Moving On (Destiel)

27: Truth to be told

Dean impatiently tapped the table in front of him. His instinct told him he at least had been left waiting for a good half an hour, maybe more. He wished for something to happen; he didn't even care if it was good or bad anymore, he just needed distraction.

Not even the furnishing of the room provided interesting. They was no furniture. Only the wooden table in front of him that looked fragile but was steady as hell – Dean couldn't get it to shake, not in the slightest. Probably anchored in the ground or something. 

And besides that, the chair he was seated on, and one for his interrogator, whenever they'd show up. Not even the floor or the walls or ceiling held any kind of pattern; they were plainly white, and it was driving Dean crazy. His eyes had adjusted already, but he meant to later get a headache from all the bright light, especially when he'd leave the room and be confronted with the actual world, one full of colors. Not just a whiteness that stinged his eyes from its luminosity.

Forever and a half went on before Hendrickson came in again, followed by a taller officer. Dean prepared for a good cop/bad cop kind of thing, but the other one just stood by the door, arms folded.

Did they think Dean could try to break free?

Ridiculous. Okay, well, he could try, and he might even success, but what would they know? In their eyes he was probably only a scared little teenager...

Or... whatever they figured out in the meantime had them convinced not to underestimate him.

He wondered which part of his past had done the part. They were enough to manage it each by their own.

"Now, Dean. We shall give this a new try, won't we?"

He only earned a sinister look.

"You sure haven't had it easy. With all the things happening to your brother and your mother, and how it developed with your father afterwards. I'm truly sorry."

Dean gritted his teeth tight; his hands clenched the table. He didn't care how the cuffs cut off his wrists even more now. What was a little blood, after all? Nothing he hadn't seen before.

"I doubt we'll have to go into details – you know the story better than I do. And I'm sure you still remember. Really tragic, gotta admit."

It wasn't just a story to Dean. It was his past, his life – the things that had shaped him, had made him who he was now. Whatever that meant. He didn't know. Psychologie/Philosophie was Cas' part.

"'Still you got no excuse to deal drugs. Of all people – shouldn't you be the person to stay away farthest from them? With all the personal trauma and experience I'd think you'd never get into their near again."

Dean hated it. Every single second of this conversation. Yet he couldn't do anything about it. "I had no choice," he finally got out. He had to lead this somewhere else, anywhere but to the bad memories. They had haunted him ever since, would never truly leave him. But breaking down over them could be prevented. He mustn't think about them.

His brother. His mother. Hell, even his father. All of it, before. He couldn't let the thought happen. It would break him. And he couldn't give in. Not now. He couldn't dare.

He had to lie. It was either gonna be the police or the ones he worked for. And he rather went with working against the police, knowing at least they wouldn't shoot him in cold blood if they found out he betrayed them.

"I was planning to stop – Hell, I just needed a job to keep my head above water, so that I could take care of... everything. I never wanted to be intertwined in all that business, and I promise I would have stopped as soon as possible. As soon as I could apply for a real job, get the money together somehow else."