A/N: I believe I have completely keeled over of feels for last night's ep. (8x17) Brilliant. I laughed, I cried, and then I grieved and freaked out some more. It's going to get mentioned- Hoover is the guy that started the FBI. Roy Hazelwood is one of the creators of the BAU. Enjoy and R&R. I need compliments to deal with emotional trauma caused by SPN.

Update: Beta-d March 28th by i8ctrlplusv! Now with 99% less BS.

Chapter 5: He's Not Shooting Blanks

The vase sitting on the hallway stand rattled a little as Dean walked in. He let the door slide shut without trying to stop it from slamming. At some point he'd really have to fix that. Groping blindly behind him, he turned the lock, and let his keys drop into the vase( miserably missing the table).

If he was going to be honest with himself, he should've been in a better mood. All things considered, in one week they'd put away 15 dealers and two murder suspects. Hell, he was back as a fully functioning agent with a new car and an ass load of cases that had piled up.

Being active was good for the mind. Even with the still stinging loss of Victor, he hadn't even been that grouchy about being assigned a new partner so quickly. Until, that is, the new partner strolled to the desk across from him, unceremoniously dumped Victor's old objects into a bag, and handed it off to another agent to toss. Gordon had grinned at him and plopped himself down in the chair. They'd shaken hands and started discussing the case while Dean glowered a bit. He totally wasn't sulking.

He'd always thought that Gordon was a bit of a... dynamic character if he had to be nice about it. Had one of the best arrest records in the district and was frighteningly efficient. Dean could appreciate diligence in the line of duty, but that didn't mean that he and the other agents didn't like to occasionally speculate when he was gonna snap and take out the office. That joke was considerably less funny now that there had actually been an explosion at the office. (And they still hadn't figured out how the bombs were set off from the inside.)

Working with Gordon now, it gave him a whole new perspective on the guy. He was every bit as competent as the rumors said. Even more so than Dean could've imagined. Terrifyingly thorough. They'd nailed arrest, after arrest, after arrest; barely taking the time out for lunch. While the quick work load helped distract Dean a little -at least while he was on duty- from the massive storm in his own head; he found he missed Victor. Their partnership had held their own record maybe somewhere in the top five, but that was fine. They'd never really cared about it; they did their job well and with close attention to detail. But it wasn't neurotic. It had taken Dean until he got home to think of the word for it.

Another thing that had struck him, as he was trying to find something to toss in the microwave, was how much Gordon enjoyed the work. It wasn't like the sense of pride that Dean shared with the other officers. It wasn't even the satisfaction some of them got just knowing that the city was cleaner. If anything, it resembled the rush an agent with a vendetta felt when they got their man. That still wasn't quite it. Dean knew plenty of officers who didn't creep him out like that. Having watched Gordon all week, he could swear the guy almost got off on it. Took real pleasure in tackling every single guy in his path. There were a couple, that Dean even noted in his own report, where he questioned whether or not they'd made the right arrest. But those were very weak concerns and even he didn't fully trust his instincts. Gordon was no crooked cop.

His food was almost done when the door creaked open, slamming shut again. Dean listened as Sam's footsteps echoed through the hallway, the sound of keys jingling, and a coat being put up. Sam rounded the corner and gave Dean a wary look. "What are we eating?"

"Hot dogs and tequito's."

"That's disgusting," Sam replied with a frown, but stepped over anyway to grab a plate.

Dean nodded his head and glanced at his brother. They hadn't exactly been getting along since Sam had asked him about the papers on his desk. Or rather, Dean hadn't had the chance to really patch things up. More often than not, Sam was gone by the time Dean got home, especially now that he was back in the field and he was on a tight schedule. He hadn't heard anything from the bureau yet on whether Sam had been re-instated for active duty. Honestly, Dean had figured that the legal department would be the first to get shuffled through. There was a lot of paper work piled up, not just in the OKC branches but on the bombing too. He'd asked Sam about a week and some change ago, and he'd only responded that he didn't know and wasn't sure that they would let it be handled internally anyway.

But, Dean couldn't exactly bitch.

Yeah it was like eight in the evening and he hadn't seen the kid in two days, but at least this time he didn't smell like a brewery.

"So... where've you been?" Dean asked, trying to sound as casual as possible. He was trying his best not to let his temper take over. He'd already been having a bad day mix that with his obsessively protective instincts for his brother? Immediate powder keg. Screw making a bomb with chemicals and shit; all they need was a room full of Dean's and to set 'em off all at once. Now there was some damn explosive power.

"Around."

"Gee thanks, that's super helpful," Dean mocked, all of his goodwill quickly draining. He pulled the microwave door open and slid out the plate of hot dogs. He moved them towards Sam and slid in the plate of tequitos.

"Dean-" Sam started, sounding a little exhausted and even more exasperated.

"No, don't worry about it. Whatever, man. I'm just your only brother," Dean quipped, perhaps a little harsher than he intended, "and you know, working for the Gang Squad, living smack dab in a city where 90% of the people have a grudge against me. Yeah. No worries."

There was a loud, slow sigh next to him as Dean maneuvered around his brother to grab two beers out of the fridge. He handed Sam one wordlessly and popped the cap off on the counter. Just as the microwave beeped, he heard his brother sigh loudly again. Dean ignored it and grumpily set his plate down on the island counter. He took a massive gulp of his beer and reached over to grab the remote he'd left there. The TV flickered to life as Sam sat down next to him.

"I've just been wandering around."

"Wandering around?" Dean asked, eyes sliding to his brother for a second before settling back on the TV.

"Yeah, just, walking around places," Sam replied, sounding sullen. It was the tone that usually calmed Dean's temper the most. Sam only sounded this way when he knew he'd really scared, or upset his big brother. And that didn't happen very often. Angry, sure. But actually upset and worried? Sam knew better than to do that to him.

"They don't have phones in these random places you're walking around?" Dean griped but there was less spite in his voice.

"I know, and I'm sorry, but. I needed some time to clear my head. Being in this apartment, and not knowing. I couldn't take it, okay?"

"Well, at least you don't smell like you slept in a bar."

"I figure that's your thing. Would be rude to take it from you," Sam replied, holding onto his beer a little nervously.

Dean sighed and shook his head, chuckling dryly. "What am I going to do with you?"

"Hopefully not kick me out of the apartment for being stupid?"

"Like I could actually do that. Just, try not to put me on radio silence again."

"Will do."

There was a bit of silence that passed between them, some of the tense awkwardness having been swept out of the apartment. They passed the salt and ketchup courteously, and watched the TV.

"Run into anything interesting on these walks of yours?" Dean asked when they were putting their plates up.

Sam shrugged as he pulled out another two beers for them. "Not really. I walked around town mostly, made it pretty far down that road that they're trying to fix up into a freeway."

"Not trying to run away on me are ya?" Dean needled with a small smirk as they settled on the couch.

"If I were, I think I'd grab a little more than the clothes on my back," Sam replied with a snort.

"I dunno man. I remember, you were like four or something, and -" Dean paused to laugh "- you wanted something, some toy or some food for dessert, and Dad got pretty stern with you about it. You got on that little trike' of yours and went. Mom was so mad. I took off after you and brought you home."

"I don't remember that."

"You were kinda small then."

Sam felt the mood somber up a little. The tone in his brother's voice suggested that it was a childhood's worry and that he didn't carry any abandonment issues from it. But his brother was known to lie, and just in case, he wasn't going to take any chances. He couldn't apologize for needing the time to himself, but he could admit fault for not calling Dean back and just taking off. "Thanks, Dean."

"That was years ago, a little weird to thank me now, Sammy," Dean replied, changing the channel.

"No, I mean-"

"No chick flick moments. You're back, and you know, better. We're good."

"Yeah," Sam said, settling on the couch even though he felt a little unsatisfied. "Okay." He paused for a second. "I dunno, I really did just walk around. Every so often talked to some people. There was this girl, Meg,-" he almost flinched, waiting for a joke about a new girl in his life. He was grateful when one didn't come. Maybe his brother had more tact than he gave him credit for, "we talked for a bit. Went our separate ways. I think she was trying to find a way out of town or something. Too hectic for her with the bombing. She didn't say, but I figure she wanted to skip town because she lost someone too."

Dean found he really didn't have much to say to that, so he detoured. "Was she hot?"

"I wasn't exactly paying attention," Sam shot back, smacking Dean on the arm. "What about you?"

"What about me?"

"You're back in the field, right?"

Dean nodded. "Yeah, what about it?"

"Well, what's it like? Any... different, with you know, everything?" Sam stumbled a few times with how to phrase it. He'd almost asked what it was like without Victor, but he already knew the answer to that question. It didn't seem right to push the subject when Dean had tried so hard not to bring up Jess.

"Working with Gordon now."

"No shit," Sam exclaimed, sitting straight. "Gordon Walker, Gordon?"

"Yup."

"I bet that's... interesting."

"He's no Vic, I'll tell you that," Dean replied, leaning back on the couch. "Dude's nuts, I swear."

"Yeah?"

"We got, shit, something like 12-13 people streak this week."

"That's pretty high," Sam pondered, "I mean, usually you get maybe two a week per team, if you're lucky."

"I know, man," Dean replied, taking a swig, "he's scary efficient. You know, it could also be all the pile up and shit from the bombing. People coming out the woodwork, getting riled up. Shit, you know most of those guys would've been happy to see the entire building crumble."

"Fair enough," Sam replied. "Keep an eye on him though."

"Trust me I will."

… … … … … … … … … … … .. .. .. .. .. . . . . . . . . .

Gordon didn't follow Dean to their desks when they got back from their shift. Dean's shoulders were hunched and he practically marched over to his own desk. It took all of his efforts not to fling himself down on it. He could feel his teeth squeaking as he pulled out the reports he was supposed to fill out for their "arrests". They'd only gotten one and that was on Dean, and honestly, he was fine with it. He glanced over at the other desk and not for the first time wished it was Victor there. He would've never made Gordon's type of judgment calls. Dean angrily scribbled the events on paper, the point of the pen threatening to dig through the sheet.

He was halfway done when a hand clapped him on the shoulder. He turned around to see Rufus towering over him. Briefly, he wondered if he was in trouble for how things had gone down. Dean didn't need a verbal command to know that he was being pulled into a private meeting his office. With a glare, he got up from his desk and grabbed his stack of unfinished papers with him. All in all, Dean applauded himself on not snapping at anyone on their way there and closing the door like he'd been given a newborn baby.

"Gordon was in here," Rufus started, leaning against his desk.

"I figured."

"What the hell happened?"

Dean sighed and swung one of the chairs in the office around. They didn't usually bother being too formal with each other behind closed doors. They'd been working together too long for that. "Gordon's nuts."

"I've heard the rumors. I wanna know why he came in here telling me that you're touched in the head. Need to do a psych eval' or something because your head's not in the game."

"What?!" Dean bristled. He could feel himself puffing up for a fight. "That sonofa-"

"Don't get riled up over nothin'," Rufus snapped at him, "I wouldn't have let you in the field if I actually thought you were. He hasn't handed his report in, so what happened?"

Dean sighed and threw his stack of papers on the desk. "Just patrolling a routine area. We're not on any big cases right now, not chasing down anyone. Just helping out Narcotics to patrol. We found some kids. We knew of one 'em, Mac. We've seen him dealing before but they weren't doing anything. Hell, he was probably the oldest in that group. And he's friggin' 17. Gordon gets out of the damn car, pulls his gun out, and starts storming towards 'em, telling 'em to put their hands up and lie down on the ground. Christ, this one kid was like 12-years old, took off running, terrified. Gordon tried to fire off a round into his leg to stop him after the first warning. So I tackled him to the ground; Mac and the other kids got away and now he's pissed but I wasn't about to let him shoot at a fuckin' 12-year old."

Rufus stayed quiet after Dean's rant. Dean had grown increasingly agitated as he told his story. He wasn't exactly sure what the company policy was on tackling your fellow agent to the ground and letting "suspects" go, but he was pretty sure they at least frowned on shooting innocent kids. Dean started to feel a little nervous as the silence dragged on. No matter what Rufus' final verdict would be, his shoulders sagged in relief when he started talking. "Was the hood camera running on the car?"

"Like it always is."

"Good. I'll tell Internal to go take a look at it. We haven't had a lot of complaints on him, if any, from previous partners. His record is on a steep decline but we've never had a reason to look into it. If this is what he's been doing, it needs to stop. It's hard to fight against the 'corruption in the FBI' myth when there's actually corruption with our agents."

"Oh, "Dean said stupidly, not expecting to be agreed with.

"Dean, you're one of my best agents, you've had a solid run for years. I have no reason to think you'd come in here and spout off bullshit when lives are concerned."

"Uh, thanks," Dean muttered, feeling the back of his neck start to heat up. He wasn't so good with compliments.

"Speaking of-," Dean looked up as Rufus walked around his desk and sat down, "I got an interesting request about a day ago." He pulled out a file from his drawer. "It's a request for a personal evaluation of you, for a transfer."

Dean gulped, feeling a little embarrassed. It hadn't officially gone through yet. He hadn't even completed his application. The most he'd done was send in a request for specific information- the schedule and registration form for the field training for the BAU, and a requirements list. He didn't think the papers would go through this fast, or that an evaluation would've been sent out so quick.

"Yeah. Cas told me there was an opening. After the bombing," Dean shrugged, "I don't know. I've been talking to him and it seemed like a good change of scenery."

"Agent Novak?" Rufus seemed a little surprised but gathered it together. "If they accept you I wouldn't be surprised-" Dean's face went slack with confusion, "you're a damn fine agent, Dean. And I know you took those extra seminars on criminal psychology over the years. You know, I'm going to give you a ringing endorsement. It helps that I know Bobby Singer on the unit too."

"Small world," Dean squeaked out. He wanted out of the office; it was starting to get small and cramped. One too many praises for him.

"It's a hard job, Winchester," Rufus continued, "damn hard. You'll need to get re-trained. For the next half a year to a year you will be taking extra courses to get your basic qualification for profiling. Half of the work load you can do here, but after that, you'll be moving to Quantico. This is not a guaranteed job, even with my two good cents. There are other agents applying for it, although if we're going to be honest, most of the profilers they have lined don't have anywhere near the level of field qualifications that you do. Just so happens they're more desperate for someone to watch their backs in the field. They already got an office full of Ph.D carrying professionals."

"Uh, right, yeah. Makes sense."

"I'm sending off my evaluation tomorrow morning. I'm not pushing you out, you're welcome to stay. But if you want that transfer, really gun for it. They won't take half-assing."

Dean nodded and got up silently as Rufus turned back to his paperwork. He knew he'd been dismissed. His head was buzzing as he got to his desk and realized he'd forgotten his report. It could wait for now. He packed up his things in a daze, vaguely noticing that he had a missed call on his cellphone. They'd call back if it was important. Dean went down to the garage and drove home.

He'd barely made it to his door when he heard someone call his name. He turned around, confused. Lisa's face swam into his vision, her expression a mixture of fury and concern. She looked like a cross between furious and concerned. He backed up against his door.

"Uhm, hey Lis- what are you doing here?" he asked and immediately wanted to take it back, as her face clouded over. She shook her head and pointed to the door silently. Dean unlocked the apartment and stepped in, holding the door open for her. She kept her jacket on; a bad sign already, but at least she took her shoes off, so they weren't going to be having this argument in the hallway.

He guided the door shut and took off his own shoes and jacket. He made sure to put the keys on the little hanger, then trailed after her. Lisa was settled on the couch, a lot of her anger already fading. She could be hot tempered when she wanted to, but if anything, her temper dissipated pretty quickly. Even with all the bullshit he had pulled during the time that they'd been together, or every time they'd had an argument after. She'd flare up like a super-nova and burn everything around her to a crisp. But afterward, she'd quickly regain her sense, no matter how tired she was. He could never understand how she did that.

"What did I do?" Dean asked, half trying to make a joke even though he knew it probably was something he'd done. There was a reason they weren't together anymore.

"You could be around your phone for more one," Lisa muttered with a sigh.

Dean started to protest, "Hey, I've been around it the entire time. Sam's the one that's been running around with-" Lisa silenced him with a glare and he pulled his phone out of his pocket. He winced as he actually looked at who the missed call was from. "Shit, Lis. I'm sorry."

"It's fine, and before you ask, no one's sick or in grave and immediate danger."

"So, what's wrong?" he asked. Feeling more relieved with the situation, he settled himself next to her on the couch.

"I know you're always busy with the FBI. Something I knew before and I'm well aware of it now," she started, turning a little to face him. "Now, I get that. But Ben, Ben doesn't." Dean gulped, feeling guilty. When was the last time he'd said more than two words to the kid? "He knows about what happened and the PG version of the details. He knows that you're out there taking out the bad guys and being his hero. And before you get too depressed with yourself, he hasn't said anything about it. But you've missed the last nine-ten get-togethers. We're not even doing weekend dinner anymore, and he's starting to get-"

Dean sighed and buried his face into his palms. He rubbed at his forehead and pulled one large hand over his mouth. "Shit Lisa. I'm sorry. I'm so- just. This case-" he felt a small voice in his head whisper 'liar'- "and I just got back in the field. And fuck- I'll do better."

Lisa sighed and tilted her head, but she had a kind smile on her face. "Look, I'm not asking you to be a full-time father for Ben. But you're all he's got. So maybe, call him tomorrow? You don't even have to come over or anything. Just remind him that you're thinking of him. I don't think my word counts as much as yours does."

"Yeah, yeah. I will. I promise," Dean replied, half-pleading.

"Okay, good." Lisa stood up and straightened out her jacket, leaning over to give Dean a friendly peck on the cheek. "I'll show myself out. Get some sleep. You're starting to get circles under your eyes."

Dean grunted a good bye to her and waited until the door slid shut to lean back in the couch in self-loathing. He'd promised himself just because he and Lisa hadn't worked, didn't mean that he had to go and ruin what he had with Ben. It'd been some months since the day of the bombing and he'd gotten out of the hospital. Since then, he'd spent maybe one or two visits with them. Ben had insisted on coming over to see him for one of them. Sometimes Dean forgot that Lisa and Ben had seen him unconscious in the hospital bed.

"I'm shit at everything," Dean told the ceiling.

A small voice in the back of his head piped up again 'and a liar'. Dean told it to shut up and that he wasn't lying, to which it responded with 'you're lying three-fold'. He had to stand up and pour himself a few shots of whiskey to get the voice to stop nagging on him. Technically, it was right. He hadn't been busy all the weeks because of some cases, hell, he wasn't even actually on the bombing case. No one at the office was. It was all his own research that he'd been digging around in that was taking away his free-time. Bela had proven to be more useful. More than she'd probably thought she would've been. But, for the price she'd milked out of him, she'd had better been.

He sat down in front of his laptop and angled himself so that the screen was facing the window and he had eyes on the rest of the room. He couldn't hear snoring from the other room, so he assumed his gigantor brother out somewhere communing with nature. Or whatever he was doing on those walks. Dean typed in his password and all of his work popped up in front of him. Hindsight would later tell him it was stupid not to close out of all the files he had up. But, getting forked in the ass by hindsight was Dean Winchester's specialty.

The computer beeped at him as he closed out of incomplete coroner's reports and missing witnesses. He still hadn't found a way to worm around the locked files. It'd be easy to find contacts but Dean wasn't 100% sure if digging in the database illegally would be a federal offense; so he left it at that. What bothered him, other than the locked, was the massive amount of holes in existing files. And then the files "still pending". Some of them were nearly a decade old. Dean suspected that some of those had been purposely altered too.

He really had to shake his head at some of the upper levels of staff. If a report wasn't satisfactory, or top brass thought you were making shit up, they'd sometimes make you tweak it. In Dean's opinion it was the most retarded thing, because when it came out, and it always did, that sure as hell wasn't going to get anyone's trust in them. They were almost literally shooting themselves in the foot. Although he couldn't exactly be surprised with the policies. There were some, barely clinging to life, geezers from Hoover's time there. And, of course, men who still held true to the Hoover policy of lie, lie, lie, lie. It confused the hell out of most agents, especially those not involved in bureaucracy. They were there to do one job, to protect the citizens of the country. How the hell were they supposed to do that when the damn people they were protecting didn't trust them?

Grumbling, Dean closed the last of the files until there was only last folder open on his computer. The one giving him the most trouble. In bolded letters, dropped a few times throughout an article on Azazel read: C.O.L.T. No more information than that. Not even a full description of what the acronym stood for. Before he could get the chance to even start the research the front door flung out, a large, and very upset Sam Winchester stomping through it.

Dean closed his laptop.

"You're moving to VIRGINIA?!"

Dean groaned as the little voice in his head mocked him. "Wait until Lisa finds out."

… … … … … … … … … … … .. .. .. .. .. . . . . . . . . .

There was a soft sizzle from the aspirin that sank into the water cup. Phones buzzed in the background as Cas swished the glass around, taking huge gulps. He rubbed his fingers over his temples as he read over the piles of files at his table. He'd finally gotten through the reports he had to file to everyone else, which meant he was back to flipping through the Memorial Bombing. The pages glared at him, and if he could, he almost felt like setting them on fire.

He knew there was inefficiency and a massive lack of funds in a lot of cities, and especially in the forensics fields. But it wasn't an excuse. Half of the coroner and forensic offices were in rented out garages with industrial fans to keep them cool. Half of the bodies from previous crimes had been dumped out and incinerated because of the lack of space. Cas had heard of the angry rumblings on the quality of forensics when several lawsuits had popped up against a orthodontist performing autopsies and repeatedly misjudging cases. He just hadn't realized it was this rampant. Or that 90% of autopsies weren't performed by professionals. He'd almost started laughing hysterical when one report listed the credentials as a gynecologist.

A week later, he wasn't in the mood for laughing anymore. A pile of nothing and more than a thousand back and forth phone calls to exhume bodies had left him angry and exhausted. He'd been typing in requests for them exhumations and original files. Cas had been dealing with angry, originating officers, from small local towns that took it personally the second he swung in the word "Federal". The tone would change and he could feel them itching to hang up on him. At the very least, they were creating a taskforce to specialize on the case all year. They were willing to allow his team consultation rights for being original responders.

He leaned back in his chair and lifted an image of Lucifer in his hand. Cas stared at it, feeling a strange sick feeling curl around in his gut. He never could get over the fact that it was his older brother.

There was a small knock on his open door. "You in there?"

Cas lifted his eyes from the picture and tossed it down onto his desk. "Singer?" He leaned up, a little confused. Bobby waved a folder in his hand with raised eyebrows. With a frown, he reached out his hand to grab the file while his colleague sat down. With his stomach in knots, in his gut he flipped it open; reading the large and bold CIA on the front.

"I assume you've already flipped through it?" Cas said as he looked at the request. They'd long established a rapport to where they could glance through each other's files.

Bobby grunted in agreement. "Boy, you are in it now."

"What do they want me for?" Cas asked with a sigh. He was a consultant in the joint task force, sure, but anyone on his team could've been called for an in person meeting. And to the CIA?

"You know exactly why. Who do you think keeps tabs on past identities? I don't think this is a social call."

"True," Cas grumbled, wishing for another aspirin. "I assume I'm not allowed to decline this request. I don't know how long I'll be gone. I leave the team in your hands."

"Shouldn't be too hard to wrangle those idjits in." Cas gave the barest hint of a smile as he started allocating files for Bobby to take care of while he was gone.

Outside of the office Pamela and Ellen were sitting at a desk eyeing the two suspiciously. They'd started paying attention when Bobby had walked past them briskly, with barely a nod hello, and gone straight to Castiel's office.

"He seems agitated," Pamela remarked, sipping on a hot cup of coffee.

"I'm not surprised. He's still consulting with the bombing incident. As far I can tell it ain't going so well," Ellen responded.

"Yeah, but I don't think it's that type of agitated... If he keeps frowning like that, his face is going to get stuck."

"Which would be such a shame," Ellen huffed, rolling her eyes.

Pamela shrugged and grinned. "You'd think they'd know better than to leave the blinds open when they're discussing things."

"Yeah, but if they did, we'd know something was wrong," Ellen responded.

"As interesting as all that is, I think I've got something juicer." Ellen and Pam turned around to see Charlie approaching them, holding a few pieces of paper in her hand. She gave a cursory glance at Cas and Bobby in the office and let the paper be taken from her.

"Who's this handsome piece of meat?" Pamela asked, handing the paper off to Ellen.

"Huh," Ellen huffed, looking at the second piece of paper that Charlie had. "Dean Winchester."

"The one Novak questioned," Charlie offered helpfully when Pamela still seemed to draw a momentary blank.

"No shit." Pamela drew the papers back from Ellen and started flipping through it. "Evaluation? For a transfer?"

Charlie nodded, "In the first few baby step stages, but the wheels are rolling. Boss-man's given his first approval."

"After turning away every other agent we've fed to him?" Ellen remarked.

"Apparently," Charlie responded gathering the papers together, "His background and skills so far check out. I mean, he's no Roy Hazelwood but his field scores are through the roof, his record is down right impressive."

"I'm sure that's not the only thing that's impressive," Pamela teased.

They laughed a little to themselves but with no real malice behind it. They knew Castiel well enough to know that he would only ever let qualified agents work with them. Or in the field at all. Even then, if you really thought about it, they would've thrown him a party for finding someone that interesting. He never showed interest in anyone and not once had there been a mention of a fling. Even Bobby talked about his ex-wife.

"Shhh," Charlie hushed them as Cas and Bobby walked out. They frowned as they noticed him with a go-bag.

"Do we-?"

"No, stay put. I'll be gone for a few days on a consult, I'll trust you will be fine without me for a little," Castiel said as he made his way down the stairs. He pointedly looked at Charlie, "Make sure any paperwork arriving from Oklahoma City regarding Dean Winchester is passed along to the right channels."

"Of course, sir."

"And as for the rest of you, between cases I would like for you to come up with a comprehensive evaluation that you would like to see in a new addition for the team. He has potential, but this will be a unanimous decision. If his dynamic does not work with the team, we will not take him."

Charlie held in a giggle. 'Potential' , now where had she heard that before?

With no further instructions, Cas waved them off and walked through the double doors to the elevators.

"Let's get started I guess?" Ellen said, glancing up at Bobby who had remained on the railing. He shrugged and went to open the door to the conference room.

… … … … … … … … … … … .. .. .. .. .. . . . . . . . . .

The drive to McLean wasn't very long. He'd been offered the chance to take a small hopper or a helicopter for the hour drive, but declined. That was a waste, and besides, there was only one landing field in the area. It would be stupid to put it out of use for this. The hour to Langley did leave him regretfully a little bit of time to think. He'd been doing too much of that lately already and really needed another aspirin. The summons on the papers had listed his birth name and passport pictures from when he was younger. It had also listed his history working for the Royal Marines under Special Forces. Another piece of information that had been sealed and locked away. If they knew about the Special Forces, they knew about his several deployments, specifically the ones that involved clashes with the people he regretfully called family.

While he'd grown up for the most part in Suffolk, he'd taken small trips here and there to Russia. He'd never seen any of the other family, at least, none that he remembered from such a young age, but there were pictures of him visiting major tourist sites. Maybe his mother had felt safe in public venues. And with his father not knowing, it could've been weird if out of nowhere she wanted nothing to do with her homeland. Maybe that's why he'd disappeared when his mother had turned up dead. They'd never located him.

He thanked the driver as he got out of the car and nodded to the CIA personal escorting him into the building. Cas knew they were bringing him for his family history, of which he had no personal knowledge of (other than the taunting letters and pictures he'd received). There were his few clashes with them overseas and the skirmish at home in Suffolk, when they'd traced some of the sources. It wasn't a big worry, but something in his gut churned slowly, praying that his identity would not get leaked. It could only spell trouble for him. He'd already made himself a home in Virginia.

Cas handed over his public firearms, having been allowed to walk through the screening with one small pistol, and to the directors room.

"Agent Novak, how good of you to come," the director said, standing up, "We haven't officially met yet, Zachariah."

"I am at your service," Castiel replied, glancing briefly at the man's balding head before shaking his hand.

"Good, excellent, because we are going to need it. Boy, are we lucky to have run into you in our files," Zachariah responded jovially. He motioned for Castiel to sit. "Now, the bombing at the West Memorial building is top priority right now, for all of us. Especially since Lucifer's folks are behind it and we've over heard some... chatter," - Zachariah winked, and Castiel could only imagine how that 'chatter' had been acquired. "- And we think there might be something big headed our way. We don't know when, or how."

"I see."

"Glad you're following. Now, you've been a consultant but we're upgrading that because of your personal... experience-" Cas sat up in protest "- oh no calm down, calm down. We're not taking you away from the BAU. Much too important work-" Castiel could feel himself being mocked, "but we're putting you on the task force. We've got Interpol working with us, as well as a handful of governments here and there individually. Turns out we may not have been the only places hit, or with threats rolling around."

"I- what would you have me do then?" Castiel asked carefully.

Zachariah smiled and it made him feel a little ill. He'd been feeling ill a lot lately. Maybe he was sick? "So glad you asked. You're going to have a phone line that comes strictly to us. When we need ya, well pluck you out and then you can go back to your team. You will also be assigned a correspondent, a partner. He's been sent over from the European division. I hope you'll get along."

The door opened as if someone had been standing behind it waiting for a cue.

"Agent Novak, meet Agent Uriel."

A/N: Re-write published Dec. 16th.

A/N: And the plot thickens! -cackles- You guys are still interested I hope. I promise there will be plenty of Destiel schmoozing. (SQUEES "I NEED YOU" -turns into puddle on the floor), but for now they kind alive in separate states and it'd be weird for two professionals to start a love affair out of nowhere. But it's coming! (For my peeps, am I the only one freaked out by the new design?)

More Info: Also that shit about forensics? All true. If you get shot, you've got like a 80% chance that your body will never get a full autopsy by a professional. Most of those guys are vet's, dentists, gyno's. You live in L.A. ? May never even get to a table. You live a poor but crowded area? Your body might be kept in a walk in freezer that doesn't even close without a chain wrapped around it. And if you get fried for malpractice? You'll probably just get hired somewhere else again without a care. A lot offices, the head guy that signs off on autopsies isn't a forensic specialist either.