Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Dean had fucked up.

He had his head cradled in his hands, doubled over on the cot. He wanted nothing more than to curl up into a ball of self-loathing and wish for his dad to rescue him, but he knew that was impossible. Especially since it had been Dean to get them all into this mess in the first place. He was woozy, and he brought his left hand away from his head just to see a trail of sticky blood, slightly off-colour from age. His cell was small, and the sink water had been so rusted and brown he figured it was safer just to leave the wound as it was and hope for the best. 

They should have never taken a case in Gotham. 

He just wanted his Dad and Sammy. 

 ~ Two Days Prior ~

The door closed behind their dad as he left, car keys and journal in hand. “Take care of Sam, Dean.” he had warned as he always did, but this seemed a little more pressing than his usual reminders were. “Gotham is different to, well, anywhere we’ve hunted before. It has a mind of its own. Most hunters wouldn’t be caught dead here. Don’t open the door to anyone, keep the salt lines up.” He looked straight into his son's eyes, intense and focused, “I’m trusting you, Dean.” before slamming the door behind him.

The “yes, Sir,” had died on his lips. He turned away, irritated. He had thought, now that he was sixteen, that he’d be trusted to be told where his dad was going and what he was doing, if not help him with the hunt itself. He’d been shooting guns for a decade now, goddammit. Sammy didn’t need looking after; at his age, Dean had been the one responsible for both of them. He could look after himself for a few days, surely. 

Sam was sat on the bed, rereading an already tattered book. Dean had suggested, once, that he could just take one of the books he had checked out in the libraries they were occasionally able to go to when dad had a long hunt. Sam had looked so affronted and offended at the very suggestion that Dean had dropped it. Meant that he was stuck reading over stories he had long since memorised. 

With Sam busy, and dad gone, these would be a very boring few days for Dean. 

The only benefit to Gotham were the dirt-cheap prices for everything. The motel room, shitty as it was, was far cheaper than any of the other places they had stayed, which meant one less thing to worry about. If their dad was gone for longer than planned, it meant they wouldn’t be thrown out on their asses. The only downside was that their dad knew it was cheaper as well, and had left them less money than he usually would have. Dean did some mental calculations. It was always good to have money set aside, in case they needed to buy more nights than the two already purchased, but even then, that wasn’t enough to cover food for the both of them. Dean quietly sighed, looking away from his brother. He had gone hungry before, and he was mentally preparing to do it again. Hopefully their dad wouldn’t take too long, but considering they were Gotham, the City of Crime, John would be distracted or start tracking another case without informing Dean.

Sam was roused from his book. He looked up at Dean through narrowed, concerned eyes. “Everything alright, De?” 

Dean pushed the thoughts of food and money and hunting out of his mind, and grinned at his little brother. “Yeah, just imagining how awful it’s gonna be staying here with you for who knows how many days.” 

Sam rolled his eyes and stretched his legs, and suddenly everything was okay again. “Yeah, yeah, of course. Not like you're going to be blaring Dr. Sexy at all hours of the night.” Dean spluttered, but Sam carried on, his eyes lighting up and his tone excited. “Do you reckon we’re going to get a glimpse of Batman?”

Dean snorted, “Why, you looking for another broken arm?” remembering the trip to the ER after he and Sam had taken turns jumping off of roofs. 

Sam sent him a signature, unimpressed, bitchy look. “Shut up. Wouldn’t it be cool to see them, though? Batman and Robin?”

“Maybe. We probably won't, not if we're staying in this shoebox.”

“How long do you think dad’ll be, anyway?”

Dean signed and sat on the couch, with its loose springs and spilling stuffing, fiddling with the new remote. “No clue. Gotham’s weird. Could be a while.”

Sam hummed noncommittally, settling next to Dean with his book on his lap, watching absently as Dean messed around with the dirty control buttons. “Guess it’s just this for the next few days then, huh?”

“Yup.”

They spent the next two days the same way they usually did when left by themselves. When Dean wasn’t obsessively cleaning his guns, he was watching telenovelas or Dr. Sexy, and when he wasn’t doing that, he was sleeping. Sam stayed hunched over his books, either research or reading whatever he could get his hands on. After a certain point over the years, they had morphed into communicating through grunts and gesticulation. Spending their entire lives a meter away from each other meant that although they could practically communicate telepathically, they never had anything new to discuss. 

During meals, Dean tried to subtly make sure that Sam had the larger portion. Sam pursed his lips, but accepted it quietly. They seemed to go through this spiel every time; Dean would claim the inactivity from being stuck in a motel meant he wasn’t hungry, and Sam would be forced to accept it, albeit reluctantly. Dean could tell that Sam was a growing boy; sure, he was as short and irritating as a teenager could be, but soon enough his lankiness might make him the same height as Dean, or even taller. He needed the food more than Dean, anyway.

Not that this lasted. By the end of the second day, Dean was growing nervous. The only food they’d had was canned and jarred food from their last hunt, brought with them in the car. Dad hadn’t stopped off to buy food, even somewhere cheap like a corner store. Sam hadn’t mentioned anything, but he could see it in Dean’s eyes and the empty motel fridge and cupboard. He looked at the money on the table, evaluating. He’d have to call his dad.

As the phone rang, Dean’s stomach dropped. No answer meant one of two things; either, their dad was dead, which he doubted (he had stopped being scared of that years ago), or he was still midway through the hunt. If he answered, it would only be to bark orders to get everything packed up ready for him to take them to their next hunting grounds. Dean waited, and out of the corner of his eye he could see Sam, tense on the bed. 

It went to voicemail.

“This is John. If you want to call, ring Dean.” His father’s brusque voice rang out, and Dean sighed. 

“I’m going out,” he informed Sam, shouldering his jacket. “Wait here for me, yeah? Be careful.”

By ‘careful’, he meant; “keep the gun close, keep the door locked and bolted and don’t open it for anyone but me.”

He reached for the money, enough to buy another night at the motel, before walking out of the door. He couldn’t stand to look at Sammy’s worried face, still so young and innocent. He felt his face harden as he walked out onto the muggy walkway, clattering down the stairs to the front room. He noticed a young man working there, probably only a few years older than himself, with his feet up reading the Gotham Gazette. Dean slapped on his charm and sauntered up, leaning over with an elbow on the counter. “Hi, sir. I was wondering if me and my little brother could purchase another night in room 104?” He grinned boyishly, biting the inside of his lip coquettishly. The man – not bad looking, but not exactly his type -- turned around in his chair slowly, looking at Dean, unimpressed. 

“Oh yeah?” He questioned dryly. 

“Yeah,” Dean said, turning up the charm, glancing briefly at his nametag, “Benjamin.” The man clicked a ballpoint pen, turning to a new page in a well-worn notebook, and ignored Dean’s flirting, which was seeming more and more desperate. 

“Name and room?” he asked, eyes scanning the page.

“Cotton, and 104.” Dean said, recalling the fake name John had given them. The man wrote it down, then typed something up on his box of a computer. He looked up at Dean knowingly, and Dean was sure he must have seen the desperation on his face, paired with the fact that their room was in the cheapest section of an already dirt-cheap motel. 

“Sorry, kid. I’m not about that sorta thing.” He tapped on the paper, which had the original room price written on it. “No discounts.”

Dean signed internally, but only let his smile dim slightly. “Not what I was after, bud.” he said clearly as he fished out the money buried in his pocket, mentally counting it out. The man only hummed, blessing Dean with an easy out as the man quickly calculated the change on the desk before sending Dean on his way. 

The rest of the money in his pockets wasn’t reassuring. There wasn’t any way he'd be able to stretch it over more motel nights and food, nothing substantial, anyway. Dean pursed his lips, thrusting his hands deeper into his pockets despite the heat. The clouds of Gotham never seemed to let up, but the heat they trapped was stifling. Dean had a knack for locating around anywhere they seemed to go, and remembered a small grocery store a few minutes away from when they were driving in. He picked up the pace and put on a confident yet unassuming walk that meant he’d hopefully blend in with the Gotham residents. The people themselves seemed to be as grey as the city itself. They passed him by, heads ducked and quickening slightly when passing anybody on the street. In a place so suspicious and paranoid as this, Dean's knack for charm wouldn’t do much. 

The store was small, more of a corner shop than anything, with a few dingy rows that didn’t provide much in the way of choice in its products. Everything, however, was cheap; not cheap enough.

His heart sank when he saw the prices, and after balancing on his toes to look over the isles, noticing the empty store, his resolve strengthened. He ducked down to the canned goods, the pasta and soups that he knew would, at the least, last a while in their cupboards. One hand still in his pocket, he grabbed a few with the other and stuffed them into his jacket, balancing them with the pocketed hand. He was glad his dads jacket was so large on him as he fit a small carton of milk on top of the cans, and a box of cereal under his other arm. He glanced down, content with how he’d concealed them, and picked up a loaf of bread before walking to the singular counter. 

As he made his way over, a group of three men walked in and began prowling the isles, spreading out through the shop. Dean hurried over, trying to appear relaxed. There was a young girl working there, probably her first job. She was looking blankly at the wall, clearly bored out of her mind. Dean put the bread on the counter, louder than necessary. She glanced up, then took a second look as a blush spread across her face. Dean grinned.

“Hi, gorgeous. Just this, if that’ll be no bother.” He winked, turning up the Winchester charm as far as he could. She stuttered, turning to the register, fumbling slightly as she put in the price. 

“That’ll be a dollar twenty, sir.” She squeaked. “Is that all, or will there be… something else?”

Dean couldn’t help but be slightly impressed at her forwardness, but he had things to be doing. She stared up at him, eyes hopeful. He almost felt bad lying to her. Almost.

“Sure, sugar. When do you get off work?” He said, whilst putting change much smaller than $1.20 on the counter with all the confidence of someone who had pre-counted it. 

“4:45,” she said dreamily. There was a creaking as someone came down the narrow set of stairs behind her counter. Dean tensed when he saw a pair of large, leather boots, followed by a brute of a man. He smiled tersely at the girl, knowing he had to make his exit, and fast.

“I’ll be back then.” 

The man took one look between the scarce change on the table and Deans’ retreating form, taking a second to notice the unnatural bulging under the fabric. His face coloured red in an instant as he pushed past the girl, who hadn’t yet realised what had happened. 

“Oi, you prick! Come back and fucking pay for what you get you bastard!” 

Dean started to run, but he was quickly accompanied by three sets of footfalls. He picked up the pace, but didn’t run directly back to the motel, instead weaving through streets. His hope for shaking the three men was dwindling as he began to realise he had no clue where he was, running like a rat through a container maze. He heard whooping and hollering behind him, and some instinctual feeling of being hunted thrummed through him. He hadn’t brought any of his weapons, nothing bigger than a small dagger in his boot that would do nothing against three grown, angry men. 

He skidded around a pile of bin bags, stinking the same as the rest of the city, nearly slipping in whatever unknown liquid was seeping from the stack. They were right on his heels. Down the street, there were only two turns. Left, and right. Making a split second decision, he turned left.

Fuck.

The men slowed behind him as they realised the same thing. He was stuck in a dead end. To make matters worse, as he glanced beyond them the sight of a busy street echoed back, and all he could do was sigh. 

The men grinned nastily as they blocked him in, approaching slowly. Dean dropped his groceries, ducking down quickly to fetch his knife. It was no use, as soon as he brought it up it was knocked out of his hand and clattered pathetically against the brick wall. 

“Shouldn’t have tried to steal from our uncle, buddy.” One of the men said. He’d much rather deal with muggers than people he’d personally wronged — at least they’d leave him alone after stealing the cloth off his back and the spare change in his pockets. Dean didn’t think it could get worse. 

“And flirting with our cousin.” Another man said, voice the type of rough that only came from living on the streets of Gotham.

Oh fuck. It could get worse. 

“Guys,” Dean tried, putting his hands up and taking a small step back. They walked forward. “Surely we can talk this out. I’ll bring the cans and the milk back—”

“No chance, pretty boy,” one of them smirked. “We’ve already spent all this time chasing you, you’re not getting out of this one that easily.” Before he could think, as they lunged, he grabbed a tin and swung it at the shortest one's face. It made contact. The man yelled, holding onto his nose where Dean could already see a thick stream of blood pouring all over his hands as he tried to stop it. That happened to be the extent of his luck, however, as one of the other two men quickly disarmed him and punched at his stomach, making him double over before being hit around the head and knocked to the ground. The familiar taste of iron and blood swelled behind his teeth, right at the back of his throat to gulp down. There were no smiles now as they sneered down at him, the one he had hit with the can leaning over him with a blood-smeared shirt. 

They kicked at him until he was crying out, tears welling in his eyes as their blurry faces waved in and out of view. He placed his cheek on the ground, noticing absently a shadow running towards them from the packed street.

“Shit.” One of the men said. The noise echoed around Dean woozily, and he rolled onto his back as the onslaught of boots stopped. Another one of them quickly rifled through his pockets, visibly disappointed to see the petty change and nothing else, before all three of them took down the street they had arrived on. Suddenly, a GPD badge was leaning over him. 

“You alright, son?”

Dean couldn’t form the words. He only coughed, spitting up blood. The cop looked non-plussed. “I was called about a robbery. You wouldn’t know anything about that, would you?”

Chapter Text

Dean woke up in the cell.

Everything hurt.

This was almost worse than some of the hunts he’d been out on, but at least then he’d had his dad and Sammy to clean him and put him to sleep on a somewhat clean bed. Looking at the thread-bare cover on the otherwise hard metal fold-out, Dean nearly regretted every poor thing he’d said about the more questionable motels they’d stayed at. 

It was a small cell, with a small mirror hanging above a small sink. Groggily, Dean looked at his reflection, trying to ignore the suspicious black markings in the cracks around the lip of the sink. His face was still bloodied, and where they’d caught him around the eyes was beginning to blossom into some mighty bruises. Dean turned the tap on, then recoiled when he saw the state of the water that dribbled out. He wasn’t going to risk an infection; a trip to the police station was bad enough, but John might actually kill him if they needed to visit the hospital afterwards. His hands were cuffed in front of him, and it was when the floor began to spin under his feet that he felt he ought to rest up a bit. He didn’t know how long they’d be – didn’t know how long he’d been knocked out for, and it was a better time than ever to sleep off the worst of the pain. He fell asleep easily, and dreamt of nothing. 

He still didn’t know what time it was when he woke up again. There was no clock, nor window outside, and the noise from the rest of the station hadn’t changed from the low, busy thrumming from earlier. He wanted to lay his head back down but his arms were aching from being in the same position for so long, and his wrists were reddening from the cuffs. He groaned as he sat up, head spinning. He finally staggered to his feet, leaning his arms on the cell bars.

He bashed on the metal. “Hey. Hey!” He bashed again a few more times. “I’m allowed a phone call, douchebag!” He hit it a final time, then sat down. Raising his own voice was giving him the beginnings of a migraine. He could see down the hallway to the rest of the station, but he couldn’t see anyone coming down to him. There were other people in the cells parallel, but he just put his head down and closed his eyes.

Down the hall, near the main, guarded door, one of the officers approached the sullen guard who had eyebags from too many shifts. The shorter officer stood next to him, peering down the corridor into Dean’s cell. 

“What’s the kid in for?”

The guard scratched along his jaw with his nails, pulling out his book. “Uh, corner store thief. Brought in by Officer Matthews, knocked out. No name yet.” 

The short officer ran his tongue over the front of his teeth, lips pursed and eyes narrow. 

“You thinkin’ somethin’?”

“Not sure yet. Kid looks familiar. I’ll check, might be wrong, but if I’m right we’ll need to get Gordon in here.”

The guard hummed, looking at the laid down teen in a new, slightly more interesting light. “Take your time, man. Kid’s not going to be up and about for a while.”

The officer left, weaving through the bullpen to his desk, sweeping stacks of papers to the side as he logged in. He groaned as the files he was attempting to pull buffered, and he slammed his wrist into the side of the screen before pulling his hand close to him in pain. It seemed to work though, the pages finally coming into focus.

John Winchester.

Relationship Status; Widower, married to Mary Winchester, nee. Campbell (deceased)

Parents; Henry Winchester (deceased), Mollie Winchester (deceased)

Children; Dean Winchester, Samuel Winchester

Suspected Crimes:

• Multiple Counts of grave digging/grave robbing
• Corpse Desecration 
• Breaking and Entering
• Illegal use and Ownership of a Firearm
• Child Endangerment
• Escaping from Police Custody
• Credit Card Fraud
• Assault and Battery
• Impersonation of Law Enforcement
• 1st Degree Murder
• 2nd Degree Murder
• 3rd Degree Murder

The report continued with in-detail notes on Mr. Winchester. 

It is highly suspected that J. Winchester believes in the supernatural. Witnesses to his crimes appear split, some claiming Mr. Winchester…

The officer knew all of this already. He had a cousin in law enforcement, who had wisely chosen not to do her job in the self-titled ‘Crime City’, as she mentioned most family gatherings. Although she hadn’t interacted with John Winchester herself, police friends of hers in neighbouring towns had fleeting run-ins with him. Although Winchester had never reportedly come anywhere close to Gotham, he’d heard enough of her mouthing off about what a pain and what a psycho this guy was. And if he was right, the boy in holding cell six was his son. 

He scrolled through the file, trying to see if there were any attached photographs. There was nothing specific on either of his sons, of course – Winchester was uncannily talented at evading law enforcement, and even better at hiding his sons; although, this can be chalked up to a lifetime of practice by the sound of it. There were a few grainy shots at the end, and he squinted and blew them up on his screen to get a good look. 

They were hardly evidence for John, never mind his son. However, there was one; both in a convenience store, and although the boy next to John was turned away, the officer could see one thing – his large, too-big, leather jacket. 

Growing more certain, the officer nipped back into the holding cell corridor. The guard turned to look at him. “Find what'cha need?”

And as the officer looked at the again-sleeping boy, tucked in his jacket, he cocked a grin and nodded. “Pretty sure, anyway. I’ll call Jim and explain the situation.”

He began to walk away, then stopped and warned the guard, “If he asks for his call, ask who it’s going to. If it’s his daddy, tell him he can make it later, make up some bullshit about processing or something.”

The guard looked bemused, but nodded, scratching something down beside the boy's book entry. 

Jim Gordon was in his office when he received a call. Like always, he was tired, he was exhausted, and there was nothing more than he’d have liked to do than go home to his daughter. Or just sleep, at this point. He’d take that too. Keeping on top of the City of Crime was not an easy task, nor one he could un-ironically say he’s doing very successfully. Better than the next man, he supposed. 

Bruce Wayne as Batman was helpful, but brought its own load of troubles that pounded at his head every night. Batman was good for the big fish, the Penguins and the Scarecrows of Gotham, but it meant that the little fish could swim by, and knew they could drift under their noses, with neither the room nor the manpower to stop the flow. It was a constant, unrelenting uphill fucking struggle, a Sisyphean Task if he were to be formal about it. 

When he got the phone call, he almost hit his breaking point. 

“What?” he answered brusquely. 

“Hi, Commissioner,” the voice said. “This is Officer Williams. I have a situation down here you should see.”

“Something you can’t tell me over the phone?” Gordon bit out. 

“I–” Officer Williams sounded nervous. “I could, Commissioner. Is– is now a good time?”

“What, now you’ve already called me?” After a second of glorious, tense silence down the line, he said, “Lay it on me, I’m already listening.”

“I’m pretty sure we have John Winchester’s son in custody,” Williams rushed out. “He was taken in for petty robbery, hasn’t been talked to yet, but I’m willing to bet he’ll give us a fake name.” Although Jim was initially sceptical, he’d taken his foot off the desk and sat up to scroll through the files on his computer. 

“Yeah, I know the guy,” he mused, skimming through the pages. “Nasty piece of work. Wouldn’t find himself amiss inside Blackgate.” he continued reading. “Screw it, Arkham too. What makes you sure this kid is his son?”

“... Not a whole lot, Commissioner, that’s why I was hoping you could get down here for a second opinion. We haven’t any clear photos of the kid on record, but the one in the gas station? He’s wearing the same jacket now in cell six.”

Gordon sucked between his teeth, already standing up, moving as the phone line would allow. “I’ll be down in a second, Williams. Even if you’re wrong, the chance to take in a literal national threat is too great. Wait for me at my desk with everything you have.”

Officer Williams scrambled to the front of the print-queue as Jim quickly made another phone call, to the Prince of Gotham's direct line.

“Jimmy! To what do I owe the pleasure? If the GCPD needs another donation, I’m sure you know you don’t have to ask…” As expected, Wayne had hammed up the whole ‘Brucie Wayne’ act he usually did. As much as he admired the man, Jim found he had little patience for most of Bruce Wayne’s aliases. 

“I’m sorry, Mr. Wayne, but I’m going to need you down at the Police Department.”

“I’m not in any trouble am I, Mr. Police Commissioner?"

Jim sighed again. “Bruce. B. If you aren’t preoccupied, your presence down here would be… appreciated.”

Bruce’s tone morphed into something more serious, as it sounded like he stood up in the background. Still, he answered jovially. “Anything for you, Gordon. You know just how little it takes me to leave Wayne Enterprises. Who do you need down there?”

Jim knew what he meant by that. Do you need Bruce Wayne, or Batman?

He answered truthfully. “Both. Come as you are, though.”

“I’ll be there soon.” Jim heard a click, and knew he was going to hurry. 

He marched down to the bullpen, where he saw Officer Williams stood, folder in hand. He looked excited, not that Jim could blame him. He didn’t waste a breath as he walked past him, waiting for Officer Williams’ to keep up. “Alright, game plan.” He took a breath as they stopped in the small space outside the interrogation room, where they could look into the vacant room through the one-way mirror. “We get Dean to call his dad, no matter what false identity they try to sell.” Williams nodded, scribbling everything down on a notepad. “No matter what it takes, we get Winchester to pick his son up from here, then we can arrest and prosecute, yaddah yaddah yaddah. Now, this is the important part. Did you get how many times he’s escaped from police custody?”

“Yes, sir. Four times from police vehicles, five from police stations and once each from a low-security and a high-security prison.”

“Okay. We cannot take risks here. While we wait for John to arrive, we interrogate Dean. Get as much out of him about his daddy as possible. He has a sibling, doesn’t he?”

“Younger, sir. Samuel Winchester.”

“Good. I don’t care about playing dirty, we get what we can. I’ll do it.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Alright. You get Mr. Winchester up and on the telephone, I’m going to wait in here.”

Officer Williams nodded once and handed Jim the folders before leaving. As he got to the doorhandle, it swung open to reveal Bruce Wayne, a blazer jacket folded over his arm. His blank facial expression morphed into something charming and every-so-slightly flirtatious as he looked down at Officer Williams, immediately sticking out his hand to shake. “Thank you for your exemplary service, Officer–” he took a moment to look up and down Williams, “–Williams. Jimmy, I wasn’t aware you hired such pretty–”

“Enough, Wayne.” Gordon said, shooting him an exasperated glance. Williams was blushing, but even he knew the ways of Brucie Wayne enough to duck out of the room after one look at the reddening face of his commissioner. Bruce closed the door behind him, and when he looked back at Gordon, he had dropped his act. 

“What’s happening, Gordon?” His voice was deeper, slipping into an octave closer to Batman than Bruce Wayne. 

He handed Bruce the files. “You know about John Winchester?”

Bruce frowned as he leafed through the pages. “Vaguely. As far as I’m aware he hasn’t set foot in Gotham yet, otherwise I’d have probably done more extensive research.”

“Do you have more on him than we do?”

Bruce hummed. “Not in regards to his actual crimes, nor the witness statements. We have more photos from local CCTV, though.”

“Of his sons?”

Bruce looked interested. “Yes, we should do. I’ve looked at them, but I could get Dick to send them over.”

Bruce was already texting his son by the time Jim answered to the affirmative. “We think we may have his eldest, Dean, in custody. We want to use him to get John.”

Bruce’s eyes lit up in understanding. “You’re going to get John to pick him up and arrest him here.”

Jim was used to Bruce anticipating his plans before he had enacted them, “Yeah, that’s right. Any information you have would be appreciated. And… backup, if we’re unable to find him.”

Bruce nodded shortly, “Noted. I’ve emailed the files to your computer. I’ll wait here.”

Jim watched as Bruce settled into a calm, standing pose, already staring into the interrogation room. “I’m going to listen to their call, see if I can pick up John’s voice.”

“Record it.”

“I'm the Police Commissioner for a reason, Wayne. I know how to do my job.”

He walked out of the room, leaving Bruce waiting. He checked his computer quickly, glancing through Bruce’s email. The faces were much clearer, and much more damning. The boy he could see in the live CCTV matched the ones on Batman's records, down to the jacket. He made his way to the cells, and stopped next to the guard. “Could you give Number Six his phone call, officer? Then bring him to interrogation room One, please.”

Dean’s eyes flashed open. They were slightly bloodshot, and Jim saw him grimace as he stood to match the guard at the door. “You need to call someone to pick you up, kid. You know your momma's number by heart?”

Dean was scowling, but already punching it in. He looked nervous as he brought it to his ear, and as the ringing continued his face looked more drawn. In case he’d be stopped by the guard, he quickly redialled it. This time it was answered far more quickly. 

“Hello? Can I help you?” The male voice sounded professional. Dean’s breath stuttered. 

“Dad?” The silence was deafening.

“Adam?” John answered, clearly using Dean’s pseudonym. “What’s happened?”

“I– I can’t explain it all now, sir. I’m in Gotham Police Station. They need you to collect me.”

“Oh, yeah? You know how busy I am. Maybe it wouldn’t do you any harm to spend a few nights there, might teach you a lesson.”

Dean’s voice trembled slightly. “Dad. Sa– Billy is home alone. Muggers stole the rest of the money you left, and… I only paid for another night.” He sounded pained. “You’ll either have to collect me or him. It ain’t safe for a kid like that in Gotham, Dad. You told me that.”

There was more silence. Over the line, Jim could hear deep, angered breathing. Finally;

“I can be there in an hour.”

The line clicked, and after a second, Dean handed back the receiver. “Don’t get comfortable yet, son,” the guard said. “Follow me, and don’t try anything funny.” The kid stared up at him defiantly, and brought his bound arms forward. He broke out into a grin that stood out starkly from his beaten face and pale skin. 

“I promise, officer;” he brought his hands back to himself and crossed his chest. “I won’t try anything. Lead the way.”

The guard pulled out a set of keys and unlocked his cell, stepping back for Dean to take the lead so that he could be kept an eye on, whilst directing him to the interrogation room. Dean was keenly interested in everything he could see in the bullpen. Admittedly, his family usually conducted their business in smaller towns, where even the most suspicious Chiefs of Police could be calmed by a well-placed phone call to Bobby. This was… this was hectic. Phones were constantly ringing, and one look at the windows told Dean it was late in the evening, if not midnight. Crime sleeps as much as justice does. 

He was led around the outskirts of the pen to the room, where he was fastened to the metal bar in the middle of the table, his cuffs threaded through. The guard checked them before leaving. Jim left him to stew for a couple of minutes whilst he joined Bruce. 

“What do you think?”

“It’s definitely his son.”

Gordon hummed in agreement. Dean was glancing about the room, testing the strength of the cuffs the same way that every person in that chair did. “What did he do?”

Jim opened his small folder. “Stole from a local store, apparently. One of my officers found him a few streets away after a run-in with some relatives of the owner.”

“They find anything on him?”

“Bread, milk, jars and cans, etcetera. The men ran before the officer could stop them, but he reported one of them stealing from the boy before they left.”

“Hey! Is anyone there?” Dean yelled, satisfied at the way his voice echoed around him. He suddenly turned his head in the opposite direction, finding Bruce’s eyes behind the one-way mirror. His gaze slid off quickly, though, and he was back to muttering under his breath. 

“You ought to get in there.”

“Agreed. Keep watch, you’ll notice more than I do from here.”

Bruce nodded and watched as Jim entered the interrogation room, a small cup of water in one hand and his fresh cup of coffee in the other. 

Dean watched as a man, probably middle aged or older, entered the enclosed room. He grinned, shot him a pearly-white smile. “How’s your evening been, Officer?”

Jim just smiled, and handed Dean the water. “I wasn’t sure if you were a coffee man, so I decided to play it safe. You hungry, kid? You’ve been in here a while.”

“I could eat,” Dean agreed easily, taking sips of water to prolong it. He leant back as far as he could in his chair once he was done. 

“What was your name; Andy? How long since your last meal?”

“It’s Adam,” Dean lied, and Jim was almost impressed. He was sure that if he hadn’t known who he and his family were, he’d have been inclined to believe him. “I thought you’d know that, man, being an officer an’ all.”

“Ah, sorry,” Jim took a sip of his coffee after blowing off the steam. “Adam. How long has it been since you’ve eaten last?”

Dean gave him a knowing look, most of the pretence in his expression buried. “It’s been a while.”

“That why you felt you had to steal from the corner shop?”

Suddenly Dean’s voice pitched up. His easy smile fell as he pierced Jim with eyes too intelligent for the pretence he was gunning for. Gordon was so focused on who his father was, he forgot he was talking to a volatile sixteen-year-old boy. “Dude, who even are you? You look nothing like the flat-foot who brought me in, or like the guy who gave me the phone call. I stole a loaf of bread, milk, tinned soup and a pack of corn. I know how this shit goes down, and it usually don’t involve an interrogation. Why the ever-living fuck do you, who clearly isn’t an officer, give a singular shit about this?” 

He wasn’t done yelling, clearly. His green eyes shone out among the red on his face, and Jim suddenly felt a hidden seed of guilt. “I shouldn’t even be in an interrogation room! I’m sixteen, I ain’t got no legal representative or other bullshit. Also, there’s clearly another guy watching us behind the mirror!” Unthinkingly, he jammed his finger towards the window, crying out when his entire shoulder down to his wrist cried out in pain at the shortness of the cuffs. He quietened down and leant forward. “I don’t know what you think you’re playing at, but unless I get some hard truths, I’m not saying anything.”

Satisfied, Dean leant back in his chair. Outside, beyond the glass, Bruce was quietly impressed. Dean reminded him of Jason when he first came in, although with a barely heavier grasp over his emotions that came with age. He was intelligent, too. 

“Alright.” Jim sat down his coffee and settled into a more serious expression, but despite that his face seemed far more open and genuine than before behind that closed-off smile. “My name is Police Commissioner James Gordon, but you’re free to call me Jim. I know you’re not Adam Cotton; your name is Dean Winchester, your brother is called Samuel Winchester and your father is John Winchester. You may know that your father is wanted throughout the country for a myriad of crimes.”

Jim studied Dean’s face as he reacted to the information. His face was blank as he stared at a point on the wall behind Gordon. Dean’s eyes snapped to him as his tongue ran over his teeth. “I can’t say I’ve ever met a John.” He was relaxed, leant back in the chair again. It wasn’t like Jim hadn’t expected it. 

“Dean.” He levelled the boy with hardened eyes. “This isn’t child's play. This isn’t the time to mess about with this.”

Dean looked slightly more attentive. Jim pulled out the folder he had tucked under his arm. “John Winchester is a dangerous man. Grave robbing, card fraud and corpse desecration are his lightest crimes.” He laid some of the tamer photos on the table, and watched as Dean's eyes swept over them impassively. 

“I don’t know why you’re telling me all this–”

“He has also been suspected of multiple homicides, from witnesses across America.” There was no lightness in his voice, not anymore. “He has charges of breaking and entering, illegal gun ownership and usage, and impersonation of law enforcement. Why I’m telling you this is so that we’re both on the same page; your father is coming here to collect you. I’m going to have men guard the door, and he will be arrested the moment he steps through that doorway.” The colour had drained from Dean's face, and he was tense. 

“But no, maybe you’re right: maybe John Winchester isn’t your father, and maybe Mr. Cotton will come walking in to take you home, and if that’s the case and this is all just a big misunderstanding I will personally be the first to apologise. However, Dean, I don’t think that is likely to happen. Am I right?”

Dean looked up at him, eyes slightly wet. “My father is a good man.” Internally, Jim sighed, satisfied. “A great man; a hero – unlike the caped freaks you get in Gotham.” Dean spat. “You’re risking lives doing this.”

“Not according to the witnesses, the innocents that have been tricked, lied to and sometimes killed by John Winchester’s hands. But he’s also been suspected of child abuse and neglect, Dean. Now, my department and I want to keep siblings together as often as possible. You won’t be going back with your father today, which means that we need to find somewhere for you both to stay. The more you cooperate with us, the easier this will be.”

Jim knew he lost the moment he saw Dean's anger bubble and nearly spill over before the light in his eyes dimmed and he sagged in his chair. His face slated over, like the heat had stopped simmering within. He wasn’t going to talk, and he had completely seen through Jim’s double bluff. Of course, he was going to do everything he could to keep the brothers together, but typically people in the interrogation room are so panicked they overlook simple facts. Not Dean. 

He tried to ask a few more questions, but at the obstinate silence he sighed, like he was doing so much these days, and tucked away the photos. “I can see this is the end of our interview, Dean. Someone is going to bring you back to your holding cell, and we’ll try and sort where you stay in the meantime.” He stood himself up and headed for the door. He turned back. “You’re a good kid, Dean. I know bad ones when I see them. They’re the ones with good home lives that steal expensive shit for the sake of it. I saw the photos from the alley; even when stealing, you went for the cheap shit. You don’t want to put yourself on the same path as your dad, and I’m sure you don’t want Samuel down that path either.” He pursed his lips. “Think it over.”

He left Dean to himself and joined Bruce in the outer room.

“What do you make of that?”

“I think the kid’s smart.” He unfurled his arms and pointed. “You see that?”

Gordon looked at where he was directing, but couldn’t see anything. Dean was sitting there, still unmoving. “He undid the cuffs during the interrogation.”

“You’re kidding. I didn’t even notice.”

“Took me a second as well. It was when he started shouting, I think. Good distraction. Only noticed once he pointed at the mirror.” Bruce looked torn between being irate at missing something so important and being impressed at a sixteen year old boy's skills to evade even the Batman. 

Jim whistled between his teeth. “That takes guts. You reckon he was planning on hurtin’ me?”

Bruce pursed his teeth, but eventually shook his head. “I think he just needed a sense of freedom.”

They were both quiet for a second as they watched Officer Williams come in to retrieve Dean. Once he was gone, Jim let out a breath. “Bruce, I know this is a lot to ask of you–”

“No, Gordon.”

“They need a home, Bruce. Dean is… volatile, to say the least. From what we know, since his mom died, he’s been carted through America on a life on the road with a potentially mentally ill, abusive father, trying to protect his younger brother. Hell, he might even believe whatever bullshit John has been feeding him, he’s so tied up in the supernatural. He’s a crafty kid - I’ll bet half my paycheque that if he goes to a normal foster family, he and his brother will escape in less than a week.”

Bruce looked unhappy, but Jim could see his resistance wearing down. “Dick and Jason aren’t going to like it.”

“They’re kids, Wayne. They don’t like anything their parents do.”

Bruce had one final thing to say. “And our nightlife? What about that?”

“They’re in danger, wherever they are. There’s a current investigation into whatever cult John Winchester is part of, and unfortunately, his sons have already been dragged in. Tell them, don’t tell them; do what you want to do. If it were me?” He shot Bruce a look, “These kids have already been through a lot. I think they need some stability, for once. And I can’t think of anyone who can provide that better than you, Bruce.” 

Bruce scratched the side of his chin, suddenly looking ten years his senior. “I’ll have the lawyers draft the paperwork. And I’ll call Alfred to get two of our guest rooms ready. Do you have people to locate Samuel?”

“I’ll track the name Cotton to local motels. Shouldn’t take long, thankfully. We’re expecting Mr. Winchester in—” he checked his watch, “half an hour. A little less now.”

“I’ll be down in forty five minutes. I’m… I don’t want to make myself an enemy to Dean and his brother before we’ve even properly met.”

Jim nodded sagely. “I’ll send you the footage afterwards.”

“I expected nothing else.” Bruce clapped Jim’s shoulder as he made his way out of the station, slinking into his car and peeling off. 

It didn’t take long to find Samuel. Motel room under Cotton, on their last paid night. Jim’s stomach clenched for the twelve-year-old boy waiting for his dad, for his brother, to come back but being unable to leave the motel room. 

He instructed his officers on what to do. They were all to mill around like usual, pretending it was a normal working day, until John was far enough into the room that he feasibly couldn’t make his escape.

Now was just the waiting game.