Four

.

The door to the attorney's chambers closed behind them and Dean immediately yanked on Alan's arm, pulling him round to face him.

"What the Hell was that?" he demanded. "You said you were gonna help us!"

"And I am helping you, Mr Winchester," Alan marvelled, taken aback by the man's ferocity.

"Explain why you just got me to spill to the world that Sam really did stab that girl!"

"So that you don't go down for it," Alan shrugged cheerfully. "And you won't. There is no evidence, no motive, no reason - and the jury will see that. They will see that your brother did it, and you were mistakenly caught for it while trying to save him from his little problem. They might want to nail you for obstructing justice or aiding and abetting, but unfortunately, they didn't bring those charges to begin with. They will have to acquit you on the charges brought here today - you were up for murder, Mr Winchester, and enough reasonable doubt has been shown to get us a 'not guilty' verdict--"

"You sure about that? That lawyer chick seemed pretty confident!"

"We all seem confident, Mr Winchester," he said calmly, watching his client step back one. "Please trust my years of experience. I do not believe we're done for just yet." He lifted his wrist and checked his watch. "However, I do believe Sam is on his way to one of the Dakotas right now. He mentioned a family friend who would help him go to ground until you found a way to catch him up without leading them to him with their new warrant for his arrest."

"Why'd you make him leave the room like that?" Dean took another step back, forcing himself to cool down.

"Because it was obvious his presence was not… conducive to your ability to tell the 'lawyer chick' what she needed to hear," he smiled.

"Oh," Dean managed, confused.

"And anyway, how else could be swing by the room that keeps the exhibits?"

"Whatever," Dean breathed, feeling himself to be several floors beneath whatever plot Alan had put into motion. He looked up quickly. "So you did finger Sam on purpose?"

Alan's face slid into distaste for a whole second.

Dean closed his eyes. "You know what I mean!" he insisted.

"Yes, Mr Winchester, I know what you mean. And yes, I did put the blame, rather accurately, on Sam. Because he'll never be caught." He watched Dean walk away across the chambers, wiping his forehead as he went. "Your burden has been a long and unhappy one, has it not?" Alan inquired quietly.

"So?" Dean rumbled.

"Is this the first time anyone has ever fought your corner for you?" Alan's voice was soft, worried.

Dean didn't look at him. "Ahm… yeah. Sorry for… giving you crap over this. And thanks for… well, thanks for still--"

"Doing my job? Don't mention it. I meet worse as colleagues." He sniffed and turned to his briefcase, opening the two clasps with expert pressure from his thumbs. "It makes a change for someone in a place like this to actually act how they feel, rather than pretending we're all above the scowling and jaw-clenching that you are so good at when being cross-examined," he beamed, as if talking to himself. "It's refreshingly different."

"Nice to know I'm good for something," Dean grunted.

Alan snorted in amusement. "I believe you did not kill Miss Celia White, or I would not represent you." He looked up slowly, watching his client keep his face averted. "I have a question, though."

"It's your job, right? Man, I couldn't live my life questioning the facts of everything."

Alan's smile turned sad. "If I could venture an observation… It seems to me that you spend your time avoiding the facts of everything," he offered quietly. "Yes?"

"Whatever," Dean grumped.

Alan nodded to himself. "So. Your brother, Sam. If indeed he did kill this girl… and you mentioned he needs help with his addiction - which doesn't seem to be the normal, run of the mill kind…"

"Well?" Dean asked quietly.

"Well how do you live with it?"

"Live with what?" Dean asked, turning to look at him.

"With knowing that he's a monster who kills people for his addiction?"

Dean stared for a long moment. Alan waited, noticing the resignation chase the guilt from his face. "He's not a monster," Dean said quietly. "He just… He's in a bad situation. We all are. We'll find a way out, though."

Alan appraised him as if he had all the time in the world. "You don't strike me as an optimist, Mr Winchester."

"I'm not. We'll find a way out. Cos we have no choice." He turned away again, ostensibly to look at the bookcase.

Alan let his head tilt in curiosity. "I sense I do not know the full story here," he offered quietly.

"It's better that way," Dean grumped to himself. "So," he said more loudly, turning round. "Either they'll let me off or I'll fry, hang, or whatever you do in Boston."

"You don't care?"

"No I do not," Dean said clearly.

"You should get out more. See the sunshine. Put your feet in the river, open a beer. Or go fishing!" he said, suddenly gleeful. "I know this place in Canada, it's the best place to relax and--"

"Thanks," Dean interrupted. "But it's not really me."

"Yes, I rather think you're right," Alan smiled, the warmth touching his eyes. He turned back to his briefcase. "Take a seat, Mr Winchester. We have an hour to wait."

.

.

The door opened and the bailiff popped his head in.

"Mr Shore, sir? Court is convening," he said.

"Thank you," Alan said politely. He closed his newspaper and folded it neatly, sitting up in the chair. "Well I hope you're ready for this bit," he said amiably to the man on the leather sofa by the opposite wall. "This is where it really gets--"

He stopped short, eyeing the man who had melted into the furniture as if he had always meant to be there. Alan got up slowly, approaching his client, finding him completely dead to the world in the kind of sleep he, rather ironically, dreamed about.

"Been a hard week, I take it," he said to himself. He sighed, reaching down and pushing at the checked shirt over Dean's shoulder. "Mr Winchester?"

Dean snorted awake. "Bacon!" he blurted, before blinking and wrinkling his nose at the sight of Alan peering into his face from above. "Oh. It's you."

"Yes. Ready, Mr Winchester?"

"What are we doing now?" he groused, sitting up properly and scrubbing at his face with both hands.

"Now you are going to avail yourself of my executive washroom so as not to appear so shoe-leather worn, and then we are going to have a war of the closing arguments."

"Oh," Dean managed. He pushed himself to stand, Alan retreating to give him room. "Yeah. One minute."

"Of course," Alan allowed.

Dean disappeared into the small room and Alan let his head tilt as a million thoughts ran through it.

.

.

"Prosecution," the judge said with due weariness, "your closing remarks, please. And make it good, this is starting to feel like a repeat of Titanic without the commercial breaks."

"Thank you, Your Honour," she said smartly, getting to her feet. She walked to stand in front of the jury, her hands laced in front of her. "You've heard Mr Winchester's testimony. He expects us to believe that there was a phantom brother involved, who stabbed poor, misfortunate Celia White for whatever illegal and addictive substance she was supposed to be carrying."

She paced to her right, looking at her black high heels. "But here's the thing: no trace can be found of anyone at the crime scene. The only DNA evidence we do have is the mixture of sweat and sloughed skin on the handle of the knife - the defendant's DNA. The brother cannot be traced, and neither can the car the defendant claims he arrived in, and his brother left in." She stopped and looked up at the jury. "Neither can we find evidence of his claim that Miss White was carrying drugs. The police have no reason to suspect she was ever involved in drug activities, and in fact, she appeared to be a model citizen."

Miss Williams turned and began to pace to the other side of the jury stand. "So the question becomes: do we believe all these wild statements the defendant has made? You saw for yourself how edgy, how angry, how worried he was on the stand. Look at him now."

She stopped and turned, pointing back at Dean's carefully impassive face across the courtroom. "Look at his size, his strength, his whole arrogant attitude. He had the means - the knife with his sweat on it. He had the opportunity - the alley was hardly busy that night. And the motive… ah yes, the motive."

She looked back at the jury slowly. "The Counsel for the Defence barred us from showing you the murder weapon. If they hadn't, you would have seen the Satanic markings on the blade that that man--" she turned and pointed again, "--used to kill Celia White."

"Objection!" Alan said immediately.

"You can't object to closing remarks, Mr Shore," the judge spluttered.

"Your Honour," Alan scoffed, springing to his feet in indignation, "she was not allowed to show the murder weapon in court, but she's allowed to tell them her unqualified and unconfirmed thoughts as to the engravings upon it? Why suddenly brand them 'Satanic'? Why not Laura Ashley, Juicy Couture, or simply Arabic? I've seen the blade myself, the pattern would go very nicely on a table runner I have--"

"Mr Shore, you've made your point," the judge boomed. "Now sit down!"

Alan closed his jacket slowly, sniffed to himself, and buttoned it up. He cleared his throat and sat.

"Thanks anyway," Dean muttered from next to him. "That was good."

Alan looked at him, then put a hand out, patting Dean's elbow nearest him.

"Wait till we get to my turn," Alan assured him. "It's been a long time since I've rock and rolled."

Dean caught the lyrics and looked at him, surprised. Alan simply smiled and looked up at the prosecutor.

"Anyway… Think about Miss White's family," Miss Williams continued. "Think of the closure they'll never get, the satisfaction of knowing their daughter's killer is in a place he can't hurt anyone else that they will never feel with the defendant roaming the country, free. He can magic up brothers and make up excuses for why he was there - but when it comes down to it, you are smarter than him, and you are able to see the truth here. And you're able to see him for what he is - a murderer. I hope you can find it in your hearts to give the White family some peace, some judgement. As I would hope they might do the same for any of you if you ever found yourself in such a terrible situation. Think of him getting away with this, simply because he distracted us with tales of phantom brothers while thinking he had committed the perfect crime - no evidence, no witnesses. And then think how you can find him guilty of this evil, evil act. And do what Celia White's family are begging you to do for them."

She nodded solemnly before turning to her desk. She walked back slowly, her high heels thudding only slightly against the carpet.

Dean leaned his head closer to Alan's. "We are so screwed," he breathed.

Alan opened his mouth but the judge's voice interrupted him.

"Thank you for your closing, Prosecution," he called. "Mr Shore? You're up."

.

.

Da da da daaaaaa! Final chapter goes up Wednesday 31st March. :) Thanks for reading so far!