Chapter Text
The interview room was small and square, with three grey felt walls and one that was quite obviously made of one-way glass, twinned with an adjoining observation room; obviously, because even if Cas hadn't seen the setup a hundred times on TV, a handful of other agents had slipped into the next room over ahead of him and Lassiter, and if they weren't there to watch him spill his guts, he'd eat his shoes. There were two cameras mounted on the right-hand wall, each one taking in the scene from a slightly different angle, and now that they'd finished all the preliminary questions – Lassiter reading him his rights and explaining why he was there, Cas confirming his identity for the record – there was an almost palpable tension.
Just for a moment, Cas felt his strength waver. He didn't want to be here; he didn't want to confess his past to Special Agent Lassiter. But then he remembered Dean, the awful look on his face as they'd left, and that cold, calm fury came sweeping back.
'So, Mr Novak,' Lassiter said, smiling ever so slightly. 'Why don't you tell me, in your own words, about your relationship with Father Martin Bruckner, the man you know as Brother Tiberius.'
Cas knew a trap when he saw one. Keeping his face impassive, he said, 'We don't have a relationship. I haven't seen him for twelve years, since I left the Fellowship.'
'All right, then. I'll ask another way. When did you first come to live at the Fellowship compound?'
'Early in 1996. I was eleven. Brother Tiberius arrived and took over the following year.'
'And when did you leave?'
'I escaped ,' said Cas, 'in 2001.'
Lassiter leaned back in his chair. 'Tell me why you left,' he said, and if Cas had needed any more proof that this was going to be a hostile interview, his pointed refusal to accept the correction would have been more than sufficient.
Strangely, Cas realised he was glad they had an audience: he wanted Lassiter to be held accountable, and if it had just been the two of them, then angry or not, he wouldn't have had the courage to do what he did next.
'It's easier to show you,' said Cas, and though his voice was steady, his hands shook as he unbuttoned his shirt. Ignoring the surprise on Lassiter's face, he stood and turned and bared his back, giving everyone a good, long look at his scars. A week ago, he couldn't have done it, and even now, it took all his self control to calmly cover them up again, to button the shirt, to sit and look as though he wasn't sweaty and faint and suddenly near to screaming, because Brother Tiberius had repeatedly laid him open in a small, square room like this, and he had to breathe, just breathe, and imagine Dean was with him.
He made himself stare at Lassiter, who lacked the grace to look ashamed, but who was nonetheless visibly discomfited. You couldn't argue with scars, and that was the point: regardless of whether Lassiter was just a spiteful ass or if he genuinely thought the best way to get Cas to talk was to treat him like a potential suspect, there were limits to what you could openly gainsay without looking completely incompetent, and clear evidence of physical abuse didn't fall within them.
'Bruckner did that?'
'Yes.'
Almost idly, Lassiter asked, 'What with?'
Cas grit his teeth. 'His belt, mostly. Sometimes small knives. A few times with wire. Once with a chain.'
'Over how long a period?'
'Five years. It was punishment, for transgressing the Word of the Faithful.'
'Transgressing how?'
Cas smiled, bitter and bright as blood. 'I read books. I had a friend outside the community. I suggested it was wrong of him to hurt people.' He dug his nails into his palms, hard enough to bruise. 'I asked too many questions.'
'You were never taken to hospital?'
'No. One of the other brothers was an ex-army medic. He patched me up.'
'Did you know his name?'
'Not his real name, no. He called himself Brother Corinth. All the men who came in with Tiberius, or who came after him, were brother something. Aaron had always been Aaron.'
'This is Aaron Feltner, who originally started the cult?'
'Yes.'
'I see.' Lassiter paused, his fingers held in a pyramid, and if not for the way he suddenly frowned and half-shook his head, Cas would have thought he was being theatrical. But then he realised: Lassiter was wearing an earpiece. Someone in the other room was giving him instructions, and Lassiter didn't like them.
Cas saw his chance, and took it.
'Why did you harass my lover, Special Agent Lassiter?'
To his immense satisfaction, Lassiter flinched. 'I did no such thing, Mr Novak. I merely informed Mr Winchester that –'
'You told him,' Cas said, the cold rage burning his mouth, ' that he was pathetic. You said he was white trash, an alcoholic grunt with daddy issues who failed at everything he ever attempted, even suicide. You didn't know I was there, Agent, but I heard everything, and so did another witness. And you know what I think? I think,' he went on, ignoring the pinched, furious look on Lassiter's face, 'that you took this assignment for the express purpose of persecuting your ex-boyfriend. I think you don't give a shit what Martin Bruckner did to me, and I don't think you give a shit about helping my family, or anyone else still trapped in that fucking compound. I think you just wanted to make Dean feel worthless, and me feel afraid, so you could feel better about being such a fucking jackass .'
Lassiter shot to his feet, his mouth open, but before he could get any further, the door to the interview room swung open, revealing a well-dressed Asian woman somewhere in her late forties. She glanced at Cas, acknowledging him, and then said to Lassiter, outwardly calm, but with lightning in her eyes, 'Agent Lassiter, might I have a word with you, please?'
'Of course,' he said, brusquely, and shot a poisonous look at Cas before following her into the hall.
The door clicked shut, and Cas was left alone in sweet, victorious silence.
*
Dean cleaned up the mess he'd made while Anna rehung the cowbell. At some point, he'd have to sit down and work out which CDs he'd broken, and how many, but in the mean time, Impala Records was fit to open again – and that, too, was thanks to Anna. It occurred to him that he couldn't remember the last time someone he wasn't sleeping with, or who didn't want to sleep with him, had exhibited even half as much care for his wellbeing as she did, and before he quite knew what he was doing, he went over and hugged her again. She tensed up slightly, not expecting it, then squeezed him back with a strength that was all the more incongruous for having come from such a small frame.
'You're such a dork,' she said, pulling back. 'Adorkable, even.'
'I can live with that.'
'Good.' She swept the store with a critical eye, then nodded. 'All right. Now go get Cas.'
'You're sure?'
'Did I stutter?'
'No, but –'
'Dean.' She crossed her arms. ' If he's mad at you, which I highly doubt, then it's as much my fault as anyone's for dragging him over to eavesdrop. So, yeah, I can mind the damn store for an afternoon.' She pointed at the door. 'Now go!'
'Yes, ma'am,' he said, and went.
Just the act of driving the Impala made him feel more in control of his life. Behind the wheel, Dean knew what he was doing: he might not always know where he was headed, but he sure as hell knew how to get there – or how to get somewhere, at any rate – and with the car purring under and around him like a metal safety blanket, it was easy to push Danny Lassiter out of mind; to pretend, in fact, that Sacramento had never happened at all.
He was three blocks away from the store when a siren whooped and something flashed in his side mirror. Startled, Dean realised he was being hailed by an unmarked police car with a blue light on the roof, and experienced a sudden surge of panic as to what the stop could be about. Had Lassiter somehow roped the local police into making sure he kept away from the FBI field office? Had Sergeant Harris found out something else about the Fellowship siege, or maybe the shitstain who'd mugged Cas? Or – and here his stomach clenched – perhaps it was about Crowley. That possibility brought him up cold, and as the car blinked its headlights, indicating he should pull over, Dean suddenly realised what a stupid situation he'd put himself in, dealing with the police and now the goddamn feds while a loan shark was pulling his strings. God, he had to play this just right, or he was sunk, and then Cas would left on his own, and that was insupportable.
Up ahead was a vacant lot with an empty driveway; Dean pulled the Impala over, turned off the engine and braced himself, watching in his side mirror as the other car drew up behind him. Two men got out, and as they approached, one of them waved a hand to indicate that Dean should do likewise.
'Shit,' he muttered, unclipping his belt. Giving the dashboard a reassuring pat, he hesitated over grabbing his jacket – it was folded on the passenger seat – decided against it, and stepped out into the road to meet them, forcing himself to smile.
'Hey there, officers! What can I do you for?'
'You Dean Winchester?' said the man on his right. Dean turned to look at him, frowning.
'Yeah,' he said, uneasy now. 'That's me. Wh–?'
Something smashed into the side of his head. Dean dropped to the ground, and as he coughed and scrabbled in the dirt, he had just enough time to reflect on what an idiot he was before the second blow knocked him unconscious.
*
By Cas's reckoning, he'd been left alone for nearly twenty minutes, which was more than long enough for triumph and fury both to fade, replaced by sickening, nauseated doubt. What the hell was he doing, pissing off someone like Lassiter? He should've just answered the questions and kept his head down, even if it made him a coward. He tried to think what Dean would do, but instead, he kept mentally replaying the moment when he'd announced himself, and the terrible look on his lover's face as Cas had left the store, which only made him feel guiltier. He'd as good as abandoned Dean, and so it was only fitting that he be abandoned in turn, left to stew in this sad, anonymous room and think about his failings.
By the time the door opened again, he was a wreck. He jerked his head up, watching as the same woman who'd evicted Lassiter strolled in and sat down opposite. She offered him a small, polite smile, then folded her hands on the table.
'Mr Novak, my name is Special Agent Bao, and I'll be taking over the remainder of this interview. Do you have any questions before we begin?'
Cas stared at her, too shaken at first to speak. Then, unable to help himself, he blurted: 'What's going on?'
Bao sighed. She'd clearly anticipated the question, or some variation thereof. 'Mr Novak – or do you prefer Castiel?'
'Cas,' he managed. 'Cas is fine.'
'Cas, then. I'm going to be honest with you: what's happening in Nevada right now is not our finest hour. It is, in point of fact, a jurisdictional screw-up, and therefore a political nightmare. For reasons I'd rather not get into, our friends at the ATF decided to jump the gun with Bruckner, severely compromising the FBI's own investigation into the Fellowship, and now we've ended up with exactly the situation we were trying to avoid: a public standoff and a media circus.
'Prior to the ATF's involvement, the FBI had made contact with someone inside the compound; someone who was willing to get us the information on Bruckner we needed to see him locked up forever. This person, not unreasonably, demanded certain assurances from us before agreeing to cooperate: total amnesty for her and her family in relation to Bruckner's activities, a guarantee of protection in the event of a raid, and a similar guarantee that we would warn her before moving in on the compound. The agents at the ATF, however, –' and the more she said the name, the more her hatred of the organisation became apparent, '– were unaware of this deal. Not only wasn't our insider warned before the initial raid, but thanks to various interdepartmental pissing contents, once she finally got out, the first person to question her mistakenly decided that a hardline approach would yield the fastest results, thereby ensuring that the one person capable of giving us the information we need is now refusing to cooperate.'
It took Cas a moment to process the implications of what she was saying, and when he did, his heart near stopped in his chest. 'My mother,' he whispered. 'My mother was your informant.'
Bao's face was sharp with sympathy. 'Yes. Yes, she was. And just as Special Agent Lassiter has evidently succeeded in antagonising you and your lover –' and that's when he knew for certain Bao had been watching the interview first-hand, because she knew to use his word, lover , '– so too have the ATF antagonised the rest of your family. Thanks to the way your sisters were treated, not to mention the fact that she was shot trying to save herself and them, your mother is now refusing to cooperate, on the not unreasonable basis that, as the federal presence thus far has been demonstrably incompetent, any information she provides could easily lead to injury or death for other innocents in the compound. Which puts us in an increasingly difficult position.' She smiled grimly. 'The Bureau, you see, does not take kindly to being baulked. And even though the problem was caused by a slapdash, aggressive approach, that hasn't stopped certain... hotheads, shall we say, from thinking that a slightly modified slapdash, aggressive approach is somehow going to fix it.'
Cas felt a cold sweat settle over his body. 'And Special Agent Lassiter is a hothead.'
Bao nodded. 'More specifically, he's a hothead's hothead. Someone higher up the food chain decided to turn him loose down here in the hopes that either you'd incriminate yourself, or your lover would, and then they'd be able to use you as a bargaining chip against your mother: give us what we want, or your son will suffer. Fortunately, someone else with significantly more sense than god gave a grapefruit got wind of it and sent me down to clean up the inevitable mess. Which is what this is: a total fucking catastrophe. And here we sit.' She spread her hands.
He'd been nauseated before, but that was nothing compared to how he felt now. 'I think I'm going to be sick,' he said, and it was almost worth the surge of bile in his throat to see the genuine alarm on Bao's face. Happily for both of them, Cas managed to get control of his stomach, though it was a near thing, and when he spoke again, some of the fury was back, turning his words cold and hard.
'So, let me get this straight. Someone at the FBI gave Special Agent Lassiter free reign to come down here and verbally abuse his ex-boyfriend, my lover, in the hope that it would upset one or both of us enough that you could threaten me with a charge, and use that threat to force my mother's compliance with the same bunch of incompetents who let her get shot in the chest on live TV?'
Bao winced, as well she should. 'Yes,' she said. 'Mr Novak – Cas – believe me, I'm trying to fix this. I want to honour the promise the Bureau originally made to your mother. We're footing your family's medical bills, and as of half an hour ago, Special Agent Lassiter is officially banned from contacting either you or Mr Winchester for the duration of his stay in Monument. I have no desire to force your mother to do anything, but I do want her to cooperate, and given the choice between a carrot and a stick, I'm minded to choose the carrot. Which brings me here, to you.'
'What do you want?' Cas asked, warily.
'For starters, I'd like you to tell me whatever you can about the layout of the compound; anything at all. Any information about Bruckner, his contacts and their capabilities would be similarly welcome, along with details of any and all crimes they've committed to your knowledge. Such as, for instance, child abuse.' She folded her hands and took a breath. 'Additionally, I would also like you to speak to your mother on our behalf, or at the very least, to lend us your endorsement in dealing with her. It would, I believe, go a long way towards assuring her that the Bureau isn't completely unworthy.'
Even having expected the request, it still hit Cas like a suckerpunch, and for a moment, he so powerfully wanted Dean that he actually turned to him for support, momentarily forgetting that, of course, his lover wasn't there. His heart wrenched painfully at the dissonance, but Special Agent Bao, if she noticed his distress – and she surely must have done; it was, after all, what she was paid for – did nothing to try and mitigate it, perhaps because she knew her help was inadequate, but just as plausibly because she felt it served her advantage to keep him weak.
'Special Agent Bao,' said Cas, and some of that cold anger must still have been in his tone, because she sat up sharply, 'I haven't seen my mother since I was seventeen years old. The last time we spoke, she was washing the blood off my back and telling me I needed to trust more in Brother Tiberius and the Word of the Faithful, because otherwise, I wouldn't be with her in Heaven. I haven't seen my sisters since they were babies, and up until yesterday, I didn't even know I had a brother. I have spent the majority of my adult life in self-imposed exile from happiness because I left my family in the hands of a monster, and now you sit there and tell me that yes, my mother, my mother who bore his children , eventually did see Brother Tiberius for what he was. She risked everything for my siblings, but nothing for me, and maybe even saying that makes me a terrible person all over again, but the point, Agent, is that if you think for even one second I can just get on a plane to Nevada, walk into that hospital and tell her that she should trust you – and that after all this time, she's going to think I'm doing it from the goodness of my heart – then either you think we're both spectacularly stupid, or you really don't know anything about people.'
He was gripping the table, and Bao just looked at him, and said, a little sadly, 'If I had another option, I'd take it. Believe me. I know how imperfect this is. But I don't have another choice.'
For several long seconds, Cas shut his eyes. He already knew what he had to do; he just wished like hell there was an alternative. But like Bao said, it was an imperfect situation. There were a limited number of outcomes from this point onwards, and whatever he did now, he couldn't escape the consequences. All he could do was try his best and hope it was enough.
'I won't go to see her,' he said. 'Not yet, anyway. Not like this. But everything else – I'll tell you what I know.
*
Dean came to with a headache like he'd been kicked by an iron elephant. He blinked, groaning at the stiffness of his muscles and the sour, metallic taste in his mouth, and made two unpleasant discoveries: firstly, that he was comprehensively tied to a chair, his legs to its legs and arms to its arms, and secondly, that there was a black bag over his head. Fuck , he thought, and then he remembered the car, the men, and would have laughed himself sick if not for the fact that vomiting was a very real and, under the circumstances, exceptionally repulsive possibility. Goddamit, he'd known that Crowley was watching him, but he'd been so caught up with his own petty bullshit, and with looking after Cas, that he'd left them both vulnerable, and now he was suffering the consequences of his own short-sightedness.
Something brushed against him, and a gravelly female voice said, 'He's awake, I think.'
'Good,' said a second woman. Her voice was lighter, as dryly sweet as cheap chardonnay and probably just as perilous. 'Let's have a look.'
The hood was tugged free. Dean squinted into the sudden brightness, feeling it like a knife in his head. Blinking away starbursts, he took in the scene, which wasn't exactly what you'd call encouraging. He was in a small, windowless room, and arrayed before him were three people he recognised, two he didn't, and none of them friendly. The single door was guarded by the two goons from the car, who flanked it like silent statues; Crowley stood off to the right, hands tucked in his pockets; and then there were the two strange women. One of them was on his left, the hood dangling from a finger, while the other reclined in a studded leather armchair and smiled.
'Ruby Blue,' said Dean, because she couldn't possibly have been anyone else. She was long-limbed and curvy, her black hair worn short and styled sideways to emphasise, rather than conceal, the stark, white scar bisecting the left side of her face, temple to jaw, cutting the eye so cleanly, it was impossible to think she'd kept the use of it – and of course, she hadn't. Where her right iris was a vivid, natural cobalt, the left was vermilion, painstakingly painted on what had to be a glass eye: Ruby Blue , both name and namesake. She wore a tailored pinstripe suit, a matching vest, a crisp white shirt, and heels that ought fairly to have been classified as offensive weapons, they were that sharp. Her lipstick was plum-dark, and she looked all over terrifying, like a cross between a silent movie mobster and the femme fatale he was hunting.
'Dean Winchester,' she said. 'It's nice to meet you in person. I only wish it were under more professional, less inauspicious circumstances.'
She didn't quite glance at Crowley, but then, she didn't need to; the loan shark looked like he'd been taxidermied by someone with a grudge, and whether he was angrier at Dean for being so careless or with Ruby for having found out first would probably hinge on a coin-flip.
'Yeah, right back atcha,' said Dean, scowling.
'He's cute!' said the woman with the hood, who was, in her own way, almost as terrifying as Ruby Blue. In her red-and-white polka-dot dress, she looked like a rockabilly model, all cream curves and glossy curls with a smile like garotting wire. Absently, she tossed the hood at Crowley, who was obliged to catch it, though his expression clearly said he'd rather have caught crabs. 'I'll try not to hurt his face. Much.'
Ruby tsk ed. 'You're so sentimental, Meg. It's not like anyone ever spared me.'
'I'm not going to spare him.' Smiling, Meg went to perch on the arm of Ruby's chair. 'Just, you know. Leave him something to work with.' She leaned in, kissing Ruby's cheek. 'It's not like he has your brains to compensate.'
'True,' said Ruby, and this time, she really did glare at Crowley, pinning him like an errant moth in a butterfly box. 'Because only a complete and utter moron would think they could sign on with me, then turn around and run straight to the cops – to the feds, even! – without my deigning to notice.'
Crowley spread his hands. 'You get what you pay for, darling. You wanted dumb, I gave you dumb.'
'No, I wanted simple . There's a difference, Crowley.'
'Not often, in my experience.'
' Clearly ,' Meg said, scathing.
'Be that as it may,' said Ruby, turning that eerie, odd-eyed gaze on Dean, 'the fact remains, Mr Winchester, that you've chosen some very poor bedfellows these past few days, and I'm minded to find out why. So before I let Meg here have her fun, I thought I might ask you, woman to very stupid man – exactly what the fuck do you think you're doing?'
Oh, this was bad, and so deeply ironic that Dean almost laughed, which would have been a potentially fatal error. 'Lady, you've got it all wrong,' he said. 'I haven't said jack to the cops, or leastways, not about anything to do with you. It's utterly unrelated.' And then, when she raised an eyebrow, 'Look, I might not be the brightest kid in class, but I've done this before, and I know how to keep my mouth shut. You really think I wanted this?' He shrugged to indicate the room. 'Really? You think this is my idea of a good time?'
Pantherlike, Meg rose. 'I think you like it rough,' she purred, and it hit him harder than even she'd intended, because it was too close to something Lassiter had once said, and Lassiter was back again, and the look on her face as he flinched and paled was like he'd given her Christmas.
'You're not my type,' he managed, but it was too little, too late, and the whole room knew it.
'Oh, but I am, sweetheart.' She advanced on him, slowly pulling a cigarette and lighter from the cunning, voluminous pockets of her dress. She lit up, inhaling a lungful of smoke, and as she crouched between Dean's legs, her elbows resting on his thighs, she exhaled into his face. The smoke stung his eyes, though he didn't cough. Reflexively, he pulled against his bonds, testing the possibility of escape. If only he'd worn his jacket, they might have been stupid enough to let it stay on, and then he'd have had some wriggle-room; instead, his arms were bare all the way down, and tied at both wrist and elbow. Slow panic stirred in his belly. He'd been worked over before, but that didn't mean this wouldn't hurt, and worse still was the panoply of it, the way Crowley stood with a butler's impassivity while Ruby Blue presided like a queen at an execution.
Then Meg pressed the cigarette tip to his neck, and smiled as he yelled and squirmed.
'What did you tell the cops, Dean?'
' Nothing ,' he gasped. 'Goddamit, listen to me, I – ahhh!'
She burned him again, her actions lazy and practised. 'I'm sorry. What was that?'
'It wasn't about this! Dean panted. 'Cas was mugged, OK? You can check! He was mugged in Southwall the other night, and we had to follow up o– ahh ! Son of a bitch!' She'd burned the hollow of his throat, and when she finally topped, the tender skin was raw and weeping.
'We're not stupid, Dean. The feds don't show up for a mugging. What did you tell them? Where did they take your boy?'
'It's personal,' Dean said, and even though he'd braced for the pain, he couldn't keep from gasping as she burned below his jaw. 'I swear! The guy you saw, the fed, Lassiter, he's an ex of mine, OK? He's an ex, and he's pissed at me, so he picked up Cas – aaahhh!'
Another burn, harder this time. His eyes were tearing up, but he wouldn't cry in front of these fuckers, not on top of everything else.
'Your ex,' said Meg, flatly disbelieving. 'You really are stupid.'
'Crowley!' Dean yelled, and god, did he hate himself for the appeal, but he already knew Meg wouldn't stop at cigarette burns, and he needed to end this, fast. 'Crowley, tell them!'
All eyes swung the loan shark's way, and Crowley, always the consummate actor, made a show of looking baffled. 'Tell them what, darling?'
Dean made a twisted noise in his throat as Meg went over her handiwork, retouching every old burn with an attention to detail that was almost loving. When she stopped, he choked out, 'Tell them how I left the army. Lassiter's the guy got sent down with me, he was fucking me and we got caught –' oh god, I don't want to do this, '– and now he hates me, he took Cas in for questioning just to piss me off, I swear – aaah!' He clenched his teeth as Meg selected a new bit of skin, and shouted, 'Crowley, you bastard, tell them !'
Meg rocked back on her heels, head cocked to listen behind her as she took a final drag of the cigarette. 'Well, Crowley?' she called not turning, still just grinning up at Dean like they were friends at a party. 'Any truth in it, you think?'
Crowley tapped his chin, and in that moment, Dean could gladly have killed him. 'Might be some,' he said, after a moment. 'I mean, he was sent down for doing the dirty on duty –' he leered, and Meg chuckled, '– and the other bloke was definitely called Lassiter. And it's not as if federal agents are above behaving like petty, entitled fuckmuppets. Quite the opposite, in fact. It's practically a job requirement.'
'Even so,' said Ruby Blue, 'what are the chances of it happening this week? I mislike coincidences, Crowley, and things are already complicated.'
'I take your point, love,' said Crowley, 'but pretty as he is, the lad's as dumb as a sack of hammers. Not exactly a mastermind.'
Ruby appeared to consider this, and for a brief moment, Dean thought it was over. Then she laughed, and favoured him with all the feral, unsympathetic boredom that cats reserve especially for injured prey, and said, 'I want to believe you, Dean. I truly do. But in our line of work, you're better safe than sorry.'
Grinning, Meg discarded the cigarette butt, and this time, when she reached into her pockets, she pulled out a flick-knife.
'You're going to scream for me,' she said.
Eventually, he did.