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When Dean steps off the elevator and sees Victor standing at the front desk with a manila envelope over flowing with paperwork in his hands, he near turns back and calls in sick.
Benny's only been on sabbatical for two months and Dean's going crazy as a result; if Victor gives him one more rookie to 'train' he's gonna take an early retirement and move to Bora bora. A one man canoe and a hut the size of his current bathroom sounds better than whatever Victor’s about to tell him, Dean’s sure of it.
"Do you wait for all your agents at the front desk, or am I just your favorite?" Dean quips, blowing past Victor so the chief has to double his pace to keep up.
Victor ignores Dean's comment and shoves the manila envelope against Dean's chest. "Your new partner's coming in today. I want you to brief yourself on his file, so you're prepared when he shows up. It's time to get you back in the field."
"Fucking finally," Dean mutters. If the guy's got a file that means he's been in the game awhile and that Dean can work with. Probably.
He crosses down an aisle, heading for his cubicle when Victor stops him with a hand to the shoulder.
"Dean," he says. He's got that you-better-be-taking-this-seriously look in his eyes and just because of it, Dean cannot take him seriously.
"Yeah, chief."
"Since Benny's going to be gone awhile, this may be a permanent change. I want you on your best behavior from here on out. If you run this guy off like you did the others, I'll suspend you to nothing but Bag-and-Tag's. You understand?"
The threat is hilarious considering all Dean's been doing for the past two months is e-tagging with Garth and explaining to Resnick what constitutes as a case and what constitutes as fucking click bait.
At least with Bag-and-Tag's he'd be able to work alone.
Dean grins at Victor, nice and big and toothy. "If I act like an ass my new best friends are the corpses, yup, I got it." He doesn't stop smiling, and Victor doesn't stop staring, like if he waits long enough his Bad Cop act will actually get to Dean.
Dean takes a sip of his coffee.
Victor doesn't blink.
Dean doesn't stop smiling.
"I'm watching you, Winchester." Victor finally grumbles.
Dean takes a step backwards, moving towards his desk. "If you're waiting for me to dance around my room in my panties I only do that on Sundays. You missed it by a day."
The returning look Victor shoots him is not amused in the least.
Jo's waiting for him when he reaches his desk. She's in a tight black skirt and heels, which is pretty damn hilarious considering she's cleaning under her fingernails with a fucking knife.
"Well good morning." Dean says, putting down his coffee and the file Victor gave him. "Trying to impress my brother, or what?" He flicks his eyes up Jo's legs and to the low cut blouse hugging her frame.
"No." Jo retorts in a voice meant to mock Dean. "I have a thing. Anyway, I came to see how you're holding up. Heard you're getting a noob today."
"Ain't new," Dean corrects, settling into his chair. He holds up the thick file and Jo frowns.
"Who is it?"
"I dunno some guy named-" Dean opens the file, eyes scanning the page for his new partner's personal information. When he finally spots it it's like everything grinds to a halt, the name jumping off the page, burning red and taunting. "Oh hell fucking no."
"Dean-"
Dean stands from his chair, yanking the file off his desk and storming off down the aisle towards Victor's office, bubbling with righteous fury running hot like lava through his veins. He stops in Victor's doorway, rapping his knuckles on the doorframe.
"Vic, a word?"
Victor eyes the file in Dean's hands, lets out a sigh and slumps back in his chair. "Close the door."
And goddamn right Dean's gonna close the door – but because he was already planning on it, not because Victor told him to. Striding across the room Dean drops the file on Victor's desk, leaning on the edge with his hands pressed flat to the surface. "This is a joke, right?'
"Am I the typpa guy that jokes, Dean?" Victor looks smug, the bastard.
"I'm the best fucking hunter you've got here, and you've been stringing me along for two months now, putting me with Garth, and Ronald – Ronald Resnik, Victor, Ron-ald - and now you're gonna stick me with him?"
"You were the best hunter, Dean. Two months ago." Victor points out.
Dean drops himself into one of the leather chairs resting opposite where Victor sits behind his desk. "Yeah well two months ago I had a partner; and then he got bit and Turned and now I'm just praying he doesn't end up on my hit list."
"He won't," Victor says, voice growing careful. "He e-tagged himself willingly, Dean. He's gonna be okay."
And maybe Victor's right, but Dean can still hear Benny screaming, still sees him in his nightmares, going dark in the eyes, nostrils flaring when the smell of Dean's blood hits the air, and razor sharp teeth sliding out of his gums, hungry. One wrong move and Benny went from the hunter to the hunted, and that's not something Dean can just get over in one night. Or two months, it seems.
“Technically I should keep putting you with guys like Resnik until you pass your psych eval. Which you have yet to do.”
Dean slouches in his chair. "So this is punishment?"
"It should be. For the past two months you've done nothing but break every rule thinkable, ditch your therapy sessions, and screw your way through the office. Which is breaking yet another rule."
"Hey, we’re all consenting adults here," Dean quirks a smile at the chief. "And I only mess around with the cute ones."
Victor shakes his head, sighs again. "You think they're all cute, Dean."
"What can I say? The human body is a beautiful thing. Speaking of-" Dean eyes Victor lasciviously. “I’m free this weekend if you wanna-”
“Sorry, Dean, I only mess around with the cute ones.”
“Fuck you, I’m adorable.”
The room falls silent. Victor's staring at Dean across the shiny wooden surface of his desk, like he's trying to figure out whether to just fire him right here and now or placate him one more time.
"Despite what you may think, this isn't a punishment." He finally admits. "I thought you needed a break, but clearly I was wrong. I’m hoping sticking you with someone who's been in the field just as long as you have will get you back on your feet quicker than anything. I'm doing you a favor, Dean."
Dean’s responding laugh is dark. "A favor? Victor this guy's a rogue. For all we know he could be a sleeper for the winged dick heads upstairs. Why can't you just put me with Sam?"
"Sam's with Tracy, and that's where Sam's staying. They make a good team-" Dean opens his mouth to interject – he and Sam make a good team, they're brother's for fuck's sake – but Victor keeps right on talking, "and they don't make stupid ass sacrifices to save each other's hides like the two of you do when you're together."
“Whatever,” is Dean’s eloquent reply.
“Dean.” Victor’s voice has gone quiet, tentative, and when Dean meets the chief’s gaze again, he’s met with an expression that can only be described as sympathetic and fuck him for thinking Dean needs sympathy. He doesn’t. He’s fine – aside from the fact that Vic’s trying to slap him with some angelic douchebag. “This will be good for you – both of you.”
“And if it isn’t?”
The sympathy is gone from Victor’s face, replaced with something annoyed and 1200% done with Dean. “No reassignments will be made,” he states with finality. “Either you make it work or you die trying.”
Dean’s pretty sure he’d rather get shot in the ass than try to make it work with this Castiel guy.
They feel bad for him. That’s the only explanation there is for Sammy and Jo buying him hard liquor on a Monday night.
“You must’ve done something to piss Vic off,” Jo decides, reaching for the bowl of peanuts in front of Dean and pulling out a handful. “I’ve never heard of a human hunter working with an angel.”
Sam tugs the file from where it rests beneath Dean’s hands on the bar top and flicks it open. He squints as his eyes scan the page. “Technically he isn’t actually an angel he’s just of angelic descent, maybe that’s how Victor’s getting away with it.”
“Yeah well, tomato/to-mah-toe. I don’t trust the guy.”
"Dean, you haven’t even met him.”
“Whatever!” Dean throws back a shot of tequila and slams the empty glass on the bar top, smacking his lips against the aftertaste. “Never met an angel, or somebody of angelic fucking descent, that I could trust and I sure as hell ain’t startin’ with this guy.”
The look Sam and Jo exchange then pisses Dean off maybe even more than this whole slinging him with an angel bullshit. He hates their silent conversations. Usually they’re about him, and usually, the assholes, they’re right.
“Hey, you got somethin’ to say? I’m right here, bitches.”
“We’re just concerned.” Sam says on an exhale.
Dean shakes his head, glares down at the stupid file in front of him. “Oh really, mom and dad?”
“It’s not safe to start a partnership off like this, Dean,” Jo muses gently at his side. “From this point forward you guys are kind of responsible for covering each other’s asses and-”
“You think I don’t know that, Joanna Beth?” Dean snaps. He hails down their bartender – thank god it’s not Ellen, fuck knows she’d cut him off without a second glance – and puts another shot on Sam’s tab. “I’m kinda startin’ to think Victor wants me dead. Makes the most sense anyway, doesn’t it? Otherwise why the hell’s he doin’ this to me?”
Dean downs the shot as soon as it’s in his grasp, wiping his hand across his mouth and shaking his head violently as the tequila sears down his throat. God, tequila is disgusting.
Jo shakes her head, takes a swig of her beer before reaching for another handful of peanuts. “I’ll admit there’re probably plenty of people that want you dead, Dean; that demon asshole Crowley, a bunch of vamps who’s mates you’ve killed, all the one-night-stands you’ve never called back…” She twitches an easy smile at him, “But Victor ain’t one of them. If you can’t trust this angel guy at least trust Vic to know what he’s doing.”
And of course, she’s right. He and Victor may not always see eye-to-eye, but Dean’s a damn good hunter, one of the top in their field, and Victor’d be stupid to get rid of him. Even Victor knows that. So okay, maybe his sorry (beautiful) ass is safe with this Castiel guy, but that doesn’t mean Dean has to like him.
“Yeah,” Dean finally responds, propping is cheek up against his palm and staring at the television screen hanging in their line of view. Maybe he should’ve been a hockey player or a mechanic or some shit. At least then he could’ve remained comfortably in the dark about what lurks around in, well, the dark.
He’s nearly three sheets to the wind when he stumbles over to the dart board and pins the 8.5 x 11 inch photograph of Castiel in the middle of it. He’d pulled it from the guy’s file and Victor was probably gonna be pissed about it, but whatever. Dean will personally pay for a shiny new headshot of the guy because right now lobbing darts at his face seems much more important than what fucking Victor will say.
Sam only puts a half-hearted attempt into stopping Dean, but Jo’s amused smirk as she watches him grab a handful of darts is fuel enough for his fire. “Ten bucks if I hit him between the eyes. Anyone?”
“You’re on Winchester,” Jo agrees, ignoring Sam’s tight lipped glare. She shrugs at him and Dean hears her mutter, “He’s drunk, Sam.”
Drunk or not, Dean’s still a near perfect shot.
Or he used to be, back in the day when he and Victor were running around campus together, chasing tail and trying to out best each other in the classes they shared. Seems like decades ago now, now that Victor’s essentially Dean’s boss and Dean’s already lost a partner in the field.
Might as well have been decades ago seeing as Dean’s first shot barely grazes Castiel’s ear.
After that he becomes determined to hit somewhere on his new partner’s face and he does, eventually, but not anywhere that would do much damage if he were in a real fight. From behind him Jo’s loud, “Oh!’s” and dramatic gasps when he gets close to an eye or Castiel’s throat egg him on and when he finally hits the guy in the nose he turns with a wide grin on his face and his hands up in the air, shouting victoriously, “TAKE THAT YOU ANGEL BASTARD! How’s that for covering your ass?”
But Jo isn’t smiling, and neither is Sam, they both look more horrified than anything, and for a split second Dean’s confused as hell until a deep, rumbling voice sounds at his side and Dean turns to find himself face-to-face with his new partner, Castiel.
“Please tell me you’re incredibly drunk,” Castiel deadpans, frowning at Dean. Dean wants to frown back, show this guy he can be bitchy, too, but all he does is stare. Because the guy’s eyes are just as blue as they are in the picture – bright even in the dimness of the bar – and his jaw is strong and angled, peppered with stubble, and he stands only a few inches shorter than Dean but is broader than him in the shoulders and waist, and it shouldn’t matter what the dude looks like, Dean’s still gonna hate him, but when someone looks like that it matters. Oh fuck does it matter.
It’s got to be an awkward amount of time since Dean should’ve responded, but Castiel hasn’t moved, might not even have blinked and it’s his unnerving stare that finally gets Dean to ask, “Why?” more than anything else.
“Because if your aim is always this terrible, we’re clearly not as matched in skill as Victor’s assured me we are.”
“I was just uh- just warming up.”
Castiel nods in understanding though the subtle scowl on his face tells Dean he doesn’t believe him in the slightest.
“Five should be enough of a warm up for someone of your skill level shouldn’t it?” Castiel asks, and Dean only nods because he still isn’t even sure what the guy is doing here, how he found Dean, and what Dean’s supposed to say to him.
“Well then,” Castiel gestures at the final dart in Dean’s hand, “why don’t you throw one more and show me how good you really are. Just for my peace of mind.”
Dean feels like the entire world is watching as he turns to face the dart board one final time and lines the dart up with Castiel’s face.
He’s too drunk and too tightly wound to make any sort of menacing shot, he knows that, but not doing what Castiel says seems like a worse decision at this point so he throws the goddamn dart and hopes for the best. The best turns out to be the 2D version of Castiel’s bottom lip and Dean doesn’t even have time to be ashamed because something whirs past his left ear and hurtles towards the photo, end spinning over end in clean and perfect movements. It’s a knife, Dean realizes, and it embeds itself right between Castiel’s eyes, a flawless throw that would kill someone on the spot.
“It looks like I’ll be covering your ass as you’ll be incapable of covering mine,” Castiel growls and then he stalks out of the Roadhouse and Dean doesn’t do anything about it but watch the guy go.
He is in so much fucking trouble.