dirtybackroad

Meg was never a real threat, not in Risa’s eyes. This was the same amount of stupidity as Castiel’s pills or Dean’s reckless supply runs to support that habit. Meg was just a demon. Camp was warded. Risa was warded. They’d all gotten their matching tattoos at initiation, and regular ol’ possessions were rare these days. So, at the end of the day at the end of the world, Meg was no more dangerous than any other beating heart around here, and way more fun.

Plus, it is the end of the goddamned world anyway. Risa thinks she should be allowed something of her own. And so, on the nights Dean leaves her to her bunk at camp, Risa sneaks away into the night and scratches a summoning sigil into the ground in the woods outside of their compound.

A quick slice sends shockwaves of pain familiar as it is, across her palm. She opens up the scar and lets her blood spill on the ground, just a few drops into the dirt carving. There is silence humming in its absence like a vacuum for a moment, then -

Risa swears her ears popped once.

“What do you have for me tonight, baby?” Meg’s voice is like honey, carried the edge of a knife. Risa thinks back to camp, to the others, to Dean, to logistics and plans and the End of all Things.

“Our last real lead was over a month ago, you know that.” Risa is distracted, words coming out on a stutter, her eyes following Meg’s movements as she stalks closer.

“Hm, can’t a girl make conversation anymore? Maybe I wanna play house. ‘Honey, how was work today?’ And you say ‘Oh, fine, still haven’t killed your daddy yet, but we’re trying our hardest,’ and I’ll laugh and serve you meatloaf like a good little housewife.”

Meg crowds in close to where Risa kneels in the dirt, straddles her lap, and puts both hands in her hair.

Risa lets herself be moved and rests her hands easily on Meg’s hips. She tries and fails not to think of the woman whose body Meg stole for this.

“Is that the script you want me to follow?” Risa speaks as her eyes slide shut, Meg’s thumbs digging into her scalp.

“I’m just saying, it’d be fun to switch it up a little. Y’know, the tingly-feeling starts to wear off after the dozenth summoning.”

Have they really been doing this that long? Risa doesn’t know what to say, so she doesn’t say anything. She just keeps her eyes shut and leans her head back.

She doesn’t fight the groan that Meg pulls from her lips, the demon giving up on the head massage and moving straight to Risa’s weak spot. Meg latches her lips onto the soft skin right below her ear, stolen hands sliding down Risa’s back to thumb at her hip, absently tracing the anti-possession sigil there.

Meg said once it burns to the touch. Risa’s not sure if she believes her or not.

She’s shoved up against the trunk of some tree, caught between the rough bark and the searing heat of the woman-demon who Risa thinks might bring about her end, and all she can do is moan.

Meg seems hell-bent on leaving a mark; Risa does not want to have to explain that to Dean and so she grabs a handful of hair and yanks, hard, just like Meg likes it. It’s over from there, with Risa opening her eyes just in time to see Meg’s flash desire-black, a predatory open-mouthed growl rumbling through the air.

Meg shoves a hand between them, shifting her weight to one of Risa’s thighs. Her movements are furiously graceful, rough with the want-need that they’ve both come to expect from these encounters. Love bites were one thing, a red flag that carried Risa too close to being caught, but the way Meg fucked left behind marks more similar to a sparring match.

Easily explained were torn clothes and handprint bruises, less acceptable were flushed and swollen lips, teenage-hickeys and scratches-down-the back.

Risa’s thighs fall apart, the worn denim covering her legs stretching tight and uncomfortable. It doesn’t matter though. Meg doesn’t pay mind to her protestations, just hikes a leg further up and back; her other hand still greedily tearing at the closures of Risa’s jeans.

She gets the zipper down and lets out a victory cry, quickly muffling the sound in Risa’s chest, pulling back on the resistance the other woman’s hand in her hair provided.

She always moved this quick; Risa figured it was a demon thing but Meg fucked like it was a competition, clawing and fighting to the finish line with hell on her heels.

Meg got both hands on Risa’s jeans, fingers scrabbling at the waist to get a grip tight enough to pull her back and away from the tree, uncaring as Risa’s head bounced back against the earth below them with a thud as she let Meg lay her out.

A brief struggle later, and Risa’s jeans are down around her ankles, the roots of the tree digging into her back and dead leaves crunch-itching under her thighs. Meg wastes no time in shoving her fingers into Risa’s underwear, a glint in her eye when she finds the wet gathered there.

“Fucking filthy, Ris.” Meg’s praise cuts through the silence.

Risa is glad that her shame died with the rest of society because the way she throws her weight into the roll of her hips would be embarrassingly needy in another life. But here? Flat on her back in the dirt at the end of the world, Risa lets herself go.

Flattening her feet on the ground gives some leverage, and Risa’s hips rise off the ground. Meg moves a touch too fast, taking the angle change as permission that Risa never granted. She presses two fingers inside, curling them just right and watching with rapt fascination as Risa chokes out a long moan.

Meg laughs, low and throaty, and she thumbs open the button on those filthy fucking cargo pants she always wears. Risa looks up at her, and with the moon through the trees and the rising pleasure, she thinks insane things like maybe she could have Meg forever, like they could hole up in camp and share a bunk, just Risa and her demon girlfriend.

Meg bears down over her, wild eyes and a mean sneer that has Risa think she did something stupid like speak those wishes out loud.

“Sometimes I think you like this a little too much, sweetheart. What would Dean think if he saw you like this?” Meg grabs at Risa’s breast, hands rough, smearing dirt and debris on the front of her shirt. “Do you ever think about putting a knife in me the same way you think about my fingers inside you? Ever hear his voice in your ear, tellin’ you to gut the bitch?”

Risa leans up, searching for Meg’s lips, knowing if she can just shut her up she could end this, get a thigh up between Meg’s and let the demon whore rub off on her. It's Dean’s voice in her ear, and Risa’s angry, angry that Meg is right, angry that Dean has got himself inside her head like that. Her hands grasp for purchase on the ground, on Meg, on anything she can touch.

Meg just laughs, pulls just out of reach, fucks into her harder, rougher, moving on from her assault on Risa’s chest to instead claw at the small of her back. She tugs her up and into the air, eyes flashing black as Risa’s legs fall further apart. “I’d let you, if you wanted to try it. You could take me apart right here, slice your pocketknife right through me. I’d ask for more, beg for it even.”

Risa tries to block her voice out, squeezes her eyes shut, and tries to press her thighs together. She’s suddenly too aware of the moment. Risa swears she feels something crawl across her bare thigh; she looks down at her own wetness coating Meg’s wrist, sees where she’s inside her, feels that damned tree branch where it presses against her neck, wedged between her and the forest floor.

Meg doesn’t let it go. “Or do you want more?” She drops Risa’s hips down, slides a third finger inside her, digs her nails into the sigil on her hip. “You want me inside you, want me to see you,” Meg’s hissing now, the voice she speaks with coming from somewhere deeper than the woman’s chest she lives in.

Risa can barely think, her brain clouded with sulfur and mud and heat and her approaching climax. “I-“

“You what, sweetheart? You’ve never thought about it? About me n’ you?” Meg’s thumbnail presses deeper into Risa’s hip.

She’s so fucking close, needs just a bit more, needs Meg to just shut the fuck up, needs some sort of grip back on the situation here.

“No, I-“

“No?” Meg taunts her, matching her tone and whining the word out. God - did Risa sound that pathetic? “No, please? You want me to stop?” Her nail pokes deeper, teasing at the edge of breaking the skin. All it would take is one sharp movement, and Risa’s tattoo would be nothing but useless, broken lines.

“Didn’t think so.”

Risa can only whimper out her response.

Meg’s got the palm of her hand pressed up against Risa’s clit now, lets her rub up against it, doesn’t even call her a slut for how fucking needy she is for it. Risa’s hurtling towards the edge, and Meg watches with her eyes pitch black. Risa opens hers in time to lock in, her mouth falling open in a gasp for air as she reaches her climax.

Meg finally leans in and kisses Risa, hot and heady, taking more than she can give and leaving no room for the woman to catch her breath. She bites at Risa’s lip as she pulls away, but she doesn’t stop, she just keeps leaving till she’s standing over the bed of leaves they’d just consecrated.

Desecrated. Whatever.

“Stay?” Risa’s voice rings up at Meg from the forest floor. Meg just laughs. She leans down and presses a kiss to Risa’s forehead and leaves her there, lying in the mud. 

“Clean yourself up and get back to Dean, sweetheart.” 

_________________________

Mary was in her usual spot, tucked away in the corner of Ellen’s, watching strangers she grew up with making small talk about monsters.  Her hair was dirty and she needed a shower, but the routine of a hard drink after an even harder hunt was too tempting to skip.  Besides, she’d get there soon enough.   She wasn’t sure if she’d been spotted; she’d rolled in while Ellen was occupied behind the bar and was content with waiting her turn.  The Roadhouse was busy enough that Mary thought she should make sure there wasn’t another hunt nearby.  There was always another hunt nearby.   The sound of a harmonica over light, plinking piano keys signaled Ellen’s approach. She laughed at their self-imposed soundtrack, the song Ellen had once declared Mary’s playing on the jukebox.   That had been years ago now, and they had been different women then.  Mary was a mother now. She was someone that her younger self should aspire towards.   Ellen slid into the booth beside Mary, bumping up against her hip-to-shoulder.  She came offering gifts - one for each of them - in matching glasses of whiskey.   “Thunder Road?  Still?”  Mary laughed, Ellen joining in like a breath of fresh air.  The sound was more cleansing than any shower would have been.   “What, did you outgrow me and The Boss out there in Kansas?” Ellen’s tone was light, but Mary knew it had been too long since the last time she visited.  She had John.  She and John had Dean.  They had plans.  This was just a distraction from Mary’s world.   Mary ignored the reminder of home, turning her body towards Ellen, putting some space between them as she did.  “Never could outgrow you, El.” Mary hoped that was true.  “Wanted to come by and see how you’re doin’.  You and Bill.”   Ellen reached out and poked at the grime that coated Mary’s hair.  “Just dropped by?  No other reason you were in town?” “You know me,”  Mary reasoned, “always on the job.”  A careful pause to sip at the offered drink would buy some time to measure the weight of her answer.  The whiskey burned on the way down, but it was a friendly fire.  “You know the hunt is just an excuse to get over here.” “You always have had a hard time asking for what you want, Mary.”   And wasn’t that the main problem?  It settled into the air between the two women, blanketing them in its truth.   Mary took another drink. Ellen zeroed in on the bloodstain that splattered across Mary’s fingers.  To hide the evidence of the hunt, the proof that she went through all this instead of just calling, Mary cupped a clean hand over the soiled one; both wrapped carefully around the whiskey glass.   Mary turned away from the other woman and faced the table, faced the bar full of hunters, and took a deep breath.  Ellen followed her lead, melting into the backrest of the booth with a deep sigh that pressed her even closer to Mary.  They’re touching from knee to shoulder now, wedged against each other with two empty seats across from them and a bar full of space outside their corner booth.   “I want out of this shit, El.” Mary let herself want.  Just for a moment, just here with Ellen.  “I want out of this shit, and I want us to move to the suburbs, and I’ll have a swingset in my yard, and you can have the pool in yours right next door, and you’ll have that little girl you want, and I want you to never have to wash wraith goo out of my hair ever again.”   Ellen laughed. “Aren’t you and John in the suburbs already?” “You know what I mean, Ellen.  I want us both out of this.”  Mary spoke like she wasn’t the one who drove all those hours away from her family home to slaughter some spirit.  She spoke like she didn’t already have one foot out the door and in John Winchester’s family home.  She spoke like she wanted out of that too, somehow.   Ellen just sighed and took a drink of her own glass, catching up with the heavy swigs Mary had taken so far.  “A pool sounds nice.”   Matching recliners, matching swimsuits, matching tans.  Kids splashing in the water.  A little blonde girl with Ellen’s cracking wit and a braid done up by Mary.  Dean teaching the younger ones to swim, his sun-freckles strewn across his baby-cheeks.   “It does, doesn’t it?” Mary bumped her shoulder against Ellen’s, the whiskey loosening her posture and freeing her inhibitions.  It’d only take the rest of the glass before Mary would be able to ask for what she really wanted. Ellen ghosted a hand over her stomach like she could imagine it, like she was seeing a future where she’s swollen-bellied and content, with a mortgage and Mary close by.  The corners of her lips turned up, a hint of a smile, a touch of happiness; and maybe Mary wanted that, wanted Ellen happy however she can get her.

___________

If you had asked Dean a year ago what his ideal mission would be, he would have come up with something eerily similar to what he had just been handed.  As Dean started to dig into the new materials that his boss handed him, he couldn’t help but steal a glance at his partner’s desk across the bullpen.  Castiel’s brow was furrowed, gaze intensely fixated on the folder spread out across his desk.  Dean thought Cas looked cute when he was focused.  It made Dean want to grab the man’s attention. 

“Damnit, Dean, some of us are attempting to work.” Castiel’s tone was easily mistaken for anger, but his partner knew him better than that.  Dean loved hearing that voice - the slightly annoyed, mostly fond timbre reserved just for him.  Cas hadn’t looked back down at his work; instead, he was returning Dean’s stare, the ghost of a smile turning his lips up at the corners. 

Dean peeked around to ensure their boss Crowley had wandered off to find some higher-up to piss off.  The rest of their team was out; Charlie at some conference for the director, Garth partnered up with Meg for some cut-and-dry suicide case.  Once the coast was confirmed clear, Dean gathered the folder and his coffee cup in his hands and slid across the carpet towards the other desk in his swivel chair.  One wheel caught in a divot in the rug for a split second, and Dean’s efforts to stay upright caused his mug to splash out enough coffee to leave a stain on his pant leg.  He flushed slightly at Castiel’s laugh but kept his easy and confident grin. 

Cas spoke as he watched Dean set his mug down on the desk in front of them.  “For someone so coordinated and competent in the field,” Castiel teased as Dean bumped his arm against a paperweight in his quest for the tissue box.  “One would think you could manage to own an item of clothing that isn’t stained.”

Faking surprise, Dean gasped.  “Did the ever-stoic Castiel just compliment me?” He sounded as smug as he could while dabbing at a coffee stain on his pants.

“I should have assumed that would be the part of my insult you would choose to focus on.” Cas rolled his eyes, a habit he had picked up from too much time with Dean over the years. 

“Can’t help it if I got a praise kink, Cas.  You know I just want to impress you,” Dean fluttered his eyelashes a few times, his grin traded for an exaggerated lip bite meant to tease his partner.  He tossed the napkin in the trash, leaning slightly over Cas’s lap to reach the can.  At least, that’s why he told himself he was doing it as he moved into Cas’s space, resting a hand on the other man’s knee for balance. 

When he leaned back up and they met eyes, Dean’s hand still on Castiel’s knee, Dean thought he might have seen a difference in how Castiel looked at him.  Before he could study further, the man cleared his throat and blinked twice.  His gaze was back to normal, and Dean pushed the thought away as ridiculous when he dropped his hands back into his lap.  He and Cas had years behind them of way more intense innuendo and touches that linger a lot longer, most of which come from Dean’s side.  This time Dean had barely dipped a toe into his usual level of flirting, but Castiel had just looked affected. 

Castiel gestured down at the folders sitting in front of them.  Case files were commonplace, but they both knew this one was bound to be anything but.  “It has been some time since I’ve been undercover,” Cas leaned back into his chair, rolling his shoulders a few times. 

Dean knew what nerves looked like on Cas, and, oddly enough, the feeling of anxiety presented similarly to relaxation.  Not many people were able to see the way Cas had to force himself to ease the tight control he usually displays in his every muscle.

Dean was proud of the way he had learned to figure Castiel out, and he loved that it still felt like a game between them.  Dean decided to share and spoke up, “A few months ago, I worked a surveillance case with Meg.  Some meeting was set to go down next booth over.  Meg made out with the waitress to distract her when I bugged the table.” 

That got a reaction from Cas, a breath of a laugh huffed out through his nose instead of a response, but it was enough for Dean.  He crowded up next to Cas as if to read off of his papers instead, and with a second, more exaggerated sigh, Castiel made room for him behind the desk.  Dean spotted the smile in the way his eyes crinkled, and he knew Castiel liked to pretend he was more bothered than he was. 

Dean wasn’t reading.  Regardless, his own file had any information he needed, and he could read that at home.  Dean just liked an excuse to mess around and pull reactions from Castiel.  He let both his thoughts and the conversation drift back to the case he had worked with Meg.  He happily recounted a few more details for Cas, unaware that the man seemed less engaged in his rambling chatter.  Dean ran out of story, and the silence crept back in as Cas scanned the pages on the desk.  

A few seconds passed, and Dean was just about to crack another joke for a modicum of attention from Castiel, always one to milk a situation for what it’s worth.  But, before he could come up with something clever, Cas looked up from the file with a rare smirk.  

Again, Dean reveled in his ability to read his partner’s facial expressions, especially since a Cas-Smirk was more visible in the challenge in his eyes than the slightly awkward way his lips curled and pursed.  It was rare, but not unwelcome, never unwelcome.  Dean loved when he was able to goad Castiel into playing his game.  

 “Did you have to then take Meg back to the hotel suite and simulate the consummation of your fictional marriage?” 

Dean very nearly did a spit-take.  If he were to tell anyone about this conversation, he would describe it as such (always one for dramatics), but in reality, Dean just sputtered a bit and then coughed enough times that he could feel the heat in his cheeks from lack of airflow. 

Once he was able to suck in enough air, he managed a slightly choked, “Sorry, huh?” 

Cas suppressed a laugh; the only thing betraying his steady demeanor was the slight twitch that played across his lips.  Not that Dean was looking at his lips.  While Dean tore his gaze away from his partner, the man flipped back a few pages in the file in front of them. 

“It appears that we are targeting an arms dealer.  You wouldn’t happen to have a movie reference ready for this case, right?” 

“Nah, not a Nicolas Cage guy.” Dean took the easy topic switch in stride, barely noticing Castiel’s vague redirection and then completely forgetting what they were even talking about once Cas hit him with the head tilt and confused pout.

Before Dean could launch into a poorly structured recap of a movie he hadn’t seen more of than the trailer, Castiel shut him up with a warning glance over his shoulder.  

Shit.  That look was there to let Dean know he should watch his mouth, and he really should have been back at his desk by now.  Too late, if the echoing steps approaching were any indication.  Crowley turned the corner before Dean could even finish tucking away his case file to head back to his own desk. 

“Hello, boys.”  

Dean was years past his initial reaction of suppressing an eye-roll at the man’s posh accent or tendency to infantilize his charges.  He stole one last glance at Castiel, seeing the man sitting straight as a rail, posture carefully calculated as always.  It reminded Dean to shake out the hunch in his shoulders, still present from where he had crowded into the space behind his partner’s desk.  Folder finally gathered together, Dean stood up with his coffee mug in hand.  He would not repeat his earlier mishap in front of his superior by trying to surf across the carpet on his desk chair. 

“Charlie will be returning tomorrow evening and will be your contact.  She will be running operations, less than a hundred meters away.” Dean suppressed a smart-assed comment about the metric system as he settled back into his desk and back into his omnipresent staring game with Castiel.  Crowley continued, unphased by his subordinates.  “I, for one, am looking forward to some of the feminine charms to return to the team.  Things are getting a bit… too virile.  ”  

Dean almost missed the way Crowley pointedly drew his gaze back and forth between him and Castiel.  Before he could crack a joke at the expense of his coworker, claiming the feminine charm from the frilly daily affirmations calendar Cas displays should be enough for a lifetime, Crowley pressed on.

“Regardless,” Crowley was clearly in one of his moods today, unwilling to let Dean’s antics derail his 4:45-on-a-Friday Info Dump™.  Dean just wanted him to finish and leave so he could return to Cas. “You will both take this case very seriously.  You don’t need me to tell you the risks; you know them.  Know your cover, up and down.  You two meet up this weekend?  Make sure you know each other’s story too.  Charlie will be quizzing you Monday.  The real deal starts Thursday morning at check-in.” 

With his instructions relayed, Crowley marched over to his desk.  The second his back turned, Dean’s face twisted into a caricature of his boss’s disappointed glare, trying and succeeding in making Castiel smile. 

Once Crowley had rushed out, coat in hand, Dean rolled back over towards Castiel.  He needed personal redemption from his earlier spill, plus it always made Cas give him that look, part scolding, part amused.  Dean met that exact gaze as he successfully slid across the carpet without falling, and Cas even clapped, sarcastic as it was. 

“So what I got from Crowley’s speech is that you have to let me take you out this weekend.  Tonight?  Saturday?” Dean had been asking Castiel out for drinks for years, regardless of how many offers were set up as jokes.  Dean was serious at least a third of the time, but Castiel always had a perfect excuse to dodge any alone time with Dean outside of work.  This time, Dean had the entire Federal Bureau of Investigation on his side and the fate of a major arms deal at stake. 

Castiel looked away from Dean, preoccupying himself with packing his belongings into his briefcase.  Dean thought Castiel always looked like he stepped out of a portal from the past on his way in and out of work, between the vintage leather briefcase and the timeless trenchcoat he always wore.  Castiel stood up then, pulling said coat on and turning to Dean, finally ready with an answer. 

To Dean’s surprise, Castiel looked him up and down, slowly dragging his eyes over Dean’s frame.  “I think I ought to take you up on your offer now; who knows how you dress on the weekends.  I’m a very classy date, Dean.”  

“Aw, you wound me.  It’s not like I wear the Fed suit on the weekends.  What, you think I’m slummin’ it in sweats all the time?  I could dress up nice ’n pretty for ya,” Dean leaned over Cas’s desk, moving into his space more than before.  There was just something about him today, maybe it was the challenge he represented, but Dean felt it was deeper than that. 

Especially when Castiel rolled his eyes like that, fond and amused and slightly withholding.  It made Dean want too much.  

“Don’t forget the stain on your pants.  If you step down from this level even an inch for your weekend wardrobe, I fear what you’d pick me up wearing.” 

Dean grinned, grabbing the daily affirmations calendar that sat in the corner of Castiel’s desk.  “You know you’re not supposed to take these literally, right?” Dean glanced down at the words before turning it around to wave at his partner.  “Don’t ever change for someone else… You know they don’t mean clothes?  You could wear something other than that one coat.” 

Castiel’s eyebrows furrowed, and his forehead wrinkled as he looked himself up and down.  “I like the trenchcoat.  It’s a standard.” 

Dean had to agree; he too liked the damned thing, or at least what it represented.  Cas, standard and steady and scary reliable and predictable in only the best way - the type of predictability you can only understand from really working on getting to know someone.  Dean had done that with Castiel, fought for his affection over hours upon hours of car time, stakeouts, dull office work days, court prep, even the occasional lunch when Dean was really lucky. 

Dean couldn’t explain all that; it’d come out jumbled and wrong, and likely Cas would take it incorrectly.  Instead, he winked at Cas and marched back over to his own desk, dragging his chair behind him.  “I still think it looks better off,” Dean said back flippantly once he was in his own space. 

“Dean, if you really dislike it, I could stop home and change before we meet up.” Cas had a tendency to remind Dean he could come off as sort of a dick; that damned genuine nature of Castiel’s always struck him right in the chest. 

Dean grabbed his case folder and shoved it into his bag, tossing his suit jacket back on.  He shot Cas a look that he hoped would express his own sincerity.  “The coat is perfect, man.  Don’t ever change, huh?  Remember?” 

Cas smiled. 

“Meet at Gibson’s?” 

“See ya there in twenty minutes.” 

__________

“So we’re, what?  Married?” 

Castiel looked at Dean like he’d been asked something incredibly rudimentary, like Dean had the nerve to ask why the sky was blue.  Still, even the already warm fondness behind Castiel’s blue eyes was intensified by the dim lighting and the drink he nursed. 

“Did you read the file at all today?  That explains the missing jokes.  Yes, we’re married, Dean, and we will need to… convince the surveillance team as much.” 

Dean reached wildly for his bag, pulling out his file and spreading it out on the table.  He had been frequenting the bar since graduating from the academy and often came to unwind with a tough case.  It only took one accident involving a spread of especially gruesome crime scene photos to earn Dean a nearly reserved booth in the back, so he didn’t need to worry about privacy for moments like these. 

He remembered Castiel’s quick joke in the office about consummating their marriage, and his eyes were immediately drawn to a part of the surveillance details.  They were to assume the room was entirely bugged - since they didn’t have an in with housekeeping - and would need to wait for room service for a bug sweep. 

Of course, they had first to relieve themselves of suspicion - get rid of the chance someone might assume they were faking the nature of their relationship, therefore, their identities.  And what better way to prove two men were married for real other than some good old-fashioned marital intercourse? 

Dean nearly choked, first at the thought of Crowley typing up this report, then at the strange reality of falling into bed (however fake the act might be) with Castiel.  After an appropriate amount of time in bed together, Dean could call for room service, and Charlie would swing by with the cart full of food, sweep the room for video and audio surveillance, and let them know how safe they’d need to be in the room.  

He met Castiel’s eyes again, expecting to see….

Well, Dean wasn’t sure what he was expecting.  Disgust?  Resentment?  Was this going to be weird for them?  Cas stared back, eyes gentle, still wearing that damned trenchcoat, even while inside.  For all their teasing, the two had never gone beyond an extra touch to the knee, a lingering hug when Dean was able to squeeze one in, definitely nothing like the case required from them.  

Maybe he’d need another drink to get Castiel out of that jacket.  Maybe Dean needed to stop thinking about getting Castiel naked, especially when he hadn’t yet dealt with his emotional reaction to that.  

“So.  We.  Have to bone.”  Jesus, Dean.  Smooth.  

Castiel did bark out a laugh at that, drawing the attention of a passing waiter.  Dean finished waving the man over and ordered a round of shots for his nerves and hopefully to ease the tension in general.  

“We won’t actually be boning, Dean.  The dealers might be watching from across the street using a heat-seeking device, and there is the possibility of video and audio within the hotel room itself.” 

Dean’s mind was full of possibilities, images of him and Castiel rolling around between the sheets, heated kisses and rolling and grinding hips and he felt the blush on his cheeks before Castiel saw it.  He didn’t waste time denying it; he just diverted his gaze and downed the shot.  Dean nudged the remaining shot glass towards Castiel, refusing eye contact until Cas took the drink with a soft sigh. 

Once Castiel dropped the shot glass back down onto the countertop, Dean finally met his gaze again.  “Alright.  Fine.  Okay.  So, we’re married.  What’s your name, how’d we meet?”  Dean craved another shot but knew there was no such thing as drunk enough for the conversation he was having, for negotiating the guidelines of his fake undercover relationship with the coworker he’d been flirting with for years.  

“Jimmy.  Your name is Daniel, and we met in Cancun.  You were on Spring Break; I was selling a large amount of cocaine.”  Castiel spoke candidly, only drawing curious glances from the waiter for a moment before the man scampered away.  He likely wanted nothing to do with whatever Castiel was into. 

Dean pouted a bit at the backstory.  “How come you get the cool story?  You some big crime boss?”  

“The cartel is not cool, Dean.”  Castiel couldn’t fake the exasperation.  Even just one shot in, that fond smile was more apparent than usual, and Dean felt it warm in his chest.  Castiel just kept speaking, and Dean let the feeling melt into something less intense.  “We had a whirlwind romance, and you agreed to marry me, smuggling back the money I made with the cocaine in solid gold jewelry - gifts for our wedding.”  

Dean’s pout fell away as Castiel continued talking, and he slid the folder in front of him shut.  He’d read later.  It seemed like Cas knew enough to get them through the night.  “Alright, okay, I can get behind that.  I’m your hot trophy husband, and you’re my-“ sugar daddy.  Dean nearly just called Cas daddy.  Not a single bar in the world had enough alcohol to clear that as alright with Dean’s brain.  

“I am older than you are,” Castiel supplied, filling the halted silence.  “Anyway, we were set up with a meeting, together, with the dealers.  The dealers are a married couple, that’s why we must go together.  Ruby and Azazel.”  

“Azazel,”  Dean repeated, the mockery thick on his tongue.  “That has two z’s.”  

“It does.”

“Why?”  Dean thought that was a valid question. 

Cas, apparently, did not.  He let out a long-suffering sigh and glanced at the empty shot glass on the table like he was willing it full with his mind. 

“The man’s name is really the least of our concerns, Dean.” 

“Daniel,” Dean supplied his new name helpfully, ignoring how it seemed to make Castiel’s gaze sink deeper into his own.  Castiel did not take the correction.  

“There is a charity ball being thrown, that is where we are to make contact with the dealers, and that is where they will slip us the drive with the payment information on it.  From there, we return to the room, verify our intel, and signal that we are ready for the drop.  Backup comes in, makes a clean arrest in the lot, away from the party, and we’re done for the night.”

Dean listened, he really did, but as soon as Castiel finished speaking, he couldn’t help himself.  He dropped his gaze, looked up through his lashes at Cas as he took a sip of his drink.  “Is this you askin’ me to the ball, Cinderella?”

He received an exaggerated eye that Dean had learned over the years to mean his joke was equally annoying as it was funny.  Score. 

“This is very serious.” Cas deadpanned.  He watched with a raised eyebrow as Dean flagged the waiter again for another round of shots but accepted the liquor when offered.  He downed the shot in time with Dean before adding, “Do you know how to dance?” 

Dean could have done a spit-take.  The crazed look he knew he had to be flashing made Castiel turn up a smile. 

“I’ll take that as a no.”

“Hey,” Dean started.  “You don’t know shit.  You should see me on the dancefloor.” He wasn’t lying, not exactly.  Cas should see him dancing.  It just wouldn’t be good dancing that he would be looking at. 

He was glad when Cas looked through his bull; it never failed to make Dean feel more exposed than ever, but it always helped keep them out of trouble. 

This time, the trouble just happened to be the possibility of breaking cover in front of the actual mob.  Dean never said it was an easy job being his partner. 

Castiel was standing before Dean could process what that meant, and Dean was being pulled to his feet.  The quick movement took his balance by surprise and nearly sent him careening into Castiel’s chest, but he managed to stay on his own two feet and only faced a slight eye-roll in response.  

“What’s goin’ on?”  Dean questioned, the majority of his focus stolen away by the gentle adjustments that Cas made in his own posture.  The man stood straight as he always did, but there was different confidence in it now; a slightly haughty gleam in his eye, a strength in the square of his shoulders.  Subconsciously, Dean mimicked him, rolling his shoulder blades back and lengthening the line of his throat as they stood silently regarding the other.  

“We’re dancing.”

Dean simultaneously had too much and not enough liquor in his system for this.  The blue of Cas’s eyes was deepened with the dimmed light of the bar, the space between them somehow more charged.  He blamed that uptick in electricity for the way he jumped at the gentle touch of Cas’s hand on his shoulder blade, but the moment he spent frozen in time melted away quickly with the heat emanating from the other man.  

If he weren’t so totally preoccupied, Dean might have been self-conscious of the way that they drew a few stares from the other patrons of the bar; but inches away from Cas, he couldn’t be bothered to notice.  Not while Cas was wrapping his fingers around Dean’s hand, not while Cas kept that same carefully drawn half-smile across his lips, not while those lips were closer to Dean’s than they ever had been.  

The music playing across the tinny bar speakers was nowhere near what Dean pictured when he thought about ballroom dancing, but he also never thought that he’d be in the position where he needed to think this much about ballroom dancing to start.  He took stock of his situation, noting how Cas had nudged his left arm up to match his form, Dean’s hand coming to rest on his partner’s shoulder.  

“See, not too bad,” Cas’s voice was gentle, softer than expected.  “I’m sure we won’t have to stick around long.  I imagine the arms dealers aren’t prioritizing their dance card for the night.”  

Dean could feel Cas’s fingertips, five individual points of contact where he’d cupped Dean’s shoulder blade.  He wondered if it felt the same on Castiel, if even through the layers of clothing, the mere suggestion of touch was enough to feel like a brand.  The iron hot touch was mirrored with Cas’s other hand, where he held Dean’s hand with a solid, sure grip.  Dean could only nod in response, language stolen right off his tongue by the absurdity of the situation.  

The song playing wasn’t exactly a waltz (or any other type of song Dean couldn’t identify anyway), but Castiel didn’t let that stop him.  He tugged Dean in closer with their joined hands, and the man went willingly, easily led by Castiel’s strong movements.  

Dancing.  They were dancing.  Kind of.  Mostly they were just stepping back and forth, side to side, their feet remaining in a small square of space between their stools at the bar.  

“So, between the dancing and the… y’know, extracurriculars,”  Dean winked and nudged at Cas’s shoulder before continuing.  “It’ll be just like the prom you never had.” 

Castiel squinted back, one eyebrow raising in a challenge.  It was a look that Dean was well familiar with, especially so many years into their partnership, one that immediately told him that he’d fucked up. 

“I won prom king, Dean.  Me and my girlfriend at the time.”  

Dean’s grip on Cas’s hand only faltered a bit, but he was sure that the shock he felt was evident across his features.  The image of a much younger Cas, trenchcoat over a tux, a little crown perched atop his head?  That was something Dean needed in his life yesterday.  How did Cas manage to surprise him still, years into this partnership?

“No way.  You never told me that,” Dean took on an accusatory tone, squeezing Cas’s hand for a moment.  It felt more intimate than he had intended, but Dean ignored the weird flutter it set off inside his stomach.  They still stood together, swaying in half-time to the music.  “It wasn’t some sorta Carrie thing, was it?”  

Cas shot Dean a look, icy cold for a moment before softening with a smile.   “No pig’s blood, just some spiked punch and home in time for curfew.” 

“That’s all I gotta beat to take the cake as best prom date?  Some shitty punch and a kiss goodnight at 10:45?” Dean’s voice was teasing; his eyes trained on Castiel’s with the hint of competition they always fostered.  Cas returned it in stride, pulling Dean in closer, holding him tighter where they stood.

Like that, Dean could imagine they were anywhere but this happy-hour bar.  Like maybe they were actually on a dance floor somewhere, bodies pressed together.  It made a desire grow red-hot somewhere inside Dean’s stomach, a want he could never have. 

The song ended, fading into some high-energy pop hit, and the moment was over.  Cas nodded curtly, dropping Dean’s hand and stepping back, out of the space they’d claimed together.  “As long as you can manage to stay off my feet and follow my lead like that, we’ll be fine.”   

Yeah. Fine. 

__________

The morning of check-in had Dean’s skin crawling with strange anticipation.  He wrote it off to his coworkers the night before as job anxiety, the typical nerves that fray whenever things are high-stakes, but Dean knew the stupid truth. 

No, the nerves he was battling had nothing to do with the well-connected, highly powered arms dealers that he’d be facing, nor the possibility of having their cover blown and being actually murdered.  The nerves he felt were entirely centered around what would happen as soon as the door to their hotel room shut and he and Cas were alone. 

As soon as they were in the hotel lobby, Dean realized with a start that they hadn’t exactly choreographed their… encounter.  How was this going to work?  Did Dean need to start it?  Would Cas?  

Before he could spiral too far into his thoughts, Dean felt Castiel reach out and grab his hand, easily entwining their fingers.  Like a light, Dean felt the anxiety that had been building up disappear.  

Damnit, it was shit like this that still had Dean fielding a stupid crush on his coworker, even as many years in as they were. 

They worked their way through the lobby quickly, Dean staying half a step behind his suavely dressed partner and playing his role as trophy husband.  Cas checked them in with a quick name drop and a slide of his credit card across the counter, and Dean disguised his casing of the building as excitable tourist-staring.   

The room they received was one of the more luxurious, near the top floor and overlooking the city.  The location came with the perk of signaling to backup in a building across the street, but the trade-off was high visibility to others as well.  Dean focused on those details to keep his mind off of Castiel. 

A bellhop accompanied them toting their bags, and Castiel slipped the man a hundred-dollar bill as a tip, smiling at Dean when the boy blushed and fumbled over his words of thanks. 

As soon as the hotel door shut behind them, Dean felt his nerves light up like a switchboard.  The heat emanating from the blush on his cheeks was enough that he knew Cas could see, and he wondered briefly if the infrared devices would be able to pick that up.  

Castiel walked with a sure, careful pace as he always did, his posture stick-straight and recognizable even without the usual silhouette of his trenchcoat.  He hadn’t been joking at the office - Cas’s steady, predictable presence was a comfort - and seeing him in these undercover clothes only served as a reminder of the potential danger they were in.  

The suitcases were promptly dumped beside the bed, and with newly freed hands, Cas turned back to Dean where he stood nearly frozen in the doorway.  

“You alright, sweetheart?” Cas questioned, crossing the space between them in a few steps.  “Tired from our travels?” The concern was genuine in his eyes despite it all, and Dean shook his head gently.  Cas caught his hand so fluidly that Dean forgot they were acting for a moment, and his eyelids fluttered shut while he leaned in.

Cas seemed to take the movement in stride, squeezing Dean’s hand and tugging him in the last few inches for a gentle kiss.  It was all Dean could do not to pull away in a panic, but he couldn’t prevent the wide-eyed expression written across his face. 

Cas squeezed his hand again, this time a touch harder.  A reminder.  Relax.  A married couple didn’t freak out over a little peck - Dean didn’t freak out over a little peck.  Or maybe he wouldn’t have, had Cas let him have his practice kiss at the bar the weekend prior.  

Sure, he had assured Cas he didn’t need one, but now he regretted that.  The stakes were too high for Dean to fuck this up over nothin’ but a fake roll in the hay between partners.  Dean had gotten through worse in partnerships before, actual rolls in the hay, even, so he could do this.  He could do this.  

He wiped the shock off his face and replaced it with a slight cocky smirk, reveling in the way that it sparked an uneasy recognition in Cas.  He reached up to cup Cas’s cheek, pulling him in for a second kiss.  

Their lips slotted together easily, and Castiel dropped Dean’s hand to instead wrap around his back.  He’d never felt Cas’s arms around him like this, one hand on the small of his back, the other gently resting on Dean’s hip.  When Cas pulled away, he leaned his forehead against Dean’s.  

His whisper was near silent; if Dean didn’t know him better, he’d think Cas was nervous.  “Bed and then room service?” 

Dean nodded, his own hands falling to Castiel’s shirt collar.  For a moment, as he undid the top button and Castiel stared back at him, eyes nearly as wide as Dean’s own had been after the shock of their first kiss, Dean worried that there was no way this would work.  They’d have to call it off immediately, fake some sort of emergency, hell, pull the damn fire alarm. 

But something about Dean’s fingers on that button seemed to flip a switch within Castiel.  As soon as Dean finished its undoing, Cas was on him.  Lips against lips, tongue against tongue; an immediate battle for dominance broke out between them.  Cas shoved Dean back, and he dropped towards the mattress with no resistance, the hunger in his eyes apparent as he propped himself up on his elbows and stared up at Cas. 

The man stood at the foot of the bed, chest heaving like he’d run a marathon, not simply kissed the daylights out of Dean.  Castiel’s fingers tore at his own buttons, making quick work of his shirt while he watched Dean watch him, eyes hooded.  

“Fuck,” Dean breathed the word as Cas dropped his shirt to the ground and crawled over onto the bed, onto Dean.  He couldn’t help but gasp at the predatory way Cas moved, the way his hand slid underneath Dean to grip his ass, the way he so quickly took as he wanted to take.  

Cas’s lips were on Dean’s neck, hot and wet as he pulled their hips together, aligning them on the bed.  Cas was impatient, clearly, and he grumbled while his hands clumsily grasped for purchase on Dean’s shirt, only quieting when Dean himself wrestled away to pull it off.  Castiel’s eyes appeared to nearly glow with a heat that stole Dean’s breath as he tried to regain some sense of control.  The hungry way that Castiel took in each inch of his skin as the buttons were undone only served to disquiet him further.

Once exposed, Cas’s lips moved from Dean’s neck to his chest, his teeth scraping pink, angry lines where he could, his tongue finding one of Dean’s nipples and coaxing out a genuine moan from Dean’s lips.  

Cas seemed satisfied with that, pulling away and rolling over onto the bed next to Dean, his hands at his belt and his intentions clear.  Dean’s heart hammered away at his chest, but he didn’t want to stop now, wanted Cas naked now, and he didn’t care who saw or heard or-

Fuck.  Fuck.  Crowley and Charlie were outside in the van listening to all of this.  Cas seemed to come to the same realization simultaneously, his eyes flicking to Dean with a slight panic.  

They didn’t have time to panic.  As much as they knew their team was watching them, they weren’t positive how intense the surveillance was on the other side of things.  They still had to be careful not to break their cover.

Dean rolled over, following Cas to make up for the ground lost in their moment of panic, helping him finish with his belt and the awful khakis that wardrobe had picked out.  He pulled them down, Cas careful to keep his boxers in place, and then moved to perch himself above Cas, the hesitation back in his muscles.  The heat was still there, burning behind blue eyes, but there was a new, more familiar gentleness there as well—a silent check-in.  

The return to their usual dynamic fueled the moment for Dean, and he fell back into his usual teasing.  He winked at his partner, basked in the fond look of annoyance that washed over Cas, and wiggled his hips as a reminder that he was a step behind in undressing.  

Instead of a return to the more reserved, Cas still had a hint of that flame behind his eyes when his hands went to Dean’s waist, tugging at the pants he still wore.  Dean didn’t have the motivation to process what exactly that look on Cas’s face meant, not with Cas’s lips on the skin above the waistband of his boxers, not with Cas’s hands on his hips and his grip like a promise.  Instead of getting caught up in his head, Dean threw himself back into the moment, his eyes sliding shut and his back arching with the effort it took to keep his hips still under Cas’s direction.  

He was half hard.  The bulge under the thin material of his boxers had to be noticeable, especially with Castiel’s heated breath on Dean’s hip.  For a moment, Dean panicked, unsure of Castiel’s reaction, uncertain if he should have done more to try and tamp down his reactions.  Should he have been thinking about dead puppies or his grandmother or something?  Pulled out a boner killer to shield himself from the onslaught of Cas?  Before he could lose himself in his thoughts, Dean was shaken back to the moment when Cas moved back up across the bed, tugging at Dean and the blankets in a desperate, awkward attempt to shield themselves from any prying eyes.  

Dean got the memo and scrambled to his knees until he could pull the layers of hotel blankets back enough to slide underneath.  The cool cotton sent a strange shiver down his spine, an opposing sensation to the heat he’d been subjected to while underneath Castiel’s ministrations.  It was only for a few moments that Dean was given a reprieve, as Cas followed him underneath the covers and slid back to press against his side.  

His partner ensured there wasn’t enough time to start freaking out, never giving his mind time to catch up with what was happening.  Cas was right there, hard and insistent against his hip, and then there wasn’t enough surveillance in the world to keep Dean from taking advantage of this. 

He surged forward, recapturing Castiel’s lips with his own and rolling the man onto his back.  Dean straddled him, very, very aware of the heat emanating between them, and he took.  He touched the way he’d barely let himself dream of, hands roaming through messy locks and back down to scratch over ribs and grab at thighs.  Each genuine reaction Dean could pull from Cas was like a reward, stroking his ego and filling his chest with a pride he’d never felt. 

Falling into bed with his partner had been easier than expected.  Would they be able to get back up on the other side of this? 

Dean’s thoughts went blank as Castiel’s hands settled low on his hips and pulled him down into a dirty grind.  The logistics would be a problem for later; all that mattered now was how in the world Dean was going to keep himself together.  The mission required simulated sex, not Dean coming in his boxers like some teenager. 

He needed to gain some semblance of control again. 

Dean’s gaze trailed over Castiel’s face, searching for any hesitancy, and found none.  Instead, Dean felt Cas’s hand toying with the waistband of Dean’s underwear, an unspoken question in the air. 

A nod gave permission, and Cas slid his hand under the elastic, grasping at Dean’s ass.  The skin-on-skin contact seemed to reignite any heat lost between them, and just like that,  it was like they weren’t being watched at all.  

“Get out of the apartment! Meet new people!” 

Dean could hear the echo of his younger brother’s advice as he watched everything go sideways. The day hadn’t started as a disaster, but that didn’t mean it wouldn’t end as one. 

For starters, Dean’s less-than-leash-trained dog, Miracle, nearly pulled him into traffic twice and did yank him into a puddle. His shoes were decidedly not waterproof, his favorite jeans were now splashed with mud, and that was not to mention the state of his white sheepdog. She seemed to take Dean’s sigh of defeat as an opportunity to roll around some more, only hopping back up to her paws once she was thoroughly soaked. 

The bouncy, happy way that Miracle wagged her tail and looked up at Dean did make him feel a bit better, he did have to admit. 

Despite the mess, they headed towards their final destination - the local dog park. It was an ample enclosed green space with plenty of room for the pups to run and play, and Dean had taken Miracle a few times since they moved. There were quite a few other dogs that were big enough to hold their own in a playful tussle with his girl, so he felt safe letting her run pretty free. 

Too free, apparently. 

The dog park was nearly empty, a few dogs playing fetch with their owners here and there, but it seemed otherwise uneventful. There was one man there that Dean didn’t recognize, an overdressed, weird guy that seemed to be there alone. He was bent over a flower, in a little squat with his feet flat on the ground and his arms outstretched, the sort of pose you’d be in if teaching a baby to walk. The sort of pose that welcomes excitable dogs. 

The exact sort of pose that Miracle took to mean Tackle Time™. 

Dean saw the disaster forming in slow motion, his dog gaining speed and traction in her full-out sprint towards the unsuspecting victim, the man, wholly unaware, and he couldn’t formulate a warning fast enough. 

Miracle was nothing if not predictable, and Dean watched her (horribly muddy) paws make contact with the poor stranger, pushing him flat on the ground on his back. She at least seemed to feel bad, immediately compensating for her brute force with tail-wagging excitement and sloppy puppy kisses. 

Before he could gauge the stranger’s reaction, Dean was halfway towards the unfolding event, an apology ready for launch.  

The apology died on his tongue as Dean made eye contact with the stranger. He just had to be hot, huh? In the shocked silence, Dean managed to offer a hand as assistance, Miracle backing off as soon as his owner got too close. The (now dirty) stranger took the helping hand and raised back to his feet, fruitlessly wiping at the dirt now coating his business suit.  

“Shit, I’m so sorry, you need to take off your clothes….” Dean flushed a bright red and trailed off, realizing his mistake. Not that he didn’t want to see the guy naked, but that was beside the point. “Or, well, you don’t…. I’m…” Slapping a palm over his own mouth, Dean fumbled for the right words. “I’m sorry.” 

The man standing in front of Dean wore a gummy smile and tugged at his own tie, attempting to straighten it out. He spoke, a simple introductory “Castiel,” and offered a hand to shake. When Castiel’s fingers curled around Dean’s palm, he had to focus on keeping his knees from buckling. Something about this guy was overwhelming to the senses.  

“Dean,” he added, their handshake lasting a few extra beats.  

Castiel repeated back Dean’s name, and all he could do was nod dumbly back.  

“Well, Dean, how would you like to buy me a coffee to make it up to me?” Castiel asked with that same smile, his bright blue eyes never leaving Dean’s.  

_____

Dave knew this would be an odd job from the moment he got the assignment. If he was being honest, he didn’t predict that things would be quite this strange, but regardless, he saw the red flags from the jump. 

First of all, when his boss sent out the list of addresses for the day’s installations, one was listed as only a set of coordinates. Dave was a fuckin’ cable guy, not a sailor or a goddamned pilot. He was afraid of the ocean, and his coke bottle glasses were proof that he lacked the 20/20 needed for the latter profession. He was simply a cable guy, and honestly, he didn’t even know if his car’s GPS would accept the coordinates to help him make the drive. 

Shit, he was a cable guy, not some fuckin’ computer whiz. He claimed to be able to hook up some wires, turn on a few modems. Maybe climb a telephone pole if things got really rough, but for the most part, Dave was just a man in his sixties. Ready to retire and slightly confused by modern technology. 

A problem for later, Dave put it out of his mind and carried out his first two installations of the day. An apartment set-up that took seven minutes and cost the poor woman nearly two hundred in fees was first, followed by a new construction that took eight times as long. 

Then Dave was off towards the coordinates, the newfangled touchscreen map in his car easily adjusting to using such an antiquated navigational system. Where in the world was he headed that didn’t even have a goddamned street address?  

Every job he was assigned came with its own challenges. The clients could be rude, the hookups old, the tech malfunctioning. No amount of weird gigs could have prepared Dave for this. 

It officially started when the GPS took a sharp left off the highway onto an unincorporated dirt road. The city radio station was already getting spotty out this far, but after a few minutes on the drive, static took over. The tires kicked up vision-obscuring amounts of dust, and Dave was glad he was the only one on the road that day. 

The robotic voice of his car’s navigation system announced that his destination was coming up. After a mental checklist of the gear he would need to grab from the trunk, Dave refocused on peering down the road ahead for his destination. 

As he carried on down the road, a large industrial building came into view. Dave hoped he had somehow mistyped the coordinates or the GPS was wrong because if not, he feared he’d been lured out into the woods to die. 

What looked like either a factory or a prison growing out of the hillside was the only structure for what felt like miles, and the voice of the navigational system announced Dave’s arrival. He took out his phone and fumbled with his company’s app to pull up the client’s phone number. 

The phone was barely allowed to ring before the line was picked up with a click and a panicked voice asking for a “Dean?”

“No, this is Dave? From Comcast?” 

The man on the other line let out a loud puff of a breath. “Sorry, I’m waiting for a call.” 

Dave announced his arrival at the location, and the man announced his intent to meet at the door. The cable man grabbed his duffle bag from the trunk and headed off towards the only thing nearby that could be considered a doorway. 

A short staircase of steps was followed by the strangest introduction to the assumed man of the house, one Richie Sambora, who looked nothing like the guitarist and only made Dave think he was given an alias. It would make sense; only someone with a lot to hide would live in a place like this. 

The door, which was below ground level and opened directly into the hillside, let out onto an even bigger staircase and a cavernous room. Dave didn’t even want to think about how much wire he’d need to make the connections necessary. “Richie” led the way down the metallic staircase, and Dave realized that he most definitely was dealing with the mob. 

It had to be organized crime; there was no better explanation for what Dave was dealing with. He fought to keep an even expression on his face when “Richie” turned back to gauge his reaction. Taking a closer look, the man was definitely muscle, and judging by the holster on his hip, he was ready to go. Dave just smiled, glad he was here to install the wifi and not shakedown a rival gang. 

They were standing in what could only be described as a war room. A giant map covered the table in the center, a switchboard and telegraph off to the side. A telegraph. In 2013. 

Maybe this wasn’t the mob. Perhaps this was just terrorism. 

Should Dave call someone?  

“Where would you like to have the router?” Dave asked his normal questions in the face of a situation that was absolutely abnormal. 

The construction around them couldn’t be any more recent than the late 30s, and the furniture didn’t seem to have been updated since then either. That didn’t bode well for the modem they needed to connect. 

The man smiled almost sheepishly and directed off towards a long hallway off of the main room. Shit, things were gonna get weirder before things were gonna get done. The guy who was definitely not named Richie led Dave out of the war room, past the largest telescope Dave had ever seen (yeah, definitely terrorism), and into the corridor. A few suspiciously shut doors down was a doorway that opened to reveal a spaceship’s worth of control panels, various outlets, and inputs. 

Where was this place? What was this place? 

For lack of anything better to say, Dave dumbly asked, “Here?” and got a nod in response. 

They were so far underground and into this hillside that Dave was sure a call to 911 for help would be impossible. But, just as the thought crossed his mind, the client’s phone rang out. 

Large hands wrestled to answer so quickly that the phone was nearly dropped in the struggle. 

“Dean?”

Pretending to be uninterested, Dave grabbed for his duffle-bag. The electric hum of the room and the space between the two men ensured that “Dean’s” response was inaudible, so Dave pulled out a few cables to start and went about his job. 

“Is everything fine?” A pause. “How about Cas?” A sigh. “Dude, how could I have known that? Gimme a minute; the Comcast guy is h-“ 

Dave fumbled with the modem while he pretended not to be so interested in what this Dean had to say on the other end. 

“But you got it?” The client asked emphatically, then immediately lowered his voice. “Salted and burned?”   

What?

Dave managed to keep from looking over, but the phone call must have ended because the next words spoken were to him. 

“I’m going to be right down the hall if you need anything. I’ll let you work.” 

Great. Dave was now alone with his thoughts. He focused hard on the task at hand, stringing cables to and fro, arguing with himself about whether or not to notify homeland security. 

The usual routine for a cable guy, right?

It couldn’t have been more than twenty minutes before “Richie” was back, his floppy hair and big doe eyes at odds with the general air of uncertainty in the room. The suspicion seemed to go both ways, and Dave wondered how many outsiders were allowed in. He suspected he might be the first. 

The modem and router were both set up, but if Dave remembered correctly, the client asked for a signal booster to be installed in another room. 

“All set here; where would you like your extender?” His robotic customer service demeanor seemed to set aside some of the client’s nervous energy as well. 

A few moments later, “Richie” was guiding Dave back up the hallway they’d come down and into the room with the large map table. From there, Dave was led into some sort of library. Now he only had more questions. 

He was left right at the entrance to the library when the other man dashed up the stairs to answer a call. This part was easy, just a simple power cable and then a few configurations on his phone, and then Dave could be on his way. Hopefully, without being marked as an enemy of whatever state this guy represented. 

But no. Dave couldn’t just have a normal Wednesday. 

The sound of heavy footfalls on metal came ringing through the space. Dave looked up to see Richie had just let in two friends. One was wearing a tattered and burnt shirt, and the other looked nearly spotless like he was coming home from an office job. Dave was definitely going to be killed for seeing this, so he just pretended he didn’t, looking back down at the outlets in the library wall. 

Out of the corner of his eye, Dave saw the three men make their way down the stairs, their voices coming into earshot as he worked. 

“-fuckin told me that the oldest son had the pocketwatch, so we were in his damn basement for nearly an hour before the thing showed up, and it was pissed. Cas nearly got whacked, but-”

“Cable guy, remember?” 

“Whatever. We figured it out; no thanks to you. Had to go grave robbin’ for the watch, but-“

“Dean!” The first man reached out to smack at his shoulder, serving as a warning to keep quiet. 

Tattered shirt guy, who Dave now knew was the Dean from the phone call earlier, sauntered into the library and plopped down in a chair across from Dave. 

“So!  We're goin' digital.  Did Sa-“

Richie cleared his throat loudly enough that Dave startled. 

Dean restarted. “Did Richie offer you anything to drink?” 

So it was a fake name. Not that Dave needed proof, he knew Bon Jovi and how to spot a red flag, but it was nice to have more assurance that he wasn’t just paranoid. 

Gesturing to the bottled water that Dave brought in with his bags, he dismissed the offer. The next step was waiting for the configuration signal to connect, and Dave wanted to avoid small talk as much as possible. He thought his safest bet was to absorb as little information as possible to keep in these guys’ good graces. 

A peek at the titles on the bookshelf to his right didn’t ease his anxieties. De Occulta Philosophia libri III, Tryals of the Spirit, and A Magical Record of the Beast didn’t exactly sound like book-club-friendly novels, but they also didn’t sound like the collection of a mad terrorist cell either. 

“We’re thinking about offering library cards and a good kids story time.” Damnit, Dave was caught looking. When he looked up to see Dean’s reaction, the man was just wearing a self-assured smile. The man’s laid-back demeanor was at odds with the bizarre situation and the fact that he looked like he’d been through a house fire. 

Dave must have looked horrified because Dean gave a follow-up clarification. “Joking, joking.” 

Dave’s phone chimed to notify him that the setup was complete, and he had never stood up faster in his life. He had lost track of “Richie” and the businessman, but upon exiting the library, the two were seated at the map table, hunched over and whispering. 

Dave only heard the words “haunted” and “vessel” before the two were startled at his presence. The cable man fumbled for his usual phrases, anything brisk and easy to get him out the door, but he was truthfully at a loss for words. He gaped a bit, dumbly, at the cast of characters around him and grabbed his bag strap. 

“Thank you for choosing Comcast?” It came out as a question while Dave tried his best to give a customer service smile. Usually, he’d have the client check a device or something for the connection, but all Dave wanted was to be in his car, headed back towards safety on that damned dirt road. 

Arms, steady and solid, wrapped around Dean’s body. His own were sandwiched between the mattress and the man, pins and needles long forgotten in favor of resting his ear above Castiel’s heart. From this position, he can hear each heartbeat and feel each breath, the rising and falling of Castiel’s chest lulling him into a softness he cannot remember ever feeling.

Dean wasn’t sure how much time had passed, but after a few moments, he noticed he was crying. The realization hit him with a memory, and suddenly Dean is a kid again.

Dean is four and he’s in his mother’s arms and she’s laughing and handing him over to his father. They’re smiling, and Dean feels safe and loved, and that  shouldn’t be  memorable. It shouldn’t be memorable, but his mother is wearing sacrificial white; the room they stand in would soon be ash; it’s the last time Dean would ever be held again - by her or by anyone.  

Until now.  

Cas seems to notice the tears where they hit the expanse of his chest, and Dean feels the way his grip tightens, one hand snaking up to thread into his hair in a silent offer of comfort. Dean is held.  

Safe.  

He feels four and forty-seven all at once and he’s crying and he’s happy and he’s in love.

There’s so much he wants to say, and beyond that, even more he could never put into words, and so he decides to say none of it and hope Castiel understands anyway. If the happiness shining out of his eyes like the sun has anything to say about it, Cas seems to be on the same page regardless.  

Dean wipes his eyes on Cas’s chest, the best he can, and cranes his neck to meet his gaze.  

“Do ya think,” Dean starts, his voice thin from the tears but steadier than he’d expected. “Do you think that we could order a pizza?”

Grace serves as Ariadne’s thread and Artemis’s torch, both an anchor to the exit and a light guiding him forward. It’s dark, the shadows only lifting enough to allow Dean to see a foot or so ahead. It’s been years or maybe minutes; something about the atmosphere makes it impossible to distinguish between the two. Despite the Emptiness, he treads on.  

Through the maze, in and down and always deeper, never turning back to see what might be following. He had come alone, stepped into the labyrinth with nothing but a ball of light to keep his company, but that did not guarantee him any serenity. Dean's journey doesn’t feel lonely; he just is.  

The walls are cold and harsh things that act together as a winding cage, the rules of which are not made clear to its inhabitants. Dead ends warp into doorways, bricks crumble into staircases built up into barricades just as solid as the construction that once stood in their place. Dean is alone and he isn’t; another visitor can be felt shifting and twisting through the space around him. In each corridor, the air pressure contracts and seemingly adjusts to Dean’s presence, not welcoming but at least not yet a rejection.  

The being around him fades in and out, aware of his progress. It appears with nothing but a raising of hairs on Dean’s neck, a gust of wind through an airtight tunnel, an awareness of being watched. Dean only needs to keep up his side of the deal and continue his navigation.

Dean reaches a fork in the maze, and by now it feels routine, wholly natural to turn inward and focus on the sensation pulling him deeper. Dean had entered the maze without a compass, but that did not mean he was lost.  

It is his angel who will light the way. It is by Castiel’s grace that Dean will navigate the maze before him, and by Castiel’s grace, they will be granted freedom.

The corridors seem to never end, turn after turn of darkness, the promise of his prize the only thing that keeps him going. Marching on, he continues.  

Slowly, the Emptiness around him seems to fade. It had started as a mere suggestion of a sensation, a beneath-the-ribs tugging that was as quickly written off as it was felt, but the feeling only crescendos, arching high and pulling harder towards the end.  

One more turn. Dean makes one more turn, and then he sees. He turns the corner and darkness gives way to blue glowing light, bright eyes in the pitch black and Dean’s knees could buckle at the sight.

Cas.

Castiel had learned very early into this mission that usual instincts could not be relied upon. This time was different; the stakes too high for assumptions. Humanity - or, at the very least, this one human - was incalculable, complex and fickle, dependent on so many individual factors it seemed inconvenient. At least, it certainly wasn't helpful for Castiel. Knowing humanity should be an easy task for an angel; If a soul is the purest expression of a man, Castiel had assumed being able to hold Dean's was enough.

It had been, but only for the short while that Castiel was truly able to subsume everything that the man was. And really, it just made things more complicated in the end.

When grace enveloped soul, Castiel had expected a fragile thing, infested with darkness and ruined by the horrors it had been forced to endure. Dean - his essence - was nothing of the sort; instead, he was incomprehensible in his purity, his soul luminous, singing out for Castiel's grace in a way the angel had simply never experienced. A one-of-a-kind connection, Castiel's chance at grasping a clarity that was otherwise never within reach.

There had been other souls in hell, yes, thousands upon thousands of souls, corrupted and damaged and singed with countless lifetimes of depravity. They appeared, writhing and clawing, making futile attempts to stop the liberation of the Righteous Man, a stark contrast to the luminescence of what they tried to protect.

In comparison, Castiel had even known souls in heaven, shining things full of beauty and everything He had created them to be. Perfect examples of God's light, sanctified and full of belief. None could ever compare to Dean; Souls peaceful in their eternal rest could never begin to match the serenity that Castiel felt when he took Dean inside his grace.

Yes, it was so written that Castiel saved Dean Winchester, grasped him tight and raised him from perdition; but what hadn't been told was the way Dean's soul had offered itself up, arching wide and blooming high to reveal something previously unseen. When Castiel's true form met with Dean's soul, the borders between them began to bleed. The great honor of being chosen for the retrieval of The Righteous Man couldn't hold a candle to the reward that was Dean's soul expanding and contracting, pressing at the borders of Castiel's grace and seeking permission to fold itself deeper within. If this man was truly to be The Michael Sword, Castiel ached at the thought of the horrors it would take to carve these soft edges into something made for destruction.

Before he could be molded into heaven's weapon, Castiel had to rebuild the body that had been Dean's on earth - and oh, Castiel could sense that life had not been kind to this man, hell even less so. Starting at the most cellular level, Castiel began to create. It was his belief prior to that moment that Creation was an act of God, His and His alone; yet here Castiel was. Not God - but one of his angels - breathing careful life into the lungs of a man.  

Castiel took special care in each individual component, down to placing each impeccable freckle carefully in its place with the same devotion he'd always granted to God's design. Such a beautiful creation, such a brilliant soul, it was only natural that the man be painted with flecks of gold. While neurons shaped into axons tangled into nerves that Castiel knitted together, Dean's soul remained cradled within the expanse of Castiel's grace.

Grace pulsed through the air, responsive to Dean's soul dancing within, incapable of denying the bond Castiel felt where they'd merged as one.  

Castiel had been created that he could destroy; a soldier, a creature of war and annihilation, used as a symbol of heaven's wrath and utter devotion. Now, the gift of life, the epicenter of the universe, was placed within Castiel, and the mission began taking on an unforeseen meaning. And so, Castiel labored over the body that would house Dean Winchester's soul. It was gravely important work, and he treated it as such; the fate of the world hinged upon this man. The Beginning and the End were all within him, and Castiel was nothing less than entirely devotional to the responsibility.

As the work carried on, Dean's soul, his purest essence, was guarded - safe and held and warm, encapsulated within Castiel's grasp - yet somehow, it was the angel who was left feeling claimed. It was known that when an angel takes a vessel, remnants of that angel's essence are left behind. Castiel wondered what happened when a soul was to take itself within an angel's grace. Would it leave behind a piece of humanity? Castiel could already sense the release of the mutual grasp between soul and grace would be inexplicably complex, more reminiscent of a loss than the mark of a task well completed.

In Castiel's true form - unrestricted and incomparably more - existence was pure grace, energy and power and light and allegiance. Being with, merging with others in spiritual communion was nothing short of harmony, the holiness of unity and genuine spiritual connection. There was a relief within the act, the simplicity of knowing and being known, but Castiel had never craved it before Dean. And even then, craving didn't feel descriptive enough; to crave was not nearly as large as the building vortex that was rotating and twisting and threatening to burst free and consume.

The divine act of creation was His and His alone. God, The Maker, was the sole being who conjured humanity, constructed their world, and left them to experience everything invented for them. Creation was His holiest act, and yet here Castiel was, laboring over the refabrication of one man.

Was it blasphemous to think of Dean as a creature of Castiel's own creation? To hold pride in his construction? Was it sacrilegious to pour the same devotion and loyalty into this act of revival as all angels had been commanded to pledge to each cosmic order?  

It couldn't be.

She can never be sure if this is par for the course, if everyone who found irreconcilable proof that God is real immediately turned from Him and everything He stood for. She doesn’t exactly have a support group of her peers; she can’t very well call up the other girls from school to trade stories about the holy missions their fathers have been sent on; schoolyard gossip doesn’t leave room to connect with others about how her mother is on a fruitless quest to bring back the husk that might be left of her father. And that is only if the angel using him hasn’t entirely burnt him up from the inside out.

So instead, Claire follows in the footsteps of the parishioners around her, shuffles mindlessly out of the pew and towards the altar, manages a polite, appropriate smile-and-nod towards the priest when he offers the eucharist. She takes it. The body of Christ. She gives her gratitude, though she doesn’t feel it. Doesn’t remember what it would  feel like were she to experience it again.  

What did Claire have to be grateful for? What obligation did she have to God?

That night over dinner, her grandparents hang their heads low, shroud their eyes, clasp their hands. They pray, as they always do, with hope and light and love, and Claire only listens for the embers in their words; lets their light  flutter down to the horrible wreckage that is Claire’s life; lets those flecks of fire catch on the charred remnants of their granddaughter.  

“You’re not confirmed?”  She asked in a stage whisper, shoving the question through her teeth like Dean had taken part in some horrific scandal - somehow caught nude with a congressman and not simply missing out on a sacrament.  

Dean could only nod with his head pitched down to convey the apology he didn’t mean. This apparently earth-shattering revaluation had slipped out while they were discussing cake flavors and seating arrangements, and Dean really had to prioritize calling the calligrapher to check in on their save-the-date cards because Dean was getting married.   Apparently, that translated into one million tiny little tasks that, for whatever reason, Lisa insisted were necessary.  

Happy wife, happy life, right?

Dean had been with Lisa for the better of two years, and things were fine.  

They were what they were, mostly. Dean sometimes felt like he was playing house, acting out some sort of script about his life instead of actually living, but that wasn’t new,  so he couldn’t blame Lisa for that. Dean had been squeezing himself into various roles since he was younger; no need to start complaining now. He was fine.  He could even be happy, sometimes.

Lisa even had a kid - a boy who made Dean feel like he was looking into a mirror sometimes - and Dean found he wanted to be chosen for the role of father. It was the first time being someone ever felt worth something.

When Dean finally proposed, it was after months of not-so-subtle hinting from not only Lisa, but her mother, her father, all their neighbors… (Barbecues had never been so passive-aggressive; Dean hadn’t even known someone could turn a cheese spread into a metaphor for a relationship, but Susanne Taylor down the street managed to fit one in somehow.)  Even the kid, Ben, asked when Dean was going to marry his mother. That was the final straw; Dean had gone out and bought a ring that night.  

He didn’t even feel trapped, at least not at the time, not when he bought the ring, not yet. Instead, it felt like he was building something, like he was doing the right thing, like he was following a predestined path.  

When he proposed, he couldn’t help but start to feel slightly off-balance, like the giant diamond had somehow thrown gravity off its course. Lisa said yes, of course she had, and immediately threw herself into his arms for her fairytale kiss. Dean could nearly see the perfect illustration taking form in Lisa’s storybook life.  

That was the first time he felt like he was suffocating.  

If he’d felt bad then, the uneasy feeling only increased as they worked out the wedding plans. Lisa insisted on Dean being present for all of the decisions, even though he didn’t have (or want) a say. They would be having a spring wedding, getting married in the church that Lisa was baptized in, and they’d be perfect, a blushing bride and her proud groom, Lisa’s father handing her off with a stern handshake.  

Problem number one.   The church wedding. Once Lisa calmed down from the brief panic that Dean’s confirmation status sent her into and got off the phone with the wedding planner, she tracked Dean down where he had retreated to the bedroom. With a huff and a hand firmly planted on her hip, she handed over the paperwork. Neatly printed handouts to carefully outline the steps he’d need to take in order to rectify this horrible situation that Dean had put her through.  

That was what sent Dean to St. Michael’s Cathedral. Lisa picked it for the vicinity of the house, and Dean was glad for that when he decided to pregame his first service.  

Hey- it wasn’t alcoholism if the day drinking only included a few mimosas with breakfast, and it was a Sunday, so Dean thought he was in the clear. He might be a sinner, but he wasn’t an alcoholic.

Besides, he needed the little kick of courage to drag him out the door and into the church to begin with.

The walk had been shorter than he’d anticipated, so Dean was awaiting the start of service quietly in the back pew, working on avoiding eye contact with the rest of the attendees. He stared down at the handout, not reading but nearly boring holes through the paper with his heavy gaze. He didn’t know what the fuck a psalm was anyway, so he didn’t think reading ahead to number 37 would do anyone any good.  

The mass started with a jolt, Dean barely realizing how far he had spaced out until he was being yanked back into the pew, his eyes shooting up towards the voice he heard from the altar. The priest was an older man and checked all the mental boxes that Dean had for what he expected from the experience, so he let his gaze fall back to the Order of Mass in his hands. As he heard the gentle call and response of what was labeled the “introductory rites,” Dean settled into place.  

He could do this, he was good at fitting in, and despite not having been to church since he was prepubescent, it wasn’t too hard to catch back up.  

The first curveball came when the priest in charge started the communion rites. Dean had done this part before; he remembered the too-big suit he wore when he was seven and way too stoked to try the communion wine. What he wasn’t expecting was the tap on his shoulder during the sign of the peace. Dean had already awkwardly shuffled over to the woman nearly half a pew to his left to shake her hand when he turned to face the interruption - and Dean almost laughed at the absurdity.  

For all that the man leading mass fit traditional assumptions about a Catholic priest, Dean had taken that as confirmation that he was at an ordinary church. Boy, was he wrong.

Considering Dean was now face-to-face with the hottest man he had ever seen in a cassock, this church had its secrets. He choked back his surprise and held out his hand, taking the man’s in a firm shake.   God, the dude’s hands were soft, and god were they big. Dean was silent, but when the priest just smiled gently, his stare fixed on Dean’s, he remembered himself and spoke up. “Peace be with you, um, Father.”

“And with you,” The priest responded, his voice nearly lost in the clamor around him but hitting Dean with a bolt of heat nonetheless. He was going to hell, and it was any single one of the countless thoughts about that priest that was gonna be the deciding factor. Dean didn’t even care; he just watched as the man walked away, up towards the altar. The mass was plugging on, and the (now entirely background noise to Dean) prayer continued - something about bread - but Dean’s mind was far from that. He watched the (hot, younger) priest take communion from the other (older, now even more boring) priest, and then movement picked up around the church.

Lines started to form, parishioners clumsily crowding up towards the two men at the head of the church, and immediately Dean knew where he was headed.  

Hot priest was right there, just down the aisle from him, only a dozen or so churchgoers between Dean and his second interaction with his new infatuation. The man was hotter than any priest had the right to be, from his mussed dark hair, to his pouty lips, to those fucking hands that Dean could still feel the ghost of against his own.  

Dean was staring. He knew it, but he didn’t think it mattered, didn’t think it would be noticed or read into, so he stared unashamedly at the priest as he gave out the tiny eucharist crackers. Dean could only get glimpses as the people in front of him teetered in and out of his line of sight, but he knew Hot Priest™ was focused on his task.  

Only a few passing moments later and Dean was at the front of the line, a slight blush high on his cheeks as he locked eyes again with the priest, who smiled warmly, just as before. In the few seconds it took for Dean to remember the act of raising his hands to accept the wafer, the priest was lifting his own, thumb and pointer finger carefully offering the eucharist.  

Dean felt like heaven itself was watching as he let his mouth fall open, the priest holding eye contact as he placed the wafer straight from his fingers onto Dean’s tongue.

The air around them was already humid-thick, packed with both parishioners and the residual incense smoke, but now Dean could practically drown in it. Between the heady feeling that settled in Dean’s chest from the minute he saw this man and the burning heat on his bottom lip from where the priest’s thumb had brushed against his skin, Dean thought he was going to pass out.

Somehow, Dean managed to nod in thanks to the priest, closing his mouth around the offering as he turned and nearly stumbled back to his pew. He was 80% sure he was sitting in an entirely different row once he was settled back in, but if that was the worst thing that came from the fetish-porn-turned-actual-real-interaction with an Actual, authentic man of God, Dean thought he’d gotten off easily.

Gotten off. Jesus, Dean was going to hell with the imagery he was projecting. Could God read your mind better from inside a church? Is that how that works? Maybe he could ask Hot Priest over some Holy Wine and stale fuckin’ crackers later.

————

Over steak and potatoes that night, Lisa asked how mass had been. Dean shoveled a mouthful of mash as an excuse to nod idly in response. He couldn’t exactly say he’d nearly had some hot priest’s thumb and forefinger in his mouth, and he’d pretty much blanked on anything else that happened during mass. Thankfully, Lisa immediately switched topics to the color of linen she wanted for the tablecloths at their wedding, and Ben took up making faces in the background, drawing a laugh from deep within Dean’s chest.  

See,  this was why Dean was doing the whole church thing. For Ben and for Lisa and for their new lives - not for some soap opera lookin’ hot young priest with piercing blue eyes and the kind of fingers that had Dean’s thoughts wandering again, for the dozenth time since they brushed against his lips. Is the eucharist supposed to be so sexy?

Anyway. This was about Dean’s heterosexual marriage and nothing else.

Dean watched with a warm glow in his chest as Ben finished his plate, scraping the last bits off with his fork and a satisfied grin. Dinner that Dean had made.

Provider.  Father.

“Oh, and dear? I scheduled a viewing of the venue with our videographer; you absolutely need to be there with me.”

Fiancé.

_________________________

The first time Dean quit smoking was before he even really had a habit to break. When he was 15, he bought his first pack of American Spirits, the box a sky blue that stuck out to him from the shelf. The clerk behind the counter had squinted down at him, and for a moment, Dean worried he wouldn’t get away with his illicit purchase. Maybe if the gas station had paid the man a little better, he would have asked for ID, but minimum wage had never been worth dealing with teenagers, and so Dean walked out with three less dollars and the small blue box in hand.

Dean liked the way the new pack felt in his fingers, liked the ritual of packing a new box, smacking it cleanly against his palm. He loved to take his time with a brand new package, carefully peeling off the plastic and tucking it into his pocket to throw away later. The paper tightly folded down underneath the lid was one of his favorite parts. It felt almost like opening a letter, and once inside a thrift store off the highway, Dean half-jokingly toyed with purchasing the idea of a tiny gilded letter opener with a broken blade to make his process even more official.  

After the paper was gingerly folded back to expose the cigarettes, there was even more room to ritualize the act. Dean would carefully pick out one cigarette from the pack. His reasoning for his choices always varied; sometimes, he’d quickly snag the filter sticking out the most; other times, Dean would simply…. feel it. Whatever way he chose the first cigarette, it wasn’t for smoking. Instead, he’d picked out his lucky cigarette, replacing it upside down back into the package.

The teal box fit into the pocket of his jeans, packed in against the swiss army knife he’d carried since he was eight and his father tucked one into his palm. The denim stretched taut over the intrusion, adapting to a new addition in Dean’s metaphorical toolbelt.

Once that first pack was bought, he was done for. Dean had a penchant for distraction, a weak spot for vices, and an ache for routine. Each morning they were alone started with the  cl-click  of the motel door locking behind him, Sammy following in toe. The kid always made a face as Dean started in on his morning cigarette, but whining about stuff like that was part of being a younger brother. Dean always made sure to stand downwind from Sam anyway, which wasn’t ever hard since the kid avoided the clouds of smoke like the plague.

The actual act of smoking wasn’t the part Dean was interested in, especially that first time around. So, when Dean was caught red-handed, crouched behind the vending machines, lighting up behind the motel he was staying at with his dad and little brother, his biggest worry was losing his private rituals. John had snatched the box away and snapped each of the cigarettes in half, ranting the whole time about how he had raised Dean better than to pull shit like this, to waste money like this, to expose Sam… Still, Dean’s mind was elsewhere, mourning the fact that he wouldn’t get to smoke the cigarette he had picked out as lucky.  

_____________

The second time Dean quit smoking, he was old enough to purchase his own packs legally. He’d smoked a few here and since the last time, bummed a smoke outside some garbage dive bars, snagged a couple from hunting buddies of his dad’s, but this was real. This was a brand new, plastic-wrapped box, packed to the brim and primed for Dean’s rituals.

There was a boy, another hunter who smoked parliaments in a blue box that matched his eyes and who wore leather and paid for Dean’s drinks when they went out to celebrate a job well survived. They sat too close and laughed too loud and smoked too many shared cigarettes. When they stepped outside afterwards to find the blue and white box empty, they stumbled to the gas station with their hands bumping and shoulders brushing together, and the boy bought Dean’s second-first pack.

They were eighteen and fumbling with a zippo to light each other’s smokes on the journey back to their motel. The ritual of a new pack paled in comparison to how each inhale tasted the way Dean imagined the other boy would taste if he were to allow himself to imagine those things.

That hunting trip ended, that pack ran out, the two boys lost contact, but Dean kept smoking. Nearly a dozen jobs and sixteen packs later, Dean heard that a job up north went sideways and the taste of smoke started to feel like something he lost instead of something he could cling to.