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“Agent Perry, this is my partner Agent Jepsen. Can you tell us what happened here?”
Dean ignores the skeptical look the sheriff gives them, probably too tempted to ask why the Feds are suddenly interested in inconspicuous local cases, but luckily he thinks better than to ask. “Follow me, Agents.”
They follow him down into the woods. It’s a wide but muddy trail, and at one point Dean grabs Cas’ arm to prevent him from stepping right into a suspicious puddle. They come to a halt in the middle of the path, and there’s a body lying on the ground, thankfully covered by a piece of tarp. Dean does his best to ignore the smell and keep a straight face.
The sheriff gives them a rundown of what they have so far: A seventeen year old girl, Olive, suddenly dropped dead on her way home from a friend’s house the night before. No witnesses, no pre-existing conditions, so far no signs of drugs in her system. Dean asks a few follow up questions before Cas jumps at the chance, careful not to let him talk too much. He’s got great intuition and investigative skills, but also a history of saying the wrong things around authorities that tend to earn him a questionable look.
Cas pulls out the EMF once the sheriff finally leaves them to it. Dean scrunches his nose and squats down, pulls back the cover to get a good look at the body. There’s no external signs of anything really, no bite marks, no missing heart, no obvious injuries. Dean carefully checks her teeth and her fingers, but nothing.
“You got an idea?”
Cas shakes his head. “No ghost, I don’t think. And I can’t smell any sulfur, so—”
“No demon either, probably.” Dean scans the space around them for more clues, then remembers something. “Didn’t she have anything on her? A purse, a bag?”
Cas turns and looks at the group of police officers standing at the edge of the forest. “I thought they had her backpack over there.”
Making a mental note to ask to take a look at it before they leave, Dean checks out the girl’s pockets. The first thing he finds is her phone, hands it over to Cas, then pats down the rest. There’s a set of keys, a wallet, a crumbled up gas station receipt, but nothing of interest.
He gets to his feet with only a faint pain to his knee. “Alright, I got nothing.”
Cas doesn’t react, keeps staring at the phone in his hands.
“I’m assuming it’s locked?”
This time, he gets a nod in response. “Four digit code. Maybe Sam can help us crack it.”
He’ll probably make it a teachable moment for all three of them, too. They make their way back to where a flock of police officers is standing, intending to get a look at the girl’s bag, but are told that they just missed the guy who took it back to the station.
Instead, they write down some names and addresses of the victim’s friends and family before they quickly leave the crime scene, suddenly too aware of the crowds gathering right outside the security tape. Quite a lot of people for a small town like this, but the sheriff did mention something about an upcoming festival. Valentine’s Day and all that, Dean doesn’t really care.
For a few miles, Dean does his best to remember the route he looked up on his phone just before leaving, all these street names sounding too damn similar. After one intersection too many, he turns to Cas, about to ask him to check if they’re still going the right way, but finds Cas distracted. His lips are moving, his head is slightly swaying from side to side, his eyes are halfway closed.
There’s a pop song playing on the radio. Some high pitched female teenage voice. Worst of all, Dean recognizes the song.
In his defense, Cas can be a manipulative bastard when it comes to playing music in the car. Dean’s explained the rules about whose pick it is to him more than once, more than ten times probably, but Cas’ expression will visibly fall and he’ll stay quiet the whole drive and suck up one Led Zeppelin tape after another, until Dean inevitably turns on that one annoying radio station just to replace that stupid pout with a smile. It’s a better look on him.
They’ve had real arguments about this, actually. Starting with Dean telling Cas to quit whining about Dean’s music and growing better taste and ending with Cas telling Dean that it’s okay to have your own taste, you don’t have to copy your idolized father’s, and well. That shut Dean right up.
Eyes back on the road, Cas doesn’t seem to have noticed Dean looking over, so he just keeps driving.
It’s dark out by the time they pull into the parking lot of the motel. They left the bunker early that morning and went straight to the crime scene when they arrived a few hours later, so they haven’t even checked in yet, but Dean is dying for a shower and some shut-eye. A whole afternoon of sympathizing with a grieving family takes its toll.
As always, nobody speaks bad of the dead. Olive was popular, friends with most people, acquainted with the rest. There was only one thing: Olive’s friends named one girl from school, Madison, who had a feud with her, all because Olive started dating her best friend, but Dean’s not sure that’s enough of a reason to kill her. Besides, the killer is not usually the first person with a semblance of a motive. It’s never that easy.
Speaking of never that easy. Dean’s leaning against the car, texting Sam a short update on how the case is going and waiting for Cas to return from the front desk with their room key. The parking lot is suspiciously full for a random one star motel on the outskirts of town on a Thursday night. Probably has to do with the festival, so he doesn’t think any further about it until a few minutes later Cas returns with empty hands.
“They’re full.”
Dean frowns. “You serious?”
“Look around.”
Goddammit. Dean rubs his hand over his face and sighs. “Let’s try somewhere else.”
On the drive, Cas looks up nearby motels on his phone. The next one is a couple miles away and they sit in companionable silence, except for Cas occasionally giving Dean directions and yet another pop song playing on the radio. Dean ignores it. Cas hums along.
Unsurprisingly, the situation is much of the same here. Packed parking lot, lights on in every room, the “no” in the vacancy sign illuminated. Dean decides to ignore all those signs and marches right in anyway, ringing the bell a reasonable four times. The guy working the front desk looks like he’d rather be anywhere else tonight.
“If you want a room, we’re full,” he says languidly before Dean can even read his name tag.
“Really? Not a single free room?”
“Nope.”
Dean refrains from rolling his eyes. “Look, kid, I’m here on official business, and my—”
He hasn't even pulled out his badge when the guy cuts him off. “I said, we’re full. Official business won’t help you with that.” It’s followed by a mumble that sounds like You should’ve booked in advance.
Dean glares at him, then sighs and accepts his loss. “You got any idea where one might find a room for tonight?”
The kid seems to respond to his change of tone. “Nah, far as I know, most motels around here are fully booked until Monday. You could try some of the nicer places in town.”
That’s not the answer Dean was hoping for, but he’ll take what he can get. He flashes the kid a quick smile in thanks before returning to the car and bringing Cas the bad news.
They repeat that process one more time at a motel near the airport, and again at one near the city center, but are out of luck both times. They sit in the car after a quick visit to the closest fast food place, thinking about how they always took available rooms for granted and rarely were faced with lack of vacancies.
“We could sleep in the car,” Cas says, and Dean watches him cover a yawn with the back of his hand. It’s cute, and Dean would appreciate it more if he wasn’t so tired himself.
Dean hums in response, neither in agreement nor dismissal. Just acknowledgement, since he would really prefer a real bed over the backseat tonight (nothing personal). He thinks about what the kid at the second motel told him. “You got your credit card, right?”
Cas nods, and Dean turns on the engine. He drives back down the road they came from, heading for a hotel he saw on the way in. Nothing over-the-top luxurious, but definitely way above their usual pay grade. For a fearful second, Dean misreads the sign over the driveway as valet parking, but sighs in relief when he finds the little word optional.
He pulls into a well lit parking garage underneath the building, and Cas takes the elevator up while Dean stays in the car. No need for both of them to go in if there’s a good chance they’re gonna have to look somewhere else again anyway. Dean takes a minute to re-park the car in the most asshole-ish way possible so nobody can pull in left or right and scratch her while doing so.
Looking around the place, Dean already feels weirdly out of place. He can probably count the times he stayed in something nicer than a roadside motel on one hand. It’s just never been an option for him, has it? Spending more money than strictly necessary on a place to spend the night?
Sure, just living at the bunker is already saving them a shitload of money they used to have to spend on motel rooms, so it’s not like a fancy place like this is going to crash their savings, but still. Dean just isn’t used to splurging.
And besides, this isn’t even splurging. They’re still working a case, and they just need a place to sleep and shower. This just happens to be the only (hopefully) available one.
Dean’s prayers seem to have been heard when he spots Cas in the rearview mirror, holding both thumbs up. There’s a smile on his face, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. Something feels off about it.
He gets out of the car and raises an eyebrow at Cas. “What’d it cost?”
Cas huffs and passes Dean the key (that is shaped like a credit card, not a metal key, because apparently this place is card-fancy). “Too much.”
They grab their bags from the trunk and make their way toward the elevator. Dean glances at Baby one last time before the doors close, feeling only a little on edge about leaving her here all night. Sure, the garage is probably under video surveillance, but he wouldn’t put it past any rich assholes to hit and run anyway.
Other guests get on and off, and Dean realizes that he has no clue where their own room is, didn’t see which button Cas pressed when they got on. Cas’ odd silence makes him think it might be on the top floor which, for obvious quick-escape reasons, is usually not his preference. They haven’t come into contact with the potential monster yet, so there shouldn’t be anyone coming after them (yet).
They are the only ones left when the elevator comes to a halt on the fourteenth floor, which is just the thirteenth in disguise, but Dean’s too busy paying off those six hundred years of bad luck from smashing a whole store full of mirrors to worry about any more superstitions. He’s about to step out when a hand catches his sleeve.
The expression on Cas’ face has morphed into something of worry. “I should mention something.”
Those words never prelude anything good, so Dean braces himself. “What is it?”
Cas visibly swallows. “The room is a single.”
Dean blinks. Single, as in—
“There weren’t any more doubles left in this price range, and my card got declined when I tried a higher one.”
That’s. Well. Still better than sleeping in the car, probably?
“If you have your credit card, I could try—”
“It’s fine, Cas,” Dean says when he hears the distress in his tone, like this is in any way his fault. “Don’t worry, I can take the floor.”
He then turns back toward the criminally long hallway, waiting for Cas to go ahead and lead them to their room. Cas stays right where he is though, quickly holding an arm out when the elevator doors threaten to close in front of him. He’s doing that little squint and head tilt thing again, which usually means he’s confused, but combined with the furrowed brows, there’s something else going on.
Before Dean can say anything about it, Cas shakes his head and keeps his eyes trained on his feet all the way down to room number ten. He swipes the card, turns on the light, and—
Woah.
This sure is a room worth Cas’ entire credit card balance. Not that Dean has any reference, but this does look pretty fucking nice. The first thing he notices is the laminate he’s walking on, no sign of discolored carpet. White walls, dark wooden furniture, some comfy looking chairs and a flat screen TV. There’s approximately a hundred decorative pillows piled up on the bed.
Dean would have thought that a room like this comes with a king size bed, but the queen will do too. Not like he’s gonna sleep in it anyway. The rug at the foot of the bed looks just as inviting.
Cas drops his bag on the bed and loosens his tie. Dean intentionally makes himself look away, decides to pull open the curtains and check out the view instead. There’s a few bright spots here and there, but in the distance, he can see a bigger accumulation of lights. He assumes that’s where the aforementioned festival is taking place, if the ferris wheel is anything to go by.
“Do you wanna go first?”
He turns around, finds Cas standing in the middle of the room in just his dress pants and undershirt, his fingers halfway through unbuttoning his white dress shirt. Dean has half a mind to go over there and help him with it.
“Shower, I mean.”
Dean blinks and shakes his head. “Yeah, no, it’s fine, go ahead.”
Cas shucks off the shirt and grabs a fistful of spare clothes from his bag before disappearing into what Dean can only assume is the bathroom. He takes a minute to take off his own jacket and tie before snooping around the room. Bible in the nightstand drawer noted, he flips through a pile of books and brochures on the desk, briefly considers ordering room service when he finds the dessert page in the menu (but quickly drops the idea when he sees the price tag), before he finally picks up a pamphlet that seems to advertise the festival.
Apparently it’s the city’s big annual thing they take pride in, their valentine’s parade and a whole extended weekend of celebrations. Dean’s wonders what’s so special about it until he sees a list of musical acts scheduled to perform. It makes sense to him then, the fact that people would be coming into town and taking up all the cheap motel rooms.
He briefly entertains the thought of taking Cas to the festival, make him try cotton candy and pay for an overpriced ride on the ferris wheel.
He flips through it but gets bored rather quickly, partly because he’s too lazy to go fetch his glasses from his bag, and he’s really starting to need them more regularly these days, so he turns on the TV instead. Before he can settle on a channel though, Cas comes back out of the bathroom and suddenly Dean loses all ability to focus on the screen.
He’s not naked, of course, but he might as well be. He’s wearing a pair of boxer briefs that look light they’re too tight on him, at least Dean tells himself that because he can’t let himself think about the alternative where the pair actually fits, it’s just Cas who—
He’s not even going to go there. His eyes trail up Cas’ body over his toned chest and past his nipples that Dean absolutely doesn’t think about sucking and biting. He fully takes advantage of the towel covering Cas’ eyes and lets his eyes flicker to Cas’ arms, his broad shoulders, twitching biceps as Cas dries his hair with both hands.
Yeah, no, Dean definitely made the right call to not even consider sharing a bed with that guy. He’s not sure he would survive the night without a boner, especially knowing that Cas only sleeps in boxers and a t-shirt, no PJs on road trips.
He snaps out of it just in time, grabs his own change of clothes and locks himself in the bathroom. It’s small and has the same color scheme as the bedroom, and Dean’s grateful for a real shower instead of those bathtubs with a shower head. It’s steamy in there, the mirror is fogged up and when Dean steps into the shower, the smell of Cas’ fruity body gel is still in the air.
Unfortunately, the reminder that just minutes before, Cas was in here, running his hands over his wet, naked body, does not help take Dean’s mind off things. Things being the fact that he’s slowly growing a boner because he got a good glimpse at his best friend's bare chest and the shape of his dick in his underwear, the same best friend he might have a mild but earth-shattering crush on.
It’s—Well, it’s annoying for once. To have to bite his tongue to stay quiet when taking care of his problem because the object of his desire is just a room over, probably watching the dumb reality TV show Dean came across while zapping. To come with Cas’ name on his lips, immediately followed by the inevitable rush of shame. He turns off the shower and goes to brush his teeth in front of the still fogged-up mirror.
As predicted, Cas is lying under the covers, staring straight ahead at the TV where the newest episode of that island dating show Cas started watching is airing. He doesn’t pay any attention to Dean grabbing one of the pillows from the bed and throwing it on the floor, then rummaging through the closet in search for a spare blanket.
He sets up his makeshift bed at the foot of the actual bed. After folding up his suit and shoving the rest of his clothes into his bag for a quick exit, if necessary, he goes to grab his gun.
Cas calls his name just as he’s counting the bullets in the chamber. Dean doesn’t look up, only hums in acknowledgement. “Are you sure you’re fine to sleep on the floor?”
Dean momentarily meets his eyes, sees the disbelieving look on his face. “Yeah, sure.”
They spend a few more minutes talking about the case, decide they’re going to go to the police station in the morning to see if they have any breakthrough discoveries (Dean’s willing to bet fifty dollars they haven’t even started doing the paperwork), go talk to their only suspect, and hope to have an autopsy report by the afternoon.
Cas is still engulfed in his show when Dean lies down. The floor is hard as brick, there’s no sugarcoating that, and he should probably put on another layer of clothing right now because this thin sheet is most likely not going to keep him warm. Of course, he could also turn up the heat, but he knows Cas can’t sleep in warm rooms, even slightly opened one of the windows while Dean was in the bathroom, so it’s not really an option.
He closes his eyes. There’s no good night, no sleep tight, and Dean’s not sure why. Cas has seemed rather closed off since that moment earlier, the way he reacted to Dean telling him he’s fine to sleep on the floor. Like—But that wouldn’t make sense, because why would Cas have an issue with that? Or was he offended by Dean not even considering the option of sharing the bed?
Either way, it doesn’t matter now. Dean doesn’t fall asleep right away, needs several minutes to find a comfortable enough position that only sends a pain through the smallest number of body parts. He half listens to the TV, hopes that tonight’s elimination and subsequent drama somehow lull him to sleep, but to no avail.
When the episode ends, Cas turns off the lights and the TV.
Dean loses track of time after that. He drifts in and out of sleep, he thinks, asleep enough to enter that hazy dream world but awake enough to hear the steady sound of Cas’ breathing.
With every passing minute Dean wishes he’d packed a damn hoodie. He brings his legs as close to his chest as he comfortably can, then tries to preserve body heat, but the breeze coming from the open window right through the poor excuse for a blanket destroys any effort to stay warm.
At some point, Dean wakes from a gradually increasing ache in his shoulder and groans.
“Dean?”
He slowly shifts onto his back as his eyes flutter open. Cas tends to sleep like a baby once he’s out, Dean didn’t expect his tossing to keep him awake. “Yeah?”
Cas hesitates for a moment. Then he says, “Do you wanna come to bed?”
Yeah. “I’m good, Cas,” he says instead, you know, like a liar. For a wild minute, he thinks Cas’ll buy it. Then he tries to stretch his arms and a sharp pain shoots through his back, making him gasp.
Suddenly there’s a noise coming from the bed, a rustling of sheets followed by footsteps, and when Cas speaks, his voice is much closer than before. “Get up.”
“What?”
“Get up. Give me your hands.”
Dean frowns up at him, although Cas can’t see him. “Dude, I—”
“Dean.” That tone shuts Dean right up. “Give me your hands.”
And frankly, Dean’s just too tired to argue any further. He sits up and lifts one arm into the air, not the one with the bad shoulder, bumping his hand against Cas’ in the process, and before he knows it, Cas is clutching it tight. “Wait—” he tries, but Cas doesn’t wait, and Dean finds himself being pulled to his feet in one swift motion like he’s a small child and Cas didn’t lose his angelic strength months ago.
Cas doesn’t let go, though. Quite the opposite, he reaches for Dean’s other hand and wraps his fingers around them. “You’re freezing.”
Dean huffs, feeling the cold air on his bare arms at the reminder. “Yeah, ‘cause it’s basically Antarctica in here.”
When Cas finally does drop his hands, he replaces one on Dean’s back and with an astonishing lack of resistance, Dean lets himself be guided around the side of the bed. “Get in,” Cas says, and Dean gets in where Cas already pulled back the covers. His pillow stays on the floor, there’s more than enough on the bed still, but Cas wordlessly picks up and hands over Dean’s gun before he returns to his own side. Dean shoves it underneath his new pillow.
And there’s that. They’re in bed together. They’re in the same bed together, under the same covers sharing the same space. For some reason, Dean expected that to be a bigger pill to swallow.
“Cas?”
“There’s nothing wrong with sharing the bed, Dean,” he replies, soft but with a clearly annoyed tone that Dean knows too well.
He gulps. No, of course, Cas is right, and if it wasn’t for Dean’s big gay crush, he probably wouldn’t have half as many issues with sharing a bed with his best friend as he does.
Doesn’t matter now anyway, because Dean’s no longer lying on the hard floor and his joints are thanking him for it. Still, he has yet to warm up, and this side of the bed hasn’t been slept in. Dean involuntarily shivers, which is stupid because these sheets are much thicker and it’ll probably only take him a few minutes to warm up, but he’s just not there yet.
He lets out a shuddering breath. Cas seems to notice, because angel or not, that guy hears everything. “Are you still cold?”
“‘M fine,” Dean mumbles.
He’s lying on his side facing away from Cas, so he can’t tell for sure what the commotion behind him means, he only figures out what’s going on when he feels something warm against his back, an arm snaking around his waist. It feels like Cas’ chest pressed against him, his legs intertwining with Dean’s, his warm breath on the back of Dean’s neck. God, he knew Cas was hot and all, but that guy really is a walking furnace.
“Is this okay?”
It takes a minute for the tension to leave Dean’s body. He wraps his fingers around Cas’ hand and presses it to his chest in response, and he knows Cas understands from the way he slowly exhales.
Dean quickly warms up, even regains feeling in his toes. It’s just a lot to take in right now, it’s not everyday that the former celestial being of your dreams cuddles you to keep you from freezing, after all. He’s surprised at how easy it is though, how natural it feels. Cas is cuddling him, so what? It’s far from as inherently sexual as Dean made it out to be, although he pointedly does not think about which part of Cas’ body is pressing into his butt right now.
It fades to the back of his mind though, Cas’ arm around his body and just the general feeling of so much physical contact, well, that just—
It feels good. It feels right. So when Dean does fall asleep, he’s pretty sure there’s a smile on his face.
Their alarm goes off at an unreasonable six thirty in the morning, so Dean does the reasonable thing and hits snooze.
Twice. Then he turns it off.
They are all dressed up and on their way to the police station at ten AM sharp. Of course, it would’ve been earlier if it wasn’t for Cas’ insistence on them stopping at a café to get breakfast. Meals at the hotel aren’t included, Cas said he tried but it wasn’t in the budget.
Only when they were in line at the café did Dean realize what that meant. Cas never carries much cash on him, and his credit card was maxed out, so any other expenses on this trip Dean would have to cover. Which is fine, of course, if Cas covers Dean’s accommodation, the least Dean can do is take him out to eat.
Which—to buy him food, Dean meant. Not taking him out. Least of all on a date. They’re just two guys who know each other getting breakfast together, and Dean happens to be the one paying for it.
To be fair, Dean half expects things to be weird between them. They did fall asleep cuddling, spooning even, and if anyone correctly guessed that Dean was the little spoon, he would shoot them in the foot.
It doesn’t come to that, though. They don’t talk about it. They just sit and argue about whether or not pineapple belongs on pizza like nothing happened. Maybe it’s because when Dean woke up in the morning, he woke up alone. Cas was already brushing his teeth in the bathroom, so Dean started getting dressed and they didn’t talk about it.
Over breakfast, Dean asks Sam to send them instructions on how to unlock the victim’s phone (only gets an “use the program on cas’ laptop i showed you about 100 times how it works” in return). They decide to keep it in the back of their minds, just in case neither the victim’s backpack nor the autopsy report are of any help.
When they arrive at the station, Dean wishes Cas had accepted his bet the night before, because not a single officer has done any work for the case yet. They are led to the evidence room and are told the sheriff will be with them in a few minutes.
The victim’s backpack is mostly full of notebooks, a history textbook Dean has to explicitly tell Cas not to skim through because that’s not what they’re here for, a water bottle and other miscellaneous crap teenagers carry with them.
Except—
Cas goes ahead and dumps the entire contents of the bag on the table, and Dean recognizes the tiny black sack the second he spots it.
“Son of a bitch.”
He holds up the hex bag for Cas to see and rolls his eyes because if he’S being honest, witches are always kind of a pain in the ass. Cutting off vampires’ heads and stabbing werewolves in the heart, that’s fine, they might be a little juiced up but nothing Dean can’t handle. Witches, however, they fight back. They use their little funky spells and suddenly Dean’s choking on his tongue or can’t feel his hands anymore. Just a step down from demons, and Dean is thankful for every case that doesn’t turn out to be witches.
“So we’re looking for a witch?”
Dean nods while untying the little strap, then puts the open cloth down on the table. He’s not sure what exactly all that crap is, but it definitely looks like ingredients for some kind of spell. He’s seen enough hex bags to know when he sees one.
Cas hums, lost in thought. Dean wraps the sack back up and shoves it into his pocket, then starts skimming the rest of the backpack’s contents, but there’s nothing else of interest.
“Do you think it was that other girl?” Cas asks, Dean only lifts one eyebrow in question. “The one she had trouble with.”
“Whose friend she was dating? You think there’s a whole teenage coven on her ass?”
“You have a better idea, then?”
Dean stays quiet. There’s a sparkle in Cas’ eyes, a sadistic one that tells him this whole teenage drama is totally reminding Cas of his dumb reality TV shows. Dean ignores it. “We should talk to her.”
The door opens just as they’re about done shoving all the books back into the backpack, certain that the missing hex bag will go unnoticed, if the police didn’t know what to make of it before, they sure as hell won’t now. The sheriff comes in. “Agents, just in time. The autopsy report just came in.”
They follow him to his office and he motions for them to take a look at his computer. Now that they know it’s a witch they’re after, Dean’s not sure the autopsy report is gonna be of much use, but of course there’s no way to explain that. He’s got no clue what all that medical jargon means, so he pretends to read the email on the screen and waits for the sheriff to explain.
Apparently, the girl died of a heart attack. At least that’s what the coroner called it, because how do you rationally explain a heart that was neatly torn in two pieces? Without any external damage, no signs of a fight, no other injuries. It very much fits most witches’ MO, at least those that Dean has met.
Dean only understands the joke of the whole situation when the sheriff combines the words broken and heart. He makes up an excuse for him and Cas to leave on the spot, tells the sheriff they’ll be in touch (they won’t) and drags him out of the station.
There’s a confused frown on Cas’ face all the way to the car, but Dean only explains when they’re pulling out of the parking lot. “You were right.”
“I was?”
“Dude, broken heart? The boyfriend drama and all?”
It’s a good five seconds before it dawns on Cas. “Oh. I get it. There’s an irony in killing someone the same way they hurt you.”
“Yeah, Sherlock. We gotta find her.”
They arrive back at the hotel in the afternoon, both racking their brains for a good, efficient way to kill a witch. It seems odd, that over the course of many years, they have still not found an easy, reliable way to do so apart from Cas’ angel blade. Of course, regardless of how strong they are, they’re still human at the core, but a good portion of witches Dean has met have been juiced up to the point where mortal deaths would no longer affect them.
The girl, Madison, was a great actress for starters. Played the role of the mourning friend very well, with all the sniffing and the cracking voice. She told them about her fight with Olive, some petty story about how she started dating Madison’s best friend or whatever, Dean didn’t pay all that much attention.
He was closely watching her body language, her facial expressions, the tone of her voice and the direction her eyes went in when she answered Cas’ questions. It wasn’t hard for Dean to see right past her and her mountain of lies. Takes one to know one, or whatever.
What was interesting though, was her mother’s involvement in the conversation. Ms Palmer stayed quiet, kept a physical distance even, but her eyes followed her daughter’s every movement. At one point Dean was pretty sure he caught her mouthing along to her daughter’s words. Madison did not answer a single question without looking at her mother for approval first.
Something was very fishy. There’s definitely an army of skeletons hanging in their closets.
The only seemingly normal person in that family was Madison’s sister Max. She’s just a tad younger, and they didn’t speak to her other than Hello and Bye, but she sat at the dining table doing homework the whole time they were there. Dean’s pretty sure he caught her looking over there a few times, eavesdropped on their conversation at the very least.
When Cas asked Madison if she knew of anyone who might have wanted to hurt Olive, Dean didn’t miss the way Max looked up and froze like she was curious to hear Madison’s answer. She slowly returned back to her work when her sister said that she couldn’t think of anyone.
When they left, Dean made sure to leave his current alias’ business card on the dining table.
He and Cas had silently come to a mutual agreement not to strike then and there, even though the whole mother-daughter behavior was waving all kinds of red flags. They didn’t leave the hotel prepared to fight two, possibly three, witches today, and were only carrying a meager selection of weapons with them.
And besides, they still need some concrete proof for them being witches. A hunch, even if it’s a reasonable one, isn’t enough to justify killing them.
“We need to get into that house,” Dean says as he sits down in one of those funky modern chairs in their room.
Cas at least takes off his coat and jacket before sitting down at the edge of the bed. “We could break in tonight? Hoping they’re all at the festival?”
That is an excellent idea. It’s Friday night and Dean definitely saw a flyer for the festival on their dining table when putting down his card. “We don’t know that they’re all going though.”
“I can imagine the girls going,” Cas says and it’s entirely possible he says more after that, but he also starts rolling up his sleeves just below his elbow and Dean’s brain kind of gives out. Who can blame him though, it’s not everyday that Cas shows some skin.
Unless, of course, you count last night where Cas was only wearing a t-shirt and a tight pair of briefs while spooning Dean to sleep. Dean was simultaneously relieved and upset he was wearing pajama pants at that time, unsure if he could have handled direct skin-to-skin contact of their intertwined legs.
Then again, he found himself handling the whole situation with more ease than he had anticipated. When other times he gets hard at the mere thought of what’s in Cas’ pants, he was ignoring the sensation of it pressing against his ass like a pro. In fact, he was—
“Dean?”
Dean snaps out of it. “Huh?”
“I said if the house is not empty by the time it’s dark, we could fake a phone call from someone, or trigger the fire alarm or the gas detector, I noticed they had both of those when we were—”
“Yeah,” Dean says before Cas starts rambling any more. “Yeah, sounds good. Phone call from the morgue works like a charm.”
Cas smiles and God, if Dean wasn’t already so infatuated with him, he surely would be now. “What are we gonna do until then?”
“I could go for a nap,” Dean replies impulsively, and then thinks hey, why not? Usually they’re kind of on the clock, always trying to kill the monster before it strikes again, but this case is different. There was only one victim to begin with, and they’re already at least ninety percent sure they know who did it. Dean’s not expecting them to kill again within the next couple hours, not if Olive’s murder was something personal.
Cas doesn’t stop him so Dean follows through, drops his shoes by the door, then takes off his jacket and loosens his tie before lying down. Cas grabs his laptop and Olive’s phone from the desk, and turns on the TV for background noises.
It feels oddly domestic, how the two of them just settle into bed next to each other in the middle of the fucking day like it’s the most normal thing in the world. He plays last night on a loop over and over in his head, and passes out with the dream of getting to repeat it tonight.
Nap time is cut short. Dean doesn’t know what time it is, Hell, he’d be lucky if he could remember the year right now. There’s the sound of a phone ringing, and Dean’s hoping it’s not his own.
“Dean, that’s yours.”
Of course it is.
Cas is already holding it for Dean to take. He gives himself about three seconds to sit up in bed, blink a few times and clear his throat before he answers. “Hello?”
“Agent Perry?” It’s a female voice, one he’s not sure he’s heard before.
“Yes, who’s this?”
“Max Palmer.”
That’s—
“I need your help.”
“Alright, uh,” he stutters, absolutely not awake enough for this conversation. “Max, my partner is here, let me put you on speaker.”
Cas frowns at the name, but he closes his laptop and listens in.
“I don’t have much time, but I—you’re gonna think I’m insane, but I swear I’m not, I—”
“Breathe, Max, it’s okay, whatever you want to tell us, we’re gonna believe you,” Cas assures her and Dean is once again fascinated by how quickly he learned to talk to people. He vividly remembers Cas’ first official case as a hunter-in-training, where the first thing he did was accuse the grieving wife of murdering her husband and the second thing was to disclose the truth about the guy’s affair. Much has changed since then.
“Okay,” she says on a deep exhale, sounding only a little less stressed out than before. “Okay, well. My mom’s a witch.”
Well, Dean can’t pretend he’s surprised at the revelation, only at the way they’re finding this out. “A witch?”
“Yes, I know, I know, but I’m serious. The dead girl? That’s on her and my sister.”
“So your sister’s a witch, too?” Dean asks, just looking for confirmation of their suspicions, before he can remember to act shocked at the revelation.
“Yeah, well, sort of, they’re both—Wait.” Max is silent for a few seconds. “You actually—You believe me?”
“Yes, Max,” Cas says, “we believe you.”
“Oh,” comes the reply, “Okay, um. Good?”
“What did you need help with?” Dean prompts.
“Right, right, I—I’m just. I’m scared of them. My mom, mostly.”
Dean can clearly hear the frightened tone in her voice, a shiver just below the surface. “Are they hurting you?”
“No, not me, but—This wasn’t the first time she did it.”
It probably being murder for personal reasons, Dean assumes. They had checked the police records for similar cases over the years, but nothing substantial had come up. “Why are you telling us this now?”
There’s the sound of distant voices, then rustling and movement, and suddenly Max is laughing. “Yes, Sarah, we’re going to Giovanni’s as always. See ya at six.”
Then she hangs up.
Dean stares at the phone screen until it goes black while processing what just happened. Cas seems to do the same. “Did she just,” he says and unintentionally trails off.
“Secretly ask us to meet her somewhere?” Cas finishes for him and grabs Dean’s phone from his open palm, unlocking it with ease. “Yes, I think so.”
Dean leans back against the headboard. “So—So what, Max is a witch, too?”
“She didn’t say.” Cas doesn’t look up from Dean’s phone. “But if she was, why would she be scared of her family?”
This makes Dean realize he never learned how witch powers even work. Are you born with it? Can anyone learn? Or do they draw their powers from something? He’s never let a witch live long enough to give him a history lesson about it. “Do you think she’s lying?”
“Giovanni’s is an Italian restaurant downtown,” Cas replies, ignoring Dean’s question. “It has four and a half stars on yelp.”
“Oh, in that case we’re definitely meeting her there. What time is it?”
“Almost five.”
Dean freezes, then reflexively grabs his phone to fact check. “Almost—Why didn’t you wake me earlier?”
“You didn’t ask me to.”
He jumps out of bed, makes a beeline for the bathroom, then back to the bed, goes through his bag on the floor, scans the room for his shoes, makes sure his gun is loaded even though he hasn’t used it since he checked last night, looks for—
“Dean.”
Cas’ warm hand is on his shoulder. Dean’s hand stills where he was just putting his watch back on. “I shouldn’t have slept that long.”
“Why? You didn’t miss anything.”
“Still, dude, it’s been what, two hours?” Cas shrugs in a more or less kind of motion. “What did you even do, sit there and watch me?”
Cas, that smug bastard smiles. Probably remembers the times he actually did just that. “Actually, I cracked the phone. I didn’t find anything of use to the case though.”
Right, that damn phone Dean forgot about. If it was up to him, he wouldn’t have even bothered with it anymore, now that they’ve practically solved the case. Found the bad guy, just need to find a way to take him out.
Somehow, Dean lets Cas convince him of the necessity of another half hour of rest then, like his over-two-hour nap wasn’t enough. How he even managed that, he has no idea, because it’s not like he didn’t get enough shut-eye the night before. Quite the contrary, he slept like a baby in Cas’ arms, so maybe it was Cas’ presence right next to him on the bed that made Dean zonk out.
It’s kind of sad, knowing he can’t get used to it. He’s only got two more nights like this, eternally grateful that Cas prepaid for three nights right away. On Sunday they’ll head back to the bunker (operating under the assumption that they gank the witches before then), and probably pretend this never happened. They’ll go back to their normal lives, as far as normal goes for them, and Dean will have to live with the knowledge of what having Cas’ soft dick pressed against his ass feels like.
They watch TV for about fifteen more minutes while Cas sums up what he found on Olive’s phone, and he was right, it’s probably probably nothing of import. Her chat history with Madison was the only potentially valuable thing on there, but it only further confirmed their theory of Madison being responsible for Olive’s murder.
Because apparently, the whole image is a little different than the bits and pieces of information they’ve collected from everyone they interviewed. Olive started dating Madison’s best friend, and the reason Madison had a problem with that was because she had a thing for her, too, and got jealous when she went out with someone else.
Dean only takes half a second to catch on. Madison was in love with her best girl friend. Love, with an L as in lesbians. That’s fine. Dean is secretly glad Sam isn’t here to see the reaction on his face, he’d just give him the same old patronizing speech about how yes, Dean, people are gay, and Dean would take one look at Cas absentmindedly licking his lips, and decide that the warmth he feels in his stomach is certainly something he will not be examining any further, thank you very much.
Besides though, Dean would argue that just coming clean and telling the girl, her supposedly best friend, about her feelings for her would be a better solution than straight up murdering her new girlfriend, but he can see how that would be hypocritical of him, so he stays quiet.
They’re ready to leave their hotel room at five thirty sharp. It’s only a short drive to the restaurant, but Cas brought up the possibility of the meeting being a trap, so they gotta come prepared.
Dean’s heading for the door when a hand on his wrist stops him. He spins on his heel and is suddenly face to face with Cas, and if Dean’s eyes flicker down to Cas’ lips for a fraction of a second, that’s totally not his fault.
Cas releases his grip on Dean’s wrist and lifts his hand. Dean just stands there, helplessly, with no intention to move or ask what Cas is doing, just watches as both of his hands settle on Dean’s tie, his breath gets caught in his throat, and—
Right. He remembers loosening it earlier, has never been too fond of the feeling of a piece of cloth wrapped tight around his neck (unless it’s for sexy reasons, but that’s a whole other story). Cas’ fingers carefully pull on one end while holding the other in place, fixing his tie for him, and after a few more skillful touches to the collar of Dean’s dress shirt, he lets go.
Wordlessly, Cas meets Dean’s eyes and smiles at him. Then Dean follows him out the door with a racing heart and sweaty hands.
The meeting with Max is... unexpectedly professional, considering Max is a fifteen year old freshman in high school who shows up wearing a print t-shirt she likely got from a comic store.
The first thing she does, after ordering a large pepperoni pizza, is demand a reason for why two FBI agents claim to believe in witches. Dean thinks it’s a valid question and comes clean. Not too clean, just about their years of knowledge about supernatural beings and that hunting them is what they do.
Max freezes when Dean uses the word hunting. Understandably so, and Dean honestly means it when he tells her he doesn’t want to have to kill her mother, but if she’s playing God with other people’s lives, she needs to be stopped. Max seems to take that well enough.
She tells them the story of Ms Palmer’s powers after that. It’s a lengthy tale that Dean absolutely does not have the energy to pay attention to, especially not when his knee is resting against Cas’ where they’re sitting next to each other in the booth. By the time he’s done zoning out, Max’ story has circled back to the present.
Basically, her mother isn’t a natural witch. She draws her power from the golden ring she’s wearing, a relic she stole from another witch, who in turn got it from a demon in exchange for her soul in Hell. She’s been teaching both of her daughters her magic tricks, or at least tried to.
Madison has been a grade A student from the start, what she lacked in motivation, she made up for with skill. Max, not so much. Said she still has nightmares about her mother making her kill the bird that was picking on the strawberries in their backyard when she was eight. She never wanted to be a witch, doesn’t have that need for power her mother seems to have.
She also tells them about Madison’s plan to get revenge on Olive. Madison hadn’t shut up about her heartbreak for a week when their mother finally suggested killing the girl. Madison needed a lot of convincing before the act, and then a lot of coaching on how to play the grieving friend, not the suspect. It worked though, Madison’s friend came running straight back to her, but Max has been horrified ever since.
Somehow, Dean believes her, and after briefly meeting Cas’ eyes, he knows that he does too. Dean remembers her presence at the Palmer house, how she didn’t say a word to anyone, only looked up once from her homework when Cas asked about Olive’s potential enemies.
Still, he’s surprised when Max is the one to ask how they’re gonna take down her mother. “Not murder”, she clarifies, “just—you need to destroy the ring.”
Cas nods in agreement, Dean’s a little hesitant. “How do you know she won’t just get a new one?”
“Because they’re rare,” Max explains. “Demons don’t give out that kind of power like halloween candy.”
“What makes you think it’s so easy to destroy, then?” Cas chimes in.
Max arches an eyebrow. “It’s not a horcrux. It’s not even real gold.”
Dean cracks a smile while Cas just frowns at both of them, the reference going right over his head as per usual. “So what, we burn it? Stab it? Break it?”
Max considers that question for a minute while Dean steals the last piece of Cas’ pizza once he’s sure that Cas is done with it, and shoves it into his mouth. Cas’ eyes follow him, but he stays quiet. “I think salting and burning it should do. It’s demon magic, right?”
Yeah, makes sense to Dean. If it doesn’t work, they probably won’t have to worry about a plan B anyway because they’ll be fucked. Now it’s only a matter of when and where to do it.
“She never takes it off, though.”
Of course, because it’s never that easy.
Max says she’s never seen her mother without it, not once in her life, so asking her to hand it over without raising suspicion is not an option either. Ripping it off of her body it is.
Dean doesn’t like the idea of going after a witch in broad daylight, but according to Max, Madison won’t leave the house until two in the afternoon tomorrow, and they really don’t want any more people, especially not any more witches, around than need be.
They settle on three o’clock just to make sure they’re alone. Max will pre-light and salt the fireplace (thank God it’s February, Dean can’t imagine having to come up with an excuse for that in July) and lure her mother into the living room so Dean and Cas can strike.
As they leave the restaurant that night, Max makes them promise something. “You can’t kill her, okay? If you—if there’s no other way, let me do it.”
“Max—”
“No, Dean, I mean it.”
Unexpectedly professional, he’d thought. Unexpectedly mature, too.
Dean nods and they part ways.
It’s almost nine at night when they make it back to their room, and Dean catches Cas yawning while taking off his shoes. “Dude, it’s 9PM on a Friday, don’t tell me you’re ready to hit the hay.”
Cas cracks a smile. “Well, not all of us napped for three hours this afternoon.”
Okay, whatever. Dean could, and would, usually come right back with a not all of us need their beauty sleep but he realizes that’s not what he means. Sure, it’s true Cas doesn’t need a single minute of beauty sleep, but that’s decidedly not the point Dean is trying to make here.
Dean flops down on the chair and pulls out his phone to text Sam a summary of their discoveries from the day, that it is a witch they’re after and that they already know who it is. Sam, glued to his phone as always, responds right away asking for details, and Dean gives him a short summary of their meeting with Max. He sounds a little suspicious about the whole idea but Dean waves him off, tells him they know it could be a trap and that they’ll be careful.
He chats with Sam for a few more minutes before putting down his phone and finding that Cas has settled into bed already, zapping through TV channels. Something about that sight makes Dean feel warm on the inside, and also giddy with excitement when he remembers that he gets to share a bed with him tonight, so what is he waiting for?
After finishing up quickly in the bathroom, Dean drops his unfolded clothes into his bag as he walks past it on his way to the bed. The room feels significantly less cold tonight, maybe Cas felt bad about making Dean freeze half of last night, so he cranked up the heat. The window is closed too, so Dean leaves the sweatpants and figures just a pair of boxers and a shirt will be fine.
It still feels a little weird getting into bed with Cas. They’re sharing a blanket, for God’s sake, there’s not a single sheet separating them when Dean sits back against the headboard, mirroring the way Cas is sitting. He can feel Cas’ body heat under the covers, the warm skin of his elbow against his own where they bump together.
Deep down, Dean wishes this was something he could have, always, not just as a last resort because all the motels in town were booked out. Nothing more, just sitting here, watching a shitty dating show for the second night in a row, going to bed together for the second night in a row.
“Is this a new episode?”
“Yeah,” Cas replies, “Those two have been—what’s the word, eyefucking?—each other since day one, but are too shy to act on their feelings.”
Dean smirks at Cas’ choice of words. Feels a small sense of accomplishment even, knowing where Cas must’ve picked it up. If Dean’s own words are the only part of him Cas is going to take into his mouth, then so be it. “Sucks to be them.”
Yeah, Dean, couldn’t be you, could it?
Cas agrees, then proceeds to spend a solid half hour commenting the show for Dean, getting him up to date on who is who, who fucked who, and who is likely going to be eliminated next. Dean follows as best as he can, but there’s only so many names and faces he can memorize at once.
One couple wins a challenge and ends up going on a beach date, and for no particular reason, Dean makes a mental note of Cas saying he’s always wanted to go to the beach.
When the episode ends, Dean feels like he just killed about a thousand brain cells, but the grin the petty TV drama puts on Cas’ face is totally worth it. His laugh whenever one of the contestants says something stupid, his eye roll whenever they talk shit about each other.
Despite his nap during the day and an exceptionally good night’s sleep last night, Dean feels his back slowly sliding down the headboard until his head hits the mountain of pillows below him. The next episode starts playing.
Cas starts slipping too, Dean catches him yawning more than a few times and he keeps looking over at the digital clock on the table. He also seems restless, can’t seem to figure out how to position his legs and keeps fumbling with the sheets between his fingers.
“Are you worried about tomorrow?” Dean asks.
Cas nods. “A little.”
“Why?”
Cas looks down at him. “Aren’t you?”
It’s a good question, but Dean answers more out of habit than honesty. “Not really, why would I be?”
“I don’t know,” Cas says, looking back up at the TV. There’s a group of women gossiping about the guy behind the bar. “I’m worried about Max.”
“Max will be fine. She can handle herself.”
“I don’t doubt that she can, I just—don’t you think she should stay out of this? Going after her mother?”
Dean frowns. “What do you mean?”
Cas sighs. “I mean, we shouldn’t have made her an integral part of the plan. It could be dangerous, and just because her mother hasn’t harmed her yet doesn’t mean she won’t.”
“I know, I don’t want her to get hurt either, but she offered and the plan is—”
“Dean, she’s only fifteen.” Cas raises his voice just a little, his jaw tense and his eyebrows lowered. “It just—it feels like we’re using her as bait.”
In a way, Dean understands where Cas is coming from. Their plan to have Max call her mother to the living room where they attack her is not too far from the textbook definition of bait. At the same time though, they don’t have any reason to assume Max’ mother is going to hurt her at all yet, but most importantly, “She’s not a child, okay? Hell, I did risky shit like that at fifteen all the time.”
“Living up to your messed up childhood is hardly a comforting thought.”
Now, that makes Dean’s blood start to boil just a little. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
“It means,” Cas shoots back, not at all intimidated by Dean’s tone, “that I don’t like the idea of Ms Palmer finding out Max betrayed her, that’s all. We don’t know what she’s capable of.”
“Well, you don’t have to like it, smartass, you just have to play along and not fuck it up for once.”
With that, Dean turns his back to Cas and pulls up the covers to his chin. He’s not sure what exactly just happened here. Are they actually fighting about this? About the plan they worked out just a few hours ago, when Cas had ample opportunity to voice his opinion? Now’s the time he decides to get pissy about it?
Dean huffs and rolls his eyes.
Okay, maybe his last comment was uncalled for. He has never blamed Cas for his history of bad decisions made for good reasons. He doesn’t blame him for his God stunt and the whole leviathan thing, he doesn’t blame him for very nearly killing him that night in that crypt, and neither does he blame him for getting the angels cast out of Heaven because he got tricked by Metatron. Shit happens, Dean knows that it does.
Maybe he’ll apologize for that in the morning. Or maybe he won’t and it’ll just serve as another point of conflict between them one day.
His point still stands, though. Sure, if they had a better idea that didn’t involve Max, Dean would jump on that immediately, but alas, they don’t. And Max is hardly gonna sit this one out, not if she was the one to come up with the plan in the first place.
Mid-episode, the TV suddenly goes quiet, and then the room goes dark. There’s a little commotion next to him, Cas getting comfortable on the other side of the bed. For a split second, Dean naively hopes Cas might move over to his side and wraps his arms around him like he did last night. Cas stays right where he is, leaving at least one foot of empty space between them.
Goddammit. Dean thought they were doing so well.
But that’s just how it goes between them, doesn’t it? If Dean doesn’t want to kiss him, he wants to bash his head in. There’s no level ground, just ups and downs.
Dean refuses to let this one disagreement over how to work the case be another down. The minutes go by as he waits for Cas to say something, waits for himself to say something, but for what feels like an hour, they stay in uncomfortable silence.
Dean surprises himself when he finally speaks, in a soft voice just above a whisper. “Hey, Cas?”
Even more surprisingly, Cas is still awake. “Yeah?”
Dean should have thought this through. He doesn’t want to apologize right now, not like this, not in the dark facing away from each other, but he also doesn’t want them to go to bed angry and bitter. He doesn’t want things to be tense between them tomorrow, especially not when they have a witch to kill. He just wants—
Dean slowly turns around to face Cas, but doesn’t scoot closer yet. He can make out enough of his silhouette against the faint light coming in through the space between the blinds to tell he’s facing him too. He takes a breath. “I’m cold.”
The seconds go by as Dean waits for an answer, and mentally he’s already packing a bag and moving to Canada if Cas doesn’t get the message. Realistically, of course, he could play it off as a plain statement without any ulterior motives: he’s cold, he likes to whine about it. Maybe Cas will even get up and turn up the heat for him.
It feels like an eternity has passed when Cas finally sighs and answers. His voice is quiet and soft, and all the anger and hostility from before are long gone. “C’mere.”
After an initial moment of shock, Dean scrambles to comply. He surges forward in the most casual and not at all needy way he can manage, and his heart nearly jumps out of his chest when he finds Cas already holding his arms open for him. He presses their chests together and buries his face in the crook of Cas’ neck. One arm stays awkwardly trapped between their bodies, but that’s fine because the other finds its way around Cas’ torso the same way both of Cas’ arms wrap around Dean’s body.
If Cas is at all surprised by the change of position compared to the night before, he doesn’t show it. He pulls Dean close enough for Dean to not be able to tell if it’s his own heart that’s racing or if it’s Cas’. One of his hands rests on Dean’s lower back, the other slowly trails up his upper back to his head, then his fingers softly move back and forth on his scalp. Dean can’t remember the last time someone played with his hair, much less caressed his head. He didn’t know how much he missed that feeling.
For one short but brave moment, Dean considers sneaking a leg between Cas’, but when he remembers that they’re both just wearing their underwear in place of any real pants, that thought is quickly scrapped. As much as he wants to press his cock against Cas’, create some friction and rub their bodies together, maybe even make some matching stains in their boxers, the last thing he needs right now is a boner. Their crotches are already close enough to touching and Dean does not want to draw any attention to that knowledge.
Surely, it must slowly dawn on Cas that Dean is not cold. The room isn’t anything like it was last night, the lack of an open window really does wonders. Dean fears the moment Cas understands what’s really happening here, half expects to be pushed away when he does, but the moment doesn’t come.
If anything, Dean could swear Cas nudges his forehead with his nose, gently strokes the back of his head like their minor fight never happened.
It did though, and even though this still isn’t quite face to face, it’s good enough. Heart to heart. “Hey, Cas?”
“Yeah?” comes the muffled reply.
“I didn’t mean that.”
Cas takes a few seconds to inhale deeply, his chest expanding against Dean’s, then he breathes out slowly. “I know, Dean. It’s fine.”
It’s probably not, and at some point they really should talk about these things, but for tonight, it is fine. Dean’s wrapped up in Cas’ arms, how much more fine can it get?
The case, the whole point of their argument, is still prominent on his mind, but Dean’s doing his best to ignore it. He acknowledges that Cas only meant well, and he’s probably not wrong about them only endangering Max, but she’s also a stubborn fifteen-year-old who wouldn’t let them work the job alone if they paid her for it.
It’ll be fine, Dean tells himself. They’ve done this a hundred times, killed a hundred witches, saved a hundred teenage girls.
Okay, maybe not exactly, but close enough. It’ll be smooth sailing.
It’s a good plan.
Needless to say, it was a terrible plan.
The second Ms Palmer laid eyes on them, it was over. She spotted Cas first and magically flung him into the nearest wall with a flick of her wrist. Dean tried to sneak up on her, but she turned around and plucked the gun right out of his hands before sending him flying to the floor. He tried to get back up, but something hit him on the back of his head hard enough for him to black out.
When Dean comes to, he does so with a throbbing headache. He blinks to clear his vision and when the back of his head hits the wall behind him, he groans in pain. Dean knows what an open wound at the back of his head feels like. He instinctively tries to reach for it, check if there’s blood, but his hands are tied behind his back.
The room looks like any regular basement. Washer and dryer against one wall, a shelf full of boxes on the other. What he thought was a wall behind him actually turns out to be a wooden pillar, and behind that pillar, Dean is horrified to spot a workbench full of tools he really hopes aren’t about to be used on him.
He can already hear Cas telling him I told you so, to which Dean would reply—
Wait, where is Cas even?
He holds his breath. There’s no sign of another person down here, but there’s distant voices coming from the other side of the door. Screams, rather than speaking voices, and they sound painfully familiar.
Dean pulls at the restraints on his wrists as he calls out Cas’ name, followed by a string of curse words. His head is pounding and there’s black spots clouding his vision, and he ignores the nauseous feeling pooling in his stomach.
He tries, he really tries to be smart about this, but the mere sound of Cas’ screams upstairs keeps him from thinking clearly. He takes a few quick breaths, trying to calm down and steady his hands enough to pull out his switchblade and start cutting the rope.
He thinks he’s about halfway through when the door opens and Madison comes in. She’s holding a white towel and uses it to wipe the blood off her hands as she walks down the stairs.
“You shouldn’t have come back, Agent.”
“Well, you shouldn’t have killed your friend.”
She scoffs and looks down at her bloody fingers. “A little too late for that now, isn’t it?”
The towel lands at Dean’s feet. He wishes he didn’t know whose blood that is, and clenches his jaw. Madison walks past him to the workbench, opens a drawer and comes back to kneel in front of him with a butcher’s knife dangling between her fingers. If Dean had to name a single emotion on her face it’d be annoyed, but there’s something else hidden beneath the surface.
“Tell me something” she says in a stupidly arrogant voice, like she’s somehow got the upper hand here just because Dean’s a little tied up. “Did you really think you could just, what, waltz in here and kill my mom? Do you think she’s that dumb?”
Dean knows he probably shouldn’t answer that, but as per usual his mouth works faster than his brain and he replies, “To be fair, yeah, I do.”
Madison’s eyes narrow. The knife is sharper than it looks, and it leaves a stinging gash on Dean’s cheek. “She could rip you in half if she wanted.”
“Then why hasn’t she?”
“She will, but she likes to take her time.” A particularly gnarly cry from upstairs fills the air between then, and Dean works the blade faster on the rope. “First, she’d like to know where your friend got that little blade of his before she slices his throat with it.”
“Don’t you fucking touch him,” Dean hisses.
Madison arches one eyebrow in disapproval, and it’s like a punch in the face. “Protective now, are we?”
“I prefer my friends alive, not that you’d understand.”
For a moment, Dean swears she freezes, then shakes her head. “I did what I had to do, Agent. Olive was—a problem.”
“A problem, huh? Because she took away your little girlfriend?” Madison’s nostrils flare as she glares at Dean, and he thinks that comment hit a particularly sensitive spot. “I’m just saying, there’s other ways to cause a break-up that don’t involve murder.”
“It was for the best,” she retorts, her voice still has the same intensity, but the confidence is gone. Like she’s parroting someone else’s words. She gets back to her feet and turns her back to Dean as she looks for something on the shelf.
“You don’t actually believe that, do you? I mean, why kill her, why was that your first—”
“Stop talking,” she snarls, but then her voice goes soft again. “Doesn’t matter now anyway.”
Something about her feels off. The way she struggles to meet his eyes, her lack of pride about her recent act of murder, justifying her actions with a bigger picture. Her stone-cold façade is slipping, slowly, just like it did during their interview the day before. “It was your mother’s idea, right? And you just went along?”
Her body stills. Her shoulders go slack as she throws a cautious glance back at Dean over her shoulder, giving him the confirmation he needed.
“God, do kids these days never grow a fucking spine? You could’ve told her ‘no, thanks’.”
“You don’t understand,” she argues, clearly unaware that if there’s anyone who understands what mindlessly following your parent’s orders without ever having the balls to stand up to them is like, it’s Dean. “She’s my mom.”
“She’s a killer,” Dean spits back. “If you didn’t want her to gank your friend, why didn’t you say something?”
Madison flinches in all the wrong ways, and something finally clicks in Dean’s head.
“You’re scared of her.”
“No,” comes the immediate reply, but Dean can hear it for the lie it is. She drops to a crouch in front of him and holds the knife in front of his face. “I’m not.”
“I can help you take her down.”
That seems to be the wrong thing to say because the knife is immediately back at his throat. “You’re dead before you even think about touching her.”
Dean has at least five good comebacks about very much not wanting to touch her two hundred year old mother anywhere, but swallows them all down because he thinks he might be on the right track here. Madison’s grip on the knife is loosening, the squint in her eyes has morphed from anger to uncertainty. “Look, I just need her ring.”
There’s a loud noise from upstairs. Furniture breaking, if Dean had to take a wild guess, because that’s a sound he’s heard more times than he’d like to admit. Madison reflexively looks at the door, giving Dean the perfect opportunity to kick her in the stomach, only as hard as he thinks her body can take it, but hard enough to get the knife away from his throat.
Her back hits the concrete floor. Dean pulls at what’s left of the rope around his wrists and snaps the last couple strings with force. Man, these bad guys really need to either take away the blade he’s carrying when they knock him out or tie him up with more than one scrawny rope.
Dean is quick to pick up the knife Madison dropped and reverses their positions by pointing it at her throat where she’s lying flat on the ground. His vision goes a little black at the edges at the sudden movement, but he powers through. He watches her chest rise and fall in rapid succession, sees the fear in her eyes, and those do not look like the eyes of a killer. Dean would know.
There seems to be a fight going on upstairs. He should definitely go and see what’s going on, but he hesitates. He holds Madison’s gaze for a few seconds before retracting the knife.
“I’m not gonna hurt her.” Dean takes a step back, giving her enough room to stand up. She’s moving slowly, keeping her eyes trained on the knife in Dean’s hand. “I just wanna end this.”
“She’ll kill me if she finds out I helped you.”
“Well, you haven’t helped me yet.”
Her eyes darken. There’s a noise that sounds suspiciously like breaking glass coming from upstairs. “I don’t trust you.”
Dean rolls his eyes and flips the knife in his hand, holding it out for Madison to take. With a frown, she grabs it, but doesn’t aim it, just holds it loosely between her fingers. To prove his point even further, Dean lifts his own empty hands. “Better?”
“She won’t give you the ring.”
“Just let me worry about that, okay?” She’s not quite buying his act yet, Dean can tell, so he adds, “How about this, I’ll tell her I knocked you out and it’s not your fault I got away, huh?”
A good ten seconds pass in which Dean can finally decipher one of the voices upstairs as Max’, and then Madison drops the knife and takes a deep breath. On the exhale, she leans back her head and rolls her eyes, as if saying I can’t believe I’m doing this.
There’s a lot to dissect here, between Madison’s relationship with her mother and how much Dean can relate to it, but that is certainly a can of worms he’s not going to touch with a ten foot pole.
When Dean opens the door, the house is quiet. Silence after an intense fight is not usually a good sign. He takes a few cautious steps through the hallway and finds movement in the living room.
There’s Ms Palmer, holding a knife across Max’ throat. She’s got a bruise on her forehead and a bust lip, and there’s blood on her hands. On second glance he realizes it’s not just any knife, it’s Cas’ blade, but Cas is nowhere to be seen.
Impulsively, he yells Max’ name, and suddenly both sets of eyes are on him. Shit, he thinks, but Max acts quickly. She takes advantage of the momentary distraction and wriggles out of her mother’s grip.
Dean’s head kicks back into action but he doesn’t make it all the way over there before he gets hit by a spell, and suddenly he feels like his insides are on fire. He groans, immediately falls down on one knee. He tries to breathe, but every breath of air is just fueling the flames, and Dean thinks Shit, this might actually be it, when it suddenly stops.
Max is on her mother again, pushing at her chest, the loss of focus apparently keeping her from making Dean feel like he’s very literally burning up. She stumbles back where Max shoves her, but catches herself before she falls. Dean can see Max trying to go for her ring, but Ms Palmer skillfully dodges any moves aiming for her hands, and keeps her fingers in a fist.
Well, a fist fight is something Dean can handle.
He drags himself back to his feet while Max is very maturely pulling at her mother’s hair, efficiently keeping Dean out of her sight until he’s right behind her and Max lets go of her.
“Hey,” Dean says, and when Ms Palmer turns around, he lands a perfect right hook to her jaw, shaking her brain and making her pass out before her body even hits the ground. His knuckles hurt like a bitch though, like he fought a fucking brick wall and lost, but he’s not about to whine about it.
It’s easy to pull the ring off her finger like this, and Dean really has no idea why knocking her out wasn’t their first plan. He spins the ring between his fingers for a second, thinks about how such a tiny piece of jewelry could hold so much power.
“Come on,” he hears Max say behind him, and turns around to find her dumping a generous amount of salt into the fireplace. They’d lit it earlier, and Max relighting it makes Dean wonder just how long he sat in the basement, unconscious.
He throws in the ring as Max lights a match, and if they expected some kind of spectacle, a firework show when the ring starts to burn, they thought wrong. Nothing happens.
If it doesn’t work, Dean figures they’ll just have to hide the ring somewhere, maybe take it back to the bunker with them and ask Sam for help. He doesn’t worry about that right now though.
“Where’s Cas?”
Max briefly meets his eyes, then Dean follows her to the kitchen, where—
Cas is sitting on the floor in front of the kitchen counter, eyes half closed, head fallen on his shoulder, and Dean’s not even sure he’s conscious. His shirt is stained with blood, there are dark, wet spots and holes in the fabric, all over. Dean immediately falls down to his knees by his side and presses a hand to the spot below Cas’ ribs where blood is still coming out at an alarming rate.
“Cas,” Dean chokes and carefully lifts up Cas’ head and watches him open his eyes, but just barely. “Cas, talk to me.”
He just hums, and his eyes fall shut again. Dean is losing him. Goddammit, he’s losing him, he never even had him but he’s losing him, right now.
There’s cuts and slashes all over his chest, up to his neck and shoulders, some more superficial, some oozing with blood profusely enough for Dean to think it’s a miracle Cas is still awake.
If you can even call it that. His breathing is shallow and he can barely keep his eyes open, much less move and let Dean take him to a hospital. Dean blinks, his vision going blurry, and he’s going to blame that on the potential concussion he’s currently suffering from.
“Cas, please, you—” he starts, then cuts himself off and looks behind him. “Max?”
She’s not there.
Fuck.
A cold hand clumsily covers Dean’s, the one that’s trying to keep the pressure on the gash on Cas’ stomach. Cas smiles weakly, his eyes finally looking up and meeting Dean’s. They’re dim, gray, not the familiar blue Dean is used to.
“You’re gonna be fine,” Dean tells him, and himself too. “It’s just a scratch.”
Cas tries to nod and his eyelids fall shut again just as Dean hears footsteps behind him. He doesn’t turn around this time, can’t tear his gaze off Cas, his tousled hair, the dumb flannel shirt borrowed from Dean on his first day of being human, back before he had his own wardrobe. Dean inhales shakily. Cas is the one dying but Dean feels like he can’t breathe.
“Max,” he says again, “you gotta—”
“Working on it,” she interrupts, and that sounds suspicious enough to make Dean glance over there. She’s got a bowl in front of her, and several little boxes around it, all spread out on the kitchen island.
“What are you—”
“I picked up a few things, Dean, don’t let him pass out.”
The sound of Cas’ frail cough draws Dean’s attention back in. He’s pale, his face is blank of any emotions, he doesn’t even look like he’s in pain anymore, and Dean’s hand on his neck is the only thing holding his head upright.
Dean realizes now that he truly took Cas’ angelic powers for granted over the years. Sure, smiting demons and the teleporting sure were practical, and his healing abilities for others also came in handy more than once, but what Dean never appreciated enough was Cas’ near immortality. Bullets, knives, anything that wasn’t his own blade couldn’t even begin to penetrate his invisible armor.
And even those times Cas did die, it was never like this. Back when Raphael killed him, Dean only heard about it from Chuck. When Lucifer killed him, it was instant, a literal snap of a finger. When the leviathans killed him, Dean didn’t even know what was going on until it was already too late.
Now, though? He’s watching Cas slowly die in his arms and there’s not a damn thing he can do about it.
“Alright,” he hears Max’ voice again, and suddenly she’s right there, kneeling on Cas’ other side. She’s got the bowl in front of her and it’s filled with a number of things Dean can’t identify. She starts chanting a string of words in Latin, and if he was able to concentrate on anything other than his best friend’s blood on his hands, Dean would probably even understand a few words.
Max places a hand on Cas’ chest as she speaks the last word, and then there’s a strange, red light surrounding her body. Dean can feel the wound underneath his hand fade, and he watches the rest of his injuries do the same. The blood is still there, but the cuts and gashes are gone. When Max lifts her hand, Dean can see nothing but smooth skin through the holes in his shirt.
Cas slowly opens his eyes and blinks a few times, and his breathing is quick but normal. His eyes flicker back and forth between Max and Dean, and even though Max is the one who just saved his life, his gaze settles on Dean. With parted lips, Cas continues leaning into Dean’s trembling hand, and when he wraps his fingers around that same hand’s wrist, Dean releases a shuddering breath.
“Do you guys need a minute?”
Both of them tear their eyes off of each other in favor of glaring at Max. She would get along splendidly with Sam, Dean decides at that moment.
They leave the cleaning up to the girls. There’s no body to dispose of, luckily, but the whole living room (the whole house, really) is a mess. Apparently, right after Ms Palmer knocked Dean out, Cas got into a hefty fight with her. Got flown into the hallway mirror, then the bookshelf in the living room, and only passed out when he hit his temple on the kitchen counter.
He woke up a few hours later, tied to a kitchen chair and Ms Palmer holding his blade in front of his face. She said her spells didn’t work on him, demanded an answer as to what he was and didn’t take ‘fallen angel of the lord’ as an answer. Dean can feel sheer rage building up inside him with every word Cas says.
She’d tied up Max too, but left her intact, unsure what to do about her lack of loyalty to her own family. When her sister came home after being called in, she cut Max loose. Told her to be careful, to sneak out and hide until Madison came to get her, but of course, Max struck the second she was alone with her mother.
Madison, though. She was awfully quiet after Max came to get her from the basement, could barely look Dean in the eyes. Dean wishes he’d gotten a minute alone with her before they left, just to get a chance to tell her that sometimes parents are wrong, too. That it’s okay to disagree with them, that now she quite literally doesn’t have to be afraid of her mother anymore, but when the phone rang and a concerned elderly neighbor asked if everything’s alright, Cas was right to say they better bail.
“Take care of each other, okay?” Dean tells them as they say their goodbyes. The girls nod in unison. “Her, too,” he adds and points at where their mother is still lying unconscious on the floor in the living room. He doesn’t trust that woman as far as he can throw her, especially not after what she did to Cas, but well. He’ll kill her if she gives him another reason to.
Obviously, there’s no way in hell Dean’s just leaving town and letting two underage kids stay with their psycho mother without finding a way to look after them. Last night at the restaurant, Max mentioned a few extended family members who she was in contact with, and Dean told her to hold onto them. Sure, Ms Palmer doesn’t have her mojo anymore, and she never learned to channel her powers without the magic ring so she’s left with nothing, but that doesn’t make her the mother of the year. Killing the girl who stole her daughter’s not-quite-girlfriend counts as trying, but it also counts as murder, so she’s still got a long way to go.
As their mother’s students, the girls learned to use some real witchcraft, none of that demon magic bullshit, and they vow to keep it under control. No more petty acts of revenge, no matter what their mother says. Dean’s keeping his eyes and ears out, and doesn’t mince his words when he tells them that he and Cas will come back and kick someone’s ass if they hear about either one of them going darkside. It’s not usually their style to keep monsters alive.
They took surprisingly little offense at that comment. Only shut the door in their faces, but that’s alright.
It’s dark by now, long after sunset Dean assumes. After being locked up in the basement for hours, he really lost track of time. He keeps his eyes trained on Cas the whole twenty yard walk to the car, as if he’s still expecting him to drop dead any minute now.
His hands are still jittery when he starts the car, but before he drives off, his eyes trail over to Cas, who’s already looking back at him. “You okay?”
He’s got a funny, unreadable expression on his face, but even in the dim glow of the streetlamp, Dean can see that the light in his eyes is back. Cas stares back at him for a moment, then looks past him at the Palmer house. “Do you think they’ll be fine?”
“I think they’re about to have one hell of a family night.” Truth is, Dean’s not sure. He doesn’t know how Ms Palmer will respond to her ring being stolen and burned, and both of her kids being responsible for it. He suggested they stick around long enough until she woke up, but Madison stepped up then. Said she was their problem now, and the determination in her tone was good enough for Dean. He made them promise to call if anything happened, although he doubts they will.
The hotel isn’t too far, but out of habit Dean nearly suggests just picking up their things and going straight home, now that the case is done. Next to him, Cas is softly humming along to the quiet pop music on the radio, and Dean remembers that tonight has been paid for anyway, so they might as well use it.
“So,” he says after a while, breaking the comfortable silence. “I thought you were fully human now? How come her magic didn’t affect you?”
“I don’t know,” he admits quietly. “I think there might be some traces of my grace left in me, which is also why I can still hear angel radio.”
They’ve spent hours upon hours browsing through every book on angel lore in the bunker’s library, hoping to find some information about the consequences of removing an angel’s grace, but nothing. Cas is essentially human, he eats, he sleeps, he complains about his aching back. There’s no signs of remnant grace in him, neither a circle of holy fire nor a number of Enochian sigils showed any effect, but maybe it’s just an astronomically small amount that would have gone unnoticed if it wasn’t for Ms Palmer’s spell.
“Do you think—” Dean starts, then cuts himself off and only continues when Cas gives him a questioning look. “You know, you think you’re ever gonna get it back? I mean, you’ve tried Metatron, and he’s not gonna talk, so...”
For a while, there’s no reply, Cas only stares straight ahead at the dark road with a slight frown on his face and fidgets with his hands in his lap. It’s Valentine’s Day, Dean remembers that when he ponders the distant lights of the festival he had totally forgotten about. “No,” Cas eventually says. “No, realistically I know the chances of retrieving it by myself are slim to nonexistent.”
“You’re not by yourself,” Dean quickly cuts in. “Hell, if you want it back, just say the word and we’ll make a plan.” He half expects to see Cas nod and jump at the prospect of looking for his grace, but when Dean glances over there, Cas’ lips are in a straight line. “You—You do want it back, right?”
This time, Cas’ answer doesn’t come. He effectively ends the conversation by ignoring the question and looking out of the passenger side window. Dean has no idea what to make of that.
They sit in silence until they pull back into the hotel’s parking garage and Dean turns off the engine. He realized after a few miles that it’s harder than usual to keep the car on the road, and since he’s usually an excellent driver, it probably has to do with the blast to the back of his head earlier.
He feels dirty, he only had time to superficially scrub Cas’ blood off his hands, his head is still killing, and he can’t wait to take a shower and go to bed.
As they approach the elevator, Dean takes a good look at Cas and realizes he’s probably not much better off. He just nearly died, and it shows. The sight of his torn up shirt reminds Dean that even though it’s Saturday night and most hotel guests are probably at the festival, they’re about to enter a public space covered in blood.
He stops Cas with a hand on his shoulder before he presses the button, and starts fastening up his denim jacket. The fabric is dark enough to make the stains less noticeable, but the holes in his shirt are a whole other story. He can feel Cas’ gaze burn through him, but he doesn’t look up, makes quick work to close at least every other button. When he’s done, he calls the elevator and finally meets Cas’ eyes.
“Smart,” he just says, like Dean can’t still feel the tingle on his fingers, the sensation of his knuckles brushing against his chest and the touch of their shoulders during the elevator ride sending him spiraling immediately.
And it was smart, because a family of four joins them in the elevator. Nosy kids too, so Dean makes sure to keep his hands buried in his pockets. He thinks one of them notices a blood stain on Cas’ neck and looks at him funny, but luckily they get off soon after.
Once in their room, Dean resists the temptation of falling flat down on their bed. He shrugs off his jacket and watches Cas do the same, just slower.
In the bright light of the hotel room, Dean hates to admit that Cas looks kind of awful. He’s got stains and marks all over his body, his clothes, his shirt is half torn apart, his hair is a mess and he looks more tired than Dean has ever seen him.
“I’ll call Sam,” Dean announces. “You can shower first.”
Sam tells him they did the right thing, letting Ms Palmer live. Said that even if she’s still a shit mother, the ring was the only thing actually making her dangerous. Dean is also glad to get confirmation that salting and burning the ring should destroy it, Sam read something about that kind of demon magic in the books a while ago, because of course he has.
Dean tells him they’re staying until the morning since they already paid for the room. The paranoia in the back of his mind tries to tell him that somehow, Sam knows. About the single queen bed situation, that is, but he knows that’s impossible. He didn’t let anything slip, he didn’t even mention they’re at a fancy hotel in the first place.
He can hear the shower running. Maybe if he didn’t still have Cas’ dying face imprinted on the inside of his eyelids, he’d fantasize about his naked body in the shower. He didn’t want to know what Cas’ blood on his hands felt like. He could’ve gone the rest of his life not being able to pinpoint the moment Cas stopped fighting, just let his head rest against Dean’s hand, used the last surge of energy in his body to meet Dean’s eyes one last time.
The minibar is surprisingly well stocked, even for this place. Dean ignores the soda cans and water bottles, even the beer, and immediately goes for the wine, one of each color. There’s no matching glasses, so Dean elegantly pours himself a coffee mug of red wine, leaving the normal glass for Cas, should he want it (the other glass is already occupied because Cas couldn’t just store his toothbrush in his toiletry bag like a normal person).
Cas spends a quite a while in the shower. Understandably so, though, Dean knows firsthand how hard it can be to scrub dried blood off of your skin. He turns on the TV, but doesn’t have to zap to find something to watch. That dumb dating show is on again, so for the third night in a row, Dean sits back on the chair and watches reality TV.
It’s another ten minutes before Cas comes out and they swap places. He looks much better, despite that ugly pair of sweatpants that don’t do his ass any favors. The hot water returned some color to his face, and he’s no longer the pale walking corpse he was when they left the Palmer house.
Dean showers quickly, and without any x-rated distractions, and only nearly blacks out once when the steam makes him feel a little lightheaded. When he comes back out, he finds Cas sitting cross legged at the edge of the bed with a glass of wine in his hands. The room is dark apart from the light of the TV screen, but Dean doesn’t miss the smile on Cas’ face as he chuckles at some (probably lame) joke on the TV.
God, it’s so adorable, Dean has no other choice than to grab his mug and sit with him.
“I think this is the finale,” Cas announces after a few minutes.
“What’s in it for the winner?”
“Money, although I don’t remember the amount.”
Dean huffs. “Thought this was a dating show.”
“Only the winning couple gets the prize money, not an individual.”
Dean’s a little confused by all the different formats Cas makes him watch, so he doesn’t ask any further, just sits and watches. It’s a double special, and the episode just started, so it’s gonna be another hour at least before the winner is named. Dean refills his mug, and Cas’ glass too, while he’s at it, then they both move up further on the bed and lean back against the headboard, just like the night before.
The same night Dean basically tricked Cas into cuddling him because he was that fucking desperate. Again, neither of them brought it up, partly because they had other matters to worry about, but also because neither of them knew how. If Cas straight up asked Dean why he lied about being cold just to get some physical contact, Dean would have probably ran out of the room, because what’s he gonna say? I like when you cuddle me? I like sleeping next to you? Or should he just drop the I might be a little in love with you bomb? Hardly.
He can’t do that again. It was an incredible mental effort to get the words out last night, and unless he finishes the rest of the wine by himself, he’s not sure he can muster up that same strength another time. He can deal with watching Cas from two feet away.
He mentally repeats it to himself when they finish the bottle of white wine. By that time, the final episode is playing, but Dean can’t bring himself to pay much attention to it. Neither of them is sitting upright anymore, Cas is lying on his back, his head propped up on his intertwined fingers and an unholy amount of pillows. They haven’t gotten under the covers yet, the alcohol in their systems keeping them warm enough.
Dean’s on his side, and though his head may be turned toward the TV, he can’t tear his eyes off of Cas. The steady rise and fall of his chest, the constant blinking that means he’s tired but wants to finish the episode, the nervous fumbling of his fingers Dean doesn’t know how to interpret yet.
The fact that he nearly lost him today—
Like every so often, Dean acts before he thinks. In one swift move, he’s snuggled up against Cas’ side, carefully sliding one arm underneath his back while the other wraps around his hips and Dean’s head comes to rest on his chest.
“Oh,” he hears Cas say, and feels him flinch a little in surprise. Dean shuffles and adjusts his position until he’s comfortable. “Dean?”
“Is this okay?”
Sure, in hindsight Dean realizes he should have asked that before making himself at home. Cas seems to hesitate, but before Dean can overthink his silence and abort the mission, Cas’ arms come down from behind his head and wrap around Dean’s shoulders. He starts gently stroking up and down Dean’s back. “Are you okay?”
It’s kind of a loaded question. Dean nuzzles the side of his face against the soft fabric of Cas’ shirt before answering. “You almost died today.”
Cas’ hand stills for just a second, then continues. “I know.”
“Yeah.”
“I didn’t, though.”
Clearly, because Dean has no idea where he would be right now if Cas hadn’t made it. Just thinking about it makes a shiver run down his spine. “Good, ‘cause I would’ve been pissed if you did.”
Dean can feel Cas’ human heart race beneath his palm. “Right,” he says, incredulously, and that single word rubs Dean in the wrong way.
When he lifts his head, Cas is already staring back at him. “Right?” Dean repeats in the same tone, trying to coax a reaction out of him, but nothing gives. “You don’t believe me?”
“I do,” he says quickly, drawing his eyebrows together slightly. “I imagine you would be pissed if I passed away.”
He recognizes Cas’ joking undertone now, and realizes he was just being teased about his choice of words. He softly punches Cas’ chest. “Yeah, I would, I wouldn’t leave a single fucking stone unturned until I got you back.”
The crease between Cas’ brows disappears and his eyes widen. Dean fears he might’ve said something wrong but there’s a hint of a smile on Cas’ lips, and his eyes flicker back and forth between Dean’s. A hand comes up to his face, slowly, and then Cas’ thumb is brushing over the scar on Dean’s cheek, the one Madison left with the butcher’s knife. It wasn’t very deep and quickly stopped bleeding, Dean had almost forgotten about it.
Cas continues looking at him like he hung the fucking moon. “What?”
He slightly shakes his head in response, then lays his fingers flat on the side of Dean’s head, effectively cupping his face, and it would be a big, fat lie if Dean said he didn’t instinctively and immediately lean into the touch. Cas licks his lips at the same time his eyes unmistakably flicker down to Dean’s. Shamelessly and obviously, he stares at Dean’s mouth, almost like, like—
For the second time that night, Dean acts before thinking, without thinking at all actually, when he surges forward and meets Cas in the middle.
It’s innocent at first, nothing more than a gentle brush of lips, but quickly evolves into something more intense, something that’s long overdue. Cas kisses him fiercely, like he means it, but it’s not just the act of kissing that makes Dean feel drunk with it, it’s the knowledge of who he’s kissing. His best friend, probably the love of his fucking life, running his tongue over Dean’s bottom lip and implicitly asking Dean to let him in, and well, as if Dean was ever going to deny him.
Their tongues swirl together and as Dean takes in a small breath through his nose, he can feel his heart nearly beating out of his chest. He grabs Cas’ face with one hand to hold him in place, and kisses him roughly and hungrily. Soft gasps escape Cas’ lips, and they’re the most delicious sounds Dean has ever heard.
At some point Cas’ hand wanders from where it’s holding onto Dean’s face further to the back of his head, and for a second it’s perfect, the way he pulls Dean down to deepen the kiss, but then—
Cas’ fingers hit that one, painful spot that immediately makes Dean pull back and groan, and for a second his vision goes black and he squeezes his eyes shut.
“Dean?” he hears Cas’ concerned voice, his hand retracting back to Dean’s arm out of shock. “Dean, what—”
“I’m fine,” he mumbles, then drops his head back on Cas’ shoulder when it gets too heavy. Cas seems to accept that for now, just wraps his arms around his body and holds him while waiting for an answer. Dean could swear he can feel Cas’ lips against his forehead.
After a minute, the pain has passed, and so has the wave of nausea. The dizziness remains when he lifts his head again and meets Cas’ eyes. “Sorry.”
“What just happened?”
The sheer ridiculousness of the situation makes Dean chuckle before he can answer. “I think I might be a little concussed.”
It takes Cas a few seconds to process that information Dean deliberately left out earlier since Cas’ injuries were much more severe, and then he rolls his eyes. Dean swears there’s a faint smile on his lips, though. “Okay, fine.”
Dean’s not sure what’s happening when Cas gently shoves him off and gets out of bed. He returns from the bathroom with a glass of tap water and tells Dean to drink it, and like the good boy he is, Dean does.
Cas takes back the empty glass, then he says, “Take off your pants.”
Dean glances down at his sweatpants, raises one eyebrow and smirks at Cas. “Huh?”
“They’re gonna be too warm, take them off. I know you’re wearing boxers underneath.”
“How do you know that?” Dean asks in a cocky tone and earns a glare in return. The combination of a whole bottle of wine, a life-changing kiss from his best friend and a concussion really makes him say the wildest things. “Why don’t you take ‘em off?”
Cas sighs softly, and even in the artificial light of the TV, Dean can see his cheeks tint a little. “If you still want me to take them off tomorrow, I promise I will.”
Dean lazily lifts his hips just enough to pull down his pants as Cas goes to refill the glass and puts it down on Dean’s nightstand. He turns off the TV then, even though the episode’s not over yet, and after a minute he gets both of them under the covers. His arms find their way around Dean’s body like it’s second nature, and before he knows it, they’re lying in the same position as before, Dean’s head resting on Cas’ chest and all. This time though, Dean throws a leg between Cas’ and notices that he lost his pants too. He’s not quite feeling delirious enough to bend his leg any further and risk touching Cas’ crotch with his thigh, because he’s not sure he could make himself pull away if he did.
“You should’ve said something,” Cas tells him after a few minutes of silence, only the sound of Cas’ fingers trailing up and down Dean’s back between them. “I shouldn’t have let you drink so much wine.”
“‘s not your responsibility,” Dean mumbles back, unsure if it was even comprehensible from where his face is pressed to Cas’ chest.
“No, but still. I can’t take care of you if you don’t let me.”
Part of Dean wants to argue about it. Wants to tell Cas that he doesn’t have to take care of him in the first place, that Dean can take care of himself which is why he didn’t originally say anything.
Instead, he sighs and nuzzles his face further into the crook of Cas’ neck, and presses a chaste kiss to the warm skin. “Okay.”
For the third night in a row, Dean falls asleep in Cas’ arms.
He was wrong when they started working the case, when he said that things are never that easy. Sometimes they are.