Dean wakes up to a pounding in his head.
Wait, he hadn't had that much to drink. No, not in his head, pounding on the door downstairs.
Dean falls out of bed and stumbles into the hallway. He peers into Sam's room, but Sam's missing. Dean throws on a shirt from a stack of clean laundry and changes into the jeans from the previous night. He pushes his hand through his short, dirty-blond hair and takes a deep breath.
Knock knock knock knock knock…
"Coming, one minute," shouts Dean, padding his way barefoot down the stairs adding, much softer, "…ya jackass."
Dean clears his throat and opens the door, his best smile on his face. "Can I help you?" He sounds more cordial than he feels.
The man at the door is shorter than Dean, wearing nice slacks, a button-down shirt, and black sunglasses. The hair on his head is thinning and his beard is the same color brown with a sprinkling of gray. "Hello, I have a hot date with one…Dean Winchester?"
"I know you?" asks Dean, holding the door open, but keeping his mass planted in front to avoid the person rushing him. Not that he looks all that threatening.
"No, I don't think so," says the man, speaking with a slight accent Dean can only assume is some kinda British. "I'm here from the Property Appraiser's office."
"Oh, wait, okay, you're the guy, right," Dean opens the door wider, and wipes his palm on his jeans before offering his hand. "I'm Dean."
The man stares at the hand but doesn't take it. "Crowley. Charmed. The clerk noted you thought there was a problem with your appraised value?"
"Uh, yeah, the value of this place," says Dean, gesturing at the front porch, as if Crowley might be confused about which property is being discussed, "keeps going up, every year, and I haven't filed any complaints, but it's getting ridiculous. This year's taxes are almost forty percent more than last year."
"The taxes are based on your home's appraised value," says Crowley, as he walks back down the steps without waiting for Dean. He stares at the crumbling condition of the concrete stairs and reaches into his pocket to retrieve a pen and pad.
"I know how taxes work," says Dean, stepping onto the porch and shutting the door behind himself. At least, he has a basic idea how taxes work. "But it's going up too quickly, there's no way that's realistic, this is some kinda mistake or conspiracy."
Crowley scribbles something on the pad and walks to the sidewalk before turning to stare up at the house.
Built around the turn of the nineteenth century, the Winchester's house is brown brick with quaint railings on a wrap-around porch. The wooden accents were once painted white, but the color has yellowed and chipped over time. The left side of the house is rounded, like a castle turret.
There are several square windows, though some are boarded up due to existing leaks. Windows in the subbasement are visible from the sidewalk, and a short concrete stairway leads up to the porch. Above the second floor, a finished attic with two wooden dormer windows crowns the house.
Their father had tried to fix up some of the obvious troubles, such as the outdated electrical wiring, and the crumbling steps, but money was always an issue. The brick was in good shape, despite the other flaws.
Crowley stares up at the large oak tree in the lawn, its branches burdened with moss until it seems on the brink of collapse. He scribbles furiously as Dean joins him on the grass.
"Have you done any considerable improvements to the interior in the past two years? Bathroom or kitchen renovations, new wooden floors?" asks Crowley.
"Nah," says Dean, shaking his head. "The floors creak a little, the railings need a fresh coat of paint, a couple of the windows leak, and the attic is finished, but part of the roof collapsed a few years ago. We repaired the roof but it's still a mess."
Crowley makes no movements to suggest he's heard, writing away. He eventually puts the pad away, and pulls out a smartphone, typing furiously with two thumbs.
"You need to see the inside?" asks Dean.
"Not necessary," says Crowley, without glancing up.
"So, are you gonna fix the value? I mean, it's obviously not worth the amount the property appraiser claims," says Dean.
Crowley gives a loud sigh as he puts his phone down for a moment and tilts his head as he stares up at Dean. "Did you know that the house just down the street from yours recently sold for over six hundred thousand dollars?"
Dean blinks at the number. "Uh, sure, but that house was larger, and the lawn was kept, and…"
"Other houses in the area, older and in worse condition than yours, are selling for over half a million dollars…"
"That's asinine, no one should buy this house for that much…"
"Oh, they would, and they could," says Crowley, a devilish smile on his face as he pops his shades off. "Are you interested in selling?"
"What? No! I just need the house valued correctly, so I can afford the taxes…"
"Well, you were right, your home is valued incorrectly," says Crowley, punching in a few more numbers to the smartphone. "Considering the recent sales in the area, and the demand placed on this neighborhood, I would say that your house is actually undervalued. I will bump it up in the system to reflect the true value, and you will owe the greater of one hundred percent of your previous value or eighty-five percent of the new appraised value and that means you…actually owe," Crowley frowns as he punches numbers into his phone again, "…one hundred and forty dollars more than we previously billed."
Dean stares, unblinking.
"Don't worry, we'll get the updated bill to you right quick," says Crowley, sucking air through his teeth. "Good thing you brought this to our attention."
"You gotta be kidding me, there's no way…"
"What do you do for a living, Dean?" asks Crowley.
"I run a business, here, and…" Dean's words fade away. Crowley leans to the side and stares at the front porch where the sign reading 'Winchester Ghost Tours' is predominantly displayed.
"Ghost Tours?" asks Crowley.
Dean nods, eyebrows shooting up his forehead as he stares down Crowley, begging for a comment.
"Well, Mr. Winchester, I don't tell you how to tour ghosts, and you don't need to tell me how to appraise a property."
"There's gotta be something else we can do, some way to work this out, I couldn't sell this house for six hundred thousand dollars if I even wanted to, and…"
"Would you consider a deal?" asks Crowley, eyebrows raising. "There's a private investor, new to town, buying up properties such as this one. He's paying handsomely for leads on properties. If you were to sell to him, I could ensure you get that amount, if not more, and I'll even split the finder's fee with you, seventy-thirty."
"No dice," sneers Dean. "This was my father's house, it's important to my business, and there's no way in hell I'm gonna be selling it."
"Then, I'll get the updated bill to you as soon as possible," says Crowley. He pockets his phone, replaces his shades, and begins to walk away.
"There's nothing else I can do?" asks Dean, reaching out to grab Crowley's elbow. The contact stops the man in his tracks. Crowley turns around and makes an obvious show of looking Dean up and down.
"You're pretty enough, but if I'm going to put my job at risk to lower your property value, I'm going to need to see the goods up front."
Dean glares.
"Well, if that's all…"
"This isn't fair, asshole."
"I'm not the enemy here, boy," says Crowley, pausing to give a sociable smile. "No, you should be blaming Angel Construction. Have you ever heard of gentrification? No? Might want to Google it, later. You see, it's their fault your property value is rising exponentially. You'd be smart to take the payout, and move somewhere better suited to your needs in a more affordable neighborhood."
Crowley walks away, and Dean makes no further grabs. He stands, watching, as Crowley gets into a white city vehicle parked on the road, and drives away.
Dean's best attempt to lower his taxes resulted in a slight increase. Perfect.
"Mother fu…" Dean growls, as a headache he has been ignoring roars to life behind his eyes. He reaches into his pocket, and withdraws his flask, holding it up for a swig. Empty. He holds it over his mouth and shakes, dislodging a few, precious droplets.
Hopeless. In addition to all of the other issues, where is he going to come up with five thousand dollars for taxes?
Dean paces through the store, attempting to put his thoughts in order. Eventually, he gives up. He jumps into the Impala, determined to drive around and let off steam. He ends up where he usually does-Bobby's repair shop, just outside of the historic district.
"No tours tonight?" asks Bobby as soon as Dean walks into the garage area. Bobby's wearing his blue collared shirt with the Singer Automotive logo over his heart. He's almost completely covered in dirt and oil. The sleeves are rolled up and he's leaning halfway inside the popped hood of a 1998 Mustang Cobra.
"Nah, no tours, just needed to get away from the house, clear my head," mutters Dean. Bobby gives a curt nod.
"Well, I'm all ears," says Bobby, ducking low under the hood.
"I don't wanna burden you with all my problems, says Dean. He pauses, leaning against the wall of the garage. He waits a few seconds before burdening Bobby with all of his problems.
"The taxes this year have gone up—again. A lot. I had a meeting with some appraiser who refused to lower the amount. He actually suggested it should be higher. For dad's place, can you believe it?"
"Well, you'll find the money, you always do," says Bobby.
"Where am I gonna get it from?" asks Dean. "I'm almost tapped out here. I've got Sam's student loans looming over my head, law school is only partially covered by his scholarship, the company is doing the same as always, but the royalties…"
"You havin' more trouble with the publishers?" asks Bobby, craning his neck around the popped hood. "I thought everything was settled back then."
"No, they're not withholding, the sales are just…slowing," says Dean, his chin dropping to his chest. "The book's over ten years old, Bobby. There won't be any reprints anytime soon."
"It makes sense, but…" Bobby pauses, two hands on the front of the car, "I guess I got comfortable thinkin' that money was a sure thing. You boys' inheritance."
"I know, and it shoulda been if I'd been able to finish dad's list."
"Don't go puttin' that on yerself. John was wrong to put that on your shoulders, just cause the book was his priority, don't mean it has to be yours. And that's not all," Bobby pauses to lick his lips and meet Dean's eyes, "I wish you would consider selling."
"What? No, not you too," says Dean, scowling. "You know the reason I can't do that, you know about mom, and dad, and…"
"I know what the house means to you—what it meant to your dad, but you don't need to be saddled with debt for a decrepit old house," says Bobby.
"What about the ghost tours? I can't just lose our shop front," says Dean.
"With enough cash, you can rent out a better storefront, and afford a nicer house outside of old town."
"Yeah, right," says Dean.
"You can use the excess to pay off Sam's college," says Bobby. "We could afford to buy some new vans to help the business, Heaven knows the ones we use now are on their last legs."
"Low blow," says Dean, shrugging against the wall. "We're not moving. That was dad's house—mom's house."
"And you think they want you strugglin' to make ends meet, drinkin' yerself to sleep, worryin' night and day?"
"I haven't been drinking that much," says Dean, kicking at stray gravel on the garage floor. "That appraiser told me this is all Angel Construction's fault."
"How ya reckon?"
"They come in and started renovating everything until those of us that've been here all our lives can't even afford our own homes. If those corporate assholes hadn't gotten a hard-on for Savannah, we wouldn't even be having this conversation."
"Would you at least think about it?" asks Bobby, sighing. "That's all I'm askin' here." He turns his attention back under the hood.
Dean studies his boots to avoid thinking about Bobby's statement. Move away from the house where he lived, the house that meant so much to his father? The house where he felt such a strong connection this mother, who died when he was a child.
It can't happen.
What would Sam say if his childhood home was sold, and their company dissolved? Dean's already failed Sam in so many ways—he can't fail in this.
Desperate for a distraction, Dean checks his messages again and sees there's still nothing from the sexy tattoo guy from the evening before. Out of excuses to linger, Dean decides it's best to assign blame and meet the enemy head-on.
The sound of metal against metal draws Dean out of his thoughts. "Thanks, Bobby, I'll think about it," mutters Dean.
"What?" asks Dean, shoving his hands in his jacket pockets in an attempt to look more at ease. It falls short. "I'm not allowed to show an interest in public affairs?"
"I mean, you are, it's just, not your usual thing," says Sam, wearing nice khakis, a button-down shirt, and tie. It's one of the outfits he wears to law school functions.
"This is gentrification, it affects me," says Dean.
"You know what gentrification is?" asks Sam, raising an eyebrow.
"Of course I fucking know what it is," says Dean, scowling. "It means people coming in here, making this a desirable location, building up the place to make it nicer for said people that move in, and then suddenly, the original residents can't even afford their own homes."
"That's…surprisingly not wrong," says Sam, shrugging his broad shoulders. "Whatever, it's fine. Just try not to distract me too much."
The Marshall House acts as the backdrop for the gathering. It's a large, four-story building with a faded, orange brick facade in the top two stories along with uniform windows every few feet, each with its own bright green shudder. The second floor is a wraparound porch with decorative arches, every other one adorned with a hanging fern. The ground level opens to the street with shop doors and floor to ceiling windows.
Some of Sam's classmates stand nearby, and other volunteers and professionals rush around setting up a portable wooden stage. In the center, a podium has been erected with a large sign behind it, featuring the Angel Construction logo—a prominent set of black angel wings around the company's initials.
"Ladies and gentlemen," comes a willowy voice as an older woman steps in front of the podium, tapping the microphone, "it's my privilege today to introduce our guest speaker, the head of Angel Construction's new Savannah Division, Mr. Castiel Novak."
The applause is polite and quickly fades. Dean crosses his arms in front of his chest and glares at the podium.
A man takes his place in front of the microphone wearing a navy suit, light blue dress shirt, and blue striped tie. Castiel's hair is brown, and sticks in strange directions, a direct contrast to the crisp, professional clothing. When Castiel finally takes his place at the podium, the wings of the Angel Construction logo spread out behind him. All that's missing is the halo.
"Disgusting," mutters Dean.
"Thank you, Ginger," says Castiel, and Dean's surprised at the low gravel in his voice. "It's a pleasure to be here in Savannah tonight, to speak with you all about the newest projects of Angel Construction, and the exciting changes this means for you, the citizens of this fair city."
Castiel pauses to give a pointed nod to the old woman, Ginger. She walks in front of an easel and removes a blank card to reveal a large map of Savannah's historic district. Thick red lines converge around one city block.
"I'm excited to announce that Angel Construction has bought the entirety of the block between 8th and 10th street. These buildings have been in need of repairs for years, and it's now scheduled for demolition, to be replaced with…"
Another pointed nod. The next picture is an artistic rendition of a row of beautiful townhouses, fronts all similar in brick color and style.
"…Angel Condominiums."
A spattering of people begin to hoot and cheer and Castiel pauses his speech.
"What a jackass," Dean says to Sam.
"Stop distracting me, I have to write up a paragraph on this," hisses Sam.
"Angel Condominiums will start in the low two hundred thousands, with each unit containing state of the art appliances, energy saving construction practices, and a variety of plans to fit the needs of all families."
Another brief wave of applause that quickly fades.
"And the area is getting other benefits as well," says Castiel. He looks out over the crowd and forces a small smile that looks painful. "The back lot off of Magnolia Street has been outdoor storage, and a row of closed business, but demolition is already scheduled so that construction can begin on…"
Another pointed nod. This time the artist's rendition is a large, four-story concrete building and a…grocery store? Dean squints in confusion.
"A Whole Foods, conveniently located right here in the historic district."
The applause is real this time. People hoot, jump, and clap their hands above their heads like apes.
"What the fuck's a Whole Foods?" asks Dean.
"Upscale grocery store, focusing on organic products and healthy lifestyles," says Sam.
"What the hell? We have plenty of grocery stores around here, and farmers markets, and who the hell needs another Whole Foods, are they implying the others are what, half foods?"
"Shut up," says Sam, as the applause finally dies down. Dean looks across the crowd and glares at the loudest cheerleaders.
"And tonight, it's my privilege, to announce Angel Construction's newest project, the Marshall House," says Castiel, gesturing toward the building behind him. "This beloved landmark of this beautiful city is in need of a facelift. It's the goal of Angel Construction to repair this landmark by updating the inner infrastructure while bringing in specialists in eighteenth-century American architecture to ensure the new building will maintain all of the design elements of the old one while adding a few new attractions."
Ginger doesn't need the nod this time this time. She's already removing the picture on the easel. The crowd erupts in whistling and cheering.
"Yes," says Castiel, smiling at the enthusiastic crowd. "A Starbucks Coffee and new upscale shop fronts will be included in the improved renovations."
"The fucking Marshall House," says Dean, gripping Sam's arm until Sam's forced to turn around and acknowledge him. "The Marshall House?! He can't bulldoze the fucking Marshall House! For a goddamn Starbucks? There's already four in the historic district alone!"
"Dean, calm down, it's old, and falling apart, it's in need of some updating to bring it into the twenty-first century…"
"But what about our business? What about the hauntings? It's one of the most haunted sites in Savannah, it's a keystone to our ghost tour, and he's going to destroy it…"
"No, he's going to demolish it, and rebuild it, bigger, and better."
"But if you get rid of the original structure, whatever's tying the spirits to the premise might disappear as well!"
"I mean, okay, maybe," says Sam.
"There's no maybe, it's a definite," says Dean, balling up his hands. "If you destroy the remains, you destroy the ghost."
"Well, I mean, we've been touring that place for years, Dean, and we haven't seen any concrete proof that it even is haunted…"
"You want to have this debate now?!" Dean gestures at the brick building. "C'mon, there's too much unexplained phenomenon in this world, and that house has one of the longest haunted histories in town, if there's a ghost around, it's probably hanging out in that place, at least until this asshat destroys it."
Castiel continues to drone on in his deep, formal voice. Some of the press in the audience are raising their hands with questions.
"Okay, maybe, look, I need to listen to this for class, not debate the existence of the supernatural."
"Fine," says Dean, pulling away. He begins to bob and weave through the crowd, making his way toward the podium."
"Okay, more questions," says Castiel, staring out over the crowd of people. "Yes?"
"Will this Starbucks have a drive-through?" asks a blonde co-ed.
"No, this facility will be on the corner of the block, next to a private drive, there will be no drive-through, next?
"I got a question," yells Dean, finally pushing his way to the front of the crowd.
"Yes, sir," says Castiel, staring down from the podium, and pointing at Dean. From this distance, Dean can see that Castiel's eyes are blue. Really blue. The blue suit and tie must be amplifying the effect.
"Yeah, uh, where do you get off gutting our city, taking away all of her personality, and replacing it with a cold, corporate facade?"
Castiel Novak's mouth falls open, but no words form.
"I mean, how long have you even been here? Some outsider just walks into our city, tears down our favorite haunts then rebuilds them with a new face. Sorry, pal, all I see is plastic surgery-fake buildings, you're tearing out the heart…"
"We have experts in construction practices dating to the Civil War period," says Castiel, eyes staring directly at Dean. Into Dean. The gaze is unsettling. "Our engineers aim to recreate the same spirit of the structure while making it more structurally sound, and replacing all of the mismatch of electronics and plumbing that have been tacked on through the years."
"Yeah, sure, you really keep the spirit when you turn a whole corner of the damn building into a Starbucks," says Dean.
A few of the attendees that have been silent during Castiel's speech are now nodding along with Dean.
"What this city needs is to keep the unique pieces that make her our own. Angel Construction aims to tear out this city's soul," says Dean.
"Angel Construction aims to create a better, more beautiful city, to attract new residents, new funding, and further progress for the people of Savannah," says Castiel, leaning over the podium. His mouth presses against the microphone for the next statement. "This is in the best interest of all the citizens."
A small smattering of applause, and a solitary, 'Yeah.'
"You mean citizens like me? Who's lived here my entire life, and now I'm facing a tax lien on my property because I can't afford the taxes on my own home? We can't afford it because Angel Construction has jacked up the prices of all the property in the area so high! For the better of our people, of course," Dean pauses with a sneer. "Now I can't even afford to live in my own goddamn home."
A new yell rises up from the crowd, and someone slaps Dean on the back.
"No," says Dean, setting his jaw. "I'd say Angel Construction is about the bottom line, and it has nothing to do with Savannah, or with the people that make it what it is."
A larger portion of the crowd cheers their approval, and Dean turns his back on the podium. Hands clap his shoulder, and bodies push into him as he smiles and makes his way back to Sam, near the edge of the crowd.
Sam smiles, speaking out of the side of his mouth and moving his lips only the bare minimum. "Had no idea you were such a community activist."
"Shut up," says Dean, almost smiling and barely moving his lips.
The presentation wraps up with the elderly Ginger giving a final 'thank you' speech, and polite applause as Castiel steps down.
"Where did that even come from?" asks Sam, raising both eyebrows.
"What? I care about the community," says Dean. Sam's flat stare demands explanation. "I guess I lost it when he said he was gonna bulldoze the damn Marshall House, that place is one of the stops on our tour. You think I'll stand by and just let that happen?"
Sam's forehead creases and his lips push out into a perturbed scowl. "And about not being able to afford the house?"
"Sometimes it takes a little exaggeration to get a point across," says Dean, scratching the back of his head.
"Seemed pretty passionate about it for it to be an exaggeration…"
"It's the Marshall House, it's the family business, I don't know what to do, but I gotta try something," says Dean, shrugging his shoulders, "it's not in my nature to go down without a fight."
"Maybe there are some things we can do, for the Marshall House," says Sam, straightening his back, making him tower above the crowd. "I can ask around school, see if anyone has experience with local government, or knows something to help."
"I fucking knew this law degree would pay off," says Dean, slapping Sam in the middle of his back.
"Ouch, yeah, okay," says Sam, grinning. "Why not? Maybe I can somehow spin this into some extra credit for showing community involvement."
"Good thinking," says Dean, grinning.
"Excuse me," comes a low, proper voice behind Dean, causing him to spin on his heel.
Castiel Novak is shorter when he's not standing on a raised platform. Not that he's short, he's only an inch shorter than Dean. He wears the same suit and tie, but he's added on a trench coat. His expression is neutral. Cold.
"Uh, can I help you?" asks Dean, subconsciously backing away from Castiel—closer to Sam.
"Castiel Novak," he says, extending a hand. Dean stares at it, then flicks his eyes back up to meet Castiel's. After an awkward pause, Castiel puts his hand down. "May I have your name?"
"Dean," he says, crossing his arms over his chest as he glares back at Castiel.
"Nice to meet you, Dean," says Castiel, giving a formal nod. "I enjoyed witnessing the passion you have for your community. I wanted to let you know, I am dedicated to serving the city. I think you could also see the benefits my company is offering. This project is very important to me, personally, and I'd like the chance to discuss it more with concerned citizens—like yourself. Would you consider attending our upcoming corporate meeting?"
"Oh my god, save your corporate, synergy, bullshit motivational speech, I'm not interested in coming to your stupid meeting."
"Hello, Sam Winchester, I'm Dean's brother," says Sam, reaching around Dean to offer his giant paw to Castiel. They shake hands, and Castiel tilts his face up toward Sam. "I'm a student at Savannah Law School, studying property law, I would be extremely interested in attending your company's meeting if the invitation remains…"
"Of course," says Castiel, nodding.
"I'll even drag Dean along," says Sam.
"The hell you will, one of us has to be working, dumbass," says Dean, shaking his head.
"The meeting is this upcoming Tuesday," says Castiel.
"No tours on Tuesday," says Sam, elbowing Dean in the ribs. "Count us in."
"I look forward to seeing you there, and hope we can speak more about your ideas for the community," says Castiel.
Dean watches Castiel walk up to a pair of mothers pushing strollers and strike up a conversation.
"What a weirdo," says Dean. "Why would you make us go to some meeting where a bunch of fat cats sit around and laugh about how to best tax us out of our damn home?"
"Is this really a problem?" asks Sam, pausing to look directly into Dean's eyes. "The taxes really went up that much?"
Dean shrugs.
"I knew it, you're hiding something. Dammit, Dean."
"It's no big deal…"
"Why do you always do this? If the taxes went up, and you're having a problem, just tell me," says Sam, shaking his head. "You don't have to keep being my guardian, I'm a grown ass man."
"It's nothing I can't handle," says Dean.
"Treat me like a roommate, not a dependent," says Sam, crossing his arms in front of his chest.
"Our taxes went up," says Dean, shrugging with his hands out, "they always go up, it's not news. I'm working on ways to scrounge up the cash, since talking to an appraiser…"
"You talked to an appraiser? About what, selling?"
"The tax value, but a lot of good it did me, taxes just went up again," says Dean, rolling his eyes. "The appraiser said it was these assholes jacking up all the property rates. That it was...ya know, gentrification."
"I knew you had to hear that word somewhere," says Sam, shaking his head causing long hair to sway into his eyes. "So what are we going to do?"
"We're going to do whatever we can, and that means, saving the Marshall House."