Chapter Text
If Dean's Impala was a mako shark, then Lassiter's hire car was a parrot fish: gaudy, slow and utterly stupid. The whole thing rattled with every gear change, engine whining whenever Lassiter tried – and, usually, failed – to overtake someone, and as far as Cas was concerned, its only redeeming quality was the extent to which it was visibly making Lassiter's life miserable. They drove in an awkward, uncomfortable silence punctuated only by the occasional grunted expletive; Monument's traffic was unpredictable at the best of times, and the local FBI field office – Cas had been dimly aware there was one – turned out to be in Delacroix, which was way on the the other side of town.
And that was good; he needed the time to get his churning thoughts in order. From the second Anna had come running into his shop, babbling excitedly about the FBI and Dean's ex, he'd been tense as a bowstring: the only reason he hadn't walked straight past her and into Impala Records to demand an explanation was that she'd grabbed his arm and said, in conspiratorial tones, that she had a better idea. The whole thing had been so unexpected, Cas had forgotten she didn't know about the Fellowship or Dean's history or any of it, and so hadn't considered the implications of letting her eavesdrop, let alone the breach of trust involved in his doing it, too; he'd been caught off-balance, and between hurrying up one set of stairs and slinking down another, by the time they both heard Lassiter say, with casual venom, You'd be surprised how often my having fucked you has failed to constitute a career advantage, the die was already cast.
That awful exchange between Dean and Lassiter was seared into his memory; Cas could work out some of what they were referring to from context, but the rest was a mystery, and one that hinted at something darker, something they'd both been skirting like a hole in the earth. Lassiter's disproportionate viciousness was proof enough of that, and Cas had felt utterly wretched, a coward in truth, for just having stood there, for not having come to Dean's defence. But he'd been frightened, trembling deep in his soul at the thought that this man, of all men, would be the one to question him: Special Agent Daniel Lassiter, whose casual, manipulative cruelty reminded him of no one so much as Brother Tiberius. It had taken all Cas's courage just to step out and draw his fire from Dean; and more, to do so calmly, without broadcasting his terror and thereby handing Lassiter an even greater advantage. Ignoring Dean's distress had felt like stabbing himself in the heart, and if Lassiter had then bundled him into some sleek, black government-issue car, anonymous and imposing, then Cas didn't think he could have held it together, no matter how long the journey.
But instead, Lassiter was driving a parrot fish; and more, was clearly resenting the hell out of it. He was a tall man, well over six foot, and the silly green car had obviously been designed to fit a much smaller occupant: he was hunched and scrunched behind the wheel, his hands rendered cartoonishly big as he tried to change gears, and all at once, Cas realised that a good part of the problem was Lassiter's own pigheadedness. He was clearly used to driving something bigger, heavier and more powerful, but rather than adjust either his expectations or his driving style, he was cursing and jerking the wheel and generally making the whole experience far more difficult than it had to be.
He thought of Dean driving the Impala, the casual control with which he steered, his elbow crooked on the window; how smoothly he changed gears, and how considerate he was of the car's limitations. He held the memory close, drawing strength from it, and when he next glanced across at Lassiter, who was swearing under his breath at a neighbouring minivan, he realised there was no comparison: whatever Lassiter said to him, whatever he tried to do, he wasn't half the man Dean Winchester was, and never would be.
And just like that, the fear was gone, replaced by an emotion so wholly unfamiliar, it wasn't until they pulled up outside the FBI field office that Cas could correctly identify it: fury. He was furious with Special Agent Lassiter – not just for what he'd said to Dean, which had so clearly been intended to wound, but for the high-handed, disrespectful way he'd treated Cas himself, collecting him without so much as a courtesy call or a polite word exchanged beforehand. As Lassiter lead him into the field office, Cas let the fury fill him, felt it transmute into an implacable, icy calm, as mirror-bright as armour.
Lassiter was going to regret he'd ever come to Monument.
*
Anna locked Impala Records, all but dragging Dean upstairs to the safety of his flat. She'd dealt with enough crap in her life – and had been present for enough relationship drama – that this wasn't the first or even the most spectacular ex-inspired meltdown she'd ever witnessed, though it certainly came close; nor was it the first time she'd seen a grown man reduced to wrenching, public tears. But they were usually drunk when it happened, not stone-cold sober, and from her limited experience of dealing with former soldiers – which, now she came to think of it, wasn't really all that limited, not once you factored in her uncles and Michael James and Sam Dee and the others – either way, it seldom meant anything good.
So she got him into his armchair and told him to wait, which he did, while she put the kettle on for tea, only Dean didn't have any tea, just a fuckload of dry goods and warm beer and, at the very back of the cupboard, a bottle of Russian vodka, which probably tasted like kerosene, but any port in a storm was better than none. She snagged a pair of mismatched mugs, poured them both a stress-appropriate but not insane measure of clear spirits, and returned to the lounge room, shoving the cup into Dean's trembling hands. He'd stopped crying by then, but his eyes were red-rimmed, and he kept on swallowing like there was something stuck in his throat.
'Drink that,' she ordered, expecting him to sip, but instead he necked the whole thing, coughing slightly at the burn, and it made her feel guilty enough that she swigged some of her own, too, and mother fucker , was calling it kerosene an understatement.
'Jesus!' she gasped. 'Oh my fucking god, no .'
'You poured it,' Dean said, managing a watery smile.
'Yeah, but you bought it! God, I think my throat is committing seppuku.' She put down the mug and nudged it as far away from her as the table would allow, and for a moment, you could almost pretend there was nothing wrong, that Dean hadn't just gone off the deep end and chucked a cowbell into the Classic Albums section, pun probably not intended but most definitely applicable. Anna took a deep breath, and a moment along with it to decide if she really wanted to get involved, and then said, 'OK. Crowley was one thing, but this? This is something else. You wanna tell me what just happened?'
'It's kind of a long story.'
She snorted, but not unkindly. 'Everything is, with you. All right.' She crossed her arms, considering. 'So, let's skip the part where Cas is somehow involved in this whole Nevada Fellowship nightmare, because that's deeply none of my business –' though of course, it put yesterday's conversation in a whole new, terrible light, '– and fast forward to the point where you used to be a soldier, and you dated that Lassiter jackass, and whatever the fuck else happened there that makes you think it's OK for him to treat you like shit, because wow , was that the exact fucking opposite of OK.'
Dean looked utterly miserable, like a wet dog on its way to the vet. 'I deserved it, Anna. Trust me.'
'Bullshit you did.' Her vehemence clearly surprised him; his head jerked up like a puppet's. 'Look, maybe you screwed the guy over, and maybe you didn't. Unless you tell me, I can't say. What I do know, though, is that you don't fucking fling a suicide attempt in someone's face like it was a shame they failed, and if Lassiter's gross enough to do that, then he's probably gross enough to have deserved whatever it is you did to him.'
Dean flinched, and Anna could've kicked herself, because she'd more or less done the exact same thing she was mad at Lassiter for doing, albeit with better intentions. 'Shit, Dean, I'm sorry, I'm such an idiot. Look, forget about that – that's, that's some heavy stuff, and you don't need to tell me about it, or justify it, or anything like that. I just want to help , is all.'
'No, I get it.' He slowly lifted his gaze. 'Lassiter – Danny – OK.' He sighed. 'I knew him when we were kids. Not long, but long enough. I mean, my dad travelled around a lot, and for about six months when I was eleven, we lived in this little town in South Dakota, and Danny was at my school. And we were friends, and I had a crush on him – first time I ever crushed on a boy, and it spun me round a bit, 'cos of how my dad was about that stuff – but eventually I figured that maybe he had a crush on me, too. Only then my dad moved us off to Connecticut, and I never saw him again.
'Anyway. Fast forward a few years. I joined the army right out of school, and ended up on tour in Iraq, which is about as fucked up as you'd imagine, and I told myself I was coping, only I wasn't. And one day, three years in, this new guy transfers to our platoon – lots of fuss over it, too, 'cos the rumour was, he was being fast-tracked, had caught someone's eye or whatever – and I look up, and it's Danny. And right there, that was awkward, because I was pretty sure he knew I went for guys, and I was pretty sure I knew he did, too, and – well. Along of all its other problems, the thing about Don't Ask, Don't Tell was, it didn't work if you already knew . And right off, I could tell he was mad as hell at my being there and knowing what I did, because it's not like we were best friends or anything – I mean, he had no guarantee I wouldn't drop him in it, and of the two of us, he had more to lose.'
He fell silent, and Anna said, gently prompting. 'OK. So what happened next?'
'Lassiter tracked me down, bailed me up against a wall and threatened to kick my ass eight ways from Sunday if I opened my mouth.' Dean went pink. 'Problem was, I, uh, liked it, and it was pretty obvious he did, too. A lot.'
Anna opened her mouth. Closed it again. Blushed. Generally speaking, she wasn't in the habit of making assumptions about other people's sexual kinks, but Dean was undeniably hot, and before she'd realised he was with Cas, she'd treated herself to some idle speculation about what he might be like in bed. Of all the adjectives she'd thought to apply to him – and she wasn't proud of herself, but there'd been a few – submissive wasn't among them.
'Right,' she said, pushing on doggedly. 'So. Sexual tension.'
Dean grinned at her embarrassment, and for a brief moment, he was his old self again. 'Sexual tension,' he agreed. But his face fell sharply after that, and this time, Anna waited the silence out. When he finally did speak again, it was quietly, with both eyes fixed on the floor.
'Back then, I was pretty messed up. I didn't exactly enlist for the right reasons – hell, I'm not even sure what the right reasons are, only that they weren't mine. I was lonely, and I'd lost people, and I'd done things that kept me up at night, and I wanted to feel something simple again, something I understood. Like sex, maybe.' He took a shuddering breath. 'Or punishment.'
Anna went very still. An ugly suspicion had fixed in her, and she wanted very, very badly to be wrong, but something told her she wasn't. Dean kept talking, but it was like he'd forgotten he had an audience; his voice was glassy and brittle and low, and his shoulders were hunched like wings.
'So there we were. And you gotta understand, it's not like we could sit down and talk about it, what we wanted or anything. Couldn't talk to anyone. And it was always... you had a moment, you know, you took it. Wherever you were. And I liked it, I did, I just wanted, sometimes, I wanted something else, and I couldn't – but he didn't know that, and anyway, it was everything else, you know? I just wanted out, but it's the fucking army, you don't just leave. So I figured, OK – or maybe I didn't, maybe it was an accident, I don't know, but it was my idea to use the mess hall, only I forgot Kayburn was going to be there, and we got caught, and that was it. We got caught, and there was a tribunal, and we were both sent home, and afterwards Lassiter came up to me and said, you fucking knew Kayburn would find us , and I said yes, because I had, but I still don't – I was so messed up, Anna, I don't know if I did it on purpose, but I think I did, and that's why he hates me, that's why he's right to hate me.'
Dean looked up at her, and she was horrified to realise he was crying again, but so silently she hadn't noticed. 'I outed him. He wasn't out to anyone , and I outed him, I got us caught because I was scared, because I wanted to go home. And you don't fucking do that to someone, you just don't , OK? So Lassiter can say whatever he likes. I deserve it.'
'No,' said Anna, reaching out to squeeze his hand. 'No, Dean, you don't. You really, really don't , and he doesn't get to talk to you like that. Even if it wasn't an accident; even if you did it on purpose –' and oh, godfuckingdammit, I am so not equipped to explain this if he hasn't already realised , '– I promise, I promise you didn't deserve it, now or then.' She faltered, completely out of her depth, and said, tentatively, 'Have you ever spoken to Cas about this? About what happened with Lassiter?'
Dean made a pained noise; he pulled away and buried his head in his hands. 'No. I didn't tell him. But I should have. He shouldn't have had to hear it that way, what I did – oh god, Anna, he just left .'
Gently, Anna said, 'Yeah, he left the shop , but he hasn't left you .'
Dean laughed, and the sound was horrible. 'You don't know that.'
'Maybe not empirically, but I'm a pretty good judge of people, and you know what?' She waited for eye contact, needing him to believe her. 'Cas is crazy about you, just like you're crazy about him. The way you two look at each other, it's like nobody else in the world exists – do you even know how rare that is?'
'No,' said Dean, in a very small voice, and suddenly Anna remembered how he'd frozen up when she'd said he was maybe in love with Cas, and she put that together with what he'd just said about Lassiter, and what Lassiter, the abusive fuck, had said about him, and how Dean feeling like he deserved to be punished was clearly no new thing in his life, and how he really didn't seem to understand what he and Cas looked like from the outside, and she said, as carefully, as she could, 'Dean, you don't have to answer this, but – have you ever been in love before? I mean, has anyone apart from your family ever said they love you?'
He mumbled something unintelligible.
'Sorry, I didn't catch that.'
He couldn't look at her. 'No one has.'
'What?' And then, when she realised what he meant, and saw how he'd curled in on himself, like daring to admit he was unloved was exactly the sort of thing that rendered him unlovable – and of course he wasn't that, but he so clearly thought he was that it might as well have been tattooed on his forehead – she slipped onto her knees and pulled him into a tight, fierce hug, so momentarily furious at the universe that she couldn't speak, and then said, 'People are fucking idiots sometimes.'
Dean hugged her tentatively, and said, 'Uh, Anna? You're not saying you – that you –'
'Oh, for the love of god.' She pulled back, looking him in the eyes, her lips quirked in a fond, frustrated smile. 'No, I'm not in love with you. And I'm not going to say I love you as a friend, either, because that would be lying – I mean, don't get me wrong, I like you plenty, and if we keep hanging out, then yeah, friend-love is definitely on the cards, but you are not unlovable, OK? You deserve to be loved, and you will be loved, and whatever the other tenses are.' She let him absorb that before adding, 'And you're capable of love, too. You're in love with Cas.'
He swayed a little, a pleading look on his face. 'It's ridiculous.'
'It's not.'
'It's been five days.'
'Yeah, but you've known him for three months.'
'So?'
' So ?' she echoed, incredulous. 'So you just threatened an FBI agent with, quote, fire and fucking brimstone , end quote, if he so much as looked at Cas wrong, and I'm here to tell you, I've dated guys for twelve, eighteen months who wouldn't go to the mat for me like that, and especially not if it meant confronting some asshole who'd –' she barely checked herself in time; Dean was traumatised enough without forcing yet another revelation on him, especially one he seemed determined not to have, '– who I had a history with,' she said instead. 'Look, tell me I'm wrong: tell me you wouldn't take a bullet for the guy if you had to.'
'Of course I would, but that doesn't –'
'Dean.' She gave his shoulders a little shake. 'Stop. Being. Dense. Look, we'll do it this way: if you're not in love with him, tell me that. Say, Anna, I'm not in love with Castiel Novak .'
He opened his mouth, and he tried, he really tried – she could see the effort of the attempt – but he just couldn't do it. 'I love him,' Dean whispered. 'God help me, Anna, I love him, and I let him go with Lassiter.' And then he blanched, because he'd damn near cut himself open with that one, the unspoken fear too close to an acknowledgement of what he was trying desperately to avoid.
'Well, then,' she said, and smiled. 'I suggest you go get him back.'