triskehale | it is the prohibition that makes anything precious

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it is the prohibition that makes anything precious

Derek was bored.

At first, he relished in the unfamiliar feeling. He hadn’t been bored in years, and he took hearty advantage of it. He explored the city at his leisure and caught up on his reading. He went grocery shopping and jogged along the beach. It was a normal, boring life and at first he truly enjoyed it.

But a normal, boring life is not what Derek was meant for, or what he was born into. Derek was used to his heart pounding, to his senses staying heightened and sharp, constantly prepared for a fight. There was an itch growing under his skin, a craving for the bone-deep adrenaline that he’s so far gone weeks without. He’s constantly waiting for the other shoe to drop because life here is just too good. No one is trying to kill him. No one is dying at his hands or because of his mistakes. There’s no way it can last. He’s uneasy, and he wishes something, anything, would happen just so he can shake the uneasiness in his bones.

Well, be careful what you wish for, and all that.

Derek follows Stiles into the coffee shop near their building and looks around out of habit. Whenever he walks into a room, the occupants are made note of and exit routes are planned. This isn’t something he can shake, no matter how bored he gets. Dean is off to the side with his hands in his pockets, obviously waiting for his order, and Derek walks up to him as Stiles darts off for the counter.

“Dean, hey.” They give each other a casual nod and seem content to occupy the same space together without saying much else. He likes that about Dean. Stiles puts in their normal order and comes over, eyes narrowed at Dean. Stiles never really got over the whole vampire attack thing, which he blames Dean for, and that brief moment of contact has been all the two have had.

Derek rolls his eyes in fond exasperation and claps a hand on Stiles’ shoulder, partly touched by his loyalty. “Down, boy.”

Dean just looks a bit unimpressed and amused all at the same time, and the three of them have a bit of a standoff while they wait for their drinks. Dean lingers to continue making small talk with Derek until he and Stiles get their orders as well, and they all head for the door. There’s a group of teenagers clogging the main entrance so Derek leads them towards a single door at the side of the shop.

He has a hand on Stiles’ back as he pulls it open and ushers Dean out first. Stiles follows and Derek feels something like a vacuum, like the air is being sucked from his lungs while he’s tugged forward by a string at his belly. Everything goes white and he’s dizzy for a moment as he stumbles through the door.

The air outside is cool and a little muggy and the air smells dirty, nothing like Darrow. He shakes his head to clear the stars from his eyes and when he opens them, they are not standing outside of The Bean Counter. In fact, they aren’t even in Darrow at all.

Red floods his irises as he reaches out to reach for Stiles. He sighs in relief when he grabs his arm and then turns to face him and Dean. “Holy shit. Why are you a newsie?”

Stiles’ clothes are entirely different. He’s in a white linen shirt with suspenders over brown tweed knee pants and stockings, with a newsboy cap jammed on his head. Dean looks like something out of a mobster movie, dressed in a dark three-piece wool suit and a fedora on his head. Dean and Stiles are gaping at each other while Derek turns to take in their surroundings. The air smells all wrong, and soon he realizes why. They’re a long way from home.

Derek is standing next to a classic 20’s Cadillac on a cobblestone street lined with plenty like it. There are no modern cars anywhere. There’s nothing modern at all. His heart pounds as he turns to look in a different direction, eyes widening as he takes in a familiar landmark. The Flatiron building looms over them, tall and proud, and Derek’s heart leaps up into his throat.

“This is New York,” he informs them, and Dean and Stiles look over at him. Derek spent years here, and if he breathes in deep enough he can catch familiar scents on the air. “So, we know where we are.”

Derek slides his hands down his own heavy suit, taking in the black, pinstriped three-piece monstrosity and blood red tie. His vision is momentarily obscured by his own fedora, and he reaches up to pluck it off of his head. There’s a weight at his side and he finds that it’s a revolver in a side holster, tucked neatly under his suit jacket. Below that is a hip flask clipped to a black leather belt. He looks up at Stiles’ slack mouth and Dean’s green eyes, letting the red fade out of his own as the panic subsides. “When are we, is the better question.”

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There's something about this that drives Stiles insane. It's not the fact that they're standing in the middle of The Godfather, or that it seems to just be him, Derek, and Dean. It's not that he nearly fell on his face when they stepped into... whatever this is.

Maybe it's the indignity of literally being dressed like a newsie. The brim of his cap falls in his face as Derek calls attention to it and he flails to hit at it when it does. He doesn't realize what it is and that he is, in fact, wearing it, rather than being attacked by it, until it falls to the ground a few feet away. He stares at it, then down at himself.

"Godddddd dammit, are you serious?" His brain gives him a solid five seconds to stand there wondering what the hell before he lets his shoulders and arms collapse inward toward his body after an exasperated flail. "You two look like something out of LA Noire and I look like this?!"

Where and when are they. Jesus. "Oh god, are we stuck here now? Aw man, I just got over never having In 'N Out again and now you're telling me I'll never use the internet again?"

Plucking the fedora from his head, Dean touches the smooth part in his hair with wondering hands, his eyes stuck on Derek and the admittedly slightly better suit he has on. "Quiet," he grunts at Stiles, who seems to be doing his level best to attract as many eyes and ears as possible.

There's a strange weight against his side, and Dean presses at his suit, pulling the lapel back to reveal a Thompson submachine gun where his Glock should be. "Tommy gun," he mouths, looking up at Derek with wide eyes. "There's a brand new Tommy gun jammed into my pants."

Derek stands there in bewilderment for a beat, brow furrowed as he looks around. Stiles' cap is resting near his foot so he picks it up and dusts it off, setting it back on his head just for something to do. There's a newspaper resting on the passenger seat of the Cadillac next to him, and the window is down, so Derek reaches through to grab it. "October 12th, 1924," he reads aloud. "What the fuck is this? Did Darrow do this?"

Derek tosses the paper back in the car and reaches up to rub his cheek, surprised and pissed off to find himself clean shaven. He rolls his eyes and strokes his chin, only to stiffen when he catches the scent of someone approaching.

"Hey, hey you!" Derek whirls around to stand in front of Stiles, feet planted like he's ready to attack as the man approaches. He's tall and stocky, dressed in wool pants and a linen shirt streaked with grease. Two men flank him, and Derek glances over to the goddamn machine gun in Dean's pants. "Yeah, I'm talkin' to you. You guys just gonna fuckin' stand there all day, or are we gonna get this shit unloaded?" Derek blinks in confusion and straightens a little, unsure of how to react. "Come on, you's Capone's boys, right? We've been waitin' for ya. We've gotta get this shit inside, come on. Unlock this."

The man pounds his hand on the back of the Cadillac and looks pointedly at Derek. Eyes narrowed in curiosity, he pats the pockets of his suit pants. He finds a leather wallet and and a billfold, jammed thick with hundred dollar bills. Even today, that'd be a lot of money. He also finds a set of keys and, too struck dumb and confused by the situation to do anything else, walks around to jam one of them into the back hatch of the car. It swings open and the man pats Derek on the back as crates are revealed. He ducks in and opens one, pulling a brown bottle out of the top of one of them. "Yeah, this is the good shit. You came through, big guy. This will do just fine."

The two men behind him come forward to grab the crates, looking around a bit before carrying them down an alley. The main guy shuts the back of the car and jerks his chin over his shoulder. "Come on, you and your friends here come into the club, have a drink, and we'll discuss business."

Derek blinks owlishly and looks over at Stiles and Dean. Apparently they're fucking rumrunners during Prohibition here. Mobsters, if their clothes and the wad of cash in Derek's pocket is anything to go by. Still, it could be useful. Derek shrugs a little and jerks his head, suggesting that they follow. It's not like they can't protect themselves if this goes south.

It's only because he realizes the gravity of the situation that Stiles is able to get a handle on his mouth and facial expression, eyes flicking between the strangers and their apparent car. When he's certain that nobody but Derek and Dean are looking in his direction, his entire body very abruptly, yet silently, goes into the very picture of what the fuck?. They start to walk the direction that the speakeasy (what the fuck) must be in, while the men in front of them carry their illegal booze that they were apparently transporting.

Yeah, this isn't gonna get any less weird.

"You know, I think now's a good time for us to remember that I am not of legal drinking age. Maybe we should not go into the illegal club with the man with the grease stained shirt while I'm looking like I should be busting show tunes." Everything is whispered, but the last bit is said with enough fervor that he swears he spits a little.

Dean is doing his best to tamp down a uncharacteristic rush of glee. Of all the stupid shit he's been through in this town - Croats and demon possession and endless, ash colored nights - this time he gets to be a fucking rumrummer? In a fedora?

Performing a quick inventory of the rest of what's on him - a handgun, a knife, no phone, Jesus - Dean grabs Stiles by his ridiculous collar and 'helps' him through the door. "You never snuck into a bar before?" he mutters. "It's all about the attitude. Act like you belong, nobody'll question it."

Derek snorts at that, because subtlety and covertness have never really been Stiles' strong suits. He grips Stiles by the back of the neck and gives him a calming squeeze, letting his hand slide slowly down his back as the guy leads them through the bar. Sorry, speakeasy.

The place is mainly quiet, but it's obvious that they're gearing up for a busy night. It smells like sweaty bodies and saw dust, but mostly of liquor. It's strong enough to burn his nose as he inhales, but he does his best to ignore it. There's a guy dressed like Stiles tinkering with an old upright piano in the corner, sending random notes out to mingle with the sounds of the patrons.

They're led past the bar and down a dimly lit hallway. The noise is quieter back here, and the guy they're following raps three times on a door at the end. A deep voice beckons them in, and the guy, most likely taking in Stiles' age and clothes, puts a hand on his chest and tries to keep him out. Derek bites back a growl and puts a hand on Stiles' shoulder. "He stays with us."

"Henry, let them be. Come on in, boys!" Derek steps into the office first and turns to look at the slick, paunchy man sitting behind a massive mahogany desk. "Here, have a seat."

The man leans over to pour a bit of whiskey in three glasses, gesturing at them with his hand. "Quite the haul, boys. Can't say I'm regretting my choice to switch suppliers. Same deal next week, whaddya say?"

"Yeah, sure," Derek replies as he picks up his glass and sniffs at the amber liquid within. He doesn't plan on being here next week, and any other answer would be sure to cause trouble. Derek would very much like to avoid trouble. "Next week."

"Wonderful! Now, I'm sure I can count on you boys to keep quiet about all this. And give my regards to ol' Scarface, would ya?" Derek does his best to keep his expression neutral at that, but come on. Chicago? Scarface? He shares a look with Dean in which he tries to convey are we working for fucking Al Capone, and is distracted enough by the thump on the desk that he turns back just in time to see stacks of bills being slid in their direction. "Pleasure doin' business with you. Feel free to make use of my club while you're guests in our fair city."

Stiles just glares over at Dean, because yes, he's snuck into a bar before, and he's not even a little sorry that he's not too confident in his ability to blend in when he's stuck in a place where it's normal to carry a fucking tommy gun. He's not really worried about his age, but the powers that be could've stuck him in something a little less non-threatening. God.

He stays close to Derek when they're in the office, looking at the glass he's offered with suspicion before taking it and taking a sip. Because if he can't have his manhood back via wardrobe, he can at least drink the fucking whiskey. And besides, Derek can't tell him not to.

The stack of cash is impressive, and when he manages to keep his eyes from bugging out of his head, he looks at Dean and Derek for a split second before looking at the newsboy satchel he's got slung over his shoulder, then back at the money - which is more than he's seen in his life, really. In that moment, he makes an executive decision and starts grabbing the bricks of bills, trying not to look too eager, and shoving them into his bag, since he's the only one with any kind of bag.

"Pleasure doin' business witchoo fellas," he says in his best 1920's Chicagoan accent, carefully derived from the odd gangster movie and his own artistic license, before turning his back to look over at Dean and Derek and taking another drink of his whiskey with a look that clearly says he's ready to go.

Dean's too stunned by the quick succession of events to do more than gape at the money, that ridiculous accent Stiles is affecting falling on deaf ears as he stands there trying to gather himself. Reality is filtering in slowly, too dreamlike to hang onto for long moments, for Dean's not used to good things being thrown his way. When he'd been tossed back with the Croats, reality swam up ugly and bloodstained, and when he'd been in the ash, the hooks pierced through his body had driven reality home.

Rumrumming in some kind of New York pasted together from a collection of Dean's idle fantasies is another mindfuck entirely, and Dean starts looking for the downside.

It doesn't take him long to find it. "We're in New York," he says, mouth hanging open around the obvious. In New York, not Darrow, and where the fuck is Cas? Turning, Dean looks to the only person with a chance of sniffing him out, if Castiel is even here at all. "Derek, can you smell him?"

He'd simply been attempting to leave for work. People disappear from Darrow all the time, he knows that. But for all his worry and his anxiety he'd truly believed he'd stay. He'd believed he would have a long life with Dean, with his friends, with his damn pets. As he stumbles out into a dark, smoky bar, clothes shifting around him, he feels his heart stutter with equal amounts of shock and rage. "No," he growls, stepping out of the pantry and into the middle of the room. All it takes is a few careful looks at the clothing, the architecture of the room and he knows where he is. It's wrong. It's completely wrong. He ignores the startled shrieks around him and reaches for the nearest sharp object, rolling up his shirt and slicing a long line.

"No."

He pushes past the growing crowd and start to paint a sigil on the nearest wall, chanting low and desperate as he prays. He prays to find Dean, he prays for his brothers, he prays for his father. He prays for anyone on either side of good or evil who will help him return. His vision is narrow and hears little of the ruckus around him until he is spun around by a pair of large hands.

"The hell're you up to?" a voice demands, spittle flying as Castiel tries to reach behind him to draw another sigil. "Right now, wacko. What the hell are you doing?"

"I am an Angel of the Lord," Castiel grinds out, struggling to get free, nearly blind with rage at his helplessness. "Let me go, right now. I know what this place is and I do not have time for this.I do not belong here..."

He chokes as he's suddenly bodily dragged away from the wall and out the nearest door, a second large man having joined the first. He tries to get his feet under him, hat falling to the ground as he's pulled down an alley and shoved, face first against the brick wall. His cheek throbs and he spits out blood as he tries to move. "Who the hell are you with? You a cop?" he first man hisses in his ear. "You're a dead man, you nut."

He watches Stiles with equal parts annoyance, exasperation, and fondness and shakes his head a little before turning back to what is apparently his new business partner. He thanks him and gets them the hell out of there without causing problems, and they're halfway down the hallway when Dean speaks.

"Who, Castiel You think he came with us?" Derek tries to sniff around but all the strong alcohol in the enclosed space burn his nose and make his eyes water. "I can't smell anything but goddamn grain alcohol in here. Let's get outside."

Once they're out on the street in the waning sunlight, Derek takes a few strides away from the bar and takes off his fedora, revealing slicked back, side-parted inky black hair. He inhales deeply and the only hint that he's doing anything other than standing there is a slight flaring of his nostrils. Castiel has a very distinct smell, almost like copy paper and storm clouds, and almost always shrouded in Dean.

He's about to admit defeat when he catches a slight hint of it, eyes going red as his head whips to the side. "Hold on."

He turns a corner and looks around, trying to follow the scent. When he smells blood, his lips flatten into a thin line and he focuses his hearing as best he can as he scans the area. He stops suddenly, putting a hand on Dean's chest. "He's up ahead somewhere, and he isn't alone. Dean, I smell blood. His."

The sack o' money is weighing him down and Stiles is a little terrified of being mugged/murdered/gunned down for it, but it's not exactly like he's going to go into hiding right now - or let go of this much cash. He looks in the direction that Derek's staring, then back at him and Dean while he adjusts the strap of the bag.

"What, like that way? Let's go, then." He points the way he thinks Derek catches the scent, waiting for a confirming nod before he starts to head that way, weaving his way past a couple apparent 1920s New York citizens.

"Hey, kid, how much for a paper?"

Stiles whirls around as he hears someone shout at him across the street, jaw dropping for a moment while he thinks of a plausible lie.

"Uh. No news today! The world is awesome. They had nothing to write about; free yourself from the burden of information for twenty-four hours. ...sir." He stares at his two suited up, stubbly accomplices with wide 'oh my god, why' eyes before he jogs to catch up with them, still clutching at the bag with intense paranoia.

Edited 2013-08-17 05:36 (UTC)

Dean's heart leaps as Derek tenses, clearly on to something, only to feel it sink like a weight when Derek turns. It's all over his face, and Dean doesn't need to hear the word blood to take off at a dead run, because of course, of course Castiel couldn't make it in this place ten goddamn minutes without getting into trouble.

Behind him, he's aware that someone is calling out, either to him or to Stiles, but Dean doesn't care and he doesn't stop, rounding the next corner hard enough to send gravel flying when he skids to a halt. At the far end of the alley, two men are holding a slighter one against the wall, a meaty hand pulled back to deliver cruel, backhanded slap, and Dean doesn't hesitate.

The knife at his belt is gone, flying on a silent path that ends with an abrupt squealch. Ignoring the man's bellow of pain as he clutches his skewered hand, Dean pulls the tommy gun from his belt and fires a quick volley into the air, the sound thunderous between the dense alley walls.

"Let go of him and get out of here," Dean snarls, "Before I pump you both full of lead."

Castiel crumples as he's abruptly let go, sliding to the ground and blinking stars out of his eyes as he twists to look up at his savior.

"Dean," he breathes, trying to think of something to say to sum up the almost crushing relief that he hasn't lost him. All those things are lost, however, at the sight of his silhouette against the setting sun, gun held aloft and hat perched just so. It is...highly distracting.

"He started it!" his attacker yells, dragging his wounded accomplice out of the alley. "Said he was a damn angel, bled all over our bar!" They stumble away as Castiel starts to push himself up, wiping at the blood still running down from his nose and cheek.

The sound of gunfire makes Derek's ears ring because his hearing is still hyper-focused, and he has to clutch Stiles' shoulder for support as he shakes his head to clear it.

Then he's running off, pushing past people who are fleeing in the opposite direction. "That's one way to draw attention to ourselves."

He watches the guys run down the alley and out of sight before stepping up and putting his hand on the side of Castiel's neck, veins in the back of his hand going black as he takes his pain. "Castiel, man," he says as he lets go, not wanting to touch him too long with an angry, trigger happy Dean nearby. "You gotta stop opening up veins in public."

He steps back to give them their space, and even though he can smell him and hear his heartbeat, he still turns to look at Stiles to make sure he's okay.

He gapes for a moment as he watches people push by, making sure everyone's out of the alley before he looks back, staying back while Dean and Derek crowd Castiel. Holy shit, it's a party. Derek meets his eye and he nods, briefly, just to let him know he's okay before he takes a look around.

There's blood dripping all the way out of the alley and he curls a lip at the shiny trail that dots its way toward the street, then looks back at Castiel. He likes the guy and wants him to be okay, but seriously?

"Oh, that's great. So on top of dishing out hooch and carrying tons of dirty fucking money, now we're stabbing people and shooting automatic weapons?" He glares daggers at Dean, words pushed out in an angry hiss, then goes back to keeping an eye on the mouth of the alley. "Let's get the fuck out of here before someone comes."

Caught up with pulling Castiel this way and that to assess his injuries, Dean only catches the last of Stiles' tirade. He opens his mouth, the words boy, I was in this business before you were even in diapers perilously close to passing his lips before Dean realizes how much like his daddy he sounds, and he closes his mouth with a grunt.

"You think I'm carrying it around because it's pretty?" he asks, finally hanging on to Cas to keep him close as he addresses Stiles. "People gonna call this in on their cells instead of running in the opposite direction? It's a different world, kid, catch up."

Turning to Cas, Dean adds, quiet, "You okay?"

"I'm fine," Castiel says quietly, eyes wide as he looks between the three. "I'm sorry, I didn't...I thought I'd left. I thought I'd left the way people leave for good. I was trying to find a way back."

His gaze cuts back over to Dean, grasping at his sleeve as he fights the impulse to pull him in close. He is here and as sorry as he is that he's caused problems yet again, he can't help but marvel at the miracle of them being allowed to be here, together. "I'm sorry."

"Hey," Derek says sternly, grabbing the machine gun out of Dean's hand. He doesn't like the way Dean's handled this, or the tone he's taking with Stiles. "He's right. There was no reason to do that. Someone's going to come running if you just start firing a machine gun into the air, no matter what fucking decade we're in. And all those bullets have to come down somewhere, in a crowded city. You realize that, don't you?"

A group of uniformed officers come tearing around the corner then, and Derek turns to roll his eyes at Dean and grab Stiles' arm, dragging him down the alley as they break into a run. Evading police, and they've been here for less than an hour. Wonderful.

Stiles is wondering if he's ever going to have a time when he, Derek, and the police are going to have a solid, totally law abiding relationship with each other when Derek grabs his arm and he's being dragged away. He skids on his heels for a moment, then turns to run with him, looking back at Dean and Castiel for a moment, shouting "Come on! Let's go!" before booking it as fast as he can around the corner and down the block.

He clutches at the satchel with their cash for dear life and untangles Derek's hand from his arm so they can both run, pointing when he sees an open door - a hotel lobby, from the looks of it - and looks back at the other two, gesturing silently to suggest that they all head inside.

Dean's glad of the sudden attention if it means he's spared a lecture on how fucking bullets work, more than content for Derek to have the gun and Stiles if either of them think taking chances with Castiel's life for the sake of quiet is an acceptable risk.

"C'mon," he growls, channeling his frustration into a faster pace, one hand still fisted in Castiel's sleeve as they pass through a gilded door and into a smoky lobby. Spying a restroom door, Dean hauls Castiel through it.

Castiel's eyes start narrowing dangerously during Derek's rant, quite certain that Dean did nothing he himself would not have done and rankling at the idea of Dean being dressed down for anything before they are perhaps mercifully interrupted.

Castiel stumbles along behind Dean, keeping pace until they enter the hotel and he pauses long enough to manage a quick, "Room!" at Derek, in hopes that he will understand to get them only one before he's hauled bodily into an empty restroom.

He raises his eyes to stare at Dean's tight jaw, trying to gauge how badly he has handled this. "I'm sorry for what I did in the bar."

Derek watches them go and grabs Stiles' arm when he hears the policemen approach outside, fumbling to pull open the door to a coat closet and hauling him inside. It's dark, and quiet, and Derek presses Stiles up against the wall and covers his mouth with his hand to stop his inevitable protest. They stay like that, pressed together head to toe with Derek's hand over Stiles' mouth, as Derek listens to the cops enter the hotel lobby, holding his breath until they leave again.

He lets out the air in his lungs in a soft gust, chuckling darkly and pulling his hand away from Stiles' mouth, looking down at him in the dim light and talking softly. "You okay?"

They haven't had a moment alone since this started, and he's relieved for the momentary reprieve. Tensions are running high and he wants a quiet moment before they reconvene, hopefully all on the same side.

Derek is too fast for Stiles to do much but flail, though hiding is the best course of action and he really can't fault the guy for some quick thinking. All the same, he stares in the general direction of where Derek's face has to be with wide eyes, doing his best to stay quiet.

He lets out a huge sigh when Derek finally moves his hand, eyes starting to adjust just enough to see the reflection of light from a crack between the door and the floor shine off of Derek's eyes. The closet is stuffy and warm and probably filled with coats that probably aren't clean, but he does his best not to think of that, just thunking his head back against the wall with a faint laugh. "Yeah. Yeah, I'm okay." Derek is pressed bodily to him and he's doing everything in his power to remind himself that his crush and his hormones have no place in the 1920s, but it's only half working.

He presses on, sighing and closing his eyes for a moment, reaching up to take his cap off and run his hand over his hair. "The fuck is going on, dude?"

"I don't know. But we'll figure it out, right? We always do." He leans in to do their customary forehead butt, but lets it linger, foreheads pressed together as he lets the silence settle over them. Stiles is warm and firm under Derek's hands, and he smells wonderful, and he's safe right here, in this moment. That's all that really matters.

"I don't really know if time travel is on our list of Shit We Know How to Deal With, but if you say so." He closes his eyes for a moment without even realizing it, letting the head butt linger because Derek is. He's tired, or at least exhausted from a really, really weird half hour, and doesn't even realize that it's a bit longer than usual until... well, he just does.

He already knows that he feels safer with Derek than is probably normal - pack or otherwise - but right now he kind of needs it and isn't gonna question it. Or the weird feelings thing. Or the fact that Derek is really, really close to him.

After another couple moments, he squirms, puppylike. He can only stay still for so long and finally clears his throat, smiling at him a little. "So, uh. You're okay?" He reaches up, rubbing the back of Derek's neck.

"I have my pack. I'm good." He lets out a soft, content noise when Stiles rubs the back of his neck, caging him in tighter against the wall without really thinking. It feels so good to be touched, especially by Stiles, that he kind of loses himself in it.

Derek unlocks what will be Dean and Castiel's suite and lets them all enter before he closes the door behind him. He hands the key over wordlessly to Dean and heads for the sitting area, shoulders a bit tense as Stiles takes off his satchel and sets it on the table before sitting down. There's a slight tension in the air, even after he and Dean came to what he hopes is an understanding. He meant no disrespect, and he hopes that he conveyed that well enough.

"I told them to bring up some food," Derek says as starts digging through Stiles' satchel to find the small bottle of whiskey they'd discovered when paying for the rooms. "I hope steaks are okay. I figured everyone was hungry."

He rustles up some glasses and sets out four of them, even though the whiskey will do nothing for him. God, he wishes it would. He pours out four glasses and leaves two on the coffee table for Dean and Castiel, and turns to give one to Stiles before slumping into the chair next to him. He lifts his glass to Dean, nodding a bit before taking a sip. "So, time travel. Is this Darrow's idea of a good time?"

Dean cracks his neck, nerves buzzing beneath his skin all the more for the sudden quiet. The room is nice, smelling faintly of wood polish and grandmothers - not that Dean would know - and the bed looks comfortable, if a little ornate for Dean's taste. He needs a week of sleep, or a maybe a fuck, but right now he'll have to settle for whiskey.

"Better than most of what it's thrown my way in the last eyar," he grunts, picking up the glass and draining it in the same movement. He repours, then carries it and a second glass towards Castiel, pressing one into his hand and squeezing at his shoulder. "Best medicine we got until I can clean you up."

Castiel nods, dutifully knocking back the whiskey in one go before gently pressing his fingers against his sore face. "This is not the same as disappearing," he says, still not quite meeting Derek's eyes as he speaks. "We are from entirely different realities. It is like the place with all the ash. It waits for us to figure something out and only then are we allowed back home. It is up to us to try and determine what that is."

Derek nods and stares down into his whiskey, taking a gulp of it even though it's about as potent as water to him. He could really go for some of that recreational wolfsbane that he and Laura would get in New York sometimes. A few drops and he could relax too.

He listens as Castiel speaks, but he's looking at Stiles the whole time. He can practically see the gears turning in that frustratingly brilliant head of his. He leans towards him a bit, taking off his fedora and dropping it on the table. "What are you thinking, little beta?"

He uses the fond nickname despite their company, mostly to ground Stiles so he doesn't get too lost in his thoughts.

Stiles has been staring out the window, holding his whiskey and not even drinking it - for once, more absorbed in thought than the thought of the free/illegal (in more ways than one!) booze. Not that he's a historical expert, but where they are is definitely not in question, or when. It's more a question of why.

If Dean and Castiel weren't there with their experience with Darrow, he'd worry that they were just stuck like they were in Darrow. He never thought he'd miss the place, but he guesses stranger things have happened.

He looks up when Derek talks to him, blinking a few times to clear his head before reaching up and taking off his cap, tossing it by Derek's fedora and sighing. His shoulders sag and he throws his hands up, feeling a bit helpless. "I don't... I dunno, man. I mean, the weirdest shit that's happened to me so far before this was killer creepy stuffed animal robots. I've never been Deloreaned."

He looks over at Dean and Castiel, sighing. "So it's like... is it an experiment? Do we get rewarded when we find the cheese?" The thought makes him a little sick, but he pushes past it. "I mean, we weren't doing anything special when we got here. Just leaving the Coffee Bean. What about you, where were you?" He looks over at Castiel, trying to fit things together even as he talks it out.

"I was leaving for work," he answers, looking mournfully a this empty glass. His face hurts and he is tired and he would greatly like another. "I suspect it took Dean and I together for obvious reasons and the two of you because you are from the same reality. There are ways to find out what we need to know but I think it wants us to play along for the time being."

"Hence coming in fully dressed for the era," says Dean. "The last time I got trapped, I didn't get out until the place got what it wanted from me." He shares a dark look with Castiel. "And what it wanted wasn't nice. We need to be prepared for a hard road ahead. So."

Crossing over to the bed, Dean sits at the edge, grimacing as half his body pops and groans. "Derek, Stiles, and I, we walked through a door and ended up here. Cas, you were leaving for work. That's a lot more clean cut than last time, when the world changed everytime the ash rained down - that's almost like we walked right into it, whether we meant to or not."

Stiles bounces his knee up and down, holding onto his whiskey and ignoring it until it splashes on the carpet. Grimacing, he puts it down, then stands up to go stand by the window, squinting at the street below.

"Well that's great," he mutters, looking at the cars along the curb, thinking of the one they left behind that held the hooch. "So we're here for who knows how long, until whoever gets whatever from us? Shit." He leans back against the wall, thunking his head solidly to it, staring at the grimy ceiling while he thinks, Dean's words stirring something at the back of his brain.

He pushes away from the wall and starts pacing the room slowly. "So... okay. So we were all going somewhere. We walked out of one place and popped into another. We were going through the door, like you said... Cas, were you actually walking out, too? Coulda been a door, a hallway, an elevator?" Because holy shit, can it be that easy?

"So, are you saying that we have to go out a door to get home? One door somewhere in New York City. That should be easy." But he gives Stiles a proud, encouraging look and strokes a hand down his arm as he passes by with his pacing. "Maybe there's something we could do. Like a spell?"

He rubs his mouth and then looks back up at Stiles again. "Maybe you could wield it?"

Stiles has enough power to wield mountain ash. He crackles with it sometimes, usually when he's angry or scared, but it mostly lies dormant. He has no idea what Stiles is capable of. "Okay, we have a hunter, a fallen angel, a werewolf, and a - " He doesn't want to say witch, because he isn't that. Nor is he quite an emissary, but he's something. He's important, and he gets that across with his tone. "A Stiles. We can figure this out."

"I am aware of nearly every spell since the beginning of time," Castiel states plainly. "and Dean is unrivaled as a hunter. Between the four of us, we should have no trouble utilizing a few different locating spells. New York at this time contains several shops that will sell what we require fronted as Apothecaries and I have a few ideas on how to find them," he finishes with a sigh. "I apologize, but I am dirty and sore. Can we reconvene in the morning? Apparently there is only so much that whiskey can cure."

Dean doesn't quite succeed at hiding a grimace. He's never been a fan of spells - too many ways for them to go wrong, and nothing that helpful comes for free - there's always going to be a sacrifice. He just hopes the key to getting out of here's not something they can't bear to give up.

With a worried pinch already between his brows, he takes in Castiel's tired face. "Yeah, we need a fresh start. Who knows how long we can stay under the radar here, might as well grab rest while we can."

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