proud husband // dean x ketch // M; dark //Â 2,8k // AO3
warnings: torture //Â written for @spndarkbingo square âdetective auâ
As he finally pulls up to the driveway, Dean dreams of nothing more than to slide under warm covers next to his husband and not wake up until his alarm goes off in the morning. But thatâs not happeningânot with the tons of papers heâs still got to go through. Contracts, tax statements, even freakinâ phone bills. Itâs the most tedious and annoying kind of work and itâs definitely not what Dean became a consulting detective for.
Thatâs what happens when the only eye witness of the so-called accident has a little too much loyalty for the perp and wonât let a peep out of his mouth. So Dean has to find somethingâanythingâthat will make him talk despite whatever feelings or arrangement they have going on. Even if it takes staying up night after night and ruining his eyesight with miles of tiny print.
Deanâs not terribly worried about the results. CEO snakes like Brady couldnât functionâlet alone hoard as muchâwithout a few skeletons in their closets. The only concern is time. The âdonât leave the cityâ wonât keep Lucifer Shurley grounded forever. And once heâs gone, with his resources, thereâs no catching him.
And thatâs another unsolved case, another family never seeing justice, only grief.
âI thought youâd be home later,â Dean hears as soon as he enters the living room.
He finds Ketch sitting in his armchair, a glass of scotch in his hand, like heâs been there all day. And heâs telling Dean heâs home too soon, at ten freakinâ pm?
Dean scoffs. âI missed you too,â he says pointedly, lifting his bag full of papers. âI brought work home to spend more time with you, Arthur.â
Ketch rolls his eyes, setting the glass on the table. Right next to a newspaper that looks suspiciously like a prelude to an anonymous threat. Or a preschoolerâs homework. One look at his own face on the picture in the carefully cut out article on top tells Dean everythingâKetch is a freakinâ sap who collects all of Deanâs wins.
âYou know thatâs not what I meant,â Ketch says, reaching forward to take the bag out of his hand. He drops it on the floor, before taking Deanâs hand and bringing him closer. âIâm glad youâre home.â His strong grip moves to Deanâs thighs, long fingers grazing Deanâs ass, pulling him down. âI missed you a ton,â Ketch coos, as the armchair squeaks under their joint weight.
With his knees on both sides of Ketch, Dean leans down to kiss that stupid faux-deadly-serious pout off his face.
âThatâs more like it.â
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