Chapter Text
Inferno throbbed with its own heartbeat, the steady bass rumbling through the scuffed wooden floorboards, rattling the glassware left haphazardly around the bar.
Dean moved through it, the tang of spilt whiskey and stale smoke lingering in the air, like a man who had memorised every pattern, every scent, every flicker of light, every shoulder sat too tense in a hidden booth. His smile sat on his face, his own shield against the dangerous faces of the crowd, just enough to earn tips without drawing in the unwanted kind of attention - he had little time for anymore of that.
The neon sign outside cast a soft orange glow through the grimy window, dust and grime accumulating thickly on the panels, years of unrest and neglect building heavily. Dean sighed, feeling the heat from the bodies surrounding him, constricting him in the small, densely populated room, his jeans clinging to his skin.
He poured another shot into a glass before him, not bothering to glance down, letting the sweet amber liquid trickle into it, setting it down in front of the man at the bar - a man whose confidence reeked of cheap cologne and a false sense of security.
“Anything else for you there, chief?” Dean rolled off, with a well-rehearsed charm that had saved his skin more times than he could count.
”I’m sure there are plenty of other things you could do for me, sugar,” he flirted suggestively, leaning further in towards Dean, hands inching uncomfortably towards him.
Dean flinched internally to himself, turning his body away from him, leaning back to restock the bar, wiping over the bar methodically with his rag. As the man turned to walk away, Dean found his gaze shifting across the floor. He had long learnt what to watch for, knew the men who would creep far too close to him, knew those who would back off upon his meeting their gaze.
And then there was the inherent shift - the subtle imperceptible shift in the air indicating a new presence - familiar.
Dean took in Charlie, a familiar presence, crouched near the register, laptop perched upon her knee, balancing it between cables hooked up to god knows where. Peering over, Dean caught signs of business ledgers, ones she certainly had no business looking over, but alas, it came to him as more of a surprise when she wasn't infiltrating something. Shutting her laptop shut quickly, lid slamming, Charlie peered up at Dean, catching his eye, a flicker of concern clearly visible on her face. Her eyebrow arched, silently questioning Dean, "You okay?" Dean offered a micro-shrug, glancing downwards at his hands, which had been wringing the dishtowel religiously.
Tilting his head away, Dean turned back towards the counter, just in time to catch the shadow of movement towards him. Alastair appeared then, silent as always, with an air of confidence demanding attention. Carrying himself with the ease of a predator, he lurked closer to Dean, slowly rolling up his jacket sleeves, revealing the snaking of ink rippling further up his sleeve. Dean felt the change immediately, men straightening, conversations hushing as if anticipating the buildup occurring.
Dean inhaled sharply, the scent of liquor burning his nose, the stale stench of Alastair lingering. He had learnt long ago that Alastair’s charm was his weapon, cutting deep with subtle words. Dean steeled himself silently. He knew he could survive this, just a few more years, enough to get Sam through college, and he could escape this shithole.
“Dean,” Alastair’s voice purred, low and confident, close enough that Dean could smell the faint lingering of tobacco on his breath, feeling it purge into his leather jacket, “Busy tonight, ain't you son.”
“Friday,” Dean breathed lightly, sliding another glass down the bar. “What's new?”
Alastair leaned in as if to admire the line of bottles along the bar, his fingers brushing Dean’s lower spine with the careless familiarity of someone who had owned more than just the bar for years.
Dean did not flinch, holding himself still as the hand traced the curvature of his spine, toying with the edge of his frayed shirt.
“You’re doing great, Dean,” Alastair murmured into Dean’s ear, quiet enough not to be overheard, the praise thinly veiled as observation. “Don’t be getting distracted by anyone now, wouldn’t want anyone stopping you from performing your best.”
As if Dean would let anyone distract him.
Alastair began to move on, traipsing his hand along Dean’s back, flicking the edge of his waistband as he went. Bile rose into Dean’s throat, quickly suppressed as he regained his composure - not long now, just survive.
Charlie appeared at his side, replacing the lost body, and whispered subtly, “He’s circling,” a tut hidden in her voice.
“Always,” Dean replied in a hush, eyes flicking to check for Alastair, “Sharks gotta keep moving.”
Charlie glanced at him, her smirk laced with concern, “Sharks end up eating things, too, you know.”
Dean’s lip twitched, “ Yeah, always with the biting, and usually me.”
Dean's eyes flicked upwards, the door opened, and Ellen Harvelle stepped in - a regular face- her coat dusted with the faint trace of snow from the night outside. Behind her, a man followed, moving through the crowd with calm precision. Tall, angular, contained. Bodies instinctively shifted to give him space. Entranced by this stranger, Dean took in this unfamiliar man, his body wrapped in a cream trenchcoat, a white shirt pulled around his chest, pressed trousers held firmly by suspenders framing his muscular body.
His eyes met Dean’s, piercing blue, and lingered.
Dean froze for the barest second, a twitch in his shoulder, before quickly averting his gaze, not being able to resist the grin from settling onto his face, however. Despite having spent his whole life being looked at this way, Dean couldn’t help but feel different – held – by the gaze of the stranger.
Ellen guided the man to a booth, leaving Dean alone, aware of those eyes, emotions, and guard crashing around him in a crescendo. He noticed the faint scar on his hands, the way they tapped the edge of the table in routine rhythm, a pure demonstration of restraint. Evidence of the calculating coldness, the danger encapsulated in one man.
Charlie appeared suddenly behind him, whispering cautiously, “You should watch him.”
Dean poured a drink, the methodicalness settling his shaking hands, as he watched the new development waltz closer over to him, before settling neatly on a stool in front of the bar.
Dean's pulse picked up.
“Vodka,” the man said, a slight accent tainting his words, cold. “No ice.”
Dean nodded in affirmative response, busying himself with preparing the drink. He caught the way the man’s gaze lingered on his hands, following each movement precisely, cataloguing, memorising. There was no judgment, though he could sense, just pure calculation.
“Busy night,” Dean drawled, a flirtatious charm infused into his voice.
“Yes,” he replied flatly, “You handle it well.”
Dean smirked, “Years of practice.”
“Too many,” he stated.
The words landed harder than anticipated, no malice or teasing, but absolute.
“You got a name?” Dean asked inquisitively, sliding a subtle glance towards the doorway behind him.
“Castiel,” he said, lips pursed into a subtle smile. “And you are Dean.”
Dean laughed softly. “I am?”
Castiel’s gaze did not waver. “Yes.”
Dean tilted his head softly, taking in the way he drank his Vodka, one measured swallow, the glass placed firmly on the bar. Then Castiel’s eyes drifted to Alastair across the room, and Dean’s stomach tightened; had he misjudged - Dean couldn't seem to read it.
Alastair returned, sliding in behind Dean with a smile intended to claim rather than greet, hand sliding around his waist, pulling his body into his.
“Castiel,” he said, voice warm,” good to see you, friend. Everything to your liking?”
Castiel did not move to look at him, his focus remaining on Dean.
“Yes,” he stated affirmatively.
Alastair laughed, sharp and pleased, then leaned in closer to Dean, trapping his body, pushing it further into the bar.
“Don’t forget the private table at eleven, and Dean, make sure to loosen yourself up a bit, you know you’ll like it”, Alastair whispered, hand stroking down to Dean's hip.
Then came the movement Dean had been expecting - dreading, the sharp, deliberate sting landing on his ass. A curse formed at his lips, bitten quickly back as shame washed over him, his head ducking down, arms restrained at his sides to resist the temptation of retribution.
Dean’s eyes found Castiel’s. He was still, observing, unmoving. Ocean-blue eyes conveyed a harsh displeasure that made Dean shudder.
Dean pushed the next drink forward, slightly trembling, and waved Charlie off with a brief shake of the head.
“You should leave,” Castiel uttered, voice insistent.
Dean forced on a smile, biting back his snark, “I’ve got a job to do.”
Castiel’s eyes did not waver, nor his voice falter, “Not here, you don’t.”
Dean stiffened, “You don’t know anything about–”
“I know,” Cas said, certain. “I know that man will escalate.”
Dean tilted his head, face twitching, “Get in line.”
He moved towards the doorway behind him, pulling his leather tight around him. Exiting out the back, the night hit him like a cold burn, wet asphalt illuminated by neon bleeding from streetlamps.
His phone vibrated, and fumbling in his pocket, he fished it out.
Sammy: Are you alive?
Dean: Course. Be home soon.
An exhale escaped his chest. Glancing back at the orange glow of Inferno, he couldn't shift the thoughts of Castiel, couldn’t stop replaying the interaction on loop. He walked back into the night, crawling back into the Impala, back to baby, aching for the sombre release of sleep, and the small reprise it would bring.