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The dog showed up about a month after the apocalypse didn’t happen. He was something like a border collie, maybe, with shorter fur and longer legs and altogether too ungainly to move as quickly as he did. Ben saw him first, skulking about in the bushes around the side of the house, and loudly demanded that he be allowed to keep him. The dog seemed to find the idea of being kept insulting, and led Ben on a merry chase up and down the street before Lisa called him back in for supper. The boy, not the collie-thing, though Ben managed to save a corner of chicken-fried steak wrapped up in a napkin in case the dog was still roaming about the yard after their meal.
He was. Ben laughed when the dog wolfed down the steak like he hadn’t eaten in a year and this time, when Ben reached out, he cautiously licked the boy’s hand. Ben’s face lit up like the sky at noon and the dog hesitantly wagged his tail, as if it had never before occurred to him that his tail could do something other than hang there. “Mom says you can’t come in the house,” Ben told his new friend, formulating a plan, “but if you stick around, I’ll keep bringing you food, ok?” The mutt solemnly smacked his tail against the porch steps, twice, as if in agreement, and bolted off into the hedges.
He’d been lurking around the yard for a few days when Dean tripped over him in the dark and landed flat on his back. He hurled both expletives and a half-full bottle of Corona at the unfortunate, dog-shaped obstacle, who seemed to take this behavior as a peculiar sort of encouragement. Stepping on Dean’s chest, the mutt settled in to stare him down with a possessive chuff, despite a slew of angry curses and mumbled profanity.
Dean really, really wished he hadn’t finished that fifth of Jack. It would have made getting up off his ass so much easier. “Lisa keeps dumping all my whiskey down the sink,” he slurred up at the mutt after a few failed attempts at movement. “Says I’m a – a ‘bad influence’ on the kid. Me! Can you believe that?” The dog cocked its head to one side and gave a sympathetic whine. “At least I’m around, y’know? You can’t influence anybody if you’re not around.”
Dean worked his fingers into the dog’s shaggy coat, staring up at the blurred light of the stars. “I guess that’s a lie, huh?” he amended as the dog sank down beside him in the dew-soaked grass, unnervingly blue eyes still focused intently on his face. Dean hadn’t known dogs’ eyes could actually come in blue, but maybe he’d just never looked. “Sounded pretty good, though, didn’t it?” The dog nudged his side with his snout, as if encouraging him to continue.
“Everybody left,” Dean muttered, eyes at half mast, already falling asleep. “Sam’s gone, the stupid bastard. Gone for good, maybe even – shit.” He wiped at his eyes, wondering if tonight would be the binge he never woke up from, and if he even cared. “Lisa wants me to stop drinking. Hell, sometimes I want to stop drinking, but the thing is - I really just want to world to stop.”
Dean rolled over on his side, wrapped an arm around the dog. He was soft, and warm, and didn’t seem inclined to wander off anytime soon. “Goddamn angels,” he mumbled against a patch of white fur. “Never answering their phones. Never around when you really – when you’re –“ Dean never finished his sentence, and when the early morning sunlight woke him like a sledgehammer, the dog was gone.
“We should give him a name,” Ben suggested one Saturday. He was perched on a crate of motor oil at Wagner Auto, the body shop where Dean had so far managed to remain employed for a solid month. The owner, Karl, didn’t mind if Dean brought the kid in to watch him work and maybe learn a thing or two about cars while he was at it. Dean wasn’t sure what Karl would think about the gangly mutt sprawled out on the concrete beside the Impala, but he didn’t have the heart to kick him out into the blistering summer heat. The garage was open, but comfortably shaded, and the oil-stained cement was cooler inside than out. Besides, Dean thought, he’d kind of gotten used to having the little guy around - not that he would admit it if anyone asked.
“Give who a name?” Dean bluffed, as if Ben could mean anyone other than the dog that came and went as he pleased and most certainly didn’t belong to this pair of jokers. Ben rolled his eyes and the dog thumped his tail lazily against the floor. Dean had begun to suspect that particular gesture was the critter’s way of laughing at him, as if the damn thing had a sense of humor. He wiped his hands off on an oil-stained rag and glanced out the bay doors, his gaze coming to rest on early 70s Mustang hatchback with at least one wheel in the grave. He couldn’t be sure if the junker had originally been painted the color of rust or if its current coat was a symptom of decades of abuse and neglect. A real shame, that.
“Bullitt,” he suggested, thinking fondly of an older and wiser model. “S’a good name for a dog. Bullitt.” Ben tilted his head to the side, squinting at the Mustang. “Bullet?” Ben repeated, confused. “Like you shoot out of a gun?”
Dean glanced back at the kid, eyes narrowing in suspicion. “Don’t tell me you’ve never seen Bullitt.” Ben’s face remained blank, and he shrugged. “Steve McQueen, 1968. Best car chase ever filmed, hands down.”
Ben perked up at the last with an expectant grin. “Car chase?” Dean grinned back, and the dog – Bullitt, then – sat up with an approving bark. When he’d finished the Impala’s tune up, Dean swung by the local video hut and then the grocery for a very necessary quart of rocky road. Lisa kissed them both goodnight before retiring with a book (and a bowl of ice cream), and for once didn’t tell Dean not to keep Ben up past his bedtime.
He tried not to think about the first time he’d seen the greatest car chase of all time, and how Sam’s eight-year-old eyes had gone wide as saucers when McQueen launched the Mustang high into the air and landed it, too. Dean tried not to hear an echo of his brother’s excited shouts in Ben’s giddy, sugar-fueled enthusiasm. Most of all, though, Dean told himself he was just seeing things when he noticed wet nose prints against the sliding glass door in the den, as if the dog had stuck around to watch the movie, too.
Dean never really stopped scanning the papers for the odd story here and there that might catch his eye. Once, in September, he even caught himself dialing Bobby’s number to ask him if he thought the sudden appearance of sinkholes in Skokie might be mole people – not the actual humans living in subway tunnels, but nature’s least fortunate recipients of the lycanthropic curse who typically burrowed beneath subdivisions and city parks. He stopped before punching the last digit, staring at the display and thinking about the gruff voice he’d hear on the other end.
Thought about what they might talk about. Thought about Sam.
Dean had kept his promise. He had a good job, a regular job. He was starting to build halfway decent credit in his own name. He took out the trash, walked Ben to baseball practice, knew his neighbors by name, and drank coffee out of the same mug every damn morning. Three out of five nights he managed to get to sleep before dawn without two fingers of scotch. It wasn’t exactly a normal, apple pie life; Lisa, ironically was allergic to apples. He wasn’t in love, but he was content and Dean thought this might one day be something he could call happiness. He scrolled down the phone’s list of contacts, stopped at the C’s. Dean stared at one name until Ben thundered down the steps, a herd of tiny elephants wrapped up in the body of a ten year old boy. “We could totally make it to Dunkin’ Donuts before Mom gets back from class,” he declared.
Dean glanced at the time on the microwave. Mole people or not, Skokie could sort it out without his interference. He cleared the screen with the push of a button and slipped the phone back in his pocket, grabbing his keys from the hook beside the door.
Lisa’s house was close enough to Ben’s school for him to walk, except in the dead of winter when the show drifts piled high over his head. At the end of August, when he shouldered his pack and set off for Hamilton Elementary, Bullitt followed him like a shadow, sniffing with interest at his packed lunch. Most days, the bag was half empty by the time Ben ever made it to school, but he didn’t mind. Bullitt was crazy enough to eat all the things he couldn’t stand, like baby carrots and those dried little peach things. Who ate those, really? They were orange.
He saw the mutt from time to time, out the classroom window, chasing rabbits across the lawn. The groundskeeper chased him off, but he always came back, pink tongue lolling out of a sly canine grin. Ben swore to Jeffrey Simmons, who sat next to him in math, that once he even saw the dog wink. Jeff didn’t believe him, but Ben knew it was true.
Word started to get around, and after about a week of Bullitt’s inconsistent companionship on the way to and from school, Ben started to draw an audience. Sure, they were there for the mutt, bringing him treats and rubbing his belly (which he suffered with a sort of stoic curiosity), but little by little, Ben started to feel more like he belonged. Kids he’d never even met started walking home with him, or waiting for him at cross streets on his morning walk, and eventually Bullitt hogged less of the spotlight. Ben discovered that other people liked Transformers, too, and the White Sox, and Super Smash Bros, and chili cheese dogs in the park. Sometimes, Bullitt wasn’t waiting for him after all, off on important doggy business, Ben supposed, and the other kids walked with him anyway.
One morning, the best morning of his life so far, Amy Patterson from Track 3 fell in step beside him on Perkins Street and tossed a tennis ball down the sidewalk. She laughed as Bullitt dashed down the street, tucking a strand of red hair behind one ear. Ben thought her smile was the most fascinating thing he had ever seen, better than the home run he hit last week, and that was really saying something. He bought the mutt a hamburger after school in thanks.
“We should build Bullitt a doghouse,” Ben decided one night, helping his mom clean up after dinner. The creature himself had been scarce lately, having wisely learned to steer clear of Lisa Braeden and her deadly aim with flying shoes at all costs. Ben couldn’t help but think that perhaps a peace offering with a compromise of shelter might be appreciated, especially before it turned cold.
“Ben, honey, we’ve been over this,” Lisa pleaded, up to her elbows in suds and far too tired to be having this conversation again. The lights flickered over the table and she made a mental note to call the electrician for the third time this month. “I’m not a dog person, and you haven’t proven you’re responsible enough to take care of anything larger than a goldfish.” Ben gulped, remembering how his last three fish had met their untimely doom.
“Besides, we’d have to take him to the vet to get checked out and we just don’t have the money right now.” Ben sighed in disappointment. “And stop feeding him the bits of your lunch you don’t like,” Lisa continued, attempting to make the frown genuine so her kid might take her seriously for a change.
Ben flushed guiltily, but sensed the beginnings of a crack in the argument and would not be dissuaded. “Mom, c’mon, that dog rocks. He’s practically a member of the family, and – and Dean likes him, too. Besides,” he added slyly, hiding his face behind a cabinet door, “it’s not like we don’t have a habit of taking in –“
“Benjamin Isaac Braeden, you do not want to finish that sentence.”
Dean tried not to be suspicious when Lisa joined a book club, but old habits died hard, if at all, and he found himself checking the house and the cars for hex bags after their weekly meetings. All he ever found were short notes in unfamiliar handwriting in books by authors whose names he couldn’t pronounce. The messages were cryptic and smelled vaguely like cologne, but they weren’t witchcraft and Dean slipped them back between the pages exactly as he’d found them. He figured it was none of his business; Lisa didn’t owe him a damn thing, and they’d never made any promises – at least, not to each other.
He’d taught her how to draw a Devil’s Trap, how to spread salt or brick dust or old iron nails around the doors and windowsills. He’d shown her how to get into the Impala’s trunk, and where he kept a flask of extra holy water, just in case. Lisa could take care of herself, he’d made sure of that, and even tried to teach her how to shoot a rifle. She’d laughed in his face.
“Did you really think I wouldn't learn to protect myself after nearly losing Ben to - to freaking leech children? C’mon, Dean, give me a little credit, here.” As it happened, Lisa was a crack shot with the Herstal FNP that lived in her bedside drawer, and she proved it to him one Saturday at the range. She did let him show her how to pack shells full of rock salt, and even learned the Enochian sigil to banish an angel, though she couldn’t imagine ever having to use it. She still thought of angels as tiny, plump cherubs with wispy hair and halos and Dean hoped he never had to prove her wrong.
It was mid-September before Lisa Braeden found reason to revise her opinion of the dog. Ben’s game finished up just as the sun was setting over the park, and the three of them walked slowly home, enjoying the lingering warmth of a September evening. Ben’s team had won their first game, and he was ecstatic, skipping ahead, tossing his glove into the air and catching it again and again. Lisa and Dean meandered behind, quiet conversation punctuated by bursts of laughter. Ben turned to walk backwards, still tossing the glove, recognizing the look on his mother’s face as a guarded sort of happiness.
Ben smiled; he would have given Dean Winchester at most three weeks when he showed back up that night in May. It hadn’t been perfect; not by a long shot – especially when Dean tried to cook and set the stove on fire - but when they fought it was quiet and no one slammed doors and Dean had never once yelled at him. Never tried to be his Dad, only his friend, and Ben could respect that. Sometimes Ben caught himself thinking of what it might be like if Dean really stayed, but he didn’t want to get his hopes up. Not yet.
The squeal of tires came out of nowhere and Ben stumbled, his cleat snagged on a sewer grate. All the air left his lungs in a rush as something hurtled into him from the other side, knocking him back up past the curb. He heard the crash as if it were a sound effect on television and landed in a bruised pile on the grass, limp and shaking.
Ben might’ve blacked out for just a second, but you didn’t hear it from him. When he opened his eyes, his mother was taking up his entire field of vision, her face white, hands shaking against his hair. He could see her lips moving, but no sound was coming out. He sat up, dazed, as she fumbled at his cheeks, his shoulders, his knees.
“Are you bleeding?” he heard, fading into the audible range of sound. “Oh, god, baby, are you all right? Please be all right!” He heard a car door slam; heard the pounding of booted feet across pavement. An unfamiliar voice, asking about the kid and the dog. What dog? Was Bullitt –
Ben bolted to his feet and saw Dean and a stranger hunched over something in the street. Oh, no. He stumbled forward, brushing off his mother’s frantic hands, desperate to see with an acid lump in his stomach. Bullitt lay sprawled across Dean’s lap, his head cradled in Dean’s hands. The smell of blood registered together with gasoline and hot asphalt and Ben’s vision swam. He sank to the ground beside Bullitt, ignoring the stranger poking and prodding at the dog’s hind leg. The stranger was saying something, apologizing, babbling, but Ben didn’t care. He looked up at Dean for reassurance but saw only a terrible, frozen sort of fear.
Ben looked away, embarrassed, as if he’d accidentally stumbled upon some private moment. Dean grabbed him roughly by the shoulders and pulled him into a hug, apologizing over and over for something that wasn’t his fault. “Is Bullitt gonna be ok?” Ben asked, horrified at the shake in his voice. He slid out of Dean’s arms and sank down to press his face into the dog’s soft fur, feeling Bullitt’s heartbeat strong and steady in his chest. It was the most awesome sound he had ever heard, better even than the first time he’d heard Led Zeppelin, and he wasn’t going to cry. He wasn’t.
“That dog saved your life, son,” the stranger said, breathless, from somewhere above him, and Ben nodded, tears soaking into Bullitt’s coat. He heard an answering whuff as Bullitt wriggled and squirmed beneath him, and Ben shifted to let the dog move. “You’re the best dog ever,” he told Bullitt, who nuzzled his check in response with a cold, wet nose. The adults were standing around talking about vets and hospitals and concussions and the stranger was insisting upon paying for everything and Ben thought that was nice of him, except he didn’t really want to go to the doctor, and he’d bet Bullitt didn’t, either. He stood up, scratching the dog behind the ear and getting his fingers licked in return.
“We’re fine,” Ben announced, and Dean opened his mouth to contradict him but discovered it was the truth. Ben didn’t have a scratch on him, not even on his knees or palms where he’d been knocked to the ground, and Bullitt – Dean blinked. He’d seen the car catch the dog’s left hip with its front bumper. He’d seen the pool of blood on the ground, and heard the creature’s shallow, labored breathing. Now he was standing on all fours beside Ben, head tilted to one side, regarding Dean from those impassive blue eyes that would never remind him any less of –
Nothing. Never mind. It was ridiculous, anyway.
In the end, they compromised; Lisa took Ben to the ER, “just in case,” and Dean found a 24-hour Veterinary Clinic about half an hour away. He asked Lisa to text him with updates from the hospital, but mostly it was Ben who responded, asking about Bullitt. The vet proclaimed Bullitt healthy as a horse, and Dean figured she would know, but he’d be damned if he could figure out how anything the size of a collie could take a direct hit from a Buick and survive, let alone walk away. He stopped on the way home for two gas-station cherry pies and a large, blue flannel dog bed that he thought would look all right by the fireplace. When Lisa and Ben finally made it home, tired and cranky but with a clean bill of health, they found Dean sprawled across the couch with the phone in one hand and Bullitt tucked snugly beneath the other.
They never talked about it, but Bullitt more or less lived inside after that. He still came and went as he pleased, defying locked doors and sneaking up onto the foot of the bed after Lisa had seen Ben off to school and left for her early morning classes. The story of Bullitt’s heroics had reached Ben’s classmates, and if the dog wasn’t home when they stopped by, they usually ended up playing fierce games of Mortal Kombat when the television would cooperate (it sometimes went to static in the way of older sets) or touch football in the yard.
An early chill in the air a week before Halloween announced the impending storm, and Ben paced the backyard for hours, calling Bullitt inside. He never showed, and long after Ben reluctantly went to bed, Dean sat up watching the snow fall in weightless, feathery clumps. Lisa made him a mug of hot cocoa and kissed the top of his head before turning in for the night, leaving an extra quilt on the couch. That was one more thing they never talked about; Dean spent more nights on the sofa than in her bed and it suited them both just fine. The sex was great, when it happened – amazing, in fact, but it was just physical. Not even comfort anymore, and Dean had never before tried to share living space with that sort of friend. He was used to being the first one out the door and here came old habits, tripping him up again.
Dean watched the snow obliterate the streets, the hedges, even the cars and mailboxes and wondered if it was really that easy to start over. No matter how nice the clean slate looked at first, eventually the snow would melt and you’d find all the garbage hidden beneath it, rotten and unrecognizable but still poisoning the ground. Dean leaned his head against the cold glass pane and for just a second he could have sworn he felt the weight of a hand on his shoulder. He turned, heart pounding, adrenaline pumping as hunter reflexes snapped to attention - but there was only an empty room.
“Cas?” he asked the shadows, asked the snow falling steadily without a sound. His own voice was loud in the stillness, rusty and out of place. Idiot, he scolded himself, pouring a glass of the good single malt Lisa kept above the fridge, hoping it might calm his nerves. It was hours before Dean slept, restless and alone and listening for any hint of noise in the silent dark. He woke to stale air and the smell of a fire gone cold, remembering the sound of wings.
Dean shoveled the driveway and sidewalks, wondering how in the hell he’d ended up living where it snowed in October. It was Saturday and he’d tried to recruit Ben’s help, but Bullitt had never come home and the kid copped an attitude out of spite. Dean could hear the “you’re not my father, you can’t tell me what to do,” a mile off and backed down before it needed to be said. It was cold enough already, his gloves were soaked, and the rock salt he spread along the front steps would only melt the ice.
Ben crouched behind the wall of his fort, waiting, a reserve supply of snowballs at the ready. It was Halloween, and after the disaster that had been costume shopping the last two years running (it was difficult to pick a mythical creature to imitate when you couldn’t be sure if they really existed and might be offended), he had finally decided on a better plan. There were two pine trees beside the house, right where the yard started to slope, providing excellent cover and a clear view of the front walk. Dean found a box of old toys while cleaning out the attic over the summer; Ben had swiped the big, blocky molds for sand-castles and spent the past several days putting them to better use as ice molds. The gap between the pines was now stacked three feet high with interlocking bricks and hidden from view by a pile of artfully arranged branches.
His mother stuck her head outside to turn the porch light on, shaking her head at the red-tinted bulb he’d switched out this afternoon. The jack-o-lanterns were already lit, flickering candles illuminating Darth Vader and the Eye of Sauron – without a doubt, the coolest pumpkins on the block. Ben glanced down at the buckets full of miniature ice bombs and grinned. The snow had all but melted from the street, but he had planned ahead, filling the freezer in the garage with snowballs before it was entirely gone. Dean had once again proved an able co-conspirator, spraying the snowballs with a coat of water to hold their shape until tonight. He couldn’t wait to see the looks on those losers’ faces when they hit.
Ben didn’t get it; Dean seemed to hate the snow, hate winter altogether, but he had quite possibly the coolest car ever made and it would have taken him anywhere. Any idiot could figure out that winters in the Midwest were freaking cold, and just gone somewhere else; particularly since things with his mom didn’t seem to be working out. Ben wasn’t stupid, he could figure out what it meant when a guy slept on the couch, but he wasn’t going to say anything. Dean had been good to them; he had a wicked sense of humor, could build a snow fort like nobody’s business and Ben really would miss him if he left.
A shuffling sound beside him made Ben jump, icy snowball in hand before a familiar brown and white snout poked through the branches. “Bullitt!” he gasped, dropping the snowball and throwing his arms around the dog. “I knew you’d come back,” he whispered against Bullitt’s ear. “You’re just in time to help me pwn these losers from down the block!” Bullitt thumped his tail in agreement and licked curiously at the blocks of ice. Ben laughed and swatted him away; the fort would melt soon enough without extra encouragement.
“Reporting for duty, General,” Dean said quietly, sinking to the ground behind Bullitt. He carried another bucket of snowballs in one hand, and a bag of Reese’s Cups in the other. “Rations,” he explained, tossing one to Ben. “This is going to be so awesome,” Ben mumbled around a cold lump of chocolate and peanut butter, grinning from ear to ear.
A shouted chorus of “Trick or Treat!” rang out from the neighbor’s yard just as the sun set, and Ben focused on the task at hand. He and his mom had barely finished moving in last year when the snow started falling, and Ben had found himself in the middle of a fierce game of Calvinball that somehow involved the entire street. The neighborhood seemed to have divided into teams at birth, but as neither side wanted the new kid, they both declared him the enemy. This year would be different, Ben thought, scheming happily beneath the pines. This year, he had his own army.
It was November and freezing but Dean didn’t care. His shotgun was tucked beneath the seat, the Impala’s heater was on full blast to melt the ice crystals that covered him from head to toe. He was cold and wet and it was the middle of the night and Lisa would probably be furious but he didn’t care – two little kids in Sturgis were safe.
He’d taken to reading local papers from several neighboring states at the local library since work at the Auto shop had predictably slacked off for the winter. It didn’t take a genius to recognize the marauding waheela in the eyewitness accounts of a giant, bi-pedal hyena running cars off the road and into the river south of town; he scrawled out a note for Lisa and Ben before he could change his mind and headed north. It was only three hours to the Michigan state line; Dean figured he could be back by dinner.
He’d been wrong about that, and wrong about the waheela, too, but none of that really mattered to Dean right this second. He was still high on adrenaline from bringing down a six-foot weredog of indeterminate origin before it could rip his lungs out – or anyone else’s, for that matter. If he thought he’d seen, just for a second, a shaggy, blue-eyed mutt standing between the terrified twin runaways and the charging beast, it had to have been his imagination. There was unlikely, and then there was impossible, and Dean had been pretty sure he knew how to tell the difference before the past two years taught him otherwise.
Sam would have known, he thought, scanning the dial for a radio station that wasn’t playing some screeching pre-teen or cokehead diva. Sam would have figured the rampaging beastie for a Shunka Warakin straight off and he wouldn’t have wasted so much time laying a trap with sage rope and rosewater and day old road kill. He would have started and ended with silver bullets and been home long before now.
Home, Dean thought. Now there’s an idea. Problem was, he’d never really known what that meant. No place came to mind when he formed the syllable, not any particular town or address he could point to on a map, just faces and names. It wasn’t Lawrence, not in 1979 or 1984 or 2010. It wasn’t Sioux Falls, or Cicero, Indiana; wasn’t inside four walls or buried in the ground. It was this car, and these roads, and that box of tapes on the floor but it wasn’t an empty passenger seat. It was his genius little brother, and the nerdiest angel in Heaven, and they’d both had more important things to do than keep rambling on with Dean Winchester.
Dean felt his elation beginning to ebb as a stream of cold water plunged down the back of his neck and hid beneath his collar. Lisa would be worried about him; would probably think he was out on a bender and if he had fallen off a wagon tonight, it wasn’t that one. The radio gave up the ghost and fell away into static, losing a signal it had never really carried. Dean wondered when the crackle and hum of the gaps between stations had become just as comforting as his favorite, roadworn albums.
He thought about calling Bobby, or checking in with Rufus, but he knew better. The mood he was in, fresh from the hunt, he’d just as likely pass the exit for E. 500 St and keep right on going. Do not pass go, do not say goodbye. Chuck hadn’t answered his phone in months, though, and Becky was right out. Dean didn’t think he could really stomach calling up Ed or Harry for a chat; even his loneliness had had its limits.
That left only one other number, really. Technically, Ellen and Jo were still in his contact list, as were Caleb, Travis and Pastor Jim, but he didn’t expect any of them to answer. Someday, Dean promised himself, he’d grow a pair and delete their entries in his phone, but for now – for now, they stayed. He scrolled back up to the C’s, past Cassie Robinson whose last name had changed and who had not appreciated a late night call from him the last time. The little blue bar hovered over the shortest entry on the list, just three letters, and Dean hit send before he could change his mind.
It didn’t even ring, but the cab filled with a sound like a neon light about to gutter and the pungent aroma of wet dog. Bullitt whuffed and the Impala veered off the road and into a snow bank, stopping six inches from the trunk of an ancient oak. Dean turned his head, hands still clamped around the steering wheel.
“Fuck,” he said, then, “No.”
A light at once blinding and imperceptible ricocheted off window glass and in the dog’s place sat a familiar disheveled profile. He didn’t look at Dean, and Dean stared straight out the windshield. “You cannot pull this kind of shit on people, Cas,” he managed, knuckles still white against the wheel. There were not enough angry, vulgar words in the English language and Dean thought he might have to borrow from Latin before his brain had finished cursing out the angel. “I – you – what the hell is the kid gonna think, huh?”
“My intention was never to deceive you or the Braeden family,” the angel explained.
“Ben loves that stupid mutt, you moron!” Dean was quietly furious, watching a clump of snow shake loose from a branch and rain down on the Impala. “Should’ve known no real dog could eat hamburgers and donuts and survive,” Dean muttered. Survive. Oh, shit. Dean’s eyes widened as the color drained from his face. “You saved his life. That car was going to plow right into him but you knocked him out of the way and you – you got hit.”
Castiel shifted uncomfortably. “I was able to heal myself.”
“You got run over by a 1985 Buick,” Dean said, still dumbstruck at the thought. “They built those cars solid, Cas.”
“I had – grown fond of Ben,” Castiel explained, still not looking at Dean. “I did not wish to see him injured.” Dean wasn’t sure when his hand had reached out to clasp Castiel’s shoulder, but he squeezed it tightly in thanks.
“Yeah, me too,” Dean agreed, voice low and heavy with the rare burden of honesty. “He’s a great kid. The best.” His hand slid down from the angel’s shoulder as a new, sobering thought entered his mind and he voiced it accusingly before the consequences had entirely processed. “You slept in my bed.” Dean couldn’t be sure in the glow from the instrument panel, but he thought the angel might be blushing.
“I – “ Castiel began, worrying at the sleeves of his coat. “I am afraid I grew fond of that, as well.”
A lump stuck in Dean’s throat and he tried to change the subject but all that came out was, “I missed you.”
The angel looked up, surprised. “I never left.”
“I didn’t know that!” Dean exclaimed, and how in the hell had his evening gone from amazing to so utterly fucked up in the space of five minutes? “I called you, for like a month straight I called and called and you never picked up. Not once.”
“Dean,” Cas admonished. “I told you the situation in Heaven was chaotic. It took quite some time to restore any semblance of order in the ranks.”
“And yet you found plenty of time to stalk me as a stray retriever? Christ, I played fetch with you!” Dean leaned his head against the steering wheel and tried to think of a more humiliating day in his life, but so far he hadn’t come up with anything that compared.
“Restoring balance in Heaven did not make me very popular,” Castiel admitted. “I only intended to take a short break and check in on you, in a form my detractors would never think to associate with me. I did not fully anticipate the effect this new vessel would have on my behavior. I did not expect to – forget myself quite so thoroughly.”
Dean had never seen the angel look so uncomfortable, not even when he’d been dumb enough to take him to a brothel and been swiftly kicked out for his efforts. He wondered, ridiculously, if the space behind Castiel’s ears was still as sensitive in his human form and squashed the wayward thought before realizing that the angel was still speaking. “By the time I returned to Heaven for any length of time, things were once more out of hand and required a thorough sorting.”
“New vessel, huh?” Dean questioned, backing up a step in the conversation. “So, you just stole somebody’s dog to wear as a handy disguise?”
“As you said, Dean, he was a stray.” Castiel answered as though he had limitless patience, and maybe these days he did. “I didn’t steal him from anyone, and for the record, he did not mind. Your concerns about canine diets notwithstanding, he seemed to enjoy Ben’s company, and yours as well.”
“You talk to dogs, now?” Dean asked, his head spinning.
“I sometimes prefer it to attempting communications with humans,” Castiel answered, staring out the window.
“Fuck,” came Dean’s response, the most articulate he could manage, and the angel snorted, his point effectively made. “What the hell am I supposed to do with that, huh?”
“I would not advise returning to the house in Cicero this evening,” Castiel offered, taking his words at face value. At Dean’s raised eyebrow, he continued. “Ben is spending the night with a friend, and Lisa is - entertaining a man named Daniel Hedgefield.”
“Who?” Dean asked, more curious than jealous.
“I believe they met at a book discussion club. He lives in Noblesville and writes romance novels under an assumed name.”
“Oh,” Dean said after a moment. The notes in Lisa’s paperbacks, the flowers she said were from her mother; things began to slide into place.“I’m not sure I want to know how you know all that, Cas.”
"I bit him on the leg, if it helps.” The look on the angel’s face was so sincerely disgruntled that Dean had to fight not to burst out laughing.
“You what?” he asked. “Cas, you can’t just –I mean, Lisa has every right to see whoever she wants.” The idea of Castiel, angel of the Lord, taking the form of a collie to defend his honor had to be the strangest thing that had ever occurred to him – and Dean couldn’t say that lightly.
“The two of you are intimate,” Castiel asserted, as if it meant something, and Dean realized the angel honestly thought it did. Then he also realized they hadn’t always kicked Bullitt out of the room or even off the bed when things got interesting and he wanted to sink straight down through the seat in profound embarrassment. He coughed and attempted to bluster through it in classic Winchester style.
“We might’ve had something once, me and Lisa, but I think –“ Dean paused, the familiar realization settling like a pile of rocks in his stomach. “This is where I belong, Cas. Out here where it’s real, saving people, hunting things. That’s what I do.”
“The family business,” Castiel concluded, as though quoting someone else, and Dean felt a hollow ache beneath his ribs. That should have been Sam’s line.
“I kept my promise to Sam, you know? I really tried - but at the end of the day…” Dean trailed off, watching the snow drift slowly down. “You spend so long hunting things, awful things, stuff that shouldn’t even exist, sometimes you get lost on the way back to what’s human.” He punched the steering wheel, leaning back into the seat. Dean tried to stop his mouth, but caution had never been his strong suit and the words still tumbled out. “Shit. No one should have to live with a ghost. Truth is, I just - I didn’t want to do it alone, any of it.”
He didn’t know what sort of response he had expected to that kind of loser, this-week-on-Oprah statement, but it wasn’t the one he got. Cas reached out a hand to cover his fist; just left it there, gentle and warm and Dean gradually relaxed his fingers beneath the steady encouragement. He stared at the headlights casting shadows on the snow and ok, this was weird, but it wasn’t the strangest thing that had happened that day.
“This path is not yours alone to walk.” Dean wondered for a moment if the angel had spoken aloud or only in his head, before realizing it didn’t even matter.
“Thought you were all busy being the new Sheriff in town,” Dean muttered, thinking he really should have moved his hand by now and instead remaining cautiously still. He really wished it hadn’t occurred to him to wonder if maybe this was why the white picket fence Sam had wanted for him just wasn’t working out according to plan. If maybe in some screwed up, tried-and-true Winchester fashion, he’d been committed to something else - somewhere else - all along.
“I have a great many responsibilities in Heaven,” Castiel agreed. “But I think it’s time I learned to – how did Ash put it - delegate.” Dean risked a glance out of the corner of his eye; whatever he had expected to see, it wasn’t the angel’s face lit by a small and secret smile. Something stubborn and unwilling turned over in his chest and when Dean finally moved his hand, it was a slow slide over to the gear shift. Dean didn’t really know where they were headed, but an unsettled life (and several hard-fought decades outside the realm of human experience) had taught him he was nothing if not adaptable.
“I need to say goodbye to Ben, I owe him that.” Dean shifted the car into reverse and spun the wheels, angling for some traction in the snow. “And you, you mangy homewrecker - you owe that kid a dog.”
Dean had to admit; being back on the job after six months of domestication felt pretty damn good. It was the first week of December, and they’d cleaned out a nest of vampires in downtown Kennewick - half feral and living out of a boarded up record store like some ridiculous teen movie mash up. There had only been three of them, but Dean’s muscles told him he was out of practice as he lunged to catch the last one between the ribs. The vamp staggered back as the poison hit his system, stumbling just in time for Castiel to sever his head from his shoulders in a blinding flash of not-quite-steel.
The angel flicked his wrist and Dean watched slick red drops of blood slide off the blade as if repelled by the material itself. It was a graceful and restrained gesture, one that stirred portions of his brain that had no business showing up to a fight and that were, in fact, making the subsequent clean up more than a little uncomfortable. Christ, why him? Dean really would have thought the Universe had already satisfied its quota of fucking with Winchesters for at least another lifetime. Instead, he’d left a perfectly nice house and a perfectly nice yoga instructor to go poking at shadows and all the terrible things that lived there with an angel from the nerd legion.
“All right,” Dean called across the store. “It’s clean, let’s get this show on the – now what?” He’d checked the back rooms, ducked under every table and opened every cabinet, only to find the aforementioned angel standing by the entrance wearing what passed for a smile when your name was Castiel, Angel of the Lord. “Seriously, what is it?”
Cas shook his head, arms folded across his chest, smiling into his tie. “It’s nothing.” Dean frowned. Whenever the angel actually remembered that his facial muscles could move up as well as down, it never meant anything good for him. That one time in November had just been a fluke, he was convinced. “It’s not nothing, you jackass, you’re laughing at me. Spill.”
The angel looked up and had no sooner met Dean’s aggravated glance than he stood three inches away, covering the distance between them with a thought. Dean blinked, stepping back a pace, adrenaline still exaggerating all his motions into paranoid fight or flight. Castiel reached out a hand to sweep a large tangle of cobwebs from Dean’s hair, his face calm and carefully blank as though approaching a wild animal. He trailed his thumb across Dean’s cheek, brushing away a patch of dust and Dean coughed, turning away.
“Don’t see what was so funny about that,” he muttered, blood pounding in his ears as he moved past the angel and out the door.
“I never said it was,” Castiel corrected, locking the door behind them with a gesture and sliding into the passenger seat like any normal human. Well, any normal human who made a habit of visiting abandoned store fronts in the middle of the night and carving up vampires.
Back at the motel, Dean tossed his bag on the comforter and set the six pack of beer they’d stopped for on the table near the door. Castiel looked around the room for a moment, probably inspecting some inscrutable layer of reality that only angels could see, and perched at the very edge of the bed. “You gonna stick around for a couple of beers?” Dean asked, collapsing into a chair and popping the tab on a cold one. He wasn’t likely to admit it anytime soon, but he could use the company.
Castiel stared at him, stared right through him, as usual. “I hadn’t planned on going anywhere else tonight,” he stated, as if that should have been obvious. Dean blinked, caught off guard with the can halfway to his mouth.
“Oh,” he said, intelligently. “Guess I’m used to you having more important stuff to do than sleep. Do you, uh, actually sleep these days?” Castiel didn’t answer, and Dean rushed to fill the space with words. “You should’ve said something, man, I would have gotten two queens instead. Just like old times.” Dean’s eyes lost focus for a moment, seeing a hundred other rooms in a hundred no name towns. He finished off the can and resisted the urge to crush it against the table in wordless salute to another life.
“I don’t mind this arrangement,” Castiel said, as if it were just a simple statement, like the sky is blue or all angels are dicks. He looked to Dean like he was waiting for something, an answer to a question Dean hadn’t heard, and it finally sank in. Castiel was planning on staying. As in, the night.
Oh. Oh shit. Dean wasn’t ready for this. He hadn’t even had time to think about being ready for this. That night in the car, in the snow, Dean might’ve given the impression that he was, but really? He’d been high on endorphins, fresh from his first hunt in six months and he’d never actually said that leaving Lisa meant – anything at all. So he’d left; leaving was what he did, sort of professionally.
He needed a beer. Maybe two beers. Dean was in the midst of pondering the local liquor laws and checking his watch when Castiel moved, faster than his eyes could track, covering his hand where it gripped the plastic rings. He’d chugged the first can, and been halfway to opening a second when Castiel’s fingers wrapped around his knuckles, prying them gently away.
“If my presence here is upsetting, I will leave.” The pressure against Dean’s fingers contrasted with Castiel’s words; he sure as hell didn’t look like a guy about to walk out. The timbre of the angel’s voice hadn’t changed from one moment to the next, only a slight difference in cadence alerting Dean that he’d already made a mistake. Great.
“You, uh,” Dean stammered, flexing his fingers against the angel’s grip. “You want a beer?”
“No,” Castiel retorted, kneeling down in front of Dean at eye level in an effort to stop looming. Oh, good, Dean thought in some part of his brain that was still functioning. He’s learning. “I find the effects of alcohol unsettling and awkward, when I experience them at all.”
“Yeah,” Dean agreed, weakly. “That’s kind of the point. Hey, c’mon, it’s a celebration! Our first successful hunt, just you and me, since - well.” He shrugged, unwilling to bring up his brother or think about how Sam might be spending his time in Hell. Certainly not in a comfortable rented room with a six-pack of beer.
Castiel tilted his head, regarding Dean at an angle. “I understand the custom of using alcohol to celebrate personal victories. I also understand being miserable enough to find temporary comfort at the bottom of a bottle.” Dean closed his eyes, confused by the contrast of chilled metal beneath his palm and warm, almost feverish skin above it. “I do not understand, however,” Castiel continued, “why you resort to this whenever you are frightened or uncomfortable, or why I seem to create this response in you.”
Dean felt the blood rush to his face, knew his cheeks had to be the color of a bad sunburn. Several comebacks came to mind, vulgar and dissembling, but he discarded them all. “It just – look, sometimes I just need to take the edge off, all right?”
“I wasn’t aware I had an edge to remove.” Castiel withdrew his hand, leaving Dean free to open another beer. He didn’t. “I will leave. Goodnight, Dean.”
“No, Cas – hey, just wait a second!” Dean shouted to the empty room, rising from the chair. “That’s not what I meant, you moron,” he muttered, rolling his shoulders back in frustration. A rush of wind filled the air between one breath and the next, resolving into a static hum that lifted the hairs on the back of his neck. The angel reappeared precisely where he had left, leaving less than an inch between them.
Dean nearly stumbled backwards into the chair but Castiel’s arms reached out to steady him and “I’m sorry,” Dean blurted out. “But, dude, you have got to understand - even as long as I’ve known you, now, sometimes you’re a little – you’re kind of –“ Dean ran his fingers through his hair, at a loss. Castiel’s eyebrows drew together in an expression Dean had learned to read as focused consideration; he was waiting for Dean to figure this out. “Intense,” Dean finished, wishing his voice hadn’t risen sharply around the word. Dean stared down at his shoes, wondering when he had regressed to Ben’s age.
“Perhaps you would be more comfortable if I returned to a canine vessel?” Castiel joked; at least, Dean hoped he was joking. Sometimes – ok, really, most of the time, it was hard to tell. Dean laughed, a harsh, aborted sound and the angel regarded him as solemnly as ever. “I did not seem very – intense – in that form, nor did you mind my companionship.”
“Actually,” Dean admitted, “for a dog, you were pretty damn cool. That’s not the point, though.” Shit. He just said that. This was happening. Dean’s eyes slid shut without permission, but he was grateful for the blank canvas. In theory, it gave him space to think. In practice, it meant he didn’t have to see the hint of stubble shadowing the angel’s jaw, or the way his ears were slightly pointed at the tips or those eyes staring back at him like they’d found something fascinating and he could breathe.
“What is the point, then?” Castiel asked, not impatient but as if he really wanted to know. He was so close Dean could feel the words across his skin as he heard them and oh hell, he didn’t have the slightest idea how to do this. Would it be so different, with a man instead of a woman? His brain insisted yes, it was incalculably different, in terrifying ways he might spend the next week regretting, but the rest of him – the little hairs standing on end, his nipples rubbing up against the fabric of his shirt – the rest of his body was pretty interested in seeing where this was going. Dean Winchester had never backed down from a challenge, and he wasn’t about to start now, even if it ended in embarrassment, disaster or worse.
“The point is,” Dean started in, and immediately realized he had forgotten whatever lame thing he had been about to say. His mouth made an executive decision to fall back on what he knew and out tumbled, “Are you going to kiss me or what?” His brain reacted with horror at what he’d just said, but it didn’t have long to be mortified as the angel followed through on his suggestion with surprising skill and oh, that was actually – it was –
Castiel’s hand was anchored on his jaw, fingers lightly sliding beneath his ear and sending a not-unpleasant shiver down his side. His lips were moving, had never stopped moving, and Dean wondered where in the hell – no pun intended – an angel could ever have learned to kiss so well. “Cas,” Dean managed when he pulled back for a breath, something Castiel probably didn’t need to do at all and oh, that had possibilities. He would have continued, fairly certain he had something else in mind to say beside his partner’s name, but Castiel’s hand was on his chest, pushing him down into the chair and the language center of his brain shorted out.
Cas wriggled out of his coat and folded himself into the chair, straddling Dean’s hips with his knees. Dean figured they were probably violating several laws of physics to make this work and he hoped that wasn’t going to be painful later. Not that he could be bothered to care, his hands on Castiel’s waist, slipping the shirt out from beneath his belt to slide up and under. His skin was soft, and Dean could feel the angles of Castiel’s ribs beneath his hands. He traced their lines without thinking, needing something to focus on, somewhere relatively safe to keep his hands while he figured this out. His fingers brushed the angel’s nipple and the sound Cas made, low and needy and still somehow surprised, banished all thoughts of safety from Dean’s mind.
The angel’s mouth was back on his, hot and insistent in its movements and Dean slid forward, sitting up straight for better leverage. He traced circles across Castiel’s chest with his thumb and forefinger, enjoying the breathless noises it drew from the angel’s lips. Dean braced his other hand on Castiel’s hip and was utterly unprepared for Cas to find a way to draw their bodies together with a thrust, once, roughly, and then again. The friction drew Dean’s attention away from the angel’s mouth and the patterns his tongue was forming along his neck, words he felt he should know and could almost read through the skin. His erection pressed against Dean’s thigh and the world was suddenly too small, too warm, and altogether too real.
His hands pushed Castiel away, head wrenching back as Dean struggled for a breath and he knew his mouth was open, knew he was trying to find a word for this and failing. He settled for a hoarse “No,” the word more air and intent than actual sound. Castiel froze, his lips motionless against Dean’s jaw and then he wasn’t there at all.
Dean sank back against the chair, hands covering his face, unsure as to what had just happened. He was still hard, uncomfortably so in jeans that had fit just fine until about two minutes ago. Castiel reappeared in an uncertain flurry of wings and wind, trench coat and all, standing on the far side of the bed. Dean glanced at the space on the floor where the coat had been lying not thirty seconds ago and wondered sullenly if his life had ever made any sense at all.
“I don’t understand,” Castiel said, focusing somewhere over Dean’s head. “This is – this is what humans do, when – “ He stopped, licking his lips. They should have been swollen, Dean thought, should have been red and wet but instead they looked dry and thin and that wasn’t right at all. They hadn’t felt dry against his mouth and Dean shifted awkwardly, moving his hand so he couldn’t see Castiel anymore. “I have seen you engage in this behavior many times, with those who neither knew you nor particularly cared for you. Why is it so different with me?”
Dean rubbed his eyes, blinking Castiel back into focus and damn it all, he’d never wanted to see a look like that on the angel’s face. Not again. It had been bad enough, watching the hope drain away when they’d told him what that bastard Joshua had said; worse still when he’d come back from his bender, piss drunk and belligerent, but still reporting for duty. Dean hadn’t told anyone, but the familiar sight of bent and broken loyalty on an angel’s face – on that angel’s face - had cut the last tie holding him back from giving in. What was the point, if the same bullshit stacked all the way up to the top? If no one, anywhere, could expect any better?
Dean wasn’t sure anything could be worse, but this was struggling to be a contender; confusion and longing at war with themselves in the same unfocused stare. He was just not built for this shit. And what exactly had Cas meant, before, about what people do when – when they what? “This behavior?” Dean questioned, backing up a step and refusing to think of how that other sentence might have ended. “What do you mean you’ve seen me, many times?”
Castiel regarded the ceiling impassively. “Your sexual exploits are practically a matter of public record,” he sighed, and Dean thought he heard a spark of jealousy riding shotgun on that sentence.
“So what, you just now decided to get in line?” Dean asked, angry at the implication that Cas had been lurking in the bushes, watching him get it on like some kind of creepy angelic stalker for God only knew how long. Castiel’s eyes snapped down and he crossed the room, step by step, just like a real boy without any tricks up his sleeve. Something inside Dean curled in on itself, watching him advance and his brain chose this moment to dredge up Zachariah’s voice, saying In Heaven I have six wings and four faces, one of which is a lion. A lion, and suddenly Dean could see the comparison all too well.
Castiel stopped before the chair and stared down at its slouching occupant. Resting his hands on the arms, he hovered, back ramrod straight, fencing Dean in. “No,” he growled, just above Dean’s ear and making him wince. “I did not decide anything ‘just now.’”
“When?” Dean asked, still angry but humiliatingly breathless and very, very interested in the answer to that question.
“Maybe it was on my field trip through the bowels of Hell,” Cas snarled. “Or when I discovered that learning to trust a human being meant unlearning every other piece of knowledge I’d ever gained.” Cas took a slow, deliberate breath, as if he needed the air. “Or possibly when I left all my other responsibilities behind to sleep at your feet. Which do you think it was, Dean?”
Dean shook his head, his jaw working silently at the answer he couldn’t give. He didn’t think there were words in any language to respond to something like that; nothing good enough, nothing true enough to hold water. Castiel’s face was close enough to touch, as was all of him, in fact, supported above Dean on lean, muscular arms. There was something magnetic at work, drawing Dean in, making him think it would be a fantastic idea to just sit up, lean in, ever so slightly and –
Castiel pulled away, jaw set in a hard line, eyes focused and calculating. “Make up your mind,” he ordered, his tone leaving no room for argument. “I am something I was never meant to be because you wouldn’t let me walk away. Well, here I am.” He wants this, Dean thought, the realization both late and somewhat paralyzing. He wants me. Something indefinable softened in the angel’s stance as he took in Dean’s confusion and disarray. “I am still willing to follow where you lead. If you would prefer the company of strangers, however, I will leave you to them.”
Oh, Jesus, Dean thought. He really doesn’t get it. “Cas,” he begged, attempting to maintain the awkward angle, half in and out of an already uncomfortable chair. “It’s not you, all right. I mean, it is, but - “ he licked his lips, still criminally unsure how to proceed. Confused half-sentences were clearly not the best option, and he took a breath, attempting to rephrase. “I want to – to want to want this,” Dean fumbled, and oh, that was crystal clear. “It’s just I’ve never, you know,” he hesitated, finally settling on the obvious. “Cas, you’re a guy.”
The angel cocked his head, clearly not understanding the distinction. “I do not possess a gender as you would understand it,” Castiel offered, as if the spiritual aspects of sex with an angel were really going to help this fucked up conversation. Dean squirmed. “Maybe not in Heaven, but, uh,” he glanced down, eyes sweeping across the angel’s torso and stopping at his groin. “Around here, you’re one of the boys.”
Castiel followed the line of his gaze and made a small sound as if understanding had finally dawned. “I had assumed it would be easier for you if my form was more like your own,” the angel mused. “I see now that was a mistake.” Dean almost laughed; he supposed he could see the logic in that, from an outside perspective. Then the rest of it hit and Dean realized what Castiel was really saying; he had chosen this vessel for Dean. A shiver ran across his skin and Dean steadfastly refused to think about Jimmy Novak or his family, the lives that had been ruined because of an angel’s choice. He raised his hand instead to rest at the back of Castiel’s neck, letting it linger against warm skin. This was going to take some getting used to, but determined self-interest had rarely failed Dean in the past.
“I could seek out another vessel,” Cas said quietly, almost shyly.
“No,” Dean responded, so fast it set his brain spinning. “No, I mean, this is you, even if it’s not.” Good to know he was still 0 for a million on making sense tonight. Castiel nodded as if he understood anyway, and Dean relaxed a little, stroking the angel’s hairline with his thumb. “It’s how I know you. And you don’t make me uncomfortable, all right? These days, I mean, after everything, you’re the closest thing I’ve got to –“ and here it was, quite possibly the dumbest, most ridiculous thing he had ever said to anyone, and that included high school. He was losing cool points in some grand universal tally just by thinking about saying it.
Cas shifted, leaning his forehead against Dean’s. “To what?” he asked, lips trailing softly along Dean’s cheek and oh, that was not fair at all. Not one bit.
“Home,” Dean said, finally, the word sticking somewhere between his tongue and his teeth. From the way Castiel followed it with his mouth, teasing it out from behind his lips, Dean began to think that maybe it wasn’t so ridiculous after all. “Take two,” he mumbled, sliding his hand beneath the collar on the angel’s coat and hoping it wouldn’t magically reappear this time as soon as he’d removed it. Castiel sighed and shrugged his shoulders, seeming content to forget it existed as it fell once more into a crumpled pile.
Dean struggled with the knotted tie, only to feel it go slack and loose against his fingers as the angel’s hands slid beneath his shirt. They were cautious, exploring, content to take their time and survey the landscape. Not being gifted with the long view, Dean was perhaps slightly more impatient as he lifted the soft gray fabric over his head. He nudged Castiel closer to the bed, working his way button by button across the floor.
By the time he let Castiel press him down against the comforter, the majority of their layers had been dropped, kicked or flung to all four corners of the room. Dean didn’t think he’d ever been stripped so enthusiastically or with such indecent attention to detail, not even by that set of twins in Oak Park. A guy could get used to this. “I thought you angels weren’t supposed to be into this kind thing,” Dean teased, stroking a hand down Castiel’s side. He watched the sensation shiver across Castiel’s face and thought very seriously about renting the room for a week.
“I’m the new Sheriff in town,” Cas explained with an absolutely wicked grin, and Dean would forever plead the fifth as to who might have taught him how to do that. “I get to make the rules.”
They were hunting a crazed satyr near Cuervo, New Mexico when Bobby called to pass along the invitation. It was going to be a small wedding, just a tent in the backyard for friends and family at the end of the summer, but Ben was insistent that Dean be there. “Guess we’re gonna have to buy you a tuxedo,” Dean wisecracked, snapping the phone shut as the satyr caught him behind the knees with a rusted length of pipe. “Son of a bitch!”
Castiel caught the goatman by the wrist and twisted until he dropped the pipe, flinging a handful of red dust into the satyr’s face. It squealed, clawing frantically at its eyes before spinning three times in a circle and winking out of existence with an audible pop.
“Was it supposed to do that?” Dean asked, rubbing the back of his head. He’d caught the busted edge of a sink when he fell, and he could already tell it was going to sting like a mother by nightfall. He tried not to think of where they’d ended up the last time one of them had been hurt on a job; he’d always thought “playing doctor” was just an overused pornographic trope until the angel had decided to prove him wrong. Dean had enjoyed being enthusiastically corrected enough to sprain his other knee in the process.
“Probably not,” Castiel guessed, glancing with concern at the blackened pit in the linoleum and drawing Dean’s mind back to the present. He offered Dean a hand and pulled him to his feet, his thumb sliding absently along Dean’s wrist. Dean lingered a moment in the angel’s personal space, pretending to examine the floor. He couldn’t fathom how anyone, angel or otherwise, could still smell that good after spending half the day trudging through a ghost town. In the desert. In June.
“Yeah, well – whatever, the horny little bastard’s gone for now.” Dean shrugged, grabbing his pack from the floor and heading out of the ruined building. If the critter resurfaced, they’d know about it – powdered rowan berries and bay leaves were not only an effective blinding power, they also made one hell of a tracking spell. With a satyr’s natural aversion to water, the goatman would never get that shit out of his fur. Frisky bugger deserved it, too.
“A wedding, huh,” Dean said aloud, sliding behind the wheel. “Good for her.” He was happy for Lisa, he realized, but happier still that Ben had wanted him to be there. He still sent the kid postcards from the most outlandish road-side attractions he could find, and the last time they’d stopped by the house, Ben had tacked every single one to his bedroom wall. Bullitt, now bereft of his angelic ride-along, had taken to sleeping in Ben’s room and though Lisa threatened almost daily to kick the mutt out, she had yet to make good on her claim. Sometimes Ben sent him cards for the wrong holiday, usually religious occasions neither one of them celebrated, and included a photo or clipping from the local paper. Dean still had the story from the Cicero Gazette when Ben’s team had swept the league, faded and creased in the back of his wallet.
Castiel would never admit it, but Dean had seen him swipe one of Ben’s school photos from the Blessed Diwali! card that arrived in Sioux Falls in April and tuck it in the pocket of his coat like some kind of talisman.
“Why would I need a – tuxedo?” Cas questioned, appearing suddenly in the passenger seat and Dean thought if he lived to be a hundred, he would never, ever get used to that shit. He was frowning slightly at the idea, and that made Dean’s grin in response all the wider. An angel in a tux; now that was something Dean would pay good money to see. He focused on navigating the Impala out of the blind where they’d stashed her while waiting for their quarry, in a marked effort to not think so pointedly about getting the angel back out of the tuxedo after the event.
“You’re lucky I’m not making you buy me a corsage,” he joked, making a u-turn to veer back onto Interstate 40. The angel blinked, and was halfway to complaining that he didn’t understand the reference when Dean shoved a wrinkled map of the southwest into his hands.
"Your turn,” Dean said, watching the heat mirage bloom across the highway. “What’s next?”