Warnings: Some violence and non-consensual cuddling.
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Castiel decides to take a shower in the morning, before realizing he can't get his pants off. So the set of neatly folded pajamas left just outside the door are pretty useless.
He gets his first good look at himself when he realizes there's a small mirror. There's one big line of a bruise along his neck where Dean had choked him to unconsciousness. His throat doesn't hurt much otherwise, which means Dean had attempted to do a fairly safe chokehold, and the bruises are mostly because Castiel resisted. He skims the bruises with his fingertips, but they aren't that sensitive. His wrists are a little raw from being bound and stung when he washed his hands and face, but since he had socks on his ankles are fine. He does a quick washcloth cleaning of chest and armpits.
The mirror is, unfortunately, rather securely attached to the wall. Castiel could shatter it with a blanket-covered fist, but if Dean is telling the truth, killing his captor is a bad idea. If no one knows to check this building, he could starve to death before being found. He supposes he could try to torture Dean into cooperation, but frankly he doesn't think he has the stomach for that, or even that it would be at all effective once Dean was out of his control. Or he could cut off his foot. Which. No. Even if a mirror shard would do the job, which it probably wouldn't.
So he returns to the bed and waits with a copy of Moby Dick in hand. Still no clock.
He looks up at a knock to the door frame. Dean is there, a wall clock in hand. "Good morning. 9:00am, you slept a while." He places it in the doorway. "I'll go make breakfast. Do you need anything?"
Suddenly, Castiel feels horribly uncomfortable. He tells Dean anyway. "I need a way to change clothes."
But Dean just nods like he was expecting this question. "I know. I didn't want to undress you while you were asleep, but I've got some pants for you that button up the sides." He points at the set of pajamas Castiel hadn't looked closely enough at. "Um, you'll have to rip the ones you have. Sorry. I'm not sure I trust you with a pair of scissors."
Did Dean really miss the fact the bathroom has a mirror? Also, asleep? "All right."
Dean leaves. Then returns. "Breakfast preferences?"
"I don't have any," Castiel replies honestly. "I usually just eat whatever's at work."
Dean nods and takes off for good this time. Castiel grabs the pajamas – dark blue, no pattern, and just like Dean said each leg has buttons up the side. He guesses they're intended for the disabled or anyone who find it difficult to stand up and put on pants normally. Ripping the seams on his slacks is a lot harder than he expected, but he does manage it. The shower is amazing, with hot pressure that lets Castiel actually relax. He dresses in the pajamas, and then peeks out of the bathroom.
Eggs, bacon and a piece of toast wait on a paper plate, with a plastic fork. Dean isn't in sight. He waits for two minutes until Dean – slowly – walks up in the hallway and then stands at the doorway, his own plate in hand.
Before Dean can speak, Castiel asks, "Bon appétit?"
Dean grins, realizing Castiel waited for him, and sits cross-legged on the floor. "Yep."
It's just as good as dinner the night before. At least his kidnapper is a good cook. Castiel waits until they're both done eating, then readies himself, because this is going to sound awkward but he doesn't have a better way of saying it. "Dean, we're soulmates, right?"
The look on Dean's face suggests he knows Castiel is humoring him on that point, but Dean nods anyway.
"Can you tell me, then, what happened to you? That you live the life you do?" Castiel asks.
A pained smile crosses Dean's face before he hangs his head. "Yeah, I guess that's fair. But y'know, I'm not good at talking about it. So bear with me, okay?"
"I'm listening," Castiel says.
"You know about the fire?" Dean asks.
Castiel nods. "And that your father took you and Sam across the nation hunting for your mother's killer." While doing his own killings. No one even connected them until Victor Henrickson got creative and started matching their childhood homes with local murders, but he found the same bizarre deaths in places John Winchester had been that he found with Dean and Sam Winchester.
"He was hunting monsters. Wendigos, rugarus, simple salt and burns – ghosts, I mean – black dogs. Witches. Demons. You name it. He raised us as hunters, taught us to do the same thing he did." Dean pauses, spinning his fork on his paper plate. "The supernatural has been following my family for generations." Dean waves his fork at the ceiling. "Including this place."
"Sounds difficult," Castiel says softly. And he's not lying for sympathy; living with a delusional killer as a child must have been incredibly traumatizing.
"I love hunting," Dean says with a small smile. "Always did. Sam got out for a while, but he got pulled back in when Jess died. I'm sure you know about that."
Castiel nods. "Is Sam …?" he asks, hoping for a confirmation.
Dean just nods tightly. "He died for a spell, one that closed the gates of hell."
"I'm sorry."
"Oh, come on, you think I'm a total lunatic," Dean replies, rising to his feet, antsy and agitated energy vibrating off of him.
"My older brother died in Afghanistan," Castiel tells him on impulse. "I do understand, on some level, what it is to lose someone like that."
Dean's bitter strength fades into something softer. He nods without saying anything, shifting from foot to foot in the doorway. Finally, "Can I come in? Just inside the doorway? Easier to talk. I won't go near you, just sit on the floor."
"Okay," Castiel agrees warily.
Dean settles just inside the room, sitting with his back to the wall. And then, quietly and with halting words, he tells Castiel the story of his life. Taking his brother's life in hands at four, and never letting go – through all the parent meetings he attended and John missed, through the first sex talk, through Sam leaving for college. His life revolved around Sam's. He doesn't say that directly, of course, but in this case Castiel trusts the unsaid more. It echoes in 'He was my responsibility' and 'It was my job to take care of him.' There's a deep grief behind those words; Dean hasn't recovered from Sam's death. It probably triggered Castiel's kidnapping more than anything else.
Slowly, in between hunts – Dean seems determined to explain exactly what he was doing in the cases the FBI is aware of, and quite a few they're not (Castiel is taking mental notes about dates and locations) – he explains how a demon killed his mother, Mary, and his father's quest for revenge. Sam's, too. The story gets grander as it goes, from a demon harassing them to the fallen angel Lucifer needing Sam as a vessel. But to Castiel's surprise, it never falters. There's no missing pieces. Any question Castiel asks, Dean is able to answer without altering earlier facts. It's not like the delusional meanderings of a schizophrenic at all, and for psychosis it's extremely organized and internally consistent.
Even during the pain that flickers in Dean's eyes when he tells Castiel of hell. Of breaking in hell. Dean could have easily skipped that portion, and him telling Castiel feels like a confession, one that Castiel isn't honestly sure what to do with.
He does know he's going to leave this conversation with a lot more sympathy and empathy for Dean than he started with, even if he thinks Dean is probably crazier than expected.
"Well, fuck man, I think I need a beer after all that," Dean says, rubbing his face tiredly.
Castiel looks at his wall clock, sitting flat on the floor for a lack of nails. "It's only noon."
"It's not morning, that's all that counts," Dean says, rising to his feet and stretching. "You want one?"
"No, thank you," Castiel says. He needs his wits.
Dean pauses at the doorway. "Water? Juice? Milk? The milk in your fridge was going bad, I couldn't tell if you don't actually like it or it was just all the traveling you did."
Does Dean even know he's doing that, mixing in little details that say he knows Castiel better than he should? "Juice, please."
Dean ends up nursing the beer for more than an hour. When Castiel shows no sign of initiating conversation, Dean takes over with good cheer.
Castiel listens. He analyzes. He does what he does best, intellectualizing it.
There's what Dean tells him, and there's what Castiel understands. Dean, in an effort to win Castiel over, tells Castiel funny stories from his past, his most interesting hunts, things about Sam. While they are mostly factual ("Yeah, man, fairies exist and they're mostly the reason for all those UFO weirdos."), Castiel sees Dean's emotional state in them, too ("Sam had a great time when he ran off, found that out one time when we died, but oh man when Dad – anyway, those sad puppy eyes Sam could throw, let me tell you!").
Dean is lonely. Dean has been alone for much of his life, even when surrounded by his family. Only in the last six or seven years before his death was Sam truly a partner to him, sharing in both his crimes and his daily life. And now that Sam is gone, Dean is floundering.
Castiel is not a replacement, precisely. Dean didn't have a sexual relationship with Sam. Dean wants to fall in love, and 'Anna', whoever she is, has convinced Dean that he can only truly do that with Castiel. Whether Dean wants Castiel to join in his criminal activities is debatable, but in theory Castiel would make an excellent killing partner because of his time in the FBI.
Some gut instinct, though, tells Castiel that Dean choosing him has nothing to do with that.
When Dean leaves to make dinner, Castiel weighs the pros and cons of opening up to Dean in turn. Pros: makes him a human in Dean's eyes, makes Dean more sympathetic and empathetic to Castiel's perspective and needs, likely would engender more trust on Dean's part. Cons: attaches Dean even more firmly to Castiel, encourages Dean to think Castiel is falling in love, possibly gives Dean information that can be used against Castiel and his family. Though the pros might make the last irrelevant. And Dean likely knows quite a bit about Castiel, including family details. It's not like it's hidden.
After dinner, which Castiel deliberately shares with Dean – Dean taking his spot near the doorway, but inside the room, without asking permission – Castiel begs off any more conversation, saying he's tired.
"Of course, yeah. Good night, Cas. I'll just switch the light off out here, okay?"
"Good night, Dean."
Castiel's sleep is troubled.
Castiel wakes to the odd sensation of absolutely knowing that someone is watching him. He bolts upright, eyes taking in the whole room, unfamiliar walls staring back at him, and then he searches both doorways and there's Dean, and then he remembers.
"Fuck," he mutters, covering his face.
"Sorry, I'm sorry, I was just looking in, I swear, I wasn't being a total creep," Dean says, looking desperate to be believed. He's only wearing a pair of boxes and another worn t-shirt, muscular legs and slightly hairy feet bare. "In fact, I'll just go and get the day started," he says and then he's jogging out of sight and hearing before Castiel can react.
Castiel waits for his heart to slow before he lets himself think. Pros. Cons.
A couple of hours later, Dean returns with breakfast and an apology. "Sorry, had to take care of something before I could make waffles." He's got a sturdier paper plate this time, and a real fork to go with the waffles, which are dripping with syrup.
"Dean, do you ever intend on letting me go?"
Dean freezes in the middle of placing it on the floor. Then he looks Castiel in the eye and answers quietly, "I don't know."
And Castiel takes the leap. "Dean, please. They surely know I'm gone by now. My brother Balthazar is probably worried out of his mind."
Dean's face goes blank. Then he sets down the waffles and walks away.
"Shit shit shit," Castiel whispers. He screwed that up. Too soon, too little emotional connection to Castiel's plight.
Pacing doesn't have the same satisfaction when there's a chain dragging along the floor, so Castiel does situps instead. When his empty stomach roils in protest, he does pushups. Then squats. He can't practice a lot of the martial arts he knows because of his leg being restrained, but he does some. When his muscles ache, he finally gives up and grabs another book from the pile Dean left. This one purports to be a thorough scientific and historic examination of mermaids.
"Cas?" Dean's voice is gentle.
Castiel looks up to see Dean leaning against the door frame. "Yes?" he says, voice steady.
"Can I come in?"
Hesitating a second, but deciding he needs to give Dean something, he nods.
But rather than stop just inside, Dean walks all the way over to Castiel and very gingerly sits on the edge of the bed. Castiel puts the mermaid book aside and watches. Dean silently holds out his hand, an emotional but otherwise unreadable expression on his face.
"You want to … hold my hand."
Dean lifts his chin with a rather 'fuck you' expression on his face. "Yeah."
"I'm not gay," Castiel blurts.
Dean blinks, dropping his hand. Then says, "What about the guy in college?"
How does Dean even know about that? Did he hire a private investigator, or did he do it himself? "I wanted to piss someone off, so I made out with him," Castiel replies. "It worked."
"Oh, you're going to have tell me what prompted that," Dean says with a saucy grin, like an ember coming to life. When Castiel doesn't react, that grin fades. He holds out his hand again, palm up. "Please, Cas."
With a deep breath, a thousand doubts flashing through his mind, Castiel lays his hand in Dean's, palm down, almost like they're about to shake hands.
Dean's smile is heartbreakingly happy. He doesn't say anything, doesn't do anything except take a gentle grip on Castiel. It would be easy for Castiel to pull away, but he lets the touch linger. Dean's hand is warm and his skin very calloused, not just from holding and using knives, swords and guns, but also from simple manual labor. But physically, he looks well-cared for. Strong, healthy.
Castiel realizes he's afraid. Not just afraid – terrified. In a way he hadn't let himself acknowledge until right now. Dean has absolute power over him. All Castiel can do is say no, and Dean doesn't have to listen to that. And if he says yes, does that give more or less control?
Worry fills Dean's face. "What's wrong?"
Castiel looks away.
"You look scared. I won't hurt you, Cas."
"My brother always calls me Cassie. I hate it."
"I can call you Castiel, if you want," Dean says hesitantly.
Castiel looks into Dean's green eyes. "Cas is fine. I'm just – I'm just –" He trails off. He tries to take his hand away, but Dean tightens his grip and Castiel gives in, worried what Dean will do if he pushes it.
Gaze never faltering, Dean brings Castiel's hand up and kisses it, then lets Castiel go. He stands up and leaves Castiel's bed, backing up until he's in the hall. "I'm sorry, Cas, that I can't let you go. Not yet." Then he leaves, Castiel listening closely until he hears the soft padding stop.
Touching Castiel, then letting him go. Castiel both hopes and fears that's a metaphor for what will happen – because it means he'll get out of here. But after what?
Dean mostly leaves Castiel alone for the next several days. He comes by to give Castiel meals, and to add a mini-fridge to Castiel's room, filled with yogurts (Castiel's favorites) and juice and a carton of milk. There's one of each kind of fresh fruit in season, clearly an attempt to please on Dean's part. He doesn't linger during meals like before. Castiel in turn paces every corner of his room, examines the lights for weaknesses (none; he's pretty sure he'd shock himself trying to do anything with it, because it's ancient), attacks the lock in the bolt with fork spines (uselessly) and ponders what he could make out of a mini-fridge. Dean replaces any books he puts in the hall with even more random texts, mixed with some actual fiction.
Castiel also ponders violence. He somehow doubts Dean would let him, say, starve, even if Castiel physically assaulted Dean any time he got close. It's his last refuge of resistance against Dean's power over him.
And deep within, he panics.
His team at the BAU knows by now that he's missing. If Dean cleaned up, they may not know he was taken from his apartment, but he somehow thinks that Dean didn't really care about that. If they found the broken needle, it'll be obvious he was kidnapped and not simply killed. There's a thousand ways that they could discover it was Dean Winchester – a security camera, a noisy neighbor, any number of other mistakes Dean could have made.
If Hotchner and the rest know, then Balthazar has been informed. He's Castiel's next of kin. And for all his brother's bluster and sparkle, this was also the man who called Castiel every single week to tell him to be safe.
Dean is an organized, visionary serial killer, no matter how normal and kind he may seem (kidnapping itself aside). He may seem stable and he hasn't exhibited psychosis in Castiel's presence save for his explanations of past behavior, but he could become unhinged at any point. Castiel can't forget that.
One morning, Dean comes in and says, not looking at Castiel, "I'm going to leave you with a few weeks' worth of food. I have a hunt I can't get out of."
Castiel is at a loss for words, then he asks, "What if you're killed? What happens to me?"
"I won't be," Dean says, and now he sounds entirely confident. "Don't worry."
Logically, Castiel knows the following: he needs human contact, and if Dean is the only human contact he can get, he will take it; he will crave it. Lack of human contact is a form of torture. He knows this, but he still counts the days, waiting for Dean to return.
In order to stay sane, Castiel imposes a strict schedule, enforced by his wall clock that still sits on the floor. He exercises four times a day. The first few days he almost took it down to three, but came to the conclusion he'd need it near the end of his confinement. He's not rationing food. He's chosen to believe that Dean is correct and will come back – and not leave Castiel here to starve to death, or in a situation where he has to try to chop off his own foot. It's an odd sort of faith to have, one that exists more out of a need for it to exist than any actual trust.
Dean gave him an absolute mountain of books to read. Castiel is limiting himself to one a day and makes up quizzes in his head that he has to answer the next morning. There's basically fiction and more creative fiction, but like Dean's own explanations of the supernatural, it's surprisingly internally consistent. He starts cross referencing.
On day fifteen, he's meditating on the floor when he hears Dean come down the hall.
"Cas? You okay?"
Cas opens his eyes and lets the words stewing in his gut for the past two weeks come out. "What do you think? I haven't heard another human voice in two weeks. I'm forced to live in the same ninety square feet. I can't walk without being reminded of how trapped I am. I don't even have sunlight. I'm absolutely fucking peachy."
Dean pales. "I didn't think – I didn't –"
"But you did."
"I was alone for longer than that," Dean says, reflexively explaining. "In purgatory. Almost a year. I didn't even think about it. I'm sorry. Before you I would go a month or longer between seeing someone else, but I wasn't in one room and I had a TV – shit, Cas, I'm sorry."
"Fuck you," Castiel snarls. "Some soulmate." And that jab was intended only to hurt.
It succeeds. Dean flinches.
Castiel feels guilty, then feels angry he feels guilty. But it does stop any desire to continue ranting, and Castiel focuses on breathing evenly. He feels a sharp pang of loss when Dean leaves, which just pisses him of further. Dean didn't know? Is he even telling the truth when he says he's been alone longer? Purgatory? It didn't escape Castiel's notice that most of Dean's stories stopped four years ago. Can Castiel trust him that he didn't do this to torture Castiel? Fuck.
Castiel's childhood was one clean of curses, and now he wants to spill every single one he's learned in every dirty backroom.
Then Dean returns, book in hand. Castiel stares at him dumbly, but Dean just walks in without asking and sits in his usual spot, book in hand.
Dean clears his throat, still not making eye contact. "I figure you're not too likely to want to chat with me right now, 'cause you're pissed and I get that. I understand. So, I'm going to read this. 'Mr. and Mrs. Dursley, of number four, Privet Drive, were proud to say they were perfectly normal, thank you very much. They were the last people you'd expect to be involved in anything strange of mysterious, because they just didn't hold with such nonsense. Mr. Dursley was …'"
The words sate some need in Castiel for another person's voice. Chapter three passes before Castiel feels like interrupting. "Where were you?"
Dean looks up, startled. "Anna needed help with something."
"Anna, the one who told you we were soulmates?"
Dean puts the book down. "Yeah. She's an angel. The one who pulled me out of hell, actually."
Castiel stares at him. Why is he even surprised? Dean had told him that him and Sam were meant to be angelic vessels, but he didn't think Dean would still be in contact with an 'angel' after those particular murders occurred. But now Dean talking about cupids makes more sense.
When Castiel continues to say nothing, Dean asks, "What do you need, Cas?"
"Keep reading."
Dean reads.
Dean does everything he can to apologize except let Castiel go. Now that Castiel has let Dean get enough close for an attack and not taken the opportunity, Dean provides Castiel with a side table, a chair, a flatscreen TV, a DVD player (plus DVDs) and a bookcase. A set of cards. An ipod. Nothing that Castiel can actually use to communicate with the outside world, but enough to keep him entertained well enough as a prisoner.
He even, somewhat hilariously to Castiel, gives Castiel a bell to ring when he wants something.
It strikes Castiel as somewhat counter-intuitive to Dean's goal. He wants Castiel to fall in love with him, to be emotionally dependent on him, and isolating him serves that far better than giving Castiel whatever he wants, excepting his freedom. Because of course Castiel did want Dean to come back during those two weeks. Hearing Dean read Harry Potter to him was comforting. He felt warm emotions in response to that care, despite knowing the psychological reasons for it.
Dean serves Castiel three delicious meals a day and spends each with Castiel, sitting just inside the doorway against the wall.
"So your brother calls you Cassie?" Dean asks, eating pasta.
Castiel shrugs, twirling his fork. "To annoy me."
"You don't talk to your sister?"
Castiel pauses, glances up at Dean. "Just Balthazar."
"What are they like?"
Should he tell Dean about his family? It would help Dean empathize with him more, but Castiel also fears it will make them targets if Castiel fails to cooperate.
"I won't hurt them," Dean adds. "I know that's what you're thinking, that if you talk them I'll notice them more or something. And I know I can tell you I'm not that kind of person until my face is blue, but seriously – this is kind of pointless, Cas, if you hate me."
Castiel blinks, puts his plate down.
"I just want to know you better. Fill in the blanks. You already know so much about me." Dean pauses. "Please?"
What Castiel knows of Dean's psychology actually supports that; his current behavior through this kidnapping, at least. Though probably the entire BAU could write a book on Dean Winchester and not untangle everything. "We were very tight-knit when I was young. Our parents and the four of us kids. It wasn't like my parents purposefully kept us separate from others, from our peers, just that everything was wrapped up so tightly in being a son, or brother."
Dean is listening raptly.
"My dad worked in carpentry. When I was about six he started teaching me, along with Michael and Balthazar. Hael was too young back then. But I remember spending hours in his workshop, sanding wood, helping Michael stain completed projects. We didn't talk, we just built. Creating piece after piece of art, for hours every day after school. It was like we had our own language, which no one else spoke. Even though we were all years apart, there we were the same. And I loved that, back then. All I wanted or needed was my family." Castiel looks up to see Dean, eyes soft and mouth firm. "When I was fifteen, Michael joined the military. And all of the sudden there was a missing piece. A missing happiness. I didn't see him again until years later, only four years before he died."
"I'm sorry," Dean says quietly. He looks down at his hands. "And I understand that. A lot. Like family is your whole world."
"Going to college was really hard for me, to associate with other people in the way … in the way normal people do." Castiel shrugs. "But it was also a new, open world, that I eventually grew to love living. Hael still lives at home, and she's happy there. I get letters from my parents, but I know they don't open mine, because I left like Michael did. I think because they don't want to feel pain if I … well, if I die."
"But not Balthazar?"
Castiel smiles. "Balthazar blossomed a lot more than I did. He embraced living out in the world like an addict. He doesn't like that my job is so dangerous, but he does understand, so he supports me." His smile fades. "I know he's worried." Castiel decides to let it go at that.
"Thank you, Cas." Sincere, heart-felt.
Castiel stares nothing, remembering that familiar ache of wanting something that doesn't really exist the way you thought it did. Maybe Dean does understand that. Then he tries to jerk himself out of it, focus on something else. "I don't suppose you made dessert?"
"I've got some pie," Dean says. "Cherry and apple." At Castiel's look, he adds, "Hey, I love me some pie. Better than cake."
"Cherry, please."
"Cherry it is!"
Castiel is just beginning to get used to his new normal (thirty-eight days) when Dean upsets it. Just after lunch, Dean disappears for several hours in the bunker. Castiel is starting to get an idea of how big the place is based on little things Dean has said about having a commercial size kitchen, barracks, and 'the dungeon.' Plus the comment about how 'even this place' has been followed by the supernatural. Castiel still can't decide if he was referencing his own family in regards to this place. If so, that would be a good way for the FBI to track him down, even if the connection is a few generations past.
Dean knocks on the door frame and Castiel looks up from his ipod. He doesn't have any kind of internet connection, of course, but Dean lets him write songs he wants on a piece of paper. It'd come with a selection of eighties rock.
In his hand Dean holds a cuff, more silver than steel. It looks too big for a wrist. "Hey, Cas. This is for you."
Very carefully, Castiel puts the ipod down. "What do you mean?" he asks warily.
Dean enters without permission and holds it out. "If you put this on, I'll take the other one off."
"Why would you do that?" It has no chain, no link for a chain. Instead scrolling text circles it. The closure doesn't have a lock either.
"It has a spell on it," Dean says, green eyes flicking up. "You won't be able to leave the bunker, or go in any area I made off-limits. But you could get around a lot easier, and it's a lot lighter, and you wouldn't have to wear those pants."
Castiel has to shut down the urge to immediately say yes. If Dean believes this little thing will keep Castiel locked in here, he can use that. As soon as this other one is released, he can attack Dean and get out of here. He won't have to kill Dean, just disable him for a few hours, steal Dean's car. Hope surges, wild. Should he wait? No. He has to take this opportunity. "Okay." And holds out his hand.
Dean grins at him, like he's won something.
The cuff opens easily and he places it on his left ankle, closing it with a quiet snip. The edges of the closure seem to disappear as he does it, but he doesn't let that worry him. They can use the jaws of life or something to get it off if need be.
"I'll be back with the key for that one," Dean says, pointing at the chain, and then he sweeps out of the room. He's back in less than five minutes, oddly shaped key in hand and kneels at Castiel's feet.
As soon as the old manacle falls away, Castiel kicks Dean in the face hard enough it'd knock out most people. Dean lands with a grunt, blood flowing from his nose, but he's already twisting, legs moving to sweep Castiel's out from under him. Castiel just steps back out of reach, and then when Dean gets to his knees he uses his height advantage again, going in for several quick, downward jabs. He wants to knock Dean out.
Then Dean jolts forwards, hitting Castiel's midsection. Castiel ducks to the side before Dean can bring him to the wall, and after that it becomes an equal fight.
Castiel started mixed martial arts training in college, but the NY police force and the FBI polished it to a fine sheen. Castiel's technique is beautiful and he spars regularly. Dean has the experience of countless dirty fights, and he's good. Ruthless. Their battle is over the whole room, using the TV and chair, even the table. In another fight, Dean would win on the basis of knowing not only how to give a hit but how to take it, how to turn any situation against his attacker. But his head has been knocked around and it slows his reflexes enough that Castiel is able to use his better training and get a perfect hit in.
Dean goes down, out cold.
Castiel stares down at his unconscious body for several precious seconds. Adrenaline and a strange sort of terror mix. Then he grabs his old manacle and puts it around Dean's ankle, but the damn thing won't close. The weirdly shaped key is no help. Deciding he doesn't have the time to find a way to restrain Dean, he takes off.
Being in the hall feels weird. Scary. Has he really gotten so used to being kept in a single room?
He bolts. Doors blur as he runs down hallways, searching for stairs. He goes past a huge locker room, past a gigantic library that looks like something out of a movie set, and then finds the stairs to the upper part of the bunker. He runs up and sees the kitchen. Knives. A set of car keys on the counter.
Oh God, yes.
Then something jerks on his left ankle and he falls flat on his face.
He looks behind him, at his ankle, but there's nothing in the wide doorway for Castiel to trip on. He pulls backwards, but his left foot won't move. Mind whirling with confusion, he goes the other direction, back to the hallway. Nothing impedes him. Then he steps forward, and his left ankle catches again.
The cuff won't pass the doorway.
What the fuck?
He lifts his left leg like he's stepping over something and tries again, but the ankle cuff freezes him in midair. He can rotate his ankle and the angle of the cuff relative to the floor, but it won't move forward no matter how hard he pulls, how hard he pushes with all his weight. The rest of his body will move over the invisible line, but not the cuff. What is this?
Dean said it was a spell. But Dean is insane. Magic isn't real.
The cuff won't let him move. Castiel doesn't – he doesn't – what is happening?
"Told you," comes Dean's voice.
Rather than press up against the invisible barrier, Castiel steps forward so he has room to react.
Dean comes up the stairs, wiping his bloody mouth. His noise is still bleeding freely, and he's a cut on his forehead from the TV Castiel had shoved at him. He doesn't look upset so much as he looks pissed.
Terror thrums. "What did you do to me?" Castiel demands. "What did you do?"
Dean smiles with bloody teeth. "Magic." He spits out blood. "Also, I've been knocked out a lot over the years. It doesn't take quite as well as it used to."
Castiel swallows dryly. "Dean –"
"Save it," Dean says. "I thought we were past this. At least past you wanting to kick the crap out of me."
"You thought we were past this?" Castiel shouts. "You're my kidnapper! You've held me against my will! My brother – my brother probably thinks I'm dead in some freak's basement!"
Dean flinches.
"You're a serial killer with delusions –"
"Am I?" Dean demands. "Magic isn't real? Why can't you get past that line, then?" He waves his hand at the kitchen. "My keys are right there. Go get them."
Castiel stares at him numbly. He needs to get control. Control of the situation and Dean, because if he can't escape then he needs Dean to care for him. "I didn't want to hurt you, Dean."
Dean's jaw clenches. "Having a hard time believing that right now, Cas."
Castiel laughs, because it's not even a lie. He does care about Dean. Dean is – Dean is funny, and kind in his own way. He's crazy, but he loved his brother. He's capable of love, and selfless sacrifice, and all of that was unspoken, nothing Dean laid claim to. Castiel only wishes Dean could see his way of the delusions he has so tightly wound around himself.
When there's no more words, Dean gets a set of handcuffs from his pocket and dangles them on one finger. "You going to cooperate?"
Castiel glares at him. And attacks.
This time Dean doesn't hold back. And Castiel realizes he was holding back before – not a lot, but some. He's able to hold Dean off for several minutes, but he takes blow after blow. Castiel ends up on the floor once Dean uses the bizarre barrier to trip Castiel up. He's lost the fight, he knows that on the intellectual level, but he doesn't give up struggling until Dean grabs his hair and slams his head into the concrete floor hard enough to daze him. Dean rolls him onto his stomach before grabbing his wrists and cuffing him. At that point, feeling sick, Castiel goes limp.
He wants to cry, realizes he is when it drips off his nose. It's pink from blood. Dean raises him up by the arm just like a police officer would to avoid injury and drags him back to his cell. Castiel has to stumble along on only one good foot, body aching. Dean dumps Castiel on the bed face first.
When Castiel rolls to the side, his weight uncomfortably on one arm, he sees several smears of blood on the sheets.
Dean gets close, eyes dark with anger. "You done?"
Swallowing bitter blood, Castiel says, "Yes."
Dean uncuffs his wrists, and then pulls Castiel's left up and cuffs him to the headboard, which Castiel knows from previous experience is bolted to the wall. Castiel shifts with his right hand so he's on his back and the cuff isn't pulling so hard at his wrist. Dean watches him do it, silent, and then turns on his heel and leaves the room. Cell.
Castiel breathes through a tight throat, waiting for him to return. He has no idea how Dean is going to punish him for this, but he's not looking forward to it. He's never tested Dean like this before. Hell, he's never beaten the crap out of Dean before. The fact that Dean returned the favor may not be enough. His body is sore, and he's got cuts on his face and hands, both offensive and defensive injuries. Turning his head still makes his vision blur. Defeated, anxious and afraid, he closes his eyes.
"Cas."
Castiel tries to get a word past his dry throat, fails.
"Cas, open your eyes. I need to check your head."
Dean blurs into existence. He's holding a first aid kit, which he settles on the bed. He leans in with a small flashlight, which he flashes in Castiel's eyes. "Pupils equal and reactive. No concussion," he says. Leaving the kit at Castiel's feet, he moves forward until he can flip up Castiel's shirt, and then he carefully presses down on Castiel's ribcage, checking each rib. "Anything else hurt? Wrists, ankles?"
"My left wrist. I think I sprained it," Castiel finally replies. It's the cuffed one.
Dean silently gets up and gets the key. "You going to fight me?" he asks, poised to uncuff him. "I'm going to switch it to your left."
"I won't fight you."
Dean switches the cuff to the other wrist, then carefully examines Castiel's right. Castiel has had to get checked out for a broken wrist before, and he recognizes the doctor's method in Dean's. It makes him wonder, for a second, how many injuries Dean and Sam got and patched for each other. "Not broken," Dean decides. "Feet?"
"My left. Only sprained, I think."
Dean nods. "That it besides the cuts and bruises?"
"Yes."
Dean stares into Castiel's eyes. "I could have really hurt you, you know that, right?"
"Am I still allowed to be honest?"
Dean purses his lips and doesn't reply, eyes going flat. He gets a disinfectant and cleans Castiel's cuts, but doesn't cover most of them except with a few butterfly bandages. He checks the bruises he can easily see but doesn't comment. Then he goes to the bathroom with the kit to treat his own injuries – Castiel can see him from the bed, going through the same checks and medical care he gave Castiel.
The adrenaline and anger has drained out of Castiel, leaving a deep pit of worry and fear. He watches as Dean climbs back onto the bed, taking up the large empty space on his right, and his breath hitches. Dean lays down close enough that Castiel feel him breathing against Castiel's side. Dean shifts around, clearly getting comfortable, then settles a hand on Castiel's stomach. He glances up at Castiel, green eyes even darker against the dark bruise on his cheekbone that Castiel gave him. He doesn't look angry.
The pose is like a parody of lovers, Castiel's arm above his head not to let Dean in, but because he's cuffed. And Dean, curled up to him and only able to find one safe space to put his arm, because the rest of Castiel is too bruised.
That hand is like a burn, a mark. Dean has never touched him without asking Castiel's permission since choking him to unconsciousness in his apartment. Perhaps the fact that Castiel has to frame it that way means he shouldn't have expected anything less.
Dean inches closer until they're pressed together from shoulder to knee. He's warm, his body running hot compared to the people Castiel has let into his bed over the years. Something in Castiel wants to relax into it, to give in and give up. Tears prick his eyes, but he forces them back and breathes deeply. This is a touch. That's all it is. Nothing harmful here.
Dean is crazy, but he does care about Castiel.
Then he murmurs into Castiel's shirt, "It'll be okay, Cas. Just rest, okay?"
Despite himself, after about forty-five minutes of Dean's absolute stillness Castiel does fall asleep. He only realizes it when he wakes up with the vague notion that it's been several hours. For a few seconds he thinks he's home, in his apartment, and then for the next ten to twenty seconds he thinks he's just in his room in Dean's bunker. Then he feels the warm fingers gently stroking his hipbone, just under the waistband of his pants. A rough thumb makes circles, then the tips of Dean's fingers caresses his skin, before doing it all over again. The touch is incredibly intimate. He stops breathing, looking down at Dean, who looks up sleepily.
He places his left hand on Dean's. "Please don't," he whispers.
Dean withdraws, disappointment clear on his face – as well as a lack of surprise. "I'm sorry I hurt you. I swear I tried to do as little damage as possible."
It's certainly true Dean could have broken bones, but Castiel isn't sure he can attribute that to an unwillingness to hurt Castiel. Permanently, anyway. "What are you going to do?"
"Do?" Dean asks, looking puzzled.
"To me."
Dean sits up, eyeing Castiel closely. "I'll make you a deal."
Heart dropping to his stomach, Castiel asks, "What kind of deal?"
"First, I want to be sure this –" he waves at Castiel and himself – "doesn't happen again. Your parole. No attacking me. You keep the ankle cuff you have now." He does an odd half shrug. "I won't insist on no escape attempts, just no violence. Second … second, we share a bed. To sleep," he adds hastily. "Only to sleep. And in return, I'll let you write your brother a letter, letting him know you're okay."
Castiel blinks several times.
Dean licks his lips nervously, wincing his lip starts bleeding again. "What do you say?"
"I … can I think about it?"
"Sure," Dean immediately agrees. He gets off the bed and then pauses mid step. "Do you need to piss yet?"
"No."
"Okay, good. I'll be back," he says and pads silently out of Castiel's room.
Castiel thinks about Michael. He knows the military's SERE code of conduct demands that a prisoner of war not give parole, and to resist whenever possible. The FBI's stance is slightly different due to the nature of their work and those agents are most likely to come in contact with, counter-terrorism excepting. The BAU in particular is focused on the subject's psychology. A visionary killer like Dean is less likely to be persuaded by threats, because he believes he's doing the work of God (or someone equally as important) and is willing to die for the cause. Hedonistic killers are more likely to be persuaded by appealing to their instinct to survive. The key is always to find the weak point and exploit it in order to force surrender or capture.
What is Castiel's duty here? Hotchner's voice in the back of his mind says it's to survive long enough to be rescued.
If he writes that letter and Dean actually sends it, he can communicate something to the FBI. Dean's name, their probable location (somewhere in the Midwest, at least two days of travel), his own true status. He has only Dean's word that Dean will follow through, but it's more than Castiel has now.
Dean walks in with a sealed water bottle, which he opens and then hands to Castiel. The cool water is soothing on Castiel's throat, and for some reason it gives Castiel the courage to speak. "Dean."
Dean raises his eyebrows in question.
"Yes. I agree."
A slow, almost bashful smile fills Dean's face. "Do FBI agents swear on their honor?"
Castiel tilts his head. "I can, if you insist."
Dean just smiles again, a sad tinge to it this time. "No, that's not necessary. You'll either keep to it or you won't."
True enough. "Will you release me?" Castiel asks, jangling the cuff.
Dean stares at him for a long moment. Castiel can't help wondering what's going on his head, if he's doubting Castiel's parole, what he plans on doing tonight, if Castiel is going to get fucked by this in more ways than one. But maybe that's just Castiel's fear. There's really no doubts on Dean's face as much as an analyzing curiosity. Dean digs into his pocket and gets the key, walks to Castiel's side and releases the cuff.
Rubbing his wrist gives Castiel something to do. Then a thought occurs to him. "Magnets?"
Dean blinks. "Huh?"
"The ankle cuff," Castiel says. "Is that how you did it? Magnets?"
Dean laughs. Full, hearty, sincere. "Dude, I told you. It's magic. I did a spell. I didn't install industrial magnets in the doorways." He rubs his head. "Besides, wouldn't you notice the attraction a lot sooner in that case and be slammed into one of the walls? Instead of just having the barrier there?"
Castiel opens his mouth, then closes it. "True," he mutters.
"You feel well enough to walk? I'll show you where you can go."
And Castiel can test this magical barrier. "All right." He gets up, limps over to Dean.
Dean's expression changes from being amused to concerned in a second. "I forgot about your ankle. Here, hold onto me."
Castiel hesitates, looking at Dean, and then hesitates again when Dean silently comes to his side. Then he holds out a hand which Dean brings over his shoulder, letting Castiel put his weight onto Dean. Dean doesn't smell like blood anymore, and his hair is still faintly wet. Under the scent of shampoo is Dean himself, a surprisingly pleasant musk.
This close he can even see the freckles on Dean's face. The way his eyes shift from hazel to green.
Dean keeps up a running commentary as they slowly make their way through the permitted parts of the bunker, talking about random hunts ("Then there was the time a chupacabra followed us home. Nice pet. Not.") and more personal details ("First home since Baby. I mean, my car, the Impala. You know what I mean."). Most of the bedrooms are empty; Castiel's was apparently the 'commander' of the 'Men of Letters' and that's why that room alone has its own bathroom. Dean uses the locker room, which Castiel also has access to for no discernible reason. Dean's room ends up being around the turn in the hallway, close to the stairs. When Castiel tries to enter, the ankle cuff stops him again.
Of course Dean smirks, but he doesn't say anything except, "I want to trust you, but I'm not stupid." The room itself is homey and full of odd knickknacks, as well as a few distinctly not ornamental weapons on the wall, including an axe. All are well out of Castiel's limited reach. Sam's bedroom is two doors down, marked only with Dean saying, "This is Sam's." He puts a palm on the door, but doesn't open it. Since Dean is supporting a portion of Castiel's weight, Castiel can feel Dean's small shiver.
"I see," Castiel says softly. He deliberately leans a little into Dean, trying to offer comfort, and Dean gives him a small smile.
The library is partially accessible. The spell won't let him get farther in than about ten feet, and unlike the other barriers, this one is in midair with no walls nearby.
Dean lets Castiel go, says, "Go ahead. Test it."
Castiel gives him a wary look, but does.
Since the cuff is on his sprained ankle, testing it is easy. Castiel hops around, pulling and testing. There's no hum, no visible or audible sign of why he can't move the cuff beyond that point. There's nothing on the ground either. However Dean marked the … the spell, it didn't leave a sign behind.
"Baffled?" Dean asks, raising an eyebrow.
Castiel sits in a chair next to a bookcase. "Tell me about the murders, then."
Dean blinks, but goes with it. He takes a seat out of Castiel's reach, legs spread and relaxed. "It was a wendigo, the case in Wyoming. Basically created when a human eats enough human flesh, then they turn into, you know, that. Only way to kill them is to burn them alive." Dean shrugs. "I wanted to get it asleep in its cave, but it woke up while I was hiking through the forest, so I had to improvise. I'm thinking it killed a few hunters before I got to it. I stayed behind a few days to make sure there wasn't a partner, because I saw some indications there might have been another one, but no dice."
"And you believe that?"
"I believe it like you believe the sky is blue."
"Except at dawn, dusk or night," Castiel can't help adding.
Dean laughs. "Exactly! Yeah, exactly. I'm the one who's stalking around the darkness and seeing what no one else thinks about, because everyone knows the sky is blue."
That … kind of makes sense.
"Is this your proof, then?" Castiel asks. "That everything you've told me is real?"
Dean shifts. "Well. I was thinking about calling Anna here, actually. The ankle cuff you're wearing, I only found a reference to it in the library about a week ago. Started setting it up then."
"Anna, the angel?"
Dean nods. "Call in a favor."
Castiel supposes he has two options: Dean is right, to some degree, or Castiel has also lost his mind. Madness can be contagious. But Castiel doesn't feel mad, or even the surety of the mad; he feels angry and confused, and hopelessly lost in a world he would have sworn yesterday didn't exist. Of course it's just a cuff that obeys mysterious barriers, not a ghost or an angel of God talking to him, but Castiel's not stupid. Where's there is one crack, there's more.
When he looks up, Dean looks – surprised. "You believe me."
"I believe something," Castiel says honestly. He also believes that regardless of magic being real, kidnapping an FBI agent because you think he's your soulmate isn't the sanest of actions. He clears his throat and holds out his hand. "Continue the tour?"
Dean gives him a look that is grateful and pleased. In a way, it's very easy to please Dean. "Sure."
Castiel can't access the kitchen, or the front of the bunker, or the garage, or the firing range, but Dean lets him take a peek at all of them.
"There's also a dungeon," Dean admits. "Not a sex-torture dungeon. Honestly. It's just really secure and can be used for a prison for various supernatural creatures, and it has an armory nearby."
"Well, I don't mind skipping that portion," Castiel says, though of course he wishes he could get a good look at the armory.
Dean grins, then says, "We should head back to your room. Your ankle won't last much longer, anyway. If you push it too far it'll take longer to heal."
Spoken like it's from personal experience. "All right."
Castiel's room is still a mess. Dean sets him on the bed which, aside from some blood smears, is the only thing in the room left intact. The TV is shattered. The DVD player survived by virtue of being smaller. The chair is missing a leg. The table is still there, having miraculously survived despite a body being thrown on it. The mini-fridge was knocked over and has a dent, but still works. Dean clears away all the debris without comment, taking several trips to do it.
He works despite being just as beaten as Castiel is. Castiel will and has pushed his body to the limit, but that was fairly uncommon and he always had the opportunity to take days off after. Dean doesn't get that. Of course he chose this, but. Feeling absurd even as he does it, Castiel says, "I'm sorry."
Dean's head whips around. "Do you actually mean that?"
Castiel shrugs, picking at his blanket. "I think so."
Dean looks down. "You can still be honest," he says, answering Castiel's question from hours before.
Castiel nods slightly.
After the last round, Dean returns with a piece of paper and a pen. "You write it once, no edits," he says. "Can't say anything about where you are or who took you."
That will make hiding a secret message considerably harder, especially since Castiel has next to no experience doing so. Reid always figured out puzzles like that. Castiel takes the paper and pen, staring at the blank page for almost a full minute before working out how he needs to get this message across, quickly and without being terribly obvious. If Dean takes the time to stare at it, he might figure it out – Castiel doesn't know how much Dean does or doesn't know about stenography – so Castiel can only hope this works.
Dear Balthazar,
Everything is all right. All that's happened is that I went somewhere for a while. Nothing bad has happened, and I haven't been hurt. While I know this seems to have come out of nowhere, I've been thinking about going away and taking a break for a long time. I'm doing well where I am – I'm well fed and I'm finally getting as much sleep as you always said I should. Now, I know this is a little late, but take care of my apartment, will you? Can't lose that good of a lease. Hael's letters must be piling up, please take care of them, too. Even after everything, I want to read them. Save anything our parents send. The FBI has probably fired me by now for taking off so suddenly, but don't worry about that – I'm okay. Really, I'm doing well.
Michael always said we should take the time in our lives to really live. I'm doing what he wanted, finally. Don't worry about me. While you're a bit of an asshole sometimes, I'll always love you. Even after you stole my first girlfriend. Stay in Texas, be happy. Til then,
Castiel.
"I don't think they're going to think this isn't coerced," Dean says.
"You said I couldn't say where I was or what happened, what else do you expect?" Castiel asks, trying not to sweat.
Dean shrugs. "All right."
The first letter of every sentence spells out Dean Winchester, and the second paragraph spells out all Castiel has been able to figure out about where he is - that he's in the Midwest somewhere. Dean has been absurdly careful about not letting slip what state they're in. Castiel isn't sure he knows the point except for this kind of communication, which he frankly didn't think Dean would ever allow. Just in case, Castiel also marks the same letters in random words by shaping the individual letter in a different way than the rest. But he thinks that if Dean actually sends this letter, the BAU won't have a problem figuring out what he's trying to say.
And not just the hidden message. But telling Balthazar to take care of his lease, to keep their family's letters.
Castiel hasn't given up on escaping. Not yet.
Dean actually brings back an envelope and a stamp (a vague 'forever' stamp, to Castiel's disappointment, not a state one) and seals the letter in front of Castiel. "Next time I'm in a major hub, I'll drop it off. I promise."
"Thank you, Dean."
After dinner, both of them bruised and finally really feeling it, Castiel asks for privacy to take a shower. Dean grants it, of course. He's never even seen Castiel unclothed. As Castiel stands in the hot shower, fully naked, he lets himself think about what's coming next. Sharing a bed with Dean. And not just tonight, but every night that Dean is here.
Dean doesn't strike Castiel as a rapist, no. But he also definitely lacks a clear sense of boundary. Castiel doesn't think it's about power so much as a desire to be loved in return. Dean probably made the deal in the first place because he wants intimacy that isn't necessarily sex, but that is still (in Dean's mind, at least) romantic.
Boxers. Pajama bottoms, a t-shirt. Socks. His armor.
When he opens the bathroom door, letting the steam out, he sees Dean lying on the bed, over the covers, wearing only a pair of boxers and a t-shirt. The light in the hall is still on, but the bedroom one is off, so it's somewhat dark. He looks up at Castiel, mouth slightly open and eyebrows slightly raised in a way that Castiel knows means that Dean is feeling nervous and self-conscious. But he doesn't say, 'It's okay, you can sleep alone.' He doesn't say, 'I'll let go of that part of our deal.' He stares at Castiel, hopeful.
"I won't do anything sexual, I swear," Dean tells him.
Castiel nods, tries to do so with certainty. "I know." He slips into bed, pulling the covers over himself and lies with his back facing Dean.
Dean gets under the covers, shaking the bed. A gentle hand touches the small of Castiel's back. "Can I hold you?" Dean whispers.
Castiel freezes. Then forces himself to relax. "Hands on clothes, not under."
"Noted." Dean's hand moves from his back to settle on his waist. He moves close enough that Castiel can feel his hot breath on the back of his neck, and one leg barely touches the back of Castiel's. But that's as far as he goes. "Good night, Cas."
Castiel stares at the far wall and wonders what he's gotten himself into.