#4.1k

Hands in the pockets of his dressing gown, he wiggles his toes, and frowns as he watches the hole in his slipper widen, allowing more of his toe to peek through.

Godsdamnit. This was the third pair of slippers he was going to have to throw out. He’d really liked these ones.

He was running out of socks, too.

He kicks the slippers off with a weary sigh, hissing as his feet meet the cold bathroom tile, and begins his morning routine, washing his face and brushing his teeth as he wracks his brain in search of an answer to the mystery that had been plaguing their home for the last tenday and a half.

Something, or someone, was quite literally eating them out of house and home.

First it was his slippers, his big toe going right out the end as he’d slid them on one morning.

Then, one after the other, most of his socks had spontaneously developed holes along the ankles for no discernible reason.

A few days later, Tav put on her favorite calfskin gardening gloves, only to find them littered with small tears.

He found teeth marks in the sofa leg later that evening.

The day after that, he’d discovered that his second pair of slippers had gone much the same way as the first.

The edge of one corner of the living room rug fell victim next, now frayed as if someone had worried at it with a very sharp fork.

Finally, while retrieving a toy Astraea had somehow managed to toss under the couch, he’d found one of his good boots resting under there instead of next to the fireplace where he’d left it with its mate to dry after he’d cleaned them the night prior. One of the straps had been nearly chewed off and was hanging by just a few threads, the buckle jingling sadly as it flopped around.

He’d decided then that he needed to get to the bottom of whatever this was, starting with ruling out the most obvious suspects. Downing a Potion of Animal Speaking, he’d questioned first Scratch, then Sabre.

Scratch was adamant that he would never even consider chewing any of Astarion’s or Tav’s things, seeming almost offended at the very notion, and Astarion couldn’t bring himself to doubt him. Scratch was a good boy, dependable and loyal, and far too smart to do such a thing. He’d given the dog a pat on the head and one of the soup bones from the icebox as an apology before moving on to the next suspect.

Interrogating Sabre was an altogether more difficult task. At just three months old, the kitten was still a baby, so his vocabulary was limited at best, Potion of Animal Speaking or no. He had held Sabre out at arm’s length with his hands under the cat’s front legs, causing the limbs to stick out as the rest of his fluffy body relaxed and dangled beneath him. Astarion arranged his face in a stern scowl, the picture of discipline and authority as he questioned Sabre on the whereabouts of his teeth the last few days. The cat had had no answer for him, of course, merely giving a soft mew and blinking sweetly up at him with wide green eyes as he purred thunderously. When Astarion brought Sabre’s face close to his, staring at him intimidatingly in an effort to coerce a confession, the cat had just placed one of his ridiculously huge paws on Astarion’s chin and started licking the vampire’s nose, ratcheting up his purring as his black bottlebrush tail flicked back and forth with joy at the attention he was receiving.

Astarion concluded that neither of the animals was the source of the chaos in his home.

He’d dismissed questioning Tav outright. While his love didn’t always have the strongest grasp on impulse control, and had been known on more than one occasion to put things in her mouth that she really shouldn’t (unknown species of Underdark mushrooms, mystery potions from a Hag’s den, that dead spider in the Gauntlet of Shar…), most of the unfortunate victims of their mystery assailant were socks, and he knew she’d rather chew her own hand off than put anything that had touched a foot near her mouth. Besides, what would she gain out of chewing her own gardening gloves just to be upset about it later?

Similarly, he’d also skipped questioning Astraea. Partly because she’d only just recently gained the ability to scoot herself very slowly around the floor, and thus was rarely out of their sight when awake, and partly because she was about as likely to actually answer his questions as Sabre had been.

No, something else was going on here. And he was going to get to the bottom of it, come hells or high water, or the last of his rapidly dwindling hosiery.

He’d expanded his search then, seeking out expert opinions.

First, the most likely answer: household pests.

Tav hadn’t wanted him to hire an exterminator, though. “I just think it’s cruel, poisoning them like that,” said the woman who, ankle-deep in foam-mouthed corpses, had praised him and kissed his cheek in reward when he’d all but cleared the courtyard of the Goblin Camp by pouring Wyvern Toxin in the booze and inciting a toast.

(That was the only time he’d ever been grateful that starvation had emptied all the blood in his body. Karlach and Wyll would have poked fun at him for days if it had been possible to see the blush that he’d been surprised to feel burning his ears.)

Instead, he’d ended up borrowing Myshka from Derryth. Sabre’s father was an excellent mouser, and had an affinity for catching moths as well, so they’d let him roam the house for a few days in search of any vermin that might be lurking. After three days, though, Myshka had turned up not a whisker nor a wing of anything that could be blamed for the crimes committed, so they’d given him a small fish as payment for his services and returned him to Bonecloak’s with their thanks.

The very next morning, he found another nibbled sock.

His next idea had been a little less likely, but still plausible: some sort of haunting.

They’d called on their moderately-friendly not-quite-in-the-neighborhood cleric and asked her opinion. Shadowheart had deemed it very unlikely, but supposed that it was possible they could have a ghost, poltergeist, or something of that ilk and agreed to perform a cleansing on the house just in case.

Unfortunately for him, Shadowheart hadn’t had to use any of her divine magic around him since they’d evicted their wormy brain occupants, and so they’d all forgotten that he was no longer protected from the effects of spells like Turn Undead. And because he never could catch a break, she’d been standing right next to him when she cast the spell. Luckily for him, they’d done it at night, because immediate terror had flooded his body, its teeth biting deep into his mind, and he’d shot out the back door in a panicked dash to get away flee run now go hide awayawayaway. He’d practically clawed his way over their fence as he’d sprinted for the tree line like the Hells themselves were nipping at his heels.

Tav and Scratch had finally found him half an hour later, crouched in the branches of a large oak and trying to catch his breath. It had taken her another couple minutes to help him come back to himself and coax him down out of the tree before they could make their way back home.

To her credit, Shadowheart had given him a rare genuine apology the moment he walked back through the door, though she’d followed it by shrugging and saying, “Well, at least we know for sure that, if anything was here before, it isn’t now,” which he felt detracted from it somewhat. Paragon of kindness and hospitality that he was, though, he’d still been magnanimous enough to make up the bed in the spare room with their nicest guest linens for her so she could rest before returning home in the morning.

That was two days ago, and he’d really thought they’d solved whatever this was, until he’d discovered the casualty of his slippers this morning.

Time to call in the big guns.

He invited Jaheira over for dinner.

This, of course, meant he would have to cook. Thus, in order to successfully demonstrate that he actually had been paying attention to the druid’s lessons when she’d stayed with them, thank you very much, and could now fix a meal without setting fire to the house or himself, he shooed Tav and Astraea from the kitchen and spent the entire afternoon preparing dinner. This paid off quite nicely when he presented Jaheira and Tav with a roasted chicken and vegetables that they both assured him was quite good, if slightly overcooked. When the remnants of dinner had been cleared away, they’d moved to the living room, and he’d left for a moment, returning shortly with a basket of items, dumping them on the coffee table with no regard for the drinks already placed there.

“And what is this, cub? Do you intend to ply a favor from me by paying with unmatched socks?” Jaheira says, an eyebrow arched as she moves her glass away from the pile and surveys the hodgepodge of items in front of her.

“This,” he replied, gesturing at the items, “is all the evidence I have to figure out who or what is destroying our stuff.”

“I see. And you are showing these to me why?”

“So you can hopefully tell us what sort of creature made the bite marks, because we’re out of ideas,” Tav says, wincing as she adjusts her hold on Astraea to something more comfortable while she feeds. “We’ve checked the house for pests, had Shadowheart cleanse it of anything Fae, Fiend, or Undead that isn’t supposed to be here, but it keeps happening.” She flinches again, releasing a small hiss through her teeth. “Hey, you, knock it off,” she scolds, addressing the child in her arms and poking her cheek, “the bar’s not going anywhere, you’ll get your fill.” She huffs and blows a piece of hair out of her eyes, turning to Astarion, “This is your influence, you know. I swear, she’s worse than you were the first few times I let you bite me.”

“Excuse me for being a little eager,” he scoffs, crossing his arms, “I’d only been starved for two centuries.” He points at Astraea, “She, on the other hand, eats six times a day at least, and has no excuse. I think she just likes biting.”

“And who did she get that from, I wonder?”

“Well, considering the many nights you tried your best to take a chunk out of me, darling, I’d say both of us.”

Jaheira chuckles at the exchange. “She is teething, then?”

“I think so,” Tav says with a frustrated sigh, “she’s been fussy, and we haven’t seen any teeth come through yet, but she’s playing at biting anyway, so I don’t think she’s too far off. I can’t say I’m looking forward to it though, it hurts enough without her having any teeth.”

Jaheira hums noncommittally as she begins investigating the damage done to the items in front of her. “You can try putting ice in a cloth and tying it shut so she can chew on it,” she turns one of the gloves over in her hand, inspecting the myriad little holes inflicted on the material, “not all of my children were babies when they came to me, but the ones that were found it soothing for teething pain. Well, except for Jord, but I do not expect that Astraea will be growing tusks, so she should not have the same issue.”

“I should certainly hope not,” he replies, “otherwise I’m going to have a whole host of new questions about the unknowns of my family tree.”

Jaheira gives a hum of agreement, trading the glove in her hand for one of the socks, “Speaking of your family tree, cub, have you given any more thought to my offer?”

He watches Tav settle Astraea, now done with her meal, on the floor with a few of her toys. “I… have. I’m not entirely sure what I want to do about it though.”

He’d been quite torn on the topic, actually. Three months ago, he and Tav had managed to get their hands on some old records from when he’d first become a magistrate, including a file that held his application, letters of recommendation, and death certificate. With those, he’d learned several things about himself, including that his birthday was Flamerule 27th, he’d moved to Baldur’s Gate from the Elven city of Evereska just three years before he’d been killed, he’d arrived well-off enough to purchase a modest home in a nicer part of the Lower City, and most interesting, that his grave had been paid for, not by any relatives, but by “the charity of an unnamed benefactor,” which he could only assume was Cazador’s doing.

What the records couldn’t tell him were the names of his parents, if he had any siblings, if any of them were still alive, if they’d even known or cared that he’d died.

Whether it was for the purpose of punishment or reward that at just thirty-six, still a child in the eyes of his people, he’d been sent out into the world with nought but the gold in his purse and a magistrate job waiting for him in a predominantly human city a four-month journey from his homeland.

“It’s just…” he hesitates, unsure how to voice his reservations, “it’s been two hundred years. I’ve been gone so long, maybe finding them would do more harm than good. For myself and them.” He drums his fingers on the table in agitation. “Assuming they’re alive, they might not even want to see me. Especially now that I’m, well,” he waves a hand to indicate his body, “this. Undead aren’t even allowed in Evereska, I’d probably be incinerated on sight.”

“All fair points,” Jaheira agrees, “if you would prefer, we could begin with a fact-finding mission only. They need not know anything unless you wanted them to.”

That… well that didn’t sound too bad. If he didn’t like the information he got back, then they need never know he’d even looked in the first place. “What do you think, love?” he asks Tav.

She thinks for a moment. “It’s your choice,” she says, reaching across the table to take his hand, “but I think it could be good for you, even if just to know more about your past. You can always change your mind later if you decide you want to maybe exchange letters or meet with them.”

That could be good. Just information, to start. No pressure, no commitment. “Alright,” he says, letting out a long breath, “just information, to start. I’ll decide what I want to do with it later. If there’s even anything to find, that is.”

“Then it is a plan, cub,” Jaheira says. “Harpers have an open invitation to Evereska, and I have a few who maintain homes within the city. I will send word for them to learn what information they can, discreetly, and will let you know what they find.” She tosses the sock she’d been examining to him, “In the meantime, I can tell you that whatever creature has been chewing your things, it is neither rodent nor ghost.” Pointing at the sock now in his hands, she continues, “Those holes were made by fangs, small ones. They are too evenly spaced to be anything else.” Her gaze drifts to the floor, and he sees the corner of her mouth turn up as she takes a sip from her drink, “I suspect the culprit is a sneaky little creature prone to lurking around your house.”

He furrows his brow, “Who, Sabre? I already questioned him, and I highly doubt he’s going to be any chattier than he was last time.”

“No,” she says, nodding toward something on the floor, “I would wager it is one who may have recently developed a… taste for putting their teeth where they do not belong.”

“What are you talking ab-” he stops talking as he turns his eyes to whatever is holding Jaheira’s attention, and sees his daughter, having scooted herself over to the coffee table, was merrily chomping away quite hard on one of the legs.

“Darling, no” he says, rushing to scoop her up, “we’ve talked about this, you can’t just go around putting things in your mouth.”

“Oh my gods, are you kidding me? Astarion, look,” Tav calls to him, and he looks to where she’s pointing at the bottom of the table leg. There are dozens of small scratches in the wood that hadn’t been there an hour ago, some of them gouged quite deep.

“What on Toril…?” He sighs, turning Astraea in his arms and uses his thumb to open her mouth, “You better not have broken off any pieces, you little termite.” As he sweeps his finger through her mouth to make sure she hasn’t picked up any splinters, he feels a sharp sting at his knuckle, and Astraea’s jaws clamp shut on his finger.

“Ow! Wha-?” he tries to pull his finger out, but she’s bitten him quite hard, and he doesn’t want to hurt her, but also there is something stabbing right into his knuckle like a little needle and it hurts quite badly actually. “Stop that! Let go!”

He hears muffled laughter from the couch behind him, and turns around to see both Tav and Jaheira apparently taking great amusement in the situation. “Yes, yes, this is all very hilarious, so glad I could serve as tonight’s entertainment. Now do you think you could control yourselves for a moment and help m-” His request is cut off by a yelp as Astraea puts more force into her bite, and lets loose a sound that’s far too close to a growl to be comfortable.

“Gods! Astraea, no, let go of Ada’s finger right now. We ask before we bite!”

Tav’s snort of laughter sounds off behind him, “You didn’t.”

“That was one time!” he yells, “and I apologized!”

He hears her set down her glass as she rises from her seat and crosses over to him. “Technically, you apologized for killing me,” she says, taking their daughter from his arms, his stuck hand following, “not for biting me.”

“Technically, that happened a year and a half ago! And it was a blanket apology!” He shakes his head to clear his thoughts, “look, could we possibly save arguing about the quality of my apologies for when our child is no longer using my hand as a prop for her new piranha impression?!” Astraea chooses that moment to punctuate his question by biting down harder and loosing another growl.

“I suppose,” Tav replies, the corner of her mouth twitching as she fights a smile. “Though, she’s having such a good time, it almost seems a shame to break it up…”

He narrows his eyes, “Well, if I lose a finger, I suppose I won’t be able to help you the next time you want a slug removed from one of your plants.” A dirty card to play, maybe, considering he knew just how much Tav loathed slugs and depended on him to remove them from the garden when she found them, but no one had ever accused him of playing fair.

Her eyes immediately go wide and wet, and her mouth turns down in a frown. “But my tomatoes…” Her bottom lip quivers just a little, “You’d leave me to fight the slugs alone?”

Oh, now that was a low blow. She knew damn well he couldn’t deny her anything when she made that face. He lets loose a longsuffering sigh, “No, of course not,” and his insides very much do not turn to jelly when her face lights up at that.

“My knight in leather armor” she coos, before addressing their daughter. “Alright, baby, time to give Ada his hand back.” She tickles a spot under Astraea’s chin that makes her hike her shoulders up as she gives a little giggle, which opens her mouth just enough for him to free his finger.

Assessing the damage, he sees that there’s the tiniest wound on his knuckle, a single drop of blood beading up to the surface. Carefully, he uses his thumb to lift Astraea’s upper lip, and his eyebrows shoot up. “Jaheira,” he calls out, “when babies are teething, I don’t suppose it’s common for the canines to come through first?”

She thinks for a moment. “Not that I have seen, no.”

“Right,” he says, staring at the two tiny, needle-sharp fangs starting to poke through his daughter’s top gumline in a reflection of his own smile, only barely visible. “I guess we should have expected this.”

Tav tilts her head to better see what he’s looking at. “Oh! Well that at least explains the chewing,” she furrows her brow, “how was she getting all those things though? The rug and the couch leg are self-explanatory, I guess, but everything else should have been out of her reach.”

A whine and a muffled thump-thump-thump suddenly sounds from the corner, where Scratch is laying in his bed, ears tucked back and tail wagging against the floor. The dog somehow manages to look sheepish, coming over to nose at Jaheira’s leg and whining some more. The druid listens carefully, then bursts into laughter as she ruffles his ears.

“What did he say?” Tav asks.

“He says that he has been bringing her things to chew whenever she looks like she will start crying, because the crying hurts his ears and chewing is good for a growing pup.”

Astarion’s jaw drops, “But-! But I asked him! He said he didn’t know anything about it!”

Scratch barks twice, tilting his head as he looks at Astarion. “He says that you did not ask if he knew what happened to the items,” Jaheira translates, “you only asked if he had been the one to chew them, and he had not.”

He scoffs, “That’s- It was implied!” he shouts, hands on his hips as he glares at the dog.

Scratch barks again, several more times, before jumping up onto the couch and curling up, head in Jaheira’s lap. “He does not know what ‘implied’ means,” she says as she pets him, “but suggests that you would not need to worry about Astraea chewing your things so much if you provided her with a proper chew toy.” She pauses, looking to Scratch as he gives a quiet woof and wags his tail. “He is willing to provide suggestions, if you would like.”

Now that’s an idea.

He turns to Tav, “Now hear me out-”

“No,” she says, looking deeply unamused.

“But darling-”

“Don’t you ‘but darling’ me,” she growls, “we are not giving our child a chew toy meant for dogs.”

He stares her down, spine straight, putting every ounce of vampiric intimidation into his gaze.

She stares back at him, one eyebrow raised, not moved in the slightest.

He breaks embarrassingly easy.

He throws his head back, because he’s earned a bit of dramatics. “Fiiiiiiine,” he sighs, and it’s maybe slightly closer to being a whine than he intended. “But,” he continues, pointing at Tav as he straightens up and puts his other hand on his hip, “if I lose another boot, I reserve the right to start giving her the soup bones to gnaw on, your broths be damned.”

Tav gives a hum as she rocks her head side to side in thought. “Fair and reasonable,” she concludes, quickly planting a kiss on his cheek as she goes back to sit on the couch. “But if she breaks a tooth,” she calls over her shoulder, “you get to explain it to the dentist.”

Cas’ face immediately softens at her name. “Surprisingly well. As you know she -”

Dean interrupts him and motions to follow him “Talk and walk, there’s something I need to do.”

So Cas trails after him to the laundry room and keeps talking as Dean reaches the first dryer on their left, takes out the fresh load to dump it in a pile over a counter and checks the other cycle that’s still going in the second dryer. He keeps talking as Dean grabs an empty basket form a corner and puts it in front of him on a stool and one after the other, starts neatly folding towels and kitchen rags. Pinch the corners, fold once in a rectangle, turn to the side, fold again in a square, done, into the basket.

Dean likes doing laundry. Not exactly the time he spends collecting dirty clothes from dirty hunters that understandably - after years of living in an apocalypse and in a constant fight and flight mode - didn’t prioritize washing their clothes regularly; and not really the part when he has to grab handfuls of wet, blood smeared, smelly towels to dump them in the washing machine, but he likes this part a lot. When everything comes out new, neat, clean. Whatever goes in, no matter how bad it is, comes out reborn.

And he likes how the smell of the softener fills the room, likes the warmth fabrics under his fingertips and how quiet his head gets as he does the same movements over and over again, once, twice, three times. In there, he can’t get it wrong. He never gets it wrong.

Cas takes in the surroundings, as he does when he enters every place and then he gets closer. He is still talking.

“…I think she’s grown a lot. She misses Jody and Alex, I can tell, but I think she found her balance. I may be worried about her but I’m happy that -”

As soon as he approaches the basket Dean unceremoniously throws a kitchen rag at him. Cas catches it but stops talking and looks at him confused.

Dean shurgs. “You could help.”

Cas is dumbfounded for a moment. He looks down at the striped rag in his hands like he has never held one before.

He seems about to talk then he settles for a: “Um -”

Finally he looks at Dean intently and replicates his moves. Fold, rectangle, side, fold, square, done, basket.

“As I was saying” he starts again, as he dubiously picks up another kitchen rag from the unfolded pile, this one with white daisies embroidered on the hem, “now that Sam is mostly the one who passes hunts onto her, I’m glad that we can direct her towards things that are not as dangerous as they could be. I know that when you were her age you were thrown in all sorts of situations, but you had your father, and then you had Sam. She is alone and -”

He picks it up pretty easily and soon enough a rhythm has settled between them. Their hands don’t reach for the same piece of laundry anymore and Cas interrupts himself and loses his thread of thought more than once as he focuses on his task. Then he moves to fetch another basket, takes the kitchen rags pile away from the bathroom towels and keeps going.

“Have you asked her if she wants to come here? Be part of the Lebanon squad?”

Cas shakes his head, “She values greatly her independence. I suggested the idea of a hunting partner but she is not interested in that either.”

The kitchen rags are all gone and there’s a moment of silence. Castiel rests his hands on the edge of the basket and looks up as Dean folds the last of the bathroom towels. 

“She is still thinking about Kaia” he adds with a tinge of a sadness in his tone.

Dean catches his eyes and nods in understanding. “Yeah, I figured.”

Then the dryer at his right beeps and Dean moves to take out the new load and drop it where the first one just disappeared. Castiel looks at it with a frown like it personally offended him.

This time Dean doesn’t need to say anything before he moves to resume his task. Silence falls upon them. Dean sneaks looks at Castiel as he works. He looks at his hands, strong and efficient but careful, as gentle as they can be as they hold something that is not lethal, pointy or dangerous in any way.  

Dean has to admit that it’s an endearing sight. He looks at his sturdy frame, his messy hair, what he can see of his features from this angle, as he keeps his head low and his actions meticulous. It’s just – nice to share that space with him doing such a mundane task. It’s like seeing him under a different light.

Dean catches himself smiling dumbly right when Sam passes by the door. He instinctively raises a hand towards Dean as a greeting, then does a double take when his eyes register Castiel. He makes a disbelieving face at Dean behind Cas’ back and Dean just shrugs in response. They share a smile as Sam walks away.

Then the second pile is also done and they carry their baskets down the hallway; stop at the linen closet where Dean stuffs in the bathroom towels, and then they go towards the kitchen where Cas dumps the content of the kitchen rags basket.

He turns to face Dean “What else?” he asks matter-of-factly.

Dean huffs a laugh and slaps his back. “We’re done, Cinderella. Good job though. Did you have fun?”

“It wasn’t unpleasant.”

“Yeah? This was the easy stuff. I’ll have you fold sheets and sofa covers, we’ll see what you think then.”

 *

the kitchen -

Dean dumps the groceries on the kitchen table with a sigh right when Castiel pokes his head in.

“Hey, where’s Jack?” asks Dean. “He was supposed to help me with this” he says gesturing towards the overflowing bags.

It took him three hours to get everything from the store. Even when they had enough money, he and Sam never really were the kind of people that bought a lot of food. They had no place to store it first of all, and even when they first got to the bunker, they never knew for how long they would stay away, hunt after hunt.

But time had changed a few things and Jack had changed a lot of other things. Packing long shelf life items, experimenting with flavours to teach him and show him, working through their supply at the speed of light were just a few of these things. They spend a lot more time at home and Dean for the first time in his life is not in a rush anymore when he goes to buy something. He takes his time, does his maths, ponders his choices, has favourite things now – not just chips and beef jerky, but things like favourite kind of pasta sauce - and he likes it.

“Still training with Bobby. Can I help you?” Cas asks taking a step forward.

Dean shrugs “If you want”, he says, but he looks more cheerful as he grabs the yogurt from the top of the closest bag and goes over one of the mini fridges. He looks back. “Pass me the things that go in here first”.

So Castiel goes from bag to bag for items that need to be refrigerated looking like a bee flying from flower to flower.

“This is a lot of food.” He says as he selects and passes on.

“Yeah, well, I wanted to make sure we had enough for a while.” Dean says as they meet in the middle of the room and Castiel hands him a pile of trays of different kinds of meat.

They keep going, settling into their roles. Castiel takes out the items from the bags and arranges them neatly for types on the table and Dean moves through the kitchen to put them back in their designated places.

The kitchen has plenty of storing space. Sam has organized everything in a way that he thinks is the most practical, so now they have things like a spice cupboard and a candy and chocolate drawer. Dean likes that.

Castiel on the other hand has not really familiarized with the space yet. He knows only where the basic stuff is: the coffee, the cups, the glasses, the beers. He knows where they keep their cutlery. So when there’s nothing more to take out of the bags and he tries to be helpful, he ends up opening cupboard after cupboard and then looking at Dean to ask “Where do these go?”

Dean snatches the instant noodles from his hands. “Away from Sam,” he says holding the little plastic cups against his chest like they are puppies. “He won’t ever make me hear the end of it.”

Castiel huffs a laugh. “I have seen nothing then,” he promises as he goes back to the last items on the table.

“Where’s Krunch Cookie Crunch?” he asks then and Dean stops in his track in the middle of the room to turn on his heels and look at him in disbelief.

“Excuse me?”

“The cereals. For Jack” he explains.

Dean feels a smile growing on his lips. “Oh, right.” He shakes his head. “It must be in there somewhere. It was the blue box, right?”

Castiel holds up the only blue box of cereals on the table. It has a cartoon version of a white haired official of some kind on the front. “You mean this? This is Cotton Candy Crunch. It’s different” he says affronted, as seriously as if they were talking about matters of life and death.

Dean cannot believe this is a conversation that he’s actually having with an angel of the lord. He tries very hard not to laugh and not sound like he’s making fun of him when he says “Yeah, you’re right. Sorry, my bad.” It doesn’t really work.

Castiel is still wearing a frown as he turns the box in his hands and looks at the ingredients. “I suppose Jack will like them anyway. There is a dangerous amount of sugar and chemicals in these as well.”

Dean goes over to him and stops right behind his back to look over his shoulder. Maybe he takes a step or two more than it is necessary because when Cas turns his face on the side to catch his eyes he find himself a little too close “Perhaps is best if we hide this from Sam as well,” he suggests conspiratorially and his breath brushes over Dean’s cheek.

Dean laughs then, puts a hand on his shoulder and says “Yeah, good idea.”

Cas looks at him expectantly for a moment, then frowns slightly and drops his gaze and it takes Dean a beat or two to follow it and realize that Cas is holding out the box for him to take. He was too focused on his face to notice it and when Cas says “Dean?” his eyes go to his lips and it makes things even worse.

Dean clears his throat and takes a step back, snatching away the box and turning his back. He hurries to the designated breakfast cupboard to strategically place it on the far back, behind other bottles and boxes.

“Next time you can tag along and show me the right kind” he says to break the silence, throwing a strained smile over his shoulder.

*

the garage - 

It’s the middle of the night.

Sam is yawning in the passenger seat and Castiel, who Dean can see form the rear view mirror, seems lost in thought. They decided to skip the stop to the motel and go back to the bunker right after the hunt and although it’s been a long and mostly quiet journey, Dean doesn’t feel tired. He is still fuelled by the adrenaline that has washed over him when he’s found himself way too close for comfort to a set of werewolf’s teeth. It had taken him all he had to shove the werewolf away enough to swing his machete and cut her head off.

He brings the car to a stop and Sam is the first to get out and go towards the trunk to take out the duffels with their clothes and weapons.

He hands one to Dean as he comes out from his side but Dean doesn’t take it.

“Can you bring it in? I’m gonna stay here and wash the blood off the car.”

Sam blinks a few times as if it’s taking some time for him to register what he’s heard. “What? But it’s late. You just drove seven hours straight. Aren’t you tired?”

Dean shrugs and takes off his jacket to shove that in his arms as well. “It’s not gonna take long. I just want to take the worst out of it.”

Sam shifts his gaze towards the blotches of blood on the windshield and the doors, on the windows and the headlights. They had been surprised by the pack during their stake out when they thought they were well hidden in the woods. That was also the reason why they opted out for an extra night in town. The police would have knocked at their door in the morning for sure if they’d parked that bloodied thing out in the open.

“You go” adds Dean reassuringly, knowing that Sam is probably considering staying behind to help him.

“Alright” Sam concedes “I’m gonna grab a shower and get something to eat. I’ll leave you a sandwich in the kitchen, then I’ll head straight to bed.” He yawns again. “I’m exhausted.”

Before he turns around to go his eyes stop somewhere behind Dean. “Cas?” he asks, and Dean remembers then that Cas is there too, just a few steps behind them.

“I’m staying with Dean.”

Sam nods and disappears through the door, leaving the garage in silence.

Dean gets to work, grabs his usual tools, his bucket, his brush, his towel and the car-wash soap. He turns around and Cas is right behind him.

“What should I do?” he asks.

“What?”

“I wanna help.”

“Oh.” Dean considers for a moment the idea of telling him that he doesn’t need help. This is the thing that comes so easily to him he could do it with his eyes closed. But he doesn’t want to turn Cas away.

There was a moment during the hunt when Cas had reached towards him - as he sometimes does - to step in front of him, to face the danger himself and shield Dean from it, but he was intercepted and thrown against the car and before Dean could do anything, that werewolf had jumped him, almost killing him – so it’s like that moment they had, suspended, never completed, left him with a sense of loss and now he wants Cas close. He wants Cas to always be able to reach him.

So he looks down at the items he is holding and he hands him the bucket that Cas promptly steps forward to take and without another word goes to fill in the sink in the corner. Dean walks around the car trying to decide where it would be best to start.

A little soap in the water, an extra brush for Cas and soon enough they are going after the blood smeared on the roof. 

Dean hovers around Cas to make sure he’s being gentle with that brush and doesn’t forget any spot.

Castiel feels his eyes on him. “I’ve washed a car before, you know.” He says, and there’s a playful tone hidden underneath his low voice.

“Have you? When?”

Castiel shrugs, “Cars were around a long time before you were born, Dean. I was there to see it.”

“Well, I still need to make sure. Cause no car is this car. My car.”

Cas rolls his eyes. The water washes away the pinkish suds and Dean towels her off like he himself is a well-oiled machine, making always the same movements, always in the same shapes, with the same kind of towel in his hand, and underneath it, always the same solid, black and silver surface.

Dean looks up to see Castiel focused on doing the same on the other side. The hems of his sleeves are wet and he can see splashes of suds on his tie and trenchcoat.

The sight makes him smile and as he keeps towelling the hood, he walks around the car to get closer to Cas. When he’s within reach he holds out a hand to grab his tie and tug a little at it, forcing him to stop and turn towards him.

Dean uses his thumb to rub the suds on the blue fabric. “You’re gonna need a wash too.” he says.

Castiel looks down at his clothes. “Oh”.

Dean huffs a laugh and lets go of the tie but his hand refuses to retreat and it goes and pokes at the wet spots on Cas’ white shirt, right above his right pec, and all down to his side.

As he does so he looks up at Cas, who is standing like a pillar of salt now, and if Dean didn’t know that he didn’t need to breathe he would have been worried.

He smiles fondly. “You’re a mess.” he says, and the same bold, brave, uncontrolled hand goes to pinch the wet hem of the trenchcoat collar.

It stays there as Cas says, “You are in no better condition” and reaches up, unsure, to brush his fingers in his hair, right above his ear.

Dean follows his eyes, he feels them travelling down his neck and on the front of his tshirt, soaked and sticky on his chest. Cas doesn’t touch though.

Instead, he steps back and looks away. Dean’s hand has to let go of the hem, and he feels a pang of disappointment that surprises him. He hadn’t even realized that he was expecting something.

“About earlier -” starts Cas and from his tone nothing good is coming “I’m sorry I wasn’t able to help you with that werewolf.”

Dean sighs and gets his legs moving, picks up the bucket and goes over to the sink to empty it and wash out the dirt. He says “Cas, come on, it’s nothing.”

Behind him, he hears Cas say “It’s not nothing. I wish I was -” he sighs. “I wish I could do more. I never seem to be able to help you when it matters.”

Dean closes the tap and turns around. “This must be the stupidest thing you’ve ever said.” he says firmly, “You help me all the time.”

Cas smiles ruefully and his tone drips sarcasm when he says “In the laundry room and the kitchen. Does that matter?”

“Yeah,” he says earnestly. “Look, hunting is our job. Sometimes we can control what goes down, sometimes not. It’s not our fault. But then the curtain falls or whatever you wanna call it and - it’s what’s behind that matters.” He gestures towards the car “This -” he says “you chose to spend your time helping me. This – matters to me.”  He takes a breath as if he’s trying to say something that just won’t come out. “Cas y- You’re always talking about -” he struggles. He closes his eyes for a moment and Cas is unsure if he should say something. But then Dean starts again, “You want to give me what I need” he says, and it sounds like a question so Cas nods. Dean drops his head and his voice, “and that’s just us.” he manages to say in the end “It’s all I need.”

As soon as he says it, he turns around again.

He doesn’t even wait for a reply, and Cas is too taken aback to give one anyway, and he adds hastly, a little embarrased: “Now, get over here and help me wring out these towels so I can go to bed before dawn, will you.” 

Cas steps foward then, covering the distance in a few strides and stopping right next to him by the sink. Dean hands him one of the towel, their fingers brushing, their eyes meeting. Dean’s smile is a little strained after his little speech but it’s there, cause this - them, like this, side by side - it feels right. Dean looks back down shaking his head a little, as if he’s regretting something he has done or something he can’t still bring himself to do.

He feels Cas’s gaze studying his profile and tries to relax his face as much as possible. Then he can’t resist and sneaks a look his way that Cas intercepts. They both open their mouths at the same time but nothing comes out.

The case, the hunt, the long drive; the things he can’t say, do, want they all catch up to Dean at once, in that moment. He dumps his towel in the sink and takes a step to the side, crowding Cas’ space. Against him, Cas feels as solid as a statue and Dean wants nothing more than to rest his whole body against his. He feels worn out, he longs for closeness. He searches Cas’ eyes for some kind of warning, a stop sign, an I’m-about-to-flee sign, but there’s none of that. It’s just Cas. Maybe, if he had a breath, Dean thinks he would be holding it, but it’s just Cas.

Part of him knows that there’s something that he should be saying, that one of them should be saying at least, but nothing is said. Maybe it’s their bodies that do the talk for them somehow. Cause one moment Dean wishes very hard to be wrapped in Cas’ arms and the next, there he is. Everything else disappears as he sighs and melts completely in his embrace, his face in the crook of Cas’ neck. He smells like blood and car wash-soap. Cas’ arms hold him as he sinks.

His own hands cling at the back of the trenchcoat, and when he moves his head a little so that his lips brush against Cas’ neck he says “Dean” in a breath. It makes him smile.

It doesn’t feel like an event or anything new, really. It feels like letting go. It feels like there was something that they’ve restrained and held back for a long time and now it’s free. Their bodies can naturally crash into each other, right where they were always supposed to be.

Cas slips his fingers through the hair on the back of his neck and presses his cheek against his.

“What are we doing tomorrow?” he asks after a while. 

“I need you to help me stay on the couch all day, how does that sound?”

“It sounds good,” whispers Cas, his hand in his hair.