Chapter Text
“Pension services, please.”
“Thank you, Mr. Winchester, please hold for your representative,” said the woman on the other end of the line.
Waiting for his call to get forwarded was always the most stressing part. Would they still connect to the right line? What if Cas wasn’t in today? Technically, he could just hang up and call back another day but that would make him initiate plan B, and he liked his well-tried system, thank you very much: calling every other Wednesday to talk to Cas as much as he could, then wait another two weeks for the next call.
He’d find it pathetic if he heard that someone’s only bright part in their life was a bi-weekly call with a GSA worker they’d never seen. Still found it pathetic, to be honest. But Cas had a deep, rumbling voice, a dry sense of humor and an awesome, quiet kind of laugh Dean loved to get out of him.
He was a retired, thirty-three years old CIA agent, he was living alone in a two-story house in the suburbs of Cicero, Indiana, and he was halfway in love with a man he hadn’t seen once (hadn’t looked him up because just the thought made him nervous) and only talked to him twice a month – see, pathetic. His brother would laugh at him.
There was a click.
“Hello, this is Castiel,” the familiar voice greeted him.
His heart skipped a beat and a smile pulled at his lips just by hearing it.
“Hi, Cas,” he answered.
“Dean,” Cas sounded much more lively. “How are you?”
“Y’know, the usual,” Dean shrugged even if Cas couldn’t see it.
“You didn’t get the check again, did you?” Cas sighed, but it was a fond kind of sigh like Dean was a troublemaker cat which was too cute to really get scolded.
“Not my fault, man,” he protested and looked at the not-at-all-missing check in his hand. God, he was in so deep.
“I’ll make sure they send another one as soon as possible,” Cas said resolutely. “Sorry about it.”
“Not your fault either,” Dean grinned. “Hey, how’s your new book?”
“The only part of my life that doesn’t bore me to death,” Cas grumbled. “Beside you, of course.”
Warmth spread through Dean’s chest.
“Tell me about it,” he leaned back in his armchair, taking a sip from his cold beer.
“Called Supernatural,” Cas hummed. “First part of a series. Two brothers wander around the Midwest hunting monsters.”
Sounded like some beach novel, but Dean made a mental note of it. Cas liked reading books which had no literary significance whatsoever. He read purely for entertainment – probably hadn’t always done so, because he’d sure finished Dean’s Vonnegut quote the other day.
“You wanna travel?” he asked.
“Sure, but not in the Midwest,” Dean could hear the eye roll. “What’s the most interesting place you’ve been to?”
“Uh,” Dean frowned and went over his mental list, crossing out combat zones, military bases and dictatorships which were surely not what Cas had meant. “Maybe, uh, Budapest?”
He’d been there on a mission, but after that he’d actually had some downtime and he’d spent it walking around the city, old, ornate buildings towering over him, a bit of history on every corner. Although the traffic was horrible and the streets were a maze.
“I’m gonna find out where you worked sooner or later,” Cas huffed a little laugh.
“Good luck with that,” Dean chuckled, then felt his heartbeat quickening again. He took a deep breath. “So I, uh, I’m in Indianapolis for a couple days next week.”
Silence.
“This may be a terrible idea,” Cas said after a few seconds. That wasn’t an outright no. Dean waited. “Call me when you’re in town and we’ll talk about it.”
Yes!
“You got it,” he grinned and could hardly contain the excitement in his voice. That was almost definitely a yes.
“We’ll see,” Cas said in the same fond voice. “Bye, Dean.”
“Bye, Cas.”
As the line went dead, he couldn’t help but grin like an idiot. Five days. Five days, and he was probably gonna see Cas. Meet him. Talk to him in person.
He was happy enough that he got around to taking out the trash which he’d put off for two days now. He should go out for groceries, too, sometime. He could make himself a proper meal for once.
“Hi, Dean,” Single-Mom Lisa greeted him as she was out watering her plants, like she did most mornings in late spring.
“Hi, Lisa,” he waved back awkwardly, his social skills a bit rusted from disuse.
Her kid, Ben was cute and sharp and Lisa had made her interest clear from day one. Maybe ten years ago Dean would’ve jumped at the opportunity, but he’d worked for the CIA for close to fifteen years before they’d decided he wasn’t useful anymore. Now he was more paranoid than Skipper from Madagascar. He didn’t do hook-ups – or any kind of socialization, really – anymore. It was too dangerous, left him too exposed. He couldn’t afford a weak point like that, not after what had gone down with Sam.
Cas had just kinda… happened. Shouldn’t have and Dean knew that, but Cas just pulled him in without meaning to, his sassy respond to Dean’s complain on their first phone call like a breath of fresh air, like the last one and a half years he’d spent away from anything remotely exciting were a dark tunnel and he finally reached the surface. He’d been addicted ever since.
So yeah, Lisa was out of luck and that was for the better for everyone involved.
Dean did get around to actually be productive. He went to the nearest department store (so he would be less likely recognized than in a local grocery store), did the laundry, put some cash in his getaway bag and cooked. Five things in one day, wow.
So it was kind of shitty to wake up around two in the morning by the binging danger-radar in his head. Something wasn’t right.
He pulled on his robe and started downstairs without switching on the lights. Just before he left the bedroom, he saw a shadow move outside.
They were silent, Dean had to give them that. But he’d been one of the best agents in the last thirty or so years, and they couldn’t hide their sheer presence from him. They were hunting and Dean knew exactly when he was considered prey. Time to turn the game on these fuckers generously called a wet team (Dean knew the best in the business and these standing in his foyer weren’t them).
He hadn’t chosen his house at random. No CCTV anywhere close. Every room had at least two entrances so you could walk around without stepping foot in the same one twice. It was also perfect to get behind someone’s back.
It was quick. The three of them stalked – if it could be called that – over to the kitchen door where Dean had disappeared, in a straight line one after the other like complete newbies, their rifles all pointing in one direction like anyone could take a good shot that way. Dean’s mind shut down, training and experience taking over, survival instinct kicking in. When his kitchen door was kicked down, which was just rude, he stepped out from the dark storage room under the stairs that connected the hallway, the kitchen and the garage. He twisted the neck of the one at the back before any of them realized what had happened. The second one was down with two hits, one to the chest for distraction, one to the throat, crushing the trachea. The third one attacked with a needle instead of his gun which was such an idiotic move it cost him his life. Dean twisted the arm with the gun, turning the guy’s whole body with it as he instinctively went with the momentum. Before the needle could’ve reached anywhere near his face with a backward-kinda stab that wouldn’t have worked anyway, Dean grabbed his attacker’s wrist and changed the course of the movement. The needle went through the balaclava and pushed into the skin without problem, straight into the vein. Then he tumbled to the floor.
Dean stood there with three dead men and a couple good weapons for all of three seconds to think things through. The poison meant they wanted to do this quietly which didn’t mean they wouldn’t keep the authorities away if it came to it. Any gunshot reported from the neighborhood would go unanswered, he was sure of it. Which gave him a little leeway, too.
“Come in, Unit One,” a voice spoke from the radio attached to one man’s vest. “Come in, Unit One. Unit One, respond.”
Dean moved. He grabbed the closest gun, emptied the magazine and dropped the bullets into a clean pan, then turned on the stove. The second wave wouldn’t come so quietly. He needed to get out of here.
He kept most of his important stuff under his bed – a bit cliché, but very handy. The duffel was already packed with spare clothes, money and an untraceable laptop and phone. But the most valuable ones were kept under a floorboard in a locked iron box: fake IDs, credit cards and his beloved Colt M1911A1, nickel plated with ivory handles and engraving.
“Hey, sweetheart,” he smiled as he tested the familiar weight in his hand. “Missed you.”
Five seconds after the overheated bullets started flying downstairs, imitating a perfect gunfight with flashing lights and harsh sounds, the gunfire picked up outside. Three machine guns, twenty feet away and closing in. Dean left his bag at the top of the stairs and took the perfect position downstairs.
The outside of his house probably looked more like a big nice block of emmental cheese, all windows broken, the walls already full of holes. And they weren’t even inside. They kept shooting until there were more holes than wall and they got a big enough entrance (not the actual door, of course) for them to walk in comfortably.
Dean waited it out. He knew how they operated, even if he actually had no clue who they were. Stun grenade in under six seconds.
The flashbang went off in ten (they were slow), and then after a couple seconds three pairs of boots were hitting the wooden floor.
This time it didn’t went down so fast, these had actually split up like capable soldiers. Didn’t really matter to Dean, nor did the almost complete darkness. He got the first one before he could’ve swept the living room properly. One headshot, right between the eyes. He went down without a sound. A moment of silence and then the second one showed up in the other doorway, ready to die. The third and last one opened fire on the walls, left to right (so probably left-handed), going towards the kitchen. Dean went right too, so there was no way he would get shot. His poor fridge and cupboards took the brunt of the attack, but the bullets soon ran out – happens when you use them up like a maniac. Reloading took precious seconds that could cost you your life – exactly what happened to this guy. Hadn’t even heard Dean sneaking up on him, but to be fair, not many people did. He hardly registered the gun pointed at his temple before Dean pulled the trigger.
Now he had six dead bodies and a ruined house. Not how he’d expected his night to go, but he’d been ready for it from day one.
He grabbed an old envelope from a drawer and a knife from the counter, working quickly, efficiently and cleanly. Then he changed out of his pajamas, pulling on jeans, a black undershirt and a dark green flannel. At the door, still open, he shrugged on his favorite leather jacket that was miraculously unscathed, putting on his boots last. Then he grabbed his bag and walked out. None of his neighbors dared to peek out yet and the police wouldn’t come either. His estimate was a good half an hour head start. It was more than enough.
As he walked down the street, sticking to the shadows, he planned out his next move. First, was this a CIA-sanctioned mission or was just an old colleague and/or enemy trying to take him out? The only person he knew with connections and who wouldn’t shoot him or sell him out was living three states over. That should be his next stop. But no, he had to visit another place first. It wasn’t about just him anymore. Because he’d gotta go and get fucking attached.
He reached an alley a couple streets over which was more of a row of storages. He fished out the keys to his own and lifted the door. He smiled involuntarily at the massive black shape that greeted him and pulled off the tarp with a flourish.
The Impala’s black hood was gleaming in the low light of the streetlamps. She was as beautiful as he’d left her just three weeks ago on her monthly upkeep. He’d made sure the family car would be unknown except by people he trusted completely. The list was extremely short.
He put his bag in the trunk and hopped in. The purring sound of the engine filled him with a familiar warmth.
“Missed you too, Baby,” he stroked the wheel and pulled out into the alley, then was back to pull down the door and closed it.
Then he started his short trip to Indianapolis.