Don't say I'm better off dead,
'Cause heaven's full and hell won't have me.
Won't you make some room in your bed?
Oh, well you could lock me up in your heart,
And throw away the key.
Won't you take me out of my head?
"And The Snakes Start To Sing" by Bring Me The Horizon
There was a standard bricked alley outside the restaurant, the thick door unlocked. Dean leaned his shoulder into it, momentarily forgetting there was a psycho eating dinner with his brother, and smashed it open. All four of them tumbled out into the sharp night chill, door swinging shut heavily behind them.
The sirens were getting closer. Inside the restaurant, Dean could hear Charlie swearing.
"Damn!" he growled. "Cass, why'd you have to mention that?"
Cass was too busy panicking to answer, though, hands clenching and un-clenching into fists. He was pressed against the brick wall, muttering. Sam pushed past him to jab Dean in the chest. His hair was mussed, face pressed in anger.
"You killed someone, Dean?" he was practically screaming. "What the Hell were you thinking?"
"Balthazar is hardly someone, Sammy boy," Lucifer snarled from where he stood next to Cass. His hand was gingerly touching his estranged younger brother's twitching shoulder. "Just a piece of conceited lying trash with an ego and stupid powers."
Cass made a sound of disapproval, shooting Dean a flat-eyed glare.
"Whatever!" Dean threw his arms up. Somewhere, a siren intensified, coupled with the sound of tires scraping across pavement. "I'm still not off the fact that you're crushing on my apparently magical brother!"
Sam turned a shade of red usually reserved for Oscar gowns and particularly gruesome crime scenes. He gritted his teeth.
"I don't know what you're talking about, Dean, but it isn't funny."
"Oh, you know damn well what I'm talking about!" Dean was shouting now. "Man, Sammy, I don't mind if you're into dudes, but can't you be into a less psychopathic one? Maybe one that didn't try to murder me a few months ago?"
Cass looked like he was starting to go into shock. Sam ground his teeth together, hazel eyes rounded with frustration.
Before anything else could happen, however, Lucifer snapped his fingers angrily.
"Hello?" he snarled above the din. "Heaven agents at twelve o' clock. I'm thinking we should skedaddle before we end up being scraped off the walls."
Dean resisted the urge to punch the blonde idiot's face in. He muttered something vulgar.
"Fine," he snapped. He stalked forward to grab Castiel's arm, pulling him forward. "We're going."
He made to do the same for Sam, but his younger brother jerked away, jaw tight with disapproval.
"I'm riding with Lucy," he snarled. Lucifer looked unbearably smug.
Dean growled, clenching maybe a bit too hard on Cass's trench-coated limb, before shooting him a narrow-eyed glare.
...
As he jerked the Impala messily out of the back parking lot, Dean listened shakily to the sound of the sirens. He could see lights flashing spasmodically inside Charlie's diner, the silhouettes of familiar suit-clad agents sharp and blocky in his rear-view mirror. Heaven had clearly suspected more than a case of a simple bar brawl. They had to have know by now that he and Castiel Novak had killed an agent, stashed his body inside an unused linen closet.
They had come to cut the loose ends.
"Dean," Cass's voice was dark from the passenger seat, shaky panic slight. "Dean, they're going to find us."
Dean yanked the car onto a sidestreet, sending a painfully loud tire screech into the air. He dared a glance out the window–red and blue told him another car had picked up the chase.
"No they won't," he snapped irritably back. "I won't let those assholes touch you or Sammy."
Sammy.
Dammit, Dean thought. Of all the times to go through his experimental phase...
Of course, Dean couldn't exactly talk. His magical boyfriend had a shady past twice as dangerous as his not-so angelic brother, and he was supposed to be the good one.
They careened onto the highway. Behind them, it was eerily quiet, the night air rattling the Impala's windows like bones in a bucket.
"Dean!"
Dean snapped his head towards Cass. He was sitting straight up in his seat, blue eyes focused intently on the road ahead. His seatbelt was undone. A single white-knuckled hand clutched at the glove department, and his breath was loud and uneven.
"Oh, God," he said, suddenly. "Oh, God DEAN STOP THE CAR RIGHT–"
Just then, something large and dark collided with the the front of Baby.
For an instant, all Dean could see was a familiar sort of fire, dancing almost blissfully across his vision as he felt his wrists snap back, his neck snap forward, and his hands leave the steering wheel and crash forward with the force of the impact.
Then, he saw nothing at all.
...
Two Weeks Later...
Lights.
This place was full of lights.
Castiel counted them wearily, his eyes moving from one fluorescent bulb to the next.
Fifteen. His eyes were starting to burn. Sixteen. He dared not stop.
"Mr. Novak, I'm going to need you to answer my question."
Seventeen. He blinked, once. The sensation sent a shock of color onto his eyelids. Eighteen. He tried to focus on the faint buzz of electricity that swallowed the bulb.
"Answer my question, Mr. Novak! Where is Sam Winchester?."
He forced his eyes back down on the table. It was smooth, perfectly clean, made of the same stainless steel as his handcuffs. He blinked again. Studied the white reflections of the fluorescents in the reflection. Nineteen. Twenty.
He spared a small, dry laugh.
"Bite me," he answered.
The table vibrated loudly as the agent slammed a palm into the surface. Her name was Rachel. She was blonde and she had threatened to kill Castiel forty-six times in the last two and a half hours.
"If you don't answer," Rachel snarled, lips curling back. "I'm going to call in to headquarters. Tell them there's an agent that isn't cooperating. Tell them to sign that execution order on Dean Winchester's head."
He snapped his eyes up. Twenty.
"Don't. You. Dare."
Rachel smiled without changing her eyes. She leaned back in her chair, the fabric of her pantsuit rustling slightly as she did. Twenty-one. She motioned behind her with a snap of her fingers.
"Virgil," she said. "Uriel. Escort Mr. Novak back to his room. Make sure he comes up with something in...forty-five minutes."
Twenty-one. Rachel stood. He could feel someone tugging on his arms, but he did not move his gaze from her face. If he concentrated hard enough, he could imagine a room full of shattering bulbs, laced with light, carving into her skin until she was nothing but a pile of screaming, dirty bones.
"If he doesn't," she said. "Tell him Dean Winchester will die alone."
...