In the world above the New York City's underground scene, he was just Dean. He was a boy that ran away from home the moment he scrounged together enough coin to afford an apartment on his own, abandoning his picturesque family without hesitating.

In the grimy, shadier parts of New York City, he was Killshot. Subsequently chosen due to the fact that he'd been taught, before he could ride a bike, how to shoot a man between the eyes. It was the perks ─ and downside ─ of being the supposed heir to his father's mob empire. Until he abandoned it, that was, and everything to do with it.

Mostly everything.

Giovanni Harvelle was a scary fucker. Out of all of the people John Winchester backstabbed, Giovanni was never on that list. Anyone with eyes knew that man was much deeper than the pop of a mom-and-pop shop.

Beneath the smells of fresh pasta dough and cooked tomatoes and garlic at Giovanni's Authentic was a basement stuffed to the brim with people waving cash around like fans, all betting on who would come out of the boxing ring in its center alive. Every week there was a new fighter trying to claim the cash payout. Every week, no one was capable of taking down Killshot.

At least, not physically. Every Friday that Dean came to fight, he made sure to show up a little early so that he could see you. Giovanni's youngest, and his only girl. Maybe you knew what Dean got up to in the basement ─ had to, didn't you? You cleaned up his cuts, fed him...

Until he started to push you away. Even when he avoided you, you could have brought him to his knees with a look. It wasn't like Dean didn't want to hang around you, this shining beacon in a world so bloody and bleak, it was your father and his prying eyes and long stares.

Friday comes, and Dean doesn't look at you once. Not as you hover over the basement door in the back of the kitchen, and not as you grab his arm. "Fuck off," he grumbles, trying to yank his arm free. "Seriously, kid. Can't you take a fuckin' hint?"

He was brutal now, and you didn't know why.