A/N: This chapter ended up being sooo long (over 7,000 words with more scenes to go!) so I decided to split it in two. The next update shouldn't take too long to come!

FYI, there's a homophobic slur in the italicised section near the end of the chapter. Thanks for reading, guys. Enjoy

The Gunslinger's Code

Chapter 14

The Exchange

Palecreek was a nondescript fishing town Castiel had never had business to visit until today. It was late afternoon when they arrived, and the streets were bustling with trade. The air smelled of salt and fresh catches, and Castiel breathed in slowly, allowing his mouth to water at the savoury prospect. It was the first time either of the two men had entered civilisation since the day of Dean's hanging. Until now, they had been surviving on what little the barren land had to offer; sleeping under the stars on hard, solid ground. He had not yet had opportunity to check newspapers or posters for signs of his bounty. Of course, he had been famous for years, but most people had only known the name Castiel Novak, not the man whom it belonged. Most who looked him in the eye only saw a stranger, no one worth a damn. But he was an outlaw now. And there were people from that small mining town who no longer saw him as a stranger. They had witnessed his self-destruction, and they would want to see him hanged, just as they had clamoured to see Dean meet his end on the edge of the stage. But this place, such as Coalfell, was both blessed and marred by its own isolation, its self-sustainability. Cut off from the world, Cas could only wonder if his employers had chosen this spot for these very reasons.

Dean had not said a word to Cas since awakening from his brief unconsciousness. The hit from the pistol had left a purpled bruise on his forehead, just above the right eye. They rode together in silence; Castiel with one hand rested on the gun on his belt. He wasn't particularly worried about having to use it on the prisoner. They both knew he was the faster and better shot, and Dean was still recovering from a bullet wound. If he tried anything stupid, Cas would just aim for the other shoulder.

The Palecreek hotel was a warm, homely place, with an array of taxidermied fish mounted on the wall behind the greeting desk. The concierge was engrossed in his paper. He peered up at them suspiciously as they stepped through.

They must have looked quite the pair. Dean, with his bruised forehead and expression of thunder. Castiel, with his sullen gaze and weatherworn duster. He studied the man briefly, searching for recognition in his needle-point eyes, but he saw none; just a man who had been interrupted from his leisure time.

"A room for the night, please," Castiel said politely. "Two beds."

"Name?"

He paused.

"Roman," he settled on finally.

"That's fifty-cents for the both of ya." The clerk looked them both up-and-down. "An extra twenty for a bath."

Castiel nodded and gave him the coin. It had been longer than he cared to admit since he had washed himself with something other than river water. To have access to soap and warm water felt nothing short of paradise.

He took the key, and once he had unlocked their room on the second floor, Castiel bound Dean's hands with rope to the bed frame.

"Is this really necessary?" Dean scowled, his first words since their confrontation at Jimmy's farm.

"It is a necessary precaution, yes."

Castiel knew he only had a few minutes, so he made his time in the bathroom quick. He stripped and tested the bath water with his hand. It was lukewarm, but inviting enough. There was a table with a razor and small hand-held mirror beside it. He held it up to his face and studied himself, for it had been a good while since he had seen his own reflection. It was a curious sight, his tired face. He looked old, older than he remembered being. The creases around his eyes had become more pronounced, rimmed by a coloured darkness that came with a lack of sleep. There was dirt on his face, flecks of blood, his beard scraggly. He shaved himself quickly, allowing some stubble to remain, and trimmed the back and sides of his hair. He scrubbed at his body, so hard he left the skin raw.

Once he was done, the water was black with grime.

"Where we meeting these friends of yours, anyway?" Dean asked, as Castiel stepped out of the bathroom. He noticed as Dean gave him a doubletake. Perhaps he was not used to seeing his captor so well-groomed; so used they'd become to living in the wilderness, as wild as the animals they hunted. Dean himself still looked a sight. Perhaps, if he behaved, Castiel's employers would allow him the same privilege once he was in their hands.

"Right here," he said.

"How do they know which room we're in?" Dean asked, his tone belittling.

"They'll know."

They'd know because of Roman, the name he'd used. Dick Roman. The kill that had made him famous. Castiel's idea of a joke, really. He knew his employer would find it in poor taste, but it would get his attention.

And it did, as at that moment there were three short knocks on the door.

Castiel braced himself. He hated the feeling he always got when he was around his employer. Nervous, yet eager… forever a boy of sixteen. He opened the door promptly, and two men walked in, dressed almost identically in grey suits and bowler hats, the familiar brass-plated badge pinned to their breast pockets.

"Castiel Novak," his employer said. "We were starting to think you weren't coming."

"Your note was clear enough," Castiel answered limply.

The man shrugged.

"It is… regrettable that it had to come to this. But we had to get your cooperation somehow."

"Oh, but he was more than happy to abide, weren't you, Cas?" Dean piped from his spot on the bed.

The man acknowledged him with a sneer.

"Dean Winchester. It's a pleasure to meet you."

Castiel could see Dean fidget with agitation, like a cornered animal.

"Pleasure's all yours," he mumbled.

"I'm assuming Mr. Novak has relayed to you our little arrangement?"

"I'm being swapped for his brother," Dean said. "That's about all he told me."

The man laughed, and pat Castiel roughly on the shoulder.

"My, my, Castiel!" he said, letting his grip linger slightly. "He's your prisoner, not a mushroom! No need to keep him in the dark. Mr. Winchester, let me formally introduce myself. My name is Zachariah Alder. I'm with the Pinkerton Detective Agency. This here is my partner, Michael Prince."

The other man nodded.

"How do you do?" he asked without effort.

It was clear this Michael Prince did not want to be here, but Zachariah had a way of getting people to do things they wouldn't ordinarily do. Cas had known of the man in passing. He had been Zachariah's partner for a short while, and his employer had mentioned him only rarely. He was young, perhaps even younger than Castiel, with dark hair slicked back fashionably, and an athletic body the Pinkerton uniform fit nicely. Former army, probably. Castiel looked away.

He heard Dean laugh, the sound a mocking one.

"The Pinkertons! Didn't peg you for a government lackey, Cas."

"Lackey, informant, contractor…" Zachariah said dismissively, "what's the point in putting a name on it? Castiel owes us. It's as simple as that."

They were staring at each other now. It had been a year since they had last seen each other in person, for even the brothers' original contract had been provided by mail, the letter discreet without an endorsement. Nothing Castiel had done for Zachariah had been on official business, and the Winchester's bounty had been no different. The man looked like he had aged, having completely lost the little hair he had retained over the years. He'd put on weight, too, his round face sagging until his chin and neck had become almost indistinguishable.

"I brought you the Winchester brother," Castiel said, as firmly as he could muster. "Now take me to mine."

"Careful, Novak," Michael said, his hand edging towards his revolver.

"It's all right, Michael," Zachariah said. "Castiel, I'm afraid your brother is not here. He and his family are being kept in a government facility up North. They're being well looked after, don't you worry. Quite frankly, though, I'm a little disappointed. We hired you to capture the Winchesters and return them to Coalfell. What use do I have of one of them, here, alive?"

It was true; this was not what Zachariah had asked for. The complete opposite, in fact. And now Castiel had learned that his disobedience had resulted in his brother and his family being taken from their home and placed in whatever a government facility entailed. He could only wonder what they had been told, what they must have thought if the Pinkertons had mentioned his name. In his quiet watch over the years, Castiel had learnt that Jimmy had renounced him entirely, that his wife and daughter knew him as an only child, whose parents had died long ago. Castiel had been relegated to something less than a ghost; he did not exist at all.

And still, he had managed to ruin everything.

"There was blood. Bullet holes," he said, confused, for upon their visit, Jimmy's farmhouse had resembled a battleground.

"It was just a show. Put there to scare you," Zachariah smiled.

Castiel watched then, as Zachariah picked up a pillow, nodded at Michael, who edged his way toward it with his gun pointed. Castiel looked at Dean, who was watching the same events unfold in rigid expectation. The knot Castiel had tied was too good for even Magic Fingers to untangle. He could only sit there and let it happen.

Castiel stepped in front of the line of fire.

"Wait," he said firmly.

Zachariah pushed him out of the way.

"Oh, I'll deal with you after."

Michael cocked the trigger, and Dean let in a sharp intake of breath. Castiel had failed him again. He was never to be a bargaining chip. He was just another outlaw to meet his bloody end.

"Wait!" Castiel said, and he ran towards the gun; grabbed it in both hands. Michael's grip was too firm, and he wrenched it back from him—smacked Castiel around the head with expert form. He fell to the floor loudly. He was sure, if Dean was not so scared for his life, he would have probably enjoyed the sight.

Castiel willed himself not to pass out.

"He knows… where the Colt is," he forced himself to say, his ears ringing.

He saw Zachariah give Michael a look, quicker than a second. Slowly, the man put his gun away.

"He does, does he?" Zachariah said.

He trusted Dean to help him, if not himself. He was a conman after all. He could adapt to any situation and come out the other side. The man cleared his throat, propelling himself to his natural charm, and smiled.

"Sure I do."

"So, where is it?"

"It's with my brother," Dean said confidently. "I was actually on my way to see him before I was so rudely detoured."

Zachariah walked over to him slowly, a greedy look on his face.

"You know where your brother is?"

Dean's charm did not falter.

"We're working on it. Sam's been taken under the wings of Yellow Eyes and his gang. They were last seen west of here; left quite the bloody trail."

It was perfect. It was the truth, yes, but vague enough to allow them some leeway. Zachariah contemplated his words with a run of his fingers across his bald head.

"I see," he said slowly. "You think you can get me the Colt, Mr. Winchester? I've heard the stories. Even among us lawmen it's a matter of legend."

"What's in it for me?" Dean said boldly, as if they hadn't just pointed a gun in his face.

"Well, we'll grant Castiel's family their freedom."

"With all due respect, I don't care jack about their freedom. What about mine?"

"You want… what? A clean slate?"

Dean nodded.

"For me and Sam."

The two agents looked at each other. Michael was scowling, but everyone in the room knew it was Zachariah holding the cards.

"That's rather a tall order…" he said, but the hunger in his eyes betrayed him. "However, I am an accommodating man. I don't see why I can't oblige. How long will this take?"

"A few weeks, if not less," Castiel said. In truth, he had no idea how long it would take, and Zachariah was not a patient man. A few weeks was inexplicit, but palpable enough to seem agreeable.

"Hm," said Zachariah. He was dithering, but Cas had known him too long and too well to know when he had made up his mind. "I'll expect correspondence in the meantime, delivered to my office in Violet Hollow. I'm not sending you off on a wild goose chase, you understand? If I even get a whiff that you're lying or stalling, or anything of that matter, the deal's off."

"Understood."

"I would shake on it, but..." said Dean.

"Then I'll settle for Mr. Novak."

He took Castiel's hand in his; he brought himself closer, so he had his mouth to Cas's ear.

"Careful, Castiel," he whispered menacingly. "Do you remember what I told you the first time?"

He pulled away and broke their grasp. The agents tipped their hats as they left the room.

"Pleasure doing business with you gentlemen," Zachariah said. "Keep us updated; there's a good lad."

Do you remember what I told you the first time?

The first time he'd defied him. Castiel remembered.

When they punched him, they did it in places the people would not notice: the chest, the stomach, the groin. When they were done, Castiel was brought to a room lit by a single lamp, and thrown at his feet.

Castiel panted, his breaths as sharp as stab wounds. He looked at Zachariah, staring down at him, a god to his creation.

"Are you going to kill me?" Castiel asked.

Zachariah laughed, a quick breath through the nose.

"Violet Hollow's new celebrity? Would that I could... We had a plan, Castiel. But you just had to go and mess it up."

"I could not let that man live. Not after what I'd found."

Zachariah shook his head slowly.

"That wasn't your choice to make."

"Sometimes you have to take the law into your own hands," Castiel said resolutely. "You told me this yourself when you hired me."

"Yes, but murder is murder, Castiel. If you were acting out of justice, you would have waited. I would have dealt with him myself. The right way."

"If I had waited, more lives would be at stake."

"You shot him in the head," the man said bluntly. "You executed him. That wasn't justice. That was revenge."

"No… I… I couldn't let them finish the ceremony. If he'd become a senator, he'd be near untouchable."

"Idiot!" Zachariah grabbed Castiel by the scruff of his neck, bringing his face close to his. "Don't you think I know that!" He spoke in such a seething whisper, Castiel could feel droplets of the man's spit land on his cheeks and mouth. Like acid. "I was this close. This close to getting proof. It would have been me. I would have uncovered the truth. I would have been the one to bring down a senator! But you just had to take the credit, didn't you?"

He let go of Castiel roughly, and turned to pace the darkened room.

"I was wrong to drag you out of the gutter all those years ago. You have become nothing but a hindrance to me."

Castiel let the words cut into him, burn his skin like fire. He hated Zachariah. He loved him. He was all that he had.

"I have done everything that has possibly been asked of me," he said, for it was true. For five years he had done. "I never asked questions. I was—I am, grateful for your lessons."

"You were a good student," Zachariah nodded. "But the student cannot surpass the master."

Was that not the purpose of every great teacher? Castiel thought. That one day the student would not need him anymore? He had been grateful for his lessons; he had been ever loyal. But he had grown bold. The skills he had learned had allowed him to see the city differently, and the men within it. He had begun to see the cracks in the walls, the shadows in the night. Zachariah had taken him, a scared little boy, and moulded him in his image. And in that image there was sin. Zachariah Alder had transgressed to get where he was, and Castiel had to accept that he had helped him do it.

He let his pain turn to anger; the bruises become his shield.

"What if he already has?" he asked Zachariah. "You said it yourself, I'm famous now. I can do anything, go anywhere. I don't need you anymore."

"Is that so?"

Castiel nodded tauntingly.

"I could even head on over to my new friends at the police department. Let them know how you've been getting so far ahead these past few years. Tell them about the corruption, the embezzlement, the falsifying of evidence, the—"

"You could say all those things, and more," Zachariah interrupted, and he wore a nasty, knowing smile. "But then I would tell them their new celebrity is a patricidal faggot. And I don't think your friends would be your friends anymore."

Castiel could feel his arrogance slipping away, replaced with something else. He felt nauseas. Desperate. Sixteen.

"How… Who told you that?"

"Your twin, of course. Jimmy. Now there's an agreeable feller. Such a god-fearing man. And that pretty wife he has, that charming farm… They're to die for."

"If you've hurt them—"

"I haven't laid a finger on them," Zachariah said. "But I will if you cross me again. So, Castiel, I'm going to tell you what happens next: lap up your new-found glory. Enjoy yourself; I know what it is you like. But you will continue to work for me. You will do exactly as I say when I say it. You owe me a debt, one that you will spend the rest of your life making up for. Do you understand?"

When he looked at Zachariah, he saw the face of his father. It was his pa speaking to him now. Castiel had been a fool to believe he had outrun it, the devil that had followed him down that overflowed brook as it ran red with blood. In his hand he could still feel it, the rock he had used to split his father's flesh, and shatter the skull behind it. It felt so heavy, like he was carrying the entire world.

Castiel was a sinner; he had not overcome it. This debt would be his punishment. He could not let his brother suffer again for his crimes.

He would live by a code, and he would never stray from it. He would never make that mistake again.

"I understand."

But he hadn't understood, or else he wouldn't have done what he did the day of the hanging. Dean was staring at him, and Castiel knew what he must be thinking. His reputation as a righteous bounty hunter certainly preceded the truth: he was not much more than a pawn in a game of kings, and his trigger arm was guided merely by the whims of those more powerful.

Castiel was ashamed. Ashamed that he could not protect his family, his own brother who had forsaken his existence. He was ashamed he'd disobeyed Zachariah a second time, for letting his strange and unwelcome reverence for Dean Winchester get in the way of plans bigger than the both of them.

"If I untie you, do you promise to cooperate?" he asked, hunting knife in hand.

Dean nodded slowly.

Castiel cut the rope, and helped Dean free his blemished wrists. Dean stood from the bed. Castiel tried to find the words to explain himself, to justify their predicament—and was promptly punched in the face.

He fell backwards, landing heavily against the dresser. The punch had got him straight in the eye, and Cas could already feel the bruise forming, just below the mark from Michael's revolver. He grabbed his pistol and aimed it at Dean's head.

"Imagine how many shots I can fire in the time it takes you to strike me again."

But Dean only shrugged as he traced the outline of his knuckle.

"No need to threaten me; I was done anyway."

He walked over to him, and Castiel braced himself. Instead, Dean took his hand in his own and pulled Cas to his feet. Maybe the punch had sated his fury for the moment. Maybe he pitied him. But when Dean looked over at the door the agents had left through, he scowled in anger.

"What the fuck were you thinking, promising him the Colt?"

Castiel looked at him strangely, as if it were obvious.

"I was trying to keep you alive."

"Well done, you've given me a few extra weeks. In the meantime, we know jack shit where the Colt is."

"We know of your brother's last known location. We know the Ryker Gang was working for Yellow Eyes. Most likely there are others. We can go back to Mr. Turner, gather information, make a plan."

"I'll stop you there," Dean said, holding up a finger. "You keep using the word 'we.'"

Again, Castiel stared.

"You need me just as much as I need you, Dean."

"Fuck you," he said viciously, and Castiel thought he was going to be hit again. "And speaking of getting fucked, what're you doing getting in bed with the Pinkertons, anyway?"

"It's complicated."

"Hell, you've got a few weeks to break it down for me! Get started."

"Look. Dean. I'm... I'm just trying to make the best of a bad situation."

He knew he sounded pathetic. Knew he looked pathetic. Dean knew it too.

"Save it," he said, turning away.

"You don't need to like me, Dean," Castiel said. "But for all our sakes, you need to work with me. Work with me for just a few weeks longer and all of this will be over. When we have a moment, I'll tell you why I'm involved with those agents, but right now we need food and rest. And then we'll go. Are you with me?"

Dean laughed cruelly, but when he looked into Castiel's eyes, he stopped. What did he see when he looked at him? Castiel was so used to being the stranger, the faceless man with a legend's name. The strange bond they had, of captor and prisoner, of two outlaws completely alone if not for the other, seemed so beyond both of their comprehensions that Castiel truly feared where his debt may take them. How many times would Castiel save his life, and how many times would Dean punish him for it?

"Well, no matter what happens, in a few weeks I'll either be dead or a free man. Either way, I'll never have to see you again. So yeah," Dean said finally, "I'm with you."