Chapter Text
Following the instructions that he had been given earlier that day, Dean continued all the way to the end of Host Street and took the back alley to reach the secondary entrance of The Gates.
He passed the baby blue Buick, which earned a double back so he could admire the car for a second, and was let inside the lounge after giving his name to the security guy.
Even though this was nothing more than the back entrance and not the area meant for their customers, he had to admit, the place had a classy vibe attached to it.
The dark marble floor, with golden veins, was so shiny that Dean could see himself in it. And the high ceiling, dim lighting and rich texture of the walls soon made him feel exposed. Out of place.
His jeans and leather jacket were making him feel underdressed.
And as he was following the security guard who was built like a house, Dean was beginning to think going down this hallway was probably a fucking bad idea.
Turning around and making a run for it before it was too late was definitely a rising thought.
But taking in his circumstances, he did no such thing. After everything, running away would most likely be a death sentence at this point.
So, he slowly advanced down that larger than life corridor and tried to not overreact.
When they finally reached large oak doors, two men who stood guard exchanged words with the security guard Dean had been following.
Dean shifted on his feet, glanced to his right and saw a woman sitting at a desk, typing away and totally focused on her task, not acknowledging them in the least.
He heard his name being mentioned, and one of the guards studied Dean for a moment.
Uneasiness was rapidly spreading in his chest, but Dean attempted to hide it by standing perfectly still.
And then the guard nodded, signaled Dean to follow him, and opened the door.
It opened into a large room, with tall windows, luxurious leather armchairs and a massive fireplace at the other end of the room. A bright red carpet was laid underneath the tasteful furniture.
A man was standing by a window, looking outside and holding his hands behind his back. Apparently unfazed by the disturbance of Dean’s entrance.
Another one was seated at the desk, which was on the right side of the room, before the wall of bookshelves behind it, and two other men were sitting in the armchairs facing the desk.
They had noticed Dean’s entrance. The moment the door had opened, they stood up as though they were about to take care of a potential threat.
Which made Dean pause.
“Sorry to interrupt, sir,” said the guard.
“And whom do we have here?”
“Dean Winchester.”
“Ah. Yes. Winchester,” said the man behind the desk. He was tall, middle aged with very short silver hair on the side of his head. He gave the men in front of him quick directives prior to dismissing them both, along with the security guard, and gestured for Dean to take a seat.
The man by the window did not move.
Seriously rethinking his motives for being there, Dean did as he was told, knowing full well that storming out of that room would help no one, least of all himself.
“So, Dean. Nice to have an official introduction at last. I’m Mr. Adler. You may call me Zachariah.”
“Hello,” said Dean, nodding. His eyes briefly shifted to the man to his left, who still remained as he was.
And had offered no introduction.
That being said, judging by his expensive suit and his attitude, Dean had a good idea of the identity of the man in question. And if he was right, he was convinced that an introduction would soon follow.
“Did you find the place, okay?” asked Zachariah.
“Yes. I—I knew where it was.”
“Never been though?”
“Um, no. No, sir.”
“Hmm. Well, you get to scratch that off your to-do list,” he said jokingly. He leaned back in his seat, fixed his tie and observed Dean intensively for an instant.
His long silence and hard stare made Dean’s mild anxiety spread in his stomach, until he heard the other man say, “So, what is the purpose of your visit, Mr. Winchester?”
“I’m the one who invited him,” said Zachariah. “It came to my attention that young Dean has run into a bit of trouble. Nothing we couldn’t fix for him. But this requires a proper discussion, which is why he is here.”
Before Dean could say anything, the other man said gravely, “However unfortunate his situation may be—and I am sure it is—why should we be inclined to help him? Or even trust him?”
“Well, Mr. Garrison, there are a few reasons. My personal favourite is that Dean, here, is Samuel Campbell’s grandson.”
The man turned to face them at last.
And Dean could finally confirm his suspicion of the man’s identity.
Uriel Garrison. One of five Garrison siblings.
And his eyes fell on Dean, evidently intrigued by this information.
“Samuel Campbell who owns that dry cleaning business on Hunter Street? Is that so?”
Dean nodded.
A faint smile appeared on Uriel’s face. “We have often requested Mr. Campbell if he could…lend us a hand in the past. And he always refused.”
Dean held his stare, not at all surprised by this information.
“And despite his stubbornness, which was rather frustrating, I always respected his tenacity,” continued Uriel. “He never caved and he was not stupid. Which was why when we heard what happened to his daughter all those years ago, we decided to… restrain ourselves from pursuing our requests. Out of respect for him. We made sure to let him know the door was always open should he need it and left him be. In all honesty, I expected him to show up, especially since the years have not been kind to him. But still, stubborn as ever, he never sought our help.” He paused a moment and then said, “Is that why you’re here, Mr. Winchester? On his business? Medical bills, perhaps? I heard he suffered a stroke not long ago. That must have put a serious dent in the savings. I’m asking if he knows of this little audience with us because I wonder what he might think of his grandson seeking our help without his knowledge.”
“No,” pressed Zachariah. “Dean is here for an entirely different matter. Like I said, he has run into some trouble. The kind that involves Gordon Walker.”
“Ah. Is this about what happened earlier this week?” He slowly walked towards the buffet not far behind Zachariah’s desk and began pouring himself a drink.
“Yes,” said Dean. And though all he wanted was to blurt out that none of it had been his fault and explain his side of the story—which happened to be the truth—knowing better, he bit his lips and said nothing.
And given the look that Uriel gave him, it seemed like he knew Dean’s struggle to keep quiet.
“How long have you been working for Walker?”
“Almost two years.”
“And what was your main skill set that he required of you?”
Dean swallowed. “A mechanic.”
Uriel squinted.
“That’s all?”
Dean nodded. “He, um, he offered other options but…”
“But what?”
“But being a mechanic was enough.”
Uriel shot a glance at Zachariah. “Why was that?”
“Frankly?”
“Yes. By all means.”
“I—I don’t like trouble, sir.”
“If you do what you’re supposed to, there shouldn’t be any trouble. And it would mean more money.”
“I—I’m not above money, but I—just doing that helped. That was enough.”
Uriel smirked. “Stubborn, but not stupid or greedy. You really are like your grandfather.”
Dean tried to not take it personally.
Uriel took a sip of his drink, his eyes studying Dean a moment and then said to Zachariah, “What did you have in mind for Dean? Move him to another garage? Work on the cars?”
“I thought he would be perfect for what we discussed last Thursday.”
Dean, trying to not panic, kept shifting his gaze from one man to the other, waiting for an explanation.
Uriel leaned his head backwards as though he had finally understood what Zachariah meant. “Interesting choice. However noteworthy, the skills of a mechanic don’t exactly sell what we were looking for.”
“Perhaps not, no,” said Zachariah. He then opened a desk drawer from his left, retrieved one file and presented it to Uriel. “This might though.”
Dean still had no clue whatsoever what was going on, and kept reminding himself that soon, no matter what, he would be able to walk out of there.
Hopefully in one piece.
After skimming through the file, it didn’t take long for Uriel to express a change of heart. He turned a few pages, shot a look at Dean and continued staring at the files.
“Interesting,” was all he said and then gave a short nod at Zachariah to pursue.
“All right, Dean. Here’s the thing. Like I told you before, this is quite the predicament you’ve found yourself in. I don’t think I need to tell you that.”
He really didn’t.
“Based on what I’ve heard—of the incident and about you—I believe you when you say that you had nothing to do with it. We know how Gordon is, he’s always looking out for himself and he’s a loose cannon. And judging from what I’m reading here,” said Zachariah, pointing at the file, “I don’t think snitching is your style.”
“It isn’t,” said Dean, now worried about what on earth the file contained.
“Which is why I thought we could help you. We can straighten out the situation with Gordon, the money and your reputation alike. The whole thing will be behind you, no problem.”
“How? I—I mean you no offense, I know who I’m talking to, but Gordon is…he won’t back off that easily.”
Zachariah, assessing Dean’s confusion, added, “Kiddo, you know that Walker is Kubrick’s man, no?”
Dean nodded. Everybody knew that.
“Well, who do you think Kubrick is working for?”
Dean had not expected that. But the moment Zachariah had pointed it out, it seemed painfully obvious, so much so that Dean now felt incredibly stupid that he hadn’t figured that one out yet.
“So, you see, we are in a position to clarify everything for you. In exchange, you come work directly for us. Not exactly moving up the ladder, but maybe down the line that will be an option if that’s what you want. In the meantime, your uncomfortable situation will go away and we will make Gordon listen, no problem. If,” he said, pausing dramatically,“you accept to work for us, of course.”
Feeling worry creep in his stomach, Dean remained very still. He observed the two men with caution and said, after swallowing as subtly as he could, “What is it that you want me to do?”
“Essentially, you’d be driving a car.”
Silence.
“I—I don’t have a car.”
“You will be provided one.”
“Okay. Um, for what purpose? Driving the car, I mean.”
Zachariah shot a look at Uriel, who in turn nodded at him to continue.
“You’ll be picking up a passenger.”
“Every day?”
“No. Few times a week at the most. Nearly always at night. Irregular schedule, however. We will let you know in advance, don’t worry. But if you accept, I’d keep my evenings open just in case.”
“Where am I driving them? And who am I driving?”
“I’m afraid we can’t go deep into the details until you accept,” said Zachariah. “It’s very simple, Dean. All you have to do is show up where and when we ask you to, make sure the passenger reaches the location and returns where they are needed. That’s it.”
“Well, there is a little more than that,” added Uriel, “but Mr. Adler is correct in stating that those are the basics.”
Feeling their heavy stares on him, Dean was no longer comfortable with this conversation and was deeply fighting the urge to simply run out.
As though he had read his mind, Zachariah added, “You still work at your grandfather’s business during the day, correct?”
Dean nodded. “Morning to early afternoon.”
And the garage in late afternoon to evening, thought Dean.
“And as always, Samuel’s been struggling?”
Dean lowered his eyes.
“We understand you worked for Walker to help the family business. But that turned sour. Even if that wasn’t your doing. If you accept our offer, except for extreme circumstances, your schedule with us should not interfere with your family business. And you’ll have less work hours than what you had at the garage, but triple the pay. Which means more free time and less worry for you.”
Dean frowned. “Wha—what? Why?”
“We care about our employees. And we like them discreet.”
Dean’s mind was running really fast, unsure of what to do. Money, given everything, was certainly not anything to sneeze at. And not working for Walker would have been a gift from the sky before the nightmare had occurred. Now, the idea of leaving the garage was almost a question of survival.
Be that as it may, a little voice inside Dean’s head told him that this was too good to be true.
That something didn’t add up.
Playing driver a few times a week—tops—and that was it?
The job sounded simple. Maybe a little too simple.
Simple enough that they didn’t need him to do it. Anyone with a license could do this.
So why him?
“Can I ask a question?” he said in a steady voice.
“Of course.”
“I know you said you can’t expand on the details—”
“Not until you fully accept, no. Like we said, discretion.”
“Right. But, um…I’m just wondering—I mean,” he stopped, cleared his throat and shifted on his seat. “You don’t have to tell me who it is…the passenger. Or—or even where or what….”
“Good. Because we weren’t going to.”
“What I mean is…why me? Driving a car…a lot of people can do that.”
“Not like you, they can’t,” said Uriel.
Dean frowned. He wasn’t sure he liked where this was going.
“What Mr. Garrison means is that while all we ask of you is really just driving the car, we feel that certain skills and attributes would be the safer approach for this.”
“Like?”
“Dean,” said Zachariah, “don’t worry. You wouldn’t be standing here, if we didn’t think you’d be good for the job. I took the time to think about it and I was thorough in my selection.”
Meaning he had done more than a background check.
Which was definitely worrisome.
But Zachariah said, “The task description is really what I’ve told you. That’s it.”
“And I imagine you need an answer now,” said Dean.
“The sooner the better, yes. But we are reasonable people,” said Uriel. “You may take the day to think about it.”
Dean turned his eyes at Zachariah questioningly.
“We’ll give you a good twenty-four hours for you to meditate about it. We understand you have to weigh certain aspects of it. We don’t want you to make a rash decision. Come back with your answer tomorrow, same time. Deal?”
Eager to put as much distance between him and The Gates, Dean didn’t linger around the moment he was back in that dark and smelly alley. He hastily reached the main street, joined the early evening crowd on the street that was rushing by, and hopped on the first bus that came his way.
A massive dose of relief hit him when the bus began moving.
Still feeling his heart racing, he checked the bus route on his phone with shaky hands. He quickly settled for a trajectory, and once he had deduced that he would have a good forty minutes of bus ride before leaving downtown—if there were no delays, and there were always delays—he found himself a seat by the window and began to process everything.
Dean had only seen Zachariah at the garage once before. His stay had been brief. Just long enough to exchange a few words with Gordon in private, despite the entourage Zachariah had brought with him. And that was it. He had left as quickly as he had arrived. He hadn’t spoken to, nor looked at anyone else, Dean included, and that had been over a year ago.
Which was why Dean had been stunned to learn earlier that day that Zachariah Adler had requested an audience with him at The Gates.
About two hours in at the garage, in the late afternoon, one of Gordon’s visitors—and there had been many of those this past week—had casually approached Dean when Gordon was busy having an argument with other visitors and some of Dean’s colleagues.
He had been wearing a suit, much like the security guards at the lounge, now that Dean was thinking about it. He had been direct, but unthreatening.
He gave him a card, told him who wanted to meet with him and where, and had insisted that he stopped by as soon as he could.
“He knows about your predicament. And while Gordon can’t prove anything, which is why he hasn’t acted rashly so far, I don’t think things will improve for you here. So, paying a visit to Mr. Adler might help you.”
And without letting Dean ask any questions, he had left.
Fearing a trap, Dean had simply shoved the card in his jacket pocket and put the matter out of his mind. With the chaos at the garage, he already had enough problems to deal with. He wasn’t in a hurry to add another to the list.
But as the rest of the night went on, with Gordon’s aggravating temperament and the hostile vibe from the others, which had been the general attitude he had been exposed to since the incident had occurred, Zachariah’s cryptic invitation had become more interesting by the second.
So, the moment his shift had been over, instead of heading back home to his grandfather and Sam, Dean walked to the “L” to reach downtown.
And now, he didn’t know what to do.
Leaving the Gordon debacle aside for a moment, Dean couldn’t get over how the last hour had been down right trippy. And not the right kind.
The revelation that he had been working all along for Zachariah—and more specifically, the Garrisons—left him with a sour taste in his mouth.
And no matter how generous their job offer may have been, the amount of shade attached to it was bothersome to say the least.
Dean didn’t see eye to eye with his grandfather on many things, but where the Garrisons were concerned, he had to support Samuel on that one.
And that would be a problem.
He had been able to get away with working for Gordon without Samuel’s judgement because they had come to an understanding. Samuel knew from the get go who Gordon was and what Dean’s job had entailed. He hadn’t been thrilled about it, but they needed the money. And Dean had had the good sense to act responsibly about it. He knew the risks, so he didn’t embrace any ideas of grandeur. He did what he could, didn’t cause any trouble, nor did he ask for favours. And until a week ago, it had panned out.
But this? Being a driver to a mysterious passenger—at night—with three times the pay?
It would be difficult to explain this one to Samuel even if it didn’t have anything to do with the Garrisons.
Dean wasn’t stupid. There was something deeply troubling—'illegal’ troubling—connected to this gig. He simply wasn’t sure if it was in regards to the passenger in question, or the nature of their appointments, or even perhaps the location of those said appointments.
Hell, or even all of the above.
Working shady jobs wasn’t new to Dean. Usually though, he knew what he was signing up for. A fully detailed description of the job, as well as the risks it brought.
This was going in blindly.
And the fact that they didn’t seem to have that much of an issue with that, insisting on only revealing everything to Dean once he accepted, wasn’t really inspiring.
This was in fact a bad idea.
But so was continuing to work at the garage, reasoned Dean.
He hated saying it, but without Zachariah’s intervention, Dean was screwed. It wasn’t like he could just quit at the garage. He knew too much. It was one of the few reasons why Gordon hadn’t told Dean to hit the road. Also, working at the garage or not, Dean was now, regardless of his innocence, on Gordon’s shit list. There wasn’t much that would shield him from Gordon’s inevitable retaliation.
Except maybe Zachariah’s influence.
After a long and contemplative bus ride, Dean took the “L” towards his neighborhood, south of the city. He got off the train just past Silver Street, thinking he would still have time to stop by Turner’s Deli to grab himself a couple of sandwiches before heading home.
The sun had set, and although it was warm for March, Dean was glad he was wearing his coat. Rain would start soon. He could feel it in the air.
And it would be a long night.
Sandwiches in hand, he finally turned onto Hunter Street, and found it quiet. Except for Devereaux who was still closing shop, and Annie Hawkins from next-door who remained open until late at night, most of the street’s store owners had long returned home by then. Dean shot a look inside Campbell’s Dry Cleaners and was glad to see the place was empty.
Too many times he had found his younger brother Sam helping out late at night, and after the evening—week—he had just had, the last thing he wanted was to create an argument with Samuel about it.
He didn’t have the energy. He just wanted to get home, dash to his room, and simply eat his snack in peace before turning in. No interrogation or complaints from Samuel.
He climbed the metal staircase and opened the front door of the two-bedroom apartment very slowly.
Just as expected, he found Samuel snoring in front of the television.
The small kitchen was dark and empty. The place was spotless. Not one dish was left on the counter or even in the sink.
As quietly as he could, he locked the front door behind him, walked past the living room and down the short hallway, and entered the bedroom to the right after knocking softly on the door.
His younger brother Sam was dutifully sitting at his desk, doing his homework.
“Dean, hey!” he said, standing up. “I was wondering when you’d be back.”
“I know,” said Dean, after delicately shutting the door behind him. “Sorry, something came up.”
Sam moved the basket of laundry, which had been resting on Dean’s bed, to give him room to sit and dropped on his own bed afterwards.
The room was small. With two single beds, a small desk, dresser and tiny closet, Sam and Dean’s shared space wasn’t the most ideal.
At least they had a decent sized window and it was the largest room of the apartment, as Sam kept repeating to Dean.
Be that as it may, with Dean being twenty years old and Sam being just shy of turning sixteen, the fact remained that they both had outgrown that room many years ago.
And Dean was becoming restless about that reality with every passing day.
“Did Samuel make you work late?” he asked Sam, as he took off his jacket. He hung it behind the door before sitting at the edge of his bed to face him.
Sam rolled his eyes. “It was fine, Dean. All I did was sit there and nothing else for a few hours. We had like three customers, tops, and I managed to read over a hundred pages of The Brothers Karamazov. I’m almost halfway, now.”
“Wait,” said Dean, squinting at him. “The brick you brought home from the library? That was, like, not even two days ago.”
Sam shrugged. “I like it. Grandpa doesn’t let me do much downstairs…so this helps.”
Even though Dean had a lot to say about the fact that Samuel was already keeping Sam at the shop far too late for his taste, he bit his lips hard and decided to change the subject.
“You hungry?” he said, retrieving the sandwiches from the bags. “Rufus was still open when I passed by.”
Sam’s eyes widened at the sight of the sandwiches. He opened his mouth as though he was about to speak, but then shut it quickly and shifted on his seat. He then said, “I’m okay. Grandpa, he—we had chicken and veggies tonight. It was fine.”
Knowing that Samuel’s culinary skills, though efficient, were nothing to brag about, Dean was then really glad to have stopped at Turner’s Deli.
“I got two, Sam. One of them was meant for you. Not vegetarian though.” And he presented one of the sandwiches.
“But what about you? I—Dean, I already ate. You probably haven’t eaten anything since noon.”
And while that was true, Dean waved the sandwich at his brother for him to take it.
“You’re a growing boy, Sammy. You’ll need to eat a lot more if you want to get as tall as me.”
“Shut up,” said Sam, laughing. He finally took the sandwich and thanked Dean for having thought of him.
“No problem.”
They quietly gobbled down their snack. While Dean would have had more than enough room for a second helping, the salami-ham sandwich would sustain his hunger until morning.
As Dean was taking care of putting the wrapping in the garbage once they were done with their meal, Sam then retrieved something from his school bag and threw it at Dean after he had taken his seat back.
A large bag of M&Ms.
“I was saving it for later, but I guess now is as good a time as any.”
“Aww. Thanks Sammy.”
“No problem.” He installed himself properly into his bed. Pulling on the thin covers and fixing his pillows, Sam then rested his back against the wall and began eating his treats, after Dean had opened the bag and left it on the night stand between their beds. “Was Grandpa mad when you arrived?”
“He wasn’t awake when I got here.”
“You—you didn’t wake him?”
“Obviously not.”
Sam made a face. “Dean, he was waiting for you.”
“One, I’m twenty, so he doesn’t need to. Two, we both know he wasn’t doing it out of the kindness of his heart or because he was worried about my well-being. It’s because he wanted an excuse to start a fight as always.”
Sam pursed his lips. “And you didn’t?”
“I let him sleep, didn’t I?”
“Which might make things worse in the morning.”
“Sam,” groaned Dean. “If he wants to act like a warden, that’s his prerogative. But I’m not going to act like a prisoner.”
“He’s not as bad as you paint him to be, Dean.”
And while Dean had a lot of evidence that supported the opposite, he simply sighed loudly and kept his views to himself. He didn’t want to get into an argument with Sam any more than with his grandfather. The day had already been eventful, so, once again, he simply didn’t say anything.
He stood up, grabbed a random shirt from his drawer, and after listening against the door, he quietly went to the bathroom to undertake his bedtime routine.
He washed his face and teeth, changed his clothes and put the dirty ones in the laundry basket after emptying his pockets.
In the hallway, he carefully listened and could still hear Samuel’s snores over the news. He debated for an instant if he should wake him up.
But he turned on his heels and returned to his bedroom.
The moment he entered, he heard Sam whisper, “I’m sorry. I—I didn’t want to make you mad.”
He was seated in his bed with his arms crossed over his chest.
“I’m not mad, Sam. I know Samuel isn’t the anti-Christ, okay? He—he has his moments. But he could be better, too.” Wanting to change the subject, he pointed at the desk lamp, and said, “You done with this for tonight?”
Sam nodded and let himself sink into his bed. As Dean was about to turn off the light, he paused when he noticed some of Sam's homework on the desk. He picked one of the sheets that had an "A" written on it. Dean turned to Sam with a wide smile on his face.
"Hey! You did it! I knew you would, but—you aced your paper. That's awesome, Sammy."
Diverting his eyes for a second, Sam uttered a shy, "Thanks."
"What's wrong?"
Sam shrugged and fixed his covers.
Dean dropped the test on the desk and stared at his brother, waiting for him to elaborate.
"It's just...it doesn't matter. Sort of."
Dean shut his eyes. "Don't say that, Sam. Not again. Of course, it matters."
"But we—we don't have the money. And even if—Grandpa said—"
"Never mind what Grandpa said, okay? I don't care what he says or anyone else. You're going to school and you're going to be great. Just—" Dean took a deep breath. "Just, please, continue with your studies. Do your thing and don't worry about anything else."
"Is that what you did?"
"That was different."
"How so?"
"Well, for starters, I wasn't a geek," said Dean, suddenly regaining his good humour.
And Sam rolled his eyes at him.
Before settling himself in, Dean debated if he should leave the window open or not. They usually kept it shut during the day, since his bed was right underneath it. Most of the time, it wasn’t an issue.
Except when rain or snow was concerned.
With a quick look outside, he judged that now was a good time to let the place get some air a bit before the downpour would begin.
Just as he had on his way home, he could practically taste the cold humidity in the air.
“So, where were you?” asked Sam, once Dean had dropped his phone on the nightstand and had slid himself under the covers. “It’s later than usual. And a weekday.”
Lying on his back, Dean turned his head to peek at Sam. Because of the lamp and all the other stuff on the nightstand, he couldn’t really see him properly.
But he didn’t need to look at him to know that Sam had been worried.
The tone in his voice had said it all.
“I had to make a detour after the garage. A job interview. Of sorts.”
“Really? At night?”
“It’s the only time I could meet because of the garage,” said Dean. “They were, um, nice enough to agree to that meeting time.”
“And did you get it? What is it? How many hours is it going to be?”
“Whoa,” said Dean, lifting his hand, nearly laughing. “I—there is a lot I don’t know yet. But I—um, it—it doesn’t matter. I’m not sure I’ll do it.”
“Why not?”
Dean swallowed. He didn’t want to lie to Sam. Mostly because he hated doing it, but also because he knew that Sam was too smart to buy his bullshit.
Trying to think of an answer quickly, he said, “The weird schedule maybe? I—I haven’t decided yet.”
There was a long pause and then Sam asked, “Would it be a job instead of the garage or in addition to it?”
“Instead.”
Sam’s silence to his answer wasn’t too inspiring.
And just as he was about to change the subject, Sam finally said, “Whatever you do, I know you’ll make the right decision.”
Which made Dean feel even worse.
As he was pretty sure it had been a long time since he had made one of those. He hadn’t been reckless, but he had made mistakes, and a series of bad decisions was the exact reason for his current predicament of choosing between the lesser of two evils.
And lying there in his bed, noticing the rain finally starting to come down, he wondered if he even had the necessary moral compass to know the difference between the two anymore.
He sighed deeply, shut the window and turned himself on his side, desperately trying to ignore the important decision awaiting him the next day.
His eggs were cold and his toast nearly burnt. Normally, that would have been enough to cause Dean to groan during the whole breakfast.
But not on that morning.
He was too lost in contemplation for that.
“What’s up with you?” blurted out Samuel.
Dean looked up and found his grandfather frowning at him, as he held his cup of coffee mid-air, and Sam, quietly chewing on his cereals, also observing Dean cautiously.
“Nothing,” muttered Dean. “Just not awake yet.” And then he made a point of reaching for his mug and gulping down his now cold coffee.
“It was nice of you to not wake me up when you got here last night. God forbid, I would have, I don’t know, worried about you.”
“Yes. God forbid.”
Samuel put down his cup. “You better watch that tone, son.”
“Don’t call me son, Samuel.”
“And stop calling me Sa—”
“Stop, please just—just stop,” pleaded Sam before Dean could reply.
Dean and his grandfather exchanged angry looks, but remained quiet. And while Sam seemed satisfied that a moment of truce had been granted, Dean was convinced that Samuel wouldn’t miss the occasion to revisit that topic later on.
Most specifically, when Sam would be busy at school and nowhere near them.
Samuel finished his coffee, brought his plate to the sink, asked Sam a few questions regarding his homework and reminded him to come straight back home after school. Once Sam assured him that he would, he then grabbed his keys and told Dean to meet him downstairs as soon as he finished his breakfast.
Both boys waved him goodbye and were left alone in the apartment.
With Samuel out of his sight, Dean let out of sigh and took another sip of his strong coffee, gearing up for the day.
“What are you going to do?” asked Sam.
“Relax, Sam. I’ll behave.”
“Good to know, but I meant with your job offer.”
“Oh. Still not sure. It, um, would help, but there’s just something about it that makes me hesitate.”
Sam nodded blankly, twirling his spoon into his bowl. “And what is it? The job, I mean. You never said.”
Dean stopped chewing. “Um, I—driving. Like—just, I’d be someone’s driver.”
“Really?” asked Sam, smiling. “You mean like a chauffeur? Would you have to wear a suit? And for whom?”
Dean laughed. “Um, I—I’m not—not exactly like a chauffeur.” And then, frowning, he added, “I think. I—we didn’t really get into those details yet.”
“Hmm,” said Sam, staring at his cereals floating. “And you have to give them an answer when?”
“Today. Tonight.”
“You’ll have the day to mull it over, then. But if I were you, I’d ask a few more questions before giving them a final answer.”
“I—I’ll take that into consideration.”
The rest of the day occurred as it usually did at the Campbell’s Dry Cleaners. Dean’s time at the business was usually split in two: manning the front desk in peak hours and helping out Samuel with the clothes the rest of the time.
He hated both options.
But Dean often suspected that was probably more about the company than the job itself. While some people might find it insufferable to remain quiet for most of the day, Dean had no issues with that concept when he worked with Samuel.
He preferred a silent, grumpy Samuel over a loquacious, grumpy one any day.
And unfortunately, just as he had expected, it seemed that he wouldn’t be spared from his grandfather’s annoying comments. As annoying as that may be, it didn’t change much for Dean on that particular day.
His mind was somewhere else.
He knew which option seemed more practical given the most pressing issue.
Getting rid of the headache that was Gordon was all that mattered in that moment.
And Dean could sit there and mull it over as long as he wanted, he would never find a solution as efficient—and without grave repercussion—as what Zachariah was offering him.
But at what cost?
Freeing himself from under Gordon’s thumb was complicated enough.
He wasn’t sure he would have this option with the Garrisons in the future. It was Dean’s understanding that once you got in bed with this family, there was no getting out of it.
And then what?
Would he drive shady people around for the remainder of his days or would they demand more of him down the line?
The growing pit in his stomach was a big indication of where he stood about that idea. Never mind if Samuel wouldn’t like it, he himself hated it.
Regardless of the hours. Or the money.
But the fact remained that Dean couldn’t ignore Gordon.
Thus, frustrated at the situation, Dean then decided to accept Zachariah’s offer. Even if it probably meant fixing a problem by replacing it with a new one.
Before voicing his answer, however, Dean had a few questions for Zachariah.
And when he arrived at the man’s office again later that night, that was the first thing that came out of Dean’s mouth.
Zachariah stared at him for a moment, long enough so Dean began panicking again, until he chuckled and then said, “I would have thought you stupid if you hadn’t. Go ahead.”
Almost believing it was a trick, Dean waited an instant, but once it was clear that Zachariah was patiently waiting for him to begin, Dean cleared his throat.
“I—I’m just not sure how to ask this without sounding incredibly impolite. And that is…not what I want to do.”
“Noted. What is it?”
Dean swallowed hard. “I appreciate the opportunity. I—I was just wondering…let’s say in, um, the future that I desire to—to work elsewhere…or move to another city…will it be possible for me to do so?”
It was the only way he could say it without uttering the actual words “wanting out.”
“Of course. You’re not our prisoner,” said Zachariah.
Now, Dean wasn’t about to call Zachariah a liar, but he had detected a faint tone in his voice that had made him feel uneasy.
He wasn’t lying. But he wasn’t telling the whole truth, either.
“And Gordon, what will happen there?”
“He will simply be informed that we have personally requested your services. We will recommend someone else to work there in your place, and in the meantime, he can find someone else, if that’s what he desires. We will also make sure that he understands that we consider the past week’s issue now resolved. That you evidently had nothing to do with it, and since you are no longer his employee, but ours, the matter has to be dropped immediately or there will be consequences.”
A perfect even tone.
Not a lie in sight.
“Was there anything else?”
There was a great deal more.
But for now, Dean reasoned that the pressing matter had been answered.
So, he shook his head and told Zachariah that he accepted his offer.
“Terrific,” said Zachariah. He pressed on the intercom of his desk.
“Yes, sir?”
“Duma, you can let him in, now. And inform Mr. Garrison, if he wishes to have a chat with them.”
“Right away, sir.”
A door to Dean’s right opened. Not the one he had come from, but another one that Dean hadn’t noticed until that very moment. It was closer to Zachariah’s desk, right next to the wall of books.
And a man stepped quietly inside.
For an instant, he seemed startled by Dean’s presence, but his mild confusion dissipated as quickly as it had been detectable. He gave Zachariah a firm nod, shut the door behind him and walked towards the desk.
Mid-twenties.
Dark, thick hair.
And was wearing a navy-blue pinstripe suit, which matched his eyes.
This was not a cheap suit.
Not like what the security guards were wearing around here.
This smelled like money.
Working at the dry cleaners, Dean was able to pinpoint the fakers. And this guy wasn’t one.
The man was now standing next to Dean, facing Zachariah.
“Mr. Dean Winchester, meet Mr. Castiel Novak. Your passenger.”