Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Dean likes to think that he has a pretty good imagination. After all, he spent almost four long-ass, pathetic, piney months imagining various scenarios where he and Cas were getting jiggy with it. And boy were some of those scenarios inspired. 

There was one that made Cirque Du Soleil look like amateurs, even though Dean knows it’s not physically possible, nor is he even close to being that flexible, even in his youth. Another that involved a rather inventive use of orange segments. 

But never in all of his trips through the porno looking glass had he imagined this. 

In fairness, that’s probably because it’s less dirty-hot spank bank material and more the perfect picture of happy domesticity that Dean never actually hoped to imagine, because it would’ve just been too ridiculous, too much like everything he wanted from a man whose life is shadowed by violence and blood.

Dean’s sucker-punched with the mouthwatering sweet and spicy aroma the second he opens the front door, but it’s not until he’s approaching the kitchen doorway that the scent really starts to take the shape of delicious things, and whatever lame quip he has about Ben lighting up Dean’s Christmas Yankee candle without him dies on his tongue. 

Ben is standing at the kitchen island, flour sprinkled in his dark hair and little prints of it here and there all over his clothes, smears of ghostly white a stark contrast against the navy denim jeans and black hoodie that he wears so damn often, Dean’s worried that the thing has now grown enough sentience to be considered under the Animal Welfare Act.

Next to him is Cas, equally disheveled from this angle, and when he turns from the sink to face Dean standing uselessly in the kitchen doorway, keys still in his palm, Dean catches sight of the tie flipped over his shoulder as he stirs some kind of mixture in a large stoneware bowl, the shirt sleeves rolled up past his elbows, and perhaps most importantly, the soft streak of flour smudged like warpaint across Cas’ left cheekbone.

His blue eyes are bright and happy, his hair’s got that ‘just-fucked’ kind of artful messiness to it, and Dean absolutely does not want to drop to his fucking knees and thank God or Satan or whoever is responsible for this disgustingly domestic scene ripped right out of a shitty rom-com that Dean would never watch. 

Sam’s a lying liar who lies when he says that Dean cried during Love Actually .

“Hey guys,” Dean says as conversationally as he can manage whilst his throat is strangling his heart, “What’cha doing?”

“Castiel is teaching me how to make pie,” Ben replies, a beaming grin on his face in Dean’s direction before he turns to look up at Cas like he hung the moon. Dean knows exactly how the poor kid feels. 

“Yeah?” Dean asks, switching his attention to Cas once Ben has decided that’s all the exposition he’s offering by wandering over to the refrigerator with purpose. Dean leans across the island on his forearms, watching Cas’ muscles bunch beneath his shirt as he stirs, “What flavor?”

“Apple,” Cas says, watching Dean watch him.

“Ooh,” Dean murmurs, eyeing the dough discs that Ben lays out on the counter, “I love apple pie.”

“So I’m told,” Cas replies with a knowing smirk and Dean thinks he might actually love him more. 

Cas hands off the bowl to Ben, who continues stirring what Dean can now see is what looks to be some kind of cinnamon-cornstarch-apple-cider concoction. Cas fetches a ceramic pie dish - one that Dean knows for a fact he himself doesn’t own, and his stomach flips over at Cas bringing his baking stuff over here, like he’s leaving a toothbrush or something - and starts greasing the dish with butter. 

Watching Cas work really shouldn’t be as erotic as it is, especially not with Dean’s kid present, but Cas is just so damn proficient and capable that’s it hard not to marvel at his long-fingered grace as he deftly transfers one of the discs to the dish, cuts off the excess around the crimped edge with practiced ease. 

“Ben, do you want to pour the mixture in?” Cas asks kindly, and Dean starts, so transfixed on Cas’ hands that he’d momentarily spaced out. 

Yeah, Dean has a serious problem.

Ben tips the bowl and Cas smooths the filling out with the back of a spoon. Between them, they rest the other disc of dough on top of the pie, crimp the edges with a fork, brush an egg wash over the top and then shove their creation into the oven. Cas sets the timer for fifty minutes and gives Ben a genuine, gratified smile, tells him, “Good Job,” and actually means it.

Fuck.

***

Pie in the oven, Ben disappears off to his bedroom to wash up and finally change his clothes, so Dean takes the opportunity to sidle over to Cas, who’s by the sink washing his hands, “So don’t get me wrong, it’s totally hot seeing you go all Nigella and whilst the way you look right now is really making me want to find out about the lubricant properties of sunflower oil, I gotta ask, Cas, what the hell are you doing here?”

Cas side-eyes him as he rinses off the soap, mouth twitching up into a smile, “The oil would break down the latex in a condom.”

“We don’t use ‘em and so not the point, Cas.”

Castiel turns, wiping his hands on a dishtowel, leans his weight against the counter, shoulder to shoulder next to Dean, solid warmth and earthy cologne a reassuring presence. The flour on his cheek is only a minor distraction at this point, perhaps secondary to the light sheen of sweat in the dip of Cas’ tattooed throat, “I need you to do something for me.”

Uh oh.

It’s not gonna be anything sexy is it? It’s never anything sexy.

“Yeah? What?”

Castiel tosses the dish towel onto the countertop behind them, angles his body towards Dean, “The drug run across the border is tomorrow afternoon and I’m a man down--”

“--Why are you a man down?” Dean asks, pretty sure of the answer, but needing to hear Cas say it all the same. Sometimes, when Dean feels himself sinking into this too deep, he needs the reminder of what they’re actually doing here.

“I shot him and dumped his body in the wetlands,” Cas says matter-of-fact, with his eyebrow raised - ‘can I continue now?’ - and Dean swallows hard around nothing, manages a jerky nod of his head.

Yep, that’ll do it.

“So I only have enough men spare to drive seven out of the eight cars.”

Dean doesn’t point out that maybe Cas should’ve considered this before he shot the wretched fucker, ‘cause this is just poor planning, really.

“Why?”

Cas squints at him, slivers of blue glinting in the artificial kitchen light, “What do you mean, why ? I’ve just explained it to you; it’s simple math, Dean.”

Asshole.

“No, I mean why’d you--” Dean affects Cas’ low timbre, “-- ’shoot him and then dump his body in the wetlands ’?”

Castiel cocks his head, “Why do you think? He deserved it.”

That’s pretty vague reasoning as far as Dean’s concerned. Lots of people probably deserve a bullet to the face and don’t get one, and there’s a fair number of people who don’t deserve a bullet to the face, yet get one.

Surely there has to be a better sorting criterion than that.

“Yeah?”

Cas’ smile is razor-sharp, “Never shot a man who didn’t.”

The implication is clear.

Dean waves a dismissive hand, "Yeah okay, Gangsta’s Paradise . So if you’re angling for me to drive the eighth car then you need to be fishing somewhere else, Cas. Even if I wasn’t busy tomorrow - which I am - then the answer would still be ‘ hell to the fucking no’ . I’m not getting cavity searched for drugs whilst you sit here with your fucking feet up, baking pies. That’s not my idea of a good time,” Just for clarity, as he eyes Cas’ hands, he feels obligated to voice his initial thought aloud, “Unless you’re doing the cavity search. I’d be willing to give that a go.”

Could be another kink to add to his repertoire. 

Sadly, Cas ignores him, “What are you doing tomorrow that supersedes your obligation to our partnership?” and really it sounds like Cas is asking for a sick note or some shit; ‘ Dear Mr. Novak, Dean cannot play gangster today because he sprained his ankle on Monday.’ 

“I have plans with Ben and Lisa’s away, so there’ll be nobody to look after him whilst I’m getting lovingly fingered by an overeager CBP agent. What do you have in your calendar that’s stopping you from getting to third base at the side of the road with a burly border agent named Geoff?”

“I have an important meeting downtown,” Cas replies distracted, “Why are you so obsessed with cavity searches?”

It’s a good question. 

Dean doesn’t answer it, “Don’t kink shame, Cas. Don’t be that guy,” At Cas’ raised eyebrow, Dean sighs, “Look, I wish I could help you--” he doesn’t, but it sounds good, right? “--It seems like a jolly good day out, fun for all the family even, but I just can’t. And even if I could…” He trails off, lets it hang in the air between them.

“Dean,” Cas starts, impatience settling in around the edges of his glare, thunderclouds behind the blue, and Dean’s dick twitches; practically a Pavlovian response at this point, “You wanted to be equal partners in this. That means sometimes you have to take one for the team--”

“--Why do I feel like a girl at a frat house about to get gangbanged for the first time--”

“--and pick up the slack. These drugs have to get to where they need to be or we’re all that girl in the frat house about to get gangbanged for the first time.”

For fuck’s sake.

“I can’t Cas.” He won’t. Cas is always harping on about drawing the line, well this is the one Dean’s drawing in permanent marker. 

In a last-ditch attempt at reasonableness, and Dean’s gotta hand it to Cas for not just shoving a gun in Dean’s face - netting him a solid B+ for effort - Cas says, “If you’re so worried about who’s going to look after Ben - even though he’s almost twelve years old and more than capable of being left alone for an entire afternoon - why don’t you take him with you? Like you said--” and in a move that Dean would be amused by if there was a single drop of mirth left in his body, Cas finger quotes,” -- ‘fun for the whole family’ . Make a day of it.”

Definitely an F for execution. As in Fffffffuck no. 

‘Make a day of it…?’

It’s said so casually, like Dean’s got his dates mixed up and accidentally double-booked himself in for both a crocheting class and a mani-pedi, that Dean actually performs a jerky double-take.

Fucking what. 

“Oh yeah, sure, Cas. We’ll go on a father-son drug smuggling day - I think you can get a Groupon for those!”

Cas’ expression shutters, patience well and truly vaporized and something akin to hysteria tries to claw itself out of Dean’s chest, " Dean ."

" Cas ." 

They stare each other down in Dean’s kitchen, leaky faucet a steady, rhythmic drip-drip-drip onto the dirty baking utensils in the sink, all Chinese water torture and it only seems like Dean breaks first, because suddenly he’s reaching up to rub the smear of flour off Cas’ cheekbone, mostly just to fuck with him. 

Cas catches him around the wrist, grinding the fine bones together as he squeezes, and the small flare of pain sets Dean’s blood alight in his veins, “Sometimes, I think you forget who you’re dealing with.”

Never , but Dean did promise that he’d never stop giving Cas a hard time, in every possible way. He intends to keep his word.

He cants his hips, slides a thigh between Cas’, “Why don’t you remind me, Cas?”

A muscle tics in Cas' clenched jaw and for a scrap of a second Dean’s honestly not sure which way this is gonna go - whether it’s gonna be sex or violence tonight, but then Cas is forcing him backward with his body, crowding him into the corner of the kitchen, cut edge of the granite worktop digging into Dean’s asscheek. 

Dark eyes trained on Dean like a laser point, ire written into every tense line of his body, dick a hot, hard line against Dean’s own, Dean wants to push just that little more, always in search of the source of Cas’ control, desperate to see it unravel, so like an asshole, he winks, says, “Cas, not for nothing, but the last person who looked at me the way you’re looking at me right now... I got laid.”

The fact that that person is Cas himself apparently makes no difference at all to the sentiment, because then Cas is letting out a sound that can only be described as a growl, pressing in impossibly closer, scent of cinnamon and cologne, tang of salt, and he’s so goddamn beautiful that Dean’s not really all that concerned about his imminent demise. He’s always found the wetlands peaceful. 

Cas’ eyes are nothing but blue haloed around black and Dean shifts just enough to have his erection rub tantalizingly against Cas’, heat pooling low in his stomach, willing Cas to either hit him or fuck him. The moment between them stretches on, pulled taut without snapping, before on a wild, frustrated sound, Cas drops Dean’s wrist, steps away, regains a hold over his temper and Dean releases the breath in his lungs on a painfully stuttery exhale, wills his dick to calm the fuck down, acutely aware now that he can think beyond Cas and wantwantwant , that Ben could have walked in on them at any moment.

Probably just as well that one of them is thinking with their upstairs brain for a change.

Cas is only mildly more composed than Dean when he drags a hand through his already fucked up hair, says with forced politeness, like he’s trying it out and already doesn’t like the taste, “It would be nice if just this once you could do as I ask --”

That’s not really fair.

“--Oh fuck you, Cas. I do shit for you all the time---

“--and stopped being such an insouciant, insubordinate smartass--”

“--Just the other week I helped out, and hey wait a minute, we’re fucking partners, how can I be refusing to obey orders --”

“--When you bartered your way into this partnership, I thought you would be prepared to actually do some work --”

Oh no. Oh, fuck no. Dean works his goddamn ass off. “...fuck you twice , man,” Something flickers in and out of Cas’ eyes, murderous, but Dean’s on a roll and keeping a close eye on the sharp objects near the draining board, “You think I’m sittin’ on my ass over there, just waiting for the money to roll in each week? You think I’m not spending every goddamn hour I have making sure that your cars don’t get caught?” The murder glare fades to a felony grade aggravated battery scowl, “You think that I’m not checking all possibilities, all nooks and crannies so that the drugs aren’t gonna get found by nosey border agents?” Cas takes it down another notch, now in misdemeanor assault territory, “You think that I’m not switching up the VINs at just the right freakin’ time so that it’s not too suspicious either way?”

The I’m-about-to-take-it-out-of-your-ass-and-not-in-a-sexy-way look behind Cas’s eyes dissipates and is replaced by one of those devious, self-satisfied smirks, like he’s ensnared Dean. Maybe he has, the fucker.

Dean’s pretty sure that he prefers the murder glare.

“If you’re doing such a good job, then you won’t get caught, will you? You’re going to all that trouble, like you yourself said--” dick “--so that the cars will pass through border control without getting pulled. You trust your own work, right Dean?”

Fuck. The logic is flawless. 

Asshole.

“And who better to go across and supervise the whole operation than the one person who knows the cars inside and out?” Cas asks reasonably and in his mind’s eye, Dean sees himself reaching for the blunt butter knife and laboriously sawing into Cas’ neck.

That shit would chafe like a bitch. 

Double Fuck.

Really, Dean should’ve expected this kinda crap from the same man who pulled the whole, ‘ I normally pay thirty ’ power move, but it’s been a while since he’s tried anything like that, so Dean was lulled into a false sense of security and complacency. 

That doesn’t mean that Dean isn’t already thinking about exactly how he’s gonna make Cas pay for this. With interest. After all, Cas may have won this battle of wills, but there’s a fucking war going on, don'tcha know.

“For fuck’s sake, fine,” Dean agrees, down but certainly not out ‘cause there’s nothin’ sweeter than revenge, He jabs a finger in Cas’ face, “But you owe me, Cas.”

Castiel smiles serenely, and Dean might be a bad loser, but Cas is an even shittier, smug asshole of a winner, “Of course.”

***

Luckily for Cas and un luckily for Dean, Charlie just happened to be free, so Ben’s invited to a sleepover at her and Dorothy’s place, and Dean’s only slightly concerned that Charlie might be making Ben play dress up for Dean’s wedding party outfit. He’s yet to see it, but Sam assures him it’s definitely special . 

Since Ben is covered all day and overnight, Dean demanded that Cas turn this into a two-day thing, because the long journey is a whole lotta miles and Dean’s not as good behind the wheel as he used to be. Certainly not in anything less than his Baby, let alone a shitty box on wheels without fully-functioning airbags.

Sam’s here for moral support, but Dean’s not sure his brother got the memo because he’s been bitching since Omaha like it’s his fucking job and for once, they're actually in complete agreement; this is indeed tedious, insane, tediously insane, and risky as fuck, yes. 

And yet they’re still driving towards the border in a drug mule Honda convoy and Dean’s not really sure how to allay his brother’s fears, because he’s merely vocalizing Dean’s, albeit in a whinier, more annoying voice.

"Why are we doing this, Dean?"

Why indeed.  

“Do you want the long or short answer to that, Sammy?” 

On the radio, some country musician is warbling about her man doing her wrong and Dean feels that shit right down to his bones.

Fucking Cas.

Only an abstract concept up until now - drugs driven in from Canada and distributed thereafter - the reality of it is a logistical nightmare; surely there has to be a more efficient/streamlined method for getting these drugs to Dean’s shop, rather than driving a million miles there and back a couple of times a week. 

Maybe Dean can figure out a way to fit a larger number of drugs in the cars to make each trip more worthwhile. He gets now why Cas was simply taking his chances and just stuffing the cars full. There has to be some sort of mid-point between that and this though.

He’s gonna have to talk to Cas about it when they get home.

Dean presses the heel of his hand to his eye, rubs. Fuck, he can’t remember the last time he drove this long and far in one go. Probably when he and Sam were teenagers. 

They’re just coming up on the offramp for route 75, when Sam speaks again, “You okay?” he asks from the passenger seat, evening beginning to settle in around them. 

“Yeah,” Dean replies, “Just fuckin’ tired, man.” 

He’d barely slept at all the previous night, spent most of it checking and rechecking everything on the cars was in order, mind playing through all possible scenarios, all the ways that this could go wrong. 

Nearly all of them end up with Dean’s pants around his ankles and not in a fun, consensual way.

The radio re-tunes as they drive through Sioux Falls, some soft rock station playing the Divinyls.

“Do you love him?” Sam asks quietly and Dean doesn’t have the energy to perform the comedic double-take that he would be dramatizing the shit out of otherwise.

Apparently today’s the day that they’re resurrecting the parking lot argument. Such. Fun.

“Who?” Even though they both know who Sam’s talking about.

“Ben,” his brother deadpans, “You know who, Dean.”

So much for moral support, eh?

Dean makes a left turn at the command of the sat nav. The next couple of cars behind him follow.

“Why are we talking about this?”

“Because we have to.”

Nope, not strictly true. In fact, Dean would argue that the opposite is the case. It’s an easy mistake to make though. Benny made it too.

“Sam--”

“--You do, don’t you?” Sam says and it’s accusatory, angry , “You’ve fallen in love with him! Are you stupid or something Dean?”

Or something. 

“So what if I have, Sammy?” Dean turns to him, betrayal written in every line of his brother’s face, “What fucking difference does it make - to you or to the situation we’re in right now?”

Sam slumps in his seat, wind taken out of his sails and Dean turns back to the road, “All the difference in the world.”

Dean’s beginning to think that his brother might be right about more than the tediousness of this car journey.

***

During their formative years, Dean and Sam shared a fair few motel rooms. They managed because they were a pair of gangly teenagers with fuck-all else other than each other. It was undoubtedly shitty, but Dean does have a few fond memories that stand as a reminder of everything they’ve been through together, whilst also serving as a deterrent for the days when fratricide materializes itself at the forefront of Dean’s mind as a very attractive option.

Days like today for instance.

“Sammy, if you don’t get outta this bathroom in five seconds flat, I’m gonna bust the motherfucker down!” 

The door finally opens mid-pound of Dean’s fist and Sam emerges on a billowy cloud of steam, hair all fluffy and swishing like he’s in a fucking Whitesnake video.

“Any chance you could take even fucking longer in there?”

“I could try,” Sam snipes, venomous and really? What the fuck is his problem?

With an aggravated grunt, Dean barges his stupid sasquatch brother out of the way, closes the door behind himself with a slam. Realizes once he’s locked in the fog of steam that Sam’s most likely used all the hot water and that he’s left his phone in the main room, so he can’t text Cas or Charlie.

Fuck.  

***

They don’t talk as they eat takeout in the room, Sam chewing his noodles with a little more aggression than is really required to consume strings of dough, but at least he’s not giving Dean shit, so there’s that. 

Dean isn’t quite sure what’s crawled up his brother’s ass and taken root, but he figures it has something to do with Cas. And sure, the two of them have never exactly been close; Sam’s always found Cas’ particular brand of intense mind-fuckery just a little beyond the pale, and he’s probably figured out - even through Dean’s intricate web of deceit - that Cas is involved in, if not responsible for, Benny’s little gun incident, but still. 

They both fall into their twin beds pretty soon after food. It’s been a long day and they have to be up early in the morning to drive to some secluded cabin in the woods, where they most assuredly aren’t going to get murdered and cannibalized by a bunch of over-friendly hillbillies chattering about Timmies, kilometers, and Canucks. 

If he lives through this he’s gonna make Cas’ life miserable .

Dean’s rather invested in some pretty creative revenge - putting that excellent imagination to good use - which means that he’s mostly still awake, thoughts just beginning to mingle with dreams when Sam speaks again. 

"Do you ever miss Benny?" He asks into the darkness and Dean should pretend to be asleep, pretend he didn’t hear, because there's a lot of things Dean could say about him and Benny, “Like, I know he cheated and everything--” and Sammy doesn’t know, couldn’t know that the cheating and the mortgage bullshit is the least of it really “--but you guys were together a long time. It must be weird without him around?”

So apparently this trip isn’t about picking up a bunch of prescription drugs from bumfuck, Canada, it’s actually all about every fucker taking advantage of Dean and trying to crowd him into shit he doesn’t wanna do.

Because really, aside from getting pulled over at the border and fingerbanged for someone’s angina meds, this right here is the thing Dean wants to be happening least. 

Though, Dean’s gotta hand it to Sam; sasquatch sure does know how to pick his moments because it’s not like Dean’s been forthcoming in recent months. Sam’s best chance at cracking Dean wide open and getting him to spill all of his juicy secrets was always going to be when they were trapped together for over twenty-four hours with no freakin’ way out.

Crafty Sammy.

Dean sighs, instinctually tries to formulate a bland answer that’ll satisfy nobody, but for some reason that he doesn’t inspect too closely, he needs Sam to understand this , even if he never understands anything else about Dean. Cas isn’t going anywhere and so if a little emotional vulnerability is all it takes for Sam to quit with this weird hate-on he has for Cas, then Dean’s mostly willing to break his self-imposed rule about chick flick moments.

"I miss the misery," Dean replies after a while, "It's kinda easy to lean into feeling like you maybe earned some of the shitty things that have happened to you, y’know? Like, Benny cheating on me - man, I put that on my own shoulders for a long time without fully realizing it. I figured that I wasn’t engaged enough in the relationship, that I resented him too much for forcing me back into wanting a normal life in the suburbs…” Dean swallows, dry throat clicking, “Um, I guess it’s a lot more difficult to accept that you deserve better. So sometimes I miss the security of feeling like crap,” He drapes his forearm over his eyes, “It was easier.”

It’s the most honest he’s probably been about anything in his entire life. Shame then, that his sudden urge to be candid is being wasted on this right here, ‘cause if it’s gonna be another thirty-two years before this Halley’s Comet of sentiment happens again, then there are probably better uses.

Sam's quiet for a long moment, "You really felt like that, Dean? Like you didn't deserve the world? Like it was all your fault?”

"I guess so," Dean responds, and he’s pretty much figuring out this shit as he says it, “A lot of the time, I felt like I was somebody else wearing my face, man. Like I’d brought it all on myself, so I had to just suck it up and try to make shit that didn’t fit, fit.” He licks his lips, tries to think through the sudden onslaught of emotion, “Like I was trapped, I think.”

His chest is starting to feel a little tight, so they need to wrap this shit up pronto. 

"Cas makes you feel free?"

"Yeah," Dean says without hesitation, "Yeah he does, Sammy."

“Huh,” Sam says and that’s it apparently. For now at least.

Thank Christ.

***

The next morning, Dean and Sam drive up to a cottage in the woodlands ripped straight out of Grimms’ Fairy Tales and Sam fidgets nervously in the doorway while the little old woman - who definitely-probably isn’t cooking children in her cast iron oven - totters off to get the drugs that likely weigh more than her.

There’s one of those weird cat clocks on the wall, y’know the ones with the creepy eyes that move back and forth?

Yeugh.

“He told me you’d be coming,” Canada’s answer to Baba Yaga beams when she returns, piling the baggies into Sam’s arms, with perhaps-not-surprising child-shoving-into-oven strength and efficiency, “But he didn’t tell me how handsome you are. I bet you make such a lovely pair together.”

At this point, Dean’s not sure if she’s gonna ask for a prom photo of him and Cas or whether all this sweetness is an attempt to fatten him up for when she feasts on his tender flesh later.

Her giant fluffy ginger tomcat on the window sill swishes his tail, unimpressed.

Sam shoots Dean the same look he did when Dean mentioned off-hand that he had an idea of how they could pay Maddy’s medical bills and Dean’s mortgage debt off in one fell swoop. 

Ah, memories.

“Err, thank you?” Dean says, bemused. So far, this whole thing has not been the experience he had anticipated. 

“You’re welcome, dear,” She turns away, pottering towards the kitchen, calls out over her shoulder, “Would you like some gingerbread?” 

Sam and Dean exchange glances.

“Sure!” Dean says brightly, because why the fuck not.

***

Arms full of gingerbread and drugs, they barely manage to make it outside before they burst out laughing, shoulders bumping together, practically falling down the crumbling stone steps. 

***

By the time they get back to the motel parking lot, it’s mid-morning and Dean’s munched his way through two-thirds of the stash of gingerbread. 

It’s entirely possible that the old broad poisoned the batch or something, but it tastes so good, that after the first mouthful, Dean’s made peace with the fact that it might kill him. 

Seems to be a recurring theme in his life.

The rest of the cars are still in the otherwise empty lot as they pull in, with the gangsters gathered around in a loose formation, talking amongst themselves, all hipster convention and familiarity, and Dean is really not looking forward to this. He cuts the ignition, sighs, rests his forehead against the steering wheel. 

So. The bunch of criminals that Cas has palmed off on Dean for this elite operation is basically a rogues gallery of Dean's least favorite people: Michael, Balthazar, and that fucking jailbait kid is here, because Cas is an asshole and apparently punishing Dean for something. 

Maybe that little scene in the kitchen yesterday?  

Dean’s lips twitch against a smile despite himself.

The kid is Gabriel’s nephew or some shit, and supposedly a nice boy, but Dean’s a petty man - never professed to be anything else - so, for now, he decides to ignore jailbait and instead plans to direct all conversation to the least worst of them, Balthazar. Apparently he and ‘Cassie’ - yeah like fuck Dean isn’t using that little nickname at the most inopportune moment - go way back, like way back, so Dean knows he can be trusted if nothing else. 

Dean gets out of the car and leans against the closed door, trying to look a lot more casual than he feels. Behind him, Sam mutters something about breakfast which Dean acknowledges with a grunt. He catches Balthazar’s eye, beckons him over. 

Balthazar strolls over like they’re in some sleazy club and he’s teasing a love interest, all rolling hips and casual charm. Dean reluctantly admits that the guy is handsome in a British kind of way. Though he dresses sorta douchey. 

No preamble, Dean gets straight down to business once Balthazar and his teenage-boy cologne are within spitting distance, “So all your guys know how to dismantle the airbags, right?” He’s taught enough of them over the past few months, so surely the information has been disseminated through the ranks by now.

“Eh,” Balthazar holds out his hand, makes a ‘kinda’ motion, “We’re pretty short-staffed at the moment. Cassie didn’t exactly have time to assemble the A-team here.”

Dean would’ve settled for the B-Team; these guys are barely hanging on to the alphabet, “Okay, fine. If I show you, you can show them.”

Balthazar holds up his hands, genuinely horrified at the prospect of being useful, “Cas didn’t say anything about manual labor.”

And really ? Dean is beginning to wonder if this is another teachable moment that Cas has deliberately manufactured to make Dean a better criminal. Dean gets to collect his drug smuggling badge at the same time as his leadership badge or some shit.

Either way, he’s not going to prison for this bunch of pricks, so they’re all gonna have to learn fast and buckle under.

“It takes at least twenty minutes per airbag and that’s with me - someone competent - doing it, so we need all hands on deck. You’re gonna have to get dirt under that pretty manicure of yours if you wanna get home before nightfall.”

Balthazar stares at Dean, considering, “Hmm, admittedly I’m beginning to see it now.”

Dean flashes him his winning smile, used to that look , “Good, I’m super glad that you seeing me as fuckable is imperative to you being able to do your job, because otherwise, we might be standing here having a very difficult conversation, right?”

Balthazar smiles, all mischief and assholery, “Fuckable? Sorry, you have me confused with the other angel. You know, the trigger-happy one with the anger management issues who’s in love with you .”

Dean’s traitorous heart absolutely does not perform a somersault in his chest, all amateur gymnast and hopeful Harlequin romance. 

“Michael?” He quips, instead of begging Balthazar to tell him everything - how he said it, when he said it, where they were and what they were doing when he said it - whilst they braid each other’s hair and drink marshmallow gin.

Balthazar touches his nose with an index finger and points the other at Dean, “Ah, you’re quick.”

“And you’re annoying. Just do as you’re fucking told, and make sure that the others fall in line, yeah?”

***

By the time Sam returns from Narnia or wherever he’s been to procure them breakfast, everyone’s working diligently, listening to Dean’s instructions. Dean swipes a coffee out of the quad cup holder, takes a sip as they walk back to their car, immediately hands it back to Sam.

Ugh.

The sooner they’re back in the good old US of A, the better.

Dean slides into the driver’s seat, releasing the lever and pushing against the footwell to give himself room to work.

Sam stands there in the space of the open door, shifting his weight uncomfortably, takeout bag in one hand, coffees in the other. 

He looks nervous and Dean gets it, but unfortunately, he doesn’t have time or energy to walk his brother through an existential crisis today, not when he’s barely keeping his own under wraps.

Dean switches the ignition on, unlocking the wheel. 

Michael appears next to Sam, who flinches when the douche snatches a coffee, then says to Dean all bored indifference - like he’s just so above all this and that he’d totally rather be pistol-whipping some poor bastard who owes Cas money, (whatever, Dean’d rather be getting his cock sucked, so apparently they’ve both been metaphorically screwed over by the same conniving dick that they wish they were with) - “I’ve got the wheel in the correct position, but I can’t find the mounting bolts.”

Without looking away from where he’s digging a screwdriver into a retainer clip, Dean replies gruffly, “There’s an access slot behind the wheel. You’ll need a screwdriver to release it.”

“Alright,” Michael says slowly, a little put out at the dismissal. Dean successfully loosens the first of the bolts, turning the wheel 180 degrees to get to the next one.

Michael leaves and Sam watches him go, then turns back to Dean, “You’re good at this,” he says in a tone that Dean can’t quite place.

“Been doing it a while now, Sammy.” Dean mutters, right as there’s a yelled “ Fuck! ” from one of the other cars, “Go find out what the problem is?”

“Uh, sure,” Sam says, placing the food and coffees on the roof of the car.

Dean continues his work, carefully pulling the assembly away from the steering wheel. Sam returns just as Dean’s disconnecting the wiring connectors, “Uhh, that Jack kid says that he popped the front bit loose and loads of wires came out with it.”

Idiot.

“That’s just the horn and the airbag deployment controls. Nothing too bad, should be fine. Tell him I’ll have a look at the end to make sure he’s not yanked out anything more serious.”

Unfortunately, it’s not like he could pull the brake lines.

Yeahhhh, Dean’s not holding a grudge or anything.

Sam dutifully plays messenger, going back and forth between Dean and the other cars. An extremely frustrating forty-five minutes later sees nearly all of the cars done, the drugs safely stashed away, and Dean needs a time-out, so he sends everybody off for a bathroom break and food whilst he inspects every single car and takes a breather from the incessant, “Dean which color connector does Bartholomew need to remove first?” , “Dean, Uriel is having problems with the little orange thingy…”

Jesus, it’s like having kids. Except Ben and Claire don’t have a gun license.

Dean just hopes that this lot are better at gangster-ing than they are at mechanics.

Or that the guys Cas normally sends are at least a little more competent than this, otherwise everything Dean’s doing at the other end is for naught.

And yeah, what’s with the whole short-staffed thing? Cas never mentioned anything about any problems - he shot one of his men the other day, now he’s sending a bunch of guys who don’t normally do this? Something is clearly going on and it creates a small pit of unease in Dean’s stomach. 

He and Cas really need to have that talk. 

Done with the final car, and satisfied with the job that they’ve all managed to cobble together between them - definitely earned the shit out of that leadership badge - Dean straightens up, muscles unwinding as he stretches.

“It’s kind of cool,” Sam says when Dean returns to their car. He’s sipping on coffee that was pretty gross to begin with, but by now must be unbearable, “How they’re all following your orders without complaint.”

Dean repositions the seat, making it comfortable for the long, long, looooooonnnng drive home, “Perks of fucking the boss, I s’pose.”

Sam’s eyebrows hit his hairline, “No Dean. Believe me, that out there,” He gestures to the rest of them getting back in their respective cars, with a half-eaten gingerbread man. He’s bitten the head off first, the psychopath, “That was all you today.”

Dean switches on the ignition, “Gee thanks, Sammy. D’you think if we stop to buy a pair of pants, that they’ll magically fit us all and we’ll be bestest friends forever?”

Sam rolls his eyes, turns to the window, “Always gotta ruin it.”

Dean grins as they peel out of the lot, “You’re definitely a Lena.”

“Fuck you, Tibby.”

***

Border control is a lot of something and nothing. Michael’s car gets pulled once Dean’s, Balthazar’s and a couple of others are already back on US soil, and Dean almost wants the agents to find the drugs, just so Dean doesn’t have to deal with Michael anymore.

They thankfully don’t bring out detection dogs, nor do they find any drugs in Michael’s car, and the rest of the cars - including jailbait’s - get through okay. 

Fuck. They made it and with Dean’s virtue intact too.

He exchanges a relieved grin with Sam. 

Jesus.  

***

The drive home is simultaneously the longest and shortest few hours of his life.

***

They stop for a break just outside of Beresford. Whilst Dean’s in a garage getting some road snacks that don’t contain freakin’ gingerbread, his phone buzzes in his pocket.

CAS: Apparently I’m not the only one who is good with his hands.

***

Drugs in a hold-all over his shoulder, Dean gets home just after six in the evening. Which isn’t too bad all things considered. Ben’s due home from Charlie’s any time now, so Dean’s looking forward to just kicking back and getting his ass handed to him at whatever game his kid wants to subject him to today. 

Just in case Cas is lurking, he calls out, “Anybody home?” to an apparently empty house, which is confirmed when nobody answers. 

Duh.

He dumps the bag on the bench, tosses his keys onto the sideboard. 

All in all, he supposes that the trip hadn’t been the absolute worst thing ever. Apparently he’d managed to garner a small amount of respect from Cas’ guys, which he knows counts for a lot in their world, and he and Sammy seemed to reach some kind of truce regarding Cas, which is a relief. 

And Dean didn’t get any of his orifices forcibly probed by a megalomaniac with a federal badge so that’s a definite win right there. 

He’s much more into megalomaniacs on the other side of the law anyways.

Dean saunters into the kitchen, intent on snagging himself a nice crisp beer from the fridge, but he’s immediately halted in his tracks by the abnormally squeaky clean kitchen - even the trash has been taken out for fuck’s sake - and that’s before he sees what’s waiting for him on the kitchen island.

He approaches it like Indiana Jones at the beginning of Raiders approaching the Golden Idol, not daring to take his eyes off it for a moment, lest it turn out to be a figment of his imagination.

Nope, most assuredly not a figment of his imagination.

There on the island, surrounded by sparkly clean surfaces, is a perfect-looking homemade apple pie; golden crust and glinting grains of sugar. 

Dean’s mouth is already watering and yeah there’s no way he’s not gonna be eating this fucker in one glorious sitting. 

Because he’s so focussed on the glorious pastry and all the ways he’s gonna enjoy it, it takes him a couple of lovelorn seconds to even notice the folded sheet of paper with Dean’s name in Cas’ familiar scrawl, one corner tucked under the pie dish.

He carefully slides the note out from under the dish, unfolds the paper, and reads.

I owe you 1x cavity search.

And yeah, Dean kinda definitely loves him.

Chapter Text

Torture can mean a lot of different things to different people. 

For some, it’s Christmas decorations in October. For others, it’s Axl Rose’s voice.

For Dean though, it’s this. A neighborhood watch meeting. Somehow Lisa and Dr. Matt have escaped this one, the crafty fuckers. Not Dean though, because for any number of perverse reasons, Cas insisted that they come along, even though he technically doesn’t live with Dean - yet - and Dean can’t quite figure out exactly why Cas needs to hear about the patrolling schedules of a bunch of middle-aged women with too much time on their hands. 

Suffice to say, Dean's pissed. And he’s not all that shy about hiding it anymore. He’s still formulating a plan of revenge for the drug mule shit the other week, but for now, he’s content to lull Cas into a false sense of security with displays of pettiness that’ll hopefully fool him into thinking that this is the revenge.

On top of that, he’s gonna enjoy the fuck out of it. 

A dark-haired woman in a 90s-era-ecstasy-induced-day-glo-colors jumpsuit with far too many bangles around her slim wrists and a fussy, chubby potato-looking baby on her hip is talking to Cas over by the trestle table with the wine, and Dean’s not one of the Housewives of Lawrence, but fuck if he doesn’t need a couple zillion glasses in him right now. 

Literally any alcohol will do. Hell, if somebody put one of those sugary alcopops in his hand, Dean would down it like it was the nectar of the gods.

He snatches a glass, tempted to cut out the social politeness bullshit and just grab as many as he can carry and retreat somewhere to safety, but he decides to pace himself. They’ve only been here ten minutes and if Dean’s gonna make this worth his own while, then really he needs to be at least a little bit sober.

He edges up to Cas and Day-glo, smiles politely, takes a cautious sip of his wine. It tastes like nail polish remover and he only manages to keep a cough in check by sheer force of will.

They don’t even have decent alcohol, for fuck’s sake. What kind of weirdo voyeur cult doesn’t at least have the booze covered?

This one apparently.

Which is just Dean’s luck, really.

Day-glo looks at Cas, then Dean, and back again, surprise flashing across her uninspiring features. She gestures between the two of them with her glass of what looks like moldy tea - probably that kombucha shit Sam’s been nagging at him to try, “You two…?”

They’re really that obvious, huh.

Dean waits for the end of the question, shifting his weight and in the process, knocks his shoulder against Cas’. 

Damn, he smells good . Bastard. 

“We’re partners, yes,” Cas finishes for her, takes a sophisticated sip of wine and doesn’t even spit it back out, doesn’t even so much as flinch, the fucker.

Dean might’ve lived in this community for a number of years now, but he can count on one hand how many times he’s been to one of these shindigs - it’s precisely three. The initial mistake he first made when he was naive and eager to fit in, the repeat when he wanted to make sure he hadn’t just exaggerated the memory in his mind - spoiler alert; he hadn’t - and this right here, right now. Before he met Benny, these things were easy to beg off of; he was a single dad with a growing business and then after Benny… well, Benny had some uses after all. 

All this is to say that Dean isn’t entirely sure how every person here will react to there being a seriously gay love affair going on in their whitebread community. He knows enough of them through various tedious block parties, bake sales, and making painfully polite conversation over the marigolds, that sort of thing, but he’s never really had enough of a conversation about where he likes to stick his dick to decipher if there are any homophobes about. 

He kinda hopes there are. He’s in the mood for a fight.

The woman just grins widely, “Oh that’s so cute--” she hefts the baby higher on her hip, and aren’t there about a bazillion baby holders for this kinda thing? Dean definitely remembers carting Ben around in one and getting puked on an awful freakin’ lot, “--so where did you two meet? You have to tell me everything!”

Dean’s almost certain they don’t , but since she asked, he gets in there before Cas can get out a typically Cas-ish sterile response that does nothing to encompass their passionate and felonious love story, “Oh Cas and I? We met when I stole a hundred grand from him. He started stalking me and threatening to kidnap the mother of my child, and I just was quite literally helpless in the face of that kind of seductive technique,” Dean drains his wine, grimacing at the godawful taste, and slams the empty glass back on the table, “Did I happen to mention what a hotass he is?” Because that’s clearly very important to note for his psych eval in the near future. 

Day-glo’s mouth opens and closes several times around nothing and Dean doesn’t need to look to imagine the exact amused-yet-mildly-exasperated expression no doubt on Cas’ face right now. 

But he does anyway, because any excuse to look at Cas.

Yep, there it is.

Ever the diplomat, Cas smiles that benign smile he reserves for women who deal with his kid on a regular basis and Dean, right before he imparts some wisdom about the most effective places on the body to shoot someone with hollowpoints, “Dean’s joking--” Dean’s fucking not “--we met at a bake sale.”

Her face flushes with color, “Oh!” She reaches forward, slaps Dean’s chest with the back of her surprisingly strong hand, “You had me going there!”

Cas is no fun. 

Which means that Dean has to make his own fun.

“Wouldn’t that be something though?” Dean asks her mischievously, rubbing absently at his chest where she hit him, “Like, what kind of crazy person would you have to be for that to be your meet-cute story?”

“It certainly would be something,” she agrees, frown creasing her brow. 

Dean turns to Cas again, just this side of pleasant, “See honey, aren’t you glad that our lives aren’t that insane? That we can just curl up in front of Netflix together with the kids and not worry about drug smuggling or money laundering, or whether one of us is going to get shot in the face for being an arrogant--”

Seizing and clinging to the lifeline Dean incidentally threw her, Day-glo interjects before either Dean can finish or Cas can respond, “You have kids?”

“Two,” Dean and Cas answer in unison, neither of them looking at her.

“Oh aren’t they just the miraculous gift that keeps on giving?”

And really, what kind of hippie-essential-oil crap is this crazycakes woman on? Sure, Dean loves Ben, loves Claire too, but fuck, a miracle ? That’s stretching it by anyone’s definition. Just yesterday, Ben lost his adolescent temper in his room because Dean wouldn’t buy him the latest Minecraft expansion pack. 

Ironically, the reason he initially refused was because Ben’s room was a shit-tip. 

Kid just made his own job twice as hard. It must run in the Winchester genes.

On cue, as if to prove the miracle of parenthood, Day-glo’s baby spits up and Dean and Cas take a step back as one, experience teaching them both that Exorcist style vomit usually follows.

Apparently having the good sense to anticipate the puke volcano about to come her way, Day-glo makes her apologies and darts for the nearest bathroom. As soon as she’s gone, Cas is rounding on him, all murderous intent with the actual moxie to back it up, “Dean, what--”

Cas doesn’t get the chance to finish that thought because then the host of this torture-fest is tapping her wine glass daintily with a teaspoon, like they’re at a wedding reception, and Cas steers Dean by the bicep, dragging him forward with a firm hand. 

It’s probably a wise move; Dean would undoubtedly be attempting to bail right now if it wasn’t for Cas’ possessive grip.

The woman - Dean knows this one, Camilla something , definitely some kind of alliteration going on there - has an air of self-importance about her. In fairness, most of these women do, but Camilla carries herself like she’s royalty, all grace under fire under a fuschia pink bodycon dress.

“You could learn a lot from her,” Cas tells him quietly as they stand there in the doorway of her rather grand living room, Dean leaning (shoved) against the oak frame. This is probably one of the larger houses in the community, easily twice as big as Dean’s, and well looked after by a fleet of maids no doubt. 

Learn a lot? Like what? How to max out a credit card in one store?

Okay, so maybe that’s a little harsh; the woman clearly has her shit together, which is more than Dean can say for himself, but seriously?

The fuck? 

Cas wants him to be a Stepford wife?

“Fuschia isn’t really my color, Cas. And I definitely don’t have the curves to pull a dress like that off. Maybe I should invest in a little peplum number instead,” He sighs faux-wistfully, ignores the way Cas’ fingertips are starting to pinch, “If only I had a sugar daddy who would buy me such pretty things.”

A man with pressed slacks and a haircut so thin that Dean can see the tasteful wallpaper through the wafty strands, squeezes past the two of them in the doorframe, forcing Cas to let go of Dean’s arm, and stand fully behind him, firm body at Dean’s back.

“Funny,” Cas mutters, warm breath ghosting over the sensitive spot just below Dean’s ear, sending a shiver up and down his spine, “You know what I mean.”

And no, Dean really fucking doesn’t.

“All I’m getting from this Cas is that you want to see me in women’s clothes,” He cranes his neck to look at Cas out of the corner of his eye, “Not shaming, man. You know me, I’m game for anything--”

“Dean, I don’t want you in women’s clothes.”

“Out of them?” Dean hedges and Cas finally cracks, biting back a smile and Dean really wants to kiss him.

“Infuriating,” Cas mutters to himself, then adds to be an asshole, “Maybe just in the panties.” And Dean’s dick responds in the only way it knows how when Cas is flirting like this. 

Dean shifts, uncomfortable, and Cas brushes his mouth over Dean’s neck, smirks against his skin, low rumble of his voice thrumming in Dean’s veins, “Mmm, something black and lacey, perhaps.”

Interesting.

“Cas,” Dean barely suppresses a groan. This really isn’t fair.

The meeting has begun in earnest now, everyone gathered around to discuss who’s hedge is two inches too tall, and Cas is trying to actually kill him. 

Perhaps not the worst way to go, though he’d prefer it without the audience.

Camilla is standing in the very center of the patterned carpet, commanding the attention of (nearly) everyone in the room, “So, before we start with itinerary--” Cas tugs Dean’s shirt collar to the side, trying to get at more skin, like he’s gonna start trailing kisses over Dean’s collarbone in the middle of this pretend law enforcement circlejerk, “--does anyone have anything that they’d like to raise?”

Poor choice of words and Cas huffs a laugh against Dean’s shoulder, before he pulls away, smoothing Dean’s collar back into place.

Fucking tease.

A blond woman who Dean thinks is named Emily - possibly Emma - raises her hand and Dean barely refrains from rolling his eyes at the middle-schoolness of it all, “Umm, yes. I’ve been hearing some odd noises in the early hours lately?”

“Oh?” Camilla’s perfectly made-up face does an excellent impression of surprise. She addresses the rest of the crowd, “Anyone else?”

Dean’s neighbor on the left side, Amanda, raises her hand and at Camilla’s nod, she says,  "Oh my god, yes. A couple of weeks ago, in the middle of the night, I heard what sounded like two foxes, you know--” she flaps a hand as if that makes sense; Dean’s always favored the old-fashioned index finger through the circled thumb and forefinger of the other hand, personally, “--what a terrible noise!"

Yeahhhh, there are no foxes in this gated community.

Not of the Canidae variety at least. 

Dean exchanges a glance with Cas in his periphery, barely holding his laughter in.

“Cas,” He whispers, “You really need to learn to control yourself, man. Stop making so much noise when we fuck.”

In response, Cas attempts to prove just how much it isn’t him who makes most of the noise during sex, by sliding his palm across the seat of Dean’s pants and squeezing his ass cheek through the rough fabric.

Dean lets out a shocked grunt, resulting in a couple of women nearby shooting him concerned looks, which he waves off with a plastered on smile. Eventually, they turn back to focus on their leader, who is proposing that they start carrying freakin’ shotguns on patrol to murder the foxes.

Looks like Dean and Cas won’t be having sex outside again any time soon.

“ Dick, ” Dean tells him and means it wholeheartedly.

Cas has positioned them so that they have a perfect view of the entrance hallway. It becomes apparent why this is, when the set of double doors visible to them from here, slide open on their runners. A middle-aged man in an all black suit with a gray tie emerges out of the dim backlighting like something out of every mob movie ever. He’s bearded with dark eyes and a sort of impatient-patience that reminds Dean of someone who knows exactly how much their time costs (and is perfectly happy to remind you of it at twenty-minute intervals).

Dean can instantly tell by the way he moves and just from his general demeanor that he’s one of Cas’ associates. That and the fact that they’re all allergic to bright colors apparently. 

Though Dean’s starting to appreciate the aversion, mostly because today Cas’ navy shirt is doing good work on behalf of humanity by making Cas’ already ridiculously blue eyes look even more ethereal and captivating.

(Yeah, Dean’s really digging this cutesy, waxing-poetic-about-your-partner thing. Not that he’ll be making Cas privy to these thoughts; fucker has a big enough head as it is). 

The man stands in the doorway across from them, not visible to the rest of the living room. He nods at Cas; just a quick acknowledgment, before he’s withdrawing again, leaving the doors open to what looks like a study/murder chamber a la Vito Corleone.

Huh. So apparently Cas was actually in the neighborhood on business that one time. 

Dean’s starting to feel a little put out. Here he was thinking that Cas was stalking him the entire time; the bake sale, the baseball game, turning up at his house… turns out dude was simply going about his business and Dean just happened to freakin’ be there.

Of course, Cas could’ve easily left Dean alone on all of those occasions - instead he chose to antagonize for reasons that Dean has a theory about, but isn’t willing to examine too closely in case he’s disappointed. 

Cas abruptly grips him by the elbow, drags him around the other side of the doorframe, into an empty room, “I’m going to speak with Crowley now--” and that’s it, Camilla Crowley “--Behave yourself.”

Really , like Dean needed the added incentive to be an ass.

“Dean,” Cas warns and Dean wants to ask, or what? But then Cas is slanting his mouth against Dean’s and Dean slides a palm around the back of Cas’ neck, fingertips buried in the hair at the nape, tilting his whole body into the kiss, because if Cas is gonna leave him here in this fucking quagmire of middle-class mundanity, then Dean is damn sure gonna make Cas regret it.

He breaks the kiss just as it’s getting interesting, just as Cas is pressing him against the wall next to the doorframe, pinning Dean’s hips with his own, and Dean savors the dark-eyed promise of retribution, stores it for later. 

“Off you go, Cas,” he says pleasantly, palm on Cas’ pec through his shirt, “See you later.”

***

Later turns out to be too damn long, and Dean’s been getting quietly toasted as the meeting drags on.

And hooo boy, does it fucking drag. 

They’ve talked through what to do about the patch of geraniums near the front gates (maybe add in some expensive orange ones, and Dean’s no landscape gardener, but that would look awful ); they’ve discussed the patrolling schedule (a weekly rota which Dean wants no part of, thank you very much); they’ve spent a healthy half-hour discussing when to hold the annual summer barbecue (unsuccessfully, because no date has been agreed); and now they’re moving on to how to restrict gate access further. 

Yeahhhh, that's about enough of this.

***

Dean ends up in the kitchen with his seventh? possibly eighth, glass of wine in his hand. The stuff is awful, truly; possibly literal antifreeze, but it’s better than being sober for this utter horseshit.

These women clearly have absolutely no taste when it comes to alcohol, but when it comes to food? Yeah, there’s something to be said for having too much time on your hands (or enough money to hire a personal chef). As a result, there are some very interesting-looking canapes set out on the white Statuario marble countertops. Dean’s never been the best house guest and he’s not gonna start now; not with a decent amount of shitty wine and indignant rage sloshing around in his veins, so he peels back the saran wrap - won’t somebody please think of the sea turtles, ladies - and helps himself. 

Which is how Cas finds him after his little gangster meeting that Dean wasn’t privy to.

It’s cool - though Dean’s not gonna say that what he doesn’t know won’t hurt him, ‘cause, well, that’s a blatant lie - he’ll fuck it out of Cas later. 

Cas stops in front of him, standing on the other side of the kitchen island, eyebrow arched.

“What?” Dean asks around a mouthful of some weird sausage thing wrapped in puff pastry. 

The eyebrow tells Dean that he already knows.

Dean’s about to tell the eyebrow where to fucking go, but then Cas says, “I see that you behaving yourself went well.”

Ass.

“Nope.”

“How drunk are you?”

“Not fuckin’ drunk enough, Cas,” he shoves another canape in, gestures at the door with a tiger prawn, “I’m not going back out there and you can’t make me.”

Dean ignores Cas’ pointed look that suggests, yes, yes he can make Dean go back out there and he’ll enjoy doing so , but just as Dean’s about to say something undoubtedly witty and urbane, the kitchen door is swinging open, and Dean’s next-door-neighbor-but-one and all-around-nosy-bitch, Daphne walks in on them with a swish of nose-tickling perfume and salon-dyed hair. 

She glances down her nose at Dean and his face full of prawn and sausage. Yeah, he’s living the goddamn dream, “Already started, Dean?”

He smiles at her, channeling Ben and flashing a mouthful of chewed food. He risks a quick glance at Cas whose amusement thankfully hasn’t yet tipped over into annoyance. 

Yet being the operative word.

“Apparently so, Daphne.”

She follows Dean’s glance in Cas’ direction, and sort of performs a mini double-take when she catches sight of him in all his navy-shirted, blue-eyed glory, “Oh, who’s this?”

“Castiel,” Cas says, holding his hand out to shake, like the sociable, well-adjusted, murdering gangster he is, “I’m Dean’s partner.”

Because Cas’ charm is pretty much universal, it has Daphne’s ice queen shit melting straight away. She shakes his hand, “It’s very nice to meet you Castiel. Your umm--” She gestures at her own neck, “--tattoo is very interesting.”

“You should see the one on his cock,” Dean tells her, picking apart some kind of ham sandwich masquerading as one of those poncy rich-people sandwiches. Whatever they’re called.

English tea sandwiches? Sandwich bites? Maybe just fuckin’ sandwiches? But posh and pompous.

Daphne’s eyes widen, cheeks flushing pink. Her gaze drops to Cas’ crotch like she can x-ray vision her way into his pants and Dean almost chokes around a piece of ham.

Dirty bitch.

Cas’ mouth twitches against a smile, “He’s joking.”

“Oh!” Daphne looks mildly horrified that she was fooled by Dean’s flippancy.

“He seems to be doing a lot of that tonight,” Cas adds, side-eyeing Dean. It’s reaffirmation of the previously communicated retribution and Dean’s fucking here for it .

“What can I say, Cassie ?” Dean smiles widely - bring it on, fucker - “I’m having such a good time!”

“Too good, I think,” Daphne mutters tartly and Dean had almost forgotten about her existence. “Maybe it’s time to lay off the wine, hmm?” And then she’s turning to Cas, all flirty eyes and saccharine sweetness, “It was nice to meet you, Castiel.” She gives Dean one last glare before leaving the kitchen and taking that cloying personality with her.

“Blow it out your ass, Daphne!” Dean calls after her; perhaps a slightly delayed reaction, but he’s drunkenly pleased with himself all the same. He’s at least eighty percent that she heard it.

“Dean,” Cas scolds, but his heart’s not in it. It’s more exasperatedly fond, tinged with a weariness that were Dean more sober, he’d pay closer attention to. 

“What?” Dean asks innocently, “She was being a haughty bitch. And haughty bitches get told to blow it outta their asses. Now people who are being smug assholes, well they get told to blow me , so if you don’t wanna end up on your knees tonight Cas, maybe you should stop with --” he gestures to encompass all of Castiel and his smugocity (is that a real word, it is now) "--all of this right here.”

As far as instructions go, they’re probably not the most helpful, but it’s not like Cas is fond of giving step-by-steps either. 

Dean drags his teeth over his lower lip, considers Castiel, who's regarding him with that damn head-tilt-soul-fuck, like if he tries really hard, he can beam his homicidal thoughts into Dean’s brain and kill him that way, "Let's play a game, Cas,” he throws his head back, draining the dregs of his wine, slams the empty glass on the countertop, “You like games right? Yeah, you do,” he searches around for another glass, another bottle; there has to be some alcohol around here somewhere. 

If he’s learned one thing tonight, it’s that rich people are never far from shitty wine.

He glides his hand along the immaculate work surface as he rounds the island, halfway to Cas, and bingo-bango . Carved out into one side of the island is a wine cooler thingy. Like a mini-fridge just for wine, except it’s not all that mini ‘cause the thing is easily holding forty or so bottles.

Dean opens the fridge, reaches in and grabs the first twisty-top he can find. Slams the door closed, scrabbles the lid off, slinging it somewhere in front of him, and drinks directly from the bottle. 

Huh. Maybe that Camilla woman does know her wine; she’s just keeping it away from the neighborhood watch cretins. 

He wipes his mouth on the back of his hand, turns his attention to Cas who is standing in the exact same place with an unfathomable expression on his annoyingly handsome face, “Okay, so. Twenty questions. We’ll start easy - How'd your meeting go?" 

"Fine," Cas says eventually, reluctantly, mostly missing the point of this game.

"Yeah? How come I wasn't invited?"

"That's three questions."

Or maybe Cas gets the point and is instead choosing to be a dick. That certainly sounds like the more likely scenario.

"You gonna answer any of 'em?"

"Sixteen," Cas replies and Dean wants to throttle him. Instead, he swallows another mouthful of wine, as Cas asks, "Do you enjoy acting out? Because if you're trying to prove to me that you can handle all this, then you're not going about it the right way."

Asshole. Burn of alcohol in his throat, Dean croaks out, "Fifteen."

Two can play at this game, but only one can win. It’s gonna be Dean.

He holds Cas’ glower, a wordless game of truth or dare playing out between them. Just without questions about crushes and getting that cute boy to kiss you.

Dare wins out apparently, though unfortunately not in the aforementioned getting-that-cute-boy-to-kiss-you way, "Your turn," Cas challenges, fire behind the ice, before his expression smooths out into bland passivity and that just infuriates Dean further.

Wine sloshing as he gesticulates, Dean rants, "Why are you being such a dick to me lately, huh Cas? First the drug run and now this? Are you trying to teach me something? Because if you are, then you're doing a shit job, Miyagi. I thought we were in this together, man."

"Think about it."

"That's not an answer, Castiel."

"It is, if you're listening. Twelve."

Dean clamps his jaw shut, stewing in confused anger, and not sure what to about it beyond telling Cas to go fuck himself. A feeling that is not helped when Cas asks, "Why do you think I brought you here today?"

"To torture me," Dean answers, tongue loose. He slugs more wine and already he’s already about a third of the bottle down.

Last time he drank this much, Cas gave him the fuck of his life in the bathroom at his bar. It’s not like Dean’s seeking out a repeat performance - he’s not - but he needs something tangible from all this; something to prove that he’s not in this alone.  

Basically, he’ll settle for a handjob in the kitchen.

Cas’ sharp smile is vicious, predatory; not a hint of humor anywhere, "If I wanted to torture you, I'd like to think I could be more inventive than this."

Dean doesn’t doubt it for a second and fuck if it doesn’t make his pants that little bit tighter.

"Eleven," Dean manages on a jagged exhale. His tongue darts out to wet his lips. He doesn't miss the way Cas tracks the movement with dark eyes.

It's Cas' turn again apparently, because he’s abruptly demanding to know: "Why are you always trying to get a rise out of me?"

Dean leers, winks, but doesn’t say anything. At least not verbally.

"Oh, but that's not an answer, Dean."

"It is, if you’re watching,” Dean says, just to be a shit, “Ten." 

Another few tense seconds tick by. Dean’s down to half a bottle left and he’s starting to feel it now.

"Your turn," Cas murmurs pensively.

Dean struggles to think through his soupy brain, tries to formulate a cohesive thought that doesn’t end with fucking and begin with ‘why aren’t we’ , "You want me to be a Stepford wife? Is that what you meant earlier?"

"Eight and no."

"You gonna elaborate?"

"Seven and no."

Frustration blooms just under the surface of Dean’s skin, hot and scratchy, "Cas, I can't be who you need me to be if you won't tell me who that is."

Cas looks him dead in the eye and it has Dean’s stomach flipping over, "Who do you think I need you to be? Because if I wanted a Stepford wife then I'm pretty sure that Daphne would be amenable. She'd most likely cause me a significantly lower amount of stress as well. And she can cook.”

Wow, a truly asshole thing to say.

"Six," Dean says in lieu of an answer. He's not sure what's gonna happen when they get down to zero, it's either gonna be devastating or amazing. Hopefully both. He screws the lid back on the wine bottle, slides it out of reach and temptation. He needs to be present for this shit.

Castiel hmms to himself, like he got his answer anyway. 

Dean’s eyes follow him as Cas moves around the island, agile and fluid, completely at ease with his body and it annoys Dean and turns him on in equal measure, "You're not the only one getting gray hairs from this relationship, you know,” he grumbles.

"Five."

"Not a question Cas, just a statement of fact."

"Relationship?" Cas asks, like he did back at the hospital and Dean doesn't have a different answer ready for him.

"Business. Five."

Cas nods to himself and Dean instantly regrets his answer. Wants to take it back. Wants to tell him exactly how he feels. 

But what if Cas is still only interested in Dean as a business partner with benefits - after all, he’s spent all evening introducing Dean as his partner rather than boyfriend . Partner can obviously be both, but that ambiguity is what gives Dean pause every damn time. Sure, Cas has said and done some stuff that could be interpreted as romantic, but what if. ..? 

Dean’s feeling just reckless enough to find out. He can always blame the booze later on, even though this is the most sober he's felt all night, "Do you care about me at all?"

Cas seems genuinely taken aback by the question. He halts a foot or so away from Dean and for a longass moment, he doesn't say anything and Dean thinks he's not gonna get his answer, until finally Cas responds, voice more gravelly than usual, "How could you even begin to believe that I don't?" And relief spirals, coming thick and fast until Dean’s practically drowning in it. 

He hadn’t known how desperate he was for confirmation until now.

"Three," Dean says shakily, swallows thickly. Pull your shit together, Winchester . A change of subject, yeah that’d be good. Battle-fatigued, his brain retreats to the gutter, "Would you ever consider getting your cock tattooed for real?" 

Finally, a useful question that Dean undoubtedly needs to know the answer to.

Cas laughs, actually laughs; a low, rich sound of genuine amusement, and Dean's heart throws itself against the cage of his ribs. 

"Hmm," Cas pretends to think about it, mischievous glint in his eye, "Any suggestions?"

My name . 

"One," Dean rasps and he's not sure whether he's answering or counting. 

Cas has closed the gap between them now, his proximity always sparking something illicit and dangerous in Dean that makes him want to throw caution to the wind and bend to whatever Cas needs, wants from him. 

“Dean,” Cas murmurs deceptively soft, silk woven through steel, bringing his hand up to cup Dean’s jaw, rough pad of his thumb dragging across Dean’s bottom lip. It sets Dean’s nerves - and the air around them - alight, “I want you . I’ll always want you, but if you’re serious about this, about learning everything, then you need to know when to push back and when to cooperate. I’d never ask you to be someone you’re not, I just need different versions of you at different times.”

Laid out like that, it sounds a lot less arbitrary than Dean’s been assuming it is.

“Okay,” Dean agrees on a choppy exhale, fisting his hands in the sides of Cas’ shirt, something to hold onto, a way to keep himself upright, “But then you need to fucking talk to me, man. Because for all you say that I wear my emotions on my sleeve, you are the fucking Fort Knox of feelings. I have no idea why you brought me here, why I should be paying attention to Camilla, none of it. I’m all new to this, Cas. And I’m understandably shit at it.”

A frisson of annoyance sweeps across Cas’ attractive features, mouth twisting in displeasure, “You’re not shit at all, Dean. Balthazar told me how impressive you were in Canada. How competent and smart. That’s the Dean I need by my side at things like this. Not the bratty one that makes me want to bend you over this kitchen counter and fuck all of that goddamn snark out of you.”

Holy shit.

Dean trembles. Only a little bit.

“It’s distracting for one thing,” Cas’ words are as weighted as his expression, which lies somewhere between mirth, lust, and annoyance. 

And for another?

“So far I’m not exactly hearing an incentive for me not behaving like a dick here, Cas.”

Cas’ laugh is a soft rumble, feeding into the curl of dark arousal low in Dean’s stomach, “I understand your frustration, believe me, I do. For what it’s worth I hate all this glad-handing, but it’s part of the job, so I do it. Which means you do too now. So I need my professional Dean. The one who negotiated his way into fifty-percent of my drug business through sheer force of will, the one who figured out how best to fuck his ex-husband over, the one who sat there with a gun in his face and still didn’t back down…”

Cas trails off and Dean’s mind skips over Cas’ words.

My professional Dean .

Before Dean can even think about verbally responding, Cas’ mouth is crushed to his and Cas’ hand is in his hair, and this Dean can do, this he knows how to respond to, and so he does, meeting Cas’ tongue with his own, warm and wet and fucking perfect as always. 

Cas’ other hand goes to the small of Dean’s back, drawing him in tighter, bodies fitting together, solid strength of him as he nips Dean’s bottom lip with his teeth, soothes the pain with his tongue, stealing Dean’s breath and his moans, and Dean strains to get closer and more , aching tightness in his jeans.

Cas pulls away, and it’s right then, with that look in his eye that Dean realizes Cas has just repaid him for his little stunt before the meeting, and Dean’s almost too awed by that life-ruining kiss to be mad. 

Of course, being the self-satisfied prick of a winner that he always is, Cas just can’t resist one final dig.

“Any questions?” He asks smug as fuck, and really, Dean warned him, so there’s only one thing Dean can say to that. 

“Blow me, Cas.”

And it's not a question.

***

There's something kinda vulgar about doing this at a neighborhood watch meeting like a pair of teenagers at a kegger. But fuck, if that ain’t half the fun in the first place, ‘cause getting caught by the neighborhood watch has to be on somebody’s kink bingo card somewhere. Hell, if Dean’s wasn’t already full, he’d add it to his.

Not that he’s all that worried about one of the jerks leaving the circle to get one of their coats in the spare bedroom where Cas currently has him pressed down onto the bed, because hopefully they’re all currently digging into Dean’s leftovers whilst he gets his dick sucked on their priceless mink and ermine skin stoles.

Save the turtles, indeed. Only so they can be turned into jewelry.

Dean works a hand down between the crush of their bodies as Cas attacks his throat, molding his palm against the inseam of Cas’ jeans, throb of heat and pulse beneath the denim. Cas moans against Dean’s skin, deep vibrato reverberating in Dean’s bones, then tilts his head, dragging the tip of his nose under Dean’s jaw, warm breath washing over his Adam’s apple, making Dean arch up for more. 

Cas trails wet kisses down Dean’s neck, unbuttoning Dean’s shirt one ridiculously slow slip of the fingers at a time.

“Cas,” Dean groans, hips hitching impatiently.

“Hmm?” Cas glances up at Dean through deliberately sooty eyelashes, tongue darting out across Dean’s nipple.

“You’re an asshole.” 

Cas grins wickedly, that fucking arrogant expression firing something fierce in Dean’s blood and he’s grabbing a fistful of Cas’ hair before he can stop to think about it, slip-slide of the strands through his fingers. The tickle of Cas’ sharp exhale across Dean’s newly exposed abdomen has Dean whining low in his throat.

“Shh,” Cas murmurs, licks a broad path across the sharp jut of Dean’s hipbone, deft fingers working on Dean’s pants, “Don’t want them to think there are foxes are up here and come running with their shotguns.” 

Yeah, that could be pretty awkward.

Dean laughs, which turns into a slack-mouthed gasp as Cas slides a hand into his boxers, fingers brushing up against the tacky length of him, already sticky with precome, “ Cas .”

Dean’s been on edge since before Cas’ meeting, riding the kind of horny thought train that only getting warmly buzzed on terrible alcohol can give you a ticket for, so when Cas tugs Dean’s pants and boxers down just far enough and starts stroking him in earnest, Dean’s stomach muscles clench and he lets out a loud moan, one that would leave no doubt to anyone on this floor of the house as to what they’re up to.

Cas reaches up, slaps the hand not currently preoccupied across Dean’s mouth, eyes narrowed from his position near Dean’s dick. And his mouth , fuck his mouth. It’s so close to where Dean needs it, but not quite there.

Yeah, fuck his mouth.

“Cas,” He hisses, muffled through the cage of Cas’ fingers, hand spasming in Cas’ hair, “Get your mouth on my dick.”

“Be quiet,” Cas orders, but his tone is more provocation than command, another challenge that Dean’s already risen to (heh) and will continue to boss if Cas would just blow him already . 

Dean nods his assent, allowing Cas to remove his hand. And then Cas is taking Dean’s cock into the warm wetness of his mouth, Dean’s back bowing off the bed, teeth in his knuckles to stop himself from crying out. More and more of his cock slips between Cas’ plush lips, slick, wet glide, and Dean’s already dying to come.

Cas draws back up and off, licking a stripe up the underside of his cock, tonguing the slit, before taking him back in at Dean’s insistent tug in his hair, Dean biting back another moan as his dick is engulfed in that fucking perfect wet heat again, the tip of Cas’ finger teasingly tracing the seam of Dean’s balls.

He’s raw and breathless with it, chest heaving air into his lungs, when Cas hollows his cheeks, sucking hard, watching Dean with filthy-hot want and a smile in his dark eyes, pinning Dean’s heart down like a butterfly to a board. Dean rolls his hips, fucking himself further into Cas’ mouth, a dirty slick sound, and Cas hums, throat vibrating through Dean. 

Dean’s chest rises and falls with each labored breath, struggling against the need to cry out, to moan Cas’ name as his cockhead tips down Cas’ throat, right past his gag reflex, Cas’ finger pushing up behind his balls, and Dean’s gonna come like a fucking freight train. 

He manages a hitch of breath, a tightening of his hold on Cas’ hair as a warning before he’s jerking, whole body tensing and tripping headfirst into that no man's land of pleasure, disengaging his teeth from his knuckles and instead digging into the furs he’s lying on. Eyes squeezed shut, death grip on Cas and some upper-middle-class woman’s coat, feet planted on the bed for leverage, Dean comes down Cas’ throat with an agonized groan, far too loud, but as Cas swallows around him, throat constricting just right, it’s really fucking difficult to care. 

“Jesus fucking Christ , Cas.”

Dean blinks up at the weirdly placed lights in the ceiling as he rides out his orgasm, aftershock twitches of his hips, Cas laving his tongue over every inch of his spent dick, catching every drop of come and Dean gives another little whimper at the sheer hotness of it. 

Fuuuuck. 

Now’s not the time for him to give in to the urge to let his brain melt out through his ears though, because Dean may be a lot of things, but a selfish lover isn’t one of them, so as soon as his softening cock leaves Cas’ pink, abused mouth, Dean’s tackling him down into the coats, fingers fumbling with his clothes to get at his dick, dragging his jeans and boxers down his muscled thighs.

He wraps a fist around the hot, hard length of him and pumps once, twice, making Cas buck his hips up and moan quietly, “Shush, Cas,” he teases, surprised at his own coherence, pressing a kiss to Cas’ swollen lips, tasting himself, salty and earthy, and he really wants to blow Cas, loves getting his mouth around the perfect shape of him, but he has to gain a bit of ground here, so instead he spits into his hand, smears it down and up Cas’ dick, slicking the way for Cas to fuck into the curve of his palm.

“ Dean ,” Cas grits out, breath ghosting over Dean’s lips as Dean jerks him off with precise, controlled strokes. 

“Mmm,” Dean murmurs, enjoying having Cas underneath him like this, all frustrated need and throaty growls. Knees either side of Cas’ thigh, he slinks down Cas’ body, still jacking Cas’ dick, precome and spit smoothing the glide, “Y’know, I love your pretty cock as it is I think. No need to tattoo this part of your body.” He shoves Cas’ shirt up his abdomen with his free hand, ogling muscles moving beneath inked skin, as he twists on the upstroke, “Though I can certainly see the appeal,” he ducks his head, drags his mouth over the green flourish of ink across his ribcage. He looks up at Cas through his lashes in that way he knows drives Cas wild, “Maybe I should get a tattoo. Whaddya think, Cas?”

Cas apparently likes that idea, hand covering Dean’s on his dick, urging him faster, bottom lip caught between his perfect teeth as he stares down at Dean, eyes jet-black and deadly. Dean grabs Cas' hand by the wrist, pins it to the bed by his hip.

“Yeah? What should I get?” He thumbs through the precome gathered at the head of Cas’ dick, enjoys Cas’ body responding the way it always does, cock jerking in his fist, “Some kind of symbol?” he can feel the tension in Cas’ body through his dick, every muscle pulled taut, all that poise and control right at the tipping point and it’s all Dean’s, “Uhh, maybe some writing?”

Cas’ unrestrained hand digs into Dean’s shoulder, balls drawn up tight, riding that knife-edge of pleasure. 

Dean wants to slice him open on it.

“Oh, I know . How about your name? Like I could get one of those tramp stamps that says ‘Property of Castiel Novak’ so every time you fuck me from behind--”

Dean doesn’t get to finish his thought because then Cas is coming, hot and messy over Dean’s fist and his own stomach, back bowed and eyes slammed shut, moan trapped in his throat.

It’s easily the hottest thing Dean’s ever seen. And he’s seen Cas come a lot in the few months they’ve been together. 

Dean gapes at Cas as his hips ride out the rest of his orgasm, eyes finally fluttering open, light sheen of sweat on his skin, making him positively glow , and just for something to do rather than confess his undying love, Dean wipes his hand on someone’s fur coat that most likely cost more than his house. 

Eh.

Cas’ mouth curves into a satisfied smile, and because Dean revels in being an asshole too, he drops a kiss to that perfect mouth, grins against his lips, tells him, “Too fuckin’ easy, Cas.”

***

“So yeah, that was probably less than professional,” Dean admits, standing just off to the side of the bed, a bunch of damp tissues from the adjoining bathroom in his hand. 

“I think the professionalism ship sailed when you told Sarah about how we met. Or maybe even when you told Daphne to blow it out of her ass .” Cas responds wryly, lifting his hips to pull his pants back up, zipping and rebuttoning them.

Something occurs to Dean as he hands the tissues to Cas, “Shit. I haven’t ruined anything for you tonight, have I? Made you look bad?”

Cas glances at him, gives a small shake of his head, then returns his focus to cleaning off his stomach, “You’re lucky that Crowley has just the kind of sense of humor that would enjoy it.”

Dean breathes a sigh of relief. For all the fucking about - and hadn’t that been something - he really doesn’t wanna screw things up for Cas. Especially not now Cas is really beginning to let him in beyond some previously discussed fundamentals post-coital.

This Crowley dude sounds like Dean’s kinda guy though. Especially as he must be the one who told Cas about Benny’s what-could-go-wrong-if-I-try-to-murder-a-powerful-gang-leader plan, “So tell me about Crowley - he’s in gambling, right?”

Cas rolls smoothly off the bed to his feet, “Amongst other things, yes.”

This is honestly worse than pulling teeth. If Dean had thought that this new fangled talking to each other thing was gonna be easy then Cas is already proving him wrong. 

As usual.

But Dean’s determined to at least try , so he follows Cas into the bathroom, asks, “So… what was your meeting about? You going into the casino business now?” 

He’s a big fan of the Scorsese movie. Could be fun.

Castiel sighs, flushes the tissues, “No, but it’s complicated.”

Dean would be surprised if it wasn’t. But he’s in this with Cas for realsies, so he has to know, “Explain it to me.”

So Cas does. He tells Dean all about Crowley and their joint plot to muscle out Dick Roman (property and real estate, Dean recalls from previous conversations), so that Crowley can take over from Roman and Cas can retain the power he has. Apparently Roman has been attempting to muscle in on Cas’ stock and trade over the last few months and so now, dude has to go. 

Doesn’t sound all that complicated to Dean; in fact, it’s actually kinda simple. 

Seems like a kinda bum deal though. Like, sure, Cas has a lot of power right now; there’s not a criminal in the entire state who doesn’t know his name - which is both seriously sexy and also terrifying - but he’s content to let Crowley have a larger piece of the pie in exchange for just keeping what he’s got?

It doesn’t jibe with what Dean knows about the man.

Still, he doesn’t have the whole picture at the moment, so he’ll hold off until he does. He stores the info for later, resolves to bring it up one the pieces start to fit.

“So what happens now then, Cas?”

Cas shrugs easily, like he’s talking about what color streamers to buy for Ben’s birthday - and he in fact did shrug this nonchalantly when Dean asked him a few days ago - “Now, I burn him and his empire to the ground."

Chapter Text

Sometimes, seeing behind the curtain isn't all it's cracked up to be. In fact, Dean’s pretty sure that’s the real-life lesson takeaway from The Wizard of Oz ; not any of that ‘there’s no place like home’ or ‘follow your own yellow brick road’ crap that middle-class mommies fill their Pinterest boards with. 

Essentially, there's a lot to be said for ignorance being bliss. 

After all, the ‘good man, but bad wizard’ trope means that Cas - the supposedly all-seeing deity that Dean’s often assumed him to be - is actually just a man (albeit a freakin’ sexy AF, badass of a man), one that comes with all the associated fallibilities. 

Knowing what he now knows about Cas and the specifics of his organization, his enemies, his friends - in a decent amount of detail - means that Dean’s on edge constantly, always waiting for the other shoe to drop, waiting for the day that he gets a phone call letting him know that Cas is dead somewhere and Dean wasn’t there; too busy doing something as mundane as fixing a carburetor when Cas was breathing his last.

It hurts something fierce and he’s not sure what to do with it.

Cas is more than capable of taking care of himself, yes. But he’s also the head of an organization that has an impressive lawbreaking resume. He never has any protection and he’s always just wandering around like he’s somehow not a target for malcontents and literally anyone in the criminal underworld who wants a taste of power for themselves.

Or a pissed off jealous ex-husband who can’t take no for an answer.

It’s both worrying and hot; the former for obvious reasons, the latter because honestly? That kind of self-assured swagger has always turned Dean’s crank when it comes to Cas; the idea that he’s the most dangerous thing in any room (and not only because he’s a goddamn deadeye with a gun), that nobody would fucking dare is just…

Yeahhhhh. 

Several months down the line, Dean still has no idea how to reconcile both his feelings for Cas with all the different versions of him. One shift of the kaleidoscope has his colors rearranging from ruthless criminal to sensual lover, and another jolt sees them regrouping into the protective dad or accomplished businessman. Dean wasn’t wrong last year when he accused Cas of being as unpredictable as he is hot. 

It certainly does make for an exhilarating, unpredictable existence; like jumping out of a plane sans parachute with Bodhi and Johnny Utah, or swimming with sharks when you’re covered in chum, or standing naked in a roomful of fucking shiny objects with the walls closing in.

What he’s saying is that Cas may or may not be Jigsaw and his personality is a patterned variation of traps not always designed for escape. 

Or something.

Okay, so maybe it’s a belabored metaphor not helped by the fact that he’d been up all night decorating the house with a Saw movie marathon in the background.  

The point still stands. 

All Dean can really do for the moment is play along and hope that he doesn’t get splattered, eaten or stabbed. 

Which are all probably noble life goals anyway, without the addition of a Cas.

Of course, Dean’s hardly an expert in blind passivity, so the more he finds out about Cas’ organization, the more he offers up of himself. Predominantly to relieve some of Cas’ burden, but he’d be a lying liar who lies if he didn’t say that he’s in love with the way Cas looks at him when Dean suggests a particularly promising method, solution, idea, whatever. It’s what has resulted in Dean taking charge of the restaurant (the day-to-day operations, both legal and not so legal) and he’s the first call anyone needs to make regarding the logistics of the drug smuggling, meaning that Cas can concentrate on his war with Roman. 

It’s gratifying as fuck and scary as fuck in equal measure. That somebody like Cas trusts a screw-up like Dean with all of this, that he sees something worth believing in, is, well yeah . But it’s scary AF, because firstly, Dean’s completely out of his depth - he’s mostly been lucky so far - and secondly, because it’s not enough, could never be enough to protect Cas completely. Which is all he wants to do. As ridiculous as it sounds when Dean’s a freakin’ mechanic and Cas is… well, Cas . 

Dean's not obsessed - he's not - but let's just say that he's beginning to understand the lyrics to Whitney's So Emotional more and more each day. 

Thankfully, none of that matters for an entire afternoon, because today is Ben’s birthday and Cas has specifically requested Gabriel and Michael not to call either of them unless it’s an absolute emergency. That’s no guarantee that Cas won’t get pulled away of course, but he’s assured Dean that Gabe understands the consequences for calling him unnecessarily.

Dean probably counts a lot more things as unnecessary than Cas does. 

For instance. The way Cas looks right now? Totally un-freakin’-necessary . Especially as they’re surrounded by a bunch of pre-teen kids. 

Dean’s not sure if it’s deliberate or accidental that Cas always seems to look absolutely fuckable at the most inopportune moments. The guy is already constantly simmering at a low boil of smoldering hotness, but on days like today? Yeah, he just goes right ahead and cranks the heat up to Carolina Reaper, thank-you-Jesus-Annapurna-Dionysus-Colonel-fucking-Sanders-for-this-delicious-miracle proportions.

It’s beyond a joke, really, and Dean’s dick is having a hard (heh) time lately figuring out whether it’s coming (double heh) or going. An already sticky ( very sticky) situation not helped by their respective busy schedules that sees them only having time for a quickie make-out-and-come-in-our-pants-like-horny-teenagers session every once in a while.

So yeah, Dean’s a little on edge here. It’s not gonna take a lot at this point to shove him onto the rocks below. 

Cas’ attire might just be that thrust . 

God, Dean hopes so.

Because today, Cas is wearing yet another dark shirt with the added bonus of it being short-sleeved - a rare treat - meaning that all his ink - wrists to biceps - is exposed. This would already be a serious cause for concern for Dean’s internal thermometer (rectal or oral, dealer’s choice), but then he had to go and pair that with some of the world’s most threadbare, black-turned-dark-gray-through-wear-and-wash jeans tucked into scuffed shin-high biker boots, and honestly? On anybody else, Dean probably wouldn’t be into it, but on Cas? Yeah, he makes hipster gangster look damn good . 

God-fucking-dammit.

***

Dean’s taking a break from playing host for a moment - he’s all out of small talk and polite smiles - content to silently watch the festivities from the open patio door, when the reassuring scent of a familiar perfume heralds the presence of his ex. The one he actually likes . He turns into the hug he instinctively knows is waiting for him in her arms, buries his face in her strawberry-vanilla shampoo hair, “Hey, Lisa.”

“Hey, handsome,” She smiles that perfect white smile when she pulls back a little, reaching up to fondly push a hand through his artfully messy (aka; I-didn’t-have-time-for-a-shower-this-morning-because-I-was-up-all-night-sorting-out-this-fucking-party) hair, “You look good.”

He tamps down the urge to say something sappy like, ‘You look beautiful as always, thank God Ben got his genes from you’ and instead slants her a lopsided grin, “Don’t I always?”

She pretends to consider, tilting her head as she unhurriedly considers Dean, eyes snagging on his chest and he tries not to preen under the appreciation, “Yeah, you do. How’s a girl supposed to compete?”

“Well, my boobs aren’t nearly as fantastic as yours.” 

She laughs, a husky thing that Dean’s always cherished. Even after all these years and occasions and arguments, he loves that they can still be this effortless with each other. 

They lapse into a comfortable silence for a moment, standing together in the doorway, Dean’s arms around her waist, Lisa’s small hands resting on his lower back. It’s kinda nice, just hugging someone without any expectations, soothing and splatter-shark-knives-free. Smiling softly, she says, “Thanks for having it at yours this year by the way, our garden is still flooded from all that work we paid through the nose for.”

“Of course, more than happy to have it over here.”

She looks at him, eyebrows raised, clearly taken aback, “You actually are, aren’t you?”  and it sounds accusing as she extricates herself from Dean’s hold, putting just the tiniest bit of distance between them, “Are you really Dean Winchester or have you been replaced with a pod person?”

“Funny,” Dean offers sardonically, “Nah, he’ll be a teenager next year, y’know? He’s not gonna want this kind of party for much longer is he?”

And fuck, if that doesn’t make Dean a little sad. For all the moaning he does about the organization of these parties - ‘cause they are an absolute pain in the ass - he knows what it means the day they stop becoming necessary and he’s not ready for it.

Just like he wasn’t ready when Ben figured out that Santa wasn’t real. The whole pantomime of Santa (and of course the midnight cookies and booze) was Dean’s favorite aspect of Christmas. 

Not like he needs permission to get drunk in the middle of the night and stuff his face or anything, but it’s always nice to have his drinking habit religiously sanctioned. 

“True,” Lisa sighs wistfully, looks past Dean out at the garden, taking in all the hired paintball equipment and gadgets, decorations (they went with a mix of blue and green streamers in the end), presents piled high, and enough food to either feed an army for a month or Dean for a weekend. Her eyes go comically wide, “Holy shit, you really went all out, didn’t you?” She steps forward, one hand on the patio door as she leans outside, “This must’ve cost you a bomb.”

Only in illegally-obtained money. It’s not like it counts.

Dean shrugs, borrowing some of Cas’ nonchalance, “Eh. Worth it though right?” He inclines his head towards where Ben, Claire, Casey, and a couple of others are ducking away from each other as they shoot paintballs everywhere. There are plenty of other kids here too, a few from Ben’s class and his Little League - though he’s aging out now - but he’s only really been interested in hanging out with a handful of them, “He’s having the time of his life.”

Lisa’s expression softens when she catches sight of their son, brown eyes going liquid, “Yeah, he is,” she concedes and then squints up at Dean, “Paintballs and guns, though, really? Couldn’t it have been something nice like baking or a movie marathon?” Dean doesn’t tell her that hiring a popup outdoor cinema - huge movie screen and all - had been his initial idea, which was then swiftly laid to rest by his son when Cas suggested paintballing. 

Because if guns are involved, Cas is there . And so is Ben, apparently. 

Dean should probably restrict his access to those 18-rated games.

Lisa continues, mischief creeping in around the edge of her tone, “Hmm, speaking of - Ben told me how much he’s been enjoying his baking lessons with Castiel, ” She says his name all Harlequin romance breathy-sigh and Dean shoves her lightly. She laughs again, points out the faint blush staining Dean’s cheekbones, the evil bitch.

Is there anyone in his life who doesn’t love making him feel awkward as fuck?

The answer to that becomes painfully apparent when Dean’s eyes get drawn to Cas - like fucking always. 

Speak of the devil and he doth appear.

Cas is crouching in front of this side of the picnic table, paintball gun shaped like an AK-47 (and really? That’s pretty fucking jarring) held up to his chest, muzzle pointing skywards, finger across the trigger guard. His bicep flexes as he reloads and leans in to Ben next to him, who’s mirroring Cas’ position.

They look like they’re discussing tactics against the two girls - Claire and Casey - who are approaching the bench from the other side, guns held proficiently, and Dean has to wonder if Cas gave the kids a lesson in gun management whilst he was setting out the rest of the party.

Dean’s been privy to that lesson himself, though his was undoubtedly the x-rated version.

It’s obvious to anyone watching that Ben and Cas think a lot of each other and it makes Dean’s heart melt and his dick hard and not necessarily in that order. It was one of the things that attracted him to Benny in the early days - his easy affinity with Ben - and of course, Dean had been concerned about Ben losing that connection, but Cas has certainly picked up the slack and then some . 

Ben and Cas grin enthusiastically at each other before Cas’ eyes find Dean’s across the garden and the roguish smile that he shoots Dean’s way is nothing short of panty-dropping.

Shame then, that Dean’s wearing boxers. Though he has plans .

Claire and Casey inch closer to Ben and Cas’ hiding place, giggly and nervous and Dean holds his breath, waiting for the inevitable clash and screams. 

Cas tips Dean a wink, before he disappears around the other side of the bench, crouched low on those thick thighs. Ben follows and then suddenly Claire is squealing as she gets a load of colorful paintballs to the sternum (or more accurately her chest protector, because there was no way Dean wasn’t gonna spring for armor for the kids; paintballs hurt ) from her fucking dad and Cas is absolutely merciless, each shot far too accurate to be the result of anything other than real-life proficiency.

Lisa’s been watching the whole thing too with a faint smile on her face. Dean can see her out of the corner of his eye as she turns to look up at him again, “That’s him, right?” 

Dean nods without taking his eyes off where Claire has jumped on Cas’ back, screaming bloody revenge. Ben’s chasing Casey around the picnic table, firing paintballs everywhere and this is gonna be a bitch to clean up, but Dean can’t find it in himself to care. 

"He's gorgeous, Winchester . Good with kids and he bakes too? I approve."

He also murders people. Don’t forget that.

Dean tears his eyes away, smiles down at her, "Thanks, Lis."

She bumps her shoulder against his, though because of the height difference, she mainly gets his arm, “You seem happy.”

“Yeah,” Dean agrees as Casey shoots Cas right in the asscheek, “Yeah I’m pretty fucking happy right now.”

***

They’ve run out of soda again, so Dean’s just replenishing the jug from a bottle in the refrigerator, adding ice, clicking the lid into place, when he hears footsteps behind him. Before he can react, a strong, sure fingered grip curves over his hip, turning him around and shoving him against the refrigerator door. Cas hems Dean in with his body, hips and chests pressed together so tight that Dean can feel the heat and strength pushing back at him through their thin layers, can feel the steady rhythmic thump of Cas’ heartbeat against his own. 

Cas’ eyes are as clear as the sky and he smells like sunshine and the outdoors when he shoves the barrel of the paintball gun underneath Dean’s jaw, muzzle grazing over sensitive skin. 

Dean swallows hard, sweat beading on the back of his neck and rolling under his shirt collar, body already reacting to Cas and his proximity,  “Revisiting old memories, eh Cas?”

“You’ve got your kinks, I’ve got mine,” Cas teases lightly, but the sin in his eyes gives him away, and it unravels something in Dean’s chest, makes it that little bit harder to breathe in the wake of it.

Oh.

He tries for levity, anything to temper this fire before it really gets going and burns everything to ash, “Who says you have the exclusivity rights on this one, huh?”

“Yeah?” Cas’ asks scarcely a kiss away, sky blue darkening in that uncompromising, stormy way that always heralds a million ways for Dean to die a little death.

Fuck.

“Uhuh,” Dean manages, acutely aware (for a change) that them discussing this in the kitchen whilst there are kids running around a few meters away is perhaps not the best idea.

Not a bad idea, just not the best one. 

Dean clears his throat, tries to think through the enticing feel of Cas this close, the searing intensity that always seems to manifest between them, “You’re in an exceptionally good mood today,” he manages, aiming for casual as he pushes the barrel of the gun away, making Cas lower it before he begs him to do something that’s probably considered thoroughly depraved in at least twenty-three states. 

It’s true though; Cas is in good humor, and as much as Dean loves to see it, he’s definitely not trusting this new found joviality.

“Hmm,” Cas murmurs, clearly not interested in Dean’s transparent attempt to postpone this fuck-fest destined to happen. No, his interest lies in Dean’s neck apparently, tempting as it must be, because his shadowed gaze is focused on the jump in Dean’s pulse point like he’s counting down the seconds of the ever-growing sense of urgency between them with every hurried thump under skin.

Dean’s gonna do something stupid, he knows he is. He can hear the laughter of kids outside, but he can feel and smell Cas inside .

Goddammit, Cas.

Chasing that rapidly fraying thread of rationality, Dean tries once more, “Of course, it’s most likely because you have a gun in your hand. That always seems to put you in a good mood.”

“Jealous?”

“Not at all, Cas. I’m usually in a pretty good mood when I have my gun in my hand too.”

“Very droll,” Cas comments, tip of his nose brushing the underside of Dean’s jaw and Dean has to close his eyes, focus on not giving himself over to this.

Yeah, because that’s worked out so well up until now.

“Seriously,” Dean says voice and body wound tight, “You seem--” he cuts himself off as Cas fits a palm to the wing of his hip, sliding his thumb under the fabric of his shirt and stroking circles over the bone, occasionally dipping low enough under the waistband of Dean’s jeans to make his breath catch. 

Tease.

“...what do I seem?” Cas asks, knowing exactly what he’s doing; confident, calculating bastard that he is.

“A little less of a grumpy asshole today.” 

Instead, the kaleidoscope has reconfigured once again and Cas has been replaced with some kind of fun-loving, adorable-yet-frustrating sex god, destined to make Dean’s remaining time on this earth - which if he keeps stroking over that spot just below Dean’s hip, isn’t gonna be long - as hard as humanly possible. 

Dean’s not complaining - really - he’s in love with this version of Cas as much as the others, maybe more so, but it feels like the precursor to something that Dean can’t quite see yet and that makes him nervous.

The more he knows, the less he knows he knows.

Or something.

Cas seems to consider this as he drags his lips across Dean’s throat, “Things are good,” which is all he offers in explanation before he’s finally putting his mouth on Dean, intent on Dean’s pulse point, heartbeat drawn to the surface with a bruising, sucking kiss.

“Cas,” Dean whines, fisting a helpless hand in the back of Cas’ shirt, another in his hair, molten heat in his veins. His head falls back against the refrigerator door, eyes screwed shut, and he’s not sure whether it’s in frustration, supplication, or so that he doesn’t have to look anyone in the eye as he lets himself get molested by the most beautiful, infuriating man he’s ever had the pleasure to look at, let alone fuck. 

Cas’ teeth find the curve of Dean’s collarbone, bright flare of pain that has Dean pressing his filling erection against Cas’ thigh, reckless, eager, and a whole myriad of emotions that someone like Cas should never be allowed access in someone like Dean. 

He whispers out a harsh litany of fuckfuckfuck as Cas slides his palm to the small of Dean’s back under his shirt, riding up the ladder of his spine, smooth glide through sweat, grip sliding, blunt nails catching and scoring Dean’s flesh and Dean forces his eyes open just in fucking time. 

A blur of a child - Madison? - pelts through the kitchen out onto the patio - thankfully without giving them a second glance - and Dean startles violently against Cas; the reminder of y’know children being a proverbial bucket of cold water. With heavy limbs rendered largely unresponsive with thwarted desire, he tries to force his body to cooperate into some kind of facade of respectability, but only gets as far as reluctantly releasing Cas, fruitlessly willing his dick to calm the fuck down. 

Dead puppies. That granny porn you clicked on once just to see. Snaking the drain.

The last one is surprisingly unhelpful, because his mind wanders off and starts imagining Cas as a workman, toolbelt and everything.

Cas grins at Dean, ridiculously boyish and handsome, and entirely fucking composed in a way that Dean wasn’t even before that impromptu tease. His hand is still in the center of Dean’s back, and he’s standing too fucking close to be considered proper, so Dean pushes at the solid set of his shoulders, unenthusiastic but firm, and Cas backs away just in time for Sam and Jess’ appearance in the kitchen, side-by-side and chatting happily together. 

“Hey guys,” Dean waves lamely, deliberately not looking at Cas leaning against the countertop barely a foot away, paintball gun still in his hand.

Green salad. Zombies. Hairy toes.

“Hi Dean,” Jess says pleasantly, having gradually thawed to him in the past few months, "Not planning any trips across the Canadian border today, I presume?" 

Or not.

Dean shoots a glare at his brother, who shrugs all I didn't tell her, she figured it out.  

Fucking amateur.

"Not as far as I’m aware, no,” He tilts his head towards Cas, all fluttering eyelashes and  faux-expectance, “Not unless my beloved has plans to whisk me away on an impromptu vacation?" They’re in this together, which means that Dean’s not above shoving him into the proverbial line of fire when it comes to his sister-in-law.

How Cas manages to stand there with a (albeit, fake) gun in his hand, covered in tattoos, and still look innocent, Dean will never know. But manage it he does, “I’ve never been to Canada in my life, Officer Winchester. Would you recommend it for a romantic getaway?”

Immovable object, meet unstoppable force.

“Uh-huh,” Jess says, unconvinced. She turns her attention back to Dean, focussing in on him with narrowed eyes and a pointed finger, “You’re playing a very dangerous game, Dean. And if you drag my husband down with you, I will never let you rest. You have my word on that.”

Dean holds up his hands palm up in immediate surrender. He’s only partially joking because he doesn’t doubt that Jess could kick his ass in the right circumstances, “Understood, ma’am.”

She takes a final look at the three of them in turn, perhaps hoping for a modicum of sanity from at least one of them, but she ain’t gonna find it here. This is like one of those boys clubs in a treehouse with a sign outside that says, No Sanity Allowed.

As far as Dean’s concerned, sanity is overrated and seriously boring anyways. As evidenced by his and Cas’, well, everything.

“Fucking men,” She mutters and then she’s gone, stepping outside into the sunshine and flying balls of paint.

As soon as she’s out of earshot, Dean’s gunning for his brother - figuratively, not literally, though he’s tempted to snatch the paintball gun from Cas - “What the actual fuck is wrong with you, Sammy?”

Sam’s eyes widen and his nostrils flare, “I had to tell her something!”

“And you settled on telling your cop wife - ‘ oh yeah sweetheart, we’re going across the border to pick up some drugs and possibly get fingerbanged by a man with federal powers ’ ?”

Sam pulls a face, “I certainly didn’t mention anything about that last part. That’s kinda weird, Dean.”

“You have no idea,” Cas murmurs drily, which is super unhelpful and also just a smidge hypocritical from the man with a gun kink. 

Dean ignores them both, “What exactly does she know?” Though, Cas is apparently unconcerned, so Dean probably should dial it down, but he’s worried about more than their own asses here; Cas cares about Dean, sure. Probably even cares about Sam and Charlie a little bit too, but Dean knows first-hand exactly how single-minded Cas can be when he comes to people he sees as being in his way. Dean needs to make sure that Jess isn’t in a position to ever be in the way . 

“Nothing, really. I told her we went to Winnipeg to see the Museum for Human Rights.”

To his left, Cas lets out a strangled approximation of laughter.

There are a few times in his life when Dean has been rendered actually physically speechless. Once was when he discovered Lisa was pregnant, another was when a girl he was kinda-sorta dating kicked him in the balls so hard he thought that he was gonna puke them up.

This though, this is something else.

Apparently his silence says more than words ever could, because Sam is quickly flailing and blustering his way through an excuse, “Look, I panicked, okay? She’s scary as hell, you have no idea--” he cuts himself off at Dean’s raised eyebrows and ‘ta-da’ gesture in Cas’ direction, “--okay, so maybe you get the scary thing, but apparently I’m just a shit liar.”

Yeah, no arguments there. Though frustratingly, Sam’s inability to lie is not through a lack of trying. 

“So she doesn’t know anything for definite?”

Sam looks at him, all - what do you think I am, an idiot or something? - and yes, yes is the resounding fucking answer, “No. Obviously she’s suspicious after the whole robbery thing--” he glances at Cas, like just the mere reminder of their indiscretion will be enough to have Cas regressing in some way, then back to Dean “--and yeah, I’m a crap liar, but she can’t possibly know anything concrete. If she did, I’m pretty sure she would’ve handcuffed you both right here and now.”

Jesus.

“Okay,” Dean exhales, finally done.

But apparently Sam isn’t, “And to be honest Dean, I resent getting a lecture about anything from somebody who has a bigass hickey on their neck at their kid’s birthday party.”

Dean slaps his hand over the still throbbing bruise across his carotid. 

There’s not really much of a defense, but Dean still makes a token effort, “It’s from this morning?”

Sam gives him his best bitchface, “The paint on his--” he points a sasquatch finger at Cas, “--shirt and jeans --” before aiming toward Dean, “--has smudged off onto yours.” 

Dean and Cas look down simultaneously and yup . Dean has bright streaks of color smeared all over his shirt in a mirror image of Cas’. His jeans have a fluorescent yellow splotch right across the crotch, Cas’ is just to the left, where their hips were aligned. 

They look like a failed Jackson Pollock foray into adult body paint. 

Whoops.

“Jesus, what are you, fifteen ?” Sam scolds, scrambling to leave whilst he has the moral high ground beneath his stupid sasquatch feet, and with one last disgusted look in their direction - like he’s never made out at one of Madison’s birthday parties (he has, and wasn’t that very nearly a pass the parcel to remember), - he ducks out of the patio doors and into the chaos.

Dean doesn’t even need to look to see Cas’ cocky, amused expression.

“You heard the overgrown man,” Dean says, laugh bubbling up his throat at the ridiculousness of getting caught making out by his brother. Again, “Rein it in Cas, ‘cause I am not getting knocked up before the prom.”

***

Once they’ve changed into clean clothes - separately , ‘cause whilst the idea of Dean being half-naked in the same room as Cas sounds like heaven (it generally is), it’s not exactly conducive to them keeping their hands off each other - the rest of the afternoon passes in a pleasant buzz of laughter, too much food, and paint splatter.

Things only become awkward once or twice when a parent dropping off a latecomer or picking up an earlygoer asks about Benny. 

Dean would be lying if he didn’t feel a small twinge of guilt about it all, about not letting his ex be here, but Benny made his fucking bed. He’s just lucky that it didn’t end up being underneath six feet of topsoil and a smattering of begonias. 

To those ever-so-inquisitive parents, Cas is keen to introduce himself as Dean’s partner and in one memorable instance when a parent double-checks for clarification, Cas confirms, Dean’s boyfriend, and Dean’s pretty sure he’s riding high off that buzz for at least an hour afterward, annoying the shit out of anyone stupid enough to be in his cheery way. 

Of course, all good things must come to an end, and the best day that Dean can remember having this year comes to a grinding halt just as all the kids and a handful of adults are gathered around cutting the cake. 

Cas’ phone goes off after complete radio silence all day and he excuses himself with as much politeness as he can muster with that familiar coldness seeping in around the edges of his sunny expression.

Dean watches as he disappears into the house, something heavy settling in the pit of his stomach. Fuck, sometimes he really does wish that their meet-cute story was as straightforward as they lie about it being. Next to him, Lisa nudges his ribs, mouths, ‘everything okay?’ and Dean manages a sharp jerk of his head in the affirmative, teams it with what he hopes is a convincing smile. He forces himself to focus on his kid’s happy day, which works right up until they’re about to start on the presents, when Cas returns and grabs him by the elbow to pull him to one side. 

Dean gestures for Lisa to continue. She nods, a little worried crease between her eyes.

“I have to go,” Cas tells him as Ben rips into the glossy, well-wrapped paper of Sam and Jess’s present. 

“Fuck, really?”

Cas nods, expression thunderous, slowly sliding away from the lightness of the day and into the darkness of his job, back into that tailor-made skin of callousness and brutality.

What happened to things going well?

On a destructive impulse, Dean asks, “You need me to come with?” Lisa can take things from here if necessary.

Cas looks like he’s considering it for a second, weighing up the advantages of having Dean there versus the disadvantages of Dean missing out on the remainder of his kid’s birthday.

The dad in him apparently wins out though, because he shakes his head, says, “No, stay here with Ben and Claire.”

Dean sighs, scrubs a hand through his hair, “Okay, okay. You’re gonna tell me what all this is about when you get back though, yeah?” It’s maybe a little stupid considering what they are, who Cas is, but Dean’s started making Cas promise to tell him stuff when he gets back - no matter when it is - in a sort of unspoken reassurance that Cas is indeed coming back .

Clingy? Perhaps. Necessary? Undoubtedly.

Especially now, since it’s gotta be serious, right? Because those were the instructions - not to call unless it was absolutely necessary.

“Of course,” Cas says, reaching into the back pocket of his jeans, “Here,” He shoves a folded envelope into Dean’s hand, “For Ben’s birthday,” And then he’s pressing a quick, but passionate kiss to Dean’s lips and disappearing through the side gate, and Dean’s left with nothing more than a warm draft of air carrying the scent of Cas.

He feels strangely bereft. Which is stupid as hell, because Cas is coming back , Dean’s just not quite sure which version of him it’ll be when he does.

Shame, ‘cause he’s grown kinda fond of this one.

Dean flips the envelope over in his hands. Cas’ scrawl is on the front, but the back isn’t glued down. With a shrug that’s more casual than he really feels, he makes his way back over to the gathered crowd. Already, Ben has ripped his way through an entire landfill’s worth of patterned paper, so Dean taps him on the shoulder to get his attention as he’s looking around for the next present to attack.

“Cas told me to give this to you. He had to leave early, but he says happy birthday.”

Ben scans the face around him, expression crumpling into sadness for a split second when he confirms that Cas really isn’t here - and it’s reassuring to know that Dean’s not alone in his adoration - before he remembers the present Dean is holding over his shoulder.

He snatches the envelope out of Dean’s hand, rips into it with a scary amount of gusto, considering Dean’s not even sure if there’s a card in there; he’d only felt the fragility of paper.

Ben unfolds the sheets of paper and scrunches his face up as he reads. He gives up after a couple of moments, turns to Dean, “What is this, dad?”

Dean takes the couple of sheets from him, scans the front page. It’s a list of names, flights, hotel bookings...

Oh, holy shit.

Everyone is staring at him, kids and adults alike, waiting with bated breath around the picnic table to see what this awe-inspiring present from the enigmatic bastard is.

“Uhh,” Dean says, glancing quickly at the second sheet of paper, but he’s mostly stalling for time, because it’s just a continuation of the first page, “So.. it looks like, err..” he clears his throat, willing himself to pull it together over the surge of affection that he suddenly feels for Cas, because the guy is clearly trying ( very ), but seriously, this is a next-level attempt at bringing them all together as a family, and Dean loves him that little bit more for it, ‘cause he gets that this shit doesn’t come easy to Cas.

Dean glances up at Sam, lets his eyes scan over everyone named in the papers; Jess, Charlie, Dorothy, Madison, Claire, and finally Ben. “It looks like we’re all going to Disneyland. All expenses paid. Courtesy of Cas.”

Sam’s eyebrows shoot up to his hairline and next to him, his wife has a similar expression of happy surprise, her guarded expression falling just a little for the first time all afternoon. Dorothy and Charlie start bouncing up and down, grinning at each other, suddenly bursting out into that annoying song the Rock sings from Moana,  Madison is asking her dad if this means she gets to meet Stitch, and Claire is grinning broadly at Ben who is mirroring it right back at her.

Holy fucking shit, Cas. 

They’d joked about it, but fuckkkkk.

This must’ve cost him an absolute fortune - illegally gotten gains or not - and Dean wishes Cas was here so Dean could kiss him senseless and finish what they started earlier. 

Later. Dean’ll be sure to thank Cas later. 

When he gets back.

***

Dean’s hovering right on the edge of consciousness, just about to sink into the comfort of REM sleep, when a warm body slides in under the comforter behind him, molding firm around Dean’s form, chest to spine, areas of naked skin catching and sticking with the light tackiness of perspiration.

Dean flinches, sleep-heavy limbs sluggish to respond, but then a long-fingered hand is pressed over his mouth, the sharp tang of fresh sweat and smolder of smoke layered under the overwhelming scent of gasoline. He can feel the firm press of an erection against his ass, separated only by the thin cotton of his boxers, hear the rustle of a shirt, feel the buttons of it pressed against his vertebrae, “Shh, it’s only me.”

Cas.

What the fuck.

Which comes out as a sleep-garbled, “Wuuh?”

“It’s okay,” Cas murmurs, releasing Dean’s mouth, dropping kisses to his neck, tugging his boxers down his thighs.

“Cas..” Dean mumbles, mind sleep-slow, but body beginning to respond to Cas and his touch, despite a weird creeping sensation in the back of his brain, like something’s wrong. But there can’t be anything wrong, ‘cause Cas is here . Cas who impressed every single person he encountered today, Cas who dropped what has to be in excess of thirty grand on Ben’s birthday present, but included almost everyone important to Dean, Cas who called Dean his boyfriend like they’re a couple of high schoolers going steady, instead of a pair of thirty-something dads who deal drugs and launder money. 

Between Ben’s impromptu baking lessons and the entirety of today, Dean’s little domestic fantasy is complete. 

“Shh,” Cas says again, hot, hard length of him a brand against Dean’s skin. Dean shifts back against Cas’ dick, canting his hips, definitely up for a bit of frottage or intercrural if that’s where this is going. He shoves his boxers the rest of the way down past his knees, kicks out of them. Behind him, Cas spits into his hand, and then he’s prying Dean’s asscheeks apart, pushing up against Dean bare and totally dry, save for the rapidly drying spit.

Dean’s heart stops, eyes shooting open, remnants of sleep abruptly scattering away like cockroaches exposed to the light.

Okay, so that’s not where this is going.

The head of Cas’ dick nudges inside and pain burns bright and hot, agonizing wildfire through Dean’s entire body and he jerks like he’s been stabbed.

Kinda feels like he has. Cas isn’t exactly small and it’s been a while since either of them have had time for much more than feverish blow jobs or mutual handjobs up against any sturdy surface.

Goddamn. Not like this.

“Cas,” He manages on a shaky exhale. It’s not a noise of pleasure and if Cas wasn’t so busy trying to force himself into Dean’s body dry, then he’d notice too. 

It’s quickly becoming apparent to Dean that lust and adrenaline are too busy warring in Cas’ movements; some sort of primal need to mate, to claim, to celebrate a victory over those weaker than him, and at any other time - with copious amounts of lube - Dean would be so down for it, but--

Cas shoves in another inch and Dean cries out, hurt.

Fuck.

-- but this is Cas is just using his body to get off, and not just no, but fuck no . That's not what this is about anymore - if it ever was - so Dean elbows him, hard, catching him right under the ribs, not quite feeling vicious enough to aim for the solar plexus and fuck Cas’ shit right up , but it’s a damn close thing.

"Get the fuck off of me, Cas!"

"What the... Dean !"

Dean's up and out of the bed before Cas has a chance to recover enough to get a hand on him. He slaps the bedside light on, because he needs to see Cas, needs Cas to see him. Shaky with both fury and fear, ignoring his total nakedness - because they’ve had deeper conversations in more compromising circumstances - Dean hisses, "Either we're gonna fuck like I'm an actual living, breathing person rather than a warm come repository, or you can get the fuck out of my house."

Each strand of his hair sticking up at a different angle, partially dressed and looking less human than Dean’s ever seen him, Cas’ expression runs the gamut from confused anger, through disbelieving anger, right to just plain fucking anger, jaw and fists clenched, like he’s figuring out how to communicate without brutality.

Eventually, sharp cut of his eyes hard like flint, he lands on, "This is the thanks I get for today?” And Dean wants to fucking hit him. Just bludgeon him to death with his own emotional unavailability.

NRRRRRRRRR. I’m sorry that’s an incorrect answer. Thanks for playing though.

Stupid, so fucking stupid. Dean had thought that they were getting somewhere, but it always comes back to Cas’ need to balance the fucking books apparently.

“You want me to let you tear my ass up in exchange for Ben’s birthday present? That what you’re saying right now, Cas? I’m bought and paid for, yeah? A sure fucking thing? So you can just fuck right on in no prep or whatever because I owe you?”

If there’s a smidge of his own insecurities in there, then that’s nobody’s business but his own.

Cas’ eyes narrow dangerously and there’s no trace of the joviality from earlier; now there’s just cold incredulity, “No, that’s not what I’m saying at all and you --” He course corrects, rightly sensing that the way to Dean’s sweet spot is not through thinly-veiled violence, “--I simply meant that we had a good day, I just assumed…” He trails off, looks up at Dean like he knows the secret to making him fold, and fuck if he doesn’t, because he gets his hard edges under control, and says, softer, placating, “Come back here." 

In his mind’s eye, Dean can see himself acquiescing, can see himself sliding back between the sheets, letting Cas kiss him softly, slick press of lips and tongue. It would be so easy .

But then, what’s Cas learning? He’s all about teaching Dean a lesson - and he’s undoubtedly the hottest teacher Dean’s ever had, so it’s not like Dean hasn’t been enjoying his homework assignments - but maybe it’s time Dean taught him a thing or two in return.

Beyond how to get revenge on an ex, that is.

Because Dean is not going through this every time Cas comes back horny after he’s killed someone or whatever the fuck he’s been up to tonight. Judging by the pervasive smell clinging to the fabric of his shirt, infused deep in the pores of his skin, Dean’s best guess is arson.

And isn't Cas the one who told him to pick his battles? Know when to cooperate and when to push back and yadda yadda? Well, this is one hill that Dean’s willing to die on. 

This is another one of those step up or get broken down moments and Dean hasn’t come this fucking far to shatter now. 

“Take off the rest of your clothes,” Dean’s voice is husky to his own ears, and Cas does nothing for a long moment, staring Dean down. The shadows slant across the cut of Cas’ cheekbones in just the right devastating way, “ Now ,” Dean adds, turning his back in order to regroup as he goes over to the closet where Cas has some of his clothes hanging. He rifles through the shirts with fumbling fingers and tense shoulders, anticipating Cas’ sneak attack. 

Which never comes.

Apparently Cas has chosen to do as he’s told because Dean promptly hears the rustling of fabric behind him and he can breathe once more, find what he’s looking for.

Of course, Dean hadn’t really considered the sight he’d be greeted with when he faced Cas again, because holy fucking shit . 

Cas is standing there in the center of Dean’s bedroom, completely naked, six feet of undeniably masculine strength; broad shoulders, firm swell of lean muscle, miles of toned, inked skin. His cock is hard and long, curving towards his stomach and Dean’s suddenly nerveless, voice deserting him.

A corner of Cas’ mouth turns up in a knowing, lazy smile and then he’s moving around the bed towards Dean with careful, measured footsteps, liquid grace and formidable power, eyes ablaze and trained on Dean.

“Bed,” Dean manages as Cas invades his personal space, too close for comfort, but impossible to escape, curl of acrid smoke spliced through every strand of his hair. It makes the want low in Dean’s stomach come alive, turn into a living, breathing thing between them. When Cas doesn’t move, just keeps appraising Dean like he’s waiting for him to bend or break, Dean tries again, “ Now , Cas.”

Cas holds up his palms up in supplication, backs away with that arrogant fucking smirk on his face. 

He obediently lays down on the comforter though, weight braced on his forearms, looking like the very best kind of sin - the ones worth going to hell for - and Dean follows him. Shoving Cas down and straddling his abdomen, Cas’ hands come up, firm around Dean’s sides under the pretense of steadying Dean as he reaches into the nightstand drawer, pulls out the bottle of lube, sets it on the pillow next to the messy splay of Cas’ hair.

“Hands up again. Above your head,” Dean commands, and Cas plays along, darkly amused.

Dean folds the tie he retrieved from the closet in half, wraps it over and under Cas’ wrists in a figure of eight a couple of times, crosses the ends of the tie and wraps them in the middle, cinching it hard, pulling Cas’ triceps deliciously taut, ties a double knot. He winds the short remainder of the tie around one of the wooden slats of the headboard, tying it off in a bowline knot securely. 

Cas’ sharp inhale and stuttered exhale ghosts over Dean’s skin as Dean leans over him, left pec right above his mouth, nipple pebbling, and Dean shudders, toes curling, but it only sharpens his resolve to do this right; he can’t lose his focus now.

“How’s that feel?” Dean murmurs, sitting back on his heels, knees either side of Cas’ ribcage, “Feel like you’re still in charge?” He rubs his thumb in the hollow of Cas’ throat, fascinated with the ink there, pressing down lightly.

Cas gives his bindings an experimental tug, muscles flexing and bunching. The tie doesn't yield. His eyes meet Dean’s and it’s Dean’s turn to smile with smug satisfaction. 

Gotcha, fucker.

Dean shifts backward on his knees until he’s almost at the foot of the bed, taking the time to admire his handiwork and Cas spread out in front of him, ‘cause fuck, seriously. He might just have to keep Cas like this forever; lean muscles beneath flawless skin, tantalizing body long and perfect and all for Dean. He skims a fingertip up the inside of Cas’ thigh, along the underside of his length, smears the pearl of precome over the slit and Cas jerks his hips up, hisses.

"Dean," his biceps are thick and corded as he strains against his bindings, and the pretty picture he makes, all tamed wild animal and restrained power, forces Dean to reach for his own cock, jacking himself slowly as he watches Cas underneath him.

"Bet this isn't how you imagined it going, huh Cas?" He leans forward not waiting for the answer, gets his free hand around the base of Cas’ dick and sucks the head into his mouth, familiar salty, musky taste of him and Cas growls, heels digging into the mattress, trying to get the purchase to fuck himself down Dean’s throat. 

Nu-uh. Bad Cas.

Dean pulls his mouth off Cas with a wet sound of suction, thin strand of saliva and precome still connecting Dean’s mouth to Cas’ cock for the briefest of moments before Dean knee-walks up the bed, settling his weight astride Cas’ hips. He can feel the precome-saliva mix drying on his bottom lip, so he braces his palms on the firm swell of Cas’ pecs, ducks his head, licks into Cas’ panting mouth, making Cas taste himself whether he wants to or not. 

Turns out that he really wants to. The kiss is nothing but pure filth, mouths open, spit-slick and pink tongues sliding in deep, laced with dirty-hot promises.

Enough.

Dean pushes up, using Cas’ chest for leverage and he winks down at him. 

“Dean--”

“Nuh-uh, Cas. Don’t make me gag you too.”

It’s (mostly) an idle threat, but it still has the desired effect.

He settles back on Cas’ hips, licks a flat, filthy tongue up his palm - entirely for show - and wraps a hand back around his own dick again. 

He strokes himself in a steady rhythm, watching Cas watch him with unblinking, hooded eyes, Dean tilting his head back on a moan when Cas’ hips shift enough to have his cock pushing up the cleft of his ass, smearing slick along his perineum.

“ Dean, ” Cas says again, and this time it sounds more desperate, closer to the kind of ferocious need that Dean had hoped for. He continues stroking himself from base to tip, flushed cockhead nearly disappearing in his fist on every upstroke, staring down at Cas, completely trapped beneath him, shoulders pressed into the sheets, abs twitching and clenching, flush spilling down his neck and chest, small areas of natural pink peeking through the artificial multi-color of ink.

Dean's breath hitches on the next upstroke, plum head of Cas' dick catching on his hole. 

Fuck fuck fuck, he’s gonna come if he doesn’t stop. 

He drags a breath into his lungs, forces himself to let go of his dick, focus on what the fuck he’s supposed to be doing here.

What the hell is that again?

"C'mon Cas, talk to me. I give you permission. What were you hoping for when you snuck in here tonight, huh? A pliant fleshlight for you to stick your dick in?” Dean reaches back with a spit-slick fist, grabs Cas’ cock, squeezes, and Cas’ hips jump, straining into the touch.

“Fuck,” Cas grits out, tosses his head back into the pillows, helpless to do anything else but fucking take it and it sends a jolt of heat to Dean’s groin.

“Talk,” Dean demands, sharp-edge of lust making him destructive with the need to know what the fuck Cas thinks this is between them. He shoves his ass back, angling Cas’ dick so that the head catches, starts pushing in, breathless burn for Dean all over again, “ Fucking talk, Cas .”

Ragged and voice scraped out, sweaty face buried in the skin pulled taut over his bicep, Cas says, “No--fuck. I didn’t think, I just wanted to be in you--” he breaks off, moaning at the sinuous tease of Dean’s body around the tip of his dick. 

“Yeah?” Dean asks venomous and hot-blooded, “You want that?”

Not waiting for the answer, he releases Cas’ dick, reaching for the lube, pops off the top and slicks two of his fingers up, tosses the near-empty container onto the comforter.

“Cas,” He grabs Cas’ face with his other hand, digging his fingertips into Cas’ cheeks, rough scratch of stubble pricking the whorls, forcing him to look with ravenous eyes, black on black, “ Watch .”

Satisfied that Cas is obeying, he reaches behind himself, circles his hole with one slick finger, then presses in on a low groan, chest hitching with a sudden breath. He twists with each push, body undulating, whimpers out a soft “ Fuck, ” under his breath. 

Cas makes a pained sound in the back of his throat and Dean slides in another finger next to the first, every other muscle tight and trembling. He curls and pushes, scissors his fingers, willing himself to open up, cock hard and bobbing against his stomach.

Cling and stretch around his digits, Dean rubs himself loose, rocking his hips back against the intrusion, and he’s not sure who he’s supposed to be teasing anymore, not sure he even cares, want clawing bloody and sharp inside his chest.

He reaches out to steady himself on Cas’ stomach, nails scoring deep grooves into the ink there, abdominal muscles tensing beneath Dean’s palm.

Dean whines as he slips his fingers out, snatches up the lube again, strokes a handful of slick down Cas’ cock with just enough pressure to have Cas yanking against his bindings, threatening creak of the bed frame, desperate to get his hands on Dean, heels sunk in the mattress, hips shoving upwards.

Dean positions himself above Cas, palm around the base of his cock as he sinks down, scorching heat as he slowly impales himself on the thick length of him, body squeezing, shifting his hips in a tease for both of them, breathing ragged and pained.

Cas’ back comes off the bed in an arc as Dean presses down the last few inches, punctuated with stuttered groans, bodies coming together with an audible smacking sound, ass to thigh, and Dean’s completely filled, stretched around the shape of Cas, Cas buried in him to the hilt, and Dean’ll never get over how damn good this feels. 

And right now with Cas’ bucking and writhing underneath him like a wild thing, all that restrained power and poise he usually keeps so well buried beneath the surface? 

Fuck. Yes.

Making Cas lose control has always been the name of the game and Dean wants it, wants it all .

Hands splayed over Cas’ stomach, Dean rolls his hips experimentally, burn of pain fading away into fuzzy pleasure, body coming to rest flush against Cas’.

God.

Cas’ collarbone glistens in the low light, sheen of sweat pooling there, and Dean leans forward until just the head of Cas’ dick is inside, licks the salt from Cas’ skin, tongue dipping into Cas’ throat, laving across that fucking tattoo.

“Dean, Dean ,” Cas growls, eyes ruinous, trying to arch his hips, get himself back inside Dean, twisting in his bindings as Dean rocks his weight on his hands, pushes back down, sliding Cas right up into the center of him.

“Oh fuck,” Dean moans shakily as he seats himself fully on Cas’ dick again, pressed up against his prostate, so he circles his hips, sparks behind his eyes as the pleasure sweeps over him in a merciless wave, “You feel so good, Cas.”

“Let me touch you,” Cas demands, voice gravel rough and fucked out.

“Nuh-uh,” Dean laughs through a moan as he rocks his hips incrementally, barely any movement at all, keeping Cas right where he wants him, hardly any stimulation for him, but it’s absolutely perfect for Dean, “Not how this works.”

Lower lip caught between his teeth, Cas abruptly thrusts up, hard, and Dean cries out, jagged blaze of white-hot heat from his balls to his belly. 

Fine, if Cas wants to be an asshole. 

Dean leans back, bracing his weight on the thick muscle of Cas’ thighs. The position isn’t entirely comfortable, but it feels fucking amazing, searing heat of Cas inside him, filthy slick between them where their bodies are joined, and it has the added bonus of stopping Cas from throwing any more temper tantrums.

He grinds his hips in a figure of eight, working the head of Cas’ dick over his prostate, ripples of excruciating pleasure, making Dean cry out, feverish. He cants his hips, pulls off Cas a little way, shoves himself back down, sweat beading at his hairline, palms becoming slick where they’re balanced on Cas’ thighs.

He can see the violent pleasure on Cas' face as Dean rises and falls, riding Cas slowly and thoroughly, dick painfully hard and tight against the flat plane of his stomach, driving back down, breathless with how hot Cas looks right now, dark-eyed, sin incarnate, and Dean wants to ride his cock just like this for-fucking-ever, keep Cas just like this underneath him for-fucking-ever, completely at Dean’s mercy.

Dean may be the one taking it up the ass, but Cas is the one getting fucked.

"How does it feel to be used to get off, Cas?" Dean gasps, chest burning, shoving back into a thrust, nails digging bruises into flesh, Cas’ body jerking into the touch. 

"Pretty fucking fantastic, actually," Cas responds, half ragged, half reverent, but not nearly wrecked enough for Dean’s liking.

Dean laughs breathlessly, every nerve alight with how fucking amazing this feels, “God, you’re an asshole.”

“Mmhmm,” Cas agrees, eyes blazing fire up Dean’s torso, “If you untied me--I could--” Dean circles his hips, driving himself down hard and deep, “-- Shit- - I could be making you come right now.”

“Nice try,” Dean flashes him a grin that’s all teeth, pulls off to the tip of Cas’ dick, rising up on his knees, hands leaving bloodless impressions on Cas’ thighs, “But I’m really enjoying using you as a living, breathing dildo right now, Cas,” he pushes back down with his hips angled, sheathing Cas completely, cockhead knocking against his prostate, forcing a harsh exhale from his lungs, fingers sunk deep into the skin stretched taut over Cas’ hip bones. 

Cas snarls, strains against the tie, cords in his neck standing out and Dean manages a choked laugh; Cas definitely isn’t as unaffected as he’s trying to make out himself to be, cock already growing harder and bigger inside Dean, the way it does when he’s about to come.

Dean’s always loved the rush of being able to craft a reaction like this in someone like Cas. It's the ultimate power trip.

“You gonna come, Cas?” Dean taunts, back up on his knees, lifting himself off Cas’ dick almost entirely, thighs aflame and shaking, teasing little jerks of his hips as he keeps just the head inside, “Pretty sure sex toys don’t get to come, man.”

“Dean,” It’s a threat and a warning wrapped up in one and Dean has to push that bit further, has to unravel Cas completely, his own body straining for release, propelled to the edge of all-consuming desire.

Thighs trembling, sweat dripping, he holds his position, asks, “Are you sorry?”

“What?”

“You heard me,” Dean tilts his hips, allows himself to slip an inch or two, bites back a moan, “Are. you. fucking. sorry?”

Cas tosses his head, murmurs something to the ceiling.

“Didn’t quite catch that, Cas.”

“Fucking--  yes. ”

Winner winner, chicken mother(father)fucking dinner.

Dean shoves himself back down, skin slipping, ass smacking against Cas’ thighs, cock dragging over his prostate, hot and filthy, and Cas’ eyes damn near roll back in his head, chest heaving, hips jerking, and then he’s coming scorching hot and messy inside Dean, slack-jawed and sweat-slick, bound and convulsing, entire bed groaning with the force of Cas yanking wildly at the headboard, cracked sound of splintering wood. 

“Oh shit , Cas,” Dean gets a hand on his dick, starts stroking himself in earnest, not taking his eyes off the uneven rise and fall of Cas’ chest, riding towards his own orgasm at a gallop, and it isn’t long before he’s coming too, whole body seizing, jagged pearly spurts across Cas’ stomach and his own fist.

Well, holy fucking hell.  

If only all homework was this fun.

***

The next morning Dean’s wake up is about as dignified as can be expected considering his 2 AM activities. Sadly, Cas is gone, and the only evidence that he was ever there rather than simply a figment of Dean’s overactive imagination, is Dean’s sore ass and wet spots on the bed. 

Ugh.

Even the tie is gone. A perverse part of Dean hopes that Cas is wearing it around the office today.

Ben and Claire are in the front room playing video games when Dean finally makes it downstairs, more bow-legged and sleepy-eyed than usual. He flips the coffee machine on, listens to it gurgle, makes a mental list of all the shit he has to do today.

• Phone the Canadian Baba Yaga - child munchers don’t have email apparently - and find out when the next shipment is ready 
• Get an update from Balthazar about the supply chain issue at the restaurant
• Speak to the design and interior build company about the furnishings at the restaurant; Dean’s not keen on the light fittings
• Put in a few hours at the shop; Bobby’s gonna have an aneurysm if Dean doesn’t show at least once this week
• Clean up after Ben’s party

That final one is the task he’s least looking forward to, which is lucky then that it incidentally ceases to be a concern when Dean absentmindedly glances out of the kitchen window and fleetingly wonders if he’s hallucinating.

The fuck?

He moves quickly to the patio door - regrets it instantly when he’s reminded just how fucking sore he is - flips the lock and then yanks it open on the runner. 

Dean isn’t hallucinating.

The garden is completely clean. No paint, wrapping paper, empty cups, food, streamers, nothing. No sign that there was ever a party at all.

Cas.

Dean shuffles through the kitchen to the living room, pokes his head around the doorframe, says to Claire, “You heard from your dad this morning, sweetheart?”

Claire shakes her head without looking away from the screen.

Huh. Maybe it was a horny poltergeist. Who just so happens to clean.

Marriage material right there.

“Come on you two, away from that thing, I’ll try and rustle us up something decent for breakfast.”

By that, he means they’re going out for pancakes.

With a minimal amount of adolescent huffing and puffing they turn off their game, and Dean even gets a hug and a quietly murmured thank you from Ben as the two of them pass him on the way to the kitchen. Dean ruffles his hair, picks up the remote. Before he switches the TV off, it briefly flicks over to the other HDMI input, which just so happens to be on a local news station.

The correspondent is standing in front of a building that Dean instantly recognizes as one in downtown Lawrence. Except there’s hardly any building left; it’s mostly just plumes of smoke and smoldering hunks of brick as the firefighters in their bright jackets battle the remnants of the blaze. 

The strap along the bottom of the screen informs Dean that prominent real estate businessman, Dick Roman, and several of his employees were killed in the early hours' blaze that the local police are suspecting is arson, but it’s too early to tell at this stage...

Dean’s brain blanks out to midnight static and the acrid smell of smoke. 

Oh holy fucking fuck, Castiel.

Chapter Text

Dean’s tired. So fucking tired . 

“Dean, it’s your turn--”

He can’t remember the last time he’d gotten so little sleep. Maybe it was when Ben was a baby; kid was a colicky, whiny mess at four months old. Just like his uncle at twenty-eight.

“Dean.”

Of course, the reason for his sudden bout of insomnia is completely unaffected by the whole situation - as usual - which leaves Dean to wallow in his sleepless misery alone. 

“Dean Winchester, do not make me slap you!”

“Kinky,” Dean jokes on reflex and then his brain catches up, “Huh?” He glances between his brother and Charlie who are both staring at him, expressions ranging from friendly concern to puppy-dog pity.

Guess which one is which.

“You alright?” Sam hazards, looking like he wants to ask a whole lot more, but in a decision that shows growth, he chooses to keep his big mouth shut.

Charlie, however, is not as burdened with good sense, “Castiel keeping you up at night?”

Yeah, you could say that. 

Just a shame that it’s not in the way they think.

“Sorry,” Dean murmurs, trying to internally shake himself awake. His red-eye coffee is doing absolutely nothing , and he’s been chugging so much of the stuff that he can feel it replacing the blood in his veins, making his heart pump sluggish and heavy.

The crease in Sam’s brow deepens to Mariana Trench proportions and Dean cannot cope with their concern, not on top of everything else, so he takes the out Charlie offered him, “Everything’s fine. Honestly. Just been gettin’ it so good from Cas that there’s not much time for sleep, y’know.” Dean waggles his eyebrows suggestively and even that takes far too much effort, depletes a good thirty percent of his remaining energy levels.

He can hear his pulse in his ears as he’s just sitting here. That can’t be good, right?

“Gross Dean,” Sam mutters like the prude he isn’t, but likes to pretend he is when it comes to his big brother.

Dean scoops up three dice into the cup, shakes.

“We’re just glad that you’re able to make time for us,” Charlie says, carefully, too carefully , “We've missed your pretty but tired face.”

“Yeah,” Dean says, pouring the dice out -  a brain and two shotguns, goddammit - “Sorry I’ve been kinda unavailable recently.”

Truth is, games night is something Dean didn’t know he needed; a slice of normalcy in the sudden craziness of his life. He’d actually been looking forward to it since he’d managed to carve out an evening in his busy schedule of drug-running and proverbial fire-fighting (let’s not ). 

It’s just shitty that he’s too tired to fully function right now.

“Hey, I get it,” Charlie says, always more perceptive than Dean gives her credit for, “You’re a busy man, I’ve been all about the wedding and Sam here has been occupied with keeping his hair shiny and soft to the touch.”

“You can talk to us, y’know Dean,” Sam says softly, going all high-school counselor on Dean’s ass again, and not for the first time in his life, Dean wishes he was an only child.

Because no, no he can’t. It might have been six months ago, but Dean still replays that parking lot argument in glorious technicolor and surround sound whenever he feels himself slipping. So no, he really can’t talk to them about anything more serious than extolling the virtues of Cas’ magnificent dick.

Which ain’t a lie and it’s always worth it to see Sam’s face screw up.

Because, sure, Sam might’ve helped with the whole drug trafficking thing - one time - but that little jaunt across the border is nothing compared to the murder of a powerful business mogul and his associates. Fuck knows he wants to be able to talk about it; needs to dissect and pick over the bones with someone, even if it’s just to let all of his worry spill over into someone else’s emotional cup for once, but that’s not possible, so, for now, he just has to be Johnny Tightlips and weather the storm. 

Easier said than done when Dean’s expecting ATF or the FBI or whoever deals with this kind of shit, to come-a-knocking. 

Dean’s not one to question Cas’ business decisions - he likes his head bullet-free thanks very much - but pulling the shit he pulled last week? Yeah, that feels like something a couple steps beyond a bad decision and is instead crossing over into Dean-robbing-a-grocery-store levels of stupidity. 

That’s not to say that it won’t all work out in the end - arguably, Dean robbing the grocery store worked out well enough - but in the meantime, Dean’s freaking the fuck out and spending most of his nights imagining the worst possible scenarios.

Cas, for his part, is less than forthcoming. Which shouldn’t be a surprise, but after everything, it kinda-sorta is, and it fucking hurts. They were doing so well, making decent progress and Cas has all but regressed, shrinking away from Dean and focusing all of his attention on work.

If it weren’t for this fancy charity ball-cum-gala-thing that they’re attending together tomorrow night, Dean wouldn’t have even seen him at all this week.

At Dean’s continued silence, Sam sighs, scooping up the dice, “We can help. Let us help.”

Dean considers it. Comes down firmly on the side of ‘ two can keep a secret if one of them is dead ’ and strengthens his resolve not to say a goddamn word. 

“Either of you free to babysit Ben tomorrow night?”

***

Dean’s skin itches. He can feel the sweat pooling under his collar and this is exactly why he hates monkey suits. It doesn’t help that every person who files into the building behind him undoubtedly belongs in their tuxedos and slinky dresses; extravagant fuckers probably having a million to choose from, as opposed to Cas forcing Dean to get one fitted for the special occasion because all Dean had was his suit that he got married in, and as Cas had so eloquently growled at him over the phone, “Burn that fucking thing.”

Because burning shit is an apparent pastime of Cas’. 

Castiel, 35. Knows his way around most semi-automatic weapons. Hobbies: baseball, baking, being an asshole, mind-blowing sex, video games, pyromania, murder.

Swipe right.

Not that Dean’s still pissed about it. Well, maybe a smidge , but that’s only because even if Cas doesn’t respect him enough as a boyfriend to tell him that he’s gonna murder eleven men in one of the most horrendous ways to go, then he should at least respect him as a business partner and give him a fucking heads up before everything implodes - literally. 

Apparently Roman’s offices were just one giant combustible material, which is weird because it was a pretty new building, meaning that all the speculation about asbestos is most likely paid-for-propaganda by Cas.

It should reassure Dean, but it doesn’t.

It’s impressive, sure, but one of these days, there’s gonna be a situation that Cas can’t charm, shoot, or pay his way out of, and when that day comes…? Fuck. Dean’s trying not to think about it because he’s honestly not convinced that he’d be able to let Cas sail over that fucking cliff edge without following right after.

As with everything involving Cas, it’s absolutely terrifying.

And yet it doesn’t stop Dean from wanting to be with him. Which is maybe the scariest thing of all.

Yeah, he pissed about the Roman thing, but not for reasons he might’ve been months ago - no, now it’s because he kept Dean out of the loop, drew attention to himself, to them without even consulting Dean. The horrific deaths are secondary - still there, of course, Dean’s not a monster - but it’s his annoyance at Cas’ lack of communication that’s at the forefront of his mind.

Of course, as always when it comes to Cas, every shitty thing he does is also tempered by Dean’s general lust and colonel horniness for Cas’ badassery. It’s just so hard (heh) not to be affected by that level of devil-may-care-but-if-he-does-then-I’ll-shoot-him-in-the-fucking-face-too fearlessness. It’s had Dean’s imagination running wild on more than one occasion, wondering exactly how the whole thing went down. Like, did he just walk in there all pissed off and start pouring gasoline over them? Did he shoot them first? Torture them? 

But then - and here's the kicker to Dean's righteous anger - he came back to Dean because he needed him. Sure, he went about it in the wrong way - and Dean certainly rectified that little misstep tenfold - but it unravels something inside his chest knowing that Cas’ first instinct was to seek out Dean, to get up inside him and be as close to another person as humanly possible.

Fuck, he’s supposed to be angry at the bastard, not waxing lyrical about the time he tried to do Dean dry. 

Dean shifts his weight awkwardly, tries to remind himself that he’s standing here feeling like the ugly girl at the prom whilst all the popular kids go in past him to dirty dance to Ginuwine or whatever the kids these days are grinding to. 

His dick doesn’t care though, and it’s not about the violence - never has been, never will be - it’s about Cas . There’s gotta be some misfiring synapses in his brain somewhere, ‘cause it’s more than a little fucked up.

Dean sighs, slides his phone out of his pants pocket to check the time. He’s only been waiting here for seven minutes, but it already feels like a fucking age. 

He is not cut out for this shit. 

Naturally, that doesn’t make the slightest bit of difference to Cas who insists that Dean can handle talking shit to some poncy rich people for a few hours, and sure, if it means covering both of their asses and making sure that the local police don’t call in external agents - state or federal - then Dean will dance monkey dance .

As long as it’s not to Pony , because that is a memory he’s not keen to relive. 

Of course, the prom allegory he’s been beating into the ground is pretty apt when Dean finally catches sight of Cas, ‘cause that right there is Prom King material. He looks...just, fuck . There probably are words to describe how hot Cas is, but they’ve all escaped Dean for one heart-fluttering-sweaty-palmed moment. He’s wearing a classic black tux with a crisp white shirt and black bow tie. It’s tailored as hell, practically molded to his body, all smooth, clean lines, and Dean’s not entirely proud of the noise that he makes when Cas strolls casually up to him, James Bond swagger and sophistication with none of the moral hangups; chaotic evil to Niven’s lawful good. 

Though Timothy Dalton has always been Dean's favorite Bond. Which explains a hell of a lot actually.

“Lookin’ good, Cas,” he manages, which is an understatement up there with NASA’s mission control spokesman who initially described the Challenger disaster as a ‘malfunction’.

Cas’ eyes sweep up and down Dean’s entire body a couple of times, banked heat simmering low, “You too,” he leans in for a kiss, a quick press of lips, his palm a firm reassurance in the small of Dean’s back, “ Really good.”

The chances of them finding a dark corner somewhere at this thing and rutting against one another until they come in their pants have just increased exponentially. 

Mouth dry, Dean tries to drag his shit together and lock it the fuck down. They’re here for a reason, not to fuck around - that’ll hopefully come later - and until then Dean can control himself. He’s not gonna jump Cas and he’s certainly not gonna give him the verbal beatdown that he so desperately needs to regarding the Roman shit. No, he’s gonna get through this with as much of his dignity intact. He doesn’t have a lot left, so it should be easy to keep track of. 

With that in mind, he pastes on his most charming grin and taps into the ol’ Winchester charm, “You objectifying me, Cas?”

“Always,” Cas replies instantaneously, hint of a smile at the corner of his plush mouth, “Come on.”

Cas guides him up the grand marble steps and inside, to where there’s a concierge behind a podium marking down names and welcoming people with a polite sort of indifference that only the rich can really pull off. There’s a small queue of people waiting in front of them, so Dean takes the time to examine his surroundings - he’d much rather be examining Cas, but he knows where that’s gonna lead and he’s on his best behavior tonight. 

The entire place is opulent beyond words; flowing architecture, expensive artwork, matt whites and golds - but not tacky, just expensive; the very thing that the tacky cheap shit is trying to emulate. The pre-depression era obsession with pillars, archways, and intricate ceiling designs is at the forefront of the building’s aesthetic and something about the grandness of it makes Dean feel small, insignificant. 

It could also be that he’s pretty sure the mayor and her husband are one in front of them in the queue, now gracefully moving off. 

“Name?” The concierge says with clipped civility, not sparing them a first, let alone second glance.

“Novak plus one.”

The concierge does look up at them then, abashed and awkward, and it’s always nice to see that Cas has that effect on more than just Dean and Ms. Hayes, even if in the same breath, Dean has the insane urge to do something like mount Cas right here, right now.

The concierge hands Cas a rectangular thin, white card, which Cas tucks into the inside pocket of his suit jacket, “Have a good evening, Mr. Novak, sir,” His eyes flick to Dean and he forces a bland smile, “You too, Mr. Winchester.”

O-kay. 

Before Dean can figure out the social protocol on saying thanks - is he supposed to tip, wish the dude a good night too - Cas is steering them on through the foyer, dress shoes clicking across the white Statuario marble floor, and into a grand ballroom with chandeliers, more freakin’ archways and a whole lot of gold molding. There’s a stage near the rear of the huge space and in front of it are maybe twenty or so round tables covered with crisp white linens and neatly arranged place cards. No doubt with calligraphed names.

Yeahhh, the neighborhood watch did not prepare him for this crap.

“Holy shit, Cas,” Dean murmurs, when what he really means is ‘ Holy fucking shit fuck shit, Castiel, what the hell am I doing here?’

“It’s a lot, isn’t it?” Cas says with a rueful smile, slipping his palm underneath Dean’s tux jacket, warmth bleeding through his shirt to his skin and making him fight against a shiver, “It’s always struck me that the money the committee spends putting these events together could be better used by the actual charities they’re supposed to be raising money for. But the rich do enjoy spending money that isn’t theirs.”

Dean wouldn’t know. Though with all the money in the storage locker? He’s probably well on his way to being considered flush enough to suddenly develop the desire to hoard it like gold.

“And what about you, Cas?” Dean asks, gratefully accepting a couple of glasses of wine from a passing waiter, hands one off to Cas.

At least this time there’s no doubt that this stuff will be decent.

“I’d rather print my own or steal theirs and hand it back to them for charitable purposes.”

“A regular Robin Hood,” Dean quips, only half-joking. 

Taking a slow sip of his wine, Cas counters, “I prefer Zorro.”

“Tease,” Dean grins over the rim of his glass.

“Mmhmm,” Cas agrees, eyes sparkling and it’s just so easy to be together like this that Dean’s all but forgotten his earlier annoyance. 

He clears his throat - get your head in the game, Winchester - “So... you’re gonna have to clue me in on who these people are. Give me the rundown, so I don’t make an ass outta myself.”

A corner of Cas’ mouth turns up in a smile and if Dean didn’t know any better, he’d guess that Cas almost looks a little bit proud that Dean is taking this seriously.

Of course, he does know better.

“Alright,” Cas angles himself towards Dean, leans in a little, hard body right-freakin’-there, and he points with his glass to a woman in a white shin-length, skintight dress with her naked back to them, “That right there is Councilwoman Tapping. She’s got quite the mean slice serve.”

“Uh-huh.” Dean manages over the familiar scent of Cas’ cologne, the desire to press his mouth to Cas’ neck. His hand is still on Dean’s back, palm a hot brand through the thin layer and it’s definitely not making it easier on Dean’s concentration.

“Her husband is one of the regular organizers of these things. He can’t play to save his life, so you’d probably have a lot to talk about.”

Dean balks, jerks his head to look at Cas, dislodging his hand, “Hey, fuck you, man. How do you know I’m shit at tennis?”

“I’ve seen Ben play baseball, remember? I know for a fact that the charmed Winchester genes come to a stuttering halt right outside the realm of physical activity.”

Dean really, really wants to make a sex joke and judging by the expression on Cas’ face, he’s waiting for it, inevitable as the tides, but because Dean’s all about exceeding expectations tonight, he pulls himself from the brink at the last second, instead plumping for the PG-13 version, “ ‘Charmed Winchester genes’ , eh? That mean you’ve got a crush on Sammy?”

Cas slants an amused-but-I’m-trying-to-hide-it glance Dean’s way, then says, “Hmm, Sam is definitely attractive. Am I here with the wrong Winchester?”

“You joke, Cas, but I’m pretty sure that Sam would love all this shit. Maybe you should be dating him instead.”

Cas tilts his head, gives Dean his patented soul-fuck stare, lets Dean’s words hang in the air, allowing him to marinate in them until he realizes how stupid they fucking sound. Which is exactly what happens a good thirty seconds into this stare down, and Dean’s about to open his mouth to say something undoubtedly even more stupid when Cas interrupts him, “Come on, let me give you the cliff notes on everyone else.”

***

They’ve mostly managed to avoid talking to anybody beyond a polite greeting - except for that one handsy woman who Dean thinks might be something to do with the state governor - when they’re accosted by a rather smug-looking Crowley. He reminds Dean a little of the Penguin - the original one from the comics, not the Devito version from Batman Returns . 

Yeuch.

“Hello boys,” He grins shark-like, glancing between them, “Don’t you scrub up well, hmm?”

Ah, he’s British. Wonderful. ‘Cause Dean hasn’t had enough of pompous British pricks lately thanks to Balthazar. 

Though in fairness, the dude is growing on Dean. Like a fungus, or a genital wart. 

“Enjoying this little shindig, Castiel?” Crowley asks and Cas seems less than impressed. Like this is a necessary evil and an especially lackluster one at that. 

‘There’s nothing worse than mediocre evil’ - Cas, probably.

“No,” Cas says matter-of-fact, colorless, and Dean smirks into his wine glass. 

Crowley grins wider, switches his attention to Dean. Oh yay , "So tell me about yourself, Dean. Only the important things of course; favorite drink, favorite album of all time, and which football team do you support - Tottenham, Chelsea, West Ham, or Arsenal? I can always get the measure of somebody by their response.”

O-kay. It's a little ninth grade for Dean's tastes, but he's here to show versatility so...“Scotch. Led Zep’s self-titled debut, and err…” Dean takes a wild stab in the dark, “...Tottenham?”

“Nobody ever says West Ham,” Crowley muses, a tumbler of aged whiskey in hand, and Dean wants to ask where he got it from, it’s on the tip of his tongue when Crowly continues, “Interesting. I’m not sure why Castiel has told me next to nothing about you."

"It’s entirely deliberate," Cas asserts, veneer of geniality stretched paper-thin, and Dean’s pretty sure he’s missing something roughly the size of the Chrysler building here.

Crowley hums, tips the finger of amber liquid into his mouth and speaks to Dean as if Cas hasn’t said anything at all, “What do you do for a living, Dean? Maybe that’ll help me fit this puzzle together. I’m sure it’s something thoroughly remarkable. A stripper, perhaps? No, wait, a cashier? A garbage man?”

Wow, this guy is a prick .

"I'm a mechanic," Dean tells him, polite as he can manage, not sure how much he's supposed to divulge here. Cas is tense as fuck beside him, practically a lightning rod and it makes Dean more than a little nervous. 

"Oh, how wonderfully mundane. Like bran flakes for breakfast or Daniel Craig. Excellent camouflage, Castiel. Well done," He considers Dean, but his words are directed at Cas, "He's pretty too, so I suppose that's something. Certainly explains why you did what you did. Or didn't do ."

“Crowley, this is hardly the time or the place.” 

Crowley hands off his empty tumbler to a passing waiter, “No of course, you’re right,” he glances between them, dark eyes honing in on Cas’ palm at Dean’s elbow, before traveling up to Dean’s face, “So you’re the one who told Daphne to blow it out of her ass?” 

Dean nods mutely.

Crowley makes an amused sound, “About time someone did. Ta-ta for now.” And then he’s turning on his well-shod heel, disappearing into the crowd.

What the actual fuck.

Yeah, Crowley’s definitely not Dean’s kinda guy.

***

Social fatigue - along with just good old fashioned fatigue - is creeping up on Dean by the time the auction is due to begin, so he’s thankful for the reprieve - and the food, let’s not forget that. He and Cas are seated next to each other - which, thank fuck - because he’d had visions of them sitting miles apart and Dean not knowing how to answer a senator’s question or something. And God , what the fuck is he doing here? He’s not good at this shit, doesn’t know how Cas does it. 

"This is the organized part of organized crime," Cas tells him quietly as they take their seats at one of the round tables, "Making and keeping contacts with legislators and politicians,” He takes one look at Dean and in that uncanny Derren-Brown-mindfuck ability apparently senses Dean’s mild mental breakdown, because then he’s pulling him back into their easy banter with, “Without all this, it's just amateur crimes. Like robbing grocery stores."

Cheeky fucker , but Dean sees the goad for what it is and despite his words, tries to telegraph his gratitude.

"You're hilarious, Cas, truly,” Dean smiles through his teeth, leans into Cas’ space - and yes he was right about their calligraphed names - “If us amateurs hadn't robbed that grocery store, you wouldn’t be making gross amounts of money on those Canadian drugs, nor would you be sitting next to the best lookin’ guy in the room, so maybe there’s something to be said for amateurs.”

“Hmm, maybe.” Cas concedes with a wry smile that makes Dean’s stomach clench and his heart rate kick up a gear.

On Dean’s other side, the councilwoman in the skintight dress takes her seat, “Oh hello Castiel!” She seems genuinely pleased to see him, an old friend rather than a mere business associate. 

“Hello Naomi,” Cas acknowledges with a gracious smile, “This is my partner, Dean.”

“Hey,” Dean says, not sure whether he should hold his hand out to shake or not. He’s pretty sure that’s bad etiquette when seated. Or something. Sammy might’ve mentioned it last night. Not that Dean was trying to get tips and tricks from his slightly more civilized brother to impress Cas or anything, ‘cause he wasn’t .

“Hi Dean, my, my aren’t you handsome?”

This can go one of two ways. Either she’s going to be one of those boring stuffy types or she’s gonna be super fun. For his part, Dean resolves to enjoy himself - responsibly. Like those PSAs at the end of Heineken commercials.

Relaxing into his charm again, Dean cracks a smile, quips, “I see that honesty is still the best policy in politics.”

Naomi looks taken aback for a second, but then she throws her head back on a laugh, manicured hand on Dean’s shoulder, “Very good, very quick . I can see why Castiel likes you.”

“Well, that’s the main thing that I like about him - he has great taste.”

She laughs again, “Oooh you’re fun.”

“Oh, you have no idea, sweetheart.”

***

The bid on a sixty-foot yacht is up to fifty thousand dollars and the only ‘food’ they’ve dispensed so far is caviar and sea cucumber soup - ugh, what’s the fucking point - when Naomi turns to him again, asks, “So, how did you and Castiel meet?”

Dean’s acutely aware that most of these people know exactly who Cas is, but there’s a high brow, high stakes game being played here and Dean’s always up for expanding his horizons, “We met at a bake sale. Our kids go to the same school and we just happened to both be there one time. Completely unremarkable meeting, really.”

Dean’s discovered that the key to all this is seeing it all as a sort of inside joke, some epic game of criminal chicken playing out between people with far too much money. He understands now why Cas is always vaguely amused and has absolutely no compunction about taking their money. 

“Oh, that’s so lovely,” the councilwoman says, “Marv and I met at work. It wasn’t love at first sight or anything. In fact, we antagonized each other at first, but it soon blossomed into something more.”

Dean glances at Castiel who’s engaged in a rather tedious conversation with the man on the other side of him, bored shitless if his glassy-eyed expression is anything to go by, “Yeah,” Dean says to Naomi, “Yeah, I can understand that.”

Naomi smiles kindly, leans in and whispers, “You’re absolutely smitten aren’t you?”

Cas slides his hand onto Dean’s thigh, squeezes, palm a comforting, grounding presence rather than a sexual one, “I guess you could say I’m rather fond of him, yeah.” 

“Castiel,” Naomi interrupts the interminable conversation, dragging Cas’ attention over to her, “I like this one. Don’t you mess it up.”

Cas and Dean exchange glances, and fuck Dean loves him. Not just in a god-we-have-so-much-sex-and-he’s-amazing-with-my-kid-and-he-bakes-me-pie way (though, fuck , that too), but in a solid, easy way, that makes Dean realize he would be content to just veg out in sweatpants and kiss lazily on the couch. 

Maybe one day they can do that. 

Yeah, all this power and influence is fan-fucking-tastic and a serious turn on for somebody like Dean who’s always felt like his entire life has been out of his control, but it would mean precisely jack without Cas . The revelation isn’t entirely new; he’s known for a while now that he’s in love with Cas, but it’s only right here and now that he’s pieced the entire picture together.

So yeah, maybe it wasn't love at first sight (though lust, for-fucking-sure), but there's certainly a lot to be said for second glances.

Cas is looking at Dean rather than Naomi when he responds, “I quite like him too. I guess you could say I’m rather fond of him.” 

***

“I would kill for a burger,” Cas declares as soon as they spill into the Lincoln town car that he must’ve called or something - is that a thing? A limo uber? - and Dean kinda-sorta wants to know if Cas actually has killed for a burger, because it’s probably up there in the top ten reasons to end someone’s life, but then Cas is turning the full force of that bright blue gaze on Dean and asking, “Do you want to get a burger?”

“Fuck yes,” Dean breathes and Cas’ smile is beautiful.

***

Burgers in takeout bags warming in their laps, Cas sends Dean a small, private smile, one that Dean hasn’t seen before. It hits somewhere to the right of his heart and he manages a smile in return, and that’s even before Cas says, “You were amazing tonight, Dean. The councilwoman adored you.”

Dean feels a small stab of pride, ducks his head, heat creeping up the back of his neck, “Uh, so maybe it wasn’t quite as difficult as I’d feared. Once you get into the rhythm of it, it’s not so bad, I guess.”

“If only somebody--” Cas points at his own chest, far too smug, “--would have informed you of that fact, hmm?” and Dean can’t wait to wipe that look off his face. If he doesn’t fall asleep first. 

“You’re an asshole,” Dean mutters, only halfway meaning it this time. 

Cas hums his agreement, “So you’ve told me. Many times. I think once you even compared me to an asshole after a gangbang. That was particularly inspired.”

Because of course he remembers that.

“To be fair, Cas, you were being a total asshole.”

“And you were such a joy , weren’t you?”

“I’m a ray of fucking sunshine, Cas. I dunno what you’re talking about.”

Cas side-eyes him, low-level amusement evident, “Uh-huh. Well, I may live to regret this, but if I were to offer you a higher percentage of the laundering in exchange for extra responsibility and a guarantee that you'll accompany me to things like this in the future, what would you say?”

Dean’s kneejerk response is flippancy; to tease Cas about him asking to go steady. 

However, Dean has curbed his jackass impulse all night. Once more won’t hurt. He can prove to Cas that he’s serious about this, about him, about them , “Well, that depends.”

“On?”

“If you’re gonna offer me that thirty percent you so smugly informed me you’d usually pay for services rendered, during our original negotiation.”

“And if I did?”

“I’d tell you to fuck right off.”

If Cas is surprised, he doesn’t let it show, “Interesting negotiating tactic.”

Dean slants him a grin, brings his knee up onto the leather of the limo seat, so he can face Cas properly. He plucks Cas’ takeout bag from his lap and along with his own, drops it on the unoccupied seat that runs the length of the car, “Ain’t it just? See, Cas, If I wasn’t the total ray of sunshine we both know I am, then right about now I’d be saying something like, ‘you need me a lot more than I need your money’ or I’d be taking advantage of your relatively weak negotiating position to grill you about Roman and-or Crowley. Fortunately for you, I am a fucking dream, so I’m not gonna do either.”

Cas makes a ‘go on’ motion with his hand, “Please, do take all the time you need in getting to the point.”

Ass.

“My point is that I haven’t slept in a fucking week because I’ve been freaking out about you getting your stupid ass caught,” He waves off Cas’ protestation, “ You might have known exactly what you were doing, how it was all gonna play out, but the point is that I didn’t. I still don’t, man. I’ve pieced a few bits together here and there, but the bigger picture still escapes me. I don’t expect you to tell me everything; I’m new on the scene and just the guy you’re fucking--” he watches Cas closely for any reaction to the last part, gets nothing beyond an eyebrow arch, “--but if you’re gonna make bigass plays like that, then I need to know that you’re protected, that we’re protected. Especially if we’re now gonna be fifty-fifty on everything .” 

“ Everything ?” Cas echoes darkly, “You really do want me to shoot you, huh?”

“We both know you ain’t gonna shoot me, Cas. Not in these close quarters at least; there’d be blood and guts everywhere, all over you and your nice tux. Blood is a bitch to get out of a wool blend. Also, I’m pretty sure that even you wouldn’t even be able to walk away from murdering a suburban dad of one in cold blood. Oh, and not forgetting that Naomi liked me. I feel pretty confident that she’d make sure you got your comeuppance.”

Cas tilts his head, appraising Dean, “When did you get so proficient at blackmail?”

“Right around the time you told me that partnerships were equal with that smug-ass smile on your face. Karma’s a bitch, babe .”

“Touche,” Cas murmurs, but he’s smiling, “Alright. So are you telling me that you want half of literally everything I do? Because if you do, you’d have to step up your game. A lot . I mean it, Dean. What you do at the restaurant and the garage is just a tiny fraction of the overall picture.”

“I know,” Dean says on a tight inhale. He’s thought about it a lot in the past week. He wants this. Wants to be with Cas, so this is just something he has to do to avoid going batshit crazy with worry, “I got this, Cas.”

And if he accrues more than enough money to put Ben through college and buy a bigger house in the process? Well that’s just a bonus.

Cas is about to respond, but he’s interrupted by the ringing of his cell. He slides it out of his pocket and to Dean he says, “We’ll talk about this later,” before he’s answering the call and into the phone he growls, “Gabriel, what is it?”

Dean watches as Cas’ face clouds over, “What do you mean? I thought you had handled this.”

Yeah, this is not gonna be good. 

Gabriel’s voice continues on the other end, Cas’ expression getting darker and darker with each word.

“Fine,” Cas snaps eventually. He shifts forward to knock on the partition window between them and the driver, holding his phone against the lapel of his suit, “Change of plan, take us to 590 N. Alton Street,” (And shit , Dean recognizes the address, stared at that piece of paper for a longass time in an empty parking lot). At the driver's nod, Cas says, “Thank you,” returns to his seat and phone call with Gabriel as the partition goes back up, “I’m on my way, but this had better not be anything that you could have dealt with yourself.” Then he’s ending the call, and turning to Dean, “We just have to make a quick detour. It shouldn’t take long.”

“No problem, Cas,” Dean says, gives in to his urge to close the small distance between them, pressing a chaste kiss to the corner of Cas’ mouth, “Whatever you need,” He rests his head on Cas’ shoulder, closes his eyes.

He might be able to finally get some shuteye while Cas does his thing.

Cas makes a small noise in the back of his throat, “Actually, maybe this is rather fortuitous, all things considered,”

“Hmm?”

“Well,” Cas explains, low rumble reverberating in Dean’s bones, “There’s no time like the present to get you initiated in other aspects of the business, I suppose.”

Wonderful.

If there’s no rest for the wicked, then Dean must be the King of Hell itself. 

***

They pull up outside the familiar stucco colonial, and the memory of his embarrassment at Cas’ casual indifference to him having driven an empty truck across the city, is perhaps not the best memory to go into this with. 

Things are different now.

Palm on the small on Dean’s back again, Cas tips the limo driver. Dean has the fast food bags clenched tight in his hand as Cas guides him up the pathway, onto the porch. As Cas is knocking on the front door - notably not using the ringer - he regards Dean, shadows casting the sharp angles of his face in stark relief.

“I can teach you, you know.”

“Huh?”

“Tennis,” Cas says, like it’s something they’ve been talking about and Dean has just dropped the thread of the conversation, “Then you can come and play with Naomi, the DA and I.” The door opens like something out of the freakin’ Addams family, minus Lurch, and Cas gestures for Dean to enter first.

This is practically the beginning of every horror movie Dean’s ever seen. All that’s missing is some Latin chanting and a buttload of promiscuity. He’s got the latter covered, maybe Cas is good at dead languages. 

More than likely. Fucking polymath. 

Cas is there at Dean's back as he shuts the door behind them, sealing them in darkness, “What about the police chief?” Dean manages, suddenly worried about booby traps; rolling boulders, spikes, snakes coming out of the walls, that sort of thing, “He not part of your little tennis gang anymore?”

Maybe Cas really is Jigsaw.

Cas steers Dean where he wants him, right on his heels as they follow the path of the house, “His backhand is sloppy.” 

Oh. Right.

He reaches around Dean once they arrive at another door, knocks sharply and after a couple of seconds it’s opened by a familiar face, light spilling out into the rather bland hallway they’re standing in. No snakes, boulders, spikes.

It’s almost disappointing.

“Hey kids,” Gabriel says, grinning, “Looking good boss, Dean.”

Cas pushes Dean into the room, shuts the door behind them.

Oh holy shit.

There’s a man in the center of the sparse space, spatters of aged brown and fresh red haloed all around him on the hardwood floor. He’s tied to a chair with Cas’ favorite ligature - blue fishing rope - and he’s bloodied and broken, chin to his chest, wheezing with every painful breath pulled into his lungs. The whole room has the unpleasant aroma of copper, stale sweat, and something vaguely familiar... and yep, that’s a fucking Glade plug-in; Ocean Adventure no doubt.

Jesus. 

Dean won’t be able to sniff the outdoorsy candle scents at Bed, Bath & Beyond with the same enthusiasm ever again.

Michael comes over to join the pow-wow Cas and Gabriel have going on, a pair of pliers in a hand slick with blood. He acknowledges Dean with a nod of his head as he leans in close to talk to Cas. 

Dean tears his eyes away from the man held captive and turns his attention to the rest of the room, simply for something to do before the inevitable freakout rears its ugly head, ‘cause there’s just no way that chatting up some senators and pretending to eat caviar - ‘cause gross - sends him into a tailspin, when this doesn’t. 

Despite its stripped-back nature - obviously intentional as a center for torture - the place is kinda nice. This room must be at the back of the house; the huge floor to ceiling windows are boarded and sealed up, which would look far too suspicious from the outside if there was a chance that anybody could see. There’s a tasteful looking fireplace beneath some old-timey lamps too. 

Dean loosely wonders what the rest of the house looks like.

Which might be the wrong thing to be focussing on in this situation.

“For fuck’s sake,” Cas mutters, jaw tight. He shucks out of his suit jacket, hands it off to Gabriel, and fuck, Dean’s brain stutters to a complete standstill. Fucking suspenders, Cas is wearing suspenders , and it’s hitting a kink Dean didn’t even know he had. Doesn’t matter that the iron-rich scent of blood is in the air - and wouldn’t that be awkward if his wires get crossed - because holy fucking fuck . Blissfully unaware of Dean’s internal porno - boom chicka wah wah music and all - Cas digs into the knot of his bow tie with deft fingers, yanks it loose, pulls it through the starched collar of his shirt, drops it on top of his jacket draped across Gabriel’s outstretched arms. 

For real, this is the absolute best strip tease Dean’s ever been witness to, and that’s including the Doublemint twins. 

Cas pops the first couple of buttons on his shirt, before going for the platinum cufflinks at his wrists. They too get deposited with Gabriel, who turns on his heel with half of Cas’ clothes, exits stage left into an adjoining room. Cas starts rolling his shirt sleeves up his tattooed forearms as he stalks over into the tortured guy’s line of sight. 

“I’m on a rather tight timeframe,” Cas explains calmly and coldly, folding the fabric over at his elbow, one and then the other, “So if you could cooperate, I’d be grateful.”

He moves so quickly that Dean barely has time to breathe, backhanding the guy across the face with his knuckles, sending his head snapping to the side with an actual audible noise that makes Dean wince. 

Yeahhh, there ain’t nothing sloppy about that backhand.

Gabriel materializes at Dean’s side, sans Cas’ clothes, just as their torture victim spits out a mouthful of blood, stares defiantly up at Cas, “Fuck you.”

Cas’ smile is serrated and Dean’s instantly reminded of the first time he beat the shit outta Benny, ‘cause yeah, that was something else .

Not helpful.

Cas holds out his hand, palm up and Gabriel passes him a gun. Cas chambers a bullet and with no hesitation, shoots the man in the right foot.

Dean flinches and the man’s agonized scream echoes around the walls of the house.

Suburbia really doesn’t seem like the best place for brutal torture. Shouldn’t they be cutting off appendages in an abandoned warehouse somewhere with ‘Stuck in the Middle With You’ by Stealers Wheel playing?

Cas is preoccupied with his bloodied plaything, so Dean shoots a questioning glance Gabriel’s way, hoping that transmission through vague facial expressions is effective.

Apparently Gabe understands enough, ‘cause he mouths back, ‘Soundproofing’. And of course, yeah. That makes sense. Probably better than a warehouse too; less jarringly mafia-like. Though it’s not like Cas usually concerns himself with image.

Dean’s fist clenches in the burger bags, crinkle getting lost to the sound of Cas breaking one of the guy's fingers. 

Jesus.

It’s hard to believe that less than an hour ago, he and Cas were sitting down to fish eggs and small talk with the county’s elite. Now he’s standing here watching his boyfriend snapping some guy’s digits like they’re crabs legs and in all honesty? Dean’s not entirely sure which end of the scale he prefers given the choice.

‘Cause buttoned-up, composed James Bond Cas is hot . But this guy right here? The one with a gun in his hand and icy fire behind his eyes? He’s everything.

“Now, forgive my lack of empathy, but I have more important places to be. More important things to be doing--” Dark eyes flick up to Dean and back down again - and Jesus fucking Christ, “--so now might be the time to tell me everything you know. Things will get worse for you if you don’t.”

The guy draws in a ragged breath, “You...don’t scare me.”

Cas tilts his head dispassionately, smiles coldly, “Hmm, let me give it a try.”

***

It’s right around the time that a blowtorch is brought into play that Dean makes a swift exit into the adjoining room - which turns out to be a rather nice, if neglected, kitchen - and takes the opportunity to phone Charlie to let her know they’ll be a tiny bit late. Apparently Ben is being a little shit and refusing to move his butt away from Call of Duty. 

Seems insignificant somehow when there’s a man in the next room getting second-degree burns to his torso. 

Call over with, Dean lets his head drop to the kitchen table, barely missing the glass ashtray a couple of inches away. ‘Cause that would be a fantastic end to a pretty fucked up night. 

From the living room, he can hear screams of agony, followed by harsh breaths and then the steadily weakening, “ I’m not telling you anything! ”

And yep, that’s a stupid decision right there.

Dean’s not sure how long he stays like that, forehead against the wood, eyes closed, but after a while, he hears somebody moving around him in the kitchen, water faucet turned on, off, more movement, before a warm palm touches the back of his neck.

“Cas,” Dean slurs, voice thick with the sleep that he so sorely needs. It just figures that he’d finally drop during Cas’ kidnap and torture of a man.

He’s not entirely sure what it says about him. Not sure he’s got the wherewithal to care either.

“Are you alright?” Cas asks, takes the seat opposite Dean’s as he lifts his head. There’s blood on Cas’ shirt collar, smeared thick and pulpy across the ink of his collarbone. His suspenders are thankfully intact and Dean's brain gets caught in a loop, imagining that the tux pants and suspenders are all he's wearing.

It's weird. Dean should be grossed out by all this blood and pain, hell he should be getting the fuck out of dodge, but he’s still not getting his panic on. Instead, he's fantasizing like normal and he could chalk it up to tiredness, sure, but he recognizes that wouldn't be entirely accurate.

Dean’s known for a while that Cas goes in for this shit; he’d be a naive moron to think otherwise, and whilst being confronted with it after a pleasant evening like the one they’d had at the gala is far from the ideal, perhaps Cas is right. Better to get it out of the way now, make sure Dean’s ready for all this than find out the opposite a few months down the line. 

Dean answers honestly, “Tired, Cas. It’s been a long week.”

Cas reaches into the burger bags, hands one to Dean, places one in front of himself. By some miracle, they’re still lukewarm. It’s not exactly the romantic meal Dean envisaged when he pictured them dining out together, especially not with the dude's screams echoing off the walls in the living room.

Not exactly a scene-setter.

Eh. Like Dean actually cares.

“Who is he, Cas?” Dean asks, chews on his burger, fights not to moan out loud with how freakin’ good it is. And not just ‘cause he hasn’t eaten since lunch - like fuck he was eating caviar and sea cucumber soup - but because it is genuinely delicious. Even lukewarm.

“One of Roman’s men. His right-hand man, in fact. I’ve been trying to ascertain why Roman suddenly started coming for me. I have my suspicions, but I’d like them confirmed by a man on the inside.”

“He the only one who can tell you?”

“Probably not, but if I can get him to crack on one thing, the rest will follow. I’m sure there’s a lot of secrets in his head that I could do with knowing,” He bites into his burger, chews and swallows before adding, “I’m sorry that it’s taking longer than I planned.”

Dean once read a BuzzFeed list on the worst torture methods. Shame Cas hasn’t got a Judas Cradle handy. That’d get Roman’s guy to talk pretty fucking sharpish.

They eat in a companionable silence for a while, Dean’s mind running amok thinking up creative torture methods; everything from the Brazen Bull to Keelhauling.

“You tried pulling his fingernails out? I hear that hurts like a bitch.”

Cas balls up his empty burger wrapper and tosses it onto the table between them, “You’re not wrong. I’ve seen men pass out from it.”

“Huh,” Dean says, “Flaying a la Ramsay Bolton?”

“Too messy.”

Dean pointedly looks at Cas’ mussed up hair, his bloodied shirt, and neck, and raises his eyebrows.

“Messi er ,” Cas corrects, mouth crooking up at the corner.

Dean finishes his final bite, licks the juice off his fingers. That was a damn fine burger. Cas really does have taste, “No luck with the blowtorch?”

Eyes on Dean’s mouth, Cas shakes his head, “We mostly use it as a particularly heavy-handed method for cauterizing wounds. Can’t have them going into septic shock.”

Oh. Right. Of course .

“So what happens if he doesn’t talk?”

Cas gathers up their wrappers as he stands, chair scraping duly across the linoleum. He tosses it all in the trash next to the sink, “Oh, he’ll talk, it’s just how much he can take before he gives in.”

Yeah, this makes Benny’s little session at the hands of Cas look like amateur hour. 

Facing Dean as he braces his weight against the countertop, something seems to occur to Cas, “Do you still want to be all in?”

Despite everything - or perhaps in spite of it - the answer is the same, “Of course.”

Cas’ smile is entirely wicked. 

***

“So, this isn’t exactly what I had in mind, Cas,” Dean tells him, feeling more than a little awkward. Luckily, Michael and Gabriel have gone for their break now, because torturing a man is thirsty work .

He’s not sure he could’ve coped with Michael’s judgy looks and Gabriel’s over-enthusiastic encouragement on top of Cas’ pithy tutelage.

“You need to learn how to hit properly. You can’t resort to using your fist all the time, because you run the risk of either knocking your hostage out or breaking your hand. A decent open-handed strike is an efficient alternative.”

Just how regular an occurrence is Cas expecting this to be for Dean?

You wanted in fifty-fifty. Nut up, Winchester.

"I dunno about this, Cas.”

It’s not like Dean doesn’t think he can, it’s just that he shouldn’t . 

Familiar impatience breaking the surface, Cas says, "He's hardly innocent, so it's not like you can hide behind that excuse this time."

This time?

"Excuse?" 

"Mmmhmm," Cas murmurs, challenge burning bright in his eyes, passing between them like a tangible thing. God, Dean wants to hit him. Or fuck him. The jury’s still out.

“You think me not wanting you to kill Henriksen was just an excuse? For fucking what?” 

“I’m not going to argue the semantics of your own warped morality with you--

“--Listen, just because I'm not a fucking psychopath who enjoys hurting people--”

“--Well that’s not true.”

“What?”

“You enjoy hurting people just fine,” Cas says, expression bland, tone just this side of brusque, “You have a vindictive streak a mile wide. It just needs to be harnessed effectively. Now--” He moves into Dean’s space, bodies close but not touching, “--Hit him.”

“Cas.”

“It’s straightforward,” Cas backhands the poor fucker again, sharp crack resonating off the walls, “See?”

Like that’s the problem.

“Cas,” you’re being a fucking douche.

“Dean,” you’re being an infuriating prick.

For fuck’s sake. 

Fine.  

Jaw clenched, Dean steps forward, putting himself within arm’s length of Roman’s guy. He slaps him, barely a love tap. The guy grunts with the impact, but it’s not the satisfying guttural sound he’s made when Cas hits him.

“Now, I know you can do better than that,” Cas says darkly, broad arms folded across his chest. 

Dean tries again, gearing up for the swing. His knuckles split the skin as they come into contact with the dude’s cheekbone.

Fuck.

“There it is,” Cas murmurs approvingly and Dean can’t help how his dick and his heart respond, tethered together as they are now when it comes to Cas. Dean risks a glance in Cas’ direction and he’s watching Dean with that look , the one that makes Dean feel like he’s something worth looking at. 

“Again.”

Dean obeys, nice satisfying smack of skin on skin.

Okay, so Dean’s not saying that he’s got plans to go all Vlad the Impaler on anyone’s ass (unfortunate choice of words, really), but he gets it, okay? It’s not the pain that’s the interesting part - despite Cas’ little mind-fuck about Dean enjoying hurting people - it’s the power trip of being the one in a position to hurt somebody for once; the transformation from underdog, (because who isn’t the underdog in their own life story?), to the one on top, the one with the power, on a par with those who would’ve previously had no issue with subjecting him or those he cares about to similar treatment.

And really, that’s what tonight has been about. Dean and Sammy certainly weren’t born to a life of luxury and everything they’ve got, they’ve worked their asses off for. Their homes, their kids and families, the business. And now, through Cas, Dean has the chance to get one over on those pricks who used to sneer at him when he turned up at his son’s private school in his grease-stained overalls to collect Ben. All those fucking government officials kissing Cas’ ring, bending over backward to do business with him, fear in their eyes, money in Cas’ pocket. 

Dean wants it too. Soul-dark and dangerous as it is, he wants to be able to look everyone in the eye who has ever dismissed him based on his job, his looks, his social status, what-fucking-ever. 

Not many people get to live out their ultimate revenge fantasy. 

But it all starts here. This small display of power against someone considered an enemy. Once he and Cas hash out their deal, then Dean’s in this for half. Half the drugs, money, guns, extortion, everything. He needs to show up for this shit if they’re gonna make it work. He needs to prove to Cas that he’s got this, that he can be trusted. Just like he can be trusted with the senators and officials and shit. This is as much of the business as the fancy galas and money. 

That said, Dean hasn’t forgotten that these fucks were at war with Cas. They were encroaching on his territory; there’s no telling what they’d end up doing - Cas just got there first. And a choice between a bunch of dicks or Cas, well Dean knows who he’s gonna choose every time. 

All this is to say that Dean’s having less and less of a problem with what is about to become inevitable. Hell, he didn’t even care all that much when Cas shot Benny and Dean loved him once. 

Maybe Cas is right. 

Roman’s guy is pulling in shallow, labored breaths, head hanging, “I’m still... not telling... you anything.”

Fuck. 

If Dean didn’t want to get home to his kid and sleep for a month, he would admire the guy’s tenacity. Instead, it’s just annoying as fuck. He tilts his head back on a sigh, stares up at the ceiling. 

Huh. 

One of the more interesting features in some stucco colonial builds is the interior wooden beams. Particularly the center, load-bearing beams.

Which is something that may not have been all that useful until about thirty seconds ago, when Dean decided that it was do or die time. 

He’s never been one for dying. At least not without a fight.

Dean doesn’t look at Cas when he asks, “How bad do you need to know what he knows?” 

“I told you, Dean--” Cas starts, but if Dean’s gonna do this, become this, then he needs to make sure he’s doing it for the right reasons. 

“--Yeah, he can tell you what he knows. But you mentioned others can too. Talk to me, Cas. Tell me why he’s so special. Tell me why he deserves this.”

Reading between the lines whilst simultaneously holding up his tell-all end of the bargain they’ve yet to fully discuss, Cas’ voice is steady when he answers, “Roman was plotting a massacre--” Dean’s stomach turns over, burger suddenly threatening to make a reappearance, “--He had blueprints for the bar, the warehouse, my home. Everything. He was days away from killing us all, and I want to know why. I want to know what led up to that decision. Nobody else alive - if there even is anybody at all - will know everything. Not even close.”

It’s both the right and the wrong answer. Right, because Cas is finally sharing the terrifying truth, and wrong, because of the blind fury and abject terror warring inside Dean right now, leaving him with nothing but the urge to protect, to hurt . 

Decision time. 

Maybe Cas is right about his sketchy morality, because it’s really no decision at all, and before his mind fully realizes what his body’s doing, he’s ripping his tuxedo jacket off and turning to Cas, “You got any more of that fishing rope?”

***

It’s crude but effective. Dean’s always had a bit of skill when it comes to ropes and bondage - hence his proficiency at tying Cas up (and damn near destroying his bed frame in the process) - but he’s never used his powers for evil before. 

Turns out that with some key modifications, suspension bondage is just a couple of steps away from torture. 

Thanks, BuzzFeed.

The dude - Edgar, Dean finds out - is no longer attached to the chair. Instead, he’s on his knees in the middle of the room, hands tied tight and pulled taut behind his back, blue rope bound around his wrists, wound firmly mid-way up his forearms. The same length of rope is passed over the center beam in the ceiling, looped around twice to create a makeshift pulley system. 

In a quick test and to prove what it can do - to both Cas and Edgar - Dean pulls on his end of the rope once, hard, bracing his weight against Edgar’s, yanking the dude up onto his feet without his permission, jerking Edgar’s arms back enough to dislocate. But not yet, not quite.

Edgar screams, a broken, anguished sound. 

He was part of a plot to kill Cas. 

“Fucking hell, Dean-o,” Gabriel mutters, barely audible over Edgar, “You’re gonna have to teach me how to do this shit.” He and Michael are standing next to Cas, gathered round to watch Dean’s 'my first torture' like proud parents. Gabe chews loudly on a candy bar and Dean has a brief moment of lucidity where he wonders what the actual fuck he’s doing, but it’s gone as quickly as it came.

Cas could’ve died.

To Edgar, Dean says, “You gonna tell him what he wants to know?”

Edgar grits his teeth and Dean takes that as a no, “Have it your way, man,” He yanks again, rope at his end coiling on the floor next to his dress shoes, more of Edgar’s weight supported on the extended shoulder sockets, bloodied feet barely touching the hardwood now. It’s gotta be agony, shoulders right on the brink of dislocating.

He was gonna kill Cas. 

Somebody makes a strangled noise to Dean’s left. Could be Cas, could be Michael or Gabriel. Dean doesn’t look; he needs all his (limited) concentration to keep Edgar in the air. He tightens his grip on the rope, muscles trembling, sweat beading, as he braces his weight against Edgar's, “Come on, talk to us, Edgar.”

“You’re just gonna kill me if I tell you,” Edgar stutters out through rapid, pained breaths, chest jaggedly rising and falling. 

Dean risks a split-second glance in Cas’ direction for confirmation or denial of Edgar’s words. He very nearly lets go of the rope when he catches sight of Cas’ dark-eyed, molten-hot focus entirely on him, lips parted slightly, fists clenched. It’s a close thing.

Shit. Dean knows that look. Intimately. That’s Cas’ ‘gonna make you scream for it, Winchester’ look and even amidst all of this blood and pain, his dick takes notice. 

Definitely wired wrong. 

Cas nods at Dean, just a sharp jerk of his head - exactly the same as he’d done to Michael back in the restaurant before he pistol-whipped Benny, and holy shit, that feels like a goddamn lifetime ago now. 

“Yeah,” Dean confirms to Edgar, swallowing hard, dry throat clicking - he was going to kill Cas -  “He is gonna kill you, but you know what? You hold out much longer, this’ll make you wish you were dead.”

Edgar seems to consider this for a couple of heartbeats, makes a croaky, distressed noise, “Fuck, fuck . Alright, I’ll tell you what you want to know, just let me down.”

Holy fucking shit. It worked.

Dean lets go of the rope, polypropylene burning through his palms, and Edgar collapses to the floor with a painful-sounding bodily smack. Michael and Gabriel rush over to him, ready to hear him spill his guts - literally once they’re done with him, no doubt - but Dean’s not interested in hearing about how another one of Cas’ attempted murder plots played out.

He lost all humor with the first one.

Dean’s legs and hands are shaky when he goes over to Cas, buries his sweaty forehead in the curve of Cas’ collarbone, dry blood and all, metallic scent overlaying his cologne. 

“Fuck, Dean,” Cas murmurs, one hand coming up to card through Dean’s hair, the other around his back, pressing his shirt to his sweat-slick skin. “You never stop surprising me.”

“Thought you were going to tell me that you knew I could do it, like a smug prick.” Dean murmurs, lips brushing over the inked skin at Cas’ throat.

He can hear the dry amusement in Cas’ voice, feel it, “That too, of course.”

“Fuck you, Cas.”

Cas laughs softly, huff of breath in Dean’s hair, “Is that an invitation? Because if I thought you could handle it without passing out…”

It’s Dean’s turn to laugh then, “As much as I wanna say I’m always up for you Cas, I think I just wanna go home. Can I go home now?” And if he sounds more like a small child than a wholeass man who just tortured someone for his boyfriend then that’s neither here nor there. 

“Of course,” Over Dean’s head, Cas orders, “Gabriel, get us a car.”

“Sure thing boss man. Anything you want after that performance, Dean,” he claps Dean on the shoulder as he holds his phone to his ear, limo service on speed dial apparently. 

Thank fuck. Dean can finally go home, collapse into his super comfortable bed, and then have an existential crisis about all this when he wakes up.

Eh. Worth it for the sleep. 

Chapter Text

That night, and for the next few, Dean sleeps like a freakin' baby. 

Who knew that the cure for his insomnia would've been a spot of torture?

Though, in fairness, he’s fallen asleep watching Hostel before, so maybe the signs were there.

He’s still waiting for the crisis of conscience to hit.

Any day now.

He tells himself that he did it for the right reasons. Whatever happened to Edgar before or after Dean’s helping hand is none of his business. He himself didn’t hurt the guy.

Not a lot, at any rate.

Doesn't matter as it turns out; he doesn't need to tell himself much of anything 'cause he simply doesn't care enough to allow it to freak him out. 

He did it to protect his -- Cas . He'd do it again, most likely will. Especially if the way Cas clearly enjoyed Dean’s little display is anything to go off of. 

Maybe with a different kind of rope though, 'cause his palms got friction-burned to shit. To the point that he's next to useless at the garage for a couple of days after the ball. Which works out kinda well, ‘cause he’s got his skinned hands full with metaphorical ropes as Cas sits him down and talks Dean through everything - from his extortion racket right through to the arms trafficking. 

The latter is a transnational operation and truly a fucking wonder to behold. Cas is a wholesaler, having one of the few men that Dean hasn’t met yet - Raphael - deal with distribution. They mostly sell local-ish, crossing a couple of state lines here and there, keeping lots of less organized gangs’ armories stocked.

Dean hadn’t fully realized the constant need for illicit guns - he’d always figured that unless the thing jams, gets lost or stolen, then it’s pretty much yours for life. 

Not so. According to Cas, one of the main ironies of the illegal market place is that it follows the model of a legal market. Guns are always needed because capitalism, hah , and everyone is constantly reselling. There’s strict competition on the streets and plenty of the generic gangbangers like to shoot, dump the gun, and run. Which works out well for Cas who can control which direction the firearms flow in, depending on who he wants in control of a particular area.

Because Dean needed yet another reminder of exactly how much power Cas wields.

So yeah, Dean learns a lot whilst his palms are healing. In his downtime, he finds himself googling bondage ropes for intermediates, ‘cause he definitely skipped the beginner stage with the collection of his torture crime merit badge. 

He’s racking up quite the collection. At this rate, he’ll have to ask Cas to sew them to his gangster scout sash. 

Of course, another upside to all this is that Cas has been the opposite of reticent for once, not only answering Dean’s questions with brutal honesty, but actually willingly offering up information - which is new. Apparently all it took for him to take Dean seriously was his almost-death ( again , though Cas always dismisses Benny’s attempt with a disdainful roll of his eyes, but Dean’s counting it) and Dean nearly ripping some dude’s arms out of their sockets. 

If he'd known that was all it needed, Dean would've been poking Benny full of holes months ago. 

Today though, today is another special occasion where they’re both leaving their phones on silent for the duration; only to be disturbed in an emergency and even then on pain of death. Though, according to Balthazar, Cas has started threatening people with Dean and his specific blend of strappado if they fuck up or generally just find themselves on the wrong side of him. Apparently Michael and Gabriel have made Dean into a bit of a legend around the gangster watercooler, and fuck if it doesn’t make Dean walk just that little bit taller. 

He may not be able to bake a Pinterest-perfect rainbow cake, but he sure as fuck can make a grown man cry with nothing other than a bit of rope and somewhere to loop it over. 

Fuck yeah.

Dean chews his toast thoughtfully as he stares blindly across the kitchen. The kids are in the living room, no doubt trying to muscle one another off the couch as they play the latest video game version of their parent’s actual lives and Dean can certainly vouch for the necessity of an 18-rating. 

Though there’s distinctly less car-jacking, because some things are sacred, man. 

Dean’s just brewed a fresh pot of coffee when Cas finally decides to make an appearance, dressed in nothing but a pair of Dean’s sweats slung tantalizingly low on his hips. He looks adorably sleep-rumpled and it's then that Dean realizes this is the first time he's seen Cas like this in the morning, 'cause it's the first time Cas has spent the full night. 

After Dean’s first torture session, Cas stayed with him the rest of the night - almost certainly not sleeping, just keeping an eye on him - but in the morning he’d been gone again, no doubt to find out what Edgar had to say. Dean still hasn’t asked and every time this new, forthcoming version of Cas tries to tell him, Dean begs off, recites for the hundredth time that he really doesn’t wanna know, thank you very much. 

Dean watches with barely contained glee as Cas acknowledges Dean’s presence with a grunt, and shuffles past him to the coffee maker, brush of their bare skin where Dean’s leaning against the countertop in a similarly undressed state.

"Not a morning person, Cas?" Dean asks around a mouthful of toast. 

Cas pins him with a sleepy-but-still-surprisingly-cognizant blue-eyed stare, "You have a great many qualities, Dean Winchester. The ability to eat with your mouth closed is not one of them." He reaches for a mug from an overhead cupboard, obliques pulled taut as he stretches, "And I usually have no issues getting up in the morning--" 

Dean grins wider, leers. Cas quirks a brow, but breaks pretty quickly, shaking his head on a smile as he pours himself a coffee, "--but your bed is very difficult to leave."

"And I didn't even need to tie you down this time," As soon as the words are out of his mouth, the air between them changes, becomes charged and heated, and Dean swallows the toast that, although slathered in enough butter to clog even the healthiest of hearts, is suddenly remarkably dry. 

Because the reminder of Dean tying anything up, down, or all-around at the moment is rife with too many dirty-bad connotations, and even daydreaming about it usually results in Dean getting fucked to within an inch of his life. Now normally, Dean would be so up for that - fuck he’s getting there just thinking about it - but they’ve got places to be today, and responsible, non-criminal adulting to do. So Dean tries to diffuse the sexual tension the only way he knows how, “It’s okay Cas, I won’t be offended if you say that you only want me for my bed. It is the comfiest bed in the whole world and comes with the extra special bonus of me. It’s a wonder you get anything done, really."

"Mmmhmm," Cas agrees, taking a careful sip of his coffee, eyelashes fluttering against the high curve of cheekbone, and yeah Dean makes good coffee. It’s one of three things he’s good at.

Well, four now apparently.

The sound of the doorbell cuts through their relative peace. Dean makes to go get it - hoping to will his dick back to sleep in the process - but Cas stops him, palm warm against Dean's bare chest, shouts through, "Claire, get the door please?"

There's no verbal response, but seconds later they both hear the sound of movement and the door being opened. Claire’s a smart kid, she can handle some Jehovah’s Witnesses or whoever it is. 

"So, I've been thinking--”

“-- Sounds dangerous,” Cas interjects with a wry smile, thumb distractingly tracing patterns into Dean’s skin. 

Asshole.

Dean jabs a finger into Cas’ ribs, laughs as Cas curls away with a warning glare that is almost entirely mitigated by the now-apparent fact that he’s ticklish.

Yeah, the big bad gangster with more murders under his belt than most of America’s serial killers combined is fucking ticklish .

Like fuck Dean isn’t going to store that information away for later use. 

“Dean,” Cas warns, curling a protective hand around his coffee cup, but that stern, I-am-a-badass-who-would-shoot-you-as-soon-as-look-at-you doesn’t hold any real weight with Dean anymore, beyond the ability to make his dick hard(er).

“ Cas ,” Dean mocks, voice an octave lower.

At Cas’ death glare, Dean chokes out another laugh, holds his palms up, “Okay, okay.” He pulls himself together, ‘cause this is kinda serious shit after all, “So. You and Claire spend a lot of time over here. When you have her of course."

Dean's lucky; he gets Ben for half of the week every week. However, Cas' relationship with Claire's mother, Amelia, is much more fraught with animosity than Dean and Lisa's. They keep a reasonable schedule, but it can be weeks between visits. 

Dean isn't entirely sure why Cas doesn't just fight for custody. He'd undoubtedly win with his sway in this city. But then considering recent events, he kinda gets why Cas is reluctant to have Claire with him all the time. He’s gone more often than he’s not anyways, so it does make sense that her mom has custody. Still, it has to suck; Claire and Cas very obviously have a strong bond and it kinda hurts Dean’s heart knowing that Cas is such a devoted dad - attending baseball games, bake sales, plays, volunteering for school stuff just to be close to her. 

It shouldn’t matter what his day job is. 

Dean’s tempted to get advice from an attorney, on Cas’ behalf, just to see, but it’s not his place, not his kid - no matter how much he thinks of her. Maybe he’s just a selfish ass, ‘cause he can’t imagine not seeing Ben for weeks at a time. Criminal or not. 

Cas eyes him as he drinks, so Dean plows on, "Well, maybe you could move in? Properly? Not just leaving your baking shit and a few shirts here. Claire already has her own room and obviously she's more than welcome to be here too, I mean I love her and--" Dean's rambling, he can't stop himself. Now that he’s on a roll, it just keeps happening and it doesn’t help that Cas is clearly amused as he watches Dean make an idiot of himself like old times, blue eyes sparkling with mirth. 

Dean’s fingers itch to tickle. 

"--you could always help me out here instead of letting me ramble like a jackass, y’know."

"Now why would I want to do a thing like that?" Cas teases, all playful and boyish, depositing the WWBSD? mug on the counter and sliding a knee between Dean’s, pressing in close, scent of his warm skin, coffee on his breath. 

" Dick ," Dean gets out, trapped between Cas and the counter. It’s a position he’s found himself in many a time, but it never gets any less hot. Anticipation fuels the desire curling low in his stomach and he makes a valiant attempt at not whimpering.

"Mmhmm," Cas agrees, sleep soft and gorgeous, plush mouth right-freakin’-there. And maybe they do have time for this, can always show up fashionably late--

"Well, ain’t this is cozy."

They spring apart like caught teenagers at the familiar voice and Dean's instantly on the defensive. His ex-husband is standing in the kitchen doorway with Claire who - satisfied that she’s done the job her dad asked her to - bounds off, child-like innocence thankfully not reading the tension in the room.

Cas is rigid (decidedly not in a fun way) at Dean's side, all of that indulgent easiness fallen away and Dean can tell it's a massive effort for him not to put his hands on Benny right now.

Benny looks good all things considered, though as he moves across the kitchen, it’s with a stiffness that wasn’t there prior to Cas putting a bullet in him. It’s still a marked improvement from when they last saw each other a couple of months back and Benny was hobbling around on crutches though, "The fuck are you doing here, Benny?"

"Witnessin' a domestic scene apparently," Benny remarks, jaw tight, as he drags his gaze up Dean’s body. Of course, nothing escapes Cas, and with a growl, he’s moving forward to possibly strangle Benny with his bare hands, unless he’s got a gun stashed in the cookie jar.

Dean wouldn’t put it past him.

Cas is only stopped by Dean sticking his arm out at the last second, a barrier across Cas’ chest, halting him in his tracks. 

His outrage on Dean’s behalf is kinda sweet, if a little misguided. It’s not like Dean has any virtue to protect anymore. 

Unperturbed by Cas’ desire to see his insides on the outside, Benny says to Dean, "You missed the court date yesterday."

He didn't miss it - that implies Dean forgot. No, he made a conscious decision not to turn up.

Dean can feel the weight of Cas' glare on the side of his face. He drops his arm, shrugs, "I didn't need to be there though, right? It was just to collect the paperwork."

"Right," Benny mutters, eyes sweeping over Cas, before refocusing on Dean. He reaches into his jacket pocket and pulls out what Dean assumes is his copy of the divorce decree, slaps it down on the island between them, "Looks like you got everything you wanted. Congratulations," And with that, he’s turning on his heel, front door slamming so hard moments later that the whole house shakes. 

Well, fuck.

Mood effectively ruined, Dean rubs his palms over his bare upper arms, “So...I’m gonna go get dressed.”

Cas sighs, picks up the somewhat crumpled piece of paper, scans over it. Dean’s in the doorway when Cas calls out after him, "You filed ' No Fault' , really?" 

Dean pauses, picks at a knot in the wooden doorframe, "I didn't want him to contest it. Just wanted it done with," Splinters under his fingernails, bloom of blood, he adds, “And now it is, so y’know. Like Benny said, got everything I wanted, right?”

He leaves before Cas can answer. 

***

It's ironic really, that the day Dean receives the finalization of his divorce, it just so happens to be the day his best friend gets married. 

Now that’s the song Alanis should’ve written.

***

"God, you're disgustingly handsome." Charlie grumbles, annoyed, "I'd hoped this outfit would've stopped you from outshining me, but fuck my life," the last few words are spoken in a sing-song voice and Dean brings his hands up to Charlie's, where she's fiddling with his chainmail collar thing. 

"Charlie, chill. It’s not your fault; no outfit could possibly contain all of this--” he gestures down the length of his body, encompassing the tunic, wrist vambraces, leather pants, scabbard, and freakin’ sword , “--animal magnetism.”

Charlie chokes on a laugh, slaps his hand away, “You’re a fucking idiot.”

“Well, duh.” Dean agrees with an easy grin, “I agreed to be your handmaiden and dress up like this just so you could feel prettier than me for once. I’d have to be an idiot, right?”

She sniffs, not quite there yet, so Dean makes one final push, “And how come Sam gets a cape with his outfit? Capes are fucking awesome, Batman has a cape. We all know I’m Batman. Sammy’s Robin - and not even one of the cooler ones.”

“Yeah, you’re a regular Bruce Wayne,” Charlie mutters, but she’s smiling. 

Success. 

The full orchestral version of Dearly Beloved - the opening song from Kingdom Hearts - begins to play in the main marquee, and that’s Charlie’s cue. 

She goes to turn back to the full-length mirror that Dean hasn’t dared to look in properly yet, but he stops her with a hand around her wrist, “Listen to me. Dorothy loves you. Wouldn't be marrying you if she didn't. So take a breath before you pass out." 

She glares at him, both panicked and annoyed, but she dutifully pulls in a breath, exhales slowly, breathes in again. 

“You look beautiful,” Dean tells her honestly. The dress is just so Charlie that he couldn’t help but grin as soon as he’d stepped into the tent - yes, tent, ‘cause only Charlie would willingly get married in the middle of their local LARP field - and caught sight of her in the red brocade dress. She looks like a Disney princess, which kinda works considering she and Dorothy will be having their honeymoon in Disneyland courtesy of Cas via Ben’s birthday present.

“Thanks,” she says on a quick inhale, reaches for a length of fabric draped across one of the ornate chairs that they almost certainly didn’t have in medieval times. 

It’s a cape. An even better one than Sammy’s.

“Really?” Dean asks, eyebrows raised, “You and Sam get capes and I get what? A wooden sword?”

She sweeps the cape around her shoulders, gestures for Dean to help her click the metal broach into place just below her throat, “Sam’s got a sword too.”

Oh, come on.

“It better not be bigger than mine,” Dean tells her, only half-joking. He’s not above challenging his brother to a duel and stealing the damn thing.

Charlie laughs, a proper one this time.

Job done.

She pats him on the shoulder, "Thank you for your assistance, handmaiden." 

"Of course, my queen,” Dean says, offers his arm for her to take, "Now let's get you married."

***

"Nice sword."

Dean grins down at Lisa, performs an overly-exaggerated bow, sweeping hand gestures and all, very nearly spilling his drink, "Why thank you, fair maiden."

She giggles, sleek brown hair falling in front of her face. She plants her forearms on the circular bar Dean’s been propping up for at least the last twenty minutes, manning both his and Cas’ phones just in case. Dean doesn’t catch exactly what she orders, as she pushes up on her tiptoes toward the bartender to make herself heard over the music, but seconds later a fruity-diabetic’s-nightmare appears in his periphery and Dean inwardly winces. 

She mirrors Dean’s position facing the dance floor, and leans against the bar, takes a sip of her cocktail thing through the fluorescent straw. There’s a little umbrella in it, along with a cherry on a cocktail stick, and despite Dean’s ‘no alcohol that tastes sweeter than pie’ policy, he’s tempted.

Angling close to be heard, Lisa half-shouts, "Is it weird how not weird all this is?"

There’s a disco ball right above where Charlie and Dorothy are voguing to Heart’s Alone . Whilst wearing Medieval-esque full-length dresses. And crowns. Because why on earth would you swap rings at a wedding ceremony when you can swap freakin’ crowns ?

Now that Dean’s officially divorced, he’s allowed himself to think about remarriage --

Who the fuck are you kidding, you were thinking about it anyway.

-- And yeah, so he might’ve entertained a fantasy or two that involved thrones and crowns for him and Cas. He can definitely see the merit in it.

"Nah," Dean says, bottle of beer - which is probably the least anachronistic thing here - raised to his lips, "I honestly think it would've been weirder if she'd gone the traditional route."

"Yeah. You're probably right."

Dean swallows around a mouthful of lukewarm bubbles, "Always am. Should know that by now, Lis."

His eyes snag and hold on Cas - who is dressed to kill (metaphorically, not literally, Dean hopes ‘cause that would be a real downer on Charlie’s wedding day) - in the crowd as he dances with Claire. Arms around each other, she’s balanced on his dress shoes, moving with him every time he moves his feet. He humors her for a while, dancing smoothly, before his movements become more uneven, almost Frankenstein’s monster-ish, and Dean bites back a smile as Cas pretends to struggle lifting his foot ‘cause she’s too big for this now , and Claire laughs, easy and carefree. It's heartbreakingly adorable and apparently, Dean's not the only one who thinks so.

"I'm actually jealous," Lisa tells him, mouth chasing the brightly colored straw around her glass, finally catching it with her tongue and managing to get a taste of whatever awful-goodness she’s ordered, "He's perfect."

"Nah," Dean says as the song changes over to yet another rock ballad. Which are the only acceptable ballads really, "He's not perfect. I promise. Just kinda seems that way sometimes."

“Oh?” Lisa shout-says, regarding Dean curiously, “What, is he secretly a drug-dealer or something?”

Amongst other things. And it’s not such a secret.

Forever unable to lie to Lisa, Dean changes the subject, “Here you are, drooling over my man. Where’s yours?”

“Oh, Matt had to work. Unavoidable, unfortunately.” Lisa doesn’t seem entirely happy about it, which is understandable; he hadn’t been able to attend Ben’s birthday party either. Sadly, Dean’s weak attempt at deflection hasn’t worked, because she’s not giving up, asking a follow-up question, “So what does Castiel do for a living?”

“He owns a bar downtown.” Which isn’t a lie. It’s just so far from the whole truth that it makes Bernie Madoff’s Ponzi-scheme-masquerading-as-an-investment-firm deception look like a harmless fib.

“Oh, wow.”

“Yeah,” Dean agrees.

“Busy man, then,” Lisa says, sly, and Dean can wait her out to discover what she’s getting at. Sure enough, a few seconds later, she’s adding, “Yet he always seems to make time for you.”

“I’m worth making time for,” Dean quips, already hating where this conversation is headed, ready to throw open the door and roll the fuck out into the middle of the highway at 50mph. 

“Yeah, you are.” Lisa says, deadly serious, “I’m just surprised to hear you saying that, Mr. crippling self-esteem issues .”

Ouch.

Dean drains the bottle, leaves it on the bar behind them, “Ehh, that’s all still there, I’m just a little more open to not hating on myself around him, I guess. I mean, have you seen him?” 

‘Cause Jesus Christ, Dean never wants to stop seeing him.

“Oh yeah, he’s certainly a looker, but that isn’t it. ‘Cause, let’s be honest, I’m not exactly ugly, and Benny was gorgeous - if a total ass, so it’s not Castiel’s prettiness that’s giving you this sudden wave of actual self-confidence.”

Damn her perceptiveness.

“I dunno, Lisa. He makes me feel like I’m worth something, I don’t know what to tell you,” The next song is starting up and Dean immediately recognizes the opening bars, conditioned like Pavlov's horniest dog and he has to double-check the phone in his pants pocket is still set to silent. 

“You’ve told me enough,” She says softly, patting him on the shoulder, straw caught between her perfect teeth, “That’ll do pig, that’ll do.”

Dean blurts out a laugh, only slightly hysterical and deliberately not turning into the gaze that he can feel on the side of his face, like a fucking gamma-ray emanating from Cas’ direction, “I ever tell you that I love you?”

“All the time, but have you told him ?” 

Because of course she would ask that.

“That I love you? Pretty sure he’d understand that you’re the mother of my child and we have no immediate plans to elope together.”

She slaps his arm, more than half-way drunk like the teeny-tiny lightweight she is; two-thirds of a sugary cocktail gone and three-sheets to the wind, “You know what I mean.”

Yeah, unfortunately, he does. 

“I’m that obvious, huh?”

“Oh honey,” She says, sticking out her bottom lip in a ridiculous pout, “If it makes you feel any better, he’s been making heart-eyes at you all evening too. Even with you in that ridiculous outfit.”

Gee, thanks, Lis.

Apparently summoned by Dean’s pink-cheeked embarrassment like the fucker he is, Cas suddenly materializes at Dean’s side, leaning in a lot closer than strictly necessary to make himself heard, lips brushing against the curve of Dean’s ear, “Nice sword.”

Dean pulls his bottom lip between his teeth, turns his head just enough to look Cas in the eye, mouths close enough that with one false move they’d be kissing, “You know I’ve always got wood for you, baby.”

It’s a close thing, but Cas breaks first, a gorgeous smile splitting his face as he shakes his head, and Dean tries to ignore the way his treacherous heart stutters and restarts. Instead, he points upwards as the music continues playing around them and accuses, “Is this you?”

Cas ignores him, says to Lisa, “Excuse us,” and drags Dean out onto the crowded dance floor, situates them between Charlie and Dorothy who are too wrapped up in each other to worry about literally anything else that is happening, and Sam and Jess, who are clearly still ridiculously loved up after all this time.

Cas slides an arm around Dean’s waist, aligning their hips, other palm going to the center of Dean’s back. 

“I am not dancing to this with you, Cas,” but even as Dean’s protesting, he’s mirroring Cas’ position, swaying a little with the music, sword annoying and intrusive at his hip. 

“Oh, but you are,” Cas smirks, right as the music swells into the first chorus.

‘I am a man who will fight for your honor, I’ll be the hero that you’re dreaming of. We’ll live forever--”

“Fine,” Dean mutters, only mildly charmed, “But I draw the line at Bryan fucking Adams, deal?”

“Deal.”

***

The rest of the day passes in a blur of stupid dancing - somehow, they end up staying on the dance floor all the way through (Everything I Do) I Do It For You and Dean doesn’t totally hate it - and dorky quizzes - which Cas is surprisingly freakin’ good at; he knows what ‘Qapla’ means (because of fucking course he does) - and excellent cupcakes.

On the way home, Cas says, “I’m glad my money went on that,” and Dean may or may not kiss him stupid.

***

Dean doesn’t broach the subject of Cas moving in again. It seems kinda stupid now that he thinks about it. Especially as Cas doesn’t stay the night again. It's the wrong thing to do probably, especially with all the memories of Benny and stuff. It'd never really be Cas and Dean' s place anyways - the specter of Benny will always loom large.

So, he pretends to forget about it, but in true Dean Winchester fashion, he just lets it fester, tries not to let it show. Judging by the way he catches Cas contemplatively watching him once or twice, he’s not entirely successful.

***

Things move on, the weeks tick by. He's still essentially an apprentice right now, so he and Cas haven't yet signed on the proverbial dotted line. Dean doesn't care. He's well on his way, and that's all he's ever wanted. 

Cas trusts him, has let him in. Sees him as something more.

Dean attends a weapons drop with Raphael, who takes to Dean like Bette Davis took to Joan Crawford, and the feeling is mutual. But, Dean’s a professional now, so he politely shakes the prick’s hand at the end of the night, thanks him for the educational tag-along.

Cas reports the next morning that Raphael didn’t want to push Dean down the stairs a la ‘Whatever happened to Baby Jane?’ so Dean counts it as a win. 

***

A week before they leave for Disneyland, he and Cas spend a rare afternoon alone. No kids, no occasions, no henchmen.

Cas drags Dean to the country club. For a couple of frustrating hours, he tries to teach Dean how to play tennis. Dean ends up spraining something in his leg that he didn’t even know was sprainable, and Cas narrowly misses receiving a black eye from an errant ball. Still, Dean considers the day a minor success when Cas laughs at one of Dean’s stupid jokes and then rims him in the shower.

***

Walt Disney might have been a crazy imperialist-slash-nazi, but fuck if the dude didn’t know how to create a fun as hell theme park. 

And really, that’s what counts. 

“Sammy, we’re in the happiest place on earth. Do you think you might be able to crack a smile every now and then?”

Sam’s sour mood is probably not helped by the Goofy cap Dean bought him and insisted he wear, but it’s most assuredly lifting Dean’s spirits.

It’s not payback for the cape thing at Charlie’s wedding. At all.

Of course not, that’d be petty AF.

Sam flashes him a shitty facsimile of a smile, the one that usually precedes a bitchface.

Wait for it… wait for it...and there it is.

“Dean, don’t get me wrong, it’s awesome that we’re here--” he gestures vaguely around them, and Sam’s possibly the only human on the planet who could be at Disneyland and be this bent out of shape about it. Even his wife, who has somehow warmed to Cas - the actual gangster , Dean would like to point out - but not yet Dean, has managed to enjoy herself so far. She and Madison are back at the hotel for today, partaking in the scavenger hunt along with Charlie and Dorothy. 

Dean had wanted to join, but Ben and Claire informed him in no uncertain terms that they are too old for that shit at twelve and almost-thirteen years old, so no Grand Quest for Dean.

Lame .

Dean suspects that the only reason Sam is tagging along with them is to interrogate him without anybody else around. 

Here comes the but, there’s always a but, and not the pert kind, “--but why are we here? I mean, it’s generous of Cas and everything…”

“Yeah, it is, Sam,” Dean says flatly, hackles well and truly raised, ‘cause fuck. Not only are they all staying in the most expensive hotel in the place, but Dean, Cas, and the kids have one of the four-and-a-half-grand-a-night signature rooms (the El Capitan, because Cas knows his audience), with Charlie and Dorothy upgraded to one of the other signature rooms as a wedding present, and Sam, Jess, and Madison are in a nineteen-hundred-a-night suite.

As a baseline, Cas is spending around eleven grand a night just on accommodation. Which is a fuck of a lot more than Dean’s original guesstimate of around thirty thousand in total.

The least Sam can be is fucking grateful.

Which is why Dean’s a little pissy when he adds, “‘Cause in all honesty, I told Cas to just leave you at home so that everyone else would be able to have a good time without you and your loud thinking.”

Sam sighs, “I just think--”

Thankfully there is a god because what Sam fucking thinks is interrupted by Ben and Claire running over, Monte Cristo sandwiches in napkins, and of-fucking-course his kid would happen to pick the one snack stand that makes food like his ex step-dad. 

It does look good though. Damn good.

Sam eyes the sandwich with the kind of suspicion usually reserved for people who say that Die Hard 2 is their favorite in the series (the only acceptable answers are the original - obviously - or Die Hard with a Vengeance ), “Y’know, I don’t think I’ve seen either of you two eat a vegetable since we’ve been here.”

Claire shrugs, too much of her dad in such a basic motion, “Ketchup is a vegetable.”

"Ketchup is not a vegetable," Sam retorts reflexively, like he’s arguing with Dean, but he does crack a smile, so that’s something.

Finally, jeez.

"Ketchup is totally a vegetable," Dean stage whispers to Claire once Sam’s back is turned, holding Ben’s drink for him as he makes a mess with all the stringy cheese and Dean wonders if he really is this much of a clusterfuck when he eats.

In that uncanny mind-reading ability - again, just like her freakin’ dad - Claire grins up at him, says, “You’re actually worse.”

“Okay, that--” he gestures in a circular motion, encompassing all of Claire as she munches away on molten cheese and fried ham, “--all of that mind-reading sh--” he stops himself just in time, “--err, stuff, you and your dad gotta stop. It’s creepy.”

“You’re really easy to read,” Claire tells him, completely unruffled, “Dad always says--” But Dean doesn’t get to hear what Cas always says (something pithy and growly, no doubt), because Ben’s polishing off his food, even quicker than Dean himself is capable of, and turning to him with big, pleading eyes, “Daaaaaad, can we go to the Haunted Mansion next, pleeeeease?” 

Dean points at Clare, confirms, “You wanna go too, yeah? Could be the ideal place for you to hone your weird, psychic skills, am I right? I hear there’s a seance room, you could speak to dead people - go all Haley Joel up in the joint.”

She rolls her eyes, wise beyond her years, one dad joke away from calling him a dork or something equally Gen Z-esque, “Might be fun, sure.”

“That’s the Disneyland spirit!” Dean says, unfolding the map from his back pocket. They’re in New Orleans square right now, so… it’s right there. Excellent. 

“Alright, we’ve just gotta go around this corner and we’re there,” Dean says, tucking the map away, jamming it into his pocket again. Claire and Ben start weaving through the crowds, eager to get in line for another five gazillion hours. Dean inclines his head toward Sam, who’s just depositing their trash in a brightly painted can, “Coming, Ebeneezer?”

Sam shoots him a look and Dean grins in return. There’s no way he can even begin to take him seriously with that stupid hat on. Not that Dean takes him seriously at the best of times, but occasionally he thinks about it, wonders what that disastrous alternate universe would be like, “Alright, but I’m not holding your hand if you get scared.”

“Scariest thing in there will be you in that Goofy hat,” Dean grins, flicking the peak right between the two buck teeth, before he jogs after the kids.

***

Because Dean is totally-not-but-kinda-really sulking about missing the scavenger hunt (‘cause his children are too old to have actual fun apparently), Ben suggests that they make their way over to Frontierland.

Dean knows that he’s being placated by a tween, but he’s surprisingly okay with it, because fuck yeah , cowboys. 

Claire and Ben disappear off into the crowds pretty much as soon as they get there, babbling something about a mountain railroad ride, assuring the responsible-ish adult here - Sam - that it’s a small coaster, whilst Dean makes a beeline for the Shootin' Exposition .

‘Cause apparently they’ve traveled nearly sixteen hundred miles for Dean to shoot some fake guns, instead of the huge assortment of real ones he’s been firing behind the warehouse back in Lawrence.

Eh, he’s beginning to understand Cas’ love affair with the things.

Dean purchases enough credits for a hundred shots for the just-shy-of-a-hundred targets, feeling relatively confident in the skills he’s gained from Cas’ lessons over the last four and a half months. 

He hoists the replica .54-caliber Hawkins buffalo rifle up a little, peeks through the sight, and shoots at one of the electronic sensor targets, hitting it first time. He takes aim at the next target, a moving tombstone, and hits that too. 

Fuck yeah.

So maybe all those lessons are paying off, ‘cause goddamn, Dean is good at this shit. Despite Sam’s attempts to distract him.

Another thing to add to the list of things you’re good at. Total: 5.

He gets the owl in one red eye and then the other.

“Where is Cas anyway?”

Dean sighs, lowers the gun. That’s the only part of the holiday so far that’s sucked. Things haven’t been entirely smooth sailing since the Roman incident. As a result, Cas has spent at least three-quarters of their vacation so far holed up in their very spacious room, either on his laptop or the phone, pacing maniacally.

The other quarter has been taken up with Cas drinking far too much - which is usually Dean’s gig - and fitful sleeping - something that Dean isn’t usually privy to, and now he’s beginning to comprehend why. 

On top of it all? Not a goddamned Disneyland blowjob in sight.

“Eh,” Dean lifts one shoulder in a shrug, “Work’s kinda busy right now, so he’s taking care of things.”

Dean has a plan to take care of Cas tonight.

***

When he gets back to the room alone - everyone else is attending some Disneyland after Dark thing - he can hear the quiet rumble of Cas’ voice coming from around the corner, where he’s set up his makeshift office. Dean follows the sound, finds Cas sitting a couple of feet from the desk, leaning back in one of those executive-type leather chairs, a hand in his tousled hair, eyes closed.

“Yes, Gabriel I know that, but Crowley--” Dean can hear the loud babble of Gabriel at the other end, but not exactly what he’s saying, “--No, I don’t care what fucking Bartholemew thinks. If he wants to do things differently then he can go and work for someone else.”

Dean approaches cautiously, not wanting to startle Cas into reaching for the gun next to his laptop. Getting a bullet in the brain is not on his list of things to do here in California. He comes around in front of Cas where he’s sprawled in the seat, legs spread wide as he rants at Gabriel at the other end of the phone.

Dean’s immediate urge is to drop to his knees and give Cas the blowjob of his life so that he finally pays attention to something other than work, but he has other plans, so instead he taps Cas on the knee and when Cas’ eyes slit open and fix on Dean, he mimes a drink.

Cas nods, so Dean wanders back through the suite to the (not-so) minibar, grabs out two bottles. He pops off the tops as he comes back over and offers one to Cas. They clink bottlenecks and Dean takes a long drink of beer, enjoying the ice-cool liquid in the California-in-July heat.

He’s so glad they didn’t go to Orlando. He can feel sweat prickling on his skin, has been able to since the mid-morning, but after walking around in the sun all damn day, he’s practically drenched, light gray t-shirt damn near soaked through, turning it dark in gross patches. He would’ve been an absolute mess in the humidity of Florida.

As he swallows a mouthful of deliciously crisp beer, a drop of sweat beads at his hairline, trickles down his jaw, then neck, disappearing under the collar of his shirt, adding to the vee of dampness between his pecs.

Ugh.

He peels the shirt away from his skin, flaps it a couple of times to get some air circulating.

Double ugh.

Cas has gone quiet on the phone and Dean can’t hear Gabriel talking, so he flicks his eyes open and over to Cas who’s staring at him with that all-too-familiar feverish want.

Dean flashes him a crooked smirk and Cas seems to visibly shake himself out of it, “Sorry, what did you say Gabriel?”

Gotcha.

Dean hurriedly downs the rest of his beer, depositing the empty bottle on Cas’ desk. He leans over Cas - which is mostly unnecessary - bracing his weight against one of the arms of the chair, arching his back a little - which is completely unnecessary - and snatches up a pen. 

This close he can hear Gabriel prattling on about something to do with ‘ an important deal that you should have honored, Castiel’ , but Cas’ entire focus is on Dean, dark eyes following the long line of his body practically stretched across his lap. Trying to ignore the rapid swell of his dick, Dean clicks the pen and writes on a sheet of paper with loads of scribbled numbers on it next to Cas’ laptop, ‘Going for a shower. Not an invitation.’ He underlines the not several times and as his and Cas’ eyes meet he winks.

He can feel Cas’ gaze on him as he straightens up and walks (perhaps a little stiffly) through to the master bedroom and into the walk-in closet (one of the several, seriously , this place is bigger than Dean’s fucking house). Dean adjusts himself quickly, and drops down to his haunches, rustling through his suitcase - ‘cause you can take the lazy ass out of Kansas, but you can’t make him hang up his shirts in some fancy bigass closet - trying to hide exactly what he’s up to. Cas’ voice is louder now, which no doubt means that he’s in the bedroom behind Dean, still talking on the phone. Dean stuffs the pair of black lacey panties he bought a month or so ago into the front pocket of his jeans so that Cas doesn’t ruin his own surprise, the impossible fucker.

Planning for his birthday next month is gonna be impossible .

As Dean emerges from the closet that’s probably the same size as his master bedroom at home, he sees Cas leaning against the wall next to the humongous TV screen on the wall, wild heat in his eyes already making Dean squirm. 

Dean points loosely in the direction of the bathroom, yet another king-sized space that branches off from the master, and quickly disappears inside, locking the door and pulling in a deep breath as he collapses against it. 

Fuck.

He strides past the double - yes double, holy shit - sinks and goes for the steam shower. He turns the water on via the thermostat mounted on the wall and undresses as he waits for it to get to temperature. A quick check that it’s not going to either peel his skin off with the hotness or turn him into an ice cube and he steps in, closing the glass door behind himself with a soft click. 

Yeahhh, he could definitely get used to this. 

Eyes closed, he turns into the hot spray, letting the water wash away the sweat and grime from the day. His (legal) job is pretty manual, so he’s used to being on his feet all day, but traipsing around Disneyland after two excitable kids? Nothing could have prepared him. Muscles ache in places he didn’t know could ache and he’s spent most of this holiday so far with a thin sheen of sweat on his skin at pretty much all times. 

He turns around, so that the water is hitting the back of his head and neck, streaming down his back, over the swell of his ass, and down his legs.

He reaches for the body wash, begins to wash himself, sandalwood scent mingling with the steam as he imagines Cas in here with him, pressed in close, skin on skin, water sluicing over both of them. He could make it a reality, get Cas in here, all slick hands and desperate rutting. But it’s not a quick fumble in the shower that he wants, so he slips a hand around his hard cock, gives it a conciliatory stroke up and down before he forces himself to let go, make this worth it. 

He cleans himself, quick, perfunctory, leaves the shower on as he goes for the lube he’s been keeping next to Cas’ shampoo for sex-related emergencies. ‘Cause hope springs eternal, and Dean's definitely been hoping for something to spring, if not fully come-to-friggin-life in a way that would’ve resulted in Dean getting fucked on every surface of this ridiculously expensive suite, but of course, Cas has been busy , so nada. 

Lube coating his fingers, he plants a hand against the wet tiles, more than enough room to do this properly. He cants his hips up, teases himself for a moment, fingertip smearing slick around the tight ring of muscle, easing, rubbing, before pushing in, slipping inside his body. He exhales on a shudder, starts hitching in and out, twisting deeper each time. He rocks his hips a little as he adds another finger, slow push and grind, fucking himself against his own hand, biting back on a moan. 

His cock is so hard that it’s bordering on painful and he wants Cas in here, inside him. It’s tempting, so fucking tempting to unlock the door and just let him fuck him stupid against the shower wall, can imagine how goddamn good it would be as he adds a third finger, gasping out a soft, “ fuck, ” into the steam. 

Yeah, that’s about enough of that. 

Reluctantly, he lets his fingers slip free, washes his hand off in the shower, before turning the thing off and stepping out. He strains to hear Cas’ voice, to see if he’s still on the call with Gabriel, but the room must be soundproofed or made of steel or some shit, ‘cause there’s no sound other than his own thundering heartbeat. 

He towels himself off quickly, then picks up the panties. It’s not like he’s never done anything like this before - again, Rhonda Hurley was a night to r emember - but this is the first time he’s doing anything close to this with someone like Cas .

Holding the panties in unsteady hands, he steps into them, pulling the scrap of fabric past his knees, up his thighs. He tucks himself in carefully, lace pattern over the thick vein of his dick, and fuck. It feels good.

What comes next is gonna feel even better.

***

Luckily, Dean doesn’t need to figure out what to do with his limbs, how to pose himself in the most sexually provocative way and wait for Cas to turn around and pay attention, because as soon as the bathroom door is open, Cas’ heavy-lidded stare is on him from across the room, where he’s sitting in a low seat near the window, and Dean feels the weighted heat of his gaze like a tangible, breathing thing, pinning him in place.

Oh, fuck.

Still, it never hurts to put on a show, so loose-limbed, Dean slopes against the doorframe, runs a fingertip up the length of his hard dick, confined by lace, crown trapped flush against his stomach by the elastic of the waistband, precome already leaking. He presses the heel of his palm to his dick, lets out an exaggerated-but-not-really moan of Cas’ name, rolls his hips in what he hopes is a serpentine, sensual manner.

Cas ends the call without so much as a ‘fuck off, Gabriel’ and tosses his phone somewhere across the room as he pushes himself up and out of the chair, all liquid grace as he comes around the bed. He stalks across the patterned carpet toward Dean, like the apex predator he is, and Dean’s glad he has the doorframe to lean against or else he might have taken this opportunity to swoon. 

“Hey, Cas,” He tries for casual, flirty, but judging by the ferocious lust in Cas’ eyes, they’re pretty much past the point of light banter. 

He’s occupying Dean’s space, close enough to touch, but he doesn’t, just stands there watching Dean intently, dark hair completely wild, curled at his temples with sweat, faint flush along the high sweep of his cheekbones, filthy-low pitch of his voice when he asks, “Are these for me?”

Stupid question, really.

High on desire, voice caught in his throat, all Dean can manage is a dry swallow and a small nod.

“Turn around,” Cas grits out and Dean does as he’s told, pushing his ass out to Cas’ low, agonized noise.

“You like?” Dean manages, voice thick, dipping into indecency, when he faces Cas again, and judging by the erection straining the front of Cas’ pants, he likes very much , but it’s always nice to hear verbal confirmation of these things.

Dean doesn’t get that verbal confirmation, but he does get an armful of Cas, crushing him against the wall, attacking his mouth, tongue sliding against Dean’s bottom lip, tasting of beer and Cas . Dean whines as Cas gets a hand in his hair, tugging hard, flattening him right up against the wallpaper, lace pulled tantalizingly taut against the flesh of his ass. Reckless in only the way Cas makes him, Dean grabs at him, pawing blindly and desperately, like this is some quickie in a closet or bathroom at a house party. There’s a few long minutes of messy making out and truly amateur groping, Cas pressing up into him to increase friction - and Jesus fuck is it hot - before Dean realizes that whilst this is great and all - fuck, it is - he’s not gonna get what he wants from this. 

“Cas,” Dean gasps in between kisses, hands going to Cas’ belt buckle, entire world narrowed down to Cas and the single need to get fucked, “Cas, need you.”

“Yeah,” Cas breathes against Dean’s kiss-swollen lips, hand rounding the curve of Dean’s throat, coming to rest against the nape of his neck, “Yeah." 

Before Dean can register what’s happening, Cas sidesteps, and with a broad palm on his neck, fingertips not-quite-pinching, he forces Dean over to the bed, shoves him down onto his hands and knees, pinning him in place, Dean’s back arched and ass in the air. 

Dean bites out a curse, blood catching fire at the blatant display of power and dominance, fuck. Fuck. 

Dean doesn’t need to look to know that Cas is utterly wrecked, but he does anyway, peeks over his shoulder the second Cas releases him, watching through lust-fogged eyes as Cas kneels behind on the bed behind him, mattress dipping with his weight. Cas rubs his clothed dick against the lace of Dean's panties. Dean whimpers, friction little more than a tease, “Cas, fuck me .”

“Yeah,” Cas says again, lids lowered, and full, pink lips parted, the only word he’s uttered for the last couple of minutes, and it goes straight to Dean’s gut. His dick lurches in the panties, smearing his lower belly with another blurt of precome and he’s about ready to lead Cas by the dick through his own kink, when Cas finally gets with the program, stops rutting instinctively against Dean’s ass, nimble fingers frantically finishing the job Dean started on his belt, shoving his pants and boxers down just far enough to get his cock out. 

Dean watches Cas spit into his hand, then his panties are tugged roughly down his ass, excruciating pressure of lace on his balls before they pop free of the lace, just enough room for Cas to get his cock inside him. Which he does between one breath and the next, broad palms spreading Dean apart, and then he’s filling Dean in one long push, thick hard length of him, bodies coming together, pulses throbbing in sync. Dean’s eyes flutter shut, breath caught in the back of his throat as he adjusts to the feeling of Cas inside him, intense and fucking amazing as always. The bite of the zipper, cold against Dean’s overheated skin, the rough drag of Cas’ pants, the way the panties are barely down Dean’s thighs, all make this ten times hotter, like Cas couldn’t spare the time to undress them properly, couldn’t even bear the scant seconds it would take to not be inside Dean.

"Dean," Cas' voice is more guttural than usual, dropped so low that it's somewhere in the second circle of hell, thick length of his cock teasing, withdrawing a few inches, nudging all the way back in. “Gonna fuck you now.”

It's all the warning he gets before Cas is drawing back, head of his cock dragging against Dean’s insides, sliding slow, head teasing the rim, stretching him wider, until Cas is barely inside, and Dean whines lowly in his throat. Cas’ hips curve, breath stuttering, before he’s burying himself quick and hard back inside Dean, back where he belongs, fingertips skidding over Dean’s skin, sweat-slick and ruddy from Cas’ wandering hands.

“Cas,” Dean hisses through gritted teeth, scrambling to get his hands underneath himself for support, pushing up, bearing his weight unsteadily on his palms. He grinds his hips back into the heavy width of Castiel’s dick, meeting him thrust for thrust, as Cas angles his cock, hitting the sweet spot that makes Dean babble nonsense, fucking Dean harder and faster. 

Knees slipping on the comforter, Dean just about sobs as Cas nails his prostate so hard that it’s got him seeing stars and damn near ready to come. 

“Christ, Dean. The way you fucking look--”

Cas sounds as wrecked as Dean feels, skin tight and hot, completely unraveled as he mauls bruises into Dean’s hip, dragging Dean back onto his cock, all possessive strength and lethal intensity. Dean rolls into the motion, riding each of Cas’ thrusts forward, as he fucks a litany of ‘ uh uh uh ’s out of Dean’s throat. 

Palms still planted on the comforter, shakily bearing his weight, Dean reaches down with one hand to stroke his leaking cock, suddenly frantic with how badly he needs to come. Cas is fucking him with all that unrestrained want and violence, and Dean’s utterly ruined for anybody else, thighs trembling, breathing labored.

“God,” He chokes out around Cas’ dick, barely moving the hand on his cock, just letting the slut-red crown pop through the ring of his fingers with Cas’ momentum. It’s a sweet tease; not quite enough to have him coming just yet, as Cas fucks out a space inside Dean’s body, like he never wants to leave. 

Dean cries out as the angle changes, Cas suddenly plastering himself to Dean’s back, blanketing him with his body, forcing Dean down onto the mattress completely, braced on his forearms on either side of Dean’s head, pressed together from thighs to chest-to-back. Dean’s hand and dick are trapped between his body and the bed, completely helpless as Cas fists a hand in Dean’s hair, yanking his head backward, making Dean moan. 

Cas’ breath is humid, dirty-hot against the shell of Dean’s ear, the weight of his clothed chest pressed to Dean’s naked back, pinning him still, firing something fierce in Dean’s blood. Cas fucks him in rolls of his hips, bodies so tight together, nothing between them but the thin layers of Cas’ clothes, "So...you were saying --something a while ago about me moving in?" 

Cas’ question is hitched on a moan as Dean groans too, presses his hips back into Cas’ next thrust, pelvis working in a tight grind, "You're a bastard."

"Want me to stop?"

"Fuck no."

Fingers tight in the short strands of Dean’s hair, rough stubble scratching in just the right way against the sensitive skin of Dean’s neck, Cas growls, “Ask me again.”

Because this is the best time to be having a heart-to-heart.

Fuck. 

Dean can barely think straight, brain whiting out every time the head of Cas’ dick glances off his prostate, spiral of pleasure ratcheting higher with every thrust. Cas is all over him, inside him, owning him, making him feel wanted, desired, fucking needed .

"Uhh, Jesus Christ Cas,” He tries to refocus, angle of Cas’ hips so perfect, cock so fucking deep, rutting fast and hard, Cas trembling and breathing in stutters at the nape of Dean’s neck, “Do you wanna move in? You and C-claire?" His voice hits an octave higher than he thought himself capable and he can feel Cas' smile against his skin. Fucker.

"What about--" Cas’ tongue swipes across the thump in Dean’s pulse before he releases Dean’s hair, letting his head fall into the pillow, breath gathering hot and damp in the fabric already as he pants with each soul-deep drive of Cas’ dick,"--if we--" kiss, hint of teeth in Dean's shoulder muscle, hips moving in sharp, desperate circles, "--bought a place--" 

Oh, Jesus.

"--together," And then he's fucking Dean in earnest again, forcing his knees as wide as the lace around his thighs will allow, and fuck if Dean isn’t gonna have some serious fucking marks after this, Cas’ hands curved around Dean’s shoulders, leverage to really screw him like he wants to.

Fuck. 

“Oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck oh--” Dean can’t keep his mouth shut, cries muffled in the pillow, balanced right on the edge of an earth-shattering orgasm and he screws his eyes shut against the inevitable, “Gonna come Cas,” And yeah he is, with nothing other than the friction of the bedspread on his cock, caught and impaled on Cas’ magnificent fucking dick.

“Come for me, Dean,” Cas’ voice is pitch black, suffused with so much want that Dean can’t breathe for it, needs to obey. So he does, jerking and clenching, mouth open around a silent scream, free hand fisting in the pillow, come smearing thick between his body and the bed. 

“Oh fuck ,” Cas’ thrusts lose their defined edge, growing increasingly jagged, rocking forward, hitching in and out, forehead pressed to the nape of Dean’s neck again, and then he’s coming inside Dean with what might actually be the hottest sound Dean’s ever heard, one that has his spent dick attempting to rally again as he lays there crushed to the bed, Cas on top of him and still inside him, twitching through slick, as he rides out the dying jerks of his orgasm.

Holy Jesus Christing fuck and all his fucking saints.

“So?” Cas’ voice is in the gutter, completely shot, but he still manages to sound edgy, like there was ever a chance Dean was gonna say no to them buying a fucking house together. 

"Yeah,” Dean breathes hot and humid into the pillow, before turning his head, making sure that he can be heard properly, “Fuck yeah we can get a house, Cas."

Cas presses a chaste kiss to the corner of Dean’s mouth, smiles, and Dean can’t help but return it, the ache behind his ribs that’s been there for weeks, now replaced with something much lighter and contented.

Happiest place on earth, indeed. 

Chapter Text

Sometimes, people do stupid things in life. Hell, Dean knows that better than anyone, has damn near perfected the art form.

But there aren't many things dumber than pissing off a man who is as proficient with a baseball bat as Cas is. 

Dean had originally thought that it was just his ex-husband who was daft enough to keep pulling the same shit over and over. Nope, turns out that particular brand of stupidity is pretty much universal. 

At least, according to Cas, who’s never been particularly forgiving when it comes to people fucking him over. Which is fair enough, really. 

“Is he going to restart the deliveries then?” Dean asks, elbow-deep in suds. The dishwasher is on the fritz and he kinda finds washing dishes bizarrely therapeutic sometimes. 

Only sometimes though. Like when Mercury is in retrograde and there’s a north-easterly wind carrying the scent of lavender and basil. He’s not about to go all Martha Stewart up in this bitch.

“He says he is,” Castiel replies, leaning against the kitchen counter to Dean’s left, tumbler of whiskey held just below his mouth, “But I may have Gabriel follow up. Just in case.”

Really? That’s it? No fire and brimstone?

Dean places a bowl on the dish drainer, “You want my opinion?”

Cas drains his whiskey, slides the empty tumbler across the counter in Dean’s direction. Dean catches it, shoves it under the bubbles. “No. But I suspect I’ll be getting it anyway.”

Damn straight. 

“First of all, don’t be an asshole. That’s just life advice in general, that one. A freebie. Second, you need to have a face-to-face meeting with him. No more of this menace-by-phone bullshit. Didn't work for me. Ain't gonna work for him," But he suspects Cas already knows this and is for some reason holding back, "Tell him in no uncertain terms that if he doesn’t play ball you’ll have no other choice than to take your business elsewhere.” He sets the now clean tumbler on the dish drainer, pulls the sink plug.

Cas sighs, the weight of knowledge on his shoulders making it a challenge for him not to be a condescending asshat, “Dean, the options for simply--” and out come the finger quotes, only making their appearance when Cas is truly stressed, “--‘taking my business elsewhere’ are extremely limited and Malachi knows this.”

Dean dries his hands off on a dishcloth, “Limited, but not impossible, right?”

In his experience, there’s always another way. You just gotta get creative about the solution.

“Mmm,” Cas agrees, idly flipping through some of the real estate listings Dean has left on the island, “I like this one.” He stops on a page Dean bookmarked, holds it up so Dean can see it, fingers spreading the brochure open. 

It’s the most expensive place in the whole damn booklet, because of course it is. 

“I’ll book us a viewing when you set a date for the meeting with Malachai.”

“This won’t end well,” Cas warns him as Dean roots around in the fridge for a couple of beers, “Malachai makes chlamydia seem pleasant.”

There’s a lot to unpack with that statement, but it’s probably better if Dean just burns the entire fucking suitcase. 

He pops the lids off the beers, aiming them into the now-empty-but-still-sudsy-sink, “I’ll bring the antibiotics,” He hands a bottle off to Cas, lifts his own in a toast, “Cheers.”

***

CAS: Meeting with Malachi is Thursday at 7pm. Warehouse. Don’t be late.

DEAN: Property viewing with the realtor is Friday at 10am. Don’t be late. 

***

Dean remembers a time when he used to have Thursdays off. 

Hah, now the concept of having a day to himself is such a foreign one that he’s not sure what the hell he used to do with all that delicious free time. Probably jerked off, listened to music, and did a couple of chores? Caught up on a Netflix series? Ate his weight in pie?

Eh, sounds good, but it’s not exactly an option anymore. 

He’s been at the garage today - putting in the last of his hours for this week - working on an old Firebird’s transmission. He’s just about done for the evening, ready to go meet Cas and the walking, talking STD also known as Malachi, when he hears the approach of what he guesses is a crotchety old father figure.

He straightens up, and wipes his hands on the rag stuck in the back pocket of his jeans. He glances at the clock on the wall. 

Shit. 

It’s almost six-thirty. 

This is so not the time for whatever Bobby’s planning to say to him - which is nothing good, judging by the intense, constipated expression on his face. 

Still, Dean can play the game, so aiming for casual, he asks, “What’s up, Bobby?”

Bobby lifts his cap, scratches his forehead, lowers it again. He looks like he’s about to tell Dean that his goldfish has just died and now they have to perform the death rites together, “Listen, boy. You know I love you like a son, right?”

Uh oh.

Dean leans against the car, crosses his legs over at the ankles. He tries to ignore the flashing neon sign that’s telling him ‘HEART-TO-HEART IMMINENT’, “You mean you seriously question my life choices and consider smacking me upside the head at least twelve times a day?” 

“It’s fifteen at the moment,” Bobby corrects with a wry grin, “But yeah, that’s about the gist of it.” He sighs, before launching into a spiel that Dean already knows has been discussed and plotted over by him and Sam and possibly Charlie as well, “I worry about you, Dean. You seem to be stretchin’ yourself awful thin these days and I don’t pretend to know what you’ve gotten yourself involved in with this Castiel fella, but Sam tells me it’s nothin’ good--”

Fucking Sam.

“--Whatever he’s using you for, that doesn’t have to be who you are, you know that right--”

This is all a bit career counselor for Dean. He loosely wonders if one of them could’ve predicted the route his career has taken. Doubtful; not even those highly-accurate-and-not-at-all-recruiting-for-the-army career tests came back with ‘Gangster Moll’. 

“--Listen, whatever he sees in you--”

Whatever Cas sees in him? Like Cas sees something to be used and manipulated aaaand that’s it. There’s nothing else that Dean has to offer besides his tacit compliance. 

Something painful opens up in the pit of his stomach. Bobby’s no different. All of them think that Cas is just taking and Dean’s giving and giving and giving like a fucking idiot, because he’s infatuated and apparently completely stupid.

In fairness, the first one is most certainly true, the second one - eh, he’s not completely stupid.

“What are you tryna say, Bobby? Spell it out to me, imagine that I’m a total moron. Oh wait, you already are.” He tosses the rag into the engine and walks away, but not so quickly that Bobby can’t catch up, can’t either backtrack or dig the hole deeper.

He hopes for the former, but he knows Bobby. Bobby’s not one for a strategic retreat, not even when it’s the sensible thing to do. 

It’s something that Dean’s always admired in a way; to be that bull-headed about something, to be that sure of yourself about something, anything . 

He hadn’t known how that felt until recently.

“I know you’re not a moron,” Bobby says, sounding annoyed - which is all kinds of ridiculous - “But I also know that you’d do anything for people you love.”

It’s true. No use denying it, so Dean stops at the bottom of the stairs leading up to the office, giving his father figure the opportunity to make this right. 

Seizing the in Dean’s offering, Bobby continues, “It’s obvious to anyone with eyes that you love him, but I gotta wonder if he ain’t taking advantage of that love.”

“How do you mean, Bobby?” Dean asks through patience he doesn’t really feel.

“I mean, is he gettin’ you to do stuff you don’t really wanna do?”

Deliberately obtuse and tiresome, Dean smarts, “You mean dress up like Kermit the frog or something? Not so far, but I’m pretty sure Cas isn’t really a Muppets fan.”

Dean could be wrong about that. Actually, maybe he is. He can totally see Cas enjoying the shit outta Dr. Bunsen Honeydew and his science segments. 

Frustrated, Bobby tries again, “Listen, Sam tells me he’s some kind of criminal--”

“-- so is Sam.” 

Bobby’s face scrunches in confusion, adding more lines to an already pretty crowded canvas, “What? Oh, the Kwik Bargainz, well yeah. But that was one time--”

Dean’s phone is vibrating in his pocket and he doesn’t have time for this shit, “-- He helped me drive a bunch of prescription drugs across the Canadian border.” 

Bobbies eyes widen, “The fuck are you tellin’ me, boy?”

“That Sam picks and chooses his moral crusades when it suits him. At least I’m consistent.”

Dean goes to turn on his heel, but Bobby’s hand comes down on his shoulder, halting him. “Consistently what, Dean?”

Dean sighs, glances up at the clock again, “I have places to be right now, Bobby. Maybe we can continue this sometime never.”

“Oh no you fuckin’ don’t, Dean Winchester. You can’t just drop a bombshell like that on me and disappear into the ether. We are going to talk about this.”

Nope.

“It’s always on your terms though, isn’t it?” Dean blurts, pissed off, “You, Sam, Charlie -- the only time any of you give a shit is when it’s convenient for you. I have busted my ass for this fucking family; when Sam needed money that I didn’t have, I came up with a solution for us to get it and all he did was bitch me out about it! Then, when I find out that Sam has a criminal fucking record --” Bobby visibly blanches at that - fucking good , “-- that could certainly land him, and possibly me and Charlie in jail, I do what I have to do to make sure that doesn’t happen! And once again, I get shit for it! My boyfriend very generously pays for everyone to go to freakin’ Disneyland and yet a-fucking-gain, I. get. shit. for. it. So tell me, Bobby - why precisely should I be listening to anything that any one of you has to say any more?”

“You’re a hard-headed jackass, ain’t ya?” Bobby yells, blotches of crimson creeping up his neck and cheeks, “Everyone is worried about you, Dean. You ain’t exactly been yourself lately--”

Dean laughs cruelly, a shitty ploy ripped straight out of Cas’ playbook, “-- I have been entirely myself lately, Bobby. That ever occur to you? No? Perhaps that guy you all thought you knew wasn’t who I really am, just who I thought I should be?”

“It’s a little early for a mid-life crisis,” Bobby grouches, though less assertively than a few moments ago, “So I’m just gonna go ahead and assume that this is to do with that Castiel of yours--”

Dean can’t scrape up even half of the sheer amount derision that statement needs, “--Yeah, it’s all Cas’ fault, ‘cause like Benny you all think I haven’t got a mind of my own, that poor old Dean must’ve been manipulated into this shit, ‘cause I’m just that weak, huh? Well, y’know what, nobody manipulated me into that fucking robbery did they, that was all me!"

“You sound mighty proud of yourself there, boy.”

“I am!” Dean yells, rage finally boiling over, “Why the fuck wouldn’t I be proud, huh? It was entirely my idea, planned out to the nth degree - with the information I had at least --” fucking Sam “--and we pulled it off! Do you have any idea how much work went into that robbery? A whole damn lot!”

It’s true. Dean had pored over the drawn-out plans of the Kwik Bargainz, had done walk-throughs of the place with Sam, mentally cataloging the aisles, the checkouts, getting Charlie to find out who would be on duty that night, making sure the loading bays were empty...

Of course, Dean hadn’t counted for the fact that the money in the safe belonged to the scariest motherfucker this side of the Atlantic, but hey, that’s turned out pretty well for him.

The cap comes off again and stays off this time, “Jesus Dean, you’re even more far gone than we thought.”

We . Yep.

Dean’s phone vibrates with an incoming call again. It’s 6:38. “Yeah, well fuck all of you.” 

Attempting his escape to the office, Bobby reaches for him again, but Dean shrugs him off.

“Don’t you walk away from me, Dean!”

“Or fucking what?” Dean snarls, venomous, “You’re going to turn me in? Fucking go ahead. I tell you what, I’ll make it easier for you, huh?” He mounts the stairs up to the office two at a time, grabs his backpack with the stashed drugs from the latest drop in. He stands at the top of the stairs whilst Bobby’s in the same place on the forecourt, mouth open as Dean upends the backpack, some of the baggies bursting, sending multi-colored pills pinging everywhere.

It’s gonna be a bitch to clean up, some of them are rolling under cars and equipment, but right now he doesn’t care. Bobby needs to see this, needs to see that Dean is ‘more far gone than we thought’ and then some . Maybe then they’ll finally leave him the fuck alone. Give him up as a lost cause and let him be fucking happy for once. 

“There’s a few grands’ worth of drugs there,” Dean tells him, tossing the empty backpack aside, “Call Jess, she’d be thrilled to drag me downtown, I’m sure.”

She probably would, actually. 

He disappears into the office again, goes to the safe. With shaking-with-anger-not-fear hands, he unlocks it and grabs his gun, brings it out to Bobby and swiftly loads it in front of him, “You should probably mention that I’ve got an illegal weapon too, yeah? Oh oh oh, I can take you to the restaurant as well - there’s a shit-ton of laundered and counterfeit money there. Here too, in fact.” 

He’s reckless and destructive, just angry enough to act on the dark thought that occurs to him, and the words are out before he can stop them, pure rage diluting any level-headedness he may have been feeling at the beginning of this conversation, “It’s what’s been paying your wages for the last six months, old man.”

Bobby’s face is scarily impassive for a long moment, “You made me an accessory to all this, you stupid little child?”

Again with the stupid.

Dean shrugs, in too deep now to back down, “No, but the cops wouldn’t know that, would they? And I’ve been giving Sam and Charlie a lot extra a month with the drug money - and they do know - so it’s not implausible for you to be involved too. So yeah, go to the fucking police, I double-dog-dare you.”

“I could fuckin’ throttle you right now,” Bobby grits out, fists clenched, face scarlet. 

Their fantasy version of Dean would give up (probably long before now, in fact), would retreat to a safe distance and let Bobby deservedly tear him a new one, but fuck, this Dean, the real Dean, doesn’t back down for anyone , not even Cas who has the capacity to make Dean’s life a lot more difficult than Bobby or Sam do. 

“Fucking do it, Bobby.” Dean says, dropping down one step and then another, pills crushed beneath his work boots, “It’ll be good to get an assault charge in there too, yeah? Might as well go all-in on this,” And because he knows he’s untouchable, he adds, “Tell you what, as a favor, being as we’re so close , because you know me so well , I’ll even get the police chief to go easy on you.”

“I don’t even know who you are anymore.” Bobby growls, disgusted, and it would turn Dean’s stomach if he could feel anything through the heady rush of adrenaline. 

“Sure you do,” Dean says, all faux-cheer, practically nose-to-nose with the man who’s never even for a second put his interests before Dean or Sam’s, “I’m Dean, the incompetent jackass you all figure is incapable of a single original thought. I’m so dumb that I can’t even make my own decisions. Why would you take anything I say seriously, huh?” 

In plain sight of his father figure, he grins, uncocks his gun, thumbs on the safety - too skillful for it to be anything other than practiced - and satisfyingly, Bobby seems to recognize it in the widening of his blue-gray eyes, “I think we’re done here, don’t you, Bobby?”

Dean shoves the gun down the waistband of his jeans, under his shirt, turns his back on Bobby and makes his way over to the shutters, “Don’t forget to close up on your way out.”

“Dean!” Bobby shouts after him, “I’m not giving you up without a fight!”

Ding ding ding, Seconds out, round two.

Ducked halfway under the shutter a couple of feet from the ground, Dean pauses, looks up at Bobby. He’s clenching his fists, face still a worrying shade of red, but his eyes are lost, conflicted, scared , “You wanna throw down, Bobby? Name a place and a time and I’ll fight you for the version of me you all seem to think existed. I’ll fucking win though, ‘cause I’m pretty sure he was just someone you all wished I was.” He waggles his fingers, “Ciao for now.”

***

Dean’s furious on the way over to the warehouse, white-knuckling the steering wheel as he takes the corners a little too hard to be a simple case of rushing to make sure he gets to the meeting on time. 

How fuckin’ dare Bobby.

If Dean were more rational right now, he’d know that everything Bobby said was coming from a place of love. Maybe they really are worried about him, but fuck. How many times does he have to tell them that he’s fine before it becomes them simply mapping their shit onto Dean and wishing there was something wrong just because they think there should be?

On the passenger seat, next to his gun, his cell lights up with another incoming call.

This is the third time Cas has phoned him since he left the shop.

Fuck.  

Dean might not back down for Cas, but this whole thing was Dean’s idea and Cas is going out on a limb here, letting him attend such an important meeting. He can’t fuck it up. Not only will Cas be un-freakin’-bearable, but Dean’s been itching to prove himself in the big leagues. This is about as big as it gets for Cas’ organization.

Fucking Bobby. 

Luckily, he’s pulling into the deserted lot with three minutes to spare. As soon as he’s out of the car, tucking the gun down the waistband of his jeans again, phone and keys in his pocket, Cas is there, looking unfairly handsome and business-like in an all-navy suit, compared to Dean’s grease-stained Skid Row shirt and holey jeans. 

“You’re late.” 

Not technically, but Dean doesn’t point that out. Picking a fight with Cas with all the self-righteous fury rolling around in him at the moment wouldn’t be the wisest move.

He slams the car door shut, “Yeah, yeah. Hello to you too, Cas.”

Cas tilts his head, eyes narrowing, “What’s happened?”

“I’ll tell you later.”

They walk around the side of the warehouse together in a weird, static kind of silence, Cas clearly wanting to comment on Dean’s state of mind, but remaining unusually (and kinda creepily) silent. They reach the makeshift gun range, where Michael, Balthazar, and Gabriel are already waiting, just as a couple of silver town cars pull in.

A gangster original. 

See? Not late.

A weedy dude with terrible facial hair who wouldn’t look out of place at a Nickelback concert emerges from the first of the cars, looking ten shades of pleased with himself. A handful of goons emerge from the second car, all variations on a theme of default character in a violent video game.

“Ah, Castiel,” Nickelback shakes Cas’ hand, before turning his attention to Dean, giving him a quick once over, “And who is this? Your valet?”

Dean smiles pleasantly, “Business partner. Dean Winchester.” He snatches up Nickelback’s hand, squeezes a little harder than necessary, “And you must be Malachi.”

Chlamydia was too generous. Maybe herpes. Or gonorrhea. 

“Always nice when your reputation precedes you,” Malachi says, all smarm and Dean coughs into his fist to cover his snicker, exchanges glances with Gabriel who looks equally as amused. The only reputation he has is one that requires a strong course of medication to get rid of, " Business partners , though? Really? Is that what we’re calling it these days, Castiel?”

Dean tries not to react to the assumption. It’s fine. It’s better for them to assume him an incompetent pretty boy until they know better - and they will know better soon enough. It only bothers him when it’s his fucking family, who should and refuse to know better. 

Nope. Not going down that road right now. Rein it in, Winchester.

“--we'd heard that the fearsome Castiel had been tamed,” Malachi is saying and Cas is regarding him with blank professionalism. Though Dean doesn’t miss the giveaway tic in his jaw as Malachi continues, “But really?” He gestures at Dean, “This?"

Tamed? 

This?

Dean says, “Hey, watch your fuckin’ mouth, you’re talking to someone who got a hundred percent on the Frontierland Shootin' Exposition,” at the exact same time Cas offers nonchalant, but menacing as hell, "I can show you how tame I really am, if you want."

One of those statements is probably a lot more effective than the other.

Hint: It’s not the Disneyland one. 

“No no, that’s alright,” Malachi says, the coward, placating palms up, “Lead the way, Castiel.”

They follow in single file through the warehouse; Cas at the front, then Malachi, Dean, and the others following behind. Production has halted for the evening, so it’s eerily quiet, stacks of money piled neatly against the walls, no microwaves dinging or money presses whirring. Usually, the night shift takes over at 7, but Cas sent out a mass missive, telling employees to come in for 9 instead. 

‘Cause Cas is a good boss, they’ll still be paid for the two lost hours and the daytime employees will find a little extra in their pay packets at the end of the week too. 

Once inside the office, Cas sits down behind his desk, with Dean leaning against the wall behind him, arms folded across his chest. His gun is an ever-present shape, base of the magazine nudging against his kidney. Malachi takes the seat in front of the desk, making himself so damn comfy that he may as well kick his heels up on the edge of it. His goons wait outside in the main area of the warehouse along with Gabe and the others.

And by wait, Dean means that they’ll be kneeling on the dusty concrete floor with guns at their heads. 

Just a precaution of course. Though he doubts Cas will be forgetting Malachi’s slight any time soon, ‘cause Dean certainly won’t be and he’s far from the pettiest one out of the two of them. 

This?

Dean’ll give the fucker ‘This’. Is hoping for it, in fact. He’s got some anger to burn tonight.

“As I said over the phone, we’re willing to restart deliveries once again,” Malachi tells Cas, all benevolence and oily smarm, “But it’ll cost you.”

Cas doesn’t seem inclined to take him up on the offer and Dean wonders just how likely - on a scale of pretty fucking likely to absolutely inevitable - Malachi’s death has been since the moment Cas agreed to listen to Dean, “How much?” 

Eh, Dean won’t be feeling responsible for it any time soon. He’s beginning to settle into this skin now. It’s remarkably easy when you view every other fucker as an enemy until proven otherwise. He’s not going to lose sleep over Malachi’s imminent death, any more than he did Edgar’s.

Might even sleep better for it.

One less asshole in the world .

Malachi sits back in the chair with the smug confidence of someone who doesn’t realize that the odds are not in their favor, “Twenty percent off the initial, fifteen off ongoing sales.”

“No,” Cas says, instantaneous, impenetrable, “We do have other options, you know.”

“Sure,” Malachi agrees easily, “The Russians - I know they’re particularly fond of you - practically family and all that, but their stock is inferior. And the Irish of course. Though, we all know that they’re funding the IRA, and do you really want that on your conscience?”

Cas doesn’t respond. 

Malachi doesn’t seem to notice the blood-tinged silence, simply continues, apparently in love with the sound of his own grating voice, “So, if you want to keep your operation afloat, at least on this front, then you’re going to have to pay. Because I’ve heard through the grapevine that it’s through your own fuck-ups--” His deep-set eyes briefly track over Dean and then they’re back on Cas again “--that you’re in this position.”

Noiselessly, Cas rises from his seat and comes around the front of the desk, unbuttons his suit jacket with a deft hand as he takes a seat on the corner, all professor-like. 

And just like that, Dean’s developed another kink. 

“And what position is that?” Cas asks, looking down at Malachi, tacitly intimidating, “Because from where I’m sitting, you’re the one in quite a precarious situation.”

Jesus, Cas.

“You know who I’m backed by, Castiel. Unless you want a war, now is not the time to be making idle threats.”

“Idle?” Cas twists to look at Dean, “Did I make an idle threat?”

“Didn’t hear one,” Dean confirms, playing along.

Whatever the antonym of idle is - serious, considerable - it’s very much that.

“Good,” Malachi says, missing the point entirely, “So about that twenty percent--”

And Dean’s had enough with this douche’s lack of fucking respect. He’s nothing but a glorified delivery boy and yet here he is, trying to lord it over Cas like he’s someone important.

Dean is done . 

The words, "I dunno man, sounds to me like you need to have a sit down with your ego," are out of his mouth before he can even begin to consider the consequences.

For Malachi, not him. It’s pretty evident that he and Cas are on the same page here.

“Excuse me?” Malachi splutters comically, looking between Cas and Dean, “Why are you here again? Oh that’s right, you’re his pretty little cockwarmer--”

Ooof. That was not wise .

Before the pathetic reel of Malachi’s life can even begin to flash before his eyes, Cas is up and off the desk, palm around Malachi’s throat, shoving him up against the nearest wall.

Malachi’s eyes bug wide, Adam’s apple bobbing against Cas’ chokehold. With a rather impressive amount of strength, Cas lifts him a couple of inches up off the ground by the throat, eyes ablaze with homicidal intent, enunciating clear and calm, not even slightly out of breath, “I’d advise you to rethink that statement.”

Malachi flails, lungs most likely starting to burn from a lack of air, weasley face already going a daring shade of purple.

"I'd do what he says," Dean tells Malachi mildly, though there’s an edgy sort of anticipation welling up inside him and threatening to spill over, “Before brain ischemia kicks in and you lose consciousness. Who knows what we’ll do to you when you’re passed out.”

Either the dude is a raging homophobe and scared they’ll play with his little dick or he’s marginally sensible, because he chokes for a few more satisfying moments, before croaking, “Sorry, Dean.”

Dean’s money is on the former.

Ew.

Cas looks to Dean, gun-metal eyes locked on him, wrath personified and all for Dean , “That good enough?”

“Yeah,” Dean nods jerkily, “For now.”

For later… Well, it’s becoming abundantly clear that the warehouse will be empty until 9 for a reason.  

Cas releases Malachi, stepping back and brushing invisible dirt off his suit whilst Malachi crumples to the floor, coughing and wheezing. Cas retakes his seat behind the desk calmly, skimming his hand over Dean’s shoulder on the way past, a split-second reassurance that Dean doesn’t need, but is grateful for anyway. 

Malachi is taking a long time to struggle to his feet and Dean’s tired of this foreplay. He wants to get to the good stuff, “You need a hand there?” He asks, vindictively.

Malachi sticks a palm out to stop Dean as he scrambles up on shaky legs, croaks out, “‘m fine.”

“Alright, man,” Dean smiles benignly, “Just shout if you need anything.”

Cas makes an amused sound in the back of his throat. 

Once Malachi sits down again, Cas says with that implacable tranquility, “Here’s how it’s going to go. You’re going to give me the exact same deal as before, and you’re going to pay me for the inconvenience of you having halted my shipments.”

Malachi is stupid, but not suicidal, so he doesn’t immediately say no, but hand to his bruised throat he does rasp, “Why would I do that?”

“Because if you don’t then we torture you until you do,” Cas says with a shrug, and it’s just that easy, that blatant, that inevitable, “I think I’ve been pretty patient here, tried to do this the right way, but you’ve insulted my partner twice, done nothing but disrespect me and my organization, as well as the original disrespect you showed me by ceasing deliveries for reasons that I’m not entirely clear on.”

“I could always find that out for you, Cas,” Dean interjects casually, hands itching for an outlet for all this boiling anger and jittery agitation needling at his skin. 

Bobby may not like who Dean is anymore, but Cas does and it has Dean settling into this with an ease he wouldn’t have ever believed himself capable of. 

Perhaps all those tacky quotes printed onto driftwood and sold in Pottery Barn are right; all you need to do is believe in yourself and you’ll be unstoppable .

Cas smiles, sharp and cruel, “Ah yes. Now that would be something to see.”

Of course, it helps when you’ve got a rich, dangerous as fuck criminal by your side, but that’s probably too long (and specific) to fit onto a mass-manufactured home decoration.

Malachi looks between them like he’s finally noticing the green-eyed snake hidden in the grass. Right before it strikes, “W-what?”

“Oh, but Dean’s not just my partner, he’s also rather proficient at getting people to talk. Managed to get it out of Roman’s man when even my and Michael’s methods failed, so you see, he’s not a ‘cockwarmer’ at all.”

“Well,” Dean adds with a wide grin, “Not just a cockwarmer anyways.”

***

Near Cas’ office at the southeast corner of the warehouse, there’s a reasonably sized break room with all the standard amenities; fridge, microwave, coffee pot, seating, etc. More importantly, there’s exposed brick in the low ceiling, with strong metal pipework that is absolutely ideal to loop rope over.

Arms yanked tight behind him, left shoulder already excruciatingly out of joint, a bound and suspended Malachi mewls. Dean’s biceps are straining with the effort, holding up Malachi’s (soon-to-be) dead weight for long enough now, but there’s no way that he’s calling it quits, not until Cas tells him to. He was generous enough to let Dean take his anger at Bobby, Sam, and Charlie out on someone more deserving, so Dean can let Cas have his turn. 

Underneath the gloves, his knuckles are sore. He’s still pissed, but it’s more of a low simmer than a boiling rush. It’s allowing him to observe this whole scene a little more objectively than he could before he split his knuckles across Malachi’s weasely little face.

Cas nods and Dean jerks on the rope, gloves giving him extra traction. Malachi screams as his humerus is forced out of the right shoulder socket.

“You know,” Cas steps forward, knife held proficiently in his hand, “I was willing to be reasonable, but you just had to go and be greedy.”

Panicked, bleeding, and in pain, Malachi snivels, “I’ve told you everything I know! I’ve agreed to everything!”

“I know you have,” Cas says, tone clipped, uninterested, “But how do I know you won’t try anything like this again? With or without Zachariah’s blessing?”

“I won’t, I won’t, I won’t, I fucking swear, Castiel!”

“I want to believe you, I really do,” He gestures at Michael, who grabs one of Malachi’s bound men, shoves him forward. Cas catches the man around the throat with one hand. With the other, he points the knife at his heart, right between the tight coils of polypropylene Dean tied forty minutes earlier, “Hmm. Then why do I feel like the second you’re out of here, you’ll just resort to type? I simply can’t have that, now can I?” And with that, he shoves eight inches of steel into the nameless guy’s chest, piercing his heart. The blade comes out stained a metallic red as the guy collapses to his knees, blood in his mouth, pouring out of the wound, coloring blue rope crimson.

It’s the first time Cas has ever killed anyone in front of Dean. It doesn’t bother him as much as it probably should. Whatever jury-rigging had taken place during Dean’s first torture session has well and truly been upgraded to hardwiring now; his dick responds pretty much any time he sees Cas commanding a room, regardless of whether somebody else’s blood is involved.

In fact, he seems to lose it that little bit more, when it is. 

They fucked Cas over. They deserve it.

He does feel a little woozy watching a man’s life draining away as blood spills from the hole in his chest, gathering around him in a red pool on the floor, but Dean attributes that mostly to the fatigue in his arms.

If this is going to be a regular thing - and let’s be honest, it is - then Dean’s gonna need a proper weight-bearing pulley system for this shit.

“Who’s your right-hand man?” Cas demands of Malachi, wiping the blade off on the shirt of the dying henchman with an expression of distaste. He shoves the guy in the shoulder, sending him to his back on the concrete in the puddle of his own blood with a choking gurgle. 

“Theo,” Malachi pants faintly, on the verge of passing out.

“Which one of you is Theo?”

Let’s hope he’s not the one who’s just gasped his last.

One of the taller bound goons gets shoved forward, Gabriel’s gun to his head, “Uh, me.”

Cas tilts his head, eyes narrowed, all casual danger, “You wouldn’t fuck me over, now would you, Theo?”

“No, Castiel, sir.”

“Good answer,” Cas pats him on the shoulder, before turning back to Malachi, “So now we have no need for you--” He points the blade at Malachi as he walks closer, “--unless you’ve got something of vital importance to tell me?”

“Castiel…” Malachi moans weakly and Dean jostles the rope, just to reignite the pain a little.

Cas might’ve underestimated Dean’s vindictiveness. It’s less a streak, more a major artery.

“Hmm?” Cas inclines his head close as if he’s listening for whatever Malachi has to say, like it matters any more, “Nothing?” Vicious and cold-blooded, Cas says, “I bet you’re really regretting calling Dean a cockwarmer now--” and then he slides the blade in nice and slow, between Malachi’s ribs, “--am I right?”

Luckily, so is Cas’. 

As soon as Cas is clear of Malachi, Dean lets go of the rope, sending the body crashing to the floor. He immediately goes over to Cas, yanking off his gloves and tossing them somewhere, anywhere, he doesn’t care, he just needs to get his bare hands on Cas.

“Please untie and show Theo and the others out,” Cas orders, eyes all for Dean, checking his knuckles over for broken skin, the necessity of stitches, “And get ready for a large cargo to be delivered tomorrow. The last six-weeks’ worth.”

“Uhh, tomorrow?” Theo stutters, “I can’t get six weeks’ worth together by tomorrow.”

Cas clicks his tongue, thumb tracing the vein in the back of Dean’s hand, “That’s unfortunate, because I’m sure you just said that you weren’t going to fuck me over.”

“No, I mean--”

“--It sounds an awful lot like he’s going back on his word, doesn’t it, Dean?”

“It does, Cas. And here I thought I was done for the night.”

Cas takes a second to consider his options. His eyes meet Dean’s for a brief second, before he nods at Michael and Gabriel. Half-way through untying the other two men, Gabe and Michael pull out their guns and shoot them both in the head.

Well. That’s certainly one way to make a point.

“I’ll get the stock by tomorrow, I promise,” Theo stammers around a dry swallow. It’s just him left now, with the bodies of his four previous colleagues surrounding him like some sort of Kill Bill moment.

“Excellent,” Cas says with a serrated grin, “See you tomorrow then, Theo.”

***

On the way back to Dean’s place, they stop off at the garage. Bobby is nowhere to be seen and neither are the drugs. 

Which probably doesn’t bode well.

***

Dean wakes up the next morning with Cas curled around him, broad chest molded to Dean’s back, hard line of his morning wood nestled up against Dean’s ass. Cas is circling his hips, tiny little jabs that have arousal melting through Dean, chasing away the cobwebs of sleep, and he cants his ass back, head of Cas’ cock rubbing slick behind Dean’s balls, making them both moan. 

“Fuck,” Cas rumbles throaty and turned on, breath hot and heavy against the nape of Dean’s neck, “It’s times like last night and right now that I'm really glad I didn't shoot you."

Dean chokes out a laugh, brings one hand up to loop around the back of Cas’ head, grabbing himself a fistful of thick hair, “Ahhh, you were never gonna shoot me Cas, you were too busy fantasizing about my mouth around your cock.”

“You’ve got me there,” Cas drags his teeth over the joint of Dean’s shoulder, hand closing around Dean’s dick, hot and dry drag that’s just the wrong side of pain, but Dean doesn’t care, fucking forward into the curve of Cas’ palm and back against the length of his cock. 

Brain still full of sleep and mouth running on auto-pilot, Dean says, “God, I woulda you know,” His thighs clench as the head of Cas’ dick pushes along the cleft of his ass, trailing slick in its wake, “With your fucking gun to my head, I would’ve sucked your dick, hot and wet, just let you use my mouth--” Cas makes a wounded sound behind him, plummy crown of his dick slipping and catching against Dean’s rim on every other thrust, thumb pressed over the thick vein of Dean’s cock, “--just let you hold me in place and fuck my throat until we were both mindless with it--” Dean’s dick is slick with precome, getting slicker with every pass of Cas’ palm, “--strings of spit and come messing up your suit and I’d have to palm the ache of my erection through the towel, wanting you so fucking bad--” Dean’s hips buck into the broad-fingered grasp of Cas’ hand, breath caught in the back of his throat, “--oh fuck, Cas, I’m gonna , fuckkk--”

Fingers flexing in Cas’ hair, Dean comes all over Cas’ fingers and his own stomach with a drawn-out groan.

Jesus.

Just as Cas is tensing behind him with a quiet moan of Dean’s name, thrusts growing uneven, right on the cusp of orgasm, Dean’s phone vibrates on the nightstand.

Cas growls in his hair, cock catching and sinking inside Dean, just past the head, “If you get that, I will fucking shoot you.”

“Oh yeah, talk dirty to me, Cas.”

Dean stretches a little in Cas’ white-knuckled grip, reaching for his cell, dislodging Cas’ dick and Cas makes a low sound of displeasure in his throat. Which Dean ignores in favor of squinting at his phone’s display.

It’s not a number that he recognizes. Could be important. Could be a telemarketer. 

Cas’ teeth in his throat, come-covered palm on Dean’s waist, Dean answers, “‘lo?”

“Hello, Mr. Winchester. It’s Ms. Price here from Donaldson and Lewis realtors. I just wanted to check in as it’s gone ten and you’re not here yet.”

Oh, shit.

Dean slaps Cas’ hand away, scoots to the edge of the bed, “Hi, Ms. Price, so sorry. We’re running a bit late. Traffic, y’know.” He twists to glance at Cas, who’s on his back, sheets pooled around his thighs, inked muscles flexing as he jerks himself off with slow, deliberate strokes, hooded arrogance to his dark eyes as he stares at Dean, suggesting he understands exactly how he looks right now.

Fuck.

Feeling particularly bitchy, Dean tells the realtor, “We’ll be there in twenty minutes,” knowing full-well that the drive is almost exactly eighteen minutes away. He hangs up when she agrees, tossing his phone on the bed and grinning at Cas, “Sorry Cas, we gotta go before you can come.”

***

The realtor’s heels click across the mahogany hardwood floor, platinum blond hair weaving a trail of sickly-sweet perfume all around the house. Which considering there are nearly eighteen thousand square feet of it, is pretty darn impressive. 

So far they’ve been shown six out of the seven bedrooms, the fourteen and a half bathrooms (what the fuck is half a bathroom) , the conference rooms, the two-story office, the library, the firepit, the tennis courts, at least half of the bajillion fountains scattered about the spacious (fifteen fucking acres) grounds, the freakin’ pool - which isn’t even a pool, it’s more like a natural mini-lake, complete with a waterfall - the underwater grotto...

Suffice it to say, Dean’s kinda in love with the place. It’s perfect. Far bigger than anyone could ever hope to need in their lifetime, but fuck if that ain’t at least half the point. 

“And here we have the master bedroom,” She ducks into a beautifully lit room, tastefully decorated and bigger than the entirety of the upper floor of Dean’s current house.

Cas looks at Dean, as Ms. Price (and no, she hadn’t ever insisted that they call her Sue even though she’s wearing a nametag) opens the door to the ensuite bathroom, crosses the room to swing the balcony doors open as well. 

Dean figures that she’s still pissed about them being late. Though not as pissed as Cas was having his orgasm denied. 

There’s no way that he’s not gonna make Dean pay for that at some point. 

Next to him, Cas asks, “You like it?” with none of the usual undertow nearly all of Cas’ words carry; just an honest sort of curiosity without agenda.

Dean responds in kind, “Fuck yeah, Cas. what’s not to like?”

Ms. Price - Sue - is rattling off the features, not particularly paying attention to either of them, which has worked out in their favor so far. It’s allowed them the chance to speculate about what they’d change, keep - and no they are categorically not keeping the marble fucking backsplash in the kitchen unless Cas promises to clean it, “...there’s a walk-in shower room, with multiple--”

“--We’ll take it,” Cas says to Ms. Price, cutting her off from the hard sell. 

“Oh?” She peers at Cas in his button-down and jeans, tattooed forearms and throat, and then at Dean in a ratty old Metallica shirt and laundry day jeans, and puts two and two together, coming up with a pair of men who maybe can’t afford this place.

Who knows what she thought she was doing the whole way round. Maybe brushing up on her skills for actual clients. 

Hey, it’s a few hours outta the office.

She continues, unimpressed, “Well, we’ll need to perform a credit check and we’ve calculated the mortgage to be approximately... “ She glances down at her notes, “sixty-two thousand, eight hundred and sixty-six dollars per month. That’s over thirty years.”

Cas waves a dismissive hand, “We’ll be paying outright.”

Wait, what?

The woman’s eyes damn near bulge out of her head and Dean would laugh, if he wasn’t positive that his face is a mirror image right now.

“That’s eleven million, eight hundred thousand dollars,” She says slowly, like a question, and yeah , Dean’s having trouble processing too.

“I understand the math,” Cas replies blandly, “How soon can you have the paperwork ready?”

Okay, this is insane . 

Dean reaches out for Cas’ arm, says to the realtor whose confusion is slowly morphing into a look of ‘holy shit, I can retire off the commission on this place alone’, "Will you excuse us a moment?" 

“Of course,” She says, eyes darting between the two of them like she can tell that shit is about to go down , “I’ll be in the library getting everything sorted for you.”

Dammit.

“Thank you, Sue ,” Cas calls out after her, the contrary fucker, and then turns to Dean, “What’s the problem? You look less than happy.”

That’s an understatement.

Dean releases Cas' arm, "Yeah, ya think? Cas, what the actual fuck, I can't afford eleven million dollars."

“Actually, it’s closer to twelve.”

Dean is gonna punch him in his smug, handsome fucking face, sore knuckles be damned. 

“ Whatever . Where the hell am I gonna get six million dollars from, huh? Do you remember that not-quite-a-year-ago I stole a mere hundred grand from you just to pay my mortgage - and that was split three ways! Sure, my fortunes have improved, but not to the tune of six million fucking dollars .”

Cas lifts one shoulder in a nonchalant shrug, "I'll pay."

Oh right. Of fucking course.

The fact that Cas apparently has twelve million dollars just lying around or down the back of the freakin’ couch or whatever is a discussion for another time, but for now--

"How about no?"

Cas stares him down in that sort of intense way he has when he's trying to make sense of Dean and failing. It's the only real reminder that he is and always will be half a step to the left of the average person. 

"I don't want to be a kept bitch, Cas,” Dean explains, “I want to pay my way." 

"Why?"

Dean’s always wondered what it is that Meatloaf wouldn’t do for love. Turns out, it’s standing here in a jarringly expensive house having this precise fucking argument. 

"Why don't I want to be your kept bitch? Is that what you're asking me right now?"

Cas sighs, stares up at the ceiling. It’s eerily reminiscent of the time they bartered out their drugs partnership. Except there’s no guns involved. Yet. "No. I’m asking why are you so difficult ?" 

Difficult? Sure, Dean can be an ass, enjoys yanking Cas’ chain every once in a while, but this is not one of those occasions.

Cas' patience is hanging on by a gossamer string and warning bells are going off in the back of Dean's head, but he's not listened to them before and he's not about to start now, “How am I being difficult, huh, Cas?”

Cas doesn’t answer, instead levels him with a look and snipes, “So, it’s only okay to steal money from me, not accept it when it’s freely given?”

Wow. 

“Oh Cas, don’t you dare--”

“--Maybe I should put it in a grocery store safe so that you would be okay with taking it then, hmm?” 

To the very same asshole who murdered two men with his own hands barely twelve hours ago, Dean snarks, “You are such a fucking child.”

“And you’re infuriating,” Cas spreads his hands - again, the same ones that have killed people, and that really shouldn’t be causing Dean’s pulse to spike, “Yet here we are.”

Here we are, in-fucking-deed.

“No, I’m just someone who doesn’t immediately bend to your will, there’s a difference. Weren’t you the one who once told me that you enjoy me giving you a hard time, and that if you wanted a Stepford wife you’d be with someone like Daphne? But you’re not with someone like Daphne, so I can only conclude that either you’re into me in some way or a glutton for punishment.”

“Both,” Cas mutters, mouth tilting in a smirk, and Dean doesn’t miss the inferred meaning behind the word, “So are you saying that you don’t want this house?”

“No. I’m just saying that I want to help pay for this house. Why is that so difficult for you to understand?”

“Because you just told me that you don’t have the money to help pay for this house.”

“So we buy a cheaper house.”

“But you like this house?”

“Yes.”

“But you want to buy a cheaper house because you want to pay half?”

“Yes.”

“Even though that house would be inferior and you've just said that you want this house?”

“...Yes.”

Cas arches a brow, “You can see why I’m having trouble with this.”

Dean’s phone buzzes in his pocket. He scrapes out a sigh, “Cas, just. Fucking humor me, okay? It might seem crazy to you, but it’s important to me.”

Cas seems to consider this, “Explain it to me. I need to know the logic.”

Dean tries to rearrange his thoughts into a language he can make Cas understand, “Umm, so you know in Godfather part two when---”

“I’ve never seen the Godfather.”

What.

It’s then that he finally realizes Cas is fucking with him. Has been for at least half of this conversation. He isn’t quite laughing at Dean, but it’s certainly evocative of his high-key amusement during their meeting at the bake sale and the perverse delight he’s always taken in frustrating the fuck outta Dean. 

Only it’s even worse because Dean should know better by now.

“Cas, has it ever occurred to you that you’re a fucking asshole?”

“Not until I met you. Luckily, I get a daily reminder. Come on.” He makes a grab for Dean’s wrist, dragging him over to the open floor-to-ceiling balcony doors. 

Dean goes without much resistance, but he’s cautious, wondering if Cas is gonna shove him over the balustrade to the brickwork below, watch dispassionately as Dean bleeds out from his lunatic brain. It probably wouldn’t be the first dramatic death staged here. Hopefully, if Cas is gonna murder him, he’ll at least be quick about it.

Thankfully, it doesn’t appear as though murder is on the cards - today at least - because once the two of them are out on the spacious balcony, Cas maneuvers Dean in front of him, tucks himself tight against Dean’s back, hands sliding possessively to Dean’s hip bones under his shirt, lips to Dean’s ear, “Imagine waking up to this every morning.”

Dean looks out over the massive estate; green space pretty much as far as he can see; trees, fountains, gorgeous nature, all safely contained by high walls and a state-of-the-art security system.

Fuck, it’d be amazing.

“I--” But Dean doesn’t get the opportunity to finish that thought, because one of Cas’ hands worms its way down past the waistband of Dean’s worn jeans, into the black cotton of his boxers. Dean catches Cas’ wrist before his fingers reach Dean’s not-quite-as-soft-as-thirty-seconds-ago dick, holding him there; not dragging his hand back out, but not releasing it either.

“If you truly don’t want this, then that’s fine. We’ll look for something else. But don’t be stubborn out of some sense of misplaced desire to prove yourself,” Cas pulls out of Dean’s weak grip, turning his wrist, grazing his fingertips along the underside of Dean’s rapidly filling erection. Dean’s hips twitch into the barely-there friction, “You don’t need to prove yourself to me, Dean,” He strokes Dean’s cock feather-light from base to tip, smearing his thumb through the blurt of precome that wells at the slit. Dean’s stomach muscles tense and he gasps, lets his head fall back on Cas’ shoulder, staring blindly up at the clear blue sky, “I’ve already told you, you can have whatever you want. If you want this place, it’s yours. Ours.” Cas presses a lingering kiss to Dean’s temple, “So yet again, I find myself asking you what you want.”

Dean shifts restlessly, eyes fluttering, lips parted, and this so isn’t fair.

He opens his mouth to tell Cas that he’s a bastard , that he wants to come, that he wants Cas to fuck him over the balustrade, so Dean can look out over their fucking kingdom, and then he wants to christen every room on the house, but he doesn’t get to say any of that, because there’s the sound of clicking heels and then a voice behind them, tentatively asking, “So, have we come to a decision, gentlemen?”

Shit. 

Dean tenses and Cas huffs a laugh against Dean’s cheek, stuttered drag of stubble and skin, “What was it you said to me in the limousine when we were coming back from the gala? Oh yes,” His mouth brushes over the shell of Dean’s ear, “‘ Karma’s a bitch, babe.’ ”

Asshole.

“ Cas ,” Dean warns quietly, but he’s not really in a position to be making threats, not with his junk in Cas’ skilled, capricious hand. 

Cas dips lower, hand closing around Dean’s balls, rolling them in his palm, and Dean squeaks. “Decide,” Cas murmurs, breath hot against Dean’s neck, squeezing just enough to have Dean leaning more heavily on Cas, legs weak and breath coming unevenly, “And then answer her. Quickly.”

They say hindsight is 20/20. Right now, Dean’s seeing at the level of a fucking mantis shrimp, because there’s absolutely no doubt about it - he shoulda let Cas come this morning. 

Fuck fuck fuck.

“Yeah,” Dean manages, swallowing hard around nothing, brain fuzzy with the desperate desire not to come in his pants. He clears his throat, realizes that Ms. Price needs to actually hear him, tries again, “Yeah, We’ll take it.”

***

They fall through Dean’s soon-to-be-ex front door together, tangled from lips to knees, Dean’s fist in the front of Cas’ shirt, the other dropping the keys to the floor to get a grip in Cas’ hair. Cas does this wicked little thing with his tongue and Dean whimpers, the noise lost between them in the wet, frantic movement of their mouths. Cas slides his hand from the nape of Dean’s neck, cupping Dean’s jaw as he backs him up against the wall next to the coat rack, crowding out any semblance of space or coherent thought, heat and hardness pushing back at him through denim.

Dean’s reminded of the time that Cas turned up to his house unannounced and did pretty much this; damn near pressed him up against the wall with the weight of his body. Except, there was sadly no kissing and groping - though looking back, they so shoulda been doing it - and Sam and Charlie were here. Which, thank Christ they’re not now or this could be super fucking awkward---

“Dean.”

Dean jerks in the cage of Cas’ arms, wrenching his mouth away from Cas’, yelping when their (thankfully) still-clothed erections graze each other as Cas freezes against him.

Yeah. Awkward. Just like this.

Dean glances past Cas to where his brother is in the doorway of the living room, arms crossed and Dean would bet his left nut that Sam is tapping his foot, all impatient mother after their kid has broken curfew and tumbled in with the local motorcycle-riding bad boy.

Imagining Cas in bike leathers is super unhelpful given Dean’s current situation. 

Hair clogging the shower. Avocado. That time Ben blew chunks in Baby.

Eyes back on Cas, who seems more amused than Dean feels, Dean mutters a soft apology, pecks him on the mouth, before sliding out from under his body. 

“What the fuck is this, Sam?” He demands as his brother turns his back and returns to the living room. Dean adjusts himself, follows him, intent on giving him the only piece of his mind that isn’t currently skipping through a field of daisies hand in hand with Cas, ‘cause holy fuck they just bought a freakin’ house together. And not just any house, but a fucking mansion, damn near a castle. 

Fit for a King and...King? 

Eh, Dean’s secure enough in his masculinity to call himself the Queen in this scenario. If Ben’s homework is to be believed, some queens have been thoroughly badass.  

The giddiness in his chest is soon smothered when he notices that Sam isn’t alone; Bobby and Charlie are sitting on the couch, solemn-faced, though Charlie at least has the decency to look apologetic too.

“What’s going on?” Dean asks, panic bleeding in around the edges of his annoyance. Ben’s with Lisa, surely if anything had happened, she would’ve phoned…

“Relax, Dean,” Sam says, facing him again, “Ben’s fine. This isn’t about him, this is about you.”

Oh fucking wonderful. Couldn’t this have waited until after he got laid? Blue balls are a very real thing, y’know.

Summoned by Dean’s discomfort - as usual - Cas appears at his side, shoulder to shoulder, and immediately Sam tenses about as much as Dean relaxes. 

So this is what an intervention looks like. 

Jesus, it's like an AA meeting without the piss-weak coffee and store-bought cookies. 

Oh wait, no, there are some cookies on the coffee table. And if Sam has made the coffee then it'll be about as weak as their argument. 

Ahhh, the cliche is complete. 

Headache in its infancy, pinching the bridge of his nose, Dean says, "Cas if you wanna go, I understand."

A quick tilt-of-the-head-soul-fuck in Dean’s direction and Cas is shaking his head, "No, I'll stay,” and Dean is so grateful for the un-but-actually-totally-necessary show of solidarity that the urge to kiss Cas is just too much to ignore. So he doesn’t. He reaches up to grasp at the back of Cas’ neck, presses a passionate kiss to the kiss-swollen seam of Cas’ lips, slips his tongue inside, licking the taste of himself out of Cas’ mouth, communicating his gratitude without words. When he pulls away, their lips catching and clinging for the briefest of moments, Cas’ eyes follow Dean, looking a little awed and Dean smiles softly at him, thumbs away the gleam of saliva from his bottom lip.

“Dean,” Sam says again and Dean reluctantly tears his eyes away from Cas.

Game time.

“So, this is the intervention you’ve all been plotting, huh?” Dean rubs his hands together, ready for a fight . 

“It became a necessity after last night,” Bobby remarks coldly. Dean’s backpack is next to him on the floor and Dean strongly suspects that the drugs Bobby so painstakingly retrieved after their argument are back in there.

Dean’s attention swings to Charlie, “You’re suspiciously quiet.”

“I--” Charlie starts, but Sam interrupts her.

“She thinks that we’re being heavy-handed,” Sam asserts. “But Dean, this is for your own good.”

Cas is practically motionless next to him, but there’s an irritated set to his mouth.

Affecting casualness, Dean asks, “What’s for my own good? You gonna forbid me from seeing him or something? Lock me up in a tower? Ground me? C’mon Sam, I can’t wait to hear how you’re going to stop me - a grown man in his thirties - from seeing another grown man in his thirties.”

Sam slants a look in Bobby’s direction. Whatever he sees in the hard determination there is apparently enough to have him saying, “You keep seeing him and we can no longer be a part of your life, Dean. I can’t watch you go down this path. You’re not yourself anymore and I’m tired of trying to have conversations with you about it--”

Dean pantomimes a loud yawn, cutting off his brother’s dramatic soliloquy, “God, you and me both, Sammy.”

“Dean--” Bobby starts, but Dean cuts him off too.

“--Nah, you played your hand last night, old man,” To Sam he says, “So let me get this straight,” He advances on his brother and doesn’t miss the flash of panic in those copper-brown eyes, perversely kinda likes it, “You’re going to make me choose between you guys and Cas? That about the gist of it?”

“That’s not what--” Charlie interjects, but she’s interrupted by Sam again and Dean’s going to punch his stupid brother in his stupid fucking face. 

“Yes,” Sam says, with all the brazen confidence of someone who doesn't know that they're not playing with a full deck. Metaphorically or literally, “ That’s about the gist of it , Dean.”

“Huh,” Dean says, turns to Cas, whose face is impassive, “Well, ain’t that something, Cas?”

Cas shrugs, says mildly, “It sounds as though they’ve made their mind up about me. I must say, I’ve not garnered such an adverse reaction since I dated Hannah Jacoby in my sophomore year. Of course, she was the pastor’s daughter and I thought smoking was cool, so it was clearly never meant to be.”

Dean grins, imagining a suave as fuck sixteen-year-old Cas with a cigarette tucked behind his ear, corrupting some religious kid. 

Unsurprisingly, it’s something Dean’s definitely keen to quiz Cas about later.

But now?

“See, what’s interesting here, Sam, is that for such a supposedly bad influence, Cas isn’t demanding anything of me. He’s not trying to take my family away - you are. So let’s say you were in my position right now, how would you feel? Would you be willing to run towards the person holding your niece hostage, the same person who apparently hates seeing you happy--”

“Dean--”

“--Nope, nuh-uh, Sammy. You shot your wad, it’s my fucking turn. It’s only polite,” He looks at Charlie, then Bobby, and finally Sam, "Old reliable Dean, eh? That’s how you all see me, right? Always there if someone needs help or to raise a kid, a brother . Always there to haul you out of a mess. Always there for a laugh or to be laughed at. But God for-fucking-bid that I finally decide to have something for myself, ‘cause that’s selfish ain’t it, selfish of me to want to be happy.”

Charlie rises, reaches out to him, stops at whatever she sees in his eyes, "Dean, you can't honestly think that. That we don't want you to be happy?"

"That's sure as fuck what it looks like to me, Charlie. ‘Cause the three of you are in my house, telling me that I have to make this decision which you’ve based on nothing other than...what? Exactly what is it that you think Cas is turning me into? I’m interested to know.”

There’s silence for a long few moments.

“You’re not yourself,” Bobby answers vaguely, eventually.

“Yeahhh, you all keep saying that. Mind telling me how? It’s a pretty simple question.”

“You’re just more…” Sam takes a run-up at it, crashes through rather than the smooth sail over he was aiming for.

Dean gestures for his brother to go on, “...more what, Sammy?”

“This!” Sam blurts, flinging a careless hand up and down in Dean’s direction. “More reckless, more self-assured, more obnoxious--”

This time, it’s Cas interrupting, “--I have to disagree with the last one; I don’t think it’s possible for him to have gotten more obnoxious, he was already at full capacity when I met him. I can’t take credit for that.”

Dean twists to look at Cas, “Hey, fuck you, Cas.”

Cas smirks at him and he’s just so fucking beautiful, nobody else ever stood a chance really.

To his brother, he says, “So I’m a little more carefree and confident? Is that what you’re telling me? To be honest, that could just be a side-effect of the excellent sex.”

Bobby and Sam groan in unison, “Jesus, Dean.”

“What?” Dean asks, faux-innocently, “I’m just saying. None of the things you seem to think are worth disowning me for are anything that couldn’t be attributed to me finally getting some fantastic dick.”

“Don’t be obtuse, Dean,” Bobby grits out, “It’s not a good look on you.”

Dean leaps on the contradiction, “Ah, but it is! ‘Cause as we all know, I’m too stupid to see when I’m being manipulated, right? Poor, stupid, pretty Dean.”

“Boy, you have a chip on your shoulder the size of the state of Texas,” Bobby shouts, on his feet, fists clenched. 

Dean loses it, banked anger from the night before rising up like a tidal wave, “And so what if I do, whose fault is that, huh? Not a single fucking one of you ever believes that I’m capable of anything more - you all think I’m an incompetent jackass - despite me proving time and again that I’m not - and I’m so fucking done with it, you have no idea!”

Cas’ palm curls over his shoulder and he’s at Dean’s side, a calm reassurance, “If I may?” He waits for Bobby and Charlie to retake their seats, squeezes Dean’s bicep, before dropping his hand, “Usually, I would preface this by saying that I don’t know Dean as well as all of you, but on this occasion, that would be a lie, so I’ll spare you all the bullshit. Dean is more capable than I suspect any of you are truly aware. He has more intelligence and business acumen in his little finger than most of the people I’ve met and worked with in my profession. If that makes you uncomfortable, then I don’t blame you. It makes me uncomfortable too, at times. The only real advantage I can leverage is the fact that he wears his emotions too close to the surface of his skin, and if any of you had ever bothered to look below the paper-thin wrapping of irritating bravado and incessant jokes, then you would see precisely who he is and who he’s been all along. Which is a truly fascinating, accomplished, beautiful human being . ”  

Holy fuck.

Now that is a season 7 Spike-Buffy speech, right fuckin’ there. 

Not quite done, Cas finishes off with, “He deserves your respect, not your scorn. If you can’t even give him that, then he’s better off without all of you.”

“Cas,” Dean murmurs, misty-eyed and split open, exposed right down to the bone.

“That’s one hell of a speech, son,” Bobby mutters, looking at Cas for the first time since he and Dean entered the living room.

Yeah, yeah it is. And it’s all Dean needs to know about who in this room actually gives a shit about him.

“You know what?” Dean says abruptly, decision made, bolstered by Cas’ faith in him, “I’ll see you your ultimatum, Sammy, and raise you. Either you fall in line, right the fuck now, or the three of you can fuck off. We cut all ties. No more jobs, money, trips to goddamn Disneyland, you ungrateful assholes , none of it.”

The room is silent for another long, pained moment before Sam finally speaks up, “You cannot be serious, Dean.”

“Deadly. You want nothing to do with me, that’s up to you. I will not have this shit put on me. Not anymore.”

Obviously it’ll hurt if they choose the second option, but Dean’s ready for it. He’s sick of having to defend his choices to them.

Really hammering that nail in the coffin, he adds, “Talk it over amongst yourselves, but do it on your own time for once. Please get out of my house. If I don’t hear from any of you by next week, I’ll assume you’ve made your decision.”

The three of them exchange glances. Charlie and Bobby get to their feet. Charlie’s clearly upset rather than angry, but Dean can’t bring himself to look at her or he’ll cave. This isn’t close to what he wanted, but fuck if it ain’t where this was headed ever since Sam stared Cas down in the kitchen all those months ago.

The three of them leave without another word, filing past Dean and Cas, Sammy last out the door. 

Dean doesn’t turn around as he calls out after his brother, “If you decide you’re done with me, don’t worry about returning your spare key. I won’t be living here much longer.”

Chapter Text

Apologies are frequently fought for, but hard-won in the Winchester family. Sam and Dean have said a lot of shit to each other over the years, but it’s never quite come to this. No matter what happens, if Dean knows his brother - and he does - there’s not going to be an apology on the tip of his tongue any time soon, regardless of whether he decides that his relationship with Dean is more important than being right.

Of course, Dean’s not going to apologize, because he is right. 

Whether or not what he’s doing is right is not the issue here. The issue is that Sam (and the others) feel entitled to harass him into their way of thinking like some kind of fucking purist cult. 

Even the Westboro Baptist Church doesn't come into your goddamn house.

Dean settles down on the couch to watch an old Creepshow rerun, notebook on his lap. Cas is due back in about half an hour and then they’re off to meet with Raphael at the docks, so in the small window of free time, Dean’s sketching out his DIY pulley system, figuring out how many spring clips he’ll need, the length and diameter of the cable.

He’s just calculating the mechanics in the margin, the force and distance, when there’s a frantic-sounding hammering on the front door. 

Huh, maybe the Westboro Baptist Church has started doing house calls after all. 

It’s barely eight in the evening, but he’s still cautious as he rises up off the couch. His gun’s upstairs, and all the useful-for-stabbing kitchen knives are somewhere in the stacks of moving boxes.

There’s another flurry of noise and Dean wonders whether he should call Cas. It’s not like he needs his boyfriend to fight his battles or anything, but if this is retaliation for Malachi or some shit and Dean’s about to be kidnapped, then the least he can do is give Cas a head’s up. 

Another series of pounds and then there’s a voice Dean recognizes calling to him from the other side, “Open the fucking door, Dean-o!”

Gabriel.

Dean swings the door wide and it is indeed Gabe standing on the porch, his light button-down soaked through with blood, a panic-stricken look in his whiskey eyes.

“Dean, it’s Castiel--”

Dean’s heart stutters in his chest, eyes catching and sticking on the slick crimson coating Gabriel’s hands.

What.

Gabriel turns on his heel back down the path to the road and Dean automatically follows, because of course he does . There’s an expensive four-wheel drive parked haphazardly across the sidewalk, driver’s side door flung open, and Dean’s not making much sense of Gabriel’s frantic explanation as they hurry towards it, “He’s been shot, he’s in the car, you gotta help me get him out. He needs help.” 

He hurries to keep up with Gabriel, “What? Cas has been shot?” His brain can’t process, just keeps stumbling over the same information, nausea rising - Cas has been shot Cas has been shot Cas has been shot , “Why aren’t you calling me from a hospital right now?”

Gabriel stops dead on the lawn, whirls on Dean, a finger in his face, and Dean has never seen him so serious; it’s genuinely terrifying, “No hospitals!”

Dean holds his hands up in placation, desperate to see Cas, would agree to sell his soul right now if it meant that he could get to Cas and touch him and find out he’s all right, “Okay man, okay!”

They reach the car and what Dean finds in the backseat chills his blood, has it freezing right there in his fucking veins. Cas is lifeless; his normally tan skin pallid and sickly, and Dean yanks open the door, panic spiking, “Cas, Cas, can you hear me?”

No response.

Fuckfuckfuck.

Apparently third time’s the charm. 

No. Not fucking happening.

“Tell me what happened,” Dean demands as he gingerly checks Cas’ body for wounds, both entry and exit. There’s a worrying amount of blood sluggishly pumping from his abdomen, making his shirt heavy and shiny, but it seems to be the only source. 

Whoever shot him apparently thought that this would be enough to finish the job, just slow and painful enough. 

Dean’s trying to keep a lid on the panic, but the anger? Nah, that’s coming thick and fucking fast. It’s the kind of pure, undiluted rage that pushes the bounds of all rational thought, makes Dean’s vision swim with how badly he needs to maim and hurt. Bile rises in his throat and he barely hears Gabriel’s reply over the thrumming of his own blood. 

“--He got shot,” Gabriel’s repeating, “I wasn’t there -- Bartholemew-- Cas has been having problems with some of the men recently--” Dean leans in, ear to Cas’ mouth, presses his index and middle fingers to Cas’ pulse, right above the angel wing, hoping to hear or feel a sign of life.

Cas’ breathing is shallow and his pulse is thready and weak, but he’s alive . 

Relief lances through the fury, tempering it for now, but if Cas dies--

No. He’s not going to fucking die. He can’t.

Pushing through the fear and the fierce need to rearrange some fucker’s face, Dean slides his forearms under Cas’ armpits, tells Gabriel, “We need to get him inside.”

Gabriel makes a reach for Cas’ legs, but Dean shakes his head, “No, don’t elevate his legs, it’ll make him bleed out faster.”

“Okay, okay,” Gabriel responds, antsy, “What can I do?”

Find the cunt who did this and tell them that I’ll be seeing them real fucking soon.

“Upstairs, third door on the left, it’s the bathroom, grab all the towels, lay them out on the bed in the adjoining room, I’ll be as quick as I can.”

Gabriel nods shakily and runs off.

Mouth to his boyfriend’s ear, Dean says, “Cas, if you can hear me man, I’m gonna have to drag you, okay?” 

Nothing. 

Dean clenches his jaw, hauls Cas out of the car as gently as possible, bearing as much of Cas’ torso weight as he can. Cas’ boots hit the ground with a dull thud, lifeless, and Dean mentally slaps himself, tells himself not to fucking cry, not now.

He drags Cas toward the house, careful not to jolt or jostle him too much. He looks down the length of Cas’ body, catches sight of the thin, broken trail of blood from the car to the porch.

Once inside, door kicked shut, Dean considers how to navigate the stairs. Figuring there’s no good way to do this, Dean readjusts his grip on Cas, tries not to think about that statistic he once read that said gunshot wound victims can bleed to death within five to eight minutes. 

It’s been at least six since Gabe pulled up.

They eventually make it upstairs and into the bedroom where Gabriel has laid out all the towels and is fidgeting anxiously. He helps Dean to lay Cas out on the bed and for an airless moment, Dean doesn’t know what to do first. Clean and bandage the wound? Get Cas out of his shirt? Call a paramedic?

The last one seems like the best idea. He goes to grab his landline phone off the nightstand, but Gabriel snatches the receiver out of his hand, holds it out of reach, “What about ‘no hospitals’ are you not understanding, Dean-o? NO HOSPITALS!”

“He’ll die, you fucking asshole!” Dean yells back, panic beginning to leach in around the edges again and he cannot let it spiral, so he shuts the door on it, lets his anger warm him instead, fuel him in a slow burn.

Something flits across Gabriel’s face and his eyes soften, “No hospitals,” He reiterates, quiet this time, “Cas has always said no hospitals in the event something like this happens because if word gets out that he’s been taken down? To say that it wouldn’t be good for business is an understatement.”

Like Dean gives a shit about the fucking business right now.

If Cas weren’t nearly dead, Dean would backhand the stupid bastard across his stupid fucking face.

“Little late for keeping up appearances, don’t you think?” Dean snaps, but he gets it, “Fine, go get me some hot water. There's more towels in one of the boxes marked ‘bathroom’ in the hallway, I think.”

Fuck, they’re supposed to be moving into their new place in ten days.

Don’t you dare cry, Winchester. Lock that shit down. 

Gabriel goes straight away, thankfully, and Dean takes the opportunity to examine Cas. Fuck , there’s no color in his skin at all and he’s clammy to the touch as Dean checks his pulse. Relief floods him when he finds it still there. Barely.

“Goddammit, Cas,” He mutters, coming around the other side of the bed, starts tearing Cas’ shirt to get at the wound. 

It’s bad; thick red blood still pumping and Dean closes his eyes in agony. He grabs a towel near Cas’s leg, folds it in half and then presses it to the wound, uses his weight behind his knee to get enough pressure to stem the flow.

What the fuck are they gonna do? Dean’s not equipped to deal with this, not even close, and without medical attention…

Nope. Nuh-uh.

Gabriel rushes back in with Cas’ stupid mixing bowl filled with steaming water and Dean’s heart twists sideways in his chest. Tears sting his eyes. Fuck. Cas can’t die, he just fucking can’t.

This might be about the stupidest decision he ever makes, but he couldn’t give less of a shit. Not if it saves Cas’ life.

Chest tight, Dean says, “Gabe, can you take over? I’ll be back.”

Gabriel looks confused, but dutifully takes over, knee replacing Dean’s, keeping the pressure over Cas’s wound even.

Dean takes the stairs three at a time, sprinting out the front door, across his lawn and down the street. Arms and legs pumping, heart pounding, he runs until he reaches Lisa’s house. He bangs on their nice pristine door, leaving smears of Cas’ blood in his wake, but he doesn’t stop, not until Lisa answers.

Her expression runs the gamut from annoyance, through recognition, coming to rest on concern, brown eyes shock-wide as she takes in Dean’s disheveled appearance, “What the-- Dean?”

“Is Matt home?”

The man himself appears behind her and Dean thanks an entity he doesn’t believe in that the doctor is actually here for once.

“Please, you have to help. Cas -- he got shot. Please, he’s gonna die,” Dean can feel the air leaving him as he speaks, verging on some kind of panic attack possibly, but he doesn’t lean into it, steels himself against it as he concentrates on the sight of Cas’ lifeless body. On making somebody suffer for this. 

Matt disappears from view, hopefully to get his doctoring bag or whatever. Dean fidgets restlessly, not sure what to do with his body, feeling almost out of it, like all this is happening to somebody else. Or maybe it’s a nightmare and he’ll wake up on the couch in front of Leslie Nielsen getting buried up to his neck in sand. 

Just in case, Dean digs his fingernails coated with Cas’ oxidizing blood into his forearm, painful enough to drag him from this night terror. 

No such luck. 

“Dean, baby,” Lisa says, voice soft, eyes liquid, “Is there an ambulance on the way?”

“No ambulance, no hospital,” Dean responds automatically, and if Lisa had any doubts about Cas’ profession before, she most likely doesn’t now.

Instead of reprimanding him, she just nods, touches a reassuring palm to Dean’s bicep, “Okay, it’s gonna be okay Dean. Matt will do his best, I promise you.” 

Dean has never loved her more than he does in this moment.

Matt reappears, lifts his kit for Dean to see, “Right, come on.”

Dean sets off at a jog, not sure what pace Matt can keep up with, but he stays by Dean’s side, easily, bag in hand, “I’ve only got limited medical supplies at home, but I’ll see what I can do, okay?”

Dean nods, unable to speak. Scarcely able to think above the panic cresting like a fucking wave.

Cas is gonna die.

The run back to the house takes all the time in the world whilst simultaneously taking no time at all. Dean leads Matt upstairs where Gabriel is still keeping pressure on Cas’ wound.

Dean strains to see the barely-there rise and fall of Cas’ chest, and he’s not able to disguise the scratch of words in his throat when he makes the obligatory introductions, “Gabe, this is Matt, Matt, Gabriel.”

They nod at each other and Matt goes around the bed to stand next to Gabriel, “Can you remove your knee? I need to see the damage.” Gabriel does as he’s asked, peeling the towel away from Cas’ wound. 

Matt sucks in a sharp breath through his teeth, dumps his bag on the bed next to Cas’ calf and starts digging through it. He barely looks up at Dean as he says, “I think it’d be best if you weren’t here for this, Dean. Gabriel can help me and if we need another pair of hands, we’ll call for you, alright?”

No, it’s not alright, it’s pretty fucking far from alright, but Dean nods jerkily, leaves the room with shaky hands and Cas’ blood drying in the lines of his skin.

Behind him, his bedroom door is closed with a firm click. It seems far too final. 

***

It’s possibly about five years before Dr Matt and Gabriel emerge from Dean’s room, the two of them stony-faced and gray. 

Dean rises from where he’s been sitting on the hallway floor, back against the wall, head in his hands, blood cracked and flaking now, but Dean can’t bring himself to wash it off. Stupid and pathetic as it sounds, it might be all he has left of Cas. “Please--”

Dr Matt holds up a hand to halt Dean’s pleading, “I’ve removed the bullet and he’s alive. For now. He was on the cusp of hemorrhagic shock, which means that some of his organs may have started to shut down. We’d need to do multiple tests to find out for sure. Basically, he needs more care than I can give him here, but Gabriel informs me that a hospital isn’t possible, so...” He trails off with a shrug.

“So what?” Dean bites out, words thick in his throat.

“So, it doesn’t look good,” Dr Matt supplies, “I’ve stemmed the blood flow and dressed the wound, but on top of potential organ damage, there’s a high likelihood of infection and if sepsis takes hold…” He sighs, looks at Dean’s tear-streaked face, tears he hadn’t even realized he’d shed until they’d dried tight on his skin, “If you clean the wound with a saline solution, administer antibiotic shots, and change the dressing over every two hours, then he might have a chance. Might. ”

“Okay,” Dean says, feeling the first tendril of hope taking root somewhere in the pit of his stomach, “Sure. Tell me what I need to do. I’ll do it.”

***

Dr Matt leaves Dean with thorough instructions, enough pain meds, antibiotics, and bandages to last through the night, and a stern caution, “I must warn you, the chances of him surviving this are not good.”

“But there is a chance?” Is Dean’s final question before Matt leaves him and Gabriel alone. 

***

Throughout the night, Dean dutifully changes the dressing. Every time he flushes the wound with water and salt, a horrible blend of blood, pus and plasma runs in streams onto the floor. It soaks into the carpet at Dean’s knees, but he’s pretty much numb to everything other than the drive to make Cas survive this so Dean can fucking kill him.

***

Cas still isn’t conscious by the third time Dean cleans his wound, but Gabriel is starting to get on his nerves. He’s leaning against the bedroom wall behind Dean, humming a song Dean can’t quite place as he gently presses a non-stick bandage to Cas’ inflamed skin, “Don’t you have somewhere to be?”

“Probably,” Gabriel answers glibly from behind him, “But Cas would want me here with you.”

He’s not wrong, so Dean doesn’t argue. Instead, he focuses on swiping the little antiseptic wipe over the skin of Cas’ arm, inside the bend of his elbow, ready to inject his next dose of antibiotics. “Have you spoken to Claire? She’s in Europe with her mom.” 

“Yeah,” Gabe replies, “I phoned her not long after the good doctor left--” Dean should’ve been the one to do it really, but he would’ve just sobbed down the phone, “--I didn’t tell her what’s happened, obviously, but she’s fine. She went to the Louvre yesterday, hated it apparently.”

Dean manages a smile at that. Cas once told him that the Mona Lisa is overrated (“It’s not even that good, Dean. It’s certainly no ‘Garden of Earthly Delights.’”)

Again, like father like daughter.

Luckily for Dean, Ben’s still at Lisa’s for another night. Though undoubtedly he’ll be staying for a bit longer this week. And that’s if Lisa ever lets Dean near him again.

Fuck.

Dean is gonna make whoever did this regret being born. 

Needle in Cas’ skin, Dean asks thickly, “Who did this? Did you say Bartholomew?”

“Yeah,” Gabriel confirms, tone unusually grim, “Pretty sure it was Bartholomew and a couple of others. Ephraim, Josiah, possibly even Raphael. Though I can’t be certain about that last one.”

Dean tears open another antiseptic wipe packet with his teeth, applies it to the small prick of blood once the needle is out, “What was it? Some kind of vie for power?”

“Pretty much. There have been rumblings for a little while now. Some of the guys are a bit pissed.”

Rumblings?

“Since when?”

Gabriel exhales on a sigh, “Since you .”

Fuck. This is Dean’s fault?

Dean rises to his feet, turns to face Gabriel. He peels the disposable gloves off, chucks them and the empty vial and used needle in the wastebasket by the nightstand, “What do you mean?”

Gabriel looks away and when he speaks, Dean gets the impression that he’s choosing his words carefully in a rare display of tact, “What you have to understand about Cas - about the way of life - is that you can’t show any weakness--”

And fuck, Dean’s heard this shit a thousand fucking times, “--yeah yeah, give ‘em an inch and they’ll take a mile. I’ve heard the whole spiel from Cas.”

Gabriel laughs, but there’s no mirth, no humor, “Of course you have.” He shakes his head, mutters at Cas’ prone form, “Stupid motherfucker.”

Protective anger ignites in his chest, but Dean quickly smothers it.

Gabe’s right. Cas is a stupid motherfucker.

“I’m not entirely disagreeing with you, Gabriel, but why is he a stupid motherfucker? On this occasion at least.”

Gabriel shoots him a look that suggests he thinks Cas isn’t the only stupid motherfucker in the room, “ You’re his weakness, Dean. Don’t you fucking get it? Everybody knows that he’s in love with you. They think that he’s not capable of running things with the kind of ruthlessness necessary when you’re around. He’s too busy making moon eyes at you.”

Cas? Moon eyes? Are they even talking about the same person?

“So they shot him?”

“Like I said, there have been rumblings for a while, but they think he’s weak. The whole Crowley thing, then bringing you in...”

Well, fuck. Though Dean has yet to find out what the ‘whole Crowley thing’ is. He knows they’re in business together, but it’s something Dean has no real interest getting involved in. Especially after the entire Dick Roman fiasco. And actually meeting the limey fucker.

Ugh.

Dean scrubs a hand over his jaw as he tries to think past his heart thudding in his ears, his blood pumping so fast and thick that it’s making him dizzy.

He never wanted this. Any of this.

There’s no going back now though. For any of them. Dean presses the heel of his hand to his eye, rubs, pulls himself together, “Okay. I need names of all those involved, and a separate list of those you trust. And I mean really trust.”

“Dean--”

Digging deep, Dean dredges up some facsimile of the person he is around Cas, squares his shoulders, orders, “Just fucking do it, alright?”

“Alright,” Gabriel confirms with a tight nod, professionally solemn and Dean’s thankful for it, “What do you want me to tell the men?”

Dean considers it. He’s not exactly in the best place to be thinking tactically right now, but he knows that they have to tread very cautiously with this. 

“Tell them that he’s been shot, we don’t know by who and that he’s at the Memorial Hospital. In stable condition. But tell them to keep it quiet or else ,” Dean’s not forgotten Cas’ no hospital policy and he’s respected it, but that doesn’t mean it can’t be an advantage they can write off as rumor later. When Cas is better, “Try your best to gauge reactions. Maybe if we’re real lucky, the fucker or fuckers who did this will show up at the hospital to finish the job. Get a couple of the people you trust stationed there - subtly - so we can find out.”

Of course, if -- no, when -- Cas comes around, he’ll be able to tell them who did it, but for now, this is all they have. And time is kind of the essence here, especially if a coup is in motion.

“Okie dokie,” Gabriel mock-salutes, “I’ll check on you in a few hours. I’ll bring the lists then.” He claps Dean on the shoulder and then he’s gone, leaving Dean alone with a still-unconscious Cas and his anger coiling tighter and tighter.

Dean’s a weakness? 

Fuck. that. noise. 

***

Five hours later, exhaustion and the slump of adrenaline kicks in and he passes out on the California King next to Cas. He’s divested Cas of his clothes, leaving him in his black cotton boxers in a nest of blankets, with a clean wound and bandage, and still unresponsive.

Dean’s not sure what it is that wakes him from his restless, short sleep first; the movement on the mattress or the rough, anguished noise. 

Either way, his eyes are open in seconds and he gropes blindly for the nightstand lamp. The light comes on, illuminating Cas still on the bed, but now he’s absolutely covered in sweat - not the sexy, just fucked sheen Dean’s grown accustomed to, either - his face is no longer pallid, instead his skin is flushed and his hair is a dripping mess, plastered to his scalp. 

Dean’s stomach lurches dangerously, as Cas grunts, followed by a soft moan and Dean’s name. 

“Cas, Cas, I’m right here, it’s okay.”

Cas thrashes in the cocoon of blankets, murmuring nonsense about Dean and Claire and Ben, and it makes Dean’s heart twist and his throat tighten. “Shush, babe, it’s okay.” He manages to disentangle Cas from the blankets, dragging them down and off, exposing Cas’ sweaty skin to the cooler air. He has no idea if anything he’s doing is correct right now, but he can’t just let this happen without doing nothing. 

The second the saturated-with-sweat blankets are off, Cas starts shivering and Dean’s eyes flick down to check the bandage. It’s already leaking through, red and a tinge of sickly green-yellow, even though Dean only changed it --- just under an hour ago.

Shit shit shit fuck.

He fumbles for his phone, only briefly checking the time to make sure it’s not 3 AM or something before he’s calling Dr. Matt.

He answers on the fourth ring with a gruff, “‘lo?”

No preamble, Dean cuts straight to it, “He’s got the sweats and he’s shivering. I think the wound is infected.”

Dean hears the soft murmur of Matt telling Lisa who it is on the other end, before Matt is back, “You’ve been doing as I said?”

Dean nods, belatedly realizing that Matt can’t see him, says, “Yeah, bandages, injections, cleaning with a salt solution, the lot.”

Matt sucks in a breath and Dean’s beginning to hate that sound, “All you can really do for him is continue. Keep the wound clean and let the antibiotics do their job. Keep an eye on his respiratory and heart rate too. Higher than 20 breaths per minute or 90 beats per minute is a cause for concern.”

Shit.

“Okay, thanks.”

He hangs up without waiting to hear anything else and stands there in the middle of his bedroom, crumpled blankets at his feet, Cas feverish and heartbreakingly fragile, and just for a split second Dean allows himself to pitch into the hopelessness and inevitably of the situation crashing down around him. 

It’s suffocating and bone crushing in its intensity. It physically hurts to keep breathing, to keep dragging air into his lungs through the splintering of his ribs, the compression of his lungs. Ironic really, that the only thing that could coax him out of his spiraling panic is the fucker who’s responsible for it.

Come on Winchester, you got this. Cas has got this, you just have to help him out a little. 

Right.

Moment over - or at least shelved for now - he rushes into the en suite, starts running a bath. He’s just checking the temperature of the water to make sure it’s lukewarm when Cas’ broken howl of “ Dean! ” has him skidding back into the bedroom, hoping against hope that he’s consciously yelling for Dean, but he’s writhing on the fitted sheet, whining low in his throat, clearly delirious and Dean isn’t gonna lose it, but it’s a close damn thing.

No. Fuck no.

He darts back into the bathroom, adds salt to the near-full tub, and strips down. He goes back into the bedroom, removes Cas’ underwear and the gross bandage, and half-carries, half-drags him to the bath. 

With some expert maneuvering from Dean and an excellent - if heart-rending - impression of a dead body from Cas, Dean manages to get Cas in the tub, cradling the back of his head as he slides in behind him, his chest to Cas’ back, arms under Cas’ biceps and around his sternum, trying not to look at the gaping wound blasted through his inked abdomen. Water sloshes over the rim, too much in too small a space for two six feet plus men, but the way Cas is moaning incoherently stops Dean noticing anything else.

Mouth pressed to Cas’ ear, Cas’ hair tickling his nose, Dean just starts talking, not really sure of what he’s saying, but needing Cas to hear him all the same, “Yeah, yeah. I know it’s cramped as fuck in here. But this is your fault, you just had to go and get shot before we moved, didn’t you? Couldn’t wait until I’d be able to do this in a massive fucking indoor spa tub or whatever. You’re a jackass.”

Bodies crushed together as close as they are, Dean can feel Cas’ heartbeat tucked right up against his own, and he counts along, gets to ninety-three before he guesses a minute is up. 

Fuck. 

Dean’s voice cracks in the middle when he whispers, “Cas, I know you’re in there. You’ve gotta be in there, man. I fucking love you, you asshole. You have to know that right? I know we’ve never said it, but I’m saying it now, okay?”

Dean’s not a religious person; he’s very much of the opinion that it’s all fucking chaos, and if there is a being up there somewhere, in charge of the universe, it’s almost definitely the Azathoth the blind idiot god. 

But right now? 

Right now, with Cas still shivering against him, high grade fever burning through his body, Dean would give anything to have blind faith that Cas is gonna pull through this.

“We’re moving into our new house soon, yeah? There’s no way you spent nearly twelve million dollars just to fucking die like an asshole before you’ve even fucked me once over the kitchen counter. I’m not accepting it, Cas. So you need to fight this for me. I mean it, Castiel.” 

Cas moans again, a mangled approximation of Dean’s name, and it snaps Dean near in half to see this man, this proud, capable, strong man, unconscious and shaking in his arms ‘cause some fucker thought that what they have is a weakness.

Anger twists through him again, claws out and shredding him to pieces.

“You’ve gotta fight this for me, Cas. I can’t do this shit without you. I’m gonna destroy ‘em all for you babe, and I need you to be there, right?”

Cas’ moans have quietened a little now, just soft mewls and delirious mumbles, and Dean strokes his hair, keeps talking to him, whispering nonsense, telling him absolutely anything and everything, just for something to say. He tells Cas what he’s gonna do to all the fuckers who did this to him, in great detail. He presses kisses to Cas’ temple, holds him through his feverish shivers, his own anger cresting and falling with Cas’ bouts of clammy sweats. 

Which is how Gabriel finds them sometime later.

“Jesus!” He groans dramatically, shielding his eyes and turning his back, “Never wanted to see the boss’ cock, to be honest, Dean-o!”

Dean ignores him, palm over Cas’ heart, lips to Cas’ ear, midway through describing his favorite fantasy. It’s a lot more PG-13 than the rest of them, but it’s perhaps the one that Dean wants most. It’s just them and the kids enjoying a single evening together, the four of them curled up on the couch in their new house, surrounded by empty pizza boxes, and one of Cas’ pecan pies sitting heavy in Dean’s gut, as they binge-watch some junk on Netflix. 

Making a Murderer or some shit so that Cas can enjoy pointing out the flaws in the investigation. 

They’ll get around to it, but first of all, Cas has to hold up his end of the bargain and pull through this like the warrior he is.

His heart rate has dropped to eighty-five. Which is something at least. 

“I errr, brought the lists you wanted,” Gabriel says, blindly slaps them down next to the sink, “And some good news.”

Could do with some of that right about now.

“The boss man managed to get off a couple of shots before the fuckers ran. He killed Ephraim. I found his body near his car, not a hundred feet from where I found our Cas earlier.”

Dean’s heart swells with fierce pride. Even lying there in a pool of his own blood, Cas managed to be a fucking badass.

“What have you told the rest of the men?” Dean asks thickly, looking down the firm curve of muscle in Cas’ chest to his wound. The edges are a tender pink, but it looks a little less angry now. He pulls the plug, lets the dirty water drain from around them. 

“What you told me to.”

“Good,” Dean acknowledges, “Who’s there waiting for Bartholemew and the other one to show?” 

“Balthazar and Michael,” Gabe says, adds quickly, “They’re on the trusted list.”

“Okay,” Dean replies. They would’ve been on his too. Tub almost empty, he rises, still supporting Cas’ head. “If you don’t wanna see a whole lotta cock, then you’re probably best off waiting out in the hall.”

Gabriel makes a squeaking noise and exits the bathroom so fast, Dean’s almost expecting to see tire marks on the floor tiles.

“C’mon, Cas,” he reaches under Cas’ pits again, tugs as gently as he can. Fucker is heavy though and by the time Dean gets him back to the bed, they’re both sweaty and in need of another bath. He cleans the wound again, which is a bit raw-looking, but not currently leaking, so Dean counts it as a win. He slathers on some vaseline, presses down a bandage, injects some more antibiotics, and drapes a clean blanket back loosely over the top of Cas’ unconscious form. 

He’s barely making a noise anymore, fever broken and hopefully managed. Dean breathes a sigh of relief.

There’s a soft knock at the bedroom door and Gabriel’s voice floats through, “Is it safe?”

Depends on Gabriel’s definition of safe, really. 

“Err, one sec.” He grabs a clean pair of underwear from the dresser, hastily shoves in one foot after the other, “Sure.”

Gabriel comes in, eyes on Cas in the bed. He glances up at Dean and performs a comedic double-take. He wolf-whistles, “Holy shit, Dean-o. I had no idea what you were hiding underneath all those tatty band shirts and ill-fitting jeans. No wonder our Cas is so enamored with you.”

"Yeah, Cas only wants me for my perky nipples. Nothing at all to do with my ability to make grown men cry with a bit of rope and some elbow grease, right?"

Gabriel grins crookedly, "A good point, well made."

Dean rolls his eyes, about to come back with an undoubtedly witty retort, but that’s when Cas makes a small sound, “Dean...” and it doesn’t sound like the desperate delirium from before, but rather a conscious request.

He slides onto the bed next to Cas, fine tremor in the hand that strokes across Cas’ jaw, rough stubble beneath his fingertips, “Cas, you awake?”

Because of course the possessive fucker would finally regain consciousness when someone’s complimenting Dean.

“Mmm,” Cas responds, and then his breathing evens out, losing his battle with oblivion again. 

Dean lets his head fall to the pillow next to Cas’.

Cas has got this. 

***

Later that morning, Dean switches on some music for Cas. He’s read somewhere that it can stimulate the unconscious mind and he’s pretty sure that if he heard Justin Bieber whilst in a coma, he’d wake up just to switch that shit off.

Dean’s tempted to be an ass and play some Biebs, but Cas once told him completely unironically that he’s partial to Lamb of God , which Dean finds hi-fucking-larious , so he scrolls through their Spotify and chucks a random album on.

It’s right around the time that ‘Now You’ve Got Something To Die For’ kicks in that Dean decides perhaps heavy metal isn’t the way to go. 

He searches for something more appropriate, tells Cas, “If you don’t wake up soon, I’ll play you some Phil Collins. And not the good shit from the eighties either.”

Cas makes a noise in his sleep which Dean takes as dissent. 

He settles on the full version of his ringtone, sets it to repeat, and goes to make himself a sandwich and get some fresh water for Cas, catching the first chorus as he leaves the bedroom.

‘I am a man who will fight for your honor, I'll be the hero you're dreaming of, we'll live forever, knowing together that we did it all for the glory of love.’

***

The next time Gabriel comes by he has news regarding Cas’ would-be murderers. He also brings Cas’ laptop as per Dean’s request, so Dean can take over Cas’ meetings (virtually) and workload for him. 

According to Gabriel, Bartholemew and Josiah turned up at the hospital. Despite orders to stay away. Which means two things: one, that they’re most certainly the remaining two-thirds of the rag-tag team who tried to murder Cas, and two, that they’re gonna die slowly and painfully.

In order to throw them off the scent, Michael and Balthazar told them that Cas has been moved, but wouldn’t reveal where. 

Dean has a plan. He just needs to speak to Cas when he wakes. 

Because it’s shifted from being an if to a when.

***

Dean manages a few fitful hours of sleep here and there, in between checking emails and answering phone calls, and tending to Cas. 

Dr Matt comes by in the afternoon, checks Cas’ vitals and his wound.

“It looks good.” He tells Dean, outwardly impressed. He pulls a couple more vials out of his cool bag, lays them on the bed next to the bandages and syringes he’s already gifted Dean with. Dean’ll have to remember to pay the good doctor for his time and supplies (and discretion) once this is all over, “You on the other hand, not so much.”

Or not.

“Yeah, thanks Doc.” Dean mutters, scratching at his neck, very much aware that despite having had a bath less than twelve hours ago, he’s a sweaty, gross, state all over again.

Matt folds up his stethoscope, replaces it in his bag, “You’ve done a good job. The best you could under the circumstances. It’s up to him now.”

Cas ain’t a quitter. He’ll come round sooner or later.

“But I’ve gotta ask, Dean--”

Oh shit, here it comes. 

“--What is Castiel mixed up in that meant this happened? And the whole ‘no hospitals’ thing?”

Yeahhhh, Dean has been expecting this. He should probably be grateful that Matt waited this long to bring it up.

Dean scrubs a hand over his face, scours the recesses of his brain for a plausible excuse, “Yeah,” He sighs, “A disgruntled employee shot him.”

“A disgruntled employee?” Matt repeats incredulously, “What kind of business is he in? Lisa told me he owns a bar, for God’s sake.”

“Err, yeah. He does. It’s downtown. Kinda a rough area. Attracts rough employees too, I guess? I don’t know the full story, but the guy sounds like a real asshat. Holds a weird grudge against Cas, so he and some of his unsavory friends decided to track Cas down, make it look random. Cas didn’t want to go to the hospital in case they discovered he hadn’t died, decided to come back and finish the job.”

It sounds weak to Dean’s own ears, but he’s been up since yesterday morning - aside from that half-hour before Cas woke up all delirious - his brain isn’t exactly fully functional.

“Uh-huh.” Matt says, unconvinced, “Is it safe for Ben?”

And there it is. 

This is what Dean’s been dreading ever since he made the decision to run over to Lisa’s instead of letting Cas die in his bed. 

“It has been for almost a year, Matt. Ben loves Cas and vice versa. Please don’t let this turn into something more than it is.”

Even if that’s accurate.

No. The kids are safe. This is just a small bump. One that’ll be smoothed over very fucking quickly and brutally.

“Because you know I just worry--”

Uh-huh. Everybody just worries. But only when it suits their own interests, Dean notices. Perhaps it’s an unkind, unfair thought, considering that without Matt’s intervention Cas would be dead, but as established by Sam’s bullshit, Dean’s tired of other people mapping their views and opinions onto him. 

He’s already on the verge of losing Sam, Charlie, and Bobby. He will not lose Ben as well. And he doesn’t even mean that in a determined, ‘no this cannot happen’ way. He means it as in, he will fight for custody if it comes to it, and the judges in this city will rule in favor of him and Cas.

He doesn’t want to do that to Lisa if he can help it.

“...Dean…”

Dean’s head snaps 'round so fast, that for a second he worries if he’s about to start fucking a crucifix and spewing green liquid. He’s over and on the bed, mattress dipping beneath his knee as he looks down at Cas in a kind of starry-eyed awe probably more commonly reserved for religious experiences.

“Cas?”

Cas makes a sort of adorable snuffling sound - Dean’s gonna enjoy bringing that up later - and then he’s opening his eyes slowly, looking lost and surprised for a moment, before he catches sight of Dean, and stares heavy-lidded and unblinking, like he can’t decide if Dean’s real or a hallucination.

Dean barely manages to hold back a sob, affection swelling in his chest.

He’s so handsome, even now when he looks awful; dark bruises underneath his bloodshot eyes, skin pale and clammy, hair dark with sweat.

But he’s alive . 

Dean sits on the edge of the bed, one knee up on the mattress, pushes a hand through the bedraggled mess of Cas’ hair. “Hey, Cas.”

“Hello, Dean.”

Voice scraped out and raw, Dean tells his boyfriend, “You look like shit.”

Cas is exhausted, brought back from the brink of death, but there’s a playfulness behind his eyes that makes Dean’s pulse race, “I got shot, what’s your excuse?”

Fuck, Dean loves the impossible bastard.

Dean strokes his knuckles across Cas’ cheek, “I thought you were a goner, man. You scared the shit outta me.”

Cas manages a wan - but real - smile. Which putters out like a flame when he notices Matt hovering near the foot of the bed.

Dean twists to glance over at the doctor, “Oh yeah, you remember Matt right? Lisa’s partner?”

“Dr. Matt,” Cas croaks and Dean grabs the cup of water off the nightstand.

“Hi Castiel,” Matt gives a small awkward wave, “Dean here saved your life. We both thought you were a goner.”

“Shit,” Cas mumbles, tries to get his hands underneath himself to move into a better position so he can drink from the fluorescent straw, grimacing at the pull of pain. 

“Whoa!” Dean holds out his free hand, touches Cas’ chest lightly, “Take it easy.” When he’s satisfied that Cas is in a comfortable position, he passes Cas the water, then taps out a couple of Toradol tablets into Cas’ open palm.

“Well, I’d better get going,” Matt says, claps Dean on the shoulder, “Dean, we can continue our conversation later, yeah?”

“Can’t wait,” Dean mutters through clenched teeth. Cas swallows the drugs, drinks, and hands back the empty cup, which Dean replaces on the nightstand.

The bedroom door bumps shut and Dean crumples against Cas, breathing in his warm skin, the familiar earth-salt scent of him, “ Cas. ”

“Dean,” It’s fond and warm with affection.

Dean lets a tear sneak out as he curls himself carefully around Cas, head pillowed just below his collarbone, ear over the steady beat of his heart, “Thought you were gonna leave me. You’re not allowed to leave me, Cas.”

“I’ll always come back for you, Dean,” Cas says, a soft rumble through Dean’s bones, palm warm and dry on Dean’s cheek, thumb wiping away the tear, “I’d come back from the dead for you.”

The sheer sincerity of it steals Dean’s breath, the words settling hot and heavy right between his ribs. His chest feels too full, fit to bursting, throat thick with all the things he wishes he had the courage to say in return. 

Instead, Dean kisses the pulse of Cas’ wrist and half-jokes, “Think you pretty much did there, man,” And it sounds hollow even to his own ears.

Cas’ heart rate is 67. Dean’s is probably faster right now.

“Dean,” Cas’ tone brooks no argument so Dean lifts his head, tired green eyes meeting equally exhausted blue ones. They stare at each other for what seems like an eternity in a weighted silence that has Dean holding his breath for something he can feel coming in his bones. Apparently finding what he was searching for in that little eyes-are-the-windows-of-the-soul-fuck, Cas’ expression breaks and then his mouth is twitching like he’s holding back a smile, “I’m really hungry.”

Dean chokes out a rusty laugh, relief and disappointment tangling together and tying a bow around his wretched fucking heart, “You’re an asshole, is what you are.”

***

Dean orders a pizza, requests pineapple as a topping even though Cas fucking hates pineapple on pizza. 

By the time the delivery driver has been and gone, Cas is passed out again and it’s up to Dean to demolish a pineapple covered monstrosity by himself. 

***

Setting a mug of decaf on the nightstand, Dean slides carefully onto the bed next to Cas. He’s propped up on a stack of pillows against the headboard, color finally starting to return to his skin approximately thirty-six hours after getting shot. Dean drops a sloppy kiss to his cheek, passes over a handful of cards.

Cas takes them, tucks them under his thigh, makes a ‘gimme’ gesture at the coffee, because priorities .

Dean sits against the headboard, watches the reverence with which Cas treats his cup of joe, tries not to be jealous, “So talk to me, Cas. Why the fuck are you lying here in my bed with a fucking bullet wound on your birthday?”

“Did you have something else planned?” Cas asks blithely, chapped lips pursed as he blows on his coffee, before taking a cautious sip.

“You’re hilarious . Especially for someone who needs help to piss, so maybe you could tell me everything and then I won’t make you use a bedpan, huh? How’s that sound for a birthday present?”

“Not exactly what I had in mind, but I suppose I should be grateful for whatever I get.”

“Damn straight. Now talk.”

Cas sighs, winces as he shifts a little and Dean stomps down the urge to immediately fuss, “Alright. So as you know, Crowley runs all of the gambling establishments in the city--”

At Dean’s bemused nod, he continues, “--and I’m also sure you remember that he’s the one who told me about your ex-husband’s little plan to have me killed. Well, Crowley doesn’t do anything for free. He wanted something from me in return for the information.”

A little mercenary for Dean’s tastes, but it makes sense. Cas is a powerful guy, it would be useful to have him owe you one.

“What did he want, Cas?”

“He wanted me to kill Benny.”

Oh. Oh fuck. 

Sensing Dean’s undoubtedly thunderstruck expression, Cas gives him a sidelong glance, “Yes. So when I didn’t--”

“--He came after you.”

Cas takes another sip of his coffee, “Not quite. We renegotiated terms. I said I’d do some grunt work for him. Which I did. The thing with Roman was supposed to be the last of it.”

Killing Dick Roman and the rest of his men was grunt work? Jesus Christ.

Another realization eclipses the first. Cas’ deal with Crowley - the one he explained to Dean at the neighborhood watch meeting - where Crowley got everything of Dick Roman’s and Cas got nothing? Now it makes sense, but it also means that Roman may not have been the threat Castiel told Dean he was.

“Should I be giving you the benefit of the doubt here, Cas?”

“No.”

Fuck. So, all that bullshit about Roman being days away from killing Cas was precisely that - bullshit .

Why lie though? 

Apparently Cas’ mind-reading abilities haven’t been hindered by his life-threatening injury, because he says, “If you let me explain, you’ll find out that I had good reasons for everything I did.”

Dean wants to tell him that these reasons had better be damn good, but it literally makes no difference to the way he feels toward Cas or his own actions. He may not have tortured Edgar that night, but then again, he probably would’ve.

“Go on. Explain it to me.”

“Well, in case you haven’t noticed, Crowley’s a dick and he enjoys changing the rules of the game. He was already dripping poison into the ear of some of my men - casting doubts about my ability to lead with you in my life. Telling them that I was going soft, couldn’t even kill some lowlife with gambling debts, because you didn’t want me to.”

Jesus fuck.

“Some left to work with him, some I managed to get to first, and either I changed their mind or I didn’t and I killed them.”

Which explains quite a lot actually. Cas shooting his men, the staffing issues...

“I suspect it’s Crowley who also managed to get the weapons delivery halted.”

Dean frowns, “But Malachi told us everything, right? He didn’t mention anything about Crowley.”

“Yes, but he’s mostly the go-between for these things. The actual operation is run by a man named Zachariah. He doesn’t get involved in the day-to-day running of the operation generally, but he’s on the board of directors, if you will. What he says, goes. Crowley may have got to him. Which is why I needed to send such a strong message at that meeting with Malachi.”

Yeah, four bodies is a pretty strong fucking message.

“And all this is because you didn’t kill Benny?”

“Mostly, yes. Though I suspect Crowley has wanted to make this play for a while now. Me not killing your ex was just convenient.”

"Why didn't you retaliate? If you knew what Crowley was up to."

"It's not easy, I had things to consider--"

You. He had you to consider, you dumb fuck.

Dean’s hearing Cas’ words, but not listening, internal record skipping over: Cas didn’t kill Benny because of you, Cas got shot because of you, Cas almost died because of you , Cas didn’t kill Benny because of you -- “And you didn’t kill Benny because of me?”

Why Cas didn’t kill Benny because of Dean is probably too much to hope for, so Dean crushes it down, focuses on the burning shame he feels instead, because that makes more sense, is easier to relax into, even if it’s been a while.

Cas sighs like he’s the one suffering right now. Sure, he might have been shot, but Dean feels like he’s been gutted, “This is why I didn’t want to tell you. I knew you’d blame yourself.”

Damn straight.

“But it’s my fault . If I hadn’t been so fucking squeamish about you shooting Benny, then none of this would’ve happened.”

“Listen to me.” Cas deposits his empty mug on the nightstand, fierce vehemence burning bright in blue eyes when he turns back to Dean, “That’s literally the opposite of what I’m telling you right now. I’m telling you that Crowley would’ve found a way to make this happen. One way or another. It just happened to be extremely convenient for him that he wanted Benny gone because of his debts, and then when I didn’t follow through-- well it gave him the opportunity to stir up trouble with my men about you and whether or not it was true, didn’t matter. This was before you started proving yourself in their eyes - something that I may or may not have expedited and facilitated as much as I could. Which is why I lied about Roman. I could sense you were on the edge of something and in order to give you that push I--”

“--Who was he?”

“Edgar? I didn’t lie about that. He was Roman’s right-hand man, but the information I wanted from him was to be obtained for Crowley, not me.”

“Fuck,” Dean mutters, “So you manipulating me into torturing him was you making me scary so that the guys wouldn't think I was turning you soft, right?”

Dean gets the logic, even if he’s not entirely happy with Cas’ methods. But again, would it have made a difference? Sure, it gave Dean a push, but he was already teetering.

“You are scary, Dean. I didn’t make you anything. I just nudged you in the right direction and then made sure that everybody heard about you. It worked to an extent, but apparently enough were still convinced by Crowley that they felt the need to try and execute me.”

Dean’s quiet for a long moment, figuring out his thoughts, sorting through this new information, and deciding which side to come down on.

It’s no decision at all, really.

“‘ Whether or not it was true' ?” Dean asks, quietly, a little scared of the answer.

Cas arches a brow, “I’m sure Gabriel has enlightened you as to what the men think about my relationship with you.”

“Yeah, that it makes you weak.”

Cas scoffs derisively, “Did he say why?”

Dean can’t quite look him in the eye, “Because you love me.”

Cas tsks, angry, “Fucking Gabriel.”

Oh.

Dean’s heart plummets through his stomach. Well, that answers that one then. It’s not like he doesn’t know that Cas cares for him - they bought a fucking house together, Cas defended him, Cas thoroughly fucked himself over just because Dean was being a little bitch about Benny getting killed. 

Still. He had hoped .

Cas is watching him closely, and it’s kinda reassuring to know that he hasn’t lost any of that scorching intensity along with the pints of blood. There’s something smoldering behind his eyes and before Dean knows it, Cas’ broad palm is on the nape of his neck, pulling him in close, and he’s inhaling their combined breath, coffee on Cas’, and the bastard’s mouth is curling up into that infuriating smirk, the one Dean’s never sure if he wants to kiss or slap off his handsome face. 

“Cas...” He can feel himself go nearly cross-eyed with how close they are. He blinks, pulls back as far as Cas’ iron grip will let him, tries to think above the midnight static in his brain right now, feeling fatalistic and dumb but hopeful , “...do you?”

Cas slants him a look like he can’t quite believe anybody could be this fucking stupid, “Of course I love you, I just wanted you to hear it from me first, not fucking Gabriel when I’m half-dead and in septic shock.”

Dean’s pretty sure that he heard that wrong. Not the half-dead, septic shock part, the bit before it.

“Say it again, Cas.”

“Fucking Gabriel?”

Asshole.

“I’m so pleased that you taking a bullet to the gut hasn’t dulled your razor-sharp wit, but if you could not be an asshole, just this once--”

“I love you, Dean.”

Well, fuck.

“I love you too, Cas.”

“I know,” All Han Solo to Dean’s Leia, except Cas said it first , “I heard you. When I was hallucinating and we were in the bath, I think.” He cocks his head slightly, “Unless I was fever dreaming that too?”

Dean shakes his head, throat tight with emotion, “I was rambling all kinds of shit, because I just needed you to know that I was there. Whatever you were going through, I didn’t want you to be alone.”

Voice low and sincere, Cas says, “Thank you.”

“I would say any time, Cas. But let’s not make a habit out of this, yeah?”

Cas smiles wryly, “I think I can manage that.”

So this has been wonderful and all - truly - but it’s a bit too heavy for Dean right now. He’s been an absolute wreck the last few days and it’s not gonna take much more of them feeling their feelings to have him ugly-crying. In order to regain his equilibrium, he aims for levity, “So what, does this make us Al and Mae Capone now?”

“I’d say we’re more like Bugsy Siegel and Virginia Hill.”

Queen of the Mob. Dean’ll take it.

“Means you’ll have to name a hotel after me in Vegas to show your looooooove.” Dean flutters his eyelashes and pouts ridiculously, “Just to complete the gangster cliche. Oooooh, I’m thinking a western theme - but classy - draft beers, and lots of cowboy hats. We’ll have to get you some chaps.”

“You can go off people, you know.”

“Nah, you loooooove me. You want to kiss meeeeee.”

“Well, it is my birthday.”

Yeah, yeah it is. And as he leans in, presses his mouth to Cas’ it kinda feels like Dean’s too.

***

Dean begins plotting. Crowley is going to pay for this. 

***

Gabriel ‘lets slip’ to Bartholomew that Cas died. Then watches as Bart goes straight to Crowley with the information. 

Steps one and two of ‘that limey cunt is gonna die choking on his own blood and crying for his mummy’ (catchy code name, right?) complete. 

***

In the wake of the most inept assassination attempt since Operation Valkyrie, Dean’s house has become a goddamn thoroughfare. Gabriel, Michael, and Balthazar are constantly drinking Dean’s coffee, ordering in food (he never knew that gangsters had such an affinity for fettuccine alfredo and kimchi), and then leaving the empty mugs/cartons lying around for Dean to clean up. On top of his already pretty-damn-full workload. 

How Cas manages all this shit every day without going insane is anyone’s guess.

Dean’s would be that he’s a fucking masochist. 

The aforementioned open house policy Dean’s apparently adopted since Cas’ shooting is why he’s startled by the doorbell as he’s sitting on a stool in the kitchen, forearms on the island, staring at the laptop screen, trying to make sense of a purchase order that Raphael has emailed him.

Gabe’s still not convinced the man is to be trusted (and neither is Dean) - so, for now, they’re treading with caution.

“Somebody get that!” Dean yells, not looking up, getting lost in the slew of emails once more. 

The doorbell goes again. 

Ah, fuck. That’s right, Dean’s allocated everyone for the afternoon; Gabe’s at the warehouse overseeing production, Balthazar is making sure that things are ticking over at the bar, the garage, and the restaurant, and Michael is keeping an eye on Batholomew and Josiah under the pretense of dealing with the guns.

To all outside appearances, it’s business as usual. 

“Door’s open!” Dean yells to the person on the other side, hoping a) that they hear him, and b) that they’re not one of Bart’s boys come to finish the job.

He’s pretty sure that assassins don’t ring the doorbell first though. Even inept ones.

Moments later, Sam appears in the kitchen doorway, looking long-limbed and nervous, and Dean realizes that for everything that’s happened in the last few days, it’s only been five since the ultimatum. 

“Hey, Sammy. Pull up a pew.” He slaps the stool next to him and saves the email attachment. He makes a mental note to phone Baba Yaga today, put a suspension on bringing the drugs in for a week or two, or until they’ve done a recruitment drive.

“Hi, Dean,” Sam says, wide eyes scanning over the decimation of Dean’s kitchen, “Looks like a Korean food comet crash-landed in here.”

“Ah yeah,” Dean says, reading over the same line about AK-47’s at least four times, “Sorry about the mess.”

Sam straddles the stool next to him, dithers nervously, and Dean does. not. have. time. for. this. shit; he’s exhausted and less than sympathetic, "So, has the grand council made a decision?" He scrolls down, copy-and-pastes the information into a blank purchase order, attaches it, sends it back to Raphael.

Work shit dealt with for the next thirty seconds at least, Dean pulls up the info he really wants to research; Crowley’s casino, his gambling dens, his everything.

Crowley wants a war, Dean’s going to give him one. Except this’ll be the most one-sided war since the Battle of Blood River (Dean and the angels are the Boers, obviously).

“We’re just worried about you, Dean.” 

Ah, yes. This old record. It’s damn near worn through, jumping in some places, but Sam insists on playing it.

“Don’t be, Sammy. I’m fine.”

“It’s not that easy. How would you feel if the situation was reversed?”

“I’d be mildly surprised that you’d started liking dick after all this time. Only mildly, mind you. I saw the way you used to look at that kid Brady’s ass when nobody was watching.”

Sam splutters comically and Dean grins as he scans over the floor plans for one of Crowley’s gambling dens that he requested from the county registrar yesterday. 

Cas’ name holds a lot of damn sway. Even over the phone.

“Dean, don’t be flippant about this. It’s important.”

Yeah, but family drama somehow seems less so after the last seventy or so hours.

“Just stop dancing around the issue and tell me what the three of you have decided. You know how I hate cliffhangers.”

“He does,” Confirms Cas’ gruff voice as he shuffles into the kitchen wearing nothing but a trauma bandage over his wound and a pair of sweatpants that Dean bought him as a joke for his birthday because he’s sick of the fucker stealing all of his, “I caught him watching Dr. Sexy M.D. last night and turning it off in disgust when they dun-dun-dunned their way out of explaining what happened to Dr. Sexy’s cowboy boots.”

Cas jokes, but how could they have just disappeared?

Dean conjures up his most stern dad voice, bringing up the emails tab again, “You’re supposed to be in bed, Castiel.”

"You're not the boss of me," Cas responds glibly, stepping up behind Dean, crowding into his space and leaning over his shoulder under the pretense of looking at the emails. 

Fuck, he smells good.

Dean raises his eyebrows, shuts the laptop, "No, but I am your nurse and if you impede your recovery I will be less than fuckin’ impressed."

There’s an amused lilt to Cas’ voice as he goes to pour himself a coffee, wincing as he lifts the pot, “Your bedside manner leaves a lot to be desired, I must say. And there’s a distinct lack of sponge baths. I was led to believe there would be sponge baths.”

Dean rises to help. He takes the coffee pot from Cas, pours him a half cup, “I’ll look forward to your undoubtedly witty review on ratemyrn.com, but for now you’re not supposed to be having any stimulants with your pain meds.”

Cas glowers. It’s still remarkably intimidating considering his current state of undress and his state in general, “Antioxidants promote wound healing.”

“Uh-huh,” He hands Cas the mug, “Then half should be enough. That and all the crystals I’ve placed around the bedroom. Oh, and don’t forget the incense. If new age healing therapy is to be believed you’ll be right as rain in no time.”

“I wonder if it’s possible to leave minus stars.” 

Dean slants Cas a grin, “Just, please. For once in your life, humor me Cas. Go back to bed, you need your rest. I’ve got everything under control, I promise.”

Cas casts a disbelieving glance at the mess, eyebrow cocked, but then he’s muttering, “Fine,” and cupping a protective hand around the mug. Dean tries to commit the way the afternoon light catches the curve of his smile to memory, “But I expect a sponge bath.”

“ Deal. I’ll be up in a minute.”

With a pointed glance down, Cas murmurs, “Mmm, I bet,” like the fucker he is, and it’s then that Dean remembers his brother is still sitting there at the kitchen island, mouth agape, watching the entire exchange. Dean rubs at the back of his neck, awkward and kinda annoyed that he has to make nice with Sam before he gets to make nice with Cas. 

Though of course, nothing strenuous. Just some good old fashioned fondling, maybe a little makeout session. 

With a small aggrieved sigh, Cas nods an acknowledgment in Sam’s direction, but it lacks all of the warmth he’d had for Dean seconds ago, and then he’s leaving the kitchen with his precious .

Sam stares after him, expression still somewhere between ‘fireworks on the fourth of July’ and ‘I just put on a shoe that my cat peed in’, "What happened?"

Dean sways into the hot flare of annoyance as he begins picking up the trash littered all over the countertops, "Like you give a damn."

"Dean,” Sam pleads and Dean doesn’t need to look to know that Sam’s utilizing the puppy eyes, “I do care.”

“Yeah?” Dean retorts, flippant and hot-blooded, “You care that much you’re gonna help me run the business? You’re gonna help me change his bandages over every two fucking hours, smear a thin layer of vaseline over the gunshot wound that nearly killed him?” Already feeling on the edge of hysteria, knot in his chest, Dean gets ahold of himself, resumes picking up garbage, adds, “Jesus, we’ve never got through so much petroleum jelly, and we’ve been fucking like bunnies for the better part of a year.”

Sam grimaces, “It would’ve cost you absolutely nothing not to say that.” 

“Yeah,” Dean forces a shaky grin, “But it was fun.”

“Dean,” Sam says, serious, “I had no idea about any of this. Why the hell didn’t you call me?”

Dean sweeps an armful of cartons into the trash, “You made it pretty clear man, him or you. I was just letting you decide what you wanted to do.”

Sam sighs, laces his fingers together atop the maple grain, “I never wanted this.”

“Damn straight you didn’t. You thought I’d pick you instead of Cas.”

“Yeah,” Sam admits, looks down at his hands, “Yeah, that kinda sucked.”

Dean stops his busywork, considers his brother, "You've never liked him. You’ve always been the VP of the ‘Fuck Castiel (and not in a sexy way)’ club. Why is that?"

Sam makes a face at Dean’s epically witty summation of his brother’s dislike for Cas, "I told you. I didn't like the way he looked at you."

"How'd he look at me, Sam? Beyond the whole bagel analogy, which I can’t even remember any more.”

Something to do with dicks and bagels? Dicks in bagels?

"He’s always stared at you like you're the only thing worth looking at. It scared me that it was coming from someone like him. And then when I saw you looking back at him in the same way…I guess I kinda freaked out. He’s a dangerous man."

So is Dean, now.

It’s a fair concern, Dean supposes. “He's not dangerous to me, Sam. Not to you, or Charlie, or Bobby. Sure, he’s got an unconventional job, and yeah, if you’d asked me five years ago if I’d be with someone like Cas, I’d have probably questioned your sanity, but y’know. You love who you love.”

And Dean loves Cas, but more importantly, Cas fucking loves Dean .

That knowledge will never not make Dean’s pulse quicken.

“Yeah,” Sam says faintly.

“So this can go one of two ways, really. Either you guys can lean into this shit with me, enjoy the perks, or you can go against me and see how that works out for you.”

“Jesus, Dean. You sound like a fucking gangster movie.”

“Yeah? Awesome.” At Sam’s less-than-impressed glare, Dean adds, “Seriously though, Sam. If you wanna cut ties, fine,” (It’s not). “It is what it is,” (Which is shitty). Barbed wire under his skin, Dean adds, “Just for the record, I’d never ask you to choose between me and Jess. Whether I hated her or not.”

“I know,” Sam says, “And that’s why I came over today. Charlie and I don’t want to disown you, of course we don’t. We’re just torn, you know?”

“I get it,” Dean allows, “But the time for indecisiveness has passed. I would’ve been happy with things continuing as they were, but your little intervention forced my hand. I never wanted to drag you into this any further than you already were. Which, in all honesty, was kiddie-pool levels, man. All I ever wanted was for you to start respecting my choices and treating me like I’ve got a brain in my fucking head. I’m not the one who initiated this.”

“But you are the one who’s enforcing it, right?”

“Correct. In case you haven’t noticed, Sammy, there’s no opportunities for half-stepping it, here. You’re in or you’re out. No more playing both sides.”

“Okay,” Sam nods, looks away, gaze settling somewhere near the corner of the room, “ Fuck , Dean. My wife is a police officer. I can’t just be involved in this shit. Certainly not at your level.”

Well, that’s laughable. It’s not like Dean’s even considered asking Sam or Charlie to torture anyone or run guns.

“That your final answer?”

“No.”

“Sam--”

“--I want to help. I said that before and I meant it.” Jaw clenched and expression determined, Sam turns back to Dean, “Is there a way I can help? I don’t want to lose my big brother.”

An interesting take considering their discussion five nights ago. 

Now. If Dean were a cynical person he’d assume that Sam’s backtracking because he played his full house against Dean’s royal flush. Cas would certainly believe as much. But to be a complete asshole about it after everything that’s happened since the ultimatum was issued seems somewhat redundant.

Of course, because Dean’s been learning from the best when it comes to business decisions, it’s not an entirely magnanimous offer either when Dean says, “You wanna help, Sam?”

At his brother’s enthusiastic nod, Dean continues, “Alright. I’ll meet you halfway and give you the opportunity to earn the money I’ve been giving you every month. How’s that sound?”

Sam appears less than enthusiastic, but it’s this or them calling it quits, “I’ve been thinking of hiring a manager at the shop. I need someone I can trust, who knows about the less-than-legal shit, and how to manage it. It’s pretty straightforward, just cooking the books, and overseeing the unloading of the drug cars when they turn up. Bobby was right about one thing - I have been spreading myself too thin, so if you wanna help without burying yourself, then this is the way to do it. It’s low risk, high reward.”

“That’s low risk?”

Dean’s grin is all grimace, no humor, “It is the absolute least of the shit I’m involved in.”

Sam runs a hand through his Backstreet-boy hair, “Well, fuck.”

“Yeah, that about sums it up. So?”

“Can’t I just promise that I’ll start making more of an effort with Cas? Y’know, normal shit.”

“Nah. That stopped being an option the day you tried to strongarm me into dumping the only person who’s ever believed in me.”

It’s not entirely fair, but it is effective. 

Sam slumps, “Fuck. How am I supposed to square this with Jess?” 

Dean’s phone buzzes next to the closed laptop. He swipes to read the message from Balthazar. Nothing important, just a report on the takings for the day from the restaurant, “Not my problem, dude.”

“And Charlie?”

“If she wants the same job at the restaurant - minus the drugs - then I’d be happy with that.”

“So that’s it? We work for you or it’s adios?”

“Not my fault you went all in and lost, Sam. You wanna help and keep earning the money I’ve been giving you out of the kindness of my heart, then this is the way. The only way.”

“What about Bobby?” 

Dean sighs, “You calm him down, make him understand, and I’ll double both of your wages.”

***

Ben comes home on Wednesday, just for the one night (as per mutual agreement, because things are crazy right now and until everything is more stable, he doesn’t want Ben around more than necessary). He takes one look at Cas, asleep in Dean’s bed and begs his dad to help him bring the PS4 upstairs so they can play racing games together, because apparently Dean’s been replaced .

Dean agrees, but only because he has a grocery run and some recon to do. In exchange for relocating the console, he makes Ben promise to call him if Cas tries to leave the bedroom for anything other than the bathroom.

When he returns, Cas is in the lead with some absolute beast of a car and Ben is grinning from ear-to-ear. Dean watches them for a while before he slips off to the kitchen to check in with Gabriel and the others.

***

Balthazar takes care of Cas the next day, whilst Dean and Gabriel go and scope out Crowley’s buildings, checking out the security, entryways and exits. 

They send Jack into the casino to pinpoint security cameras. Kid’s got a damn near photographic memory, so when he comes back out and clambers into the backseat of Dean’s Impala, he tells Dean where they all are and Dean draws corresponding X’s on all the floorplans.

When they get back, Cas and Balthazar are reclining on the bed, burger wrappers spread between them, and The Muppets on TV. 

***

Eight days after Cas has been shot and two days before they’re due to move into their new house together, Dean’s boxing up the last of the small bedroom stuff whilst Cas is in the shower (yeahhh, them showering together is too much of a temptation for either of them, so Dean’s been staying away-but-close in case Cas needs anything. Needless to say, what Cas thinks he needs for his recovery and what Dean knows he needs for recovery are different, but only because Dean’s in God-Cas-almost-died mode rather than I-want-to-give-Cas-a-little-death mode).

He’s just finished up wrapping one of the bedside lamps in packing paper, about to move onto the shakin’ bacon clock, when he senses someone behind him. The water has stopped in the bathroom, which relaxes him minutely, but then he’s shoved face first against the bedroom wall and held in place by the weight of a rather strong, rather naked, and rather wet body, a broad forearm across his neck.

He turns his head to catch his boyfriend’s eye. The blue is bright and roguish, droplets of water turning his lashes into bladed points, “Cas, what the fuck are you doing?”

“I could ask you the same thing,” Cas murmurs, breath curling hot over Dean’s ear, “You’ve been having people babysit me, why?”

There are probably more comfortable ways they could be having this conversation.

“Because you’re a stubborn fucker who won’t listen. I can’t be here all the time, so I need to make sure that you’re not doing cartwheels in the front room or some shit.”

There’s a predatory glint in Cas’ eye that makes Dean shiver, “ Why can’t you be here all the time? What are you up to?” 

“Running your freakin’ business, Cas. You should know better than anyone how much work it takes.”

“Mmm,” Cas agrees, presses a gentle kiss against Dean’s cheek, “But I know you’re delegating--” Fucking Balthazar, “--so try again. Where are you going?”

No sense in keeping it from him.

“You gonna let me up?”

Cas runs his index finger along Dean’s jaw, “No. I rather like you like this. Tell me.”

Dean’s tempted to struggle, but Cas is still recovering and he won’t have a bandage over his wound at the moment, so he refrains (because of course that’s the only reason, and it has nothing at all to do with the hot, hard line of Cas’ naked dick he can feel up against his clothed ass), “Fine. I’m going to hit Crowley where it hurts.”

“How?”

“I’ll tell you everything once you let me put a clean bandage on.”

Cas considers this, finally relents, “You drive a hard bargain. Fine.”

***

Cas is watching him with the kind of rapt attention he usually reserves for coffee and Dean in panties. It has him twitchy and semi-hard at the kitchen island as he lays out his annotated plans for taking Crowley down, “--so Gabe is leading the charge at the casino, Balth and Michael are attacking the dens, and I’m going to Crowley’s house.”

“And me?”

Dean knows Cas. Knows that the conversation about him staying home would go something like: ‘You’re staying in bed, Cas,’ then he’d get the eyebrow and Cas would say, ‘Absolutely not’ and Dean would respond with, ‘I will drug you,’ and Cas would threaten him, ‘I’m not going to be recovering from this wound forever, and when I get better, I will put all of my energy into making you regret this decision.’

And he no doubt would make Dean regret the decision. He is a petty bastard as well as a proponent of cruel and unusual punishment.

But as stated, Dean knows Cas, so he already knows all this. Which is why he’s planned this through to the final detail. 

“You’re coming with me.”

Master tactician Dean ain’t, but he knows that it’s all about taking advantage of your advantage.

Cas is their advantage. After all, everybody but those on Gabe’s most trusted list thinks that Cas is dead. Crowley included.

That isn’t accidental. 

Surprise flits across Cas’ face for a split second, before his eyes take on a gleam of pride and it warms Dean’s blood to know that he’s the cause.

“Alright,” Cas decides, expression settling somewhere between homicidal and apocalyptic, “Let’s fucking do this.”

Chapter Text

So. This was a fucking stupid plan.

It doesn’t quite crack the top five of stupid shit Dean’s done, but it’s a close thing.

He's beginning to realize that there may be merit to the whole assassin-knocking-on-the-front-door thing, because this? Fucking sucks.

He's just glad Cas isn't here to witness it, because the fucker would never let him live it down. 

Dean pushes himself through the tiny gap of the open window, wishing he hadn’t had that cheeseburger for lunch. He can actually hear Cas’ laughter in his head, the slyly amused, ‘ Dean, I told you that extra serving of pickle chips was unwise ’.

Bastard.

He’s making enough noise to wake the entire floor and this time it’s not ‘cause he has his dick in Cas’ talented mouth. Sadly. Though that’s probably not a memory he should be reliving at the moment considering the precarious position his lower body is in.

He can see the headlines now: ‘ Would-be assassin rushed to hospital after his fat ass and fat dick gets caught in a second-story window’.

Not quite how he’s hoping this revenge plot will end. 

“Fuck fuck fuck fuck,” He chants as the knee of his jeans snags on a nail in the window frame, his respect for cat burglars abruptly going through the roof. 

He can feel his gun slipping out of his inside jacket pocket as he tilts toward the carpeted floor, body folded in half over the frame. His center of gravity shifts enough that he overbalances completely and the gun tumbles to the carpet, and he nosedives gracelessly into Crowley’s upper floor hallway with a loud thump and a string of curse words that would make Al Pacino proud.

Surely somebody heard that…?

He is, after all, banking on it.

A heartbeat later, Dean hears the rush of muffled footsteps and suddenly there’s the cold press of a gun at his temple.

“Hands in the air,” Nameless goon #1 orders, kicking Dean’s gun away from him. 

On his knees, Dean obeys, palms up. 

If Dean’s learned anything about Crowley in the last week or so, it’s that the dick hires morons. Which is evidenced not only by the mutineers that jumped ship from Cas’ organization, but also by the missing link currently not unloading a clip into Dean’s brain.

Obviously, he’s thankful for it, and again, it’s something he’s relying on, but fuck. Even if this whole night wasn’t about cleaning house - and that’s the entire fucking metaphorical house, nooks, crannies, the lot - then Dean still wouldn’t consider assimilating them into Cas’ organization.

Dean’s assessment is proven right moments later when goon #1 doesn’t even check him for more weapons beyond a cursory pat-down.

Because anybody stupid enough to have their gun fall out of the pocket as they inexpertly crawled through a second-story window loudly enough to wake the fucking dead, wouldn’t be packing any other weapons, now would they?

Dean’s really leaning into others’ perception of him and beginning to learn how to use his apparent guileless ineptitude to his advantage.

It’s kinda fun, actually.

“Don’t move,” the goon orders and pulls a two-way radio off of his belt. 

Dean loosely wonders what the range on those things is. Maybe they should get some for the new place. Dean could radio up from the entertainment area to Cas in the kitchen, demand more popcorn. 

“Err, sir. I’ve got somebody here in the second-floor hallway.” He releases his finger on the button, says to Dean, “What’s your name, fuckwad?”

Rude.

“Ginger McKenna,” Dean tells him, completely straight-faced. He’s always wanted to be Sharon Stone. Maybe today, he’ll get to have his Basic Instinct moment.

The goon goes to speak into the walkie talkie again before it clicks what Dean’s said, “You fuckin’ smart-mouthed little--”

In his hand, the radio crackles to life, “Who is it, Gerald?”

Dean feels the bile rising thick and fast at the sound of Crowley’s voice, squashes down the corresponding anger, reminds himself what he’s here to do. What Cas is (hopefully) here to do.

The goon - Gerald - shoves his gun in Dean’s face (oooh err) and it’s not this moron’s fault that he doesn’t know Dean’s been threatened in this manner by much more terrifying people than a bland white boy in a Seers catalog suit, “What’s your fucking name?”

Never let it be said that Dean Winchester is not a fantastic actor, “Jesus, man!” He lifts his hands higher in defense, “It’s Dean. Dean Winchester.”

Gerald smiles a toothy, smug smile, answers into the walkie talkie, “Dean Winchester, sir.”

The line crackles with static for a long few moments and Dean’s knees are starting to hurt. Middle age ain’t no joke, y’all.

Right about when Dean’s ready to knock this limp-wristed incompetent the fuck out and just storm downstairs himself, Crowley orders, “Bring him to me. Now.”

Finally, jeez.

Gerald replaces the receiver on his belt and reaches for Dean’s gun, tucks it down his waistband, and now Dean’s gonna need to give the thing a thorough clean, ‘cause ew.

“Up,” Gerald orders, gesturing with his gun. “You’re going to meet the boss.”

Eh, he’s not going to be the boss of anything for much longer. This company restructure is long overdue.

Dean clambers to his feet and the loud crack in his knees isn’t acting. He’s not quite that good. 

More footsteps on the carpet and Dean should be flattered that Crowley thinks he warrants more than one set of hands, really, “I don’t ‘spose you could knock me out and carry me, could you? I’m a bit - what is it the British say - knackered .”

Gerald exchanges glances with goon number two: the revenge , who’s just rocked up along with a couple of others (multiple sequels are never as good) - and yeah, Dean’s totally flattered by this turnout.

“Get moving, Winchester,” #2 orders, shoving the muzzle of his gun into Dean’s kidney. 

“Hey!” Dean eyes him in his periphery, “No need to get fresh, I’m going.” 

The five (yes five , like Dean’s actually dangerous) of them do their best to flank Dean as they make their way through the house and down the stairs. They steer him through the doorway where Cas let slip about his panty kink during the neighborhood watch meeting and then across the entrance hallway into the murder chamber Dean didn’t get to see last time because Cas was busy being a secretive little shit. 

Hopefully getting shot has cured him of that affliction now, ‘cause if not, Dean’ll be putting pineapple on all of his pizzas from now until the end of time.

The first thing that stands out to Dean is the lighting - or lack thereof; the study is dingy as fuck and Crowley can’t be very productive in here because there’s just no way that anyone who isn’t Ulik can see much of anything. Of course, the shadowy corners could be metaphorical for all the deals done in the darkness, blah blah blah, but it’s just fucking pretentious as far as Dean’s concerned. Style over substance. 

The wallpaper is hideous - a theme replicated throughout the house ‘cause money don’t buy taste - the bookshelf is stacked with classics with uncracked spines, which means that Crowley is either a careful reader, or - and Dean knows this is infinitely more likely - all about appearances. 

There are three mahogany-dark chairs surrounding the matching huge desk near the shuttered window, which are a contrast to the large, ostentatious, high-backed chair behind the desk; the only padded one in the room. Dean gets shoved down into the single chair directly across from Crowley, and one of the sequel goons yanks Dean’s arms tight behind his back, begins binding them, which is fucking hilarious .

The man himself watches on, omnipresent and short. And in all black again.

Gerald deposits Dean’s gun on the edge of Crowley’s desk and even from this distance Dean can see the condensation on the metal from where it’s been stuffed in the heat of Gerald’s pants.

Yeah, no amount of cleaning is gonna get that fucking image out of Dean’s head. He’s gonna have to melt that shit down.

And that’s why criminals are always in need of more guns. Because they’re constantly getting shoved down pants and it’s super unhygienic. 

Luckily, he has a bead on someone who deals in illicit guns and kinda sorta loves Dean.

Yup, still makes him go all gooey. 

“Did you check him thoroughly?” Crowley asks Gerald, “Is that all he had on him?”

Gerald looks caught, like his mom has found his porn stash and crusty socks and he nods, “Err, yeah. I patted him down. He’s got nothing.”

Crowley looks less than impressed and Dean’s inclined to agree, “ You patted him --” he gestures to one of the sequel goons, “Drexel, check our guest over thoroughly. ”

Dean refrains from making a cavity search joke. They’re wasted on anyone who isn’t Cas anyways. Drexel checks Dean over, groping his thigh a little too close to the goods, but Dean grins and bares it. Drexel finds the five-inch folding blade tucked into Dean’s boot, but misses the three and a half-inch locking folder hooked inside the waistband of his boxers. 

He’s almost bummed about that, because it would’ve been the absolute perfect setup for a joke about his dick. Something like: ‘yeah, that’s not the only weapon in my underwear; though the other one is easily twice as long’ accompanied by a lewd wink.

Because really, it’s all about making your own fun in situations like this. 

Drexel tosses the knife and Dean’s phone onto the desk next to his gun, “He’s clean, boss.”

Clean is a relative term.

“So,” Crowley starts, pompous and British as he comes around the front of his desk, leans against it, legs crossed at the ankles, “Dean Winchester, eh?”

“Yeah, but you can call me Ms. McKenna.”

“And so witty too. Tell me, why are you here, precisely? It can’t be to stop the inevitable.”

Dean assumes by the ‘inevitable’, Crowley means his takeover of Cas’ business. 

He doesn’t dignify the inflammatory comment with a response, instead, he makes a show of looking around the room at men surrounding him, “A lot of muscle here, Crowley.” 

By Dean's count there's seven. Which makes Cas' job a bit easier.  

“Yes, well,” He reaches into a cigar case on the desk next to his hip, “I may have been spreading rumors in order to undermine you and your beloved angel, but I’m not stupid.” He uses Dean’s knife to cut open the cap end of the cigar. Goon #2 stumbles over himself to offer a light and Crowley dips the cigar foot into the orange flame, sucking acrid smoke into his lungs. “The underworld is all a-quiver for you and your torture methods. Combined with the fact that your Castiel is now dead and I knew you’d be paying me a visit soon enough.”

Dean nods, apathetic and making a show of it, “Uh-huh.”

“Still,” Crowley says, eyeing his cigar, smoke curling from his nostrils, “The things I’ve been hearing about you… I’m almost disappointed. Bringing a knife to a gunfight? Seems a little beneath you.”

“Oh, I dunno. There’s a lot you can carve into flesh.” His fingernails dig into the knot at the small of his back, testing the give. As he suspected, it’s a slight deviation from a clove hitch, which means that he should be able to escape the rope pretty much whenever he wants.

Crowley surveys Dean, analyzing him with cold eyes, “My my, you’re a brave boy, aren’t you?” Got a lotta spunk in you that’s for sure--” Dean doesn’t make the obvious joke, “-- but you’re quite dangerous. If the rumors are to be believed, that is.”

Dean glances pointedly at the men surrounding him, “Seems like you believe ‘em.”

“I start most of the rumors in this town.” Crowley puffs on his cigar for a long few moments and Dean can feel his lungs blackening from just being in close proximity, “I believe what I see, usually. But it’s not like Castiel to spread a lie. Unless he has good reason.”

Dean keeps quiet, lets Crowley talk himself out. It’s why he’s here, after all. 

Hopefully Cas is holding up his end of the bargain and currently working through the floors of the house, quietly taking out every last fucker he finds.

“Though I suppose saving his own hide is probably considered a good reason.” Crowley pushes up off the desk and goes over to a small bureau in the corner, pours himself a whiskey. “So what do I believe? Do I believe that you’re some kind of torture oracle or do I believe that Castiel lied to his men as an act of self-preservation?”

Dean doesn’t say, ‘untie me and I’ll fucking show you,’ like he wants to. Instead, he sighs, feigns disinterest, “Believe whatever you want, man.”

Crowley comes back over, a tumbler of whiskey in one hand, his half-smoked cigar pinched between his fore and middle fingers. He watches Dean for a good thirty-or-so-seconds, apparently deciding which side to come down on, “I have no real issue with you, Dean. I understand your need for vengeance, I really do. But you’re just a mechanic --” Turns out it’s the wrong one, “--If I clicked my fingers, you’d be dead. I have that power.” He swallows around a mouthful of whiskey, smacks his lips together, “Which is why I’ll give you the opportunity to leave right now, no harm, no foul. But it’s a one-time-only deal. You come to me again, I’ll rip you apart and leave you for the fishes.”

It’s certainly no ‘offer he can’t refuse’ , but judging by Crowley’s expectant, self-satisfied expression, he thinks it is. 

Dean pretends to consider his options for a long few beats, drawing it out just to be a dick, “Nah.”

“‘ Nah ’?” Crowley repeats incredulously, “You're tied to a chair in my house, five guns pointed at your head. I could have had you killed at any point!"

"Yeah, well, that's your mistake," Dean tells him mildly.

Crowley stares at him in disbelief, genuinely confused as to why Dean wouldn’t take his ever-so generous out. 

Dean’s more than happy to enlighten him.

“Y’see Crowley, I’m here for my pound of flesh. And I’m gonna cut it out of you with that knife right fucking there.” He jerks his chin at his previously confiscated blade, “So you can take your one-time-only deal and shove it up your hoity-toity ass. You orchestrated the shooting of Cas and if you think I would walk away from that, then maybe it’s for the best that you don’t believe those rumors. Ignorance is bliss and all that.”

“I orchestrated it?” Crowley presses a hand to his chest, feigns shock, “I think you’re giving me too much credit.” He reconsiders, swills his whiskey in the tumbler, “Well, perhaps I lit the fuse, but you’re the one who built me such a delicious powder keg. As it turns out, you’ve been the best thing for business. If he hadn’t met you, none of this would’ve happened. One of my men would’ve offed your pathetic little husband - probably you as well just for funsies - and Castiel would’ve been fine.”

It would be so easy to slip into the self-loathing ‘Cas got shot because of you’ mantra, but instead, Dean just raises his eyebrows, “Yet Benny still lives, huh? Interesting that. You were so keen to see him dead that when Cas didn’t kill him, you immediately set about having him killed by someone else? Oh, that’s right , you didn’t. Which kinda sorta suggests to me that it was just an excuse to get Cas under your thumb like a fucking attack dog.”

“Yes,” Crowley leans forward into Dean’s space, eyes alight with malevolent glee,  “And he got put down like the dog he is, didn’t he?”

Now. Dean could say that he headbutts Crowley because he's trying to keep up appearances; if Crowley thinks for one second that Dean's being too blase about the love of his life dying, then the whole thing unravels. It makes sense to react. 

However, that's not actually why he headbutts Crowley, smashing the hardest part of his skull into the fucker's jaw forcefully enough that he feels the crunch of bone upon impact. 

No, Dean does it because he loses his composure, emotions getting the best of him with Crowley so close and cunty and the almost-loss of Cas still so fucking raw and exposed like a nerve. He acts before he can think better of it.

It's stupid and impulsive and he shouldn't have done it, but fuck it feels good. 

For about a second and then the dizziness kicks in. Which could be attributed to the fact that Crowley has the opposite of a glass jaw or the rain of blows that he receives for his trouble; a series of jarring, painful thunks resounding in his skull that make his vision fuzzy as one or several of the goons punch him repeatedly. 

Once it’s finally over, Dean can taste iron in his mouth and feel an itchy, sluggish trickle originating somewhere near his hairline. Also, his jaw clicks and there’s a faint ringing in his ears. 

Yeah, definitely stupid. 

Cas is gonna lose his shit .

By the time Dean’s vision rights itself, Crowley’s got an ice pack from somewhere and is holding it to his jaw. His whiskey and cigar are gone, which is something at least. He regards Dean with narrowed eyes and close consideration, “Perhaps I might have been too quick to dismiss you.”

Dean spits out a mouthful of blood onto his nice upper-middle-class carpet, “S’alright. You’re not the first, won’t be the last.”

“You’ve certainly got an attitude, but I kind of like that. These lot are hardly party central. Don’t know how to have themselves a good time.”

Dean glances around at them again, grimaces at the pull of pain. They could literally be faceless clones of one another.

“Now. Your Castiel. Admittedly, I probably shouldn’t have made that dog comment. I apologize. It’s not nice to speak ill of the dead. Especially not to the dead’s apparently psychotic girlfriend.”

Dean flashes a bloodied grin that’s more a snarl, “I prefer the term sociopathic cockwarmer. Are you going to get to the point any time soon?”

Crowley smiles and then winces as it pulls at his sore jaw. Nice. “My point is that Castiel’s murder was self-inflicted, really.” 

Dean lets the sheer stupidity of that statement stand on its own merit for a little while, then clarifies, “Self-inflicted murder? Isn’t that just fucking suicide?”

He never thought his life would come to this; schooling an Englishman in fucking English. Didn’t the imperialist fuckers invent the language? Or did they steal that too?

“Well, it might be stretching the definition a bit, I suppose. But he made his own choices and they got him dead. Now it’s your time to make a choice that could either be the making or breaking of you.”

Dean knows what’s coming next. Can see it like an oncoming freight train. And it only cements his low opinion of the man. 

“How about you come work for me? I'd make it worth your while." 

Unless he can do what Cher couldn’t and turn back time, in what fucking universe would that be something you’d offer to the man whose boyfriend you had killed?

Dean tilts his head, shoots another bloodied smile Crowley’s way, copper blooming bright across his tongue, "Nah."

Goon #2 goes to hit him again, but Crowley stops him with a hand in the air. "At this point, it's the only offer on the table." 

Dean's burner phone vibrates on the table next to his gun.

Showtime .

" Your only offer."

"What?"

"Well, what if I have a counteroffer?"

Crowley and a couple of his men laugh, “What could you possibly have to offer me ? I already have my gambling empire and Roman’s real estate. And now, I have Novak Industries.” He tosses the ice pack onto the desk, allowing Dean his first look at the damage he did to the fucker’s jaw. Already, there’s a bloom of bruising forming under the skin, blood vessels broken, and it warms Dean’s heart to see it, it really does. “Which includes everything of your dead little boyfriend’s. And I mean everything . The illegal and the legal. His contacts, his connections, his legislators, his councilmen and women. I run this town.”

Crowley doesn’t make arrogance look nearly as attractive as Cas.

“So does that mean you don’t want to hear what I have to say?”

His phone vibrates again. Two down, one to go.

Crowley sighs, all long-suffering and disinterested. “If you think that stalling is going to help you--”

“I’ll let you live if you walk out that door right now. Fuck off back to England. No more gambling empire, no more real estate, and definitely no Novak Industries. That’s the only offer on the table.”

There’s a short burst of silence, before the room cracks out into laughter again. 

Fingers twitching on the rope, Dean considers releasing himself and just going to town on these fuckbags, but he promised Cas a cool AF entrance because Dean’s a good and magnanimous boyfriend and Cas is all about the drama.

Also, dude got shot, he deserves to have some fun.

Crowley makes a big show of wiping tears away from his eyes, as if he’d been crying with laughter, but there’s a whisper of something behind them, something uneasy that belies his jovial tone, “You are just so entertaining! I’m tempted to keep you around for the comedic value alone. Get you to dance monkey dance whenever I want you to. How does that sound--”

He’s interrupted by Dean’s phone buzzing for the third and final time. Dean jerks his head at the nearest goon, "Get that for me, Fredo, will you? Sounds important.”

Luckily, Crowley’s still amused and not quite threatened enough by Dean’s presence (which Dean cannot wait to rectify) and so he nods and the goon snatches up Dean’s phone, thrusts it rather unhelpfully in Dean’s face.

It’s a hell of a way for Dean to find out that he might need reading glasses. Of course, it could just be the blows to his head making his vision blurry. 

Either way - Goddamn. 

Dean shrugs in his bindings and looks up at the goon helplessly, “Little tied up here, man. You’re gonna have to get them for me.”

The goon pulls a face, but dutifully swipes a clumsy thumb across the screen and scrolls through the messages. He shoves the phone back in Dean’s face again. It takes a couple of seconds for Dean’s eyes to cooperate, and he has to squint to read.

BALTH: All done here, handsome ;)

GABE: Good to go, Dean-o!

MIKEY-BOY: Mission completed.

Michael is absolutely no fun at all.

But he is extremely effective. 

“Thanks,” He says to the goon, then turns his attention to Crowley, “Sorry to break it to you Crowley, but you don’t exactly have your gambling empire anymore.” He makes an apologetic-but-not-really face. 

“What the fuck are you prattling on about?” He snatches the phone out of the goon's hand, reads the messages himself, “What have you done?”

Dean adopts a mangled approximation of an English accent, “Ahh, ya hate to see it. A free-kick whacked into the back of the net in the dying minutes of the game.” He switches back to his normal accent, satisfaction thrumming through him, inflating his confidence, “That’s what happens in soccer, right? Everything’s chugging along, one side thinks they’re winning and all of a sudden, the other team gets in a free-kick and it’s a level playing field once again.”

Crowley’s face smoothes out like he’s finally getting it.

Dean continues, enjoying himself far too much, “And then of course, they have to go into extra time, and if that team manages to sneak another past the goalie? Like that time West Ham did against Liverpool in the FA cup semis? Well, then it’s game over isn’t it?”

Crowley’s eerily still. A couple of the goons exchanges glances, “Boss?”

"' Nobody ever says West Ham ', right? Which is kind of fair considering their status in London soccer, but in my experience? It’s always a very serious error to underestimate the underdog.” 

Crowley’s expression is a work of art (less da Vinci and more Bosch) and goddamn, Dean wishes he could be taking pictures of this shit right now, ‘cause he’s kinda sad that Cas is missing it.