Chapter Text
“We’re going out.”
Sam and Cas look up at Dean’s pronouncement, the former from a book and the latter from his phone.
Sam scrunches his nose a little. “Do we have to? I’m kinda beat, dude.”
Dean tosses his bag onto the bed and pointedly spreads his arms. “Listen,” he begins, “we’re clean. That is a goddamn miracle after that shitshow of a hunt, so there is no way in hell I’m gonna waste it on a night in with a box of limp pizza, watching crappy reruns on a TV that doesn't go five minutes without static.”
Sam opens his mouth to scoff, but pauses— because it is kind of a miracle, and he knows it. Without going too far into all the gory details (the extremely gory details), by the time they’d finally locked everything down earlier today all three of them had looked like Carrie post pig blood, if she’d also gone running through a forest and then rolled around in the dumpster of a seafood place for a while.
The jury’s still out on whether that’s an exaggeration or not. But Dean had found chunks in his hair, and he hadn’t been quiet about it. He does not need that on a Friday afternoon.
Cas, of course, had been fine once he’d had a half second to breathe. Stupid angel dry-cleaning. He’d gone from disturbingly Purgatory-esque to brand-spanking new while Dean was still trying to peel his pocket open to get at his keys, which was equal parts relieving, annoying as hell, and a very nice surprise when he looked back up. He doesn’t think Sam or Cas himself clocked the surreptitious how-ya-doin’ Dean gave him, either, which is good. (Thank god. He couldn’t have stopped himself if he tried). But he’d still had to hand over the car keys and then hunker down in the backseat with his sasquatch of a brother the whole drive back to the motel, so as not to frighten any of the well-meaning citizens of Stockbridge, Massachusetts. Which hadn’t been great.
So there is no way he’s gonna let those fuckers they ganked this morning completely ruin his Friday. He’s done a complete 180° from the Walking Dead extra he saw in the mirror an hour and a half ago back to his usual glory, and all he wants to do now is find a table at the bar down the street, eat some greasy burgers, drink a couple beers, and maybe give Cas another pool lesson. (The guy’s actually pretty damn good already, but that’s fine. Dean hasn’t run out of blatantly transparent excuses just yet, and Cas hasn’t called him on it, so he just takes that as a win and doesn’t look the gift horse in the mouth.)
It’s Cas who seals the deal, though. He pockets his phone and gets to his feet. “I think going out is a good idea,” he says. “Our efforts certainly deserve some celebration.”
“Exactly,” Dean agrees emphatically. “Don’t make me drag your ass outta here, Sammy, we’re not gonna go unless you come with.”
Sam looks between the two of them, the upwards twitch at the corner of his mouth betraying him. With an obligatory eye roll, he closes his book and sets it aside. “Alright. Fine, you win. You’re thinking about that bar down the street, right?”
Dean grins, grabbing his jacket and keys. “Damn right I am. Now c’mon, time’s a’ wastin’. I hear a couple of cold ones calling our names.”
— - —
The bar is exactly Dean’s kind of place: a little gritty, a little rough around the edges, but clean and obviously well taken care of. There’s classic rock playing on the jukebox in the corner, a couple of pool tables next to the bar, and a decently-sized Friday night crowd of happy, relaxed patrons.
They even manage to snag a table near the back wall, a four-seater not too far from the bar that’s situated so one of them can keep an eye on the door at all times. It’s perfect, honestly, and after Dean’s grabbed them all glasses of beer he settles into his seat with a sigh. He raises his glass, looking between the others. “To a job well done, guys. And to those motel showers, for getting everything out of Sam’s hair.”
“Hell yes,” Sam chimes in, and the three of them clink their glasses together before taking a drink.
Dean watches Cas out of the corner of his eye: he’s been working on being able to eat lately, and he’s finally started to get the hang of it. He doesn’t make his ‘ew, molecules’ face, so it looks like things are going his way tonight. He catches Dean watching and smiles.
A waitress comes by at some point, and they all order dinner. Dean thanks her, then turns back to the conversation he’d been having with Cas. “C’mon, seriously? Beyoncé is your favourite? ”
Cas raises an eyebrow. “Currently, yes. She has incredible range and a very strong voice. By all accounts, she is a talented musician.” He inclines his head like he’s telling them a secret. “Lemonade is a very good album.”
Dean groans as if in great physical pain. “You’re killing me, man. I don’t even… I’m not even gonna comment on the album. But you want range? Freddie Mercury. Axel Rose. Geddy Lee. They’ve all got it goin’ on.”
Sam grins, rolling his eyes at Dean’s theatrics. “Oh, come on, Dean. Just let him enjoy his music. Who cares if he likes Beyoncé? She’s not half bad.”
“I care,” Dean shoots back mock-indignantly. “Don’t you see, Sam? I’ve failed him in his musical education. This is on me.”
Cas smiles innocently. “I don’t believe so. After all, I understand your appreciation of Taylor Swift just fine.”
Dean scowls, elbowing his snickering asshole of a brother and trying to tamp down on the flush he can feel warming his ears. “I don’t— it was one song, because of a spell. I don’t appreciate Taylor Swift.”
Cas just looks at him in a faintly infuriating sort of way. “Of course, Dean. Whatever you say.”
Sam snorts, and Dean shoots him a scathing look over his beer. “Shuddup, bitch. He doesn’t know what he’s talkin’ about.”
Sam opens his mouth to refute that, grinning mischievously, when a shadow falls over his shoulder.
“Well, well, well. Hello, boys. Fancy meeting you here.”
Cas is on his feet in a second, his sword dropping into his hand, and Sam and Dean follow suit, turning to stare at the newcomer in disbelief.
“What are you doing here?” Sam says sharply.
Crowley raises his hands in a gesture of surrender that’s somewhat diminished by the easy smirk on his face. “What, you think the king of Hell doesn’t take a night off every now and then? Job-related stress is no laughing matter.”
Dean gives him a look, voice dripping with sarcasm. “Oh, right. And I guess you expect us to believe this is a coincidence? That you just happened to walk into the same bar as us? I’d say it was a nice try, but that’s some of the least believable bullshit I’ve heard in a while.”
“Of course it’s a coincidence,” Crowley drawls, fixing an expression of innocence to his face. “A happy accident, that I found myself in this particular locale. As soon as I spotted you, though, I knew that I simply had to come and say hello. We’ve had our ups and downs, perhaps, but we’re friends now. It would’ve been inexcusably rude not to stop and chat.” And with that, he sits down in the empty chair beside Cas and signals to the bartender. “Refills for these three gentlemen, and your most potent mixed beverage for me.” He gives Cas a sidelong glance. “Well. Two gentlemen, I suppose. But there’s not much point quibbling over these things, is there?”
The three of them look at each other for a moment.
Finally, Dean shrugs. Cas reluctantly puts his sword away, and they sit back down.
“So,” Crowley says, steepling his fingers. “What’s new with the Winchesters and their fine feathered friend? Tell me everything. Hell is deadly boring these days.”
— - —
Against all odds, Crowley isn’t actually terrible company.
Sure, Cas doesn’t really relax again after he shows up, and Dean’d be lying if he said he was completely peachy with this turn of events, but it could be worse. And Crowley’s buying, which goes a long way to soften the blow of his presence.
He shares some pithy, unexpectedly funny anecdotes about Rowena while the three of them eat, and Sam even grudgingly agrees to tell a story about a theatre ghost they took care of a couple weeks ago. He’s grinning by the end of it, and Crowley’s cackle at the idea of Dean covered in the remains of a pink feather boa is, surprisingly, much less obnoxious than usual.
“I was finding fluff in my hair all weekend,” Dean grumbles good-naturedly, and pops his last french fry into his mouth. Then he flicks his eyes over at Cas to see how he’s doing.
Ouch, he thinks with a wince. Cas is still looking at Crowley like he’s systematically running through every possible way he could kill or maim the demon in his head, and he’s barely touched his burger. Okay. So it might be time for an intervention.
“Hey, Cas,” Dean says, downing his last swallow of beer. Cas blinks, his glare fading from ‘I will smite you, unclean serpent’ to only mildly disgruntled as he turns to look at Dean. “One of the pool tables just opened up. You up for a game or two?”
It’s almost funny how quickly the angel gets to his feet. “Yes.” And just like that he’s gone, off to pick out a cue without so much as a backward glance.
Dean claps Sam on the shoulder as he stands up. “Well, then. I’ll leave you two to catch up.” He escapes before Sam can voice his displeasure, and as he hightails it over to the pool table Cas has claimed, he smiles.
Back at the table, Sam gives Crowley a tight grin. “Uh. Okay, then. I’d ask how Hell is, but I don’t really want to know.”
Crowley’s not paying attention, though. Sam follows his gaze, and together they watch as Dean puts a hand on Cas’ shoulder, pausing to say something to him before grabbing his own cue from the rack. He’s already grinning more easily than he was five minutes ago, and even the tense set of Cas’ shoulders has loosened a little.
“He hasn’t flirted with the waitress once tonight.”
Sam frowns as Crowley turns back around, confused at the non-sequitur. “Uh. I guess not, no.”
Crowley rolls his eyes. “Oh come now, Sam. You can be fairly intelligent when the occasion arises. Isn’t that somewhat of a surprise? Your red-blooded, all-American brother could’ve had that girl eating out of the palm of his hand by now. She was certainly willing, judging by the way she kept leaning over the table. And yet, he barely said two words to her. Barely looked at her.”
Sam doesn’t know if he likes where this is going. “So what?”
“So,” Crowley says, “I think we may have ourselves a unique opportunity here, Moose. With your permission, of course, I could give your painfully obvious older brother a little... nudge. Just enough to, say, tip him into the arms of that handsome angel of his.”
Sam’s mouth falls slightly open. “I’m sorry. You wanna do what?”
Crowley signals the bartender for another round. “Don’t be coy. You know what I mean.”
Sam grimaces. “That… sounds like a terrible idea. Do you know what Dean would do if he found out?”
“But you see,” Crowley says smugly, “as long as you don’t tell him, then he won’t find out. You have no idea how subtle I can be when I really put some effort in.”
Sam is skeptical, as almost anyone would be when the king of Hell is offering to help set up their irritatingly closeted brother and the angel of the Lord he's been gay for for over a decade. He crosses his arms.
“Crossroads demons are well-known for their influence in affairs of the heart, you know,” Crowley tells him, leisurely dragging a finger around the rim of his glass. “We’re like cupids, only more practical. And we aren’t known for swanning about in diapers.”
Sam taps his fingers on the tabletop, not caring if his distrust is as obvious as he thinks it is. “I dunno. I mean, what's in it for you?” he asks. “Why the hell would you do this? And don’t try to sell me some ‘I’m bored’ crap.”
Crowley observes him for a moment through slitted eyes, as if calculating just what to say to prove his trustworthiness in this matter. (Or, more accurately, trying to decide what would best get through the thick, shaggy skull of the moose sitting in front of him.) “You know, that summer your brother was a demon—”
Sam groans, cutting him off at the mention, but Crowley merely gives him an unimpressed look in response. “Finished?” he asks. “Well then. As I was saying. When your brother and I were howling at the moon and doing… quite frankly, unspeakable things to triplets, when he was as carefree as he was careless and his eyes were as black as the void from whence he came… that angel, right there?” He breaks off, gesturing subtly to where Castiel stands mere inches from Dean's side, thankfully out of earshot. “The mere mention of his name still gave him pause. Even as a demon — a species that cares for nothing but sin and themselves, least of all for those cloud-bound numbskulls up in Heaven — he was pining.”
Crowley leans back, blowing air out of his nose and rolling his eyes in a manner implying extreme suffering of the Dean-and-Cas variety. “I had to deal with that for weeks. Truly, you have my respect; I can’t imagine playing third wheel to that for as long as you have. I could practically feel it.” He shudders. “Honestly, it was part of the reason why I was so eager to give him back when you came looking. I thought you might be able to… well, I might’ve said ‘straighten him out’, but that’s rather the opposite of what he needed, isn’t it? What he still needs, obviously,” he mutters as he takes a sip of his drink, a violently blue concoction with a pineapple slice on the rim. “So I suppose you could say I’m doing this out of exasperation. It’s unbelievably infuriating to watch those two dance around each other, as I’m sure you’re aware. And I’m in the habit of torturing other people, not being tortured myself.”
Sam takes a drink of his beer, considering that. Then he looks at Crowley. “And that’s it? That’s your whole motivation?”
“Well,” Crowley drawls with a disturbingly wide grin, “perhaps it’s also for a little vicarious enjoyment of my own, if you take my meaning.” Sam shudders, firmly pushing all the possible interpretations of that from his mind as he goes back to his french fries. Gross.
He thinks it over as he finishes his food, Crowley waiting expectantly. On one hand, this is the kinda thing that could really get him in trouble with Dean. They’ve finally recovered from the latest batch of Apocalypse-driven betrayals and lying, and Sam really doesn’t want to start something new. Not now that they’re free from all the Heaven and Hell crap.
But on the other hand. (Damn. Whoever wrote Fiddler on the Roof knew what they were talking about. Sam gets it.)
There’d been a while there, after Cas had gotten himself exiled from Heaven and asked if he could stay at the Bunker, when Sam had been sure something was gonna happen. But it just… didn’t. And recently, he’s pretty sure the uncertainty has finally got to be too much for Dean, too: he’s been vacillating between guarded flirting and getting pissed off at Cas for no reason, with periods of normalcy oddly sprinkled in between. Cas gives as good as he gets when Dean’s on the bitch-fit end of things, at least, but Sam’s afraid that eventually he’ll get fed up with Dean’s hot and cold attitude and leave. And Sam’s not eager to lose his best friend, or to find out what that would do to Dean if it happens.
But the two of them are stuck in this weird, love-hate, gay-chicken holding pattern, and it doesn’t look like it’s gonna break up of it’s own accord any time soon. Despite the amount of time they spend staring at each other, they always end up staring when the other isn’t looking. Sam has literally watched Dean stare at Cas with a soft, sappy little smile on his face, glance away, and have Cas immediately look up to do the same to him. It makes him want to scream.
Crowley… he said he’d only give Dean a nudge. And Sam saw the way Dean checked Cas out earlier today, saw how much more touchy-feely he is with him tonight. A nudge is probably all he needs.
Finally, still fighting the looming feeling that this is going to end very, very badly, Sam sighs. “Fine,” he relents. “You’re right, it’s… it’s getting kind of ridiculous. They’re… I dunno, stuck or something. So. Go ahead, I guess. Do your worst.” But then Sam points a finger at Crowley, his face dark. “But you’re not allowed to hurt him. Either of them. And if they catch you, you better not implicate me. If you do, I’ll find you, and I will stab you right between the ribs. Are we clear?”
“Crystal,” Crowley says with a slow smile, cracking his knuckles. “Now. Sit back, relax, and let Uncle Crowley work his magic.”
Before ‘Uncle Crowley’ can do anything, though, a pair of shot glasses full of clear, insidious liquid are deposited on the table in front of them with a salt shaker and a pair of limes. Sam looks up at the waiter in confusion, but he just shrugs.
“Don’t look at me like that, man. Your buddies over at the pool table bought ‘em for ya.”
Sam gives Dean a look, but he just grins and then turns back to Cas. Crowley’s smile widens, his eyes glittering with anticipation. “Oh, this is almost too easy.”
Sam almost feels bad for Dean.
But then again, he thinks with a slight smile.
It’s for his own good.
— - —
“So,” Dean says, chalking up the end of his cue. “What are we playin’ for?”
Cas tilts his head at Dean, halfway through setting up the object balls. “You want to play for something?”
Dean shrugs, grinning. “Why not? It’s more fun when you’ve got somethin’ on the line.”
Cas sets the black plastic triangle aside, taking the chalk from Dean and preparing his own cue. “I don’t have any money of my own. And I can’t think of anything else I have that you want.”
Dean fights the urge to let out a despairing, slightly hysterical laugh at that, because shit. That’s pretty much their whole problem right there, isn’t it? And yeah, the other half of it might be that Dean’s too goddamn afraid of rejection to go any further than thinly veiled flirting, but that’s not the point.
He clears his throat. “Nevermind, then. Bragging rights’ll do, I guess.” He slaps on a winning smirk. “Don’t worry, I promise I won’t hustle you.”
Cas raises an eyebrow. “Very well. I’ll hold you to that.”
And god, if Dean was slightly more confident with guys and this wasn’t Cas, that would be a perfect opportunity for a wink and some cheeky innuendo. Sadly, things being what they are, he just has to mourn the lost opportunity and move on.
Dean wins the first game, even though he was giving Cas little pointers the whole time they played. He’s good, but he’s almost too analytical sometimes; he gets so caught up in mental calculations that he misses the sneaky shots, the ones that make Dean a good hustler. Dean’s planning on at least a few more games, though, so maybe he’ll get into the groove and start to give Dean a run for his money.
He orders them beers and nachos as consolation, because Crowley put Cas off his burger and Dean feels kinda bad about it. Cas gives him a grateful smile, and they spend a little while putting a dent in the plate of cheesy goodness before moving onto game number two. Dean tries not to gloat too much, but judging by the competitive spark in Cas’ eye by the time he tells Dean to set up again, he wasn’t very successful.
What? Sue him. Pushing Cas’ buttons is fun.
The second game takes longer. On top of having settled into it, Cas is out for blood now, and it’s that drive that makes him go for the ballsy shots he hadn’t been attempting before. Thankfully for Dean, though, he hasn’t quite figured out which ones are the right ones. And so Dean takes his second win.
Cas buys them shots. Well, technically Dean (via some rich schmuck named Phillip Clancy’s credit card) buys them shots, but that’s not the point. Cas asked what Dean wanted, since he’d won and all, and Dean had said tequila. No celebration is a real celebration without tequila, and that’s the whole reason they came out tonight, anyway. They even get the bartender to deliver some shots to the table for Sam and Crowley, which gets Dean a half-hearted bitchface from across the room.
He’s got better things to do, though. Like showing Cas how to do a proper tequila shot.
“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” Dean laughs, knocking Cas’ hand away from his shot. “No, dude, there’s a process.”
Cas gives him a look. “Ah. I see. I assume you’ll demonstrate?”
Dean grins. “But of course.” He raises his eyebrows a little to make sure Cas is watching, then turns back to the table. “So, first,” he says, matter-of-factly, “you’ve gotta get some salt ready. Cuts the bite of the tequila.” Not looking at Cas, he curls his hand into a fist, licks a stripe along it, and then pours a line of salt over the wet spot. That done, he passes the salt shaker over and smiles at Cas’ rapt attention.
And then, because he must be some kind of masochist, he watches Cas do the same.
He swallows to dispel the sudden dryness in his mouth. “Yeah, like that. Now, to take the shot, you’ve got three steps: you lick the salt off your hand, slam the shot, and then suck on the lime right afterwards. Got it?”
Cas nods, picking up a lime and tucking it into the fingers of his salty hand the same way Dean already has. “Yes. Lick it, slam it, suck it.”
Jesus .
They pick up their shot glasses, and Dean clinks his gently against Cas’. “Alrighty, then. Angel’s first tequila shot. Bottoms up.”
Thankfully, the process of taking the shot is involved enough that Dean can’t really watch Cas do his. All he gets is a tantalizing blur of throat in his peripheral and then the pinched moüe of Cas’ mouth after he’s sucked on his lime. Which, to be honest, is probably for the best.
He has to brace a hand on the edge of the table as the shot hits, though, because holy crap. What the hell kinda booze is this? The rush is insane. It feels like this is his third shot, not his first.
“Dean? Are you alright?”
Dean stifles a gasp as a hand lands on his shoulder, his eyes snapping to Cas’. Because fuck, Cas’ hand is huge and warm, and he looks so concerned, and—
Pull it together, Dean tells himself sternly. It’s one goddamn shot. He can handle himself.
“Yeah,” he says with a grin. “Stronger than I thought it’d be, that’s all.”
Cas’ concern shifts into mild amusement. “Too strong for you? I didn’t think that was possible.”
“Oh, excuse me,” Dean says with a cheeky eye-roll. “Sorry I was too busy kicking ass to keep up with my shot-taking skills.”
Cas grins. “That is a good point.”
“Damn right it is,” Dean says smugly as Cas starts to set up the next game. “Are we gonna play for more shots this time?”
Cas gives him a look. “Perhaps that isn’t the best idea. I enjoy actively conversing with you, and more alcohol will make that difficult, to say the least.”
Something soft and fluttery bounces around Dean’s stomach at that, and he smiles. “Alright, fine. What about, uh…” he trails off, trying to think of something as he watches the way Cas’ suit jacket pulls taut across his shoulders. “Strip pool.”
Cas looks up sharply, his expression one of nearly comical disbelief, and Dean feels his face heat. Because what the fuck? Why did he say that out loud? What the fuck, what the fuck is happening to him, why has his filter just utterly fucking abandoned him, what —
“Very well.”
Dean gapes. Cas raises an eyebrow, and Dean closes his mouth. “I— yeah? I was joking, dude.”
Cas shrugs, holding Dean’s cue out to him. “You’re always telling me to ‘loosen up’. If you win, I’ll remove my jacket, and if I win, you can remove your flannel. That sounds fair, doesn’t it?”
Dean takes the cue from him, reeling. “Uh, y— sure. What’s wrong with my flannel though, huh? You don’t like it?”
And Cas. Cas gives Dean a long, slow once-over in consideration, and crap that’s hot.
Then he tilts his head, a twinkle in his eye. “In fact, I do. The colours are very pleasing. It looks soft.”
Dean has to be reading this wrong. This has to be, like, wishful thinking on steroids, because all his stupid brain is screaming at him is that this means Cas just wants him out of the flannel so he can see Dean’s arms or something. Which— Cas isn’t into him, that’s not— no. Not possible. The basis of Dean’s whole understanding of their relationship is that Cas doesn’t want the same things he does, can’t want them. He’s an angel, for fuck’s sake. It’s why Dean lets himself flirt a little, here and there, because it couldn’t possibly go anywhere.
But Cas… Cas is looking at him like that, and he just agreed to play strip pool, and how did this evening get so complicated so fucking fast?
“I believe it’s my turn to break,” Cas says lightly.
And sure, Dean might be having himself a good old-fashioned crisis at the moment, but that doesn’t make him any less of an awesome pool player. He can do this.
It’s harder than he’d expected, though. The edge he’d started out with at the beginning of the night has been steadily diminishing with each successive game, and another win is much less of a sure thing than it was before. And not only that, but he can’t help being a little… preoccupied. Okay, a lot preoccupied. Because the more he thinks back over the whole strip pool conversation, the more sure he gets that Cas was flirting back. He was flirting back. And what the hell is Dean supposed to do with that?
This game is slower, more calculated, and Dean’s not gonna lie. It’s close.
Finally, after a little luck and some good shots, he’s down to the eight ball. But he stares down at the table, frowning hard, because shit. It’s in a terrible spot: he’ll have to bounce it off the wall of the table and avoid Cas’ last two object balls if he even wants to consider getting it in. Cas is waiting patiently on the other side of the table, a tiny smirk pulling at the corner of his mouth.
“Are you going to call your shot?”
Or maybe not so patiently. Dean raises an eyebrow. “Damn, Cas, you got somewhere to be?” Still, there’s no point putting it off any longer. He’s either gonna make this shot, or he isn’t. “Fine. Top left pocket, bank shot.”
Cas’ eyebrows rise disbelievingly, but Dean pays him no attention. He lines up, staring down the cue. He breathes in. He breathes out.
He hits the ball straight on, it bounces off the wall at exactly the right angle, and it drops neatly into the top left pocket.
Cas inclines his head. “That was impressive. Good game.”
Dean grins. “Thanks, but flattery won’t get you anywhere. Now c’mon, pay up.”
Cas sets his cue down on the table, giving Dean a look. “I strongly contest that, especially in your case, but you did win.” He shrugs his jacket off, maintaining eye contact with Dean the whole time, and tosses it to him. “Your prize.”
Dean awkwardly catches the jacket, still warm from Cas’ body, and stares. Because Cas, now that he’s down to his shirtsleeves, is taking the opportunity to loosen his tie a little, pop the top button of his shirt, and then efficiently roll up his sleeves one by one. “I want a rematch,” he says when he’s finished, starting to empty the pockets again. “If you’re amenable, that is. We can play for the same stakes.”
Dean’s not sure if Cas knows what he’s doing, or if he really is that oblivious. And, he despairs as he forces himself to look away from the now-visible dip of Cas’ throat, he has no idea which of those two options is the preferable one. He clears his throat. “What, you think you can beat me this time?”
The corner of Cas’ mouth twitches mischievously. “Yes. I believe I can.”
Dean lays Cas’ jacket over the back of his chair. “Alright then. This time I’m gonna have to play for your tie, though. I don’t think the barkeep’d be cool with you wandering around lookin’ like some kinda lost Chippendales dancer.” He regrets saying it as soon as the words come out of his mouth, because now there’s a visual in his head that’s not going anywhere any time soon. Dammit, why had he let Jody and Donna talk him into watching fuckin’ Magic Mike? God. Is every single one of his bad decisions gonna come back to haunt him tonight?
What is he saying. Of course they are. He’s a Winchester. His luck sucks on a good day.
Dean takes over from Cas, nudging him out of the way with his shoulder and finishing setting up the balls. Cas doesn’t move very far away, though; his shoulder brushes against Dean’s every time either of them move. Meanwhile, Dean’s successfully reached the stage of buzzed where he’s hyper aware of his body, and as a result, he is roughly three seconds from losing his mind.
He already knows this game is gonna be a shitshow before he even makes his first shot. He’s not wrong: his rapidly deteriorating concentration is completely gone five minutes in, after an attempt at distracting both himself and Cas backfires spectacularly. It hadn’t even been that good of a heckle, but he’d said it right before Cas was about to make his shot. Cas had stopped, still bent over the table, and looked up at Dean through his lashes, one eyebrow raised demandingly. He hadn’t even had to say anything.
Dean had shut up embarrassingly fast.
Anyway, he’s playing like crap. And Cas isn’t helping: he’s always there, hovering just close enough that Dean can feel the heat of him at his side, making funny little observations, asking questions. Dean finally makes a weak sort of comment about personal space, and after that Cas backs off a little. But he looks really damn pleased with himself, and Dean is consistently messing up shots now.
So it’s less of a surprise and more of a foregone conclusion when Cas makes a good run of it at the end, pocketing his last three balls and then the eight ball with fluid, self-satisfied ease. Dean puts down his cue. “Dammit.”
Cas smirks at him, wide and gummy. “I told you I’d win this time.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Dean grumbles, cleaning up the table to avoid the inevitable. “Alright. No one likes a sore winner.”
Cas has his arms crossed when Dean turns back to him, his grin slightly more subdued. “You owe me your shirt.”
And— c’mon. He has to know what he’s doing to Dean. There’s no way he doesn’t. Dean’s crisis, which had faded into the background a little during the game, returns with a vengeance, and Dean is going to die. He’s just. He’s just gonna keel over right here so he doesn’t have to deal with the implications of this situation.
He rolls his eyes, making a production of shrugging his shirt off so it’s less of a thing. “Pushy, pushy. Fine, here ya go.”
The plan is to take off his flannel, ball it up, and throw it so it hits Cas right smack in the face. That’ll throw him off this terrifying flirty thing he’s doing, and it’ll probably piss him off too. There. Fixed. Angry Cas’ll give him the silent treatment and fuck with the radio on him. No need to worry about any of this.
Except Dean forgets how tipsy he is, and that his coordination isn’t great. His flannel gets twisted around his shaky, traitorous hands, and he— he’s stuck.
He’s doing a weird kind of shimmy to try and untangle the sleeves, cursing out his stupid shirt under his breath, when Cas’ hand lands on his arm. The bare skin of his arm, below where the sleeve of his t-shirt cuts off. Dean bites back a gasp, his eyes landing on Cas’ face and staying there.
“Here,” Cas says with a laugh. “Allow me.”
Dean goes still as Cas grabs one of his wrists, feeling around inside the tangled knot of fabric until he finds the cuff. His fingers brush against Dean’s hand as he undoes the buttons, and Dean fights the urge to grab a hold of them with everything he’s got.
Cas does the same for the other sleeve, frees Dean, and then shakes out the shirt with a little smile still on his face. He doesn’t move away.
“Hm,” he hums, running the collar between his fingers. “It is soft.” He meets Dean’s eyes, frowning slightly when Dean doesn’t say anything. “Dean? Is something wrong?”
Dean still doesn’t respond.
Well. Not with words.
Because what Dean does instead is reach out, wrap his hand around Cas’ tie, and pull him into a messy, artless kiss.
For a moment, it’s great. Cas’ nose is kinda smushed up against his, and despite an uncomfortable moment where their teeth almost clack together Dean’s so hopped up on terror and adrenaline that he just bluescreens right past his hang-ups, because it’s incredible. Cas’ mouth is soft and warm against his, and yes. This is what he wanted.
Then reality crashes back in.
Because Cas isn’t kissing him back.
Dean jerks away, dropping Cas’ tie. “Fuck, Cas, I’m— sorry, sorry, I’m drunk, I don’t—”
“Why did you do that?”
Dean stops, eyes wide. Because Cas’ hands are tight over his hips and he’s all up in Dean’s space, barely an inch away. “I… what?”
Cas looks almost… almost desperate. “Dean, why did you do that?” he asks urgently, his voice completely wrecked, raw with emotion. “Was it just because I’m here? Because I’m convenient?”
And Dean doesn’t know what the hell was in that shot, but he is fucked up. So fucked up that he tells Cas the truth. “No, I…” he swallows. “I like you. A lot.”
“Really?” Cas whispers, and Dean forgets that they’re in public, that there’s a whole bar full of other people all the fuck around them. Because Cas looks so achingly vulnerable, so overwhelmingly hopeful and absolutely fucking terrified of it, and there is no way Dean is gonna let that continue.
“Really,” he says, bringing his hands up to rest softly against either side of Cas’ face. “I really, really like you. Promise.”
And—
Ha. Cas is definitely kissing him back now.
Cas’ hair is even more messed up that usual when they break apart, and Dean’s pulse is through the roof. “Please tell me you don’t wanna play another game,” he gasps, hands running down over Cas’ shoulders, and Cas shakes his head sharply.
“No. I want to leave as soon as possible.”
“Oh, thank god,” Dean breathes, flapping his hand around behind him until he finds Cas’ jacket, grabbing it and shoving it into the angel’s arms. He retrieves his flannel from the ground and shrugs it back on, and then he and Cas beeline back to the table to grab their jackets.
Cas holds his hand on the way.
And fuck, he’d forgotten, but Crowley—
Isn’t here anymore. Huh. It’s just Sam sitting at their table, watching Dean and Cas stumble their way over with a raised eyebrow and smile on his face.
Which. Okay. It could be worse. But Dean goes bright red as soon as he makes eye contact with his brother. “Where— where’d the dickbag go?”
“He said he had to run. You two heading out?” Sam says lightly, a thread of amusement winding through his voice. Dean passes Cas his trench and snatches up his own jacket.
“Just— y’know what, Sam, I don’t like—”
“Yes,” Cas interjects, his hand sliding out of Dean’s to press warmly against the small of his back. “We’ll get another room.”
Dean looks up at the ceiling. “Yup,” he chokes, his voice gone tight and a little squeaky. “What he said.”
“Okay,” Sam says, and Dean is not going to look at him because he knows the exact expression Sam has on his face. And he does not want to see it. “Have fun, I guess. Be safe.”
“That’s it,” Dean grits out, and propels Cas away from the table as Sam snickers at their retreating backs. “I hope you can foot the bill, asshole!”
His ire is a flash in the pan, though; why bother being pissed and thinking about Sam when Cas is pressed tight against his side and still has one hand resting on the small of his back? The latter is so much more compelling than the former.
“Your keys,” Cas says distractedly as they burst out into the night. “Give them to me. You’re not sober, you need to let me drive.”
Dean laughs as he fumbles them out of his pocket, leaning in close. “Go ahead, dude. Take the wheel.”
Cas blinks, the innuendo taking a moment to click. Then he grins.
They’ll have to stop kissing at some point, Dean thinks absently, if they ever wanna get out of this parking lot.
For now, though. He’s sure as hell not complaining.
— - —
As the pair— couple, rather, stumbles out into the night, Crowley saunters back up to the table, and Sam offers him a grudging nod.
“Satisfied with the customer service, then, Moose?” the demon asks, his tone jovial and a faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.
“Yeah,” Sam says, his voice wry. “Part of me hates that you had to be the one to set them up, but…” he shrugs. “Hey. Getting a break from the drama is gonna be a fair tradeoff.”
Crowley laughs. “As far as I’m concerned, the credit falls to the both of us, simply for having withstood that insufferable dance of repression and hormonal angst for so long.” He leans in, a magnanimous, normally repulsive expression on his face. “In the name of those moronic lovebirds finally doing away with all their melodramatic ridiculousness... you owe me no favours, Sam Winchester. Well,” he amends, “no more than you do already, anyway.”
Without a word, Sam holds up his glass. After all, it’s not often a deal with a devil turns out in his favour.
Crowley meets the gesture with the sugary dregs of his drink, the paper umbrella lolling sadly. “A toast,” he says, “to spiked shots and fortunately timed games of strip pool.”
Sam doesn’t bother to bite back his laugh. “To Dean and Cas finally getting it together.”