Chapter Text
The Lucifer was an old, square, red-brick building jammed between a converted factory and a shady arcade at the disreputable end of Bone Street, which put it as close to Monument's red light district as you could plausibly come without actually being in it. It was two stories tall, the dark glass of its latticed windows made darker still by the bottle-green curtains bunched against them. Combined with the hand-painted sign depicting a fallen angel above the glossy black double-doors, the whole effect was of something repurposed from Victorian London; or at least, of what Dean vaguely imagined Victorian London had looked like. He studied the bar from the safety of the Impala, his borrowed Kevlar tight against his bandages and hot beneath his suit, and briefly fought the urge to be sick.
'This isn't going to end well,' he said. 'You guys know that, right?'
His earpiece prickled with static. 'Try to be optimistic, Mr Winchester,' said Agent Cross. 'Be the success you want to see in the word.'
'We're right here with you,' Bao added.
'Comforting,' Dean said, dryly. Glancing in the rear view mirror, he could just catch a glimpse of the white van containing Bao and Cross; the other three agents – Kirkland, Diaz and Lee – were already in position elsewhere. They'd be the ones to respond when he gave the signal, though Dean wasn't in direct contact with them: once he said the go-word – snap – it was Bao who'd give the order. There were other code words for different scenarios – if they were badly outgunned; if Dean's cover was blown; if some other variable threatened to turn the day into an even greater clusterfuck than it already was – but not one for a plain abort; there'd be no point. Either Dean could get himself out unassisted, or he couldn't. And on the basis of past experience –
I can't do this.
Gripping the steering wheel, Dean thought of Cas, of the promise in that parting kiss, and tried to believe he wasn't about to die. He'd done stupider things, survived worse odds, endured worse injuries, but not in quite this catastrophic a combination – and not, he suddenly realised, when he had anything worth living for. Soldier, cop and criminal, there'd always been a certain fatalism to his bravery: apart from his brother, there'd been no one to care if he lived or died, and even then, Sam would recover, because Sam was emotionally stable. And as for Dean himself – well, what had he ever had that wasn't worth risking? His longest ever relationship had been with Lassiter, and if that didn't sum up everything that was wrong with him, nothing would.
But Cas...
'Dean? You ready?'
Cross's voice cut through his thoughts. Dean smiled, because it was easier than crying. At least I had this much happiness.
'Yeah,' he said. 'I'm ready.'
*
Cas couldn't keep still. He paced his hospital room like a caged cat, alternately staring into space and glaring at Agent Rhys, who'd taken over from Bao a half hour earlier. Rhys was a small, neat woman with vulpine eyes and bony fingers. At first, she'd just looked bored to be there, but gradually, her irritation at his behaviour was starting to show, until she finally snapped, 'Mr Novak! You're making me dizzy.'
'Do I look like I care?' Cas snarled. 'How would you feel, in my position?'
Rhys's expression softened somewhat. 'I understand,' she said, 'but take it from someone who's been on her fair share of stakeouts: impatience will only make it worse. Here.' She leaned across and picked up the TV remote from the bedside table, holding it out to him. 'Just watch something, would you? Try not to think about it.'
Cas just stood there. He didn't want to watch TV; he wanted Dean safe. But he couldn't leave, and pacing was only making his nervous energy worse. Rhys waggled the remote encouragingly. With angry sigh, Cas swiped it out of her grasp.
'There,' said Rhys, sounding pleased with herself. 'Was that so hard?'
'Very,' said Cas, and hit the power button.
The TV was a wall-mounted flatscreen, tucked unobtrusively into the left-hand corner of the room. As Rhys resettled herself, Cas reluctantly pulled up the second chair and sat down, thumbing the volume from silent to barely audible. He'd landed on some daytime soap, in which two plastic and highly coiffed people were arguing dramatically in a hospital room. Snorting at the irony, he changed the channel, and kept on changing: infomercial, golf, sport, sitcom, cooking show. Nothing held his interest, and as he kept on flicking, Rhys said wryly, 'I take it back. I think I preferred the pacing.'
Rolling his eyes, Cas crossed over to a news channel, and was about to move on again when he caught the word Fellowship . He froze, and suddenly Dean was pushed to the back of his mind, his worry subsumed by a different, older fear. He put the volume up and listened.
'...siege came to an abrupt and bloody end today when the FBI, reportedly acting on new information from a confidential informant, were able to effect a covert entry into the compound. Though the women and children being held by Martin Bruckner, aka Brother Tiberius, were safely rescued, once the FBI presence was discovered, the Fellowship militants responded violently, instigating a close-quarters firefight that ended when Bruckner detonated a powerful explosive device, killing himself, the remainder of his followers, and at least six FBI agents. The Secretary of State has called the incident a 'national tragedy'; meanwhile, the FBI has issued an official statement praising the actions of its operatives in saving the lives of some thirty cult members, many of them children, while condemning Bruckner's actions as –'
Barely conscious of having done so, Cas turned off the TV. He felt removed from his body; removed from everything, even, as though he'd somehow fallen into the gaps between atoms, an unreal man in an unreal space. He waited for the blank voice to berate him, but found only silence, his psyche as raw as if part of himself had been abruptly ripped away. All this time, was I really just hearing Brother Tiberius? It was an absurd thought, but Cas couldn't shake it: he started laughing, the scraped sound bubbling out of him like chemical overspill, and then he was on his knees, unable to stop.
Agent Rhys was hovering; he could see her from the corner of his eye. 'Mr Novak? Are you all right?'
Cas kept laughing, tears streaming down his cheeks, and shook his head. He needed Dean, needed him, but Dean wasn't here, and he had to cope, but the newscaster had said confidential informant , which meant Castiel was responsible; he'd told Bao everything, and she'd passed it on.
Which meant that Bao had already known when she showed up – she'd come into his hospital room and lied barefaced, like Crowley had lied to Anna, by poisonous omission – because she needed them focussed on something else; and now he was alone, and Dean was in danger, and –
Agent Rhys touched his back.
It was like she'd set him on fire. In a single, frenzied moment, Cas felt every cut, every blow, that Brother Tiberius had ever landed on him, belt and blade and wire and chain; he jerked upright, a swallowed scream in his throat, and struck out in wild, blind panic. His elbow connected with Rhys's face, hard; she yelped and fell, and Cas staggered forwards, arms raised over his head to ward off the inevitable retaliation – but nothing happened. He stood there, cowering, until he came back to himself, and remembered where he was. He lowered his arms and turned. Agent Rhys was sprawled against the chair, blood streaming from her nose; she was staring at him like he'd gone mad.
'I'm – I'm sorry,' Cas stammered. He didn't know when he'd stopped laughing, but he sure as hell wasn't now. 'My back, I don't – you touched me – I can't –'
Rhys's eyes widened slightly. 'Oh,' she said, and all at once, Cas knew she'd seen his scars in the interview room, just like Bao had. 'I didn't think.' She braced her arms on the chair and heaved herself up. 'Can you, uh, grab me some tissues?'
'Sure,' said Cas, pathetically grateful for something to do, and ducked into the bathroom.
Where he threw up, suddenly and violently, into the sink. Bile burned his throat; he rinsed his mouth out, coughing and gagging, and then his legs refused to work: he slid to the floor, his back to the cold, hard tiles, and tried to feel something – anything – that made sense.
That was how Agent Rhys found him. She didn't look great herself, but that only made Cas feel worse: he was the one who'd bloodied her nose and blacked her eye. He neither wanted nor deserved her pity, and resented her for offering it.
Grabbing a handful of toilet paper, she crouched down opposite him, absently wiping the blood from her face.
'I thought you knew about the raid,' she said, softly, 'or I wouldn't have suggested putting the TV on. I'm sorry.'
'Yeah,' said Cas. 'I bet you are.'
'Mr Novak –'
'Just fuck off, would you?'
'What?'
'I mean, go get a coffee or something. Clean yourself up. Whatever. Just leave me alone.'
Carefully, Rhys said, 'I really don't think I should do that. You need help.'
'And you're not it,' he shot back. And then, more quietly, 'Agent Rhys, please. It's nothing personal. But right now, there's exactly one person I want to see, and you're not him. So just... just give me ten minutes, OK?'
Rhys sighed. 'All right,' she said, straightening. 'Ten minutes.'
Cas watched her go, listening until even her footsteps faded. He wanted Dean, and for a moment, the urge to just leave the hospital, jump in a cab and go straight to the Lucifer was almost overpowering. But even upset, Cas was still sane enough to know that getting in the way of an FBI operation – let alone putting himself within easy reach of Ruby Blue – was an immensely stupid idea. He could get someone killed. He could get Dean killed, and the thought was so horrific, he almost stopped breathing.
He crawled into the shower, turned on the taps, and sat under the spray. It was something to feel, at least, and if the falling water didn't quite hide his tears, it somehow made them easier to bear.
*
The Lucifer's back entrance was on the side that abutted the arcade, up a narrow, dim path too short to truly count as an alley, but which Dean couldn't really think of as anything else. The second he passed out of Bao and Cross's sight, he shivered. Now I really am on my own . The door here was scuffed and closed, and when Dean knocked – he checked his watch; it was 3:59pm, and Crowley had said to come at four – it was several seconds before someone answered. The door edged open a crack, revealing an almost skeletally thin man in a black suit, his skin so white and his eyes so sunken as to make his face cadaverous.
'Yes?' he said, arching an eyebrow.
Dean gulped. 'I'm, uh, here for Dorothy.'
'Of course you are,' said the man, and pulled the door open. 'Right this way.'
The second he was inside, Dean felt his heart sink. He'd been hoping the Lucifer had a simple layout, the kind of big rooms and wide halls that made it easy for backup to reach you quickly. Instead, the place was a warren: narrow, twisting corridors, alcove-like rooms, low lighting and obstacles everywhere. As the thin man lead him through to a distant room, Dean resisted the urge to pat the Glock in its holster.
'You're early,' the thin man said. 'Please, wait here. The others will be with you shortly.'
He exited and shut the door, leaving Dean alone in what appeared to be a private bar. The whole room had a bordello feel to it: wood panelling, red velvet drapes on windowless walls, leather armchairs, round tables. The bar itself was well-stocked and untended, and it took a surprising amount of self-restraint not to walk up and fix himself a drink. Instead, he stood against the wall, hands clasped in front of him like he was stuck in church, and waited.
He wasn't waiting long. Before a minute had passed, the thin man returned and ushered in another visitor: Crowley.
Dean felt his hackles raise. The loan shark glanced around the room, then smiled at Dean, as though he were pleasantly surprised to see him.
'Hello, Dean.'
'Crowley.' Dean clenched his fists. 'Well, isn't this fun.'
'Don't worry, darling. The others will be here soon enough. I asked you to come a little early – after all, you're meant to be Teddy's man, and of course, he wants a quiet word before it's all official.'
'So tell me, then,' said Dean, 'if I'm here as Teddy's security, who's here as yours?'
'No one,' said Crowley. 'Don't need it. Or are you suggesting, Dean Winchester, that you pose a danger to me?'
'Don't tempt me. Not today.'
Crowley wiggled his fingers mockingly. 'Ooh, I'm all aquiver!'
Dean might have replied, but just then, the thin man returned, escorting an unremarkable middle-aged man whom Crowley greeted by name: Teddy Brimmond.
Resentment stabbed through Dean. This was the man on whose ostensible behalf his life was being turned inside out; hell, if he was in business with Crowley and Ruby Blue, the world would probably be better off without him. But that wasn't his call any more, and so he stood by, teeth clenched, and let Crowley introduce them.
Teddy Brimmond was short, with thinning, ginger hair, a happy face, and pale blue eyes as sharp as razor wire. 'A pleasure to meet you, Dean,' he said, holding out a hand. His voice had a slight southern lilt, and he was wearing a red satin waistcoat under his suit jacket. 'Crowley's told me only good things about you.'
'Crowley's too kind,' said Dean. They shook hands, and for all that Teddy looked like an actuary, his palms were callused from hard work.
'So,' said Teddy. 'Let me walk you through how this will work.'
And then, to Dean's silent embarrassment, Teddy Brimmond spent the next twenty minutes explaining what he expected from his head of security; why, ordinarily, he'd have promoted someone from within his own ranks, except that he didn't know who to trust after 'that awful business with Jameson'; how he was mistrustful of Ruby's reasons for moving the meeting ahead, but couldn't risk not coming; and on, and on, and on. Dean just stood there, smiling and nodding, and trying to decide who he hated more, himself or Crowley. Whatever lies had been told to Teddy Brimmond, he was clearly operating under the assumption that Dean would be coming to work for him on a permanent basis, and as such, he was rather more forthcoming with details about his own criminal operation than Dean had expected. He wondered what Cross and Bao were making of it all; Teddy was incriminating himself so thoroughly that, assuming he survived, the FBI would have no difficulty putting him away.
With that revelation, the hairs on the back of Dean's neck stood up. This isn't right. No criminal boss at Teddy's level could possibly be so trusting, so stupid , as to lay out the inner workings of their organisation at the drop of a hat for someone they'd just met, regardless of who'd vouched for them. Being friends with Crowley didn't justify this level of blind faith in a stranger: sure, he had no reason to suspect the FBI were listening in, but even if he did think Dean was about to join him on a permanent basis, he still should've held back, tested him a little. He glanced at Crowley, who'd helped himself to the bar, but the loan shark didn't look up. A bad feeling churned through Dean's stomach. Ruby wanted Teddy dead, and Crowley wanted him saved. It was such a compelling polarity that Dean had never stopped to wonder what Teddy wanted in all of this, beyond getting out alive. He'd discounted the very person the whole affair hinged on, and just at that moment, he wanted to kick himself, because Teddy Brimmond – this short, avuncular, southerner with a name like a children's toy and the dress sense of an English professor – had clearly built a career on being professionally underestimated; and if Dean had fallen into that particular trap, then what was to say that Crowley hadn't, either? Or Ruby?
Blessedly, Teddy chose that moment to stop talking, distracted by the prospect of whatever it was that Crowley was mixing up. He clapped Dean on the shoulder – Dean bit his lip, wincing at the pain in his cuts – and wandered over to Crowley, who presented him with something arcane and blue in a martini glass.
'Dean!' said Crowley. 'Join us, won't you?'
Biting back the urge to swear, Dean made himself look at Teddy and said, 'Boss?'
Teddy gave an approving laugh. 'Now, that's the kind of attitude I'm looking for! Maybe later, Dean – I suspect whatever Crowley's cooked up might be strong enough to put you out of commission.'
Dean nodded, secretly grateful; given the state of his injuries, it was a truer assessment than Teddy could possibly know. The hospital staff had brought him painkillers along with lunch, and for a while, they'd helped, but he hadn't taken a second dose for fear of dulling his reflexes, and now he was aching. Worse still, between the closed-in room and his many uncomfortable layers, he was sweating like a sinner, the greasy salt stinging his cuts into wakefulness. God, and he was feeling faint, too, but hired muscle didn't sit unless the boss requested it; so instead, he put his back to the wall, leaning unobtrusively and hoping like hell the others would show up soon.
Which, gradually, they did, each new guest escorted by the same thin man who'd let Dean in: a handful of well-dressed people he didn't recognise, some accompanied by men in suits who were clearly their security detail, the rest unescorted. Crowley greeted them all, handing out drinks like he was being paid for it, and Teddy waved Dean over and showed him off like a prize horse, and all the while Dean's internal warning systems were screaming alarm, because something was wrong, something was powerfully wrong, and until Ruby made her appearance, he couldn't do a single thing about it.
And then, like a bad dream made manifest, Meg entered.
She was alone, wearing a sleek blue dress that hugged her curves, and if Dean had never seen her kneeling in his blood, laughing as she wound a strip of his skin around her little finger – See, Dean? I've got you right where I want you – he could almost have mistaken her for beautiful. Instead, the sight of her chilled him; he wanted to run and hide. Not even Lassiter had scared him this badly – but then, he'd been so deep in denial about what Lassiter was, what he'd done, that he'd scarcely been able to process it, whereas Meg had openly tortured him. And now –
'Welcome, everyone!'
Dean did a double-take. He'd scanned the room on entry, and had thought there was only a single way in; yet there was Ruby, stepping out from a door concealed by one of the red curtains, smiling like she owned the place. His heart sped up.
'Oh, snap,' he murmured, and in his ear, he heard Bao say, 'We're on it.'
'So glad you could all make it,' Ruby was saying. 'My apologies for the sudden change, but, well, you know how life is. Just one thing after another.'
Silence in Dean's earpiece. He had to stand still, to act like the FBI wasn't about to burst in and arrest everyone, to not look expectantly at the door, and it was one of the hardest things he'd ever done, because the only alternative was watching as Meg crossed the room and came to stand by Ruby's side, smiling out at the crowd – at him – like a shark in a fish tank.
'As it happens,' Ruby continued, 'the reason we're gathered here at all is also the reason for the altered schedule. Someone in this room has been talking to the FBI –' concerned murmuring, '– and that puts all of us at risk.'
Dean could feel the sweat trickling down his back. What's taking so long? Sure, Bao and Cross had to come from the van, but Diaz, Lee and Kirkland had already been inside the Lucifer. They should've been here by now, and the fact that they weren't was more than a little worrying.
Someone in the crowd snorted – a heavyset man in a navy suit. 'Says who, Ruby Blue? You?' He grinned, clearly pleased by the rhyme. 'Now, I'm curious enough to come along for the party, but you're new around here, and I'm struggling to see why I – why any of us – should just take your word for it. Now Alastair, he was reliable.'
Ruby smiled, her red eye bright as blood. 'Alastair is dead, Maurice. You'd do well to remember it.'
'Exactly,' said Maurice. He stepped forwards, arms crossed, and it didn't escape Dean's notice that he was one of the few guests who'd come without a bodyguard. 'And how did that happen, again?'
'Why, Maurice? Are you feeling threatened?'
Meg chuckled, and Maurice, who was evidently the sort of man who despised female laughter at his expense, flushed dark red. 'Not threatened,' he ground out. 'Just cautious. What proof is there that the FBI's taken an active interest in any of us?'
'Well, for one thing,' came a chilling drawl, 'she invited me.'
Even Ruby startled, a look of pure shock on her face. The whole room fell silent, all eyes fixed on the tall man emerging from the same door Ruby had used. His dark hair was dishevelled, his white shirt spattered with fresh blood, and the gun in his hand was pointed squarely at Ruby Blue.
Dean's blood ran cold.
It was Lassiter.
Ruby just stared at him, aghast. 'What the hell are you doing?' she yelled. 'We had a deal ! We –'
The gunshot was like thunder. Ruby shuddered, arms jerking like a marionette's, and then the back of her head blew out, red blood on red curtains. Meg screamed, but the sound turned into a hideous gargle as Lassiter spun and shot her, too; and then people were running, stampeding for the doors – one bodyguard pulled his own weapon, but not fast enough; Lassiter's bullet took him through the throat, and he dropped like a stone – and all the while, Lassiter was advancing on Dean, a feral smile fixed on his face.
Too late, Dean reached for his Glock; he'd barely gripped it before Lassiter shook his head, his own gun aimed at Dean's head.
'Drop it,' he said, and Dean obeyed, helpless to do otherwise.
Bao's voice crackled in his ear. 'Dean, something's happened – I can't get a response from the others, and the van's been tampered with. We're locked in. Can you report?'
'Lassiter,' he said, numbly. It was all he could say. Ruby and Meg were dead; Crowley was nowhere to be seen, and everyone else had fled, leaving Dean alone with the last man on Earth he wanted to see.
'Loose the earpiece,' Lassiter said. And then, more loudly, 'Sorry, Bao, but I don't need an audience.'
Dread coiling through him like tentacles, Dean complied. The last thing he heard was Bao swearing; he tossed the earpiece onto the ground, and Lassiter stomped on it, smiling all the while.
'What the hell are you doing?' Dean whispered.
If anything, the smile widened. 'Oh, Dean. You're even stupider than she was. After everything you've done to me, you really thought you could ruin my life a second time and just walk away? You really thought I'd stand for it?'
'I didn't ruin your life, Danny,' he made himself say. 'You did that all yourself.'
' Bullshit ,' Lassiter hissed. 'You knew that Kayburn would be there, you knew –'
'Of course I knew!' He was trembling, covered in cold sweat, and oh, god, he wasn't strong enough, not for this, not now, but Lassiter had a gun on him, and if he was dead no matter what, then at least he could die honest. 'How else could I get away from you? The things you were doing, you wouldn't listen – I told you no, I told you to stop, but you wouldn't listen –'
'You wanted it,' Lassiter sneered. 'You fucking liar, you loved every dirty second of it.'
'No, I didn't!' Dean's voice broke. 'It was rape , Danny! You raped me, and you made me think it was all my fault, and you can go ahead and shoot me, but that won't make it any less true.'
Lassiter laughed, an ugly sound, and came closer still. 'That night in Sacramento, you should've done us both a favour and jumped off a real bridge. It would've made things easier.'
Something in Dean snapped, and in the second before he launched himself at Lassiter, he saw a flash of triumph in the other man's eyes. He grabbed Lassiter's wrist, slamming it down against a nearby table, trying to make him drop the gun – and he did, but not before it went off. Pain shot through Dean's abdomen, brutal enough that he almost blacked out. He didn't know if he'd been shot or punched; only that something had kicked the Kevlar hard up against his injured skin, and then they were fighting in earnest, a squalid flurry of blows that seemed to reopen every single cut. Too late, Dean realised that he'd been goaded into attacking, that this was what Lassiter wanted; he was no match for him, and the other man knew it.
Viciously, Lassiter swept Dean's legs out from under him. He fell hard, the breath blown from his lungs as Lassiter straddled and pinned him, pressing his forearm hard to Dean's throat. Dean thrashed and kicked, pawing uselessly at Lassiter's arms, trying to dislodge him as the world went dark, but the other man was immovable. Dean couldn't breathe; there were spots in front of his eyes, and past them, all he could see was Lassiter, laughing as he pressed harder and harder, as Dean died under him –
A thundercrack shot. A burst of blood, the red warmth washing his face like rain. Lassiter fell sideways with a hole in his head, and as the pressure of his arm let up, Dean coughed and choked and gasped for air, which was all that kept him from screaming.
Crowley stood over him, gun in hand, a satisfied smile on his face.
'There,' he said, smugly. 'You see? I told you my owing a favour would come in handy.'
Dean could barely speak. He opened his mouth, but only air came out. Crowley, however, sighed as though he'd delivered a lengthy reprimand.
'Your friend, of course. You're such an ungrateful sod, but I'll see her safe in lieu of your hazard pay.' Still holding the gun, he pulled out his phone and dialled, rolling his eyes in comic impatience at the length of time it took the other person to answer. 'Marco! It's me. There's been a change of plan – unexpected, but very much to our advantage. Let Miss Milton go, with my blessings for a long and prosperous life. Unharmed, yes. Good man.' He hung up, raising an eyebrow at Dean. 'Satisfied?'
From elsewhere in the Lucifer came the distant sound of shouting. Crowley sighed. 'And that's my cue. A pleasure doing business with you, as always.'
And before Dean could answer, Crowley was gone, vanishing through Ruby's hidden exit a good ten seconds before the main door burst open, revealing a harassed-looking Cross and a vividly furious Bao, both of whom stopped, slack-jawed, at the sight that met their eyes.
'Goddamit!' Cross swore. He almost sounded impressed.
Bao crouched by Dean's side. 'Is there another way out? What happened? Dean?'
He couldn't answer; his throat was too bruised. All the same, he struggled to sit up – and then a new pain knifed through his stomach, sharp and hot and frightening, as Bao tried to take his weight.
'Oh,' she said, stupidly. She pulled her hands away, and Dean had just enough time to see her palms were slick with blood – his blood, not Lassiter's – and think, well, shit, before he fell back into darkness.