dancing cheek to cheek (1920s au, NC-17)
The back room is hazy with cloying cigar smoke. It makes Castiel want to cough, to rid his lungs of the poison, but he represses the urge with a heavy swallow of his whiskey. He can’t do anything about the sting in his eyes though, other than blink it away.
Soft jazz music filters under the closed door, a young woman crooning about her lover’s unfaithful heart back in the club, but in this room there is only the quiet grinding of teeth as the burly men around the table observe their cards and wait, impatient but still, for Castiel to take his turn.
In his hand Castiel has a straight flush. It’s enough to win the significant amount of money in the pot, but he doesn’t say so. Not yet.
“Fold.” He places his cards face-down and Crowley, the unpleasant British man who runs this poker game, smirks and gathers up the bills from the middle of the table. There’s at least seventy dollars there. The thought of letting Fergus Crowley take it makes Castiel feel sick. He shoots another look towards the door, waiting.