Hey guys! So, it's my first posted Supernatural fic here on . I'd love it if you would take the time to leave a comment/review!

A/N: Um, yeah, I know nothing about poker games, so please ignore any mistakes or confusion. It's just a means to get on to the Destiel stuff!^^

Dean stared down at this hand of cards as a bead of sweat meandered its way down his cheek. The stuffy, smoky backroom he was playing in had no A/C and only a tiny breeze from the open window kept it from being completely suffocating. It did not, however, dispel much of the rancid smell of too many men and too much booze

He clamped his teeth down on a toothpick, wishing at the moment that he hadn't given up smoking years ago because if ever there was a time when he needed a good relaxing puff, it was now. He was three hands down and the next two months worth of rent money was on the table before him. He would have cursed gambling as his vice, but the truth was, he was full of them. He drank—though rarely to excess—, he slept around, he ate pie and cheeseburgers like they were going out of style, and he subscribed to so many porn sights he'd had to buy another computer just for work as the first had become one big virus. The only things he really loved were his Baby (a'67 Chevy Impala in pristine condition—just about the only thing in his life that was) and his kid brother, Sam.

A few months ago, Sam had gone off to Stanford on a full ride to become a lawyer, and he lived on Dean's monthly checks. Dean remained in Lawrence, KS in their small rent-controlled apartment that their daddy had left a 17-year-old Dean when he was killed on the job as a bounty hunter. Dean hadn't realized quite how much he depended on Sammy until he had left, taking just about all Dean's happiness with him. Now he filled his loneliness with days at his uncle Bobby's salvage yard and repair shop and his nights drinking or hustling pool at the Roadhouse, a local bar. He knew he was headed down a bad path, but damned if he couldn't hit the brakes.

"Draw or fold?" demanded the dealer of the back-room poker game. He and his buddy—Dean's opponent—were waiting on Dean to make a move. Dean struggled to think clearly though the haze of alcohol already in his system—he usually didn't drink while he played but he'd gotten a call from Sammy earlier and his loneliness was spiraling out of control.

He glanced again at the hand before him and decided. "Draw," he said, slapping a pair of worn cards down in the middle of the rickety table. The burly dealer swiped them up and handed Dean two slightly damp cards in return. He tried not to let his surprise show on his face when they turned out to be not too bad. Pretty good, in fact, as long as the other man's were fairly crappy.

The man also asked for two and looked at his hand a long moment before upping the ante by another $100. He had been a bit of a high-roller all evening, betting much more than anyone else and usually winning it back—until now. Everyone else had gone home, but Dean stuck it out, hoping to make a few extra bucks before slinking back to his flat.

Dean clenched his jaw, biting through the toothpick. He spat it out on the ground and stared at his cards, willing them to magically turn better. Nothing happened and he sighed. What the hell? he thought, and tossed in four hundreds—the last of his money and all his winnings. May as well try the intimidation tactic and see if the man was bluffing—it wasn't like he could get by on $500 anyways. Besides, the pot was over $1000; so much for a casual game, but it looked like Dean's opponent hated to loose almost as much as Dean did.

The man growled and clenched his cards in his fist before slumping in defeat. "Ralph," he said over his shoulder. He had a bit of an entourage, three men—the dealer and another— both of which looked like mob muscle. The third was a spindly little guy with a mousy face.

"Yeah, Mikey?" he asked readily. Looked like he was only here to do the man's bidding.

"Bring it to me," Mikey told him gruffly.

"Really?" Ralph protested. "But you could loose—"

"Better it than more money! It's useless anyways now. Should have drowned it a year ago and just got a new one."

Dean winced at the man's harsh tone. He didn't know what "it" was—he was assuming a dog or some other pet by the way the man was talking about it—but clearly it was no good. "I only play for cash," he said evenly. He didn't want to win some guy's run-down animal.

Mickey gave him a filthy grin. "Trust me, it's worth more than what's on the table. Or was, when it was fresh. Still worth a lot but I'm tired of it."

Dean would have protested again, but there was a scuffle at the back door and he looked up to see that Ralph had returned with another man in tow. Dean stared for a moment, too shocked to get what was happening. The man was not tall and stood maybe a few inches below Dean's 5'8" frame. He wore a tattered tan trench coat, cinched tightly around his slim waist. His legs were bare underneath, leading Dean to assume that he was otherwise naked. His skin (what Dean could see of it under a layer of grime) was pale and looked smooth with little hair.

The coat was tight enough that Dean could tell the man was too thin for his size and his long fingers clutched at the sleeves that came down to his wrists, as though wanting to cover himself more but afraid to. His hair was black and disheveled but Dean suspected that even clean, he would still have permanent bed head. His face was shockingly handsome—or, had been at one point. There were dark lines under his eyes and his full lips were pale and chapped. He kept his eyes closed tight, so Dean couldn't see what color they were, but Dean suspected something light to match his pale skin.

"Get over here," Mickey ordered and immediately the small man's head flew up at the sound of his voice. He inched forward until he got within reach of Mickey, who grabbed him roughly and shoved him down to his knees. The man didn't make a sound, but knelt there, head down.

"What the hell—?" Dean demanded, his shoulders tense with distaste. What kind of sick fuck was he playing with, to treat another man like that? He certainly didn't want to win another guy's slave or whatever!

"Don't get your panties in a twist, Winchester," Mikely said, "Castiel here isn't human. He can take a lot worse than what I've given him."

The strange, lyrical name would have given away the slim man's identity, if the "not human" part didn't. There was only one being on Earth who looked so deceptively human with inhuman good looks and a name from the history books.

"An angel?" Dean breathed, even as he knew the truth. He had never seen on in person, just a few on TV once in a while. They were all bonded to humans, but none that he'd seen had been treated quite this badly. Sure, he'd heard of angels being sold as slaves, but mostly they just tagged along with their human partners. It was commonplace these days, even if there were only a few hundred thousand in the world.

Mikey grinned at Dean's reaction—not many people still acted as reverent to the creatures anymore. It had been twenty years since they had been cast out of Heaven and had sought refuge on Earth, sharing their Father's planet with his other creations.

"It's all yours if you win. It's a bit worn out, but I'm sure for a man of your…means…it would be more than enough. It may be a male, but he sucks cock as good as any girl, and takes it like a pro."

"Look, I don't want a slave…" Dean said. He glanced again at—what was it, Cas-something?—and took in his pitiful condition. What the hell would he do with that? All he'd wanted was some extra cash for food and beer, not an ex-Heavenly angel sex-slave.

Mikey sighed. "Fine, have it your way. Ralph, take it back to the car. We'll see what we can get for it on eBay."

Only because Dean was still staring at the angel out of the corner of his eye did he notice the sudden minute slump to the being's shoulders, the tightness of his jaw. His hands clenched in the fabric of his trench coat, but still he did not make a sound.

Dean's throat constricted. He'd seen a dog once with the same look. He had been passing by an alley when he heard a pathetic whimper followed by children's laughter. He'd gone to investigate and found a pack of boys torturing a small beagle that was lying in a heap of garbage. After he'd chased the kids away with curses, the dog had gazed up at him so sadly, the look in its warm brown eyes woefully broken. He'd taken the dog to Bobby, but nothing either man did could heal the dog. It died two days later.

"Wait," Dean ground out when he saw Ralph approach the wretched angel. "Leave him. I'll play."

Mikey motioned Ralph away and Dean thought he saw the angel shudder a little in relief. "Fine, then, the ante's set. What have you got?" He sounded more confident again and Dean wondered if this had all been one big bluff to throw him off. He hoped not—angel or not, he needed to eat this month…

He laid down his five cards with false bravado. A straight. A fair hand, but easily beaten.

The way Mikey tossed his cards angrily onto the table and stormed up out of his seat indicated that Dean had just won. He sat there in awkward wonderment as the larger man grabbed the angel by the throat and yanked him to his feet. It was then that he saw the outline of the angel's wings hidden underneath the trench coat. The tips of them just brushed his lower calves, but in the dim light, Dean couldn't see what colour they were.

"This is all your fault! Get your mark off me, you filthy little bitch," Mikey yelled, " I don't ever want to see your face again!" The angel raised a shaking hand to the man's chest and placed it over his heart. There was a flash of light and Mickey winced. As soon as the light vanished, he threw the broken angel back to the ground and stalked out of the room, flashing a murderous look at Dean on his way to the door. The two muscle men followed, but Ralph paused to look at Dean.

"Fix him, ok?" he asked quietly. "He's worth it." Then he was gone too, ducking out of the door behind his employer.