Fic: "Not All Dogs Go to Heaven" - Part 3/3 [SPN]
TITLE: "Not All Dogs Go to Heaven" - Part 3/3
AUTHOR: nanoochka
CHARACTERS: Dean/Castiel, Sam, Crowley, Gramps Campbell
RATING: Hard R for violence, gore, swearing, and sex
SUMMARY: Two weird cases, two different locations: Sam and Dean are forced to split up when calls from Samuel and Cas divide their attention between Iowa and Michigan, thinking that they might be dealing with two separate cases of Alphas. Although Cas is supposedly there to help, Dean's lost trust in the angel's priorities in the past year, and can't help but feel that he's running interference as Dean discovers that the rash of brutal animal slayings in the town of Springville are a symptom of something truly perverse.
WORD COUNT: This part: 5,120. Overall: 23,509 (The fuck?)
WARNINGS: Violence against domestic animals, slime
SPOILERS: Post-6x04, but kind of diverges from canon after that. It made more sense when I started writing it.
DISCLAIMER: I do not own the rights to Supernatural or any of its associated content. No infringement intended. Eat it, Kripke.
PROMPT: Written for spn_reversebang and miki_moo 's art prompt.
AUTHOR'S NOTE: See Part One for full Author's Notes. Fic masterpost here. Art Masterpost here
Not All Dogs Go to Heaven - Part 3/3 by nanoochka
As far as good ideas go, it turns out that Dean has to pat himself on the back for dragging Sam out to Springville anyway, because there’s no way in Hell that he would have figured out how to summon Crowley to their doorstep with his outdated knowledge. He’s all set to go forward with a Crossroads summoning, until the notion is shot down by Sam’s helpful reminder that they don’t have time to filter through every soul-dealer in existence until they find the right one. The days of imprecise summoning rituals are behind them.
Sam returns to the house carrying a small box that contains candles, herbs, a small bowl, a knife, and a book that had to have come from Samuel’s personal library. With Samuel distracting the Hellhound in one corner of the basement, who seems to want nothing more than to smell, lick or otherwise eat every single item they need for the ritual, Dean gets to work drawing the sigils upon the basement floor while Sam does the rest. His lines with the chalk are rough and slightly inexact, and he knows that Sam notices the weird, embarrassing shaking of his hands, even if he elects not to comment. Dean’s never experienced this kind of gut reaction before, where his mind seems perfectly okay, but his body decides otherwise; it’s not totally unlike being drunk or stoned, where even the most lucid thoughts are interpreted with stumbling steps or slurred words. It makes him wish, for a moment, that Castiel were here, if only to yell at him to man up and face his fears. Or something. He sort of wants Cas there either way.
Luckily, Sam elects to slice his own hand to satisfy the requirement for human blood, which he wraps in a length of bandage that he brought in with him from Samuel’s truck. “Are you ready?” he asks Dean, gesturing at their setup as Dean finishes lighting the black pillar candles.
Samuel glances up at them from his spot crouched near the Hellhound. “What do you mean, ‘ready’? You expecting this to get hairy?” His hand falls to the gun on his hip, like that would really do a thing but make Crowley piss himself laughing.
Managing to force something resembling a grin, Dean shrugs. “I’d probably want to kick our asses, if I were him,” he says amicably. “But then again, who wouldn’t?” He fishes a match out of the box Sam hands over, strikes one as practiced and as sure as the hundreds of other times he’s done this. He drops it into the bowl of blood-soaked herbs, and takes a step back as it doesn’t so much catch as explode in a firework display of sparks. “Guess we’ll find out how well the Leprechaun holds a grudge.”
There is a brief gust of air at his back, and a curse from Samuel; Dean knows without turning that Cas has landed behind him, and he smiles to himself. Sam, less sedate, frowns and gripes, “It’s about time, Cas.”
The hand that lands on Dean’s shoulder squeezes briefly, but Cas doesn’t look at him just yet, in favour of glancing over at Sam. “I needed time to recover from my last stop,” he says evenly. “You did not require my help thus far.” Dean snorts.
“Did you get in a fight?” This comes from Samuel, who has abandoned the Hellhound in favour of coming to check out the angel. Dean assumes that Sam wasn’t remiss in telling their grandfather as much as he knows about Cas, and he can’t really blame the old man for being a bit curious.
Without outwardly disputing Samuel’s desire to see for himself, Castiel just pauses to observe the older man while he himself falls under scrutiny. Any mutual observations remain unsaid, although Dean would bet money that Samuel is probably thinking that Cas doesn’t look like much, for all the stories. The impasse ends when Castiel gives that little smile, the one that glints in his eye more than it reaches his lips. Whatever challenge the elder Campbell thought he was issuing, he just lost.
“You might say that,” Cas says finally, and before he can turn that smile on Dean, there’s the sound of slow claps from the other end of the basement, and a low, smoky laugh tinged with genuine amusement.
“Cute,” Crowley muses. He skulks out of the shadows in a way that seems more for effect than anything, but Dean can’t fault the guy for clinging to his sense of theatrics. The demon looks pretty calm, all things considered. That’s probably as good a sign as they’re likely to get. Dean relaxes fractionally until Crowley adds, “I’d find the charade a damn sight more clever if you two didn’t reek of each other.” He smirks in Castiel’s direction, like nothing’s changed since they all played on team Let’s Save the World. “Good to know what the Sheriff of Heaven likes to do when he hangs up his badge. Tell me, Dean-does he put away his handcuffs, too, or do you prefer it when he brings them home? Does he have a big gun?”
Sam makes a face like he just licked the inside of a garbage can; meanwhile Dean schools himself very hard not to react except for the casual arch of an eyebrow.
“Uh, Dean-” Sam starts, but Cas just throws up a hand in exasperation.
“Stop prevaricating,” he tells Crowley. He steps forward into the room so that he and Crowley are warily facing off from opposite sides of the chalk sigils. The edge of impatience to his voice doesn’t sound forced. “We summoned you here for a reason.”
“Well, obviously,” the demon chuckles. “My own curiosity got the better of me-I couldn’t for the life of me figure out what could be so important, that you’d risk me ripping your bloody throats out after our last little chat.” His gaze settles upon Dean. “You’ve got some cheek, you little cun-”
“Enough!” The whole room seems to turn to look at Samuel, even the Hellhound. For a moment Dean sees what scared the shit out of his father for years before the old man died. Following Castiel’s lead, he approaches Crowley with one hand on his hip, and the other purposely resting upon the butt of his gun. “Whatever pissing contest you’ve got going with the angel can happen later-I’ve got a case to wrap up back in Iowa, and I’d rather not spend any more time in this bumfuck town that I have already.”
If he’s at all moved by the speech, Crowley doesn’t show it; but his face does become more keen when Samuel whistles sharply and snaps his fingers towards the Hellhound, who comes nearer as a trained dog might. Its attention seems divided between Samuel and Crowley, to whom it looks with avid interest.
“Well, well,” is all Crowley says. His gaze settles upon Castiel. “Wherever did you come across this sweet thing?”
“This ‘sweet thing’ has been eviscerating every cat, raccoon and lapdog within a fifteen mile radius of this town,” Dean cuts in. He knows he sounds annoyed, but he can’t help it. The memory of seeing the Hellhound tear into that cat suffuses him with anxiety and embarrassment at how badly he reacted, if only in front of Cas. It definitely doesn’t help that the demon all but outed him and Cas to his brother, because that’s a conversation Dean couldn’t escape even if Sammy actually had been replaced with a robot. “We need to know how the hell it got here, and why we can all see it. Whatever’s going on with this hound, it’s not right.”
Much to his surprise, Crowley nods agreeably. He demonstrates none of the human’s trepidation as he steps forward and falls into a neat crouch, hands held out towards the Hellhound like he might embrace it. “You can say that again.” He sounds… fond. No other word for it. “C’mere, lovely,” coos Crowley, and waggles his fingers at the hound invitingly. It wanders over with a wagging tail, breathing its fetid breath everywhere in their direction in its excitement. “Come to daddy, I won’t bite, atta boy.”
“I’m gonna throw up,” supplies Dean, and Castiel just hisses at him and says, “Hush.”
To Crowley he asks, “How is it possible for a Hellhound to appear like this?”
The demon shrugs, almost totally consumed with lavishing attention and affection upon the Hellhound, who allows itself to be petted with its black tongue lolling from its mouth in sheer pleasure. Its wet nose nuzzles into Crowley’s jacket with a happy snuffling sound. “My best guess is that a hound must have escaped when you freed Lucifer,” he says. “I had no proof of it myself, at the time, but I heard about such things happening. I would have liked to have gotten my hands on a couple more for my kennels.”
“Is anyone else disappointed that you didn’t?” Dean wonders aloud. It seems like everyone, including Cas, glares at him. He chooses an arbitrary point near the basement window and stares at it while he counts to ten. Randomly directed ire is not anything he signed up for, because as far as Dean’s concerned, he’s just calling it like he sees it. “Okay, sorry, but I’m not really seeing what that has to do with Wiggles, here. Any Hellhounds that escaped wouldn’t be eating Puppy Chow. Or am I wrong?”
“Don’t be daft,” scoffs Crowley. He straightens up so that he’s at eye-level with Dean, keeping one hand reassuringly upon the puppy’s head like a protective Mama Bear. Dean has to admit that the animal has taken to the demon in a way that’s almost fairytale-perfect. “There is no such thing as Hellhound puppies-they are created, not born.”
“Yeah, and?”
“The creature is not a product of Hell,” Cas concludes for him. Dean rolls his eyes at him in annoyance, as much for siding with Crowley as for reminding everyone that Dean isn’t as up to snuff on his lore as he should be. “Are you saying that the escaped Hellhound could have become a new Alpha?”
Nonchalantly, Crowley inspects his nails. “Could be. There have been an awful lot of them running amok out there.” Sam and their grandfather exchange a look that Dean doesn’t want so much as to touch with a ten-foot pole, but he can only deal with one issue at a time, anyway. “If I were to hazard a guess, I’d say that what you’re looking at is a case of some naughty cross-pollination. Hellhound escapes, finds itself a lovely bitch to mount, and before we know it we have an all-demonic production of Lady and the Tramp on our hands.”
Dean’s gag reflex starts to get antsy again. He chokes out a strangled, “This is my life,” and looks to Sam for commiseration, but all he gets is a raised eyebrow in response. It’s unsettling that their grandfather is the only other person in the room who looks a little bit grossed-out by the idea of a Hellhound mating with a normal dog, but then again, nothing should surprise him anymore.
“So now what?” asks Sam. He sounds genuinely curious. As much as he can, Dean takes a measure of relief from the fact that his brother has gone into science-fair mode, as opposed to reacting like this is all just another day in the life. “I don’t wanna be the one to suggest we take care of it now, before it gets too big, but-”
“Euthanasia would be a waste of a valuable opportunity to study a new breed,” says Cas.
Stepping in as the voice of reason, Samuel splutters, “That’s your big solution? Either we kill it, or we chain it up in some angelic lab somewhere so that it can be poked and prodded at?” His response is so passionate that Dean is a bit taken aback. He never pegged Samuel for the PETA-type, but apparently the man really loves all of God’s creatures, big and small. Some more than others, maybe.
He’s no bleeding heart, but Dean has to side with Samuel on this one. Aside from its foul snacking habits, the Hellhound pup hasn’t really shown any proclivity towards hurting anyone, and damn if that isn’t the strangest thought that’s ever crossed his mind, even more than the moment he first realized that his feelings towards Cas were slightly less than honourable, or platonic.
“I think Samuel’s got a point,” he says. “We’ve got to do something, but killing an innocent animal isn’t really what I signed up for. It’s not what you signed up for either, Sam.” His brother glares at Dean for singling him out. Typical. Looking over at Crowley, who seems to be growing more bored by the second, and probably wondering what the hell he’s doing here, Dean adds, “Obviously the simplest solution is to let Crowley deal with it.”
“Beg pardon?”
Dean rolls his eyes. “C’mon, man. We didn’t call you here for high tea, we called because we all know you’re a damned sight more experienced with these things than any of us, at least in the area of not getting ripped to shreds.” At this, Crowley sniggers, but Dean isn’t finished. “If anyone has a better suggestion, be my guest-but we aren’t letting this thing go, and we aren’t killing it. So Crowley should take it with him.”
Cas, understandably, is pissed at the suggestion; his face scrunches up in a very Jimmy Novak-esque way, which seems to be the only way that Cas can register total bafflement. “Yes, let’s just give the enemy another weapon, Dean,” he drawls.
“It’s not anything right now,” Dean points out. “It’s-and I can’t believe I’m saying this, either, so give me a break-just a dog. I don’t see how throwing it to the angels would be any better, because we all know that kids’ movie was wrong.”
It shouldn’t be nearly so entertaining for Cas and Crowley to both give frustrated sighs at the same time, but Dean nearly cracks a smile when he hears it. “I don’t enjoy having my services volunteered,” says Crowley.
“Then let’s hear your idea,” answers Samuel, gesturing. “You have the floor.”
“Don’t presume that I need your permission, old man,” Crowley sniffs, arch as can be. The men collectively roll their eyes at that, and Dean even thinks he sees Castiel’s lips purse in exasperation. Crowley is silent for a moment, considering the hound with an arched brow. Sensing his attention, the puppy’s tail begins wagging eagerly, whipping across the floor in slimy excitement. It ruffs in anticipation, ears twitching, and Crowley’s mouth twitches in a smile in spite of himself. “As much as pains me to agree with any of you lot, Dean has a point,” he finally concedes. “Under no circumstances should this ponce-” and here he motions at Cas, “-take this creature for his lackeys to do with what they will.”
“Then we’re agreed,” Samuel says with a sigh of relief.
“We are not,” Castiel interjects, but Dean manages to cut him off with a look that, he hopes, adequately reminds the angel of their earlier conversation. He knows he’ll hear about it later, but as far as he’s concerned, a promise is a promise-even if it’s unspoken.
“What are you going to do with it?” asks Sam, oblivious to the silent exchange.
“Same as I did with Growly, I expect,” Crowley replies easily. “Trained him myself, and now there’s not a canine in Hell who can best ‘im. It’ll take some getting used to a new hound, but he always does what he’s told, does Growly.”
“And so Hell will have yet another monstrosity with which to collect the souls of innocent humans,” Cas grates out, pissed about having been vetoed. Dean can’t help but find him endearing this way, but he’d rather not make a habit of it if he ever wants to get laid again.
“There’s no such thing as an innocent human, darling,” says Crowley. “But no need to worry-I only send my dogs out on the most special of tasks, and I doubt this one will ever grow up to be full size.” He shrugs. “This is the offer: take it or leave it. Hell isn’t going to run itself, and I’ve wasted enough time standing around with you lot as it is.”
When no one responds, Crowley claps his hands together once and approaches the Hellhound, who is wriggling around as though someone has just announced walkies. Dean doesn’t even know whether it even needs to piss, but Crowley unfastens the chain at the other end, and wraps it around his fist like an impromptu leash, drawing the Hellhound to his side.
“Well then, chums,” he says brightly, and gives a mock-salute, “pleasure doing business with you; don’t call me again.” With that, they’re both gone, and it takes a moment for Dean to process that this has probably been the most anticlimactic case ever.
“That was a bit lame,” Sam says eventually, and Dean snorts.
“No kidding.” He looks over at where Cas is still standing with his arms folded, and Dean is a little surprised that he hasn’t fucked off already, since he is so clearly itching to flutter away in a huff. “It was the best possible solution,” Dean reminds him.
“I don’t concur,” he mutters. “The plan was not to give the hound to Crowley-I barely have more information about the creature than when we started.”
“Then maybe you two should start collaborating, if you aren’t happy with how us humans carry out your grunt work,” suggests Samuel dryly. Cas bristles, but the old hunter seems unfazed. Balls of steel, Dean thinks. He could never accuse his grandfather of lacking chutzpah, and already he’s chomping at the bit to take off and face down the next bump in the night. “Now that that’s taken care of, let’s get the hell out of here. Much as I love a cut-and-dry case, there’s one still waiting for me back in Iowa.”
Not waiting for a response, Samuel begins packing up the supplies they brought in from the truck, blowing out the candles and scuffing out the sigils on the floor to obscure the evidence of what they were doing. The basement will likely still smell of sulphur for a while, but that’s a conundrum Dean’s never found the answer to, having disposed of more than his fair share of clothing that could never be aired out enough.
The remaining three look on as Samuel ascend the stairs with a parting glance at Sam. Once he’s out of sight, Sam looks over at Dean with a thoughtful expression on his face. Dean doesn’t think it’s just his imagination that tells him that the look takes in both him and Castiel. That’s worrisome, but Sam doesn’t seem inclined to discuss it, either-not now, anyway.
“You coming?” is all he says.
Dean pauses to consider the question, and after a moment looks over at Cas; the angel appears impassive, but the readiness with which he meets Dean’s eyes betrays his investment in the answer. He rubs the back of his neck and turns back to his brother. “Eventually,” he says. “I gotta pack up all my shit here, but you go on ahead with Samuel. I’ll catch up with you in a bit.”
Sam just shrugs and smoothes his hair back, like the answer neither surprises him, nor concerns him either way. “Sounds good,” he chirps. “I’ll text you the directions.”
Sparing a nod for Cas, he shoves his hands into the pockets of his jacket, and follows their grandfather upstairs and out of the house. A moment later, Dean hears the truck roar to life and drive away.
After the cacophony of the last couple hours, the basement is almost eerily silent with just Dean and Castiel left. Cas, of course, doesn’t make any sound that is unnecessary, and for a few minutes neither of them say a thing. It’s amazing how much is running through Dean’s head now that he can actually pause to hear himself think. As usual, he has no idea what’s even going on in Castiel’s angel brain, and envies him for a moment his ability to read minds, or at least, read Dean.
He tries to start simple, and with the question that’s been bothering him most. For some reason he finds it easier to ask when he takes a few steps towards Castiel, so that they are sharing personal space and breathing the same air, more comfortable together than apart. “Before Samuel and my brother got here,” he says, “you were gonna tell me something, weren’t you?”
Castiel doesn’t even blink. “Yes,” he answers calmly. “I was.”
“What?” The angel remains so unfazed that his composure begins to put Dean on edge; he feels like his body is buzzing to life on the inside, wired with anticipation and desire that he managed to keep bottled up for over a year, though he has no idea how.
When he reaches out to brush his thumb along Dean’s lower lip, Cas does nothing more than meet his gaze with a gentle sigh. “It’s no great matter,” he explains. “I just wanted you to know that, if you were to ask me to stay…” Here, he pauses, and Dean begins to rethink his earlier judgement about Cas’s poise. Like he’s in agreement, Cas shakes his head once, from side to side. His eyes close, and stay closed while he speaks. “Dean, I’d gladly choose whatever side you happened to be on.” That said, Cas’s eyes open and he holds eye contact this time, firm. “If you asked,” he says again.
There’s no denying that the statement catches Dean off-guard, and it sets his mind spinning for longer than Cas probably intended. It’s a nice thought and, being honest, pretty much all he’s wanted for a long time; but that doesn’t make the answer come easy. If anything, he has to stop and consider just because he wants it so bad. Cas’s brow creases in confusion, and Dean realizes that maybe the angel thinks that Dean is trying to figure out how to let him down easy.
“That pretty much sounds like the best thing ever,” Dean admits eventually.
“Does it?”
“Like you wouldn’t believe.”
Pulling Cas in against his chest, Dean wonders how they wound up here when, two days ago, they were at each other’s throats. They never had these kinds of conversations before Cas went back to Heaven-their break-up, for lack of a better word. The thought occurs to Dean that maybe his year with Lisa and Ben was necessary for him to reach this point, even if parts of him felt like he was just distracting himself from what he really wanted. Without it, he might have just carried on in the same fucked-up, Winchester headspace as before, too caught up in his own misery to appreciate all of Cas’s complexities, his value, his needs. Castiel has never shared in Dean’s hostility towards the truth, but Dean was always pretty good at blocking it out, regardless of how loudly Cas shouted it at him. He needed to grow up and see what he was missing, only now he feels that there are entire conversations he was absent for. If he can’t run quickly enough to catch up, he might die trying.
Dean doesn’t know where to begin, but he’s fairly certain that handcuffing himself and Cas together again isn’t the way to do it. “I can’t let you choose me again, Cas,” he says quietly. He sighs, and brings his hand up to cup the angel’s jaw, feeling the sharp, strong lines of it, the perfect dimple of his chin. “We’ve been down that road before, and it just caused a lot of pain for both of us. Much as I want to, and as much as I’ll probably bitch and whine and moan at you for always being somewhere else, I can’t ask you to abandon this war just to have you around a bit more often.”
“You like having me around,” Cas points out, frowning.
Dean huffs in embarrassment. “Yeah, I do. More than I like to admit, and that’s probably why I’m in such a bad mood all the time. But-it’d feel too selfish to pull you away from trying to make things right with Heaven.” Shrugging, he cocks a smile he doesn’t feel all the way through to the inside, and knows that Cas knows it.
The frown is still there, etched across Cas’s face so deeply that Dean worries that it’ll stay that way. Cas murmurs, after a long minute, “The outcome of this conversation escapes me.”
“The outcome of that sentence escapes me,” says Dean.
“Are you saying you’d rather I not return?” Castiel asks.
“What? No!” Dean actually has to hold Cas away at arm’s length just to get a proper read on him. Mostly he looks confused, but not in the same way as when Dean uses a colloquialism he just doesn’t understand. He genuinely doesn’t understand that Dean isn’t pushing him away and, re-playing his speech, Dean realizes that he might not have done such a good job of explaining it. “I’m saying that I don’t want you to give up your responsibilities for me, man, not leave altogether. I know I’ve been harping on you for spending all your time at the office, but that’s because I’m a selfish prick. You can’t keep just… sacrificing for me. It’s not right.”
“You’ve done enough of that yourself, Dean,” Cas reminds him.
“Just not for you.” Dean leans in to kiss Castiel once, bumping their foreheads together, and he might hold on to the angel a bit tighter than is necessary. Without meaning to, he finds himself echoing Lisa’s parting words to him, almost to the letter. “Go do what you need to do, and come when you can. There’s no guarantee that I won’t call you a bunch of names for being late, but… I’d feel a hell of a lot worse if you could be out there doing some good, and I was keeping you from it.”
Perceptive as he is, Castiel’s brow wrinkles. “This is the same arrangement you have with Lisa and Ben.”
Dean sighs, because yeah-good point. But there’s no time like the present to stop pussying out on a decision he should have made before he walked out the Braedens’ front door. “This will probably sound like a giant double standard, but it isn’t the same-Lisa doesn’t want to be part of this life-my life. She wants me to be a part of hers. I’ve been thinking a lot about that in the past few weeks, and… there’s no easy answer. I don’t have the right to make her accept the way I live, but I don’t have to pretend that it’s any easier with the shoe on the other foot. No matter I care about her and Ben, I can’t change what I do or who I am. Am I gonna be away for eight months of the year and flip a switch that’ll let me forget all about it when I show up at her door, and then leave again? I can’t live that way, Cas. Maybe some people are cut out for that kind of thing, but frankly I’m tired of feeling like there’s someone out there waiting on me that I’ll just disappoint.”
For a couple long, painful moments, Cas is totally silent, looking at Dean with a combination of respect and thoughtfulness. Dean hasn’t seen that look since he changed his mind about giving Michael his vessel, and it’s kind of an amazing thing to behold. All he wants to do is kiss Castiel until they’re both breathless, but he has a feeling that something else is coming-probably, if he’s allowed to guess, some nugget about how Dean isn’t a disappointment to anyone but himself, for all the constant self-doubt.
Surprisingly, Cas tells him, “None of this explains what you want, Dean.”
The simplicity of the statement, of Cas’s typical inability to understand how Dean can complicate even the easy stuff, actually makes Dean laugh out loud. He tries to muffle the sound into Cas’s throat. For once, it feels great to be called out on something he knows the answer to.
“Okay, fair enough.” He find’s Castiel’s gaze and holds it as he leans in close, so that Castiel will feels the words as well as hear them. “I want you in my life,” he says. “And I want you to promise me that you’ll keep thinking of me even when you can’t be here. I don’t mind waiting on you, because I know-” He has to stop and catch his breath, swallow around the lump in his throat that is making it rather difficult to talk. “You’ll always know where to find me.”
The smile that breaks Castiel’s face isn’t sudden, or wide, or anything that might be interpreted as a grand gesture-just as Dean hoped, that isn’t what they’re about. It’s enough that he can see the understanding in Cas’s eyes, the acceptance, and the small nod is more than he needs. When Cas captures his lips in a slow, devastating kiss, Dean thinks back to the first time they did this, and his world went still and perfect and complete.
Cas pulls away before Dean has to pause for a breath, but his hands are steady on either side of Dean’s face, preventing him from going very far. “You’ll have to leave now if you wish to catch up with Sam,” he says.
Dean thinks they’ll have to work on teaching Cas how to make more irrational demands upon Dean’s time, because the resignation just isn’t good enough. The best he can do for the time being is, fortunately, something he’s very good at-being more than irrational enough for the two of them combined.
“Sam’s the least of my worries,” he promises with finality. “The job got done, no one’s dead or dying, and we’re actually both on the same wavelength for the first time ever. You should stick around for a while, too.”
“I believe I have some time,” says Cas, and the look in his eyes makes Dean grin a total idiot grin of happiness. In spite of his snort of amusement, Cas smiles back, too. “For once, there’s no fire.”
Fin
AUTHOR: nanoochka
CHARACTERS: Dean/Castiel, Sam, Crowley, Gramps Campbell
RATING: Hard R for violence, gore, swearing, and sex
SUMMARY: Two weird cases, two different locations: Sam and Dean are forced to split up when calls from Samuel and Cas divide their attention between Iowa and Michigan, thinking that they might be dealing with two separate cases of Alphas. Although Cas is supposedly there to help, Dean's lost trust in the angel's priorities in the past year, and can't help but feel that he's running interference as Dean discovers that the rash of brutal animal slayings in the town of Springville are a symptom of something truly perverse.
WORD COUNT: This part: 5,120. Overall: 23,509 (The fuck?)
WARNINGS: Violence against domestic animals, slime
SPOILERS: Post-6x04, but kind of diverges from canon after that. It made more sense when I started writing it.
DISCLAIMER: I do not own the rights to Supernatural or any of its associated content. No infringement intended. Eat it, Kripke.
PROMPT: Written for spn_reversebang and miki_moo 's art prompt.
AUTHOR'S NOTE: See Part One for full Author's Notes. Fic masterpost here. Art Masterpost here
Not All Dogs Go to Heaven - Part 3/3 by nanoochka
As far as good ideas go, it turns out that Dean has to pat himself on the back for dragging Sam out to Springville anyway, because there’s no way in Hell that he would have figured out how to summon Crowley to their doorstep with his outdated knowledge. He’s all set to go forward with a Crossroads summoning, until the notion is shot down by Sam’s helpful reminder that they don’t have time to filter through every soul-dealer in existence until they find the right one. The days of imprecise summoning rituals are behind them.
Sam returns to the house carrying a small box that contains candles, herbs, a small bowl, a knife, and a book that had to have come from Samuel’s personal library. With Samuel distracting the Hellhound in one corner of the basement, who seems to want nothing more than to smell, lick or otherwise eat every single item they need for the ritual, Dean gets to work drawing the sigils upon the basement floor while Sam does the rest. His lines with the chalk are rough and slightly inexact, and he knows that Sam notices the weird, embarrassing shaking of his hands, even if he elects not to comment. Dean’s never experienced this kind of gut reaction before, where his mind seems perfectly okay, but his body decides otherwise; it’s not totally unlike being drunk or stoned, where even the most lucid thoughts are interpreted with stumbling steps or slurred words. It makes him wish, for a moment, that Castiel were here, if only to yell at him to man up and face his fears. Or something. He sort of wants Cas there either way.
Luckily, Sam elects to slice his own hand to satisfy the requirement for human blood, which he wraps in a length of bandage that he brought in with him from Samuel’s truck. “Are you ready?” he asks Dean, gesturing at their setup as Dean finishes lighting the black pillar candles.
Samuel glances up at them from his spot crouched near the Hellhound. “What do you mean, ‘ready’? You expecting this to get hairy?” His hand falls to the gun on his hip, like that would really do a thing but make Crowley piss himself laughing.
Managing to force something resembling a grin, Dean shrugs. “I’d probably want to kick our asses, if I were him,” he says amicably. “But then again, who wouldn’t?” He fishes a match out of the box Sam hands over, strikes one as practiced and as sure as the hundreds of other times he’s done this. He drops it into the bowl of blood-soaked herbs, and takes a step back as it doesn’t so much catch as explode in a firework display of sparks. “Guess we’ll find out how well the Leprechaun holds a grudge.”
There is a brief gust of air at his back, and a curse from Samuel; Dean knows without turning that Cas has landed behind him, and he smiles to himself. Sam, less sedate, frowns and gripes, “It’s about time, Cas.”
The hand that lands on Dean’s shoulder squeezes briefly, but Cas doesn’t look at him just yet, in favour of glancing over at Sam. “I needed time to recover from my last stop,” he says evenly. “You did not require my help thus far.” Dean snorts.
“Did you get in a fight?” This comes from Samuel, who has abandoned the Hellhound in favour of coming to check out the angel. Dean assumes that Sam wasn’t remiss in telling their grandfather as much as he knows about Cas, and he can’t really blame the old man for being a bit curious.
Without outwardly disputing Samuel’s desire to see for himself, Castiel just pauses to observe the older man while he himself falls under scrutiny. Any mutual observations remain unsaid, although Dean would bet money that Samuel is probably thinking that Cas doesn’t look like much, for all the stories. The impasse ends when Castiel gives that little smile, the one that glints in his eye more than it reaches his lips. Whatever challenge the elder Campbell thought he was issuing, he just lost.
“You might say that,” Cas says finally, and before he can turn that smile on Dean, there’s the sound of slow claps from the other end of the basement, and a low, smoky laugh tinged with genuine amusement.
“Cute,” Crowley muses. He skulks out of the shadows in a way that seems more for effect than anything, but Dean can’t fault the guy for clinging to his sense of theatrics. The demon looks pretty calm, all things considered. That’s probably as good a sign as they’re likely to get. Dean relaxes fractionally until Crowley adds, “I’d find the charade a damn sight more clever if you two didn’t reek of each other.” He smirks in Castiel’s direction, like nothing’s changed since they all played on team Let’s Save the World. “Good to know what the Sheriff of Heaven likes to do when he hangs up his badge. Tell me, Dean-does he put away his handcuffs, too, or do you prefer it when he brings them home? Does he have a big gun?”
Sam makes a face like he just licked the inside of a garbage can; meanwhile Dean schools himself very hard not to react except for the casual arch of an eyebrow.
“Uh, Dean-” Sam starts, but Cas just throws up a hand in exasperation.
“Stop prevaricating,” he tells Crowley. He steps forward into the room so that he and Crowley are warily facing off from opposite sides of the chalk sigils. The edge of impatience to his voice doesn’t sound forced. “We summoned you here for a reason.”
“Well, obviously,” the demon chuckles. “My own curiosity got the better of me-I couldn’t for the life of me figure out what could be so important, that you’d risk me ripping your bloody throats out after our last little chat.” His gaze settles upon Dean. “You’ve got some cheek, you little cun-”
“Enough!” The whole room seems to turn to look at Samuel, even the Hellhound. For a moment Dean sees what scared the shit out of his father for years before the old man died. Following Castiel’s lead, he approaches Crowley with one hand on his hip, and the other purposely resting upon the butt of his gun. “Whatever pissing contest you’ve got going with the angel can happen later-I’ve got a case to wrap up back in Iowa, and I’d rather not spend any more time in this bumfuck town that I have already.”
If he’s at all moved by the speech, Crowley doesn’t show it; but his face does become more keen when Samuel whistles sharply and snaps his fingers towards the Hellhound, who comes nearer as a trained dog might. Its attention seems divided between Samuel and Crowley, to whom it looks with avid interest.
“Well, well,” is all Crowley says. His gaze settles upon Castiel. “Wherever did you come across this sweet thing?”
“This ‘sweet thing’ has been eviscerating every cat, raccoon and lapdog within a fifteen mile radius of this town,” Dean cuts in. He knows he sounds annoyed, but he can’t help it. The memory of seeing the Hellhound tear into that cat suffuses him with anxiety and embarrassment at how badly he reacted, if only in front of Cas. It definitely doesn’t help that the demon all but outed him and Cas to his brother, because that’s a conversation Dean couldn’t escape even if Sammy actually had been replaced with a robot. “We need to know how the hell it got here, and why we can all see it. Whatever’s going on with this hound, it’s not right.”
Much to his surprise, Crowley nods agreeably. He demonstrates none of the human’s trepidation as he steps forward and falls into a neat crouch, hands held out towards the Hellhound like he might embrace it. “You can say that again.” He sounds… fond. No other word for it. “C’mere, lovely,” coos Crowley, and waggles his fingers at the hound invitingly. It wanders over with a wagging tail, breathing its fetid breath everywhere in their direction in its excitement. “Come to daddy, I won’t bite, atta boy.”
“I’m gonna throw up,” supplies Dean, and Castiel just hisses at him and says, “Hush.”
To Crowley he asks, “How is it possible for a Hellhound to appear like this?”
The demon shrugs, almost totally consumed with lavishing attention and affection upon the Hellhound, who allows itself to be petted with its black tongue lolling from its mouth in sheer pleasure. Its wet nose nuzzles into Crowley’s jacket with a happy snuffling sound. “My best guess is that a hound must have escaped when you freed Lucifer,” he says. “I had no proof of it myself, at the time, but I heard about such things happening. I would have liked to have gotten my hands on a couple more for my kennels.”
“Is anyone else disappointed that you didn’t?” Dean wonders aloud. It seems like everyone, including Cas, glares at him. He chooses an arbitrary point near the basement window and stares at it while he counts to ten. Randomly directed ire is not anything he signed up for, because as far as Dean’s concerned, he’s just calling it like he sees it. “Okay, sorry, but I’m not really seeing what that has to do with Wiggles, here. Any Hellhounds that escaped wouldn’t be eating Puppy Chow. Or am I wrong?”
“Don’t be daft,” scoffs Crowley. He straightens up so that he’s at eye-level with Dean, keeping one hand reassuringly upon the puppy’s head like a protective Mama Bear. Dean has to admit that the animal has taken to the demon in a way that’s almost fairytale-perfect. “There is no such thing as Hellhound puppies-they are created, not born.”
“Yeah, and?”
“The creature is not a product of Hell,” Cas concludes for him. Dean rolls his eyes at him in annoyance, as much for siding with Crowley as for reminding everyone that Dean isn’t as up to snuff on his lore as he should be. “Are you saying that the escaped Hellhound could have become a new Alpha?”
Nonchalantly, Crowley inspects his nails. “Could be. There have been an awful lot of them running amok out there.” Sam and their grandfather exchange a look that Dean doesn’t want so much as to touch with a ten-foot pole, but he can only deal with one issue at a time, anyway. “If I were to hazard a guess, I’d say that what you’re looking at is a case of some naughty cross-pollination. Hellhound escapes, finds itself a lovely bitch to mount, and before we know it we have an all-demonic production of Lady and the Tramp on our hands.”
Dean’s gag reflex starts to get antsy again. He chokes out a strangled, “This is my life,” and looks to Sam for commiseration, but all he gets is a raised eyebrow in response. It’s unsettling that their grandfather is the only other person in the room who looks a little bit grossed-out by the idea of a Hellhound mating with a normal dog, but then again, nothing should surprise him anymore.
“So now what?” asks Sam. He sounds genuinely curious. As much as he can, Dean takes a measure of relief from the fact that his brother has gone into science-fair mode, as opposed to reacting like this is all just another day in the life. “I don’t wanna be the one to suggest we take care of it now, before it gets too big, but-”
“Euthanasia would be a waste of a valuable opportunity to study a new breed,” says Cas.
Stepping in as the voice of reason, Samuel splutters, “That’s your big solution? Either we kill it, or we chain it up in some angelic lab somewhere so that it can be poked and prodded at?” His response is so passionate that Dean is a bit taken aback. He never pegged Samuel for the PETA-type, but apparently the man really loves all of God’s creatures, big and small. Some more than others, maybe.
He’s no bleeding heart, but Dean has to side with Samuel on this one. Aside from its foul snacking habits, the Hellhound pup hasn’t really shown any proclivity towards hurting anyone, and damn if that isn’t the strangest thought that’s ever crossed his mind, even more than the moment he first realized that his feelings towards Cas were slightly less than honourable, or platonic.
“I think Samuel’s got a point,” he says. “We’ve got to do something, but killing an innocent animal isn’t really what I signed up for. It’s not what you signed up for either, Sam.” His brother glares at Dean for singling him out. Typical. Looking over at Crowley, who seems to be growing more bored by the second, and probably wondering what the hell he’s doing here, Dean adds, “Obviously the simplest solution is to let Crowley deal with it.”
“Beg pardon?”
Dean rolls his eyes. “C’mon, man. We didn’t call you here for high tea, we called because we all know you’re a damned sight more experienced with these things than any of us, at least in the area of not getting ripped to shreds.” At this, Crowley sniggers, but Dean isn’t finished. “If anyone has a better suggestion, be my guest-but we aren’t letting this thing go, and we aren’t killing it. So Crowley should take it with him.”
Cas, understandably, is pissed at the suggestion; his face scrunches up in a very Jimmy Novak-esque way, which seems to be the only way that Cas can register total bafflement. “Yes, let’s just give the enemy another weapon, Dean,” he drawls.
“It’s not anything right now,” Dean points out. “It’s-and I can’t believe I’m saying this, either, so give me a break-just a dog. I don’t see how throwing it to the angels would be any better, because we all know that kids’ movie was wrong.”
It shouldn’t be nearly so entertaining for Cas and Crowley to both give frustrated sighs at the same time, but Dean nearly cracks a smile when he hears it. “I don’t enjoy having my services volunteered,” says Crowley.
“Then let’s hear your idea,” answers Samuel, gesturing. “You have the floor.”
“Don’t presume that I need your permission, old man,” Crowley sniffs, arch as can be. The men collectively roll their eyes at that, and Dean even thinks he sees Castiel’s lips purse in exasperation. Crowley is silent for a moment, considering the hound with an arched brow. Sensing his attention, the puppy’s tail begins wagging eagerly, whipping across the floor in slimy excitement. It ruffs in anticipation, ears twitching, and Crowley’s mouth twitches in a smile in spite of himself. “As much as pains me to agree with any of you lot, Dean has a point,” he finally concedes. “Under no circumstances should this ponce-” and here he motions at Cas, “-take this creature for his lackeys to do with what they will.”
“Then we’re agreed,” Samuel says with a sigh of relief.
“We are not,” Castiel interjects, but Dean manages to cut him off with a look that, he hopes, adequately reminds the angel of their earlier conversation. He knows he’ll hear about it later, but as far as he’s concerned, a promise is a promise-even if it’s unspoken.
“What are you going to do with it?” asks Sam, oblivious to the silent exchange.
“Same as I did with Growly, I expect,” Crowley replies easily. “Trained him myself, and now there’s not a canine in Hell who can best ‘im. It’ll take some getting used to a new hound, but he always does what he’s told, does Growly.”
“And so Hell will have yet another monstrosity with which to collect the souls of innocent humans,” Cas grates out, pissed about having been vetoed. Dean can’t help but find him endearing this way, but he’d rather not make a habit of it if he ever wants to get laid again.
“There’s no such thing as an innocent human, darling,” says Crowley. “But no need to worry-I only send my dogs out on the most special of tasks, and I doubt this one will ever grow up to be full size.” He shrugs. “This is the offer: take it or leave it. Hell isn’t going to run itself, and I’ve wasted enough time standing around with you lot as it is.”
When no one responds, Crowley claps his hands together once and approaches the Hellhound, who is wriggling around as though someone has just announced walkies. Dean doesn’t even know whether it even needs to piss, but Crowley unfastens the chain at the other end, and wraps it around his fist like an impromptu leash, drawing the Hellhound to his side.
“Well then, chums,” he says brightly, and gives a mock-salute, “pleasure doing business with you; don’t call me again.” With that, they’re both gone, and it takes a moment for Dean to process that this has probably been the most anticlimactic case ever.
“That was a bit lame,” Sam says eventually, and Dean snorts.
“No kidding.” He looks over at where Cas is still standing with his arms folded, and Dean is a little surprised that he hasn’t fucked off already, since he is so clearly itching to flutter away in a huff. “It was the best possible solution,” Dean reminds him.
“I don’t concur,” he mutters. “The plan was not to give the hound to Crowley-I barely have more information about the creature than when we started.”
“Then maybe you two should start collaborating, if you aren’t happy with how us humans carry out your grunt work,” suggests Samuel dryly. Cas bristles, but the old hunter seems unfazed. Balls of steel, Dean thinks. He could never accuse his grandfather of lacking chutzpah, and already he’s chomping at the bit to take off and face down the next bump in the night. “Now that that’s taken care of, let’s get the hell out of here. Much as I love a cut-and-dry case, there’s one still waiting for me back in Iowa.”
Not waiting for a response, Samuel begins packing up the supplies they brought in from the truck, blowing out the candles and scuffing out the sigils on the floor to obscure the evidence of what they were doing. The basement will likely still smell of sulphur for a while, but that’s a conundrum Dean’s never found the answer to, having disposed of more than his fair share of clothing that could never be aired out enough.
The remaining three look on as Samuel ascend the stairs with a parting glance at Sam. Once he’s out of sight, Sam looks over at Dean with a thoughtful expression on his face. Dean doesn’t think it’s just his imagination that tells him that the look takes in both him and Castiel. That’s worrisome, but Sam doesn’t seem inclined to discuss it, either-not now, anyway.
“You coming?” is all he says.
Dean pauses to consider the question, and after a moment looks over at Cas; the angel appears impassive, but the readiness with which he meets Dean’s eyes betrays his investment in the answer. He rubs the back of his neck and turns back to his brother. “Eventually,” he says. “I gotta pack up all my shit here, but you go on ahead with Samuel. I’ll catch up with you in a bit.”
Sam just shrugs and smoothes his hair back, like the answer neither surprises him, nor concerns him either way. “Sounds good,” he chirps. “I’ll text you the directions.”
Sparing a nod for Cas, he shoves his hands into the pockets of his jacket, and follows their grandfather upstairs and out of the house. A moment later, Dean hears the truck roar to life and drive away.
After the cacophony of the last couple hours, the basement is almost eerily silent with just Dean and Castiel left. Cas, of course, doesn’t make any sound that is unnecessary, and for a few minutes neither of them say a thing. It’s amazing how much is running through Dean’s head now that he can actually pause to hear himself think. As usual, he has no idea what’s even going on in Castiel’s angel brain, and envies him for a moment his ability to read minds, or at least, read Dean.
He tries to start simple, and with the question that’s been bothering him most. For some reason he finds it easier to ask when he takes a few steps towards Castiel, so that they are sharing personal space and breathing the same air, more comfortable together than apart. “Before Samuel and my brother got here,” he says, “you were gonna tell me something, weren’t you?”
Castiel doesn’t even blink. “Yes,” he answers calmly. “I was.”
“What?” The angel remains so unfazed that his composure begins to put Dean on edge; he feels like his body is buzzing to life on the inside, wired with anticipation and desire that he managed to keep bottled up for over a year, though he has no idea how.
When he reaches out to brush his thumb along Dean’s lower lip, Cas does nothing more than meet his gaze with a gentle sigh. “It’s no great matter,” he explains. “I just wanted you to know that, if you were to ask me to stay…” Here, he pauses, and Dean begins to rethink his earlier judgement about Cas’s poise. Like he’s in agreement, Cas shakes his head once, from side to side. His eyes close, and stay closed while he speaks. “Dean, I’d gladly choose whatever side you happened to be on.” That said, Cas’s eyes open and he holds eye contact this time, firm. “If you asked,” he says again.
There’s no denying that the statement catches Dean off-guard, and it sets his mind spinning for longer than Cas probably intended. It’s a nice thought and, being honest, pretty much all he’s wanted for a long time; but that doesn’t make the answer come easy. If anything, he has to stop and consider just because he wants it so bad. Cas’s brow creases in confusion, and Dean realizes that maybe the angel thinks that Dean is trying to figure out how to let him down easy.
“That pretty much sounds like the best thing ever,” Dean admits eventually.
“Does it?”
“Like you wouldn’t believe.”
Pulling Cas in against his chest, Dean wonders how they wound up here when, two days ago, they were at each other’s throats. They never had these kinds of conversations before Cas went back to Heaven-their break-up, for lack of a better word. The thought occurs to Dean that maybe his year with Lisa and Ben was necessary for him to reach this point, even if parts of him felt like he was just distracting himself from what he really wanted. Without it, he might have just carried on in the same fucked-up, Winchester headspace as before, too caught up in his own misery to appreciate all of Cas’s complexities, his value, his needs. Castiel has never shared in Dean’s hostility towards the truth, but Dean was always pretty good at blocking it out, regardless of how loudly Cas shouted it at him. He needed to grow up and see what he was missing, only now he feels that there are entire conversations he was absent for. If he can’t run quickly enough to catch up, he might die trying.
Dean doesn’t know where to begin, but he’s fairly certain that handcuffing himself and Cas together again isn’t the way to do it. “I can’t let you choose me again, Cas,” he says quietly. He sighs, and brings his hand up to cup the angel’s jaw, feeling the sharp, strong lines of it, the perfect dimple of his chin. “We’ve been down that road before, and it just caused a lot of pain for both of us. Much as I want to, and as much as I’ll probably bitch and whine and moan at you for always being somewhere else, I can’t ask you to abandon this war just to have you around a bit more often.”
“You like having me around,” Cas points out, frowning.
Dean huffs in embarrassment. “Yeah, I do. More than I like to admit, and that’s probably why I’m in such a bad mood all the time. But-it’d feel too selfish to pull you away from trying to make things right with Heaven.” Shrugging, he cocks a smile he doesn’t feel all the way through to the inside, and knows that Cas knows it.
The frown is still there, etched across Cas’s face so deeply that Dean worries that it’ll stay that way. Cas murmurs, after a long minute, “The outcome of this conversation escapes me.”
“The outcome of that sentence escapes me,” says Dean.
“Are you saying you’d rather I not return?” Castiel asks.
“What? No!” Dean actually has to hold Cas away at arm’s length just to get a proper read on him. Mostly he looks confused, but not in the same way as when Dean uses a colloquialism he just doesn’t understand. He genuinely doesn’t understand that Dean isn’t pushing him away and, re-playing his speech, Dean realizes that he might not have done such a good job of explaining it. “I’m saying that I don’t want you to give up your responsibilities for me, man, not leave altogether. I know I’ve been harping on you for spending all your time at the office, but that’s because I’m a selfish prick. You can’t keep just… sacrificing for me. It’s not right.”
“You’ve done enough of that yourself, Dean,” Cas reminds him.
“Just not for you.” Dean leans in to kiss Castiel once, bumping their foreheads together, and he might hold on to the angel a bit tighter than is necessary. Without meaning to, he finds himself echoing Lisa’s parting words to him, almost to the letter. “Go do what you need to do, and come when you can. There’s no guarantee that I won’t call you a bunch of names for being late, but… I’d feel a hell of a lot worse if you could be out there doing some good, and I was keeping you from it.”
Perceptive as he is, Castiel’s brow wrinkles. “This is the same arrangement you have with Lisa and Ben.”
Dean sighs, because yeah-good point. But there’s no time like the present to stop pussying out on a decision he should have made before he walked out the Braedens’ front door. “This will probably sound like a giant double standard, but it isn’t the same-Lisa doesn’t want to be part of this life-my life. She wants me to be a part of hers. I’ve been thinking a lot about that in the past few weeks, and… there’s no easy answer. I don’t have the right to make her accept the way I live, but I don’t have to pretend that it’s any easier with the shoe on the other foot. No matter I care about her and Ben, I can’t change what I do or who I am. Am I gonna be away for eight months of the year and flip a switch that’ll let me forget all about it when I show up at her door, and then leave again? I can’t live that way, Cas. Maybe some people are cut out for that kind of thing, but frankly I’m tired of feeling like there’s someone out there waiting on me that I’ll just disappoint.”
For a couple long, painful moments, Cas is totally silent, looking at Dean with a combination of respect and thoughtfulness. Dean hasn’t seen that look since he changed his mind about giving Michael his vessel, and it’s kind of an amazing thing to behold. All he wants to do is kiss Castiel until they’re both breathless, but he has a feeling that something else is coming-probably, if he’s allowed to guess, some nugget about how Dean isn’t a disappointment to anyone but himself, for all the constant self-doubt.
Surprisingly, Cas tells him, “None of this explains what you want, Dean.”
The simplicity of the statement, of Cas’s typical inability to understand how Dean can complicate even the easy stuff, actually makes Dean laugh out loud. He tries to muffle the sound into Cas’s throat. For once, it feels great to be called out on something he knows the answer to.
“Okay, fair enough.” He find’s Castiel’s gaze and holds it as he leans in close, so that Castiel will feels the words as well as hear them. “I want you in my life,” he says. “And I want you to promise me that you’ll keep thinking of me even when you can’t be here. I don’t mind waiting on you, because I know-” He has to stop and catch his breath, swallow around the lump in his throat that is making it rather difficult to talk. “You’ll always know where to find me.”
The smile that breaks Castiel’s face isn’t sudden, or wide, or anything that might be interpreted as a grand gesture-just as Dean hoped, that isn’t what they’re about. It’s enough that he can see the understanding in Cas’s eyes, the acceptance, and the small nod is more than he needs. When Cas captures his lips in a slow, devastating kiss, Dean thinks back to the first time they did this, and his world went still and perfect and complete.
Cas pulls away before Dean has to pause for a breath, but his hands are steady on either side of Dean’s face, preventing him from going very far. “You’ll have to leave now if you wish to catch up with Sam,” he says.
Dean thinks they’ll have to work on teaching Cas how to make more irrational demands upon Dean’s time, because the resignation just isn’t good enough. The best he can do for the time being is, fortunately, something he’s very good at-being more than irrational enough for the two of them combined.
“Sam’s the least of my worries,” he promises with finality. “The job got done, no one’s dead or dying, and we’re actually both on the same wavelength for the first time ever. You should stick around for a while, too.”
“I believe I have some time,” says Cas, and the look in his eyes makes Dean grin a total idiot grin of happiness. In spite of his snort of amusement, Cas smiles back, too. “For once, there’s no fire.”
Fin