Dean is the son of a notorious crime boss, disgraced and thrown out of the organization. But Sam's getting married, and to attend the wedding Dean will have to claw his way back into his father's good graces – that might require a little help from the other side.
Written for the DeanCasBigBang challenge on LiveJournal.
Tags on AO3: Alternate Universe - Gangsters, Alternate Universe - Prostitution, Bottom Dean, Top Castiel, Canonical Character Death, Homophobia, John Winchester Being an Asshole, Gun Violence, Murder, Misogyny, Internalized Misogyny, Internalized Homophobia
Notes:
Art master post: at subcas' Livejournal
Within this story, there is a lot of homophobic language, both within the narrative and as part of the characters' dialogue. I would not recommend lovers and supporters of John Winchester to read this story. There is also misogyny, which is not explicitly addressed due to the fact that a lot of it comes in the way of degrading language about women and female prostitutes within the characters' internal thoughts (in terms of loyalty and value).
The homophobia is a strong theme that is not supported by any except the 'villains' in the story. If you are sensitive to this kind of language or theme, feel free to ask me for more details, or give this story a miss.
The job is relatively simple, but still Castiel feels obligated to send up a prayer of thanks for the help of his brother, because he knows that without Gabriel he probably would have turned on his heel and walked right back out of the North Trust bank as soon as he'd seen the heavy gates, impressive-looking guards and the steel-mounted alarms on the side of the building.
Gabriel, though, he has a way with people, and if not people, he certainly has a way with machines. Not to the extent that Castiel does, but hey, he's just a fledgling – he's learning still, and it's Gabriel's job to teach him.
"You see that, there?" Gabriel whispers out of the corner of his mouth, jerking his head to one side and Castiel's eyes slowly follow the movement, like he's just a bored customer letting his eyes wander, and he sees the set of blinking lights in the far corner of the building next to a heavily-reinforced door. "That lock has a key pad on it, and you see the lights blinking above?" Castiel nods. "Notice anything weird about it?"
The taller man nods, pressing his lips together, and rolls his shoulders. "The mount is too low," he says, letting his eyes continue their circuit of the room, in the opposite direction – when people's eyes wander, they don't do full circles. They bounce around, darting like flies, and Castiel needs to look convincing. "That pad isn't operated by code alone."
"Or at all," Gabriel answers, nodding and smiling with barely disguised pride in his younger brother and nest-mate. "Good job, Cas. That's actually an Albion system. They only make them in England, as far as I know, and they're actually not operated by touch at all."
Castiel's brow furrows. "What, then?" he asks.
"Look."
The younger man nods to himself, licking his lips and drumming his fingers against the ugly blue fabric of the chair – they had come into this bank for a job, casing out the place because Castiel had chosen it for his initiation – rumor has it that the Eagles keep most of their air-shipping contacts listed in a safe deposit box in this bank, and if Castiel could manage to attain it then it would allow him a place in the Angels for sure; would definitely let him get his wings. Gabriel, the man he had approached to ask for help, is one of the most powerful members of the Angels, and has always had a soft spot for Castiel: the child of one of the Angels' dock workers and a man who'd spent maybe a week in town getting to know her. Now, looking around the room, Castiel is desperate to notice whatever Gabriel has wanted him to notice, unwilling to let his superior and, dare he say it, friend down.
He watches as a suited man walks in through the front door, which stands between the waiting area where Castiel and Gabriel are sitting and the desks where the commonplace folk are putting through their transactions, and his bright eyes follow the movements of the man, mouth twisting when he sees the slight fold in his jacket that means he's carrying a pistol in a shoulder holster – a different place than the security staff at the bank. Which makes it all the more interesting when the man walks up to the door without hesitation, pauses with his back blocking his actions from view, and then steps inside.
Castiel leans his elbow out, just slightly, to push into Gabriel's arm to get his attention. "Someone just went in," he says.
Gabriel hums, nodding in time with the music playing faintly over the stereo system, but Castiel can tell he heard.
"Someone not employed here," the other man adds, for emphasis.
"And what makes you think he's not employed here?" Gabriel asks, too casually – Castiel is being tested, he knows, but not what on. He presses his lips together, tries to think about it logically in a way that will impress:
"He carried his weapon at the chest, not tucked into the back of his slacks. He had somewhere to be and he went." A pause. "And he wasn't clean-shaven. His clothes were nicer than those working here."
Gabriel nods to himself, hiding a smile behind his hand. "That's because that, my dear little brother, was their leader."
Castiel's eyes widen. "Their leader?" he repeats, and he can't help it – his back goes a little stiff in fear, shoulders straightening, hands instinctively reaching for a weapon. It's ridiculous, he knows, and he forces himself to relax as soon as possible, not giving themselves away, but to think – the leader of the Eagles just walked in, just walked right past Castiel and Gabriel, it was…it was unfathomable. Like seeing the Devil.
Gabriel hums again, nodding to himself, and slouches a little in his chair, looking for all the world like he's just relaxed and bored and waiting to be seen to. "This might get a little complicated," Gabriel says. "If he notices us – which he eventually will – it will get messy. We should probably leave now."
Castiel cocks his head to one side, unsure if this is another test. "Should we?" he asks, fingers curling into the edges of the armrest of his chair. "We aren't breaking any law – this is a public bank and we have just as much right to it as anyone else."
This time he can feel Gabriel smiling. "That," he says with emphasis, "is very true. Alright." With that he suddenly pushes himself to his feet, brushing his hands down the front of his suit jacket. "Shall we get this show on the road? We seem to have less time than I planned for."
Castiel follows suit, getting to his feet and following Gabriel as he joins the sectioned line leading to the desks, and says nothing as the shorter man pointedly motions him to go in front, to lead the way of the case – this will be Castiel's job, after all, his right to earn his wings and Gabriel should be seen to give as little guidance as possible.
"Good morning!" the blonde woman chirps from behind her desk when Castiel and Gabriel approach. She has too much make-up around her eyes, hiding the crow's feet and the forehead wrinkles as best she can, and Castiel supposes she's pretty, in the bleached-blonde treated-teeth kind of way. Way too well paid for a bank desk job, he supposes. "And welcome to North Trust Bank. How may I help you this morning?"
Castiel forces a smile to his face, and tries to make it warm and charming like Gabriel and Michael and it seems like every single one of his brothers can pull off. She just blinks at him as he reaches into the inner pocket of his jacket, pulling out a key to one of the deposit boxes in this bank that Gabriel gave to him.
"I need to access my safe deposit box, please," he says, placing the key on the desk and sliding it over to her, and she nods, quickly looking up the number on her computer's system, before she pushes herself to her feet and walks from behind the desk.
"This way, please, Mister Novak," she says brightly, leading the way to the door that Gabriel and Castiel had been observing before, and Castiel watches silently as she swipes her Identification Card through the little slot, and the light turns green after she pushes in the code. Still with a smile, she hauls open the heavy door and allows them to pass through, and it shuts behind them.
Gabriel flashes Castiel a conspiratorial smirk when she leads the way down the brightly-lit cement corridor, but Castiel doesn't allow himself to return it – he feels a prickling along his back, between his shoulder blades, as though someone is following them, or watching them from behind, although he knows that that is ridiculous because the corridor only extended one way and he would hear if someone joined them afterwards.
He tracks the turns they make – thirty paces, left, ten, right, two doors on either side, forty paces – before the woman stops in front of another door much like the first and slides her badge through another panel, typing in a code that sounds the same. Weird, Castiel thinks, that they would choose a keypad that makes different sounds like an ATM, which anyone can overhear and dissect if they know the sounds.
It's fake, Castiel realizes with a start. It's all fake, smoke and mirrors. The expression on Gabriel's face says that he knows it, too.
"If you'll just step inside," the woman says, holding the door open for them, but Castiel hesitates from stepping across the threshold. It's too easy,he thinks, stepping back from the empty room – and the room is empty. Undoubtedly there are cameras and motion detectors of all sorts to make the space secure, but it just seems barren, dry like the desert. There's nothing in this room, nothing they need or want, and Castiel can't force himself to step inside.
It's not choking – Castiel knows enough about himself to realize that this hesitance isn't being brought on by nerves, or anxiety. No. It's caution – they can't go into the room. They can't.
"Mister Novak?" the woman asks, her voice floating to him through the haze of his thoughts, and he blinks, licking his lips, turns to find both Gabriel and the woman watching him – she with concern, Gabriel with keenness, like he's trying to read Castiel's mind, and the younger man just shakes his head, taking another step back. His mouth is dry and he can't speak and all he can do is shake his head.
"I'm afraid my little brother here," Gabriel says, stepping forward without skipping a beat and placing a hand on Castiel's shoulder to help steady and ground him – "is a little nervous around enclosed underground spaces. We'll have to come back another day."
And then they're walking away, hurrying back down the corridor but then they freeze in place at the sound of a slide being pulled back, snapping into place, and Castiel turns just enough to see the woman aiming a small handgun at them.
"I'm afraid I can't allow that, Mister Novak," she says, voice stern and steady, but her hand is shaking badly. She's aiming for Castiel's chest and at that distance the shaking probably wouldn't let her miss, but it's the difference between living and dying and Castiel's mouth twitches.
Of course.
Castiel can hear Gabriel sigh, and the older, smaller man's shoulder – the one next to Castiel, slumps down. Enough to give him a clear shot. Castiel uses the shield of his brother's body to allow himself to reach behind him, hand wrapping around the grip of his own gun while the woman continues to try and stare them down with her badly-shaking hands.
This time, his smile is not forced – this kind of situation, he was trained for this. And this woman is scared, probably just counting down the seconds until an alarm can be triggered or maybe it already has; maybe more people are rushing to her aid now. Castiel begins to count.
"Were we that obvious?" he asks, smiling more widely and it sends a tremor down her arm – she's holding a nine-mil Glock and that's a heavy weapon, especially for someone not used to holding one. The gun's muzzle is pointing a little too south to hit Castiel's heart.
Four.
"You weren't," she replies, jerking her gun in the direction of Gabriel's back. "But we know a higher-up when we see one." Three. "Angels," she hisses, eyes narrowing. "You should go back to the docks where you lowlifes came from."
Castiel sucks in an exaggerated breath. "Ouch. Harsh, sweetheart." Two. The fingers on his gun grip a little tighter as he gently slides it from place, letting his arm fall back into place, still shielded by Gabriel's body. "You should show some respect."
One. Bang. Bang. Bang.
"Let's get the fuck outta here," Gabriel hisses, grabbing Castiel's forearm and hauling him into a run behind before the body of the woman even hits the ground, her eyes wide and surprised, three holes driven through the center of her chest. "Those were good shots, Castiel – remind me to tell Michael how good a shot you are."
"Thanks," Castiel replies tersely, keeping his eyes peeled for the doors opening as they pass through in a hurry. Then, he stops, calling Gabriel to a halt.
"Fuck," the smaller man grunts, stumbling to a stop. "What?"
"The boxes, Gabriel," Castiel replies, turning to look over his shoulder. He can't hear a damn sound of pursuit and although he knows that won't last long, he also knows that if they were this close and didn't manage to close the deal, Michael would be pissed. He knows that he would rather be dead than cast out, and he knows Gabriel feels that way, too. It wouldn't do to fuck up his first job like this. "Come on."
"Castiel!" But Castiel isn't listening – he's running, back the way they came, left-right-two-doors-on-either-side, and skids to a halt next to the body of the dead woman. He bends down, extricating her gun from her tightly-wound hand and tucks it into the holster he had pulled his own gun from, and snaps the key she carries from the chain around her neck.
"What's the box number?" he asks as Gabriel rounds the corner and rejoins him, sees him holding up the key in triumph.
"Seven-sixty-one. Come on, little bro, hurry."
Obediently, Castiel locates the box, sliding the key from around the woman's neck, and takes out his lock-picking case from his back pocket, kneeling down onto the ground and getting to work picking the second lock.
He almost has the last chamber undone when he hears gunshots, followed by a muffled curse. "Fuck, Castiel, come on!"
"Almost there!" he yells, jerking the lock open with a triumphant snarl, pulling the metal box out from the wall. He opens it quickly, finding another box inside, and curses – they don't have time for him to unlock this one as well. "Fuck. Okay, okay – I've got it! Let's go!"
He tucks the box into his jacket – it is small, no bigger than a letter envelope, and thin and light when he slides it into his inner pocket along with his own key and the banker's key, lock pick put away and put back in place in his back pocket. He checks the magazine of his gun, finding seven bullets left, and runs out of the room. Gabriel is standing with three bodies at the end of one corridor, the way they hadn't come, and Castiel jerks his head back. Gabriel nods, bending down to relieve the guards of their weapons, taking two of the guns and kicking the third away, before he rejoins Castiel, gun trained behind them while Castiel takes point.
"How the fuck do we get out?" he asks once they're back at the door that leads out into the main part of the bank – they can't just stroll out of there like they own the place. If the woman had managed to call back-up, probably every gun out there will be trained on their foreheads the second they walk into the room.
Gabriel grimaces, leaning up against the far side of the corridor, checking his magazine before sliding it back into place. "The same way we do everything, little brother," he bites out, voice pained and Castiel can't see where but he can smell the raw, metallic scent of blood and knows that Gabriel got shot – somewhere, but he can't see. Damn it. "With style."
With that, he shoves open the door with his foot, gun pointed towards the ceiling, and lets out five shots. Castiel has just enough time to take in the sound of screams before there are answering shots, and he's out there with his brother, gun pointed to any suit he sees coming their way. He's covering Gabriel's back but the older man is taking out his fair share even with his wound and Castiel has never been so proud to be an Angel than when he sees Gabriel – wounded but still so powerful, his gun steady and his aim perfect. Castiel wants that – wants to be that.
They burst out into the brightly-lit streets of the city, for a moment the wall of noise hitting them and making them pause. Castiel still has his gun pointed back towards any suits coming after them, but they seem to have taken out most in the lobby and, while Gabriel is looking for a car, Castiel picks the last one off, startling the nearby pedestrians in the street and sending them scattering.
"Come on, little brother!" Gabriel yells, and Castiel follows his voice and the sound of his breathing down the stairs, towards the back alley lining the side of the bank. At the mouth of the alley is an old, rusted-out junker of a car, but the tires look new and it appears to have been moved there recently, which hopefully means it will move again now.
The doors are unlocked and Gabriel shoves himself into the backseat, hissing and clutching at his stomach, and Castiel closes the door behind him before sliding into the passenger side door, intent on sliding across the making a quick getaway.
He finds himself, unfortunately, colliding instead with the body of a man. The man grunts in surprise, straightening up where he must have been sleeping against the door of the car, but he looks all-too alert and ready for a fight when he fixes his gaze on Castiel.
And for a moment, Castiel is frozen. The man looks young, maybe mid-twenties, mud and grease pasted into his skin and the dryness around his mouth speaks of a lack of steady water, the glaze in his eyes a lack of sleep. He's dressed in dirty, too-loose jeans that look like they may have fit him once, but a lack of food makes them hang loose on his frame, and a leather jacket that is at least three sizes too big for him is draped across his shoulders.
Then he unfreezes, disturbed by the lack of anything in the man's eyes – very bright eyes, green and gold meshed together in the middle, but there is no emotion in them; not even something basic and instinctual like surprise or fear at finding oneself suddenly in the presence of unexpected company.
Castiel carefully aims his gun at the man. "Get out," he says, voice low and steady.
Instead of answering, the man's eyes flick to the rear-view mirror, undoubtedly giving him a view of Gabriel in the back seat, and Castiel can hear his brother's rough pants of air; whatever had hurt him before, wherever he was injured, it's getting worse. They need to drive. He can hear the bank's alarms.
"Where do you need to go?" he asks instead of backing out of the car like Castiel expects him to, fishing out a key from his pocket and turning it into the car's ignition, letting it rumble to life with a dull, rickety roar like something is caught in the air vents. He is already pulling out of the alleyway before Castiel can ask what the Hell he thinks he's doing.
Castiel presses his lips together, hand tightening on the gun, but remembers Michael's teachings; Don't kill the innocent. This man has done nothing wrong aside from, it looks like, fallen on hard times. Besides, he is already driving them away and though he can still hear the bank's alarms and the traffic is far from accommodating, they do seem to be edging into the clear.
Gabriel doesn't have time for Castiel to fret over an outsider driving them somewhere. "Seventh and forty-first," he bites out, sitting back. It is not a well-known Angel site, but they have a medic there, in the place that from the outside looks like a parking garage with such extortionate and inconvenient rates that no one actually bothers to park in there, and so it is private and perfect and ideal. The man nods, humming to himself, and makes a turn towards seventh.
Castiel allows himself to relax somewhat, because the man's humming reminds him of Gabriel and Gabriel always puts him at ease.
He also likes that the man doesn't ask questions. When they pull up outside of the building, Castiel throws him a small roll of twenties – enough to maybe buy him a motel room for a couple of nights and a good meal – before he exits the car, hauling Gabriel out behind him and supporting his brother as they stumble into the building, leaving the city behind.
"Nice digs."
Dean can't help but smirk to himself, letting his shoulders drop as he leans forward, sighing, resting his forehead briefly against the doorjam to the outside. Outside – running, but he can't run. Not with the voice behind him. Probably has the whole place surrounded – that's the usual style, anyway.
"Slummin' it now, Sammy?" he asks, forcing his expression to smooth out into careful neutrality – a poker face to rival a stone statue, that's what his father had always said, and Dean was proud of that.
The owner of the voice – Sam Winchester – is cloaked in shadow, because Dean's apartment (that he shares only out of necessity and because his roommate is more kindly to take his ass as payment than money) only possesses one lightbulb in the front room, and it doesn't extend all the way to the back wall. But Dean can see the tips of his shiny polished shoes, catches the glint of a gun on the table in front of him. He keeps his back pressed to the door, hands in full view, trying in vain to spot the two men undoubtedly flanking Sam's sides, silent and still but very surely there. "Wouldn't figure ya to stoop so low. What brings you to my neck of the woods?"
A sigh, then, Sam leaning forward just enough that Dean can see his hands – their universal sign of trust, always a sign of trust with the Eagles to show people their hands. Dean's eyes narrow and he doesn't move forward. "I heard rumors, Dean – rumors that greatly disturbed me."
Dean snorts, rolling his eyes and makes sure to avoid Sam's. "You sound like dad."
There is a pause, then, before Sam stands and steps into the light. He looks good – he's grown since Dean last saw him, almost six years ago. Definitely filled out from the lanky teenager Dean used to be able to ruffle the hair of and help with homework, teach him how to load a gun as fast as possible and how to tell if someone's lying to you. He's taller, broader across the shoulders, and there's a set to his jaw that reminds Dean of their father more than he would care to admit.
He squares his shoulders in return, lifting his chin in defiance, and forces himself not to reach for his roommate's gun, tucked into one of the cabinets lining the right side of the door.
"Look at you," Sam says, like it's a curse, a smear of bad taste on the inside of his mouth, his upper lip curling as he gestures towards Dean – dirty, grease-covered, Dean doesn't look as well as Sam, all tailored suit and shiny shoes and hair combed and clean. "You're living in the slums, Dean. You look sick, and thin – I've heard stories you've even been going to the docks at night. What the fuck, man?"
Dean's mouth curls up into a hateful smirk, one corner lifting up higher than the other in something fake and cheap – his porcelain façade cracking, just a little, at the disdain and disgust in Sam's eyes. "That's not an answer, Sammy," he says instead of anything else, forcing his voice to remain low and even.
The bigger man's eyes narrow. "What question?" he spits out, breathless with anger and frustration. His brother has always been proud, even to the day their father kicked him out onto the streets with naught but the clothes on his back and six bucks in his pocket.
It's what I had when I started, he'd said. You'll be fine.
"What brings you here? And as vexed as you are," Dean repeats, his tone tripping into condescension and false concern now, as he tuts softly and shakes his head. "You look stressed, Sam. Sit down, relax a while."
"Dean -."
"Maybe I can even calm you down like we used to, eh?" the older brother asks with a not-so-subtle wink, flashing teeth at the look in Sam's eyes. "S'a good thing I'm such a slut, Sam, or Dad would have found the both of us together, and where would you be then?"
Sam's eyes narrow, his mouth twists, and Dean wants to punch him, because he looks more like their father than ever when he looks at Dean like that – like he's so disappointed, and hates when he sees. He looks the way Dean does when he gazes upon the streets of this city, dirty and disused, and he hates.
"I'm getting married, Dean."
The news startles the green-eyed man, though not as much as he thinks it should. After all, he reads the newspaper, same as the next guy, once they're discarded in the dumpsters after being read by the rest of the population. He might get the news a day or so late but it doesn't matter to him – none of the robberies or petty gang fights or famous weddings makes him give a crap.
So he remains silent, and Sam's shoulders drop as he sighs. "Her name's Jessica. And I think you'd like her. I…I want you to be at the wedding."
Dean blinks at him, and swallows. "Name the date, Sammy; I'm there," he says.
And Sam is already shaking his head, that twist to his mouth again, stupid floppy hair that Dean has never been able to convince him to cut to a respectable length (and is honestly surprised that their father hasn't either) falling around his face, shielding his eyes. "Dad won't let you do that, Dean – not like…" Guilt, then, silencing the rest of that sentence, a small movement of his arm gesturing to the whole of Dean's sweaty, dirty self.
Just like that, the stone is back on Dean's face, the dark glint in his eyes. His words come out almost as a hiss, lip curling back from his teeth. "Not like what, Sam?" he asks, almost daring his little brother to just come out and say it, but Sam is just looking at him, helpless, and Dean's eyes narrow. "A fag? Or a bum? Which of so many facets of me does Dad hate most this time?"
"Dean, it's -."
"Nah, Sammy, it's okay," Dean says, waving his brother off and extricating himself from between the wall and his giant of a brother, going to the fridge. He can feel the hollow point of cocked guns aiming at his back when he reaches in and pulls out a beer, snapping the can open with the same hand and taking a swig, because if Sam is going to stay much longer then Dean needs to be drunk for it. "Old man's set in his ways, I get it." He turns around, then, pointing one accusing finger at the younger man. "You, though… Can't say I'm surprised. Disappointed, yes, but not surprised."
"Dean." It's the way Sam says his name, perhaps, that makes Dean fall silent – the way he used to when the tables were turned and Dean had been defending his own father against one of Sam's many 'Why do we live like this' moments of his life. He had hoped Sam would grow out of it. Now he wishes he hadn't.
Slowly, splaying his hands out wide in the air in front of him, Sam then reaches into the lapel pocket of his jacket, and while Dean goes tense, he's not reaching for the place where a gun would be on a shoulder holster, and his other hand isn't shaking or tense, so he takes another swig of beer. Besides, Sam wouldn't shoot him and get his own hands dirty, not when he has two fully armed men willing to do the dirty work for him.
Maintaining eye contact, Sam then pulls out a small white envelope, folded in half, and reaches out to place it on the cabinet next to the door. "In there," he says, "is a direct debit card, which is established at North Trust to the name of Robert Plant –," Dean smirks at the name, rolling his eyes, "and has an upward cap of five hundred on it. Anything you pull out, five hundred will be topped back up immediately."
Dean raises an eyebrow at him, shaking his head, though he can't say he's surprised – again. But anyone who could give someone a seemingly endless supply of money, no matter how low the margin on control, well, that someone has too much fucking money. ATMs let out withdrawals of, what, three hundred a day? So – the older man does some quick math – potentially Dean could withdraw nine grand a month, and it probably won't even hurt Sam to do that. Too much fucking money.
He gestures towards the envelope with another sneer. "To what do I owe the generosity, Sammy? Does Dad know you're doing this?"
"Of course not," Sam replies, a conspiratorial smile coming to his face that Dean can't help but match – that kind of smile makes Sam look five years younger. Dean wonders if Jessica makes him smile like that – is this wedding even one Sam himself asked for, or one that Dad encouraged and approved of? Is the family one that Dean should really know? "It's just…you need to clean up, maybe if you manage to pull something off that Dad would approve of…"
Oh. Dean sighs, setting his beer down, looking at the ground. Of course.
"I get it, now," he says, leaning back against the fridge, arms folded across his chest, legs crossed at the ankle as he looks his brother up and down. Then, he laughs – it's short and sounds more like a curse than a laugh. "You know, it's weird how much you disapprove of how I live my life now if you're more willing for me to sell myself to our father than to a john." He tilts his head to one side, pursing his lips in thought. "Huh. 'John'. Ironic."
"Dean," Sam bites out, tensing, "I'm just trying to help."
"Yeah, well." Dean straightens, then, shaking his head. "I don't need that kinda help, Sammy." He pauses, then, fingers itching for the beer can again, but Sam already sees him as so many things – he doesn't need to add 'drunk' to that list. "I'd like you to leave, now."
"Dean -."
"Last time I checked, breaking and entering was still a crime," Dean says, cutting Sam off and his little brother is looking at him so hopelessly and helplessly and Dean wants to hug him and punch him at the same time. "Even for people like you."
"People like us, Dean," Sam reminds him, making Dean's mouth twist and his eyes narrow.
After a moment of hesitation, he mutters 'Yeah', rubbing the back of his neck. People like us. "Please, Sammy, just leave. I'll…see you around."
Sam's shoulders slump, a tired look coming to his face, but he steps back from Dean's door, reaching out for the handle as he turns and nods towards the two men, who slink out of the shadows without a word or a passing glance to Dean – they leave the apartment, no doubt checking the corridor as well and making sure there is no danger outside before Sam steps out.
"Think about my offer, Dean," the younger man says as he steps back over the threshold. "It'd be really great to see you there."
"What's the date, Sammy?" Dean asks, almost too quietly to hear and for a moment he thinks Sam might not hear him – or does hear, but chooses not to acknowledge his question. Maybe because he doesn't think Dean will actually go through with it, but – Hell, it's Sam's wedding. He'd be a fool to think Dean would willingly miss it.
The pause feels like it'll stretch on forever, but Sam's hand doesn't let go of the door. "April seventh," he finally says, sighing out the date, and Dean nods, pressing his lips together. That's not a very long time away – if he does do something, it'll need to be fast.
"Okay," he says, to the closed door and the empty apartment. Sighing, he reaches down and finishes the beer, tossing the empty can into the sink with a low curse. Then, almost absently, he picks up the envelope Sam left behind, able to feel the raised numbers on the plastic card through the thin white paper. He tucks it into the inside pocket of his jacket and then walks towards the air mattress in the spare room that he had sectioned off as his own space, taking off his jacket and folding it up underneath his pillow.
He'll have to move – if Sam could find him with relative ease then it means Dean's stayed in one place for far too long. Pity – this place at least has running water and, compared to the potential neighborhoods he could be living in, it doesn't suck. Dean's roommate, though about two dirty needles away from killing himself and fairly aggressive when it comes to the rules of cohabitation, isn't around enough to really get in Dean's way and at least he has a job.
Dean has a job, too. And his boss kind of likes him. Maybe they can sort something out there, too.
By the time his roommate comes back home, Dean's had another beer and all of his stuff is packed into one pathetic duffle, worn around the edges and patched up multiple times with jeans that were worn too thin and t-shirts that ended up getting shredded in bar fights.
"Hey," Dean says in response to the grunt of greeting that the guy gives as he turns and locks the multiple bolts and locks on their door, one by one, each small click another meaningless barrier between them and the outside world. "I drank two of your beers today."
His roommate stops from where he was locking the doors, two away from a full set – one of which only he possesses the code to, and Dean allows himself a breath of relief before the guy turns to him, biting out a low curse. The grab he's expecting, and he keeps his eyes closed when they close the door for the night and his neck starts to hurt from the awkward angle of being shoved into the mattress, his roommate biting out low curses and promises to make him pay lulling him to sleep.