ladydrace | 100 Things Challenge, #10!

Working title: "Trouble."
Fandom: SPN.
Pairing: Dean/Castiel.
Other stuff: Noir style AU.
Word count: 470 so far.

This bunny reads pretty much like this. "Dean/Cas Noir AU. Dean is a private eye and Cas is a bar singer. "

Notes:
This bunny is complete self-indulgence, because I know next to nothing about this era. I never watched the Untouchables or anything resembling an accurate representation of this period. All I have to fall back on for this is Bugsy Malone and the episodes of SPN and Castle playing with this type of story. I pretty much only thought of it because Dean looks good in a fedora and Cas would be sexy as hell singing in a smoky bar. I am so screwed.

Also, I think Dean might sound too much like a caricature in this, and that wasn't really my intention. Oh well.

Snippet, although not really, because this is all of it.

March 22, 1939.

This job is gonna kill me. Not in the usual way, though. Hell, right about now I'd welcome a jog in a pair of good ol' cement shoes. At least with the mob you know where you stand. No. This job is gonna squeeze my brain like a goddamn lemon, and I'll wager all the money I don't have that what I'll end up with won't be anything like lemonade.

Off the bat, this case was like any other. Cheatin' husband. Takin' pictures. Askin' questions. Routine. Easy paycheck. Turns out that I even had to go to my favorite watering hole to follow a lead. I shoulda known it was too easy. Let's face it. I never get this lucky.

Harvelle's was same as always. Smoky. Gloomy. Full of people I owe money. No place like home. Bill Harvelle's name might be the one on the deed, but everybody knows that his wife Ellen runs the place. It's her baby. So of course she ambushed me the second I walked through the door, and the old bat wouldn't even serve me until I paid half my tab. Then she cuffed my ear, and told me I need to get married. Only God knows why, but she loves me like a son. I'd call her ma, but she'd kill me.

So I sat down and got me a drink. Everythin' goes smoother with a few percentages in my gullet. Then it was time to get back to work. I'd been told that the fella I needed to question worked at Harvelle's, but nobody told me with what exactly. I'd assumed bartender. I assumed wrong. Ellen pointed at the stage where the band was setting up, and then out came the lounge singer.

My daddy always told me: “Dames are nothin' but trouble”. Could have something to do with his wife dyin' and leaving him with two kids to feed. Or maybe issues with his own ma. Who knows. What he never warned me about were Johnnies like the one doin' obscene things to the damn microphone up on stage. I really wish he had, cause this? This smelled like trouble. Big, big trouble.

At least with dames you always know when you're screwed. When they have legs going on for miles, tastefully painted mugs and nails like claws, you know what you're gettin' into if you're dumb enough to take the bait. This guy, though...

Now, I ain't no Nancy. I like broads. Boy, do I ever. But this ain't the first time I've had... thoughts. Nothin' that ever became nothin'. I'm not a moron. But remember how I said this job was gonna make not-lemonade out of my noggin'? Well, meet the lemon squeezer. Castiel. A stage name, apparently.