Chapter 15: Fortune Favors Fools

Sam woke up feeling better than he had in days. The first message on his phone was from Dean. They'd solved the case and he was going to be coming home. No surprise extra case this time around. The flight would be boarding in the afternoon but if everything went okay they should be able to get some food together; Dean had suggested going out to celebrate his first two cases. Even with his pay check not coming in for a little while longer, Dean's re-location bonus allowed them to splurge a little bit. Sam hoped that the next case would be a consultation one since they still needed to furnish their apartment more. Originally they would've done it already had it not been for the emergency case that the team had picked up. It would be nice to see him when he got back home from work instead of waiting a week. Being stuck in his own head was bad for him. It's how he'd screwed himself over originally. Sam should've shared his concerns.

It was barely noon (Sam had been surprised that he hadn't woken up at 8am sharp), but since he had time to kill he decided to give walking around town for a job one more shot. He dressed in his nicest casual clothing and combed his hair. His nerves thrummed with excitement as he bounced his way down the stairs to the car. There was a flier for the apartment gym attached to the windshield. Sam tucked it away, intending to look at it later, and re-started his search.

Perhaps the gods had decided to be kind to him that day.

He'd been driving for a little while before a small rumble in his belly reminded him that he hadn't eaten breakfast. Making a small detour, he dropped by a local bar and diner. There was a help wanted sign taped to the window that he hadn't seen before. He walked in, a mechanical buzzer announcing his presence, and headed straight for the counter. Before he could open his mouth the girl spoke up.

"Hey- I know you."

Sam stared at her for a moment, confused. "I drop in here most days, so, I'd think so?" He tried not to make it sound rude.

The blond laughed. "Sam Winchester."

"Uhm, yes?"

She extended her hand, "Before you think I'm a creep I'm Jo Harvelle. My mom's an agent at the NVACV branch, BAU unit. She works with your brother, Dean?"

"Oh!" Sam spoke, still a little confused. While he'd been interviewed and had met some of the agents he still couldn't put any names to faces. "I don't really- I haven't had a chance to really meet any of them outside of..."

Jo put a soft hand over her mouth and winced. "Shit, my bad. I got ahead of myself there. That's probably really unpleasant for you to...Anyway, nice to meet you. I've just been really curious about you guys. With your brother watching my mother's back in the field and all that."

Sam laughed. "It's okay. I don't mind. And Dean's good at his job. You can trust me on that."

"I'm sure my mom'll give me all the details when she gets home," Jo hit a button on the screen to start up a new order, "I bet you're just as happy as I am to get 'em back."

"You have no idea."

"So, what can I get for you?"

Sam blushed. It was a little weirder for him to ask for a job now. It wasn't pride, just awkwardness. He wasn't sure how he would feel about the working situations coming together so conveniently. "Actually, I was wondering about the help wanted sign?"

"Oh? Okay, that's cool." Jo turned around and tried to peer into the kitchen. "I don't actually work here most days, so hold on." She walked away and through the swing doors. Jo smiled at him as she came back out a few minutes later. "Sorry about that. I'm usually busy with finishing out my courses so I don't get to make any big decisions around here."

"That's fine, I understand. So do I?" Sam looked around a little lost. Should he go stand by the side? Sit down?

"She'll be out in a moment. She's our senior waitress."

"Right, thanks," Sam said making an aborted movement to the side before going back to standing in front of the cash register. "Actually, while I'm here. The reason I even stopped in, could I get some coffee and hash browns?"

"Coming right up," Jo said cheerfully as she punched in the order and took his money.

He was already biting into his meal by the time the woman he assumed would be deciding his fate stepped out. She had curly, light blond hair bunned up in a pony tail. Her smile was bright as she walked over to him. "Sam, right?"

Sam stood up, wiping his hands on his pants before remembering to reach for the napkin. He fumbled around with it for a second before extending his hand out. "Yes ma'am."

"Don't worry about the ma'am. Lindsey," she replied shaking his hand firmly. She sat across the table from him and laid a piece of paper on the table underneath her hands. "Jo tells me you're in need of a job?"

"Yeah. I'm not-" he paused and glanced at Jo, wondering how much of the situation Lindsey knew about. He hadn't even watched the news to see if their names had popped up with the original bombing information. He knew there was a public list of victims but didn't think their names had been shared. However, with Jo's mom working for the FBI, she was privy to a lot more information. Jo just smiled at him once he caught her eye. "- I need a little bit of income to help around the place. Me and my brother, we just moved here and I'm unemployed. I'm having some trouble transferring to a new location here."

"New to the area? Jo mentioned something like that," she nodded to herself, "what hours would you be available to work? We're pretty lax here but we like knowing schedules."

"Just about every day all day?"

"Really?" Lindsey asked a little skeptical. Usually when people sad that they were lying to get a job.

"I'm honestly not doing anything else but sitting at home on the couch or driving around trying to find a job."

"Fair enough, when would you be able to start working?"

"Whenever I'm needed to."

"Here," Lindsey handed him the application she'd been keeping underneath her hands. "You seem like a good guy and honestly you don't need a lot of experience to pour a beer or make a cappuccino. We can train you for that. I can't promise you anything, I gotta toss the application to our manager but you're the first applicant and he tends to hire first-come-first-serve basis."

Sam hurriedly filled out his application and handed it back, "Thank you. So much. Really."

"Don't worry about it. You're doing us a favor too for working for us. I'll leave you to your meal, you enjoy."

She shook hands with him one more time and as she walked off Jo gave him a thumbs up from behind the cash register. He smiled into his coffee and ate the rest of his hash browns in peace. Dean would be happy.

… … … … … … … … … … … .. .. .. .. .. . . . . . . . . .

The flight home hadn't been any better than the flight there. Dean had gotten himself the small reprieve when they'd driven across Wisconsin but that wasn't in the cards for the flight back to Virginia. They were having to take a commercial flight, the others having taking the private jet back home, to Dulles International Airport and it just made him more anxious. The flight itself had been more or less fine. He'd used his new favorite trick of 'watch-the-Cas' to calm his nerves. In between Ellen had played a few rounds of card games with him. It was when they were getting ready to land that he'd clutched at the seats. Castiel had thankfully pulled down the window screen. It hadn't meant that the people across the isle or in front of him would do the same. Once the other planes leaving the airport came into view, horrible images of head on collisions started firing off in his head.

Neither of the other agents had commented on it. Cas had even pushed his thigh a little closer to Dean's in a subtle sign of comfort. It had felt warm.

The sun was starting to glow orange as it descended in the sky. After a brief farewell, and a lingering look from Dean at Cas' ass while he walked away, he took a Taxi back to Woodbridge. His legs still felt shaky in the back of the car as he watched the street lights slowly turn on. The flight back had taken longer than anticipated and his anxiety had been worse than he'd originally assumed. He wasn't sure if he was going to have the energy to go out and eat. For the most part he wanted to have a beer, eat something good, and pass out. Work would start bright and early again and he had 50 hour work week ahead of him.

The choice was made for him when he walked into the apartment to a warm, mouth watering smell.

"Sammy?" Dean called out, stepping into the threshold.

"Kitchen!"

Dean smiled and shrugged out of his jacket and let his bag drop to the floor. He cursed as it landed on the ground, remembering that he'd intended to leave it at the office. He kicked off his shoes and let all of his belongings lie haphazardly in the entryway. He turned the corner into their kitchen. "What's the occasion? Thought we were going out?"

Sam turned around, a bright smile on his face. He laughed as he took in Dean's haggard appearance. "Well I'm glad I decided to cook. You look like shit, dude."

"Hey, I've been working hard," Dean mock complained, trying to straighten his sleeves.

"It's just hamburger helper but I did a little grocery shopping."

"Oh?" Dean asked as he passed the kitchen into his own room. He couldn't wait to get out of his work clothes and into something stretchy and soft.

"Yeah. I got a job."

Dean peeked his head back out from his room as he stripped, "Really? Way to go. You're not working the corner are you?"

A dishrag flew towards him. It smacked against the door frame as Dean dodged it. "Very funny, Dean."

"I thought it was," came the muffled response.

The food was ready to be served as Dean hobbled his way out, scratching at his belly. He opened up the cupboard and stared confused at the new additions to their dishes. "When'd we get real plates?"

"Don't worry Dean. They were cheap. Like, Wallmart bin cheap," Sam assured him as he turned the stove off and moved the pan off of the hot plate. "I went and got a few since I'll be starting work tomorrow."

"Tomorrow? So soon?"

Sam smiled as he reached over Dean's head, much to his brothers irritation (he felt it was a play on his shorter stature), and then started filling his plate. "I was probably being a little preemptive, but hey it worked out. I got a call about an hour or so ago saying I got the job."

"What job?" Dean asked as he pushed Sam to the side to get his own portion.

"It's at a local... bar... coffee shop, diner place," Sam attempted explaining. Bar was the wrong word to use. Yes they served drinks but it was a lot more casual than that. "They're gonna start me on the floor."

"So you're gonna be a waitress?" Dean chuckled.

"Waiter," Sam grumbled and took out two beers for them. "And it's a start."

Dean sat down on their raggedy couch and pulled their cheap coffee table closer. He raised two hands in the air in front of his chest. "I'm not hating, I promise. That's good for you Sammy."

"I thought it was," Sam said as he took his own seat.

Dean patted his arm and gave a lopsided smile. "Really. I didn't mean to be a dick."

"Yes you did."

"Okay, so maybe I did. But that's a step forward."

Sam turned the TV on and the only sound other than the last few minutes of a football game was the scrape of forks against the ceramic plates.

"Oh-" Dean turned towards his brother, confused. "- You know a Jo Harvelle?"

Dean blinked and ran through his memory. "Uh, yeah. Ellen's kid. Saw her at the office before we left."

"Blond kid?"

"That's her."

"Well she works there too."

"Well that's a fun coincidence," Dean said finishing off his beer and standing up to stretch. He bent down went to bring his dishes into the sink. "Don't fuck her," he teased as he headed towards his bedroom for an early turn in. "I'd never hear the end of it at work!"

Sam scowled but laughed a little. "You're confusing your habits with mine again, Dean." He shook his head at the TV but couldn't keep the small smile off of his face. He was glad to have his brother home, he had a job, and for the most part everything seemed to be going in the right direction again.

… … … … … … … … … … … .. .. .. .. .. . . . . . . . . .

He was choking on sand.

The sun as slinking down as he struggled against the wind. His face mask slipped a little to let in sharp grains. They felt like glass. He brought a gloved hand up and shoved his helmet further down and adjusted his face mask. The gun shots sounded like rain pouring down on a metal overhang. He tucked himself into a ball to roll himself down and shoved himself up when he stopped feeling the scratching at his eyes. Frantic, heart pounding, he raised his L85A2 and prayed as he tried to see and regain his balance. Worry crept across his body as he prayed for his riffle not to jam. It was basic infantry but all their specialized weapons had long run out of ammo.

A solid body tackled him from the side as he struggled to find his bearings and he felt his breath explode out of his body. He lifted his gun with both hands and attempted to swat his attacker across the cheek, if not with his gun then with his elbow. The man above him laughed, loud enough to be heard above the gun fire, or maybe he'd only heard it because it the man had been so close to him. Panic rushed through his veins as he tried to drop one hand from the gun and grab his knife. His face mask jerked to the side in the struggle.

Before he could even reach it he numbly felt something slice through his protective vest and the sharp edge of the knife stop above the thin film of his skin before sliding along it and up. His breath came in short pants as he awaited to feel a puncture deep into his gut. The man above him paused and lifted his hand up, stopping the movement of the blade. He felt the strangers hand cup his own face and slide the protective covering fully off. Now bare, he blinked rapidly trying to figure out what was happening when he saw a smile erupt across the strangers face.

"Bozhe moi! Ni figa sebe!Privet Cassiel!"

His heart froze. The man above him laughed.

"Kak della? Skolko let, skolko zim!" A bullet whizzed by his ear. "Chort vozmi. Ja dolzhen idti, Cassiel."

Loud screaming echoed around him as the man above him smashed the butt of his own riffle across his unprotected face.

Castiel woke up sweating. His heart hammered in his chest as he struggled out of his sheets. He collapsed to the floor with his blanket wrapped around his thighs as he felt his stomach heaving. Clawing his way across the floor, Cas managed to half stumble his way into the bathroom before vomiting up spit. He hadn't eaten anything after they'd gotten home from the last case. Sweat dripped down his back as he knelt, clutching the porcelain toilet. Spittle dripped past his lower lip as he tried to spew out the awful feelings stirring in his stomach.

The memory hammered against the back of his skull as he tried to push it away.

He was better than old ghosts.

He was better than bad memories.

He was a damn grown man.

It didn't help him breathe any easier.

Eventually his heaves calmed down enough for him to lean up against the cold seat. He opened his eyes and was grateful that he'd somehow found his bathroom in the dark. At least he didn't have to deal with the painful glaring light. Castiel's legs shook as he tried to push himself up. He flushed and nearly collapsed all over again. Breathing deep he forced his back to straighten and stumbled backwards into the wall. A stuttered exhale pushed past his dry lips. He smacked them together and forced his body to move towards the sink. Forcing himself more, he flicked the light on and winced at the change in brightness.

Immediately his eyes dropped down to the pale scar he had on his stomach. It no longer looked like too much of anything. A dark, straight, line. Despite seeing himself in the mirror clearly, he still saw stitches running across the bit of flesh. Castiel clutched at the sink as he tried to calm his heart down. He stared at the man in the mirror and let his eyes drop to the tattoo on the side of his left rib. His unit number and company. With shaking hands, he lifted his hand up to it and kept it there. He held his palm firmly over the mark and stroked across the still upraised letters. The man he'd gotten the tattoo from had dug in far too deep, leaving raised bruises that he could almost read like braille.

It shouldn't have bothered him, he should've long come to terms with it.

The mission had been a special forces one; unrelated to any political power-plays, which is why he had agreed to it. A simple black market criminal prevention assignment. The group they were to apprehend was illegally dealing in firearms to begin with and furthermore terrorizing the local population.

It was the first time, as a conscious adult, that Cas had met someone from his family.

The rest of his unit had died that day.

He'd been given an honorary medal for his services and bravery. Since the day of the ceremony he'd tucked it in a lock box in a storage unit a state away. He'd survived because the people dealing arms had been a part of his family. Then he'd spent the rest of the battle passed out in the sand. There was no bravery, honor, or strength in that.

Cas hadn't noticed that he'd turned the sink on until the water in the sink had overflown and was soaking his feet.

He palmed the silver cross hanging around his neck as he stumbled out of the bathroom. The edges of the cross dug into his palm as he clutched at it. Castiel wasn't one for drinking but he made wobbly steps towards the cupboard he kept the fine whiskey in. For company, of course. The memories pushed forward harsher as he screwed open the top and lifted to his lips. He felt dirty as it dripped into his mouth and down his throat, burning like a hot piece of coal as it sank into his belly. Most nights he was at least refined enough to pour a glass over ice. Castiel took another swig and nearly croaked out a small whine as small droplets fell to his chest.

When he'd first showed interest in joining a military force, the marines, and specifically working towards higher unit, his mother had shown protest. His father had been impressed. He hadn't known much about his mother, until later, but his father was proud. He'd been teaching here and there but made his living as a dirt poor writer. He'd been supportive through the training. His first mission out had been a challenge but his mother had seemed to relax after he'd come back home safe.

After he'd been stitched up and finally released home after the desert incident... Castiel had come back to a bloody house.

His father was missing and his mother had been cut open in the bed.

He'd screamed until one of the neighbors had rushed into the house. Castiel vaguely remembered them calling the police as he clutched at the bloody sheets.

For such a nosy neighborhood, how had no one heard anything? How hadn't anyone checked up on them? They'd been a private family for sure, but someone, anyone, surely would've noticed their absence from the local events. Someone should've noticed.

Castiel's next few days had been spent being tossed around government facilities to be grilled for information. Most of the memories were blurry paintings of random splashes of color. How much did he know? Did he know that his family was like this? Did he know that his mother was a criminal? Did he know how many affiliations he had to a Russian syndicate? What were the secrets? Had his mother or his father displayed disturbing behavior growing up? Was he in on it? Is that why he'd joined the military?

The memories rode his body as Castiel worked through them. For a moment it felt like his heart was going to stop.

His phone buzzed.

The name read 'Dean Winchester.' "So, when r we coming into work again?" Followed by, "just u know.. wanna hang out w sam."

Castiel laughed and stumbled out onto this balcony. Breathing seemed easier all of a sudden. He leaned his hands across the concrete balcony edge and thumbed his response. He commented on Dean's timing. It was late and he shouldn't have been texting his superior ranking agent at this hour.

"true. But u txtd back"

Cas smiled and thumbed back the time. It didn't take long for his phone to buzz back to life again.

"ok good.. had to plan and shit."

A moment passed.

"I'm holding u to that pie promise if we don't spend 4ever on the next case."

"You can't be real," Castiel whispered as he stared at the text, warmth filling his chest. The small buzz faded away as he recounted what the Winchester family had been through. The only reason that he did have Dean in his unit. Especially because of someone from his family. While he had never met Lucifer past a glance, the Interpol interviews had explained to him in depth just who his family was, and what they were doing to the world. Playing it. It broke his heart that they'd pushed Dean and his family around like pawns. If only Dean knew... Instead of spilling his deepest feelings he told Dean, "Of course. I look froward to it. Hopefully it will taste as good as the last one did."

"just letme pick the place."

"* let me "

A broken laugh burst forth from his chest.

"I will always trust your judgment, Agent Winchester."

He took another small swig of the bottle he'd brought out on the balcony with him. Castiel settled into one of the half broken chairs he'd grabbed off of a curb.

"u like frustrating me. 'n what r u doin up so late? Mr boss man sir we have work tom."

The scotch felt warmer in his stomach than it had before. "I could ask the same of you, Dean. You're the one that text messaged me."

"u still responded."

Castiel felt a laugh bubbling in his sternum and let it spill past his lips for a moment. "I will see you tomorrow morning, Agent Winchester."

"now ur just being a dick."

A moment passed.

"Good night."

Instead of the rattle of guns and the taste of fire, Castiel crawled into bed with the image of strong arms around him. As he settled his head on his pillow he imagined someone warm and radiant, pulling him back by his waist and nuzzling into his neck. And he told him, that it was okay.

When his alarm buzzed loudly next to him, he groaned. The light was starting to trickle in past the blinds. His mouth felt tacky and dry as he sat up. A small smile spread onto his face and he gently touched his finger tips to his lips, testing his smile. It didn't take him very long to get dressed. Castiel only paused briefly to return the whiskey to its original place. Shortly after his conversation with Dean he'd gone to bed and passed out with relative ease.

Something live and warm underneath his skin told him it would be a good day. Once he'd made it to work he'd paused briefly in his office before finding Charlie and walking with her to the conference room. He flipped through the case as he held the door open for her to pass through first.

"So, where are we going?" Dean bit into his doughnut and Ellen gave him a look at the mess he was making. He ignored it.

"Mississippi."

"What kinda sicko we dealing with this time?" Bobby asked. He leaned forward as Charlie passed out all of their folders.

"A very weird one," she started as she pulled up images on the big screen.

Ellen made a noise of surprise. "Well that's a broad spectrum."

"We thinking group?" Pamela asked as she flipped through the pictures. "Are we sure this one isn't a suicide at least?" She pulled out the image of the man who'd jumped off of his condo.

"That one's still undetermined."

"Is there anything connecting these guys?" Ellen asked.

"There's a brand," Castiel said indicating with a wave of his hand that Charlie should proceed to the next picture. Along the hairline for each of the victims there was an image burned in, it almost looked like letters.

"What the hell does it say?" Dean asked squinting at the tiny images.

"We're hoping that we'll be able to discern the mark better once we see the bodies in person."

"Fair enough," Dean mumbled. He wiped off the crumbs from his fingertips on his pant leg and took a satisfying sip of water. At least it wasn't kids.

… … … … … … … … … … … .. .. .. .. .. . . . . . . . . .

The flight was an unsettling one and the weather that greeted them immediately shot down any remnants of a good mood. Despite the constant sprinkling of rain it was hot. There was no wind, only the occasional lighting bolt and rumble of thunder.

"I hate Mississippi already."

Bobby grunted a small agreement as he waved the stack of papers into his face. If nature wasn't going to help them out he would create his own breeze. It didn't help that the facility that they were storing the bodies in was a cheap excuse for a warehouse. Their walk in freezer was held shut with chains and a chair planted in front of it. They'd spent a good few hours fumbling with the locks and chains and then having to help the local lab techs close the thing back up.

The bodies were already starting to decay at a faster rate than they should have. Luckily they still managed to get clear images and imprints of the markings on the backs of the victims necks. And it really wasn't their fault. Funding for autopsies was hard to get. Only the big cities had proper facilities.

Maybe it was the heat and the humidity, or the dreary gloomy atmosphere, but the case crawled along slowly. Dean understood of course that not all cases could get magicked into being solved, he'd been an agent long enough to know that. Still, it felt like the entire case was digging its heels into the ground and refusing to budge. They'd spoken to Sean Boyden's surviving friends and family. The most they'd gotten out of it was that out of nowhere he was advancing in the world and success had followed him. Then he'd jumped off of a condo he designed, but judging by the stories they gathered; Boyden had been a happy, and content man. He'd had a shitty job at a bar and become an overnight success. The only sign they received that anything was wrong was the friends concern for Boyden's mental health the week leading up to his jump. He thought he was being followed and kept hearing 'dogs'. No one had been able to confirm it outside of him. The neighbors thought they'd maybe heard whispers but the condo Sean Boyden lived in was fairly isolated.

"None of this is helpful," Dean griped at he stretched out in the office chair.

Pamela nodded and shoved aside her damp hair, curls kept getting stock to her forehead or her neck. Despite the weak A/C at the station the weather was unforgiving. "This could just be a suicide and we could be barking up the wrong tree."

"Unless we can prove it I'm afraid it's what we have to work with," Castiel grumbled, taking off his jacket. "Agent Bradbury should be done rendering versions of the brand soon and perhaps we'll have more luck there."

"You know Cas, I don't think anythings gonna change if you just keep staring at it," Dean remarked. Since they'd come back from interviews Castiel had spent the entire time obsessively focused on the print. For whatever reason something about it felt familiar; which never bode well.

"As snarky as that sounds, he's right," Bobby said. "It's like with art people. You're supposed to step away from it or you stop seeing it or something."

Castiel sighed and ran a hand through his hair, mussing it up. "Perhaps you are right. We need to comb back through these lives and see where their paths overlapped."

Dean drummed his fingers on the table and stared listlessly at the white board. "Did the other families say anything about crazy hallucinations before swan dives? Feeling like they were being stalked?"

"Not really. These guys were successful but estranged from their families."

"Seems like a waste. If you got something good wouldn't you wanna share it with your family?" Dean tried to imagine not sharing everything with Sam, especially if he'd become successful like that. He couldn't understand how these people could end up so far apart.

"Beats me."

"You know, this might be stupid," Dean said as he pulled up a piece of paper they'd been brain storming on, "but since we got nothing else, maybe there's something about Boyden's behavior."

"If he was having a mental break down it would be rare for other victims to be sharing the same hallucinations," Castiel said but sat down to listen to his theory. Although outlandish in many ways, Dean's ideas had proven to cling to just enough truth to pan out.

"But what if it wasn't a break down, what if the guy was actually getting stalked?"

"By a rabid, big, black dog and some creep?" Pamela asked incredulously.

"No, but I mean back in OKC, a lot of the gangs owned dogs. Pits are popular. And if this guy is going around offing these successful guys and this isn't a coincidence, why would it be insane for him to have a dog?"

"So he just takes his dog on walks to murder people?" Bobby asked and huffed out an amused breath.

"It's perhaps not too insane," Castiel mumbled, feeling exhaustion creep into his bones. "At the very least it would give a reason to be out. And if he wandered around often enough he could become a regular feature of a neighborhood. It wouldn't raise any alarms."

"That's still pretty far fetched." Ellen unscrewed the bottle of water and drank down the last drops of it. She grabbed a manilla folder and began to wave it towards herself. "Seriously these guys need a fan."

"We've got nothing better to do. We're out of leads, we've talked to everyone we can. So we either head in early and pick up tomorrow. But you know if nothing else is left crazy usually ends up panning out."

"So what are we looking for?"

"Well, Sean Boyden reported it, maybe some of the other guys did too? Hit up animal control, ask for similar disturbance calls."

"Beats sittin' around sweating myself to death," Bobby grumbled and stood up. "I'll go get us some copies. I gotta stretch my legs anyway, starting to feel like I was going to be one with the chair."

A short phone call and a quick drive (they didn't have the time to fax them any of the information for whatever reason) they were sitting on a shockingly short list of people that matched what they were looking for.

"This is going to be wonderful. The FBI making house calls about loose pets," Bobby huffed.

"Split up I guess?" Ellen suggested. Despite each complaint being significantly geographically separated from each other they were all close enough for a drive. "We might even get all of the interviews done at a reasonable time and be out of here with enough time for some grub before bed."

"I believe you're right Agent Harvelle," Castiel agreed. He contemplated his jacket for a moment before leaving it draped around the chair. It would be too hot. "Dean, you're with me."

"Sure thing, boss," Dean replied with a cheeky grin.

"You think you're gonna take the training wheels off anytime soon?" Pamela teased as Dean trailed Cas faithfully out the door.

Dean flipped her the finger as Castiel spoke, "His interviewing skills could use some polishing."

"Hey!"

"Shall we, Agent Winchester?"

Dean almost snapped something back before he remembered that they were at work. He could joke around with his... he hoped to call him friend at least, Cas, but at work he'd have to behave himself a little better. And the middle finger thing had probably been a little too juvenile for the work place too. Resigned and telling himself he'd behave better he followed Castiel out of the station and to their car. It was a shame that he never played music in the car and sure as hell wasn't the most open conversationalist. It left Dean stewing in his own juices and obsessively reflecting on his behavior while the rain softly pelted the car. At least Cas was pretty to look at and didn't mind being stared at.

It didn't take them long to arrive at Silvia Pearlman's house. They didn't know much about her other than her status as a doctor. They'd been sent small personal files but so far there hadn't been a need to dig any deeper. She wasn't home. They spoke with her maid who confirmed with them that the report had been filed and that she had no idea when Dr. Pearlman would be back. She'd left rather abruptly.

"Do you have a number we could reach her at?" Castiel asked as he pulled out a small piece of paper and a pen from his pocket.

"Isn't she Chief of Surgery?" Dean asked looking around the kitchen they'd been left into.

"Youngest in the hospitals history," the maid responded, obviously proud. "She'd always been good but she got a lucky break about ten years ago. The Chief of Surgery passed away and several people were moved around. Her skill pushed her through the power vacuum. It was a well deserved lucky break."

"Huh," Dean hummed as Castiel wrote down the doctor's cell phone number. Just because she hadn't been able to reach the doctor didn't mean they shouldn't try. Dean was only vaguely paying attention as a photograph caught his eye. He picked it off of the pin board. Castiel's eyes bugged out a little as he tried to hiss a subtle 'Dean'. Touching random things in a strangers home was definitely frowned upon. He chose to ignore it as he flipped the picture over, November 2003 Lloyd's Bar. He showed the photo to Castiel. "Ring a bell?"

Castiel bit of his reprimand for the time and took the photograph in his hand. "Do you mind if we keep this for now?"

"Uhm, why?"

"Our main concern isn't the dog that Doctor Pearlman reported. We need to speak to her in relation to an on going case on some deaths in town."

She paled. "Oh you don't mean those-"

"Yes, those. We promise to bring it back," Dean interrupted and gave her a charming smile.

The left successfully with the picture and Castiel couldn't even gripe at him with how well things had started to pan out. On their way back to the station to share their discoveries they received a phone call. Local PD two cities over had found Silvia Pearlman dead in her motel room.

The rest of the drive back to the station didn't feel as victorious.

Bobby and Ellen had been sent to Lloyd's while Pamela stayed to consult with Dean and Castiel.

"At least we're on the right trail," Pamela muttered as the fax machine whirred. Crime scene photos shot out one after another. She whistled softly. "This sure as hell ain't suicide."

Dean grabbed one of the photos and grimaced. "There are prettier ways to go."

A beeping interrupted and Castiel walked over to the laptop they had set up. It was Charlie.

"Hey guys. How's Mississippi?"

"Hot, humid, hellish," Dean replied, settling in front of the computer.

"Sounds like fun. Now I don't really have much for you guys. I looked into the backgrounds of our victims and every one of 'em, a strange over night success."

"Ten years ago," Pamela clarified.

"Yup. But here's the thing, these guys had some talent yeah. But... some of this stuff doesn't sit right. At all."

"Of course."

"I'll keep looking into it but in the meantime I've got your image. Sending it to you now."

The screen switched dark for a moment as the clear images of the brand was blown up on their screen.

"That's just a random assortment of letters," Dean complained staring at it. His irritation dipped into confusion as Castiel sighed heavily and dropped into his chair.

"That's not good," Pamela mumbled.

"No. It is very much not," Castiel replied and dug out his phone. He gave a brief head nod to indicate that they should vacate the room and he made a phone call.

It didn't take long for Zachariah to pick up.

… … … … … … … … … … … .. .. .. .. .. . . . . . . . . .

The letters were a bad joke, but then again the group in question tended to have a peculiar sense of humor.

"So, how about cluing us in on what the fun scribbles mean?" Dean bit out a little harsher than he intended to. Seeing Cas display any signs of nerves worried him.

"666."

"Excuse me?" Dean asked leaning against a desk. He shared a look with Pamela who shrugged her shoulders.

"NRWN QSR. Goes back to Nero Ceaser. Many scholars believe that in the transliterate from Latin to Hebrew the letters, representing numbers, equal to 666."

"And what does that have to do with anything?"

"Early Christian persecutors. But it isn't really him that's important, it's a calling card. A joke."

"It's not very funny," Pamela muttered as she stared at the screen.

"It could be a coincidence of course, but certain factions of Lucifer's Children are known to close out their black market deals like this. A different branch from Azazel's..."

"Wait what?" A bead of sweat ran down Dean's back.

"Even with Lucifer behind bars he still has a strong following. The structure of it heavily resembling syndicates as you know."

"Bull shit," Dean whispered, "three cases in and already having to deal with that-"

Castiel stood up and placed a gentling hand on his bicep. He squeezed gently and tried to get the other man's attention. "I'm honesty more surprised that we haven't heard more activity. It's been months since … the Oklahoma incident. A lot of big players came out of the woodwork-" he bit his lip fighting to share that Meg Masters had escaped as well "-it would be surprising if we didn't end up stumbling onto something related. That you have only been on the job so long is coincidence."

Dean sighed and tried to calm the nervous fluttering his stomach. "Right, whatever, so these... black market deals..."

"Whatever's profitable. I'm sure if someone took the time to re-exhume the body of the late Chief of Surgery, the one before Doctor Perlman, that there would be evidence of foul play. I'm sure they're also responsible for pawing the way for Sean Boyden, I wouldn't be surprised if the architectural plans were given to him."

"So what, pay my way and end up dead?"

"Not always. If I remember correctly, there's an exchange. Sometimes it's money, other times it's a debt to be repaid in return. But the debts last a life time. You could say that you would be handing over body and soul." Dean's hands felt clammy. "Perhaps they tried to back out on their repayment?"

The conversation dipped into contemplative silence as Dean stared at the crime scene photos splayed out before him. He clenched and unclenched his hands. He thought of Azazel and the promise he'd made to save Sam's life. These people had had ten years. He had barely a year left.

"So, what now?" Dean asked, quiet.

"The CIA may or may not take over the case. Since 'the incident' they're very serious about keeping tabs on any activity."

"We're just gonna leave?" Dean spat out.

"With recent concerns about national security, they would most likely receive jurisdiction. I doubt they will have an answer for us within the next few hours. I believe it's best if we joined Agent Singer and Agent Harvelle at Lloyd's."

… … … … … … … … … … … .. .. .. .. .. . . . . . . . . .

They'd managed to track down most of the names, or memorable people from Lloyd's. For being a bar the workers had a pretty impressive memory. They'd gotten two significant names. George Darrow, was the first. One of the bartenders recalled seeing him drinking with a young woman, a woman who'd spent the next week frequenting the bar. They never saw him again. They managed to pin point one other man, Evan Hudson.

Before they had a chance to search for them CIA did swoop in.

They were off the case.

Dean wasn't sure whether to be relieved or disappointed. On one hand, he could stop obsessing about the slowly ticking timer on his own deal. Azazel had assured him that even with his death the agreement stood. With how those people had ended up, he was a little concerned about trying to back out of it; a thought he only considered briefly. Sam would be a target if he chose to back down. On the other, if they could've hunted down whatever conniving little fuck had orchestrated these deals and get some answers. Get information. Figure out a way to fight back a little. At the very least if he was going down he was going to go down swinging.

They'd been delayed at the airport and it had been the late evening by the time they touched down in Virginia.

His only silver lining to his dark thoughts was the brief diner visit Cas indulged him in.

Dean's plans for the small outing had been brighter and filled with more cheer, but taking in Cas' haggard appearance and knowing he looked just as bad if not worse, he was content with the sound of silence interrupted only by the scrape of their forks.

He'd almost pulled Castiel into a strong, 'masculine', embrace. He'd backed down, instead settling for a brief touch of his hand on the other man's shoulder. Dean didn't understand what was bothering Castiel about the case so much. He'd seemed fine right up until he'd had a final conference with the CIA folks. His shoulders had drooped a little and his spine had been bent when he'd marched out of the office. There was something defeated in the other man's stance.

It made Dean uncomfortable and worried. He'd only relaxed a little as Castiel had smiled at him for the affectionate gesture and thanked him for the pie.

He figured Cas would tell him whenever it was fit to make it a part of Dean's business. Hell, he couldn't exactly be demanding. He had a few secrets of his own.

The apartment lights were still on by the time Dean made it back. He opened the door and groaned, rubbing his palm across his stiff neck. He kicked his shoes off before wandering further into living area only to find Sam sitting on the couch.

"I'm back?" Dean called out, confused. Sam looked up at him, anger and betrayal in his eyes. He'd seen that look a few times, most recently when he'd failed to mention to Sam that he was taking an interest in the BAU. "Hey, earth to sputnik. I've had a long case, shit sucked, I don't wanna do whatever the hell this is."

"Dean," Sam spoke, voice rough. He stood up and shoved an envelope at his brothers chest. "Explain."

"What the hell," Dean muttered as he looked at the envelope. Obviously Sam had already opened it and he let himself feel irritated only for a moment.

His body froze as he pulled out the photograph and the note.

It was of him when they'd landed in Mississippi.

"You've been prowling around dangerous places Dean Winchester. Take warning from this and spend your last few months wisely. Azazel's deal with you still stands. Do not forget the consequences."

"Fuck."

The confused, broken look Sam gave him damn near broke his heart.

A/N: Russian: Oh my god!/ A traditional exclamation of surprise/Hello Castiel.

Casual how are you/ it's been awhile!/ damn it (* the cultural equivalent) / I must be going

This one's a bit of a long one too. Trying to make up for my crap updating skills. Though Carinal!Verse is now fully and totally re-written and re-published.