Weeks passed; creepingly, sluggishly, something uncertain crouching like a predator in brambles – Dean hated waiting.
The initial find of the damned shirt had dulled some. Days could go by where he forgot about it completely, and life was routine enough to be comfortable. Other times the memory would hit him hard – anything from a woman's laughter to a similar scent met on the street, and Dean would have to bite down something between anger and fear. If Castiel noticed these moments, he didn't go out of his way to address him, except for once; though that may have been a fluke. Dean remembered a point, not even a dozen days ago, where he had heard some line about the possible trysts one of the shop worker's wives may or may not have been having, and his mood was black for the rest of the day.
He got home, tried to shake the feeling, hoping to bury it forever. That stained shirt was long gone; bleached and folded up and placed somewhere else. If he saw it again he would never be able to recognize it. Nonetheless, when Castiel came by an hour later than normal, Dean grumbled a, "Where the hell have you been?" in his general direction.
Castiel, for some reason, looked rather frozen in place, as if shocked; wide eyes turned on the other man. Dean regretted his snappish comment; anger chilling down under the surface again. He didn't want to get irritated by this secret – who could Castiel have gone to? What reason did he have? He seemed happy enough with Dean, just; unless he realized that the unpleasant moods, the work he had to do for Crowley, weren't worth it any longer. Dean resigned himself to thinking that was always a possibility; one that rested more on his shoulders than anyone else. Maybe Castiel was a good deceiver. Maybe, though he didn't want such a thing to be true, he deserved such an outcome.
So he put his feelings back under wraps and shut up. "I stopped by the shop," Castiel said, finally.
"…Right," He looked away. "Sorry, I uh, forgot –" Castiel approached him prudently, like he was expecting another outburst from Dean. That made him feel infinitely worse, knowing he had caused that expression. A moment later Castiel's arms went around him, and he pressed his chin against Dean's shoulder, letting out a particularly sad-sounding sigh. Dean leaned back into the embrace. Work was demanding – both types. Life in itself took a lot out of a person. He thought for a moment that Castiel had yet to ask him for anything more advanced than to pass him some salt or pour him a glass of water or listen to him read some passage of a book that he liked. Castiel didn't owe Dean anything – and with that claim he sank further in his stance.
"You smell like soap," he muttered into Castiel's shirt, closing his eyes.
"I took a bath at my family's house,"
"Tough day at work?" He tried to lean away, not wanting to ruin Castiel's clothes by getting the smell of oil and metal onto the other man. But even as he began to shift back, Castiel's arms held on tight, keeping him close enough so that when he did move, it was only slight enough to allow him to look into Dean's eyes with a different expression than the one he had sported some moments ago. It was a strong intensity; invasive, almost. And yet it piqued curiosity: Castiel looked at him like he was a perfectly familiar stranger. As if he was wondering who, exactly, Dean was to him. But it wasn't quite that, either. It wasn't just an attempt to retain Dean's presence; there was also a sense of wonder, a look that suggested that Dean himself was worth something uncountable and precious – an unexpected thing Castiel found himself in presence of. It wasn't just a kind of affection; it felt like something a lot more serious than that.
The complete and whole absorption by Castiel's grip and the weight upon his gaze – it was too great, and Dean, tired and hungry from work, was left unprepared, unstable, now unable to part because it felt like Castiel was the only force holding him up. This wasn't the look of a person who had someone else's fondness to account for as well, and that revelation soothed and saddened Dean all at once.
For want of action, Dean leaned forward again and pressed his forehead to Castiel's, attempting to reassure, confirm, resolve; whatever he needed.
Then Castiel shut his eyes for a moment, and it was over. "Tough day at work," he repeated back, opening his eyes and smiling gently, the commonplace expression jarring in juxtaposition to the singularity of what came before. They spent the rest of their night together without anything spectacular happening, and for the rest of the week, as a matter of fact.
Dean, however, did find that his doubts and reminders of the shirt were much easier to push away now, if not to necessarily forget.
Besides that, though, Crowley had given him a few more jobs, and he settled into the pattern of it as much as he could. His subconscious, however, proved intolerable, and left him chasing nightmares at an exhausted pace.
Some nights he lied motionless in bed, sheets curled around his body, Castiel sleeping obliviously just a few inches away. Sometimes Castiel faced his back, winding warm arms around him; other times it was Dean who found a meditative spot between Castiel's neck and shoulder and held on. Occasionally they turned towards one another, backs curved, fingers close if not touching or entangled.
Castiel's presence lulled him in the nighttime as well as the day, but there were some burdens even he couldn't help shield Dean from, and he would spend hours staring at the ceiling, out the backlit windows of the apartment, or at Castiel himself. On certain incidents, his friend appeared to have his own peaceless nights; once or twice they'd found themselves both awake at a horrid hour, work the next morning, and they couldn't seem to drag themselves to read, or talk more than a few murmurs; even kissing seemed too difficult. Instead they would look at one another, rest against the other's warm body – Dean would reach up and pet Castiel's hair for a long while, Castiel would breathe in a steady rhythm against Dean's neck and rest his palm over his heart. Maybe they got to sleep after such silent sessions, but maybe not.
Innocuous moments covered their lives. There was work, there were friends – Adam had followed his brother's advice and stayed in the backdrop. Dean was always still wondering if he would see Adam at his door again, if he had somehow realized that the two of them hadn't been alone that day in the apartment, or if his brother was no more than a lost cause. He hoped not, just like he hoped for Sam's happiness more than his own. Adam had so much going for him: His family was getting on beautifully, and he knew his brother had something good because on the rare event that he'd see them or think hard on them; his wife and child, he found himself with a deepset yearning that matched melancholy more than envy.
The Novaks were around. They already put his habit of lazing about their flat to use and had him watch Misha if one of them was out or busy; the kid talked, half gibberish and half English, and seemed happy enough to have a new face to look at.
All in all they were just getting on, though as summer thickened and bolstered through June, July, and into August, Dean was beginning to dread Sam's letters, knowing what would be the result of it.
Castiel came home one Tuesday evening, and Dean barely waited for him to close the apartment door before asking, "Do you think you're more of a Cassie or a Catherine?"
"…Excuse me?"
Dean stuck the pencil behind his ear and turned from where he sat, at the table. Castiel was staring bewilderedly at him, and he tried not to laugh at the expression on his face. He gestured back to the pile of mail. "I'm telling Sam about the payment process, and the guests."
"But you cannot call me Castiel?" he hung up his coat and walked over to the table, picking up the piece of paper and flicking his eyes across the page in rapid motions. He skimmed through mentions of weather and jobs and Sam's future child. "You're writing that you met someone…"
"Some lady who swept me off my feet, yeah. A real whirlwind romance." Castiel's confused look didn't abate.
"But why?"
"Like you said, people might check the postage, and I can't write out exactly what's happening here anymore."
Castiel pulled up a chair and handed Dean the letter. "But why are you creating a new persona for me? As a woman, too?"
"Because at some point, Sam's going to know everything about us – that we're not, well, we're not friends like he thinks we are. He'll need to know that you're coming with me, and your family, but if someone gets a hold of any letters, well, getting found out like that isn't good news for either of us."
"But how will he know you're talking about me?"
Dean held up a postage stamp. "Did you know you can write on these, stick 'em to the envelope, and when you peel them off later they still keep the message?"
Castiel's eyes flicked from the stamp to the piece of paper. "So the woman is a code for me, then."
"Yes. And I'm leaving a note about Lucifer here, too."
"But how will he know to look at the stamp?"
"I planned on putting a P.S. at the bottom, telling him to put it in his collection."
"Sam has a stamp collection?" Dean chuckled.
"No, but he's got the right demeanor to. 'Sides, these are kind of interesting looking. I got them as an exotic set – they're a little bigger, too; easier to write on."
The stamps illustrated some sort of desert caravan comprised of green trucks and camels, riding across orange sand. You could line up three to get something of a systematic picture; allegedly they came from Egypt, but Dean rolled his eyes when he saw that in the corner store he picked them up from. "I figured I'd dump the other matching ones into the letter, too, just to make it more authentic. If anyone has already been looking through the mail, they're probably not dedicated enough to remember what my brother's hobbies are."
"What if they replace the envelope?"
"Then they'd have to find a matching stamp. I'll mention he needs the consecutive three. Most of the time you can just get a fine point knife, work the seal open, and stick it shut again with a thin layer of wax; usually it takes a good half hour to do; anyone with sleight of hand can figure it out." Castiel squinted at him for a moment, his look on the verge of disapproving. "What?"
Castiel merely shook his head, examined the letter that was still in his hands. "That is a rather impressive idea, actually," he admitted, after apparently running over the plan in his head once more. Dean smiled at the compliment.
"Thanks," Castiel paused again for another moment, lips parted a bit; Dean leaned across the table, edging out of his seat a few inches, to kiss Castiel – the look the other man got when he was concentrating and on the cusp of forming a sentence was an incredibly attractive one, and he hadn't exactly greeted Castiel properly when he came home.
Dean could feel Castiel's eyes close, lashes grazing his cheek, and the other smiled into the kiss. It wasn't deep or harried or anything like that, but it was a long, comfortable pull, one that ended with Castiel tracing his fingers round the shell of Dean's ear and pulling out the pencil he had stuck there.
Castiel leaned back just enough that Dean's mouth was out of reach. "Finish the letter," he murmured, a white line of teeth showing as he spoke. He handed him his pencil back, and Dean sank back into the chair. After another pause he went, "I suppose Cassie would do," and he trailed off, presumably to change his clothes or find one of the many novels that lounged around their room.
When he was done, Dean stared at the off-white back of the stamp. The surface was about an inch and a half by another inch, and in that precious little space he had written out three sentences:
'Cassie' is Castiel. To get to you, have to off Lucifer. No other way, I'm sorry.
xxxx
In a few words, Sam wasn't pleased.
Usually their letters were long – at least two pages of narrow scrawl from the both of them. Sometimes Sam even sent pictures, or postcards he found interesting, or thought Dean might like. And they covered anything from the weather to some odd happening, answering follow up questions from a past piece of correspondence, and generally just surmised the last two weeks or so of news. Sam had put, right in the beginning, that he had submitted a résumé into twenty different practicing law firms, and was beginning to enroll in a few college courses for September. 'It's a dim hope – not as unlikely as other things, though.' Which was an odd way to say that line. The rest of the letter was curt, more like a business proposal than a personal note between two brothers. And other passive-aggressive statements popped up. While it was obvious that Sam had received the news as he should have, he continued to subtly rally against the entire idea.
Truthfully Dean didn't expect any less, though it still made him wince. He put off replying for a few days longer than normal because of it. He hadn't explicitly mentioned that Castiel and his family would be coming along, either – he wanted to work up to that. Or at least that was what he told himself. There was also the grave issue of how Sam would take Dean's newly added company; at the moment he seemed more concerned about Lucifer than what he had mentioned of Castiel, if there was a silver lining to it at all.
"He'll have to know about us – the whole thing about us – at some point," Castiel had coolly supplied when Dean let him read over Sam's most recent letter himself. It echoed Dean's sentiments from before, and logically that was a valid point, but it did nothing to calm him.
"Sure, but," Dean fidgeted at the idea of writing that down, even if it was coded with a woman's name and a different pretense. "I'm not exactly excited about it." His brother was smart – wonderfully intelligent, despite all the jokes Dean had made over the years. But at the same time, Sam never would guess that Dean was with Castiel in more than just some incredibly close friendship; it wasn't because his brother hadn't paid attention to him, it was just because no one ever thought that their own brother went after men and women in the same sort of way. It was always somebody else who did that, not your family, not your friends. Dean imagined Sam's entire perception of him crashing at his feet – and right after he had told Sam about Lucifer? No, he knew he'd wait; partially for his own fear, but some of the motivation came from not wanting Sam to go crazy from another confession.
Castiel stared at the table for a moment – they had been picking through dinner. Dean used the moment of silence to crane his neck and stare outside. The sky was navy, and a warm rain washed down – the streets glistened and the lamps were hazy in the downfall.
"Do you think he'll cut ties with you because of me?" Castiel asked in a quiet voice; Dean inadvertently swallowed.
"I don't know," he said, feeling bad about the inadequate answer. In all honesty he wasn't sure what Sam would think. "I mean, he's my brother – I'd do anything for him."
"Of course," Castiel said. He didn't seem affected by the conversation, looking somewhere else. Not at Dean, not really anywhere. Inward, perhaps, even if his eyes were still looking at the glossed wood of the table.
"And, when we started getting… close, serious – he was gone, you two have only met the once, and he gets these mostly true stories about you, but being friends with a guy and being how we are is…"
"Different," Castiel offered, from the dredges of his mind. Castiel still avoided his gaze, but Dean couldn't tell if he had offended the other man, or he just had his own things to think on.
"I mean, he's more open than I am, and, and whenever he comments about my stories, he says that he likes you."
"That's good, at least." Castiel blinked. "You remember how I thought Sam was kinder than most people usually are, and that's why I gave you a chance?"
"Yeah,"
"Maybe it's the same for him. He might, say, get the impression that I'm keeping you from doing something too terrible in his absence. At least until Lucifer, but," He shrugged. "Worry about it when it comes around, I suppose."
"That's what I was aiming for."
Castiel looked farther down, where papers and odds and ends were stacked on the other half of the bench. "Did you get any other mail today?" he asked casually, and he pointed to a few things on top, near Dean's elbow.
Dean turned a bit and remembered that he had gotten a few other things from the slot in the lobby, but Sam's business always took first priority. "I didn't look too close at it," he muttered, thumbing through a small travel brochure, two magazines, and, nestled between those, a small envelope. It didn't have a return address, or a sender's for that matter. Dean slid it open with a fingernail and half expected it to explode in his hands.
Inside was a telegram, lines of words pasted onto a heavy cardstock – the paper was smoother than normal; expensive, probably.
"What is it?" Castiel asked.
Dean titled his head; the message was simple: An address, a time, but it was the owner of the residence that boggled him the most.
"It's from Crowley's place," Dean said, after a moment. "It's a meeting request for tomorrow, at his house."
xxxx
Crowley had said that he'd be in touch – but that could have meant a range of things. Dean was getting jobs, and the lack of payment meant that Crowley was accounting them for an insured safe passage to California. But apparently Crowley's promise also meant that he would be seeing the other face to face.
It was another sleepless night for Dean. He stared at the ceiling of the apartment, wondering if this was about Lucifer or, well, any horrible topic in the world, really – there was a lot to pick at, in the late hours of the night. Castiel wasn't as bad, though it took him some time to doze off and a few times he had startled awake, mumbling incoherently, Russian words strung together in an unconscious cloud. Dean had whispered some gentle nonsense until he calmed down. In the interim of that, Dean watched the shadows of furniture and clothes shift in the darkness and wondered if it was better to close his eyes against the visions or watch them, just in case.
Right before morning he drifted off. When he woke two hours later, Castiel was shaking him, telling him he'd be late to work otherwise. By the time he made himself decent, or at least got into his uniform for the garage, Castiel had poured him coffee, and was disinterestedly flipping through the paper.
"What do you think he wants to talk to you about?" Castiel said, once Dean sat down.
"I could only guess. Lucifer, presumably. Might've found a death date for him." Castiel looked like he wanted to say something, but he bit back his words. "What if he wants me to kill Alastair?" he asked, idea jumping up from seemingly nowhere. It wouldn't surprise him; if Crowley was getting Lucifer out of the picture, he would obviously have no room for some old, down-and-out protégé of his, either.
Castiel winced at the name. "I'd get in a few extra blows for you," Dean continued.
"Appreciated, but unnecessary." Dean looked up.
"Unnecessary?"
He turned his shoulder. "After your own personal vendetta was settled, there probably wouldn't be much left of him." The implied violence was jarring, but appropriate – he did beat Castiel something awful last year – he still had a scar or two from the incident, and some of his fingers still got a little numb on occasion, even if the burns on his skin had long since healed. After a moment Castiel went back to reading the paper, and Dean closed his eyes, feeling them burn from tiredness. They stayed like that for a few more minutes before they got up, and Dean dumped the half-finished coffee down the sink.
He could practically smell the car oil on his uniform, even after Castiel had run it through with detergent and steel wool on the last washing. He caught the murky clothes Castiel was wearing; he was off to the factory today. Dean tended to leave a few minutes early to walk to the car shop, while Castiel took the train to his. Sometimes they'd walk together, but today he didn't care much for company; he wanted another go at sleeping, in all honesty, but moreover he wanted to collect himself as best as he could – Crowley's note said to come to a certain address in Dyker Heights by six o' clock, which gave him just enough time to slip into a suit after the shop closed and catch a train heading in that direction. Castiel, too, started to move around, silently making sure everything was set for his own day; he didn't seem very talkative either.
"Mind if I take the paper with me?" Castiel said, just as he finished lacing up his work boots. "The ride feels longer, for some reason. They might have started up a new route, I'm not sure."
"Will it make you late?"
"It shouldn't. I usually come with a few minutes to spare." He rolled the newspaper up in a tight coil; he looked down at the floor, brows drawn together.
"Something wrong?"
"I might… have to stay later than normal," Castiel said. "There was mention of paid overtime soon in the factories, and I thought I could take an extra shift."
"You don't need to," Dean offered. He didn't have any extra funds to play around with anymore, and most of Castiel's money went straight to the rest of his family, but the pair of them managed – Dean had been forced into frugality his whole life, and it wasn't until a few years ago he could afford to waste things here and there. The Crash sent everything into the grindstone, but unlike some people, he hadn't lost everything, though it was hard to count his blessings most of the time.
"It's buffer pay, I suppose. Just in case something were to happen."
"That's a pleasant thought." Castiel cocked his head in a helpless, what can you do way, though he had a point. "How long is it?"
"A few hours, they weren't too clear." He trailed Dean to the door, watched him slip on his coat. "I know what to look for; if it seems like a con I'll just come back."
"Alright. I'll wait up for you then," He put his hat on, and pulled Castiel a little bit closer, kissing him on the mouth in farewell. He had meant it to be quick, but Castiel grasped the back of his neck and pushed forward; dragging it out and deepening it as Dean leaned back against the doorframe. Thoughts of work, overtime, and even his meeting with Crowley faded from his mind as his hands slid down to hold Castiel's hips steady.
He was tired – he was so tired he could hardly stand it; and Castiel wasn't fairing that much better, it seemed. But the kiss – god did it give Dean a shoot of energy. There were hands in his hair, a leg between his – and he was drawing the both of them closer without a thought. It wasn't just earnest and keyed up – it felt weighted, in a word. Important. Like they had been waiting for this since trying to go to sleep last night. Chances were the day was going to be terrible for the both of them – menial grunt work was never fun, after all, and it was doubtful things would improve after stepping out the door. So they took it, everything they could.
When the two of them parted the heat between their mouths didn't even begin to dissipate, even as they sucked in air. Before Dean could slow his pulse; before he could even give Castiel a little congratulatory, dirty smirk, Castiel leaned down and pressed a small line of kisses down the exposed line of Dean's throat. This touch was light – any bruises and bites were forced to stay under the clothes, but it didn't stop a flush from rising to Dean's face and his neck.
"Damn, Cas…" he muttered, feeling too dazed to be annoyed when Castiel finally stopped, and stepped out of their embrace. "Things you do to me – you're hardly fair, you know that?"
Castiel gave a subdued smile, a little pleased jolt at the praise, and Dean reached and hauled Castiel back against him, just to feel that warmth, that happiness another time. Dean kissed that expression of humbleness right off Castiel's mouth, but in a shorter burst – they couldn't lean against the threshold all day, no matter how much they wanted to.
They caught their breath, staring at one another. "Sure do love goodbyes, don't you?" Dean said, smoothing his thumb high across Castiel's cheek. He pressed their mouths together in a superficial peck before they parted again.
"Well, I'd say hellos are my favorite, but I'll take what I can get." And at that Dean finally took his leave and slipped out the door. His head was buzzing; a bit from tiredness, some from Castiel. In any case, it left his mind a rather blank slate, where no thoughts appeared. His eyes didn't stray past where his feet were going, and he didn't look anyone in the eye as he walked.
The car shop was a little northwest, and sometimes Dean could hear a gull cry out from the shoreline, echoing against the buildings. The street lined up with rusted metal and dusty shops as he went further along, out of the more residential areas in Coney Island. The change wasn't a subtle one, and the air around him grew drained and salted from the sea; so much so that he could almost hear a person crackle as they walked past him.
He had just rounded a corner when somebody, seemingly out of thin air, grabbed his arm, yanking him into a small alcove of a side alley too thin for a grown man to do anything but slowly squeeze through.
Caught off guard, he blindly pulled his arm out of the other's hold. It went rather easily, and Dean let himself appraise whoever had gotten him in the first place. "Balthazar?" he hissed out, eyebrows shooting up at the shorter man in front of him. Dean's back was to the street, and anyone walking by would think that he was alone, preoccupied with something hidden from the public's view. "What are you doing here?"
"I've been waiting around here all morning," Balthazar replied in a clipped, impatient growl. "Castiel said you took this street more often than not."
Dean forced himself to relax some; Balthazar was completely unpleasant, true, and the harsh tug on his arm left his mood more agitated than before, but being mad about it all wasn't going to get him any clarity, so he bit back any smart comments he had to offer and went, "Did you need something?" The directness seemed to take the other man for surprise, and Dean decided to count that as some sort of gain.
"You familiar with the storehouses up in Bergen?" he inquired, his voice dropped low.
"Familiar, never been around. Not my area." Balthazar snorted.
"Well it's ours, so I suppose you're smart enough to not waste your time there." He paused for a moment, looking at Dean's shoulder, mouth open slightly. "Your people haven't mentioned it lately?"
"Like what? Trouble up there?"
"Territorial stuff, more like." Dean nodded in understanding.
"I haven't, honest. Doesn't mean Crowley or Lucifer or some other guy's not creeping around there. But my hands are clean, for once."
"Good," Which seemed like an odd thing to say, and Balthazar stared back into Dean's eyes again. "Listen, next few days, I'd stay clear of the place. In case you do get word about things up there. Can't expect it to go down any other way but messy."
"Did you tell Castiel?"
"I haven't seen him last few days," he supplied. It wasn't as much an accusation as regarding a bizarre scheduling conflict; it happened. "We've been busy, I guess. The both of us. Figured I could at least see if you would pass on the message; wouldn't do Castiel any good to have you shot to death somewhere without the proper moonlighting and goodbyes and all that."
The comment, sarcastic as it was, made Dean pull back a little. "He – Castiel – he's working an extra shift at the factory tonight. Till ten or so. He wanted to – and it's farther away from Bergen than our apartment so," He made a quick gesture with his hand, trying to ward away the strange awkwardness building between the pair of them. "So as soon as I see him tonight I'll pass everything on. Though he might have some words to say about you next time he does see you."
"Why?"
"Well I mean," He shrugged. "It's Cas; that's how he is – protective and all that. Can't go off for the day without him making sure you'll be okay. He's your friend; I can't imagine it being much different for you." Balthazar's face relaxed more than Dean had ever seen him; his shoulders slowly slumped from their rigid stance.
"It's one of those traits Castiel's always had…" he said, trailing off. "Caring for others, I mean." Dean shrugged again.
"Makes him a good friend." Balthazar didn't respond to his agreement, though Dean gave him some time. Finally he said, "Uh, thanks. For the information. I'll pass it on."
Balthazar nodded; eyes settled back on the main road. "You do that."
Dean glanced over his shoulder and backed out of the small gap they had met in. But before Balthazar stepped out, Dean said, "And you'll be alright yourself?"
"Oh, Dean," he spat the words out with a heavily facetious tone. "I didn't think you cared."
"I don't," he said. "Just like you don't care all that much about where I am and what I'm doing." Balthazar snorted, though his head gave a little acknowledging nod. "But Cas cares about the both of us, anyway, so… Might as well make an effort." Dean was met with an appraising look that was critical, of course, but somehow not as judgmental as the all the other instances he'd been privy to before.
"You don't get on in this place without learning a few tricks, here and there," Balthazar offered noncommittally. "Try not to get yourself in stitches. For Castiel's sake, of course." Dean took that as good enough for parting words, and let Balthazar walk on, in the opposite direction. Dean hesitated for a while before another man bumped into his shoulder with a grumble, and he started walking his way towards the garage, hoping he wouldn't be too late.
It was a strange occurrence, Balthazar's stint just then. But still – it had its own level of acceptability towards it. He imagined Castiel being surprised at their exchange, in fact. And, actually, it was about time Castiel had started to mention California to his family.
Maybe they could manage to get Balthazar on board, after all.
xxxx
Dean was used to being exhausted by the time he got out of his work. The garage was a mix of clanging sounds; metal on metal, and the grinding voices of men his age, trying to shout over the machinery. It was enough to give him a headache, but he only stopped home long enough to look vaguely presentable, and not long after that he went out and took the Sea Beach Line, sitting for a few stops amoung a cramped evening crowd of other dreary workers just getting off or heading onto their evening shifts. His suit was fresh and clean; a navy, Oxford pattern with the blue monogrammed handkerchief Castiel had given him tucked into his pocket – the other two had been sent to the shop for a wash.
Dean passively observed the rows of gray, sunken ghosts dusting the seats, not quite themselves. He looked different, he knew, subtly tugging at his tie so it hung straight against his shirt, but on the inside his head was still pounding, he longed for rest, and his hands ached. That was normal, for now.
And for how long?
The train stopped and he got onto the platform, wind blowing against his face while the second train approached a few minutes later. He got onto the West End line at New Utrecht, saw the same sad sights, and got off on 71st street. From there it was a brief walk southwards, and he was wandering along 12th avenue, counting numbers until he reached 1214, Crowley's residence in the eternally affluent neighborhood of Dyker Heights.
Some of the houses around here actually had yards – and while Dean's apartment had been built out of the skeleton of an old mansion, these neighborhoods never needed a reason to break up their property. Even the sidewalks Dean stepped on felt newly paved, and looking around it was as if, could one be troubled to lift up the blocks of concrete, you might even find a few gold bricks stored there in the industrialized earth.
Crowley's estate was slightly smaller than his apartment building, and more artistically designed. The home stretched wide across a green yard and well kept shrubs, rose patches, and low hanging Japanese maple trees. The gate was short and made of black metal, too shiny to be iron. The house itself was built with dark, auburn colored stones that reflected whatever dull light that remained in the sky. And yet, the first thing Dean thought of when approaching Crowley's residence for the first time was a medieval castle, situated right in the middle of the most modern city in the world. It had that element of foreboding, like the stone was curling in around him, about to swallow him up.
He stood at the gate, spotting a small buzzer hidden in between the vines of a decorative creeping plant. He pressed it, and no more than five seconds later a young man opened the front door, crossed the distance of the lawn, and opened up the locked gate for him.
They soundlessly wandered back towards the house, the servant trailing just a foot in front of him. He passed the exotic plants and a handful of elaborate marble statues that were prevalent in the side yard. They didn't match any of the more famous poses he had seen in museums or books; he guessed Crowley commissioned them. It was certainly more his style.
The man let him into Crowley's mansion. The impression of a castle didn't lessen once the door closed and he walked into the dimly lit foyer.
The room seemed crowded – every bit of wall space was used, and there were only small patches of polished wood in between sprawling Persian rugs. He tried to surreptitiously glance back at the carpet when he walked by it, wondering if his shoes left a stain.
"Where's Crowley?" he asked the apparently mute worker. He was thin, tan, his brow furrowed like he was upset Dean had spoken.
"His study. He's expecting you."
"Well, I'm glad he remembered to pencil me in." He smirked, hoping to get some sort of affirmation from the other person in the room – working for Crowley at his own home must get old, to put it lightly – but he merely leveled Dean with a callous look, and proceeded to walk him through other corridors and passing rooms absolutely drenched in elegant settings of chandeliers, rugs, and portraits.
The study was behind two double doors of mahogany, overlooking a small deck over the backyard. Crowley stood in a usual black suit, holding a glass of some presumed brandy in his hand.
"Dean Winchester, sir," the man announced in the same tired voice Dean suspected a man of sixty would use. Crowley made a note of acknowledgement, looking up. His boss made a motion with his hand and the servant disappeared, presumably in order to wait just outside the door.
"Well don't just stand there dumbfounded, come in." Dean slowly walked more towards the center of the room, eyes still on Crowley versus the wide stretches of old looking books along the shelves. He had started to forget what wealth incarnate took the shape of, but it didn't take that long to get the picture back into his head.
"What's this meeting about?" Dean asked. He didn't feel up to making small talk.
"Lucifer you dolt, why else would I bother letting you drag in dirt all over my rugs." Dean looked behind him again, but Crowley waved a hand. "No, no, never mind that; though while you're here there's a few other notes – minor jobs to get done." Dean snorted at the word 'minor'. "Unless of course you've decided to drop that fellow that's taken up so much of your existence." Obviously he meant it more as a rhetorical jibe, as he immediately rounded the length of the large desk and pulled back the throne-sized seat so that he could sit in it.
However, he paused, for a moment, right before he sat down. "Ah, sorry, your appearance made me forget my manners. Care for a drink?" Dean eyed the glass on the table and weighed his chances: On the one hand, something that Crowley liked might taste like three figure motor oil to him; on the other, the effects would be the same and he could use some help in settling his nerves.
"Whatever you're having, I guess," he said, and Crowley picked up his partially drained glass and made his way to a well varnished tea table at one end of the room. "Surprised you didn't have a globe bar," he said lightly, though his words were more of a cover-up against his focused look at the drink Crowley was pouring; it was true that if Crowley wanted him out of the way, he'd be better off just shooting him. But it didn't hurt to watch his glass, and make sure that Crowley took a sip of his refilled drink first, before he assumed that nothing was poisoned.
He took a cautionary sniff of the liquor, then an even more prudent sip. As he figured, the spirits were coarse in their bitterness, and his mouth wasn't so much set on fire as it was filled up with smoke. He sputtered a bit, taking out his handkerchief to wipe at his mouth.
"Well if you can't be a man about it," Crowley muttered, waltzing back to his desk. Dean followed him, and seated himself in a leather chair. He folded up the cloth again, and Crowley leaned back and observed the movement. "That's an interesting material there."
"It's just a handkerchief," Dean mumbled, not liking the way his boss eyed the thing; it was from Castiel, after all.
"Of course it's a bloody handkerchief – I meant the moniker so dotingly crafted into them. Looks more expensive than the load of mass made crap that gets thrown around these days." Dean glanced at the curling D.W. script as if seeing it for the first time; it did have a note of elegance to it – the pair of letters were large and curled like the title of an old, handwritten manuscript. The design bordering that and its corner seemed to be one unbroken line. Castiel was a good tailor, all in all. Dean was cut between wanting to rub that fact in his boss's face and wanting to keep the two men as far away from one another as possible.
He settled for the middle ground. "There were three in the set. A personal gift," and after folding the handkerchief away and steeling his gaze for some moments, Crowley just rolled his eyes, his interest lost. Instead he reached for a thick pen and a cream colored cardstock. He jotted a few things down in large, nondiscriminatory font. While the paper and ink itself had hailed from some expensive, special-order-only shop in India most likely, the actual penmanship was unassuming in that it could have belonged to anyone from a rich entrepreneur to a literate factory worker. Dean had never seen handwritten notes made by Crowley before this moment, but he assumed it was a special penmanship he picked just in the case of a paper trail.
"Besides the slaying of Brooklyn's very own dragon," he said, moving down a few lines, "You have two more things to take care of for me." He slid the paper across the desk and Dean picked it up, skimming the lines. There were two sets of names, dates, and addresses. Dean squinted at the first one.
"This Joseph H. Arturi guy wouldn't happen to be the same one I had the pleasant of playing cards with a year ago, would it?" Crowley raised his eyebrows slightly.
"I'm surprised you remembered that,"
"It's important to take notes of death threats, don't you think?" Crowley set out a helpless shrug.
"Well, there isn't much the man can do now except jump off the nearest bridge and drown himself," He calmly reached for the glass he had set down previously and took another generous sip of the vile stuff. Dean recalled the man of stature had been into the stock market; that phrase was rather alien to him, now. After all, no one would bother with the stock market anymore. Most likely not for a while, either.
"He lost everything?" Dean asked.
"Every cent and every bit of respect I had for him."
"So you want me to bump him off?"
Crowley lifted his brows again as a passive affirmation. "I happen to know he's guilty of a few, let's say, acts of treason? Best to nip this in the bud before he does any lasting damage.
"I won't tell you how to do your work, but leaving a note, and then shooting his brains out, might be the option that won't end in your arrest." Dean sighed; Arturi wasn't rich anymore, but he was still remembered as being important. If he were to die it'd be a lot harder to cover up than some doctor or a street musician.
"Does Lucifer need a suicide note, too?" he grumbled.
"I wouldn't worry about Lucifer," Dean looked over at Crowley, eyes widened by degrees. "Actually no, just kidding – Lucifer is still the roadblock before the light and the end of the tunnel, and all that. Part of the reason it's taking so long is that I'm hoping for less of an assassination and well, more of a massacre."
"I have his crazed followers to worry about, too?"
"I actually have been getting some of my men signed up under the guise of working for him," Crowley said.
"Since when?"
"Oh, two, three years now. And don't look so heartbroken, I told you this wasn't the job of a lone gunman," he chastised at the incredulous look Dean was giving him. "I wouldn't have told you if I didn't think it'd be helpful to know why your ending of Lucifer starts an entire chain reaction of a brawl. I've been feeding him workers for quite some time. Not traceable to me, of course. It's quite possible some of them have switched loyalties to him but, well, no skin off my nose. Plenty more where they came from. Some of them are soldiers or errand boys, but from what I hear, some of them are even in his rotating ring of bodyguards." That made Dean hesitate, eyes getting a fraction wider. After all, Adam was a bodyguard now. He had never mentioned Crowley, and in fact seemed to almost enjoy Lucifer's reign over the borough. He was scared of him, yes, but he still wanted to do everything he said.
"You, uh," he coughed into his fist. "You wouldn't happen to know which of the crew over there is yours, do you?"
"If you're looking for a roster, you're not getting it." Crowley said sternly. "I don't want you settling some ridiculous vendetta or playing hero with an old drinking buddy instead of doing what I'm paying you for,"
"Hey," Dean drew back at the harsh tone he had gotten. "I just asked for some names – you said I needed to know this stuff."
"I'm giving you an overview, not the entire classified plan here – you're the biggest secret I've got in this plot."
"Which means that I should know down to every last detail what to expect." Crowley's glare grew harder for every word Dean worked out. He couldn't come out and say this was about Adam either, but he pressed on; "Aren't I supposed to get this sort of information down so I don't end up accidentally offing half your guys?"
"You're accusing me of stopping you on your search for some moral side to this mess?" he asked, like he couldn't believe it himself. "If I recall right, it didn't seem that you had to learn every inch of Romano's history before you filled him full of lead like some dime a dozen coke peddler." Dean's eyes snapped open and hissed in a lungful of air. "Oh, sorry," Crowley said, his mouth twisted into a half smirk, "that really managed to slip out."
"What do you mean 'Romano's history'?" Dean ground out against his teeth, jaw clenching and unclenching.
"How long ago was that – a year? Less? More?"
"About a year and a half," Dean said, remembering cold, March winds drilling into the holes of his clothes. He remembered the grazing shots and the way the frigid waters of the bay sloshed around him as he dumped the good doctor's corpse off an abandoned, creaky dock; the way Sam kept watch, back turned so he didn't have to see the last of a guy slip away, dead but suffering one final time before being silenced forever. Dean knew he recalled so much because, amoung the guilt and other things, that job had brought him to Castiel.
"That long already," Crowley said. "It's a shame though – if you had access to his bank books you'd see he got most of his shipments from my part of the market. I gave him better deals. He was rather on-time with his bills, anyway."
"He worked for Lucifer,"
"Says who? Lucifer – the guys who got their facts from a trickle down method? Quite the trustworthy group, there."
"You say it like you're any better." Crowley bowed his head at that; teeth flashing. For a moment, just for a moment, Dean saw the same biting smile he had seen in Alastair and Lucifer. But when Crowley looked up again, arms crossed casually in front of him, all that wolfishness was gone again, drawn into the shadows.
"I've never had you kill a man in cold blood just to see if you'd do it. Lucifer underestimated you, though; I already know you would. Jump, say how high. Maybe not because you want to, but you never see any other options in the rough." He sighed. "But it was a shame – Romano helped everyone in Bay Ridge, no matter how sad or hopeless the cases seemed, right? But off course you knew that."
Dean bit the inside of his cheek so hard he was waiting for the drip of copper to flood his mouth. "But now I didn't sit here to judge your atrocious past mistakes, did I? Take that," he nodded towards the paper – it was slightly crumpled from where Dean had unwittingly balled his hands into fists. "And make sure you do what you have to. Lucifer's set for March, perhaps April. The next time you get a summons from me will be the last."
"Nothing else?" Dean asked, words shaping themselves into growls. His arms were still quivering, just a bit, so he rested them against his thighs and stared at the paper again. "Besides the obvious?"
"Well as you know most of the mess in Murder's Inc. has been cleaned up, so this is the bottom line." Dean glanced up confusedly as the mention of that particular neighborhood. He hadn't heard a thing about that place, especially not something recent. Crowley picked up on Dean's expression, made a shrewd look of his own, and made a guess:
"Heard about Alastair yet?"
"How do you mean?" Crowley made a scoffing sound and pulled back in his seat, opening one of the drawers in his desk. Rifling around there for a second, he held up that morning's newspaper and laid it across his shiny desk, the edge falling off and giving Dean the silent permission to grab it. He put the paper in his pocket and grabbed the newspaper instead.
"Bottom of page six," Crowley said. The tone he used was strange; self-congratulatory and smug, but there was something else, burrowed in the rasps of his voice, like he hadn't quite figured out what mood he ought to be in at the moment.
After some anxious fumbling, he managed to get to where his boss had instructed. He pushed the paper out wide and flat across the desk's top, eyes dragging through one of the cramped headlines: Gang Leader Murdered.
There wasn't a picture to accompany the news – just a few paragraphs about a body and blood being found somewhere in Murder's Inc. The face was beaten in, legs broken, arms twisted and bent at all the wrong angles – but the fingerprints matched. It was Alastair.
The article said that the corpse was partially rotted, stuck inside the fireplace of one of the houses the man might have squatted in from time to time. Doctors said it had been that way for roughly a week or more. His followers had broken up into smaller factions or disappeared like scattered winds; a clumsy, inside mess, according to the reporting journalist that had grabbed the story. Dean's eyes went over the same text two more times, trying to see if there was another missing facet to the story.
When he spoke, his throat was aching; he didn't want to see the look Crowley was giving him. "Didn't even make the front page," he croaked out dryly.
"He wasn't important," Crowley said, his voice light again. "Just a crazy man with some fire power, that's all."
Dean forced a tight smile to his face as he ducked his head down. "Yeah, just some other old nightmare,"
"So sorry you didn't get around to finishing him up yourself," Crowley continued. "Would've done a much better job than this. Then again I can't be sure that there would even be a body for anyone to find."
"Who did this?" Dean asked, lifting his head again. "One of our guys?" Crowley jerked his head once; curt enough to suggest that Dean wouldn't be getting any names.
"Someone who won't survive this business much longer, I can tell you that much," Crowley muttered, gaze darting away towards the large bookshelves in the study. "As sorry as it is, though – this isn't your business anymore." He took the paper back and folded it up. "In fact, it's no one's business anymore – considering the man's dead and gone."
"You're just taking out everybody, aren't you?" Dean muttered, not necessarily horrified at the prospect.
"I can't take over without getting rid of all this mess, now can I?" Dean didn't answer, so Crowley continued to inspect his employee for a few moments. It was uncomfortable, looking up into his dark eyes and wondering if all that class and affability was more smoke and mirrors. "Alright, well," Crowley stood from his seat. "I'd ask if you had any other questions but that might imply something friendly."
Dean slowly stood up, dazed and dizzied by the news. "I'll see myself out," he offered, glancing back at the now darkened plains of Crowley's backyard before opening the door of the study. There was the same young man waiting there, as Dean thought. In the darkness he looked as old as he had sounded; imperfections being drawn out in the low light. He closed the study doors after promising Crowley he'd see his 'visitor' out, and then Dean was being led back outside, evening air a bit cooler than he had expected.
The fence doors were shut and locked behind him, and he turned on his heel to go down the street.
Doctor Romano, Alastair, Lucifer; there was a long list of thoughts churning inside him, all veiled by a thin film of mild shock. What was he supposed to do with all of this? He got back to the train station; it was mostly empty now, in between common work shifts and everything. He bent over in his seat so that his head was close to his knees, and he stared at the dirty floor below.
Lucifer was… Lucifer was far off, yet. He could handle things in a few more months – he'd come up with a plan when things weren't so desolate. He'd get the rest of his debt paid off – two big ones in a week, but he could manage. And Alastair… well, another one done. That was a victory, no matter which way you looked at it. Another evil bastard dead and gone. Dean had heard stories about Crowley; he had once been nothing more than a worker for Lucifer at one point – he had his fair share of meet ups and persuasion and sadism. But still, Dean could never comprehend a being more terrible than Alastair. He knew that he should have felt a form of relief, some joy that he had literally been left to rot. But he couldn't; he felt lacking, in a word. Not because he missed the prick, but more that he hadn't righted himself by filling him full of bullets.
The room's dim glow of lamp light stung his eyes when he stepped into the room. Castiel wasn't there, and Dean felt the emptiness even before he had really looked around for the other's presence. He wasn't sure what he would had done, if Castiel was there: sitting casually in one of the chairs; standing at the counter, fixing himself something to drink; by the window, smoking, or anything else. He shut the door with a light kick of his foot, leaving the door unlocked.
He wasn't sure if he could bring himself to recount everything Crowley had told him. It was too black, the whole business of it, and he didn't want Castiel to worry about it. Oh, he'd tell him, he knew he'd have to. But slowly, at least – not the dump of information Crowley had cruelly given him. He stripped down to his shirt and slacks and sank into his armchair. Even having a silent Castiel beside him was better than sitting in the quiet, all by himself. He picked up a book lying near his feet; the page marker Castiel was using for this one was that hawk's feather he found in the Castskill mountains. He wanted to smile at the memory, but couldn't manage even a sad, futile attempt.
He flipped to a ubiquitous page. This was a poem anthology, and while Dean found himself gazing at the ceiling instead of going through Lord Byron's musings of some girl, or an ode to a Grecian urn, or some boring tale where someone was Christian enough to enjoy dying, it did help shut his mind off from the more serious thoughts he had been left to go over. It wasn't long before he started to drift, on and off, in the warm air of the apartment. He kept his uncomfortable spot in the chair, hoping he could wait up for Castiel like he'd promised. Ten o' clock ticked itself by every time Dean glanced at his watch. How long did Castiel say he'd be out?
Dean forced a sense of rational thought to head. Castiel was a more than capable person, of course; he had started to carry a gun. Most of the trains were probably closed or going irregularly now, anyways; perhaps he had started the journey home on foot, or he was hung up with something.
Still, anxiety grew, and he bent forward in his seat, too anxious to lean back and let drowsiness take him. There was a small, brass clock on the bedside table, and he eyed it until the numbers began to swim and he could hear the individual ticks across the face of it from across the room. A minute, then five, then ten more after that. He only heard the constant tick-tick-tick for the longest time; he couldn't hear the tenants in the other rooms, the streets outside were quiet and dark, barring the small street lamps that lit the way.
It was just short of 11:45, then, when he heard something.
The sound was, for a second, deep and subtle; the beating of a heart; his shallow breathing. But then it ascended, got louder and closer, and Dean realized that someone was rushing up the stairs; sprinting, even, like an invisible entity was on their heels. Dean stood up from the seat, turned towards the door, and took two steps in its direction before the knob flicked over and Castiel burst through, panting, heaving, and shut and bolted the thing back up again.
His back was to him, trench coat over him and hiding all but his pant legs and head. Castiel was bent over, hands on the wood of the door for support. Dean heard him swallow a few times, trying to catch his breath.
"Cas?" he asked, slowly stepping towards him. He couldn't have been hurt – not if he was running that fast. But something had occurred; something bad. "What happened?"
Castiel hissed something incoherent against the door. "What is it?" he tried again. "Talk to me, Cas," he was about to put his hand on Castiel's shoulder when he turned around, and Dean froze in place.
Castiel had never looked like this before; his eyes were wide – not in surprise or curiosity, but in fear. Absolute, unmitigated terror. His face was flushed with sweat, clothes rumpled and jammed against his body like they belonged to somebody else. He took a raggedy breath, his gaze not straying from Dean's face.
"It's Balthazar," he said, and already Dean could feel his stomach drop, breath stuck in his throat. "Somebody shot Balthazar."
xxxx
A/N: I kind of regret not talking about subways more in this story. Surprisingly, New York City did have above-ground, local trains as early as the 1890s, and the mid-1920s saw a decent expansion on tracks. If you were to ride subways around Brooklyn and Manhattan now, you're usually underground, but there are a few stops that are on elevated tracks, and those have a good chance of being the totally rebuilt and replaced versions of some tracks put down ninety years ago. But that's what mass revisions are for, I suppose.