Chapter Text
November is difficult. It’s the month when the last vestiges of fall give way to the sort of chilling winter gloom that seems to linger and linger. Each year, Castiel worries that the cold and gray won’t lift at all this time, sentencing him to a life spent in shivering dread.
His current whereabouts do little to improve his outlook. The detention facility at Hohenschönhausen is nearly as cold as the east wind that tugged at Castiel’s jacket this morning on his walk from the S-Bahn. Its drab color scheme is nearly as bleak as the bare trees outside the windows, or the blocky concrete apartment buildings that surround them like enemy barricades.
He doesn’t enjoy being at the detention facility, and he mistrusts anyone who would. Yet, at the same time, he’s well aware that the work entrusted to him is righteous and essential. Where there are rebellious elements that pose a risk to the government and to the party, it’s up to Castiel to discover these elements and root them out.
He shakes back the sleeve of his uniform to check his watch. Nine twenty-six. Four minutes until the prisoner is due to be brought to him.
To pass the time, he walks the perimeter of the interrogation room he has been assigned for the day, making sure that all is in readiness. He’s kept the lights off for now, which leaves only the gray-tinged November morning to illuminate the room. It struggles to do so, giving the space a leaden, hopeless atmosphere.
He supposes that’s as it should be. There is no place for hope here. Part of Castiel’s job is to make sure of that.
Castiel considers the heavy curtains on either side of the windows. He chooses to leave them open for now, though he may draw them later. Light deprivation can be a useful tool for interviews that drag on longer than expected.
On the desk by the window, the recording equipment also sits ready. Castiel presses the button to start a recording.
“This is Captain Castiel Novak, State Security, Officer ID 0-9-1-8 dash 4-0-1.”
More buttons: pause, playback.
The tape echoes his words back at him: “This is Captain Castiel Novak, State Security, Officer ID 0-9-1-8 dash 4-0-1.”
Perfect.
The final item on his checklist is the plain wooden chair where the prisoner is going to sit. Its seat is covered with a thin cushion, designed to conceal a specially treated cloth that will absorb the prisoner’s scent. After the interview, it will be retrieved and stored in a sealed jar to preserve that scent. It’s a useful and ingenious system for finding fugitives with the aid of State Security’s specially trained dogs.
Approaching footfalls echo in the corridor outside, traveling toward Castiel’s domain. Two distinct sets of footsteps: one sure and precise, a military cadence, the other stumbling and unsure.
Castiel takes a seat behind the desk and turns on the recorder as he awaits the knock. When it sounds, he calls, “Come in.”
The door opens, but Castiel doesn’t look up to acknowledge either the prisoner or the guard. He is holding a pen and studying the open file in front of him, though he received it yesterday and could recite its contents by heart. Psychology matters: he wishes to be perceived as a busy man who cannot be bothered to observe idle courtesies.
“Sit down,” he says, curt and to the point.
Still he does not look up, but he can see enough to tell that the prisoner has obeyed him.
“Hands tucked under your thighs, palms down,” he says, pretending to write a note in the margins of the file. Palms sweat when prisoners are nervous. Another tool to help strengthen the scent imprint.
The prisoner hesitates briefly, but then he follows the instruction.
Satisfied, Castiel raises his eyes off the file and nods to the guard in silent dismissal. The guard withdraws from the room, leaving Castiel alone with the prisoner: Titus Krieg, a nervous man in early middle age with a receding hairline and wire-rimmed glasses.
“Well,” Castiel says, not quite smiling, but keeping his face open, conversational, his hands folded on the desk in front of him. “What would you like to tell me?”
“I didn’t do anything,” Krieg says. “And I don’t know anything.”
There is an undertone of defiance in Krieg’s voice, but Castiel can sense it is wafer-thin.
“You didn’t do anything. And you don’t know anything.” He echoes the words back verbatim, but the tone is different: politely incredulous. “Am I meant to gather that you believe State Security makes a habit of plucking blameless citizens off the streets and putting them behind bars?”
Krieg shifts uncomfortably in his chair. “No, of course not.”
He looks as though he has more to say, but Castiel doesn’t give him the chance. He barrels on, pressing his advantage. “If you think the people’s government, your government, is capable of such atrocities, that simple fact would already constitute grounds for arrest, even if you were otherwise innocent.”
There is no response Krieg can possibly make to this. He stares at Castiel, lips working uselessly around a counterargument he can’t seem to muster. Less than two minutes, and already Castiel has him tied up in inescapable knots. There’s a reason he’s considered one of State Security’s best interrogators.
Satisfied with his opening salvo, Castiel moves on to the heart of the matter. “Let’s see if we can refresh your memory of your recent actions, Prisoner 5-0-2.”
This time, he doesn’t pretend to consult the file. He wishes for Krieg to know that he is intimately familiar with the details of the case.
“On September 28, your friend and neighbor, Robert Austen, betrayed his country by leaving for the West. We believe that he had help in doing so.”
Krieg shakes his head, back on firmer ground. “I know nothing about it. He didn’t even tell me he wanted to leave.”
Castiel pretends to make another note in the file. “Why don’t you walk me through what you did on September 28?”
“I already gave a statement about that.” There’s that undertone of defiance again. Castiel is going to take care of that soon enough.
“Tell me again.” Repetition is the interrogator’s friend. It’s how inconsistencies often begin to emerge in a prisoner’s story.
Krieg sighs, still reluctant to repeat himself, but obeys the order. “I was at Treptow Park Memorial with my children. I met my old school friend Matthias Grün there.” Castiel really does take notes this time; exhaustively detailed ones. He will need to document every small deviation from this initial story as it occurs. “We went back to his place together and listened to music until late in the evening. You can call him up. He’ll confirm my story.”
This last is said with a certain cocksure attitude, and Castiel makes another note, a mental one: he will play this part of the interview for the students he teaches several times a month at the State Security training academy in Potsdam. It’s an excellent illustration of a point he often makes during his lectures, which is that the enemies of the state are arrogant. They possess the kind of arrogance that requires patience from an interrogator.
Forty hours of patience, on average.
It would be significantly more if prisoners were allowed to sleep during periods of active interrogation, but most are not.
Castiel makes a note in the file that he will pass on to the guards when he leaves here in a few minutes: Ensure prisoner is kept awake for next 40 hours min.
***
When the forty hours are up, Castiel returns to the interrogation room after a restful night of sleep. In accordance with Castiel’s orders, Krieg has not slept. That much is clear from the pale tint of his skin and the way he sways on his feet as the guard leads him back to the chair.
“I want to sleep,” are Krieg’s first words to Castiel. “Please, let me sleep.”
“Hands tucked under your thighs, palms down,” Castiel says. Years ago, he would have been moved by the prisoner’s obvious distress, but he trained himself out of this habit long ago. Or rather, his instructor, Captain Tapping, trained it out of him; over a period far longer than forty hours.
When Krieg has obeyed Castiel’s order, Castiel proceeds with the second interrogation.
“Tell me again what you did on September 28.”
Krieg’s eyes have fluttered shut. His head is beginning to droop, his body on the verge of sliding off the chair. Castiel glances at the guard, who has lingered in the corner of the room. The guard steps in to pull Krieg back upright. Krieg barely reacts to being handled, unless it’s with a quiet, slurred, “Just one hour. Please.”
“Tell me again what you did that day.”
Krieg begins to cry with great, heaving sobs. Castiel takes a steadying breath, nostrils flaring. Crying is a sign of guilt, he reminds himself; one of Captain Tapping’s most valuable lessons. An innocent person will get angrier and angrier with each passing hour, responding to the injustice of being imprisoned and questioned for something they haven’t done. They will shout and rage. A guilty person grows quieter, overcome with sadness and resignation that their crime has been found out.
That is why, Castiel, we test the prisoners’ limits with non-stop interrogation, sleep deprivation and any other tool we have at our disposal. It’s the only way to succeed.
Yes, Comrade Captain, Castiel answered, absorbing Captain Tapping’s words and choosing to accept the truth of them. He knew well enough that to continue to question his superior would mean receiving a mark in his file. A mark that might, sooner or later, land him on the wrong side of an interrogation room himself.
Krieg begins to speak again, between gasping sobs. Castiel’s attention snaps back to him. “I was at Treptow Park Memorial with my children. I met my old school friend Matthias Grün there. We went back to his place together and listened to music until late in the evening. You can call him up. He’ll confirm my story.”
Castiel goes to write this down, glancing at his previous notes and noting a fascinating phenomenon: the wording of Krieg’s statement is the same as the previous one. Every single word is identical.
Something else Castiel likes to tell his trainees: those who speak the truth can and do recount it in multiple ways. Liars need to repeat their story verbatim, for fear of deviating from it.
Between the prisoner’s tears and this further evidence of his untruthfulness, Castiel feels they are getting somewhere. It’s time to tighten the proverbial screws.
“You will need to work with me, Prisoner 5-0-2,” Castiel says, his hands once more folded in front of him to project an aura of calm. “You will need to tell me the names of every single person involved in helping Herr Austen leave the country. If you fail to do so, your wife will be arrested and your daughters will be sent to one of our state-run facilities for children. Is that something you’d like to happen, Prisoner 5-0-2?”
Krieg continues to cry, his head twitching back and forth with reflexive shakes. Almost there.
“Names. I need names,” Castiel repeats. “Who helped your friend leave the country?”
Krieg mutters something.
“Again. This time, enunciate.”
Within less than ten minutes, Castiel has the names of three other enemies of socialism who will be brought in for interrogation. As for Krieg, he’ll stand trial for his part in concealing Auden’s plans and receive the appropriate sentence for his crimes.
Justice has been served.
***
It’s often said that people don’t choose their family, but they do choose their friends. As for Castiel, he supposes he’s the exception that proves the rule. He never chose to be friends with Balthazar Roth, particularly. Rather, Balthazar’s friendship was thrust upon him by means of Balthazar’s considerable determination.
In the years since then, Castiel hasn’t succeeded at making much in the way of other friends, so he’s thought it best to stay on Balthazar’s good side, even if it is occasionally a trial of his patience.
Case in point is the day after Krieg’s successful interrogation, when Castiel finishes packing up after a lecture to his class at the academy. He looks up to find Balthazar lounging in the doorway, smirking at him.
“Nicely done, Cassie.” Balthazar saunters into the lecture hall with no regard for the last few students still departing. He enjoys his little power plays, always has, and so he smirks as a group of three young trainees is forced to stop dead in their tracks to let him pass on his way to Castiel’s desk. “A well-taught class, I thought. Though you’ll want to keep an eye on that one youngster in the fourth row.”
Castiel nods absently as he collects the interrogation tape he’d been playing for the class and restores it to its labeled canister. “Inias Schneider,” he says.
Balthazar leans across the desk to peer at Castiel’s class ledger: a diagram of the lecture hall’s seats, with the students’ names jotted down on their assigned places. He notes, with apparent satisfaction, the small mark Castiel made earlier next to Schneider’s name, when Schneider questioned why sleep deprivation had been necessary in Krieg’s case.
“Knew you’d be on top of it,” Balthazar says.
Castiel collects the ledger and slides it carefully into his satchel. He tells himself he’s not resentful of Balthazar’s nosiness. This is how things work: they are always keeping an eye on each other. Sometimes, the enemies of the state come from within. Another one of Captain Tapping’s lessons.
Schneider will be fine, most likely. He may be questioned, but he’s a bright young man. He’ll make his way in the end.
“You know, they offered me a class to teach too.” Balthazar leans against the desk, surveying the rows of seats rising up in front of him. “Don’t want you to get any ideas that you got the job because you had better grades than me.” He chuckles at some private joke of his own. “Though I guess my grades were usually decent too, thanks to you.”
Castiel shoulders his satchel, ready to leave. He wishes Balthazar would get to whatever point he came here to make. There’s no such thing as a purely social visit where Balthazar is concerned.
“So what brings you here?” he asks, pointedly turning his body toward the exit.
Balthazar shakes his head. “Why are you always accusing me of some ulterior motive? I’m here to invite you to the theater, old friend.”
“To the theater?” Castiel asks, surprised. He’s not a fan of the theater; his interest lies in truth, not fiction.
“Yes,” Balthazar confirms. He is still lingering by the desk; another one of his little power plays. If Castiel wants to know the nature of this invitation, he’ll need to stay until Balthazar is good and ready for him to leave. “I heard that Adler’s going to be there. Figured I should show my face too.”
Ah. That explains it. Balthazar has no more appreciation for the arts than Castiel does, but he has tremendous ambition. As the head of State Security’s Cultural Affairs Department, his next logical step is into the national Ministry of Cultural Affairs, headed by Minister Adler. Of course he’d be interested in an opportunity to ingratiate himself.
“The performance is tonight, at seven,” Balthazar says, passing Castiel a ticket. “We should leave soon if we’re going to make it.”
Castiel pretends to read the information on the ticket, taking the moment to center himself against the annoyance rising up inside him. So what if Balthazar lays claim to Castiel’s time as though it were his own? He had no plans for tonight anyway; or at least none that can’t be postponed until another night.
He has no one waiting for him at home.
“Alright,” he sighs. “Let’s go.”
***
The performance takes place at Ensemble Theater, a venue established by the playwright Bertolt Brecht shortly before his death, some thirty years ago now. Brecht’s work is still performed here, as far as Castiel knows. Time spent in America made his allegiance suspect, but he returned to the fold in the end. An example to emulate for other playwrights whose work has vanished from the stage in recent years.
Balthazar has at least obtained good seats for them, in one of the private boxes that line the walls, with an excellent overview of both the stage and the audience. A place to see and be seen.
“There’s Adler, at one o’clock.” Balthazar passes Castiel the pair of opera glasses he brought along.
Castiel peers through the glasses. In an attempt at subtlety, he keeps his body turned toward the stage even as he peers at the audience. He vaguely recognizes the man Balthazar has pointed out to him — mid-fifties, balding, beginning to grow fat — from past appearances on the news.
“He used to be State Security too, you know.” Balthazar doesn’t bother lowering his voice; unlike Castiel, he has never believed in subtlety. “Did a very good job cleaning up the theater scene in his day.”
Applause rises up from the audience, and Castiel shifts his gaze to the stage, where a man has stepped out from behind the heavy, tannish-gray curtain. Late thirties or early forties, same as Castiel. He’s wearing a suit, but no tie, revealing himself instantly as an artist type. His shirt gapes open to reveal a glimpse of his chest. His hair is overlong, brushing his forehead in a devil-may-care sort of way. His smile is bright, white-toothed. Castiel shifts in his seat. His hold on Balthazar’s opera glasses tightens.
“That’s Dean Winchester. He wrote the play,” Balthazar supplies, having apparently noticed where Castiel’s focus has wandered off to.
Castiel forces himself not to lower the opera glasses. It would be more incriminating to disavow his interest in Dean than to lean into it. “He looks like exactly the sort of arrogant dissident type I always warn my students about.”
“Nah.” Balthazar leans back, relaxing into his seat, and Castiel judges it safe to stop looking at Winchester. And yet, he doesn’t. Not quite yet. Winchester has bowed to the audience and settled himself on a padded two-seater that has apparently been set up specifically for his use next to the stage. “His father was American and his brother lives in the West, but Winchester’s loyal. If all our playwrights were like him, I’d be out of a job. See for yourself,” he adds, as the house lights dim.
The curtains open to a tableau of a group of workers along an assembly line. One of them collapses, and it’s soon revealed that she is a visionary who can see the future. Her visions reveal to her that the unsafe working conditions at the factory will result in the death of her husband. In light of this information, she leads her fellow workers in a successful strike to achieve improvements and save her husband’s life.
It is, on the surface, the perfect socialist worker’s tale. The actress who plays the lead role is beautiful and compelling, and her speech to rouse her fellow workers to action moves many in the audience to tears. Castiel recognizes her as Jessica Mohr, one of the country’s most celebrated performers. Deservedly so, as far as Castiel is qualified to judge such things.
It certainly isn’t her fault that Castiel is too distracted to properly appreciate her work.
All through the performance, he watches Winchester watch the stage, mouthing along to certain lines of dialogue, body shifting constantly as though he is not merely playwright but conductor, helping the drama move along with every nod of his head, every nervous tap-tap-tap of his fingers.
Winchester appears particularly animated during the climactic speech. His entire body rocks along with the actress’ expressive gestures; his face mirrors the emotions expressed on stage.
Castiel still finds it an arrogant face, but a compelling one too, despite (or perhaps because of) that arrogance. Winchester could be all the more dangerous for that.
“See?” Balthazar says when the curtain closes upon the final scene. “Told you he’s a good little socialist. Squeaky clean.”
Castiel shakes his head. His eyes are fixed on Winchester, who has now joined the performers on stage. He kisses Jessica Mohr’s hand before he leads her to the very front of the stage to take a bow and receive her standing ovation. Winchester joins in the applause, pretending at modesty.
“I think he should be watched,” Castiel says. “I’m willing to oversee the surveillance myself.”
Balthazar hangs his head, chuckling. “Your instincts are off, Cassie. Must be all that teaching. Winchester’s a darling of the cultural ministry. We’ll shoot ourselves in the foot if we surveil him.”
Castiel doesn’t offer a rejoinder. He has his own opinions about Balthazar’s instincts, but they’re best kept to himself.
The actors have now left the stage and the audience is making its way to the exits, but Castiel lingers another moment, picking up the brochure and flipping to the page of biographical information.
Dean Winchester was born to American soldier John Winchester and German worker Maria Kaimbel in 1946. After his mother’s death, Winchester became a protege of prominent playwright and director Robert Singer. Singer encouraged Winchester’s love of writing and the theater, helping him become the youngest-ever member of the Socialist Writers’ Guild. Over the ensuing decades, Winchester has been prolific, writing more than a dozen plays. He is considered one of Germany’s leading playwrights.
“Cassie, are you coming?”
Castiel looks over his shoulder to find Balthazar waiting for him by the exit to their box, foot tapping impatiently. He nods and rises, but as he does, he catches another glimpse of Winchester standing in the wings of the stage, half-hidden by the curtains. Jessica Mohr is with him, and as Castiel watches, they embrace like old friends. Or perhaps lovers.
If Castiel has his way, he’ll soon discover the truth of it.
He is lost in thought as he winds his way through the audience behind Balthazar, following him back into the auditorium and to the rows near the front, where Minister Adler is still in his seat, exchanging a whispered conversation with an unknown colleague or subordinate.
Castiel nods a respectful greeting when Balthazar introduces him, but otherwise allows his mind to drift. He knows his presence isn’t technically required for a conversation whose point consists in Balthazar’s professional advancement.
Instead, his eyes find Winchester again. He is alone now, still in the wings, pacing restlessly. Dean Winchester is a man with a good deal of restlessness in him, Castiel has already learned.
He glances back at Balthazar, who has now taken a seat beside Minister Adler, leaving Castiel to stand awkwardly by himself.
“Yes, absolutely right,” Balthazar is saying, proving his credentials as a first-class sycophant. “It’s up to us to protect our socialist republic. I’m always conscious of that fact.”
Adler nods approvingly. Like many men in power, he appears to be the sort who appreciates sycophants. “Tell me, then, Roth, what do you think of him?” he asks, nodding at the exact spot where Winchester is pacing up and down.
Somehow, the fact that Adler has been watching as well as Castiel has doesn’t sit well with him. He doesn’t like it when higher-ups encroach on his responsibilities. It always leads to trouble.
Balthazar hesitates. He does not look at Castiel. “Well,” he says slowly, “I’ve been wondering… what if he’s not as clean as everyone says he is?”
Just barely, Castiel keeps from rolling his eyes at the ceiling. He doesn’t know why he expected better from Balthazar, who has never met a good idea he couldn’t sell as his own.
“Oh, very good.” Adler gives a sharkish grin of approval. “Roth, this is why men like you and I are a cut above. Your standard State Security lackey would’ve said he was one of the best, clean as a whistle, but you and I, we see things others don’t. You’ll make it all the way to the top, mark my words.”
Balthazar thanks the minister politely, while Castiel does his best to radiate the kind of stiff disapproval that Balthazar will be able to sense, but not the minister.
“Make sure you get him wired up by next week,” Adler says, in an undertone that remains just barely audible to Castiel. “Only his private residence. Winchester’s got a lot of powerful fans, so keep this investigation top secret. At least until you find something.”
“Yes, minister.” Balthazar rises to shake Adler’s hand. “Have a fine rest of your evening, now.”
Castiel echoes the sentiment and follows Balthazar back out of the auditorium.
“How about that, Cassie?” Balthazar slaps Castiel’s shoulder, beaming at him. “Sounds like you got your wish.”
Castiel chooses not to comment.
***
Afterparty, at the basement club down the street from the theater. The fluting notes of a jazz saxophone drift through the smoke-dense air of the club, revving the rhythm of Dean’s heartbeat.
He’s in the middle of the dance floor, the center of attention in theory, but really, it’s all Jess. Dean throws in a step here and there, but Jess is a marvel when she dances, twirling around Dean’s arm, smiling with an abandon that carves dimples into her cheeks. Her hair is no longer pinned up under a kerchief like she kept it for the performance, but tumbling elegantly down to her shoulders, framing the face of an angel.
Sometimes, Dean curses his luck that she went for his little brother instead of him, but not really. He could never begrudge Sam the happiness he sees every time these two meet. Not often enough, with visas for West Berlin residents being as hard to come by as they are these days, but it is what it is. Dean’s made his peace with that.
Doesn’t mean he can’t wish that his little brother could’ve been here tonight to see the premiere of Dean’s new play, or to see Jess light up the stage brighter than ever.
He spins Jess out into another twirl and she laughs, bright and easy. The crowd watching them from the edges of the dance floor is caught in that brightness, made lighter and more beautiful by association. All but one man who’s been squatting like a toad all night, sitting on an armchair in the corner and watching them dance. Watching Jess.
“The hell is Adler even doing here?” Dean asks, the next time Jess spins in close. “He keeps watching us, like he’s got a crush on you or something.”
Jess shakes her head, laughing again, and he dips her, trying to make the laughter last. He’s got fans in high places, enough for safety and maybe even a bit of leverage, but being watched like that by Zacharias Adler, Minister of Cultural Affairs, would make any man uneasy.
The music trails off suddenly, mid-song, and it’s then Dean notices that Adler has climbed the stage uninvited to take the microphone.
“Good evening, comrades,” he says. “I couldn’t let this occasion pass without offering a toast to our honored artists. An important socialist thinker, I can’t remember who, once said, ‘Poets are the engineers of the soul.’” He pauses, perhaps waiting for applause. If so, he’s disappointed. “That makes Dean Winchester one of our most important engineers.” This time, there is applause, and Dean ducks his head to hide the fact that he’s trying not to laugh.
“Not much of an engineer himself then, is he?” a voice whispers in Dean’s ear. The smell of a vinyl jacket and cheap aftershave; hallmarks of one of his best friends. Dean bites the inside of his cheek. Damn it all, he really can’t start laughing now.
Jess leans around Dean to say, “Shut up, Roland,” in a fond sort of way.
On stage, Adler looks none too pleased that everyone’s attention isn’t exclusively on him, but he recovers quickly enough. “And of course,” he adds, “I would be remiss not to mention Jessica Mohr, the most beautiful star in the firmament of our German Democratic Republic. So let’s all raise our glasses to her. Long may she live and delight us with her talents!”
Even more enthusiastic applause erupts this time — part genuine and well-deserved admiration for Jess, part relief that Adler’s done interrupting everyone’s evening.
Dean has a sinking feeling that he and Jess aren’t so lucky, which is confirmed when Adler climbs off the stage and makes a beeline for the two of them.
“Stay close?” Jess asks, taking Dean’s arm with a nervous smile. “Please.”
Adler joins them in the center of the dance floor as the band starts playing again and conversation around the club resumes. Jess’ smile quivers at the edges.
“You don’t mind, do you?” Adler asks Dean, and leans in to kiss Jess on both cheeks without waiting for a response.
“Not at all,” he says, forcing a gracious smile.
People generally assume that Dean and Jess are an item, and it’s an assumption they’ve chosen to encourage. They live together, and they’re close. It makes sense to go with the story of a relationship between them, considering how bad it’d look for Jess if anyone knew she was actually dating a journalist from West Berlin.
“How did you like my little speech?” Adler asks, still addressing Dean.
“I’m very grateful,” Dean answers, managing a nod if not a smile.
“I liked the play too. Good stuff, really.”
Roland clears his throat, and Dean just barely resists the instinct to roll his eyes. He’s very fond of the guy, but he hasn’t got an ounce of self-preservation.
“‘Engineer of the soul,’” Roland says, making no effort to hide his contempt. “That’s a Stalin quote, in case you were wondering.”
Of course Roland would know that. And of course he wouldn’t miss a chance to embarrass a high-up government functionary in public. Even the most devoted socialist generally prefers not to associate himself with a monster who killed millions through executions, gulags and famine.
“Is it,” Adler says, with an unsettling smile. “I suppose you’re not the only one who enjoys being provocative on occasion, Herr Resnick. But unlike you, I know exactly how far to go. I’m more like our dear Herr Winchester in that respect. The state needs artists, but Herr Winchester and I understand that artists need the state’s support more.”
Dean grits his teeth and hopes it reads as a smile. He fucking hates people like Adler, maggots fattening themselves off the hard work of others. He fucking hates that he has to cozy up to them to keep not just himself safe, but his family too: Jess, Roland (when he allows it), Bobby.
“If you all are going to talk politics, I’ll have to find someone else to dance with,” Jess says, with a charming smile at them all. As she steps away, Adler’s arm moves, as though her movement has dislodged his hand from her lower back. Dean swallows against a sudden swell of nausea. Some job he’s doing keeping her safe.
“I’d be thrilled to dance with you, Jessica,” Adler says, lips pulling into a leer.
“Too late, I’m afraid,” Jess calls, already disappearing into the crowd. Good for her.
“You know,” Adler says, apparently unconcerned by the brush-off, “I’ve been following the luminaries of our theater scene for quite some time.”
“And had them followed,” Roland says.
“Jesus, man,” Dean hisses, before he can stop himself. You don’t bring up a government minister’s past with State Security in casual conversation. Not unless you like the view from inside a prison cell.
“Oh, it’s quite alright,” Adler says affably. “Herr Resnick and I have known each other well for some time, haven’t we? And we’ve all made mistakes in the past, including you, Herr Winchester, working so closely with certain unsavory elements.” He waggles a fat, admonitory finger in Dean’s face, and Dean sees red.
“You may as well mention Bobby Singer by name,” he snaps. “We all know it’s him you’re talking about.”
A deeply awkward silence descends over the conversation. Dean’s gone too far. He knows he has. Deep breaths. From somewhere inside, he summons an agreeable smile.
“I just think he’s been judged too harshly. I’m sure you can see that there’s no way he can remove his name from a statement that’s already been published. It’s done.”
Bobby wouldn’t take back a single word of that statement and Dean knows it, but he’s also seen the way Bobby looks these days: that hollow emptiness in his eyes, like he doesn’t know what he’s got left to live for anymore. Like Dean, Bobby needs to work, to be useful, or he’ll wither and die.
Adler hasn’t said a single word in response, and even Roland is holding his breath, so Dean just keeps right on talking while he has the floor and hopes he’s not winding his own noose in the process.
“Robert Singer is a highly respected artist,” he says. “He could find work in the West in a heartbeat. But he wants to stay here because he believes in this country. In socialism.”
That part is mostly true. Bobby chose to criticize censorship of the arts because he cares. Because he thinks something important is lost when a government worries more about the reputation of its leaders than the welfare of its people.
“And I just feel that blacklisting him for caring too much is—”
“Who said anything about blacklisting?” Adler asks, and, well, shit. Dean’s gone too far. Again. “Blacklists are an American invention. Nothing like that exists here.”
Dean needs to agree with him, but he’s tongue-tied, thoughts buzzing white noise between his ears.
“You should be more careful how you choose your words, Herr Winchester,” Adler says, his smile a horrible parody of affability.
Dean feels a touch to his shoulder: Roland, letting him know he’s stepping away. A good thing; Adler will be less inclined to resent criticism if there are no witnesses present. At least that’s the one hope Dean clings to as he leans in close and says, “I try my best as a writer, but my stuff is nothing special when it comes right down to it. Not without Bobby Singer directing. I need him, and I hope you’ll consider taking him off your non-existent blacklist. He doesn’t deserve the way he’s been treated.”
Adler’s oil-slick smile widens. “I’ll have to disagree with you there. But that’s what we all love about your plays, isn’t it? The belief that humans are fundamentally good. That they can change and do better. It’s very… endearing.”
“Endearing,” Dean understands well enough, is code for “naive.”
“Endearing, and a nice thought, but fundamentally incorrect,” Adler says. “People don’t change, Winchester. Remember that.” A man in a cheap suit appears at Adler’s elbow, offering him a plate of cold meat patties. Adler picks one up and takes a bite. “How is he anyway, your Herr Singer?” he asks, through a mouthful of meat.
“He’s fine,” Dean lies. “He hopes he’ll be allowed to work again soon.” Fuck it. “Is that something he can hope for?”
Adler takes another bite, grinning around it. “‘Course. Hope is always allowed. Nothing wrong with hope, eh?”
With a slap of his greasy hand to Dean’s shoulder, he leaves him standing there, trying to work out how much time has passed since he danced with Jess and heard her laugh like she didn’t have a care in the world.
It seems like another lifetime.
***
The city is quiet as the grave as Balthazar and Castiel drive home. There are few other cars on the road, and even fewer pedestrians braving the cold, poorly lit sidewalks at this hour.
Castiel is grateful for the lack of distraction as he watches the winter-dead city pass by through the passenger window of Balthazar’s car; his thoughts are busy with everything he observed at the afterparty. It confirmed his impression of Adler as an odious man who likes to throw his weight around and put his hands where they aren’t wanted. Specifically, on Jessica Mohr’s rear.
It also confirmed his impression of Dean Winchester. He seemed close with Roland Resnick, a fellow writer with a known history of dissent, and his conversation with Adler seemed tense; a disagreement just barely kept on the right side of politeness. He couldn’t hear what was said, not at the distance he was trying to keep, but body language has its own way of offering clues.
“I’ll have a team report to you first thing tomorrow morning,” Balthazar says, breaking the silence Castiel had been enjoying. “You can move in to get the place wired anytime between now and Thursday. The whole thing needs to be done by Thursday night, remember that. Some kind of party’s happening at Winchester’s place then, and Adler wants to have ears on it.”
“I’ll manage it,” Castiel says, just as the car pulls up in front of the building where Castiel keeps an apartment on the eighteenth floor.
On his way inside, he passes a small group of workers trading a bottle of vodka between them. There is not enough light out here to see their faces and greet them by name, but it matters little. Castiel has always been more comfortable staying away from his neighbors.
The elevator rattles and whirs on its way up, just as it always does, but it carries him to his floor, which is something to be grateful for. It gets stuck with some frequency, and the building supervisor usually takes an average of two to three hours to do anything about it. Once, a resident of the fourteenth floor was stuck for more than a day.
The elevator dings wearily as it opens. The hallway throws echoes of Castiel’s steps back at him. He meets no one.
Castiel’s apartment is nothing special — a short hallway where he hangs his coat, a bathroom, a kitchen nook, a living room, a small bedroom — but it serves him well enough. He isn’t much of a decorator, as evidenced by his largely bare walls. It’s not that he doesn’t like things or have preferences, but he knows all too well that the things he likes aren’t the sorts of things it’s wise to advertise on walls.
If he ever believed that the inside of an apartment is a private place, his work has thoroughly disabused him of that notion.
He never did have a chance to get dinner, thanks to Balthazar’s impromptu abduction to the theater, so he boils a small pot of rice and flavors it with a squeeze of tomato paste.
He isn’t much of a cook either.
Out of habit, he turns on his television before he settles in on the couch with his food. As the TV tube warms, an image of people working on a factory floor swims into focus.
“The latest economic management plan issued by the Central Committee of the Socialist Unity Party is beginning to pay dividends. According to reports from the manufacturing sector…”
Castiel’s thoughts drift. He thinks of Dean Winchester dancing with Jessica Mohr, their smiles elated and carefree. He tries to picture himself as Winchester, twirling a beautiful woman around a dance floor, the center of everyone’s attention and admiration.
It’s not a bad image, but his mind insists there is a better one. Like a channel with bad reception, the fantasy keeps flickering, to a different version of the dance. In this version, he is the one dancing with Winchester. His face is made up with red lipstick like the one he keeps in plain sight in his bathroom cabinet. (If it isn’t hidden, it’s not illicit. Just something a woman left and he never bothered to throw away.)
Dean Winchester smiles at him and tells him he is beautiful.
The news broadcast has ended, giving way to a test screen. Castiel sets down his untouched dinner and goes to turn off the television. He’s no longer hungry.