A Hole in the World

by anneliese-michel

Dean Winchester never wanted to go home again. Going back to Lawrence meant people who knew what he was, who didn't buy into the lie. But with a tragic accident, he's back and dealing with the death of his father, the social stigma and objectification of being an out Omega, and the lingering aftermath of a long-ago crime.

27. And Justice For All

Lady Justice has been raped
Truth assassin
Rolls of red tape seal your lips
Now you're done in
Their money tips her scales again
Make your deal
Just what is Truth? I cannot tell
Cannot feel

- "And Justice For All," Metallica

"Objection. Assuming facts not in evidence."

Sam's voice carries, clear and commanding, his eyes trained on Henriksen as he prowls the front of the courtroom before the witness stand. The two attorneys are hyper-aware of each other, calculating tactics, planning strategy, and striking only when necessary. This is the most civilized form of combat Castiel has ever witnessed, but it is combat. Castiel has made himself stop watching Sam, because he knows those faces. Knows the cant of his jaw, the set of his shoulders, knows the burr of displeasure in his voice. It's the wrong face, the wrong body, the wrong brother, but Castiel can tell the look of a Winchester mid-fight, even if Sam has learned to school it into crisply delivered words and legal jargon.

It would be heartening, a Winchester fighting at his side, if Castiel didn't feel handcuffed into not helping himself. He is effectively silenced and bound not to come to his own defense by the rules of the court, and he isn't designed to let others fight on his behalf. Allowing Sam to fight for him feels wrong, and leaves him a simmering, futilely angry mess. He's not sure if his discomfort with Sam's help is because he is Dean's family, because he moves and sounds like his brother in a way that a man who physically looks little like Dean shouldn't manage, or if Castiel is coming to genuinely appreciate Sam for his own abilities and personality on his own, but he wants to help.

He thinks the witness on the stand may have something to do with his increasing frustration as well.

Zachariah is treating the witness stand as a stage, a long-deserved spotlight for him and a transparent revenge for the insult Castiel dealt him by turning his back on the hospital. Cas is certain he's been described as a loose cannon three times already in Zachariah's short time on the stand. His minor infractions against the hospital have gone from being a matter for mild disciplinary action, to something indicative of a pattern of rule-breaking behavior and belligerence the likes of which would feel overdramatic even if scripted into the unrealistic world of Dean's medical dramas. But Zachariah hasn't restrained himself to just that.

Castiel's religion and his faith have been warped to brand him as an extremist.

His compassion for patients has been turned into a neurotic need for affirmation of his own righteousness.

Without setting foot in the hospital every juror could probably find their way directly from the parking lot to the security offices just within, or to the telephone by the door. Complete with diagrams.

The hospital's security has been painted as being almost para-military in their efficiency, rendering Castiel's assistance unnecessary.

And now, Zachariah drawls out the list of injuries Cast dealt Dean's assailants, seasoning his testimony with loaded words coupled with pretentious overly academic descriptions to drive home his profession. That would have been infuriating even without the medical background to know that was what he was doing. As it is, Castiel seems to be the only one in the courtroom to see through that, and Zachariah knows it.

A hand on Castiel's shoulder from behind squeezes briefly, as Ellen Harvelle offers a solid, steadfast support and proves herself stronger than she seems with one touch. He glances down to the fingers curled over his shoulder and finds a folded piece of paper tucked between the knuckles, a note from the row behind him.

Anyone ever tell you that your boss is a raging douchebag? Gabriel's words slant across the paper, and somehow even the cut of his letters manages to seem mocking. Why the fuck did you put up with this asshole for years? Castiel shrugs and glances back at his brother, meeting Gabriel's tawny eyes over the low wall between them. The fact that Gabriel has managed to sit still and silent for so long is a testament to his resolve to be here for his little brother; Gabriel never had much of an attention span for tedious tasks. Of course, he also has never suffered fools, bullies or assholes well, either. With a conspiratorial wink to Castiel, Gabriel lets out a silent dramatic yawn, stretching in his seat, indicating his boredom with the pretentious and repetitive testimony as obviously as humanly possible.

Zachariah's words falter momentarily at the deliberate lack of respect, eyes narrowing into a scowl.

Gabriel smirks at him and blows a kiss, cheeky and unrepentant and deliberately juvenile, but schools his face into polite disinterest by the time Rufus Turner or the jury redirect their attention from the witness to the gallery to see why the witness has stopped talking.

Castiel presses his lips together into a tight line and meets Turner's eyes evenly, then ducks his head as the judge's suspicious scrutiny moves on, glancing behind him to see Jo elbow Gabriel in the ribs, though even she seems as if she's trying not to laugh at his antics.

Sam isn't fighting alone. They're in this together, all of them. And perhaps Castiel isn't quite as restrained as he might think. Plucking up one of the pens from the table, he slides his notebook into place before him, turns an ear to Zachariah, and begins tersely refuting Zachariah point for point, a bullet list inching down the lined page.

Sam glances at his client, at the paper between them, and nods his approval.

When he rises to begin cross-examination, he does it armed with a notepad full of Castiel's knowledge of medicine, of the hospital, and of Castiel's role there.

He is in this fight.

xXx

The very first day Charlie Bradbury met Sam Winchester, she ended up with a serial killer wall in her apartment. It stayed that way until Dean was found; four months of all of her research being unnecessarily printed out because when Sam's stressed he thinks better that way, thinks better with data he can touch and move and manipulate.

Even now, there's a bulletin board and white board that dominate one of the walls in her cozy basement office; testimonies are pinned to it, one at a time, witnesses beside them, their pictures and their statements gathered together and linked by timelines and evidence scrawled across their 'dungeon.'

They're never going to go paperless. She can send Sam all the emails she wants, create programs that organize everything he could need, but he's still going to want to practically have a book of crap in his hands by the time he's done with a case.

Seeing Dean immediately grab up a box of map pins as they enter the apartment over the garage makes her roll her eyes fondly, but she figures just by playing the odds in this family that it won't be the first time a Winchester has gone all "A Beautiful Mind" for décor in here. She keeps strange company, but she is strange company, so that seems only fair.

"So okay. Are we trying to prove your dad did kill someone, or that he didn't?" Dean's eyes are on the receipts gathered in his hands, shreds of hope . . . though hope for what, he's not sure. He shrugs after a moment, Charlie's question settling into his mind, and he can't put voice to his thoughts. Not fully.

"I don't know. Just. . . pull up what you've got from your original research."

"Your family is scary." Charlie sighs, as she follows him into a small room, remade into an office: a single table from the garage below is crammed into the space, the drywall scarred and pockmarked by obsessions past, patches of paint preserved in cleaner hues and dusty lines, only recently bared to light once more. Setting her phone on the table to claim it, Charlie pulls her laptop from its case as Dean moves on to his own workspace.

"Kind of why we're here." Dean counters quickly, but it's not one of his jokes this time. The tack spears the check stub to the wall, the center from which all things will spiral out, where his mother's picture once hung. If he's going to fall down this rabbit hole, he's going to do it the way he was taught to do it, the way he was raised to.

He knew he'd have to face the ghosts of his past in this stupid court fiasco.

Now maybe he can put a few to rest.

"I need to know everything you can find out about Alastair after he was let out. Then I need you to start looking around the time the check was deposited for anything in Detroit."

"Cryptic much?" Charlie starts up her laptop, dropping herself ungracefully into the only chair in the room. "I can make the computer dance and sing for you, but I've got to know the tune, Dean. 'Anything in Detroit' meaning. . .?"

Five years after the fact, John Winchester had still been walking free, and no one knew if Alastair was alive or dead. All they have are breadcrumb clues that it took Cas to see as anything but trash to begin with. And maybe Cas did win a little insight into John's head accidentally. . . but if you'd asked Dean five years ago, he'd have told you he knew his father better than anyone. The hardware store receipt finds a home next to the deposit slip, and he taps a finger to the faded paper thoughtfully.

How would his father hide a body?

A way John knew from personal experience could stump police for years.

"Start looking for fires."

xXx

The right to face his accuser ranks in the Constitution alongside his right to a fair trial. . . but at this precise moment, Cas is pretty sure everyone around him fears that one of these rights is sabotaging the other. He has told this entire little family all morning that they didn't have to worry about him 'killing anyone.' He promised Dean as he rolled his eyes and thought that his mate was being ridiculous with his repeated instruction.

And then Hardey walked onto the stand.

Ink like a bloodstain has spread across his hands, damning evidence of his lax grip on control, and a broken pen hemorrhages oily black across the notepad in front of him in. Beneath the edge of their table, Sam has driven blunt fingernails into his knee through the material of his slacks as a warning to ground him, a pressure to keep him in his seat, but Dean's brother is radiating just as much fury as Castiel is.

". . . Winchester's always liked it rough, you know? And he's like all of them Omegas, he'll beg you for it. He was rutting up against me, pumping out hormones making us crazy, when he showed up."

On the stand, a single bead of sweat slides down Hardey's skin to stain the bandages over his throat: he wants to replace the clean white cloths with his hands, to choke off the hoarse croaking testimony of a man still recovering from the tracheotomy Castiel made necessary to begin with.

The entire courtroom is tense, and Castiel knows that it's his doing, knows that the potential for violence boiling under his skin is tainting the very air around him. He can feel the bailiff's wary attention on him, knows other eyes are fixed on him as well, but it's nothing to him in the face of the sexist, vitriolic stereotypical lies being spun by Nathan Hardey about his mate.

This man assaulted Dean when he was just a child. His gang left him bleeding and broken and damaged, left him questioning his own worth long before Alastair came and stripped away Dean's remaining sense of self. Even now Dean can't talk about it without the scorn spilling over onto how he describes himself at that age. How he relates to his own gender. And now he is attempting to tear Dean apart again, to destroy the strength of him, to belie everything Dean is, everything Dean believes, how Dean struggles to be perceived.

With the shuffle of seats behind him, he doesn't even have to look to know what's happened. Gabriel has planted himself directly behind his brother's back, a compact source of potential energy, a briefcase bomb that Cas has learned in his lifetime not to underestimate for his size. Whether he's moved to warn Castiel away from doing something stupid, to hold his brother back if required, or to throw into any fight himself, Castiel couldn't determine unless he did try to kill Hardey.

"Can you describe the defendant's behavior when he came into the parking lot?" Henriksen's distaste for his witness is a subtle thing: he still fully intends to prosecute Hardey as well and he has buried Hardey's testimony in the early portion of Castiel's trial, to give an idea of the events but not hinge his entire case on them. He's attempting to direct Hardey away from discussion of his own behavior, and keep it focused on Castiel's. To limited success, clearly.

"Didn't hear him coming until he was already taking us down. First thing I knew he was there, he looked like he was killing Roy; busted his leg, then grabbed his face and smashed it against his knee when Roy was already on his way down; Roy never even knew to look for a fight. Then the Omega bitch . . ." Castiel doesn't outwardly move, but Judge Turner turns his attention their way as Sam digs his fingers in deeper into the Cas's leg, and he realizes he must have vocalized his disgust at those words being used to describe Dean. ". . . Got his scent and went crazy for it. Surprised the hell out of all of us. Before I knew it, Doc there was in my face: he punched me in the throat, and I couldn't breathe, couldn't swallow. Socked me in the gut on the way down, so I was choking trying to throw up. One of them kicked me while I was down, when it was all over. . . I couldn't see who. All I could see was Winchester leading the doc back to his car. Heard when I came-to in the hospital breathing through a tube that they were shacking up, wasn't surprised. If he wasn't running from the cops I think he would've mounted that Omega right there. I . . ."

"You are a rapist and a child molester and . . ."

Gabriel's hand forces Castiel down before he has the chance to rise to his feet, cutting his words off with the gesture. Turner's dark eyes are intelligent, piercing, and don't miss a moment of it as he snaps a command to Sam, his eyes fixed on Castiel. "Mr. Winchester, if your client cannot control himself in my courtroom I am going to find him in contempt and throw his ass in jail, do you understand me?"

Still, there's something like triumph in Sam's eyes as he turns away from acknowledging the judge to look at Castiel at his side. This could hurt them. The lack of control on Castiel's part, the anger, could work against him. Cas was already being judged for it up until that point, however, based entirely on nonverbal cues. But vocalizing that accusation, in the hearing of the jury . . . Sam couldn't say it himself, but he can capitalize on it now that Henriksen's done with the man.

"Your witness."

The corner of Sam's folder is smudged with the ink from Castiel's pen, but the photographs inside are unmarred as he drops them in front of Hardey, for once playing to his height and stature as he looms over him. He can see the stark whites of his widened eyes, the fear in his gaze, but he's not going to attack. Not the way Hardey expects, at least.

It wasn't just Dean's already difficult childhood that changed entirely fifteen years ago, though. No matter how much Dean tried to shelter him, Sam was always more perceptive than he should have been. There is a reason he wanted to be here. He took on this case as much for this opportunity to stand in front of the man who did that to Dean as he did to take care of Cas.

"Mr. Hardey. Can you explain to the jury, and to me, what sort of 'consensual' sex act is negotiated with a fist to the kidneys?"

"Objection." Henriksen throws out immediately, and as if he was waiting for it Turner responds on his heels. "Sustained."

Sam doesn't give either of them time to redirect him. "I'll rephrase. Mr. Hardey, do you often begin 'consensual' sex by punching your partner in the face within minutes of. . ."

"Objection!" Henriksen's hands are flat on the table, eyes fixed on the young attorney in front of him.

"Sustained. Winchester, you are not a prosecutor and this witness is not on trial." Not today, at least, and not at Sam's hands. Sam turns his eyes from Hardey to meet Turner's look head on, jaw bunched, head high and hazel eyes hard.

"No, I am not and he is not, Your Honor. However, his credibility as a witness is disputed by the facts in evidence, and as the nature of the crime my client interrupted is significant to establishing his defense. . ."

Turner's aggravated huff is mostly a growl, and he waves Sam forward, Henriksen a thundercloud in his wake. At the defense table, Castiel spares an ear for the bench, attempting to hear the hushed, emphatic conversation that has Sam cutting his hand in Hardey's direction as he speaks to Turner and Henriksen both. He doesn't particularly need to hear, though. It's clear to everyone in the room that Sam is being told to leave his personal attachments to this case at the door, to risk being held in contempt himself.

It doesn't matter, though.

Nate Hardey is afraid, now. The classic bully, he flounders when he is not in the position of power any longer. Here, Rufus Turner may be their God, but Sam Winchester is on a boy king on a crusade of his own. While he cannot resume his stoic demeanor entirely, Castiel forces himself to stillness in his chair, watching Hardey sweat it out with a predatory air until Sam nods once, tersely, and the three gathered at the judge's bench break. Henriksen stalks back to his seat, Turner stays leaning forward watching as if prepared to smite them all from on high the next time someone steps out of line.

Sam, for his part, plucks the photographs back up in his hands, holding them up to the jury and judge respectively, and while his words are clipped and precise, his back to Hardey, he hasn't lost any of his fire for being forced to lay his cards on the table at the start of the round of cross-examination.

"The Defense enters into evidence photographs taken by the Douglas County sheriff's office of the injuries sustained by Dean Winchester prior to my client's intervention. Additionally, the Defense will be entering into evidence depositions from Ellen Harvelle and Joanna Harvelle recounting an altercation the night before, wherein my client witnessed the unwanted nature of Mr. Hardey's sexual advances towards Dean Winchester. I will also be submitting an audiotaped 9-1-1 call from fifteen years ago, also from the Douglas County sheriff's office, wherein Mr. Hardey is named by eyewitness Bobby Singer as the chief assailant in an unprosecuted sexual assault also upon Dean Winchester as a minor."

"So . . ." Turning back to Hardey, Sam narrows his eyes, raises his chin, and looks down at the alpha on the witness stand once more, and the veneer of politeness across his words is thin, the threat beneath shining through.

"Let's start again, now, Mr. Hardey."

xXx

Charlie's cell phone buzzing, the vibration skittering it across the table, is the first thing Dean's given any consideration from him since Charlie turned her laptop his way and sat back in her chair, trying not to watch his expressions as he folded his hand over his fist at his jaw, green eyes following lines of text across the glowing screen and then settling on the image of a burned out building. Still it takes him a moment to force himself to redirect from a mystery several years old, to the fact that Charlie's phone ties them back to the ongoing drama in the courtroom.

Charlie has her lip caught between her teeth as she reads the screen, and he can tell just from looking that the news is mixed.

"What?" It hasn't been that long that they've been holed up here in the apartment; there's no reason for his voice to be hoarse from disuse, but his word is nearly a growling accusation that draws the petite Alpha's level gaze up to his. "It's Ash. They have Hardey on the stand. Cas isn't taking it well. Neither's Sam, but according to Ash he's grilling the hell out of him. I think they'll probably break for lunch after he's off the stand, to . . ."

Dean closes the laptop and slides it back towards Charlie, pushing himself to his feet. There's no real discussion; they don't know how long the rest of the prosecution's witnesses will take, and it'll be better if he's ready. While Charlie packs up her laptop again, puts the printer hauled up from Castiel's 'office' in the garage below out of the way, and carefully busies herself with reordering the stacks of documents, Dean takes advantage of the opportunity not to be under scrutiny.

Cas needs him. Sam needs him. He needs them both to be okay. He needs to regroup, pull his thoughts back together, and refocus: the two most important people in his life are slogging through his shit, and he's going to be there for them when they get out. Because he's done with people deciding things for him, fighting his battles for him: he doesn't want it, doesn't need it.

Unknotted tie around his neck, he grabs his suit jacket and his keys, holding the door open for Charlie to encourage her to stop staring at him worriedly, but he seems to reconsider his silence as she moves to walk past him. "Thanks. For, y'know. . ." He doesn't finish, but he doesn't have to. Charlie glances behind him into the apartment again, then meets his eyes.

"I don't want to tell you what to do, okay? But Sam. . ." He cuts her off with a terse headshake, propping the door open with his foot for her again.

"One fucked up family drama at a time." Dean's words are an edict, the end of the conversation, and Charlie frowns at him thoughtfully the entire trip back into town.

xXx

At precisely noon, the court recesses for lunch, the jury filing out first through the door behind them as the small crowd in the seats chatters and recedes through the main doors. Dean tenses, eyes narrowed, as Crowley tips an imaginary hat at him with a smirk from the hall, his shoulder leaned against door as he holds it open for others to pass, the model of mock genial nature.

Dean would bet he's there just to make them uncomfortable, himself and Cas alike, and the crappy thing is that it works. This is just the first trial. Crowley is still waiting his turn to fillet them on the stand. Raising a middle finger at the British attorney without giving him the chance to speak or taunt, Dean slips past him into the emptying courtroom.

Head in his hands, thumbs pressed to his temples, Castiel is listening to Sam silently, nodding slightly when prompted, but otherwise silent. Ellen intercepts Dean before he makes it far into the courtroom, resting a hand on his elbow and pulling Dean aside, her voice low and concerned. "You gotta get a handle on him. Or help him get a grip on himself. I know Rufus, he's been drinking at the Roadhouse longer than you've been alive. Same drink, same way, every day; they throw off his trial again, he's going to throw both of them in jail for a couple of weeks before he'll even finish hearing the testimony. Wouldn't be the first time."

Lips twisting faintly, Dean glances at Ellen and nods in understanding, and then he moves past, clapping Ash on the back in thanks as the hacker catches Charlie up in a low, urgent voice, leaning in toward the redhead. Gabriel is watching Dean critically as he approaches, hazel eyes narrowed to slits, and Dean can't exactly say he's surprised. This is the last fucking way he wants his boyfriend's family to 'get to know him,' hearing this kind of crap about his past, but he doesn't have much of a choice in the matter now.

Gabriel interrupts Jo's conversation with him by slapping Cas on the shoulder from behind, drawing his head up and pulling Sam's attention towards him at the same time. "Stop trying to burn a hole through the table glaring at it. You've got company and we're on a schedule. I'm starving. You owe me lunch."

"We brought lunch!" Somehow, Charlie seems like she's making the offer directly to Jo, and only to Jo. Well, that crush apparently isn't going anywhere anytime soon. Dean steals one of the bags from Charlie's hands, and moves to bracket Cas in from the other side of Sam. His hand comes to rest on Cas's shoulder, fingers edging the line of his jacket, Cas's hand rising to press over his skin, to hold him in place there as he turns his head to rest his cheek against Dean's wrist. It's not what he wants to do, but there are too many eyes on them still.

"Hour, right?" Sometimes, having a little brother is great. This time, there's no eye rolling, no bitchy commentary about how they should spend the time. No one here's thinking sex, Dean included, and definitely not Cas. Glancing at Castiel, Sam picks up his briefcase and slings an arm around Charlie's shoulder, pulling his redheaded assistant to his side as if to restrain her from his little sister, with the easy camaraderie of long-time friends that earns him a tongue stuck out at him in mock petulance. "Yeah, we've got an hour. Ellen's dropping Ash off at the Roadhouse, she'll be back when we reconvene. We could eat in the . . ."

Dean is already linking his hand and Cas's, drawing the bedraggled Alpha to his feet. "Nope. Got a plan. Guy I knew showed me a great place right around here. . ."

xXx

The stained glass windows aren't quite as stunning from outside, but the short walk through the city park from the courthouse towards the church gives them time to see the sunlight winking off of the cut glass, time for Castiel to let out a soft breath of understanding and slip his arm around Dean's waist, tugging him closer and pressing a kiss to his temple in thanks as they walk.

It's a little brilliant, if Dean does say so himself. He knows Cas's safe space.

"I'm not giving you any whiskey with lunch. Just FYI. And not a friggin' word, okay?" Dean mumbles, but he can't help the swell of satisfaction at knowing he thought right. He just doesn't need Cas making a big production out of it with the motley crew of assembled siblings trailing behind them, eating and walking, Sam with his phone in one hand as he texts and his sandwich in the other, and Gabriel making a show of hooking an arm around both girls, boisterous and snarky now that he's free from the courthouse.

They hang back a few steps, all of them deliberately, allowing Dean and Cas to outpace them. Gabriel's the first to drop down onto one of the benches outside of the church, and unsurprisingly the duo doesn't realize they're on their own. With a twist of his lips, he watches his little brother pull his mate onwards towards the church steps, apparently murmuring directly into his ear.

Sam joins Gabriel on the bench moments later, offering him chips from the bag. "Kind of weird for me, too."

Gabriel scoffs, looking away from Castiel's back to the freakishly giant lawyer towering over him even sitting down like they are. "I've got tons of brothers, kid. Whole bunch of teenaged boys living in a house with cash to blow and no real parents, you think a little oblivious cuddling is going to freak me out? If it were anyone but Castiel. . ."

There's a wariness to Sam's eyes as he tilts his head to move his hair out of his face, watching Gabriel critically, and when Gabriel's eyes slide to the side he can see Charlie and Jo are blatantly eavesdropping as well. Cas, for his part, has settled beside Dean ahead of them, accepting half of a sandwich as he looks at the walls and windows of the church with the quiet sort of reverence he always has, and it's heartening to see considering how everything else about him has changed. Particularly the fact that he looks at Dean in the same way, like he's the only thing that makes sense in the world. "You guys aren't getting the whole picture here."

"So tell me." Sam's words are half challenge, half invitation, and Gabriel shrugs and pops a chip in his mouth, speaking around it, his expressive face darkening.

"I've known Cassy since he could talk, but I didn't actually get him most of the time. You got a family big as mine, you end up falling into groups, and I loved the kid, but he was one of the babies and the triplets, they kinda stuck together anyway. The four oldest. . . well, we had our own shit going on. And he was the weird one, y'know?" He sounds like a terrible big brother; hell, maybe he is. But the bar's so low in his family that even he can step over it; the fact that he's the one who looks out for the younger ones may baffle him eternally. Sam's offering him a politely curious, understanding look that makes him want to snipe at him, but instead Gabriel gestures at his brother with his food. "I don't know how much he's told you. But he joined the Army, went off as a priest, and got taken. I got the POW notification, and two days later Jimmy was in the hospital. Emmanuel pretty much had a mental break; one twin dying, the other one missing."

Sam winces, opening his mouth to tell Gabriel he doesn't have to go into this, but he's built up steam anyway so he might as well make sure that if his little brother's going to stay around these people they get it. "Jimmy wasn't in much shape to be worrying about anything but himself, but he was eating himself up about Castiel. Made me promise to look out for him, told me things to get me to try and understand him. Turns out everything we thought he was weird over, Cas thought was broken in him. So I see my little brother in love, see him finding something that makes him happy, someone who does after all the shit he's been through. . ." Gabriel's stare is intense as he swings it to Sam, and the crumpling of the empty chip bag as he throws it away seems incredibly loud. "If your bro fucks this up for mine, or you fuck it up for them, I'll probably be the next one facing trial, comprende?"

xXx

The walk back is more relaxed, but Sam trails behind frowning at the scene before him as Jo falls in beside Dean, Gabriel beside Castiel, and there's a distinct focus on trying to lighten them up. Cas himself is the least active participant in the discussion, but Dean has an arm possessively around his mate's shoulders, and Cas has unconsciously fallen into step with Dean, his head turned to never let Dean out of his sight, out of his arms.

"You know, boss. I don't like to tell you how to do your job. . ." Charlie begins from beside him, earning an immediate huff of disbelief from Sam and a sarcastically lifted eyebrow, lips pressing together to hide his amusement.

"Yeah? When'd that start?"

". . . Oh, shut up. What I mean is, I think you're presenting the wrong case, telling the wrong story. You're focusing on the wrong thing for the jury." Sam is listening to her, and she knows it. As the others mount the courthouse steps again, Charlie stops Sam with a hand on his arm.

"You need to stop telling a story of Cas-the-hero. That's harder to prove, and people don't believe in heroes. . . but they do believe that there are some things worth breaking the law over." Gesturing up the steps ahead of them at Dean, at Castiel, Charlie watches Sam with unguarded optimism.

"You need to tell them the love story."