This story was written for the SPN Gen Big Bang and will be posted daily (I think?) for those who like their updates quick but not in a lump sum. :)

Inexpressible thanks to Askance for an incredible beta job. I handed her a crazy jumble of a story and she held my hand through five, count them, five revisions until it made sense. AintNoMeIfThereAintNoYou was my second pair of eyes and cheerleader and took time out of a very busy time in her life to help me and talk me through ideas.

And so much gratitude to dollarformyname for the absolutely incredible art she created. I stare at it, like a lot, and there's always something new and beautiful to look at. Her work is amazing, and I'm trying to link to her art masterpost but FF.N is giving me a very hard time, so she is dollarformyname at LJ. Look up all her pretty there!

It started with a beautiful black car.

Castiel Novak, nineteen years old, twenty tomorrow, was not a thief. He was many things. He was a runaway, a high school dropout, he was homeless, he was hungry, and he was very, very scared. But not a thief.

Not yet.

The November air was cool on his skin, insufficiently insulated with thin layers from charity bins in shelters. The tan jacket that Brady had come up with provided some protection, but not much. (How Brady had come by the jacket, he didn't know. He didn't ask, either.) His jeans were too tight and the soles of his shoes were starting their inevitable decline towards peeling off. His stomach ground out pain in protest of the twenty-four hours it had been since he had last eaten. His head hurt pretty much all the time.

These were things he thought about to steel himself.

"Look at that car," Brady had said two days ago, when they were preparing for this. "Tell me what you see when you look at it."

Castiel rolled his eyes, but answered, "It's in excellent shape. An expensive model, I think. Not actually brand new, but it looks brand new. Is this test necessary, Brady?"

Brady was all sharp lines and sharper focus, sticking his hands into the pockets of the jeans that perched precariously on his skinny hips. He had a predatory look about him, a hunger in his eyes as he examined the car. "You didn't notice the most important thing, so yeah, I guess it is."

Castiel deflated. He hated failing these tests. He wasn't studying something he wanted to do—despite everything that had happened since he left home, he'd never been a thief before, not in such an explicit way. Credit card fraud, identity theft, these were skills his father had passed down to him. But going in and literally stealing things from another person seemed...different. Like a concession he had not wanted to make.

"The car's the only one in the parking lot, Cas. There's probably just one guy in that store, and he's loaded."

The beautiful black car was the only car in the lot, too.

It was not as expensive, he didn't think, as the car Brady had pointed out the other day. It was older, for sure, and perhaps that lent value to it, but it was so meticulously cared for that its owner clearly had the means to pour money into its maintenance.

A car like that might suggest an older driver, too. Perhaps someone who had owned the car for a long time, who was emotionally invested in its upkeep—someone, also, who wouldn't be able to keep up with Castiel if he had to run.

And it was the only car in the parking lot.

Brady was on his way. He'd be there soon, but this was an opportunity that might not wait for backup. There could be another car that pulled up beside the black one, and he'd be out of luck.

And he was so hungry.

Panhandling had worked for a long time. He knew he had been an attractive teenager. Gabriel, his older brother, had always complained about his big puppy eyes. He would say that deploying them during an argument was not in concordance with their rules of engagement. He knew from his classmates in the few years of high school he'd completed that they considered him handsome. He was slender, with a runner's build and muscles. That had all faded somewhat after a few months on the street, and slender had become thin. He'd looked pitiful, young, vulnerable, and those things helped him, at first. People were more likely to pass him a few dollars when he sat on the sidewalk, or squeeze him in to an already-full shelter, or let him slide a couple of dollars short of the meal he'd just tried to buy, because you poor boy, you poor kid.

Now, he was obviously no longer a child—not a poor boy, poor kid. He knew he still had the same big, vulnerable eyes. He knew that superficially he looked very similar to the boy who'd run from his father (abandoned his brothers) four years ago, but he was a man now. A thin man, a young man, but a homeless man who had inconsistent access to a razor and whose clothes fit poorly and were frequently dirty. People passed him on the street, now, and averted their eyes rather than looking at him with pity. Shelters were full more often now, and meals cost exactly the amount advertised.

Credit card scams were hard for him, and always had been, though he made them work when he had to. But Brady said that he'd be better off learning to pick pockets anyway, because petty theft was only a misdemeanor as long as he didn't steal more than two hundred dollars at a time. Credit card fraud at the level he'd have to maintain was much more likely to be a felony.

But what Brady didn't seem to understand was that, yes, credit card scams would be more serious were he to get caught, but with pickpocketing and shoplifting he'd have to look at his victims. He would have to accept the fact that he was taking something from this person, this human being, and taking it for himself. That he was prioritizing his own needs above theirs.

He'd said that to Brady, and Brady had told him to shut up and nut up.

But Brady also said that that was a poor excuse, and that one way or another, he was taking money from someone and someone would have to pay for the motels he rented to get a full night's sleep and a shower, the food he bought or stole, everything he managed to acquire without buying it. Like accepting that the meat he ate came from an animal, Brady said, he might as well face his victims.

Castiel thought that an odd way to think of it, but he couldn't really argue the logic.

And here he was.

It was a convenience store connected to a gas station—small, poorly-lit, with one bored cashier who looked younger than Castiel. There were no cars buying gas, and the one car, the beautiful black car, parked in the lot, its owner surely inside the store. Then again, it was close to eleven o'clock at night, so perhaps the quiet wasn't so unusual.

Castiel pulled up the hood of his thin zipper-front hoodie and walked in.

The bell jangled jarringly, and Castiel walked quickly into the aisles. He knew the cashier had looked up, but when he checked the kid was back to his magazine, unconcerned. He released a shaky breath and walked through the candy aisle.

He spotted the car's owner almost immediately. It was almost impossible not to—the man was huge. Castiel wasn't close enough for a good comparison, but at a guess, he probably had just shy of half a foot on him. He had the kind of tousled hair you paid money for, which was a good sign, and his clothes fit well despite his tall, broad frame.

This was not ideal.

He'd been hoping for an older person—in his sixties, seventies, having bought the car as a young man and kept it up. Not this guy, who was perhaps thirty at most and looked like he kept himself in the same excellent condition as his car. This was not someone he could take in a fight, if it came to it. This was not someone he could outrun if he was caught.

But he was so hungry.

He walked behind the man and picked up a few boxes of macaroni, examining them as though there was anything substantial to compare between them. Out of the corner of his eye he glanced at the man's back pocket.

His first thought was that it looked too good to be true, and so it probably was.

A thick brown wallet was halfway out of the pocket. Castiel could see the money in it. Twenties, maybe even a hundred dollar bill, but the amount must have been in the hundreds. Far enough out that he could practically grab it without having to do a bump or anything. The smallest bit of distraction would be enough, and he'd have all of that money in his own hands.

He weighed that in his head against the reality of this man in front of him. He was rifling through cans of chicken noodle soup. Castiel could see the heavy muscles of his arms beneath the rolled sleeves of his plaid overshirt. Castiel's eyes flicked from the wallet to the man's arms, then back down. A dozen images of the ways this man could hurt him if he caught him flashed through his mind, followed quickly by a dozen things he could buy with the kind of money his wallet suggested. Hot food, a shower, somewhere to rest his head.

Movement outside the store, from where he'd entered, caught his eye. His heart sank. A young couple was walking towards the store.

He noticed the man turn his head toward the door, too. From what Castiel could see out of his periphery, he looked almost as annoyed as Castiel was.

Then, strangely, the couple paused in front of the door, looked at each other for a moment, brows furrowed, and walked away.

Castiel took a moment to breathe through his confusion.

He knew better than to look a gift horse in the mouth, though. He took the opportunity for what it was: an invitation.

He took a step toward the man and tripped, spilling the boxes of macaroni from his arms and landing on the ground with a grunt and an exaggerated hiss of pain.

The man was crouched next to him so quickly that Castiel barely realized he was moving before he was directly beside him, helping him gather the boxes back into his arms.

"You all right?" the man asked.

"Yes, thank you, I'm fine," Castiel stammered, taking the boxes from him and tucking them under his right arm. "I don't even know what I tripped over. My own feet, probably."

The man chuckled, but the look in his eye was unnervingly sharp. "It's late, you're probably tired. Need any more help?"

Castiel shook his head as he stood, muttering, "Thank you." The man smiled and turned away from him. As he rose, as the pocket of the man's jeans loosened as he straightened, Castiel plucked the wallet out of it and tucked it into the pocket of his hoodie.

His heart hammering in his chest so hard that he was sure everyone could hear it, he placed the boxes back onto the shelf. Don't leave right away, Brady had told him, but leave pretty quickly because you don't want to be there when he figures out his wallet's gone. So Castiel wandered the aisles for thirty seconds, forty-five. Then he walked to the door, his pulse throbbing so fast that his head felt like it would explode.

He reached the door, grabbed the handle, and pushed.

It didn't budge.

He felt his face heat—what a time to misread the push/pull sign—and he pulled.

It didn't budge.

He stood by the door, trying to catch his breath, which was coming in very quick, shallow puffs that promised a panic attack soon. But he stopped breathing entirely when he heard heavy boots walking slowly behind him.

Oh God, had the cashier seen something? Could they even lock doors this way in a convenience store? Why did the cashier care so much, anyway? Didn't he know that Castiel might have a gun? He didn't have one, but that was beside the point.

He turned around, trying not to be too suspicious, just trying to see what the cashier had done or if he was on the phone with the police. When his gaze found the counter, the bottom dropped out of his stomach.

The man, his mark, was standing at the counter with his fingers on the cashier's forehead. Castiel turned just in time to hear him say, "Don't be afraid." But to the cashier, not to Castiel, which was good, because Castiel was very afraid.

The cashier slumped forward on the counter, unconscious. All of the monitors fizzled and snapped to static.

The lights died.

The entire store was lit only by the streetlights outside, reducing the man to a huge silhouette against the farthest bank of windows.

He turned to Castiel.

The lights came on again with a buzzing sound. Like it had awoken him, Castiel rattled the door. He did not take his eyes off of the man, but pushed and pulled the handle with as much strength as he could muster. It was no good, anyway—the door didn't budge an inch. But the reflection in the dingy glass revealed that the man was coming closer.

The look in his eyes was intense, focused, but not angry, just...interested. Maybe a little eager, which turned Castiel's blood to ice in his veins. He seemed even bigger now, not hunched over to examine the cans but standing absolutely straight, his broad shoulders pulled back. His chin tipped up slightly, allowing him to look down on Castiel from an even greater height. He was studying him, puzzling him out, peeling back the few layers that lay above his panic. Altogether, it was not the expression that he was expecting from this giant of a man whose wallet he'd just lifted.

The man's voice was softer than he was expecting as he said, "I think you have something of mine."

Oh, God, he still had the wallet.

His fingers fumbled with the smooth leather in his pocket. He almost dropped it, but he grabbed it with both hands and held it out in front of him: an offering, an olive branch.

"I'm so sorry, I'm so—I've never done this before. I don't know what I was thinking. I'm so sorry, here, please, everything's still in it."

Footsteps behind him, outside, alerted him to someone else's presence—another man, a trucker, walked up and stopped at the same point as the couple earlier.

Castiel did not want to go to jail. More witnesses were not in his best interest toward that end. But if there was another person in the convenience store, maybe he wouldn't get beaten to a bloody pulp before the police were called.

But this man was not to be his savior. Like the couple before him, he looked mildly confused, then walked away. He never made any indication that he saw Castiel at all.

Castiel drew in a gasping, ragged breath and turned back to the man he'd stolen from. He held out the wallet again. "Please, just take it, I swear everything's still in it."

"I believe you," the man said, but didn't move to take the wallet. "But I don't want it back, Castiel."

Castiel stared at him. He slumped back against the unmoving door.

"How did you know my—"

"If you want the money, it's yours," the man said.

That stopped Castiel, who shook his head wordlessly. The man smiled, walking forward slowly, step by inexorable step and Castiel pressed himself harder against the door that still refused to open.

The man was maybe two steps away when Castiel ducked around him and full-out ran to the other side of the store, to the other set of doors. He slammed against them with his whole weight—

—but of course, they were as firmly shut as the ones he'd been at before. All he got for his efforts was a searing pain in his shoulder.

His mark, for his part, looked disappointed, but not surprised. "I'm not going to hurt you, Castiel," he said, walking toward him again. His hands were open and his fingers were spread, as though Castiel thought he'd need a weapon to hurt him. As though those hands couldn't do a good enough job on their own. So despite his words, Castiel cringed against the door when he got close, shut his eyes.

"There's six hundred dollars in the wallet."

Castiel opened his eyes.

"And I'm not kidding. All yours, on one condition."

Here it was.

"I want you to come to my motel with me. To talk. That's all. Talking."

Castiel laughed humorlessly. "Please. Nobody gives someone six hundred dollars to come talk at a motel. And I'm not a prostitute, anyway."

The man smiled. There was a strange fondness in the expression. "I know what you are and aren't, Castiel. And I'm not asking you for sex."

"Then take your wallet back, please, and let me go."

The smile faded but wasn't gone completely, just turned sad. The man sighed.

"I really need to talk to you, Castiel. I need you to come with me."

Castiel shook his head. "No. I don't want to come with you."

Now the smile was gone.

"Castiel."

"I'm giving you your wallet back. I'm apologizing. I'm not going to be any more trouble, so please, let me leave."

The man pinched the bridge of his nose. Castiel swallowed hard. The lights flickered above him, just faintly, just a buzz and a dimming before they came back, but it only heightened his sense of dread.

He wasn't going to leave the store, not without paying for what he'd done.

"You have to come with me, Castiel," the man said. "Or I'm going to have to call the police."

Castiel squared his jaw and tried not to look too scared. "Okay. Call the police. I have a clean record."

"Do you?" The man raised an eyebrow. "Or do you think that it's possible that the police could also potentially find evidence linking you to felonious levels of credit card fraud? You could be looking at up to ten years in prison, Castiel. Ten years in prison and a lifetime with a felony on your record. Is that better than coming with me?"

"I'm not a prostitute."

The man grit his teeth together. His right hand clenched into a fist, and the lights sparked. Castiel looked up, panicked, then back to the man, his heart rate doubling.

"I'm not asking you for that."

"No, you're blackmailing me into it," Castiel said, hoping that it sounded fierce and not as desperate and fearful as it sounded in his head. "I'll tell the cops you're trying to solicit, I'll tell them—"

The man took another step towards him and Castiel held his breath.

"Please come with me," the man said.

And Castiel understood that while it was couched as a request, it was not one.

He ducked his head and nodded.

The man led him outside, the doors parting easily for his hands. Castiel had a sudden urge to make a run for it. Rationally, of course, he realized that running was not only probably futile but almost certainly ultimately detrimental. If he cooperated, maybe he'd suffer less in the end. If he started this by trying to escape, he would probably be sorry. In fact, all of this attitude he was giving was likely to end up with him being sorry, regardless.

The thought soured his stomach, so he looked up at the man—his kidnapper? his mark?—and waited until he looked down.

"I'm sorry," Castiel said quietly. "I'm really, really sorry."

He hated how much his voice trembled.

The man hesitated, then smiled sadly. "I know," he said. "It's going to be okay. I promise."

Castiel had had many promises made to him and broken before, and he knew that it wasn't something you could outrun.

So when the man opened the door to the beautiful black car that had led him to its owner like a moth to the flame, he climbed in and sat quietly.

Once situated, he glanced in the rear view mirror. He saw Brady in the parking lot, staring after them with horror in his eyes as they drove away.