Fic: 'What Are We Stealing?' - 1 - The Plan

[thalialunacy2]

Master Post
The Plan | The Set-Up | The Heist | The Payoff

THE PLAN





The room is long. Clean. Empty. He sits down in the prescribed seat.

"Good morning," the primly-suited woman in front of him says. They're lined up like a firing squad, only armed with paper and stern gazes.

"Morning," Jensen says back amicably, respectfully.

"Please state your name for the record."

He enunciates carefully. "Jensen. Ackles." But not too carefully.

"Thank you." She is so polite, Jensen almost smiles. "Mr. Ackles, the purpose of this hearing is to determine whether if released you are likely to break the law again. While this was your first conviction, you have been implicated, though never charged, in over a dozen other confidence schemes and frauds. What can you tell us about this?"

Jensen locks his fingers together and looks down for a moment. He looks back up, his face smooth with a hint of sheepishness. "As you say, ma'am, I was never charged."

The combed-over man tries then. "Mr. Ackles, what we're trying to find out is: Was there a reason you chose to commit this crime? Or was there a reason you simply got caught this time?"

Jensen knows this answer, like the back of his fucking hand, but it still sucks to say. "My partner left me, I was upset. I got into a self-destructive pattern."

"If released, is it likely you'd fall back into a similar pattern?"

He pulls a rueful face. Not too bitter, but just bitter enough. "He already left me once; I don’t think he'd do it again just for kicks."

The woman's looking at him again. "Mr. Ackles, what do you think you would do, if released?"

Jensen doesn't smile.



It's a cold day when they let him go. He walks out, armed with only the tux on his back and ring in his pocket, to frozen snow that crunches tiredly underfoot-- but it's the sweetest sound he's ever heard. The breath freezing in his lungs tastes like dirty frost. Dirty frost, and a plan.

Three breaths in, he's three steps ahead.



The Jeffersonian Museum always smells like dead bodies. At least to Jensen, although that's probably unfair of him. He just knows what goes on there, and has an active imagination, so it's--as a certain hot forensic anthropologist would say--a logical, if inaccurate, association.

The glass doors into the lab are very much impenetrable by any weapon Jensen might have, so he just waits. And like clockwork, a brick shithouse of a woman crosses into his path a few minutes later. "Sir? Sir, you'll need to leave. Nothing to see here."

He nods, glancing wistfully past her, idly twisting the ring on his right third finger. "Be that as it may…" Then he looks at her ruefully, a small smile on his face. "Kidding. I'll be on my way. I just--"

"It's all right, Susie. I'll take it from here."

Susie--whose nametag says 'Shelby'--looks from Jensen to the new guy, whose nametag says 'Ramone'. Then she just glares. "You're late and he's unauthorized."

Ramone gives her his most charming smile and a small shrug. He's got clear blue eyes and regimental sandy brown hair. "All the more reason for you to leave it to me." He tilts his head into the receiver on his shoulder. "Escelantes, checking in. Shelby's on her way back."

"Roger," a crackly voice says on the other end. Shelby nods tersely and is on her way.

"You have a good one," Jensen says politely, waiting for the footsteps to fade away. Then he meets Ramone's gaze. "Hello, Mike."

The guy eyeballs him, his gaze narrow. "I beg your pardon, sir," he says coolly, politely. "You must have me confused with someone else. My name is Ramone. As you can see right here." He points, helpfully, at his nametag.

Jensen's eyes crinkle at the corners, but he doesn’t quite smile. "That's my mistake."

"No problem, sir."

"The person I'm looking for's not here, anyway."

The guy looks down, then looks up again. "You might want to try the Farelli's next to the Memorial Garden. I hear they go there after a big case."

"Farelli's?"

"Yes, sir."

"Thanks, Ramone."

Jensen takes his leave. But he still hears Ramone say quietly: "Thank you."



While he waits in the lounge, later, he smooths and resmooths the newspaper clipping. Gates collection adds historic artifact despite controversy, it says. European scandal dissipates. And it has this big picture of Genevieve Cortese in all her glory, Chanel suit and French twist and no-nonsense nose. Misha Collins can be seen in the background, vitriol in his eyes, along with a hint of admiration that makes Jensen grimace, still.

He'd had that fucking piece of paper for weeks. Kept it safe.

"Checking up on current events?"

The voice startles him, which is just sad. Ten hours out of the joint and he's already going soft. "Ramone?" he says with a smirk as Mike sits down next to him at the bar.

"Glad to meet you. Mike Rosenbaum can't get past the background checks." Mike grins at him. "Just got out?"

"This afternoon." Jensen takes a drink. "You seen him?"

Mike shakes his head, scoffing. "Last I heard he was teaching movie stars how to play cards." Mike eyeballs him again. "Why? You have a plan already?"

Jensen swallows the rest of his whiskey. "You kidding? I just became a citizen again."



"Officer Heath? This is Jensen Ackles. I was told to contact you within twenty-four hours." The plastic of the phone is cold against his face. He can see his breath as he forms the words. Well, lies. "No sir, I haven't been getting into any trouble. No sir, I haven't been drinking. No, sir, I wouldn't even think about leaving the state."



Jared Padalecki loves nachos. And poker. He loves nachos and poker and he's having nachos and going to play poker here in a minute but the effect is ruined because he knows who he's going to be playing poker with, pardon the dangling preposition. And that's enough to ruin even really excellent nachos.

Los Angeles kills his appetite sometimes, which is just wrong.

The back room reverbs with the thumps from the club, isolated like a little glowy igloo of glamour and stupidity. His 'students' greet each other with complicated handshakes and fists on the back and Jared wonders when hugs got so tedious.

Maybe the question is: When did he get so fucking old? These kids are--well, kids. They're so new and shiny they're nearly blinding.

He sighs. He's going to need more nachos.



Jared tries not to look like he's facing a firing squad. A poker-themed firing squad made up of spoiled Hollywood tween sensations. Then he idly starts to imagine guns that shoot playing cards. "The game is five card draw," he drawls. "Everyone remember five card draw?"

"Oh yeah," Zac practically yells.

"Yeah," Lea says, already seeming bored.

"Of course," Chris intones.

"Hell yeah!" Chace actually fist pumps, and Jared really wishes he had a card-gun to shoot at him.

He knucks the deck on the table, instead. "Who wants to start us out? Joe?"

"Yeah," Joe says, manning up. Jared slaps the deck down in front of the Jonas. "Right on."

Joe deals out about four cards before Jared can summon up the will to correct him. "Joe."

"Yeah."

"To the left." Joe looks at him blankly. "Deal to your left."

Joe makes a noise, holds up a hand, follows orders. Jared starts counting the seconds. He gets to about thirty-six--

"Hit me," Chris says regally.

The muscle beneath Jared's left eye twitches. "It's not blackjack."

"Dude!" Efron makes a face like Chris is the dumbest and yet most amusing guy on the planet. It's possible that he really thinks he is.

About forty-five seconds this time, then he's just bored. "Lookin' at 'em doesn't change 'em, guys. You know what you have." He nods at Lea. "Lady bets." She flails around a bit, perfectly manicured hand hovering above her pile of chips. "Let's keep moving," he says, going for light and probably just sounding like an asshole.

Finally she picks a chip up and throws it in. "Blue."

"Blue," Jared says carefully. "That's a fifty."

"Call?"

"Okay. Chris is calling."

"Fifty," Chace matches.

"There it is."

"What the hell," Zac guffaws. "It's only pocket change, right?"

That pushes Jared's 'You're a douchebag' button right quick. Luckily, they're paying him to call them on it. "How you bet is your business. You wanna make 'em think you're bettin for a reason."

"Yeah," Zac agrees affably. "Thanks, man." Jared sighs and pushes Efron's cards back a good foot until they're reasonably near his chest. "Right, right."

"Alright, Chace, how many?"

"Four."

There's a small pain forming behind Jared's right eye, apparently in league with the twitch still in his left. "You don't want four, you wanna fold."

"I wanna fold?"

"Fold."

"Is that good?"

"…okay." Jared takes the hand from him and throws it on the pile.

"What are you doing?" Chace is a second away from going alpha on him. Or at least attempting. Jared just shakes his head.

"You're done." He looks around at the rest of them, assessing. And blinks. "Chris, you've got three pairs."

"Yeah." Chris smoothes his hair back from his face. "And?"

"You can't have three pairs. You can't have six cards in a five-card game." He sounds like kind of a dick, he knows, but he's not sure there's a tone in the world that can convey how much like a dick he's feeling right now, so he gives himself an A for effort.

"Maybe one was mine," Lea offers helpfully.

"Guys. Guys!" Efron interrupts them, makes a huge show of fanning his absolutely shitty hand out on the table. "All…. REDS." And then he straight-up cackles. "What up, dawg!"

As they're slapping high fives and trading insulting ways to spend each other's money, Jared raises his nearly empty glass to his forehead. His other impulse is to bang his head on the table.

So he stands instead. "I'll be right back." He waves his free hand in a circle over the table. "Practice… something."

They're not even looking.



When he gets back, there's another person at the table. And he'd know that rumbling, charming, smoke-ridden voice anywhere.

His gut threatens to fucking cave in on itself.

"That's hard to do, isn't it?" Jensen is asking quietly, respectfully. Totally humoring these idiots. "Crossing over, between television and film?" Chips are clinking to the surface of the table. Jared hears every single one fall.

"Not for me, dude." Efron laughs, then notices Jared. "Oh, hey! Jared! We, uh--We got another player. If that's… cool with you."

Jensen looks up at him then, the cards idling in his hands. And Jared's gut pretty much disintegrates.

"Yeah," he says after a long, long moment. "It's cool."

Jensen holds his gaze, and offers up the deck with a calm, smug, yet somehow--contrite? look on his face.

Then Jared sees the ring that Jensen's still wearing.

Their fingers brush. Jared notices--because Jared always notices--the way Jensen's jaw tightens, just for a moment, before Jared takes his seat and the game begins.

About sixty-three seconds go by this time.

"Mr. Ackles," Zac starts, "uh… what do you do? If you don't mind me asking."

"Why would I mind you asking?" Jensen replies, cool as a fucking cucumber. He's looking straight at Jared. "Two cards. I just got out of prison."

Jared throws down two cards as Zac eyes Jensen.

"…really?"

More cards slide across the table. There's a little pregnant pause. "Well," Chace eventually picks it up, like Jared knew he would, "why were you in prison?"

Jensen's looking at his cards, now. "I stole things."

"You stole things? Like, uh… jewels…"

"Incan matrimonial headmasks."

"Any money in those? Incan… matrimonial…"

"Headmasks. There's some."

"Don't let him fool you," Jared pitches in helpfully, "there's boatloads. If you can move em'." He gives himself a card. "Take one. But you can't."

Jensen's looking at him again. He looks straight back. His skin feels all tight. "My fence seemed confident enough," Jensen murmurs.

"Dealing in cash," Jared comes back, "you don't need a fence."

This is an ancient argument. Comfortable. "Some people lack vision."

With a new parry. "Probably everybody in Cell Block E."

Jensen's jaw tics, again, and Jared watches as he carefully sets down a number of chips. "That's five hundred dollars," Jensen says, a hint of gravitas in his voice. Boy always did love the enigmatic drama.

Jared seizes the moment. "Guys, what's the first lesson in poker?"

"Oh, uh," Joe starts, "never bet on the, uh--"

Zac jumps in. "No, uh-- leave emotion at the door."

"That's right, Zac. Today's lesson: How to draw out the bluff. That much money, this early in the game, I'm saying he's holding nothing better than a pair of face cards." He turns to the lucky guy on his left. "Chace?"

"Alright." Chace looks at his cards for about a millisecond. "Yeah, I fold."

"Joe."

"I'm game," Joe says. Gamely. "I will see your five hundred, and I will raise you…" He's counting out chips. "Another five hundred of my own."

"That's a very handsome bet, Joe, but be careful. We don't wanna push him too high, too fast." He locks gazes with Jensen. Something sizzles, he swears it, and he wants another drink to put it out. "Wanna keep him on the leash." Then he turns to the lone lady at the table. "Lea?"

"Call?"

"Call." Jared doesn't cock an eyebrow at her. He really doesn't.

"Call," she insists, and it's clear as daylight she has nothing in her hand.

"And I'll call," Jared finishes. Two more calls, then--

"I'll see you five hundred," Jensen says smoothly, "and raise you two thousand."

Somebody whistles.

Jared's mind is ticking. "Guys, you're free to do what you like. That's a lot of money. But I’m stayin' in. He's trying to buy his way out of his bluff." Yeah, that sounds like Jensen's MO. "Joe?"

"Two," Joe confirms as he puts in his bet.

"Oh, brother," Lea mutters before tossing in her chips.

"Atta girl," Zac says before cuffing her in the shoulder, like he's Sinatra and she's Adelaide.

Then it finally makes it around to Jensen.

"Let's see 'em," Joe challenges.

Jensen pauses. His face is stoic. Jared wants to punch him. "I'm not sure what four nines does, but the ace, I think, is pretty high."

Sucker.

"Dude!" Efron's accusatory. Jared barely hears him. "Thanks for the tip on calling out the bluff!"

Jared's still watching Jensen. It feels like a crevasse is between them, but yet-- That smirk.

Sucker.

He finally breaks the staring match and throws up his hands, grinning up at Efron. It's so full of fake sugar he can taste it on the back of his tongue. "You win some, you lose some."

Zac drops down a wad of bills in front of Jared, grinning right back. "Whatever, man. It was fun. Next week?"

Jared nods. "Same bat time, same bat channel."

And the room clears out. Jared waits, flipping chips between his fingers. Jensen's not here to play cards, so.

He waits.

"Hello, Jay."

And his tone is so fucking warm that Jared is quickly done waiting. "What are you doing here?"

"I'm out."

"You're out."

"Of prison. You remember, that day that I went for cigarettes and didn't come back, you must've noticed."

"I don't smoke. Don't," he says to where Jensen's reaching over to steal some chips. He's always been better at the sleight of hand, and it annoys the piss out of Jared. He watches the chip flow across Jensen's fingers, his own hands not stilling, feeling each tug on each muscle all the way through his fingers, hand, arm, shoulder.

"Now," Jensen ambles, as if they have all fucking night, "they tell me that I've paid my debt to society--"

"Funny,” Jared interrupts, and edge of anger in his voice, “I never got a check."

That stops him. Jensen regards him for a moment, still smiling softly. The lines beside his eyes show his sincerity, and Jared can't handle it. "You're not wearing your ring."

"I sold it," Jared lies effortlessly. He learned from the best. "I don't have a partner, or didn't you get the papers?"

"Last day inside," Jensen says with a wry look.

"I told you I'd write."

Jared can practically feel the 'ping' of it hitting home, but Jensen doesn't back down. Jensen should want to throttle him. Lord knows he'd like to kick Jensen's ass six ways to Sunday.

Instead, Jensen just looks… affectionate.

Jared throws down the chips, done. Angry as fuck. He cannot be wooed, here. Forgiveness is not in the cards. Ever. He stands. "Jensen, go. Now."

Jensen stands, too, but he's still holding the chip, looking at it for a moment. "I will," he says quietly, but solidly. "I just… wanted to see that you were all right."

"I am."

"I can see that."

The irony is so thick Jared feels a little ill. He doesn't like being disingenuous, never has. It's just not him. Jensen, though...

…is crowding into his space suddenly, and Jared's gut jumps in a familiar way. Making him even more ill. He'd thought he was over this shit by now.

Five years.

The words keep repeating in his head, bleating across his synapses as he feels Jensen's heat gathering inches from him. He knows this game, this thrust, and the expected parry--

"No," he manages, just before Jensen's lips reach his.

Jensen stills. He actually seems surprised. Jared wants to laugh and deck him at the same time.

Instead, he inhales and steps back, just enough to meet Jensen's eyes. "I'm not that kind of guy any more,"

Jensen doesn't retreat. Not yet. "What," he says with a wry twisting sound, "did you find Jesus?"

"No."

Jensen pauses. "Fall in love?"

Jared doesn't answer.

"Bullshit," Jensen shoots back, not giving in.

And Jared, for a moment, fucking wishes it was.



It isn't until he's three drinks past Jensen's exit that he notices: All the money that Jensen had won is still on the table, in a neat little pile.

Waiting.

"Merry fucking Christmas," Jared says to himself. And then he tips his glass again.



"Ackles," is the only greeting he gets.

"Kane," he says back into the phone, nodding once out of habit. "You got what I need?"

"If what you need is country music and cryin' into your beer, yeah."

"How do you always know."

"Lucky Seven, half an hour."

"Roger."

Chris's chuckle is low and comforting. "Ten-four, cowboy. Over and out."

Jensen grins to himself, flips the phone shut, and goes to look for a car to boost.



A whistle greets him as he sidles up to the bar. "Nice ride, Ackles."

He grins. "Thanks, Kat. I'll leave it for you if you like."

She shakes her head, drying off some pounders and slinging them onto the rack. "That's sweet, but dirty cars are not the way to my heart."

"What is?"

Chris's voice booms into the room. "Quit hittin' on my staff."

"Why, Christian, you jealous?"

"You bet your ass. I'm just not sure of whom."

Kat laughs tinklingly. "You're cute. And you both need to leave now."

Jensen holds up his hands. "Fine."

She finishes filling a pitcher and hands it and a stack of two glasses to him. "Take this guy off my hands. He keeps trying to tend bar. What self-respecting bar owner tries to tend bar?"

"The kind that's trying to get a look at that tattoo." His gaze pointedly drops to her sternum, low on her chest.

"In his dreams."

"Most likely. Along with Patsy Cline and a Breedlove or two."

"Hey," Chris says, his arms spread. "I'm standing right here."

"Yeah, I know, and can you please stop that? I have a bar to run. Shoo."

Chris tips his hat to her. She rolls her eyes at him with a smile, and they head back to his office.

"She really is fantastic," Jensen comments on the way.

"She is. Total bubblehead."

"Best bar manager you ever had."

"That too."

"Place runs great."

"Too great." Chris takes his hat off, puts it on the desk in front of him, and leans back in his ancient but cushy deskchair. "I'm fuckin' bored."

"You look bored."

"I am bored." Then he straightens, picks up the beer Jensen's poured for him. "So how was the clink? You get the cookies I sent?"

"Why do you think I came to see you first?"

Chris smirks. "Liar."

Jensen deftly commandeers the hat and sits back. "Bite me."

Chris eyes him. There's a long moment. "So tell me."

"I thought you said there'd be crying into beer."

"I have a feeling it's about to start."

"Ye of little faith."

Chris waits. Jensen keeps drinking.

"Come on, Jenny. You know I’m in, even if it's stealing groceries from grandma."

Jensen looks up, vaguely horrified. Chris outright laughs. "Okay, so clearly no maw-maws involved."

"No, thank you. The opposite."

Chris raises an eyebrow. "We Robin Hood-ing it?"

Jensen almost looks uncomfortable, but then it's gone in an instant under his grin. "Get out your tights."

"There's no job in the world that would pay enough for that."

"This one would."

Jensen's serious. Chris doesn't budge.

"It's tricky," Jensen starts finally. "It's never been done before. It's a little… weird, in fact. It's gonna need planning, and a large crew."

"Guns?"

"Not exactly. A lotta security. But the take--"

"What's the target?"

"Eight figures each."

"What's the target?"

Jensen drinks more beer, almost chewing on it. "When was the last time you were in Seattle?"

Chris looks honest-to-God confused. "It rains nine months of the year in Seattle."

"Yeah, well, luckily we'll only be there for two weeks."

"And… what's going to happen in these two weeks?"

Jensen shrugs. "We steal some things, we make a shit ton of money. Any more questions?"

Chris's eyebrow is all the answer he gets.



"These," Jensen says, pointing at the blueprints in front of him, "are the display rooms, where a couple of the things are kept. The rest are here--" He points again. "--in storage."

Chris considers the prints. "Well, if I'm reading this right, and I like to think that I am, this is probably the least accessible museum ever designed."

"Yup."

"And this is where, again?"

"The Bill Gates music wing of the University of Washington Museum."

"The Bill Gates wing."

"Yeah."

"These are Bill Gates' stolen artifacts that we're going to steal."

"Yes, they are." Jensen grins at him. "You think he'll mind?"

"More than somewhat." Chris sits back a little, thinking hard. "You'd need at least a dozen guys doing a combination of cons."

"Like what, you think?"

"Off the top of my head? I'd say you're looking at… a Bowski, a Jim Brown, a Miss Daisy, two Jethros, and a Leon Sphinx. Not to mention the biggest Ella Fitzgerald ever.” His eyes are wide with it, then they narrow shrewdly at Jensen. “Where do you think you're gonna get the money to back this?"

"If we're hittin' this guy's museum, we'll get our bankroll. Gates has got a long list of enemies."

"Yeah, but enemies with loose cash and nothing to lose?" Jensen waits, and Chris gets it after a short moment. "Misha."

"Misha."

Suddenly there's another voice in the room, and a flashlight beam in their faces. "Hey," a security guard says warningly.

"Jesus, Oscar," Jensen says, not unkindly. "Lower it a bit, would you?"

"Sorry." And the guy actually is, is the thing. "You guys done up here, find what you want?"

Jensen nods. "We're just gonna take these home for the night, make some copies, if it's all right?" Chris manages not to smirk.

"Whatever you need."

Jensen smiles a little, tips his head a little. "Appreciate it."

Oscar nods back, then exits.

A half hour later, Chris pushes the elevator button and stares at it, his arms crossed in front, saying nothing.

"What," Jensen finally breaks.

"I need a reason."

Jensen protests with a half sound.

"And don't say money. Why do this?"

"Why not do it?"

Chris shakes his head. He ain't havin it.

Jensen tries the easy way. "Because yesterday I walked outta the joint after losing four years of my life, and you're running a cowboy bar in a town with no cowboys, cows, or even decent steaks."

Chris gives him that with a head tilt, but still waits for more. Jensen sighs, then looks at Chris with a too-casual shrug.

"Because I'm sick of being the bad guy, of going to the fucking slammer for a crime far less heinous than the shit this guy's got going on under his roof. Because maybe it's time I paid my debt to society, and I sure as shit couldn't do that while in prison. Because maybe Robin Hood had the right idea, and when the opportunity comes along to be a better person, to right some of those wrongs, you should take it."

He pauses, breathing. Chris looks at him, a corner of his mouth turning up. "Been practicing that speech, haven't you?"

"Little bit. Did I rush it?"

"No," Chris says around a chuckle.

"Felt like I rushed it."

"No, I liked it. The steak thing was a load of horseshit, but that's all right." The elevator gets there; they get on. As the door slides shut, Chris muses: "I wonder what Misha will say."



"You are crazier than Hugo Wolf in the final stages of syphilis," is what Misha says. They're seated at the table in his inaccurately-named sunroom of his huge house on Queen Anne, drinking mulled wine and eating some lamb concoction while the rain slithers down onto the windows above. "Are you listening to me? You're--both of you--nuts. There are rules here, rules about how the Counterpoint is written--"

"That Cortese has already broken," Jensen reminds him.

Misha waves his wine around. "Cortese is a genius! Cortese is allowed!" He puts his glass down and leans into them, his grandpa sweater bunched up around his elbows. "Do you even know how she acquired those pieces?"

"By hook or by crook?"

"Completely legitimately." Misha sighs and leans back. "Not a parallel fifth in sight. She's flawless."

Jensen clears his throat. "Except for the part where she's a criminal."

Misha shrugs. "The best are."

"Present company included, Professor Collins?"

"Of course, of course." He shakes his head. "But you're not better than the security system she's built up there. It's the lovechild of the Vatican and a Vegas casino. Remember who her backer is."

"We know who her backer is," Jensen says casually.

"We're hoping you remember who her backer is," Chris says, a little less casually.

Misha studies them. And studies them some more. He's like a Norse-ski-sweatered Buddha. "Don't think I don't see what you're doing."

"What are we doing, Misha?"

"If you're gonna steal from Bill Gates, you'd better god damn know. This sort of thing used to be civilized: You'd hit a guy, he'd whack you, done. But with Gates… It's the bank accounts of your third cousin, to start, and you on every sex offenders data base with three hundred thou in loans to Sallie Mae at the end. It's fucking criminal, is what it is, the digital age. True criminal." He shakes his head, then refocuses on Chris and Jensen. "At the end of this, he better not know you're involved. Not know your names, or think you're dead, because he'll kill you. And then he'll go to work on you."

Jensen nods, serious as death. "That's why we have to be very careful, very precise."

"Mm, well-funded," Chris adds softly.

"Yeah," Misha concedes. "You have to be nuts, too. And you're going to need a crew as nuts as you are." He pauses. They've so totally got him. "Who do you have in mind?"



"Alright, who's in?" Jensen asks Chris a couple days later, back in LA and back at the Lucky Seven.

"Mike is in. Mike has discovered a dying dowager great aunt in the wilds of Bellevue and has requested a transfer to one University of Washington museum."

"Nice. What about drivers?"

"I talked to Zach and Steve yesterday."

"You're kidding."

"No, sir. They're both in LA, six months off the job. I got the sense they're having trouble filling in the hours."

"Oh?"

"Let's just say clown costumes and kiddy parties, and leave it at that."

"Oh." Jensen pauses, imagining, then shakes his head, moving on. "Electronics?"

"John Cho. John's been doing freelance surveillance work of late, for the FBI mob squad."

"How's his attitude?"

"Okay. Not so bad he's been canned. Or divorced. Yet." They share a grin. Chris thinks about who's next. "Munitions."

"Phil Turentine?"

"Dead."

"No shit. On the job?"

"Skin cancer."

"You send flowers?"

"Dated his wife for a while."

Jensen smirks. Then he thinks. Mans up and says it. "Murray's in town."

Chris looks at him. "He's Padalecki's."

"Yup."

"Think he'll do it?"

"He'll do it."

"For the money?"

Jensen's jaw tics, and Chris sees it, and Jensen knows he sees it. "Course."

Chris looks at him for one more beat, then shrugs. "Well, there also might be an issue with availability, there."

"Oh?"



"Alright, bros," a squinty blonde dude outside a bank vault says to his cohorts. "Tuck it back."

He pushes down the red button. The explosives on the door behind him do their job, crack crack crack, and the door slides open with a whiff.

Chad does a surprisingly good funky chicken backwards into the vault… then the alarm goes off.

"Oh, fuck me running." He turns around. "You asswipes! You had one job to do! One!"

The ensuing cops handle him nicely but interrogate him pretty thoroughly. "That's all you used in the vent, right?" one of them snarls in his face. "Nothing else?"

Chad straightens as well as he can in his cuffs, insulted. "Back up. Are you accusing me of booby-trapping?"

"Well, how about it?"

But suddenly Chris is there, in a suit and trenchcoat, smoking a cigar, and Chad almost laughs. "Booby traps aren't Mr. Murray's style. Isn't that right…" Chris does this Dramatic Pause thing, and seriously, Chad is going to lose it. "Mayhem?"

He takes a long pull off the cigar, then finally pulls out a badge and flips it open. "Peck, ATF," he says to the cop with relish. "Let me venture a guess. Simple G4 mainliner, back wound, quick fuse, with a drag under 20 feet?" He's eyeing Chad up and down, and now Chad wants to deck him, too. "Yeah. Let me ask you something else, did you search this scumbag, for booby traps on his person? I mean really search, not just for weapons."

He grabs Chad by the arm and spins him around, up against the cop's car. "Stand back."

"Hey!" Chad gives a token protest as Chris starts his pseudo-search. "Here we go."

He feels Chris turn back to the cop. "Go find Griggs, tell him I need to see him."

"Who?" the cop says, his confusion--and awe--palpable.

"Just find him, will ya?" The guy nods and hurries off, his eyes wide. Chad chuckles. Chris leans back down to him. "Hey, Chad."

"Hey, Chris."

"How fast can you put something together with what I just slipped you?"

Chad grunts once. "It's done."

"Nice." Chris hauls him off the car and leads him away.

"Is Jensen around?"

"Yeah, he's waitin' around the corner."

"Jared?"

Chris shakes his head. Chad seems to mull this over for about two-point-five seconds, then shrugs. "Evs. It'll be excellent to work with legit villains again."

Chris smirks, then looks over his shoulder. He raises his voice, throws it down the alley to the scene they're totally not fleeing. "Everybody down, now!"

The explosion is bright behind them, as are the grins on their faces.



Jensen shifts in his chair, totally uncomfortable. "Remind me, again, what the hell we're doing at a cheerleading competition?"

"Gymnastics," Chris amends from the seat next to him.

"Right. Which one's Sandy?"

Chris waves at the stage, where four tiny women are doing a series of synchronized dance moves. "The little cute one."

"Right. Who else is on the list?"

"She is the list."

"I dunno, it doesn't seem all that diffic--" He trails off as the girl on top contorts until she's balancing, one-handed, curled up into a tiny ball, on top of the other three.

"We’ve got a grease man," Jensen concedes, his eyes wide.

Chris smirks. "We’ve got a grease man."



After the show, they go have a beer. "We need Jeff," Jensen muses.

"He won't do it," Chris replies, shaking his head. "He got out of the game a year ago."

"Get religion?"

"Ulcers."

"Huh."

They both drink, mulling this over.

"We could ask him," Chris finally says.

"Hey, we could ask him."

They clink glasses.



Jensen finds Jeff's cabin in the Olympics empty, but he knows where to go from there. He parks his car at the trailhead, pulls out his camera bag, and makes his way to a certain spot on the upper Elwah, where he can smell Jeff's cigarette smoke and hear his humming. But he still can't get the drop on the old man.

"I knew you were there," Jeff says once Jensen's sidled up to where he's sitting on the bank.

"I know."

"I heard your car."

"That was two miles back."

"I heard you before you got up this morning."

Jensen grins. "How ya been, Jeff?"

"Never better."

Jensen gestures at Jeff's left side, where there's a tiny cooler filled with bottles. "What's with the V8?"

"My doctor says I need vitamins."

"So why don't you take vitamins?"

Jeff finally looks up at him, really looks. Glares. Assesses. "You come here to give me a physical?"

Jensen just smiles and reached for his camera bag, taking out his gear and settling down next to Jeff with his camera out. It's a beautiful place, that's for sure.

Jeff finally breaks, though, after a couple dozen clicks of the shutter. "So, are you gonna tell me? Or should I just say no and get it over with?"

Jensen continues taking pictures. "Jeff, you're the best there is. What do you want?"

"Nothing. I've got a nice cabin up here. Goldfish. I'm seeing a nice lady who works for the Forest Service. I've changed."

Jensen finally looks at him, the camera falling a little. "Guys like us don't change, Jeff. We either stay sharp or we get sloppy, we don't change."

"Quit connin' me."

Jensen smiles again, lifts the camera again. "How long you been out here without a bite?"

"They come in the afternoon here, everyone knows this." More clicks go by. Jensen can practically hear Jeff rolling his eyes. "So are you gonna treat me like a grown-up at least? Tell me what the scam is?"

Jensen considers, then lowers his camera. He leans in and says one sentence, low, in Jeff's ear, barely loud enough to be heard over the rush of the river. Then he gets up and walks back to his car, snapping photos along the way.

One is of Jeff, sitting there, openmouthed, unnoticing of the tug on his line.



"…and Jeff makes ten," Jensen says to the air at the Lucky Seven a flight later. "Ten oughta do it, don't you think?"

Chris is ignoring him.

"You think we need one more?"

Kat is ignoring him.

"You think we need one more."

He nods to himself, downs the rest of his beer. The glass makes a nice clunk on the table.

"Alright, we'll get one more."



The sidewalks around Mann's Chinese Theater are full of tourists, fat wallets just waiting to be plucked. Jensen watches as a thin, pale, baby-faced kid takes his pick, landing himself a nice leather wallet sure to be full of cash and goodies.

The lift is flawless, Jensen has to admit as he picks up the chase and seamlessly follows the kid off the main street. Before they reach his car, Jensen has done a lift of his own, replacing the stolen wallet with a card that just says 'Jensen Ackles' in neat font then 'Nice pull! - Lucky Seven' in Jensen's scrawl.

He heads back to the Lucky Seven, orders a beer, and sits down.

The kid comes in about three minutes later. Jensen gives him points for punctuality, too. "Hello, Anton," He says, holding up the stolen wallet. "Whose is this?"

Anton's face is neutral. "Who are you?"

"A friend of Viktor Yelchin's." Jensen slaps the plane tickets down on the table. "You're either in or you're out. Right now."

Anton sits, finally, sliding into the booth warily. "What is it?"

"It's a plane ticket. A job offer."

"Well, you're pretty trusting pretty fast."

"Viktor has a lot of faith in you."

Anton's mouth takes on a wry curve. "Fathers are like that." Jensen pulls back, surprised. "Oh, he didn't tell you. He doesn't want me trading on his name."

"You do this job, you'll be trading in on yours. If you don't, we'll find somebody else who won't be quite as good and you can go back to feeling up tourists." He looks away for a second, his palm safely still on the tickets. "Can I get another beer, please, Kat?"

When he looks back, Anton has the tickets out of the envelope and in his hand. "That's the best lift I've seen you make yet."

"Seattle, huh?" The kid still doesn't look impressed.

"What," Jensen shoots back, "you don't like Starbucks?"

Anton almost smiles.



It’s pouring buckets the evening they touch down at SeaTac. Most of them on the same flight, even; like band camp but with more swagger and less… band. They trundle up I5 in a packed shuttle bus and trudge up the stairs to Misha’s front door.

The doorbell plays Bach.

Misha opens the heavy wooden door and peers out at them. “I think we’ve acquired some gypsies,” he says over his shoulder, and Mike appears, grinning. His t-shirt has a mock-up of the Mountain Dew logo on it, only it says ‘Do the Jew’.

"What,” he says, “did you guys get a group rate or something?"



Rain clatters on the sunroof ceiling, an insistent accompaniment to the small conversations going on as they stand around awkwardly, eating and drinking and waiting for Jensen to… do something. They’re none of them sure what, and they’re all wired, tight underneath the surface, but they manage to socialize. Sort of.

“Jumbo shrimp,” Steve says, holding up a speared shrimp. “Oxymoron. And one of Steve’s Peeves.”

Zach eyes him and his food in disgust. “Do you have any idea what kind of toxins are in those things? Farm bred or not, they are disgusting.”

“Shut up.” Steve plops it into his mouth and chews with his mouth open.

“Neanderthal.” Zach says it with ‘tall’ instead of ‘thall’.

“Hipster douchebag,” Steve has no issue retorting back.

“Can’t knock it till you try it,” Zach says back, raising an eyebrow suggestively.

Steve rolls his eyes and spears another shrimp. Then he turns to Sandy. “Want some?”

She takes it, and grins, and it’s blinding. “Jesus,” Zach mutters. “How old are you?”

She laughs, an adorable laugh. “About as old as Babyface McGee, over here.”

Anton wrinkles his nose at her. “Shut up, Sandra Dee.”

She tweaks his nose.

Zach makes a gagging noise to cover a grin.

In another corner: “I’m Chad,” Chad says expansively, presenting his hand.

John peers at him. “Yeah, I know. We met in Albuquerque, remember?”

Chad throws back his head. “Oh yeah, that was some good shit. Did you ever get the stains out of your clothes?”

“…no.”

“Oh man, the wife must’ve been so pissed.”

John glances around the room. “Didn’t get laid for a week.”

“Serves you right,” Zach mutters.

“Hey,” John starts to protest, but at that moment Jensen comes through the door.

"Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to Seattle. Everybody eaten? Good. Everybody sober?” He smirks. “Close enough. Alright, before we get started, nobody's on the line here, yet. What I'm about to propose to you is both highly lucrative and highly dangerous.” He doesn’t pause. Much. “Now, if that doesn't seem like your particular brand of whiskey, help yourself to as much food as you like, and have a safe journey, no hard feelings. Otherwise, come with me."

He lets it sit for just a moment, then he turns and goes into the house. The others follow, but one at a time, trickling in an effort to not look more excited or less scared than the next guy. Except: Anton lingers, flipping a coin across his knuckles and staring out at the rainy rhododendrons.

Misha approaches him. "You're Viktor Yelchin's kid, huh? From Russia?"

"Yeah."

"Some wonderful composers came from there. You like it?"

"Yeah…"

"That's wonderful. Now get in the God damn house."

Anton blinks at him. Then does.



They gather around Jensen, on haphazard sofas and chairs and cushions, while Jensen's standing in front of an excessively state-of-the-art screen—Misha blames the school, but Jensen’s pretty sure he secretly likes watching Bernstein in HD--that starts flashing schematics.

"Alright, people. This is the University of Washington Museum. And this--" The picture behind him pans. "Is the Bill Gates wing. It houses some of the most legendary and obscure artifacts on the west coast. When it comes to music, it houses the most legendary and obscure artifacts on the west coast. Some of which were procured legitimately." He holds a hand up, forestalling Misha's protest. "But some of which were not."

The picture changes to an ancient piano-looking thing. "Guiseppi Verdi's clavichord." Clicks over to a pile of half-burnt papers. "The original drafts of Mozart's requiem, the last thing he wrote."

"Like in the movie?" John asks cheekily.

Jensen pauses. "Yes, just like in the movie. Except not at all." John gives him a skeptical face. "Ask Misha later." Misha looks incredibly displeased by this turn of events.

Jensen plunges onwards as the picture changes to a tiara. Somebody whistles at the bling. "Maria Callas's famous dress-rehearsal diamonds." Then the picture changes to a pile of letters. "And the collection of loveletters between Benjamin Britten and Peter Pears, spanning over two decades."

Jensen’s eyes flick to the screen. His jaw clenches. Then he clears his throat and looks at each of his cohorts in turn. "These items were stolen. It is our job to steal them back."

"Smash and grab job, eh?" Anton pipes up.

Chris turns to him, a smug yet patient look on his face. "It's a little more complicated than that."

Anton blinks, shifts. "Well, yeah."

Jensen goes back to it as actual schematics fly across the screen. "These are courtesy of Mike Rosenbaum, new security detail at the museum." Mike nods from his cushion. "Okay, bad news first. The place has security that is, as our gracious host so eloquently put it, like the love child of the Vatican and a Vegas casino. The clavichord and necklace were in a special exhibit, which isn't so bad, but she moved them to where the papers are -- in storage. We think somebody warned Cortese--that's the curator--that there'd be an attempt."

"Lame." That would be Chad.

"Totally. Anyways, first, we have to get within the back corridors of the wing, which anybody'll tell you takes more than a smile. Next, through these other doors—“ He points at the screen appropriately. “--each of which requires a six digit code changed every twelve hours. Past those lies the elevator, and this is where it gets tricky. The elevator won't move without authorized fingerprint identification--"

"Which we can't fake," Chris interjects helpfully.

"--And vocal confirmation from both the security system within the museum and the storage unit below."

"Which we won't get."

"Furthermore, the elevator shaft is rigged with motion detectors."

"Meaning if we were to manually override the lift, the shaft's exit would lock down automatically, and we'd be trapped."

"Now, once we get down the shaft, though, then it's a piece of cake. Just a couple guards with guns and a secure door… and getting out of a city with one of the most heavily-guarded port systems in the world with some rather awkwardly shaped antiques." He exchanges a smile with Chris. "Any questions?"

"You said something about good news?" That’s Sandy. Even her effervescence has dimmed a little, her eyes huge and worried.

Jensen feels his own eyes crinkle with a smile. "Yeah. The paycheck."

"How much can a couple of fuckin' antiques really--"

"One man's trash is another man's treasure, Chad," Misha schools gently.

"Or, in this case," Jensen amends, "one man's four antiques is another eleven men's--pardon, Sandy--hundred and fifty million dollars."

There are no whistles this time. Everybody's too stunned.

"There are eleven of us, each with an equal share. You do the math. Any more questions?" Misha raises his hand. "Yes, Dr. Collins?"

Misha stands, saunters to where Jensen is sitting. His sweater today is an amazing mess of pastel horizontal stripes and vertical cables, looking like it was knitted by a colorblind grandma around 1922 and worn with pride since then. Misha pushes up the sleeves and stands there, chin in hand, regarding all of them.

Jensen grins. He's seen Misha do this to classrooms of college kids and boardrooms of suits alike, and it's always a pleasure.

"There once was a lad named Jensen
Who was, they say, really quite handsome.
I owed him a favor
Which he decided to savor
Asking for the moon and then some."

"Hey," Jensen interrupts, "we went all the way to Belize for you."

"Yeah," Chris adds. "In the summer."

Misha just gives them a look, and continues.

"So here we all sit, such a raggle-tag group,
Determined to participate in an artistic coup."

Jensen snorts.

"The risks, they are many, too many to name,
They got cameras--"

"Oh yeah," Jensen says belatedly. "Sorry, forgot to mention the cameras."

"--they got bells, let's just say: they got game."

Chad snorts this time.

"But we have some game too, the very best, in fact,
When it comes to conning and thieving, there is nothing we lack.
So I have no fear, in fact, I have a feeling
That nothing will stop us--"

Misha pauses dramatically, then looks at Jensen with overdone faux-puzzlement. "Wait, what are we stealing?"

He keeps the face for a moment, then grins. Jensen laughs outright, and the rest of the room breaks into applause and chuckles.

Misha bows, with a flourish, then waves at them. "Alright, enough. Dress-rehearsals start tomorrow. Everybody get some sleep. And drink lots of tea."

Jensen puts an arm around Misha's neck. "You realize we're not actually music students, right?"

"Music," Misha muses, "is a magic greater than all we do here."

"You did not just quote Harry Potter at me."

Misha just smiles. "Go to bed."

"Yes, Professor."

The Plan | The Set-Up | The Heist | The Payoff
Master Post

Comments

[sunnyrea.livejournal.com]

Oh dear god, already with this being in a museum is KILL ME WITH HUMOR!

I saw the word 'alpha' and god damn it because of you, you know exactly what I thought of!!!

cool as a fucking cucumber, ps. I have always loved the phrase 'cool as a cucumber' so I'm going to pretend this is for me.

OH MY GOD you turned Rusty into multiple people! YOU DEVIL YOU! ...okay not multiple people but you did change the poker game scene to be "Tess" and nice combo with the restaurant scene, worked well!

you're running a cowboy bar in a town with no cowboys, cows, or even decent steaks. 20 Points to Ravenclaw!

I LOVE ALL YOUR MUSIC REFERENCES AND JOKES AND OMG!

Nawwww poem! I love Misha. (Remind me some time to tell you about one of my cosplay friends who has somehow turned around into have some sort of odd friendship with Misha Collins!)

And okay this is sooooooo weird seeing all the Oceans lines coming out of god knows who's mouths and I must say I only know about half these people and IMDB is staying open in a tab next to this story you nut!

[thalialunacy.livejournal.com]

I love you and your comments. What even did I do to deserve them. <3333

The last line made me cackle a little with evil glee, ngl.

[sunnyrea.livejournal.com]

As it should! IMDB was very useful

[thalialunacy.livejournal.com]

hmm maybe i should put links to their imdb pages in the cast list... y/n?

[sunnyrea.livejournal.com]

It would certainly be a lovely resource

[thalialunacy.livejournal.com]

Well I now have! :D <3

[sunnyrea.livejournal.com]

I HELPED!

[pslasher.livejournal.com]

Very fun bb! I love the way you've adapted the movie to J2 - especially the way you handled making Jared Tess and Chris Rusty. Glee! Very snappy and fun dialog, as always from you. I'm excited to see how they get everything out of the museum!

[thalialunacy.livejournal.com]

Heh, thanks, hon! :D