Chapter Text
His father had been dead for a month, and it was already the longest month of Dean Winchester’s life. He and his little brother, Sammy, had huddled together at the end of a muddy utility road, watching as their father’s body burned in a traditional hunter’s funeral. It took forever to find dry wood in April, but the pyre reduced the chance of him sticking around as a vengeful spirit. John Winchester had been angry enough when he was alive and Dean had zero interest in a ghost that criticized everything he did. So they’d watched the fire and ignored the sweet, cloying smell, and now all they had left of their father were his hunting journal and a 67 Impala with a trunk full of weapons.
Dean had glanced down at where Sammy had turned his head into Dean’s chest. He supposed they were technically orphans now. Sammy was, anyway. Dean wasn’t sure about himself. Could a seventeen year old still be an orphan? Or was he just a guy whose parents were dead?
“What are we gonna do?” Sammy asked. His baby fat was all gone now and he was looking gangly from his recent growth spurt.
“Same thing we always do,” Dean assured him, pulling him into a one-armed hug. “I’ll hunt things and save people and you keep getting’ good grades.” He ruffled Sammy’s hair. “Nerd.”
“Nerd? Is that really the best you've got?” Sam ducked the hand and grabbed a shovel. “Remind me, which one of us is thirteen?” After moving a few shovelfuls of the hard dirt he stopped to wipe sweat off his neck and glare at Dean. “Are you gonna take a turn on this?”
Dean leaned against the Impala. They had forty bucks and enough gas to get to Kansas City. He tried not to panic. Sam needed him strong. So he did what he always did when his life turned to shit. He pretended everything was fine. “Nah, think I’ll supervise. You need the muscle more’n I do. Those spaghetti arms aren’t gonna win any gun shows.”
They’d buried the ashes and Sam salted the grave, while Dean jotted the GPS coordinates into his own journal. You never knew when that information might come in handy, and if Dean had learned anything since taking over the family business it was that detail hadn’t been John Winchester’s strong point. Take that ghoul business in Lawrence two years back; his father’s journal just said ‘ghoul,’ coordinates, and the date. Sure, the earlier ghoul entry had been better—what they ate, where they lived, how to kill them—but by comparison, Dean’s journal was a friggin’ encyclopedia. That salt-n-burn in Topeka last week was routine, but he’d still recorded names, dates, contacts, and the procedures he’d followed. If folks at that tire plant saw a ghost again it sure wasn’t gonna be Lily Ledbetter. Dean closed his journal and put it away. He wasn’t sure who’d inherit it since Sammy was destined for some fancy university. Maybe it would join Uncle Bobby’s collection. But however it shook out, nobody was gonna call Dean Winchester a slacker when it came to record-keeping.
Dean checked the trunk of the Impala, going over his supplies. He needed to re-up on salt and cartridges and those weren’t things he could shoplift, so he’d need to buy them. It was his responsibility now to handle any jobs that came their way on top of taking care of Sammy. Hunting would be the easy part. He’d been doing salt and burns since he was ten and helping his dad kill vamps since he was Sammy’s age. The hard part was gonna be avoiding child services ‘til he turned eighteen and could be Sammy’s guardian in the eyes of the law. Until then the kid needed to show up at school clean, fed, and prepared for class so nobody asked questions. Dean thanked his lucky stars that Sammy got good grades and only had a few weeks before he was free for the summer. If he could just hold everything together until then, they’d be golden.
“Are we really going to live at Bobby’s?” Sam asked as Dean drove him to school the next day.
“Yep. Soon as you’re done school we’ll hightail it to Sioux Falls.” Dean had heard that home was the place where, when you went, they had to take you in. He and Sammy would be welcome at Bobby’s. John Winchester was their father, but sometimes Dean thought he’d like to call Bobby ‘dad.’ He kept mushy crap like that to himself.
“What’ll we do there?” Sammy asked, looking out the window.
“I’ll keep doin’ what I do,” Dean said, turning right on red, “and we’ll have a fun summer helping Bobby around the salvage yard. Maybe teach you to drive on one of those junkers he’s got.”
“Really?”
“Oh yeah. It’s how I learned.” Dean restrained a smirk. Their dad used to drop him and Sammy off at Bobby’s all the time, and Dean had been old enough to help with the cars. He’d loved the grease and the feeling of fixing something with his hands. If the hunting was slow maybe he could talk Bobby into letting him work a restoration job or two. If they could get one of those old wrecks running they could sell it for good money.
Until then, Dean needed cash to keep them off the radar here in Kansas City. Their father had raised them in motels, but without his income they couldn’t afford even the cheapest room. They camped in the Impala and washed in gas station bathrooms while Dean tasked Sammy with looking up properties repossessed for back taxes. Dean could strategize okay, but the kid was a whiz at research. They needed a place that’d been on the auction block for over a year without any takers. Armed with a list printed at the library they toured each site, shimmying through basement windows and assessing the places for security, ease of heating, and possibilities for bypassing the water meter. They settled on an old farmhouse. A truck carrying heating oil had lost a tire and its payload, spilling into the field and ruining the land for farming. It was isolated and undesirable; exactly what they needed. They parked the Impala around back, out of sight.
“Home sweet home,” Dean said. “At least for now.” The place smelled musty and there were bats in the attic, but Dean didn’t mind. It'd get them through the next few weeks and squatters didn’t pay rent.
“It’s better'n that motel in Tulsa dad ditched us for two weeks,” Sammy pointed out. He’d bad-mouthed their father a lot since the funeral. Dean figured it was the kid’s way of grieving. He let it go.
A few minutes with a screwdriver rigged the rusty water meter so it wouldn’t record their use. Dean hooked into the power using steps Sammy found online. It wasn’t nice, but it wasn’t bad. They spread sleeping bags on the floor and Dean washed their clothes in a porcelain sink in the kitchen. But shelter and clean clothes don't fill bellies and Dean needed cash if they were gonna eat.
He thought about the old guy who hung out around the community center on Wabash, selling weed and whatnot. Everybody called him Hippie Chong. Maybe he could do something like that. He'd need a supply to sell, and that would be a substantial outlay. And there might be territorial issues. People got violent about drug turf, even old hippies. Still, it might be worth looking into.
Dean hovered over a hotplate and stirred the last of their milk into a pot of discount mac’n’cheese. He liked the bright orange of the cheese. It was familiar and comforting.
“Mmmmm. Smells good,” Sammy said, looking over his shoulder. The kid was always hungry. And he needed a haircut.
“Grab some bowls.” Dean shut off the burner and Sammy obeyed then pulled out a handful of newspaper clipping.
“So listen, I think I might've found a hunt.”
Dean’s eyebrows rose. “This anything like the time you wanted to interrogate Santa ‘bout why we got stiffed every year?”
Sammy pushed his hair out of his face. “Gimmie a break, Dean. I was six.”
“Okay, okay.” Dean set the pot down and waved a hand, giving his brother the floor. “Let’s hear what you got.”
“Three murders so far. All women in the sex trade.” He held the handful of newsprint out to Dean, looking anxious and excited to be helpful.
Dean skimmed through them. The bodies had been pulled from the Missouri. One victim last seen in the Wabash and Amie area and two known to frequent Independence Avenue.
“Sex trade, huh?” Dean said. “You know what that is?”
Sammy rolled his eyes. “I’m not a kid, Dean. I know what sex is.”
“Okay, Hugh Heffner.” Dean filled the bowls, making sure to give Sam two thirds of the box. It was a little gluey but it’d do. He glanced back at the clippings. The stories described the bodies as ‘mutilated’ but hadn’t gone into detail. Dean sighed. Whatever happened to investigative journalism?
“Sounds too messy to be a vamp." He passed the bowl. “You thinking werewolf?”
Sammy shook his shaggy head and started eating. “No connection to the moon. This might be something we haven’t seen before.”
Dean smirked. As if Sammy had seen anything supernatural. Sure, he’d read their father’s journals, but trying not to piss yourself when it revealed its fangs or what-have-you was a whole different ballgame.
“I’ll look into it." Dean slipped the clippings into his journal and leaned against the counter. He wasn’t exactly crazy about Sammy taking an interest in hunting. He was supposed to keep the kid safe and taking down vamps and ghosts and witches and whatnot was a lot of stuff, but safe wasn’t one of them. Still, research was low risk.
“You ready for that math test tomorrow?”
Sammy nodded, shoveling the warm food into his mouth. “It’s exponents. Nothing too difficult. I studied all yesterday.”
“Glad to hear it.” Exponents sounded plenty difficult to Dean. Almost as hard as finding a job he could leave at a moment’s notice willing to hire a high school drop-out. If he bulked up a bit he could pass for older, maybe get a job at a garage, but he needed something now. Anything. He looked at the clippings again. Maybe he could kill two birds with one stone.
Sam loped up to pass in his math test a few minutes early. He knew he’d aced it. He headed for his locker, thin soles slapping in the empty hall. He'd worn his shoes through again.
He was a constant suck on Dean’s financial resources, no doubt about it. He'd outgrown his clothes and started borrowing from his brother’s duffel. He scrounged paper and pens for school, passing in one assignment on stationary from a Holiday Inn. That resulted in a chat with his English teacher and Sam made up a story about his dad’s recent layoff. If this kept up he was definitely going to come under scrutiny, and they couldn’t have that.
He looked for after-school work but no place wanted to see him until he’d turned fourteen. He’ looked into doing farm work, a loophole in the child labor laws, but they wanted written parental consent, and Dean was adamant that Sam should focus on school. His homeroom teacher, Mrs. Kripke, paid him $20 a week to do chores around the classroom, which helped cover lunches. He didn’t want to explain to Dean that the peanut butter sandwiches he sent him to school with were gone by first period. A guy had to eat.
The bell rang and Sam swapped out his math books for Edgar Allan Poe’s The Raven and Other Poems. English was next and he needed to look cared for by living parents. Sam Winchester, showman extraordinaire.
Since he couldn’t contribute financially, Sam tried to be helpful on the hunting front. He was glad Dean was receptive to his theory. He’d known he was onto something. He just wished he could do more. And then he remembered that Gwen Campbell was in his English class and her dad worked for the Kansas City Police.
Sam usually sat up front, but today he slipped into a seat beside the skinny brunette.
“Hey Gwen."
Officer Castiel Krushnic entered the office of KCPD Captain Zachariah noting the mid-range cigars, greasy takeout, and scent of breath freshener. A wall was filled with photos of the Captain with dignitaries.
“Is that the mayor?” Castiel knew it was. He’d researched the city before his move.
Captain Zachariah smiled. “Yes.” He pointed to an adjacent photo. “And this is me with the Board of Commissioners.” He waved toward the government-issue chairs in front of his desk. “Have a seat.”
Castiel sat back rigid and face alert. He’d been hired straight out of the Academy. The other officers were calling him “Jump Street,” but he didn’t mind. The nickname was designed to belittle him but if he stayed friendly it would change into acceptance soon enough. Information like this was acquired easily when one read psychology textbooks.
Captain Zachariah leaned back in his leather office chair. “Sheriff Hanscum speaks highly of you.”
“I’ll try not to disappoint," Castiel said, thinking of Hanscum. She had been his favorite instructor at the Academy; encouraging, and quick to reprimand those who made fun of his name. She had a birthday coming up, he remembered. He should send a card.
"Hanscum tell you why you’re here?”
“Just that it was undercover.” He almost smiled, remembering how he’d stared at the paper detailing the placement and asked if she thought he could do it.
“You betcha!” She’d said. “That thing you got? Reading people in a few seconds? That’ll come in real handy undercover.” Castiel looked up at Captain Zachariah. He’d researched him, too. He was no Donna Hanscum, but his mother had taught him to make the best of what he had.
The Captain sighed. “As you may be aware, I’ve got three homicides. All whores.” He snapped his fingers and pointed at Castiel. “I need you to worm your way into the Northeast’s seedy underbelly. No arrests for solicitation. Save that for the major’s re-election.” He waved a hand. “Just clear the homicides. Easy peasy!”
Castiel nodded, thinking about strategy. “I’ll do my best.”
“Do it quickly. The Courier has Bela Talbot covering the story.” The shadows under his eyes darkened.
Castiel frowned. “I don’t know Miss Talbot’s work.”
“Oh right.” The Captain sneered. “You’re from Illinois, aren’t you?”
“Yes.”
“Well. No matter. We needed a fresh face and yours will do. Talbot’s a carrion vulture and bad press can tank a career. So find me my killer before he carves up anyone important, okay?” Zachariah set a wad of cash on the desk and slapped a cash requisition form next to it. “Sign here. Ingratiate yourself with the hookers and the pimps.” Zachariah looked hard at him, frowning. “How old are you?”
“Twenty-two.”
The captain grunted. “I was on my second divorce before you were born. Tell me I don’t have to explain how prostitution works?”
Castiel shook his head. “No, Captain, you do not.” He still remembered his mother, kissing him on the head and murmuring, я люблю тебя, заичик [I love you, bunny] before she headed out to meet a client. She’d probably hate that. She’d prefer if his memories started when they’d moved in with Michael and became respectable.
Zachariah showed his even white teeth. “Thank God for small miracles. Now in the good old days a cop could sleep with a whore and nobody batted an eye. But these are politically correct times. So no hank-panky with the prozzies. Got it?”
Castiel nodded. “Academy training on operations involving sex work was very specific.”
“Good. And as my predecessor used to say,” He put a hand against his mouth as if confiding a secret, “If you can’t be good, be careful!” He checked a sheaf of papers on his desk. “Krushnic. That Russian?”
“Yes, it is.”
“Well you talk American just fine, so at least there’s that.”
Ублюдок! [Bastard!] The word came as if spit into Castiel’s mind, probably from the part of his brain that remembered his mother shouting it at someone on the phone. A smile ghosted across his face.
The Captain waved a hand, clearly a dismissal. “Connect with Sergeant Turner. Desk by the coffee maker. He’ll set you up with a cover.”
Castiel stood. “Thank-you, Captain. I appreciate this opportunity.”
Zacharia smirked. “Of course you do. Just don’t screw it up.”