Dean showed up at the tailor shop on a Wednesday in the middle of the month. When he said that he wasn't going back into Mr. Novak's bleak little establishment on the North-west side of Brighton Beach, he had meant it, no matter to the fleeting thoughts of the man; whose appearance – lashes and strong chin and a shadow of stubble permanently cast around his cheeks; eyes dark enough for a summer night sky, etcetera etcetera - had been enhanced in his memory – or less biased by rage – like the image of a lover temporarily gone.
At any rate, he and his brother had been tasked with smuggling several thousand dollars onto a particular box car heading towards Baltimore that Monday morning, too early for the sun. Easier than booze, at least; it only required the two of them. But a suitcase was noticeable, and instead he was walking next to Sam on the metal tracks with more than 120 hundred-dollar bills and stock shares folded up tight and sewn into their clothes. They ended up using their pocket knives and Jess' seam rippers more than their guns. The plan worked, of course, or at least their portion did, with the added bonus of not having any bloodstains or dead doctors turn up, for which Dean was grateful for; only one train officer had been knocked out from behind. However, their fast work to rid themselves of the cash created spreading tatters on their suits, and at that sorry state Dean was just going to toss their clothes when Sam had indignantly sniffed at the idea, pulling at his frayed shirt collar and complaining, "Jess gave me this,"
Well of course.
So Sam accompanied Dean to the shop this time, fabrics tucked under their arms.
Dean pulled open the door for the both of them and walked inside. For the first time, Dean saw someone besides his own self, leaning over the counter, talking to the tailor.
He was blonde, with pale eyes. Polish, maybe, or French, he had a face that made it aggravatingly difficult to tell – sort of like him and his brother, if he was honest. He was cocky, definitely that sort – you didn't need a race for that. He slouched in his coat like a lanky little bird. He was nodding and saying something that could never resemble English. Dean strained his ears, wondering if he could recognize perhaps an insult aimed at him – cuss words were the only thing he had bothered to learn in another language. Just so he could tell when to swing a fist, you know – prove he was serious. But there wasn't anything in the other's speech that Dean recognized. It didn't even sound like words; most of these languages never did – just noise, flooding the room with rough, clipped sounds. Eventually though, Mr. Novak nodded over the stranger's shoulder to him, or well, them, and the other man turned. "Ah," he said, understanding obvious. He clasped the tailor on the arm and said brightly, "Something, something, something, Kastyiyel." And walked past the brothers, out of the shop, without hardly a tip of the hat to any of them.
The both of them walked closer. "This is my brother, Sam." Dean said, nodding to his right. The tailor probably knew as much, if he knew of Dean's exploits the first time he ever showed up. Still, Mr. Novak twisted and regarded Sam with his standard look of patient inquisitiveness. Sam didn't waste any time and stuck out his hand.
The other man's eyes flicked down to it, back up, before grasping it. "Hello Sam," then, quick blue eyes sliding over; "Mr. Winchester." Dean was tempted to say something back, but swallowed instead.
"Is that your name?" Sam asked, hands back in his pockets. "Kastyiyel? Dean said Novak, but that doesn't seem…" foreign enough was the right phrase that everyone in the room heard without Sam continuing on. Dean had noticed the word the stranger spoke as something that sounded vaguely pronounceable, but he didn't get excited. It was probably just a peculiar good-bye. He had met Vladimirs and Olegs and Yegors and Ivans, but nothing that even came close to Kastyiyel. There was no room to be unique as an immigrant – not even with names. He and his brother, of course, had gotten off lucky - all of their friends and allies were either a Joe or an Anthony.
But then Mr. Novak nodded slightly and said, "Yes." And, well, damn.
Sam had always been a bit nicer than he was. More personable; easier to talk to, that sort of thing. He had to be, in a way. That was how they worked as a team – one of them picked up where the other slacked. That way, links could be as weak as they wanted, the chain still held, and they had managed to keep their skins for twenty-six, twenty-two years.
"So, is it Kastyiyel Novak?" Sam asked.
"Kastyiyel Krushnic. I'm not too sure how that Novak happened."
"Sounds like a damn poor officer got a hold of your papers," Dean supposed. "So how d'you spell all of that?" Sam gave him a warning look, Dean ignored it.
Kastyiyel quirked his mouth and reached down for the receipt pad. "First," he said. "Two suits needing repairs?" both men let the clothes drop on the table top. Kastyiyel poked his fingers through them, measuring the holes with the stub of the pencil he was using. "Hope you two weren't the ones who made off with half of the neighborhood's saving investments. Heard there were some photographers there."
"Like that ever helps them," Dean said. Kastyiyel eyed him in that stern way, an expression that came so easily, and Sam cut in:
"We didn't do that. It was just…"
"Sneaking everything out?" the tailor said. "Well, it'll be one fifty for both, ready by Saturday, and," he bent down and scribbled the bill on the little yellowed off pad before turning it over for the other two to see. "That might be easier for you two."
Kastyiytel Krushnic was re-written as 'Castiel Novak'; "It's my real name, as far as this place is concerned." It wasn't said in a bitter way, Dean found, moving his lips to try and get a grasp on the letters in front of him.
Sam let a cheque slide into Castiel's fingers. Dean tried not to feel embarrassed about the lack of fuss Sam put up about it; he got an ahead's notice, he told himself, not that it made any difference with Sam. "Thank-you." He said with utmost sincerity. Sam always sounded like that actually, Dean figured, looking back up again. Castiel was still looking at him; a zoned out, soul piercing stare, even as he and Sam bowed their heads in farewell and turned away.
Out on the street, the two of them watched a few women wander in the opposite direction, holding bags and small children. The mothers were older; peasant skirts instead of the shorter stuff. Sam sighed; he had been doing that a lot – those world-weary heaves of breath that kind of made Dean angry and sad at the same time; he was older, anyway, wasn't he the one that was supposed to be getting all aged and jaded? If there was one thing Sam excelled in, it was probably a flare for the dramatic; he had never really outgrown the teen-age characteristics. Well, Dean thought, glancing up, neither did he…
"Does Lucifer have another job for us?" Sam's words trickled into the air as little white clouds.
"Not yet. Should be getting some compensation sooner or later, though. Keep watch for the postman today, alright?"
"Where will you be?" Dean shrugged; he had nowhere in mind, but now that he seemed to have a viable option of leaving:
"Out." Sam snorted.
"Yeah, okay. Will this be at the Grand or Blackie's basement?" Both had bars and pretty people to warm beds and gambling that Dean could rig to win.
Dean shrugged. "Oh I don't know. Might just walk around some more. Leave you and Jess alone for once; is she getting sick of you yet?"
"She doesn't get sick of anything."
"Not even the weather?" Sam's mouth curled up a teeny bit, Dean turned his head in time to catch its short-lived placement on his lips. They crossed a street and were halfway home by the time either spoke up again.
"I like him," Sam said, considering the periwinkle sky that had swallowed up Brooklyn within the last few weeks. "He seems to like you, too."
"Too?" Dean echoed.
"You've just been mentioning him a lot."
"I've been mentioning the shop a bit, Sam, don't get excited. I never meant to go back there after the first time."
"Why? He fixed up your clothes fine."
"It wasn't the clothes I was worrying about."
Sam nudged him as they stopped at another corner; a car rolled by. An Auburn Speedster, the same pale shade of the walk. Dean watched it bump along, two happy people inside: He kind of liked the things – the cars; rumbling beasts that were years from being anything more delicate and noble than the stuff they put in canning factories, but he liked them all the same; for being rough and wild in a place that had chopped down the haunting woods and exiled the medieval magic a long, long time ago. Sam's breath ghosted over him; more words in his ear. "Dean Winchester worries?"
"When the urge strikes me," they both smiled. "No. It was something else. Something I don't think there's a word for." The air stank of gasoline, folding into their suits and sticking like cigar tar.
"I can ask Jess to give you her dictionary. Maybe you'll find something then." Dean shoved hard enough to make Sam's steps falter. "You're an ass today,"
"You're a bitch every day, Sammy. The freaking Pope ought to come down, bless me as a saint for putting up with you for over two decades..." As he talked, Dean felt something cold and blue curl up inside him; more potent than just smoke.
xxxx
Dean came back on Saturday, alone and on the heels of twilight. He had bothered to take a train most of the way across the distance, and when he came out again, it was snowing: Big fluffy drops of white, hanging in the air for a lazy long while before falling and melting into the black tar or white asphalt. There was a pretty good chance that this was the last snow of the winter – Dean felt pretty happy about that, letting half dreams of Augustine weather and golden bodies laid out on the hot sand by the Ocean keep him hot as he tramped down the street. As he looked around, most of the little businesses in the district were closing, or already dark. He squinted, imagining all the family squished around a four-person dinner table in the flats up above their stores: The grandparents, the parents; three children and a few aunts and cousins for good measure. There was the family running the bakery on the corner that couldn't afford bread, and a furniture shop up on seventy-fifth whose family hardly had two beds to their name. It was a special brand of misery that didn't make Dean weep so much as bark out a laugh and propose a toast to Lady Liberty and all the dreams she had conned out of Her people – Her Schmucks. Dean and Sam ran scams and rigged games and smuggled whatever someone else had stolen – but America, ah, America! That word by itself had lied to more people than any Winchester could manage in a lifetime.
At some point Dean began to wonder if Castiel's shop was even open by now. Brighton 4 Court was all dark; no street lights on the particular strip of road.
But as he drew nearer, he saw the golden, ethereal glow coming through the cheap venetian blinds all of the sudden, illuminating the falling snow in a picturesque way; he couldn't even see the paint chips.
He hadn't noticed the light before.
"Huh," Dean said quietly. He might have even smiled a little.
The door swung open and Castiel was in his usual spot, in his white collared shirt and tired look. "You didn't come with your brother?" he asked.
"Good evening to you, too, Novak." Dean said, sauntering up to him, one hand stuck unconsciously in his jacket. Castiel eyed the arm for a moment. Dean noticed, letting his hand slide out and rest on his side. There was no revolver hiding there, of course – not when he was off-duty at least. He couldn't even feel the guns on his side, the back of his trousers; the knife stashed under his heel – after so long, he only knew of their presence simply because they belonged there.
"I apologize," Castiel said, walking around the countertop, leaning against the front side of it. It was the first time Dean had a full view of the guy from the front, just there, not moving. "It's just…" he continued. "You and your bother are family. You're close. Most families are." Then, after another moment, he touched the side of his neck and went, "And you may just call me Castiel if you wish, Dean."
Now that was something. Dean looked over at Castiel, body splayed and pliant; mouth tightly shut in the firm decision to not say anything else until Dean did. He hadn't been addressed as 'Dean' in a long, long time. Sam and Jess and some of his closer friends were stationary and didn't count to him. Not even all of the flames he had in the past had called him Dean outside of, say, a mattress. If Castiel slipped in a first name like that to somebody else, he might have gotten shoved against the very counter he was resting against; throttled some and reprimanded for being so disrespectful. Dean entertained the idea, but didn't move an inch; couldn't even raise a hand.
There had been a time when being called 'Mr. Winchester' made him half sick to his stomach. Mr. Winchester was his Father – that excuse didn't really hold much water any more, though, and he had all forgotten about the reaction he used to have. He should have been offended at least, he figured. Thinking that some underclass Russian man could talk to him as if they were friends.
He should have.
And even if he wanted to muster up a speech about the man being insolent to his superiors, well, Dean didn't know how old Castiel was, but he had a feeling that it was at least a few years more than him; the idea seemed silly. So now all that was left was curiosity; why now did Castiel call him Dean?
"Its fine," Dean said warily, trying to gauge the man's reaction.
Funny, how Castiel smiled; still with tight dry lips and a bobbing throat. But his eyes were bright, betraying the cool aloofness that he might have been aiming for. There was something else there –there was always something else there; hidden away behind the sky in the other man's face.
"Would you like the suits?" he asked finally. He looked more energetic than Dean had ever seen him, as he straightened up and wandered back behind the desk.
"Well I didn't exactly come here for a candlelit dinner, if that's what you're wondering."
"Shame. Maybe next time." Castiel said it like he was serious.
"Maybe next time," Dean replied, watching the other man go into the back room. He drummed his fingers again, thinking, thinking, thinking. Manners were the worst, really. The codes of conduct that no one ever bothered to write down; it was getting looser all the time, thank god, but he was never really that good at the analytical fare. If someone wanted something, just say it, damn it.
Dean's fingers stopped abruptly.
Maybe Castiel hadn't been joking at all.
Maybe he was… he was like that.
Dean's smile showed teeth. A dandy, huh? Now that was interesting.
Dean, only to himself at the right moment, could admit to kind-of being kind-of a sheik. Of course he liked women; you had to like women. And if he had to choose one over the other, well, he knew which to pick. But as far as he was concerned, he didn't have to choose. And better yet, men were so easy.
If Dean could think of one good thing about Prohibition, it was that it made the saying 'desperate times call for desperate measures' a whole lot more applicable. He had noticed it right once he and Sam had moved back into the city: Those clubs; the hole in the wall places that not even the neighbors knew about. Figured that he had to spend some time in a Pansy Club for his job; meeting discreetly and whatnot. And amoung the damp setting and dark lights and rough looking young men, all strong and long-limbed and healthy; almost all from the poorer districts with hardly a jacket on any of them, it had been… sinfully easy to get attracted. And soon Dean had found himself molding in with the other adolescents – he took a fair amount to bed, from then to now – because Girls were easy to be with; you could flirt and meet with and talk to them all day, but if you were Catholic – and every girl Dean had ever bothered asking was Catholic – you had mountains of inhibitions. Or parents who would find out. So he could get kisses and a necking session in the dark theatre rooms, but hardly any woman would actually go to bed with him. And those who did were expensive and a little too manipulative to stick around for very long. So when he felt like it, he found a Pansy Club and went for it. No one knew, of course, and it didn't really matter to him: They were all just nameless, pretty faces – and vice versa, he was sure. It didn't mean anything.
And now there was this Russian man, Castiel; pale and taut and brilliant looking – who could say a few decent words on occasion, to boot. And he wanted to… and he thought…? Dean started tapping his fingers again as he saw the tailor's figure move back into eyesight, carrying the clothes in a bag.
He set them on the counter, and Dean let himself look; up at the wisps of hair a smidge too long; dark and feathery and easy to muss up; the line of his lips and the crease of his throat; the way his fingers curled and palms cupped. Half a dozen dirty thoughts waltzed through Dean's head and he smiled again; lazy and impish.
Castiel saw. He turned back to stoic, standing straight again.
"Is that all?" Castiel said, blinking a few times. He handed up the bag.
"For now," Dean clasped the bag's handles, making sure his fingers were on top of Castiel's. He smiled again; the other looked almost disbelievingly at the display, as if shocked. "But I'm sure I'll be back if I need something else done."
"Is that a promise?" Castiel said, slowly letting go. His eyes rested on Dean's fingers before peering up at the other's face from under dark lashes.
"As close as I can get to one of those, yeah. I couldn't leave someone like you waiting forever."
Castiel nodded at this. His eyes were vividly intense, still. Always. "Alright then," he said. "Have a good night, Dean."
The abruptness was something Dean was unaccustomed for. "Good night, Castiel." They parted, and soon Dean was walking through the dark winds and puffs of snow. He popped his collar up and hunched his shoulders, in a pensive mood. He had been rather naïve to believe he could get to Castiel in one night of vague promises and long looks spanning not five minutes. No, Castiel was a few degrees higher than just some random boy in a dark room; he had a name, a face, something of a soul tied to him. It looked like they would be subjected to a few more visits and talks; some wooing on Dean's part, perhaps. He found himself not minding that much – this was far more like an experience with a girl than any other man Dean had come across, if only because of the little extra effort needed. But if it worked out, in a few weeks time, he would have a very, very nice end to justify the means.
xxxx
A/N: Just some historical notes: In America, especially New York City and especially Manhattan, the 1920s brought an increase in tolerance amoung other races and homosexuals. 'Pansy Clubs' were set up as explicitly gay bars, where it wasn't unlikely to find male prostitutes or variations thereof. The cultural change had such an impact that songs alluding to homosexuals were even played on public radio. This did not mean that men and women were coming out, but rather they had a place to go: Anyone looking for a same-sex hookup would have to take into account a plethora of signs and codes to get anywhere in public life. Basically, if Dean was never partially interested in men, he would have missed any signal entirely, and Castiel would have moved on. Castiel also lives on Brighton 7th Street.