Below the Salt

[wanderamaranth]

Title: Below the Salt
Author: wanderamaranth 
Rating: R
Pairings: Dean/Castiel
Word Count: ~11,500
Spoilers: none
Beta: quantum_witch 
Warnings: sexual content, language, permanent injury (minor character), dub-con, appropriation and modernization of various fairy tale elements, mentions of murder and suicide, kidnapping

Summary: AU. Written fordc_everafter  Prompt story: Fairy Ointment. Original version can be found here.

Detective Dean Winchester and his partner Castiel Aulneau are called to investigate what appears to be a basic traffic accident. Dean is irritated to have been given such an assignment until it becomes apparent that one of his close friends was involved. Moreover, the cause appears to be anything but careless driving. Plus, there is something about the investigation that is making Dean's normally dedicated partner suggest they drop it altogether, which only serves to make Dean all the more determined to find out what happened, and why it's making Castiel so nervous.

**Now available in PDF, RTF, and MOBI files courtesy oftwasadark ! Go here for downloads.

Author's Note: If you are interested in Disney-or-romantic style fairy tales with unarguably happy endings, this is not the story for you. My preference for fairy tales tends to run towards the darker, more "traditional" sort of tale, and this story reflects that.

Although the majority of this has been beta-ed by the lovely quantum_witch , there are scenes and elements that were added after her read-through, so any mistakes found are my own. Detailed and possibly self-indulgent author's notes and credit for elements borrowed from other sources at the end.

Disclaimer: I do not own nor am affiliated with any personage or company that could conceivably (or inconceivably) earn profit from the posting, promotion, or distribution of these fan works. It's fanfiction, folks. I'm not taking myself too seriously, and I don't expect you take me or my writing very seriously either.

This story has been split into two parts for length.

---

 

Glass crunched under Detective Dean Winchester's feet as he walked up Highway 400. The red lights from the emergency vehicles and the yellow from the tow trucks pulsed together in a lazy rhythm. Somewhere in the distance he could hear a siren whistling, and he hoped, in a brief flash of perversity, it meant someone was being kidnapped or reported missing. Not a very charitable thing to hope for, true, but those were probably the only things that could be occur that'd get him out of his current duty. Dean truly enjoyed his job; there was nothing quite like being able to reunite missing persons with their loved ones, making families whole again.

His city wasn't really known for its high amount of missing persons, though, so when there weren't enough open cases for Detectives, then they'd get loaned out to other departments. Such was the situation that morning.

"Winchester! Get your ass over here!"

Looking up, Dean saw Officer Ellen Harvelle waving a hand to motion him forward and frowned. She was an extraordinarily kind-hearted person despite her gruff exterior, and normally he'd be happy to see her. Ellen was the senior-most Officer on the street beat, and not because she wasn't qualified for a promotion. Far from it, in fact. The strange truth was that Ellen had been offered Detective more times than Dean could remember, but she claimed she enjoyed the street detail. Something about how she loved her job but she had no desire to actually marry it. As was usually the case when he was confronted with Ellen's mix of gruffness and familiarity, Dean's thoughts drifted to his father, and he wondered if perhaps he would have been better off not following in the old man's footsteps. As was also usual, he shoved the thought aside almost as soon as it cropped up and muttered to himself, "Wishes and ponies."

Dean wasn't sure what the full phrase was that those words belonged to anymore, but he remembered enough of it that they reminded him that sometimes what you wish and what you get aren't the same thing. He really didn't want to be standing out in the middle of the Highway with honking horns and muffled cursing from frustrated drivers accompanying his footsteps, and yet there he was.

"Ellen!" he called out, splashing cheer across his face. Dean lengthened his strides to reach the woman's side more quickly, and saw to his surprise that his partner was already there. Castiel Aulneau and Ellen had a strangely symbiotic relationship. Whenever Ellen called for back-up or requested a consulting Detective, Castiel tried to be the one to answer, so Dean wasn't certain why he was surprised. Maybe because he knew for a fact that the other man was at the station until way too late last night (the night secretary, Anna, took great pleasure in informing him of his partner's work patterns, as if he wasn't aware of them or something).

Maybe it was because with any other person, Castiel was almost infamously late. Dean had teased the other man more than once about having a MILF fetish, but like most of his teasing, had only received a dour frown and a shake of the head in response.

("I don't understand you when you speak in acronyms, Dean. You know this," he'd said, and looked almost miserable while doing so. Dean hadn't the heart to tease him about it again.)

"'Bout time you arrived," Ellen said. The brisk air made her cheeks glow; she absently wiped at her nose. "I managed to keep as much of the scene intact that I could, but we've gotta get this road opened back up, kiddo. Rush starts in an hour."

Which meant, essentially, that rush had already started. Dean got the message. "It's a fucking traffic accident," he whined. She laughed.

"That it is. Enjoy," Ellen said, stepping back with a grin and a wave. Turning, she began to stride towards one of the many tow trucks that had crept onto the scene, her voice and tone completely different as she began berating the driver for being a vulture.

With a woe-begotten look towards his partner, Dean tried again. "It's a fucking traffic accident, Cas," he huffed. "Total waste to have detectives assigned to-"

"Dean."

Castiel placed one long-fingered hand on his forearm. Once Dean gave him his full attention, Cas squeezed lightly. "It can do no harm to give the area a basic perusal. Can it?"

Slumping with a sigh, Dean pasted on his most insincere grin. He knew Castiel hated falsified emotion, even if it was by and large a necessary part of their jobs. Castiel had asked him once to never make such displays when they were not necessary (as in, they were not questioning a witness or reassuring the family member of a victim), but to Dean, it felt necessary. He'd woken with a blinding headache that the bright sunlight and cheerful glittering of the lake water underneath the overpass was not helping, and then he'd been assigned to investigate another God damned...

"Nah, this'll be good for us, Cas. Back to basics, ya know?" Jerking his arm away from Castiel's gentle grasp, Dean continued, "It's not like I didn't bust my ass for years to make detective or anything. Why should it bother me that we're getting all these shitty assignments?"

"Charles would not assign us these tasks if he did not think they were worthy of our attention," Castiel said carefully, and Dean should have known better than to think that Aulneau would speak poorly of their boss.

"Chuck is a drunk who is so distracted by writing bad pulp fiction novels that he doesn't even know who he's told to do what," Dean snapped. "Remember last week, when you, me, Vic and Ruby fucking Moreno were all dispatched to the same location? For a case, it turns out, that was resolved a week before that?"

"Dean..." Castiel tried again, his shoulders slumping under the folds of his ubiquitous trench coat. Stubble thickly coated his jaw, and Dean noticed for the first time that the other man's suit was even more rumpled than usual. The ever-present blue tie he wore around his neck was so loose that it looked liable to unwind itself with the next strong breeze.

Not that it was any of his business—he and Castiel were partners, not friends, he told himself—but Dean couldn't help but ask quietly, "Rough night?"

Surprised blue eyes darted to Dean's and then away. If Dean had blinked, he would have missed the motion. "It is of no consequence," Castiel murmured, blank face pointedly directed at the shards of broken tail light to Dean's left.

Right, Dean thought to himself. Should have expected that.

Any time he'd attempted to reach out to his emotionally distant partner, he'd received the exact same sort of response. If not for the minute flashes of surprise—as if Castiel was amazed that anyone would think his comfort worthy of their concern—Dean would have written him off as a dick a long time ago. As it was, every new small hesitation made him more determined to draw the other man out of his shell. He was a puzzle wrapped inside an enigma and slathered in secret sauce, and to someone like Dean—a detective who joined the force for the ignoble reasoning that he simply liked solving puzzles and tackling challenges—he was irresistible.

Figuring him out was irresistible, Dean forcibly reminded himself. The fact that his thoughts lately had drifted more than once to wondering how many of those tiny reactions he could pull from Castiel if he applied his lips to the spot on his neck where stubble faded into the smooth skin, or if he'd manage to wring new ones (whimpers, hitching breaths, gasps) if he slid his fingers through his partner's wild dark hair made the detective more than slightly uncomfortable. Sure, the thoughts were all well and good while he was having them, but afterwards, as he lay in bed or leaned against the shower wall, limbs trembling, Dean couldn't help the panic that prickled across his skin as he wondered What the hell is happening to me?

Dean had never had a sexual thought about another male in his entire life before Castiel. Sure, he'd admired another man's physique, but in an absent oh-that-guy's-ripped sort of way. Never had he looked at the soft cushion of some man's lips and wondered with almost obscene hunger, or gotten a comradely slap on the back and wanted more. The simple fact of the matter was, though, that apparently Castiel was Dean's exception, something that was equally arousing and terrifying.

And right now, standing in front of his partner, the last thing he wanted was an inappropriate erection followed swiftly by a panic attack.

"Fine," Dean said, compressing his lips into a thin line. "Fine," he repeated, and Castiel turned back to him. It wasn't his imagination, Dean was certain, that there was a tiny furrow between the other man's brows (as if he were hurt by Dean's brusqueness) but he couldn't allow himself to think that way. A physical attraction Dean could learn to handle. Anything else was too far off the reservation. "Let's go take a look, shall we?"

The accident scene looked typical enough, for a six car pile-up. Multiple sets of tire tracks skittered across the road; there was one long, ugly smear leading up to the guardrail. Most of the vehicles had been towed away before Dean or Castiel arrived; only one was still there. Dean assumed it was the nexus vehicle.

"This the first domino?" he called out, not really caring who answered him. Accidents always brought out a flurry of people, both professionals and rubberneckers alike. If one of his co-workers didn't answer him, one of the voyeurs gaping from the sidelines would.

A feminine voice yipped out an affirmative, sir! causing the first genuine grin of the day to cross Dean's face.

"Hello to you too, Jo," Dean sing-songed back. Glancing upward through his lashes, he was pleased to see a not-so-delicate flush flood the young woman's face. Although he had absolutely zero sexual interest in her (they were practically raised together, so even thinking about how he'd never thought of her that way felt vaguely incestuous and wrong) Dean didn't see anything wrong with enjoying the boost of confidence he got from Jo's flustered reactions to his flirting. It always seemed to bother Castiel, though, the detective remembered moments too late as he was treated to what amounted to a scowl. Dean tried to tell himself that wasn't an added encouragement to flirt with Jo again later and failed. He'd already acknowledged to himself that day that he liked seeing any odd flash of emotion on his partner's face; it was no use lying to himself.

Dean ignored the fact that he'd been lying to himself all day, and that he'd apparently turned into an emotive teenager with all of his internal whinging about his feelings, like he always accused his brother Sam of doing.

Hypocrisy, thy name is Winchester, he thought wryly, wondering if it was really hypocrisy if you recognized what you were doing. Probably.

Castiel pushed past him, and Dean fancied he could smell the irritation rolling off the other man. It was probably just whatever traces of scent was leftover from when he'd last showered mingling with his sweat, but it was clean and sharp, like a freshly sliced red pepper, and it made Dean's mouth water. And damn it, yeah this assignment was bullshit but he really needed to devote a little more attention to it and less on ridiculous observations about his partner. Dean forced himself to look over at the vehicle clinging to the guardrail and started.

It wasn't the type of car that was easily mistakable, and Dean didn't know anyone other than Pamela Barnes who would be willing to be seen driving a 1980 AMC Pacer. Not just a Pacer, but an electric purple station wagon, for Christsakes, complete with faux-wood panel details. Of course, Pamela had mostly covered all the paneling with various new-agey bumper stickers, political slogans, spray paint and decorative decals, but that was besides the point. It was the most hideous car Dean had ever seen, (and to his shame at the time, ridden in) but it was Pamela's joy (if not her pride). She called it Caroline and stroked the hood before she climbed inside, every time, as if it were beautiful and precious, and yeah, Dean understood that, even if he didn't understand why she felt that way about this particular car.

Seeing the entire right side crunched up into virtually nothing—Dean couldn't even see the passenger seat anymore—made something twist viciously in his stomach. He knew how he felt after Sam had rolled his Impala, but at least she was repairable; Caroline looked one step away from the scrap heap. Dean didn't know how Pam was going to cope with this.

"Okay, I was not expecting that," Dean said, taking several steps forward. "Is Pam okay?" he asked Jo anxiously.

"She's fine, Dean," Jo replied, placing a comforting hand on his shoulder. "Well, as fine as can be expected."

"You know this vehicle and its owner." From anyone else the phrase would have come out like a question, but Castiel laid it out like a statement. Dean nodded.

At least he knew why he and Cas had been called to check the scene out; Pam was a friend, and Dean would have been pissed if he hadn't been. That realization coupled with the day's annoying self-awareness reared its head to once again whisper that he was such a God-damned hypocrite for suddenly wanting to take things seriously because it was one of his friends involved. It made him feel more than a bit like an asshole.

While Castiel asked Jo the usual sorts of questions (estimates on the velocity of the vehicle on impact, number of viable witnesses, injuries sustained) Dean assessed the damage to the Pacer, half with the eye of a cop, and half with the eye of a mechanic, knowing that when Pam knew he'd been on the scene she'd want his opinion on if Caroline was salvageable. All of the damage looked typical for the type of crash it was, except for one thing that Dean simply could not reasonably explain away. "Hey, Cas," he said, gesturing to the driver's side door. "Check this out."

Claw marks—Dean's mind refused to see them as anything else—scored the entire panel, as if a very angry and demented cat had scrabbled up the side via strength of its nails alone. Swallowing, Dean took a peek at the inside of the vehicle, but only saw a few minor spatters of blood. There was no trace of animal hair or a pet carrier, which was a bit of a relief (because Dean wasn't certain he wanted to meet the kind of domesticated animal that could score metal with just its claws, thanks) but at the same time, if Pamela hadn't been transporting anything, then what caused the marks?

"Was there a dog or cat or something in here?" he asked Jo, just to double check. Dean wasn't surprised when she replied, "No. Why?"

"Whattya think, Cas?" Dean said in an aside to his partner instead of responding as he crouched beside the car. His fingers hovered over the deep grooves. "What do you make of this?" he murmured, glancing upwards with raised brows.

If he'd thought his partner's face was expressionless before, it was nothing compared to how it was after a too-cursory glance at the door. It was completely and utterly closed off, and his voice was hollow as he said, "Perhaps the damage was sustained by another vehicle."

Castiel was standing stock still, his hands clenched into loose fists, as if he was aware that to hold them in any other manner would telegraph too much of his inner thought process. Dean frowned as he stood. A quick jerk of his head to Jo had the blonde nodding and stepping away. Presumably she'd seek out her mother and rat out Dean for being a jackass and sending her away, but the detective didn't really care. Cas was acting weirder than usual, and Dean wanted a few moments without others present to try to figure out why.

"If that's the case," he started, deceptively calm, "where are the paint scrapings? Metal shavings? And wouldn't it be in a more random pattern? These marks look really...deliberate. They're spaced too evenly apart to just be caused by random vehicular damage. Now, this is just my opinion..." Dean slanted his eyes towards Castiel, carefully watching his reaction. What he was going to say sounded crazy even to himself, but Aulneau wasn't acting like he disagreed with where Dean was clearly leading him. "But it almost looks like an animal clawed it up."

Something flickered behind Castiel's eyes; Dean couldn't tell what, but it wasn't worry over a crazy theory or amusement over a perceived jest. "No animal of the size that would create those marks could puncture metal in such a manner, nor successfully climb up the side of a vehicle moving down a busy highway at 80 mph," Castiel said stiffly.

Dean couldn't help it. He snorted. "Dude, you're being way too generous to this thing if you think this car could climb above 65."

Usually such a jokey remark would at least earn Dean a upward tug of the lips, but instead Castiel looked even more out of sorts. If Dean had to classify the emotion, he'd be tempted to say Cas looked frightened. He raised a hand and ran it through his windblown hair, a tell of uneasiness that Dean had never seen from his partner before.

"Perhaps we shouldn't bother with this case after all, Dean," Cas said, shocking the shit out of him. Things had just shifted from odd-weird (what with the claw marks) to Twilight-Zone-weird. Once given an assignment, Castiel had never even hinted at giving it anything other than his full attention, let alone dropping or passing along an investigation altogether. He continued with saying, "You're right. This is not our area of expertise, and-"

"Whoa. I'm gonna stop you right there," Dean said. "You did hear the part where this is one of my friends, didn't you?"

Castiel's mouth snapped shut. His eyebrows twitched. "Dean—"

Jo bounced back over, apparently instructed by Ellen that the detectives had been consulting one another long enough. "Mom...erm, Officer Harvelle," she corrected hastily, "wanted me to tell you guys that we really need to get this highway opened back up."

"Yeah," Dean said. "Thanks, Jo. I think we're done here."

"No problem, Dean," Jo beamed. "Oh, she also wanted me to tell you that Pam is at Mercy, and to warn you that her initial, ah, well..." Dean waited while Jo groped for words. "What she was saying here at the scene didn't make a whole lotta sense, I guess, according to the paramedics."

"Okay, Jo. Thanks," Dean repeated. He turned to go, one hand automatically finding its way to the center of Castiel's back, but he paused and glanced over his shoulder at Jo. There was only one garage that the Pacer could end up at, and he wanted another look at it before it was either scraped or he was asked to help with the repairs. "Hey, can you call Bobby for me and ask him to not touch Caroline until I get there to get a better look?"

"Of course," Jo nodded. There was a mischievous glint in her eyes before she turned away to give the tow-truck the go-ahead, and it was only when Castiel began speaking that Dean realized his hand was still splayed across Cas' back.

"Dean, I really think we should reconsider working this case. I know she is your...friend...but perhaps that is all the more reason to pass it along to another."

Coughing, Dean removed his hand, and it automatically went to the back of his neck, the way it always did when he was embarrassed. Castiel was able to discern his emotions better than Dean was able to pick up Cas', he knew, so he hurried to fill the charged silence.

"C'mon, Cas," he cajoled. "It's just getting interesting! Besides, aren't you the one that said it can't hurt to look?"

Dean could tell that Castiel was going to buckle before he even said a word. The corners of the man's eyes pinched, and they darkened to a deeper shade of blue as he nodded his acquiescence. Dean clapped him on the back again. "Great. Meet you at Mercy then."

"Perhaps," Castiel said, so faintly that Dean knew he hadn't wanted to be heard, "I was wrong." Dean desperately wanted to ask him what he was talking about, but that wasn't how their partnership worked. Instead he just squared his shoulders as if Castiel hadn't said anything and picked his way across the broken glass back towards the Impala.

---

"Holy shit."

His reaction was neither professional nor sensitive, Dean knew, but the woman laying in the bed only vaguely resembled the carefree, kookily rough and tumble new-age midwife that he called his friend. Slumped against the raised bedrail, Pam seemed exhausted and fragile—two words that Dean had never thought he'd apply to her. Dark hair, which usually lay loose on her shoulders, was pulled back into a lose chignon, making the carefully packed bandages stand out starkly against her tanned skin.

"A charmer, as always, Dean," Pamela said, gingerly shifting herself up on the pillows. Her voice was rasping and thready, the amusement in it forced.

Both he and Cas had been briefed on Pam's injuries before entering the room, so he'd been ready for the signs of injury; it was her defeated demeanor that was the surprise.

"Heya, Pam," Dean said, making sure to infuse his voice with what he hoped to be his usual level of flirting jocularity. The answering twitch at the corner of her mouth could have been either the beginnings of a smile or a sob. Still, if it was a sob she rallied admirably as she said, "If I'd known ending up in the hospital was all it took to bring you running, I might have been tempted to do something crazy years ago. You bring that deliciously grumpy brother of yours?"

A bittersweet smile stole over his face. "Not this time, Pam It's me n' Cas."

"Ah. Probably for the best. It's not like I'd be able to properly appreciate him right now anyways. Hello, Detective Aulneau," Pamela sighed. From the moment Pam had met Castiel in passing over a year ago, she'd been oddly cool towards the man. Normally being single and male would have been enough to bring out her licentiousness, but she'd said, uncharacteristically, while I'll enjoy the view, I know a lost cause when I see it. Their encounters had only gotten more strained from there.

"Ms. Barnes," Castiel rejoined. "Are you able to tell us what happened?"

"Yes, I sure as hell am, Aulneau," Pam snorted. "Whether or not you'll actually do anything about it is a whole other matter."

"Hey, hey," Dean interjected angrily, offended on Castiel's behalf. "I know you're not crazy about Cas for some reason, and ya know, whatever, but he's damn good at his job." He stopped himself from adding and I'm not going to stand here and let you say otherwise, but only just. Adrenaline zinged through him, and his hands slightly shook, which, once again, what the hell. This wasn't just a witness getting snippy with his partner, it was a friend, a hospitalized friend, no less, one who from the nurse's hushed reports was now-

"And they say romance is dead," Pam said dryly. "Good job, Winchester, defending your man against the big, bad blind woman."

Dean winced as guilt lurched through his stomach and risked a glance over at Castiel. If his partner thought there was anything odd or truly salacious about Pam's statement, he didn't show it. Darker blue eyes and a head tilt were the only indication that he'd heard her at all. "I understand your reticence in discussing your accident, Ms. Barnes," Castiel said softly. "However, Detective Winchester and I have been assigned to your case, and I would appreciate your cooperation."

"Pam," Dean started, and she cut him off with a violent wave of her hand.

"No, Dean," she said. "You're not going to apologize to me right now. I'm pissed and you're going to have to wallow in it." Folding her hands neatly in her lap, she directed her attention to vaguely where Castiel was standing and said, "To your earlier question, once again, yes, I am able to tell you what happened. The husband of one of my clients crawled up the side of my car, smashed out my windshield and gouged my eyes out."

"I'm sorry, what?" Dean was certain he couldn't have heard her right.

"Oh, I wouldn't expect you to believe it, Mr. If-I-Can't-See-It-It's-Not-Real," Pam snorted, which was fair, because Dean did have a bit of a reputation for not taking things on faith, "But you," she said to Castiel, "You should know I'm speaking nothing but the perfect truth. I don't know why, but the rat bastard did it."

Pam then proceeded to tell them about the client and her husband—a Mr. and Mrs. Robert and Ariel Goodfellow—how they had contracted her services for delivery of their first child through recommendation of a friend (not uncommon), how they'd wanted a fairly traditional home birth, how they'd seemed extremely knowledgeable about the process before even speaking to her, how they'd paid up front.

"So there was nothing unusual about this birth," Dean said. "The baby was born healthy, and mom was fine afterwards?"

"Yes, they both were perfectly healthy when I left them," Pam confirmed. "They wouldn't have been seeking retaliation."

"That happen a lot in your line of work, Pam?" Dean half-jokingly asked. "Disgruntled parents try to take you out after a birth gone wrong?"

Sniffing, Pam said, "You'd be surprised, Dean. My work is a lot more interesting than you'd ever imagine."

Forestalling any other questions in that particular line, Castiel queried softly, "Did the parents have any specific requests that differed from an average human home birth?"

"Human?" Dean snorted. "Cas, you're saying that like-"

"Yes," Pam interrupted. "They wanted the child's eyes anointed immediately after he was washed."

"And you used the ointment yourself," Castiel said, as if everything was falling in place for him. Dean sputtered as Pam shrugged.

"I was curious. I wanted to see."

Castiel bowed his head like Pam's admission pained him. He turned away from the bed and looked as if he was seriously considering just leaving the room altogether, but at the last moment returned. He stood at Dean's back, close enough that he could feel the heat coming off the other man, even through all the layers of clothing that separated them.

"I'm sorry," Dean said again, wondering if it was just one of those days where everything was going to bewilder him, "but can someone please explain what you guys are talking about? In little words for the slow kid," he added, pointing at his own chest.

Taking a deep breath, Pam said, "I wanted to see things as they truly are. Do you know how frustrating it is, Dean, to know that someone or something is different, but not able to physically see how? They had a full pot of the ointment there, and no one was watching me all that closely. It was just...too tempting. So after I put it on the kid's eyes, I smeared a little on my own. I just don't know how he figured out I'd used it."

"This is supposed to explain things to me why?"

"Because after I used the ointment I saw Robert Goodfellow and his family as they truly are; I saw them as goblins."

---

"That," Castiel said around a mouthful of roast beef on wheat, "was completely pointless."

It was the first thing either one of them had said to each other (beyond a grunted meet me at the diner for lunch) after leaving Pamela's hospital room.

"Come again?" Dean said. He picked up his milkshake and slurped noisily, causing Cas to glare at him, even though he himself was chomping away at his own food.

Swallowing, Castiel repeated, "That was pointless. Ms. Barnes is clearly traumatized and not thinking rationally. Otherwise she would not say such things to us." Picking up a fry, he swiped it through the healthy dollop of basil mayonnaise in his condiment cup and popped it in his mouth. Lately eating with Castiel had become a nearly pornographic experience to Dean, as it was one of the few times he ever saw his partner really animated. The man loved his beef and grease. At that moment, though, Dean was still reeling from Pamela's statement and barely noticed.

"I don't know man, she seemed pretty rational to me."

"Dean," Castiel said. He set down his sandwich to lean forward and lowered his voice. "She claimed that a goblin attacked her on the highway."

With a shrug, Dean absently bit down on the dill spear that he rarely touched that came with his daily burger. He grimaced but didn't spit it out. "Yeah, well, Pam's always been a bit off. Maybe it's some sort of, I don't know, coping mechanism or something. Like you said, she has to be traumatized by what happened."

"Of course," Castiel said, almost, dare Dean think it, happily. "After lunch I shall begin the paperwork."

Brows furrowing, Dean said, "Whoa there, cowboy. Just because I said I thought Pam was a bit shaken up doesn't mean I think there's nothing for us to investigate."

Castiel paused, fingers curled around his sweaty glass of iced tea. The lemon slice bobbed along with the ice, and it took Dean a full three seconds to realize that they were doing so because Castiel's hand was shaking.

Breaking his own self-imposed rule to never pry into Castiel's personal business, Dean reached out and grasped his partner's wrist loosely. "You okay?" he asked.

The effect was instantaneous. His partner jerked his arm away, knocking the tea over onto his plate and flooding what remained of his lunch. Luckily the glass hadn't been full, otherwise the mess would have been larger. "I am fine," Castiel stuttered.

"No, you are fucking not fine," Dean snapped, extracting a fistful of paper napkins from their booth's dispenser. "I'd even go so far as to say you're freaking out. What the hell is wrong, man? Maybe I can help."

"There is nothing for you to concern yourself with, Dean," Castiel insisted. Carefully, he reached across the table and took several napkins from him, taking the few extra seconds it took to open them before laying them on the sticky mess. "I take it from your earlier statement that you believe we should question Mr. Goodfellow," Cas added, in an obvious bid to change the subject.

Damn it, damn it. He'd allowed his (he wasn't going to say feelings, he wasn't, wasn't) curiosity (that was better) about Castiel cloud his better judgment and now things were going to be awkward around them for a little while, the way they always were when Dean pushed too much on personal crap.

"Yeah," he said, allowing the change despite the crunching-gravel feeling in his stomach that whispered he should keep pushing. "I think we gotta. Made a call while you were in the can earlier and left Jo a message asking her to take a look at the names of the owners involved in our accident."

"And?"

"And, wouldn't you know, she texted back that there was a 2009 Prius in the pileup registered to an Ariel Goodfellow," When all Castiel did was sigh and stare down at his plate, Dean said, "We have a vic that claims she was assaulted while driving her vehicle, and a car owned by the accused assailant's wife on the scene. Doesn't matter if she thought he looked like a goblin, Satan, or Michael Vick at the time, we owe it to her to at least go over to the dude's house and check it out."

"Were you not hoping to leave early today to help Sam decorate for his daughter's birthday?' Castiel reminded him, and shit, he had mentioned that a few days ago, hadn't he? "I'll question Mr. Goodfellow by myself if you wish to go," his partner offered. Dean winced; damn it, he did want to go. He loved his niece almost as much as he loved his brother (something that Dean himself had never thought possible, as he'd practically raised Sam after their mom's death, and in a bizarre way it was like DeeDee was his granddaughter as well as his niece, but he didn't poke that thought with the proverbial stick too often) and Cas seemed to dote on her just about as much as Dean did.

The few times he'd seen the solemn man speaking to her he'd seemed visibly lit from within, and DeeDee talked about him each time after he left incessantly in turn. In fact, she'd asked Dean if Cas was coming to her party with serious green eyes while Sam struggled with her dirty blonde tangles just that morning (he'd been considering asking his partner to the party anyways, if only to see his partner's rare smile on display for her, but her asking for him specifically had clinched it) and now he didn't know how he was going to ask without it being extremely awkward.

Moreover, he didn't know if he should ask anymore. He really, really should not have pushed, Dean thought with a sick lurch, angry with himself for thinking it as soon as it sprung forward.

Because Castiel—who had always spoken of the importance of telling the truth, who corrected cashiers when they gave him back too much money, who'd made more than one witness cry with his harsh, honest bluntness—was lying to him. Dean wasn't sure how he could tell, and yet he felt as though it was his fault (which was ludicrous, because who forces someone to lie?). But he just knew that if he left Cas by himself then he'd never really question Goodfellow at all. And now, knowing himself, Dean would feel compelled to ferret the reason out of the intensely private man and risk alienating him further. If Cas was lying to him, it had to be for a good reason, a part of him said, but the larger part, the one that enjoyed piecing things together, would never let this go until he knew everything.

Just because he wanted to trust Cas didn't mean he should. This was a man he'd been trying to bring into his life, who he'd introduced his family to. There was no way Dean could allow Castiel to hoard his secrets, not in the face of that, and especially not when those secrets seemed to involve one of Dean's friends being injured.

Pasting a sick smile on his face, Dean said, "Nah, that's no problem. Sammy's a big boy, I'm sure he can handle crepe paper streamers on his own." Digging some bills out of his wallet (with an extra tip for their waitress due to the still-sticky tabletop) Dean tossed them down on the table before standing and gathering his suit jacket. "C'mon," he beckoned. "I'm driving."
 

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Continued here