Archive of Our Own

Dean took a large bite of succulent burger, letting the rich juices drip unrepentantly from the corner of his mouth as the flavors erupted on his tongue like a symphony. He groaned, the sound as low and dirty as his side of coleslaw topped jalapeño fries.

Sam tried and failed to look disapproving of both his porn noises and the heart attack on Dean’s plate, as he picked at his house salad with a precise delicacy completely at odds with his over large frame.

Dean deliberately inched his dirty, dirty fries towards his brother’s side of the table, the smirk on his face demonic as he saw his brother’s nostrils flare with interest. He watched temptation swirl through Sam’s features before he abruptly stiffened and pursed his lips in disapproval.

“I prefer my arteries open, thank you,” he said.

Dean snorted, snatched the fries back and forked a huge, creamy pile into his mouth; then chewed with open mouthed delight.

Sam just winced and looked away.

Dean narrowed his eyes suspiciously. The lack of more vocal disapproval or complaint at his deliberate teasing and filthy manners solidified his suspicions.

“Okay,” he said, when he had almost finished chewing. “What do you want?”

Sam’s bitchface was an impressive mix of hurt, innocence and cunning. “I can’t just want to have lunch with my brother?”

“Since you work an hour’s drive away, unless you’re suddenly in the habit of taking three-hour lunch breaks, I’d call bullshit on that. ‘Sides, you’re sitting in a burger bar in a thousand dollar suit, pretending to enjoy that plate of rabbit food when everyone knows Ellen can’t make salads for shit.”

“I make shitty salads on principle,” Ellen yelled from behind the bar, proving conclusively that she was listening to every word.

Sam stared sadly at his pile of limp lettuce and sliced overripe tomatoes, definitely formed out of leftovers that Ellen wouldn’t see dead on her burgers, sighed defeatedly, lay down his fork, and reached over to snatch a couple of fries.

Dean grinned smugly, inching the plate back towards the middle of the table.

Sam closed his eyes in reluctant rapture at the hot spicy bite of the fries. “How the hell do you keep so fit, eating crap like this every damned day?” he demanded enviously.

“I don’t spend all day sitting on my ass in an office,” Dean pointed out dryly.

“I run,” Sam protested. “I lift weights. I still have to eat clean.”

“Run?” Dean snorted. “You don’t know the meaning of the word. Two days ago Lucifer broke out of his cage and I swear me and Charlie both broke Usain Bolt’s record for a hundred yard dash.”

“Everyone okay?”

“Course. We’d finished the enclosure, so we were planning to let him out this weekend anyway. I just wanted his leg to heal a few more days before he put his full weight on it. Turned out I was being over cautious because the bastard sure as hell had no problem trying to turn me into a rare steak.”

“I know you have a no-kill policy, Dean, but that Lucifer worries me. He’s never going to be trustworthy.”

“His enclosure is well away from any public tour areas. Poor bastard deserves the space and the peace and quiet anyway. The insurance company still stung me with a premium increase that made my eyes water. Still, if I didn’t have full GFAS accreditation, they wouldn’t cover him at all. Charlie’s been rounding up the volunteers to do a ton of ‘Save Lucifer’ events to fund the extra expenses. So I had a delegation from the local Baptist church last week demanding I change his name. I said sure, I’ll rename him fuckin’ Lazarus as long as you adopt him with a long term sponsorship. Think they’re seriously considering it.”

“Money really tight still?”

Dean rolled his eyes and took a long draw on his beer. “Money is always gonna be tight, Sam. We’re a sanctuary, not a fucking petting farm. The only people who make money out of this kind of shit are exploitative assholes who deserve to be in cages themselves. The volunteers are great, but I need more real staff if I’m ever going to make the place run safely enough to have more visitors and without the visitors I can’t afford the staff. And every day I get calls about more poor bastards like Lucifer and I just can’t afford to extend further onto the land Bobby gave me because I need to dig another lake first and that kind of shit costs mega bucks.”

“How many staff?” Sam asked.

“Huh?”

“How many local staff could you employ if money wasn’t an issue?”

“It is,” Dean snapped shortly, not willing to play the ‘what if’ game.

“Half a dozen? A dozen? Two dozen?” Sam persisted.

Dean rolled his eyes impatiently. “A dozen maybe,” he grunted. “If I had a budget for more than that I’d be bringing in specialists and I have no problem getting volunteers for basic menial shit. Would be really nice if I could afford to actually employ the useful skilled local guys like Benny and Victor. If I could have a dozen of that calibre, full time instead of as occasional volunteers, the expansion would be less of a pipe dream.”

“Cool,” Sam said. “That works.”

“What works?” Dean demanded as he scratched absently at the rash of hives on his left forearm as he frowned suspiciously across the table. “You look smug,” he accused.

“An EB-5 investment visa requires a foreign national to invest a minimum of $900,000 into a business in a region of low employment to create a minimum of 10 jobs,” Sam advised him airily.

“And? So?”

“My firm is handling an EB-5 application for a Siberian businessman. He’s willing to invest a couple of million into the right business to acquire a green card for himself and his family. I may have mentioned the fact my brother runs a PETA approved sanctuary for rescued Siberian Tigers.”

Dean dropped his beer.

“You jerk,” he said, as froth surged over the table like lava, drowning the remaining dirty fries.

Sam smirked.

Dean scratched the hives on the side of his neck. He’d spent a little too much time with Dima that morning and his allergies were playing up. Unlike domestic cats, Tigers didn’t cause him to spend all day sneezing and wheezing but they still caused his skin to constantly break out into odd itchy rashes.

“I’d sell my soul for even $500,000 at this stage,” he admitted. “But I won’t allow the tigers to get used. Anyway, even if I was willing to do it, which I’m not, my GFAS accreditation won’t allow for an investor wanting to use the sanctuary as a commercial enterprise.”

“It’s not a commercial investment. The guy only gets to be a silent investor. You probably will never even meet him. He’s buying a green card, not part of your business. He gets no say in what you do or how you spend his money. All you are legally required to do is employ ten locals, in any capacity, to work at Haven Vale. He gets to move to anywhere he likes in America. Chances are he’ll settle in somewhere like New York anyway. Why would anyone want to move to Kansas if they’re not a farmer?”

“Point,” Dean agreed, feeling as stunned as though he’d just won the lottery. “This real, Sammy?”

“Done and dusted, save for your signature,” Sam agreed, reaching for the briefcase he’d left sitting at his feet like an obedient dog. “I did all the paperwork, negotiations and everything, because I didn’t want to get your hopes up until it definitely was real. The money is already sitting in my firm’s client account. That’s how real this is. I just need a couple of signatures and I can get the wheels turning and the money into your account by Monday.”

“I don’t know what to say,” Dean mumbled, looking completely shell-shocked.

“Hey,” Sam said solemnly. “You never gave me crap when I said I wanted to become a lawyer rather than a vet. You never complained about me using the money our folks had saved for us to follow their dreams, to do what I wanted to do instead. They died and you took over as curator of Haven Vale and never once resented my decision not to stay here with you. But the fact I never wanted to be an active part of the ‘family business’ doesn’t mean I didn’t support it. What mom and dad built, what you have done to keep it going, awes the shit out of me, Dean. I became a lawyer because it’s my way of wanting to make the world a better place.

“This investment thing is just a way of creating a perfect synergy between both of our strengths. Some guy gets to move his family to America for a new and better life. You get to finally make Haven Vale the place our Mom always dreamed it would be.”

###

Castiel Dmitri Krushnic was an extremely wealthy man.

How he had become an extremely wealthy man was only due to inheritance and chance, despite general opinion whispering that all of the Krushnics were obviously corrupt ruthless criminals since they had emerged out of communism with their snouts firmly in the trough of capitalist wealth. His father Yuri hadn’t been a ruthless man who had deliberately set out to avariciously acquire wealth. He had simply been in the right place at the right time. A graduate of the Moscow Institute of Physics and Technology, Yuri had set up a computer company in the 80’s that had been successful enough to enable him to purchase stakes in a couple of state banks. In the early 90’s, when Boris Yeltsin had been facing an economic crisis, he had sold stakes in key industrial sectors in exchange for loans from those banks. When the government failed to repay those loans, the Krusnic family had found themselves in possession of assets such as a rich Nickel mine in Siberia.

The Krushnics were not corrupt. They were, however, holders of extreme wealth in a country run by extremely corrupt men. It was an extremely dangerous position to be in. Castiel had spent the decade since his father’s death playing cat and mouse with a series of increasingly corrupt tax officials. He had seen friends and acquaintances charged with spurious ‘crimes’ simply so their wealth could be sucked into the rumoured 200 billion of ‘missing’ money that Putin was reputedly stashing in overseas accounts.

Castiel had always known it was just a matter of time - a knock on the door one night by men in dark suits with warrants raised on fictional charges would allow the current government to reclaim the assets Yeltsin had so foolishly given away.

Castiel, like countless other oligarchs, would simply ‘disappear’.

Were it not for his son, Castiel might have decided to stay and fight for his rights. Not because he cared about his wealth for its own sake but because he thought that simply running away from a corrupt government was almost as bad as being complicit with it.

But he was a father, and that consideration trumped everything.

His marriage had been his greatest mistake, but it had borne fruit in the form of a son who was the center of Castiel’s world, so he had no regrets. Anastasia had shown her true character long before she had given up all rights to their child in exchange for a seven figure divorce settlement. She had been lucky to have the child to barter with at all. They had only slept together once, on the occasion of their marriage, and she had somehow caught with child. If little Misha was not a complete carbon copy of himself, Castiel wouldn’t have even believed the boy was his own flesh and blood.

He’d been relieved to see Anna go. The marriage had been one of politics, not love. Misha was his ‘proof’ that he was a virile, heterosexual, man in a country where even the hint of other inclinations would give Putin’s people the excuse they needed to arrest him. It was not something Castiel was proud of, but his son had become his world and so it no longer mattered why he had married Anna - just as it didn’t matter that her greedy acceptance of his money had proven why she had married him - and Siberia was not where Castiel wanted Misha to grow up.

He didn’t want his son to live under the same constant shadow of fear as he had always done.

So he felt no guilt over the fact he effectively bought them a life in a new country.

Of course, it wasn’t as easy as simply packing suitcases and hopping on a plane. Negotiations had to be done, bribes paid, deals struck. He couldn’t afford the chance of shadowy Kremlin agents being sent after him with radioactive tea.

He left his homeland as a millionaire, not a billionaire. He voluntarily offered up considerably more than 90% of his family’s wealth in exchange for free passage and a ‘clean slate’.

After paying his two million dollars to guarantee the right for himself and his son to live in America permanently, Castiel was left with only ten million dollars. Which was an obscene thought, really. If that didn’t prove to be enough money to carve out a new life then he should be thoroughly ashamed of himself.

Which is why he decided not to move to New York or California or Florida. He wanted Misha to grow up as a real American boy. To learn to stand on his own feet. To have the opportunities that Castiel had been denied. Wealth, and the pursuit of wealth, was not a path to happiness. It was a yoke, a burden, and made a man a target for other people’s greed.

He chose Haven, Kansas arbitrarily. He had been charmed by the idea of the Haven Vale Cat Sanctuary. The romance of it. He was Russian. The story of Mary Campbell had resonated in his bones. The tale of a fiery young woman turning her back on her family’s legacy of animal abuse, of the Campbell Circus with its performing animals, and turning a ranch near Lawrence into a sanctuary for big cats rescued from zoos and circuses and even the back gardens of idiots who thought a wild beast could be kept in a cage.

Thirty years on, the world had changed. People were ‘woke’ now. They supported the idea that animals had rights. But when Mary had first created Haven Vale, she had been seen as nothing better than a crazy hippy. Her life had been a constant battle against fear, prejudice and red tape. But she had been a visionary and her work was now supported by the entire Haven community as it continued in the capable and caring hands of her oldest son.

It may, possibly, also have been the fact that Dean Winchester’s photo was plastered all over Haven Vale’s website that had been a deciding factor in the choice of beneficiary for Castiel’s investment.

It wasn’t just that Winchester was drop-dead gorgeous. The world was filled with beautiful people and wealth could buy many of them. What fascinated Castiel primarily was that Winchester did not attempt to capitalize on either his beauty or his good works. There was no self aggrandisement of Winchester on the site. He promoted the Tigers, the cause, not his own role at the Sanctuary. The history written on the site was that of Mary Winchester. She was the ‘saint’ of the story. Even now, ten years after her death, Dean Winchester was still only a footnote on that rich written history.

‘Her son, Dean, continues Mary’s work.’

That was all the Haven Vale site had to say about Dean Winchester.

And not one artfully-shot photograph on the site was framed to deliberately showcase the man’s looks. Every single photo and video highlighted the Tigers. Dean Winchester was only ever caught on the edge of a frame, always working, always there, always present but never the focus.

So it was that, the man’s seeming humility and indifference to his own looks, his refusal to capitalize on those looks, that turned his beauty into something irresistible.

As Castiel’s friend Balthazar had always been fond of saying, before he too disappeared into the night, never to return, there was no shame in fantasizing about anyone as long as you did so in private with the lights off.

Away from Haven Vale’s official website, Dean Winchester was a larger web presence if only because other people seemed to be as fascinated by him as Castiel was. Endless speculative articles existed about the man. None endorsed by him though. A woman named Charlie Bradbury was the official spokesperson of Haven Vale and was the only person who ever offered interviews.

Perhaps because Dean had a reputation for using his fists more than his words. Of being a brawling roughneck. That, on the surface, should have been a negative. Since every recorded incident of Dean’s violence was directly related to him fighting to protect either a person or an animal, it instead created the impression of righteousness.

Castiel approved of righteous violence. Of passion. It sang to his Russian soul.

Winchester, fondly known locally as the ‘Tiger King of Kansas’, was a widower with a son Misha’s age. That had created a sense of undeniable connection. It also, combined with all the photographs and videos and the news articles outlining the number of times the man with the face of an Angel and the fists of a Devil had been arrested for punching out owners who had treated their cats cruelly, painted a clear picture of Winchester to be a perfect ‘man’s man’ who walked with a John Wayne swagger and would probably also punch any man who so much as looked at him romantically.

So Castiel, who liked the way his face looked in a mirror, had absolutely no illusions that moving to Kansas would change any of his fantasies into reality. He fully accepted that although the gorgeous, charismatic curator of the Sanctuary was a walking, breathing representation of every private fantasy Castiel had ever had, Dean Winchester would never be more than yet another unfulfilled dream.

But Castiel was Russian. Stoic acceptance of the ultimate unfairness of life was in his blood. It was the reason God had invented vodka.

So he wasn’t even sure he’d ever actually visit Haven Vale. He liked the idea of living nearby though. Seeing with his own eyes how his investment gradually improved the lives of both the tigers and the locals. Liked the idea of his son learning the values of small town America rather than the cut throat politics of their homeland.

After all, moving to America was about finding a better life for Misha, not about finding a better life for himself.

###

Ben Braeden was seven years old and was a perfect miniature of his dad, Dean Winchester, which was - as their differing surnames implied - a result of coincidence rather than genes.

Dean was not his father. Dean was, however, definitely his dad.

Ben was still wrestling with the decision of whether he wanted to change his name to reflect that fact when his adoption finally became legal. His dad had said he would respect his decision either way. Ben suspected he would decide to take his dad’s name. After all, his mom, Lisa, had been a Winchester by marriage before she died and, had she lived a little longer, Ben would probably have taken the Winchester name already. Then again, even at seven he was smart enough to know that the real reason Dean and his mom had rushed themselves into marriage was simply to ensure the courts would look more favorably on Dean’s adoption request than that of Ben’s maternal grandparents.

His mom’s cancer had already been late stage by the time of the wedding. Her dying wish had been for Ben and Dean to stay together. A wish that, fortunately, seemed to hold some sway with the courts even if, two years later, Ben’s grandparents were still arguing over his custody.

His Uncle Sam assured him it was all over bar the shouting, though. He wouldn’t be stolen away from the only home he knew to live with grandparents he had rarely ever met. They, like the tigers that lived on his dad’s ranch, were little more than scary concepts to him without much form or substance.

Ben knew he lived in a house located on a Tiger Sanctuary, obviously. The fact he’d only ever seen glimpses of the creatures at a distance was completely disbelieved by his friends. It was true though. The Winchester house had been deliberately built far from the tiger enclosures by Mary and John Winchester, who had never believed Big Cats and small boys belonged even in the same zip code. Unless the wind was strong from that direction, Ben never even smelt or heard the creatures. Because his dad was allergic to cats - something even Ben found hysterically funny under the circumstances - he always showered and changed clothes before he came home so never brought even a scent of the creatures back with him.

His dad had promised him that on his thirteenth birthday, but no sooner, he would finally be taken into the sanctuary for a formal introduction to the tigers. Ben’s friend Aaron said it would make him a Bar Mitztiger and had laughed a lot at his own joke. Ben still hadn’t found out what was funny.

But he’d learned, even at the age of seven, that it was smarter and less likely to create confusion if he simply told people his dad was a rancher. It wasn’t even a lie. They did have a ranch. They just populated it with cats rather than cows. The only real downside to which was that Skipjack, the pony his Dad had bought him for his sixth birthday, lived out of necessity several miles nearer to Haven Town at his Uncle Bobby’s ranch. Horses and big cats didn’t mix. Even if Ben could barely smell the cats, prey animals like horses sure as heck could sense them and were liable to spook.

Uncle Bobby picked him up from school every day so he always had at least an hour or two to mess about with Skip before his dad finished work and came to collect him so they could eat dinner together. But there was never enough time.

Which is why he’d begged his dad to let him spend the entire Spring Break at his Uncle Bobby’s house. He missed his dad, of course, but Ben thought seven whole days of playing with Skip and Bobby’s dog Rumsfield was better than any vacation to Disneyworld. Even if Uncle Bobby could sometimes be like a grumpy bear with a sore head.

And nightly pizza was a definite bonus, since no-one was prepared to do deliveries to Haven Vale Cat Sanctuary no matter how often his dad cussed the take-out firms and assured them their house was nowhere near the enclosures.

Pizza was a double bonus because twice his dad had jumped in his car and come over for supper with them, using the excuse of pizza pie although everyone knew he just missed Ben. Ben was too kind to say he knew the truth. His dad liked to pretend he was as grumpy as Bobby but everyone knew he was soft as butter and got real lonely since Ben's mom had died.

Ben had said as much to Judge Hanscum, that he couldn’t go live with his grandparents because his dad needed him.

She’d just smiled at him, real sad, but it seemed to have worked because he was still in Haven Vale rather than California - which was practically the other side of the world.

###

Castiel could have afforded a bigger, grander house, but his whole purpose of moving to America had been to achieve a ‘normal’ life for Misha. So when the realtor showed him the neat, three bed, 2.5 bath family house on Verde Drive that was on the market for just $180,000 and was only a third of a mile from Haven’s John F Kennedy Elementary School, he didn’t hesitate.

He was hesitant about the idea of sending Misha to school at all. He’d attended a meeting with the principal and had suggested the boy should join the school after the summer holidays, allowing Castiel to hire a private tutor to teach Misha at least some rudimentary English in the meantime.

It wasn’t that Misha couldn’t understand any spoken English. Castiel was fluent enough that his son had picked up an awful lot of words simply from the fact subtitled English-language films, news and documentaries had always been watched in their home. But Misha was so painfully shy that even when he knew the right English word for a situation, he’d open his mouth and then freeze completely, unable to bring himself to attempt the sounds himself.

And written English escaped Misha completely. He’d barely finished learning his own alphabet, and now he was faced with the necessity to start again with a new one.

“Nonsense,” the Principal, Ms. Moseley, had told Castiel. “There’s nothing like immersion. Trust me. We’ve had students join us from Korea, China, Mexico and India before now and none of them spoke the language either. Of course it’s going to be difficult at first, but we have a robust ESL class here and joining straight after Spring Break will give your son a chance to familiarize himself with the school and hopefully make some friends. Certainly, if you can afford it, I advise you to get Mikhail some one-on-one tutoring during the summer vacation to ensure he can join third grade in September, rather than being held back a year. But his transcripts show a bright, intelligent child who will thrive here if we can just build up his confidence a little.”

And so, despite his trepidation, Castiel had agreed.

###

Being a father was like stomping through a live minefield with size 18 clown shoes on, in Dean’s considered opinion.

He had pretty much hero-worshipped his own father - even though when he looked back on his childhood he thought he probably had simply lacked the contrast of any other father figure to compare John Winchester to. Dean’s father had been a hard man. Not aggressive or abusive but somewhat of a rigid disciplinarian. The kind of man who demanded to be called ‘sir’ and expected the only response to his order to ‘jump’ to be ‘how high?’.

A lot of that had come from his stint in the Marines. More had come from his terror of having small children living in proximity with dangerous wild cats. Because Mary had been born and raised in a circus, Dean’s mother had been far more casual about the tigers. Dean remembered being taken into tiger enclosures when he was still too small to even walk without tripping over his own feet. His father, when he’d found out, had gone crazy. It was the first and last screaming fight Dean recalled between his parents and possibly the only time his father had gotten his way completely over his wife’s wishes.

It was Mary who was the hellion, the one more likely to speak with her fists than her words. Mary Winchester had been the parent who had disappeared for days at a time only to come home with fresh bruises, torn knuckles and a new Tiger loaded into the cage on the back of her truck.

John had been the sensible one. The stern one. The firm, unyielding glue that held their family together. The one who kept his boys firmly away from his wife’s passion until they were in their teens.

Dean didn’t think that part of John’s dogmatism was wrong. He too was determined that Ben would never enter the sanctuary until he was a teenager. In fact the whole sanctuary had a ban on visitors under thirteen. It was not a zoo. Although he invited - and encouraged - educational trips to the Sanctuary, he only did so in conjunction with the local High Schools.

Dean didn’t breed tigers. He provided a sanctuary for full grown adult cats, many of whom had come from abusive environments. It was difficult enough to create a safe environment for adult visitors, let alone children. And since his tigers were not cute and cuddly, because he had no cubs to lure and entice irresponsible parents with, he rarely had to argue with parents trying to sneak inappropriately aged children onto his tours.

There were always some idiots, of course.

But Dean’s biggest challenge in taking care of Ben - other than the insane grandparents who had so fucked up Lisa and yet still thought they were worthy of stealing their estranged daughter’s son - was the internet.

Personally, Dean didn’t think a boy of seven belonged anywhere near the interwebs. He’d read and heard enough scare stories about online predators and Russian porn sites that he would have happily banned broadband from the house altogether until Ben was at least eighteen.

Unfortunately, even as a second grader Ben was expected to use the internet for his homework.

Which was insane in Dean’s opinion. The very school board who regularly sent people around to the sanctuary on ‘surprise’ visits in an attempt to prove he was putting children at risk was the same school board who insisted he let his son surf through electronic waters filled with dangers far more insidious than tigers.

Fortunately his business manager, Charlie, was not only a whizz with his own website but had devised a net nanny program that cleverly navigated those waters, only allowing Ben onto appropriate sites but sending Dean constant reports of any activity on those supposedly safe sites that might require closer inspection.

Discussing those reports with Ben was usually pretty straightforward because his research usually aligned pretty closely with the syllabus he was following at school. Ben was a good kid. Sometimes, though, his online activities required a little deeper investigation. Something Dean always tried to do delicately because he was not his father. He never wanted to be a man who justified ‘no’ with ‘because I said so’.

Well, except in the case of Tigers.

“So, um, I thought second grade geography only covered the United States,” he said, as they ate dinner together.

“Well, mostly, but we learned about the seven continents and five seas this year too,” Ben told him, between mouthfuls.

“Yeah?” Dean asked him, “Remind me what they’re all called again.”

Ben rolled his eyes at Dean’s pretence at doddery forgetfulness and they spent most of dinner discussing world geography. “But that’s not why I was surfing Russia today,” Ben added, after Dean had almost forgotten the reason he’d brought up the line of questioning.

He flushed and scratched at the hives on his left hand. He hadn’t meant to be so obvious.

Ben rolled his eyes. “I know you spy on me,” he said. “Auntie Charlie told me it’s ‘cos you’re a good dad, so that’s okay. Judge Hanscum told me you have to be a good dad so we can stay together forever.”

“I try,” Dean said, his face softening at his son’s words. Ben really was a good kid. “So what made you interested in Russia today?”

“There’s a new boy in my homeroom since Spring Break and he’s Russian. His name’s something like Michael but different, only he’s called Misha not Mikey.”

“Mikhail, maybe?” Dean suggested.

“Yeah, that’s it,” Ben grinned. “And Tommy said Misha was a girl’s name, only he was wrong ‘cos it’s short for Mik...um Mikhail.”

“You’re right,” Dean agreed, “and Mikhail is the Russian form of Michael, and Misha is a diminutive of that.”

“The what?”

“Misha is short for Mikhail.”

Ben frowned. “That’s weird. ‘Cos Ben is short for Benjamin so Mik should be short for Mikhail.”

“You think that’s weird? Guess what is short for Misha.”

“Um… Mish?”

Dean shook his head and chuckled. “Nope. Mishka is short for Misha.”

Ben’s mouth gaped.”But that’s not shorter at all.”

Dean shrugged. “It’s a Russian thing. Like the diminutive of Leo can be Lyovushka. Russians don’t so much shorten names as give ‘pet’ names to show affection. Often those pet names are far longer than the originals.”

“Weird,” Ben said.

“But cool?” Dean suggested.

Ben thought about that. “Yeah, it’s pretty cool,” he agreed. “Kinda like the way you often call Lucifer ‘The snarly spawn of Satan’, I guess. You call him stuff like that because you like him.”

“So what’s this Misha like?” Dean asked.

Ben's face fell. “I dunno. He doesn’t speak English. I think he understands it quite a bit, though, ‘cos Tommy was mean to him at recess today and he looked upset, so he must have understood what Tommy said.”

Dean frowned. “And what did Tommy say?” he growled, assuming the worst since Tommy Walker was an unfortunate carbon copy of his asshole father.

“He said Misha was a dirty ‘commie’. And I don’t know what that is, but Tommy said his dad said that was a bad thing and that all Russians are ‘commie bas…’ um commies.”

“Uh huh?” Dean frowned, not missing the word abruptly halted. “And what did you say, Ben?”

“I told him our tigers are Russian so he should shut his mouth or our commie tigers would eat him.”

Dean bit his lower lip and tried not to laugh. “I don’t like you telling people our tigers are dangerous, Ben.”

Ben pouted guiltily.

“But I’m proud of you for defending Misha,” Dean continued. “Because any kind of prejudice is wrong.”

“What’s pregedis?”

“Prejudice. And it means judging someone for where they come from, or what they believe, or even what they look like.”

“So ‘commie’ is a bad word?”

“Exactly. Commie is definitely a bad word. But any name calling is bad. So thank you for realizing that and telling Tommy off. The important thing is that Misha is just a boy, like you and like Tommy, and it doesn’t matter where he comes from, or what he looks like or what language he speaks or even what he believes.”

“I know,” Ben agreed. “And he always looks all sad and quiet and kinda lonely.”

“Well, I’m sure Ms. Moseley is on the case about getting him help learning English. He’ll get on his feet soon enough when he can join in with you all and make friends properly. But I’m proud of you for sticking up for him anyway. Being silent when you witness someone saying something wrong is just as bad as joining in with them.”

###

Castiel empathized with Misha’s struggles with American education. He himself was facing the mind-numbing hurdle of gaining a Kansas CPA permit to practice. He was far from the first foreign national who had arrived in the country fully qualified in his profession, only for his qualifications to be sneered at by a local Board of Accountancy. But considering the reputation of America for being inclusive and welcoming to immigrants, he was surprised by the amount of suspicion his Russian credentials garnered.

He’d fully expected the necessity to learn local federal practices to gain a permit. He had been less prepared for the necessity to sit a series of tests to prove that the letters after his name had been gained honestly before he could even apply for the permit. For instance, Kansas refused to accept any equivalency of the ethics portion of his qualifications, and were demanding he resit that particular examination entirely.

He didn’t even have a financial need to find employment. Which made the process of working his way through the hoops set by the KBoA particularly frustrating.

It felt peculiar to return to ‘school’ nearly twelve years after finishing his formal education but, perhaps, not as odd as it might have been for someone with a different career path. He had, after all, always been obliged to attend a number of mandatory training days every year to maintain an active practising permit in Russia. In finance the rules changed and evolved constantly, and trade involved a complex web of both local and international law.

In some ways he actually enjoyed returning to education. As a young man, he’d never had the luxury of enjoying study. He’d always carried the weight of his father’s expectations as a constant burden. The obligation to take over the family business had stolen any choice of occupation. The web of corruption that reached into every corner of Russian commerce made being a qualified accountant a necessity rather than a choice. Without his thorough knowledge of good accountancy practice, his life, and that of his family, would literally have been at risk. An unscrupulous or, more probably, government-planted company accountant could have easily brought them to ruin without Castiel having a thorough understanding of the financial minefield his company was constantly traversing.

So the idea of being a CPA in America was oddly enticing. Even if he just ended up ‘dabbling’, doing a little freelance work here and there, the idea of working in an environment other than one where a single mistake might lead to that dreaded arrival of dark-suited men in the small hours was a novel idea.

Which was why he found himself sprawled with Misha every evening, each taking one side of the large family-sized dining table, as they both completed their individual ‘homework' together.

Castiel purposefully designated their evenings ‘English - only’ zones.

In the privacy of their house, with only the two of them present, Misha’s demonstrable comprehension of English was moving forwards in leaps and bounds. All those years of watching subtitled American movies and listening to Castiel on international calls had not been in vain. And Misha was young enough that his mind was elastic, able to grasp and retain new knowledge easily. Castiel was pretty sure that Misha easily followed at least 60% of most English conversations and that his comprehension was closer to 80 or 90% if the English was spoken slowly enough.

Getting him to even attempt to speak English words was a different matter entirely.

Misha was a silent, thoughtful boy at the best of times and, even in Russian, his voice could only be patiently drawn out of him; like enticing a nervous pet to reluctantly creep out of a dark hiding place.

Castiel couldn’t even criticise his son for his reticence. He had gained his silent habits honestly. Castiel was hardly an enthusiastic orator himself and it wasn’t only in appearance that Misha was his tiny doppelgänger.

A lot of their mutual silent stoicism was simply cultural. In Russia, particularly the region of it known as Siberia, it was unusual to speak simply to hear the sound of one's own voice. Passing people in the street, no one ever said ‘Hello’ or ‘ How are you?’ or commented idiotically on the weather. This American habit of incessant chatter was both irritating and incomprehensible. Why did people constantly greet you with “Hi. How are you?” when they didn’t even wish to know the answer? So Castiel fully appreciated the difficulty Misha was facing just with learning the phrases he was being taught in his ESL classes.

Castiel agreed that the phrases were ridiculous and pointless.

But both Misha and Castiel also understood the necessity to fit in. To conform. To blend into the background.

“In America, silence does not allow you to disappear into the background,” he told his son. “In America, being quiet creates suspicion. It causes people to pay particular attention to you.”

Misha’s dark blue eyes widened with comprehension, even as his mouth pursed into a distressed pout.

The boy was sharp. Bright. As cunning in his own way as his mother. She too had concealed oceans of wild tumultuous thoughts behind a closed expression and wide innocent eyes. Unlike Anna, Misha was sweet-natured, his soul that of a poet, not an assassin; but for all he looked like his father, his survival instincts were his mother’s. A fact that relieved Castiel greatly. For all that he had lived three decades learning to dance on the knife-edge of Russian politics, Castiel knew he himself completely lacked those same natural survival instincts. He continually tripped himself up with his own naïveté. He took people at face-value, took their words too literally and failed, often, to parse the true intent behind their smiling faces.

For Castiel, doubt and suspicion were deliberately learned behaviors. Habits he had forced himself to learn and apply. For Misha, they were a default setting.

Castiel thought that Misha would thrive in America far better than he would. If only the boy learned to use his voice.

“Америка слишком громкая,” Misha muttered, his voice as quiet as a whisper through trees.

“English,” Castiel demanded, though his own voice was no less gentle.

Misha frowned, both with frustration and annoyance. He worked his mouth silently for a while, as though he was tasting the words on his tongue - and from his expression finding them unpalatable - but Castiel waited silent, implacable, as endlessly patient as a rock until Misha finally gave in and whispered, “America is so lud.”

“Loud,” Castiel corrected.

Misha licked his lips and tried again, “Low-udd”.

“Better,” Castiel agreed quietly. “And yes, you are correct. It is.”

“тигры русские?

Castiel was startled. “Well, tigers live in many places in the world but Siberian Tigers obviously are Russian. Why do you ask? Explain in English, please.”

Slowly, hesitantly, but with only a scattering of Russian words when he failed to find an English equivalent, Misha told his father about how a boy named Tommy had called him a ‘commie’ and a boy named Ben had claimed to have Russian Tigers that would ‘eat’ Tommy if he ever said ‘commie’ again.

Castiel stiffened slightly, having to remind himself that this ‘Tommy’ was only a small child and didn’t truly deserve to become a tiger-snack, but despite this confirmation that Misha was experiencing the same inbuilt anti-Russian prejudice as he had found with the Kansas Board Of Accountancy, he also felt something a little warm and hopeful. This ‘Ben’ surely must be the son of Dean Winchester. It was satisfying to know that the child of the ‘Tiger King’ had been Misha’s champion against the bully. If only because it reassured him that his two million dollars were in the hands of a man who had raised his child well. It was, he thought, probably a good thing that Ben used his words to fight rather than his fists. He had a fond conviction that a seven year old Dean had probably dealt with bullies the same way as he still dealt with animal abusers as an adult.

It annoyed him how ridiculously attractive he found that idea.

He shook himself and turned to his son. “I will put two pieces of Medovik in your lunch box tomorrow. Perhaps you might wish to offer a piece to your friend ‘Ben’.”

Misha chewed his lower lip uncertainly, clearly wondering whether he should point out that Ben was not a ‘friend’. But perhaps he understood that gifting the honey-cake might actually move him a tiny step closer to that reality, because all he eventually said was, “tank you.”

“Thank you,” Castiel corrected gently, and leaned over to ruffle Misha’s already messy hair.

###

Out of all the sad disillusions Castiel had encountered in the weeks since arriving in America, he decided the worst capitalist crime was Starbucks.

He had once drunk Starbucks coffee in Novosibirsk and had found it bitter and weak and disappointing but had assumed it was simply the fault of the Siberian baristas being ill-trained or perhaps the effect of temperatures on the coffee. With such long and brutal winters, it had been reasonable to assume the fault lay with careless transportation or storage of the pre-roasted beans.

Discovering that even in America Starbucks Coffee was sub par was considerably disappointing.

Misha had been unusually fractious that morning - Castiel suspected the previous day’s ‘Tommy’ incident was to blame - and had proven so difficult to get ready to leave the house that Castiel had been forced to leave most of his coffee undrunk in the kitchen when he eventually walked his son to school. Despite having an appearance more Byron than Bear, a decaffeinated Castiel was a snarly beast best left alone pre-nine am.

So he had decided, rather than heading straight home, to finally visit the center of Haven with its neat network of independent shops surrounding a central square graced with a Starbucks, a Taco Bell and the obligatory McDonalds.

He was glad he’d purchased the coffee in a disposable cup because he thought it would be less rude to throw the drink in a trash can outside than to leave it abandoned in the coffee house.

Or spit on the floor in disgust - which would have been a far more honest Siberian reaction but one highly unlikely to be appreciated in Haven.

He was outside the shop, cup in hand, looking up and down the street for the nearest trash can when a low, cheerful voice said, “Don’t drink that shit, man. Do your tastebuds a favor, dump that crap and go to Under Pressure Espresso instead. Trust me, your tongue will thank me.”

“I was endeavoring to, indeed, dump the ‘crap’ but I cannot locate a suitable receptacle,” he replied with careful precision, even as he turned to face the speaker.

Then his mouth went so dry that he was forced to take a gulp of the coffee anyway.

“Warned you,” the Tiger King snorted, as Castiel’s lips pursed in disgust. “It’s seriously nasty shit if you take coffee seriously. And you definitely look like a serious coffee man to me. Can’t understand how they’re staying in business here with Under Pressure just round the corner.”

“I would appreciate directions,” Castiel requested solemnly, glaring at the coffee - and perhaps the infuriatingly gorgeous American too - with frosty fury at the unfairness of Starbucks proving to be just another capitalist illusion.

Dean Winchester licked his lower lip slowly. “I’m very good at directions,” he said, his voice dropping an octave.

Castiel tipped his head in confusion, sure he was missing something in translation because surely any кретин could manage to point the way to any location in such a small Town. But then he shrugged his decision that the location of decent coffee was the only immediate relevance. “Then you can direct me to this real coffee shop?”

Dean just stared at him for a moment, his eyes - which were a bright intense green that Castiel had failed to fully appreciate from his website photos - seemed to strip a layer of skin from Castiel, as though he was looking into him, rather than simply at him. Then, as though he had imagined the intense scrutiny entirely, the Tiger King’s shoulders relaxed, he grinned easily with his straight white American teeth and said, “Sure thing. End of the block, turn left, then second right. Tell Andrea that Dean sent you for a special blend.”

And then, as quickly as he had appeared, Dean waved a casual gesture of ‘goodbye’, then turned and walked away with such impressive nonchalance that he could have passed as Siberian himself.

###

Dean wasn’t an idiot.

Hot new guy in town with a presence completely at odds with his slightly rumpled clothes - and Dean knew an expensive suit and coat when he saw them, even if their crumpled, unpressed appearance gave an impression more of a harried bookkeeper than powerful businessman - of a deep husky voice with just the faintest - yet still obvious - accent. A new Russian kid at Ben’s school. Both coming within weeks of the investment by some mysterious Siberian by the improbable name of Castiel Krushnic and Dean put two and two together and got seventeen.

So much for the guy moving to New York, huh, Sammy?

He was so damned sure the blue-eyed, dark-haired hottie was his mystery benefactor that he didn’t even bother putting a call in to Sammy to confirm.

He was sure it was unnecessary anyway, since he was certain that Claire - Andrea’s petulant teenage part-time barista - would manage to provide the info he needed. Though she just rolled her eyes at him when he saw her bumping knees with Jo that lunchtime at Ellen’s bar and approached to ask.

“I know you take names and zip codes for your loyalty card,” Dean insisted.

“You never heard of the information privacy law?” she demanded, rolling her eyes and popping her bubblegum obscenely. “If I give you his name and address, it won’t just be your weird stalkery ass on the chopping block. ‘Sides, you’re almost old enough to be my father, you pervert, so you should know the law better than I do.”

“If you mean the quiet intense guy with the Columbo coat, he bought Jim Bishop’s old house on Verde Drive,” Ellen interrupted. For once Dean was grateful for her habit of ‘accidentally’ listening in on private conversations. “I heard it from Sara at the realtors.”

Verde Drive, whilst a nice enough neighborhood, was hardly the kind of place a Russian oligarch would move into. So it seemed to be nothing more than odd coincidence, after all.

Dean wasn’t sure whether he was relieved or disappointed. For a moment, when the blue eyed man had first looked at him in the street, Dean had been convinced the guy had been checking him out. But the interest, if that had even been what he’d seen in those suddenly dilating pupils, had disappeared the moment he’d thrown a little bait. Dean wasn’t in the closet. His reputation was too established in Haven for him to have any reason to hide his bisexuality. Kansas might not have been the most progressive of states for acceptance of ‘alternative lifestyles’ but between his fists and his tigers, Dean had never met a bigot who hadn’t made the decision there were easier targets for their vitriol.

He was pretty damned sure his instant attraction to the man with the wild hair and the crumpled coat had been reciprocated, but he also recognised repression when he saw it. It wasn’t his job to drag anyone kicking and screaming out of the closet.

Besides, family house, kid at school, odds were there was a Mrs. McHottie doing a Martha Stewart in that Verde Drive house and Dean wasn’t into marriage-wrecking. So even if the guy was interested, he was out of bounds.

Fuck his life.

###

Ben knew two Russian words already.

One, Medovik, was the first word Misha had spoken to him - though the word had been little more than a whisper of breath - and it had taken him a moment to realize it was the name of the super sweet cake that the other boy had so shyly offered to him.

The fact Misha had brought two pieces of the honey-flavoured dessert to school had suggested he had always intended to give the second piece to someone else, if the opportunity arose. It was possibly only due to pure chance that Ben had been the recipient. If he hadn’t been late to the cafeteria he would have already been sitting with Aaron and his other friends before he noticed, too late, that yet again the small Russian boy was seated totally alone on the other side of the room. But walking into the room late, when everyone was already seated, had made the Russian boy’s exclusion all too obvious. So Ben had walked past the empty seat waiting for him at his normal table and had instead made the decision to sit down at Misha’s table instead.

He’d not only been rewarded by a slow blink of surprise by the Russian boy but also with the sharing of the honey cake. The Medovik.

The second word Misha had spoken, after Ben’s noisy sigh of bliss when his hesitant bite of the proffered treat had caused his mouth to erupt with the taste of over-sweet goodness, had sounded like ‘drug’, and for a moment Ben had worried that the cake was like the weird forbidden cookies his Uncle Ash ate.

After a moment’s confusion, Misha had written the word down for him.

друг

And then, shyly, his cheeks flushing slightly, had pointed in Ben’s direction before shrugging with pretended nonchalance before dipping his eyes and shuffling awkwardly on his seat.

Because they hadn’t shared any classes that afternoon; not unusual since Misha was primarily in the ESL classes, so maths, crafts and sports were the only places their syllabuses aligned, Ben hadn’t seen the Russian boy again that day.

The piece of paper with its tiny, inexplicable word burned a hole in his pocket though, so, as he waited in the school library after school for his Uncle Bobby to collect him, Ben was on a mission.

It had taken him some time to realise that the д was not a badly written A. He’d typed Apyr into the Google search bar of the painfully slow school computer - their home broadband was much faster but Ben was too impatient to wait until he got home - and had come up with nothing. So, with the help of Mr. Inias, the librarian, he’d tried Apyr in something called ‘Google Translate’ and it hadn’t brought up anything. So, after some thought - and, okay, a couple of muttered hints from the slightly amused librarian - he’d set the first box to Russian and had typed Apyr again. Still no translation had appeared but a keyboard had come up with a load of weird letters on it and on one of the keys he’d seen the peculiar д.

Wow.

It wasn’t weird handwriting after all; it was written in totally alien letters. Kind of like Elvish; he and Auntie Charlie had spent many hours playing a LotR board game, so Ben was already familiar with reading bizarro scripts.

Tongue poking out through his teeth, he had eventually found all four letters on the weird keyboard and had only typed ‘д’ and ‘р’ before the suggestion друг came up, with the English translation ‘friend’ typed underneath.

He reset the boxes, so that the translation was English to Russian and typed ‘yes, I want to be your friend’.

‘да я хочу быть твоим другом’

Then he copied the translated phrase, logged into the school’s Edulink closed mail system, found Mikhail Krushnic’s profile, opened a direct mail, pasted the Russian sentence and clicked ‘send’.

###

Under Pressure Espresso swiftly became Castiel’s favorite place ever.

Not only was it the home of Dean Winchester’s ‘special blend’, the kind of strong black coffee that you could practically stand a spoon up in, and provider of such bounteous sweet treats that he was forced to return to his old routine of running and yoga just to compensate for all the filthy, delicious calories he was consuming there, but it also had broadband which was - in the words of the spiky blonde girl who usually manned the till in the mornings - ‘to die for’.

Despite the cable guy who had set up their home connection swearing that Haven’s antiquated infrastructure couldn’t support superfast connectivity, somehow the little coffee shop had acquired it.

So either the cable guy had been lying or the owners of Under Pressure had struck a deal with some demonic internet god.

It took over a week for the blonde, Claire, to soften enough to his presence to give in to his polite, if somewhat growly, demands to explain the phenomenon and she only did so after he made a solemn promise that he would continue to visit the coffee shop every day on his return from dropping Misha at school, even if he no longer needed to sit there for hours abusing their internet connection.

“Andrea needs the business,” she told him, with uncharacteristic solemnity. “Not so bad now that Benny has a steady separate income though.”

She then proved that over-sharing was an American constant. The minute her previous suspicious reticence was replaced by tentative acceptance, the sullen teenager expanded so garrulously that, under normal circumstances Castiel would have swiftly made an excuse to withdraw from the conversation completely.

But her chosen topic of conversation was fascinating.

The techno wizard responsible for the coffee shop’s phenomenal broadband was named Charlie Bradbury. Who was also, he already knew, the business manager and website developer of Haven Vale Cat Sanctuary. Benny, Andrea’s husband, had been a volunteer at Haven Vale for years but now, thanks to a foreign investor, was employed full time at the Sanctuary and was currently running a project to create a new artificial lake so that the tiger enclosures could be expanded.

“Well, it’s gonna less be a single lake than a series of fully interconnected streams,” Claire explained enthusiastically. “Dean has this idea of using the primary lake as a feeder and reservoir to keep the water flowing through the tributary streams, then they loop back into the main lake so that the water is constantly fresh in every enclosure. Lots of folks don’t realize how important it is for tigers to be able to swim but the sanctuary has so many older tigers that need their own private spaces because it’s too late for them to get integrated together, so it’s been difficult to provide them all with decent sized individual bathing sites without ponds drying up or going stagnant. By linking all the waterways, the environment will improve for all of the cats.”

Apparently, in addition to the ranch originally acquired by Mary and John Winchester, Dean also owned a considerable amount of land outside the Sanctuary itself. A man named Bobby Singer had donated a large portion of his land towards further expansion, as long as a wide ‘ransom strip’ was maintained to keep the smell of the tigers away from his own livestock.

“Everyone knows Bobby’s gonna eventually leave his whole place to Dean though,” Claire continued, happy to keep talking despite Castiel’s one word replies. “Cos he practically nominated himself as Ben's sorta ‘grandpa’ the minute Dean made the decision to adopt him.”

That stunned Castiel out of his silence. “Ben is not Dean’s son?” he queried, frowning in complete confusion. Misha had ‘introduced’ him to his friend, if only by pointing him out across the schoolyard, and so he knew the boy was a carbon copy of his father.

Claire’s face twisted into genuine annoyance. “Course he’s Dean’s son,” she spat. “I just told ya Dean was adopting him. Family don’t end in blood, ya know.”

That would have been the end of the matter in Siberia. In Haven, however, private information was as freely disseminated as water seeping out of a sieve. Within a couple more days, Castiel had learned that Dean had met his wife, Lisa, when Ben was already four and that the marriage itself had taken place in a hospice only a couple of months before Lisa had died, two days after her son’s fifth birthday.

And that Dean had spent most of his money and energy over the last two years fighting to keep his ‘son’ from being taken away from him.

“Thing is, Lisa’s folks are religious freaks. They cut her out of their lives the minute she got pregnant. Wanted nothing to do with her. Didn’t even visit her when she was dying. But they still tried to take Ben off Dean after the funeral he paid for. Bastards.”

“The litigation must have been extremely expensive,” Castiel suggested cautiously.

Claire’s face fell. “It nearly crippled Dean,” she confessed miserably. “Even with Sam and his firm working practically for free, Dean had to sell Baby. It broke his heart. But he refused to even consider touching the Sanctuary bank account, despite it being legally his to use. So he sold every part of his inheritance that wasn’t directly attached to the Tigers, and that included Baby. The whole town was kinda heartbroken about that. We all offered to run a ton of funding events to save him from doing it, but he refused point blank. Said fundraising events were to be done for the benefit of the Sanctuary only.”

Castiel shook his head in confusion, “Who was ‘baby’?”

Claire explained how Baby was John Winchester’s classic car. The car in which both he and his wife had died due to an impact with a drunken driver. The car that Dean had subsequently - personally and painstakingly - restored from a complete wreck into a masterpiece. Only to then be forced to sell it for $53,000 dollars to help save Ben from his grandparents.

It was a tragedy of truly Russian proportions.

Castiel had a deep and abiding desire to drown himself in a bottle of vodka in response.

“But it’s all gonna have a pretty happy ending,” Claire continued brightly. “Cos Dean’s adoption of Ben is going to become official on the 20th of this month. Dean doesn’t know yet, ‘cos Sam swore us all to secrecy,” she said, proudly, as she blurted the secret openly to an almost complete stranger. “And the whole town is planning a party, which again is a big fat secret.”

“How can a whole town plan a ‘secret’ party?” Castiel asked, frowning in confusion.

Claire shrugged, “Oh, because the 21st is ground breaking day for the new enclosures on Bobby’s old land. All the local ranchers, well except for Gordon Walker ‘cos he’s an asshole, but everyone else is planning to come over with their heavy equipment and absolutely everyone in town is gonna turn up to help and we’re going to dig a whole damned lake bed out. Then have a barbeque and a party and then Bobby is gonna give Dean the good news.”

“That… that sounds quite… wonderful,” Castiel admitted, awed by the kindness of the people in this tiny American town and, suddenly, any lingering doubts he had over his decision to move to this place was gone.

Though for the last week his faith in the town had already been growing in leaps and bounds.

Because for the last nine days his son, Misha, had no longer been dragging his feet all the way to school every morning. For nine days his quiet, shy son had been thrumming with excitement, almost running to the school gates every day because of the amazingly humbling kindness of the son of the Tiger King.

“So you gonna come and join in the effort?” Claire demanded. “Cos if you wanna live here, you don’t want folks to think you’re another Gordon. I mean we don’t mind you being a commie, but being an asshole is unforgivable,”

Castiel blinked at her, seeing nothing but good humor in her face despite her words.

“I would like to participate,” he agreed carefully.

“Cool,” she said. “And that way you can meet Charlie and ask her about sorting your internet. The new enclosures are obviously totally tiger-free at the moment, so kids are welcome at the party too. Well, naturally, since it’s Ben’s party really, so bring your kid with you. We’re gonna have kid-sized shovels too. This whole thing is gonna be a town effort. Ellen’s going to be pleased as punch when I tell her you’re going to be coming.”

“Both Misha and I would be pleased to attend,” Castiel confirmed, though he had no idea who ‘Ellen’ was.

“There’s no Mrs. McHottie, is there?”

“My name is Krushnic not McHottie,” Castiel advised her, with genuine confusion. “But my ex-wife did not move to America with us, if that is the nature of your inquiry.”

“You don’t seem that cut up about it,” she told him bluntly.

He was too used to her inappropriate comments to even take offence at the observation. These Americans of Haven were kind. They were also apparently rude. But the former considerably outweighed the latter.

It was that understanding, plus perhaps a decision that he couldn’t emotionally afford to take these people’s surprising offer of friendship at face value only to later discover their feet were formed of clay, that made him determined to lay his cards on the table. Besides, this was not Russia. His words could not get him arrested.

“My marriage was merely one of mutual convenience. Homosexuality is illegal in my homeland,” he told her bluntly.

He waited for her to react with disgust. Instead, she grinned like the cat who had swallowed the cream.

“Called it,” she said, with a smirk of satisfaction.

Castiel was somewhat surprised that she looked… pleased by his comment. “I was led to believe Kansas is not a place with a… progressive attitude.”

“This is Haven,” she pointed out, with a roll of her eyes. “Home of Dean ‘Tiger King’ Winchester. Even Gordon Walker isn’t stupid enough to gay-bash around here cos, ugly as it is, he likes his face. Charlie Bradbury is an out and proud lesbian who runs a pride parade in Haven every damned year and when you see Dean in drag your eyes are gonna drop out of your head. It isn’t fair that a guy’s legs can look that good in heels.”

Castiel’s jaw dropped comically. “Drag?”

Claire looked innocent. “Oh, didn’t you know he’s bi?”

###

‘Конечно, я собираюсь прийти помочь выкопать новое озеро’

Ben pressed send, then held his breath for a moment. No matter how many times he did it, he always worried Google Translate would let him down completely and he would end up saying something totally stupid or wildly inappropriate by accident. The peculiar replies he sometimes received from Misha had proven, beyond doubt, that the translator was far from flawless.

A few minutes later, Misha replied:

Я действительно хочу встретиться со Скипджеком, и если моему отцу нравится твой отец, он может согласиться, чтобы я поехал с тобой в дом твоего дяди Бобби однажды днем.

Ben copied and pasted it into the translator.

‘I really want to meet with skipjack, and if my father like your father, he can accept me to go with you to your uncle's house one afternoon, Bobby.’

Case in point. But close enough to make sense. Misha understood Ben was looking forward to Saturday and saw it as a good opportunity for them to get their dads talking together so that Misha could get permission to come see Ben’s pony at Uncle Bobby’s house.

Ben had wanted to invite Misha to come over for a sleepover one night at his house but he couldn’t see Misha’s dad ever agreeing to that. They couldn’t even get a pizza delivered to the sanctuary, let alone a boy. But Ben thought a sleepover at Uncle Bobby’s might be doable. Away from the school, spending time together in safe privacy, Ben was sure he’d finally convince his friend to start using his words.

Ben understood Misha’s hesitation. He was far more confident than the Russian boy and he still felt kinda silly whenever he said ‘Hola’ or ¡Buenos días! to Mrs Gonzales in the bakers, because he worried about his accent sounding stupid. But Misha needed to start speaking English, no matter how heavy his accent, if they were going to get into third grade together after the summer vacation. So Ben had decided his own personal project that summer was to make sure that it happened so he had to get their dads to agree the two boys could spend most of that time together.

His dad always said big problems were the best ones, because it felt so darned great to overcome them.

###

Castiel frowned at the older man’s dismissive attitude.

“I do not require your assistance locating the vehicle,” he snapped. “I have already done so. Such a unique vehicle was not overly problematic to trace. I have also already acquired ownership. The car known as ‘baby’ is already on a transporter being returned to Haven. I merely need a way to gift it to Ben without my direct involvement in this matter being obvious.”

“Well, balls,” Bobby Singer said. “Made the guy an offer he couldn’t refuse, huh?”

Castiel narrowed his eyes. Even he didn’t fail to pick up that connotation. “I am not Bratva. I do, however, have access to enough cash to have convinced the new owner to sell me the vehicle. When I explained the circumstances, he was kind enough to do so for only a nominal amount more than he purchased it for.”

“Have you looked in a mirror?” Bobby said dryly, “because you didn’t need to buy a damned car to get Dean’s interest.”

Castiel flushed. “It is exactly because I do wish to gain Dean’s interest that it is imperative that he not feel obliged to me over the return of the car,” he replied honestly.

Bobby narrowed his eyes at the direct reply and stared at him speculatively. “Then why did you do it?”

“It’s a Russian thing,” Castiel said, but he meant it sincerely, not flippantly. “What Dean has done for Ben is wonderful and I am certain he has no regrets over the price he has paid. However, I feel there are some prices that are too high to pay. There is nothing I can do about the inheritance I was forced to abandon to protect my son, so I know no good father ever resents the price of their child’s happiness. I can, however, easily restore the inheritance that Dean gave up. I do it for Ben, rather than for Dean, so that he grows up without that burden upon his own head. I pray that Misha will never feel any unwarranted guilt over my choices. I can, however, ensure that Ben will never do so.”

“So why gift the car to Ben rather than Dean?” Bobby demanded.

“For the same reason you will ultimately probably gift your ranch to Ben rather than Dean,” Castiel suggested. “Because of pride. Because we both know that what a man might struggle to accept in his own right, will never be denied to a beloved son.”

“You think Dean will refuse the car if it is offered to him directly?”

“I do. Besides he would only ever have driven it as a guardian of Ben’s future inheritance. In the meantime, the name on the title certificate is irrelevant.”

“Point,” Bobby agreed, but he continued to glower suspiciously. “But I still don’t get why you’ve done this, and don’t give me your ‘it’s a Russian thing’ bullshit. This kinda gesture is personal. Why in blue blazes, if you don’t want Dean to know you did it, have you done it at all?”

“Because of Ben,” Castiel said.

“What about Ben?”

And so Castiel told Bobby exactly why Dean’s son had touched his heart.

“Balls,” Bobby said, when Castiel finished speaking. “I had no idea. He’s never said nothing to me and I see him every day. Dean’s never said anything either, so I don’t think he knows. But, yeah, that’s pretty special. He’s a good kid.”

“So you will help me?” Castiel asked.

“Do bears shit in the woods?”

Startled, Castiel blinked at the question, then said, in all seriousness, “I have never given the matter any consideration, but I imagine that they do.”

###

Despite the way Misha’s father constantly grumbled over the way people incessantly commented on the weather, Misha had to admit the weather on Saturday was remarkably worthy of comment.

It was warm and sunny - as usual for that time of year - but there was a persistent level of low wispy clouds all morning, and well into the early afternoon, that changed the day from unbearably hot to just pleasantly warm for the majority of the day.

For Misha, used to living in a region where eleven months of the year required heavy coats and sweaters, it was a considerable relief to be digging in temperatures lower than the norm for Kansas.

Not that he or Ben - or any of the other kids - were achieving much more than getting themselves and their clothing filthy with dust and mud, but joining in, being part of something the whole town was involved in, was pretty special anyway.

And his dad had loaded a translation program onto his iPad, so even though they couldn’t pick up a signal there for Ben to use his normal Google Translate, the two boys were managing to ‘chat’ quite easily as they worked. Misha still struggled to understand a lot of what most people said to him, but over the last few weeks Ben had learned to simplify and slow his speech enough that Misha could now understand practically everything he said.

If they were alone, Misha would attempt to reply in faltering English because Ben never mocked his accent and, whenever he failed to understand what Misha was trying to say, always took the blame himself, saying things like he needed to ‘wash his ears out’ or something, as though it was his own hearing at fault rather than Misha’s pronunciation.

Ben had also started to learn basic Russian words himself and in patiently helping Ben with his pronunciation, Misha had stopped feeling so self-conscious about his own difficulties.

And, of course, being able to pass the iPad back and forth between them when they got frustrated, or bored of the effort, helped immensely. Particularly when the attempt at translation went so terribly wrong that one or the other of them ended up in fits of giggles that became even funnier as they struggled to try to explain to each other exactly why something had been funny.

Ben was, Misha knew, his лучший друг. His best friend. They were BFF’s, according to Ben. Best friends forever.

The only problem that Misha could see was that Ben lived on a ranch full of man-eating Tigers, and he rather worried his protective dad wouldn’t approve of that.

So he could only pray that when his dad met Ben’s dad, they would somehow find a way to be friends too.

###

Dean spent most of the morning of the 21st in the emergency room at Lawrence General getting a deep laceration on his left arm sewed up. Usually he dealt with minor injuries on site but this scratch had been muscle deep. Lucifer had meant serious business. Dean blamed himself. He’d been distracted with what was happening at the new enclosure site and had also underestimated how sensitive the cats were to the faint scents of all the visitors.

Even trustworthy cats like Dima and Casper and the other long standing residents were acting a little off-color, pacing around their huge enclosures obviously confused that they could smell, but not see, the multiple intruders in their territory. Lucifer was just pissed, and had taken advantage of Dean being not quite fast enough, to rake a claw down his arm.

Still, it could have been worse. At least only one of Lucifer’s claws had managed to connect with his skin.

He was still going to have to fill in a shitload of Health and Safety reports over the incident.

It was just as well Lucifer was already judged a totally unsafe animal. Since Dean had managed to keep him from being euthanized for actually killing his previous owner - on the basis that anyone who kept a Tiger in their tenth floor apartment damned well deserved to end up as kibble - a single, reportable but fundamentally harmless ‘scratch’ wasn’t going to get the animal put on trial again.

Dean hated how people caused animals like Lucifer to become ‘dangerous’, but that it was usually the animal rather than the human who paid the price.

Lucifer was one of only half a dozen confirmed ‘man-eaters’ who had managed to escape euthanazia in the USA, and all of those beasts lived at Haven Vale.

Looking at Sam’s bitchface, though, it looked like Dean was going to suffer a minimum of a mock trial all the way home. On the way to the hospital, his brother had been too busy worrying about Dean’s blood loss to say much - though partly that distraction had probably been the fact that his car had cream leather upholstery and Dean had been dripping.

To forestall the lecture over Lucifer, Dean immediately jumped to the subject of Castiel Krushnic.

“What’s the story there?” he demanded. “I thought the guy was supposed to be rich as shit but he’s living in a basic 3 bed detached and doesn’t seem to have a car at all.”

Since he lived in Haven, rather than even a town the size of Lawrence, he’d learned within 24 hours of meeting the guy that he was Krushnic. It bothered him, both that Krushnic hadn’t even visited the sanctuary and that he was living in a typical suburban style house.

“I think he chose Haven just because he was looking for a nice, friendly small town for his son to grow up in and he had learned a lot about Haven when he was researching the sanctuary. The house choice was probably for the same reason, to let Mikhail have a ‘normal’ life.”

“Misha,” Dean corrected.

“Huh? “

“Mikhail is known as ‘Misha’,” Dean said.

Sam nodded his appreciation of the information, since he would inevitably meet the boy at some point during the party. “But as far as I can gather, Krushnic had to hand over almost all of his assets to his government to get out of the country safely. I don’t think he got out of there with more than a few million.”

“A few million,” Dean mocked. “My heart bleeds for the horror.”

Sam snorted. “No, seriously, though. Krushnic used to be big-time rich. Billionaire rich. Whilst he’s hardly reduced to shopping in Goodwill now, he definitely has had one hell of a fall down to Earth. I feel for him. That kind of lifestyle adjustment must be hard. It’s like when I went to the pound for a mutt but came home with Duke instead. It wasn’t that I thought he was any more valuable or deserving because he was a pedigree but, I dunno, it seemed even more sad to see him in the pound considering his life had started with such promise, you know? I mean someone went and bought Duke off a breeder for mega bucks, only to get tired of him and throw him away. It sucked. Somehow seemed even more tragic than if he’d been born unwanted.”

Dean nodded. “I get what you’re saying, though personally I would probably have ended up bringing them all home. Probably just as well the Sanctuary is for tigers, not dogs, or I’d have filled it with every stray in America. Anyway, I just wanted to double check he hadn’t moved here to interfere in the Sanctuary.”

“He can’t. Like I told you before. He can’t even visit without permission.”

Dean hummed under his breath for a moment.

“What’s the story with the ex-wife?” he asked, his tone deliberately casual.

“Is this gossip hour?” Sam sneered, not fooled for an instant.

“Bitch.”

“Jerk. And I don’t know. I got the impression she only stuck around long enough after the kid was born for Krushnic to cut her a check. She signed off all her parental rights. Obviously she did have to be contacted when Misha was leaving the country, but she didn’t raise any objections, so she clearly feels no connection to the boy. And it was obvious there was no love lost between her and Krushnic either. That bitch was stone-cold.”

Dean remembered his initial conviction that the gorgeous Russian had been checking him out. Maybe he’d been right. Maybe the blue eyes hadn’t ducked away from him in embarrassment because of guilt or even a desire to stay in the closet. The man had just emigrated from a country where showing interest in another man could have gotten him thrown in jail.

Possibilities swirled through Dean’s mind.

“Oh, shit,” Sam muttered. “You’ve got that look.”

“What look?”

“The ‘I’ve seen something shiny’ look. The one you save for pie, cars and people you want to take to bed.”

Dean smirked unrepentantly. “I’m a wounded man,” he said, waving his bandaged arm like a trophy. “I need comfort and distraction.”

“Or a chastity belt,” Sam muttered quietly.

Not quietly enough, though, judging by Dean’s muttered “Bitch” in reply.

“So, Lucifer,” Sam said…. and Dean sighed and prepared himself for a lecture.

###

Castiel couldn’t remember a time in his life when he’d had more fun.

At Claire’s insistence, he had purchased his first ever pair of American Jeans a couple of days earlier. It wasn’t that Levi’s weren’t available in Russia. He simply had never had occasion to wear anything so informal. Castiel either dressed in suits or in exercise clothes. Casual clothing had never been appropriate in his prior life and he still hadn’t mentally adjusted to the idea that studying in an American coffee shop every morning didn’t require the minimum of a shirt and tie.

With Claire’s less than polite admonishment ringing in his ears that he was never going to ‘fit in’ to Haven if he attended the groundbreaking dressed ‘like an undertaker’, Castiel had purchased himself and Misha matching outfits of denim jeans, black t-shirts, blue flannels and timberland boots.

Claire, and her friend Jo, had squeed embarrassingly over Castiel and his ‘mini-me’ when they had arrived at a bar named ‘The Roadhouse’ that morning to join the people being ferried to Haven Vale by mini-bus and Castiel had been half tempted to race home and change back into a suit. Despite the sales clerk insisting that he had bought the correct size, Castiel thought there was something slightly obscene about the way the denim hugged his ass and stretched tautly over his thighs.

Both Claire and Jo had, at least, appeared to have agreed with the salesclerk, since they had both threatened him with bodily harm if he gave in to the temptation to at least cover himself with his coat.

Nine hours later, filthy, sweat drenched and exhausted, he was past caring what he looked like anyway. He couldn’t even remember where he’d left his flannel. He was now wearing nothing except jeans and tee, both mud-splattered but clinging to his damp flesh like a second skin. He was drinking a cool American beer straight out of the bottle, in a crowd of people who had started the day cautiously polite and had now reached the stage of slapping him heartily on the back as they walked past him.

His name was now ‘Cas’.

Apparently.

He’d given up even pretending to object.

He was sore as hell. Running and Yoga might be sufficient to make him look fit, but a day of backbreaking digging had soon shown him the difference between true strength and gym muscles. He had a feeling he was going to be spending the next couple of days walking like an old man.

It was worth it though.

More than worth it, just to see Misha and Ben running around the edges of the crowd, somehow still full of enough energy to play catch with Bobby Singer’s dog as the sun set. Castiel had never seen such a smile of unbridled happiness on his son’s face.

“Forget that crap, have a Corona,” a low familiar voice said, and his almost empty Budweiser was pulled out of his hand and replaced with a blissfully cold bottle of Corona with a fat slice of lime stuffed into its open top.

“Thank you,” he said, turning to face the grinning, equally filthy face of Dean Winchester.

“Thank you,” Dean stressed. “For helping today and,” he paused and scratched at the dusty bandage on his arm. “...and for donating. Without your money, today wouldn’t have been possible.”

He flushed hotly. Obviously Dean had learned who he was, but Castiel wished he hadn’t really - that the two million dollar donation was not something that hovered between them like a dirty secret - “I merely paid a legal bribe to your government for a green card,” he admitted, a little shamefully. “I don’t deserve my place in your country any more than any poverty-stricken Mexican desperately wishing to cross the border to escape a life of deprivation. My money bought me a privilege that shames me, though I would be lying if I said I regret it. I see my son here, safe, happy, and I would do the same again a thousand times.”

“I respect that,” Dean said, honestly. “Family is everything. I would do anything for Ben too.”

Castiel nodded and for a moment the two men just drank together, their souls connected by the bonds of fatherhood.

“I am so pleased that I chose Sam’s firm to handle my visa application. His suggestion that I invest in Haven Vale changed a somewhat distasteful business arrangement into something honorable. What your parents started here is wonderful and your own work to continue their legacy is admirable,” Castiel said. “If somewhat dangerous,” he added, with a pointed look at Dean’s left arm.

“I zigged when I should have zagged,” Dean laughed. “It’s never smart to mistep when dancing with Lucifer.”

“Lucifer?” Castiel queried, feeling both confused and alarmed.

Dean grinned widely and began to tell him all about his latest rescue with an enthusiasm that was infectious.

###

Ben grabbed Misha and twisted him to look towards the edge of the gathering.

Beyond the fire pit, past where Ellen was organizing the tables of food and the burgers and sausages spitting on barbecues, his dad and Misha’s were leaning side by side against one of the earth diggers, drinking beer and talking and laughing together like old friends.

“Look,” he said. “It’s working. They like each other.” Then he blinked and blushed slightly. “I think they really like each other.”

Misha looked over to where their fathers were standing perhaps a little too close together. Ben’s father had a companionable arm slung over his own father’s shoulders and whatever he was whispering into his ear had put a look on his dad’s face that was soft and charmed and perhaps even a little bashful. He swallowed hard, looking hesitant for a moment, a little nervous, before he quietly said. “Is your father гомосексуальный?”

“I don’t understand,” Ben said.

Misha typed the word into his iPad and handed it over.

Ben’s eyes grew wide.

Misha’s big blue eyes gave him no clue as to the ‘right’ answer so Ben simply offered the truth, just as his dad had always said he should.

“My dad has boyfriends or girlfriends. He says it doesn’t matter.”

Misha looked slightly shocked, then whispered fearfully, “In my country, it is bad to be гомосексуальный.”

Ben thought about that, then shrugged. “But this is your country now,” he said.

Misha considered that for a long time.

Then grinned.

###

Dean almost choked on his beer. “He did what?”

“For several weeks now, your son has been using Google Translate to communicate with my son. He painstakingly writes to Misha, translates his English into Russian, then Misha writes back in Russian and Ben translates the reply back into English. They use the safe school email system, so I am assured neither of them are at risk despite their constant use of the internet. I was hoping to meet Charlie Bradbury here today to discuss a possible upgrade of my broadband speed. I believe both our sons are greatly frustrated by the slowness of the connection at my house.”

“I knew nothing about this,” Dean confessed. “I monitor Ben’s net usage, obviously, but mails through the Edulink system don’t raise any alerts. I know Ben has become friends with Misha, because he wanted me to ask you if it would be alright for him to visit Bobby Singer’s place to meet Ben’s pony. I had no idea he had put so much effort into the friendship though.”

“Misha was painfully alone at school before Ben reached out to him in such a clever way. He is a quiet, shy child and the added issue of learning English has only exacerbated his natural reticence. It appears that Ben is not a boy who is put off by the necessity to work at a friendship. You should be very proud of your son. He is a true credit to you.”

Dean flushed. “And to his mother. She was responsible for him until he was five. But, yeah, Ben’s a great kid. I’m lucky to have him.”

“Perhaps I should speak to Bobby about the possibility of boarding another pony,” Castiel suggested thoughtfully. “It would be better, perhaps, if our sons could share an interest together properly. Do you ride yourself?”

Dean snorted. “I wish I could. I have to scrub myself raw before I even go near Bobby’s horses. They tolerate me if I’m freshly showered. They sure as hell don’t like me on their backs though. The cat smell lingers in my pores I think, because the minute I get a bit sweaty the bastards try to buck me off.”

Castiel gazed at him thoughtfully for a long moment, before seemingly coming to a decision. “Then it appears that horses are considerably less intelligent than I had imagined,” he said pointedly, and slowly licked his lower lip.

Dean blinked, did a double take, then choked on his beer for real this time.

###

Bobby banged loudly on the side of his truck for attention as the night drew in.

“Got a couple of announcements before you idjits get too drunk to roll yourselves home,” he said, into the resultant near silence.

He waited for the titters and catcalls to die down completely, then reached into his jacket pocket for a prepared speech that he only glanced at, then ignored, as he clearly decided to wing it instead.

“First, Dean here wanted me to say thanks to everyone for today, and particular thanks to Castiel Krushnic for making it possible. In case anyone hasn’t met Cas, he’s the Russian guy who just had his tongue down Dean’s throat. It’s dark, boys, but not that dark.”

This time it took a lot longer for the laughter to fade.

“Second, on behalf of Sam, I want to let Dean and Ben know the adoption has been finalized. So everyone raise a glass to Ben Winchester… and, yes, Dean, that name choice was Ben’s final decision. Congratulations, Dean, it’s a boy.”

If anyone noticed Dean crying in the reflected firelight, as Ben ran over to hug the stuffing out of his dad, no one said anything. After all, even the Tiger King was allowed a few manly tears.

“And thirdly-“

“You said a couple, you senile old fart,” Rufus hooted.

“And THIRDLY, the adoption papers arrived in a special black briefcase. I had a whole bullshit story ready to explain this one but since that ship has clearly sailed already, I can’t see any goddamned reason to lie. So, I’m just gonna call this Ben Winchester’s reward for being the kind of kid any father would be proud to call his son, and Dean’s reward for being the only guy who deserves the privilege. Bring it on in, Sam.”

The night filled with the sound of a roaring purr, and several of the gathered townsfolk yelped with fear, looking around themselves as though Tigers were about to leap out of the darkness towards them.

But the dark shape that glided towards the fire was bigger and blacker than any big cat.

“Baby,” Dean choked, as his father’s car came to a halt before him.

There was a moment of pure silence, as Sam cut the engine and everyone waited with baited breath for Dean’s reaction.

They watched his fingers slide a slow, disbelieving caress over the glossy waxed hood. His gentle touch was as reverent as that of a blind man reading Braille scripture.

But then he stiffened, his shoulders going rigid with pride, even as his eyes darkened with sorrow, and he turned towards Castiel Krushnic - because who else in the town of Haven could possibly be responsible? - and said, in a quiet, rough but clear voice.

“I can’t accept this from you.”

Castiel raised both hands in a dramatic gesture both universal and peculiarly Russian. “На чужо́м го́ре сча́стья не постро́ишь.”

Dean shrugged his incomprehension.

“One can't build one's happiness on others' grief,” Castiel translated. “I do this for Ben,” he added quietly. “For me this is nothing,” he flicked his fingers as though brushing away a fly. “For my son’s friend, this is everything. It is only money. More than enough is always too much. This is a lesson for Misha too. That, as my people say, a single friend is worth a hundred rubles. In Russia we believed we were rich. But here, in this town, in this place, I now understand we were always poor. It is in friendship that a man should count his wealth, not in rubles.”

“What he said,” Claire yelled.

There was a rumble of approval from everyone.

“Just accept the damned car, Dean,” Sam groaned. “You’re not the only person allowed to be a nice guy around here.”

“The burgers are getting cold,” Ellen called. “Can you have your existential crisis later, Dean?”

“You told me to always say a polite ‘thank you’ for a gift,” Ben pointed out innocently. “Even when I got given a sucky sock puppet for Christmas.”

“Hey, Mr. Fizzles is not sucky,” Garth complained, but he was laughing. “And yeah, Dean, the appropriate response is always ‘thank you’. Don’t set a bad example for your kid.”

Reluctant defeat flashed in Dean’s eyes. He took a couple of deep, obvious, steadying breaths, looked around at the unashamed interest of the gathered crowd of interfering busybodies - his wealth of friends - but still grumpily muttered, “This conversation is not over. We will continue it in private.”

Castiel was magnanimous in victory. His mouth twitched into a slow smile and his teeth teased at his lower lip. “Perhaps I have overstepped my boundaries. I possibly need to be taught more appropriate behavior. I am given to understand that you are very good at directions.”

Dean flushed scarlet and swallowed heavily, “We’ll talk later,” he growled.

“I will look forward to it,” Castiel agreed, unrepentantly.

Their eyes met then, a look of dark promise and fiery heat.

“Yeah, yeah, you two idjits can find a room later. Burgers are getting cold, beers getting warm, ” Bobby snorted. “Let’s get this damned party started already.”

And everybody cheered.