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spn_springflingTitle: Dark Knights
Pairing: Dean/Cas
Rating: Teen
Any warnings: mention of guns, much spandex!
Sun sets on the city of Metropolis. Good citizens are home, eating dinner and watching the nightly news. But all is not well in this fair city. When night falls, the rats of humanity come out of their hiding places to take charge. It’s petty theft mostly: a mugging here, a small B & E there. But someone has to look out for the welfare of the citizens. And that someone’s job just got a lot harder.
Dean Winchester, or The Hunter as he’s known by night, rocks back on his heels, crouched in the shadows on the roof of Metropolitan Bank. It’s the best vantage point for downtown and there have been rumblings that something big is going to go down, and soon. He’s got rats in the rats of the city, a few chosen people here and there with information for a price and a need to have someone on the side of the law if shit goes topside. All he can do is watch and wait and hope that he gets either information or advanced warning so he can temper the damage.
Tonight is quiet and that’s never good. The big movers in the underground must be shaking hard enough that the small time crooks have their heads down, waiting for it all to blow over. A streetlight pops over on Flower, sending half a block into darkness. Cats yowl and scramble over trashcans on Figueroa. And over on Eighth are Slim Joe and Tweedle, doing their best to stay inconspicuous as they trail a lone straggler from the financial district. The man has his head crouched down against an imagined wind, his eyes darting from left to right as he passes the alleyways, knuckles white around the handle of a battered leather briefcase. The Hunter sighs. It’s a small potatoes gig, but it’s better than freezing his ass off on a roof all night. And anyway, it’s been a while since he’s gotten to beat on these two a little.
Three blocks go quickly by rooftop, especially in this part of downtown with the buildings edged together like nervous sheep, so it’s only a few minutes before our hero is slithering down a fire escape to find the two accomplices and their quarry, neatly backed just far enough into an alleyway to be hidden from the street. Their voices are low, but the universal signal for “empty your pockets” is pretty obvious. Trembling, the suit reaches into his pocket and The Hunter makes his move, dropping swiftly from the fire escape and catching the back of Slim Joe’s head with his cocked forearm. Or at least, that was the plan. Instead he drops only to get sidelined by a cannonball. Breathless, The Hunter sprawls on the ground for a few seconds, barely cognizant of the form draped in black sprawled across his torso. He looks up to find the suit, Slim Joe, and Tweedle gaping at him, all intention of mugging gone with the commotion. Gritting his teeth, The Hunter pushes himself up, kicking at the form on top of him, helplessly watching the two small-time crooks fall over each other to beat it down the block before he can get to his feet. The Dude in Black pushes back at him, but somehow they both make it to their feet, glaring at each other through the slits in their masks. They’re silent and it goes on a few beats too long. Long enough that the suit coughs awkwardly, “Um. Thanks? For, uh, saving me? I’m just gonna...go, then,” before scooting quickly out of the alley, leaving the two of them alone.
“What the hell was that, man?” Dean asks. “Who the hell are you?”
“Ca-...I’m The Sentinel. Who are you?” The man’s voice grates along Dean’s bones, whiskey and gravel and it might do things to him if he wasn’t already ticked off.
“I’m The Hunter. The superhero for Metropolis, the dude whose job you’re horning in on? What are you, new?”
“Uh, yes.”
“Jesus.” Dean pinches the bridge of his nose and breathes before taking a good look at the guy. Like himself, the other man has a form fitting suit, but instead of Dean’s green and black, The Sentinel is solid black running up runner’s legs to a fit upper body. His suit is full length, running to wrists and covering the neck, disappearing into well-worn boots. He looks put together, but not new. He might be new to Metropolis, but he’s not new to the game, even if his gear is a bit nicer than Dean’s. Dean is all too aware now of his scuffed brown boots that should’ve been replaced months ago, the threadbare patches at his elbows and knees, the ratty edges of the fingerless gloves wrapped around his hands. He can feel the other man’s gaze on him, taking in his broad shoulders and bow-legs, knows he’s got enough muscle to take him in a fight, or, you know, do his job.
The other man grunts, sliding his clear blue eyes to meet Dean’s, “I wasn’t aware this city had a defender. My apologies.”
Dean snorts, “Yeah, ok, man. Not like I’m not in the paper at least once a week.”
Even with the mask on Dean can see The Sentinel’s eyebrow raise and he scrambles to cover, “Not that I look or anythi-...look man, this city’s fine. I’ve got this under control. I don’t need help.”
“Then you know about the shipment.”
“The what?”
“The shipment. The one coming in to the docks this week.”
“Uh, no.”
“Ah.”
Ah? What the fuck does that even mean? Dean’s spine straightens and he pins the other man with a steely glare, “Look, man. I don’t know what you’re talking about, but I don’t know you from Adam and this is my city. I’ve looked after it for years without any help--been doing just fine without you. Who the hell do you think you are that you can come in here and think you know anything about this city and what it needs?”
Eyes flashing even in the low light, The Sentinel sweeps close, backing Dean against the crumbling brick wall, so close Dean can almost feel the words growling out of his chest, “Someone who knows that the man you just let get away was passing information about the shipment coming in this week that has every crook in Central City trembling. Someone who could have intercepted at least one piece of information that wasn’t filtered through fear or the grapevine if you hadn’t swung in. Someone who knows this could well destroy this city to its foundations.”
Comprehension hits Dean like a wet rag, “Crowley.”
The Sentinel nods, “Crowley.”
“Shit.” Dean sinks against the wall, pinching the bridge of his nose.
The other man huffs a laugh, “Pretty much.”
“Can we start over?” Dean straightens and offers his hand, “The Hunter, resident hero of Metropolis.”
The other man grins and grips Dean’s hand tight, “The Sentinel, late of Central City. I’ve got some news you may want to hear.”
“That’s mighty kind of you friend. How about we meet tomorrow night, not in an alley frequented by thugs, and discuss this news?”
“That…sounds good, actually. Do you have anywhere in mind?” The smile still hasn’t left the stranger’s face and you know what, Dean might actually like working with a partner.
“I’ve got a place just north of here, above the Chinese place on Crescent. Buzz up--sometime around nine?”
The other man nods, “I’ll find it.”
He leaves and if Dean perches on a rooftop to watch the newcomer make his way across town until he fades into the shadows, no one but the empty alley has to know.
--
It’s fine until work the next day. Dean’s running the desk while Sam takes lunch and he looks up when a gruff voice says, “Excuse me, I was told my car is ready.”
Holy shit that voice. Dean would know that voice anywhere--it’s the guy from the alley last night. This is The Sentinel. Schooling his face to mask his recognition, Dean looks the guy up and down while checking for his file. He’s a good-looking dude in daylight (and at night) even if his outfit masks the physique Dean knows is under that suit. Not that he’s thinking about what’s under the guy’s suit. Well, now he is. Shit. Knowing his cheeks are blazing, Dean manages to meet The Sentinel’s--Castiel Novak, says the paperwork-- eyes and say, “Yeah, bay six. Let me pull ‘er out for you.” He ducks out the back before Castiel can say anything. Smooth, Winchester.
The handoff goes smoothly, Castiel signing the paperwork and off into the afternoon in a not-too-horrific sedan. Dean can’t get his head back into the shop for the rest of the day, wondering if Cas recognized him and what that might mean, and heads home early.
--
Castiel is early, peering up at the street-facing windows above the MuShu You Too Chinese Buffet. He’d been a little rattled by their interaction at the shop earlier, surprised to see the bright green eyes and annoying smirk from the previous night over a mechanic’s counter. The Hunter, Dean apparently, was more attractive than he’d been even the night before. Not that Castiel has any plans to do anything about the attraction--he has a job to do. They have a job to do. The city comes first.
He walks around the back of the building to the stairs and buzzes up, slipping on his mask.
--
Dean’s surprised how easily they work together for only having just met. He doesn’t mention anything about earlier that day and neither does Castiel. Personas only in this business--keeps bystanders from getting hurt.
Castiel hands over the information his contacts passed over and they cross-reference it with Dean’s knowledge and the recent reports he’s gotten. They work late into the night, picking away at the options until patterns begin to appear.
They’ve got a surveillance schedule, meetings planned and a potential deadline for whatever the crooks have planned. Now comes the hard part.
--
Over the next few nights they see little of each other, sending information via text or short phone calls. The streets and dock are quiet, not enough to cause alarm, but enough to keep them uneasy. Some nights are quiet enough that they sit on the bank tower together, trading small bits of information. How Castiel was a cop in Central City until something went down (he won’t explain, Dean doesn’t push) and has a brother in town, how Dean’s dad was a cop who died under his corrupt partner’s watch; their losses explain more than they don’t and if their legs press together it’s only because their suits aren’t the most comfortable for sitting. The next few weeks they spend more of their stakeouts together than apart--neither mentions it.
--
Their big break comes when Garth contacts Dean and asks him to come to The Causeway. Garth is a sweet kid, runs a sliding scale dentistry office that caters to people who have had a few too many fists run into their jaw. Turns out some of these guys also talk a lot under sedation. Turns out he’s had a few in his chair recently who’ve spilled some important dates and names, not that they mean anything to him. Dean thanks him profusely and pays for his beer--as well as the cab since his dentist-friend is a lightweight.
--
Thankfully, Garth’s info is good and they easily locate the warehouse near the docks with the goods. Crates stacked five high teeter towards each other, each filled with munitions--more than enough to arm every petty crook in a small city like Metropolis, and attract more for trade, enough to turn the city into a hellmouth of illegal arms trade and power struggle.
Dean texts photos to his contact in the Metropolis PD, Victor, who immediately replies saying he’s got a handful of units on the way and to get the fuck out, Winchester. It’s cute that he cares, but Dean’s not leaving until he knows they’ve got Crowley wrapped up tight--he’s slipped out from custody too many times.
He and Castiel work methodically through the warehouse, disabling guards and tying them up with big red bows for the police. The last corridor is too quiet, which means it’s even more of a surprise when Dean feels the press of a barrel against the back of his head and hears a soft voice purr, “Hello, boys.”
A quick look to the right shows that Cas is caught too, under the barrel of a gun held by no other than Ruby, which means Meg is behind him. They’re Crowley’s enforcers, both brains and brawn, and no one to underestimate. Before he can warn Cas, the other man has already dropped, swiping with his legs to take Ruby down. Meg’s gun immediately swings towards him and she shoots before Dean can knock her far enough away, his shout of ”Cas!” ringing down the hallway. He knocks Meg out with a practiced hit to the back of the head and ties her up with the last of his rope, dropping her as soon as he’s done to take care of Ruby. Cas stirs as Dean finishes the last knot. “Thank god for kevlar,” he growls and Dean almost punches him in the face.
--
Later that night Dean gets a text from Victor that’s just a picture of Crowley tied to his office chair, a shiny tiara on his brow.
--
The next evening Cas shows up at Dean’s place with takeout from the place downstairs. He’s not wearing his mask. Neither of them says much as they clear the coffee table of their research and schedules and settle next to each other on the couch.
“I don’t live here, you know,” Dean says, putting Nova on mute and taking a bite of his beef and broccoli.
“Hm?” Cas asks around a mouthful of eggroll.
“This is just an office. The couple downstairs let me use it as a base. A few years back Crowley was charging them “insurance” and I made it go away.”
“Ah.”
“Yeah,” Dean pauses. “You maybe wanna come over tomorrow night for dinner?”
“Oh.” Cas blinks at Dean before a smile erupts. “Yes, I’d like that.”
“Awesome.” Dean takes a sip of Coke before saying, “You know, I--”
But his words are lost against Cas’s lips. It takes a beat and then his free hand comes up to spear through Cas’s hair, and they’re kissing like they don’t have mountains of greasy Chinese on their laps. Dean chuckles and pulls away, squeezing the back of Cas’s neck before turning back to his meal. Cas just rolls his eyes and huffs, settling closer on the couch.
It’s a good day in Metropolis.
Pairing: Dean/Cas
Rating: Teen
Any warnings: mention of guns, much spandex!
Sun sets on the city of Metropolis. Good citizens are home, eating dinner and watching the nightly news. But all is not well in this fair city. When night falls, the rats of humanity come out of their hiding places to take charge. It’s petty theft mostly: a mugging here, a small B & E there. But someone has to look out for the welfare of the citizens. And that someone’s job just got a lot harder.
Dean Winchester, or The Hunter as he’s known by night, rocks back on his heels, crouched in the shadows on the roof of Metropolitan Bank. It’s the best vantage point for downtown and there have been rumblings that something big is going to go down, and soon. He’s got rats in the rats of the city, a few chosen people here and there with information for a price and a need to have someone on the side of the law if shit goes topside. All he can do is watch and wait and hope that he gets either information or advanced warning so he can temper the damage.
Tonight is quiet and that’s never good. The big movers in the underground must be shaking hard enough that the small time crooks have their heads down, waiting for it all to blow over. A streetlight pops over on Flower, sending half a block into darkness. Cats yowl and scramble over trashcans on Figueroa. And over on Eighth are Slim Joe and Tweedle, doing their best to stay inconspicuous as they trail a lone straggler from the financial district. The man has his head crouched down against an imagined wind, his eyes darting from left to right as he passes the alleyways, knuckles white around the handle of a battered leather briefcase. The Hunter sighs. It’s a small potatoes gig, but it’s better than freezing his ass off on a roof all night. And anyway, it’s been a while since he’s gotten to beat on these two a little.
Three blocks go quickly by rooftop, especially in this part of downtown with the buildings edged together like nervous sheep, so it’s only a few minutes before our hero is slithering down a fire escape to find the two accomplices and their quarry, neatly backed just far enough into an alleyway to be hidden from the street. Their voices are low, but the universal signal for “empty your pockets” is pretty obvious. Trembling, the suit reaches into his pocket and The Hunter makes his move, dropping swiftly from the fire escape and catching the back of Slim Joe’s head with his cocked forearm. Or at least, that was the plan. Instead he drops only to get sidelined by a cannonball. Breathless, The Hunter sprawls on the ground for a few seconds, barely cognizant of the form draped in black sprawled across his torso. He looks up to find the suit, Slim Joe, and Tweedle gaping at him, all intention of mugging gone with the commotion. Gritting his teeth, The Hunter pushes himself up, kicking at the form on top of him, helplessly watching the two small-time crooks fall over each other to beat it down the block before he can get to his feet. The Dude in Black pushes back at him, but somehow they both make it to their feet, glaring at each other through the slits in their masks. They’re silent and it goes on a few beats too long. Long enough that the suit coughs awkwardly, “Um. Thanks? For, uh, saving me? I’m just gonna...go, then,” before scooting quickly out of the alley, leaving the two of them alone.
“What the hell was that, man?” Dean asks. “Who the hell are you?”
“Ca-...I’m The Sentinel. Who are you?” The man’s voice grates along Dean’s bones, whiskey and gravel and it might do things to him if he wasn’t already ticked off.
“I’m The Hunter. The superhero for Metropolis, the dude whose job you’re horning in on? What are you, new?”
“Uh, yes.”
“Jesus.” Dean pinches the bridge of his nose and breathes before taking a good look at the guy. Like himself, the other man has a form fitting suit, but instead of Dean’s green and black, The Sentinel is solid black running up runner’s legs to a fit upper body. His suit is full length, running to wrists and covering the neck, disappearing into well-worn boots. He looks put together, but not new. He might be new to Metropolis, but he’s not new to the game, even if his gear is a bit nicer than Dean’s. Dean is all too aware now of his scuffed brown boots that should’ve been replaced months ago, the threadbare patches at his elbows and knees, the ratty edges of the fingerless gloves wrapped around his hands. He can feel the other man’s gaze on him, taking in his broad shoulders and bow-legs, knows he’s got enough muscle to take him in a fight, or, you know, do his job.
The other man grunts, sliding his clear blue eyes to meet Dean’s, “I wasn’t aware this city had a defender. My apologies.”
Dean snorts, “Yeah, ok, man. Not like I’m not in the paper at least once a week.”
Even with the mask on Dean can see The Sentinel’s eyebrow raise and he scrambles to cover, “Not that I look or anythi-...look man, this city’s fine. I’ve got this under control. I don’t need help.”
“Then you know about the shipment.”
“The what?”
“The shipment. The one coming in to the docks this week.”
“Uh, no.”
“Ah.”
Ah? What the fuck does that even mean? Dean’s spine straightens and he pins the other man with a steely glare, “Look, man. I don’t know what you’re talking about, but I don’t know you from Adam and this is my city. I’ve looked after it for years without any help--been doing just fine without you. Who the hell do you think you are that you can come in here and think you know anything about this city and what it needs?”
Eyes flashing even in the low light, The Sentinel sweeps close, backing Dean against the crumbling brick wall, so close Dean can almost feel the words growling out of his chest, “Someone who knows that the man you just let get away was passing information about the shipment coming in this week that has every crook in Central City trembling. Someone who could have intercepted at least one piece of information that wasn’t filtered through fear or the grapevine if you hadn’t swung in. Someone who knows this could well destroy this city to its foundations.”
Comprehension hits Dean like a wet rag, “Crowley.”
The Sentinel nods, “Crowley.”
“Shit.” Dean sinks against the wall, pinching the bridge of his nose.
The other man huffs a laugh, “Pretty much.”
“Can we start over?” Dean straightens and offers his hand, “The Hunter, resident hero of Metropolis.”
The other man grins and grips Dean’s hand tight, “The Sentinel, late of Central City. I’ve got some news you may want to hear.”
“That’s mighty kind of you friend. How about we meet tomorrow night, not in an alley frequented by thugs, and discuss this news?”
“That…sounds good, actually. Do you have anywhere in mind?” The smile still hasn’t left the stranger’s face and you know what, Dean might actually like working with a partner.
“I’ve got a place just north of here, above the Chinese place on Crescent. Buzz up--sometime around nine?”
The other man nods, “I’ll find it.”
He leaves and if Dean perches on a rooftop to watch the newcomer make his way across town until he fades into the shadows, no one but the empty alley has to know.
--
It’s fine until work the next day. Dean’s running the desk while Sam takes lunch and he looks up when a gruff voice says, “Excuse me, I was told my car is ready.”
Holy shit that voice. Dean would know that voice anywhere--it’s the guy from the alley last night. This is The Sentinel. Schooling his face to mask his recognition, Dean looks the guy up and down while checking for his file. He’s a good-looking dude in daylight (and at night) even if his outfit masks the physique Dean knows is under that suit. Not that he’s thinking about what’s under the guy’s suit. Well, now he is. Shit. Knowing his cheeks are blazing, Dean manages to meet The Sentinel’s--Castiel Novak, says the paperwork-- eyes and say, “Yeah, bay six. Let me pull ‘er out for you.” He ducks out the back before Castiel can say anything. Smooth, Winchester.
The handoff goes smoothly, Castiel signing the paperwork and off into the afternoon in a not-too-horrific sedan. Dean can’t get his head back into the shop for the rest of the day, wondering if Cas recognized him and what that might mean, and heads home early.
--
Castiel is early, peering up at the street-facing windows above the MuShu You Too Chinese Buffet. He’d been a little rattled by their interaction at the shop earlier, surprised to see the bright green eyes and annoying smirk from the previous night over a mechanic’s counter. The Hunter, Dean apparently, was more attractive than he’d been even the night before. Not that Castiel has any plans to do anything about the attraction--he has a job to do. They have a job to do. The city comes first.
He walks around the back of the building to the stairs and buzzes up, slipping on his mask.
--
Dean’s surprised how easily they work together for only having just met. He doesn’t mention anything about earlier that day and neither does Castiel. Personas only in this business--keeps bystanders from getting hurt.
Castiel hands over the information his contacts passed over and they cross-reference it with Dean’s knowledge and the recent reports he’s gotten. They work late into the night, picking away at the options until patterns begin to appear.
They’ve got a surveillance schedule, meetings planned and a potential deadline for whatever the crooks have planned. Now comes the hard part.
--
Over the next few nights they see little of each other, sending information via text or short phone calls. The streets and dock are quiet, not enough to cause alarm, but enough to keep them uneasy. Some nights are quiet enough that they sit on the bank tower together, trading small bits of information. How Castiel was a cop in Central City until something went down (he won’t explain, Dean doesn’t push) and has a brother in town, how Dean’s dad was a cop who died under his corrupt partner’s watch; their losses explain more than they don’t and if their legs press together it’s only because their suits aren’t the most comfortable for sitting. The next few weeks they spend more of their stakeouts together than apart--neither mentions it.
--
Their big break comes when Garth contacts Dean and asks him to come to The Causeway. Garth is a sweet kid, runs a sliding scale dentistry office that caters to people who have had a few too many fists run into their jaw. Turns out some of these guys also talk a lot under sedation. Turns out he’s had a few in his chair recently who’ve spilled some important dates and names, not that they mean anything to him. Dean thanks him profusely and pays for his beer--as well as the cab since his dentist-friend is a lightweight.
--
Thankfully, Garth’s info is good and they easily locate the warehouse near the docks with the goods. Crates stacked five high teeter towards each other, each filled with munitions--more than enough to arm every petty crook in a small city like Metropolis, and attract more for trade, enough to turn the city into a hellmouth of illegal arms trade and power struggle.
Dean texts photos to his contact in the Metropolis PD, Victor, who immediately replies saying he’s got a handful of units on the way and to get the fuck out, Winchester. It’s cute that he cares, but Dean’s not leaving until he knows they’ve got Crowley wrapped up tight--he’s slipped out from custody too many times.
He and Castiel work methodically through the warehouse, disabling guards and tying them up with big red bows for the police. The last corridor is too quiet, which means it’s even more of a surprise when Dean feels the press of a barrel against the back of his head and hears a soft voice purr, “Hello, boys.”
A quick look to the right shows that Cas is caught too, under the barrel of a gun held by no other than Ruby, which means Meg is behind him. They’re Crowley’s enforcers, both brains and brawn, and no one to underestimate. Before he can warn Cas, the other man has already dropped, swiping with his legs to take Ruby down. Meg’s gun immediately swings towards him and she shoots before Dean can knock her far enough away, his shout of ”Cas!” ringing down the hallway. He knocks Meg out with a practiced hit to the back of the head and ties her up with the last of his rope, dropping her as soon as he’s done to take care of Ruby. Cas stirs as Dean finishes the last knot. “Thank god for kevlar,” he growls and Dean almost punches him in the face.
--
Later that night Dean gets a text from Victor that’s just a picture of Crowley tied to his office chair, a shiny tiara on his brow.
--
The next evening Cas shows up at Dean’s place with takeout from the place downstairs. He’s not wearing his mask. Neither of them says much as they clear the coffee table of their research and schedules and settle next to each other on the couch.
“I don’t live here, you know,” Dean says, putting Nova on mute and taking a bite of his beef and broccoli.
“Hm?” Cas asks around a mouthful of eggroll.
“This is just an office. The couple downstairs let me use it as a base. A few years back Crowley was charging them “insurance” and I made it go away.”
“Ah.”
“Yeah,” Dean pauses. “You maybe wanna come over tomorrow night for dinner?”
“Oh.” Cas blinks at Dean before a smile erupts. “Yes, I’d like that.”
“Awesome.” Dean takes a sip of Coke before saying, “You know, I--”
But his words are lost against Cas’s lips. It takes a beat and then his free hand comes up to spear through Cas’s hair, and they’re kissing like they don’t have mountains of greasy Chinese on their laps. Dean chuckles and pulls away, squeezing the back of Cas’s neck before turning back to his meal. Cas just rolls his eyes and huffs, settling closer on the couch.
It’s a good day in Metropolis.
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no subject
Date: 2014-04-14 01:33 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2014-05-04 11:28 pm (UTC)I posted the "director's cut" over on A03
http://archiveofourown.org/works/1512194
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Date: 2014-04-14 01:55 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2014-04-14 02:14 pm (UTC)