It's time to open up
All the doors that you keep locked
Nobody gives without a take
Let's take it all
You've been twisted into pieces
By the hands of your emotions
How much longer are you gonna pay
For yesterday
Sins of the father

- "Sins of the Father," Black Sabbath

Dean wakes Monday morning to a buzzing phone and an empty bed. Fumbling across a cold span of sheets, he swats at his phone twice before managing to palm it, knocking a few battered paperbacks away from Cas's side of the bed before managing to bring it to his ear. "Didn't I just hang up on you?" Dean slurs in annoyance as he stretches in place, blinking his eyes open to frown at the empty side of the bed.

It's chilly, the air conditioning is blasting his skin, and the bed seems vast and lonely even knowing that every bed he's slept in since he was a teen is technically bigger. There's no sense of panic to waking alone and some part of him knows that Cas won't have left him, not really. It just feels wrong now, to wake up able to move his limbs without untangling them first, to not have Cas's body heat making him swelter.

"Wrong sib, Dean." Jo's voice rings out over the line too loudly, too cheerfully. "Though it's cute to think you and Sam stay up all night on the phone like a couple of girlfriends." Dean grunts, too tired to manage a retort, and Jo's tone softens. "Mom's doing breakfast for everyone this morning before the trial starts. Don't take too long getting around or she's going to bury me in pancakes, okay?"

He doesn't linger on the phone with Jo long, and he barely remembers the conversation. He's too busy scouring the room for any sign of Cas. He finds him moments later in the living room.

All of Cas that Dean can see from the doorway is tousled hair and tangled limbs at the edge of a pool of lamplight. Castiel has got both arms wrapped around the cushion that should make up one half of the couch's backrest, tugging it to his chest curling around it possessively, his face buried into the upholstery. John Winchester's tax returns, the business's finances, check stubs and credit card receipts litter every inch of the coffee table, organized in ways only Castiel would know, and Dean frowns at the scene before him.

Cas has staunchly maintained that he finds numbers comforting: they do as they're told, follow strict rules, and they always add up in the way they're meant to. Since he moved in, he's used burying himself in paperwork as a useful way to soothe his worried mind while Dean worked on cars, getting Dean ready to sell and cut his losses with the family business. This is more than pre-trial nerves. They're still strained, he and Cas. He knows that's on him, and wishes he could help it.

Dean hasn't pulled away, though: Cas did. Cas recoiled hard from the realization of what his deal-making could have done to Dean, and from the hurt Dean apparently can't mask from a man starting to understand his moods to a frightening degree. Now Dean isn't sure how to fix them.

But the guy is sleeping on the couch after doing taxes all night, and it makes Dean ache to see it.

Tugging at the cushion pulls a familiar sleepy complaint from Cas; the same displeased grumble that slipping away from Cas always drags out of him. The Alpha ends up wedged into the space the cushion vacated, a frown painting his features, his face creased with the seams of the fabric he has spent his night clinging to, arms falling limply once they're empty. Until Dean crawls into the loose circle of his limbs, reclaiming the place that has been reserved for him since they fell into this relationship.

He knows the moment Cas registers the change and wakes up; he tenses marginally, fingers flexing to press into the bare skin of Dean's chest and stomach. His head angles on the couch until he can rest his forehead against the nape of Dean's neck, his breath skating over Dean's skin. Dean can feel it when all of the tension slips out of him, a warm gust of an exhalation, and then Cas's knees butt against the back of his, reshaping him. Cas's arms tighten around Dean to bring them back-to-chest, and he draws in Dean's scent like he's taking a hit of the world's most potent drug. Hell, maybe he is.

Maybe he's Cas's addiction now.

Maybe Cas is his.

Maybe that's what the entire 'mate' crap the world romanticizes is really all about: just hormones and pheromones and chemical intoxication. They're just nestling into the couch, but he feels more relaxed already and he swears he can feel the contentment settle over Cas incrementally, that 'closed link' of dopamine and oxytocin Cas described for him. It's woven itself into the fabric of their relationship and Dean doesn't know what to think of that after years resenting biology, because it feels right now. Today, though, isn't the right day for a freak out over the effect they have on each other: he's banking on it, counting on soothing Cas's frayed nerves.

Linking their fingers together, Dean raises Cas's hand to his mouth, brushing a kiss over their interlocked knuckles. "Creeping out to the couch in the middle of the night, now, Cas?"

"Couldn't sleep." Dean can feel Cas's response more than hear it, breathed against his back. Dean's snort of disbelief garners a slightly more alert response. "I became . . . engrossed. I didn't intend to fall asleep out here."

There's something Cas isn't saying, and Dean can hear it in his pauses and hesitations. He gives Cas a moment, trying to coax him into filling in the gaps, but Cas presses a kiss to his shoulder and tightens his arms around Dean instead, clearly putting something aside. "How much time do we have?"

"None." Dean admits, and there goes that grumpy huff and mutter again as he reluctantly untangles himself, using their linked hands to pull Cas upright on the couch beside him, where he squints, frowning, disgruntled, sleep deprived and now apparently sex-deprived: he doesn't say as much, but Dean knows what mornings are for in Cas's mind. Dean rolls his eyes. "You'll survive, ya friggin' nympho. Go make yourself presentable. We've got a stop on the way. I've got your suit out. Blue tie, Charlie says that's some sort of signal that you're honest and trustworthy."

"And it brings out the color of my eyes." Castiel's deadpan is as accurate as ever, whether he seems off otherwise or not. Dean's sardonic scoff may not be the most flattering response ever, but it's at least honest amusement and Castiel appreciates that this morning.

"I don't care if you go woo every juror there, Cas, just don't kill anyone. Capisce?"

"I capisce." He promises, already slipping into the bedroom to grab his suit.

They've burned too much time curled up together on the couch, and the rest is dedicated to ensuring Cas is court-ready and not forgetting anything, and Dean is prepared for the day. Dean doesn't notice Cas pocket several folded pieces of the financial paperwork on his way out of the door, tucking them into the inside pocket of his suit jacket and closing John's books behind him.

xXx

Nobody at the Roadhouse looks as if they got a good night's sleep, and the early morning is taking its toll on the generally nocturnal crew. Ash is actually stretched out along the pool table, feet hanging off to preserve the felt and an arm thrown over his eyes. Ellen is nursing a cup of coffee in one hand as she brings in more food than any of them are going to be able to manage. Jo flings herself into Dean's arms as soon as he walks in to crush him in a hug that he assumes is meant to be supportive, but comes across mostly as being incredibly thankful he's arriving to save her from Ellen's worry-induced mania.

It takes him a moment, blinking, to put together that they're all dolled up.

He's seen Jo in the cream suit before, when she came to the jail and pretended to work for Sam. Ellen, he hasn't seen in anything but jeans since Bill Harvelle's funeral, but she's in a dark sheath dress, with a matching blazer tossed over the counter and her dark hair is pinned up simply but neatly. And Ash. . .

"Dude, your shirt has sleeves."

Dean's tired. It seems like a completely valid way to greet the room at large considering the circumstances. Anyone who disagrees can bite him. Ash, for his part, just raises his arm straight into the air without sitting up, throwing Dean devil horns. "Damn right it does, hombre. You'd better appreciate it." And sure, maybe the sleeves are plaid, but the cuffs are buttoned, and it may be jeans but there aren't any holes in them. Apart from the mullet, Ash looks. . . almost normal. It's surreal.

"Jo and me, we're not getting called up for Cas's case and that jackass lawyer's not letting us anywhere near his trial now that he has our depositions." Ellen has come around the bar, and she's about three inches taller than he's used to, her heels clicking on the wood floors as she approaches him and slings an arm around Dean's waist, and around Cas's as well as if he's just another of her 'boys,' dragging them towards the bar with her while Jo trails them. Ellen looks like some sort of churchgoing respectable business owner, instead of the no-nonsense bar owner Dean knows can cuss out a sailor when pissed and shoot that shotgun across the back of her bar like a pro, and it's seriously screwing with his entire concept of the world.

Jo beams at Dean, bumping her shoulder against his and turning to include the frowning and thoughtful Castiel at his side with her next words as, skirt of not, she perches on the edge of the bar a seat down from Dean and winks at the two of them, sliding plates of food their way. "We're your cheerleaders. There's no way we're letting you sit in there alone, Cas."

Castiel swallows thickly, opening his mouth to respond as Dean squeezes his hand, their fingers lacing together again on Dean's knee as they sit. "I. . ."

"We're cheerleading? Are there costumes?" Charlie Bradbury breezes in as Sam holds the door for her, and stops three steps into the bar to stare at Jo, eyes widening as she slowly smiles at the pretty blonde bartender, flirtatious and completely comfortable in her own sexuality. "Please say we have costumes. Wait, no. . . Tell me you're Dr. Badass?"

Ash sits bolt upright on the bar table as if electrified, swinging his booted feet around to clomp onto the floor as he takes his first look at the computer hacker who foiled him; the supposed cerebral love of his life. "The Queen of Moons?"

Dean nearly inhales his first gulp of coffee, trying to laugh at the same time. Castiel closes his mouth without finding a response and raises his eyebrow, faintly confused. Sam and Ellen exchange a look, and seem to simultaneously come to the conclusion that they're not taking part in whatever bizarre tangle of geeky romance and doomed unrequited crushes just landed on their doorstep.

By the time Gabriel joins them, pouring what looks like a full cup of sugar into his coffee and chattering far too much for the early morning hours, they're set.

Castiel has more family than he could have asked for watching his back, and now Dean has eyes and ears on the trial for him.

If Castiel looks distracted and slightly strained in socializing, and only picks at the massive breakfast put in front of him, it's accepted as nerves.

xXx

"You ready?"

Castiel shrugs, his usual awkward raise and drop of his shoulders without any particular elegance to it. Fingers curled around the handle of the Impala, eyes on the courthouse and a furrow in his brow, he seems to be weighing what to say.

"Of course he's ready." Charlie offers from the backseat helpfully, and Dean flashes her a look in the rearview that has her zipping her lips, locking them, and pocketing an imaginary key. And then immediately speaking again regardless as she excuses herself instead of trying to remain silent and supportive at the same time. "Look, I'll go check on Sam, make sure he's got everything with him. Don't drive off without me, okay?"

She doesn't wait for Dean's response, slipping out of the back seat of the car to join the congregation of family and friends on the asphalt outside, gathering in the parking lot and ready to mount the courthouse steps. She's trying to give them a minute, and Dean appreciates it: hands still on the wheel, he ducks down slightly to look up at the courthouse past his family. Not long now.

"C'mon man. You've been off all morning." Dean murmurs once they're alone together, as though they have to whisper in the confines of the car to keep the crowd outside from hearing them, from judging them. "You gotta talk to me. If there's something going into this. . ."

He's going to go stir crazy waiting like some kind of useless prick for word back, pacing holes in the floor, wondering if Castiel is going to get through this trial able to look at him ever again. Not that he's looking at Dean now. Palms open on his knees, fingers slightly curled, he stares down at his hands as he weighs a response.

"If I knew something, or suspected something. . ." And woah, hey, where the hell did that come from? Castiel falters and closes his mouth again, blue eyes narrowing as he scowls as if his inability to finish a goddamn sentence is the fault of the world. Dean's eyebrows shoot up, and he unbuckles his seatbelt and turns to face Cas on the Impala's leather bench seat.

"The hell are you talking about, Cas?"

Knuckles rap against the glass beside Dean's head, and he doesn't jump because he's not paranoid and twitchy, but he does scowl because he's getting pissed at interruptions. This is already proving to be a non-stop whirlwind kind of morning, and it's all the worse because he knows he's going to be spending the rest of the day with his thumb up his ass while other people do the heavy lifting. Because it's Sam, he manages to turn the urge to cuss someone out for the interruption into an annoyed stare over his shoulder instead.

Damnit. They don't have time for this. Cas seems to have come to the same conclusion. Unbuckling his seatbelt, he slides his way across toward the seat to the driver's side to cup Dean's face in his hands and kiss the hell out of him, as if he needs the reassurance that he's still allowed to kiss Dean. It wins a collective groan from Gabriel, Jo and Sam, and Dean raises a middle finger at the collected bitchy sibling crew without breaking the kiss because he needs this. He needs Cas to be comfortable initiating touch between them again.

Cas breaks the seal of their lips a moment later, resting his forehead against Dean's, eyes too close to make out the details of them. "Nothing they say is going to change my opinion of you. And I think. . . I think I know something that you should work on during the trial." A slip of paper comes out of Castiel's pocket, and tucks into the breast pocket of Dean's plaid shirt, without letting him have it. His hand braces over Dean's chest, holding it in place for the moment, his palm to Dean's heartbeat to soothe himself and he raises his chin to press his lips to Dean's forehead.

"I never meant to hurt you, but I did. And I think. . . I believe I understand now. I think we were looking at the wrong side." Dean doesn't know if Cas is being a cryptic bastard, or if he's just talking about his emotions and the screwed up not-deal. The entire thing seems ambiguous and without context. All that frowning and brooding, you'd think Cas would have managed to figure out how to explain himself, but for now he doesn't try. Ellen and Jo are hurrying into the courthouse to get past the line in, and find them all seats together. Ash is loitering near Charlie, but Sam and Gabriel couldn't be more obvious about their impatience if they turned knocking on the windows into a game.

"I love you." If he doesn't go now he's going to be late. Cas steals another fleeting kiss, already pulling back to open his door as he does.

He prays to God he's not about to hurt Dean again.

He prays he's right, that this slip of paper he's brooded over for the past week will suddenly make sense to Dean the way it did to Castiel after their fight. He can only hope that he's not blindly looking for miracles, like the priest he once was.

"Hey!" Dean's propelling himself out of the driver's side door, leaning against the top of the car as Cas joins an impatient and frazzled looking Sam. Bastard, the tie does bring out the blue of his eyes, especially in the morning sunlight like this. ". . . Me too. Same."

Castiel blinks at him and for a minute Dean thinks he's going to actually have to make himself say it for Cas to catch on. After a moment, Castiel smiles: a genuine, full smile, crinkling his eyes, and it's . . . shit, they're at the start of what's going to prove to be a miserable day for both of them, but that smile is beautiful.

"Yeah, yeah. Just don't kill anyone!"

"I'm not going to kill anyone." Castiel half-grumps, but even then his smile is unshaken.

"I'll take him down if he tries." Gabriel assures Dean, clapping Cas on the shoulder and half hauling him towards the courthouse. "Don't pretend I can't, Castiel. I've been kicking your ass since you were knee-high to . . ."

"Knee high to you? You will notice I outgrew you slightly in the intervening years." Castiel rumbles, but allows himself to be pulled back on track and chivvied across the parking lot.

Still in the lot, Sam raises a brow at his brother at the sudden change in mood, a knowing glint in his eyes, and gets a headshake in answer and a smile that Dean doesn't even have to fake this time. "Not a fucking word, Sammy. Knock 'em dead. Good luck."

Halfway up the stairs to the courthouse, Gabriel nudges Cas's side, smirking to himself when his brother blinks like he's coming back to earth to look down at him, because he's obviously taking scenic day trips back to that car with Dean mentally. "Quit smiling, bro, it's creepy."

"Why is everything I do 'creepy'?" Castiel protests, holding the door open with his elbow for his brother, Sam, and Ash to join the queue for the metal detectors, leaving his hands free to finger-quote, and even then he can't really muster up the ire to seem put out by the opinion.

"Don't beat yourself up over it, kiddo, it's not your fault I got the lion's share of the charm and the looks. By the time it got down to you, we were scraping the bottom of the barrel." Gabriel slaps Cas on the shoulder as he passes, smug at his brother's inability to formulate a comeback at the moment.

Dean loves him.

"Head in the game, Cassie."

He just put the emotional equivalent of an atom bomb into Dean's pocket.

He's on trial for assault, and may face jail and separation from Dean.

Head in the game. Sam's watching him as he drops his briefcase onto the conveyer, eyes narrowed curiously as Castiel visibly forces himself to tense again, to resume his stoic demeanor.

Back at the car, Charlie leans against the passenger side door and smirks at Dean, shaking her head slightly. "Smooth, Casanova. Real smooth."

"Yeah, shuttup." Dean grumbles, swinging his eyes away from the doors of the courthouse as they swing closed, and fixing a slitted gaze on Charlie. "No one who spent the last hour gaping at my little sister is allowed to comment on my moves."

"Dude, your 'little sister' is hot."

"Ash seems to think you're pretty hot, yourself." Dean teases, and Charlie blows her bangs out of her face, opens the passenger door, and flops down into the Impala in Cas's recently abandoned seat. "What, no comeback your Majesty?"

"Hey, no false modesty from me, Dean. I can't shut this down." Dean rolls his eyes, and turns the key in the ignition, and it's when he moves that he remembers the papers in his pocket. Charlie adeptly changes topic as he fishes Castiel's cryptic message out and straightens crumpled papers against the wheel. "So, prosecution's witnesses go first. He'll call someone, Sam will cross-examine them, that'll keep going until Henricksen figures he's had his say. That could be all day, or it could be this morning, but we've pretty much got hours to kill until we know. We'll man the war room, keep an eye on Crowley's comings and goings, and bring lunch to the courthouse and catch up, see how long we have before you're called in to. . ."

The papers in front of him make no sense. A crumbled receipt for a home improvement store, its ink faded to soft blues that are murky at the edges of each digit. A five year old tax return for his father's business. Old bank statements from the same year. Five years ago. It's just. . . receipts. Finances. Old ones, even, until he keeps going.

A bank receipt for the deposit of just under forty thousand dollars . . . three hundred and twenty five dollars a day less taxes for his 'services' over four months of captivity, Dean did the math once. God only knows what Alastair was charging; he made sure Dean was damned appealing with his heats, worked him through multiple 'clients' a day, and charged more to let them pop a knot, or get handsy, that much he knows. They slurred in his ear that he'd better make it worth it for them. He sure as hell made a profit even after his 'whore' was paid for with this check. His stomach churns, and the last of his euphoria fades instantly. Here's the proof. In his hands, he is holding the clear sign of what his father did.

It's the final sheet of paper, though, Castiel's careful block letters crawling across the page outlining his thoughts and questions, that brings it all together.

- NO SIGN OF IMPACT ON BUS. OR PERS. ACCTS.

- BANK ACCT. OPENED IN MICHIGAN (?) FOR FUNDS

- RECEIPT FROM DETROIT HDWR STORE

- ACCESS TO SW'S RESEARCH (?)

Dean's world tilts, and scrubbing a hand down his jaw he blinks, and then tears through the papers once again to look at the address stamp and date on the deposit slip.

Holy shit.

xXx

"All rise!"

The shuffling of men and women of the jury and court to their feet is loud in the room, and Castiel squares his shoulders as he directs his gaze to the front of the courtroom, too aware of the audience and the jury, of his brother at his back and his mate's family spreading along the front row behind him, a silent show of support. "The seventh district court of the state of Kansas is now in session, the honorable Judge Turner presiding."

As Turner addresses them briefly, as the jury is sworn in and Castiel feels himself tensing for a fight, Sam slides a message over in front of Castiel on the table before them, penned across the top of the paper.

We only need one juror, Castiel. One juror, and they can't convict.

He waits until Castiel's gaze flicks back to him, and nods slightly. "Relax." He begs Castiel under his breath, before turning his attention to Victor Henricksen as he commands their attention.

"Your honor, ladies and gentlemen of the jury." Victor Henricksen is the picture of authority, of strength, as he positions himself to speak to the jury, the lines of his suit neatly pressed and his red tie a bold contrast to the rest of his attire.

"The defendant has been charged with knowingly, even brutally assaulting two men in sight of witnesses, and aiding in the assault of two others." Henricksen jabs a finger in the direction of Sam and Cas without breaking his prowling pace beside the jury box. "At no point in these proceedings will you hear the defense deny those charges: he freely admits it. The defense is going to paint the picture of Mr. Novak being a heroic figure, but the evidence presented to you will show that he is nothing more or less than a man who embraces violence, who resorts to vigilante behavior, because he feels that the law that applies to you and applies to me doesn't apply to him. The evidence and testimony you hear in this courtroom will prove that other avenues were available to him, and yet he chose to assault these men, and feels no remorse or regret for those actions, and that he is guilty of every one of the charges laid against him."

Henricksen holds the gaze of one juror, than the next, giving his words a beat to sink in. This is it: the opening statements are their chance to color the lens through which the jury looks at all evidence, at all testimony and proceedings, and Henricksen is far from incompetent at his job: he believes his words, and wills the others to as well, compelling in his complete conviction. With a look to the Judge and an incline of his head, the prosecutor returns to his position, and Sam takes his cue to speak.

"Your honor, ladies and gentlemen of the jury." Sam doesn't approach the jury as Henricksen did: he won't let himself loom, won't make them feel threatened by his size and bearing. Instead, he remains near Castiel, gesturing at his brother's mate as Castiel breathes out slowly, attempting to resist tensing at the attention, or slumping under the weight of Henricksen's accusations. He looks smaller and less imposing beside Sam, and the younger attorney is counting on it. "Doctor Novak was leaving work after a trying day, to see a man whom he had watched grieve over the loss of his father attacked and beaten. We ask society not to stand back and watch, and as a man of strong convictions and morals, Doctor Novak. . ." He places gentle emphasis on the title ". . . stood up for what he believed was right: he saved my brother's life."

It's a calculated risk, throwing out his relationship to Dean before it can be turned against them somehow in the proceedings. He needs them to see Dean as human, as valuable, and he needs them to see Castiel as the hero Sam wishes he still fully believed Castiel was.

"His quick action saved my brother, who has been assaulted by this same gang before and had his life ripped apart because no one else stood up for him when he needed them years ago. Doctor Novak has continually placed his health, and his safety, and his comfort, second to those of the people he cares for; this is something we look for in men like him, that we demand of him personally and professionally. To punish him for doing the right thing, for the right reasons. . ." Sam spreads his hands, putting Castiel's fate at their feet, his hazel eyes wide and pleading. "That would be the true travesty of justice."

Returning fully to Castiel's side, Sam rests a hand on his shoulder, a show of support as Cas nods his thanks, ducking his head down.

"The prosecution may call its first witness." Rufus Turner is completely comfortable in his robes, lounging in the judge's chair as if he's holding court instead of running a trial, but his dark eyes are sharp and analytical as he turns to Henricksen.

"The People call Doctor Zachariah Adler to the stand."

xXx

"Um. Dean. You're kind of scaring me a little here." Charlie's voice reaches him finally, pulling him out of his thoughts, and he shoves the papers into his pocket again and throws them into reverse, taking them out of the parking space and on their way.

"We're headed back to my place. Then I'm going to need those computer skills Sam hired you for."

He knows what Castiel suspects, now. . . but they need to know.

Dean needs to know.

"Oh-kay. . .?" Charlie knows enough, she was part of this entire mess the first time around. Sam brought her into their fucked up family lives, but Dean's not certain how much farther he should drag her. His little brother slept on her couch for four months. She played dispatch to John and Sam both, she had to have gotten a feel for his family.

"Five years ago, the guy who took me. . ."

"Alastair. He's listed as a witness for the defense, for the guys who assaulted you." Charlie interjects, nodding. "He's part of who we're keeping an eye out for, in the war room." Sam, bless his bleeding heart loyal misguided asshole little brother, he hadn't mentioned Alastair going missing. He hadn't wanted Dean under suspicion from anyone. Meanwhile, he's got Charlie watching flights and hotels, to see if he'll turn up after all. Charlie, who after all that digging for Sam probably knows as much about Alastair as anyone but Dean, who can recount the smell of him, the yellow tinge to his eyes, the way his touch made Dean's skin crawl . . .

He guns it as they hit the highway, letting the Impala roar her freedom; his father's car, Dean's baby. He needs away from those thoughts, and he puts it into driving, focusing on the road, his words a low growl.

"Yeah, well, I don't think he's going to be making it to the trial."

Maybe John Winchester was a crap father. Maybe he was a drunk.

Maybe he was a revenge-obsessed bastard.

But he was damned good at it.

"Starting to think my dad put him in the ground five years ago."