"Careful around the ears," Dean said jokingly. The Novak's flat was peacefully tranquil; early evening sunlight filtered a dusky glow around the room, and the weather had stopped being so miserable out that people could stand to have a window open. From where Dean sat in the chair, he could stare at the light blue curtains over the kitchen sink, and sometimes the distant shouts and sounds of a passerby below would drift up into the room. Gabriel was behind him, and once in a while the snip of scissors would pause just long enough for him to run his hand along Dean's scalp, making sure he had given him an even cut.
He still didn't have work Fridays, and Gabriel had been let go from his factory after a season. That was typical; Anna herself had switched jobs thrice since November; now she worked up north in Crown Heights, painting labels on cans and packaging. The hours were longer, the wage a cent worse. Gabriel seemed jealous, not because he fancied himself as a bread-winner for the family; he just got rather bored holed up in the shop with no one to talk with.
Dean allowed himself visits to the apartment even when Castiel wasn't there; usually he could spend an hour or so at the flat and wait for Castiel to come home, and they would walk to their apartment together, usually before the Novak's new tenant had gotten back.
With Castiel scarcely home they had rented out his bedroom to another factory man, his name was Thursten, or something along those lines. A teenager who, if Dean had to guess, had probably been kicked out by his family during the last few months and made his way to the city in hope of finding work. He was quiet, according to the Novak's accounts of him. He ate dinner with them and washed the dishes he used and always made sure he paid what he owed, so no one could complain. It did mean that the already small place was confined more, but at that particular moment, on a Friday afternoon, there was nothing for him to do except suffer in joint ennui with Castiel's brother-in-law, and get a haircut in the process.
Gabriel had offered to trim his hair of his own volition. Or at least, he made it seem so. Anna might have edged him that way, but now it was just the pair of them in the flat, aside from Misha, who was patiently entranced by a few wooden carvings on the floor in front of Dean. He was blessedly quiet, for a toddler. Dean told Gabriel so and he scoffed.
"He behaves around you, but that's about it. Little devil, most of the time." Dean would have shrugged, but didn't want to incur some sort of wrath from moving around too much.
"Do you cut everyone else's hair?"
"It's a skill, whenever Misha needs it. Anna used to ask, but with the equipment she's around now we just got most of it off, so she won't be needing more maintenance anytime soon." Anna's hair sat around her shoulders now. She was still lovely, and most of the factory girls had the same, short-cropped style so it wouldn't get sucked into open parts of turning machinery. It wasn't any stranger than the blazing red color of her hair to begin with. What was a peculiar thing was how quickly short hair came to mean practical versus fashionable. Before, Dean only saw it paired with a mink scarf and a headband lined with peacock feathers – now it was for the working class. "I never cared to cut mine much." Gabriel offered.
"I can tell," Dean said. "What about Cas?"
"Castiel?" Dean could hear an off-kilter smile come through in his voice. The cold press of the metal scissors gently touched his skin, making Dean flinch from the feel of it. "We practically have to tie him to the chair. You've seen how bad he is with shaving." Dean chuckled.
"I like his hair," he remarked without really thinking about it. It was soft, feathery, and while Castiel preferred to stare at Dean's reflection while he went through his morning routine than bother shaving himself, the rest of him tended to stay immaculate, at least before his second job covered him in grease and sweat and god knew what else. For the most part Castiel smelt like soap, either from the bath or the industrial mix the shop used for stain removal and detergent. "It does get mussed up a lot, of course."
"Sure that's not your fault?" it was a teasing comment; though it made Dean's back grow uncomfortably warm.
One of Misha's toys skirted along the floor; a small boxish figure with wheels, painted with bright colors to simulate a fantastical car. Dean nudged it back to him with his foot. "When's he getting back, anyway?"
"Soon," Gabriel said in a non-committal way. "He and Balthazar were going around to shop for a bit, I think." Misha, deciding Dean was offering himself up as a playmate, rolled the car back towards his feet. Dean pushed it again with the toe of his shoe, smiling wide when Misha looked up at him for a moment.
"I see." he went, once the child ducked his head again. He and Balthazar had a few encounters since the summer. Dean didn't particularly enjoy them. "I can tell you're not a fan," Gabriel said lightly.
"He's not exactly a fan of me, either."
"You two just don't know how to share, that's the problem." The scissors were set on the table with a dull thud. "You're done, by the way." He brushed Dean's shoulders to get rid of the strands of hair that had fallen on him. "You can go look in the mirror."
Dean walked into the washroom to examine Gabriel's handiwork. His hair had stopped looking uneven and shaggy and had transformed back into the short, smooth look he preferred. "You know, I bet Sam's hair is as grown out as yours," he said from the bathroom. "I was the one always teasing him about it."
"What about his wife?"
"Yeah, right. The bobs came and Jess didn't move an inch. Out there's just some unconquered wasteland, plus a few movie stars. No one's gonna make them do anything. California's meant for the strange people."
"Strange people and beaches," Gabriel added. Dean watched a grin slowly come to his face.
"That's what I'm talkin' about!" he said, walking back into the kitchen. Gabriel was clearing off the table where he'd set his combs and other supplies.
"If we ever got the chance I would have to drive out there myself," he admitted. "All the way west and down through the Mother Road. You're thinking of going out there yourself, right?" Gabriel asked.
"Soon as I can. Which probably won't be that soon, anyway."
"That little contracting deal."
Dean hummed. "Cas tell you about it?"
"Only in passing. It's that usual deal work, anyway. Are you waiting for specifics?"
"More or less; it's bound to just drop out of the sky. Could be today, could be two years from now, I'll get a notice for a last job and get sent packing."
"And then what?" Dean cocked his head.
"What do you mean, 'and then what'? I leave, go to California, and find my brother." Gabriel glanced up from the table for a moment, but if he was thinking to say something, the door behind him opened up first, and the subject was quickly discarded in favor of welcoming Castiel and Balthazar in.
"How was the market?" Dean asked, getting handed off a bag by Castiel.
"As usual," Balthazar answered. His attention quickly landed on Gabriel. "Prices on bread went up again. Think you can be convinced to make your own soon?" the other man shrugged; he and Balthazar started some idle chatter while Dean and Castiel put away groceries.
"We needed more canvas needles," Castiel said by way of greeting. Dean hovered beside him. "Then Balthazar and I walked through the park for a while."
"See anything interesting?"
"A Blue Jay," Dean smiled. "But other than that it was the same neighborhood of people, walking by."
"Funny that New York has enough numbers to be its own country but everyone sees the same things." Castiel began stacking cans away in the cabinet.
"Unless you're used to travelling all your life." Was the cheeky comment he got in return. "You're just stuck, wasting away in this one corner of the Earth forever," He turned back around, folding up the now empty paper bag. Dean leaned close enough to him that the tips of their shoes were just touching.
"Oh, I manage, I suppose," he murmured. Castiel copied his content expression and shoved his shoulder with a huff, stepping past him.
"Weren't you two supposed to be leaving?" Balthazar said. Dean tried not to jump, but judging by Gabriel's muffled snort of laughter he had ultimately failed on that front.
"Yeah." he said, trying to cover himself. He glanced over at Castiel. "Yeah. We were."
"Good, I can walk Castiel out." Dean bit the inside of his cheek to hold back any comments he had. He and Balthazar strode up to the door at the same time, Castiel trailing behind as if he couldn't sense the crackling tension between the two men. Dean felt like he was thrown back into clumsy adolescence, trying to gain the affections of some girl in an arbitrary, dusty town, both of which would usually end up being forgotten in not even a year, though Dean's pride was the most worrying subject to those past endeavors.
Of course now everything had stretched and shifted and mutated into another beast altogether; at least he didn't have to worry that Balthazar wanted Castiel in the same fashion. That notion gave him a terrible feeling, deepset into his bones; enough to make him shudder and get a questioning look from Balthazar.
The three of them were halfway down the steps when Gabriel called down to them, "Castiel, I just remembered something." His shadow appeared in the doorway. "The shop's finances for last week – that business?"
"Oh," Castiel said. "Right." The staircase made a series of low, whining notes as Castiel stepped up them again. There were no windows in the corridor, so Dean could only barely make out his figure.
"I can wait –" Balthazar started, but Castiel waved a hand and said over his shoulder not to bother.
"It'll only take a minute," he said. Dean could just see a frown crease Balthazar's face and it improved his mood tenfold. "Dean can keep you company in the lobby till I come down."
And suddenly all that congratulatory happiness was swallowed up, and Castiel shut the door to the flat, leaving the two men stuck in the dark corridor. For a moment neither Dean nor Balthazar could think of something to say, and dumbly stared up at the door leading to the Novak's flat, as if it were bound to open again any second now.
"I think they planned that," Dean said, at length.
"…That's a larger possibility than I care to admit." Balthazar sighed and turned around, going the rest of the way down the stairs. It took Dean a minute before finally deciding that even being in the shop front with Castiel's friend was preferable to standing in a musty, black hallway, so he followed suit.
Balthazar was sitting in one of the chairs in the shop, smoking, when Dean rounded the corner and saw him. The cigarette paper was of the mass-produced white, but the smoke left an unfamiliar tang in the air as he approached. The blonde man watched him with squinted eyes, trying to make a shrewd judgment, perhaps, of how they would interact with one another. "Suppose they're keeping us here till we learn to play nice?" he said, broaching the same line of thought Dean had intended to keep to himself.
"Sounds about right." He didn't feel so much like sitting, though already in the middle of the room meant that he had to awkwardly stay in place, a solid mass of unwavering self-assurance. He put his hands in the pockets of his trousers.
"How's Castiel?" he asked; Dean pursed his lips. If he were to talk first, he knew that would've been what he'd say. The only thing the two of them could talk about was Castiel.
"Good, I suppose." Dean replied. "I haven't seen him since yesterday night."
"Oh?"
"He left the apartment before I got up." He reveled in that note; that he was the last person Castiel saw before going to bed, the first thing his eyes fell on when he woke. There was that sort of closeness Balthazar would never be able to touch. Not now, not ever.
But Balthazar just smirked, inspected the floor by Dean's feet, like he knew exactly what he meant by the comment. "Didn't wake you up before he left, I see," he supplied at length.
Dean swallowed. "Well, I don't need to see him every moment to make sure he doesn't run off."
Balthazar let out a chuckle, brought the cigarette to his lips. "Ah, that's true; by now you definitely have him on a leash." His motions were delicate. Even though he was sitting, it was obvious that he had a small build, something around Gabriel's stature, and older by a bit. His face was aged in a way to mistake him for kindly, but Dean knew that was more façade than truth; Balthazar had his own dark roots around the shipping yards by the bay, according to Castiel. He had just as much blood on his hands as Dean did. If they weren't connected to the Novak family like they were, one of them might have started making threats.
He probably had a gun hidden away in his suit, Dean figured, sticking a finger out from his fist to soothe along the cool bulge of a pistol hidden away in one of his pockets. His fingers twitched from the touch. "I'm not sure I follow you." Balthazar's arm went behind the chair, and he relaxed into a slouch, as if to play off of Dean's rigid shape.
He took the cigarette out of his mouth for a moment and gave it a confused, scrutinizing look, then did the same to Dean's face. "You're aware that your dislike of me isn't mutually exclusive, right?"
Dean was. "But you did say Castiel wants us to be civil to each other, and he won't think –"
"What gives you the impression that you would know what Castiel thinks?" Balthazar cut in; he did a much better job of pretending to be patient than Dean ever could. "Of course he does seem to be fond of you for some obscure, illogical reason, too much heart and all that – stays with you, fine." He raised an eyebrow, as if he was expecting Dean to know better. "But that doesn't entitle you as his owner, and it doesn't mean that you have any capability to know how he thinks."
"But you do," Dean accused.
Balthazar leaned forward in his seat. "You don't have the faintest clue of what he was like before you stumbled in on him, swept him away to your side of the city. What it was like for him, here and home."
"Which home? Russia or Bulgaria?" Dean snapped. He would have regretted saying that if it wasn't the one thing that seemed to catch Balthazar off guard.
His eyes widened by a margin – it was something. "He told you?"
"Everything." Dean said. "He told me everything. About his brothers, about the village, the march, Uriel, Raphael, he told me everything."
"…He's barely been able to say that to his sister." Balthazar spoke conspiringly, as if he wasn't talking to Dean anymore but some other confidant that was sitting in the chair next to him, which in reality was only open to air.
"We're family," Dean persisted. The other man stared up at him. "Him and I. His sister, Gabriel – you, even; he said he wanted to tell me. Said I ought to know."
"Family." Balthazar gave out a dry, nearly silent laugh and took another breath of smoke on the next inhale. "Such a sentimental thing for you to say."
"I have a family,"
"You have a brother. And you didn't have to fight tooth and nail for him. Not like we did."
"It's not a body count," Dean echoed, wishing Castiel would appear already. "And speaking of not knowing a thing about someone…"
"You think I have to read your life story to know that Castiel is coming off worse being with you? I don't." He tacked on the last sentence as an afterthought.
"He's happy," he said, feeling more than a little self-righteous because that was true. Anna had told him it was true. And just by saying that he loved him, Castiel admitted the same.
"For now," Balthazar agreed. "Unless of course you happen to get into a mood and send him into a blue spell for days – like last month? That broken window?"
Dean felt embarrassed all over by that feral overtake on his brain. He would have inquired with another 'He told you?' but instead went, "I fixed it. We fixed it. And not the window, I mean," he added when it seemed as if Balthazar would interrupt him once more.
"And I'm sure nothing like that will ever happen again."
Dean sucked in a breath. "Are you jealous?" he asked, "Is there some sort of unrequited affections that aren't getting across? Because to me it sounds like you don't want Cas to be happy."
"We're friends," He stated firmly. "I don't like the sort of elation he gets from you."
"Do you want someone else to take my place?"
"Well if you have any references I can look into, I wouldn't mind. If anything though it's you or bust. Women stick in Castiel's head like your mind and intelligence. He's not flexible like you. And even if he was he'd rather become a monk than go around and go by your methods."
Dean began to wonder if Balthazar was a good friend at all, moving his hands so he could discreetly wring them behind his back. "A bit selfish, don't you think?" he grunted.
"I'd rather not get his hopes up that you won't hop the next train out of here. Desertion isn't a habit families keep up." He let out a facetious sigh. "Then again, you did let your brother go in the first place."
"You shut your mouth about him." Dean demanded, his mouth twisting into a scowl. "And like hell you know what I'm going to do. I'm not leaving Cas in the dust," he said, even if he wasn't too sure about that. "I'd do anything for him. His family. Anything to keep him happy," Dean said. "Which is more than can be said about you."
"Martyrdom – that's also nice notion," Balthazar commented. "Though it does beg the question why. Happiness for its own sake is, after all, rather boring."
"I'm sorry romantic things aren't interesting to you."
"Oh you're not romantic; believe me, I can tell. Castiel's the only one pure enough for that sort of thing between the three of us."
Dean fought the urge to move from his spot on the floor. At first he was standing still to prevent from embarrassing himself; now he just didn't want to risk getting within fighting distance between the other man. "Well, do you have any theories, since we want to wax philosophical for a bit?" Balthazar paused for a moment, savored his cigarette at an aggravating pace.
"Well," he went, "if I were to keep a little pet in a cage, it'd be a good practice to keep it happy. Makes me feel better about trapping it there."
"The only problem is that I'm not like you."
Balthazar shrugged. "Well then, what keeps you under lock and key?" He stood up. "So Castiel loves you, then." Dean looked to Balthazar, startled by the frankness of his words. So much so that he couldn't pry his mouth open and speak, though he might have made a squeaking sound in the back of his throat. Throwing that out in the open might have been worse than Balthazar's fist in his face, for how unbalanced and out of breath he felt.
"We both do," he said at length, feeling uncomfortable at admitting that to the other presence beside him. He took a glance to his sides, as if paranoid that other people could hear them.
"So what?" Balthazar said, leaning against the wall of the store, staring at the clock. "People mistake that for virtue. It's a real trouble, you know. Love's a feeling; a catalyst. It doesn't do things," he looked pointedly at Dean. "People kill other people for love, you know." Dean felt himself scrabbling back some control in the conversation; enough to actually force a rueful smile on his face.
"Cas ain't killing anybody for my sake." Once again Balthazar gave a curious look.
"Would you?" he asked, though Dean refused to answer. He carried on in an almost gentle tone; not patronizingly down-to-earth, this time. "Castiel is… surprisingly vulnerable, sometimes. Out of desperation, I think. He's been unhappy for too long, the things he'd do…"
"You're lying; he couldn't hurt a fly," Dean argued. "He wouldn't." Balthazar gave him a pitying glance before walking over to the shop's front door. Dean thought he was going to walk out for a moment, but he merely flicked the cigarette butt out onto the gravel before turning back to the other man some ways away from him. The closing door brought the smell of dust and pollen through – the scent of spring that almost made Dean's eyes water.
"People can do a lot of things, if you give them enough push."
"So, what? I'm going to push him?" Balthazar gazed outside for a long time, his arms crossed and his neck stretched to an awkward angle, like someone had twisted it that way. He got a peculiar look on his face, as if he was recalling some sad moment comparable to now.
Dean wondered suddenly if Balthazar had given Castiel the same sort of silly talk – if less insulting – and Castiel had likewise brushed it off as the extraneous worries they were. Balthazar could have accosted Dean, if he wanted; as a pansy, someone who was blackmailing his friends, and he could probably round up a few people who would try to get rid of him. You could do a lot of things with a gun and the cut throat attitude that Balthazar had. But instead all he did was talk, and try to get Dean to listen.
Personally Dean wasn't sure if Balthazar was being wise or incredibly stupid.
There was the sound of steps coming towards them, getting closer to the ground floor. Balthazar looked back, checked the clock on the wall one more time. "He never had options, before you came along and wrecked it."
Dean felt like he was missing a dire piece of the puzzle, a part of Balthazar's message vitally misread, but before being able to demand what, in plain English, the other was spewing on about, Castiel appeared between the two of them and an overhanging silence threaded over the pair like a smoke cloud.
"That business all cleared up?"Dean asked, splitting his gaze between Castiel and his friend.
"Oh, yes. Everything's sorted." He didn't try to elaborate and Dean could have rolled his eyes if there weren't two sets already on him. "We can go now, unless you two were still talking?"
Dean shook his head, just as Balthazar murmured, "No, no, we're all finished here," and opened the door for the pair of them. "Have a nice evening Castiel."
Castiel gave Balthazar a cordial smile, and a wave. "I'll see you tomorrow," he said easily, stepping out the door.
"Bye, Balthazar," Dean said, feeling uneasy as Balthazar's dark eyes bore into his. His heart was in the same spot Dean's was, even if they had very different ways of seeing it. Dean was still all for smacking the guy across the head, obviously, but Castiel wanted them to get along, he knew he did. If he had to have another painful conversation with Balthazar to try and form some sort of truce in the matter, well, anything to make Castiel happy, right? Happiness for its own sake.
"Have a good afternoon," Balthazar said to him, his stare easing, as if the same thought struck him as well. Dean nodded carefully at him before turning around and, following Castiel's lead, slipped away.
xxxx
"What did you and Balthazar talk about?" Castiel asked, after the shop was half a block behind them.
"You," Dean said. "We don't have much in common besides that." Castiel was staring at the ground, a small smile on his face. He was oblivious to Dean's unsettled nerves, as if his gut had been replaced with a bag of agitated snakes. He glanced over his shoulder, but there was no figure, nothing strange lurking there.
Dean tried to flush out the awful premonitions Balthazar had planted; he risked another glance at Castiel, wordlessly walking in step besides him. They crossed the street and enough buildings were cleared from the westward path that the sun broke through and settled on the pair in a long line of bronze light. Castiel's skin grew darker, his hair lighter, and Dean could make out the eyelashes that moved as he blinked. It wasn't a special sight, per say; anyone on any street corner could look like that in this light – but it still made his steps a lot lighter than before, and it took a moment to realize that he hadn't inhaled.
It was moments like this he inconsiderately wished Castiel was a woman, if only so he could grasp the other's hand, kiss his cheek without risk of the sight becoming far-reaching gossip or a claim of public indecency. He heard some news reports like that come out, about some semi-prestigious men caught in bed with someone of the wrong sex; those stories usually had the word scandal repeated ten times from the title down. He wasn't sure if stories like that had increased in frequency, or if he was purposefully looking for them more.
It was agonizing, to think this way. He reached for his cigarette case. "Lend a light?" he asked Castiel, who had a match hissing to life seemingly a second later. They leaned into each other while Dean fed the end of the smoke into the fire. "I could kiss you right now," he muttered in a quiet, casual tone. He pulled back and watched Castiel stomp the match onto the ground.
"What?" Castiel asked, "For a light?"
"No, just for you." Dean started walking again, proud of the secret moment he had created in public. He felt even better when he saw Castiel frozen, a few paces behind already, still caught off guard by Dean's compliments.
Dean smiled again, around the cigarette in his mouth, and tilted his head to remind Castiel that he still had to walk home: Suddenly he was feeling much better.
xxxx
Dean still approached the apartment warily, in fear that Crane would be skulking around to either bear more bad news or decide that Dean didn't deserve a place in the apartments. They could get a new place if they had to – worst case scenario they would be in Castiel's old room instead of that kid – but he didn't want to do that; the apartment had grown on him, or the presence Castiel had left there had. They walked up the stairs and got into the room around the time when most of the sun was below the horizon, and the clouds had gotten a candy-colored tint to them.
Before Castiel could even put his coat on the rack Dean was kissing him; he could in here, after all. Just against his jaw line, at first – to get his attention.
"You can definitely kiss me now," Castiel suggested, putting a hand around Dean's neck. He glanced a little above Dean's eyes. "Oh, he did cut your hair. Gabriel said he would. Do you like it?" Dean hummed in agreement against Castiel's lips before sliding forward again, slow and simple, just a press of warm lips to another's, all the while drawing Castiel closer to him.
"Not that much different, I just wanted to make sure it didn't get out of control like yours." Castiel pretended to look insulted, and it was an almost convincing expression until he chased Dean's mouth with his own, and slid a leg out to press against Dean's calf in an attempt to get any more menial, boring talk to stop in its tracks.
There was a knock at the door. They gaped at one another for a moment, unsure if they heard right, but when the knocking resounded again they went apart, Castiel smoothing his clothes down as if the smallest wrinkle would give them away, and Dean wondering who was on the other side of the wood and wishing once more for a peep hole.
The door opened and Dean forgot to breathe for the second time that day. Not for a good reason, though.
"Are you going to invite me in any time soon or are we going to have a staring contest in the hall?" Crowley said, turning his head slightly like another person would make a shrugging gesture, asking for someone to do something. Dean wordlessly stepped out of Crowley's way, and hesitantly shut the door back up. His boss was impeccable as per usual; he wore an imposing, black suit that was probably imported and worth more than Dean's life. His posture was ramrod straight, and he could sense the ice lining the superficial warmth of his words; he could already feel a flash of chills sweep through him as he tried to figure out what to say to the man who had just wandered into his home.
Despite that, though, Dean wasn't necessarily afraid of Crowley; some people were, but after dealing with Alastair and Lucifer, his new boss's affable nature was a breath of fresh air. Wariness was usually enough to deal with him, even if the other was currently scanning his room like he knew every intimate secret it contained. Finally his gaze rested on Castiel, standing awkwardly with his hands hanging like dead-weights, his overcoat still on him.
"Nice settlement here. Affordable." Crowley eyed Dean again as he stepped more into the room. "Do you rent out half your bed to him or is there a more insidious reason for this mudak to be here?"
"It's none of your business who comes into my own room," Dean said indignantly. "Or for what, and it'd be better off if you didn't mention it again." He wasn't a fan of these casual attacks on his personal life, especially twice in one day. Behind him, Castiel swallowed and looked a shade paler, though it was hard to tell if that was from the slur or the implication Crowley had crudely drawn for them.
His boss appeared exasperated. "You're getting the impression that I care what you stick your prick in." He made a waving motion with his hand, dismissive. "No, I have something to discuss with you; it's hard enough coming here unnoticed. I don't need your friend to tell the whole neighborhood."
Castiel reflexively went to the door, hand on the knob and ready to depart without comment. "Cas," Dean called out, trying to assure him without any other word as he stared at Crowley. "I'm getting the feeling this isn't about a regular job," Dean offered.
"No, it isn't. So it'd be a shame if someone opened their mouths and spoiled the surprise."
"Actually," Dean said, watching Castiel slowly step back from the door and retreat back into the room. "This is something he ought to hear." Castiel hovered by Dean's side, still silent, gaze lowered. It was hard to say who Crowley focused on more. "I trust him with my life," he added. "He wouldn't say a thing to his own sister if I told him not to. Right?"
"Of course," Castiel said immediately.
"Well, nice to see you do have him trained," Crowley noted. "Did you teach him poker, as well?"
Castiel raised his head, now realizing that Crowley had remembered his presence at his party long ago. His tone remained polite, but cold and removed, out of touch. "Card games have been in my repertoire for many years."
"A master at gambling, then?" Crowley was fishing for a bite.
Castiel evaded the hook, so to speak. "No. However my knowledge of the game easily allowed me to rely more on a fortunate draw than strategies."
"Putting matters up for luck? Not really my style."
"Most men won't admit that gambling is just playing with chances. I suppose accepting that makes it easier for me to win."
"That and the ability to turn your face into a rock." Crowley grunted. "Well enough blathering – let's get on with it, shall we? I'd like to make this quick."
Dean urged to wrap his hand around the security of a gun, but knew that Crowley would be the first to know why his hand went to a pocket. "Sure, quick is good," he agreed.
Crowley, perhaps noticing Dean's defiant tone, said, "You still miss your brother, don't you?"
Dean stiffened; trigger hand twitching. "What did you do to Sam?"
"Why would you assume I did anything? He's still living it up out West, right? I just wanted to make sure you were still interested in the second part of Lucifer's deal – you know, the one where you get to make a full retirement from a life of crime without getting a bullet in your head?"
Dean's apprehension ebbed. "Really? I can leave?"
"Don't get excited, your debt to me isn't paid just yet."
"Then why bother with the courtesy call?"
"Because before I can ship you out, you have to do something very, very important for me."
"What is it?" Crowley heavily appraised Castiel and Dean both, as if the secret he was about to reveal would be a terribly painful burden for them. Dean suddenly realized that Crowley didn't have any body guards with him – whatever was going on was extremely covert; his stomach clenched in knots.
"I need you to kill Lucifer." Crowley said, and everything around Dean seemed to topple from the bottom-up.
It took every ounce of resolve he had to just keep looking as he was instead of how he felt; he was dimly aware that the muscles in his legs quivered, if only for a spare moment, just enough to send tremors only he could feel. He had probably gone pale, too. He wiped at his mouth, buying time before he would have to get at a response.
It wasn't as though sending a hit out on a mafia boss was some rare, unprecedented event; hell, there seemed to be more attempted murders of Lucifer than available jobs in the whole country; but that was the thing, out of the dozens of times Lucifer had dodged a bullet, or a knife, or subtly applied poison in two cases Dean had heard about, no one had ever succeeded. There became the immediate solution that Crowley was giving him a Hosbon's choice: To either die in the city for refusing the assignment, or get blown to kingdom come on his attempt at it. And he certainly wouldn't put it past his boss, but the pieces didn't seem to fit together just right.
"Why?" Dean asked, struggling to get his mouth to work.
"Why?" Crowley parroted.
"Confusion isn't exactly misplaced here, Crowley." Castiel spoke up, and Dean wasn't sure whether to be relieved that he had more time to gain control back over his faculties, or worried that Castiel would stir up more trouble for himself. "As far as I've been able to tell, you were a branch off from Lucifer's; he was a mentor to you, in a way, years ago. And the two groups you run have been coinciding rather smoothly from the start. Why, exactly, are you pining for Lucifer's downfall now? It doesn't seem like someone of your… caliber," he said in a doubting way, biting his lip, "Would waste what you probably think is a perfectly good worker, just to reprimand him for some slight against you or your business." He looked over to Dean, who was feeling a little better now that Castiel had hit the nail on the head, begging answers to Dean's unvoiced questions.
Crowley seemed to consider Castiel's little speech. "Rather intelligent man, aren't you?" Dean's blood ran cold again. "I wasn't aware that you were so well versed in mob relations on top of everything else." Castiel eyed him curiously.
"What are you referring to?"
"A Russian tailor in Brighton Beach with his own humble connections to some illegal networks there – and a convenient shop around a hotspot for your sort and Dean's to meet." He cocked his head. "Could you be a spy, I wonder? Or just an interested third party?" Castiel paused; uneasy.
"I'm not inclined to reveal more of my personal life than what you've managed to dig up," he said finally. Dean, taking a steeling breath and moving into focus, decided to get back to the matter at hand.
"Wouldn't mind a few explanations from your side though," he said.
"Fine." Crowley took a step back, and for a moment Dean readied himself for the man to pull out a gun and fire a round at him. But instead he merely began walking the length of the room in a slow, prowling pace, which wasn't outright as lethal as a bullet, but did nothing to calm Dean's nerves.
"It's true that Lucifer and I are on good footing – that's more my method, I suppose. It's much easier to stab someone if their back is to you." Dean snorted; that certainly sounded like Crowley's personal business motto. "Lucifer is of an admirable sort; off-the-boat parents, a rebel turned king – his climb up the ethically impaired ladder is admirable certainly," he stopped in his tracks and shrugged in a nonchalant fashion; "But we're living in a time of progress, my friends – and doing an admirable job just doesn't cut it anymore, I'm afraid." He went back to moving, hands behind his back. He was by the kitchen counter and he disinterestedly glanced at the cover of one of Castiel's novels sitting there. "You have noticed some increase in those little start-up gangs around here, I hope?"
"Hard to miss," Dean grunted. "Desperate times and all that; so what, though?"
Crowley turned back around, looking animated for the first time. "Lucifer isn't doing a damned thing about quality control – that's what!" He cooled immediately, lowering his voice back to a polite volume. "Lucifer is more than content to just sit back and relax. No maintenance, no proper regulations, and he doesn't even mind when some homeless kids start holding their little gambling rings in his part of the city. It's not professional, and the only thing that separates what we do, with what common criminals do, is professionalism."
"Sure," Dean went. "That's the only thing."
"I never planned for things to get this bad – when I first started out there was some order – some rhyme and reason going on in this city. I never planned to let Lucifer live this long."
"So you're saying that you want him bumped off because he's not keeping up with the housecleaning?" Dean asked.
"That's one of the reasons. Truly it's because as fun as it is to have allies; I'd rather just play on my own."
"What about the other guys in the city? The families, gangs?"
"Once Lucifer is taken down most of his little followers will scramble, and half of the borough will answer to me. Any other expansion will have other plans and, frankly, will happen when you're long, long, gone." Crowley had the strongest hold in the southern strips of Brooklyn, where Russian mobs didn't dominate, and Lucifer had the reins of the eastern, bay side communities. There were other rivalries brewing and killing each other all over the rest of the city, but if Crowley ever did get into a position to take over that much territory that quickly, he would easily become one of most powerful leaders on the east coast.
"And you're depending on me to do that for you."
Crowley stood still again. "Oh, don't tell me that you wanted poor Lucifer to live a long, happy life, did you? I'm sure you've imagined snapping his neck plenty of times over. You've probably imagined doing that to me, but that doesn't get you a train ticket out of here."
Dean pursed his lips, eyes darting slightly as he thought in rapid-fire increments. "And when do you want me to take this hit out?"
"That's a to be announced date, I'm afraid." Crowley offered nonchalantly, as if he had to work out Lucifer's assassination between lunch meetings. "Within the next handful of months; you're the planned gunman, but I still have a few other pawns that need to get set up. I just thought, performance jitters and all that, you might want some time to prepare."
"Why, do you have any other dons you want dead?"
"Oh, certainly. But Lucifer's head is only enough for one ride. So if you were interested in taking say, this gentleman of yours," He gestured to Castiel and his mouth curled up. "Then I might need you to work overtime a bit."
"What?" Dean cast a flurried glance between the other men in the room.
"Oh, my mistake, I just thought – well it's probably been, what, a year for the pair of you? From what I heard Dean was never fond of having the same bedmate for more than a couple hours." His attention fell back on Castiel, who had adopted a rather insensitive, deadened look. "But this one has so much personality! I can see the attraction." He reached into his breast pocket for a slip of paper, and held it out for Castiel to see, addressing him now instead of Dean. "You do appear to have a working brainstem, however. Perhaps if lover-boy doesn't want to pay your way, you'd be willing to, hm?" Castiel hesitantly took the calling card from Crowley's grasp; it had a series of numbers for presumably his phone lines, and what looked to be an address up in Dyker Heights. Crowley stepped away from the pair and brushed down the hide of his suit, as if Dean or Castiel had contaminated it.
"Any other enlightening questions?" Crowley said.
"Yeah. Why me?" Dean asked.
Crowley feigned a look of sympathy. "Oh Dean, it just had to be you." he said, as if that explained anything at all. "I'll keep in touch," he continued, already turning around. Crowley shut the door behind him, footsteps echoing a moment longer until neither Dean nor Castiel heard anything at all.
The moment Crowley had gone Dean snatched the calling card from Castiel's hands and threw it away. Castiel watched it flutter down and land in the trash bin near the table. Finally able to breathe freely, Dean couldn't force himself to calm down, especially about this.
"Don't." Dean warned, catching the focused look on Crowley's calling card.
"What?"
"I could tell what you were thinking, and I'm telling you, don't."
"But –"
"You were thinking that you could work for him." Dean grabbed Castiel hard by the shoulders. He was unforgiving, in his grip, in his tone, and he knew that from the way Castiel, so intense himself most of the time, seemed frozen in a form of shock, and flinched at the hold. "Listen to me Cas," he said. "Don't get involved. With Crowley. With Lucifer – with anyone. You're not a part of this. You didn't drag yourself to America to get shot in the back by some gang for my sake."
"I can help you," he offered as a weak protest. "He said that –"
"Forget what he said – listen to what I'm saying right now," He shook Castiel lightly. "It's not worth it. Getting me and Sam into this kind of stint was the worst choice I could've made, alright? And if you can't stand the blood on your hands already then why in the hell would you want to go through it again?" He let Castiel go, watched him stumble backwards dumbly like he couldn't feel his legs. "Give me one damn good reason why you want more things like that to regret."
Castiel blinked, steadying himself against the end of the bed. "You." he muttered, and that silenced Dean in an instant.
He had already opened his mouth a bit to offer a rebuttal, before Castiel had just recanted with a word. One word. That one; which was somehow more potent than any threat or love confession or anything else he could hear. "You."
"No," it hissed out from between Dean's teeth before he even knew he was thinking it. "You can't. Cas, you can't."
Castiel clasped his hands together gently, staring at them instead of Dean's face. "I… assumed that, when your brother and his wife left the state, you would end up following them at one point or another. We never talked about it." His voice was dark and haunted; did Castiel think of these things late at night? When he mentioned his brother, would Castiel drift off and wonder if Dean had kept something like this from him? "But I have to ask you; if you were going, leaving New York forever…" he glanced up, "Would you tell me?"
Dean wanted to insist that they weren't talking about that, but Castiel was relentless – the expression, the way he spoke his words carefully, as if he had just started to get a grasp of English. It was frighteningly open and might have penned him for weak if Dean didn't know any better.
He already knew that was a question he would answer, and arguing that Castiel just shut up a damn minute and listen to him instead could prolong the inevitable; but Dean was done trying to hold his own against another person's thoughts, so he collected himself enough to say, "In the beginning, no."
Castiel's stance withered slightly.
"After that party, perhaps – or a letter sent after the fact. Now…" it was hard to put into eloquent speech what he meant, and it left Dean staring at the back wall of the apartment in concentration. "Why do you want to know?" he asked distractedly.
"I just want to be sure of something." Was the vague answer he received.
"I'm not going to spend the rest of my life apart from my brother but, god, a part of me just wants to stay here with you." Castiel silently prompted Dean to continue. "I feel guilty about it sometimes. I didn't think ever that'd I get this deep in with anybody – especially somebody like you. Things like us," he gestured between the two of them. "We're not supposed to happen, and maybe I ought to regret it, but I can't. And… and you're right, I never talked about this with you, but to be honest I never thought about this period. I thought about Sam and California, I didn't want to think about the work it'd take to get there.
"If I try to work it out in my head, all I see is the both of us on separate sides of the country and I get torn up, and…" he looked away another time. "I know it's selfish but I wish you could come with me. But even I know that's asking for too much." He swore he heard Castiel swallow, and from the corner of his eye he saw him biting his lip.
Castiel's voice had a teetering edge to it like he couldn't lean one way or another in his feelings. "What about my sister? And Gabriel, and… and Balthazar?"
"I doubt any of you would want to uproot ten year's worth of your lives and come west for my sake," he said evenly. "But I would bring 'em out too. I'd round up the whole neighborhood if that was an option." Dean felt a corner of his mouth twist up; he could practically hear waves, off in the distance. "You could give your business to movie stars and all the rich clients Sam had, and it'd be hot and bright all year 'round. I could take a trade class and get a real job, and it'd be like a retirement and… we wouldn't have to worry about the things we do here." Dean crossed his arms. "It'd be different, I think – as dumb as that sounds, of course."
"More and more people are moving west every year," Castiel said, slowly. "It wouldn't be too strange, I don't think. In the grand scheme of things."
"Well you can't just up and disappear," Dean said, but Castiel had this look on his face that implied that he could – that he even wanted to, and Dean felt a rush, a heartbeat, floundering in the back of his head. "You said yourself that this is your home."
"Sometimes home's more of a person, than a place," Castiel offered. Dean felt his breath hitch. "Of course, it's more Okies and people from the far East migrating now, so it might be a little singular to have Russians around. But Venice isn't too far from Hollywood and all the eccentricities there."
Dean felt a stuttering laugh bubble up in his throat. "What, think you can audition for a few pictures?" Quickly his thoughts sobered again. "You can't mean that you want to leave with me,"
Castiel slowly approached him, and didn't stop until he was practically on top of Dean in terms of personal space. Dean stayed rooted to the spot, trapped by the look Castiel was giving him. "You would be miserable without me, at this point, you said. Don't you think I'd feel the same way? I don't know how but… Anna and Gabriel do like you, and as attached we are here, I couldn't leave without them, either. If I could convince them,"
"And Balthazar?"
"It's good luck we have a few months to win him over," Castiel said. "I'm saying this as if it could happen," he continued, a touch of humor sparking his words.
Something big seemed to appear between them at that very moment. It terrified him; grabbed him and Castiel tight and seized the pair with grandiose dreams and ideas that they weren't supposed to have if either one of them could talk sense into the other. This was a dream; a helpless piece of imagery, but god did he want it. Castiel's eyes had that glow to them again, as if they were already where they wanted to be. He couldn't leave Castiel – he would live and get on just fine with the rest of the family in California, but somehow everything he wanted lost its splendor if he knew that Castiel wouldn't be there to see it with him. And already he heard Balthazar's warnings of abandonment ringing in his head, and his own flurried promise, and if he had any other logical reservations about this dangerous plan they were creating, he was already drowning them out.
"If you want it to, we can make it happen," he swore, jaw tight, throat and chest clutched up inside him like he had swallowed the sun. "That's five, six heads to count for," Dean said. "It might take some time, but I can do it."
"You don't have to do it alone," Castiel suggested, but Dean just shook his head; they had come full circle now, and Dean didn't like Castiel's method of thought any more than the first time he heard it. With a sigh he walked over to the armchair and practically collapsed into the material. The other man walked over, peering down at him.
"You want to help me?" Castiel nodded like he was following an order. "Then just – just try to get everyone else on board with this thing, okay? And I know you hate them somethin' awful but start taking one of my pistols when you go out someplace, because from here on I can't say exactly what Crowley might throw out way." He reached out and touched Castiel's shoulder, and without pause Castiel kneeled down by the front of the chair, so Dean could hover over him instead. "I know I'm an ass sometimes, and downright demanding; I know you want to help, I can't blame you." He held the sides of Castiel's head, not in a punishing grip, but merely to frame his face and look at him. "But I can't live without you, and I can't live you dead. So – no matter how tough you think you are, this business will rip you apart if you start now from where I am. So, please, please, Cas, whatever you do, whatever happens, do not go to Crowley." Dean took a deep breath. "Okay?"
Castiel's irises flickered to slight points across Dean's face, deep thoughts crossing his mind as he looked at Dean's skin.
"Alright," Castiel said finally. Beneath his fingers, Dean could feel him nod his head slightly. "I promise I'll stay out of it like that – I don't want you hurt but, I don't want to hurt you – I will never do anything like that to hurt you, Dean," he said solemnly; the weight of the words made something in the back of Dean's eyes prickle and sting for a moment, and once that passed he dragged Castiel close to him, leaning against his shoulder and holding as tight as he could, as if to confirm he had reality under his fingertips. Castiel wrapped his arms around Dean's waist, straightening up a bit for more leverage.
He trusted Castiel; with every ounce of his person, he believed that Castiel really wouldn't do a thing to hurt anybody, not even him.
And, he figured, feeling the warmth of Castiel's body seep through his clothes like a comfort, if they could come out of this thing alive, get through Crowley's list of jobs, if Dean could actually put a hole through Lucifer's head – he could go the rest of his life without hurting anyone else, either.
If only if only, he thought with a sigh, feeling Castiel's lips on his neck.
xxxx
A/N: As the author, I can say with the utmost certainty that from this point on, Things Will Be Happening. Which, if you know Supernatural at all, really just means Bad Stuff Gets Worse, Good Things Are Ruined Forever, and People Will Die. (All the fun is guessing how serious the above comment of mine actually is.) More importantly, a few notes: The 'Mother Road' Gabriel refers to is another name for Route 66, which was constructed in 1926 and goes from Chicago to California. The word Crowley uses to address Castiel is 'Mudak'; which is a racial slur to refer to Russians. It doesn't have a complete translation in English, but it combines the use of insulting someone's intelligence and comparing them to genitals – sometimes pig genitals, depending on which version you're looking at, and is considered extremely explicit and offensive, enough to get you killed if you said it in the wrong place in front of the wrong people. Naturally, Dean already knew what it meant. And 'Okies' is another, less-offensive slur to refer to people from the mid-west, usually farmers from, say, Oklahoma, that travelled west once the Depression hit, and in greater numbers after severe drought created the Dust Bowl and ruined crops. As a final notice, you will start to see Dean's job in more of a first-hand encounter. So, just as a forewarning, in case some people are sensitive to violence that mob members have to dish out.