Chapter Text
The first time Castiel catches sight of Dean Winchester, it’s a bit of a shock to the system. One minute he’s walking down the stark, gray halls of Bay State Penitentiary, mentally reviewing the little information he’s absorbed about the man who never showed up for his intake appointment. The next, he’s rounding a corner, wandering headlong into a scene not often stumbled upon outside the context of a porn set.
Castiel would know, he has a cousin who does that sort of thing.
And while he wasn’t expecting to encounter it at work, per se, he should have been better prepared. Or, at the very least, peripherally aware that this was a possibility, considering (first and foremost) that he does work inside of a prison. Also relevant here would be the reason why he was brought to Bay State at all, added in with everything he knows thus far regarding Inmate Number 05152008.
Like a responsible and clear-headed prison psychologist, he should have considered this scenario and made a plan in advance—lest the shock value of confronting it live and in person render him stupid and reactive.
Oops.
On the one hand, Castiel is not in any way new to the graphic and often obscene nature of prison life. On the other, rounding the corner of an ordinary cellblock only to find his newest patient being throat-fucked by a man nearly twice his size is disconcerting, to say the least.
“Get off of him,” Castiel growls. Protective instinct takes over and he finds himself stepping into Winchester’s cell just far enough to yank at the back of the other inmate’s prison-issued orange top. “Put that away.”
Castiel doesn’t know what he expected to happen. An attempted punch to the face from the man brutalizing the smaller prisoner wouldn’t be remotely surprising, and Castiel is more than ready to duck (or lean over and smash the housing block’s panic button, if necessary). The offending prisoner’s quick retreat and Winchester’s resulting burst of anger, though—those things were certainly not anywhere near the top of Castiel’s guess list.
“What the fuck, man? Ever heard of knocking?” Dragging the back of his wrist roughly across the stretch of his wet mouth, Winchester glares up at Castiel with the ferocity and indignation of a much freer man. His green eyes flash, causing Castiel to stumble over his own response, but only for a second. After all, the cardinal rule of commanding authority in prison is to always do exactly that. No flinching, no faltering, or you’re cooked. Show no fear, no sign that you’re affected by anyone, and never, ever hesitate.
“This is prison, Winchester,” Castiel snaps back, just as soon as he’s gathered his wits. Despite his brave show, Castiel clutches his clipboard more tightly to his chest. As if that could protect him, should the other two men decide that they’re angry enough about being interrupted to risk a stint in AdSeg. “There’s no such thing as privacy here, and you are late for an appointment.”
Glancing over at the other inmate (who thankfully has pulled his elastic-waisted pants back over his dick and into place around his hips), Castiel clears his throat. He uses the built-in pause to read the name printed across the ID tag clipped jauntily between buttons on the man’s shirt.
“Lafitte,” Castiel muses out loud. He relaxes his grip on the clipboard, turning the first page of his Warden-provided info packet over. Running a finger down the alphabetically-organized names of all the inmates, he hums. “Lafitte, Benny. You don’t belong in this cellblock,” Castiel remarks, not exactly accusing.
Technically, Benny isn’t doing anything wrong. The minimum security prison they’re in is divided into housing blocks; six individual cells surrounding a common area, each block able to be barred and locked after curfew or during a lockdown. The shared inner space boasts a dining table and chairs, two couches, and a small kitchenette. All that plus a TV, coffee maker, snacks, even a small fridge—this prison is paradise compared to some of the institutions Castiel has worked inside. In fact, the relative freedoms these inmates possess are virtually unparalleled. While Benny may not be assigned to this particular housing unit, there’s no rule in place (or even a good reason) that he can’t visit.
“On my way out, Boss,” Benny says anyway, tipping the definitely-not-prison-issue cap he’s wearing before hurrying out of the cell almost apologetically. Castiel watches as he goes, surprised (but relieved) to not have a confrontation on his hands.
Perhaps this transfer was a good idea after all. Perhaps this “Club Fed” and its reportedly upscale criminal clientele are actually a different breed. Compared to the very broke and busted, just-crawled-out-of-the-sewers crowd filling the cells at Pontiac Correctional Center, anyway, otherwise known as the place where Castiel earned his reputation.
Either way, this prison set-up is much nicer than what Castiel is used to, and that’s not a small part of the reason he’s here. The structure seems to both keep the prisoners happier and serve the staff well—especially when the facility is forced to go into lockdown. The “family”-style housing blocks and individual bunks as cells encourage positive socialization and allow for more privacy than is typical. In Castiel’s experience, allowing prisoners who can handle it to have a bit of space and the ability to escape from their peers can be extremely helpful in defusing tension and rivalries.
More to the point, during free time, the prisoners are allowed to intermingle between blocks. And they’re allowed to be consensually intimate. On the other hand, prison violence is Castiel’s specialty, and he doesn't know any of these men well enough to be sure of what is consensual and what is not. Considering why Dean has been shortlisted to meet with him, Castiel is definitely not going to assume.
This isn’t his first rodeo walking in on a scene like this, either (see: should have been better prepared). But he’s never been in such close quarters—alone—with someone so hostile as Dean Winchester in the aftermath.
When Castiel turns back around from watching Lafitte leave, Dean is right in his space, nearly nose-to-nose. His nostrils flare when Castiel stares back unflinchingly, only responding to Dean’s aggressive posturing by tipping his head slightly to one side.
“Is there something wrong, Dean?” he asks evenly, making a calculated choice to use the prisoner’s first name. “I won’t apologize for looking out for you. That man had you pinned—”
“That’s how he likes it, dumbass,” Dean fires back, finally stepping away in a huff and running a hand through his already-disheveled hair. Grumbling under his breath, Dean makes his way over to the sink in the corner of the room, picking up his toothbrush and loading it with toothpaste.
Castiel gives him the space to do his thing, but he observes Dean closely. Two passes with the toothbrush plus mouthwash, and a lot of grimacing. Not doing much to convince him that what he walked in on was consensual, that’s for sure. Castiel’s seen this particular routine more than once from a coerced prisoner, and not that it compares, but he’s done it himself with less-than-savory bar hookups.
“So, is Benny someone important to you?” Castiel prods, once Dean’s done spitting and wiping his face off. Predictably, Dean just grunts and shrugs, but Castiel isn’t so easily cast off. “I can write him up, Dean, if he was hurting you. You’re not—”
“Fuck!” Dean yells, making Castiel’s eyebrows go up and his feet fight to take a big step backward (he resists). “You don’t know what fresh hell you’re sticking your nose into, Doc,” Dean continues, more levelly this time. His expression turns hard as he advances on Castiel. “I get it. You’re the new guy in town, you want to wave your dick around. Probably fresh out of school with your expensive degree and your too-pretty-for-prison face, out to save the world and my ass.” Dean snorts, stopping just inside Castiel’s bubble of personal space, lip curling up in a sneer.
The irony of a magazine-handsome man like Dean making comments about someone being too attractive for prison does not escape Castiel.
“Let me be the first to say, welcome to the Bay. And also? Fuck off. You hear me? Fuck all the way off, before you mess with something you can’t fix. You got no idea what goes on in here, not yet. You’re damn lucky it was Benny, buddy, and so am I.”
“Excuse me?” Castiel replies, face carefully blank. He’s happy to let Dean believe that he has the upper hand here—though in fact, the prisoner’s words and body language are far too revealing for that to be the case. As tough as he likely sees himself as, Dean’s easily identifiable as insecure, fearful. All of that emotion is buried deeply, of course, stuffed far beneath a heap of frustration and anger. There’s so much more going on beneath Dean’s stormy surface than he’s keen to let on, and Castiel’s already decided to make it his mission to tease the entire mess out.
“Yeah, excuse you,” Dean agrees with a nod. “Excuse you for interrupting something that I’m still going to have to finish later. All you did was create more work for me, understand? You didn’t save me, didn’t do shit except guarantee that I’m going to sleep with a sore jaw tonight.” Dean rubs the joint just below his right ear, as if to make a point. Stepping back and collapsing down onto the twin bed that’s built into the side of the wall in a huff, Dean’s attitude changes abruptly, and he flashes a cocky grin. “Write me a script for the pain, Doc?”
“Well, I sincerely apologize for any problems my actions may have caused you,” Castiel tells him, ignoring the sarcastic request. He’s being sincere when he speaks—after all, Castiel didn’t come here to make trouble for anyone. Exactly the opposite, and he does need Dean to trust him if he’s going to have any shot at helping him out.
“Whatever,” Dean mumbles, tucking his hands behind his head, cushioning the back of it against the hard cinderblock wall. Meanwhile, his legs hang carelessly over the side of his cot. He’s the very picture of nonchalance, but Castiel sees right through him. “Can you get the fuck out now?”
“No,” Castiel says calmly, pulling out Dean’s desk chair and taking a seat, however uninvited. “But you already knew that. Just like you knew we had an appointment. Dean,” Castiel asks carefully, folding one leg over the other and taking notice to the way Dean’s eyes linger on his thighs. “Did you intend for me to find you with Mr. Lafitte?”
Across from him, Dean’s eyes go wide and he bolts upright, looking alarmed. “Are you fucking kidding me?” he hisses, darting anxiously over to the door as quick as can be. Sticking his head out, Dean hastily scans the common area for eavesdroppers before breathing an apparent sigh of relief. When he comes back inside, he pulls the door closed behind him. Castiel shouldn’t allow it—that’s Prison Safety 101—but his instincts tell him that Dean isn’t a threat—to him, at least. He certainly has the muscle and stature to be considered objectively intimidating.
Castiel’s no slouch in that department, either, but Dean is what they call prison-jacked. Boredom, restlessness, lack of other productive things to do, combined with the need to stay in shape and protect oneself—it’s motivation that Castiel and his set of free-weights that live next to his cushy bed lack.
“You can’t say shit like that, dude. You can’t—” Cutting himself off, Dean runs a hand through his hair in frustration. Dean’s reaction is a strong one for someone the sentiment didn’t resonate with, but Castiel knows when to hold ‘em and when to fold ‘em. He stands and smooths down his outfit.
“Thursday,” he tells Dean sternly, pointing one finger in the direction of his chest. “My office, two p.m. Your appointments with me are mandatory, if you’d like to retain your privileges.”
To his surprise, Dean’s face changes as Castiel attempts to move past him, openly looking his body up and down. “Anxious to get me alone, Doc? Heard through the grapevine about what the prison slut will do for anyone that Crowley owes a favor? That what this is about? Hey, baby, you don’t need to call me down to the Principal’s office to snag a piece. Gonna need to see the menu, or—?” Licking his lips, Dean crowds him against the cool cement wall, letting his hand drift down to Castiel’s hip where it curls possessively.
Taken aback, Castiel is slower to react than he’d like, but he manages before things get entirely out of control. Grabbing Dean’s wrist, Castiel flips their positions quickly, shoving Dean up against the wall with his hand held fast next to his shoulder. Dean just smirks, like he expected this turn of events. Perhaps he did.
“What are you playing at, Dean?” Castiel growls.
Dean’s sharp smile never wavers, though his eyes have glassed over, like he’s ready to disappear into his own head. “Hey,” he says with a shrug. “If you’re not into it, that’s cool. Just don’t be telling Crowley that I didn’t deliver.”
Narrowing his eyes, Castiel releases Dean’s wrist and backs away, this time towards the door. He should write Dean up, but the strange note of pleading in his voice has Castiel choosing to give him a pass. With any luck, he won’t regret it.
He keeps his back to the door, though, this time. He’s not afraid, but he’s also wholly uninterested in giving Dean any ambiguous signals at this point. “I do not sleep with my patients,” Castiel says.
“Pity,” Dean replies as he turns around, rubbing his lightly-scraped cheek with the tips of two fingers. His other hand drifts almost seductively over the fabric covering his groin. “You’re actually hot, you shower, you probably aren’t gonna give me an STI.” Dean shrugs carelessly before heading back to his bed and falling down on it. Splayed on his back, Dean’s legs fall open softly, a clear invitation that Castiel just blinks at, as blankly as possible. “Whatever. See you Thursday, sunshine.”
Castiel leaves Dean’s cell knowing full-well that he’s violated his own first rule of working in a prison in a big way, but anxious to see Dean again all the same. That feeling isn’t entirely professional, but that isn’t a new concept for him, either. The truth is, Castiel’s never been able to figure out how to keep from becoming emotionally invested in his charges. To many of his coworkers (and even his superiors), that particular weakness is a greater liability, a bigger betrayal than if he was the type of person who used his power position to sleep with men who can’t legally or ethically consent.
No one’s ever accused the people running the U.S.’s prison industrial complex of being the good guys, though. The whole system is rife with corruption, coercion, pro-profit sentencing, and virtual slave labor. Castiel knows all of those things, but these people—the inmates, not the brass—need him, and all he wants to do is help.
Which is why he spends the remainder of his afternoon locked away in his office, poring over Dean’s file. Castiel greedily inhales every piece of information and history that he can find on the man, no matter how small. The rundown he received from the Warden was well-substantiated by his own in-person interaction with Dean, and everything in his file seems to corroborate her suspicions.
The Warden, a stern but well-meaning woman named Naomi, recruited Castiel specifically to break up a problematic crime syndicate ring that’s formed inside her prison. A mob boss, here on a plea deal for lesser charges, has essentially orchestrated to have all of his right-hand men locked up with him for the duration of his stay. With the man himself boasting seemingly endless useful connections both on the inside and out, Naomi’s fighting a losing battle, here at the Bay. The way she tells it, Castiel is her last hope of maintaining any semblance of order and authority over this place.
Castiel pauses in his perusal of Dean’s file, shifting it to the side in favor of another marked, “Fergus Crowley.” Crowley—the alleged mob boss in question, and the same man Dean mentioned today. Sipping his lukewarm coffee, Castiel reads through information he’s skimmed at least three times already. This go-round, perhaps—now that he has context—he’ll pick up something more informative about Dean, and how he fits into this mess.
Between the file and the mental notes Castiel gleaned from Naomi, Castiel knows that upon his initial arrival, Fergus Crowley swiftly challenged the existing Top Dog for his title.
(“Top Dog” is exactly what it sounds like—this is the prisoner that the other inmates collectively accept as their leader, someone they look to for unofficial structure and any rules expected from them on the inside. Different leaders might tow different philosophies; Castiel’s seen everything from anti-drug Top Dogs to drug-trafficking Top Dogs, even one who tried to run a direct-sales pyramid scheme from behind bars.
He didn’t last very long, shiv-carving skills or no.)
It’s interesting to Castiel that Crowley felt so confident in attempting his coup on day one—Top Dogs don’t become such because they’re pushovers, or easy to topple.
It’s just that Crowley’s modus operandi (via his charges and his behavior since that first day) reads as mostly manipulative, not hands-on. He seems... bureaucratic, more than he does violent, like he belongs on Naomi’s side of the bars, really. On the other hand, Castiel does know that appearances can be deceiving, especially when it comes to lock-up. And Crowley was successful in his bid.
After that, just when Naomi was hoping things would begin to settle, along came Dean. An apparent unrepentant sex worker who waited not even one day after arriving at the Bay to get up to his old tricks, pun intended. Naomi wasn’t used to that type of person in her prison—this is the sort of place white-collar criminals go; insider traders and tax evaders. Dean, by all accounts, didn’t belong. Even the notes in his file suggest that no one quite understood why he was sent here, but the judge’s orders were very clear.
Regardless, that was Naomi’s breaking point, and what drove her to headhunt and subsequently recruit Castiel. He considers that now, flipping through Dean’s court paperwork and frowning. It seems likely that Naomi may care as much about simply getting rid of “the Dean problem,” as she does the entire situation with Crowley, and that sits rather uncomfortably with Castiel.
On a personal level, Naomi clearly hates Dean for what he represents. Perhaps she feels her prison is above hosting criminals like him, Castiel isn’t sure. What is definitive is that she’s not bothered to suss out whether Dean might actually be a victim—someone whose strings Crowley is pulling—rather than the thug she so badly wants him to be. He won’t make the same mistake.
Because either way, Castiel has been brought in to unpack and dismantle the entire cabal. To find (read: manufacture, if necessary) an airtight reason to put Crowley into the protection unit for the remainder of his stay, if possible. For Naomi, Dean as a person was quite the afterthought, a symptom of the problem, if anything at all. Just another one of Crowley’s misled sycophants.
What was it that she had labeled him? Castiel scans his handwritten notes from their conversation—right.
The prison slut.
That’s what Dean called himself, as well. Official file seems to affirm: Dean was picked up on a known problematic streetcorner by an undercover badge. He was charged with several low-level crimes, including soliciting sex. Unable to make bail, he’s now locked up pending his trial, which has already been pushed three times for arbitrary reasons. One of which seems to include having the misfortune of being assigned a disinterested public defender.
Naomi is right about one thing—Dean doesn’t belong.
And yet, he’s here—presumably because Crowley wants him that way—but that doesn’t automatically make Dean one of them.
From everything he’s seen so far, Castiel’s increasingly convinced that Dean is not. That in this respect, Naomi is flat-out wrong. If his own suspicions are correct, Dean is not only a victim, he’s a symptom of the problem—perhaps even the key to unraveling it.
Castiel strokes his scruffy chin and reviews Dean’s intake stats. He’s healthy, strong. And yet, despite that muscled physique, Dean isn’t one of Crowley’s bodyguards or enforcers. It’s also plain to see from the way Dean talks about the man that his loyalty is either bought or coerced, not genuine. Most importantly of all, Dean visibly hates what Crowley is putting him through.
The way Dean acts simply doesn’t track with being a willing minion. It seems far more likely that Crowley has something on him, that he’s holding some form of leverage over Dean’s head. If that’s true, then it’s also Castiel’s job to find out what that leverage is, and remove it from Crowley’s grasp. That mission isn’t anything Naomi cares about or is paying him for—that’s Castiel’s own code of ethics refusing to leave him be.
He’ll need Dean’s cooperation to figure it all out, of course. And that is the real wildcard here—Dean himself. What does Dean want, at the end of the day? What does he care about?
Sighing and rolling his neck until it cracks, Castiel flips Crowley’s folder shut and tosses it to the side. He sits back in his cushioned leather chair and grimaces at the developing ache in his back. He taps the end of his pen against his lips and surveys the paper-strewn mess he’s made of his desk. Dean’s history, his crimes, all the details of his life are spread out in one-dimension, detailed coldly and dispassionately on various legal forms and copy paper.
A black and white mugshot of Dean giving the camera his best Blue Steel stares up at Castiel, almost daring him to try and crack his carefully-constructed facade.
“Who are you, Dean?” Castiel wonders out loud. “How did you get here?”
How did you become this, and how can I help you find your way out?
All good things in time.
***
Exiting the prison’s lobby after the workday is through never fails to make Castiel react in the same clichéd fashion. A brief pause, closing his eyes as he turns his face to the sky. It’s usually against the slowly-dipping sun, though tonight it’s rain. A thankful exhale comes next, followed by a deep, lung-filling breath of fresh, clean air and the unmistakable scent of freedom.
There is no doubt to anyone who’s spent time inside—whether prisoner or staff—freedom absolutely has a smell, on top of a feeling.
Castiel inhales it all greedily. He stands in front of the lobby doors for a moment too long until he nearly gets bowled over by a pair of officers in more of a rush than him to get home. “Sorry,” he murmurs as they laugh and nudge at each other, clearly mocking him. Somewhat longingly, Castiel watches as the duo crosses the parking lot to join a clump of several other guards gathered together between their vehicles. Even with the distance, Castiel can hear them joking and making plans to meet up at the bar down the street.
No one besides the Warden has made even a cursory effort to get to know him yet, though it’s only been a week since Castiel’s first day at the Bay. To be fair, he’s spent most of that time in meetings with Naomi, buried up to his neck in files, and/or observing the prisoners’ behavior from the security camera monitoring room. The guard who has been assigned there each time Castiel’s been down—Garth—is friendly, at least. Almost too friendly, chattering on about everything under the sun until Castiel’s ears feel like they must be hot to the touch while he nods politely and jots down notes about what he sees on the CCTV screens.
Speak of the devil—Garth appears from behind Castiel, waving enthusiastically before joining the raucous group in the middle of the lot. Feeling awkward, Castiel hesitates before walking over to his motorcycle, fiddling with the helmet in his hands for a moment while he wonders if he should be the one to make the first attempt at friendly connection.
Ultimately, he loses his nerve, shoving the helmet down onto his head and stomping the motorcycle’s engine to life. After a brief glance over his shoulder (and several satisfyingly surprised expressions staring back), Castiel does a tight one-eighty out of his parking space and roars away.
The wind rushing against him feels nice. Refreshing after his day inside, his plastic visor repelling the soft rain well enough that Castiel arrives home with very little issue, despite the suboptimal riding weather. The coastal town that houses Bay State Penitentiary on its rocky peninsula isn’t exactly sprawling, so it’s not even a five-minute jaunt, no matter how much Castiel tries to draw it out. Not that anyone could blame him—the weather here is temperate for mid-fall: cool, but still entirely pleasant to spend time outdoors.
Pointedly, it’s much more welcoming than the unforgiving harshness of the Illinois winters Castiel’s recently left behind—and good riddance to that. Frost and cutting chill cropping up by mid-October is what he’s long-accustomed to, and the way that nasty weather creeps in without warning or mercy, sinking into creaking window frames and everyone’s bones.
Here, with the tang of salt air on his tongue, the fresh scent of the sea breeze in his face, the kinder location that’s decidedly farther south—well. Winter’s sneaky tendrils seem to have been severed at the source, at least temporarily. Castiel will take whatever reprieve he can get. Most of his evenings have thus been spent walking the beach or running the modest boardwalk, even if the majority of seasonal shops have been closed and shuttered by now. He’s not looking forward to the day that it becomes too cold to do the few things he’s come to enjoy in this place.
It doesn’t help ease Castiel’s impending cabin fever that his current accommodations make the word “modest” seem extravagant. He supposes his first mistake was having trucked all the way here in a rented Enterprise moving van with everything he owns barely taking up half the available space in the back. His second was fatal, and that was assuming that he could find housing after he’d arrived.
Staying in a local motel had always been a temporary plan, a holdover until he found something better. Unfortunately, the housing market in this little oceanside town turned out to be its own entire disaster. Everything was and is either way out of his budget—being prime beachfront (or close to it) real estate, a rich vacationer’s dream—or the exact opposite.
Naturally, it’s the latter set that fall into his identified safe price range.
Of those, the places Castiel has toured so far have all turned out to be rundown shacks that aren’t even remotely livable. Rotting floors and stripped wiring, previously flooded lower levels infested with mold. Kitchens straight out of the fifties, bugs, and bathrooms that would make a highway gas station feel like a suite at the Ritz. Great finds for an investor looking to flip, or a handy sort of person scouting for a DIY project that will pay off in the long-run. Perhaps as a weekend retreat or rental income once renovations are done.
Not so great if you’re Castiel, a single man with a full-time job and an only-slightly-above-average salary, looking for an affordable, turnkey home.
Supposedly, most of the guards and adjunct prison staff live in apartment complexes or condos less than a half-hour drive outside the little shore town for this very reason. Castiel floated that option briefly, but his lack of reliable (read: enclosed) transportation when the weather does inevitably turn harsh has him balking at that. It wouldn’t due to have an emergency crop up at the Bay during a snowstorm and Castiel with only his motorcycle to get him there.
At least where he’s staying right now, he could walk to the prison—easily, in fact—if he truly wanted or needed to do so. Absently, Castiel turns all of this over in his mind as his drive comes to a close. True, his current residence is small and come winter, will almost certainly make him feel as if the walls are closing in. All the same, a better option has yet to present itself.
Leaning into the turn that takes him over a small speedbump and into the motel’s near-empty parking lot, Castiel brings his bike to a smooth stop in front of his humble abode. To be fair, the motel is quite nice, for what it is. Comfortably equipped and with a negotiated monthly rate that’s easy on his wallet, Castiel could be doing far worse.
At the very least, he can use this interlude to save up for something nicer. It’s his own fault for not investigating the options prior to moving, anyway. If he had, Castiel would definitely have noticed the wacky financial dynamic the town boasts. A mix of elites who could care less about the intimidating cement eyesore down the road, combined with a smattering of near-condemned buildings that the working-class has been priced out of being able to afford. Strange, but Castiel supposes that’s textbook gentrification at work. Some builder will come along and snap them up, turn out a bunch of bright, shiny new condos in the blink of an eye.
He kills the engine on his bike and removes the keys, still considering.
Perhaps, Castiel muses, as he lifts his helmet from his head and shakes out his hair. Perhaps that’s just the sort of adventure I need. He is, after all, in possession of plenty enough savings to purchase one of those unlivable disasters, if he wanted to. Theoretically, he could try and fix one up while continuing to live at the motel. He’d be no worse off than he is at the moment. At least doing so would give him a potential exit plan from the thrills of eating, sleeping, and showering within the same fifteen-by-forty(ish) feet of space.
And if he fails, surely one of those developers will be waiting in the wings...
Humming to himself, Castiel rolls his shoulders, his heavy backpack making them ache something fierce. After a long day of being hunched over his desk, this mode of transporting his work materials seems wholly undesirable. Castiel sighs as he walks up to the entrance for his little cottage, but he has to admit, the exterior is fairly welcoming. Two wide steps offer access to a pretty light blue door, with planters on either side full of fall mums—yes, this could definitely be worse. At the very least, the proprietors of this establishment clearly care for it and take pride in how it appears for their guests.
Castiel’s grateful for that. He stops to sniff the mums, and the familiar spicy-daisy scent is calming.
The motel itself is a mix of rooms, condos, and standalone tiny structures. Castiel’s rented mini-house happens to be the last in a short row of cottages that stretch along one side of the parking lot. Across the way is the office, tucked into the lower portion of the two-story, more traditional section of the motel. Somewhere behind that building sits a pool that’s closed for the season. Maybe even a hot tub, Castiel hasn’t bothered to check.
Being on the end, his cottage is right next to the street, leaving him with a potential neighbor on only one side. Since he’s arrived, no one’s come along to rent any of the other houses, but Castiel suspects it’s a different story during peak season. As he keys the lock on the scratched-steel knob open, that thought makes Castiel circle back to his previous idea of attempting a fixer-upper. Frankly, just the idea of being trapped in tourist-central when summer hits is nearly enough to have him high-tailing it back to Illinois.
No, Castiel scolds himself internally. Can’t do that. Housing, social life, and transportation woes aside, Castiel reminds himself that he made a commitment. His own lack of planning and foresight isn’t an excuse to not see this thing with the Bay and Crowley through. Naomi is counting on him.
And after today, he knows there’s Dean to think about, too.
Dean, with his troubled past and curious reluctant ties to an apparent mob boss. Dean, with his unearthly, furious green eyes and his devil-may-care attitude that’s so transparently a show. Is he really Dean, the self-assured, confident sex worker? Is he Dean the abject victim? Or is he some confusing mix of all that and more? Castiel finds himself wondering if Dean’s outward projection is something he’s adopted specifically for prison, or whether this facade is one that Dean’s been carrying for much, much longer.
Experience and instinct tug at Castiel’s mind, insisting that it’s the latter.
Those thoughts stick with Castiel as he goes about his evening routine, changing out of his suit and into sweatpants and a long-sleeved tee (plus matching sweatshirt) to go for a run. The blue door clicks shut behind him, and he’s off. Castiel’s soles grind on the pebbles in the motel parking lot and then slap as the rocks give way to concrete. His steps echo loudly in the quiet streets and already-winterized buildings that lead to downtown.
Only a select few stores and restaurants remain open at this hour, this time of the year, and the patronage is sparse. A few couples walk hand-in-hand, on their way over from nearby houses to grab dinner or drinks. Castiel gives them all a wide berth as he jogs. He intentionally avoids the big bar on Main Street, too, the one he knows the guards from the Bay tend to frequent. Much as he might crave an invite—some human contact besides Naomi and various prisoners—not so much while he’s dressed like a gym teacher and sweating through both of his layers.
Down by the ocean, the boardwalk separating sand from town is even quieter. That solemn, isolated atmosphere is just how Castiel likes it to be. The boardwalk’s wide, lit path stretches for nearly half of a mile in either direction, the only barrier between various hotels and vendors and the beach. Nearly completely deserted tonight, the shops and arcade are shuttered and dark, shells of themselves during these colder months. Similarly, the ice cream and fried food stalls that surely buzz nonstop with business during summer are sporting heavy chains that keep them locked up tight.
Castiel runs past all of it to the peaceful rhythm of crashing waves. The ocean is dark and frothy and the only other sounds in his ears are the occasional squawking seagull and the slap slap slap of his own sneakers pounding against the wooden slats.
The scenery turns into a blur. All the way down to the end of the boardwalk and back, one foot in front of the other, nothing but him and the cold air and the peaceful drone of waves. Castiel runs until his blood pounds in his ears and drowns out even that, until his breath burns in his chest, leaving him gasping and his legs threatening to disappear beneath him. It feels so good to simply live inside his own mortal body, to push it to its furthest limits, and forget the rest.
A quarter of a mile from home, Castiel slows to a cool-down stroll as the boardwalk opens up on one side to the main street. Instead of turning left to head back to the motel, he turns right and steps out onto the sand. It’s almost automatic, the way he gravitates towards the waves, mesmerized and soothed by their steady in and out, in and out, in and out.
He matches the rhythm of the waves to his breath, moving air more deeply and slowly, encouraging his heart rate down to something softer, something relaxed.
The sand gives beneath his tired feet, making the walk down towards the water more difficult than it has to be. Over it, Castiel pauses to toe his sneakers off, unable to resist a small groan of relief when they’re gone. He peels off both socks and stuffs them inside as he picks the shoes up to carry.
Beneath him, the sand is downright cold, but it feels good on his skin after that taxing run. The water, on the other hand—that washes over his toes like ice. Still, Castiel stands his ground in the shallows and takes it, staring placidly out over the wide expanse of blue as the tide trickles in around his ankles.
He tries not to look.
Working to stay in the moment, Castiel focuses on the waves, the horizon, the fading spray of red and pink peeking out from behind gloomy clouds that have run out of rain to spit. In the end, though, Castiel can’t help it. He tips his chin over his left shoulder and lets his eyes take in the sight. Miles and miles down the endless sand, long past where the boardwalk ends and the beach turns to marsh and then to rock, sits the imposing figure of the Bay.
From here, one could almost mistake it for a castle or something else intriguing, instead of what it really is. It’s small in the distance, like a toy, like something that could sit in the palm of Castiel’s hand. Shrouded in evening fall mist, it could even be described as adding to the atmosphere, instead of detracting. Castiel understands why its presence doesn’t necessarily deter tourists and the rich from coming here. It’s like anything else unseemly—so long as it can be kept at arm’s length and plausibly ignored, people will do so.
Dean flashes across his mind once again, Castiel’s reprieve from all things prison-related apparently over. With a last deep breath of fresh, salty air, he turns and heads for home. The walk back is less than pleasant, stubborn sand abrading his feet and ankles beneath his socks. The minute he’s inside the blue door, Castiel beelines for the shower and washes everything off—the sand, the day, Dean—all of it.
In his softest boxers and nothing else, Castiel pads out into his tiny living space. The steam from the bathroom follows close behind, bringing warmth with it. Castiel pulls some leftovers from the fridge and nukes them in the microwave. He’s lucky, at least, that his cottage has a full kitchen, a king-sized bed, and plenty of room. All the essentials, really, that one single (if lonely) man could need. Boxes of Castiel’s items that have nowhere to be unpacked to sit stacked against the far wall between the door and bay window, but that’s the only sign that he’s not entirely permanent here.
As he waits for his food to heat, Castiel flips on the flatscreen TV that’s mounted to the wall next to his stove. Nothing catches his interest and he winds up settling for a rerun of Dr Sexy, M.D. that he’s already seen. There’s a comfortable couch that faces the small kitchen and a dining set parked in between, but Castiel doesn’t see any reason for pretense. He chooses the couch easily, sinking down into the cushions with an assortment of Chinese food that he’s defensibly earned after that run.
His muscles ache. Shoulders, back, thighs. He winces, shifting in a fruitless attempt to try and get more comfortable. It’s a quadruple-Advil night, of that Castiel is certain. What he wouldn’t give to have a partner to bribe into rubbing him down right about now.
Dean’s face appears uninvited in his mind once again, and Castiel scowls into his shrimp lo mein. His own code of ethics would never allow him to cross that line, but he’s still a human, and he’s not blind. Nor sexless, for that matter. Unfair as it is, the feel of Dean’s well-muscled body pressing against his, his minty breath puffing close to Castiel’s face—Dean is very aesthetically pleasing, and his memory is not an entirely unwelcome train of thought.
With some effort, Castiel’s able to push it aside, though his libido is displeased with him for doing so. The bottom line is that it would be gross, using Dean that way, no matter what his lizard brain wants. Dean is not only Castiel’s patient, he’s a person. A human being that may or may not be experiencing daily not-entirely-consensual violations of his body already.
Castiel wouldn’t be able to stand up and look the man in the eye if he—No. Best not to even go there.
Appetite gone, Castiel packs up the remainder of his food for the second night in a row and flips off the TV. He pulls his laptop from its place in the backpack and spends the next hour or so completing some busywork documentation remotely. It’s much more comfortable doing that sort of thing here, propped up by pillows in his very nice bed, than at his desk.
All the same, work makes him tired. The Advil kicks in too, setting Castiel up for a good night’s sleep without any of the sheep-counting that’s become too much of a usual habit for him since arriving here in town. Yawing widely, Castiel finds himself nodding off with his fingers still clacking away on the keyboard. He barely manages to get his computer closed and his bedside lamp switched off before he’s out like a light, no memory of his head even hitting the pillow.
The next day dawns with more grey skies and rain, the droplets pelting down on the cheap, galvanized steel roof of his rental. Castiel wakes slowly before his alarm, and try as he might, he can’t ignore the dreams his mind insisted on supplying him with overnight. A mix of Dean in various compromising positions, Castiel playing the starring role of the inmate putting him there in each and every one. While he’d love to say he’s repulsed by himself, that doesn’t seem to stop what happens next.
Castiel’s lips stick together as they part around a gasp, sheets damp and sticking to his overheated, sweaty skin. Inside his boxers, he’s hard as a rock, so much so that it’s painful. His hips rut instinctively against the mattress while Dean’s face, contorted in pleasure, floats across the back of his eyelids. Before he’s even fully conscious or aware of what’s happening, Castiel’s crying out and coming in his boxers, spend hot and wet and sticky as he pants into his pillow and flushes with a terrible mix of relief and shame.
“Fuck,” Castiel breathes as he rolls over and stares blankly up at the white ceiling, sheets tangling in a twist around his waist. “That’s going to be a problem.”
***