Folsom Prison Blues (11/11)
Note: There's some Spanish, but it's not super plot relevant. Also, I translated via Google Translate so s'not my fault if it makes no sense. And for those of you who are not American or just unaware gingo = white American/Yankee/etc.
Sam’s phone was ringing. He was supposed to meet Jen at the library in; he checked his watch, shit five minutes ago. He glanced at the caller ID; it was Jen probably wondering why he was late. Flipping open the phone, Sam pressed it to his ear and started his stream of excuses.
“Hey Jen, I’m so sorry I’m running late.” He rushed. “I lost my shoe, I only have one shoe.” Sam hit the floor, cheek flushed with the carpet, trying to look under the couch. He had no idea why his sneaker would be under the couch, but one time he had found it in his bathtub, so anything was possible.
“Don’t worry about it, Sam.” Jen’s voice sounded odd, detached almost.
“No! It’s not okay,” He insisted, now checking the cabinets in the kitchen “this is the third time I’ve been late in the past week and a half.”
Sam heard Jen take a deep breath. “Seriously, Sam. The least of your worries. Turn on the news and call me back.” She hung up.
Sam’s stomach sank like a stone. He was pretty sure there was only one reason why he would have to watch the news, and that was if his brother had somehow managed to fuck himself over even more. Sam switched on the small boxy TV set Dean had bought for him when he had left for school. The pretty daytime news reporter was outside, in front of a barbed wire fence, looking fairly flustered.
“Welcome back. We’re here reporting live from Folsom Prison where officials have announced just hours ago, their arguably most famous prisoner has escaped.” The camera zoomed past her left shoulder to get a closer shot of the prison in the background. “Not much information has been given about the escape of Dean Winchester, commonly known as the Johnny Cash Killer, which happened around midnight.” She paused dramatically. “Experts say that Winchester most likely broke out through his cell by breaking the protective barrier on his window.”
Sam’s jaw dropped. This could not be happening.
“Since even the prisoners on the first floor face a drop of about ten feet, it is likely that Winchester used some sort of homemade rope, possibly made out of bed sheets to shimmy down with minimal injury. However, this is where it gets interesting. As you can clearly see, much of the prison backs up to the mill pond which is used to power a portion of the prison’s electricity.” She gestured to the murky water next to her, and sure enough, there were only a few feet of earth between the prison and the pond. “Clearly, Winchester had swum across the pond, most likely using some sort of homemade snorkel to avoid detection.”
The balls, the pump, the duct tape. The cell phone fell out of Sam’s hand and in between his couch cushions. He had fallen right into Dean’s plan. Sam had literally bought the tools necessary for his escape. Sam really hoped that Dean was at least smart enough to take that thing with him, so Sam wouldn’t be accused of aiding and abetting. As it was, Sam was going to be under close surveillance for the next few weeks, to make sure that he wasn’t harboring his brother. But the pretty blond lady on TV was still reporting, so Sam shook his worries away and paid attention.
“As far as his escape past that went, it is all speculation. Around Folsom is dense forest, easy to disappear in.” She gestured to the woods. “It is also quite close to the interstate; Winchester could have possibly hitchhiked or stolen a car from a nearby rest stop.” She lowered her voice to a conspiratorial tone, “But this reporter thinks he might have jumped on a cargo train, headed due South. Regardless of his method of escape, Winchester is considered to be unarmed but extremely dangerous. He is highly trained in several forms of defense and can be known to have a violent temper. The image on your screen now is the last photo taken of Winchester, shortly after his incarceration at Folsom. Any tips or eye witnesses can call the number at the bottom of the screen or 911.” The news snapped back to the weekend weather forecast.
Sam was actually speechless.
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“No, sir.”
“Nope, haven’t heard a peep out of Winchester since he got locked up.”
“Nuh-uh. You got me.”
“Of course I don’t know how Mr. Winchester escaped, Officer Kelley.” Crowley smirked. Fucking pigs. They weren’t going to get a single clue from any of the dunderheads in here. Dean had made sure of that before the man had jumped.
That is why Crowley’s respect for the man had grown exponentially after Dean had divulged his plan. Escape plans were a dime a dozen, but an exit strategy took intelligence. Experience. Balls. All of which Dean had in spades. Any Joe off the street could find a way to escape Folsom eventually, but practically none of them would be able to cover their tracks. Most would just sprint off during the rec hour and hope for the best. After Crowley had uncovered his third installment just three hours after Dean was declared missing, the word had already been spread. Squeal on Winchester and you’ll get a dirty shiv in your lower intestines next time you hit the showers. The prisoners had remained tight lipped.
As the week dragged on, and Winchester still hadn’t been found, the cops and detectives had become increasingly frustrated with the lack of leads.
“Somebody had to have heard something.” Officer Kelley reasoned, tapping his pencil on the small notebook gripped in his hand.
“Folsom’s a big prison, sir.” Crowley drawled in return, somehow making ‘sir’ sound like an insult. “And that Winchester is a slippery fellow. I heard the devil himself couldn’t catch him.”
Kelley pinched the bridge of his nose. The last thing he needed were rumors going around that Winchester possessed some sort of superhuman abilities. That would not help his case at all. All he was trying to do was catch a felon. He hated the prison. Next time the call came in; he was shutting off his radio and pleading ignorance to the captain.
“Thank you for your time, Mr. Crowley.” Officer Kelley said, exasperated with the whole situation. All he wanted to do was go home, put in a frozen pizza and watch trashy reality TV. Was that too much to ask?
“Have a nice day, Officer.” Crowley grinned silkily and fingered a crisp cigarette in his pocket. His trade was secrets. And business was booming.
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Dean was almost disappointed with the security at Folsom. It wasn’t anything like the movies. There weren’t any dogs nipping at his heels, no bullets whizzing by his ears. It was quiet and slow going. His clothes were soaked through, and the chilly night air was giving him no favors. Whenever he first got the chance, Dean had to ditch the suit. He didn’t care if he pranced around in a dress, it would garner him less attention than a bright orange jumpsuit.
It didn’t take long to find the train tracks, and judging by the way that the pebbles were jumping around his feet, the train wasn’t far. Dean wasn’t sure if the train went east, south, north or west, but that was hardly the point. He could settle down and live anonymously anywhere, he just had to get away. The more distance he put between him and the prison walls the better.
Of course his first knee-jerk reaction was to go to Sam’s. But he squashed it. He wasn’t dragging Sammy down with him; he was building a good honest life for himself. He didn’t need Dean fucking that up. It wasn’t that he thought Sam would turn him away; he knew he would take him in a heartbeat, but he wasn’t going to give his brother the option. Same with Cas, consent was muddled and unclear within the confines of prison and Dean wasn’t going to hold Cas to some halfhearted promise on a post-orgasmic high. Dean had standards, goddamit, and it was about time that he enacted them.
So shivering in the pitch darkness, Dean really hoped that he still knew how to hobo jump a train. Because it would be really embarrassing if he had made it this far only to be stopped by a train. But the fates smiled upon him apparently for the first time in his life, because either the train was slow or Dean had ninja skills (he preferred to think the latter) but he was able to swing on with ease. And then spent the next four hours ignoring the indignant squawks of the chickens that he had party crashed. After about twenty minutes they would fall asleep, and then one would wake up and the whole cycle would start over again.
When he felt the train slowing down, he took a quick look outside and tumbled out. He was further south that was for sure. The lush forests of northern California had given way to desert and scrub, and the sun was just about to rise over the horizon. He followed the tracks, careful to stay in the little cover that the desert provided. He had to keep moving, he didn’t want to get caught, or worse, almost die in the desert again.
Luck was on his side again, because a larger cargo train barreled down the tracks, Spanish graffiti scrawled on the sides. Jumping on, Dean settled into an empty car, locking the sliding door behind him and falling asleep quickly to the rhythm of the train.
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It had been two weeks. Two long weeks of working at the paper mill. Ten ungodly days of being in charge of ‘quality control’ of the thousands of reams of white cardstock that were produced in the mill. His coworkers were dull and lifeless; obviously all signs of vitality had been stripped after a few years of working in the unbelievably numbing plant. It would be better if he had something to look forward to, but the highlight of Cas’ day was checking the mail box. Followed quickly by bitter disappointment when he only received another bill or coupon book.
Dean had told him it might take a while; Cas had thought he meant a couple of days. And he knew for a fact that Dean hadn’t been found, it would have been everywhere on the news. No, Dean was still running but avoiding Castiel. It hurt.
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He had managed to sneak across the border, and after losing some weight and growing a beard, Dean was nearly unrecognizable on first glance. He made his way slowly south, further and further from the border, from the control of the US government. Some time was spent in the central of the country, in the large cities, hoping to blend into the crowds and simply melting into the background and buzz of the city. But there were too many eyes, and not enough allies. So Dean turned west, towards the ocean.
The towns became more and more spread out, until they were just shacks connected by dusty dirt roads. Hitchhiking was encouraged, the farmers were happy to pick up the American with the easy smile and stilted Spanish.
Soon he hit the Pacific, as beautiful as ever. White sand beaches, cerulean blue seas and tropical temperatures, Dean couldn’t think of anything better. So that’s where he stayed. Walking along the beaches, sometimes sleeping on the sand, sometimes finding a floor. He worked as best he could. Not usually for pesos. Usually for fish. One time for sunglasses.
“Necesita una casa, gringo.” One of the fishermen told Dean after he plucked a piece of seaweed out of Dean’s hair. It had been another night on the beach.
“Sí, lo sé.” Dean responded, grinning. “Pero la playa es tan cómoda.”
The man just laughed and clapped Dean on the back. “Me gustas, gringo. Te voy a ayudar.”
And that’s how Dean became a homeowner. Well, home was a strong term. That’s how Dean was allowed to live in the shack missing half a roof and a stray cat. The cat was a mangy thing, missing an eye and patches of fur. He named it Bobby, it seemed appropriate. Even when it became apparent that Bobby was apparently a she.
So Dean worked through the weeks, for supplies, food and very few pesos. Enough to hitch a ride to the city and buy two postcards. One was exceedingly generic, a picture of the beach with a palm tree that read ‘Wish You Were Here’ and for unknown reasons some maracas were photoshopped onto the horizon. The other had a shirtless man in a speedo flexing knee deep in the ocean. On the back of both of them, he wrote two numbers.
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Sam was amazingly hungover. Apparently Jen could drink like a champ, because he’s pretty sure he’d fallen asleep on the bar and she was still ordering shots. She was the best. It took him three hours to build up the courage to walk down to the mailbox. Battling a heaving stomach the whole way.
When he opened the small box he was immediately assaulted by a neon green thong and a very muscular man flexing. Dean was safe.
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Castiel was contemplating murder. Maybe he would spill the blood all over the paper in the factory. That would teach them. He wasn’t sure what exactly it would teach them, but there was a lesson in there somewhere. He was just too exhausted to figure it out.
It wasn’t just the banality of his entry level job; it was that he still hadn’t heard from Dean. It had been close to two months. And each day, Cas lost a little bit more hope. And started to believe that maybe this was just a con that Dean had pulled. The fact that there was no actual reason why Dean would do this made no difference when he went to bed alone every night.
And then one day, it all changed. Waiting in his mailbox was an unassuming little postcard. Cas waited for his last paycheck, cashed it like usual, made a picnic lunch and locked his front door behind him for the last time. Dean was safe. Dean wanted Cas. The sun shone for the first time in what felt like years.
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Dean had found some old rope on the docks that the men had let him keep. Between two trees next to his house, he had made a makeshift hammock. That’s where he spent his days after he fixed the house, made some semblance of a meal and worked.
He heard Juan talking further down the beach, maybe a mile away, but tried to ignore it. Last time he had nodded enthusiastically to Juan’s rapid-fire Spanish, he had unwittingly agreed to help the man retile his roof. So Dean feigned sleep. And then quickly actually fell asleep.
If he had stayed awake, he would have heard the quiet footsteps approaching and then felt the cool shadow wash over him. But he hadn’t, so he didn’t. What he did feel however, was being unceremoniously dumped on the ground.
“¿Qué demonios?” He demanded, spitting out a mouthful of sand. Looking up at the bright afternoon sky, Dean saw a familiar silhouette. Pushing himself up on his elbows, Dean angled his head in an attempt to get a better view.
“Cas?” Dean asked uncertainly, his voice cracking slightly. Later, Dean would blame the dryness on his throat on the sand.
“You son of a bitch.” Was his only answer before he was pushed back on the ground again, this time forced down by the entire weight of a very welcome body. Before Dean could respond, he was silenced with harsh kisses with lots of teeth clashing and dry cracked lips. But it was fine, and perfect.
“I missed you so fucking much, Cas.” Dean whispered between kisses. “You have no idea how many times I wanted to come back and risk it. Just to see you.”
“Shut up.” Cas demanded, placing his hands on the ground on either side of Dean’s head. “You have no idea what you put me through.” His eyes blazed. If Dean was completely honest, he was a very confused mixed of turned on and terrified. He had the distinct feeling that Cas might try to cut off his dick. “Do you know how often I thought about you?” He questioned. “At night? When I was all alone? What I did?” The scared part was leaving rapidly if the interested twitch from Dean’s Calvin Klein’s were any indication.
And then Cas’ smile turned absolutely feral. “Do you have any idea how much lube I bought between here and California?”
Dean’s jaw went slack.
“We have some time to make up for, Mr. Winchester.”
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For decades, the young children would run along the beach hoping to catch a glimpse of the gringos who lived in the small cabin by the sea. And sometimes the tall man that visited them with his wife. They knew the tall man was a rich American and if he saw them he would give them candy. Sometimes he would try to speak to them in broken Spanish and it was funny.
Their parents told them that the nice men, Dean and Cas-t-elle were not to be bothered because Castiel had magical powers and could make lightning crack out of a cloudless sky. This of course, only encouraged their antics.
But the men, no matter how many interruptions from the kids, always seemed happy and content and above all, free.
Sam’s phone was ringing. He was supposed to meet Jen at the library in; he checked his watch, shit five minutes ago. He glanced at the caller ID; it was Jen probably wondering why he was late. Flipping open the phone, Sam pressed it to his ear and started his stream of excuses.
“Hey Jen, I’m so sorry I’m running late.” He rushed. “I lost my shoe, I only have one shoe.” Sam hit the floor, cheek flushed with the carpet, trying to look under the couch. He had no idea why his sneaker would be under the couch, but one time he had found it in his bathtub, so anything was possible.
“Don’t worry about it, Sam.” Jen’s voice sounded odd, detached almost.
“No! It’s not okay,” He insisted, now checking the cabinets in the kitchen “this is the third time I’ve been late in the past week and a half.”
Sam heard Jen take a deep breath. “Seriously, Sam. The least of your worries. Turn on the news and call me back.” She hung up.
Sam’s stomach sank like a stone. He was pretty sure there was only one reason why he would have to watch the news, and that was if his brother had somehow managed to fuck himself over even more. Sam switched on the small boxy TV set Dean had bought for him when he had left for school. The pretty daytime news reporter was outside, in front of a barbed wire fence, looking fairly flustered.
“Welcome back. We’re here reporting live from Folsom Prison where officials have announced just hours ago, their arguably most famous prisoner has escaped.” The camera zoomed past her left shoulder to get a closer shot of the prison in the background. “Not much information has been given about the escape of Dean Winchester, commonly known as the Johnny Cash Killer, which happened around midnight.” She paused dramatically. “Experts say that Winchester most likely broke out through his cell by breaking the protective barrier on his window.”
Sam’s jaw dropped. This could not be happening.
“Since even the prisoners on the first floor face a drop of about ten feet, it is likely that Winchester used some sort of homemade rope, possibly made out of bed sheets to shimmy down with minimal injury. However, this is where it gets interesting. As you can clearly see, much of the prison backs up to the mill pond which is used to power a portion of the prison’s electricity.” She gestured to the murky water next to her, and sure enough, there were only a few feet of earth between the prison and the pond. “Clearly, Winchester had swum across the pond, most likely using some sort of homemade snorkel to avoid detection.”
The balls, the pump, the duct tape. The cell phone fell out of Sam’s hand and in between his couch cushions. He had fallen right into Dean’s plan. Sam had literally bought the tools necessary for his escape. Sam really hoped that Dean was at least smart enough to take that thing with him, so Sam wouldn’t be accused of aiding and abetting. As it was, Sam was going to be under close surveillance for the next few weeks, to make sure that he wasn’t harboring his brother. But the pretty blond lady on TV was still reporting, so Sam shook his worries away and paid attention.
“As far as his escape past that went, it is all speculation. Around Folsom is dense forest, easy to disappear in.” She gestured to the woods. “It is also quite close to the interstate; Winchester could have possibly hitchhiked or stolen a car from a nearby rest stop.” She lowered her voice to a conspiratorial tone, “But this reporter thinks he might have jumped on a cargo train, headed due South. Regardless of his method of escape, Winchester is considered to be unarmed but extremely dangerous. He is highly trained in several forms of defense and can be known to have a violent temper. The image on your screen now is the last photo taken of Winchester, shortly after his incarceration at Folsom. Any tips or eye witnesses can call the number at the bottom of the screen or 911.” The news snapped back to the weekend weather forecast.
Sam was actually speechless.
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“No, sir.”
“Nope, haven’t heard a peep out of Winchester since he got locked up.”
“Nuh-uh. You got me.”
“Of course I don’t know how Mr. Winchester escaped, Officer Kelley.” Crowley smirked. Fucking pigs. They weren’t going to get a single clue from any of the dunderheads in here. Dean had made sure of that before the man had jumped.
That is why Crowley’s respect for the man had grown exponentially after Dean had divulged his plan. Escape plans were a dime a dozen, but an exit strategy took intelligence. Experience. Balls. All of which Dean had in spades. Any Joe off the street could find a way to escape Folsom eventually, but practically none of them would be able to cover their tracks. Most would just sprint off during the rec hour and hope for the best. After Crowley had uncovered his third installment just three hours after Dean was declared missing, the word had already been spread. Squeal on Winchester and you’ll get a dirty shiv in your lower intestines next time you hit the showers. The prisoners had remained tight lipped.
As the week dragged on, and Winchester still hadn’t been found, the cops and detectives had become increasingly frustrated with the lack of leads.
“Somebody had to have heard something.” Officer Kelley reasoned, tapping his pencil on the small notebook gripped in his hand.
“Folsom’s a big prison, sir.” Crowley drawled in return, somehow making ‘sir’ sound like an insult. “And that Winchester is a slippery fellow. I heard the devil himself couldn’t catch him.”
Kelley pinched the bridge of his nose. The last thing he needed were rumors going around that Winchester possessed some sort of superhuman abilities. That would not help his case at all. All he was trying to do was catch a felon. He hated the prison. Next time the call came in; he was shutting off his radio and pleading ignorance to the captain.
“Thank you for your time, Mr. Crowley.” Officer Kelley said, exasperated with the whole situation. All he wanted to do was go home, put in a frozen pizza and watch trashy reality TV. Was that too much to ask?
“Have a nice day, Officer.” Crowley grinned silkily and fingered a crisp cigarette in his pocket. His trade was secrets. And business was booming.
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Dean was almost disappointed with the security at Folsom. It wasn’t anything like the movies. There weren’t any dogs nipping at his heels, no bullets whizzing by his ears. It was quiet and slow going. His clothes were soaked through, and the chilly night air was giving him no favors. Whenever he first got the chance, Dean had to ditch the suit. He didn’t care if he pranced around in a dress, it would garner him less attention than a bright orange jumpsuit.
It didn’t take long to find the train tracks, and judging by the way that the pebbles were jumping around his feet, the train wasn’t far. Dean wasn’t sure if the train went east, south, north or west, but that was hardly the point. He could settle down and live anonymously anywhere, he just had to get away. The more distance he put between him and the prison walls the better.
Of course his first knee-jerk reaction was to go to Sam’s. But he squashed it. He wasn’t dragging Sammy down with him; he was building a good honest life for himself. He didn’t need Dean fucking that up. It wasn’t that he thought Sam would turn him away; he knew he would take him in a heartbeat, but he wasn’t going to give his brother the option. Same with Cas, consent was muddled and unclear within the confines of prison and Dean wasn’t going to hold Cas to some halfhearted promise on a post-orgasmic high. Dean had standards, goddamit, and it was about time that he enacted them.
So shivering in the pitch darkness, Dean really hoped that he still knew how to hobo jump a train. Because it would be really embarrassing if he had made it this far only to be stopped by a train. But the fates smiled upon him apparently for the first time in his life, because either the train was slow or Dean had ninja skills (he preferred to think the latter) but he was able to swing on with ease. And then spent the next four hours ignoring the indignant squawks of the chickens that he had party crashed. After about twenty minutes they would fall asleep, and then one would wake up and the whole cycle would start over again.
When he felt the train slowing down, he took a quick look outside and tumbled out. He was further south that was for sure. The lush forests of northern California had given way to desert and scrub, and the sun was just about to rise over the horizon. He followed the tracks, careful to stay in the little cover that the desert provided. He had to keep moving, he didn’t want to get caught, or worse, almost die in the desert again.
Luck was on his side again, because a larger cargo train barreled down the tracks, Spanish graffiti scrawled on the sides. Jumping on, Dean settled into an empty car, locking the sliding door behind him and falling asleep quickly to the rhythm of the train.
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It had been two weeks. Two long weeks of working at the paper mill. Ten ungodly days of being in charge of ‘quality control’ of the thousands of reams of white cardstock that were produced in the mill. His coworkers were dull and lifeless; obviously all signs of vitality had been stripped after a few years of working in the unbelievably numbing plant. It would be better if he had something to look forward to, but the highlight of Cas’ day was checking the mail box. Followed quickly by bitter disappointment when he only received another bill or coupon book.
Dean had told him it might take a while; Cas had thought he meant a couple of days. And he knew for a fact that Dean hadn’t been found, it would have been everywhere on the news. No, Dean was still running but avoiding Castiel. It hurt.
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He had managed to sneak across the border, and after losing some weight and growing a beard, Dean was nearly unrecognizable on first glance. He made his way slowly south, further and further from the border, from the control of the US government. Some time was spent in the central of the country, in the large cities, hoping to blend into the crowds and simply melting into the background and buzz of the city. But there were too many eyes, and not enough allies. So Dean turned west, towards the ocean.
The towns became more and more spread out, until they were just shacks connected by dusty dirt roads. Hitchhiking was encouraged, the farmers were happy to pick up the American with the easy smile and stilted Spanish.
Soon he hit the Pacific, as beautiful as ever. White sand beaches, cerulean blue seas and tropical temperatures, Dean couldn’t think of anything better. So that’s where he stayed. Walking along the beaches, sometimes sleeping on the sand, sometimes finding a floor. He worked as best he could. Not usually for pesos. Usually for fish. One time for sunglasses.
“Necesita una casa, gringo.” One of the fishermen told Dean after he plucked a piece of seaweed out of Dean’s hair. It had been another night on the beach.
“Sí, lo sé.” Dean responded, grinning. “Pero la playa es tan cómoda.”
The man just laughed and clapped Dean on the back. “Me gustas, gringo. Te voy a ayudar.”
And that’s how Dean became a homeowner. Well, home was a strong term. That’s how Dean was allowed to live in the shack missing half a roof and a stray cat. The cat was a mangy thing, missing an eye and patches of fur. He named it Bobby, it seemed appropriate. Even when it became apparent that Bobby was apparently a she.
So Dean worked through the weeks, for supplies, food and very few pesos. Enough to hitch a ride to the city and buy two postcards. One was exceedingly generic, a picture of the beach with a palm tree that read ‘Wish You Were Here’ and for unknown reasons some maracas were photoshopped onto the horizon. The other had a shirtless man in a speedo flexing knee deep in the ocean. On the back of both of them, he wrote two numbers.
XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX
Sam was amazingly hungover. Apparently Jen could drink like a champ, because he’s pretty sure he’d fallen asleep on the bar and she was still ordering shots. She was the best. It took him three hours to build up the courage to walk down to the mailbox. Battling a heaving stomach the whole way.
When he opened the small box he was immediately assaulted by a neon green thong and a very muscular man flexing. Dean was safe.
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Castiel was contemplating murder. Maybe he would spill the blood all over the paper in the factory. That would teach them. He wasn’t sure what exactly it would teach them, but there was a lesson in there somewhere. He was just too exhausted to figure it out.
It wasn’t just the banality of his entry level job; it was that he still hadn’t heard from Dean. It had been close to two months. And each day, Cas lost a little bit more hope. And started to believe that maybe this was just a con that Dean had pulled. The fact that there was no actual reason why Dean would do this made no difference when he went to bed alone every night.
And then one day, it all changed. Waiting in his mailbox was an unassuming little postcard. Cas waited for his last paycheck, cashed it like usual, made a picnic lunch and locked his front door behind him for the last time. Dean was safe. Dean wanted Cas. The sun shone for the first time in what felt like years.
XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX
Dean had found some old rope on the docks that the men had let him keep. Between two trees next to his house, he had made a makeshift hammock. That’s where he spent his days after he fixed the house, made some semblance of a meal and worked.
He heard Juan talking further down the beach, maybe a mile away, but tried to ignore it. Last time he had nodded enthusiastically to Juan’s rapid-fire Spanish, he had unwittingly agreed to help the man retile his roof. So Dean feigned sleep. And then quickly actually fell asleep.
If he had stayed awake, he would have heard the quiet footsteps approaching and then felt the cool shadow wash over him. But he hadn’t, so he didn’t. What he did feel however, was being unceremoniously dumped on the ground.
“¿Qué demonios?” He demanded, spitting out a mouthful of sand. Looking up at the bright afternoon sky, Dean saw a familiar silhouette. Pushing himself up on his elbows, Dean angled his head in an attempt to get a better view.
“Cas?” Dean asked uncertainly, his voice cracking slightly. Later, Dean would blame the dryness on his throat on the sand.
“You son of a bitch.” Was his only answer before he was pushed back on the ground again, this time forced down by the entire weight of a very welcome body. Before Dean could respond, he was silenced with harsh kisses with lots of teeth clashing and dry cracked lips. But it was fine, and perfect.
“I missed you so fucking much, Cas.” Dean whispered between kisses. “You have no idea how many times I wanted to come back and risk it. Just to see you.”
“Shut up.” Cas demanded, placing his hands on the ground on either side of Dean’s head. “You have no idea what you put me through.” His eyes blazed. If Dean was completely honest, he was a very confused mixed of turned on and terrified. He had the distinct feeling that Cas might try to cut off his dick. “Do you know how often I thought about you?” He questioned. “At night? When I was all alone? What I did?” The scared part was leaving rapidly if the interested twitch from Dean’s Calvin Klein’s were any indication.
And then Cas’ smile turned absolutely feral. “Do you have any idea how much lube I bought between here and California?”
Dean’s jaw went slack.
“We have some time to make up for, Mr. Winchester.”
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For decades, the young children would run along the beach hoping to catch a glimpse of the gringos who lived in the small cabin by the sea. And sometimes the tall man that visited them with his wife. They knew the tall man was a rich American and if he saw them he would give them candy. Sometimes he would try to speak to them in broken Spanish and it was funny.
Their parents told them that the nice men, Dean and Cas-t-elle were not to be bothered because Castiel had magical powers and could make lightning crack out of a cloudless sky. This of course, only encouraged their antics.
But the men, no matter how many interruptions from the kids, always seemed happy and content and above all, free.