Archive of Our Own

The thing about trolls is that they fucking stink.

“Dean.” Sam manages to draw his name out to three syllables while Dean ignores him and turns the radio up. “Dean.”

Up On Cripple Creek doesn't quite drown out the sound of Sam's whining, but Dean knows the words so he starts to sing along.

“A drunkard's dreeeeee-am if I ever did seeeeeeeee-”

“It's fucking freezing, Jesus.” Sam turns the volume down and turns the full force of his bitch face on his brother. He rubs his hands over his arms, just to make sure Dean gets the memo.

“I'm the one next to the open window, Sammy, I noticed.” Dean spares a quick glance to his right to wrinkle his nose. “And it's staying that way until we get you in a goddamned shower.”

“Hey, it's not my fault someone got troll guts on me, is it?” Sam makes sure to chatter his teeth together after that one and resume his violent arm-rubbing.

“Yeah, well, it's not my fault you smell like someone superglued dead dog asshole all over you and topped it off with burnt hair, is it?” Dean smacks his lips distastefully and rolls his eyes as he waves his right hand in Sam's direction. “Besides, I'm not exactly aiming with full force here.”

The bandages wrapped around Dean's hand are filthy, with only the faintest hint of the original white vet-wrap showing through the streaks of blood and grime.

“Oh, don't even.” Sam glares at him and crosses his arms tighter over his chest. “That was...” Sam trails off, huffing out a breath and leaning his head against the window. “Whatever.”

Dean flexes his hand, wincing a little at the stretch of scabbed skin over his swollen knuckles. Whatever.

The last streaks of daylight filter through the tall trees flanking the road as Dean speeds through the Idaho sunset. He breathes deeply, savoring the frost-tinged scent of the open road. He speeds past the exit for Route 12 even though he knows there's a perfectly good motel there. It's not far from Winchester Lake State Park, which had amused Sam to no end when they were little. They'd stayed there with Dad, chasing a poltergeist with the bad luck to get stuck to an RV. Dean had once joked that he'd sleep in every two-bit fleabag in the contiguous U.S. before he died.

Dean drums his fingers against the steering wheel and drives on.

*

Sam screams, screams so loud Dean feels it ringing through his head like a broken bell. It isn't Sam's screams that are the worst, though. Dean wipes the blood from his face, forcing his good eye open to see Sam kneeling in front of Anna. Red-orange like the morning sun snakes from his chest, fighting against the pull of the angel before him.

“I've got him.” Anna's teeth grate together on each word, her chest heaving as blue light crackles around her like an azure halo. Sam's body slumps back from her hold on his shoulder, blood trickling from his ears as the Devil howls through his mouth.

“Let go, brother.” Anna's true voice burns, singeing every synapse in Dean's body as he struggles to stay conscious. Inch by inch, the red glow of Lucifer coils itself up Anna's arm, tearing her borrowed flesh and adding new blood to the sacrificial remnants of Michael.

Adam, poor Adam, lies forgotten on the cold ground of Stull. His throat yawns open, red and jagged where Anna had sunk her fingers in like he was made of so much clay. Magic old and bloody to end the greatest battle the world will never know about, and all in a no-name cemetery in the middle of Kansas. One brother dead to trap another, ashes to ashes and Dean surges forward as his own blood trickles out of the broken wreck of his nose.

“Sammy.” His voice sounds wet, thick in all the wrong ways and he can't die yet, not until he can fix what's left of his brother.

Sam hits the ground in a slump, eyes open and lifeless as Anna staggers back. Dean can see the Devil inside her, coiled in her belly like a thrashing ball of fire.

Dean can't walk but he can crawl, ignoring the screams of his broken wrist as he goes to Sam's side. The ground is wet and cool underneath him, making the hot blasts of air from the pit that much more shocking.

“Dean.” Anna's steps are jagged, jerking like a puppet as Lucifer lashes out at her. Bruises blossom over her pale skin as whip-sharp stripes bloom red and bloody, a million gashes leaking with blue light as Lucifer fights her. She grunts as her temple splits open, sinking to her knees to lay her hands on her charges.

Dean swallows the pained noise that rips out of him as his body knits back together, bones fusing into place, ribs snapping back from their impalement of his lungs. Sam comes to with a great, heaving breath, eyes blinking wildly until they open wide at the sight of their angel.

“Anna, no!” Sam reaches out as Anna steps back, something like a smile on her face. Dean braces an arm over Sam's chest, holding him back as he feels his own throat start to close up. He knows how this is going to end.

“Yes.” She winces as another wound opens on her neck, flaring red before the sapphire light of her grace chases Lucifer back. “Don't you see?” She steps back once, twice, the heels of her bare feet inches from the whirling void. “This is my choice.” She coughs, ignoring the thin trickle of blood that stains the side of her lips. “It's going to be alright, Sam. Dean.” Her hair whips red and wild around her as she closes her eyes.

“Dean.”

“Dean.”

*

“Dean, Dean, come on.”

Dean jerks awake with a start, brushing Sam's hand off his shoulder as he bolts up.

It takes a few tries, but his eyes finally focus in the early-morning light filtering through the curtains. Right. Idaho. Trolls. Sam smells.

“Here.” Sam sighs and hands him a plastic cup, dewy on the outside from the ice water. Dean groans as he swings his legs over the edge of the bed, taking a few bracing gulps of water before rolling his neck. It cracks with each pull of his chin to the side, letting out a satisfying pop but doing nothing to relieve the cold sweat sticking his t-shirt to his skin.

“Thanks, man.” Dean nods at his brother, swilling the cup back to catch the last piece of ice. He cracks it between his teeth as he reads the clock – 7:12 AM – and eyes Sam's damp hair and basketball shorts.

“Have you been running?” Dean rolls his eyes and pushes off the bed, groaning as the familiar feeling of “good morning, hangover” comes out to greet him. “Afraid you're not gonna make the swimsuit issue this year?”

Sam just crosses his arms over his chest, refusing to rise to the bait.

“You say her name, you know.” Sam looks down at the floor, eyebrows drawing together. “When you sleep.”

The ice in Dean's mouth is melted, but he still grinds his teeth together. Not today, Sam.

“Yeah, and you fucking fart half the night, I'm just too nice to say anything about it.” Dean turns to the dresser and zips open his duffel bag. Dirty, very dirty, sort of dirty, almost clean – Dean pulls out the last shirt and tosses it on the bed along with a questionable pair of boxers. “We gotta hit a laundromat next town, ok? Don't let me forget.”

“It's been three months, Dean.” Sam is clearly not in a forgetting mood. “Three months and you barely talk about it.”

Dean's jaw tics as he curls his fingers against the guest-worn edge of the dresser, bowing his head before slowly turning to face his brother.

“Not much to talk about, Sam.” Dean shrugs. “Anna saved the world, here we are, yadda yadda.” He turns back to his bag, fishing out the threadbare toiletry kit he'd gotten from his father. “Is that enough sharing for the morning or are you gonna hold me hostage with your BO?”

Sam sighs, that slow, patient sort of sigh that just grates on Dean's nerves these days. “I'm just saying, Dean, I think it's time we talked about, you know, where we're headed from here.”

“There's still plenty of monsters left, Sam, or did you somehow forget eviscerating a troll yesterday?” Dean scratches at the skin beneath his bandage, worrying the jagged edge of the surgical tape. He'd meant to change it last night but somewhere between drink five and drink “here's hoping for a dreamless sleep” he'd forgotten.

“Yeah, Dean, and there's plenty of hunters left, too. Come on, trolls, poltergeists, that Cujo basset hound back in Memphis? It's all small-time shit and you know it, Dean.” Sam runs a hand through his hair, sticking his jaw out in the same defiant posture that used to mean he was asking for extra cereal.

“There're no more demons, Dean, no more angels, no more apocalypse. Do you really want to keep running around the country like monster pest-control?” Sam's hands face him, palms out and fingers spread wide.

“Never was good enough for you, was it?” Dean sticks his own jaw out, hand flexing because he doesn't want to hit Sam so much as hit anything in front of him.

“That's not the point, Dean, and you know it. I'm not the one running off the rails here.” Sam looks pointedly at Dean's wounded hand, eyebrows shooting up. “You drink every fucking day, you lost your shit in Iowa, I mean, shit, if I didn't know it was fucking insane, I'd think you're pissed that Anna sealed all the gates when she saved our goddamn lives.”

“Don't you dare talk about her-” Dean takes a sharp breath through his nose, closing his eyes and clenching his fist until he can feel a fresh burst of pain from his split knuckles. He needs to change his bandage, take a shower and change his bandage and get some coffee and do anything but think about Anna falling backwards into the cage.

“I'm taking a shower,” Dean says tightly, pulling a hip-flask bottle of Jameson out his bag. He pours two troll-fingers worth into the cup Sam had brought him, swilling it back with his eyes narrowed across the rim as Sam quirks his mouth with disapproval. Dean smacks his lips and sighs with feigned contentment.

“Then, I'm going to the diner up the road to get some coffee. Then, I'm gonna do some monster pest-control.” Dean crushes the cup in his hand, feeling the thin plastic split against his palm. “You wanna come, great.”

The cup lands in the wastebasket as Dean slams the bathroom door shut.

*

“Awww, sweetie, what happened to your hand?”

Coffee, oily black with a suspicious film on top, barely registers to Dean as he takes in the amenable bundle of cleavage and blonde hair pouting down at him. “Hello My Name is Mandy” could give Sam a run for his money with the sad puppy face, and Dean feels inclined to soak up the syrup of her sympathy like the pancakes she's placing in front of him.

Dean cracks his most charming grin, looking down at his freshly-dressed hand before leveling a bashful look at her. “Well, it's-”

“He broke someone's jaw.” Sam tilts his head as Mandy falters a little, opening her mouth before thinking better of it and leaving the table with Sam's western omelet and a plateful of awkward.

“Dude.” Dean glares and picks up his coffee, grimacing a little at the taste. Caffeinated dishwater is better than nothing but not by much.

Sam rolls his eyes and cuts into his eggs with the side of his fork. “How's your coffee?”

Bitch. Sam knows the coffee tastes about as good as it looks, and yes, it would taste a lot better if they could eat at the diner ten miles up the road that looked like it had been cleaned some time post-Eisenhower.

“Fine.” Dean takes a bite of inexplicably chewy pancakes and bares his teeth. “How's yours?”

Sam swallows with some effort, running his tongue along the back of his teeth. “I think my peppers are carbonated.”

Dean tries not to laugh, snorting into his coffee cup and shaking his head as he notices a faint smear of pink lipstick curving down from the rim. Of course.

“Look, we'll rustle up some cash next town we hit, OK? You still remember how to play pool, right?” Dean gives up on the coffee and sets his cup down on the sticky tabletop. “And I'll get some new cards as soon as I find a good vacant for a falsie, promise.”

Sam sucks his teeth and sighs, gingerly folding an elbow onto a relatively clean spot. “We wouldn't need new cards if you hadn't lost your fucking temper.” Sam stabs his fork into the watery mass of eggs on his plate. “I'm not saying he didn't deserve it, Dean, but fuck...” Sam trails off, pushing his plate back.

It hadn't even been their case. Lamarre, Iowa did not, in fact, possess an angry water spirit, just a tragically unlucky YMCA swimming pool. Larry Stueben, a paunchy local cop and surprisingly open-minded guy, had asked them to talk to a suspect waiting in custody who kept talking about “spooky shit.”

Spooky wasn't really the word Dean would have used for it. Sick, yes, horrifying, evil, sure. James McEvoy had looked Sam and Dean dead in the eyes and recounted his demonic possession, his nightmarish ordeal as the devil took hold of his body and made him do those things to the Powell boys.

Fucker sure had his story straight, too, down to the black smoke and sulphur stink. Except that every demon had been wiped off the face of the earth two months before James went on his little spree.

Sam had always been the one with the temper, flaring hot and loud when someone pressed his buttons. Dean simmered slow and steady, keeping his cool until Sam had kindly stepped out to get some water.

Dean couldn't feel his right arm by the time he was done.

“Those kids, Sam.” Dean scrubs a hand over his face, pinching the bridge of his nose and feeling a familiar wave of nausea. He could still see the photographs on the back of his eyelids, all that blood.

“I know.” Sam's lip curls up, nose wrinkling along with it. “I know. But you almost killed him, Dean, and that's...” Sam sighs. “You just don't seem like yourself any more.”

And really, what is Dean supposed to say to that? That he feels like someone cut him loose, like he's adrift in a world that hardly makes sense any more? That he lost his best friend and that he knows it's only a matter of time before he loses his brother, too?

Dean just pushes his plate aside, setting the newspaper down in its place.

“Yeah, well,” Dean soldiers on, folding the paper open to the article he'd earmarked while Sam was in the shower, “I bet these guys don't feel like themselves any more, either.” Dean lays his finger over the grainy pictures of three men, their smiling faces occupying the small byline linking their mysterious disappearances.

Sam quirks and eyebrow and scans the article, lips moving slightly as he speed-reads the highlights. “Huh, what're you thinking?”

“What do these guys have in common, Sammy?” Dean taps his finger against the newsprint, smiling tightly as Sam narrows his eyes.

“They're all sort of, you know.” Sam puffs his cheeks out just as Mandy saunters by with a quickly-refused coffee refill.

“We'll take the check, thank you darling.” Dean smiles and watches Mandy walk away, marveling that the buttons on her uniform don't fly off every time she inhales.

“Fat guys.” Dean drums his fingers against the table. “You know who likes fat guys, Sam?”

“Well, I know they're not your type.” Sam smiles, looking far too satisfied with himself. Dean ignores him and steeples his hands together.

“Something that eats people, Sam, that's who likes fat guys.”

Sam arches an eyebrow and tilts his head, shrugging his shoulders. “Could be. And it's in...” Sam squints at the byline. “Olympia.” Sam sighs and rests his elbows on the table. “So, lots of forest, not too populated … wendigo?”

Dean nods as he digs out a crumpled stack of singles from his back pocket. They really needed to pick up some cash soon.

“We'll stop in Boise for a few days, hustle up some dough, then head north, ok?” Dean pushes out of the booth, sparing a last lamenting glance at his half-full cup of coffee. “Hopefully the next gas station will have some halfway decent coffee.”

“Yeah, that'd be nice.” Sam unfolds himself from the table and stretches as he stands up. He stops for a moment, shoving his hands into his pockets and squaring his shoulders before following Dean outside.

Dean knows Sam well enough to recognize the dreaded “talk” warm-up ritual Sam is currently shuffling through – the tense shoulders, the drawn brow, the faux-casual sprawl of his elbow over the roof of the car. Dean is not in the fucking mood.

“You drive.” Sam's instincts get the better of him as Dean tosses the keys across the roof, reaching up to catch them. “ I could use a nap.”

Sam opens his mouth to protest as Dean walks around the front of the car, giving his Baby an absent pat on the hood as he heads to the passenger side.

“Yeah, sure, Dean.” Sam bites off whatever he was going to say and sighs as he crosses over to the driver's side.

Dean settles onto the bench seat and folds his jacket inside-out, mashing it up against the window in a makeshift pillow. He cracks an eye open at Sam as he leans against the frame and shifts his hips around.

“Wake me when we hit Boise.”

Dean drifts off to the rumble of the engine.

*

“I'm Agent Darrell, and this is my partner, Agent Ansel-”

“Over there.” The on-scene officer barely gives them a second glance as she waves them over the yellow tape. Sam shrugs, loping over the barrier while Dean looks around.

Dean wrinkles his nose as he feels his boots squelch into the soft ground by the hiking trail. Olympia is beautiful, but all that lush green comes at a rainy cost. They'd pulled into town under the steady sort of drizzle that manages to get everything wet, umbrella or no. But the day had dawned bright and clear, bringing with it a muddy crime scene and one of the more manageable hangovers Dean's seen in a few days.

Late afternoon is giving way to sunset by the time they make it to the crime scene, and the ground is dappled with soft light and a mess of footprints that would give any forensics officer a heart attack.

Dean isn't the only one who's noticed the footprints. Centered at the hub of the action is the broad back of a man crouched in a squat, his trenchcoat spreading out behind him like a tail. His head tilts to the side as he shakes it disparagingly.

“Mucked up your tracks, huh?” Dean rucks his slacks up before crouching down next to the man. He catches sight of Sam, his slicked-back fed hair catching in the light as he nods at a petite woman in a Washington State Forensics jacket.

“It's not the tracks I'm worried about.” The man doesn't look at Dean as he speaks, drumming his fingers over the taut khaki at his knees. “I'm sorry, who exactly are you?”

“I'm, uh...” Dean trails off as the man turns to look at him. Intense is the first word that pops into Dean's mind, with fuck running a close second.

“Agent Darrell, FBI.” Dean licks his lips and does his best not to blatantly stare at the guy's mouth. “Mind catching me up to speed on what happened here?” Dean had gotten the gist of it from the morning paper, but it was always better to get a description from the on-scene. And it was a really good excuse for Dean to keep talking to baby blues with the fuck-me lips. “And what was your name?”

The man sighs and pushes himself up to stand. “I'm Detective Milton.” Dean straightens himself up and smiles as he gets to eye-level with the detective. “So, your parents named you Detective?” Dean cringes at his own joke as to-be-determined Milton throws some heavy-weight side-eye at him.

“I'm sure your field office briefed you on this, but this morning, two hikers lost track of their German Shepherd approximately half a mile from here. When they found her, she was dragging this prize with her.” The detective gestures towards the stomach-churning sight marked off in front of him.

Dean's seen more severed limbs than any sane human ever should, but this one seems especially distasteful. The arm looks like it belonged to a man, with coarse hair on the forearm and the distinct tan-line of a heavy watch. Dean swallows a little as he catches sight of a modest gold band around the ring finger. The flesh is swollen from decay but Dean can speculate that the arm had once belonged to a big guy.

“It looks like a pretty clean cut.” Dean points at the limb, indicating the straight line cutting clean through the bone of the upper arm.

“It does have the appearance of being butchered, doesn't it?” The detective turns to Dean, his eyes narrowing in approval. “Guess they're training pretty good eyes down at Quantico these days. And it's Castiel.”

He turns before Dean can answer, heading over to Sam and the forensics officer. Dean mouths over the strange syllables before following after him.

“I think I've seen everything I need, you can go ahead and bag it.” Castiel nods at Sam before turning back to Dean. “I'm sure Officer Chen here will assist the two of you in any way you need.” The woman beams up at Sam, snapping her gloves on and smirking.

“Oh, please, call me Liv. Don't let Cassie here fool you, we're not that formal up here.” Castiel rolls his eyes as she gives Sam a last look that would leave a lesser man quivering or possibly stark naked. “And if you need anything at all, Agent, don't hesitate to get in touch.”

Sam blushes as “call me Liv” heads to the arm, doing about as good a job not staring at her ass as Dean is not staring at Castiel's mouth. Dean waggles his eyebrows at Sam, just to see him blush a little deeper. Sam scowls back at him and shoves Liv's card into his suit pocket.

“Thank you for your time, Detective.” Sam shoots a mild glare at Dean before walking back to the car.

“I'll be sure to get in touch if I have any more questions.” Dean grins as Castiel hands him a business card. He pulls one of his own out of his inside pocket, palming it into Castiel's hand and curving his mouth into the grin that generally ends with free food or a blowjob. “And you be sure to do the same.”

“Your parents named you D.?” Castiel's eyes twinkle as he looks up from Dean's FBI card, which proclaims Dean as “Agent D. Darrell”. His lips look impossibly better pursed into a wry grin.

“You can call me Dean.” Knowing that a good exit is just as important as a memorable entrance, Dean turns and cooly walks away. He slips his hands into his pockets and lets them sink forward, pulling his jacket taut across the span of his waist. He smiles as he imagines a pair of blue eyes taking in the rear view.

*

“Yahtzee.” Sam sweeps his flashlight over the clipped chain and grins.

“That's my line.” Dean shoulders his brother out of the way and looks at the old sewer entrance. A rusted padlock hangs from the chain end, clanging against the metal as Dean pushes the grate open.

“Why do the creepy-crawlies always have to go for sewers?” Dean sighs and steps into the tunnel, happy to be out of his fed suit and into some sensible boots. Everything in this city is just so wet.

“Well,” Sam answers, stepping over the old lock and pulling the door closed with a soft squeal, “if my theory's correct, it's just using the sewers to get to the old housing development. Big old basement like that's gotta seem pretty cozy to a wendigo.”

It had taken a few days and a lot of getting friendly with the local historical society matron, but they'd finally come up with a working theory on the local disappearances. All of the men had last been seen in two places, both of which just happened to be near a series of connected service tunnels that the city had sealed off a century ago. Sam had practically sprung a nerd-boner when they'd needed to go through actual microfiche records, and his thoroughness had paid off when he'd noticed the deed for an abandoned public-housing project.

Dean knew a rat when he smelled one, and he knew that “connected tunnels” and “coincidence” were mutually exclusive in his line of work. The unfortunate German Shepherd had dragged the arm out several hundred yards from this tunnel, so they were going in fully prepared to behead something ugly.

“You know, they used to kidnap people using tunnels like this.” Sam stops for a moment and shifts the duffle bag on his shoulder. It's harder to haul around an axe than people think.

“Really?” Dean stops quickly, bringing his hand up to quiet Sam as he hears rustling. He drops his hand when a hearty-looking but otherwise ordinary rat scurries by.

“Yeah, that's where the term getting Shanghaied comes from. Bars and whorehouses in cities all over the Northwest used to have these trapdoors. The owners would find some unlucky bastard who'd passed out drunk and just, phwoop, drop 'em down into underground tunnels that led to the ports. Poor guys would wake up on a boat to Shanghai, working as enlisted men for no pay.”

“Shit.” Dean grimaces as a drop of please-let-it-be-water hits the back of his neck. “I don't know, man, I think I'd rather be on the slow boat to China than wind up as lo-mein for monsters.”

“Fair.” Sam trudges along behind him for the next hundred yards, avoiding the worst of the puddles and keeping his flashlight low to the ground. It's a strange sort of comfortable silence, skulking through abandoned tunnels and illuminating the occasional pair of beady critter-eyes, but it fits Dean like an old shirt. And shit, it sure beats the hell out of staring down a bottle of Beam with a chaser of “what the fuck am I going to do with my life.” Dean lets the sharpened senses of the hunt drown out the buzzing insecurity that's come to fill his head and stops when he hears a distant thud.

“Did you hear that?”

Sam stops, and Dean doesn't need to look behind him to know that Sam is narrowing his eyes and listening. Dean's on the verge of motioning them forward when a gut-wrenching roar echoes through the passage. It's a sound that would send 99.9% of the population heading for cover as fast as possible.

Dean and Sam run towards it without a second thought.

The roar sounds agains as they round a bend in the tunnel, their feet splashing heedlessly through pools of stagnant water and thudding against the packed earth floor as they run. A bare bulb hangs from the rebar of the abandoned basement, the unfinished concrete floor smeared with slick pools of definitely-not-water. Dean almost slips as he barrels into the clearing.

The remnants of a large doorway loom off to the left, cast into shadow by the gentle sway of the light. A roar, curse words, labored breathing – Dean can hardly tell what sort of sounds he's running towards, but he knows one thing.

“Get the axe, Sammy.” They're gonna kill something bad.

Dean doesn't notice the ache in his knuckles as they close over his bowie knife. All he can hear is the thud of Sam's bag hitting the floor, the pounding of his brother's feet behind him as they charge into battle. Bloodlust sings in Dean's ears like a siren call, propelling him forward, feet closing the distance to the doorway until Dean can triumphantly-

“Son of a bitch!” Dean stumbles to a halt as something comes flying out of the doorway with a wet plop. Sam almost knocks him over as he comes up short behind him.

The gnarled, gnashing head of a wendigo rolls to Dean's feet like the world's most gruesome soccer ball. It's teeth keep snapping as a pool of blood seeps into the concrete.

“What the-” Dean mutters under his breath, looking up sharply as footsteps approach.

“What the fuck are you two doing here?”

“Well fuck me,” Dean and his libidinous sub-conscious whisper in unison. If the sight of Detective Castiel Milton, shirt torn and heaving chest bared to the world, weren't enough to get Dean's attention, the bloody axe slung over his shoulder sure would.

“Where the fuck did you get that axe?” Dean's not even sure axe is the right word. It's got two heads and decorative shit all over the handle and Dean's pretty sure those are honest-to-God rubies glinting in the light.

“How did you find me?” Castiel flexes his fingers around the pommel of his weapon, narrowing his eyes suspiciously.

“We didn't. I mean, we were just following up-” Sam starts in his best “talk calm to the crazy” voice before Dean cuts him off.

“Sam, he's got a two-headed war axe, I'm pretty sure the cat's out of the bag.” Dean sighs and slowly tucks his knife back into his waistband, keeping his eyes trained on Castiel the whole time.

“We're here hunting a wendigo, although, uh,” Dean huffs a laugh and nudges the severed head with the toe of his boot, “it looks like you've got Maneater here under control.”

It takes Castiel another minute of suspicious glaring before he puts the axe down. “What family are you from?”

Dean smiles and places a hand over his chest. “I'm Dean Winchester, and this here is my brother Sam.”

“There aren't any Winchesters in the annals.” Castiel crosses his arms over his chest and tilts his head. “How do you know what a wendigo is?”

“How do you?” Sam has dropped the conciliatory tone and drawn up to his full height. It doesn't do much to impress Castiel, who just rolls his eyes.

“Well it's not like I have much of a choice.” He stares back and forth between the brothers, his hand held out like an audible “duh”. Dean's stare would qualify as blank if he weren't sneaking so many glances at Castiel's chest but shit, this guy is just lithe.

“Being a Grimm and all,” Castiel continues, rolling his hand and waiting for them to come to some sort of conclusion that Dean can't make sense of.

“A what now?” Sam looks at Dean like Dean should have some idea what the fuck Castiel is talking about. Like eye-fucking the guy gives Dean some special insight. Brothers.

“Scheisse,” Castiel mutters, rolling his eyes again and absently buttoning up his trenchcoat. “Do you like whiskey?”

Sam's terse “Why?” is lost over Dean's “Very much.”

“Good. I have a lot of it at my house, and I think we all have a lot of explaining to do.” Perky nipples and a house full of whiskey. If the guy bakes pies as a hobby Dean might have to propose just on principle.

“Just give me a second.” Castiel cinches the belt of his coat around his waist, which is slender and shapely and might be making Dean's palms itch even more than the bandage on his hand. He walks past the doorway and picks up a shapeless black bag, zipping it open before he reaches for his axe.

“It's harder to hide an axe than you'd think.” Castiel arches an eyebrow as Dean laughs.

*

“So you were just born this way?” Dean swirls his glass of Glen-something-awesome and leans back into the overstuffed chair, resting his head against the fine-grain leather. Everything in Castiel's house is nice, like nice-nice, in that way Dean doesn't even appreciate until he sinks into one of the chairs in his office and feels like his back muscles could start purring.

“You could say that.” Castiel picks up two ice cubes with a delicate pair of tongs and drops them into his glass, topping them off with two fingers of whiskey. “My abilities didn't manifest until I was a teenager, which isn't unusual, although I was somewhat reluctant to recognize them.” Castiel shrugs and takes a sip of his drink, closing his eyes and pursing his lips as he lets the peat play out over his tongue. It's a good look on him.

“But your parents knew about all this?” Sam turns from his place at the podium, or whatever that thing that holds huge, ancient books is called, and gestures around the room. Books so old and worn they would make Bobby Singer's heart break are stacked in neat lines on polished bookshelves, interspersed with weapons and shiny things that have Dean's hunter-instincts stirring astride. There's even a home for the axe, over the mantelpiece, naturally.

“Yes, and their parents before them, and their parents before them. We're one of the oldest Grimm families in America.” Castiel sets his drink down on the glass surface of the bar and crosses the room, stepping over a bear-skin rug and casting shadows from the fireplace that gleam over the lustrous surfaces of his “office.” The room is an “office” in the same sense that Dean's Baby is a “car”. Dean's never been in such a well-appointed room with such an unassuming owner. The luxury seems lost on Castiel, who navigates around the yellowed maw of his rug and pulls a thick book down from the shelf.

“These are our annals, each family has one.” He places the book on top of the one Sam has been poring over and opens it to the rear pages. “It's a history of sorts. We record anything of interest, and we often have notes about the other families.”

Sam eagerly turns the pages back and stops at a sketch. Dean's best description of it would be man-bear-pig, the careful pencil lines tracing out a snout and a thick, wrinkled neck.

“Ah, Bauerschwein.” Castiel nods and smiles at the picture. “They're a mostly harmless wesen, seem to wind up in farming a lot. My grandmother used to buy apples from a family of Bauerschwein in Tumwater, said they made the best pie.”

Dean sighs into his drink and clinks the ice against the glass.

“So when you walk down the street, you just see bear-men and wolf-girls everywhere?” Sam asks, turning a page and tracing his fingers over the old paper.

“Not exactly.” Castiel runs his finger around the rim of his glass, letting his gaze linger on Dean before he turns to Sam. “Most wesen don't show their true faces unless they're upset or threatened in some way. And even then, most people don't notice. The really vicious ones can show their form to humans if they're trying to scare them.” Castiel points to a small print hanging on the wall, a children's book illustration of the big bad wolf and the three little pigs. “That's where most of the old fairytales come from, as far as we can tell.”

“But you said most of these wesen are pretty harmless?” Dean pushes up from his seat and comes to stand by the fire, savoring the crackling warmth against his skin. He leans against the warm stone of the mantle and lets his eyes trace over the curve of Castiel's back. He looked cute in the coat but holy fuck did he look even better in a clean t-shirt.

“Well, there are many types of wesen, of course, but generally, yes, they're just like us.” Castiel taps his finger over the pages of his family book before he heads back to the bar, passing just an inch closer to Dean than is strictly necessary. Dean licks his lips and looks down at the bear, feeling a small thrill as he's rewarded with a glint of blue eyes in his peripheral vision.

“I just can't believe we've never heard of any of this.” Sam shakes his head and leafs through the aptly-named Grimmoire. “I mean, a Spinnetod? Sounds right up our alley.”

Castiel picks up his drink and arches an eyebrow at Dean. “Black widows. They consume their mates after copulation to maintain their youth. I believe it involves liquefying the large intestine with some kind of venom.”

Dean grimaces and takes another sip of whiskey.

“They're very rare,” Castiel continues, spreading his free hand in front of him. “And you've clearly heard of wendigos before, so I'm sure there's plenty of gray areas between the kinds of things that we, uh, deal with.” Castiel shrugs, his shoulder rolling under his shirt as his neck arches to the side. Dean smirks at the eloquence of Castiel's gestures, wondering what else he could get that body to say without words.

“The crimes most wesen commit are ordinary people-crimes. Take the ziegevolk. They produce pheromones that make people susceptible to suggestion, especially seduction.” Castiel's eyes linger over Dean's for a heartbeat before he continues. “I doubt “ugly guy who inexplicably beds gorgeous women” would get a lot of attention from, you know,” Cas waves his hand at Dean and smirks, “demon-hunting apocalypse-enders.”

“Former demon-hunting apocalypse-enders,” Dean snorts, rolling his eyes as Sam shoots him that look.

“And my God, I've never seen a demon.” He says the word and shakes his head in disbelief. “And angels?” Castiel tilts his head and laughs. “It's one thing to tell people that Grimm's fairy tales are real, but the Bible?”

“Yeah, well, we don't have to worry about that any more, do we?” Dean smiles tightly, feeling the familiar roil of bitterness in his belly overpowering the warm whiskey buzz. The fire feels too hot, like it's sucking the air out of the room. Dean tugs on his collar and steps aside to look at an engraved tusk adorning a shelf.

“I know at least one of us had a rough fight today.” Sam drums his hand against the wooden stand and blows out an exaggerated breath. “I'm gonna head back to the motel and catch some sleep.” He gives Dean an indulgent smile and plucks his jacket from the brass coat-stand.

“I should get some shut-eye, too.” Dean reaches for his jacket and stops as two astonished faces look at him. He's honestly not sure who looks more surprised, Sam with one of his giraffe-arms half-way into his coat or Castiel with his eyebrows half-way to the ceiling. Dean falters as his hand closes over his jacket collar. Getting laid tonight would be great, and Dean has an insta-flashback to Castiel's shirt in shreds.

But Dean will still wake up alone, hungover on good booze for once but still spinning in the wind. And what did Dean think, they were gonna get cozy in Castiel's fancy study and talk about his ancient family heritage? Castiel has a place in the world, a lineage and books and weird German words for things. A world like that has no place for Dean.

“Long day.” Dean shrugs on his coat and sucks his teeth. “Thanks for having us over.”

“Of course.” Castiel opens his mouth like he's going to say something else before he reaches into his desk. He pulls out a card and scrawls a number on the back.

“I know I already gave you my card, but that's my cell.” Castiel hands Dean the card and sighs. “If you ever need anything. Or, you know, meet a Spinnetod.” The awkward delivery makes Dean smile in spite of his nascent bad mood.

“Sure thing.” Dean takes one last look at the axe hanging over the fireplace and sighs. Maybe if things were different.

Castiel walks them out and stands in the doorway, arms crossed over his chest as Dean starts the engine and pulls away.

*

“Look, did I miss something?” Sam asks after a tense fifteen minutes. “Because I did not think you were gonna be coming back to the room tonight.”

“Just can't wait to get rid of me, can you?” Dean laughs bitterly and pulls into the gravel drive of the neon-challenged “Olymp a Comf rt Su tes”. “Sorry to disappoint you.” He cuts the engine and leans back, squeezing his eyes shut as Sam huffs.

“What the fuck, Dean? I'm not trying to get rid of you, Jesus.” Sam opens the car door and leans forward. “I just wouldn't mind seeing you have some fun for once, is that so fucking hard to believe? You two were practically ripping each other's clothes off the second you met, I'm not blind.”

“No, you see everything, don't you, Sammy?” Dean grinds his teeth together, feeling his jaw tic. “It's all so fucking clear for you.”

“What?” Sam runs a hand through his hair and knocks his head back against the seat. He sighs out a long breath and swings one of his legs out of the car.

“When are you leaving, Sam?” Dean says it low and even, his fingernails digging into his palm.

“Dean, come on.” Sam's stuck at an awkward angle with his leg so he twists himself around to look at Dean.

“I know you, Sam, and I know when there's something you're not telling me.” Dean takes a deep breath, feeling his lungs fill with air as they strain against the clench in his chest. “When're you leaving, Sammy?”

Sam opens his mouth and mumbles, “Fuck,” before closing his eyes. He rests his foot on the door frame and takes a deep breath.

“End of January.” Sam splays his hands on his lap, tapping his fingertips against his knees. “I registered for some classes. Transferred some credits, spoke to one of the professors in the social work program.”

“I was going to tell you, Dean, I tried, but it just never seemed like the right time.” Sam's index finger picks at a stray thread, rolling it over and over.

“You going back to Stanford?” Dean knows he shouldn't want it to hurt, but he puts more bite into Sam's de facto alma mater than necessary.

“No, it's one of the state schools. New Paltz, in New York.”

“New York.” Dean cracks his neck, feeling a bitter smile curl his lips. “Wasn't there some girl there?”

Sam pinches his lips and frowns. “This isn't about some girl, Dean. Fuck, I don't even know if she's still there.” Sam's voice rises as he throws his hands up.

“This isn't me leaving you to chase after some girl, Dean, get your fucking head out of your ass. This is about me trying to make a life for myself. This-” Sam waves his hand at the car and the distant lights of the motel room. “This isn't life. Anna gave us a second chance, and I'm taking mine.”

Sam gets out and slams the door behind him, making Dean wince. Bitch.

The midnight air feels cool and damp on Dean's face. It's the sort of foggy night that Dean's pretty sure most people would associate with snuggling up on the couch and watching a movie or some shit like that.

“I'm gonna get a drink. I'll be back later.” Dean locks the car and drops the keys into his pocket. Sam glares at him, clearly expecting Dean to hand him the keys before he goes off on a bender. Well fuck Sam, and fuck his car privileges. He can get himself to New York just fine.

“Just don't do anything stupid,” Sam bites off, crossing his arms and tilting his head defiantly.

“First you're throwing me into some stranger's bed, now you're worried about me. Make up your mind, Sammy.” Dean zips his jacket, turning the collar up against the chill.

“Fuck you, Dean.” Sam storms off, his jaw ticking angrily as he searches for the motel key in his coat.

“Yeah, fuck you, too, Sam. And don't wait up. I'm sleeping in the car.” Dean starts down the road, the gravel crunching loudly under his boots.

“Do whatever the fuck you want, Dean,” Sam yells after him, slamming the flimsy motel door behind him. Dean doesn't look back.

The driveway leads to a two-lane road, flanked by trees with hardly a car in sight. Dean's happy to be alone as he heads towards a string of bars they'd passed on the way back.

The moonlight streams down through the tree-tops, bright enough that Dean could easily make his way without the intermittent street lights. He looks up at the sky and pauses, craning his neck back and breathing in a cool drink of air.

Waxing gibbous moon, Dean thinks, smiling in spite of himself as he remembers his father penciling the lunar phases into his worn journal. It was important information for a hunter.

Was. Dean snorts and shoves his hands into his pockets, curling his fingers around the worn singles of his last fifteen bucks as he starts walking again.

*

The first two bars Dean passes are instant no-gos; a wine bar (too snotty) and a Greek taverna that smells too good to be anywhere near Dean's price range. He almost goes into a tchotchke-laden sports-bars before he hears the chorus of Sweet Caroline belted out by men who are having far too much fun for Dean's patience. He wants to get a few drinks in before he has to start a fight with dude-bro and his gang of Seahawks fans.

Not that Dean would mind fighting something. Or fucking something, or some mix of the two. He can still feel the misplaced adrenaline of the wendigo hunt coursing through him. He thinks of Castiel for a moment, his messy hair and that fucking mouth. Dean sighs and hunches his shoulder down. Better to leave that stone unturned.

The businesses start to thin out as Dean continues down the main road. The welcoming beacon of a 7-11 glows in the distance, and Dean heads for it, content to pick up some tall boys of beer and drink himself to sleep in the car. He knows that shouldn't feel so familiarly comforting, but all he can think is that he'll be able to get some beef jerky, too.

As Dean crests a hill, the opening bars of Ace of Spades echo through a small side street. Dean turns and squints at a flickering neon sign, a dull orange that buzzes “Snakehole” into the fog. A scattering of motorcycles lean on their kickstands, and Dean watches as another pulls in from the opposite side of the street. Two women dismount and shake their hair out from under their helmets, blonde and blonder tumbling over a leather jacket and a vest with a flaming skull patched on the back.

Dean turns the corner and smiles.

*

Dean knows his way around bars, and he knows a gay bar when he sees one. If the beefy guys making out at the top of the stairs didn't tip him off, the unabashed “fresh meat” stare he gets from every guy in the place would do the trick.

Dean keeps his eyes straight ahead and settles onto a worn barstool, feeling his neck prickle with the attention. He's used to getting checked out, but this place feels aggressive even for the leather crowd. Dean wishes he were wearing his dad's jacket instead of his warmer Carhartt coat.

The bartender looks him over with a wry smile, quirking her eyebrow as he orders two shots and a beer. She's got arms that would put Sam to shame and Dean lays an extra-friendly smile on her as she lines up his drinks.

Dean surveys the room from the corner of his eye, draining down the Jäger and relishing the sickly comforting Nyquil aftertaste. There's a lull in the music as the intro to Raining Blood patters from the speakers. Dean taps his fingers against the bar in time with the guitar, slowly swiveling his head to watch one of the motorcycle girls rack up the pool table. Dean could really use the cash, but he's pretty sure this isn't the kind of place he wants to hustle.

The cue ball breaks the set with a loud smack, landing three stripes before the girl even straightens up. Dean whistles under his breath. He's not making any money here.

“Not from here, huh?” The bartender leans on her elbows, the V of her vest revealing a set of tits that could give someone a black eye.

“That obvious?” Dean smiles charmingly and picks up his beer. The dead set of the bartender's lips does nothing to put him at ease.

“You might wanna finish those quick, hon.” She flicks her eyes to the right, flaring her nostrils before she shakes her head and walks away.

Dean swallows quickly and lays a stack of bills on the bar.

A roar of laughter drifts over from a far booth. Three men sit packed into the seats, a sea of empty glasses on the table before them. They're all gruff and rugged, with tree-trunk arms and faded tattoos. Two of them are way too daddy bear for Dean's taste, with thick beards and low brows, and the third would be cute if he didn't look so feral. His eyes are sharp and black, narrowing as Dean accidentally catches his gaze. He turns away quickly.

Wasting beer is a sin and Dean's all out of redemption, so he grabs his pint glass and drains it. His head is still tilted back for the last drop when he feels a hand on the small of his back.

Dean slams the glass down and goes to stand, turning to face the man from the booth. He's even scarier up close, with a jagged scar splitting his eyebrow in half. He's an inch shorter than Dean when he crowds into his space and braces a hand on the bar.

“Leaving so soon?” His breath smells like cigarettes and sickly-sweet gin. “Next round's on me.”

“I'm good.” Dean angles himself to the side, turning to slide out before the man snakes his other hand down, bracketing Dean against the bar.

“Bet I could make you feel a whole lot better than good.” He smiles, a row of white teeth glinting in the glass-shaded light. Dean feels his stomach sink as something tickles at the back of his mind. There's something off about this guy, something worse than the usual grade-A creeper Dean's used to.

“You're gonna want to let me go now,” Dean says as low as he can manage, not making eye contact as he scans the bar. People are definitely watching them, but no one seems terribly troubled.

“Pretty little thing like you, all alone?” The man licks his lips, sending a cold chill down Dean's spine. “I think I'd be crazy to let you go.”

If Dean knocks the guy out, he can probably sprint to the door before his buddies can get out of their booth. Dean groans as the guy presses in closer, the heat of his breath ghosting over Dean's neck as Dean flexes his arms. He's not close enough to get a good swing in.

“Put your money where your mouth is, then.” Dean licks his lips and cocks an eyebrow, jutting his hips forward until their belt buckles clink together.

“That's more like it.” The guy leans in, snaking his hands down to cup Dean's ass and pull him in closer. Just as Dean expected, the asshole doesn't kiss so much as mount a tongue invasion. Dean counts to five in his head, bracing his legs before he lets the guy's tongue slide between his teeth.

Dean bites, and he bites hard. It's a dirty, dirty trick and it works every time.

“Motherfucker!” The man's hands clamp over his mouth as he staggers back.

Dean spits blood as he barrels into the man, squaring his shoulder and sending him sprawling on the floor. He runs for the door without a second glance. He can hear shouts and cries as he dashes for the exit, leaving a trail of upturned chairs and tables in his wake.

His foot lands on the first step as he feels something slam into him from behind. Arms circle around his waist and tug him back, knocking the wind out of him. Dean manages to land an arm in front of his face, but he still feels the concrete step glancing off his jaw. He's just thinking that it's going to hurt like a motherfucker in the morning when he hears what can only be called a roar.

Dean grunts as he's hauled upright, blinking rapidly as his vision starts to clear. He can feel Beard #1 holding his arms from behind, tight enough that Dean knows he's one sharp jerk away from a dislocated shoulder. Beard #2 stands directly next to him, cracking his knuckles and smiling. Dean would be a lot more worried about both of them if he weren't staring at a fucking badger.

“Holy. Shit.” Dean jaw doesn't hurt any less as it falls open. Asshole creeper is now asshole creeper badger-head, and he still looks like a mean son of a bitch even with fur. The same scar that mars his eyebrow cuts through the dark stripe over his eye, leaving an ugly pink seam against the black fur. His lips curl back in a snarl, displaying a nasty set of upper and lower fangs tinged red with blood. He growls again, flexing his wrists and popping the joints on his taloned fingers.

Dean struggles again, stopping when he feels something much bushier than a beard brush against his neck. Both of the back-up beards have shifted into something canine and hungry-looking.

“You're wesen.” Dean looks around the bar, taking in the sight of humanoid faces with fangs and fur. The two girls by the pool table are holding their cues like weapons, looking remarkably attractive considering they've turned into wolf-monster women. Blutbads, that's what Castiel had called them.

“If you know that much, you should know better than to come into a wesen bar without a wesen mate,” Badger-asshole sneers at him, wiping the blood from the side of his mouth. Dean looks at the bartender, who just snorts out of her newly-bovine nose and shrugs. No one here is going to help him.

“I know Castiel Milton.” It's out of Dean's mouth before he even thinks about it. The hush in the bar tells him it's either a really great idea, or the worst one he's ever had.

“You know the Grimm?” Badger tosses his head, shifting his features back to fully-human. “Are you with him?”

Something about the way he says “with” gives Dean pause. The maybe-coyote-assholes holding his arms shift uncomfortably, frowning at Badger. Dean bites his cheek and nods, trying to sound confident.

“Yeah.”

Badger squints at him, and the beady eyes make a lot more sense now. Dean gives another valiant lunge but finds his arms still firmly pinned in place.

“I don't believe him.” Badger crosses his arms, a nasty grin on his face. “Why don't you have old Cassie come and pick you up?”

“No problem.” Dean jerks his arm free as one of the dogheads loosens his hold. He fishes Castiel's card out of his pocket and punches the numbers into his phone, silently cursing as it rings. Castiel is probably fast asleep in his comfortable, expensive bed.

“You don't even have his number in your phone? You are so full of shit.” Badger rolls his eyes and laughs.

“I send letters.” Dean shoots back a nasty smiles of his own. “What can I say, I'm old fashioned like that.”

“Hello?” Dean almost jumps when Castiel answers. He sounds groggy, his voice all scratchy and deep and rough.

“Hey, Cas.” Dean smiles at the improvised nickname, which is certainly better than Cassie. “Sorry to bother you. I'm, uh, at that bar you recommended, the Snakehole?”

“Dean, how the hell did you wind up at the fucking Snakehole?” He can hear rustling in the background, probably the sound of Castiel getting out of his soft, warm sheets.

“Yeah, well, uh, I know you said the folks here were really friendly,” Dean flashes a grin at Bessie the bartender, “but they don't seem too inclined to take my word that I'm with you.”

“Oh, fuck. Dean, did you say you were with me?” Castiel puts the same emphasis on with as Badger-fuckface and Dean feels his face flush.

“Yep, uh-huh, that's right.” Dean winches as Castiel lets loose a volley of curse words, half of which sound German.

“For fuck's sake, look, I'll be there in 20 minutes, alright? And just,” Castiel sighs, and Dean hears something thud and crash in the background. “Just follow my lead when I get there, OK? I don't have time to explain.” Castiel starts cursing again and hangs up.

“That'd be great, thanks Cas.” Dean slides his phone back into his pocket, smiling sweetly at Badger. “He's on his way.”

Badger rolls his eyes and flicks a claw at the dogheads, who have reverted back to regular-shaped men with bad intentions. Dean jostles his arm free and stalks back to the bar.

Dean has nursed a beer under some pretty shitty conditions, but this definitely tops the list. The minutes tick by as he drains another pint, with all eyes on him. He thinks about making a dash for the door and immediately thinks better of it when one of the wolf girls snarls at him from her post by the stairs.

Dean's down to the dregs of his beer when he hears the first whisper. “Is that...?” They build to a steady murmur of curses as people start to flood out of the bar, jostling each other as they rush up the stairs with their heads down. The only ones left standing are Dean, the barkeep, the Badger and the Beards.

Castiel bursts through the doorway looking like … well, like someone who just dragged himself out of bed and threw on a raincoat. His hair is sticking up in five different places and he looks seriously pissed.

“Where is he?” Castiel's voice is thick and gravelly, and Dean feels his mouth water as Castiel's eyes land on him.

“Didn't think you'd show.” Badger saunters forward, hands slung in his belt like he doesn't have a care in the world. The dogheads bristle behind him, looking warily at Castiel and radiating unease.

“Shut up, Zeke.” Castiel stalks over to Dean, crushing into his space and closing his hand over Dean's hair.

“Hello, Dean.”

Castiel kisses him before Dean can answer, molding his body against Dean's and pressing his back to the bar. His lips are rough and hot, catching against Dean's and tugging at the stubble peppering his lip. His hand closes in Dean's hair, tugging at the short spikes and making Dean shiver.

Castiel is the diametric opposite of Zeke, slowly slipping his tongue into Dean's mouth, teasing at the points of his teeth before grazing the tip against Dean's own. He tastes like toothpaste and lifesavers.

Dean's cock stirs as Castiel grinds against him, working an insistent leg between Dean's knees and rocking it forward with a subtle twist of his hips. Castiel's free hand works its way under Dean's shirts, pushing them up until he can scratch at Dean's bare skin. His tongue sweeps gently into Dean's mouth, smooth and strong with the occasional rasp against Dean's teeth. It's the best kiss Dean's had in years and he sighs as Castiel pulls back.

“You OK?” Castiel whispers into his ear, darting his tongue out to flick over Dean's earlobe. Dean nods and groans as Castiel seals his lips over the hollow under Dean's jaw, sucking on the tender skin and rolling it between his teeth. The hand knotted in Dean's hair pulls his head back further, baring Dean's neck as Castiel licks a stripe up it. Dean's dick twitches against the confines of his jeans, heedless of the audience staring avidly at them.

Castiel's free hand traces over the curve of Dean's waist, darting down the V of his hips until his hand closes over Dean's belt. He undoes the buckle with one quick flick of his wrist, leaving it hanging open as he works his thumb over the top button of Dean's pants.

“Cas, what're...oh, fuck,” Dean mumbles, his hips bucking forward as Castiel cups his hand over Dean's cock. He grinds his palm down in slow circles, pressing in time with each suck of his mouth at Dean's neck.

“Shhh,” Castiel murmurs, dragging his lips up the arch of Dean's neck. He runs them over the stubble at Dean's jaw, letting his lips catch before closing over Dean's ear. Dean groans as Castiel pops the button on his jeans, deftly tugging the zipper down. The head of Dean's cock strains against his boxer-briefs, leaving a darkening wet spot that would make Dean blush if he could remember that there are other people in the room. All he can feel right now are Castiel's fingers tracing over the waistband of his underwear, slim fingers sliding down against his skin, hot hand wrapping firm around his dick.

“You need to come,” Castiel rumbles into his ear, tracing his tongue over the shell of it as he slides his hand down. The tips of his fingers brush against Dean's balls before skirting up to drag a fingernail under the crown of Dean's dick.

“Huh.” Castiel wraps his hand back around Dean's cock and starts to stroke, running his thumb over the wet slit and spreading Dean's precome in a lazy circle.

“What?” Dean mumbles, arching his head back again as Castiel tugs harder and nips his teeth along the jut of Dean's jaw.

“Oh, nothing.” Castiel sucks another bruise onto Dean's neck, letting his tongue play over each bite he takes. “Just, when I was in the shower tonight,” Castiel's hand moves faster, gliding slick with precome and sweat, “with two fingers up my ass and my hand around my cock,” Dean breaks off a groan as he feels his balls get tight, heavy, fuck he's so close, “I didn't imagine you'd be cut.”

Castiel kisses him again as he comes, pulsing hot and wet against Castiel's hand. His chest heaves up and down as he pants, hips stuttering forward against the solid weight of Castiel. Sweat beads on his forehead, running into his hair as he keeps his head tipped back, Castiel's hand stroking through his hair. Castiel keeps a hand on him until he goes soft, murmuring against his mouth and sucking another mark onto his neck.

Dean grunts as Castiel tightens his grip and hauls Dean's head up, making Dean flush red as he looks at the slack-jawed audience awaiting him. The sticky mess in his boxer-briefs feels clammy against his skin as Castiel draws his hand out.

“Dean is mine.” Castiel holds his hand up, shiny-wet and glistening in the dim light. He looks at each of the Beards before locking eyes with Zeke.

Dean watches as Castiel tilts his chin up, drawing his hand across his neck. Wet trails of Dean's come mark his skin, leaving shiny streaks. Castiel sucks each of his fingers into his mouth, pulling off with a wet pop before he turns to Dean.

“We should leave.” It takes Dean a moment to respond, entranced by the sight of Castiel's elegant neck streaked filthy and flushed red. A few nervous swallows later Dean manages to zip his pants back up.

“And next time,” Castiel growls, stepping to Zeke and grasping the badger's throat with the hand he'd just had down Dean's pants, “if you pull this bullshit, I'll be doing something a lot nastier,” Castiel squeezes until Zeke whines, “with my hands.”

The badger clutches his throat as Castiel walks away. Dean follows quickly behind him, stopping once at the base of the stairs to turn and flip the bird at the red-faced crowd.

“What the hell was that?” Dean collapses into the passenger seat of Castiel's truck, slamming the door behind him and leaning his head back.

“Scent-marking.” Castiel starts the engine but keeps it in park. “It's the oldest way to stake a claim on a human. It was that or kill them.” Castiel shrugs and smiles. “Less mess this way.”

“Thank you.” Dean sighs out a long breath as a rush of nervous energy leaves his body.

“Should I take you back to your hotel?” Castiel drums his fingers against the steering wheel. “I mean, I understand if you weren't planning-”

“I think you should take me home and ride my dick until we both pass out.” Dean leans over, catching Castiel's lip between his teeth. He kisses him roughly, hand snaking down to cup over Castiel's lingering hard-on. The guy had already rubbed Dean's jizz on his neck, so Dean's pretty sure he's past the point of sticking to his good intentions. “That sound like a plan?”

“Much better plan,” Castiel mumbles, shifting into gear and peeling out of the alleyway.

*

“Close. You have to roll your tongue, like this.” Castiel makes a noise in the back of his throat that Dean had not managed to emulate on the first five tries.

“Drang zorrrrrrrn,” Dean slurs, mangling the word just to watch Castiel roll his eyes. Dean takes another sip of Glenfidditch (he'd read the bottle this time) and tucks the glass back against his chin. He'd had a purple bruise blooming before Castiel had even dragged him to his truck, and Dean knows he's gonna look like hell when he wakes up.

“Fucking assholes.” Castiel squints at Dean's bruise and frowns. “Although I have the feeling you've had worse.”

Dean snorts at the understatement of the year and shifts his weight, letting his leg slide in between Castiel's. The borrowed flannel bottoms Castiel had pulled out for him are soft, just like the old t-shirt that stretches a little too tightly across Dean's chest. The blanket thrown over the back of the couch is fleecy against Dean's arm, and the pillows are fluffier than just about anything Dean's ever laid his head on.

“This? Just a bump.” Dean smiles and inches his leg up, letting the cut of his thigh graze against Castiel's crotch. Castiel seems to like soft things, with a few very important exceptions.

“Mmmm, I see.” Castiel nods sagely and leans up on his elbow, giving himself enough room to take a long swig from his bottle of beer. Castiel had announced that he needed to get as drunk as Dean as soon as possible when they got back to his house.

“What were you doing at the Snakehole, anyway?” Castiel drains his beer in three long gulps before setting the empty bottle down on the coffee table. He picks up the bottle of Jägermeister next to it and holds it against his chest.

“Just sort of wandered by.” Dean reaches down to the floor, grabbing his glass. “They were playing Motörhead.” He shrugs and takes a sip, rolling his shoulders to snuggle deeper into the couch. This thing is fucking comfortable.

“Good thing you know a Grimm.” Castiel winks at him, which would be much saucier if it didn't just look like he was scrunching his face up. Dean laughs as Castiel raises the bottle to his lips.

“Hey, I could have handled it. I just try to avoid getting the shit beaten out of me if I can. Don't want to mess up the merchandise, right?” Dean angles his face to the side, pursing his lips and narrowing his eyes. “I figured the interspecies asshole association would have heard of you.”

“Small town,” Castiel concedes, wrinkling his nose as he takes another shot of Jäger straight from the bottle. “Zeke has a habit of getting into trouble. And everyone gets a little crazy around now. You know, waxing moon and all.”

Castiel shrugs like this is common knowledge and Dean feels an immense fondness settle into his belly along with the warmth from his drink.

“What about his canine companions?” Dean swirls his glass around, frowning at the distinct lack of alcohol in it before sucking an ice cube in between his teeth.

“Coyotl.” Castiel licks his lips and sets the bottle back down on the coffee table. “One of them's named Luther, and I honestly can't remember what the other one's called. Not that I can really tell them apart. They're brothers.”

“Kinky,” Dean jokes around his ice cube.

“I don't know, and I don't want to.” Castiel curls his lip and shakes his head before continuing.

“Coyotls and Drang-zorn are often friends. In the wild, badgers and coyotes have been known to engage in cooperative hunting. A badger will flush a ground squirrel from its den for a coyote, then they'll both share the kill.”

“That is...” Dean swallows the last sliver of ice. “Really disturbing in the context of a gay bar.”

Castiel laughs and leans down, pressing his chest flush with Dean's. His lips are hot against the ice-chill of Dean's mouth, slippery-elm taste of the Jäger turning sweet on his tongue.

“You know,” Castiel nuzzles into the curve of Dean's neck, “if you wanted a hand-job, all you had to do was ask.” He traces his tongue over the outline of one of the spectacular hickeys adorning Dean's neck. “I thought I was being pretty obvious.”

Dean sighs and runs his hand up Castiel's back, trailing his fingers over the dip of his spine. Even Castiel's skin is soft, warm and smooth against Dean's fingers. He probably used expensive soap that couldn't double as laundry detergent in a pinch.

“Yeah, you were.” Dean smirks and runs his hand down, sliding his fingernails over the swell of Castiel's ass. “Not like I wasn't.”

Castiel rocks into him again, angling his hips so he's right between Dean's legs. He's hard and hot and heavy on top of Dean and fuck, Dean could just sink into this forever, swathed and three-booze drunk with his hand digging into the gravity-defying muscle of Castiel's ass. The salt-wet smell on Castiel's neck makes him groan and wrap one of his legs around Castiel's, digging his heel in behind his knee to get more.

“You're an idiot,” Castiel mumbles against his mouth, snaking his arm under Dean's shoulder to scratch through his hair. “We could have been doing this,” he licks into Dean's mouth, firm and hot as he tugs on Dean's hair, “all night.”

Dean arches into it, jutting his hips up until his cock hits Castiel's. It would be so easy, with his hands braced over the span of Castiel's ribs, to just flip him over and fuck him until Dean couldn't feel anything else, sneak out while he's still asleep and palm a bottle of Scotch on his way. Dean wouldn't blink twice if it were anyone else, but there's just something he can't put his finger on about Castiel. Dean doesn't like what he sees in the mirror most mornings, but he knows he'll hate himself if he treats Castiel like shit.

“Cas, fuck.” Dean grits his teeth with the effort of pulling back from their kiss. “Look, I'm just … I'm not good for people.” Dean squeezes his eyes shut for a second, letting out a long breath. “I'm always trouble and I don't want that for you.”

“Of course you are. You're a drifter with a fuck-me car and a chip on his shoulder that's visible from space.” Castiel rolls his eyes and leans up onto one elbow, looking down at Dean. “I'm not stupid, Dean.”

Dean can't find an honest response to that so he just watches as Castiel pushes himself up off the couch. He makes an aggravated sigh and reaches for the bottle of whiskey, topping Dean's glass off before drinking straight from the bottle. Dean sits up against the arm of the sofa, reaching for his drink as Castiel arches an eyebrow at him.

“Let me see if I can it right. You're so caught up in saving people that you don't have time to battle your own demons, so you drive people away at the first sight of actual feelings. You've lost people you care about and you blame yourself. Some mornings, you look in the mirror and wonder if it's all for nothing.” Castiel finishes with a dramatic flourish of his hand before knocking back another sip.

“Dean, I'm a fucking cop. That's an average Tuesday night for just about everyone I work with.” He snorts and sets the bottle down, spreading out his hand. “Liv's been married four times,” he ticks off on one finger, “my Chief has four children with three different women, my last partner got kicked off the force for a nasty heroin habit, and I don't know anyone who doesn't have a drinking problem or a heavy hand with the Ambien just to go to sleep at night.”

“Look, you don't understand-” Dean starts before Castiel raises his voice.

“What? So I've never stopped an apocalypse or killed a bunch of demons? I've lost people, too. I've seen rapists and child molesters get off scot-free because of a technicality.” Castiel sighs and runs a hand through his hair. “Believe me, I've done some things I'm not proud of, either.”

He sinks back into the couch, leaning his head back against the overstuffed arch. “I can see monsters, Dean. Fairytale, storybook monsters.” He shakes his head. “But the scariest shit I've ever seen is just regular people. The world doesn't need demons and archangels and whatever to have evil in. There's plenty of that just laying around.”

Dean takes a sip of his drink and rolls his neck. The only person who usually talks to him like this is Sam, and it's oddly refreshing to hear it from someone else.

“My best friend died.” Dean looks down at his lap and sighs. Talking about Anna still gets a lump in his throat, but the weight in his chest feels lighter as Castiel looks at him and waits for him to continue. “She was an angel,” Dean looks up to see Castiel smiling. “And she was kind of intense, you know? She was so strong, and smart. And she had...” Dean blinks rapidly, smiling at the memory of Anna storming into that barn. “She had total faith in me.”

“She sacrificed herself.” Dean looks down at the ice cubes floating in his drink, swirling them around and remembering the whirlwind at Stull. “Threw herself into hell so we could all just keep on living.” Dean looks up at Castiel, smiling bitterly. “And I miss her, so much, but I'm also...” Dean widens his eyes and stops. He's never said it out loud. “But I'm angry at her, and it's so fucked up, but, I just...” “I used to know what I was doing, and now everything's different and Sam's gonna be a fucking social worker, with a wife and kids probably, and I'm just a high-school dropout with a cool car.” Dean closes his eyes, clenching his hand around his glass.

“I'm sorry about your friend.” Castiel reaches out and lays his hand over Dean's knee, leaving it there until Dean opens his eyes. “For what it's worth, you'd make a great cop.”

Dean bursts out laughing at that. “I'd be a terrible cop, Cas.”

“Are you kidding? You've already got a drinking habit and intimacy issues. You're half-way there.” Castiel smiles and turns to Dean, tilting his head as he runs his hand a little further up Dean's leg. “You have a problem with cops, Dean?”

“Maybe.” Dean knows he shouldn't be this turned on after spilling his guts to a total stranger, but he feels strangely relieved, giddy with the weight of his confession lifted from his shoulders. Castiel's hand inches up his leg, squeezing him as Castiel crawls closer.

“Don't trust them?” Castiel slips his fingers under the hem of Dean's shirt, rucking it up around his chest. He stares up at Dean as he runs his tongue up the divot between Dean's pecs.

“Cops are just a bunch of bullies with badges,” Dean snarks breathlessly, making a sound that he claims no responsibility for as Castiel closes his mouth around Dean's nipple. It's not his fault that he's ridiculously sensitive there.

“I think you'd fill out a uniform very nicely.” Castiel noses down Dean's stomach, running his lips over the fabric of Dean's pants. Dean's cock strains against the loose material, twitching as Castiel breathes hot over the head. He runs his lips up the length of it and Dean wonders how anyone's mouth can feel that hot. His hips jerk of their own accord before Castiel braces an arm over his stomach.

“See, you're just, fuck,” Dean rolls his eyes back as Castiel sucks the head of his dick into his mouth, rolling his tongue and soaking Dean's pants with spit. The fabric muffles everything, making the graze of Castiel's teeth against the crown feel like a tease, his arm pressing down to keep Dean from pushing up to get more. “Just a fucking bully.”

Castiel chuckles at that, each laugh reverberating against Dean's cock until he's squirming under Castiel's arm. He nearly spills his drink as he sets it on the floor, bringing his hand back up to curl into Castiel's hair.

Castiel slaps him on the hand, hard, grabbing Dean's wrist and squeezing as he ghosts his mouth over the base of Dean's dick. Dean struggles to pull his hand back, feeling a fat pulse of precome leak out to join the spit-wet mess Castiel's making of his pants. Castiel is strong, strong enough to pin Dean in place and the thought of that makes Dean's blood run hot.

Castiel's still got his wrist gripped tight as Dean knots his free hand into Castiel's hair, yanking until Castiel looks up at him and fucking growls. Dean's heart beats fast as he pulls Castiel up, kissing him roughly and catching Castiel's lip between his teeth.

“You like playing rough?” Dean can growl, too, low and dirty as Castiel grins and arches his head back into Dean's grip. Dean's legs bracket Castiel's hips and he can feel Castiel's cock grinding against him, hot and hard and Dean really needs to do something about that.

Dean wrests his hand from Castiel's grip and pushes himself up, using his leverage to slide out from under Castiel and push his head over the arm of the couch. Dean quickly leans in to pin Castiel's arms behind him, putting his weight into it. Castiel puts up a nominal struggle, kicking his legs back as Dean presses in behind him.

Dean shoves a knee between Castiel's legs, side-swiping them open so he can pull Castiel's head back and grind his dick against Castiel's ass. The wet spot of his pants catches as Dean leans down to nip at Castiel's neck, sucking and biting as Castiel bucks back against him. Castiel's chest heaves with each breath he takes, shaking with the guttural noises he makes every time Dean tugs at his hair.

“Gonna be good for me?” Dean rocks his hips forward, slotting his cock into the waiting heat of Castiel's cheeks. He grinds himself into it and lets go of Castiel's hair, tugging frantically at Castiel's waistband. He runs the flat of his hand over the bared skin of Castiel's ass, smooth and hot just like the rest of him, before drawing it back to lay a firm slap that makes Castiel grunt into the tufted stitching.

“I want to lick you open and fuck you until you come on my cock,” Dean husks into his ear, sucking Castiel's earlobe between his teeth and biting as Castiel groans in answer. Dean smiles as Castiel arches his back and spreads his legs.

Dean shoves Castiel's shirt up as he frees his arms, molding his mouth against the V-dip of Castiel's spine. He kisses his way down, Castiel's skin the kind of soap-and-water wholesome Dean could get used to smelling. He braces one hand on Castiel's hip, digging his fingers into the irresistible wing-curve and squeezing. Dean's tongue traces over the base of Castiel's spine as his free hand circles around to stroke Castiel's cock, leaking-hard and jutting against the arm of the couch. There'll be a little stain there tomorrow and fuck if that doesn't make Dean's cock twitch.

Dean drags his lips down against the smooth skin above Castiel's hole, smirking as his stubble catches and Castiel lets out a muffled curse and ruts back against him. Dean keeps tracing his lips around Castiel's hole, teasing closer to the flushed folds as he strokes Castiel's dick. A good squeeze and a swipe of his thumb earns Dean a fat drop of precome, slick-wet and balanced on his finger until he smears it over the rose-pink of Castiel's hole.

Dean's pretty sure he hears Castiel mutter, “Fucker,” as he swipes his tongue up Castiel's hole, tasting salt and the sweat-skin heat of Castiel's body. It's fucking delicious. Dean releases his hold on Castiel's hip so he can bring his thumbs together at the point of his tongue, pressing and spreading Castiel wider. He darts his tongue to spear inside him, rolling his neck to get deeper as Castiel moans and rocks back for it.

Dean licks, wet and loud and filthy as he feels Castiel open up for him. He presses his thumbs in deeper, slipping his tongue between them to fuck into all that welcome heat. There are few things Dean loves more than this, watching someone come apart on his mouth until he's tonguing into pliant muscle and a meaningless string of begging noises.

Stealing another pearl of precome on his thumb, Dean circles it around Castiel's hole and groans as it sinks in easily. He trades one for the other, knuckles sliding together as he spits between them.

“Dean.” Castiel moans his name like he can't remember any other words, arching his head back and rolling his hips. Dean slicks two fingers in his mouth before slipping them into Castiel's hole, leaning up to lay his chest over Castiel's sweat-warm back.

“You good?” Dean husks against his ear, working his fingers in deeper just to slide them out and do it again. Castiel surprises him by reaching around to thread his hand into Dean's hair, twisting his body to kiss the taste of himself out of Dean's mouth. It's rough and dirty and Dean gives it back just as good while another fat drop of precome leaks into the soaked mess of Dean's pants.

“Drawer.” Castiel pulls off and flings a hand in the general direction of the coffee table. Dean rears back and slowly withdraws his fingers from their knuckle-hold in Castiel. Dean's cock twitches at the fluttering gape left behind, pink and pretty and fuck Dean has never struggled this much to open a fucking drawer before.

He fishes through a sea of batteries and old remotes before pulling out a daisy-chain of Trojans and a half-empty bottle of lube. He snaps a condom off and holds it in his teeth, cursing the drawstring of Castiel's pajama pants and the wicked-up spit that's making the knot a form of torture. With a final grunt of frustration Dean bypasses the whole thing and snaps it in half.

Dean doesn't bother taking his pants off, just pushes the waistband down far enough to spring his dick free. Dean can roll a condom on with his eyes closed but he watches anyway, squeezing the tip and biting his lip as Castiel looks back at him. One of Castiel's hands snakes between his legs, wrapping around his cock and stroking back. Dean fumbles blindly for the lube and slicks himself up as he watches a shiny string of Castiel's precome fall to the cushions below. Another shake of the tube onto his fingers gets them shiny-wet before they sink into Castiel's hole, twisting his wrist just to hear the sounds Castiel makes before he pulls out again.

Bracing his hand on the small of Castiel's back, Dean nudges the head of his dick against the slick heat of Castiel's hole and tsks as Castiel tries to cant his hips back to take it. He smacks his hand down against Castiel's ass, feeling his head swim as he watches it bounce and drinks in the sound of Castiel's bitten-off grunt. If he weren't leaking-hard and half-way to blowing his load already he could do this all night, fuck, just bend Castiel over his knee and pull that fucking hair until-

“Dean,” Castiel growls at him, craning his head back to glare wild-eyed and desperate. He looks like he's two seconds away from scratching Dean's eyes out and he hisses when Dean slams into him, to the hilt with no warning and a cocky grin on his face. Dean lets out a hiss of his own as he feels the hot clench of Castiel around him, just this side of too tight to set Dean's teeth on edge and make his skin sing.

“Want it?” Dean wraps his hands around the pommel-fit of Castiel's hipbones and circles forward, digging his thumbs in because Dean isn't the only one leaving with a set of marks tonight. Castiel's knuckles knock back against the heavy weight of Dean's balls, stroking his cock and growling as Dean dents his skin with his fingernails.

A quick snatch of Castiel's wrist wrangles his arm behind his back, leaving his cock free to rut against the couch as Dean starts to thrust into him. He loosens his grip on Castiel's hip, earning him a displeased mewl that Dean answers with another smack to his ass. It's loud and red and Dean can practically feel it in his dick. He lays another one just for the pleasure of even numbers before knotting his fingers into the sweat-damp snarl of Castiel's hair and pulling.

The smile on Castiel's face is fucking gorgeous, all teeth and kissed-raw lips, long neck arching back into Dean's grip with a grace that shouldn't go so well with the wet sounds of Dean pounding into him.

Castiel doesn't say anything but the noises he makes when Dean snaps forward are filthy, guttural and choked out in time with each thrust of Dean's hips like he can't control it.

Dean says silent thanks that he's already gotten off once tonight, panting as he slows down and releases Castiel's wrist. His hand slides down the damp cotton of Castiel's t-shirt, pushing it out of the way to wrap his hand around the hot throb of Castiel's cock.

“Want you to come.” Dean's voice is rough and deep as he strokes Castiel, fucking into him with shallow thrusts as he traces his tongue along the blood-warm shell of Castiel's ear.

“Not like this.” Dean wouldn't have thought Castiel's voice could get any more gravelly, but it tugs at Dean like sandpaper. “Want to see you.”

Castiel turns back to Dean, kissing him over his shoulder as he draws himself upright. Dean pulls out slowly, catching the rolled base of the condom with his fingers. Castiel turns himself fully, coming to face Dean and kissing him as he pushes Dean back.

Castiel scrambles out of his clothes, tugging his shirt over his head and kicking his pants off as he leans down to kiss Dean. Dean's pants are still tangled somewhere around his knees, a good mirror to the shirt bunched up under his armpits. None of this seems to bother Castiel, who straddles Dean and reaches back to grab his cock in one easy motion.

“Like this.” Castiel smiles and cants his hips back, lining Dean up and arching his back. Dean watches the stretch of Castiel's chest, pink nipples standing out as Castiel leans back and slowly sinks down. His nails dig into the meat of Dean's thigh as he rolls his hips, cocking his head to the side. He closes his eyes and flattens his hand as he drags his tongue against his palm, dirty slow like he's drinking in every second of Dean's heavy-lidded stare.

Dean's fingers skate up Castiel's sparsely-haired thighs, kneading his fingers into the tensed muscle of Castiel's ass which, Jesus, Dean had never met anyone with an ass so hot it looked good from the front. Dean flexes his knees, digging his heels against the abused arm of the couch to give himself some leverage.

Castiel's hand slides around his dick like a five-fingered tease, wrapping and unwrapping to give Dean flashes of slick tip and flushed-red skin. He strokes himself slowly, twisting to favor the head and Dean files that away for later use. He's not leaving this house without sucking Castiel's dick.

Dean's history of couch-sex has left him with some sore necks and bruised elbows, and a fair share of awkward laughs when someone falls off or sends a cushion flying. He's not prepared for the way Castiel's body moves with his, the effortless rise and fall as they rock together. Castiel never takes his eyes off Dean's, which is something Dean generally doesn't like but he couldn't look away if he tried. He's gorgeous, mesmerizing as he sinks his teeth into his lower lip and starts to breathe deep and jagged.

Castiel doesn't give any sign before he comes, no war-cry of Dean's name or warning glance, just a teeth-baring sound in his throat that makes Dean's head swim. He tenses, back bow-strung and fingernails digging waxing moons into Dean's thigh as he shudders hot and tight around Dean's cock.

White stripes land across the swell of Dean's chest, hitting his nipple as Castiel's eyes light up. He swoops down, so fast and graceful there's no other word for it, and closes his mouth over the ruddy nub to suck.

Dean does call Castiel's name when he comes, sibilant and shortened as he arches his neck, trying to bend into the warmth of Castiel's body and away from the too-much-too-good pinch of his teeth. The pain makes it better, more intense as Dean's body loses the struggle and just goes toe-curling stiff under Castiel.

Castiel pulls off before Dean goes soft, and thank God one of them is thinking straight because Dean's not really sure he can feel his face, let alone mind his p's and q's about safe sex. Dean doesn't see where the condom goes, but he feels assured by Castiel's calm expression that he didn't, in fact, blast it in half with the sheer force of his orgasm, however it might have felt.

Castiel's shoulder slots perfectly under Dean's arm, a few wild strands of hair sticking up to tickle Dean's chin. Castiel's fingers trace over the clinging strands of come turning tacky on Dean's chest, catching a small pool with his forefinger. He looks up at Dean and raises an eyebrow before swiping his come-wet finger over Dean's neck.

“Now we're even.”

*

Dean wakes up with a throbbing headache and a nasty case of cotton mouth. He reaches blindly next to him, feeling his hand hit the floor before knocking into a glass. He rears his head and takes a sip without looking, grimacing at the taste of last night's ice melted into the faint traces of Castiel's fancy whiskey.

Oh right. Castiel. Dean blinks one eye open, happy to see the shades drawn against the morning light filtering into the living room. He scrubs a hand over his face and shifts, feeling something soft slip over his back. There's a blanket thrown over him, and an equally soft pillow tucked under his face. Dean huffs into it one last time before rolling onto his side. The blanket slips back and Dean laughs as he looks down. He's still wearing Castiel's t-shirt but he lost his pants at some point before passing out.

“Well, someone's happy to greet the day.” Castiel appears like a vision from God, holding two cups of coffee and a bottle of Tylenol tucked into the crook of his elbow. He smirks at Dean's morning wood before settling next to him on the couch, handing him a steaming cup that smells amazing.

“Oh, and before I forget.” Castiel reaches into the chest pocket of his t-shirt and pulls out Dean's blackberry. “This fucking thing has been buzzing all goddamn morning.” Castiel groans and tosses Dean's phone on the couch.

Aside from the persistent hangovers Dean is inherently a morning person. Castiel, however, has the slitted eyes of someone who doesn't see the point in getting up before 10 AM. Even his hair manages to look grumpy, sticking up on the side like a disgruntled hedgehog. Dean wraps his hands around his mug and pretends that he didn't just think that.

Castiel leans against Dean's side, pulling the blanket back up over their laps and closing his eyes as he sips his coffee. It's comfortable and Dean lets himself enjoy it for a moment, taking a small sip of coffee and immediately taking another because it's really good, strong and black without that burnt aftertaste Dean has come to associate with expensive coffee. He swallows two painkillers and leans his head against Castiel's.

He sighs and picks up the phone, unlocking the screen to reveal 26 missed calls from Sam. He runs his thumb over the keypad, thinking of the right thing to say before settling on, I'll be back in an hour. I'm ok.

He barely gets another sip of coffee in before his phone vibrates. I hate you. Dean smiles in spite of himself. His phone buzzes again. Glad youre ok where are you?

Dean simply types back Castiels, bracing himself for an “I told you so” or something equally bitchy.

Oh ok. Take your time :P

Dean rolls his eyes at what a fucking girl Sam is before tossing his phone onto the coffee table. He shifts his weight and raises his arm, tucking Castiel under him and leaning down to nuzzle at his hair. He smells like the good kind of dirty, human and warm with sleep. They tuck into each other and finish their coffee until Castiel seems reasonably awake.

“I can take you back to your room,” Castiel mutters against his chest, rubbing his face into Dean's shoulder. “If you want.”

“I don't know.” Dean slumps down until his face is level with Castiel's, smirking as he leans in closer. “Think we've got time for a shower?”

*

Sam's face when he opens the motel door is truly priceless. He cycles through fifty shades of bitch face before shaking his head and leaning against the doorframe, smirking at the collection of hickeys adorning Dean's neck.

Castiel waves from the window of his truck, smiling with such bland innocence that Dean laughs in spite of himself. He slides his hand into his back pocket, feeling the crisp stock of Castiel's card against his fingers.

Castiel drives away as Dean follows Sam back inside. They take seats across from each other at the rickety table. Dean leans his chair back onto two legs and bounces on the balls of his feet.

“Look, Sammy,” Dean starts, getting halfway through a long sigh before Sam cuts him off. Dean lowers his chair and rubs his hand over the back of his neck.

“No, Dean, just,” Sam takes a deep breath and steeples his hands together, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees. Dean knows he looks like very thoroughly-showered crap, but Sam looks exhausted, with dark circles under his eyes and none of the usual bounce in his hair.

“Just listen. I'm sorry, OK? I'm sorry I didn't tell you about school. I kept trying to find the right time and worrying you were gonna be mad, but I should have just sucked it up and told you. I know things have been hard for you, I mean, I miss Anna, too, but I can't even imagine...”

“It's OK, fuck.” Dean rubs his palms against his knees and looks at Sam. “I know I've been a fucking mess lately, Sam, I don't blame you for playing the school shit close to the chest. Shit, I envy you, at least you know what you want to do.” Dean sighs and rubs his fingers over the bridge of his nose. This shit is always so much easier for Sam.

“Look, I'm happy for you. You should have your own life and use that giant egghead brain of yours. And I have to figure my own shit out.” Dean goes to scratch his neck and jumps as he grazes over a sore spot. Sam catches him and quirks an eyebrow, looking like he's about to say something before Dean beats him to it.

“Besides, I know you'll always be my bitchy little sister, no matter what.”

Sam bursts out laughing and throws a fake punch at Dean's arm.

“We good?” Sam tucks his hair behind his ear and smiles.

“Yeah, we're good.” Dean smiles back and stretches his arms up, cracking his neck before he leans against the table.

“So, Sam, you know anything about badgers and coyotes?”

*

“Now remember, Sam, if a guy named Don offers you weed, you don't-”

“Thanks, Mom.” Sam rolls his eyes and slams the trunk shut, slinging his bag over his shoulder.

It's not the first time Dean's dropped Sam at the bus station for a cross-country trip to school, but at least they're both smiling this time.

“And you'll call me?” Dean leans against the car and hands Sam the enormous bag of snacks he'd picked up at the convenience store. Dean feels entitled to some moderate mother-henning, having acquiesced to Sam's ridiculous plan of taking a bus to New York. Sam had claimed it would give him “time to think,” and Dean had to admit that Sam had always been a better passenger than a driver.

“Of course.” Sam claps him into a big bear hug, slapping him on the back before grabbing him by the shoulders. “You too, OK?”

“Yeah, yeah, I'll share all the juicy details.” Dean bats Sam's hands away and grins. “As long as you do the same. Say hello to Saaaaa-rah for me.”

“Oh my God, Dean.” As annoying as it is, Dean will miss Sam's exasperated-beyond-belief voice.

“Hey, it's not my fault I'm a natural-born matchmaker.” Dean gives him one last slap on the shoulder before pointing to the bus. “Your chariot awaits.”

Sam boards the bus with a final wave. Dean watches it pull out of the station and leans back in his seat, sighing before he turns the ignition. The sun's just hitting the treeline, washing everything a fog-filtered shade of gold. He's got a stack of local papers and a full tank of gas. Nothing would be easier than heading east and finding something that needs killing.

Dean turns the radio on, fiddling through a few stations before hearing a familiar set of chords. Motörhead, score. Dean smiles, guessing he's hit the radio jackpot and landed on college-station metal night. He grins and starts to sing along as he backs out of his spot.

“I've got rock n roll, to save me from the cold, and if that's all there is, it ain't so bad.”

Dean idles at the exit, tapping his fingers against the steering wheel. He starts as his phone buzzes in his pocket. A message from Sam flashes across the screen, in Sam's usual subtle all-caps: CALL HIM.

Fucking Sam. Dean shoves his phone back in his pocket and immediately takes it out again, turning the screen on and off. It is getting late, and Dean is hungry. It's not like it's a date or anything if he just asks Castiel where he can find some decent food.

Texting seems like a dick move to pull on someone who neck-jizzed himself to save Dean from a badger-monster. After a few false starts Dean holds the phone to his ear, turning the radio volume down as it starts to ring.

“Hello, Dean,” Castiel answers, his voice scratchy and warm and Dean's already squirming a little in his seat.

“Hey, Cas.” Dean licks his lips. “I was just wondering if you knew a good place to grab a bite. Maybe you know a good wesen-free diner? I don't want to wander into any more no-human zones by accident, you know?”

“I know a great place.” Castiel hums and Dean imagines him stretching, arching his neck on that goddamn couch that probably still smells like sex. “Pick me up in half an hour.”

“I … oh, OK.” Dean swallows nervously as he hears Castiel laugh.

“You did want company, didn't you? Besides, I got a call from another Grimm in Portland, Nick. He's tracking something nasty and wondered if I could come back him up.” There's a muffled noise before Castiel continues, like sheets rustling. “So I was thinking we could take a road trip. If you're up for it, we can talk about it over dinner.”

“That sounds great.” Dean doesn't add “all of it,” even though he's already pictured twelve different ways to fuck Castiel in the car.

“This place has great pie, you'll love it. See you soon.” Castiel hangs up and Dean grins.

“Ain't so bad,” Dean mutters, turning out of the exit lane and heading west.

*

Epilogue

“Well at least he's easy to spot.” Dean squints into the bright sunlight and shields his eyes, easily picking Sam out of the milling crowd of graduates by the stage. He waves, but Sam is too far away to see him.

“Asshole. He's totally ignoring me.” Dean shifts in his seat, bumping his shoulder against Castiel's. It's warm for May, climbing into the upper 80s as they sit and wait for the commencement to begin. The sun bears down on the metal bleachers, making Dean sweat. At least Castiel had talked him into putting some sunscreen on before they left their hotel room. Even Dean doesn't look good with a farmer's tan.

“Told you to wear the pink shirt, he'd definitely see you in that,” Castiel quips, ducking to the side as Dean jostles his shoulder again. Rosalee had shown up to their wedding shower (or, as Dean had vehemently declared it, tequila party with gifts) bearing two matching hot pink t-shirts emblazoned with “He's The Bride” and an arrow. Castiel wore his every chance he got, because Dean's husband (and that still sounded weird) is a dick.

“I wish I could just take my shirt off.” Dean fans himself with the graduation program and sighs. He'd gotten used to the cozy cool of the Northwest, mud and all.

“I certainly won't stop you.” Castiel slides his sunglasses down his nose and gives Dean a look. Dean instantly flashes back to the ridiculous hotel room sex they'd had last night (and this morning). The champagne had probably helped, although the rose petals on the bed were a bit much. Sam had somehow found time to call the hotel and make sure Dean and Castiel got the “newlyweds” package, which is a bit much considering they've been married for fourteen months (and ten days, not that Dean was counting). Dean had already thought of five different pranks he could serve back, although he wasn't sure Sarah would appreciate having Sam's hand superglued to his beer.

“So you're sure she's not, you know?” Dean lowers his voice and looks around at the proud parents and relatives surrounding them. One big-boned family catches his eye, with ruddy cheeks and small eyes and Bauerschwein written all over them.

“Sarah Blake is a lovely, charming and entirely human woman.” Castiel pats his hand on Dean's knee and points his chin at the stage. “But the commencement speaker? Fuchsbau.”

“Huh.” Dean nods and looks at the woman on stage. She does have the same angled look as Rosalee, although she lacks the sassy charm that has endeared Rosalee to Dean so completely.

“I return!” Sarah sits down next to Castiel, making the bleacher seat bounce. She passes bottles of cold water down to Dean and Castiel, and Dean blesses her as the saint she is.

Sarah smiles and cracks open her water bottle, leaning over to point at Sam. “Good thing they make graduation gowns in Sasquatch size, huh?”

Dean laughs and takes a sip of his water, wondering how he and Sam had both gotten so lucky. Sarah had not only stayed in New Paltz, she'd just broken up with her boyfriend when Sam finally got up the nerve to stop by her parents' gallery. They'd moved in together last year. Dean's pretty sure it's only a matter of time before Sam follows him into the old married people club. Sam always did have to copy him.

“Oh I'm sure you could have sewn three normal-size ones together. Sam's good with a needle.” Dean tilts his water bottle at Sarah before taking a sip.

“Sam is good with his hands. Tell me, Cas, is that a Winchester thing or just a Sam thing?” Sarah pulls a perfectly innocent face as Dean chokes on his water.

“I think it's genetic.” Castiel serenely drinks his water and blinks at Dean's face, which is red from the heat and absolutely nothing else.

“Ladies and gentlemen, the graduating class of 2013!” The music strikes up and everyone turns to the stage. It turns out there are about a million people graduating today, so Dean suffers through three other graduate degrees before they get to Sam's. When they call Sam's name, Dean jumps to his feet and cheers his heart out. Sam looks ridiculous in his graduation gown, and Dean will tease him mercilessly about it over dinner, but he couldn't be more proud.

They head to the Gilded Otter for dinner, and how Sam managed to land a girl who picks a brewery for his graduation dinner, Dean will never know. After the requisite jokes about the Sausage Trio Platter, they heft their pint glasses and toast to Sam.

“To Sam, Master of Mental Health,” Sarah cheers, pausing for a second before they all burst out laughing.

“Hardly.” Sam rolls his eyes and sips his beer, but Dean can recognize the warm flush on Sam's face. He's happy. It's a strange thing for Dean to recognize, but as he watches Castiel and Sarah crack jokes with each other, he feels a warmth of his own spread through his chest.

“Look at us, would you?” Dean says, leaning in close to Sam and clinking his beer. “A shrink and a cop, and these two to put up with us.” Sam clinks his glass back, shaking his head before he takes another sip.

“I'm not really a shrink, Dean, just a counselor.” Sam had gone to great lengths to explain that he couldn't prescribe anything or give anyone electroshock therapy, but “Certified Mental Health Counselor” just didn't have the same ring as “shrink”.

“Ahem,” Castiel coughs dramatically, reaching out to lay his hand over Dean's. “Dean isn't just a cop any more, are you?”

“Uh, yeah.” Dean clears his throat, uncomfortable with the shift in attention. “I got promoted. Detective. It's not that big a deal.” Dean shrugs, not wanting to make a big thing out of it. This is Sam's day, not his.

“Jesus.” Castiel rolls his eyes, looking to Sam for sympathy. “It's a huge fucking deal. Dean's natural police and he's not just any kind of detective.” He smiles at Dean proudly. “Dean's going to handle the special victim's cases for the entire force.”

“Wow.” Sam turns and smiles at him, his eyes turning up at the corners. “That's amazing, Dean. I bet you'll be great at that.”

Dean ducks his head, knowing Castiel will probably swat his hand if he full-on shrugs again. “Yeah, well, I've had a lot of practice talking to people about … you know, bad stuff.”

Castiel has an annoying tendency of being right all the time, and he'd been correct about Dean: he is a great cop, and he loves his job. Dean's experience with hunting leant him invaluable experience, and sometimes the things he left off the police reports were the things that did the most good. There are plenty of monsters left and Dean sleeps well at night, never completely free from his nightmares but more comfortable in Castiel's soft bed and his strong arms.

It's nice to be at a table of people who know what bad stuff he's talking about. Sarah knows all about their old life, and Dean feels a new surge of happiness that he and Sam have both found people they can share everything with.

“But enough about me, this is Sam's big day.” Dean raises his glass and frowns at its empty state. “And that day calls for more beer.”

A chorus of “More beer!” rises from the table as Sam gets up to walk to the bar with him. They lean against the gleaming counter, resting their feet on the brass foot-rail below as Castiel and Sarah laugh, two dark heads of hair bowed together over the last of the nachos. Dean is absolutely sure they're up to no good.

“Seriously, though,” Sam says over the bustle of the post-graduation crowd. “I'm proud of you.”

“You, too, Sammy.” Dean orders another round and stands by his brother, back to the bar as he watches Castiel sneak Dean's phone out of his coat pocket as Sarah giggles behind her hand. His husband was nothing but trouble when he felt like it, and Dean really couldn't love him more if he tried.

“Not too bad, huh?” Sam grabs two beers and gestures at their table, shaking his head as Sarah opens her phone and bursts out laughing.

“No, Sammy.” Dean grabs the remaining beers and heads back to his place at the table. “No it ain't.”

THE END

Songs:

Up on Cripple Creek by The Band.

Ace of Spades by Motorhead.

Raining Blood by Slayer.

Rock 'N' Roll by Motorhead.