Chapter Text
Fridays were often busy, though Cas had never quite figured out why. Whatever the reason, he was grateful for it: from the moment he opened at 9, there was a steady stream of customers, most of whom bought something, and that made it easier to push all thoughts of the Fellowship to the back of his mind. And then there was Dean's music, too: only days ago, it had been a source of irritation, an intrusion into his quietude, but now he found it strangely comforting – a reminder that he wasn't alone, that his lover was right next door. He was even starting to recognise particular songs, and more than once, he found himself humming along, surprised by his own enjoyment.
Just before midday, he locked up and headed into Impala Records, doing his best to suppress his own nerves. Opening the door, however, he was surprised to find Dean laughing with the barista from Well Bread, a pretty, dark-skinned girl with a mass of bright red hair; the one Dean had said was cute. As he entered, they both turned, clearly caught in the middle of an engaging conversation. Cas had never been prone to jealousy – though in fairness, that was as much due to circumstance as because it went against his nature – but his stomach lurched all the same. He'd expected Dean to be alone; he didn't know why the barista was there, and her presence left him feeling exposed.
'Hi!' she said, giving him a friendly wave. 'I'm Anna. You're Cas, right?'
'Yeah,' he said, hating his own confusion. 'I, ah – Dean?'
His lover looked guilty. 'Sorry, Cas. I would've mentioned it earlier, but I forgot. Anna's a friend, and seeing as how she's looking for work, I've hired her on to help out, just casual, you know.' He hurried over, squeezing his hand in apology.
'That's fine,' Cas managed to say. 'I just, ah, the police –'
'I know. We can go right now.' Dean turned back to Anna. 'Think you'll be all right on your own?'
Anna gave a lazy salute. 'I know these trenches. I'll be fine.' And then, to Cas, with a playful grin, 'Nice work on his neck, by the way. Very impressive.'
Cas was utterly baffled. He looked to Dean for an explanation, and only then did he notice the string of purpling marks his teeth had made. His eyes went wide, and for an awful moment, he was caught between mortification that a complete stranger knew anything about his sex life, flustered pleasure at the morning's adventures, and surprise that he hadn't noticed earlier.
'Oh, ah, I, ah –' he stuttered, and almost collapsed with relief when Dean, rather than teasing him, gave his hand another squeeze and said to Anna, 'Behave yourself. We'll be back later!', gently pulling Cas out of the store and not letting go until they reached the Impala.
Silently, they both climbed in. Dean buckled his belt, but didn't start the engine. Cas looked at him, waiting, his stomach too full of knots to speak.
Finally, Dean said, 'I'm sorry. I really did forget she was starting today.'
'That's OK,' Cas said, nervously. 'It's just, you haven't really mentioned her, but you're – I mean, you've talked to her about me. I wasn't expecting it.'
Dean winced. 'Sorry. I never meant to say anything – she just sort of, uh, figured it out, and once she had, there didn't seem to be much point in pretending otherwise.' He went quiet for a moment. 'Other than you, she's the first friend I've made here. I should have told you. I should have remembered –'
'No!' The refusal burst from him with unexpected force; he was so upset that, even knowing it was completely irrational, he kept on tripping over his words. 'No, I mean, you don't owe me an explanation, I don't own you, I have no right – it's not, I mean, it's not like that, I'm just – it's just today , I thought you'd be alone and I didn't – this is pathetic, I know it's pathetic, she was perfectly nice and I just froze up, I shouldn't –'
Dean kissed him, a sweet, firm peck that silenced him utterly. Pulling back, he smiled. 'Let's just agree we're both idiots,' he said. 'How does that sound?'
Shakily, Cas pulled himself together. 'I can live with that.' He took a deep breath, and as Dean started the engine, he made himself ask, 'Any news?'
Dean hesitated. 'A little. Some police were shot, and there was a flashbang that went off in the compound, but that's it. No information released on anyone inside who might be injured.'
'Oh.'
They pulled away from the curb, and Cas hunched his shoulders, knowing what he had to say, but also that it would hurt. He shut his eyes, and somehow, that made it easier.
'My mother's real name is Julia Fairchild, but when we moved in with the Fellowship, she started going by Julia-Mary. My sisters are called Clarity and Evidence.' His throat tightened. 'Clarity should be sixteen by now, Evi about twelve.'
He opened his eyes, and found that Dean was looking at him. 'I'll remember that,' he said, softly. And then, in a curious tone, 'So, where did Novak come from?'
Cas's mouth twisted. 'I picked it out of the phone book when I turned eighteen. I wanted to get a fresh start. Almost changed my first name, too. I hated it growing up; I was always teased. But part of me thought, if my family ever gets free of the Fellowship, I should leave them a way to find me. There aren't too many Castiels out there, they could track me down. And it was... well, in a way, it was all I had left of my mother. Of who she used to be, before the desert. Not that she was perfect before then, but it was still better.'
They stopped at a set of lights, the engine rumbling like a big cat's purr, and despite everything, Cas realised he was starting to feel a bit fond of the big, stupid car. It was ludicrous, but it had character, and somehow, Dean looked more at home behind the wheel than he ever did in his store.
'I'm sure they're all fine, Cas,' he said, after a moment. 'I mean, the police are making a mess of things now, but they'll get everyone out OK in the end.'
It was a pleasant lie, and they both knew it, but Cas appreciated the effort.
'Of course,' he said.
They drove the rest of the way in silence.
*
Walking into the police station, Dean felt nervous. After the encounter with Anna and their talk about the Fellowship, Cas had retreated into himself, and the whole necessity of being there was putting him on edge. Still, at least they weren't kept waiting: without any preamble, the duty officer lead them through to the interview rooms, where they were introduced to one Sergeant Harris, who was evidently expecting them. He greeted Cas with a handshake and acknowledged Dean with a polite nod.
'This shouldn't take too long,' he said, motioning Cas towards a small room.
Dean caught Cas's eye and said, 'Do you want me to stay with you?' It was technically allowed, though sometimes frowned on, but he'd rather risk annoying the sergeant than abandoning Cas.
In answer, Cas shook his head, forcing a thin smile. 'It's all right. You don't need to.'
It wasn't really a no, but with Sergeant Harris looking bored at the delay and the duty officer clearly keen to get back to his post, there wasn't any space to push the issue.
'You can wait in the lounge,' said the duty officer. 'Follow me, please.'
With a final glance at Cas, Dean complied, and found himself taken to a square, open room furnished with two beige coffee tables, some dilapidated lounges, a drinks machine, and a wall-mounted TV, which several other officers were watching over lunch.
'Thanks,' said Dean. His guide grunted, leaving him to take a seat.
Not feeling like he was in a position to ask for the remote, Dean was forced to watch a series of too-bright, too-loud commercials, and then the tail end of a daytime soap. The officers were clearly ironic fans, laughing and murmuring to each other about various implausibilities in the plot while mimicking the dialogue. The credits rolled over a closing montage that was straight out of the eighties; Dean chuckled despite himself, and the other officers grinned at him in brief camaraderie.
Two more commercials, one for deodorant and one for chocolate, and then a news bulletin came on. Dean tensed, and in the brief seconds between the station logo flashing up and the newsreader opening her mouth, he found himself hoping there'd be no mention of Nevada or the Fellowship; that events would be at a standstill, and therefore undeserving of air time. The media, however, had other ideas, and sure enough, the siege was once again the lead story.
'Turn it up, Nick,' said one of the officers. 'God, these fuckin' clowns and crazies. Whole thing's a mess.'
You don't know the half of it , Dean thought.
'We now go live to our local correspondent, Michael O'Hare,' the blonde newsreader chirruped, turning side on as a middle-aged man with windblown hair appeared on a screen to her left. 'Michael, can you hear us out there?'
The screen cut fully to O'Hare, who was standing in much the same vantage point as the last reporter Dean had seen: a desert backdrop broken by the barest corner of a tall, mesh fence.
'Yes I can, Crystal, and after the dramatic events of last night, the authorities here are still on high alert outside the Fellowship compound. There's no word yet on whether the flash grenade that was allegedly misfired into a crowded room has resulted in any casualties, but I am now in a position to reveal that the second of two officers shot on duty overnight, Sergeant Kendra Carson, has just gone into surgery, with doctors saying the next few hours will be critical to her recovery. Ah –' He turned aside, speaking to someone off camera. 'What? What are you seeing?'
'Michael?' The screen split, cutting back to the first newscaster. 'Is something happening?'
'I don't know. I think –' O'Hare returned to full screen, '– one of the cameramen may have just spotted some movement in the compound, but we're not clear –'
And then, from the doorway, someone said, 'I've finished. We can – Dean?'
It was Cas; Dean stood and turned, heart pounding – oh god, he needs to get out of here, now – but it was too late. Cas's eyes were fixed on the TV, his exit blocked by Sergeant Harris, who had also stopped to watch, his solid bulk filling the doorway. Dean swallowed, moving to Cas's side.
'Come on, we don't have to watch this.'
'No. I need –'
'Oh, my god!'
It was O'Hare, the camera panning quickly back to reveal the full scene: a flock of reporters standing beside a line of police cars, all pointing towards the fenced-in bulk of the compound. People were shouting both in shot and from off; the camera jolted, the lens refocussing wildly, and all at once, Dean realised why: away in the distance, three small figures were fleeing the main building, running towards the gates. O'Hare was no longer visible, but his voice was still clearly audible, flush with energy as he narrated the scene.
'Viewers, I don't know if you can see this, but there are two, no, three people currently attempting to exit the compound – I can see men moving on the roof, this is clearly unplanned – the police are responding, moving into position –'
'Oh god,' Cas whispered. 'Oh god, no.'
'Come away,' Dean said, desperately, 'Cas, don't look –' But it was no good; his lover refused to budge.
'– They're at the gates, but I don't know if – yes! Yes, they're opening – the people are coming out, running, possibly part of a new assault –'
The camera telescoped in, and suddenly, the figures became distinct: two of the three had their arms raised, and despite O'Hare's hyperbole, they were clearly unarmed. The tallest figure ushered the smaller two ahead, pulling the gate shut, and then all three began to run, legs pumping.
'– Three women,' O'Hare was saying, 'viewers, I think we're looking at three women – no, three women and a child, one of them has a child on her back, maybe about five years old – running towards the police barricade – this is an extraordinary sight –'
'Oh god,' Cas said again, and suddenly he went all over rigid, a terrible low moan building in his throat. 'Oh no, no, oh god, it's them, it's them –' He surged forwards, and Dean had to grab him, wrapping his arms around his chest as Cas struggled madly. He stared at the screen, and all at once, a terrible understanding went through him, and he whispered, ' Shit .'
Three women, two barely more than girls, the youngest piggybacking a smaller child whose tiny arms were wrapped so tightly around her neck, it was a wonder she could breathe, let alone run. All of them barefoot, clad in identical dresses that had once been white, but whose hems were stained with desert dust, and all of them with dark brown hair and freckled skin.
Julia-Mary Fairchild, Clarity and Evidence.
'Please,' Cas whimpered. 'Please, please, please –'
'– They've nearly made it!' O'Hare yelled. 'They're nearly at the barricade –'
An echoing crack. A chorus of outraged shrieks.
Julia-Mary seemed to trip, the blood that burst from her chest almost incidental, she fell so gracefully. The camera slewed crazily as the girls kept running, screaming over their shoulders for mama, mama! ; O'Hare was swearing, yelling at someone to get down, get the fuck down and keep rolling ; and there in the station, Cas made a noise that was utterly inhuman, throwing himself against the strength of Dean's arms as he fought and twisted and sobbed, a wrenching litany of pain, and oh, god, everyone was staring and Dean wanted to kill them; would gladly have killed O'Hare and Brother Tiberius and every last fucking person between here and Nevada if it would only put Cas in the same square footage as the woman now bleeding out in the dirt – and then, like the cruellest joke of all, the camera cut out to the sound of a second gunshot. The screen went black – the whole room seemed to suck in breath – and suddenly they were back with the studio, the female newscaster visibly stunned, her mouth hanging open as she, too, stared at the empty screen where O'Hare's report should have been.
'We, ah, seem to be experiencing some technical difficulties, viewers –'
' No! ' Cas screamed. He was flailing, shaking; Dean could barely hold him. 'Bring her back, you have to bring her back!'
' Get the fucking TV off, now! ' Sergeant Harris bellowed, and whoever had the remote obeyed with alacrity: the screen went wholly dark, and then the only sound was Cas sobbing. He fell to his knees, devoid of strength, and Dean went with him, pulling him into a tight embrace as he turned to stare defiantly up at the sergeant.
'Mr Winchester! What the actual hell?' Harris was still half-shouting, but more from shock than anger; he was shaking, a look of real fright on his face as he stared at Cas. 'Give me one good reason why I shouldn't have Mr Novak committed!'
Dean struggled to speak, his throat was so tight, and only then did he realise he, too, was crying.
'The woman who was shot,' he croaked, staring daggers at Harris. 'She's Cas's mother. His mother, OK?'
Sergeant Harris's mouth fell open. He visibly paled, his gaze going from Dean to Cas to back again. Whatever answer he'd been expecting, that clearly wasn't it.
'Oh,' he said, weakly. One of the other officers swore.
Cas shuddered, his head buried in Dean's shoulder. 'I need to know,' he whispered. There was no need to specify what. Dean kept glaring at Harris, who just stood there, looking about as useful as tits on a bull.
'Look, I used to be a cop,' Dean said, angrily, 'I know how this works. Officially, Nevada won't want to tell you anything, but unofficially, you can call them right the fuck up and say the victim's son would like to know, please and thank you, if she's actually fucking alive .'
The request seemed to jolt Harris out of his stupor. 'I've only got your word for it they're even related.'
'Then look it up! This is Castiel Novak, formerly Castiel Fairchild. His mother's name, the name of the woman you just saw, that's Julia Fairchild, sometimes Julia-Mary, and if anyone running that operation has the slightest clue what they're doing, they'll be able to confirm what I'm telling you. Please.' His voice broke on the word. 'Don't make this worse than it is.'
For a long moment, Harris was silent. Then he turned to the other officers present, his face like a thundercloud.
'I expect the utmost discretion and sensitivity from everyone in this room,' he warned, 'and not just because that's what I'd ask of any decent human being. If Mr Novak here is indeed connected to the Fellowship, then whoever's running the investigation is probably going to want to interview him privately –'
'Not gonna happen,' Dean said, fiercely. Sergeant Harris stared at him, clearly unused to being interrupted by civilians, but Dean was unrepentant. 'Jesus Christ, dude, do you even see what this is doing to him? Stop grandstanding and make the damn call!'
One of the other officers made a sound that was somewhere between incredulity and tense laughter. Harris's head jerked up, eyes narrowing as he sought to identify the culprit, but either he'd been too slow or didn't favour disciplining the guilty party in front of an audience, because his next move was to hunker down on his haunches, putting himself at Dean's eye level.
'Understand me,' he said, quietly. 'If I do this for you, then it goes both ways. He wants to know about her, then they're going to have to know about him – that's how this works. You say you're an ex-badge? Think it through. You know I'm right, so you decide. Either he stays anonymous and you get your updates from the news, like everyone else, or you put his name in the mix and maybe find out sooner.' He paused, weighing his next words carefully. 'They're going to come for him eventually, you know, either because she wakes up and asks for him, or because someone else does. You want to dictate terms, try and keep him safe, you need something to bargain with, and right now, all you've got is the ability to start the conversation. Use it.' He stood up, hands on hips. 'Well? What's it going to be?'
Dean shut his eyes, scrubbing the tears away with the back of his wrist. Cas had fallen silent, shivering as he clung to him. Very gently, Dean pulled his head back, trying to get Cas to do likewise, trying to see his face.
'Cas, you hear any of that? You gotta tell me what to do, here.' He lifted his lover's chin, and the look on his face damn near broke his heart.
'It doesn't matter,' said Cas. His crumpled expression was one of utter hopelessness, his eyes red and wet, his almost-smile like a smashed mirror. 'None of it matters any more. I just need to know. Let them come.' He lowered his head back against Dean's neck, and murmured, barely audible, 'They were always going to come.'
Struggling to keep his emotions in check, Dean looked back at Sergeant Harris. 'You heard him,' he said, shakily. 'Make the call.'