Title: Renegade Pt 1

Author: Linda Atkinson

Fandom: Supernatural

Pairing: Dean/John

Rating: FRAO

Warnings: Total AU. M/M sex. Violence. No one is related to anyone else so no Wincest. This story takes place in a world were the supernatural is a "normal" part of the world. Dean is a FBI Agent with the Paranormal Enforcement Division. Sam is his partner and a psychic that uses his powers for the bureau. John is an aging prostitute (and for the purposes of this story I changed John to JDM's real age of 40), who is also a witch.

Los Angeles, November 27, 2006

The black Chevy Impala was an anachronism in place that was all image, and no substance. The car was every bit as showy as the Ferraris and Lamborghinis that lined the expensive streets, but with a subtle air of muscle to back it. The driver pulled the car into a spot on Spring Street, just across from the newly renovated Los Angeles County Court house. Two young men got out of the Chevy, darting across the street. The FBI's LA office was located on the ground-level floor behind the County Recorder's offices.

The taller of the two men pulled open the door, and they both disappeared into the maze of desks and tables that crowded the front room. A plump middle-aged woman was seated behind the foremost table and she looked up at them smiling when they stopped beside her desk.

Holding his badge and id in front of his chest, the older of pair nodded, glancing at her nameplate. "Good afternoon, Ms. Gordon. I'm Dean Morgan and this is Sam Bennett. We're out of the DC office. I need to speak to Assistant Director Elliot."

She glanced at the door, and then bristled. "Well, Agent Morgan, I'm afraid he's not in just at the moment."

Dean frowned. "Ms. Gordon, we have an appointment…"

Sam touched his temple wincing in pain. "Besides I know he's here. He can't hide from this. We were sent specifically to find this informant, and he was expecting us."

He smiled, and the woman huffed.

"Damned psychics."

The woman slid her chair out and motioned them to follow her. She paused at the door to an office tapping impatiently on it. Opening the door Ms. Gordon stood back. The office was neatly decorated, if bland and generic. Behind a huge oak desk sat an older man, his gray hair neatly framing a broad forehead, and clear gray eyes. He nodded abruptly, and jerked a hand at the younger agents. Dean and Sam walked into the room, and Ms. Gordon retreated closing the door after her. The Assistant Director frowned in their direction, "I'm terribly busy now, gentlemen. I hope that this is worth my time and trouble."

Dean smiled blandly, and Sam didn't need to be a psychic to see he was annoyed. Dean handed a memo to the Assistant Director. "I think that this is well worth your time. We have authorization from the home office to use this subject as an informant and make use of his particular talents in apprehending our perp."

A.D. Elliot grunted, "This particular subject is the reason that you are looking for this perpetrator, Agent Morgan."

"I'm not sure I follow you."

The Assistant Director pushed a file across the top of the desk. It was thick, dog-eared and covered in colored retrieval slips. Apparently this file was much used. "John Winchester."

Dean picked up the file and flipped through it. "What does Mr. Winchester have to do with our perp? The perp is a renegade demon, who came across the dimensional threshold without proper clearance."

"No, he didn't." Elliot said, waving a hand at the file. "Mr. Winchester is a witch. He no longer practices the craft, but he was one of the most gifted practitioners until about ten years ago. He facilitated this renegade crossing over. As a result his license to practice magic was revoked and he was sent to prison."

Sam glared at the file. "Irresponsible witches wreak all kind of havoc in this world, why wasn't he burned? Prison is too good for them; at least they got this bastard off the street."

Elliot shrugged. "Bleeding heart judges. You can't get them to burn witches at the stake anymore. It violates the cruel and unusual punishment clause in the Bill of Rights.

Dean glanced over at his partner. "How did Mr. Winchester facilitate this demon in unauthorized entry to our spiritual plane?"

"It was a summoning spell. He paid the price for it. The same renegade killed his wife and son while Mr. Winchester was in custody. It's the only reason that he survived. Since his release five years ago he's been in and out of jail quite a few times."

"Unauthorized magic use?" Dean asked cocking his head. The older man grinned shaking his head.

"Prostitution." He nodded to the two younger men. "I really need to go, Agent Morgan, Agent Bennett. A list of Mr. Winchester's known associates and his address is in the file."

Dean nodded pleasantly then handed the file to Sam. The younger man took the folder tucking it under his arm. Both young men offered a wave to Ms. Gordon who huffed at them as if they had the plague. Dean smiled. Motioning Sam through the double glass doors he pulled the car keys out of his pocket.

The first address on the list of possible places they might find John Winchester was O'Malley's Tavern on Broad Street. Traffic was at a standstill and Dean muttered curses under his breath as the minutes ticked by. Finally, he saw and opening and pulled onto the 101 Freeway. They hit the Broad Street exit just as the 3:00 rush hour kicked in.

O'Malley's was an impressive structure. Part of old downtown LA it was a rough hewn wood and plaster façade on an older red brick building. The front of the tavern had two huge plate glass windows, and a double door--frosted glass with heavy old wood sat squarely in the middle of the front wall.

Dean stripped off his suit jacket and tie, tossing them over the seat; he opened the top three buttons on his blue chambray shirt and rolled up the sleeves. Sam rolled his eyes, but said nothing. Dean nodded at him. "We want to look as non-threatening as possible, no point in spooking him until we can get him cuffed and back at the hotel."

Sam flinched, he had been Dean's partner for a year now, since his graduation from Quantico, and he was sometimes leery of the older agent's hard-assed manner of handling business. But Dean Morgan was a man who got things done, and he dealt with creatures that many other people would be terrified of. So the Bureau gave him a lot of leeway in how he got the job done.

With an annoyed expression Dean picked up the file, flipping through the pages until he found the one he wanted. He looked at the picture of John Winchester and gave an appreciative whistle. "Not bad, no wonder he took up hustling. He has the looks for it."

He flipped the file to Sam who glanced at the photo. It was a much better picture than Winchester's grainy black and white booking photo on the memo they had been given, showing a man who was in his late thirties, maybe forty--with dark brown hair, and hazel eyes. He had a couple of day's stubble that added a kind of rugged charm to his features. Sam shrugged noncommittally and said, "Not bad if you like older men."

Dean offered him a smile. "And I do."

Dean had parked the car on the opposite side of the street. Since the Impala looked nothing like a typical FBI vehicle, he was reasonably sure the Winchester could not peg them as feds. He stepped out of the car, and leaned against the side door as Sam settled by the hood. He focused his attention on the bar, dropping his head and rolling his shoulders slightly, to loosen up. His visions flowed more smoothly, and with less pain if he was relaxed. He got a good view of the inside of the bar. A huge black topped bar ran the length of the back wall, glass shelves filled with bottles of liquor behind it. The center of the bar back held a huge painting by some classical artist, naked women lying on an old fashioned four-posted bed. There were tables on both ends of the room, and three large pool tables in the center.

Sam smiled there were only a few patrons in the bar at this time of the day. An elderly man with a younger woman, whom Sam was certain, was also a prostitute, and John Winchester.

"He's inside, "Sam said dropping his focus and letting the vision fade. He quickly slipped off his suit coat, but checked that his gun was tucked into the shoulder holster he wore, pulling a dark colored windbreaker out of the backseat. He took off his tie, and ruffled his hair a little. Dean had his .45 tucked into the back of his trousers, and made no effort to hide it. Sam nodded and both men crossed the street.

The bar's interior was softly lit, mellow golden light from gold and green-glass lamps lining the side panels picked up the hint of gold in the oak paneling. The tables were highly polished gleaming and golden hued, surrounded by straight backed chairs with green padded seats. The bars stools were brass, and lent an air of elegance to the place that was at odds with the rough exterior. The entire room brought an old fashioned western saloon to Sam's mind.

Just as he had "seen" there was an older man, retired military from his looks, seated at one table with a thirtyish blonde woman wearing too tight clothes and too much makeup. She giggled with more enthusiasm than Sam thought was necessary as he cracked a dirty joke. They had a half-filled bottle of Jack Daniels on the table and two study crystal cut glasses. He frowned, it was only three-thirty and a little early for that much booze.

Dean left his partner standing beside the door, and ambled to the bar. On a stool at the far end sat a lone figure. Dean recognized him as John Winchester from the photos in his police file. Instead of going to that end of the bar, he stepped up in front of the bartender and ordered a beer. The man glanced up at him, and smiled. "You new around here?"

"Yeah," Dean said taking the offered bottle. He took a sip, grimacing at the flat taste—so O'Malley cheaped out on the beer. "Hey, is there anywhere a guy can pick up a little short term companionship around here? Not something on the corner but a little better quality, you know?"

The bartender wiped at a non-existent spot on the gleaming bar, taking in Dean's relaxed attitude and expensive clothes. Dean ducked his head to cover his grin; they all pegged him as some yuppie stock trader or something. Finally, the older man spoke. "Well, it all depends on what you're looking for. Chrissie there can be real companionable."

Dean looked over at her, and then shook his head. "Not my type, if you get my drift." He said it smoothly enough that the other man didn't bat an eyelash. Finally,

the bartender smiled.

"Well, there's John."

He hooked a thumb at the far end of the bar. Dean glanced down at the man huddled over a glass of tequila, and started to rise, but the bartender caught him with a raised eyebrow. "John's not so companionable, but I've heard he's worth it anyway."

Leaning forward he hissed,. "He's one of those witches, I've heard he can put a spell you that'll make you come so hard your brain leaks out the end of your dick."

With a grunt Dean rose picking up the still full beer bottle and ambled down the bar. Pulling out a bar stool he glanced over at the older man and said, "Mind if I join you?"

John shrugged, "Its not like I can stop you, is it"

Dean grinned at him, then lowered his gaze, just glancing at John from under his lashes. The other man grimaced, and Dean laughed.

"The bartender says that you might be, well, if not exactly companionable at least cooperative?" The rising lilt of the younger man's voice made it less of a statement than a question. John lifted the glass of tequila and Dean watched as his throat moved when he swallowed, he wondered if John's throat moved that way when he gave head. Shivering he busied himself with the beer. John turned to face him on the barstool with a sigh.

"I can be…cooperative, with the right incentive."

Dean nodded. "How much incentive are we talking about?"

"That depends on how cooperative you want me to be."

Suddenly the older man was all business. "I usually get one hundred an hour; how you spend the hour is up to your imagination, but if you want something weird--the price goes up. If you get off on tying me up or slapping me around, the price goes up, too. Nothing so bad that I can't work afterwards; so no cutting. And I don't do animals; don't even ask or couples so your little friend there waits his turn or goes away. If you get off on him watching then it's your dime, but I don't touch him and he doesn't touch me—got it."

"That's not very cooperative, uhmm…."

"John," he said. "Yeah, well take it or leave it. I got no problems finding clients. Tell you what, I can add a little to the mix. If you have trouble getting hard or you want to stay hard and come two maybe three times. I know a couple of tricks. It's all part of my charm."

Dean cocked his head at the other man as if he might not believe him. John held up a hand baring his wrist. Dean caught sight of the faint outlines of a tattoo from the Magic Users union. He whistled. "So you can cast spells, and get it done."

"Yeah, I can." John shrugged. "Do you have a hotel room? I don't usually do business at my place. It annoys the neighbors."

Rising from his seat Dean held out a hand. "That's no problem. I've got a room, at the Marriott, just down the street." John stood up and Dean turned on him. His eyes flashing a cold green light, he pulled handcuffs out of his jacket pocket, and grabbed the older man's arm. He jerked John around slamming him against the bar, John grunted as the air was driven out of his lungs. Dean pulled his hands up, cuffing John with more force that was strictly necessary. "John Winchester, you're under arrest for prostitution, and conspiracy to commit unlawful magic use."

He tugged John over to where Sam stood. The younger agent frowned at the amount of force his partner was using on the older man, especially considering that he was not making any effort to resist. Sam intervened taking the cuffs from Dean.

"Mr. Winchester you have the right to remain silent, anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to have an attorney present during questioning…."

They hustled the older man out the door, and across the street. Dean hissed. "Sam, I'm sure John knows his rights better than you do. Isn't that right, John?"

John growled, "Fuck off, you bastard. You'll never get this to stick in court. It was entrapment; I said I was cooperative…"

"Yeah cooperative—and not a whore." Dean slammed him against the side of the car, then hustled him around and opened the door. He shoved John in roughly and barely missed slamming the door on his leg. John lay across the backseat.

"Dean," Sam said grabbing his partner's arm. "We want him to cooperate. We need him to track this demon. You're abusing him, and it was entrapment."

"Sam that demon has murdered a lot of innocent people, and this bastard is the one who summoned it. He's just getting what he deserves, and if he's very smart he'll take it." Focusing his attention on the figure huddled in the back seat Dean sneered. Then slid into the car. "And if he's any kind of smart at all he'll take the deal we offer him."

"Look," John said sullenly. "Just take me to jail. I've got nothing to say to you."

"Shut up," Dean snapped. "You just listen, and maybe you don't go to federal prison."

"Federal prison for prostitution? How did I get federal prison for that?" John said. "You know I could make a claim for brutality, you roughed me up."

"Who'd believe you, huh? You've got a record half a mile long, and you committed one of the worst crimes imaginable." Dean glanced in the rearview mirror, and John seemed to fold in on himself. He sat slumped over, not looking at anything. Dean felt a stab of guilt. He was being too rough on the guy, he knew that and it hurt him. But he got paid to make the really bad things go away, and John Winchester was the key to making the biggest of the bad that the Bureau was after go away.

The parking lot at the Marriott Hotel was virtually empty. It was off season and nothing important was happening in town that week. Dean liked the odds, fewer people to see him dragging a hooker into his room. They caught the outside elevator, and avoided going through the lobby. Sam had the keycards in his pocket; he handed one to his partner as they stood impassively while the buttons for the floors slipped past. On the fifth floor they got out, walking down the quiet hallway to their room.

The Bureau had sprung for a two room suite with a central living area. It was nice and it would be their home, all three of them, for the remainder of the time that Dean and Sam were in Los Angeles. Sam opened the door taking his bag to one of the bedrooms. Dean tossed his bag on the sofa and shoved John into a chair. John refused to look up as Dean poured himself a drink, and leaned back against the wall holding the glass a loft. "So John, here's the deal. Agent Bennett and I are tracking the demon that you so conveniently allowed into our physical plane of existence, and you're going to help us find it."

"Fuck off; I'm not helping you do anything." John snarled. Dean smiled pleasantly, took a step forward and slapped John hard across the face. Without his hands for balance the older man fell across the chair. Dean reached out dragging him upright again.

"Wrong answer, John. You summoned the bastard so you can track him. I've even got a conditional use permit for you to use magic during the hunt. So listen up, here's the deal that my boss has authorized me to offer you. If you assist us in apprehending this felon demon then the federal government with lift your ban on magic using. You can be reinstated in the union and practice again. It's a damn sight better than whoring, and you might even be able to redeem yourself in the eyes of the community."

John slumped over. He looked at Dean. "No, there's no redeeming myself. I can't help you." Dean frowned he stepped forward and slapped John again. The other man looked down at the floor, not moving. Angry, the agent grabbed him twisting his arm up.

"Don't get smart with me. I have a reputation for dealing with all kinds of nasty things. It would be a shame if one of those things got a taste for whore."

John laughed bitterly. "I've been expecting it for years. That demon of yours killed my wife and kid; it would have killed me too, but I was indisposed. Go ahead, nothing you can do to me is worse than what I live with everyday."

Sam pulled Dean away when he raised a fist over John. "That's enough." Turning to John he said, "You said you couldn't help not you wouldn't. Why can't you help us?"

John sighed. "Because I didn't summon the demon."

Dean rolled his eyes. "Don't try to bullshit me, John." He turned to his partner. "Well, Sam is he lying?"

Sam tilted his head, concentrating on the older man. "No, I don't think so or at least he truly believes that he didn't summon the demon, Dean."

With a glare Dean settled on the arm of the chair, grabbing the front of John's shirt. "What is it, did you summon the thing or not? I need to know what's going on here."

"Look…Dean, if you want to know what's going on why don't you ask your friend Bill Elliot? He's knows what happened. He was there."

"Elliot was there? He never mentioned it. You were convicted, and sent to prison for summon the demon, if you have evidence to the contrary why didn't you present it at your trial."

Sighing John shook his head. "Because I didn't have any evidence, Elliot had it all. Back then Bill Elliot was just an LAPD officer, but he had ambition. I had done some work for him on a personal basis so he came to me to do work for the department when they needed magic done. He came to me during that kidnapping case-Senator Maxfield's son. Everybody knew that Vinnie Minnelli was involved—that Maxfield was into the mob for a lot of money. And when that busload of school kids disappeared with Maxfield's kid on it everybody knew that Minnelli was involved. Elliot was in charge of the case, and he took a Swat team over to Minnelli's place to get him. But something went wrong and Minnelli got killed. That's when Elliot came to me to summon Minnelli's spirit to find out where the kids were. But when I set up the ritual and started to place the parchment with Minnelli's name in the fire Elliot had the cops hold me down while he put in the parchment with the demon's name. He cut a deal with the demon, and he got what he wanted, but the demon got free passage into our plane of existence."

"Why didn't you say anything?" Sam asked sitting down on the sofa, John turned toward him. He shrugged. "You could ask for the case to be reopened. Maybe clear yourself."

"The union traced the magic, and my DNA was all over it. I tried telling them, but Elliot had his deal and he was pretty much immune to anything I said or did. And now, as your partner points out—who'd believe a whore."

Dean grunted, fingering the arm of the chair. He was beginning to feel that John might be telling the truth. He trusted Sam, his partner's visions had solved cases and saved their lives on many occasions, but it was possible to lie to a psychic, though it was difficult. He rose suddenly and John flinched as if he expected Dean to hit him again. A stab of guilt twisted into the younger man's belly. "John, you said that Elliot has the evidence, what do you mean? Once a spell has been cast, other than the trace, there's not much left."

"Elliot had the ritual videotaped. The last time I saw it he had it in his pocket. If he kept it, and I don't think he would, then it's in his office somewhere."

Sam rose from his seat. "Then we need to get that tape. We need to see if the parchment is visible enough to see the name of the demon. It's the only chance we have of capturing it. I think we need to make a trip to AD Elliot's office."

Dean nodded. "We'll break in if we have to. I hate dirty cops almost as much as I hate demons. If Bill Elliot did this then he needs to be taken down. And a video tape of the ritual of summoning can aid us in track the demon since knowing a demon's name is a way of gaining power over it. John if we get that tape and clear you, I need you to help us hunt the demon."

"I'll need my stuff. I have a duffle bag in my apartment that has all my stuff for performing incantations and rituals. I need that."

"All right, we'll go by your place and pick up the bag. Then we'll hit the FBI offices and see if Elliot has that tape."

Dean motioned John up. He quickly unfastened the handcuffs, wincing when he saw that the older man's wrists were abraded and bleeding. Sam followed them out the door. The hall was empty, and the door to the elevator stood open. Dean pushed the button for the ground floor and they exited the building.

It was a short trip to John's apartment in a run-down area of town. Dean parked the car on a side street, under the sole streetlamp, hoping that it would discourage vandals. The two agents escorted the older man to his door, Sam standing just outside while Dean accompanied him inside. The place was minimally furnished and bare looking, as if John rarely spent much time there. He quickly went to the closet and rummaged around pulling out a large black bag, and a leather journal.

Turning he motioned Dean to the counter dividing the dining area and the kitchen. He picked up several candles and dropped them in the bag along with a box of matches.

"That's everything I need. I've got some extra clothes in the bag. I tend to travel light."

"Good," Dean said. He watched as John bolted the door. They followed Sam down the hall to the staircase. The stairs ended at a double door with frosted glass that led out into the front street, away from the car. Dean grumbled about being turned around, but John led them down the sidewalk toward the side street.

Suddenly a car squealed around the corner of the street from the main road. The windows were half lowered, and a gun barrel protruded from the opening. Sam turned a panicked expression on his face. He pulled his handgun snapping off three shots before the clatter of automatic gunfire filled the night. Diving behind a parked car Sam was able to get off a few more shots, but the car disappeared around a corner, and sped away.

Dean was lying on the sidewalk, pinning John to the ground. He shifted and his knees came to rest between John's spred thighs. Taking a deep breath the younger man breathed in the soft, musky scent of the other man. He shifted letting his thigh brush the inside of John's leg. The older man looked up at him, and their eyes held. Dean noticed that his face was only an inch from John's mouth. If he lowered his head just a fraction of the way their lips would meet. John shifted raising his arms, hands wrapping themselves around Dean's biceps. His breath heaved in his chest, and he trembled. Dean, too aware of the tension in that hard, warm body, reluctantly slid his hands down John's sides and pushed himself up and off of John. But he wondered what it would feel like to have that hard body lying under him, warm and compliant, eyes softened by pleasure instead of wide with fear.

TBC