Fic: Sleight of Hand, 2/3
Part 1
There are finger tips on the edge of Castiel’s book, pressing down at the top and lowering it slowly from his line of sight; replacing his view of black and white with bright green.
“Wanna see an awesome magic trick?”
Castiel sets his novel down on the mattress beside him and turns to glance at the window. He’s unsurprised to find it ajar though he distinctly remembers that it was closed and locked this morning.
“If you’re going to pull another pigeon out of your hat, I’m not cleaning up the mess again,” Castiel answers dryly, sitting up properly against his headboard and stretching his arms above his head to get the blood flowing after those couple hours of reading.
Dean kneels in the center of Castiel’s bed, watching him, so Castiel finishes quickly with a few rolls of his head to work out the kinks in his neck, “I thought you were with Alastair and the guys?”
“Oh, they wanted to do some stuff,” Dean frowns; bites his lip, “I didn’t feel like going with them, and really - I wanted to show you this.”
“Fine,” Castiel doesn’t ask for Dean to clarify what he means by ‘stuff’, just shrugs; lets himself fall back against his headboard, waiting for whatever nonsense Dean wants to pull today.
Dean swallows, unusually nervous, “Okay well luckily, I’m not wearing a hat, so no pigeons,” he grins, running a hand through his sandy hair and gaining confidence with Castiel’s unwavering attention. “Just keep your eyes on my ring ‘cause I’m going to make it disappear.”
Dean wiggles the fingers of his right hand in front of Castiel, making sure that the silver band around the fourth finger is clearly visible.
And then with a mischievous wink, he tilts his head back and bares his throat.
Castiel forgets to breathe as Dean presses his right hand to the pale skin under his jaw, ring shining softly with the half-light of late afternoon that filters in through the curtains.
Then Dean slides his hand slowly down the long line of his neck, cupping over his adam’s apple before moving lower, fingers catching at the collar of his tee. The fabric is dragged down, stretching to briefly expose the bump of collar bones before Dean’s hand has trailed to his chest; neckline snapping free of his fingers and pulling loosely back into shape.
Dean’s fingers splay over the black cotton on his chest, palm covering the horned pendant of his necklace. His limbs are pale in contrast to the cloth; lined gold with weak sunlight and the ring glints as his hand suddenly plunges lower, wrist twisting as he goes - stopping over his navel with fingers pointed down.
And still his hand creeps lower as he leans back with chest thrust out, thighs parted to balance his kneeling shape. His pinky reaches the edge of his tee, catching it just barely and tugging it to reveal a taut stomach, muscle defined in shadow.
Then Dean’s hand is changing direction, sliding up and bringing the edge of his tee along with it. Inch by inch the cloth draws up, a black veil peeled back at a torturous pace to display the lean shape of his body, flexing gently as he breathes. There’s the fine ripple of muscle, smooth flesh and flawless cream; the soft ridge of ribs, graceful lines by shape and motion.
And all too soon, Dean’s fingers are curled lightly around his left shoulder, the fabric of his shirt falling like a theatre curtain drawing closed.
But the show can’t be over because Dean tips his head against his shoulder, bringing a sly grin into Castiel’s view, teeth flashing alongside the silver ring.
Dean’s palm slides down his left arm, the hush of skin on skin loud in the silence of Castiel’s room, and in the few minutes or hours or days that have passed, Castiel had forgotten that he had a room, let alone a body of his own.
But he’s reminded now as Dean’s right hand finally passes his left wrist, fingers meeting tip to tip - delicately - as if in prayer, before separating and reaching out to cradle the sides of Castiel’s face - warm and rough against his skin except where the ring presses cold and smooth.
And Castiel doesn’t know where the space between them has gone because he’s sure that Dean wasn’t in his lap when this began, but he doesn’t remember how to blink; breath; speak - only knows how to watch.
So he watches Dean who watches back; blue looking up at green looking down at blue.
Then Dean’s hands are slipping off Castiel’s face, deft fingers drumming against the sides of Castiel’s neck - seven times warm and one time cold; thumbs ever present bars of heat. Dean slides his hands lower; presses closer, melts their bodies into a hot line separated by barely there summer shirts that can’t hide the rise and fall of chests; the thump of racing hearts.
Dean’s breath ghosts across Castiel’s cheek, lips full and pink, slightly parted and so close Castiel can almost feel the smooth softness - a phantom touch against his skin.
Half-mast eyes peer down at him through long lashes, pupils blown, looking drugged yet unbelievably clear and vibrant - bottle glass in sunlight; just as lovely, just as warm.
And Castiel feels like he’s unravelling; falling apart and away and closer and together; ribcage unfurling as it fails to contain the heat pounding, pulsing - drumming fingers - through it.
He feels something hot and wild pooling in his gut, his mouth inexplicably desert dry yet wet with hunger, fingers twitching at his sides - the need to touch, stronger than any thirst for knowledge he’s experienced and as foreign as the tightness in his chest.
And it’s good - breathless sprint under summer sun; thick wet heat of humid evening.
It’s bad - coarse rope around his neck; prick of needles in his spine.
It’s - jean clad thighs straddling his hips; catch of skin on skin; fingers twined in hair, tilting his head back; Dean - leaning down; closer.
Too close.
“Dean-“ Castiel manages to choke out, voice like sandpaper but sounding more like a gunshot in the quiet, “Dean, this isn’t a magic trick.”
Castiel breaks the spell, shoving the other boy roughly off him.
He brings a hand to his face, scrubbing across his eyes and telling himself that everything’s wrong.
Just another teasing game - a joke; a prank.
He can’t let himself get caught up in it.
The touches, the looks, the way Dean’s expression seemed to fold and rebuild - a house of cards blown apart - wide smile drawn in the space of a heartbeat; the time it took for Castiel’s hands to connect and disconnect.
For a few moments, Dean doesn’t move from where he’s sprawled awkwardly on the bed, lying in the position he fell, and then an arm twitches out, elbow bent to prop his torso up.
“You sure about that, Cas?” Dean grins crookedly, waves his right hand in the suddenly large gap between them.
And the ring is gone.
Dean sits up gingerly like his limbs might detach; marionette arms jerkily pulling his jean pockets inside out and gesturing at his bare forearms. He speaks theatrically, “Nothing in my pockets; nothing up my sleeves.”
Castiel swallows thickly, willing to accept Dean’s invitation to pretend nothing happened, because nothing did - it’s just part of a magic trick.
Just another of Dean’s games.
He twists his head away so he doesn’t have to look at Dean - buys himself time to calm down, collect his breath and slow his heart - as he pats down the bed sheets around him.
But there’s nothing.
His inspection turns thorough; both to avoid meeting the other teen’s eyes and to try uncovering the trick - pulling back the blankets and emptying his pillow case; stripping the mattress and pounding his pillow flat - but he can’t find the ring.
“Obviously,” Castiel says calmly, summoning the control to look at Dean steadily after the second time he’s checked the space between headboard and wall, “You slid it off and rolled it across the room - perhaps behind the dresser.”
“Cas,” Dean smirks smugly, though tension keeps his shoulders hunched, “I have more talent than that.”
Dean glances to the side for a moment, as if considering what he’s about to do - what might happen next.
It only takes a minute for Dean to come to a decision; take a deep breath.
Then he shuffles closer to Castiel on the bed - which is now a mess - though he doesn’t get as close as he’d been before.
“Here, I’ll make it reappear, all I need is-“ he hesitates, cocky grin seeming to stutter for the blink of an eye, “A kiss.”
Castiel feels his face freeze, “Really.”
“Yeah, Cas. It’s magic,” Dean says dramatically, eyes skittering to the air over Castiel’s shoulder though his smile remains intact, “Some people use hocus pocus words, but all I need is a - a kiss.”
And for the first time in a long time, Castiel feels something like anger prickle across the back of his skull, “I would be more impressed if you returned my math notes.”
“I’m not done with them-” Dean admits sheepishly before hurrying on, “But with magic I can make coins vanish and I can teleport into your room-”
“You always make money vanish and I see you jig the lock on my window all the time,” Castiel says coldly, sounding a lot harsher than he meant to, though he doesn’t try to soften his words.
“Cas,” green darts up anxiously to catch Castiel’s blue, “Have a little faith in me, I - I can make the impossible happen,” he grins weakly, the theatrical edge he’d adopted earlier fizzling out.
Dean reaches out a tentative hand, but Castiel jerks away before the other teen can get within a foot of him, muscles in his jaw jumping as his teeth grind.
Dean drops his hand, eyes seeming to quiver with the effort of holding Castiel’s unflinching stare, “All I need is a kiss.”
But there’s anger burning low in Castiel, the inevitable flare an amalgamation of annoyance and confusion and hurt built over years.
He can’t take it anymore.
He tries to be patient - he does.
But Dean’s endless teasing and constantly immature - irresponsible and inconsiderate - behaviour; all his flirting and his stunts; the falsely innocent faces, the puppy dog eyes and slumping shoulders - it’s too much and Castiel doesn’t know what to do with it; is shaken and wound tight and just wants Dean to go away so he doesn’t have to feel like this.
If Dean had just let it go after Castiel’s first shove - seen that that was Castiel’s limit - and let them pretend that nothing had happened, then maybe everything could eventually return to normal, but Dean’s always pushing, pushing, pushing at Castiel’s buttons.
And Dean’s games often go too far, getting one or both of them in trouble, but this - this -
While Dean’s pranks and teasing have always left Castiel feeling torn and stupid, this is so much worse. A line - whole stretches of barbed wire - have been crossed and Castiel feels humiliated, undone like he’s been stripped naked down to his bones, flesh ripped into little shreds, the pieces of him thrown aside and left to reassemble for a later day of violent play.
Already he can hear Dean rubbing this in his face; cracking jokes with his friends - telling the tale of how worked up the weird nerdy kid got. It’s possible it was even a dare, because this is a whole new level for Dean, but Dean’s been doing a lot of new things with his friends lately - none of them good.
And Dean just sits there on the bed, looks at him with wide eyes, afraid - like it’s Castiel that’s holding the knife here, not Dean.
He hates it.
It’s confusing and painful and this is the end of Castiel’s rope.
Dean is a con, a trickster, a liar and a cheat - always has been, Castiel knows; has experienced firsthand.
He shouldn’t forget that.
He’s seen Dean wheedle out of the tightest spots or into the most rewarding positions ever since they were in elementary school with just his silver tongue and charming smile.
And just because Castiel knows it’s happening doesn’t mean he’s immune.
Dean always uses him - for homework, for snacks, for alibis - and Castiel always has to clean up Dean’s messes; be the butt of Dean’s jokes.
But Dean can find someone else because Castiel doesn’t want to wake up with any more permanent marker moustaches or condoms stuffed in his pockets; he doesn’t want all the erasers on his pencils replaced with marshmallows, and he doesn’t want to have to help cover up whatever crap Dean’s been getting into.
No more.
So Castiel only stares icily at Dean, hands curled tightly in his lap and lips a thin line as he waits for Dean to leave so he can start cleaning his room - again, like every time after Dean decides to show Castiel a magic trick.
Dean’s eyes look a little glazed as they fall away from Castiel’s and his chin jerks just the slightest bit down, but his smile remains etched in place.
“Okay, you win,” Dean laughs lightly; breathlessly like he finds the air thin. The corners of his mouth are stretched wide and he waves one of his hands stiffly towards Castiel’s lap.
He says, softly, “Look, Cas.”
Castiel’s eyes narrow as his mind jumps to what might happen if he looks down - Dean laughing about how Castiel would still follow his instructions at this stage; Dean fleeing out the window without a word; Dean ‘borrowing’ Castiel’s homework/clothing/food/bike/wallet.
But Dean just keeps smiling, expression opaque, revealing nothing.
So Castiel glances down.
And on the fourth finger of his right hand: a silver ring.
* * *
Castiel feels like he’s losing time.
He doesn’t know how he hasn’t been fired yet, but apparently he’s been handing in reports he doesn’t remember writing; arriving to work on time and dressed appropriately - neatly if not normally, his clothes thicker than the fall weather should require - though he can’t even recall waking up.
There are more than a dozen mugs on his desk that he doesn’t remember getting, each with a different level of drink inside - like he was halfway through a cup, forgot it was there, and then went to get another - the bottoms of the emptier ones coated with the dried dregs of coffee. But besides the field of mugs planted on the wooden surface, there is little else.
The inbox at the corner of the tabletop is empty, the outbox piled high like Castiel’s been a machine for the past however long - he doesn’t even know - processing his paperwork at a pace that he’s told was ‘freakish ’, yet not remembering a single second of his hours of toil.
And strangely, while the mugs of old coffee have been left sitting in no particular pattern, his pens and pencils have been ordered meticulously by length, brand name and colour. He’s never done that before, let alone straightened them obsessively, though the row of parallel writing utensils spaced by perfect quarter inches suggest that that’s what he’s been doing.
He’s not sure if his coworkers have noticed, but if they have they seem to attribute his unusual behaviour to the sudden flood of work that came with the death of one of the city’s more notorious criminals.
Winchester, Dean.
Castiel stands in front of the corkboard that hangs near the block of officer’s cubicles, staring at the various postings profiling Winchester, Dean pinned crookedly all over the surface.
Estimations of his physical characteristics, his height; weight; shoe size.
There are few official documents on the man, only a birth certificate and school transcript; a file from a city orphanage, some records from social services and a brief medical history of sporadic checkups through his childhood and adolescence.
There’re no fingerprints to show, though there is a list of possible partial prints gathered from various crime scenes he was known to be at.
There’s no mug shot either because Winchester, Dean was never apprehended.
But there are police sketches and photos.
Photos of Winchester exiting a building believed to house weapons.
Photos of Winchester meeting with Masters, Meg - suspected of human trafficking - at a downtown cafe.
Photos of Winchester conversing with greasy haired thugs; frequenting various bars in the red light district; loitering in the doorway of a rundown apartment; walking into an alley.
There are a lot of photos of Winchester collected from over the years and they’re all grainy, all at a bad angle, blurred by motion or half obscured.
But Castiel’s eyes know how to connect the dots - know how to smooth the pixels and draw the lines - and he sees.
Dean’s broad shoulders and slightly bowed legs, back slouched as he sits waiting on a park bench.
Dean’s light brown hair, sticking up in wet spikes, his hand ruffling through the mess as he ducks out of the rain and into an underground parking lot.
They’re snapshots of Winchester - Dean - his mannerisms and habits, a sample of little freeze-frames on how he did business; how he charmed his superiors and subordinates - clients and peers; criminals and civilians.
How he used to live, if not who he used to be.
Castiel’s hand comes up to touch the fuzzy shapes of the nearest photo - Winchester leaned against a newsstand and flipping through a paper - it’s impossible to tell, but Castiel can make out the little smile on Dean’s face; knows he was reading the comics section.
“Detective!”
Castiel spins around, nearly elbowing Milton in the face.
The red head dodges easily, used to working in the cramped spaces between filing cabinets and shelves; she only waves a paper towards Castiel, “Read this.”
Castiel takes the paper, notices that it’s a newly updated report on Winchester and he feels his mouth go dry - perhaps the reason there are so many mugs on his desk.
He vaguely remembers holding a similar report at some time, but he doesn’t have the energy to handle any more documents that include the words Winchester, Dean and deceased on the same page, but just as he’s about to hand the sheets back to Milton, a single word catches his eye.
“Blanks.”
Castiel feels numb - and he thought he’d been cold before.
Milton nods, eyes wide, “Yeah, I know, right?”
“Blanks,” Castiel repeats again.
“Yeah, when I heard that shots had been fired, you don’t know how worried I was,” Milton hugs her armful of file folders closer to her chest, “I thought you might’ve been - been shot, but I guess we were lucky.”
It wasn’t luck.
A web of creases grows under Castiel’s hand as his grip tightens on the report, “How was his gun filled with blanks?” the paper crumples in time with Castiel’s lungs, “Winchester is - was an expert with firearms. He would’ve known the instant he held the gun. He had to have known.”
Milton shuffles the folders in her arms uncomfortably, unsure of what to say.
The ink of the report seems to twist into a different language, but Castiel doesn’t try to translate.
He only echoes himself, “He had to have known.”
But Dean still pulled the trigger.
And Castiel shot him.
Castiel shot Dean.
“He wasn’t packing his regular Colt - not even his Taurus,” Harvelle speaks up, leaning over the wall of her cubicle, “Glock 17 - probably wasn’t used to it and just couldn’t feel the weight difference.”
Milton’s lips purse, “Why wasn’t he carrying his own gun?”
“My guess is the guy who sold him out is the same guy that gave him the assignment and probably the gun - maybe with a little, ‘If you don’t use this gun like I asked ya to, imma gonna start doubtin’ your loyalties,’ thrown in,” Harvelle’s brow furrows. “The real question is why Winchester went along with it - I mean, he was smart enough to keep out of our reach for years, so-”
She shrugs, blonde head propped on her folded arms, “But I’m not a profiler - s’not my job to figure out why he played with guns and knives, let alone which ones. I was just supposed to shoot ‘im if I saw ‘im.”
Milton shakes her head sadly, “That’s just cruel, setting him up like that - and with a useless gun too.”
“You’re not feeling sorry for him, are you?” the blonde officer squints at the other woman disbelievingly.
“It’s just-” Milton leans against the cubicle wall, resting her armful of folders by Harvelle’s elbow, “It’s pretty ironic. If only he hadn’t been so good at stealing things, the mafia wouldn’t have been interested in him.”
Harvelle raises a cynical brow, “So you agree with all that ‘the mafia blackmailed him’ speculation?”
“Well, there’s no hard evidence of it, but come on-” Milton tosses her hand through the air before her, “The guy was a street magician. And sure, he was suspected of stealing a lot of things and he always seemed to be in the wrong place at the wrong time, but his record was clean.”
“Then, ‘bam!’” Milton smacks a hand against her folders, “Suddenly he starts breaking into all sorts of high profile places - government buildings, the DA’s home - heck, he even broke a guy out from super max,” she drops her hand to her hip, “That doesn’t happen for no reason.”
The blonde officer snorts, “You never know - one thing leads to another. I say he was running with the mafia,” Harvelle’s face twists with disgust, “They wouldn’t get him to help with ‘interrogation’ and ‘enforcement’ if he was just some poor blackmailed SOB.”
Milton’s brow scrunches in confusion, “He was never connected with any of the torturing or murders.”
“Oh, he was definitely involved,” Harvelle nods knowingly, “We might not have got the evidence for it - but you never saw him hold a knife.”
Harvelle’s hand darts out in an imitation of a blade, slicing through the air in front of the other woman’s throat before grinning morbidly, “Sticky fingers and bloody hands - imagine trying to play Murder Handshake with the guy.”
Milton’s lips whiten. She glances over her shoulder as if expecting the subject of their conversation to stroll into the station just to demonstrate Harvelle’s scenario, “Let’s not joke about this.”
“Fine,” Harvelle flicks a lock of blonde hair over her shoulder, “But remember - Winchesters are bad news. Don’t even trust Squeaky Clean Sam ‘cause that bastard’s just too clean. I swear - he’s gotta be one of the top five baddies in this game.”
Milton shakes her head, “I get what you’re saying, but still,” pitying eyes fall on her stack of folders, “He used to do free magic shows for community fundraisers; for kids in hospitals - before whatever happened that pulled him into the underworld. He might not have been the nicest guy, but he wasn’t the worst.”
The blonde officer sighs, “Anna, you’re really too soft to even touch the paperwork around here. You should know by now that it doesn’t matter if there isn’t a single bad bone in your body - it only takes one finger to pull a trigger,” Harvelle straightens from the cubicle wall, “Isn’t that right, Detective?”
“Detective?” Harvelle repeats.
Castiel looks up from his palms, “Yeah,” he says, bringing his hands together to rub the cold from them, “That’s right.”
Milton gives him a concerned look, “Are you alright, Sir?”
Castiel nods absently, starts walking back to his desk, leaving the two women without as much as a goodbye.
The pens on his desk are ordered by length, brand name and colour, and he’d noticed earlier that there were fewer laid out on the surface than he owned.
But he realizes now.
Only the blue and black pens.
No red.
* * *
“Are you afraid of exercise or something?”
Castiel glares at the other teen, arms crossed over his chest, “It’s Cops and Robbers, Dean.”
“Yeah, and we used to play it all the time,” Dean bobs his head, blinks owlishly at Castiel like he doesn’t understand why he’s being so difficult.
“Yes, we used to,” Castiel says slowly, eyes locked with Dean’s like that might help drive his point home, “We’re in high school now.”
“So, the kiddies need more players and you’re going to get fat just sitting, looking at your books all day,” Dean pokes Castiel’s stomach to punctuate his words.
“I’m not getting fat, Dean,” Castiel blocks Dean’s next jab.
“Maybe not,” Dean scratches at his chin, frowning and making a show of deep thought as he looks over Castiel from head to toe, “But you’re a twiggy little bastard - better get some muscles on your bones before someone decides to kick your ass - or at least practice how to run like Hell.”
Castiel’s brows draw down, “No one’s going to kick my ass.”
Dean looks at Castiel, frown still on his face for a few seconds more before it stretches into a grin, “Damn right no one’s going to kick your ass - not with your scary laser eyes, but it’s not like we’re doing anything, anyways,” Dean pouts.
And they aren’t busy, but still.
It’s the weekend and neither of them had the creativity to find something better to do than loiter outside.
Castiel wouldn’t have minded staying in his room to read ahead for school, but Dean had come knocking on his window again with complaints of Castiel’s ‘vampire skin’ and ‘hermitiness.’ Castiel will admit he’s rather pale, but his lifestyle is far different from a hermit’s. It’s just that Dean doesn’t frequent the same places as Castiel - after school clubs, peer tutoring, volunteering at the hospital.
But they haven’t been hanging out together lately, so he didn’t put up much of a fight as he was dragged down the fire escape.
They ended up just strolling down the streets and through the alleys - or, Castiel strolled. Dean walked on the tops of railings, jumped on dumpster lids and bounced off the walls with energy, but eventually they’d made their way into the vacant lot near their building.
The lot is badly paved and mostly dirt with weeds and other scraggily grasses growing up in strange places, trash strewn about like it came from the sky and never left. It’s not large and it’s sandwiched by derelict buildings covered in graffiti and fenced in with rusted chain links, but it’s the closest thing to a park that they have in this neighbourhood.
So Castiel expected to see kids running around trying to play soccer with a half deflated ball and the metal spikes of broken signs stabbed into the ground for goal posts, or maybe an improvised game of basketball using actual baskets hung from the burnt out lights screwed into brick walls.
What he didn’t expect was for a young boy from their apartment complex to run up to Dean and invite him to a game of Cops and Robbers. Neither did he expect how eager Dean would be to join in because Dean’s shameless, but even he must have some sort of pride.
Apparently, Castiel’s wrong because Dean just shuffles from foot to foot like an impatient child waiting for permission to play. So when Castiel continues to stand his ground, Dean sighs and seems to deflate before suddenly perking up.
Dean reaches into the pocket of his jacket, bringing a worn pack of playing cards into view.
Castiel starts to say something to express his disapproval of gambling again - even though Dean always grumbles about the waste of Castiel’s natural poker face - but Dean waves a hand at Castiel to silence him.
“How about this-” Dean flips open the pack, shaking the cards out of the box and into his palm with one sharp jerk before shuffling them with skilled fingers. He fans them out fluidly, somehow managing to do it one handed despite the fact that he holds a full deck.
Dean flaps the ridiculous spread of cards in front of Castiel, presenting their faded red backs to him.
“Pick a card. If it’s an Ace, then we do what I want to do; any other card, and we do what you want to do,” Dean raises his brows, grins in challenge as he offers the cards out to Castiel.
Castiel frowns, jaw jutting out, “You’re going to cheat.”
Dean’s mouth drops open, voice pitched high and feinting shock, “Cas, I’d never!”
Then he lifts the fan of cards to hide his playful smile, peering over them coquettishly and batting his lashes at Castiel. He purrs sweetly, “There’re only four Aces, Cas. Won’t you take the chance?”
Castiel’s eyes narrow because he doesn’t have any illusions of winning this, not when green glints slyly over the edge of the paper fan.
“Come on, Cas,” Dean cocks his head, grin spreading Cheshire wide as he lowers the fan and presses the tips of the cards to his chin, “You can’t be thinking that I walk around with a deck of fifty-two Aces, can you?”
Castiel shakes his head, “You’re still going to cheat somehow.”
“Oh no, you really do think I’m holding fifty-two Aces,” Dean laughs, eyes crinkling gleefully, “How about we switch it up then - if you draw an Ace, then we’ll do what you want.”
“No, Dean, I’m not playing,” Castiel says, because he’s really not sure what Dean is holding.
Dean might have been planning this since before they got here and it might really be a deck of Aces, or Dean might just be fooling Castiel into believing it’s a deck of Aces - trying to trick Castiel into losing by convincing him to draw one of four Aces instead of the forty-eight other cards he could have won with.
Dean tells Castiel he has the best poker face, but Dean always knows how to play him.
Castiel eyes Dean sternly, nostrils flaring, “You’re going to make sure I lose.”
Dean tips his head to his shoulder; eyes innocently round, “So you agree that I’m going to win?”
“That’s not what I-”
“Great-” Dean snaps his fan of cards closed, pockets them and turns a hundred watt smile on Castiel, “I call being a robber!”
Castiel opens his mouth to argue, but what comes out instead is, “Why are you always a robber?”
That’s not what he’s annoyed about, but somehow he still sounds like a petulant child.
“Well, why are you always a cop?” Dean looks down his nose at Castiel.
“I’m going to be a part of law enforcement one day,” Castiel says honestly, brows furrowing, “Stop laughing, Dean.”
But it takes a good five minutes for Dean to catch his breath and straighten, rubbing his belly, working out the stitches in his sides that his fit of laughter sewed.
Dean wipes a tear from the corner of his eye and his smile isn’t so much mocking as it is fond, “Was that always the reason?”
Castiel doesn’t answer, though he feels his forehead wrinkling with displeasure.
Dean moves to stand next to Castiel and rests a hand on the back of Castiel’s neck. He shakes his head, amused, “Jesus, Cas. You were one intense kid. I can’t believe you took it so seriously,” he chuckles again, “It wasn’t like we were really going to be cops and robbers.”
Castiel glances sideways at the other teen, “Well I’m glad you don’t aspire to be a criminal, but I am going to be an officer and I am going to clean up this city.”
Dean raises his brows, disbelieving, waving his arms around and gesturing to the virtual dump they stand in, “You really think you can fix this shit?”
Castiel tips his chin up, stands tall, “Yes, I do.”
Dean stares at him for a moment, face blank before a wry smile picks up the corners of his mouth and he shakes his head. “Aw, come on, Cas! You can’t really want to be a cop - it’s ninety percent paperwork, I bet,” he says as he steers Castiel to the center of the lot where the kids have gathered to divide into teams.
“Besides, being a robber would be way cooler - they do like, disappearing acts and get to sneak around on roof tops and the best part - never have to sit behind a desk, ever.”
Castiel snorts, because of course. Even though they both know exactly how criminals live; the kind of pain they can bring - of course Dean would joke about it.
He turns his head to look at Dean’s profile, unimpressed with his unrealistic points, “Those are the reasons you would prefer being a robber?”
Dean smiles, attention fixed forwards and hand slipping off the back of Castiel’s neck to hang loose at his side.
“Some of ‘em, but really, Cas,” Dean’s eyes crinkle. “When else have you ever tried to catch me?”
* * *
Castiel tosses his keys into the tray by the door; hears the clink of metal on metal as it lands on his other keys and his pile of loose change.
Forced vacation.
Castiel stays standing at the door of his apartment, still in his trench coat, briefcase in hand.
He doesn’t know how anyone could think that sending him home is a good idea.
The emptiness of his apartment yawns before him, the small space seeming to expand until each wall is a hundred miles apart, the ceiling stretching up to become a new sky - white and featureless, completely detached from the flat beige of his floor - no horizon for the two to meet at.
The furniture shrinks until they look better suited for a doll’s house, the low hum of the heating system sounding more like white noise -
-the crackle of a hand-held transceiver-
Castiel drops his briefcase to the floor; let’s the loud thud clear the air.
He shrugs off his coat, leaves it where it falls.
He doesn’t bother taking off his shoes, not caring that he’s tracking dirt all over the floor.
Castiel doesn’t turn on the lights; steps guided only by habit and the faint natural light that slips between the blinds - dull overcast skies, pale and grey as the washed out cement of the sidewalks; the streets; the buildings - like a grey blanket across the city-
-plain sheet draped over the top-
He falls onto his couch, still in his suit; doesn’t bother loosening his tie - he never ties it properly anyways, so it’s not tight - but he takes off his watch, throws it onto the coffee table.
His hands feel cold.
-fingers, limp and pale-
Everything feels cold.
He regrets taking off his trench coat - he could use the extra layer.
There’s a pad of paper and a pen on the coffee table. He keeps a set in each room just in case of important calls - police business - that he has to jot down.
Work always came first - he never knew what to do with his spare time.
He regrets that - regrets a lot of things - and that’s why he picks up the pad of paper and the pen -
-blue plastic against his bottom lip-
He’s going to make a list.
Things to Regret, he starts; writes at the top of the page and underlines it.
Things to Regret
- Removing my trench coat
- Not removing my shoes
- Not turning on the lights
Already he has three regrets from the events of the past five minutes.
Castiel thinks he’s going to need more paper, but he knows he won’t be getting off his couch any time soon, so he crosses out what he wrote; decides to make a list of only his greatest regrets.
That should be easy.
Things to Regret
- Removing my trench coat
- Not removing my shoes
- Not turning on the lights
It should be easy, but after half an hour, his list is still just three crossed out lines.
Castiel takes a breath; steels himself.
His hand shakes as he writes.
Things to Regret
- Removing my trench coat
- Not removing my shoes
- Not turning on the lights
- Dean
It’s only four letters, but he feels weak with the effort it took to scratch it into the paper - and it’s not even right.
He doesn’t regret Dean.
His pen hovers over the fourth line, ready to cross it out and rewrite it properly.
But he can’t.
That portion of the paper seems to repel ink and Castiel ends up crossing through the third line again.
‘Regret’ isn’t the right word anyways.
Castiel tears off the first sheet of paper; tosses it carelessly to the side.
He laments/mourns/grieves.
Castiel doesn’t know what word to use, but he knows he has to write something.
If he doesn’t get it down on paper; doesn’t look at it, acknowledge it, hang it on the wall - he’ll fall apart.
He can’t avoid what happened forever. He can try distancing himself - thinking objectively, professionally - but it won’t work.
Hiding all the red pens doesn’t erase the red that’s on his hands.
So Castiel tries again.
It’s a more indirect approach - more cowardly - but maybe that’s how he’s always been.
Afraid.
He’ll pursue criminals without hesitation; run into gunfights without flinching; negotiate dangerous situations or talk down distressed civilians with absolute calm.
But he knows that for some things, he has always been a coward - afraid to look; afraid to see.
And it’s only now that he begins to understand what that fear has cost him.
He writes, Things That Should Have Happened, But Didn’t, at the top of his new page; underlines it.
There are so many things that he could write under this heading, but as Castiel thinks about it, he realizes that his life turned out alright.
He graduated high school and left this city for the college of his choice. He obtained his degree, with distinctions, and was accepted into the academy. Again, he was top of his class and could easily have pursued a position at the federal level, but chose to return as a patrol officer and after testing, was quickly promoted.
And now he is a detective, second-grade - barred from first, only because of his youth - but well respected and well liked by his peers, subordinates and superiors.
The media is kind to him, latching onto his cases and painting him as a rising star - a hero - though he hardly makes public appearances. And despite his relatively light experience, there are already substantial rumours of his imminent promotion, granted he tests to become a sergeant.
After all, he is promising; he has the drive, the skill and the favour needed to go far in his career.
He could be the force the city needs, they tell him.
He could be the one to set things right, they say.
He could.
But he can’t.
Castiel’s hand tightens on his pen, knuckles white and tendons standing taut.
His record is perfect and his future stretches out high and bright, but no matter how far he climbs he can’t escape what he’s done - hasn’t done.
He was the good kid, the bright child, the diamond in the rough.
Castiel was always going to be great; was always going to get out from the gutter he grew up in.
No one ever doubted that.
But no one ever saw that there was more than one gem hidden in the dark.
No one saw Dean.
And while everyone praised Castiel’s intelligence and maturity, his good manners and moral fibre, Dean was left behind - no one told him he was good, no one believed he could be better.
Not even Castiel.
And that is his crime.
They were supposed to be friends.
They could have been -
Yet Castiel never listened for the truth in Dean’s words, never looked for the good intentions in his actions.
The ability to pick out his shape in a blurry photograph doesn’t amount to anything.
He still only saw the con, the cheat, the trickster and magician and he was so sure of what he saw that he forgot that Dean could be different.
That Dean would never hurt him.
That Dean would let Castiel shoot him down instead.
Castiel’s eyes squeeze shut.
His life turned out pretty well, but Dean’s didn’t.
And though many of the things that happened to Dean were out of Castiel’s control, he wasn’t powerless.
Dean always sought out, ran to; chased after Castiel.
All Castiel had to do was stand still, stop running; hold tight-
Look.
So he writes.
Castiel sets the pad of paper on the coffee table with hands as steady as he is shaken.
And it won’t change a thing, but Castiel looks.
He looks.
Things That Should Have Happened, But Didn’t
- We, us, Dean and Cas
* * *
It’s midnight and Castiel’s still awake, staring at his ceiling.
He would normally have been asleep by ten - ‘early’ according to Dean - but he couldn’t manage it this time despite how comfortable his bed is; how warm it is under the covers when the rest of the apartment is freezing. He’s awake, not because he was busy doing his homework last minute like Dean does - despite Castiel’s reminders junior high should be taken seriously - but because he’d been waiting.
Again.
He doesn’t know why he bothers.
Waiting doesn’t make things happen faster, only wastes time and energy, and objectively Castiel knows this. So he guesses it’s just a bad habit that he’s developed - waiting for his father to come home.
But it’s because he’s still awake that he hears the quiet creak of his window being slid open. The sound is near silent even though everything about this building is old and loud.
While the bricks of the walls wear away and the iron of the fire escape rusts, his window seems to be suspended in time because Dean looks after it; keeps it clean and oiled just so he can break into Castiel’s place whenever he feels like it.
And maybe it’s bad that it doesn’t even occur to Castiel that it could be someone else opening his window this night, but Castiel knows it’s Dean.
It always is.
And Castiel has to admit that Dean has skill, though it’s not something he approves of.
He can just make out the open and close of the window, the quietest hush of steps ghosting across the carpet, the barely there sigh of soft breaths.
Then there’s a shadow at the foot of his bed, a slightly quicker rush of air like someone taking a breath to speak, then aborting at the last moment.
“Dean,” Castiel says blandly, letting the other boy know he’s awake.
“Hey Cas.”
“It’s the middle of the night.”
A faint flash of teeth as Dean grins, “Thought I’d rob you blind, but I guess I should come back when you’re actually asleep.”
“That would be best.”
“Got anything valuable I should know about?”
“There’s a large black plastic bag under the sink. That is where I keep my fortune.”
“Gotcha, I’ll be sure to take that off your hands.”
“You do that.”
“Anything else you’d miss?”
“My Lucky Charms.”
Dean laughs, claps a hand over his mouth to smother the sound, and Castiel feels just a little proud of himself for it.
“Y’know, I always thought it was weird how you ate Lucky Charms.”
“Were you expecting me to eat Wheaties?”
“Well, yeah.”
“And I always thought it strange how you secretly enjoy carrots.”
Dean huffs, indignant, “Come on, I don’t secretly enjoy carrots. You make it sound like I’ve got some sorta dirty fetish.”
“You hide when you eat carrot cake.”
“I don’t hide,” Dean pokes a finger to the bottom of Castiel’s blanket covered foot, but Castiel isn’t ticklish so he remains unmoved, “I just like to - to eat that by myself.”
And the wan smile Dean gives him is just a smile, but Castiel averts his eyes; clears his throat, “Then I hope you also like doing your homework by yourself, because I’m not letting you copy.”
“Oh, God - how can you do that to me?” Dean clutches his heart in mock-agony.
Then Dean claps his hands together, “Anyways, Sam’s at a sleepover, so I was wondering if you wanna do something; maybe sneak out? Or if you don’t want to go out, we can just go up to the roof. Maybe just the fire escape, or if you don’t even want to walk that far I can just - I’ve got fire crackers and we can blow shit up or-”
Dean runs a hand through his hair, “You know what, never mind,” his shoulders slump, “You have a test tomorrow, right? You need to sleep. I’ll come back to bother you later - or, uh, earlier.”
But before Dean can make it to the window, Castiel asks softly, “Is Kelly not at home?”
Dean doesn’t say anything for a few minutes, then, “No. It’s just Steve.”
Castiel nods to himself, stomach twisting uneasily, but without surprise.
Of course that’s why Dean would seek him out, hours later in the night than he usually would.
If Sam is at a sleepover and Kelly is working a late shift at the bar, then it would just be Dean and Steve in the apartment. And Dean has never told Castiel why he doesn’t like Steve, but Castiel’s seen the way the man stares at Dean just a little too much; hands lingering on the boy just a little too long.
He doesn’t think anything has happened yet, but still.
So he rolls over to one side of the bed, leaving half of the small mattress empty.
Dean doesn’t say anything as he gets into the bed, crawling under the covers but not fighting Castiel for more blanket.
“Is your dad still at work?” Dean whispers after he settles on his side.
Castiel rolls to face the other boy, only a foot away from him, but he doesn’t reply.
“He’ll be back in the morning,” Dean assures him, “It’s not like he can work thirty hours in a day.”
Castiel grunts, “You’d be surprised.”
“Well… party at Cas’ place,” Dean says with no enthusiasm, pulling the covers up to his chin.
And Castiel wishes that things were better; knows Dean does too.
If only Castiel could count on his father to be there or Dean could count on an adult - any adult, to watch out for him.
Steve hasn’t really done anything, but Castiel knows that if he does, Dean will never say anything. Dean’s been cycled through a number of foster homes and Castiel knows Dean would rather bite off his own tongue than risk ruining the family that took in Sam as a baby - that was willing to accept Dean into their household so that he could be with his brother again.
It’s sad, but this is the way things are.
The world is filled with awful people, some more obviously terrible than others, and their neighbourhood has no shortage of them.
Castiel hears the screaming and yelling at night. Sometimes it’s just another couple’s fight or a bar brawl, sometimes it’s something more sinister. He’s seen the hustlers going about their business, the drug dealers and addicts haunting the alleys and the gangs ambling down the streets, patrolling their territory and keeping the residents in check.
But it’s not the sight of the criminals that stirs Castiel.
It’s the families, the people who have no choice but to live here.
It’s Joshua playing guitar with three fingers - two cut off for not paying protection fees; Pamela, blinded by acid because her husband ran away and left his debts unpaid; Gabriel who just wants to get out of this city, but can only escape through drugs.
It’s Sam’s too-old eyes, his distrust of people and his fear of fire; it’s Dean stealing and lying, hiding in stairwells with carrot cake and memories. It’s Castiel’s mother who disappeared; his father who is just as absent - always working at the factory; always lost in the bottle.
Castiel wishes he could do something, but he doesn’t know what to do, how to help; who’s the next person that will be taken away by the crime that riddles the city streets.
And maybe that’s why he waits for his father.
To make sure he comes home.
“Hey,” Dean hisses, snapping Castiel from his dark thoughts, “Hey, Cas.”
“What?” he asks tiredly; rubs a hand over his dry eyes, trying to smooth out the crease in his brow.
Dean watches him carefully, “You okay?”
“Yeah,” Castiel tugs the blanket higher, tries to cover more of his face.
Dean hums doubtfully, eyes shining by the light of the street. Then he leans towards Castiel, voice hushed like he’s telling a secret and face strangely serious, “I’m going to show you a magic trick, okay?”
“Another one,” Castiel sighs, regretting taking Dean to the library, and cursing the street magician that had been outside.
“Yeah, I know you don’t care about my magic, but I promise you’ll like this one - I came up with it on my own,” a warm smile spreads across his face, the curve of his cheek lit orange, “Just close your eyes.”
Castiel purses his lips suspiciously while Dean waits for him to follow instructions.
He doesn’t know what Dean’s up to, but he doesn’t think Dean has his fire crackers with him at the moment, so he gives in.
With his eyes closed, the world seems smaller.
There’re no long shadows to look at, no mysterious shapes looming over him.
It’s just the warmth of his bed, the soft comfort of his sheets and Dean’s steady breaths beside him.
And that’s all.
Minutes tick by and nothing happens.
The whisper of wind outside.
Light rattle of window pane.
A draft whistling through cracked wood.
Castiel feels his guard falling as he starts to succumb to the late hour - the quiet; the peace, a lull that’s void of city sounds and lights - but Dean hasn’t done his magic trick yet.
“Dean, what’re you doing?” he mumbles into his pillow.
But Dean doesn’t answer, just shushes him.
Castiel wonders if he should open his eyes to check, but he feels lazy, heavy with the fringe of sleep. Instead he asks dryly, “When I open my eyes, is there going to be a magical duplicate of my English essay?”
“No, Cas,” Dean huffs a quiet laugh, and there’s the rustle of sheets; a dip in the mattress as Dean shifts closer.
“When you open your eyes,” Dean says, hand resting warm next to his. “I’ll still be here.”
Epilogue