Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Dean's been in the business for a long time.

Too long, if you ask him. Not that you would.

Not that anyone would. Not if they valued their life.

Or at least their teeth.

And let's say you were stupid enough to ask him anyway.

He'd still keep it to himself. Playing cards close to the chest.

That's the job.

He heard the guy on the inside use the code word.

Blank expression.

Adjusted his cuffs.

Dean Winchester did not have a name.

He had a job.

A simple job.

Weapon.

Dean walked out of there clean as a whistle.

Anyone who knew what he'd been doing inside would have been mighty impressed.

Both with his work, if it had been the kind of person who appreciated that type of work well-done, and with his impeccable suit, and his starched white cuffs, and his immaculate cufflinks.

He walked through the city as one of their own. A businessman on his way to a meeting, perhaps. A politician, a lawyer. 

Blending in.

Dean walked through the crowds, not like he owned the place, but like he was the kind of man your eyes slid off. Handsome, but no more than any metropolitan suit staying gym-trim. Well-groomed, but that was the name of the game in a cutthroat place like this one - although, of course, for Dean, this was far more literal than it was for most.

Dean paused near a coffee cart, ostensibly to order the kind of espresso-fueled nightmare common in this part of town. His eyes, his ears, even his nose, everything honed and fine-tuned, aware of everything going on around him, above and below.

He ordered his drink. 

He paid with a smile.

He disappeared again into the crowd.

Now, the Mafia doesn't call itself that. They prefer other names, like 'cosa nostra' - 'our thing' - and other euphemisms.

Dean was in the Irish mob, which did not call itself anything other than that. Traditionally, they were rivals to the Italian and Russian mafia, with occasional alliances throughout history.

All organizations like the mob have the notoriety to have some general rules and regulations.

However, in most organizations, most places, most criminals and criminal groups, have their own morals and standards, some of which are shared somewhat universally, depending upon the purpose and priorities of the group.

No single mothers, no kids, no elderly or infirm. 

No family of those involved in, or related to, the organization, except in extenuating circumstances.

Otherwise, such organizations could not exist or continue to do so. Trust is an important aspect of any relationship, and even more so when the organization is criminal.

There is honor among thieves, because there must be, and also because you can find honorable people just about anywhere, and sometimes the difference between a professional criminal and a civilian is that a civilian is sometimes willing to do crime far more heinous, and that would turn the stomach of some truly hardened people.

Dean was a professional. And he, too, had his moral standing.

He was an enforcer.

Smooth. Deadly.

He'd much rather have his feet up, drinking a beer, wearing flannel and jeans. He's always been something of a country boy, and a great lover of the open road.

But a job is a job.

And Dean was good at his job.

"You won't believe who they just sprung, Dean-O."

Dean blinked. Gabriel was a short, mouthy little dude, which usually attracted a toe tag in their line of work. But he was that kind of bull in a china shop guy where the disbelief of 'did he just say/do that?!' took long enough to get him out of hot water - with both the bad guys and the good.

Considering the two of them were technically in the mob, it was somewhat difficult to say which was which. 

Either way, Gabriel had a way of talking himself in and out of people, places, and things.

"Well hello to you, too," grumbled Dean. "An' stop callin' me that, I ain't in the Rat Pack."

The study was that kind of extraordinarily beautiful, But I'm A Man Y'know, decor, all dark leathers and a brandy decanter that was made of some kind of Irish crystal Gabriel said was high-class, and you could absolutely kill somebody with it without breaking it.

Ask Dean how he knew.

Sometimes, people infiltrated far enough in and too close for comfort. 

This was too close.

"I do love your authentic, farm-fed Midwestern charm," sighed Gabriel.

"And I ain't the ear for gossip."

"Ain't gossip, champ. It's intel."

Dean narrowed his eyes, because officially, Gabriel was something like a PA or secretary or some kind of office drone. 

A paper-pusher. Necessary, but not exactly one of the big players.

Dean himself operated on a need-to-know basis. Point him at the problem and shoot.

A weapon.

Although he had long had the sneaking suspicion there was more to Gabriel than met the eye.

But then, life in the mob was a lot like life in LA -

be nice to the secretary.

She just might be your boss next week.

In Dean's considered opinion, probably due to the whole Midwestern farm-fed thing, you should just be kind and polite...just 'cause, but he also realized the irony of that concept coming from a dude like him, with a job like his own.

But so it was, and so it is, and Gabriel was looking at him with that twinkle in his eye, that kind of let-you-in-on-a-secret, but the type you mostly see from carnival barkers and used-car salesmen, so Dean's hackles were up although his guard was down.

"So what're you sharing this big news with me for?" asked Dean, casually taking a sip of brandy - or appearing to do so, for appearances' sake, because he learned a long time ago that booze clouded the judgement as well as other things.

But he kept up appearances, for his own reasons. People trust a drunk, because a drunk forgets what you told him.

"The Avenging Angel," Gabriel said, in a conspiratorial whisper that was unnecessary, since they were there alone.

Or who knew? The place could be bugged. Dean wouldn't put it past anybody in their line of work, although such things were considered a little in poor taste. 

Nobody in the business liked evidence - photographic, written, audio, video, anything - of their existence, so it was an unwritten rule (see the aforementioned) that they did not do such things to each other, and in this way extended a kind of trust.

But Dean's considerations of all these things fled upon Gabriel's information.

His blood ran cold. He could feel the hairs on the back of his neck stand up.

"The - but. They can't. He can't," Dean said, managing just about a whisper, and hating himself for such outward evidence of the reaction this name caused - not only in him, but anyone in the mob.

Anyone who had heard of him, in fact.

And most, outside of the business, hadn't.

He was the story they told in whispers at night.

He was the shadowy image feared by the entirety of the criminal underworld, as far as Dean was aware. The only reason there hadn't been a media circus around his arrest and incarceration was because his fame existed only among Dean and his kind.

"Believe me, kid. He's out."

"And how the hell do you know that?" asked Dean. "Everything about this guy is done in secret!"

Gabriel held his gaze. 

His expression changed, and his eyes lost that twinkle.

The sudden seriousness put Dean on guard even more.

"You remember how you owe me a solid after what happened in the Bronx?"

"Yeah, yeah," said Dean, anxiety hitting an all-time high.

"Well, it's time for me to call in that favor."

"I really don't like where this conversation is heading, Gabe."

Gabriel gave him puppydog eyes, which for some reason terrified him.

"He's my brother, Dean," he said, in a strangled whisper. "And I know how you are about brothers. Will you help me?"

Chapter Text

The thing about organized crime is that it works as many ancient cultures once did.

It is a common misconception, both of history and of criminals, that either are lawless.

Television programs and films like to depict a kind of brutality in historical period pieces. However, this type of behavior was vanishingly rare in the past, because the punishment from society itself was so severe. Between exile and torture for certain crimes, such things did not occur even as often as they do in the current day. Those who claim 'it was just that way in those days!' are both incorrect and perhaps ought to examine their somewhat unsavory fetishes.

And the same goes for organized crime.

When everyone around you is a criminal, including you, the currency is honesty, valor, and good behavior.

The mealymouthed, the snakes, the manipulative, those with weird appetites, the indiscriminately violent, have no place there.

Break any of the generally unspoken rules, and swift punishment follows. This tends to keep everyone in line.

However, for the most part, those who are attracted to that world, and who last within it, are already those who share said values, of honesty, valor, and integrity.

Partly because of this, those who leave the criminal underworld tend to miss it, because the civilian world of employment frequently values the opposite.

It all started around nine or ten years ago.

Those who had broken one of the more serious unspoken rules were found dead. 

Nothing gruesome, not in the way some had a tendency to leave them, although that had never really been Dean's personal style.

Just done and gone, simple as that. 

And these were people whose crimes were known, more or less. These people weren't just left to keep on behaving in such a fashion, of course; someone would have a word with them, and if a word wasn't enough, further measures were taken.

But this was different. Someone else doing that work, and in a way that was absolute.

Clean. Pure.

Gone.

Everyone started asking around, because the bodies who were found had originated from various places. Some were Russian, some Italian, some Irish, some from the non-affiliated mobs and mafia organizations that were more small-time or had alliances with the larger, more established groups.

Whoever was acting, the only thing that seemed to matter to them was the nature of the crime, and lack of fealty. 

The Russians didn't claim him. The Italians didn't either. The Irish knew nothing about it. 

Then other bodies started appearing, same types of crimes but far worse, because civilians of course did not have the guardrails of the mob to keep them in line.

Who the hell is this guy? went the whispers throughout the entire underworld, which eventually became fully voiced after a time.

Because if nobody was claiming him, and he wasn't a fed, or a cop, or something...

then just who the hell was he?

Left no trace, just like he'd materialized into existence and out again. There was no trail to follow, and due to the extremely clinical and matter-of-fact way the victims (if they could be called that) were dispatched, there was no evidence left behind.

Maybe it wasn't a guy at all, but a woman like White Stockings to the Russians, went a few of the rumors. Maybe it was a disillusioned former member of some group or another, but those people usually got the hell out of Dodge while the getting was good.

And the other question bandied about was, what the hell happened to this guy, or girl? 

In other words, what was the inciting incident? 

Because nobody would choose to risk angering any of the various groups involved, not without such good reason that it was worth challenging just about everybody.

The strangest thing about the entire situation was that the victims were, to an individual, the type of people everyone tended to agree were not really going to be missed, due to their depraved actions.

So whoever was behind it all would be someone who knew everyone and everything pertinent to the particular job they had chosen, or been chosen, to do.

As if, as it was said in some whispers, he'd been sent from God himself.

Whoever it was, it sure got those in the mob looking over their shoulders, in case the guy got wind of when maybe they'd taken it a little too far, and so became a little more circumspect and by-the-book again.

Dean himself was rattled. 

Although he was famously reliable and honorable, earning him the title of the Righteous Man, he knew himself. 

Dean was often given the same type of people to teach a lesson - and if the lesson wasn't learned, then there was no use for them.

But everything was done with decorum and restraint.

Organized crime was no place for a psychopath, despite its obvious reputation.

A Brit crime boss called Crowley had once famously said This is Hell, we have a little something called integrity! and in that, he was absolutely right.

Still.

Dean personally thought his title was ridiculous, and knew that he had taken it too far more times than made him comfortable - not only with this mysterious shadow haunting them, but with himself.

So the years spun onward, with nobody the wiser.

Then, finally, out of the aether, a name:

Castiel.

The name of an angel.

And his moniker quickly became the Avenging Angel, for obvious reasons.

When the cops finally clapped him, with very little fanfare outside the usual circles, just about everybody breathed a sigh of relief.

However, there was a general sense of approval and agreement, and all agreed that while he was at large, things were certainly a lot quieter, and everybody was on the up-and-up far more often than usual, leaving guys like Dean with less to do.

Still and all, it was agreed that the clink was the best place for him. 

No further intel had been forthcoming, about his motivations or his reasoning or where he'd even come from, despite the questions from just about every curious quarter.

A guy like that - a shadow, an enigma, a mystery - caused a kind of superstition, a wave of terror, that made everyone start thinking of painting lamb's blood over their doorframes to protect their firstborn sons.

Dean grabbed Gabriel and hauled him around the corner, as if that was going to provide any kind of privacy.

"What do you mean, he's your brother?!" Dean hissed. "He's not just from a rival gang, he's - !"

Dean took a moment to consider, eyes up, counting to ten.

Then he leveled his gaze at Gabriel and said:

"That guy is public enemy number one to just about every crime family around here. If there's one thing we all agree on, it's this guy! He may as well be a fed, with the way he - he - "

Gabriel rolled his eyes and sighed.

"Will ya get your hands off the merchandise, you mook?" Gabriel said.

Dean did not let up. Gabriel sighed.

"Yeah, yeah, I know. You figure they probably placed me here, double agent, yada yada. But that ain't my style. I'm with who I'm with. Unfortunately."

Dean slowly released him. Gabriel brushed himself off.

"So no, I'm not feeding intel to anybody," he said. "Little Cassie doesn't even know I'm here. Thinks I'm some bigshot city lawyer or something. Though why he didn't ask big bro for help when he got nabbed, I've no idea."

"Maybe he knows more than he's lettin' on. Who's he work for, anyway? You don't get to be the enemy of everybody unless you're the law, an' from what I know, he ain't law." 

"Look. I'm no stool pigeon. Got it?"

"Fine. If you say so. But why do you want to help him now? And why ask me? I'm the loyal type, too."

Gabriel held his gaze.

"Like I said. He's family. And I know how you can be about family."

That little mischievous light in his eyes returned.

"Besides," he said. "Ain't the enforcer of the O'Sheas just itchin' to get his mitts onto one of the best known targets of all time?"

"Why the hell you want that kind of mess around your kid brother?" demanded Dean.

"Oh, Dean. I know you're good. I've seen you work. Thing is," said Gabriel. "Cas is better. No offense."

Dean frowned.

"I need your help, but I'm not worried about his hide. And I know I don't have to worry about yours."

"I can't tell whether or not I should be insulted."

"That I think you and my baby brother could go toe to toe and I don't know who'd win? Take that as a compliment," said Gabriel. "You cancel each other out. I need an assist. It's not easy for a guy just out of jail."

"An assist how, exactly?" Dean snarled. "I'm losin' my famous infinite patience here, Gabe."

"Well, I know you have a sweet pad, and a spare bedroom..." Gabriel said, and trailed off, a hopeful look in his eyes. "There's a housing crisis on, you know."

Dean stared at him, dumbfounded for a moment.

"You want me to house this motherfucker?!" he nearly yelped.

Chapter Text

Dean's job was, more or less, garbage man.

He was the one they called when the garbage needed taking out - people who had done the worst kind of things.

Both within the organization, and outside of it.

Guys like Dean - well.

Their name got around.

And a woman who'd had enough of the beating, a kid who'd gone through too much -

he worked for them, too. 

Sometimes gratis.

Now, the problem with all of this was - Dean was no hero.

No one knew that better than Dean.

"I can't believe I'm this fucking stupid," muttered Dean, standing in the shadow of the warehouse door, where Gabriel had said his brother was roosting for the moment.

"And you're late, Gabe," he added. 

That was when the lights fell.

Dean silently cursed himself.

If Gabriel was a traitor, well. 

Dean knew it could be anybody. He knew it. 

But Gabriel's disarming class-clown, kinda nerdy persona made him seem inoffensive at best and offensive at worst.

"All right, Keyser Soze," Dean said, angry that he'd let this little dude get the drop on him.

Now that he was alone, in the dark.

Clink.

Clink.

Clink.

Some kind of blade, somewhere in the dark.

A soft, sweet chuckle, deep in the throat.

Dean cursed himself, pulled at the cuffs.

He hated the dark.

"A thief who doesn't like the dark. Hm. We all have our little quirks, don't we?" commented a voice, which Dean remarked as deep and commanding in a kind of late-summer road gravel.

Calm. Self-assured.

The problem was, in Dean's experience, that often heralded a madman.

"Fear is normal. Fear is smart," Dean reminded himself in silence.

He looked up, he peered around corners. 

He didn't respond.

There was a beat.

And then -

strong arms wrapped around Dean's front, and there was a solid line of muscle at his back, as well as something very thin, and very sharp, at his throat.

A prick of pain, and then of blood, in a sluggish, slow trickle down his neck.

Dean closed his eyes briefly, reprimanding himself.

He should know better - letting anyone get the drop on him like that! 

He knew the old saw, of course:

nobody ever looks up!

and so he made it a policy to do just that, everywhere, every time.

His hearing, hell, even his sense of smell was fine-tuned, to the rustle of fabric, to a footstep, to a slight change in the air around him.

But it was like this guy had come from nowhere.

Out of thin air.

Just appeared, materialized like magic.

Like he'd just flown in.

Like an angel.

"What are you doing here, little thief?" demanded Castiel, lips against Dean's ear.

"This how you get your kicks?" Dean replied.

"Catching intruders?" he all but purred, and then Dean was up and over, ass over teakettle, right on his ass and his back, and Castiel was straddling his hips, smooth blade in hand, raised up, as he said:

"There are four types of warfare. Attrition, annihilation, exhaustion, and incentive. I am a tactician. So yes. I suppose it is."

The warehouse was pitch-black.

Dean didn't respond.

There was a reason, after all, he was still alive, after all.

Then, the lights came up, one by one, across the entire place.

The warehouse was not exactly as barren as he'd have liked, but he welcomed the light.

Dean did not like the darkness.

There was clapping, from some distance away.

Castiel paused, blade in hand.

Dean looked up, hazarding a glance by arching his neck for an upside-down view, to squint in a wink in the direction of the sound.

"Gotta say, the two of you really outdid yourselves," said Gabriel, on his approach. "Sorry I'm late, kiddo."

Castiel gave him a puzzled look.

"I'd like to introduce you to Dean Winchester," said Gabriel. "Enforcer to the O'Sheas, famous for his righteousness, one of the best, or something like that. And c'mon, Castiel. Don't you think murdering your brand-new roommate is just a little, I mean just a tad..."

He wiggled his hand, and squinted.

"I don't know. Gauche?"

Chapter Text

The blood drained from Castiel's face.

He was still, more or less, sitting on Dean's dick.

Which Dean, more or less, was trying very hard not to think about, because now that he had something of an eyeful of the dude and the danger of his imminent demise began to dissipate, or perhaps because of it -

well, hell.

Turned out Gabriel's brother was easy on the eyes.

Now, Dean was pretty sure he was straight.

Relatively sure, anyhow.

Dean's sexuality, such as it was, inhabited a sort of vague 'it's complicated' gray area he didn't think about much, and certainly did not appreciate the sudden rearing of its head.

So to speak.

"This is the 'housing arrangement'?" asked Castiel.

"Been in prison too long. Things in there don't work out here," Gabriel told him.

Castiel looked down at Dean.

Blue eyes like nobody's business.

Vacation-in-the-Bahamas, sex-on-the-beach, Frank Sinatra eyes.

And game over, Dean was a goner.

"Apologies," muttered Castiel, who finally got up, to Dean's relief and disappointment, then offered his hand.

Awkward and wrong-footed, this great terror and nightmare of the underworld was apologizing to him.

Hmmm, purred Dean's libido.

Dean took the offered hand and helped himself up with it, mostly to feel it against his own.

Strong, large hands, with thick, blunted fingers, and that was really more than he needed to know.

But Dean knew himself.

He was something of a hunter.

And he had a tendency to study his prey to a bizarrely fine detail.

"Dean, this is my younger brother, Castiel, the Avenging Angel," said Gabriel, with a kind of tone to the nickname that meant Gabriel thought the entire thing was telenovela levels of drama.

But then, Dean loved telenovelas, and he suspected Gabriel did, too.

"A pleasure to meet you, Dean," said Castiel, that gravel voice gone all soft around the edges. "I'm sorry for such an inelegant introduction. Thank you for offering me a room. Years in prison did not prepare me for a reintroduction to the world. I appreciate your help."

Dean stared at him, and then cast an eye towards Gabriel.

He just shrugged.

"No problem," said Dean. "Ain't like I announced myself. If we ain't gonna have any more scuffles, you're welcome to the spare room."

"No more scuffles," Castiel said, as if the word was foreign to him. "I promise."

"Great," said Gabriel. "Now can we get outta here? The place is awful damp. Always ruins my hairdo."

They left, and Gabriel escorted the two of them no further than Dean's front door. He made some weak excuses about some date or another, and then vanished into the night, leaving the two of them in an awkward silence.

Dean sighed, and finally pressed the combo on the touchpad.

"Here's the combo," he said. "Don't need keys these days. Just so you know, this ain't really my style of place, but it's a perk of the job and the rent in this city is eyewatering as hell."

"Many things have changed since I was arrested," Castiel agreed.

"That's another thing. Try to keep all the illegal talk on the downlow around here. We're respectable businessmen, or something."

He eyed Castiel's rumpled overcoat.

"You got the perfect getup for it, anyway."

Dean opened the door and ushered Castiel inside.

Dean's apartment was beautiful.

It was also the most impersonal apartment he'd ever seen in his life.

Everything was black and white and chrome and high tech.

He'd never figured out how to use about twenty of the gizmos and widgets and thingamabobs that came with the place. If you asked him, technology was a mistake.

"Well, here's the place," said Dean. "Open-plan, so not much in the way of a tour. Kitchen there, living room here, your room's off in that corner. Mine's up the stairs. Balcony outside. Great views, sunrise and sunset. Place even has a gym and a swimming pool in the basement, if you're into working out."

Castiel just stood there uncertain, in his oversized coat, looking more like a lost accountant than any kind of holy terror.

"Thank you," he murmured again, all the more subdued. "Would I be able to take a shower?"

"Knock yourself out," said Dean. "Bathroom's over there."

Castiel nodded, and disappeared into his bedroom, closing the door.

The sound of the shower filled out the background.

Dean stood in his bare feet beside his bed, in his loft-bedroom above the living room. He'd never really thought about the lack of privacy it entailed, mostly appreciating the awesome views from the floor-to-ceiling windows when he woke up to the sunrise or went to sleep with the lights of the city for company.

He liked to think, out there in the big wide world, he wasn't so alone.

Dean was currently studiously not thinking about Castiel in the shower and somewhat failing.

Dean was also replaying the utter beauty that was his own capture, and the near-death experience in his own mind, knowing he was going to have to take care of the mental images his mind was offering up as some other options about how that might've gone without the auspicious arrival of Gabriel, and also definitely in other contexts.

He also couldn't get his mind to stop the runaway stuff.

He was straight. More or less.

Definitely more. Not less. 

He finally fished his cellphone out from wherever it was hiding in his jacket pocket and called Gabriel.

"What's the emergency, Dean-o?" he answered on the second ring. "Got a hot date, may I remind you."

"This guy?" Dean asked. "This guy is the great fear of every crime boss in town? Awkward as hell, doesn't seem to know where he is half the time?"

There was a kind of strained panic Dean could hear in his own voice, probably driven by the sudden pounding of his own libido, the blood in his veins.

"Yeah, I know how he seems. But it's all surface stuff," said Gabriel. "Two peas in a pod, the two of you. Looks unassuming, could lay you flat just like - "

Dean heard him snap his fingers over the line.

"But the other thing about him is that he's the genuine article. The real deal. He's a good man. Just like you."

"Gabriel - "

"You kids have fun. She's going to teach me some stuff from the Kama Sutra. And unless you want a play-by-play - "

"Gabe!"

"Until next time. Now if you'll excuse me, I'm going on the Tilt A Whirl."

"You're what - "

"Talk later! Kiss kiss!" 

And the line went dead.

Dean sighed and pressed the edge of the phone to his forehead.

And then Castiel emerged from the bathroom in a cloud of steam.

A body like statues Dean had seen at art galleries on various jobs, and his clear, smooth skin just as creamy-white.

He looked up at Dean from below, white terrycloth towel wrapped around diabolical hipbones, and curving deliciously over the promise of an ass shaped like it was begging to be cupped in Dean's capable hands.

Hit right between the eyes with the intense stare of those eyes with the blue of the depths of an ice floe, Dean was absolutely speechless.

"I'm going to bed," said Castiel. "Thank you again for your hospitality, Dean. I'll see you in the morning."

Before Dean could respond with a strangled, "Good night," Castiel had disappeared into his room, and closed the door.

Lips at his ear whispered:

"There are four strategies of warfare. Attrition. Exhaustion. Incentive. Annihilation. Domination."

Dean was puzzled.

"That's five."

"Shhh..." said Castiel, slicing away his clothing with the sharp blade.

"What if someone shows up?" Dean whispered back, as Castiel's hands roamed all over him.

"They won't," Castiel assured him, on a soft breath. "I want you to focus on everything I'm doing. How it feels when I touch you. Tell me."

"Yeah, Cas," Dean sighed.

"Dean?"

"Yeah?"

"Dean!"

Dean startled awake from where he had fallen asleep on the living room couch, only to see it was morning, with the graylight of dawn in the windows.

Castiel hovered over him, uncertain again, and the blue in his eyes was like the sky before God.

There you go, confusing reality with porn again, thought Dean.

"I'm sorry to wake you," Castiel said, in a sleep-roughened rumble. "But I'm making chocolate chip pancakes. Would you like some?"

In the triangulation of Dean's libido, his sweet tooth, and his stomach, a current went through like electricity, a livewire lighting up just about everything within him, including Art Appreciation, given the Renaissance painting of a man standing in front of him, spatula in hand.

Before Dean could start soliloquizing in his own head about the variety of interesting uses Castiel could put to that spatula, of which making sweet delicious pancakes were just one - but not of lesser value - nature asserted itself.

"Sounds great, Cas, thanks," said Dean, and he muttered a goin' to the bathroom as he pattered off to take a leak, leaving Castiel to stare after him, bemused.

Dean whistled Thank God I'm A Country Boy as he went.

In the can, Dean's thoughts started to organize themselves into some kind of normal order.

He had a job to do today.

There was an absolute dream of a man in his kitchen.

An incredibly dangerous man. A man whose history and motivations Dean did not know.

He didn't know his own sexual orientation, had often been too busy or too serious to pursue it, but it certainly looked as if his compass was pointing toward Cas.

He worried that he'd accept death, if it came from Castiel's hand, and go gladly.

And oh, what a dangerous dream.

Castiel's pancakes, much like the rest of him, were heavenly.

Huge, fluffy things, with some kind of high-quality chocolate chunks in them. Like having giant chocolate chip cookies for breakfast.

"I take it that your inappropriate moaning means you are enjoying them," Castiel said, somewhat stiffly.

This commentary from Castiel was confusing Dean's gonads with his appetite. 

Castiel was eating all kinds of proper, with a fork and knife. Even had a glass of orange juice, like those breakfast ads.

"They are awesome," Dean finally affirmed, once he got the chaos in his head organized. "Keep cookin' like that, an' you can stay here forever."

They both froze.

"Uh. You know. Metaphor, or somethin'."

Castiel said, warmly:

"Thank you, Dean."

which in Dean's imagination quickly turned into:

Thank you, sir

and he coughed, nearly choking on his food.

Castiel was on his feet in an instant, ready to pound on his back, when Dean lifted a staying hand.

"I'm all right, wrong pipe," he said, taking a drink of his coffee, waving Castiel away because he wasn't interested in adding more of Castiel's platonic touches to his personal dream repertoire. 

Besides, he had to work today. He needed his wits about him.

Looking across the table at the serenity of Castiel's eyes looking back, he had the most dangerous thought of all:

I could get used to this.

Dean was an outlier among his kind.

Trash talking, warnings, all kinds of weather forecasts for the target. 

It was meant to give them a chance to shape up before the inevitable.

Dean was different.

His usual modus operandi was calm, smooth, and quiet, unlike his regular gregarious and relatively silly personality. He could be a stern and sad man sucking at the teat of whisky like any of the corded-sweater wannabe Hemingways out there, but his primary personality trait was affability.

Corn-fed, wholesome, sweet farmboy Dean.

Until the job.

And then, he would issue a single warning.

If the warning was not heeded, then:

Violence.

Targets were often unprepared for this, and therefore paid the price.

In Dean's considered opinion, his targets did not deserve the bluster. 

They had lived off the fear of others long enough.

It was time for them to experience fear. Time for them to be afraid.

But they never seemed to heed that first warning.

Dean had once lamented to a friend of his, another enforcer called Benny, that people respected Benny because he was far more menacing in his outward appearance.

"Well, it's funny you say that, cher," Benny had replied, in his Southern drawl that had perked Dean up a few times, "I envy you."

"Why?" asked Dean.

"Because. They never see you coming."

Chapter Text

Dean followed him.

That was the first rule.

He'd been doing so for some time, of course. 

He was nothing if not meticulous in his planning.

Standing outside in the yard of the house for hours in the darkness.

One moment in the square of light from a window, when he knew there was a chance his target would glance outside -

the target would freeze, and do the double-take -

the charm and the mystery of Dean was that he had timed it to perfection, appearing and disappearing between those moments.

It gave him a reputation.

A folkloric monster. A demon. A ghost.

Like Castiel, he supposed.

But the kind of thing that lurks in the shadows, that separates from the dark silhouette of the leaves on your bedroom wall, is a late-October fantasy, not one heaven-sent.

Dean was the monster.

But part of the reason was, the guilt of the sinner himself.

It was the same reason the mobsters, to a man and woman and nonbinary entity, looked over their shoulders during Castiel's reign of terror.

For the most part -

you know what you did.

And so you know it's only a matter of time, before your time is up.

On this particular day, Dean dogged the man's footsteps.

Bright, sunny afternoon.

He would be heading home for lunch.

A demand he often made on his lady.

Dean had arranged in advance for his lady to have a spa day, a surprise gift from a relative, on a certain date and at a certain time.

So the guy already knew his wife wasn't home, but habits are hard to break for those unaccustomed to constantly building and breaking them.

For a drifter like Dean, such things were commonplace.

For a man like this one, of those-who-stand-still, that unbreakable habit was a false sense of security, despite his already having caught Dean in the corner of his eye more than once.

Outside his house. 

At a café he frequented near his work.

Like being haunted by the living.

So this visit would not come as a surprise.

But his guard down and his habits in place, it was easy for Dean as casing a house for a burglary resulted in the perfect moment for a raid.

The guy was sitting on his sofa, eating a sandwich, beer on the side table, condensation dripping.

Made Dean's job all the easier, as the sound of the television drowned out what little noise he might have made.

He'd learned, years ago, to walk in a rolling motion, toe-to-heel, from a Native American buddy of his, Ojibwe dude who'd just gotten out of the military and had been lamenting his buzzcut with Dean over some beers. 

He'd sucked at it, they were both drunk as skunks, and his buddy kept saying how if he coulda mastered it, he'd have been an Indian brave and screw all this military bullshit.

Dean sucked at it too, at first.

But you know what they say about practice.

The guy reached for his beer.

It was missing.

He looked up.

Dean was standing in front of him, beer in hand, as if he had appeared there by magic (using the misdirect of the guy looking toward the missing bottle to move silently in front of him).

"Now, I won't be wasting time with introductions," said Dean. "You know who I am. What I do."

The guy nodded, slow.

Dean set the beer down on a nearby table.

The fear in the dude's eyes was always a reward to him.

It was this, that the man fed off, terrorizing his wife as if he were a vampire or some kind of supernatural monster.

It was this, that Dean fervently desired, and wanted his targets to feel themselves, when they went down.

"Don't bother," he said, as the guy did the usual dart-n-search for his gun or other weapon.

That was Dean's other trick.

Let 'em get comfortable. Feel safe.

Thing is -

it's all an illusion.

All of it. All of life. Every part of the social contract.

Lulling someone into a sense of security always works best with those who stand still, simply because they have a routine.

For this guy, it was his living room.

Some of 'em, the ones Dean found most despicable, it was the can.

Nobody's got their guard up when their pants are down, for pretty much any reason.

And there are only a few types of weapons in a few very unique places a naked man can hide.

So. Depending on the nature of the crime, the arrogance of the target, and a vast array of elements in Dean's own personal judgement, places and times were chosen.

He had up to ten targets on the go at a time, because it takes time. Their habits, their schedules, their wants and hopes and dreams, their favorite tipple, their whole lives, in Dean's little black book.

He was nothing if not patient, and though the old Irish adage was true, that many a man's mouth broke his nose, that was saved for garden-variety fisticuffs.

Dean's targets were a mixture of paid-for and pro bono, all with equal importance in his eyes, because they were all guilty of the same types of crime.

"Get out of my house," said the guy, with a waver in his voice.

"Hm. Typical. Guys like you, always the big man when it's the people who love you that you're hurting. You know, I've seen big men beaten on by their little wives, partly out of shame, partly out of fear nobody'd believe it, partly out of love. You know. Maybe one day, they'll change."

Dean leaned forward.

"I ain't seen much change in all my career," he said. "But let's see if you're one of the smart guys. You lay a hand on your lady one more time, and this will not be my last visit. My next visit will be final. I am not like my colleagues. I do not fuck around."

The guy just stared at him.

Dean stared back.

"Message received?"

The guy just nodded.

Dean made to go.

"Oh, and one last thing," he said. "Wasn't your wife who ratted you out. Might want to consider the fact that you're unpopular even with gangsters. See, most gangsters usually do it for mama, or for little sis, or for kid brother. We got a real peculiar way about family."

Dean then fully turned his back on the man.

Over his shoulder, he said:

"And I wouldn't try anything stupid, now. Or I will haunt your ass."

So he made for the door, to leave like a man and not some kind of spirit.

Usually, they didn't try it.

Usually, Dean's efforts in spiking the superstition punch in their brains made the kind of people who liked scaring other people scared themselves.

But not all the time.

Not every time.

"Fuck you, tellin' a man what to do in his own house!" bellowed the guy, who was behind Dean in an instant, and had a substantially heavy table lamp in hand.

Dean, however disappointed, was also prepared for this outcome.

Normally, he wasn't one for the gory stuff, but the weight of the lamp and the cord in his hand offered options of beating and strangulation, which he put into practice one after the other.

Sure, they fought back. They always did.

Dean's secret was that he loved all of it.

The fighting. The violence. The pain inflicted upon himself.

He frequently found himself smiling throughout.

It is extremely difficult to overpower someone with the calm collected shot of adrenaline coursing through their veins, when they have already honed the skill, and also when they do not care whether they are hurt or not.

Dean smashed the lamp into the guy's face until he did not, technically speaking, have a face anymore.

The eyeballs were always the most satisfying. Like grapes, they burst in their wetness.

The bits and pieces of him, brain and bone, blood and all kinds of liquids and fluids Dean always found to be a very surprising amount for something so evidently small.

And how small the human head is, really, once you look at it from that angle, and in that way.

How fragile. How delicate.

How utterly fucking stupid.

Dean had, over long years of experience, also learned how to only get blood on his hands.

His suit was impeccable.

Even now.

The real regret of these types of endings, Dean thought, was that he was not able to extend their suffering to the fullest extent, that he was not able to keep that fear in their eyes, that he could not give them back what they had given others.

The other terrifying thing about Dean was that he was not a psychopath.

Psychopaths were a certain type of person, lacking in empathy, they had a mental illness, should it be called that.

No.

Dean was perfectly sane. Empathetic. Righteous, so they said.

His choices were those made in everyday sanity.

Much like a soldier, or a police officer, should either be noble.

Choices had to be made, and sometimes difficult choices.

And somehow, he felt, it was far more chilling to be a sane killer than a crazy one.

But he carried no guilt or grief for his actions, because he frequently reasoned that the law had let these people down. Whether it was women in abusive relationships, or kids getting beaten, or men in abusive relationships as he had recounted to this guy? Gangs and militias from time out of mind had formed where there was no protection or trust to be had in the official law.

Dean, and those of his ilk, were what filled in the gaps.

And since they were often far more efficient, people turned to them.

In this case, it was the sister of one of the Connolly brothers, who had tired of her husband draining the bank accounts, lying, and beating her. She knew what business all of them were in, of course, but having been unemployed for several years, she quite reasonably could not see a way out.

And when Kelly Connolly had held his weeping sister in his arms, then it was time to hand some money over to Dean.

Sometimes, it wasn't even about the mob.

But for the mob - all mobs everywhere, gangs included -

family comes first.

Dean was cleaning his bloody hands with a white, lace-edged handkerchief, when the wife walked in the door.

"Sorry about the mess, ma'am," he said, as she saw the utter destruction he had wrought.

The sudden squeak, and then silence, from her, told Dean all he needed to know.

"Courtesy of the O'Sheas," Dean said. "I'm under the impression you knew your husband was in the mob?"

She just nodded her head.

"Good. Then this won't come as a surprise to you. Kelly Connolly told me he'd heard you always wanted to go to France, majored in French at school, all that jazz?"

She nodded, still staring.

"Well, they got it all set up for you," Dean said. "Your choice. Paris or St. Tropez?"

Her mouth moved for a moment.

"I - I've never done well in the heat," she told him.

"Great. One condition. You say nothing about this, and you never come back. Ever. Got it?"

She nodded again.

"Awesome. I left the details of a motel near the airport. Someone will drop off airline tickets. There's already a place on the other side for you."

Her face contorted in anger.

"Thank you," she said viciously.

Then she went to kick his corpse with a pointed, baby-blue high heeled shoe.

"Ah, I wouldn't - "

"If you were me, you absolutely would," she snarled.

Dean nodded.

"Understood," he said.

"Thank you," she said again, taking the envelope from the countertop. "Name of the motel, please?"

Dean told her.

"Paris waits for you," he said.

She nodded in return, and walked out of the house.

Chapter Text

The cleanup crew that followed up after Dean did what they did, and did it as well as he did his own work.

None of them had any contact with the others.

It was safer that way.

Later that night, Dean was seated at the table on the balcony, sipping coffee and watching the world below.

Castiel materialized out of the darkness, startling the shit out of him - the guy who did the exact same kind of thing on the daily - and spilled some coffee on the table.

"Somebody oughtta put a bell on you," groused Dean, wiping the table.

Castiel sat down in the chair across from him.

The wind was light and soft up here, a breath of a breeze in the night.

Below them, and across, the lights of the city shone like distant stars.

Castiel was staring at him, two stars burning.

"I was watching you work," Castiel admitted softly.

Dean met his gaze.

"You followed me."

There was an unmatched intensity there, in Castiel's gaze.

"Waitin' to see if I stepped outta line?" asked Dean. "Helluva thing to do to the guy you're rooming with. Making sure I'm not a madman? Well, if you saw, then you saw."

Castiel shrugged.

"Old habits die hard."

"And?"

Castiel didn't respond for a moment.

His fist tightened near his own face.

Not a threat.

He lifted his hand up, closing it slowly next to the high cut of his cheek.

It was something else, something indiscernable.

Something indescribable.

Dean was utterly captivated.

"It was beautiful," Castiel said, quiet and cool, as if it were a secret. "Sleek. Mesmerising."

Dean had no idea what to say, so he remained silent.

"I saw you, Dean."

He sighed. 

"You are beautiful. An agent of righteousness."

The way he chanted it, soft and low.

The way he said Dean's name.

Dean was hypnotized.

Lulled.

Swaying into his orbit charmed.

Swaying into the striking range of a king cobra.

"And you've seen me work. Felt it. You find me beautiful, too. Don't you."

It was not a question.

Dean could barely breathe.

"I - I."

Castiel just held his gaze, and held him there as if by sorcery.

Castiel rose, slowly, from his seat.

He approached, and reached out a hand.

He cradled Dean's cheek, and for a brief moment, they were connected.

"Tell me, Dean," he said, a gentle command.

And Dean, already too far gone as it was, capitulated.

"Yes. Yes. I do."

He breathed this last, as if it were a surrender.

Castiel's lips moved slightly; an approving smile, subtle as a knife.

"Oh, good," he praised.

He dropped his hand.

He went inside.

The moment was over.

After that, Dean couldn't get Castiel out of his head.

And that was the thing.

He could've sworn he caught Castiel staring at him now and then, which both unnerved him.

And intrigued him.

As a corner-of-the-eye expert himself, Dean was self-conscious at first.

Then, he started showing off.

Where he'd have definitely worn a shirt before, now he didn't bother. If he had a shower himself, he didn't towel off, just wrapped it low around the lower half of his body, so that the water droplets went all sorts of tantalizing places.

He'd also never jacked off so much in his life before.

And he still didn't know anything about his past, or how he ended up as the most terrifying shadow cast over the entire criminal underworld, or much about him at all.

So he resolved to do the one thing he was best at: 

hunting.

Dean walked slow, through the crowd.

As if he had nowhere particular to be.

Nothing to do, exactly.

He was doing his job.

There was no job, currently, on his roster to do.

So he was following Castiel.

Two could play at this game.

And Dean was good.

Chapter Text

Dean was good, that much was true.

But Gabriel was right.

Castiel was better.

The leafy part of a public park, hidden from view, Dean was ambushed.

"Just had to take a look, did you, little thief?" Castiel asked, rough and fierce, in his ear.

"Well. You know. Gotta know who you're sharing a roof with," said Dean.

"I see," said Castiel, and Dean could feel the curve of a smile against his ear. "Then this is war."

Dean wanted to turn into it, for Castiel to dare a little nip against the edge of his jaw, or his neck; he wanted to sag back into Castiel, and -

"I'll see you at home, Dean," he said. "And stop following me."

Castiel vanished, then, leaving Dean half-hard and confused as all hell and able to confirm to all and sundry that the avenging angel lived up to his reputation.

And so began the weirdest game of cat-and-mouse Dean had experienced in all his career.

He was also just about going to chafe himself raw.

The morning had dawned like most others, with the light of the dawn sky over the buildings as the lights winked out across the city.

Dean heard the unmistakable sound of somebody going to town on themselves.

He rolled over, to see the glory of Castiel stretched out on the leather couch beneath him, in the low dawn light.

His body a sculpture.

Cock in hand, slowly caressing his own chest.

He moaned.

"Oh, Dean," he murmured, the sounds arrowing through Dean with a sudden shock.

Then he opened his eyes and smirked at him, put his hand beneath his head, and stared into Dean's eyes as his other hand sped up and he came on a shout.

He never blinked once.

Dean just stayed frozen, agape, as he watched Castiel lazily rub his spend into his skin.

After it disappeared, he smiled up at Dean, and then rolled up and off the couch in one smooth motion, giving Dean an unobstructed view of his ass and muscular thighs, as he sauntered off toward the bathroom.

Moments later, the sound of the shower filled the apartment.

Dean rolled over onto his back and shoved his hand into his boxers.

He came seconds later on a loud wail.

And even though he couldn't see the man, he swore he could hear Castiel's self-satisfied grin.

So Dean resolved to outdo Castiel in this, at least.

If he couldn't get the drop on him, maybe he could get the jump on him instead.

"Dean?" Castiel called, as he opened the door, bag of groceries in hand. "I'm home. I have to say, I'm a little disappointed I didn't notice my favorite shadow."

Working himself over, Dean let out a little whine.

He didn't respond, even when Castiel called for him again.

"Dean? Are you all right? I'm coming up!"

Dean grinned to himself, as Castiel ran up the flight of stairs to the loft where Dean's bed was located.

And he stopped still.

"Oh my God," breathed Castiel. "Oh my God - "

Dean was writhing, bare and golden, on the sheets of his rumpled bed.

Now, Dean Winchester was aware that he was a handsome man. Most handsome men are, because they're told - either in so many words, or just in their interactions with the world. So he knew how to look his best, and he knew his personal wantonness and debauchery had captivated many a lover in the past, fleeting though they were. Those he'd managed to ask told him that it was his abandon that drove them wild. Many people have hangups, reluctance, are self-conscious, or a host of other issues when it came to the bedroom.

Not Dean. He had the abandon of a wild animal, and all the self-consciousness of one, as well. 

The late afternoon sunlight burnished him bronze, and Dean knew exactly how to position himself so that the light illuminated the bright-green of his eyes. He opened them and looked directly at Castiel, who stood there as if he had never seen anything like Dean before.

Worshipful. Prayerful. Hungry.

He stepped forward like a man in a dream, as if he couldn't help himself, but hesitant, not knowing whether he had permission to touch, in this strange purgatory between them.

They'd never voiced it, never talked about it, just started the game they were now playing, and it seemed to Dean at least that the inevitable outcome was that both would lose, or both would win, and there were no other options.

Castiel stood there, hand halfway to Dean, as if to caress the air above his skin.

The naked wanting in his expression was evident, as Dean stared him down, and it was Castiel's Tower of Babel's turn to crumble.

Dean slid his hands across the planes of his own naked body, avoiding his hard and dripping cock, drooling precome onto his stomach. All of him lit up holy and gold.

The sudden and certain knowledge of something slid and locked into Dean's mind with a delicious shudder.

"You've done this before, haven't you," Dean said, watching the air between Castiel's hand and his own body, caressing the air that had the honor of touching his fevered skin.

Castiel froze.

"You've stood over me while I slept, watching me - always wanting to touch, and never - " Dean sighed. "Didn't you."

The image of this - Castiel, unbeknownst to Dean, standing over him in the darkness as he slept, aching to touch but not letting himself - drove Dean crazy.

"Yes," panted Castiel. "Yes, Dean."

Castiel's admission made Dean moan loudly and arch his back, and he watched Castiel's roaming hand clench into a tight fist again - just like the other night.

Dean knew, of course, that this was wildly dangerous and incredibly stupid and he couldn't find it in himself to care.

All that mattered was drowning, and drowning, and drowning, in the blue of Castiel's eyes, the seam of his flat lips moistened by his hurried breathing, the all-encompassing intensity of that terrible stare -

one that said it wanted, and wanted to the point of madness, wanted but denied.

"Look at me," urged Dean. "Look at me, Cas."

And he took his hard cock in his hand, and started thrusting into the tight tunnel of it, shouting and crying out with abandon, not caring who heard.

"Dean - "

And Dean came, hard, as he sobbed out Castiel's name, and could feel the ghost of the touch of Castiel's hand, and was captured by the ocean of him, all in.

When Dean came down again, he sent a smirk much like Castiel's had been, in similar circumstances -

and was startled to see something like fear in his eyes, as if he had crossed some kind of line, or done something he shouldn't have -

and he fled, much to Dean's surprise, down the stairs and into his own room, closing the door behind himself.

Dean was puzzled, but then chuckled to himself.

"Point to me," he said to the silence, as the sunset turned to stars. 

Chapter Text

The breakfast that followed was just as weirdly commonplace and normal as the last one they'd had together -

only this time, Castiel had made eggs sunnyside up, perfectly runny, with cayenne pepper, black pepper and salt, an absolute mountain of perfectly-crisp bacon, and hashbrowns with a slight golden crunch on the outside, absolutely drowning in butter.

There was English muffin toast, also awash in butter.

"Oh my God," Dean moaned because he really could not help himself.

Castiel looked mighty pleased.

"It's Beurre d'Isigny," he explained. "From France."

But it was time to satisfy some of Dean's curiosity.

He didn't know the appropriate time in their type of fucked-up relationship to broach the topic of so, you know how you were feared by all the bad guys around here for a decade?

Somewhere between staying up all night listening to records and smoking cigarettes, and meeting the parents, he supposed.

"Cas," Dean finally said. "Why'd you do it?"

Castiel froze.

That self-assured, Greek statue, smirking confidence fled from him, and he was suddenly the awkward, uncertain man who had arrived at his apartment a scant few days before.

"Is this tit-for-tat?" asked Castiel. "I don't tell you, then you throw me out on the street?"

"A man wants to know who he's housing, especially a guy with a reputation like yours."

"Despite all the - "

"Leaving that aside for a moment."

Castiel sighed.

"You may not want to - well. You just may not want to."

"Try me."

Castiel folded his hands.

The waste of breakfast. Dean could cry.

But he was going to finally get the intel the entirety of the criminal underworld had been asking for years.

"I was a university professor," he said.

Dean stared at him, startled.

"So not with the Russians?" he asked. "Or the Italians?"

"I was never a part of any organization at all, Dean."

Dean's libido informed him that Castiel would look really hot in a pullover sweater with glasses, sternly looking down his nose.

"A professor," repeated Dean. "I don't get it."

Castiel sighed.

"Honestly, neither do I," he admitted. "Professor of antiquities, I suppose. History. Specialities that will mean nothing to you. However, my particular interests, much like all of history, tend to inform the present. And I was a particularly outspoken man at that time."

"The mob don't give a shit about that type of stuff."

"Indeed. But others absolutely do."

Castiel looked off toward the city, which was going through all the permutations of waking up.

"I was married. Going on twenty years."

"Oh," said Dean, surprised.

Somehow, this seemed completely alien, for a man like Castiel.

Not due to his obvious sex appeal and attractiveness, it was just - well, Dean saw the two of them as one and the same, and Dean was not the marrying kind.

Well, thus far, anyway.

However, he was inching toward changing his mind on that, of late.

He was starting to see why someone else might have been captivated first.

"And I discovered - I found out - I caught them, they - it wasn't real. It had never been real. The government had - "

Castiel shook his head.

"Honestly? I haven't spoken of this in years. The absolute unreality of it still...anyway. Yes. I was one of those the government, in its infinite wisdom, decided to have a plant involved in my life. For a long-gone administration, for long-over circumstances, over comments I made teaching or whenever or however I made them."

Castiel toyed with his fork.

"The thing is, the government isn't as good as the mob at ferreting out rats. And the kind of person who could fake an entire relationship like that could be hiding other things, too. And they were. They were nothing like I thought, completely different name and different personality, and the kind of individual with so much wealth they think they are above the law. And - they were into - what they were into. Kids."

The bomb dropped there between them, silent and terrible.

Dean's horror made him belatedly realize he'd wasted breakfast, too.

"So I suppose I went - crazy," Castiel admitted. "I started with him. And then - others. Along the way, I learned...I learned how. And I was obsessed. Absolutely. I don't mind to admit it. I wanted - I wanted to do the job the government wasn't doing. Which of course, led me to - "

"The mob," Dean filled in.

"Yes."

"And that was it?" he asked.

"Yes."

"Wow," said Dean, sitting back. "You know that you were the absolute terror of literally everyone for over a decade, until you got arrested?"

"Gabriel told me, yes."

"And you never thought about joining up?"

"No."

"Are you going to now?" Dean asked. "The money's good. Perks are great. Job security, too. Well, apart from the illegal thing, and that your life is constantly in danger."

"I hadn't really thought about what was next. I was just so thrilled to be out again. To see the sun. Breathe the air."

"Just so you know," Dean said. "All this - I mean. I'm paying Gabe back, he did me a solid a while ago. You don't need to - um. Pay. Like that."

Castiel stared at him, uncomprehending.

Then the light dawned.

"Oh, no, Dean," he said. "That's all me. And I will never lie to you. I will never leave you. Not unless you ask. Should you wish to actively pursue something with me."

He suddenly looked near tears, which was an about-face that startled Dean.

"As long as you are - who you say you are," he said, in a watery voice. "You are? I suppose you would say so either way. I'm sorry. It does take its toll."

"Yes, I'm exactly what it says on the tin," said Dean.

"Well. Then. Will you tell me about yourself?" asked Castiel, the moment of crisis passed. He lifted and delicately bit into a piece of bacon, as if nothing had occurred. "After all, a man likes to know who he's sharing a roof with."

"Not much to tell," said Dean. "You know my reputation. You've seen me work. I've got an obnoxious kid brother who's so successful and good-lookin' it'd make you sick. And I - well. My past's not so stellar either."

"Oh? How so?"

"There are things," said Dean haltingly. "Things that other people don't need to know."

He stared at Castiel.

"Let's just say I coulda used a guy like you, back when I was a kid," he said quietly. "I'm one of the - I was one, um. One of those who weren't saved, from people like your - "

The change in Castiel's expression was one of the most terrifying things Dean had witnessed in his entire lifetime.

"You were - "

"I was. And that's all you need to know. That's enough."

Castiel reached a hand across the table, and took Dean's in his own.

"Yes," Castiel agreed, warm and smelling of coffee and cinnamon and safety and home. "That's enough."

Chapter Text

The house was quiet, the night sky filled with stars.

Windows lit up, warmth radiating out, a perfectly normal scene.

Castiel stood staring at a man seated in a wingback chair.

The man stared back

"Here to watch me work?" Castiel said, out of nowhere.

Dean stepped out of the shadows.

Castiel's knowing, and welcoming, smile, made Dean's heart beat just that little bit faster.

He slid his tie off. 

It was clear, a moment later, this was primarily for show, and more about Castiel making a statement regarding not wanting to get blood on his expensive tie.

The guy in the chair watched him with unease, and sent a puzzled look towards Dean.

"Didn't realize this was a tag team kind of affair," he commented. "You losin' your touch or somethin'?"

"Eyes on me," growled Castiel. 

Then, beyond all expectation, he said:

"Our Father, who art in heaven - "

Dean gave him a strange look.

"Is there really time for this - "

"There's always time for the Lord, Dean."

"You people are freaks," commented the guy, and there was some kind of wet thwack sound.

Dean hadn't even seen Castiel move.

One of the guy's eyeballs was hanging out of his face like a Halloween spookshow.

He shouted, but after the fact, as if it hadn't registered.

"Now shut the hell up so I can finish my prayer. Don't interrupt me again," Castiel said.

"He interrupted you - "

"What did I just say?"

The dude, to his credit, shut the hell up.

"Our Father, who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name. Thy kingdom come, thy will be done, on earth as it is in heaven. Give us this day our daily bread, and forgive us our trespasses, forgive us our debts, as we forgive those who trespass against us, and our debtors. Lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil. For thine is the kingdom, and the power, and the glory forever. Amen."

Castiel crossed himself, and then got in front of the dude's one leftover good eye.

"Apologize to Dean," he demanded.

"I - what?"

"Apologize to him," he directed, both fierce and utterly calm.

Dean was inexplicably reminded of the poster for Jaws.

This was far beyond weird by Dean's standards, and it was giving him the nerves, because these visits were supposed to be quick - in, done, out - time was of the essence for a massive variety of reasons, not least the cleanup crew and those guys knew what was up.

But then, Dean knew, there was no cleanup crew following in Castiel's footsteps.

Whatever the hell he was currently doing, he was risking another stint in the clink for it.

"Sorry. I don't even know who you are," said the guy.

"Oh, that's right. You probably don't recognize him now, on account of his being an adult and all," said Castiel airily.

This was all the guy needed to hear.

This was also all Dean needed to hear.

Two seconds later, the dude's neck was broken.

So fast, so swift and complete, bloodless and quiet and silent.

"Too bad he fell down the stairs," said Castiel. "Unfortunate. These household accidents. A shame."

And he dropped the guy on his head, watching the body complete its bouncing fall down the stairs.

His head cracked at the bottom, audibly.

Then there was blood.

"We should leave," said Castiel. "A kindly neighbor has called the police."

"How do you know - oh."

Dean followed Castiel out the door, all calm and quiet, and could not help staring at his bloodless hands.

The silence, back at Dean's apartment, was one of safe domesticity.

"What shall I make for dinner?" asked Castiel, pulling out various boxes. "I've always been partial to carbonara, but alfredo is more the American style, unless the Italians are going to come after us for it. Or for making carbonara with cream. Did you know that the French can't be bought with information about their mistresses? It's more of an embarrassment for a Frenchman not to have an affair. Or to be lactose intolerant."

"Cas."

Castiel's shoulders sagged.

"Castiel. I know what you risked - to do - to do what you just did. Thank you."

He came up behind him and wrapped his arms around him.

"Thank you," he whispered.

Chapter Text

The guys didn't do this very often, and for very good reason.

It wasn't much good to have pints with the lads if everyone and their brother was out gunning for you.

Nobody liked a turf war. The Irish boyos preferred it in their fireplaces. 

But the usual suspects had been quiet of late.

Everything had been relatively quiet, which was a real statement on the recent diplomacy. The work of accord in these circumstances was at the level of a nation, brokering peace between the legacy groups and the newer gangs. It was the very breakdown of these types of arrangements that led to true lawlessness. Cops can't be everywhere and plenty are dirty to begin with, but the indiscriminate wholesale pulling apart of some of these old institutions without understanding how they operate is why there is a breakdown of what passes for law and order in the mob. There's an old Scottish folktale about the vampire of Strathmore. The locals pray for the old vampire because it's better to have an old vampire than a young one.

Newcomers, be they individuals or groups, often do not understand why things are the way they are, and can cause undue hardship. Now, there is always room for new thinking and improvement - but the idiot who thinks murdering a bunch of tourists and scaring away business because he thinks the old guard's 'too soft' doesn't understand that these groups function in harmony with the civilian world, or at least are supposed to. The young'uns who think they're the most terrifying thing since Mike Myers, and behave accordingly, do far more lasting damage out of some desire to appear the hard man.

However, due to the reality of such things, it wasn't wise to have a bunch of wiseguys in one place for too long. If someone was going to start something, there was no safety in numbers. Taking out multiple members of any group was enough of a statement on its own.

But Dean enjoyed it, on the rare nights it did happen. It made him feel almost like a normal man, with a normal job, out on the razz with a few of his work colleagues.

Tonight, Siobhan was singing, and she was always fantastic. Brought a tear to the eye about the old country. She had gone from Fields of Athenry to Star of the County Down with an explanation that it was all Ireland.

Dean and the guys were currently finishing up some unfinished business.

"Good doin' business with you," Dean said, to the latest debtor who actually showed and paid.

The dude nodded.

"Yeah, well," he said. "Integrity, honesty. Matters a lot. Besides. Not interested in winding up a smear on my living room floor."

Dean held his gaze.

"Glad we understand each other," he said.

The guy tipped his cap, and vanished into the crowd at the bar, most likely in order to vanish out the door without being seen.

"Can't be too careful, these days," commented John O'Shea.

Thing was, Dean didn't usually have to get his hands dirty anymore. Reputation builds fear and it's much easier to work based on the kind of terror built up by the whispers than it is to do the actual physical labor involved.

Organized crime being was it was, there wasn't much in the way of a healthcare policy or a pension. 

So it was best to do what you could to create a bad reputation, and then deal off of that. Many a time Dean had no backtalk or anything - people paid up or listened up, because they were suitably and appropriately afraid.

Guys like Kelly Connolly's brother-in-law were the idiots who didn't really understand that they were not at the top of the food chain anymore.

And that was when they saw Sal walk in with Jimmy the Mook, and everyone's hackles were up.

These were the guys the goodfellas sent over on account of because they both had some Irish in them on their mothers' side.

"What the hell are they doin' here?" asked Kelly Connolly, whose sister was well on her way to Paris by now.

"Guess we'll find out," said Dean. "You two here for the famous spaghetti?"

"Can you believe this guy?" asked Sal, nudging Jimmy, who grinned. 

They sat down at the table, uninvited.

"Look," Sal said, for his opening volley. "It ain't the twenties anymore. Hell, it ain't the sixties anymore! We ain't got beef with nobody."

"Well, there was that thing with the - " Jimmy put in.

"Stop helping!" Sal barked.

Then he turned to the three Irishmen sitting in front of him.

"As I was saying. We hear that not only is this avenging angel character shacking up with one of the O'Sheas, but really shacking, if you get my drift."

"Are we gonna have problems here?" asked Dean.

"Look. My boss, me, everybody, hell even you - gotta admire a man who stands up for the old values. I do. I did! But."

Sal took a fork and lifted some of Dean's steak and ale pie.

He took a contemplative bite.

"Mm-mm! But you can't beat pizza. You know, the dough they use in Naples, it's this fine, thin - it's just this perfect crisp - "

"Let's talk travel after you deliver your threat," said Dean.

Sal laughed.

"Always did like you. Sense of humor on these Irish guys. After my own heart. Anyway. No, we don't mind. A man of his stature deserves a good retirement."

He met Dean's eyes.

"And I do mean retirement," he said. "We start hearing your man's come out of retirement and he's active again - I don't give a damn which one of us it is! Italians, Irish, Russkies, Triad, yakuza. Capiche?"

Dean nodded.

"Capiche."

"Fantastic. Glad we understand each other. And hey. You take care of your fella."

Sal dropped a wad of bills on the table.

"Dinner's on me," he announced. "And you let these micks wet their whistles. On my tab, got it?"

"Got it," said the barkeep.

Sal and Jimmy sauntered out into the night.

Dean finally relaxed.

"What the hell was all that about?" asked Kelly. "Didn't think we had any trouble with the Italians since - well, decades now."

"We don't," said Dean.

"And we won't," said John. "Ain't that right, Dean?"

He gave Dean a meaningful look.

Dean nodded tightly.

"That's right."

Chapter Text

Dean unlocked the door and went inside.

He went to shower, it had been a long day and he was just about falling over.

Five minutes, no funny business, and he was out the door.

The room was in darkness. The night sky and city lights the only illumination, bright as the moon.

Before he had time to flip on the lights, the door was closed for him, and Castiel's body pressed up behind him.

Castiel trailed his fingertips along Dean's bare skin, leaving fire in their wake.

"Knowing you were watching," he breathed. "Oh, Dean. It was - an aphrodisiac of the highest order."

He laid kisses on him, reverent and pure.

Dean ached and moaned beneath his ministrations.

He startled as Castiel trailed his fingertips across the front of Dean's towel.

Dean also belatedly realized Castiel had a silver knife in his hand.

"You're so hard for me," Castiel whispered, awe in his voice, as if Dean were something rare and exotic.

"I want  you to deny yourself, Dean," Castiel whispered in his ear, knife gliding down his bare side.

He flicked his wrist, and Dean's towel fell to the floor.

"And there will come a time - you won't know when - that I will beg you to hold me down and fuck me."

Dean closed his eyes and whined, cock at full staff.

"Don't worry," Castiel said, and Dean could feel him smile sharp against the skin of his ear, which made him shudder. "I won't make you suffer."

There was a pause.

"For long."

Dean's weekly call to his little brother was finally one that included conversational topics about Dean. Usually they talked about how Sam was doing, his latest case, and what was going on in his life.

Castiel was out for the time being, and Dean saw his chance.

His brother, unlike Gabriel, was actually a bigshot city lawyer.

"Damn it, Sam. He made me chocolate chip pancakes."

"Oh. Yeah. Hm. I get it. Total kryptonite."

"You don't even know, man."

"What's this guy's name? Do we know him?"

"Uh. Only by reputation. Castiel."

"Last name?"

Dean panicked, as he realized that he didn't actually know, but since Castiel was Gabriel's brother, he said:

"Pretty sure it's diAngelo, I know his brother. Italian last name, kinda weird, I know."

"Why would an Italian last name be weird?"

Dean was usually sharper than this, but he blamed it on all the blood nowhere near his brain recently.

The real reason it was weird had to do with origin - made men, in the Italian side of things, had to have Italian ancestry or they could only be associates, which meant Gabriel would have had an opportunity there but Dean had never pried and maybe Gabriel, like Sal and Jimmy, was also Irish of extraction. The Irish didn't care too much as long as people were loyal, but of course Irish were first choice. Dean, with his English surname, got away with it on account of being a Campbell, which was Scottish and in some Irish eyes, close enough.

There was a whole host of historical reasons that wasn't true in the slightest, but Dean wasn't about to look a gift horse in the mouth.

Besides, he looked the part, with his golden-blonde hair and green eyes and freckles, to those who didn't know better, and he was very very good at his job, so he was Irish if they said so.

All of this, of course, he could not explain to his civilian lawyer brother.

"Ah, well, just a looks thing I guess," finished Dean lamely.

"Hm. Sure. Well, I have some news, Jess is pregnant."

"No shit!" Dean said, overjoyed. "So I'm gonna be an uncle?"

"You're gonna have to actually come visit if you want that title."

"Say the word and it's done."

"You need me to send you the money for it?"

"I ain't broke, Sam."

"Yeah, and what is it you do for a living again?"

Damn his clever little brother. He should've been a detective, not a lawyer, with all these questions, and Dean told him so.

Sam just laughed.

"Last time you said you were in data analysis," he said. "You sure about that, Chandler?"

"Why you gotta give me a hard time?"

"I just worry about you."

"Yeah, me too. You're gonna be a dad."

There was a quiet celebration in silence across the line, and across the miles.

Dean could hear Sam smiling, and almost - almost - felt guilty about yet another misdirect.

"Yeah. I'm gonna be a dad," he said. "Wow. Still kind of crazy, saying it out loud, you know?"

"You're gonna be an awesome dad."

"I had a great role model."

"Dad was an obsessed alcoholic."

"I mean you, Dean."

"Oh."

Dean, sitting on his black leather sofa, in his mafia-provided digs, looked out over the city, at a world of people living lives of which he could only ever dream.

"Thanks, Sammy. I'll call again soon."

He hung up the phone.

Chapter Text

I had a very interesting question from a commenter, and thought I would add some of that information here in a more general way, in case people were interested, or wanted to start a discussion or ask questions.

I am going to speak of the legacy groups here, just to set them apart from other organizations and gangs (this means the established ones everyone has heard of over their lifetimes).

So the very first thing to really understand about these organizations is that the entire system is based on the concept of honesty and honor. Yes, it's a fucked up form of honor or valor, but basically the idea was to set themselves (ourselves?) apart from dirty cops and two bit idiot criminals, which is what I mean by 'civilian crime is often worse'. Shit like sexual assault, rape, ill treatment of women/kids/elderly/infirm, does not fly with these organizations. I am speaking of the 80s-90s here, which was my time period, so I think I can speak with some authority.

If anyone behaves like that, they're taken care of by their own people - by which I mean, ousted/beaten/killed. Nobody else would have to do it, because it would be a source of shame for the organization who employed someone like that. Remember that these groups originally started to protect families, kids, widows, women, neighborhoods, because the law was useless. That is still their primary function to this day.

Any member, low level or high, is an ambassador for their particular organization. Everyone knows this, so they don't behave like that, and people of that type of nature don't end up in the organization anyway due to the stringent behavioral rules imposed upon members, even at a low level.

There is a vetting process, but even if somehow this kind of behavior wasn't initially noticed in a recruit, he would be put down immediately by his own organization when it came to light, no questions asked, which is one reason it doesn't usually happen.

This type of incident would also reflect poorly on whoever signed him up, not just on the individual himself, and whoever that person's controller is, and on up the chain of command. This is also why people who tend to be honest/valorous/decent types by nature are the ones who end up in the business, despite the nature of the business itself.

At the end of the day, it's a business, and functions much like a business. If you wouldn't have the cashier doing it, the CEO, whoever, in a regular business, it wouldn't happen within these organizations, especially because untoward behavior (especially things like rape, SA, etc) are 1. extremely hated by these groups, who view themselves as valorous, if violent, and 2. brings a whole host of trouble down on everyone's head, involving the law, other groups, etc. The major difference is that a cashier gets fired, goes to jail, etc. In this instance, his boss murders him for being a shit. So yeah, it doesn't really happen, at least not in what I'd call the 'legacy' organizations, in my experience.

Organized crime doesn't really function like this - in fact, it tends to exist specifically, and these individual groups were mostly founded, for the express purpose of getting rid of the people who do function this way.

I would 100 percent trust a wiseguy over a cop any day of the week.

Think of it like this: in practical terms, the cops have unchecked power. The mafia does not.

Chapter Text

The first and most important rule of the entire thing is respect.

Without it, everything comes crashing down.

Yes, the mob had prostitution, protection racketeering which was Dean's area of expertise, loan sharking, drug dealing, all kinds of sources of income.

However.

Everything must be run in a certain way.

The ladies (and some guys) working in the prostitution field usually had a sort of controller - a 'madam', but often not really referred to as that - and whether the women thought she was a no-fun hardass or easy to get along with, they always knew she had their back.

Women in the mob could have a variety of positions, some had married in and were essentially trophy wives who did not mind exactly who they were playing trophy to, some were prostitutes, and some were even enforcers.

Some would play the infiltration game but this was very group-specific and many organizations just did not want to deal with what they considered governmental style trickery.Dean was well aware that the world did not believe women had more high status jobs in the mafia, but this was also how everyone wanted to keep things. Trading in the preconceived notions of everyone's prejudices helped with the kind of surprise attack Dean was known for, and relied on the same kind of outdated superstitions.

And in other news, his job performance was suffering.

Fortunately, the last guy's house he materialized in ended well, but if it'd been like the previous one, he'd have been a smear on the living room floor himself.

He'd done as Castiel asked. But it wasn't that - 

it was Castiel himself.

Dean was utterly consumed by him.

His eyes, his voice, his face, the planes of his body.

The way he liked to hum old songs under his breath while he made dinner, which had just become default in their household. Cas had mentioned something once about how he may as well contribute something, living there rent-free as he was, but Dean could not have cared less about any of that since he didn't pay rent himself.

Gabriel chose that moment to show up as Dean was heading in to the same room where he'd first floated the idea of Castiel.

"So how's life with my brother?" he asked.

"Fine. You didn't want to house him?"

Gabriel shrugged.

"I've just got a studio apartment," he said. "Accounting for the mob doesn't pay the big bucks like you'd expect. I suppose what you do has more intrinsic value."

"It's not all it's cracked up to be, that's for sure," he said.

"Look, Dean. I know everything you did for your kid brother. Why you're here. All of it."

"Just how the hell do you know that?"

Gabriel waved a  hand aroud his own face.

"Hellooo," he crooned. "Accountant. It's my business to know everything. The three-initial organization all Americans fear most is the IRS."

Dean laughed.

"Ain't that the truth."

"So I just wanted to say thanks, for looking out for my baby brother," said Gabriel. "He found work yet?"

"No. I've been trying to talk him into working for us."

"Hm. I can't imagine that would fly with him."

"It might if you tell him the truth about where you're working."

"Or it might make him turn tail and run screaming in the other direction. Word on the street is that he's kind of sweet on you, though, so. There's that."

"Really?" asked Dean, as they walked into the room, hating the way he sounded and equally hating how completely infatuated he was with any and all information regarding Castiel's interest in him. "Did he say so?"

"Did he check yes on the note you slipped him?" Gabriel chuckled. "Buddy. I haven't seen him this twitterpated since..."

And that was when Whispers O'Shea called them into his office.

Finnegan "Whispers" O'Shea was one of the bad guys.

A good one, but a bad guy through and through.

He'd had a knife injury, barely survived, clipped his vocal cord and he could not do more than whisper. So he employed others to do his speaking for him.

An audience with him usually meant serious business.

"It's good to see you again, Dean," said Whispers, in the hoarse-sounding voice that had terrified the city longer than Dean had been alive.

"You too," said Dean, knowing instinctively that less was more when communicating with those in the higher chain of command.

"What's this I hear about a roommate?" asked Whispers. "This Castiel? This was the famous Avenging Angel?"

"Yes," Dean confirmed, not trusting himself to keep from blabbing about the wonderful nature of this man.

"Hm. Well, his actions were commendable, during his time. I'd like to see if you can't recruit him to our cause, Dean."

"I've tried. He's an independent operator. Retired," said Dean. "We've already had a conversation with Sal about it, but he'd already made the decision."

"Sal's nosing around again, is he?" Whispers commented, but it wasn't really a question. "Understood. Let's see if you can't coax him, though - he'd be quite the catch, and am I to understand there's some - "

Here, he waved a hand -

" - there, between the two of you?"

Dean blushed, but honesty was always the best policy.

"Something like that, sir," he said. "And I don't intend to be vague, I'm just not - sure where it's leading, yet."

Whispers laughed, a harsh, breathy thing.

"Young love," he said. "Well. Let's see if you can't talk him into it. There are others who could use a place like yours, if not."

"Are you implying - "

"I'm not in the business of implication, Dean. You get him on our side or you're out of the apartment and on the street. We aren't in the business of housing our enemies; only our friends. Understood?"

Dean swallowed.

"Understood."

"Good," said Whispers. "Now, I've placed some mad money in your account. Go wine and dine your wan, and see if there isn't an opportunity to broach the topic."

"Thank you, sir," said Dean, with a little nod masquerading as a bow.

"You're a good employee, Dean," said Whispers. "Don't make us regret it. Now, will you send in Gabriel? I have to discuss the accounts with him."

"Will do," said Dean, and he scarpered.

Outside, he made himself scarce, after delivering the message to Gabriel.

He made decent money, but his living quarters now hung in the balance, depending entirely upon whether Castiel would agree to join up.

Dean didn't really like his odds.

The madam, for the last few years, had been a woman who called herself 'Molly Malone'.

When Dean had given her an incredulous look, she had just stared back fiercely.

She had long, flowing black hair and bright blue eyes with black brows and the creamiest white skin Dean had ever seen in his life.

"Black Irish," she said, by way of explanation, and he'd noted an honest-to-goodness Irish accent on her. 

She nodded, tossed her hair with a little smile, and said:

"I'm the real McCoy, as I hear you Yanks say," which had made him laugh.

They'd been friends, of a sort, after that; she respected him for the work he did, and he partook of some of her offerings, but not with her personally - he had a thing about friends.

"So, what can I do ye for?" Molly asked him, as he sidled up to the bar in her establishment. "Heard what you did for the Connolly girl. Good work."

"She's off to Paris now," Dean said.

"Notions," said Molly, but she was smiling.

"Can I - "

"You may do pro bono work, lad, but me and my girls...although I might be interested in some quid pro quo, you know how some of these johns can get with the girls."

"Done and done," said Dean. "Whatever you need."

"Man after my own heart," she said. "What's the trade?"

Dean sighed, and eyed the liquor, and abstained.

No reason to mess with anything. but the pull of it...

"Am I gay?"

Molly barked a laugh.

"Sorry, hon, that just startled the hell outta me," she told him. "And unlike the rest of you, I'm not exactly in the business of being honest with clients."

"I'm asking you as a friend."

"Well then. As a friend, I'd say you're bisexual."

Dean stared at her.

"I'm...what?"

"And I hear tell you got yourself a fella. Handsome too. Now, you wanna talk about that quid pro quo?"

Dean was spinning, but a promise was a promise, and the stupendous revelation would have to wait.

Exhausted, Dean typed the code in the door, and it swung open like it always had.

Except the lights didn't come up as per usual.

He flicked them on and off like someone in a horror film.

"Cas?" he ventured.

His hand went to his knife.

The door swung closed behind him.

Chapter Text

Dean hated the dark.

And just like that, he was panicking.

The door swung open, light pouring in, and the lights suddenly came up as Castiel was saying, "thank you, no, I don't think we need anything else, have a good night, looks like that did it."

"Dean! Are you all right?!"

Castiel was suddenly there, kicking the door closed and gathering Dean up in his arms as he went, Dean shaking and his hand around the knife in a death grip.

"Shhh," Castiel said. "The fuse tripped, it's okay! I got maintenance to take a look at it."

Dean's eyes were unfocused, and his mouth was moving but he was making no sounds.

"Dean. Focus on my voice. Okay? Listen to me."

Dean gave a watery laugh.

"Not exactly badass enforcer now, huh," he said.

"We all have our little quirks," Castiel said, and Dean laughed, for real this time.

Dean's heartbeat returned to something like normal from the crazy tango, and Castiel gave him a final squeeze, saying:

"You want tteokbokki tonight? I'm in the mood for some spice."

"Oh, really?" asked Dean with a grin, although 'spice' in that way was about the furthest thing from his mind.

"I think you'll like it."

Dean did, in fact, like it, and Castiel's stories of cold winter nights enjoying tteokbokki in its original neighborhood in Seoul, where it was cooked on huge plates and shared with everyone at the table, accompanied by soju.

"Cas?" Dean asked, midway through Castiel's regaling him with a very funny story about someone recommending him restaurants in the area.

"Yes, Dean?"

"Thank you," Dean said, trying to communicate through look alone, that he meant thank you for not being weird about me being weird, and hoping the message got across without him having to do anything embarrassing, like explaining himself.

Castiel just sent him a warm smile.

"Always, Dean," he said. "Always."

"What's wrong?" demanded Sam, picking up halfway through the second ring.

"What? Nothing's wrong. Why's it always what's wrong with you lately?"

"Nothing," sighed Sam. "New dad jitters, I guess."

"Jess already had the baby? It's only been a few months!"

"Okay, fine. Pre-dad jitters. Anyway. How's it going?"

"Well, I don't have to deal with a pregnant wife. Or you, for that matter."

"Uh huh. Which means something is up. I'm your brother, Dean. I can see through the bullshit."

"That's what you think," said Dean.

But he sat down and rubbed his eyes.

"How did you," he began.

Sam waited patiently in silence on the other end of the line.

"How did you get over it," Dean asked flatly.

Sam knew exactly what he was talking about, because they had long ago mastered the art of silent communication.

"I didn't," Sam admitted. "Honestly, Dean? I don't think people - kids - who grew up in those circumstances ever really do. Formative years form you permanently. Did something happen?"

"Yeah, I guess," said Dean. "Something stupid. Fuse blew, apartment had - "

"A blackout," Sam filled in. "Oh. Well, shit. I'm sorry. Are you okay?"

"Yeah. Cas was there."

"Is that bad or good?"

"What? Good. He's been - he's been really good for me, Sam."

"Do you know anything about him?"

"Can we not do this again?"

"Sorry. I'm your brother, I worry."

"I know. But yeah, he was there for me, and he wasn't weird about it."

"How were you about it?"

"I've gotten less weird over the years, I think. Mostly it doesn't happen anymore, but this time - "

"Surprise, yeah. That'll do it. Still happens to me sometimes, too."

There was a long silence between them.

"I'm sorry," Sam said, for something to say.

"I'm sorry, too," said Dean.

They said this to each other sometimes, although it was more about solidarity than anything else.

Mostly, it was I'm sorry that happened to you.

To us.

"Are you gonna be okay?" Sam ventured.

"Yeah. Yeah, I think so," said Dean. "Thanks for picking up, Sam."

"No problem."

"And you take care of Jess."

"Will do."

"Night."

"Night."

Dean hung up the phone, and stared out at the night sky, full of the stars of the city lights.

He wondered how he ended up here, after all.

There were a lot of women here tonight.

Dean knows the reason; man like him knows where to find it.

But he's lost, so damned lost and alone.

After what he and his brother lived through, what they escaped from -
well, there's plenty to speak of who didn't, which is why Dean continues to speak of them, or at least think of them, from time to time.

He supposed he foolishly believed Sam was exactly like him - just the two brothers against the world, together forever.

Then it was, "Dean, I got accepted to Stanford", eyes all shining, clearly wanting his big brother to be proud of him -
and Dean was! fucking thrilled, of course he was, because who wouldn't be proud of the accomplishments of their genius little brother, especially after everything they survived?

Especially after walking out of the dark.

But Sam was in California now and Dean was alone, trying to figure out where and how to start making the kind of scratch necessary to put someone through an expensive college who hadn't gotten a free ride like so many others.

Dean wasn't about to let this opportunity slip out of Sam's fingers. Besides, he knew that Sam had potential, and that if anyone had even a whisker of a chance between the two of them of making something of themselves, it was Sammy.

Not the boy who did what was necessary to bring them out of the dark.

So, here he was, after a long few weeks of searching for employment no one was prepared to give a kid with no work history and no history in general to speak of, looking for some manner of comfort before he used the last few coins he'd scraped together to phone Sam and tell him it wasn't going to happen, that Dean had failed.

"Well don't you look long in the face, handsome," said a voice near his ear.

Dean looked up and grinned.

She was older, and beautiful.

"Sorry," he said, "I don't have the money for that kind of a good time."

"Maybe we can discuss something."

"Oh, you doing pro bono work now? No idea brothels went in for charity."

She laughed.

"Let's say you tell me your story, I pour you a whisky, see if you and I can't come to some kind of arrangement."

Dean had nowhere else to go, and his reluctance to phone Sam made him want to linger. 

Besides, she was fun, and beautiful.

He noticed her accent, too.

"Irish?" he asked, infatuated in the way all Americans are infatuated with the Irish.

"How could you tell?" she asked, grinning, 'When Irish Eyes Are Smiling' in Dean's memory, his grandpa singing it while making porchetta, one of his very very few good childhood memories.

"I'm Dean," said Dean.

"Molly Malone," she told him.

He stared at her.

"You're shitting me," he said.

"Of course I am. But I'm still Molly," she told him.

They talked for most of the night.

And in the wee hours, a man in a flatcap came in out of the pouring rain, must've been around 3 am.

He ordered a Guinness, and as Molly was pulling the first pour, she said:

"I'd like to introduce you to someone. This is Dean."

"Dean, eh?" asked the man, old and wrinkled like a walnut, with the kind of leathery skin that said he'd spent most of his life out in the wind and the wet, possibly at sea.

A Border collie wound around his ankles, and settled near the fire.

"You Irish?" he asked, and the lilt was there, too, much more pronounced than Molly's, but that tended to be the case with the older generations. "You've certainly got the coloring for it. Green eyes and freckles. Well, at least what they think Irishness is, and in America, that's the same thing."

"No, sir, I'm not Irish," said Dean. "Last name's Winchester, just about as English as they come. But my mom was a Campbell."

"Ah, the Scots," he said. "A people who really ought to know better. But you know, Maggie here, she's Scottish too, they ain't all bad. Just need a friendly hand to guide them."

He started singing to the dog, who tilted her head at him and whined, wagging her tail:

"Fiona, my fair one, my lass from the Highlands..."

Molly finished the second pour and handed the pint to the old man.

"He's looking for work, Paddy," she put in, sending a wink Dean's way.

Paddy took a sip, and made a satisfied sigh, with all evidence of relishing the experience.

Then, he turned to Dean.

"Is that so?"

"Yes, sir."

"Well it just so happens that I'm looking for an employee to replace the lad who just retired. Maybe we can help each other."

And that was when Dean met Padraig O'Shea, patriarch of the O'Shea crime family, learned that 'retirement' meant 'death' in the job he was being offered, and that said job would definitely be on the other side of the law.

But the money wasn't just good, it was fantastic, and it did not take Dean a long time or several pints of Guinness to make his choice.

The law had never really helped him, anyway.

Chapter Text

People thought Dean was such a badass because he worked in broad daylight, apart from the times when he was playing spooky ghost guy, but it was really because he feared the dark.

"I followed that story when it broke," commented Padraig. "You're the one who did it?"

Dean couldn't speak. 

He nodded.

"Good for you," he said. "I do not envy you the nightmares. Believe me, I know. Catholic priests in Ireland..."

He shook his head.

"They'd do it to anything, depraved, so they were. Puppies, kittens. Children. Anything.

And I take it yours were the same.

Maybe power, or money, or - they need something else to provide that thrill. I don't know.

Or maybe they get rich and powerful just to be able to do it without repercussions.

Sometimes I think the ones they drowned in the septic tank, well. 

Some things...

And I don't have to tell you this, I'm sure you know -

others will either watch, or participate, or turn away.

Complicit, all of them.

They do this, because they don't believe in God, not really.

They don't believe there is punishment waiting on the other side.

Nor are they human beings with integrity and the courage of their conviction of an atheist who is yet a good man.

They cover themselves with authority, with religion.

But this is to excuse themselves, and to hide in the dark.

But they did not understand two things.

One. Puppies and kittens grow up."

He chucked Maggie under the chin, and put a gentle hand around her snout in a friendly sort of handshake.

"Isn't that right, Mags?"

Then he said, with a very particular kind of smile:

"And if they don't believe in God, well.

God believes in them."

He lifted the tail of his shirt to show Dean a wicked-looking scar.

"I got mine, too."

He nodded to the television, which was currently in discussion about Sinead O'Connor's behavior on SNL.

"Brave woman, that," Padraig commented. "She's right, of course. But she will lose her entire career over it. These people do not like to be pointed out. They hate the light."

They were locked in individual rooms, kept in perpetual darkness.

Originally, wherever they had been was damp and wet, with centipedes and cockroaches and little rolypoly pill bugs, silverfish.

Of course, some died of this; human beings were not meant to be kept from the sunlight, nor were most other animals.

And then they were moved, to somewhere more sterile, certainly, but Dean chiefly recalled missing the existence of other living things.

Dean, Sam, and a host of others they interacted with rarely - just now and then.

In the mess of other boys, children young as babies, Dean remembered a few of them, their names lost to history. The infectious laughter of one, the calm intense stare of another, the gregariousness of a third. 

Some of the little boys held the babies in their arms.

And at some point it was apparently decided they needed to be separated, and to live in isolation, in these individual rooms in perpetual darkness.

Strange, as they said - well. 

That Dean was pretty.

And so, why did they want to do what they did in the pitch darkness?

He and Sam, like many of the other children, were in the system - a fantastic source of kids, and what was worse - well. Either the parents were dead, or far enough gone on drugs or booze it made little difference, or convinced their children needed scaring straight and so were not inclined to believe anything their children said.

But over time, Dean got bigger.

Stronger.

And the next time somebody put their hands on him was the last time.

As it turned out, and luck would have it, that someone was the ringleader of the entire operation.

The bloody mess left over was nearly unidentifiable.

Dean, as a minor, was not charged, given the circumstances.

But he wasn't about to go back into the system again, so once he was free, he and Sam lit out for places far away from where they had started.

Both parents were dead; their mother in a house fire, their father of alcoholism.

They lived on the road after that, drifting, learning the freedom of the great wide world and the glory of the fresh crisp air and the beautiful light of the stars, of the moon, of the midday sun.

Padraig finished his pint, and gave Maggie a pat.

Then he looked at Dean.

"So," he said. "Monday all right for you?"

Chapter Text

Dean did not see Padraig again after that. He mostly worked for Whispers, or Molly, or a variety of others, as there was something of a democracy in their particular organization and people had the view of doing what needed to be done when it needed doing.

It also prevented anyone from going mad with power.

Such things were always a problem in general and most especially in such circumstances.

Dean called Sam, this time while he was on the way to another job, mainly to have the conversation somewhere both public and private.

Just in case.

Dean had this feeling, and he just couldn't shake it.

Sam answered after several rings, apologizing and saying something about the traffic that morning.

"You better not be phoning and driving."

"I'm parked, Dean."

"Good."

"What's up?"

Dean paused. 

He hated having to ask Sam for anything, but in the same way Dean was an expert in his sphere, Sam was an expert in his.

"You find out anything about him?"

"No. Far as I can tell, 'Castiel diAngelo' doesn't exist.'

"Maybe they have different last names?"

"Yeah. Could be adopted. Or. Um. Foster system."

There was a loud silence.

"Yeah," agreed Dean.

There was an even louder one.

"So," Sam said, clearing his throat, "sounds like things are going well."

Dean smiled at nothing.

"Yeah," he said quietly. "Yeah, Sammy. They really are. He's..."

There was some word-searching and soul-searching.

"...home to me."

Dean could somehow hear Sam smiling on the other end.

"That's great, Dean," he said. "I'm really happy for you."

"It's just..."

"I thought I heard a 'but' in there."

"I'm too damned happy to make some smart aleck comment about that."

"Well, you just did."

"You know what I mean."

"Yeah."

"So, what's the 'but'...?"

Dean rubbed his face.

"You know," he said. "I have no idea. Nothing, really. Just this - I feel unsettled."

"You know as well as I do never to ignore that feeling."

"Right. Which is why. But. Can't put my finger on it."

"It'll come to you."

"You think?"

"Yeah. When I'm looking into a case, it's like I'm always waiting for the pieces to fall into just the right configuration. And they almost always do. It's the ones that don't that are the real disappointment. But they usually do - especially when you get that feeling. Because that means brains like ours will work on it day and night until those pieces finally slot together. Like a jigsaw puzzle."

"Like Tetris."

"Like Tetris."

"Brains like ours? That's a hell of a compliment, coming from a Stanford grad."

"It's also coming from a kid who was in the same place as you."

There was a silence now the consistency of saltwater taffy.

"Yeah," Dean said eventually.

"Yeah," Sam also said.

And because there were no words that had not already been said, invented, examined, thrown out, that had changed one whit of their experience, or stopped others from experiencing it either, they did not say anything more about it.

"You'll get there, Dean. I know you will. I know you."

"Thanks. So. How's the pregnant wife?"

"Wow. Non sequitur."

"I bet you don't even know how to spell that."

"Hey. Stanford grad here."

"Ah, right. I'm glad to see I'm getting all those ten dollar words I paid for."

Sam laughed.

"Jess is great," he said. "Grumpy, though."

"Hell, you would be too!"

"How d'you know that?"

"First, I read. Second, I mean. Come on, man."

"She says being a girl sucks."

Dean laughed, and said: "Well, I don't envy them."

"Hm. Depends on the subject, I guess."

"This about when you had your nail polish phase?"

"This is about you not being gender essentialist, Dean."

"There's another one of those fancy college things I paid for."

Sam laughed again. Dean still loved it when he could make his little brother laugh.

"It's soon, huh," asked Dean.

"Yeah," said Sam, and there was that soft smile he could hear hundreds of miles down the line, the one Dean knew well as his kid brother, the way he sounded when he had a crush or secretly admitted liking Celine Dion when he'd got into Dad's liquor stash, which should not have even been accessible at all, but a drunk is a drunk.

"You're gonna be an awesome dad," Dean assured him. "And I'm gonna be an awesome uncle."

"You're gonna spoil my kid rotten."

"Damn straight. Banana splits for days."

"Gross. You don't even like bananas."

"True. I like the split. Bananas are just decorative."

"I miss you."

Came out of the blue and hit him like a sucker punch between the eyes, if such a thing were possible.

"Yeah. Me too. Swamped with work, will have to make a trip out when the kid's born. You are naming it Dean right?"

"Yeah."

"Even if it's a girl?"

"Especially if it's a girl."

"It is a unisex name."

"That's...not what I expected to hear."

"Hey, we all evolve," said Dean.

"Crap, I gotta run," Sam told him. "Jess is calling me to dinner."

"You let your pregnant wife make dinner?"

"Let is a funny word, for...so many reasons," said Sam. "Dean. I really hope this thing with Castiel works out. He sounds like he's good for you. You're good for each other."

It was Dean's turn to smile fondly down the line; whether at Sam or at the thought of Castiel, he wasn't sure, but decided it could be both, and made no difference.

But he knew that it meant he was floating dangerously close to the L word, and he did not mean a tv show about lesbians.

"Be right there!" yelled Sam suddenly. "I gotta go. You take care of yourself, okay?"

"Always do. You too. And look after Jess."

"She'll kill me before you even have time to get on a plane if I don't."

"Woman after my own heart," said Dean. "Okay. Talk to you later."

"See ya," said Sam, and hung up.

Dean thought about how long it had been since either of them had even seen each other, and decided he would rectify that soon.

Maybe even invite a plus one, if he was lucky.

Castiel was home, and the place smelled delicious, butter and baking bread.

And Castiel was kissing him, all warmth and comfort and home.

"What brought that on?" asked Dean.

"No reason," said Castiel, and then took a seat at a beautifully-appointed table, set with those dripping candles so popular in the 90s.

There was Castiel, handsome, bright blue eyes, soft smile.

Candlelight.

"Wow," said Dean, feeling strangely small, "what's all this for?"

Castiel shrugged.

"Just thought we could use a little romance," he said. 

"Well, it looks awesome," said Dean, taking his seat at the other end of the table.

"I endeavor to always be awesome," said Castiel, and Dean laughed.

Dean dug in, and then paused.

"No way I like gourmet food this much," he stated. "Is this...Kraft Mac n Cheez?"

Castiel gave him a serious, deadpan look.

"The cheesiest."

Dean busted up laughing, tears streaming down his face.

"I can't believe you made a romantic candlelit gourmet dinner with Kraft Mac n Cheez."

"The second course is Spaghetti-o's."

After that, the conversation was warm and wonderful. Dean's brother, Dean's love of music, Dean's possibly-erotic love of his classic car.

"We've been talking about me a lot," said Dean. "What about you? What was it like growing up with Gabriel?"

"Damp."

"Damp?"

"Damp."

"Well, at least you didn't say - "

"Moist?"

"Ughhhh...!"

"Well, I wouldn't have said it if you hadn't!"

"I didn't!"

"You insinuated."

"Oh, and that's enough?"

"It is in my book."

"What book are you reading?!"

They laughed, and then Castiel said:

"Make love to me."

Fork poised above his plate, soft smile warm in the light of the candles, those eyes that promised with their endless blue.

Dean felt suddenly wrong-footed; all the erotic undertones in the world were much different from this warm, frank, and honest request.

And instead of pretending he hadn't heard, instead of looking for any way out, Dean's smile faded.

He nodded, and that was that.

In Dean's bed, he opened Castiel with strong, sure fingers dripping with oil, Castiel breathing something, words Dean couldn't make out, something in a foreign language.

But he wanted this to be good for Cas, and after checking in that he was okay, Dean returned to his current occupation.

As he worked, he was silent; he had always been speechless when overwhelmed.

Castiel, on the other hand, was a miracle.

A spectacle of sight and sound.

Bent back, beautiful muscles in the low light, framed by the city beyond the windows, warm and safe in Dean's bed.

Because for Dean, that was the main thing -

that people were safe.

Protecting was not only a job for him, but a way of being.

Castiel's sighs and moans washed over him, and Dean rejoiced in their shared passion in his own silence.

He laid reverent kisses across Castiel's fevered skin.

Castiel was trembling, and Dean asked:

"Everything okay?"

and a mess of shattered little yes, yes, yes responses thrilled Dean's heart.

He placed a hand on Castiel's hip, and for some reason this nearly tipped him over the edge.

When he was under control again, he guided himself in.

"Ah. Ah. Ah shit you're tight," Dean muttered, and then - 

Castiel suddenly relaxed around him, and he inadvertently thrust in a few more inches, crying out and scrabbling at Castiel's hip, his back, hands wet with oil -

the sheer joy of it, the glory, the sensations were too much, and he could already feel his lower back seizing, his hips ticking forward on instinct.

"Sorry! sorry. Ah. Fuck - "

Dean whined a little, trying to master himself again, when Castiel moved backwards and coaxed an actual scream, ripped from Dean's throat, and a blackout of his vision.

When he came to again, held in the balance, he was very happy to know he hadn't come yet.

"Move," grumped Castiel, and then Dean grinned and righted himself, as he pulled back a little, and then thrust forward slowly.

The resultant groan from Castiel made him want to keep that sound for himself, next to his skin, and possibly bottle it.

He also felt very, very proud.

Dean laid a kiss on Castiel's spine, and humped against him, slow, mouth open breathing against the heated skin of his back, forehead pressed lightly against Castiel's spine as if in supplication, Dean's breath rolling warm against his bare skin, with one arm wrapped tightly around him as if he did not want to move any further away than necessary.

He caressed Castiel with his other hand, and then wrapped it around Castiel's cock, drooling with precome onto the sheets.

"Holy fuck are you wet for me," groaned Dean, humping up against him again, flush with his ass, holding himself there and grinding, grinding, grinding, making Castiel moan, little spurts of precome dampening the sheets and rucked-up blankets of the bed.

And Dean was aching, aching, although he was now as close to Castiel as it was possible to get, aching with the desire to be closer still.

Now that he was closer, Dean could still not make out the words Castiel was saying, over and over and over again, but they were pinging some kind of very deep memory for him, like a song you can't quite recall the lyrics to, but is familiar all the same.

And something else was bothering his memory, too.

Little thief...little thief...

Where had he heard that before?

And then Castiel cried out, his whole body tensed, and with something between an incoherent whine and shout, he came messy and copious across Dean's bedclothes.

"Ah - shit - !" Dean howled, losing any semblance of control he had, jackhammering into him, and his orgasm took him by complete surprise.

He bellowed, ending on something that sounded like a sob, and a final, purposeful thrust.

Then, he stayed there, still breathing against Castiel's skin, panting above him, moving in him slowly, tracing patterns on his back that only Dean could understand.

Both of them fell asleep soon afterwards, wrapped in their arms and each other.

Some time later, Dean woke. 

Despite not having anyone in his bed for literal years, he could still apparently sense when he was alone and there was a slight chill.

Confused, and a little dehydrated, he swung his legs over the side of the bed and marveled at the ache in them.

"That's what you get when you don't get enough of the right kind of exercise," he muttered toward his body in general with a smile.

He intended to pad down to the kitchen for a glass of water, assuming Castiel was in the bathroom, when he saw him standing outside on the balcony, talking animatedly on the phone.

Dean frowned.

He walked down the stairs, and belatedly realized it was the kind of walk he used when he wanted to be silent.

Dean went out to the balcony, just in time to hear Castiel say:

"I refuse! How many times do I have to - "

There was a pause, and an irritated sigh.

"All right. See you then." 

He hung up the phone, and made an aggrieved sound, planting his hands on the balcony rail, staring out over the city.

"Everything okay?" Dean asked softly, and Castiel startled so badly Dean thought he was going to launch right off the balcony and into space.

"Sorry, didn't mean to - "

"It's quite all right. I shouldn't be - "

He sighed, collapsing in on himself.

"What's going on?" asked Dean cautiously, mentally cataloguing all the places he had weapons stashed around the apartment.

"Gabriel and his stripper parties," said Castiel, with a shake of his head. "Just because Balthazar enjoys drinking champagne out of the navels of sopranos doesn't mean I do."

"You'll have to introduce me to this Balthazar."

"And corrupt you with the influence of my brothers? No thank you."

"Then bed?"

"Bed."

Castiel followed Dean up to his bed.

Then Castiel laid down beside him and was out like a light.

Dean, unsettled for reasons unknown, had a harder time falling asleep.

Chapter Text

He was sobbing, wretched hitched terrible things.

There had been tearing, and blood, and Dean, who had unfortunately already had extensive experience with all of this himself, and with the others who were there, including his younger brother Sam, took one look at him and figured a broken wrist, and maybe broken jaw. Eye swollen, already on its way to black and blue.

They threw them back in with no clothing after they were done with them. They were not human to these people.

Things. Things to trade. Money exchanged hands, Dean was sure, but he'd never seen it happen.

The boy was probably older than Dean, but malnourished to shit and his ribcage looked like something out of a graveyard. 

"Hey," said Dean, gentling him. "Be quiet."

There were no stupid questions like 'are you all right' because, well. Obviously not. And there was nothing much to be said between one thing and another thing. 

But there was no need to attract the kind of attention this kid's clamoring would bring down on their heads.

They were kids who were not kids. Never had been kids. Not really.

Dean was fairly certain he would die in there.

If not of his own injuries then starvation.

They were all hollow kids.

The boy was wailing and sobbing fit to tear down the whole place, slamming fists into the cold stone floor - or Dean thought it was stone. It was cold, anyway. It was dark in there.

It was so, so dark. It had always been dark.

Some mornings they woke up to find one of the others dead, their body so small curled up on the floor, smaller than they remembered them living.

There was the usual freakout from those who hadn't experienced it before but they got hushed up real quick by Dean or others who had been there for a long time because the thing they hated most was noise.

Silence was their best defense.

Dean still didn't know what they were bothered defending.

The world, such as he knew it, was a terrible, awful place, filled with terrible, awful human beings.

Sometimes he wondered if the dead kids were the lucky ones.

But there was something to him, something in him, and in Sam he supposed, and some others, some wild strong thing that said but the world does not have to be this way, humans don't have to be this way, I will be different, I will walk this earth different, I will be a force for good.

Let it begin with me.

"You gotta hush up or they're gonna come back," Dean whispered, and the kid set up to wailing again, even louder this time, soaked in blood and more soaking through the skin, damp and cold on the floor, washing a little lake between them.

Dean realized this was probably not the thing to say to a newcomer, and that his long experience had perhaps hardened him.

He did not know how long he and Sam had been here.

Last he'd tried to figure, it had been...

well. 

Years.

"Um," he began, falteringly, "there's this song. My mom used to sing it. She - she died when I was really little, so I don't remember much about her. But I remember the lullaby she used to sing to me and my brother."

Dean had no idea just how much the kid had heard over the hiccuping and screaming, but he pushed on anyway.

He began to sing, a lullaby cadence.

Darling, my darling

please don't fear the night

when morning comes

it'll all be all right.

Darling, my darling

it'll all be okay

the moonlight gives way to

a sweet sunny day.

Darling, my darling,

it's not as dark as it seems

though the storm brings the rains

they make everything green.

Darling, my darling,

the blue summer sky

and the rolling green fields

will be here by and by.

Darling, my darling,

all nights have an end

but the stars and the moon

light our way now and then.

Darling, my darling,

you're here safe and warm 

feel my heart beat for you

held here close in my arms.

Darling, my darling

all lullabies fade

but my love will remain

with the dawning of day.

Darling, my darling

please don't fear the night

it will all be all right

with my love... as your... light.

And somewhere in the middle of it all, the kid had quieted down.

Thankfully, he hadn't attracted any unwanted attention.

Small miracles.

When Dean finished the song, the kid just stared at him, that way animals sometimes have, calm and almost alien, ears up and eyes fixed.

And he was quiet, and they stayed that way for a while, together.

Then the boy surprised him by laying his head on Dean's leg, where he had been sitting Indian-style, and fell asleep curled up against him.

Chapter Text

Dean woke up late, despite having a job to do that day.

Castiel had already flown the coop, as was his wont when Dean woke late.

He yawned, and shook his head.

Those memories arrived fairly randomly, the nightmares were so real as to make him question whether he'd ever really gotten out, if any of this was real.

He went downstairs to make coffee.

He opened the refrigerator door to find a stack of blueberry pancakes along with a hunk of butter and a little glass of maple syrup, with a note on them that said See you tonight! :)

Dean stared at it, and in the dissipation of the dream, went through all the lovely aftershocks of remembering the night before fondly.

He dutifully warmed up the pancakes and sat in front of them cooling on the table for some time before he gave up and dumped everything in the trash.

Much as he loved Cas's cooking, he just didn't have the stomach for anything that morning, it seemed.

The thing about power is that it makes a person reckless.

Sloppy and stupid.

Mistakes tend to follow.

Dean was exhausted, and he really couldn't be bothered with the scum of the earth he'd been treated to deal with in these situations.

"You going to pay my boss?" Dean asked.

Now, this dude was a weaselly, squirrelly thing, not one of what Dean would consider his serious cases. These guys were slippery as fish and thought of debt as just a suggestion.

"Oh!" said the guy, in that startled-but-not-really-startled way, because everyone on the Dean's List was pretty much advised in advance and given plenty of time to shape up

or.

Well. 

Dean.

"I've just got a couple of flutters on some of the ponies, I'm sure it'll - "

"You're tellin' me you owe Padraig O'Shea money and you spent it on horse racing?"

The guy clearly saw he'd mistepped here, and started to say something, an excuse, whatever these types usually came up with when caught dead to rights.

Dean didn't hear it because he'd put his heel through his nose.

The crunch, he expected; the scream that followed startled him, because that type of move was usually a one-and-done.

Thing was, Dean didn't kill for this type of infraction.

Dean didn't get violent, either.

But the sheer fury in his veins instead of blood was piloting him now, and he roared in the guy's face:

"You think you're pretty?!"

Blood and all kinds of fluids everywhere, this still threw the dude for a loop. Even in his awful state, his brows drew together and he said: 

"What?"

There was this strange dreamlike pause, a moment hung in balance, and the dude suddenly bawled:

"You almost killed me, you fucking psycho!"

And apparently that was the wrong thing to say, despite the word Fair floating through Dean's mind, and he started to pummel the shit out of the dude, screaming it over and over again you think you're pretty?! you think you're pretty?!

"Daddy?"

A bucket of ice water could not have halted Dean faster, like someone hit pause on him.

Dean looked up, realized where he was in an instant, fist held above this guy's ruined face, where they were both now squeezed between this old CRT TV, the kind in the wooden frames that used to have that static buildup, and the wall of this guy's house.

He looked up to see a little girl in a pinafore dress, standing with her little hand wrapped around the railings of the staircase, pigtails and curls, those little white socks with the ruffles and little shoes, all clean and prim and perfect.

And Dean understood in that moment, that whether or not the guy was a total douchebag, whether any of these guys were total douchebags, to his little girl he was everything.

And to this guy, douchebag though he may have been, just looking at her Dean understood this little girl was his everything, too.

Dean knew this, mainly because he didn't know it.

Couldn't.

He backed off.

He stood up.

He fucking bolted.

There was no delicacy here, no professionalism, no awareness of anything.

Blood on his hands, he didn't bother to wipe away or wash off, on his suit, on his cuffs.

He was running blind, and he was suddenly in a forest somewhere, a park he assumed, and he just sort of fell over, not to his knees or anything cinematic like that, but like something had cut his strings.

And he howled, and he sobbed, because that douchebag of a man loved his little girl.

Chapter Text

The thing about surviving things like having been a trafficked child, or prison, or any number of things people are aware of but don't really consider with regards to the lived outcome of survivors, is that there is no prize.

Survival, in some ways, is not one.

Dean and the kid from Croatia started playing a game where he asked how to say 'lightbulb' and 'I love you' and 'sidewalk' in Croatian and other stuff like that, while Dean taught him weird American words like 'snickerdoodle'. He started to understand, then, the value of languages and of travel. He talked to the kid from Chicago about deep-dish pizza, and the one from San Francisco about whether he had ever seen sun or only fog.

He also learned that a couple of them had been started as babies. Most did not survive this particular treatment or it turned out to be physically impossible. The Croatian kid was one of these, sold by the Catholic church.

The thing was, Dean would later laugh at all the fucking stupid conspiracy theories about child trafficking. Because who needs a secret anything when they had the Catholic church, or the troubled teen industry, or any number of other institutions operating out in the light of day?

The troubled teen industry was a particular gift, because parents actually paid them to take the kids off their hands, and then they made even more money in sales, so to speak.

The icing on the cake was that society in general would race to defend the guards, teachers, leaders, whatever term they were using, against those juvenile delinquents who were just so out of control?!

And said guards, teachers, leaders of said places would frequently ask with a knowing smirk: 

who's going to believe you? You're a juvenile delinquent.

And they were right.

They'd started a little 'bug farm' with a few of the cockroaches and roly-poly bugs that happened to live there with them in that dark room. They'd made a little fence out of random stuff and put out water and saved bits of their food. 

Dean remembered petting one of the roaches, and was surprised it had stuck around, because he was fairly sure even when he was younger that they weren't exactly the kind of things that got easily penned in.

One of the other kids, the starey one from Croatia or somewhere like that, liked one of the roly-polys in particular. The kid who Dean had sung to had a silverfish he'd named Blade and he was convinced he could teach it to do some kind of tricks because of some shit he'd read about flea circuses. The other boys argued that Blade wasn't about to do anything like that since he wasn't a flea. There was some discussion about whether they were going to try racing the roaches against him and every boy was championing his favorite when the door opened and the long rectangle of golden light fell onto the group.

This was the moment they dreaded and were also waiting for, because after it happened, there was often a lull.
This time, though, there was uproar and commotion, and when they killed every one of the bugs in Bug Ranch, their captors were in a state of complete consternation about why the kids set up a screaming like they had never heard before.

Dean walked through the park, and found a fountain to wash his hands. The blood on his cuffs turned them pink, but that was better than how he looked.

His reflection did him no favors.

He was getting older, and there were wrinkles, and skin sagging. 

He wondered if other people noticed it this much.

After the annihilation of Bug Ranch, the boys were put into separate rooms. They could not communicate with each other anymore. There was a small grate at the front of the door, but that was all.

This was also the first time Dean saw girls there, being led through the hallway, which he could just about see through his grate`. Some huge-eyed and terrified, some weeping, some defiant.

But after a while, Dean received visits less and less.

Then, he stopped receiving them at all.

At first, of course, he was absolutely thrilled, if constantly on guard and ready for the shit to hit the fan.

Then doubt set in, and self-doubt, and all kinds of strange thoughts.

Such as they always used to say that I was so pretty, do they not think I'm pretty anymore?

And one day he finally received a visit.

Dean, during, finally plucked up the courage to ask:

"Am I still pretty?"

The man had laughed and said:

"You think you're pretty? You're lucky I chose you, you know that? You're used up."

Dean killed him.

That was when he realized two things:

One, he was older, and stronger now.

Two, he hadn't killed the guy for being a rude asshole.

He'd killed him for making him wonder if he wasn't pretty enough anymore.

The door was wide open.

The dude, as it turned out, had been wearing the ring of keys.

That was the thing about power. It made people sloppy and stupid.

Dean opened all the doors he could find, and searched for the girls' wing as long as he could while Sam was hissing at him to get out, get out, get out -

he finally found it, unlocked every single one.

Dean was the last one out the door.

He chanced a look back.

The doors were open, black and gray.

The hallway looked so small from out here.

A moment later, he was gone.

He and Sam lit out after that, on the road and then out of the country, together as they traveled all over the States and the world.

Dean thought it was forever.

Sam had different ideas.

They made their choices, and chose their lives.

Dean never saw or heard from any of the other boys again.

Dean had never really gone to anyone when things got bad.

He tended to bluster and shout, drink, hell, sometimes even fuck, but it was like the entirety of the rest of the world was behind glass, and couldn't touch him and he couldn't touch them, even if they were touching.

It was different with Cas.

Dean went home.

And there was Castiel, waiting for him.

He turned around from the stove with a smile, throwing his towel over his shoulder, and saw the expression on Dean's face.

He went to Dean and gathered him up in his arms, no questions asked.

And Dean just let him.

Chapter Text

The odd thing about criminals, about trafficked children, about many of these people, is that nobody understands we're out here, right now, among you.

Where do you think we go, if we survive? If we get out? That's right.

I've always found it extraordinarily bizarre, the way people talk about these things, as if these individuals are not out here among you with all the information you're going to need. And not a one of these people bleating on about it has ever asked me, or anyone I still peripherally know, who have all those answers.

I think it's because the truth does not match the answers they want, and this shit is just...plain as day, to me, but maybe that's because I lived through it.

Survive.

Because plenty didn't.

Because the other survivors might not, afterwards.

Because somebody had to get out the other side and tell their story.