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"Winchester," Castiel Novak thundered as he burst into the tent, "I know you're hoarding supplies."
The object of Castiel's fury looked up from his paperback thriller and smirked. "I ain't hoarding, Doc," he drawled. "Someone's gotta introduce a little capitalism around here, keep things civilized."
"Capitalism, right. With you in the role of tycoon. You're unbelievable, Winchester."
Since the plane crash a week ago, their obvious attraction to each other had soured into dislike. Castiel had spent their time on the island—as he had spent most of his life—trying to help: corralling the survivors, tending to their wounds as best he could with only the spilled contents of carry-on luggage, searching for food and water and shelter.
Whereas Dean Winchester? Had done what Castiel suspected he'd spent his life doing: getting by on his good looks (which were undeniable) and his charm (which others seemed to find considerable, though it was lost on Castiel). To the point where no one else had seemed to notice that he was a selfish, arrogant bastard.
And a thief, though he bristled visibly at the accusation. "What else am I supposed to call you?" said Castiel. "The only way you could possibly have extra supplies of any kind is looting the dead. Everything is at a premium right now, especially medicine. I'm told you have Jo's spare asthma inhaler? If you don't turn it over, she could have an attack and die, and you'd be responsible."
"Oh, I get it—but if you come in here and make me give it to you, you get to keep being the hero, right? The great Dr. Novak, king of the island. Well, I hate to tell ya, you're not the damn boss of me." Winchester locked eyes with him, licked his lips (those full, lush lips that Castiel had uneasy dreams of nibbling). "But despite my reputation, Cas, I'm a reasonable man, willing to make a fair trade. How about you blow me for it?"
Castiel punched him in the face.
Or tried to. He didn't have much experience with fistfights, and though he made contact with Winchester's (model-perfect) jaw, it was a glancing blow. But it made him shut up, and Castiel would far rather fight him than deal with...what, exortion? Flirtation? Whatever it was, he wanted it to stop.
And it did—Winchester flung the book aside and came at him, aiming a far more accurate punch at Castiel's nose. Seeing stars, Castiel lunged; but Winchester was ready, grabbing his wrist mid-swing and using his momentum against him; Castiel stumbled, and the other man shoved him, hard, knocking him back into the tent flap.
Maybe Winchester was better at this, but Castiel was angrier. He didn't have time for this, he had people to take care of. As they struggled, he got his hands on the other man's shoulders, holding him at arm's length for a minute; their eyes met again, and Winchester's were green and brown and gold and they saw straight through him. His grip faltered, and Winchester grinned, tackled him; they staggered out of the tent and across a few feet of sand before falling heavily to the beach, Castiel's flailing hand knocking Singer's backgammon board to the ground in the process.
Singer glowered at them while they lay there, panting. "Goddamit, you idjits," he said. "You need to make out already and be done with this nonsense. This ain't a TV show, and the tension is driving the rest of us crazy."
Winchester rolled off of him and stood up. "Don't know what you're talking about, Bobby," he said gruffly. But he held out a hand to help Castiel up.
They walked a few steps out of earshot; Castiel pinched the bridge of his nose to deaden the pain. "I got you good, huh?" said Winchester. "Sorry, reflex from too many bar fights."
"It's not broken," Castiel said. "Can I have the fucking inhaler now?"
"I was just being an asshole, Cas, I don't even have it," Winchester admitted.
"What? Why the hell would you say you did? Just trying to piss me off?"
Winchester shrugged. "It's the story," he said. "You're the hero and I'm the villain—you're a fucking doctor, a leader, you've got skills that're actually valuable here. I'm just a grifter, I'm useless. Might as well give everybody a common enemy."
"That makes no sense."
"Not to you, maybe. You haven't had my life."
Looking at him, Castiel saw the subtle clench of his jaw, the clearly reflected pain in his eyes. Whatever his life had been, it had taught him he had nothing to offer the world; maybe it was even true elsewhere, but this island was a world unto itself, and they would need everyone to make it through till they were rescued. "Dean," he said suddenly. Castiel had never called him by his first name before, and his surprise was evident. "I don't want you to be an enemy."
Dean shot him a wary glance. "Whaddya want then, a sidekick? Not interested."
"No," Castiel said, stepping closer. Dean licked his lips nervously but didn’t move away. "I want...dammit, Dean. I want you."
Dean leaned forward and kissed him. And kissed him, and kissed him. They stood there on the beach in full view of forty-odd survivors, too wrapped up in each other to care.
"About goddamn time," huffed Singer to himself, and started setting up another game.