Chapter Text
Prologue
(Five Years Ago)
As centuries passed, his leader, Anna became fascinated with humans and slowly changed. Then one day she did the unthinkable. She disobeyed. She extracted her Grace and she fell. They declared her outlaw, rebel, unholy and even called her evil.
Castiel was convinced she was not corrupted but merely needed to find a new way to touch God, and that by walking among God's precious creations, she would eventually find herself restored. The rest of the angels in the battalion disagreed, turning their backs on her while Castiel still fought for her right to find her own path to God.
Uriel finally had enough of Castiel's unending arguments and theories and Castiel was cast out of Heaven to live among the mud-monkeys for a hundred years. Once his days of penance were over, he would be allowed back to tell his brothers and sisters what he’d learned.
Castiel awoke to find himself inside a human host whose soul had already been reaped.
***
(CHAPTER 1)
Dean made a show of looking at the woman's driver's license then passed it back to her. "Sorry about that, but you don't look a day over twenty," he said, giving it back to her with a smile.
"You've made my day," she replied, blushing a little and looking at her companion across the table. "So, I'm legal."
He didn't miss the flirty lilt in her voice and matched it, "You're legal," he repeated, his tone dropping an octave. "Watermelon martini, and you, Miss? What can I get for you?" After the older lady asked for ice tea, Dean went into his song and dance about the day’s specials.
"If you'd like a light meal, I'd suggest our soufflé which is a double-baked gruyere with artichoke and fennel. It works great as a starter if you'd prefer to share. Also, the chef has put together a seafood platter that is absolutely mouth watering," he said, trying not to gag at the thought of raw and cooked fish displayed with heads,and tails and antennas, or whatever. "Moving right along, we have a nice filet mignon that's soaked in garlic infused wine, with delicious pommes frites... that's French for french fries," he added with a wink. "I'll give you a few minutes to think about it and look at the menu, while I get your drinks."
As he walked away, their laughter told him he would earn a good tip. He'd never have considered working at a French restaurant in Malibu, but the money and the tips were good, so he'd knuckled down and forced himself not to butcher the foreign words he had to use on a daily basis. The place, La Brasserie, was very authentic in decor, or at least that was what the old timer, Jacques, who owned the place, repeatedly told him and everyone who would listen. The floors were checkered black and white and the dark paneled walls had large mirrors hanging on them. The mirrors were edged with brass as was the polished wooden bar. Red curtains gave a dramatic flair to both the windows and the open doors that lead to the patio seating area where there was a partial view of the ocean from the cliffs on which the restaurant was situated.
Heading straight for the bar, he put his order in and was about to go check with the kitchen regarding a lunch order when Mike, another server, stepped up next to him and slapped his hand on the bar.
"What’s up?" Dean looked at him.
"That same guy from the other night is back. The asshole who didn't leave a tip. I'm not serving him. He had me jumping hoops and then..."
Dean's gaze strayed beyond the doors to the patio where he saw the guy sitting at a table. He'd seen him the night before, too. Something about him had drawn Dean's interest. The guy was lean and tall, wore a business suit and looked like he was above everything and was sort of detached. Completely not the type of dude Dean would find hot, unless maybe his night job was changing him. Maybe hanging around one too many "down to earth" types with rough hands and bad manners was giving him the hots for clean cut businessmen? He licked his lips. "I'll... I'll wait on him."
"What?"
"I'll take your table. Don't ever say I never do anything for you." Slapping Mike on the back, Dean went to the kitchen, put in the appetizer order and checked on his other one, then came back and grabbed the drinks for the ladies. Once he served them and put their orders in as well, he ran his hand through his hair, straightened the long, black server apron he was wearing and headed outside.
It was a warm afternoon and the sun was quite strong, but the awning over the patio gave good shade. The slight breeze was tinged with the scent of the ocean. It also carried the faint smell of onions grilling and other mouth watering smells coming from the kitchen.
The man was looking down at the menu when Dean reached him and set a basket of bread and butter down on the table. "Good afternoon, welcome to La Brasserie. Can I get you something to drink?" he asked, sucking his breath in when unexpectedly brilliant blue eyes lifted to meet his.
"Yes," the man said quietly, "I'll take a glass of 1989 Red Loire." His gaze drifted over Dean slowly, seemingly taking in every inch of him. He looked at Dean's brass name tag. "Dean. Late Latin 'decanus,' chief of ten, or just 'chief.'" The man paused and tilted his head, meeting Dean's gaze. "Bring me an appetizer that will go well with the wine. I would like some sort of grilled fish for my dinner and an appropriate glass of white wine to accompany it. Dessert...something with fruit, I think."
"Just Chief will do," Dean said with a flirty grin, though he had to admit the man's knowledge of Latin had thrown him off. That and the way the man's gaze seemed to pierce clear through his soul. Course it was a good thing he couldn't see his soul since, by now, Dean figured it was a blackened mess.
The man furrowed his brow a moment then gave a slight smile as he nodded. "Chief. If you wish."
For once, Dean couldn't tell if the guy was flirting back. He seemed quite serious but how could he be? "The Red Loire's a good choice. Can I get you some water as well? Then I can make some recommendations along the lines of what you want." For some reason, Dean felt like the guy knew that he was bullshitting about the wine. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other and waited.
"You can bring the water with the meal. Right now, just the wine. I don't need recommendations. I told you what I wish... Chief." He held the menu out for Dean to take.
Taken aback by the abruptness, Dean wondered what he'd said wrong. Maybe Mike was right, the guy was an asshole. Yet when he took the menu and his fingers brushed the man's, a shock ran up his arm and had him looking dumbly into the man's eyes again. The disconcerting stare shook him free of his reverie. "Right, wine," he nodded and headed inside.
He put in the wine order and then ordered a starter, then took care of another table. By the time he got the appetizer and wine and walked out with them and a glass of water on his tray, he saw the man was looking down and reading something. When he lifted his eyes, he seemed annoyed, either at the interruption or the delay.
"Sorry, the kitchen's busy today." He set the plate of thinly sliced cold cuts, cheeses and duck pâté down in front of the man. Next to it, he put a basket of fine crackers. Setting down the glass of water, he showed the wine bottle to the man for his approval.
"The food is good here," the man said. "It's no surprise the kitchen is busy." He glanced at the appetizer and gave a small sound that could have been either approval or disapproval then looked at the bottle. "I find it strange that it is a practice to show me that which I have ordered as if I might change my mind or you might try to deceive me with a less expensive wine. Yes, that is fine and I do not need to smell the cork. Half a glass to start with, Chief. Thank you." He turned back to the parchments he was reading.
"Yes, Sir." He didn't really have an answer as to why serving wine came with all the useless sniffing, and swirling and looking at the clarity of the wine, with more than half the customers probably knowing about as much about wine as himself, so he wasn't arguing. He quickly uncorked the wine and was only too aware of how fast his pulse was beating. Damn, he hadn't felt like this over a person in... well since before Sam's accident. It felt good to know something could excite him, even if the dude was clearly not interested.
Licking his lips, he held the bottle in one hand and reached for the man's glass. The man picked it up at the same time and once again, when their fingers brushed, Dean's body reacted to the touch. Before he started pouring, the man's eyes locked with his own, paralyzing him like he was some junior high school kid with a first crush.
"Is there a problem, Chief?" The man tilted his head slightly, again studying him. "Your rapid pulse and the look in your eyes, I see you find me attractive."
"Wha--" Just like that, not only did Dean start pouring, but he didn't stop in time. Red wine spilled onto the spotless white table cloth. There was too much of it to be absorbed by the cloth and it dripped off the edge of the table, onto the man's lap.
"Shi... I am so sorry." Righting the bottle, Dean got a napkin and dropped it on the man's lap, using another one to dab at the table. "I don't know how that--"
"The manuscript!" the man exclaimed, scooping up the parchments he'd been reading. In the process of jumping to his feet, he inadvertently knocked Dean backwards. "These are priceless! They are unique! Original gospels!" he shouted, obviously infuriated. He stormed inside the restaurant, carrying the parchments with him.
"Shit, shit, shit," Dean muttered, trying to clean up as best as he could as Jacques came closer and demanded to know what happened. Dean explained and then went back into the restaurant to get a new table set up for the customer.
Jacques was rubbing his neck when one of the customers started to shake his head and tsk. "It was an accident, monsieur, it will be rectified," Jacques said.
"Maybe, but you should do something about your waiter pushing himself on a customer. He's been making eyes at everyone and I think he touched the gentleman."
Frowning, Jacques looked toward the restaurant, seeking out Dean who was on his way back out and then was setting a new table with the bus boy. "He touched him?"
"Oh yes, the guy objected and then..." the customer gestured toward the wine stained table.
"Merci, for relating what happened." Immediately, Jacques strode toward Dean and asked him to come inside. On their way to his office, he instructed Mike to take over all of Dean's customers.
"It was an accident." Surprised that he was being pulled into the office for a common mishap like a spill, Dean started to explain. "I'll clear it up with the guy--"
"Non. You will get your things and leave, I will not have you conducting your..." he waved his hand around, "business, here."
"My what?"
"I kept one eye closed to your... activities, but this, propositioning here, in my restaurant, it’s... it's unacceptable. You're out."
"But..."
"That's it, out. I'll have your check in the morning."
"This is bull. Goddamnit, it was accident. This has nothing to do with... Did he say that I hit on him?" he demanded, hotly. Seeing the way Jacques was merely pointing to the door, Dean tore his apron off and threw it on the table. "Fine, take your job and shove it up your ass."
Striding out, he slammed the door behind him, spoke with a few of the waiters, and then headed out to the parking lot.
*
Castiel spent a good ten minutes in the bathroom with the manuscripts, carefully dabbing away the wine. Once he had dried them he made sure he was alone, and spoke soft words over them. The parchments glowed faintly as the wine stains faded and the damaged writing darkened and renewed itself. He sighed, relieved. Time was of the essence or else he could not have reversed the damage to them. He glanced at himself in the mirror. There were a few wine stains on his suit. He could clean it free of the stains, but that might raise questions. No, he would leave them be. Pleased he had saved the manuscripts, he stepped back into the restaurant and headed toward his table, only to find his table had been changed out for a fresh one.
Settling at the table, he put the manuscript back in his briefcase. He would read them later when there was no chance of another accident that might damage them.
Mike slowly walked to the table, bringing a new platter of cold cuts and cheeses. The wine was already on the table. "Here you are, Sir. Sorry about the accident, the owner will come to talk to you. He said there will be no charge for the dinner and to let you know you can bring your laundering invoice and we'll take care of it," he said stiffly. "Is there anything else you need?"
Castiel stared at the waiter he'd had on the previous visit. "I was able to clean the manuscript pages, it's of no concern." He looked down at the suit. "And this is of no consequence. Yes. I need my waiter. Where is he?"
"He's gone. I'm your waiter now. What can I get you?" His gaze darted around the patio.
"Gone? What do you mean gone?" Castiel asked.
"He left. Got fired," Mike muttered, his gaze briefly meeting the man's. "Mr. Jacques is all about the customer's always right. When he heard what happened, that was it. What can I get you?"
Castiel stared at the waiter. "It was an accident," he said, his brow furrowing, sensing the waiter wanted nothing to do with him. "Let me speak with Mr. Jacques."
The waiter gave a nod and hurried back into the restaurant. The owner came out promptly, all but wringing his hands. Castiel pierced the man with his gaze. "The spilled wine was an accident. There was no need to fire the boy. No harm was done."
"It is fine. Everything is fine. The waiter is taken care of, your meal will be prepared shortly," the owner said, seeing the starter was as yet barely touched. "Please put your mind at ease and enjoy your meal, monsieur."
Castiel gave a sigh. There was nothing he could do, obviously, at least with regards to getting the young man his job back unless he bought the restaurant and demanded Dean was rehired. He doubted this was the job of the young man’s dreams though. "What is the young man's last name and where does he live?" Perhaps he could do something to help the man find another job. Guilt, he realized. I feel guilty. But it was not my fault. Odd, he mused.
"After what he did?" Jacques' eyebrows climbed up in surprise. "His name is Dean Winchester but, as for his address, that I cannot give you. He is... what shall I say, very resourceful and has other work. Don't trouble yourself more, oui?" Putting the matter to rest, Jacques went back inside the restaurant.
Fifteen minutes later, Mike brought the main course. Pushing the barely eaten starter to one side, he set the dish down in front of Castiel. "Filet of sole with a light cream sauce and potatoes and asparagus. Would you like lemon slices?"
"Yes. And some wine.” Ordering a fine white wine, he looked at the waiter's nametag. "Mike, I am concerned about Mr. Winchester. I do not understand why he was fired for merely spilling some wine, but the owner seems adamant that nothing I can say might cause him to reconsider. Where might I find Dean? The owner said he has other work. Do you know where it is? If this has caused him a financial hardship, I am certain I can assist him in locating another job. What is the typical salary one would expect as a waiter at a fine restaurant?"
Mike's face changed to a look of disbelief. "So you were hitting on him and he gets fired for trying to solicit you? I bet he never touched you. Forget it, I'm not telling you a thing. You can't even leave a damned tip and I'm supposed to believe you'd give him money out of the goodness of your heart?" His snort of disbelief was followed by a shrug of his shoulders. "Go ahead and tell tales about me too if you want."
"Hitting on?" Castiel realized after a moment what Mike meant. "I did not 'hit' on him, nor did he 'hit' on me. I do not know where that falsehood originated, but it was not from me. Tip?" Castiel sighed in frustration. He had only been on Earth for five years, with another ninety-five years to go before he served his penance and could return to Heaven. He’d been given the body of a rich businessman, one whose shell was empty and could be occupied without complications. Even after five years, there were so many things he did not understand. Of course those first few years he had spent learning how to operate a business. It was much like battlefield strategy, only using law, economics, money, and words rather than swords. "I will help him find a job. Please. Where can I find Mr. Winchester?" Castiel used his somewhat limited abilities to 'nudge' Mike.
"Forg..." Mike blinked. "Ah...He works the streets in West Hollywood late at night." Almost reluctantly, more words tumbled from his mouth, giving the businessman more details about the streets Dean hung out at. "I think he also works at Bert's Garage, but I don't know his days."
"Thank you," Castiel said releasing his influence and turning to his meal. "Please bring my wine and lemon slices."
* * *
Dean pulled into the outdoor parking lot of St. Raphael's Rehab and Care Center and parked under the shade of a tree. The facility was in the foothills, surrounded by trees and it pretty much felt like you were out in the country rather than fifteen minutes away from the city. There was a main building with medical offices and cutting edge therapy facilities, and three stories of assisted care apartments. They also had about twenty small bungalows in a cluster around the building, with perfectly smooth lighted paths leading to the main building, the gardens, and the small restaurant. Nurses and therapists in soothing blue or green uniforms assisted patients to and from their therapy, most of them wearing ready smiles. Dean was very aware that he paid for those smiles, paid through the nose for this place.
Opening the door, he got out and rested his arm on top of the Impala as he composed himself. By now, Sam would be done with his therapy and be in their bungalow either resting or watching TV. He'd know Dean was early and Dean would have to come clean. But he'd tell him they were fine, that his other jobs would tide them over until he got another one. It was the truth. He'd do anything to keep Sam here, keep him getting the experimental treatments that had already helped so much. Four months ago the hospitals had told him his brother would have to stay on life support, that he'd never talk or walk, that he should resign himself to it. They'd been wrong, but only because of what they'd managed to do for Sam at St. Raphael’s, and no set back was going to change that.
Closing the car door with a sigh, Dean headed to the walkway next to the main building and walked across a park-like area, making way for a nurse pushing a patient in a wheelchair. He gave them a nod and walked on. It was such a peaceful day. The sun was out, it was warm but not too hot, and the birds were singing. It was perfect, and at odds with his own day at work. He was going to have to find something, and soon. Maybe he'd even have to hustle or steal, something he'd been trying not to do, mostly because if something happened to him there would be no one out here to help Sam.
Walking up the wooden ramp to the small porch, he unlocked the door and walked in. "It's me," he announced, walking into the living room area that was set up with a hospital bed, some furniture and a TV, and then his own bed on the other side of the room. He took his jacket off and put it over the back of a chair at the dining room table, then walked over to where Sam was sitting. "You doing alright today?" he asked, putting a hand on Sam's shoulder and smiling when Sam looked up, a movement he couldn't make a few months ago.
Sam looked at Dean's hand, then up at his face and managed a smile. With effort he turned his head so he was looking into his lap where the remote to the TV was gripped in his hand. He slowly lifted his arm. It wavered and swung from his lack of motor control. "Se-ven." Sam said slowly and concentrated on crushing his thumb down on the button. The TV channel changed to channel seven. "Up." Sam said, moving his thumb to the volume and increasing the sound. "Back..." He frowned and shook his head. "Down." He pressed the volume button again, decreasing it. He let his hand fall back into his lap and looked at Dean, grinning broadly enough that his dimples were just beginning to show. "Good?"
"Good? Not just good, that's freakin' great Sam," Dean said, suddenly having a good reason to grin just as broadly. "Seriously great! You been holding out on me? It's the new therapist, isn't it... hot," he winked, laughing at the look of censure from Sam. "We should celebrate." Crossing over to the kitchen, he pulled out a bottle of beer for himself and poured Sam a glass of lemonade. Sticking a straw in it, he headed back, hooking a chair leg with his foot and dragging it next to Sam's. Clinking his beer bottle to the glass, he said, "To progress," then brought the glass close to Sam, guiding the straw to his brother's lips.
Sam drank a couple swallows through the straw. "To-Paw-gre," Sam did his best to repeat the toast. He made something of a face, his frustration plain. "Bra-greth," he tried again. He sighed and drank some more of the lemonade. Looking first at the clock, he then focused on his brother. "Work?" Sam asked, curiosity plain in his eyes.
Dean set both drinks on the coffee table and rubbed his neck. "About that... I got laid off. Probably for the best, I felt like an ass talking people into trying the foie de gras and the petite pois, just not my style. But don't worry, I got it handled." He met Sam's gaze. "Got other irons in the fire. We'll be able to get by on the money from the garage and the bank." He tried not to keep stuff from Sam because his brother had a knack for figuring it out or worrying on it, but he just couldn't bring himself to tell Sam that his job processing checks all night at the bank was code for hooking. There was no way Sam wouldn't take that on himself and demand he stop, and there was no way Dean could stop, if he wanted to keep Sam here for treatment.
With great effort Sam lifted his arm and giving his shoulder a twist, managed to get his hand onto Dean's thigh. "'K," he said, giving Dean a small smile, faith burning brightly in his eyes. He twisted his head and looked at the Tom Clancy book sitting on the nightstand by his bed. "Book?" he asked Dean. They played a game where Dean would read him a handful of pages every night, depending on how tired Dean was, and Sam had to try to remember what page they had stopped on. "One...eight...se-ven?"
"You wanna read?" Dean nodded, "Why don't we do it outside. It's a nice day." Getting up again, he looked inside the book. "Yup, you're still a nerd. We're on one eighty seven." Hiding a smile, Dean took the remote from Sam's lap, dropped the book in its place and slipped his beer bottle between Sam’s thighs. "Hold this?" Taking Sam's glass, he moved behind the wheelchair and pushed him out to the small porch. Giving Sam another sip of his drink, he put their drinks down on the small table and sat down next to him. "Alright, here we go. You up to trying to read the last word in every paragraph?"
Sam nodded and watched Dean's finger move over the words as Dean slowly read out loud. If Sam knew the word he would sometimes say it with Dean, but just like he was being forced to re-learn how to use his limbs and to talk, he was having to re-learn to read as well.
It hadn't been more than a half hour when Sam's eyes began to drift closed though he struggled to stay awake to spend the time with Dean. He usually slept some in the afternoons, then a nurse would feed him dinner and bathe him, and Dean would come home for a few hours before he had to go back out for the evening. They would spend those few hours together, sometimes reading, sometimes watching TV, or Sam was getting good enough with his numbers that they could play cards or other simple games.
Once Sam fell asleep, Dean closed the book and sat back and had his beer. Sam's progress made him happy, damned happy. And now that they were seeing concrete results, he really could believe that Sam would one day be able to do all or most of what he was able to before. It would just take time. Time and money. Money he had to earn.
As the afternoon wore on and it got cooler, Dean pushed Sam back inside and then helped him get onto the bed so he wouldn't get a bad crick in his neck from sleeping sitting up. By the time he was pulling the light blanket up over him, Sam was asleep again. "We'll make it Sammy, I know we will." He wasn't sure which of them he was trying to reassure.
* * *
Since Castiel wasn't certain what the waiter might mean by 'late' at night, he began driving around the places suggested starting about ten. He had no idea what sort of work Dean might do, but he stopped any place he saw people working, such as parking valets and checked to see if Dean worked there. As the hour got later, he noticed more women standing near the street, dressed provocatively. He frowned as he noticed the occasional man who also seemed to be standing around, watching the cars pass by.
When he stopped at a stop sign, a blonde walked with swaying hips up to his silver Mercedes roadster. "Take me for a ride, handsome?" she crooned to him, bending over so he was given a nice clear view of her well-endowed chest.
"No. I am looking for a Dean Winchester. Do you know him? I understand he frequents this area."
"Oh, you like boy toys. Teddy Bear, this one's for you," she called behind her.
A tall muscular blond stepped away from the wall he was leaning against, his eyes giving the car a once over and then looking at the man behind the wheel. "Hello, good looking, what are you in the mood for tonight?"
"Dean Winchester," Castiel said. "I am looking for Dean Winchester. Do you know where I can find him?"
The man studied his nails. "For a price, I might be able to help you out." His gaze met Castiel's.
Castiel pulled out his wallet and extracted a fifty. He held it out but when the man went to reach for it, he pulled it back. "Where?"
"Try Santa Monica Boulevard. Know a guy named Dean, he’s usually around there this time of night. If you don’t find him, guys that look like him are a dime a dozen there."
Castiel handed the man the fifty and headed toward the road the man suggested, keeping alert for any sign of the waiter he hadn't meant to get fired.
Santa Monica Boulevard was packed with cruisers driving bumper to bumper. Some shouted to people sitting at the outdoor cafes or walking on the sidewalk. There were noticeably more men than women and many of the couples sitting at the tables were males. Music blasted from some of the cars driving on the street, or could be heard streaming out of a bar or other establishment when the doors opened to let people in or out. There was a definite party vibe, enhanced by the prevalence of record stores, and dance and comedy clubs.
Here and there, at street corners or in the smaller streets shooting off from the main boulevard, men, mostly young men, congregated. When a vehicle slowed down or a window was rolled down near them, several would approach. Sometimes insults were hurled and they went back to their various groups. Other times they took off with strangers or the driver would pull over and get out of the car.
Castiel kept a sharp eye out, wishing he had taken better note of the man's essence so he could track him. He finally pulled over and waved a young man over. "Dean Winchester. Have you seen him?"
"Oh baby, you don't need Dean when you've got me." Taking his shirt off and stepping away from the convertible, the guy offered Castiel a good view of his chest. "You can do me against this big, beautiful car, no extra charge," he said, running his hand over the silver body of the car. "Come on, you know I'm just what you need to loosen up." Reaching into the car, he stroked Castiel's cheek and neck, his finger working under Castiel's tie. "I'll make you feel good. Real good."
Castiel gently took hold of the man's wrist and pulled it away from his tie. "I am only interested in finding Dean. In speaking to him. I do not need to be 'loosened up' by you or anyone else."
"Oh yes you do, or you wouldn't be looking for him. Listen, we can do this any way you like. I'm very flexible and I like your looks. Just tell me how you want it, and I'll make it happen. I'll take good care of you."
Some of the guys made catcalls, watching the negotiations.
Castiel ran his fingers through his hair and struggled to keep his powers from triggering any electrical surges as his frustration built. How hard could it be to do a good deed? He pulled out his wallet and extracted a hundred dollar bill. "I am only interested in Dean Winchester. What I want is to speak with him. Make it happen and this hundred is yours."
"He's usually a couple streets down, works the corner where there's the gas station. I can show you if you like, or we could, you know... party together, all three of us." Leaning in, he took the hundred and rubbed it against his chest, eyes locked on Castiel's.
"Get in," was all Castiel said.
"Good decision." Grinning, he hopped inside. "You can call me Kevin," he said, running his hand over Castiel's arm as they headed back into the traffic lane. "I've never seen you here before, and trust me, with this car... I'd remember."
Castiel glanced over at the man. "I have never been down here before. I must speak with Dean Winchester and this is apparently where I can find him at night." He refocused on the road. "I am not looking to 'hit' on him. I must fix an error that was made earlier today that has likely put him in a difficult situation. I wish only to remedy that. Where is this gas station?"
"Sure, whatever you say. Keep going," he said, looking out and searching the sidewalk. "With the kind of money you got to blow, I'm sure he'll give you whatever you want." Laughing, he looked at Castiel's unsmiling silhouette and rolling his eyes, looked back out of the car, gesturing at people he knew and calling out to one of them to make sure they saw him. "Okay, pull to the right lane and drive slow so I can spot him if he's around."
They slowed down each time they saw guys just hanging around in groups. Kevin practically hung out of the car, looking up the cross streets. They'd just passed the gas station when he touched Castiel's arm. "Right there," he said, pointing at the guy sitting on the back of a bus stop bench, with his feet planted on the seat. He was wearing jeans that were ripped at the knees and thighs, and a tight black tee shirt that, because of the position he was sitting in, with both hands gripping the back of the bench on either side of his body and leaning slightly, showed his midriff. As soon as he saw the silver car approaching, he tilted his head back and bit his lower lip.
"Yeah, that's him."
"Then complete our deal to earn the hundred dollars." He handed the man a twenty. "You can take a cab back to your preferred location. Get Mr. Winchester into my car so I may speak with him."
Kevin was quick to pocket it. "Threesome's still on the table. Or I can videotape you two going at it, something you can jack off to over and over."
"No thank you. Please, just get him to the car," Castiel said, trying to keep his patience with the man.
"Whatever." Opening the door, Kevin got out, put the money away, and leaned back into the car. "Okay so, just drive up to him, slow down, and he'll come up to you. Good times." Winking, he headed off in the opposite direction.
"Wait! You were supposed to..." Castiel watched the man walk away. "Humans can try the patience of a saint and most definitely an angel," he growled. He stepped on the gas and as Kevin told him, stopped in front of Dean and looked over at him. "I wish to speak with you, Mr. Winchester," he called out.
Dean hopped off the bench and walked closer, putting his hands on the door frame. "How'd you get my name," he started, and then he recognized the man. "You!" Despite the anger in his tone, heat washed over Dean at the sight of the guy who'd bought him a world of trouble. His jaw hardened as Jacques’ accusations came back to him. "Forget it... don't even fucking think about it. Not interested in your games."
"I am sorry the owner of the restaurant fired you. I do not know why he thought you propositioned me. I tried to tell him you did nothing more than spill some wine. Please, I feel badly for this misunderstanding," Castiel told him, meeting Dean's gaze. "I would like to remedy the situation. If you would get in the car, perhaps we could go talk?"
"Get in your car so we can talk. Yeah, right," Dean scoffed, doing a double take at the way the guy was looking at him, or rather staring. "You accused me of being attracted to you. It either pissed you off or wound you up, then you lied to my ex-
boss, that's how it went down. Now fuck off, I need to work double time and I can't with you in front of my... shop."
Pushing away, he walked a few feet up the street, standing on the edge of the sidewalk and checking out other cars as they passed. Under any other circumstances, he'd probably have forgotten all about the job and be drooling over the car. A Mercedes SLR McLaren. Didn't that cost like a half a mill? It just doubly pissed him off that someone like this guy would walk all over a waiter.
"But you are attracted to me," Castiel said louder, leaning toward the passenger side, a look of mild confusion crossing his face. "I understand it is my fault you are jobless." He fell silent a moment then drove up beside Dean again and asked. "How much does an hour of your time cost?"
Having the truth about his attraction thrown in his face incensed Dean. "For you? I'm priceless. Nothing you could pay me would get me in your car. Now beat it. I have a job, and you're stopping me from doing it." Making a face at the man, Dean walked away again, gritting his teeth when he heard the car speed up and catch up. "Look, I'm not interested. Go to a fundraiser, some wine tasting event, have a nice life, just leave me the fuck alone."
"Five hundred dollars," Castiel said.
Hearing the amount, Dean stumbled. He was looking at the man when another car, a truck pulled over and the passenger window was rolled down. Telling himself he was doing the right thing, Dean walked away and stuck his head inside the window. The guy looked decent enough but he said he liked being rough. Slapping on an extra charge for that and warning the guy that he'd cut his balls off if he went too far, Dean opened the door and hopped in, never looking back at the silver car. But he couldn't get the car or its owner out of his mind, and that irritated the hell out of him.
***
"Mr. Winchester," Pauline McDowell called out as she hurried across the parking lot in her high heels. "I've left you three messages. We need to discuss your account." She puffed a little with exertion as she approached Dean, clipboard in hand. "We realize you are making a good effort to pay, but you are almost three months behind. Currently you owe us nearly forty thousand dollars and this month's bill will soon be due, raising your debt by another fifteen thousand. We will have to cease treatment and request you relocate your brother and yourself until you have caught up. At that time, we can discuss you returning, assuming we still have a place in the program for your brother."
"Miss McDowell... Pauline," he gave her a smile he wasn't feeling. "I'm sorry I haven't returned your calls, I've been busy. Here, I can write you a check for six now. I'm working on catching up, and there are some guys, some friends raising money. Once it's collected, I swear I'll catch up." Seeing the tell tale frown, he quickly added, "and I did fix one of the facility vans. Eric said there was a high profile patient that needed to be picked up and... you know me." He spread his hands.
Pauline scribbled down some notes. "Yes, the van. That was very important. I'll put in a thousand dollar credit to your account for that and I don't think anyone will complain. Another six thousand now... typically at a debt of forty-five thousand dollars, our rules stipulate treatment must be stopped." She paused and gave Dean a small smile. "Of course for most that's only a month behind, but the 'Renewal' charity is contributing and then there is your discount."
She glanced back down at her clipboard. "Let's see, at the end of the month you will owe us almost fifty four-thousand dollars, less seven thousand, is almost forty-seven thousand. If you can get me another twenty-five hundred before the end of the month, I can keep the board from ceasing treatment. If you can't, I can't promise anything though I'll try." She gave him an understanding smile. "I know this is very hard, I know your brother has made tremendous progress in the time he's been here and continues to make good progress. The doctors are very pleased as it looks like he will be a great success story, very good for business for us, enhancing our doctors' abilities to get grants and the charity can use his case to their benefit as well. So you do have a lot of points on your side for the board wanting to keep him here in therapy. Do you think you can produce at least another twenty-five hundred by the end of the month?" she asked hopefully.
"Yeah, sure, no sweat." Three days until the end of the month. He could pick up his restaurant check, that was $500 because most of the money he made there was on tips. Then the garage owed him maybe $400. Shit... "Twenty five hundred, I'll bring it over personally in a couple days," he promised. "And thanks. I mean that." Bobby had pulled strings and that was part of why the people here were being so nice, and they'd given him a steep discount because of the lack of insurance, but he could tell he was getting near the end of the rope with them.
After a moment of hesitation she added, "We're going to need another ten thousand by the fifteenth of next month. I'm really sorry, Mr. Winchester. I will do everything I can to keep them at bay for as long as I can," she said, laying her hand lightly on his shoulder and squeezing it.
The weight of the world shifted from his shoulder to his heart, crushing it. "Alright," he managed with a nod, running a hand over his face. "I'll get it. Even if I have to steal it." He pulled away slowly and headed for his car, his mind spinning in a thousand directions. He couldn't let Sam be tossed out of here, he just couldn't. He knew damned well that this was the best care available, and that it was working, whereas everyone else he'd turned to had given him bad news in those early days after the accident. Accident his ass. A possessed driver had plowed over Sam and changed both their lives, forever it seemed.
He heard her heels clicking on the pathway, walking behind him. Crap, he'd forgotten he told her he'd write her the check. Reaching the Impala, he pulled his wallet out and rifled through the bills until he found the couple emergency blank checks he kept. "Can I borrow your pen?" His voice was huskier than usual and he tried not to look at her as he accepted it and quickly wrote the check. "Here you go."
Once she left, he went to the back of the car, opened the trunk and scanned his surroundings to make sure no one was around. Then he opened up an empty duffel bag and started to rummage inside the hidden compartment. An ache blossomed in the pit of his stomach as he selected the weapons he'd pawn, but would probably never be able to buy back. Some of them were just weapons, but several of them, unfortunately the most valuable ones, had special meaning to him. They were just things, he told himself. They weren't important. The only thing, person, who was important to him was fighting to get his life back and Dean would do everything in his power to make sure Sam made it. Whatever it took. Slamming the trunk, he got behind the wheel and took off.
*
An hour and a half later, he walked out of the pawnshop with a little more cash in his pocket. Across the street, he saw a Starbucks and thought he needed a coffee and maybe a little time alone before he faced Sam. He wanted to make sure his brother couldn't read him, that he had everything together before he saw Sam again.
Jogging across the street and getting yelled at because he stopped traffic, he pushed the glass door open and walked inside. The aroma of coffee was always calming, at least to him. There wasn't a line and he got to put his order in immediately. He didn't have the heart to flirt back with the honey behind the counter and he passed on the sweets. Grabbing his cup, he went and found a place in the corner, a nice sofa near the window.
"You are deeply troubled," Castiel said, sitting down on the sofa beside Dean. "As you are not working now, will you speak with me?"
Dean opened his eyes. "Dude, give up already. You were hot for about two minutes, and now you're not." He gripped his paper cup too tight, almost forcing the liquid up over the top and quickly took a sip, then cursed when he burned his tongue.
"My temperature has not changed," Castiel said, sounding mildly baffled. He held out his hand. "I am Castiel. I am also known as James Novak, but I prefer Castiel."
"Your temp..?" The strange comment distracted Dean for only a split second. "You really can't take a hint, can you?" Eying the man's hand, he didn't shake it. "What do you want?" Lifting his eyes, he locked gazes with Castiel's, hating that a shock ran through him in that instant. "No, really, what do you want from me?"
Castiel lowered his hand to his thigh. "I wish to make amends. Have I not made that clear? You lost your job at the restaurant because of me. You are obviously in deep financial need since you sell your body and that is not in your nature." He gave a brief gesture to the light bruises on Dean's throat. "And you allow yourself to be brutalized. I have compounded your problems. I would like to help you find employment. I have a great many resources available to me that I could make available to you."
Dean's eyes widened. "You want to be my sugar daddy." Now he'd seen it all, a guy who went through the trouble of getting someone fired in order to buy them. He also had a good guy complex or something and was pretending this was something it wasn't.
Castiel tilted his head and his brow furrowed. "What is a sugar daddy?" He shook his head, his eyes intense and focused on Dean. "Never mind. Yes. I want to be."
"I knew it." To this guy, he was just a pawn on the chessboard. "Told you before, you can't afford me," he said, looking out the window. The five hundred thousand dollar car was parked right there, like it was framed. Like a big damned clue. "I cost sixty thousand for three days and nights, half the money up front." He turned back, expecting to haggle. He’d do it for ten, in a heartbeat.
Castiel's eyebrows lifted. After a moment he reached out and took Dean's hand, gripping it lightly and closing his eyes. He finally released Dean's hand, opened his eyes and gave a nod. "Seventy thousand. For a week," Castiel countered.
"I can't. I can't do a week, I have to..." How could he leave Sam for that long? He'd gone on short hunting trips but never for more than two days. Still, seventy thousand, that was like a gift from God, if God gave a shit. "I'd need a few hours off here and there, two or three times. I'd make it up to you, give you whatever you want. Whatever you need," he said, slipping into the character he'd developed. "Almost anything," he added, bringing his face real close, close enough for Castiel to steal a kiss if he wanted to seal the deal another way.
Cas breathed in Dean's scent and a look of surprise crossed his face with Dean's so close to his own. "Of course." He reached into his jacket and pulled out his checkbook. Writing a check for ten thousand dollars, he ripped the check free and folded Dean's hand over it. "I'll pay you a day at a time." He pulled out a card from a case and held it out. "Be at this address in three hours."
"Three hours. You got it." Dean looked at all of the zeros on the check and swallowed. "I'll be the best damned rent-boy you ever had," he promised, brushing his mouth against Castiel's. He held his breath, longing for what never came. Even when he licked the seam of Castiel's lips, the man neither parted his lips nor gave him his tongue. Pulling away, Dean got up. "Right, no PDA for you, got it. See ya in three... Cas." Pocketing the check, he grabbed his cup and left the coffee shop, stopping for a long moment in front of the guy's car, before heading to his own.