Don't summon the devil,
Don't call the priests,
If you need the strength,
The conjuring
I am the devil's advocate,
A salesman, if you will,
You know my name.
(You know my name)

- "The Conjuring," Megadeth

Sometimes, Dean doesn't think things through.

Oh, he can plan; Dean's actually pretty good at figuring things out. He's as much a problem-fixer as he is a mechanic. But there are times when he doesn't think out repercussions, and every time he tries to fix anything that isn't moving parts and machinery there seems to be some catch that comes back to bite him in the ass.

This is one of those times.

Victor Henriksen isn't a bad guy, that much is clear. The former New York native is brusque and maybe a little abrasive, but that's his job as a criminal prosecutor. His role in life is to shake people down, to get them to break on the stand, and to put away violent criminals.

Right now, as far as Henriksen is concerned, Dean and Cas are criminals. As they've segued past the unnecessary arraignment and into the pre-trial hearing, he's taken up his role neatly, attempting to force out of them any information that would necessitate the jury trial. As photographs from the police station hit the table, images of spreading bruises that have only recently faded completely, he's composed as he answers Henriksen's accusations. Dean expected them. He's ready to fight, he was ready to fight when he walked in the door.

Dean wasn't ready for Sam.

Dean is just dense enough (in his opinion) not to have put together that by bringing Sam into this, by making him their attorney, he's going to have to look Sam in those huge sympathetic puppy dog eyes as they pry into every damn thing he has desperately attempted to shelter his little brother from their entire lives. . . and this is just the first basic question from his defense attorney.

Intellectually, Dean knows what he's supposed to say and do here: after all the facts of the assault itself have been laid on the table, he's supposed to make Henriksen and Judge Turner believe him, make them understand it, have them dump all of the criminal charges against him.

"Were you in fear for your life? Did you believe you were in danger?"

It's the textbook wording, the difference between self-defense and assault, even a grade-school level understanding of law tells him that, but it drags everything out into the open, unlocks the vaults in his head and lays all his shit out in front of three strangers, his boyfriend, and his baby brother. He can see the folder in Sam's hand, the date fifteen years ago neatly printed on a label and it's been there in that stack for the last hour as he was grilled, waiting for them to reach this point in the discussion.

The room is stifling, and he can feel the weight of everyone's stares on him. Castiel's hand is on his knee beneath the table, but now it feels as if he's being restrained to the chair rather than comforted while he's in it, and it takes a few slow, controlled breaths of air before he can raise his chin and fix his eyes on a point past Sam's shoulder, his voice harsh and biting.

"I didn't 'believe' crap. I knew I was in danger. I knew exactly what those assholes were capable of, because they'd done it before not even a week after my first Heat. The guy pinning me was reaching for his belt when Cas showed up, and grinding up against my ass. So was I in fear for my life? Sure. Because I would have made those assholes kill me this time rather than go through that again."

"Objection." Crowley's voice is bored in the face of Dean's hoarse and vehement admission, and he raises two fingers from his temple without looking up from the paperwork in front of him.

"Mr. Crowley, we are not in the courtroom and this is not the trial." Judge Turner sounds irritated, dismissive, dark eyes flashing towards the British attorney because he should know court procedure better than that, he does know court procedure better than that. "You will save your objections for when it is your clients being questioned. You are here as a courtesy and I am not all that damned courteous, so you would be better off keeping your mouth shut."

"I am here as a courtesy. As is Doctor Novak, as this line of inquiry does not directly pertain to his case." Crowley's head raises, eyes fixed on the judge, lips just barely quirked into a smirk and his rough accent rolling derisively over every word. "As it stands, both of us have cases directly hanging on the testimony of Mr. Winchester and. . . ah. . . Mr. Winchester-the-taller. . ." He dips his head to Sam mockingly ". . . is aware of the fact, which is why he has not requested that I be sent out, as that would be the height of hypocrisy."

It's Sam who replies, and Dean's little brother has spent too long learning his control tactics from Dean because his voice drops in displeasure: Dean just admitted he'd have rather died than be made into a victim again, and Crowley's tactics are disrupting his control as Sam deals with that fact. "Your Honor, if necessary I can handle my clients' hearings separately in order to ensure that Mr. Crowley isn't able to badger and antagonize them during the pretrial."

"I don't give a shit what you two decide as long as you're not wasting my time listening to you argue about who gets to argue." Judge Turner points a finger at Crowley, and jerks his thumb at the door. "Get out. I'll hear your 'objections' at your own trial. Mr. Winchester, your clients. . ."

Sam nods, turning his attention back to Cas and Dean. "Cas. . ." Raking his hand through his hair and rumpling the carefully controlled mane, for the first time showing any nerves in the face of having to drag his own brother through this, Sam lowers his voice for their hearing alone. "I can't have that asshole in here, and I hate to say it but this might be easier for Dean without youhere right now, too. We're about to go into details of the first assault. This is our best chance of getting these guys to drop the criminal charges against Dean, which makes it that much easier to tackle the charges against you."

He can't have Crowley in there compromising it, and he can't force Crowley out while keeping Cas in the room. Castiel is frowning as if the idea of leaving Dean to face these questions alone is personally offensive, but Dean lays his hand over Castiel's on his leg and he weaves their fingers together, squeezing lightly. His voice rasps in his whisper: he's reassuring himself as much as he is Castiel. "Cas. . . you're gonna find all of this out either way when it shows up in their trial. I got this."

Castiel was a soldier, or near enough. He knows when he's been dismissed. If they weren't in a room full of spectators, he would have brought Dean's hand up and nuzzled his work-battered knuckles, kissed him again for luck and comfort, wrapped around him and tried to protect him from this. . . but perhaps that's precisely the problem: Dean doesn't want sympathy. He'd rather confront these issues than confess them.

Crowley saunters out of the room, apparently entirely unaffected by being made to leave, and something about his momentary look of triumph leaves Sam uneasy. Castiel rises to his feet reluctantly, and offers a nod to the judge and the prosecutor with a hand on Dean's shoulder that lingers until he turns on his heel to leave. Sam catches him by the wrist, glancing at the door Crowley slipped through. "Don't talk to anyone about the case. When we're done in here, I'll come get you for your hearing. Don't wander off, and keep your phone on vibrate so I can find you if you have to step away, the judge isn't going to want to wait."

Castiel nods his understanding and takes one last look at Dean. Chin dipped low, obviously concentrating on making sure he'll get through this for Castiel's sake as much as his own, Dean looks pale and faintly ill with his jaw clenched and eyes narrowed, breathing slowly to steady himself. Castiel cannot take this burden from him, however much he wishes he could.

Crowley is waiting outside of the courtroom when Castiel enters the narrow corridor between it and the main hall, and it is too deliberate to be coincidence: Crowley intended for them both to be thrown out, to have his first opportunity to contact Castiel given Sam's adept interference. "Not looking too good is he, your boy? And this is just the hearing." There's not even a veneer of false sympathy to the lawyer's words, barbed and sardonic. Castiel scowls, averts his eyes, and stalks towards the door back to the main corridor, determined not to be baited.

"Imagine how much worse it will be when I crucify him in the trial. The overgrown bleeding-heart little brother will probably get him out of the criminal charges today, but he knows I've already filed the paperwork to call his brother's pimp to the stand." Castiel freezes in place, fists clenched, fingertips driving into his palms until he can feel the bite of his nails, and even without turning he can hear Crowley's sneer as it colors his words. "I expect it will be even more difficult for Mr. Winchester when he's up there telling a jury and a courtroom of people about how eager to please your 'mate' was."

"That is not going to happen." Castiel's words are punched out of him, his denial heated and furious, though he's refusing to turn towards the antagonizing attorney. Crowley snorts, pretentious cane tapping against the tile floor as he moves. "Ah but it is. And the jury will love it. So tawdrya story. The pious virgin priest, sap of a doctor led astray by the Omega prostitute. . .?"

"Dean is not. . ." Castiel snarls, whirling to face Crowley, but the lawyer smirks in the face of his rage. He knows he has Castiel's complete attention now—he probably also knows how close to violent retaliation Cas is. It's only the fact that Crowley would bury him legally if he lashed out that has Castiel restrained, and even knowing that he is having difficulty not playing into Crowley's hands.

"Bought and paid for, kitten. Sex for services. Your help against my clients, and he spends that night with you, if your neighbor's generously paid testimony is to be believed. He was arrested at your apartment, both of you reeking of sex and half dressed. And then charges for the expensive hotel room, the meals. A hotel full of witnesses who would testify as to your very vocal activities. And then all it takes is establishing his past history with a few select witnesses, financials, and careful questions to him on the stand. A whore is a whore is a whore is a whore. And I can prove it. Or. . ." He smirks, pushing the door open behind him, stepping backwards out into the main thoroughfare of the courthouse. ". . . You can settle. Is your father's money, a slap on the wrist punishment and your pride worth more to you than Dean?"

Crowley's little nod is blatantly mocking, knob handle of the cane to his temple in a smart-assed salute as the door swings shut behind him. "Contact me when you're ready to make a deal, Castiel." His accent plays over Castiel's name, drawing out the syllables tauntingly. "But don't wait too long."

Then he's gone, Castiel left staring at the door swinging in its frame behind him, furious and apprehensive.

The entire confrontation takes less than a two minutes. Yet it will haunt Castiel for some time to come.

xXx

He sees Dean's shoes, first, shined and clearly worn less frequently than Castiel's scuffed Oxfords, brought only for the funeral, dark against the tile floor. Dean settles heavily at Castiel's side on the bench seat, breath leaving him in a whumph as he seats himself, and they're once again where they started, though it's Cas taking Dean's hand this time as he raises his gaze from the floor before him.

"They've started the lawyer talk. My part's done, so I got out of there."

There's nothing physically different about Dean's appearance. His tie is still straight and clothes are still pressed and his jaw still set, but there's a tightness around his eyes, a thin set to his lips and defensive cant of his chin and shoulders that makes him look as if he's gone ten rounds in the ring and taken a beating doing it.

Dean was just forced to relive a fifteen-year-old crime for the benefit of an audience including his brother, his privacy and pride stripped away. Castiel feels the blade of self-recrimination twist in his gut when he realizes that Crowley has a point: in trial, this will be far worse for Dean. To an extent he realizes exactly what Crowley is doing: the man isn't subtle, but he isn't trying to be. His words slipped neatly between the instinctive need to protect his mate from other Alphas, and the genuine love and affection Castiel feels for Dean. Everything to happen from here on out, every testimony and word transcribed within the courtroom will be considered public record, Dean's pain and trauma out there for anyone to pry into. Castiel would give anything not to have Dean do this and Crowley knows it, too.

"Think I'm in the clear. As far as criminal charges go, at least." Dean leans back against the wall behind them, head tilted back, handsome and stubborn and broken, speaking evenly but not looking Castiel in the eye right now as he gathers himself. "Henriksen went from treating me like a perp he needed to shake down to a witness he's going to need against the other guys.

Dean may not be a lawyer, but he reads people and has spent a lifetime picking up on people's reactions to him, their actual thoughts, so he knows how deeply he has to hide himself, how thick to layer the lie. In another life with an equal shot, he would have probably made a good cop with how well he's learned to read people. Henriksen was treating him like a victim, and he frikkin' hated it, but he's good enough to read it just as he's good enough to read Cas even in his practiced physician stoicism: sympathetic but careful, controlled, his palm clammy in Dean's own between them on the seat. Lowering his chin, he narrows his eyes at Cas in concern, frowning. "What happened to you?"

Castiel swallows heavily, attempting to form his thoughts and fears into words, acutely aware of Dean's intelligent eyes fixed on him. That is, of course, precisely when Sam shows up.

"We're done here for now." The younger Winchester's briefcase thumps down onto the bench on the other side of Cas from Dean, and Castiel closes his eyes and lets the barely gathered thoughts and words drain away. Dean frowns at him for a beat longer, before his attention shifts to his brother too. "You're set, Dean. Your part's been declared as self-defense, and the charges dismissed. You've been named as a witness for the prosecution in the other trial, and obviously as a witness for Cas's defense. Cas . . . "

"The charges against me stand." Castiel surmises, leaning forward to rest his elbows across his knees, fingers pressing to his temples as his eyes slide closed. "I assumed they would. Did they give you an idea of why?"

Sam nods, and takes a seat beside Dean on the bench, leaning forward to look at them both. "Good Samaritan is determined by intent and motive, not evidence. They're leaving that to a jury; Turner only wants to give evidentiary rulings during pre-trial. I still think we can turn this around, though. Since Henriksen is on loan, Judge Turner wants this all taken care of quickly, so we're on the docket for Monday. It's going to be a few pretty long days for us, though. And there's. . . a few things we need to hammer out before any of that, about our methods."

There's something Sam's not saying, and Dean looks at him expectantly, the big-brother look that tells him to spit out whatever he's hiding. Castiel, though, doesn't give him the chance to pry it out of Sam. "Then we should be on our way."

Cas barely wants to confront the fact that in just a few days' time, Dean will be dragged onto the stand in Castiel's trial as well as his assailants, and then again in the civil trial. He needs time and space to process it, to consider the merits of Crowley's proposed deal.

Watching as Dean takes the lead out of the courthouse, already muttering about needing a drink or a few, he knows that his priority is no more his own safety now than it was years ago: he cared for the soldiers under his spiritual charge, and was willing to suffer anything for the slight chance of helping them.

Can he do any less for the man he loves?

xXx

". . . Need you here . . . Yeah, 'your majesty,' I'm serious. . ." There's a faintly exasperated fondness to Sam's hushed voice as he paces on the gravel drive outside of the garage, his suit jacket long gone and sleeves rolled up, tie missing and hair caught in the putrid smelling breeze off of the river. "It's time to finally come out of the dungeon."

"Book yourself a flight, I'll pick you up at the airport. Text me your itinerary, and make sure you pack something court-appropriate this time? I'm going to need you here before Monday so you can get a feel for . . . Yes, I am dragging you into the courtroom with me, that's the point. You'll understand when you get here. Just. . ." Sam tilts his head back, looking up at the grime-coated exteriors of the windows, and from his perch on the back bumper of the Impala, Castiel can see him push his hand through his hair, tangling in the long strands to hold it out of his face. ". . . Book a hotel room first for the duration of the trial. Book me one, too, while you're at it. Yeah. Hitting those videos you sent next, so I'll be online."

Their goodbyes are brief, and when Sam turns around to find Castiel staring at him from only a pace away, head cocked, he sounds exactly like his older brother for a moment in his surprise.

"Son of a. . .!" The familiar expletive is cut short, and Sam takes a step back and shakes his head. "You can't just go around sneaking up on people like that. It's. . ."

"Creepy. So I've heard." Castiel's interruption falls flat even in comparison to his usual droll comments, and he can't find it in himself to make small talk. "Crowley told me he is calling Alastair as a witness to undermine Dean's testimony."

It sounds more like an accusation than anything, reproachful and abrupt, calling into question why this hadn't been mentioned to them at any point in the day. Sam grimaces, pained, and glances back at the closed door up to the apartment above. "He's asleep. He won't say it, but at the moment he would prefer space after what was discussed today. He also drank the majority of that bottle of whiskey between dinner and falling unconscious. Is Crowley going to put Alastair on the stand?"

"He's going to try to tear Dean apart on the stand, and Alastair is part of his plan for it too." Sam admits, sighing heavily. "I doubt he's going to find him, though. I've been looking for him for five years, Cas. I. . . I'm pretty sure no one's going to find him."

Castiel's eyes narrow into a critical squint, hands loose at his sides but posture tense and expression forbidding. Sam is keeping secrets, and that is an uncomfortable thing to contemplate from the man responsible for helping keep them out of prison, a man now holding Castiel's future in his hands. "Look, Cas. After I had a name, once I saw how messed up Dean was, I became a little obsessed. I . . . uh. I guess that runs in our family. After his lawyer had the charges dismissed, he would crop up places every once in a while, but never for long. I kept an eye out, I had a decent amount of research and then it was gone. Then he was gone. Cas, I'm pretty sure Alastair is dead."

He's never asked, though, never pursued it fully . . . because as far as he is concerned, Alastair deserved that fate.

And because Sam knows that the man with the most motive and opportunity, who would never reveal the truth of it, is asleep upstairs.