Summary: Dean, Sam and Castiel are New York FBI agents in the 1920's. Dean tells his partner, Sam, about a legendary Bootlegging Bust he was a part of last Saturday.
Rating: Teen
Disclaimer: I do not own Supernatural or the characters in it. I do not own the title of the story—which belongs to The Hollies. I also do not own the lyrics to Wild Women Don't Have The Blues by Ida Cox.
Characters: Dean, Sam, Castiel, and an original character.
Spoilers: None.
Dean sighed as he looked out the window of his office, watching the rain pour off of the overhang. His picture of New York City was blocked by a small waterfall, watch it flick the street lights strangely. It was raining somethin' fierce and was upsetting the glass of scotch on his desk, the vibration of the thunder causing the liquor to leap out of its glass prison, finding refuge as a golden stain in his reports. He rubbed his forehead, licking his full lips. He was dressed in the latest fashions of the 1925, white blouse rolled up on his forearms, suspenders on his shoulders. He had a nostalgic expression on his face which made his partner furrow his dark brows.
"Dean, c'mon. Tell me what happened.." Samuel inquired, his voice deep as he leaned up against the wall, his arms crossed over his board chest.
Dean looked to his partner, his brilliant hazel eyes sparkling. "You really wanna hear it?"
"I asked didn't I?"
He nodded, "Fair enough.." Dean turned away from the window slowly, taking a drink of his scotch and finishing it. He smirked, looking into his glass at the irony of it all. Dean knew it was illegal to have liquor but his district attorney, Castiel , was fond of Dean and was usually pretty lenient. Being a FBI agent had its perks. He took a seat on the side of his desk, smirking as he started his story.
"Saturday night I was working downtown…"
Dean walked a west alley in the rough parts of New York City, wearing a brown leather jacket, boots, loose unkempt blouse that he didn't bother to tuck into his trousers. He knew he had to look the part if he was going to blend in with these bums. He kinda liked undercover work. It allowed him to 'let his hair down' figuratively. Dean followed a shady looking guy with a girl on his shoulder. Dean followed the man and woman the rest of the way, undoubtedly going to the same place. He kept a safe distance, about one hundred feet or so. Prohibition folks were aware when they were being watched or followed. Dean narrowed his eyes, watching them stop at a dark door, pause, then walk through the entryway. No way would it be that easy.
He made it to the door, knocking. Suddenly, a little window opened from the middle, beady brown eyes peeking out. A muffled male voice wheezed out, "Password."
Dean answered without missing a beat, "Strawberry Siren." This was the big time Speakeasy. They had busted countless joints but this was the mother ship. Anyone who was anybody in crime: gamblers, prostitutes, thieves, con-artists, and bootleggers flocked to this place like bees to honey. The man on the other side of the window harrumphed, closing the eyelet and opened the door for Dean. He walked in, tipping his hat with a crimson feather tucked into its ribbon to the man that let him in. He made his way through the narrow, dark hallway, the club on the other side the only light in sight. Dean was immediately greeted by the scent of booze and cigars. He was in the right place.
Dean furrowed his brow, making his way to the other side finally. There were people everywhere, primarily crooked men and sleazy women. Everyone was at their own table, smoking and drinking no doubt. Dice, money, and cursing were thrown around like feathers out of a ripped bed spread. Sin made a nest and it was up to Dean to knock it out of the tree. Dancers made love to one another on the floor, their bodies so close they looked like one mass, reveling in the music and each other. He picked a far table, close to the door and his back to the wall for security. He was surprisingly close to the stage, but for now the jazz band was playing a lively tune.
"Now ladies and gentlemen.. I welcome to the stage the lovely vixen, the she-devil of all desires, and the foxiest gal around: Strawberry Siren." The clapping commenced, eyes turned to the stage immediately. He didn't need to linger very long; he knew he had hit the jackpot. Dean stood up, turning away to walk out and alert his department.
"I hear these women talkin' 'bout their monkey men~… Low down husbands 'n their no good friends~…" The strawberry blonde vixen sang, her hips swaying to the bluesy piano.
Then he heard something he didn't expect, well, didn't expect to notice anyway. There was a jazzy, sultry voice ringing in his ear. It was raw and pure, the pitches of the singer hypnotizing him. He couldn't help but turn around. The air caught in his throat, making him let out a whimper like a dog. His senses tingled, sweat breaking out on his temple. There she was.
She held the microphone with a black satin gloved hand, a pearl bracelet on her dainty wrist and a necklace to match. Her neck tilted up to elongate it elegantly while her brilliant blonde hair woven out of heaven's thread by the angels themselves covered one side of her face in soft, tempting waterfall curls. Her eyes were so magnetically blue they seemed almost white, smoldering and burning into the flesh of men like a cigarette. Her succulent lips were blood red, reflecting the dim illumination, making Dean weak in the knees.
"These women sit around all piss 'n moan!…" She sang with attitude, flipping back her hair. "Wonderin' why their wanderin' papa's dun come home…"
His eyes moved down her body slowly and he wiped his mouth lightly, his temperature starting to rise when he took in her healthy supple breasts that peeked over her jet black tight dress, the side of it slit up just enough to he could get a peek at her garter. She was a goddess of desires, built with curves to make a grown man cry. Dean smirked to himself, even observing her little pistol tucked in the hose. The woman was a tall drink of water, probably around 5'9" he guessed. He was bad mess 'cause that long cool woman had it all.
"But wild women dun worry… Wild women dun have no blues…" She held the microphone still, singing into it with seductive energy. The woman made eye contact with Dean, her body turned towards him. "Now if you've gotta man, dun ever let him beyond a square… 'Cause if ya do he'll have a woman everywhere…"
Dean swallowed hard, his hazel eyes never leaving hers. The woman smirked and stepped off the stage. She stepped down slowly and smoothly like a cat, almost teasing every male in the room when the slit of her dress went up with every step… She sang to Dean, raising an eyebrow in suggestion. "I've never been tha' woman to treat no one man right… I keep 'em movin' day 'n night…"
An old man beside Dean watched the blonde vixen watch him and vise versa, chuckling. "I hope thatcher able boy, 'cause I'm tellin' ya she knows where it's at." Dean smirked at the man briefly, turning towards the woman. She was several steps away from his table, staring him down like a predator. His heart beat out of his chest, hammering back and forth as it thundered in his ears. Sweat rolled down his temple and into the collar of his shirt, the heat wave taking him as prisoner.
She was one step away from the table then suddenly a siren pierced the jazzy, relaxed air, sending the whole joint into chaos. The piano man struck a fowl note, men scrambled to gather their winnings, prostitutes fled without their customers, bootleggers stashed the goods and fought the crowd. There was a gunshot as the FBI flooded through the door, badges out and scowls painted on their faces. "STOP RIGHT WHERE YOU ARE YOU CROOKS! HANDS UP WHERE I CAN SEE 'EM FELLAS!" Castiel bellowed on Dean's left side.
The woman was wide eyed, frozen in fear and dropped the microphone immediately. Dean jumped over the table and swept his arm around her waist, pulling her to his right. "Don't be scared ma'am 'cause you're gonna be spared." Dean pulled out his gun with his left, pointing it at the bootleggers.
She smiled crookedly at Dean, her hand on his shoulder, gazing deep into his eyes. "What's your name, baby?" She asked, her speaking voice more bluesy and sexy than when she sang.
Dean's eyes sparkled as he looked down at her, his face just inches from hers. "Winchester, ma'am. Dean Winchester."
"Well, Mr. Winchester, I believe I owe ya."
"Not at all, ma'am. Just doing my job."
She smirked still, her blue-white eyes sparkling. "Will a kiss suffice?"
He smirked crookedly as well, "A kiss would do just fine, ma'am. Just fine."
The woman closed the gap slowly, kissing her rescuer passionately into the night…
Just a little romantic change for me :) I'm not sure if I want to continue with this story. So if you liked it, let me know and I'll write more.