Work Text:
While Ketch missed some aspects of the Men of Letters only occasionally—the structure, the mission clarity, the constant stream of work—one aspect he missed almost continually was having a cleanup crew. It wasn't that he wasn't capable of doing the work, of course... But it was messy, and it was boring. Ketch's patience, never his most abundant virtue, all but disappeared when faced with the aftermath of his latest job.
"Thank god for acid," he muttered, zipping the final bag to drag out to the van.
He didn't worry about being overheard. The private bar hadn't been crowded to begin with, and there was certainly no one moving about now. It took only a few more minutes to lug the body out and load it in with the others. He only allowed himself to grunt in annoyance until he reached the doorway that led to the outside.
A quick scan of the dark street showed nothing out of place. Even masked, he couldn't risk being seen or caught on camera. The organization wouldn't need his face or fingerprints to identify him. He returned inside for one last sweep, reading the words of the spell with care, not risking them from memory, even after using them time and time again as of late. Ketch watched in satisfaction as drops of blood seared away in flares of sparks from the surfaces in the room. All traces of the victims and himself, burning into nothingness. No mere witch or psychic would be reading the events from this place. Only a dark scar would remain after the spellwork.
He took the silver dagger Natt had wielded and the barkeep's revolver but left the broken glasses and shattered liquor bottles. Let them wonder.
Creeping from the building, gently closing the door, Ketch slid into the van. It was from a local cleaning company that handled business in the area this time of night. He'd just conveniently called and cancelled their job so he could carry out his own. His watch told him that they would have taken another 15 to 20 minutes normally, so he inched the vehicle up to its typical spot and parked it for the duration. Dark eyes flicked in constant rotation between mirrors and windshield as he thought about once more pulling on the body suit, mask, and gloves he would need to finish disposing of his cargo. His nose twitched in disgust.
Almost done, he promised himself. Only a few more trips back.
Each one was a risk. He had weighed every contact, estimated the likelihood of them discovering him against the possibility of being noticed, being caught. These were necessary.
Finally, he felt the van could be captured on the city surveillance without it seeming out of the ordinary. He checked the mask in the rearview mirror before pulling up the street and heading back to the company garage. He had a few long hours of work left, followed by an even longer boat trip, before he could catch a plane back to the United States. Until then, he would feel their eyes upon him, over his shoulder, behind his back, a constant presence… an angry ghost.
He reported back to the bunker later that week, giving the Winchesters a very abbreviated version of events from his time away. They noticed.
"Anything else?" Sam Winchester prompted, eyebrows raised. His mouth tilted ever so slightly in the expression of distrust that he tried so hard to mask whenever they spoke. "You went dark for a while."
Ketch sighed in exasperation. "I'm not one of your hunter trainees you can slap a body camera on. I have my own errands to attend to outside of helping the cause. Just getting work done and tying up a few loose ends."
Sam's mouth flicked in a frown, and his head gave an aborted shake as he decided not to push Ketch on the topic. He and Mary were much more willing to stay out of Ketch's business.
Off to the side, Dean Winchester's eyes tightened and flashed dark for just a moment. He knew, Ketch thought. Or at least suspected very strongly. And Dean Winchester would also know that Ketch knew he knew. It was a game they played. Ketch was never quite sure what Dean would allow or disallow from one day to the next, but he'd noticed that the elder Winchester's morals bent more strongly when his family and friends were on the line. Not for Ketch's own concerns.
Ketch would never quite make it into the trusted circle; he'd resigned himself to that. But he felt certain he was at least a valued asset. The Winchesters wouldn't leave him to die unless he showed himself disloyal.
Ketch had many faces, was many things, could do many things.
Loyalty? He could do that.