#arthurdean

Ketch arched a brow, clearly unimpressed. "Ah, but normal people also lack the skill to do so with precision."

Dean rolled his eyes, stepping over a decapitated vamp on his way to the exit. "Yeah, well, precision ain't my thing. I'm more of a ‘get it done’ kind of guy."

"And yet, it is fascinating," Ketch mused, falling into step beside him, "how your rather brutish approach still manages to work. Sloppy, but effective. Like watching a well-meaning but aggressive golden retriever charge into battle."

Dean stopped mid-step and turned to glare at him. "Did you just compare me to a damn dog?"

Ketch smirked, stepping outside into the moonlit night. "Would you prefer a different analogy? Perhaps something more… ruggedly charming?"

Dean grumbled under his breath, yanking his jacket off and tossing it into the back of the Impala before scrubbing a hand down his face. "I swear, man, every time you open your mouth, I regret not leaving your ass back in England."

Ketch hummed in amusement, leaning casually against the side of the Impala as he watched Dean move. "And yet, here we are. Together again. Almost poetic, really."

Dean froze, eyeing him warily. There was something in the way Ketch said it—like he enjoyed getting under Dean’s skin, like he knew exactly what he was doing.

"Do you ever not talk like a Bond villain?" Dean grumbled, shaking his head.

Ketch chuckled, and then, in that infuriatingly smooth voice, he said, "It’s fun watching you get all flustered."

Dean’s hand stilled on the car door handle. His body went rigid for a split second before he turned, slowly, to face Ketch.

"Excuse me?"

Ketch simply smiled, his head tilted ever so slightly, studying him like some fascinating specimen under a microscope. "Oh, don’t act so surprised. Your ears get all red, your jaw clenches just so—quite endearing, really."

Dean scoffed. "Yeah, well, keep talking and see how endearing it feels when I knock that smirk off your face."

Ketch stepped closer, an almost imperceptible shift, but Dean noticed. He was aware of every damn inch between them, the way Ketch's presence curled around him like something smug and in control.

"Would that make you feel better?" Ketch murmured, his voice low, teasing.

Dean clenched his fists at his sides, a flare of heat shooting up his spine—annoyance, frustration, something else he wasn’t ready to name.

"You love this, don’t you?" Dean muttered. "Getting under my skin."

Ketch's smirk deepened, a glint of satisfaction in his eyes. "I do find it rather entertaining."

Dean exhaled sharply, resisting the urge to slam the car door just for the hell of it. Instead, he shook his head, climbed into the driver's seat, and muttered, "Get in before I leave your ass here."

Ketch chuckled but didn't argue, slipping into the passenger seat with the same effortless confidence he always carried.

As Dean turned the key in the ignition, he could feel Ketch's gaze on him, lingering—watching.

It took a week for Ketch, Sam, and Castiel to catch up to Dean to stop him from his idiotic plan of self-sacrifice.

Back at the bunker, the four men sit in the library with dinner Dean made shortly after arriving home.

Dean was reeling from the plan not working and the giant bruise that was still on Ketch’s face that he caused.

He left it on purpose. Asshole. Or did Cas refuse to heal Ketch? Dean wondered to himself. He was sitting in one of the chairs at the table, arms crossed, and staring at his food. He wasn’t hungry. He made food to distract himself from the tension with everyone.

Ketch, however, was still getting used to Dean’s cooking and American palates in general. He nibbled at the pleasant meal, trying to appease the man who had his heart as he ignored the Angel across from him that is constantly trying to challenge him in front of Dean at every opportunity. The food was very good but he wasn’t sure if eating like Dean does would be a good idea with how his nerves have been for the last seven days.

He lifted his eyes, glaring at the Angel who refused to heal him saying Dean would only attack him if he thought it was necessary to complete the mission. Ketch challenged the Angel by inferring that Dean had done the same to him. Sam stepped in and Castiel disappeared for a while. That was nearly five days ago and the Angel still hasn’t offered to heal him.

Angels are dicks with wings. Ketch thought to himself. A barely there smile rose to his lips, remembering words that Dean had said to him. He lifted his head and looked at the side of Dean’s perfectly healed face, content that he was safe and sound. Knowing that will end again, the man cannot remain still to save his life.

“I’m not hungry,” Dean said, standing up and grabbing his plate, and sped walked to the kitchen before anyone could truly comprehend much. Castiel followed him and spoke in whispered tones Ketch couldn’t pick up.

Sam was reading a book as he ate, trying to ignore the tension and strain in the air. When Castiel left, Sam looked at Ketch with a sad smile and a heavy nod before closing his book. He quietly advised, “I’m gonna eat in my room. Let me know if you need anything, ok, Arthur?” Ketch gave a small smile and silently nodded.

Arthur leaned back and crossed his arms, staring at his place of partially eaten food. He could feel the tension in his shoulders developing a migraine. With a heavy sigh, he slowly stood up took his plate, and walked around grabbing the angel’s plate.

Why does Dean make him food when he doesn’t need to eat? Arthur wondered.

He didn’t expect to find Castiel in the kitchen still quietly talking with Dean. The two men fell silent as he placed the untouched plate on the counter and his plate in the sink as instructed before. “I’m going to turn in. Good night, Dean. Castiel.” He turned and headed for his separate room, certain Dean would not want him as his bedfellow after this past week.

Dean called out, “Good night, Ketch.”

His chest ached. Dean only called him Ketch when he was working or being impersonal, like when they were fighting. He missed Dean calling him his name. He missed how Dean would lie on top of him, running his fingers through his hair and pecking chaste kisses on his lips. Arthur would always have a dopey grin on his face, as Dean has now said several times, while he looked into Dean’s beautiful green eyes.

He wanted his Dean back, not the hunter, the legacy, the Michael sword. No, just the man, Dean Winchester—his Dean. With a heavy sigh, he went into his temporary room and gathered his toiletries to shower.

When Arthur returned to his room, he was surprised to find his door open and Dean changed into a t-shirt and pajama pants on his bed.

“What do I owe the pleasure of your company?” Arthur inquired.

“We need to talk,” Dean explained before patting the bed next to him. Arthur’s stomach dropped to the floor as he worked to keep his composure. This was the end of whatever it was they were.

“I don’t feel like sitting, Winchester,” Arthur Informed as he walked over to the wardrobe and hung his bathing robe, making sure to avoid Dean’s gaze. “Yes, yes,” he waved at Dean behind him. “This is over. Have fun with your angel. Thank you for taking into consideration my feelings but it isn’t necessary. I’m—“

“Arthur, are you breaking up with me?” Dean accused, voice high pitched and eyes wide

He spun around, brows furrowed, and frowned. “You’re breaking up with me.”

Dean stood at the statement and walked over to the former British man of letters. “I’m not. Why would I?”

“You said ‘we need to talk’. Isn’t that the typical phrasing Americans use to prepare their partner for a break?” Arthur insisted.

Dean squinted his eyes, and tilted his head with a heavy sigh as he examined the Brit’s face.“I came to apologize.” Arthur’s eyes widened and scoffed. Dean furrowed his brow and pursed his lips.

“Dean Winchester apologizing to me. Whatever for?” Arthur crossed his arms and stood with his back to the opened wardrobe dressed in only satin pajama pants as he kept his eyes on the hunter before him.

Dean took a small step and pressed his clothes chest against Arthur’s bare chest, wrapping his arms around his neck, and lightly scratching his scalp. His green eyes stared into Arthur’s hazel eyes. “I fucked up, man. I’m sorry. I’m sorry I hurt you.” His hand slowly, gently caressed Arthur’s bruised face as if he were made of china. He hissed at Dean’s touch, the bruising still containing blotches of purple that had become yellow and green around the edges. “Let me get Cas to heal you.”

“No,” Arthur commanded. “It’s fine.” He spoke slowly and assuredly to ease his hunter’s guilt. He didn’t want the angel to cause any more damage Arthur couldn't potentially undo.

“It’s not,” Dean countered, upset that his partner was being neglected by his best friend. “He’s being a dick to you and I don’t get why.”

“Dean,” Arthur cooed, too tired and achy to get into the obvious cockblock and saboteur the angel is trying to be. One hand rested on Dean’s soft pj-clad hip and the other rose to cup his jaw. “You can be so naive sometimes.”

“Says the man who forgets that he is one of the few people who can take me on in hand-to-hand combat and win,” teased Dean.

“So, that’s why the chair,” Arthur commented.

“Concussion?” Dean asked, frowning and avoiding eye contact with Arthur for a few moments. Dean knows he’s kept on hunting with just as bad if not worse.

“I’m fine, darling.” Arthur caressed his face and cupped his cheek before placing a chaste kiss on the hunter’s lips.

Dean returned the chaste kiss before pulling away. “I can’t do this anymore.” He turned and yelled, “CAS!” The angel appeared with a rough, “What’s the matter, Dean? Are you hurt?”

Dean glared at the angel and held his hand out towards Arthur. “C’mon, buddy, please heal Arthur.”

With a scoff and frown, Castiel walked over to Arthur and touched his forehead with a single finger before fluttering off. Arthur’s eyes fluttered and stared toward Dean as his eyesight returned to normal after the blinding blue-white light from Castiel.

The thought caused Dean to scurry faster down the hall until he was barging into Arthur's makeshift prison. A bed rested up against the far wall, a shelf full of knick-knacks across from the door. Little trinkets were now sprawled onto the floor as Arthur stood in the middle of the room.

"You should let me out of my misery, Winchester." Arthur's voice was raw, probably from the screaming he'd done this morning after Sam and Cas had left the bunker. He probably assumed Dean didn't hear him. But then again, the bunker echoed obnoxiously when you'd least expected it, too."I have nothing to live for now, nobody to love."

"Lay off the alcohol, Ketch." Dean sighed, worrying slightly about the man's mental state. He didn't seem to be in any distress as Ketch suddenly turned around, face void of emotion, eyes as blank as the paper littering the floor in front of him.

Dean took a chance and glanced down, noting the few chicken scratches spotted across the page before meeting Arthur's eyes once more.

"I did what had to be done, Ketch." He reasoned, finally letting go of the doorknob and walking further into the room. Up close, Dean could see how red Arthur's eyes had become in the 24 hours since his twin's murder. "He was going to blow us all up. Including you. I saved your sorry ass."

"You broke me." Ketch collapsed onto the floor, back leaning against the bed, as he swiped a hand across his face. "He was the last remaining family I had. I'm sure you know how that feels, Winchester, huh?"

Dean licked his lips in thought. "Ketch, look," He said, sitting next to him on the gritty floor. "I'm sorry. But nothing I say will change the fact that your brother was going to murder all of us yesterday."

Arthur didn't respond, just laughed—a brittle, broken thing that cracked through the stillness like a snapped bone. “You think I don’t know that?” he rasped. “That I didn’t see it? I watched him rot from the inside out, Winchester. I watched what they did to him. But he was still—he was still mine.”

His fingers dug into his knees. Knuckles white. The pages on the floor stirred with the faint hum of the bunker’s ventilation system.

Dean stared at the floor, then at Arthur. Not the slick suit, not the smug bastard who’d once electrocuted him—just a man, shaking in place. A man with nothing left.

“I get it,” Dean murmured. “Believe me, I do.”

Arthur’s head turned sharply. His eyes weren’t just red—they were hollow. “Do you?”

Dean swallowed. “Yeah. I watched Sam die in my arms more times than I can count. Cas too. Even when they came back… it changed something. It cost something.” His voice cracked at the end, barely audible, and he cleared his throat like he could shove the emotion back down where it belonged. “I’ve been where you are. Screaming inside. Praying something—someone—would just take the damn pain away.”

Arthur leaned his head back against the bed frame. He looked… tired. No—finished. Like if someone blew hard enough, he might vanish into dust. Dean reached out. Slowly. Cautiously. A hand on Arthur’s shoulder, firm and warm, the kind of grounding touch that said I see you, and I’m not walking away.

Arthur stared at it. “Why do you even care?” he asked, voice low and scratchy. “You hate me.”

Dean shook his head once. “I did. You earned that. But this? This ain’t about hate. It’s about not letting someone rot in the dark, thinking they don’t matter.”

Arthur’s breath hitched. His eyes closed—too long.

Dean knew that look. The edge.

So he moved. Closer. Just enough that their knees touched, the silence stretched thick between them. His hand slid from Arthur’s shoulder to his neck, thumb brushing the underside of his jaw.

“Hey,” he said, quieter now. “You’re not alone, Ketch.”

Arthur’s eyes opened. Shiny. Just one tear, and it clung to the edge like it didn’t want to fall. A single, trembling surrender from a man who’d been trained to never show weakness.

Dean could’ve looked away. Should’ve. But instead, he leaned in. Not rushed. Not pity. Just closeness. A breath. A second. Then his lips met Arthur’s. Soft. Grounded. No fire. No desperation. Just stillness and the kind of care that came from staying.

Arthur didn’t kiss back at first—he just breathed through it, frozen like the world had stopped. Then his hand came up to Dean’s chest, not to push him away, but to hold on.

Ketch raised an eyebrow. “You’re not dying, it’s just a cold. But I’ll still baby you if you want.”

Dean grunted and dramatically threw an arm over his face. “You don’t get it, Ketch. This is the worst cold in human history. I’m pretty sure I saw a light at the end of the tunnel when I sneezed earlier.”

“I’m sure you did,” Ketch said dryly, stepping closer and sitting at the edge of the couch. “It was probably the lamp you knocked over in your thrashing.”

Dean peeked out from under his arm. “You’re real smug for a guy who almost cried when he got a splinter last week.”

“That was oak. Very painful. And deeply symbolic.”

Dean laughed, a weak snort that dissolved into a coughing fit. Ketch didn’t mock him this time. He just reached over and tugged the blanket higher over Dean’s chest.

“Thanks,” Dean muttered, voice quieter now. “You don’t have to stay, y’know. I’m gross.”

“You’re always gross,” Ketch said, softening. “But occasionally endearing. And besides…” He leaned in and brushed a hand over Dean’s forehead, checking the temperature. “Who else is going to make sure you don’t drown in NyQuil and self-pity?”

Dean blinked at him. “You like taking care of me.”

Ketch scoffed. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

“You totally do.”

“Fine,” Ketch said with a sigh. “Maybe I do. But only because you look particularly fetching when you're whining and sweaty.”

Dean rolled his eyes, but he didn’t argue. Instead, he nudged his head against Ketch’s hand, eyes fluttering half-closed.

“Think you could get me soup?” Dean mumbled. “And maybe—don’t tell Sam—but like, a back rub or somethin’?”

Ketch stood, brushing imaginary lint from his jacket. “One soup. One back rub. No cuddling.”

“Liar.”

Ketch smirked. “Yes, well. Don’t get used to it.”

But something smelled suspiciously like bacon.

And pancakes.

And—was that coffee?

He squinted as he turned the corner into the kitchen… and stopped dead.

Arthur Ketch, crisp and polished even in a button-down with rolled sleeves, stood at the stove with a spatula in hand and a slight smirk on his face. A full spread was already laid out on the table: eggs, bacon, pancakes (with real syrup), and Dean’s favorite—over-salted hashbrowns just the way he liked them.

Dean stared.

“You made breakfast?” he asked slowly, like the words themselves didn’t make sense. “For me?”

Arthur turned toward him with a raised brow. “For us, technically. But yes, for you.”

Dean blinked again. “Why?”

Arthur turned off the stove, wiping his hands on a towel. “Perhaps I enjoy not being stabbed first thing in the morning. Or maybe I simply thought you deserved a good start to your day.”

Dean’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Right. So what’s the catch?”

“No catch.” Arthur gestured toward the coffee mug waiting at Dean’s usual seat. “Just… a quiet morning. You looked tired last night.”

Dean’s gruff heart gave a traitorous stutter. “You noticed that?”

Arthur shrugged, casual. “I always notice.”

There was something in his voice that made Dean’s defenses shift—not drop, not completely, but crack just enough for the warmth to seep in.

Dean moved to the table, sitting down slowly. He took a sip of the coffee—it was strong, exactly how he liked it. Then he glanced up at Arthur again, cautious.

“This doesn’t mean you’re moving in or anything,” he muttered.

Arthur chuckled, plating the last of the pancakes. “Heaven forbid.”

But his eyes softened as he sat down beside him, a little closer than necessary.

Dean nudged his plate with his fork. “Thanks,” he said, quieter this time. “No one’s made me breakfast in a long time.”

Arthur didn’t say anything right away. He just smiled and passed Dean the syrup. “Get used to it.”

“I care about you too much to let you do this to yourself again,” Ketch pleads, standing before Dean in the Men of Letters bunker next to the war table in tactical gear unlike Dean who is in his usual flannel, tshirt, blue jeans, and boots.

“Again? I haven’t done it once,” he scoffs. This would be a convincing lie but Ketch has worked with Dean and can read the man well.

“Every time you drink and drink, what do you think you’re doing? Every time as of late when you go fight the supernatural, what do you think you’re doing when you go alone and know you shouldn’t be? Self-medicating?” Ketch laughs condescendingly.

Dean rolls his green eyes at the man before him with an exasperated sigh.

“You’re too important, Dean. Even your angel knows that,” Ketch explains, frowning. His brow furrowed looking straight into those brilliant green eyes of the man he feels a deep affection for.

“Not you too”. Dean scoffs. “Ketch,” the Hunter whines his name. Ketch subtly adjusted his hips, wishing the situation was different for Dean to say his name like that. “I could give a fuck but I don’t,” Dean growls and points towards the door. “Get out.”

Ketch glares. He readjusts his stance, standing to his full height, and takes a few steps closer, leaving mere inches. “You’re not giving up. You’re not. You’re Dean fucking Winchester. You are the boogeyman to the supernatural and the hero to so many hunters and men of letters.”

Dean laughs out loud and holds his belly. He leans forward into the man, nearly losing balance. “You are so full of shit, Ketch.”

Ketch purses his lips together with a raised eyebrow as he watches the hunter's insulting behavior. “If I prove to you, you’re wrong; will you stop this self-sacrificing bullshit?” The former Men of Letters agent challenges.

Dean straightens up and wipes his face with his hand as he works to calm himself. “Sure.” He shows Ketch a smug smile, disbelieving anyone would view him or his family like that.

“Promise?” Ketch confronts, knowing the Winchester word is nearly bullet proof.

Dean’s brows furrow, nearly scowling as he searches over Ketches face. “Yeah.”

Ketch grins, taking out his phone. Unfortunately Ketch has grown too trusting of the hunter for he didn’t expect Dean to grab the chair next to them and smash it into his head, knocking the poor man unconscious.