Disclaimer: If I owned Supernatural it wouldn't be on at 9:00 on Thursdays
Summary: Sam and Dean cross the wrong person only to get shuttled back in time to the land of speak easy's and organized crime of Chicago's 1930s
Genre: primarily romance
Acknowledgements: To sharpscissors for a swift but thorough betaing job.
Dean stared at the plate of food in front of him. Vegan corn bread, tofu garden burger, organic nachos, and red bean soup: all the last things in the world Dean Winchester would want to eat. That was it. Evanston was joining the ranks of the “worst towns ever” list that he kept in his head, along with Smithfield, Maine where the only attractions had been roller skating and flesh-eating wood sprites; St. Cloud, Minnesota which Dean had told Sam had just got to be teeming with evil with a name like that, and had it ever—giant fucking spiders right out of Harry Potter II; and finally Redding, California which was so awful that Dean wasn’t even going to remember it.
Sam seemed to be getting along fine, gulping in a big plate of spinach greens, figs, onions, and—was that blue cheese?
“Dude, how can you stand to eat this?” he asked incredulously, trying not to shudder at the steaming red bean soup. Oh it looked too healthy for words.
“It’s just food Dean, and what’s more, it’s good for you,” Sam replied, looking up from his plate. “It’ll help you detox a bit!”
“Detox?” Dean was scandalized. “I don’t need to fucking detox, I need protein!”
Sam popped half a fig in his mouth and then gestured at Dean’s plate with his fork. “Dean, that is protein!”
“Edible protein then!” He poked the corn bread with the tines of his fork, watching suspiciously for it to crumble into a thousand little fat free pieces.
Sam rolled his eyes. “Just try it, Dean, it’s not so bad.”
“I am not going to poison myself!”
Their server leaned over Sam’s shoulder, giving Dean the perfect view of her all-natural hemp bra. She would have been Dean’s type exactly except for the dread locks. Dean liked nice, soft hair. This girl probably didn’t know the meaning of the word.
“You’re poisoning yourself every time you eat dead flesh,” she snapped at him, her organic-lip-gloss smeared lips twisted into a sneer.
“Look, honey,” Dean started back, ignoring the long suffering sigh Sam let out. “My eyes are set forward in my head; therefore I’m a predator, fucking deal with it.”
She stood up ramrod straight, looking for all the world as if she was going to hurl Dean’s water glass at him. Something she would never do of course, that would be wasting precious resources. “You need to show mother earth some respect!”
Sam reached across the table and popped a fig into Dean’s mouth, fingers lingering slightly on his lower lip, before he could utter the impending ‘blow me’. Miss Incense and Peppermints flounced back off to the kitchen and Dean was left hacking upon the fig.
Dean lay face down on the hotel bed, piles of missing person reports spread out in front of him. “So, in the last fifteen years 17 people have disappeared out of nowhere, almost all male between the ages of 18 and 30, always on the autumnal and spring equinoxes—why haven’t the police found a connection?”
“Well, they did. They thought it was a Calendar copy cat killer, like the one out in Skokee, but for some reason, whenever they attempted to investigate, something put them off.”
“So somebody is trying to tidy up their handiwork.” Dean replied, pencil gliding in and out of his mouth, Sam looked away distractedly. “Demon’s don’t do that. They’re almost always secure in the knowledge they won’t be caught or stopped.”
“Exactly, were probably dealing with a witch or a warlock.” Sam was thumbing through his own set of documents. “I wonder what the significance of the equinox is.”
Dean shrugged. “No clue—well, other than ritually—but look at this, about five others showed back up again after being missing for a week, refused to talk about their experiences when questioned, and then their families reported them as behaving noticeably different from before.”
Sam sat upright. “That’s it! The equinox! In some cultures that’s the date for rights of passage ceremonies—maybe only five guys passed the test.”
“A right of passage ceremony that goes as far back as 1991?” Dean raised his brows and waved a pile of papers in Sam’s direction. Sam shrugged back. “And what the fuck happened to the other seventeen?” They shared a look and decided not to pursue the thought any further.
“I could be totally wrong, equinoxes are also gateways for demons so—” Sam broke off and sighed. “Well we should take a look at the records to see what else arrived in 1991.”
Dean fell back on the bed with a groan. “So much reading!”
“Baby!” Sam shot back, gathering his laptop and the great load of papers together.
A pillow hit him squarely on the back as he was bending to tie his shoe. “Bitch!” Sam rolled his eyes at the tired reply, he looked at Dean over his shoulder, who was blatantly leering at his ass. Sam tried not to blush.
Dean scrolled through all the notable news that Evanston had on Microfilm. Fifteen years ago, the Joseph-Carlings moved in, two weeks later they filed a special permit to build the house another story higher: they were universally hated and their neighbors signed a petition. Fifteen years ago, Mickey Ayres got into a traffic accident: D.O.A. Fifteen years ago, 40 girls and 36 boys were born to the residents of Evanston: five of them called Jessica and another five called Alex. Fifteen years ago, Evanston’s first openly gay couple sent their kid to the local elementary. Fifteen years ago, Riley’s Store closed for good. Fifteen years ago—holy shit that was it!
“Sam! I’ve found it!” Dean said, gesturing excitedly over the microfilm. Sam shot an apologetic glance at the clerk who was glaring at Dean’s antics and then set aside the dusty records he was looking through.
“What is it?” He followed Dean’s index finger. “What? Dean! No!”
“Oh come on!” Dean replied, crossing his arms at his brother. “It has to be!”
“Dean! Just because you hate the health food restaurant doesn’t mean they’re responsible for all these missing people.”
“Why not?” Dean shot back. “It’s completely unnatural.”
Sam rolled his eyes heavenward. “I beg to differ! It’s all natural!”
“But their naturalness is unnatural!” Dean looked ready to whip out his lighter and go torch The Good Earth. They had absolutely no proof. The evidence they had was hardly even circumstantial. Like any place called The Good Earth would be off stealing people from their beds.
Sam realized he had to try a different tack. “And what’s the connection then? Did the owner catch all of these guys spraying pesticides on their lawn?” He held up the thick manila folder.
“Probably! We gotta go back there!”
“Dean, I am not—” his brother’s hand fisted in the back of his shirt, pulling him towards the door, it was either walk or be dragged.
“This is ridiculous—” Sam started as he was pushed out into the sunshine, Dean’s fingers still sunk in both his sweatshirt and his t-shirt like claws. Of all the things that had to have happened in 1991 to Evanston, the opening of an organic restaurant seemed like the least threatening.
“Dean, I can walk on my own with you to the Good Earth!” Dean didn’t let go. “I am not going to run off! What? Do I have to solemnly promise to stay with you?”
Dean still didn’t reply, nor did he let go. “Dean, if you don’t let go, you aren’t getting blow jobs for a week!” he finally hissed out in a sufficiently loud enough voice that the little group of teenage girls sitting on the front lawn of one house burst out giggling. Dean let go as if burned. Sam shrugged his shoulders and righted his twisted shirt collar.
“Okay, can you give me a reason beyond your hatred of health food that would lead you to suspect the organic restaurant?”
“Organic hippie dread lock people are always into that new age shit, right? Faeries and energy of the earth and wicca?”
“They are not all into that!” Sam protested, realizing that if Dean ever met some of his friends from back in Palo Alto he’d probably try to exorcise them.
Dean plowed on, ignoring Sam in his usual fashion. “Nothing else happened in this damn town fifteen years ago of any interest, unless some spirit is pissed off that these people like to name their kids Jessica!”
Sam let out a frustrated breath. “So maybe there’s something we missed!”
“And,” Dean added with a pointed look in Sam’s direction. “Wicca lore has all kinds of Rights of Passage shit in it!”
“What if it’s not a Right of Passage!” Sam felt like the lone voice of reason for the umpteenth time in their lives.
“It is! I can just feel it!” Dean answered, completely recalcitrant. He pushed through the door of the Good Earth ahead of Sam, the annoying bamboo-beaded curtain clacking as they passed through it.
Sam opened his mouth to stop his brother from raining fire down on the employees, but it was no use, Dean was going to hurl accusations at them like there was no tomorrow—as if he hadn’t already offended them enough.
“Dean, I really don’t think—” Sam tried one last time as dread-lock girl looked up from sweeping the floor.
“Ah, so you’re back, flesh eater!” she cried, looking ready to wield the broom as a weapon. Great, could this get any better?
Sam covered his face with his hand and groaned. Dean was just gearing up to start the Spanish inquisition when a tall, willowy woman with flaming hair walked out of an employees only door.
She interrupted any line of questioning his brother was about to spout off. “So these are the boys that need to be taught a lesson, Candace?”
“Yes! Especially the short one!” Candace nee dread-lock girl practically shrieked accusingly at Dean.
“I am not short!” Dean snarled, affronted. Sam could see this was all going to go to hell.
“Quiet!” the tall woman cried. “You trespass on the earth with every step you take. Now as you sew, so shall you reap!”
Dean looked nonplussed at the threat and the old-timey speak, and Sam wasn’t quite sure what flaming-hair and dread locks would do next. Show them the PETA slide show? God, he hoped not, he hadn’t been able to stomach anything for two weeks after he’d seen that.
“Listen, I know you’ve been making people disappear for a long time,” Dean replied, his hand at his hip, ready for his weapon. “If you just shut up for a minute, maybe we’ll forget all that and you can just promise never to do it again!”
The flame-haired woman raised a brow. “You think so?”
Sam was genuinely angry at them. Now he looked like a complete idiot for defending them. Dean would never let him live it down.
“I’m not kidding!” Dean said dangerously,gun arm starting to rise.
She lowered her brows and smirked, Candace a smug shadow at her shoulder. The tables all slid to the walls with a scraping bang. Sam dove and rolled to avoid being swiped by the round table flying across the floor at breakneck speed. The floor was chalky and dusty underneath his palms and when he turned them over there was blue and green powder smeared across them, his jeans were the same. He realized with some trepidation that there was a chalked in pattern on the floor, a circle limned with Viking runes. Sam craned his neck to shout at Dean, get out, get away, now. But it was too late, his brother's feet were yanked out from underneath him, and he slammed to the floor with an undignified thump.
A hard pressure came down on his own back, and he couldn't breathe, pressed too tight against the floor, arms straining to pick himself up and failing miserably.
“Fuck!” Dean swore, struggling against the pressure. Sam gasped and thrust up with his shoulders, but the pressure only came down harder. He glared up at the tall women, desperate eyes connecting with her calm gaze. What'd she have planned? Boot camp for the future eco-terrorist? The two women locked hands and began chanting in a deep guttural language. Dean cursed at them, trying to distract them, neck muscles straining as he managed to lift his head the slightest bit off the floor.
“Lady! It’s not the freakin’ Equinox!” Dean shouted as Candace and the other woman paused for breath.
“I was rather attached to those dates, but the spell doesn’t call for it.” Dean let out a frustrated sound and thumped his head back against the wood. “And you may call me Rosemary, by the way.”
“Well, Rosemary, let me off the fucking floor!” Dean’s voice was acidic and he mouthed the name like it was the worst form of insult. Sam hoped the test wasn’t how long it would take them to extricate themselves from the ground because that would be a lame way for seventeen guys to disappear. Or maybe they fried on the floor. He was quite sure that the wood hadn't been the same temperature as tar on a hot day when he'd first slid across it, but now it was burning hot through his jeans and against his palms.
He looked over at Dean whose green eyes were intent upon the ceiling, still fighting against the floor’s hold on them. Dean turned to him suddenly. His eyes focused.
“Sammy,” he whispered, his strong capable hand stretching out to brush Sam’s own. Was Dean giving up? The person who never quit come hell and high water all because of some psychotic vegetarians? Sam would have to store this information for future reference the next time he wanted a blow job.
"Have a nice journey, boys," Rosemary told them softly, stepping between the scattered tables and chairs to stand at the top of the circle. Sam swallowed, eyes flicking back between her and Dean. Death by vegetarian, what a way to go. Sam thought he and his brother deserved a slightly less ignominious ending than that!
He bowed his head to the floor, starting to lose the sense of where his fingertips ended, where his legs fell, what his eyes were seeing. He dimly heard an argument break out as he lost consciousness altogether.
"Fuck, Candace," Rosemary shouted. "That idiot ruined the circle when he fell, god knows where--"
And they were gone.
Dean woke up slowly. Soft pillows cushioned his head, and his limbs were spread every which way with more room than he ever seemed to have with the best hotels. His hand reached experimentally under the pillow for his gun, but cold shock went through him when all he felt was smooth sheets and lacquered wood of the headboard.
He sat bolt upright, yelling and nearly falling out of the bed when he got a good look at the room he was in. It was so sumptuous and expensive looking Dean felt like he was going to hurl. Jesus christ, there was no way they could afford this on his meager pool winnings. What was Sam trying to pull? He must have gotten them out of that damn restaurant somehow and holed up in a hotel as far away from Evanston as they could get. The door banged open behind him, startling him enough that he actually did fall.
His naked back hit the wooden floor with a solid smack. “Shit, Sam!”
The door closed and purposeful footsteps sounded across the floor. “Sir?” A perfectly groomed head peered over him. “I heard you shout—”
“Sir? What do you mean sir?” Dean cried, easing himself up off of the polished wood. The man reached out to help him, but Dean slapped his hands away, trying not to cry at the girly black silk pajama bottoms he was wearing.
“What else would I call you, sir?” the man asked as he went to a large ebony armoire and started leafing through it. His accent was so crisply British you could cut paper with it.
“I don’t know, Dean?” Dean offered as he pulled at a pant-leg. He eyed the man with a suspicious expression, and crossed his arms, making sure his back was to the wall. Whatever was going on, Dean really really didn't like. How much had some splurged on this place?
“Don’t be funny, sir!” the man replied dryly. He handed over a three-piece suit on a hanger and the morning paper.
Dean eyed the proffered suit for a long moment before taking it and setting it on the bed. He didn't care how much Sam had paid, he wasn't wearing a god damn suit unless the job required it.
He shot the man another look and then turned to unfold the paper. “How is that funny?” The headline didn't make any sense at all, bank foreclosures and supreme court packing? What the hell? His eyes hit upon the date and he made a choking noise in the back of his throat, falling back on the bed in a depressed stupor. April 4th, 1933. Oh god, he must have been a child molester in his last life. No other way he deserved being sent back to the great depression by a vegetarian on a crusade.
She must have fucked up somehow, but the last thing he remembered her saying was 'nice journey, boys' and then everything going dark. He really doubted her eco-sustainable ass had a journey where he seemed to have servants and nice clothes, and apparently silk pajama bottoms, in mind. He needed Sam, and he needed him now, surely geek boy, would have some clue of how to get out of this time travel mess.
He threw the paper aside and sat up straight asking the butler/man-servant Alfred-like dude where his brother was.
“Sammy?” the man replied, “Oh, I suppose he’ll be up in a bit.”
Well, that wasn't so bad. Looked like Dean had been rendered head of the organization while Sammy was nothing but a little bitch. Karma, that’s what it was, clearly not a child molester on his last cycle. Or did Karma work in a time-reverse? That was something he’d make Sam puzzle over.
“Right here, boss.” A voice said from the door, all thick gangster accent, interrupting the philosophical bent his thoughts were taking with the scary realization that this new person was definitely not his Sam. Like Sam would ever in five million years (half of it involving horrible torture) call him boss. He turned around slowly, steeling himself for whatever horror lay ahead. A blond young man leaned against the doorway, his dapper suit almost as nice as the one Dean had discarded on the bed. That was definitely not his Sam.
“No, I mean the other Sam!” Dean turned to ‘Alfred’ who looked back blankly. “Sam Winchester?” he offered weakly.
Sammy came away from the door with an almost audible snap, Dean took a step backwards. “That cocksucker! Says he’s going to shut us down! Well, I’ll shut him down!”
Dean felt ice run up his spine at the other Sam’s tone. He clenched his fists, would've shouted something venemous too, if he hadn't been interrupted by another newcomer striding into the room.
“Shut up, Sammy!” he said, brass-topped cane tucked smartly under an elbow. He clocked Sammy upside the head before Dean could do worse and then turned his attention to the elder Winchester. “Mornin’, Boss.”
Other Sam wasn't willing to let the subject go. “Aww come on, Dicey! He’s causin’ us all this trouble, you ain’t possibly thinkin’ we just gonna let it go!”
“You say one more word to the boss about Winchester, Sammy Blue-Eyes,” the man threatened, noticing Dean’s discomfort, “and I’ll tear those eyes right out of your head!”
“Aren’t I Winchester?” Dean muttered to himself, although ‘Alfred’ and Dicey both heard him.
“Yeah, funny coincidence that you and the DA share the same last name,” Dicey replied, scratching his chin with one white-gloved hand and looking at Dean like he was mildly retarded. “Anyway, boss, are you ever gonna be ready to go? Because we got some custom coming in.”
Dean raised his eyebrows. Custom eh? He was no fool. He’d seen enough movies. It was the thirties, he lived in a fucking penthouse palace if the view from his window was anything to go by, his underlings—god it felt good to say that—called him boss, his chief adversary was the DA (who also was his brother), and he had ‘custom coming in’. Clearly he was some kind of crime boss. No two ways around it.
Hah, that was kind of nifty.
Sam woke-up with a start, a type-written paper peeling away from his face uncomfortably. He’d fallen asleep at his desk again. That hadn't happened since that god awful civilizations seminar he'd taken sophomore year. He shook his head to clear it, and was surprised to find the cherry wood desk he looked down upon was not the one from his dorm days. He glanced at the paper-strewn desk and had a double-take when his eyes landed on a clunky black type-writer gleaming at him cheerfully.
He pushed his chair back and stood up, nearly pissing himself when he saw his clothes. He was wearing black leather dress shoes, fine wool pinstripe pants, a matching vest, and the starchiest white dress-shirt he’d ever encountered in his lifetime.
The anachronisms were beginning to pile themselves up. There was a hat stand, next to the door, hung reverentially with a fedora, a suit jacket that matched his pants, and a dark camel’s hair trench coat. It was the most coordinated outfit he’d ever worn and probably ever would, not that he could dredge up any memory of wearing the other parts of it. He sighed. This was going to be a very bad day.
Sam wanted very desperately to believe that somehow he and Dean had escaped the clutches of Rosemary and minion, found a bar, and drank themselves into oblivion and somehow wound up in the Capone museum downtown. But Sam knew with a queasy feeling that the gaping hole in his memory meant more than mere alcohol-induced time loss.
Across one wall there were papers and newspaper clippings tacked up: Chicago Tribune, Boston Herald, New York Times, a bunch of Canadian papers, and countless other papers that he had never heard of. He looked at them warily out the corner of his eyes, like if he went slowly they'd disappear, tell him something other than what he was beginning to suspect. Some were blazoned with headlines about Germany, others mentioned bank foreclosures and business failures. Sam knew that even Bush's imprudence couldn't have resulted in all that in a day. He walked closer, preparing himself for the worst. Just as well, as the worst possible situation Sam could reasonably invision, that being an article on the collapse of the Weimar Republic dated April 4th, 1933, was just what was staring him right back in the face.
"Oh holy jesus," he said softly, eyes rolling heavenward. Time travel. Rosemary, organic restauranteur, had mastered the art of time travel. Life just wasn't fair. Sam hoped desperately that Sam hadn't been sent back to like the civil war or the middle ages. Although he could probably make himself pretty handy in the crusades if he stayed away from the feudal lord's daughters.
Sam figured it could only be worse if a cloud magically transfigured itself into the room and started dumping water on him, but then he caught sight of the door. If he’d read the backwards writing across the frosted glass of his office door, he was the District Attorney of Chicago. He looked back at the clippings and tried not to imagine the many ways he could hang himself,when he realized a good half of them were about the nefarious doings of one Dean Winchester.
Well, he’d always wanted to be a lawyer.
There was a soft knock at the door. A chesty woman pushed in before he could answer, a bunch of manila folders under her arm. Her heels clacked on the floor and her white blonde hair nearly lit up the room without the help of the overhead light.
“Mr. Winchester, you didn’t sleep here again, did you?” Her brows furrowed.
“I—” he replied sheepishly. He didn't know her name.
“You did!” She replied scoldingly and set down the folders on his desk. “Andrews said you’d want these and I’ll be right back with your coffee.”
“Oh, you don’t have to…” He started, but she was already gone leaving behind a cloud of white shoulders perfume. Barely a minute later, when he’d only just settled down to look at the completely incomprehensible contents of the folders she put a steaming cup of coffee in front of him. He accepted it with his free left hand, noting with surprise that his hand clinked on the porcelain of the cup. He nearly dumped the cup into his lap when he saw the silver wedding band on his ring finger.
"My, we certainly are jumpy today." She giggled. "You looked quite out of yourself when I peeked in the window earlier."
“Am I married?” he asked aloud without really thinking.
“Mr. Winchester!” she giggled. “Did you hit your head? Only place you're married is in your nightmares!” she teased, with a fond grin. Nightmares, eh? Sam had never really saw himself as a crusty old bachelor, but maybe some seven decades ago he would've been.
“Ah,” he replied. “I see.”
She shook her head and walked behind him, doing up the blinds, so that light spilled into the office.
Her expression turned coy. “Although, Alice said to tell you that another meeting with your source.”
“Uh…” was all that Sam had in response.
“When are you going to tell us about this source anyway?” she poked him lightly on the shoulder. “The entire office is just dying to know!”
‘As soon as I figure out who this source is!’ he whispered internally. “A man must have his secrets!” he replied as he shuffled papers around, trying to look industrious. The only problem with him being DA was that he’d never actually gone to law school. Also it was the 1930s. And he had a meeting with a source that was probably going to give him information that he had no idea what to do with. Although if his wall of clippings said anything, it was probably about his goddamned brother.
“Well, where is the meeting?” he asked, shuffling more papers about, sipping at his black sludge of a coffee, and making a distressed face.
"The Advent Gardens, like always." She shot him a look like she was finally cottoning on that something wasn't right. Sam tried to look innocent and forgetful. She shook her head. "This source must be pretty, Mr. Winchester, for you to be seeing her at the advent all the time. Gossip is you might have a thing for this stool pigeon."
He assumed a stern look. "I assure that my relationship with my source is entirely professional."
"Mmmhm," she replied, amused, clacking out of his office. God he hoped he didn't have a relatioship with the informer. It would make his life so much easier. And Dean might not kill him if he didn't, although the whole law suit thing might tip the scales in a direction somewhat other than his favor. It was probably bad to drop the whole thing and say 'just kidding' though.
Two hours later he’d mostly changed his mind about the whole easier thing. Nothing could make this easier. Apparently the Sam Winchester of the 1930s was such an awesome unbribe-able lawyer that everybody loved him (well, everybody other than the very long rap sheet of people he'd sent to federal prison). Unfortunately, it meant that the office staff were very aware of him bumbling around, seeming to have lost all knowledge of legal precedents. Thank god he didn’t have any court appearances, the defense would have a field day.
He’d holed himself up in his office and stared at the wall plastered with Dean’s exploits. He hoped that whatever information the informant had for him he’d actually understand. Not that he’d really prosecute his own brother, even if they didn’t appear to be brothers in this lifetime, he certainly hoped the 1930s Sam wouldn’t send Dean to Alcatraz. Maybe he'd get the DA from Dupage County to prosecute instead, surely Dean had broken some law there too. Or maybe a federal lawyer...well it's not like Dean wouldn't be out of business in a few months when the Twenty-Third Amendment got passed in December.
“Hey, Winchester? Do you have any clue where the O’Malley case files went?” A squat man said from his doorway. “You said you wanted them all checked out by this evening, but I can’t find them anywhere and Grace swears you never gave ‘em to her.”
Sam sighed and looked around his office. Yeah, one hell of a day.
Dean was having a brilliant time. He had a large desk solely to prop his feet on, a million sycophants swarming around him catering to his every whim, and really good liquor. He didn’t really understand that one, prohibition and all that. You’d think he’d be making do with some bath-tub swill carted across the border, but no. Dean had Single Malt Whiskey that was aged older than he was from some brewery in Pennsylvania.
Not to mention he had a date tonight at the Advent Garden’s. All the boys whooped at him about it, said it was the second time that week that he’d been to see her.
“Gonna get up to some real mucking tonight, boss?” the newspaper boy, Harlan. Seemed like half the city from the newsboys to the dock workers were running about in his operation. Harlan, by luck or smarts, had wheedled his way into Dean's inner circle.
“Mucking?” Dean mouthed the word. God, he didn’t have some crime heist planned tonight, did he?
"And what does the wife think about that?" Harlan asked, looking pointedly at Dean's hand. He followed Harlan's gaze and spat out all his wonderful whisky on the desk. How had he not even noticed that his ring wasn’t on his right hand and a sort of elegant thin band was on his left. On his ring finger, horror of all horros. It just felt so right on his finger that he hadn’t even noticed it.
“Oy!” Constant Jimmy flicked Harlan’s ear. “Boss don't got a wife, just a taste for the shiny!”
All the other guys laughed. "He's free to muck his way through all the young women in this town."
Dean rolled his eyes and wondered if Al Capone ever let his henchmen ever talk like this to him. Probably not. They probably wouldn't pussy-foot around the word fuck, like his wussies were doing now.
“When are you gonna let us meet her, boss?” Constant Jimmy looked up, his face earnest. "I think she'd like us charmers quite a bit."
“And don’t deny again that that’s not what you’re doing at the Advent Garden!” Sammy Blue-Eyes interrupted. “We all seen the bruises you came back with, she must be a real tiger.”
“As if his moon-calf expression wasn’t obvious enough when he walked through the door on Monday,” Dicey teased.
“Oh be quiet!” Dean tossed back, irritated. “Or I’ll get a mind to shoot you!”
“That’s what you always say, Boss!” Neil O’Neil, who Dean had soon surmised was the most insane of the lot, replied. He was even more dandy than Dicey, well maybe not. More dandy than Dean's fine clothes.
“I mean it!” Dean replied, exasperated.
“Sure, boss,” they all replied in unison, wide grins on their faces.
Later, when he’d escaped his goons and their good natured but nevertheless embarrassing teasing, ‘Alfred’, actual name Samson, fussed over the outfit he was going to wear to meet his 'kept' woman or whatever the heck she was. He settled on a very dashing starchy suit that Dean looked pretty slick in, he should try this look back in the present day. But the fabric was hot and stifling and he longed desperately suddenly for soft worn jeans and faded cotton t-shirts.
Samson fussed over him for a good half hour after stuffing him into the suit, trimming his hair and slicking it back, filing away at Dean’s nails (man, depression-era men were such princesses), and shaving him with the straight razor. It took all of Dean’s vaunted willpower to sit through that one without wincing. Finally the barber’s cloth had been pulled off and Samson had decided he was fit to be seen in public.
He wondered what he would tell the girl at the Advent Gardens. “Hey I’m sorry, I can’t screw you, because I happen to be screwing my brother, who is also the DA and wants to put me behind bars, but nevertheless I consider myself faithful to him…” Yeah, not so much.
He was prodded out of his wonderings on plausible excuses he could take (syphilis? surely they had that back then) by Samson jabbing him in the arm. “Sir, the car is ready.”
Samson walked him to the gold grated cage they called the elevator and then nodded at him. “Don’t do anything idiotic, Sir, and you’ve actually got bullets in those guns, if I may ask?”
Dean leveled at glare at Mr. Upstart nee Alfred. Swear to god Samson was worse than Sam. “Whaddya take me for?” Although if this broad he was seeing started shooting at him, he probably should re-evaluate his life choices and quit gangsterism.
The shoulder holster he wore pulled pleasantly, reminding him of the two magnum .45s sitting solidly against his body under the fine fabric of his jacket. You’d never even know they were there unless you were Dean himself. Gave a new definition to concealed weapons. Maybe he could take them with him when they left for the future, because he'd be damned if he stayed around hear without his car or a decent fast food joint.
With a last nod at Samson he stepped into the elevator, not even really surprised to see Dicey standing there. Seemed like Dicey was his second-in-command, from the way he'd stood ever at his shoulder, in Sam's position. Dean liked Dicey, as much as he could for only knowing him for a day, but he felt his brother's loss keenly. He sighed and Dicey glanced over at him questioningly.
Dean really had to know about this wedding-band type thing on his left hand, so he screwed up his courage and hoped that Dicey wouldn’t think he was absolutely crazy and attempt to lock him up. “Dicey, about this ring—”
Dicey groaned and brushed a finger over his perfectly trimmed coal-black mustache. “Boss, for the last time! The ring does not make you look sissy and since he’s wearing one too, you can just shut up about it already!”
“HE?” Dean broke in. Oh dear God, not good, Dean thought with sudden panic.
“Boss? Are we all right in there? You’re meeting him tonight!”
“Yeah, sorry, just a little distracted…” Dean adlibbed.
Dicey leaned back against the elevator wall. “By the way, I think you should tell O’Neil about him, ‘cuz that cat ain’t never gonna make a move on Jimmy otherwise.”
“Mmhm.” Dean replied noncommittally. He was too busy reeling over the fact that his ‘tiger’ was a he, and if he ever ran into Sam again, his brother would have like four times the reason to want to put him behind bars. Dean saw definite chain-gangs in his future.