I'm closer to the Golden Dawn
Immersed in Crowley's uniform of imagery
I'm living in a silent film portraying
Himmler's sacred realm of dream reality
I'm frightened by the total goal
Drawing to the ragged hole
And I ain't got the power anymore
No I ain't got the power anymore
- "Quicksand," David Bowie
Someone vomited in the courthouse sometime since they were last here, Castiel would swear by it. A verdict came back that someone literally couldn't stomach and the aroma lingers still, buried under sharp citrus solvent that only underscores what it's attempting to mask. Closed fists braced against the counter, head bowed, he can see the polished area of floor beneath his feet, a path mopped cleaner than the rest of the tile, but not clean enough.
He's trying not to read any symbolism in it, putting mind over matter by making himself focus on the issue at hand, marshalling his thoughts. Even so, the underlying stench is damaging his calm, each slow even breath he's taught himself to take making his own stomach churn, ruining the effect.
Dean is in with the man who just the other day was attempting to put Castiel in jail. Gabriel is on a plane, headed across the country to sabotage Lucifer while he has the outcome of Castiel's trial as an excuse to get him in the door if needs be. Charlie is out in the hall, flanked by Jo and Ash as she excitedly explains things on her computer, and Castiel's seat is against the wall next to Ellen, the open space among them waiting for him, a standing invitation into Dean's extended, adoptive family.
Sam followed his brother into the small conference room commandeered by Henriksen, declaring himself an 'advocate for the victim,' a phrase that put steel in Dean's back and an angry cant to his head, sending him marching into the pretrial meeting as if he were going to skin both lawyers alive in there. If Castiel were a betting man, he'd be willing to wager on Dean in any fight.
Overall, the entire morning has felt rushed, frantic, from the moment he woke up to Dean already out of the bed and lobbing a pillow at his head to get him moving. He should appreciate the extra time Dean gave him to sleep, and looking at himself in the mirror of the bathroom he does look better rested than he has since they were first arrested. He just can't shake the worry that has been slowly growing since they woke.
Dean stripped the sheets and bedding while Castiel showered and dressed, and they left the shabby apartment over the garage dark when they locked up after themselves. Now, the weight of every one of his possessions sinks the Impala low on her wheels, books and clothing and mementos in the trunk and tucked onto the back floorboards, covered by the pillows and blankets. It's a promise, it's their escape, but it's also nerve wracking in its own way.
Cas is worried, he's anxious, and he's thrown off of his routine with the added knowledge that he has no idea what the routine will be from now on. Castiel's life was orderly in its way, ruled by bus schedules and a set shift, his favorite meals at each place he ordered from, solitude to keep him from having to coordinate with others, and books as company. Now he's built what schedule he has around Dean-sex when they wake, Dean's shower, meals together, time in the garage watching Dean work and creating a structure out of the chaos of John Winchester's books. He had a schedule during his education, one at the hospital, one in the military, and one with the clergy. He only just accepted that Dean's world was less rigid, less structured, and has become comfortable in that.
Now he knows nothing about Dean's work schedule or the life he comes from in Sioux Falls, doesn't know how long it will take him to find a job of his own, and while he could pick South Dakota out on a map because his memory has never failed him, he couldn't tell anything about its local culture, or weather patterns, or job market.
No matter what happens today, they're free at the end of it. But with that freedom comes an uncertainty that he's bracing for. First they need to get through the day. They both know that what they face in the trial today may damage them. Henriksen was a professional; he asked just what he needed to in order to illustrate his case for the jury. Crowley wants nothing less than to shift all of the attention off of the crimes his clients committed, and on to them.
The waking realization that Dean is going to spend the day being blamed for his own rape, and the later attempted rape, has Castiel on the verge of snapping. The knowledge that it happens all the time, that it's a constant worry for Dean and for others, has him needing to do something to distract himself, or center himself. Once he would have prayed. There's a hollow in his chest, a tightness in his throat, and he just… can't. As much as his faith is slowly on the mend, it's still too fragile for him to rely on it or count on God to hear him. There are times he's still angry with God, too, though he doesn't doubt his existence.
There's something, though. What he needs to distract himself is already at hand.
The door practically shrieks as it opens, dragging along the tile floor far more than it did before his brother used it as a weapon. The swing of the door sends Castiel slipping out of his haven, sidestepping a deputy coming into the bathroom with a hand on his receiver letting them know he'd stepped away, his voice echoing in the enclosed space. Cas is careful to avoid the looks of Dean's family in the main hall, turning away as soon as he sees them and turning again a few paces later to put him in one of the tributary halls, a stairwell forgotten in favor of the elevators to one side, and a vending machine to the other.
The vending machine's green glow is mostly lost in the yellow light of the hall, but he settles in beside it on the floor, back to the wall and his shoulder to the cold metal and plastic, letting his fingers unclench from the phone, steady as he swipes across the screen to unlock it. The whirr of the coolant running through the machine behind him is white noise, drowning out the low chatter of the hall, and he breathes out before bringing the phone to his ear, thumbing up the voicemail he's been putting off since he woke to a notice on his phone.
"Castiel, this is. . . uh, this is Chuck. I'm your father… I guess." There's a puff of air that creates static in the voicemail's recording, and Castiel swears he can almost hear Chuck Shurley rolling his eyes at himself, imagines him dragging a hand down a face Castiel can't even begin to picture.
"I didn't mean that to come out so Vader. I'm not good at this. I should. . ." Should hang up or start over, Cas isn't sure, but he's unconsciously holding his breath for a decision made hours before, trying to figure out the man on the other side of the line without any frame of reference. "I saved your number. I won't bother you, but if you want to call me I'll know it's you now. I won't always pick up, but. . ." But he'd know.
The message ends abruptly with a stumbling goodbye, and Castiel waits with the phone by his ear until the screen dims again.
His Omega father is a traumatized shut-in, eking by under a false name. Castiel knew this, already, from his conversation with his brother. It hurts more than he expected to hear the false starts, the clear nervousness. Was his father always socially inept, or is this entirely what was done to him all in the name of bringing Castiel and his twins into the world? Is their social behavior something that Castiel and Emmanuel inherited from this stranger? Is there anything else they can attribute to him? Their slightly sharper noses than their Alpha father had in the vain portrait hanging in their childhood home? The unruliness of their hair, or the brighter blue of their eyes than the rest of their brothers?
How does his father's existence factor into all the ways Castiel's life is changing?
Phone resting against the cleft of his chin, Castiel stares at the fire safety poster on the far wall, mind trying to parse what he heard, looking for new information, knowing he needs to slot this into his worldview as best he can. If his mind was one of Dean's engines, he's fairly certain he'd be hearing idle clicks, his thought processes stalled.
Somehow, he knows Dean's coming before he rounds the corner, and doesn't flinch when Dean's back thumps into the wall beside him as he slides to the floor to sit beside Castiel on the tile, unmindful of the dirt that likely lingers there, the dust and ash of years of haphazard cleaning. It doesn't take more than an arm slung around Castiel to get him resting his head against Dean's shoulder, secure in the knowledge that the vending machine blocks the view from the hall. "Phone call?"
Castiel shrugs slightly in acknowledgement, and Dean doesn't seem to need more to know what happened, and that Castiel doesn't want to discuss it. The arm around him squeezes slightly, another offer of comfort and protection, and Castiel soaks it in unashamedly, breathing in the smell of Dean, his palm finding the warm dip of his mate's back beneath the borrowed suit jacket, spreading his hand to get as much contact as possible.
It doesn't last. Nothing ever is allowed to, with them, it seems.
"Henriksen wants you up there first." There's an obvious note of disdain for this plan in Dean's voice, when he finally speaks again. "He's saving me for last, to get the 'emotional punch,' before he has to give the floor over to Crowley. So I won't be in there when you have to testify."
But Castiel can be there for Dean, when he has to sit in front of the courtroom and rip open half-healed wounds. Cas bites back the urge to comment on that, to say he prefers it this way, because Dean's clearly upset about it. "I can manage that. I don't have to be as 'sympathetic' to the jury this time, I gather?"
"He probably wants you to be." Dean smirks faintly, a wry quirk of his lips that Castiel catches from the corner of his eye, a defiance creeping into Dean's low voice. "Ask yourself if you're feeling like playing this game by anyone else's rules, though, Cas. 'Cause me? I'm not feeling very cooperative. We got you off the hook already. That was what I was here for."
"That was never my goal." Castiel's voice is flat but instinctively contrary, and he's disappointed but not surprised when after a moment and a deep breath, as if he's bracing himself for something, Dean bumps him off of his shoulder, squaring them down. This is part of them, he knows; they clash, they collide, stubborn and immovable, both of them, and for whatever reason Dean is digging his feet in.
"Why, you been making plans without me again, Cas?" There's no hurt this time in Dean's voice or face, nothing to betray that this is a painful topic—it's challenge, a jab pure and simple, and no matter how unconventional their relationship it gets the expected rise out of the Alpha in front of him.
"I want them in jail, Dean, for what they did to you. Your brother knew that, it's why I hired him to counter-sue, and to represent me. I want them prosecuted, imprisoned, destitute. . ."
"Sounding pretty Old Testament, there, padre." Dean interrupts, fast as a whipcrack, clearly goading him, strong jaw set and green eyes bright and reflective in the fluorescent light of the hall. Everything about him; posture, stare, scent, the sharp words and tones, provoke Castiel, peeling away his shell, stripping him down to the fury he's been refusing himself since his loss of temper at the hotel made him believe he'd lost Dean. "Guess you're a little pissed off, huh?"
"Obviously." Castiel glares at him in return for the reminder, stung and irritated, biting his retort off sharply. This isn't something Castiel will apologize for, not something he'll back down from. He isn't wrong about this, and he doesn't know why this is happening, he just knows that a dam broke, and he's furious again.
"Yeah. . . ? And what're you gonna do about it, then?"
They hear the footsteps, breaking their locked stare as a pair of out-of-place black tennis shoes with pink laces come into sight right before them. "Trouble in paradise?" At finding twin glares aimed at her, Charlie whistles between her teeth quietly, eyes widening. "Woah. Geeze, just a phrase, and I'm just the errand girl. They're all seated in the courtroom. They're doing their opening statements. Cas, you're up first, you gotta go..."
Castiel unfolds from his seated position, stubbornly refusing to look at Dean as he does. He's fluid, graceful, a fighter entering a match, but the single-minded focus that had so surprised Dean in the parking lot outside the hospital they day they met isn't new to him anymore. That's just Cas. As Castiel strides towards the courtroom, Dean pushes himself up slowly and brushes off his slacks, Charlie moving to lean against the wall at his side.
"How long do you figure before he realizes you ticked him off on purpose?" Charlie asks, watching Castiel glare a challenge at the bailiff until the door is opened before him. Beside her, Dean shrugs his shoulders and forces himself to unwind, unperturbed at Charlie sussing out his intentions. His own anger is back to a low simmer now, rather than the overt aggression of his act.
Dean was never angry at Cas in that, he was channeling what he needed to in order to get the job done. He wishes that didn't make him feel like such a prick, though.
"Not just a fight, I picked a stupid fight with him. He'll figure it out." Cas is a great many things, but slow on the uptake he isn't. Dean expects he'll understand what Dean was up to before he gets on the stand—but he's already created momentum, pushed him in the direction he needs to go. Castiel can be unstoppable once he gets his feet under him, and Dean had minutes at best to get him there. And if there's one thing he's good at, it's pissing people off—with Cas, or with Sam, or with Bobby, or once upon a time with John, it's cake. He knows them well enough, knows what buttons to push.
Digging in his pocket he pulls out a crumpled dollar bill, flattening it between his palms as the door closes behind Castiel, before feeding it to the machine beside them and punching the button for a Coke. He wants a drink, a real one, after winding Cas up like that—something to make him not see it as manipulation, and to make the tightness of his throat burn for it . . . he'll have to settle for caffeine and sugar.
"You sure this is smart?" As he turns again, Charlie looks up at Dean from beneath the scarlet fringe of her bangs, tilting her head at the closing door of the courtroom. "If he gets thrown in jail for contempt of court or assault or something, it kinda undoes everything . . ."
Dean barks a humorless laugh, dropping an arm around Charlie's shoulder and drawing her out of the hallway, back towards the small room off of the main hall where they're to wait for his own time to testify, at his brother and Henriksen's insistence after the violation of his restraining order came up. "You guys want him to come across as 'human' instead of 'scary robot,' right? 'Pissed off boyfriend' is pretty damn human in this situation. Maybe scary human, but trust me, he won't screw up or get thrown out. It isn't how he works. I'm more likely to get pissed and throw punches than he is. And anyway, I called his control into question and he has a point to prove. He's got this."
"You seem pretty sure of that." Charlie answers slowly, far more nervous about this than Dean, and it wins her a shrug in return as Dean drops into a chair, eyes on the clock, pulling his own phone out of his suit pocket and setting it on the table, ready for any texts Ellen, Jo or Ash send from the courtroom. "Dude, I think he's the quiet kid in the class everyone knows not to screw with or he'll snap, and I'm Alpha and a redhead. He has literally killed people before, and they didn't assault his. . . you." Dean can hear the word she's replacing, clearer than if she'd just said it, and he smirks ruefully, self-mocking, as another person joins the tiptoe-around-the-subject dance in his presence. "You positive you read him well enough to know what you're doing?"
Of course he does. If Cas went in collected, it'd take a crowbar to pry his jaw open and get him talking, or coaxing with a connection that Henriksen just doesn't have with Cas. Righteously furious, though, Castiel will throw the truth like a grenade at them, whether they want to hear it or not—there's a reason they were fighting when Cas first confessed he was in love with Dean.
"Yeah, I'm sure. Trust me, I know him." Eyes on the minute hand, watching the slow crawl of time, Dean raises the soda to his lips and pushes a chair out for Charlie with his foot, not glancing her direction as he drawls his answer. "He's my mate, right?"
xXx
If looks could kill, Nate Hardey and Roy Etheridge would be cinders on the floor of the courtroom. Even on the opposite side of the room from them, seated just behind Henriksen's chair, Sam feels vaguely uncomfortable on their behalf. Beside them at the defense table, Crowley has been watching Castiel through narrowed eyes his entire testimony, as if he's a whole new animal than the attorney was expecting.
Sam feels a savage sort of satisfaction at that, himself; he wants Crowley to sweat, and there's something about Castiel's conviction that is unsettling. He knows what Crowley was expecting. He's seen it himself. Now, though, if he hadn't seen Cas fidgety over a stolen breakfast, blush over being teased for his sex life, and reluctantly chuff laughter at being teased by his older brother, Sam might think he was the avenging angel he was named for.
"So your interest in interfering in the altercation at the hospital was purely to help Mr. Winchester . . ."
"I was keeping them, and their three associates, from gang-raping, abducting, and potentially murdering Dean." Each question has been sharply answered, terse and brutally honest, a ringing counter-accusation. "I assumed anyone with a modicum of human decency would try to help, too."
Everyone in the room is tense, trapped in there with Cas, even their family who has heard Castiel's entire side of the story before. Well, most everyone. Sam is watching the entire proceeding with a professional eye, ready to lean across the wall separating him from Henriksen and drop notes as needed. Jo, meanwhile, is leaned back in her seat on the bench beside Sam, arms folded over her chest, gaze fixed on Castiel and a triumphant look in her eyes, corner of her mouth tugged up slightly.
Sam sits back, shoulder to shoulder with her, and speaks to his surrogate sister out of the side of his mouth in a whisper as he watches Henriksen and Crowley argue for and against letting that statement stay on the record. "What're you smirking at, Joanna Beth?"
Jo brings her hand up to rub her nose, hiding the curve of her lips from anyone watching. "I was just thinking . . . turns out, Dean's boyfriend is kinda hot." Ellen drives an elbow into her daughter's ribs to shush her, shooting her a scolding look that Jo learned to ignore long ago, finishing her answer to Sam as the prosecution's examination continues. "Plus I'm pretty sure jackass over there is pissing himself thinking about having to question him."
Ellen's quelling glare at them both succeeds in making Sam sit forward again, casting a quick eye at the jury to try and tell the thoughts of the other jurors about Castiel's protective streak. Jo fishes her phone out of her pocket and rests it on her knee, surreptitiously tapping out a text message while all the attention in the room is on Castiel.
xXx
Your boyfriend's sexy when pissed. TBH, you may have to fight some of the ladies in the room off of him to get him back.
Dean rolls his eyes, but something in him relaxes at the teasing jibe that made his phone buzz on the table, finally giving him some sort of insight into the courtroom. He tilts the phone away from his companion as he types out an answer.
He can defend himself. Stop eyeing Cas or I'll tell your girlfriend.
Charlie is watching him with barely disguised curiosity, her hands poised over the keyboard of her laptop where she's been programming a database track Omega disappearances, and Dean shakes his head slightly, indicating a lack of information. He doesn't get much time to respond before Jo's next message buzzes his phone again.
Never pegged you for the jealous type. And she's not my girlfriend, jerk.
There is at least one person in that room thinking of him as he is, not the way this entire fiasco is going to attempt to paint him; either a broken abused Omega, defined by his gender classification, or a conniving whore who used the former priest on the stand to his own ends. Jo's known him as long as she can remember, and she sounds normal here, not the teary-eyed girl who he comforted in the courtroom during Cas's trial. It's steadying, keeps him grounded in the present.
Keep telling yourself that, brat. What's happening? Dying in here.
"What's going on?" Charlie is worrying her lower lip between her teeth, and Dean shrugs in response.
"My 'informant' sucks at staying on topic." Dean mutters, but he watches the screen in his hand, as dots appear on to indicate that she's typing, and then frustratingly disappear. He growls in frustration, pushing a hand through his hair. "Dammit."
"You suck at waiting." Charlie sighs, giving up on getting work done and closing her laptop, elbows braced on the table. "They're not supposed to have phones out. Give them a bit, they've gotta be sneaky."
As if answering her, the phone buzzes again, screen lighting up, a single word of warning and explanation.
Crowley.
xXx
"So tell me, Castiel. . ." The way Crowley says Cas's name makes his skin crawl, he rolls it off his tongue with too much familiarity, somehow dragging over each syllable in his rough accent in order to illustrate the strangeness of his given name. Cas is fairly certain he's managed to hide the angry twitch of his clenched jaw, but he doesn't attempt to lower his shoulders or his chin, or soften the scowl he has fixed on the attorney who paces to a stop in front of him with a salesman's genial smile, belied by his shrewd stare. " . . . How does a virgin Alpha, a doctor and priest from an obscenely wealthy family . . . end up mated to a drug-addicted Omega prostitute within hours of meeting him?"
Castiel can barely hear the bang over the gavel over the rushing in his ears, the drumbeat of his pulse thudding through his skull. Crowley smirks in the face of his fury, one eyebrow cocked slightly as if to silently remark that he had warned Castiel of exactly how he intended to win this trial.
Assuming facts not in evidence. It's such a mild term for the blatant lies being woven together by Crowley, and the little attorney flicks his glance at the judge, ignoring Henriksen behind him. "Oh, it will be very much in evidence. I'll rephrase, though." Crowley spins on his heel, pacing farther towards the jury, his grandiloquent gesture towards Castiel all part of the showmanship.
"Let's break this down, then, shall we? Prior to meeting the Omega, what exactly was your sexual experience, Father Castiel?" He turns to watch Castiel from beside the Jury, keeping Castiel fully aware of the audience that will judge his mate, and placing himself between them and Castiel's scowl, letting them view him as Crowley does.
"Prior to meeting Dean, none." The emphasis isn't subtle, not that Cas is subtle at the best of times. The idea of Crowley spending this entire court case referring to Dean as 'the Omega' is an irritant, a fly to be brushed aside. "I don't see how that's relevant."
"It's not relevant." Henriksen is still standing, hands planted on the prosecutor's table, a looming presence. "Your Honor. . ."
"'Your Honor,' I believe it's up to the jury to determine the relevance, considering the evidence that the '40 Year Old Virgin' here allowed himself to be led around by the knot." Castiel resists the urge to slap away the hand pointed in his direction as Crowley paces closer to the judge, but he can't keep the scorn out of his interruption.
"I am not forty."
Cas has no idea why Crowley looks smug at his correction, why he can hear a juror titter in involuntary laughter, and Henriksen shoots a sharp look at him. It's Sam's reaction that finally explains it to him, fingers to his forehead rubbing a crease between his eyes and hand partially obscuring his face, and Castiel knows that look. He's seen it on Dean, the kind of bemused exasperation of him not getting something they think he should have, some reference or quote.
He's being treated like a societal freak because he was focused and dedicated enough to his studies that he doesn't know every single reference from television and cinema. A freak because he believed, because his belief led him to the clergy and then to trying to mend broken bodies when his faith finally failed him.
Crowley is already turning him into the butt of a joke, a laughing stock and a naïve fool, while portraying Dean as manipulative enough to take advantage of him. It was easier when he was just furious, when he knew precisely what he was going to say. Henriksen was straightforward, his testimony was curt and factual, but now the cross-examination is a minefield of double-speak. He's never been a political creature: he'd rather everyone speak plainly. It's the wrong sort of frustrating to keep his steam going, and leaves him flustered and defensive as Crowley picks up his line of questioning again moments later.
"How long after meeting did your relationship take an amorous turn?" The phrasing is vague, and Castiel's eyes crease as he frowns, squinting silently at the attorney's back as he places himself once more beside jury.
'Amorous' could be anything. It could be buying Dean the drink at the bar, or being unable to let go of his hand at the hospital. It could be leaving his shift in Dean's wake, hoping to find the words to ask Dean to get a drink with him. It could be Dean's lips grazing over the pulse in his wrist in the car after the fight. It could be the inexplicable warmth of sitting on the couch patching him up, or the first time he had to resist kissing Dean. Amorous is just . . . wanting. He's gone his entire life not feeling that attraction as anything but a sort of vague aesthetic appreciation, until he met Dean. And he can't help that, wouldn't try to help that if he could.
Everything Crowley says feels like a trap. Castiel's answers slow and become less certain.
"We kissed the morning after the fight, but Dean was uncomfortable with it going farther than that kiss, and I did not want to press the issue." Castiel finally settles on, hedging his bets on Crowley's meaning.
"The arrest record shows that days after the fight, both you and Dean were arrested outside of your apartment?" Crowley doesn't just say Dean's name, he parrots it back, putting the same inflection into the name as Castiel gave it. It's too subtle to be antagonizing, but Cas notices it nonetheless—he's meant to.
His frown deepens, and he fights the urge to play into it by looking away from Crowley, tearing his stare away from the attorney's profile. "That's correct."
"And that you left the hospital after the fight and went directly to your apartment, concealing Dean's car from the authorities while my clients were being admitted to the hospital."
Cas doesn't need Sam's sharp look here to see the potential pitfall—answering incorrectly here incriminates him all over again, puts out there that he deliberately hid from the authorities. He put his hand on the Bible and swore to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. Then again, he's sworn so many things as a priest, a soldier, a doctor, that he's never quite managed to keep to. What's one more well-intentioned half-truth?
"Your 'clients'" his fingers crook faintly, air-quotes kept to his lap but the sarcasm is apparent "…keyed profanity, slurs and vulgarity onto the car. . ."
"Unless you watched my clients do so, which I sincerely doubt, this is hearsay." Crowley's interruption is lazy, showing the jury exactly how little he's worried about this. Judge Turner's instruction to strike Cas's comment from the record is infuriating, but Castiel begins again, in a monotone deadpan, his face carefully unreadable.
"Dean's car was inexplicably keyed with the exact same profanity and gendered slurs your 'clients' used against him in my presence. At the bar where 'your clients' sexually harassed him until they were encouraged to leave the premises." Ellen's attaboy nod at him is far more comforting than it should be, and he inclines his head slightly in her direction, acknowledging his mate's surrogate mother, before making himself finish the statement, turning his attention back to Crowley. "When I took Dean to my apartment, I covered the car. My parking space was within easy sight of a city bus stop and the swimming pool frequented by the children."
"And the car, and its owner, stayed there until after you were arrested together, half dressed and smelling of sex." Crowley, for all his pretentious cane when they met, seems sprightly as he turns on his heel to face Castiel again and paces across the courtroom floor to him. Castiel tracks his movements, eyes narrowed, mind racing to try and anticipate the direction of the questions. Crowley wasn't focused on the car; stepping to avoid one trap has led him inadvertently into another. "According to the arrest records and the report of the booking officer, by then Dean had taken up residence with you."
There's not a question there, but Crowley waits as if he should answer, attempting to draw Castiel into saying something.
"Do you regularly invite people to move in with you after knowing them for a day?" The burr of Crowley's accent makes the words a mocking purr as he finally prompts him.
"No . . ." He's neatly cut off, Crowley speaking over him before he has chance to voice his explanation.
"Your testimony has you meeting Friday at the hospital. Assaulting my clients on his word. 'Kissing' Saturday morning. Arrested in a compromising position in public Sunday evening. Is it fair to say that you've been living together in a sexual relationship since you assaulted my clients on his behalf?" Castiel isn't prepared for this—a fight he can handle, but the double speak, the sharp turns in questions, he can't navigate by simply barreling through them. He's acutely aware of the fact that he can't risk answering something wrong, but he also can't lie.
Crowley has a story, the story of an Omega sliding into the life of the wayward son of an affluent family, an Alpha with no practical experience with Omegas, and turning his world around. And in a way, Dean did, though not how Crowley is insinuating. There is just enough of a grain of truth to it, though, that he can twist Castiel's answers to fit his version of events because of how quickly their relationship developed. Even informed of what Crowley was aiming for, Castiel can't sidestep it in the confines of the courtroom: this is Crowley's element, not his.
Henriksen does his part: his objections of leading the witness are sustained when he can make them, but it's the questions that Castiel can't avoid that are damning, moreso than the editorializing embedded within them. The angry, embarrassed flush when Crowley begins questioning their private lives isn't helping matters, playing into him being the socially awkward virgin he had been, and it infuriates him that he can't help it. All of the headway he made adeptly handling questioning from Henriksen is going to amount to nothing.
If Dean's assailants walk, it's going to be on him.