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There’s something rather perverse about standing within spitting distance of a California County Superior Court judge, when you’ve still got a 7-Eleven employee’s blood crusted under your fingernails, oxidizing into a thin line of rust.
Perverse and ironic.
Iron-y.
An immaculately dressed woman clicks across the marble flooring in her heeled court shoes and pinstriped suit, too busy with her justice-related mission to notice Castiel or the man who has just stepped out of the bathroom.
But Castiel notices him.
It’s hard not to.
His freckles stand out starkly against the ashen tone of his skin and there are bruise-colored smudges beneath his green eyes, but they don’t detract from his beauty at all. If anything, they enhance the fragile femininity of his pink lips and caterpillar lashes.
Castiel can already tell that whiskey is this man’s holy water.
The black suit he’s wearing is two sizes too big for him; is likely a better fit for the larger man that follows him out, arm protectively wrapped around his shoulders, head dipped so that the first man can hear whatever it is that the giant is saying.
There’s obviously a connection there of some sort. Maybe familial – brotherly – but Castiel would have a hard time deciphering which one was the elder if that is the case. Either way, they’re clinging to each other like they’re all they’ve got and the sight would make most feel some kind of empathy, but all Castiel feels is a vague curiosity.
Something that pretty on the outside is likely to be hollow on the inside, but Castiel can’t quite bring himself to look away. Not yet.
The two of them pass directly in front of Castiel and the shorter one shakes the giant’s hand off his shoulder, under the pretense of annoyance. “Sam. Stop mothering me, for fucks’ sake. I’m not gonna run away if you stop touching me for a second. I said I’d do this, so I’m fucking doing it, alright?” Although his words are sharp, there’s a tinge of fear that colors them, dilutes any rancor.
The bigger one – Sam – responds with a sigh that is labored and so long-suffering that Castiel is now certain that they’re siblings.
And Castiel knows just how Sam feels.
Mostly because the only reason that Castiel is here right now is because of his own brother’s latest indiscretion. Yet another public indecency charge; he’s racking them up now like he’s playing for a cash prize and that’s fine when he’s on a weekend in Las Vegas – away from Castiel – but when it’s happening in Castiel’s own back yard – quite literally – then it’s time to have words. He’s only here to provide ‘support’ on the promise of a returned favor in the future and now looking at Sam and his beautiful brother, he’s beginning to formulate an idea of what that favor may entail.
If Gabriel even bothers turning up. He’s already forty-five minutes late.
The brothers are past Castiel now, walking away towards courtroom number nine, voices lost to the general background noise and Castiel is immediately struck with the desire to know the beautiful man’s name. He may be as shallow as the grave that Castiel buried Steve the 7-Eleven employee in, but that doesn’t mean that Castiel can’t wallow in him for a while.
As the case for courtroom nine is called and people – journalists, family members, rubberneckers – file in, Castiel glances around, eyes scanning for the wisp of honey hair that belongs to his brother, before making his decision. The one that was pretty much made the second he saw that beautiful face.
***
Justice.
The problem with the concept of justice is that it’s something that must be confined within the parameters of the law. Like the only way to obtain a moral and proper victory is in a way that is supposed to be fair and impartial and once a very specific set of rules have been followed. Like injustice follows the same set of rules.
It doesn’t. Of course it doesn’t. The law and those who enforce it will always be one step behind those who break it. Criminals don’t have the same restrictions.
Which is entirely the point.
The police have to follow protocol, file paperwork, catalogue evidence.
Criminals don’t.
The scales of justice are tipped squarely in favor of the bad guys and up until now, Castiel had been thankful for it. After all, there’s no point in someone who kills people pretending otherwise.
Now, he’s not so sure.
He’s not so sure because even in the rambling opening statements from the prosecution and then the defense, it’s quite apparent just how badly the system has let one person – by the name of Dean Winchester – down.
Sam is sitting in the front row of the pew like – church – seats, several rows in front of Castiel. His brother is nowhere to be seen. It’s only disappointing until Castiel realizes that it means the man is going to be testifying. And that Castiel has a great view of the witness box from here.
After what feels like hours of Latin and legalese – maybe just enough to justify their pointless law degrees – the first witness is called.
Sadly, it’s not Sam’s brother.
It’s a witness for the defense and the man is so full of lies that Castiel suspects if he cut him open, instead of blood, there’d be nothing but dirt. Disgusted with such a pathetic specimen, he turns his attention to the defendant, flanked by a couple of pricks who only care about getting their pay check rather than making sure that the flimsy, arbitrary rules that the masses are expected to live their lives by, are followed.
It’s another reason for Castiel’s general disdain for the criminal justice system, such as it is. It’s too fallible; there’s too many moving parts – too many greedy fucks who are willing to pervert the course of justice in order to further their own ends.
Of course, that’s not to say that Castiel hasn’t used – and won’t use – those weaknesses to his advantage. He just hates the hypocrisy of the whole charade.
From this angle and distance, he can’t get a proper handle on the defendant, but he can see enough to provide an overall impression of the accused. Long jaw, and sharp, beady eyes that remind Castiel of a bird of prey. But not nearly as efficient or interesting. He may see himself as an apex predator, an alpha, but he’s most likely a beta trying to overcompensate.
It’s Bundy all over again.
The man is an archetypal sadist. And as far as Castiel is concerned, sadism is for the weak; those who crave control, but don’t have the understanding or the means to exact it in a way that isn’t cruel. It’s for power-hungry boys who are too emotionally fragile or unstable to realize that whilst fear may be an effective weapon, it’s certainly not the correct way to tap into genuine emotions such as respect, love and loyalty.
And considering the magnitude of the alleged crimes in this case, it seems like the perpetrator has failed spectacularly on all counts, because the prosecution’s best witness is the goddamn victim. Who is willing to testify against him in an open court.
Which is rather impressive.
It’s not until a couple of hours – and several more bland liars – later that the victim is called to the stand by the prosecution.
Castiel shifts forward a little in his seat, eager to finally get the measure of the type of person who could endure the shit that he has and still be standing. He’s not often impressed by people, but this one sounds like he could be worth waiting for.
Castiel’s breath snares in his throat, caught on a sharp inhale. It’s him. Sam’s brother. The astoundingly attractive one that lead him here under the pretense of paper-thin superficiality and skin-deep beauty.
He refuses to believe that he’s the first person to be taken in by the perfect bow of his lips and the curve of his cheekbones, like nobody else has looked at him and bothered to see beyond the obvious.
Back rigid, movements stiff, he swears on a book that he clearly doesn’t believe a word of, to a representative of a system that’s yet to give him something, anything in return, and answers in a gruff voice when the ADA asks him his name.
“Dean Winchester.”
The prosecution follows on with a series of questions, all of which Dean Winchester answers with what might pass for removed dispassion to most, but Castiel sees right through the bravado to a soul scraped raw by both physical and psychological pain. His green eyes are so pale that they’re practically translucent and the shaky confidence that he’s displaying is ice-thin and seconds away from splintering beneath his feet. Even still, there’s a fierce determination underpinning the fear; a righteous anger burning away somewhere deep inside that assures Castiel – and anyone who deigns to look close enough (and as already established, nobody ever will) – that there’s nothing broken about Dean Winchester.
There’s some damage, admittedly, but it’s nothing that can’t be fixed with some careful planning and patience.
Castiel is aware of what he is. Has known since he was young, but never has it felt so damning as it does in this moment. His incapacity for any depth of feeling has always felt like a blessing when he’s watched other humans interact. Things like desire and anger are easy to get a grip on because there’s never any weight attached to them; they’re mere facsimiles of what he should be feeling.
But now. Now he’s feeling a wealth of genuine emotions: fury at the idea that nobody will ever truly see Dean for who he is, because it’s easier and less complicated to see him as a battered human being than something far more substantial than they could ever be; jealousy directed at those who get to be in contact with Dean all the time and most likely don’t appreciate him, those who get to bask in his beauty; sorrow because somebody – a goddamned nobody – felt that it was okay to try and destroy something so magnificent…
Love?
Is this what it feels like? This devastating pain in his chest, this crushing ache, shoving out any semblance of reason or logic – two of Castiel’s most prized mechanisms – until he can feel everything.
Castiel wants. No. Fuck that. He needs.
He needs Dean to see himself as Castiel sees him, not how these stupid fucks see him. Their opinion is wrong, worthless and dangerous, and if Castiel has to spend the rest of his life and resources making Dean see that then he’d consider it time and money well spent.
Castiel’s eyes dart over to the defendant – watching carefully for anything that gives him away as Dean haltingly, but determinedly describes the time that ‘Alastair’ invited a group of his friend to extinguish their cigars and cigarettes on Dean’s body.
The bastard is grinning. Smirking like someone’s reading out a list of his conquests rather than describing their agony as they were systematically tortured over several years. He’s grinning, but all Castiel can see through the haze of his rage are his own fingers wrapped around the fucker’s neck, squeezing until he goes burgundy, a bright garish splash of color against the backdrop of banality. Post-mortem Hypostasis is an intense purple-red discoloration of the superficial layers of the skin, due to reduced hemoglobin in the blood, and so by the time that Castiel finished with him he’d be nothing but a grotesque, bloated parody of a human being.
Even in such a macabre tableau, Alastair would still be much more attractive in death, than he could ever hope to be in life.
Dean is still talking in that low rasp, emotion – not weakness – seeping through the cracks in his voice. He’s so painfully beautiful that Castiel knows, just knows, he won’t be able to walk away. That there’s no force on this earth that could keep him away. Not now, not ever.
His heart is beating in triplicate, similar to the way it does just before a kill, but right now it has nothing to do with the taking of life and everything to do with the gaining of one.
Dean Winchester will be his.