The stench of cigarettes hung heavy in the smoky room, the bare slits of windows in the upper corners of the space filtering in dim moonlight. The soft shuffle of cards and the quiet clinks of ice in glasses melded into the low murmur of conversation.
At a worn, heavy, wooden table, the warm, soft yellow light glinted off the chips tossed toward the center.
"Raise." The man announced, his voice smooth, carrying over the clatter as the chips joined the pile, eyes dark and glinting as they surveyed those across the table.
The woman to his left met his gaze, then flicked her eyes to the man across the table, and her lips curled. She pushed her cards forward, affecting disappointment, "Fold."
The man ground his teeth, searching his opponent's face. Finally, he matched the bet, "Call." To his credit, his voice was steady, not betraying the apprehension beneath.
The dealer glanced between them and proceeded to reveal the river.
His eyes sparkled, and after a faint nod from the woman to his side, he shoved all his chips into the center, "All in."
The other man swallowed subtly, his hand hovering over his chips, before he shook his head—as though already regretting what he was about to do—and joined them to the center.
After a heavy pause, he flipped his cards, revealing a straight. The others shifted, their attention sliding to the soft, growing smirk. His fingers curled the edge of his cards, slow and leisurely to unfold them.
The man across the table groaned, slumping in his chair.
"Unlucky, mate," he adorned his tone in sympathy as he raked his winnings with a practiced ease.
The man cursed beneath his breath, shaking his head in disbelief, in dismay.
The others murmured low and began clearing the table, and the victor stood, sauntering to the man's side and clapping him on the shoulder. "Better luck next time, eh?"
The man scoffed, "Not everyone's blessed as you, Liam."
He laughed, "Not the word I'd use." Then shrugged, dropping his tone, "But I guess you could say that."
The man frowned, "What'd you mean?"
Liam seemed to consider his words, wiping his chin, then he shook his head, "Nah, you wouldn't be interested. You're too…"
"Too what?" his scowl deepened as he scrutinized the man before him.
"Innocent," he decided, the word soft on his tongue.
The man winced faintly, taken aback, bemused. Liam raised his shoulders as though to deflect blame, before leaning low to whisper into his ear, "If you're really interested, meet me out back in five."
He didn't wait for the man's response, sidling easily toward the woman now leaning against the countertop. She monitored his approach with a smile.
"Next one's mine," she remarked lightly, sipping from her glass as he settled beside her.
"If you have a winning hand, Kat, next one's all yours," he replied in a similar tone, earning her rough nudge. He chuckled, pouring himself a small glass from the bottle on the countertop.
"How's Betty coming?" he tilted his head subtly toward the woman cleaning up the table, her dark hair bound in a high bob.
"Give it a couple weeks," Kat dismissed, "She's back with her boyfriend. Can't get her anywhere till the little honeymoon phase calms down."
Liam nodded, then raised his glass slightly in the direction of a man nursing a beer in the corner, "And Slade? How's he doing?"
"Well," she took another draught of her drink, "He only makes that face when he's thinking about 'the boss,' so…" she shrugged.
He rolled his eyes, a low scoff on his breath, "Don't call him that."
"What should I call him, then?" she asked with a gleam in her eye.
Liam glanced up, and his lip curled as he told her exactly what she could call him.
She chuckled, her grin swelling, "You should tell that one to Slade."
With a shake of his head, he noted, "This isn't for him anyway."
"I know." After a brief pause, she inclined her head toward the man still sitting at the table, who cast several glances in their direction. "I think you have an admirer, Liam."
"Is that so?" He drained his glass with a smile, starting toward the door, restraining his gaze from a glance backward.
The air outside was cool, chilled without the kiss of the sun. He glanced over the alley—empty, but for a few dumpsters shoved against the brick walls. Liam reached into his pocket, withdrawing a slim pack of cigarettes and casually lighting one, fitting it in his lips and taking a long drag.
After almost a minute, the door creaked again, and he offered a sly smirk to the man whose steps carried the weight of unease.
As the man hesitated on the threshold, Liam exhaled a stream of smoke that twisted lazily into the night air. He flicked his fingers, sending ash spiraling to the ground, his gaze easy and calculating as it settled on the man.
"I'm surprised," he lied, controlling his tone to a relaxed intrigue, "I thought you might chicken out."
The man shuffled a few steps from the door, his eyes darting around the empty alley as if feeling the gazes of an unseen audience, "What did you mean back there? About… being blessed."
Liam took another slow drag from his cigarette, allowing the silence to stretch just long enough for the man's gaze to flick about again, his muscles coiling in tension. "Not blessed." He finally said, the smoke curling around every syllable, "More like… assisted, you could say."
"Assisted by what?" The man's frown deepened, skepticism contorting his features.
"Let's just say I have some friends who help ensure my luck never runs dry," he leaned back against the cool brick wall, studying the man who crossed his arms.
"You're saying you cheated."
Liam scoffed a laugh, eyes glinting, "No, you're far too bright; I could never get away with something like that with you at the table."
The man's brow creased, posture shifting somewhat at the remark, which only made Liam's cat-like grin grow. "What are you talking about, then?"
Liam went silent a moment, eyes skating slowly over the man as though considering his next words deeply, "You know… I don't offer this to many, but… I like you," he admitted with a flick of his eyes, "You could have the same… luck. If you're interested."
"Luck." He repeated as piqued interest began melting into his lingering skepticism, and the man squinted, "What exactly would this… luck cost me?"
He smiled easily, "Nothing. At least, not today. Not for ten long years."
"Ten years?" The man's frown sank further, "What happens after ten years?"
Liam shrugged the question away as though it was unimportant, sidling closer, "I offer most people five—sometimes even less. But I like you. So I'm willing to give you ten. Ten years of luck. You'll be filthy rich. You'll be the envy of everyone you know." He placed a hand on the man's chest, his voice smooth and heavy, "You'll have everything you could ever want."
The man didn't back away, even as Liam's hand began sliding up his neck, his eyes wary and fixed upon Liam's, searching, flickering. "And then what do you get?"
His voice was soft like a feather on the breeze, a gentle whisper in the man's ear. "Your soul."
"Demon," a low, gravelly voice called behind him, derision lacing his tone, "Step away from the human."
The man's gaze flicked rapidly between Liam and the new arrival, his confusion clear on his face—as though trying to decipher who exactly was accused of demonhood.
An irritated groan wrung its way from Liam's throat, and he eased away from the man, turning to face the one brimming with angelic grace—
He hesitated, tilting his head in curiosity. No, not brimming. Not brimming at all. His lips curled, though his annoyance still etched into his expression.
"Demon?" the man repeated, still seeming to struggle to decide if he should prepare a defense or join in the accusation.
Liam glanced over him, attempting to gauge whether he stood a chance of still swaying him, of sealing the deal so rudely interrupted.
"Leave us," the newcomer ordered, still looming in the shadows, though his head was undeniably angled toward the man. "Now."
After a brief hesitation, he yanked open the door and slid back inside, allowing Liam to turn his full attention to his new, unquestionably angelic friend.
"That was a lot of work you just wasted," Liam tsked, eyeing the angel. "It's not the easiest thing, you know, winding someone up. Convincing them to sell their soul. They only have one, you know. Often makes them… reluctant to part with it."
"Not reluctant enough," the angel replied, approaching slowly, a silver blade sliding from his sleeve.
Liam's eyes flicked over the angel as he entered the dim light, and the image finally clicked. Castiel. The Winchesters' faithful little puppy. By the slump of his shoulders, the drag on his face, the rasp in his breathing, it was clear he wasn't doing well—not at all. Even if Liam couldn't detect the whimper of grace thinly coating the angel, he could trace that clear as day, despite the angel's attempts to mask his decline.
So why was he here, trying to face off a demon in some alley?
"What can I do for you, Castiel?" Liam spread his arms in invitation as he studied him. Did Crowley send him, maybe? The so-called king was already practically in bed with one of the Winchesters. It wouldn't be the most surprising sequence of events if they'd brokered some deal to squash Crowley's dissenters, but… even for them, such a grand task would be a fool's errand.
"You can shut up," the angel advanced, his steps steadying, his muscles readying, his blade eager in his hand.
Liam backed up, raising his hands. He… didn't exactly have an angel blade hidden away in his slim attire—there was nowhere to fit it cleanly, not without breaking the lines he wanted perfect for the eyes of those whose souls he sought, for what were eyes but windows to the soul? Besides, angels didn't just drop by little underground poker games, especially not nowadays.
As Castiel closed the distance to mere feet, Liam feinted a swing, then lunged for the blade—the angel was visibly weak; all he had to do was knock it free. What chance did one broken angel with a dim halo of grace stand against a full-powered, clever demon?
In under a second, he found himself clutching his throat, gasping on the ground. As his fingers searched his skin, he found no gaping slit; it was a punch, not a cut. In the same moment the realization crossed his mind, a second accompanied it just as hastily: exposed and vulnerable, even for a mere heartbeat, he'd be dead before he could even look up. Only… his head twisted upward as hands grasped his shoulders, dragging his body several steps toward the brick walls.
A singular demon couldn't hope to match an angel—not even a weakened one. He cursed his hubris, and he leapt from the meatsuit he'd adorned himself with for the past couple months. It was an undeniable loss—it was rare they came with a face so pretty… but perhaps he could swing by, later, and recover it in time, assuming the angel had no interest in a dead human.
The holy sear of grace made him scream, though he had no lungs to give the pain breath. It dragged him downward, drew him back like a line hooked deep in his core, and shoved him back into the body with the care of a sledgehammer.
Liam choked on air, coughing as he felt the grace still curling in the air, ready to snap him back into the body if he attempted a second escape. He squinted his eyes open, staring at the angel that still hadn't killed him, but who had also asked for nothing but his silence. Their faces inches apart, Liam could see the toll his little stunt had taken on Castiel. His eyes, though defiant, were dull with exhaustion and pain. His skin was slick with sweat from the effort, his body pale. His breaths were labored—wet, like he had fluid built up in his lungs.
Liam donned another smile, touching it with embarrassment, as though Castiel had just seen him naked—in a way, he supposed, he had. "Well, since you haven't killed me yet… I'll ask again: what can I do for you, Castiel?"
"Stop talking," the angel repeated, keeping a tight grip on his shirt to lock the demon in place as he dug in his pocket. After a few seconds of fumbling, wherein Liam contemplated attempting another flight, he withdrew a metal flask.
Liam frowned, monitoring closely as the angel unscrewed the cap with some difficulty. He raised an eyebrow, "Need any help with that?"
Castiel didn't acknowledge the jab, finally removing the lid and turning his gaze to the demon—his neck, more specifically. "Hold still." Both curious and disturbed, the demon obliged as the angel slowly raised his blade and drew it across Liam's neck—not lethally deep—with a careful precision. Enough to send blood beading to the wound, ready to streak down his skin. Before it had the chance, Castiel pressed the mouth of the flask beneath it, digging it into Liam's flesh to motivate the steady flow.
Confusion swarmed Liam's mind, "What are you doing, angel?" This wasn't torture—it wasn't comfortable by any means, but the purpose clearly wasn't pain. It was… collection? He certainly wasn't here on Crowley's order, then—Crowley had free access to demon blood; it wouldn't be worth the waste of a favor, especially for such an ill angel. But… why would the Winchesters' angel be after demon blood?
Castiel ignored the question, his gaze fixed on the flow of the blood, though he looked like he might vomit at any minute. The stench of sulfur cloyed the air—it probably didn't help.
"I was beginning to think Crowley had managed to put all of you underground," the angel finally noted, eyes sliding to the demon's face momentarily. "You must not be very important, if you didn't get the memo."
It was a barb clearly targeted to obtain more information, though his curiosity was certainly a secondary objective to his task of blood harvesting. Still, the demon's interest in the angel's primary purpose grew by the minute—so he obliged with a chuckle.
"That fool's not in charge anymore." At the furrow of Castiel's brow, Liam expanded, "Not really, anyway. He might still sit on the throne, but only cowards and clowns follow him, now. After Abaddon and his little frolicking failure with the Winchester Knight of Hell."
"So why are you still securing souls, then?" Castiel gestured toward the door with a slight tilt of his head, his expression skeptical.
The demon held his gaze, "Just because Crowley wants to go play house with a Winchester doesn't mean hell can stop running." Liam paused, but found no compelling reason not to add, "Whether it's tomorrow or a century from now, hell's gonna have a new king. And they're gonna need soldiers—not whatever pathetic scraps Crowley leaves behind."
Castiel scoffed, squinting, "Who is this new king you're trying to appease?" The demon shrugged, so the angel raised an eyebrow, "Or perhaps you're attempting to claim the throne for yourself."
"No," Liam shook his head faintly with a grin, "I'm just trying to make sure Crowley doesn't completely castrate us by the time our new leader arrives. Which…" his eyes slid pointedly to the stream of blood, "I'm suddenly starting to believe is going to be a lot sooner than later."
Castiel's expression darkened.
"Why do you need my blood, Castiel?" Liam cocked his head as much as he could, eyes glittering with interest as he kept his gaze rigidly locked on the angel, "What's it for?"
Castiel's eyes flicked upward, hate boiling within them. Then they creased, and he glanced over his shoulder—at the two demons treading lightly in the alley, with angel blades in their hands.
In the same instant, Liam shoved against his chest with all his weight, forcing the angel to stumble back. Still, he somehow managed to raise his blade to catch the swing of another, before trying to sweep backward so as to avoid the risk of the demons surrounding him. Yet, his hasty movements were clumsy, haggard—something the demons undoubtedly noticed.
An angel at even half power should have sensed their approach. But, by the looks of it, Castiel was lucky to be on his feet.
The two armed demons, Kat and Slade, approached the angel cautiously, their weapons raised. They'd probably carve off the face of Liam's meatsuit if they learned he'd deigned to operate without such a blade. The two shared a glance, then a nod, and in a blur of motion, both lunged forward, Kat striking low, Slade swinging high.
A gasping yelp was cut short by the crackle of demonic energy and a bright, orange light. Slade's body—or that which he was possessing, Liam supposed—slumped to the ground, lifeless. At the same time, Castiel staggered backward, his left hand clutching at his abdomen, where a red stain was spreading across the ripped fabric.
Kat glanced toward Liam, blade still raised and ready. The angel took a step toward her, swinging with his weapon, but the demon sidestepped the haphazard swipe easily, shoving her shoulder against Castiel's and knocking the angel to the ground. Castiel grunted, his breaths strained as he tried to plant an arm to rise, only to lose his grip and slam back into the concrete. Kat roughly kicked the blade from his hand, sending it clattering across the alley.
"What'd you do to earn an angel's attention?" she asked, voice touched with irritation as she spared a glance toward him.
"He was looking for demons," Liam replied shortly as he approached carefully, monitoring the angel's hands, though he was reasonably confident he was neutralized. Kat watched curiously as he patted down Castiel's trench coat, fishing in a pocket to withdraw a cellphone.
Pacing a few steps away from the body, he slid it open, flipping through his messages. A smile spread slowly across his face.
Any luck?
Any sign of a demon?
Maybe it's time for you to come back.
Checking in.
We've got enough blood for maybe two more days by my guess. Need one more demon… any progress?
Each time, Castiel had replied with some variation of "No, I'm sorry."
Liam glanced up in monitor. The angel had started to crawl toward Slade's body—toward the angel blade a few inches from his limp hand. Kat quickly kicked it aside, then stomped harshly on Castiel's fingers, causing the angel to gasp in pain.
"Y'know… Slade wasn't always the best company, but I can't say I wanted to see him go like this," Kat noted, lip curling in disgust as she looked over the body.
Liam ignored her, his attention returning to the phone as he scrolled further, filtering through the dozens upon dozens of check-ins.
Crowley showed. He knows about Sam. Call me.
Tell me you've found something.
Cas, Sam's dying.
He needs more blood. Now.
Liam looked toward the angel, who had begun murmuring something unintelligible into the concrete, and his smile grew.
"Prayers aren't gonna save you, angel," Kat sneered, raising her angel blade with both hands, angling it to plunge into his back.
"Wait," Liam ordered, and she paused, glancing up with a cocked brow, though still watching Castiel, keen to address any developing threat. "I'll pull the car around." The demon gestured to the angel with his chin, "Get his shoulders. Let's go."