destielcanoninmymind:

1940’s AU

savingcastiel:

canhasactuallife:

YES. Do. Want.

It was a cold night. The office dank and smelling of cigar smoke and cheap perfume that wafted it’s way into the interior from the bar next door. It was one of those nights where staying late at the office meant brooding and finding myself in the company of my good friends Jack and Daniels as I try to pretend this dry spell in cases was just that. A spell.

Business was slow. It was the slow that you feel in yourself, like the weather or the way a good drink makes its way into you or the way a cigarette burns out when you smoke for the hell of it.

But it was more than that. And if I know my job, and I do like the back of my own two hands, crime doesn’t sleep and neither do I. This lull was the calm before the storm, the all quiet on the western frontier, the waltz before the salsa, the-

Then suddenly, he walked in.

Like an angel on the warpath, stride purposeful and strong, legs going on for miles and eyes the color of Russian diamonds.

And he had trouble spelled all over him like a desk in a grade school classroom.

Eyes made his way to my desk and growled out “Detective Winchester?” His voice the sound of waves crashing onto the pier by the boardwalk. And it was effective. So very effective but you never let a client know how much you feel, especially a client with that kind of voice.

instead I swirled my glass and held his gaze steadily. “Depends. Who’s asking”

Eyes huffed but didn’t break my gaze, I like a man who can hold his eye contact, and replied, “Castiel. I’m Castiel Milton. And I need your help.”