Chapter Text
35 hours, 804 miles to go.
Lawrence, Kansas, all the way through to Calcutta, Ohio.
He's making slower time than he'd like for a run, but who was Castiel to complain? Getting an actual job anymore was always interesting.
There are not too many other smugglers out in the world right now. It's always been a small system, and it's only been getting smaller these past couple of years. Some are finding ways out, others don't have someone to pass it onto, and others sometimes decide to quit running and give hunting a go. Most don't come back. They either get killed or don't want to return to the "easy" job. Leaving smugglers high in demand and low in supply.
Most runners won't do shit unless the pay is good and worth the gas money—but Castiel knows better. He grew up from the passenger seat of his fathers old Ranger.
His dad always played it safe–played it smart. Sticking to the low-down jobs with the lesser pay, making the Novak name known throughout the business from the ground up. You want someone reliable? Oh, go to good ol'Chuck! He'll help you out! Just remember what he did for ya!
As of right now, anyone who knows something about "Highway-Haunters" has at least heard of the name Novak.
His dad, on purpose or not, had set up Castiel for becoming one of the most successful runners out there. Known nationwide, runner to runner. Not because a few big people knew about him, but because all the little folk knew him personally.
He had been to every state in the country by age six while seated right next to his father, and though it took years to actually get the old man to crack and explain what his "job" exactly was, he'll never regret being there instead of in a school, or upset because they didn't have a homey little house to live in. Chuck wasn't built for that kind of life, and Castiel doesn't think he is either.
His dad left that life when Castiel was just four. Leaving behind the "happy" little family house that was somewhere in Florida and taking him with him for some unknown reason, while his other siblings were left back in Florida with their mother. It was years before they were all able to see each other again. A little after he had turned twenty-something.
Last they all met up, Castiel learned that Micheal, Lucifer, and Raphael are all actually in the hunting business. (He doesn't know if they operate together, but if they do, that is a terrifying group to be the last thing you see. Two brothers who are doomed to fight over anything they possibly can, and a third who would use that to his advantage. Whatever they kill is probably just used a stress toy to get all the built-up anger taken out. Then it goes back to square one. That being arguing.)
Castiel doesn't think they like him very much... And Lucifer still scares the shit of of him. There's just something off-putting about him.
Well, there was always something off about him...at least from what Castiel can remember. Like sure, it's normal for brothers to tease and argue, but when the seventeen year old threatens to kill the three year old more than four times (and with what actually looks like intent to follow through) there's probably something wrong...unless Lucifer really does just have twisted sense of humor like their mom always said.
Anna had moved out to the east coast with some type of traveling group. Living life how she pleased with people she "connected with" or whatever. Castiel won't judge, as long as she's happy.
Then there's Gabriel, who went into the truck driving industry. He's also the only brother who seems to actually care about family. Strangely enough.
Gabriel was only not only the one who reached out but managed to find him. All of them, actually. Castiel still has no clue how he managed that...he is not an easy to person to just find if you're someone outside of the supernatural world.
In order to locate a smuggler—you have to know people who know other people. Run through loops of a voice-mail carousel that can lead to three completely different numbers with varying area codes. Then hope the number that was right at the time the voice mail was made is still the operating and connected phone number, because if it's not, the process just starts over.
Castiel is a hard person to reach unless you've met him, and it's hard to meet him unless you can reach him. He likes it this way.
He's free. He can go wherever he wants to, and pick up whatever job he wants, while passing through towns with the false name "Jimmy Milton," and living off of whatever meal of the day it was at whatever diner he found. He couldn't imagine anything different.
This is why he wanted to finish the run as quickly and efficiently as possible. You see, the problem with so many people in the community knowing his name is that eventually, he was bound to catch the attention of someone bigger. Riskier. Someone high status. Thanks to one of his dad's old buddies who knew of Castiel keeping the business going–he was sought out specifically for this job.
It's a gun.
Now don't get him wrong, people have him run for weapons all the time, but this wasn't a normal gun. Apparently, it could kill anything. Anything as in anything. Ghosts, Wenidgos, Vampires. Maybe even Shape-shifters.
That's some high-quality stuff. Considered highly valuable in the hunters world.
Which is why Casitel wants rid of it.
The longer it's in his possession, the more likely the chances are of his name getting out to someone dangerous. Castiel doesn't need some crazy, stop-at-nothing-hunter knowing who he is, what he has, or where he's at.
Being tracked down during a run is always such a hassle for everyone involved. The runner is just the middle man, y'know? Don't get him involved with personal business anymore than he signed up for.
Sometimes, hunters find the smuggler after they've carried out the run and no longer have the desired cargo, which just leads to anger-driven threats. Others will actually go as far as torture. Murder too.
Castiel glanced at the passenger seat of his truck. He knew the gun would be safe once it was stashed inside the hidden compartment inside the seat (one of the many places made for hiding goods). His truck was once broken into during one of the few times he chose to pull over at a motel. The next morning, whatever money that was left in there over night was gone, along with a knife he had on him, but the rock salt ammunition and two spell books that he'd been hired to transport were still safely tucked away exactly where they were left inside the seat.
Hunters that catch runners on sight with their goods usually rob the guy.
Being robbed of what you're transporting is basically a death sentence as a runner. It means either your name is the industry is ruined–as you're no longer trusted or considered skilled enough to defend what you've been hired to transport–or the hunter that hired you actually hunts you down for information about who took the cargo and kills you.
Castiel knew of a few men who mysteriously vanished after failing their runs. He wasn't about to add his name to the list, and messing up this run would be the one-way ticket for death's train.
Daniel Elkins has hired him to pick up a gun from Ohio and bring it back to him in Colorado. A three day job. Piece of cake.
Elkins is a big name. Use to be, at least. And he still had lots of ties to people. He's one of the oldest known hunters still alive. Started some time in the sixties. That's a big deal for other hunters because most usually die young.
There are tails passed around from hunters who've traded war stories at bars and crossroads, and there are a good few told around Elkins and his work with vampires. Castiel's heard a few while meeting up with an employer at a bar—Hargrove's Roadhouse or something. He doesn't remember—hunting vampires till extinction, blood of a dead man soaked into a steak, decapitation, all that fun stuff.
Castiel wasn't exactly going to say no to Elkins. He was a dangerous man. After asking around with a few of his friends, he also learned the past two hunters who've worked for Elkins haven't checked in with anyone for weeks. Smugglers have the tendency to dissappear every now and then, but two after the same employer? That doesn't sit right in his head. It's best to just do the job and get off Elkins's radar—along with the hunters like him.
Castiel's mind wondered back to the road. This next exit will take him out of Kansas and into Missouri. He took the longer route to avoid the toll booths. He hates those things. Too many people. Stupid, mindless people who've been on the road for too long for whatever reason. They're not used to driving the way Casitel is. Not stopping for a lot of rest, only leaving the car every now and then for gas, practically living in a vehicle.
Speaking of which, when was his last full eight hours of sleep? He'd been awake for about three days total when Elkins had cornered him. Going off of what was probably around three hours of sleep if he combined his napping time. He's already making bad time today because of traffic, but it's....Sunday? Yea, it's Sunday. By this time tomorrow, he should be way out of Ohio and halfway through Illinois. No one makes huge road trips on Mondays. Except him. It'd make the most sense to sleep tonight and drive all the way through the rest of the job without stopping.
On Castiel's last stop for gas for the day, he asked the cashier where the nearest, cheapest motel around was. He then drove for another hour until he found "Snooze Lodge" and checked in for a room.
He ended up in the farthest room from the check-in office, so he had to move his truck up from where it was parked. The closer it was to his room, the easier it would be to make an escape if something happened.
Castiel grabbed his duffle bag from the passenger seat and went inside. He looked around, scooping out the little space. It wasn't the worst place he's been in, but it definitely wasn't making the top tens either. He eyed the suspicious brownish-red stain in the carpet before making a beeline for the bed.
___
"Are you fuckin' serious, Bobby?"
"Kid, do I look like I'm joking?"
They have a lead. On the gun. The gun. The Colt.
His dad talked his ear off about that stupid fucking thing for years. Told stories about it like it was a fucking legend. Dean didn't even think it was real with the way his dad dragged on nearly every conversation about it.
"It could've killed that werewolf you fought a couple uh' months ago. With one shot, Dean. Bang! One bullet and it'd be out cold."
"What about those shape-shifers you're always trying to find? Could it kill one of them?"
"With one shot."
Dean can understand why John wants it so badly. Especially considering what 'everything' really means.
The Yellowed Eyed Demon.
His dad has spent years trying to find The Colt. Looking for any clues and taking any information he could get. Who had it last? Where was it last seen? Who knew of its existence? Who has seen it? When was it last used? What was it last used on? How many bullets are left?
It drove Dean crazy.
It drove John insane.
John spent weeks missing and would come back with nothing. Leaving Sam and him in crummy, dirty motel rooms with barely enough money for food. Dean could remember falling asleep in one motel room, and waking up in another with only a note from his dad saying what new town they're in and to call Uncle Bobby if something bad happened.
The obsession would come in bursts.
One week John was teaching Dean how to shoot a double-barrel, the next week he was gone without a trace. Dean hated it.
As of right now, Dean hasn't heard from his dad in months, so he's been hunting on his own (With no Sammy in the picture; He's off at Stanford), and now a lead on The Colt.
"Rufus called last night and told me Daniel Elkins had its location." Bobby grabbed a pen starting jotting down whatever Rufus must have told him. "Somewhere in Ohio. Apparently he sent some Highway-Haunter to retrieve it for 'em."
Dean scrunched his face at the term.
"Highway-Haunter?" He doubts Bobby's talking about the old yellow ghostbusters car.
Bobby looked at him. Like he was surprised that that was the information Dean was focusing on. Not the fact that they know the Colts location, or that Daniel Elkins wanted it, or the fact that it's in Ohio of all places. No, Dean questioned the term 'Highway-Haunter'.
Bobby spoke. "Y'know...smugglers—in the hunting world."
The first Dean has heard of it. He shook his head at Bobby. The corners if his mouth pulled down and gave small shrug of his shoulders, shaking his head.
Bobby sat back, as if perplexed by Dean's confusion. "I thought you would've known about 'em. With as often as your dad worked with the one. Charles, or Chuck, or something. I don't remember."
Of course he doesn't know about it then. If his dad was involved–Dean knew little to nothing about the subject.
Smugglers that operate souly for hunters? That's news. Why would someone want to do that for a job? Aren't most other hunters paranoid assholes who wouldn't trust another human being a day in their lives? And it's not like there are a lot of hunters out there in the world, so how much business can a person really get with that kind of job? It can't pay much.
"Did Rufus happen to catch the name of the smuggler?" Dean said slowly, drawing out what one would think is an important detail.
"No," Bobby mocked the slow tone Dean had used, squinting his eyes at him. "-but he got the truck and license plate number."
He ripped the paper from its pad and handed it to Dean, who squinted over the chicken scratch.
Brown/tan '87 F-250
IA B2676
"I've already ran the license plate number–it's real. Belongs to a guy named Jimmy Milton. Heard he'sa weird guy, so be careful ince you catch up to 'em."
Man, why does he have to track the guy down? The Colt wasn't his big legend to find. It's his dad's. Why don't they just call John and tell him about Rufus's little tip? He'd handle it. Easy. Dean can imagine how angry his dad would be if Dean got his hands on the gun before John could even breath the same air of the room its in.
"Your dad would just hunt the guy down, and kill 'em for the gun."
Bobby could read his fucking mind sometimes.
"Yea, and?" Dean threw up his hands. His voice raising the slightest bit to emphasize his point. "Bobby, this is the Colt we're talking about! We can't just let some rand-o walk around with it!"
He could imagine some jack-ass wasting the bullets on a ghost or ghoul or some shit. Wasting them on something that could be fixed with a simple salt and burn.
"Which is why you're gonna track down the guy! Jesus, boy! You got cotton in yer' ears?"
"Oh sure, let me track down some guy moving through the states that could be anywhere within a nine-hundred mile radius."
"Rufus said the guy should be following route seventy through Kansas. And with you being you, it'll be easy for ya'ta catch up with him."
Dean gives what is obviously a fake laugh. He stands up, grabbing Baby's keys.
"Call me once you have the gun and I'll get a hold of Elkins n'see if we can make some kind of deal with him."
"Will do." Dean shouts over his shoulder.
Shuting the front door to Bobby's house, and walks out to where his car is parked. It's starting to get warmer out now. Still muddy, and slick in certain places (as in all of Bobby's dirt drive-way), but it was still nice. It meant summer was coming. He'll need to wash Baby down soon. Can't be driving around in a dirty car.
Opening the door the Impala, he sits and immediately brings up his hand to sheild his eyes. He'd gotten here when it was still dark outside, but now it was well into the afternoon—and it seems as though he had parked directly in the sun.
Dean put the keys in ignition. The loud rumble following not long after. He smiled to himself.
So he has to take a break from hunting? So what? It's not like he has this need to kill shit or something. And it's not like this isn't a hunt. He's tracking someone down. Tracking is just another word for hunting. This is nothing compared to other stuff he's been forced to wait through. This hunt will just be on the slightly more annoying side, that's all.
Annoying because it's a person he's dealing with and not a monster. Not that Dean isn't a people person—it's just that most people don't turn out to a Dean person. Besides, this isn't someone he plans on being nice to. They have something he needs. If a threat or two needs to happen–it'll happen. Maybe the guy will turn out to be coward and just throw the Colt at Dean with the flash of his gun. Most guys do.
Dean threw in a different cassette and started driving. If it's slightly quicker then the speed limit said–no one will notice. Not along the back roads, at least. Drumming his fingers along to Deep Purple as he starts on the path back down to Kansas. It'll probably be morning by the time he reaches anywhere even close to where the smuggler might be.