Chapter Text
There wasn’t a whole lot remarkable about the Third Street orphanage. Like all of the other dwellings on the street, it was an old tenement, though one of the larger ones. A fire escape criss-crossed the rear of the building, and a fenced-in plot of concrete was a maze of clotheslines strung with clothes and sheets.
The curtains in the windows appeared to be old bed sheets, washed so many times as to make them threadbare, and hanging so long that they were now bleached so that any embellishment or print on the sheet were now lost to memory. The entire aspect of the building was that of dilapidation and disrepair, but it matched the buildings surrounding it. The street itself was usually regarded as a slum, but most of the residents had window boxes with bright flowers to attempt to cheer the street up.
Of the inmates of the orphanage, very little was known. They could be seen now and then, walking in circles in the postage stamp back yard, messy hair piled on their heads, necks dirty, shoes either too small or too big, clothes with more patches than actual whole cloth. Any complaints the neighbors might make to the local authority were ignored, and seemed to only make the matriarch of the orphanage more reclusive with her charges.
There was one child, though, that seemed to be more noticeable than the others. The drab, dirtiness of her surroundings only made her red hair seem brighter; but more than that, she seemed more lively, more interesting, and more in trouble than all the other girls combined. If the police ever actually made their way to the orphanage, it was almost always with the redhead in tow, and she was usually sporting a few extra bruises to show for whatever adventure she might have just had. She and some of the other girls also liked to sit in the window of the third floor and sing when they weren’t busy doing chores.
“Betcha she reads,” Charlie, the redhead, sang into the night. “Betcha he sews.”
“Betcha he’s made me a closet of clothes,” Kristy sang, joining Charlie at the window.
“Maybe they’re strict, straight as a line,” Claire added. “Don’t really care, as long as they’re mine.”
Charlie smiled at her friends, then finished the song with them, “So maybe now this prayer’s the last one of its kind: won’t you please come get your baby?”
“Maybe,” Claire sighed. Poor Claire. Her dad had lost everything during the 2000 crash, and he went crazy, then decided he was an angel. Unfortunately, it turned out he couldn’t fly. He discovered this when he tried to “fly” off the Chrysler building. Claire’s mother had disappeared shortly after that. No one knew where she went.
Krissy’s mom had died when she was young, and then her father was killed a few years earlier in a hunting accident. She didn’t have anybody else, at least, no one willing to take her in.
“What are you two doing up?” Charlie asked, looking back into the night sky.
“Had a nightmare,” Krissy whispered, sitting next to Charlie.
“Krissy woke me up,” Claire said.
Charlie fingered the locket around her neck. Her parents had left it with her when they had brought her to the orphanage ten years ago. The gold locket was split it in half, leaving her one, and keeping the other for themselves, so she would know them when they came for her. The only thing that Charlie couldn’t figure out was why they hadn’t come for her yet. Ten years had to have been enough time, right?
Charlie wrapped an arm around Krissy’s neck and pulled her close. “There, there,” she said. “It’s over now.”
They were hit in the face by a pillow. “Pipe down!” one of the older girls ordered. “Or you’re going to wake up—“
She was interrupted by the dorm room door opening. There stood Miss Masters, silk robe open, revealing lacy lingerie in devil red. Her wild black hair was piled on her head in a messy bun, and she had obviously fallen asleep with blood red lipstick on, as it was smeared over her cheek. “Did I hear singing?” she demanded around an unlit cigarette.
Charlie and the other girls in the dorm groaned. They were already waking up and putting on their clothes and shoes, because they knew that Miss Masters was going to now wake them all up and get them to working.
“If you have time to sing, you have time to clean!” She declared. “Now get to work, and don’t stop until this dump shines like the top of the Chrysler building!”
It was a direct jab at Claire, who was one of the singing culprits.
“Oh, and be sure to thank Charlie and her little friends for your midnight cleaning spree!” Miss Masters called out while the girls trudged up and down the stairs, going to their stations to clean their areas.
Charlie’s designated sector was the bathroom, where Miss Masters said there was little chance for her to make mischief. This proved true for the most part, but on this morning, the house was in such turmoil due to everyone being woken up five hours too early, so it was easy for Charlie to take all of the soiled towels and bath mats out to the back yard and pull down the sheets that had been put on the clotheslines, bundle everything up, and then hide herself in the laundry cart. From there, it was smooth sailing.
Her first taste of fresh breath was worth the dirty towels and pee-soaked sheets she’d hidden under. “Thanks, Mr. Thackery!” she called to the bemused laundry man when she hoisted herself out of the cart.
“Charlie!” he called after her in vain. “Wait! You can’t just…”
But she was already in the wind, ready to stroll along whichever street this was, pretending she had parents who cared about her. Just like the girls playing hopscotch in front of the candy store (and maybe she looked longingly in the window for more time than was reasonable), or the kids following their mother into the seamstress, where a pretty white dress hung on a mannequin.
What she couldn’t ignore, what she didn’t want to participate in, however, was when she came upon a group of boys, tormenting a stray cat.
“Hey, what’re you doing?” she demanded, breaking them away from the cat, who was currently sporting a bunch of tin cans on its tail.
“Hey, scram little girl!” the biggest boy sneered.
“Yeah, we don’t wanna hurt you!” another chimed in.
Charlie looked down, as though they had defeated her. Her size tended to fool bullies into thinking she wasn’t much, since she was small and wiry. But you didn’t live in an orphanage for as long as she had if you didn’t have guts or fighting skills. Quick as a snake, Charlie punched the bigger boy in the stomach, and then the other boy got a good kick to his shins.
“Who’s next?” she asked, balling her tiny fists at the boys.
“She’s crazy!” the first one said, turning and running.
“Ha!” Charlie crowed, then turned to the cat and untied the cans from his tail. “Stupid boys. Can’t stand ‘em. Okay, you’re free now. Stay away from them, okay?” Charlie turned, and continued her sojourn through the city, jumping lightly when a cold, wet nose hit against her hand when she stopped to look in a Game Stop window. “Cat! I told you: don’t follow me. Seriously. Am-scray.”
The cat seemed determined to stay with her, so she grudgingly allowed it to come along. Besides, it was a black cat, and that sort of made her think of Darth Vader, and that was cool. She guessed. But it wouldn’t do to get attached. Miss Masters would never go for a cat at the orphanage. She barely liked children at the orphanage.
The cat sat in front of a trashcan and meowed plaintively, its sharp white teeth a stark contrast to its black fur.
“You want food? Do I look like a freakin’ drive through?”
The cat mewled again, this time pitifully, and Charlie scooped it into one of the gaping pockets of her cargo shorts. Like all of the clothes at the orphanage, they didn’t belong to her, and they were hand-me-downs, worn so many times that they were nearly threadbare. They weren’t even girls shorts, they were for boys, but Charlie didn’t care. Clothes of any kind held no fascination for her. She’d never been allowed to pick them out, and she’d see any number of girls wearing them at some point during her stay at the orphanage. What she did like about these particular shorts was the pockets. Four of them, pleated for width and depth, and the tiny cat fit perfectly in the big one on her thigh.
“Okay, you want some food? Let’s try and be stealthy. No talking.”
Charlie spotted a news stand, and scanned it quickly. A package of peanut M&M’s were near the corner, and she was pretty confident she could nab one without being seen. She moved confidently, like someone who had someplace to go. She’d learned a long time ago that you drew more attention to yourself when you looked like you were trying to hide something, so she acted like she meant to be out wearing the same clothes she’d worn for the past week, like she didn’t own a comb or a shower or a bed of her own. Just a normal kid, yeah.
Five steps until she reached the news stand.
“What do you think you’re doing?”
Charlie had been so intent on the news stand that she hadn’t been paying attention to the street or the other people on the sidewalk, so she hadn’t noticed a cop car pull up, or an officer get out of it. She looked up and up until she saw a tall man with pale hair. She recognized him from the orphanage, and he’d brought her home a few times. What was his name? Az-something.
“Just taking a walk,” Charlie said, shrugging. “Lovely day, isn’t it, officer?”
“You think I don’t know who you are, little girl? You’re coming with me.”
Charlie was forced to get into the back of the car. “Are we going for ice cream? I hear you cops like to take kids out for ice cream.”
“Kid, I could hand you a plate full of shit, and you wouldn’t know that it wasn’t ice cream.”
Charlie crossed her arms over her chest and pouted. “Well, I’d know it was a plate of shit at least.” So what if she’d never had ice cream? Lots of people never had it.
“You shouldn’t talk like that,” Officer Az-hole said in his odd nasally voice. “Pretty little girl like you shouldn’t say ugly, filthy things.” Then he laughed to himself like he’d just told the funniest joke in jokerdom.
Charlie just rolled her eyes and watched the city go by until they were back on her dingy street, in front of the dingy townhouse for orphans, and she was being walked back up the scrubbed and cleaned brick stairs where officer Az-hole rang the bell and waited until Miss Masters answered the door. Charlie just hoped she’d finally put on some clothes.
“Officer Azazel!” Thank Ipthar, she had. Of course, Miss Masters’ idea of clothes and Charlie’s idea of clothes could be two different things at times. Miss Masters currently had on a pair of skinny jeans that were so tight, they appeared to be painted on, and her T-shirt was the sort that had the collar ripped off so it slid down one shoulder, and a huge pair of red lips was printed on it. Charlie had a feeling that as ugly as the outfit was, Miss Masters had spent more money on it than she had on the whole of the wardrobe for the entire orphanage.
“Miss Masters, I found one of your pretty flowers blooming out on the streets.”
Miss Masters made a distressed face and pressed Charlie to her bosom. “Charlie! Oh goodness! I’ve been worried sick about you!”
From the smell of things, Miss Masters had been drowning her sorrows in tequila.
“I knew you would be,” Officer Azazel said with a smarmy smile. “You’re so…kind-hearted.”
Charlie knew when to make a strategic retreat. If Miss Masters wasn’t above being wooed by this Neanderthal, then Charlie wasn’t above using the distraction to her advantage. She still had the kitten in her pocket, and it was thankfully being quiet, but it was starting to squirm. She knew she had to get it out and give it something to eat soon. She couldn’t even begin to imagine what Miss Masters would do if she saw it.
“Charlie!” Claire whispered when she walked by the rec room. The girls were allowed to watch TV (it was an old heavy thing in a big wooden box that got really poor reception, but it was better than nothing) if they were doing something productive. Claire, Krissy, and a few other girls were patching up clothes and sewing some new ones with a bolt of truly hideous green calico. Still, it was better than nothing.
Charlie darted into the room, closed the door behind herself, and hid behind the sofa that was sitting against the window. Claire and Krissy joined her, and she pulled the kitten from her pocket.
“Oh!” Krissy cooed.
“You’re going to finally make her kill you,” Claire said. “It is really cute, though.”
Before Charlie could answer, Miss Masters slammed the door open. “Where is she?”
They all knew who she meant, so Charlie shoved the kitten back into her pocket and stood up.
“You. Paddle closet. Now!”
The paddle closet was a small closet in Miss Masters’ office. It was in the very center of the townhouse, and nothing could be heard of the outside in there, and any crying or begging couldn’t be heard outside. If Miss Masters would just punish whoever had to go in there, it probably wouldn’t have been so bad. However, she liked to let her prodigal children sit and stew in their own juices. Rumor had it that one girl spent three days in the closet. Charlie had always thought that sounded really extreme, until Miss Masters threw a metal pail in after her.
“Your bathroom,” She sneered when Charlie raised her eyebrows in question over the pail.
“Gross,” she muttered as she sank into complete darkness.
Of course, it wouldn’t be that bad. She had her tools. She could break out of any locked area at any time. She just figured if she didn’t kick up a fuss, Miss Masters would never believe she was truly suffering.
}o{
Castiel Milton was not the most visible member of the wealthy Milton family, but he was one of the most well-known, being that he was the wealthiest. Unlike most of the Milton clan, however, he was practically invisible. Castiel did not go in for large displays, preferring rather to live simply in a two-story, eight bedroom penthouse with only the smallest compendium of staff staying on with him.
There was the housekeeper/cook who kept things clean and everyone fed, his driver/bodyguard, and his personal assistant/bodyguard. Besides them, there were any number of folks coming in and out in a day. The housekeeper had a few maids who would come by three times a week for a thorough cleaning, since Mr. Milton was somewhat of a neat freak, and then there was a personal trainer who taught Castiel the art of self-protection, yoga, and meditation, and a music teacher who was studiously attempting to show Castiel how to play the harp competently.
Castiel was content to live in obscurity with only his staff to keep him company, but a scandal with one of his cousins and a sex tape, and a brother running for office, the rest of the family was called upon to restore the good Milton name. Castiel was suddenly thrust into a more active role, even though he had branched off from the family company into his own, much more lucrative business.
It was decided that Castiel would do something bold, truly make a statement about his brother’s family values, but it had to be in a more liberal way since Castiel appeared to be a confirmed bachelor. To that end, Castiel would appear to adopt a child, and Castiel was adamant that he would simply appear to adopt the child, as he clearly did not have the room for such a creature in his home.
Mr. Winchester, his personal assistant, was the one who would pick out the creature. Someone small and meek, Mr. Milton had determined. Visible enough for the press, but not so visible as to overpower the true objective of putting Michael into office and subsequently out of Castiel’s hair.
The publicity agent had mentioned something about photo ops and interviews, but Mr. Winchester knew that Mr. Milton would never remember such a thing. He would have to remind him of it, after the child came. As always.
“I don’t like the idea of you going into that area of the city alone, Mr. Winchester,” Mr. Milton said to him when he was checking to be sure he had everything he needed in order to obtain an orphan. “You should have your brother drive you in one of my cars.”
Mr. Winchester waved him off. “Your safety is more important, Sir. Sam will go with you in one of your cars. I can care for both myself and the child.”
Mr. Milton attempted to protest again, but in the end, Mr. Winchester won the argument. “I’m not a target without you, Sir,” he said.
Mr. Winchester was more than capable of taking care of himself, actually, and he arrived at the Third Street Orphanage before noon and rang the bell, astonished at the lack of sound from inside. He was expecting shrieking, perhaps. At least voices and sounds of some sort. He nearly jumped back when the door was wrenched open and a half-naked woman answered.
“What?” she demanded, looking him over. A cigarette dangled from her lips, and her hand held a juice glass that smelled like it was more vodka than orange juice.
Mr. Winchester smiled. “Miss Masters, my name is Dean Winchester, and the Board of Orphans sent me here.”
The woman’s demeanor changed completely in a second. She practically spit the cigarette into the cup, then threw the cup out in the nearest potted plant. It was interesting to watch, since the vodka had caught fire from the cigarette, and now the whole thing was sort of smoldering in the dried up soil of the dead plant.
“Oh, Mr. Winchester!” Miss Masters simpered. “Goodness! I didn’t think you’d come so soon!” She opened the door all the way and beckoned him to follow her into the house. Dean ducked inside, and ignored the exaggerated sway of her hips as she led him to an office that was filthier than the floors on the subway. “I had no idea she was gone!” Miss Masters continued. “Naturally, I was panicked when I realized, but by that time, Officer Azazel had already returned her, and you know, her disciplinary file is thicker than my arm!”
Mr. Winchester pulled his eyebrows together. “Miss Masters, I don’t know what it is you are speaking of.” Taking a formal air always aided Mr. Milton, so Dean did the same thing on occasion, and he had never regretted it.
Miss Master’s demeanor immediately changed, and she narrowed her eyes at him. “What’s this about then? Don’t tell me you’re trying to sell me encyclopedias or some shit like that. We don’t need no books in here!”
Dean cleared his throat and darted his eyes around the room. “Of course not, Madam. As I was saying earlier, the Board of Orphans sent me here to select a child to come and live with Mr. Castiel Milton for a week.”
Miss Masters slammed a thick folder onto the desk. “Castiel Milton the millionaire?”
“Castiel Milton the billionaire,” Dean amended.
Miss Masters opened a drawer and pulled out a few files. “What kinda kid does he want? I got tall ones, short ones, blondes, brunettes, redheads…”
Dean heard a scuffling from behind the door to his right, and he looked over to see a young redhead peeking out of someplace dark. “Red is good,” he said with a sly wink to the girl. He couldn’t imagine what she was doing in there, but he figured she was hiding, probably from another girl she was playing with.
“Age range?”
The little girl opened her hand twice. “Ten?”
Dean was smiling at the child, but his mood changed abruptly when Miss Masters slammed down her file, then forcibly closed the door and furiously turned a key in the lock. “No. No children meet that description.”
Dean went cold. What the hell was this woman going to do to this little girl? He stood up and unlocked the door, then opened it to find a dusty closet and the little girl standing in the middle of it wearing little more than tatters. Now that he was looking at her better, he could see how dirty she was, and that her shoes were full of holes and her hair needed a comb pretty desperately.
“This one, Miss Masters,” he demanded.
“No,” she shot back, just as rigid.
“This one, or I’ll have the Board of Orphans here within an hour, going over your records, your accounts, your room where a very suspicious and herbal smell is—“
“Enough! Fine! Take her!” Miss Masters pushed her dark hair out of her face and lifted her chin. “But don’t you dare bring her back!”
Dean nearly growled. “I wouldn’t dream of it.”
He grabbed the kid by the hand and started out with her.
“You’ll regret taking her,” she taunted.
Dean snorted. “I’m sure I will.”
He practically threw the kid into the front seat of his Impala—a classic that he drove when not on business without Mr. Milton—and followed behind her, bumping her until she was on the passenger side.
“Seatbelt,” he ordered, strapping himself in. When he was younger, he never did such a thing, but Mr. Milton always insisted on safety first. Mr. Milton even attempted to persuade Dean to give up his classic car, but he wouldn’t hear of it.
The little girl looked very young and fragile in the passenger seat, where Dean was used to seeing his brother lounging. Sam was about three times larger than the kid.
“What’s your name, anyway?”
The little girl looked up at him with deep brown eyes that seemed far too wise for her young age. “Charlie. Uh…Mr. Winchester. Sir.”
Dean smiled and patted her head, even though it was dirty and he almost immediately regretted it. “Just call me Dean, kiddo.”
Charlie looked like she was going to say something, but a pathetic meow filled the silence instead.
“What was that?” Dean asked.
“What was what?”
“That!” he repeated when another meow interrupted.
Charlie started fidgeting at her pocket, and Dean realized that there was something moving in there.
“Oh no, sister. No cats.”
Charlie pulled a small black kitten from her pocket. “If Vader can’t come, then…” she bit her lip. “Then I can’t come either. I’m sorry, Mr. W—Dean. I’m sorry, but… someboysweretyingcanstohistailandIhadtosavehimIjusthadtoyoudon’tunderstand…”
Dean lifted his hand. She had him already, and like it or not, Dean was a sucker for a hard-luck story. He should have known better. Besides, Mr. Milton tended to like cats. “Let’s just go.”
The drive was pretty quiet, as Charlie was looking out the window most of the way, even after Dean drove through a burger place and got them each something to eat along with chocolate milkshakes. He didn’t miss how Charlie ate like a starving person—quickly and with furtive glances, not wasting a drop of anything—and wondered what exactly he could do. His threat to Miss Masters was hollow at best, but she didn’t need to know that. He did think that he might be able to get the ball rolling, though. Red tape in government unraveled slowly, but maybe he could make a difference in the orphanage? He hoped?
At the apartment building, Dean parked in the underground garage, where Mr. Milton had several spots blocked off for his live-in staff. Charlie looked completely baffled by everything, and appeared to be barely restraining herself from pressing every button in the elevator.
“Everything has a number except these ones, Dean,” Charlie said, indicating “L,” “G,” and “P.”
Dean pulled out his black card. “Would you like to press the one that says “P?”” he asked, smiling at Charlie’s enthusiastic nodding. “Okay, when I swipe my card, you push it.”
He had to lift her so she could reach the button, and it made him feel very strange inside to think that something so small gave her so much pleasure.
“You can feel the ground moving under you!” she said. “Wow! Is this like a roller coaster?”
Dean added “Amusement Park” to the list of things he wanted to do with Charlie before she had to go back to that godawful place. Not that he was going to let her go back there, to that woman.
The penthouse took up the entire top floor, and had exclusive access to the roof, where there was a small garden, an endless pool that doubled as a hot tub, and a bistro area where Mr. Milton usually took his breakfast and was briefed for his day by Dean. Dean couldn’t wait to show it all to Charlie. He watched her face as he opened the front door.
Inside, the staff was cleaning under Benny’s direction, and Dean could smell something wonderful baking in the kitchen. Dean pulled Charlie in from the foyer, and Benny immediately moved towards the two of them.
“Mr. Winchester,” he drawled. “Who is our new guest?”
“Benny, this is Charlie. Charlie, this is Benny Lafitte, our housekeeper and cook.”
Benny leaned over the girl and kissed both of her cheeks. “En chante, chéri,” he murmured, making her blush. “Might I take your sweater?”
Charlie leaned away from Benny. “Will I get it back?”
Dean and Benny both chuckled. “Of course, ma belle. I only mean to keep it safe for you.”
Charlie reluctantly surrendered her threadbare, moth-eaten sweater that Dean was determined to never let her wear again if he could help it.
“A guest is here for you, Hoss, in the parlor.”
Dean steered Charlie into the parlor where he found Miss Harvelle, who was Castiel’s brother’s press secretary. It had been her idea to boost the Milton image with Charlie, an idea that was starting to seem more and more cruel to Dean by the minute. Was a child supposed to simply go back to a place like the one where she had been living, after having sampled the extreme good fortune of Castiel Milton’s life?
“Mr. Winchester!” Miss Harvelle said, standing and looking Charlie over. “Well, I don’t want her to look particularly put together for the photoshoot, but we can’t have her this downtrodden. The public would think she was being abused.”
“Fancy that,” Dean deadpanned. “Miss Harvelle, why not run on exposé on the orphanage Charlie came from? Really address the issue of orphan abuse.”
Miss Harvelle pursed her lips. “Would it help Mr. Michael Milton win his election?”
Dean narrowed his eyes. “Perhaps.”
“Then there’s your answer. As for this one…” Miss Harvelle unlocked her phone and selected a programmed number, then began a series of phone calls that all went the same way. “Red hair, brown eyes, freckles, about ten, but small and thin for her age. Send a tailor as well, we want things fitted to her. Send a hair dresser as well.”
Dean felt a headache by the time she was done, and only Benny approaching them with the promise of pecan pie made him feel better.
“Do you like anything particular to drink, Miss Charlie?” Benny asked as he led them to the dining room.
“Do…do you have milk?”
Benny winked at her. “I think we can swing milk, chéri.”
Charlie pulled the kitten out of her pocket. “Good, because I think Vader would like some.”
Benny raised an eyebrow and Dean popped a Zyrtec, but soon Vader was sitting on the table, with a saucer of milk and a plate of canned tuna in front of him while the humans ate pie. After that, Dean had to release Charlie to Miss Harvelle and her personal shoppers from Barney’s and Niemen Marcus. That left him plenty of time to do his job of answering Mr. Milton’s correspondence and arranging his schedule, but he couldn’t help but wonder what would become of Charlie after the end of the week.