If you’re still doing these: 15, 18, Destiel?
15. Criminal AU18. Circus AU
The acrobats are up, swinging from the tent posts and flying around the ceiling, and Dean’s not watching. Everyone else is, heads and eyes angled upward, and Dean is working as fast as he can. Slide a bag here, pull a wallet there. Return as many billfolds as possible, and don’t take all of the cash. Just enough that a man in a sharp suit might be confused over how much he’d spent.
The docks might be rife with pickpockets, but Dean doesn’t want anyone thinking they’re being robbed during the show. Where’s he going to find another hunting ground like this?
When the firebreathers come on, Dean reflexively sinks deeper into the shadows beneath the stands. The light flickers between the slats of seats and steps, between trouser legs and under the hems of dresses. He makes the transition between the stands between acts, under the cover of applause. He ducks down again as stage hands pass behind him, again escaping detection.
The ringmaster gets out in the limelight, ribbing the audience before announcing the next act. The name is as ridiculous–Castiel, Commander of Beasts–but Dean’s caught enough glimpses before that he stops working. The clanging as the huge, circular fence is brought out and assembled is fantastic cover, but Dean’s earned this break. Crouched down as low as he can get, Dean finds a good spot and watches the ring between a man’s widespread legs.
The lion tamer is as spectacular as his name is stupid. His uniform sparkles, a dazzle adorned in loops of rope and rows of shining buttons. His trousers cling to his legs, and not even the tails of his coat can conceal the shape of him. Tonight, he’s without his hat, but his hair alone makes up for it. He stands tall and proud inside the cage, trapped with only one exit: the metal tunnel of the lion’s entrance.
And then, to the sound of a mounting drum roll, they release the lion.
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