In the time leading up to the party, Dean still insisted on visiting Castiel every day he could manage. He gave the Novaks several days of reprieve, but if Gabriel and Anna were relieved, Castiel was only getting addicted to Dean's presence. One of his new favorite things was to press Dean up against a wall or some other fixture and kiss the breath out of him. Of course Dean didn't mind. Not as he dug his hands into the dark roots of Castiel's hair and sucked marks into his collar, hidden enough that it would only be seen by the two of them.

When they talked Dean never found his attention straying. Even the menial, platonic things were enjoyable. He would ask Castiel about his day and try to keep track of the mild gossip and the names of the Novak's customers. When nothing seemed eventful, he'd prod Castiel to say something of interest, and perhaps he'd get an old anecdote or an update of a novel Castiel had been reading. Once he made a gesture to a tome of Greek anthology and remarked Dean as an Apollo, and Dean laughed and reprimanded him for being too girlishly romantic, even while threading their fingers together and kissing Castiel's hand, sitting on the floor of the man's bedroom like they were nothing more than children themselves.

Now Dean was partway between Crowley's setting of choice and Castiel's shop, waiting for the other man to show up. He had suggested getting to the party sometime after it got dark, and nine o' clock sounded good enough for the both of them. He was up against the wall of a building on Surf Avenue, overlooking the direction Castiel would be coming from. The summer night felt warm and sticky against his hands, partly because he was so close to the sea; and no matter how many cigarettes he went through as he waited for Castiel to show up, Dean couldn't say he felt relaxed.

His original plan was to introduce Castiel around to the nicer attendees. Perhaps, in a way, show off the man who had managed to garner so much of his own attention – Dean found it a mystery why Castiel was more of a shut in than the rest of his family. The man was a stoic, but he was Russian – and if he actually managed to be piqued of someone's interest, he could say some of the damndest things.

A low whistle drifted through the salty air, Dean raised his head and saw a trio of men ambling down the street. One of them carrying a tune.

He caught sight of a tan overcoat and waved with the hand still not wrapped around his cigarette. He tossed it down and crunched it on the gravel a moment later, striding up to meet the group. "Hey, Cas." He reached out to grab the man's hand, an involuntary gesture. Castiel contemplated it for a moment, as if thinking about how to proceed, before shaking. To his right, Gabriel stood, more transfixed on the buildings than their exchange. He had been whistling, though now he had moved on to tapping some rhythm with his foot. To the right, there was a man that had Dean squinting, as if he had seen him before but couldn't place it.

"Bring a friend?" Dean said lightly.

The man spoke. "We have a habit of going around in groups, now. I'm sure you have an idea why." Castiel gave him a side glance, just as Dean's offertory hand went limp against his side.

"This is Balthazar. Balthazar, this is – "

"Your friend, the magnificent Dean Winchester." Balthazar gave him an appraising look; he had a sort of affable, exotic flare, though the last and only time Dean had seen the man was a mere passing, where he observed a customer only fluent in Russian. Despite their limited acquaintance Dean couldn't exactly call himself a fan, not to mention that glancing down he swore he could see the strap of a holster poking out of the man's jacket. Judging by the thickness of the tie holding it in place, it was probably as big as he could manage without being a straight-up Tommy Gun.

The guy might have worked with some Russian gang, but if he was anyone of notice Dean probably would have recognized him. It still made his skin crawl.

After a while of awkwardly standing together, Balthazar caught Gabriel's eye and nodded with some sense of finality. "Well then," he clapped Dean on the shoulder before turning around. "It's been wonderful meeting you; please do bring Castiel back in one piece, not like last time, alright?"

"Balthazar." Castiel said in a warning tone.

"We're going, we're going, though if a fight breaks out, try to not get killed," Gabriel offered, giving a slight push to lead Balthazar back they way they had come. Dean managed to catch something more of a humorous look in his face – perhaps Gabriel wasn't as serious as he had thought.

"Have a nice night as well, Gabriel." Castiel said back. Before they were totally out of reach Balthazar took the dark Homburg he was wearing and clapped it on Castiel's head – Castiel did mention that he'd be able to borrow a hat, sometime last week – at least the gangster was good for something.

The two Russian men hadn't even totally faded down the street when Dean saw the Balthazar lean to Castiel's brother-in-law, already sharing his most-likely low opinions of the man Castiel had chosen to associate himself with.

Dean sucked in a breath and restrained himself from getting out another smoke. Instead he looked over at Castiel. "I don't think he's crazy about me."

Castiel looked over his shoulder, as if he had forgotten who had escorted him to the street in the first place. "Balthazar and I are childhood friends. He is a bit… difficult, at times. I'd say he just coddles me more than anyone else does. It's all for the best, I suppose." Dean turned towards Castiel and they began to amble down the street.

"Not for nothing Cas, but what sort of trouble could a guy like you get into?"

"The sort that Balthazar himself gets in, I presume. He has my better interests at heart. I'll make sure to speak with him about you, if that would help."

"If you could get that 'Holier than Thou' look off of him that might help, yeah." Dean paused. "You guys, uh, you all really go around in packs now?"

Castiel's shoulders twitched. "It's not the first time our neighborhood has attracted unwanted visitors. Sometimes the neighborhood collects watchmen to make sure the streets are clear of vandals or older children who like to make a nuisance of themselves; we're used to it. Everything will settle down in a few weeks, I assume."

"Yeah," Dean muttered, already feeling at ease. In all honesty walking down a near-empty street with Castiel was more serene than an entire crate of Camels. In an effort to change the subject he ventured, "How's the suit?"

Castiel looked down at it, as if just realizing the change of costume. "It's not the worst thing I've worn, though the jacket is a bit stiff." It was a charcoal colored jacket, with a murky pinstriped dress shirt and a striped, scarlet tie; Dean could see the handkerchief sticking out of his breast pocket was the same dark red. The dim tones made him look more imposing than the simple dress shirt or vest he usually wore, the shoulders of his suit padded to give his stature extra weight where his actual body couldn't. All in all it was an impressive look. And almost unprecedentedly well pulled together.

"I won't lie; I almost thought you'd show up with some brown colored monster. And a lime green shirt, maybe."

"I'm a tailor, Dean. Most of my job is making sure other people look good."

"But you kept the trench coat."

"I like the trench coat."

"Suit yourself,"

Castiel's hand moved up to sweep at his hair before putting his borrowed hat back in place. It was that same not-quite black, so at least it matched with the rest of the ensemble. "You also seem capable of dressing yourself," there was enough warmth in Castiel's teasing words to make Dean stare down at the ground. He had on the typical evening wear fare; a white shirt, checked tie, and a suit jacket that just managed to get a navy hue attached to it.

"Apparently," Dean said back. "I think you'd look good in blue, though." Dean clenched his jaw then, hoping nothing else revealing would slip out.

Castiel carried on as if Dean wasn't mortified by the flirtation. "Anna said the same thing before I left; the both of us tend to look good in cooler shades. It plays to our best features." Dean could feel Castiel's cursory gaze on the side of his face.

"Yeah, I bet." He tried to laugh.

"I can wear it more often, if you wish."

"You can wear whatever you want, so long as it's not crazy." In a desperate attempt to get conversation on less awkward grounds, he said, "Oh, and just a fair warning, someone might make you play poker."

"And by someone you mean you, correct?"

"If I can get to you first, yeah. If it's a betting round I can cover you. And if someone tries to drink you under the table… I would say leave 'em to fall all over themselves. Or can you handle those sorts of things?" Castiel shrugged again.

"I've abstained for so long I couldn't tell you," he admitted. He pointed down the street. "Is that the place?" Dean looked over the familiar road to the grand, lit up building. Six stories of golden fairy lights and red curtains. The building was a stony monster, new and not yet showing the strain of well-use. Against the shore, it seemed impervious to the fog and salty air like a few of the crumbling buildings around it, almost like a permanent fixture that had always and would always be there, even though Dean himself could distinctly remember a time when construction cranes and day laborers littered just a large patch of foundation and concrete.

A few cars were parking themselves outside, slowly making a parade of people. He and Castiel were just out of that condensed range, and up ahead there were at least a dozen men and women ambling ahead of them. Off-the-book funding and a long list of chic attendees turned the glorified speakeasy into a type of palace, though it was less focused on Kings and Queens and more so with booze, gambling, and all the usual vices of the common man.

"That's it," Dean said, nodding his head in approval. "That's the Capitol Hotel."

xxxx

It didn't take long for the two of them to make their way inside. In the lobby there had been a coat room where he and Castiel had shucked their fedoras and outer layers before going to stand by a large, muscle bound man who had quickly waved them into a carpeted stairwell, while behind them a growing queue of other hopeful partygoers watched their backs disappear down the steps, and into the ridiculously spacious basement. Well, perhaps basement wasn't the exact word to be used in their case. Despite the level of the club being underground and possessing no windows, a basement implied something subpar; second rate. The only thing separating the likes of Capitol's speakeasy and the Buckingham Palace was that their juice joint had a slightly lower ceiling.

As the two of them descended into the bar, they could hear at least three basses strumming along in a warm-up beat. To Dean's knowledge, Crowley was the only man to formally put on any events in the place. It was definitely his money that had paid for the renovations to be done – to his liking, of course – which probably came about through some unnamed, 'anonymous' donation to the hotel, not noted in the papers, a liquor license approval, and a long list of bribed officers employed in the area. With all that in place Crowley's word quickly became the law of the land.

The lounge stretched for what felt to be half a city block, everything swathed in scarlet. Dean never missed the mental joke of going down into an underground, fiery lair, but it was all in good fun; nothing hellish here. Just hundreds of tables, seats and booths, a center stage and three large bench bars surrounding the corners of the floor. Low lights hung around the cozy, cushioned tables, while stage lights buzzed around the orchestra pit, dance floors, and bottles of liquor, some of which costing more than what the Novak family could make in six months. Even without it being filled to the brim with other people – it was only nine o' clock, after all – it had no trouble rendering Castiel speechless.

Dean had always been invited to these sorts of places; ever since he had started working for Lucifer, they drew him in too, at first. Mystifying him with their almost offensive level of ritziness; of wealth and the sheer amount the rich could spend their hardly-earned cash on. Now, not so shy in the dough department himself, he felt at home in the area, and though he could have just taken Castiel to another place, dustier, quieter, and not so much a "secret" as this place than just plain old unknown, he saw the man's eyes glint under the chandeliers and knew that he had introduced the other into a whole other world; one that probably came straight from the fantastical stories he kept by his bed at home.

Castiel was moving along the combination of carpet and polished wood flooring, lips parted in awe. Dean leaned in towards his ear. "You'll catch flies like that," and Castiel slapped a hand over his mouth, eyes not quite sure what to take in first.

A gaggle of women quickly caught their attention. They stumbled forward, makeup already smeared, the drinks in their hands sloshing around enough that Dean could find the sweet scent of honey mixed in somewhere besides their perfumes; adding that was a new fangled trick to mask the smell and taste of whisky. A few winked at him, or maybe Castiel, and he nodded back to them and smirked, sending them reeling and laughing again. The group wandered forward a bit, pausing on occasion to adjust a shoe strap or take a long draw from their glasses or lift their skirts up to their thighs. A few got taken back to the dance floor by other, less preoccupied guys, and at least one of the remaining girls was seen letting a shoulder strap droop in a tantalizing way, hoping to elicit a free refill or another spin to the near nonexistent music.

Dean let a grin split his face; watching drunk people never stopped being funny to him. Though when he turned back to usher Castiel through the rapidly rising crowds, he saw the man's face bore into his own, even paler than usual.

"What is it?" Dean asked. In the distance he could hear an announcer cough into the microphone, about to let the opening band start up.

"Where did you bring me?" Castiel said, looking scandalized by something. Dean furrowed his brows as he tried to comprehend what had made Castiel go from mystified to terrorized.

"Just a club, Cas."

"Seems closer to a… a den of iniquity."

Dean thought back to the women and tried to not look too amused by his friend's shock. "A good drink does that to everyone; sorry, I forgot that some people still have some sense of shame left. I thought you were used to card games and spifflicated crowds."

"Yes, well, the women had, um,"

"Clothes?" Dean added helpfully.

"And I was playing with barbaric creatures, but I expected something less base and carnal here…"

"Put a monkey in a jacket and he's still a monkey," A raspy voice said. The man siddled up next to the pair, and Dean saw that it was Crowley, in the flesh. Dean hoped to god it was just a crap coincidence that Castiel was stuck eyeing his boss. "Care to try a game at my table?" Dean paled; he hadn't expected that. He had been to Crowley's affairs once, but it had been clear that he kept himself with a ring of upper cut gentlemen, sitting at a large round table, drinking and talking like they were at a country club instead of a grand party. "Of course your escort can come, too." Castiel glanced at Dean, trying to search out an explanation, a guide of what to do. Dean couldn't help, or offer any advice in return; all he could do was lead Castiel through the crowd to the table. The setup had the usual faces of graying men radiating power and influence everywhere from their stare to their pocket watches. Dean flashed them a nervous set of teeth, pushing on Castiel's shoulder to get him to sit in one of the upholstered chairs.

Crowley drew official attention to them with an almost dismissively casual gesture. "This is one of my newest up and coming, gentlemen. And you are?"

Castiel, who had been giving Dean a wide-eyed glare that described both confusion, anxiety, and an anger that came with mentally blaming Dean for the predicament they were currently placed in, was able to instead look up at Crowley. "Castiel," he said, in a particularly formal tone.

"Does Castiel have a last name?" one of the men across the table asked. A handful of his surrounding companions smiled at the joke. Castiel's gaze slowly turned to them, and there might have been some insulted look there, but knowing Castiel's tendencies for social faux pas it was more likely an honestly confused expression, as to why what the other said was entertaining. The partygoers soon looked away, intimidated at the thousand yard stare.

"…Novak," he offered up after some time, and a quick prod from Dean's elbow. A high speed swing number had just come to a close, and Dean could recognize the smoky voice of a good jazz singer in its place. One that made even the deepness of his and Castiel's voice seem effeminate. There was the subtle introduction from a drumset and no more than two guitars, a cello, and a piano. Around them the noise of the club became muted – as quiet as they could ever hope to get. Dean soon made out the song as 'Jesus Make up my Dying Bed'; it wasn't a favorite, but he hadn't heard it for a good year and it made an almost welcome return to his ears. The original track had been much simpler than the atmosphere of the club would allow; something that hailed memories of a back porch looking out on some swamp in Louisiana Land somewhere way down South. Back to a simpler time.

In a way it calmed him down. Grounded him.

This wasn't the way he wanted the night to go; it was what he deserved, he guessed. If he wanted to make Castiel a shiny new trinket for the boys, then Fate could only put some cruel twist on his ideas and make them both playthings for the Men. With any luck they'd come out of it in a few hours, and Dean could grovel and kiss Castiel until he let him take him for a better outing at someplace less fancy.

But until then Dean sucked in a breath and smiled. This time it was long and wide, as smooth as the beat thrumming against the walls of the place.

"What's the game?" he asked, already reaching for his wallet.

xxxx

The Gentlemen, as it were, had a preference for turning anything into some sort of battle of wits. That resulted in a community card game of poker, its differences negligible between many other types; there were four betting rounds, aces high, Jokers out, that sort of thing. He and Castiel were made the stationary small blinds, exempting them from paying in hundreds on the first round, though Castiel's mask betrayed some more shock at finding how truly dispensable money was. Even as Dean paid in for him and Castiel, he received the same sort of look. Crowley became the dealer first round, naturally. Though because of how they were sitting, Castiel would be able to deal on the last round. Hooray for small miracles, Dean thought.

Crowley put down a six of hearts, and a ten and King of Spades.

A waiter came around not long after. Most of Crowley's friends had their own drinks set. Dean longed for something to take the edge off his nerves. "Two Scotch on rocks," he said. He turned towards Castiel, who was still silently contemplating the pair of cards that made up his hand. "You want anything?"

Castiel put the cards face down on the table. "Same, I suppose."

"You sure?"

"Yes."

"Alright," Dean held up four fingers and the waiter disappeared back into the crowd.

"Hard drinker, eh?" Someone else said. He had slicked, black hair, looked to be in his late thirties. Dean vaguely attached the guy to a prestigious stockholder position; his picture might have appeared in the paper a few times for it. Well, most of the guys Dean couldn't quite name; but they were all from varied places, Dean noticed. Rich, worldly men, mostly Italian, but they all held massive reigns over different enterprises in the city; a few were owners of hotel chains, some were investors, bankers, and they were all looking at Dean and Castiel in a way that made him feel as if he were watching a pack of caged lions from the wrong side of the bars.

Castiel blinked once, slowly. "Couldn't say. I haven't had anything since I emigrated here."

"So what, a week then, huh?" More laughing travelled around the table. The group finished throwing their bets in and Crowley slid the deck to the guy next to him, a thin, blonde gentleman.

Castiel waited for the man to lay down the Turn – an Ace of Spades. Two men quietly folded on notice, staring worriedly at their pairs of cards and sliding their chairs back a few inches. Castiel let his gaze go carefully across the table, staring at the remaining six men playing. Dean, the seventh, got something a bit gentler. Not breaking face, but it was more passive than the scrutiny he gave everyone else.

Dean, too stupid to focus at the intense look, felt his mouth twitch in a smile.

Castiel slowly turned back to the man from Wall Street. "I am sure that most off-the-boat Russians lack the capability to play American originated card games, or speak fluent English." Just then the waiter came back and handed some men long cigars, and Dean and Castiel their drinks.

Castiel took a sip of one. Paused, sniffed the concoction, then knocked it back without a flinch. "But I'm sure you were just joking, of course." He studied the cards for another second before nudging Dean's side. Dean, impressed at both the quick drink and the quick wit Castiel commanded, wordlessly handed him forty dollars. "Thank you," he said sincerely, turning back and dropping it on the pot.

"Cute," the investor said, chewing the end of his smoke.

The blonde man to the left of Castiel continued to lazily shuffle the cards. He turned and gave Castiel a predatory smile that made Dean's blood simultaneously boil and freeze. He downed half his glass as a distraction. "I wouldn't say cute, Toce."

Toce, as the man was apparently called, raised an eyebrow. "Oh? And what would you call him, Arturi?"

Arturi grinned. "He's got almost as big a mouth as you. Funny. Know any other jokes, Cas?"

"Castiel." The man patiently corrected. He downed the second glass of scotch without so much of a blink of an eye.

"Jesus," Dean muttered, sitting back and cradling his first drink as if it was the only safety he had in the world. The bar felt too stuffy; the music had grown incredibly loud in the last few minutes and he could feel a vein in his forehead throbbing. He probably looked like he was about to fold, but really he was more worried about what the guys would do to Castiel. Or worse, what Castiel might manage to do to them. He had never seen such cold detachment on the man before. Not even when they first met. It was… surprising. Scary, really. A whole other side coming out of the guy.

"Well, Castiel said. "There was an allegory from home, I suppose."

"Oh?" another guy said, feigning disinterest. Castiel watched him for a moment, but it seemed that a long while had passed between rounds, because a waiter came back and the men were demanding more smokes and an ash tray to go along with that. Dean made a vain attempt to gesture at Castiel, ask him if he wanted something, but Castiel was calling it without even a glance. Same order as before. Something had set him off; not that Dean could blame him. If there was a list of all the things rich, Italian New Yorkers hated, well, a lippy Russian who seemed to be doing pretty well at their table must have been pretty high up there. Dean tried to fight down the choking isolation as Castiel didn't even look at him – he had his own things to prove.

Far away, another man folded out of the game. Two more called the bet, eyes darting around, watching. Dean did the same; he himself had a nine of Spades and a Queen of Hearts, at the very least he wouldn't have the lowest hand in the end. He couldn't tell if Castiel was confident or nervous about his own draw.

As the rest of the players looked around and put their money down, Castiel opened his mouth. "Well, there's this Hare."

"Like a rabbit or like the stuff on your head?" Arturi asked.

Castiel licked his lips. "A rabbit. And he runs like crazy through a forest and meets the Wolf."

Arturi snuffed out the cigar he had been smoking. It was only half finished. "This can only end well." He offered in a deprecating way.

"The Wolf asks: 'What's the matter? Why such haste?', and the rabbit says, 'The camels there are caught and shod!' So the Wolf says: 'But you're not a camel!'" Castiel quirked his mouth in a way that could possibly be seen as amusement. Dean wasn't exactly busting his sides, though. "'Hey,', the rabbit goes, 'after you are caught and shod, just you try and prove them that you are not a camel!'"

There was only the sound of Dean downing his second glass of whiskey in an attempt to drown out the silence.

It didn't help.

He heard Castiel faintly respond to the lack of response by going, "It's… funnier in Russian, I suppose."

"…Moving right along," Crowley said to the group. And then sound came rushing back into Dean's ears. He noticed Castiel shuffling the cards in brisk movements, trying not to reveal any sort of tell. This was the last card; Castiel flipped the top one from the stack and glanced at it for a moment before letting it sit face up on the table.

A King of Clubs.

Slowly, the players began to reveal themselves. One more man called his bet and folded, dismissing himself from the hand. That left merely six players; Toce, Arturi, Crowley, Dean, Castiel, and another gentleman slumped in his seat, his black, beady eyes set on the cards. Dean and Castiel threw in their final bets, and one by one the cards were turned over.

Arturi, not even finished with watching the reveal, threw his pair on the table with a flourish. "Read 'em and weep, boys!" he said, leaning back in his chair. He threw down a four and Jack of Spades – a clear straight flush. The remaining men had a mix of actions as they tried to see if their hands were any better with the available cards in the middle of the table; a few others swore as they put down low cards or ones from mismatched suits. Those that had stopped playing looked on impatiently, obviously not a fan of their friend's bragging. Dean showed his own cards – like he predicted, he was somewhere in the middle; gambling was always a lot harder when you didn't rig the game.

Arturi glanced at the cards clasped in Castiel's hand, still hidden. "Oh please, Cas. Indulge us. How much of your Daddy's money did you just waste, huh?" Dean glared at the comment.

"None, I'd say." Castiel said stiffly.

"What?"

Castiel tapped his hands idly on the cards, looking rather fed-up. "I'd say you are, how you say? overcompensating for something."

"It's over, moron. Just show your damn cards."

"No, it isn't, and no, I won't." he observed the other men's cards. "Did none of you notice how anxious he got near the end?" he turned back to Arturi. "You almost had it, but you were getting greedy, weren't you?"

The other man began to sputter unintelligently, his face going red.

"You kept on looking at the pot when I was shuffling, and again, during the betting rounds." His eyes flicked to the half finished smoke in the ashtray. "You had to snuff out your cigar so other people couldn't see your fingers twitch."

"That's bull. Shoulda known that a commie bastard like you would pull some mind trick like this."

"There's no trick. It's just simple observation. Obvious, really."

"Oh, obvious?" the man smiled in a rueful way. "Keep talking, I'll just use the bet money to find someone to snuff you out back you goddamn - "

Dean opened his mouth, desperate to say something, but this time the unnamed man piped up: "Cool it, guy," he was fiddling with his drink in plain fashion. "Bastard isn't worth the clothes he stole; he's probably confused. God knows they all just shared the wins in the backwater village he came from, huh? He can't understand the concept of working hard for something if everybody shouldered all the weight."

Arturi sniffed. "Never understood why you people came all the way over here if you were just gonna take what we have. Damn –"

And then Castiel flipped his cards up.

Castiel caused the entire table to go quiet for the second time that night.

Both were Spades. An Ace and a King. Castiel didn't crack a smile, not even as Arturi stared disbelievingly at them, staring at the pair that would make a Royal Flush.

"So much for a gentlemen's game," he said in a low voice. "Excuse me." He rose from his chair, and grabbed a pile of notes from the pot – maybe a third, though he was probably carrying about four hundred dollars. Dean grasped his arm, trying to get his attention, but he threw a scalding look at him. Castiel wasn't just angry, he looked vaguely hopeless; just try proving that you're not a camel.

There was a crescendo of club music; a type of waltz in with a Latin flare that was made for the dramatic. Dean couldn't hear Castiel's footsteps or see where the man was headed from where he sat, but he knew it would be out of the building all together.

Crowley's gaze was on Castiel as he disappeared into the crowd. He turned back to Dean. "Might want to keep a leash on that one," he said in a sage way. Everyone excepting Dean and Arturi laughed.

"Uh, I – " Dean made an abortive gesture and nearly fell over his own chair in a rush to get away from the table. He nearly sprinted through the waiters and dancing couples who had spilled out of the dance floor – and pushed through gaggles of men and women who hardly seemed to notice his haste. Suddenly the joke about Crowley's den being a fancy-lit hell wasn't so funny anymore, and he was only stopped on the way out of the Hotel lobby by a concierge, asking if he had taken his hat. Dean desperately searched for Castiel's own garments, finding that he had apparently not bothered to stop at the coat room on his way out.

He left carrying a bundle of clothing, running out onto the street at a late hour of night, suddenly starved for breath that wasn't stained with booze and smoke and the grating laugh of his betters, and desperately wondering where Castiel had went. There were some loiterers crowded outside, smoking and chatting, and they eyed Dean and his baggage, but none of them were who Dean was looking for. Voices were crushing into his mind and it felt like his vision was blacking over the sense of panic about losing Castiel again, so he scurried away from the hotel and down the street, where everything was left quiet and dark.

Castiel had tucked himself just inside the door of an office building, smoking a hand rolled cigarette as if he couldn't breathe without the tobacco in his lungs. His brows were drawn in a worried look, his mouth bowed in the same manner, and his eyes closed in what could be anything from distress to concentration, but the moment he heard the crunch of Dean's shoe on pavement, he opened his eyes, freezing Dean in his tracks with an icy glare.

Dean opened his mouth, realized he hadn't thought of anything to say, and let a gust of air fall from his parted lips. His brain was a scramble of curses as he waited for Castiel to react.

His eyes flicked down to Dean's arms. He silently shuffled the coat and hat into one hand and gave it over to Castiel.

Castiel nonchalantly shrugged the garment over his shoulders, lightly holding the brim of his hat as smoking took up most of his occupation. In the darkness, he seemed to consider Dean's presence, attempting to deduce a motive for chasing him out of the club.

Their silence was no longer companionable. Feeling forced to say something Dean went with the knee-jerk response; "Nice game, back there."

Castiel said nothing.

"I didn't stay, but I think Arturi was pretty shook up."

Castiel squinted, but still only opened his mouth to let out a puff of smoke. It was a coarser brand than the cigars the men had been chewing on. One of those things specifically unique to the man a ways from him.

"I guess you proved your point, then, right?" Dean ventured. "I mean, the things he said – "

"Why'd you follow me out?" Castiel said. Dean responded without thought.

"Well I had to, Cas. I wasn't just going to leave you out here by yourself."

"Very knightly behavior," Castiel crunched his cigarette on the ground before lighting up another one just as quick. Dean noticed there were a few butts littering the ground around him.

"Cas…"

Castiel made a shooing motion with his hand. "You sure the fellows aren't waiting for you to come back?"

Dean showcased the coat hanging off his arm. "I didn't plan on going back. They're not my friends. Cas, look, I know that you're mad – "

"Astute observational skills." Castiel quipped.

"It's just how they are," Dean said.

"Is that how you are, too?" Castiel said back. Dean didn't know what to do with a question like that, but as it turned out, Castiel wasn't waiting for him to answer it, anyway. "I've been here for a long time, Dean. I know that they hate me, and they wouldn't lose an ounce of sleep if they did send someone to bump me off. That's, as you say, how they are. The kind of people who take you apart: Anything from your clothes, to where you were born, to what accent you have, and how much money you don't make. And that's… okay." Castiel didn't sound convinced at that. "I can't say I expected any different. But you never took me as a wolf in sheep's clothing. I suppose I'm too familiar with blind faith, though, huh?

"You leave, and I let you come back because you had a good reason to be busy, I thought. I gave you the benefit of the doubt. And you seem like a good enough person… when we're alone, at least. In there you couldn't lift a finger to help me, not even say something to take their attention away from me for a moment? Calm them down? They'd listen to you, right?"

Dean was once again struck speechless, mouth agape. "You'll catch flies like that," Castiel mimicked. He tossed his spent cigarette to the ground and ran a hand through his hair. "Not going to defend yourself? Say it's a misunderstanding, something like that?"

And perhaps Dean would've had something to say if he was a different type of guy; he'd point out that he was still made of the same stuff that Crowley and his men scraped off their shoes, even if he was allowed to sit with them for a game. He'd want to plead that it wasn't his fault, to please, please reconsider it. Because somehow Castiel had grown to the most important thing he had in the city, and one of the few things in the world that could make him smile for what felt like hours on end. The only problem, of course, was that Dean had never had the chance to be that type of guy; he was the one always looking for an exit, even to a perfect situation.

He was the one that, given the chance, would have pushed Castiel away. If only in some demented way to keep him safe.

"I slept with some girl on Sam's wedding night." He blurted, feeling so guilty at the admission, almost sick with it. And it hurt; of course it hurt – as if he was tearing out some viable part of himself, but Castiel just wanted an answer, and Dean counted on the other's kindness once, but the type of forgiveness he needed now was never going to come about; the best to hope for was that Castiel would feel like he had gotten out of a mess; regardless of the sort Dean would be dragging himself into.

Castiel gave him a withering look. "If this is an attempt to get me to talk to you again, I find your methods highly questionable."

"I'm saying you shouldn't talk to me at all, Cas." Castiel stopped. "I'm not a good person, alright? I brought you here because I've never been able to figure out how to treat someone like an actual person, and I guess making you up like some prized dog is as close as my twisted mind can come to showing that. I act like nothing matters and it's all just one big adventure because that's easier than trying to figure this sort of thing out. And that's a piss-poor excuse, I know. Don't you think I get that by now? I'm one of the best guys to have around – and then you get to know me." He barked out a laugh. "I've been putting on this show for Sammy, my bosses, every guy and dame I've ever seen, ever since I was a kid I've been like this. But I just can't seem to do it to you."

"Why?" Castiel asked. Dean waved his arms as if he was drowning.

"Because you deserve something better than that, and I'm sorry for wasting your time here, and for the last half a year, because I let you think that I was." He looked at Castiel one more time, and when no other comments came, he sluggishly turned on his heel, heading back to his part of the city.

His first few steps were uncertain, mind not quite made up on where he was going; he couldn't be sure of anything at the moment – to be honest, Castiel had been the one fixture in his life for the last few weeks; he had spoiled himself. Even his brother's letters – the closest thing he had to him now – arrived sporadically, if often. But it wasn't the same as actually being with him. It was almost laughable how quickly things went wrong in his life. But he'd worry about breakdowns later; he wasn't sure if he ought to go back into the hotel, but the darkness of his own apartment seemed just as unbearable.

He was sure Castiel had wandered away by that point, fed up with him. He didn't blame the guy. He let a ton of rich bastards walk all over him because Dean had no sense of privacy. He groaned in a defeated way, rubbing at his eyes.

A voice rang out from behind him. "What makes you think you don't deserve better?"

"Huh?"

"You saw them – Crowley, your boss, and the rest of them. They were staring at you like you were a little fish." Castiel's accent became more pronounced on the last word, from anger, as he snarled out the sentence. And it still made Dean wince. He had no idea why Castiel would bother to stay – rub more salt in the wounds? He probably earned it. Dean was still afraid to face him, so he stayed rooted to the spot.

"They looked at both of us like that."

"No, just you." At Dean's uncertain pause Castiel actually seemed to make an irritated snort. "You'd think that your favorite past-time is being the Fall Guy."

Dean squinted. "How do you mean?"

"You think that Crowley invited you over to be nice? There had to be another reason; and it definitely wasn't to mock the Russian tailor who wormed his way into the party."

"Why then?"

Castiel shrugged. "I recognized a few of them. Three of them are in the stock market. One has the largest Italian shipping yard in Brooklyn, and the rest all own monopolies of hotels and businesses – convenient for, eh, well this sort of thing. Meet-ups, drugs, prostitutes, the works, if they're into that. They do seem the type." Dean was baffled at Castiel's insight. As if sensing that, Castiel went, "I know about all your cases, too, Dean. You think I'd miss out on the big-name offenders?"

"Do you have a mafia scrapbook or something that you keep under your bed?"

"Of course not. It's just a few notebooks." Dean still couldn't tell if Castiel was joking. He went on. "A few of them were on leave in Europe for business. Maybe the gang was all there tonight, and they wanted to… hm, check the new arrival, so to speak. For one reason or another." Castiel nodded to himself, cogs of the mind all thrumming together as he thought about his theory. "Yes, it makes sense in a way. I can see that now. But still, you didn't just agree with me when I was taking my anger out on you – you tried to help me prove it. By telling me…" he made a small gesture. "What sort of guy does that to himself?"

Me, Dean thought to himself. "Look," Dean insisted. "It was my job to take you out,"

"I'm a job to you, Dean?" Castiel's voice seemed closer to him than before. "Or is everything a job to you?" he posed it like an honest question about Dean's character. He let out a breath. "Can't help that, I suppose. That's who you are, isn't it?" Castiel no longer sounded angry, much less at him. It was something else – like, sadness. A longing for something. Or maybe pity; Dean could have been reading too much into it.

"Cas, just tell me what you're talking about for god's – "

Castiel shushed him. Dean reverted back to silence for a minute.

Then; "Look at me, Dean." Slowly, Dean managed to turn around. Castiel was closer. No longer smoking or leaning against a building. He had returned to a serious expression, but his eyes didn't pierce him when he looked his way. His jaw was set harshly though. Whatever he had mulled over was decided. And Dean swallowed, feeling the severity of Castiel's unvoiced words, and moreover, that damning half-elation that could only be described as hope, crush his chest like iron weights.

"Get on with it then," Dean muttered, even as he internally cringed.

Castiel squinted and tilted his head to the side, still regarding him in a shrewd way, as if trying to determine what, exactly, he was seeing. And then he opened his mouth, ready to give his answer.

xxxx

A/N: Oh, cliffhanger. Guess I'm evil. Alright, there's a lot of historical information crammed in here, so we'll try and do this quick and in order: There's some slang here; spifflicated was a cool way to mean 'drunk'; the named song playing in the club, 'Jesus Make up my Dying Bed' is included because it was recorded in 1927 by a Jazz singer Blind Willie Johnson, but more importantly, it was the basis of the Led Zeppelin song 'In My Time of Dying', which was also the first episode of Supernatural's Season two. Not even making that up. So I had to throw it in here, for obvious reasons. Next, Crowley's table is playing a game of poker – I don't know the first thing about it, shocker – now, Texas Hold 'Em, the most common type of poker, wasn't played outside of Texas until 1967, so, being in New York City, it's possible that they would have played something similar to it. Community card games just mean that there are cards on the table that everyone has. These games require you to watch other players for 'tells', to try and see if they'll fold or if they have a bad hand. Also, Castiel is a very good poker player, especially when it comes to poker faces. He can also hold down serious quantities of liquor.

Now, the little Wolf and Hare story Castiel tells is a Russian joke – I had a plan to have Castiel tell an embarrassingly unfunny joke before about half of this story was even thought up, so here it is. It's a common joke to kind of iterate how frustrating it was to explain things to government officials, where you'd have to jump through hoops to prove that you say, lost a limb in the war or weren't, in fact, dead. So the line just try proving you're not a camel mostly means try telling someone something when they don't want to listen. Also, Arturi's comment about wasting 'Daddy's money' is again the use of slang; a Daddy was the early incarnation of a sugar daddy; a younger girl's older boyfriend who may or may not have given her things in exchange for… other things. This is why Dean gets upset. Phew! That was a mouthful. If there are any other questions, feel free to leave a comment!