Humble Pie [2/20]
A/N: See the masterpost (link coming soon) for disclaimer, warnings etc.
“Well, if it isn’t Dean Winchester. What can I get you? The usual?”
“If you’d be so kind.”
Harvelle’s Roadhouse is one of those comfortably dangerous places, a hangout for every type of lowlife, from black-market traders and odd-job men like Sam and Dean, to thugs and muscle-for-hire like Walt and Roy. It’s places like this that you know everyone has at least one lethal weapon on them, and yet it’s one of the few places where Dean feels he can relax.
Then again, that’s mostly because of the Roadhouse’s owner, Ellen Harvelle, who is currently opening a bottle of Dean’s favorite beer and locating a large glass to serve it in. She’s one of those people everyone just respects naturally - she’s kind and funny and will help her friends no questions asked, but she won’t take shit from anyone and doesn’t mind kicking ass when she has to. That’s the main reason Dean still hasn’t slept with Jo, even though it’s obvious enough that she likes him - he can’t face the thought of what Ellen might do to his genitals the morning after. With a blunt spoon, too, knowing her.
“Here y’are,” she says, clunking a large glass of beer in front of him and drawing Dean’s thoughts away from ravishing her daughter … Uh. Yeah.
“So what’ve you been up to since I saw you last?” she asks, leaning on the bar and raising an eyebrow.
“Well, y’know me, bit of this, bit of that.” He shrugs. “Still working for Divinity on and off, did a job for Gabriel and Crowley last week, helped Caleb shift some guns - the usual.” For some reason, the rules of ‘don’t tell anyone about the job you’re working’ don’t apply to Ellen, because Dean knows it’d be more likely for him to walk into a sheriff’s office and politely suggest they arrest him than it would be for Ellen to somehow get him into trouble. She’s not the kind of woman who runs her mouth off. You tell her a secret, she’ll take it to her grave, no questions asked. She’s as loyal as a pit bull with an attitude to match.
It’s one of the many reasons she’s so awesome.
“And how’s Sam doing?”
Dean glances over at where his brother is playing pool with Walt and Isaac. “Yeah, he’s good,” he says, turning back to Ellen. It’s been a four years now since Sam’s girlfriend Jess died and he went into a spiral of depression, eventually ending in a drug problem. He’s been completely clean for over two years now, but after the incident with Ruby, which Ellen (wrongly) blames herself for, they’ve all been keeping an eye on Dean’s little brother, just in case he goes south again.
Which he hasn’t. Yet. But you can never be too careful, in Dean’s opinion - not when it comes to protecting Sammy.
“Well, that’s good,” Ellen says. “You know you can call me if you need anything.”
“Will do. Thanks, Ellen.”
“Don’t mention it. Hey,” she leans in closer, speaking in lowered tones. “Table six. Those two girls you were looking for a while back swung in about half an hour ago.” She finishes speaking and moves away as Dean gives her a quick nod of acknowledgement, swallowing his mouthful of beer before turning and looking casually around the building. There’s Caleb, just coming out of the can, his jacket bulging ominously, a warning of the numerous weapons he’s undoubtedly got hidden in there (as any self-respecting arms-dealer would); Ash, playing cards and winning against a couple of guys Dean doesn’t recognize; Garth attempting to chat up Jo, who Dean knows for a fact thinks Garth is pathetically sweet; and - there! - table six, his goal, where two girls sit, unashamedly making out.
It’d be almost funny if they didn’t owe him quite so much money.
“Hey, keep it clean, Winchester,” Ellen warns him as he stands.
Sam catches his movement from across the room and appears by his side. “What’s up?” he asks quietly.
“Ten o’clock, Bela and Meg.”
Bela Talbot and Meg Masters, two women they’ve worked for and with on and off over the last few years. Bela’s a thief: a while back they helped her steal an antique gun from a collector, Daniel Elkins, for Crowley; Meg is just an all-round self-serving bitch who Dean tries to avoid as much as possible. Except when she turns out to be useful, in which case he puts up with her as best he can and they try not to claw each other’s eyes out. Their working relationship has been strained at best, and it’s certainly had its ups and downs - Bela’s shot Sam, Meg’s shot Dean, and in return the Winchesters have left them in tricky situations, most notably when a deal Bela had made with a large and powerful gang went irretrievably south and they sent their ‘hounds’ after her.
Sam’s sharp nod indicates that he’s spotted them, and they saunter up to the girls’ table, Dean trying to look as casual as possible while inside debating what’s the most painful way in which he can kill them. He and Sam pulled a job for Bela four months ago, a job that had far more complications than she’d originally let on and nearly resulted in the brothers getting arrested on multiple counts of murder, bank robbery and - get this - devil worship. They’d gotten out though, they always do, but then Bela disappeared. Without paying them. So now they’re here to collect.
“Well hello ladies,” Dean says smoothly, reaching their table.
Meg peels her lips off her partner’s throat and turns, her best lazy grin spreading slowly over her face like spilled molasses. “Well, well, well, Sam and Dean Winchester. Wondered when we’d run into you two cream puffs again. How’s the shoulder, Dean?”
“You’ve got some nerve showing up here,” he counters, ignoring her question. “Especially when you owe us so much goddamn money.”
Bela glances slyly over at her girlfriend before looking back up at Dean, and her smile has a distinct foxy quality to it. “Oh, that. Why, it was hardly a big job you did, Dean. I thought I’d already paid you. Remember?”
Dean does remember, especially how good Bela was in bed, but if she thinks that was payment for the job they did, she’s got another think coming.
“No?” Bela smiles and stands smoothly. “Let me remind you,’”she whispers hotly into his mouth before crushing her lips to his.
Dean enjoys it while it lasts, because it’s unexpected but pleasant, and he was always able to get a little rough with Bela. He kisses back fiercely, establishing his control, snaking a hand round her slender neck and holding it tightly. He could break it so easily from here.
He’s almost tempted to. Almost.
Then, she pulls back and laughs, holding up his wallet tauntingly. Goddammit. “Why, Dean, you’re getting sloppy in your old age.”
Dean grabs her shirt with his other fist, pulling her in close again, his hand tightening on her throat. “You little-”
"Take it outside, boys." Ellen’s voice comes from over his shoulder and Dean knows better than to argue with her, especially on her own ground, so he drops Bela with a flourish. She sends him an infuriatingly cocky little grin and he glares right back in return. He hates her guts and would quite happily extract them from her body, but he’s seen Ellen in a temper and he knows that she’s about as forgiving as a tornado on steroids when she’s in a mood to be. You can shoot whoever you like outside the Roadhouse, hell, even on the very doorstep, and Ellen will still greet you with a smile and a bottle of beer - she may even come out and help you bury the body - but unless you want an extra hole in your skull, you leave your shit at the door.
“Sorry, Ellen,” he hears Sam placate from behind him. “We were just leaving.”
“Glad to hear it.”
“Oh, but we’ve only just got a table,” pouts Meg.
“Outside. Now.”
And it seems even Meg knows not to argue with Dean when he uses that tone of voice, because she and Bela allow themselves to be herded out the door with very little further banter.
The moment they’re outside, Dean rounds on them. He draws his gun and trains it on Bela in a swift movement. But she’s just as quick - her gun is out in seconds - so now they’re staring down each other’s barrels, a good old-fashioned Mexican stand-off. A furtive glance to the left tells Dean that Sam’s got his gun out too - that’s my boy - and Meg is, as yet, unarmed, standing off to the side with her arms crossed and a smile on her face, watching everything unfold with an easy dispassion. And that’s fine by him - she’s not the one who owes him a fuckload of money.
“Okay, game’s over,” he says forcefully. “We’re not fucking around anymore.”
“Oh, no, Dean, we haven’t in a long whole,” Bela says with a wicked grin. Her eyes slide over his body, lingering meaningfully on the way down. “Although I think I’d be willing to give it another try.”
“Shut up” cuts in Sam. “You owe us.”
“Yeah, give us our money, you little bitch.”
“Hey Dean, you kiss your mother with that mouth?” drawls Meg.
“Sam, shoot her somewhere lethal,” he orders, his eyes never leaving Bela’s face, and Sam is holding his gun to Meg’s head before Bela stops him.
“Fine,” she says loudly. “You win. Let’s all just put our guns down and have a chat like civilized psychopaths.”
Dean hides his smile. Bela’s a self-serving bitch at the best of times, but Meg’s her one weakness, always has been. Too bad for her that Dean knows. “Not happening, sweetheart.”
“I didn’t think so, but it was worth a try.” Her tone changes, and now she’s all business. “Look, I can pay you, I can pay all of it - but not in money.”
“What is that supposed to mean?” snaps Sam. His patience levels are always halved when there’s money in the balance.
“It means she has an angel,” replies Meg merrily, and it sounds like she’s enjoying this a hell of a lot more than she should be, considering Sam’s under orders to shoot her, and Dean may well take her out himself if she gets any more annoying.
Wait, what?
“An angel?” Dean echoes as the meaning of Meg’s words begin to sink in. He looks back to Bela. “You’ve got an angel?”
“Slow today, aren’t we?” gloats Meg.“Yes, we’ve got an angel. Pretty one, too. He’d fetch what Bela owes you without breaking a sweat.”
“Is this true?” And Sam only uses that tone of voice when he’s planning something, Dean realizes.
“Yes, of course,” says Bela. “We don’t lie - we have our professional pride.”
“Oh, sure - but cheating’s okay with you?”
“Naturally.”
And that’s the funniest thing Dean’s heard all day.
“Where is this slave?” Sam asks, his eyes narrowing in suspicion.
“It’s a recent acquisition,” supplies Bela cautiously.
“How recent?”
“It’s still in the back of my truck,’”Meg cuts in with a smirk.
Dean’s eyebrows shoot up. “That recent, huh?” He pauses for a moment, for thinking time, but really there’s nothing to think about, because, c’mon, they’re talking about an actual angel here. And quite apart from the fact that he’s always wondered what having one would be like, they’re worth a hell of a lot of money. “Well, okie dokie then,” he says finally, shrugging. “Lead the way.”
For a moment, nobody moves, before Bela rolls her eyes and tucks her gun away first. Dean waits until she’s finished before doing the same with his own weapon, and then he and Sam follow the two women to Meg’s huge four-by-four. It’s a large, hulking, dark green monstrosity, and if you can hide a body in Dean’s car, you can hide an entire family of corpses in Meg’s. He almost asks if she ever has, before deciding that actually he doesn’t really want to know.
Hey, even he has his limits.
Meg opens the trunk door sharply and without ceremony. “There,” she says. “Feast your eyes.”
The angel is sitting slumped in the trunk, leaning against the side of the car. For a moment, Dean’s disappointed, because it’s older than he would’ve liked - probably around Dean’s own age - but he still can’t help but appreciate the slight build, the tousled hair, and almost fiercely blue eyes that turn up to meet his own. It’s dressed in loose, baggy khaki pants and a threadbare linen shirt that hangs off its thin frame. Of course, it’s also wearing the thick collar that marks it out as a slave.
“Get him out so we can take a look,” Sam says, and Dean feels his heart quicken in excitement. You’ve got to get your kicks somehow, I suppose. And let’s not forget that this is something Dean’s thought about for a long, long time.
Meg practically drags the slave from the car; it stumbles a little as its bare feet hit the tarmac, its wrists cuffed tightly behind its back.
Sam sucks in a breath sharply. “Hey, Dean, can I have a word for a minute?”
Dean drags his eyes away from the scene in front of him reluctantly, and follows Sam a few paces away before speaking in a lowered tone. “What?”
“This is the angel that was on the news, Dean,” Sam says, and Dean can hear the note of worry in his voice. “This is the slave that escaped.”
Escaped slaves usually aren’t a problem for Sam and Dean - mainly because they happen once in a blue moon - but taking one home with them? That would be a new level of stupid, even for them. They live in danger of being caught by the cops enough as it is, but going around with an escaped slave would count as having stolen it, and that’s just asking for trouble.
“Shit.”
“Exactly.”
Goddammit. Can he never catch a break? His one chance to get his own angel, and it’s screwed up by the fact that Bela and Meg happened to choose the very worst specimen of a slave.
“So, what do we do?” Sam asks, and this decision is Dean’s to make. Which makes it harder, of course.
“Look, we can get it home and keep it hidden, just until the Roadhouse’s next trading night when we can sell it, or until we can get a fence. It’ll be no different from when we get something for Crowley, only this time it’s a slave, and we don’t already have a buyer.”
Sam looks unconvinced.
“C’mon, Sammy, think about it. This baby’s got to be worth more than we make in a year. It’s a no brainer, Sam, and you know it. We’d be insane to turn this kind of an opportunity down.”
For a moment, they’re silent, and Dean studies his younger brother’s face. He’s got to come around, he’s got to agree, because if Sam says no then they won’t do it. Dean’s in charge, technically speaking, but they both know that’s a monumental lie. They’re a team, always have been, and if Sam doesn’t agree with this plan then there is no plan and they might as well leave now.
Sam sighs. “Well okay. Fine. But you’re totally going to owe me a drink after this, man.”
“Done,” says Dean with a grin, and they turn back to Bela and Meg, who’re standing around lazily and badass-ish-ly. It’s Meg’s preferred look.
“Well?” Bela asks. She doesn’t sound nervous (Bela doesn’t do nerves) but Dean can tell that she’s slightly on edge.
“What, are we supposed to just take your word for the angel’s quality?” Sam asks tersely, without really answering Bela’s question. “Get his shirt off.”
A moment later and Dean is standing there in the parking lot of the Roadhouse with his brother, two women he hates, and a rather good-looking angel.
Dean takes a long and appreciative look, and if ever he doubted before why angels are so expensive, he gets it now, because this really is a beautiful specimen. The body is well-formed, if delicate, with a pleasing expanse of pale, almost papery white skin. The collarbones are sharp and prominent, the chest and stomach thin rather than toned. The angel’s hands, now uncuffed and hanging idly by its sides, boast fingers that are long and curved. Higher up, the face manages to work together several aspects - square jaw, marginally heavy brow, cleft chin - to be well-proportioned and aesthetically pleasing without looking childish.
Sam steps forward, walking slowly around to get the whole 360 degrees view. Then he stops, directly behind the slave, and a frown forms.
“You do these?” he asks Meg, indicating something Dean can’t see. He comes round to get a better look and is surprised he didn’t notice before: the slave’s back is a map of welts, bruises and scars.
Meg snorts. “I wish.”
“He’s obviously second-hand,” Sam says, somewhat disdainfully. “Anyone can see that. How much has he been used?”
“More than you would think from just looking,” Bela says, going into business woman mode. “It’s in pretty good shape; its last master obviously knew how to keep them fresh. This one’s still got a few years left in it.”
“Maybe,” Sam agrees. “You used him at all yet?”
Meg laughs. “Wish I could say yes, sugarpants, but my momma taught me not to lie.”
“We didn’t even make it home,” says Bela, somewhat testily.
Dean stares at her, his eyebrows shooting upwards to become intimately acquainted with his hairline. “So, what, you thought you’d just pop into the Roadhouse and have a drink? With an angel in tow?”
Bela glares, and Dean grins, before his attention is dragged back to the slave. He walks back round to the front, noticing as he does so the flash of emotion quickly concealed in the angel’s eyes. Yeah, this slave’ll do. It’s not the best specimen of an angel, even he knows that - he’d prefer something younger, less used - but he’s not exactly in a position to be picky. And, come on, we’re still talking about a real live angel here.
“You want it or not?”
Dean rakes his gaze down the slave’s body again, imagining taking it home with him and owning it.
Trick question, he thinks.
“Well, obviously the markings knock a considerable amount off the price,” Sam says, all business, his voice completely smooth. “He’s far from the healthiest specimen I’ve seen. I mean, he’s so thin. And he’s old, older than most will buy new - people want younger, more impressionable ones nowadays, so they can edit their behavior before it becomes too difficult - so if he’d been, say, fifteen, we’d have been talking a whole different game, but him? He’s got to be, what, thirty?”
He can’t be any older than twenty-six, twenty-seven at a push, but Dean doesn’t say a thing because Sam’s got his businessman head on and wouldn’t take kindly to any interruptions right now.
Sam sighs. “But, it’s late, I’m tired, Dean wants to get home, and Meg’s not worth the bullet anyway. We’ll take him.”
“As if you haven’t got yourselves a great deal,” Meg snorts, trailing the fingers of one hand down over the slave’s chest, deliberately looking up at Dean. “Enjoy it for me, won’t you, Dean?”
“Aw, it would’ve been wasted on you, sweetheart,” Dean says with a laugh.
“Mm, maybe you’re right,” Meg drawls. Something flashes in the slave’s eyes but then its face is obscured by Meg’s head as she pushes her lips to its for a second, hands mussing its hair even further. Then, suddenly, she steps back, a hand moving to her lips and laughing.
“Son of a bitch bit me,” she says, but there’s no anger behind her words. “Oh, Dean you’ll have your hands full with this one.” Then she turns, shoots a final grin in Dean’s direction and flounces off to climb into the driver’s seat of the truck.
“See you ’round, boys,” Bela says, leaving to follow her girlfriend.
They don’t wait to watch them leave.
“Let’s go home,” Dean says, turning away. “Those two’ve killed my mood.”
And if Sam senses any ulterior motive, he doesn’t say anything.