Chapter Text
“Novak!”
Castiel startles awake at his desk, a hand slapping up to his face to automatically wipe away any drool that may or may not have accumulated on his cheek. This isn’t the first time he’s fallen asleep at his desk, and it isn’t likely to be the last, but he still manages to feel a curl of shame as he checks the clock and realizes he’s been out for the better part of the morning. Lifting his gaze to peek past his monitor he’s unsurprised to see his boss, Crowley, standing in front of his desk with an amused smirk curling his features.
“I don’t pay you to nap, handsome,” Crowley says, even though there’s amusement dancing in his eyes. He loves to catch Castiel sleeping, even though he never really punishes him for it, simply because he knows he can hold it over the younger man’s head later. “You’ve got a call on line two. She sounds gorgeous- don’t let her slip away, hm?”
Crowley turns on heel and leaves, walking around other desks on his way back to his office. The other occupants of the room look steadfastly busy, even if they actually aren’t, and a few people even send Castiel some murderous looks. They all consider him to be Crowley’s favorite, even though he feels more like his plaything at times, and all Castiel can do is shrug it off and ignore them all.
He didn’t become top journalist at Honest & Enlightened Leading Literature because Crowley likes him - Castiel Novak is the top journalist in his field because he worked his ass off for it.
...And he can go toe to toe with Crowley without pissing himself or killing him, so that largely helps.
Rubbing the remainder of sleep from his eyes, Castiel lifts up the receiver of his desk phone, pressing the button below the blinking red light, his voice chalk on a board. “Castiel Novak.”
“Hello,” the voice on the other line greets, smooth as whiskey. “My name is Pamela Barnes.”
Castiel squints at the screensaver dancing on his monitor as he tries to place why that name sounds so familiar. Planting his elbows on the desk, his free hand cradles his head as he instead stares at the grainy wood of the surface, letting out an ill-concealed agitated sigh. “And?”
“I’m Dean Winchester’s defense attorney.”
That perks Castiel up immediately, the sudden motion jerking one of his elbows so violently he knocks over a pen holder. Scrambling to right the wire basket and stuff all of the pens and pencils back inside, Castiel grabs his notepad and flips it open to a blank page, snatching one of the pens trying to valiantly roll off the ledge of the desk. “Pamela. What can I do for you?”
The woman’s voice is smoky and smooth when she says, “Dean Winchester has agreed to do an interview.”
Sitting back in his chair, pen caught between his fingers as he runs the same hand through his wild hair, Castiel frowns at the desk. “I understood that he was refusing to talk to anyone.”
“Death row changes a man,” Pamela says, a bit of amusement in her tone. She sounds pretty laid back for a defense attorney. “Wake up, angel. Your name was drawn.”
“Wait,” Castiel clears his throat. Being woken up from an hour-long nap and then suddenly being forced to talk is making him thirsty and delirious, but he doesn’t have any water at his desk. “I didn’t put in a bid to interview him. My name wasn’t in the pot.”
“Well, then, Mr. Novak. Today’s your lucky day.” The smile in Pamela’s voice is audible. “Dean Winchester chose you.”