Cas clicked his phone shut and leaned his head back into the wall of the highway. Cars zipped past, brushing him with brisk air and the smell of smoke. "Ugh... Fuck."
He'd been walking, but there was a pit in his stomach that was growing steadily larger. Michael didn't know. Michael didn't know. All of this, behind his back, all of it, rebellion.
His knees buckled as he fell against the smooth asphalt, a panic rising in his throat. He couldn't get entangled. Not now. He should have reported the Winchesters, better yet killed them. But he couldn't. They saved his life. And... Ellen. She had changed something in him, something huge. He was different from his brothers because he valued love while they valued loyalty, and he wanted nothing more than to be one of them.
A red Cadillac sped far too close for comfort and he jumped up quickly, wings extended sharply. A dull ache filled the sprained appendage as he re-closed them. His eyes darted to watch the car speed off, swerving dangerously. Whoever was in that car obviously wasn't paying attention.
He started back towards home, his feet skidding through the grey, wrapper laden dust. Today it was musty and cold, the air was laden with pockets of standard pollution that hit you like balloons filled with smog. A light wind dusted through the treetops and chilled his bones.
When he made it back downtown, his legs ached and he popped another ibuprofen down before moving to enter the bar.
He moved skittishly. 19 was no age to be in a bar, and he looked maybe sixteen. He had thick, scrubby dark hair and the formings of an oblongly square jaw. His eyes were too long for his face and were a frightening powder blue. Acne and five o' clock shadow peppered his jawline and neck, a soft scrub of scarring on his temple and the makings of a bruise forming near his nose. He was lanky, despite his deceptive strength, wearing old black jeans and his tan hoodie for warmth. His shoes were beat up old running shoes he got from his brother Uriel when they grew too small, but by now they were irrevocably his. The bartender glanced at him once, but with a glare, he had turned back to the muddy taps. The dim smokiness of an unventilated room clouded his senses uncomfortably.
"Cas! Good to see you again." The voice cheered. It wasn't long before a face emerged from a booth near the back.
"Balthazar." Cas monotoned.
"Oh, what is it with you tightwads, insisting on saying the name of everyone you meet?" His mild British accent was a comforting sound, and Cas almost immediately warmed up and smiled. "It's good to see you again, Balthazar."
"Good to see you too, Cas." The Brit thumped his arm and handed him a drink. "You look like you could use it."
"I don't-" He trailed off as Balthazar gave him a look. "Fine. Just one, though." He sipped gingerly at it. It was unpleasantly sour and he was careful to slip it onto a nearby table when Balthazar turned away.
He sat at the booth with his friend, who ordered another round as they made small talk.
"Cas, you ever hear of The Salvage?"
He picked absentmindedly at his teeth with a toothpick as he stared at a girl across the room.
"Not to my knowledge, no." Cas mumbled.
"I've recently become acquainted with a few of their members. It's a really interesting organization, actually. Very similar work to that of you and your brothers."
Cas stiffened slightly, but urged him on. "Yes?"
"They work underground, for no pay. A bit like Robin Hood and his merry men, I'd even say. They commit crimes, minor ones, petty theft and such. They work for the lower class, like a sort of benefactorial police." The man trailed off as the busty blonde approached him. Cas turned away and began typing on his mobile.
the salvage Los Angeles
Fifteen thousand, two hundred and forty eight results.
the salvage crime fighting Los Angeles
Two hundred eighty nine results.
A thought occurred to him. He acted on impulse, out of curiousity.
Ellen Harvelle salvage
Four results.
One was a link to a website for Singer Salvage and Auto. He bookmarked the link for later. The three others?
Arrest records, birth records, and a broken HTML.
He first trawled the arrests. Ellen Harvelle had been arrested four times for petty theft, and once for breaking and entering. Elaine Herell, completely unrelated, was apparently a young business woman in Sherman Oaks. According to the birth records, Ellen was 54 years old, with orange hair and brown eyes, born late by Cesarian section. The pictures under the arrest file were broken, or at least unavailable on Cas's phone. He put it away and looked up to see that Balthazar had meandered over to the bar where he was playing drinking games with a gaggle of young women. Cas sighed and turned to go, but not before asking the waitress to tell Balthazar he was leaving.
Stepping out into the frigid night air, he extended his wings softly and let them tuck around his body comfortably. The warmth that radiated through them was soothing as he worked his way through the crowded streets of Los Angeles to the subway station. Lights flickered above him like irate fireflies, clinging to the strong metal poles that bound them into the asphalt sea. A gust of wind rattled the windows of a nearby bus stop. People pushed and shoved, loud and brash without a word escaping their tired, hungry lips. It was melancholically peaceful, like the end of a Sunday night. As though the freedom would soon be gone. As though once again, they would be birds trapped in cages. Yet, it was peaceful, and that was the enjoyable part.

Dean woke up to Ellen's screaming and the loss of feeling in his legs.
"DEAN WINCHESTER! YOU GET IN HERE RIGHT THIS MINUTE!"
With a groan, he pushed Jo off his legs and hoisted himself up. He took a minute to prop her head up. She must have fallen asleep studying. There was a concern in Dean, a need to help Jo, to protect her. He wanted her to be better than him. But that would have to wait. Ellen was livid.
"DEAN WINCHESTER! IS THIS AN EMPTY BEER BOTTLE?" She waved the offending object around dangerously. He nodded with a sigh. "Sorry, Ellen."
She took a deep breath. "Dean, look... I know it's never been easy. I know I'm harsh, that Bobby can be a bit detached, but Dean, drinking ain't gonna solve your problems. You'll just end up like your dad."
Dean tensed frantically at the mention. He hated the man. He hated him in life, hated him in death. It hit home as he locked on to Ellen's eyes, suddenly wide with the realization of the gravitas of her words.
"Oh... God, hon, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to-"
"It's fine." He choked. "Don't worry about it. No more alcohol, I promise."
He turned on his heel and strode away, leaving the kitchen as he heard the hollow thud of the bottle hitting the bottom of the trash can. An involuntary shiver ripped through him. He couldn't be like his dad. He wouldn't.
But there was still a frustrating part of him that told him he was.