Suffer the Children

by Kikai Saigono

Their schemes for forcing the Winchesters to say yes to being vessels gone awry too long, the Angels have decided to toss the brothers and angel in to alternate realities with completely separate lives, hoping that divided and alone they will give in. So begins the story of two strangers whose drive for answers, friendship, and love transcend time over and over again. AU. Dean/Cas.

8. Chapter 8

"Dead? What do you mean Connor's dead?"

Dean flashed a frantic look over to Castiel, who stared right back at him, mouthing 'Connor?' and rising back up to his feet. He rubbed his hands roughly against his jeans, scraping off a layer of dried blood.

"What part of 'no longer alive' is escaping you right now?" Sam quipped from the other end of the line. "Dean, look, there are police everywhere, and when the school realized you and Cas were missing, they came looking for me. They questioned me about what happened and I had no other choice, Dean, I had to tell them what happened and that you went after Connor—I didn't know what else to do—"

"Sam, calm the fuck down—"

"—And now mom and dad are here! Fuck, Dean, they're going to talk to the police! The whole fucking school is out in the hallway and they're on lockdown and—"

Dean jerked the phone away from his ear and jammed his thumb in to one of the buttons as hard as he could, listening as a very loud and very shrill beep erupted from his end of the line, effectively quieting his younger brother. After a few seconds, he finally pulled his thumb off and pressed the phone back to his ear.

"You listening now?" he growled.

Sam's voice was quiet when he replied. "Yes."

"You tell the police that neither of us have anything to hide and we didn't fucking do it," Dean said, adding an exasperated sigh at the end. "And just… fuck, listen, I have to get Cas to a hospital. I can't deal with this right now."

"The hospital? Is Cas hurt?"

Dean eyed Castiel cautiously. "It's complicated."

"…Define complicated."

"Listen, Sammy, just tell the police to meet us there—"

Suddenly the phone was being wrenched out of Dean's hand violently, and before Dean could even register its loss Castiel was chucking the device in to the bushes off the side of the road.

"The hell's the matter with you!" Dean rounded on Castiel, puffing himself up and not missing how utterly pissed the younger teen looked. Dean shoved past him hard towards the bushes where the phone lay hidden somewhere amongst them.

"I'm not going to the hospital," Castiel called after him, his voice low and stone cold.

"Uh, I don't know if you've noticed, Cas," Dean said as he pawed around some bushes, "but there's something very wrong with you. And you know where people go when something is wrong with them? Hospitals."

"I'm fine."

"Also," Dean continued, ignoring him, "I've learned from past experience that when the police are on your ass, especially for something that you didn't even do, it's usually best to not run from them. And while you know and I know that we didn't put that low life, sorry son of a bitch out of his misery, we don't exactly have an air tight alibi here. What we do have is a bloody knife and the kid last witnessed with that asshole without so much as a scratch on him, covered in blood and on the run like a bat out of hell. Do I need to tell you how that's gonna look?"

Castiel closed his mouth, refraining from saying the string of curse words obviously on his tongue. He only watched as Dean cursed and dug through the bushes some more.

After a few silent but tense moments, Dean paused in his actions, sighing and straightening up to look at Castiel.

"Look," he said, his voice softer and hands up in resignation. "I'm sorry. When I said there was something wrong with you, I didn't mean—"

Castiel shook his head. "It's fine. There is something wrong with me. You don't have to water it down." He held up his blood smeared hands again, studying them. "Don't you have any idea what they'd probably try to do to me? I'd be—I'd be some kind of science experiment. I'm—abnormal. I'm…"

"Cas." Castiel looked up. Dean was watching him, his missing phone forgotten. "Stop. There's nothing wrong with you, we just have to…figure this out."

Castiel looked down at his feet. "You say that like you actually believe it."

Suddenly remembering something, Castiel glanced down at the passenger seat of the Impala, the door still thrown open. He slowly bent over and reached down to the floorboard. Dean watched him as he stood up again, the bloodied switchblade loose in his grasp and held at arm's length, as if he was still frightened by it.

"Cas?" Dean called, a questioning edge to his voice.

Castiel turned the weapon over in his hands. "I noticed it earlier. When—well it doesn't matter. There's something carved on it," he said simply. His gaze flickered up to meet Dean's. "Symbols or… something."

"So? They mean something to you?"

Castiel shook his head. "No. But that's not everything. You're going to think I'm crazy."

Dean managed a snort of laughter. "After everything else that's happened today? Come on, Cas."

"I think that they—" Castiel began, but was abruptly cut off at the loud roar of a car speeding towards them, then by them, in a blur. Castiel didn't glance behind him to see it, but the way Dean's face paled and his features froze told the younger teen all he needed to know.

He could hear the car begin to slow to a crawl down the road from them, and Castiel finally turned to watch it, panic instantly gripping at his chest when he recognized the sirens on the black and white vehicle.

It was when the car came to a complete halt and began backing up towards them again that Castiel whipped his head around to face Dean once more, his earlier thought forgotten and panic stricken words on the tip his tongue.

But Dean only strode towards him, completely silent and a finger held to his lips and determination thick in his movements. The next thing Castiel knew Dean was ripping the bloody switchblade out of his grasp and after shooting a sharp glance at the slowly advancing car he threw the blade in to the bushes. The movement was quick and precise, but Castiel knew that the officer must have seen something. Then the older teen was shrugging off his jacket and pushing it around Castiel's shoulders, forcing his arms through the sleeves and pulling it as closed as it would go, effectively covering the blood smeared across his shirt. He reached around Castiel and slammed the passenger door of the car closed, scowling at the driver's side door still wide open.

"Act natural and don't say a word."

Castiel nodded. What else could he do?

The police car finally came to a halt, and out climbed an officer somewhere between his fifties and a mid-life crisis with a thick white moustache and one hand grasping his belt. The way he sauntered towards the pair with his shoulders back and his nose turned upwards already made Castiel's heart rapidly thud against his rib cage. Castiel put his blood smeared hands behind his back.

"Evening, boys," he drawled, and Castiel felt Dean step closer to him, almost defensively.

"Officer," he said in return, his even voice betrayed the slight shiver that ran over his body. "To what do we owe the pleasure?"

The cop threw a sharp glare at him and Castiel wanted to kick Dean right in the shins; but if he had to think about it, maybe this was Dean's way of 'acting natural'. Castiel shot a nervous glance towards the bushes, only to look back at the cop and mentally curse himself when he saw the man was watching him.

"So what are you two boys doing on the side of the road? Car broke down?" He eyed Castiel up and down. "Lovers' spat?"

Dean snorted. "We in some kind of trouble?"

"That depends." The officer trained his gaze directly at Castiel. "Are you?"

And right then Castiel knew the game was up. His eyes darted over to Dean in a quiet panic, and Dean held his gaze steadfast, his eyes silently pleading for Castiel to keep it together. Then his stare fluttered above Dean's head in the direction of the bushes once more before he could stop himself. It was only a split second glance, but Castiel knew he had just blown everything. His voice cracked when he looked back to the officer and stammered, "N-no. No. Officer."

The officer clicked his tongue in thought. "What's in the bushes, kid?" he barked and it made Castiel flinch.

"The what?" he asked, realizing the nervousness in his own voice.

"The bushes," the officer said again, firmly. "That's the second time I've caught you staring over there. You're sweating like a whore in church, boy. Now I'm not gonna ask again." A steady hand was hovering right over the gun in his belt.

The teen's jaw tensed; he opened his mouth to speak but was silenced when a hand fell on his shoulder harshly, and Castiel's entire body tensed.

"My phone!" Dean interrupted. There was a minute squeeze on Castiel's shoulder, a reassurance, before Dean's hand fell away. "Accidentally lost it somewhere in there."

"Yeah? How 'accidentally' are we talking here?"

"Ah well, you know how it is. Lover's spats and all," Dean chuckled, a too-cocky grin spreading across his face as he gestured vaguely to Castiel. "Things were said, tempers were lost. My fault for not deleting those steamy texts from that cute waitress the other night, right baby?" Dean slung an arm around Castiel's shoulders and ruffled his hair. The icy glare Castiel gave him in return made even his fake smile falter.

"That's some mouth you got on you, boy," the officer snapped, his hand still floating above his glock.

Dean shrugged. "Hey, it's true. Scout's honor."

"So you wouldn't mind if I took a look around in there myself?"

Castiel could feel Dean body next to him tighten apprehensively for a brief second before relaxing again. "Be my guest, officer. You'd actually be helping me out here. Just keep it away from this guy." He brought his index finger up to the side of his head in a twirling motion.

The officer seemed to regard them for a minute, staring them up and down; then he was reaching for the radio on his chest. "Dispatch, I got an eleven-fifty four here," he said, his eyes never leaving the two teenagers. "Gonna need a plate check on a vehicle; black, sixty-eight Chevrolet Impala."

"Sixty-seven," Dean hissed under his breath, garnering a heavy glare from the officer.

"Plate number is king alpha, zebra, two yellow five. Copy?"

"Copy that, stand by," a scratchy female voice responded from the buzzing radio, and then the three were surrounded by silence.

The officer glanced over to at the driver's side of the Impala, noticing the vomit pooled on the side of the road. "You been drinking, kid?" the officer asked, nodding in the direction of the puddle of sick. Dean opened his mouth to say something to stop the man, but the officer didn't wait for an answer; he pulled up his belt and began wandering over to the driver's side door.

Castiel was watching him go, a panic that hadn't quite sunk in sweeping through his body in one cold shiver, when he was being violently grabbed by the elbows and swung around. He met Dean's hard, alarmed stare, their faces inches apart.

"Listen to me," Dean whispered, his tone harsh and ragged with obvious unease. "Don't say a word, not a fucking word, got it? You didn't do anything wrong, they can't pin anything on you. You ask for a lawyer or a parent and you don't say anything."

"Dean, what—"

"No time. Are you with me or not here?" Dean's hands came to rest on either side of Castiel, at the junctures between his neck and his shoulders and he squeezed in what he hoped felt like a soothing, grounding gesture. "Don't crack on me, Cas. You're gonna be fine, I promise. You trust me?"

Castiel could only nod frantically. He started to say something, Dean's name about to pass on his lips before he was interrupted and cut off by a startled low gasp and a shout of "Jesus Christ!"

The officer was backing away from the car, his eyes trained on the passenger seat covered in red, and his hand already grabbing his gun from the belt slung around his waist. Dean only had time to push Castiel away from him with a curse before the gun was being aimed right at him.

"Hands behind your head, on your knees, now!"

Dean closed his eyes, resignation washing over him, and slowly sunk to his knees, his hands lacing together behind his skull. Castiel, hesitating and unsure, followed. As soon as Castiel revealed his bloodied hands, the officer's gun switched its aim to him.

"Face down on the ground!" The two teens complied. "Dispatch, what's the ETA on those plates, I've got something happening here."

The radio buzzed and the female voice returned. "Plates are registered to a Dean Winchester. He's the one with the warrant out for his arrest for that ten-seventy-two out at the high school."

The officer grinned in a startling maniacal fashion. "That must make you Castiel then," he sneered, his gun gesturing slightly at the younger teen. "Dispatch, I've got both suspects here, need backup."

"Copy. What's your location?"

"One mile south of Wabash and Colton, ETA?"

"Two minutes. Officers dispatched."

"Copy." The officer took a few steps forward until he was hovering right over the two teenagers. Dean turned to face Castiel, giving him a reassuring nod before he was being nudged roughly in the shoulder.

"You two boys are in serious trouble," the officer said, smirking at Dean's wince. "You cut that poor kid up pretty good, didn't ya?"

"We didn't do anything," Dean snarled.

"Yeah, and I'm Santa Claus."

"Hey man, I don't need to know about your kinks." That earned Dean kick and Castiel gave the officer a defiant glare. A long, silent and tense moment followed, the gun looming over them and the officer's watchful eye bearing in to the backs of their skulls. As soon as Castiel heard wailing sirens hurtling towards them, he flipped his head over to look at Dean.

He whispered the older teen's name, the officer deaf to the word over the quickly approaching police cars.

"It's okay Cas, I'm here."

"What do I do?" If circumstances were different, Castiel would have been embarrassed at the panic in voice. "What am I supposed to say?"

"Nothing. You're gonna be alright, Cas. I promised you, didn't I? I'm gonna get you out of this."

Castiel shook his head as the cars came to a screeching halt somewhere close down the road, and doors were being thrown open; gun were being drawn. Castiel lowered his eyes to the pavement. Wide, green eyes tried to follow him, hold his gaze, but Castiel refused to meet them. "I'm sorry I ever drew you in to this mess. Sam too."

"Hey," Dean called, his voice insisting. Castiel turned to face him again, the road scratching his cheek. "We're gonna figure this out. All of it. I'm not gonna hang you out to dry." Castiel opened his mouth to protest, but before he could get the words to pass his throat, Dean gave him a sharp wink and whispered, "Besides, I kinda like you, yeah?"

Dean turned away from Castiel then, missing the way Castiel's eyes went wide, instead glancing up at the officer. "Hey, Santa Claus!"

The officer looked down at him as the backup officers approached, their guns lowering at the sight of the subdued teens.

"When are we gonna get this show on the road? I got places to be," Dean called up to him.

"You'd shut your mouth if you knew what was good for you, boy."

"Oh you know how I get all tingly when you talk dirty to me."

Suddenly Dean was being hauled to his feet by his shoulder and he grunted as he was thrown over the hood of the car hard, his hands being yanked behind his back with more force than necessary.

Castiel let out a noise that was something between a growl and a shout, and then hands were lifting him to his feet too. He felt the cool metal around his wrists as a tall female officer pulled him by the shoulder towards another car and began searching his pockets. "He has nothing to do with this." The words were tumbling out of his mouth before he could register them. "It was me, it was all me."

"Cas, shut the hell up," Dean hissed from the hood of the car, the officer's hand pushing his face in to the hot surface and holding him there. "Remember what I said!"

The officer finished searching Dean's pockets, pulling out his wallet and keys. He pointed at another officer standing by. "You take Clyde in your car, I've got Bonnie over here. Meet up back at the station."

Dean quirked an eyebrow. "Wait, why do I gotta be Bonnie?"

"A pretty face like you, who else would you be?" the officer deadpanned as he pulled Dean up off the hood and began walking him to the back seat of his cruiser.

"Oh Santa." Dean flashed him his best shit-eating grin just as the officer was pushing on his head, lowering Dean in to the seat. "You are so going on my naughty list."

The officer slammed the door shut.

Castiel was being pushed in to another car when he saw the first officer pull away, Dean sitting calmly in the back seat. He leaned back, trying to find his breath again. It was as he was watching the officer who cuffed him return to the driver's side and climb in that he realized he was still wearing Dean's jacket; which was now completely open and showing off the aftermath of the day's events with pride. He leaned his cheek against the leather, feeling the scratch of the worn material graze his skin. He closed his eyes in thought as the screaming sirens came to life and the car pulled away, leaving the lonely black Impala abandoned on the side of the road.

---

Dean had his head face down on the table, his arms cradling his head as he closed his eyes and thought. Just thought. Thought about how to proceed, how to possibly get out of this mess he'd found himself in. It was definitely a bigger mess than any he'd faced before. He'd done a lot of bad shit in his life, but being caught up in a murder was a whole new level of stupid. Plus there was that tiny little thing with Castiel fucking healing himself like it wasn't any big deal.

Dean opened his eyes. Castiel. Cas.

Besides, I kinda like you, yeah?

"Idiot," Dean groand. He glanced up at the ceiling, his eyes squinting at the flickering fluorescent light hanging over him that just had to be like that on purpose. It was too cliché to not be intentional.

Like he feels the same way, his mind kept whispering to him over and over.

"I don't care, I don't even like him. Not like that."

Sure, whatever makes you feel better.

Dean shook his head and rested his chin in his palm. "He's a guy."

Spectacular observation there, Winchester. Seriously, A plus. You don't remember that 'thing' with the kid in middle school? Tyler? On the basketball team?

"Jesus, shut up."

You shut up.

"Great, now I'm talking to myself. At least if this takes a turn for the worse I can make an insanity plea."

There was a click at the door. Dean sat up, squaring his shoulders and relaxing back in to what he hoped looked like the normal macho front he put up.

A tall, thin woman in a pencil skirt, thick rimmed glasses, and a taught bun walked in carrying a briefcase, a police officer following close behind. She surveyed the room, completely ignoring Dean sitting at the metal table, and then turned to the officer and waved him away.

"We need to be alone," she said curtly. The officer looked as though he wanted to protest, but thought better of it and left while muttering something about calling if he was needed and "no funny business, Winchester".

Dean glanced over the woman, noting the way she set her glasses low on the bridge of her nose and finally spared him a glance that if Dean was not mistaken—and he rarely ever was when it came to these sorts of things—seemed nervous and hesitant. Easy.

"Hello, sweetheart," Dean cooed, his voice unwavering and raspy. "And what's your name?"

The woman fixed her glasses again. "I'm Detective Hagen. I'm the lead investigator in the case concerning Connor Wachowski's death."

"Ah," Dean sighed. "Sadly I can't take credit for that. Wish I could."

Detective Hagen sat in the chair opposite of Dean. "You know, Dean, I believe you."

Dean looked up at her. "Really?" he replied in a tone that suggested he knew she was full of shit.

"Yes. That's the reason I had them take the cuffs off of you. I don't think you're nearly as dangerous as the rest of my department does, despite how much you puff yourself up."

The teenager snorted.

"I'm serious, Dean. I don't believe you killed Connor. I know you had some problems with him. We know about what he did to your brother. We talked to Sam."

Dean's eyes narrowed. "So what you're basically saying is that you know he had what was coming to him."

"You must understand what this looks like, Dean? My hands are tied. The prosecutor wants to charge you; he thinks you had plenty of motive. And with your record they're not willing to give you the benefit of the doubt like I am. Now, I have some good news and some bad news for you."

The detective pulled out her briefcase and set it on the table. Dean watched her open it and crossed his arms when she pulled something out.

"Good news is we found this for you, turns out you weren't lying about it." He watched as she tossed his phone, looking worse for wear but still in working condition, on to the table. It was in a plastic bag labeled 'evidence' and a few scrambled numbers.

Dean looked back up at her expectantly.

"Bad news is we also found this." She pulled out another bag, setting it right next to the phone. It was the knife, bloody and still open with all the little symbols carved in to it. Dean stared at it hard.

"Now, we tested it and it came back with your prints, Connor's, and your friend's on it. Care to tell me how that happened?"

"His name is Castiel," Dean grunted as he placed his hands back on the table and leaned forward. Then he shrugged. "I don't know what to tell you. I already told the police officer who grilled me that Wachowski was the one who had the knife to begin with. Not me, not Cas."

"Well unfortunately Connor is dead from a pretty serious knife wound, so it really doesn't matter who had it first, and both of you seem to be suspiciously uninjured—and Castiel had quite a lot of blood on him when we took it for evidence. I'm willing to bet that when the blood tests come back in we're going to find Connor's blood all over that knife and in your car."

Dean tossed his head back and let out a loud, boisterous laugh. "Oh lady, you are in for a real treat, then."

"And what do you mean by that, Dean?"

Dean just smirked at her and shrugged.

"Dean—"

"I want to talk to Cas," the teen interrupted, hating the way his name rolled off her tongue.

"Why do you need to see him?"

"I want to know he's alright."

"Dean, Castiel is fine, but he's in a lot of trouble. I'm much more worried about you right now." Suddenly the woman's hand was worming its way on top of his, warm and soft, and Dean found himself too surprised to look away. She tilted her head down and looked at Dean over the rims of her glasses. Dean was weirdly reminded of his mother.

"Dean, I want to help you as much as I can. I don't want to see you throw your life away over something like this." Dean's hand twitched. "Just tell us what Castiel did, and I'll try and get the accomplice charges dropped for you. I can probably get you just probation."

The teen pulled his hand out from under hers abruptly, as if he'd been burned by the mere touch of her warm skin. He leaned back farther in his seat and slung an arm over the back of his chair. "Yeah, I'll tell you something, lady. How about you go fuck yourself? I'm done talking. Either take me to Cas or lock me up."

Detective Hagen's lips formed a thin line; she remained silent as she studied Dean's solid and unflinching expression, looking for some sort of crack in the mask. Eventually she nodded and rose from her seat. "I understand," she murmured, and began putting the bags back in the briefcase. "Just so you know, we have enough evidence to hold you overnight. That can change quite easily if you decide you have something else to say."

With that, the detective was gone, and Dean was left alone again in the damp, flickering room.

---

Castiel was only vaguely aware of the fact that both of his hands were cuffed to one arm of the chair until he had an itch on his shoulder that was dying to be scratched. In all honesty he had blocked out most of his surroundings since he had arrived. Once at the police station he had been shoved in to a room where they took his clothes ("For evidence, now take the jacket off.") and took pictures of his hands ("Forensic evidence.") and after being read some rights that he didn't quite get when the officer read it way too fast to understand, but nodding that he acknowledged the rights all the same, he was unceremoniously hauled in to a dimly lit cinder block room with a lone fluorescent light and a single metal table with two chairs. There was no double sided glass, just a camera in the far corner that he tried his best to ignore. He was in the middle of solving the itching dilemma absentmindedly when he heard the door open with a whine.

Castiel tilted his head up to see a young woman flash a badge to a police officer and watched warily as said officer nodded and closed the door behind him, leaving just Castiel and her in the room. She introduced herself quickly ("Detective Hagen.") and sat down at the seat across with him and placed a briefcase on the table.

Don't talk. They can't make you talk. Castiel repeated those words to himself like a personal mantra, holding the woman's stare even when it became unnerving.

Eventually the woman cleared her throat and looked away. "We know that you used to be friends, Castiel. Connor's mother told us." Well that was quite the way to start.

Castiel remained silent.

"Think about what his family must be going through right now, Castiel. Don't you think they need closure?" When the detective still received no response, she had leaned forward and placed her hands, folded together, neatly on the table. "Connor did not deserve to die, no matter what his transgressions might have been. I know somewhere deep down that you must believe that."

Castiel looked down at his hands. It gave the detective the answer she was looking for and she hummed in approval.

"It's interesting," she said after a couple silent minutes. Castiel glanced back up at her in question. "Your friend doesn't seem to feel the same way. He seemed quite glad that Connor was dead."

Castiel stared at her, wondering if she was being deliberately oblivious—it was what caused him to break his silence. "That likely has something to do with what he did to Dean's brother. Dean and Sam Winchester are in this situation because of me and I intend to remedy that."

"Oh, I'm fully aware that Dean had little to do with this, but he seems reluctant to tell me what I need to know in order to let him go free. I know you don't want your friend to be charged for something he did not do—so help me help him. I'm afraid that at this point you can't help yourself, but you can at least save Dean."

Save Dean. Castiel noted the intimate use of his first name. Castiel may not have been in trouble with the law before, but he wasn't stupid and he could see the attempt to appeal to Castiel's feelings from a mile away.

"I don't know what you want from me," Castiel replied, slow and cautious of his words. "I can only tell you the truth—I did not kill Connor. Dean had nothing to do with it except that he helped me when—" Castiel cut himself off, suddenly aware of how clammy his palms had become.

"See, that's the part that we're missing here." Detective Hagen brought forward her chin and rested it on the back of her propped up hand. "Sam Winchester told police that Connor and two friends, whom we have in custody and can corroborate this story, got in to a physical altercation with him sometime in the late morning. Afterwards, Sam told us that you went off in search of Connor—and from there we could put together the pieces that you went with what seemed like the intention of revenge, and Dean followed you shortly thereafter. What we're missing, you see, is the in between. What happened between finding him and the police officer finding you bloody on the side of the road?"

Castiel instinctively balled his fists. "It's…difficult to explain."

"We have time, Castiel," she replied with a tone of finality. "Why did you and Dean leave the school? Did you follow Connor in to the woods?"

"Where are my parents?" Castiel asked numbly, ignoring the question. "I can't talk until they are present. I'm pretty sure those are the rules."

Detective Hagen's lips quirked in a small smile and Castiel was unnerved. She opened her hands in a placating gesture. "We're just talking, Castiel."

Castiel shook his head.

"What happened?" she pressed. "There were no defensive wounds on you at all—I want to believe you but you're making it difficult." There was a long pause. "Why did you go after him, Castiel? I know you two had a less than ideal past with each other, but it seems strange that you would pursue him after an altercation over an altercation that did not involve you."

"Sam Winchester is my friend. He did it to instigate confrontation because he I have—had history. I consider that involving me."

"And Dean?"

"Dean is also my… friend." Castiel said, wondering at his own pause, which the detective had definitely caught and had raised her eyebrow even higher at.

Detective Hagen leaned close again, and her voice dropped to a barely audible whisper. "Would you like Dean to be more than a friend?"

The teen actually flinched when she said it, backing away from her as if frightened. His widened eyes didn't make him look any less terrified—or innocent for that matter. "I'm sorry?"

The woman clicked open her briefcase and pulled a heavy, folded article of clothing that Castiel instantly recognized. The jacket, Dean's jacket, looking far less bloody than his earlier wardrobe, was placed on the table directly in front of Castiel.

"The tags have Dean's initials on them. You were wearing it." She nudged the jacket forward an inch. "I have two ideas as to the reason, and both involve you confessing something."

Castiel closed his eyes, wondering if he did it long enough if the detective and the jacket would just vanish in to thin air at his will. What was he going to say? Oh, Dean just gave it to me to hide the blood. That would go well.

"Come on, Castiel," she said, watching him open his eyes and eye the jacket like if he stared at it hard enough he could set it on fire by thought alone. "Bonnie doesn't need to go down with Clyde. Not again."

Castiel really wished people would stop making stupid references he didn't understand.

"I found Sam in the office." Castiel knew he wasn't supposed to be talking, but finding the will or the care to shut up proved difficult. All he could think was that if he could get Dean off this hook, he could deal with the consequences. Detective Hagen wanted the truth, and the truth she was going to get, even if it was more than she had really bargained for. "I asked Sam what had happened, but by that point I'd already worked it out for myself. Connor hadn't been subtle about his threats."

The teen glanced up at the detective to see her regarding him with an inquisitive eye. He absently thought that she should have been writing this down, but she seemed to not care. He glanced up at the camera, saw a small light flashing red, and understood.

"Connor had told me where to meet him—the bleachers. So I told Camille to stay with Sam and left."

"Who is Camille?"

Castiel paused. "A friend. She's not involved." The detective nodded and Castiel took it as his cue to continue. He took a deep breath and pulled on his handcuffs a little, wondering why he even needed the stupid things; why the detective didn't offer to take them off. Castiel was sure that he didn't look particularly dangerous. "I confronted Connor and the other two. I hit him—I was very angry. Sam did nothing to warrant that kind of attack other than being my friend. After that I was pinned by the other two and Connor pulled out the knife."

Detective Hagen reached in to the briefcase and pulled out a bag, this one with the bloodied knife enclosed. "This one?"

Castiel nodded. "He had the knife first. Connor threatened me with it and then, while I was held down, he…" Castiel closed his eyes and sucked in a sharp breath. "He cut me. Here." He gestured to his stomach.

"Castiel," the detective interrupted sternly. "There are no cuts anywhere on your body."

"I know."

The detective seemed to regard him for a moment and then nodded solemnly for Castiel to continue.

"Dean found us then, and he pulled one of Connor's friends off of me, and I took care of the other. Once they were both incapacitated, Dean turned on Connor, but after some convincing he backed down. I thought Connor was unconscious, and so I turned my back on him." The itch was back again, and Castiel had a hard time not being horribly distracted from it. He swallowed thickly. "It was too late when Dean warned me. I turned back to find Connor on his feet, knife in hand."

"And then what happened?"

Castiel shrugged, not knowing how else to put this. "He stabbed me." Castiel pointed to his chest as best he could in the cuffs, right over his heart.

The detective stared at him for a long moment, leaning back and folding her arms over her chest as though she was looking for some kind of hole in Castiel's story, or for some reason why she shouldn't believe him.

"Connor ran after that. That was the last I saw of him, I swear. We left—Dean dragged me to his car with what I'm guessing was the intent to take me to a hospital."

"We know; we have the recording of the 911 call."

Castiel's eyes fell on the jacket again. "We didn't make it that far. The blood in the car is mine. And on the knife, too. I'm sure your tests will comes back and say the same."

The detective drummed her fingers together. "That's quite the story, Castiel."

The shrug made it off of his shoulders before he could stop it. In the back of his mind he could see the gesture repeated on Dean—and Castiel realized he never used to shrug like that. "Whether or not you believe me doesn't really change what happened."

Detective Hagen leaned forward. "You know, I want to help you, Castiel. But how can you expect me to when you won't tell me the truth?"

"That is the truth. All of it."

"So you just…what? Were stabbed right through the heart and just healed yourself miraculously?" She raised her eyebrows high in question.

Castiel nodded.

"And you expect me to believe that?"

"No, I don't really expect anything from you, detective," he replied dryly.

Immediately the detective stood, her mouth closed tightly and her stare icy. She grabbed the bag with the bloody knife and placed it back in her briefcase before shutting it closed with a click. She left the jacket.

"I've tried to be nice, tried to help you, Castiel," she said, quiet and stern, as she pulled the briefcase off the table and adjusted her glasses. "And instead you throw the offers back in my face and also attempt to insult my intelligence with your story."

"I didn't—"

"I'm going to let you sit here by yourself," she interrupted and picked at the hem of her shirt. "When you're ready to be honest with me, we can talk again."

Her heels clicked as she crossed the room and knocked twice on the door; the door opened and the guard waiting outside let her through.

Castiel silently watched her go.

---

"I don't get it."

Detective Hagen paused with her dollar coffee poised at her lips and reluctantly pulled her eyes from the TV screen in front of her. She glanced over at the hefty man sitting in the chair besides her, his fingers resting against his temple in thought. "Get what?" she asked.

"What this kid's angle is."

She sighed. "Morty, you think everyone has an angle. He's just a kid. Look at him, he's like a skittish dog in there." She gestured to the TV screen where a grainy black and white scene was buzzing there, with a timestamp in the bottom right hand corner. "I think he's just scared."

"So what's with the tall tales then?" the man grumbled. He took a sip of his own coffee and watched as the fuzzy image of Castiel sitting quietly at the table remained silent and still. "Does he think that we're just not going to find out what really happened? What's the point in making things up after we've already got him cornered? Do you think he's insane?"

"Please," Detective Hagen scoffed. "He's a seventeen year old kid who seemed to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. The kid he killed didn't exactly have a clean record."

The other detective groaned. "If you so much as even breathe the words 'self defense' our prosecutor is gonna have my ass. Don't give the kid any ideas."

Detective Hagen was laughing as they heard a small knock on the door. A short man with shaggy hair and round, black rimmed glasses poked his head inside.

"Detectives, I have those results you wanted from the lab," he said in a quiet, nervous voice.

Both detectives began to rise, but Detective Hagen held out her hand to the other man. "You stay and watch him. Try and find that 'angle' of yours. I'll go." The man nodded his assent and she left, closing the door behind her.

"Tell me you have some good news," she said quickly, smoothing back her hair.

"Well…" The man fumbled over himself as he pulled the file he was carrying up and opened it. "I have some weird news, and some even weirder news."

The detective tilted her head. "Okay, give me the not as weird news first, I guess."

"Okay, so we tested the blood in the car and on the knife. They were, uh, matched to each other."

"Which we had guessed."

"Yeah, but that's the thing. They do not match to Connor Wachowski."

Detective Hagen froze. "Come again?"

"The blood found in Dean Winchester's car and on the knife is not Connor's."

The detective's brow knitted together, unbelieving. "Then whose is it? Carl, there was enough blood in that car to drain a guy; who else's could it be?" she replied, her eyes narrowed.

"You have him sitting in your interrogation room."

The detective snatched the paper away from the man, her eyes flying over the words as she read. The word 'MATCH' was written in large, red letters at the bottom of the page. "You're telling me that all that blood in that car and on that knife is this kid's? That blood couldn't have been more than an hour old when we found it!"

The man threw his hands up in defense. "I don't know what to tell you. The blood is his."

"So what exactly is the weirder news?"

Shifting nervously on his feet, the man lowered his voice. "Well, we ran the kid's prints, just in case he had a record, right?"

"Yes, that's standard procedure," she replied slowly, nodding him along.

"Well, we didn't find a record, but we did find something else."

"What?" Detective Hagen barked, impatient.

He handed her a folder. "You're not going to believe this."

---

Despite the detective's threats, Dean was not booked for an overnight extended stay in one of the jail's luxury suites. They must have found him to be innocent in one way or another, or at least innocent enough that they weren't legally allowed to hold him, but Dean didn't question it. Something about gift horses and looking at it in a specific way—he couldn't really remember the analogy.

He was asked to sign a statement stating he had been read his rights. When he asked to see his parents a bored officer stared at him and drawled on about how he was eighteen and did not have the right to see them. Eventually he just shrugged, maybe taking pity on the teen, and said they were waiting for him to be released.

A plump, jovial woman—too jovial to be working at a jail Dean thought— who kept calling him "sugar" and mentioned something about him needing to eat more handed him back his belongings as he changed back in to his clothes. He asked about his jacket, but she told him since it was found on Castiel's person it was being kept as evidence for the time being.

"He's not getting released?" Dean asked.

The woman gave him a sympathetic look. "Sorry sugar, wish I could tell you but that's as much as I know. They don't tell me much of anything 'round here. Now let's go, you're mama's out there waiting for you and she looks sick with worry."

Dean followed the woman to a door that buzzed loudly as it was opened and Dean was walked through. When he rounded a corner he found himself facing a window-lit lobby where people from all walks of life seemed to be waiting for other loved ones.

When he spotted Sam, his heart sunk in to his stomach. The entire side of Sam's face was purple and blue, he had four or five stiches above one brow, and he had a hospital bracelet still latched around one arm. If Connor wasn't dead already, Dean would have happily done the deed.

Sam's face lit up when he saw his brother all the same. His mother was behind him, gripping his shoulders tight with relief at seeing her son—in handcuffs, sure, but still her son—round the corner. When she laid eyes on him she put her hand up to her mouth and looked like she was trying to hold back a sob at the poor sight he must have been: bruises on his nose, one eye bruising, a split lip and bruised knuckles. Beside her stood John, stoic, and that scared Dean the most. He would rather have his father screaming at him than face his cold, silent disappointment. Adam was half-hidden behind John, his stare listless.

The woman removed the cuffs, whispered a "be good, sugar" to him, before he was nudged towards his family.

He got halfway before his brother was striding towards him and wrapping his lanky arms around him in a tight embrace. The force of his brother colliding with him was enough to knock the wind out of Dean, but he didn't care as he returned the gesture. Dean was reminded of a time when Sammy barely came up to his chest, and really his brother was just getting too tall. It was going to give him a complex.

There was a muffled whisper that sounded to Dean like "I'm sorry" and Dean was mumbling, "Shut up, Samantha. You didn't do anything wrong."

Then Mary was there, throwing her arms around him as well and sniffing back a few tears; her eyes red and puffy.

"I'm sorry, mom," he murmured in to her hair as he rested his chin on her shoulder and placed his hands at her back. "I'm sorry. To you and dad."

Mary shook her head. "We're going to figure this out, honey. It's going to be okay."

Dean tensed. He had told Castiel the same thing—that everything was fine and they were going to figure this whole thing out. Besides, I kinda like you, yeah?

John cleared his throat. "Time to go," he said gruffly, leading Adam out the door by the shoulder before Dean could get a good look at him in the eye.

Sam walked by Dean's side out in to the gated parking lot where the sun nearly blinded Dean—his eyes already accustomed to the artificial light of the cell he was placed in for holding.

"Don't worry about dad," Sam told him in a hushed whisper, eying John to make sure he didn't hear. "Don't get me wrong, he was pissed—livid really. But mom mellowed him out a lot. I mean, you are innocent and everything, he's just still pissed about the fight in general." Dean nodded and Sam's voice dropped even lower. "What happened to Cas?"

Dean shoved his hands in to his pockets. "I don't know. We were separated when they arrested us and I haven't seen him since."

"Are you worried about him?"

Dean bowed his head. "Yeah. Yeah, I am."

"Do you think they have anything on him?"

"I don't know, Sammy." Dean kicked at a piece of gravel on the ground. "I was there when it happened. I saw everything—Cas is innocent." He looked up at his brother. "You okay?"

Sam waved a dismissive hand. "I'm fine, everyone's making a huge fuss and it's really no big deal. Besides, I think it looks kinda cool. I hope I get a scar," he said, pointing to the stitched cut above his eyebrow. "Do girls like scars?"

Dean chuckled despite the sinking feeling in his stomach and looked up at his brother, ruffling his hair affectionately and slinging an arm around his shoulder. "Yeah, chicks totally dig a guy with battle scars."

He spared one last long glance at the building where Castiel was no doubt still held—alone and probably equal parts confused and petrified. There was nothing he could do right then, but he would do his best to get Castiel out; prove he was innocent.

He'd promised, after all.

---

Castiel didn't look up when he heard the door click open, but his body tensed, ready.

He expected some sort of greeting, anything—but instead he jumped slightly when a file folder was slammed down on to the table in front of him. He looked back up expectantly at Detective Hagen, whose expression was blank save for a small pang of unease building in her stare.

"Got those blood tests back, Castiel," she said as she crossed her arms and sank down in to the chair. When she said his name, it was in something akin to a hiss. Castiel didn't respond, just continued to watch her and wait for her to continue. "You weren't lying, it's yours alright. Now how in God's name is that even possible?"

Castiel's jaw clenched but he continued to remain silent.

"Turns out you're full of mysteries today, Castiel. We ran your prints, too." Her eyes squinted, as though gauging Castiel's reaction, whose features remained passive. "Something interesting came up."

If she was waiting for a response from Castiel, he didn't give one. The cold room seemed to stand still as the two figures stared each other down for a long minute before Detective Hagen had had enough. She unfolded her arms and nudged the closed file closer to Castiel before speaking up in an unwavering, firm tone,

"Castiel, who is Jimmy Novak?"

Something made Castiel's hand twitch, and he looked at the betraying limb with confusion. He didn't meet the detectives eyes when he managed to whisper, "Who?"

"Jimmy Novak, Castiel," she continued, her voice more stern. "Who is he and why do you have his fingerprints?"

Castiel sucked in a sharp breath and his heart started pounding harder and harder in his chest—and he wasn't sure why. "I don't know what you're talking about."

The detective leaned forward and flipped the file open with force. The teen looked down at first, avoiding the file for reasons he couldn't place, but Detective Hagen spoke even louder. "Jimmy Novak, from Pontiac, Illinois," she recited to him. "Devoted husband and father, and a good, devout man. He went missing over a year ago and hasn't been heard from since. Look, Castiel!"

He isn't sure what made him do it, but Castiel found himself complying and finally landing his gaze on the small stack of papers sitting on the desk before him. What he found there stunned him in to silence.

Jimmy was… him. He was staring straight back at a picture of himself, or at least someone who looked like the spitting image of him if he were, say, fifteen or so years older. The man was smiling in a way that seemed horrifically foreign to Castiel—he knew his own face and mannerisms enough to know that this was not his smile. But the man looked so much like him.

"Is this some kind of…of joke?" Castiel rasped from his seat as he backed away from the folder on the table as if it might suddenly grow legs and teeth and bite him.

"Do I look like I'm in a joking mood?" The detective growled in a low, harsh voice, all pretenses of understanding and sympathy that were once there, gone. There was a fire in her stare that, given the chance, would love to burn Castiel alive. "So what are you to him, Castiel? What did you do to Jimmy?"

"I didn't do anything." Castiel found himself saying in a near-hysterical voice before he could control it. "I don't know who Jimmy Novak is."

"This game is up, over, there's no reason for you to lie anymore. If you're honest and truthful, we may be able to extend some leniency, depending on the severity of your crimes—but right now I'm done playing games. So tell me, Castiel, what did you do?"

Castiel pulled on his cuffs in earnest now. "I want to see my parents," he whispered. "I need to see Dean."

Detective Hagen's mouth twitched. "No."

"Please."

The detective was on her feet immediately, leaning over Castiel. The teen noticed a loose strand of hair had fallen from her bun. "Dean Winchester can't help you anymore, Castiel. Tell me how you have Jimmy Novak's fingerprints. Tell me what you did to him. To Connor. Tell me!"

"Where are my parents?" Castiel whispered brokenly, hating the sound of the uneasiness escaping him and averting his eyes from the detective's glare. He stared at the black and white picture of a smiling Jimmy Novak; a man who probably didn't deserve whatever happened to him.

A devout man.

He screwed his eyes shut and threw the file away from him. "I need to talk to my parents!" he shouted at her, his voice harsher now. Overhead one of the fluorescent bulbs flickered dangerously.

Castiel was flinching before the detective's hand even connected to the table.

"Dammit, Castiel, you don't have any parents!"

A file was being thrown his way and it landed open, allowing Castiel to come face to face with a file of him. He stared up at her, slack jawed. "You never had any; they don't exist! You've been staying in that empty house for years pretending that a family lived there. We checked and there is no deed to that property, it was abandoned five years ago after the last occupant passed away without a will—"

"You're lying," Castiel interrupted, shaking his head so hard he almost saw stars. "No, I never— My parents are on a trip—"

"We can't find any of record of you at all. The only thing we can think now is that you started falsifying documents to attend school and appear as a normal high school kid. You don't have a birth certificate or any health records. For God's sake, Castiel, you don't even have a last name!"

Castiel's head snapped up to stare her down, his eyes narrowed. "Of course I do."

"Then what is it, Castiel? Why can we find absolutely no record of a Castiel existing in this town ever?"

"My name is—it's—" The teen stared down at the file, willing it to tell him, because it's easy to forget something like that under stress, surely. His name was…it was…

Castiel.

"My wallet," he began, eyes darting back up to meet hers. "In my wallet—"

"No I.D. Nothing. No cards. Completely and utterly empty." The detective pulled her hands back to her sides but made no move to sit down. She watched as Castiel's eyes played a tennis match between her and the file, hoping one would give him some kind of answer. "We searched your house. The extra bedroom was empty and locked. A car hasn't been parked in that garage for years."

Castiel was pulling on his cuffs so hard that they were digging in to his wrists, deep. He frantically tried to think about school. On tests, he would write his name all the time. What did he write?

Castiel.

No, there had to have been more. The room around him seemed to melt away save for the file pushed in front of him. The mug shot he'd taken earlier stared back at him, but that version of him was just as confused and desperate for answers and offered nothing. Next to his picture was his name—just the one—and all the blanks underneath were filled with 'unknown'.

He was going crazy. That was all. There was no way that a person could just exist and not exist. He was panicking, in shock, and who knows what a person can possibly think or be capable of while under that sort of duress, right? And Detective Hagen—she was exploiting that for some kind of confession. He was sure of it.

"I did not kill Connor," Castiel said fast, too fast, and he found his tongue fumbling over the words. "I don't know a Jimmy Novak. My name is Castiel—" His jaw tensed. "I am seventeen years old and a junior in high school. My parents—" He swallowed. What about his parents? He remembered them, of course he did.

Except that he didn't. He tried to dig up some kind of memory of them, of what they looked like, but all he could find in the deepest pits of his mind were faceless husks with fake smiles like he'd clipped some pictures out of a catalogue.

"My name is Castiel," he started again and banged a fist down on the arm of the chair. Suddenly he understood the handcuffs and why the offer to remove them was never made. "I have a family—I've lived here all my life. And I didn't do anything wrong!"

The room fell silent, the tension in the air thick and heavy on the both of them. The bulb in the light overhead flickered precariously and the detective glanced up at it, eyeing it suspiciously.

"I can do this all night," she said, quiet and sudden. The frankness of it pierced right through Castiel and his stare hardened. "Maybe some time alone will allow you to get your story straight."

Detective Hagen grabbed the two files off of the table, gathering them in to her arms and giving Castiel a look that the teen couldn't read. Her hand hovered over Dean's jacket for a brief second before pulling away, and Castiel noticed her hand was shaking.

"We've released Dean Winchester," she said, matter-of-fact, as she glanced from the piece of clothing to Castiel, noting the way he stared it. The teen let out a deep breath through his nose and then met Detective Hagen's eyes, silently asking. "He's not being charged. Not as of right now, anyway."

Castiel reached out and brushed one of the sleeves with his fingertips, feeling the scratch of the rough, worn leather. "I want to see him. I want to talk to Dean."

The detective paused. "Why?"

Castiel met her gaze, challenging. He refrained from adding the Because he's the only real thing I'm sure of right now, but the boy still handcuffed to the chair had a feeling that it went without saying.

For a brief, fleeting second Castiel spotted the tiniest hint of sympathy cross her features; but it was gone as soon as it had come. "Maybe something can be arranged, but you and I have a lot to talk about first."

Then there was the fading click of heels and she was gone. Castiel slowly and gently pushed the jacket away from him and laid his head down on the table.

He felt like he should probably cry, or scream, or throw something around in frustration—but he found that all he could manage was staring at the wall like it held the answers to every secret of the universe. Or at least he wanted it to.

The flickering light above him gave out and went dark.

---

Thunder rolled softly outside, promising an oncoming storm, but Dean wasn't listening.

He was far too distracted by the electricity dancing at his fingertips as they slid across soft sun-kissed skin. The light sheen of sweat that accumulated over his entire body soaked his Metallica shirt, but that only seemed to make things better.

It was hot; way too fucking hot to be cramped up in the backseat of the Impala when it's muggy and stormy outside. The thickness of the humid air that was making it increasingly difficult to breathe and turning the interior of his car in to a homemade sauna only seemed to encourage Dean, light a fire inside him that burned impossibly bright, as though it had always been there in him, waiting far too long to be ignited. The radio was softly playing a perfect mix of every one of Dean's favorite songs, no commercials.

It was perfect.

There was a soft whisper of Dean's name and he looked up, smiling at the way the skin and muscle underneath his fingertips fluttered at his touch.

"Cas," he said, his smile growing wider, and long fingers slid behind his ear to card through his hair in soothing strokes. He practically purred at the touch.

Rain began pelting the windows, softly at first, and Dean swore it was striking up a rhythm in tandem with his own heartbeat. The pounding in his chest was growing quicker as the hand in his hair travelled downwards across his throat and to his chest, where it was quickly joined by another. He looked up to see his friend, leaning over and staring down at him with a look of awe, as though he was hanging off of every word Dean might say and every expression that passed over him. Dean took that moment to gently grab on to the wild dark locks of Castiel's hair and bring their heads together, forehead to forehead, as he was brought to a sorry state of panting and gasping for breath at Castiel's touch alone. Really, he should have been embarrassed, but he couldn't find any reason to be, not when Castiel looked equally as wrecked as he must have above him.

Dean's brought both of his hands up to rest on Castiel's hips, then traveled them down his thighs to his knees where they were placed on either side of Dean's legs. He closed his eyes and hummed in approval when he felt hands tugging at his belt.

He popped one eye open to watch as Castiel worked the belt open with surprising determination. "What's got you in such a hurry today?"

Castiel paused and sat up, staring down at Dean with a questioning look. "Because you're going to wake up soon."

Dean quirked an eyebrow up at him.

Castiel's eyebrows furrowed, his hands paused over the open belt at Dean's hips. "You are aware that this is a dream, right? You've been conjuring up the same manifestation of me every night in a row for the last week."

The older teen groaned loudly and rolled his eyes. "Of course I know it's a dream, Cas, because otherwise this—" he gestured between the two of them "—wouldn't be happening!"

Castiel shook his head in response and ran a palm roughly over Dean's groin. The teen gasped appreciatively in return.

"I tell you every time that if you expressed your feelings to him, you might find that they are mutual. And then you wouldn't have to have these dreams."

"I don't understand why you've got to be such a Debbie Downer and ruin the moment," Dean croaked as he rubbed at Castiel's knees through his worn jeans; he noticed they were his jeans and he absently wondered if that was becoming a kink of his. "This is the only time I get to have something like this and I want to enjoy it, alright? Without you interrupting it with logic and words." He brought one hand up to lightly tap his palm against the side of Castiel's face, who immediately batted at the hand in annoyance. "Save it for the real world. Got it, blue eyes?"

Castiel finally succeeded in chasing Dean's hand away and looked down at him sternly. "What?"

"Blue eyes," Dean repeated, his hands coming up to rest behind his own head. "That's what I'm going to call you from now on."

"Please don't," Castiel replied dryly.

"Hey, it's my dream and I'll call you whatever I want," Dean gave a wiggle of his hips that sent Castiel having to grab on to the seat to keep himself upright. Dean grinned at him. "Now get moving, blue eyes."

It was Castiel's turn to roll his eyes then as he shimmied down Dean's legs and bent over, placing both of his palms on the lower half of Dean's stomach. The muscle there shivered under his touch and Dean let out a very manly moan that was not girly. At all.

As he stared up at the ceiling of the Impala, Castiel's perfect, soft and slightly chapped lips trailing feather light kisses over the firm plane of his stomach, he wondered if this is what it would actually be like. He'd long since resigned himself to not ever knowing—he was never going to tell Castiel how he felt. Hell, he wouldn't even admit to himself how he felt because he would only allow himself to appreciate the way his hands fit perfectly over Castiel's hipbones or how beautiful his lips looked when parted in pleasure or how much his eyes really shone and his eyes fluttered closed when Dean did that thing with his tongue; and really, Dean quite enjoyed doing that thing. One time, feeling extra curious, he had asked Castiel to do those things instead, to him, and the way Castiel's long fingers had gripped him by his hips, firm and reassuring... Well. He could dig trying that again.

No, it was only in this one dream, the one with that never too close storm on the horizon and the never ending playlist of Dean's favorites on the radio and the perfect way his and Castiel's bodies slotted seamlessly together in the backseat of his car… Dean had long since learned that you don't risk ruining the things you already had.

And he was perfectly happy with having this one dream all to himself, it was all he needed. Wasn't it?

"I may only be a figment of your imagination," Castiel said after a particular kiss that had somehow ended in a long drag of Castiel's tongue across skin and had Dean grabbing on to the door handle. He was happy he'd locked it. "A cerebral representation of what the real Cas is like in your mind," he continued, and oh, that nickname always sounded so good rolling off his tongue. Dean needed to get him to say it more often—in real life, too. Castiel popped open the button of his fly and Dean actually growled. "But I honestly believe that the real Cas would reciprocate your feelings if you just told him. And if I think this, then some part of your subconscious must think so as well."

Dean's hands shot out from behind his head and grabbed behind Castiel's knees, pulling on them and yanking Castiel's calves right out from under him as he fell right on his back on to the leather seat. Dean toppled over him, fitting himself between Castiel's legs perfectly, and pressed a soft kiss to the younger teen's throat. "Shut up, Cas," he grumbled playfully as he nipped at Castiel's jaw. "You're just as weird in the dream as you are out of it."

A small smile crept up on Castiel's face as his eyes trailed over Dean's hunched form. "It's your dream, Dean. I'm exactly how you want me to be."

Dean was still smiling when his lips met Castiel's, soft and warm and just a perfect fit to Dean's. He opened his mouth and lightly pulled on Castiel's lips with his own; Castiel needed no further invitation and parted his lips to allow Dean in, one of his hands resting on the side of Dean's face and the older teen leaned in to the affectionate touch happily.

Their foreheads pressed together, Dean's hand found its way underneath Castiel's—his—shirt and ghosted its way up to his chest and back down again. Castiel's contented sigh was enough to have him press farther downward, and he loved the soft intake of breath coming from the boy beneath him as he palmed over the growing erection there. Castiel called his name again, but it was drowned out by the thunder closing in overhead.

Hands found the hem of Dean's own shirt and started pulling it upwards, exposing Dean's sweat-slicked back to the hot air of the car interior. Castiel pulled a hand behind him and pressed his palm flat against the foggy window, leaving a streaky hand print in its wake. On impulse, and not entirely sure of the reason why, Dean placed his own palm over it.

"Dean," Castiel whispered, louder this time. Dean fumbled with Castiel's belt mercilessly, murmuring incoherent things into Castiel's knee as he worked. If he heard Castiel whisper his name that low, deep, husky voice a million more times it would be once too few. Fingernails dug sharply in to the taut muscles of his back. "Time to wake up now."

"Mmm, five more minutes, Cas," a barely articulate mumble of a reply came as Dean placed a playful bite on Castiel's hip bone. "Not morning yet."

"I know."

With a startled cry Dean was being flipped over and he tumbled gracelessly in to the floor of the backseat. Castiel settled over him, sliding right in to place along all the awkward angles of Dean's position and smirking down at him in a way that caused a pleased shiver to run its course all over the older teen. He stared right up in to Castiel's deep blue eyes, entranced by the way his pupils were blown in lust and he imagined that the real thing could never compare to this, that there was a reason dreams were preferred over real life. Castiel dipped his head low, brushing a light, barely-there kiss to Dean's temple.

"Still time to get up."

The older teen tilted his head, squinting at the other boy in confusion and opened his mouth to respond when suddenly the radio cut off abruptly, static overtaking it until the entire car was filled with the scratchy sound. The windows of the Impala were being pounded on by hard, fierce rain now. The storm had never gotten this close to them; the thunder never this loud.

"Cas?" Dean called, questioning, but his voice was drowned out by the continued static.

Castiel glanced over at the radio and then back down at Dean expectantly, a gentle smile on his lips that caused a something close to mischief reach his eyes.

"Dean."

Dean heard his name being called, but the Castiel above him remained still. Dean glanced over at the radio, eyes wide.

"Dean." The voice was louder, more insistent, and coming straight from the speakers of the radio. The static grew louder and there was then a high pitched ringing filling the car. Dean squeezed his eyes shut at the sharp pain in his ear drums and brought his palms tightly down over his ears, grinding his teeth together.

And then, as quickly has it had started, it was gone and everything was quiet and still. Dean took in a deep breath in through his nose.

"Dean!"

Dean was half falling half flying out of his bed and his tailbone was cracking against the ground beneath him before he could really register what had even happened. The fall was anything but graceful, and Dean's ankle made a spectacular show of tangling in his sheets and drawing them down with him on to a pile on the floor.

"Holy mother of tap dancing Christ!" Dean scrambled to get his footing on the floor but found he only slid backwards comically until he finally gave up and just held out his hands defensively. When no blow or gunshot or whatever the hell else he could think of came, he opened one eye reflexively and then both, steeling himself and finally glancing up at his would-be attacker looming over him in the moonlight.

"Cas?!"

Castiel, panting and looking positively terror-stricken, took a cautious step back. "Dean," he said again, his voice pitched low and rough. He was in a very ill-fitting stark white uniform and standard issue shoes without laces or buckles.

"Who—how are you—what—" was all Dean managed to form together in a sentence as his eyes darted all over Castiel's body, taking in the sight of him with frantic gestures.

"What's happening?" Castiel interrupted, taking another step back and hunching in on himself as he gawked around at the room he knew was familiar.

"What the fuck do you mean, 'what's happening'? You're the one who appeared out of fucking nowhere in my bedroom at—" Dean craned his neck up to catch a quick look at his clock "—three in the god damn morning!"

Castiel dropped unceremoniously to his knees in front of Dean, leaning forward with a proximity Dean's wasn't exactly comfortable with at that moment.

"I don't know how I got here, Dean. One minute I was in—I was in this cell that the detective put me in—"

"They booked you? Holy Christ, Cas—"

"—And I was… I was thinking that I wanted to be anywhere else but there in that cell. I didn't deserve to be put there and I was—they told me all of these things that are simply not true, couldn't be true, Dean." Castiel's fingers griped the sheets until his knuckles turned white. "Things about me, my parents—"

"Cas."

Castiel took a deep breath and looked down at his hands, noticing the vice-like grip he had on the sheets. He exhaled and let them go reluctantly. "I was trying to block it out, where I was. And the only place I could think of that recently made me feel happy was here." Castiel looked around him and then locked his eyes on to Dean. "This room. I wanted to be here. And then I just…was. Dean, not two minutes ago I was sitting in a cell in juvenile detention. And now I'm here."

Dean shook his head, blinking dumbly at Castiel. "How?"

Castiel stared at him wordlessly for a long minute before looking down at his now relaxed hands in fascination. "Because I willed myself to be."

The older teen mouthed the words back to him in utter confusion before finally stammering out, "Come again?"

Blue eyes snapped up to meet his. "Because I willed myself to be, Dean!"

"Yeah, you keep saying that, but this is still making about as much sense as a screen door on a—"

Firm hands grabbing his shoulders silenced the teen as Castiel shook him once. "I don't know how and I can't even begin to figure out why, but I wanted to be here so badly that my body just…just took me there? I can't—I can't explain it, but it just feels so strangely natural somehow. Does that make sense?"

Dean gaped at him. "Man, I must be high as a fucking kite."

"Dean!"

"Oh I'm sorry, forgive me that my hysteria at your mojo-ing in to my room in the middle of the night is not instantly soothed by you telling me it feels 'natural'." He emphasized the last word with air quotes that Castiel eyed with what seemed like confusion at the gesture.

"Mojo-ing?"

"Yeah, Cas. Like—you've got some serious mojo going on here. Powers. Weird shit."

There was that damned head tilt. "I don't—"

Castiel was cut off mid sentence as something beneath him caught his eye, and his gaze slowly travelled down Dean's body and landed on the forgotten but still impressive tenting in Dean's boxers.

Dean's arm instantly shot out to his bed to grab a pillow and shove it straight in to his crotch, his face alternating between interesting shades of purple and scarlet.

"Oh my God will you back up? Christ, Cas, personal space!" he spluttered as he swatted Castiel away with his free hand. Castiel, an obvious tint of pink reaching from ear to ear and down his neck, complied with out meeting Dean's eyes.

Dean huffed out a breath. "Look, I'm gonna throw some clothes on and you and I are gonna talk, alright?"

Castiel nodded and pulled himself to his feet, taking a few steps back to allow Dean to do the same, hand still firmly pressing a pillow to his groin. He stood there awkwardly as Castiel continued to stare at him with a stern fascination. "Dude," he finally hissed after an intense staring contest, "turn around!"

The crack of a smile at Castiel's mouth was quick and easy to miss, but Dean was positive he caught it. "You didn't seem to mind earlier." The last word was muffled by the pillow being chucked right at his face.

"You're one to talk," he managed to catch Dean grumble out but he did as he was told and did not turn back around until he heard Dean clear his throat as a cue.

"Where are we going?" Castiel asked, nearly missing the bundle of clothes that were being tossed his way.

"Dunno, just out. Clear our heads." He gestured to the jeans and t-shirt he had thrown Castiel's way. "Put those on—don't want you drawing attention to yourself in that getup." The older teen busied himself putting his sheets back up on his bed, surprised that no one had been jolted awake by the noise of him falling out of it as spectacularly as he did.

He tried to hide his gaze falling appreciatively to the way his jeans hung on Castiel's hips but knew he was doing a pretty piss poor job. Half heartedly he tried to push the image of the dream Castiel on top of him with his worn jeans and faded t-shirt clinging to his sweat soaked body.

"Dean?"

Dean blinked. "Huh?"

"Are we…going?"

"What—yeah! Uh, yes, yeah. Yeah, let's go." Castiel shifted on his feet and Dean quirked an eyebrow at him. "What?"

"Well, I was just thinking that maybe… I mean, I could try—"

"Oh no. No no no," Dean interjected, recognizing instantly where this was going as he gave a firm shake of his head. "I don't trust this mojo crap of yours. We're driving."

---

It had been a test of patience getting downstairs without being heard. Castiel seemed to float over every obstacle in his path—Adam's latest science experiment or a forgotten book of Sam's—while Dean apparently was quite skilled at tripping over every single one of them. After what felt like an eternity they finally reached the closet by the front door, and Dean carefully pocketed the keys to his father's black truck.

"Is it wise to be stealing your father's car?"

"Christ, Cas, it's not stealing. I'm simply borrowing; my car is currently property of the god damn police, and who knows what they're doing to her. Dad's never gonna know."

When the truck roared to life and sputtered like it was on its last leg, Dean was positive they had been caught—no one could sleep through that kind of racket. But after five solid minutes of no one barging out the front door to stop them, Dean knew they were home free.

They drove in complete silence for a few miles, Dean glancing every so often at how Castiel's entire demeanor had seemed to change and he cocooned in on himself, an invisible wall put up around him as he stared out of the window. He rested his mouth on the palm of his hand as street lights and fast food signs danced over his face when they passed in a blur.

Dean didn't attempt to draw conversation out of him—he had plenty of an idea of how Castiel must have been feeling, but little on the scale. He wanted Castiel to come to him, so he waited.

Sensing a change of scenery was definitely in order, Dean took a right off the main road of the town, leading them off on a path that carried them farther and farther away from the lights of the urban setting. Castiel appeared to visibly relax next to him and it drew a sigh of relief from the older teen.

They were driving along a particularly dark path, the copious amounts of visible stars and the high hung full moon the only light out in the rural area they were in, when Castiel finally broke his silence.

"Dean, what's my last name?"

It was so quiet Dean almost missed the question. "What?" he asked anyway, trying to wrap his head around it.

"Do you know my last name?"

Dean squinted when he came up on a bright red light and the truck rumbled dangerously when he came to a halt. He really needed to talk his dad in to fixing this damn car. "You know, I don't think you ever told me, Cas."

Castiel's head made a small thump against the window. "Yeah, I didn't."

"Why? What is it?"

The younger teen shrugged, and Dean recognized it as an attempt as an uncaring front from a mile away. "I don't have one."

"Uh, you want to run that by me again?"

"The detective couldn't find any record of me existing. Anywhere. She asked me for my last name and—" Castiel swallowed down the crack in his voice. "And I couldn't give her one. I literally sat there and stared at her and couldn't give her a single name."

Heavy, pressing silence followed. All Dean managed to eventually whisper was, "You're shitting me." He glanced over at Castiel, apprehension running over his entire body. "Surely there's just some kind of mistake. People can like…forget their last name, right?"

Castiel gave Dean a smile that didn't reach his eyes and shook his head once. "My whole life I have gone through the entire school system up until now, and not a single person has asked me my last name. Ever. Does that not seem even the slightest bit odd to you? Now that I think back on it, I've never heard it in roll call. Just—just—" Castiel swallowed a dry lump in his throat. "It's not even the strangest part." He brought his hands up to his eye level, palms up. "Apparently I am in possession of the fingerprints of one Jimmy Novak, a thirty-something husband and father in from Pontiac, Illinois."

"What?" Dean managed to choke out around the way his jaw fell slack. "Cas, that's not—how is that even—"

"Possible? I saw the match myself."

The light overhead finally turned green, but Dean wasn't paying attention and didn't budge. No one else was around anyways.

"And who exactly is this Jimmy guy?" he asked incredulously. "Do you even know him?"

Castiel looked him straight in the eye. "I have no earthly idea who Jimmy Novak is. But I'm told that he's been missing for over a year now."

Dean's grip tightened on the steering wheel, and the only string of words he could manage together was, "Christ." He scrubbed a hand over his face and repeated the word.

"Oh and then there's my parents."

Dean's hands fell from the steering wheel and in to his lap, already having a gut feeling. "Cas…"

Castiel shook his head and swiveled it around to look pointedly out of the window again, and Dean was sure he could see Castiel's hands ball in to a tight fist.

"I'm sorry." Dean watched Castiel remain impassive. "I wish I could tell you something, man. I do."

"What can you possibly say?" Castiel asked, his voice muffled by the palm placed at the corner of his mouth. "You have nothing to apologize for."

"That's not why I'm apologizing, Cas."

"Dean, listen to me." Castiel's voice was gravelly, suddenly more serious than Dean had heard before. "There is something incredibly… wrong going on here. I know you see that." Dean absently noticed the light turning red again. "And I have no clue what is going to happen, but there is not a single good thing that's going to come of this, I know that much. And I don't want you around when whatever it is, happens."

Dean turned his entire body towards the younger teen, his eyes narrowed. "Excuse me?"

"I want you to forget you ever met me, Dean. Starting after tonight."

In that instant it takes to light a match, rage was suddenly boiling over right in the center of Dean's chest. "And what the hell are you saying?" he spat.

"I'm saying that you'd do well to stay away from me."

"Why?"

Castiel's jaw tensed before he was leaning forward, challenging. "Isn't it obvious or are you being purposefully dense? I don't want you getting hurt!"

"Oh fuck off, Cas, I can damn well take care of myself!" Dean slammed a fist down on the steering wheel and barely flinched when the horn blared for an instant. "What makes you think that I'm just going to idly sit by while you deal with this—this—this! I'm sorry Cas, but that's the stupid fucking thing you've ever said. I told you that I'm gonna see this through with you and that's fucking that."

Castiel's entire body tensed and his eyes narrowed to slits. "You. Ever since you nearly ran me over with that stupid, stupid car of yours you have done nothing but plague my very existence, and I can't stand it any more!. What makes you think you have any right to invade my life like this and just settle right in like you belong here? I lived a quiet, normal enough life; I didn't have these problems until now. My life made sense until I met you, Dean Winchester!" he cried, giving one hard shove to Dean's shoulder at the last word.

Both occupants of the car settled in to silence, a mutual glare shared between the them as Castiel struggled for even breathing and Dean's nostrils flared with fury. The logical thing to do, and what his history with these kinds of situations reports, was to devolve in to some kind of fisticuffs or a yelling match or something. Something absolutely not like what was about to happen.

Dean isn't sure what made him do it, probably never will be, but before he could stop himself he was grabbing Castiel by the shoulders and pinning him back roughly against the corner between the seat and passenger side door. Something between alarm and confusion washed over Castiel's face, and that was all Dean had time to catch before he was pressing forward and crashing his lips against Castiel's mouth like his life and every moment of his existence had boiled down to this.

Better. It was the only word Dean could think of has his lips slotted together with Castiel's chapped ones, rough and wanton. Better. Better than the dream. Not even comparable in way to that fucking dream. If the dream was the appetizer this was the whole god damn buffet and the all you can eat pie afterwards. Castiel's hands grabbed at his arms but didn't push him away, and a gruff moan was practically forced out of Dean as Castiel bit roughly at his bottom lip in something akin to retaliation. It was sloppy and teeth on teeth and awkward angles and nothing at all like a passionate, game changing kiss was portrayed like in the movies, but damn if Dean wouldn't have it any other way.

Once the ringing in Dean's ears settled in to a chant of breathe, breathe, need to breathe, Dean finally pulled back an inch, Castiel's lips chasing his futilely as he was still half pinned down. They shared the same air as both panted hot, searing breaths over each other's faces and Dean settled his head against Castiel's, too wrecked to be trusted to hold it upright himself.

"You, Dean Winchester," Castiel finally rasped, his voice hoarse and dry from exertion, "are the most frustrating human being I have ever met."

Dean grinned as best he could around his struggle for breathing and pressed one last small kiss to the corner of Castiel's swollen lips. "Right back at ya, kid."

A high pitched, loud wailing horn blared behind them and it made them both jump nearly out of their seats, Castiel's hands instinctively clamping down on Dean's shoulders painfully.

Dean glared out the back window and saw the headlights of a car right behind them, instantly realizing that during their small session the light overhead had turned green once more. Reluctantly, Dean pulled away, giving Castiel a contrite, small smile as he shifted gears and moved the car forward, watching as the car behind them turned left on to another road at the light.

Then the inevitable awkward silence followed. They got nearly a mile and a half down the road before one of them broke.

"I'm—" Dean's voice cracked on the word and cleared his throat to try again. "I'm sorry. About that. Back there."

There was a long silence from the other seat. "Why are you sorry?" A pause. "You regret it?"

"I—no! Cas, no, I just…" Dean rubbed the back of his neck. "Cas I'm just not good at these kinds of things. Actually I'm pretty terrible. I don't know if you're going to…" He gestured vaguely.

Castiel, as always, didn't get it. "Going to what?"

Dean sighed, heavy, and the blush he was wearing since two miles back that had never left was beginning to redden even further. "Want me, Cas. I kind of…I don't know. Suck." He paused and then immediately pointed an accusing finger at Castiel. "Don't turn that in to a dirty joke."

There was no reply from Castiel as Dean came up on a stop sign and came to a full halt. It was a miracle he managed that much while his nerves were on such high alert—he half expected to blow right through it.

Eventually he felt a hand wrap gently around his wrist and he chewed on his tongue, refusing to look over at the passenger seat.

"I don't regret it if you don't."

Dean finally looked over Castiel, the boy's lips still red and his hair a mess on the top of his head as if every strand was trying to escape his head. Castiel looked downright silly as he sat there and offered up a nervous half smile, waiting for a reaction.

A smirk tugged at one corner of his lip and then he squashed it down, letting off the breaks and rolling forward. "Good, because I'm pretty close to just pulling this car over for the night somewhere on the side of this road in bumfuck nowhere and just having at it, if you catch my drift." The warm laugh in response was enough to set a butterfly or two loose in Dean's stomach.

Castiel was already saying something clever in response when there was a sudden and loud popping sound coming from the front of the car and it started shaking, almost violently, emitting sputtering noises that definitely sounded less like old car and more like dead car this time. Dean immediately began fiddling with the gear shift, but the car eventually gave a couple more half-hearted stutters and then went completely silent, dead.

"Shit, are you fucking kidding me," Dean hissed as he grabbed the keys and turned the ignition in vain. All the engine did was make a pitiful effort to start and the engine wail helplessly and then Dean was slamming his fists down on the steering wheel again. "Fuck! No fucking use, I'm afraid this worthless piece of junk has finally bit the dust. Good fucking riddance."

"You can't fix it?"

"Even if I had the jumper cables it'd be a long shot." Dean groaned and banged his head against the headrest. "Damn, dad is gonna have my hide for this when he finds out I took the car to make out with some kid who escaped juvie at four in the morning."

"If it helps at all, your intention wasn't originally making out."

"Yeah, thanks Cas." Dean rolled his eyes and he shimmied around in the seat to grab at his phone in his back pocket. "I wonder if there's any one else I could possibly ca—"

Dean was cut off by the blaring eruption of a horn piercing the air as another car, seemingly out of nowhere, swerved around them at the last possible second to avoid colliding with them.

"Fuck!" Dean cried as he grabbed on to the steering wheel in shock. The car continued screaming its horn a good ways down the road as it sped off in to the darkness once more. "That was fucking close. Fucking idiotic drivers, swear to God."

Castiel squinted outside of his window at the road ahead of them. It was difficult, the stars and moon covered with clouds now and the atmosphere around them nearly pitch black. With the car dead and the lights off, no wonder the car had barely missed them. They were nearly invisible and they were right in the middle of the intersection where they had just passed the stop sign. Castiel jerked his head up in alarm and noticed the lack of stop signs for the opposite flow of traffic. The horror dawned on him and he immediately made a grab for Dean's sleeve as the older boy was flipping through his contacts on his phone, grumbling about driver's who needed a good ass kicking.

"Dean," he said, his voice suddenly hard to find. "We need to get out of this car."

Dean glanced at him, his thumb paused over a button on his phone. "What?" he asked.

Castiel jammed his finger down on the button of his seat belt and it whipped off of his chest. "Get out of the car," he barked, panic rising in the pit of his stomach.

Out here they were the epitome of sitting ducks.

The older teen jerked his head around, getting a good look at their surroundings, and the same realizations Castiel had just come to seemed to hit him as well. He cursed under his breath as he shoved his phone back in to his pocket and grabbed for his seat belt. It locked on him in his hurry, making his movements even more constricted.

Castiel was halfway out of the car, his door swung open, when he noticed the Dean struggling. He dove back in without another word, swatting Dean's hands out of the way as he found the buckles and pressed on the release, only to find that it stuck.

Dean hissed out another curse and began fumbling around, telling Castiel to look in the glove box for a pocket knife he knew was there because his dad always kept a knife close at hand. Castiel was on auto pilot, doing as he was told, when he sat up to grab for the glove box handle his eyes were drowned out with light from the driver's side window.

The car was incoming at an incredible speed, and Castiel's pupils were reduced to slits at the overload of his senses. His blood was pumping so fast that his ears were ringing and he scrabbled around for the handle, not taking his eyes off of the car.

The knife was a lost cause, and both of them knew it.

"Go," Dean growled, low from the back of his throat, at Castiel, grabbing him by the shoulders and giving him a rough shove towards the passenger side door. Castiel was barely phased by the force and he grabbed on to Dean instead, climbing over him and giving one last futile attempt at alerting the car by slamming his fist on the horn.

It went unnoticed, the car was still barreling towards them, closing in on them, seconds away from impact.

Castiel heard the cry of his name, the command to get out!, but Castiel shot him and the car one last horrified glimpse before placing both hands on the back of Dean's skull and neck, screaming "Get down!" as he forced the teen's upper body beneath his in a protective shell, oblivious to any consequence of doing so, the only word flooding his mind was Dean.

Castiel didn't feel any pain, only heard the very last second screeching of tires and feeling the grip of Dean's fingers on his shirt and then the tell tale sound of shattering everything.

After that was only blackness, and Castiel didn't feel anything anymore.