summary:
or·thog·ra·phy, pronounced /ôrˈTHägrəfē/
noun
1. A method of representing a language or the sounds of language by written symbols
2. Spelling
"We didn't find anything in his phone records."
A frustrated growl made it past Dean's grit teeth. "Seriously? Nothing?" he demanded.
"Nothin' but a few calls to his sponsors, and about a dozen to his publisher," Benny answered patiently- and by the way, kudos to him, because even Dean wouldn't be this tolerant if the situation was reversed. "Dean, I think you should consider-"
"No, damn it. I told you, there's no way," the other cut in.
His partner sighed on the other end, "All right. Just... Think about it. It could be a possibility."
Dean wasn't planning to, but he nodded anyway. "Fine, whatever. Thanks, Benny." The line went dead, and the cell phone was carelessly dropped on the coffee table, clanging nosily. Dean didn't expect any useful calls coming in any time soon. He pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes as a headache brewed in the back of his brain.
"You sound agitated. Is something wrong?"
Dean spun towards the source of the voice: Cas sat on the couch, with his back against the arm rest, his legs stretched in front of him, and surrounded by two stacks of papers- one in his lap and the other on his thighs. His reading glasses were perched on top of his head while he curiously watched Dean, absentmindedly twiddling a red pen.
The blond grimaced, before raising Cas' legs a little, then settling on the couch. "It's this case I'm workin' on, it's drivin' me nuts," Dean explained. He reached out for the file on the coffee table and started thumbing through the papers inside. "I know the guy was murdered, but everyone's insisting it's suicide."
"Well, there's a big difference between the two," Castiel noted. His glasses were back on as he returned to grading one of the essays he had assigned last week. Under any other circumstances, Dean would be carrying him off to the bedroom, because damn, he looked good with glasses. "Why do you think it's murder?"
To be honest, right now, he was just thinking sex-with-Cas-wearing-his-glasses. Dean blinked back, gaping slightly. "Wha- Oh, 'cause suicide just doesn't make any sense!" he said, then pulled out a picture and tossed it to Cas.
The other didn't react. "Am I about to look at a body?" he asked.
"No, just the crime scene."
The picture stayed where it was, facing downwards on Cas' shin, while he finished reading the essay and wrote a neat B in the corner, circling it and adding a small note in his elegant, slanting handwriting. Watching his pen curve around each letter was seriously therapeutic, nothing at all like seeing Dean struggle with his chicken scratch. When he set the paper down on the pile on his thighs, Castiel picked up the picture and examined it closely. "Dean, is this half-eaten veal?" he asked, his brow furrowed the way Dean thought was adorable.
"That's the vic's dinner, which he was eating before he supposedly killed himself," the other explained. "Now, why would he do that?"
"Is it that inconceivable he wanted to have one last meal before he took his life away?" Castiel responded.
"No, look- D'you see the state of his food?" Dean asked.
Cas' mouth formed a small 'o'. "It isn't finished," he guessed.
"Exactly. Who eats half of his dinner and then shoots himself?"
"Maybe he was full."
"You're missing the point, babe!"
Castiel cupped the side of Dean's head and fixed him with a pitying look. "Dean, I think you're reading into this too much."
"No, I'm not-" Dean slapped his hand away. "Listen, there's more. This dude was left-handed, okay? When we found him, the gun was in his right," he said, then added irritably, "Don't look at me like that! If you were gonna shoot yourself, would you do it with the hand you don't normally use?"
"I'm not going to answer that, Dean," Castiel sighed. "Were there any other prints on the gun, other than his own?"
"No, but it could'a been wiped down before it was put back."
"You can't prove that happened."
"And you can't prove that it didn't," Dean insisted. "He left a note, Cas!"
There was a second of silence as Castiel looked at him blankly. "You do realise that usually implies suicide, Dean?" he clarified.
"No- I know, but it was freakin' weird. The guy was a published poet, right? He's supposed to be good with words."
"Yes, I've read some of his poems," Castiel said.
Dean licked his lips, before pulling out a ripped sheet of paper from a transparent file. "This was what he left- 'I am bone.' What the hell does that even mean?"
"Admittedly, not his best work," Cas offered, craning to get a look at the note. "Maybe it was meant to be a metaphor. Death, perhaps?"
"If you were a famous, critically-acclaimed writer, wouldn't you want to go out with a little more flair than, 'I am bone'?"
"Again, not answering that." Castiel said, "Dean, you have to realise that a man considering suicide is not emotionally stable. He would not think reasonably, let alone worry about the way the media would interpret his death. Although you don't understand it, the note might have had some meaning to him." When Dean made no attempt to answer, Cas went back to grading his papers.
Dean, on the other hand, still not convinced, determinedly went through the rest of the evidence and files in his folder. There had to be something that they missed- a surface they had forgotten to dust for prints, a sign of a struggle, indications of a break-in. He wasn't going to let this slide. There was no way a murderer was going to walk free under his watch.
It was as he was going over the doorman's (unhelpful) statement that Cas heaved this small, exhausted sigh.
"What's up, Cas?" Dean asked, scanning every single word on the paper.
"Jeremy," Castiel said with a hint of a frown.
The other shot him a lopsided grin. "Should I be worried right now?"
Cas shook his head, smiling. "One of my student insists that 'definitely' is spelt 'defiantly'. It's tiring, especially when it is repeated several times throughout his essay." Dean chuckled in response, while Cas murmured to himself, "The content is satisfying, but I don't know whether grammar should also influence the grade. So many spelling mistakes."
"Cut the kid some slack, Cas. We all make typos now and..." Dean trailed off, realisation striking him like a thunder bolt. How was he so damn stupid?! "Holy shit!" he blurted. "It's a spelling error, Cas!"
"Yes, I know, I think I'll have to speak with Jeremy after class-"
"No!" Dean waved the suicide note in the other's face. "This! It's not 'bone', it's 'done'!"
Castiel's eyebrow quirked up. "How does a professional poet mistake a B for a D?"
"Not the poet." Dean grinned. "His wife."
"His wife?" Castiel repeated, but Dean was already skimming through files again.
"I saw it somewhere before, I know I did- Here!" He produced another piece of paper, handwritten in fancy, loopy script. "Mrs Meyers' statement about her alibi. Every single one of her D's were B's. I thought she was drunk or something."
"Dean, let me see it," Cas instructed. Dean did as he was told, then began fidgeting with a loose thread as he watched Castiel's eyes inspect the statement with the speed you could only get from years of correcting theses. When he finally looked up, Dean took in the surprise etched in his wide eyes. "Dean, this woman is dyslexic."
"How do you know?" Dean asked, craning his neck in order to see.
"She constantly writes her D's as B's, like you said. I found only two instances of using the letter correctly," Cas explained. "And some of her E's came out as C's. See, right here?" He pointed to the word 'home', which, when Dean looked closer, appeared to actually be 'homc'.
"But why would she write the suicide note if she couldn't spell properly? Kind of a big give-away, isn't it? We'd know it's a fake," Dean said.
Castiel answered, shaking his head, "She seems to have a lighter condition. She might not even know she's dyslexic. You don't have to be born with dyslexia in order to have it. Sometimes, it's a result from a head injury or a stroke."
"Babe, you're a freakin' genius." Dean caught the back of Cas' head and pressed a firm kiss to his temple. "I gotta go, I have to get Benny," he said, standing up and heading for the coat hanger.
"Do you have motive, though?" Castiel asked.
"Pretty sure there was somethin' in the will about her inheriting everything, and the doorman told me she might be having an affair." Dean said as he shrugged on his jacket. "It's not much, but it'll be enough to convince Henricksen." He jogged back to the couch, leaned over to kiss Cas again through his grin. "I'll be back later tonight, okay? Feel free to order in or make something out of the shit in my fridge." Dean left to find his boots, but not before calling over his shoulder, "And give Jeremy an A+!"