Castiel is driving Claire to school when the radio in the front of the car starts to chatter, an armed man has a hostage down by the waterfront. It's Claire's birthday, her first since her parents passed away in the house fire that left her an orphan in his care. Nine months and he's still struggling to be a pseudo father rather than his own, awkward-uncle Cas self.
He slaps the blue light on the roof, makes Claire promise to stay in the car, and heads for the scene. As he drives, folders slide across the back seat, Sam Winchester's file cascades to the floor. A case in through need of writing up that one – a psychological goldmine.
Leaving Claire behind, Castiel exits the car, the weight of the police issue pistol comforting as always in the holster under his rumpled suit jacket. His badge is in his breast pocket. Castiel Novak, Detective. Degree in psychology, Masters in behavioural studies and experience at Langley with the FBI. Still terrible with people.
He approaches the police cordon and passes the uniformed officer, cautiously moving towards the man who is currently holding a street vendor hostage. The man has greasy hair, a thin pointed nose and jumbled teeth. Castiel touches his fingers to his gun, breathes.
"I'm Detective..."
"I know who you are." The man shoves the vendor to the ground and points the gun squarely at Castiel. It's not the first time a gun as been pointed right between his eyes, but Castiel will never get used to the watery feeling in his legs when it happens.
"What is it that you're hoping to achieve?" Castiel asks calmly.
The man just smiles, lowers his gun, and runs.
Castiel is after him before he even registers the man's disappearance. Sprinting down a concrete ramp and onto the wet grey sand, under the pier and over some tattered concrete blocks to a barge that's moored nearby. He can't hear the thud of backup coming after him, but he has his gun, he's old enough, experienced enough to know better than this – but still he chases the man down.
He stumbles into the darkness of the barge, slithering on wet metal struts, there's a sagging, old mattress inside, some homeless soul has found shelter here, but no sign of the man. Castiel walks slowly, black dress shoes finding purchase on the slick metal. Dripping water echoes, lattices of rust give way and Castiel presses on, eyes squinting.
The shove catches him off guard, and he's forced forwards and down, falling onto the wet, foul, mattress. The gun levels with his face again, a hollow click as the hammer is pulled back.
All Castiel can think of is Claire.
"Please..."
He actually sees the bullet, gleaming and round, furrowed by the barrel, as it streaks towards him.
He doesn't even feel the mattress beneath him as he blacks out, mind shattered by shining metal.
(-*-)
Castiel jerks upwards with a strangled breath, sitting upright in one nauseating motion.
The ground under him is moving, swaying softly. For a second he thinks he's being carried, lifted and taken to an ambulance.
Waves roll, a seagull cries out.
A boat. He's on a boat.
Thudding bass pummels the walls, music at high volume, someone cheers and glass chinks, a cork pops. Castiel climbs off of the bed that he hadn't even noticed he was sitting on, stumbles towards the door and, clinging to the frame, looks out with wide eyes.
Men in white and grey suits with pink shirts or red ties, women in tight dresses and furs, the music grows in volume, Vienna, a song he hasn't heard since he was a child and it played on the kitchen radio almost constantly. He glances down, finding that his rumpled dark suit is gone, replaced by an open silk shirt, tiger striped and tight, white jeans.
He makes his unsteady way towards the gangplank, disembarking to find himself in a strange dockside area, utterly lost.
So, this is some kind of nightmare.
Even as he thinks it, sirens blare, boots thunder on the asphalt, and several armed officers run past. Castiel attempts to attract attention, one hand rising to touch the place he knows the bullet hit, but there's nothing there, and the policemen have already left him behind. Nothing about this makes any kind of sense. Nothing about the world around him is familiar. Save for the fact that...it almost is...like a place he visited once, a long time ago. A holiday town soon forgotten.
An arm around his throat cuts off any further thought. And it's just what he deserves, he thinks as the gun presses against his temple – to get shot in the head twice in one day. A fitting end for someone as dedicated to logic as he has been.
"You tipped them off, you...utter bastard." A British accent snarls.
Castiel twists slightly and catches sight of large dark eyes with dark pouches under them, dark hair and distinctly round face. His breath is choked off again, and Castiel really wishes that he'd died the first time, at least in the line of duty, not by a mystery boat, dressed like a character from one of Gabriel's 'private movies'.
The screech of tires approaching on the empty lot beside them halts Castiel's fearful train of thought, and the British man follows the progress of the large black car so intently that he loosens his hold on Castiel's throat.
The car doesn't so much stop as slide to a halt, doors opening to disgorge three men, and three more different men you wouldn't find anywhere.
From the rear, a squirrely guy in white drainpipe jeans similar to Castiel's own, a tucked in grey shirt, red tie and black nylon jacket. The passenger seat is vacated by a dark skinned man in a light brown turtleneck, leather jacket and creased slacks.
The cold metal of the gun barrel presses into his sweating temple, and Castiel is pretty sure that the third man is the last thing he is ever going to see – a tall, broad guy in a white leather jacket, tight black jeans and crocodile cowboy boots.
All things considered, a rusty barge was probably a worse sight to be his last.
"Put. The. Hooker. Down." Guy number three, obviously in charge, demands, producing a six shooter that is most definitely not police issue. "Now Crowley."
"Gun down first Winchester." The brit snarls, and his hold on Castiel tightens.
"Please, think about what you're doing." Castiel feels his training snap back into place like a pulled rubber band. "These officers, are obviously seeking a fatality outcome, and any showing of violent bravado on your part will result only in a temporary high of adrenaline and testosterone before you are ultimately shot to death."
Everyone looks at him funny.
"I swear, rents are getting smarter." Leather jacket quips to squirrelly.
Crowley releases him and moves away.
"No harm done, eh?" he says placating. "No need to..."
The dark skinned man shoots Crowley in the foot.
"Nice one Rufus." The guy in charge grins.
That resonates.
"Rufus Turner?" Castiel looks from him to the squirrelly guy, who had seemed almost familiar. "...Detective Chuck Shirley?"
"...uh...hi?" The guy frowns at him, but Castiel is already looking from him to the third man, now removing aviators to display hardened green eyes. "Lieutenant...Dean...Winchester."
It can't be...yet it is. The fictional police officers created by Sam Winchester during the time he spent as a coma patient. Castiel had interviewed him shortly before his suicide and he had described them well.
The music, the clothes, the very posters on the wall beside him...
1981...it had to be.
Castiel passes out on the dirt.
Dean looks down at the unconscious prostitute.
"My reputation clearly proceeds me."