"Oh, you have got to be kidding me, Chuck, really?"
Dean looks down at the crumpled, off-white piece of paper in his hands, wrinkled and worn down on the edges, and double checks the address. Nope, this is definitely it; definitely the place Chuck sent him to for a new roof over his head. Dean will continue to pay back Chuck any way he can, essentially working for free on the cars and giving his boss any money he can scrape from Sam and from his nights on the docks to pay for the damage and only keeping enough to feed and clothe him.
Wiping his hand over his mouth, Dean sticks the paper into his back pocket, sighing, and shoulders his pathetic duffle that contains all of his worldly possessions, head bowed as he treks inside of the building. It is cooler on the inside than in the direct sunlight outsight, the air crisp and old like an ancient, untouched library. The walls are made of dark stone, building surging backwards and then out to either side, finishing with a point on the far end.
It's a church. Dean feels about as out of place here as he ever has anywhere else. To the left-hand side is a small cubicle-like office, boasting fliers containing events happening within the church's community, and a very small shop with rosaries and statuettes and icons glinting gold and polished wood. Beside that are two tiers of candles in various stages of being lit and burning out, small donation box welded to the front of each.
Dean's mouth twists, dark eyes scanning the rest of the place. The building is shaped like a cross, rows of pews stretching forward until they come to the center of the building and there is a square-shaped void in the middle with naught but a giant, white stone altar draped with a white sheet. A single red cross on the edge of the sheet, facing Dean, is the only thing to mar the perfect cleanliness of the church. Despite its size and relative emptiness, it looks almost obsessively clean, stained-glass windows gleaming brightly and casting cheery colored images onto the floor as Dean walks in.
For lack of anything else to do, Dean goes to one of the pews and sits, duffle placed on the floor by his feet. He hasn't gone to a church since he was very young – his father had tried to stick to the traditions Dean and Sam's mother had lived by, wanted to do right by her memory, but pretty soon the family business had taken over and faith and God were representatives of the enemy.
Carefully and slowly, mindful of the car grease staining his fingers and the general out-of-place feeling he has, Dean leans forward and gently plucks one of the little red books from the shelf on the back of the pew in front of him. This church is Roman Catholic, golden Vatican II embossed on the edge of it, and Dean almost drops the book when the door behind him opens.
He shoves himself to his feet, feeling like he has been caught doing something he shouldn't, flustered an on edge when a petite, pale girl opens the door fully, and allowing the figure of a wheel-chair-bound man to roll inside of the building.
The man stops when he sees Dean, raising one eyebrow high enough that the grey hairs disappear into the shadow of his cap. "Can I help you with somethin'?" he asks, gruff but friendly enough and something about him reminds Dean weirdly of his father, but in a way that doesn't make him nervous or angry.
"I'm lookin' for Bobby Singer," Dean replies, eyes darting between the man and the young girl – they don't look enough alike to be related, the girl with short-cropped hair dyed with flashes of odd colors in her fringe, the rest a dark brown to match the color of her eyes and stand out against the paleness of her skin. And the man looks like he's spent half of his life in an office and the other half under the hood of a car – he has the look of a laborer about him, despite his physical state. Dean has an eye for that sort of thing.
The other eyebrow joins its brother. "Well, you're lookin' right at 'im," the man says, wheeling forward and up to Dean. "Are you are…?"
Dean clears his throat, forcing a smile to his face. "Dean," he says, holding out a hand to shake which Bobby takes after a moment of consideration. "I think we both know Chuck? He gave me your name."
"Ah." Bobby nods to himself, clicking out of the side of his mouth as he gives Dean another once-over, eyes dark and too-knowing, Dean thinks, when they take in Dean's dirty clothes, grease-stained hands and unwashed body. "Well, alright." And with that Bobby turns his wheelchair, rolling outwards to clear the pews and then turning towards the back of the church. Dean, for a moment, watches him, until the girl clears her throat to gain his attention and hurriedly gestures for him to follow. Flushing, Dean picks up his duffle and jogs to catch up.
Bobby leads him through the church and into a small vestry beyond it. There is another office back here, two closet-like rooms that Dean assumes holds the priests' robes and whatnot, and then a second large wooden door is propped open, allowing fresh air to flow inside. Bobby gestures for him to step outside so Dean does, wincing at the sudden sunlight again and taking in the sprawling, overgrown graveyard before him. There are maybe a hundred graves, all older, Dean thinks, than he is by far, and in need a heavy weeding and pruning and just a good general clean-up.
"As you can see, we get about as many visitors as a prison," Bobby's voice comes from behind Dean, and when the younger man turns to look at him, his face is twisted into something like anger and sorrow, discontent in the set of his shoulders. "You can start by cleaning this place up – I can't do it anymore for obvious reasons, and I got no one else used to very hard labor."
Dean nods, and Bobby's eyes flash to his face. With another sigh he turns back inside, wheeling up a small ramp placed by the edge of the door, and gestures to one of the closets lining the wall. "You'll find some tools in there, the rest are in a shed at the edge of the graveyard." Dean nods again, pressing his lips together, fingers flexing around the handles of his duffle. The graveyard looks like it will need a lot of work, and between that and Chuck's cars, Dean knows he won't have a lot of time for his more recreational and much higher-paying job. Since he knows he's essentially doing this for room and board, he knows better than to complain because it's still the kindest damn offer he'll likely ever have, but even still, the thought of being so out of touch with the groundwork of this city, which the whores on Mary Boulevard are always privy to, sets him on edge.
"You'll stay here," Bobby says, again snapping Dean out of his thoughts. They've crossed the church into another wing, up a small ramp that Dean supposed used to be stairs, and have come to a stop at a small room barely big enough to hold a bed. There is one small, slit-like window that shines light directly across the bed at chest-height, and there is a small cupboard but nothing else. "There's a bathroom down the hall you can use, and I'll give you a key to this room so you don't get tourists traipsing in, but that's essentially it."
Dean swallows, because it's a damn sight better than anything he could have hoped for, but before he can express his thanks Bobby is turning again and spearing Dean with his stare. "Any questions?"
Just one. "Do a lot of folks come here?"
Bobby's eyes narrow, and his lips disappear into the thatch of his beard when he presses them together. "You hidin' from someone, son?"
"I, ah…" Dean swallows, shaking his head. "Well, this is a church…" He coughs, rubbing the back of his head, because Bobby's eyes aren't moving from him and Dean knows he's not going to get away with shrugging this off. "I guess what I'm really asking is: Is this Angel-marked?"
Bobby scoffs, leaning back in his wheelchair with enough force that Dean, for a moment, worries that he's going to tip the damn thing over. "Those featherheads wouldn't know it if God poked his finger up their ass," he states, blandly enough that it startles a small laugh out of Dean. "This church doesn't belong to anyone but them who go here and the pancake in the sky, you got it? If you're looking for a gang's protection you sure as Hell shouldn't be here."
"No," Dean replies quickly, holding up his hands towards the agitated man – always a sign of trust for Eagles, one he could never train out of himself no matter how hard he tried. "No, that's perfect, actually. I need some neutrality."
Bobby hums in approval, sharp eyes giving Dean one more once-over, before he turns himself around and wheels back down the corridor. "Get yourself started, boy. The day is young and I want to see a difference in that overgrown Eden before dinner."
John looks up from the evening paper as the doors to his office burst open, letting through his agitated son and his flustered-looking secretary. The smaller man is stammering at Sam, trying to get him to halt with words like 'Seeing nobody right now' and 'Explain yourself' and 'Come back later', and with a wave of his hand John silences Mister Pike, sighing and sitting back in his chair as Sam stalks up to his desk and the harried-looking man scurries away, wide-eyed and breathless.
"Evening, boy," John says, leaning back in his chair and folding his hands over his stomach, regarding his distressed son with a cool look, and gestures for Sam to take a seat. After a moment, Sam does, huffing out a loud breath and pushing both his hands through his hair to clear his face. "To what do I owe this impromptu meeting?"
Sam breathes out again, heavily, fixing his father with an angry glare. "What the fuck did you do to him?" he demands, voice low and too steady like when he aims the sight of his gun – John's eyes narrow at that. He'd taught Sam that.
"You watch that mouth of yours, son, before it goes runnin' off." He sits back again, anger gone just as quickly as it had come. "Now, I'll ask again – what's on your mind?"
Just like that, Sam is out of his chair again, slamming his closed fist against the desk – not too hard, not too loud, but enough to get his frustration across. "Did you think I wouldn't notice?" he demands, rounding on his father. "I was keeping tabs on him, Dad, and he was where I could keep track of him and monitor him but then you send your bitch after him and he goes A.W.O.L. Again!"
John sighs, rolling his eyes, and picks up the paper again. "I assume you're talking about your estranged big brother, then," he says with a one-shouldered shrug. "I merely persuaded him to cease in his current activities. I'll not have someone who knows so much about our organization getting on his knees for Angels."
"Now I don't know where he lives or where he works, Sir," Sam hisses, biting out the title through clenched teeth. Under the anger, he feels a mild sense of panic – his eyes and ears to the city ground had told him of the carnage dealt to that car lot Dean works – worked – at under his father's hand, but hadn't been able to give him any information about his own brother. "Fuck, is he even still alive, or did Yellow-Eyes deal with thatinconvenience too?"
"Sam," John replies, sounding almost hurt at the accusation, and lowering the corner of his paper to gaze at his son. "You wound me. Do you think I'm so uncivilized? No, the little whore is still alive, I'm sure." He straightens the paper out; holding it up in front of his face in a way that gives Sam no doubt that the conversation is over.
Sam's shoulders slump, as he stares at the dark lettering of the newspaper as though willing his father to lower it again, so that they can have a proper conversation for once in his damned life. Then, he deflates, rubbing a hand through his hair again, and takes his leave of the room. He had hoped, with so many years now between the incident and the present, that his father might have softened towards Dean, would at least let him live unmolested and unharmed, but he realizes now that that will never be Dean's life. It can't. The brand on his chest marks him and he cannot remove it no matter how hard he tries – to think that their father might be as callous and cruel as to continually torture Dean after already throwing him out and robbing him of everything…it hurts Sam. More than he would care to admit.
There is a warm body to welcome Sam to his bed, when he sighs and shrugs off his suit jacket and takes a seat by the side of the bed. Jess' hair is damp and clean from her shower, when she sits up and presses the side of her face against Sam's shoulder, her arm curling around his chest for him to hold her hand. "How'd it go?" she asks softly, muted, aware that even alone behind closed doors they can still be heard.
Sam sighs, kissing her fingers before letting her hand go, and standing back up. He traipses to the bathroom, leaving the door open as he shrugs out of his slacks and shirt and pulls on a pair of sleep pants over his underwear. "About as well as I'd thought it would," Sam admits, staring at himself in the mirror. He looks healthy, if a little tired, skin dark from recent sunlight and hair long and shiny, body obviously fit. Dean isn't so lucky – he looks sick, malnourished and haggard and worn like he has been running from something for a very long time. Sam knows he needs a shower and a decent meal, and he knows Dean has been taking money from his account like Sam offered, but now that he has no eyes on Dean, he cannot know what for or why. "Dad's a proud one, I guess – doesn't like to admit he's wrong."
"That runs in the family, I think," she calls back, earning a snort from Sam and a small smile. He returns to her in the bed, pulling the sheets aside and sliding in beside her, his arms wrapping tight around her while he can before they both get too warm and pull apart for their separate space.
"I want you to be able to meet him, one day," Sam whispers, brushing some of her hair from her face and searching her eyes. "I think you'd like him."
Jess smiles, placing her hand against Sam's cheek, briefly, before she rolls over and reaches out to turn off the bedside lamp and rejoins him in the circle of his arms. Sam breathes out against the top of her head, holding her close, and tries not to think too hard about where his brother might be now, if he's safe or hungry or cold, or on his knees for some Angel dick intent on ripping their secrets out from under them.
Dean's life falls into a rhythm once again. At one point he finds himself actually feeling bored, and then laughing to himself because that notion is actually ridiculous and he needs to suck it up.
He sleeps in the small bed Bobby had loaned out to him, and in the morning he gets up as early as the sun slants right into his eyes, washing his hands and face in the small sink in the bathrooms, and then heads to the shed to get out the tools he'll need for grooming the graveyard back into a reasonable state. He sees the groundskeeper every now and again – a cantankerous old man named Rufus who likes to pop painkillers like candy ("For my back, and you mind you own damned business, boy") and throw random trowels at Dean when he's not deemed to be working fast enough. Luckily for Dean's progress, he tends to sleep while Dean's the one at work and they maintain a cool, wary distance from each other.
The grounds are Rufus' territory, whereas Bobby maintains the innards along with his flighty assistant with the multi-colored hair. Dean learns that her name is Meg, and that she changes her hair color about as often as Dean changes his clothes. She's nice enough, Dean supposes, if a little grating and times and likes to make lewd comments about how Dean's paying his way (accurate ones, even if not the way she thinks, but lewd nonetheless), but Dean mostly avoids her as well. It's not like he needs any interaction with the people who frequent this church and she's mostly in charge of organizing events outside of Masses and running the gift shop when tourists visit, so their paths rarely cross.
In the afternoon, after lunch, he leaves the church grounds and goes to help Chuck repairing the cars and slowly earning back all the money the damage had brought. Business had, inevitably, suffered after the Eagles' attack, but Chuck's customers are loyal in their own way and there are always barely-usable junkers that are just acceptable as Chuck's low-rent cars, so they managed to claw their way back from the abyss. Dean likes to think about his father's spies, watching him work his way out of the pit they'd dug for him, and smirks to himself in the middle of changing oil or rebuilding an engine.
It's tiring work, and not at all low-paying, and he barely has time to even get to the different ATMs to withdraw more money from Sam's account, let alone go to the docks and really earn his keep there. It's frustrating, an itch building up under his skin that Dean had never had time to notice before, but it's definitely there – something aching in his fingers for the roughness of a john shoving him against a wall, a burn for the penance and cleansing he feels whenever he swallows another load or takes another hard jolt to the knees. It's work, well-paying work, but it's also the way he keeps his eyes and ears low to the ground, knowing and finding out how this city works from the ears and the mouths of whores. They know everything that goes on within the Angel network, supposedly, because men like to talk, and Dean can't find the mole if he doesn't talk to the right people.
Dean sighs, tilting his head back as the cool air inside the church washes over him, only to jolt back to reality as a surprisingly strong hand shoves a set of keys against his chest.
It's Meg, her hair now black and matching her dark eyes, wearing a little red dress that even Dean wants to give her the once-over for, but he won't give her the satisfaction. "We're getting a delivery of some icons later tonight, and I'm going out. Watch the shop for me, will you? We need someone to sign for it."
He sighs again, tossing the keys up and catching them. "Sure thing," he replies with fake cheeriness, earning another wide grin from Meg as she traipses towards the door. "Any idea when the E.T.A. is?"
"Between seven and eight!" she calls back, letting the miniature person-sized door shut behind her, and Dean nods. That's about half an hour from now, so he has time to wash his hands and face of grease again and start locking up the outer buildings.
The delivery comes just past seven o'clock, and Dean signs for it and has them bring the boxes of icons inside. There's also a giant crate that Dean hadn't expected, but it's got the right address on it and when Dean kicks it nothing inside seems to move, so he's happy enough leaving it for Meg to sort out as he puts the boxes in the gift shop and leaves the crate sitting outside for Meg to find later.
That done and the outer door now locked, Dean heads back to his small room to get changed. The itch has become almost unbearable, and he needs to get out – without Meg there to drill him on where he's going, it's the perfect opportunity anyway, and he knows Bobby and Rufus will give him little trouble if he runs into any of them. He changes into the cleanest t-shirt and pair of jeans he owns, reminding himself to go to the Laundromat down the street later, and pockets his wallet. He doesn't bother with lubing himself up or taking preparation – he's not going out tonight for money, but for talk. Information, after all, is worth more than any money he could earn in one night selling his ass.
It's too early, though, to go straight to the docks. Most of the women there worth talking to don't even arrive until nine or later, so Dean doesn't head straight there. Instead, he walks along one of the main roads paralleling the docks until he comes to a familiar, but old haunt. This is the second-best place for information, and back in the days when he was still part of the Eagles, it had been the hub of information for spies on the Angels and their plans. Technically it's still an Eagle hub, but anyone who's low enough to drink there regularly is nowhere near close enough in rank to recognize his face anymore. That is, he supposes, one advantage; his father had been very thorough in erasing his name and memory from the group, to the point where to most of them he's just another face in amidst the chaos of their city life.
The bar is just as he remembers it – one large room flanked with round tables and barrel-like bar stools around. There's not a single booth in the entire place, nowhere someone could stash a weapon larger than a pistol except for the three shotguns Dean knows are always loaded and placed strategically behind the bar. There is a door on either side, one leading to the stock room and kitchens and the other leading to a staircase that goes up to the few rooms that get rented out and then downstairs to the basement where the owner and her family lives.
It's been a long time since he's come here, and he finds comfort in the lack of familiar faces as they peer at him and give him a quick once-over to determine his level of threat to each of the patrons already inside. There are few, less than a dozen men and women scattered along the bar discounting the wait staff and bartender, and Dean makes sure to keep his gaze on them for just long enough to memorize their faces (not long enough to threaten), before he sets his sights on the bar and walks over.
There's a petite blonde woman behind the bar, early twenties, same dark eyes as her father, which widen upon recognition of him before the expression is schooled quickly back into calm disinterest. "What's your poison?" she asks, wiping down a dirty section of the bar near Dean's forearm.
He slides a twenty over to her and smiles. "I need to talk to Ash. Is he here?"
She nods, pocketing the twenty with an easy, practiced swipe. "Usual place." A pause, her hair falling forward and hiding her face as she sets to polishing one of the glasses a server carried back to the bar for her to clean. "S'good to see you again."
"You too, Jo," he says with another smile, pushing himself to his feet and shouldering his way through the door to the right of the bar that leads downstairs. The stairs are old, and creak under his heavy steps, curling around so he ends up in a room directly underneath the bar and can hear the patrons laughing and talking above him if he listens quietly enough.
The room is dark and smells faintly of hops, over-padded red couches facing away and towards a big brick of a television, currently off. It looks comfortable, but sorely lacks the usual amount of sunlight Dean prefers – given the fact that it is nighttime, he supposes he can't blame the room for the harsh fake light swinging over his head.
Ash is there, scruffy mullet just visible over the back of the couch, and Dean clears his throat and remains by the door – who knows what kind of booby traps Ash had set up in his many-year-long absence.
The other man looks back behind himself at Dean's cough, his face immediately splitting into a smile. "Well, butter my ass!" he shouts, vaulting over the back of the couch and running over to greet Dean with a big hug. Dean laughs, patting his back awkwardly, careful not to squeeze the man too tightly – Ash has gotten skinnier since Dean last saw him, and Dean feels the irrational fear that he might break if hugged too tightly. "Dean – it's been ages, man. What have you been up to?"
Ash looks good, Dean decides, pushing the man back to hold him at arm's length. Even with his weight loss (which Dean can hardly judge for), he's maintained the wiry fitness of someone who's lived his whole life maintaining that the floor is lava and nothing can't be solved with a little bit of running. His hair is as messy as always, fluffy and waving on top of his head, and he has smile lines around his eyes that make Dean smile back. He's wearing big combat boots that Dean thinks he probably got from Ellen's husband's old clothes, and cargo pants with a kilt over it, a sleeveless Black Sabbath shirt with an open fishing jacket over that. Every bit the same weird, wonderful person Dean had known back in the old days.
He looks just as good as when he used to be Therese before he'd come to Dean asking for male pronouns and to be called 'Ash', and Dean had figured out that Ash had gotten him four times more excited than Therese ever could have. Without Ash, Dean would probably still be closeted and getting married off to the highest bidder instead of where he is now. Ash was, Dean has always maintained, his first love.
"I need a favor, buddy," he says, letting Ash go with another small grin. He can't imagine what Ash sees when he looks at Dean – the dark circles under his eyes or the startling lack of body fat still clinging to him now; he's more muscle from the gardening and working on the cars as he ever has been, and it used to be that his twink-ish body got him more attention but the johns at the docks, when they come to him, want to fuck a man.
Ash' eyes light up. "Sure thing, Dean, yeah. What do you need?"
Ash can get him anything – the Angels might own most of the police force but that doesn't mean Ash can't hack into any database behind their firewalls. He's one of the Eagles' biggest assets that Dean's father never uses because he's too 'queer' for his delicate sensibilities.
Dean sighs, running his hand through his hair. "I need to know – and wipe – everything the Eagles have on me. And the Angels. Clean slate. Can you do that?"
Ash pauses, eyes flickering to some point over Dean's head, mouth moving as he considers. Then, he snaps his fingers, pointing at the air. "Yes! It'll take a while to get all the files together and burn them, but I can do it!"
Dean releases the breath he hadn't realized he was holding. "Thanks – God, you're really savin' my ass here, man, thanks."
"Don't mention it." Ash' grin is toothy as he returns to the couch, reaching over the back and hauling his behemoth of a laptop up against his chest to settle on a nearby table. "If you don't mind me askin' – why now? It's been…" He breathes out, gesturing to the air. "What? Six years?"
Dean hums, approaching Ash and leaning against the small table that's little more than a two-by-four on top of two sawhorses, and folds his arms over his chest. "Sam's getting married, Ash," he says softly, tilting his head back at Ash' surprised sound. "I need to do something big, and to do that no one can know who I am, you get me?"
Ash nodded, flicking his finger over the touchpad and lighting up the screen. "It'll take me longer to hack into the Angel databases," he said with a small grimace, rubbing the back of his neck and giving an apologetic look to Dean. "But the Eagles stuff on you I can have gone by the weekend. Will that work?"
"You're a lifesaver, Ash," Dean says, and he means it, clapping his friend on the shoulder and squeezing tightly. "I owe you one, seriously – anything you need, you call on me."
"Thanks, Dean," Ash replies with a grin, straightening and taking Dean's hand in both his own. "There's one more thing I wanna do, since you're here." He scurries away, disappearing behind a thick black curtain acting as a divider, and returns shortly after with a familiar gleam of steel and silver in his hand.
Dean gasps, reaching out and taking the gun – his gun, his favorite pistol when he was still an Eagle. He hadn't had time to retrieve it before his father publicly exiled him and made every Eagle in this city his enemy. He'd never have guessed that Ash had kept it. "How did you even…?"
"Ellen snatched it when John had your stuff thrown out. I'd always hoped you'd come back," Ash says with a shrug, smile soft. "Don't have extra bullets, but I figured it's the thought that counts."
The pistol comes back to him like an old friend, sitting easily in his hands, etchings on the grip familiar and shining at him. It's clearly been kept in good condition and Dean feels his throat getting tight, as he swallows hard and lifts his eyes to Ash. "Thank you," he says, as sincerely and strongly as he can manage when it feels like he can barely breathe past the lump in his throat.
His hands no longer have the familiar calluses around the saddle of his thumb and the base of his palm, but he knows he'll develop them again sooner rather than later. It already feels like a step in the right direction, knowing that he has this pistol, this symbol of his former life when everything else was taken from him.
Ash grins again, toothy and cheerful. "No problem, Dean," he says with a little salute, turning back to his computer. "I'll get started on this, then. Let me know if you run into any trouble, okay?"
"Sure thing." There's nothing else to say, really – plenty of things Dean could say. He could stick around for a while, ask how Jo and Ellen have been holding up after Bill's death, ask if any higher-ups still come in here asking around for him, ask about Sammy and John and Azazel and what the Eagles are planning, but he doesn't. Ash has gotten that glazed look in his eyes he gets when he loses himself in the machines, and so Dean tucks his pistol into the back of his jeans, glad now for the slack in them from his weight loss, and lets his t-shirt fall over it to hide it reasonably well, his jacket over that.
Jo's gone from the bar when he walks back upstairs, replaced by a man Dean vaguely recognizes, but the fact that he cannot place his name makes him nervous, so he quickly walks out without trying to draw too much attention to himself. He wants to go back to the church and hide the pistol before going to the docks, until it occurs to him that he's not going to need to get up close and personal with anyone tonight. He's not looking to sell.
Decided, he turns on his heel and starts the walk towards Mary Boulevard, his hands in his pockets and his head ducked down to avoid eye contact with those he comes across in the streets. It's a relatively long walk, on the other side of the city and very firmly planted in Angel territory, but he's not in a hurry – he still has plenty of time to kill.
His path takes him past Chuck's junkyard and he pauses when he sees the small man locking up for the night, and smiles when he approaches. "Hey, Chuck, closing up?" he asks, rocking on the heels of his shoes as the other man startles, before grinning.
"Dean! I was hoping I'd run into you. Listen, um…" He pats his pockets down, that eager, shy little smile that Dean's gotten so used to over the years flashing across his face. "You wouldn't happen to be going -?"
"I'll see what I can do," Dean replies, taking the roll of money from Chuck and shoving it into his jacket pocket as quickly as he can. He swallows guiltily over the fact that it has taken so long between the last time they did this and this night, because of the huge amount of damage that had occurred to the cars because of him. Or rather, his father being unable to leave well enough the Hell alone. "See you around," he adds, clapping a hand on his boss' robe-clad shoulder before heading off in the same direction, feeling a little better now that he has a clear goal in mind.
It's always been easy for him to take a truth and expand upon it for his benefit – without Chuck's money he can't realistically play the part of paying customer for very long before it looks suspicious. Many of the women on Mary Boulevard are on his side or at least know him well enough to not be skittish, but the last time he was there, there had been too many new faces, too much oversaturation on the streets. The addition of that new girl, Ruby, had left him feeling off and Becky's words had stuck with him – a double agent within the ranks, either loyal to Angel or Eagle or both or neither. If he avoids this man, he should be safe – if he doesn't, though, and it turns out that he is a loyal Angel spying on his father, perhaps it could be the salvation Dean needs to return to Sam's side.
First, he will have to find out who this man is; get back in touch with the feelers on the ground. Then, and only then, will he know what to do and how to proceed, but time's running out – April is looming closer and closer with every passing day and Dean feels the pressure rising on him.
It's a physical weight lifted from his shoulders when he sees Magda's familiar red mane of hair, turned away from him and standing alone with a cigarette stuck between her lips. "Magda," he whispers lowly, approaching her and expertly passing off the roll of money to her without a second's hesitation.
She places the roll between her breasts, her eyes lighting up warmly at the sight of Dean. "Baby bird, I was starting to think you'd flown the coop," she says, dark eyes gleaming, her smile as close to motherly as Dean can imagine. Then, one hand flicks out, holding out a cigarette to him out of a plain black box.
Dean holds up his hand, shaking his head. "Just had some…" He hesitates, rolling his shoulders, and straightens up. "Doesn't matter. Is Becky around? Someone who can catch me up on what I've missed?"
Magda's purple-painted lips purse out, her weight shifting as she thinks. "She went a while ago with a john," she says, smoke escaping her mouth as she speaks. "Silver Nissan, registration begins with a 'K'. Should be back within the hour unless he paid for more."
Dean smiles. "Thanks, Magda," he says, stepping back to allow her to pass as she grins and waves at him, on her way to go meet Chuck for the night. Dean sighs, seeing her go – without Magda or Becky around, he has very little idea of anyone else he could feel comfortable enough to talk to.
He contemplates, briefly, going to his usual starter alley and earning a bit of quick money while he's here, but the weight of the pistol at the small of his back is a reminder for him to keep as many clothes on as possible and he can't afford to have a john fucking him and accidentally feeling the pistol or risking setting it off or something stupid like that – something that would only happen to someone with Dean's kind of luck.
He sighs, ready to call it a night and try again tomorrow, before the sound of a car engine catches his attention and two vehicles swing around the corner at the end of the street. He shrinks back so he's standing partially into the shadows, eyes narrowing in recognition of the silver Nissan, and a small, ugly yellow car that honestly hurts his eyes to look at.
Dean's eyes widen when the yellow car pulls up right in front of him and the window lowers, the driver inside leaning across so Dean can see him. He curses under his breath – it's the new Angel, Castiel.
"Dean!" he stage-whispers urgently, waving for Dean to come closer. The younger man hesitates, his eyes flicking to where Becky is getting out of her john's car, he can hear her fake high-pitched laughter and the clack of her heels. "Dean," Castiel calls again. "Over here!"
"Jesus," Dean growls, rubbing a hand over his face and half-jogging over to Castiel's ugly yellow car, getting in and slamming the door behind him. "Don't you guys ever practice tact? I'm not exactly wanted here, you know," he snaps, momentarily forgetting that Castiel is a paying customer and Dean shouldn't be rude to him.
Castiel's eye narrow at him, head tilting just to one side like Dean's started speaking to him in another language. "I want to talk to you about something," he says after a moment, shifting his car back into drive. "I assume another location would be more suitable."
Dean leans forward, eyes landing on Becky standing with Ruby and another girl he doesn't recognize, and he swallows, rubbing the back of his head. "Yeah," he says, letting himself sit back and folding down the sun-protector to partially hide his face in shadow. "Probably should turn back the other way. There's a street to the right, three blocks down, badly lit. We can do whatever you want there."
At least in a car he'll be able to take off his jacket and hide the gun in the folds.
Castiel drives in silence to Dean's directions, and the younger man takes a moment to look him over. He looks largely unchanged from Dean's memory; the same five o'clock shadow on his jaw and his eyes an even brighter blue in the flare of the street lights. His skin looks paler in the glow of the dashboard, but the dark circles that Dean remembers noticing seem better now and his movements are no longer slightly stiff with pain from the Angel wings tattooed onto his back.
Dean finds himself wondering what Castiel's been up to – if he's been looking for Dean in the past few weeks, has noticed his absence as much as Magda has or if he's been keeping to himself as well and this is coincidence. Magda hadn't mentioned any callers for him, but that doesn't mean there weren't any, and the fact that something as simple as a whim could have driven them together again? The son of an Eagle and the new Angel with blue eyes? No, Dean doesn't quite believe in coincidence.
They pull onto the road Dean described. There are two lights marking the entrance to the road and the exit, and there are no other cars that Dean can see in the darkness. Castiel pulls right against the curb in the middle of the street and cuts the engine.
For a long moment, the two men just sit in silence, until Dean feels a creeping up the back of his neck and he shifts in place. "So, you want the same as last time or the full hundred?" he asks, forcing a cavalier smile to his face as Castiel turns to look at him.
The dark-haired man's brow furrows. "No, Dean." His cheeks redden and he bites his lower lip, eyes raking down Dean in a familiar gaze. "Well. Maybe. But I honestly did want to talk to you."
Dean raises an eyebrow, before he grins and begins to shrug off his jacket, putting his many years slipping money to Magda and wallets out of unsuspecting drunks to work slipping the pistol from the back of his jeans and fold it over, stuffing it into the foot well. "So, you talk," he says, flashing teeth in his grin and throwing a wink Castiel's way, "and I'll make sure you enjoy yourself while you do."
"Dean." Castiel's protest is halfhearted at best, as Dean slides to the edge of his seat and starts working at the button and zip of Castiel's slacks. He grins against the erection that greets him, running his lips along the head of Castiel's cock as the man's hand flattens across his shoulder, squeezing tightly as he fills and hardens in Dean's hand enough that Dean can pull his cock out all the way and take him into his mouth. "Mm, fuck, Dean -."
Dean hums, his jaw relaxing and his fingers tightening as he starts up the familiar rhythm. His cheeks are burning and red from the heat within the car and he kind of wishes Castiel would crack a window, stop it fogging up as bad, but honestly he's feeling selfish and he wants to keep the moans Castiel is making for himself.
He lets his mouth sink down, swallowing hard around the head of Castiel's cock as it hits the back of his throat, groaning in encouragement when the other man's hand settles on the back of his neck, resting lightly, his thumb dragging against the line of Dean's messy, dirty hair.
"Dean, I need to – you're making it very hard to concentrate," Castiel complains, and Dean pulls off to grin up at him. Castiel's head is tilted back against the headrest, his chest heaving already, Adam's apple bobbing as he swallows and Dean decides quickly that he likes the look of Castiel like this – he's a handsome man anyway, and sex-flush just adds another layer to him that Dean thinks he could get used to very quickly.
"Good, I'm doing a good job then," Dean replies with a grin, letting his tongue snake out to lick a long stripe up the other man's cock before sucking the head back into his mouth. Castiel hisses, hips giving a subtle little jerk upward before being stopped by the seatbelt still trapped tight around his waist. It can't be comfortable but Castiel isn't complaining – his hand is subtly kneading the muscles of Dean's neck which, well, which actually feels really nice, and it's all the encouragement Dean needs to suck Castiel as deep into his mouth as he can get. He lets his spit drip down the man's cock, warming his fingers and slicking them up before he starts to stroke as well, the heat of his mouth and the warmth of his fingers providing a counter-point of sensation that Dean knows from experience never fails to get a john off.
It's not long before Castiel's breath is coming short, even though Dean's jaw aches around the girth of him and honestly the sounds he's making have Dean getting hard as well, his free hand digging against his erection to try and get some relief for himself as he sucks Castiel as hard as he can and lets the other man pet through his hair until his fingers twitch, clench just slightly, and he comes with a breathless sigh and a muffled groan stifled against the back of his own hand.
Dean swallows, milking Castiel for as much come as he can get so that he doesn't stain, before pulling back and wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. Castiel's head is still tilted back, eyes closed, jaw working as he swallows, before his eyes open again and he turns to gaze at Dean with an assessing look.
"I don't think I'll pay you yet," he says evenly. "It'll stop you bolting so soon."
It's Dean's turn to blush, the heat of the car and Castiel's level stare making his eyes dip back down. He rubs the back of his head, unconsciously brushing over the warmth still clinging to him where Castiel's fingers had been. "Okay, you got me," he says with a sigh, sitting back and rolling his eyes. He shifts his weight, hissing at the tightness of his jeans and the pretty obvious boner he's sporting now, and prays that Castiel either doesn't notice or doesn't care enough to offer to sort it out for him. "What did you want to talk about?"
Those bright blue eyes rake over him again, Castiel's tongue snaking out to lick at his bottom lip, before he shifts and leans closer. Dean freezes, his eyes locked on Castiel's, unsure how to react to the man leaning so close into his space, before Castiel's hand dips behind his chair and he sits back, returning with a large manila folder in his hand. A pen is tucked into the file and he pulls it out, flipping it open to reveal blank lined paper, and Dean's really starting to get confused and not at all sure how to react to this.
"I need your help," Castiel says after a moment, his gaze fixed on Dean's face with that same level stare that's really starting to get unnerving. "I have been assigned a task that requires tact and covert operations, and I can't think of a better person than you."
Dean scoffs, rubbing the back of his neck again, his eyes flicking away to the side-view mirror and licking his lips, shifting in place. "Look, Cas, I don't know what impression I gave but -."
"You work the streets," Castiel insists, not looking away. "You know more about this city than I could ever dare to know, Dean."
Dean shifts in place again, all of the heat feels like it's been sucked out of the car and he kind of finds himself wishing he'd just put off his itch for one more day, his urge – maybe, then, Castiel wouldn't have found him, cornered him again.
Though he can't fight the small part of him that is saying that's not quite true.
"What's the assignment?" he sighs, letting the back of his head lean against the headrest. He doesn't need the money, he doesn't need to stick around and get sucked into this, but if he leaves there's nothing to stop Castiel following him, or compromising his position in another way. He can't afford to have anyone upsetting this tentative balance he's managed to carve out for himself, and all it would take is Castiel calling his name just a little too loudly on the wrong street to fuck everything up.
Castiel smiles at him, large and flashing teeth. "As you know, I recently joined the Angels," he begins, pausing long enough for Dean to nod an acknowledgement before taking a breath and continuing; "Well, a superior approached me a couple of weeks ago, saying he has reason to suspect that there's a double agent working within the organization. I've been tasked to find them and smoke them out."
Dean feels like he can't breathe – Castiel's in charge of smoking out the rat. That means he can't be it, right? Can't be the double agent for the Eagles – unless he is, and he recognizes Dean, and he knows him and wants to earn his trust and lure him into somewhere secret and safe to waste him for good…
…Something like a dark alley where no one's going to look too closely.
Dean opens his eyes, lets out a breath, and toes at the gun wrapped in his jacket as he turns his head to look over at Castiel's open, expectant expression. "Why you?" he asks, hedging, buying himself some time.
Castiel's mouth turns down, a small, self-deprecating smile coming to his face. "Because I'm new," he says simply. "Everyone is more suspect to me because I have not had time to form the kind of friendships that would blind other Angels."
Dean licks his lips, swallows. "Why me?" he asks, and it feels like such a loaded question and a half, but Castiel rubs the back of his neck, a small, hollow-sounding laugh falling from his mouth.
"Because you are the only person I know outside of the organization," he says, and Dean's heartbeat stutters – he knows, he knows, he -. "The women working on Mary can be bought; their tongues belong to the woman who owns them – a woman who does not necessarily have the Angels' best interests at heart." He pauses, looking to Dean again. "But you don't – you're an outsider, both from the Angels and from the whores, and you're the only person I know who can help me, who will help me."
"Dude, not to be crass or anything, but sucking your cock twice doesn't translate to personal sleuth," Dean says, shaking his head. His palms are starting to sweat and he rubs his hands against his thighs, nails kneading through his raggedy jeans.
Castiel blinks at him, brows furrowing. "I am not asking you to sneak around," he says slowly, sounding genuinely confused. "I am merely hoping you'll be able to ask your friends, keep your eyes and ears open, and give me some possible places to start looking myself." He cocks his head to one side, eyes narrowing in a little squint. "I am willing to pay you handsomely for any help you can give me."
Dean licks his lips, considering. The money would come in handy, and having a safety net to fall back on should he majorly fuck up would be good, but trusting an Angel? Telling him secrets? If this goes wrong, Dean's ass will be on the line – and he'll never be able to see Sam ever again. But if he finds the double agent and kills or exposes him and it turns out he was an Angel loyalist trying to fuck over the Eagles? Not even his father could ignore him then, could tell him to stay away from Sam's wedding.
But what if he's an Eagle spying on the Angels? Dean swallows, looking away and fixing his gaze outwards. "Sorry, Cas, I can't," he says, coming to a decision, and leans down to scoop up his jacket and gun and cracks open the passenger side door. "I get where you're coming from, really, but some of my clients are Eagles too and if I gotta remain neutral – I start asking questions and -."
A hand shoots out, grip hard and strong, and though Dean struggles he finds he doesn't have enough leverage to break free. "Then tell me how to identify them, too," Castiel says, that earnest and needing expression returning to his face. "You don't need to stick your neck out – I get it, I mean, I have a lifeline, my superior -."
"Superior," Dean repeats, sitting back in his seat. "Like an Archangel? The big kahuna himself?"
Castiel sucks his lower lip into his mouth, drawing Dean's gaze there as he worries it with his teeth. "He's not the Archangel," he admits, letting Dean go as the man settles back into his seat and turns to face him. "But he is very high up – my mentor."
"Your buddy from the other night?" Dean presses, and Castiel nods, a small smile coming to his face like he's fond of the man but can't stand him at the same time. "What's his name?"
Castiel blinks. "Gabriel."
Gabriel. Dean's father had always called him 'The Trickster'. One of the sneakiest sons of bitches, and one of the more slippery ones too. It's been six fucking years, and Dean hates the fact that he didn't recognize him on sight. Hell, it was thanks to Dean that the Eagles had a face to the name in the first place, and the thought that the man has seen him twice now settles uneasily in Dean's gut – he supposes he can thank blood loss and shadowy alleyways and the fact that the past six years have not been kind to him, to the fact that he hasn't been I.D.'ed yet.
Castiel's voice snaps him out of his thoughts; "Do you know him?"
He shakes his head quickly, licking his lips again. "I know the name," he says, shifting in place. "He's, ah, yeah – kind of up there."
Castiel nods, smiling slightly. "He's the one who told me about the suspected double agent – he also suggested I make a friend outside of the organization, and I could think of no other person than you. If you know Eagle characteristics and how they interact, then that makes you even more valuable to me." He sits back, folding his hands across the blank pad of paper. "Give me a number – any price is worth ridding the Angels of a suspected mole."
"What if he's an Angel, and playing doubles the other way?" Dean counters, feeling that creeping unease up the back of his neck again. He should leave, before he gets sucked in – before he convinces himself that the resources Castiel has access to could help Dean to further his own goals.
The other man pauses, blue eyes dark and giving nothing away. Dean sighs, opening the passenger side door again without waiting for an answer, clutching his coat and gun close to his chest and stepping out into the dark, unlit street. "Don't worry about payment – it's on the house," he says, closing the door behind him and tucking his gun back into his jeans before slinging his jacket over his shoulders.
"Dean! Wait!" He ignores Castiel's yelling, and stubbornly refuses to acknowledge the ugly yellow car trailing the street behind him before he ducks into a small alley through which the car cannot follow. He contemplates heading home, back to the church, but if Castiel tries to follow him back to his only hideout then he'll have compromised his little haven once again, this time to a definite enemy.
Mary Boulevard doesn't provide much more shelter, but at least if he tells Becky that he's trying to avoid Castiel then she can help him out a little should the man show up. Decided, he ducks his head and tucks his coat closer around his chest and half-runs back to Mary Boulevard.
When he gets there, he finds a huge group of women huddled together – more than he's ever seen grouped together, seven or eight of them – around a familiar mane of red hair. It's too early for Magda to be back and, dread curling up into the pit of his stomach, he hurries over.
Becky and Ruby are there too, the short brunette narrowing her eyes at him but moving to one side as he cuts through the crowd to reach Magda, who's crying into her palm, her cheeks wet with tears and eyes wide and panicked. "Magda?" he hazards, reaching out to her, and she turns to face him and gasps, clutching at his coat and burying her face in his chest.
There's blood on her fingertips.
"Oh, baby bird – it was awful! He's…" She steps back, covering her mouth again, and shakes her head, and Dean doesn't want to hear the words – can't hear the words, he can't, he can't -. "There was so much blood. And he…he wasn't breathing and…"
Dean's heart feels like it's stuck in his chest. "Is Chuck…?" He can't say the word, but Magda nods and more tears start to spill out from behind her kohl-lined eyelids, and he curses, rubbing his hand over his mouth, thumb tugging at the corner of his lips. "Fuck."
Fuck.
He reaches out, taking her wrist in a gentle but firm grip, and pulls her away from the group of girls, glad for Becky as she keeps them back and tells them to get back to work as Dean pulls Magda into one of the smaller alleys between a strip club and another bar.
"Tell me everything you saw," Dean says urgently, wrapping his arms around her and letting her sob for a moment, stroking a hand through her thick hair and tucking her head under his chin. He feels numb, like he can't quite believe what's happening – this is all too…
Too much.
Dean doesn't believe in coincidence.
She shakes her head, drawing her bloody fingertips back and forth across her lips. "He was just… Oh my God, baby bird, he was just laying there, and there was this…this symbol and -."
"What symbol?" Dean asks, wrapping his hands around the tops of her arms and pulling her to face him properly. "What symbol was it, Magda? Please, tell me, I need to know."
"It was like a…" She swallows, her eyes wide and dark and fixed on his face and Dean feels like he already knows the answer, but he has to hear it from her, actually from her -. "It was like a, a star, with flames around it. Painted right across the top of the bed."
Dean closes his eyes and lets her go, leaning against the brick alley wall. "Fuck," he growls, turning around and knocking his knuckles against the wall – not hard enough to damage anything or let out any of the anger he's feeling, but enough that his knuckles get scraped and send a stinging pain down the back of his hand. "Fuck!"
Magda leans against the wall with him, another half-muffled sob coming out as more tears fall. "It must have just happened when I got there," she whispers, and only now can Dean notice how her hands are trembling. "They could have been there when I arrived, but they weren't, and – God, they could have…"
"You're alright, Magda," Dean says, pulling her into another hug and placing a kiss against her forehead. "You're okay. They didn't wanna hurt you, you're fine."
"Why did they want to hurt him?" she demands, pushing against Dean's chest until he lets her go, wiping at her cheeks and glaring at him with blazing, narrowed eyes. "He was such a sweetheart! He didn't hurt nobody, couldn't've made any enemies that would wanna hurt him."
"I don't know," Dean replies, guilt making his voice thick as she huffs and turns away.
"Don't you dare lie to me. Whatever business you're getting yourself mixed up in, it wasn't Chuck's fault!" she whispers harshly, wiping at her face again before she shakes her hair back behind her shoulders, taking a deep breath and letting it out, shoulders rolling as she straightens up. "He didn't deserve what got brought on him."
Dean swallows, licking at his lips. "I know," he says, too quietly, but she's always striding away, her heels clicking hollowly on the sidewalk as she turns out of the alleyway and back towards whatever prostitutes still remain and haven't been called into various cars for the night.
Dean curses low under his breath, turning around and punching the wall again, gritting his teeth against the bite of pain running up from his knuckles and around his wrist. Then, he turns around and leans his head back against the wall, staring upwards at the smog-clouded sky, and releases a huge breath. Chuck is dead. Someone – likely an Eagle, probably the same man who hit up his business and tried to send Dean a message – is the one who killed him.
How could they have known Chuck would be at his usual motel, his usual place for Magda? As far as Dean knows, Chuck only went there when he was going to visit Magda for the night. And they could only know that Magda was going to see Chuck if they'd seen Dean show up.
He straightens, looking forward, his bruised fingers clenching. How had Castiel known that, tonight of all nights, Dean would be here? Could he have ordered the hit – or carried it out himself – and then met Dean?
"Fuck," Dean whispers again, rubbing his hand over his mouth, his other reaching back behind himself to feel along the blunt, flesh-warm edge of the metal grip. He needs answers – he needs them sooner rather than later. Somehow someone – Castiel? Maybe, can he be, he could, he could,he's the enemy, Dean, you can't trust those featherheads farther than you can throw them – wanted a hit on Chuck and had chosen the one day that he would be found, away from his home, away from his business.
He pulls his jacket up to hide part of his face, not even sure now which eyes he's meant to trust anymore, and scurries back towards the church, his eyes peeled for ugly yellow cars hidden within the shadows or flashes of blue eyes in the men he passes under the streetlights. He finds none, and that just puts him more on edge than ever.