Chapter Text
Castiel Krushnic.
That name alone could send a chill down anyone's spine, inmate and guard alike. Steely blue eyes that could see straight through a soul, hands roughened from decades of God knows what. He carried himself with effortless confidence, the kind of power that only came with knowing you're as invincible as a human being gets.
Typically, any incoming inmate gets tested, which is a lighter way of saying they'd get the shit beat out of them. Or, if they were up to the challenge, could fight back enough to gain respect.
Not Castiel.
It was like the man had a bubble around him, an invisible shield blocking out anyone who dared get too close. Dean had only seen one inmate dare touch him. Gabriel Krushnic. It seemed their branch of the Russian mob was a family business. There were whispers that they had brothers on the outside, each one's reputation just as gruesome as the last. Michael, the oldest, was said to be the brains. Luke, the middle child, Dean didn't know much about, short of his chosen nickname: Lucifer.
Subtle, Dean had thought derisively.
Castiel was an enigma. He spoke sparingly, the few times Dean had passed by to catch a few words, he spoke in a gruff baritone, a hint of an accent on his tongue. He seemed to only speak when necessary. He didn't seem the type to do anything without intent behind it, that cold, calculating stare holding everyone in his sight under his thumb. He'd never lashed out in anger, always perfectly stoic, not that he needed to.
Everyone knew what happened if you fucked with Krushnic.
Dean had been warned as such as soon as he got the job. Guard Krushnic just like any other inmate, follow protocol, and nothing else. Most importantly, do not touch him beyond absolute necessity. Lucky for them, Castiel seemed to have a begrudging respect for the guards, if only because they listened to his every whim. Favors for favors, contraband for drugs he could easily have procured on the outside.
The mobster didn't seem to have any interest in partaking, though. At least, not that Dean had noticed. No pinpoint pupils, or vice versa, no twitching or psychotic behavior like he'd noticed in other inmates. Castiel seemed of sound mind by comparison. That almost made him more terrifying.
He was in for murder (Dean heard varying body counts thrown around the break room, ranging from 5-100), money laundering, arson to cover up said murders. The guy wasn't exactly the picture of stability. Yet, you'd never know just by looking at him, if not for the "shark eyes." Dean never truly understood that descriptor until he saw it. A true sociopath. Maybe a psychopath, but the guy seemed to have quite an affinity for fire.
Dean would be lying if he said being surrounded by criminals all day didn't have him interested in the psychology of it. He never went to college, just had a GED, police academy training, and a give 'em hell attitude, but for some reason, the monsters of the human world fascinated him. It was his job to hunt them down, to save people and keep them from hurting anyone else, but he couldn't be blamed for being curious.
Most days of the job were shockingly boring. Riots were relatively rare; he guessed the inmates decided it wasn't worth the misery of a lockdown. There were fights often, over a TV remote, looking at someone the wrong way, meth-induced hallucinations where everyone looks like a shadow monster, but those were deescalated pretty easily. Pull them apart, throw 'em in solitary for a few days, things go back to normal.
Today, Dean had the pleasure of escorting Krushnic to the library.
"It's your initiation," Benny, one of his first friends on the job, explained. Castiel didn't seem to hurt anyone without a reason. Dean knew that logically.
However, with him, your very existence could be a reason if he decided as such.
Dean took a deep breath. The man would be shackled from head to toe. Every inmate was required to be handcuffed, shackled at the legs, and wear belly chains. All Dean had to do was not touch him. Follow the unspoken rules he didn't know. Don't breathe the wrong way. Don’t make eye contact. Or maybe do, if he finds that disrespectful. Then everything would be fine.
He had to put on a brave face. Violent, sociopathic mobster or not, Dean wasn't going to cower. Castiel may have a say over the whole prison, but he couldn't break Dean's spirit just by existing in his presence. If he was going to be beaten to death with a steel pipe by his lackeys, he was going to do it with his head held high.
The layout of the prison was intentionally confusing, meant to disorient prisoners, which was just as bad for the guards, in Dean's opinion. It didn't help that he'd never even seen Krushnic's cell. He'd never been on that side of the prison, having only worked there four months. That seemed to be reserved for seasoned guards. Apparently, Dean had proven himself worthy.
He couldn't tell if he was proud of that achievement or not. His reward was being an escort for a murderer.
He made his way to the main doors, punching in the entry code and crossing the threshold. This section had two security doors before entering a hallway. Long, dimly lit, with a singular cell at the very end.
Naturally, Krushnic got the privilege of privacy. Dean wondered how total isolation could be seen as privilege. Maybe for him, it was. The guy didn't seem to have the highest opinion of other humans.
Dean's shoes clacked loudly in the silent hallway, the handcuffs and chains attached to his belt rattling in the silence. Every step kicked up his heartbeat a few notches, but he kept his face steady, controlled. Show no fear. Show no weakness to exploit.
Not only did Castiel have physical power behind him, he was smart. Terrifyingly smart. He could get inside anyone's head, manipulate them, twist facts they knew were true until lies weren't lies anymore, until everything he said made sense, and everything they said did not. Dean knew if he let anything slip, he was offering up his soft spots on a silver platter. Inmates weren't supposed to speak to guards anyway. Not that Castiel seemed to give two fucks about rules.
Before Dean knew it, his feet had carried him in front of the cell.
It's fucking nice.
There's a bed on the far right wall, at least a twin size. A large white window a few feet off the ground, shining warm, natural light into the room. The concrete walls are painted a pleasant beige, the whole room complete with a small leather sofa on the opposite side and a rug underneath it all. It's still small, the sofa and bed nearly touching with a mere 2 feet of space between them, but it looks like a real bedroom. Nothing like the metal and concrete hellholes the other inmates lived in.
Krushnic had it made. Speaking of.
There he stood, icy stare following Dean's every step until he's stopped. His eyes don't leave him, eyeing him up and down carefully, like a lion stalking prey.
"Mr. Winchester, I believe."
Dean hadn't expected him to talk.
He cleared his throat, standing up a little straighter. "Krushnic. I'm escorting you to the library," he said flatly, keeping his tone steady. Castiel hummed in acknowledgement, stepping back the expected five feet for Dean to enter.
This was the hard part.
Dean had to touch him to chain him up, but the guy had to know that already, right? None of the guards had been ganked for doing their jobs before. Dean probably wouldn't be the first.
He punched in the door code, swiftly slipping inside and shutting the door behind him.
Willingly stepping into the lion's den.
"You know the drill," Dean said, as if they were just friends, going through a process they had a million times. Maybe it was easier that way, to pretend the man a few feet from him was like any other stranger. Not a live wire ready to spark at the slightest provocation.
Castiel held out his wrists together, complying soundlessly. Dean kept his eyes on the task at hand, clicking the cuffs around his thick wrists, but he can feel those eyes on him like a physical touch, prickly and invasive.
Castiel raised his arms up, giving access to his waist for the belly chains. Dean didn't fully understand the purpose of them, as they didn't seem to restrict movement much. Part of him felt it was just for the show of it. It was humiliating enough having to shuffle along trying not to trip over your chained feet, why not pour some salt on the wounds for good measure?
He tried to keep his touch as clinical as possible, though it was difficult when he had to get close to tighten them properly. It didn't help that Castiel was slender around the waist, forcing Dean to get close to tug them appropriately tight. He made quick work of the lock, clicking it into place and reaching for the foot cuffs on his hip. Castiel kept his hawk eyes on him, one eyebrow cocked as if Dean was a fascinating, tiny creature beneath him. Their height difference didn't matter. Dean still felt small.
He paused, going to kneel down for the foot cuffs. He hadn't quite followed protocol. He left himself open to being kicked right in the face. It would be easy like this. Castiel could knock him out and make a run for it. He cursed himself internally.
Maybe there was a reason he was never allowed the more high risk duties. Maybe he shouldn't have been.
"I am not going to kick you, Mr. Winchester," Castiel said, a hint of amusement coloring his rough voice that sent chills down Dean's spine. He didn't know if being amusing was good or bad. Maybe that gave him brownie points for the staying alive club.
"Yeah, 'cause that's convincing," Dean muttered, before he could catch up to his own mouth. Castiel gave no reaction, beyond that one arched brow flicking. He was incredibly skilled at hiding whatever it was going on in that twisted head of his.
"It would be a shame for harm to come to that pretty face," Castiel said, as if it was the most normal thing in the world. There's not a flirtatious tone to it, as if he was stating a simple fact.
Dean scoffed, choosing to ignore the comment and keep his eyes down as he knelt. Castiel kept to his word, stock still while Dean chained up his ankles, leaving enough slack between them that he could walk.
Dean made the mistake of looking up.
Castiel goes from staring distantly at the wall to looking straight at Dean, head tilted down to eye the man knelt before his feet. Dean felt for a moment he was being carefully evaluated, every inch of him taken stock of before that clinical stare.
Dean had never seen the man smile before. He never knew it could be so goddamn terrifying.
It's subtle, the barest hint of a smirk upturning his full lips. "I would help you up, but," he lifted his cuffed hands by way of explanation. Dean snorted. His heart pounded against his ribcage, mind swirling. Not a single guard in the prison, least of all him, had heard the man speak that much at one time. Let alone so casually, like Dean was some guy he met at a bar.
Dean brushed off the crawling sensation on his skin to the best of his ability, pushing off on his knee to stand. "Right. Library," he said stiffly. Castiel nodded, leading the way with Dean close behind. He didn't expect any inmates to get far with those chains, but protocol was protocol. It was a fairly short walk to the library, one Castiel seemed to know well. He moved swiftly throughout the shelves, seeming to know exactly what he wanted.
Dean couldn't catch the chuckle that escaped in time as he picked up Slaughterhouse Five.
Castiel, with his creepily keen senses, heard it from the few feet between them. "Something funny?"
There's no threat in his voice, just that same touch of amusement, but the phrasing sends ice through Dean's veins nonetheless. "No, just," he cleared his throat, trying to maintain his professional, stoic image. "Fan of Vonnegut, that's all. Wasn't laughing at you."
So much for the tough guy act. Looked like he was kowtowing. Mortifying, but if it kept him from being murdered, he'd take that.
Castiel hummed thoughtfully, a low, rumbling chuckle barely audible. "I know you were not, Dean."
Dean froze. "How do you–"
"I am not deaf. Henricksen refers to you as Winchester, as does Mills. Lafitte has called you Dean several times in conversation," he explained coolly. Dean blinked. "Oh. Yeah. True."
Smooth. Really playing it cool. Not making yourself look like a soft, squishy, easy target at all.
"A majority of human decency is stripped away here. Names become numbers, individuality is squashed. Are you interested in psychology, Dean?" he asked smoothly, plucking the copy off the shelf, along with a few other Vonnegut titles, interspersed with nihilistic philosophers.
Dean knows he shouldn't engage. He shouldn't have exchanged this many words in the first place. Every word he said, every flicker of emotion was a new bullet in Castiel's gun, ready to be turned against Dean at the tiniest slight.
Castiel has spoken to him for all of fifteen minutes, and he's figured out just how to get him talking.
"How do you figure?" he asked. Here he was, taking the bait, despite knowing better. Curiosity killed the cat.
"You people watch," Castiel explained, gathering his stack of books and taking a seat next to Dean at the library table, like they were study buddies talking over a project. All chained up like that, it's not as if he can do anything. Dean doesn't move.
"Kinda my job," he said sardonically. One that he wasn't doing by the book in that moment. He was still guarding Krushnic. Just decided to pick his brain while he was at it.
Castiel seemed unaffected by his tone. "You don't just watch, you observe. Names, cliques, tattoos, gang dynamics. You keep track more than any other guard. And..." Castiel eyed him carefully, as if trying to climb into his mind and poke around for himself. "You appear to have more empathy for the inmates you encounter." There's that humor in his tone again, like the very concept is hilarious to him.
Dean can't really blame him. He can't fathom why he almost feels sorry for the worst of the worst either. It's just that solitary is Hell. Every inmate who comes out is disoriented, sometimes hallucinating, always terrified. It gives Dean a dark sense of joy when it's the truly horrible people, the serial killers, terrorists, cult leaders.
Sometimes, very rarely, he meets someone who doesn't deserve to be there.
Benny once told him about a guy named Steven, convicted of multiple non-violent embezzlement and the usual con-man crimes. That wouldn't get him in supermax, so Dean had asked what happened. Turned out, the guy, a former cop, had managed to escape prison four times. On 23-hour lockup, sentenced to 144 years. By some miracle, the guy got paroled, and walked free.
Dean couldn't help but be impressed.
Maybe that came with spending so much time around the worst of the worst. There was a hierarchy to it.
"Bet you wonder what that's like," Dean quipped. Castiel didn't know what it was like to have empathy. People probably looked more like interesting projects or fleshy targets to him.
Castiel arched an eyebrow. "Explain it to me."
Dean cocked his head, confused. "Explain...?"
"Empathy."
Dean blinked a few times, the cogs in his brain turning. How do you explain empathy to someone who doesn't know how to feel it?
"It's like... Well, think of it like this. You see someone break their arm, your arm hurts. You see someone cry, you feel like crying too. But sometimes you have to... force it. Try to understand the minds of psychos, put yourself in their fucked up world. What's wrong to us is right to them. You have to flip the compass."
Castiel hummed in consideration. "Mm. What does your moral compass look like, Dean?"
Dean squirmed in his seat a bit. He didn't like this feeling, like his brain was being pulled apart piece by piece. At the same time, it was the most stimulating conversation he'd had in ages. That made sense, of course. Castiel was a sociopath. Charming, intelligent, impeccable social skills. He knew how to keep someone talking. Dean wasn't revealing anything dangerous, though. So, he indulged him.
"The usual. Don't kill, don't steal, don't... Y'know, harm people in general. Don't hurt animals just for the hell of it, don't put other people in danger by driving like a dumbass," he listed off.
Castiel nodded, cocking his head. "I see. Essentially, the word of the law. At least, in the United States."
Dean nodded. "Guess so. Not against weed, though. That shit's stupid. Who cares if someone wants to light up in their own house, ain't hurting anybody," he shrugged. He didn't agree with every single word of the law, but in general, it was his job to uphold it. They were there for a reason. To keep people like the very man in front of him at bay.
He couldn't help but wonder just where Castiel's compass laid. Most murderers had some sort of justification for their actions, or at least their own fucked up reasoning. Sexual gratification, delusion, righteous fury, religious motivation, pure momentary rage.
What was his? Where was the boundary, if any?
"I do have a moral compass of my own, Dean," Castiel said, reading his mind. "I have never harmed an animal intentionally. I see no point in it. They are helpless to fight back. I get no benefit from it, short of perhaps hunting for food," he explained. Dean shrugged. That made enough sense to him. Why he felt a modicum of relief, he couldn't say.
"I do not receive any sexual pleasure from violence. There is a power dynamic that is enjoyable in killing, the feeling of holding a life in your hands, the precision of it. But I have never, and will never, do such a thing. I find the lack of control over one's desires disgusting."
Dean shivered, suddenly very uncomfortably aware of just who he was sitting next to, chatting up.
"So then... why?" he asked hesitantly.
He wasn't sure he wanted to know.
Castiel's gaze sharpened. Dean straightened up, averting his eyes. That seemed like the smart decision.
"I killed people who stood in the way of business. Drug lords, rival members, loose ends. If it helps you sleep at night, I have never killed an innocent. All of them have been just like me." He spoke so coldly, a clinical detachment from his actions like they were as serious to him as firing a business partner. "Your moral compass tends to become skewed, in the eyes of the law at least, in my lifestyle."
Dean said the first thing that came to his mind, fingers stock still against his leg. "I can imagine."
Castiel smirked. "Can you? Empathize with me, I mean?"
Dean didn't need to think long to answer. "ASPD comes from trauma. I'm assuming you're a sociopath, considering the whole pyromania thing you've got going on. Sociopaths are made, psychopaths are born. Something happened to make you who you are. Something happened to make me the way I am. Just... Ended up on opposite sides of the coin."
When Dean finally looks back up, Castiel is still staring. Dean is realizing that seems to be a habit of his. "Insightful," he said lowly, something akin to curiosity in his bright eyes. "I believe you have other duties to attend to, yes?"
Dean does not feel disappointed.
"Yeah, right," he sputtered, getting up to guide Castiel out of the library, walking silently down the hallway. When they finally made it back to the cell, Dean's stomach was turning.
What the fuck was that?
He followed Castiel into the cell, starting with uncuffing his hands, then his waist, before kneeling down to his feet. His hands fumbled over the lock until he finally got it undone, clicking the fetters off his ankles. He looked up, about to stand, when Castiel reached down, stopping him in his tracks.
Dean expected to get hit. To be yanked up by his hair. Something.
Anything except a careful hand cupping his jaw, a calloused thumb brushing across it, light as a feather as Castiel looked down at him with that same ethereal blue stare.
"I enjoyed your company, Dean," he rumbled, gravelly baritone just low enough for Dean to hear in the silent room.
Dean took a sharp breath.
They'd sat and talked for a good half hour.
Dean enjoyed it.
"I... Me too," he admitted shamefully. No use lying, Castiel would see through him like glass.
"There is no need to be ashamed, Dean. I am a criminal, but I am a human like you, believe it or not," his full lips quirked up at the corners. "Everyone craves human connection. Contrary to the antisocial bit," he chuckled deeply.
Dean didn't know whether or not to laugh. He was too busy listening to the loud rushing of blood through his brain, the pounding in his chest. "Stand up, Dean," Castiel commanded softly, dragging his fingertips along his stubbly jaw one last time, releasing him. Dean did as he was told. "It is almost dinner time. Off you go."
Dean didn't bother protesting the slightly condescending statement, scurrying out of the cell like his ass was on fire, blood pressure only settling when the door shut securely behind him.
Krushnic wasn't dangerous to him physically.
The danger is in his mind.
* * * *
There's something in the air after dinner.
Their particular facility is unique, in that prisoners aren't subjected to 23 hour lockup every day. Though, freedoms had to be earned. For the lucky ones on good behavior, or those who could bribe their way out, there was a recreational yard outside, blocked in with barbed wire, electric fencing, and armed guards looking in towers above. Recreational time was strictly monitored, guards on every corner of the small field area.
Most days passed without incident. None of the prisoners wanted to lose their one opportunity to see the sky, to feel something other than concrete beneath their feet.
Today, Dean went out with his hackles raised, fingers carefully positioned on his belt over his taser, the other hanging near his riot baton.
Alastair, the head motherfucker of an Aryan brotherhood gang, didn't give a fuck about losing privileges. He cared about power, and ridding the world of what he deemed to be filth under his shoe. Which meant every single inmate outside the gang, especially anyone outside of his lily-white status quo, were in danger of being squashed.
Dean had been keeping a close eye on him. After just a few years in the business, he knew to trust his intuition, and the way the fucker was slinking around didn’t sit right with him.
Before a single guard could react, the yard devolved into chaos. Alastair and his cronies went for another inmate, a black man named Gordon, beating him with nothing but fists and bo-bos. High-ranking or not, it wasn't easy to get weapons in the prison, not even homemade shivs. While they shouted slurs and obscenities, other inmates came to Gordon’s rescue. Not out of empathy for the man, but visceral hatred for the Nazi fuckface attacking him.
Dean followed the rest of the guards into the fray, yelling orders and separating individual fights breaking out in the chaos. Benny attempted to pull Alastair's henchman off Gordon, while Dean focused on the outskirts.
Alastair just stood back, with that smug fucking smirk.
"Back up!" Dean snapped sharply, shoving two inmates apart and away from the crowd. "I will fucking tase you!"
He made the mistake of turning around. His cheek crunched under the force of a fist meeting it, the hit throwing him to the side, stumbling. He recovered quickly, rubbing his face with a snarl. "Oh you motherfucker-" he hissed, already going for his taser.
He didn’t need to. The inmate, a notorious crackhead, was yanked back by his collar, thrown to the ground viciously with a pathetic cry.
Castiel Krushnic stands above him, murderous.
The guy's been marked, and his face says it all.
"Krushnic, please, I'm sorry, didn't mean to hit him, didn't know he was, please don't kill me–" he pleaded senselessly, crawling up to the mobster's feet, ignoring the yelling and bustling happening around them.
"You have five seconds to run."
Castiel's voice evokes nothing but surety. Whatever hell he has dreamt up for the man, he is a merciful angel of death. If only for a few seconds.
The scrawny man takes him at his word, backing away from the riot a good five feet, still within the eyes of the guards in clear surrender. Though, it's clear who he's truly capitulating to. Dean stood there, baffled, head spinning from the hit while the other guards got Alastair and his gang chained up, dragging them away while the others barked orders to disperse if they hoped to see the sky ever again.
"Are you alright?" Castiel asked, eyeing the blooming bruise on Dean's cheek.
"Fine, I've taken a punch before," Dean said dryly. "Why did you... What was that?" he asked, unable to control the anxiety creeping into his voice. Castiel hummed neutrally.
"I told you. It would be a shame for anything to happen to that pretty face."
Dean grumbled irritably. "Why do you keep saying that? 'S fucking weird."
Castiel shrugged. "It's the truth. I do not get to see many aesthetically pleasing things here, Dean. Art is one of the many pleasures of life we are stripped of." His eyes darkened, something deep in that preternatural blue Dean couldn't bear thinking about. "Looking at you pleases me."
Before Dean could process that information, other prisoners were being whisked away. He had to follow suit. "C'mon, Krushnic. Hands behind your back," he ordered flatly. Castiel complied without protest, allowing Dean to secure the cuffs and lead him out with the rest of the prisoners from the yard.
They walked in silence, as they were supposed to, until they crossed the threshold of Castiel's cell. Dean unlocked the cuffs, watching the man rub his wrists. As he stepped out of the cell, the heavy door slamming shut behind him, his radio buzzed to life.
It was Benny. Dean walked down the hallway to answer, despite knowing Castiel could likely hear him either way.
"You're on Krushnic duty tonight, brother. Good luck all's I gotta say. Don't tell him nothin' you hear me? Fucker'll get up in your brain like a damn parasite."
Dean snorted. Kinda got that already.
"Gotcha, Benny. Have fun in GP." General population was guaranteed to be rowdy tonight. Dean was almost grateful for the silence in the empty hallway. Inmates didn't take kindly to CTQ time. After that stunt, they were guaranteed to stay cooped up for a long while.
Dean took a deep breath, making his way back down the hall to the chair perched in front of the cell, plopping down and crossing his arms over his chest. Castiel was sat on his sofa, idly flicking through a copy of Beyond Good and Evil, shutting the cover to look up at Dean.
"Hello, Dean," he greeted, in that same roughened voice. "It seems we will be in each other's company for some time."
Dean rolled his eyes, a bold action considering who he was sitting in front of. He was getting dangerously casual. He knew he ought to show the man respect. He dragged him out of the fray, and he could throw him back in. He tried to pass it off as somewhat playful, smirking. "What, you think this is a slumber party? You wanna braid each other's hair and gossip about boys?"
Castiel seemed unfazed, beyond a slight huff of laughter. "Considering the length of your hair, and that I am behind steel bars, I don't believe that is an option. I'm happy to indulge you otherwise."
He clearly reveled in the reaction Dean gave him, ears flushing at the tips. Dean had come to terms with his bisexuality long ago, though he didn't like to broadcast it. It was just a thing. So what if he had a thing for cowboys, specifically Doc Holliday, and a childhood crush on Dr. Sexy? He was a man with needs. He'd never been with a man, despite indulging the fantasy. He just hadn't found the right person yet.
Was he that obvious?
Cas took a moment to silently observe, pleased with the internal crisis he'd brought upon Dean. A merciful, malevolent god, he changed the subject.
"Neither of us is going anywhere. What do you say we indulge in a little game of quid-pro-quo?"
Dean scoffed derisively. "You heard Benny. I ain't giving you shit you can tell your buddies on the outside. I don't want any of my friends ending up with a horse head in their bed, thanks."
Castiel chuckled, undeterred. "It's favors for favors, Dean. Anything I say could be used against me, and I'd be powerless to stop you."
Dean considered his words for a moment. He was right, while conversations weren't recorded with a guard on duty, who would believe the mafia boss over the C/O? For the first time in their few interactions, Dean felt he held the power.
"Alright, Hannibal, I'll bite. What do you wanna know?"
Castiel smirked, pausing to move his sofa closer to the bars, almost a proper face-to face conversation, if not for the bars. "Have you ever thought about it?"
Dean cocked his head curiously. "Gonna have to be more specific."
Castiel's face didn't so much as twitch. "Cannibalism."
Dean balked. Maybe he needed the reminder, that the man in front of him was dangerous. He could pull a Dr. Lecter any time Dean entered his cell and rip his face off, and think nothing of it. He steeled his resolve, keeping his posture relaxed, forcibly unbothered as he leaned back in his chair.
"Everyone has dark thoughts. Doesn't mean they like thinking about 'em. Some people just act on them," he said. Nobody went through life without a single violent or disturbing thought, however fleeting or intrusive. Being surrounded by criminals and psychopaths would do that to a man. Dean grew desensitized to it, in a way. He never lost his sense of empathy, held on to that humanity as tightly as he could. But sometimes, you had to disconnect, lest you go insane.
Dean still had nightmares from previous jobs. Working in supermax seemed better by comparison.
"Mm, indeed. You did not answer my question, though," Castiel noted, not about to let Dean's deflection pass. "I'm not implying you have some sort of repressed desire to consume human flesh, Dean. I am asking if you have considered it as a concept. It could be rather romantic in a way, no?"
Dean stared blankly at him. I knew he was crazy, but fucking Christ.
"It could be argued Hannibal loved Clarice so much it became a visceral hunger. To love so much you desire to consume, to be consumed by it. To share one's flesh would be the ultimate show of trust," he elaborated. In a fucked up way, Dean could understand what he meant. Not that he agreed with it, but Castiel had been right, he could empathize with him enough to see things from his insane point of view.
Dean kept his eyes somewhere far in the distance, unable to meet Castiel's intense stare. "Guess I see what you mean. Y'know, in a "I'd get this if I was fucking crazy" kind of way."
So much for showing respect.
Castiel arched an eyebrow, facial expression giving away nothing. He could be contemplating Dean's murder that very second and he'd be none the wiser. "You said something happened to me to make me the way I am, just as something happened to you. What made you the man you are, Dean?" he asked smoothly, leaning forward on his knees with his fingers steepled in front of him, as if Dean was an interesting specimen he was observing in a lab.
"What, you want my tragic backstory?" Dean asked irreverently. Castiel hummed his confirmation.
He's serious.
"Why would I trust you with that?" he asked, closing off his demeanor entirely. He wasn't about to get all weepy in front of a fucking mafioso, hand over his weaknesses on a silver platter. As he always was, Castiel seemed unaffected by his icy tone.
"You do not have to tell me anything, Dean. If you'd prefer to sit here in silence and glare until one of us drops dead or it turns morning, that is an option. Or, if you'd like a book," he offered, gesturing to the small bookshelf behind him. He had a point there, too. As long as Dean didn't get too personal, there wasn't any harm in keeping himself occupied. He was admittedly enticed by the opportunity to parse through the psychology of Castiel, to pick apart a willing participant.
Dean sighed, bringing his gaze back up to meet sharp baby blues. "My mom died in a fire when I was eight. Dad went nuts looking for who started the fire, revenge was all he cared about. Not even his own kids. He just lived chasing ghosts until the whiskey caught up to him."
Castiel nodded thoughtfully. "I am sorry to hear that."
Dean arched an eyebrow at him. "No you aren't."
Castiel's lips twitched upwards, almost pleased. "No, I'm not. But do you think anyone truly means that? "I'm sorry for your loss" is just the polite thing to say. One has no reason to mourn the loss of someone they do not know," he said. Dean shrugged, cocking his head in a slight nod of agreement. "Guess you've got a point there."
"My father indulged in alcohol far too much as well. He had a violent temper, whiskey fanned the flames. One night, when I was twelve, he nearly beat my mother to death. Attempted to sexually assault her. Gabriel was caught in the crossfire as well, trying to protect her. My father was a reckless man, didn't bother to hide his weapons. So, I went out to the garage where he'd drink, got his pistol, and shot him."
Dean's mouth fell open, blinking rapidly as he comprehended the words.
"Shit, man– Jesus Christ," he said breathlessly. "That's horrible."
Castiel nodded, though his face conveyed no emotion as he spoke. No wonder he ended up the way he was. Dean couldn't imagine that kind of trauma. He'd probably go insane if he didn't have that ability to separate his emotions from such a horrific experience. Castiel's lack of empathy was almost a mercy, in his case.
"I loved my mother," Castiel said calmly. "I don't believe she ever looked at me the same way, yet she was grateful to be alive. When I began to involve myself in the business, she did not interfere. I am unsure if she was afraid of me, or had a sense I was only fit for that piece of society."
Dean couldn't help but be curious.
"You can love?" he blurted, intrigued.
Castiel chuckled lowly. "Empathy and remorse have nothing to do with love, Dean. Yes, I could, for example, cheat on a lover and feel nothing. I could harm them and feel nothing. But I can choose not to. If I truly love someone, I view them as an extension of myself. Why would I go out of my way to hurt them in that case?"
Dean nodded in understanding, and Castiel took it as an invitation to continue. "Besides, cheating or harming them would inconvenience me. Ending a relationship comes with backlash, as would domestic violence. I have far more to gain from maintaining relationships."
Castiel leaned forward with a slow creak of leather, staring into Dean's eyes far more intensely than he was comfortable with.
"I suppose love is also a form of entertainment. I told you, I enjoy looking at beautiful things. There is also sex, stimulating conversation, a constant supply of admiration to feed into my narcissism," he grinned wolfishly, teeth pearly white and almost unnervingly perfect, smile gummy and surprisingly human.
"Hm," Dean grunted simply, unable to think of an intelligent response. He'd always just assumed people like Castiel had no capability to love. No two people with his condition were alike, though. He'd never be able to separate empathy from love, but when he truly considered it, he could understand.
"Do you have a lover, Dean?" Castiel asked, like that question didn't come with all kinds of lurid implications. Dean shook his head slowly. "Never been the type for commitment. Don't imagine you are either."
Castiel eyes glistened with amusement. "You would be correct. It is rather awkward when the subject of body count arises."
If Castiel is fucked up, Dean must be right there with him, because he laughs.
"Mine's probably about equal. Not like– Well, not that kind, but, y'know, actually, forget I said anything," Dean waffled. Castiel's grin grew wider with every word, seeming thoroughly entertained by his struggle.
"I can imagine," Castiel said, a purr to his tone that sent a shiver through Dean. That was just another thing that made him dangerous. Castiel was handsome , almost alarmingly so. Tousled pitch black hair, those glacier blue eyes , sharp features with full lips and a scruffy jawline. Dean was sure he used that allure to his advantage in his work. Dean wasn't oblivious to his "pretty" face. He'd used it to his advantage more times than he cared to admit.
Just not for the same purposes as the man before him.
"Are you alright, Dean?"
When Dean snapped out of his reverie, he realized with a cringe that he'd been staring. Castiel sat there, hands folded primly under his chin, smirk knowing and proud about it.
"There you are. What is your family like now? You already know all about mine. I believe it's only fair," Castiel said. Dean tensed. "I ain't telling you anything about my family. What's stopping you from sending your goons after 'em if I piss you off?"
The silence that falls over the room is deafening. Dean almost wants to cower under Castiel's glower, but he stood firm. He would not put Sam in danger. He would jump in front of a bullet for the kid, sell his soul if it meant saving his life. He was his son as much as he was his brother.
"What's stopping me from having you killed?"
Dean's blood turned to ice.
"I'm asking you, Dean. Why do you think I have not had you killed?"
Dean attempted to gather his bearings, recover from the heart-dropping fear that consumed his body. He cleared his throat, attempting to sound sure of himself, coming out more as a weak mumble. "I haven't pissed you off yet," he said frankly.
Castiel cocked his head in that robotic way of his. "You have rolled your eyes at me, made several rude comments. All typically things that would piss me off. Try again, Dean. Why do you believe I have not had you killed?"
Dean's heart rate kicked up instantly, throat bone dry. His relaxed slump was now as tight as a soldier at attention, petrified. "I... Uh."
Castiel chuckled, watching Dean's eyes flicker nervously around the room. "Relax, Dean. I'm not going to hurt you, nor have you hurt on my behalf. I would not have protected you were that the case." When Dean finally brought his eyes back to his, Castiel hummed to himself, a pleased sound. "You entertain me, Dean. And, as I said, I do not get to see beautiful things anymore. You are objectively beautiful. Killing you would be disappointing."
Dean's cheeks flushed against his will. It wasn't every day someone just said that to him, like it was the easiest thing in the world. He supposed that came with the disregard of social norms. Castiel could say anything he wanted without any fear or shame.
Dean gulped, trying to wet his dry throat. "Uh... Thanks?" he said, voice coming out mortifyingly high.
Castiel smiled, unnerving in its sincerity. "You are welcome. How do you normally handle your night shifts?"
Dean relaxed, leaning back in his chair with a weary laugh. "Lots of coffee and sheer power of will. General pop's a fuckin' nightmare most of the time. How'd you get a whole place to yourself, anyway?" He knew the answer, likely boiled down to bribery, but he'd be lying if he said he didn't appreciate the small talk. Better than staring at a beige corner in silence while his mind wandered.
"Pulling the many strings I have access to, as you might imagine," Castiel answered, shrugging. "Gabriel is similarly situated. For the same reason. We have much more pull in this area than people know."
Dean made a disbelieving "pfff" noise, staring at the man sardonically. "Trust me, everyone knows. You're practically a god here." He regretted his wording slightly, boosting Castiel's likely over-inflated ego, but he didn't seem to react. The cogs in Dean's brain began to turn as he squinted, trying to see straight through Castiel's skull to the confounding mind beneath.
"If you have so much pull over the police, why are you here?"
Castiel's lips upturned slowly, devilish. "Curious boy, aren't you?" he cooed, voice low and teasing.
Dean huffed, rolling his eyes. Sure, at twenty-four he was one of the youngest C/Os, but he commanded just as much respect as any of them. Though Castiel had a decade and a half on him, forty was considered remarkably young for his field as well.
Dean wasn't sure how he felt about sharing something in common with him.
"I ain't a boy," he protested. Castiel eyed him up, as if finding his firm protests as charming as a barking puppy at his feet. "Mhm. Would you like a cup of coffee?"
Dean stared at him like he had three heads. "You have a fucking coffee maker?" He must have paid every guards' salary for the next year with those kinds of accommodations. Castiel nodded casually, standing from his sofa to walk towards the back of the room to a nook in the left corner slightly obscured from view. "How do you take it?" Castiel called out.
"Uh, black's fine." Dean liked cream and sugar. He wasn't about to admit that. Why it felt like some sort of affront to his masculinity he wasn't sure, all he knew was none of the other guards took it that way, so he didn't either.
Castiel leaned back around the corner, arching an eyebrow at him while the coffee maker bubbled to life.
"Cream and sugar. If you have it," Dean relented.
Castiel hummed, pleased with his answer, and got back to work. After a few minutes, he popped out from the corner, making his way back to the bars and setting down his own cup next to the sofa, coming to stand in front of the barrier expectantly.
Dean slowly rose from his seat, careful, like the man could break free and choke the life from him at any moment. Or just throw hot coffee in his face for the hell of it.
"I'm not an animal, Dean. As I said, hurting you doesn't benefit me. Having to look at burns on your face for weeks would be irritating. Or, should you decide not to return, I would get bored. Either way, take the coffee," he commanded, though his tone was light. Dean stepped toward the bars, reaching out as the man slid his arm through, offering the cup.
Dean took it carefully, not wanting to splash onto either of their hands, fingertips brushing. It was odd, feeling skin on skin with someone he'd build up in his head as an untouchable monster. To be fair, he'd had people killed for putting their hands on him before. Such a simple brush was pretty massive progress for him. But it was in fact human skin, just like his own. Calloused, with thick veins along his arms and the corded muscles in his hands.
Castiel didn’t pull back, waiting for Dean to do so. Dean drew back his hand, giving a small nod as he made his way back over to his chair. “Uh, thanks, and everything,” he said, stilted with the revelation that the man in front of him was in fact human, minus the pesky feelings like guilt and empathy.
“You’re welcome, Dean.” Castiel took a small sip from his cup, despite the steam still pouring off of it. Dean chose not to question it, still letting his own cool.
“Do you believe I will not have your family murdered in cold blood now?” Castiel asked, a hint of cheek to it. Dean thought about it. “I don’t know where my dad ended up, so if you find him, let me know.” That got a chuckle from Castiel. “All’s I got is my kid brother.”
“Kid?” Castiel cocked his head curiously. “Is he quite a bit younger?”
Dean chuckled, picturing his “kid” brother towering over him in his lawyerly suit. “Four years. Still my baby brother though, y’know?”
Castiel smiled, this one seeming more genuine than Dean had seen before. “You grew up without a mother, and it seems without a father. Did you raise your brother?”
Dean chuckled to himself, a somber, bitter sound. “Got that impression, did you?”
Castiel took a slow sip of his coffee, looking at Dean over the rim before setting it back down in his lap. “You have a caretaker quality that would suggest that, yes.”
Dean couldn’t argue with that. “Had my uncle, though. Took care of us on nights it got bad, practically adopted us when Dad’s mind jumped ship.” Castiel nodded, appearing to be genuinely interested in Dean’s pathetic life story. “Is he still alive?”
Dean smiled fondly to himself. “Yep, still kickin’. Metaphorically at least. He wound up wheelchair bound, but the stubborn bastard won’t let anyone help him but his friend Rufus. Was rough on him for the first year or so, but he toughened right up. Too hardheaded to quit.”
“I see. And your brother?”
Dean smiled brightly at the thought. If there was one thing in his life he could be proud of, it was Sammy. Regardless of his mistakes, of all the foolish things he’d done in his relatively short life, he would never regret how that kid wound up. He sure as hell didn’t get it all right, but he did enough to make him the man he was.
“Law kinda runs in the family, I guess. He went the academic route, though. I saved up enough to get him in the door at Stanford, the rest of it was all him. Made partner at a firm, fiancée, everything I could want for him.” Dean’s smile drooped at the corners. While he was incredibly proud of his little brother, there would always be that dark voice creeping in the back of his mind, the one that whispered venom in his ear.
Never good enough. The failed brother, nothing but a high school drop out, daddy’s perfect soldier riddled with PTSD and alcoholism. Getting this gig was the closest thing to success he’d ever done. And what a life it was, getting decked in the face, catcalled, and spat on, all while his fellow guards leered at him just for being younger, for being less than.
“And what of yourself, Dean?” Castiel asked, seeing right through to the core of him.
“I… What do you mean?” Dean knew damn well. Castiel had read him like a book their entire conversation, he wasn’t going to stop now.
“Your own life, your career path, your relationships. Are you at peace with it?” Castiel asked. How fucked up was Dean’s life that the only man to ever ask such a thing, to care to ask, was behind the bars of a supermax prison cell?
Nonetheless, if he lied, Castiel would know. He could change the subject, which would be an answer in itself. Or, he could revert back to guard mode, snap at him to shut up, and stare into the blank wall for the next eight hours.
“What do you think? I’m 24 years old making seventeen an hour for terrorists and child molesters to yell at me all the fucked up shit they want to do to me for a living. High school dropout, single and barely makin’ rent.”
He hadn’t meant for all of that to come out at once. Maybe it had been building up for years, a boiling pot, and Castiel had ripped the lid off. Dean just spilled.
Castiel regarded him for a silent moment, contemplative. “You were essentially a teenage father, it is unsurprising school was not your priority. You are intelligent, getting a GED has no bearing on that. The pay rate for correctional officers in New York is ten percent below the national average, or, it was the last I was able to check. That is no reflection of the difficulty of the career you have chosen.”
Was he trying to comfort him?
“Rent, again to my limited knowledge, is highly disproportionate to minimum wage for everyone. As for your relationship status,” Castiel paused, giving Dean a meaningful once-over that made goosebumps rush over his skin. He felt like prey, yet simultaneously, a magnificent piece of art being admired in a museum. “As I have said, you are an attractive man, intelligent, and sociable. I imagine if you were to “put yourself out there,” you would have no difficulty finding a suitable partner.”
Dean snorted, eyebrows shooting up to his hairline as his mouth ran away with him. “Could say the same about you. You don’t got a moll waiting for you on the outside? Don’t see you getting any conjugal visits.” He hoped the joke smoothed over the fact that he’d accidentally thrown Castiel’s high praise of him right back at him.
It did not work, judging by the grin that crept onto his lips. “Мужу.”
“What?” Of course Dean had heard Castiel speak in Russian before, passing by him speaking quietly with Gabriel, but hearing it roll off his tongue in conversation with himself was… jarring.
“Husband. I have no interest in a moll ,” he said, amusement in his tone as he quoted Dean’s wording back at him. Dean processed the information he’d been given slowly.
Suddenly, all that staring looked less like a threat and more akin to desire.
“ Oh. Uh. Sorry, just, y’know, assumed. Ain’t a problem or nothin’, I’m uh, me too. Not exclusively, but–” he trailed off, shifting under Castiel’s bemused staring, the grin curling further up his face with every stuttered word. “The answer is no. I do not have a mужу on the outside either.”
Dean nodded awkwardly. “That’s… Sorry?”
Castiel shook his head with a low chuckle. “I suppose I am “waiting for the right person.” My career path and disposition are a tad much for most.”
Dean cracked a smile. “You know what they say, there’s someone out there for everyone. You could find the Bonnie to your Clyde. Or… The Dickie to your Ripley?” Dean took another sip of his coffee, popping his lips. “Working a lot kinda screws everyone over. There’s a reason lawyers are called sharks and doctors are married to their work,” he said.
“Lotta relationships ended that way. Took work home too much. Tends to get tense when your work’s takin’ care of the worst of the worst day in day out.”
Or giving relationship advice to a pillar of the Russian mafia, apparently.
Castiel hummed, contemplative. “Have you ever considered going back to school?”
Dean shook his head somberly. “Nah. Can’t afford it.”
“Mm. You did not save any of the college fund for yourself?”
It made sense that he’d ask that. His nature was to consider his own benefit first. Dean could almost see the peace in that. It would be nice to not feel the weight of the world on his shoulders constantly, to be so burdened by all of his guilt and contrition, to finally put himself above other people for once in his life.
Maybe Castiel had something to teach him about his own psychology. Maybe their quid-pro-quo could be a balanced exchange.
“No,” he answered simply, shrugging. That wasn’t a road he felt safe traveling down. The more he told Castiel about Sam, the more danger he was in, no matter what he said. The more he delved into the course of his life the past ten years–
The more you have to look in the mirror.
“Who was the worst person you killed?” Dean asked, cutting as far away from himself or his personal life as he could get. Castiel seemed to have no qualms with talking about himself. That, and that dark part of Dean’s brain they’d delved into was intrigued. Castiel had a moral compass, apparently. Dean wanted to know where it laid. Does a monster killing a monster make a right?
“Worst by moral standards? A serial child rapist and murderer. My motive was not business related. Preying on children is pathetic for the same reason as preying on animals. They are helpless. He was a weak person with even weaker self control. The world is a better place without him.”
Dean couldn’t argue with that. “Why would you care if the world is a better place?” he pressed further.
“Society existing with a certain level of control benefits me. Particularly a society without spineless people such as him. So, killing him benefitted me. Beyond the pleasure I got from doing it,” he said, as casually as one would describe a pleasant trip to the beach. Dean’s stomach turned with conflicting emotion. He was talking about a child molester, someone who, on a fucked up hierarchy of fucked-up-ness, was far worse.
But that could be anyone in his place.
“Would you kill just for fun?”
Castiel shrugged. “There are many other things I consider fun. Sex, namely. The high of killing would wear off as any other drug would, and the chance of being caught would increase.”
Dean nodded thoughtfully. “And prison is Hell for people like you because of the boredom. Lack of stimulation. Keeping your freedom benefits you more than a temporary high,” he said, clicking the pieces into place. It was fascinating, putting together the parts of Castiel’s brain, putting himself in entirely unfamiliar shoes, though he couldn’t do the same.
Castiel grinned, a sharpness to it, as if pleased by Dean’s coming around. “Clever boy. You can empathize with me.”
“So… What do you do here? Besides make coffee and read?”
Dean flushed at the suggestive glint in his eye. “What would you?”
Dean stared at him, sputtering. “You’re… You’re under 24/7 surveillance.”
Castiel looked nonplussed. “Everyone here is. You haven’t seen a single prisoner jacking off? Fucking in the showers?”
Hearing the lurid words coming from a man so controlled in his demeanor had Dean taken slightly aback. He realized, for all Castiel’s talk about cold-blooded murder, it was talking about sex that did him in.
“Uh… fair point. One guy flicked his jizz onto my face.” Dean cringed at the memory, recalling how he’d scrubbed his face raw in the bathrooms with those shitty brown paper towels that felt like sandpaper. “Wasn’t allowed to beat his ass, wasn’t considered violent enough. Just the usual sexual harassment.”
Castiel’s lip curled up in a snarl, the closest to visible anger Dean had seen him, and it was terrifying. He hadn’t even looked like that when Dean had been punched.
“Which one?” he asked, voice toneless, alarmingly flat.
“Doesn’t matter,” Dean snorted bitterly. “Ain’t allowed to do anything about it.”
“Which one,” Castiel repeated, slower. Decidedly not a question that time.
Maybe Dean has a death wish.
“What happens if I don’t tell you?”
If Castiel is angry at that, Dean can’t tell. His eyes ice over, rage contained like a controlled forest fire. The only reaction is a twitch of a brow.
“Alistair.”
Dean’s answer is apparently the expected one. All from the flicker in Castiel’s eye, something between amusement and derision.
“You already knew,” Dean said.
“Suspected.”
“You just wanted me to confirm it for you?”
“Yes.”
Dean swallowed dryly. He felt like he’d failed some sort of test, and he was fucking disappointed about it. “Did I fail your test?”
Like a flash, Castiel’s expression changed, a sly, pleased smirk. “Quite the opposite.”
Dean felt like he had whiplash. It took him a few seconds to catch up. That anger he’d let “slip,” though deadly serious in appearance, was fake. Or maybe it wasn’t. Maybe he wanted him to think that so he could avoid the appearance of losing control. In all of a few sentences, a few minute shifts of expression, he had Dean’s head spinning.
What was the point of it? He didn’t do things without a motive. There had to be something there, even if just to freak Dean out for entertainment.
“What… What was that?” Dean asked bluntly. He didn’t know if he’d be told the truth. He’d just have to trust Castiel’s word on that.
Trust the sociopath. Brilliant idea.
“Would you kill, given the choice? No repercussions, one freebie, if you will," Castiel said apropos of nothing, dodging the question as he so expertly seemed to do . Or, he was just throwing Dean’s own deflection back in his face.
Dean balked at the idea, reflexively snapping "Of course I wouldn't."
Castiel's brow twitched upward, the slightest indication of doubt.
"I..." Dean thought about it. Really thought about it. Analyzed that little dark corner of his brain, the one everyone had, the one that had to remain unspoken.
"We never caught who set the fire," he said, venom on his tongue.
Castiel hummed in acknowledgement. "You'd kill him?"
Dean hesitated less than he'd like to admit to himself. "Yes."
"How would you do it?" Castiel seemed to know the answer, but judging by his expression, Dean surprised him.
"With my hands."
"Hm. I assumed you would give him the same fate. An eye for an eye, as it were," he said, almost looking pleasantly surprised. Dean didn't know how he felt about that.
"Most people in fires die from smoke inhalation. Being set on fire would hurt, but you'd pass out from shock in seconds," Dean said. "I... I want him to see me do it."
Castiel's eyes darkened, predatory. "You want to see the light go out."
Dean's stomach roiled with self-hatred. With revulsion at himself. With shock.
"Yeah. Guess I do."
Castiel seemed to read his tight body language instantly. Dean wondered what he was getting out of this, if he was just getting off on his mental torment. But then, maybe he wouldn't have changed the subject. He was bored, Dean was giving him someone to talk to. Maybe subject matter was no object to him.
"What was your mother like?"
Dean chuckled sardonically. "That's some weak psychiatry. You psychoanalyzing me?”
Castiel smirked at him, defiant. "You're not writing a paper on my intricately fucked up psyche in your mind this very moment? Quelle surprise." This got a genuine laugh from Dean, even if he was just relieved for the change of tone. He loved to talk about his mother. It hurt, made his ribcage feel like a vice around his broken heart, but it wasn't fair not to. She deserved to have someone keep her memory alive.
"She was amazing," Dean whispered, eyes drifting far in the distance, to a memory long passed. "Course I'm gonna say that, she's my mom, but she was. Stubborn as an ox, kept my dad in line. She had this dry sense of humor, too, kind of dark and witty. Guess I got all that from her," he chuckled fondly. "Sammy got her sweet side. Wants to fix everything, take care of everyone, carry the world on his shoulders. Guess that's why he's in law."
Dean decided to turn the question around. He'd prodded into the dark matter of Castiel's brain. He wanted to find the human underneath.
"What about yours? You said you loved her. You were willing to kill to protect her. What was she like?"
The flicker of surprise across Castiel's face is gone just as quick as it showed. "She was not part of the Bratva. Most are born into it, I was initiated. Though, she was born in Russia in 1942. I would not have been considered were I not of Russian blood. Krushnic comes from her side of the family, Novak is my father's."
Dean nodded, lips forming an "o" in realization. "She was alive when..."
"Yes. She was ten when Stalin died. She knew what it was to suffer. She did not want her children to grow up in the same environment. She did everything in her power to spoil us. If she were my only parent, I suppose I would not have the mind I do. She had quite poor taste in men, though," Castiel said wryly, chuckling to himself.
"Were I not a sociopath, I would be plagued with those memories. With guilt. With empathy for her pain. I do not wish to experience those things," he said frankly. "I do not envy the burden on your shoulders, Dean. You seem to have both to the umpteenth degree."
Dean found it disturbing just how easily Castiel looked through him, like he was crystal glass. If he were, it was cracked and full of bourbon.
Castiel tilted his head, standing up from his seat and creeping towards the bars. Even with the barrier, with several feet between them, Dean cowed under that piercing stare. He just looked for a moment, considering.
"You don't think you deserve to be saved."
Dean jolted back slightly, blinking dumbly. "What? What does that even mean?"
Castiel began to pace, slow and leisurely back and forth across the bars as he spoke. "You're miserable in your current life. Yet, you keep yourself there. You could have a new job, new relationships, you could get on the road and never look back. Yet, you stay. I presume your brother lives in California, you could go be with him. Yet, you stay." He stopped in his tracks, hands folded primly behind his back.
"Because you don't think you deserve a way out. You don't think you deserve to be pulled from the Hell you've found yourself in."
Well, that's Dean told, isn't it? So much for not telling him anything.
"I guess not," Dean confessed softly. "Just... Sammy's got it made up there, y'know? He don't need his big brother hanging over his shoulder anymore."
He don't need me at all. Better off for it, actually.
"Your self esteem is markedly low," Castiel noted, cerebral and entirely accurate. "How do you define a good man, Dean?"
"Not you," Dean quipped, happy to have an opportunity to deflect. Castiel chuckled lowly. "If you know what a good man is not, then you can tell me what a good man is.”
Dean thought about it. He knew what was important to him. All of the values his father instilled in him. Protect and provide for his family, look after your brother, boy, be chivalrous (but only towards women), be as impenetrable as Teflon. Not all of them were good.
"I guess... A good man doesn't hurt his lady. He provides, he protects, he sets a good example. He cares about other people. Cares about his family. But family don't end in blood. Heelin' to a master don't make you a good man, it makes you a good dog," he added weakly. He wasn't good at emotions. He wasn't good at kindness, at softness, at all the things his mother was. But Dean was a good dog.
A dog trained to bite.
"Your father is the master in this scenario," Castiel said, not a question. Dean shrugged in reluctant agreement. "Dad was a Marine. Just thought it was his job to raise us up tough, y'know?" A smile crept onto Dean's lips. The memories of John and Sam's many arguments weren't pleasant ones, but damn if he didn't respect the hell out of the kid for daring so much.
"Mm. And you carried that instinct with you. You are very good at what you do for it," Castiel said, seeming genuine in the compliment, though Dean would never truly be able to tell through the mask. "Sometimes it's nice following orders, isn't it?"
Dean looked up just before his cup met his lips, confused.
"You spent your whole life making the decisions for your brother, being a parent far too young. Expected to be a leader, to be an example, to be a perfect soldier. But..." Castiel strolled back over to the middle of the cell, standing in front of Dean. "Isn't it nice to put the choices in someone else's hands? To be free of the responsibility, a burden lifted from your shoulders?"
Dean, despite knowing there was no way to break the distance between them, was overcome with the unsettling sense of being cornered.
"Your work orders are mundane, unpleasant. Likely having responsibilities delegated to you rather than passing them on, yes?"
Dean nodded slowly, hesitantly. He had no feel for where the fuck this was going. He felt like he was on unstable ground, teetering with no way of knowing what lay underneath.
"Wouldn't it be nice to lay those responsibilities at someone else's feet for a change? I don't believe you've relaxed a day in your life, Dean. Not since you understood what was expected of you. But you do it anyway." There's something in Castiel's eyes Dean can't place, but it's heavy over him like a blanket. He can't decide if it's comforting, or if he's going to be smothered.
"Because you're good,” Cas said, his gruff voice much lower than it was before, a purr like honey whiskey. "Not just a good soldier. You're a good listener, a good brother, a good father. A good boy."
A chill travelled down Dean's spine, the tips of his ears going hot. Castiel's flirting had been subtle, though he was blunt about his sexual desires as a whole. That was undeniable.
Some twisted, shriveled part of Dean reveled in his unabashed staring, in that undivided attention.
What kind of person was he that the first person to look at him like that, to truly get to know him in almost eight years was behind bars for life?
What kind of person was he to like it?
"I told you I ain't a boy. You're only like... fourteen years older."
Castiel stared at him, that smug, thoroughly entertained expression unwavering. "Sixteen."
"Sixteen," Dean conceded testily, jaw working. "Look, I gotta take a leak. Don't... Y'know, go anywhere," he said dryly. Castiel gave a cheeky two-finger salute. "Hadn't planned on it, but now that you mention it..."
Dean gave him what could only be described as the stink eye, getting up and crushing his empty styrofoam cup to toss in the garbage can. There were two doors to the individual bathrooms just across from the cells, so a guard was never more than a few feet away. He scurried off to the bathroom a bit faster than strictly necessary, shutting and locking the door behind him with a relieved breath. It felt like a weight off his shoulders, being out from under that invasive stare for just a few minutes.
Dean's skin still felt too tight for his body.
He unzipped his fly, dreading what he already knew. Hot shame flooded through him like venom in his bloodstream, face going red, eyes stinging with mortification.
He was half-hard, all from a look and a few simple words.
Dean Winchester, the resident fuck-up brother with a dead-end job and barely making ends meet. Why not add so desperate to feel wanted he'll accept it from anyone, including pyromaniacal murderers to the list?
He hated his body. He hated his primal, pathetic brain, clinging to the first affectionate words he'd heard in ages. He cursed himself quietly, so as not to be heard through the door. The last thing he needed was Castiel knowing.
He wanted to cry. He wanted to scream. He wanted to peel his skin off, to remove his brain and wash it clean of whatever the fuck made him the disgusting pervert he was in that very moment. He forced his breath to even out, roughly swiping away any tears that dared escape. He tried to explain it away, to quell the overwhelming self-hatred just long enough to make it through the night. It was an involuntary reaction, it was just the friction of his pants, it could happen for absolutely no reason.
He knew none of them were true, not with Castiel's rough purr ringing through his mind on repeat. It didn't hurt to try.
Maybe he could take Castiel's suggestion. Get out of this place, run away, leave everything behind.
Just go.
Dean had thought about it more times than he'd care to admit. He couldn't do that to Sammy. He couldn't leave him with funeral bills on top of school. Though, leaving him with his ample life insurance was a tempting thought.
He shook his head furiously, actually taking a piss like he intended, going through the motions. He could pretend. Maybe, if he did it long enough, he could feel normal. Function like everything was fine. It was one of the few things he was good at, after all. He washed his hands quickly, scrubbing the skin a bit raw before splashing cool water over his face. His nose and eyes would still be red, the green tended to stick out against a bloodshot canvas, but he couldn't be bothered.
He just wanted this shift to be over. Maybe forever.
He took a deep, grounding breath, finally opening the door and heading back to his chair in what he hoped was a casual saunter. Castiel's eyes followed his every step until he sat back down.
"Hello again, Dean," he said neutrally, no obvious indication that he knew anything. Though, Dean wouldn't be surprised with how easily he seemed to see right through him. "Are you alright?"
There it was.
"Yeah, 'course. Allergies. Fuckin' sandpaper for paper towels here, rubbing your nose hurts like a bitch," he said, knowing full well his over-explaining didn't exactly come off as inconspicuous. He wasn't about to admit weakness. He'd be safer as an antelope flaunting a broken leg by the watering hole.
"I am familiar, yes," Castiel agreed, either somehow not noticing the fumbling, or deliberately overlooking it. "It is getting late. I think I will lie down for the night," he said, crushing his cup and tossing it through the bars into the trash can, despite having his own.
"Dude, you just had coffee," Dean scoffed, not unlike the same way he'd tease Sammy. It was purely reflexive, instincts jumping in to cover up any emotion he let slip through before. Castiel just shrugged, standing up from his chair and stretching over his head. "Caffeine does not tend to have any effect anymore."
Dean shook his head, sighing. "Heard that. But, yeah, I'll still, y'know, be here," he said, gesturing vaguely around him. Castiel made his way towards the back of the cell, still within eye line given the bed was a single, normal mattress, not the towering metal bunk monstrosities in GP. He grabbed a book from the small shelf, walking back over to slide it under the bars.
That copy of Slaughterhouse Five.
“I imagine you’ll get bored. That is, unless you have a somnophilia kink,” Castiel quipped, grinning wolfishly. Dean scoffed, standing to pick up the book. “Go to sleep,” he huffed.
Maybe it should unnerve him, how easy it is to talk with Castiel.
Castiel walked back over to his bed, pulling his white undershirt over his head wordlessly, tossing it aside, exposing his tattooed torso. Dean made a point not to stare, though it was hard for the bright, expansive artwork to not catch his eye.
"Goodnight, Dean," he called out, flopping against the pillow and tugging the blanket over him. Yet another moment where he looked oddly human, just a small lump nestled under a blanket, rising and falling with each steady breath.
"Night, Cas," Dean responded. He didn't catch what he'd said until he heard Castiel's low chuckle from the bed, the last sound before his breathing deepened, falling into unconsciousness.
Not Krushnic, not Novak, not Castiel.
Cas.