Dean doesn't go back to Mary Boulevard for a few days, waiting on tenterhooks for Ash's messenger to reach him and unwilling to get himself into too much trouble or make himself any harder to find than usual until she gets there.

The graveyard is starting to look wonderfully neat again, the grass mowed and neatly trimmed, the heavier branches of overgrown cut and sheared back into something more reasonable, more like the grand arches of gentle watchmen than the strangling hold of overbearing guardians. He feels a strange sense of satisfaction, seeing the garden bloom under his normally as-far-from-green-as-you-can-get fingers.

It's so nice again that people are actually starting to visit it once more, wandering tourists and the few regulars who actually have someone buried in there, they come bringing bright wildflowers and small knitted crafts and little gifts for their dearly departed. It's…nice, in a way he hadn't expected, to see people wandering around the graveyard and the gardens and marveling at the peace and tranquility that Dean himself has managed to dig out for himself here – he doesn't mind sharing, in his respect.

"Are you the new gardener here?" one young woman asks, the kind that Dean would give way more than the time of day to when he was younger and hadn't understood just what it was about women that always felt like 'Not enough not deep enough come on'.

He smiles, shifting his weight, leaning one arm on the end of the long shovel he'd been wielding, and cocks an eyebrow, his grin wide when he can't help but tease. "What gave me away?" he asks, voice too gentle for mockery, and she blushes prettily and rolls her eyes at herself.

"I guess it's kind of an obvious question," she concedes with a nod, before holding her hand out for Dean to shake. "I'm Jody Mills. I'm in charge of coordinating events, and a friend of Bobby's here."

"Oh." Dean shakes her hand eagerly, his smile softening into something more welcoming. "Nice to meet you, ma'am. I don't suppose you're the one responsible for our more recent décor," he adds, curious despite himself. This is the first 'friend' of Bobby's he's even heard the real name of, let alone met.

She grins, throwing him a wink. "I'm not old enough to be a ma'am yet, am I?" she asks, joking and easy, and Dean laughs and shakes his head with a small smile. No, he supposes, she's not, and he lets his fingers flex along the shaft of the shovel, looking her up and down again. She's comfortable-looking, that balance between feminine and badass that Dean is always a total sucker for, leather jacket and good boots and tight jeans that flatter her shape. Very nice – and definitely not old enough to be a 'Ma'am'. "But yeah, that was me. I'm kind of a sucker for Angels."

Dean nods, feeling the small prickle at the back of his neck worsen. He's sure she doesn't mean it like that, but his guard's been up ever since that damned statue showed up at the church and Chuck had died the day before. He hasn't allowed himself to mourn for his friend's death beyond drinking his booze and thumbing through his manuscript (which is pretty damn good, if Dean's opinion means jack shit in the world of writing), but he still somehow resents that statue for it, like maybe it's a message from both sides closing in on him.

He shrugs one shoulder. "I don't know, man, some of those cherubs and shit look pretty weak-ass."

Jody laughs, the skin around her eyes crinkling. "I suppose," she concedes with another small nod, her gaze turning appraising in a way that has Dean shifting his weight again, uncomfortable with the scrutiny for long. "Anyway, I just wanted to let you know that I love what you're doing with the graveyard. You should be proud of yourself."

Dean blushes slightly, his eyes dipping down as he feels warmth blossom in his chest, for some reason more glad for those words than he could describe. "Thank you," he says, voice hoarse, and his throat feels tight when Jody smiles at him once again.

"Anyway, I'll admit there's an ulterior motive for me being here," she says after a moment, grinning lopsidedly in a way that makes Dean feel relaxed despite the loaded words, and he nods and gestures for her to continue. "My boss has been looking for a gardener for a really long time, and with your permission, I'd like to give him your name."

Both of Dean's eyebrows shoot up. "Surely there's people more qualified," he hedges, unable to help thinking about landing another part-time gig once the job here dries up. One that would probably pay awesomely, if Jody's penchant for commissioning giant expensive statues was any indication.

She purses her lips, nodding her head from side to side. "Maybe, but I get the feeling you won't overcharge, and you seem to be doing the work simply for the sake of it, which makes you special. Anyway, you don't have to say 'Yes' if you don't want to."

Dean considers her for a moment. "Who's your boss?" he asks.

"His name's Fergus McCloud," she replies with a grin.

Holy shit. "Crowley?" he asks incredulously, and her eyes spark with laughter as her smile widens. Crowley is notorious – he's one of the biggest names in the city and he's known for not playing for either the Angels or the Eagles' pockets. He doesn't need them – if he could amass the manpower, Dean knows he could wipe both the Eagles and Angels from the slate with little effort.

Secret door number three.

Jody smiles at him, kind and motherly, and Dean blushes when he realizes she's waiting patiently for his answer.

Well, what the Hell, right? "Sure," he says, smiling back at her and nodding his head. "Why the Hell not?"

She laughs. "I like your attitude…?" She lets the question hang, asking for a name.

"Dean," he supplies, and she cocks an eyebrow.

"Dean…?"

He panics for a moment, searching for a last name that won't give him away (he's not used to actually being asked for a last name, most of his circles either know it, or don't care what it is), and Becky's nickname for him flashes, unbidden, into his head. "Matthews," he says weakly, hoping she takes his nervousness for simple embarrassment over forgetting something as commonly courteous as introducing himself.

She nods, smiling a little again. "Okay, Dean Matthews," she says with a wink, taking a step back towards the little door that leads back into the church. "Thanks for letting me talk your ear off for a while. I hope to see more of you soon."

"And you, Jody," Dean says, and means it. "It was nice to meet you."

"Don't be a stranger," she replies with a wink, before turning and strolling back into the church and leaving Dean alone in the graveyard.

Huh. Well, okay, so secret door number three is turning out to be quite promising. If Dean manages to fuck over either of the deals he's got going, then Crowley as a refuge couldn't be the worst possible thing ever, could it? Guy was a self-made man, which means he's smart, and if he's smart that also probably means he's ruthless, and Dean knows men like that. Hell, he sucks the cocks of men like that. men like that are easy.

'Sides, how bad can he be if he's got Jody working for him and likes to commission churches with pretty things? Dean's got a good sense for people, it's been said, and Jody had struck him as a decent sort – the kind he could call a friend, maybe. And unless Crowley's got a secret crush on Bobby Singer or something, his love of the arts is something Dean can appreciate, even if he can't quite understand it. Angels do belong in a church, after all.

"So, Winchester," he mutters to himself, returning to his work, "what the fuck's the actual plan?"

Well. He could continue as he's going – put off actually making any sort of effort to get back into his father's good graces, miss Sam's wedding, and live out the rest of his life hiding away from people who don't want him dead, but want him scared enough and making sure that he's not going to be too much trouble. He could join the Angels, really fuck over his dad, and never see Sammy again.

Secret door number three.

He could help Castiel, help him find the mole, and kill an Angel spy in his father's ranks. If he does that, there's no way his dad can keep glossing over him like some uninteresting news article – he'll have to take Dean back, or at least let him attend the wedding, which is all Dean really wants at this point. The rest would just be gravy. And if it turns out to be an Eagle spy, well, Angels are pretty generous when they're grateful, right? He could still buy his way in, make a name for himself, then take their money and run off towards Crowley's estate. If he manages to fuck over his deal with the Eagles, he'll never get to see Sam again, but that door is really the only one that gives him half a shot.

He'll be walking a fine line – if Castiel figures out who he is, he's screwed, and if any of the Eagles' eyes and ears see him in cahoots with an Angel, he'll be killed on sight. If the mole catches wind of him and knows who he is (though he can't, it would have to be a new guy otherwise he wouldn't have gotten away with it so long, right? And the Angels would have noticed sooner, and Dean would have been informed, and -) and tells either Michael or John, he's fucked. He'll have to run to Crowley just to keep his head, Angel protection and money and Eagle loyalty or not.

He supposes if Castiel gets too close he can always just suck out his brain cells through his dick again. There's a reason he's so good at distracting people.

Smirking to himself, Dean returns to his work, using the shovel to uproot a particularly stubborn tree stump half-grown into the path and forcing the little bricks up and into ugly lumps to accommodate its branches. He works well into the dark hours, using the small bug zapper in Rufus' cabin as light for the job until he hears someone clear their throat, and turns around, shoulders tense and guard up.

It's Mrs. Tran, and Dean straightens. "Please tell me you have good news," he says.

The woman smiles at him and hands him a plain manila folder. "This is all Ash could get on that Angel you were looking for," she says. "He told me to tell you as well that the firewall's – and I'm quoting here – 'tougher to break through than Satan's asscrack', but he's making headway."

Dean barks a laugh at that, putting the folder under his arm. "Thanks," he says sincerely. "Anything else?"

She shrugs one shoulder, eyes narrowed and gaze shrewd. "Don't you go dragging that young man into any of your foolishness," she warns, and Dean wants to scoff at her but he barely restrains himself. "Ash trusts you, and that's enough for me, but we both know he trusts a little too easily, doesn't he?"

Dean swallows, pushing his lips together tight enough to white out the edges, and nods. "I won't let the side down," he says, at a loss for anything else that won't give away what he's planning, and she nods, apparently satisfied.

"Good boy," she replies with another tight nod. "I'll be on my way then." With another swift turn she leaves the same way Jody had, and Dean huffs out a breath and stares down at the tree stump. It will wait until tomorrow, he supposes, and his fingers are itching to crack open the file and see what the Angel's hiding inside. The bug zapper is providing shitty lighting at best anyway and it would be just Dean's luck if he ended up being the only man alive to hurt himself like that.

With a sigh he puts away the shovel, bug zapper and his other tools into Rufus' cabin, locking it up for the night and trudging back into the bathrooms inside the church. He can't hear Bobby's old wheelchair creaking around and he doesn't hear Meg's heels clacking along the hallway, so he figures he's alone, and sneaks his threadbare towel and a change of clothes into the bathroom to get as close to a decent shower as he can find without going to a homeless shelter.

"Damn," he mutters to himself, wincing as he shrugs his sweat-sticky and dirty shirt and jeans back on. "I really have to go to the fuckin' Laundromat."

He feels slightly better for the poor man's excuse for a shower, water droplets clinging to the small of his back and behind his knees as he walks back into his room and pulls out the folder he'd hidden beneath his mattress and settles down with a sigh, cracking open the second bottle from Chuck's stash.

"Castiel," he mutters to himself, kicking off his boots and settling his feet up on the mattress, holding up the folder so that the scant light from the single bulb shines down on it enough to read. "Age…twenty six, occupation – Principalities."

He pauses, breathes out. "Damn, dude, you're movin' up fast," he mutters, sitting up again. It's been a while, but if he recalls the man-made Angel ranks correctly, Principalities is just a step away from Seraphim, and to be a Seraph is to be in charge of your own damn division. Castiel is, according to this file, just a stone's throw away from commanding his own garrison.

He whistles low, rubbing the back of his neck. It's only been a few weeks since he first met Castiel, and had been told he'd just gotten his wings – who the fuck is this guy, to have moved up so quickly?

No listed mother or father – orphan? Dean frowns, flicking through the finely-inked pieces of paper. He'd talked about a mentor, but all the Angels required someone on the inside to help them crack their way into the organization – Castiel's young, barely older than Dean himself, and to have already made it so far is…

Well. It's impressive, Dean will give him that. He sucks his lower lip into his mouth, chewing gently as he lets his eyes scan over the rest of the information. Ash's firewall must have fucked up what information he could get, and Dean finds himself laughing and shaking his head that the man hadn't found out what Castiel likes to eat for breakfast or what his social security number is.

He wipes at his eyes with the back of his hand – he's so tired. Tomorrow he'll go back to Chuck's yard, maybe try and sell the plot as well to anyone who will take it, salvage what little else he finds in the trailer. He'll buy bullets for his gun and actually go to a damn Laundromat, and then, maybe, Mary Boulevard: it'll be quick cash if Castiel doesn't show up, and if he does, well, maybe Dean can start actually getting his ass in gear and stop waiting for his friends to drop around him like flies.

He pushes the folder under his pillow and flops down with a heavy sigh, overworked muscles tired and sore when he stretches out and rolls onto his stomach. Sleep takes him quickly and he dreams of falling Angels and a black-eyed Devil lurking in the shadows.

The four files bring Castiel no answers he couldn't have already guessed at – two of them he discards after a few moments of perusing because the only records on there are for violent crimes that he can't bring himself to think of as belonging to Dean. There's a gut instinct telling him that Dean isn't a violent man, wouldn't be capable of something as cold as beating a woman and child or shooting a man point blank in cold blood. He hardly knows the man, of course, but honestly what position would a streetwalker have to get into to earn himself that kind of situation anyway?

In the other two, one has a prior for breaking and entering and hijacking a car, the second for robbing a liquor store and resisting arrest. Either of them could be Dean, and there's no mention of prostitution in either of them. Maybe Dean really is good at not getting caught, maybe not, but the first time they'd met he'd been in an abandoned car so Castiel can't put it past Dean to have been arrested for doing the same thing before.

But he can't bring himself to believe either file. They all seem like such dishonest crimes and Castiel cannot put the man's beautiful face to any of them and make himself believe it. If that's not the case, though – it none of these men are Dean, then that means he's back to square one and has no information on the man going into their agreement – if there even is one to salvage.

Castiel is a persistent man, and he's known for going after what he wants if he believes it's the right thing. Befriending Dean and having his eyes and information would be invaluable; he is one hundred percent convinced of that fact. The only hurdle lies in convincing Dean of the same thing.

But what can he offer to the man? He must be doing well enough for money because he's turned down the offer of that before. Any man can be bought, Castiel knows, but it really takes a lot of zeroes to convince the good ones and Castiel isn't sure he can justify that, even to Gabriel's level of spendthrift lifestyle.

What else could he offer? Protection? Dean's already protected just fine – it's Castiel's position that would place him in jeopardy. A place in the Angels? Well, Dean's position profits him from being with neither side, and he would have to fight hard to earn the respect of men he used to go to his knees to for fifty bucks a pop.

Castiel's mouth twists and he closes the files with a heavy sigh, rubbing at the bridge of his nose, his eyes squeezed tightly shut. "Fuck," he growls, rolling his shoulders and wincing at the way they crack and settle back after being hunched over for so long.

He pulls out his cell phone, staring at the black screen for a moment and looking at his reflection. He looks well rested – a trait that he knows never fit him when he was still earning his place with the Angels – even though his skin is paler than it used to be because he's been spending so much time indoors. He can't wait until he's a Seraph and on the streets again, where he belongs.

He slides open the phone and pushes Speed Dial three, holding the phone loosely to his ear.

"Castiel, my boy – what can I do ya for?" Gabriel's chipper voice comes through the other end, static and loud, and Castiel winces. He can hear the deep base thrum of music in the background, and irritably he scowls and glances at the clock. It's three in the fucking afternoon, what is Gabriel doing at a club?

"I need some advice," he replies flatly, and waits until Gabriel curses and fights his way out of the club to an alleyway where the door squeaks loudly and Castiel cannot hear the music anymore. At Gabriel's soft sound of assent, he continues; "What do you offer a man who can't be bought?"

Gabriel snorts, and Castiel can hear him kicking at a piece of trash. It's probably cold outside (Castiel hasn't been out to check) and he feels bad about forcing his mentor out into the cold, but this is important to him and their shared mission.

"Every man can be bought," Gabriel replies in such a way that Castiel can practically taste the eye roll. "Why do you think otherwise?"

"My…friend," Castiel begins, voice heavy with meaning as he rolls the word around his tongue. It doesn't feel right to call Dean a 'friend', really, if he is anything, "who I've asked to help me with my assignment…he doesn't want money as compensation, he doesn't want anything that I can see. I don't know what to do to enlist his help."

Gabriel hums, and Castiel can imagine him now, braced against a wall, head tilted back as he gazes up at the clouds and chews on the inside of one cheek. "You remember your first assignment, Cas? The bank?"

Castiel nods, frowning. "Yes."

"You remember those touch pads?" Gabriel presses, pausing for a moment and Castiel hears the chatter of people walking by. "The ones that looked like they used passwords but didn't?"

"Yes," Castiel says again, his frown deepening.

Gabriel pauses once more, as though for emphasis, and Castiel sighs, sitting back against his chair and trying to go over Gabriel's words to try and piece together what the elusive son of a bitch is actually trying to tell him.

"Don't try a password," he says after a moment, earning a pleased hum from his mentor. "Then, what?"

Gabriel laughs. "Try charming him," he replies with another sharp chuckle, making Castiel clench his teeth and roll his eyes. People are difficult, damn it, he can't be blamed for not wanting to 'charm' them into liking or helping him. "Try getting to know him – get leverage, or get incentive. Every man can be bought, Castiel – you just gotta find what currency he's dealing in."

"Revenge," Castiel whispers, voice heavy with understanding, "or power."

"That's my boy." Gabriel's voice is proud and Castiel feels his cheeks hurting from the force of his smile – even after everything, getting to his feet on his own, he still values and cherishes Gabriel's judgment and kind words. He knows there is very little he could ever do on this Earth to repay Gabriel for all the things he's done for Castiel. "I gotta go – there's a lovely lady covered in glitter and nothing else just begging for me. Talk to you later, little bro!"

Castiel grimaces, rolling his eyes, and hangs up without saying goodbye. He watches his phone until the screen dims, flipping it over in his hand and tapping the corner against his lower lip as he gazes back down at the small stack of files.

Revenge, maybe. Or power. Dean's the kind of man in a precarious position – he's bound to have been slighted by people along the way, or treated unfairly, or maybe he just has a beef, same as any red-blooded male.

Castiel just has to hope he's the petty type.

Dean kind of hates the nervous little stutter to his heartbeat when he sees that ugly yellow car slide up outside of his alley again. He waits just long enough to see the familiar face and flash of those too-blue eyes before he steps forward, circling the car to get into the passenger side door and glad for the warmth.

Castiel doesn't even acknowledge him – simply drives to that same dark alley and parks in the darkest part of it, letting his car idle to keep the heat going but shutting off the lights both inside and out of the car so that Dean can only see parts of his features in the dull glow of the lights on the dashboard.

They sit in silence for a long while, Dean staring at Castiel and Castiel staring outward, before the Angel takes a breath.

"I'm willing to help you," Dean says before he can speak, and Castiel's head turns so quickly the younger man is briefly afraid he might have snapped his neck at the motion, before he allows himself to settle against the passenger seat, kneading his palms across his thighs.

His brow furrows, a small crease between his eyebrows that Dean can just make out in the low light. "Why?" he asks, voice lower than Dean remembers it, and he allows himself to shiver at the sound of it, biting his lower lip. Castiel clears his throat, turning in his seat as much as he can so that he is facing Dean. "What made you change your mind?"

"I am willing to help you," Dean says again, swallowing hard and tilting his head back to rest against the cool glass of the window. He could still back out, right now – ditch the car and get the fuck outta dodge and go live in the country and never stick his neck out or make friends or risk anything and nothing wrong would happen anymore -. "But you gotta promise me you won't ask questions. I don't wanna dodge an interrogation about why I know the things I know, or where I learned this shit from, okay? I'm cool with us being just about total strangers."

Castiel's frown deepens, the corners of his mouth pulling down as he studies Dean for a long time in silence. Dean bears the weight of his gaze stoically, refusing to back down now that he's put his conditions out there – the less complicated this has to be, the better.

"Okay," Castiel finally says, and Dean releases the breath he hadn't realized he was holding. "I won't ask you anything about how you came to know any information you disclose to me, and I won't ask about your past." Another long pause – long enough that the hairs on the back of Dean's neck start to rise, a prickle along his spine that comes from years of knowing his back is being watched and waiting for the first mistake. "I just…I'd like to know why, if you're willing to tell me. Why did you suddenly choose to help me?" A small smile, wry and lopsided, ghosts across Castiel's face. "I'd have thought I'd have to convince you more."

Dean flashes a smile, shifting in place. "I, ah." He hesitates, rubbing the back of his neck, before sighing. "I have a real problem with people two-timin', you know? Like, this guy you're hunting down, he's either Eagle or Angel but playing for both teams? Spillin' secrets?" He shrugs one shoulder, figuring he's told enough of the truth to warrant a believable lie, and licks his lips. "Doesn't sit right."

Castiel blinks at him, before he smiles widely for a reason that Dean cannot guess. "Okay then," he says, nodding to himself. "I'm eager to listen to any information you can give me then, Dean."

"Okay," Dean sighs, nodding and pressing his lips together. "But not here. Too many eyes here."

Castiel frowns. "You said this place was hidden."

Dean rolls his eyes. "To quickies in the backseat and a cock down someone's throat, maybe, but not for anyone trying to keep a real secret." He taps the dashboard, sitting back. "Just drive. I'll direct you to where we should go. Somewhere actually secret."

Castiel gazes at him for a long moment, assessing and silent while Dean stares back, chin lifted in defiance and shoulders tensed. "No questions, Cas, remember?"

"Right." At once Castiel deflates with a heavy sigh, putting the car into reverse and backing out into the main street. "Of course. I'd almost forgotten."

For a reason Dean can't quite explain to himself, he drives Castiel to Chuck's trailer. He knows the place is under surveillance, or at least was up until a few days ago, and there's nothing that can be gained from bringing an Angel onto this kind of ground, but he can't help but think it would be a pretty 'Fuck you' to his father and everyone watching, to go inside with an Angel and spend a little alone time with it doing whatever-it-is he imagines they think he does to Angels in his alone time. Besides, Castiel isn't Chuck – he's a trained warrior and killer. He's a big boy; he can handle himself.

Castiel parks the car outside of the lot and Dean opens the gates for him to drive inside, and he pulls up next to the carcass of the Impala that was too broken and shitty for even the chop shop to want it. He gets out, slamming the door shut loud enough to make Dean wince as he stands by the Impala, thumb running over the star and sun symbol carved into her hood.

Castiel hesitates, and his fingers join Dean in brushing over the mark. "Eagle," he whispers, his eyes flashing to Dean, dark and suspicious.

"They sent a message," Dean says flatly, turning away. "The guy who used to own this lot is dead. It's perfect, and it's as safe as anywhere in this city is." He pulls out the two keys belonging to the outer gate and this trailer and opens the door. "Come on."

Castiel follows him in, looking around the cramped space with an expression devoid of emotion. "Do you live here?"

Dean snorts, shaking his head. "I'd offer you a drink but there isn't any," he says, sweeping his hands out to either side and pushing Chuck's old wheelie chair towards Castiel, taking the counter for himself and propping himself against it, his eyes on the slats covering the window to see any movement outside.

"That's fine," Castiel murmurs solemnly, like he means it, and takes a seat. He looks so ridiculously out of place here, all neat suit and stiff posture that Dean can't help but smile at him.

"Hey," he says, nudging Castiel's knee with the toe of his boot. "Relax."

"I'm sorry," Castiel replies, clearing his throat, his fingers flexing against his thighs as he continues to look around the place. "I wasn't…expecting things to move so quickly. And every time you and I have been alone…" He cuts himself off, cheeks pinking in a way that makes Dean grin, tilting his head to one side.

"Technically the first time we weren't alone," he reminds Castiel, which just adds another darker red to the blush. It's adorable, and so odd on the face of a man who'd pointed a gun at Dean's chest and told him to abandon a car while his mentor bled out in the backseat of said car that Dean can't even imagine that so little time has passed between that moment and this one. "Why don't you just…start from the beginning, Cas? And I'll tell you what I know – things to look out for."

Castiel smiles, teeth flashing. "Okay," he breathes, nodding to himself. "I would like names, and physical descriptions, if you can get them. Anyone you think might be Eagle or Eagle-loyalist that you've seen more than once on the Boulevard, and any characteristics I need to look for in a suspect."

Dean snorts, shaking his head. "That's a pretty long damn list, Cas."

"Do you have somewhere to be?" the man replies coolly, lifting his gaze to fix on Dean's, and it feels like he's being pinned against the wall beneath that powerful stare. "I can compensate you for any business you might lose tonight, if that is bothering you."

"Hey, I said I was in, didn't I?" Dean snaps, sitting back and crossing his arms over his chest in a defensive gesture. "I was just warning you – I see a lot of Eagles, and I know a lot of Eagles. You're gonna have a very long damn list."

Castiel bares his teeth in a large smile. "I've got time."