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i.
He turns off the engine and rubs his eyes till fireworks explode behind his eyelids, wild in colors. Then he pulls his hands away and blinks a few times. He feels like shit – and he would bet all of his money that he looks like shit as well. That’s what six hours behind the wheel will do to you.
It looks like they’re the only car in the parking lot, except for an old blue Sedan parked all the way across the place.
Dean nudges Sam in the shoulder, but his brother just mumbles something incoherent in his sleep and turns away from him. Dean notes that his brother’s mouth is now fully pressed against the window, this close to drooling. Dean will not be the one to clean that up.
He rolls his eyes. “Geez, don’t break your legs running to get us a room, will you,” he comments and opens the Impala’s door, the familiar creaking of it only adding to his starting headache. “Whatever, I wanted to stretch anyway.” Not that Sam hears any of it. Lucky kid can fold himself in the car somehow and sleep for hours on end after driving his part of the way.
No wonder. They are both equally exhausted after last night. Dean is not the biggest fan of all-night drives across the country, but sometimes you gotta do what you gotta do. Especially if you’ve got a town with a wild Shtriga running around and sucking the life out of kids, putting them in comas. When something like that happens, Winchesters must go to the rescue.
Five minutes later, as Dean’s waiting for the room key, a guy walks in. Momentarily, Dean forgets about the unlikeable older woman fetching his key. The new guy captures Dean’s attention no problem.
Even though it’s early in the morning, it’s boiling outside – you can always count on Texas weather for that, especially during summer – and here is a guy sporting a trenchcoat and a suit underneath. His dark hair is a mess, one Dean files under ‘post-sex no-brush morning hairdo’. There’s more decorating the guy’s face – a fresh scratch wound cutting through his eyebrow and a bruise blossoming on his neck, its edges disappearing down his shirt. Dean looks him up and down.
Dean clears his throat when the stranger catches him staring. “What happened to you, man?” he asks, and even though the question is genuine, it comes out dry and impersonal, as if he was commenting on the weather.
The guy sighs. “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”
Now Dean is truly interested. He’s used this line so many times himself, he would need an entire army of men to count it on their fingers.
Before he can inquire more, the lady with the key reappears behind the counter, chewing a gum. “Room four. No loud music after ten pm, leave at eight in the morning unless you want to pay for another night. Nearest McDonalds two blocks away, just turn right and then right again.”
Dean’s eyebrow shoots up at the woman’s robot-iness and he reluctantly grabs the key. “Uh, thanks.” He awkwardly waves at both the lady and the stranger and walks out of the room, the heavy door slamming behind him with a loud bang.
He doesn’t go straight for the room. Sam is still asleep in the car as far as Dean can tell, and getting fresh coke before falling into the old creaky – and possibly smelly – motel bed for a few hours seems like a good idea. His brain will surely appreciate it in a few hours when they start actually working on the case.
So he makes his way over to the vending machine, slipping the room key in his back pocket. A minute and a few seconds later, he’s leaning against the brown-painted motel wall, sheltering himself from the sharp morning sun in the shadow. The coke is still tickling him on his upper lip as he licks it away.
He squints and looks around, taking in the surroundings. The motel would look almost cozy if it weren’t for the dry leaves on the dying trees, empty scrunched up cans of beer near the curb and the paint peeling off the walls. Room one, which is closest to him, reveals that the once-golden numbers hanging on them are now rusty and might fall off in case of closing the door with more force than necessary.
Dean is half finished with his coke when the dark-haired guy walks out. As he steps into the sun, his exhaustion is obvious, dark circles sitting under his bright blue eyes.
They exchange a quick glance – one that makes Dean shiver and one that makes the stranger look away.
“Try me,” Dean blurts out before he can stop himself.
The guy turns back to him. “Excuse me?”
Dean shrugs, hoping that the merciful shadow he’s standing in will cover the blush creeping onto his face. “What happened to you? I’m pretty sure whatever it is, it won’t weird me out.”
The stranger hums, the sound surprising Dean in the best way possible – it’s low and melodic even in its two seconds of existence. The guy is the one to look Dean up and down now, as if he was considering if he can trust this random stranger. Then, probably counting on the fact the US – and Texas alone -- is large enough for them not to meet ever again, he steps closer and joins Dean. He shrugs his trenchcoat off, throwing it over his shoulder, and leans against the wall as well.
“So, what happened to me,” he starts and his lips curl in a grin, “was a Shtriga. You ever heard of them?”
Dean almost chokes on his coke, a few drops of it escaping his mouth and crawling down his chin. Dean quickly wipes it away, and with a frown, he looks up at the guy next to him. He’s too surprised to even care he just made a complete ass out of himself.
“You’re a hunter?” he spits out as if it was an insult. Which it isn’t, of course, but Dean can’t help but sort of pull back – he doesn’t like meeting other hunters he doesn’t know; it makes him feel small and in danger, for some reason. A lot of hunters have gone off, slipping, becoming monsters of the human kind, or just weirdos who will rob you while you sleep and set a trap for you to wake up to so you don’t get to follow them. A guy in a trenchcoat and a suit, in this heat, suddenly doesn’t seem quirky but just plain weird.
“How did you –“ the stranger starts, squinting. “Oh. You’re a hunter, too.”
“Bingo.”
“Well, if you’re here for the Shtriga, it’s been taken care of. Quite the job, if I do say so myself.” When Dean looks up, he can see the guy reach up to his face and touch the cut on it cautiously, with a hiss, like a little kid who wants to explore his scraped knee and then remembers it hurts.
Dean shoos the sudden wave of affection away with bitterness. “Great. Me and my brother just drove nine hours for nothing.”
“Oh. I’m sorry.”
Dean tries his best to find irony and reciprocated bitterness in the guy’s voice, but even trying his hardest doesn’t account for nothing. Truth is, the man’s words sound completely sincere and genuine, and Dean feels like he’d just been scolded. Like a child. He can feel his anxiety creeping up on him and he presses his back against the wall, feeling hot and inadequate.
“It’s okay,” he mutters. “You sure you’re okay, though? You look… well.”
Thank God, it works. The guy laughs and looks down at himself, and his smile is a dangerous thing – it stops Dean’s heart and nails the blush to his face for good.
“Yeah, I’m fine. Name’s Castiel, by the way.”
Dean nods. “Dean. My brother’s Sam,” he points his chin towards the Impala, where the silhouette of his brother is still folded into a ball and sleeping.
“Maybe I’ll run into you again, Dean,” Castiel smiles.
Dean nods, and finds himself smiling despite his initial annoyance with running into another hunter – and one who just stole their job, too.
“Enjoy your coke.”
“Thanks.”
Dean watches closely as Castiel walks over to the blue Sedan Dean had noticed before. He dumbly hopes Castiel will look back, maybe wave at Dean with that smile of his, but he drives away without stopping or even chancing a glance Dean’s way. The hand that has been squeezing Dean’s gut relaxes in disappointment.
“You look like you’ve just seen a ghost,” Sam comments and Dean startles, because he didn’t even notice Sam getting out of the car and walking over to him.
“Whatever,” Dean mutters and fishes the room key out of his pocket, shoving it in Sam’s hand. “Let’s go.”
Before he closes the door of their temporary home, he takes a second to take one more look at the driveway, as if hoping Castiel will be back for a few more minutes of chit-chat.
-
ii.
Dean, hunched over a glass of whiskey, rolls his eyes. The source of this eye roll-worthy sentence is sitting almost all the way across the Roadhouse, but the guy loud enough and his voice rings around the room well enough for Dean to hear every word.
“Sometimes all I wanna do is kick guys like him out of here, but I need the money,” Ellen speaks up, leaning against the counter. Dean didn’t know his annoyance was that obvious or that Ellen caught him shaking his head at the hunters around him.
“All I wanna do is send Bobby after them,” Dean counters, watching Ellen as she busies herself with all the mundane tasks – cleaning this and that dirty cup, drawing a glass full of beer for the next customer.
Ellen snorts, but she must agree because she doesn’t comment on it further. “Where’s Sam?” she asks instead.
“Off with Ash somewhere, probably talking about something nerdy,” Dean shrugs and throws the rest of his whiskey down his throat. The last drops of it slip down his tongue and then they’re gone, and Dean knows the drink should have lasted longer; the ice cube, while shrunk down to the size of a six-sided die, still clinks against the glass when he puts it back down on the table.
He waves his fingers at Ellen to get another.
Then he hears the bell above the door ring, and at first Dean just thinks, oh, what a busy night, but then he turns around to look at the intruder and it’s a guy with dark hair wearing a trenchcoat. It’s Dean’s guy in a trenchcoat. And Dean is not exactly sure when this guy became his, but it’s happened and when he realizes, the tips of his ears turn angry pink and Dean looks away quickly.
He hasn’t seen Castiel since that hot day in Dawson, and he hasn’t talked to him either. He’s surprised to realize that his presence here, in a bar Dean considers to be… home, or at least something close to it, because he knows the people around here and they know him and none of them has tried to kill him yet… makes him excited.
Yes, he is positive that the thrilled sensation, warm and new, is not just the whiskey settling in his stomach, but excitement.
Dean desperately wants to know whether Castiel noticed him, but for some reason, it’s impossibly hard to turn around again and maybe make eye contact – or just deal with the fact that Castiel has probably found himself a seat in one of the emptier, less noisy corners, and he couldn’t care less about Dean.
So he fails this simple task, like he has failed many others.
Ellen sets another glass of whiskey in front of him and gives him a look, but since it’s only his second one of the night, he only gives her a grimace in return.
Before she can go back to her work, Dean bites down on his lip and before he can hesitate, he blurts on, “Hey, you know anything about the guy who just walked in?”
Ellen’s eyes scan the bar before they settle on Castiel. And Dean makes the mistake of following Ellen’s gaze; he turns around and yeah, there he is, his trenchcoat off now, dark hair just as big of a mess as back then when they met, and he’s looking right back at Dean, intense and hopeful.
And when their eyes meet, Castiel’s face relaxes and the corners of his lips go up, he smiles at Dean bright and wide, and Dean doesn’t know what to do with himself.
He waves at the guy awkwardly and turns back at Ellen, very much aware of the blush staining his cheeks and his neck.
Ellen’s eyebrow shoots up in question when she sees, and Dean is forever in debt to her when she answers his question anyway. “That’s Cas. He’s a good hunter, but that’s about all I know about him. Quiet guy, likes to keep to himself. But I like him. Jo does, too.”
“Quiet, really?” Dean asks, remembering how ‘Cas’ didn’t need much prompting to start talking Shtrigas and hunting and blood when Dean asked.
Ellen shrugs and looks away, and just like that, their conversation is over, because she hums to herself and steps back, refusing to utter anything else. She grins to herself, though, Dean almost doesn’t notice but then he does, and when he realizes why, he freezes like he did on his first hunt when he had nothing but an iron pipe in his hand that was too heavy and the ghost was approaching too fast and too viciously.
Castiel slips onto the bar stool right next to Dean, quiet pretty much like a ghost, and Dean startles, shuffles a few inches away from him almost automatically.
“Hi. Dean, right?” Castiel asks, pretending not to notice how much Dean tried to draw away from him.
Dean clears his throat and tries his best to recollect himself, shooing away the nervousness that has cornered him all of a sudden – because he’s too stubborn to admit it has been present, sitting in his lap ever since he saw Castiel come in.
“Right,” Dean says and scores a smirk, thank God, at least his face is acting normal. “And you’re Cas,” he adds, feeling like a school boy; but it brings Cas’ smile back and Dean feels proud of that, so it’s all good.
The guy has a pretty smile. It lights up his face, but not in the way Sam’s dimpled one does. Castiel’s smile seems a lot wider and somehow more sincere. His face comes alive with it, and it makes Dean want to smile as well.
And so Dean does smile in return, and the familiarity and intimacy of it, because it suddenly feels like they’re too very old, very good friends who just met after years and years of the lack of each other’s presence, he finally relaxes and the blush finally fades away.
“So, what are you doing here?” Castiel asks and Dean realizes, oh, this is the part where they talk, not just stare at each other.
He shrugs, toying with the glass of whiskey in his hand, his fingers running over the edge of it. “Just stopping by. Ellen’s an old friend. How about you?”
“Well,” Castiel shrugs as well, “I’ve just worked three jobs in a row and I needed a place where I could be sure no one would try to kill me.”
Dean snorts, sub-consciously leaning back, taking back those inches he wanted to keep between them. “I know what you mean there. What jobs?”
“Just a few routine cases, really, I don’t know why I’m so exhausted,” Castiel sighs and when he catches Ellen’s eyes, he quickly asks for a small beer. “Two hauntings and a ghoul.”
“Nah, man. All jobs are exhausting, you deserve a break,” Dean declares and clinks his glass against Castiel’s before he takes a sip. “How do you manage, hunting alone? Or do you have a buddy?”
“No,” Castiel sighs and looks down, at his own glass, his fingers wrapped around it. “I hunt alone. It’s doable alright.”
“Yeah. Sometimes it’s better than hunting with someone. You’re only responsible for yourself,” Dean suggests, but perhaps they both know he’s just trying to offer comfort.
Dean used to hunt alone for a while, after all, and he remembers well enough that it wasn’t unicorns and rainbows. Maybe he was only responsible for himself and not for his little brother as well, but he didn’t have anyone else he could count on; not just to cover him, but to keep him sane. Because after a hunt, you want to shut down, and you truly don’t know if you can trust yourself, and being alone in moments like that can fuck you up. Dean knows; he remembers a lot of restless, sleepless nights, where he desperately wanted to doze off but was too adrenaline-upped after the hunt and needed someone else to share it with him.
But there was no one, and Dean now wonders if these nights are like that for Castiel, too – if this is one of them, and if Castiel needs someone to tell him there’s not a monster standing behind his back, ready to attack.
Dean would be more than happy to offer consolation, to reassure him that he’s with friends (who definitely do not want to feast on his flesh) now, but he doesn’t know if he’s allowed to do so.
They barely know each other, and the fact that for whatever reason, Dean is being pulled toward him – not that he’s trying to refuse and pull back again – doesn’t give him the right to pretend he knows.
“Thank you, Dean,” Castiel offers, looking up, “That’s very nice of you to say.”
Dean nods, just a tiny bit flustered, trying not to be.
What saves him – and perhaps both of them – from quickly approaching awkwardness is Sam, who appears on the other side of Dean’s stool all of a sudden, carefree as ever on a night off, his laptop closed for once.
He hops on the bar stool. “So I got nothing from Ash. We’ll have to call Bobby tomorrow. Hey,” he finally looks at Cas, “You’re the guy from Dawson, right?”
And somehow, the conversation picks up from there; mostly, it’s Sam and Cas doing the talking, with Dean only barely chiming in sometimes.
They talk about the hunters all three of them know – and Cas knows a lot of them, Bobby, too, despite hunting alone – and the more they talk, the more glances Dean steals as he allows himself to examine Cas’ face and remember it.
This hasn’t happened in a while, Dean knows. He’s been spending nights with girls, crushing on girls, but every once in a while, a guy turns up, and sometimes the guy is a hunter; sometimes the guy has messy dark hair and carries an old trenchcoat around and smiles like the sun just showed up after months of darkness. Sometimes, the guy is Castiel.
Because Dean likes him, and by the end of the night, all he wants to do is kiss those lips and taste them, or maybe just listen to Cas talk for long hours.
Cas, however, gets up after three beers and excuses himself, and so Dean doesn’t get to do either of those things.
Dean burns under Sam’s all-knowing eyes after Cas leaves, but all he really cares about is that he was dumb enough not to ask for a phone number, just cause.
“So go and ask,” Sam says, startling Dean, who didn’t even realize he was thinking out loud. “He’s probably, like, two feet from the door.”
“Shut up,” Dean grumbles and glares at his brother, turning around on his stool, ordering his last whiskey of the night, trying to ignore the empty space to his left.
-
iii.
“Bobby,” Dean breathes out, watching the strangely cold September weather turn his breath into a tiny cloud leaving his mouth and disappearing a few inches above his head, “I need something from you.”
“Of course you do,” Bobby comments on the other side of the phone, and Dean wants to laugh when he hears fumbling and then a bed creaking, meaning that Bobby probably decided to sleep in. “What is it?”
Dean listens to Bobby walking through his house, getting to the kitchen, he can even recognize the fridge door being opened. He wishes he could be there still, instead of outside of yet another old motel, with only his brother reminding him of home.
“We forgot a duffel bag at your place,” Dean explains after Bobby starts humming some old jazz song – Dean might be homesick, but there are things he’d rather not think about, and Bobby’s singing skills are one of them. “And since it’s kinda the one with guns and stuff, we need it ASAP.”
“Where are you?”
“Nebraska. More than four hours away so driving back is nonsense. We’ll probably have to buy new stuff, but I wanted to ask just in case you had another hunter coming this way.”
Bobby turns a radio on and listens to it play in the background for a moment, then says, “Hold on a sec,” as he puts the phone down.
Dean wonders who it is staying at Bobby’s place now as he counts the seconds it takes Bobby to come back with an answer. It’s seventy-two seconds if Dean’s correct, and if not, he wouldn’t be surprised; he feels strangely numb today, everything a shade of grey instead of the autumnal red and yellow. Not even the badly carved pumpkin – now, in the middle of September – by the door to the office seems to carry a color that would cheer Dean up.
“I’ve got a guy going to Kansas, said he’d drop by and get your precious bag to you.”
“Great!” Dean exclaims, his relief causing him to use a wild hand gesture even though Bobby can’t see his gratitude. “Who is it?”
“Cas Novak, you heard of him?”
Color drains from Dean’s face at the same time as his heart skips a beat; Dean fears it’s not anxiety, he fears it’s more likely that if his heart was a hand, it would be fist bumping the air in victory now. That’s even more worrisome.
Dean hasn’t seen Cas since that night at Ellen’s bar, but to be honest, he’s dreamed that face more than once. Daydreaming included. Early morning showers included; late night fantasies included as well.
“Yeah, we, uh – we know each other, kinda,” he stumbles over his words, his feet now trying to pile the leaves back up, just so he’s busy with something and doesn’t have to think. “Thanks, Bobby.”
“Yeah,” Bobby grumbles in fake annoyance, “Next time, do me a favor and don’t leave things lying around. What are you, five?”
Dean laughs. “Good morning to you, too. But seriously, thanks.”
“You got it. Don’t forget to be careful, kid,” he adds before he hangs up, and Dean makes a mental note to mock this sentence when he tells Sam, even though in reality, it means the world to him.
It’s almost noon by the time there’s a knock on Dean and Sam’s motel room door, and Dean shoots up from the chair he’s been occupying way too fast. He hears Sam snicker but brushes it off.
His smile is ready when he opens the door, but he’s not met with a similar one he’d been expecting. And he had been expecting Castiel to smile; for some reason, when Dean imagines Cas, it’s always with a smile.
He understands, though, that with a split lip and a black eye, it would probably take a lot to crack even a half-assed smirk. Dean’s smile falls as well as he frowns and concern spreads across his face before he can stop himself. He’s not even wearing his trenchcoat, just a plain deep blue t-shirt, and for some reason, that’s unsettling.
“What happened to you, man?” he asks with furrowed brow.
Castiel shrugs. “Ah, you know. You don’t always meet just the nice hunters, I guess.”
“You mean another hunter did this to you?”
Another shrug. “You know, some hunters are like high schoolers and when you don’t agree with them, they feel like they need to beat you up for it. But don’t worry, I got some good punches in, too,” Cas tries to joke and his lips do try to stretch in a smile, but he ends up wincing in pain and the tip of his tongue appears, licking over the freshly bleeding cut on his lower lip.
“I’ve literally talked to you three times and twice you were beaten up. I’m starting to worry,” Dean comments, but to be honest, that’s a wild understatement.
What he truly wants to do is bug Cas until he has the names of the so-called hunters who did this, and then he wants to kick their asses so they remember not to mess with Castiel. Of course, he realizes that Castiel might as well be stronger than Dean; but suddenly, Dean wants to protect, and shield, and take care of the man in front of him, and he doesn’t know how to approach this.
Castiel lowers his gaze as if embarrassed that Dean would say such a thing; and Dean wonders, is it a weird thing to say? Sure it’s not as weird as “Come in so I can take care of you and kiss it better”.
“I’ve got your bag in my car,” Castiel says then, pointing to the same old Sedan. “Just wanted to check if I’ve got the right room.”
Dean lets out a breath, almost disappointed that they’re not going to discuss what exactly happened and why, but he nods anyway. “Sure, let me go grab it.”
The doors of the Sedan are about as creaky as Impala’s; makes Dean smile to himself, makes him wonder whether Cas lets it be that way just like Dean does, just to have a daily reminder of the fact that old things that seem to be broken don’t necessarily need to be broken at all.
“I’ve got some more driving to do, so I’ll go,” Castiel says after Dean picks up the duffel bag from the passenger’s seat – noticing the coat neatly folded (but dirty) lying in the backseat.
Dean acts before he can think about it and make himself not do it out of anxiety and fear of rejection. The palm of his free hand comes to rest on Castiel’s forearm, not squeezing, just lying there, testing what it feels like to have only an inch of fabric preventing their skin from meeting. It feels lovely and new and strangely warm and Dean pulls away quick and fast before it gets too comfortable.
They exchange a confused look; Castiel perhaps not understanding why Dean would touch him, Dean perplexed that he did and that it was enough to mean so much.
“We were just about to head out for lunch, wanna come?”
Castiel’s face moves, changes from confusion to something else, relief or excitement or both. “You sure?”
“Yeah, of course,” Dean smiles with his heart dancing in his chest; very quick, frantic even, like a little child’s. “I’m sure Sam won’t mind. He’s probably tired of me by now, so you guys can talk. C’mon.” And it feels right to lead Cas back to the motel room.
It’s a few hours after that when Dean is sitting on the steps leading to the second floor outside, beer in hand and shivering, because even though the September sun decided to show up, it’s not warm enough.
Castiel is supposed to be inside with Sam, talking about this and that, about Bobby and monsters and books and other things, and this is supposed to be Dean’s escape, where he can think and stare and not exist as a real person with responsibilities and feelings for a while.
Looking at his situation as a third uninterested party proves to be just as difficult as living it, though. Because both real Dean and third party Dean can see what’s going on; both can feel the crush he’s developed on Cas, silently, for no reason whatsoever. But it’s there, and it carries a surprising intensity.
Dean remembers the summer day they met for the very first time; he was intrigued back then, and what an innocent feeling it was, who knew there were layers and layers hiding underneath it, ready to be discovered by a not very willing Dean. Because being intrigued is one thing; but being pulled towards someone, just for their smile and their voice and who knows what else, that’s something else, and it’s dangerous.
It’s beer at two in the afternoon dangerous, it’s shivering out in the autumn cold dangerous. Dean doesn’t like it, and he’s worried, because there’s also another part of him that loves it.
There’s another part of him, and it’s the bigger one, who sees Castiel’s smile as a flirtation, his ‘Dean’ as an invitation.
His not-existing moment is interrupted, ironically, by Cas who appears beside him without Dean noticing.
“Sam said he drove all night so I left him to nap,” he explains.
Dean, wordlessly, moves to the side and Cas, just as silent, sits next to him, sharing the small space of the step together, their knees bumping.
For a few seconds, Dean can only focus on not focusing on the fact that they are, in fact, touching now, but then he relaxes and leans his leg against Cas’.
Late vacationers appear on the motel parking lot; a family of four, parents and their two kids, a boy and a girl who both seem to be the same age. Dean focuses on them, then; watches them pull their suitcases from the trunk, bickering and laughing, and he wonders if this is some sick metaphor he should take something from. Up until now, he doubted such happy families existed; and yet here they are.
“Do you ever want to just, like, quit?” he asks Cas, taking a sip of his beer, his eyes still glued to the family, the father now disappearing in the motel office.
Castiel hums. “I don’t know. I don’t have a tragic backstory or anything, I had a friend in college and he was a hunter, and I thought – that would be something for me. And it turns out, it is. I like it, it just – it gets lonely sometimes.”
“You ever see your family?”
“Sometimes,” Cas mumbles, “But it’s not like coming home during a school break, you know. There’s something missing, I guess.”
“Yeah,” Dean nods, his fingers going up and wrapping around the amulet Sam gave him, playing with it, turning it around. “I know what you mean.”
“I thought Sam was your family?”
“Sure,” Dean agrees and gives the necklace one final squeeze before letting it go. “But it’s different now. There used to be more of us, you know. But we’ve got Bobby and each other, and…” he chances a glance at Cas, for some reason wants to say ‘and you came along now’, and he sighs. “And stuff. It could be worse.”
“I like your amulet,” Castiel says to that, as if he knew how much it meant, and Dean looks at him again.
“Thanks.”
“I should get going, though,” he says after that, chewing on his hurt lower lip. He reaches out with his hand and Dean is almost terrified that he might pet Dean’s leg goodbye or cover Dean’s hand with his, but he ends up bumping his knee against Dean’s playfully before getting up instead. “Thanks for the lunch.”
“Anytime,” Dean mumbles, and then Cas is walking away; this time, he turns around to give Dean a lopsided smile; this time, Dean wishes he wouldn’t, because when he does, Dean’s blush is no longer hidden.
-
iv.
There’s a tap on his shoulder and if he was younger, he’d probably flip, thinking some lady employee has sneaked up on him and is about to kick him out.
But he’s thirty and then some, so he just turns around.
And sees Cas standing in front of him.
And realizes he’s holding porn in his hand.
“Oh, Jesus fuck,” he swears under his breath and turns right back, stuffing the magazine where he got it from, almost knocking the shelf over. “It’s not – it was –“ Flustered, he swallows and looks around. If he could choose, he would opt to just explode right now.
“What are you doing in Savannah?” Castiel asks in a cheery voice, a smile on his lips, completely ignoring Dean’s fuck-up.
Dean tries to recollect himself, clears his throat and tries to push away the idea that this situation has already gone to shit. No, time to save it, somehow.
“What are you doing in Savannah? Last time I heard you were on the West Coast.”
“That was weeks ago,” Castiel frowns, “We really haven’t talked in a while. Anyway, I’m headed to Statesboro, there’s another Shtriga there. If it is a Shtriga, because it’s kind of a weird one. Killing kids, sounds weird, but who knows.”
Dean hums. “Yeah. We’re here to take down a vampire, he’s supposed to be holing up in the old abandoned house on the other side of the city when he’s not attacking people.”
They both pay for their stuff and step out together, into the sharp late October air. Dean finally lets himself take Cas in – it’s good to see him without bruises, scratches and other things indicating that he might be in danger.
“Come to our motel to catch up? Or are you in a hurry?” Dean asks, surprised to see how easy it is to get that out, much like it was difficult to let Cas go the last time they spoke.
Castiel seems to consider it for a few seconds, but then he shrugs. “I can waste an hour or two on you… two. Won’t be much of a waste, too.”
It makes Dean feel warm inside; the kind of warm that not even three layers of clothing will guarantee him, especially not in this weather, with the sky constantly clouded.
It starts pouring from those clouds when they’re halfway to the motel, forcing them to run the rest of the day. The nearest shelter is Dean’s Impala, and they both run to it without questioning their actions, Dean opening the doors for Cas and both of them slipping in quickly, soaked in rain.
Dean almost doesn’t manage to hold back. Tiny raindrops are crawling down Cas’ hair, some of them falling down to his face, catching on his cheekbones, trailing towards his jaw when he wipes them away.
Dean reaches to the backseat instead and pulls out an old t-shirt from beneath the seat, offering it to Cas unwillingly, because he would be more than happy staring at the drops caught in Cas’ eyelashes.
They both dry themselves as well as possible and after Dean turns the heat on, they shuffle and squeeze until they’re both in the backseat, enjoying the space it gives them.
For a little while, all Dean can hear is the rain, ferocious and heavy, hitting the roof of the car and the windows. He wonders what it would be like to get lost in the sound and listen to it as it whispers for Dean to just do it, to just lean in and kiss Cas.
Would there still be rain on his lips? Would Dean be able to lick it off, would Cas let him? Would Cas’ warm body pressed against Dean clean off the cold wetness of his clothes?
He doesn’t dare to find out – they talk, and Dean sinks back into the Impala’s seat, except even though he tries, they move closer and closer, inch by inch. By the time the windows fog up, the air outside cold and the air inside cozy and warm, their thighs are touching and Dean’s breath is permanently quickened.
And yet they’re still talking about changing tires and how Dean came to have a cool car like this.
Do it, do it, screams the voice in Dean’s hand frantically, just reach for his hand and fucking hold it. By now, Castiel’s smile speaks for him; the way he leans in to Dean is pretty obvious, too.
But then there’s a knock on the window and Dean startles, his whole body jerking, his hand flying and landing on Castiel’s thigh.
Dean’s face goes red and he pulls away quickly, looking away and rolling down the window instead, just to see Sam’s face; he can’t miss the way his eyebrows are raised in question and his lips curved in a smirk.
“It stopped raining like half an hour ago,” Sam informs them, “What are you still doing here?”
“Nothing,” Dean blurts out.
“Just talking,” Cas adds in an equally quick manner, and when Dean looks back, he is surprised to see that it’s Cas this time who’s blushing, and now Dean is very interested where Cas’ mind was as they discussed cars. Probably the same place as Dean’s. Either way, blush looks as good on Cas as his smile does – it belongs there, and Dean likes being the one causing it.
But it’s too late now, anyway; too late to catch that rosy pink on Cas’ cheeks with his lips or brush his fingers across its warmth.
They both get out of the car and after a very quick brunch (and a change of clothes during which Dean curses all Gods that he has to change too and can’t peek out of the window to get a glimpse of Cas changing), all they can do is wish each other good luck and go separate ways, as always.
Dean promises himself that the next time they see each other, he’ll finally ask for Cas’ number, even if he’ll have to write it on his arm with a sharpie.
-
v.
So when Dean wakes up tied to a chair, dizzy and with a very distinct throbbing in his head, his first thought is more or less shit, not again.
It takes him a while to fully come to himself; everything seems a bit foggy at first, as if soaked in weird mist with a tingle of wetness (which he later recognizes as blood slowly crawling down his temple where he had been hit).
When he manages to turn to the side, he’s more than relieved to see Sam there next to him, tied to a chair as well, old rusty chains trapping their limbs. True; the situation would be considerably better if Sam was still outside and running free, but Dean still considers this to be better than having a dead brother.
“Shh,” he tries quietly, because although the room seems quiet and empty, you never know what might be lurking in the shadows.
Sam reacts with a loud groan that echoes through the room with intensity that makes Dean hunch down and look around. It doesn’t seem to attract any of their imprisoners. The more Dean starts to remember, the less that seems like a good thing.
“Sammy,” he tries again, his voice barely a whisper. Somehow, God bless, Sam finally comes to.
His head shoots up, his bangs covering half of his face. The room is dark, but Dean can see Sam’s split lip anyway and he wonders how they are bleeding but not being eaten alive by the vampires in this stupid vampire nest.
“What the hell happened?” Sam hisses in pain and perhaps frustration, trying to tug at the chains tying his hands behind his back.
“Long story short, one vampire turned into a vampire nest if you know what I mean.”
And yeah, Sam sure does. The panicked look on his face does a good job of speaking for himself.
“So why are we not –“
“Probably wanna ask us about other hunters in the area.”
…which is the exact moment when Dean realizes that there is, in fact, one more hunter in the area. Cas.
If he had been afraid for himself and his brother, the fear that envelopes him in a tight embrace now is indescribable. How far is Statesboro? How safe Cas is at this very second? Something, probably just a gut feeling, tells Dean that Cas is not very safe at all.
For just a split second, Dean feels like he could break free just by sheer will, just because he wants to, because now, he’s got two people to protect and both of them are in danger. And it’s never been clearer than now that Dean would risk for Cas almost as much as he would risk for Sam.
Dean almost laughs when he realizes that the ‘weird kind of Shtriga’ Castiel went to kill was probably another vampire, another part of this nest who thought it would be fun to feed on little boys and girls.
The brothers fall silent, both buried deep in their thoughts; Sam probably trying to come up with a solution to this seemingly hopeless situation, but Dean… The silence offers him enough space to make the image of vampire teeth sinking into Cas’ throat and ripping it open without mercy come to life. It’s so vivid, so real in Dean’s mind that he almost shrieks.
“We’re just gonna roll with it,” Sam breaks the silence after a while, distracting Dean from thinking about blood and death and general awesome things like that, “And we’ll figure something out as we go.”
It takes a lot not to snort at that. “Excellent plan.”
“You got a better one?”
Dean is just about to open his mouth and say something pretentiously witty back, because bickering is exactly what you want to do when trapped in a vampire nest, not sure whether you’ll make it out alive or not, when the door behind their backs opens with a slight creak.
No sound follows for a few seconds, then the door creaks again and Dean’s heart, despite all his experiences with this job, picks up a panicked pace. He can feel the danger surrounding him fight its way through his pores and into his system, inducing panic and fear. Dean’s fists clench and he purses his lips, trying his best not to kick and scream.
Dean knows literally anyone could step out of the shadows, starting with an old female vampire and ending with a kid with a fang (and a mental) problem.
Still, he is more than surprised when he recognizes the person now crouching down next to him, trying to get Dean’s chains open with a pin.
“Cas, what the fuck?” he asks in a whisper, alarmed. “What the hell are you doing here?”
“Quiet,” he commands and it shuts Dean up, miraculously, the only sound in the room Cas trying to pick the lock and succeeding not even a minute later. Without a word, he helps Dean out of the chains and up from the chair. “Watch the door,” comes another silent order, and Dean, with his heart still beating frantically, as if it was a little bird flapping its wings, trying to fly away, can’t do nothing but listen.
Sam’s lock must have been rustier or Cas’ hands must be extremely fast, making Dean wonder how many locks he has picked in his life and how many times it saved his skin, because he’s done with freeing the second prisoner in no time.
Sam, rubbing at his bruised wrists is standing next to Dean now. “Rolling with it,” he comments and nods at Dean. At Dean, who is more worried about Cas being here; so much he wants to take him by his shoulders and kick him out without even thanking him.
“So, plan,” Castiel starts in a rushed whisper. “Didn’t have much time to go through the entire house, but – two of them are in the living room, I’ll take care of them. One is in the bathroom, or was when I sneaked in, and the last one, well, no nice way to put it – they’ve pretty set up a butchery in the basement.”
Sam and Dean exchange a look.
“We shouldn’t split up,” Dean exclaims and glares at Cas, who shouldn’t be here, who should be driving away into the unusual safety of the open road.
Sam sighs, as if he was tired with his child’s misbehavior. “Come on, Dean, that’s not –“
“Okay, I’ll take the two in the living room, then.”
Both Sam and Cas must see the determination on Dean’s face because they don’t say a word. Cas, however, fishes out a freaking machete from somewhere, precious miracle boy, and hands it to Dean.
“Take this, then,” he says gently and nods toward the weapon.
Dean nods as well, a silent, wordless thank you, painfully aware of how much he wants to just grab Cas’ hand and run away, painfully aware that he cannot do that, that he was never able to, and won’t ever be able to. So he takes the machete instead and together, they leave the dark room.
The split-up is painful; not just because Dean is about to take on two vampires, but because he loses all control whatsoever over his brother and over Cas, they’re lives now completely out of Dean’s reach.
It wakes the moths in his stomach; not the pleasant butterflies he sometimes gets when Cas shows up unexpectedly, but those vicious vengeful moths that make him sick and anxious. They flutter around in his stomach constantly, hundreds of them, as he makes his way towards the living room, in the direction Cas had showed him.
The next few moments seem to pass within seconds, but as Dean lives them, they seem to stretch on for hours and hours on end, never ending and sticky like honey, gluing Dean’s fingers to the machete as he swings it two times, beheading two vampires one after another. They had been waiting for him, clever, all-hearing creatures, and Dean felt their cold breath close to his skin before he managed to take them down. Made it only barely, he knows, his heart skipping a surprised beat.
Sam appears in the doorway when the second vampire falls heavily to the ground, his head rolling under the old-fashioned, dirty dust covered divan.
Without exchanging a word, they both head for the basement, but when they get there, Castiel is standing above a dead, headless body as well, and Dean cannot believe their luck; getting out of this one seems more like a miracle.
Everything in Dean is pulling him towards Castiel; he desperately wants to take the step and hug him, keep him close and murmur in his ear, You are okay, I’m so glad you are. He doesn’t, though; he only allows his relief to show on his face before uncertainty and shyness can cover it like a curtain. “Thank God,” he breathes out, running his hand through his short hair.
Cas’ eyes travel from Dean’s face to Sam’s and stop there. He looks hesitant for a second, an expression Dean cannot fully read replacing his own relief for a while.
“Sam, could you –“ he offers, his body moving an inch toward him, his hand half-reached up and pointing to the stairs.
“Oh, of course,” Sam exclaims in a voice too cheery after a kill like this, and Dean really has no clue what kind of code language they are speaking now, because he doesn’t understand a word from what’s going on. “I’ll take care of the bodies upstairs while you, uh, talk.”
Sam’s feet are still stomping upwards on the stairs, Dean can practically feel all the dust falling off of them, he even remembers the scene from the very first Harry Potter movie and wants to comment on it, when his thought process is cut short by two strong hands pressing against his chest and forcing him to back.
One step after another, Dean backs away until his body hits the old wooden wall, Castiel mere inches from him, and then those inches stop existing, explode like tiny stars right in front of Dean’s face, and Castiel’s lips are pressed against Dean’s, just like that.
Dean holds his breath in overwhelming surprise, his whole body tense and unmoving, his hands limp by his sides. He’s frozen, panicking, a million thoughts racing through his mind at three thousand miles per hour.
For a second, Dean worries something happened to Cas, maybe a vampire did rip his throat out and… and then… and then something and anything and all of the things, all of the messes created by all humans inhabiting this planet now scattered all over Dean’s brain as he is unable to comprehend this.
For that split second, Dean cannot wrap his mind around it; it seems so easy and so simple. Aren’t those Cas’ lips pressed against yours, Dean? Yes, they are. Don’t they taste like sweat and saliva and a little bit of blood from where you’ve bitten him? Yes, they do. Is this at all possible? It seems to be, but what if it is not?
But then Cas’ palms come to rest on both sides of Dean’s face, cradling it, keeping it in place, trying to draw a reaction, and Dean cannot but give in.
He relaxes, eases into Cas’ touch, moves so that he copies Castiel’s body perfectly, leans into him, reciprocates. His lips finally move, and he tilts his head a bit to get better access to Castiel’s mouth. His legs are still shaky, the thrill of the kill leaving his body after all, leaving him in his fragile human state, and he is glad to be pressed against a wall, more than glad to be supported by Castiel’s body.
Dean wants to whine when Cas pulls away; considers it a victory when he manages to hold it back. He refuses to open his eyes, though, chasing Cas’ lips and the kiss blindfolded by his own will, desperate to get it back before it slips through his fingers and remains nothing but a memory.
“Dean,” Castiel murmurs, his breath hitting Dean on the lips, and he is forced to look at the world again after all.
There’s new urgency in Cas’ voice, one that wasn’t there any other time he said his name, and he likes to say his name a lot – Dean knows, he’s the one who tried to count once, he’s the one who daydreamed about it for days afterwards, literally just imagining Cas’ lips shaping around the word.
“I was so worried,” Cas continues when he’s got Dean’s attention, “I knew right away it was vampires when I got there and saw the dead kids, I knew, and I linked it together and I was so worried I would be late.”
“I was so worried you would do something stupid like getting your ass here instead of getting the hell out of this state,” Dean counters with a small smile, because even though he can’t bring himself to say it, they both know he means the opposite. Or at least Dean hopes they both know.
“I should have kissed you back in Dawson.”
“Well. I could say the same.”
“Lots of wasted opportunities to make up for,” Castiel murmurs with his lips brushing against Dean’s mouth again, and this time, he lets Dean lean in and steal another kiss, his eyes fluttering close.
Thousands and thousands of butterflies kill the moths in Dean’s stomach, one after another, each and every moment of their kiss. It goes on for seconds; Dean would count if he wasn’t so busy not moaning, not grabbing Castiel’s hips, not stuffing his hands under the stupid trenchcoat and then under his shirt and up Cas’ naked chest, boy, what that must feel like; not doing anything that would lead to something else than kissing.
He’s got almost zero control over himself; he’s half-hard when he finally pulls away, lips swollen and face flushed, the red covering it matching the red on Castiel’s face.
“We should take care of the dead body,” Dean offers, hating that this is not some lake house where they could kiss most of the hours of the day away, and then spend the rest doing something more.
Castiel’s face seems to fall and for the first time in minutes, he steps back and his hands are gone, nothing is pressing Dean against the wall now, no support offered.
Dean is quick to catch Castiel’s hand, though; he can feel the sudden shift in the atmosphere, and, alarmed this came out wrong, he frowns. Without having to think about it; without thinking that maybe he should think about it, he says, “You should know, though, that we have plenty of space and I would consider myself a lucky guy if you decided to join us.”
Dean can see the smile tug on the corner of Castiel’s lips, but he refuses to give in to it just yet. “Isn’t it better to hunt alone? Being responsible only for yourself?”
“I’ve already got a pain in the ass little brother to take care of,” Dean shrugs, “Besides, it’s not one-sided. You’d have one more person to worry about, too. Do you wanna?”
And Dean shakes his head at himself for saying that, but it seems to amuse Cas enough, because the smile is now finally there and Dean knows he’s just won one of the most important battles of his life.
“Of course I wanna, Dean.” His fingers squeeze around Dean’s before letting go.
Dean doesn’t want to let go. He almost wonders if it would be worth the try to carry the body upstairs while still holding hands. He’d bet his money on yes, it would be possible, but he doesn’t want to risk Sam’s amused face.
So he satisfies himself with, “Later –“
And Cas seems to understand, as he always does, because he nods and looks down almost shyly, still smiling.