#ellenofoz

Dean approached the corpse. He had a good stomach for smells, which was quite essential in his profession, but this alleyway was making him queasy. The victim was sprawled across the cobblestone, ungainly, eyes still open.

A slight sigh escaped Dean, and he tried to school his features into professional calm. This part was always sad, working out the first steps: who they were, what family they had, who loved them. Parts of his job, Dean loved with a fiery passion. This...no. He’d lost too many people himself to ever take joy in this part. 

And this body in particular...quite right, that Singer hadn’t sent some of the younger lads. They shouldn’t have to see one of their own in this state.

Pulling at the legs of his pants to gain some flexibility, Dean crouched down on the ground, resting a hand on his knee. He didn’t care for being amongst the dirt, but that was what bathwater was for. He was far from squeamish. He was about to ask the constable to begin moving everyone away, when a commotion at the mouth of the alleyway caught his attention.

The bumbling watchmen and nosy neighbors were pushed aside. Overhead, the gas street lamp sparked outrageously as it was knocked, lighting the alley brighter with a sudden flare as a man, Dean’s own height bar perhaps an inch, shouldered his way through the bystanders. His boots cracked loudly across the cobbles, and the unbuttoned tan coat over his suit flapped dramatically as he strode toward Dean, single-minded. The glow of the lamp highlighted strong, angular features and uncombed hair—though whether that was from the hour or habit, Dean was uncertain—and startling, vivid blue eyes that stripped down everything around him in silence.

“Lord Milton,” the constable greeted, apparently knowing his peerage better than Dean did, damn it. “Good to see you back in London, sir.”

The gentleman merely gave a brief nod, dismissive, before heading on past him, toward Dean. “Good evening, Mister Winchester. I believe you were expecting me?”

If his looks were unexpected, his voice was astounding. Dean cleared his throat, shaking away some genuinely ungentleman-like thoughts, and reminding himself who this spoiled little rich boy actually was. “Milton,” he responded, not deigning to shake the hand that was offered, or use the title that he should. “I’m afraid you’re going to have to get your hands dirty. I do hope that’s not too upsetting for you, m’lord. You could always go back to bed, if this is a little much.”

Castiel Milton, all wide shoulders and distinctly disgruntled expression, didn’t look like he’d be quite so easy to put off. “Mister Singer directed me to be here. I suggest we get on with it.”

The constable made a small choking noise, before backing away. “I’ll get the boys to clear everyone out, sirs,” he said, backing away quickly, suddenly much keener on being elsewhere.

Pairings: Dean/Cas  Warnings: No major archive warnings, canon-typical violence, abduction

Tags: 

Alternate Universe - High School

Moondoor (Supernatural)

MMORPGs

Gamer Castiel (Supernatural)

Emo Castiel (Supernatural)

Mutual Pining

Bi-Curious Dean Winchester

Long-Distance Friendship

Friends to Lovers

Abduction

Canon-Typical Violence

Underage Drinking

The raid on the evening of Thanksgiving did not go well. Not only did most of the main team not show up due to family stuff, but the players they picked up to fill in were dreadful. Castiel sat in the stronghold after they'd failed to get down the boss again, scowling at his inventory. Ryder would still not take his suggestion of using three healers seriously, no matter how many times he told him it would work. What was the actual point of being friends with the raid leader if they never actually listened when you tried to tell them stuff? Ryder's message pinged as it came in, making him jump. Niteryder: hey man, you still on voice chat? Thorsangel: no, but I can get back on When he logged back into the voice server, Ryder dragged him into a private channel. “Hey, Angel. You okay after that shit-fight?” Castiel smiled at hearing Ryder's voice again, a fluttering starting in his stomach. Ryder spoke so differently between his raid leader voice and how he did when they were alone—he was softer, he smiled more. He typed out his reply, still smiling himself. Thorsangel: the raid? Yeah, I'm okay. Annoyed, but okay. Ryder chuckled. “Yeah, it’s pretty fuckin’ rough. Feels like we’ve been trying for years to get this asshole.” Thorsangel: It’s certainly been months :( “We’ll get it. Tonight was… pretty dreadful, yeah. But we’ll get there.” Ryder was quiet for a little while, and Castiel sat waiting as he made some more potions for the raid on Saturday night. Ryder spoke again. “Hey, uh, this is kind of awkward, but, um.” Castiel's eyebrows rose. Was he…nervous? It was kind of adorable. Ryder muttered, “Nah, don't worry, ‘s nothing.” Castiel felt his face warming as he typed his reply. What could it possibly be? Thorsangel: it's okay, tell me. He heard Ryder draw in a breath then he said, “I’ve got something for you, for Christmas. I made it.” Castiel blinked at the screen a few times, hiding behind the hair flopped over one eye. Ryder had made something? For him? His heart did a kind of uncomfortable flip-flop as he flexed his fingers over the keyboard, not quite sure how to respond. Thorsangel: you made it? For me? Ryder laughed awkwardly. “Yeah. It's just a small thing. Can I send it to you?” Oh… Oh crap. He was gonna ask for an address. He couldn't. He gasped in a breath, feeling his throat burn. It was Ryder, he could trust him, right? I'm sorry, kid. But this is the most important thing I'm gonna tell you so you listen, now. You can't trust anyone, okay? Not anyone, or any phone connection—anything. Got it? Victor's voice rang in his memory, clear as a bell. He couldn't risk it. He couldn't risk putting his mom in danger for a little crush. Thorsangel: no, I can't give you my address Thorsangel: sorry He dropped his head, bracing for disappointment.