Chapter Text
It’s a small, family owned place and Dean hates that he has to do this. But he’s fresh out of ideas and chain stores are more risky.
The linoleum is peeling and the slim strip of paint visible above racks of candy is an indeterminable shade of green. The windows at least have been cleaned recently and unobstructed sunlight hits shelves that are filled with glossy magazines of varying quality.
The windows are bigger than he would like, but there are no cameras and there’s a back door. Although that one possibly leads to a staircase to the apartment upstairs. Other than that-
Sam tugs his tiny hand out of Dean’s grip and makes a break for it. He dashes straight for a brightly colored comic book sitting on one of the bottom shelves and grabs it before Dean can catch him.
“Sammy, no,” Dean hisses, sinking down to a crouch to confiscate the thing.
He barely gets all the way to the floor before there’s a rustle and Sam suddenly is standing with half of one of the fragile pages in his hand. He stares down at the ruined paper with his big brown eyes, “Whoops.”
“Yeah, whoops,” Dean grumbles. He pries the, decidedly age inappropriate, comic from Sam’s hand and shoves it back on the shelf.
He’s halfway through cramming the torn page into the pocket of his leather jacket when polished black shoes appear right next to the knee he has braced on the scuffed linoleum.
With a grimace he looks up neatly pressed trousers and a suit jacket worn over a crisp white shirt. The guy is staring straight down at him and he has one hundred percent clocked what Dean is doing.
Or had been doing. Right now Dean is mainly blinking stupidly up at a man who’s definitely too old for him. But then there’s the perfect cut of his jaw and the unapologetic way he’s taking up space. As well as the way his attention isn’t remotely on the pocket with the evidence, but instead on Dean’s face, sweeping his gaze slowly over every single feature as if he’s cataloging them.
Dean opens his mouth to say something when Sam tugs at his sleeve, “Candy.”
“Eh,” Dean drags himself back to reality and shakes his head, “No. Not now.”
Sam narrows his eyes and Dean has a pretty good idea where this is headed so he scoops him up and gets to his feet. Kid weighs a fucking ton. You’d think his diet consisted of more than whatever disorganized meals Dean can scrounge up for them.
As soon as they’re off the ground, Sam sinks fully into him, like it has tended to be the case lately. He’s heavy and lax, exactly like he gets when he’s sleeping. Dean hugs him closer for just a single second before moving toward the counter.
He’d like to wait for a more opportune time but there’s no guarantee he’s gonna get it. There are relatively few people passing by outside, and inside it’s just him, Sam, the cashier – who’s likely the owner – and then two customers. All in all it’s pretty good.
He really wishes he didn’t have to do this with a toddler hanging like a koala from his neck. But if the world were a gift shop, he’d have a list a mile long. Starting with never having any reason to be in this situation in the first place.
He adjusts Sam in his arms, freeing a hand so he can reach for the gun tucked into the waistband of his jeans as soon as the woman in front of him finish buying her cigarettes and gum.
The suited guy is still at the shelves with magazines, casually browsing. The bell on the door jingles as the woman leaves and this is just how it’s gonna have to be.
It’s gonna be okay.
He botches the timing and asks the cashier for the contents of the register before he pulls out the gun. It doesn’t really matter, though. The point comes across anyway.
It’s the first time the cashier truly looks up, instead of being preoccupied with customers or scribbling on a note pad, so he might not even have observed the lack of professionalism.
His pale eyes move to the gun, sticking there briefly before snapping to a point over Dean’s shoulder. His hands fly up, “We already paid,” he says, voice shaking but not directed at Dean at all, “Money for next month is out back, I-”
Dean doesn’t get a chance to turn around before his wrist is grabbed hard enough that it hurts. In a firm tug, his arm is wrenched behind his back, gun and all. He nearly drops Sam at the momentum and the kid shifts with a displeased sound that experience tells him might turn into an earpiercing scream at any moment.
“You know why I’m here,” a deep voice says calmly. It’s right next to Dean’s ear but it’s not him who’s being addressed, “You can take this as a final warning. Next time I’m setting this one loose upstairs. As you can see, he’s not terribly stable.”
It’s the guy in the suit. Has to be, because he’s the only other person in here. Dean should have probably paid closer attention. Registered what should have been obvious from the straight line of his shoulders and his solid stance. From the entire layout of the neighborhood, too. Small shops, looking like they’ve been here for longer than those usually survive.
Organized crime. The established kind.
Motherfucking shit.
The socket of Dean’s shoulder burns. The gun is worked from his hands in a practiced mix of pressing down firmly on the inside of his wrist, followed by prying open his loosened hold. The procedure is helped along by Dean’s aversion to accidentally getting an ass cheek blasted off.
And then the barrel of the gun is digging into his lower back. The leather jacket is bunched awkwardly between them but it’s unlikely to protect him if the trigger gets pulled, whether on accident or on purpose.
The cashier is still looking terrified, staring at the guy – who has admittedly taken a sharp turn toward being scary – with an expression like he’s about to piss his pants. Even if the only gun in circulation is currently pointed at the person struggling to keep from dropping a damn child.
“Sammy,” he hisses. It doesn’t stop the dissatisfied squirming in the least. The lower arm he has hooked under Sam’s butt burns worse than the other one.
The cashier flicks his gaze from Sam to the guy who’s currently occupied with mauling a hand-shaped bruise deep into Dean’s lower arm.
“Not my kids. Please. You promised.”
“I’ll keep my promises if you keep yours,” it’s still spoken right against Dean’s ear. Low and dangerous and the raised hairs at the back of his neck aren’t necessarily born out of fear alone.
It’s the cadence as much as it’s that he has managed to turn Dean and Sam’s presence into some kind of elaborate threat, instead of an inconvenient disturbance of whatever ominous situation was about to take place. Gotta respect a man who can think on his feet.
The respect drops a few notches when the asshole shoves him around and forces him out of the store.
“With a child?” the guy snaps as the bell jangles cheerily over the door.
From between gritted teeth, Dean inadvisably hisses, “Didn’t really have a whole lot of other options.”
He’s doing his fucking best and if he’s gonna get shot, he’s not dealing with this bullshit on top.
The Land Rover parked across two spaces right in front of the store is in no way a surprise, and definitely doesn’t improve the bad feeling that’s settling in his stomach. The guy forces him to the car and opens the door to the back seat.
“Put the kid in,” his voice is raspy and his body is pressing close against Dean’s. The gun is still digging into his spine, maybe hidden between them or maybe the few passers-by who carefully walk a wide circle around them are just pretending to not see what’s going on.
Dean clutches Sam as close as it’s possible with one arm and Sam squeaks in complaint.
Their best bet is to somehow get out right now. As soon as they’re in the car, they’re left with mainly the option of trusting that this guy isn’t as psychotic as everything that went down inside suggests.
“No,” Dean says firmly, “He’s not going in there.”
The gun cocks with an all too familiar sound, “You sure about that?”
Without Sam, he’d have been willing to risk it. With Sam he isn’t. With a curse he starts to deposit Sam into the back of the car.
Sam’s arms tighten around his neck to the point that it feels like getting choked. Directly into his eardrum Sam starts screaming, “No!” repeating the word louder and louder as if this is happening because Dean didn’t hear him the first time.
The gun shoves harder into his back and this is nearly as bad as attempting to wrangle the menace into a car seat in a Tesco parking lot, sweating while three middle aged mothers stare horrified at him, visibly considering whether to call the cops.
“I’m trying,” he hisses at the psycho behind him as he finally gets Sam to let go.
He’s grabbed by the scruff of his neck and wrenched away from Sam. The door shuts with a slam. Before he can fully react, he’s shoved into the passenger seat. The guy leans over him and grabs a semi-automatic from the glove compartment, leaving the silencer behind. It rolls around with a rattle as the glove compartment snaps back closed.
The passenger door shuts and for a short moment Dean and a screaming Sam are alone in the car. With his heart hammering in his chest, Dean launches himself at the driver’s seat, one hand braced on the leather while he grapples for the door locks.
The door opens and the guy looks down at him, letting out an annoyed breath, “I have the car keys and unlike you, I’m armed. What’s the plan here?”
Yeah, Dean doesn’t know either. He should have probably gone for the silencer instead. To use as some kind of inefficient, blunt weapon. Would’ve likely gotten them both killed, though. Nothing but shit options.
With a grimace, he awkwardly pushes himself from where he’s lying halfway across the seat until he’s back at his own side.
The guy settles in the driver’s seat with an absent look at Sam who in addition to screaming is now also clawing at the buckle of a seatbelt that wouldn’t be holding him in place at all if he wasn’t pulling at it.
With a concerning lack of care, the guy dumps the two guns in the space between his seat and the car door. Then he grabs a headset from the dashboard. He drags out a phone and fiddles with both before handing them to Dean, “You’ll want to give him these.”
Dean blindly takes the items, absently registering buttery leather and sleek aluminum but mainly watching Sam who has gotten the belt open and is now attempting to scramble over the divide between the front seats.
He wants to drag Sam onto the passenger seat with him but he should probably follow orders, seeing as the guy next to him literally has three guns – Dean’s colt, the one from the glove compartment and the one hanging from a shoulder holster that Dean just clocked underneath his open suit jacket – all of which are likely loaded.
He looks down at the phone he has been handed. There’s an episode of Bluey on the screen which might be the most jarring thing this day has brought. It might be a good sign. Hopefully the real kind and not in the category of waning moon, rising Saturn or whatever it is.
Dean presses play and tests the volume before he hands Sam the brand new iPhone and wrangles the too-big wireless headphones onto his tiny head.
The screaming stops as if a switch has been flipped. Sam scoots backwards, settling crosslegged on the middle seat in the back with his eyes glued to the cartoon. His one hand is on the headset, keeping it from slipping down.
Screen time has worked before, but not like this. Granted, it’s been either on the cracked screen of Dean’s dying phone or what was available on a motel TV. So maybe the magical ingredient is money. It tends to be.
Dean’s ears are still ringing. And he still doesn’t know why they’re here.
“We’re not gonna be driving,” Dean demands, “You don’t have a child seat.”
A single eyebrow arches, “You just brought him with you to a hold-up.”
“Would’ve turned out just fine if you had just left us to it.”
The guy’s expression is stony but the engine isn’t running and he isn’t making any kind of indication that he’s about to reach for the car keys. His tone doesn’t suggest that they’re about to get shot, either, when he calmly says, “I take it this wasn’t an intentional attempt at operating in my territory?”
It’s confirmation of something Dean already knows and there’s absolutely no reason to pretend he doesn’t.
“We’re just passing through,” he replies, “Needed some cash. I didn’t realize anyone had called dibs on the place.”
The guy nods slowly, considering something while his gaze rakes all over Dean, “How old are you?”
Dean doesn’t like the question. He has a hard time following why it’s getting asked at all, but it’s not as if they’re here to make small talk. There’s likely a reason. None of the ones he’s mentally flicking through are good.
The guy looks pointedly to the gun collection and Dean finally replies, “Twenty-eight.”
He isn’t sure why he lies. He already looks younger than he is and if he wanted to add some kind of flimsy layer to protect his identity he should probably be bumping his age down.
“Show me some ID.”
Dean reluctantly digs in the pocket of his jeans for the stolen credit card he’d used when they checked in to the motel. “You about to offer me a beer or what?” he comments as he hands it over.
The guy barely looks at it before humorlessly saying, “Some actual ID. Your own, preferably.”
Dean scoffs and reaches to take the plastic card but the guy doesn’t hand it back, “The other one first.”
There’s not really any way out of it so with a muttered curse, Dean shoves a hand into the inner pocket of his leather jacket and grabs his driver’s license from his wallet. He holds it up, not intending to pass it, but the guy doesn’t care, snatching it right out of his grip.
With the (second) expropriated card in his hand, he stares at it for way too long.
“It’s real,” Dean supplies, not commenting on the fact that the name doesn’t match with the other one.
“Yes, I know,” the guy replies. He looks up to squint at Dean, “Twenty-five?” Dean shrugs and the guy hands both cards back, “Okay. And you’re in need of money?”
“What?” Dean nearly drops his wallet on the floor before he regains his grip of it and finishes jamming the driver’s license back into it, “Is this some kind of hack job interview?”
“You mean as opposed to a formal process of application?” the guy replies drily.
Okay. Fair enough.
Dean tucks the wallet back in his pocket, “What am I being offered here? A role as henchman number 3?”
“Based on that performance in there? Certainly not.”
Rude.
Dean casts a glance back at Sam who’s still watching the phone but is fiddling with the silver-colored plates on the sides of the headset.
Probably fine. He redirects his focus, “Okay, so what are we doing here? You just pull me in here to rack up a kid’s screen time and look at my handsome face?”
Because he is. Has been for the entire time.
The guy tilts his head as if they both know it’s a stupid question.
Dammit.
Dean swallows hard, “Not with the fucking kid in the car, man.”
“No, of course not,” the guy replies as if it’s Dean who’s the messed-up one for even suggesting it.
Dean pointedly doesn’t go into the logistics of what exactly he’s currently getting asked for. It’s gonna sound like he’s saying yes. He glances from the leather interior of the car to the Rolex on the guy’s wrist. “What kind of money are we talking?”
If any. This is very, very likely something that would be considered payment for a debt owed. Not the other way around.
Maybe Dean should be groveling instead of attempting to turn any kind of tables here. He’d just much rather get something for it. Because there’s a solid chance it’s happening either way. Which is fine, as long as they’re not also gonna have to go without dinner. Again.
“Standard rate if it’s one time,” the guy says casually, “If we’re both interested in more than that, it would come with perks in addition to a flat rate.”
Dean shifts in his seat. He has no idea what any kind of standard rate would be considered to be. But it sounds like money. Real money.
As recent as the night before last, he gave a blowjob in a motel parking lot with Sam asleep inside. For the price of a hamburger and a half tank of gas. It’s not like he’s above this.
Then he catches the back seat more fully in his field of vision. He stares in horror as Sam peels one of the lambskin leather cushions off the headset, “No. Sammy, no no no. Hand it over.”
As per usual, Sam isn’t listening in the least and Dean already has a knee on the center console when a hand lands on his shoulder. It’s not a rough grip but there’s enough command in it that he stops in the hold.
“It’s magnetic. So it can be changed if it breaks, I think. But they’re prone to coming apart. Happens to me, too, it’s very annoying. I’d expect more for a product set above two thousand dollars, but,” the guy shrugs, “You can keep them. Sound quality’s nice.”
Dean’s shoulder tingles under the guy’s hand. It slithers through his veins, spreading to his entire body under the calm way he’s being watched. He nods mutely and slides back into his seat.
“When you say ‘perks’,” Dean asks, circling back in a tone that fails to be at all nonchalant.
“We can discuss the details if it turns out to be a fit,” the guy says, definitely catching that Dean might very well be interested.
Because two thousand dollars. Casual like that. Even if it’s a very deliberate hook, it’s one that might be worth biting.
He doesn’t know if the one time thing is an expected minimum or if he can say no to the whole affair. He doesn’t even know if the headset is a genuine offer.
But even if he’s operating on best-case scenario – that this is a no-strings-attached kind of exorbitant gift and a ‘no thank you’ is gonna suffice for everything else – what then? Sure, they could use whatever the resell value is to get them the rest of the way across the country. But for what? To knock on a door he’s not sure is going to get opened? To attempt to make the money stretch for the deposit for an apartment they wouldn’t be able to afford anyway? To last them another few weeks before they’re once again back to barely keeping their heads above water?
“You’re going to need to show me what I’ll be paying for first,” there’s a smile in the guy’s voice. The shit-eating kind. Like Dean has been saying all of this aloud. Which he’s reasonably sure he hasn’t. Probably just the combination of the long pause and what’s likely written all over his face.
“You mean like take off my clothes?” Dean asks below his voice with half an eye on Sam who’s still fiddling with the equivalent of two months working minimum wage.
“Among other things,” the guy replies, silkily in a way that’s not a threat but is definitely predatory, “Are you staying anywhere?”
“At a motel,” Dean replies. He doesn’t want to give up their location but it narrowly beats letting the guy take them anywhere.
“Give me the details. I’ll come by tonight.”
Dean reluctantly gives him the information. Nothing else. Nothing personal.
The guy already has a lot more than Dean would like from his driver’s license. Things that don’t matter like his height and weight. And then things that do, like his name. Even if the guy hasn’t used it yet.
There are no other questions asked. The guy doesn’t even ask if Sam is his.
It’s for the best, because replying no is the kind of thing that sounds like a lie anyway. Something to cover an age difference that would make Dean only just old enough to buy a beer when he had him. And a mother who’s fuck where. ‘Half-brother’ sounds better. And things that sound good are lies nine times out of ten.
“My gun,” Dean prompts.
There’s a moment where he fears he’s going to be told no. Then the guy picks it up and slides the magazine out. He pockets it along with the bullet he empties out of the chamber, “You’ll get the rest back tonight,” he hands over the colt, fingers lingering on the ivory handle for a beat too long.
“Sure,” Dean snatches it out of his grip before he can get any ideas, “You got a name?”
He’s busy tucking away the useless gun but the guy’s gaze prickles on the side of his face and he looks up, straight into blue eyes.
The guy holds the eye contact before replying, “Cas.”