Dean Winchester (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
hasperkynipples) wrote2009-03-27 06:23 pm
hasperkynipples) wrote2009-03-27 06:23 pm
[MM] Quote
[Based off THIS by ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
soldier_ofgod. Just trying my hand at it, because you know I love a good cop AU. Not binding on any other canon muses.]
“You can’t run away from your problems...there’s no place that far.” –Unknown
There was a reason why Dean didn’t like talking about his problems with his partner, and it wasn’t just because he was a self-righteous son of a bitch. Well, it was mostly because he was a self-righteous son of a bitch, but there was also the fact that he knew that no how much Dean explained, how much he tried to give the man context, Cas was never going to get it. Dean was pretty sure the guy had never so much given a girl the wrong kind of look, let alone gotten anywhere close to the life that Dean had had. As far as Dean was concerned? Cas’s life had been picture perfect, and he had all this faith to get him through the day when the demons came knocking on his door.
Dean? Dean had a bottle of Johnny Walker Blue and Penthouse TV. Not exactly an inspirational ideal.
His keys clattered against the side table near the door as he made his way into the apartment, bag of groceries in his hand, tucked in with the file of the latest murder in the case, dealt by the guy who seemed to see himself as the bringer of the Apocalypse. “The Hand of Lilith,” he was calling himself, and while mostly Dean thought the guy was a whackjob, he had to admit, the motivations were a bit interesting on this one. It wasn’t your run of the mill whackjob, and after a string of cases that had been nothing but ordinary whackjobs? He was game for both the challenge and the distraction. This guy was aiming to kill fifty-nine more people, though—and Dean knew in his gut that he had to catch him before he did.
He passed the picture of his father in his dress blues, kept there as more of a reminder than a fond memory. John Winchester had been dead five years now, and Dean never let it get any easier. The picture sat there as a reminder to not let his guard down, to keep an eye on his partner and make sure that he had his own back. The elder Detective (Detective Sergeant Winchester, and he never let Dean forget it) Winchester had been killed in the line of duty, taking a bullet for his own stupid kid who couldn’t manage to keep his head on straight in the middle of a firefight. Since then, it’s only been him and Sam—mom checked out when he was four, killed by a psycho who was trying to get to his kid brother. And Sam—well, Sam was shaping up to be more of a handful than most.
He hadn’t heard from his brother in nearly a month now. He’d taken off with that bitch whore, and while Dean had put out word with every cop he still trusted to keep an eye out, he wasn’t sure if that would actually get him anywhere. Ruby had her claws so deep into his brother that Dean wasn’t ever sure if he’d be able to get them out—not completely.
Sammy had been a smart kid, once upon a time—law school, Dean’s List, the works. Then John died and Sam started to slip. Dean blamed most of it on Ruby, getting him hooked on the shit that Dean was supposed to be keeping off the streets. Dean had tried everything, over and over again, doing whatever he could to keep Sam in rehab and on the straight and narrow, but every time he did, Ruby waltzed her way back in again, dragging him back away from his brother, and further into the things she knew Dean hated. And fuck, if she didn’t love to rub it in his face.
He saw the red light on the answering machine blinking and rolled his eyes, before ambling over and hitting the play button. Rarely anyone ever called him on his home phone, because he always picked up his cell, but there were people he wouldn’t pick up for, and he couldn’t want to see who decided to try and call him this time around.
“Dean, it’s Cassie—”
Dean groaned audibly at the sound of his ex-wife’s voice. Cassie, the woman who could have been the love of his life. Cassie, the woman he never should have touched, considering how much journalists and cops really don’t mix. Cassie, the woman who dumped his ass along with the rest of the world when people started thinking he was dirty. Cassie, the woman he still loved despite all of that, for some reason he couldn’t quite pin down. Maybe he really was as much of a masochist as people seemed to accuse him of being.
“Would you pick up the damn phone? I’m worried sick about you. You won’t answer my calls, you won’t call me back. Would you at least let me know you’re alive?” Look, just—call me, okay? I just want to hear your voice.”
“Funny,” he muttered, talking to no one in particular, mostly because there was no one there to talk to. “When I was inside, I think it was you who told me to stop calling because it hurt too much. The world works in mysterious ways, doesn’t it?” He grabbed the bottle of scotch from the counter and started to pour himself glass, as he waited for the audible beep! and the machine to switch to the next message.
“Winchester, it’s Bobby. We got some suit poking around here lookin’ for you, says he wants you to come in and talk to ‘em. Did some looking once he was gone—he’s IAB.”
“Son of a bitch!”
“Now, I don’t know what you’ve been up to lately, and I don’t want to know. But if he’s harassin’ ya, do us both a favor and mouth off to him, as oppose to choosing a more—physical—form of communication? I don’t need the paperwork, and you don’t need the time off.”
To be honest, this time Dean didn’t know what he did. IAB had a habit of riding his ass for no good reason as of late, and frankly, Dean didn’t really appreciate it. He just hoped that this wouldn’t interfere with him doing his job, because he wasn’t about to quit this case. Not yet.
Picking up his glass and the file, he made his way over to the coffee table and started spreading pictures out across it, lining up the crime scene photos like his old man used to do when he brought work home with him. Whenever he couldn’t crack a case on the clock, John would bring home the photos and spread them out, looking at them as though maybe there was something he missed—something that the fluorescent lights of the precinct wouldn’t let him see. Everything Dean knew about being a cop, he’d learned from John, and Dean would follow some of his habits until the day he died, because they weren’t just habits anymore. They were instinct. And there was nothing that he could do to change that.
The next few messages weren’t important—calls from flirty women he probably gave his number too when he was trying to get laid, women who had no intention of calling back—but the last one was one that got him to pay attention, for five minutes anyway. It was a voice he didn’t recognize, and it was distinct enough that it got him to sit up and look at the answering machine out of the corner of his eye.
“Detective Winchester, this is Sergeant Davis Zachariah, from Internal Affairs. We need to talk. I expect to see you in my office first thing Monday morning—and yes, your case can wait.”
Dean rolled his eyes at that one, before tilting his eyes back down to the coffee table. IAB on his back again—that wasn’t anything new. He was a bit curious as to what he’d done this time to get the attention of this particular guy, but that was something that was going to have to wait for Monday morning. Right now, he had a case to work.
“Alright, little lady,” he said with a sigh, running his eyes over the pictures and looking for any minute detail he could find. “Let’s figure out who killed you.”
1389 words
soldier_ofgod. Just trying my hand at it, because you know I love a good cop AU. Not binding on any other canon muses.]“You can’t run away from your problems...there’s no place that far.” –Unknown
There was a reason why Dean didn’t like talking about his problems with his partner, and it wasn’t just because he was a self-righteous son of a bitch. Well, it was mostly because he was a self-righteous son of a bitch, but there was also the fact that he knew that no how much Dean explained, how much he tried to give the man context, Cas was never going to get it. Dean was pretty sure the guy had never so much given a girl the wrong kind of look, let alone gotten anywhere close to the life that Dean had had. As far as Dean was concerned? Cas’s life had been picture perfect, and he had all this faith to get him through the day when the demons came knocking on his door.
Dean? Dean had a bottle of Johnny Walker Blue and Penthouse TV. Not exactly an inspirational ideal.
His keys clattered against the side table near the door as he made his way into the apartment, bag of groceries in his hand, tucked in with the file of the latest murder in the case, dealt by the guy who seemed to see himself as the bringer of the Apocalypse. “The Hand of Lilith,” he was calling himself, and while mostly Dean thought the guy was a whackjob, he had to admit, the motivations were a bit interesting on this one. It wasn’t your run of the mill whackjob, and after a string of cases that had been nothing but ordinary whackjobs? He was game for both the challenge and the distraction. This guy was aiming to kill fifty-nine more people, though—and Dean knew in his gut that he had to catch him before he did.
He passed the picture of his father in his dress blues, kept there as more of a reminder than a fond memory. John Winchester had been dead five years now, and Dean never let it get any easier. The picture sat there as a reminder to not let his guard down, to keep an eye on his partner and make sure that he had his own back. The elder Detective (Detective Sergeant Winchester, and he never let Dean forget it) Winchester had been killed in the line of duty, taking a bullet for his own stupid kid who couldn’t manage to keep his head on straight in the middle of a firefight. Since then, it’s only been him and Sam—mom checked out when he was four, killed by a psycho who was trying to get to his kid brother. And Sam—well, Sam was shaping up to be more of a handful than most.
He hadn’t heard from his brother in nearly a month now. He’d taken off with that bitch whore, and while Dean had put out word with every cop he still trusted to keep an eye out, he wasn’t sure if that would actually get him anywhere. Ruby had her claws so deep into his brother that Dean wasn’t ever sure if he’d be able to get them out—not completely.
Sammy had been a smart kid, once upon a time—law school, Dean’s List, the works. Then John died and Sam started to slip. Dean blamed most of it on Ruby, getting him hooked on the shit that Dean was supposed to be keeping off the streets. Dean had tried everything, over and over again, doing whatever he could to keep Sam in rehab and on the straight and narrow, but every time he did, Ruby waltzed her way back in again, dragging him back away from his brother, and further into the things she knew Dean hated. And fuck, if she didn’t love to rub it in his face.
He saw the red light on the answering machine blinking and rolled his eyes, before ambling over and hitting the play button. Rarely anyone ever called him on his home phone, because he always picked up his cell, but there were people he wouldn’t pick up for, and he couldn’t want to see who decided to try and call him this time around.
“Dean, it’s Cassie—”
Dean groaned audibly at the sound of his ex-wife’s voice. Cassie, the woman who could have been the love of his life. Cassie, the woman he never should have touched, considering how much journalists and cops really don’t mix. Cassie, the woman who dumped his ass along with the rest of the world when people started thinking he was dirty. Cassie, the woman he still loved despite all of that, for some reason he couldn’t quite pin down. Maybe he really was as much of a masochist as people seemed to accuse him of being.
“Would you pick up the damn phone? I’m worried sick about you. You won’t answer my calls, you won’t call me back. Would you at least let me know you’re alive?” Look, just—call me, okay? I just want to hear your voice.”
“Funny,” he muttered, talking to no one in particular, mostly because there was no one there to talk to. “When I was inside, I think it was you who told me to stop calling because it hurt too much. The world works in mysterious ways, doesn’t it?” He grabbed the bottle of scotch from the counter and started to pour himself glass, as he waited for the audible beep! and the machine to switch to the next message.
“Winchester, it’s Bobby. We got some suit poking around here lookin’ for you, says he wants you to come in and talk to ‘em. Did some looking once he was gone—he’s IAB.”
“Son of a bitch!”
“Now, I don’t know what you’ve been up to lately, and I don’t want to know. But if he’s harassin’ ya, do us both a favor and mouth off to him, as oppose to choosing a more—physical—form of communication? I don’t need the paperwork, and you don’t need the time off.”
To be honest, this time Dean didn’t know what he did. IAB had a habit of riding his ass for no good reason as of late, and frankly, Dean didn’t really appreciate it. He just hoped that this wouldn’t interfere with him doing his job, because he wasn’t about to quit this case. Not yet.
Picking up his glass and the file, he made his way over to the coffee table and started spreading pictures out across it, lining up the crime scene photos like his old man used to do when he brought work home with him. Whenever he couldn’t crack a case on the clock, John would bring home the photos and spread them out, looking at them as though maybe there was something he missed—something that the fluorescent lights of the precinct wouldn’t let him see. Everything Dean knew about being a cop, he’d learned from John, and Dean would follow some of his habits until the day he died, because they weren’t just habits anymore. They were instinct. And there was nothing that he could do to change that.
The next few messages weren’t important—calls from flirty women he probably gave his number too when he was trying to get laid, women who had no intention of calling back—but the last one was one that got him to pay attention, for five minutes anyway. It was a voice he didn’t recognize, and it was distinct enough that it got him to sit up and look at the answering machine out of the corner of his eye.
“Detective Winchester, this is Sergeant Davis Zachariah, from Internal Affairs. We need to talk. I expect to see you in my office first thing Monday morning—and yes, your case can wait.”
Dean rolled his eyes at that one, before tilting his eyes back down to the coffee table. IAB on his back again—that wasn’t anything new. He was a bit curious as to what he’d done this time to get the attention of this particular guy, but that was something that was going to have to wait for Monday morning. Right now, he had a case to work.
“Alright, little lady,” he said with a sigh, running his eyes over the pictures and looking for any minute detail he could find. “Let’s figure out who killed you.”
1389 words