A/N: I am now 100% sure that you guys all hate my guts, and man, so would I if I was reading this story because seriously this is getting ridiculous now. I'm very sorry. An enormous thank you to anyone who's still reading this thing, because honestly I would've given up on me long ago
Five minutes earlier ...
Zachariah Adler, Executive Director of Divinity Inc., leaves Stage 3 after his scene on the news and walks purposefully down the corridor, the pants of his pinstripe suit tapping lightly against his ankles as he moves. He's rich, he's successful, and everything is going his way.
So losing one of his favorite slaves hadn't been part of his original plan, but the fact that Castiel has wound up with the Winchester boys is certainly in his favor. It gives him just another pressure point to push, and a legitimate excuse for the police to keep on the case. It doesn't matter that Castiel wasn't stolen in the first place. Things like that are just details. He can see the bigger picture. Like the fact that if the police catch the Winchesters, and the Winchesters talk, then Divinity is sunk. Hence the fact that Walker needs to find them first and take them out of the equation. Oh, it doesn't hurt to have the cops on the Winchesters' tail - Reeves over at the FBI will keep them updated with whatever they've found out about the boys' location (it always helps when you have a cop in your pocket) - but if Walker doesn't get to them first, things could certainly get very messy indeed.
His phone rings and he answers it smoothly, the picture of efficiency. "Yes?"
"We have a problem, Mr Adler."
Of course they do. Otherwise Uriel wouldn't be phoning him. "And? How urgent is it?"
"Our source at the FBI says the police are about to make a move on the Winchesters."
Dammit. He knew the police wouldn't take long to find their quarry, but he had at least hoped for a few more hours before everything kicked off again. "Fine. Keep me updated."
"Yes sir."
He hangs up and immediately dials another number, putting the phone to his ear and waiting for the man at the other end to pick up.
"Dean Winchester, listen to me very carefully ..."
It takes all of Dean's will not to chuck his cellphone across the room. Instead, summoning up the ragged ends of his self-control, he simply tells Zachariah in no uncertain terms to go fuck himself and cuts him off mid-sentence, stabbing the 'end call' button on his phone with unnecessary ferocity.
Sam just raises one eyebrow. "So?"
Dean looks around the room at the faces surrounding him, and they all mirror each other's expressions of worry and interest to varying degrees. "So nothing. That was the guy. Mr Adler, or whatever the hell his name is."
The way Castiel practically flinches when Dean says Zachariah's name isn't lost on him, either.
"And? What did he say?"
Dean waves a hand dismissively. "Tried to pull the same trick as he did at the Roadhouse; says there are cops on their way."
Sam stares at him. "Then why are we still here?"
"'Cause he was lying, Sammy!"
"Oh, and you know that for sure?"
"No, but-"
"We're taking a chance hanging around here, man, we were even before we got that call. Look, I say it's time to pack up and leave, get the hell out of dodge. Just in case, man."
Goddammit, when did life decide it was time to screw with the Winchesters? And who the hell thought it was a good idea to put him, Dean, in charge? 'Cause they seriously need shooting, around about now.
But he's got to admit, Sam has a point.
"Okie dokie, then. Let's get moving. C'mon, Cas."
"He's not going with you," says Gabriel defiantly, and damn, but Dean had almost forgotten about Problem Numero Uno with the arrival of Numero Duo and Numero whatever comes after that.
"Yes, he is, and that's not up for debate," he replies forcefully, taking Castiel's elbow and steering him towards the door. It's lucky they're still living out of their long-suffering duffel bags, because it means that all they have to collect are a few bits and pieces not packed away and they're ready to hit the road.
"Screw you, Dean! I'm not going anywhere without him."
"Whatever. Stay here and wait for the cops. Give 'em a kiss from me."
Gabriel looks like he's going to start punching people very soon. "You know what? I used to think you weren't that bad, but now I see you're just a great big bag of dicks. He's my brother, and I love him."
Sirens in the distance. It's probably not for them - the cops wouldn't want to let the Winchesters know they're coming, after all - but still, it focuses the mind.
"We're leaving. You two do whatever the hell you like." Dean pushes towards the door. "C'mon, Sammy."
Sam casts a guilty glance back at Gabriel. He's lived without his brother before, he knows what it's like. There was one time, back when he was doing drugs, that one time that he thought he'd overdosed and God, he was so scared he would never see his brother again before he died. He was so terrified; just the thought of it now is enough to make the air catch in his throat. He can't even imagine what it must be like to live for years without your brother.
He can see Gabriel's face, though, and the sight makes his chest tighten, his heart constrict. Gabriel looks furious, but underneath it he's shattered, because he knows he's completely powerless. Even if he pulled out his gun, it's just him against Sam and Dean, trained killers; because even though everyone knows that Crowley will kill anyone who messes with Gabriel, they also know that he won't join any stupid suicidal missions for anyone. Not even his partner.
"Come with us," Sam says suddenly. "We can't give you Cas, and I'm sorry for that, but you can come with us, and maybe we can work out something, y'know, when we're not about to be knee-deep in officers of the law."
"You out of your fucking mind?" growls Dean, but Sam pushes on anyway.
"We'll just go to Bobby's," he says, making up this plan in his head as he goes along. "That's where Ellen and Jo are anyway - Bobby said. We can hole up there for a bit and decide what to do. I'm sure we'll be able to work something out."
Dean glares at him, because seriously? Not cool. Really not cool. "We haven't got time for this shit. We need to go."
Sam ignores him. "Look, it's your choice. But this is your only chance of getting your brother back."
Gabriel's eyes meet his, and after a moment, he nods. "We'll come with you."
"Whoop-de-fucking-doo, now can we please get moving?"
Sam gives Gabriel one last look before turning back to his brother. "Sure. Now we can go."
It doesn't take them long to load everything into their cars (there's a brief debate over where Castiel is going to ride - in front with them in the Impala or with Gabriel and Crowley following behind in their beaten up old truck - but as Dean can shout louder than Gabriel, he wins), which is good, and they manage to pull out onto the main road through the city without any sign of the cops, which is even better. In fact, they might have managed to make a completely clean get away if Victor Henricksen wasn't quite so beady-eyed and if the Winchester car wasn't quite so distinctive.
But the fact of the matter is, he is, and it is. And that makes all the difference.
"There! That's them. Follow that car, dammit!" Henricksen points to the black car (license number KAZ 2Y5) and his driver, Deputy Sheriff Kathleen Hudak, swerves to overtake the car in front and follow the Impala. It's late, so mercifully the roads aren't as busy as they could be, which means Hudak can put her foot on the gas.
The police car speeds after the Impala; the race is on.
"Fuck," growls Dean, and revs the engine.
They bomb down the road, the police car hot on their wheels, a spray of bullets hitting the ground behind them. A window shatters and Dean swears again. Their only hope is to lose them, but this is a straight road, no turnings anywhere. Shit shit shit.
"Right!" shouts Castiel and Dean doesn't have time to blink, he just veers to the right, tires screeching, heart pounding, knuckles white on the steering wheel.
The police car turns sharply to follow them, and Dean swears again, hitting the gas and swerving to overtake another car. A glance out the rear-view mirror tells him they've lost Gabriel and Crowley, but the cops are still right behind them.
"Dean, look out!"
Oncoming traffic; Dean swerves sharply to avoid getting mown down and nearly hits a parked car as he does so. He's up on the sidewalk, the few pedestrians still on the streets leaping out of the way as he tries desperately not to hit the various streetlamps and cafe tables laid out in his path.
Back down onto the road, approaching some crossroads - and the traffic lights switch to red just as he reaches them.
"Stop!"
There's no time to think, so he does what he does best: he acts. Slams his foot on the gas and barrels straight through the crossroads, swerving to avoid the crisscrossing cars, a cacophony of car horns blaring in his ears.
And then they're across, speeding away out of town down the darkened road, leaving Victor Henricksen and Deputy Sheriff Kathleen Hudak far behind in the night.
"Goddammit," Henricksen groans. Yet another missed opportunity. Yet another chance gone.
And a mile out of town, Dean and Sam laugh for the first time in a long time with the euphoric after-effects of near-suicide.
They meet up with Gabriel and Crowley again an hour out of town, and Sam takes over driving from Dean (he's had quite enough near-death experiences for one night, thanks). Riding shotgun, Dean falls asleep pretty fast; it's one of those things Sam has always wished he was able to do - just let go and forget everything. Sure, he makes out like he doesn't care - mainly so Dean doesn't feel so bad about dragging him back into all this - but beneath it all … He doesn't even know anymore.
It takes him awhile to realize that the prickly feeling on his neck is because he's being watched, and even longer to locate the blue eyes in the overhead mirror.
"Hey, uh, what you said …" he begins awkwardly, because it's okay when you can tell yourself that the slaves aren't really human - they're bred to serve, after all, they don't count as really, well, sentient. But when you can't pretend that they don't feel, when you give up on kidding yourself into apathy, it kind of gets tricky. He clears his throat and attempts to begin again, taking the silence from the back seat, punctuated only by Dean's periodic snores, as a sign to continue. "Is it true? I mean, were you… ?"
"Was I born a slave?"
God, is he that transparent? It sounds terrible when Castiel says it like that. "Forget it. Don't worry."
Castiel tilts his head slightly, like he's trying to figure something out. "A day ago you showed no interest in me whatsoever, Sam Winchester," he says slowly. "And yet now you are. Why?"
Sam fidgets slightly, adjusting his hands on the steering wheel. "Uh, well, because of what you said, I guess. I, uh, I find it a lot easier if I can just … ignore slavery, y'know? I'm not against it or anything," he says quickly, because being anti-slavery these days is worse than being gay in the 50s, "but, uh, it just makes me kinda uncomfortable, y'know?"
"So you prefer to pretend it does not exist."
That makes him sound like such a coward, and he almost cringes. "I guess."
"I see."
The silence stretches out, long and awkward, and even though Sam keeps his eyes resolutely fixed on the road ahead of him, he can still feel the heat of Castiel's gaze on the nape of his neck. He's so painfully aware of every movement and every sound that he makes for the rest of the drive that he spends the entirety of it trying not to even so much as breathe.
It seems like forever before they're pulling into Bobby's driveway, bordered by scrap metal, tires, and broken up old cars. Sam would be a nervous wreck by now if Dean hadn't taken over driving halfway through. For some reason, the intensity of Castiel's stare lessened, or at least seemed to lessen, when the other man was awake. Castiel switched his attention from the back of Sam's head to Dean, and this allowed Sam to relax just enough to fall into a fitful sleep.
It's about five am, but Sam called ahead to let Bobby know they were coming, so when the old man hears crunch of tires on gravel outside he appears in the doorway leading out onto his porch, a sawed-off shotgun in his hand, just in case. Bobby's never been one to take unnecessary risks.
"Told you boys ya shoulda come straight to me," he growls at them as Dean climbs out of the car and stretches.
"Yeah, sorry, Bobby," he yawns in reply. "And you're sure you're okay with Gabriel and Crowley hanging around for a bit?"
"Whatever. Just so long as they stay out of my way and my drinks cupboard, and don't touch nothin' they shouldn't, then we're good."
"Thanks, man," smiles Sam and then, because he's the diplomatic one, walks over to where said Gabriel and Crowley are getting out of their truck to acquaint them with Bobby's House Rules (#1 of which is 'Don't Under Any Circumstances Fuck With Bobby', and #2 of which is 'For God's Sake Leave His Fucking Whiskey Alone If You Value Your Testicles').
It isn't until Sam's nearly upon them that he realizes that Gabriel's leaning rather heavily on the truck's bonnet, his face pale against his shirt which is a deeper brown color than Sam remembers it being.
"Hey, man, you okay?"
"No, you wanker," Crowley snaps. Then, slightly more gently, but still with a harsh edge, he says to Gabriel: "I managed to stop most of the bleeding earlier, but no more heroics, because I'm not paying for your funeral."
"Wait, he was shot?" It hadn't occurred to him that the others had had their own battalion of police cars to contend with, but now he thinks about it, of course they did. And it looks like Gabriel caught a bullet in all the action.
"S'nothing. Barely even grazed me." Gabriel tries to wave him away.
But Sam's used to seeing wounds, he's been used to the sight of blood from the age of six when Dean came home with a head wound that bled everywhere and Sam was the only one around to help him clean up, and from the dark patches of what can only be blood adorning Gabriel's shirt, he can tell it's certainly not nothing. Not fatal, but not nothing, either.
"He's losing too much blood," he states simply. "Get him inside and we'll sort him out."
"Get him inside and I'll sort him out," Crowley replies testily. "I'm not having your dirty great paws all over him."
"Territorial much?" Dean says with a grin, coming over to join them. "I wouldn't have pegged Gabriel for your type, Sammy, but to each his own, I guess."
"Gabriel's been shot," Sam says shortly, and Dean goes from jokey and tired to professional in a split second.
"Where?"
"Arm," Gabriel supplies.
"He's lost a lot of blood."
"I can see that. Why didn't you tell us before now? We could've stopped and sorted this all out miles back."
"That's what I said," says Crowley with a twisted attempt at a smile. "But Gabriel wouldn't hear of it. Stubborn bastard."
He didn't want them to keep going without him, Sam realizes. He was afraid of losing his brother.
The thought makes him glance over at Dean.
"Okay, let's get you inside," Dean says decisively. "We can't do anything out here."
Gabriel pushes himself off the bonnet of the truck, swaying a little on his feet from blood-loss, but he manages to walk relatively surely towards Bobby's house, Crowley beside him looking ready to catch Gabriel if it even seems to be going south.
They're halfway to the door before Gabriel turns and says, "Where's Dimi?"
Sam's about to ask who the hell that is when Dean turns back to the Impala, saying, "I'll get him."
Oh. Dimi. Dmirti. Castiel. Talk about confusing.
Dean's the only one outside when he opens the back door of the Impala to get Castiel out, which means no one sees the look on his face when he realizes that Castiel is asleep.
Which is just as well, because he'd probably never live it down. Dean Winchester is hard as nails. He doesn't do soppy.
There's light stubble prickling along Castiel's jaw, staccato of brown against white skin,;his eyelashes, long and full like a girl's, soft pencil lines brushing over his cheeks; his hair, slightly overgrown now, is a mess of twigs everywhere except the base of his neck, where, dampened with sweat from where it's been crushed against the seat, it curls in on itself slightly, lazily, soft like a child's hair. Lower down, the dark, heavy line that is Castiel's collar obscures half his throat, and Dean is struck with a sudden urge to rip it off. It spoils the image. It spoils Castiel.
He could look for ever. Not because Castiel is attractive like this - he is, though that's not the point - but because Castiel is beautiful like this. Precious. Castiel is always so fragile when he thinks no one else is looking, and Dean finds himself wondering how many of his previous masters have seen this side of their slave, whether Zachariah ever saw this side of Castiel.
He'd like to think it's unique to him. A snatched moment of peace that only he saw. Something that, after all this is done, he will be able to remember, a scene he will be able to place carefully in that hallowed box in his brain labeled 'Good'.
It would be a shame to wake Castiel. It would be a shame to end this small semblance of safety and tranquility that he's managed to carve out of a world so turbulent and dangerous. So, almost without thinking, Dean leans down and carefully slides his arms beneath Castiel's sleeping form, allowing the other man's head to rest against his chest as he picks him up bridal-style, cushioning Castiel's body against his own, wrapping his arms around the sleeping man almost as if to protect him.
Sam, when he sees, says nothing, but has to turn away to hide his smile. Not that it matters; Dean is oblivious to everything save the man in his arms, who sighs slightly in his sleep and pushes closer in to Dean's chest, Dean's slow, steady heartbeat reverberating through his body and matching his own.
Castiel is dreaming of flying.