Humble Pie [1/20]
A/N: For disclaimers, warnings, ratings, wordcounts, the summary, links to art, links to other chapters, and lots of other cool stuff, check out the masterpost.
"Damaged people are dangerous. They know they can survive."
- Josephine Hart
Somewhere in America, there is a city, and in this city, on the corner of a street, nestled between an old laundromat and a Chinese takeout, is a shop. This shop is much like any other shop in the world: small, nondescript, exactly the kind of place you might walk directly past and not remember a thing about afterwards. You may have walked past it once or twice yourself, but you probably won’t be able to recall. It’s just shabby enough to be vaguely off-putting, subliminally telling you to just keep on walking by. If you happened to look at it in passing, you might notice that the windows are slightly in need of a clean, the grime clambering up and hiding in the corners of the glass; you might see that the plastic board reading ‘Pawnbrokers’ in large, wonky red capitals is cracked and buckled with damp; or maybe the broken drainpipe catches your attention as it drips water steadily, staccato against concrete. You may pass it every day, or you may never have seen it in your life. It doesn’t matter. The important thing is, it’s there. I know that, and now you know that, and Sam and Dean Winchester certainly know that.
It’s raining today. The broken drainpipe is sending a steady stream of water onto the wet sidewalk, and Dean’s already bad temper is worsened when he gets a drip down the collar of his jacket. It sticks irritatingly between his shoulder blades, dampening his shirt and making him even colder than he was to begin with.
There is a squashed, metallic buzz as he opens the door and steps into the shop. Inside, it’s a messy jumble of DVDs, old furniture, and ninety-nine other types of crap that Dean can’t be bothered to put a name to even at the best of times, let alone now, when he’s cold and miserable and wants to have been home five minutes ago.
“Hey, buckos!”
His head turns to the back of the shop where a short man - the speaker - is leaning in the doorway. He looks infuriatingly casual, an easy smile on his face that hides the fact that, had he felt remotely threatened, he would’ve shot Sam and Dean without batting an eyelash. Dean knows from experience that he has a veritable arsenal behind that seemingly innocent shop counter of his.
Gabriel pushes himself off the doorjamb with the same slight flourish that he spoke with and turns into the back room, shouting “The Winchesters are here!” as he does so.
“Do you have the money?” Sam Winchester: all business until he has his paycheck. Dean has trained him well.
“Sure do,” Gabriel replies merrily, the antithesis of Sam’s rather dour expression. “But I think Crowley wanted to be the one to do the honors.”
“Well hurry it up, will you?” Dean says, speaking for the first time, his irritation evident in his voice. On trips to Gabriel and Crowley’s place, he generally tries to speak as little as possible. He finds he has very little patience with the man’s incessant joking, but the unfortunate fact is that Gabriel and Crowley supply the Winchester brothers with a decent amount of work, without which they would definitely find getting by more difficult. So he tries not to jeopardize their working relationship by killing anyone if he can possibly help it. They’ve been working on and off for these two jokers for a year now, and the only reason Dean hasn’t shot Gabriel yet is that, mercifully, Sam seems to be a tad more good-humored when it comes to the other man’s antics.
“Someone’s in a hurry today then, Dean-o. Got a girl or something waiting for you at home?”
“A life, actually,” Dean says tersely. “Not that it’s any of your business.”
“Who’d have thought it?” Gabriel replies, chuckling infuriatingly, and Dean occupies himself quite cheerfully for a couple of minutes by imagining wrapping his hands around that thick neck and squeezing until Gabriel stops laughing and starts choking … But he has to stop pretty swiftly when he catches himself unconsciously flexing his fingers and realizes that his daydream could all too easily become a reality. He really doesn’t want to have to deal with a pissed-off Crowley today - or any other day, for that matter. A pissed-off Crowley is definitely not on his list of things to see in his life, not least because it would probably be the last thing he saw in his life.
And then - speak of the devil - Crowley appears in the doorway, placing a restraining hand on Gabriel’s hip and looking meaningfully at Dean as he does so, sending him an obvious message of ‘back off, ’cause we’re together and neither heaven nor hell can help anyone who crosses either one of us’. And even though Dean’s not usually one to back down - as in, ever - he settles for sending Crowley a subtle death glare and leaves it at that.
Hey. He’d rather not have his guts pulled up his throat today, that’s all. Which is understandable.
“Arguing already, are we?” Crowley says smoothly, coming further into the room and standing behind the counter, his British accent slick and suave. “I must say, I’m disappointed. You managed a whole five minutes last time.”
“Just cut the bullcrap, will you?” Dean’s so not in the mood for this.
“My, you’re touchy.” Crowley turns to Sam, arching a questioning eyebrow. “Have you got it?”
If Dean dislikes Gabriel, Sam hates Crowley. (It’s a miracle they’re still working for them, if they all find each other so irritating, but money is money, and Crowley and Gabriel give it to Sam and Dean, so you can do the math yourself.) Something about the way Crowley always doubts Sam’s professionalism rankles Sam’s pride. Dean has to admit that the man gets on his nerves too, although for some reason, Dean finds that he has a (rather grudging) respect for Crowley, something he doubts he could ever have for Gabriel. Crowley is obnoxious and snarky and thinks he’s above everyone else on the planet (and sees nothing wrong with telling everyone all the damn time, too), but he does his job and he does it well, and even if he and Dean aren’t exactly best buds, he would certainly make a formidable enemy, and something in that fact alone demands respect.
Dean doesn’t hand out his respect like a Girl Scout giving out cookies, but when someone does earn it, it’s usually at least semi-permanent.
“Of course,” Sam says huffily, drawing out a small rectangular Jiffy bag from the inside pocket of his jacket and holding it up for the other man to see. “Now, our money.”
Joking mercifully aside for the moment, Crowley produces a bundle of ten-dollar bills, putting them carefully on the shop counter and sliding them across to Dean, who in turn takes them and thumbs through the sheaf, checking the amount. At a nod from him, Sam passes the Jiffy bag to Crowley, who opens it and looks inside.
“You two chuckleheads still working for those slave traders up at Divinity?” Gabriel asks, moving away from the doorway and going to stand beside Crowley. The question is casual enough, but even so, it makes Dean’s eyes narrow. You don’t have to be in his line of work for very long at all to realize that questions about what jobs you’re currently working are never good news.
“Why?” he asks testily at the same time as Sam says “Yeah.” He glances up at his brother - when did he get so tall?! - and they lock eyes for a moment, Sam telling him silently that he’s got this. So Dean shrugs and backs off. If Sam wants to talk to Gabriel, he’s an idiot, but Dean’s not about to stop him.
“You heard about the recent escapee, then, right?”
“Sure.”
They have, as well. Saw it on the news yesterday - this kind of thing gets around. Escaped slaves aren’t exactly common, not anymore. Not since it became one of the last few offenses worthy of capital punishment. Dean wasn’t really paying attention to the news when it first came on, but he’d gotten interested when slaves were mentioned; he’s always had an ear for the stuff he needs to keep an eye on, and he’s not above going bounty hunter for the reward on an escaped slave’s head. Something like that could set him up for years.
Anyway, turns out this guy - youngish, pale, dark-haired and blue-eyed - made a run for it sometime the night before. And, well, good luck to him, Dean thinks, if he can pull it off. He’ll most likely get caught, dragged back to his master and punished for it, but hey. That’s just the way the cookie crumbles, right?
“You ever, uh, seen him before?” Gabriel asks, and why’s he so interested in the guy anyway?
“No,” he says bluntly, taking over from Sam. “Have you?”
There’s a beat before Gabriel laughs like it’s the most ridiculous thing in the world. “Course not.” He pauses. “So, what do you do for ’em?”
Sam smiles his ‘thinking of the least offensive response’ smile for a moment before replying. “You know we can’t tell you that, Gabriel.”
The other man shrugs. “Sorry. It was worth a try. Y’know, there was a mate of ours did some work for them coupla years back - just driving some stuff around for them, nothing big or anything. You probably do more exciting stuff than that if you’re ‘Alastair’s favorite’.” The derision is clear in his voice, and, not for the first time, Dean kicks himself for ever having let slip that little piece of information. “But hey, here’s the thing, this mate of ours - Azazel, his name was - he never worked out what it was he was driving around. Not that it’s important, but, well, I’d have gotten curious, wouldn’t you? Doing all that work, ferrying stuff about, and never knowing?” He shrugs. “But then I guess you two are good little soldiers, right?”
Dean leaves a small pause before he huffs a laugh. “Yeah, well, thanks for sharing that with us, Captain Profound. Real enlightening.” He wants to be out of here - he hasn’t had a decent night’s sleep in a week and they’ll be working all night tomorrow. He just wants to be able to go home and crash for a bit, watch a bad soap on TV, maybe go down to the Roadhouse and have another shot at chatting up Jo, not standing here listening to Gabriel tell them bedtime stories.
“Guess we’ll catch you guys later,” he says, turning and catching Sam’s elbow in a definite ‘we’re getting the hell out of here like right now’ gesture. Sam’s too big for Dean to actually make him do anything, but his little brother allows himself to be manhandled towards the door, and even though he’s bushed Dean’s awake enough to be grateful for that.
A moment later, they’re out, and he feels a lot better; that is, until he walks into the waterfall coming from the drainpipe. Sam’s laughing doesn’t help either, so he pushes him under the water - and now they’re both wet.
“Can you believe them?” he asks, pulling open the door of his beloved ’67 Chevy Impala - his pride and joy. Not exactly the most inconspicuous ride but a great one all the same, and what she lacks in camouflage she more than makes up for in horsepower and size - she’s damn fast, and Dean’s fit a body in her trunk more than once.
“What a joke. Un-fucking-believable.” He slides into the driver’s seat as Sam folds himself in beside him - technically he’s too freakishly tall for this car, but Dean argues that he’s too freakishly tall for any car other than some heavy-duty truck with heavy-duty footwells. Needless to say, the one time they had a dispute over it, Dean won by about a mile.
He pushes in one of his favorite tapes and the speakers bang out Metallica for a few blessed miles as Dean speeds away, thankfully putting Gabriel and Crowley behind them. He can feel himself relaxing the longer he drives - there’s nothing quite like being behind the wheel of his baby to make him relax. It’s better than six months of therapy. He finds himself thinking about the Roadhouse - yeah, it’ll be good to get there this evening, they haven’t been there in a while, not really since they started working for Divinity Incorporated …
The music stops.
“Hey!” He looks over at Sam who grimaces.
“Sorry, man. I just … I was thinking about what Gabriel said, y’know?”
Dean tries very hard to hang on to his good mood as his brain cycles through all the shit that Gabriel said this time. “He’s a dick. Ignore him.”
“I know, it’s just … We’ve been working for Alastair for, what, five months? Six?”
Dean shrugs and reluctantly gives up on his good mood. It was always going to fly the coop sooner rather than later. “And?”
“So, we don’t know what job we’re doing. We just turn up, drive a van for a bit, leave it and come home again.”
“Yeah. So?”
Sam looks over at him. “Doesn’t that bother you?”
“Look, dude, we’re not paid to ask questions, okay? They’re a big company, they need their privacy, and we give it to them. So I’m not about to go poking at it, and neither should you. It just goes with the job. It’s what we do, okay?”
“I know, I know, and that makes sense, but if we could just-”
“I said no, Sam.”
Sam sighs and looks out his window. “Yeah, I hear you.”
They cover the next few miles in silence.
Truth is, if Dean’s honest with himself - which he tries at all costs not to be - he’s not overly comfortable with the work they do for Divinity Inc. either. He’s dealt with some shady characters in his time, done some downright nasty stuff - he’s killed people - and that’s all fine with him, and as far as he knows, it’s fine with Sam most of the time too. But this guy, Alastair, the one from Divinity they do all their dealings with, well, he’s … He’s creepy. Weird. Scarily like Dean, except not, because Dean still has limits to what he’ll do, even for money, but Alastair? When it comes to Alastair, he’s not so sure.
And then there’s all the secretiveness. Dean gets it, he really does - Divinity Inc. is a big company - it’s got branches all over America and new ones opening in the major European cities like London, Paris, Rome, Moscow - so of course people like them have to be extra-careful when dealing with people like the Winchesters. It makes sense, it does; though that doesn’t mean he has to like it. But, in the end, he’ll take the money just like anyone else, and he’ll be damned if he’s about to ruin that by sticking his nose in where it’s not wanted.
Divinity Inc. trades in slaves. Dean knows that, although he’s never really actually thought about the slave trade - he’s never really had to. It’s just another part of life that you take for granted, like gas prices being through the roof these days, or the war in South Africa, or that new strain of bird flu that killed practically half the population of Australia. Maybe if he actually knew anyone personally who owned a slave, it might be different - but the truth is, they’re all ridiculously expensive. The Harvelles over at the Roadhouse had one a while back - Ruby, her name was - but they sold her when she attacked Sam one night, a few months after he started fucking her.
That still confuses Dean now as much as it did then. It was just such an un-Sammy thing to do.
Sam … Sam’s a bit of a mystery at the moment. A riddle wrapped inside an enigma wrapped inside a taco. Every time Dean thinks he’s got his little brother figured, Sam does or says something that surprises him, and Dean has to go through the process all over again. Like now, for example. Dean knows that Sam’s not anti-slave trade - no one is, except those wacko religious nuts who pop up on the news every now and again and who no one listens to anyway. And Sam was quite happy to use Ruby all last year. And, sure, it pisses Dean off that he doesn’t know what cargo or whatever he’s driving about the country for Divinity Inc., but hey, it goes with the territory - you can’t expect to do his kind of job and know everything about everything all the time. He gets it, and, up until now, he was sure Sam got it too.
So yeah. It’s a little weird that Sam’s suddenly so worried about what they’re doing. He never usually actually listens to a word Gabriel says, anyway.
They started working jobs for Divinity Inc. six months ago. The company is large, powerful, and run by Luke - which some say is short for Lucifer, although it’s probably just one of the many rumors about the guy - and Michael Morgenstern. It’s currently the world’s leading supplier of cheap(ish) slave labor. There are two types of slaves currently on sale on today’s market: the first is commonly known as ‘demons’, which are used for manual labor. They’re expensive but in the long-term are generally cheaper than employing someone for menial or unpopular tasks. They’re usually unskilled workers; you see them serving in the more up-market shops, building new houses or cleaning public facilities. They’re pretty easy to ignore, which Dean generally does (and that’s got nothing to do with their perpetual silence, because it doesn’t freak him out at all, not even a little. Definitely not freaky).
The second type of slaves are popularly known as ‘angels’, and they’re even more expensive than demons - the best of them go for more money than any of the houses Dean’s ever been inside, and Dean’s been in some rather classy ones in his time. Angels are usually, although not always, owned by individuals rather than companies, and their official job description is ‘domestic slave’, although each household puts them to different uses. They’re usually more educated than demons (most demons can’t even read or write), being trained how to cook, clean, answer the phone, and basically do anything else their master or mistress might require of them. They’re generally used as an unpaid servant; although it’s not difficult to imagine what must go on behind closed doors. Dean’s often daydreamed about one day being rich enough for one of his own, but the fact is they’re way above his pay grade, even if he did manage to talk Sam into getting some pretty young girl they could share.
He turns his attention back to the road, attempting to reign in his wandering mind. They’re lucky to have a job with Divinity Inc. - they’re the largest supplier of slaves out there.
Admittedly, all they’ve done so far is drive stuff around in unmarked vans, but Dean has a feeling that Alastair has other, grander plans for them. And if there’s one thing he’s learnt in this line of work, it’s that big jobs mean big money, and with enough big money beneath his belt, Dean might just one day be able to afford an angel, and that thought alone is enough to make him work twice as hard.
He glances over at Sam. He’s still staring out of his window, looking as lost in thought as Dean himself was a second ago.
“Go to the Roadhouse before we crash for a bit?” he asks. It’s the Winchester version of a peace offering, filling the rift opened up by the earlier argument, and Sam knows better than to turn it down.
“Sure.”
"Damaged people are dangerous. They know they can survive."
- Josephine Hart
Somewhere in America, there is a city, and in this city, on the corner of a street, nestled between an old laundromat and a Chinese takeout, is a shop. This shop is much like any other shop in the world: small, nondescript, exactly the kind of place you might walk directly past and not remember a thing about afterwards. You may have walked past it once or twice yourself, but you probably won’t be able to recall. It’s just shabby enough to be vaguely off-putting, subliminally telling you to just keep on walking by. If you happened to look at it in passing, you might notice that the windows are slightly in need of a clean, the grime clambering up and hiding in the corners of the glass; you might see that the plastic board reading ‘Pawnbrokers’ in large, wonky red capitals is cracked and buckled with damp; or maybe the broken drainpipe catches your attention as it drips water steadily, staccato against concrete. You may pass it every day, or you may never have seen it in your life. It doesn’t matter. The important thing is, it’s there. I know that, and now you know that, and Sam and Dean Winchester certainly know that.
It’s raining today. The broken drainpipe is sending a steady stream of water onto the wet sidewalk, and Dean’s already bad temper is worsened when he gets a drip down the collar of his jacket. It sticks irritatingly between his shoulder blades, dampening his shirt and making him even colder than he was to begin with.
There is a squashed, metallic buzz as he opens the door and steps into the shop. Inside, it’s a messy jumble of DVDs, old furniture, and ninety-nine other types of crap that Dean can’t be bothered to put a name to even at the best of times, let alone now, when he’s cold and miserable and wants to have been home five minutes ago.
“Hey, buckos!”
His head turns to the back of the shop where a short man - the speaker - is leaning in the doorway. He looks infuriatingly casual, an easy smile on his face that hides the fact that, had he felt remotely threatened, he would’ve shot Sam and Dean without batting an eyelash. Dean knows from experience that he has a veritable arsenal behind that seemingly innocent shop counter of his.
Gabriel pushes himself off the doorjamb with the same slight flourish that he spoke with and turns into the back room, shouting “The Winchesters are here!” as he does so.
“Do you have the money?” Sam Winchester: all business until he has his paycheck. Dean has trained him well.
“Sure do,” Gabriel replies merrily, the antithesis of Sam’s rather dour expression. “But I think Crowley wanted to be the one to do the honors.”
“Well hurry it up, will you?” Dean says, speaking for the first time, his irritation evident in his voice. On trips to Gabriel and Crowley’s place, he generally tries to speak as little as possible. He finds he has very little patience with the man’s incessant joking, but the unfortunate fact is that Gabriel and Crowley supply the Winchester brothers with a decent amount of work, without which they would definitely find getting by more difficult. So he tries not to jeopardize their working relationship by killing anyone if he can possibly help it. They’ve been working on and off for these two jokers for a year now, and the only reason Dean hasn’t shot Gabriel yet is that, mercifully, Sam seems to be a tad more good-humored when it comes to the other man’s antics.
“Someone’s in a hurry today then, Dean-o. Got a girl or something waiting for you at home?”
“A life, actually,” Dean says tersely. “Not that it’s any of your business.”
“Who’d have thought it?” Gabriel replies, chuckling infuriatingly, and Dean occupies himself quite cheerfully for a couple of minutes by imagining wrapping his hands around that thick neck and squeezing until Gabriel stops laughing and starts choking … But he has to stop pretty swiftly when he catches himself unconsciously flexing his fingers and realizes that his daydream could all too easily become a reality. He really doesn’t want to have to deal with a pissed-off Crowley today - or any other day, for that matter. A pissed-off Crowley is definitely not on his list of things to see in his life, not least because it would probably be the last thing he saw in his life.
And then - speak of the devil - Crowley appears in the doorway, placing a restraining hand on Gabriel’s hip and looking meaningfully at Dean as he does so, sending him an obvious message of ‘back off, ’cause we’re together and neither heaven nor hell can help anyone who crosses either one of us’. And even though Dean’s not usually one to back down - as in, ever - he settles for sending Crowley a subtle death glare and leaves it at that.
Hey. He’d rather not have his guts pulled up his throat today, that’s all. Which is understandable.
“Arguing already, are we?” Crowley says smoothly, coming further into the room and standing behind the counter, his British accent slick and suave. “I must say, I’m disappointed. You managed a whole five minutes last time.”
“Just cut the bullcrap, will you?” Dean’s so not in the mood for this.
“My, you’re touchy.” Crowley turns to Sam, arching a questioning eyebrow. “Have you got it?”
If Dean dislikes Gabriel, Sam hates Crowley. (It’s a miracle they’re still working for them, if they all find each other so irritating, but money is money, and Crowley and Gabriel give it to Sam and Dean, so you can do the math yourself.) Something about the way Crowley always doubts Sam’s professionalism rankles Sam’s pride. Dean has to admit that the man gets on his nerves too, although for some reason, Dean finds that he has a (rather grudging) respect for Crowley, something he doubts he could ever have for Gabriel. Crowley is obnoxious and snarky and thinks he’s above everyone else on the planet (and sees nothing wrong with telling everyone all the damn time, too), but he does his job and he does it well, and even if he and Dean aren’t exactly best buds, he would certainly make a formidable enemy, and something in that fact alone demands respect.
Dean doesn’t hand out his respect like a Girl Scout giving out cookies, but when someone does earn it, it’s usually at least semi-permanent.
“Of course,” Sam says huffily, drawing out a small rectangular Jiffy bag from the inside pocket of his jacket and holding it up for the other man to see. “Now, our money.”
Joking mercifully aside for the moment, Crowley produces a bundle of ten-dollar bills, putting them carefully on the shop counter and sliding them across to Dean, who in turn takes them and thumbs through the sheaf, checking the amount. At a nod from him, Sam passes the Jiffy bag to Crowley, who opens it and looks inside.
“You two chuckleheads still working for those slave traders up at Divinity?” Gabriel asks, moving away from the doorway and going to stand beside Crowley. The question is casual enough, but even so, it makes Dean’s eyes narrow. You don’t have to be in his line of work for very long at all to realize that questions about what jobs you’re currently working are never good news.
“Why?” he asks testily at the same time as Sam says “Yeah.” He glances up at his brother - when did he get so tall?! - and they lock eyes for a moment, Sam telling him silently that he’s got this. So Dean shrugs and backs off. If Sam wants to talk to Gabriel, he’s an idiot, but Dean’s not about to stop him.
“You heard about the recent escapee, then, right?”
“Sure.”
They have, as well. Saw it on the news yesterday - this kind of thing gets around. Escaped slaves aren’t exactly common, not anymore. Not since it became one of the last few offenses worthy of capital punishment. Dean wasn’t really paying attention to the news when it first came on, but he’d gotten interested when slaves were mentioned; he’s always had an ear for the stuff he needs to keep an eye on, and he’s not above going bounty hunter for the reward on an escaped slave’s head. Something like that could set him up for years.
Anyway, turns out this guy - youngish, pale, dark-haired and blue-eyed - made a run for it sometime the night before. And, well, good luck to him, Dean thinks, if he can pull it off. He’ll most likely get caught, dragged back to his master and punished for it, but hey. That’s just the way the cookie crumbles, right?
“You ever, uh, seen him before?” Gabriel asks, and why’s he so interested in the guy anyway?
“No,” he says bluntly, taking over from Sam. “Have you?”
There’s a beat before Gabriel laughs like it’s the most ridiculous thing in the world. “Course not.” He pauses. “So, what do you do for ’em?”
Sam smiles his ‘thinking of the least offensive response’ smile for a moment before replying. “You know we can’t tell you that, Gabriel.”
The other man shrugs. “Sorry. It was worth a try. Y’know, there was a mate of ours did some work for them coupla years back - just driving some stuff around for them, nothing big or anything. You probably do more exciting stuff than that if you’re ‘Alastair’s favorite’.” The derision is clear in his voice, and, not for the first time, Dean kicks himself for ever having let slip that little piece of information. “But hey, here’s the thing, this mate of ours - Azazel, his name was - he never worked out what it was he was driving around. Not that it’s important, but, well, I’d have gotten curious, wouldn’t you? Doing all that work, ferrying stuff about, and never knowing?” He shrugs. “But then I guess you two are good little soldiers, right?”
Dean leaves a small pause before he huffs a laugh. “Yeah, well, thanks for sharing that with us, Captain Profound. Real enlightening.” He wants to be out of here - he hasn’t had a decent night’s sleep in a week and they’ll be working all night tomorrow. He just wants to be able to go home and crash for a bit, watch a bad soap on TV, maybe go down to the Roadhouse and have another shot at chatting up Jo, not standing here listening to Gabriel tell them bedtime stories.
“Guess we’ll catch you guys later,” he says, turning and catching Sam’s elbow in a definite ‘we’re getting the hell out of here like right now’ gesture. Sam’s too big for Dean to actually make him do anything, but his little brother allows himself to be manhandled towards the door, and even though he’s bushed Dean’s awake enough to be grateful for that.
A moment later, they’re out, and he feels a lot better; that is, until he walks into the waterfall coming from the drainpipe. Sam’s laughing doesn’t help either, so he pushes him under the water - and now they’re both wet.
“Can you believe them?” he asks, pulling open the door of his beloved ’67 Chevy Impala - his pride and joy. Not exactly the most inconspicuous ride but a great one all the same, and what she lacks in camouflage she more than makes up for in horsepower and size - she’s damn fast, and Dean’s fit a body in her trunk more than once.
“What a joke. Un-fucking-believable.” He slides into the driver’s seat as Sam folds himself in beside him - technically he’s too freakishly tall for this car, but Dean argues that he’s too freakishly tall for any car other than some heavy-duty truck with heavy-duty footwells. Needless to say, the one time they had a dispute over it, Dean won by about a mile.
He pushes in one of his favorite tapes and the speakers bang out Metallica for a few blessed miles as Dean speeds away, thankfully putting Gabriel and Crowley behind them. He can feel himself relaxing the longer he drives - there’s nothing quite like being behind the wheel of his baby to make him relax. It’s better than six months of therapy. He finds himself thinking about the Roadhouse - yeah, it’ll be good to get there this evening, they haven’t been there in a while, not really since they started working for Divinity Incorporated …
The music stops.
“Hey!” He looks over at Sam who grimaces.
“Sorry, man. I just … I was thinking about what Gabriel said, y’know?”
Dean tries very hard to hang on to his good mood as his brain cycles through all the shit that Gabriel said this time. “He’s a dick. Ignore him.”
“I know, it’s just … We’ve been working for Alastair for, what, five months? Six?”
Dean shrugs and reluctantly gives up on his good mood. It was always going to fly the coop sooner rather than later. “And?”
“So, we don’t know what job we’re doing. We just turn up, drive a van for a bit, leave it and come home again.”
“Yeah. So?”
Sam looks over at him. “Doesn’t that bother you?”
“Look, dude, we’re not paid to ask questions, okay? They’re a big company, they need their privacy, and we give it to them. So I’m not about to go poking at it, and neither should you. It just goes with the job. It’s what we do, okay?”
“I know, I know, and that makes sense, but if we could just-”
“I said no, Sam.”
Sam sighs and looks out his window. “Yeah, I hear you.”
They cover the next few miles in silence.
Truth is, if Dean’s honest with himself - which he tries at all costs not to be - he’s not overly comfortable with the work they do for Divinity Inc. either. He’s dealt with some shady characters in his time, done some downright nasty stuff - he’s killed people - and that’s all fine with him, and as far as he knows, it’s fine with Sam most of the time too. But this guy, Alastair, the one from Divinity they do all their dealings with, well, he’s … He’s creepy. Weird. Scarily like Dean, except not, because Dean still has limits to what he’ll do, even for money, but Alastair? When it comes to Alastair, he’s not so sure.
And then there’s all the secretiveness. Dean gets it, he really does - Divinity Inc. is a big company - it’s got branches all over America and new ones opening in the major European cities like London, Paris, Rome, Moscow - so of course people like them have to be extra-careful when dealing with people like the Winchesters. It makes sense, it does; though that doesn’t mean he has to like it. But, in the end, he’ll take the money just like anyone else, and he’ll be damned if he’s about to ruin that by sticking his nose in where it’s not wanted.
Divinity Inc. trades in slaves. Dean knows that, although he’s never really actually thought about the slave trade - he’s never really had to. It’s just another part of life that you take for granted, like gas prices being through the roof these days, or the war in South Africa, or that new strain of bird flu that killed practically half the population of Australia. Maybe if he actually knew anyone personally who owned a slave, it might be different - but the truth is, they’re all ridiculously expensive. The Harvelles over at the Roadhouse had one a while back - Ruby, her name was - but they sold her when she attacked Sam one night, a few months after he started fucking her.
That still confuses Dean now as much as it did then. It was just such an un-Sammy thing to do.
Sam … Sam’s a bit of a mystery at the moment. A riddle wrapped inside an enigma wrapped inside a taco. Every time Dean thinks he’s got his little brother figured, Sam does or says something that surprises him, and Dean has to go through the process all over again. Like now, for example. Dean knows that Sam’s not anti-slave trade - no one is, except those wacko religious nuts who pop up on the news every now and again and who no one listens to anyway. And Sam was quite happy to use Ruby all last year. And, sure, it pisses Dean off that he doesn’t know what cargo or whatever he’s driving about the country for Divinity Inc., but hey, it goes with the territory - you can’t expect to do his kind of job and know everything about everything all the time. He gets it, and, up until now, he was sure Sam got it too.
So yeah. It’s a little weird that Sam’s suddenly so worried about what they’re doing. He never usually actually listens to a word Gabriel says, anyway.
They started working jobs for Divinity Inc. six months ago. The company is large, powerful, and run by Luke - which some say is short for Lucifer, although it’s probably just one of the many rumors about the guy - and Michael Morgenstern. It’s currently the world’s leading supplier of cheap(ish) slave labor. There are two types of slaves currently on sale on today’s market: the first is commonly known as ‘demons’, which are used for manual labor. They’re expensive but in the long-term are generally cheaper than employing someone for menial or unpopular tasks. They’re usually unskilled workers; you see them serving in the more up-market shops, building new houses or cleaning public facilities. They’re pretty easy to ignore, which Dean generally does (and that’s got nothing to do with their perpetual silence, because it doesn’t freak him out at all, not even a little. Definitely not freaky).
The second type of slaves are popularly known as ‘angels’, and they’re even more expensive than demons - the best of them go for more money than any of the houses Dean’s ever been inside, and Dean’s been in some rather classy ones in his time. Angels are usually, although not always, owned by individuals rather than companies, and their official job description is ‘domestic slave’, although each household puts them to different uses. They’re usually more educated than demons (most demons can’t even read or write), being trained how to cook, clean, answer the phone, and basically do anything else their master or mistress might require of them. They’re generally used as an unpaid servant; although it’s not difficult to imagine what must go on behind closed doors. Dean’s often daydreamed about one day being rich enough for one of his own, but the fact is they’re way above his pay grade, even if he did manage to talk Sam into getting some pretty young girl they could share.
He turns his attention back to the road, attempting to reign in his wandering mind. They’re lucky to have a job with Divinity Inc. - they’re the largest supplier of slaves out there.
Admittedly, all they’ve done so far is drive stuff around in unmarked vans, but Dean has a feeling that Alastair has other, grander plans for them. And if there’s one thing he’s learnt in this line of work, it’s that big jobs mean big money, and with enough big money beneath his belt, Dean might just one day be able to afford an angel, and that thought alone is enough to make him work twice as hard.
He glances over at Sam. He’s still staring out of his window, looking as lost in thought as Dean himself was a second ago.
“Go to the Roadhouse before we crash for a bit?” he asks. It’s the Winchester version of a peace offering, filling the rift opened up by the earlier argument, and Sam knows better than to turn it down.
“Sure.”