his mischievous demeanor and banter intact.
The slamming of the single door was what brought Castiel back to the sole other agent in the room.
Slowly, ever so slowly and smoothly, those sapphire blue eyes turned to him. They revealed nothing, like they had been throughout the ordeal, save a now more inquisitive edge. Of what, the final agent wasn't aware. Probably demanding why that last man remained. He found them unnerving, though. Those blank, but curious, cold eyes.
"Are you sure there's nothing you wish to tell us?" he nearly pleaded in one last attempt at breaking this mysterious, silent street performer.
Castiel replied with nothing, no shifting of gaze, of posture, of anything. He only gazed back, his eyes becoming distant once again. The agent, obviously fed up with Castiel's silence as well, shook his head and left the room. The near statue was left alone.
XXXXX
Castiel was just as responsive as Sam was driving the two back to his apartment; they had a party to put into motion. The latter tried making conversation once or twice, but to no avail; the former remained silent and kept his eyes transfixed on the road ahead of them. There were questions of the "So how did it go?" variety and "Dean will be happy with this party, don't you think?" sort and finally ending with the statement of "You're awfully quiet."
The two quickly fell into silence after Sam's last effort; Castiel would have said that it was comfortable and that he was pleased with it; Sam would have confessed that it was awkward, secretive, and almost suffocating. Dean and he had probed the performers themselves, although they had had much the same results as those interrogators. After two months, almost three, of relentless questioning and reevaluating evidence, their prime suspect was still Gabriel (even if the forensics were shaky at best); Sam wasn't convinced, and it was blatantly obvious. And, even after all that time, not Gabriel not Castiel not Pamela not Balthazar uttered one word of Lucifer's suspicious death to the investigators.
"Sam…" he said, his voice low and like a roll of thunder. Yet it was also quiet and hesitant, as if he had to drag it from his reluctant vocal cords. His formerly stoic eyes are now showing glimmers of fear, of apprehension.
Sam glanced over at Castiel long enough to register the new emotions passing over his companion's visage, which shocked him. The trained-to-be emotionless man was unwillingly revealing his current feelings. "Cas?" he replied, not entirely sure how to move the conversation forward, and not entirely sure he wanted to. He didn't have much of a choice, though.
A moment of deafening quiet is followed by, "We need to talk." Castiel drew his attention from the road to the driver. Sam shifted under those eyes; he felt the same wave of anxiety rush over him as the agent from earlier did.
"Okay," was all Sam could croak, the same dread filling him as it did Castiel. Still, both felt this was inevitable and, as much as it was needed for the case (especially after so long), it was going to break something. They both knew it, whatever it was.
Castiel inhaled deeply, slowly, stared at his hands. He wasn't sure about this, nor was he ever going to be. He just knew that he needed to confide in someone, he needed help, and he trusted Sam most with this.
After yet another moment of hesitation, he began.