please note: Angels in this universe are clearly different than angels in the Supernatural universe. Not biblical for one, and no wings either. Just Grace, though that still comes with its own power. But you'll find out more about that later.
Chapter Four
"Heads up," says Charlie as soon as Dean answers the phone during the start of his and Cas's third week working together. "Got a few bodies they think might be dealers."
"Where at?" he asks, glancing over his shoulder as he merges lanes and feels Castiel's reproving stare on his face. Cas is apparently a stickler for rules and frowns deeply every time he so much as changes lanes without a turn signal on 500 yards beforehand. Sometimes he doesn't wear a seatbelt and he can feel the disapproval practically radiating off the kid. It's become a bit of a game, really, to see how many glares he can get in one continuous drive. "Please don't say headquarters."
"Of course not headquarters," says Charlie disparagingly and then pauses. "The morgue right next to headquarters. Naturally."
"You," says Dean, "are a shitty handler."
She laughs, the sound warm and close to his ear. Knowing her, she's probably fist-bumping her ridiculous Harry Potter bobbleheads right about now. "I think it's cute that you pretend you're successful because of what you do. Downright adorable."
"You're asking me to drive all the way to D.C. just to check out some bodies that might be dealers?"
"Got anything better to do?"
"Loads," scoffs Dean. "Just what exactly are you hoping I'll gain from seeing these cold ones anyway? There won't be anything on them."
"Well, then, don't come."
"You don't want me to come?" demands Dean. "You called me just to give me pointless information and then tell me not to come? Who the hell does that?"
"Well, you're the expert," and now he realizes that her voice has a sarcastic little lilt to it. "You're the one that's solved hundreds of cases, so if you think there's nothing that can gained from looking at the potential corpses of dealers then it must be pointless. So don't come."
"You're baiting me," he says.
"I would never."
"If I drive all the way to D.C. and gain absolutely nothing from it, what then?"
"Then at least I can meet your new kid and tell him horrible stories about his partner, hopefully scarring him for life."
"Too late," Dean mutters, thinking of the nightmares that still wake him up every night.
"You're right," Charlie agrees. "Your face would have done the trick ages ago."
"Remind me not to speak to you or visit you once I'm in D.C."
"Oh, good, so you're coming? Great! Stop at that taco place you know I love and get me some hard tacos. Muchas gracias."
"The taco place is out of my way," says Dean, and then when she doesn't reply, repeats it louder: "Charlie, the taco place is out of my way!" There's a click and then the dial tone and he clicks his phone off with a frustrated growl. "Damn it."
"That's good," comments Castiel, from beside him. "I've never had tacos before."
"You – what? You've never had – what? How have you lived?" asks Dean. He is surrounded by complete freaks on all sides.
"On an optimal nutritional diet," there is confusion in Castiel's voice. "We've gone over this before, Dean."
"I was trying to forget," mutters Dean and then sighs and leans his head back, looking at the highway through half-shut eyes. "This is going to be such a long drive."
"We could play another game," offers Castiel hopefully.
"No, thanks."
Silence. Dean purses his lips, reaches up. Scratches the side of his neck. He's getting scruffy again, needs to shave. God. He's going to. Shit. "I'm not playing I Spy."
"All right," agrees Castiel, staring out the window.
"You don't know any other games."
"No," he says.
Why does he have to have such strong moral obligations when it comes to sad children who haven't experienced dumb shit? And he wonders if maybe that's what's so pitiful about it, that he and everyone else in the world considers car games such idiotic things to know how to do and here is this kid that is pathetically eager to play one. "Twenty Questions," he finally says.
"How do you play?" A glance over reveals Castiel is trying to suppress a smile.
Dean sighs. "I pick an object and you have to guess it within twenty questions, asking different things to try and narrow it down."
Castiel says, "I will succeed at this one," and sounds absolutely positive about it, the little shit.
"All right," says Dean after a moment. "I've got it, go ahead."
"Is it a revolver?"
"What?" asks Dean. "No. Stop. That's not how you play. You're – come on."
"What?" He looks genuinely confused, so legitimately lost that Dean simply has to give in and laugh. Now there's a layer of hurt as well. "There are several things that appear in your life with frequency and it seems natural that you would then pick something that you are intimately familiar with. Is it the Impala? A hotel room? Credit card fraud?"
"What the hell is my connection to credit card fraud?"
"It's a crime. You are a special agent." Castiel blinks. "Dean, these are logical guesses."
"But – you're not supposed to guess until you have some sort of idea of what it is. Look. Okay. Here, you choose the object this time." Rain begins to patter against the windshield and Dean flicks on the windshield wipers.
"Lights on," Castiel reminds him.
"I liked you better when we first met," Dean tells him, and then, after flicking his lights on, prompts, "Have you gotten it in your mind yet?"
"Yes. You may begin."
"All right, is it alive?"
"No." Castiel's brow furrows.
"Can you eat it?"
"No."
"Is it something you can wear?"
"No."
"Is it… a mineral?"
"No. That's four questions already. Dean, are you sure you're doing this correctly?"
"Are you doing it correctly?" Dean asks, frustrated. "What the hell did you choose?"
Castiel frowns. "Does that count as one of your questions?"
"Cas, at this point I'm beginning to think you didn't choose anything - just please answer the damn question."
Castiel shifts in his seat. "The moment in time in which every human accepts their eventual demise and begins to wonder just what their purpose on this earth is in the finite amount of time left amounted them."
"Mid-life crisis. You chose a mid-life crisis as your object to play Twenty Questions with." Dean drags a hand over the bottom half of his face, wondering if this is a sign that he's about to start his own mid-life crisis.
"Were there limits to what I could choose?" asks Castiel seriously.
"Well – no – but – I mean –" The rain starts to pour down heavier. "But you can't choose a concept, I mean. I guess you could. But. No one ever does."
"Oh." A pause. "So does that mean I win?"
"No," says Dean immediately, hotly. "I would have guessed it eventually. All right, go again. And this time – no concepts. Tangible objects only."
Dean loses that round too – and then Castiel loses the next one, and finally Dean wins, and then Castiel wins, and then neither one of them can think up another object. They look at license plates – Dean chooses Kansas for loyalty's sake and loses spectacularly and Castiel chooses the state they're currently in and is incredibly smug – and this goes on for a while before Castiel decides that Dean shouldn't be taking his eyes off the road so much to look at license plates. Then they place First Letter, Last Letter until Castiel starts using the scientific names of plants and Dean gets annoyed and tells him that's cheating. Then it's back to I Spy for a little while until Dean suggests Truth or Dare which is incredibly difficult considering he's driving and he always chooses dare.
"I dare you to go the speed limit," says Castiel the first time. The second time it's, "I dare you to always use your blinkers," and the third time it's, "I dare you to only eat fruits and vegetables for the next week," until Dean finally yells at him for only daring him healthy choices.
"I thought you say I could dare anything I want," protests Castiel with, as usual, complete and total bewilderment.
"Yes, but you're supposed to do unhealthy dares, like eat a grasshopper or make out with the person sitting across from you," Dean explains in a God-help-me kind of way.
Castiel is at a loss. "But there's no insects in here. And I'm the only person you could possibly make out with."
There's a beat of awkward silence, filled only with the pounding rain that has followed them for the past two hours.
"Truth or Dare," says Dean.
"Truth."
"What are you afraid of?"
"Knowing no one," comes the immediate answer.
Dean doesn't know what to say to this. "You know tons of people. Like me, for example."
"No – knowing no one," says Castiel, looking out the window. "Not just people's names or their body weight and height. Not even their blood type or income level. But. Knowing people. Like what they like to eat when they're upset or thinking of home. I want to know those things, because those are things that matter at the funeral when you're speaking."
"Been to a lot of funerals, Cas?" asks Dean without thinking.
Castiel doesn't answer for a long while. Finally, he says, "It's not your turn."
"Just a question," says Dean. He glances over and then away again. "Well then, what do you like to eat when you're upset?"
"I – don't know," says Castiel, and this seems to bother him even more than asking how many funerals he's been too. "Not your turn," he repeats, and the game is over.
Finally – finally – they're pulling into the crowded limits of Washington, D.C., both males twitching restlessly after the seven hour nonstop drive. Traffic is a pain in the ass, but the rain seems to have run its course at last and when they get out of the Impala at the FBI headquarters, the sky is a bleary gray, an endless blanket that oppresses and depresses.
They scan their badges wordlessly at the door and Dean leads the way through a series of stairwells and corridors until they're finally at the opening to the morgue, pausing before the door as both of them stretch.
"Ever seen a dead body?" Dean asks, putting a hand on his back and then twisting. He hears a popping noise and feels a hint of relief. God, he shouldn't be driving so much at his age. It's more than a little unhealthy.
"OBIT subjects used donated corpses all the time," says Castiel, but doesn't say for what and Dean doesn't ask. He's done enough investigating into the teenager's background and it's time he simply accepts that there is always going to be more that he doesn't know. Doesn't want to know, either, for that matter.
Dean pushes open the door, strolling idly in with his hands thrust in his pockets as he looks around. "Hello? Anyone home?" He glances back at Castiel and shrugs when no one responds, walking further into the pristine morgue and thoughtfully heading towards the wall of silver handles.
"Wait, you can't just go looking at whatever dead bodies you want!" says Castiel from the doorway where he stands, frozen.
"Why not?" asks Dean and casually pulls open one drawer and looks down into the face of a impressively dead black woman. He stares into her cold face for a moment before sliding it shut and pulling open another, this time a caucasian male.
"Because –"
"Excuse me, do you have any authority here?" interrupts a different voice, a young man with glasses and a starch lab coat on, standing at a door Dean hadn't spotted before.
"Ah," says Dean, sliding the dead man back into his case and straightening. "Right. I'm Agent Winchester – this is my partner, Agent Novak," there it is, as always, the confused examination of Who is this kid and how is he working for the FBI? but Dean goes on anyway, "My handler Charlie Bradbury arranged for the viewing of several bodies that are relevant to our case?"
The man pushes his glasses up and frowns. "Bradbury, you said? You're too late."
"Too late?" echoes Dean and then shares a look with Castiel. "What do you mean too late, she told us about it this morning and we drove nonstop to get here."
"I got another call about three hours after the first one telling me to cremate the bodies as soon as possible," he says. "They're already gone."
"Gone?" asks Castiel.
"How can that be possible?" says Dean, stepping forward. He feels a sick sense of dread in his stomach. "Who authorized that? And I'd like your name while you're at it."
"It's Addams, sir," says the young man, looking more unsure with each passing second. "Tyler Addams. It's – they said they were under clearance with the FBI. They listed the correct names, correct identification numbers, everything, so I thought…." He trails off.
"And you didn't think," says Dean through gritted teeth, "to check first before you decimated evidence that pertains to a federal case? That just maybe there might be people smart enough to call with enough motive for not wanting feds looking at these bodies? That there's a slight chance that these people might just try and take advantage of idiots in charge like yourself?"
"Dean," says Castiel quietly. "It's not his fault."
"God damn it," says Dean, throwing a hand up to run over his hair agitatedly. "Charlie was right. There was something about those bodies that held important information and they knew it, that's why they got rid of them. We had something."
Addams looks terrified. "I – I really didn't –"
"It's okay," Castiel tells him and Dean whirls on him, about to yell at him too when he realizes that Castiel knows something. He has to, because there's no other way he would be standing there like that, utterly calm and placid.
"What is it?" Dean asks in a low voice.
"How did they tell you to remove the bodies, Tyler?" asks Castiel, sliding his hands into his trenchcoat.
"You know something," Dean insists. "What is it? Tell me."
"They – they listed names. Three of them."
"And," says Castiel calmly, "how many names did Agent Bradbury tell you to save for us?"
Something dawns in Addams' eyes. "She gave me four."
"How did you know?" Dean demands, grabbing Castiel's shoulder. He has done nothing for the case in the past three and a half weeks except lose at car games and attack a kid selling marijuana – and yeah, he'd done all right with the kids in the classroom, nothing too special, but up till now Dean's still wondered why he was thrown into the field as such an age, what qualified him over any other older agent. Now, it makes him think.
"The body you looked at without permission," he says, and he's small but his eyes are sharp and there's something cunning lying underneath the messy hair and rumpled trench coat. "The first one. There's Enochian tattooed on the inside of her wrist."
"Enochian. That's their –" He glances at Addams as though remembering that he might not be allowed to share certain information. "Writing? You could tell from all the way over there?" marvels Dean, moving to pull open the drawer again and leaning in and squinting at one wrist and then the other. "You sure it's not just Chinese for 'Hope' or something?"
"It's definitely Enochian," he says, coming up behind Dean and nodding.
"And what does it mean?"
"It means," says Castiel, tilting his head and narrowing his eyes, a thoughtful look coming over his face, "to burn."
"Incredibly suspicious," says Charlie as soon as she's heard the situation.
"No doubt it's the work of someone related to the case," says Dean and she makes an agreeing noise over the phone. "They must not have known there were four bodies instead of three, thank God. Sloppy work. And before you ask, we checked – the line leads back to nowhere, dead end. I would have gratefully accepted three cremated bodies for one working phone line, but that's just my shit luck."
"Find anything useful from Dead Body Number Four?"
"Enochian."
Charlie makes an interested noise and then something else – chewing noises. "That's a good sign at least. Definitely angel related."
"Are you – eating?" asks Dean, wrinkling his nose. He's currently standing outside the morgue and eating noises are not exactly the sounds he want to hear right about now.
"Chinese food." He can picture her grin and he's about to ask her to save him some before –
"Wait, what the hell, Charlie? I saved you tacos! From the place you fucking asked me to get you some from! What was the point of me driving out of my way to get them if you were just planning on eating damn Chinese food?"
"Hey, who says I can't eat both?" she asks, still chewing. "Besides, you were taking way too long. Far longer than I estimated."
"Kid wants me to drive the speed limit," says Dean in a disgruntled voice.
"Aw, that's so sweet that he's got you tamed so easily," she teases.
"Shut it."
"So are you going to tell me Dead Body Number Four's name or am I going to have to just call it DBNF from now on?"
"File says her name is Fiona Harris, but that could just as easily be a lie."
"Most likely is."
"Either way, I'm sure you'll get to the bottom of it. You being Charlie Bradbury and all."
"Oh, gosh, you're going to make me blush," says Charlie, and eats something crunchy. "Are you and the kid going to come in to the office? It's been a while since I've seen your ugly mug around here; I think I saw a cockroach sitting in your desk chair the other day."
"Did you kill it? And you're eventually going to have to stop calling him 'the kid,' you know. He is technically an agent, after all."
"I named it Dean Jr, actually. So far it's doing a better job of your job than you are. And I'll call him whatever I want – I'm Charlie Bradbury, remember? That comes with some sort of benefits, I'm assuming, and calling people by generic age-related titles should be one of them."
"This coming from the one who let three bodies get cremated on her watch. Nice going, Charlie Bradbury."
"Shut up and get your ass over here," she orders and the phone goes dead.
Rolling his eyes, Dean sticks his head back in the morgue, frowning when he sees Addams and Castiel deep in conversation. His frown deepens when he sees Addams write something down on a scrap piece of paper and thrust it at Castiel, looking awkward and uncomfortable – but in an entirely different way than he had earlier with Dean shouting at him.
"Castiel!" barks Dean, holding the door open and jerking his head towards the hallway. "Stop holding us up – we're on a case, if you don't remember."
"Sorry, Dean," says Castiel, nodding goodbye to the morgue worker and obediently walking through the door. He doesn't seem to notice the way Addams calls, "Bye, Castiel!" after him or the hopeful stare aimed at his back – or the way Dean sneers at Addams long enough for the young man to notice and duck away. "Where are we going now? Upstairs?"
Dean falls into line with Cas and shoots him a questioning look. "What's upstairs?"
"Well… I'm assuming your headquarters," says Castiel. "Since this is the FBI headquarters, right?"
"This is the morgue - headquarters are next door, but my department – which is technically listed as drug crimes but is confidentially focused on the paranormal and supernatural – is in a different building, in order to remain undetected. A lot like the OBIT, actually."
"What did Charlie say about the bodies?"
"She didn't seem too concerned – but then, she hardly ever is," says Dean, a mildly irritated expression crossing his face. Talented she may be, but organized she is not – which, well, neither is he, but it's a lot more difficult to slack off when your handler is doing the exact same. It's a miracle they break any cases open, actually.
"Uh, hey," says Dean, once they're both out in the open air and almost to the car. "What did that guy hand you?"
"Oh, Tyler?" asks Castiel, bemused. "His phone number. He told me it was so that if he got another questionable order he could check with me first to make sure it was what we wanted."
Dean makes a surly face as he slides into the driver seat. "Well, why didn't he give me his number? Aren't I the lead agent on this case?"
"I can give it to you, if you'd like," says Castiel complacently, buckling in his seat belt. "Seat belt."
"Yeah, yeah," mutters Dean, but there's something in his chest that loosens at the obvious disinterest Castiel is showing towards the morgue worker. "Are you sure he wasn't trying to – you know – uh – hook up with you?"
"Hook up with me?" repeats Castiel doubtfully.
"You know. Like he wanted to ask you out maybe. That's sometimes what people imply when they give other people their numbers."
"Oh. Oh, Dean, no. It was for work." And he nods, as if he's solved a great mystery. "You still haven't put your seat belt on."
"Concerned about my safety, Cas?" Abruptly, Dean's grinning, and he moves to pull his seat belt down across his chest without further prompting. "Afraid something will happen to me?"
Castiel looks dubious. "Of course, Dean. You are the leader of this mission, after all."
It is with a bit of a smug feeling that Dean drives the rest of the way to the building holding his office, and he chooses feel-good music for the ride (Asia, of course), with his fingers tapping against the steering wheel the entire way.
a/n: Reviews might make me feel a bit better about failing Astronomy, which I spent three hours doing tonight.