Why Do They Call It A Green Card PT 1
The insistent clamoring of an alarm brought the young man out of a sound sleep. He rolled over scrambling for the pair of jeans he had discarded by the bed when he had tumbled in three hours earlier. Growling under his breath Dean Winchester, one of Los Angeles Fire Department’s finest, scrabbled into his clothes, jeans and long-sleeved Henley, heavy hiking boots and a battered leather jacket all scattered across the floor of his claustrophobic bedroom in his one room studio in West Hollywood. And boy how had his younger brother teased him mercilessly for moving into the openly gay neighborhood. But Dean had merely scoffed. The place was meticulously clean and close to Station 51. The Fire Station Dean had been assigned to when he had taken this job and moved from their hometown of Lawrence, Kansas to the City of Angels.
Smoke was already beginning to obscure his surroundings as Dean desperately tried to find the minimal amount of belongings he could salvage and still make it out of the place with his life intact. Finally, he managed to find both his phone and his wallet, tucking both into the rear pockets of his jeans.
Scrambling across the room the young man clawed a desk drawer open seizing a small metal lock box and a set of keys. The keys disappeared into the front pocket of his jeans and Dean tucked the box under an arm. Coughing now, nose running he raced to the door of his apartment laying hand on the smooth painted surface. The door was cool to the touch so he slammed it open barging out into the hall.
An elderly woman was milling around in the hall pressing the hem of her faded flannel housecoat to her nose, Dean paused in his rush for the fire door at the end of the hall and the staircase beyond gently grasping her by the arm.
“Mrs. Claussen, it’s a fire. We have to evacuate the building.” Dean said trying to steer her along.
Mrs. Claussen balked, “I can’t go. My husband is inside, how can I get him out, Mr. Winchester.”
Grunting Dean pulled up short. “I thought Mr. Claussen was in the hospital.”
She sighed, “He was but the insurance said he had to come home. So he’s in bed here.”
Shoving his lockbox into the elderly woman’s hands Dean pushed the door to their apartment open and was met with a wall of flames. He hissed in pain as the knob seared his hand. Letting go quickly Dean turned back, “Did you leave the kettle on too long again? I’ve told you about checking the burners on the stove before you go to bed.”
She stared a little vacantly at him, and Dean hissed a curse under his breath, “Mrs. Claussen, head down the hall to the stairs and wait for me at the door, but don’t open it.”
Far off into the distance Dean could hear the sirens of the approaching first responders. Probably dispatch and sent 51, that meant weekend shift …Victor Hendrickson and Captain Singer, among them. Taking a deep breath of polluted air Dean charged into the apartment grasping a wool throw off the back of the sofa and leaping across the sheet of dancing flames.
He could just make out the gaping doorway and the smoke filled bedroom at the end of the hall. Wrapping the blanket firmly around his head and neck Dean plunged into the darkened room taking the briefest moment to scout out the lay of the land before running up to the bed.
The old man was limp, blue and not moving when Dean reached out, but he stirred listlessly as Dean struggled to scoop him up. Mr. Claussen was old, wiry and bony and Dean was grateful for his skinny frame. Tugging as much of the sheet as he could around the old man’s bony body Dean backed away from the bed and out into the hall.
The fire was thicker now a swirling mass of reds and golds, but still thin enough that Dean was willing to take a chance with both his life and the old man’s. Another deep breath and he clutched the bundle in his arms tighter then made a quick staggering run through the flames.
The blanket on his head caught fire and Dean shrugged it off, feeling the heat coil against his back. His skin felt tight and he cringed knowing he had burns, but they made it through the flames then across the room and out into the hall.
A cluster of figures stood at the end of the hall, and Dean immediately recognized the yellow coats of Station 51. A respirator was pressed against his face and Dean got his first lungful of clean, unpolluted air since going into the Claussen’s home. He sagged in relief not fully knowing just how oxygen starved his lungs were until they were filled.
Another fire fighter relieved Dean of his burden and he staggered across the hall intercepting the elderly woman to retrieve his box before allowing himself to be escorted down the stairs and out into the cool night air.
Sitting on the tailgate of the ambulance from Mercy General with his metal box wedged between the soles of his boots Dean watched as the D shift of Station 51 knocked the roof off his apartment building tumbling what was left of his belongings into the dirt, soot and ash filled floor below.
Captain Bobby Singer crossed the parking lot with a harried look on his face. He motioned three men around the truck with axes and hoses. Dean watched the men head back into the burning building. Rising Dean caught the captain by the arm, “If you got extra gear, I’ll go in.”
“No way Winchester, you just came off a five day shift. Besides we got this and you’ve got first degree burns on your back and neck as well as your right hand. Suck up some oxygen and let the paramedics get you squared away.”
Dean nodded turning back but the captain caught him by the arm, “You did good, with the old guy. If you hadn’t gone in when you did he’d be dead right about now. The smoke almost got him.”
As the Captain moved purposefully across the parking lot shouting at several of the fire fighters still manning the hoses wetting down the still smoldering embers of the apartment building Dean settled down. Pulling the oxygen mask hanging around his shoulders up for a breath of clean air he spotted the blue uniform clad figure of Ash, one of the paramedics, bobbing along as the younger man headed over to give Dean a quick once over.
Ash smiled at him running a hair through his Redneck mullet, then pointing a finger at Dean, “Hey how ya doin’ boss?”
Dean grunted noncommittally. “Okay,” he finally growled when it appeared that the paramedic was not likely to leave him the hell alone any time soon. Turning toward the burnt out husk of the building Dean followed the other man’s line of sight. Ash sighed heavily shaking his head, “So you lost your house to a fire.”
“Yeah,” Dean snapped, “Tell me something I don’t know.”
“Well,” Ash said drawing the vowels out longer than Dean thought was strictly necessary, “I mean I just it’s just…”
“Ironic?” Dean provided. Ash nodded slapping him on the shoulder.
“Yeah…yeah that’s it. I guess that irony is pretty damned ironic, ain’t it?”
“Ash, go away before I have to hurt you.”
“You’re pretty laid up there. I bet I can out run you.” Ash scoffed waving a hand in front of Dean’s face. Cursing under his breath Dean threw his shoulders back and shoved the oxygen mask off. Ash took two steps back shooting Dean his best shit-eating grin.
“I think I’ll go tend the old folks.”
“You do that.” Dean replied glaring in his general direction.
In the end Dean refused to be transported to the hospital. He walked across the street to his car, dropping the metal box inside. Staring at the fire truck slowly pulling away from the curb he ran a hand over his eyes. A quick glance in the rear seat and Dean found his gym bag. He had a pair of sweat pants and two t-shirts tucked into the bag along with bath essentials including a spare toothbrush and razor. He also had two pairs of underwear and a swimsuit. That along with a couple of pairs of jeans and some sneakers at the station comprised the sum total of all his worldly possessions, not counting the pink slip to his car and the various important papers tucked safely into the little fireproof metal box sitting on the front seat.
Well, there was no point in worrying about it that night. Dean still had three days off and some time before his next shift to go shopping to start replacing things. At least he still had his phone and wallet. Now it was time to find a hotel room and tomorrow he would start looking for a new place.
&&&&&
Castiel Kuryakin ducked down the street glancing over his shoulder at the black and white police cruiser idling at the intersection of Fifth and Vine. He walked quickly from the stoop of the old apartment building past the fire station on the corner toward the strip mall and the Starbucks on the corner. He kept his head down and his shoulders hunched, his beige trench coat swirling around his knees as the wind kicked up causing him to shiver.
In this neighborhood of Russian immigrants and gay activists no one would find Castiel’s suspicion of the police in any way unusual. Many of them had experienced the fear of being under the scrutiny of the authorities, either personally or through a family member and the young man was a noted dissident, after all as most of the old folks would tell you. Castiel did nothing to dissuade any of his elderly neighbors that that was, in fact, the reason he feared the police and not the expired Visa weighing heavily on his mind.
The cold wind blew across the street catching Castiel’s coat making it flutter and flap like wings. Quickly he tugged the door to the coffee shop open scurrying inside. With a sigh Castiel made his way to the counter stopping behind the broad flannel clad back of the first patron in line. Casting a shrewd glance at the other man Castiel admired his tall, stocky body and broad shoulders. The man’s dark blond hair seem mussed, only half attended too, and yet it was nowhere near as messy as Castiel’s own mop of dark brown locks.
Pausing the Russian took in the long length of the man’s frame a few inches taller than himself and smiled. As if he was suddenly aware of the careful scrutiny of man behind him the other customer turned and Castiel flinched.
Dean felt the prickle of someone staring at him from behind. The dull itch began at the nape of his neck and traveled down the length of his spine until his entire body was thrumming with nervous energy, already on edge from the events of the night before he growled under his breath swinging around.
The man behind Dean cringed as if he expected to be struck and Dean pulled up short. The guy standing in line behind him was the most beautiful man the fire fighter had ever seen. Dean was captured by a pair of the biggest, bluest eyes in existence. The man’s pale face was framed by dark brown messy hair that made him look like he had just gotten out of bed and was ready to be tumbled right back in again.
Shifting nervously the smaller man stared up at Dean with huge unblinking eyes. Finally, Dean coughed nervously glancing away. He turned back to the cashier and gave his order watching surreptitiously out of the corner of his eye as the other man paid for his coffee and wandered out of the shop heading back down the street.
Dean slouched over his cup sipping the hot coffee and picking at a pastry as he ran a finger down the columns of the morning LA Times. He had abandoned most of the newspaper turning the classified ads over until he could find the section on Apartments for rent. Most of the prices were considerably more than he had been paying at the Shady Grove Apartment, although the building had been neither shady nor anywhere near any kind of groves, and Dean groaned. He had lived in his building for going on six years, and the owners had never once raised his rent. Now faced with the prices of Los Angeles accommodations Dean realized that he was seriously underpaid. There was no way, on his current salary, that he could afford any of the places listed.
With a defeated sigh Dean crumpled the paper in one hand tossing it half-heartedly at the trash can in the corner of the room, and turned back to his coffee. Well, he worked a four day on three day off shift most of the time; it was only a fluke that he had four days off this week, and that meant that he would be going into four days at the station come Monday morning. His renters insurance was covering a hotel for the weekend, which meant he would just have to do some serious footwork to find a place, clean enough, and more importantly, cheap enough to survive in for a while.
Dean sighed getting up and leaving the Starbucks. Wandering aimlessly down the street he came to the fire station. Engine 51, the reason Station 51 had its name, was parked outside on the big cement turn around leading into the bay doors. Victor Hendrickson and several others were washing the big truck down laughing as they sloshed water around. Dean shivered as he watched them work. Finally, the men noticed their fellow fire fighter and motioned him over.
“Hey, Dean,” Hendrickson said noncommittally, he and Dean had a tenuous relationship at best. They could be civil to each other for the sake of peace and quiet at the station but neither man really cared for the other one. Dean took a sponge making a few half-hearted swipes at the side of the engine. “So what’re you doing down here on a day off.”
Shrugging Dean dropped the sponge in the big white paint bucket at his feet, “Lookin’ for a place. Got to find somewhere; I don’t think the old Grove would pass a building inspection even fixed up as good as new.”
“Yeah,” Derrick Rodriguez added, “The old place had been around for a while. You were lucky to get in when you did. But it was really only a matter of time.”
“It was clean enough and close enough not to have to fight the freeway traffic every time I had to get in,” Dean said sullenly. Derrick patted his shoulder comfortingly. Dean shrugged him off with a grin.
“There’s a couple of old buildings down the street, walking distance.” Victor said. “Kinda old but real nice. Maybe they have a place.”
“Yeah,” Dean nodded, “I’ll check ‘em out.”
With a put upon sigh Dean walked across the cement and down the sidewalk. He made a quick right at the end of the block and walked another five minutes down the side street until he came to an old yellow brick building.
It looked like it might have been a school dormitory at one time, maybe in the thirties because it was an old building, but immaculately maintained. His fire fighter’s training helped him size up the square footage and divide the old school into four roomy apartments. He could see the different window hangings on the front upper and lower floors demarking the four living areas of the apartments.
Standing back Dean surveyed the front entrance, huge double metal doors with thick frosted glass reminiscent of the old school buildings he had seen in movies. Still the place was neat and quiet, no loud music or blaring TVs. Leaning against the metal banister leading up the short flight of cement stairs to the entry way Dean thought about the tenants, older people most likely. But most of the tenants of the old Grove building had been elderly and mostly good neighbors. He certainly didn’t mind being among the “youngster” in the building. Snorting Dean moved to the door and found it locked.
There was a buzzer at the side and Dean picked out the number for the building superintendent. He rang the buzzer and was rewarded with a heavily accented voice, “Yes…you want?”
“What?” Dean asked dumbfounded for a moment. The voice uttered a short sharp sound that might have been a curse in some unknown language, “Who do you want to see?”
“The rental office?” Dean asked hesitantly. The voice muttered then hissed.
“No rental office, owners only.”
The doors swung open with a resounding clang and Dean flinched. He whirled only to come face to face with the blue eyed man from the coffee shop. The smaller man stalked forward, “What you not understand in English? No renters in building. No renters and no sublets, okay. Only people who buy apartment lives here.”
Dean took a step backward until his rear end was pressed against the wall and still the smaller man came forward invading Dean’s personal space with a vengeance. The dark head tipped back the inch or so Dean was taller staring right into the other man’s eyes. They stood chest to chest eyes locked and Dean felt his groin tightening in a not entirely unwelcome way. He swallowed loudly.
Suddenly the other man cast a shrewd glance at the fire fighter. Dean felt distinctly uncomfortable under the hard stare, but he refused to back down gazing levelly at the odd blue eyed man. With a smile the smaller man stepped forward thrusting out a hand.
Dean awkwardly shook the proffered hand and the other man smiled, “My name is Castiel Kuryakin, please to come inside for coffee, yes?”
“Uhhh,” Dean said then he mentally slapped himself for sounding like an idiot. But if Castiel noticed the hesitation he didn’t show it. Finally Dean shrugged.
“Sure, okay.”
Once they entered the building Dean began surreptitiously glancing around. The halls were neat and clean, paint fresh… floor polished to a shine. He relaxed; the place was looking better and better. Castiel led the taller man down the hall to an ornately carved oak door, pushing it open. Apparently he had left his apartment unlocked while talking to Dean outside, that also boded well. Safe neighbors were a definite plus in Dean’s tally of things he really liked about the building.
Ensconced on Castiel’s couch Dean waited as patiently as he could for the other man to return from the kitchen bearing a tray with mugs and a plate of cookies. Castiel settled down in an overstuffed side chair sipping at his mug. He made a vague waving gesture toward the plate, “Eat.”
Once they had eaten in silence for a few moments Castiel narrowed his eyes glancing up at Dean through thick, dark lashes. Dean wasn’t certain but he felt that the other man was trying, unsuccessfully, to be seductive. He chuckled and Castiel glared.
“I have proposition for you,” Castiel said slowly. “You need place to live, I can provide this but I need something too.’
Dean waggled his eyebrows, “And just what would that be?”
Now Castiel rolled his eyes. “As you can tell I am not American…”
“The hell you say,” Dean snorted. Castiel shot him a doleful look then continued as if he had not been interrupted.
“/Several years ago I came from Moscow to visit my bubbe…”
“Your what?’
Castiel sighed, “My babushka. My father’s…mother.”
“Oh your grandmother,” Dean provided and Castiel nodded.
“Yes, I came from Russia to visit my grandmother,” Castiel tried the word rolling it around on his tongue in a way that made Dean’s mouth water. “When she died she gave me this place. So I never went back to Russia.”
“Uhmmm huh,” Dean said, “And this affects me how?”
“Do you want place to live…rent free for couple of months? Save money for a new place.”
Dean nodded tightly, “Why?”
Castiel raised a hand making a pfft sound, “I may have over stayed my Visa… little bit.” He held up a hand making a little pinching motion.
“Little bit how long?” Dean asked copying the motion to which the other man glowered. Clearing his throat Dean added “How is that possible? Didn’t someone come looking for you?”
“Seven years.” Castiel said sighing. “I worked for Russian government, in the Visa office. So it might have looked like I had permanent papers.”
“So you’re some conman who screwed with the Russian government.”
“No… no, well…maybe.”
“Little bit?” Dean asked with a mocking grin, and the other man shot him a look that would have frosted a live volcano.
Without deigning to reply Castiel continued, “But I also help many people get Visa to relocate to less hostile place.”
“For a price I bet.” Dean snorted, “So why not just go back and get another Visa.”
“Well,” Castiel coughed, “Maybe not all papers I process for people work out well.”
“So there’s a bunch of pissed off people with bad exit documents looking for you in old Mother Russia? Great not only are you a conman you’re a liar and a thief.”
“I am not liar and thief!” Castiel protested hotly. Dean shot him a look.
“Have you ever been accused of fraud, theft and forgery?”
Castiel sniffed, “All at same time?”
Dean laughed, and Castiel glared, “You know, you remind me a lot of my bubbe except not so mean.”
“Anyway,’’ Dean said quickly, “You over stayed your Visa and you can’t go back to Russian without somebody shankin’ your ass.”
“I don’t understand that reference,” Castiel said and Dean blinked raising a hand he made a slashing gesture across his throat.
“Ahh…yes …that I understand. Is right. So if you want to move here I need husband.”
“What now?”
“You live here free; we go to Seattle, Washington; get married. I get green-card in one…two months. We get divorced. Simple.”
Dean sat back blinking. Slowly he surveyed the other man. Castiel was slender, the dark jeans and navy blue sweatshirt he was wearing bringing out the blue of his eyes. His smooth pale skin was shiny with a thin sheen of perspiration. Then Dean glanced around at the apartment, the tall ceilings and the floor to ceiling windows showing the dark green of the lush lawn beyond the front of the building. The place was miles above anything that Dean could find on short notice and within walking distance of the station, too.
Castiel was sitting on the chair across from Dean’s seat on the sofa. He leaned forward expectantly smiling as if encouraging Dean along in his decision, although something in his face made Dean believe that the other man had already made up his mind that Dean was going to do this thing. Dean sighed thoroughly caught in the Russian’s blue, blue eyes.
Finally Dean shrugged, “I guess it would be okay.”
Castiel leapt off the chair grinning widely, “More than okay! You see, it will be okie dokie…huh is that good word?”
Laughing Dean found himself caught up in Castiel’s enthusiasm. Shaking his head Dean said, “Yeah, it’s a great word.’’
Castiel disappeared into the dark recesses of the kitchen and Dean could hear the freezer door open, followed by the click of a cabinet and the clatter of glasses. The Russian came back into the living room with a bottle of Stoli and two crystal highball glasses. He slipped one of the glasses onto the table in front of Dean and opened the bottle.
The crisp, frigid taste of the Vodka hit Dean like a ton of bricks. His head spun just from smelling the stuff but Castiel downed his shot chuckling gleefully. Quickly he pulled out his phone and began working his way through apps before settling on one. Dean cocked his head, not being all that fond of the IPhone. But Castiel seemed to take to it like a duck to water. The smaller man looked up and grinned “I make purchase plane tickets.”
“Who taught you to speak English?” Dean asked. Castiel shot him a look.
“I speak better English than you speak Russian.”
“I don’t speak Russian at all,” Dean pointed out helpfully. Castiel leaned across the space between the chair and sofa poking Dean in the chest with a finger.
“So shut up.”
Part Two
Smoke was already beginning to obscure his surroundings as Dean desperately tried to find the minimal amount of belongings he could salvage and still make it out of the place with his life intact. Finally, he managed to find both his phone and his wallet, tucking both into the rear pockets of his jeans.
Scrambling across the room the young man clawed a desk drawer open seizing a small metal lock box and a set of keys. The keys disappeared into the front pocket of his jeans and Dean tucked the box under an arm. Coughing now, nose running he raced to the door of his apartment laying hand on the smooth painted surface. The door was cool to the touch so he slammed it open barging out into the hall.
An elderly woman was milling around in the hall pressing the hem of her faded flannel housecoat to her nose, Dean paused in his rush for the fire door at the end of the hall and the staircase beyond gently grasping her by the arm.
“Mrs. Claussen, it’s a fire. We have to evacuate the building.” Dean said trying to steer her along.
Mrs. Claussen balked, “I can’t go. My husband is inside, how can I get him out, Mr. Winchester.”
Grunting Dean pulled up short. “I thought Mr. Claussen was in the hospital.”
She sighed, “He was but the insurance said he had to come home. So he’s in bed here.”
Shoving his lockbox into the elderly woman’s hands Dean pushed the door to their apartment open and was met with a wall of flames. He hissed in pain as the knob seared his hand. Letting go quickly Dean turned back, “Did you leave the kettle on too long again? I’ve told you about checking the burners on the stove before you go to bed.”
She stared a little vacantly at him, and Dean hissed a curse under his breath, “Mrs. Claussen, head down the hall to the stairs and wait for me at the door, but don’t open it.”
Far off into the distance Dean could hear the sirens of the approaching first responders. Probably dispatch and sent 51, that meant weekend shift …Victor Hendrickson and Captain Singer, among them. Taking a deep breath of polluted air Dean charged into the apartment grasping a wool throw off the back of the sofa and leaping across the sheet of dancing flames.
He could just make out the gaping doorway and the smoke filled bedroom at the end of the hall. Wrapping the blanket firmly around his head and neck Dean plunged into the darkened room taking the briefest moment to scout out the lay of the land before running up to the bed.
The old man was limp, blue and not moving when Dean reached out, but he stirred listlessly as Dean struggled to scoop him up. Mr. Claussen was old, wiry and bony and Dean was grateful for his skinny frame. Tugging as much of the sheet as he could around the old man’s bony body Dean backed away from the bed and out into the hall.
The fire was thicker now a swirling mass of reds and golds, but still thin enough that Dean was willing to take a chance with both his life and the old man’s. Another deep breath and he clutched the bundle in his arms tighter then made a quick staggering run through the flames.
The blanket on his head caught fire and Dean shrugged it off, feeling the heat coil against his back. His skin felt tight and he cringed knowing he had burns, but they made it through the flames then across the room and out into the hall.
A cluster of figures stood at the end of the hall, and Dean immediately recognized the yellow coats of Station 51. A respirator was pressed against his face and Dean got his first lungful of clean, unpolluted air since going into the Claussen’s home. He sagged in relief not fully knowing just how oxygen starved his lungs were until they were filled.
Another fire fighter relieved Dean of his burden and he staggered across the hall intercepting the elderly woman to retrieve his box before allowing himself to be escorted down the stairs and out into the cool night air.
Sitting on the tailgate of the ambulance from Mercy General with his metal box wedged between the soles of his boots Dean watched as the D shift of Station 51 knocked the roof off his apartment building tumbling what was left of his belongings into the dirt, soot and ash filled floor below.
Captain Bobby Singer crossed the parking lot with a harried look on his face. He motioned three men around the truck with axes and hoses. Dean watched the men head back into the burning building. Rising Dean caught the captain by the arm, “If you got extra gear, I’ll go in.”
“No way Winchester, you just came off a five day shift. Besides we got this and you’ve got first degree burns on your back and neck as well as your right hand. Suck up some oxygen and let the paramedics get you squared away.”
Dean nodded turning back but the captain caught him by the arm, “You did good, with the old guy. If you hadn’t gone in when you did he’d be dead right about now. The smoke almost got him.”
As the Captain moved purposefully across the parking lot shouting at several of the fire fighters still manning the hoses wetting down the still smoldering embers of the apartment building Dean settled down. Pulling the oxygen mask hanging around his shoulders up for a breath of clean air he spotted the blue uniform clad figure of Ash, one of the paramedics, bobbing along as the younger man headed over to give Dean a quick once over.
Ash smiled at him running a hair through his Redneck mullet, then pointing a finger at Dean, “Hey how ya doin’ boss?”
Dean grunted noncommittally. “Okay,” he finally growled when it appeared that the paramedic was not likely to leave him the hell alone any time soon. Turning toward the burnt out husk of the building Dean followed the other man’s line of sight. Ash sighed heavily shaking his head, “So you lost your house to a fire.”
“Yeah,” Dean snapped, “Tell me something I don’t know.”
“Well,” Ash said drawing the vowels out longer than Dean thought was strictly necessary, “I mean I just it’s just…”
“Ironic?” Dean provided. Ash nodded slapping him on the shoulder.
“Yeah…yeah that’s it. I guess that irony is pretty damned ironic, ain’t it?”
“Ash, go away before I have to hurt you.”
“You’re pretty laid up there. I bet I can out run you.” Ash scoffed waving a hand in front of Dean’s face. Cursing under his breath Dean threw his shoulders back and shoved the oxygen mask off. Ash took two steps back shooting Dean his best shit-eating grin.
“I think I’ll go tend the old folks.”
“You do that.” Dean replied glaring in his general direction.
In the end Dean refused to be transported to the hospital. He walked across the street to his car, dropping the metal box inside. Staring at the fire truck slowly pulling away from the curb he ran a hand over his eyes. A quick glance in the rear seat and Dean found his gym bag. He had a pair of sweat pants and two t-shirts tucked into the bag along with bath essentials including a spare toothbrush and razor. He also had two pairs of underwear and a swimsuit. That along with a couple of pairs of jeans and some sneakers at the station comprised the sum total of all his worldly possessions, not counting the pink slip to his car and the various important papers tucked safely into the little fireproof metal box sitting on the front seat.
Well, there was no point in worrying about it that night. Dean still had three days off and some time before his next shift to go shopping to start replacing things. At least he still had his phone and wallet. Now it was time to find a hotel room and tomorrow he would start looking for a new place.
&&&&&
Castiel Kuryakin ducked down the street glancing over his shoulder at the black and white police cruiser idling at the intersection of Fifth and Vine. He walked quickly from the stoop of the old apartment building past the fire station on the corner toward the strip mall and the Starbucks on the corner. He kept his head down and his shoulders hunched, his beige trench coat swirling around his knees as the wind kicked up causing him to shiver.
In this neighborhood of Russian immigrants and gay activists no one would find Castiel’s suspicion of the police in any way unusual. Many of them had experienced the fear of being under the scrutiny of the authorities, either personally or through a family member and the young man was a noted dissident, after all as most of the old folks would tell you. Castiel did nothing to dissuade any of his elderly neighbors that that was, in fact, the reason he feared the police and not the expired Visa weighing heavily on his mind.
The cold wind blew across the street catching Castiel’s coat making it flutter and flap like wings. Quickly he tugged the door to the coffee shop open scurrying inside. With a sigh Castiel made his way to the counter stopping behind the broad flannel clad back of the first patron in line. Casting a shrewd glance at the other man Castiel admired his tall, stocky body and broad shoulders. The man’s dark blond hair seem mussed, only half attended too, and yet it was nowhere near as messy as Castiel’s own mop of dark brown locks.
Pausing the Russian took in the long length of the man’s frame a few inches taller than himself and smiled. As if he was suddenly aware of the careful scrutiny of man behind him the other customer turned and Castiel flinched.
Dean felt the prickle of someone staring at him from behind. The dull itch began at the nape of his neck and traveled down the length of his spine until his entire body was thrumming with nervous energy, already on edge from the events of the night before he growled under his breath swinging around.
The man behind Dean cringed as if he expected to be struck and Dean pulled up short. The guy standing in line behind him was the most beautiful man the fire fighter had ever seen. Dean was captured by a pair of the biggest, bluest eyes in existence. The man’s pale face was framed by dark brown messy hair that made him look like he had just gotten out of bed and was ready to be tumbled right back in again.
Shifting nervously the smaller man stared up at Dean with huge unblinking eyes. Finally, Dean coughed nervously glancing away. He turned back to the cashier and gave his order watching surreptitiously out of the corner of his eye as the other man paid for his coffee and wandered out of the shop heading back down the street.
Dean slouched over his cup sipping the hot coffee and picking at a pastry as he ran a finger down the columns of the morning LA Times. He had abandoned most of the newspaper turning the classified ads over until he could find the section on Apartments for rent. Most of the prices were considerably more than he had been paying at the Shady Grove Apartment, although the building had been neither shady nor anywhere near any kind of groves, and Dean groaned. He had lived in his building for going on six years, and the owners had never once raised his rent. Now faced with the prices of Los Angeles accommodations Dean realized that he was seriously underpaid. There was no way, on his current salary, that he could afford any of the places listed.
With a defeated sigh Dean crumpled the paper in one hand tossing it half-heartedly at the trash can in the corner of the room, and turned back to his coffee. Well, he worked a four day on three day off shift most of the time; it was only a fluke that he had four days off this week, and that meant that he would be going into four days at the station come Monday morning. His renters insurance was covering a hotel for the weekend, which meant he would just have to do some serious footwork to find a place, clean enough, and more importantly, cheap enough to survive in for a while.
Dean sighed getting up and leaving the Starbucks. Wandering aimlessly down the street he came to the fire station. Engine 51, the reason Station 51 had its name, was parked outside on the big cement turn around leading into the bay doors. Victor Hendrickson and several others were washing the big truck down laughing as they sloshed water around. Dean shivered as he watched them work. Finally, the men noticed their fellow fire fighter and motioned him over.
“Hey, Dean,” Hendrickson said noncommittally, he and Dean had a tenuous relationship at best. They could be civil to each other for the sake of peace and quiet at the station but neither man really cared for the other one. Dean took a sponge making a few half-hearted swipes at the side of the engine. “So what’re you doing down here on a day off.”
Shrugging Dean dropped the sponge in the big white paint bucket at his feet, “Lookin’ for a place. Got to find somewhere; I don’t think the old Grove would pass a building inspection even fixed up as good as new.”
“Yeah,” Derrick Rodriguez added, “The old place had been around for a while. You were lucky to get in when you did. But it was really only a matter of time.”
“It was clean enough and close enough not to have to fight the freeway traffic every time I had to get in,” Dean said sullenly. Derrick patted his shoulder comfortingly. Dean shrugged him off with a grin.
“There’s a couple of old buildings down the street, walking distance.” Victor said. “Kinda old but real nice. Maybe they have a place.”
“Yeah,” Dean nodded, “I’ll check ‘em out.”
With a put upon sigh Dean walked across the cement and down the sidewalk. He made a quick right at the end of the block and walked another five minutes down the side street until he came to an old yellow brick building.
It looked like it might have been a school dormitory at one time, maybe in the thirties because it was an old building, but immaculately maintained. His fire fighter’s training helped him size up the square footage and divide the old school into four roomy apartments. He could see the different window hangings on the front upper and lower floors demarking the four living areas of the apartments.
Standing back Dean surveyed the front entrance, huge double metal doors with thick frosted glass reminiscent of the old school buildings he had seen in movies. Still the place was neat and quiet, no loud music or blaring TVs. Leaning against the metal banister leading up the short flight of cement stairs to the entry way Dean thought about the tenants, older people most likely. But most of the tenants of the old Grove building had been elderly and mostly good neighbors. He certainly didn’t mind being among the “youngster” in the building. Snorting Dean moved to the door and found it locked.
There was a buzzer at the side and Dean picked out the number for the building superintendent. He rang the buzzer and was rewarded with a heavily accented voice, “Yes…you want?”
“What?” Dean asked dumbfounded for a moment. The voice uttered a short sharp sound that might have been a curse in some unknown language, “Who do you want to see?”
“The rental office?” Dean asked hesitantly. The voice muttered then hissed.
“No rental office, owners only.”
The doors swung open with a resounding clang and Dean flinched. He whirled only to come face to face with the blue eyed man from the coffee shop. The smaller man stalked forward, “What you not understand in English? No renters in building. No renters and no sublets, okay. Only people who buy apartment lives here.”
Dean took a step backward until his rear end was pressed against the wall and still the smaller man came forward invading Dean’s personal space with a vengeance. The dark head tipped back the inch or so Dean was taller staring right into the other man’s eyes. They stood chest to chest eyes locked and Dean felt his groin tightening in a not entirely unwelcome way. He swallowed loudly.
Suddenly the other man cast a shrewd glance at the fire fighter. Dean felt distinctly uncomfortable under the hard stare, but he refused to back down gazing levelly at the odd blue eyed man. With a smile the smaller man stepped forward thrusting out a hand.
Dean awkwardly shook the proffered hand and the other man smiled, “My name is Castiel Kuryakin, please to come inside for coffee, yes?”
“Uhhh,” Dean said then he mentally slapped himself for sounding like an idiot. But if Castiel noticed the hesitation he didn’t show it. Finally Dean shrugged.
“Sure, okay.”
Once they entered the building Dean began surreptitiously glancing around. The halls were neat and clean, paint fresh… floor polished to a shine. He relaxed; the place was looking better and better. Castiel led the taller man down the hall to an ornately carved oak door, pushing it open. Apparently he had left his apartment unlocked while talking to Dean outside, that also boded well. Safe neighbors were a definite plus in Dean’s tally of things he really liked about the building.
Ensconced on Castiel’s couch Dean waited as patiently as he could for the other man to return from the kitchen bearing a tray with mugs and a plate of cookies. Castiel settled down in an overstuffed side chair sipping at his mug. He made a vague waving gesture toward the plate, “Eat.”
Once they had eaten in silence for a few moments Castiel narrowed his eyes glancing up at Dean through thick, dark lashes. Dean wasn’t certain but he felt that the other man was trying, unsuccessfully, to be seductive. He chuckled and Castiel glared.
“I have proposition for you,” Castiel said slowly. “You need place to live, I can provide this but I need something too.’
Dean waggled his eyebrows, “And just what would that be?”
Now Castiel rolled his eyes. “As you can tell I am not American…”
“The hell you say,” Dean snorted. Castiel shot him a doleful look then continued as if he had not been interrupted.
“/Several years ago I came from Moscow to visit my bubbe…”
“Your what?’
Castiel sighed, “My babushka. My father’s…mother.”
“Oh your grandmother,” Dean provided and Castiel nodded.
“Yes, I came from Russia to visit my grandmother,” Castiel tried the word rolling it around on his tongue in a way that made Dean’s mouth water. “When she died she gave me this place. So I never went back to Russia.”
“Uhmmm huh,” Dean said, “And this affects me how?”
“Do you want place to live…rent free for couple of months? Save money for a new place.”
Dean nodded tightly, “Why?”
Castiel raised a hand making a pfft sound, “I may have over stayed my Visa… little bit.” He held up a hand making a little pinching motion.
“Little bit how long?” Dean asked copying the motion to which the other man glowered. Clearing his throat Dean added “How is that possible? Didn’t someone come looking for you?”
“Seven years.” Castiel said sighing. “I worked for Russian government, in the Visa office. So it might have looked like I had permanent papers.”
“So you’re some conman who screwed with the Russian government.”
“No… no, well…maybe.”
“Little bit?” Dean asked with a mocking grin, and the other man shot him a look that would have frosted a live volcano.
Without deigning to reply Castiel continued, “But I also help many people get Visa to relocate to less hostile place.”
“For a price I bet.” Dean snorted, “So why not just go back and get another Visa.”
“Well,” Castiel coughed, “Maybe not all papers I process for people work out well.”
“So there’s a bunch of pissed off people with bad exit documents looking for you in old Mother Russia? Great not only are you a conman you’re a liar and a thief.”
“I am not liar and thief!” Castiel protested hotly. Dean shot him a look.
“Have you ever been accused of fraud, theft and forgery?”
Castiel sniffed, “All at same time?”
Dean laughed, and Castiel glared, “You know, you remind me a lot of my bubbe except not so mean.”
“Anyway,’’ Dean said quickly, “You over stayed your Visa and you can’t go back to Russian without somebody shankin’ your ass.”
“I don’t understand that reference,” Castiel said and Dean blinked raising a hand he made a slashing gesture across his throat.
“Ahh…yes …that I understand. Is right. So if you want to move here I need husband.”
“What now?”
“You live here free; we go to Seattle, Washington; get married. I get green-card in one…two months. We get divorced. Simple.”
Dean sat back blinking. Slowly he surveyed the other man. Castiel was slender, the dark jeans and navy blue sweatshirt he was wearing bringing out the blue of his eyes. His smooth pale skin was shiny with a thin sheen of perspiration. Then Dean glanced around at the apartment, the tall ceilings and the floor to ceiling windows showing the dark green of the lush lawn beyond the front of the building. The place was miles above anything that Dean could find on short notice and within walking distance of the station, too.
Castiel was sitting on the chair across from Dean’s seat on the sofa. He leaned forward expectantly smiling as if encouraging Dean along in his decision, although something in his face made Dean believe that the other man had already made up his mind that Dean was going to do this thing. Dean sighed thoroughly caught in the Russian’s blue, blue eyes.
Finally Dean shrugged, “I guess it would be okay.”
Castiel leapt off the chair grinning widely, “More than okay! You see, it will be okie dokie…huh is that good word?”
Laughing Dean found himself caught up in Castiel’s enthusiasm. Shaking his head Dean said, “Yeah, it’s a great word.’’
Castiel disappeared into the dark recesses of the kitchen and Dean could hear the freezer door open, followed by the click of a cabinet and the clatter of glasses. The Russian came back into the living room with a bottle of Stoli and two crystal highball glasses. He slipped one of the glasses onto the table in front of Dean and opened the bottle.
The crisp, frigid taste of the Vodka hit Dean like a ton of bricks. His head spun just from smelling the stuff but Castiel downed his shot chuckling gleefully. Quickly he pulled out his phone and began working his way through apps before settling on one. Dean cocked his head, not being all that fond of the IPhone. But Castiel seemed to take to it like a duck to water. The smaller man looked up and grinned “I make purchase plane tickets.”
“Who taught you to speak English?” Dean asked. Castiel shot him a look.
“I speak better English than you speak Russian.”
“I don’t speak Russian at all,” Dean pointed out helpfully. Castiel leaned across the space between the chair and sofa poking Dean in the chest with a finger.
“So shut up.”
Part Two