Dick Roman was, if he said so himself, an excellent psychiatrist. A perfect living embodiment of physician; heal thyself, perhaps. Except, of course, he had no wish to do a damn thing about his sociopathy, or his NPD.
He also prided himself on his cold-reading and his ability to unpick the psyche, motivations and mental state of anyone within a few minutes in their company. And, generally, he could manipulate all but the most difficult of subjects with just a few minutes more.
Under Raphael's instructions, he dropped into the seat opposite Michael, enjoying the range of emotions, questions and feelings that had scudded across the man's face. His dismay at seeing his youngest brother, stunned and clearly under control, on the screen, whilst hearing Raphael's voice, the tinniness of the phone speaker doing nothing to disguise the sing-song menace, was nothing short of exquisite.
The Angel family were a case study par excellence. Fascinating. A case study in dysfunctionality. He could write a research paper on them that would make the psychiatric community weep. He closed the video call and slid his cell off the table.
Roman paused and made a pretence of looking over the menu. The waitress was approaching. An elderly couple two tables down snagged her attention and another customer swerved his course abruptly to coast around her, snagging his foot in the old ladies bag straps, he stumbled heavily, his hand clasping the high back of Michael's bench seat. Throughout the commotion, as the young man apologised and the waitress apologised and the old lady apologised and then they all apologised again, Michael's eyes did not leave his own, staring at him, face hardening by the second.
Roman leant forward slightly. "Oh, I know, Michael. All those years of being overlooked and finally, finally, you have a perfectly deserving punchbag for all that impotent rage. Right in front of you and once again, you have to push it back. Still. Plenty of practice, repressing your rage and being a good little boy is second nature to you now.".
As the young man made his way to an adjacent booth, passing their table. His shadow appearing to be a magic smoothing balm, it slid simultaneously over Michael's fists as they flattened into hands. The cursory glance over the interloper did nothing to abate the hatred in Michael's eyes as they settled back into their conversation, however, and Roman chuckled. Too easy.
He lowered his voice a little and his smile, perfunctory and business-like, disappeared quickly. "Well, now. To business. You have proof of life, time to produce your side of the bargain."
Michael swallowed. "I have what you want. And as soon as I have confirmation that Meg and Cassie are free and unharmed I will hand it over."
"This is all so very predictable, don't you think," Roman drawled lazily. "Far too easy for things to go wrong… We all know how this is going to go, so shall we take a short cut? I will tell you what is going to happen and you can choose whether or not to feign reluctance before you acquiesce because you will acquiesce, Michael, we all know you will, because if you don't Raphael will simply kill one of them and still have the other to hold as collateral."
Roman waited. Michael predictably, blanched. Roman could practically hear the prickle of his scalp as it shrank and pulled his face taut. "Knowing him as I do, I suspect he'll even pretend to offer you the choice of who he leaves alive, but we all know he'll be lying, he just wants you to suffer. You may have a lot of repressed anger but your brother is drenched in it. He has hated you all for most of his adolescent and post-adolescent years and I fear the sparse opportunities to cause you suffering over the years has done little to quench his thirst for vengeance. So shall we cut, as they say, to the chase?"
Michael nodded. His face had become impassive and Roman was mildly impressed. He had not expected Michael to have quite so much backbone. Proof one should never underestimate an adversary, even an inconsequential one. "You and I will go for a little drive somewhere suitably remote, where we won't be disturbed. You will show me the evidence. We will destroy the physical items together. We will use my laptop to evidence that you do indeed have the encrypted hard drive and then I will message Raphael. Once he gets my message he will package our hostages ready for release. He will release them, I'm afraid unharmed is a boat that has already sailed, but they will be alive… Oh, don't pull that face, Michael, you have seen enough to know their condition already, but if you do as you are told… and let's face it… you are very good at being told what to do… they will at least be repairable."
The hatred had congealed. Roman had no doubt that Michael wanted to hurt him given half the chance, but as he doubted that Michael was capable of much worse than a sharp slap he was not especially worried. He was sure that at any moment, somewhere an uncontrollable tic would develop in a facial muscle, or perhaps Michael would just grind his teeth.
"And then?" Michael prompted, not satisfying Roman's prediction. "What then? How do I know Raphael won't have them killed when I hand over the drive? He is hardly the poster boy for trust and honour anymore."
"Oh, bravo, Michael," Roman said, "Positively cutting, What a shame, he isn't here to hear it. I'm sure he would be inconsolable to know he has lost your good opinion. But you are quite correct, of course. You won't know, I can scarcely offer any guarantee now can I, but what is your other option…"
"I could just hand the drive over to the authorities. Then he… and you… will be finished," Michael said softly. "I don't think they allow even eminent psychiatrists to make conference appearances from the big house…"
Roman raised his eyebrows. "And have the death of another brother on your conscience… I don't think so, Michael. It's one thing to know your lack of action indirectly killed your brother after the fact, it's quite another to deliberately take a course of action you know will result in Castiel's demise. Now, entertaining as this little game is, shall we get back on track. Raphael is a patient man, positively Machiavellian in fact, but even he has his limits. We have a little over an hour before he expects to receive the message to tell him that we have completed our first task and time is a-ticking. Shall we?"
He pushed himself up and swung into the aisle, reaching for his crutches.
Reluctantly, Michael followed him, out of the diner and towards the parking lot.
Tomáš Cerzny scratched idly at his balls as he tripped cold-footed through his still slightly dusty attic suite in the old mill building he had moved into just two years before. He was still yawning as he made his way down the stairs and past the large glass window that had cost more than his entire final year of tuition at the Institute of Science in Praha. The gentle arc of the redundant mill wheel falling away to the mill race below.
Business was good: He could afford a giant window and much, much more. But most of the money was just accumulating in obscure foreign bank accounts. It didn't pay to flash his new found wealth too much. The local chlupatej would become even more greedy for bribes. As it was the idiot probably thought he was a low-level drug dealer. Whatever. So long as he minded his own business and kept the PCR from the door, he was worth the bribe. Business expense. He corrected himself with a yawn.
"Talking to yourself again, brácha," his sister's drawl was lazy, the hints of the American accent she had acquired in her time in the United States bleeding through even into her native Czech. "For heaven's sake, put some clothes on." She slipped seamlessly into English.
He didn't bother to reply, hitching his sweatpants lower to scratch a butt cheek just to annoy her. His morning routine was not to be disturbed with social niceties. His first port of call was the hermetically sealed, climate controlled server room to make sure his pets were secure and healthy and then he would fire up his laptop and set his priorities for the day, while she pottered around making them breakfast. They would eat together, discuss business and then he, as the far better cook, would clean up the shit tip she had made of his kitchen and prepare their evening meal for cooking later when they finished for the day. Their real work starting at just after 2 pm when the Americans started reaching their terminals. The legitimate side of his business was obviously not as lucrative as their 'specialist' work, but it gave good cover.
He had barely completed logging on, carefully hiding his online presence somewhere in South America when an email from late yesterday snagged his attention. Oh, this one had been interesting to set up. The advance alone had been 50,000 US dollars, he clicked open the email, sure enough, it was the automated activation email. Tomáš let out a quiet whoop and pumped his fist in the air, no doubt somewhere on the floor above him Táňa would be rolling her eyes. But Tomáš did not care, the activation code had been sent. He was about to have a lot of fun.
Sam flipped the sun visor down and pushed his butt back in his seat so he could use it as cover. He suspected that the light shining off his windshield was probably obscuring him enough, but he was nothing if not cautious. The diner door swung inward and the awkward figure of the psychiatrist, clumsy on his crutches appeared, followed by Michael, looking a little odd in combats and long sleeved t-shirt, face set in stony determination.
"Sammy?"
"Relax, I got eyes on 'em."
"Way to go, Tyne Daly. Did it work? Could you hear them?"
"Yeah, it came through fine."
"And?! What's happening, I could only hear half of what they were saying!"
"Calm down, Dean. They're gonna drive somewhere quiet. Just get your ass out here and we'll follow them."
"What if we lose them? That bastard is our only real lead on Cas..." Dean had appeared at the diner door, his phone, retrieved from wherever he had placed it pressed to his ear. His other fist clenched at his side, his body language screaming pent up aggression as he glared in the direction of Roman and Michael's retreating figures.
"Oh no..." Sam began fumbling with his seatbelt as Dean began to move. "Don't you dare do anything stupid…" He grabbed at the door handle, cursing as he scrambled from the car to chase after his brother.
"I forgot just how pretty you are, Sheriff Mills… or can I call you Jody? After all, we're practically family… All those months in court, sitting with my boys… Taking over looking after them for me… Never once did you want to come and have a little chat. Then out of the blue, I get this sweet little request… And I thought maybe you'd let yourself go to seed, but no… you've positively," he raised his nose as if he were scenting the air, "...ripened. Rude of you though, Jody... bringing the new beau along." Walker flicked a dismissive glance at Henrikson.
Even through the thick perspex and the slight distortion of handsets he made her skin crawl. Behind him, the guard was watchful, stood at a respectful distance behind the closed bars of the cubicle in which Walker sat.
He licked along his top lip, dropping his head and gazing at her from under his brows. "So tell me, Jody, to what do I owe the honour, and more importantly… what's in it for me?"
It did not require a skilled psychiatrist to read Dean Winchester's body language. He might have eventually succumbed to Sam's hurriedly whispered logical arguments for their next move, but he had complied with considerable ill-grace. And now, he was barely maintaining his temper.
Behind him, in the back seat of his own hire car, the most suitably skilled psychiatrist shifted, causing the suspension to bounce slightly. The awkward twist of his body because of the way his wrists were fastened to the baby seat anchor point mounted in the middle seat was clearly forcing his damaged ankle to bear too much of his weight.
"Finding it difficult to get comfy, sweetheart?" Winchester gave him a twisted grin in the rearview.
Roman stared back at him via the mirror. Between them, they looked like a pair of not too successful amateur boxers, but Roman's bruises and his predicament was not causing him nearly enough discomfort as far as Dean was concerned. Although the swelling bruise distorting his jaw under puffy split lips was nearly as satisfying as the punch that had caused it, Sam's intervention that had saved the psychiatrist from taking the beating of his life. One huge hand falling on Dean's arm as he hissed, "Dean, enough. Not here." He was right, of course, some concerned passing citizen reporting a one-sided fight on the side of the road would have this place crawling with police officers. Something none of them wanted. But this bastard had hurt Cas, assisted in leaving him 'repairable' and Dean had seriously enjoyed meting out a little justice.
Seeing Michael Angel unable to resist the opportunity to kick the cast on the prone man's ankle had gone some way to redeeming him in Dean's eyes, too, despite provoking bitchfaceTM #No.6 and a disapproving suck of breath through teeth from Sam.
The Winchesters had followed Roman from the prison car park. Sam keeping careful distance, the anonymity of the silver hire car giving them a distinct advantage as they tailed him. Dean ignoring the worried glances his brother was throwing at him from the driving seat, knowing that his irritation towards Sam was unfair but unable to stop himself. He had left the phone on speaker, the initial guess that the motel in the Nevada desert as the ultimate destination beginning to seem more and more likely. At first, they had thought the stop at the diner was just a break in the journey. A haphazard comment by Sam about the eye strain caused by a purple Lexus covered in orange dust drawing a gasp from Gabe that had them all realising just how important it was to get ears and eyes on whatever meeting was taking place inside the diner.
Sam was too distinctive to disguise himself easily and Roman would be sure to recognise him from their brief interaction at the jail, whereas his only visual of Dean was probably a decade old mug shot. It was just about worth the risk, so wearing a clumsy disguise of cap and sunglasses it was on Dean to maintain his temper and try to get close enough to drop Sam's cell within eavesdropping distance. Pure dumb luck affording him the opportunity to not only fake a tangle with the waitress so he could slip Sam's phone down the back of Michael's seat, but also to slide into a booth close enough to hear with his own ears.
Roman shifted in his seat, despite his current predicament and his physical discomfort he was fascinated by Winchester. The man was undeniably handsome, underwear model handsome, film-star handsome. Even covered in bruises and scrapes he was quite simply breathtakingly gorgeous.
"Finding it difficult to get comfy, sweetheart?" The determinedly casual drawl did nothing to disguise the simmer of rage belied by bunching jaw muscles and the glowering set of his eyes.
Roman licked his lips. This wasn't just going to be a button pushing exercise, he could and would play this boy like a concert piano.