people will say weâre in love - (T, 4.8k) - Everyone thinks thereâs something between them. Dean knows itâs Castielâs fault, but Cas seems to think Dean is to blame.
falling must feel - (T, 2k) Dean falls into old habits while running from his own actions.
telling the bees (1.4 k)Â Telling the bees is a traditional custom in which the hive is told of important events in their handlers' lives.Dean thought it seemed appropriate.
fine - (T, 2k) postcanon, established relationship. domestic squabbles and general living normal life.
an allegory of happiness - (2.5k) - Castiel watches Dean and his expressions of humanity, but he still wants to understand what it feels like.
weathered glass - (900) post canon fix it, Dean reflecting on life, just fluffy and cute
some men are like mirrors - (T, 1.9k) - thoughts about Mary and self-reflection and playing an easy role
baptism by fire - (t, 1.6k) Thee Stanford Fight but carrienatural
AUs
candle in the mirror - (T, 6.6k) Dean finally agrees to spend a night of Christmastide fortune-telling with Castiel. Could the fates be pushing them together?
unanticipated consequences - (E, 13.8k) hunter!dean, veterinarian!cas - Dean is injured on a hunt and finds help in an unsuspected place.
squatterâs rights - (T, 8.2k) hunter!dean, angel/artist/drifter!cas - Dean tries to crash at a (less than) abandoned house, meets Cas instead
wall lovinâ - (E, 2.7k) - Dean moves into a new apartment with very thin walls and instantly develops a crush on his neighbor, or at least what he can hear of him. Accidentally on purpose voyeurism isnât that bad, right?
light my candle - (E, 7.8k) roommate au - Dean notices something interesting about Castiel that leads them towards their breaking point. aka the waxplay fic minus the actual waxplay
changing my major - (T, 1.3k) college au - Castiel wakes up in Deanâs bed. Dean is still asleep. Castiel thinks life might be perfect.
catholic boarding school au / bare the musical inspired:
it started with a photograph - (T, 3.8k) Castiel and Dean share a private moment while seeking a place to be alone.
you and i - (T, 1.5k) Castiel wakes in bed with Dean after a long weekend away. How are they going to deal with their new relationship under the confines of their school?
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meg masters (demon) / risa (endverse)
word count: 1.7k | rating: E
summary:
written for day 13 of @spntoxicfemslashevent: meg/risa
Risa sneaks away from camp to summon Meg. Meg shows her who she belongs to.
Meg was never a real threat, not in Risaâs eyes. This was the same amount of stupidity as Castielâs pills or Deanâs reckless supply runs to support that habit. Meg was just a demon. Camp was warded. Risa was warded. Theyâd all gotten their matching tattoos at initiation, and regular olâ possessions were rare these days. So, at the end of the day at the end of the world, Meg was no more dangerous than any other beating heart around here, and way more fun.
Plus, it is the end of the goddamned world anyway. Risa thinks she should be allowed something of her own. And so, on the nights Dean leaves her to her bunk at camp, Risa sneaks away into the night and scratches a summoning sigil into the ground in the woods outside of their compound.
A quick slice sends shockwaves of pain familiar as it is, across her palm. She opens up the scar and lets her blood spill on the ground, just a few drops into the dirt carving. There is silence humming in its absence like a vacuum for a moment, then -
Risa swears her ears popped once.
âWhat do you have for me tonight, baby?â Megâs voice is like honey, carried the edge of a knife. Risa thinks back to camp, to the others, to Dean, to logistics and plans and the End of all Things.
âOur last real lead was over a month ago, you know that.â Risa is distracted, words coming out on a stutter, her eyes following Megâs movements as she stalks closer.
âHm, canât a girl make conversation anymore? Maybe I wanna play house. âHoney, how was work today?â And you say âOh, fine, still havenât killed your daddy yet, but weâre trying our hardest,â and Iâll laugh and serve you meatloaf like a good little housewife.â
Meg crowds in close to where Risa kneels in the dirt, straddles her lap, and puts both hands in her hair.
Risa lets herself be moved and rests her hands easily on Megâs hips. She tries and fails not to think of the woman whose body Meg stole for this.
âIs that the script you want me to follow?â Risa speaks as her eyes slide shut, Megâs thumbs digging into her scalp.
âIâm just saying, itâd be fun to switch it up a little. Yâknow, the tingly-feeling starts to wear off after the dozenth summoning.â
Have they really been doing this that long? Risa doesnât know what to say, so she doesnât say anything. She just keeps her eyes shut and leans her head back.
She doesnât fight the groan that Meg pulls from her lips, the demon giving up on the head massage and moving straight to Risaâs weak spot. Meg latches her lips onto the soft skin right below her ear, stolen hands sliding down Risaâs back to thumb at her hip, absently tracing the anti-possession sigil there.
Meg said once it burns to the touch. Risaâs not sure if she believes her or not.
Sheâs shoved up against the trunk of some tree, caught between the rough bark and the searing heat of the woman-demon who Risa thinks might bring about her end, and all she can do is moan.
Meg seems hell-bent on leaving a mark; Risa does not want to have to explain that to Dean and so she grabs a handful of hair and yanks, hard, just like Meg likes it. Itâs over from there, with Risa opening her eyes just in time to see Megâs flash desire-black, a predatory open-mouthed growl rumbling through the air.
Meg shoves a hand between them, shifting her weight to one of Risaâs thighs. Her movements are furiously graceful, rough with the want-need that theyâve both come to expect from these encounters. Love bites were one thing, a red flag that carried Risa too close to being caught, but the way Meg fucked left behind marks more similar to a sparring match.
Easily explained were torn clothes and handprint bruises, less acceptable were flushed and swollen lips, teenage-hickeys and scratches-down-the back.
Risaâs thighs fall apart, the worn denim covering her legs stretching tight and uncomfortable. It doesnât matter though. Meg doesnât pay mind to her protestations, just hikes a leg further up and back; her other hand still greedily tearing at the closures of Risaâs jeans.
She gets the zipper down and lets out a victory cry, quickly muffling the sound in Risaâs chest, pulling back on the resistance the other womanâs hand in her hair provided.
She always moved this quick; Risa figured it was a demon thing but Meg fucked like it was a competition, clawing and fighting to the finish line with hell on her heels.
Meg got both hands on Risaâs jeans, fingers scrabbling at the waist to get a grip tight enough to pull her back and away from the tree, uncaring as Risaâs head bounced back against the earth below them with a thud as she let Meg lay her out.
A brief struggle later, and Risaâs jeans are down around her ankles, the roots of the tree digging into her back and dead leaves crunch-itching under her thighs. Meg wastes no time in shoving her fingers into Risaâs underwear, a glint in her eye when she finds the wet gathered there.
âFucking filthy, Ris.â Megâs praise cuts through the silence.
Risa is glad that her shame died with the rest of society because the way she throws her weight into the roll of her hips would be embarrassingly needy in another life. But here? Flat on her back in the dirt at the end of the world, Risa lets herself go.
Flattening her feet on the ground gives some leverage, and Risaâs hips rise off the ground. Meg moves a touch too fast, taking the angle change as permission that Risa never granted. She presses two fingers inside, curling them just right and watching with rapt fascination as Risa chokes out a long moan.
Meg laughs, low and throaty, and she thumbs open the button on those filthy fucking cargo pants she always wears. Risa looks up at her, and with the moon through the trees and the rising pleasure, she thinks insane things like maybe she could have Meg forever, like they could hole up in camp and share a bunk, just Risa and her demon girlfriend.
Meg bears down over her, wild eyes and a mean sneer that has Risa think she did something stupid like speak those wishes out loud.
âSometimes I think you like this a little too much, sweetheart. What would Dean think if he saw you like this?â Meg grabs at Risaâs breast, hands rough, smearing dirt and debris on the front of her shirt. âDo you ever think about putting a knife in me the same way you think about my fingers inside you? Ever hear his voice in your ear, tellinâ you to gut the bitch?â
Risa leans up, searching for Megâs lips, knowing if she can just shut her up she could end this, get a thigh up between Megâs and let the demon whore rub off on her. It's Deanâs voice in her ear, and Risaâs angry, angry that Meg is right, angry that Dean has got himself inside her head like that. Her hands grasp for purchase on the ground, on Meg, on anything she can touch.
Meg just laughs, pulls just out of reach, fucks into her harder, rougher, moving on from her assault on Risaâs chest to instead claw at the small of her back. She tugs her up and into the air, eyes flashing black as Risaâs legs fall further apart. âIâd let you, if you wanted to try it. You could take me apart right here, slice your pocketknife right through me. Iâd ask for more, beg for it even.â
Risa tries to block her voice out, squeezes her eyes shut, and tries to press her thighs together. Sheâs suddenly too aware of the moment. Risa swears she feels something crawl across her bare thigh; she looks down at her own wetness coating Megâs wrist, sees where sheâs inside her, feels that damned tree branch where it presses against her neck, wedged between her and the forest floor.
Meg doesnât let it go. âOr do you want more?â She drops Risaâs hips down, slides a third finger inside her, digs her nails into the sigil on her hip. âYou want me inside you, want me to see you,â Megâs hissing now, the voice she speaks with coming from somewhere deeper than the womanâs chest she lives in.
Risa can barely think, her brain clouded with sulfur and mud and heat and her approaching climax. âI-â
âYou what, sweetheart? Youâve never thought about it? About me nâ you?â Megâs thumbnail presses deeper into Risaâs hip.
Sheâs so fucking close, needs just a bit more, needs Meg to just shut the fuck up, needs some sort of grip back on the situation here.
âNo, I-â
âNo?â Meg taunts her, matching her tone and whining the word out. God - did Risa sound that pathetic? âNo, please? You want me to stop?â Her nail pokes deeper, teasing at the edge of breaking the skin. All it would take is one sharp movement, and Risaâs tattoo would be nothing but useless, broken lines.
âDidnât think so.â
Risa can only whimper out her response.
Megâs got the palm of her hand pressed up against Risaâs clit now, lets her rub up against it, doesnât even call her a slut for how fucking needy she is for it. Risaâs hurtling towards the edge, and Meg watches with her eyes pitch black. Risa opens hers in time to lock in, her mouth falling open in a gasp for air as she reaches her climax.
Meg finally leans in and kisses Risa, hot and heady, taking more than she can give and leaving no room for the woman to catch her breath. She bites at Risaâs lip as she pulls away, but she doesnât stop, she just keeps leaving till sheâs standing over the bed of leaves theyâd just consecrated.
Desecrated. Whatever.
âStay?â Risaâs voice rings up at Meg from the forest floor. Meg just laughs. She leans down and presses a kiss to Risaâs forehead and leaves her there, lying in the mud.Â
âClean yourself up and get back to Dean, sweetheart.âÂ
Risa waits until sheâs gone before she pulls up her jeans and gets herself together.
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meg masters (demon) / risa (endverse)
word count: 1.7k | rating: E
summary:
written for day 13 of @spntoxicfemslashevent: meg/risa
Risa sneaks away from camp to summon Meg. Meg shows her who she belongs to.
Meg was never a real threat, not in Risaâs eyes. This was the same amount of stupidity as Castielâs pills or Deanâs reckless supply runs to support that habit. Meg was just a demon. Camp was warded. Risa was warded. Theyâd all gotten their matching tattoos at initiation, and regular olâ possessions were rare these days. So, at the end of the day at the end of the world, Meg was no more dangerous than any other beating heart around here, and way more fun.
Plus, it is the end of the goddamned world anyway. Risa thinks she should be allowed something of her own. And so, on the nights Dean leaves her to her bunk at camp, Risa sneaks away into the night and scratches a summoning sigil into the ground in the woods outside of their compound.
A quick slice sends shockwaves of pain familiar as it is, across her palm. She opens up the scar and lets her blood spill on the ground, just a few drops into the dirt carving. There is silence humming in its absence like a vacuum for a moment, then -
Risa swears her ears popped once.
âWhat do you have for me tonight, baby?â Megâs voice is like honey, carried the edge of a knife. Risa thinks back to camp, to the others, to Dean, to logistics and plans and the End of all Things.
âOur last real lead was over a month ago, you know that.â Risa is distracted, words coming out on a stutter, her eyes following Megâs movements as she stalks closer.
âHm, canât a girl make conversation anymore? Maybe I wanna play house. âHoney, how was work today?â And you say âOh, fine, still havenât killed your daddy yet, but weâre trying our hardest,â and Iâll laugh and serve you meatloaf like a good little housewife.â
Meg crowds in close to where Risa kneels in the dirt, straddles her lap, and puts both hands in her hair.
Risa lets herself be moved and rests her hands easily on Megâs hips. She tries and fails not to think of the woman whose body Meg stole for this.
âIs that the script you want me to follow?â Risa speaks as her eyes slide shut, Megâs thumbs digging into her scalp.
âIâm just saying, itâd be fun to switch it up a little. Yâknow, the tingly-feeling starts to wear off after the dozenth summoning.â
Have they really been doing this that long? Risa doesnât know what to say, so she doesnât say anything. She just keeps her eyes shut and leans her head back.
She doesnât fight the groan that Meg pulls from her lips, the demon giving up on the head massage and moving straight to Risaâs weak spot. Meg latches her lips onto the soft skin right below her ear, stolen hands sliding down Risaâs back to thumb at her hip, absently tracing the anti-possession sigil there.
Meg said once it burns to the touch. Risaâs not sure if she believes her or not.
Sheâs shoved up against the trunk of some tree, caught between the rough bark and the searing heat of the woman-demon who Risa thinks might bring about her end, and all she can do is moan.
Meg seems hell-bent on leaving a mark; Risa does not want to have to explain that to Dean and so she grabs a handful of hair and yanks, hard, just like Meg likes it. Itâs over from there, with Risa opening her eyes just in time to see Megâs flash desire-black, a predatory open-mouthed growl rumbling through the air.
Meg shoves a hand between them, shifting her weight to one of Risaâs thighs. Her movements are furiously graceful, rough with the want-need that theyâve both come to expect from these encounters. Love bites were one thing, a red flag that carried Risa too close to being caught, but the way Meg fucked left behind marks more similar to a sparring match.
Easily explained were torn clothes and handprint bruises, less acceptable were flushed and swollen lips, teenage-hickeys and scratches-down-the back.
Risaâs thighs fall apart, the worn denim covering her legs stretching tight and uncomfortable. It doesnât matter though. Meg doesnât pay mind to her protestations, just hikes a leg further up and back; her other hand still greedily tearing at the closures of Risaâs jeans.
She gets the zipper down and lets out a victory cry, quickly muffling the sound in Risaâs chest, pulling back on the resistance the other womanâs hand in her hair provided.
She always moved this quick; Risa figured it was a demon thing but Meg fucked like it was a competition, clawing and fighting to the finish line with hell on her heels.
Meg got both hands on Risaâs jeans, fingers scrabbling at the waist to get a grip tight enough to pull her back and away from the tree, uncaring as Risaâs head bounced back against the earth below them with a thud as she let Meg lay her out.
A brief struggle later, and Risaâs jeans are down around her ankles, the roots of the tree digging into her back and dead leaves crunch-itching under her thighs. Meg wastes no time in shoving her fingers into Risaâs underwear, a glint in her eye when she finds the wet gathered there.
âFucking filthy, Ris.â Megâs praise cuts through the silence.
Risa is glad that her shame died with the rest of society because the way she throws her weight into the roll of her hips would be embarrassingly needy in another life. But here? Flat on her back in the dirt at the end of the world, Risa lets herself go.
Flattening her feet on the ground gives some leverage, and Risaâs hips rise off the ground. Meg moves a touch too fast, taking the angle change as permission that Risa never granted. She presses two fingers inside, curling them just right and watching with rapt fascination as Risa chokes out a long moan.
Meg laughs, low and throaty, and she thumbs open the button on those filthy fucking cargo pants she always wears. Risa looks up at her, and with the moon through the trees and the rising pleasure, she thinks insane things like maybe she could have Meg forever, like they could hole up in camp and share a bunk, just Risa and her demon girlfriend.
Meg bears down over her, wild eyes and a mean sneer that has Risa think she did something stupid like speak those wishes out loud.
âSometimes I think you like this a little too much, sweetheart. What would Dean think if he saw you like this?â Meg grabs at Risaâs breast, hands rough, smearing dirt and debris on the front of her shirt. âDo you ever think about putting a knife in me the same way you think about my fingers inside you? Ever hear his voice in your ear, tellinâ you to gut the bitch?â
Risa leans up, searching for Megâs lips, knowing if she can just shut her up she could end this, get a thigh up between Megâs and let the demon whore rub off on her. It's Deanâs voice in her ear, and Risaâs angry, angry that Meg is right, angry that Dean has got himself inside her head like that. Her hands grasp for purchase on the ground, on Meg, on anything she can touch.
Meg just laughs, pulls just out of reach, fucks into her harder, rougher, moving on from her assault on Risaâs chest to instead claw at the small of her back. She tugs her up and into the air, eyes flashing black as Risaâs legs fall further apart. âIâd let you, if you wanted to try it. You could take me apart right here, slice your pocketknife right through me. Iâd ask for more, beg for it even.â
Risa tries to block her voice out, squeezes her eyes shut, and tries to press her thighs together. Sheâs suddenly too aware of the moment. Risa swears she feels something crawl across her bare thigh; she looks down at her own wetness coating Megâs wrist, sees where sheâs inside her, feels that damned tree branch where it presses against her neck, wedged between her and the forest floor.
Meg doesnât let it go. âOr do you want more?â She drops Risaâs hips down, slides a third finger inside her, digs her nails into the sigil on her hip. âYou want me inside you, want me to see you,â Megâs hissing now, the voice she speaks with coming from somewhere deeper than the womanâs chest she lives in.
Risa can barely think, her brain clouded with sulfur and mud and heat and her approaching climax. âI-â
âYou what, sweetheart? Youâve never thought about it? About me nâ you?â Megâs thumbnail presses deeper into Risaâs hip.
Sheâs so fucking close, needs just a bit more, needs Meg to just shut the fuck up, needs some sort of grip back on the situation here.
âNo, I-â
âNo?â Meg taunts her, matching her tone and whining the word out. God - did Risa sound that pathetic? âNo, please? You want me to stop?â Her nail pokes deeper, teasing at the edge of breaking the skin. All it would take is one sharp movement, and Risaâs tattoo would be nothing but useless, broken lines.
âDidnât think so.â
Risa can only whimper out her response.
Megâs got the palm of her hand pressed up against Risaâs clit now, lets her rub up against it, doesnât even call her a slut for how fucking needy she is for it. Risaâs hurtling towards the edge, and Meg watches with her eyes pitch black. Risa opens hers in time to lock in, her mouth falling open in a gasp for air as she reaches her climax.
Meg finally leans in and kisses Risa, hot and heady, taking more than she can give and leaving no room for the woman to catch her breath. She bites at Risaâs lip as she pulls away, but she doesnât stop, she just keeps leaving till sheâs standing over the bed of leaves theyâd just consecrated.
Desecrated. Whatever.
âStay?â Risaâs voice rings up at Meg from the forest floor. Meg just laughs. She leans down and presses a kiss to Risaâs forehead and leaves her there, lying in the mud.Â
âClean yourself up and get back to Dean, sweetheart.âÂ
Risa waits until sheâs gone before she pulls up her jeans and gets herself together.
a quick 260 word ficlet about mary and hunting and raising hunter's sons (on a03 or below the cut)
Mary is old enough to hunt before she is old enough to babysit. She spends four years tracking and keeping field journals with her daddy and waiting, so much waiting. Sheâs told all this waiting is practice and then sheâs 12, and sheâs not sure what she was waiting for because now sheâs home with the huntersâ babies instead of out in the woods with them and her daddy.
She hates it. Even her momma doesnât have to mother like this, sheâs on phone watch, which is real help and not this girl work. The babies cry and kick and spit and Mary just muddles through. She does as she is told. She raises these boys.
All her daddyâs friends have sons. All her daddyâs friends say thank you for raising their sons. They come home from the hunt, grime on their hands and whiskey on their breath, and they crash on the couch, Mary trapped under sleeping baby weight on the chair, and they say thank you before they drop into sleep.
Mary watches the sons through the night.
In the morning, Mary asks, over breakfast she helped make, when she will be able to go hunting again. Maryâs daddy laughs, and her momma cuts him a quieting look. The other fathers look to her daddy with pity. Maryâs sure the joke is on her.
Hunters make the world safer for hunterâs daughters to live in. Hunters tear their clothes and their daughters fix the rips with careful stitches. Hunters take and have and get, and daughters give. Mary knows where she stands.
Mary always ends up here, looking for comfort she's too afraid to ask for.
_______________
Ellen and Mary talk about their futures, maybe they even let themselves want.
_________________________
Mary was in her usual spot, tucked away in the corner of Ellenâs, watching strangers she grew up with making small talk about monsters. Â Her hair was dirty and she needed a shower, but the routine of a hard drink after an even harder hunt was too tempting to skip. Â Besides, sheâd get there soon enough. Â
She wasnât sure if sheâd been spotted; sheâd rolled in while Ellen was occupied behind the bar and was content with waiting her turn. Â The Roadhouse was busy enough that Mary thought she should make sure there wasnât another hunt nearby. Â There was always another hunt nearby. Â
The sound of a harmonica over light, plinking piano keys signaled Ellenâs approach. She laughed at their self-imposed soundtrack, the song Ellen had once declared Maryâs playing on the jukebox. Â
That had been years ago now, and they had been different women then. Â Mary was a mother now. She was someone that her younger self should aspire towards. Â
Ellen slid into the booth beside Mary, bumping up against her hip-to-shoulder. Â She came offering gifts - one for each of them - in matching glasses of whiskey. Â
âThunder Road? Â Still?â Â Mary laughed, Ellen joining in like a breath of fresh air. Â The sound was more cleansing than any shower would have been. Â
âWhat, did you outgrow me and The Boss out there in Kansas?â Ellenâs tone was light, but Mary knew it had been too long since the last time she visited. Â She had John. Â She and John had Dean. Â They had plans. Â This was just a distraction from Maryâs world. Â
Mary ignored the reminder of home, turning her body towards Ellen, putting some space between them as she did. Â âNever could outgrow you, El.â Mary hoped that was true. Â âWanted to come by and see how youâre doinâ. Â You and Bill.â Â
Ellen reached out and poked at the grime that coated Maryâs hair. Â âJust dropped by? Â No other reason you were in town?â
âYou know me,â  Mary reasoned, âalways on the job.â  A careful pause to sip at the offered drink would buy some time to measure the weight of her answer. The whiskey burned on the way down, but it was a friendly fire.  âYou know the hunt is just an excuse to get over here.â
âYou always have had a hard time asking for what you want, Mary.â Â
And wasnât that the main problem? Â It settled into the air between the two women, blanketing them in its truth. Â
Mary took another drink.
Ellen zeroed in on the bloodstain that splattered across Maryâs fingers. Â To hide the evidence of the hunt, the proof that she went through all this instead of just calling, Mary cupped a clean hand over the soiled one; both wrapped carefully around the whiskey glass. Â
Mary turned away from the other woman and faced the table, faced the bar full of hunters, and took a deep breath. Â Ellen followed her lead, melting into the backrest of the booth with a deep sigh that pressed her even closer to Mary. Â Theyâre touching from knee to shoulder now, wedged against each other with two empty seats across from them and a bar full of space outside their corner booth. Â
âI want out of this shit, El.â Mary let herself want. Â Just for a moment, just here with Ellen. Â âI want out of this shit, and I want us to move to the suburbs, and Iâll have a swingset in my yard, and you can have the pool in yours right next door, and youâll have that little girl you want, and I want you to never have to wash wraith goo out of my hair ever again.â Â
Ellen laughed. âArenât you and John in the suburbs already?â
âYou know what I mean, Ellen. Â I want us both out of this.â Â Mary spoke like she wasnât the one who drove all those hours away from her family home to slaughter some spirit. Â She spoke like she didnât already have one foot out the door and in John Winchesterâs family home. Â She spoke like she wanted out of that too, somehow. Â
Ellen just sighed and took a drink of her own glass, catching up with the heavy swigs Mary had taken so far. Â âA pool sounds nice.â Â
Matching recliners, matching swimsuits, matching tans. Â Kids splashing in the water. Â A little blonde girl with Ellenâs cracking wit and a braid done up by Mary. Â Dean teaching the younger ones to swim, his sun-freckles strewn across his baby-cheeks. Â
âIt does, doesnât it?â Mary bumped her shoulder against Ellenâs, the whiskey loosening her posture and freeing her inhibitions. Â Itâd only take the rest of the glass before Mary would be able to ask for what she really wanted.
Ellen ghosted a hand over her stomach like she could imagine it, like she was seeing a future where sheâs swollen-bellied and content, with a mortgage and Mary close by. Â The corners of her lips turned up, a hint of a smile, a touch of happiness; and maybe Mary wanted that, wanted Ellen happy however she can get her.
___________
It would be much later in the night, hours later, glasses later, a warm shower later, when Mary finally gives into what she wants and falls into Ellenâs arms and her bed. Â They would bury their wants in each other, hiding their future desires in the here-and-now. Â
When it was over and they both allowed the night to wrap them up into a sleep of forgetting, Mary wished she could hold on just a little longer. Â
But, the morning would come. The road and her family would call and Mary would leave Ellen and The Roadhouse and their carefully constructed future dreams behind. Â
Mary didnât have time to want. Â Not in this life.
âDad, put the gun down.â
John stood, pistol in one hand, eerily still. He didnât shift his eyes from his target; only strengthened his position, shifted his stance to that of a soldier.
âDad?â Deanâs voice was thready, shaking and scared. Heâd seen his father like this, sure - countless times, even. Dean had watched as his father raised a steady hand against dozens of monsters, studied the way John had gunned down threats to their safety. The target had just never been so close to home.
Dean followed the line of his fatherâs gun to the prey that rested in its sights. Sam. Little Sammy, sleeping as peacefully as the moment allowed. Dean tried again, âDad,â falling from his lips in a plea, his hands desperately clenching at the air between him and his fatherâs soldierâs stance.
Dean had always been told he needed to protect his little brother. Was the threat their father this whole time?
He was too young, too small to physically stop John, and so all he had were his words, but his father didnât particularly listen, either.
âDad?â Once more, Dean repeated. His voice cracked with the tension, the fear that grabbed tight at his throat and wouldnât let go until his little brother was safe.
Johnâs shoulders started to shake, and Dean thought he was crying, thought  thank God,  and  maybe itâs over,  but then he heard it. He heard the dry, humorless laugh, felt the way it destroyed any sense of safety in the air. Dean was scared. He willed Sammy to stay asleep; he willed his father to stop. He willed himself to remain strong.
âYou know that I have spent eight years waiting for this,â Johnâs voice was hardened, and Dean was surprised at the level of sobriety he heard there. There was no bottle to hide behind, no blackout to blame. This was all John. âWe should have killed it the second we found out Mary was pregnant again. Did you know, Dean, that everything was perfect until he came along?â
There were embers in Johnâs words, incendiary things that built up and up and threatened to burn down Deanâs constructed reality. The whole time he spoke, the gun never wavered once - Johnâs youngest son was still in the crosshairs. Sleeping. Peaceful. Â
John was a soldier through and through; his enemy had always been clear, especially to him. Destroy the  thing  that was responsible for the death of his wife. Heâd been looking too hard, let the obvious pass right under his nose. That was clear to him now.
âHe cried for weeks after your mother, do you remember? That awful sound, day and nightâŚâ Johnâs voice went distant, and Dean just stood there, frozen. âI thought about killing him then, but that was just selfishness; that was nothing like this. I  know  now.â
âCan you see it, Dean?â The man finally tears his gaze away from one son to land on the other, crazed as he speaks, voice clear as a bell even in a whisper. âCan you see the darkness inside of him? I should have given him to God the night he took your mother, but I was weak.â
Dean felt his fatherâs words wrap around his throat, constricting and tightening until he couldnât speak - until even if he had the right words, he wouldnât be able to form them.
John scoffed at Deanâs silence, disapproving of his fear. Returning to his task was easy, refocusing on the sleeping form of his eight-year-old, his aim sure from where he stood. This was right; this was vengeance; this was what he had been waiting for. If John were Abraham, he was sure no messenger of God could stop him now.
John cocked back the hammer, the hollow sound of it echoing through the dirty motel room. Dean hoped it would wake Sam and that heâd sleep through it, both hopes simultaneous, a jumble of panic inside Deanâs head that only grew louder as he watched Johnâs finger return to the trigger.
A sacrifice by any other name is just a murder, and John  had  killed before so what was stopping him now?
âPlease,â a final appeal, Dean reached out as he spoke, his hands finding purchase in the back of Johnâs jacket. He begged, the word heavy on his tongue as it fell on deaf ears. âDonât.â
John pulled the trigger.
In an act of a God that Dean did not have reason to believe in, the gun jammed.
John fell to his knees, revolver clattering to the floor beneath the bed where Sam remained asleep. Peaceful. Drawing in blissful breath, safe and unaware.
It was over, the moment shattered by fate; Isaac left unharmed at the altar, Dean left to pick up the pieces.
summary:Â day 6: parody // Dean and Cas go undercover for some good ol' fashioned fake dating.
(i reccomend reading on a03 because i have not re-added the italics that tumblr deleted out from below. but i will not tell you what to do)
If you had asked Dean a year ago what his ideal mission would be, he would have come up with something eerily similar to what he had just been handed. Â As Dean started to dig into the new materials that his boss handed him, he couldnât help but steal a glance at his partnerâs desk across the bullpen. Â Castielâs brow was furrowed, gaze intensely fixated on the folder spread out across his desk. Â Dean thought Cas looked cute when he was focused. Â It made Dean want to grab the manâs attention.Â
âDamnit, Dean, some of us are attempting to work.â Castielâs tone was easily mistaken for anger, but his partner knew him better than that. Â Dean loved hearing that voice - the slightly annoyed, mostly fond timbre reserved just for him. Â Cas hadnât looked back down at his work; instead, he was returning Deanâs stare, the ghost of a smile turning his lips up at the corners.Â
Dean peeked around to ensure their boss Crowley had wandered off to find some higher-up to piss off. Â The rest of their team was out; Charlie at some conference for the director, Garth partnered up with Meg for some cut-and-dry suicide case. Â Once the coast was confirmed clear, Dean gathered the folder and his coffee cup in his hands and slid across the carpet towards the other desk in his swivel chair. Â One wheel caught in a divot in the rug for a split second, and Deanâs efforts to stay upright caused his mug to splash out enough coffee to leave a stain on his pant leg. Â He flushed slightly at Castielâs laugh but kept his easy and confident grin.Â
Cas spoke as he watched Dean set his mug down on the desk in front of them. Â âFor someone so coordinated and competent in the field,â Castiel teased as Dean bumped his arm against a paperweight in his quest for the tissue box. Â âOne would think you could manage to own an item of clothing that isnât stained.â
Faking surprise, Dean gasped. Â âDid the ever-stoic Castiel just compliment me?â He sounded as smug as he could while dabbing at a coffee stain on his pants.
âI should have assumed that would be the part of my insult you would choose to focus on.â Cas rolled his eyes, a habit he had picked up from too much time with Dean over the years.Â
âCanât help it if I got a praise kink, Cas. Â You know I just want to impress you,â Dean fluttered his eyelashes a few times, his grin traded for an exaggerated lip bite meant to tease his partner. Â He tossed the napkin in the trash, leaning slightly over Casâs lap to reach the can. Â At least, thatâs why he told himself he was doing it as he moved into Casâs space, resting a hand on the other manâs knee for balance.Â
When he leaned back up and they met eyes, Deanâs hand still on Castielâs knee, Dean thought he might have seen a difference in how Castiel looked at him.  Before he could study further, the man cleared his throat and blinked twice.  His gaze was back to normal, and Dean pushed the thought away as ridiculous when he dropped his hands back into his lap.  He and Cas had years behind them of way more intense innuendo and touches that linger a lot longer, most of which come from Deanâs side.  This time Dean had barely dipped a toe into his usual level of flirting, but Castiel had just looked affected.Â
Castiel gestured down at the folders sitting in front of them. Â Case files were commonplace, but they both knew this one was bound to be anything but. Â âIt has been some time since Iâve been undercover,â Cas leaned back into his chair, rolling his shoulders a few times.Â
Dean knew what nerves looked like on Cas, and, oddly enough, the feeling of anxiety presented similarly to relaxation. Â Not many people were able to see the way Cas had to force himself to ease the tight control he usually displays in his every muscle.
Dean was proud of the way he had learned to figure Castiel out, and he loved that it still felt like a game between them.  Dean decided to share and spoke up, âA few months ago, I worked a surveillance case with Meg.  Some meeting was set to go down next booth over.  Meg made out with the waitress to distract her when I bugged the table.âÂ
That got a reaction from Cas, a breath of a laugh huffed out through his nose instead of a response, but it was enough for Dean. Â He crowded up next to Cas as if to read off of his papers instead, and with a second, more exaggerated sigh, Castiel made room for him behind the desk. Â Dean spotted the smile in the way his eyes crinkled, and he knew Castiel liked to pretend he was more bothered than he was.Â
Dean wasnât reading.  Regardless, his own file had any information he needed, and he could read that at home.  Dean just liked an excuse to mess around and pull reactions from Castiel.  He let both his thoughts and the conversation drift back to the case he had worked with Meg.  He happily recounted a few more details for Cas, unaware that the man seemed less engaged in his rambling chatter.  Dean ran out of story, and the silence crept back in as Cas scanned the pages on the desk. Â
A few seconds passed, and Dean was just about to crack another joke for a modicum of attention from Castiel, always one to milk a situation for what itâs worth.  But, before he could come up with something clever, Cas looked up from the file with a rare smirk. Â
Again, Dean reveled in his ability to read his partnerâs facial expressions, especially since a Cas-Smirk was more visible in the challenge in his eyes than the slightly awkward way his lips curled and pursed.  It was rare, but not unwelcome, never unwelcome.  Dean loved when he was able to goad Castiel into playing his game. Â
 âDid you have to then take Meg back to the hotel suite and simulate the consummation of your fictional marriage?âÂ
Dean very nearly did a spit-take. Â If he were to tell anyone about this conversation, he would describe it as such (always one for dramatics), but in reality, Dean just sputtered a bit and then coughed enough times that he could feel the heat in his cheeks from lack of airflow.Â
Once he was able to suck in enough air, he managed a slightly choked, âSorry, huh?âÂ
Cas suppressed a laugh; the only thing betraying his steady demeanor was the slight twitch that played across his lips. Â Not that Dean was looking at his lips. Â While Dean tore his gaze away from his partner, the man flipped back a few pages in the file in front of them.Â
âIt appears that we are targeting an arms dealer.  You wouldnât happen to have a movie reference ready for this case, right?âÂ
âNah, not a Nicolas Cage guy.â Dean took the easy topic switch in stride, barely noticing Castielâs vague redirection and then completely forgetting what they were even talking about once Cas hit him with the head tilt and confused pout.
Before Dean could launch into a poorly structured recap of a movie he hadnât seen more of than the trailer, Castiel shut him up with a warning glance over his shoulder. Â
Shit.  That look was there to let Dean know he should watch his mouth, and he really should have been back at his desk by now.  Too late, if the echoing steps approaching were any indication.  Crowley turned the corner before Dean could even finish tucking away his case file to head back to his own desk.Â
âHello, boys.â Â
Dean was years past his initial reaction of suppressing an eye-roll at the manâs posh accent or tendency to infantilize his charges. Â He stole one last glance at Castiel, seeing the man sitting straight as a rail, posture carefully calculated as always. Â It reminded Dean to shake out the hunch in his shoulders, still present from where he had crowded into the space behind his partnerâs desk. Â Folder finally gathered together, Dean stood up with his coffee mug in hand. Â He would not repeat his earlier mishap in front of his superior by trying to surf across the carpet on his desk chair.Â
âCharlie will be returning tomorrow evening and will be your contact.  She will be running operations, less than a hundred meters away.â Dean suppressed a smart-assed comment about the metric system as he settled back into his desk and back into his omnipresent staring game with Castiel.  Crowley continued, unphased by his subordinates.  âI, for one, am looking forward to some of the feminine charms to return to the team.  Things are getting a bit⌠too virile.  â Â
Dean almost missed the way Crowley pointedly drew his gaze back and forth between him and Castiel. Â Before he could crack a joke at the expense of his coworker, claiming the feminine charm from the frilly daily affirmations calendar Cas displays should be enough for a lifetime, Crowley pressed on.
âRegardless,â Crowley was clearly in one of his moods today, unwilling to let Deanâs antics derail his 4:45-on-a-Friday Info Dumpâ˘.  Dean just wanted him to finish and leave so he could return to Cas. âYou will both take this case very seriously.  You donât need me to tell you the risks; you know them.  Know your cover, up and down.  You two meet up this weekend?  Make sure you know each otherâs story too.  Charlie will be quizzing you Monday.  The real deal starts Thursday morning at check-in.âÂ
With his instructions relayed, Crowley marched over to his desk. Â The second his back turned, Deanâs face twisted into a caricature of his bossâs disappointed glare, trying and succeeding in making Castiel smile.Â
Once Crowley had rushed out, coat in hand, Dean rolled back over towards Castiel. Â He needed personal redemption from his earlier spill, plus it always made Cas give him that look, part scolding, part amused. Â Dean met that exact gaze as he successfully slid across the carpet without falling, and Cas even clapped, sarcastic as it was.Â
âSo what I got from Crowleyâs speech is that you have to let me take you out this weekend. Â Tonight? Â Saturday?â Dean had been asking Castiel out for drinks for years, regardless of how many offers were set up as jokes. Â Dean was serious at least a third of the time, but Castiel always had a perfect excuse to dodge any alone time with Dean outside of work. Â This time, Dean had the entire Federal Bureau of Investigation on his side and the fate of a major arms deal at stake.Â
Castiel looked away from Dean, preoccupying himself with packing his belongings into his briefcase. Â Dean thought Castiel always looked like he stepped out of a portal from the past on his way in and out of work, between the vintage leather briefcase and the timeless trenchcoat he always wore. Â Castiel stood up then, pulling said coat on and turning to Dean, finally ready with an answer.Â
To Deanâs surprise, Castiel looked him up and down, slowly dragging his eyes over Deanâs frame.  âI think I ought to take you up on your offer now; who knows how you dress on the weekends.  Iâm a very classy date, Dean.â Â
âAw, you wound me.  Itâs not like I wear the Fed suit on the weekends.  What, you think Iâm slumminâ it in sweats all the time?  I could dress up nice ân pretty for ya,â Dean leaned over Casâs desk, moving into his space more than before.  There was just something about him today, maybe it was the challenge he represented, but Dean felt it was deeper than that.Â
Especially when Castiel rolled his eyes like that, fond and amused and slightly withholding.  It made Dean want too much. Â
âDonât forget the stain on your pants.  If you step down from this level even an inch for your weekend wardrobe, I fear what youâd pick me up wearing.âÂ
Dean grinned, grabbing the daily affirmations calendar that sat in the corner of Castielâs desk.  âYou know youâre not supposed to take these literally, right?â Dean glanced down at the words before turning it around to wave at his partner.  âDonât ever change for someone else⌠You know they donât mean clothes?  You could wear something other than that one coat.âÂ
Castielâs eyebrows furrowed, and his forehead wrinkled as he looked himself up and down.  âI like the trenchcoat.  Itâs a standard.âÂ
Dean had to agree; he too liked the damned thing, or at least what it represented. Â Cas, standard and steady and scary reliable and predictable in only the best way - the type of predictability you can only understand from really working on getting to know someone. Â Dean had done that with Castiel, fought for his affection over hours upon hours of car time, stakeouts, dull office work days, court prep, even the occasional lunch when Dean was really lucky.Â
Dean couldnât explain all that; itâd come out jumbled and wrong, and likely Cas would take it incorrectly. Â Instead, he winked at Cas and marched back over to his own desk, dragging his chair behind him. Â âI still think it looks better off,â Dean said back flippantly once he was in his own space.Â
âDean, if you really dislike it, I could stop home and change before we meet up.â Cas had a tendency to remind Dean he could come off as sort of a dick; that damned genuine nature of Castielâs always struck him right in the chest.Â
Dean grabbed his case folder and shoved it into his bag, tossing his suit jacket back on.  He shot Cas a look that he hoped would express his own sincerity.  âThe coat is perfect, man.  Donât ever change, huh?  Remember?âÂ
Cas smiled.Â
âMeet at Gibsonâs?âÂ
âSee ya there in twenty minutes.âÂ
__________
âSo weâre, what?  Married?âÂ
Castiel looked at Dean like heâd been asked something incredibly rudimentary, like Dean had the nerve to ask why the sky was blue. Â Still, even the already warm fondness behind Castielâs blue eyes was intensified by the dim lighting and the drink he nursed.Â
âDid you read the file at all today?  That explains the missing jokes.  Yes, weâre married, Dean, and we will need toâŚÂ convince the surveillance team as much.âÂ
Dean reached wildly for his bag, pulling out his file and spreading it out on the table. Â He had been frequenting the bar since graduating from the academy and often came to unwind with a tough case. Â It only took one accident involving a spread of especially gruesome crime scene photos to earn Dean a nearly reserved booth in the back, so he didnât need to worry about privacy for moments like these.Â
He remembered Castielâs quick joke in the office about consummating their marriage, and his eyes were immediately drawn to a part of the surveillance details. Â They were to assume the room was entirely bugged - since they didnât have an in with housekeeping - and would need to wait for room service for a bug sweep.Â
Of course, they had first to relieve themselves of suspicion - get rid of the chance someone might assume they were faking the nature of their relationship, therefore, their identities. Â And what better way to prove two men were married for real other than some good old-fashioned marital intercourse?Â
Dean nearly choked, first at the thought of Crowley typing up this report, then at the strange reality of falling into bed (however fake the act might be) with Castiel.  After an appropriate amount of time in bed together, Dean could call for room service, and Charlie would swing by with the cart full of food, sweep the room for video and audio surveillance, and let them know how safe theyâd need to be in the room. Â
He met Castielâs eyes again, expecting to seeâŚ.
Well, Dean wasnât sure what he was expecting.  Disgust?  Resentment?  Was this going to be weird for them?  Cas stared back, eyes gentle, still wearing that damned trenchcoat, even while inside.  For all their teasing, the two had never gone beyond an extra touch to the knee, a lingering hug when Dean was able to squeeze one in, definitely nothing like the case required from them. Â
Maybe heâd need another drink to get Castiel out of that jacket.  Maybe Dean needed to stop thinking about getting Castiel naked, especially when he hadnât yet dealt with his emotional reaction to that. Â
âSo.  We.  Have to bone.â  Jesus, Dean.  Smooth. Â
Castiel did bark out a laugh at that, drawing the attention of a passing waiter.  Dean finished waving the man over and ordered a round of shots for his nerves and hopefully to ease the tension in general. Â
âWe wonât actually be boning, Dean.  The dealers might be watching from across the street using a heat-seeking device, and there is the possibility of video and audio within the hotel room itself.âÂ
Deanâs mind was full of possibilities, images of him and Castiel rolling around between the sheets, heated kisses and rolling and grinding hips and he felt the blush on his cheeks before Castiel saw it. Â He didnât waste time denying it; he just diverted his gaze and downed the shot. Â Dean nudged the remaining shot glass towards Castiel, refusing eye contact until Cas took the drink with a soft sigh.Â
Once Castiel dropped the shot glass back down onto the countertop, Dean finally met his gaze again.  âAlright.  Fine.  Okay.  So, weâre married.  Whatâs your name, howâd we meet?â  Dean craved another shot but knew there was no such thing as drunk enough for the conversation he was having, for negotiating the guidelines of his fake undercover relationship with the coworker heâd been flirting with for years. Â
âJimmy. Â Your name is Daniel, and we met in Cancun. Â You were on Spring Break; I was selling a large amount of cocaine.â Â Castiel spoke candidly, only drawing curious glances from the waiter for a moment before the man scampered away. Â He likely wanted nothing to do with whatever Castiel was into.Â
Dean pouted a bit at the backstory.  âHow come you get the cool story?  You some big crime boss?â Â
âThe cartel is not cool, Dean.â  Castiel couldnât fake the exasperation.  Even just one shot in, that fond smile was more apparent than usual, and Dean felt it warm in his chest.  Castiel just kept speaking, and Dean let the feeling melt into something less intense.  âWe had a whirlwind romance, and you agreed to marry me, smuggling back the money I made with the cocaine in solid gold jewelry - gifts for our wedding.â Â
Deanâs pout fell away as Castiel continued talking, and he slid the folder in front of him shut.  Heâd read later.  It seemed like Cas knew enough to get them through the night.  âAlright, okay, I can get behind that.  Iâm your hot trophy husband, and youâre my-â sugar daddy.  Dean nearly just called Cas daddy.  Not a single bar in the world had enough alcohol to clear that as alright with Deanâs brain. Â
âI am older than you are,â Castiel supplied, filling the halted silence.  âAnyway, we were set up with a meeting, together, with the dealers.  The dealers are a married couple, thatâs why we must go together.  Ruby and Azazel.â Â
âAzazel,â  Dean repeated, the mockery thick on his tongue.  âThat has two zâs.â Â
âIt does.â
âWhy?â Â Dean thought that was a valid question.Â
Cas, apparently, did not. Â He let out a long-suffering sigh and glanced at the empty shot glass on the table like he was willing it full with his mind.Â
âThe manâs name is really the least of our concerns, Dean.âÂ
âDaniel,â Dean supplied his new name helpfully, ignoring how it seemed to make Castielâs gaze sink deeper into his own.  Castiel did not take the correction. Â
âThere is a charity ball being thrown, that is where we are to make contact with the dealers, and that is where they will slip us the drive with the payment information on it. Â From there, we return to the room, verify our intel, and signal that we are ready for the drop. Â Backup comes in, makes a clean arrest in the lot, away from the party, and weâre done for the night.â
Dean listened, he really did, but as soon as Castiel finished speaking, he couldnât help himself. Â He dropped his gaze, looked up through his lashes at Cas as he took a sip of his drink. Â âIs this you askinâ me to the ball, Cinderella?â
He received an exaggerated eye that Dean had learned over the years to mean his joke was equally annoying as it was funny. Â Score.Â
âThis is very serious.â Cas deadpanned.  He watched with a raised eyebrow as Dean flagged the waiter again for another round of shots but accepted the liquor when offered.  He downed the shot in time with Dean before adding, âDo you know how to dance?âÂ
Dean could have done a spit-take. Â The crazed look he knew he had to be flashing made Castiel turn up a smile.Â
âIâll take that as a no.â
âHey,â Dean started.  âYou donât know shit.  You should see me on the dancefloor.â He wasnât lying, not exactly.  Cas should see him dancing.  It just wouldnât be good dancing that he would be looking at.Â
He was glad when Cas looked through his bull; it never failed to make Dean feel more exposed than ever, but it always helped keep them out of trouble.Â
This time, the trouble just happened to be the possibility of breaking cover in front of the actual mob.  Dean never said it was an easy job being his partner.Â
Castiel was standing before Dean could process what that meant, and Dean was being pulled to his feet.  The quick movement took his balance by surprise and nearly sent him careening into Castielâs chest, but he managed to stay on his own two feet and only faced a slight eye-roll in response. Â
âWhatâs goinâ on?â  Dean questioned, the majority of his focus stolen away by the gentle adjustments that Cas made in his own posture.  The man stood straight as he always did, but there was different confidence in it now; a slightly haughty gleam in his eye, a strength in the square of his shoulders.  Subconsciously, Dean mimicked him, rolling his shoulder blades back and lengthening the line of his throat as they stood silently regarding the other. Â
âWeâre dancing.â
Dean simultaneously had too much and not enough liquor in his system for this.  The blue of Casâs eyes was deepened with the dimmed light of the bar, the space between them somehow more charged.  He blamed that uptick in electricity for the way he jumped at the gentle touch of Casâs hand on his shoulder blade, but the moment he spent frozen in time melted away quickly with the heat emanating from the other man. Â
If he werenât so totally preoccupied, Dean might have been self-conscious of the way that they drew a few stares from the other patrons of the bar; but inches away from Cas, he couldnât be bothered to notice.  Not while Cas was wrapping his fingers around Deanâs hand, not while Cas kept that same carefully drawn half-smile across his lips, not while those lips were closer to Deanâs than they ever had been. Â
The music playing across the tinny bar speakers was nowhere near what Dean pictured when he thought about ballroom dancing, but he also never thought that heâd be in the position where he needed to think this much about ballroom dancing to start.  He took stock of his situation, noting how Cas had nudged his left arm up to match his form, Deanâs hand coming to rest on his partnerâs shoulder. Â
âSee, not too bad,â Casâs voice was gentle, softer than expected.  âIâm sure we wonât have to stick around long.  I imagine the arms dealers arenât prioritizing their dance card for the night.â Â
Dean could feel Casâs fingertips, five individual points of contact where heâd cupped Deanâs shoulder blade.  He wondered if it felt the same on Castiel, if even through the layers of clothing, the mere suggestion of touch was enough to feel like a brand.  The iron hot touch was mirrored with Casâs other hand, where he held Deanâs hand with a solid, sure grip.  Dean could only nod in response, language stolen right off his tongue by the absurdity of the situation. Â
The song playing wasnât exactly a waltz (or any other type of song Dean couldnât identify anyway), but Castiel didnât let that stop him.  He tugged Dean in closer with their joined hands, and the man went willingly, easily led by Castielâs strong movements. Â
Dancing.  They were dancing.  Kind of.  Mostly they were just stepping back and forth, side to side, their feet remaining in a small square of space between their stools at the bar. Â
âSo, between the dancing and the⌠yâknow, extracurriculars,â  Dean winked and nudged at Casâs shoulder before continuing.  âItâll be just like the prom you never had.âÂ
Castiel squinted back, one eyebrow raising in a challenge. Â It was a look that Dean was well familiar with, especially so many years into their partnership, one that immediately told him that heâd fucked up.Â
âI won prom king, Dean.  Me and my girlfriend at the time.â Â
Deanâs grip on Casâs hand only faltered a bit, but he was sure that the shock he felt was evident across his features.  The image of a much younger Cas, trenchcoat over a tux, a little crown perched atop his head?  That was something Dean needed in his life yesterday.  How did Cas manage to surprise him still, years into this partnership?
âNo way.  You never told me that,â Dean took on an accusatory tone, squeezing Casâs hand for a moment.  It felt more intimate than he had intended, but Dean ignored the weird flutter it set off inside his stomach.  They still stood together, swaying in half-time to the music.  âIt wasnât some sorta Carrie thing, was it?â Â
Cas shot Dean a look, icy cold for a moment before softening with a smile.  âNo pigâs blood, just some spiked punch and home in time for curfew.âÂ
âThatâs all I gotta beat to take the cake as best prom date? Â Some shitty punch and a kiss goodnight at 10:45?â Deanâs voice was teasing; his eyes trained on Castielâs with the hint of competition they always fostered. Â Cas returned it in stride, pulling Dean in closer, holding him tighter where they stood.
Like that, Dean could imagine they were anywhere but this happy-hour bar. Â Like maybe they were actually on a dance floor somewhere, bodies pressed together. Â It made a desire grow red-hot somewhere inside Deanâs stomach, a want he could never have.Â
The song ended, fading into some high-energy pop hit, and the moment was over.  Cas nodded curtly, dropping Deanâs hand and stepping back, out of the space theyâd claimed together.  âAs long as you can manage to stay off my feet and follow my lead like that, weâll be fine.â Â
Yeah. Fine.Â
__________
The morning of check-in had Deanâs skin crawling with strange anticipation.  He wrote it off to his coworkers the night before as job anxiety, the typical nerves that fray whenever things are high-stakes, but Dean knew the stupid truth.Â
No, the nerves he was battling had nothing to do with the well-connected, highly powered arms dealers that heâd be facing, nor the possibility of having their cover blown and being actually murdered.  The nerves he felt were entirely centered around what would happen as soon as the door to their hotel room shut and he and Cas were alone.Â
As soon as they were in the hotel lobby, Dean realized with a start that they hadnât exactly choreographed theirâŚÂ encounter.  How was this going to work?  Did Dean need to start it?  Would Cas? Â
Before he could spiral too far into his thoughts, Dean felt Castiel reach out and grab his hand, easily entwining their fingers.  Like a light, Dean felt the anxiety that had been building up disappear. Â
Damnit, it was shit like this that still had Dean fielding a stupid crush on his coworker, even as many years in as they were.Â
They worked their way through the lobby quickly, Dean staying half a step behind his suavely dressed partner and playing his role as trophy husband.  Cas checked them in with a quick name drop and a slide of his credit card across the counter, and Dean disguised his casing of the building as excitable tourist-staring. Â
The room they received was one of the more luxurious, near the top floor and overlooking the city. Â The location came with the perk of signaling to backup in a building across the street, but the trade-off was high visibility to others as well. Â Dean focused on those details to keep his mind off of Castiel.Â
A bellhop accompanied them toting their bags, and Castiel slipped the man a hundred-dollar bill as a tip, smiling at Dean when the boy blushed and fumbled over his words of thanks.Â
As soon as the hotel door shut behind them, Dean felt his nerves light up like a switchboard.  The heat emanating from the blush on his cheeks was enough that he knew Cas could see, and he wondered briefly if the infrared devices would be able to pick that up. Â
Castiel walked with a sure, careful pace as he always did, his posture stick-straight and recognizable even without the usual silhouette of his trenchcoat.  He hadnât been joking at the office - Casâs steady, predictable presence was a comfort - and seeing him in these undercover clothes only served as a reminder of the potential danger they were in. Â
The suitcases were promptly dumped beside the bed, and with newly freed hands, Cas turned back to Dean where he stood nearly frozen in the doorway. Â
âYou alright, sweetheart?â Cas questioned, crossing the space between them in a few steps. Â âTired from our travels?â The concern was genuine in his eyes despite it all, and Dean shook his head gently. Â Cas caught his hand so fluidly that Dean forgot they were acting for a moment, and his eyelids fluttered shut while he leaned in.
Cas seemed to take the movement in stride, squeezing Deanâs hand and tugging him in the last few inches for a gentle kiss.  It was all Dean could do not to pull away in a panic, but he couldnât prevent the wide-eyed expression written across his face.Â
Cas squeezed his hand again, this time a touch harder.  A reminder.  Relax.  A married couple didnât freak out over a little peck - Dean didnât freak out over a little peck.  Or maybe he wouldnât have, had Cas let him have his practice kiss at the bar the weekend prior. Â
Sure, he had assured Cas he didnât need one, but now he regretted that.  The stakes were too high for Dean to fuck this up over nothinâ but a fake roll in the hay between partners.  Dean had gotten through worse in partnerships before, actual rolls in the hay, even, so he could do this.  He could do this. Â
He wiped the shock off his face and replaced it with a slight cocky smirk, reveling in the way that it sparked an uneasy recognition in Cas.  He reached up to cup Casâs cheek, pulling him in for a second kiss. Â
Their lips slotted together easily, and Castiel dropped Deanâs hand to instead wrap around his back.  Heâd never felt Casâs arms around him like this, one hand on the small of his back, the other gently resting on Deanâs hip.  When Cas pulled away, he leaned his forehead against Deanâs. Â
His whisper was near silent; if Dean didnât know him better, heâd think Cas was nervous.  âBed and then room service?âÂ
Dean nodded, his own hands falling to Castielâs shirt collar. Â For a moment, as he undid the top button and Castiel stared back at him, eyes nearly as wide as Deanâs own had been after the shock of their first kiss, Dean worried that there was no way this would work. Â Theyâd have to call it off immediately, fake some sort of emergency, hell, pull the damn fire alarm.Â
But something about Deanâs fingers on that button seemed to flip a switch within Castiel. Â As soon as Dean finished its undoing, Cas was on him. Â Lips against lips, tongue against tongue; an immediate battle for dominance broke out between them. Â Cas shoved Dean back, and he dropped towards the mattress with no resistance, the hunger in his eyes apparent as he propped himself up on his elbows and stared up at Cas.Â
The man stood at the foot of the bed, chest heaving like heâd run a marathon, not simply kissed the daylights out of Dean.  Castielâs fingers tore at his own buttons, making quick work of his shirt while he watched Dean watch him, eyes hooded. Â
âFuck,â Dean breathed the word as Cas dropped his shirt to the ground and crawled over onto the bed, onto Dean.  He couldnât help but gasp at the predatory way Cas moved, the way his hand slid underneath Dean to grip his ass, the way he so quickly took as he wanted to take. Â
Casâs lips were on Deanâs neck, hot and wet as he pulled their hips together, aligning them on the bed. Â Cas was impatient, clearly, and he grumbled while his hands clumsily grasped for purchase on Deanâs shirt, only quieting when Dean himself wrestled away to pull it off. Â Castielâs eyes appeared to nearly glow with a heat that stole Deanâs breath as he tried to regain some sense of control. Â The hungry way that Castiel took in each inch of his skin as the buttons were undone only served to disquiet him further.
Once exposed, Casâs lips moved from Deanâs neck to his chest, his teeth scraping pink, angry lines where he could, his tongue finding one of Deanâs nipples and coaxing out a genuine moan from Deanâs lips. Â
Cas seemed satisfied with that, pulling away and rolling over onto the bed next to Dean, his hands at his belt and his intentions clear.  Deanâs heart hammered away at his chest, but he didnât want to stop now, wanted Cas naked now, and he didnât care who saw or heard or-
Fuck.  Fuck.  Crowley and Charlie were outside in the van listening to all of this.  Cas seemed to come to the same realization simultaneously, his eyes flicking to Dean with a slight panic. Â
They didnât have time to panic. Â As much as they knew their team was watching them, they werenât positive how intense the surveillance was on the other side of things. Â They still had to be careful not to break their cover.
Dean rolled over, following Cas to make up for the ground lost in their moment of panic, helping him finish with his belt and the awful khakis that wardrobe had picked out.  He pulled them down, Cas careful to keep his boxers in place, and then moved to perch himself above Cas, the hesitation back in his muscles.  The heat was still there, burning behind blue eyes, but there was a new, more familiar gentleness there as wellâa silent check-in. Â
The return to their usual dynamic fueled the moment for Dean, and he fell back into his usual teasing.  He winked at his partner, basked in the fond look of annoyance that washed over Cas, and wiggled his hips as a reminder that he was a step behind in undressing. Â
Instead of a return to the more reserved, Cas still had a hint of that flame behind his eyes when his hands went to Deanâs waist, tugging at the pants he still wore.  Dean didnât have the motivation to process what exactly that look on Casâs face meant, not with Casâs lips on the skin above the waistband of his boxers, not with Casâs hands on his hips and his grip like a promise.  Instead of getting caught up in his head, Dean threw himself back into the moment, his eyes sliding shut and his back arching with the effort it took to keep his hips still under Casâs direction. Â
He was half hard.  The bulge under the thin material of his boxers had to be noticeable, especially with Castielâs heated breath on Deanâs hip.  For a moment, Dean panicked, unsure of Castielâs reaction, uncertain if he should have done more to try and tamp down his reactions.  Should he have been thinking about dead puppies or his grandmother or something?  Pulled out a boner killer to shield himself from the onslaught of Cas?  Before he could lose himself in his thoughts, Dean was shaken back to the moment when Cas moved back up across the bed, tugging at Dean and the blankets in a desperate, awkward attempt to shield themselves from any prying eyes. Â
Dean got the memo and scrambled to his knees until he could pull the layers of hotel blankets back enough to slide underneath.  The cool cotton sent a strange shiver down his spine, an opposing sensation to the heat heâd been subjected to while underneath Castielâs ministrations.  It was only for a few moments that Dean was given a reprieve, as Cas followed him underneath the covers and slid back to press against his side. Â
His partner ensured there wasnât enough time to start freaking out, never giving his mind time to catch up with what was happening. Â Cas was right there, hard and insistent against his hip, and then there wasnât enough surveillance in the world to keep Dean from taking advantage of this.Â
He surged forward, recapturing Castielâs lips with his own and rolling the man onto his back.  Dean straddled him, very, very aware of the heat emanating between them, and he took.  He touched the way heâd barely let himself dream of, hands roaming through messy locks and back down to scratch over ribs and grab at thighs.  Each genuine reaction Dean could pull from Cas was like a reward, stroking his ego and filling his chest with a pride heâd never felt.Â
Falling into bed with his partner had been easier than expected. Â Would they be able to get back up on the other side of this?Â
Deanâs thoughts went blank as Castielâs hands settled low on his hips and pulled him down into a dirty grind. Â The logistics would be a problem for later; all that mattered now was how in the world Dean was going to keep himself together. Â The mission required simulated sex, not Dean coming in his boxers like some teenager.Â
He needed to gain some semblance of control again.Â
Deanâs gaze trailed over Castielâs face, searching for any hesitancy, and found none. Â Instead, Dean felt Casâs hand toying with the waistband of Deanâs underwear, an unspoken question in the air.Â
A nod gave permission, and Cas slid his hand under the elastic, grasping at Deanâs ass.  The skin-on-skin contact seemed to reignite any heat lost between them, and just like that,  it was like they werenât being watched at all. Â
Dean could hear the echo of his younger brotherâs advice as he watched everything go sideways. The day hadnât started as a disaster, but that didnât mean it wouldnât end as one.Â
For starters, Deanâs less-than-leash-trained dog, Miracle, nearly pulled him into traffic twice and did yank him into a puddle. His shoes were decidedly not waterproof, his favorite jeans were now splashed with mud, and that was not to mention the state of his white sheepdog. She seemed to take Deanâs sigh of defeat as an opportunity to roll around some more, only hopping back up to her paws once she was thoroughly soaked.Â
The bouncy, happy way that Miracle wagged her tail and looked up at Dean did make him feel a bit better, he did have to admit.Â
Despite the mess, they headed towards their final destination - the local dog park. It was an ample enclosed green space with plenty of room for the pups to run and play, and Dean had taken Miracle a few times since they moved. There were quite a few other dogs that were big enough to hold their own in a playful tussle with his girl, so he felt safe letting her run pretty free.Â
Too free, apparently.Â
The dog park was nearly empty, a few dogs playing fetch with their owners here and there, but it seemed otherwise uneventful. There was one man there that Dean didnât recognize, an overdressed, weird guy that seemed to be there alone. He was bent over a flower, in a little squat with his feet flat on the ground and his arms outstretched, the sort of pose youâd be in if teaching a baby to walk. The sort of pose that welcomes excitable dogs.Â
The exact sort of pose that Miracle took to mean Tackle Timeâ˘.Â
Dean saw the disaster forming in slow motion, his dog gaining speed and traction in her full-out sprint towards the unsuspecting victim, the man, wholly unaware, and he couldnât formulate a warning fast enough.Â
Miracle was nothing if not predictable, and Dean watched her (horribly muddy) paws make contact with the poor stranger, pushing him flat on the ground on his back. She at least seemed to feel bad, immediately compensating for her brute force with tail-wagging excitement and sloppy puppy kisses.Â
Before he could gauge the strangerâs reaction, Dean was halfway towards the unfolding event, an apology ready for launch. Â
The apology died on his tongue as Dean made eye contact with the stranger. He just had to be hot, huh? In the shocked silence, Dean managed to offer a hand as assistance, Miracle backing off as soon as his owner got too close. The (now dirty) stranger took the helping hand and raised back to his feet, fruitlessly wiping at the dirt now coating his business suit. Â
âShit, Iâm so sorry, you need to take off your clothesâŚ.â Dean flushed a bright red and trailed off, realizing his mistake. Not that he didnât want to see the guy naked, but that was beside the point. âOr, well, you donâtâŚ. IâmâŚâ Slapping a palm over his own mouth, Dean fumbled for the right words. âIâm sorry.âÂ
The man standing in front of Dean wore a gummy smile and tugged at his own tie, attempting to straighten it out. He spoke, a simple introductory âCastiel,â and offered a hand to shake. When Castielâs fingers curled around Deanâs palm, he had to focus on keeping his knees from buckling. Something about this guy was overwhelming to the senses. Â
âDean,â he added, their handshake lasting a few extra beats. Â
Castiel repeated back Deanâs name, and all he could do was nod dumbly back. Â
âWell, Dean, how would you like to buy me a coffee to make it up to me?â Castiel asked with that same smile, his bright blue eyes never leaving Deanâs. Â
A nod was answer enough, and that smile only grew in size. If that was a disaster, it turned out to be a perfect one. Â
Outsider POV fic. The bunker needs wifi. Enter Dave.
_____
Dave knew this would be an odd job from the moment he got the assignment. If he was being honest, he didnât predict that things would be quite this strange, but regardless, he saw the red flags from the jump.Â
First of all, when his boss sent out the list of addresses for the dayâs installations, one was listed as only a set of coordinates. Dave was a fuckinâ cable guy, not a sailor or a goddamned pilot. He was afraid of the ocean, and his coke bottle glasses were proof that he lacked the 20/20 needed for the latter profession. He was simply a cable guy, and honestly, he didnât even know if his carâs GPS would accept the coordinates to help him make the drive.Â
Shit, he was a cable guy, not some fuckinâ computer whiz. He claimed to be able to hook up some wires, turn on a few modems. Maybe climb a telephone pole if things got really rough, but for the most part, Dave was just a man in his sixties. Ready to retire and slightly confused by modern technology.Â
A problem for later, Dave put it out of his mind and carried out his first two installations of the day. An apartment set-up that took seven minutes and cost the poor woman nearly two hundred in fees was first, followed by a new construction that took eight times as long.Â
Then Dave was off towards the coordinates, the newfangled touchscreen map in his car easily adjusting to using such an antiquated navigational system. Where in the world was he headed that didnât even have a goddamned street address? Â
Every job he was assigned came with its own challenges. The clients could be rude, the hookups old, the tech malfunctioning. No amount of weird gigs could have prepared Dave for this.Â
It officially started when the GPS took a sharp left off the highway onto an unincorporated dirt road. The city radio station was already getting spotty out this far, but after a few minutes on the drive, static took over. The tires kicked up vision-obscuring amounts of dust, and Dave was glad he was the only one on the road that day.Â
The robotic voice of his carâs navigation system announced that his destination was coming up. After a mental checklist of the gear he would need to grab from the trunk, Dave refocused on peering down the road ahead for his destination.Â
As he carried on down the road, a large industrial building came into view. Dave hoped he had somehow mistyped the coordinates or the GPS was wrong because if not, he feared heâd been lured out into the woods to die.Â
What looked like either a factory or a prison growing out of the hillside was the only structure for what felt like miles, and the voice of the navigational system announced Daveâs arrival. He took out his phone and fumbled with his companyâs app to pull up the clientâs phone number.Â
The phone was barely allowed to ring before the line was picked up with a click and a panicked voice asking for a âDean?â
âNo, this is Dave? From Comcast?âÂ
The man on the other line let out a loud puff of a breath. âSorry, Iâm waiting for a call.âÂ
Dave announced his arrival at the location, and the man announced his intent to meet at the door. The cable man grabbed his duffle bag from the trunk and headed off towards the only thing nearby that could be considered a doorway.Â
A short staircase of steps was followed by the strangest introduction to the assumed man of the house, one Richie Sambora, who looked nothing like the guitarist and only made Dave think he was given an alias. It would make sense; only someone with a lot to hide would live in a place like this.Â
The door, which was below ground level and opened directly into the hillside, let out onto an even bigger staircase and a cavernous room. Dave didnât even want to think about how much wire heâd need to make the connections necessary. âRichieâ led the way down the metallic staircase, and Dave realized that he most definitely was dealing with the mob.Â
It had to be organized crime; there was no better explanation for what Dave was dealing with. He fought to keep an even expression on his face when âRichieâ turned back to gauge his reaction. Taking a closer look, the man was definitely muscle, and judging by the holster on his hip, he was ready to go. Dave just smiled, glad he was here to install the wifi and not shakedown a rival gang.Â
They were standing in what could only be described as a war room. A giant map covered the table in the center, a switchboard and telegraph off to the side. A telegraph. In 2013.Â
Maybe this wasnât the mob. Perhaps this was just terrorism.Â
Should Dave call someone? Â
âWhere would you like to have the router?â Dave asked his normal questions in the face of a situation that was absolutely abnormal.Â
The construction around them couldnât be any more recent than the late 30s, and the furniture didnât seem to have been updated since then either. That didnât bode well for the modem they needed to connect.Â
The man smiled almost sheepishly and directed off towards a long hallway off of the main room. Shit, things were gonna get weirder before things were gonna get done. The guy who was definitely not named Richie led Dave out of the war room, past the largest telescope Dave had ever seen (yeah, definitely terrorism), and into the corridor. A few suspiciously shut doors down was a doorway that opened to reveal a spaceshipâs worth of control panels, various outlets, and inputs.Â
Where was this place? What was this place?Â
For lack of anything better to say, Dave dumbly asked, âHere?â and got a nod in response.Â
They were so far underground and into this hillside that Dave was sure a call to 911 for help would be impossible. But, just as the thought crossed his mind, the clientâs phone rang out.Â
Large hands wrestled to answer so quickly that the phone was nearly dropped in the struggle.Â
âDean?â
Pretending to be uninterested, Dave grabbed for his duffle-bag. The electric hum of the room and the space between the two men ensured that âDeanâsâ response was inaudible, so Dave pulled out a few cables to start and went about his job.Â
âIs everything fine?â A pause. âHow about Cas?â A sigh. âDude, how could I have known that? Gimme a minute; the Comcast guy is h-âÂ
Dave fumbled with the modem while he pretended not to be so interested in what this Dean had to say on the other end.Â
âBut you got it?â The client asked emphatically, then immediately lowered his voice. âSalted and burned?â Â
What?
Dave managed to keep from looking over, but the phone call must have ended because the next words spoken were to him.Â
âIâm going to be right down the hall if you need anything. Iâll let you work.âÂ
Great. Dave was now alone with his thoughts. He focused hard on the task at hand, stringing cables to and fro, arguing with himself about whether or not to notify homeland security.Â
The usual routine for a cable guy, right?
It couldnât have been more than twenty minutes before âRichieâ was back, his floppy hair and big doe eyes at odds with the general air of uncertainty in the room. The suspicion seemed to go both ways, and Dave wondered how many outsiders were allowed in. He suspected he might be the first.Â
The modem and router were both set up, but if Dave remembered correctly, the client asked for a signal booster to be installed in another room.Â
âAll set here; where would you like your extender?â His robotic customer service demeanor seemed to set aside some of the clientâs nervous energy as well.Â
A few moments later, âRichieâ was guiding Dave back up the hallway theyâd come down and into the room with the large map table. From there, Dave was led into some sort of library. Now he only had more questions.Â
He was left right at the entrance to the library when the other man dashed up the stairs to answer a call. This part was easy, just a simple power cable and then a few configurations on his phone, and then Dave could be on his way. Hopefully, without being marked as an enemy of whatever state this guy represented.Â
But no. Dave couldnât just have a normal Wednesday.Â
The sound of heavy footfalls on metal came ringing through the space. Dave looked up to see Richie had just let in two friends. One was wearing a tattered and burnt shirt, and the other looked nearly spotless like he was coming home from an office job. Dave was definitely going to be killed for seeing this, so he just pretended he didnât, looking back down at the outlets in the library wall.Â
Out of the corner of his eye, Dave saw the three men make their way down the stairs, their voices coming into earshot as he worked.Â
â-fuckin told me that the oldest son had the pocketwatch, so we were in his damn basement for nearly an hour before the thing showed up, and it was pissed. Cas nearly got whacked, but-â
âCable guy, remember?âÂ
âWhatever. We figured it out; no thanks to you. Had to go grave robbinâ for the watch, but-â
âDean!â The first man reached out to smack at his shoulder, serving as a warning to keep quiet.Â
Tattered shirt guy, who Dave now knew was the Dean from the phone call earlier, sauntered into the library and plopped down in a chair across from Dave.Â
âSo! Â We're goin' digital. Â Did Sa-â
Richie cleared his throat loudly enough that Dave startled.Â
Dean restarted. âDid Richie offer you anything to drink?âÂ
So it was a fake name. Not that Dave needed proof, he knew Bon Jovi and how to spot a red flag, but it was nice to have more assurance that he wasnât just paranoid.Â
Gesturing to the bottled water that Dave brought in with his bags, he dismissed the offer. The next step was waiting for the configuration signal to connect, and Dave wanted to avoid small talk as much as possible. He thought his safest bet was to absorb as little information as possible to keep in these guysâ good graces.Â
A peek at the titles on the bookshelf to his right didnât ease his anxieties. De Occulta Philosophia libri III, Tryals of the Spirit, and A Magical Record of the Beast didnât exactly sound like book-club-friendly novels, but they also didnât sound like the collection of a mad terrorist cell either.Â
âWeâre thinking about offering library cards and a good kids story time.â Damnit, Dave was caught looking. When he looked up to see Deanâs reaction, the man was just wearing a self-assured smile. The manâs laid-back demeanor was at odds with the bizarre situation and the fact that he looked like heâd been through a house fire.Â
Dave must have looked horrified because Dean gave a follow-up clarification. âJoking, joking.âÂ
Daveâs phone chimed to notify him that the setup was complete, and he had never stood up faster in his life. He had lost track of âRichieâ and the businessman, but upon exiting the library, the two were seated at the map table, hunched over and whispering.Â
Dave only heard the words âhauntedâ and âvesselâ before the two were startled at his presence. The cable man fumbled for his usual phrases, anything brisk and easy to get him out the door, but he was truthfully at a loss for words. He gaped a bit, dumbly, at the cast of characters around him and grabbed his bag strap.Â
âThank you for choosing Comcast?â It came out as a question while Dave tried his best to give a customer service smile. Usually, heâd have the client check a device or something for the connection, but all Dave wanted was to be in his car, headed back towards safety on that damned dirt road.Â
Arms, steady and solid, wrapped around Deanâs body. His own were sandwiched between the mattress and the man, pins and needles long forgotten in favor of resting his ear above Castielâs heart. From this position, he can hear each heartbeat and feel each breath, the rising and falling of Castielâs chest lulling him into a softness he cannot remember ever feeling.
Dean wasnât sure how much time had passed, but after a few moments, he noticed he was crying. The realization hit him with a memory, and suddenly Dean is a kid again.
Dean is four and heâs in his motherâs arms and sheâs laughing and handing him over to his father. Theyâre smiling, and Dean feels safe and loved, and that  shouldnât be  memorable. It shouldnât be memorable, but his mother is wearing sacrificial white; the room they stand in would soon be ash; itâs the last time Dean would ever be held again - by her or by anyone. Â
Until now. Â
Cas seems to notice the tears where they hit the expanse of his chest, and Dean feels the way his grip tightens, one hand snaking up to thread into his hair in a silent offer of comfort. Dean is held. Â
Safe. Â
He feels four and forty-seven all at once and heâs crying and heâs happy and heâs in love.
Thereâs so much he wants to say, and beyond that, even more he could never put into words, and so he decides to say none of it and hope Castiel understands anyway. If the happiness shining out of his eyes like the sun has anything to say about it, Cas seems to be on the same page regardless. Â
Dean wipes his eyes on Casâs chest, the best he can, and cranes his neck to meet his gaze. Â
âDo ya think,â Dean starts, his voice thin from the tears but steadier than heâd expected. âDo you think that we could order a pizza?â
Casâs smile only deepened with fondness. âI love you too, Dean.â Â
prompt fill for maze /Dean rescues Castiel from the Empty.
Grace serves as Ariadneâs thread and Artemisâs torch, both an anchor to the exit and a light guiding him forward. Itâs dark, the shadows only lifting enough to allow Dean to see a foot or so ahead. Itâs been years or maybe minutes; something about the atmosphere makes it impossible to distinguish between the two. Despite the Emptiness, he treads on. Â
Through the maze, in and down and always deeper, never turning back to see what might be following. He had come alone, stepped into the labyrinth with nothing but a ball of light to keep his company, but that did not guarantee him any serenity. Dean's journey doesnât feel lonely; he just is. Â
The walls are cold and harsh things that act together as a winding cage, the rules of which are not made clear to its inhabitants. Dead ends warp into doorways, bricks crumble into staircases built up into barricades just as solid as the construction that once stood in their place. Dean is alone and he isnât; another visitor can be felt shifting and twisting through the space around him. In each corridor, the air pressure contracts and seemingly adjusts to Deanâs presence, not welcoming but at least not yet a rejection. Â
The being around him fades in and out, aware of his progress. It appears with nothing but a raising of hairs on Deanâs neck, a gust of wind through an airtight tunnel, an awareness of being watched. Dean only needs to keep up his side of the deal and continue his navigation.
Dean reaches a fork in the maze, and by now it feels routine, wholly natural to turn inward and focus on the sensation pulling him deeper. Dean had entered the maze without a compass, but that did not mean he was lost. Â
It is his angel who will light the way. It is by Castielâs grace that Dean will navigate the maze before him, and by Castielâs grace, they will be granted freedom.
The corridors seem to never end, turn after turn of darkness, the promise of his prize the only thing that keeps him going. Marching on, he continues. Â
Slowly, the Emptiness around him seems to fade. It had started as a mere suggestion of a sensation, a beneath-the-ribs tugging that was as quickly written off as it was felt, but the feeling only crescendos, arching high and pulling harder towards the end. Â
One more turn. Dean makes one more turn, and then he sees. He turns the corner and darkness gives way to blue glowing light, bright eyes in the pitch black and Deanâs knees could buckle at the sight.
Castiel had learned very early into this mission that usual instincts could not be relied upon. This time was different; the stakes too high for assumptions. Humanity - or, at the very least, this one human - was incalculable, complex and fickle, dependent on so many individual factors it seemed inconvenient. At least, it certainly wasn't helpful for Castiel. Knowing humanity should be an easy task for an angel; If a soul is the purest expression of a man, Castiel had assumed being able to hold Dean's was enough.
It had been, but only for the short while that Castiel was truly able to subsume everything that the man was. And really, it just made things more complicated in the end.
When grace enveloped soul, Castiel had expected a fragile thing, infested with darkness and ruined by the horrors it had been forced to endure. Dean - his essence - was nothing of the sort; instead, he was incomprehensible in his purity, his soul luminous, singing out for Castiel's grace in a way the angel had simply never experienced. A one-of-a-kind connection, Castiel's chance at grasping a clarity that was otherwise never within reach.
There had been other souls in hell, yes, thousands upon thousands of souls, corrupted and damaged and singed with countless lifetimes of depravity. They appeared, writhing and clawing, making futile attempts to stop the liberation of the Righteous Man, a stark contrast to the luminescence of what they tried to protect.
In comparison, Castiel had even known souls in heaven, shining things full of beauty and everything He had created them to be. Perfect examples of God's light, sanctified and full of belief. None could ever compare to Dean; Souls peaceful in their eternal rest could never begin to match the serenity that Castiel felt when he took Dean inside his grace.
Yes, it was so written that Castiel saved Dean Winchester, grasped him tight and raised him from perdition; but what hadn't been told was the way Dean's soul had offered itself up, arching wide and blooming high to reveal something previously unseen. When Castiel's true form met with Dean's soul, the borders between them began to bleed. The great honor of being chosen for the retrieval of The Righteous Man couldn't hold a candle to the reward that was Dean's soul expanding and contracting, pressing at the borders of Castiel's grace and seeking permission to fold itself deeper within. If this man was truly to be The Michael Sword, Castiel ached at the thought of the horrors it would take to carve these soft edges into something made for destruction.
Before he could be molded into heaven's weapon, Castiel had to rebuild the body that had been Dean's on earth - and oh, Castiel could sense that life had not been kind to this man, hell even less so. Starting at the most cellular level, Castiel began to create. It was his belief prior to that moment that Creation was an act of God, His and His alone; yet here Castiel was. Not God - but one of his angels - breathing careful life into the lungs of a man. Â
Castiel took special care in each individual component, down to placing each impeccable freckle carefully in its place with the same devotion he'd always granted to God's design. Such a beautiful creation, such a brilliant soul, it was only natural that the man be painted with flecks of gold. While neurons shaped into axons tangled into nerves that Castiel knitted together, Dean's soul remained cradled within the expanse of Castiel's grace.
Grace pulsed through the air, responsive to Dean's soul dancing within, incapable of denying the bond Castiel felt where they'd merged as one. Â
Castiel had been created that he could destroy; a soldier, a creature of war and annihilation, used as a symbol of heaven's wrath and utter devotion. Now, the gift of life, the epicenter of the universe, was placed within Castiel, and the mission began taking on an unforeseen meaning. And so, Castiel labored over the body that would house Dean Winchester's soul. It was gravely important work, and he treated it as such; the fate of the world hinged upon this man. The Beginning and the End were all within him, and Castiel was nothing less than entirely devotional to the responsibility.
As the work carried on, Dean's soul, his purest essence, was guarded - safe and held and warm, encapsulated within Castiel's grasp - yet somehow, it was the angel who was left feeling claimed. It was known that when an angel takes a vessel, remnants of that angel's essence are left behind. Castiel wondered what happened when a soul was to take itself within an angel's grace. Would it leave behind a piece of humanity? Castiel could already sense the release of the mutual grasp between soul and grace would be inexplicably complex, more reminiscent of a loss than the mark of a task well completed.
In Castiel's true form - unrestricted and incomparably more - existence was pure grace, energy and power and light and allegiance. Being with, merging with others in spiritual communion was nothing short of harmony, the holiness of unity and genuine spiritual connection. There was a relief within the act, the simplicity of knowing and being known, but Castiel had never craved it before Dean. And even then, craving didn't feel descriptive enough; to crave was not nearly as large as the building vortex that was rotating and twisting and threatening to burst free and consume.
The divine act of creation was His and His alone. God, The Maker, was the sole being who conjured humanity, constructed their world, and left them to experience everything invented for them. Creation was His holiest act, and yet here Castiel was, laboring over the refabrication of one man.
Was it blasphemous to think of Dean as a creature of Castiel's own creation? To hold pride in his construction? Was it sacrilegious to pour the same devotion and loyalty into this act of revival as all angels had been commanded to pledge to each cosmic order? Â
It couldn't be.
This was holy; this was right. Dean was everything God had intended for His followers to be. This incredible, resilient light, the purity behind each atom - atoms that Castiel had conjured, searched for and sifted out from the embers of hell - sang out to all humanity. Dean was Creation, and just knowing him made Castiel capable of that. Dean was the beauty that rose from the ashes, and he was the ashes, and Castiel longed to bear witness to the lifecycle of a phoenix.
Claire sits in church. Somewhere out there, an angel wears her father like a coat.
The priest is giving a sermon and itâs not his fault that Claire feels the way she does but she hates him for it anyways, hates how he talks about God like He cares.
She goes through the motions, stands, kneels, sits, kneels, stands, lets her mind go blank as the sermon flows in one ear and leaks right out the other. Itâs a tall order for the poor holy man at the altar - to save Claireâs soul, or whatever. A tall order for any of the adults around Claire, really. The right words donât exist; there is no comfort to be given. Faith is no help here. Faith is what doomed her family. Â
She can never be sure if this is par for the course, if everyone who found irreconcilable proof that God is real immediately turned from Him and everything He stood for. She doesnât exactly have a support group of her peers; she canât very well call up the other girls from school to trade stories about the holy missions their fathers have been sent on; schoolyard gossip doesnât leave room to connect with others about how her mother is on a fruitless quest to bring back the husk that might be left of her father. And that is only if the angel using him hasnât entirely burnt him up from the inside out.
So instead, Claire follows in the footsteps of the parishioners around her, shuffles mindlessly out of the pew and towards the altar, manages a polite, appropriate smile-and-nod towards the priest when he offers the eucharist. She takes it. The body of Christ. She gives her gratitude, though she doesnât feel it. Doesnât remember what it would  feel like were she to experience it again. Â
What did Claire have to be grateful for? What obligation did she have to God?
That night over dinner, her grandparents hang their heads low, shroud their eyes, clasp their hands. They pray, as they always do, with hope and light and love, and Claire only listens for the embers in their words; lets their light  flutter down to the horrible wreckage that is Claireâs life; lets those flecks of fire catch on the charred remnants of their granddaughter. Â
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Dean Winchester
Word Count: 1.8k
Summary:Â
Youâre not confirmed?â Â She asked in a stage whisper, shoving the question through her teeth like Dean had taken part in some horrific scandal - somehow caught nude with a congressman and not simply missing out on a sacrament. Â
Dean could only nod with his head pitched down to convey the apology he didnât mean. This apparently earth-shattering revaluation had slipped out while they were discussing cake flavors and seating arrangements, and Dean really had to prioritize calling the calligrapher to check in on their save-the-date cards because Dean was getting married. Â Apparently, that translated into one million tiny little tasks that, for whatever reason, Lisa insisted were necessary. Â
Happy wife, happy life, right?
Enter Castiel.
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âYouâre not confirmed?â Â She asked in a stage whisper, shoving the question through her teeth like Dean had taken part in some horrific scandal - somehow caught nude with a congressman and not simply missing out on a sacrament. Â
Dean could only nod with his head pitched down to convey the apology he didnât mean. This apparently earth-shattering revaluation had slipped out while they were discussing cake flavors and seating arrangements, and Dean really had to prioritize calling the calligrapher to check in on their save-the-date cards because Dean was getting married. Â Apparently, that translated into one million tiny little tasks that, for whatever reason, Lisa insisted were necessary. Â
Happy wife, happy life, right?
Dean had been with Lisa for the better of two years, and things were fine. Â
They were what they were, mostly. Dean sometimes felt like he was playing house, acting out some sort of script about his life instead of actually living, but that wasnât new,  so he couldnât blame Lisa for that. Dean had been squeezing himself into various roles since he was younger; no need to start complaining now. He was fine. He could even be happy, sometimes.
Lisa even had a kid - a boy who made Dean feel like he was looking into a mirror sometimes - and Dean found he wanted to be chosen for the role of father. It was the first time being someone ever felt worth something.
When Dean finally proposed, it was after months of not-so-subtle hinting from not only Lisa, but her mother, her father, all their neighbors⌠(Barbecues had never been so passive-aggressive; Dean hadnât even known someone could turn a cheese spread into a metaphor for a relationship, but Susanne Taylor down the street managed to fit one in somehow.) Even the kid, Ben, asked when Dean was going to marry his mother. That was the final straw; Dean had gone out and bought a ring that night. Â
He didnât even feel trapped, at least not at the time, not when he bought the ring, not yet. Instead, it felt like he was building something, like he was doing the right thing, like he was following a predestined path. Â
When he proposed, he couldnât help but start to feel slightly off-balance, like the giant diamond had somehow thrown gravity off its course. Lisa said yes, of course she had, and immediately threw herself into his arms for her fairytale kiss. Dean could nearly see the perfect illustration taking form in Lisaâs storybook life. Â
That was the first time he felt like he was suffocating. Â
If heâd felt bad then, the uneasy feeling only increased as they worked out the wedding plans. Lisa insisted on Dean being present for all of the decisions, even though he didnât have (or want) a say. They would be having a spring wedding, getting married in the church that Lisa was baptized in, and theyâd be perfect, a blushing bride and her proud groom, Lisaâs father handing her off with a stern handshake. Â
Problem number one. Â The church wedding. Once Lisa calmed down from the brief panic that Deanâs confirmation status sent her into and got off the phone with the wedding planner, she tracked Dean down where he had retreated to the bedroom. With a huff and a hand firmly planted on her hip, she handed over the paperwork. Neatly printed handouts to carefully outline the steps heâd need to take in order to rectify this horrible situation that Dean had put her through. Â
That was what sent Dean to St. Michaelâs Cathedral. Lisa picked it for the vicinity of the house, and Dean was glad for that when he decided to pregame his first service. Â
Hey- it wasnât alcoholism if the day drinking only included a few mimosas with breakfast, and it was a Sunday, so Dean thought he was in the clear. He might be a sinner, but he wasnât an alcoholic.
Besides, he needed the little kick of courage to drag him out the door and into the church to begin with.
The walk had been shorter than heâd anticipated, so Dean was awaiting the start of service quietly in the back pew, working on avoiding eye contact with the rest of the attendees. He stared down at the handout, not reading but nearly boring holes through the paper with his heavy gaze. He didnât know what the fuck a psalm was anyway, so he didnât think reading ahead to number 37 would do anyone any good. Â
The mass started with a jolt, Dean barely realizing how far he had spaced out until he was being yanked back into the pew, his eyes shooting up towards the voice he heard from the altar. The priest was an older man and checked all the mental boxes that Dean had for what he expected from the experience, so he let his gaze fall back to the Order of Mass in his hands. As he heard the gentle call and response of what was labeled the âintroductory rites,â Dean settled into place. Â
He could do this, he was good at fitting in, and despite not having been to church since he was prepubescent, it wasnât too hard to catch back up. Â
The first curveball came when the priest in charge started the communion rites. Dean had done this part before; he remembered the too-big suit he wore when he was seven and way too stoked to try the communion wine. What he wasnât expecting was the tap on his shoulder during the sign of the peace. Dean had already awkwardly shuffled over to the woman nearly half a pew to his left to shake her hand when he turned to face the interruption - and Dean almost laughed at the absurdity. Â
For all that the man leading mass fit traditional assumptions about a Catholic priest, Dean had taken that as confirmation that he was at an ordinary church. Boy, was he wrong.
Considering Dean was now face-to-face with the hottest man he had ever seen in a cassock, this church had its secrets. He choked back his surprise and held out his hand, taking the manâs in a firm shake. Â God, the dudeâs hands were soft, and god were they big. Dean was silent, but when the priest just smiled gently, his stare fixed on Deanâs, he remembered himself and spoke up. âPeace be with you, um, Father.â
âAnd with you,â The priest responded, his voice nearly lost in the clamor around him but hitting Dean with a bolt of heat nonetheless. He was going to hell, and it was any single one of the countless thoughts about that priest that was gonna be the deciding factor. Dean didnât even care; he just watched as the man walked away, up towards the altar. The mass was plugging on, and the (now entirely background noise to Dean) prayer continued - something about bread - but Deanâs mind was far from that. He watched the (hot, younger) priest take communion from the other (older, now even more boring) priest, and then movement picked up around the church.
Lines started to form, parishioners clumsily crowding up towards the two men at the head of the church, and immediately Dean knew where he was headed. Â
Hot priest was right there, just down the aisle from him, only a dozen or so churchgoers between Dean and his second interaction with his new infatuation. The man was hotter than any priest had the right to be, from his mussed dark hair, to his pouty lips, to those fucking hands that Dean could still feel the ghost of against his own. Â
Dean was staring. He knew it, but he didnât think it mattered, didnât think it would be noticed or read into, so he stared unashamedly at the priest as he gave out the tiny eucharist crackers. Dean could only get glimpses as the people in front of him teetered in and out of his line of sight, but he knew Hot Priest⢠was focused on his task. Â
Only a few passing moments later and Dean was at the front of the line, a slight blush high on his cheeks as he locked eyes again with the priest, who smiled warmly, just as before. In the few seconds it took for Dean to remember the act of raising his hands to accept the wafer, the priest was lifting his own, thumb and pointer finger carefully offering the eucharist. Â
Dean felt like heaven itself was watching as he let his mouth fall open, the priest holding eye contact as he placed the wafer straight from his fingers onto Deanâs tongue.
The air around them was already humid-thick, packed with both parishioners and the residual incense smoke, but now Dean could practically drown in it. Between the heady feeling that settled in Deanâs chest from the minute he saw this man and the burning heat on his bottom lip from where the priestâs thumb had brushed against his skin, Dean thought he was going to pass out.
Somehow, Dean managed to nod in thanks to the priest, closing his mouth around the offering as he turned and nearly stumbled back to his pew. He was 80% sure he was sitting in an entirely different row once he was settled back in, but if that was the worst thing that came from the fetish-porn-turned-actual-real-interaction with an Actual, authentic man of God, Dean thought heâd gotten off easily.
Gotten off. Jesus, Dean was going to hell with the imagery he was projecting. Could God read your mind better from inside a church? Is that how that works? Maybe he could ask Hot Priest over some Holy Wine and stale fuckinâ crackers later.
ââââ
Over steak and potatoes that night, Lisa asked how mass had been. Dean shoveled a mouthful of mash as an excuse to nod idly in response. He couldnât exactly say heâd nearly had some hot priestâs thumb and forefinger in his mouth, and heâd pretty much blanked on anything else that happened during mass. Thankfully, Lisa immediately switched topics to the color of linen she wanted for the tablecloths at their wedding, and Ben took up making faces in the background, drawing a laugh from deep within Deanâs chest. Â
See, Â this was why Dean was doing the whole church thing. For Ben and for Lisa and for their new lives - not for some soap opera lookinâ hot young priest with piercing blue eyes and the kind of fingers that had Deanâs thoughts wandering again, for the dozenth time since they brushed against his lips. Is the eucharist supposed to be so sexy?
Anyway. This was about Deanâs heterosexual marriage and nothing else.
Dean watched with a warm glow in his chest as Ben finished his plate, scraping the last bits off with his fork and a satisfied grin. Dinner that Dean had made.
Provider. Â Father.
âOh, and dear? I scheduled a viewing of the venue with our videographer; you absolutely need to be there with me.â
FiancĂŠ.
The light inside Deanâs chest fizzled out at the reminder.
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Dean Winchester
Word Count: 810
Summary:
The first time Dean quit smoking was before he even really had a habit to break.
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The first time Dean quit smoking was before he even really had a habit to break. When he was 15, he bought his first pack of American Spirits, the box a sky blue that stuck out to him from the shelf. The clerk behind the counter had squinted down at him, and for a moment, Dean worried he wouldnât get away with his illicit purchase. Maybe if the gas station had paid the man a little better, he would have asked for ID, but minimum wage had never been worth dealing with teenagers, and so Dean walked out with three less dollars and the small blue box in hand.
Dean liked the way the new pack felt in his fingers, liked the ritual of packing a new box, smacking it cleanly against his palm. He loved to take his time with a brand new package, carefully peeling off the plastic and tucking it into his pocket to throw away later. The paper tightly folded down underneath the lid was one of his favorite parts. It felt almost like opening a letter, and once inside a thrift store off the highway, Dean half-jokingly toyed with purchasing the idea of a tiny gilded letter opener with a broken blade to make his process even more official. Â
After the paper was gingerly folded back to expose the cigarettes, there was even more room to ritualize the act. Dean would carefully pick out one cigarette from the pack. His reasoning for his choices always varied; sometimes, heâd quickly snag the filter sticking out the most; other times, Dean would simplyâŚ. feel it. Whatever way he chose the first cigarette, it wasnât for smoking. Instead, heâd picked out his lucky cigarette, replacing it upside down back into the package.
The teal box fit into the pocket of his jeans, packed in against the swiss army knife heâd carried since he was eight and his father tucked one into his palm. The denim stretched taut over the intrusion, adapting to a new addition in Deanâs metaphorical toolbelt.
Once that first pack was bought, he was done for. Dean had a penchant for distraction, a weak spot for vices, and an ache for routine. Each morning they were alone started with the  cl-click  of the motel door locking behind him, Sammy following in toe. The kid always made a face as Dean started in on his morning cigarette, but whining about stuff like that was part of being a younger brother. Dean always made sure to stand downwind from Sam anyway, which wasnât ever hard since the kid avoided the clouds of smoke like the plague.
The actual act of smoking wasnât the part Dean was interested in, especially that first time around. So, when Dean was caught red-handed, crouched behind the vending machines, lighting up behind the motel he was staying at with his dad and little brother, his biggest worry was losing his private rituals. John had snatched the box away and snapped each of the cigarettes in half, ranting the whole time about how he had raised Dean better than to pull shit like this, to waste money like this, to expose Sam⌠Still, Deanâs mind was elsewhere, mourning the fact that he wouldnât get to smoke the cigarette he had picked out as lucky. Â
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The second time Dean quit smoking, he was old enough to purchase his own packs legally. Heâd smoked a few here and since the last time, bummed a smoke outside some garbage dive bars, snagged a couple from hunting buddies of his dadâs, but this was real. This was a brand new, plastic-wrapped box, packed to the brim and primed for Deanâs rituals.
There was a boy, another hunter who smoked parliaments in a blue box that matched his eyes and who wore leather and paid for Deanâs drinks when they went out to celebrate a job well survived. They sat too close and laughed too loud and smoked too many shared cigarettes. When they stepped outside afterwards to find the blue and white box empty, they stumbled to the gas station with their hands bumping and shoulders brushing together, and the boy bought Deanâs second-first pack.
They were eighteen and fumbling with a zippo to light each otherâs smokes on the journey back to their motel. The ritual of a new pack paled in comparison to how each inhale tasted the way Dean imagined the other boy would taste if he were to allow himself to imagine those things.
That hunting trip ended, that pack ran out, the two boys lost contact, but Dean kept smoking. Nearly a dozen jobs and sixteen packs later, Dean heard that a job up north went sideways and the taste of smoke started to feel like something he lost instead of something he could cling to.