Chapter Text
“Nobody down here but the FBI’s most unwanted!” Dean called out when he heard the knock on his office door. He knew it was his new ‘observer’ (a.k.a. babysitter), and he wasn’t thrilled to meet him. The dude was a friggin’ shrink. Why Dean’s boss felt the need to have him psychoanalyzed was beyond him. The knock sounded again. Dean sighed and tossed one last pencil up to the ceiling. “Come in!” The person who walked in wasn’t who Dean expected. His jaw nearly dropped at seeing the super-hot guy who was currently standing in front of him. He swallowed hard and stood up slowly.
“Hello, Agent Winchester. I’m Dr. Castiel Novak.” The man stepped forward and extended his hand for a shake. Dean glanced down at it for a moment. He took the offered hand, and when the skin didn’t sizzle against the silver of his ring, he felt better.
Dean grinned. “Gesundheit.” He couldn’t stop himself from gazing into the man’s obscene blue eyes. “Uh, just Dean is fine.”
“Dean, then. Please feel free to call me Castiel.”
About that time, a pencil dropped down from the ceiling and hit Dean on top of the head. He winced, and the men let go of each other’s hands. Castiel narrowed his eyes and tilted his head, obviously confused. Dean bent over and picked up the pencil, gesturing up at the ceiling with it. Castiel followed the movement.
“I, uh, got bored, heh.” The artistic decoration was actually quite a while in the making.
Castiel lowered his head and glared at Dean with one eyebrow raised. “You got... ‘bored’?” he asked, using his fingers as quotation marks. Dean cleared his throat to hide the inappropriate laugh. (The twitch of his cock at the sight of that eyebrow and the tense mouth...definitely inappropriate.)
“Yeah. No case right now,” he said, shrugging. That wasn’t true at all. Dean had what he thought was a wendigo nearby, and he wasn’t going to let it go just because of the babysitter. Castiel was down there to work on a few cases with him—if he lasted more than one—and report back to their Assistant Director. Apparently, Dean’s reports were far too ‘outlandish’ to be real, and the higher-ups wanted someone to verify what he was actually doing during his cases. Basically, if Dean couldn’t convince Castiel that he wasn’t insane, he was going to lose his job.
“I see.”
Here we go... “You see what?” Dean asked, already suspicious.
“Well, according to your reports for the last few years, there’s always a case; usually one every two weeks—almost like clockwork. I can only conclude that you’re lying to me.”
Dean shoved his hands in his pockets and began rocking back on his heels. “I’m looking into a few things.” It was rare that he went for more than a week or so without a new case. If he didn’t or couldn’t do something about it on his own, he would work with local police to find answers someone may have missed on other open cases.
Castiel sighed. “You know why I’m here, Dean. Zachariah--”
“Oh, first name basis with the boss...snazzy.” Zachariah, the asshole, had been hounding Dean since he’d moved up in the ranks. He was the one who banished Dean and his ‘crazy theories’ down to the basement office. The joke was on that dickwad, though, because Dean loved it down there.
“Dean...”
“Yeah, you’re my babysitter for a few cases—if you last through one. You tell Adler I’m a whacked-out lunatic and I get fired; you tell Adler I’m doin’ my fuckin’ job and he gets to shut up and leave me alone.”
Castiel frowned. “You are not a ‘whacked-out lunatic’.” He looked up at the ceiling again before meeting Dean’s eyes. “Though, that is not the preferred term.”
Dean grinned. “I’m not yet anyway.” He removed his hands from his pockets and clapped them once. “Okie-dokie, you ready for this?” he asked, grin still on his face. Castiel sat down in the visitor’s chair in front of Dean’s desk and nodded as he pulled a laptop out of the satchel he wore. Now, Dean was confused. “What the hell?”
“I’m taking notes. Please continue.”
Dean’s eyes widened, and he gaped for a few moments before finding his voice. “Wow.” The man looked up with the eyebrow again, and Dean’s knees nearly went weak and wobbly. Focus, Winchester! Sound sane. He cleared his throat and asked, “Alright, well, first of all, did anyone tell you what an SPN file really is?”
Castiel paused in his typing and looked up at Dean. “Supernatural. You...'hunt’ the supernatural. According to my sources, that is.” From his tone of voice, Dean got the impression that the other man wasn’t much of a believer in the supernatural; it made sense in his line of work.
Now, Dean cocked an eyebrow. “Oh, you have sources? Do those sources rhyme with Dictor and Mole?”
Castiel frowned, and it scrunched up his nose. It wasn’t cute (it totally was). “I don’t understand.”
Dean rolled his eyes and walked over to sit at his desk once again. “Victor Henriksen and Cole Trenton. They’ve worked cases with me before and thought I was crazy.”
“Yes, they are my sources. You refute those claims?”
Dean sighed and looked up at his pencil-laden ceiling tiles. “Look, man. I’m not going to pussyfoot around, alright?” He looked back over at Castiel. “Monsters are real, and yes, I hunt and kill them. That’s what an SPN file is: something that goes bump in the night.”
“And that’s why your closing rate is so low; you...kill the perpetrator?”
“That’s all you have to say?” Dean was a little dumbfounded. Victor and Cole had both laughed in his face when he told them.
Castiel shrugged. “I’m not here to pass judgment, Dean. I’m simply writing a report for Z-A.D. Adler.”
“Right. You ready for more?”
Castiel blinked. “There’s...more?”
“You want to be read in on my newest case or not?”
“Of course.”
Dean began with the reports of two campers, both missing, and a hiker from a nearby national park, all within a week of each other. First, it was Andrew Merchant, a CPA with a wife and one kid. He and his friends had gone out camping for a boys’ getaway...only he disappeared in the night.
The man’s friends had reported hearing odd sounds—swishing (it was not the wind; they insisted), hissing (not a snake), and scratching on the tents (not a bear). Finally, they heard what sounded like a baby crying. Andrew, a relatively new father to a six-month-old little girl, immediately ran out of his tent to go help whoever it was. The other two men stayed at the campsite, not wanting to leave for fear of getting lost. At daybreak, the men packed up and went looking for their friend. They found his jeans a mile away.
The second and third incidents were the same: people went camping (or in one case hiking), they were lured away, and ultimately, they disappeared (with or without a clothing trail). So far, only one body had been found, and it hadn’t been pretty.
“And what do you think this is?” Castiel asked slowly.
Dean stared into his gorgeous eyes, gauging whether or not the man was taking him seriously. He had a great poker face; Dean’s was better. “A wendigo.” He reached across his desk and held up an old leather journal that belonged to his father. Dean turned to an earmarked page (like every other earmarked page) and held it out for Castiel. “Read that.”
Dean knew the entry by heart. Wendigo means 'evil that devours’. They were once human but had become something else when forced to eat human flesh to survive. There were Anasazi protection sigils drawn in the journal to keep them safe if they had to stay out past dark in the forest. The only way to kill wendigos was with fire.
“And this...wendigo...is what’s taking and ultimately killing the campers?”
“Yeah, that’s my theory. You in?”
~~~~~
“He calls it the ‘supernatural files’,” Zachariah cackled. “Can you believe that?” He wiped a tear from his eyes. “Any-hoo... I want you to trail him for a case or two, get him back in line, and then we’ll all be happier when he does. You’ve read Winchester’s reports?”
“Um, yes, sir. I’m still curious, though, as to why you want me to spy on and secretly analyze a fellow employee of the Bureau.” Castiel was a psychologist. He wasn’t sure why it had to be him to call out this Dean Winchester. The best he could do was to give a report on the man’s mental acuity and ability to carry out his job.
Zachariah stood and straightened his tie and suit jacket. “Castiel, don’t think of it as spying so much as...leading him back to the right path.”
That path began in the basement office of the most handsome man he’d ever seen. The freckles alone were a marvel, but adding in the eyes...he was beautiful. This was the man that he was supposed to set on the right path?
Based on his case reports, however, he was sloppy in arrests and sparse on details. Was the man ‘crazy’, or was Zachariah just micromanaging someone who was trying to help save people?
“What would this...case entail?” Castiel wanted the details to be spelled out clearly in his report. He didn’t want to leave anything out...even if it meant typing the word wendigo into his Word document.
“Well, it’d be like any other case—talk to witnesses, visit the crime scene, talk with the local police. I don’t do this half-assed, okay?” Dean said defensively.
“Of course, Dean. I didn’t mean to offend you. I just want to make sure that everything is correct and in line with what a...normal case would be.”
“Good, then we’re on the same page.” Dean held out a hand, and at first, Castiel didn’t know what the man wanted. “Journal, please. It was my dad’s. He--” Dean stopped talking suddenly, and it looked like he blushed.
“Your father...hunted wendigos? He was an agent?” Castiel looked at the initials embossed on the front of the brown leather. JW. He handed it over the desk and into Dean’s own hand.
“Uh, not exactly, heh.” He cleared his throat and put the journal in a drawer. Dean locked it and stood up. “Let’s save that backstory ‘til we know each other a bit better, huh?” He inclined his head. “You comin’ or what? We have cops to interview.”
“Of course,” Castiel said with a nod. An interesting history there, I’m sure, he thought. He closed his laptop and put it back in his satchel before standing up and following Dean out the door. The other man turned and locked it behind them. Castiel made a mental note. Paranoid or legitimate precaution?
They walked down the hall and to the elevators. Dean pulled a different set of keys out of his pocket (the sets looked identical as far as Castiel could tell) as they reached the lobby and walked across the parquet floor.
“Dean, the vehicle requisition office is on the third floor,” Castiel reminded the man as they walked outside into the offensive heat of mid-August in central Arkansas.
“Yeah, we’re not takin’ one of the SUVs. We’re takin’ my Baby.”
“Where are we taking your baby and why?”
Dean stopped in his tracks and barked out a laugh. “Seriously?” Castiel tilted his head, trying to decipher Dean’s meaning.
“Yes?”
“Cas, meet Baby,” the man said, arms sweeping out to his sides. Dean stood beside a large, gleaming car. It was black and chrome, and Dean looked inordinately proud of it. “Huh? Huh? 1967 Chevy Impala. She belonged to my dad.”
“It-” Dean glared. “-she is beautiful.” He watched as Dean’s eyes darted down to look at his lips before bouncing back up to his eyes. The men finished admiring the car and got inside it. Dean cleared his throat and backed out of the parking spot and left the lot. Castiel didn’t say anything else on their drive across town...and out of town. “Where are we going?”
“Hot Springs.” Dean turned his head to look at Castiel. “You know where that is?”
Castiel straightened the knot of his tie. It was still uncomfortably warm in the car as they got onto the interstate going south. “I’m originally from the Chicago area, and no, I haven’t had any time to explore. Or read a map.”
“Look it up on the way down. Check the National Park website first; that’ll get you an introduction.”
Castiel nodded as he pulled his phone from his inner jacket pocket and did as Dean said. Ten minutes later, he learned about the city, county, and National Forest of Hot Springs, Arkansas. In his searches, he also found articles about the kidnappings/mauling/runaways--the news and reporters didn’t really know what to call the incidents.
Digging a little deeper into the town, he found the other articles—editorials, mostly—saying that there was something in the woods that was killing and eating people...and it wasn’t a bear. Dean’s sources were fringe news blogs and...a 'haunted' sites of America website.
“Dean, this is...”
“You get to the one about Bigfoot yet? It’s good, I’ll give ‘em that.”
Dubious, Castiel turned to look at Dean’s (incredibly handsome) profile. “You really use this material as a basis for investigating...whatever this is?”
“Yep,” Dean said, popping the P. “Some of these people make excellent witnesses.”
“And the others?”
“Certified wackos, heh.”
Castiel rolled his eyes and went back to his phone. After a few more minutes, Castiel asked, “Do you have a file on any of this?”
“Uh...”
“You don’t keep files of your reports?”
“Oh, yeah, that I do. I thought you meant like, real notes and stuff.”
Castiel closed his eyes and sighed. “That’s exactly what I meant.” No wonder Zachariah wants Dean to toe the line he was hired to follow, he thought. “I’ve read your reports, Dean. The lack of evidence alone has been denied in court four times. You need to start keeping notes, statements, photos of the crime scene... Everything needs to be recorded.” (Castiel might be a psychologist, but he worked for the FBI after all.)
“Okay, Mr. By-the-book. You’ll see why that’s kind of difficult to do soon enough.”
Castiel didn’t even want to think about what that meant. He pulled the laptop from the satchel and began typing up his own notes regarding the case and Dean in general.
Agent Winchester’s SPN Case...
“Dean, what case number is this?”
“Uh, let’s call it...one,” Dean said with a small but charming smile.
To start, Agent Winchester’s current case has no reference number. I will name this case SPN #1 throughout this document.
“You’re really writing that down, aren’t you?”
“I am,” Castiel confirmed as he continued typing.