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Cas squinted at Dean. His free hand clenching and unclenching at his side. The index finger of the other rubbed back and forth over the butt of his gun. He was pissed.
Dean swallowed.
“Okay, that didn’t go according to plan, then.”
“You think, Dean?”
Dean’s eyes flicked down to Cas’s Glock. The safety was still off. Dean would rather not join the corpse lolling in the big burgundy leather chair behind the desk with his brains blown out.
“Uh, you gonna put the—”
“Don’t worry. I’m not about to shoot you, Dean. I’m not that inept. Besides, I have much better ways of dealing with you than killing you.”
Cas arched an eyebrow. The corners of his mouth twitched like he was suppressing a smirk.
Dean reconsidered his preferred option. Something told him their next session together would not be comfortable for Dean—sweet, painful, torture. Eh, so long as everyone got a happy ending eventually, who cared, right?
“Hey, it’s not my fault, you know.”
Dean scanned the room for something to distract Cas, maybe make it up to him.
“No, of course not. How could you know that the old man knew the Family was onto him and that he’d rather off himself than fall into Gabriel’s hands.”
Dean’s shoulders dropped away from his ears, but the knot in his stomach stayed tight, waiting for the inevitable comment.
“However, if we’re talking about being a clumsy idiot who made so much noise that it could have woken the dead? Then, yes, you are responsible.”
“The intel didn’t say the dude had marble floors polished like an ice rink and a frigging table with oversized vases dead centre of hallway for people to skid into though, did it?”
A man should know exactly what obstacles he will face during a mission to retrieve a lousy, no-good traitor. He shouldn’t have to make shit up as he went along. Damn Cas and his inhuman stealth and balance capabilities gracefully passing everything that had tripped Dean up.
Cas chuckled quietly as he checked the room himself. Cas studiously avoided meeting Dean’s gaze as he went through the scene checklist. Cas relied on a system to cover their tracks when they'd finished a job and Dean messed with the process as his peril.
“Aha!” Dean fist pumped—internally. Apparently, if Cas couldn’t use air quotes, Dean couldn’t show his excitement that way. “Come on, Chuckles. Let’s get back to the Impala. I’ll call the clean-up team on the way back to base.”
Cas eyed Dean suspiciously as Dean headed for the cabinet across from the office door.
Dean eased the glass door open, thankful he still had his gloves on. As he reached in for his prize, he went over the list of tools on his—correction Sammy’s—Swiss army knife buried in Baby’s glove compartment. Yeah, there was a corkscrew on it.
“You, on the other hand, can indulge yourself in this fancy...2012 Sagrantino. Bet that cost a shit ton.”
Cas swiped the bottle of fine wine out of Dean’s hands, then exited the room with a wiggle of his ass and a sway to his hips.
Dean did not trail after him with his tongue hanging out and saliva dribbling out the corner of his mouth. He was not that obsessed with his hot assassin boyfriend. Honestly, he wasn’t!