Chapter Text
He did it. He’s finally doing a case alone. It’s about time, he’s 24 for Christ's sake.
Dean Winchester sits in his beloved Impala, Baby, adjusting his tie of his totally professional FBI get-up in the rearview mirror. He’s parked in front of the bricked double story police station of the city that has had deaths at the beginning of the year and again now. All with the same M.O: dead body, hole in chest, heart gone. He’s betting an amature werewolf set up shop. Piece of cake. Brimming with confidence and charm, he coolly rises from the Impala, the door thumping close behind him as he saunters up the steps of the station that could easily be 100 years old.
He steps through the double glass doors that clash with the old artitecture to an empty entrance. It's a small room with laminate flooring. As it reflects off the floor, the soft lighting is humbled by the late afternoon gleam from small square windows. Straight ahead there is a large sliding glass pane looking into a typical office with a crappy chair, phone, etc. the only difference is the lack of paper heaps he’s used to.
“Hey. Anyone here.” His voice echos. The phone starts trilling, as if on cue, and a woman in a light blue uniform with her hair pulled back in a slick blonde bun rushes in and answers. As soon as she does, her tense stance softens and she falls in the shitty chair - which had to hurt like a bitch - twists the phone’s cord around her finger. The glass must be bullet/sound proof or something because he can’t hear a single thing.
Heaven knows his dad has tried to get lip reading through his thick skull since forever but much to his dad’s disappointment, Dean could never get it 100%. This is evident as he gets the words ‘olive juice elephant’ as there is no way in hell someone would ever say that unless held at gunpoint. He feels like he should be getting it but for some reason he can’t think of anything else that could fit.
At least he’s always been better at reading body language. Not that it’s hard to tell from her relaxed slouch and dreamy look that this call is probably not as important as murder. He almost feels bad when he knocks on the glass and she tenses again. It was almost like she had to force herself to hang up; it was brutal. He couldn’t imagine ever needing, wanting, having, all the -ings someone like that. The pain that could bring or cause? Not worth it.
The lady cop slides open the glass and feigns a polite if not passive aggressive smile and asks, “How can I help you, sir.” Dean clears his throat putting on his super serious FBI mask and pulls out his badge. “FBI, I’m here for the missing heart murders.”
A beat, she darts her eyes to his badge and thoroughly criticizes it. When the lady glaces suspiciously back at him, he adds on his flirty smile and a wink for good measure. That does not work, probably made it worse from how she rolls her eyes and shows him the back of her hand. At first he’s completely lost and then he catches the shine of a thin engagement ring with a microscopic jewel.
This time there’s a no nonsense straight line in place of the fake smile when she says, “Of course sir, we weren’t expecting you. The detective is in File Room 3A.”
“Thanks.” He finds it hard to choke that out.
As he scans the blocky numbers and letters for 3A, he keeps thinking about the cop. He feels sleazy and uncomfortable with a hint of guilt which is absolutely ridiculous because how could he have known? Most people like the attention.
That’s not his only problem with this all. It’s not a conscious thought that he wants something more, but he’s not the person who gets that friendship or romantic relationships; friends die, commitment is a liability. He messes around with people, has a fun time. His lifestyle doesn’t incorporate with anyone else's; it’s a mutual understanding. The thing is: he also feels envious.
Dean pretends he isn’t.
He finds 3A in stiff green plastic beside the dark wooden door. Soundlessly entering the room he sees the tense shoulders of a man leaning over a table his arms propping himself up “Are you the lead detective on the missing heart murders?”
The man turns around, and Dean can now see he’s on the older side with dark skin, military cut black hair, and tired brown eyes. A hand raises out from his wrinkled white button up. “Detective Jones. Who’s asking?”
Dean grips his hand and shakes. “Agent Plant, FBI.” He flashes his badge and tucks it away with smooth practiced ease. “What can you tell me about the stuff going on here?”
Jones turns around and grabs what he was looking at when Dean walked in, the case files, then spreads them out over the surface. “Take a look. We’ve got no clue who’s doing this. There were tufts of hair at some earlier scenes but they came back as canines…” - definitely a werewolf - “...then nothing for months and now there’s six that have occurred much more frequently than the last batch.”
He moves beside the detective and scans through the names on the files, some him recognizing from papers and others not. He flips open the nearest file and looks at the crime photo with several yellow numbered markers - a woman with a hole in her chest and a very missing heart, but only a few scratches around the gap. Sophisticated werewolf, that’s new. He flips up the page to see a picture of what can only be said as a fist-sized raisin beside the body. He’s about to ask whether he wants to know or not when Jones clarifies, “That’s the heart”
He brings the photo closer to his face before setting it down. Confused he asks, “I uh, I thought the hearts were missing.”
The detective crosses his arms. “That’s what we thought, it wasn’t too long ago the coroner found out that is in fact the heart. The old murders, those the hearts were completely gone…” He grabs two folders and flips them open, one looks more like a werewolf kill, the other is like the one Dean was looking at. Jones points out the first one then the second as he continues, “…these were left behind just like that. The first murders have way more cuts and ripped skin, and were the only ones with the hairs.”
Dean flips to the coroner's report. What the hell is going on here? He looks through all the other files, the first are obviously a werewolf, monthly, no heart, obvious. The recent ones though, he’s never heard of something like this.
He can do this, he needs to, for his dad. He’ll figure out the connection eventually. And he’ll do it himself. He won’t have his dad to help and he definitely won’t have Sammy who puts together shit scarily easily, he’s fucking smart like that. Sam made his priorities blatantly clear, no questions about it. He’ll gank this bastard with his own badass self.
Dean glances at his watch; he should go find a motel. “Do you mind if I take these?”
The detective looks up, “Nah. Between you and me, we’re just running like chickens with heads chopped off. This is probably the most action this place has seen in a long while, everyone’s freaked. Just let me know if you got any questions, I know this case like the back of my hand.” The guy has definitely had late night sacrifices for this, that immediately garners respect with the front row viewing of how little some care. He feels for the poor guy, these people are no match for things in the dark.
Dean gathers the files and thanks the detective. As he’s about to leave it occurs to him to ask, “Also, do you happen to know any place I can hunker down near that apartment complex?”
The detective stands and starts making his way to the door with Dean. “Oh yeah, ‘course. There’s the Red Bird right down the street from it. Couldn’t miss it. Gotta warn you, it’s not the best quality, that’s for sure.”
With a wry smile Dean says, “I’m sure I’ve had worse, detective.” He wedges the files under his arm with and hand in his pocket and raises the other for a handshake. “Thanks again. Don’t worry we’ll get this guy.”
Jones simply goes through the motion - he probably doesn’t believe it - and opens the door for Dean. While he walks out he hears, “I hope you can see what we can’t.” He looks back and nods with as much confidence as he can muster before continuing down the hall.
He walks by the glass panes, closed once again, and sees the cop back on the phone. She has that comfortable posture and soft smile - that he ruined - back. He thinks he sees her say ‘You’re such a dumbass’ but if anything she’s holding back a laugh. She looks like there’s no one else she’d rather talk to, dumbass or not, and he somehow finds himself happy for a complete stranger. Deeper he feels an uncomfortable tug that he pretends not to.
Dean pushes open the glass door and makes his way to the Impala, files precariously tucked in his armpit while he searches through his pockets for his keys. He lets his mind race with possibilities that immediately get disqualified, he has to admit this case is much more complicated than he thought.
As he’s distracted looking down at his pockets because he can’t find those damn keys, something firm collides with his shoulder and the files decorate the sidewalk, a few falling by the Impala on the parking lot. “Son of a–”
“Oh my God. I’m so sorry, sir. I really didn’t mean to, I’m sorry.” The guy crouches down and starts frantically gathering the scattered papers. All Dean can see is tousled black hair and a beige trench coat brush the ground but he can still tell the dude is as tense as hell.
He squats down too and collects the papers scraping cement with a breeze. “Hey, man. It’s all good, don’t worry about it.” He glances up and-
Goddamn, that’s blue.
As soon as it comes, it’s gone as a hand shifts up to cover the guy’s face. The man just completely deflates and falls into that Kindergarten criss-cross applesauce position, bringing up another hand to drop his head into, the files a pile at his side.
What the hell.
Is Dean watching a grown man have a breakdown over paper? Very uncomfortable with this turn of events, he looks around for something to say or a way out. Of course, the plain scenery of a parking lot with few cars gives little inspiration.
With amazing eloquence he says, “Um, it’s okay.” He sets the papers he collected in the pile and pats the shoulder clad with surprisingly thin material. “No harm, no foul, right? Just’a few papers.” Vibrant blue eyes peak between fingers to look up at him and he’s amazed, again. Then the man starts laughing - or crying. This is why he sticks with monsters, at least they make sense sometimes. People on the other hand, he just doesn’t get them. He hears something muffled between laughs or sobs. “What?”
The guy looks up and drops his hands, there’s a little smile on his face but his eyes look a little watery. “It’s not the papers, although I am very sorry about that. It’s just everything… everything . And I can’t –” He cuts himself off with a sigh. The dude stands and Dean grabs the files, standing as well feeling uneven with how quickly it went from completely freaking out to straight faced calm - he’s impressed. The guy tucks his hands in the trench pocket and looks to the ground. “Sorry, that was inappropriate.”
Usually Dean would agree, usually he’d say ‘good luck with your issues’ and leave it at that. But this time he doesn’t, he wants to reassure in some way because “Hey no, I get it.” The man looks up at him, something about it causes him to make an impulse decision. “Lemme give you my cell. We could get drinks, maybe ya just need someone to talk to?” He pulls out his wallet and grabs one of the paper cards his dad made to pass out to witnesses with his information on it. “I can’t say I’m the best with this crap but…”
“Thank you–” The guy carefully takes the card wedged between Dean’s index and middle finger, he feels it when the man’s fingers just barely skims his. “– Dean Winchester” the man concludes after squinting at the lettering.
Well shit. That must have been the ones to hand out to other hunters because ‘hunters aren’t so dumb on occuasion’. The best thing to do is go with it and hope for the best - a lot of things are that way in a hunter’s life.
“Don’t mention it, …?”
“Castiel. Castiel Milton.”
“...Cast-eel?”
“No.”
“Huh?”
“It’s Cast- tiel .”
He blinks. “Isn’t that what I just said?”
“No-” the guy huffs, “You can just call me Miltion, everyone else does it.”
“No offense, but I’m not callin’ you that, Cas.”
“And ‘Cas’ is better?”
He puts his free hand on Cas’s shoulder. “It’s a fuck-ton better, trust me.”
Cas rolls his eyes but smiles - probably knows it’s better too. Their eyes meet. They stand there for a long time or maybe just a minute, until Cas finally awkwardly nods, steps back, and hesitates a bit before spinning around and striding towards the station.
As he watches the coat dance around Cas’s legs he feels like the tide is rising, slowly licking up his leg, burying treasures in murky water and sand. And it’s off this feeling of something slipping away he blurts, “You’ll call, right?”
Cas stops and turns back. His head tilts in question, eyes with endless depth scrutinize and Dean’s heart races without reason.
He doesn’t even know why he said that but Cas seems to be searching for an answer he can’t give. Somehow Cas’s eyes widen as his head slowly straightens like he figured something out, he seems to open his mouth to say something but thinks better of it. Cas ducks his head and bites his lip before nailing Dean with a deep look. “I will.” The words seem so inconsequential for the meaningful tone, too simple for the veiled promise, yet Dean feels the waters clear and recede, even if it’s hardly noticeable.
All he can do is nod in a weird state of disorientation, feel a smile on his face, an effect of Cas’s; and watch as the black haired man pushes through the station’s door.
Dean unlocks the Impala, having found the keys by his wallet, and drops in the seat with an unwilling smile on his face. Tossing the files onto the passenger seat, he starts the Impala, his pride and joy. He starts to think he’s got this case handled with some confidence, comforted by the rumble of Baby under his hands.
As Dean backs out he sees Cas through the station’s doors looking like he’s trying to get the cop’s attention, obviously being more polite about it than Dean was. He feels stupid but also stupidly relieved. The knowledge - he’d rather not know - that he hasn’t had a substantial relationship or even conversation with anyone in years, hovers in the forefront of his mind. Now he thinks that might change, even if just for a little bit. He also can’t help but notice a strange pull; he doesn’t get it - he chalks it up to the guy’s breakdown shit.