The cheers are almost deafening when Castiel returns to Michael's large apartment, the penthouse suite on top of one of the largest buildings in their city – it seems like everyone is there, every fledgling right up to the Archangel himself, leaning against his waist-high bar with a drink in one hand and his wife in the other, smiling wide at Castiel like the man is a weird experiment that promised very pleasing results.
"Castiel!" Michael says, his voice carrying above the cheers as he lets Lilith go, stepping towards the youngest and newest member of the Angel gang. "Welcome home, brother."
The cheers start up again, worse this time, a deafening and chaotic wall of sound that makes Castiel wince, shoulders going tense.
"How is Gabriel?" he asks when it has quieted enough for him to be heard, and Michael sighs, nodding.
"He is recovering well. Had you gotten him to the doctor any later he may have suffered too greatly to revive him." Castiel breathes a small sigh of relief – Gabriel is well. If Gabriel is better then everything is okay. Then, a hand settles itself on his shoulder and Castiel's eyes widen when Michael turns, raising his drink up high for all to see. "To Castiel, our newest brother and Angel!"
Michael turns to him when the chants of his given name turn almost too loud for Castiel to hear himself think; "Your acquisition of the safety deposit box was a true victory, Castiel. As soon as Gabriel is well you shall acquire your wings and we will have a celebration. It's only right."
Castiel smiles wide, accepting the drink that is pushed into his hands by the blur of his brothers, one by one congratulating him on the job well done and Samandriel, the newest before him, the one who had been able to completely disrupt an entire shipping route for the Eagles and ended up sending their weapon supplies to Canada, draws him into a tight hug which he returns.
Gabriel had taught Samandriel as well.
"Well done, Castiel," the other man says, eyes bright and proud. He's a little younger than Castiel, had made his move earlier in life and has already made it to Ophanim level – one of the youngest ever to do so, the stretch of his wings just visible under the sleeves of his shirt, a deep brown. "That was a great find – and I heard that the actual leader was in the building with you!" His eyes are wide, awe-struck almost, as though that makes the feat even more impressive when Castiel is pretty sure the Eagle didn't even know they were there until they were gone. "How did you know? How did you get out?"
"I…" Castiel swallows, ducking his head, and takes a drink, grimacing at the taste – straight bourbon. Of course. "It was more of a lucky break, really," he says, shrugging one shoulder. "I just got this…feeling…that it was a trap and then the banker had a gun on us and -."
"But going back to get the prize anyway!" Samandriel smiles, raising his glass to Castiel in a gesture that already the older man is starting to hate – if it hadn't been for Gabriel, Castiel would likely have been shot dead in that corridor and no one would have been the wiser. Angels go missing all the time; it's sad but it's true. "True dedication, Castiel, and I think you've definitely won Michael over. You'll be Seraph in no time."
Castiel smiles. A Seraph – the highest Angel one can be while still working amongst the people, doing the dirty work in the city. Above them lie the Powers and Thrones and Dominions, and above that Archangels. Michael is the only Archangel still alive, the most powerful Angel in this city, and their leader.
He wants that – he wants to be a Seraph, wants to keep working within the heart of the city and doing anything and everything he can to protect those above him. To be able to do things like infiltrate Eagle territory without being recognized and save and fight for his brothers – yes, to be a Seraph would be a high achievement indeed.
He raises his glass, clinks it against Samandriel's. "Here's hopin'," he replies, finishing his bourbon in one swallow as Samandriel does the same, the younger Angel raising his empty glass and starting up the next round of cheering.
"Let's wake up the whole block, boys!" That's another Angel, one that Castiel doesn't know by voice, and the man smiles, accepting a second drink pressed into his hands, and finishes that one as well. It's going to be a long night.
Morning finds Chuck Shirley opening the thick, heavy padlock to his junkyard site, pushing open the light cross-link fencing and letting the chain hang at the entrance as he steps inside, about to do his rounds for the morning – the fence is pretty much enough deterrent for petty thieves, especially since the potential prize inside is hardly worth the effort – but there are holes and holes can mean pests.
He's passing by the old shell of a Chevrolet Impala sitting on cement bricks when he catches movement from within and freezes, peering cautiously inside.
"…Dean?"
The young man starts awake, rubbing the heel of his hand into his eye as he blinks up the other at the small figure of the robed man. Dean likes Chuck – and, more importantly, Chuck likes Dean. Or at least appreciates talent where it's present.
Chuck owns the large, low-rent auto dealership that Dean had found himself wandering to when he had no other place to go, kind of like what airports and rent-a-car services use, but only if you don't want someone asking too many questions and don't mind if you don't drive out with an Audi or Lincoln sports car. It's good money where Dean can get it, honest when he can't, and somewhere in between walking in and looking like a sad, drowned puppy and now, Chuck pretty much trusts him with the whole place.
Dean is a people person, and that comes in handy pretty damn well, because he knows that he's going to need to step up his lifestyle if it will earn him a place back, if not at his father's side, then at least orbiting the man. Sure, Dean's no silver-spooned child, but there is something to be said for a comfortable and well-protected life, and Dean will be damned if their father refuses to let Dean go to Sam's wedding just because of some stupid fight they had six years ago.
More of a disownment than a fight. Point is, Dean's going to prove his father wrong. He's going to prove everyone wrong, and that needs to start with Chuck.
"Mornin'," Dean replies, pushing himself upward with a huff and shaking his head to clear it. The man's eyes are sharp, if wide, when they look Dean over, lips pursing out in a mix between disappointment and pity at Dean's disheveled and dirty look – he hadn't risked a shower when sneaking out of his roommate's bed and apartment, so he'd only had his duffle and the dirty clothes on his back.
"Come here," Chuck says like a disapproving mother checking behind her son's ears when Dean climbs out of the skeleton of the car, standing a little sheepishly for Chuck to inspect. "Jesus Christ, Dean, you look like Hell. What happened?"
Without thinking, Dean is already following Chuck as the little man continues to make his rounds of the place, before he follows Chuck to the trailer acting as his office and steps inside with a sigh. "Got kicked out of my place," he says because it's the least complicated explanation, and because Chuck doesn't ask questions he accepts that with a nod. "Figured I could crash here, at least for a couple nights before finding a new place."
"Sure, sure," Chuck says with an absent nod, flicking on the coffee maker and sitting down in the broken wheely chair that's missing two wheels with a sigh. Dean just stands there awkwardly while the man tries to function without his first three cups of coffee, staring out of the front window when Chuck rolls back the sliding metal sheets to reveal a view out into the lot. "I can leave this trailer open if you want – it's rainy season, after all."
Dean nods, smiling a little. "Thanks, man, I appreciate it. I'll be out of your hair in no time."
Chuck just lifts one shoulder in a shrug, sighing and rubbing the bridge of his nose. "Will do good to have some eyes here at night anyway. Business has been slow. Means something big is building." And Dean nods to himself, though he's not quite sure what the other man means – Chuck has been in the city all his life, knows things about how it works and what the rumbles underfoot mean when something is about to happen; some tension building between the two big dogs who run this town.
"I'll need a place to go eventually," he says for lack of anything else to say – silences with Chuck are almost always comfortable, but that's just the thing; the guy probably can and will go on in silence all day if it so pleased him, holed up in his trailer on his typewriter while Dean makes the sales, and yeah, that's a comfortable arrangement, just the two of them, but it sucks when you have something to say and he's just giving you all the time in the world to say it. "You know anyone who's likely to take in a kid off the streets?"
Chuck snorts, shaking his head. "Sorry, Dean. But I'll let you know if I think of anyone." And Dean sighs, nodding. He hadn't expected much, to be fair – Chuck has just about as many friends as Dean does, that he knows of. They aren't, well, the social sort.
"Fair enough," Dean replies when he spots the first of their returns crawling into the lot – an old Ford from the eighties that has more coats of paint than passenger seats – and he steps outside to handle the money and deal with the undoubted fix-ups that'll be necessary after the joy-ride.
Dark, golden-brown eyes narrow as he gazes out across the city, sprawled out before him like the body of a spent lover, tired and dirty and stained. His upper lip curls back in anger and he turns, carefully swirling around the whiskey in his glass, before he tips it back, swallowing it down in one rough mouthful.
"Which box did they take?" he asks of his secretary – a quiet man that embodies what would happen if hamsters suddenly took on human form. His hair is messy and unkempt, blue eyes bright and wild and nervous.
"Seven-sixty-one, Sir," the man replies meekly, his legs jogging together in his seat before he crosses one over the other, looking down and clasping his hands together tightly. The man behind the desk curses, slamming his fist down on his large wooden desk, before taking a seat behind it and fixing the scrawny secretary with a steely gaze.
The pause seems like it goes on forever. The man looks like he's about to pass out when John finally speaks; "Do you know why I hired you, Mister Pike?" he asks, raising a brow at the way the man is squirming in his seat.
The man nods. "Yes, Sir."
"Tell me, then."
"You…" He pauses, swallowing loudly. "I was to infiltrate the Angel ranks and give you information about their next move, Sir. Give you the upper hand, Sir."
The man nods slowly, pretending to give that grave consideration. "Yes. But it seems like some wires have gotten crossed, haven't they?" The man opens his mouth – to argue, to defend himself, the man behind the desk doesn't care and he doesn't have time for it, either. He waves the meek protests away, leaning back in his chair. "Make sure you clean up your act in the future, Mister Pike. I am hardly so forgiving twice." The man nods, pushing himself out of the chair with fervent thanks, before he scurries out of the room, leaving the door open for Sam Winchester to walk back through.
"It doesn't do good to make the bees piss themselves, Sir," Sam says with a snort of derision, taking the chair that Mister Pike had vacated before, crossing his leg so his ankle rested on his knee, leaning back. "You wanted to see me?"
John smiles grimly, wiping a hand across his mouth, and pushes himself to a standing position. "There's been some talk, Sam," he says, turning once again to gaze out across the city, hands clasped behind his back so that Sam can see them. "They say you've been going to the west part of town – near the docks."
Sam winces, brushing some of his hair out of his face when John turns to regard him coolly. "Now, I know you don't want to dirty your dick in some Angel whores, so, tell me, what brings you that way?" he asks, with the careful reserve of someone who thinks they already know the answer but will listen to the bullshit excuse anyway, just for entertainment's sake.
And Sam contemplates, for a moment, lying to his father, but he knows it wouldn't do himself any good. Besides, it can't hurt to let John know his plans; "I went to see Dean, Sir," he says, tensed for the explosion, but John merely blinks at him, seemingly stunned at that answer. "I wanted to tell him about me and Jess, offer him an opportunity to clean up his act."
John snorts, smirking to himself. "And I suppose that conversation ended well," he says, voice dripping with sarcasm, and Sam swallows, turning his face away.
"At least I tried," he mutters, almost too quietly to hear, resentment coloring his tone as he looks at his father's back – six years. Six years Dean's been living in the slums and the man hasn't even spared him a second thought, Sam would be willing to bet. "I don't think he's interested, though, no."
"It's interesting," John mutters to himself, swinging up onto the balls of his feet before settling back down.
"What is, Sir?"
John pauses again, thinking – interesting, he thinks, that these things happened within a week of each other. "Oh, nothing," he replies, smiling as he turns back towards Sam, arms spread wide in a hug that the younger man rises from his feet to reciprocate. "Don't you worry about it, son, I'm just an old man with a brain who likes to talk back to me." He shakes his head, smiling in a self-deprecation, guiding Sam towards the door. "Go on, now, you've got a sweet young thing to welcome you to your bed. Don't keep her waiting."
"'Night, Sir," Sam says, smiling a little despite himself and shaking his father's hand before he turns to leave, John closing the door behind him with a heavy sigh. He will have to make some phone calls, certainly – it wouldn't do good to have his wayward son causing havoc within the city, especially if there is some third party messing with his plans, which would mean the Angels are too far ahead of his own plans to sabotage them.
No, that wouldn't do at all.
By the end of the day, Dean is exhausted – the Ford had ended up needing new brake pads, and let's not even get into the damage done to a station wagon that someone had to physically push into the lot because the pedal had disconnected, and one of the cars had to be written off completely and he'd had to tear it down for parts and call in the scrap boys for the rest of it.
He's just about ready to call it for the night, when Chuck sidles awkwardly up to him, handing him a roll of hundreds that Dean knows will amount to twelve hundred pretty dollars, and he smirks to himself as he realizes Chuck is calling in one of his favors. Well, it hadn't been on his agenda for the night, but Hell, what's a bit more money to fatten up his wallet? The unexpected tip from the blue-eyed man had been a nice surprise, but it wouldn't stretch far, and Dean is determined not to give Sam the satisfaction of dipping into his bank account unless he really, really has to.
"I'm gonna need to use your shower first," he says, gesturing to himself, and Chuck nods, scurrying out of his trailer to start locking up, leaving Dean alone to schlep off his dirty clothes and pull some relatively clean ones from his duffle bag, stepping into the tiny cubicle in Chuck's trailer that acts as a shower.
The water is lovely and warm, if low-pressure, and Dean sighs as he feels himself start to relax under the spray. Say what you want, there's a certain contentment one can always find in a nice, hot shower, and Dean carefully, painstakingly cleans out all the grease that's caked into the back of his neck, gritted in his hair – he washes the sweat and dirt from his skin and behind his ears, even bites down his fingernails to try and get some of the grease out from under there, too.
It's therapeutic, almost, cleaning himself from many days' labor, faking the clean and well-kept façade of most of this part of the city. Anyone can clean up well enough given half the chance, but it's up to his line of work to present the illusion flawlessly – like a john isn't really picking up any two-dollar whore off the side of the streets.
Granted, going to the docks at all makes him rare enough that what money he does get is good money, but still, it pays to make himself presentable.
Dean closes his eyes, slicking back his hair to allow the water to run down his face and chest, before he carefully uncaps the small bottle he'd snuck in with his clothes, allowing the silicone-based lube – it makes for a bitch of a clean-up but stays good for the entire night – to pour out onto his fingers, before he reaches behind himself to slide one finger in.
Fuck. It stings. His roommate had really done a number on him last night, but he forces himself to breathe through it because, Hell, that's what happens when you're paying literally out of your ass. He bites hard on his lower lip, free fist clenching tight and braced against the wall of the cubicle, and forces another finger inside. He doesn't have time to be gentle or really prep himself right at all – Magda works very select hours and if Dean doesn't get to her first he'll lose her and Chuck, well, he owes the guy this much at least.
He manages to get himself up to three fingers before stopping with a low curse. It hurts, like a bitch, and he knows this night is gonna sting, but whatever, maybe he'll get lucky and find a john willing to finish the job properly – unlikely but hey, there's always hopin'. He washes the lube off his hands, switching the shower off, and hurriedly towels himself dry and gets dressed.
He makes it out in time for Chuck to be finishing his rounds, and smiles wide, tapping the pocket that has Magda's money in it so that Chuck can see. "I'll see you tomorrow, boss," he calls, earning a small, nervous smile and a wave from the man, as Chuck locks the gate behind Dean and they both go their separate ways – Chuck to a motel down the street where Madga will meet him, Dean to the docks.
"Little brother!"
Castiel smiles despite himself, turning just in time for Gabriel to envelope him in his chair into a tight hug, his shoulder digging uncomfortably into Castiel's neck and, for a moment, cutting off his air supply.
"Gabriel," he gasps out, patting the man's shoulders awkwardly to let him know that it's time to stop hugging him because he'd really like to breathe now, thanks, but he can't stop smiling when Gabriel withdraws, this proud look in his eyes like Castiel's just said his first word or learned how to walk or discovered cold fusion. "Up and about already? I'd have thought they kept you on bed rest for longer."
"Six days is enough for me, thank you! I'm not going to let some damn bullet keep me down for long!" He wiggles his eyebrows conspiratorially. "Besides, I've got a party to plan! My baby brother got his wings!"
Castiel flushes, biting his lip and looking down, fingers curling into the armrests of his chair. "Yeah, well, you helped me pull it off. Without you I -."
"Hush now, Mister Humble," Gabriel says, stepping closer and clapping a hand on Castiel's shoulder, before leaning in. "Never admit you couldn't do it on your own, little bro – that's weakness right there." Then he straightens again, talking louder as though someone else might be listening, clapping his hands together. "Now, you and me, we're gonna go get your wings, and then we're gonna hit the town. Never let it be said my baby brother didn't get his party!"
Castiel raises an eyebrow, pushing himself to his feet. "I really don't think you should be going anywhere in your condition," he replies loftily, though he's smiling because he knows it's ridiculous to try and dissuade Gabriel from anything involving a celebration. Castiel is pretty sure that the man could have fallen from the sky and broken every bone in his body and would still insist on doing body shots off his nurse – because that's the kind of person Gabriel is. He is the life of the city.
"I'm picking you up from your place in exactly three hours, and you're going to be a good little boy and let big brother take you out on the town. Trust me!" Gabriel calls, turning on his heel and walking out of Castiel's closet-like office. "It'll be the night of your life!"
"I hardly doubt it," the younger man mutters under his breath, sighing and logging off the system – with Gabriel planning something and an hour commute ahead of him to get home, Castiel figures there's no point trying to be productive for the rest of the day. Besides, he'll need to make sure he ingests enough carbs to sustain Gabriel's 'required' level of alcohol consumption to ensure he's not face-down in a gutter by the end of the night.
It's a rite of passage for any Angel – you get assigned a job, and once you complete your job you get your wings and are accepted into the ranks officially. This rite is usually accompanied by copious amounts of alcohol and probably a woman or five, and while Castiel isn't necessarily sure tattoos, booze and floozies should go together, it's how it's always been done. And who is he to argue with tradition?
The docks are tricky territory – Sam was right to be outraged at hearing about Dean going there. The docks are blatantly marked as Angel territory – if they were animals it would reek of Angel piss, that's how marked the docks are as Angel property. They own everything that comes into and out of this city by sea, whereas the Eagles tended to own the banks and the skies.
Dean isn't worried about that so much, though – if anyone who is anyone sees his face, they wouldn't recognize him. He's changed a lot since being under his father's wing, and only very important people would know him from the first Adam. Luckily, very important people don't squander their time in bars and whores.
No, what makes the docks tricky is that, despite being Angel territory, they are also the highest places for the sin – sins of the body, desires for drink and women, yes, those are accommodated here. Street rats can earn a few bucks by pointing new sailors in the direction of Mary Boulevard, the street of the Angel whores and strip clubs and the better bars. Where the pavement is lined with women who'll kill you for fifty bucks, bring you back to life for a hundred, and take you home for a thousand. Why men who choose to call themselves after the warriors of God endorse such behavior, Dean will never know.
They do have a few taboos, though, what's left of them – the whores are always women. Mary Boulevard does not cater to those otherwise inclined, and as far as Dean knows, Eagle territory doesn't either. An Angel has no need for male hookers, so handling himself on those streets can be difficult – when he's obviously not dressed to buy, but to sell, it's a fine line between making a killing and being killed, and Dean has to tread carefully.
He spots Magda with two other women, one shorter with dark hair that he has never seen before, and another familiar face. Magda, Dean supposes, is as close to another friend as one can get on the streets of this city, with her fiery red hair that flares down to her waist and her skin the color of chocolate. Dean has no idea how she manages to get her hair that color and still have it look so lovely, but it must be a trick of the trade, and a trick that pays off well.
Her face splits into a smile when she sees him – Dean's entrance always means a definite twelve hundred rather than a possible nine – and throws her arms open wide to hug him in greeting. "Baby bird!" she coos, tutting softly and lifting Dean's chin with one finger. Dean can feel her long nails digging into the soft flesh of his neck. "How are you, sweetheart?"
"The better for seeing you, gorgeous," Dean replies with an easy smile, for being around Magda is easy, and comforting. She's as close to a mother as Dean has ever known. Without another word, he reaches into his pocket and pulls out the roll Chuck gave him, slipping it to her under the cover of a flick of her thick mane of hair, so that the other girls and anyone else watching cannot see – never let anyone know just how much money you're carrying.
Her dark eyes sparkle with delight, and her smile is wide and brilliantly bright. "I'll see you later, then, baby bird, if you're still here," she says, patting his cheek with a soft palm before waving goodbye to the two other girls, strutting away back down Mary Boulevard and towards the motel Chuck always arranges for their meetings – 'Say what you want; the man is a gentleman'.
"So, baby bird." That's the new girl speaking – Dean doesn't recognize her voice – and he turns to regard her coolly. Her ridiculous heels put her almost to his height, but without them she'd be maybe just over five feet, and he winces in sympathy at the thought of the pain she must have in her feet. "I haven't seen you around before."
He raises an eyebrow, smiling wide as he throws an arm around the last girl – one he knows, Magda's protégée – Becky. He knows she'll cover his story as long as he needs her to, because a friend of Magda's is a friend of Becky's and Dean's friend pays too well for them to be enemies. "I could say the same for you…?" He trails off, letting her missing name hang in the air.
She tosses back her dark hair with a huff, full lips painted purple and pouting. "Ruby," she says, and then hesitates. "… Ruth."
Dean keeps his face smooth of anything other than understanding, though it takes him a moment to think past the slip-up – most girls on the streets don't care if you know their real name, since any real name could be just as fake and no one cares that they're here anymore – but then he remembers. Angels are fond of Biblical and religious names – Magda, for example. Dean's pretty sure her name wasn't that by birth, but he doesn't know Becky's Angel name. Ruby must have chosen Ruth as her Angel name, clearly marking her as one of them.
"So, Matthew," Becky says brightly, turning then on her six-inch black heels and planting her hand across Dean's chest, splayed wide, her thin and shivering body pressing tight to his side. "Am I yours for the night?" Her eyelashes flutter, her smile wide, teeth gleaming inside baby-pink painted lips, and Dean grins, reaching down to grab her ass just because he can.
"Let's just do the hour, sweetheart," he says, turning her and walking her towards one of the alleys. "I'd hate to rob you blind."
He can feel Ruby's glare on the back of his head as he rounds the corner, releasing Becky immediately once they're out of sight. "A new one?" Dean asks, frowning in confusion. "I thought the block couldn't handle any more – Christ, the three of you were standing around as it is!"
Becky bites her lower lip, shaking her head to force her dirty blonde hair to fall around her neck, covering some of her bare skin – Christ, she looks like she's freezing, and immediately Dean wraps his arms around her again, letting her soak up his body heat, though he does go tense and wince when her icy fingers dig under his shirt to flatten against his warm skin.
"There's been talk," she whispers into his neck, almost too softly to hear, "of spies. A double agent or something." Dean nods, sighing, and hurriedly presses his face into her hair, hand flattening across her bare thigh to pull her to him as the alleyway entrance is eclipsed by a passing stranger. Becky, to her credit, doesn't even stutter. "Can't tell which side he's actually on, though. Makes me nervous."
That makes Dean pause. "You've seen him?" he asks, eyes wide and voice low as he runs a hand through her hair, trying to touch her everywhere to warm her up – all of her skin is prickly with goose bumps.
She nods, huffing against his neck. "He's a little guy, hangs around with the big ones. They have high hopes for him, they say." Then, she sighs again. "He might not be out tonight – but look out for him. He's blue-eyed."
Dean snorts. "That all you can say about him?"
"He has very bright eyes. You'll notice."
And Dean swallows, thinking back to the blue-eyed man he had aided yesterday, and tries not to think too hard about what sort of thing that might mean, if a double agent had seen his face. He doesn't need people knowing where he is.
"You should be inside," he whispers to Becky, pushing her far enough away only to dig into his pocket for three of the twenties he was given, shoving them into her hand. "Go find a room for the night, or buy a coat. Please."
Her smile is shaky when she slips the folded bills into the cup of her bra. "You're a good man, Dean."
"Wait." As she turns to leave, he pulls her back and presses their lips together, running his hands through her hair and pulling the ends of her thin blouse out of the short skirt she'd tucked it into. He does his best to smear her lip gloss and ruffle her hair to make it look as convincing as possible – one can never be too careful of who's watching.
She kisses him back, because she knows the game and appearances are everything, but even so she's breathless when they pull apart, eyes wide and blackened and mouth kiss-swollen. Becky flashes him a smile, painstakingly running her fingers through her hair to make it look like she tried to straighten it back out, pulling her skirt down too far and only tucking her shirt back in half-way. It's an art form and Becky is the best artist he knows.
"Be safe," Dean whispers, kissing his fingers and then placing them to her cheek, before he allows her to go. He wipes his mouth on his forearm, grimacing at the taste of lip-gloss on his tongue when he licks his lips, and does his best to compose himself – hopefully by the time Dean's own catch comes along, both Ruby and Becky will be long gone and Dean can hunt his fill.
And if he happens to focus more on the blue-eyed men of the evening, well, it's no one's business but his own.