The Mechanic and the Angel

Summary: AU in which angels are slaves, and Dean doesn't get the hype. Until he crosses paths with a runaway named Castiel…One-shot. Complete.

Rating: T

Disclaimer: I don't own Supernatural. Yes, I know this has been done before, but I wanted to try my hand at it.

The rumble of the Impala's engine was always soothing to Dean, especially after a long day of work at Singer's Auto Shop. It made him feel close to his dad, who had passed away of heart failure only a year before. He'd left the car to him, and the young man was glad to have it. The '67 Chevy Impala was the last link to his mother, who'd died in a house fire when he had been four and his brother six months. They'd lost everything that night, except the car.

And when his uncle Bobby—not his real uncle, he later came to find out, but an old army buddy of his dad's—stepped in to take care of the boys when John had gone to "find himself," he'd moved his auto repair business to Lawrence, Kansas to do it. For which, of course, the Winchesters were all grateful. Especially Dean, since Bobby was good enough to give him a job there.

It was from that job that Dean was returning home, to his apartment. It wasn't that far from their old house, which had been rebuilt, and in which another family lived. Maybe someday he'd be able to buy out the property, but until then he was happy just to drive by it every day.

As he passed the house, he turned his head to look at it like he always did. Even though it looked different now—new paint, a fence, some kids' toys scattered about the lawn—he felt a sort of connection to it.

A shadow suddenly darted in front of the car, and he instinctively slammed the breaks. He'd hit a deer once driving Sam out to Stanford, and had no desire to repeat it—but then he realized it couldn't have possibly been a deer, and it was too big to have been a cat or a dog.

The Impala screeched to a halt in the street.

Dean threw the vehicle into park and clambered out, heart in his throat. He didn't think he'd hit anyone, but he hadn't really been paying attention until the last second.

There was a man lying in the street, just over the double yellow lines.

"Hey!" Dean said, hurrying over and kneeling beside him.

The man moved, groaning. As the mechanic reached him, he first saw that his hands were scraped up from the asphalt; nothing serious.

"Dude, are you okay?"

"It hurts," was the response, a deep and gravelly voice that almost took Dean by surprise.

"Do you—should I—hold on, let's get you out of the street. Come on, man." He hauled the smaller man up and practically dragged him to the sidewalk where he could get a better look at him.

But the other seemed to be regaining his senses. "I'm fine," he said, shrugging Dean off. "Thank you for your concern, but I have to go."

"Hold on!" Dean said. "Are you sure nothing's broken? I can give you a ride to the hospital." He chuckled a little nervously. "You came out of nowhere!"

"N—no, I came from over there." He pointed vaguely in the direction he had come, an alley between two dark houses. "I am fine."

Dean didn't look convinced, but he let it go. "You need a ride somewhere?"

The man hesitated, and the Winchester grasped the opportunity. The near accident hadn't been his fault, but it was still a close call, and Dean felt the need to somehow repay him for almost being hit.

"Get in. Where you headed, uh—?"

"Ca—uh, Jimmy." The brunet slid into the passenger seat and pulled the door shut, and Dean crossed to the other side and did the same.

"I'm Dean."

"Pleasure, Dean." But Jimmy didn't look pleased at all. Rather, he slouched and peered out of the window into the deepening shadows.

Jimmy was shifty, that was for sure. And Dean was starting to feel like it had nothing to do with his near-death experience.

"Where to?"

"Hm?" Startled, the man turned his wide blue eyes at Dean. He tugged at the sleeves of his tan trench coat.

"Uh," Dean cleared his throat, shrugging off the intensity of the stare, "where am I taking you?"

"I…North."

"North?" Dean repeated, raising his eyebrows.

Jimmy opened his mouth, but then closed it again, looking foolish. "North," he said more feebly than before. He put his hand on the door latch. "I am only wasting your time. I am sorry, I will—"

"No," Dean said quickly, though he wasn't sure why. The guy was weird. "No, we'll go north. I'm going that way anyhow."

The other licked his chapped lips, still looking like he'd rather be anywhere but there, but relented and sat back again. Dean at last shifted gears and pulled off, quickly gaining speed. The Impala purred.

Dean Winchester watched his passenger out of the corner of his eye. He noticed the way Jimmy stared through the window and constantly checked the mirrors, the way he tugged his sleeves down compulsively—the fact that he was dressed in ill-fitting clothes on a warm night.

"Sonuvabitch," he whispered under his breath.

Jimmy didn't seem to have heard him, too busy turning in his seat and watching the road behind them. As though he expected someone to give chase.

"So…" Dean smiled tightly. "Just how far north we talking, Jimbo?"

Jimmy whipped around, lips slightly parted and brow scrunched in confusion. "H—how far? Uh, I don't…I'm not sure yet. I was thinking perhaps, um, Ma—Michigan."

Dean knew Massachusetts was a hot-spot for runaways. Obviously where Jimmy was going.

"Well, I don't think I can take you that far, Jimmy. It's pretty late already."

"No, I know," Jimmy said. "Thank you, Dean, for taking me this far already. I very much appreciate it."

Dean glanced at him, and there was no doubt as to the sincerity he saw in the runaway's face. An ice cube slid down his stomach. He couldn't turn this guy in, could he?

"Ah," Dean chuckled. "It's the least I could do, considering I almost pancaked you…"

"Not many would stop."

"No, I guess not," Dean agreed. Especially if they knew what you were.

The mechanic agonized over what to do. What was morally right? On the one hand, Jimmy was a runaway, and it was the law to hand him in to the police. On the other, Jimmy seemed completely harmless, and scared besides.

Dean never did get the hype about slavery. He didn't own one, nor did he want to. It seemed more trouble than it was worth. Especially now.

He brought the car to a stop at the intersection. To the right was home. To the left was the police station. And beside him was Jimmy, once more checking the side mirror, tugging at his sleeves to hide the markings of slavery about his wrists.

Jimmy was someone's property.

Dean knew what the right choice was. He made his decision.

He turned right.

"Who are you running from?" Dean asked casually, navigating the streets. He was taking the long way around, giving Jimmy less of a chance to run off again.

Jimmy jolted as though an electric current ran through him. "I—I—am not running! I am just a—a normal man going north."

But it was obviously a lie.

"Come on, man," Dean cajoled him. "I'm not an idiot."

"Oh, I never meant to insinuate that you are, Dean," Jimmy said. "You are kind, and I would never insult someone who has shown me kindness."

"All right," Dean rolled his eyes. "I know you're an angel, dude. Cut the crap. Who are you running from?"

Jimmy wilted, burying his face in his hands. "I am sorry. I am sorry, Dean. I am so sorry."

"Not the end of the world, buddy," Dean said dryly. "Come on, just tell me the name! I'm not gonna turn you in."

"Please…"

"Jimmy." Dean circled the block again.

"I…I am a runaway." He admitted at last.

"I know. Who are you running from, Jimmy?"

"My name…is not Jimmy. I am sorry, Dean, I lied." The angel looked as though he were going to cry.

Dean didn't want a chick flick moment. Not in his Impala at nine pm after he'd pulled an extra shift. "It's fine, man. Give me some real names, okay?"

"My name is Castiel," his voice came out a bit stronger. It was the truth, then.

"Great. Now who are you running from, Cass?"

"My master…Alistair."

Dean raised his eyebrows. "Alistair? Really?" He groaned. Alistair practically owned Kansas. He was the biggest slaveholder and distributor in the Midwest.

Castiel nodded solemnly. "I…Please, Dean, I cannot return."

"Why not? He'll just sell you, and you might get lucky—there's some good masters out there. My brother owns an angel named Gabriel. They're like, best friends. Like Beavis and Butt-Head. It's annoying."

Castiel only looked more doleful. "Alistair will not sell me, Dean. I am one of his personal angels."

Finally, Dean pulled into the parking lot of his complex.

"Come with me," he said seriously.

Castiel looked uncertain and wary, but defeated. He'd been found out.

He followed obediently, limping slightly, as Dean led him up the stairs and unlocked his door. The Winchester backed in, casting glances all around to make sure they hadn't been seen together. That could definitely spell trouble, or at least bring up questions he didn't think he could answer yet.

They needed to think of excuses. Maybe get Castiel a real fake name.

Dean turned into his rooms and nearly ran into the angel, who was standing stock still in the dark. He gave him a disapproving look and flipped the light switch, painting the room bright.

"Those your clothes, Cass?"

He looked down at himself, the wrinkled clothing almost hanging off his frame. "…No, Dean."

"I think I've got something more comfortable somewhere. Hold on." Dean ducked into his room and rummaged around in his drawers until he found a pair of sweats and an old T-shirt that looked as though they might fit, then returned to find the angel in the exact same position as before. He hadn't moved an inch.

"Uh. Here, you can change into these."

He tossed the outfit at Castiel, who caught them in his arms. "Thank you, Dean." He proceeded to undress where he stood, practically in the doorway, before Dean could offer him the bathroom. The mechanic opened his mouth, closed it, then opened it again in quick succession before changing his mind and leaving the angel to whatever privacy he could get.

Dean puttered about the kitchen for a minute, until he decided that Castiel had had long enough, and poked his head around the corner. "Hey, do you like beer…?" He trailed off, staring.

Castiel hadn't yet put his shirt on, still slipping his arms through the sleeves before pulling it over his head. He had frozen, staring back at Dean like a deer in headlights.

"Dude," Dean said, frowning. "Why didn't you say something?"

"Uh…"

"Come in here, man." Dean turned and went to the kitchen sink, kneeling to fetch the first aid kit from the cabinet beneath it. Castiel stood awkwardly on the tiled floor, shirt still partially on. Dean approached with the kit in his hands, and faltered.

In the brighter light of the kitchen, the damage was more apparent.

Castiel was too thin. His ribs were visible, and though he wasn't quite starved, he was headed that direction. Besides that were the still healing scars and bruises all across his torso, arms, and back. Some looked to be cigarette burns; there were stripes of various shades, particularly across the backs of his shoulders, where he had been struck with a whip; his elbows were scraped like his hands, from the road, Dean was sure; his wrists were bruised and chafed, though the tattooed wings that marked him as a slave were still clearly visible; and there were smaller bruises that appeared to be hickeys.

Dean didn't know exactly where to start, though he guessed the road rash might be a good place. He cleared his throat, and pulled out one of the chairs so that Castiel could sit as he tended him. Dean snatched up the shirt and tossed it onto the table, leaving nothing for the angel to fidget with.

"Your master do this to you?" Dean asked gruffly.

"These are my punishments. I am a bad angel."

Dean said nothing, merely popped open the kit and got to work with the alcohol swabs, which made Castiel wince.

They were silent for the duration of the treatment, which didn't take long at all. Most of Cass's wounds could not be or did not need to be bandaged, only cleaned. Dean considered having a talk with the angel, to figure out what exactly his relationship was to his master Alistair, and whether Alistair would waste money on a bunch of resources to get him back, and where exactly he wanted to go and how was he going to get there, but one look at those droopy eyes shut that down.

"We'll talk in the morning," Dean said, just stopping himself from clapping him on the shoulder. "You can take the couch."

"You're not kicking me out?" Castiel cocked his head, genuinely confused.

Dean raised his eyebrows. "I already said I wasn't turning you in. I thought that might include sending you out to get picked up. Man of my word, Cass."

"No, of course," the angel stuttered out. "I meant no off—"

"No offense, yeah, yeah. Listen, the bathroom is through that door, there's the couch. If you're hungry or thirsty, you know where the kitchen is. Help yourself."

"Oh, uh…"

"I'll get you set up."

Dean left quickly so as not to have to look at his charge any more than necessary. He had a bit of a thing for damsels in distress, but this time he couldn't get involved. That was dangerous on all accounts.

He found himself a moment later in the back of his closet, searching out those extra blankets he knew he had—Lisa had left them, after they'd broken up—and came out again to find that Castiel still had not moved except to put the shirt on. Clearing his throat, Dean shook out the covers and laid them down, as well as a pillow from his own bed at one end.

"Well, there you go." He gestured to the haphazardly made-up bed (give him a break, he didn't usually have guests, let alone illegal contraband).

"Thank you, Dean." And the angel really did look grateful; so much so, in fact, that Dean had difficulty swallowing.

"No problem, Cass," he managed. "I'm going to bed. You can just…do whatever. See you in the morning."

"Good night, Dean."

"'Night."

He beat another quick retreat, shutting his door behind him. The mechanic suddenly felt as though he were making a big, big mistake. He dragged a hand down his face, sighing heavily.

There were only two people he was sure he could call to help him out, and he sure as hell wasn't going to call Bobby at this time of night. If Bobby wasn't enjoying a nice glass of whiskey by now, he was reading in bed; either way, he was liable to be very cranky. Dean pulled out his cellphone and dialed.

"Hello?"

"Hey, Sammy."

"Dean? What's up?"

"Oh, nothing much. Just got off work. Thought I might check in on you, see how college is going, how's Jess, all that…You are still dating her, right?"

"What did you do, Dean?" was his weary reply.

Dean scowled. "What makes you think I've done anything? Gee, Sam, maybe I'm just genuinely curious. Maybe every once in a while, a guy can call his little brother without being judged, or—or accused of something."

"All right. College is going great, I still have a 3.94 GPA. Jess and I are still dating. In fact, she's here now." A feminine voice in the distance greeted Dean, and he returned it cordially. "So, yeah. All good here, Dean. How's it going over there? Is Bobby—"

"Okay, listen," Dean interrupted, no longer able to contain his stress. "I think I screwed up bad, Sam. Real bad. I need you to use your lawyer skills to find a way out of this."

There was a split second of silence on the other line. "Dean! So you are in trouble!"

"Shut up. Less annoying more reading," Dean snapped. "I need to know everything about the angel laws."

"The angel l—? Dean. You know the Angel Tablet isn't all public domain. And I'm not a certified lawyer yet."

"Then what are you good for, Sam? Huh?"

"Dude. Just tell me the problem. What, did you steal one?" He chuckled at the notion, but when Dean said nothing, he stopped, obviously mortified. "Dude. You didn't."

"I didn't mean to! It just happened."

"You just happened to steal someone's property, Dean? Really?"

"Listen, angels are people, too," Dean snapped. "Sort of. But this guy's really bad off. He's being abused, Sam. Like, really abused."

Sam was quiet again, this time for a much longer moment. "I'll look into it, Dean," he promised. "I'm sure there's some kind of protection law somewhere that will help."

"Thanks, Sammy."

"No problem."

They hung up.

Dean leaned back against his door and chewed absently on a fingernail. If Sam couldn't find anything that might free Cass, Dean would smuggle the angel to Massachusetts himself. The mechanic knew he couldn't protect the angel forever.

But he could sure as hell try.

End.