winchester.

sardonic, angry grin flashes across his mouth when 'sam' states that he looks like he saw a ghost. no, really, asshole? stamps across the wrinkles raised brows crease into his forehead. no shit, sherlock. because that's exactly what this is. a ghost. well. not a ghost. no. sam's resting. at peace. dean made god damn sure of it himself after castiel damn near took over in the process because dean toed the line on asking his help. til he, finally, caved in and 'took care of things' on his own. because it was his job. no one else's. even if putting sam in the ground ripped his soul to shreds. left him gutted and wishing for nothing more or less than to climb right in the grave after him and they'd both disappear forever? dean did that. laid him in dirt and set the match himself. as an angel watched guard making sure--dean didn't go through with the second part of that plan.

nah. this isn't a ghost. it isn't his brother. it's something else and he doesn't look like he's about to buy a word of it. oh, but those green eyes soften for just a second when sam comes stepping near. every piece of dean wants to believe what he's seeing. desperate enough to believe a lie though? not even close. feet that damn near took a step forward themselves steady their stance before he takes a slow backwards retreat and the gun. that was once at his side. raises and with a look that brings tears to his eyes?

dean cocks it.

"fuck you. whoever. whatever you are. i know more than a god damn night's gone past." cause every day feels like a fucking year. worse. longer. "only thing i'm gonna regret is not blowing a hole in you soon as i walked in. the hell are you? what do you want? you son of a bitch. i won't ask again."

the brunettette digs around for a response. brows furrowing, voice lowering. "what did you expect? i told you months ago that i was..." a shake of her head as thoughts race on how to keep him here. the only one that makes sense is pouncing when he turns his back to her because he still thinks she's natasha. some part of him still trusts her. which means his guard is still lowered, even if partially. everything in her mind tells her that natasha would absolutely not have let phil waltz in like that while dean, of all people, sat at the dining table bleeding. natasha would have rather lied to phil and driven dean to a motel where she would have patched him up. hell, she would have rather patched him up on the side of the road than have these two meet. there was a reason why natasha had kept them separate in her heart and mind. so, the brunette leans into those emotions and tries to save face. tries to buy time.

"you showed up unannounced! bleeding everywhere. what was i supposed to do? turn you away?" she asks, trying to be the logical one. she reaches for him but stops at the last second. "let me at least cover them with a bandage. the last thing you need is to have them get infected." a bandage is opened, and she grips dean's forearm, motioning for him to sit. her patients is starting to wear thin because this was supposed to have been an easy kill! they were supposed to have fun claiming these two new faces! not having to deal with dean fucking winchester!

phil's disembodied voice floats from the kitchen. "since you seem to be in a hurry, how about some meatloaf for the road?" he materializes from the kitchen with a tupperware container in hand. "i figured borscht was too exotic for you." the corner of his mouth ticks upward, arrogant and knowing.

"tsk. behave." the brunette takes the container and sets it on the table before shooing him away. "go see if the tractor is still leaking oil. and put a shirt on."

the prospect of getting back to the real natasha is much more appealing than dealing with these two. with one last disdane filled look sent dean's way, he leaves them alone. the back door loudly slamming shut behind him.

the amount of anger that gets shot at the little smarmy fuck looking at him like he's better than he is--well--if looks could kill? 'phil' would die painfully. on the floor. kicking and screaming as he choked to death on his own blood. and that's the good ending for the prick. fingernails press into dean's palm as he pivots his attention back to natasha when her hand motions for him to stop his retreat.

the same anger doesn't fully ebb from his face. back teeth grind together and he plasters the fakest smile on he can muster. honestly? the whole situation is fucked. without a word, he snatches the bandage from her with a murmured thanks and makes no movement to sit. rather grabs his coat off the back of the chair and tosses it over his arm. fucking hurts. but he'll deal with that later.

"nah. i'm good.. i need to get on the road." swinging his free hand, bandage catching the wind, the hunter takes a few steps backwards towards the door. "you, seriously, should've told me--you know i wouldn't've showed up here with that asshole around. don't have the time or the patience. and one less person knowing about me? the better."

flatline stare directed at her as he shoves the gauze in his pocket. "would rather deal with a week of shady antibiotics than forcing you to sure ol' philip's teeth are accounted for when you pick 'em up off the floor." something tells him the good boy who did what he was told and went off to his tractor would feel the same way.

maybe he'll swing by on his way to the car. make sure least a few front ones are loose before he takes off. leave a mark. and, hey, they're not finishing on those words alone. two men who need to come to an understanding, right?

"i'll, uh, catch you around, nat.."

[ text : mr. mcslut pants ] since when do you use emojis?

[ text : mr. mcslut pants ] let me guess. she's 22 and you met her at a bar.

[ text: nat ] 22? come on, nat. you should know me better than that. [ text: nat ] 22's way too young. barely know what they're doing at that age. [ text: nat ] well. you and i did. but hey that's years ago. right? [ text: nat ] yes. i did meet her at a bar. [ text: nat ] 🤨

when humans want something really really bad... we lie.

you lied..

                             DEAN LOOKS AND SOUNDS LIKE HE WANTS TO CRY. Castiel knows that because he has experience in watching Dean stuff everything down, down, down, but this time, he has no idea how to fix it. How to take what they just learned and melt it into something good. There is no mission he can go on to make it better except travel back in time. And then? Undo what Zachariah did? Time doesn't work like that. And even if it did, they wouldn't know what else would change in the future except for the sex of Castiel's vessel. It could ruin everything. 

                              The angel lifts his hands, his palms hovering over Dean's sides, but then he lets them drop, unsure how to proceed. Dean's thanks, at least, sounds genuine. They did have a good birthday up until… that. Unfortunately, the bad usually outshines the good. Covering Dean's hand on his face with his own, Castiel tries a smile. "I love you, too. Always." In the end, that's all that matters.

dean waits for the touch he knows is coming.. that ends up falling short as cas lets gravity take over and his hands drop. dully frowning, he quickly catch the curvature of his mouth and rights it before he can ruin their mood any further. if possible. troubled eyes soften immeasurably when dean hears the words he cherishes so god damn much that he only shares them in moments that matter. the ones that cement them into memory and soul because they mean something. then again. with cas? they always mean something..

a promise of always and dean leans in so that his nose can brush against cas before following along up to the bedroom. going through the steps of getting is short and sweet. no real want or need to brush his teeth or shower or anything that doesn't require some hot dog pajama pants and snuggling into cas as soon as he crawls into bed with him. their legs tangle. dean's inked arms can't possibly wrap around him tight enough and he buries into the scent he's stamped into his bloodstream. the person he cherishes. down to his core. a small smile does take over at the question. memories of back then flood into his mind. cas can practically feel the mood shift right before he puffs a chuckle of realization now that he's come to think about it.

"exactly like you were when i first met you, honestly. she was strange to me. almost like she was from another world. right off bat. she wanted to be near me. was there during my hunts. hiding, unseen, because i'd convinced myself that my life with her was separated from the life i had to live to hunt. that she was just human and protecting that meant everything to me. she--you. you. were everything i had to look forward to and everything i had to make sure whatever i was fighting didn't put me in the ground. cause i never wanted to be away from you for long. got into so much trouble sometimes. didn't answer calls. didn't surface for a week at a time. you were beautiful and otherworldly and perfect. i loved you so much," he murmurs with an honesty that's bone deep.

"oh. and you really. really. loved sex. like.. a lot of sex. if you had only two or three orgasms, it was almost a let down." leaning so that he can meet those blue eyes, his own a little damp but not in a bad way--he searches them. "you did everything you could to stay.. i want you to know that. you n' me? we fought like hell..."

꒦꒷♡꒷꒦꒦꒷♡꒷꒦꒦꒷♡꒷꒦꒦꒷♡꒷꒦꒦꒷♡꒷꒦꒦꒷♡꒷꒦꒷♡꒷꒦꒦꒷♡꒷꒦꒦꒷♡꒷꒦

★・・・・・there is no mission, no hunt, no point if they are not dressed. Lestat barely makes it through the doors of the borrowed enclosure before complaining. Dean looks like the likely suspect: tall, rugged, and pathetic. One of those qualities would have been a positive if not for the grimace that assesses him. Lestat snaps his fingers, alas the magic is in the numbers, and the fantastical wand is just a metallic credit card that rings against the marble countertop of a branded storefront. Lestat says he will be back in a couple hours only to be absent for the entire day. He does not inform Dean how he gets the hunter's measurements. It does not matter if it happened on a random night, or perhaps Lestat just has a natural talent for eyeballing precision. What is the most important is that he returns with a tailored brown suit with a burgundy accent to underline the only good quality left in Dean: his shoulders.

The famous Wolfkiller stares Winchester down with twin-azurites, prepared to pin him down with lightning if need be. His lips wear a self-important pout as he circles Dean like a shark, scrutinizing the tailored work that fits better than a photo on the cover of Vogue. The fabric embraces what it must, showing off an angle to a man Lestat prefers to call homeless over skillful. This is a personal vendetta against the horror of simplicity. Dean lives a quieter life, one that Lestat cannot fathom each time they come together. This time, there is no unhappy accident: miraculously, their interests lined up for this one job. The vampire is capable of tracking down a defamatory statement, but not the defamer. Not when the said culprit is supernatural and beyond a vampire's reach. It takes someone with valiant experience to honor the vampire's request. Dean will do, however, because the former is not available. So, there must be a compromise. Here, it is a suit that pleases his eye and irritates whatever else Dean thinks about that Lestat does not care for.

With an approving hum, the vampire stops in front of Dean before helping himself to the treacherous tie. He shakes his head and tugs the hunter by the silk leash with embroidered initials branding him as a capitalist. Lestat is not allowing Dean take a step beyond the doors if he does not look pristine. While the vampire is the show, the supporting actor must look just as presentable, lest the performance falls apart and headquarters back at home hear about a scandal.

A mere pair of inches serves as their distance as Lestat expertly loosens Dean's tie. He thumbs the fabric to flatten it, twisting firmly to keep it a taut line. Nevertheless, Lestat does not intend to cause any discomfort as he loops the cloth and crosses it against the front of the collar. He can feel Dean's throat bobbing just beyond the fabric and the gentle thumping of a mortal heart. He swallows the other's breath as he feels gentle air brush against his cheek. Despite his concentration, Lestat lets his eyes peel away from the tie and capture his counterpart's intense gaze. A moment, they simply stand there, gaping at one another. Lestat's lips part, exhausted from being pressed into a thin line as he tucks the tie against Dean's chest and absentmindedly runs his fingertips over the twice-ironed lapel.

"It was imprecise." Lestat snaps sharply against Dean's remark. "Do you know how to wear a tie?" The famous actor tilts his head, assessing his work. In reality, not much has changed about the tie. It is, and it was, just as simple as it is supposed to be. "It may have been fine." Lestat lifts his head, a prideful gesture of a retreating lion. "I made it better." He nods his golden head toward the exit. "We are going to be late because of this, by the way." A smirk cracks his scowl, even if lopsided. "But you are lucky that I like being fashionably late."

꒦꒷♡꒷꒦꒦꒷♡꒷꒦꒦꒷♡꒷꒦꒦꒷♡꒷꒦꒦꒷♡꒷꒦꒦꒷♡꒷꒦꒷♡꒷꒦꒦꒷♡꒷꒦꒦꒷♡꒷꒦

oh. well. if he was going to turn a tie into, you know, a freaking means of pulling him forward like that? the hunter'd make it a point to show up here after hunts where he's forced to wear monkey suits more often. you know. just for research purposes. see if this was a one off. or something like that. anyway! dean watches lestat start to fidget with his collar and tie to 'fix it' the way he decides will make it perfect. flustered huff parts tiered lips and he flicks a glance up watching lestat as he is distracted with his task.

lucky he's so pretty..

..cause that tie was fine. cept dean isn't going to argue cause the method in drawing him close enough to do his dirty work? that's gonna stick in his head and give him little aftershocks later. god. he's fucking desperate, isn't he? god damn mess lestat's turned him into. get your head in the game, winchester. not so far up your ass you're getting shivers by mere little yank. idiot! fingers twitch at his sides and he mocks an eyeroll that's a little too overdone to be earnest. complete with a puff of c'mon, this is ridiculous stamped in. though he means not a single ounce of feigned frustration.

then blue, blue, blue is all he sees once his gaze is caught. the vampire could easily hear how his heart skips before lightly speeding up if he so chooses to indulge himself in the secret knowledge of what a look like that does to a man who has seen far too much than any mortal could see and yet gets caught up and caught off guard by a single stare. one that steals his breath and makes his lungs come to a brief halt. stammering, stuttering little pulse that beats against a still chest like a frantic bird trying to escape a gilded cage.

one that it'd willingly fly right back into the second it found freedom. cause what good is that when the cage is something you'd become to see as an attachment to you. no. part of you. one that you don't want to be without anymore because the world outside the bars? pales in comparison to being right here. in this very suspended second. locked into a stare with a creature born out of nightmares and blood and single-handedly managed to make him a willing captive to the very thing he should've broken free from before it was too late.

..too late. that seems too harsh to say what this is.

before he found where home truly was. a statement that'd probably make lestat crack up laughing in that barking howl that'd make dean want to paint the idea on a brick and eat it. blinking, he lulls forward as if his gravity had shifted into that stare and he has to catch himself by rocking back on his heels to steady his brain. "you never told me where we were going. only that i had to wear this." dean murmurs, not sounding an iota of protest. just.. where the hell are they going? fingers stretch out to curl around lestat's pale wrist. warm thumb traces the delicate skin covering blue veins hidden beneath. cheshire cat grin. if you aren't careful? i'll tempt you into being later. might even do it anyway. depending on your answer. not one of those weird press things, please? those freak him out. dean always does his best to become part of the wallpaper when any cameras start flashing.

Most of him, though, is just overwhelmed and so very relieved to have his big brother back. He’s also terrified he’ll be taken away again. That this is just a temporary visit meant to encourage Sam to be more complacent, to behave and do what he’s told, before his brother will be ripped away from him again, and maybe another visit will promised for some unknown time in the future, if he’s very lucky.

So he doesn’t care that he’s crying and clinging and making a scene. He doesn’t care that Dean’s rocking him like he’s some dumb little kid.

Dean is here, and Dean will fix everything.

“I’m sorry,” he eventually manages to choke out. “I’m so sorry, Dean! I tried to come back. I did, I swear I did! I tried so many times. I tried everything.” Continuously, right up until he lost all hope of ever actually escaping. “And I…I wrote you letters. Did you get them? Did he actually bring them to you? He said he did…”

He pulls back. Not all the way, not nearly enough to separate himself from Dean, but enough that he can actually see him, his cheeks wet with tears. Confusion, followed by a mixture of fear for his brother and a righteous anger fill him when he gets a good look at his face. He turns his glare on Castiel. “What did you do to him?!” Dean’s hurt. Sam can see the bruises, can feel how carefully he’s holding himself, now that he’s paying attention to it. “What did you—you hurt him! Why would you—why’d you do that?! Why didn’t you heal him? I know you can, so make him better!”

                           YES, HE TRIED SO MANY TIMES THAT CASTIEL GREW VERY, VERY TIRED OF IT. So tired, in fact, that he took Sam to Costa Rica at first, and when the child struggled to communicate with others (why do most humans only speak one language?), he flew them to Great Britain. They've been staying in a cottage in Oxford for the last three months, and while Sam might fail to understand the difference between a cookie and a biscuit, he at least can follow most school subjects easily. Being on another continent and an island has the additional advantage of Sam being unable to get very far if he decides to run away again.

                            Not that this will be a risk in the future, now that his brother is here. Castiel still struggles with his impulsive decision, but what was he supposed to do? Let John Winchester beat his son to death? 

                            "Yes, I delivered the letters," he says, indignant, as he turns away from the window to look at the brothers, squinting unhappily. "And I did not hurt him. This was your Father's doing." But Sam is correct about one thing. Stalking over, Castiel taps two fingers to Dean's forehead and sends a drop of grace into his body to heal the bruises and the minor concussion. He can't do anything about the malnourishment, though, except feed him properly in the future. "Now get ready for school."

"they.. those were real?" dean scrubs his hands over his face trying to make sense of it all. john'd all but convinced him that someone was messing with their heads. some monster that wanted to fuel dean's hope that if he snuck off too much, if he fought hard enough, the two of them would be so divided, so strained that it'd weaken them to the point both of them could be taken out without much effort. to lure him off on another search. leave him open. vulnerable. at risk. letters found outside of motel rooms. or stuffed neatly into his bag were warnings to his father that someone or something was close enough to them at some point to be able to leave their notes behind.

dean needed to be more astute. more prepared. sooner or later, he stopped telling his dad about them. dean running off? in his attempts to find his brother and always, always failing? never ended. proof positive in the condition he's in and how god damn sore his ribs are when he holds onto sammy tight. he bites through the pain happily.

green eyes go round. "sammy? no. this guy.. didn't do anything. he brought me--," stopping as castiel corrects sam on his own. then cringes inwardly when the angel tells his brother who was responsible. dean would've lied. said it was a bad hunt. or several to push away the various stages of healing some of his bruises are. hey. it was a rough week. he'd gone off. lost a fight with his dad when he came back. started one he won against a ghost but not without getting banged around first. a week. nothing to see. nothing to note. nothing that matters.

why? cause sammy's here and the rest of the world could fall away and dean wouldn't give a shit. he wishes it would. leave just the two of them. maybe this guy. he seems--what the hell'd he just do?? two fingers boink him on the head and suddenly, he can breathe without a dull ache. black, green, yellow, blue marks littering his skin disappear. the cut in the inside of his mouth? gone. you can count the seconds where he looks grateful before it bleeds into suspicion and he asks the obvious pending question while pulling his brother in closer. "...what are you?"

still making sure dean remains upright, the angel's attention follows his gaze toward the flickering sign across the street. blue eyes move between the building and dean. watching that mental battle taking place behind red-rimmed orbs as the hunter attempts to identify a structure he's currently standing in front of. and castiel, he waits. patiently. for the most part. and when the man finally brightens with confidence, there's something close to relief settling through the seraph.

' good. ' he answers, keycard appearing just a moment later. plastic pressed carelessly against the white fabric of his shirt, glancing down to it before carefully taking it. room 112. ' thank you. ' perhaps it's for the better ; given dean's current condition, it wouldn't surprise him in the slightest if the card somehow disappeared between the curb and the entrance. so, the card instead disappears into the safety of his coat pocket, and he guides the other toward the crosswalk. palm gently placed against the hunter's back.

a great deal of swaying, staggering, and arm grabbing later ─ the pair successfully makes it to the entrance at least. castiel retrieves the keycard and holds the door open long enough for dean to make it inside. the man immediately locates the bed with the instinct of a homing missile. ends up sprawled atop sheets before castiel has even finished turning on the lights. he closes the door behind himself, and for a short moment, he finds himself uncertain of what to do with himself. dean's back inside. mission accomplished. he could just teleport away and let dean sleep off the alcohol in peace. ordinarily, that would be the logical course of action. but then again, he'd said earlier that he wasn't going to leave. he takes that promise seriously.

so perhaps he can remain for a little while.

he walks toward the kitchenette, a half-full bottle of water on the counter catches his attention. lukewarm. but water nonetheless. fingers curl around plastic, and the angel walks back toward the bed. ' you should drink this. ' hands out the bottle for him to take. he waits until dean looks at him before continuing.

laying there staring up at the blurry ceiling dean decides to just go with the tilt-a-whirl ride his brain's taking him on. well, hell. the entire rest of his body's twirling him towards. lets his eyes close so he can just give in and enjoy the ride. boots swing back and forth at the bottom of the bed. a half-hearted attempt at grounding himself. relinquished in a matter of seconds when he decides to let it fail completely. cas is milling around in the room beyond where he can see. dean pays him no mind as he lets his arms spread out against the cheap comforter. fingers curl limply towards the ceiling. inked skin moves as he rolls his wrists.

he's still doing it when the angel draws closer to the bed. takes him an entire sentence before he opens his eyes to look up at him. "necessary, gotcha. yep." half-laugh later, he reaches for the bottle and holds it in a loose grip. sighing as if he begrudges gravity, the hunter shoves an elbow into the mattress and pushes himself up enough that he won't choke. the bottle gets drained as quickly as a glass of booze. no stopping. one long gulp after another that's got his adam's apple bobbing between each. plastic crumples and he lets it fall on the bedside table issuing a breathy, "thanks.." of appreciation.

clarity comes in waves for dean winchester when he's six sheets to the wind and counting. this'd be one of those times where the smile fades and the way he looks into cas's eyes becomes steady. solemn. honest in a way that liquor fuels a tongue that would normally stay still. shoved against his teeth or the roof of his mouth to keep itself silent. "i know i'm a lot.. a mess, actually." tone drips apologetic. "got my nights where this is all that makes.." hand swings up and silver glints in the light before he curls all but his pointer towards his palm and taps against his temple. "get quiet. i can deal with how loud it gets most days. i do." only those most days are dwindling towards some days and dean doesn't recognize how quickly that spiral is twisting him up.