Alchemy, Pt. 1

[wanderamaranth]

Title: Alchemy
Fandom: Supernatural
Genre: Superhero AU
Rating: R
Pairings: Dean/Castiel past Dean/Anna, Castiel/Meg, Castiel/Anna mentioned Sam/Ruby
Warnings: references to dub/non-con (non explicit), torture, violence, language, character death (not main)
Word Count: ~38,000

Written for deancasbigbang 2011.

Summary: Castiel Novak's life is average until the day he wakes up with superpowers. Soon after he meets Dean Winchester, an investigative reporter with a knack for getting himself into trouble.

A big giant thank you tostormseye, my wonderful artist, and moonliteknight, my patient beta. You can check out the complete art masterlist here at stormseye 's journal. Please do! She created awesomeness.

He couldn't pinpoint when it all began, where it all came from, or even how he was able to do it. All he knew for certain was that he now seemed to have the ability to set things ablaze.

That was a lie. He could pinpoint it. The clusterfuck that was now his life began on a chilly Tuesday morning. He had risen to his alarm, and, half awake, drank the last dregs of his orange juice and got dressed, his mind on his coming appointment. Castiel was on his way to the doctor; a drunken fumble with his ex had left him with a burning reminder of why he shouldn't drink around the woman, ever. Everything that morning had been mind-numbingly normal, and he'd had no way to suspect what would happen. After that, he had sleepily stumbled out to his apartment building's parking structure, gotten in his car, and put the key in the ignition.

At that point his lower abdomen sharply lurched and his entire vehicle went up in flames.

Somehow, and Castiel was still not certain exactly how, he managed to escape before the gas tank exploded, which was probably good. Probably, because even if it seemed from his initial frantic pat down like he hadn't garnered any burns from the impromptu blaze, a full-blown explosion would have been a different story.

His mind wasn't on testing at all in that moment. In fact, his general thought process went something like: Oh shit, fire followed swiftly by run away! Only in the aftermath, as he'd sprawled against one of the structure's support pillars huffing, puffing, and generally staring in amazement as his vehicle seemingly self-combusted that he considered the fact that he'd not only been surrounded by fire, but briefly engulfed by it as well. This was prompted by the decidedly cool breeze that tickled his bare, unblemished skin. The fire had managed to burn hotly enough that his car was little more than a memory and yet when he checked underneath the tattered remains of his formerly pristine white button-down, there were no burns. Hell, there wasn't even any redness or swelling, and the low-grade irritation that had been prickling through his stomach and groin for days was now gone.

That counters the theory of Meg being the cause of that burning, he'd mused, unless she's managed to pick up a hither-to unknown STD. Castiel was fairly certain this wasn't the case, because if it was, the US Government would by now have had her secreted away to their very own secret base of sexy operations, encouraging her to exercise her love of sex with many various partners to the benefit of her country. He'd been on the brunt of several inappropriate, and duly ignored, text messages from the woman the night before, so he knew this was not the case.

It was possible Castiel was still a bit bitter about her cheating on him and then 'apologizing' by getting him rip-roaring drunk and in bed. He should have been suspicious when she's smiled and said, Just one last drink, babe, and I'll leave, but he hadn't been. His lack of suspicion had ended with him waking, completely naked, to her smugly glowing face.

Some people just did not place the same emphasis on sex as he did, Castiel told himself. Which is to say, hardly any at all. Meg could have waited for him like she's assured Castiel she would. He would have even forgiven her for going out to seek physical satisfaction in another bed, had she not done what she did after, with the alcohol and he suspected the drugs and...well, it wasn't something he liked to think about, and only partly because he didn't remember it at all.

So, yes, it was possible that Castiel was still a bit bitter. Castiel didn't like to think of himself as a bitter person though, and he had other things to ponder by that point besides his ex-girlfriend's dubious morals and duplicity.

Like discovering that he could set things on fire with a touch.

As superpowers went, it was a fairly destructive one, Castiel had to admit. Not as cool as being able to fly, or super-strength, or hell, even transmuting oneself into various states of water. He wasn't even sure if ‘superpower’ was the proper terminology to use. Even if it was the only descriptor for what he could suddenly do, it embarrassed him to use it. Still, it was a skill no one else he knew of had, one that was beyond the norm.

He went back to his apartment after the fire trucks and police had finally released him, shaken, and the doctor's appointment forgotten. Castiel had crawled into bed and willed himself to forget what'd happened. It might have worked if he hadn't woken to smoldering blankets and his apartment's smoke detector blaring.

That first week, while he vacillated between fear, denial, and a strange tinge of euphoria, in addition to losing his car in that first dramatic flare of power, he went through three toasters, two sofas (the second being one he'd grabbed from the Salvation Army, so it wasn't like he was attached to it, but combined with the loss of the first—his broken in, beautiful, perfect sofa—still had him tetchy enough that the loss of a second was like salt in a festering wound), and more clothing than he could afford to replace.

When he lost yet another toaster, Castiel finally decided to take himself out to an open field with various flammable objects to test himself and, hopefully, gain some control, since going to a physician was completely out of the question. If he wasn't put in a mental facility, then he'd likely be frog-marched to a research lab, and neither of those options appealed to him in the slightest. Around the fifth hour of experimentation, he discovered he didn't even have to be touching the object for it to burn; a thought and a gesture was more than enough.

He returned the next day and kept at it, and soon found that not only could he set things on fire, but he could lob fireballs, cause things to internally combust, and was impervious to any degree of heat. A hot air balloon drifting far overhead during the second week of what Castiel firmly resolved not to call training gave him an idea. It took much longer to master than anything else he'd attempted, but by the end of the first month, Castiel had enough control to form wings of flame that were powerful enough to propel him upwards.

Apparently, he could fly after all. This pleased Castiel more than he thought it should.

It was only as he was staring down the end of his second month with his pyro-powers, that Castiel began to wonder why, exactly, he'd been so intent on focusing his abilities. If his only interest had been in not setting his possessions on fire, well that had been accomplished in the first week. Then one day he was sitting in his apartment, staring at a news report stating that yet another house fire had claimed a young woman.

Firefighters, according to the newscaster with a macabre grin, were unable to enter the home to mount a rescue due to the heat of the blaze. She went on to cheerily inform her viewers that it was the third such house fire this year, that there had been fatalities in each, and that all the homes involved belonged to those involved in law enforcement. Overall, good people from good families, making the deaths that much more tragic.

“Ms. Wilson's fiancé suggests memorial donations be made to...” the newscaster blathered.

I could have saved her, Castiel found himself thinking idly, and then it rolled over him again in a wave of nausea. I could have saved her. The fire wouldn't have hurt him.

In that moment he knew why he'd been training himself, even if he hadn't realized it while he was doing it. Possibly, just maybe, he was meant to help people, and on some level he'd known it. Perhaps God Himself had given him his abilities for that very purpose. Castiel was self-aware enough to realize that this sounded dangerously close to absolute crazy—some of the most volatile and irrational things had been done in the name of religion, after all—but he didn't feel crazy for thinking it. In fact, the idea that God had given him his pyrokinesis (as he'd decided to call it, after the girl's powers in the Steven King novel Firestarter) made him feel more sane than he had before hearing the newscast. Before he'd been untethered, without focus, but now...he had a goal. A purpose. He didn't know how just yet, but he would find a way to use what was handed to him to help people.

“Winchester!”

Dean stopped, his foot raised just above the top stair as he debated the pros and cons of pretending that he hadn't heard one of the editors snapping out his name. Pro: he'd be leaving on schedule for once, and maybe, if there wasn't a delay on the train, even make it over to Sammy's on time for dinner. That'd shock the kid, which was, hey, another pro, as far as Dean was concerned. He knew he'd been ignoring his younger brother in favor of work more often than not lately something that should have been nearly impossible. Sam was a photojournalist and worked at the Pontiac Daily Gazette, same as Dean. It wasn't like they had any family other than each other, and hell, he could use a beer and a sympathetic ear. Maybe they could bitch about the editors together, Dean silently smirked.

Con: Bobby'd be pissed. But when wasn't he lately?

Mind made up, Dean's foot began to lower just when Bobby Singer snarled, “Damn it, Winchester, I can see you mamby-pambying there. Turn your ass around and git in here already.”

It was just Dean's luck that Crowley chose that exact moment to slither out of an adjoining office. “Better hurry, darling. Daddy's calling,” he smirked as he pushed past in a wave of expensive cologne—Creed's Aventus, he'd found fit to inform Dean last week— to bounce down the stairs.

Shoulders slumping, Dean suddenly remembered a very important Pro that he'd been conveniently forgotten with the promise of beer and bitching: remaining gainfully employed. His position at the Pontiac Daily Gazette was tenuous enough without him angering the one guy besides Sam in his corner.

Dean wasn't a bad reporter. His current situation could be traced to the fact that he was, perhaps, too good of a reporter. A few months prior, he'd finally managed to do what no one thought possible. He'd gathered enough concrete evidence against Azazel Masters (drug lord, murderer, and all around bad man) to write one hell of piece on not only the man himself, but the slimy, underhanded, downright evil organization the bastard worked for. Azazel had been arrested within hours of Dean's piece hitting the street, and, the icing on the cake, he'd had his murder book on him when he was brought in. It proved that he was responsible for the deaths of dozens over the years, including Dean's mother when he was a child and his father's last year, when John Winchester had a mysterious heart attack just as it seemed he was closing in on Masters himself. The success of finally locking that asshole away had felt damn good.

That wonderful “I’ve done the entire world a great service” glow lasted for all of three days. And then all hell broke loose.

Azazel was found dead in his cell. Official line was that he'd had a heart attack (the irony was not lost on Dean) but Dean had friends in the prison system that told him Masters had been murdered. It was disappointing as hell, but if he was honest with himself, not entirely unexpected. Dean had made peace with the possibility that Azazel would die before his case could ever get to trial before he even published his article.

The man hadn't been just a boot-licking lackey in the shady, hardly-spoken-of city-wide crime syndicate known as Infernus. Nope, old man Masters had been fucking friends with the dicks in high positions and they'd sought his silence. While it was disappointing that the police wouldn't have the opportunity to squeeze Azazel for information on his superiors, it wasn't unexpected.

But then Dean was jumped one night leaving the paper. He was beaten severely enough to end up in the hospital for three days. Only Sam's timely interference had prevented the attack from being fatal. After his release, he’d found his car looking like someone had taken a tire iron to it. That really hurt. Dean's '67 Chevy Impala was more than a just vehicle to him. It was the only physical tie he had to his parents save for some faded photographs and a few tarnished trinkets. Even this Dean could have endured though, if they hadn't gone after Sam next.

Sam was, for the most part, physically unharmed. He'd escaped from his assailants with a few bumps and bruises and a long scrape along his jaw. However this had shaken the illusion of safety and stability that Dean had carefully crafted for his brother (“Don't worry, Sammy, they'll never touch us, I'll take care of it”). This was what made Dean feel diametrically helpless and full of rage. He supposed it had been naive to think that with Azazel gone their lives would slide into a pattern of relative ease and safety.

With the same meticulous care that he had employed in gathering evidence of Azazel's activities, Dean arranged, through friends, people who owed him favors, and in a few cases bribery, to have multiple safety deposit boxes throughout the country opened under a series of rock star aliases. Once Dean received final confirmation from his contacts that his requests were fulfilled, he called the woman who'd given him the final pieces of the Azazel puzzle, Ava. She was a prostitute whose outwardly bubbly personality hid a mercenary streak a mile wide.

“I need you to set up a meeting for me,” he told Ava. She in turn set up a meeting with Bela, a woman whose ideas of venture made Ava's ambitions seem meager.

The terms he set before her were simple: tell her bosses that Dean and Sam Winchester and their tiny circle of friends were not to be jumped in any alleys or drug off to random warehouses. In exchange, Dean would suddenly become uncooperative with the police investigation his reporting had opened. At first the woman had laughed and said it'd be much easier to kill him for his silence. With a twitch of lips, Dean had detailed exactly why that would be a bad idea. He spoke of information and sixty-six safety deposit boxes and how all of the leg work he was agreeing to bury would be released to various state agencies and public news services before his body was even cold. With ill grace Bela countered that Dean need to agree to not investigate Infernus ever again. Swallowing the swell of wrongness that condition raised, Dean agreed.

Looking back on that, Dean supposed all the things that followed were his own fault. He hadn’t made the terms clear enough, because while the higher-ups in Infernus agreed to not terrorize, kill, or maim the Winchesters, they could, with plausible deniability to boot, the bastards, make Dean miserable.

And boy, did they make Dean miserable.

He was evicted from his apartment. New owner, the building's super Andy had said with a guilty shuffle, and yeah, Dean understood but didn't have to like that someone had bought the kid off. Coincidentally, the same thing happened to Sam a week later. Each apartment building that listed a vacancy suddenly discovered that they really didn't when either brother tried to sign a lease, so they were making due with sharing adjoining rooms in a motel. Every time Dean drove his car he found a ticket on his windshield until he'd gathered so many that Judge Visyak told him, not unsympathetically, that if he got just one more the Impala would be taken to impound and his license would be revoked. That night he'd called Bela in a rage, demanding to know what the fuck her superiors thought they were doing.

“I honestly thought you'd have figured this out. Let me explain what's happening in small words.”

Yes, the people up top agreed to not violent measures against the Winchesters, she'd said, and they wouldn't. The fact remained, however, that Dean had access to information they wanted destroyed.

“If you want the inconveniences in your life to ease, hand over the keys to the sixty-six boxes.”

“I do that,” Dean said, voice shaking. “And I'm dead.”

“Well,” Bela drawled after a long pause. “Perhaps you're not completely stupid.”

“Seems we're at an impasse then,” Dean said.

“Indeed,” Bela agreed. Dean could hear her lick her lips, and then she said quietly, “Despite my best instincts, I find myself liking you, Dean Winchester. A word of warning: my employers are not going to give you many more chances to cooperate. And...” A deep breath, and she continued in a tone of seeming reluctance, “They have begun searching for the boxes. Any they find will be destroyed. When they're all gone, they will kill you.”

Dean said, “What's to prevent me from just opening more?”

Bela laughed. “Oh, Dean. You're such a dear, dense thing. I think if you tried to walk into just about any bank in the country you'd find them distressingly uncooperative.”

“There are other ways I could share information with people,” Dean asserted. “I have the masters of everything and—”

“I think you’ll find that all details have been taken care of,” Bela said, and hung up.

Paranoid, Dean had rushed to his computer. Wiped. His backup harddrive had suffered a similar fate. Rushing out to the motel parking lot, Dean discovered that all his paper copies were gone from the Impala's trunk. Also missing were the keys to a handful of storage lockers in the city, which had been nestled under the trunk's false bottom in several locked boxes of their own. Those storage lockers had contained yet more boxes and, within them, the sixty-six safety deposit box keys.

“Damnit,” Dean hissed. Calling Bobby, he was curtly informed that his home had been broken into that evening, his safe and all contents stolen, which included another backup harddrive and paper copies of Dean's work. The only copies Dean had left were buried deep within the newspaper's computer system under a series of dummy files.

“It'll be fine,” he tried to tell himself. “I'll casually go in tomorrow, act like nothing's wrong, pull the info and...” Dean wasn't certain what he'd do after that, but just having a clear goal settled his nerves, convinced him that maybe, just maybe, he and Sam would be okay.

The piece de la resistance came the next day when the Pontiac Daily Gazette was not-so-subtly infiltrated.

Apparently Infernus thought that outright firing Dean would be disadvantageous, but they had no problem with arranging a power shuffle at his place of employment. Though Bobby had enjoyed sole editoralship for a long time, the corporate douchebags that owned the paper suddenly decided that the Daily Gazette needed a co-editor, someone that they would have to run all story ideas and assignments past.

Crowley was the complete opposite of Bobby in every way. Whereas Bobby encouraged a casual workplace where reporters, secretaries, and interns were practically indistinguishable from one another at a quick glance, Crowley insisted on rigidity and order.

“Must keep the positions clearly delineated, after all,” he'd smirked during the early-morning staff meeting that day.

Translation: bastard instituted a dress code. Gone were the days when Dean could show up in a concert t-shirt and ripped jeans. Small in the scope of things, perhaps, but something that really bothered him nonetheless. Each employee was also issued a color coded, computer-chipped ID badge, each with their own level of clearance.

“You'll find that every doorway in this building is now equipped with keypass entry,” Crowley said, hands in trouser pockets, the very picture of calm, as if this was common in every newspaper building in the world, and he was doing them a giant favor by dragging them into the 21^st century. A murmur went through the employees, and Crowley just smirked wider and said in a slightly raised voice, “Oh, and one more thing...apparently last evening there was a technical mishap, and our systems were completely wiped clean.” A loud groan went through the room. “Yes, darlings, that means any and everything you've been working on is gone from the Daily Gazette's databases.” He met Dean's eyes across the room as he said, “That's why you should always keep a backup on your person at all times.” He pulled a flash drive out of his pocket and held it up in demonstration.

The message was clear. Crowley held everything Dean had every discovered about Infernus in the palm of his hand. His bosses probably already had that information, too, which meant that they would know exactly what to look for in the safety deposit boxes. So even if Infernus' flunkies had to go to every bank in the country, they'd eventually find everything and every safety measure Dean had set up would be gone.

He was so fucked.

Bobby liked the old fashioned idea of going out an interviewing sources in person, investigating on foot and creating a paper trail. Crowley was convinced that technology was the way of the future, and that syndicated articles pulled from a database were all that was needed for the main articles, with a few 'special local interest' bits spattered throughout that were written by reporters who called or emailed sources for information from their cubicles. On his first day as co-editor, Crowley personally oversaw the laying off of over half the staff.

Needless to say, Crowley and Bobby clashed like oil and water.

It was Crowley who first suggested that Dean go “back to basics” and “learn how to report properly in the internet age” for a little while, and that it would do him good to “take a breather” from harder hitting investigative journalism.

“Don't get me wrong, Dean, I thought the work you did on the Azazel Masters investigation was inspired,” Crowley told him. “And I'm grateful you did because it secured me getting this lovely position of employment. But frankly, you pissed a lot of people off. I was told to not fire you, so I'm not. However I am going to redirect your energies elsewhere.”

Dean was handed a badge with a god-awfully unflattering picture on top (from when he'd been Vogue-ing at the last Christmas party, for fuck's sake, and no, he hadn't drunk that much in front of his co-workers since then) and a wide orange stripe on the bottom.

“Orange? Orange?” Dean asked, aghast. The only clearance level lower than orange was yellow, and that was given to interns. “You've got to be kidding me.”

“I assure you I'm not,” Crowley said. “You're free to complain to Singer if you want.”

Dean preferred to think of what Crowley called complaining as expressing his concerns, but either way he did as the new co-editor had suggested and went to Bobby.

“Sorry, but I'm going to have to agree with Crowley on this.”

Dean threw a shit fit.

In the middle of a tirade expounding on the degradation of old-fashioned journalism, the pervasive evil of modern technology and seemingly kick-ass editors who as it turned out like to bend over and take whatever is dished out to them, Bobby snapped out, “What the hell do you expect me to do, Dean? They've got me just as much by the balls as you.”

“Yeah, it really looks like you're suffering there, Bobby,” Dean said meanly. “Lighter workload and you get to keep your position and pay grade. Poor you.”

“You're walking a real thin line,” the older man growled. “I highly suggest you take what Crowley is offering you right now with a smile and thanks, because guaran-damn-teed if you lose this job you're not going to be able to find another this side of the Rockies, maybe further.” Softening at Dean's no-doubt defeated expression, Bobby added, “Just go along with it for now, son. For now.”

Only the gleam in Bobby's eyes as he repeated 'for now' prevented Dean from doing something that, after he cooled down, admitted to himself would have been very, very stupid.

Wasn't easy, though.

Turns out 'back to basics' meant that Dean had spent the last six months in the basement clacking out mind-numbing police blotter reports and obituaries. He hated working obits, especially when he was able to pull patterns from them that told him something big was brewing in their fair city once more. He'd taken his conclusions to Bobby, quietly, earlier that day only to have the man call him an idiot and chase him out of his office. And now he was calling him back in? His pride made him want to tell Bobby just where he could stick his call back, but he swallowed it. If he got fired from this gig, he'd never be hired at another paper, not with the obvious word about him out on the street. There were days that Dean was surprised he even still had his job, honestly.

He made it back into the editor's office with a minimum of grumbling, an expectant expression splashed across his features.

“Shut the door behind you,” Bobby said, and Dean struggled to hang onto this anger, but the truth was he had a bit of a soft spot for his gruff boss. Since his dad passed, Bobby had been almost like a father-figure to both him and Sam. Sometimes it was hard to remember that though, like when Bobby'd been a total dick to him earlier.

“Sit down,” Bobby ordered as he reached for a desk drawer Dean knew held his whiskey. Sure enough, the older man pulled out two tumblers and a half-empty bottle. He poured a generous amount in each glass, gestured vaguely for Dean to pick one before he took the other and settled back in his own chair.

“Dean, I'm going to be really frank with you,” Bobby said. Dean flicked a brow but didn't comment. The day Bobby wasn't frank would be the one Dean decided to take up cross-dressing as a hobby. “You're a smart kid,” Bobby continued, oblivious of Dean's inner monologue. “So I'm sure you've figured some of this out...but Crowley being instated here right after your article published ain't a coincidence.”

Taking a sip of the Black Velvet (and Jesus, Bobby couldn't even have Wild Turkey on hand? This shit was horrible) Dean grimaced. “Hell, I figured that as soon as he swaggered through the door.” Theories were all well and good, but only crackpots and amateurs worked from hunches alone. “There a reason we're talking about this now? Any time I've tried to bring it up before you've given me the shove-off.” Something about Bobby's countenance gave him pause, and he said, “Sonofabitch. You have proof?”

Smug, Bobby replied, “I may have been able to intercept a memo or two to the effect.” Draining his glass, Bobby thumped it down with a satisfied exhalation and filled it again. “One advantage to all this email that Crowley insists on. Makes it real easy to read things maybe not specifically meant for you.”

A finger flicked a small stack of papers in Dean's direction, and he took them with a raised brow. “Intercepting company emails? What's next Bobby, corporate espionage?”

“Very funny.” Loosening the tie around his neck, Bobby said, “Paperwork says they've found ten of your safety deposit boxes. Were you ever going to tell me how deep in the shit you'd managed to place yourself, boy?”

“Hadn't planned on it,” Dean said with a glibness he didn't feel. Ten boxes wasn't that bad, all considered, but it did mean that there were only 56 left between him and certain death, which really wasn't as comforting as it could have been.

“I know Crowley has you spinning your wheels down in the basement.” Instead of exploding into a flurry of you should have told me's like Dean expected, Bobby calmly redirected the conversation. “Also know that you've been keeping an eye on things as best you can without giving rise to suspicion that you're investigating. I know that you agreed to not investigate Infernus, but hell, Dean...” Bobby's fingers flexed in the air, and Dean imagined that he was missing the cigar he'd have been chomping on in a pre-Crowley office environment. “You're going to honor the letter of your agreement with these bastards right up to your death. There's honor, and then there's just stupidity.”

“What are you suggesting, Bobby?” Dean asked, hand not holding the tumbler of whiskey tightening on the chair's armrest. “They find out I've gone back on my word, it's not just me that dies, but Sammy, too. I can't risk that.”

Bobby looked at him as if he were a particularly slow child. “So just make sure they don't find out. Hell's bells, kid, are you or aren't you the investigative journalist who single-handedly gathered enough dirt on Azazel Masters to get him put away?”

“I wouldn't call it single-handed, I did have a lot of dad's notes and—”

“Damn it, Dean!” Bobby growled, showing his frustration for the first time. “You know damn well what I mean. Why on earth are you just accepting that this is the way it's gotta be. You're not acting like the Dean I know.”

“The Dean you knew was a reckless idiot who put his brother in unnecessary danger over a vendetta that should have died with his father,” Dean spit. As soon as the words were past his lips, Dean reeled, not having realized that even a part of him felt that way until that moment.

“That really the way you feel?” Bobby asked, gruff voice softening at the edges.

Dean sighed. “Sometimes, I guess. Hadn't really thought about it.”

“You rolling over isn't going to make them leave Sam alone in the end. You do know that, right?”

Dean stared down at the whiskey in his hand and nodded. “I know, Bobby. I'm just not sure what else to do. It's like...if I pretend it's not happening, then it's not.”

“How's that been working for ya?” Bobby smirked, and Dean laughed despite himself.

“Miserably,” he admitted.

“You ready to do more than wait for the hammer to fall, boy?” Bobby asked, and Dean flicked his eyes up to the editor's.

“What are you suggesting, Bobby?” he asked again, in a completely different tone than he had earlier in their meeting.

The other man grinned in his beard. “Call Sammy and tell him you're gonna be late to dinner first,” he suggested, nudging the phone in his direction. “We might be here a while.”

“Fire Man. No, that's terrible. Pyro Boy?” With a twist of lips, the smarmy blonde man across from him threw out yet another suggestion. Castiel barely resisted the urge to groan. “No, Pyro Boy is even worse. And calling you a boy would be the grossest of injustices.”

“Have I told you lately how disturbing it is to have one's brother objectify them?”

“Adoption, my dear Cassie, makes it incest in name only,” Balthazar grinned. Castiel buried his head in his arms and let loose the groan he'd manfully suppressed earlier, causing his brother to laugh.

“I'm glad you're able to find humor in my suffering, Balthazar.”

“How could I not?” A nudge in his side told him Balthazar was jostling him with his elbow, and Castiel reluctantly lifted his head. “You make it so very easy.” When Castiel continued to stare at him balefully, Balthazar said, “Cassie, I don't know why you're so dour—this is brilliant! You, my friend, have a golden ticket to fame and fortune. Or, at the very least, to your own starring show at the circus.”

Castiel narrowed his eyes just enough to adequately express to his brother the no small amount of ill-humor he was feeling. They were sitting side-by-side in a cool, dark corner of a cafe a block away from Castiel's apartment, bacon-tomato soup-spinach sandwiches and cinnamon-vanilla coffees between them (Castiel's favorites, in his favorite place). This should have alleviated some of his sour mood but it didn't.

“I knew I shouldn't have told you anything. Damn it.” Gusting out the put-upon sigh exhaled by younger siblings everywhere, Castiel added. “I'm not going to join the circus.”

“Good,” Balthazar said firmly. “Would be a terrible pity. The food they serve at those things is atrocious.” A moment of silence passed in which Balthazar picked at his sandwich and Castiel sipped his coffee and fleetingly thought that maybe telling Balthazar about his pyrokinesis hadn't been such a terrible idea after all. Then his brother said, “So what station do you want to break the news to first? K-FOX? Or go international straight away, strike up BBC News or CNN?”

There were times when Castiel was certain Balthazar spoke in tongues. “Station?”

“Television station,” Balthazar said impatiently. Castiel's thoughts on that must have been clear on his face, because his brother hung his head and said, “Oh, you can't possibly be serious. Why on God's green fertile earth would you not want to tell as many people as possible about this? You could have fame, fortune, women throwing themselves at your feet!”

“Unwanted and false attention, paparazzi, potential dissection by a curious scientific community,” Castiel countered.

That gave Balthazar pause. “Point on the last,” he conceded. Castiel frowned as he pushed on, “But the rest, that wouldn't be so bad, would it? You could finally crawl out of your current cycle of temp jobs and unemployment. With this sort of attention, you could do anything you wanted, Cassie, get any job. You could open your own business!”

Castiel had a feeling where the conversation was going and stifled a sigh.

“What about—” Balthazar held his hands up in the air as if framing a sign. “Castiel's: The Only Restaurant in the World Where the Chef Makes Your Dinner with His Bare Hands.”

Blinking, Castiel said. “That would be a lie. I was under the impression that every chef makes food with their bare hands. It's how it's done.”

That wasn't even counting the fact that Castiel couldn't cook to save his life (hence his extreme attachment to his toasters) and Balthazar knew it. He'd suspect his brother was making fun of him if he wasn't aware of the fact that one of Balthazar's most secret, strident desires was to open a restaurant himself. He just wished the man hadn't heard of his abilities and almost immediately thought about how he could turn them to his own benefit.

Castiel had a feeling that would be happening for the rest of his life if anyone found out what he could do.

“You'd be surprised,” Balthazar rejoined jovially, but relented under Castiel's blank stare. “So the slogan needs work, but you get the picture, brother!” Balthazar was enthusiastic. “You know how many patrons you could get with such a tease? You wouldn't even have to be there every night—just go in when you feel like it, put on a bit of a floor show and you'd be adored! And of course you'd need someone there for the day-to-day drudgery—”

“Balthazar, I don't have the talent, mindset, or temperament to run a business. In case you've forgotten, my last job was as a secretary—”

“Administrative assistant,” his brother broke in helpfully. Castiel glared as he started again.

“My last job was as a secretary at a struggling ironworks company for a middle-management asshole. A job, I might add, I lost due to what was labeled 'gross mismanagement of company time and resources' and 'unsuitably crass behavior'.” The lack of reference from the same-said employer, and Castiel suspected, active bad-mouthing, although he had no way of proving that, was a large part of the reason why he was having difficulty in finding a new job. Pontiac was where he'd grown up and he loved it, but employment opportunities for someone with his education level and background were few and far between.

“You and I both know that the only reason Zachariah Adler fired you was because he is a jealous, feeble minded moron,” Balthazar declared, and as much as he'd like to believe that burst of familial loyalty, Castiel had his doubts. After all, it wasn't as if his job at Sandover Bridge and Iron had been the first he'd lost in such a manner.

Castiel set down his sandwich. “Anna was feeling me up in the supply closet, Balthazar. Any employer would have acted as Zachariah had.”

It was a months-old argument, but a sight better than talking about his strange pyro-powers. Balthazar had a gleam in his eye that told Castiel he knew exactly what his younger brother was doing with the redirection but decided to humor him anyways.

“Any other employer is not your cousin,” Balthazar said pointedly. “Family shouldn't go around firing family. And also, if that were true then why wasn't dear sweet Anna fired as well, hmm?” Setting his empty coffee mug aside, Balthazar tutted. “Why you've remained friends with her after this latest fiasco I have no idea. How many jobs has she managed to help you lose now? Three? Four?”

Six, Castiel thought to himself, if you include this one. Usually his best friend felt so guilty about whatever-it-was that transpired to get him fired from their jobs-of-the-moment that she promptly quit as well. They've been working at the same employers since Anna followed him to his first day at work at the Pontiac Public Pool and gotten hired on the spot for the way she'd looked in her swimsuit. Which honestly had put Castiel a bit out, because he'd had to go through two interviews and a swimming test before they'd hired him, but he was glad to have a friend there with him, so he kept his mouth shut.

It went in a pattern: Castiel would get a job, Anna would apply to the same place afterwards and invariably get hired. Anna would then engage in some sort of crazed behavior which would result in Castiel getting fired. Their first job at the pool ended when she had been convinced him to let several of her friends in after hours, forgetting that it was the local senior citizen's monthly midnight swim. At the bookstore in college, it had been for 'loaning' her a new copy of a textbook she swore she only needed for a quick reference and had returned full of highlighter marks and red-ink notes, which he likely would have been able to fudge his way around if she hadn't brightly chirped 'Thanks for sneaking me this book, Castiel! Do you want me to put it back in the new section?' in front of their mutual boss. At the radio station where they sold ad space, it had been for accidentally turning his mic to 'on air' when Anna had goaded him into mocking what one of their advertisers wanted for their message...

It wasn't that Anna was mean-spirited or malicious in any of the actions that seemed to result in Castiel's unemployment. Things just seemed to sort of happen when she was around. Perhaps, he mused, she brought of the worst in him, but that was hardly her fault. It was Castiel's own, for allowing her to tug him along in her insane plots in the first place.

This time, he'd insisted that Anna stay at Sandover, finally winning the argument between them that maybe, just maybe, they just weren't meant to work together, despite childhood pacts made to the contrary. Feeling a blush crawl up his neck, Castiel replied, “She'd just had her heart stomped on by that reporter. She wasn't thinking clearly.”

“So our Miss Milton's response to a brush off from a reporter—one who she didn't even properly know, mind you, but was set up with, and after one bloody date made composite images of their imaginary children like a bunny boiler, fellow dodged a bullet on that one, never calling her again, if you ask me—was to shove you into a supply closet and rip open your shirt?” Balthazar pinched the bridge of his nose. “I thought you both agreed you were better off as friends after your junior prom—you know, the one where she ditched you for the chance to lose her virginity to the quarterback?”

“As I said,” Castiel reiterated, blushing fiercely. “she wasn't thinking clearly.” He was saved from whatever Balthazar would have thought was a suitable reply by the smell of smoke and the realization that his shirt had caught fire around the collar. Again.

“Cas...you have...erm...” Balthazar gestured to his neck; his eyes were almost perfectly round.

“Embarrassment-based outbursts are difficult to control,” Castiel muttered, tapping it out with the palm of his hand while surreptitiously looking around to see if anyone noticed. Luckily, the other patrons seemed more concerned about their coffees than the people around them.

Balthazar laughed hysterically, and was still laughing even after he settled their tab and hustled them out of the cafe.

“Castiel?”

He could feel himself moving in slow-motion horror towards the female voice that called out his name. Balthazar tried to keep Castiel from turning around, but Cas had never been one to take silent cues well, and slipped his brother's tugging arm.

“Oh, it is you.”

Meg was smiling, wide and freely, the corners of her eyes crinkling in her pleasure. Castiel did not return the smile.

“Meg,” he acknowledged.

“What's the matter, angel face? You don't look happy to see me.”

“That's because I'm not.”

“Well,” Balthazar clapped his hands once, temporarily disrupting the tension. “Before this gets any more awkward, I'm going to leave.”

“Baltha—” Castiel tried to grab at his brother, but with a jaunty wave he turned on his heel and virtually flew away.

“Ooh.” Meg shivered melodramatically. “Abandoned to my nefarious clutches. Whatever shall you do, Cassie?”

Dryly, Castiel said. “Leave.” Moving to do just that, he was stopped by Meg's hand on his shoulder.

“Actually, I was hoping...both of us here, running into each other this way...maybe we could talk.”

“There is nothing you could possibly have to say that would interest me, Meg.”

“Look, Clarence—I'm sorry, okay?” Meg wheedled, saying the words he thought she'd never say to him.

She'd sound more convincing, he thought, if she was able to eliminate the slight trace of amusement from her words. That, and if she wasn't using the nickname she'd dubbed him with; in Castiel's opinion, she'd lost her right to such familiarity. Something about his body language must have given at least part of his thoughts away, because she frowned, a thin line forming between her brows.

“I really am sorry,” she said again, and the sincerity she'd been lacking before was suddenly there. “You wouldn't understand if I tried to explain, and—” Meg cut herself off. “You know what? It doesn't matter.” The new smile, when it came, was brittle around the edges. “Will you at least consider it?” Trying to press the slip of paper she'd been brandishing about since cornering him into his hand, she said, “Call this number? The job market is difficult enough, and with your work history...”

“Meg...” he sighed. Pity from a beautiful woman was never flattering, less so when it came from an ex in the middle of a public street. He wondered how many people were staring, and why he cared.

Pursing her lips, Meg said, “Castiel,” as if he was being an unreasonable child. “I just know how you are when you're not working. You...withdraw.” Shifting uncomfortably, she added. “Between not working and what happened between us...” Meg side-stepped the entire messy break-up with surprising delicacy. Heaving a sigh large enough to shift the leather jacket across her shoulders, she said. “I know you. How long has it been since you've talked to anyone other than your family or Anna?”

“I don't see how that's any of your concern.” The anymore was left off the end of the sentence but still hung heavy in the air between them.

Not surprisingly, Meg got angry, which in a lot of ways was a relief to Castiel, because it made her more like the woman he'd known and less like the contrite, apologetic near-stranger who'd been speaking to him for twenty minutes. “Fine, I get it, Castiel. I fucked up! You don't have to keep rubbing it in my face like a puppy that made a mess on the floor. I said I'm sorry and I'm trying to do you a favor, you stupid bastard. Even if you don't want anything to do with me, take the god-damned number and call them, for fuck's sake.” She shoved the paper with the number on it in the front pocket of his trench coat.

“Don't you have to have a degree for a position like what you're recommending I apply for?” he asked quietly. Some of the vitriol leached out of Meg's jerky movements, and she stepped away with a less-stormy countenance.

“There you go again, Clarence. Never giving yourself enough credit.” The fondness in her voice caused him to flush. Meg cleared her throat. “Crowley has a bit of a soft spot for me, though he'll deny it if you ask him. When you call tell him that you're the guy I was telling him about. And don't,” she warned, “settle for speaking to his secretary or the other editor or anyone who is not Crowley. He's the only one that really matters, okay?”

Pride made Castiel want to pull the paper out of his pocket, wad it up, and shove it down Meg's throat, but he knew this was his best chance to get a job before he was reduced to begging his absentee father for more guilt-based money. Between that and accepting a different type of guilt-based favor from an ex-girlfriend, Meg's suggestion seemed like the lesser of the two evils. He hung his head.

“I'll call him.”

Slim arms wrapped him in a sudden hug, and Castiel found his arms full of woman. He closed his eyes briefly and allowed himself to enjoy the feel of her curls against his cheek and neck before reluctantly releasing her. Despite her abrasive personality, catty commentary on his apartment and clothing, and fiendishly unpicky sexual promiscuity, Castiel had been drawn to Meg for moments just like the one he found himself in. The brief snatches of time when she'd allowed glimpses of what lurked deep, deep down inside. He'd always hoped that he'd be the one she'd allow to truly see her all the time, but now Castiel knew that no one would ever know Meg in that manner. He'd mostly made peace with it.

“I'm glad, Castiel,” she whispered as she let him go. Her lips twisted at one corner as she added. “Take care of yourself, okay?”

Castiel nodded. Meg turned away, but then paused, her hands finding their way into the back pocket of her jeans the way they always did whenever Meg was feeling shy or trying to be deliberately coy. The problem was, Castiel has always had problems differentiated which was which, so the motion put him on edge.

“If you want...I mean, don't feel like you have to or anything, but...if you want, you could give me a call sometime. Let me know how things work out.”

“Sure,” Castiel found himself saying, knowing even as the words passed his lips that he had no intention of calling her. Meg's resulting smile was brilliant, though, and made him feel slightly guilty about his decision. But only slightly.

“See ya, then,” she said, ducking her head.

Castiel did not say good-bye as he watched her turn and walk away.

Part Two>>