Chapter Text
Commander Castiel Novak strides towards interrogation room 7a. Captain Zachariah Adler is beside him, head buried in the details on his standard issue pad.
“Why do you need me with you, Sir?”
“Because, as I know you are aware, standard procedure requires an objective observer and a senior officer of the Corps to be present for a confession. Uriel claims the miscreant in 7a is ready to spill his guts.”
A twisting in his belly makes Castiel stare at his superior officer, searching his face for something—a clue maybe as to why a simple confession is causing this much excitement. The observer protocol is in the manual, but it is not always observed if the case is already cut and dried.
“Uriel has some...unusual methods of acquiring what he wants.”
Zachariah shrugs, smirking.
The weird twitch happens again, this time a little stronger. Castiel brushes it aside. He’s had his own suspicions confirmed this is not a simple case, and now he’s said his piece about Uriel, Zachariah will either take it into consideration or not.
Castiel and Uriel have worked a few theft and tariff-dodging cases together. While, on the surface, Uriel is a talented officer of the Coalition Police Corps, Castiel has noticed injuries on suspects after leaving them alone with his fellow officer which hadn’t been there when he and Uriel had arrested them.
“If you don’t mind me asking, Captain, what is so special about this man?”
The Captain finally lifts his head from his pad. His face a blank, expressionless canvas he says, “Wayward Son is linked to the Japh Ibrok Thefts and to the possible war going on between the Yellow-Eyed Knights and the King, aka Crowley.”
Castiel nods with understanding, the sensation in his gut receding to a barely perceptible throb, but not completely vanishing. Uriel’s methods might not always be appropriate on some of the minor crimes they’ve attended but this? Well, for three years the CPC has been tracking Azazel Duche and his Knights with little success. If Wayward Son is involved with Duche or Crowley then, yes this might indeed be the break the CPC needs.
Inside the room a dirty blond-haired young man with broad shoulders sits with his hands cuffed and chained to the table. Uriel and Rachel, the station’s technical lead, are setting up the equipment necessary to record Wayward Son’s words. His posture doesn’t match that of a man about to turn informant and give up information on one of the most notorious criminal factions in the quadrant. In fact, he looks more like he is about to gossip with his friends over a few beers in one of the space station’s many bars.
“Thank you, Rachel. Please be on alert in case we have any technical difficulties,” Zachariah says as he places his pad on the furthest corner of the table from the door.
Rachel leaves the room but not before giving oddly long glances between Wayward Son and Uriel, barely even acknowledging Castiel and Zachariah.
Castiel positions himself between Uriel and Zachariah. Now he has a better view of this Wayward Son and can check for noticeable cuts or bruises. He clasps his hands behind his back. His fingers itch to grab Zachariah’s discarded pad and read the details of the case: Wayward Son’s real name; what the CPC know of him; any prior arrests; why Uriel and Zachariah suspect he is involved in the King’s feud with the Knights; how and where Uriel had arrested him.
None of that is permitted just yet. He has to remain an impartial observer until after the confession has been recorded. Even then, he might not be assigned to anything further to do with it. After all, Castiel has his own caseload.
“Okay. You’ve said you’re ready to tell all, Mr. Winchester. Here’s your chance.” Uriel holds the remote start for the camera, nodding towards the suspect. “Commander Uriel Wisdan of the Coalition Police Corps, Space Station Omicron Delta. Time is 8.40 in fourth watch on date 25600. Suspect is Dean Winchester, alias Wayward Son. Already has two minor convictions for theft and one for fraud involving intergalactic coalition credit transfers. All time served under the Coalition Juvenile Offenders Provisions. Arrested by Commander Wisdan on suspicion of the theft of disused spacecraft parts from Space Station Omicron Delta.”
Nothing about Dean’s body language changes. He remains calm, waiting for his turn to speak. In any other circumstance the one aborted snort Castiel noticed might have indicated Dean was about to say something inappropriate but had thought better of it.
Castiel tightens the grip on his wrists behind his back. He allows himself the luxury of tilting his head to the side and a slight furrowing of his brow. Curiosity is a natural response for an officer awaiting the suspect’s version of events.
“For the record, also present are Captain Zachariah Adler, Officer in Charge of CPC operations on Station Omicron Delta, and in the regulation observer role, Commander Castiel Novak.” Uriel pauses, looking at each man in turn.
Zachariah and Castiel both give curt nods.
“The floor is yours, Mr. Winchester. Tell us everything in your own words and at your pace. No-one will question you until you’ve finished.”
Dean shrugs, holding up his cuffed hands, a cocky grin on his face.
“My name is Dean Winchester. I’m an Aquarius. I enjoy sunsets, long walks on the holodeck, and frisky people of all genders.” Dean’s expression changes. A serious, yet definitely not regretful expression replaces the brash attitude. Dean holds Uriel’s gaze, staring straight at him and not the camera.
The twisting in Castiel’s gut returns full force. Something is off here. He can see no evidence Uriel has forced Dean into this confession. So what is wrong with the picture. He needs to get his hands on all the relevant files. Or maybe he ought to hear Dean out, in case Castiel’s suspicion of Uriel is clouding his judgement.
“I’m a salvage specialist. Looking for parts I can legally retrieve for my Uncle’s business. You tell me those vintage parts were someone else’s property, I’ll give ‘em back. Scout’s honour. No harm no foul, right. I bet Bobby would even spring a few credits for restitution. But I don’t know nothing about no Knights. Never heard the name Azazel Douchebag or whatever it was you...” Dean jerks his head towards Uriel with a scowl. “...said he was called.”
With that Dean sits as far back as the chair will allow, folding his hands together on the table. The little tug at the corner of his mouth suggesting a challenge to the CPC to prove otherwise.
It’s all a performance. Bluster designed to make people think he’s a carefree, space cowboy when Castiel saw the momentary softening in his expression when he mentioned Bobby. The man means something to Dean—more than the mere title uncle would suggest; Castiel would bet on it, if he ever indulged in such a thing.
Nobody says anything for a full minute. The hum of the electricity in the room, the soft clink of the chains holding Dean as he shifts in his seat, and Zachariah’s laboured breathing are the only sounds.
It is Castiel who finally breaks the tension. “Do we know who the parts belonged to? Where were they?”
“But he’s known to be an associate of Ruby Corese.”
Castiel’s brain puts up a flag. He knows that name, but he can’t think from where.
“Assassin, hired muscle for Duche. Somehow, always seems to either evade the Tsk Force’s capture or her lawyer finds a way to spring her free before trial.”
Dean snorts. “Associate? Cross paths with that skank once and suddenly I’m caught up in some major whatever the fuck you’re referring to that needs a Task Force? Oh, buddy you are so cold you might as well be on the second moon of Haim.”
Now Castiel remembers. Yes, he once arrested Ruby when he worked vice for offering her services outside of the designated zone on Xenim. If he remembers rightly, someone paid her fines and she walked the next day.
“Oh, and young guy with the dark hair and stick way up his ass: I found the parts in the dumpsters awaiting the trash compactor on Level G.”
Now there’s a chill running through Castiel’s body to add to the unease in his belly. “Captain, correct me if I’m wrong here, but once something ends up on Level G hasn’t prior ownership ceased to exist? And isn’t trash considered public property, if you accept that the idea of ownership can be given to things people have thrown away?”
Dean’s face lights up. He’s vigorously mouthing his agreement with Castiel, almost bopping around in his seat to a tune nobody else can hear.
Zachariah draws in an audible breath.
A glance sideways shows a vein throbbing in Uriel’s temple and his lips drawn tight together, shoulders up around his ears.
“You are correct, Novak. Wisdan, what reason or reasons do you have for detaining Mr. Winchester other than possession of discarded scraps of metal and one, at this time questionable, known associate?”
Uriel deflates for a second before seemingly catching himself and regaining his composure. “Those parts are on a list of components considered capable of rebuilding banned weapons.”
“Could they be used for anything else?”
Dean jumps in before Uriel, saying, “Look when something gets old, like not a few years but decades old, you got to be creative. Strip elements from two or three different things to form a new but compatible part. I take what I can find and leave the magic of making ‘em useable and saleable again for genuine vintage spacecraft repairs up to my uncle. Didn’t think that was a crime.”
“It isn’t.” Castiel finally relaxes his grip. His body is still churning and on high alert, but for now he can do the right thing by Dean. “How long have you been holding him?”
“Ten hours.”
“Are these parts prohibited from being in civilian hands?”
Uriel’s body goes rigid and he says from between gritted teeth, “No.”
“Do you have any other evidence to present?”
Castiel’s question is met with stony silence.
“Out loud please, Commander Wisdan.” Zachariah’s tone is flat.
“No.”
Zachariah turns towards Castiel, hands palm up indicating for him to continue with his role in this charade.
“Then, as the Official Observer in this matter, I state for the record: based on the physical evidence presented by Commander Wisdan there is no case to proceed against Mr. Winchester and he should be released without further questioning.”
Zachariah pats Castiel on the shoulder as he passes on his way to the door, but he doesn’t say a word, doesn’t look at Dean or at Uriel, who almost growls at Castiel as he begins the work of dismantling the recording equipment.
~~*~~*~~*~~
A day later dean is hanging out in orbit around Rilvore 7. A few hours ago he delivered the Ring of the Sanguine Seal he had recovered from Omicron Delta (and that hadn’t been in the shipment of spares the tight-assed CPC dude arrested him for) to Crowley’s designated location on the planet. Now, Dean Winchester sits in the co-pilot seat of his Impala Class lightweight spaceship, affectionately known as Baby.
“I’m telling you, Charles. This is getting seriously unfunny—if I was an upstanding citizen of the Coalition, I’d call it harassment. Swear I’m being followed.”
The AI gives him a sardonic shrug as she hovers above the centre of the navigation console. “I’m good, Dean. Best Dr. Mills has ever created; but even I have my limits. There are places I can slip into the systems and help you—heck, would have done it with Omicron Delta CPC records if I’d needed to—”
“You do,” Dean says as he jabs a finger at Charlie. “Gotta make it clear I ain’t got no ties to that Ruby bitch...oh, and while you’re in there make sure Sammy’s name ain’t nowhere near hers either.”
Charlie bobbles her head from side to side. “I can do, but won’t that, you know, seem a tad strange. You said they were trying to make something out of it.”
Dean clenches his fists and bites down on his bottom lip as he counts to ten. “Weren’t you the one saying you could hack the system not even five minutes ago?”
“I can and would if I thought it would help. But Dean, if they’re tying you to the Knights through Ruby then perhaps, maybe that shit is on wider CPC records than just one space station outpost?”
As he huffs a drawn out sigh, Dean pushes his hands slowly up his face and through his hair. A lead weight settles in his stomach. “Just see if you can find the trail. See where it goes and do whatever it is you can—especially for Sam. Got it?”
Charlie grins as her form begins to dematerialize. The last thing Dean sees is her lifting two fingers to her temples in salute as she says, “Aye, aye Captain. Mission received and understood.”
“Beer before Crowley.” Dean hauls himself to his feet, holding his communicator between the forefinger and thumb of his left hand, swing it back and forward. The thought crosses his mind of how well the device would fare if it just happened to collide with Baby’s hull at speed. Then again, Crowley would just go through Charlie at every opportunity and Bobby would tear him several new ones when he couldn’t get hold of Dean.
“Red. Find the nearest holosuite a guy with no credits can use, would ya? Combat not sex. Going to need to burn off some energy after dealing with the Fifth Terran Moon sleazeball.”
“While I’m on that mission you gave me, do you also want me to see if you’re paranoid or someone apart from Crowley is tracking us.”
Instead of answering, Dean sighs with a half-hearted shake of his head. If anyone is following him, it is probably Crowley; dude’s got spies everywhere and fingers in more pies than Dean’s eaten in his life.
Two synthetic beers later, Dean sits with his feet up on what passes for his mess table, one hand drumming a familiar rhythm on the arm of his chair, the other holds the communicator, thumb poised over the button to listen to his messages.
“Squirrel! Tsk.Tsk. Heard you had a bit of bother getting those special order items off Omicron Delta. Next time, do try and use what passes for a brain and not get caught lugging a crate full of parts back to the loading bay without documents. I would have thought even a numbskull with your lack of brain cells would have known to get Ash’s creation to knock you up some fake cargo manifests.”
Dean pinches the bridge of his nose and swings his legs off the table, sitting upright, because, yes, that would have been a smart idea. One Sam would probably have come up with if he’d been here—but then again, Dean wouldn’t be here if Sam hadn’t been using the damned Demon Blood to get through his first year of the academy.
Dean immediately stops that train of thought with a swift punch to the armrest.
Besides, Bobby needs someone to do the legal scavenging for his salvage business and who else was that going to be? Rufus? Unlikely. Dean snorts and shakes his head before turning his attention back to Crowley’s ranting.
“...at the old 6th Psion Temple on Rilvore 7, I need you to find the Cube of Souls from the museum attached to Laffitte’s Floating End of the Galaxy. Usual terms apply of course. Toodles, Squirrel. And don’t forget, one word of who you’re working for and the universe will know about Uncle Bobby’s sideline in ancient religious artifacts and maybe Ms. Masters might start supplying little Sammy with some Demon Blood again? Who knows? But, consider this—have you ever known me to bluff?”
“Sonofafuckingbitch!”
The beer threatens to make a reappearance at the thought of what could have happened if Crowley hadn’t stopped Sam’s supply and supplied the funds for rehab. He has no choice but to go through with this. The proverbial noose around Dean’s neck squeezes another inch tighter.
~~*~~*~~*~~
Twenty-four hours after the release of Dean Winchester, Castiel sits in his quarters a half full bottle of Rilvorean whiskey on the table, an empty tumbler beside it and an array of different pads, both official and personal, scattered across any available surface within arm’s reach.
His skin prickles as he reads. He’d known he was playing things by the CPC regulations with Winchester. Technically, Castiel was correct to push for the man’s release—Dean didn’t steal anything and yes from what Castiel has gleaned so far, there is a legitimate business in the quadrant for vintage replacement parts to keep older spacecraft flying. Yet, he can’t ignore the sensation of creatures crawling over his arms and down his back.
“Set room temperature to sixty-eight, and play something to help me focus, volume low,” he says, grabbing the bottle and pouring another slug into the glass. Then he settles back, resting his right ankle on his left knee and cradling the back of his head with his left hand.
“What were you really doing on Omicron Delta, Dean Winchester, or should I say Wayward Son?”
Castiel snatches up the nearest pad, tapping into the station’s visiting vessel registry. He saves the signature of Winchester’s ship, then sets the pad down again. He takes a sip of whiskey, as his thoughts drift to his fellow officer.
For all Uriel’s methods are questionable when he’s not getting the answer he wants out of a suspect, he does have enviable instincts.
The thought triggers another thread, do those instincts pan out into solid convictions? He’ll check another time; but for now if Uriel believes Winchester could be associated with the Knights, to the point Zachariah has bought into the theory, then it is a fair assumption.
“Or...” The rest of the question hangs unspoken in the air.
With a decisive snap of his fingers, Castiel sits up, placing the tumbler back on the table and scanning the mess of electronics for his personal communicator.
“Hey, Balt.”
“Cassie, darling! To what do I owe the dubious honour of an unsolicited call?”
“Can’t a guy call his oldest friend for a chat without needing a reason?”
Balthazar chuckles. “Yes. Totally possible...if that person was anyone other than you—the cop who makes even the Chief of the CPC look like she’s crooked. Married to the job, doesn’t even begin to describe you. So, I’ll ask again, what is it you want this fine afternoon?”
“I, well, I guess, we haven’t seen each other in a while and I wanted—”
“By the Twelve Psions, Cassie! You really are an awful liar aren’t you?”
Castiel hears a thump from the other end of the line.
“I mean, what you said is true. We do need to catch up and I have just the perfect place to find someone to let off a little steam with who isn’t a hologram or a droid. But, that’s still not why you called me, is it?”
Castiel pinches the bridge of his nose, a wry smile forming on his face as he laughs at himself. There is a reason Balthazar is one of the best lawyers in the quadrant.
The viewscreen on the wall opposite Castiel lights up with an incoming call. When he accepts it, Balthazar’s face fills the screen.
“Well? What am I delaying the absolutely delightful company of...one stunning Xenite and one handsome Terran for?”
Castiel tries to clear his throat, it doesn’t help. He still sounds hoarse when he says, “I can’t explain why I need this information, and I’m not asking you to break any client-attorney confidences but what do you know about Ruby Corese and her connection to both Azazel Duche and Fergus MacLeod aka—”
“Ooh! We are so meeting up in person to discuss this! Crowley and the Knights? You finally got assigned to the big boy case, huh?”
“Well, only in a manner of speaking. But Ruby’s name came up in an interview and.... Look, Balt, something didn’t sit right. I did the right thing by the book at the time, but it’s like I’ve got a sliver of something stuck in my skin and every time I try and forget about it, the damn thing itches and hurts. For the sake of my sanity I need to know if I was part of something huge or someone clutching at straws to make a name for themselves.”
Balthazar chuckles and claps his hands, a gleeful smile lighting up his face. “You are in a pickle aren’t you, Cassie. Never known you be this obtuse or wound up at the same time. Where’s all that usual Novak stoic bollocks?”
A pair of relieved green eyes flashes into his memory. Castiel squirms a little. This thread he’s pulling is professional curiosity, it is not about a handsome face and roguish attitude.
“Please, Balt. There’s something that...isn’t sitting right with me and I won’t be able to put it aside until I know I did the right thing, not just what the book says.”
Balthazar’s expression becomes more serious, less teasing. He nods.
“I need you to tell me what you can about Ruby’s place in all this, okay. If there’s more you can know —I’ll tell you when we have that drink, okay? Satisfied?”
“Possibly. Tell me we’ll be drinking top shelf, real liquor and eating real not replicated food when we do and I won’t push anymore tonight.”
Castiel smiles. He’s not certain it reaches his eyes, though. “It’s a deal, Balt. Now go enjoy your menage à whatever and send me the details.” He catches the smirk on Balthazar’s face. “On the case, Balt, not your hook-ups.”
~~*~~*~~*~~