"There is no cause to worry. The high tide of prosperity will continue."
—Andrew W. Mellon, Secretary of the Treasury,
1929 regarding the Great Depression
It is 1932 and the Great Depression grips the world in a severe, economic downturn, leaving the rich and poor alike in dire straits. It is a time of suffering… but not for everyone. Those who have turned to crime thrive in the stability and glory of the Prohibition, finding success in the lucrative smuggling of alcohol. They are members of the Cosa Nostra, made men vying for position, wealth and fame in a dying world.
The Mafioso
"And our bodies are earth. And our thoughts are clay. And we sleep and eat with death."
—Paul Bäumer, All Quiet on the Western Front
Chicago, Illinois, 1932 – Present Day
"So, you've come to deal with the Devil."
The half-hearted greeting came in a slow, calculated cadence. Giuliano Mietitore sat behind the ornate, red-cherry desk, bony fingers steepled and gaunt face expressionless. If Castiel had to imagine Death's corporeal form, it would embody the likes of Giuliano Mietitore. Like Death, he had that quality about him—antique, somehow both ruthless and delicate. His pale skin was stretched over bone, cheeks hollow and black eyes cadaverous. The suit he wore hung from his thin body like a funeral shroud and his hair fell limp against his scalp. For all intents and purposes, Giuliano resembled a corpse, sat upright.
Thankfully, Death didn't come for Castiel today.
"Something like that," came another voice.
Hidden in the closet, Castiel peeked into the library between the slit provided by the half-closed door. The deep accent was telling; Scottish with a cynical lilt, cocksure enough to strip even the most confident of men to the bone. The physical description provided by the Don was right on target. The man was certainly more healthy in appearance than Giuliano; round-faced and boasting a heavier build than the skeletal creature that sat before him.
"You have an interesting situation on your hands," Giuliano commented, glassy eyes staring the other down.
"Glad you're amused."
"I am," Giuliano flashed him a slippery smile. "Please. Have a seat. Crowley, isn't it?"
"In some circles," Crowley quipped, settling into the cushions of the wood-trimmed occasional chair. The air about him was cautious, quiet energy pent up like a coil ready to snap.
"Would you like to try Chicago's finest pizza? Sometimes I think it's the only reason I haven't destroyed the place," Giuliano intoned, leaning back. "I much enjoy the pizza here."
Castiel rolled his eyes. Giuliano and his fucking food.
"No thanks. I just ate," Crowley responded curtly. "But I'll have a bit of scotch if you've got it."
"In fact, I do. I've prepared for your arrival," Giuliano leaned forward to snatch up an unmarked bottle, pouring just a bit into a glass for his guest.
"How generous," Crowley said dryly. He brought the glass to his lips and nearly choked after sipping. "Tastes more like piss than—"
"You have my most sincere of apologies. I didn't know that swine could tell the difference between good and bad scotch."
Crowley paused for a long moment before discarding the whisky rather disgustedly on the desk. His movements were quick, fueled by obvious irritation. "Let's stop fucking about, eh mate, and get down business. I'm a very busy man."
Giuliano tsked, "So impatient. How utterly impolite."
"Look—"
"A busy man, you say?" Giuliano interrupted. "Mm, no. I find you quite unencumbered, in fact. You have nothing left to your name. No money. No estate. The rackets you were entrusted with—all taken from you," the bony man shook his head. "Not even a son to call your own any longer."
"Not a loss. I never liked that little bastard," Crowley scoffed, cocky amusement painting his truthful admission.
"That's not the point, Fergus," Giuliano stated coldly. "May I call you Fergus?"
"No, you may fucking not," Crowley snapped.
"You're in such a foul mood, Fergus. I don't understand why. You've yourself to blame. It was your idiocy that put you in this situation. You crossed the Don and he stripped you of everything. Did you think that you could cross him and get away with it?" Giuliano said smoothly, twisting a white ring around his slender finger.
"Well, I didn't think I'd get caught, now did I," Crowley shrugged, too easily.
"Ah, but you did. And here you are. Selling your soul for three inches of freedom and effectively wasting my time."
"Wasting your time? Give me a bit. I'll grow on ya."
"Mmyes. Just like a fungus."
Crowley shifted his posture, his body language suggesting an additional layer of annoyance. "So, what's the deal, then? What else do I need to give up to keep the hellhounds off my back?"
"Your life."
"Is that so? Seems a bit unfairly weighted," Crowley said coolly.
"In what pathetic little world did you honestly think you'd survive? That he'd let you continue living your worthless life? This meeting was simply a lure to get you to come out of hiding. A sort of... trap, if you will."
Crowley said nothing for several seconds. "So, that's it, then," his tone took on a more serious note, determined like the strength of steel.
"Think of it this way: you get a lovely trip to the burning depths of Hell. Or Purgatory, if you've behaved. For you... I'd plan on the warmer of the two." Giuliano soothed, sinfully deadpan given the situation. "This meeting is over."
Crowley growled.
"Give my regards to Death," Giuliano quipped with a meaningful smile.
"Do it yourself, you bloody bastard!"
Without warning, Crowley stood in a flurry of motion, reaching in toward his body for what Castiel could only assume was a hidden weapon. The meeting had hit a critical level quicker than expected.
With graceful lethality, Castiel slipped from the closet, measured movements quiet and quick. It took him only three steps, as planned, to clear the distance between the shadows and his victim. Before Crowley could grab his weapon, the Mafioso wrapped the piano-wire garrote around his neck, pulling down and at an angle. It was an effective maneuver that rendered Crowley uncontrolled and pitching back into the chair.
Castiel held on, gripping the garrote's wooden handles tightly, while Crowley gasped out and flailed. He tried to fruitlessly claw at the metallic noose around his neck, made noises that were a morbid extension of his desperation. With Crowley's head tipped so far back, the Mafioso could see that his eyes were beginning to bulge in their sockets, rimmed red with the pressure and exertion it took to breathe. Everything felt too comfortable, too familiar as the adrenaline ran thick in Castiel's veins, as the muscles in his arms became taut and focused in the chaotic act of killing. If anything in his life was constant, it would be this; snuffing out the lives of the damned. Nothing else made him feel so… complete. Nothing else could make him feel at all. Not anymore.
Crowley tried to thrash with the hope of escaping, but Castiel pulled down harder and pressed his own knee against the back of the chair for leverage. The extra force made Crowley gurgle wetly while blood began to ooze where the wire had cut skin. It was a miraculous thing to witness; a man's struggle for survival. Castiel had nearly forgotten what it was like to fight for something, to even care. It was a thought quickly dismissed when Crowley began to slip away, when his body simply… gave up. Crowley convulsed and contorted with the throes of death and then stopped twitching altogether. The silence in the room had been Crowley's parting gift, a momentary peace disturbed by the sudden clapping of hands.
"What a stunning display of brutality," Giuliano said with amusement. "Don Diavolo would be proud."
Castiel rolled his eyes as he loosened his grip on the piano wire, coiling it neatly before placing it on the desk nearby. Another day, another job completed—every one of them the same as the last. Castiel took to the menial chores with little interest, ignoring Giuliano while he worked, pausing only briefly to spare a blessing over the body. The Latin was familiar on his tongue, soothing, every single word recited with sincerity. It was a beautiful litany that filled this place and brought with it an ounce of hope; something that was of no use to the dead.
"Tua mens et animae omnium fidelium defunctorum per misericordiam Dei requiescant in pace."
Your mind and the soul of all the faithful departed through the mercy of God—rest in peace.
"How touching," Giuliano said sarcastically.
Castiel offered him a glare before he returned his attention to the corpse, emptying out pockets with nimble fingers that moved quickly, effortlessly, like the well-oiled parts of a machine. Crowley meant to grab for something and Castiel searched for it with the careful sweep of blue eyes. His attention fled to the grip of a gun wedged between the corpse and the inside of the occasional chair, earning a curious head tilt and inquisitive expression. With certainty, Castiel grabbed it and brought it closer for inspection.
The Colt looked old and worn with its long barrel smooth. Both its silver finish and grip were engraved, a Latin phrase and pentagram respectively. The Latin words came to him easily, reading, 'I will fear no evil'. A very peculiar gun, he concluded, one that wouldn't stand a chance against modern technology. Idly, Castiel wondered what possible use Crowley had for it. Without another thought, Castiel slipped it into the waistband of his pants and stepped back to ponder the plausibility of his next task.
Bring back his bones.
The instructions had been vague, just as he had come to expect from the Don. Castiel exhaled sharply and shot his gaze over the body again, then around the room. The shelves of the library were filled to the brim with literature, family heirlooms… and a hand scythe. The Mafioso turned his head slowly to look at Giuliano, to level him with the arch of a brow that spoke volumes.
A smile slithered onto Giuliano's face and he shrugged, "It's an antique."
And perfect for what Castiel was set out to do.
"Don't touch that," Giuliano said preemptively.
Intending to do just the opposite, Castiel stepped forward to take it by the handle. It was light in his hands and agile, swift as it cut through air during a practice swing. Castiel ignored Giuliano as he huffed and pined for it, muttered on about its rarity, about its delicacy. The other man's warnings became background noise; meaningless and forgotten. The Mafioso was quick to grab the corpse's forearm and lay it flat on the desk, raising his scythe-wielding arm high and ready. Giuliano shouted something while Castiel swung and cleanly cut off the hand—something that would serve as the 'bones' he needed. It was simple to disregard Giuliano as he chattered angrily, rising up from his chair to shake an accusatory finger. Castiel quickly turned on him and brought the Colt to bear. The air was filled with a sense of inevitability as Castiel cocked the hammer.
"Your services are no longer required."
The shot rang out, deafening and explosive, and the gun's powerful kick-back nearly knocked Castiel from his feet. Giuliano fell back and down, folded in his chair like a ragdoll thrown away. His aim had been perfect, as certain as the rising sun. Yet that wasn't the source of his surprise. The fact that the gun had even worked…
Castiel looked at the Colt curiously before tucking it away and gathering everything he needed to bring back with him. Beside the desk, Castiel found a black case that had belonged to the now-dead Giuliano and used it to pack away his tools and the severed hand. With the case in one hand, the Mafioso stepped away from the bloody scene. The loose ends of family business had been tied off, leaving nothing behind save a mess for the coppers to sweep under the rug.
The Day He Died
"Out of suffering have emerged the strongest souls;
the most massive characters are seared with scars."
—Khalil Gibran
Summit, Illinois, 1908 – Twenty-Four Years Ago
The soles of his shoes pounded against the dirt road, drumming out the despair of a boy far too young to have witnessed what he had just seen. His anguish blinded him to anything else. Every other noise and sensation had faded in comparison to the profound devastation that he felt.
Young Castiel burst through the streets of the small town with reckless abandon, running in a full sprint toward the one place he felt safe. The journey was a quick one, broken only by his clumsiness because he couldn't see, tears thick and hot on his face. Little did he know that today was one of the most pivotal events of his life. Castiel didn't know that today he'd lose the only thread tethering him to this world.
His chest heaved as he thundered through the back door of the grand house, the pulse of his heart high in his throat. Nothing mattered to Castiel as he wound his way through the halls, past familiar rooms; not the presence of those he had come to call family nor the sound of his name being shouted. Everything was a blur. Undefined sights and sounds that played second best to the tragedy in the forefront of his mind.
Without warning, Castiel crashed through the closed door of the office. The young boy could hear Michael, the favored son of the Sant'Angelo family, gasp out in surprise. Michael may have said something, may have yelled at him, but Castiel didn't have the mind to notice. Not when he needed to be saved from the horror of that… scene. Charles Sant'Angelo had always been a pillar of strength for Castiel, the nearest thing to a parent he had left.
"Godfather…" Castiel ran into his arms and sobbed, burying his face into Charles' chest. "He's dead," the young boy choked on the words. They felt harsh and foreign in his throat, unbelievable and horrible. "He's—he's dead."
"Castiel, you can't just barge in—"
"It's fine," Charles said soothingly. He dipped a finger beneath the boy's chin to raise blue eyes to his own. "Who's dead?"
Before Castiel could manage to form words out of his slackened mouth, another family member burst into the room. The young boy buried his face again, but could tell by voice that it was Zachariah.
"Father. It's Jimmy. He's…"
"Zachariah. What happened? What happened to Jimmy?"
Castiel couldn't see Zachariah, didn't want to see him. He wanted to drown out the world, hide and never come out. The boy could barely listen to Zachariah say that Jimmy was…
"He got in the way, Godfather. There was an altercation. Gunfire. Jimmy got in the way."
"How the fuck do you hit a kid?" Charles snapped, unhooking Castiel's arms from around him. The warmth of Charles' closeness dissipated as he rose from his chair, leaving the young boy behind.
Castiel stood there dumbfounded and lowered his head into his hands. He could smell Jimmy's blood on his skin, could feel it on his face. It was wet and cool as it clung to him, all over his arms, his clothing… everywhere. While Castiel sobbed, the back of his eyelids relived the scene over and over again. The shock on Jimmy's face, the choking, the gurgling, the way his body shook as he began to... Castiel broke down and fell to his knees.
"It wasn't me. I swear it," Zachariah's voice fled down the hall and Charles' with it. They talked amongst each other, some words shouted in anger, before their voices faded out completely.
"Eva! Take care of Castiel!" was the only other thing he heard from Charles that day.
Silence fell over the room like a curtain after the final act of a play. Castiel was left on the floor alone with nothing but his tears to comfort him. He felt like he was dying, his heart torn from his chest. Without Jimmy, he was lost.
Empty.
The Family
"Then said the father: 'Thus, my sons, as long as you remain united,
you are a match for anything, but differ and separate, and you are undone'."
—Aesop
Aurora, Illinois, 1932 – Present Day
The train ride from Chicago to Aurora had been uneventful at best. Quiet and unimposing, Castiel kept to himself as thoughts of the past rose up to rebel against him. He thought of Jimmy and the fateful day that he lost his brother, his best friend, his confidant. They had been thick as thieves together, inseparable, and had faced trials beyond what two young boys could possibly bear. The loss of their parents had struck them to the core and the hopelessness of living at the orphanage dampened what could have been a happy childhood. It was them against the world, spending days getting into mischief and nights wishing they had a family again.
Jimmy…
With a sigh, Castiel lifted his fingers to the collar of his dress shirt and fumbled with the chain around his neck. It was warm against his skin, the gold cross dangling from it in silent reminder. It had belonged to Jimmy and to their father before him. He looked at the cross for a second before pressing his lips to the metal, tucking it away inside his clothing where it belonged—safe and hidden. Just like everything else these days. Emotions that he once wore on his sleeves were now buried away behind the steel mask of a Mafioso. As it was meant to be, supposed to be. Anything else would be unacceptable.
Castiel blew a breath past his lips as the train hissed to a halt, thankful for the break in self-contemplation. He began to gather his belongings just as the other passengers did; one small suitcase holding clothes and normal necessities while the other boasted a severed hand as its keepsake. Quietly, Castiel shuffled off the train, always mindful of his surroundings. In this day and age, one simply couldn't be too careful.
It had begun to rain before he set foot off the train. Tiny droplets pelted his face with cold reality, crisp and chilly air replacing the warmth he had felt in the train's cabin. The anguish of his memories were washed away with the downpour, offering him no choice but to push it all to a place inside him that no one could reach—a place so deep that it was almost too easy to forget.
Castiel navigated the crowd with ease as several passengers huddled in tight places to escape the rain. Others blatantly stood on the curb in an effort to flag down a taxi, ignoring the weather. Someone bumped into him then on their way by, but Castiel didn't care. He found his own taxi among the hustle and bustle, and piled his things inside. With a few words to the driver, the car started off down the street with the roar of the engine.
The scenery of the City of Lights whipped by the taxi's window in splashes of color, a painting of buildings and people smeared together by the carelessness of an artist's brush. Aurora seemed vast against the misted backdrop of rain and wind. It lived and breathed with the rich and the poor yet still felt so very empty. Castiel turned away from it all and tilted his head back to stare at the ceiling while the taxi driver maneuvered the car in the sea of duplicates. Finally, he was home.
Home.
To him, the word was hollow in meaning, nothing more than a term that tried to cover up a sense of emptiness. Yes, that was exactly what he embodied; an emptiness that knew neither solace nor ease, that cut like a knife even on the good days.
The driver turned down the familiar street and came to a halt outside a small ristorante. It was quaint and clean, inviting with its massive front window and warm lighting. Its name, Cielo, stretched across the glass proudly while the character etched in the wood boasted many years of operation. Inside, Castiel could see his family, the Sant'Angelos, gathered around one of the long tables, chatting and waiting for the evening meal. Every Sunday it was like this; the family's ristorante closed around dinner time and they all came together like a puzzle even in the chaos of their time.
A man is nothing without family…
Charles' words sat comfortably on his shoulders and he wore it with a sense of pride and honor. Castiel was nothing without his family. And without him, a piece to their puzzle went missing—a weak spot sore and easily abused.
Rachel was the first to take notice, peering out the window at his taxi. Her face brightened immediately with recognition and she waved frantically, hoping to beckon him inside. Castiel didn't smile, barely reacted beyond his customary stoicism. He may have even internally cringed knowing how animated Rachel could be when he came home from having been away.
With driver paid and suitcases in hand, Castiel exited the car and was assaulted again with the chill of the rain. He made quick work of crossing the sidewalk, nearly sighing when Rachel flung open the door. Her energy was boundless and sometimes suffocating, like now, hardly letting him breathe before he could even step into the small ristorante.
"Cas!" she squealed, snapping up the suitcases from his hands. Rachel threw them haphazardly aside before whirling on her heels to hug him. Her grip was tight and her blonde hair tickled his jaw line. Castiel felt uncomfortable with the close proximity of another person, family or not, and the hug went on a little too long for his liking. Rachel extended him to arm's length and her light blue eyes reflected the intensity of her excitement, the corners of them crinkled. It was his favorite thing about her, her smile; all perfect teeth and the way it lit up the entirety of her gentle face. Castiel didn't return it, but squeezed her shoulder gently in passing.
Along with her incessant touching came the onslaught of other sensations, of smells and sounds that brought with them the ideal of a perfect family. The mouth-watering scent of pasta and bread greeted him and his stomach growled viciously in response. It was a painful pang of hunger that was easily soothed by the clear-cut sound of Fred Astaire's Night & Day. The song was coming from the record player, a "Consolette" Orthophonic Victrola, beautiful with its resplendent, mahogany finish. He knew the machine's insides and outsides, having purchased it himself for the family's ristorante.
"I'm so glad you're home," Rachel said, but it was drowned out by the excitement of the others. The chaos of greetings came entirely too fast and from all directions.
"Cassie's back!" He heard Balthazar say.
"Heyas, Angel," Gabriel eased, favoring Castiel's nickname, one he had received due to his penchant for blessing the dead.
Michael approached him next while Rachel removed Castiel's damp pea coat, black borsalino hat and double-breasted suit jacket. Rachel knew from past experience to be careful with his belongings. He wore his favorite suit, fashionable to the times; black with white pin-stripes, the material both comfortable and practical. Rachel smiled at him and patted his shoulder on the way past, leaving Castiel to Michael's greetings.
"Welcome home," Michael said warmly, grabbing both sides of Castiel's face to kiss each cheek. His eyes were a light green, hair dark and smooth, and features chiseled. Somehow, in the face of everything, his older brother Michael always had a smile on his lips.
Castiel nodded simply, "Michael."
"Come. Have a seat. Anna has prepared a special meal for the family tonight," Michael ushered him forward with a soft touch on the upper arm, pointing to indicate an empty seat.
Castiel moved to the chair as told, loosening the blue tie and unfastening the top button of his white dress shirt. Among family, he could be comfortable instead of assuming his rigid code of personal appearance. He found himself still fussing as he sat down, smoothing his hair and adjusting the six-buttoned vest that he preferred to keep on. Castiel would feel naked without his cufflinks, his watch and the ring on his hand and didn't remove those either. The other brothers often mentioned how stiff he was, how perfect he always looked and teased him about it. But he'd rather be professionally dressed and represent the family proudly than look like a slob.
His eyes settled on the others in the room, to the ones who never said much of anything to him. Zachariah glowered quietly while Virgil said nothing at all, couldn't speak even if he wanted to. His tongue had been cut out long ago as some sort of punishment by another family. Castiel had never heard the entire story and wasn't sure if he cared enough to even ask.
"The Don won't be joining us tonight. He had business elsewhere," came Michael's curt response to Castiel's searching eyes. The absence of the Don explained why Michael was in such high spirits. The two brothers always fought even when they were children, always vying for father's affections. The rivalry worsened after—
"Castiel! Oh, I'm so glad you're safe," the voice was a happy one, pleasant and familiar. It belonged to his bright-eyed sister, Anna. As soon as he had been adopted into the family, Anna had been there, taking care of him and practically raising him with mother. Castiel could feel the honesty of her cheerfulness and turned to look at her. In that second, when his eyes saw her face, his muted indifference shifted to slow-boiling anger.
Anna smiled at him while she moved toward the table to chatter on about dinner. But he didn't hear her. As she spoke, the bruises on her cheekbone shifted in a myriad of color; black and blue with shades of yellow and pink mixed in between. Castiel stared at her hard, saw her shrink under the heat of his gaze. Once she had finished her spiel about the meal, Anna tried to move past him hastily. He was quicker.
Castiel caught her by the wrist and pulled her close to brush a thumb against the foreign color on her skin. Anna leaned into his touch, expression somber.
"It was my fault, Cas. I promise," she whispered. "Please—please don't hurt him."
"Anna," he warned. "This isn't the first time this has happened. He's done this to you before."
"I know. I know," Anna responded gently. "It's all right. Just—just don't get involved."
Castiel glowered at her back as she retreated, wrapping his white-knuckled fist around a napkin just to keep his idle hands busy. He heard Gabriel snap his fingers at him, to draw his attention away from hateful thoughts. Slowly, Castiel turned to regard him, the expression on his face obvious. He gripped the napkin, crumpled it in his hands. Fucking Alastair.
"Cas, we're gonna fix him. Tonight—"
Michael interrupted, "No talk of business at the table."
Gabriel flashed him a dirty look and rolled his eyes, "We'll talk about it after dinner."
As if on cue, Rachel and Anna came out with heaping piles of food, setting down plates and making sure everything was served before seating themselves. With the lick of his lips, Gabriel reached across to pick at the dessert. It earned him a slap on the hand and a glare from Anna.
Michael smiled and touched Castiel's hand lightly, "Will you lead the family in prayer?"
Castiel nodded and folded his hands, didn't care if anyone else did the same. In reverence to the God he believed in, Castiel closed his eyes and recited the same prayer he had for years, at every family dinner he attended. "O Dio, che ci concedi ogni giorno il pane, il vino, e l'olio saziandoci nella tua benevolenza. Benedici questo nostro stare a mensa e donaci la gratitudine verso di te e verso tutta la creazione. Amen."
O God, every day You give us bread, wine and oil, satisfying us with Your generosity. Bless our being together at this table and give us gratitude toward You and toward all of creation. Amen.
Before the rest could say amen, Michael chimed in with his own addition, "Momma, poppa. We wish you were still here with us. Momma, we miss your guidance, your gentleness. Poppa, your leadership—"
Castiel sighed inwardly and waited for it.
"—if you hadn't been taken from us so soon, and hadn't been betrayed by your own fam—"
"Michael," Castiel warned, placing a gentle hand on his brother's arm.
Michael sighed, bowed his head lower and whispered, "Amen."
An uncomfortable chorus of amen completed the dinner tradition, followed by the raising of wine glasses for the toast. At the same time, they blessed the family with happiness and prosperity for a century.
"Famiglia! Cent'anni!"
Castiel remained quiet throughout dinner. Anna had prepared his favorite meal; mother's capelli d'angelo with truffle sauce, paired perfectly with the casa e. di Mirafiore Barolo dated 1918. The wine was rust-red, had hints of rose in its aroma and tasted heavenly. Castiel only spoke when asked a question directly, listening mostly to the other family members tell stories of their week. Nothing had changed. Balthazar went on about a new broad he had been with (or twelve, Castiel didn't care to keep up) and Gabriel mentioned the trouble he had caused recently. It was all the same.
Dinner had concluded quickly enough. Bellies were full with both food and wine, some of the brothers more inebriated than others. As custom in their family, the men went outside once the meal was done to smoke or get a breath of fresh air. The brothers had already left the small ristorante and Castiel could see them outside the large glass window. Before he even joined them, Castiel donned his suit jacket, pea coat and black borsalino hat and took great care to smooth out any wrinkles. Behind him, Castiel felt a presence and then a touch, sending a shiver down his spine and a frown up to his face.
"Cas? Are you all right? You seemed quiet at dinner," Rachel asked lightly.
"I'm fine," Castiel murmured, shrugging her fingers from him. He wasn't at all, but he didn't need to confide in Rachel. She didn't need to know. Castiel left her behind, quiet and confused, and stepped out.
Beyond the warmth of the ristorante, groups had already been formed outside; Zachariah, Virgil and Michael off on their own while Gabriel and Balthazar snuck off into the shadows. Castiel was beckoned immediately by Gabriel as he stepped out into the street.
"Cas," Gabriel nodded as Castiel approached and offered him a cigarette.
Castiel shook his head in refusal. Anna would say that Castiel only smoked when he was stressed. He doubted the truth in that.
"Cassie, are we actually going to do this?" Balthazar asked, the tip of his own cigarette flaring to life as he sucked in.
"Alastair needs to be taught a lesson for hurting Anna," Gabriel interjected quickly. "This is the last fucking time."
Castiel said nothing. His silence was louder than words.
Balthazar nodded, exhaled a phantom of smoke before throwing the cigarette to the ground and snuffing it out.
"We ready, then, boys?" Gabriel grinned. He didn't even wait for an answer. "Cas, let's take your car."
Gabriel started off in the direction where Castiel always parked his car. After exchanging knowing glances, Castiel and Balthazar followed and climbed into the vehicle. It was a black, Ford Model A with a Fordor Sedan chassis, built in 1927. The car had always treated Castiel well and he took care of it as it had taken care of him. They had spent long nights on the road together, the gentle purr of her engine serving as his only company. In a way, those nights of quiet contemplation had saved him many times. Saved him from himself.
As Gabriel haphazardly threw himself into the back and roughly closed the door, Castiel gave him a quiet glare.
"I didn't hurt your precious car. God," Gabriel snapped, more than likely a little bit drunk.
Castiel didn't say anything else. With little manipulation, the car hummed to life and started down the street toward the house that Anna and Alastair shared. His thoughts wandered to the past, focusing on when Anna had announced her engagement. Castiel never liked Alastair and had always thought him as sleazy, dishonorable, and not good enough for his dear sister. The marriage was recent, as were the beatings, and Castiel had only seen his sister bruised one other time. Anna had promised it was her fault and Castiel had foolishly believed her. He clenched the wheel tightly, the knuckles of his slender-fingered hands growing pale with the effort. No one else said a word.
The black car stopped in front of the house, engine quietly growling as all three passengers looked out.
"Balthazar, I'm going to need your help bringing him out," Gabriel said, opening his car door and stepping out.
Balthazar sighed and looked at Castiel, "Do we—"
"Do as he says," Castiel replied coldly, not even bothering to look at him.
After a moment of silence, Balthazar reluctantly obeyed, climbing out of the car and closing the door behind him. Castiel was left alone with nothing but the gentle, hushed roar of the engine. A moment or two of contemplation and Castiel admitted that he had no qualms about Alastair's inevitable beat down. An eye for an eye, a means of returning torture to the tormenter.
With the flick of his wrist, the car went quiet and Castiel stepped out, shutting the door behind him. While his brothers were gathering up Alastair, the Mafioso opened the door to the backseat and began to prepare himself. Castiel removed his black pea coat and suit jacket, folding each in a neat pile and resting the hat on top. Precise finger-flicks unfastened the cufflinks and he placed those in the available pockets of his jacket to prevent them from being lost in the scuffle. Even in chaos, everything was perfectly planned and orderly, and that was how he always wanted it. Castiel rolled up the sleeves of his white dress shirt and leaned over the seat to snag the wooden baseball bat he kept around—for special occasions.
By the time Castiel moved away from the car, his brothers were fumbling out of the doorway with Alastair, throwing him onto the street. Alastair already had a few bruises and so did the brothers, the scuffle to get him out of the house obviously a difficult one. Both Gabriel and Balthazar began kicking him while he was down and Castiel calmly approached with one hand in his pants pocket. The other held the bat, resting the bulk of the weapon on his shoulder in a way that was nonchalant.
Alastair grunted and shielded his face with his hands. Without pause, Gabriel and Balthazar wailed on him continuously, kicking and punching. Castiel gripped Balthazar's upper arm and pulled him out of the way, allowing himself enough room to join in on the fray. He led with a high-powered swing; the bat beginning low and circling back and up, descending down immediately on Alastair's back. Alastair cried out and collapsed flat on the street, no longer putting up any sort of fight. The sudden strike from Castiel surprised Gabriel, causing him to jump back and away. He didn't join in again after that.
Castiel imagined Anna beneath Alastair, cringing and crying as he beat her for some small, insignificant sin—or because he was angry, or hungry, or… The Mafioso struck Alastair over and over again, each swing more vicious and anger-driven than the last. And each time, Alastair groaned out less and less, muffled cries turning into whimpers and then nothing. Before he could exert another swing, Gabriel snatched his arm and held it firm, pulling Castiel out of his blind rage.
"Cas! Cas! Stop it. We don't want to make Anna a widow, right?" Gabriel shook his arm a little. "Right? Fuck, Angel. Remind me to never make you angry."
Castiel shot a glare at Gabriel, calming just a little after the truth in his words settled in. He threw the bat down next to Alastair and stepped closer, picking him up roughly by the throat.
"Cas," Balthazar warned behind him.
Castiel ignored them both, leaning in to sneer at Alastair's bewildered face. "If you ever touch her again, I will fucking kill you. Am I perfectly clear?"
Alastair nodded weakly, head bobbing as if it wasn't attached to the rest of his body. Castiel let go, and like a ragdoll, Alastair fell to the street in a broken pile.
Castiel turned on him and began to walk toward the car. He could hear his brothers scramble to catch up to him. Gabriel came along side to pull him in close, hand on his shoulder and gripping tight. "Still got that stick wedged firmly up your ass, huh?" Gabriel mused, grinning.
"Well, welcome home, Cassie!" Balthazar added in dryly to relieve the tension.
Castiel smirked and didn't retreat from the brotherly affection or chiding.
This was how it was. Saving each other, punishing people. The family business.
Ashes to Ashes, Dust to Dust
"A man's dying is more the survivors' affair than his own."
—Thomas Mann
Summit, Illinois, 1930 – Two Years Ago
Castiel stared at the back of Lucifer's head. The eldest brother stood by the large window with his back toward the family, hands clasped behind him. The way he seemed to lord over everyone else made Castiel feel uneasy. Here in the family room of their home, Castiel could feel the thick tension in the air, could hear both Anna and Rachel crying behind him. It was just a few days ago that the family had buried their father, Charles Sant'Angelo, after his untimely death. It had left the family dispirited and broken, with the successors fighting over who would pick up the pieces. Fucking family politics.
Castiel leaned back in his chair, hands neatly folded in his lap while he waited for Lucifer to speak. He shot a glance around the room, registering the solemn faces of his brothers and sisters, some more devastated than others. Both Zachariah and Virgil appeared unaffected while Michael, Gabriel and his sisters were near catatonic, taking the death particularly harsh. Balthazar looked to him for guidance as he always had, seeming more curious with Castiel's response to the situation than anything else. Castiel offered nothing in terms of his reaction.
How did he feel then?
Castiel exhaled a heavy breath. Father's death had become just another loss on the long list of those who had died or had left him during his lifetime. The relationship Castiel had with Charles had been a distant one at best. Father had been the figurehead of the family and had barely spoken to Castiel in any capacity other than business. Yes, that was exactly how the relationship had been; a business transaction. Like everything else. Castiel wasn't happy about Charles' death nor was he devastated. Instead, he felt absolutely nothing.
"The loss of our father is a great one," Lucifer began, still facing the window, "and it will be impossible to replace his love, guidance and wisdom." He slowly turned to regard the family. "But together, we'll survive this. Together, we'll be strong and carry each other in our time of weakness," Lucifer paused long enough to let his words sink in. "With the passing of our beloved father, there is a significant void that must be filled. In both leadership—"
Castiel sighed.
"—and at the head of the family. That is why I—"
"The fuck you are," Michael interjected immediately, stepping forward in challenge.
"Michael. Let me finish—" Lucifer returned with calm composure.
"I don't need to, Lucifer. I knew as soon as you called this meeting that you'd try and take father's position," Michael pointed at him in defiance. "No. I won't allow it. I am supposed to take father's place. I am the one who was promised—"
"You were the one? Father never mentioned this to me—" Lucifer interrupted.
"You were not involved in all aspects of the family business, Lucifer."
"Do you have proof that you were chosen to assume the role at the head of the family?"
Michael glared at him, "How the fuck am I supposed to have proof—"
"Then how are we, the family, supposed to believe you?" Lucifer reasoned, never once losing his cool.
Michael slammed his fist down onto one of the side tables. Several family members jumped in surprise. "How are we, the family, supposed to follow you as Don? How can you expect us to let you lead this family after you had father killed!"
"Michael," Castiel interjected.
"No, Cas. You know it's true. You know that Lucifer has been planning this for who knows how long!" Michael turned to address the rest of them. "We all know that he has the connections and capabilities to have had father killed," Michael breathed haggardly. "He died in front of the fucking grocer. Our father.. in front of the grocer—really? Someone had to have known he'd be there at that precise moment." He turned back to Gabriel, "Gabe, you were there when father died, when he was shot down. You know it was planned."
Gabriel said nothing.
"Perhaps it was Castiel who orchestrated it all," Lucifer offered.
"What?" was the common response from the family. Castiel glared at Lucifer.
"Well, if we're going to toss around ridiculous notions…" Lucifer chuckled.
"How can you joke at a time like this?" Michael snapped back. He looked at Castiel, "Cas, back me up here."
Castiel raised his hands in surrender, "I'm not getting involved in this."
Lucifer looked at Michael, "Are you… quite finished?"
Michael looked to the others, his expression pleading, "Gabriel, Balthazar… Zachariah. Are you really going to let this happen?"
"There's nothing we can do, Michael. Lucifer has the connections and ability to lead our family to greatness," Zachariah answered back plainly.
"Which brings us to our next point of business," Lucifer continued, as if the whole argument never took place. "As the new Don—" he flashed Michael a smile, "I propose that we leave Summit and set our sights elsewhere. There are more opportunities for success in larger cities."
The family erupted into their own little conversations, some nervous and more angry than others. Michael threw his hands up, "This is fucking ridiculous."
"You want us to move our family?" Anna asked openly which earned her several dirty looks from the men. Women didn't have a say in family matters.
"We'll be moving to Aurora," Lucifer said firmly. The family quieted down. "I have already found the perfect home for us. The move will occur in the next few weeks. If we have nothing else to discuss—"
Castiel tuned the rest of the conversation out. As expected, Balthazar immediately fled to his side once the meeting had ended and started talking nervously in his ear.
"Cassie, what are we going to do? Are we really going to let—"
"What choice do we have, Balthazar?" Castiel hissed with annoyance. "We're soldiers. We do as we're told. Lucifer is the Don now and you need to show him some respect," Castiel leaned in, lowering his tone to a whisper. "Michael isn't strong enough to lead us and you know that. Father didn't always know what was best."
"But—"
The Mafioso raised a dismissive hand to quiet him. Castiel didn't care to be involved in the drama and the senseless bickering.
He just wanted to be left alone.
The Job
"Fear not for the future, weep not for the past."
—Percy Bysshe Shelley
Aurora, Illinois, 1932 – Present Day
Castiel spent the morning keeping his brothers, Gabriel and Balthazar, company while they tied up odds and ends for the family. He appreciated the simplicity of it all, the humor shared between them and the absence of responsibility. For a few hours, Castiel didn't have to make a decision and he felt a certain freedom in it. For once, Castiel didn't have to decide on how and when to end someone's life. He didn't have to run errands for the family. He didn't need to do anything but simply exist. Unfortunately, his freedom was short-lived. It wasn't long after the three brothers had returned home that Lucifer had asked to speak to Castiel in the library.
Reminiscent of two years ago, the Mafioso stared at the back of Lucifer's head while the Don looked out the window. Castiel didn't intend to stay long and stood behind the chair that faced the large, ornate desk. As usual, Lucifer hadn't acknowledged Castiel when he entered the room, his idle hand busy drawing a pitch fork on the frosted-glass window. The Don could spend a long time keeping the silence like this. It was agonizing. Castiel just wanted to get what he guessed would be another assignment and leave. He sighed and then swept his gaze throughout the room, focusing briefly on a familiar suitcase. It was the one that had belonged to Giuliano. Since the Don had never mentioned that job again, Castiel would have to assume that he had performed to Lucifer's expectations.
"I have another chore for you, Castiel," Lucifer began, never turning around to face him. "Similar to the situation with Crowley and Giuliano, I need you to… exterminate a little problem."
Castiel said nothing.
"I need you to kill a man named Dean Winchester."
A bullet to the chest would have had the same effect. Castiel felt a sudden burst of adrenaline pump into his system, leaving his head light with… far too many emotions to sort through. Castiel was not prepared for the tidal wave that the name brought. A name he had tried so hard to forget ever existed. It fell so loosely and carelessly from his brother's mouth, as if meant nothing. Yet for Castiel, the name carried such a weight, so barbed and multi-faceted with a myriad of thoughts and regrets. And everything, all of it, hit Castiel with such force that he had to grab onto the chair to prevent himself from falling over.
"Why—" Castiel blurted, the tone of his voice uncharacteristically heavy, as if he actually cared. He never cared. Lucifer, the bastard that he was, was far too receptive not to notice this change in him. And that didn't take into account the fact that Castiel never asked questions.
As prompted, Lucifer slowly and deliberately turned his head to look over his shoulder. His eyes were narrowed and jaw stern. Castiel tried to muster some sort of composure, but his face felt hot, hands tight and white-knuckled on the chair. The usually-stoic Mafioso felt nauseous, could feel his brow bead with sweat.
"He's failed to honor his contractual obligations to the family."
Castiel could feel his eyes widen.
"Do you—" Lucifer paused, "Do you know this man?"
"No," Castiel said quickly, lying.
Lucifer looked at him for a long time. Castiel could feel his face burn under the scrutiny and cursed himself for never having learned how to lie effectively. "Is this going to be a problem, Castiel?"
The depth of his voice cracked. "No—" The words crawled out of his mouth like a dying man in the desert. Castiel cleared his throat in an attempt to recover some sort of dignity, "No, of course not."
Lucifer smiled, "Good."
Seemingly satisfied, the Don turned away to resume his stare out the window. "His last known location was in Chicago where you found Crowley. It seems as if all of the rats go there to hide."
Castiel didn't let go of the chair, fearing that he'd fall if he did. He desperately fought down the memories of all those years ago. The pieces that that son of a bitch had left behind… Castiel felt angry, enraged that even the slightest mention of that name threw him into such an emotional fit. That he actually had to struggle to keep himself from unraveling.
"You may go."
Castiel tried to snap out of it and gather his composure. His flight from the room was chaotic and lacked his usual grace, his mind dizzy with the words that turned over and over in his head.
Kill Dean Winchester.
Hope
"It takes a day to fall in love with someone, but it takes a lifetime to forget."
—Unknown
Summit, Illinois, 1908 – Twenty-Four Years Ago
Tears rolled down Castiel's cheeks, bitter and quick, while he rubbed his scuffed knee. The first day at a new school had been ruined with incessant bullying and shame. Young Castiel, merely seven years old, had told his teacher that he fell, but that hadn't been the truth. Older kids took it upon themselves to tease and push him, causing Castiel to fall and skin his knee. The pain of it trembled up his leg and it was bleeding, but Castiel could barely afford to pay any mind to it. Not now. Not when someone else was staring at him. Another boy watched him from a distance while Castiel sat alone during the school day's free time. He didn't like the attention and kept his eyes on the ground, trying to make himself appear as small and as uninteresting as possible.
The few sneak peeks Castiel had been able to manage told him that the other boy wasn't much older than he was. He had light brown hair, intense green eyes and a smile that almost made the fear go away. Castiel tried to make himself appear less threatening by hunching his shoulders. All he wanted to do was disappear, to turn invisible. But this boy wouldn't let him. Instead, he closed the space between them slowly, studying Castiel as if he were some oddity in a toyshop. Castiel turned away after catching a quick glance and dropped his eyes to stare at the blood that clung to broken skin. Young Castiel couldn't take another ounce of bullying, not today. He already felt like an outcast and the consequences of being the new kid at school.
"Hi," the green-eyed boy said, now standing just behind him. "I'm Dean."
The voice sounded pleasant, nice like gentle rain on rooftops. But Castiel didn't dare respond and further caved in on himself. He only wanted to be left alone, to curl up and never exist again.
Dean wouldn't let up, came closer and sat next to Castiel. Too close. Peripherally, Castiel could see Dean pick up a blade of grass and begin to peel it. He could feel his every movement, the rippling closeness each time Dean pulled apart a thread of the grass and threw it. Their backs were practically touching and it made Castiel uncomfortable. The only choice Castiel had was to close his eyes and brace himself for Dean's cruelty—something that never came. Instead, Dean turned toward him. Castiel could feel the whisper of breath on the back of his neck.
"Do you talk?" Dean asked. He only waited a couple of seconds before shooting out another question, "What's your name?"
Castiel didn't answer him. Anxiety tightened his chest.
Dean went silent. Castiel could feel those soul-searching eyes on him again, piercing and inquisitive. The silence didn't last long. "Did it hurt when you fell..?" Dean asked simply enough, pointing at the scuffed knee.
Castiel said nothing and let another tear fall from his cheek.
"When you fell from Heaven. Did it hurt?" Castiel could hear the grin in Dean's voice. "Isn't that where you got that?"
Castiel turned a frown toward Dean, "I didn't fall from Heaven."
"Well. You could have fooled me. Are you sure you're not an angel? Because you look like one!" Dean grinned wide, "Also, I got you to talk. So there."
Castiel smiled just a little bit.
"So, what's your name?"
Castiel hesitated a moment, feeling uneasy talking to Dean let alone telling him his name.
"I'm not going to hurt you like those other boys did," he said, as if noticing Castiel's uncertainty.
Castiel shied away and mumbled, "I don't know that."
"I promise I won't be mean."
Castiel looked at Dean for a long time, gauging the truthfulness of his face. "Castiel," he said timidly.
"Huh," Dean said and thought for a moment. "I'll call you Cas instead, okay?"
Castiel didn't get a chance to agree or disagree before Dean began to talk again. "Let's be friends," he said, those green eyes looking at the scuffed knee. "I'll protect you too."
Castiel watched as Dean pulled out a piece of cloth from his pocket and began to wipe away the blood. Dean was gentle and thorough, nothing like the other boys had been. Castiel could feel himself relax under his touch and felt the anxiety melt away. When Castiel winced a little or whimpered at the pain, Dean lightened the pressure of his tending and whispered, "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to hurt you," in a way that made Castiel believe him. Castiel was mesmerized by the way his hands worked, clearing away the dirt and small debris. For a second, Castiel wondered where Dean had learned all of this; precision with all the tenderness in the world. Maybe Dean was used to it; mending broken skin and calming shattered nerves. Maybe Dean often cared for someone else just like he was doing now.
Dean leaned down to kiss the knee, straightened and said, "There. All better," as if he believed it. At that moment, Castiel believed it too and smiled, genuine and deep. The change in Castiel's demeanor prompted Dean to grin in return, a playful excitement dancing in his green eyes.
"Let's play a game," Castiel couldn't deny the happiness on Dean's face. "Hide and go seek! Have you played that before?"
Castiel nodded his head, "Yes. I've played it with my brother."
"You have a brother? So do—"
"No," Castiel corrected, "He died. I don't have a brother anymore."
The cheer on Dean's face died immediately and those eyes continued to stare at him. Castiel didn't even give him the chance to respond. It felt odd to confide in someone he didn't know, but he felt that Dean was different somehow.
"I don't have parents either. They died too," Castiel lowered his head to hide his face, "I—I don't have anyone." Tears streamed down his cheeks and his sniffles broke the even line of his shoulders.
Silence stretched between them. No warning led to Dean's tight hug, so caring and tender that it made Castiel cry harder.
"You have me."
Those words meant everything to him. Under the weight of them, Castiel broke down and returned the hug so desperately and forcefully that Dean squeaked a little. They stayed like that for a long time and Castiel hung on as if Dean were the only thing that would keep him grounded to earth. Without knowing him, Castiel felt safe with Dean.
"Shh. I've got you."
Castiel leaned into him and didn't let go, "Do you promise?"
"Yeah."
Reluctantly, Castiel let go and so did Dean, leaving the pair of them to wonder at each other in silence. Dean wiped away Castiel's tears with gentle fingers and waited a second or two before asking, "Do you still want to play?"
"Yes," Castiel said, trying to smile, wiping away the fuzziness in his eyes.
It was like a switch with Dean. The happiness and good-nature immediately returned, filling Castiel with hope. "You get to count. I'll go hide!" Before Castiel could even react, Dean kissed him on the cheek and jumped up, running off with a care-free bounce to his step.
Left behind in bewilderment, Castiel blushed profusely and lifted his fingertips to touch his wet cheek. He couldn't hide the smile that lifted the sour lines of his face. He had a friend. Other than Jimmy, no one else had paid much attention to him. Castiel hadn't had a friend before. Suddenly, Castiel didn't feel quite as sad.
With a new found excitement, Castiel covered his eyes and began to count, anxious to find his new friend in the maze of trees and sunlight.