Sorry for the late update, but both my beta and I were busy with holidays and stuff. I hope you had a wonderful Christmas, and Happy New Year!
As always, gif makers and all fanart are welcome, as are ideas on ships, plots, and events.
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Dean still wasn't sure how he ended up here, by himself in the Impala, driving along the highway in the dark. Every other thought he had involved 'You dumbass' or 'What the fuck are you doing'. He knew that this wasn't a good idea, and that it wasn't healthy in the slightest. Deep down, he ignored all of the bells going off in his head and in his gut. Something was telling him that even if it wasn't a good idea, it was something that he needed to do. He was doing it for Sammy, because Sammy had asked him to.
He had promised Sam last night that he would think over the job offer again. And when he promised Sam something, he came through, always. So he had sat, drank, thought, and drank some more. After a few hours of completely useless "thinking", he had collapsed, deciding to push his problems until tomorrow. When he'd woken up, the only thing he could think of (past his slightly head-numbing hangover) was going back to the club and giving it another chance. Third time's the charm, right? 'Right.'
Also, he had decided that the only way to get through tonight was to get drunk off his ass, and he was fully intent on carrying out that plan. Dean knew for a fact that the club had prime alcohol, and Balthazar would be only too happy to further his suffering. 'Bastard.'
All too soon he found himself in the increasingly-familiar, destitute backstreet where the club was located. After he had parked Baby, he sat there for a minute, trying to work up the courage to go in. Which was stupid, really. Dean had already driven all the way here, what was fifty more feet? At least, that was what he was trying to tell himself. 'You're being ridiculous. You've already been here twice. Do it for Sam. He wants you to be a part of this, so now do your piece.' And with that little pep talk, he shoved out of the car, locking it and striding towards the door.
Dean knocked on the door, licking his lips as he waited. Shoving his hands in his pockets, he frowned at the unresponsive door. 'Shouldn't the Hulk be out here b-' He jumped backwards as the door banged open, and he could swear that he saw a smirk on the enormous bouncer's face as he skated huffily past. Dean glared back, heading straight to the bar. He wasn't sure what time it was, but the club was nearly full, so it must be close to show time. Glancing up and around him, Dean rolled his eyes as he didn't see a clock on the wall. Figures that this place would follow the unspoken Vegas casino rule. Balthazar was already busy flirting and making drinks- though it looked like more of the former- as Dean arrived at the bar. He sat on one of the fancy upholstered bar stools, patiently waiting his turn. Well, not patiently, per-say. He wanted some liquid courage, and he wanted it now.
It took about a minute and a half for Balthazar to turn his attention towards Dean's way. He performed an exaggerated double take, face stretching into a wide grin. "Well look who's back! It's good old Dean-boy. Where's your pet moose?" he snarked, leaning towards Dean over the bar.
Rolling his eyes, Dean replied, "My brother Sam isn't here tonight- some sort of party his friends are throwing." He shrugged, though secretly he had been glad for the occasion. It was preferable that Sam didn't know he had come back without him.
At that, Balthazar cocked his head, giving him a scrutinizing look. "Well, why are you here, then?" he questioned.
Dean sighed, wondering if it was worth it to tell the bartender the whole story.
"Well..." Weren't drunks supposed to spill their life to the underpaid bartender? 'Fuck it.' "Crowley wants our answer by next Monday. Sam... is gonna accept. With or without me. I'd rather it be with me, just so he's not by himself, so... I figured I would come back, give it another go, see if I can convince myself to come with him." he explained, studying the grain patterns in the dark stained wood of the bar.
Balthazar hmphed in front of him. "I see. You're gonna need something strong, then, mate." The bartender reached over to his left, grabbing an old bottle of whiskey so faded that Dean couldn't even read the name. He deftly poured a couple fingers into a tumbler, sliding it over to Dean. Dean downed it in two swallows, immediately handing it back over while making a slight face at the burn going down his throat. Balthazar chuckled, refilling it. "Good luck, then." He slowly handed the glass back to Dean, seemingly in thought. There was a pregnant pause, before the bartender spoke uncharacteristically seriously. "I know it may not mean much coming from me, but this truly is a good place, and I think Sam is right. You should take the job." he stated. With that, the blonde winked and walked away towards a gaggle of women sitting and drinking martinis at the end of the bar.
Dean scoffed and shook his head, standing up with his drink. Sending a cursory glance around the club, he tried to find an empty table. Preferably one that was dark and out of sight. Finally, he spotted a small both in the corner farthest from the stage, tucked away and half covered in shadow. 'Perfect.' As he settled into the cushioned seat, he wondered if he should just buy the whole bottle from Balthazar to save him constant walking back and forth to the bar. As he was swirling the remains of his drink in his glass, the lights dimmed, and his eyes snapped up to the stage. Crowley's voice rang out from the hidden speakers, and even though his booth was even darker than before, he still felt like he was being watched by the creep. He let out a long breath as the first dancers came on stage, eyes scanning for a certain mop of dark hair. Simultaneously feeling angry with himself for even looking and disappointed that he didn't find it, he scowled and went back to the bar. He was definitely going to need that whole bottle.
Things had been getting better in the club. Sandalphon's murder had been almost two weeks ago, and nothing untoward had happened since. All of the dancers had been getting along better, and the general atmosphere had improved a hundred-fold. They laughed quicker, talked more, and relaxed easier. Relations had never come easily to the group. They all had their suspicious pasts, tragic back stories, and mistrusting personalities. Everyone here was jaded and cynical, but they tried their best to get along. Well… some of them tried.
Castiel was once again part of the closing group, so he was waiting out in the hallway behind all of the other dancers. Tonight, Azrael, Camael, and Gabriel were closing out the show with him, and the four of them stood in a loose clump.
Azrael was staring at the wall to his left, seemingly uninterested in anything else, like always. Gabriel was chattering away at Camael, seemingly unbothered by the somewhat lack-luster responses he was receiving. Further on up in the line, he could see Haniel and Jophiel deep in conversation, wild hand gestures included. Uriel was immersed in his phone, and Castiel assumed that he was texting his girlfriend Emma. Lucifer leaned boredly against the wall, and it looked like he was playing with a cat's cradle string. Michael was speaking with Raphael, a honest grin on his face for what felt like the first time in weeks. Raphael had that effect on people. Raguel, who was up front with Raziel, Zadkiel, and Ariel, was simply staring off into space. Zadkiel was talking to Ariel next to the stairs, and Castiel hoped that Zadkiel wasn't being too terrible, because Ariel looked terrified as he shrunk back against the wall.
Castiel frowned, preparing to go over and see what was the matter, but before he could, Chamuel shouted from behind him, "Alright, guys, head upstairs." Sending a glance back at the pair as Ariel scurried behind Zadkiel in the line, Castiel shook his head and followed the dancers up the stairs.
Castiel slid down the wall to sit on the floor of the hallway, Gabriel settling on the floor on his right, Azrael on his left. Being the last group, they had about 25 minutes until they had to be on stage. Castiel resigned himself to a silent wait, because Azrael seemed to be a natural mood-deteriorator. Imagine his surprise as Azrael turned to him and said, "The brothers, you met them, right?" His dark eyes drilled holes into Castiel's, and he raised an eyebrow as he waited for an answer.
Castiel started, before responding surprisedly, "Um, yes. Briefly on the stairs. Why?"
Turning back to the front, Azrael said softly, "There are so many different things being said about them, but barely anybody has actually seen them. I was curious." There was a pause, before he questioned, "For instance, is it true that one of them is a giant?" with a small smirk.
Castiel chuckled, strangely thrilled that Azrael was talking, let alone making jokes. "Well, Sam- the younger one- is quite tall. I think even taller than Chamuel. Dean is tall, too, maybe as tall as Raphael." He nodded.
Azrael made a small noise in his throat. "And what do you think?"
"About what?"
He leveled Castiel with a heavy look. "On whether they're going to work here or not."
'Oh.' Castiel sighed. He leaned back against the wall, thinking. "I believe that they should, obviously. I think Sam will- he seemed much more open to the idea. Dean I am not so sure about... though I can't see him leaving his brother alone here." Castiel grinned briefly. "So, in short, I guess my thought is that yes, eventually, they will join us."
He glanced at Azrael, who merely nodded and kept silent. Castiel was left to his own thoughts, which were mostly revolving around the Winchesters. He frowned, folding his legs up and wrapping his arms around them, resting his chin on his knees. This was incredibly aggravating- the Winchesters and their business were of no concern to him. None.
Yet still the next twenty minutes passed with nothing but thoughts concerning the two brothers. He didn't even go through his routine like he normally would do before a show. It may not be wholly necessarily, but irked him that he had- yet again- gotten lost in his thoughts. Soon enough, Azrael, Raziel, Michael, Lucifer, and Jophiel came slipping into the dark hallway. Castiel and his group took that as their signal, and stood up, shaking out limbs and receiving whispered "Good lucks!" Plus one "Don't trip" from Gabriel as he attempted to push Castiel off the edge of the stage. Castiel glared back and followed the other two out onto the stage, his trench coat flapping around his ankles. As Azrael and Gabriel leaned pointedly against the side polls, Castiel and Chamuel continued walking to the front of the stage. The previous song finished, and as a new song started, the four on stage began to dance.
Castiel couldn't see what the two dancers were doing behind him; he was focused on the crowd in front of him. The trick was to keep them interested for the entire act, all four songs. It was difficult at first, because they only had so much clothing and so many props to begin with. But quickly he figure out that it wasn't in the stripping, it was in the movement. The customers focused their sight onto the body, not the clothes. So Castiel did what he did best- he moved.
Lifting his arms he swiveled his hips, his legs slowly bending until he was almost kneeling. He then slowly stood back up, running a hand down from his shoulder to his thigh. Throwing back his head he smiled at the people crowding around the stage, dropping a hand to graze lightly against a few of them. That earned quite a few screams and many more bills to be thrown up.
Of course, what really got the crowd going every night was when the dancers used each other as props. That was why, half way through the second song, Castiel reached out to tug Chamuel's arm. Chamuel paused in his dancing, sending a smirk Castiel's way. Grinning back, Castiel faced him, placing a leg on either side of his. He began to grind against Chamuel's thigh, while Chamuel slowly shucked off Castiel's coat. Castiel could hear the crowd's approval, and he and Chamuel grinned privately. Things like this happened all the time in shows, and the "angels" had learned long ago to let go of any awkwardness or timidity.
The rest of the show passed in a haze for Castiel, the routine of it fading into his memory like blank sheets of paper. He could rarely recall a specific night's show more than a week later. If that. Before he knew it, his tie was half in his pants, his trench coat was across the stage, and he was helping Gabriel pick up the last few bills from the floor. "Nice work there, Cassie. If I were Chamuel I'd be taking a cold shower right now." Gabriel murmured, snickering as Castiel lightly smacked his head in retaliation.
"Okay you lot, it's floor time. Remember, no touching, and private rooms are between you and the dancers only. Enjoy the rest of your night here at Supernatural." Crowley's light-hearted announcement acted as a signal for the dancers, and they began to snake out of the hallway behind the stage. Smiles were pasted on, walks became slower and slyer, and voices lowered. Castiel sighed as he followed Azrael out into the crowd, fixing what he hoped was a convincing smile onto his face. He really would just like to go home after stage performances.
Beginning a meandering pathway through the room that separated him from some of the other dancers, he began to wind through the tables and chairs, occasionally dropping a wink there or a drag of a hand there. Within half a minute he was flagged down by a young woman at a table with her friend. As Castiel approached with a smile, the woman murmured, "You were easily the best one up there, gorgeous. How about we use one of those handy rooms upstairs?" The woman's friend openly stared, obviously excited for what she was sure was about to occur.
Castiel modified his smile, making it a bit saddened, but also warmer. "I'm sorry, but I'm not the dancer to ask for that." He was one of the few dancers who didn't agree to use the private rooms, but if Crowley was irked by it, he didn't show it. Besides, he had more than enough dancers willing to make a little bit more money upstairs. Lifting a hand to the woman's hair, Castiel sifted his hand though it slightly. "Though, if you would like, I can still entertain you down here just fine." His tone of voice was smooth and flirtatious, one of practiced tempo and inflection. According to Crowley, his deep voice was one of his "main attributes".
At first the woman sighed a little and looked down at her lap, as if put out. But her face quickly stretched into a smile as she looked back up again and nodded. "Sounds good." Castiel returned his smile, nimbly taking the fifty dollar bill extended his way, before slinging a leg over the woman's lap. Settling his weight onto her thighs, Castiel began rotating his hips, almost hovering over the woman. He frowned when she grinned slyly and reached up a hand and ran it down his neck and onto his chest. "No touching." he ordered gently, moving the hand away.
The woman pouted slightly, but behaved herself. Castiel continued the lap dance, occasionally carding his hand through her red hair or letting his hips brush against her stomach. At one point he wound both arms around her neck, leaning his forehead against hers, and he swore he could visually see her pulse skyrocket. Slowly he retracted his arms, letting them brush against hers. His hips and waist worked a rhythm against her legs, moving in circles to the beat of whatever music was playing lowly in the background. A small smile formed on his face, fueled by the girl's and her friend's reactions. He kept smoothly swiveling his hips, his ass barely brushing against the top of her thighs only once or twice.
After it was done a couple minutes later, he slowly stood up- letting a hand run briefly down her cheek- with another twenty hastily stuffed into his pocket. He gave her a bright smile before turning away to move on. He continued his path through the club, pausing to smile as he passed Michael giving a particularly well-paying customer a hickey just below his collar. Michael winked in return over the man's shoulder, using the movement to bite at the skin. Shaking his head, he took just a few more steps before freezing in place. There, in one of the darkest corners of the club, in a booth, was Dean Winchester. His brother was nowhere in sight, and from the single glass on the table in front of him, it looked like he had come here alone. 'That wouldn't make sense. It sounded like Dean had said that he wanted no part of this place.' It had, a first, made him feel a twinge of something- regret? Annoyance? But now… he wasn't so sure.
Looking around to see if Crowley- or a dancer like Zadkiel who always reported to Crowley anyway- was nearby, Castiel walked towards Dean, intent on finding out once and for all if he was accepting or not. He loathed not knowing. Unfortunately, he was heralded by a young man at the table behind and to the side of Dean's booth before he could reach him. He sighed inwardly, stealing a glance at Dean as he slipped by on his way to the table. 'Good- he didn't see me.'
"Hi." Castiel greeted, smiling softly as he came up to the table. The three looked to be college boys, not usually the type to come into the club. The one who had waved him down handed him seventy five dollars with a wink. "I would like some "private entertainment", please." he said, oozing confidence. Castiel swallowed another sigh, but nodded, tucking the bills into his pocket and settling down in the man's lap.
The dance was standard enough, including lots of hip movement and a few "lucky" brushes against bare skin. Soon enough, the guy was walking his fingers over Castiel's shoulder. "The rules are no touching." Castiel murmured, a bit harsher than he normally would be. He was already tired of tonight's clientele, and he was eager to speak with Dean.
But instead of listening, the man smirked, firmly planting his hands on Castiel's stomach. "I'm the customer, so I'm always right, right?" he suggested. Castiel frowned, halting his movements. "No, not here- there are rules. Now stop, or I'll get our bouncer to throw you out." he intoned, hoping he could get some control over this. He hated having to get Hound involved and causing a scene.
The man snorted, dropping his hands to Castiel's waist with a surprisingly strong grip. "Nah, we're good, aren't we?" he replied, giving another wink. Castiel scowled at him, attempting to stand up or walk away. But the hands stayed where they were in an almost crushing grip, and he wasn't going anywhere easily.
"Stop." he spat, looking up to catch Hound's eye. Now the nearby tables were watching them, surprised at the rare occurrence. He had finally found Hound back by the bar, and he started making his way over, maneuvering his enormous frame between chairs and tables and bodies. Castiel resigned himself to another minute of groping, glaring daggers down at the smug ass in front of him. Suddenly, there was another presence to his left, and there was an unfamiliar harsh and angry growl in his ear. "He said stop."
Dean hadn't thought when he'd briskly stormed over to the dim corner behind him, running on alcohol and adrenaline. Whatever Sam said about their father, he raised them with morals and respect. So when Dean heard someone getting harassed behind him, he didn't hesitate to turn around and give them a piece of his mind. When he saw that that "someone" was Castiel, it just served to fan the flames even more. He'd probably regret the implications of this act in the morning when he was more sober, but he brushed off the thought impatiently. Helping people was one thing he would always be proud of doing.
"He said stop." he growled at the dude sitting smugly in the wooden chair. He still had hands clamped around Castiel's bare sides, and was clearly a spoiled asshole fresh out of dad's trust fund. Castiel was obviously beyond irritated, with a deep scowl and hands clenched into fists by his sides. 'He actually looks pretty damn tough with that face on. Kinda like… kill-you-with-one-hand tough.'
The guy raised an eyebrow, and his two friends on either side of him snickered. "Oh yeah? Well this is between me and him, 'cause I certainly don't see you palming any dough to the stripper." All three of them started snickering again.
Dean chuckled once. "Ah, right." Then he lunged forward, grabbing the douche's shirt collar. In his surprise he let go of Castiel, who took the opportunity to step back. Dean knew that there was now attention focused on them from every angle, and he hoped Hound wouldn't have to come over here, and damnit he hadn't wanted Crowley to know that he was here tonight but now there was no avoiding it. Leaning forward into his face, Dean hissed, "If people say stop, then you better damn stop what you're doing, ask questions after. I don't care if you're "palming dough" for this, you act like a fucking human being. If I see you again you better hope you've got a fast way to get out of there."
After a moment of threatening glaring, Dean let go of the guy's shirt. The guy coughed, straightening out his collar, attempting to keep his nonchalant attitude. "Yea, whatever, dude. We're fucking outta here. It's too fancy and shit for a club anyway." His friends stood up and followed him to the door, and now Dean could see Hound hovering next to the wall behind them. Dean smirked a little to see all three guys skirt widely around the enormous body guard before shoving open the door.
He took a deep breath, exhaling sharply, running a hand down his face. "You okay?" he asked, turning towards where Castiel was still standing right beside him. Castiel turned to look at him, bright blue eyes visible even in the dim club lighting, his hair looking like he just had wild sex, and his trench coat wide open to reveal a pretty damn amazing body. 'Jesus fucking Christ.' he thought drunkenly, before firmly moving his eyes back up to Castiel's face.
"Yes, I'm fine." Castiel replied, and holy shit Dean did not remember how deep his voice was. "This sort of thing happens quite often, though usually Hound is quicker to intervene." He paused, studying Dean's face openly. "Thank you for helping." he finished, dipping his head slightly.
It took Dean a moment to formulate a response. "Oh, yeah, I just- uh, yeah, no problem." He closed his eyes, silently berating himself for sounding so stupid. "I mean, I'm a firefighter, helping people is what I do. It was no problem." Clearing his throat, he cut himself off before his booze-addled mind could ramble any further.
Tilting his head, Castiel squinted his eyes, reminding Dean of a confused baby animal. Maybe a little puppy. 'For fuck's sake! Shut. Up!' "You're Dean Winchester, correct?" Castiel asked, taking a step closer to give more room to a passing couple. The "angel" in the couple- who Dean remembered from the private room incident last week- gave Castiel a hip bump and a cheeky grin as he walked past with a definitely-over-thirty brunette wrapped around him.
"Yea." he answered distractedly, wondering how the dark-haired dancer wasn't tripping on his way up the stairs with an octopus clinging to him. Focusing his attention back on Castiel, he was surprised to find him even closer; way closer than normal conversations would merit. "And you're Castiel, right?" Castiel nodded once, not removing his gaze once from Dean's face. There was a beat of awkward silence, which Dean tried to fill. "That's a mouthful. I'm just gonna call you Cas." he awkwardly added.
At that, Cas blinked, tilting his head again. "It's a good nickname. Much better than what Balthazar and Gabriel call me. "Cassie"." He shook his head, making a face of distaste. Dean blinked, forcing down all of the surprising and unbidden memories that came along with that name. Hours and days and months of memories… that were clearly classified as "never think about again, too involved and intense". He hoped this wasn't some god's fucked up version of karma. He also hoped that his face had remained more in control than his thoughts. But Cas hadn't seemed to notice a thing, as he looked like he was waiting for a reply to a question. That Dean hadn't heard. 'Shit.'
Seeing Dean's confused look, Cas patiently repeated, "I said, when are you going to give Crowley an answer?" And if that didn't put Dean's already unstable mood down the toilet... He sighed, scrubbing a hand through his hair. "Look, man, I don't know. I don't even know what my answer is."
Cas nodded slightly, a small frown on his features. "I see. Well, even though I don't know how much it will mean coming from someone you barely know, I really do think you should accept Crowley's offer. It's a good place here." He lifted his right hand and placed it on Dean's shoulder; a solid weight. "He gave me a place when I needed it most. Perhaps one day I could tell you my story." And just like that, he was gone, stepping back into the moving throng of people.
Groaning, Dean dropped into the booth a couple steps behind him, his head falling into his hands. What the fuck was that supposed to mean? Did this club and the people inside it only exist to make his mind do contortions around itself? He wasn't sure if he believed in a higher power, but this had to be the work of some kind of dickbag deity who was the god of Screwing-With-Dean-Winchester. 'I need another drink.'