It was a cool, crisp December morning, and light filtered through the arched windows of Tammany Hall, illuminating all of the tiny dust particles that floated lazily through the air. Few people were in the building at this hour, especially in this particular wing of the hall, however there were a few huddled groups here and there that were chatting away nonchalantly and sharing a cigar or two. Bar maids distributed refreshments and alcohol, noticeable by the feathery plumes on their uniforms, though not much of it was consumed as the sun barely peeked over the tops of the buildings. This particular wing of Tammany Hall almost always had a very laid-back atmosphere, the paneled wooden walls and floor smelling of whisky and tobacco and leather, and the only real piece of furniture in the room, aside from the bar and the shelves used to archive the new arrivals, was a large wooden desk that sat opposite the arched door.

The Hall, whose infamous William M. Tweed, or "Boss Tweed", had just fled after the Progressives' backlash became too much, and the new Big Boss was a man named Michael, whose prude and very rigid demeanor rivaled even that of Tweed's. The man was no better than the other politician had been, both who'd only took up the position for the money and power, but luckily he wasn't the only ward boss that worked in Tammany Hall; there were others who worked more specific roles, and Michael was just the general man to go to. It was like seeing a doctor and, if they identified your problem, being sent to a cardiologist or neurologist, both specialists in their certain field.

The ward boss in this particular hall sat hunched over the swathes of papers on his desk, his fountain pen scratching away furiously as he struggled to fill out paperwork that was due in an obscenely short amount of time. Michael was a rival politician, after all, and he used the fact that he was technically the manager to try and get his subordinates to stumble. This particular ward boss, though, was holding out quite well, and his brow was furrowed in the deepest of concentration, focused beyond compare as ink flowed out of his pen in a delicate, looping cursive. Smoke trailed into from a cigar that dangled from his lips, spiraling and twisting like a ribbon until it dissipated, and he puffed on it as he labored. To most who frequented the area, this ward boss was known for his unappealing overcoat, colored an unsightly beige, but other than that he was a die-hard politician who was wholly and undeniably for the people, as well as his clients. His honesty may've been the reason why no one in the business liked him very much, calling him a reclusive introvert who cared about nothing but his work.

"C'mon, get a drink with us, will ya?" Raphael, yet another competitor, had asked him slyly on the politician's first day, the corners of his mouth tugging into a very disquieting smirk that screamed trouble. Two others, who considered themselves independent but really just trailed behind Raphael and supported his every preach, chuffed a bit as they flashed their fancy tailcoats, gold cufflinks, and brass buttons. The ward boss had squared his jaw and shaken his head, ultimately beginning the race between him and every other politician that worked at Tammany Hall.

He continued to work diligently, not really taking much time to glance at the clock and only pausing to light another cigar after his last one burned up. His secretary, Hannah, came often to check up on him and, bless her, bring offerings of whisky that he downed in one gulp. Sure, the extra alcohol in his system would make his mind fuzzy around the corners, but it really took the edge off of the back-breaking paperwork and forms that seemed to have absolutely no end. He pulled his cigar out, holding it between two fingers, and gave her a thankful and shy smile, receiving a much more enthusiastic one in return. She knew that his people skills were a bit rusty, and the ward boss couldn't think of anyone better to be his loyal secretary. He swore that she flushed a bit at the small smile, but he soon blamed it on the changing light and returned his attention back to writing, even though his wrist was throbbing dully. That's when the door opened and, though the clustered men didn't think much of it, the politician looked up. Thin hands. Sallow cheeks. Haunted eyes.

He rose to his feet at the sight, adjusting his overcoat and tie while stubbing his cigar in the ashtray, and walked over to where two young men, no older than he, stood silently. The shorter one held a single, small suitcase, one that couldn't possibly hold all of their possessions, but the man was used to this kind of thing. They looked startled at his approach, like deer on high alert, and he felt slight pity for them as they gazed around warily.

"Welcome to America," he said, flashing dazzling white teeth to the shorter of the two. This was politics. He could do politics. "Fresh off the boat, I see." There was a short pause, and the politician wondered if he had a spider on his head at the look that the green-eyed man was giving him.

"No…speak…l'inglese," he finally stammered, looking down as his cheeks flushed red. The blush was beautiful, just a slight tinge of red in the cheeks and on his neck, and Castiel's tongue absentmindedly darted out to sooth his dry lips. The taller man put a reassuring hand on his companion's shoulder, and the ward boss could only assume that they were brothers. Judging from the accent and the switch over to the native language, he supposed they'd just arrived from Italy.

He was just about to open his mouth to reply, since he at least knew the basics of the language, when the taller one intervened. "No need," he told him, his jaw set, and the man could only admire the determination on his face. "I can speak English."

"Very well, but just tell me if you don't understand," he replied firmly, his voice very businesslike, "I can easily switch to your native language if you'd like."

"No need," the taller one insisted stubbornly, and the politician shrugged, waving them over two the two hardwood chairs that'd been placed in front of his desk. He took his seat across from them, rustling through the many unfinished credentials and documents that were scattered upon the counter, and when he finally found what he was looking for he slid a group of papers in front of the English-speaking brother.

"My name is Castiel Novak, and I welcome you both to New York City, New York," he told him, taking out his pack of cigars that served the sole purpose of sharing with clients. They felt more special and at home if they were offered from Castiel's personal packs, and it was merely a business trick that he'd learned along the way. "Want one?"

"No thank you," the Italian replied, waving off the politician's offering politely. Dean, however, looked at least mildly interested, for he almost undoubtedly had never had a true American cigar before, though his brother cast him a look and he quickly refused as well. Castiel shrugged and lit his, popping into his mouth and letting it dangle from his lower lip.

After a few puffs he took it out, smoke trailing from the tip, and explained, "Just fill all of this out and I'll be able to set you up with all of the necessities to make sure you're living the American Dream. You're going to love it here, I can assure that. Got it?" The taller man nodded, leaning over to his brother and repeating the phrase in Italian.

"Si chiama Castiel Novak." The brother smiled sheepishly, that beautiful blush creeping to his cheeks again, as his brother introduced the politician, though his shockingly green eyes held exhaustion beyond any comparison, both emotionally and physically.

"So let's start with names," Castiel said, clapping his hands together and startling the immigrants slightly. "Hello, I'm Castiel. I'm the ward boss for all of the Southern European countries and am fluent in almost all of the languages." He left out the fact that Italian was by far his poorest, and watched as the taller one took the suitcase from his brother and fished out two passports and other paperwork they'd been given at Ellis Island, all the while repeating what the ward boss had said back to his brother. Castiel graciously took them and flipped through the weathered pages, looking for their date of birth and other things as he took another drag from his cigar, letting the grey cloud trail from his mouth as he breathed out. Surprisingly, the tall one was actually the younger brother, though both were bachelors and came from Naples, Italy. Castiel had never been to Naples, but he'd heard that it was quite beautiful and at the moment had no big problems. If that was the case, then why did they come over to America? He found out that the taller one was named Samuel and his brother was named Dean, which was an exceedingly odd name for an Italian immigrant. Samuel was biblical, so he could see why their parents, John and Mary, would name them that, but Dean was a Greek name.

"Your last name is Winchester?" Cas asked, cocking an eyebrow at what one of the people at Ellis Island had written. Sure, sometimes they shortened or changed immigrants' last names to make them easier to pronounce or spell, but this was downright rude. He couldn't help but think how appealing it was for Dean to have the last name of a well-known gun manufacturer, which made him all the more alluring.

"Now it is," Samuel replied, shrugging. "It used to be Wachardo, with Madre's maiden name being Campbell." Castiel was even more confused now.

"Campbell is Scottish, though. And as far as I know, the name Dean is Greek." At the ward boss' mention of his name, the brother in question jerked to attention, looking suspiciously from Castiel to Samuel. For all he knew they could've been trash-talking him and he'd have absolutely no clue what they were saying.

"Madre's madre was from Scotland," Samuel explained, "And she named Dean and me after her parents, Samuel and Deanna." The politician nodded in understanding, and chuckled at Dean's narrow-eyed expression, Samuel joining in soon after, which only made the immigrant even more flustered. Castiel couldn't help but embrace the fact that he enjoyed Italian physique. From his chiseled jawline to his nice, tanned skin, to his tousled brown hair, to his dazzling green eyes, Dean wouldn't have trouble finding a young woman who would be willing to marry and care for him and his home, and hopefully his looks would be passed down to his children. He felt a twinge of something like jealousy at that, and he knew to force it down before it grew. Sam wasn't as up in your face as Dean was; he had that gentle, reserved look to him, and even though his hair was in serious need of cutting, he could still pass off as handsome.

Castiel's thoughts were interrupted when Dean suddenly asked, "Sono le strade davvero lastricate d'oro?"

"The streets are really paved with gold?"

When Castiel finally processed the remark, a little slow, he sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose as Samuel flashed Dean a look that clearly stated he should get his act together. The older brother glared back at him defiantly, muttering a few profound things under his breath that certainly didn't fare kindly with Samuel, who clenched his jaw to keep from snapping at him.

"No," he replied, and he saw Dean's face fall, though the Italian made pretty damn sure not to show his disappointment. Castiel felt pity for the both of them, because America was overrated; it wasn't that the country wasn't better than where they were coming from, but the rumors that were flying around those parts made America seem like Heaven. He glanced back at the papers below, where it was written why the…Winchesters…had left to find a new life in the U.S.A.:

We hav nothing but eech other.

Castiel swallowed hard, glancing up at the two young men, who were whispering furiously in lightning fast Italian, too rapidly for anyone but a native speaker to understand. He read more into the form, chewing on his lower lip as he skimmed the words. Even though Sam wasn;t really fluent in English, he wasn't illiterate in the language, either; he could write letters just fine, however he wasn't very keen on spelling them correctly.

Our Madre dieyd in a fyre wen we wer children. Our Padre dranc himself to deth to weeks ago after obsesing over who may've startid the fyre, even tho the plise sayd arson was out of the question. Now we are poor and our hous was taken away frum us. We seek food, shelter, and jobs in America.

"Okay, listen up." Samuel immediately poised, giving Dean a hard jab in the ribs when the Italian kept talking, and the green-eyed young man immediately silenced and copied his brother's rigidness. "I can get you everything you need, but first I need to know how you learned English, Samuel."

"Please, just Sam," he replied, though his voice was taught and a bead of sweat made its way down his neck. Castiel didn't question his rigidness, knowing that when you asked questions clients tended to grow irritated, but he couldn't help but wonder.

"Okay, Sam, how did you learn English?"

A pause. "There was a British woman named Ruby who taught me the basics," he answered quickly, his words flowing out in a hurried rush, and his shoulders became impossibly tenser, his eyes glazing over with something akin to regret and anger.

"Non prima di lei annegato tu nell'alcol!" Dean spat, and Castiel was startled at the burning passion in those green eyes of his, as well as fury directed at whoever this Ruby person was. Dean could be beautiful even if he was angry and shouting in another language, and it took all of the ward boss' power not to give a petty little star-struck sigh, like the one the women would make when they swooned and dropped into their savior's waiting arms. Though Castiel couldn't really piece the man's words together, what he could glean from it was:

"Not before she drowned you in alcohol."

The ward boss turned to Sam, who was beet red and looked just about ready to throttle his older brother, glaring at him as if he'd burst into flames if he did it hard enough. Dean, seeing that he'd made a huge mistake, quickly began apologizing and saying he was kidding, but Castiel didn't wrench his gaze away from the tall Italian. Sam swallowed hard, wringing his hands in his lap as nervousness clouded his features, but it was mostly fear, fear that they'd be denied and have to live in homelessness once more.

"Ruby didn't only teach me English," he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper as his hand-wringing gained more ferocity. "She also gave me a drink. And then another. And then another. Pretty soon I was an alcoholic." He looked up, wondering what Castiel's reaction would be, but the ward boss kept his face a mask, for he'd learned and perfected his poker face during his years of participating in politics, and gestured for the Italian to continue, "We couldn't afford any drinks and Dean was struggling to make ends meet with his job as a bartender, so I asked him to steal me drinks from the bar. He told me no, and I wasn't surprised. He's too righteous to steal," he cast a thankful and brotherly affectionate look towards Dean, "But I wasn't. I took as much alcohol as I dared from the cellars, drinking myself stupid every night. Pretty soon Dean had to quit his job in order to help me get over the addiction. We couldn't pay rent so when the tax collector came he took our house away. Dean managed to gamble and win enough money to get us two tickets to America."

Castiel was silent for a long while, drumming his fingers on the desk as the two watched him in tense silence, the only other sounds being the bustle outside and the voices of the other people there. More were filing in, and Castiel was aware that the newest boat, fresh with Southern European immigrants, was scheduled to arrive in a half hour. Finally, he nodded and they relaxed considerably, their fear of being turned away disappearing, along with most of their worries and doubts. "What words of English does Dean know? He said 'no' and 'speak' before," Castiel asked.

Sam pursed his lips into a thin line, turning to his brother and asking him the same question. After a slight pause, Dean broke out into an incomprehensible jumble of sentences. "Halloe. No speak Eenglesh. Yes. Ickscus me. Goodbye." The young man was flushed a shade of red typically reserved for tomatoes, embarrassed at his lack of skill in the language, and Castiel couldn't help but find it quite…endearing, but he quickly sook those thoughts away. He went to Church every Sunday and he liked women, had to like women, but he couldn't help himself whenever his eyes slid to the spattering of freckles on Dean's cheeks and nose, trying to count just how many there were. The young man would be lucky whenever he found a loving wife and settled down, whereas Castiel didn't think he'd ever be able to find a woman that he actually loved.

"It's a start," he sighed, speaking up so he wasn't alone with his treasonous thoughts. He needed to get into perspective just how much this family of two needed help, so despite the fact that it was a touchy subject he questioned, "How much money do you have?" Dean gave a questioning look to Sam, asking him to translate, but the younger man's shoulders sagged considerably as he held up his large, empty palms. Nothing. They'd spent every last euro on their tickets to America, and now the only things they had were whatever was in the suitcase, the clothes on their backs, and each other. One of them didn't even speak proper English.

"That's okay," the ward boss told them when they began to look anxious once more. "I've got it all covered." He gave Sam a pre-made slip that had two addresses on it and two names. "I'll call them up and tell him of your arrival, and everything's already paid for."

"Gabriel Novak?" Sam asked, looking up at him quizzically.

"My brother," Castiel replied. "He owns the tenements there. Every week I send a great sum of food to him to pass around and make sure that none of you are starving to death, but make sure you pay rent in time or he'll throws you into the street like that," Castiel snaped for emphasis, and Sam paled considerably. "Don't worry, though; he'll cut you some slack until you and Dean are settled with wages. The next address and name is where you work and who your new boss will be."

"Alastair?" the taller brother mused, his brows knitting as he skimmed over the rest of the information. "That'd an odd name."

"He's from Scotland."

"Ah," Samuel snorted, attempting not to sound snobbish or rude, and Castiel couldn't help but smile. Alastair was, indeed, a rather odd name, but so was his own name. It wasn't his fault that his parents were incredibly catholic and decided to name their son after some Angel of Thursday.

"Alastair runs the car factory in town, and I can make sure he puts you and Dean close to one another so you can make sure that he knows the ropes," Cas explained. "But be careful. Alastair doesn't like slackers and cuts workers really fast if they aren't doing their job right. Heck, some people even call him one of Hell's greatest torturers." Samuel outright laughed at that, and Dean gave him an odd but hopeful look, as if Sam would relay the joke along to him. After the laughing died down there was a period where only silence reigned between them and, in order to avoid that silence from becoming awkward, Castiel said, "I guess this concludes our session." He and Sam rose, and Dean quickly followed. He shook hands with the two of them, grinning, and handed them all of their paperwork back, as well as some of his own that he'd added.

"Thank you. Can we in any way repay you for your generosity?" Sam asked, and the politician had been waiting for him to ask that question.

"All you have to do is make sure you vote for me in the next election," he replied, "The location of the best ballot places are on the forms. Again, welcome to the U.S.A, and I hope you can make yourself at home in New York." He cast a longing glance to Dean, who was practically bouncing with joy and excitement at settling in the land of the free, and the ward boss smiled softly at the sight, only to be jolted back to reality by Sam's reply:

"We will. Thank you again, Castiel." There was very easygoing grin spreading across his face as he regarded the location of their new home. The politician couldn't find the courage to sit down as he watched the two brothers' backs while they walked towards the exit, and even though he'd undoubtedly see them again, he couldn't really bear to not see those startling green eyes for such an expanse of time.

Just as they were about to slip out, Castiel called out to him, "Dean!" The Italian turned, his eyebrows raised and an expression of pure relief and bliss on his face, anticipation glittering in his eyes like gemstones. Sam paused, waiting patiently and still smiling like a madman.

"Ti piacerebbe tornare…err…alle nove e imparare l'inglese con me?" A pause as Dean's face lit up, and even from his position he could see the corner of the young man's eyes crinkling as he grinned.

"Will you come at nine to learn English with me?"

The politician steeled himself when he realized that the immigrant's excitement was probably because the ward boss was offering to teach him English, much more than his brother could teach him, and not because of the prospect of seeing the Castiel again.

"Si, Cas-teel! Grazie!"

(A/N) Hi, and I really hope that you enjoyed the first chapter of my first Supernatural fanfiction.

I haven't seen this idea before, so I guarantee originality and promise that this won't take a very sharp turn and become smutty. If there's anything even remotely more intimate than hand-holding, I promise to let you know.

I was thinking of putting a bit of Sabriel into this, so post in the comments what you think. Hope you liked it.