[Once upon a time, a fan video artist called Destiel Heaven did a fan video called "Dean & Castiel Shooter," in which Dean is a hitman hired to kill mobster Castiel. This inspired one of the very best Destiel fanvid creators, SPNHoffen, to create "Born Ready – Destiel Mafia AU," set to Zayde Wolf's song "Born Ready," in which mobster Castiel hires Dean to take out, oh, a lot of folks. Both of them are good fanvids, but SPNHoffen's is richly plotted and, with a cliffhanger ending, pleads for a fic. I've taken quite a few liberties, but have stuck fairly close – fairly close – to SPNHoffen's story line.]
["Supernatural" is copyrighted by Warner Brothers Entertainment Inc.]
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Dean was in the bathroom when Sam let himself into Dean's apartment. That was unusual – Sam was usually polite enough to wait for his brother to open the door. "Hey Dean! Where are you?"
"In here. Out in a moment. You want to go out someplace or just hang here and watch the game?"
"I thought you needed my professional expertise."
Dean flushed the toilet and started washing his hands. "Yeah, the damn computer crashed again."
"I keep telling you to look at the requirements before you download a game."
Dean made a face like an annoying schoolmarm in the mirror, but just said, "Yeah, I know. Hey, Sarah!"
"Sarah's not with me. They called her in to work. But you want to ask Rick over?"
Dean hung up the towel. "Rick and me – kinda didn't work out."
"Again? That's pathetic, Dean. Did you ever think about just killing yourself?"
Dean would always remember the reflected expression on his face – frozen disbelief and bafflement. He opened the bathroom door. "You didn't just – "
Sam was standing at the door with a gaping-lipped grin, clutching a carving knife pointed at Dean. His eyes were black from rim to rim. He giggled, said, "Sam really doesn't want me to do this," and lunged.
Dean leaped backward, trapped in the small room. The knife gouged a hole in the wall. Sam changed his aim and gave Dean, back to the wall, the same bizarre grin.
"Sam!" Dean didn't even realize he was screaming it. "Sam!"
Sam lunged again. Dean kicked him, throwing up his arms desperately. The kick caught Sam in the knee and he stumbled, slashing Dean's arm as he half-collapsed.
Dean grabbed Sam's wrist with both of his own hands, trying to force the knife into the bathroom sink, but Sam was stronger than Dean had ever known him to be. He grabbed Dean's arm and Dean slammed Sam's wrist down over and over, banging the blade against the porcelain, smashing both of their arms against the edge of the sink. "God! Sam! Stop it! Stop!"
Sam broke his left hand free and slammed it upward into Dean's nose. Pain blinded Dean, and he staggered back into the wall.
When he could focus, Sam's eyes were normal, his expression agonized. "Dean," he whispered. "I have control. For a moment. Run."
Dean shook his head. "Sam, what – "
"Run!" Sam screamed, and turned the knife, pointing it at himself. "If you stay I'll have to kill myself to keep it from killing you! Go! Go!"
Dean ran, crashing into Sam as he did. He didn't remember going through the apartment or crossing the parking lot. He remembered clawing his emergency key out from the wheel well of the Impala, and only then realizing that his left arm was covered in blood.
His first thought was to get to Sam's place, see what kind of drugs or weird experimental gas was there. He tried not to dwell on his real reason for going there: to find out if Sam's girlfriend was bleeding out on the carpet and, if so, could he save her.
He pulled up into Sam's driveway. He fumbled at the door latch, which was slick. He lurched out of the car, ignoring the sudden cold dizziness that filled his head, and moved toward the front door.
A man appeared in front of him and threw water in his face, another attack. Dean grabbed the man by the edges of his flannel shirt, defending himself, but found himself clutching for support, his knees giving way.
The man grabbed his arms, holding him up. "You're hurt bad. Did you see the Winchester boy?"
"My brother," Dean gasped. "Wha'd you do to my, to my brother?"
"We gotta get you inside, stop this bleeding."
The man half-dragged Dean onto the front porch. There was a thick welcome mat at the front door; the man picked it up and held it under Dean's arm as he opened the door. Dean noticed the door was unlocked, but it was the least important thing he could think of.
The man let him down to the floor gently with the welcome mat under his arm. "Don't get blood on the rug," he said, and left. By the time Dean was wondering why it mattered, the man was back, coming out of Sam's bathroom with towels. He began binding them firmly around Dean's arm. "Keep your head down," he said in a voice that was somehow both gruff and gentle. "Don't try to get up. Doesn't help anything if you stand up and pass out. Did the Winchester boy do this to you?"
"Stop calling'm that. My brother Sam."
"OK. Don't get riled. Did Sam do this to you?"
Even in Dean's dazed state, he felt a jolt of caution. "Who are you?"
"I'm here to help Sam."
Dean's mind cleared enough to focus on the bearded, burly guy binding his arm. Besides the flannel shirt, the guy was wearing hunting boots, jeans, and a trucker cap. "You a doctor?" Dean asked dubiously.
"I'm a guy who helps people like Sam."
"What's wrong with him? What happened?"
"What'd he do?" The man indicated Dean's arm. "Besides that."
Dean looked at his arm, then rolled his head back the other way on the carpet. He wasn't especially squeamish, but the towels around his arm, the welcome mat, and his shirt were all splattered with crimson. "He stabbed – he said – " He tried to pull himself together. "I opened the bathroom door and he was holding a knife. He had a weird expression – and his eyes were black. I don't mean the, the irises were black, I mean – "
"I know. Completely black."
"Yeah. He said, 'Sam really doesn't want me to do this," and he tried to stab me. I fought him off and we were – and then he stopped. He was pointing the knife at himself and his eyes were back to normal. He said something about having control and I should leave. I tried to – but he said – what was it – "
Dean was trying to prop himself up on his elbows. The guy pushed back on his shoulders. "Keep your head down, son. What did he say when his eyes were normal?"
"Something like, I have control, but if you're here I'll have to kill myself to keep it from killing you. He screamed at me to run. He was pointing the knife at himself. Oh, God. He's probably – he probably – "
"Maybe not. He may have saved both your lives. You did the right thing gettin' outta there. Where was this, your house?"
"My apartment. What the – " There wasn't a curse word strong enough. "What's going on?"
The older man pulled himself up off the floor and sat on Sam's sofa. He shook his head. "You always want some time, get people used to the idea, but there's never any time." He ran his hand over his beard. "Here's the bottom line: Demons exist. And one of 'em has possessed your brother."
Dean lay silent for a moment. "I'd say that was bull. Except it explains – Sam isn't insane. He's never had any problems like that. And the eyes." Now he did swear, violently. "What are we going to do?"
"You're gonna tell me where your place is, then I'm gonna drop you off at an ER while I try to find Sam."
"No. Wrong." This time Dean made it up to his elbows. "I'm going with you. What do we need to do to get that thing out of him?"
"An exorcism. It's tricky and dangerous and not for amateurs."
"Look – What's your name?"
"Bobby. Singer."
"Look, Bobby. This is non-negotiable." Dean sat up. "I know where my place is and apparently you don't. The only way you're getting there is if you take me along with you and I give you directions as we go."
"Son, you don't understand what you're dealing with. You could end up – "
"So tell me in the car. Sam's my only family. I ran out on him a few minutes ago, I'm not running out on him again. I'm not going to let – " He jerked his head around, ignoring the sense of things swirling behind his eyes. "Where's Sarah?"
"She's at work." Bobby grimaced. "Only thing I did right today. I called her up and told her they needed a manager at the San Marcos store, double-time. I can be pretty convincing. She wasn't happy about it, but she went. I figured even if she got there, realized it was a hoax, turned around and came back, that gave me an hour. And then it – Sam – left before I could attack. I followed him to a restaurant, but it gave me the slip there. All I could do was lie in wait for it here."
"Maybe it's lying in wait for me back at my place." Dean stood, adrenaline combating the sinking feeling. "Let's go."
"Son – "
But Dean was on his way out the door. "Where's your car?"
"Pickup parked around the corner." Bobby picked up the bloody welcome mat, looked around the living room for other signs of disturbance, and followed Dean out the door. He walked fast, passing Dean as if trying to prove to him that Dean wasn't in shape to deal with this, and Dean, setting his jaw, caught up.
Bobby insisted on pulling gauze and tape out of a first-aid kit, throwing the bloody towels and welcome mat onto the floor of the pickup and binding Dean's arm as they stood by the truck. Just as he finished, his cell phone rang.
"Ignore it," Dean pleaded.
"Hunters don't ignore the phone. Get in the truck. – Yeah?"
Dean remained, glaring at Bobby as the man listened, shaking his head and eventually swearing. "I'm so sorry. I know – No, don't blame yourself, blame the evil thing that did it. Look, I'm trackin' a demon about four hours away. I want you to go low-profile. Defensive measures only. Yeah – Look, I understand. I do. But it doesn't help the civilians when you get yourselves killed. I'll be there as soon as I can, we'll get the sons o' bitches. Lay low. I mean it." He disconnected, and Dean headed for the passenger door.
"Left up here, then the first right after that and go about two miles," Dean said. "So – there's hunters and civilians. Is that demon hunters?"
"You're a good listener. Yeah, demon hunters. Among other things." Bobby shook his head. "Three newbies stumbled across a nest of vamps – vampires – in Laredo. I'm the nearest experienced hunter, and I told 'em to wait for me, but civilians were getting killed, and they felt like they had to move. And now one of 'em is dead. Crap. She was good, too. She'd 'a' been a first-rate hunter, if she hadn't been over-eager."
"Vampires – exist, too."
"All kindsa things." Bobby glanced over at him. "You're takin' it well. We keep it quiet because if anyone speaks up, every nightcrawler in the area goes underground and the hunter gets locked up as a crazy person. And the people who believe you freak out and start attacking anyone who looks at 'em funny. Only time we tell anyone is – "
"When it's been proved to 'em. Like their brother's eyes – " Dean's voice choked off. He cleared his throat. "What do we do when we get there?"
They discussed it, but it was irrelevant. Sam's car, and the demon possessing Sam, were gone by the time they got there.
By the next afternoon, Sunday, Sarah had called Dean's phone three times, asking if he knew where Sam was. There was no answer, and she left messages. On Monday afternoon, Sarah filed a missing persons report.
On that same afternoon, in a different Austin suburb, the home-security company where Dean worked called police to report that some of their inventory was missing and that one of their employees hadn't come in to work. When the police searched Dean's place, there was no blood in the bathroom and a towel hook had been put over the gouge in the wall made by the knife. Dean's bank account had been cleaned out and his car was gone, yet there was so little of his personal property missing that the apartment essentially looked like it always had.
But Sam and Dean Winchester had apparently vanished off the face of the Earth.
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The police didn't know what it meant. Los Angeles Times reporters had been investigating the situation, but couldn't write stories about the anomalies they were seeing without seeming libelous. And if you're going to be in danger because you wrote a story about the mob, you'd at least like to have written a story with more meat to it than, "Weird stuff, we have no idea what it means, anyone want to let us know?"
The traditional mob was overwhelmingly white and male, of course, although there'd been a couple of variations in the cast of characters even before a year ago. But about a year previously, all of a sudden it was like the Mafia in Los Angeles had adopted a vigorous Affirmative Action plan. While their capo remained a white middle-aged businessman, operating a legitimate business out of a downtown skyscraper, all of a sudden a couple of his closest advisers were a black man and a blonde woman, attending conferences with the capo in highly secured boardrooms. It was unheard of.
The Hispanic man who had acted as consigliere to the Italian-American capo disappeared one night after leaving a restaurant. A white male who'd been associated with the mob on a lower level for several years became the new consigliere, settling into an elegant Bel Air mansion with a large staff. The new consigliere's closest aide – a white woman with long dark hair and intelligent eyes – had been seen twice in restaurants, seriously conversing with both capo and consigliere. They had some origin on her; she'd previously been a hostess at one of those restaurants. Now she was highly placed in the mob.
Equal Opportunity Employment in the Mafia hadn't been the only baffler in the last year. There was almost no fight for territory, suddenly. Gangs of other ethnicities began expanding their territories and fought with each other, but with no pushback from the traditional mob. Instead, the gangs began lining up to cooperate with the mob, one after the other of their leaders suddenly changing their whole business model.
The mobsters fought with each other, though. It was almost a relief that something so normal was happening. There was a rift between the original capo and a breakaway group, and they were killing each other, though apparently not over territory, more – on general principles? It was hard to pin the murders on anyone, and twice when they'd had a suspect behind bars he was found dead in his cell. Both times there were reports of smoke in the air, but the bodies hadn't been burned. The coroner was unable to determine a definite cause of death, but noted a smell of sulfur in both cases when the body was cut open. The upside was, the public wasn't outraged or even curious about the sudden death behind bars of a Mafioso. Even the mob themselves seemed to shrug it off, just continuing their internecine war.
So the Organized Crime units at LAPD and the county Sheriff's Office were constantly in a state of fascinated confusion these days. For the last five months, over in Robbery, they'd had their own mystery, albeit a much more normal one. A burglar who used hand tools and electronics with equal ease had been breaking into meth houses, illegal casinos, and the homes of wealthy criminals, helping himself to cash and jewelry, and vanishing. He picked his targets well: These weren't people who talked to police, and again, the public didn't really care if a drug lord got robbed. He left no clues – they weren't even dead sure it was a "he" – but they figured that if they didn't do him the favor of catching him, his mutilated body was going to be found in a Dumpster someday.
The robberies kept continuing, though, one every three weeks or so. This guy was good.
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"Come on, come on, baby," Dean whispered. "Don't let me down."
The electronic device in his hand gave a muted beep and showed three green lights. "Ah, you're beautiful," Dean whispered with a smile, and slipped the device into a bag he wore cross-body.
With the home's electronic security disabled, it was only a matter of moments before he'd picked the lock of the oak double doors. He depressed the handle very gently, listening for any voices inside. The whole first floor was dark – all eight windows in front and back – but he attributed his success to over-caution. Take your time getting in, get what you came for, get out fast.
It didn't work that way tonight.
He slipped in and closed the door most of the way without latching it. By the light spill around the edges of the window blinds, he could tell that he was in a wide entry hall with a big curved staircase.
The massive chandelier overhead flashed to life. His eyes were accustomed to the darkness, and he blinked, blinded. When he opened his eyes he saw his welcoming committee – six muscular lugs on the staircase and lining the railing ten feet above, all pointing rifles at him.
He almost said "Overkill much?", but he didn't want to give them any ideas.
Instead, he raised his hands slowly. "Not here to hurt anyone."
A woman came out of the room to his right. She had long dark hair and intelligent eyes, and a businesslike attitude that kept him quiet while she took the bag off him and searched him. He raised his eyebrows a little at the nearest goon with just a trace of a smile – Hey, getting patted down by a pretty woman! – but the goon was unamused.
"I'm not armed," Dean said.
The woman, keeping his bag, backed away from him and shouted upward, "Consigliere!"
A man came out of a room upstairs and moved along the railing over the hall, looking down at Dean. He had rumpled black hair and a sensual mouth, and the hand that ran along the railing was long-fingered and looked supple. For some reason, he was wearing a trench coat. The expression on his face was serious and a little cruel, and the goons made way for him. He looked at the woman and gave a little nod.
And the first thought in Dean's head was: Hot.
And the second thought was: What the hell was that, Winchester?
And the third thought was: Can't breathe!
The woman had produced a plastic bag while he'd been lusting over Michael Corleone up there, and she slipped it over his head, drawing it tight. He tried to wrench free from her, but she was unbelievably strong, and the air in the bag was gone in one breath. Best thing to do, collapse and pretend to be unconscious and hope she stops.
So he did, hitting the floor with redness swimming in his eyes and his hands losing their strength as he pulled at the bag, and maybe he wasn't pretending.
The bag was lifted. He tried not to gasp air noisily but had the feeling he did.
Then he heard two words from a deep, slightly husky voice above: "Interrogation room."
He let them drag him someplace. He tried to keep some sense of where they were going, but his system was too busy trying to restore its oxygen supply. By the time he'd fully come to, he was in a plain hard chair in a plain bare room with two bright light bulbs overhead. There was duct tape on his mouth and his hands were cuffed – though in front of him, one good thing.
A door opened a few yards in front of him. Trench Coat Gangster walked in alone, closing the door behind him. Dean met his gaze steadily. His expression was still cold as he walked to Dean with a measured pace and ripped the duct tape off of his mouth.
He flinched, then grinned up. "Thanks. Now I don't have to shave my chin tomorrow."
"You may not be alive tomorrow. What's your name?"
Humorless bastard. "Dean."
"Why are you in my house, Dean?"
"Doing a little scouting for a RICO team. They all know I'm here, so if anything happens to me, your ass is grass."
The guy stretched his mouth, a little impatient. "Why are you in my house, Dean?"
Dean sighed. "Word on the grapevine is, you like gold coins. Don't blame you, I'm a fan of liquidity myself. Found out about the wall safe in your office, and figured – "
"From whom?"
"Some guy in a bar. I forget."
Now there was a flick of a smile. "So you're protective to the point of stupidity, as well as brave to the point of stupidity."
Dean shrugged. "Not much to protect. Some drunk bozo I don't even know."
"Actually it was Frederic, my chef."
Oh man, Frederic sleeps with the fishes – And then the truth crashed on him. "You set this up."
Hot Felon nodded, once. "You've been irritating a local representative of the Sinaloa Cartel. Two robberies in five months. Certainly not enough stolen to put a dent in his business, but it's the principle of the thing. He can't let anyone steal one cent from him and get away with it. We do business, from time to time. I told him I could track you down and turn you over to him, in return for a favor at a later date."
Dean literally had to choke down nausea. He knew the kinds of things the cartel would do to him before they finally put him out of his misery and left his body somewhere public.
He swallowed hard and steadied his voice. "What do I need to do to keep from being turned over to them?"
There was a long moment of silence. Dean looked up at the consigliere. His eyes were intense, and there was a very slight smile on his face.
Quick calculation: Is it more hazardous to have cartel goons carving on you, or to screw a good-looking guy, put him to sleep and jump out a window? Not a contest. He relaxed his face and let his smile slip sideways. "I mean, there's gotta be something."
The consigliere dropped to his haunches at eye level with Dean. His beautiful left hand moved over Dean's, turning it slightly. He dipped into a pocket of the trench coat, produced a key, unlocked Dean's cuffs.
Then he said – and the whole time, never lost that provocative smile – "You are not unattractive. But I'm not quite that desperate for companionship."
He stood, dropped the cuffs into a coat pocket, and went to a utility sink installed near, but not on, the back wall. He reached underneath it and pressed something, and the back wall slid away to reveal the back wall. The same sheetrock, the same color of paint. The only difference was that a door was now revealed.
"There's a stairway behind that door. Go down and you'll be in a tunnel that leads off the property. Don't make any noise."
Dean stood, looked at the door, and had the sudden feeling that the tunnel led directly to the cartel's headquarters. "What's the catch?"
"Well, for one thing, you will commit no robberies or burglaries for the next two months."
"I think the cartel has a longer memory than that."
"In two months, Mr. Sanchez may have changed his mind about your importance. Or there may be a substantial change in cartel personnel. You never know."
"You know. Don't you?"
"Do you have enough money to support yourself for two months?"
Dean's face showed his bafflement. "Don't worry about me."
"I don't care about you at all," said Albert Schweitzer Gotti. "If it becomes clear that you're alive, that I let you go, I'll be in immediate danger from both the cartel and my own people. Move to San Bernardino County and commit no crimes." He reached into the coat pocket again – it was like a magic act – and pulled out a thick wad of bills. He extended them to Dean. "Take this. I understand that eating is important."
The weirdness of that sentence just blended in nicely with the weirdness of the whole thing. Dean took the money, although – God knew why – he felt compelled to explain. "Most of what I steal doesn't go to me. I buy a lot of information. There's something I have to do."
"How interesting," in an utterly uninterested tone. "Move to San Bernardino, somewhere in walking distance of restaurants. I want that car on the road as little as possible."
"OK," Dean said. Frederic had obviously been a thorough spy. Then, as he stuffed the money in his inside jacket pocket, "Uh – Thanks."
"I'm doing you a very substantial favor. I'll expect a very substantial favor in return."
"Sure thing, Vito."
His eyebrows drew together a little, his head tilted, and for a moment he just looked – rather adorably – confused. "My name's not Vito."
And that was the capper, a Mafioso who had apparently never even heard of "The Godfather." Dean headed for the door to the staircase. "I'll see myself out."
As he opened the door, he glanced back over his shoulder. The consigliere was at the utility sink, and looked over his shoulder at Dean.
When the other door closed, the consigliere slid the false wall back into place. Then he went to the hallway door, looked back and said something into the empty room. Red-orange light flickered behind him as he left.
The staff was waiting for him in the huge living room. Two of them were kneeling before a roaring fireplace, chanting quietly. Most of the others lounged on chairs or stools, smoking or drinking black coffee. But Hannah, the aide who'd asphyxiated Dean half to death, stood straight by the entry. She'd probably been standing there since he left.
All but the chanters stood as he entered, and even the chanters lowered their voices. He gave Hannah a little nod, and she smiled. He looked over at two of the others. "There's a scorch mark in the interrogation room that needs to be cleaned."
They both grinned and left, passing him with a nod. Hannah, though, looked less cheery. "Castiel, I thought Sanchez wanted the thief delivered to him."
"Tell him that if he actually wanted the victim's DNA sprayed all over his hideout and his personnel, he's less intelligent than I thought." Hannah nodded, and Castiel continued, "I don't think Mr. Sanchez's displeasure will be an issue for very long."
She smiled again and left, pulling her phone out of her pocket.
Most of the staff members also left. The consigliere took off his coat, rolled his shirt sleeves to the elbow, and knelt by the other two at the fireplace, joining the chant.
A rapidly-walked ten minutes later, Dean came to a staircase leading up to ground level. The entrance was capped with an LA Public Works manhole cover set in a park at the angle between two banks of shrubbery. Keeping a close eye on the people around him, he found a couple of street signs and oriented himself. The Impala was about a mile away.
Fortunately, he had the keys in his jeans, not in the bag of burglary equipment that was still back in the Bel Air mansion. He got to the 10 Freeway and headed east, to El Monte and his apartment.
His rent was paid to the end of the month, so he wouldn't be giving his landlord the right amount of notice but at least he wouldn't be doing the guy out of any money. He packed his small amount of personal property into the Impala and dropped a note into the rent slot – "Had to move. Family emergency. Sorry. Dean, #3."
He got back on the 10 and headed east.
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Three days later, Castiel stood at the door of an apartment in San Bernardino. He gestured at the doorknob, the lock opened, and he let himself in.
If Dean's apartment was any indication, his life of crime wasn't profitable. He was living in a studio apartment whose impersonal furnishings screamed that they came with the place. The small bathroom was a separate room. Everything else, including a kitchen alcove and a pulled-out, unmade sofa bed, was in one room.
He took his time going through Dean's belongings – magazines about cars, books by Kurt Vonnegut and Ray Bradbury, classic rock CDs, plain white underwear and T-shirts, lots of denim and flannel. He glanced at a laptop computer that sat on a desk that looked like it had been built for a ten-year-old girl in 1975.
He moved over to the nightstand by the bed and was opening a drawer when he noticed a shallow box labeled "Books" under the bed. Before he could pull it out, though, he raised his head as though listening.
The doorknob turned and stopped. Dean hadn't expected it to be unlocked.
He slammed the door open so hard that anyone standing behind it would have had a broken nose. His gun was drawn, held in his left hand, even before he spotted Castiel sitting calmly at the dining table.
Dean pulled to one side of the doorway, shifting the gun to a two-handed grip as he yelled, "I have your boy at gunpoint. Show yourselves or he dies!"
"I'm alone," Castiel said quietly, unmoving.
"Sure, you guys always go around without muscle," Dean said. "Hands in the air."
Castiel hesitated, shrugged, raised his hands.
"Stand up. Coat off. Jacket, too."
Castiel quirked a smile as he complied. "I thought we had some chemistry, but I didn't realize you enjoyed this kind of role-playing."
"No role, buddy. I remember that I owe you, but unexpected visits make me nervous, especially break-ins. Turn around, hands in the air."
"I'm unarmed," Castiel said, doing so.
"OK. Go over to the bathroom door, nice and slow. Open it and stand in the doorway."
Castiel obeyed, and Dean moved into the room on a parallel path. Castiel looked a little puzzled. "In the doorway?"
"Your flunky isn't going to want to shoot you. But if I see anyone behind you, one bullet straight through both of you. This gun can do it."
"Good thinking. Or it would be, if in fact there were anyone in the bathroom."
And, in fact, there wasn't. Since there was no other place to hide – the bed was set so low that only a child could have squeezed underneath it – Dean lowered the gun's aim, but kept it gripped firmly. "OK. You're either here to collect on the favor I owe you, or you changed your mind about letting me go and you're here to kill me. I figure the odds are fifty-fifty. What do you say?"
"I say the odds are one hundred to zero in favor of the former. You're of no use to me dead. May I put my clothes back on?"
Dean looked a little amused. The guy sounded like he was standing there naked. He spent a moment or two looking over Castiel's slim body, his mouth, the finely sculpted hands still held obediently in the air.
Then he said, "Go stand over by the bed."
Castiel did. Dean put the gun down on the dining table next to him, picked up Castiel's coat and jacket, and searched them quickly for weapons, watching Castiel the whole time.
"You have no idea how foolish you're going to feel later on."
"Better foolish than dead." Dean tossed the garments on the table, picked up the gun, and backed away. "OK."
Cas came to the table and put on his jacket as Dean moved over to the apartment door and closed it. "All right. So if you're not here to kill me, it's the favor. What is it?"
Castiel slid on the trench coat, smoothing the lapels and sleeves before he looked up. "I have a proposition for you."
Dean's face was a study in mixed emotions. Cas smiled a little and sat on a dining chair. "A business proposal."
"You need a B and E guy? I'd have thought you people would have plenty of those on the payroll."
"I do."
After a moment, Dean carefully approached and sat in the chair opposite Castiel. He kept the gun in his right hand, resting it on his knee under the table. "OK, I'll bite. So why me?"
"You have a qualification that none of my other employees has. Stop pointing that silly thing at me and start thinking. Why do you think I allowed you to escape the other night?"
Dean's eyes were hard, but his grin was relaxed. "I thought that had to do with my masculine charm."
"We'll get into your masculine charm later."
"You mean we'll get into the subject later, right?"
"Mm," Castiel said in a neutral tone. Then he cocked his head slightly and his eyes went black from rim to rim.
Every muscle in Dean's face and body tensed as he swore violently. "You're a demon."
Castiel's eyes went back to normal. "That speeds things up. I was afraid I'd have to prove our existence."
Dean fired.
The bullet slammed into the mattress. Castiel was somehow behind Dean, and in the next moment his left elbow bent around Dean's neck in a headlock and his right hand gripped Dean's gun hand.
"Please don't do that," Castiel said calmly. "This meatsuit is attractive and mostly undamaged. I'd like to keep it that way."
"Meatsuit – you son of a bitch – "
Dean wrenched violently, his muscles surging, but he could barely move. Castiel kept his grip on Dean's arm and neck, kept him forced down in the chair. He flicked one finger at the gun and it flew across the room.
Something gave way in Dean. He didn't relax, he collapsed, resting his head on Castiel's arm as though asking for support. "OK. Do it."
"Do what?"
"Just do it!"
Castiel released Dean, went to the other side of the table, and sat down. "You insist on believing that I'm here to kill you. When I think it's quite clear that if I wanted to do that, your body would be cooling now and I'd be a half-mile away looking at a wine list."
He had to admire how quickly Dean fought off some kind of obvious despair. For a moment he stayed slumped in the chair, his arms dangling. Then he gave a deep sigh, set his jaw, sat up and met Castiel's gaze defiantly. "I'm dying to know why you let me boss you around with a gun you knew damn well wouldn't hurt you."
"I wanted to prove that I'm no threat to you."
"You mean except for the whole possession thing. Or the whole tricking me into selling my soul so I fry in Hell forever thing."
This time it was Castiel who allowed his gaze to move slowly over Dean. "I'm not interested in your soul."
Dean shifted in the chair, sat up a bit straighter.
"And in any case, there's no 'trick' involved. You'll know if you're being offered a deal for your soul. You'll be able to say no. And the bargain won't be sealed until you kiss the demon with whom you struck the deal."
Dean gave him a smile that managed to be equally grim and tantalizing. "What if you kiss a demon without a deal?"
"Then that's simply a kiss."
The two looked at each other for a moment.
Then Dean cleared his throat. "All right. What do you want?"
"Obviously you know that demons exist. Did you know that the demons of the Los Angeles area are fighting a civil war?"
Dean shook his head.
"There are two factions, the Terrestrials and the Loyalists. Believe me, you want the Terrestrials to win."
"I want you all to slaughter each other in bloody screaming pain."
Castiel raised his eyebrows a little. "Well. That does happen.
"The Loyalists are loyal to Lucifer's goals for Earth. Lucifer himself is in a mystical cage in Hell at this moment. The Loyalists want to raise him and follow him in turning Earth into a district of Hell. Humans slaughtered or enslaved. Literal scorched earth. Any natural resource turned over to Lucifer either for his enjoyment or so that he can use it to make war on Heaven."
"So I assume you're a Terrestrial."
"Yes. I'm not claiming that we're righteous. We kill if we feel the need, we use human bodies to enjoy their senses, we use our powers to obtain things you'd say we have no right to. But we actually enjoy the Earth as it is. We like the greenery, the coolness, the colors, the taste of food, the combination of physical and emotional excitement you call sexuality. Lucifer hates human beings because he feels they came between him and God, and his followers embrace that hatred. Well – " he shrugged, with a snicker – "demons never had a relationship with God to be damaged. We Terrestrials don't mind people. Most of them are harmless. Some of them are useful or amusing."
Dean's breath sped up. His mouth went into a cruel line, and the expression in his eyes would have been frightening if Castiel had been human.
But Castiel only seemed to note the expression with faint interest before he continued. "As I said, at this time, the war is mainly confined to the Los Angeles area. But don't imagine that demons all over the globe aren't watching, and closely." A slight flat smile. "We're a pragmatic species. If the Loyalists lose here, if enough of them die or are thrown back into Hell, support for them in other places will evaporate. But if the Loyalists win here, demons all over the world will want to – what's the expression – jump on the bandwagon."
Dean shrugged. "OK. Go Terrestrials. What's it got to do with me?"
"I want you to kill a particular Loyalist as the favor that you owe me. Then I want to hire you to kill others."
Dean just stared across the table for a moment.
Then he gave a sharp bark of laughter. "OK. First, burglars and hit men are two different things, you should know that. Second, it sounds like you guys have a hard enough time killing each other, what makes you think a human wouldn't just be walking into a meat grinder? Third, what makes you think that any – decent human being would cooperate with you assholes in anything? Fourth, gee, this doesn't feel like a trap at all. Fifth – " he thought for a second – "screw you."
Castiel shifted slightly in the chair. "From your reaction to me just now, I'd think you'd love the chance to kill a few demons. And from the looks of things – " he glanced around the apartment – "you could use a job that pays well."
"I don't care how much – "
"I'm talking about up to a million dollars."
That brought Dean up short for a moment. Then he shook his head. "Even if I thought you weren't a lying asshole, there's nothing you could – "
He stopped, his gaze fixed in mid-distance.
Castiel raised his head just a bit.
