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Dean slides down further in his seat and glares at Sam over the top of the convention schedule.
“You knew about this, didn’t you?” he accuses. Sam’s neutral expression doesn’t alter, but he shifts slightly in his chair as he replies.
“I knew there was a convention. I didn’t know it was for the Supernatural books though, honestly.”
Dean scowls as a couple of girls wearing a lot of plaid walk past, glancing at them and giggling.
“Only because you didn’t check properly” he mutters, eyes roving over the rest of the foyer.
The one good thing about these things, Dean supposes, is that there’s an awful lot of women. He can get behind that. It’s kind of been a long time – an eternity in Dean Winchester terms – since he’s been with anyone and he isn’t really sure why. Maybe if he has to put up with this godforsaken convention, filled with people who mistakenly think that his life is cool and exciting, he can at least do something about that.
He scans the crowds milling around the foyer with renewed interest and Sam narrows his eyes.
“We’re here to work Dean” he reminds, disapprovingly.
“Yeah yeah, Sammy. Whatever you say. No reason I can’t have a bit of fun at the same time though, right?”
He doesn’t need to look at Sam to know there’s a bitchface being directed at him, but he turns to face him anyway.
“Okay Sammy. Hit me. Why are we here? Gimme what you have.”
He does his best to listen to Sam’s explanation - a pattern of disappearances, all people who had last been seen at conventions like these, and something about hex bags and a suspicion that witches were somehow involved - but he can’t help letting his gaze wander, zeroing in on a group of middle-aged women on the other side of the foyer who keep looking at him and whispering.
“Dean! Are you even listening?” Sam asks sharply, and Dean shifts his focus back to meet Sam’s gaze. Another bitchface, great.
“Sure… witches or some shit right?” he asks, and Sam sighs, resigned.
“Yes Dean. Witches, or some such shit. It’s the perfect cover really, people would probably just think they were role-playing if they happened to walk in on them when they were casting. Anyone who gets too curious though, they disappear, and in the chaos of these things, no-one notices until the convention is over and the witches have split.
“Right, so… how do we find them?”
“We look, Dean. I’m gonna take the upper level, you take this one. And…” he follows Dean’s gaze to the group of giggling women who are still staring “…try not to get distracted.”
Dean scoffs and waves vaguely in Sam’s direction as they head off. The foyer isn’t a very promising place to start looking for anything suspicious, since there’s just one large open space, and he decides to head off and scope out some of the other rooms on the ground floor. As he heads off down a narrow service corridor that leads to a quieter part of the complex, he is vaguely aware that the group of women he noticed earlier are drifting towards him, but he ignores them in favour of the case. There is, after all, a Big Bad to be dealt with, even if it is witches. God, he hates witches. He hopes it isn’t witches. Much better some kind of scaly demon that he can gank, pure and simple. Even a ghost would be preferable. Witches have a nasty habit of getting one over on him and he always feels kind of icky around them. Not that he’d ever admit that to anyone, but, well… yeah. Witches are nasty.
The corridor doesn’t turn up anything of note – anything at all actually, other than a couple of rather surprised catering workers going at it hot and heavy next to the service elevator.
“Don’t mind me” Dean smirks, ambling past them with a wink.
When he gets back to the main foyer, Sam is nowhere in sight, but the group of women from earlier is standing right by the doorway and instantly surrounds him.
“You know, your outfit is perfect” one of them coos, her hand reaching out to finger the sleeve of Dean’s shirt and he slaps it away instinctively. He isn’t entirely sure why since she’s actually pretty hot: slightly younger than the others and with curly dark hair and blue eyes.
“Dean’s my favourite” another says, blonde this time, and he can’t help but preen a little - he’s only human after all.
“Yeah?” he asks. “Why’s that?”
“He’s so manly” she gushes, cheeks flushing. “And that deep rumbly voice, and those green eyes. And he’s been through so much, but he keeps on fighting. He’s a hero.”
Dean finds himself torn between enjoying the praise, and wanting to point out that it isn’t deserved. He fights because he has to, because what else is he here for? He certainly isn’t a hero. He’s more flawed than anyone, makes more mistakes than anyone, except maybe Cas. He smiles at the thought of Cas, then realises another of the women is speaking.
“Sam too” she says. “He’s had his struggles but in the end he comes through. The brothers are just the heart of the whole thing, you know. They don’t need anyone else, just each other.”
Dean frowns. That isn’t true. They need other people all the time. Especially Cas.
“Yeah, and they certainly don’t need TGDA” blondie sneers.
Dean continues to frown, confused. Do these people have some sort of code or something?
“What? What’s TGDA?” he asks, and the women all seem to roll their eyes as one.
“That God Damn Angel” one of them explains.
“Ugh, talk about a dick with wings” blondie adds.
Dean grins. Dickbag angels – that he can get on board with. Mostly.
“Ha, yeah… totally!” he agrees. “Balthazar and Uriel were total dicks. I still don’t know why Cas thinks he’s funny. Angel humour I guess, amirite?”
He glances up to see the women staring at him strangely.
“What?” he asks defensively. “That’s who you were talking about, right? Or maybe you meant Gabriel? Cause, yeah… that trick with the mystery spot was a total douche move.”
The blonde woman raises her eyebrows.
“I suppose that they were all unpleasant in one way or another, but I meant Castiel” she says slowly, her nose wrinkling in distaste as she says the name, the others all echoing her disgust, one of them even shuddering, muttering “awful”.
Dean feels a tightening in the pit of his stomach.
“What?” he asks, all warmth gone from his tone.
“Castiel,” blondie says again, “is awful, and needs to be written out.”
“Why would you say that?” he asks, voice dangerously quiet. “I… Dean... wouldn’t even be here if it weren’t for Cas. We… they...” he corrects, “they need him.”
“Really?” she challenges. “They’re really far better off without him. All he ever does is make things worse. Or he doesn’t show up at all.”
“Sometimes he’s busy” Dean says defensively. “He comes when he can.”
“Does he?” the brunette asks, and Dean decides she’s definitely not hot after all. “Or does he just come when he feels like it; when it suits him?”
“He just makes a mess anyway” a redhead pipes up, and Dean glares at her. “And leaves it all for the brothers to clean up. They’d be far better off without him. The books would be better off without him, better if it were just the brothers”. The women all nod in agreement and Dean feels rage burning through him, spreading like a fire through his veins.
“That is absolute bullshit!” Dean blurts and they all stare at him. “Nobody is better off without Cas! He has saved me and Sam more times than I can remember. He defied his family - defied God for heaven’s sake - and he did it for us. For me! Because I asked him to. Sure he’s made mistakes… we all have you morons! What makes his any worse than mine? At least he always tries to put them right.”
Dean is shouting now, breathing ragged, but he can’t stop himself. It’s like a tidal wave of emotion and Dean is powerless to stop the flow of words.
“And you’re idiots if you think he’s only worth anything for what he can do, for his powers. I don’t need Cas because he’s an Angel. I need him because he’s Cas. God! How can you be so blind? Have you even read the books? Because if they’re really accurate, how can you not understand that, you complete and utter… assbutts!”
He stops, drained, finally noticing the crowd of people all staring at him, gaping, and fails to see the blonde woman swing her handbag. It connects solidly with his left eye, the catch tearing into the soft skin above it, and he staggers to one side.
“You are the assbutt!” she huffs, swinging her bag over her shoulder and storming off, the others trailing in her wake like confused ducklings.
Sam chooses that moment to appear at the top of the stairs, taking in the stares, the silence, the expanding space around his brother, and the trickle of blood from his left temple with a resigned sigh.
“Do I even want to know?” he asks Dean as he makes his way over.
“No. You do not” Dean asserts. “The witches?” he asks.
“Two. Gone” Sam replies with grim satisfaction.
“You got rid of two witches by yourself?” Dean asks, a little impressed. Sam shrugs.
“Actually no. The demon they summoned took care of them. I took care of the demon.”
“Ah, yeah. Demon deals man. Those’ll come back to bite you every time."
Sam directs yet another bitchface in his direction and Dean has the good grace to look a little sheepish.
“Yeah… I guess we know that first hand, huh?” he admits wryly and Sam just shakes his head.
“Come on. Let’s get back to the bunker and get that” he gestures to Dean’s face, “cleaned up.”
***
Castiel is waiting for them when they get back, and he takes one look at Dean before making a disparaging noise in his throat and leading him to the bathroom.
“I can fix it myself” Dean utters testily as Cas rummages in the cupboard for supplies.
“I know Dean. And I can’t heal you at the moment since my grace is unstable, but I would like to hear the story of what happened. So perhaps you can tell me whilst you attend to your wound?”
Dean snorts.
“It’s hardly a wound. More like a scratch really…” He trails off as Cas continues to observe him coolly.
He tells the story, sort of, gritting his teeth and drawing a sharp breath at the sting of the alcohol he uses to clean the cut. Cas frowns, his intense gaze focused solely on Dean.
“But I don’t understand. If Sam was the one who found the witches, and was the one who disposed of the demon, why are you the one who is hurt Dean?”
Dean looks away, as he lowers himself to sit on the edge of the tub, fingers tangling in his lap as he debates which parts to explain.
“I uh… I had a disagreement with some women who had a completely dumbass view of something. I pointed that out, and they didn’t take too kindly to it” he says, finally. Cas continues to gaze at him.
“View of what?” he asks, and Dean’s chest tightens, his heart thumping.
“Of you” he admits, voice low. “They said that you were useless, that you made things worse, which is so untrue it’s not even funny.”
Castiel looks down at him, vaguely amused.
"And you thought you should defend my honour?" he asks, opening his mouth to continue, but Dean cuts him off.
“That’s not even the thing that made me flip out” he confesses, taking a deep breath.
“It’s that they don’t understand it’s not even about that! It’s not about what you can or can’t do - never has been, really - it’s just about you. It’s because I need you. Because I…” the words stick in his throat, and he finally looks up to find Cas now kneeling in front of him.
“I know, Dean” he murmurs, gentle fingers reaching up to stroke oh-so-softly over the skin beside Dean’s eye, already darkening to a purple bruise. Dean’s eyes flutter closed as Castiel cradles his face, leaning in to press a feather-soft kiss to the broken skin on his temple. He draws a shaky breath as he feels another, this time just under his eyebrow, then another, barely there against the angle of his cheekbone.
“Cas?” he whispers hesitantly.
“I know, Dean” Castiel repeats, soft lips finally meeting Dean’s in a fleeting kiss. Dean’s breath hitches at the gentle, dry warmth, his heart racing as Castiel murmurs “I love you too Dean” and kisses him again.