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One thing is abundantly clear as soon as they roll into town: Dean loves Charming Acres. He loves the cars and the outfits, but most of all he loves the burgers and the milkshakes. The noises he makes when he slurps his strawberry milkshake are what Dean himself would call “porn-worthy” but Cas keeps that to himself. He’s content with watching Dean’s delight – a rare sight after all the ordeals he’s been through.
Cas listens to Dean’s moans and he ignores the way his pants grow tight, just as he ignores the way Dean flirts with Sunny, and he decidedly does not, for the thousandth time, imagine how it would feel if that charm would be directed at him.
///
The boarding house is picturesque with its well-kept gardens and the porch painted in soft pastels. A little too tidy for Cas’ taste, just like the whole town with the neat cardigans and the perfectly coiffed hairstyles. There’s something off about it, and not just because there’s obviously something wrong with Charming Acres. During his years with the Winchesters Cas learned that he liked the little imperfections that made a thing – or a person – unique. Dean makes fun of him for his crooked tie and the wrinkled suit all the time. What Dean doesn’t know is, that Cas is perfectly capable of ironing his trench coat and straightening his tie, but he prefers them just the way they are. Dean also doesn’t have to know how much Cas enjoys it when Dean touches him to smooth his clothes and make him presentable. It reminds him that Dean cares. Even if it’s only for Cas’ professional appearance.
In Conrad’s room, they split up to search for clues. The owner is the next victim to Dean’s flirting skills, laid-on thick enough to make Cas gag. She might sense Cas’ disgruntlement, and she keeps a close eye on him. Does she know? Does she know the thoughts that keep Cas up at night? The owner leaves, not without reminding them that this is a respectable house with a last side-long glance at Cas. She does know. Cas has gotten sloppy in keeping his emotions off his face.
He busies himself with searching the drawers and finds a bunch of letters. His eyes fly over the pages. Love letters, full of explicit details of how Sunny and Conrad pleasure each other. Without realizing it, he reads out loud.
“I can’t forget how you felt in my hand, heavy and pulsing with want…-“
“What the hell, Cas? Warn a guy!”
Cas wipes the mental images Sunny’s words conjured briskly from his mind. Or he tries to.
“Sorry, I got carried away. The letters are very – passionate.”
Dean rubs his neck and doesn’t meet Cas’ eyes. Instead, his gaze is glued to Cas right hand, curled und turned upright as if he’s mimicking the described practices. Cas opens his hand and puts it on his knee. Dean clears his throat and waves his hand to indicate his wish to change the topic.
“Okay, so Sunny and Conrad had an affair.” Dean’s voice is hoarse. Cas wonders why. “We’ll talk to her tomorrow.”
Cas’ head snaps up. “Why tomorrow? Are we staying?”
“Duh, Cas. We were just invited to a pot roast. No way I’m missing that.”
///
The next morning, Dean is nowhere to be found. It’s Sunny who points Cas to Mrs Smith, the woman they met yesterday and whose husband apparently just died in the same gruesome manner as the other victims. Exploded head, like an over-ripe melon. Cas shudders. He’s seen a lot of different ways people can lose their lives, but this one seems especially unpleasant. At least it’s quick, a little voice murmurs at the back of his head.
Mrs Smith is as brightly dressed and unsettlingly cheerful as the first time Cas saw her. He gives his condolences – that’s what FBI agents do when they speak to the grieving –, but Mrs Smith interrupts him.
“My husband? He’s alive and perfectly healthy, agent. You must be mistaken. Can I offer you a drink?”
Something is very wrong, Cas can feel it in his bones, but he steps inside, curious how this will play out. “I don’t want to bother you–“
“No bother at all, come in,” a deep voice greets Cas. Cas stops in his tracks, swallows and tries not to choke on his own tongue. Mrs Smith rounds him and curls her hand around the waist of –
“Dean?”
It is Dean, but it’s also not. He’s wearing a bright green sweater (he should wear that color more often, it makes his eyes glow from within), thick glasses and his hair is slicked back just like Justin Smith’s had been before his head exploded.
“It’s Justin actually, although I can’t remember us being on a first name basis. You look pale, Agent. I’m sure a strong martini will help. Darling?”
Mrs Smith looks from Dean to Cas and back before she busies herself at the bar, filling glasses with different clear liquids and what looks like olives. Cas never had a martini, because Dean does not believe in mixing alcoholic beverages. In the bunker, guests may choose between beer and whiskey. If Cas needed more proof that Dean is not himself, that he isn’t just messing with him, he has it now. When Mrs Smith hands him his drink, Cas takes out the toothpick and downs his glass in one go.
“Wow, looks like you could really use it,” Justin-Dean laughs. Dean’s been brainwashed, obviously, but Cas’ heart hurts to see how happy he looks. The lines of worry, such a constant part of Dean’s face, are gone, smoothed out of Dean’s features like the crinkles out of a freshly pressed dress shirt.
The drink leaves a sour taste in Cas’ mouth. He swallows the bile that rises in his throat. “Can I talk to you for minute? Alone?”
Justin-Dean shares a look with his wife and nods. “Sweetheart, why don’t you go and get everything ready for lunch?”
Mrs Smith eyes Cas dubiously, but puts on a smile and leaves with a flourish of underskirts. Cas takes a deep breath when he’s finally alone with Dean.
“Dean–“, he starts.
“Justin.”
“No, you are Dean Winchester. We arrived in this town yesterday, to investigate the death of a man named Conrad.”
Dean is only half-listening. “Ah yes, poor Conrad. An aneurysm, the doctor said.”
Cas fights to keep his voice calm. Shouting wouldn’t improve the situation. “No, it wasn’t. His head exploded. Because he wanted to leave this place.”
Dean shakes his head. “Don’t be silly. Nobody wants to leave this place. Why would they?”
“Because they have a life elsewhere.” Cas takes a step closer to Dean, puts a hand on his shoulder. The right one. “Because this isn’t real.”
“Sir, I’ll ask you to step back.” Something flickers in Dean’s eyes, there and gone in the fraction of a second, but Cas sees it. He’s seen it before today, but he never called Dean out on it. This situation, though, demands desperate measures.
Cas crowds even closer, invades Dean’s personal space like he hasn’t done in years. It never failed to get a reaction out of Dean. Cas reasons it will work now, too.
“What are you doing?” Dean sound breathless, his chest is heaving. His eyes flicker between Cas’ own, but he doesn’t step back.
“You are Dean Winchester. And I am Castiel. I raised you from hell and saved your life a hundred times after that. I’m not going to lose you to some kind of Stepford wife.” Cas is a little proud of himself that he made a fitting movie reference, even if Dean’s not fully there to appreciate it.
Dean still doesn’t move. Cas weighs his options. He could slap Dean and hope it will bring back his memories. He could leave and search for another way to break the spell that made Dean forget who he is. Or he could follow his instincts.
With his heart pounding in his throat, he leans in the last inches and presses his lips to Dean’s.
Desperate. Measures.
Cas had been desperate to do this for almost ten years.
The old-fashioned clock is ticking in the background. The smell of over-cooked vegetables wafts from the kitchen. Dean’s cardigan feels both soft and scratchy under his palm.
And Dean’s lips go pliant under Cas’.
That. That’s not what he expected. Cas kissed Dean to get a reaction, to shock him back into his own mind. He expected to be shoved back, shouted at. He expected a fist to his jaw – which he would have deserved for taking such liberties.
Instead, Dean makes a soft sound. It’s the sound he makes when he turns on the TV and one of his favorite Star Trek episodes is on. It’s the sound he makes when he opens the cookie jar and finds out that Cas left the last one for him: a little surprised and very much pleased.
They kiss. Close-lipped, pressing against each other like in the black-and-white movies Dean made him watch. Dean’s hands are on Cas’ waist. Cas slings his arms around broad shoulders, a palm possessive on Dean’s neck. He’s dreamed about this, painted the picture in a thousand different colors, only to erase them later like the hopeless attempts of an unskilled artist.
Here, in the most unforeseen of all places, he gets his chance, even if it’s still not real. Cas will stop, any moment now, but first … Bold, Cas licks against Dean’s lips. Dean’s whole body shudders when he opens up and invites Cas’ tongue inside. Dean fingers dig into his hips. His chest touches Cas’ with every inhale.
If he can have this with this version of Dean, a selfish part of Cas can’t help but wonder, it might be best if Dean stayed here for a while. They would have an illicit affair, just like Sunny and Conrad. Cas could have what he always wanted. He gasps when Dean’s tongue darts out and curls around his own. It’s wrong, yes. But Cas feels very, very selfish right this moment.
Glass shatters somewhere behind him. Cas forgot about Mrs Smith.
Her voice is shrill. “J– Justin?”
Dean parts their lips with a wet sound, but keeps his hands on Cas, holds him in place.
“My name is Dean.” He smiles, a little shy, but his eyes are bright and clear. “And I want a divorce.”