They were to meet at 72nd street, not on the corner where traffic was busy but against a café, the one with a vibrant orange banner on it. The spot was close enough to Crowley's mansion that the clumsy and awkward way of walking a long time and traveling along the train route were accomplished separately, but still gave them a few minutes to formulate some sort of cohesive plan of defense. Crowley wasn't about to surprise him or Castiel again, Dean would make sure.

He was contemplating getting a coffee – or better yet something to eat – he hadn't had dinner. He thought he saw a woman walk out with a pastry some minutes ago, and he didn't want to think that Castiel would show up on time, or at all. He liked to think so; after last night and a decent sleep it was easier for him to hold Castiel in good esteem. Instead he took out a cigarette from his case and lit it, watching a sea of passerby and feeling split moments of excitement bubbling low in his stomach when he thought what he saw was a recognized face or body, but wasn't.

Just when he was teetering on the edge of doubt Castiel appeared to the left of him – surprising him enough that he nearly crushed the smoke he was holding.

"Nice to see you could make it," Dean greeted, trying to right himself.

"We had an appointment," Castiel said, "This one I intended to keep." Castiel looked well rested, and he had a glint in his eye that wasn't the one Dean had always seen; it was something more subdued, but not absent. It was the difference between a streetlamp and a searchlight, but both were preferred to the dark.

"Well, I'm glad."

They started walking down the street together, and Dean finished his cigarette before they said anything else.

"You've been to Crowley's place before?" Castiel nodded, looking at the ground.

"Once, only. The first time, when I went to ask him – well, you know. It was…"

"Like something out of a book?"

"I walked into the lion's den without even a stone to arm myself," Castiel said, smirking. "And I knew that right away. It's an intimidating place,"

"Like a castle," Dean mused. "…But, listen, I think this is just about my last job. You covered your debt, didn't you?"

"Me and my family were accounted for, I got it in writing a few months ago. I've done enough, and I don't intend to do more." He gazed over at Dean, face tight. "I know what you're trying to ask me."

"No jobs, no more deals,"

"I've seen what happens to people who work with Crowley," Castiel said, careful to keep his tone neutral. "And I know firsthand now. I won't accept anything he offers me."

"You promise?"

He blinked at Dean. "Does my word mean anything to you anymore?"

His mouth stuck, and he couldn't respond. Castiel looked away again. "I promise, Dean. No more deals. No more – I'm done. I'd like, more than anything, to be done."

"No matter what?"

Castiel hummed thoughtfully. "What could Crowley give me now that I'd want?"

"Money," Dean guessed blankly.

"And power? Maybe a Congress seat while we're at it?" Castiel smiled again, shook his head. "No, no, we're not starving; if I have a price it must be so high I can't even imagine the number." His smile tilted. "As a matter of fact, I still have most of that money from that poker game saved."

"You saved it?"

"What else was I supposed to do with it? Get a fur coat?"

"At least a nicer hat," Dean said, teasingly, he reached up to tug at Castiel's fedora, its band too wide to be completely in vogue. He pulled back, a little surprised at himself. Castiel readjusted his hat so it wasn't tipped so much – it had nothing so severe as an angle, but it was at something of a line that wasn't straight on his head. He still looked good in it, style regardless.

"It's bundled up in a metal lockbox in my room, along with some other pieces. It's for investment, or an emergency of some kind. It's something like four hundred dollars, I can't fathom needing any more for something."

Dean accepted Castiel's answer, humor easing the path to do so. The sun had come out, overcast skies fading from that morning just in time for a fiery sunset to appear. Along with it Dean felt a good mood emerging. Their talk was only somewhat serious; the pauses as they weaved through other walkers and the brisk pace they kept, the warm weather, Dean prudently hoped for a good break at the end of it all; he could say goodbye on a day so nice as this. The past had occurred, but it seemed like it had happened so long ago it was nearing being inconsequential – years instead of months. "There was a time I think I was afraid of you," Dean admitted. "I thought Crowley would send you after me."

Castiel was shocked at the notion. "No more, I hope? I wouldn't hurt your pinky – wouldn't take a penny from you, either. And Crowley couldn't force me, anyway; he doesn't have anything I want."

Dean remembered the cold of last night, and of the things that Castiel had so earnestly wanted then. Still wanted now. And he was right: Crowley had nothing to offer anymore.

"After this is over," Dean said slowly, "We'll leave one another alone. And it'll be finished."

"What will?"

"Us, I mean. You won't have to worry about what I do anymore."

"Do you imply that I think of you?" Castiel asked. "At any rate I suppose this is a better end than that – what happened months ago."

"It's more of a professional thing than a way to settle things between us," Dean defended.

"Professional obviously. We're not held here because of love or – affection," Castiel supplied. "But we're not ashamed to mention it and we can talk as if we're friends. I'd say we're not. We never really got the chance to be friends, did we?"

"We were friendly," Dean added.

Castiel agreed, "But we could never act like another couple could – might just be disposed for friendliness even if it's something else. Or we genuinely liked one another's company at some point," He raised an eyebrow at Dean like the idea was preposterous.

"Sounds pretty far-fetched," Dean said, smiling. The anger and confusion he felt with Castiel yesterday had simpered away, in hiding or defeat he didn't know. But it was warm out; a tantalizing version of an Indian summer that made everyone shed their wool and fur overcoats, take off their gloves, unravel their scarves and linger in doorways and open windows, scenting the air to wonder if this was a permanent state or a trick for Nature to draw them out. Dean still had a scarf wrapped tight around his neck, and Castiel, oblivious to cold it seemed, was the least dressed of everyone on the street; a light jacket with a white shirt, one of his blue ties. It could have been May 31st for him.

This was better than stony silence or aggravation. He was glad Castiel had rationalized it and it was true – there was enough of Castiel left to him that Dean could sidestep what he had done wrong, and remember him first as a person; decent at all other times except for the incident that drove them away. In the sun and some state of happiness he no longer made Dean accuse him of an imposter, and he was nearly comfortable walking beside him despite a background chest pain.

There was nothing more to say about them in this state, and Dean could imagine them being companions in such a way for the rest of their lives; never calling on one another unless it was a business or a party; meeting by accident, having a little to say at each interval – though never something profound – and breaking away again for months, years at a time. They might even live like that, if Castiel and his family decided to move to Venice. Castiel said that they could, but not that it was in their future; surely they had more in New York with their shop and neighbors than in some Californian town. It gave him a strange feeling to imagine it, being either so far away or so far removed, but it didn't feel like a rejection, so it had to have been a hesitant approval, instead.

Crowley's estate appeared down the street. "Try not to say anything if you can help it," Dean said.

"There's nothing much I have left to say to him," In front of them the medieval looking building loomed. With another lingering glance at Castiel, Dean reached out his hand and pressed the call button.

They were let in by some attractive servant, once Dean had given his name and Castiel was scrutinized for a moment. "He's in his study," she told them, opening the doors into the house. The interior seemed to have been redecorated; the walls had been repainted a cold looking white. There were still dozens of pictures on the walls, and the parlor and sitting rooms they passed reminded Dean of art galleries. Trailing behind the servant he paused, recognizing the wooden doors half hidden in the wall. "Wait a minute, this is the office," Dean said, pointing. Castiel and the woman looked back to him.

"The summer office," the servant clarified.

Dean started his pace again, clenching his jaw. "Does Crowley have one for autumn, too?"

"Of course not," the woman said without looking back. They turned down another hallway, strolled by a bay window littered with plush cushions. "That would be ridiculous."

Castiel's shoulders skirted forward as he snorted. Their eyes met for a moment and Dean came away from it with a wry chink in his mouth, just as the woman in front of them threw open the white, gold trimmed French doors that led to Crowley's supposed summer study.

It was extravagant in a different manner from his other office. The first one Dean had seen was dark, sprawling with books, overlooking the backyard. This room had an entire back wall made up of windows; hardly a piece of plaster in between the frames, stretching from floor to a twelve foot ceiling. Crowley sat in the middle of the room on a sofa, jade colored cushions with gold plated legs holding it up. Most of the room was gold-trimmed; the doors, the wall molding, the panes, and furniture. Everything else was pearly white, from the tile to the curtains billowing in the corners of the room.

Lion's den indeed, Dean thought, hearing the door softly shut behind them just as Crowley gestured for them to come closer – there was a couch opposite of him, just as extravagant. Dean sank into it, eyes cast to the right where the windows showed lush trees swaying, and a tall fence leading to another estate's yard. Castiel stood still, until Crowley widened his eyes and muttered, "Sit," to him. He fell not onto the other side of the sofa, but the middle, just out of reach of Dean.

Crowley didn't make a show of looking too interested in the pair he had in his company now. He leaned his head on his hand, propped up at the arm of the couch. To his side there was a small end table that held a polished bowl of apples and a wide glass of some awfully expensive, awful tasting scotch.

"I don't think I asked you to bring a guest," Crowley said, eyes still on Castiel.

"I had him with me when you told me about this whole plot," Dean said as evenly as he could, "It's fitting to have me here when it's finished."

"And you swear of course to the upmost secrecy?"

"Like any other time we've met," Castiel said stonily. "I've done nothing to imply otherwise." Dean didn't look at him but he was sure that now Castiel's face would be solidified into an unreadable, chilling mask.

"Nothing indeed, two of you are loyal to each other to a fault," Crowley muttered, grabbing his drink. "Though I suppose it has obvious perks."

"Crowley," Dean interjected. "We came here to discuss something with you."

"Ah, yes, I imagine you want to take in the news and rush home to pack." He stood up and wandered to the eastern wall. There was a table there, white and gold and sparkling like the rest of the room. He opened a drawer and took out some small sheets of paper, back obscuring Dean from deciphering any more. "You've both done enough for me to let you go," he said, standing in front of Dean. He handed over a sheet as small as a business card. It had the address of a house in Bay Ridge, Dean's old neighborhood. He recognized it at once.

He'd never known where Lucifer lived; very few people did, and whenever he had arranged meetings with Dean or anyone else Dean knew it was always this building. Some of the rooms had cement walls and not a stitch of furniture, others were as well furbished as Crowley's house; depending on which you ended up in spelt out for you whether Lucifer was giving you a job or making a negotiation, or were doomed to leave either bloody or in a body bag. It was a sprawling complex, full of rooms and gunmen – his headquarters, more or less.

"This is it," Dean asked dumbly.

"End of the line there," Crowley said, settling back into his seat. "In one way or another."

"I appreciate your confidence," Dean drawled, "But this place houses an armada. Even if I managed to kill him I'd never make it out alive."

"Well I would like to think of that as not my problem,"

"Crowley," Castiel interjected harshly. It seemed to make the curtains billow out behind them.

"– But," Crowley reiterated, glancing at Castiel, "If you would let me finish before interrupting like some untrained dog I have some news that might be of use to you."

"Go on," Dean said after a moment.

"This isn't the first time we've talked about Lucifer. Specifically you, Dean – I hope your memory hasn't suffered that you forgot."

Dean recalled some other instances – back when he'd been ordered to snuff out Arturi and ruin Meg's car as a threat. "You mentioned a massacre," he said.

"Good to know your upstairs head is still functional."

"I don't understand –"

Crowley cut Castiel off again. "I was under the impression that you knew everything Dean did." Dean pointedly kept his gaze unfaltering and aimed at Crowley.

"He was never coerced to tell me anything," Castiel said darkly, though Dean felt the tone was for the both of them. "I figured that your order to kill Lucifer was about all I needed to know."

Crowley glared at him a moment. "You are moving with him, still?"
"Of course," Dean swallowed.

"Then I suppose any other information would have no use to you, though it is something of a surprise that your friend there wouldn't want to share." He exaggerated the word that implied an inside reference that Castiel and Crowley held, but Dean did not. He felt anger, but this time aimed at Crowley, perhaps for being the most natural recipient in the room. "Let me ask you a question: Where were you on Valentine's Day two years ago?"

"1929 – at home, obviously. Why –" Castiel paused, Dean imagined his eyes going wide. "…I see." Another pause descended. Finally, "And that's what you would like to do?"

"Hardly, I'm no copy-cat. But," Crowley leaned forward, and the two of them were as drawn in. "What Capone had done to Moran's members is absolute child's play compared to what I have planned."

"When is it?" Dean said. Crowley abandoned looking at the other man, handed Dean another paper; the first had the where, the second, so the two papers if ever found would seem arbitrary Dean guessed, had that Tuesday's date. Under that it merely said 'noon'.

"I would like a bullet in Luciano Martenelli's skull before lunch. You will too; your train leaves at one thirty."

"Where's our tickets?" Crowley smiled, and Dean expected him to pull out a bundle of expressway passes, but he merely leaned back and took a sip of his drink.

"That's begging for trouble," he said. "Can't have that. No – all you have to do is gather your… fellow passengers and go to Penn Station. Pick the ticket booth with the man who looks sort of like, hm, how should I put this… a bit like a trout. You might have been on a job with him, I can't recall. Big, bear-like, can't miss him." He took another drink. "He'll know of course, that you did what I've ordered and didn't just twiddle your thumbs an extra hour and a half because I will have wired him myself."

Dean narrowed his eyes. "And how will you know so soon?"

Crowley smiled again, lips stretched thin; it was a horrifying smile, and he'd do well to never see it again.

"Because," he began, basking in the fantasy of the don's assassination, "The second you kill Lucifer, everyone will know."

Dean felt his heart thud, not painfully this time, but with anxiety. He pushed it down; he'd never felt scared so soon before a job – but Tuesday, Tuesday by noon. That was hardly three days away.

"No questions?" Dean didn't move. "Good. I think that's all that needs to be said; you two are free to go – well, almost." They stood and Crowley sent Castiel another pointed look. "You, of course, could have left ages ago."

That time Dean looked over at Castiel. His face was grim and emotionless. "My own status is irrelevant in this meeting," he said. "There's no point in addressing it."

"Always a fun one. Well," he moved his hand in a mix of a wave and a shooing motion, and the two of them started towards the door. They were almost to the threshold when Crowley spoke up again:

"Oh, and one other thing." They slowly turned around, Dean wondered if he would have yet another job to do, or if Crowley had a gun drawn on them. But instead he was in the same pose on the couch that they had left some seconds ago.

"Yes?" Dean said prudently.

"There was a jewelry show – some historic French pieces carried from the Versailles rooms, I believe, making its way through the city on a traveling exhibit in the Metropolitan."

"Let me guess," Dean deadpanned. "It was stolen."

"Smart as always," Crowley said it like an insult. "Roughly twenty pounds worth, most of it was precious metals instead of gemstones so the cost of it was only one million dollars, more or less."

"Of course,"

Crowley topped off his drink with a crystal holder. "It'll bring some curious visitors to the museum. It's almost a social service."

"And you want me to, what? Go to every pawn shop in the city?"

"No, I was lucky enough to get a buyer who's paid me half the value already. A bit of a kleptomaniac with a personal collection, I think? Or a rather impressive trader. I just need someone to take it from point A to point B."

"Me," Dean said.

"No," Crowley pointed his drink to Castiel. "Him."

Castiel made no motion, or Dean beat him to it. "No," he spat. "Absolutely not. You had your fun, but he's paid his debt to you. He doesn't have to –"

"I'll do it." Castiel said, looking at Crowley head on; Dean's devastated stare at him was lost. "It doesn't seem to be challenging work," Castiel prompted.

"Not for someone like you," Crowley said. "Brilliant. The buyer just needs a place to pick up the purchase. Preferably her home?" Castiel nodded, eyes squinted in a severe expression, Dean mostly an ignored fixture between him and Crowley. The other pulled out yet another bit of paper, holding it out for Castiel.

He walked over, took it from him, and peered down at the words on the page. "…Her?" he said at length.

"That's right. Send her a message when you've found an appropriate time frame."

Dean had a guess as to who 'she' was. He grit his teeth. "Are we done here?" Dean said impatiently, trying to gain back some control in the conversation. The other two turned to him, as if just remembering that he was in the room at all.

"Yes, I suppose so," Crowley said after a moment. "Chances are I won't be seeing either of you off – try not to get killed, right?"

"Well, if you insist," Dean growled. He grabbed the shoulder of Castiel's suit and tugged, trying to pry the other man's gaze from his boss, his stance from the room. "Come on,"

Castiel, face still unreadable, stared down Crowley for a moment more. "…Have a good night Crowley." He sounded somewhat bewildered. "And, thank-you."

"It's been fun, love. Now, get on." Castiel slowly turned his back on Crowley, finally going into step besides Dean. Together they silently walked out of the mansion for the very last time.

The moment they had reached the end of the driveway Dean spoke. "What the hell was that?" he asked.

"Crowley was –"

"Crowley offered you a job and you took it!" He had his finger pointed accusingly at Castiel, who was disturbingly unbothered by his outburst. He wilted at the lack of response. "You didn't have to, Cas. I thought that you didn't want to, anymore!" He bit the inside of his cheek and crossed his arms. "Just… just my job, and that's it. You said it yourself, that was it."

Castiel wrapped his fingers around the black fence surrounding Crowley's house. "He was talking about Bela, wasn't he?" Dean asked. Castiel looked out at the lavish gardens, the trimly cut trees of the yard, then looked down at his shoes. It was all the answer he needed. "And you're sure you didn't –"

"I wouldn't," Castiel said sharply. "I can't."

"Can't what?"

Castiel worried his lip. "You told me you've been with women before, didn't you? You could get married this second if you wanted."

"I – well, yes, but I don't see what that's got anything to do with –" Castiel looked at him.

"Apparently I'm just 'not the marrying type'. I can't switch like you, God knows I've tried but... I'm stuck." He furrowed his eyebrows, then pushed away from the yard, walking back the way they had come. Dean stumbled behind him.

"You mean that?" Dean asked.

"Don't know why I'd lie about it."

"You never mentioned –"

"We were together. I had no reason to." Dean frowned, wished that Castiel would look at them. It was true, they had never talked about it. He should have been able to piece it together when they had first gotten together – when Castiel had only mentioned coming on to one other person before despite looking how he did. Dean couldn't help but wonder what Castiel would do for the rest of his life; find someone else, he supposed. Someone who wasn't Bela, and that might have been better, even if it didn't improve Dean's mood. Castiel continued: "It's… irrelevant, anyway. Came to terms with it ages ago. But Bela doesn't care for me in whatever way you're thinking of, and even if she did…" he trailed off. "I'm sorry I still couldn't keep my word to you." He met Dean's eyes, and they had returned to a guarded. "But for what it's worth, I don't believe Crowley was being intentionally malicious just then."

Dean tilted his head. "How do you mean?"

"That job he offered – there was a purpose for it."

"Yeah, to make a quick million." They crossed the street together.

"Not just that. The jewelry… he was looking at me as if I was expected to understand. As if there was another reason for it. Does that make sense to you?"

"Not really."

Castiel swallowed, and stared ahead at the well paved streets. Night had descended; still winter, it came harsh and suddenly, and the bright street lights offered only brief reprieves on the lonely road they walked down. "Tell me, Dean. How familiar are you with the last line of Russian tsars?"

xxxx

The paper Crowley had given Castiel had two affixed addresses: One was to the eventual owner of the stolen jewels, one Bela Talbot of course. Dean believed Castiel, the two times he had said their relationship was business only. Despite that he was struck with the oddest slap of jealousy at the thought that it was her lips against Castiel's collar; her perfume seeping into his clothes. It wouldn't have been the first time Bela had made that sort of move on a man, without meaning a lick of it, but even fleeting attraction, lust in thought or even brainless action, was enough to make him hate her even more.

The second, more important notice at the moment, displayed a particular unused manufacturing building, where the stolen goods had been hidden in some particular spot by a round of impressive thieves. It was possible that Bela or any buyer hadn't been available until after the collection had been stolen.

Immediately after Crowley's meeting, they caught a train into the hiding place; it was in Bergen, of course, and for a brief travel between two stops the car had been empty, and Dean had, eyes glazed over, thoughts elsewhere, almost squeezed Castiel's hand tight in his own, forgetting their place.

The streets were mostly empty when they reached the other side of the borough. They still hadn't talked much, for one reason or another. Castiel was as pensive as Dean, and still hadn't indulged him in his comment about Russian history, so he supposed that whatever he meant would meet its own explanation soon. It was hard to be patient, but with immediate mortality not half a week away, it wasn't like he didn't have his own troubles to soak up his concerns. "How do you think they hid everything?" Dean asked in a low voice when they were halfway to their destination.

"Not well enough, I bet," Castiel muttered. "They probably brought it in a suitcase, or some burlap sacks, and you can't lug that through a car without getting a look."

"Well, whatever they hid it with is what we have, too," Dean slid his hand into his jacket and fished out a cigarette. "So it'll have to do."

"Maybe," Castiel bit his lip, and glanced around. "I've been around here," he noted, inspecting some of the shabby buildings they were passing. Dean wondered if he meant that he went this way when he was heading off to that warehouse Balthazar had died in, but after a moment Castiel said, "Some friends live here."

"Oh?"

"They have a cleaning company; soaps and detergents and things. We get supplies from them for our shop. They should be a few doors over…" He moved forward at a slightly faster pace and stopped about a hundred feet away, in front of a dark building.

"Well they aren't open for business this late," Dean said, inhaling a mouthful of smoke and pushing it back out into a blue-tinted cloud. Castiel looked back at him.

"I said they're a friend, remember?" Dean couldn't quite tell, but Castiel might have smiled when he said that. "There's an entrance around back that has a call bell. Stay here and don't get noticed. It'll be just a moment." Castiel vanished down a darkened side alley, until he was invisible, and Dean was alone. It was odd to say that he stay unnoticed if there didn't seem to be a soul around to stare at him anyway. He was barely illuminated, being right between two far flung street lamps. His only fraction of light came from some of the lit up apartment windows and the red end of his cigarette. The moon was shining over on the eastern bay waters at this hour, and the sky was as black as the street Castiel had walked down. The man could be up in smoke, for all he knew, could have cut it running to the old building a few blocks down, stolen some pearls, and made his own way; Crowley certainly wasn't holding him down like he was Dean, had explicitly said so, too.

The notion dug at him, especially when he realized that there was a time where the concept of Castiel vanishing had coinciding with Hell freezing over and pigs taking flight. He almost wanted to ask what had changed, but, well, he knew.

Dean took a long, last drag from his cigarette before stomping it out in a gentle crunch. In the last few days he had found himself on the wrong end of a leap of faith, Castiel on the other. They were companions again for the time being, but there was a rift, a crack, and Dean had orchestrated all of this for a decent farewell, but now with the jewelry and being close to the other man he was starting to think that leaving Castiel for good wasn't such a freeing motion.

He heard a series of footfalls from the side of the brick building. Castiel had reappeared, a real, triumphant smile on his pink mouth.

"I have something for you," he said, and he handed Dean a pair of long, opaque plastic bags attached to hangers.

"They're what I've always wanted," Dean said. "What are they for?" They started walking down the road again, towards the abandoned warehouses – one of the abandoned ones, at least. There were dozens in this part of the city.

"The sheaves can hold over thirty pounds of clothes each. I should know, since our shop delivers them in the same bags."

"So they were up? What'd you tell them?" They fell into step besides each other, shoulders brushing at every other stride. Castiel shrugged.

"Some emergency job, a bag ripped, delivery first thing in the morning and we ran low."

"They believed it?"

"It wasn't the first time I or Gabriel or Anna have come by, asking for something for the shop. It's a rather productive business, you know. It has to be."

"Right." Dean, however, didn't miss the note of upbeat pride in Castiel's words; he was a rather skilled tailor. It had been the first compliment Dean had, if begrudgingly, bestowed on him when they met. And it had been proven again more than once. Sometimes, however, Dean forgot that Castiel truly did love what he did; he was talented because he was passionate about such things. So far Dean hadn't had the pleasure.

"Do you imagine doing anything else for a living?" They paused on a street corner before crossing; only three blocks or so, then they'd take one more right and find a way to break into the building – it had to be somewhat locked up, otherwise vagrants would be able to walk in and find what had been hidden there.

"Why? Getting ideas?"

"Hardly. Just – you've had other jobs, but you don't seem to like them."

"I like work," Castiel said blithely. "Honestly, I do; it's nice to do something, create, in a way, even if all you're doing is cleaning some bolts and nails – you're helping a system along and, in any case, it's better than being completely self-indulgent."

"Oh, I think most people would disagree with you."

Castiel checked one of the signs on the street corner and took the right they were supposed to. The old factories were black boxes casting shadows comprised of broken windows and dripping rust along torn edging. It was an urban haunting, and the two of them were soon creeping past the tumbling outer gates and into building number seventeen in the row; the only one Dean saw that still had an uncut padlock attached to the front door, and had most of the windows still in place.

"What do you do," Castiel muttered, stepping closer to the door, "If you do nothing? You can't listen to the radio and read and visit friends for eighty years. Now how do you suppose you're going to get this open?" Dean handed Castiel his laundry bags back and crouched. He hadn't brought lockpicks, just a small pen knife. Then again – he tugged at the lock, felt the oxidized metal grip the skin of his fingers and tug.

"Get back to me in fifty-three years and I'll tell you how bored I am." He stood up again, looking around. "This is a bit of warning, Cas – I'm about to do something you might not have thought of – something even your crime novels don't say."

"Oh?" There was hardly enough light to tell what was what on the ground beneath him, but he saw Castiel have something like an encouraging smirk on his face, a bemused prompt to continue.

"Stand back, if you don't mind," Just as Castiel slid three feet from the door, Dean picked up a stone the size of his fist and bashed it against the loop of the lock; the metal clanking against the door once, then twice as Dean hit it again and a break appeared in the metal. He jimmied the rest of it open, letting the broken, rusted padlock and chain collect down on his feet.

The beaten, dented door swung open before them, showing nothing but darkness.

"Don't even see why you need lockpicks," Castiel offered, moving in closer to Dean.

"I don't, it's more to protect my dignity, I think. And my ears."

"As long as we don't find another, unlocked, entrance here, I think this method is fine."

"Shit," It was too dark to see. "Should've brought a lantern, I guess." Dean reached in his pocket for his lighter. He heard a hiss behind him – a dull flash of a match coming to life. It only just illuminated the small standing area around them in dull shadows, but it was enough for them to work around the fallen pieces of sheet metal along the factory floor. Shapes made loose, dream-like impressions in the distance; features crammed along the west side of the wall near rows of wide, plated windows.

"Do we know where they hid it?" Dean squinted into the distance; this place had been an arms factory, once. Not that Dean was around when the built the place over a decade ago during the Great War. It had chugged on afterwards for a few years, still exporting to other nations or supplying the navy ships down in Connecticut with proper armory, but all that was long gone now. All that was left for some old machines that didn't work anymore; abandoned time cards and dust; a few broken windows where someone might have thrown a rock or snuck in through. Most of that was speculation, since all of their light came from the small flames and the lunar glow that eerily drifted into the cracks and corners of the building from the windows above. On the eastern wall, high above their heads and the ragged mechanical shadows, he saw a scaffolding inching along the outside of the perimeter.

"I was figuring under some floorboards, but of course there's no wood here." Castiel's match went out and their light disappeared. Their eyes having adjusted somewhat, Dean led the both of them down to the other end of the building. "I think this row of factories had a main office building. Probably torn down now. Anything stored here is on the floor here, somewhere." Castiel struck a new one a few moments later once they reached the foot of the staircase. The first two steps had twisted off, onto the ground. Dean turned and saw him craning his neck to see the metal above. He gave Dean a look, guessing at his thoughts.

"Well, who'd be stupid enough to go up there?"

Castiel's face was shadowed, threatening in the warm, partial illumination of the light. He pursed his lips and blew the match out.

"Here," Dean reached out blindly, touching Castiel's wrist and grabbing it, moving it closer to himself. Castiel's fingers twitched and he could feel the matchbook in the other man's palm. "I'll trade you," he muttered, taking the small box away and replacing it with his lighter. "I'm going up there."

Castiel, still invisible in the darkness, wrapped his fingers around Dean's lighter, a few of Dean's digits still spilling part-way into the center of his hand, getting rolled up with the loose grip. "It could break. The scaffolding up there."

"It hasn't been closed more than three years," Dean glanced above them even though he still couldn't see anything except for the places where the natural night sky was blocked out from the suspending metal. "If you're going to hide something, you'd best be where no one would bother looking."

Castiel sighed, drew his hand away. "If it starts to feel… weak, I suppose,"

"I'm not exactly looking forward to going up there."

"I can do it," Castiel offered.

"No, you search the floor here."

"I told Crowley I would get the jewelry for him,"

"But we're doing this together, aren't we?" He heard, from not two feet away, Castiel swallow.

Castiel flicked the lighter open; let it shine dully between the two of them.

"Yes," he said. "We are." He glanced up to the metal stairs again. "But let me watch you while you're up there, at least." Dean started off towards the broken bottom of the steps, gripping one hand on the guardrail. He had to glare down at the steps to make sure he knew which one was the stable starting point, and what was merely a shadow playing off of the flickering light.

"Fair enough. Catch me if I fall, right?"

"Of course," Castiel said, bemused. Dean tried to push himself off the ground, onto the first step. It sank under his feet, but didn't break. The next handful of steps were the same way, and his shoes echoed on the metal as he ascended. He reached a section of steps too far away from the flame light or the blue of the high windows, where he had to test out every space in front of him with his foot, making sure that a place he was about to step was even there at all.

So far the most ominous thing was the occasionally fallen pieces of handrail, or the steps that creaked worryingly. The catwalk was riskier – the worn metal having more surface area and even less support. He reached the top step after a minute or two of slow climbing, his pulse thudding away against his neck. He was twenty, thirty feet off the ground. He turned his head over his shoulder and saw a small orb of bronze light far, far down.

"Are you okay?" Castiel's voice rose up, deep and distant. Dean slowly became aware that his legs were shaking.

"I, uh," He gulped, found a railing and gripped the thin support tightly. "I'm fine." He tried to remain still for a few more moments. "As I walk can you, can you follow me down there?"

"I can't see you," Dean reached into a pocket for the matches he had slipped there, and lit one. "I don't know how many I have," Castiel said, a moment later.

"Well, talk to me," Dean said quickly, examining the grimy brick wall. Against the light of the match it appeared as if it was dripping oily, dark fluid He knocked on it and got a dull sound for his efforts, knuckles coming away clean and dry.

"About?"

"Anything, a book, your work, the weather," There was a few moments of silence from below. Dean couldn't bear looking down again.

"You sound nervous," Castiel supplied, finally.

"This might not have been my best idea, I'll admit."

"You aren't afraid of heights, too, are you?" Castiel said. He heard rough shuffling beneath him and figured Castiel was keeping up with his slow, careful steps along the catwalk.

"Hardly," Dean grumbled. His knuckles shook with the effort of grasping onto the guardrails. He tried to gauge himself as about a third of the way through the scaffolding, but when he slid forward another two feet and the rail suddenly gave way to open air, he backed up against the bricks, trying not to make noise even as the sharp movement sent the metal careening towards him by a few terrifying degrees. The match flew from his other hand, dropping onto the ground far, far below after a few seconds of waiting. Dean wondered if it had gone out during the fall but still focused on the other side of the factory, where the walkway thankfully ended.

"What was that?" Castiel's tone urgent.

"Nothing, I…" Dean imagined Castiel's voice, separate from his body – he couldn't see it anyway. He trained himself on the slight noises that were far, far away from him; he pretended he could hear Castiel breathe instead of his own panicked inhales. He imagined the nervous flashes of fear – of falling to his death when another, even more dire peril was lurking so close by – the heat travelling, pooling in the base of his spine as merely Castiel standing next to him, sharing warmth like that.

Dean forced himself forward a few more feet, palm flat against the wall now that he knew the railing couldn't be trusted. "How long have you been in business?" Dean asked, desperate for a distraction proper. Castiel's feet banged dully on some metal lying on the factory floor.

"As a tailor?"

"Yes," Dean said, still wandering in the darkness, unwilling to take his hand away from the wall to go digging through the small box crushed in his sweaty fist.

"My Father taught me – you know that."

"I do,"

"When I was, well, I can remember sitting by his feet when I was small, watching him work – he worked out of the house, of course, everyone did." Dean nodded even if no one could see it. He tried to pay attention only to looking for something out of place – some sort of sack or suitcase, the other part of him trying to be lulled by the casual tone of Castiel's voice. "I couldn't have been more than eight when he started teaching me a thing or two. Around sixteen I was ready to start assisting him. I would have, too, if not for the, the bad timing."

"There's never really a good time for a war to break out."

"Oh I'm sure that's not true," Dean's hand dipped suddenly into a type of crack in the brick, surprised himself, and stepped forward, past it. He was almost at the other end, as the line of windows abruptly stopped about six feet ahead. "Once we got here I didn't waste any time in getting back into something I could do well. Got money, got the shop, and that's what I've done for the past let's see, ten years, now."

"Ten whole years," Dean murmured, a bit in awe. "I don't think I've done a single consistent thing for ten years. Nothing like owning a business, at least."

"It's a bit of a milestone, isn't it?" Castiel commented, he sound a little surprised himself. "In retrospect, I mean." Dean stopped at the wall in front of him, managed to finally light another match. "Did you reach the end?"

"Yeah," Dean crouched down, examined several burlap sacks, loose bricks, and a few extraneous pieces he couldn't quite make out. "There's something here. Give me a minute." He shuffled through the materials, breath tight and barely moving in and out of his lungs. He shook the buckets, they didn't rattle. He felt at and turned some of the sacks upside down but was met with crumbs of spackle or dirt – something. But not what they needed.

"Wouldn't it be terrible if you spent all that time up there," Castiel drawled, "And nothing was even there?"

"Why? Did you find something?"

"No, just thinking."

"Right, well," He stood up unsteadily, hand against the brick wall. "There is nothing. Maybe we're not even in the right building."

"The paper said the address was seventeen," Castiel said. "Well, come back down, we'll find it somewhere here."

"Right." Dean slowly turned around, and let his hand drag along the brick, still cautious that he would fall down at any moment, but somewhat calmed now that he knew there were no holes in the metal.

His fingers scraped roughly into the crack in the wall, and he paused. He uncurled his fingers and dug out a light from the damp, partially crushed matchbook, lighting up again. "…That's strange," he said.

"What?"

"Sort of like a cut in the wall. Nothing precise – like someone put bricks up and some chunks of it had come off in the process." He stilled, glanced back to the end of the catwalk where those gallons of paint cans had been lying. He huffed out a humorous breath and strode over to the piles, leafing through the materials before he came away with a heavy metal trowel. His fingers went along the blade and he felt the uneven, dried evidence of some sort of mortar. "Cas! They put it in the wall!"

"Are you sure?"

"Almost. He let the match go out and felt for the breakage again. "I don't think the stuff's had time to set very long," He dug the edge of the trowel into a wide part of the crack, prying it like a lever. "And they knew others would be coming by so if I had to guess they didn't –" He was attacking the wall blindly, and abruptly heard a crack from the mortar, then the soft noise of streams of flakes falling to the ground below. "– Use very strong –" Another stab and a flurried push sent an entire half a brick falling to the ground in a loud clatter. "– Stuff," Suddenly two more bricks had given, shifting in their spots, and Dean wrapped his fingers around them and pulled, the stone coming away like false teeth. He shoved the trowel under one of his arms and lit a match, peering into the small hole he'd created.

He saw a drawstring sack, cheap but thick, and hauled it through the small hole, trying to be as delicate as the small opening would allow.

A minute later, he had the entire bag in his hands – it was surprisingly heavy, not enough to weigh him down, but with the knowledge that it was filled with a million dollars' worth of jewels – he quickly unraveled the bag, reaching blindly into the contents and hoping he would come back with all his fingers intact.

The cold of metal shocked him, and he heard something like rocks settling in a sieve as he moved his hand in deeper. He closed his fingers around a chain and pulled out something that, even in the darkness, had an ethereal color to them.

It was a string of pearls, the strand so long that he could wrap it around his waist twice. "Jesus," he whispered to himself, feeling the heavy smoothness in his palm, wrapped around his fingers and wrists.

"Did you find it?" Castiel asked, startling him.

"Yeah," Dean said, letting the pearls spill back into the bag. He cinched the cord tight and stood again, spotting the gold flicker from the lighter, directly underneath him. "Yeah we found it. Now put the lighter down and catch this." He let the bag drop, and he heard a small exhale of breath instead of a crash. "I'm coming back down," he said, slowly moving back the way he had come.

xxxx

The bags were slung heavy between them. They road into Brighton, getting some odd stares; Castiel was straight backed; he didn't look nervous but every once and a while his hand would clench, softly, against the fabric of the dry cleaning bags to affirm what was inside. Looking straight on at the pair of them they were either laundromat workers or just two odd members of one odd city.

"Can I ask you something?" Dean said, once the train had stopped – it was the last run for the night and only a few passengers remained. Their plan now was to go back to Castiel's home – he hadn't brought a suitcase with him, anyway, and it was best to get the jewels somewhere safe. Castiel's most favored novels would have to stay on his table, his clothes in his wardrobe, for just a little longer. In reference to the last few hours it didn't weigh so heavily on Dean's mind.

"Yes, of course." The tolerable weather was gone with the sunlight, and it seemed like the night was too terrible to ever end. Dean's mind could perceive no daybreak, but instead fantasized of a world where he and Castiel would wander down some darkened road as friendly strangers forever. It had the quality of a fever dream, keeping him both warm and terrified.

"Crowley said you had settled your debt to him. I mean, for you and your family."

"He did."

"So, why haven't you left?" Castiel slowed his pace, the long bags draped in his arms like a ceremonial tapestry of a kind.

"Well," He let out a void laugh. "Well the plan was that we'd go together."

"Months ago."

"Months ago," Castiel agreed. "Never occurred to me, I guess. I figured we were all stuck to go together; Crowley did sell the plan to you, I was just… there. And decided to get involved, I suppose. Back when I asked him to come to me with jobs, I was still using that assumption. And by the time my debt was paid, even, I was too preoccupied to talk to him. It just never got settled."

"Do the three of you still plan on going? Of coming with me?" Castiel's mouth twitched, like he wanted to talk but refrained at the last moment. Dean recalled what the other had told him last night. To go home, he said, staring a line past Dean to the flat they used to share.

And Dean said he couldn't give him that.

"I never imagined another plan," Castiel supplied, finally. "I suppose we could always get off at Chicago if you wish, and to be honest I'll miss this City something awful."

"Chicago?" Dean wrinkled his nose.

"It seems to be a popular place to end up."

"Yeah, if you're one for blood in the streets. Brooklyn's a playpen compared to those slums." They crossed the street, and the view of rundown storefronts and squat apartments came into full swing. "You know," Dean muttered, looking down an alleyway between buildings. "If you're willing to stay on the train till Venice, I'll have my brother find somewhere for you – I mean he'll get some sort of job for you guys, even if it's not a spectacular one, guarantee he's made friends with the entire city of Los Angeles."

"I would expect nothing less of your brother." Castiel said lightly. "How is he doing, anyway? I haven't heard of him since…" He swallowed. "Well, anyway, how is he?"

"Good, great. Starting bar exams, soon. Files papers for some firm every few days, might end up there. Has a kid now, too with Jess. It's a boy. James – they call him Jimmy, though."

"I think it's a little early to impose nicknames," Dean felt a smirk come up across his face, and he pointedly turned away from Castiel.

"It's a real tragedy, ain't it?" He thought he heard the other man chuckle; a low, comforting noise, and he was about to say something else when a sound came upon them. It was quiet at first, growing with their steps. A sort of buzz one might hear on a dead radio station; it transformed into the unmistakable collection of human droning. Dean heard cutoff threads of English, much more in misunderstood Russian. He looked down the street, wondering what was around the corner. "Cas, what's –" Castiel was in front of him, bags now shoved haphazardly under an arm like they were rags or old newspapers. He ran forward with a swiftness Dean had never seen before and he, not able to hear or know anything except that it couldn't have been, say, a parade at this hour, ran after him.

Castiel had known first. Had seen or had a not entirely material sense that something, something had happened. Something awful.

Dean rounded the corner and saw smoke. Pools of it, blocking out the depth of the black sky with a miserable, dark gray cloud, denser than the void of missing stars. People were gathered around to watch its source and Dean's eyes slowly shifted down from space to the earth and he saw where the fire had started.

And, well. Could it have been anywhere else?

For a moment the two of them were side by side, slack jawed, watching the flames, the smoke, the throngs of neighbors in suits and night dresses, all of them watching the Novak's tailor shop burn. They both murmured curses under their breath in their respective first languages, glanced at the other; Castiel shoved his bags into Dean's arms, and he darted forward into the crowd, pushing and shoving at the fray; Dean, hardly thinking it, followed the path Castiel was creating behind him.

The fire hadn't just started; in fact, they spotted a long car parked on the sidewalk, the men in uniform, and it appeared that what remained was more of smolderings and ash; only one window – the kitchen – was ablaze now, and some of the pedestrians had a hollow look in their eye, like they'd been watching the show for a long time and had started to grow bored of it. They remained to be sure that the flames wouldn't jump to another house, or because it was impolite.

Castiel went up to a woman, short and emaciated by age, wearing a wool coat. He stooped so he could meet her eye level, spoke gravely, clearly, in words Dean couldn't comprehend. He glanced around nervously, remembering that Castiel had once cautioned him that he wasn't welcome in the vicinity; that people would see his face as a nation, not a person. He tipped the brim of his hat as low as it would go and clutched the bags closer to him, standing not too closely to Castiel.

The old woman garbled something back to him, sounding like she had been weathering whooping cough for twenty years. She pointed to the mouth of the alley on the right side of the house; the place Castiel liked to smoke, where they had begun their journey to the park; where Dean had found Castiel ages later in what was dumb, dumb luck.

Castiel grabbed his suit sleeve and pulled him, stumbling, through the rest of the crowds. There must have been fifty people, if not more, all trying to stay on the sidewalk, a few dangling off ends of the fire car, spilling out into the left side of the road. He stared hard at the buildings surrounding them, the blackened husk of the shop especially for he couldn't help but wonder what this place would be if he had, two years ago now, decided to drive on?

He came back to himself when he nearly ran into Castiel's back. Alien voices flooded his ears again, and he looked to see who Castiel was speaking to.

Gabriel – he looked sick. His skin was porous and he was sweating, swearing, too. He was pointing to the shop behind them, making exaggerated gestures, and finally, after a comment from Castiel – an exasperated one, judging from the tone of voice – Gabriel stepped to the side and showed Anna, holding Misha like an anchor. The two of them, brother and sister, stared but said nothing. After a moment Castiel clasped his hands around her upper arms in a soothing gesture. She had tear tracks down her face illuminated by the burnt glow of the almost dead fire, but she seemed just as composed as Castiel.

Misha mumbled and wriggled in her arms until Anna shifted him, letting him look at Castiel. He immediately threw his small arms around his neck. Castiel cradled him with one arm, pulled Anna in with the other, and Dean looked away then, grabbing the bags closer to him.

The fire wasn't complete destruction; the windows seemed to be gone or at least unusable; holes in the stained wood and brick. The red banner was torn and frayed; no chance of figuring out those Russian letters now, he supposed dully. There might have been some surviving objects in there, but there was no guarantee that the floors would hold human weight; the shop instead looked like a gaping wound on the road, cracked open and vomiting out black air. He shuddered, closed his eyes and felt the heat on his face. He rejected its comfort, knowing the dreadful source.

Someone shoved his shoulder.

"What are you doing here?" Gabriel's accent was harsh and thick. Dean turned to him.

"Castiel and I –"

"– What sort of business do you have with my brother-in-law?" He jabbed his forefinger into Dean's chest and he swallowed, hoping no one was watching them. He bet Castiel and Anna hadn't told Gabriel about Friday.

"He – I approached him the other day," Dean said quickly, trying to look Gabriel head on, even as his eyes flared cruelly and he saw the man's lip start to curl into a snarl. He was just short of petrifying, and it was hard to concentrate on an excuse. "Talked about getting his things back from me – from my apartment and we were on our way to…"

"Where the hell were you for half a year?" Gabriel interjected. "Castiel was –" He stopped, furrowing his eyebrows. "After you kicked him out, a week after Balthazar was shot? You think you had the right to do that sort of thing to him?"

"I think Cas old enough to figure what's right for him or not," Dean said evenly.

"Cas – Cas. I don't think you should call him that. Matter of fact, I don't think you should be here at all. People might talk," he said pointedly. He reached for the laundry bags. "I'll take these, then, if they belong to –"

"Gabriel," Castiel said suddenly, standing by his brother. "These – these are Dean's."

"Then why are they here?" He pulled back, nodded to him. "Why is he here?"

Castiel clenched his jaw, not in anger but resolution. He settled a hard look at Dean, almost a glare, from under his eyelashes. In the firelight it was uncomfortable – unnatural – like a specter was watching him. "Because we had to settle something."

"And is it?"

Castiel glanced to their store, their home, and his gaze crumbled again. "No," he said, still looking past them before moving back towards his sister. "Come over here, before everyone sees you two," he said over his shoulder. Slowly the two of them shuffled over. Dean tried not to let Gabriel's figure fall into his line of sight.

Anna looked over to him, surprised. "Dean," she said, almost reverently. "This is a… surprise," She looked to Gabriel, then back.

"What happened here?" Dean asked.

"A fire, smartass," Gabriel muttered crossly, staring at the building.

Anna shifted Misha, who was back in her arms. "It was probably two hours ago. The shop had closed and Gabriel was out at the corner store, talking, smoking – it's sort of a ritual for him." She bit her lip. "I was upstairs when I heard a crash, like someone had broken a window. I started to head downstairs when I saw the – the fire." She paused, then slowly put Misha down. He seemed unbothered, though Dean saw wet tracks on his face, too. He stood, swaying, holding Anna's hand for support. "The flames were everywhere," she whispered, quiet so that her son couldn't hear. "There was no way to get out so I headed back upstairs, closed the door.

"I got everything important – money, our citizenship papers, business license, all of that – some jewelry, Castiel, your lockbox." She said to her brother. "I shoved your mattress out of the window, all the blankets and pillows after it. Well, besides for one – I tied one around Castiel's desk and used that to get a ways down with Misha – we jumped the rest of the way, about a story." She shuddered, fingers ensnaring Misha's tightly. "I wish I could say that was exhilarating or something, but I'm getting sick just remembering it." She glanced down to her son, who was watching the many legs of the crowd down the street. "I think I might have hurt my ankle, and I rolled too fast and ripped apart my dress and my knees to go with it but, we survived." She looked uneasily back towards the shop. The fire had gone out now, finally. "I'm just praying this was the worst part."

"The worst part?" Dean asked, frowning.

"Well we have hardly half a grand of insurance on the place," she said. "A lot of people might think we did this on – on purpose, so that we'd get the money back."

"Maybe if someone hadn't made it…" Gabriel trailed off, shaking his head. "As it stands now our story is too neat – even if we have no clothes, no food, and most of our equipment is charred beyond recognition, never mind use." He shoved his hands in his pockets. "An entire decade we've been here, you know." He seemed to be speaking to Dean. "Not like it matters when money's concerned. We know that."

"The police spoke to me," Anna said, crossing her arms, hunching in the cold. "They said we needed to head down to the police station soon, make statements to file into the insurance company. One of the neighbors, the Barkovs, said they could give us the spare room in their flat for a few weeks. Thanks," she said to Gabriel, when he shucked off his jacket and handed it to her.

"Weeks," Castiel said, looking at Dean. "Gabriel, we can't possibly stay –"

"Do you have any better ideas?" Castiel opened his mouth, but Gabriel interrupted. "And don't mention him, either."

"You can let your own brother-in-law speak," Dean shot back.

"But God forbid he tries to help you."

"Help me? I –" Dean's eyes traced movement in the background, behind Gabriel. "Shit." He started to move forward.

Misha, having evidently broken out from Anna's grip, was meandering through the crowd and the firemen, steadily heading towards the smoldering remains of the building. Dean didn't think to look over his shoulder or call for Anna's attention, and by the time he had conscious thought of what he was doing he was in the middle of dodging away from one of the officers who was reminding him to not get any closer.

He reached Misha just some steps before he could touch the front shop door. The glass looked like it had been cast in shadow and faded geometric patterns. The large window to the left had broken open from the explosive that had been tossed in, leaving a spider web of cracks. The smell of char and burnt items that were never supposed to meet destruction in such a manner left Dean's stomach queasy, and he kneeled down next to Misha almost too easily because of that, heard those laundry bags fall in a clatter between them as he spun Misha around by the shoulders and didn't spare them a glance.

"Are you crazy?" he asked. He was sure it was supposed to come out more harsh and demanding, and yet he couldn't manage to make his voice any louder than a murmur, almost soothing. Misha looked at him disinterestedly and tilted his head to look over his shoulder, back at the ruined front door.

"Our stuff's in there," he said. "We need it."

It might have been the first time Dean had heard him speak an entire sentence, and it made him wince; what type of four year old thought of 'we', anyway? What concept could a toddler have about need? Misha looked up at him, eyes rounded and indigo; he understood very little, but the things he vaguely knew of the real world were nightmarish, haunting – the innocent rawness had been scratched out from Misha's stare, and he turned back, slowly, to look at what was no longer his home.

"We need it," he said again.

"I… yeah, I know, it's very important. But you can't go in there right now." Maybe not ever again.

"Why not?" Dean glanced over the boy's head; remembering what it had been like when he was this height, everything so much bigger and not his size.

"Because you have to stay with your Mom right now," Dean said finally, looking back at him. "And your Dad and your uncle – they need you very much,"

"What about you?" Misha squinted at him, and Dean wondered if he could remember who he was – he hadn't seen him in half a year or more, had forgotten how fast some kids could grow. He wondered if Misha was always this talkative now, then figured he would never find out.

He heard footsteps behind him. "Misha?" Anna's voice rang out. Dean took his hands off his shoulders and Misha vanished out of his sight. When he had slowly, carefully gathered up the bags and stood up again Anna had him cradled tight. She looked at him in a grim, shameful way. "I'm so sorry about that, usually he –"

"Misha's a good kid," Dean said quickly. The boy turned his head just enough that he could make out his eye watching him. Wondering if he was about to get him into trouble. "He just… wanted his stuff."

"Maybe tomorrow," Gabriel had managed to perch by Anna's side to talk to his son. "But not right now." His voice had gone gentle, accent almost negligible as unrefined passion was sucked out of him. "Right now we're going to talk to someone."

"A police officer," Anna said, stroking Misha's hair.

"Find your son?" A man had walked over, black uniform and cap on. "Good. The station's a mile north, so it's best we go now. Best we went hours ago, really, but I don't decide when the fires start." He didn't have a Russian accent like the neighbors surrounding the shop did; sounded more like he lived on Dean's side of Coney Island, or Midwood or somewhere more European like that.

"Neither do we." Gabriel said grimly.

"Of course not," The police officer adopted a condescending tone and glanced towards Anna. "Come along now, Miss Novikov. Bring your husband, too. And…" He spared a glance at Castiel's silent, staring figure, situated behind them. "Whoever he is."

"It's Novak," she grunted to the police officer's back. She gave Dean a look that restated her unsavory feelings of the man. Gabriel moved an arm across her shoulder, appraised Dean expectantly, though he had nothing to say. "We'll see you," Anna supplied at Dean's silence, and she started to walk forward, pulling Gabriel along with her before he could say something to him.

Castiel stepped forward some paces, but no further. He watched his family slowly retreating through the crowd. Smoke clung to the air that they breathed, coming out in frozen puffs from the cold. It wasn't the smell of tobacco or a relaxed position in front of a fireplace. Instead of familiarity or comfort the scent made Dean's skin prickle; he would have reached for a cigarette himself to drown out the rest of the air, but the bags restricted his arms and, anyway, lighting up right now seemed disrespectful. "Aren't you going?" Dean asked instead.

Castiel's shoulders sagged a bit, and he turned his head over his shoulder to peer at the shop. It was dark now, finally. People were starting to go home. "I was under the impression that we had some unfinished business." The laundry bags had grown like weights in Dean's arms. So close to a treasure trove and he felt nothing but a burden. Of course they had unfinished business; goodbyes to sort out. If they had bothered to stay away from each other months ago none of this would have happened. None of it.

"Do you think this was an accident?" Dean asked.

"I wish, more than anything, that it was."

"But is it?" Castiel sighed.

"…I'm inclined to say no." Dean glanced at him. Castiel had his arms out limply at his sides. They faced the road, examining the people, instead of the building. It was easier, Dean knew. "We're used to the annual broken window, graffiti – children doing stupid things. Everyone expects that. But this? No one jokes around like this."

"Who do you think did it?"

"Honestly? I don't know." Castiel blinked, jaw tight. "And of course we won't be able to prove it. We may never know."

"No, Cas," Dean pivoted slightly, standing in front of the other. "We can figure this out. I can –"

"Hey! You!" The same officer was shouting over to them, across the street now. His voice was impatient and gruff. The rest of the Novaks watched on.

"…You should go," Dean said haltingly. "Before you get in trouble. Here," Dean tried to hand the bags over, drooping unevenly now as the jewels shifted. But Castiel just shook his head. "Why? They're your responsibility."

"Ours, you told me, I thought. And with so many officers around?"

"Castiel!" Anna shouted to him, waved her free arm over. Castiel's eyes flickered a moment, and he took a step towards them before meeting Dean's gaze one more time. His eyebrows furrowed in desperation as he pressed the bags insistently to Dean's chest, as if to make sure they stayed in his arms. The thick material of the bags were taciturn and Castiel's skin did not touch his; he only grew colder.

"I'll meet you here, right here, tomorrow. Five, no later than six. Bring those and – and a spare suit jacket. A winter one that you won't miss."

"Cas, I –"

"Promise me, please." Dean bit on the inside of his cheek. Castiel's darkened, obscured face was no longer half dead or asleep; he was yearning for him – no, Dean wouldn't trap himself by thinking that – he was yearning for his help. The instructions were ridiculous, and he had thought he was done with cooperating with Castiel. Dean's gaze wandered to the burned shop, then back to the other's face. He swallowed.

"I promise. I'll see you tomorrow."

"Red!" the officer barked. "Get over here!" Castiel slid away from Dean without saying more. Dean kept quiet as the other crossed the street, just thinking to himself that if the officer so much as touched Castiel he'd – the man didn't, of course, lucky for all of them. Dean's trigger finger twitched until he curled his hand up tight. A minute later the Novak family was out of sight.

Slowly, he went back to the building.

The street was just about emptied. Heat still wafted out from the planks of wood.

He believed Castiel's theory that it wasn't an accident; in all honesty he had been hoping he would say that, because he had been thinking the same sort of thing: Fires were tricky; Dean hated them something awful; started a few, but hated them. The trouble now was trying to find out whose fault it was; it could have been a Russian group but – without Balthazar's active participation, he couldn't think of any connection it gave them to a nearby gang. Not that they always needed a reason to start trouble.

Maybe it was someone Castiel had offended while working under Crowley; but still, Castiel never mentioned anything like that while they were together. Dean pursed his lips, and shifted the bags in his arms. Awful things, fires. His mind filled in the blanks, replaced the dark holes with red and orange glows. House fires were cruel – shops and cars were inconvenient and warning, but a house…

His hands clenched in the plastic fabric of the dry cleaning bag: he knew someone clever enough and bitter enough to hang onto a grudge for months and months – and he name was Meg Masters.

It wasn't out of the question. She would always attempt a backlash at someone who had wronged her so long as they were within her reach, or, in this case, someone they were close to. It seemed more than a little far-fetched, a solution of his paranoia and of people knowing about him and Castiel. He was looking for a pattern wrong place.

But there was motive. More than once Dean had even wondered to himself how Meg's revenge would show itself. Because it always seemed to happen to somebody; in blown out, ironic proportions, too. The thing looming maliciously overhead was the fact that this stint could not have been pulled off without the appropriate knowledge. Really, Castiel wasn't a notable someone in the way Benny or Bela or even he was, but someone, somewhere, had to know about him.

At one point in time he and Dean could be seen walking together every day of the week; he had even mentioned him to Adam, if reluctantly and without a last name two years ago. And Benny – he'd never even named Castiel to him, had he? Out of embarrassment or fear of what the other would think, because who would need to know about Castiel, anyway, some Russian tailor? Dean felt guilt roil in his gut; he, of course, knew what Castiel was capable of. Not just with Crowley, but the things he had done before, when he was only a teenager fleeing from home. If someone really wanted to, they could've just asked his goddamn neighbors about a Russian man – they'd get plenty of responses. Or had someone remembered him from the warehouse in Bergen or maybe something else.

It didn't matter how it was a learned fact but it now seemed an irrefutable idea that someone, maybe several people, knew exactly how important the Novak family was in his eyes. Even if it wasn't Meg, it didn't change the fact that their shop, livelihood, and belongings were gone forever. It was possible that even their reputations and esteem – if any rumors spread about Dean and Castiel. Maybe status didn't matter in a tailoring family but Dean knew there would be people who would never talk to Castiel again, never ask the Novaks for work if they knew about their closeness.

There was no way the Novaks could remain in New York, he realized, mouth grimacing at the idea, the removal of such a choice. Frankly, Dean was starting to get tired of this place; the twists and turns, the dramatic pulls his life had gotten – that was the City, but it was tiring all the same.

His eyes were transfixed at the ruins before him. That had once been a home, a store for ten years, Gabriel said. Ten goddamn years.

Watching the shop felt proper, like being at the bedside of someone dying slow or staring down at a hole in the ground until somebody filled it in. Only when exhaustion crept in, made his muscles quiver and his bones ache, his eyesight blur, did he manage to drag his frozen self home. The fire's smoke made his eyes water the entire way, and his thoughts carried a live flame, remembering and imagining at once until that, too, grew old and the light cooled from yellow to green to blue. He recalled Castiel's eyes, so urgent, so expressive and raw, his lips taming his voice into words: Tomorrow, tomorrow, promise me, Dean, tomorrow in his ears.

Castiel as a mental presence was soothing in a way; he didn't reject it like ages ago, but instead let the thought of the other consume his thoughts, propel him forward, guide him through the dark. Tomorrow, Dean, promise. He kept picturing the curve of Castiel's mouth as he said that, like he was whispering it into the curve of his shoulder at two in the morning, thinking Dean was asleep next to him. But of course he and Castiel would never do such things again – they were better as friends, if that. If anything. But there was something just, maybe, hopeful about those words. About tomorrow tomorrow tomorrow.

He only had so many tomorrows left, Dean figured – might as well make them count.

xxxx

A/N: Crowley's mention of Valentine's Day in 1929 is a reference to the infamous St. Valentine's Day Massacre, where Al Capone allegedly ordered a hit on several members of the North Side Irish gang led by Bugs Moran in Chicago. Seven people were killed. Novikov is one of the most common Russian surnames. On a less technical note, the shop fire was a very last-minute addition to this story. We almost got out of it, I'm afraid. If it explains anything I did really like A Series of Unfortunate Events when I was a kid.