Chapter Text
The town hall’s main conference area is large, but the room is still crowded, reporters and civilians alike packed into the rows of seats and around the walls.
Castiel isn’t sure why so many people had come — it’s no secret that the purpose of the press conference is so that the deputy District Attorney can announce his bid for election when the current D.A. retires at the end of his term — but it makes things easier for Castiel.
He takes a place just behind a group of journalists. He pulls a small notebook and a pen out of a pocket on the inner lining of his trench coat, and hangs a nondescript press pass (that doesn’t actually have anything by way of credentials, but he knows no one will take a closer look) on a lanyard around his neck. Then he waits, eyes trained on the podium at the center of the stage.
“Hey,” a voice says beside him, and Castiel just barely manages to keep from making a noise of disgust. Friendly people. “I don’t think I’ve seen you here before.”
Castiel turns to look at the speaker. He’s a little younger and a little taller than Castiel himself, with bright green eyes, close cropped hair, and a camera bag slung over his shoulder. Castiel has never met him, or even seen him in person before now, but he recognizes the man from Michael’s files. Dean Winchester. This works out better than Castiel could have planned.
“Hello,” he says, accepting Dean’s hand when the man offers it to shake. “This is my first day on the job,” Castiel explains. It’s not entirely dishonest; his last job had ended just two days before, and this is the start of his next assignment.
“Welcome,” Dean says, letting Castiel’s hand go and grinning at him. “I’m Dean Winchester.”
Castiel feigns innocence. “Winchester? No relation to Sam Winchester, is there?”
“My brother,” Dean says. “I shouldn’t really be covering this, conflict of interest, right? But my boss had to let two of our best guys go last week, so for now I’ve got a new beat.”
“The economy?” Castiel asks, careful to keep his tone neutral. “It’s hit us hard too.” He gestures vaguely at his press pass.
Dean looks suddenly uncomfortable, using the eraser of his pencil to scratch at the back of his neck, an absent motion he probably doesn’t even notice he’s doing, but Castiel picks up on it, adds it to his mental file on Dean Winchester.
“Um, not the economy,” Dean says. “They were —” he replaces the pencil with his fingers, and Castiel watches him rub his hand over his neck, ducking his head. “They, uh, were —“
“Angels,” Castiel finishes for him.
“Angels,” Dean echoes. “Yeah.”
“I see,” Castiel says, turning back to look at the still-empty stage.
“So many people just don’t trust them,” Dean comments from by his side. “Sam — my brother — wants to change that. It should change, don’t get me wrong. But after the arrests the other week, a lot of people are iffy about—“ he shrugs. Castiel sees the movement out of the corner of his eye. “The paper has a reputation to uphold.” Dean finishes, adopting a pompous tone that Castiel assumes is supposed to be an imitation of Dean’s boss. Disrespectful, Castiel thinks, even if the man sounds like he has earned it. He wonders idly what Michael would do if Castiel were ever to do an impression of him, and decides he would not want to find out.
The curtain on the far side of the stage shifts then, and the conversation around the auditorium dies off as the deputy district attorney walks out onto the stage. He’s handsome and boyish, a polar opposite of the current D.A. in both demeanor and appearance. He’s well liked in the community, and even with his controversial opinions on angel rights, Castiel thinks that Sam Winchester’s a lock for the next district attorney position.
Assuming he makes it through Election Day.
Winchester steps up to the podium, adjusts the mic so that it’s high enough for him to speak into, and then taps it a few times. Castiel instinctively puts his hand on the breast of his suit, but the pocket sewn into the inner lining of his jacket is as empty as the spot where his shoulder holster is normally strapped. Winchester clears his throat, the sound echoing in the now silent auditorium, and begins to speak.
“Hi everyone,” Winchester begins. Beside him, Castiel sees Dean scribbling in his notebook with one hand while popping the lens cap off his camera with the other. Castiel opens his own notebook, and jots things down absently. “I’m Sam Winchester,” Winchester says, as if the people crowding the auditorium aren’t aware. “As you probably know, D.A. Paulson won’t be seeking reelection at the end of this term. That means there’s going to be someone new in office come November. I’d like to be that someone new.”
The audience immediately applauds, which doesn’t surprise Castiel. He wonders how many of them will continue to applaud when Winchester begins discussing the issues he’ll support if he gets into office — how many of the soccer moms in the room had told their kids to stay on the south side of the city because the angel neighborhoods were to the north.
Castiel wonders if they’ll applaud Winchester’s announcement when he tells them that he wants to work to ensure that there is no more legal or social discrimination against the angel population, as Castiel knows from Michael’s man in the D.A.’s office that the deputy D.A. will.
“So, you’re probably wondering what my plans are before you decide to vote for me,” Winchester continues. “And I know there are a lot of big issues coming up in this election, so I’m just going to say this right off the bat, and if you want to leave and vote for whoever else it is on the ballot, that’s fine, but hey, I hope you don’t.” There are a few chuckles around the room at this, but the man only cracks a small smile before he keeps talking. “This city needs better education, we need better jobs, and we need to be able to feel safe on the streets and in our homes. Everyone needs to be able to feel safe on the streets and in our homes, no matter who you are. Or what,” he adds, almost as an afterthought.
Winchester’s meaning is not lost on anyone in the room. Castiel looks around, gauges the reaction of the crowd. Some of the audience looks angry, but a surprisingly large number of people are nodding their heads in agreement with Winchester’s words.
“If I am elected,” Winchester says, and Castiel looks back up at the stage, “the District Attorney’s office is going to take steps to prosecute the people who allow for corruption in schools and the workplace, and the people who commit hate crimes against any member of the population. The state will be more diligent in fighting bigotry of all forms.” He continues speaking about his plans for another ten minutes or so, and Castiel is impressed at the man’s eloquence and honesty.
When Winchester finishes his speech, there is another round of applause. There seems to be fewer people applauding than there were at the beginning, Castiel notices, but those who are clapping are more enthusiastic. As Castiel turns to leave, he feels a hand on his arm.
“Wait,” Dean says, “You wanna come meet Sam? You should, if you’re going to be on the political beat for a while.” Castiel allows himself to be led through a side door, Dean’s hand still resting lightly on his shoulder. They walk to an office down the hall, and Dean knocks on the open door before walking in, Castiel following close behind.
Sam Winchester is leaning over a desk, shuffling through a sheaf of papers, and he looks up when Dean and Castiel enter.
“Hey, Sammy,” Dean says. “This is, uh—” he looks at Castiel to provide his name.
“Castiel,” Castiel says. He offers a hand and Winchester shakes it.
“Hi Castiel,” he says, “I’m Sam.” Castiel nods.
“He’s new,” Dean explains to his brother. “I figured he should meet the guy he’s going to be writing about for the next four years or so.”
“Well, it’s good to meet you,” Sam says with a smile.
“And you,” Castiel replies politely. He looks at the documents scattered over Sam’s desk. “I should let you return to work.”
“It’s no problem,” Sam says, “But I’m sure you have stuff to do too. Dean,” he says, turning to his brother, “Jess wants you to come by for dinner sometime this week.” Dean agrees, and then he and Castiel leave Sam’s office.
“Thank you for introducing me to your brother,” Castiel says.
“No problem,” Dean tells him, then asks, “Hey, you wanna grab some lunch? I’m freaking starving, and I could tell you some of the stuff you’ll need to know.”
“I can’t,” Castiel says immediately, thinking of Michael back at the office waiting for his report, but then he thinks about what his boss would say if he doesn’t take advantage of this opportunity to get closer to the Winchesters. “Tight deadline,” he amends. “Maybe another time? Tomorrow?”
“Yeah, sure,” Dean says, “Tomorrow’s good. There’s a diner off of Sixth; meet me there, this time tomorrow?” Castiel nods, then leaves the building without saying goodbye.
The air is cold outside, so close to winter, but Castiel doesn’t bother to pull his trench coat close around him, and the bottom of the coat tangles around his legs and is tossed by the wind as he walks. The streets are nearly empty, with everyone at work or in school, and Castiel travels down side roads and back alleys, where trash litters the pavement and graffiti covers the walls.
He reaches the north side of the city, and approaches a large brick townhouse. Castiel doesn’t bother to ring the doorbell or knock. He simply opens the front door and heads up the front staircase until he reaches a large oak door. Here, he does knock, and he waits until somebody comes to answer before he walks into the room.
“Hey little bro,” Gabriel says, pulling open the door and stepping back so Castiel can enter.
“Hello,” Castiel says stiffly, glancing at Gabriel before he focuses on the man sitting at the large desk on the other side of the office. “Good afternoon, Michael.”
“Hello, Castiel,” Michael says. He gestures to a chair on the opposite side of the desk from where he sits. “Have a seat.” Castiel sits and folds his hands on his lap, fingers twisting the hem of his jacket. “How was your morning?”
“Successful,” Castiel says. “I met Sam Winchester, and his brother. I’ve made plans to get to know Dean Winchester further, which I believe will get me closer to the target himself.”
“Very good,” Michael says. “Keep doing what you’re doing. Thank you, Castiel,” he says dismissively, nodding to Gabriel standing in the corner.
“Come on,” Gabriel says, and Castiel stands to follow him out of the room. When they’re outside, heading back down the stairs away from the office and out of Michael’s hearing range, Gabriel turns to Castiel and says, “You realize what a big deal this is, don’t you?”
“Excuse me?” Castiel asks.
“This is a big deal, Castiel,” Gabriel explains. “People would kill for this assignment.” He chuckles. “Well, you know what I mean.” Then he says seriously, “And they’re trusting you with it.”
“Yes,” Castiel agrees.
“So don’t screw it up.”
“Thank you, Gabriel,” Castiel says dryly. “May I ask you a question?”
“Go for it.”
“Why Sam Winchester? He supports us. I heard him speak today, and he mentioned the anti-discrimination efforts and—”
Gabriel laughs, “Alright bro, I’ll spell it out for you: yes, public opinion is beginning to turn. Anti-angel sentiment, it’s not so cool anymore. But it’s still out there. And Sam Winchester wants to get rid of it for good.”
“So why do we want to—” Castiel begins in protest, but Gabriel interrupts.
“Kill him?” Gabriel says. Castiel’s eyes widen and Gabriel chuckles. “It’s cute how you act so shocked about that, Castiel. How many times have you done it, now?” Castiel doesn’t answer, and after a moment Gabriel continues. “Like I said, things are getting better, but it’s not a majority yet. Even if Sam gets elected, even if a couple legislatures start trying to push through laws that’ll help us, nothing’s going to change. But think about it, the city’s new golden boy gets killed right before he can get elected?”
“But how does that help us, Gabriel?” Castiel asks.
Gabriel chuckles again. “A senseless killing of such a popular figure in politics? Winchester could be mayor one day, or even president! Everyone likes him, and the angel communities all support him completely.” In a voice full of melodrama he says, “Who could commit such a heinous act but someone who wants to stop him from helping us? You’re good enough to make it look that way. At least Michael thinks you are. All of a sudden, everyone is on our side, because good old Sam Winchester, may he rest in peace, was on our side. And things finally get done.”
“I see,” Castiel says.
“What’s wrong?” Gabriel asks. “I thought you got over your big moral dilemmas a while ago. You’ve done this before.”
“They deserved it,” Castiel says. He remembers the first time, his target a man who had assaulted two young angels on their way across town to one of the few schools that would still allow them to study there.
When Castiel pulled the trigger on the old, heavy gun he carried, and watched the blood and brain matter explode out of the other side of the man’s temple, he had felt cold all over. It was like his blood had been replaced with liquid ice. Gabriel had laughed at him later, said liquid ice? That’s water dumbass, and Castiel hadn’t been able to explain how different it was. After a while, it didn’t matter; Castiel had learned to thumb back the hammer and pull the trigger and watch his victim fall, and feel nothing.
“That’s true,” Gabriel admits. “But this is necessary.”
“I suppose,” Castiel says, “But it seems wrong to kill someone innocent.”
“It is wrong to kill an innocent,” Zachariah says, entering the room. “But they didn’t care about that when they Anna died. Or Uriel. Or dozens of our brothers and sisters. Or have you forgotten, Castiel?”
“No,” Castiel says quietly. “I have not forgotten.”
“Every war has its casualties, Castiel,” Zachariah tells him.
“Yes,” Castiel says. “I understand.” He does — what Gabriel and Zachariah say is true, and he resolves to treat this job like the others he has carried out over the past two and a half years. He can’t afford to do otherwise, anyway. There is a reason Castiel had become known to the other angels as the one who could get things done, and it’s because he’s skilled at leaving no trace. The police have dubbed him a sort of modern-day Jack the Ripper, though Castiel had never killed any prostitutes. The newspapers would report ‘Two killed in the city yesterday; police have no evidence.’ The general public would be thrown into a panic, while those in the right circles would recognize it as Castiel’s work.
“Good,” Zachariah says. “Michael wants you to get close to the family. I think you should just do what you do best; get in, get out, but..” he shrugs, “it’s his call.”
“Yes, I know,” Castiel says. “I am meeting the brother for lunch tomorrow.”
“Well done,” Gabriel says, clapping Castiel on the shoulder. Castiel nods, and then excuses himself from the room.
He spends the rest of the day reading and rereading the files of Sam and Dean Winchester and as many of their friends as Michael has identified as possibly important or useful. When he returns to his small apartment a few blocks away that night, he lies in bed and, unable to sleep, runs through everything he knows about the Winchesters. He finally drifts off while trying to remember Sam’s fiancée’s last name.
+
Although he does not fall asleep until late in the night, Castiel wakes before dawn. Today, he does strap on his shoulder holster, tucking his gun into the contraption and covering it with his suit jacket. He also slides a small, sharp knife into a holder strapped to his thigh before putting on his trousers. He considers wearing boots and tucking another knife into them, but decides against it and puts on his usual scuffed black dress shoes instead. Finally, he pulls on his trench coat, and then he’s just another businessman on his way to work and lunch with an acquaintance.
It is still far too early for Castiel to go to the diner where he has made plans to meet Dean Winchester for lunch, so instead he leaves his apartment building and walks south until he reaches an avenue of shops situated in the center of the city. He walks over the cracked pavement — the construction crew hired to repave it left before they had completed their contract, just another example of the corruption in the city, Castiel thinks — past storefront after storefront. Some of them are closed and shuttered, boards nailed haphazard over the windows, marred with neon spray paint. Others are open, some with discreet signs in the door windows informing angels that they are not welcome. Castiel grits his teeth, and his hand fidgets toward his gun. A moment later he regains his self-control and continues on.
Castiel stops when he reaches a small store tucked in between a pharmacy and a head shop. The sign in the window reads ‘closed,’ but Castiel opens the door he knows will be unlocked.
He looks around the dusty room, sees the desk where he used to work back when it was a legitimate operation. Back before the owners had caved to the pressure of the public, who didn’t want to shop in a place that employed angels. Castiel remembers the day he got fired, the owner telling him almost tearfully that he was their best employee and he was sorry to see Castiel go.
He remembers the two months after that, doing odd jobs to try to make ends meet until Gabriel called him and asked if he would be interested in joining the family business. For a long time, Castiel had silently cursed the man who once owned this shop, for giving him no choice but to become a part of the business, to become a killer. Now he doesn’t mind.
Castiel’s family had pushed the owner out of business about a year later, and the shop had become a room to keep their records — files on clients, subjects, everyone they might encounter; bank books and doctored finance accounts; contracts and deeds and all manner of other documents. Castiel goes to a filing cabinet and digs through the manila folders until he finds the one marked Winchester.
The folder contains more than just the basic details, far more than an acquaintance or even a friend would know. By the time his watch informs him that he needs to meet Dean for lunch, Castiel has read Dean and Sam’s tax reports, medical records, everything back to their elementary school report cards. He leaves the shop, not bothering to lock the door. Everyone in the area knows what the building is for and who it belongs to, even if they pretend they don’t, and no one would ever dare enter without permission.
The streets become cleaner and wider as Castiel walks south, out of the area that had become angel territory by default, because none of the humans wanted to live there. He reaches Sixth Street and walks down it until he sees a black car parked outside a small restaurant. He recognizes it from Michael’s files as Dean Winchester’s 1967 Chevy Impala. Though Castiel knows next to nothing about cars, he spends a moment admiring the sleek lines and surface of the vehicle, comparing them to the lines of his favorite pistol. A hand on his shoulder startles him out of his examination of the vehicle, and he has two fingers on said pistol before he realizes that it’s Dean behind him.
“Hey,” Dean says, “Sorry, Cas, didn’t mean to startle you.” He chuckles. Castiel glares, trying to process Dean’s unexpected use of a shortened version of his name. “Come on,” Dean says, turning toward the restaurant, his hand still resting lightly on Castiel’s shoulder. Castiel shakes him away before following.
The inside of the diner is cool and impersonal, all tan walls and metal tables where businessmen eat power lunches of high fiber soup and low cholesterol sandwiches. A waiter directs Dean and Castiel to a table in a corner of the room, and they sit on opposite sides of the table. Dean takes off his suit jacket and slings it over the back of his chair, but Castiel does not even remove his trench coat for fear of exposing his gun.
“They have pretty good burgers here,” Dean said, running his finger over the plastic-laminated menu but not really looking down at it; clearly he is familiar with its contents.
“I don’t eat meat,” Castiel says, because saying he doesn’t eat at all wouldn’t go over well, and Dean glances up from the menu.
“Oh,” he says. “Well... everything else is probably good too.” Castiel chuckles, a small, low huff of a laugh that surprises them both. Dean blinks at him before his face cracks into a grin, but Castiel only stares, suppressing his own smile. A waiter comes a moment later and they order. Dean gets the hamburger, and Castiel asks for a hummus wrap, picking at random from the vegetarian section of the menu.
“So what were you doing before you got put on politics?” Dean asks while they wait for their food.
“Crime,” Castiel says immediately. It’s not technically a lie, but he knows Dean will think he means writing about it.
“How’s that treating you?” Castiel, to avoid answering, picks up a glass of ice water that the waiter had left on the table and takes a gulp, coughing as the cold water spills over the back of his throat. “Woah, dude, easy,” Dean says.
“It suits me well enough,” Castiel says, when he can breathe easily again. He turns to look out the window, watching the people walking on the sidewalk outside. Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Dean shift restlessly in his seat. Finally, the waiter returns with their food. Dean asks Castiel through a mouthful of hamburger if he prefers politics to crime, but Castiel just shakes his head and their conversation pretty much ends after that. When the waiter comes back later to collect their plates and deliver the check, Dean snatches it before Castiel can get a hand on it.
“My boss is a jerk,” Dean says when Castiel protests. “I’ll pass it off as a business lunch.”
“Pass it off?” Castiel asks suspiciously. “This is a business lunch, isn’t it?” He knows he sounds annoyed, doesn’t like being in anyone’s debt even if it’s so they can piss off their boss, and Dean frowns.
“Yeah,” Dean says, “Definitely.” But then he says “We should do this again,” to Castiel, as he hands the waiter his credit card.
“Okay,” Castiel says. He looks toward the door, thinks about the gun in his pocket.
“See you around, Castiel,” Dean says, and Castiel doesn’t respond as Dean leaves the restaurant.
+
Castiel spends the next few days almost entirely in the record room or in Michael’s office building. He reads Michael’s files on the Winchesters and their acquaintances and friends over and over. In particular, he reads Michael’s file on Dean, so many times that he has it nearly memorized. He doesn’t notice how frequently he turns to it at first; he picks up Dean’s folder while he’s eating lunch and leafs through a portfolio of the man’s newspaper work, pulls it out while Zachariah drones endlessly on in an attempt to alleviate the boredom by silently reciting the names of all of Dean’s previous employers.
When he finds himself absently writing a list of Dean’s favorite authors (based on the library records Michael had somehow obtained), Castiel realizes that somewhere along the line, his interest in Dean had turned into something rather less than professional.
Gabriel notices too. “You remember your target is Sam Winchester, don’t you?” he asks when he finds Castiel sitting in the lobby of Michael’s office late at night, Dean’s file open on his lap.
“Of course,” Castiel says irritably. “I’m simply trying to be thorough.”
“Alrighty then,” Gabriel says, grinning, “Just don’t forget. This isn’t friendship hour, bud. Don’t get too close.” Castiel doesn’t respond, glaring at his brother until Gabriel leaves the lobby.
Castiel looks down at the folder. Gabriel’s right, he knows. There’s no reason for him to keep looking at it — he has gathered every bit of necessary information about Sam Winchester’s older brother — but he can’t stop. Something about Dean has caught him off guard.
He looks at Dean’s picture in the file, paper clipped haphazardly to the corner of the folder. It’s a candid photo, shot by some hidden photographer while Dean was leaving some city building — his newspaper office, perhaps. Dean is looking down at his cell phone, a half-smile on his face. Castiel wonders who he was texting, what he was thinking about.
He shuts the folder and shoves it into a desk drawer.
+
The next time Castiel sees Dean is at a debate back at the town hall. Sam’s opponent is a watery-eyed, middle-aged man whose main campaign strategy, Castiel thinks, seems to be wringing his hands nervously. Sam is nervous too, Castiel can tell, but he is hiding it much better than the other man.
A few minutes into the debate, as the moderator is introducing the two candidates, Castiel hears Dean walk up beside him, recognizing the weight of the man’s footsteps.
“Hello, Dean,” Castiel says, not turning.
“Hey, Cas,” Dean says, seemingly determined to call Castiel by this unasked for nickname. They’re mostly quiet, occasionally commenting to each other as Sam and the watery-eyed man speak. Dean takes notes on the debate while Castiel scribbles almost illegibly about Sam’s words, mannerisms, anything that might prove to be a weakness that someone who wants him dead might exploit. He is hyper-focused on the stage, trying to ignore the man standing beside him, but he feels far too aware of the fact that Dean is just inches away.
Afterward, there is a packed group of people on all sides of them — journalists hoping to get a statement from one candidate or another, campaign workers and volunteers, and various spectators blocking the doors.
“Come on,” Dean says. “We’ll be standing here all night if we wait for them all to leave. There’s a back door.” He pushes through the crowd where it’s slightly thinner, and Castiel follows.
They’re barely out of sight of the crowd, but the hallway they enter is dark and empty.
Castiel hears Dean take a deep breath beside him, exhale it out long, and then suddenly Dean grabs him by the arm and pushes him against the wall. Castiel immediately tenses, but then Dean is hooking a hand around the back of Castiel’s neck, Castiel’s tangled hair getting caught between Dean’s fingers, and pulling him into a kiss.
“Dean,” Castiel mumbles into the man’s mouth, but Dean just takes advantage of Castiel’s parted lips to slip his tongue into the angel’s mouth. Castiel relaxes after a moment, his hand finding Dean’s shoulder and gripping it tightly. “Why did you do that?” Castiel asks, when Dean steps back.
Dean’s response is a cocky grin. “I wanted to.”
“Not very professional,” Castiel says, as much to himself as to Dean.
Dean’s cheeks go slightly pink, and he dips his head for a moment, but he must be able to tell that Castiel isn’t about to run. “We have our stories. I saw you taking notes. You’re on your own time now,” he says, leaning in again. And Castiel lets him. He lets Dean press up close against him and cup a hand to the back of Castiel’s neck again. Castiel tilts his head so their lips can slot together more easily as Dean kisses him again. Dean presses the hand that is not in Castiel’s hair to the wall, palm flat against the wood panelling, and steps forward so that his body is flush against Castiel’s. Castiel leans back against the wall so that Dean won’t feel the gun tucked into the lining of his coat.
“I keep thinking about you,” Dean says when they break apart. Then he laughs. “That sounded less romance novel in my head. But I just… there’s something about you. It’s weird, man, I don’t know...”
“I understand,” Castiel interrupts. “I feel the same.” Castiel would have said this regardless of whether it was true, had once before had to start a romantic relationship in order to get closer to a target, pretending his feelings and words were genuine. And that’s all this is, a way of getting closer to Sam, putting the target at ease so he becomes complacent. Except that Castiel didn’t feel at all the same way about the secretary of the businessman he had been assigned to kill as he finds he feels about Dean.
Perhaps it helps that Dean is his type. He had no trouble feigning attraction to the secretary, but feigned attraction was all it was. Dean is, quite clearly, not a woman, and it’s not just his physical qualities that Castiel feels attracted to. Dean is smart, funny, loyal. He reminds Castiel of Gabriel, which Castiel considers might be an odd way to gauge a possible romantic partner, but Gabriel the only brother he still mostly gets along with.
And it doesn’t matter anyway, as there is nothing real about this relationship, on Castiel’s part. At least, that’s what he tries to convince himself, even after his hours of thinking about Dean in the preceding days. He has to push his feelings aside.
“Sam and Jess and I, and I think Sam’s campaign manager, are going out to dinner,” Dean says. “You want to come?”
Castiel nods. It’ll be a good chance to speak to Sam and find out more about him. And it means spending more time with Dean, Castiel thinks before he mentally restrains himself. He needs to stay professional; it’s impossible to carry out a hit when you’re emotionally involved, he knows. That’s what happened to Anna a few years back, he reminds himself.
Dean and Castiel walk the rest of the way to Sam’s office and wait there until Sam comes in a few minutes later. “Hey, it’s Cas, right?” Castiel wonders if Sam also has the habit of giving people nicknames or if — his stomach gives a sudden, pleasant twist — Dean has been talking about him.
“Alright if he comes with us?” Dean asks.
“Okay, well,” Sam replies, “Jess has to work late, so she can’t make it. So it’ll probably just be Ellen and me discussing the campaign. But... ”
“He can keep me company then,” Dean says with a grin. “I don’t need to listen to you two talk shop.” Sam looks at Castiel, who shrugs, allowing himself a small smile. Sam smiles back, offers what seems like an encouraging nod.
“All right, then let’s go,” Sam says. Sam’s campaign manager joins the group as they leave the office and walk across the street to a small restaurant. It’s mostly empty except for a few people who had also walked over after the debate, so the hostess directs Dean, Sam, Castiel, and Ellen to a large table in the back.
Castiel spends the meal trying to pay attention to Sam’s conversation without making it seem as though he’s eavesdropping, and trying to pay attention to Dean without letting himself get distracted. He catches snippets of conversation from Sam and Ellen as Dean chats about work and asks Castiel questions that the angel answers absently.
“Do you think they’ll be able to fit the amendment into some other bill?” Sam asks at one point. “Slip it in with something popular. Like...” he takes a bite of his salad and chews before continuing thoughtfully, “that tax cut they’re talking about. Pass that, and by the way you can’t fire anyone based on gender, race, or, uh, species. Then if a case comes up we’ll have something to point at.”
“Hey,” Dean says, interrupting Castiel’s concentration. He focuses on Dean. “You alright, man?”
“Yes,” Castiel tells him. Dean looks at him a bit strangely, but makes no further comment on Castiel’s distant behavior.
After dinner, Dean offers to drive Castiel home. Castiel refuses at first but Dean insists, and so Castiel finds himself in the passenger’s seat of Dean’s shiny black car.
“Where do you live?” Dean asks.
“North,” Castiel tells him. They travel in silence until they reach the other side of the city and Dean speaks.
“Wow,” he says, looking around at the dirty streets. “I thought only angels lived up here.”
“Mostly,” Castiel says.
“No, I mean—“ Dean shrugs, “It’s fine. They just— I didn’t know any for a long time. Even now... I know it makes me sound like an asshole, but they still make me kinda nervous,” he admits. Castiel nods like he understands, and ignores the sting of hurt he feels at Dean’s words.
Dean stops in front of a building Castiel says is where he lives, three or four blocks from his real apartment. “So I’ll see you around,” Dean says. Without thinking, Castiel leans across the seat and kisses him. The corners of Dean’s eyes crinkle as he smiles.
+
Dean calls Castiel the next day, asks him if he wants to go to a baseball game. Castiel says yes because Sam’s throwing out the first pitch since the mayor was supposed to do it but got sick and passed the job on to the D.A. who passed it on to Sam. It’ll be a good opportunity to observe his target outside of work, Castiel tells himself. He tries to ignore the small voice in his mind that tells him it’ll be a good opportunity to see what Dean looks like in jeans and a t-shirt and outside of his work suit.
During the next few weeks, Castiel sees Dean frequently while he’s pretending to be a journalist, almost as frequently when he’s pretending to be a guy that Dean is dating. They go out to dinner a few times, and once Dean brings Castiel to a black-tie benefit for Sam’s campaign. They leave after fifteen minutes and drive down the highway until they find a dive bar and drink cheap whiskey in their tuxedos. Twice, they go to Dean’s apartment, never to Castiel’s.
It gets increasingly difficult for Castiel to pretend his relationship with Dean is solely for the good of his assignment.
“You okay, kiddo?” Gabriel asks once.
“Yes,” Castiel says.
“Stay focused,” his brother reminds him.
“Thank you, Gabriel,” Castiel replies coldly, but he knows Gabriel is right. He has built his reputation on being unemotional, methodical, and getting attached to his target (or his target’s brother) is enough to make him sloppy. And if he gets sloppy, then everything else will come crashing down around him.
As election night draws close, Castiel knows it is time to act. He chooses the evening before the election, so it’ll make the papers the day of the vote. It doesn’t take him long to find out where Sam is.
+
Castiel hasn’t been in a church for a long time, and never in this one, but it isn’t hard to navigate the foyer to reach the nave and look down along the long aisle at row after row of pews. The room is mostly dark, only a few candles lit, but Castiel’s eyes adjust quickly to the dim light. He sees Sam seated near the front, leaning forward with his hands folded in prayer.
Castiel knows that the Winchesters aren’t very religious, that Dean doesn’t believe at all and Sam only a little, but he isn’t surprised that Sam would want to come here the night before the election. At the very least, it’s a private place to think.
The man doesn’t look up as Castiel approaches; he’s engrossed in his own thoughts and Castiel is quiet, has kicked off his shoes at the front entrance so he can pad noiselessly along the aisle to Sam’s seat. Sam startles as Castiel presses the muzzle of his gun under the man’s jaw.
“What—” Sam begins, and Castiel presses the cool metal of the gun harder against his face.
“I saw your fiancée’s car out front,” he says, voice deep, rasping, “I assume she’s somewhere nearby. You don’t want her to hear us.” It’s not a question.
“Castiel?” Sam breathes, trying to turn to look at his assailant, but Castiel puts a hand on the back of Sam’s neck to keep him from turning around. Sam drops his voice. “Why are you doing this?”
“I’m sorry, Sam,” Castiel says, and his words are sincere. Since meeting Sam, he has found that the man is every bit as kind and honest as he appeared to be. Castiel hadn’t wanted to kill him to begin with, preferring to exact vengeance on people who deserved it rather than those caught in the crossfire. Sam doesn’t deserve it.
And killing Sam means losing Dean. For a moment, Castiel hesitates, but he has a job to do. He thumbs back the hammer and curls his finger around the trigger.
The door to the church, the door that Castiel had so carefully and quietly shut so as not to alert Sam to his presence, bangs open then and Castiel whirls around to look, gun still pressed tight against Sam’s skin.
“Cas?” Dean says, moving closer from the other side of the room. His eyes are wide and his clothes rumpled. His camera strap is looped over one arm, the camera bag bouncing as he stops. “Sam? What the hell is going on?”
“Leave, Dean,” Castiel says, but of course Dean doesn’t listen.
“What are you doing?” he asks. He looks at Sam and sees the gun Castiel is holding to his brother’s jaw. “Hey, what the hell are you doing?”
“Cas.” Sam speaks up. “You don’t have to do this.”
“You have no idea what I have to do,” Castiel says coldly. For a moment, though, he falters, the barrel of the gun slipping down the side of Sam’s neck, and Sam flinches before Castiel raises it again.
“Cas,” Dean says, taking a few steps closer. “What’s going on? Talk to me. Is someone making you — we can help you, we—.”
“You should go, Dean,” Castiel says quietly, but the man makes no move to leave.
“I’m not just going to let you kill my brother,” Dean says. “Come on, Cas, talk to us. Talk to me.”
“I’ve been planning this,” Castiel says. His tone is bitter, but he doesn’t care. He wants to hurt Dean, wants Dean to hate him, fear him, so he’ll get out of the way when it comes time for Castiel to make his escape. “Since before we met. That first time, do you remember? Do you think I didn’t know who you were?”
“What?” Dean says, alarmed. “So all this — this was all to get to Sam?”
“You never suspected,” Castiel replies.
“I thought we—.” he says. He’s talking to Castiel, but he’s staring at Sam, as though he can’t even look at the angel. His jaw clenches.
“No,” Castiel lies.
“Why are you doing this?” Sam asks. “If someone is forcing you — are you being blackmailed? I can help you. We can put you in protective custody, witness protection—”
“I don’t need your help, Sam,” Castiel says.
“I don’t understand,” Sam says, “Why—“
“I don’t have time,” Castiel says. He turns to Sam and puts his finger on the trigger of the gun.
“Wait,” Dean shouts. Castiel looks back and Dean takes another step toward them, hands raised with his palms toward Castiel, as if in surrender. “Please,” Dean says quietly. “He’s my brother.”
“I know,” Castiel says. He tries to keep his mind blank, to show no sign of emotion on his face. He feels hard, cold, tries to feel nothing. It’s easier.
“He’s my brother,” Dean says again, glancing from Castiel to Sam and back.
“At least tell me why,” Sam says suddenly, looking up at Castiel. “You owe me that.”
Castiel is about to retort that he owes Sam nothing but a bullet in the head, but it’s not true. What he’s about to do makes him no better than the people he has killed before, who destroy innocent people for their own personal gain. Yes, this will benefit all of the angels, but it isn’t like Sam deserves it.
He stretches, keeping the gun pressed firmly against the side of Sam’s neck, and allows the dark shadows of his wings to briefly become visible, sweeping wide around his body.
“Holy shit,” he hears Sam say, but Castiel’s eyes are focused on Dean. Dean, who has no faith; Dean, who had quietly admitted to Castiel that angels made him nervous. Dean, who is looking at him with an expression of shock and anger and something that might be fear.
“But I want to help the... you,” Sam says, breaking a long silence.
"You can’t help us as much as your death will,” Castiel says, echoing Gabriel’s words. “No one would ever expect angels to kill someone who supports us so strongly.”
“Everyone will be angry that someone would go so far to stop me, and then they’ll all be on your side,” Sam says, and Castiel nods. “So I just get to die?”
I’m sorry, Castiel thinks, but all he says is, “Yes.” Sam looks at him for a long moment and takes a deep breath before he turns to Dean, who is still staring, wide eyed and mouth open in a wordless plea, at Castiel.
“Go find Jess,” Sam commands. “Take her outside; get her out of here.”
“I’m not going to hurt her,” Castiel says. “I only came here for you.”
“I don’t want her to see,” Sam says. “Now, Dean, go.”
“Cas,” Dean says suddenly, speaking for the first time since Castiel revealed his wings. Castiel opens his mouth, not sure how to respond but feeling the need to say something but Sam beats him.
“Dean,” Sam says firmly, but Dean shakes his head.
“I’m not just going to leave you for him to kill you,” Dean answers, his hands clenching into fists.
“He’s not going to kill me,” Sam says quietly. He’s still talking to Dean, but he turns his head to look at Castiel.
“Sam,” Castiel says, hand still in a tight grip on his gun, “Do not mistake me. Do not act as though I’m a civilian blackmailed into this, or convinced because of my starving family, or any other excuse. This is my job. I have killed men before you, and I will kill men after you.”
“C’mon, man,” Sam says. He smiles weakly, but Castiel can tell that Sam is struggling to remain calm. “Don’t tell me that. I’ll have to arrest you when this is all over.”
“When this is over, you will be dead,” Castiel reminds him.
“We’ll see,” Sam says, then addresses Dean again. “Go get Jess,” he repeats. “Take her back to the office. Or home. Just make sure she gets out of here.”
“I’m not—“ Dean begins again.
“Please,” Sam says. Dean stares at him for a moment, swallows hard. Nods.
“If you kill my brother,” Dean says, turning to look toward Castiel but not making eye contact, “I don’t care what it takes. I’ll hunt you down, and I will kill you.” He leaves the room, and Castiel can hear his footsteps on the stairs.
“Things are changing,” Sam says. “I’m going to help. People will stop killing your friends, and the children will be able to go to better schools and—”
“Don’t kid yourself, Sam,” Castiel says. “We’ll never have that. Angels are an entirely different species. We—“
“If you don’t think people will ever change, why bother killing me?”
“Because I have to,” Castiel says without thinking.
“Aha,” Sam says. “Why do you have to? Who is it? I can send people to find them. I can have the police on the phone in a minute and—“
“It’s my job,” Castiel says.
“Quit,” Sam shoots back.
“I can’t,” Castiel tells him. “And you are remarkably calm for someone who is about to die.”
“If you were going to kill me, you would have done it by now,” Sam says. “Why can’t you quit?”
Castiel shrugs slightly, rustling the fabric of his trench coat. “What else do I have?” he asks before he puts the gun back into firing position. “Goodbye, Sam.”
He’s about to pull the trigger, only ounces of pressure away from sending a bullet through Sam’s head, when Sam says “You have Dean, right?”
Castiel pauses, finger twitching away from the trigger. “Not anymore,” he says.
To his surprise, Sam huffs a small laugh. “He gets mad easily, but he always forgives the people he cares about.”
“He doesn’t like angels,” Castiel says.
“He likes you,” Sam replies softly.
“Not good enough,” Castiel answers.
He puts his finger on the trigger again, but suddenly he knows that he isn’t going to go through with it. Castiel raises the gun over Sam’s head and fires it once, the shot echoing loud in the empty church. As Sam ducks for cover, the bullet ricochets off a rafter and lodges itself in the torso of the large sculpture of a crucified Christ that hangs over the altar.
Castiel looks down at Sam. The man has his arms raised to cover his head, but Castiel sees a bare spot of Sam’s forehead and he brings the butt of the gun down hard against it. Sam crumples in the pew, a thin trickle of blood oozing from his hairline. Castiel kneels to check his pulse, which is slow but steady. He’ll regain consciousness, and Castiel will be gone. Castiel empties his gun of its bullets, letting them fall into his pocket. Then he walks out of the church, tucking his gun back into his jacket as he leaves.
+
Castiel makes it halfway down the street before he runs into Dean. The man steps out of an alleyway to grab the fabric of Castiel’s coat with both hands and slam him up against the side of a building. Castiel’s head hits the brick and he can feel blood ooze down the back of his neck.
“Did you hurt him?” Dean asks, his face inches from Castiel’s. His eyes are wild and angry. If Castiel were the sort to be comforting, Dean looks like he could use it. Instead, Castiel nods slowly, and this time his head smashes against the brick harder, more deliberately on Dean’s part. “You son of a bitch,” Dean shouts into his face. “I told you I would kill you.” He punches Castiel, a strong right hook across the jaw that Castiel barely feels but that sends him reeling back into the wall. Castiel could throw Dean off in a second, knows a thousand ways to put Dean in far more pain than Castiel feels at the moment, but instead he just stands still as Dean rages at him.
“I did not kill Sam,” he says finally. “He is in the church.”
“What?” Dean asks, taking a step back. Castiel raises a hand to the back of his head and touches gingerly at the swelling that is already beginning there. When he pulls his hand away, it is covered in blood, and he wipes it absently on the rumpled tan fabric of his coat.
“You should bring him some ice,” Castiel says, stepping away from the wall. “And some Advil. He will need to look well for the elections tomorrow.”
“Why the hell are you doing this, Cas?” Dean asks. He reaches out a hand as if to grab the angel’s shoulder, and then draws back quickly, looking back in the direction of the church.
“Goodbye, Dean,” Castiel responds.
He spends a moment debating whether or not he should knock Dean out too or if the man will need to get to his brother immediately. He decides that Sam is not in dire need of medical assistance but that there’s no need for Dean to be unconscious as well.
Then, unexpectedly, Dean kisses him. It’s fleeting, nothing like their first kiss a few weeks before, or like any that followed it, except that once again Dean brings a hand up to briefly cradle the back of Castiel’s head, fingers threading in his dark and this time blood-matted hair. And once again, Castiel’s hand finds Dean’s shoulder like it belongs there.
“I have to go,” Castiel says, pulling away. “Go to Sam.”
“Wait,” Dean says, grabbing Castiel by the lapel of his coat. “Wait. You can’t just leave. You’re— why didn’t you tell me?”
“We make you nervous,” Castiel says.
“I don’t care,” Dean says. “I, shit, sorry, Cas. I don’t care if you’re an angel. I still—”
“I have to go,” Castiel says again.
“Why are you leaving?” Dean asks. “Where are you going?”
“Attempted murder,” Castiel says. “Murder. Conspiracy to commit murder. Fraud. Assault. Murder for hire. If I stay, how long do you think it will be before I am behind bars?”
“Oh,” Dean says. He covers his eyes with his hand, then moves it away and looks up at the sky. “Fuck. Right. Maybe Sam could help you—“
“Sam needs to be elected, not to associate with the criminal underground,” Castiel says, an edge of bitterness slipping into his tone. “I need to go,” he says again then, in a softer, fonder voice, “Goodbye, Dean.”
“I won’t see you again, will I,” Dean says. It’s not a question, but Castiel shakes his head anyway. Dean looks away, back, catches Castiel’s eyes, and nods. He steps back toward Castiel, and Castiel parts his lips as Dean kisses him.
A moment later, Castiel breaks the kiss, trailing the tips of his fingers along Dean’s cheek as he pulls away. He turns and begins to walk north, back toward his apartment and Michael’s office, though he has no intention of returning to either of those places. He can’t return to Michael without having finished his job, and they’ll find him at his apartment.
“Cas,” Dean calls after him, and Castiel looks back. “Good luck,” the man says.
Castiel’s lips twitch upward slightly, a small smile to acknowledge Dean’s words. “Tell Sam congratulations when he wins tomorrow,” he responds.
This time when Castiel begins to walk, Dean doesn’t call after him. The sky is overcast, turning the world gray. As Castiel passes the river that runs along the edge of the city, he throws his gun into the water. For a moment when he hears it splash, Castiel wants to go back, to return to the church where Dean has gone to find Sam. Maybe they’re right, maybe Sam can do something to help him, so that he can go home. So that he can stay.
Instead, Castiel watches the ripples spread out where the weapon hits the water, and he walks on.