#deanarthur

Ketch didn’t look up immediately. He was seated at the table, sleeves rolled just enough to be distracting, carefully stitching up a tear in his coat like it personally offended him.

“I haven’t broken anything,” he replied calmly. “A rare occurrence, I admit.”

Dean snorted. “Yeah, I’ll believe that when—”

Ketch glanced up then, sharp eyes softening just a fraction when they landed on him.“…hello, Dean.”

And that—right there—that was new.

Dean blinked. “…Hi?” Something warm curled low in his chest, unwanted but not unwelcome. He pushed off the doorway, sauntering in. “You’re being weird.”

“I’m always ‘weird,’ by your standards.”

“Yeah, but this is… different weird.”

Ketch set the coat aside with precise care, then leaned back slightly in his chair, studying Dean like he was something worth taking his time with.

“And what would you prefer?” he asked. “Insults? Thinly veiled threats? A critique of your wardrobe?”

Dean smirked. “Kinda miss the insults, yeah.”

“Mm.” Ketch’s lips twitched. “I could oblige, if it would make you more comfortable.”

Dean stepped closer, stopping just in front of him. “Nah,” he said, softer now. “Think I’ll survive.”

There was a pause. A quiet one. Not tense. Just… loaded.

Ketch’s gaze flicked briefly to Dean’s mouth, then back up.

“You’re staring,” Dean pointed out.

“I am,” Ketch said, completely unbothered.

Dean huffed a laugh. “You’re unbelievable.”

“And yet,” Ketch murmured, rising slowly from his chair, “you keep coming back.”

Now they were close. Too close. Dean could smell that stupidly expensive cologne, feel the heat rolling off him, see every little shift in his expression. “You saying I’ve got a thing for pain?” Dean asked.

“I’m saying,” Ketch replied, voice lower now, “that you have a tendency to want things you pretend not to.”

Dean’s breath caught—just for a second. “Yeah?” he said.

“Yes.” Ketch reached out then, not rushing it—never rushing anything—and slid his hand lightly along Dean’s arm, fingers brushing over his sleeve before settling at his wrist.

Dean didn’t pull away. Didn’t even think about it. “Careful,” Dean muttered. “Keep that up, I might start thinking you like me.”

Ketch’s expression softened—really softened, not the polished mask he wore for everyone else. “I do like you, Dean.”

Oh. Oh.

Dean swallowed, the usual sarcasm dying somewhere in his throat. “Yeah, well… that’s your first mistake.”

“Perhaps,” Ketch said, stepping closer—close enough their chests nearly touched. “But not one I regret.”

Dean exhaled slowly. “…You’re killing me, man.”

“Not my intention,” Ketch murmured.

“Could’ve fooled me.”

Their eyes met again—and this time, neither of them looked away. It was Dean who closed the distance between them. It wasn't a soft kiss by any means at first.

It was sharp, a little desperate, like something that had been building for far too long. Dean’s hand fisted in Ketch’s shirt, pulling him in, while Ketch made a quiet, surprised sound before immediately melting into it.

And then then it shifted. Slowed.

Ketch’s hand slid up to Dean’s jaw, thumb brushing along his cheek as he tilted into the kiss, gentler now. Intentional. Like he was savoring it.

Dean huffed a breath against his lips, easing into it, letting it be… soft.

“Yeah,” Dean murmured when they pulled back just enough to breathe. “That’s… better.”

Ketch’s forehead rested briefly against his. “You’re quite different like this,” he said quietly.

“Yeah?” Dean smirked faintly. “Don’t get used to it.”

“I rather think I will.”

Dean rolled his eyes—but didn’t move away. Didn’t let go. Instead, he nudged Ketch backward slightly until the back of his legs hit the table, then leaned into him, arms sliding around his waist.

Ketch blinked, clearly not expecting that. “Dean…”

“Shut up,” Dean muttered, burying his face briefly against Ketch’s shoulder. “Just—shut up a second.”

There was a pause. Then Ketch’s arms came around him. Careful at first. Then tighter. Secure. “…very well,” Ketch murmured, voice softer than Dean had ever heard it.

Dean exhaled, tension he didn’t even realize he was holding finally slipping out of him. “Don’t make a big deal outta this,” he grumbled.

“Of course not.” A beat. “…though I will remember it.”

Dean huffed quietly. “Yeah. Figured.”

Another moment passed—and then Ketch pressed a small, almost hesitant kiss to Dean’s temple.

Dean froze. “…you just kiss my head?”

“Yes.”

“…wow.”

“Is that a problem?”

Dean pulled back just enough to look at him, something warm and fond creeping into his expression.

“Nah,” he said. “Just didn’t peg you for the cuddling type.”

Ketch’s lips curved faintly. “There are many things you haven’t ‘pegged’ me for.”

Dean barked out a laugh. “Alright, easy, British.”

“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.

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.

Ketch, perched rigidly on the armchair, pinched the bridge of his nose. “That is not how it works,” he said, his British accent sharp as ever. “Where is the prince or princess’ security detail? There’s always a detail nearby. You do not—under any circumstances—allow civilians to approach royalty in such a… reckless fashion.”

Dean shot him a mock glare. “Could you just once pretend it works like that? For, like, five minutes? I’m watching a movie, not planning a heist.”

Ketch leaned back, arms crossed. “Pretending that security protocols are suspended because of… cinematic whimsy? That is not pretending. That is nonsense.”

Dean grinned, sipping his cocoa. “Exactly! Nonsense, and that’s the fun part!” He pointed at the screen where the heroine accidentally knocked over a tray of cookies onto the prince’s shoes. “See? Chaos. Cute chaos. Don’t ruin my moment, Ketch.”

Ketch raised an eyebrow. “Chaos is… a poor substitute for strategy, Dean. Poor writing does not a romantic encounter make.”

Dean groaned, flopping back into the cushions. “Man, you are the worst. But admit it—you’re watching, too.”

Ketch froze, then subtly leaned forward just a fraction, eyes not leaving the screen. “…Observing for accuracy,” he said tightly, though the faint twitch of a smirk betrayed him.

Dean laughed and poked him. “Sure, sure, accuracy. Admit it—you like it.”

“Absolutely not,” Ketch said immediately, though his voice lacked conviction.

Dean grinned, eyes sparkling like Christmas lights. “Then I’ll just assume that your cold, British heart melts a little every time someone trips into true love.”

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.”

The hunt hadn’t been bad, but it had left a mark on both of them. Not a wound, exactly, but something heavier. Something bone-deep. Ketch had taken a blow to the ribs, bruised but intact, and Dean had taken the brunt of a witch’s hex that had fizzled into nothing more than a headache. But even when they walked away mostly fine, they didn’t walk away untouched.

The door creaked behind him.

“You cook now?” came Ketch’s voice, light with amusement, but there was something softer under it. Something careful.

Dean didn’t turn around. “Only when I want you to stay.”

That earned a low chuckle, and then footsteps across the tile. “Chili, then? Bit of a bribe, Winchester?”

Dean stirred the pot once more before lowering the heat. “Comfort,” he said. “You looked like you needed some.”

Ketch stood a few feet behind him, posture relaxed, though Dean could feel the tension lingering around his shoulders. He always carried it with him; battle-born, trauma-earned. Like he wasn’t sure when he was allowed to let it go.

Dean finally turned.

Ketch looked a little worse for wear—shirt half-buttoned, tie discarded, his hair a little mussed from the fight. But his eyes were steady. Watching Dean like he was trying to read between the lines.

“You alright?” Dean asked.

“I’ve been worse,” Ketch replied, voice low. “Though the bed in that horrid motel off Route 9 might finish what the witch started.”

Dean smirked. “Then don’t go back. Stay here tonight.”

Ketch blinked, surprised by the simplicity of it. “Dean…”

“I’m not asking for forever.” Dean’s voice stayed even. “Just tonight. No hunt. No knives. No pretense. Just… you and me.”

The seconds passed slow.

Ketch moved closer, stopping only when they were chest to chest. His hand ghosted up, settling at Dean’s waist. “You offering me a bed, Winchester?”

Dean let out a breath that was almost a laugh. “I’m offering you mine.”

That drew a real smile from Ketch—small, soft, unguarded. Dean rested his forehead against Arthur’s, the chilli forgotten behind him, the world outside the bunker fading like an old scar.

“I want this,” Dean murmured. “You. Here. With me. Even if it’s just one damn night.”

Ketch’s fingers curled at Dean’s hip, grounding them both. “Then I’ll stay.”