Chapter Text
“You’re gonna need to pick up the pace a bit, boy,” a haggard voice barked at him from the passenger seat, one of the man’s aged hands clutching the front dash and the other around the grip of his submachine gun out the window, finger on the trigger. A shot rang out from their pursuant, his partner firing back a dozen rounds without hesitation, the other vehicle’s windshield spider webbing in his rearview. “He’s right on your ass—.”
“I know he’s on my ass, Bobby, get off my case!” Foot to the accelerator, he waited for Bobby to return to his seat before taking a sharp turn onto a dirt road, kicking up dust through the woods of the Appalachia’s, that stupid Packard still on his tail – he should have run out of gas miles ago. Unless it had a second tank shoved somewhere in its back end, there was no reason for it to be so close to gaining on him, so close to pushing him off into a tree and sending both him and Bobby through the front window. If he survived, he would have a hell of a time trying to repair that and the bloodied dents he knew they would leave behind.
“Well you’re gonna need to get on it faster,” Bobby shouted, leaning out the window again, firing off another dozen rounds, bullets pinging off the grill and shattering a headlight, “or you’re gonna put us both in the big house sooner than later!”
“You try drivin’ with them behind you!” The tachometer was bordering the red line as he punched it, hoping that he wouldn't blow the engine in the middle of nowhere. That was the last thing they needed; civilization was miles away in either direction. “Here, switch with me!” he shouted over the roar of the wind. He made sure they were on a straightaway before Bobby pulled back in through the window, sliding over the drivers seat while he crawled over him, taking his position as gunman. “Get to the highway, we’ll lose ‘em there!”
“Easier said than done, boy!”
They still had another mile or two back to the main road, and another five after that to get to US 76 out of Blue Ridge. Hopefully they could get into town before that red monstrosity caught them – he wasn't going back to the Pen with all of the other runners, not again. Two stints was enough for his blood. Get their payload to Atlanta, that was the job. After that, he could prowl around the city and leave for the still in the cover of night to do it all over again.
That hadn’t been the case in the past hour – someone must have ratted him out or stalked the still for the past week while he worked; it wouldn't have been the first time. At least the last time, it was someone from a setup about a mile out; since, they had collaborated their efforts and constructed a still larger than anyone else in the tri-state area. Getting the product into town wasn't the issue – it was the Feds prowling the area, waiting for someone to slip up. And that someone was him with his boss in the drivers seat, trying to get them out of dodge before he ran out of bullets or flew out of the window, whichever came first. At least they had gotten the batch loaded and moving before they started their chase.
Someone screwed up somewhere; there wasn’t any time to ruminate on it. He fired another round towards the other’s windshield, both the driver and passenger ducking behind the dash, still managing to keep a straight line, even banking a curve with ease. “You gotta shake ‘em,” he shouted over the hail of gunfire and the roar of the engine, ducking inside while the other passenger fired back, shooting out his side mirror. “He’s puttin’ holes in my damn car!”
“Hang onto your britches, boy.” Bobby yanked him back inside by his suspenders, clocking his head on the roof in the process. “We’re ‘bout to hit asphalt!”
With another push of the accelerator, the Chevy jumped the curb and pulled onto the paved road, white-walled tires digging in and hurtling them down the flat stretch, the Packard about four hundred feet back and gaining. They could lose them – they had the muscle and speed, and more enthusiasm than everyone in Atlanta combined. The problem was the damn thing caught up to them every time, close enough to where he could see the whites of their eyes.
Specifically the drivers. He could recognize those eyes anywhere, from chance encounters to the fact that that blasted man had shoved him into a holding cell himself. “Fuck,” he cursed, lips curling into a scowl. “The Novaks’re drivin’.”
“The Fed Novaks?” Bobby pulled his pistol from the holster on his hip and handed it over. “Get ‘em between the eyes.”
“Will do.”
He sat in the window jamb and hooked his feet under the front seat, hoping it would keep him still while he pointed both firearms at them just as the passenger did the same with a megaphone, a brown-haired man with meticulously styled hair glaring back at him. “Dean Winchester, pull over! You know you’re not getting out of this one!”
He laughed, shouting, “eat me, Novaks!” before shooting out both left tires, sending them into a skid and careening off into a ditch, the man in the door being thrown out into a bush. In the increasing distance, he watched the driver throw his door open and fire off two rounds at them, neither hitting their mark. Back inside, he clapped Bobby on the shoulder and threw both weapons in the back seat, propping his feet up near the shattered side mirror. “Goin’ to Atlanta, baby!”
Bobby growled out an affirmative. Dean grinned – they were in the clear.
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He was starting to think he could actually make a living off running liquor for his boss, no matter if the Feds caught up to him or not. Thumbs tugging at his suspenders, Dean watched Crowley’s lackeys pull case after case of mason jars and from the back of his black 1932 Chevrolet Confederate Special, carrying them into a warehouse in the heart of downtown Atlanta, all while the man himself kept yapping in his ear about how he was being reckless, how he could have died, “and then what would I do without my best man?”
“I think you’d live,” Dean managed through a drawl, snapping the suspenders to his chest. Crowley rolled his eyes, crossing his arms against the black suit he wore, fingers drumming the fabric. “’Sides, y’got Benny, right? He’s hell of a better runner than I am, I ’on’t know why you don't call him up more.”
“Because, dear,” Crowley patted his shoulder, pointing him towards his bullet-riddled car, “he doesn’t have what you have. His dinky little Ford doesn’t get half the speed of what yours does. He’s more suited for the… short haul, up into Tennessee. You’re younger, and single, I might add – you have the resilience he doesn't. He wouldn't throw himself into the line of fire, not with that pretty little wife of his.”
“Hey, don’t be bringin’ her into this—.”
“You’re forgetting, Dean,” Crowley turned to face him, hands on his shoulders, “that I own this little operation, and that beautiful American piece of shit I’m allowing you to drive. For me. You wouldn't be here if it weren’t for what I’ve done for you.”
“Oh, and what’s that?” He brushed off Crowley’s hands and turned his back, walking over to slam the suicide doors of his car shut. “I was fine before you decided to waltz in like you owned the damn place. I made good cash out in Asheville!”
“And you’re making double with me!” From an interior pocket of his jacket, he produced a manila envelope and shoved it into Dean’s hand, all while squinting near-scarlet eyes at him. “That’s three hundred and fifty, cash. Plenty to keep you occupied until I need your next batch. Which is next Friday, I might add.” He waved to the Chevy. “You’ll be needing it to repair my car.”
“Can’t see it bein’ your car since you’ve never driven it.” He pulled a pack of Lucky’s and a matchbook from his back pocket, lighting the cigarette and blowing smoke from between his lips. “You ain’t even touched it, have you?”
“I don’t have to touch it to know it’s mine.” Crowley waved off the smoke Dean puffed in his face, wrinkling his nose. “Spend your money wisely. Who did you manage to piss off today, might I ask?”
He shrugged. “Had the Novaks on my tail couple’a miles outside McCaysville. Put ‘em in the ditch. I ‘ont think they’re gonna be gettin’ outta that one any time soon.”
“I’d be worried about your inner circle, Dean.” Crowley headed in the direction of the loading bay, stopping at his rear bumper. “If the Novaks continue to run into you like they do, I’d start questioning why.”
“It’s a coincidence.” Wasn’t it? Other than Benny and Bobby, he had no one that would even remotely consider running to the authorities. Atlanta depended on him and his business, especially in the fourth ward and the surrounding neighborhoods. If it weren’t for him – and Crowley, by default – the rest of the populous would be drunk or dead on rotgut or whatever they could cook in their bathtubs. He was saving them, in a disturbed way, keeping them from drinking poison by feeding them something mildly less toxic, all while keeping under the radar. All word of mouth, all underground.
The last thing any of them needed was a raid.
“Coincidence or not, you have an intimate relationship with the law. I’d suggest you tidy up your establishment. You, my friend, have a rat.”
From the loading dock, he saw Bobby cross paths with Crowley, the former looking more than miffed at the others presence, the latter clearly amused. “I can’t believe you’re still sellin’ to him, boy,” he told Dean as they crawled back into the front seat, Bobby shrugging off his jacket and tossing it to mingle with his own on the back bench. “He’s gonna bury you, one o’ these days.”
“I’d like to see ‘im try.” He rolled up his sleeves and started the ignition. “I’m thinkin’ ‘bout goin’ over to the Ritz for supper, you want me to drop you off at the house?”
“’Fraid so. I’ve had enough excitement for one lifetime.”
Dean patted the steering wheel. “Ain’t the first time we’ve been shot at by them, that’s for damn sure.”
“One’a these days, they’re gonna put a bullet in one of u—.”
“Shut up, Bobby.” He turned to look over his shoulder, making sure he wouldn't intentionally back over one of the warehouse workers. That last guy still hadn’t forgiven him for breaking his foot. “None’a us’re gonna die. We’re just runnin’ hooch. We’re not about to get killed for it, y’hear?”
Bobby didn't bother to answer, the rest of their drive consumed in silence. Dean parked in the driveway of their home in the fourth ward, a one-story two bedroom home with an attached porch, all painted white, stopping next to their additional car, a Packard De Luxe Eight he bought for Bobby earlier in the month. That would be his mode of transport while he took it to the shop to fix the holes in his Chevy; a car riddled in bullet holes would attract the wrong kind of attention, especially in the higher class part of town. He already got in enough trouble as it was with dressing in the manner he did, always with the suspenders and shirt barely tucked into his pants, fedora always tilted in some haphazard manner. At least his looks made up for it, or so the women said wherever he ventured. Men too, now that he thought about it. A comment on his eyes here, ruffling of his hair there, and sometimes the more adventurous of fellows would fiddle with his suspenders and snap them at will.
He couldn't afford to wear much else, not like Crowley and the rest of his posse, all the men dressed to the nines in tailored suits and perpetually polished shoes, never once breaking a sweat. This was Georgia, and in the middle of summer, at that. He didn't know how they did it – someone had to stroke out at some point. They weren’t from around there, he figured; living in the state for majority of his life had taught him to wear the bare basics unless absolutely necessary and carry on him what was most important, namely his wallet and the keys to his car, no matter how often Crowley praised it as his.
The Ritz demanded better than his kind, though. No farm boy from Valdosta would be able to walk in off the street, no; a good portion of his closet was dedicated to appearances, mostly for his trips across the southeast with Crowley, and that one stint in Vegas a few years back. Never again.
Kicking off his shoes at the door, he wandered the sparsely decorated halls of his and Bobby’s shared home, stripping off his sweat-stained shirt and slacks as he crossed the threshold to his bedroom and tossing them in the growing pile by the door. Tomorrow was laundry day; he could deal with it then. For now, he settled on a fresh white shirt and a new navy blue pinstriped suit, still smelling of the perfume the department store that sold it to him used; at least it would cover the stink of adrenaline. In the bedroom mirror on the wall, he looped his favorite tie – striped hunter green and white – around his neck and tied it, making sure his suspenders were in place before he pulled his suit jacket on. He shrugged at his reflection; it would work.
Bobby cleared his throat at the door, the keys to the Packard dangling from between his fingers. “You gonna be back before six?” he asked, tossing over the fob.
Dean caught it, shoving it into his breast pocket. “It’s what, three now? You know I’ll be back by then.” He grabbed his fedora from the rack on the wall. “What time’s the library expecting you to come in?”
“Five thirty at the earliest.” He followed Dean towards the front door, hands shoved deep in his pants pockets. “You bring her back in one piece, you hear me?”
“Bobby,” he whined, turning to face him. “’M not gonna wreck her. You know I wouldn't.”
“I know.” Bobby patted his cheek. “I already put one o’ you Winchesters in the ground, I’m not gonna do it again. Y’hear me?”
Dean nodded – it was the least he could do for the man that had taken him in all those years ago, that had acted as more of a father than his own. Being the son of the legendary John Winchester had its perks and drawbacks, like being asked on a weekly basis just who he was and how he died, and why, above all. He didn't like to talk about it. The past was the past; there was no use dredging up memories he wasn’t prepared to face.
The Packard, pearl black with white-walled tires, was infinitely nicer than what he drove around, somewhat slower, but it made a statement driving around town. In the middle of what the papers were calling the depression, he had more class than most of Atlanta’s residents. No one asked where the money came from or why he was there in the first place; they already knew, most grateful for the work he did, putting himself on the line just to keep everyone happy. Whether he made any cash or not didn't matter, as long as he got to keep doing what he loved. Cars, booze, and whatever tail he could chase down for the night. What a life.
The crowd inside the Ritz Carlton’s restaurant that Monday afternoon was next to nothing; a couple seated at a booth, three men chatting amongst themselves at a circular table in the middle of the room, and a brunette in a long black dress chatting up the bored man at the concierge desk, cigarette dangling from between her red-painted lips. If his actions weren’t being ruled by his stomach, he would have invited her home, let her stay for breakfast. The incessant need to eat had him walking past the pair and to an empty booth along the back wall, removing his hat while the waitress handed him a menu, afterwards returning to her conversation with another woman near the kitchen doors.
He wasn't alone for more than two minutes before someone decided to join him, sitting across from him in the booth, looking all the bit worn down, black circles outlining the bluest eyes he had never hoped to see again. “Well, ain’t you a sight for sore eyes, Novak,” Dean cooed, leaning back in his seat. “How’s life since the last time you dragged my ass in, Cas?”
“You know damn well how my life’s been.” Novak – Castiel Novak – pinched the bridge of his nose, not bothering to smooth out the wrinkles in his suit, black fabric spattered with dust and mud at his wrists and elbows. His tie was even backwards, probably fastened in the haste of the morning. How did they find him, anyway? “You shot out my tires.”
“You shouldn't’ve been chasin’ me,” Dean sneered. “Ain’t I told you before, anything above Ellijay is mine. And y’ain’t never gonna catch me, either.”
“I’m looking forward to the day I can bring you in and keep you there.” The waitress returned before Castiel could get in another word, Dean ordering his usual and the same for his booth mate, no matter how much the man tried to protest. He continued after she left, “you owe me, cash. You damaged a federal officer’s property and almost killed my brother.”
“Well, he shouldn't’ve been hangin’ out the window now, should he?” He pulled a pack of cigarettes from his breast pocket and a lighter, lighting his before thinking to offer Castiel one. “Sounds to me like he was askin’ for it.”
Castiel blew smoke in his face. “I highly doubt it, considering you’re just as guilty.” He tapped the ashes out in the tray between them, rapping his nails on the table. “I take it you delivered your product on time?”
“What product?” He smirked; Castiel didn't find it amusing. “Far as I see it, you got nothin’ on me. Can’t arrest me if I’m not in the act. So why don't you just run on home to your boss and get off my ass?”
“Because your ass has been a persistent thorn in my side since the day you moved into my turf. You’re in my town, Winchester. And I can do whatever I want while I’m here.” He folded his hands on the table, cigarette between pursed lips as he leant in close, a few strands of dark hair failing to obscure the intensity in his eyes. “And if that includes getting you on speeding or trafficking, or your father’s business, I’ll handcuff you faster than you can reach your precious Chevy.”
“Like it when you get frisky with me, Cas.” He watched Castiel jump as he slid the toe of his shoe up the inside of his leg, catching him under his knee. “Why don’t you put those handcuffs to good use tonight? You can come back to my place,” he reached out to run his fingers over the top of Castiel’s hand, the skin beneath him tensing, “and cuff me to the headboard. I’ll confess to whatever you want, officer.”
“Oh, you would like that, wouldn't you?” Castiel glared him down, slapping Dean’s palm down on the table. “I could bring you in right now. I may not have proof, but I can hold you long enough to get you to crack.”
“Keep talkin’ like that and I might skip out on the meal.” His wink had Castiel’s eyes narrowing further.
“Oh, no, we’re staying. Think of this as repayment for my tires.”
Castiel didn't show up at his front door until after eight, long after Bobby drove off to the Carnegie Library across town, the bullet-riddled red Packard 840 Roadster taking the empty spot in the driveway. Castiel was going to have a hell of a time explaining that one to his boss, along with the fact that his suspect got away. And, if he dared, how he got scratch marks on the back of his neck, all before he pinned Dean to the wall, threw him on the bed, kissed him within an inch of his life, ravishing him for all the neighbors to hear through brick walls. Not that they had cared in the past, anyway.
Maybe they would now; the first night in a week he had gotten alone, and he was too busy being fucked into his cheap mattress to keep his mouth shut. Castiel wasn't making it any better, having gotten him there in the first place, actually following through with Dean’s earlier suggestion and cuffing him to the wrought-iron headboard, making sure he couldn't leave anymore evidence behind while he shoved his knees up towards his head and had his way with him. “Gonna have to go—harder than—that if you want anythin’ outta me—fuck, Cas!”
“Keep quiet, or I’m gagging you with my tie.” Castiel dropped one of his legs to the bed and yanked his head back by the roots of his hair, shoving into him faster, harder, the blue of his eyes eclipsed by black in the dim light of his room. “You insolent, self-righteous—.”
“Oh, talk dirty to me, baby.” Castiel tugged at his hair tighter, earning a hiss, the heel of Dean’s foot thumping against his ass, pulling him closer. “Been a while for ya, ain’t it?”
He grunted at the feeling of teeth nipping the juncture of his neck and shoulder, tongue tracing the skin before biting down hard, another mark to join his growing collection. “That’s none of your business,” he heard when Castiel pulled back, letting up on the death-grip he had on his hair and moving to hook his arms around Dean’s knees to leave his feet in the air, gripping the sheets at his sides. “I’m not here to—be your friend.”
“Breakin’ my heart, darlin’. Breakin’ my—oh fuck, there—.” He pulled at his bindings, the exertion-warmed steel digging into his wrists in his futile attempt to reach out and hold on. Begging wasn't anywhere in his playbook; he used his hands to speak the words he couldn't himself say, and being robbed of mobility had him writhing, angling his hips to feel his dick against his prostate, fucking himself back on his cock with each thrust until his eyes were rolling back. “C’mon, baby, you gonna come?”
“Fuck you, Winchester.” His chance to retort was cut short by a biting kiss, more teeth and tongue and harsh breaths than anything resembling finesse. Castiel picked up the pace then, twisting the sheets beneath them in his hands, the sound of skin against skin failing to drown out the obscenities Dean panted, hands grasping at air for dear life. “Gonna—Dean—.”
“In me, in me, oh God, Cas—.” Castiel bit into the scar nearest his shoulder without hesitation, the bright burst of pain barely enough to offset the feeling of his cum filling his ass, hips stuttering, grinding into his own with the need to bury himself deeper. Dean let his head fall back with a groan as he felt Castiel pull out, only to shove two fingers back inside and rub incessantly at the nub that sent his vision white, the knowledge that he was fucking him with his own cum leaving his toes curling into nothing.
“This is what gets you off, right?” Castiel hummed, lowering himself onto his side next to Dean, sucking the skin beneath his ear. “Seducing the lawmen that want to take you in? How many have you done this to, Winchester?” Dean didn't answer, too lost in his impending orgasm to care, cock bubbling precum onto his stomach, down his side. “They’ve never gotten as close as I have. They won’t catch you, but I will.” He kissed down the length of his throat before reaching his lips, smirking there. “One of these days, you’ll be mine.”
Out of all the things to make him come in the past, he never expected a man’s voice would do him in, leaving him winded, gasping as white streaked his stomach, a drop catching his chin. Castiel let up after that, finally pulling out and leaving Dean to clench around air, whining, riding the aftershocks down until his breathing settled and he smelt smoke waft through the air.
“Fuck, uncuff me and gimme one’a those.” Castiel rolled his eyes before standing on unsteady legs, retrieving both the key and a washrag from the dresser by the door, cigarette between kiss-swollen lips. “Y’look good like that, all scratched up.”
“No thanks to you.” Castiel unlocked the cuffs with clear reluctance, tossing them on the bed and scrounging up his clothing, scattered about the room. Dean took the rag after stretching out his arms and rubbing the raw skin of his wrists, wiping himself down while the officer watched, a perpetual scowl on his lips. “You’re lucky I don’t bring you in for this.”
“For what? Taking you to bed with me?” Dean cast the rag aside and reached over the bed for his slacks. “’S far as I’m concerned, you were the one that brought it up.” He laughed at Castiel’s growl. “Oh, don’t be like that, sweetheart. You enjoyed it just as much as I did.”
“That doesn’t mean it was right.” Slacks on, Castiel shrugged on his shirt, buttoning down the front. “I swear, if you speak a word of this—.”
“What, you’ll arrest me?” Dean scoffed. “Like I haven’t heard that one before.” He crossed the room with his pants barely on his hips, belt hanging loose out of its loops. He pulled the cigarette from between Castiel’s lips, catching him in a quick, wet kiss before taking a drag. “You’ll just have to try harder next time, won’t you?”
“Hopefully not too hard.” Castiel took the cigarette from him, promptly stomping it out on the floor. “You’ll slip up soon. We’re close to finding your still. It won't be long before we bring you and whoever you’re working for down.”
“I’d like to see you try.”
Dean tugged him in with a hand to the back of his neck, Castiel groaning into their kiss, reaching up to where he had bit down earlier, rolling the circle of puckered skin there between his fingers. “Were you in the war?”
“What?” Dean pulled back an inch, eyeing the scar the officer was thumbing, closing his eyes to the sight. “No. I was only thirteen, too young.”
“Kids don’t get shot for no reason, Dean,” Castiel commented. “What were you doing?”
“Nothin’, alright?” He reached down to grab the rest of Castiel’s clothing, shoving them at him. “It was nothin’. All in the past. Ain’t your job to be worryin’ ‘bout what I get into.”
“You’re right, it’s not.” Castiel hung his tie around his neck and folded his jacket, hanging it over one arm. “I don’t care whether you live or die. But it’s my job to bring you in alive. So don’t do anything stupid, do you understand me?”
“You’re not my dad, Cas. You got no authority over me, so shove it.” He slung open his door and led Castiel out into the hall without a word, not bothering to look back in the off chance Castiel might be expressing anything other than his usual contempt. Through the closed blinds of the living room, he saw the lights of a car head in his direction, parking out on the curb in front of his house. “Shit, he wasn’t supposed to be back yet!”
Bobby was slamming the door to his Packard by the time Dean got the front door open, Castiel trailing out after him, clothing wrinkled and hair an unkempt mess with a purpled mark glaringly obvious on his neck. He laughed at the aggravated scowl he got from across the yard; he didn't look much better either, littered in bites and scratches, the hand-shaped bruises on his ass thankfully hidden by his pants. At least those wouldn't be up for discussion tomorrow. “Novak, don’t you have work to do downtown?” Bobby growled as he walked across the green grass, hands in his pockets.
“Apologies, Singer.” Castiel didn't bother to acknowledge either of them again, walking to his car and popping the door latch, starting the engine thereafter.
“You’re stupid, boy, you know that?” Bobby said to him over the noise of the red Packard pulling out of their driveway, taillights disappearing beyond the trees. He pulled Dean aside and pushed him into one of the support beams, his scowl tightening the tired wrinkles on either side of his eyes. “You let him find out where we live?”
“He can’t do anything to us, Bobby,” Dean said, low. “He doesn’t have proof. And he never will, a’ight? I didn’t say anythin’ to him, if that’s what you’re wonderin’.”
“You’re damn right you didn’t. We didn’t work this hard to have you screw up. He’s not as dumb as you think he is, boy.”
“He’s dumb enough to leave his cuffs.” He nodded towards the house; Bobby shaking his head in defeat. “He’ll be hearin’ ‘bout that one at the office for a while. And while he’s doin’ that, I gotta go upstate Wednesday to check the mash. Crowley wants us to deliver on Friday.”
“That’s barely two weeks, is he insane?”
“He gave us seventy-five more this week to get it done. And I’m gonna get Benny in on it too, I’ve got this covered.” He sighed, taking a step towards the door. “’Sides, I’m sure Jody’s gonna wanna see you at work this week. You’re the one keepin’ us lookin’ legit, y’know?”
He jumped at Bobby’s hand landing on his shoulder, pulling him back a step. He anticipated anger, maybe a slap to the cheek – he received a grimace instead, the older man’s eyes shining in the flickering porch light. “You just… I shouldn't have to tell you to be careful. You’re the only one I got, since your brother left.”
“I know, Bobby.” Truly, he did. Their lives hadn’t been the same since Sam headed out west, their only communication with him in the form of bi-monthly telephone calls and an occasional post card. Apparently being a private investigator left him with no time for casual conversation. “And I’m tryin’. We both know how this works, we both know they ain’t got anything on us, and we’re gonna keep it that way. If we gotta keep moving, then we will! They’re not gonna get me again.”
“They better not.” With a final pat, Bobby walked inside, leaving him to rub the wound in his shoulder in the dark of the stagnant night, trying his hardest to forget the heaviness in his heart.