Chapter Text
A sharp breeze blew along Great Guildford Street as Cuthbert Sinclair stepped out of the front door. He pulled his coat more tightly around his shoulders, adjusting his hat as his breath billowed in front of his face. "Damn this infernal late winter," he muttered to the empty street. His ears might be in danger of freezing off before he reached his apartments across the river at Blackfriars.
Determined to make quick work of the walk home, he was stomping down the steps when he saw someone stumbling up the lane ahead of him. He squinted as the man drew nearer—he was lurching, one arm held close to his side.
He walked closer, wondering if the man was injured with the way he was shuffling along. As the man passed closer to one of the gas lanterns hung at intervals along the lane, Sinclair recognized him.
"Johnston! I say, man, are you well?" he called, watching his acquaintance approach. He'd only met Alfie Johnston a handful of times, but he'd had a quiet, pleasant countenance. Now, there looked to be something on Alfie's face, his young, boyish features marred along one cheek and onto his forehead. Had he fallen, or been attacked?
Alfie finally lifted his gaze to regard Sinclair, and a sick horror took hold of his gut as he saw no recognition there—only cold contemplation.
"What has happened to you?" Sinclair asked quietly as he took in the sickly pallor, the skin that looked almost rotting in the dim lantern glow. Alfie said nothing, merely stood there and observed Sinclair with an unsettling stare.
Sinclair swallowed his dread and tried again. "Let me help you to the doctor on Bloomsbury Street..."
Alfie opened his mouth, but said nothing. Instead, a black smoke started to curl out of his throat into the chilled air. Sinclair stumbled back in horror as it moved towards him, but before he could get away, the smoke had come for him—pouring into his own open mouth, stifling the scream he tried to make as it filled his senses.
The last thing he was aware of was Alfie's body slumping to the street. Then all was darkness and screaming, screaming.
Dean leapt down from the carriage step with his hat still in hand, calling his thanks to the driver as he jogged up the steps to 31 Great Queen Street. He jammed the top hat down to his ears swiftly; while some wouldn’t care what he wore within this establishment, you never quite knew who was lurking around corners. Men of Letters were good at lurking, after all.
He wasn’t late, but he hurried—his employer rarely called in the middle of the night (or perhaps this was early morning? Dean was beyond being able to tell) unless it was something truly worth getting out of bed for.
Peeling himself from his mattress hadn’t been the worst thing—he’d been in the midst of a horrid nightmare that had stolen his breath and paralyzed his legs to the bed, again. Regardless, running in to work without so much as a proper cup of coffee wasn’t Dean’s ideal way to start the day, no matter who he was reporting to or what for.
Dean let his palm rest on the brass door handle of Bobby’s office for a moment, allowing the cool metal to chill his palm as he took a breath. Bobby—Mister Singer, here—rarely called anyone to his office at this time in the morning. Mostly because he preferred to spend the earlier hours of the day critiquing breakfast meats with Rumsfeld, his loyal rottweiler, but also because if anyone was called to his office at all, it was usually bad news…and everyone knew that was best accompanied by a soothing port after supper. Dean was fairly certain, though, that he hadn’t recently done anything in particular to anger Bobby, either as an uncle or an employer, so his place within the Men of Letters was probably safe.
But, still.
Nerves.
With a swift rap of his knuckles, Dean announced his arrival at the office.
“Hurry up, boy,” Bobby rumbled as he held the door open. “Don’t let the morning air in from that drafty hall.”
Dean sidled his way into the oak-paneled anterior office, adjacent to Bobby’s more private library to the left. Dean had been admitted into the back office plenty—he’d played on the floor with blocks as a boy, even—but he wasn’t sure what Bobby wanted from him today.
“Enough of your nerves, Dean,” Bobby said, waving the bit of his pipe in Dean’s direction before jabbing it toward the armed wooden chair that mirrored his own at the desk. “This is neither a dismissal or a marriage proposal, and I can’t picture much beyond that bothering you.”
Dean gave out a small grin, pulling off his hat and settling it into his lap politely. Bobby knew him better than anyone beyond Sam, and Dean trusted him more than his own self. So, if Bobby said to calm, he’d calm. “Very well, old man. Tell me why you summoned me from my bedsheets while I can still taste last night’s whiskey, in that case.”
“Enough of the ‘old man,’” Bobby grumbled. “Or I’ll let Ellen push one of the Rosen sisters at you.”
Dean paled.
“Now,” Bobby began again, pointedly. “I know you’ve been working alone since—”
With a soft clear of his throat, Dean propelled his uncle onward. They certainly didn’t need to talk about that.
“Yes, well,” Bobby conceded. “You must realize, of course, that it’s quite far from protocol. To that end, I was charged with assigning you a new partner.”
Stomach sinking, Dean tried to suppress his sigh. “Oh?” he asked neutrally.
“The middle Milton boy—or oldest now, I suppose—has been called back from the continent, and his family has made arrangements for him to take up his brother’s place here immediately.”
Dean frowned. “Should I know who that is?”
“Don’t let Ellen hear you. They’re in Debrett’s peerage.”
“Half of the agency is in Debrett’s,” Dean scoffed. “Means nothing to me, Bobby.”
Bobby peered at him in disbelief. “Michael! Man of Letters all his life, always looked like he was sucking on a lemon? Tragically died while on a case just a few months ago? Ringing any bells?”
“Oh, Michael!” Dean said, nodding. He hadn’t known Michael well, never got along with the chap, but his death had been a shock to the establishment late last year. “I see. I didn’t even know he had a brother.”
Bobby bowed his head, mumbling something through his beard that Dean thought he’d better not question. Instead, he leaned back into his chair, crossing his arms across the front of his simple waistcoat—it had been far too early to think about dressing up. Not for Bobby, anyway. He considered his options: complaining would get him nowhere; ignoring Bobby’s wishes would get him reprimanded and—even worse—would earn him Bobby’s disappointment. So, pushing down his own strong feelings on the matter, Dean let out a sigh.
“Alright; tell me about him.”
On top of the heavy, inherited desk, Bobby flipped open a file. “A good man, by all accounts. He’s thirty-one years old, middle son of three. Very well decorated at the front, so at least you know he’s got wits and aim.”
Dean tried to suppress a little snort; being an officer, in his opinion, didn’t automatically mean either of those things.
Bobby ignored him, rushing on through the file. “You can form your own opinion about him, Dean, but you must give him a chance. I have no option but to assign you a partner, and I have done my best to at least find you a capable one who might be able to put up with you.” Bobby’s lip curled with a smirk under his mustache. “I certainly didn’t summon you here to write a personal advertisement on his behalf—I summoned you because you’ve already been assigned a case. Not sure any of the younger lads have the stomach for it, so you’ll just have to go and meet him there.”
“You—” Dean blinked slowly. “Now? You’re sending me out with him now, on a case? Before we’ve even spoken?”
Bobby looked up, glaring at Dean from beneath his bushy eyebrows. “Did you want time to have tea and cake first?”
“I—uh, no, no, Sir,” Dean amended. Alright then. He could do this. Probably better this way, even. “What’s the case then, Bobby?”
“There’s a body,” Bobby said flatly.
“And…”
“And, it’s one of ours. Johnston.”
Dean’s eyes widened, and he sat back in his chair, shocked. “Alfie Johnston? He’s dead?”
Well. That explained why he’d been summoned in the middle of the night. Alfie was young and well-liked. He’d joined the Letters at only sixteen years old, and Dean—as well as many others—had taken it upon themselves to train him up and take him under wing. The boy had entered his twenties by now, but he was no less full of sunshine.
Or had been. Dean’s chest constricted.
“Indeed. Found this morning in Southwark. Go there and find out what the rest is. You know how this goes, boy. Get outta my office.”
Dean shook his head as he pushed up out of the seat. “Alright. The clerks have all the details the police reported?”
“That is how it works, Dean,” Bobby rumbled. Dean was almost to the door when Bobby opened his mouth again, letting out one final request. “Dean—try your best, please. Don’t be unkind; what happened to Lafitte isn’t Milton’s fault. Don’t scare him off like the others.”
Dean looked back at his uncle for a long moment before giving him a sharp nod and moving out into the corridor. Once there, door safely shut, he let out a long, shaky breath. Wonderful. Another pampered, spoiled nobleman posing as an agent, no doubt; another rookie Dean would have to watch out for on top of everything else. Just fantastic.
Storming off back to the carriage and up to his suite as quickly as he could, Dean hurried his way into more suitable attire. Sammy woke up, giving him a questioning scowl as he stomped around in his leather boots. Dean gave him little more than a few words of explanation and a rant about the partner he had not yet even met, before grabbing his overcoat and gun and heading out of the door.
The clerks directed him across the Thames, and a Men of Letters carriage took him to Great Guildford Street and a dim alley heading down toward Brooks Wharf. It smelled of drunkard’s urine and London smog, and the cobblestones were thick with grease and dirt and some poor sap’s blood. Perhaps Alfie’s, perhaps not. Around here, it’d be hard to tell. Dean was briefly grateful that he’d given no thought to eating before he left.
The clamor in the alleyway was to be expected; London folk were nosy, and the watchmen weren’t exactly doing their best to keep them away—Dean was fairly sure he saw one accept a farthing to look the other way while a group of young men gawked. Crime was, unfortunately, fair entertainment in some parts of London.
“Lettersman,” a uniformed Night Watch constable shouted. He spoke across the heads of some dawdling watchmen who should have been setting up a barrier, but were instead discussing whether the water puddles they stood in were really water at all. “Over here, sir!”
Correctly identified—his insignia fully on display above his coat—Dean shouldered his way past the men. “If you’re going to stand in piss,” he grumbled at them, “don’t hover around and chat about it.”
Once he’d reached the constable, Dean tipped his hat and turned his eyes to the body. The corpse—Alfie—lay on his back, highlighted in a blinking, sparking gas street light above. “What information do you have?”
“Very little,” he admitted solemnly. “You should take a look at the body though, Sir.”
Nodding, Dean approached. He had a good stomach for smells, which was quite essential in his profession, but this alleyway was making him queasy. Johnston was sprawled face down across the cobblestone, head twisted unnaturally to the side, ungainly, eyes still open.
A slight sigh escaped Dean. He tried to school his features into professional calm, but it was always sad working out the first steps: who they were, what family they had, who loved them. Parts of his job, Dean loved with a fiery passion. This...no. He’d lost too many people himself to ever take joy in this part.
And this body in particular...quite right that Singer hadn’t sent some of the younger lads. They shouldn’t have to see one of their own in this state.
Pulling at the legs of his breeches to gain some flexibility, Dean crouched down on the ground, resting a hand on his knee. He didn’t care for being amongst the dirt, but that was what bathwater was for. He was far from squeamish. He was about to ask the watchman to begin moving everyone away when a commotion at the mouth of the alleyway caught his attention.
The bumbling watchmen and nosy neighbors were pushed aside. Overhead, the gas street lamp sparked outrageously as it was knocked, lighting the alley brighter with a sudden flare as a man, Dean’s own height bar perhaps an inch, shouldered his way through the bystanders. His boots cracked loudly across the cobbles, and the unbuttoned tan coat over his suit flapped dramatically as he strode toward Dean, single-minded. The glow of the lamp highlighted strong, angular features and uncombed hair—though whether that was from the hour or habit, Dean was uncertain—and startling, vivid blue eyes that stripped down everything around him in silence.
“Lord Milton,” the watchman greeted, apparently knowing his peerage better than Dean did, damn it. “Good to see you back in London, Sir.”
The gentleman merely gave a brief nod, dismissive, before heading on past him, toward Dean. “Good evening, Mister Winchester. I believe you were expecting me?”
If his looks were unexpected, his voice was astounding. Dean cleared his throat, shaking away some genuinely ungentleman-like thoughts, and reminding himself who this spoiled little rich boy actually was. “Milton,” he responded, not deigning to shake the hand that was offered, or use the title that he should. “I’m afraid you’re going to have to get your hands dirty. I do hope that’s not too upsetting for you, m’lord. You could always go back to bed, if this is a little much.”
Castiel Milton, all wide shoulders and distinctly disgruntled expression, didn’t look like he’d be quite so easy to put off. “Mister Singer directed me to be here. I suggest we get on with it.”
The watchman made a small choking noise, before backing away. “I’ll get the boys to clear everyone out, sirs,” he said, backing away quickly, suddenly seeming much keener on being elsewhere.
Castiel scowled, dropping his gaze from the scorn of Winchester’s eyes to the body lying sprawled on the dirty cobbles, with a slightly rotten stench about it. From what he could see of the curve of the man’s cheek and the general smell of the corpse, he looked to have been dead for some time, even though the briefing Singer had given him had placed the murder sometime close to midnight last night.
Winchester kneeled by the corpse, businesslike in his examination even though something akin to sadness seemed to pull at his features. Features that seemed to draw Castiel’s gaze back to them again and again since he’d arrived in this godforsaken alley—uncommonly fine features for a working man such as Winchester.
It had been a long week, he reflected, stepping back from the body and checking the time on his watch, before replacing it in his pocket. He'd only been at Milton Hall for a week to mourn his brother before he'd been hurried off to London to take up his place in the House as Lord Milton. Not two days more had passed before he’d been brought into the fold of the Men of Letters, London branch, complete with a baffling induction from Robert Singer, featuring some balderdash about the “forces of darkness” and “creatures lurking in the shadows of society.”
He’d had no inkling that Michael had been involved in any kind of society, let alone a secret monster-hunting one, and frankly, he was disinclined to believe in any of it until he was faced with one of these creatures himself. But his acceptance of the position meant that he was exempt from having to sit in the House of Lords, an idea that was particularly appealing. Castiel was a man who preferred actions to words.
Winchester gripped the corpse firmly by one shoulder and the fabric at a hip and shoved it over, until the poor sod was lying on his back, face up to the grey sky. The rot was more obvious now—open, ragged flesh hanging from the man’s cheek, his filmed eyes staring into oblivion. Castiel stepped back as one lifeless arm flopped out near his shoes, haphazardly. Having so recently returned from the continent, he was no stranger to corpses and the like, but he had usually moved on before bodies started to look like this. The men he had served with would have flinched away from such a smell, too.
His new colleague, Winchester, though—he was an interesting character. At present he was rifling through the jacket pockets of the victim before them, turning up little of use. Winchester was young, perhaps barely twenty-five, but had already come into his father’s title. From Singer, he’d gleaned that Winchester had a reputation as a rake, fond of female company and low entertainment. Castiel’s frown deepened as Winchester unlaced the victim’s shirt and pulled it back to expose more discolored flesh, and the remains of a faded tattoo. He covered the skin up again and pulled the man’s waistcoat back into place.
To be plucked from the front lines, Castiel had to admit, had been a welcome reprieve. But to be thrust into this…investigator role, like some inspector out of Bow Street? It was belittling, at best. In Spain, he’d commanded men, led them into battle. To be told he must now report to a peerless gentleman five years his junior bordered on insulting.
The minor noble in question stood up from his crouch, brushing off his hands with a deliberate finality. “It looks as though he’s been dead for a while,” Winchester said, barely glancing at Castiel. “Wouldn’t you agree, Milton?”
Castiel swallowed his irritation. If he was going to be partnered with this stuck up buffoon for any length of time, he might as well try to make nice. “If you say so,” he murmured, with a small nod.
Winchester nodded as well, accepting his answer. “That’s where you’re mistaken. He was seen walking along Bloomsbury Street just last night.”
Castiel huffed with annoyance. What exactly was Winchester playing at? “You think this decay on the corpse happened overnight?”
“Or he was already like this when he fell here,” Winchester said, looking down at the victim, a thoughtful look on his face.
Castiel stared at him, baffled. “What do you mean, some kind of disease, or—?”
“Hopefully,” Winchester interrupted, a smirk playing across his face.
Castiel turned away, annoyed all over again by the way this man’s smile lit up his face, even when he was being obnoxious.
Winchester continued, as though thinking out loud. “A possession, I’d wager. Poor Alfie has probably been dead for some days, as you see, but…walking around for a few more.”
Castiel stared down at the body in horror. “A spirit?”
Singer had given him a passing education in the types of creature he might encounter in the field, and he’d barely paid attention, thinking it all made-up stuff and nonsense.
Winchester rubbed his fingers over the fabric of the victim’s collar, and brought them up to his face to sniff at them. “What do you make of this?” he asked, thrusting his hand in Castiel’s direction.
Castiel huffed at the impropriety, but, glancing around to ensure no bystanders were paying them particular attention, he sniffed at Winchester’s fingers, catching a hint of something that made his nose wrinkle. “Eggs?”
“It’s brimstone, Milton. Called sulfur by the chemists,” Winchester says, turning back to the watchman still keeping bystanders at bay. “I say, would you be so good as to help us bring him to our carriage? We’d like to examine the body further back at the Chapterhouse.” He smiled winningly at the man, and Castiel wondered whether, with a smile like that, anyone would be able to refuse him whatever he asked for.
“Yes, sir. What about his missus?”
Winchester pulled a kerchief out of his coat pocket and wiped his hands again. “We’ll take care of that. Come, Milton, we’ll help”
His scowl firmly in place, Castiel waited while a plank of timber was scavenged from a nearby alley to help with carrying the decaying body. Two of the bystanding men volunteered to carry it to the back of the carriage, so they could convey it back to Great Queen Street for examination. Castiel had also heard from Singer that the people of London knew the Lettersmen and trusted them to take care of matters that were a little out of the ordinary—and to make them go away without a fuss.
Castiel joined Dean inside the carriage for the journey across the river. The carriage wound somberly through the streets of London, the deceased draped with a linen sheet from the nearby inn.
“So you’re a soldier?”
Castiel turned his head sharply to regard Winchester’s face as the carriage clattered along the cobbles. No sign of jesting. He turned towards Castiel, shrugging his shoulders. “Sorry, man, Singer didn’t tell me much.”
“I commanded a brigade on the peninsula for three years,” Castiel replied tightly.
“Brigade of what, dragoons?” Winchester’s brow quirked in a look Castiel had come to identify with those who knew little about matters being discussed but tried to sound like they did.
“Light cavalry, yes.” He reached for a way to turn the conversation. “What exactly do you suppose killed the victim, here?”
Winchester’s look darkened, and he turned his eyes back to the body lying in the carriage behind them. “Not certain, I need to consult with the experts.”
He fell quiet, and Castiel did not push further, letting the silence be.
When they reached the Men of Letters chapterhouse, the body was brought down to a cool room in the basement of the building and laid out on a table. As Castiel waited with Dean in the basement, an extremely tall man with hair tied back into a queue appeared in the doorway.
“‘Bout time, bitch,” Winchester said, moving forward to clap a hand to the man’s shoulder, who winced.
“Good morning, Dean. And this must be Lord Milton. Welcome to the Men of Letters, my lord.” The man reached out a hand, much more polite than Winchester had been at their meeting earlier.
Castiel nodded. “Milton is fine. Or Castiel. Pleased to make your acquaintance…?” He waited for the man to introduce himself, but before he could, Winchester stepped in.
“Milton, this is my brother, Sam Winchester. Finest mind the Letters have for investigations.”
Castiel eyed Sam Winchester speculatively. He was obviously a few years younger than Dean, and unfashionably dressed in serviceable brown work clothes. This was the Lettersmen’s finest mind?
Sam moved forward to flick the corner of the sheet back from the victim’s face. Recoiling in distaste at the rotting flesh, he looked up at the elder Winchester again. “Your thoughts?”
“Possession,” Winchester said, without delay. “But I’ve never seen a spirit take control for long enough for the body to decay like this. Remember that time last year when there was some worm creature getting into people’s ears?”
Castiel stared at him, wondering if he’d heard correctly. A worm?
But Sam had already moved the sheet again and was squinting down at the victim’s left ear. “No,” he said, “no black substance in the ear.”
“There’s some other substance on his lapel, though,” Winchester said, moving forward to twitch the sheet down further. Castiel could see the yellow powdery substance on the victim’s woolen coat.
Sam fingered the coat and sniffed at his fingers, just as his brother had done previously. “Sulfur?” he asked, glancing up at Winchester. “Dean, I think I know what this is.”
“And?” Winchester said, eyebrows raised. “Don’t leave us in suspense, Sam.”
Sam straightened up beside the table, a grim expression on his face. “A few weeks ago there was a similar case—man dropped dead in the middle of Christmas mass, but only after he’d tried to kill a few people in his parish church. He had sulfurous powder all over his hands and in his mouth. I looked into it—“
“Yes, alright Sammy, get to the point,” Winchester said, sounding exasperated. Castiel found he didn’t like the tone Winchester took with his brother, much.
“Demons,” Sam said, his voice low.
An uncomfortable silence filled the room. Singer hadn’t mentioned demons to Castiel in his induction.
Dean spoke first, disbelief plain in his voice. “Demons? Be serious, man. There’s no such thing.”
Sam protested, saying, "I assure you, they're real," but Dean continued to speak over him, raising his voice.
“What, are we going to have angels on the march through town next? A few casual saints drinking at the Roadhouse?”
“What makes you think it’s demons, Mister Winchester?” Castiel interrupted, for the first time.
Ignoring Dean’s derision, Sam spoke directly to Castiel. “You can call me Sam. The sulfur— they leave it behind when they leave a vessel. If the demon has been controlling the body for some time, there’s a chance it might decay before the demon leaves—”
“Demons, I ask you…” Winchester scoffed, but Castiel moved towards the body, annoyed by his flippancy. Why would demons be any more preposterous than anything else that had been proposed?
He carefully lifted the man’s coat to check inside for a pocketbook, perhaps, something to indicate why he’d been in the area late at night. Glancing up at Winchester, he asked, “You said you knew this man?”
“Yes, we all did. He’s Alfie Johnston. Well, Alfred. A younger Lettersman. He was well liked around here.” Sadness passed across his face again, and he frowned. “There’s nothing in his pockets, I already checked.”
Castiel straightened up, replacing the sheet over Alfie’s discolored face. “And would there be a record of his recent movements?”
Winchester blinked at him in surprise. “Well, yes. Bobby would have it.”
“I think we have all we need here, then,” Castiel said, heading towards the door. He turned back to see Winchester and his brother having some kind of glared conversation behind him. “Is that not the way forward, Winchester?”
“Yes, yes, very well,” Winchester said, annoyance plain in his face and bearing.
Castiel nodded to Sam, saying, "Pleased to meet you, Mister Winchester" and began to climb the stairs to the ground level of the chapterhouse.
Behind him, he heard a low voice, "That's your new partner?"
Dean’s reply came a moment after. "Yes, I know. Shut up, Sam."
Castiel's scowl deepened. Dean Winchester could think what he liked of him. He wasn't used to being well liked, and he didn't see why that should change now.