Chapter 21: Somebody that I used to know (The science of selling yourself short pt 3)

Well, the jig was up. Not exactly the way Dean had wanted the jig to be up, but there you have it. Beggars can't be choosers. He repressed the ridiculous urge to raise his arms as if he was being held at gunpoint.

'Why didn't you erase the message?' he asked instead. The guy who was probably not an editor kind of... unfolded. He seemed taller. His anxiety was completely gone. Dean wouldn't have been surprised either if he had pulled off a mask Mission Impossible-style.

'Hey, I could be the real Andrew,' the man who was definitely not Andrew objected. His cold had disappeared. As Dean had suspected, the man now sounded absolutely nothing like Andrew. His voice wasn't soothing in the least.

'But you're not. So, who are you? One of Crowley's men?'

The man didn't answer. Or rather, he did by producing a gun and screwing on a silencer. It was all done very matter-of-factly. Slow and careful. Clearly, he had done this before. And why wouldn't he be meticulous? There wasn't anything Dean could do. Dammit, why hadn't he bought a gun? He had thought about it a million times. Fuck.

'Killing me is a bad idea. And I'm not just saying that,' Dean joked. The only thing within reach was the rubbish bowl. There was nothing useful in there. Not that a knife would have helped in this situation, but it would have been nice to have one, nonetheless.

'I was told that if I found conclusive proof that the affair was still ongoing I should kill you.'

Not-Andrew raised his gun.

'The apartment is bugged. Crowley will use this against you,' Dean reasoned. He sounded fine, but he was starting to panic. This wasn't how it was supposed to go at all. He hadn't counted on the gun. He hadn't counted on the let's kill everyone in my way approach, which was fucking stupid. It was vintage Crowley. The man smiled.

'When I get home, I'll simply delete the murder,' the man explained. Okay, Dean thought. It was really hard to think that something was okay, while you had a gun pointed at you, but Dean managed.

Okay, Dean thought again, so this guy is the one who listens to the material and then probably briefs Crowley. Does that mean he's also the guy who placed the bugs? Does that mean he's the one that broke into the home and office of the actual Andrew and stole the designs? Is he the one who killed Gabriel?

'So, you killed Gabriel?'

'Yes. When it comes to his and your little amateur spy operations, I'm the only man,' the man said. He appeared to know exactly what was going through Dean's mind and he anticipated Dean's every move before Dean could make it. Stepping a little to the right as Dean inched towards the door, while simultaneously blocking his path to the kitchen.

Suddenly, Dean was strangely calm. This was the end. He wondered whether this was this how Gabriel had felt.

Probably not, because the only thought that comforted and scared Dean was that Sam would never let this go. Sam would dive headfirst into revenge mode. Thus, this would be a good time to mention the cameras that Dean had installed himself. To make sure that Sam wouldn't dedicate his life to avenging his brother's death. Also, to, you know, at least delay being murdered.

A knock on the door startled them both. The knock was merely a nod to social conventions, because when she found the door unlocked, Pamela didn't wait for an answer before coming in. The man briefly trained his weapon on her, but visibly relaxed when – Dean guessed – he decided that she was harmless.

It had taken him a while, but Dean was now definitely freaking out. God, not Pamela, he thought.

'Is that Castiel?' Pamela asked, pissed off. Dean vaguely remembered that she'd had an appointment with Castiel. Too bad that he momentarily couldn't remember how to speak.

'No,' the man responded.

'Is he here?' Pamela continued. She did this weird routine with the hesitating steps and the outstretched hands, as if she was a seeing person with her eyes closed. A caricature of a blind person. Dean tried not to show his bewilderment at her behaviour, since the man didn't seem to consider it weird.

'No,' the man answered. Pamela nodded and extended her hand. The man transferred the gun to his other hand to be able to shake her hand. She took it and awesomeness ensued.

'I'm sorry to barge in like this. I'm Pamela, Dean's neighbour and...'

It was awesome. Pure awesome. With a quick, but fierce tug, Pamela pulled the man towards her. Surprised, he stumbled and cried out when she struck his arms. He dropped the gun. It skittered across the floor and under the couch. Then she punched him in the lower ribs. The guy just crumbled. Dean had never seen anything like it before.

It was the opposite of what his father used to do. John liked to keep him conscious and drag it out. This was quick, the man was K.O. and he probably wouldn't suffer any lasting damage.

'Who's this clown?'

Pamela got to her feet, a little flushed, but otherwise looking quite exhilarated. In painful contrast, Dean had to sit down, because his legs were threatening to buckle. He was speechless. Not a very productive state of being when you're communicating with Pamela.

'How did you know?' he squeezed out.

'The tension between you two was palpable, you were panting and I didn't like his tone. I'm a woman and I'm blind: I can't afford not to pay attention to those kinds of things.'

'But what was that?'

'Self defence classes. Like I said, I'm a double target. More importantly, Dean, who is that and why does he have a gun? By the way, perhaps you should search him for more weapons. And if I were you I'd tie him up before he comes to too,' Pamela suggested, by and large shrugging off every wonderful thing she'd done.

Her attitude was disconcertingly blasé. Maybe because she had heard crazier shit as a therapist? Dean remembered one girl who ate her own hair. Still, this was not something that happened every day.

Heeding Pamela's advice, he got a pair of handcuffs from the bedroom and chained the guy to the radiator. All he had on him was a phone, which Dean removed. Then he retrieved the gun and shoved it into a kitchen drawer. Afterwards, he proceeded to tell Pamela the entire story, because he could see no way out of it now.

'That he wants to kill you, well, that's understandable, but Sam would have been next and no one touches him,' she commented. Not the response he had expected. Those two idiots really needed to talk to each other. Dean couldn't claim to have keen instincts when it came to love, but sometimes it was just obvious.

They both drank a glass of water, before considering what to do now.

'He said he had evidence, right? About Castiel and you? What could that be?' Pamela ventured. Dean couldn't think of anything. The guy had literally said 'conclusive proof' and Dean was pretty sure that his apartment had been bugged after the sex and the kiss. If that wasn't true, Pamela would have noticed the misplaced side table much sooner, since she came over all the time.

Did obscure mentions of their relationship count as conclusive proof? Dean didn't think so. He thought the impostor had pretended to be Andrew to get that proof. Fortunately, Dean hadn't trusted him and had told him nothing. The real Andrew had no reason to stand outside Gabriel's house at night. The real Andrew hadn't wanted to touch this mess with a ten foot pole. The biggest clue had been the cold: the only way for Dean to know the real Andrew had been his voice. So, Dean had been more than a little suspicious when he finally met Andrew and he conveniently had a cold.

Dean had given him absolutely nothing. He hadn't even mentioned Castiel's name. Disheartened, he stared at the rubbish bowl. The man had intended to kill Dean; that much was clear. His gaze shifted to the man's phone.

Apprehensive, he picked it up. Flipped through the texts in the inbox. Nothing that could be interpreted as incriminating. His outbox was a different story. He didn't recognise the phone number, but the picture that the impostor had sent with the text was crystal clear. Castiel pushing Dean against a wall and kissing him. Dean walked over to the window and looked down at the street corner. Shit.

'He sent a picture of us. To Crowley, I think,' Dean informed Pamela.

'Go,' she urged.

'The gun's in the kitchen drawer. Tranquilizers are in the bathroom cabinet,' he rambled. He paused for a second before adding, 'Maybe you should call Sam.'

That was entirely up to her. Everything was going to hell at an alarming rate, so Sam would find out soon enough anyway. He grabbed his keys. Damn Castiel and his attempts at breaking off whatever they had going. He dialled Castiel's cell and apartment, leaving 'He knows' voicemails at both when Castiel didn't answer.

It reminded him too much of the pre-bus situation. He kept trying to reach Castiel. What if Crowley's plan doesn't stop at killing me, he thought; what if he plans on killing Castiel too? Ignoring the angry honking of other drivers, Dean abruptly pulled over when his phone rang.

'Castiel?'

'No, it's me. Dean... I don't know how to say this. I'll just... Dad died,' Sam whispered. He sounded on the verge of tears. This was not something Dean felt equipped to deal with under the circumstances. Or ever, to be honest. Yet, he was amazed at his reaction.

'I'm sorry, but I can't talk right now.'

He hung up. He stared at the phone. He started the car again. Damn, he thought. He didn't even feel anything. There was no comfortably numb feeling or shock or whatever normal people feel when their father dies; just nothing. Yeah, he felt bad for being a dick when Sam needed him, but other than that? Nada.