Chapter Text
Dean's been in the business for a long time.
Too long, if you ask him. Not that you would.
Not that anyone would. Not if they valued their life.
Or at least their teeth.
And let's say you were stupid enough to ask him anyway.
He'd still keep it to himself. Playing cards close to the chest.
That's the job.
He heard the guy on the inside use the code word.
Blank expression.
Adjusted his cuffs.
Dean Winchester did not have a name.
He had a job.
A simple job.
Weapon.
Dean walked out of there clean as a whistle.
Anyone who knew what he'd been doing inside would have been mighty impressed.
Both with his work, if it had been the kind of person who appreciated that type of work well-done, and with his impeccable suit, and his starched white cuffs, and his immaculate cufflinks.
He walked through the city as one of their own. A businessman on his way to a meeting, perhaps. A politician, a lawyer.
Blending in.
Dean walked through the crowds, not like he owned the place, but like he was the kind of man your eyes slid off. Handsome, but no more than any metropolitan suit staying gym-trim. Well-groomed, but that was the name of the game in a cutthroat place like this one - although, of course, for Dean, this was far more literal than it was for most.
Dean paused near a coffee cart, ostensibly to order the kind of espresso-fueled nightmare common in this part of town. His eyes, his ears, even his nose, everything honed and fine-tuned, aware of everything going on around him, above and below.
He ordered his drink.
He paid with a smile.
He disappeared again into the crowd.
Now, the Mafia doesn't call itself that. They prefer other names, like 'cosa nostra' - 'our thing' - and other euphemisms.
Dean was in the Irish mob, which did not call itself anything other than that. Traditionally, they were rivals to the Italian and Russian mafia, with occasional alliances throughout history.
All organizations like the mob have the notoriety to have some general rules and regulations.
However, in most organizations, most places, most criminals and criminal groups, have their own morals and standards, some of which are shared somewhat universally, depending upon the purpose and priorities of the group.
No single mothers, no kids, no elderly or infirm.
No family of those involved in, or related to, the organization, except in extenuating circumstances.
Otherwise, such organizations could not exist or continue to do so. Trust is an important aspect of any relationship, and even more so when the organization is criminal.
There is honor among thieves, because there must be, and also because you can find honorable people just about anywhere, and sometimes the difference between a professional criminal and a civilian is that a civilian is sometimes willing to do crime far more heinous, and that would turn the stomach of some truly hardened people.
Dean was a professional. And he, too, had his moral standing.
He was an enforcer.
Smooth. Deadly.
He'd much rather have his feet up, drinking a beer, wearing flannel and jeans. He's always been something of a country boy, and a great lover of the open road.
But a job is a job.
And Dean was good at his job.
"You won't believe who they just sprung, Dean-O."
Dean blinked. Gabriel was a short, mouthy little dude, which usually attracted a toe tag in their line of work. But he was that kind of bull in a china shop guy where the disbelief of 'did he just say/do that?!' took long enough to get him out of hot water - with both the bad guys and the good.
Considering the two of them were technically in the mob, it was somewhat difficult to say which was which.
Either way, Gabriel had a way of talking himself in and out of people, places, and things.
"Well hello to you, too," grumbled Dean. "An' stop callin' me that, I ain't in the Rat Pack."
The study was that kind of extraordinarily beautiful, But I'm A Man Y'know, decor, all dark leathers and a brandy decanter that was made of some kind of Irish crystal Gabriel said was high-class, and you could absolutely kill somebody with it without breaking it.
Ask Dean how he knew.
Sometimes, people infiltrated far enough in and too close for comfort.
This was too close.
"I do love your authentic, farm-fed Midwestern charm," sighed Gabriel.
"And I ain't the ear for gossip."
"Ain't gossip, champ. It's intel."
Dean narrowed his eyes, because officially, Gabriel was something like a PA or secretary or some kind of office drone.
A paper-pusher. Necessary, but not exactly one of the big players.
Dean himself operated on a need-to-know basis. Point him at the problem and shoot.
A weapon.
Although he had long had the sneaking suspicion there was more to Gabriel than met the eye.
But then, life in the mob was a lot like life in LA -
be nice to the secretary.
She just might be your boss next week.
In Dean's considered opinion, probably due to the whole Midwestern farm-fed thing, you should just be kind and polite...just 'cause, but he also realized the irony of that concept coming from a dude like him, with a job like his own.
But so it was, and so it is, and Gabriel was looking at him with that twinkle in his eye, that kind of let-you-in-on-a-secret, but the type you mostly see from carnival barkers and used-car salesmen, so Dean's hackles were up although his guard was down.
"So what're you sharing this big news with me for?" asked Dean, casually taking a sip of brandy - or appearing to do so, for appearances' sake, because he learned a long time ago that booze clouded the judgement as well as other things.
But he kept up appearances, for his own reasons. People trust a drunk, because a drunk forgets what you told him.
"The Avenging Angel," Gabriel said, in a conspiratorial whisper that was unnecessary, since they were there alone.
Or who knew? The place could be bugged. Dean wouldn't put it past anybody in their line of work, although such things were considered a little in poor taste.
Nobody in the business liked evidence - photographic, written, audio, video, anything - of their existence, so it was an unwritten rule (see the aforementioned) that they did not do such things to each other, and in this way extended a kind of trust.
But Dean's considerations of all these things fled upon Gabriel's information.
His blood ran cold. He could feel the hairs on the back of his neck stand up.
"The - but. They can't. He can't," Dean said, managing just about a whisper, and hating himself for such outward evidence of the reaction this name caused - not only in him, but anyone in the mob.
Anyone who had heard of him, in fact.
And most, outside of the business, hadn't.
He was the story they told in whispers at night.
He was the shadowy image feared by the entirety of the criminal underworld, as far as Dean was aware. The only reason there hadn't been a media circus around his arrest and incarceration was because his fame existed only among Dean and his kind.
"Believe me, kid. He's out."
"And how the hell do you know that?" asked Dean. "Everything about this guy is done in secret!"
Gabriel held his gaze.
His expression changed, and his eyes lost that twinkle.
The sudden seriousness put Dean on guard even more.
"You remember how you owe me a solid after what happened in the Bronx?"
"Yeah, yeah," said Dean, anxiety hitting an all-time high.
"Well, it's time for me to call in that favor."
"I really don't like where this conversation is heading, Gabe."
Gabriel gave him puppydog eyes, which for some reason terrified him.
"He's my brother, Dean," he said, in a strangled whisper. "And I know how you are about brothers. Will you help me?"