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Witness protection is not all it’s cracked up to be. Really, most witnesses in cases involving organized crime would be better off moving countries, not states. And even then, nothing is guaranteed.
Well, maybe some things are guaranteed.
Castiel’s BMW is parked in the lot of a dilapidated building in the roughest part of town. It’s tasteless, classless and so like the FBI’s usual fare, that Castiel almost cracks a smile.
Almost.
Usually, this is the fun part. The part that Castiel not only enjoys, but basks in like a reptile laying in the sun, absorbing the warmth of the moment. The part of the entire experience that is secondary only to getting to drain the life out of the witness, so that they never see anything again.
But there’s something different about this time.
Dean Winchester is what’s different.
Dean Winchester is what’s always been fucking different.
Corn-fed, green-eyed, freckled, bow-legged Dean Winchester.
It isn’t until he makes it up three flights of grafittied stairs – because of course the elevator is broken – and is standing outside door 23 with the second number missing and the first hanging crooked, that Castiel wonders if he’s made a mistake in coming here.
As the son of a wealthy west-coast mob boss, Castiel doesn’t make mistakes – at least none that can’t be cleaned up by one his father’s goons and a bit of elbow grease – and so for him to be even questioning his judgment here suggests just how pathetically gone he is on Dean Winchester.
Because it is pathetic, really.
Castiel had met him at school in the second grade back when they were still using “My dad could beat up your dad,” as an arguing tactic. Turns out Castiel’s dad really could beat up Dean’s dad. Though it wasn’t what could be considered a fair fight. A level playing field wouldn’t have been much of a promotion for future business though and so John Winchester was made an example of. An example that involved orphaning two young boys; one who was scarcely sixteen and another four years his junior.
The elder Winchester proved to be as resourceful as he was attractive though, and he made sure that his younger sibling never went hungry no matter the circumstances. Castiel only wishes he could say that he wasn’t naïve enough back then to believe that Dean was spending time with him for any less-than-pure purposes, but time and the impending court case against his father apparently proves that all those balmy summer evenings spent catching fireflies and lazily fucking against the backdrop of the sunset were all just fact-finding missions for Dean.
Then one day three years ago, he just wasn’t there. No note, no warning, nothing. Just a vague sense of wrong that hasn’t left Castiel since.
A nasty wave of irritation surges through Castiel at the memory, and he rolls his shoulders, draws himself up to his full height, bracing for what is going to hurt him almost as much as it’s going to hurt Dean.
Almost.
Castiel taps lightly on the door and waits. It feels like an eternity passes before the door is pulled open on the chain by Dean, who – rather than the tentative but wicked smile he used to afford Castiel – is scowling the second he sees who’s on the other side.
“Cas.” It’s not a question.
Dean looks good. Resigned and tired, with the weight of the world on his shoulders, but still good.
Castiel jams his foot in the slice of space between the door and frame, and pushes, just to assess the strength of the chain. It’s one of those shitty ones sold at Home Depot, one that serves very little purpose other than a cursory comfort. He plasters on his least sincere smile, “Who else would you be expecting? Can’t see anyone of any importance wanting to drop by this shithole. Especially not now that the agents ‘protecting’ you are dead.”
If Dean’s surprised by the news, then he doesn’t show it.
“And yet here you are, gracing me and this shithole with your presence. Your majesty.” Dean says with false reverence and Castiel likes to imagine that if Dean wasn’t pressing his weight against the door to keep Castiel out, he’d be curtseying.
Castiel mimics the pain of a stab to the heart with a pointed and dangerous smirk. “Ouch. Tongue still as sharp as ever I see. Why don’t you let me in so that we can find something more useful for you to be doing with it rather than insulting someone you once professed to love?”
Dean’s eyes go flat and his tone is derisive when he scoffs and tightly says, “Fuck off, Cas,” before attempting to slam the door shut. He doesn’t look entirely surprised when it rebounds off Castiel’s boot; more like he’s going through the motions than a genuine attempt to save his own skin.
Castiel cocks his head, considering. His patience is wearing thin, but his interest is piqued. It’s quite the conundrum. First thing’s first, though.
“Open the door, Dean.” It’s not a request and judging by the bob of Dean’s Adam’s apple as he swallows hard, he’s more than aware of this, but yet he still makes no move to do as he’s told.
Defiant until the very end.
Whilst usually, he likes Dean for his sarcasm and unapologetic insolence, at the moment he’s had enough of this game of chicken that they seem to be playing. “Fine,” he steps away, finally allowing Dean to slam the door closed in his face. “Have it your way.”
Of course, Dean’s way is just Castiel’s way but with a lot more carnage and reluctance, so with that in mind, Castiel shoulders his entire weight hard against the door. With the first shove, the flimsy wood is already splintering, and with the second, it gives, sending Castiel ungraciously staggering into the apartment. While Dean watches on, green eyes wide, clearly astounded and horrified in equal measure, Castiel casually dusts himself off – though no amount of dusting down or even disinfectant could ever rid him of the sheer amount of ick that this apartment block has bestowed upon him, which is a shame because he liked this suit – before turning to smile serenely at the object of his affection for the last fourteen years.
“Hello, Dean.”