Because what is my life. [fic: Empyrean Glow Part 1]
Title: Empyrean Glow
Beta: gqgqqt (thank you for all the hand-holding, ha ha oh god)
Fandom: Supernatural
Characters/Pairing: Dean/Castiel; Sam, Bobby, Lisa, Crowley, a few OCs
Rating: M
Spoilers: None, unless you haven’t seen 5.22 “Swan Song”
Word Count: 14,161
Disclaimer: All television shows, movies, books, and other copyrighted material referred to in this work, and the characters, settings, and events thereof, are the properties of their respective owners. As this work is an interpretation of the original material and not for-profit, it constitutes fair use. Reference to real persons, places, or events are made in a fictional context, and are not intended to be libelous, defamatory, or in any way factual.
Summary: Post Apocalypse life isn’t quite like apple pie, but it’s better than Dean expected. And then a bored crossroads demon just has to take an interest in his crush on Heaven’s newest archangel.
Author’s Note: “Crowley tongue fucks Dean right in front of Cas, who gets all huffy and possessive and is totally in control later at night, :D”. Yeah. Talk about the biggest backfire since my DCBB fic. What is this fic I don’t know. I just don’t know. Apparently I can’t write anything remotely PWP or solid and short because everything needs ~*~plot~*~. Anyway, it is straight up rated M/R and I’m gonna go hide now. Fml.
Part of the deal Sam and Dean made when they started hunting again was that they’d spend time hunting alone or with other people. “Erotically codependent”, the asshole Zachariah called it, was what saved the world from going to the zombies, but it’s what started the Apocalypse in the first place. It’s why Sam explicitly told Dean to never come after him and to go straight to Lisa.
This new arrangement’s easier to stick to than Dean first thought. Maybe it had something to do with the year he spent with Lisa and Ben, but he knows for a fact that it had everything to do with the knowledge that Sam is here. It’s no longer about Sam riding shotgun or staying up to research while Dean dozes off or playing the reliable good cop to Dean’s bad or sliding in with a shotgun at the last minute to take out the pissy ghost. It’s no longer about Sam having to be here and everything to do with Sam being alive.
Not that he lost anything in living with Lisa and Ben. They’re the breath of fresh air he needed for over seventy years, and he comes back to them whenever he can to kick back and withdraw from the hunting world.
It only lasts so long because then Lisa will point out a small blurb in the local paper, or Sam/Bobby/Rufus will call about strange deaths in Bumfuck a hundred miles from Cicero, or the Friendly Neighborhood Archangel will blow in, knocking him off his chair and sending up in a whirlwind of loose papers. Lisa will just raise an eyebrow and continue working on the latest Sudoku puzzle.
“Man, and I was just getting to the good part,” he grumbles, picking himself up and turning off the TV. “What is it this time?”
He doesn’t look at Castiel. He hasn’t been able to for a long time, not without his chest trying to suffocate him or his heart trying to break his ribs or his skin crawling and flushing with heat whenever the archangel invades his personal space. It’s embarrassing and nerve-wracking and maybe a bit terrifying so he tries not to think about it. Tries not to pay attention to the wall of heat that trails him to his room where a duffel bag waits.
“Call before you start back,” Lisa says as Castiel follows him out the door.
“The trickster Sam and Bobby are looking into is calling itself Loki,” Castiel announces while Dean throws his bag in the back of the Impala. He bangs his head on the roof as he yanks himself out and stares at Castiel over the top of the car for the first time.
Castiel looks tired and maybe a bit aggravated. He’s also staring straight at Dean, which means his heart is palpitating and he’s gripping the car door a little too tightly.
“You mean he’s alive?” Dean asks. They both know who he’s talking about.
Castiel shakes his head. “I can take you to Bobby’s right now. They’re heading back as we speak-”
“We’re driving,” Dean says firmly, because he’s sworn off Angel Airlines for good, even if he has his own private jet on standby. “C’mon, get in the car.”
He drops his gaze and gets in behind the wheel, doesn’t bother raising an eyebrow when Castiel is already there, hands in his lap while he stares straight ahead. Every car ride starts like this. Just give him an hour or two to relax, loosen up a bit, start being a little more human.
Dean likes it when Castiel rides shotgun, but he’s never going to admit that. He’s also never admitting to liking that Castiel doesn’t mind his music, except Rock of Ages and even Dean has to agree. Castiel also has a thing for rolling the window all the way down and letting his arm hang on, meaning the breeze gets to whip its way through the car and around them, but Dean doesn’t mind that either, even if the roar drowns out his phone and he ends up with six missed phone calls, three texts, and a bitchy voicemail from Sam.
He wondered once if this was what flying’s like for angels, but crushed the thought and asked if Castiel drank beer in Heaven.
~*~*~*~
He knows exactly when it happened, like some teenage girl scribbling, “Josh Harding looked at me!!!” in her froofy pink journal with a glittery pen. Luckily his journal is in his head and the only one who’s capable of finding and reading it had agreed years ago to stop snooping around. Thank god because Dean would probably die if Castiel ever found out.
They were in Idaho, potato country, checking out rumors of a revenant. Instead they kicked up a whole nest of non vegetarian vampires and that would have been the end of Sam and Dean Winchester if Castiel hadn’t stormed the abandoned barn, beheaded the two vampires closest to them with one swing of his silver sword, and whisked them back to their motel room.
“Nice save,” Dean said while patching Sam up, ignoring the questions bubbling in his head - How’d you know? How’d you find us? Why are you really here? Don’t you have more important things to do than watch out for two humans?
“It’s the least I can do,” Castiel rumbled as he hovered by the door. When he didn’t leave Dean started looking at him, at the flecks of red on his coat sleeve and the way his long fingers twitched. Then he jabbed Sam with the needle and got an earful for it; the next time he looked, stitches done and Sam bitching about the vampires, Castiel was gone. Dean shoved aside the disappointment and told Sam to man up, they need to get some dead man’s blood.
Dean felt a whole lot better when he spotted Castiel waiting for them near the barn. Apparently he had a lot of time on his hands and was using it to help them out, which pleased Dean more than it should.
“They bring their victims here,” the archangel told them quietly. “They should arrive in approximately ten minutes.”
He was a ghostly figure in the moonlight, deep shadows cutting edges around his blunt jaw and dragging him into the pitch-black of the overgrown farmland. Dean wanted to reach out and touch his face, make sure he’s actually there, and then the bucket of thick blood swayed in his grip, dragging him back down to reality and reminding him to fucking breathe and what the fuck are you thinking.
Sam frowned when he choked on dusty air.
It didn’t really hit him until the last head rolled in the blood-soaked dirt and Dean, serrated knife gripped tightly in his hand, took a deep breath and looked up. Sam was giving him a shit-eating grin as he helped a would-be victim to his feet; the man’s cousin is already standing and gagging at the mess. And Castiel-
It was like the whole world shifted in his head, pulling and pushing until everything was in alignment with the archangel standing over the body of the nest leader, sword dripping, clothes soaked, flecks of blood trickling down his face.
His terrible and beautiful face.
And all Dean could think was, I know you, which was weirdest fucking thing to come to mind.
Then Castiel flicked vampire blood off the blade of his sword and he was as clean and pressed as a rumpled holy tax accountant can get. He looked over his shoulder at Sam and the two survivors, and then said, “I am needed in Heaven.”
Dean couldn’t see his eyes and for once he was glad; just the weight of it was worse than ever, and he could barely make himself nod before Castiel disappeared in a whirlwind of dust and rotten hay.
One of the survivors gasped and the sound snapped the silence.
“Right,” Dean said immediately afterward, and suddenly he had to keep talking or moving. “We need to burn these bodies. Can you help us?”
“Y-yeah,” one of them said.
The man, Timothy Lu, later asked while Sam squirted lighter fluid on the bodies piled up several yards from the barn, “What is he?”
“Who?”
“Your friend, the one who disappeared.”
Dean shifted from foot to foot. He didn’t feel like sharing. Never did. “Someone I met years ago.”
“But what is he?”
Sam tossed a handful of lit matches onto the pyre and stepped back while the fire roared and shot upwards, golden arms reaching for the stars. Dean felt the rush of the hunt thrum with the heat and the licking flames. Dried blood cracked as he grinned.
“Something powerful.”
~*~*~*~
Sam tells him they’ll be a day late. The town he and Bobby stopped at for lunch has a haunted house, or so the folks there say. Also, they can’t get a solid lead on the trickster that’s calling itself Loki and sorry for dragging him out of the house.
“Maybe Crowley knows something-”
“No, I am not calling him.”
“Then ask Cas. He’s with you, right?”
“Yeah.”
“Ask him. Gotta go.”
“Don’t let the haunted house kick your bony ass.”
“Shut up, you jerk.”
“Bitch.” Dean ends the call. “What do you think?”
It takes a minute before he hears anything. Castiel shifts, slide of fabric on fabric, slow like he’s just remembering that he should act more human, more fidgety. It ends up setting Dean’s nerves on fire and crushing his chest. He grips the wheel tightly, swallowing hard, and spares a sideways glance; Castiel’s wrapped himself in his coat like he’s cold and he’s staring out the window, a thoughtful expression on his face. The window is rolled up except for a two-inch gap and the wind smells of tar and prairie grass.
“I don’t know. Loki is no ordinary trickster god, and Gabriel was one of the original archangels. Or the trickster is very aware of who they are and is leading you on.”
“That’s just great. Bobby’s going to blow his top.”
“They’re dealing with a trickster.”
Dean sighs and steps on the gas.
~*~*~*~
“I have a proposition for you.”
To his credit Crowley didn’t twitch at the three shotguns pointed at his head.
“Thought you were done with us,” Dean said.
“Turns out I’m a softie for the people that deliver,” the demon replied as he edged away from them. He sidestepped the giant rug like he knew about the devil’s trap painted on the other side, a smirk on his face because he knew the entire layout of the house, all the salt and iron and sigils encasing it in layers upon layers of protection, and all the little gaps in the defenses to manipulate.
“The hell does that mean?” Bobby demanded.
“Means I enjoy doing business with you. So, I have a proposition.”
Killing him was not an option, since both the Colt and Ruby’s knife were out of reach. They couldn’t really kill him anyway, since Crowley, in his aggravating way, helped them send Lucifer back to Hell. That left them with kicking him out or letting him make his pitch.
“Better not involve kissing,” Sam said under his breath. Crowley frowned at him.
“You’re the last person I want to send to Hell, so no thank you. It’s quite simple, really. I have eyes and ears everywhere. If you need hard-to-find intel, I can get it.”
“Oh really?” Dean asked.
“Don’t believe me? I found you Famine and Death, didn’t I?”
Point. A very painful point. “What makes you think we want it?”
“If you think Heaven’s a mess, you should see what the Apocalypse did around here. There’s a power vacuum with Lucifer, Azazel, and Lilith gone. I’m one of the top dogs, but King of the Crossroads only gets you so far. So here’s the deal - I tell you if something’s up and you kill a few demons for me.”
“That’s it?” Bobby asked.
“Don’t you trust me? I told you I’d give you your soul back.”
“After I summoned you into a devil’s trap, yeah.”
Crowley rolled his eyes and made an empty gesture with his hand. “Details. I was preoccupied at the time reestablishing myself in the demonic pecking order. Look, I’m just going to lay it out on the table and show myself out. Your choice. I’ll see you around.”
He looked directly at Bobby as he said this and then he strolled out the house through the back door. Sam leaned over and peered through the window. “He’s gone.”
Dean lowered his shotgun. “What the hell was that?”
“You tell me,” Bobby said, removing shotgun shells from his firearm and setting them both on his desk. “Guess that’s what he meant when he said he owed us something.”
“When did he say that?” Sam asked.
Bobby shrugged and sat down; he pulled out a bottle of Scotch and three shot glasses and started pouring like it’s normal to get drunk at ten in the morning. “The last time he stopped by.”
“When was that?”
“Couple of weeks ago. If I didn’t know any better I’d say he’s grown fond of us.” With a snort Bobby picks up a shot glass and downs the liquor in one go. “Said he figured he owed us something for taking Lucifer out of the picture.”
Dean frowned at the amber in his shot glass. “Crowley said that?”
“Yep.”
“A demon.”
“Yep.”
“King of the Crossroads.”
“You want me to spell it out for you?” Bobby snapped. “Nearly blew his head off, too.”
They didn’t really believe it until two and a half weeks later, when Crowley appeared in the backseat and calmly informed them that not only were they looking for succubi and not sirens but that there’s also a powerful demon in town and could they please gank it for him?
“Is this going to be a regular thing?” Dean demanded after they took out the five succubi and the milky-eyed demon.
“Oh I hope not,” Crowley said and promptly disappeared.
~*~*~*~
“Guess I have the whole house to myself,” Dean says as he slams the trunk and hefts his duffel bag. He’s thinking about his collection of firearms gathering dust in his room - Lisa, not surprisingly, banned all guns from the house before permitting his reliable Colt to stay - and the quiet joy of disassembling and cleaning each one with loving care. It was one of the first things he did after Sam appeared at Lisa’s doorstep, skittish and fumbling and ready to drag Dean back out into the world.
Castiel nods. His hand rests on the hood of the Impala, slender fingers splayed over the polished black surface, and Dean wonders if they’re as nimble as he imagines, as quick and sure and strong and full of warmth. With a shudder he turns and heads for the door. He really needs to stop thinking about Castiel’s hands.
Because post-Apocalypse Sam is apparently a neat freak the house isn’t drowning in books and off-kilter paraphernalia. According to Bobby Sam had been cataloguing and organizing his possessions since he claimed one of the guest rooms as his own. Bobby had grudgingly allowed it, muttering about how his system never failed him before while admitting he’d been looking for one of the books for years, but drew the line at the rabbit food in his fridge.
Dean hovers at the doorway, freezes up when he feels a wall of heat at his back. Too close, too close, too close.
“Don’t you, uh, have somewhere else to be?” he chokes out.
“Where?”
Rolling his eyes Dean steps inside, feeling himself relax when the heat fades. At the same time he expects it to follow him and glances over his shoulder when it doesn’t. Castiel stares up at the ceiling, head tilted to the side. Dean looks up but sees nothing out of the ordinary.
“Want a beer?” Dean tosses the duffel bag onto the couch. He already knows the answer.
Castiel is sitting on the couch next to his bag when he returns with two cold bottles, feet planted on the floor and elbows on his knees. His head is bowed, eyes narrowed like he’s concentrating on something, but they widen and flick upwards when Dean holds out his beer.
“I am not needed in Heaven at the moment,” Castiel says slowly as he rolls the bottle in his hands. “Nor do I wish to return anytime soon.”
He rarely talks about the disorganization in Heaven and Dean never asks. Dean wonders if he should start now. Casually, like he actually cares about Castiel’s job, he asks, “Why’s that? Policing Heaven can’t be too hard.”
A decidedly un-angelic snort distracts him from his beer and Dean turns around to see Castiel smiling ruefully at the floor. “What’s so funny?”
The smile turns to Dean. It mirrors the shit-eating one glued to a future Castiel but it’s not careless; it’s…amused, curious, uncharacteristically fond, and Dean starts squirming in place. He rubs the pad of his thumb along the side of the bottle, slick with condensation, and then gulps down half the beer. When he checks Castiel is drinking, too, but he’s still watching Dean.
“What?” Dean asks, trying to channel annoyance into his voice.
Castiel swirls the contents of the bottle in his hand, long fingers holding the glass delicately like it’ll shatter it if he applies even the slightest pressure. The way he’s sitting on the couch pulls up his coat and shirt sleeves, exposing slender wrists and Dean suddenly wants to hold them, wants to feel for a hint of pulse under the pale skin.
He won’t lie; he does this to Sam sometimes, grabbing his wrist to feel the steady beat while Sam gives him a weird look.
“We holding hands now?” Sam asked the first time he did this and Dean just shook his head, unable to say anything around the lump in his throat.
Much later Sam just told him, “I’m not going anywhere.”
“I know.”
“You can’t hold onto me forever.”
“I know.”
“I mean, you can let go now.”
Dean can remember rather vividly the night Castiel returned to his life. A pack of werewolves in Montana and they were in their log cabin-themed motel room packing silver bullets and checking their knives when the lights started flickering. At a glance Dean pulled out Ruby’s knife and Sam a quart of holy water and a handgun. Then there was no flickering, no light bulbs exploding, no sparks spraying as a man in a trench coat suddenly appeared in the middle of the room.
Dean was too shell-shocked to say, “You bastard, you didn’t even say goodbye,” and just stood there while Sam strode over to Heaven’s sheriff with a grin on his face, hand reaching out to grasp Castiel’s in a handshake and a hug. The newest archangel obliged willingly but his eyes were on Dean.
There was no hugging or handshakes. Castiel just walked up to him, pushing into his personal space like he used to, and waited. For what, Dean didn’t know, so he just tossed the knife onto the bed and said, “We’re hunting werewolves.”
And after shooting every one of them with silver bullets? The three of them watched the bodies burn in a furious, writhing orange glow and that’s when Castiel said, “Angels have come to earth.”
“Like you?”
“No. They wish to harm you.”
“Why?” Sam asked.
Castiel looked at Sam briefly and then the brunt of his gaze settled on the side of Dean’s face. “Because of me.”
And right there and then Dean wanted to grab his hand and slide his fingers up until they settled on his wrist, found a pulse even though angels probably don’t have one. He just needed to know that Castiel was really here, the way Sam was here. He couldn’t do it, though; who knew how long before Castiel went back to Heaven and forgot about them again? Instead he elbowed the archangel, meeting a solid wall that will never fall, and said, “Nothing we can’t handle.”
The next morning he called Bobby for the first time in over a year and was berated both for the early hour and for being a “goddamn idjit.” When Sam and Dean pulled up at the Singer Salvage Yard Bobby was waiting for them, holy water in one hand and whiskey in the other.
“You’re hunting again and you didn’t bother to call me?” he asked while they took their requisite shots. He didn’t ask how Sam got out of Hell, but neither did Dean.
“I was, uh…” Sam shrugged, ducked his head. “I was looking for myself.”
There was nothing more to say about that, not after just about everything, so Bobby turned on Dean. “And you. What the hell happened to you?”
What was he supposed to say? How would he explain the collapse of his apple pie life, the return of dreams and nightmares that devoured it until there was nothing left but crumbs and a pie tin? He only hung on until Lisa understood, until Sam was in his life again.
Dean downed the rest of the whiskey, waited until the burn faded, and tilted his head in Sam’s direction. “Dragged me out the front door.”
Two brothers on the road, searching for themselves along the never-ending highway. An almost perfect story of redemption and self-discovery except for the monsters, demons, and renegade angels they met along the way.
And then there’s the archangel sitting in Bobby’s living room, the subject and object of Dean’s dreams in the months since the Idaho vampires. If he didn’t know any better he’d say it’s a recent obsession, or the yearlong absence finally catching up with Dean’s head and turning it into something more familiar to him. But it’s a lie. It’s always been a lie.
He just doesn’t know why he’s realizing this now.
Twisting the bottle in his hand he glances at the kitchen and clears his throat. “Uh, need another beer?”
Castiel looks at him instead of the glass swinging loosely from his fingers. “You’re not finished.”
“Talking about you,” Dean says, unable to stop smiling even though he’s feeling hot and cold all over and is just about ready to crawl out of his skin. “Or we can go out, find a bar and shoot some pool.”
Castiel tilts his head as he contemplates the suggestion. “I’d rather stay here but I’ll go wherever you go.”
Shit, that’s not what he expected Castiel to say. He wrings the neck of the glass bottle, licking his lip with a dry tongue, and abruptly turns and stalks towards the kitchen. “Yeah, more beer.”
Out of the corner of his eye he sees Castiel make an aborted move to stand and suddenly he wants to run. His hand shakes as he sets his beer on the counter and then he nearly knocks it over as he reaches for the fridge handle. He ends up leaning against the fridge, staring at its contents without making a move for one of the three bottles left.
What is wrong with him? He’s had it bad before - Cassie, his mind whispers with fond nostalgia and then laughs at the memory of his fumbling attempts to introduce himself to her one night at a college bar a lifetime ago - but he was never fucking terrified of what he’s feeling. Old habits keep him playing cool, acting like it’s just another day in the life of Dean Winchester, but inside he keeps freezing up, keeps floundering over this-this-whatever the hell this is.
His shoulders tense at creaking floorboards but the footsteps are fading. Maybe Castiel’s going to poke around Bobby’s library for a bit while waiting for the beer that’s in the fridge and not in Dean’s hand. And since the archangel doesn’t seem keen on going back to Heaven for some reason Dean’s stuck with him for at least a day.
Then he realizes that Sam and Bobby aren’t here; they’re miles away, checking out a haunted house. It’ll be just Dean and Castiel under the same roof, and Castiel will only go wherever he goes unless Heaven suddenly needs some policing. The thought is a little more than Dean can handle and he nearly misses the bottle he’s reaching for.
“Poor Dean Winchester, getting overemotional because he can’t, or won’t, man up.”
Dean knocks the bottle over and bangs the back of his head on the fridge as he extracts himself and whirls around.
“Now what do you want?” he growls. His heart is pounding way too fast and his senses flood with heat and embarrassment and the overwhelming need to either run or stab something.
Crowley just raises an eyebrow at him from his seat behind Bobby’s desk, polished wingtips propped up on top of piles of newspapers and old books. Bobby would kill him if he was here and Dean considers doing the favor for him.
“Funny you should ask, as that’s the question I should be asking you,” he says. “King of the Crossroads and all. But I’ll ask anyway. What do you want?”
~*~*~*~
Dean didn’t know how to tell Sam that trying to keep his promise was going to break him, but Lisa did it for him, ordering him to go pack some clothes and “work things out before you come back home, or else I’m taking my guest room back.”
“It…didn’t work?” he asked tentatively as he leaned against his car - his car, because apparently Sam was on the road for a long time.
Dean shrugged, hefted the duffel bag on his shoulder as he popped the Impala’s trunk open. “Not the way you thought would happen.”
“What do you mean?”
Dean turned to him. “Sam, that apple pie life? It’s just a pipe dream. I tried, but turning my back on you, on what we did, it’s impossible. Trying to live a normal life like we always wanted wasn’t what I thought it would be.”
“I did it,” Sam said. “I did it for four years-”
“Bet you could because you knew we were out there, me and Dad and the family business,” Dean said, crossing his arms as he leaned against the trunk. The Impala’s undercarriage dipped to take on his weight. “Because all we had to worry about was the yellow-eyed demon. But me? You were down there, man. You were gone, stuck in Hell. And I-I had the weight of the world on my shoulders for the longest time. The Righteous Man, Michael’s sword, kill Lucifer and win the Apocalypse. Everything that happened after I went looking for you, I couldn’t forget that. I tried,” and shit, his eyes were hot and maybe wet and his voice was shaking, “so fucking hard and I couldn’t forget any of it.”
“You can’t just give up your old life like that. You grew up doing this; you can’t just…leave it and start over.”
Sam looked away, fists clenched tight. “I didn’t…I didn’t think about that.”
“It’s fine,” Dean admitted, gave Sam a warning glare when he whipped his head around with protest on his lips. “I wasn’t going to live that life with her and Ben, but I needed a break. A really long break.”
Sam gave him an uneasy smile, like he’s unsure that he didn’t completely fuck things up for his brother. “Did you enjoy your vacation?”
“Yeah,” and then Dean pushed himself off the Impala. He patted the smooth surface and smiled, imagining the warmth from the sun and the thin layer of dust from the long road. “But I’m itching to get out and kill something. Come on, park your ugly ass car here and come ride with me.”
“My car is not ugly,” Sam mutters but he grabs his bags from his car anyway, dumps them in the trunk and slams the top down before walking to the front and sliding into shotgun. “Where to?”
Dean turned on the ignition and the engine roared to life. “Anywhere.”
He caught Lisa peering through the curtains as they drove past and thought he saw a smile on her face.
It was well past midnight and they were far from Indiana when Sam asked, “Hey, uh, have you talked to Bobby and Cas?”
Dean tightened his grip on the wheel, his heart hammering. He knew Sam would bring it up and didn’t know how to answer. He just settled for a single word and hoped Sam didn’t push it.
“No.”
~*~*~*~
“What are you talking about?” Dean asks. Eyes dart around the kitchen and settle on the iron cast skillet on the stovetop. There are also a few knives but they’re not Ruby’s.
“You heard me,” Crowley says. “I’m asking you what you want.”
He hasn’t moved from Bobby’s desk but Dean doesn’t trust him; he looks at the skillet and the kitchen knives, wishing he’d dropped off his duffel bag here, not in the living room.
“It’s a simple question,” Crowley says.
For some reason he thinks Dean is going to tell him. Crossing his arms, leaning against the counter, absolutely not thinking about a night years ago when an angel of the Lord demanded respect from him, Dean says, “And what makes you think I’m going to tell you?”
“I feel like sharing and caring tonight, how about you?”
Dean snorts at that. They still have a few hours before sunset, and why is that the first thing to come to mind? He should be wondering why Crowley wants to know and what he plans to do with the knowledge. As a general rule of thumb demons are not to be trusted but crossroad demons? They’re always about making deals for souls; they’ll exploit any weakness if it means sending someone to Hell in ten years or less.
He decides to indulge the demon for a bit, rather than to start looking for ways to gank him right then and there.
“Yeah, sorry, never was into that sort of thing,” Dean says and decides to open the fridge again, grab a bottle of beer for himself. He can’t deal with this without more alcohol.
As he busies himself with popping off the cap and downing a third of the bottle in three swallows he wonders where Castiel is and why he hasn’t shown up to address Crowley’s presence. Maybe the archangel finally left. He glances toward the living room, because on his best day the archangel is a sneaky bastard, but Castiel is nowhere in sight.
“Nope, he’s still here,” Crowley says nonchalantly. “He won’t do anything unless I touch a hair on your pretty head.”
There’s something funny about the way he says it that makes Dean shift uncomfortably. After a second he decides on how it bothers him and says, “He’s not my attack dog.”
“Just a superpowered guardian angel, yes, I know, you think I’m comfortable sharing space with him?”
“Then what the fuck are you doing here? Got a demon you want us to gank? News about a trickster that’s calling itself Loki?”
Crowley snorts like these questions are all beneath him. “I’m here because I want to. The demons are quiet because two hunters named Sam and Dean are knocking them off the map. And the only trickster to call himself Loki was killed by Lucifer.”
Dean scowls. “Don’t you have anything better to do?”
“Mmm, no, not at the minute,” Crowley says, arms crossed behind his head as he leans back in the chair. “I’m taking the day off, letting someone else handle the bloody business. Perks of being the demon in charge - you get to delegate.”
Things still aren’t adding up, so he decides to make a one-eighty and go back to the beginning. “You want to know what I want. Why?”
Crowley leans over and Dean hears a drawer slide out. A bottle of Scotch and a shot glass appears on the desk. Bobby is going to be pissed. Of course Crowley doesn’t care; he pours liberally, until the amber liquor rounds the top, and then takes a sip. “A good businessman protects his assets.”
“I’m not an asset,” is the instant retort. Dean considers taking back that whiskey bottle and drinking straight from it because beer is not enough for whatever the fuck this conversation is.
Another shot glass appears on the desk. Crowley picks up the liquor bottle and gestures with it. “Whiskey?”
“No thanks.”
“Suit yourself.” Crowley stares at the shot glass in his hand with a thoughtful frown, like he’s not sure what he’s drinking exactly. Then he looks up at Dean and there’s a gleam in his eyes that puts him on edge. A voice in the back of his head wonders in passing if Crowley is red-eyed like other crossroads demons, or if he’s more like Azazel and Lilith.
“So,” he says slowly, sliding his feet off Bobby’s desk and knocking several pages of notes onto the floor. “How about it, Winchester?”
Dean’s pretty sure Crowley forgot to mention something, like he left out some significant detail in his thought process. “How about what?”
“This thing that you want-”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he says. “What makes you think I want something? Why do you even care?”
“Well I’m not going to repeat myself like a bloody parrot.” He holds out the Scotch bottle, gestures with it like it’ll somehow draw Dean over.
Inwardly Dean sighs and rolls his eyes. “Yeah, fine, if it’ll shut you up.”
The floor creaks loudly under his feet, a disconcerting sound that almost has him backing away from Bobby’s study. “Better not be poisoned,” he mutters as he eyes the shot Crowley pours for him.
“You and your moose are my best line of defense. I’m not interested in compromising your existence. Besides,” and Crowley tips his head to his right, “I am not even remotely interested in holy fire lighting my arse.”
Dean snorts at the mental image and tips the contents of the glass into his mouth. It scorches at first, ravaging his throat as it goes down, and then subsides into a more pleasant burn. It does a more thorough job than the two bottles of beer and Dean almost relaxes.
“You’re a strange man, Winchester,” Crowley says, and Dean shoots him a look. “What? Since when did that become offensive?”
“I don’t know what you’re getting at.”
“That’s because I haven’t gotten there yet.” Crowley looks much too comfortable in Bobby’s chair and Dean starts wondering just how often the demon’s been visiting him. “You don’t like talking about these things. I understand; it’s awkward and embarrassing and full of unwanted surprises.”
“Then how about we drop this conversation and pretend it never happened?”
“Sorry, too bored and you make an infinitely more interesting topic of discussion than me.”
Dean pours himself another shot. “Yeah, I bet. Crossroads demons have no stories to tell.”
“Well that’s because it’s not about me.” Crowley stands up, nudging the chair aside. “So.”
Dean takes a small step back, a few inches that hopefully goes unnoticed. He plays it cool, keeping his eyes on the shot glass in his hand. “So.”
“Since we’re on the topic of one Dean Winchester-” Christ, Dean is not drunk enough for this. “-what’s a man like you wallowing about in his unrequited love? Thought you were more the love ‘em and leave ‘em type. Always straight to the point, instead of hiding in the kitchen with a bunch of beers and a crossroads demon.”
Dean doesn’t know what to say. The rim of the shot glass is resting on his bottom lip and he’s so close to getting buzzed, so close to numbing his brain so that he doesn’t have to deal with Crowley or the archangel at the other end of the house, but he can’t bring himself to down the Scotch.
There is no way Dean is that transparent; he’s using every trick in his rather thick book. Aside from a few slips - that’s when he first started realizing that he’s looking at Castiel differently - he’s kept his poker face on, superglued it, even. Nobody’s picked up on it, not Sam, not Bobby, not Lisa, and definitely not Castiel, who seems to be as oblivious to typical human behavior as the first time. How did Crowley figure it out in just a few minutes?
“Oh please,” Crowley says with a roll of his eyes. “You give everyone too little credit. If you all weren’t so busy trying to fuck up the Apocalypse-”
“That’s none of your business,” Dean says, his voice coming out hoarse and angry. “I didn’t ask you to analyze my life.”
“Nope. I’m just bored.” Crowley grins, planting his hands on the desk. “So how about it?”
Again with these questions. Dean is seriously this close to tossing the shot glass over his shoulder, storming out, and driving to Sioux Falls to find a bar with pool tables. And chicks. Preferably with slender hands and long fingers. Steadfast blue eyes, too, and a full mouth that’s never met Chapstick-
When his eyes refocus it’s on the all-knowing smirk on Crowley’s literary agent’s meat suit and Dean has a terrible feeling that something is going to happen and he’s not going to like it.
“What are you going to do?” Dean asks and then instantly winces at how his voice drops to a whisper, like he’s too scared that whatever’s going to happen isn’t.
“Well there aren’t any contracts involved. I should imagine that Hell will not be happy with me if an archangel blows down the doors hauling you back out. Well I’m still on Hell’s Most Wanted but that’s beside the point. I’m just clarifying so that you don’t come kill me later.”
“What-”
“And I really wasn’t kidding when I said your archangel would kill me if I touched a hair on your head,” Crowley says, leaning forward, voice dropping to a conspiratorial tone. “In fact, I don’t think he likes it when anyone touches you.”
His ears burn at the thought.
“How-what makes you say-”
“Pack of hellhounds? The fraternal twins? Those angels, what were their names…Maion and Ramiel?”
That hunt was a perfect storm of Heaven and Hell. Crowley tipped them off and then joined them because somebody was out to get him. That somebody? A crossroads demon who decided that hellhounds were exactly the sort of hunt that would drawn in Sam and Dean Winchester. Next thing they knew the twins they saved from the pack turned on them with silver swords and unkind words about the Apocalypse, Michael, and an upstart young archangel.
Then said upstart young archangel swept in, all fury and fire, tearing Maion and Ramiel out of their vessels and sending them packing to Heaven. After that the hellhounds were easily dispatched of - especially with Crowley’s pet bossing them around - and Crowley personally dealt with the rogue demon while Sam and Dean took the twins home.
That was it, wasn’t it? Dean frowns, brain wracking for the foggy memories. This was months ago and he can’t keep track of every hunt he’d taken part in.
“I’m not getting it.”
“That’s because you’re denser than rocks.”
Dean scowls. “Am not.”
He remembers talking to Castiel while Sam explained to the twins - weren’t their names Moira and Ryan? - why they shouldn’t agree to whatever the mysterious voices in their heads asked of them. Dean was asking about why Maion and Ramiel made it their personal mission to kill Sam and Dean, and if this was just the beginning of some heavenly civil war, and all the archangel would say was, “I’m sorry.”
“Hey, chin up,” Dean said, and this was before the vampire hunt in Idaho so he put his hand on Castiel’s shoulder, squeezed lightly. “Just get your feathered ass here faster next time. Don’t have enough oil for another holy Molotov cocktail, you know.”
“Then I’ll find more for the times I can’t reach you.”
After that is a fog of impressions, of other hunts sandwiched in between that and the supposed revenant in potato country. There’s nothing he recalls to back up the bullshit Crowley’s talking about.
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” he declares and downs the shot in his hand.
“Well I know what I saw and what I saw was one pissed off angel. You really don’t remember, do you?”
Why isn’t Dean walking away from this? This conversation is just absurd and more than a bit uncomfortable, especially for someone who doesn’t talk about his feelings. Ever. And especially with a fucking crossroads demon.
“I almost expected you to walk away when I first started in on you,” Crowley says because apparently angels aren’t the only ones who can read his mind. “You’re hanging onto something, even if it’s coming from my mouth. I wonder what that is.”
“You give yourself too much credit,” Dean says. His senses are numbing but it’s not enough. He glances at the Scotch, notices that there’s maybe a fourth left, and thinks, I’ll just buy him a new one.
And then he frowns. “She kissed me.”
And not just Moira. Apparently the twins enjoy getting close and personal with their rescuers, and Dean had fantasized about a night with them more than once as he and Sam headed back to Bobby’s and got derailed by a poltergeist lurking in a church along the way.
He complained about Castiel, too; something about him needing to learn to say goodbye and Sam replying, “But he always comes back.”
Not for a month, which pissed Dean off more than it should.
As he did with Sam he does with Crowley, glowering at the cheeky look on his face, like he knows something Dean doesn’t. And suddenly the demon is leaning over the desk, breathing Scotch and sour into his face. Dean flinches back but it’s too late; fingers curl around his chin and yank him forward.
“Oh good, you do remember,” Crowley breathes out, grinning while his eyes flick black with white pinpricks, and kisses him.
Part 2
Beta: gqgqqt (thank you for all the hand-holding, ha ha oh god)
Fandom: Supernatural
Characters/Pairing: Dean/Castiel; Sam, Bobby, Lisa, Crowley, a few OCs
Rating: M
Spoilers: None, unless you haven’t seen 5.22 “Swan Song”
Word Count: 14,161
Disclaimer: All television shows, movies, books, and other copyrighted material referred to in this work, and the characters, settings, and events thereof, are the properties of their respective owners. As this work is an interpretation of the original material and not for-profit, it constitutes fair use. Reference to real persons, places, or events are made in a fictional context, and are not intended to be libelous, defamatory, or in any way factual.
Summary: Post Apocalypse life isn’t quite like apple pie, but it’s better than Dean expected. And then a bored crossroads demon just has to take an interest in his crush on Heaven’s newest archangel.
Author’s Note: “Crowley tongue fucks Dean right in front of Cas, who gets all huffy and possessive and is totally in control later at night, :D”. Yeah. Talk about the biggest backfire since my DCBB fic. What is this fic I don’t know. I just don’t know. Apparently I can’t write anything remotely PWP or solid and short because everything needs ~*~plot~*~. Anyway, it is straight up rated M/R and I’m gonna go hide now. Fml.
Part of the deal Sam and Dean made when they started hunting again was that they’d spend time hunting alone or with other people. “Erotically codependent”, the asshole Zachariah called it, was what saved the world from going to the zombies, but it’s what started the Apocalypse in the first place. It’s why Sam explicitly told Dean to never come after him and to go straight to Lisa.
This new arrangement’s easier to stick to than Dean first thought. Maybe it had something to do with the year he spent with Lisa and Ben, but he knows for a fact that it had everything to do with the knowledge that Sam is here. It’s no longer about Sam riding shotgun or staying up to research while Dean dozes off or playing the reliable good cop to Dean’s bad or sliding in with a shotgun at the last minute to take out the pissy ghost. It’s no longer about Sam having to be here and everything to do with Sam being alive.
Not that he lost anything in living with Lisa and Ben. They’re the breath of fresh air he needed for over seventy years, and he comes back to them whenever he can to kick back and withdraw from the hunting world.
It only lasts so long because then Lisa will point out a small blurb in the local paper, or Sam/Bobby/Rufus will call about strange deaths in Bumfuck a hundred miles from Cicero, or the Friendly Neighborhood Archangel will blow in, knocking him off his chair and sending up in a whirlwind of loose papers. Lisa will just raise an eyebrow and continue working on the latest Sudoku puzzle.
“Man, and I was just getting to the good part,” he grumbles, picking himself up and turning off the TV. “What is it this time?”
He doesn’t look at Castiel. He hasn’t been able to for a long time, not without his chest trying to suffocate him or his heart trying to break his ribs or his skin crawling and flushing with heat whenever the archangel invades his personal space. It’s embarrassing and nerve-wracking and maybe a bit terrifying so he tries not to think about it. Tries not to pay attention to the wall of heat that trails him to his room where a duffel bag waits.
“Call before you start back,” Lisa says as Castiel follows him out the door.
“The trickster Sam and Bobby are looking into is calling itself Loki,” Castiel announces while Dean throws his bag in the back of the Impala. He bangs his head on the roof as he yanks himself out and stares at Castiel over the top of the car for the first time.
Castiel looks tired and maybe a bit aggravated. He’s also staring straight at Dean, which means his heart is palpitating and he’s gripping the car door a little too tightly.
“You mean he’s alive?” Dean asks. They both know who he’s talking about.
Castiel shakes his head. “I can take you to Bobby’s right now. They’re heading back as we speak-”
“We’re driving,” Dean says firmly, because he’s sworn off Angel Airlines for good, even if he has his own private jet on standby. “C’mon, get in the car.”
He drops his gaze and gets in behind the wheel, doesn’t bother raising an eyebrow when Castiel is already there, hands in his lap while he stares straight ahead. Every car ride starts like this. Just give him an hour or two to relax, loosen up a bit, start being a little more human.
Dean likes it when Castiel rides shotgun, but he’s never going to admit that. He’s also never admitting to liking that Castiel doesn’t mind his music, except Rock of Ages and even Dean has to agree. Castiel also has a thing for rolling the window all the way down and letting his arm hang on, meaning the breeze gets to whip its way through the car and around them, but Dean doesn’t mind that either, even if the roar drowns out his phone and he ends up with six missed phone calls, three texts, and a bitchy voicemail from Sam.
He wondered once if this was what flying’s like for angels, but crushed the thought and asked if Castiel drank beer in Heaven.
~*~*~*~
He knows exactly when it happened, like some teenage girl scribbling, “Josh Harding looked at me!!!” in her froofy pink journal with a glittery pen. Luckily his journal is in his head and the only one who’s capable of finding and reading it had agreed years ago to stop snooping around. Thank god because Dean would probably die if Castiel ever found out.
They were in Idaho, potato country, checking out rumors of a revenant. Instead they kicked up a whole nest of non vegetarian vampires and that would have been the end of Sam and Dean Winchester if Castiel hadn’t stormed the abandoned barn, beheaded the two vampires closest to them with one swing of his silver sword, and whisked them back to their motel room.
“Nice save,” Dean said while patching Sam up, ignoring the questions bubbling in his head - How’d you know? How’d you find us? Why are you really here? Don’t you have more important things to do than watch out for two humans?
“It’s the least I can do,” Castiel rumbled as he hovered by the door. When he didn’t leave Dean started looking at him, at the flecks of red on his coat sleeve and the way his long fingers twitched. Then he jabbed Sam with the needle and got an earful for it; the next time he looked, stitches done and Sam bitching about the vampires, Castiel was gone. Dean shoved aside the disappointment and told Sam to man up, they need to get some dead man’s blood.
Dean felt a whole lot better when he spotted Castiel waiting for them near the barn. Apparently he had a lot of time on his hands and was using it to help them out, which pleased Dean more than it should.
“They bring their victims here,” the archangel told them quietly. “They should arrive in approximately ten minutes.”
He was a ghostly figure in the moonlight, deep shadows cutting edges around his blunt jaw and dragging him into the pitch-black of the overgrown farmland. Dean wanted to reach out and touch his face, make sure he’s actually there, and then the bucket of thick blood swayed in his grip, dragging him back down to reality and reminding him to fucking breathe and what the fuck are you thinking.
Sam frowned when he choked on dusty air.
It didn’t really hit him until the last head rolled in the blood-soaked dirt and Dean, serrated knife gripped tightly in his hand, took a deep breath and looked up. Sam was giving him a shit-eating grin as he helped a would-be victim to his feet; the man’s cousin is already standing and gagging at the mess. And Castiel-
It was like the whole world shifted in his head, pulling and pushing until everything was in alignment with the archangel standing over the body of the nest leader, sword dripping, clothes soaked, flecks of blood trickling down his face.
His terrible and beautiful face.
And all Dean could think was, I know you, which was weirdest fucking thing to come to mind.
Then Castiel flicked vampire blood off the blade of his sword and he was as clean and pressed as a rumpled holy tax accountant can get. He looked over his shoulder at Sam and the two survivors, and then said, “I am needed in Heaven.”
Dean couldn’t see his eyes and for once he was glad; just the weight of it was worse than ever, and he could barely make himself nod before Castiel disappeared in a whirlwind of dust and rotten hay.
One of the survivors gasped and the sound snapped the silence.
“Right,” Dean said immediately afterward, and suddenly he had to keep talking or moving. “We need to burn these bodies. Can you help us?”
“Y-yeah,” one of them said.
The man, Timothy Lu, later asked while Sam squirted lighter fluid on the bodies piled up several yards from the barn, “What is he?”
“Who?”
“Your friend, the one who disappeared.”
Dean shifted from foot to foot. He didn’t feel like sharing. Never did. “Someone I met years ago.”
“But what is he?”
Sam tossed a handful of lit matches onto the pyre and stepped back while the fire roared and shot upwards, golden arms reaching for the stars. Dean felt the rush of the hunt thrum with the heat and the licking flames. Dried blood cracked as he grinned.
“Something powerful.”
~*~*~*~
Sam tells him they’ll be a day late. The town he and Bobby stopped at for lunch has a haunted house, or so the folks there say. Also, they can’t get a solid lead on the trickster that’s calling itself Loki and sorry for dragging him out of the house.
“Maybe Crowley knows something-”
“No, I am not calling him.”
“Then ask Cas. He’s with you, right?”
“Yeah.”
“Ask him. Gotta go.”
“Don’t let the haunted house kick your bony ass.”
“Shut up, you jerk.”
“Bitch.” Dean ends the call. “What do you think?”
It takes a minute before he hears anything. Castiel shifts, slide of fabric on fabric, slow like he’s just remembering that he should act more human, more fidgety. It ends up setting Dean’s nerves on fire and crushing his chest. He grips the wheel tightly, swallowing hard, and spares a sideways glance; Castiel’s wrapped himself in his coat like he’s cold and he’s staring out the window, a thoughtful expression on his face. The window is rolled up except for a two-inch gap and the wind smells of tar and prairie grass.
“I don’t know. Loki is no ordinary trickster god, and Gabriel was one of the original archangels. Or the trickster is very aware of who they are and is leading you on.”
“That’s just great. Bobby’s going to blow his top.”
“They’re dealing with a trickster.”
Dean sighs and steps on the gas.
~*~*~*~
“I have a proposition for you.”
To his credit Crowley didn’t twitch at the three shotguns pointed at his head.
“Thought you were done with us,” Dean said.
“Turns out I’m a softie for the people that deliver,” the demon replied as he edged away from them. He sidestepped the giant rug like he knew about the devil’s trap painted on the other side, a smirk on his face because he knew the entire layout of the house, all the salt and iron and sigils encasing it in layers upon layers of protection, and all the little gaps in the defenses to manipulate.
“The hell does that mean?” Bobby demanded.
“Means I enjoy doing business with you. So, I have a proposition.”
Killing him was not an option, since both the Colt and Ruby’s knife were out of reach. They couldn’t really kill him anyway, since Crowley, in his aggravating way, helped them send Lucifer back to Hell. That left them with kicking him out or letting him make his pitch.
“Better not involve kissing,” Sam said under his breath. Crowley frowned at him.
“You’re the last person I want to send to Hell, so no thank you. It’s quite simple, really. I have eyes and ears everywhere. If you need hard-to-find intel, I can get it.”
“Oh really?” Dean asked.
“Don’t believe me? I found you Famine and Death, didn’t I?”
Point. A very painful point. “What makes you think we want it?”
“If you think Heaven’s a mess, you should see what the Apocalypse did around here. There’s a power vacuum with Lucifer, Azazel, and Lilith gone. I’m one of the top dogs, but King of the Crossroads only gets you so far. So here’s the deal - I tell you if something’s up and you kill a few demons for me.”
“That’s it?” Bobby asked.
“Don’t you trust me? I told you I’d give you your soul back.”
“After I summoned you into a devil’s trap, yeah.”
Crowley rolled his eyes and made an empty gesture with his hand. “Details. I was preoccupied at the time reestablishing myself in the demonic pecking order. Look, I’m just going to lay it out on the table and show myself out. Your choice. I’ll see you around.”
He looked directly at Bobby as he said this and then he strolled out the house through the back door. Sam leaned over and peered through the window. “He’s gone.”
Dean lowered his shotgun. “What the hell was that?”
“You tell me,” Bobby said, removing shotgun shells from his firearm and setting them both on his desk. “Guess that’s what he meant when he said he owed us something.”
“When did he say that?” Sam asked.
Bobby shrugged and sat down; he pulled out a bottle of Scotch and three shot glasses and started pouring like it’s normal to get drunk at ten in the morning. “The last time he stopped by.”
“When was that?”
“Couple of weeks ago. If I didn’t know any better I’d say he’s grown fond of us.” With a snort Bobby picks up a shot glass and downs the liquor in one go. “Said he figured he owed us something for taking Lucifer out of the picture.”
Dean frowned at the amber in his shot glass. “Crowley said that?”
“Yep.”
“A demon.”
“Yep.”
“King of the Crossroads.”
“You want me to spell it out for you?” Bobby snapped. “Nearly blew his head off, too.”
They didn’t really believe it until two and a half weeks later, when Crowley appeared in the backseat and calmly informed them that not only were they looking for succubi and not sirens but that there’s also a powerful demon in town and could they please gank it for him?
“Is this going to be a regular thing?” Dean demanded after they took out the five succubi and the milky-eyed demon.
“Oh I hope not,” Crowley said and promptly disappeared.
~*~*~*~
“Guess I have the whole house to myself,” Dean says as he slams the trunk and hefts his duffel bag. He’s thinking about his collection of firearms gathering dust in his room - Lisa, not surprisingly, banned all guns from the house before permitting his reliable Colt to stay - and the quiet joy of disassembling and cleaning each one with loving care. It was one of the first things he did after Sam appeared at Lisa’s doorstep, skittish and fumbling and ready to drag Dean back out into the world.
Castiel nods. His hand rests on the hood of the Impala, slender fingers splayed over the polished black surface, and Dean wonders if they’re as nimble as he imagines, as quick and sure and strong and full of warmth. With a shudder he turns and heads for the door. He really needs to stop thinking about Castiel’s hands.
Because post-Apocalypse Sam is apparently a neat freak the house isn’t drowning in books and off-kilter paraphernalia. According to Bobby Sam had been cataloguing and organizing his possessions since he claimed one of the guest rooms as his own. Bobby had grudgingly allowed it, muttering about how his system never failed him before while admitting he’d been looking for one of the books for years, but drew the line at the rabbit food in his fridge.
Dean hovers at the doorway, freezes up when he feels a wall of heat at his back. Too close, too close, too close.
“Don’t you, uh, have somewhere else to be?” he chokes out.
“Where?”
Rolling his eyes Dean steps inside, feeling himself relax when the heat fades. At the same time he expects it to follow him and glances over his shoulder when it doesn’t. Castiel stares up at the ceiling, head tilted to the side. Dean looks up but sees nothing out of the ordinary.
“Want a beer?” Dean tosses the duffel bag onto the couch. He already knows the answer.
Castiel is sitting on the couch next to his bag when he returns with two cold bottles, feet planted on the floor and elbows on his knees. His head is bowed, eyes narrowed like he’s concentrating on something, but they widen and flick upwards when Dean holds out his beer.
“I am not needed in Heaven at the moment,” Castiel says slowly as he rolls the bottle in his hands. “Nor do I wish to return anytime soon.”
He rarely talks about the disorganization in Heaven and Dean never asks. Dean wonders if he should start now. Casually, like he actually cares about Castiel’s job, he asks, “Why’s that? Policing Heaven can’t be too hard.”
A decidedly un-angelic snort distracts him from his beer and Dean turns around to see Castiel smiling ruefully at the floor. “What’s so funny?”
The smile turns to Dean. It mirrors the shit-eating one glued to a future Castiel but it’s not careless; it’s…amused, curious, uncharacteristically fond, and Dean starts squirming in place. He rubs the pad of his thumb along the side of the bottle, slick with condensation, and then gulps down half the beer. When he checks Castiel is drinking, too, but he’s still watching Dean.
“What?” Dean asks, trying to channel annoyance into his voice.
Castiel swirls the contents of the bottle in his hand, long fingers holding the glass delicately like it’ll shatter it if he applies even the slightest pressure. The way he’s sitting on the couch pulls up his coat and shirt sleeves, exposing slender wrists and Dean suddenly wants to hold them, wants to feel for a hint of pulse under the pale skin.
He won’t lie; he does this to Sam sometimes, grabbing his wrist to feel the steady beat while Sam gives him a weird look.
“We holding hands now?” Sam asked the first time he did this and Dean just shook his head, unable to say anything around the lump in his throat.
Much later Sam just told him, “I’m not going anywhere.”
“I know.”
“You can’t hold onto me forever.”
“I know.”
“I mean, you can let go now.”
Dean can remember rather vividly the night Castiel returned to his life. A pack of werewolves in Montana and they were in their log cabin-themed motel room packing silver bullets and checking their knives when the lights started flickering. At a glance Dean pulled out Ruby’s knife and Sam a quart of holy water and a handgun. Then there was no flickering, no light bulbs exploding, no sparks spraying as a man in a trench coat suddenly appeared in the middle of the room.
Dean was too shell-shocked to say, “You bastard, you didn’t even say goodbye,” and just stood there while Sam strode over to Heaven’s sheriff with a grin on his face, hand reaching out to grasp Castiel’s in a handshake and a hug. The newest archangel obliged willingly but his eyes were on Dean.
There was no hugging or handshakes. Castiel just walked up to him, pushing into his personal space like he used to, and waited. For what, Dean didn’t know, so he just tossed the knife onto the bed and said, “We’re hunting werewolves.”
And after shooting every one of them with silver bullets? The three of them watched the bodies burn in a furious, writhing orange glow and that’s when Castiel said, “Angels have come to earth.”
“Like you?”
“No. They wish to harm you.”
“Why?” Sam asked.
Castiel looked at Sam briefly and then the brunt of his gaze settled on the side of Dean’s face. “Because of me.”
And right there and then Dean wanted to grab his hand and slide his fingers up until they settled on his wrist, found a pulse even though angels probably don’t have one. He just needed to know that Castiel was really here, the way Sam was here. He couldn’t do it, though; who knew how long before Castiel went back to Heaven and forgot about them again? Instead he elbowed the archangel, meeting a solid wall that will never fall, and said, “Nothing we can’t handle.”
The next morning he called Bobby for the first time in over a year and was berated both for the early hour and for being a “goddamn idjit.” When Sam and Dean pulled up at the Singer Salvage Yard Bobby was waiting for them, holy water in one hand and whiskey in the other.
“You’re hunting again and you didn’t bother to call me?” he asked while they took their requisite shots. He didn’t ask how Sam got out of Hell, but neither did Dean.
“I was, uh…” Sam shrugged, ducked his head. “I was looking for myself.”
There was nothing more to say about that, not after just about everything, so Bobby turned on Dean. “And you. What the hell happened to you?”
What was he supposed to say? How would he explain the collapse of his apple pie life, the return of dreams and nightmares that devoured it until there was nothing left but crumbs and a pie tin? He only hung on until Lisa understood, until Sam was in his life again.
Dean downed the rest of the whiskey, waited until the burn faded, and tilted his head in Sam’s direction. “Dragged me out the front door.”
Two brothers on the road, searching for themselves along the never-ending highway. An almost perfect story of redemption and self-discovery except for the monsters, demons, and renegade angels they met along the way.
And then there’s the archangel sitting in Bobby’s living room, the subject and object of Dean’s dreams in the months since the Idaho vampires. If he didn’t know any better he’d say it’s a recent obsession, or the yearlong absence finally catching up with Dean’s head and turning it into something more familiar to him. But it’s a lie. It’s always been a lie.
He just doesn’t know why he’s realizing this now.
Twisting the bottle in his hand he glances at the kitchen and clears his throat. “Uh, need another beer?”
Castiel looks at him instead of the glass swinging loosely from his fingers. “You’re not finished.”
“Talking about you,” Dean says, unable to stop smiling even though he’s feeling hot and cold all over and is just about ready to crawl out of his skin. “Or we can go out, find a bar and shoot some pool.”
Castiel tilts his head as he contemplates the suggestion. “I’d rather stay here but I’ll go wherever you go.”
Shit, that’s not what he expected Castiel to say. He wrings the neck of the glass bottle, licking his lip with a dry tongue, and abruptly turns and stalks towards the kitchen. “Yeah, more beer.”
Out of the corner of his eye he sees Castiel make an aborted move to stand and suddenly he wants to run. His hand shakes as he sets his beer on the counter and then he nearly knocks it over as he reaches for the fridge handle. He ends up leaning against the fridge, staring at its contents without making a move for one of the three bottles left.
What is wrong with him? He’s had it bad before - Cassie, his mind whispers with fond nostalgia and then laughs at the memory of his fumbling attempts to introduce himself to her one night at a college bar a lifetime ago - but he was never fucking terrified of what he’s feeling. Old habits keep him playing cool, acting like it’s just another day in the life of Dean Winchester, but inside he keeps freezing up, keeps floundering over this-this-whatever the hell this is.
His shoulders tense at creaking floorboards but the footsteps are fading. Maybe Castiel’s going to poke around Bobby’s library for a bit while waiting for the beer that’s in the fridge and not in Dean’s hand. And since the archangel doesn’t seem keen on going back to Heaven for some reason Dean’s stuck with him for at least a day.
Then he realizes that Sam and Bobby aren’t here; they’re miles away, checking out a haunted house. It’ll be just Dean and Castiel under the same roof, and Castiel will only go wherever he goes unless Heaven suddenly needs some policing. The thought is a little more than Dean can handle and he nearly misses the bottle he’s reaching for.
“Poor Dean Winchester, getting overemotional because he can’t, or won’t, man up.”
Dean knocks the bottle over and bangs the back of his head on the fridge as he extracts himself and whirls around.
“Now what do you want?” he growls. His heart is pounding way too fast and his senses flood with heat and embarrassment and the overwhelming need to either run or stab something.
Crowley just raises an eyebrow at him from his seat behind Bobby’s desk, polished wingtips propped up on top of piles of newspapers and old books. Bobby would kill him if he was here and Dean considers doing the favor for him.
“Funny you should ask, as that’s the question I should be asking you,” he says. “King of the Crossroads and all. But I’ll ask anyway. What do you want?”
~*~*~*~
Dean didn’t know how to tell Sam that trying to keep his promise was going to break him, but Lisa did it for him, ordering him to go pack some clothes and “work things out before you come back home, or else I’m taking my guest room back.”
“It…didn’t work?” he asked tentatively as he leaned against his car - his car, because apparently Sam was on the road for a long time.
Dean shrugged, hefted the duffel bag on his shoulder as he popped the Impala’s trunk open. “Not the way you thought would happen.”
“What do you mean?”
Dean turned to him. “Sam, that apple pie life? It’s just a pipe dream. I tried, but turning my back on you, on what we did, it’s impossible. Trying to live a normal life like we always wanted wasn’t what I thought it would be.”
“I did it,” Sam said. “I did it for four years-”
“Bet you could because you knew we were out there, me and Dad and the family business,” Dean said, crossing his arms as he leaned against the trunk. The Impala’s undercarriage dipped to take on his weight. “Because all we had to worry about was the yellow-eyed demon. But me? You were down there, man. You were gone, stuck in Hell. And I-I had the weight of the world on my shoulders for the longest time. The Righteous Man, Michael’s sword, kill Lucifer and win the Apocalypse. Everything that happened after I went looking for you, I couldn’t forget that. I tried,” and shit, his eyes were hot and maybe wet and his voice was shaking, “so fucking hard and I couldn’t forget any of it.”
“You can’t just give up your old life like that. You grew up doing this; you can’t just…leave it and start over.”
Sam looked away, fists clenched tight. “I didn’t…I didn’t think about that.”
“It’s fine,” Dean admitted, gave Sam a warning glare when he whipped his head around with protest on his lips. “I wasn’t going to live that life with her and Ben, but I needed a break. A really long break.”
Sam gave him an uneasy smile, like he’s unsure that he didn’t completely fuck things up for his brother. “Did you enjoy your vacation?”
“Yeah,” and then Dean pushed himself off the Impala. He patted the smooth surface and smiled, imagining the warmth from the sun and the thin layer of dust from the long road. “But I’m itching to get out and kill something. Come on, park your ugly ass car here and come ride with me.”
“My car is not ugly,” Sam mutters but he grabs his bags from his car anyway, dumps them in the trunk and slams the top down before walking to the front and sliding into shotgun. “Where to?”
Dean turned on the ignition and the engine roared to life. “Anywhere.”
He caught Lisa peering through the curtains as they drove past and thought he saw a smile on her face.
It was well past midnight and they were far from Indiana when Sam asked, “Hey, uh, have you talked to Bobby and Cas?”
Dean tightened his grip on the wheel, his heart hammering. He knew Sam would bring it up and didn’t know how to answer. He just settled for a single word and hoped Sam didn’t push it.
“No.”
~*~*~*~
“What are you talking about?” Dean asks. Eyes dart around the kitchen and settle on the iron cast skillet on the stovetop. There are also a few knives but they’re not Ruby’s.
“You heard me,” Crowley says. “I’m asking you what you want.”
He hasn’t moved from Bobby’s desk but Dean doesn’t trust him; he looks at the skillet and the kitchen knives, wishing he’d dropped off his duffel bag here, not in the living room.
“It’s a simple question,” Crowley says.
For some reason he thinks Dean is going to tell him. Crossing his arms, leaning against the counter, absolutely not thinking about a night years ago when an angel of the Lord demanded respect from him, Dean says, “And what makes you think I’m going to tell you?”
“I feel like sharing and caring tonight, how about you?”
Dean snorts at that. They still have a few hours before sunset, and why is that the first thing to come to mind? He should be wondering why Crowley wants to know and what he plans to do with the knowledge. As a general rule of thumb demons are not to be trusted but crossroad demons? They’re always about making deals for souls; they’ll exploit any weakness if it means sending someone to Hell in ten years or less.
He decides to indulge the demon for a bit, rather than to start looking for ways to gank him right then and there.
“Yeah, sorry, never was into that sort of thing,” Dean says and decides to open the fridge again, grab a bottle of beer for himself. He can’t deal with this without more alcohol.
As he busies himself with popping off the cap and downing a third of the bottle in three swallows he wonders where Castiel is and why he hasn’t shown up to address Crowley’s presence. Maybe the archangel finally left. He glances toward the living room, because on his best day the archangel is a sneaky bastard, but Castiel is nowhere in sight.
“Nope, he’s still here,” Crowley says nonchalantly. “He won’t do anything unless I touch a hair on your pretty head.”
There’s something funny about the way he says it that makes Dean shift uncomfortably. After a second he decides on how it bothers him and says, “He’s not my attack dog.”
“Just a superpowered guardian angel, yes, I know, you think I’m comfortable sharing space with him?”
“Then what the fuck are you doing here? Got a demon you want us to gank? News about a trickster that’s calling itself Loki?”
Crowley snorts like these questions are all beneath him. “I’m here because I want to. The demons are quiet because two hunters named Sam and Dean are knocking them off the map. And the only trickster to call himself Loki was killed by Lucifer.”
Dean scowls. “Don’t you have anything better to do?”
“Mmm, no, not at the minute,” Crowley says, arms crossed behind his head as he leans back in the chair. “I’m taking the day off, letting someone else handle the bloody business. Perks of being the demon in charge - you get to delegate.”
Things still aren’t adding up, so he decides to make a one-eighty and go back to the beginning. “You want to know what I want. Why?”
Crowley leans over and Dean hears a drawer slide out. A bottle of Scotch and a shot glass appears on the desk. Bobby is going to be pissed. Of course Crowley doesn’t care; he pours liberally, until the amber liquor rounds the top, and then takes a sip. “A good businessman protects his assets.”
“I’m not an asset,” is the instant retort. Dean considers taking back that whiskey bottle and drinking straight from it because beer is not enough for whatever the fuck this conversation is.
Another shot glass appears on the desk. Crowley picks up the liquor bottle and gestures with it. “Whiskey?”
“No thanks.”
“Suit yourself.” Crowley stares at the shot glass in his hand with a thoughtful frown, like he’s not sure what he’s drinking exactly. Then he looks up at Dean and there’s a gleam in his eyes that puts him on edge. A voice in the back of his head wonders in passing if Crowley is red-eyed like other crossroads demons, or if he’s more like Azazel and Lilith.
“So,” he says slowly, sliding his feet off Bobby’s desk and knocking several pages of notes onto the floor. “How about it, Winchester?”
Dean’s pretty sure Crowley forgot to mention something, like he left out some significant detail in his thought process. “How about what?”
“This thing that you want-”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he says. “What makes you think I want something? Why do you even care?”
“Well I’m not going to repeat myself like a bloody parrot.” He holds out the Scotch bottle, gestures with it like it’ll somehow draw Dean over.
Inwardly Dean sighs and rolls his eyes. “Yeah, fine, if it’ll shut you up.”
The floor creaks loudly under his feet, a disconcerting sound that almost has him backing away from Bobby’s study. “Better not be poisoned,” he mutters as he eyes the shot Crowley pours for him.
“You and your moose are my best line of defense. I’m not interested in compromising your existence. Besides,” and Crowley tips his head to his right, “I am not even remotely interested in holy fire lighting my arse.”
Dean snorts at the mental image and tips the contents of the glass into his mouth. It scorches at first, ravaging his throat as it goes down, and then subsides into a more pleasant burn. It does a more thorough job than the two bottles of beer and Dean almost relaxes.
“You’re a strange man, Winchester,” Crowley says, and Dean shoots him a look. “What? Since when did that become offensive?”
“I don’t know what you’re getting at.”
“That’s because I haven’t gotten there yet.” Crowley looks much too comfortable in Bobby’s chair and Dean starts wondering just how often the demon’s been visiting him. “You don’t like talking about these things. I understand; it’s awkward and embarrassing and full of unwanted surprises.”
“Then how about we drop this conversation and pretend it never happened?”
“Sorry, too bored and you make an infinitely more interesting topic of discussion than me.”
Dean pours himself another shot. “Yeah, I bet. Crossroads demons have no stories to tell.”
“Well that’s because it’s not about me.” Crowley stands up, nudging the chair aside. “So.”
Dean takes a small step back, a few inches that hopefully goes unnoticed. He plays it cool, keeping his eyes on the shot glass in his hand. “So.”
“Since we’re on the topic of one Dean Winchester-” Christ, Dean is not drunk enough for this. “-what’s a man like you wallowing about in his unrequited love? Thought you were more the love ‘em and leave ‘em type. Always straight to the point, instead of hiding in the kitchen with a bunch of beers and a crossroads demon.”
Dean doesn’t know what to say. The rim of the shot glass is resting on his bottom lip and he’s so close to getting buzzed, so close to numbing his brain so that he doesn’t have to deal with Crowley or the archangel at the other end of the house, but he can’t bring himself to down the Scotch.
There is no way Dean is that transparent; he’s using every trick in his rather thick book. Aside from a few slips - that’s when he first started realizing that he’s looking at Castiel differently - he’s kept his poker face on, superglued it, even. Nobody’s picked up on it, not Sam, not Bobby, not Lisa, and definitely not Castiel, who seems to be as oblivious to typical human behavior as the first time. How did Crowley figure it out in just a few minutes?
“Oh please,” Crowley says with a roll of his eyes. “You give everyone too little credit. If you all weren’t so busy trying to fuck up the Apocalypse-”
“That’s none of your business,” Dean says, his voice coming out hoarse and angry. “I didn’t ask you to analyze my life.”
“Nope. I’m just bored.” Crowley grins, planting his hands on the desk. “So how about it?”
Again with these questions. Dean is seriously this close to tossing the shot glass over his shoulder, storming out, and driving to Sioux Falls to find a bar with pool tables. And chicks. Preferably with slender hands and long fingers. Steadfast blue eyes, too, and a full mouth that’s never met Chapstick-
When his eyes refocus it’s on the all-knowing smirk on Crowley’s literary agent’s meat suit and Dean has a terrible feeling that something is going to happen and he’s not going to like it.
“What are you going to do?” Dean asks and then instantly winces at how his voice drops to a whisper, like he’s too scared that whatever’s going to happen isn’t.
“Well there aren’t any contracts involved. I should imagine that Hell will not be happy with me if an archangel blows down the doors hauling you back out. Well I’m still on Hell’s Most Wanted but that’s beside the point. I’m just clarifying so that you don’t come kill me later.”
“What-”
“And I really wasn’t kidding when I said your archangel would kill me if I touched a hair on your head,” Crowley says, leaning forward, voice dropping to a conspiratorial tone. “In fact, I don’t think he likes it when anyone touches you.”
His ears burn at the thought.
“How-what makes you say-”
“Pack of hellhounds? The fraternal twins? Those angels, what were their names…Maion and Ramiel?”
That hunt was a perfect storm of Heaven and Hell. Crowley tipped them off and then joined them because somebody was out to get him. That somebody? A crossroads demon who decided that hellhounds were exactly the sort of hunt that would drawn in Sam and Dean Winchester. Next thing they knew the twins they saved from the pack turned on them with silver swords and unkind words about the Apocalypse, Michael, and an upstart young archangel.
Then said upstart young archangel swept in, all fury and fire, tearing Maion and Ramiel out of their vessels and sending them packing to Heaven. After that the hellhounds were easily dispatched of - especially with Crowley’s pet bossing them around - and Crowley personally dealt with the rogue demon while Sam and Dean took the twins home.
That was it, wasn’t it? Dean frowns, brain wracking for the foggy memories. This was months ago and he can’t keep track of every hunt he’d taken part in.
“I’m not getting it.”
“That’s because you’re denser than rocks.”
Dean scowls. “Am not.”
He remembers talking to Castiel while Sam explained to the twins - weren’t their names Moira and Ryan? - why they shouldn’t agree to whatever the mysterious voices in their heads asked of them. Dean was asking about why Maion and Ramiel made it their personal mission to kill Sam and Dean, and if this was just the beginning of some heavenly civil war, and all the archangel would say was, “I’m sorry.”
“Hey, chin up,” Dean said, and this was before the vampire hunt in Idaho so he put his hand on Castiel’s shoulder, squeezed lightly. “Just get your feathered ass here faster next time. Don’t have enough oil for another holy Molotov cocktail, you know.”
“Then I’ll find more for the times I can’t reach you.”
After that is a fog of impressions, of other hunts sandwiched in between that and the supposed revenant in potato country. There’s nothing he recalls to back up the bullshit Crowley’s talking about.
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” he declares and downs the shot in his hand.
“Well I know what I saw and what I saw was one pissed off angel. You really don’t remember, do you?”
Why isn’t Dean walking away from this? This conversation is just absurd and more than a bit uncomfortable, especially for someone who doesn’t talk about his feelings. Ever. And especially with a fucking crossroads demon.
“I almost expected you to walk away when I first started in on you,” Crowley says because apparently angels aren’t the only ones who can read his mind. “You’re hanging onto something, even if it’s coming from my mouth. I wonder what that is.”
“You give yourself too much credit,” Dean says. His senses are numbing but it’s not enough. He glances at the Scotch, notices that there’s maybe a fourth left, and thinks, I’ll just buy him a new one.
And then he frowns. “She kissed me.”
And not just Moira. Apparently the twins enjoy getting close and personal with their rescuers, and Dean had fantasized about a night with them more than once as he and Sam headed back to Bobby’s and got derailed by a poltergeist lurking in a church along the way.
He complained about Castiel, too; something about him needing to learn to say goodbye and Sam replying, “But he always comes back.”
Not for a month, which pissed Dean off more than it should.
As he did with Sam he does with Crowley, glowering at the cheeky look on his face, like he knows something Dean doesn’t. And suddenly the demon is leaning over the desk, breathing Scotch and sour into his face. Dean flinches back but it’s too late; fingers curl around his chin and yank him forward.
“Oh good, you do remember,” Crowley breathes out, grinning while his eyes flick black with white pinpricks, and kisses him.
Part 2