"Kids are hardly the most dependable liars."
Castiel has rolled his last conversation with the young Winchesters around his tired brain a thousand times since it happened, most often after the boys disappeared, but never so painstakingly as after Sheridan had suggested the boys might have slipped up and hinted at (or slipped in ) some clue toward their current whereabouts. It had, ironically, taken going through the very transcripts Cas himself had so dryly suggested Sheridan refer back to in order to discover the hidden gem Cas now somehow knows will be there.
"Where does your father take you when you're not...traveling?"
"Uncle Bobby's."
Uncle Bobby. A name. A name dropped so casually it might very well have been an accident. Or not. Dean had certainly taken his time in shushing his little brother, not bothering to silence him until after the name was already mentioned.
Not likely a real uncle, that is, not John's brother. John Winchester is an only child, Cas knows. As was Mary. A family friend then. Close. Someone Dean thought was worth protecting, worth steering the social worker away from. Someone John trusts enough to leave his children behind with.
Cas logs onto the FBI databases and searches through John's military records, known associates, and everything else he can think of. He even searches the name "Robert" in connection with Mary Winchester's maiden name and comes up with nothing.
For a while, Cas sits, stumped. Then another idea strikes him. Something else Dean said about favorite cities and towns his dad liked to frequent. Cas wracks his brain for the most specific ones, places he's never heard of before. He has no practical reason for skipping over the other ones, but this is one of the very few times the supernatural-like tingling in his skull and the more down-to-earth, experience-hardened feeling in his gut have decided to sync up, so he rolls with it. He runs a quick search and narrows it down to three small towns with populations under 10,000. He finds "Robert Singer"s in two of them. The first Robert is a child. The second lives in a tiny hamlet just outside the slightly larger small town of Sioux Falls South Dakota.
He makes a call.
A call comes in. The FBI has finally heard back from their office in Topeka, Kansas. They've managed to track down the corner store where Dean's mysterious friend's burner was purchased. A quick roll through the security footage got the office a face. Another day matched that face with a name.
James Murphy.
Diana scoops up the name like so much gold and runs with it.
The FBI has already done most of the legwork. The man is a Pastor from Blue Earth, Minnesota. Like John, he served in the Marines back in the mid-seventies. There are no express connections to suggested they served together but, considering their ridiculous lack of leads, Diana is willing to let that by.
Agent Milton is already taking steps to get the Pastor in for questioning out west. Now it's only a matter of time.
When Diana shares the news with Pete, she's confused by his reaction.
"Shit," he grumbles, seemingly before he can stop himself because he quickly schools his expression.
"This is good news," Diana insists, "Maybe he knows something."
"I don't know," says Pete, refusing to meet her gaze, "Seems like a long shot."
"I don't know if you've noticed," she reminds him, "But we're not exactly swimming in leads, here. This could be our chance."
Pete grinds his teeth so intensely she can practically hear it, as he stares fixedly at the file on his desk.
"Shit," he mutters again, so quietly, she's not a hundred percent sure she didn't imagine it.
Dean checks his phone again and is more than a little worried to see his inbox empty. No missed calls. Not counting the messages from Castiel and the cops, asking him to come back.
Dean has to admit it pleases him just a little that his Angel is so worried about him.
Sammy is across the arcade, hustling some older kids out of their tickets at skeeball. Little rascal. Dean whistles between his teeth, Sam looks up and Dean tilts his head toward the door.
"Sup?" Sammy asks, thumbing through his newly-won tickets.
"Time to go," says Dean.
"Already?"
"Sammy," says Dean seriously, and his little brother looks up at his tone, handfuls of brightly colored paper forgotten.
The kid nods but adds, "It's early."
"I know."
"What happened?"
"Nothing," says Dean, "That's the problem."
Sammy's eyes widen. "Let's go."
They go.
Years ago Castiel pulled two scared little boys from a house fire and woke up the next morning with the ability to bench-press well over two-hundred pounds with one hand.
The weeks that followed were easily the most nerve wracking and stress filled of his young life. Whether it was crushing the ribs of a suspect, ripping the shower-head out of the wall, or leaving a handprint-shaped dent in his desk after a frustrated slam, every day the strength seemed to find some fresh, creative way to break something new and scare the living shit out of him in the process.
He lived in fear of himself, of the immense power vibrating beneath his skin, terrified to exist inside his own alien body. He felt like a monster at times, other times like a superhero, but mostly he just felt different.
Isolated.
Alone.
Burdened with a strangeness and a secret no one could possibly understand.
It changed him. His movements grew stiff, measured, hands shoved so deep in his pockets like he was hoping they'd just disappear. He became closed off, tight-lipped and even more enigmatic than he already was. His friends felt the shift and drifted away in kind, forcing him to reinvent himself in more ways than one.
He applied to the FBI a month following the rib-breaking incident. He had to get away.
It was an impossible, trying, and lonely time that had Cas constantly looking over his shoulder.
But none of that can in any way compare to the party Cas's nerves are throwing as he listens to the rhythmic tones thrumming through the other end of the phone line. All because of who might answer. And what he might know.
The ringing cuts off with a sharp click.
"Yeah?"
The voice that answers the phone is gruff, impatient.
"Bobby Singer?"
"Who wants to know?"
Cas swallows hard.
"This is Castiel Novak. I'm with the FBI."
"Yeah? Whaddaya want?"
Cas isn't sure if the voice sounds amused or annoyed.
"I have a few questions about a family you may know. The Winchesters."
There's a long, startled pause on the other end.
"The hell you know about the Winchesters?" All traces of amusement, real or imagined, have vanished. Cas takes a deep breath.
"Are you aware John Winchester has been arrested?"
There's another long pause, tenser this time.
Then finally, "Kids, okay?"
Cas hesitates, fingers tightening on the edge of his desk before he catches himself. He doesn't need another questionable crater. How much should he share?
"Assuming they can take care of themselves," Cas settles on.
"They rabbited on you, huh?"
"Yes."
"I'm sorry," Bobby says, "I can't help you."
"I need to find them," says Cas quickly, before the man can hang up.
"How did you get this number?"
"Did you miss the part where I work for the FBI?"
There's a grudging respect type grunt on the other end.
"Please," Cas tries again, "I need to make sure h- they're okay."
"Oh, don't worry about them," Bobby concedes, "They know the drill."
"This has happened before?"
"Listen, Fed. I don't know who you are or why you'd think I'd believe you want those little boys for any reason other than getting at John, but you're barking up the wrong tree."
Cas feels himself cave.
"I need to find Dean."
There's another hesitation on the line.
"Why Dean?"
"I...I think he wants me to find him. Something he said." Singer doesn't deny the possibility, so Cas keeps going. "I'm worried, Mr. Singer," he persists, "If you truly care about those boys, you should be too. There's something bigger going on here."
It's quiet for a minute.
"You care about him." It's not a question, but Cas answers it anyway.
"Yes."
"Why?"
Cas dodges the question.
"If you have as much faith in those boys as you seem to, you should know leading me to them won't necessarily mean leading me to John. I'd like to bring him in, but I'll settle for keeping Dean and his brother out of trouble."
" Why ?" Singer repeats.
"I...I feel a sense of personal responsibility for...for them."
"Personal? What the hell you talking about fed?"
Cas sighs, here it goes.
"I was there. The night of the fire," he admits, "I was the one who got them out."
Dean has never really thought much about God. He supposes it's naive to dismiss the possibility flat-out, but it's near impossible for him imagine any kind of benevolent force would allow the kind of evil he witnesses on a daily basis to go on unpunished. So, for the most part, he's pushed the idea to the back of his mind.
One thing Dean knows: if God does exist, he's a total dick.
When Dean was four, it was a different story. His mother had been very spiritual, if not formally religious. She raised him to believe in love and goodness and angels. And when Hell came knocking on their quiet, suburban door, and a savior had burst through the flames against all odds, raising Dean and his brother out, out from the fire and death with one hand... Dean had just assumed something holy and powerful and good was at work. And that image has stuck with him.
Dean's older now. He's not so certain he believes in Angels of the Lord of the Dicks. But he does believe in Castiel.
Castiel is and always will be his Angel, no matter where God has wandered off too.
These thoughts, usually miles from Dean's mind, have come bubbling to the surface in light of his present location.
Dean's and Sam's shadows have rarely darkened the doorways of churches, only once or twice while hiding out or researching a case. But now they are here for a different reason. A far more important one.
The place smells like incense and dark pews line the large open space leading up to the alter, all of it dotted in multicolored lights from the tall stained-glass windows.
It's simple, functional. Not overly ornate and it really doesn't look like much from the outside. But inside...the inside holds more horrors and darkness than anyone with a soul could stomach to imagine.
And that is precisely why Dean and Sam need to be here.
Everything is going to change tonight.
Pete really really does not want to make this call.
He stares at his phone, sitting so innocently on his desk, challenging him, mocking him.
As soon as he makes the call, everything is going to change. It'll set wheels in motion that won't ever be stopped. That will tip his life upside down and hang it there by its toes, forever.
But there's no other choice.
His hand trembles as he reaches for the receiver and he scowls at himself for being such a coward.
He shouldn't have to make the damn call in the first place. He should be competent enough to sort this out on his own. Smart enough to figure out whatever is was that Novak had been lucky enough to stumble upon during their last conversation. But the fed won't even take his calls.
Pete grimaces as he realizes he might have scared off his only chance of keeping things anywhere in the vicinity of normal. His only chance at finding those damn boys.
Those damn boys...
"Kids are hardly the most dependable liars."
No, Pete decides. Not yet.
He has one last trick up his sleeve.
"This is Dean's other other cell, so you must know what to do." Beep.
The message plays over for the fourth time and Cas lets the phone drop from his hand. He's left Dean three separate messages and sent over a dozen texts, each practically begging the boy to come in or at least to let Cas know that he and his brother were alright.
Cas isn't positive what's come over him lately. How he's let his personal feelings bleed so profusely into this case. It's something to do with that boy, he knows. It's all he knows. That, and that he has to find him. Now. Something is warning him, screaming in his head, sending tingles ricocheting across his body. He has to find Dean. It's become his only priority. But how?
Singer hadn't given him much. Even after the man had agreed to help there wasn't a whole lot he could offer Cas from South Dakota. All he could really do was to inform Castiel that John Winchester never left anything up to chance. Every move and happenstance was always meticulously calculated and if John's children were in the wind it was because John wanted it that way. That and to let Cas know that Dean was incredibly obedient to father in all ways but one: He would put Sam before anything. Before a job, before his father's wishes, before his own life.
But Cas had already kind of figured that.
Cas sits for a while, contemplating. Thoughts of all shapes and sizes rolling around inside his head. He thinks about John. He thinks about Dean. He thinks about Sam. He thinks about the love Dean has for his brother. Thinks about the rough and tumble life they lead. The stress and fear that follow them around like a wild dog stalking its prey. Thinks about how miserable they must be, loyal though they are, dogging along in their father's looming shadow. Thinks about thoughts he's had before. About how these boys had finally, finally snatched a chance to be away from him, for however breif a time.
Cas realizes there's a very good chance the boys had met up with their father right away. But maybe, just maybe, not.
Maybe Dean would have taken this opportunity to give something positive to his brother and to himself before diving straight back into the world of darkness they'd so fleetingly breached.
Maybe Dean would want to do something fun.
Cas sits up straight like a bolt of lightning had punched through his frame. The rightness of this thought sends the tingles spiraling across his skin in every direction. He's onto something. He knows it.
Now. Just where would a ten and fourteen year old boy go for fun?