Alchemy, Pt. 2
Oct. 20th, 2011 12:02 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
wanderamaranth<<Part One
Crowley was a bit of a surprise. While he'd heard that the new co-editor of the Pontiac Daily Gazette had a fondness for the finer things in life, he'd not expected the level of extravagant luxury that greeted him when he opened the office door. It reminded him uncomfortably of his father's study, all dark gleaming wood, shiny chrome, and lack of personal mementos.
“Ah, you must be Castiel. Please, have a seat.”
A well-manicured hand gestured to one of the two low chairs on the opposite side of Crowley. The blinds that had covered every other window Castiel had passed when walking through the Daily Gazette's were open here, and he could see across the breadth of the city to the rolling farmland beyond. While glad he'd listened to the inner voice that had suggested he wear a suit to this interview, Castiel still found himself wanting to fidget under the man's scrutiny. He had the unsettling impression that in the few moments he'd been in the office, his weight and measure had been taken, the things that made him tick considered, and a decision rendered. Chafing as that notion was, Castiel held his tongue on the matter and said politely, “Thank you for seeing me today, Mr. Crowley.”
“Just Crowley,” the editor said, sitting down himself. The wide red tie he wore under the otherwise unrelieved black of his suit was so snug that Castiel wondered how he was able to breathe, but Crowley lounged in his chair as if he were in a bathrobe and slippers, so he supposed it must not bother the man.
“Crowley, then,” Castiel nodded.
“I'm going to cut right to it, Castiel,” Crowley said. “You want it, the job is yours.”
Blinking, Castiel couldn't help the question that crept into his voice when he said,“Sir?”
Waving a hand, Crowley rolled his eyes and said, “Look, you and I both know the only reason you're in my office is because of Meg Masters. Yes?” Lifting his brows, he gave Castiel a pointed look. “I happen to owe the bloody bitch a favor, and she indicated that hiring you would settle it. So congratulations, you're hired.”
“But...I...” Castiel distinctly felt as though he was missing a large piece of the picture, a sensation that he hated.
“Don't have any experience or training and a miserable work history? I'm aware,” Crowley said dryly. “A favor is still a favor, though, and she called it in for you. So you can either accept it and be grateful or tell me to bugger off and go on your merry way, but whichever way you choose I've still fulfilled my end of the bargain.”
Fighting the taste of bile at the back of his throat, Castiel admitted, “I do need the employment.”
“Wonderful.” Lifting his cell phone, Crowley snapped a picture of Castiel's startled face. A few taps of the screen later and a whirring sound emanated from inside his desk. “I took the liberty of having your introductory packet prepared before our meeting.” He set down the phone and picked up a thick manila folder, handing it across with casual boredom. “Your ID badge will be finished in a moment. In the meantime, why don't you go take that out to the sitting room and,” Crowley paused to fish a pen out of the cup on his desk, clicking it open before passing it over, “sign all the tedious paperwork, hmm?”
“I...” Courtesy told Castiel he should be thanking the man across from him, but logic told him that it apparently wouldn't have mattered if he'd been convicted of a major felony or was homeless with a terrible addiction problem, he would have been hired either way, and thus courtesy was technically unnecessary.
Leaning forward on his elbows, Crowley said, “Masters only got you in the door, darling. You're still going to have to work. I suggest you start by filling out that packet.” When Castiel remained seated, still feeling off-center and confused, Crowley tapped his forefinger on his chin and added, “Just so you know, I dislike having to repeat myself.”
Startled, Castiel picked up the folder and accepted the pen. “Of course,” he said. “I'll just take this and—” He gestured to the door and the sitting room where he'd waited to meet Crowley beyond. At the editor's raised brows, which seemed to say quite clearly Why are you talking instead of doing, Castiel stood and shuffled out of the room, feeling as if he was in way, way over his head and not having any clue what to do about it.
He cursed and swiveled his chair around, ready to berate whoever it was that had snuck up on him. The basement hardly ever got casual visitors, unless you counted Sam trudging down to drag Dean out to lunch every day, which Dean didn't. Anything he would have said died in his throat, though, when he saw Bobby glaring at him, the headphones clutched in one meaty fist. A slight, rumpled man stood beside him, looking from the computer, to Dean, to Bobby and back again with some bemusement.
“Dean,” Bobby hissed, exasperation clear. Shoving the ear buds back at him, Bobby jerked his head towards the stranger. “This here is your new basement-buddy Castiel Novak. He's gonna be doing exactly what you do, so congratulations. Your work load has been cut in half. He was just hired by Crowley.” The older man raised his eyebrows in a significant manner.
“Right,” Dean said, meeting Bobby's eyes and nodding. Working on his side-project during his hours at the Gazette had just become exponentially more difficult. Damn it. Pushing his chair back, he stood and held out a hand. Might as well at least try to be friendly with the guy, even if he was a mole set up to keep an eye on him. He was going to be stuck in the same room with the guy for eight-odd hours a day, after all.
“Dean Winchester,” he said, making sure to smile in the way that got him out of jaywalking tickets and earned him free drinks at bars. Meeting the other dude's eyes, he thought, Blue. Like a toddler who was just introduced to the words for colors and felt the need to announce the color of everything, like it wasn't painfully obvious and he was doing his own brain a big favor by loudly chirping the shade of the guy's eyes to the rest of his mind.
“Dean Winchester,” the guy repeated, head tilted to one side as he slowly shook Dean's hand. “Are you...are you perhaps the Dean who entertained Anna for an evening several months ago?”
“Uh...” Dean stuttered, unsure of how to respond. Thing was, even though he was currently living out of a motel room with his brother and was half-convinced Infernus wouldn't just say to hell with it and take him out, deal or no deal, Dean went out. A lot. It wasn't uncommon for chicks to walk up to him and start talking to him as if they knew him after either recognizing him or his name, but it was a totally new thing to have a guy do it. For all he knew Castiel was this Anna's brother or cousin or hell, boyfriend, and that was exactly what he didn't need. A plant by Crowley who just so happened to be involved with some chick Dean'd picked up months ago somewhere. Hell, sometimes he barely remembered their names a few weeks afterward, let alone...
Bobby snorted as if knowing exactly what Dean's predicament was and slapped him on the shoulder. “Have fun,” he said. A large part of Dean wanted to call him back, and he watched the editor go with a sense of near-desperate discomfort. Turning back to his new co-worker, Dean managed to say, “Uh, yeah, Anna, um...”
“Oh, of course.” The guy—Castiel, Dean told himself, had to start learning his name—tilted his chin and said, “You probably don't remember her as well as she remembers you. From what Anna told me, you made quite an impression on her, but were more reluctant than she to engage in a follow-up date.”
The word date triggered a memory for Dean: bright red hair, fair skin, wide smile, voracious in the backseat of his Impala, but nothing special enough that he'd felt the need for another go. Wincing at the callousness of the words even in the safety of his own head, he said brightly, “Oh, no, I remember Anna. Anna Milton, right?” She was memorable in that she had been an actual date instead of a hook-up, even if the night had ended in the same way as if she had been. They'd been set up by Sam's girlfriend Ruby, who'd insisted that they'd be perfect for each other.
“Yes, that's right.” New guy seemed pleased. “She will be happy to hear that you remember her.”
“Guh,” Dean intelligently replied. Not that Anna hadn't been fun, but Dean really didn't want to actually date someone, and he knew how women could get if they heard that you remembered them, and—
A twinkle in the little dude's eyes gave him away as he said, “Or if you'd rather I could just not mention it?”
Releasing a breath he didn't know he'd been holding, Dean pointed a finger at him and said, “Not cool to do that to a guy, Cas. Not cool at all.” The nickname rolled off Dean's tongue with the breaking of the odd tension that had hung in the room since Castiel's arrival and just felt right.
The other man seemed to agree, if the softening around his eyes and slight parting of his lips was any indication. Castiel didn't seem like the sort of person to be overly demonstrative with his emotions or feelings, but that suited Dean just fine. After years of dealing with his father, he was able to decipher the undercurrents of a private man's behavior and facial expressions well enough, thought it might take some time to learn all of the minute subtleties of Cas'. He found himself not minding, even though the guy was certainly hired by Crowley for reasons other than the fact they needed more staff (there was so little for Dean to do already it was ridiculous, let alone hiring another person) Dean found himself wanting to like him.
Dangerous, that.
“So,” Dean cleared his throat, putting on what professional demeanor he possessed as easily as slipping on his leather jacket. “Why don't I show you what you're going to be doing? I'm going to warn you now, I pretty much have everything already completed for today, but I can at least show you the basics.”
Dean's behavior must have tipped Cas off, because if Dean had thought he appeared closed-off before it was nothing to how he was after visibly withdrawing under the force of Dean's sudden frostiness. “Of course,” he said stiffly, causing Dean to bite back an apology or a sigh, he wasn't sure which.
Their working relationship went as such for several weeks: Cas arrived ten minute early and swept everything in order, evenly splitting the blotters and obituaries to be typed up into two piles, one for the each of them. Dean came in anywhere from five to fifteen minutes late with a coffee and a baked good (usually a turnover of some kind, but sometimes a muffin or scone) and suspiciously flipped through both folders, as if thinking Castiel was either keeping the interesting ones from him or trying to stick him with the bulk of the work. After checking things over and nodding his agreement at the distribution of assignments (because as far as Dean could tell there was no pattern to what he got versus what Castiel set aside for himself other than he seemed to be making sure that their workloads were even) they would each sit in front of their company desktops and type until lunch. When Castiel would pull his brown bagged meal out of his desk, Dean would take off to meet Sam somewhere. He'd get back just as Cas was finishing up (and seriously, was he the slowest eater in the history of ever or something?) and they'd each turn back to the computers. Dean wasn't certain what Castiel did after that, because their work was usually completed well before the day was over, but he didn't ask, either. He did his thing, Castiel did his, and that was that. They went home at the end of the day with mutual nods of the head and sometimes a brief, “See you tomorrow,” but that was the extent of it.
It wasn't that Dean wasn't curious about his workmate. There were only so many things Dean could focus on at one time, though, and the effort it would take to become buddies with the new guy while still maintaining enough distance that Castiel didn't learn about his side-investigation simply seemed like too much effort. Maybe Dean wouldn't have felt that way if Cas was a bit more approachable. Sure, a lot of the time he just seemed like an unassuming nerdy guy in ill-fitting suits and a Bogart overcoat, but there were moments when he'd catch Castiel looking at him as if he could see through him straight down into the core of himself. Those looks made Dean want to confide in him, made him want to invite Castiel to grab a few beers and maybe a burger and Dean knew, just knew, that if he ever let the other man into his life to that extent, he'd end up telling him everything. And that was simply a risk that Dean could not take. He knew Castiel had been hired by Crowley, and that should be more than enough to make him untrustworthy, despite whatever Dean's instincts wanted him to believe.
Just like all things, this too had to change.
“Be careful, boy.”
The voice was pitched low in an obvious attempt at discretion. Likely Castiel wouldn't have heard them if they'd been speaking in normal tones, but there was something about sibilant whispers that snagged his attention. He didn't want to be caught eavesdropping, but all his work for the day had been finished several hours prior, and Castiel was bored, and a little touch of office intrigue, especially as it seemed to involve his enigmatic co-worker Dean, sounded like the perfect antidote. Castiel expected to hear something about Dean's latest sexual conquest. It was something of legend in the Daily Gazette's offices, apparently, and although Castiel didn't understand the appeal of the concept itself, he did enjoy listening to the ways in which the stories grew and morphed until they barely resembled the original tale. Which, yes, he supposed should be beyond his concern, but once again, Castiel was often bored in the afternoons when he and Dean's work was completed, and he'd found himself more than once connected to the inner office gossip/instant message chain, affectionately called The Host, while waiting for the time until he could go home to come. Castiel wasn't sure if this was a religious or science fiction reference, but he didn't particularly care either way,
All this is to say that Castiel had, to his surprise, become an office gossip, confirming or refuting the wild rumors that flew around about his co-worker, and the whispers hinted that he was about to hear some prime information. It wasn't the type of reporting he'd been expecting to be doing when Meg had pushed the paper into his hand several weeks ago, but it seemed to please upper-management who were just as involved in the gossip as everyone else except, it seemed, for Dean himself. What he passed on seemed mostly silly trivia (from: b.rosen to: c.novak: rachel says D came in with hickey behind l.ear y/n?) which anyone else with eyes could see as well as he, so the guilt Castiel felt over talking about Dean was minor.
What he heard in response to Bobby's concern was not the idle swagger of a young man with an upcoming one-night stand on the brain, though.
“Bobby, when am I not careful? C'mon.”
“Right now you're not being careful! What are you thinking, even having your laptop here with you when Novak's in the same room with you, let alone pulling it out and—”
Upon hearing his name Castiel fought the urge to become very silent and still, which would have given away his attention. Instead he forced his finger to continue clicking his mouse even if his mind was no longer even peripherally on the placement of minesweeper bombs.
“All this is about Cas? Really?” He heard Dean snort before asserting, “Dude's harmless, Bobby.”
“Oh, it's Cas now, is it?” Bobby replied dryly. “I'm sorry to tell you, Dean, but your harmless co-worker there has been steadily relaying your every move to the Host, right down to what you've been snacking on at your desk.”
For the first time since he'd begun responding to the insistent y/n messages, Castiel felt a flush of shame sweep through him. Bobby made what he was doing sound so dirty, and his disgust on the heels of Dean's casual dude's harmless made Castiel slightly ill.
Dean made an unattractive choking sound and Castiel was certain Dean's eyes were on the back of his head. He fought the urge to turn around to confirm.
“No offense, son,” Bobby said, tone gentler. “But maybe harmless is just the impression Novak wants you to have of him.”
Dean was very quiet, so quiet that Castiel thought that maybe they'd moved their conversation elsewhere. Part of him hoped this was the case, because it was fairly awful to hear yourself talked about in such a way. Another, larger part of him hoped they hadn't, though, because if they had then he wouldn't be able to hear just what it was that they were both so concerned about him overhearing and reporting to the Host, which suddenly felt important in personal terms.
When Dean finally said, “You're right. I should know better,” Castiel let out his breath, very slowly. “And I knew the guy was involved with the Host, but I just didn't...hell, I thought it was just a time waster thing, not that he...”
“Just—” Bobby interrupted. “Don't be so buddy-buddy with him.”
Buddy-buddy? Castiel thought incredulously. Dean and he barely talked outside of work-related subjects. Conversations that didn't start with Are you finished with the Johnson obit or something similar usually revolved around things like I'm getting a soda from the machine, you want one or lovely weather we're having, isn't it? It struck Castiel how very alone Dean must really be if those small interactions were considered friendly by someone who knew Dean as well as Castiel knew Bobby did.
“What you're working on is too important, Dean,” Bobby continued, unaware of the turmoil his words were churning up inside of Castiel. “And the consequences if you get caught...”
“I know,” Dean snapped back churlishly. Softer, he repeated, “I know. Sorry, Bobby.”
The co-editor audibly shifted on his feet before replying, “What's the plan for tonight?”
“Me and Sammy'll be down in the warehouse district. Contact said that Lugosi's supposed to be pushing a shipment through, and I'd like to get pictures.”
“Dean,” Bobby said warningly.
“We'll be careful,” Dean insisted.
“You'd better.” Clearing his throat to resume speaking in a normal tone, Bobby said, “Back to work, boy,” and Dean laughed; Castiel could tell how forced the sound was.
“You bet, sir.”
Castiel pulled up a police blotter he'd already edited three times and attempted to look engrossed. Dean passed behind him without uttering a single word.
Castiel fought his rising sense of unease for the rest of the day. When Sam Winchester came down to the basement to retrieve Dean for the evening, Cas was uncertain if he should feel relief or trepidation. This could have been decided for him, he thought, if he'd known exactly what Dean was planning on doing down in the warehouse district that Bobby Singer was so concerned—no, frightened—about.
He'd been so at-odds with himself that he'd ignored the majority of IM's that came in, excluding one inquiring as to his state of being from Becky (to: c.novak: u ok?) to which he gave a brief response (to: b. rosen: yes, simply feeling unwell). After that the IM's tapered off, and Castiel found himself grateful that Becky had apparently spread the word that there'd be no gossip coming from the basement that for the rest of the day.
The idea of Dean in a dangerous situation, and that he'd been putting himself into dangerous situations that Castiel could have unwittingly been making even more dangerous for him by telling the Host about whatever Dean had casually mentioned he was doing in the evenings made it impossible for Castiel to focus on anything for any length of time.
One memory in particular played through his mind of the first Friday after Castiel had started. Dean had told him with an easy grin, “Me and my brother are going to the Distillery District for beers,” and Castiel had half-wondered if Dean were inviting him along, too. But Castiel had just nodded, told Dean to enjoy himself, and turned back to his computer, sending out the message D says going to Distillery tonight without thinking twice about it. The following day Dean had limped in, giving some excuse about slipping in a parking garage, and Castiel had accepted that as the truth.
Now he wondered if what he'd passed along had caused Dean's injury, and the very idea shook him to his very core. Was that the reason he'd been placed in the basement all along? To spy on Dean Winchester, to let others know what he was doing? Castiel was not unaware of Dean's reputation before being hired at the Gazette. The story of how he'd managed to get old man Azazel arrested was almost as big of a story as the arrest itself.
That, and the fact that he'd been dating the criminal's estranged daughter at the time.
With that thought came the revelation of just how naive he'd been when taking the job that Meg had laid out for him on a platter. Meg suggesting him for a job and him walking in on her reference when the newspaper wasn't even soliciting for employment must have seemed like the cheap solution to the problem of keeping Dean in line. Just like the story of Dean's expose and the fallout, tales of how the man had been summarily demoted after Fergus Crowley signed on as co-editor of the paper reached Castiel, this time through Anna's rapturously delivered reports on Dean's bravery in the face of adversity.
“What am I going to do?” Castiel asked the air. He wished he were able to simply quit and walk away, but he now had doubts that it would be that simple, and besides, in a lot of ways he liked his job. Well, what he had thought was his job, at least. Typing up bland reports was dull, yes, but Castiel enjoyed speaking to the families of the bereaved and gathering details to make personalized obituaries, feeling that in his own way he was helping them cope with the deaths of their loved ones. He also enjoyed speaking to their contacts at the police station, brief as those conversations or emails usually were, because the officers and secretaries were at least polite, and often included comments in the margins of the blotter notes for his and Dean's amusement. Never anything that they could print, of course, but occasionally something that would make one or the other of them laugh. Even though the only co-worker he had daily direct contact with was Dean, working at the Daily Gazette made Castiel feel like he was a part of something bigger.
Plus it gave him something to concentrate on other than his pyrokinesis. He'd only been allowing himself to begin to think he might be able to use his information and contacts from the paper to figure out a way to use his abilities to help people, but now...
On yet another hand, having money to, you know, keep his apartment was good, too.
Castiel was very, very conflicted.
“Cas?” Dean paused behind his desk, and Castiel startled. Swiveling around in his chair, he blinked up at the taller man. “You okay?” Dean asked, and the trace of concern sitting at the corners of his mouth made Castiel want to retch.
“Fine,” Castiel managed to say, and Dean nodded.
“You sounded upset,” his co-worker continued as a shadow filled their doorway. “You could, you know...if you need to...” Whatever Dean had been going to say was interrupted by Sam Winchester's voice booming across the basement, “Holy shit, is my big brother trying to offer to talk to someone about their feelings?”
“Fuck you,” Dean called over his shoulder. Snagging his leather jacket off the back of his chair, which he still stubbornly wore over his suits for reasons unknown to Castiel, Dean clapped him on the shoulder and said, “Night Cas,” as if he hadn't just been doing what Sam accused him of. The younger Winchester snorted in what Castiel thought sounded like a completely unsurprised fashion, and this was corroborated when Sam said, “Typical, Dean, so typical.”
Castiel managed a facsimile of a smile and a brief wave before Dean turned his attention back to his brother and said, “Whatever, bitch. Are you ready to go or what?”
Listening to the brothers leave while good-naturedly bickering at one another, Castiel slowly stood from his desk and began gathering his own items in preparation for leaving for the evening. Dean typically left ten to fifteen minutes earlier than technically what their shift ended at, but Cas didn't mind this. It usually gave him an opportunity to do exactly what he was doing, pick up his items at his own pace without feeling Dean's curious eyes flit over everything. The irony of Castiel being private over his admittedly not-very-personalized possessions when he'd been IM'ing their entire office about every detail of Dean struck him fully then, and Castiel found himself laughing, knowing that there was absolutely nothing funny about it whatsoever.
All items gathered, he stepped out into the hallway and pressed the button for the elevator, reassessing his original after-work plans of driving out of town to one of the abandoned farms beyond and practicing the more complicated or showy aspects of his pyrokinesis. Castiel was simply too tired by the day's mental upheavals to really give him the focus he knew he would need, so he decided to stop by the rental store, pick up a stack of cheesy movies, possibly call Anna and see if she wanted to get drunk with him while they watched them. He felt drinking and movie watching were the only activities which were likely to hold his attention that evening.
These plans feel by the wayside too when he saw a small black box on the floor. Picking it up, he saw it was a fairly new, if battered, cell phone. Swiping his thumb across the screen, he was greeted by the smiling faces of Sam and Dean Winchester, arms slung across one another's shoulders. Dean was looking upwards and squinting at the sunlight, but Sam's floppy bangs seemed to shade his eyes from the glare, as he was looking straight at the camera and grinning.
The phone he knew must be Sam's. Dean carried around an ancient silver Razr, claiming that as it still worked he really didn't see the need to buy anything else.
Castiel's relationship with cell phone technology was tenuous at best. He was able to recognize what they were, but had never felt the need to get one at all, having inclinations much closer to Dean's in regard to the devices than what Sam seemed to. He considered trying to find Dean's number in Sam's contact list and letting him know that he'd found Sam's phone, but the touch screen glowed intimidatingly and Castiel found himself worried about the possibility of irreparably damaging the device. Instead he tucked the phone into his pocket, thinking that Sam would either call the number when he realized he was missing his phone, or Castiel would give it to Dean to pass along to his brother when he next saw him.
He didn't stop to consider that being in possession of a co-worker's brother's cell phone shouldn't have prevented him from following through on his bad movies-and-drinking-with-Anna plans for the evening and instead just drove straight home.
“You seen Lugosi slithering around?”
“Seriously, Dean?” Sam sighed at his brother's impatience. “I'm right beside you. I haven't seen anything you haven't seen.” Both brothers were crouched behind a slap-dash stacked pile of rotting shipping boxes. Sam's camera was held loosely in his hand, the lens attached and flash removed, ready to be used at any moment.
“Yeah, but you're the one with the high-powered lens here. Can't you just look around with it and see what you can see?” Sam gave that exactly the answer it deserved—he said nothing, until Dean nudged him with his elbow, hard. Then he relented, saying, “No, I haven't seen Bela.” Unable to help needling Dean, he added, “If you're as sure as you said you were about her supposedly being here, we'll just have to wait it out.”
“Why do you say it that way, Sammy?” Dean hissed. “Of course I'm sure. Ava was very clear about—”
“Ava?” Sam repeated, forgoing a whisper to say the woman's name aloud in disbelief. “The same Ava you threatened into cooperating with you? The same Ava who—”
“She knows the score,” Dean insisted.
Sam snorted. “Yeah, I have a really bad feeling about this now.”
A spotlight clicked on over the brother's heads, illuminating them. “Which is what makes you the smarter Winchester. Hello Sam, Dean.”
A distressingly thin woman with yellow-blonde ringlets and painted-on eyebrows stood before them, hands on hips. She was clad in dominatrix-chic, and the six men flanking her were dressed to match. Sam had only seen her in blurry surveillance photos before, but she's unmistakable. Rumor was, she was the wife of the shadowy head of Infernus, and one of the organization's most vicious enforcers, to boot. Dean beat Sam to the punch by spitting her name between his teeth.
“Lilith.”
“Guilty,” she grinned.
There was no point in them cowering behind the flimsy cover of the boxes with the way the light was hitting them. Sam rose to his feet first, checking the urge to help Dean stand; his brother wouldn't appreciate the gesture, especially in their current situation.
“Bela was never supposed to be here, was she?” Sam said, and Lilith clapped in glee.
“Ooh, point for the boy. You're right, Sammy. Poor little Abby—that was Bela's real name, by the by, not that it matters now—unfortunately was unable to maintain her previous success rate and her position within the organization was terminated.”
Sam and Dean exchanged glances. Flipping his attention back to Lilith, Dean growled. “You had her killed.”
With a faux sympathetic grimace, Lilith stage-whispered to Sam, “He's lucky he has his looks, isn't he?” Expression sliding into a smirk, she said, “Well, he was lucky he had his looks, at least.”
A dark silhouette stepped up behind Lilith. Claw like fingers curled around one of her shoulders, and a long, narrow face appeared beside just above the hand.
“Oh, is this him? My, Lilith, you do give me the best toys.” Sam didn't recognize the man but he could clearly tell he was bad news.
Dean took a big step back. “We had an agreement.”
“We did,” Lilith agreed. “As long as you didn't investigate our business, we left you and your dear sweet brother here alone. But alas...” Lilith grinned, her teeth sharp-edged and gleaming, “here you are. Investigating. Tsk, tsk, Dean. In my mind, that makes our agreement null and void.” Rubbing her cheek against the whiskers of the man hovering next to her, she said, “Wouldn't you agree, Alistair?”
“I do,” the man said. “I do agree, indeed.”
“You set me up!” Dean shouted, moving forward. Sam put his hand on his brother's chest. Despite Dean's well-earned reputation as a brawler and his own advantage of height over several of Lilith's flunkies, they were still outnumbered four to one.
“Don't be tiresome, Dean. I wouldn't have been able to set you up if you hadn't been digging in the first place.” Blinking, long and slow, she added. “While my husband may be content to allow his men to slowly plod along and find the locations of your safety deposit boxes, I find myself growing tired of the chase. I'd like to go on with my life.” She spreads her hands. “Hence this. Boys?”
As one, the six thugs accompanying Lilith and Alistair surged forward. Three tackled Dean, driving him to the ground. Sam was just able to dance out of the reach of the three who dove for him.
“Sam, run!” Dean shouted. He wasn't going to listen to his brother. Sam was going to go for Dean, to try to help him despite the odds against them, but Alistair reached around and grabbed Dean by his necklace, and the hired muscle that had been after Sam reversed course and assisted him and the three other men already holding Dean down. Lilith stepped forward, .45 gleaming in her hand.
“Dean!” Sam cried as his brother thrashed in the henchmen's grip. Lilith lifted the gun and trained it between his eyes.
“Oh, so cute,” Lilith cooed. “But there's nothing you can do for big brother now.” She cocked the gun, nose wrinkling with the size of her smile. “He's Alistair's. You, on the other hand...you can obey your brother's dying wish and run.”
“Run, Sammy!” Dean screamed. “Run!” Somehow, Dean was able to slip the goon's grasp, and he was off running, just a few steps behind Sam.
So Sam ran.
Lilith's laughter bounced off the warehouse's high metal ceilings.
“After them, boys,” Lilith said, and the clatter of feet behind the Winchesters told them they obeyed.
It took a depressingly short amount of time for the Infernus men to find them. Dean was crouched behind yet another rotting crate in an adjoining abandoned warehouse, breathing heavily.
“We can't keep doing this. They just have us running circles,” he panted.
“So what do you suggest, Dean?” Sam wheezed, with an I'm-open-for-any-suggestions, genius attitude.
“We have to split up.”
“What?” Sammy predictably yelped. “No fucking way, Dean. You're hurt.”
Dean had been hoping Sam hadn't noticed the way he was favoring his right knee, twisted when Lilith's six thugs rode him to the ground like a birthday pony.
“Exactly,” Dean pointed out in a hushed tone. “I'm hurt. You're not. I'm slowing you down.”
“Dean—”
“Don’t argue with me on this, Sam. We have to split up. We both have better odds separated than together, you know that. I'll draw them off, and you go and get help.”
“No one is going to be willing to interfere with this,” Sam whispered back, and damn, sometimes Dean wished his baby brother wasn't quite so quick on the uptake.
“Bobby'll know what to do,” Dean improvised, silently thinking that the editor wouldn't be able to afford to get involved, either, not when it would risk his wife Ellen and stepdaughter Jo. But he needed Sam to believe it long enough for Dean to get himself caught. Long enough for Sam to get away.
Swallowing hard, Sam grasped the back of Dean's neck and tugged him close, pressing their foreheads together the way they did as children, sharing secrets in the back of their father's car. “You get somewhere and you hide, Dean. You're not gonna be able to run far on that knee, so it's your best chance until I get back here.”
“Fine,” Dean agreed. “That's a good idea.” Privately, Dean thought he wouldn't have the chance to hide, but he didn't say that.
The beam of a flashlight over the heads and the quiet shuffle of soft-soled shoes told Dean that their pursuers were close. “Okay, if we're gonna do this, we gotta do it now,” he whispered. Now before they both got caught. Now before Dean blew the only chance for his little brother to get away. Now before Sam realized just what Dean was really planning.
“On the count of three. I'll go for the door, and you hide.” It was a perversion of hide-and-seek, of all the times Sammy had begged him to play the game with him, complaining that Dean was always the seeker, wondering why Sam had to be the one to hide. Maybe Sam believed their roles were finally reversed, Dean thought, and the idea gave him no joy, because even now he had no intention of hiding.
Nodding as he counted, Sam whispered, “One....two...”
On three, Sam burst from behind the crate, startling the henchmen who'd been practically on top of them and still unaware of their presence. Shoving them aside, he booked it for the door. Dean watched this as he slowly stood up, hands in the air in the universal gesture for 'I Surrender'. Predictably, the goons swarmed around him, the guns that they'd failed to pull out earlier trained on him until he was surrounded by a semi-circle of certain death. Sam chose that moment, right before he was to open the door and escape, to hesitate and look back. Dean cursed as his brother faltered. If he hesitated, one of the dim-bulbs trained on him could turn, point, and—
“Goddamnit, run, Sammy!”
For a brief flash of a second, their eyes met, and Dean was convinced Sam wasn't going to do it That he was going to do something incredibly brave and incredibly stupid and turn around and try to save him, but thankfully (thank fucking God) Sam read the terror in his eyes for what it really was: fear for Sam, not for himself. With a final, tense nod, filled with words he didn't have the time to say, Sam turned back and ran out the door and into the night.
As if on cue, Lilith and Alistair appeared, side by side, out of the murky shadows. Dean thanked God that his supposition was right, that he had been their main target, and when distracted by his surrender they'd allowed Sam to slip away.
“Take him,” Lilith said to Alistair, cool and calm with the butt of her gun sticking out of the waistband of her pants and what looked like a fresh coat of lip gloss on her mouth. The entire night had been a fucking game to her, and Dean burned with the desire to destroy her. Not just see her locked in jail or dead, the way he'd wanted with Azazel, but actually destroyed. No matter what happened to Dean, if by some miracle Sam was able to get him help, or (the more likely scenario) he died in this filthy place, his idealistic brother would never see the world in quite the same way again, and to Dean there was no greater crime.
“I don't care how long it takes you, Alistair, where you take him or what you do to him, but I want to know where every one of those safety deposit boxes are, and any other secret stashes our naughty boy here might have created,” the woman drawled, unaware or uncaring of the fact that Dean was fervently hoping for her sudden and grisly death. The reality of what she was saying didn't sink in until he turned his attention to her favored goon.
Alistair's smile curled on the edges, reminding Dean of nothing so much as the Grinch as he was devising the plan to steal Christmas. The man pulled out a knife and, licking his lips, ran the flat side along his own jaw line, looking at Dean like he was the roast-Who-beast.
Not goon, Dean corrected himself, fear for himself overriding his senses for the first time since the terror of a night had begun as he realized exactly what Alistair's role in the Infernus organization was, what his presence there meant. Torturer.
“Don't worry, Lily. When I'm done with our boy here you won't ever have to worry about him again.”
“Excellent,” Lilith nodded, clearly pleased. “I'll leave you to your work then. Gentlemen,” she nodded towards the men still pining Dean to the ground. “Help Alistair get set up, destroy that camera,” she nodded to Sam's abandoned Nikon, left behind in his flight from the warehouse, “and then you're free to go for the night.”
“You don't want us to stand guard?” one of the duller thugs asked. Lilith's nostrils flared as her hand twitched towards her gun. Dean was convinced she was a sneeze away from pulling it, but she closed her eyes tightly and flexed her hand instead and said, “I gave you the rest of night off, Brady. When I give you something you say thank you and do not question it further.”
“Yes, ma'am.”
“Good.” Looking at the henchmen, she said, “Get him tied up and then leave. Alistair.” Her voice took on a sickeningly sweet tone as she said the man's name.
“Yes, Lily?”
“Have a good night.”
The man's eyes flashed dark. His gaze was no longer on Lilith, but on Dean. Reaching out a hand, he caressed the side of Dean's face. “Oh, I intend to,” he said. “I certainly intend to.”
“Truss him,” Alistair said to the men. Two stepped forward—one to tie Dean's hands together, and another with a dark sack that he slipped over Dean's head.
A body pressed up against his side, somehow radiating cold rather than warmth. “You and I, we're going to have so much fun together,” Alistair hissed. Dean couldn't stop the full body shudder that shook him.
“Boys, let's move this party, shall we?”
Sam's phone rang at a quarter to midnight. Castiel had been dozing in his armchair, the phone on the end table beside him. Groggily he reached for it and held it in front of his face. A close-up snapshot of Dean's face flashed onto the screen along with the helpful phrase “Dean calling”. Biting his lip, Castiel found the “push to connect” button and tapped it.
“Hello, Dean.”
“Cas?” Dean sounded bewildered, and he was breathing heavily.
Nonplussed, Castiel replied, “Yes, Dean?” He didn't know why he was confused by Dean's response to his voice. After all, he was aware that he'd found Sam's cell phone, Dean was not. It only made sense that he'd be confused by Castiel answering his brother's phone under the circumstances.
“Cas, what the—oh, fuck.”
“Dean?” Castiel tried again, growing worried. Dean hadn't just sounded confused in that moment. He'd sounded like he was in pain. “Are you...what's going on?” When the other man didn't respond right away, he said urgently, “Dean?”
Harsh laughter vibrated across the line. “God damnit...I don't know why you have Sam's phone or if you're working for these sonovabitches or not, or if you'll even care, but I don't have a lot of time before they stop and I—”
“Dean, slow down. You don't know if I work for who?”
“Christ, Cas, who do you think?” Dean's voice was shaking. “The Lollipop Guild?” His attempt at humor was clearly forced, the stark fear revealing the safety mechanism for what it was.
Castiel thought he knew exactly who Dean meant. Infernus.
“Dean, where are you?” Castiel demanded.
“Don't know,” Dean breathed. “Back of car, moving me somewhere, I don't...shit, fuck!”
There was a plastic clatter, a shout, and then the line went ominously dead.
“Dean? Dean!” Castiel shouted into the phone, knowing even as he did that it would do no good. Tossing aside the now-useless-to-him phone, Castiel's hands fisted into his hair as he muttered, “Fuck.” When that didn't seem sufficient to encompass all he was feeling, Castiel tried the word again at a much louder register. “Fuck!” he shouted, kicking the end table. “Shit!” he moaned, as the only result of kicking the end table was a stubbed toe. Thinking frantically, he reached for his land line and dialed a number that he thought he'd never call again.
“Clarence!” Meg's voice greeted him in delight. Loud music and chattering laughter competed, making it difficult to hear her over the cacophony in the background. “Calling me on a Friday, closing in on midnight. Might I dare to hope that this is that long-awaited booty call?”
“Meg,” Castiel couldn't keep the urgency from his voice. “I need to know the warehouse Lugosi was supposed to move a shipment from, and the location Infernus would take someone they are holding prisoner. And I need to know it now.”
A moment of time passed, and Castiel would have thought Meg hung up on him if he couldn't still hear the sounds of revelry in the background. “Wow,” she finally said. “When I got you the job at the Gazette, I should have suspected that you'd take the whole reporting thing seriously.”
“Meg,” Castiel growled. “Tell me. Now.”
“No.” Meg snapped the word out. “Why the hell should I tell you anything, Castiel? For that matter, what makes you think I would know these things in the first place?”
“Do not play coy with me, Megara Ann Masters. It doesn't suit you.”
“Ooh, pulling out my full name. You must really want this info bad.” Meg chuckled darkly. “Alright, fine. I know where Lugosi is supposedly working tonight. The answer to your second question depends on a lot of factors, but let's just say I have a pretty good idea on that, too. Give me a good reason why I should tell you.”
Swallowing, Castiel replied. “A...a friend,” he stuttered, “ I believe he is in trouble.” There was no way that he could tell her more than that without giving away what he suspected Dean was doing. If that even mattered anymore, as it seemed more than likely he'd been caught and was injured and—
“A friend?” Meg said skeptically. “You don't have friends. Try again, Clarence.”
“Meg—!” he said again, aware of how close he was coming to outright begging a woman he'd once swore to never talk to again. She laughed.
“Oh, Castiel,” she sighed, as if his panic gave her joy. “You're so much fun when you're flustered. Alright, here's how we'll do this. I'll give you a series of hypothetical’s, you answer me in the same, and then tomorrow night we'll go out somewhere nice and we can talk about where we went wrong.” Castiel could hear her lick her lips over the phone line, and he fought back a shiver not caused by arousal. How he'd ever been attracted to this woman was now beyond his knowledge.
“Agreed.”
“Oh, yay!” Meg said, sounding like she actually meant that. “So, let's say hypothetically your 'friend' that is in trouble—let's call him, say, Dean Winchester?— is the investigative reporter you just happened to be shoved into working with.”
“It's possible,” Castiel conceded, wanting to drop the game, but afraid that if he suggested it that Meg would hang up on him and he'd learn nothing. He was acutely aware of each second as they passed, knowing that it was another second that Dean and probably Sam were stuck in an untenable situation.
“Thought it might be,” Meg sing-songed. “We'll also say that perhaps this hypothetical Dean got in trouble because he was sticking his nose into Infernus business, again, when he swore to Lugosi and her bosses that he'd be a good boy and do no such thing.”
“If that's the case this would be the first I've heard of it spoken in such terms,” Castiel whispered, his mouth dry. Suddenly Bobby's fear earlier that day made perfect sense, the terse way he'd ordered Dean to be careful.
“Huh. You sound like you mean that,” Meg said, surprised out of their game. “You really didn't know, Castiel?”
“I suspected something, but I didn't know for certain and—”
“Okay. Okay,” she cut him off. “Sweetie, no offense, but you're in way over your head. I suggest you hang up the phone and forget you ever knew a guy named Dean Winchester. I'll pretend we never had this conversation, and tomorrow night I'll bring over a bottle of tequila and a bag of limes and we'll act like it's a surprise visit.”
“I...can't do that.”
There was a crackle and shift on the other end of the line, and the background noise lessened considerably; Meg must have moved to a more private area for the remainder of their call. “Castiel, why did you contact me even if you did suspect that Infernus was mixed up in whatever's happening to Dean? You always acted like you believed me when I said that I wasn't in my father's line of work.” Quieter, she added, “It was one of the things I liked best about you.”
“I have recently begun to realize that what I have been told and what is true are not necessarily the same thing.”
Meg was silent for a long beat of time. “Why do I feel like I should apologize for that?”
“Instead of apologizing, you can tell me where Dean is,” Castiel said, the pretense completely gone. He didn't know why he was so desperate to reach Dean, a man he'd only met a few short weeks ago and with whom he had no real relationship with. It may have been guilt or the possibility of friendship or just the last vestiges of his ever-crumbling morals making themselves heard, but Castiel felt that he, himself, had to go and save Dean, immediately.
“If I tell you, you have to promise me you won't do something stupid,” Meg tried to barter, but Castiel clenched his fist around the phone and said, in as calm a tone as he could muster:
“I can not promise that, Megara. The location, please, now.”
She told him, “There are a few places he might be.” She outlined the ones she thought Dean was mostly likely to be in, and without another word Castiel hung up.
Two steps and he was at his apartment window. Thirty seconds and he was stripped to the waist, and two breaths later he was out on the fire escape. Closing his eyes, Castiel gathered his focus, feeling the fire bubble inside him from his belly upward. Concentrating, he directed the flames to the outside his body, and with a final, odd prayer of thanks that his apartment was in a brick-faced building and thus unlikely to burn down from the manifestation of his wings this close to it, took to the air.
Part Three>>
