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It all started when Cas began running all over the goddamn country with Crowley.
Yeah, that sounds good. Dean’s blaming this whole thing on Crowley.
He wasn’t too happy in the first place, when Cas called during that hunt with the nutjob religious family to tell him that he and Crowley were going to be working together to hunt down Lucifer. It’s not like the two of them had the best track record as a duo, and even if he did trust Cas with his life, he didn’t trust Crowley as far as he could throw him. Dean knew Cas was blaming himself entirely for Lucifer being above ground, no matter how many times he and Sam told him that was bullshit, so there was the very real possibility of Crowley convincing Cas to martyr himself or some other self-sacrificing bullshit in order to bring the devil down.
On top of that, deep, deep down in Dean’s gut is the sickening feeling that he still hadn’t really convinced Cas they wanted him around because he was family, not because he could smite demons or heal them or whatever else it is Cas has himself convinced is the only reason they keep him around.
He doesn’t really think about it though. Doesn’t think about it because if he does, one day he’s going to slip up, and he’s going to beg Cas to stay.
And then one day Cas’ll leave anyway. Just like mom.
Mom was the reason for most of Dean’s distraction, that first time Cas called. Wondering what he could have done to make her stay, what part of his personality it was that made her decide she didn’t want him as her son, kept him from protesting the Crowley and Cas show as much as he probably should have.
Sam didn’t seem too bothered by it either, and they needed all the help they could get finding Lucifer, so what the hell.
‘Course, Dean had kind of forgotten what a shitty FBI agent Cas made.
“It isn’t funny Dean,” Cas says sullenly over the phone a few weeks later. “Miss Collins thought I was trying to catch her without clothing on. I was forced to wipe her memory.”
Dean’s almost howling with laughter at this point, causing Sam to shoot him a dirty look across the wide expanse of oak that was the table in the War Room.
“She called me Peeping Tom,” Cas continues, his tone of voice going suspicious. “I was not aware stealing unsolicited looks at naked women was a common characteristic in Toms.”
“Dude,” Dean wheezes, covering his smile with his hand as he adjusts the phone in the other. “You can’t just go looking through a lady’s bedroom window.”
“Crowley had gathered some very compelling evidence that pointed to her as Lucifer’s next—“
“Ya know, Crowley’s probably not the most trustworthy source,” Dean points out reasonably, pushing back to swing his feet up onto the table and crossing them. This earns him Sam Dirty Face number two of the night.
“I’m not very good at this,” Cas tells him, sounding so matter-of-fact about his own inadequacy that Dean nearly winces, remembering each time he’s teased Cas about looking awkward.
“You’ll get the hang of it Cas,” he replies reassuringly. “It just takes practice.”
“I realize that, which is why I’ll listen to Crowley’s advice for now. I want to be useful to you and Sam.”
Dean realizes he’s had his eyes closed and opens them, immediately catching Sam looking at him with something like concern. Which means he probably looks like he’s in pain. Great. “You’re already useful, Cas,” he forces out, watching as Sam raises an eyebrow. “And you know that’s not like…a requirement, right? You could get your ass back here and binge watch all four seasons of Arrested Development and I’d just be happy you’re here. Hell, I’d probably even join.”
The sound of keyboard clacking starts up again, which means at least Dean’s managed to get Sam off his back. Cas is silent too, and Dean wonders if he’s once again failed to make Cas understand what he’s trying to tell him.
He probably has. He’s kind of a shitty excuse for a human being.
“Who would you suggest?”
“What?”
“You and Sam are busy with your own cases, and you say Crowley isn’t trustworthy,” Cas says. “Where do you suggest I go for my FBI education?”
“Your fake FBI education?” Dean asks, cracking a small smile. “Uh, I’m not sure man, Sam and I kind of just copy what we see on procedural cop shows, things like that. It’s not like civilians have a lot of experience with the police, they only know what books and TV tell ‘em.”
“Ah, so you would suggest that I look into the mystery genre?”
“Hey, whatever you think’ll help.”
“Hmm,” Cas hums and then hangs up, because Dean still hasn’t made him understand that he likes hearing a goodbye once in a while. Whatever. Not like he has a complex or anything.
Dean hasn’t heard from Cas since then besides the occasional text update, so he assumes Cas has probably taken his advice. That or he thinks Dean is full of shit as well, which is fine as long as he’s not getting into trouble.
Still. It’s not like Cas is only allowed to call when he has an update or something. Dean wouldn’t mind a social call now and then. Jesus. A social call. He sounds like a bored housewife who only gets out of the house about once or twice a month.
He’s gone a week and a half without hearing Cas’ voice.
Dean gives the book of South Mediterranean herbs (half of them boasting healing properties to ‘cleanse the devil within’) another two minutes before slamming it shut. Sam looks up from his laptop in surprise. “You find something?”
“No,” Dean bites out. “I’m going out of my friggen mind here, Sam.”
Sam glances at the wall behind him and the large expanse of bookshelves covering it. “If there’s nothing in there, there are a couple of spellbooks that I haven’t -”
“Pretty sure staring at another book isn’t gonna help the whole going out of my mind thing, Sammy,” Dean says dryly. “Feel like we haven’t had a case in ages.”
They are, in fact, sitting in the same exact spot they had been ten days ago when Cas had last called, but if Dean pointed that out Sam would probably just ignore him, because sitting in the same place for six straight days hunched over a book is exactly what nerd-types like his brother do.
Sam’s brows furrow and the beginning of a frown (Dean silently labels it a pout in his head) begins to creep along his forehead. “There are still some things I need to look at here,” he tells Dean, tapping his pencil on the book in front of him. “If you’re really itching for a case, Cas said he got wind of a haunting about an hour or two south of here. Might not even be anything, he said it doesn’t sound too dangerous, but you could get a preemptive jump on it.”
“Wait, wait, wait, hold up,” Dean holds his hand up, his mind having already screeched to a halt. “Cas called? When did Cas call?”
“Yesterday,” Sam shrugs, and Dean can already tell he’s losing his brother’s attention for the book again as Sam glances down at it. “So, you want that case?”
“No, it’s fine,” Dean mutters, pushing his chair back with a little more force than necessary and standing up. He doesn’t wait to see if Sam comments on him fucking the ancient wooden floors up, something he himself’d normally be concerned with (shut up, they’re antique). “I’m just gonna –-” he makes a vague gesture towards the kitchen before quickly heading off.
The first thing he does is grab a beer from the fridge, almost an automatic now when he makes it into the kitchen in a mood like this. There’s a tight clench of his gut and dull pounding in the back of his head that he’s more recently been associating with waiting for a text back from Mary. It means he’s anxious, he knows that, but it’s not like he’s going to admit it.
The anxiousness pisses him off, only adding to the pounding in his brain. What does he care that Cas hasn’t spoken to him in a week but called Sam? It’s not like Cas has never called Sam over him before.
Except, Dean’s pretty sure, Cas usually tries Sam after Dean doesn’t answer. Or because what he has to say is for Sam specifically, like that time he called to tell Sam he’d run into a Stanford alum and had spent several minutes trapped in a conversation about bears and cardinals and “can you tell me why the animals in California are so hostile, Sam?”
He’d sounded so stupidly proud of himself to have something to say to Sam though.
He needs something to distract himself, anything, and, noticing that Sam left his fucking dish on the table again, he grabs it, walking it over to the sink with his unopened beer and picking up a sponge.
So what, he snorts to himself. What, does Cas like Sam better than him now, or something?
The dish is clean. He glares at it before grabbing the ones on the drying rack and dumping them into the sink to wash again. Sam never fucking does it right anyway.
He hates being jealous of Sam, he really does. He loves his little brother. Besides, there’s no reason to be jealous. Cas is Sam’s friend too. So what if Dean always thought they were just a little bit closer. So what if the kind of relationship he had with Cas was the one thing that he didn’t have to share with Sam? So what if he wasn’t special? So what? Story of his life, right.
Except he and Cas always have had a closer relationship than Cas and Sam, so if Cas is suddenly calling Sam over him, it must be because of something Dean did.
Dean aggressively scrubs at the frying pan he’d used to make taco meat last night, thinking hard about what he could have done to piss Cas off in the last week. There was that text Claire had sent with the picture of the cat that’s always frowning – he’d forwarded that on to Cas. And he thinks he may have accidentally called the guy Saturday night before quickly hanging up in a blind panic (he was slightly tipsy and a little more loose lipped than usual, sue him).
This was fucking stupid. He should just call Cas and find out for himself.
Instead he empties the cutlery drawer into the sink and starts scrubbing that too.
Stop pussyfooting around and just call him already, Winchester.
He knocks down half the bottle of beer at his elbow in one swallow and then, before he can think too hard about it, quickly pulls up Cas’ contact information on his phone and jabs at the call button with his still wet hands.
Briefly he wonders if Cas will ignore the call, but the idea is quickly discarded for the fear that Cas actually will pick up and wonder why he’s calling. There are plenty of real reasons other than his stupid self-esteem issues that he would need to talk to Cas about, right? Like, uh, some Lucifer-killing magic mojo hidden underground by dwarf people that just surfaced in one of the old Men of Letter’s journals.
Or something. Dean doesn’t fucking know. Point is, no reason this can’t be a totally normal conversation that Cas wouldn’t find weird in any way.
Dude’s so weird himself he probably wouldn’t notice anything off anyway.
Dean eyes his half empty beer bottle, wondering if he has time to slug the rest down before Cas picks up. He can hear the line ringing for the fourth time now, and he’s circling back around to the fear that Cas is actually screening his—
“Agent Marlowe.”
His voice is gruff, somehow even deeper than it usually is. It’s rough and to the point, clipped, like he’s impatient to hear what Dean has to say and wishes he would just get on with it already.
It brings Dean up short.
“Agent—Cas?” is the stupidity that comes tumbling out of his mouth.
“Oh, hello Dean,” Cas says, and the shortness falls away, replaced with fond familiarity.
Dean is ashamed to say that he instantly wishes Cas would go back to the other voice.
“Dean?” Dean can tell Cas is repeating himself, a tinge of alarm creeping into his tone. “Dean, is everything alright?”
“Yeah,” Dean forces a quick laugh, catches his hand going to rub at the back of his neck and instantly snatches it away. What is he, sixteen and asking a girl to prom? “Dude, what’s with the voice?”
“I’m not sure what you mean,” he can practically hear the confused frown through the phone. “Do you and Sam require me for something?”
“No, I just, uh,” Dean flounders, searching for something to say and cursing not thinking this through. Probably should have worried more about what to say to Cas instead of whether or not Cas was even gonna let him say it.
He’s got nothing. There’s still a sick clenching in his stomach, creeping into his chest. He can’t ask Cas why he called Sam about some stupid hunt over him, not unless he wants to cut off his balls and turn them in to whatever higher power is in charge of that kind of emotional embarrassment.
Actually, Dean wouldn’t be surprised if that higher power happened to be John Winchester, who would have probably administered some form of alcohol, women, guns and a beating if he’d ever heard Dean voice the thoughts running through his head right now.
“Dean?”
“Marlowe!” he blurts out.
“What?”
“Marlowe,” he manages to repeat more calmly. “Your cover. Thought it was Beyoncé?”
“Oh, yes,” Cas answers. “I took your advice. I thought this name sounded more believable.”
“My advice?”
“To study law enforcement in pop culture,” Cas reminds him. “I finished Chandler the other day. I enjoyed him much more than Hammet.”
“No kidding.” Dean remembers, faintly, spending three months in Fryeburg, Maine when he was ten. Dad had left him with Sam to go take care of some giant dog monster he’d caught wind of, and with nothing else to do in a town that small, Dean had been forced to resort to the library. He’d spent hours devouring the The Big Sleep and The Maltese Falcon and The Untouchables, fantasizing about one day becoming a man just like the old hardboiled detectives, someone tough and unemotional who wouldn’t take any shit, the epitome of manhood. Someone his dad would be proud of, basically.
‘Course somewhere along the way, Dean got his fucking wires crossed, and now his admiration for a guy like that is less ‘I want to be like you’ and more, uh…
He remembers his reaction to meeting Eliot Ness when Chronos sent him back in time and quickly shuts that line of thinking off.
“At the very least I found that Marlowe had some humanity,” Cas is saying, and Dean grunts in acknowledgement. Marlowe was the philosophical one, he remembers, and he smiles slightly that he probably could have guessed Cas would be drawn to him.
“Gotta hand it to ya Cas, when I told you to use pop culture to figure out how to up your FBI game, I figured you’d watch a couple of episodes of NCIS or something.”
“Oh,” Cas hesitates, and Dean can instantly tell he thinks he’s fucked up. “Should I have done that instead?”
“No, no,” Dean says quickly. “This is fine – this is more your style anyway.” He grins suddenly, “So, you get to The Untouchables yet?”
Cas hadn’t, as it turned out, but Dean manages to get ten more enjoyable minutes of conversation about detective classics out of Cas before Sam wanders into the kitchen, laptop balanced on the palm of his hand, and asks Dean why he rewashed all the dishes.
It turns into a thing (“I don’t use the wrong soap Dean, you’re just a fucking perfectionist” “a space satellite could have picked up on the grease still on that pan, Sam”), and Dean forgets all about Cas’ stupid answering-the-phone voice.
Cas calls again a few days later (he calls Dean this time and Dean absolutely does not act smug towards a clueless Sam for hours afterwards) with a tip on some girl in Nebraska whose kitchen had been set on fire and claimed Lucifer made her do it. Crowley doesn’t think the newspaper article they’d found the story in has any merit, but Cas does, and since it’s so close to them and Crowley refuses to tag along, did the Winchesters want to meet him there?
Dean answered yes before Sam could even open his mouth, earning him a disgruntled look that shifted over to the pile of books waiting to be read.
“Read in the car,” Dean had told him, and at Sam’s response had yelled “Uncalled for!” at his retreating back.
The town Cas had told them to meet him in is called La Vista, just outside of Omaha and about a four hour drive from the bunker. Driving into town, they pass a Costco and a golf course before entering a neighborhood filled with ranch style homes.
“What’s the story again?” Dean asks Sam. They’d stopped at a rest stop just off of I-80 to change into their fed suits, and Sam had arranged with Cas to meet outside the victim’s house.
“Tracy Contrarez, age twenty-seven,” Sam says, scrolling through his tablet. “Had a minor kitchen fire Tuesday night. Told the firemen who showed up that it had been started by Lucifer, who – get this – ‘was doing everything he could to get me to say yes.’”
“Sounds like the real deal,” Dean says, making a right turn and glancing at Sam. “So how come she hasn’t been carted off yet?”
“Apparently she took it all back when they started questioning her about insurance fraud.” Sam shrugs. “Guess she wasn’t convinced enough to take it all the way.”
Dean snorts, “yeah, or she’s not stupid enough to risk the loony bin.” He spots Cas’ ass ugly Lincoln Continental down the block and pretends he doesn’t tap down a little harder on the gas. Cas is standing outside of it, leaning against the side and staring with a look of abject concentration at his phone when they pull up behind him.
“Hey Cas!” Sam calls out as he unfolds himself from the Impala, and Cas looks up, squinting at them.
“You made it.”
“’Course we made it. Hey buddy,” Dean joins them, grinning at Cas. Cas does that thing he does, where he smiles with his eyes, which fuck Dean missed seeing. Then he realizes he’s stepped too close, and his body language is screaming ‘please hug me,’ so he pats him awkwardly on the shoulder and turns towards the house. “You been here long?”
“Only about twenty minutes,” Cas tells him. “It wasn’t a long wait. I was reading.”
“What are you reading?” Sam asks with interest.
“Agatha Christie.”
“Really?” Sam sounds surprised. “I didn’t take you for the detective novel type, Cas.”
“Dean recommended them to me,” Cas says. “I like them.” He pockets the phone and takes off for the house, brushing Dean’s arm with his as he goes. Sam sends Dean a questioning look, and Dean returns it with as much cluelessness as he can, shrugging his shoulders dramatically.
So maybe he feels a bit protective over the whole detective novel thing. Whatever, it’s their thing.
Tracy Contrarez’s house is one level, white with a light gray trim and a smiling gnome in a big red hat just off the porch steps. Tracy herself, when she answers the door, is small and petite, with dark hair and almond eyes.
“The FBI?” she asks, looking notably alarmed when they introduce themselves. “I’m not doing anything wrong, I swear. I’m not trying to file a claim.”
“It’s not about that,” Sam assures her, in full calm and understanding mode. “Ms. Contrarez, we want to talk to you about the voice you said you heard.”
Now she just looks confused, which is fairly typical when they roll up pretending to be FBI caring about weird shit like this. “I don’t understand. Why would the FBI—”
Dean’s about to open his mouth and spin the usual bullcrap – possible connection to another case, following up on a hunch, probably nothing – when Cas steps forward, and in that voice says, “We don’t enjoy wasting time ma’am. Allow us to ask you some questions and then we can be on our way.”
Dean’s mouth snaps shut and Tracy’s eyes widen. They both stare at Cas, while Dean can feel Sam burning a hole into the side of his head with his eyes.
Tracy is the first one to react. “Yeah – I mean sure,” she says, opening the door wider. “Yeah, come in. Agent Marlowe, right?”
“Correct,” Cas replies shortly before heading confidently into the house. Dean and Sam follow after some hesitation, sitting on the couch Tracy indicates to them. There’s an armchair across from the couch that she takes a seat in. Cas, weirdly enough, is striding the perimeter of the room, twisting the shades closed until the light is dimmed.
“So uh, Tracy,” Dean starts, doing his very best to ignore Cas, who has such an air of determination and fucking something else about him that Dean can actually feel himself straining with the effort not to watch him. Sam, on the other hand, isn’t even pretending. “You heard Lucifer speaking to you?”
“I thought I did,” Tracy nods. She can’t take her eyes off of Cas either, and Dean feels a stab of annoyance. “Now I’m not so sure. I think it might have been stress? I was having a tough week at work.”
“That’s not what you told the arson investigator,” Sam points out.
“I know, but like I said, I think I just—”
“I think I can take it from here, Agent Butler, Agent Ward,” Cas interrupts smoothly, and Jesus, he’s still got that fucking voice going, gravelly and clipped and tinged with impatience. “Ms. Contrarez, you told the fire investigator that you had been hearing Lucifer in your head for several days prior to the fire.”
“I know I did,” Tracy agrees, gaping at him. “I know I did, but that’s crazy.”
Cas stalks forward and stops at the arm of the couch next to Dean, his eyebrow raised sardonically and his hands shoved into the pocket of his trench. “So you started the fire yourself?”
“No! Well, I mean, I didn’t mean to, but I must have, by accident, I must have left a burner on or something…”
“I don’t have all day, Ms. Contrarez,” Cas says quietly, voice low. “I don’t believe you’re an unintelligent young woman. So tell me again. Did you start that fire yourself?”
Dean’s pretty sure he’s staring up at Cas like he’s never seen him before, and from this angle it’s almost like he never has. Cas’ jaw is sharp, dusted with dark stubble, and his blue eyes are cool as they focus intensely on Tracy. Dean’d be a little more worried about how he might look to Sam, except he’s pretty sure Sam is staring at Cas with his mouth hanging open too.
“No,” Tracy replies breathlessly, and Dean rips his gaze away from Cas with some effort to look at her. Her pretty almond colored eyes are wide and she looks flushed as she stares at Cas, fingers absently playing with the lock of hair fallen over her shoulder. Dean frowns. “No, I didn’t do it.”
“Good girl,” he says approvingly. “Tell me what happened.”
“A few days ago,” Tracy says quietly. “I started hearing a voice. I ignored it at first, I thought I was talking to myself, making it up, but he,” she hesitates. “He told me he was an angel.”
“What did the angel want you to do?”
“He wanted me to say yes. He wouldn’t tell me what I was saying yes to, he just told me if I believed, if I had faith, I had to say yes, and then everything would be okay.” She looks imploringly at Cas, lips quivering slightly. “I have faith, Agent Marlowe, I swear I do. I just didn’t want to say yes.”
“Of course you didn’t,” Cas says mildly, but the look he gives Tracy is hard, and Dean almost startles when he straightens up from the couch, leaning forward until his hands are rested on the armchairs on either side of Tracy as he brings his face close to hers. “I think it’s time you tell me about the fire.”
“He was telling me to say yes, screaming it in my head,” Tracy tells him, her eyes glued to his. “I wouldn’t do it – I was screaming back and then – and then my stove just burst into flames, and it started spreading, and there was this awful, awful screaming…”
“What did he say?” Cas whispers, and Dean coughs when he sees Tracy shiver, shifting as loudly as he can on the couch. Which must have goddamn oiled springs.
“He said he’d go after my brother next,” Tracy whispers back.
Cas straightens up so abruptly Dean startles, but at least Sam does the same next to him. Tracy’s eyes are still riveted on Cas as tilts his head down at her. “Thank you for your time today Ms. Contrarez. If you can give us your brother’s information, we have some questions for him as well.”
“Oh, yeah, yeah, of course!” Tracy scrambles in the chair, stretching (totally unnecessarily, in Dean’s opinion) for the phone on the end table next to her. “He lives in Arizona. Do you have your phone? I can put his number in there, and maybe I can give you my ow—”
“I got it,” Dean says loudly, shoving his hand roughly into his pocket and pulling his phone out. Sam gives him a look, but he ignores it as he stands up and jabs at the screen. “What is it?”
Tracy reluctantly reads him off the number, constantly glancing at Cas, but Dean doesn’t give her the chance to offer what he knows she wants to, reaching out to grab a handful of trench at Cas’ elbow and steering him towards the door.
“Thank you for your help, Ms. Contrarez,” he can hear Sam saying, and why the hell does he sound apologetic? Whatever, they’re at the door, and Dean gets Cas outside, marching him down the front walk.
“Where are we going?” Cas asks, and thank god, his voice is back to normal. Or not thank god. Dean’s very fucking confused.
“You know she was into you, right?” he says roughly, dropping his hand and glaring at Cas.
“I know,” Cas squints at him. “I’ll give the brother a call. Since this has been proven legitimate, I believe Crowley will join me again and you and Sam can return to your other cases.”
“Other cases?” Dean sputters, completely at loss for words. That’s when Sam joins them, and he smiles slightly at Cas.
“That was good Cas. Way better than last time. It was an, ah, interesting method.”
“Thank you, Sam,” Cas does his equivalent of beaming, which means his eyes crinkle and his mouth turns up at one corner. “I was just telling Dean that I can take it from here. I have to get going if I want to make it to Arizona by tomorrow afternoon.”
“You sure you don’t want us to tag along?”
“I appreciate the offer, but I believe Lucifer is still searching for a suitable long term vessel. I’ll call when he seems to have found one.” Here Cas turns to Dean, whose brain is still trying to understand the last half hour of his life. “It was good to see you again.”
Dean stares at him.
“Likewise,” Sam says after a pause. “Let us know when you get to Arizona.”
Cas nods and gives a small wave, then heads off to his car like absolutely nothing in the world is wrong.
Dean on the other hand.
He carefully avoids looking at Sam as he stomps around the Impala and yanks the driver’s side door open. What the fuck was that?
Dean knows what the fuck it was. It was Cas taking control of a situation and being a fucking badass at it. And it was Dean being turned on by that, as pissed off as it made him. It definitely did something for Tracy, not that Cas minded at-fucking-all.
The fact of the matter is, Dean would never have denied that Cas is attractive. Jimmy was a good looking guy, ergo now Cas is a good looking guy. It’s just a fact he’d stored right up there with ‘Sam gets gassy when he eats tacos’ and ‘you have to slow the Impala down to fifty before taking it out of third gear.’ Lately though, his emotional attachment to Cas has been making things messy, as they usually do, and rather than examine it all too carefully, Dean’s been shoving it all in a box in his head marked Do Not Open Ever.
Except something about Cas using that fucking voice and getting authoritative and no-nonsense is poking at the box. This isn’t Cas, his only goddamned friend in the world, whom Dean can easily ignore his attraction to for the sake of that friendship. This is Cas, I-Will-Fuck-You-Up-And-I’ll-Enjoy-It, one track minded, determined, hard edged, and Dean can imagine this Cas backing him into the wall, gaze boring into him, growling in that stupid fucking voice, “Dean, take off your—”
“Dude, what the hell was that?” Sam asks loudly, and Dean jolts guiltily, jamming the Impala’s key into the ignition on reflex alone.
“What was what?” he bites out, yanking viciously on the gear shift.
“All of that, in there, with Cas. What was with him?” Sam asks, eyeing him. “And actually, what’s with you?”
“Nothing,” Dean grunts, keeping his eyes determinedly fixed on the road. “Dunno what’s up with Cas.”
“He actually did well at interrogation,” Sam continues, completely ignoring the fact that Dean definitely didn’t want to talk about this. “But his style was kind of…do you remember those old black and white movies dad liked to watch?”
“I remember,” Dean says tightly.
“You know, with Humphrey Bogart in that trench coat. Hey,” Sam smiles. “So I guess that makes sense.”
“Want some music?” Dean asks, abruptly reaching over and flipping the stereo on, cranking it up to loud before Sam can say anything.
Thinking of Cas wearing a trench coat just like Humphrey Bogart’s really isn’t something he needs right now.
Sam, amazingly enough, lets it go, and Dean doesn’t hear anything else about friggen Agent Marlowe the rest of the ride home. He’d say that was the end of it, or at least the end of it if Cas never pulled out that voice of his again, but a few days later he catches Sam watching Kiss Me Deadly on his laptop in the War Room.
“Seriously Sam?”
“What?” Sam asks innocently. “I’m just watching a movie.”
Dean catches a glimpse of Maxine Cooper draped seductively over Ralph Meeker’s side while he looks on dispassionately and swears, stomping past Sam and back to his room.
“Does this mean you’re over the cowboys?” Sam calls after him.
“Shut up!”
Cas doesn’t call, so Dean has to assume Tracy’s brother was a bust, and that he and Crowley are following their next lead onto Lucifer. Mom starts texting more, finally, so at least Dean can relax a little on that front, and when he nervously suggests playing Words With Friends, her answer is reassuringly enthusiastic. He and Sam go on another case, a vampire in Tuscaloosa, and Dean does his best to hide the copy of The Untouchables he has shoved into his duffle, only pulling it out to read long after Sam has gone to sleep.
He’s never been ashamed of his admiration for certain kinds of men. Indiana Jones, Han Solo, Clint Eastwood, Doctor Sexy…so what? They were cool guys, they had swagger and all the ladies loved them. Who wouldn’t want to be just like them?
Problem was, Dean’s never met any of them (well, except Doctor Sexy, and it’s not like he contained himself well there) so he’s never had to deal with what his admiration might mean. Now all of a sudden every time Cas appears, he’s one step closer to full on femme fatale magnet.
To be completely honest, Dean’s not sure how much longer he can keep shoving stuff like that into the Do Not Open Ever box.
Crowley calls him on a Thursday afternoon, and Dean has to pull himself out from under the hood of an old Mustang in the garage to answer, rubbing his oil stained hands over his jeans before swiping the screen of his phone. “What?”
“And hello to you too, Dean,” Crowley says dryly. “Charming as ever, I see.”
“I do my best,” Dean replies, throwing down the wrench in his hand and looking around for a small Phillip’s head. “You need something or are you just calling to gossip?”
“I’m sending the angel back to you for the weekend. His whining is getting on my nerves.”
“Whining?” Dean stops searching and focuses on the conversation. “Did he get hurt? Swear to god Crowley, if you did anything to him—”
“Relax, I didn’t touch your precious pet,” Crowley drawls. “I’d just prefer not to be the one to deal with the fallout of whatever hormones he’s been building up for the past few weeks.”
“What the fuck does that mean?” Dean asks, but Crowley has already hung up, so Dean stares at his phone in consternation for a few seconds before grabbing the screwdriver he’s finally spotted and ducking back under the hood of the car.
Nothing was wrong with it, as far as he could tell, but Sam had kicked him out of the kitchen his third time through cleaning it, and if he did anything else to fix the Impala he’d probably end up overdoing it so badly that he fucked something up. But he desperately needed something to do with his hands, anything other than jacking off in the shower to stupid rough authoritative voices or running them over the single-breasted navy jacket and vest combo that’s been hanging neatly in his closet for the past five years.
So rather than do any of that, or think about Cas, he’s ripping a vintage ‘65 Mustang apart.
Sam should just be happy that he hasn’t been drinking. Yet. Today.
The box of Do Not Open Ever thoughts has remained firmly closed. It’s one thing, Dean reasons, to do what you have to do in order to feed your younger brother. It’s another thing to go lusting after your best friend just because he’s attractive and has ridiculous blue eyes and because he sacrificed his entire home and family just for you and actually listened to you when you accidentally suggested he start acting out one of your deepest sexual fantasies and fuck…
“Dean?”
“Son of a bitch!” Dean jerks his head up and narrowly avoids slamming it into the hood of the Mustang. Turns out even only half mojo’d up, Cas could still sneak up on him.
“Where the hell did you come from?” Dean asks, wiping his hands on his jeans again and turning. “Crowley just –”
The next sound that comes out of his mouth is more an unidentifiable noise than an actual word.
Cas is not in his trenchcoat. Not that Dean’s never seen him without it before. He did, after all, spend a year stubbornly transferring it from the trunk of one stolen car to the next, and he remembers with no small amount of pain the red hoodie Cas had been in when Dean had kicked him out of the bunker. Hell, there are even times that he’s been able to convince the guy to take it off if he’s been in the bunker for more than a few hours, so yeah, Dean knows what Cas looks like without the trenchcoat; he’s seen Cas in his shortsleeves and a hoodie and even a Gas N’ Sip vest.
Cas is not wearing any of those things.
It shouldn’t seem like such a drastic change, considering, except it totally is. Cas is wearing a dark charcoal gray suit over a white collared shirt with a deep, dark blue tie that reminds Dean sharply of the one he was wearing when they first met. On top of that he’s got a wool black overcoat with a matching black 1940’s style fedora that deepens the blue of his eyes to the color of stormy waves. The whole thing fits him so well that there’s no way he didn’t get it tailored, and Dean is instantly and intensely jealous of whatever lucky bastard got that job.
“Hello Dean,” Cas says, and then he tips the goddamned hat at him.
Tips the goddamned hat.
“What the hell are you wearing?” Dean asks, and his voice is hoarse, and he hates himself.
Cas glances down at himself, like he hadn’t realized he’s wearing something completely different than the outfit he’s worn practically every day since he jumped into Jimmy. “I read The Untouchables,” he answers, considering. “And I watched the show. It was very informative.”
“So what, you’re Eliot Ness now?”
“I assure you, Dean, if I were Ness you would know it.” Cas steps closer and Dean sucks in a breath as he brushes by to peer under hood at the mess Dean has made of the Mustang’s engine block. “Although I found their use of submachine guns highly unrealistic.”
“Well,” Dean clears his throat, trying to get his voice back to normal. It still sounds rough, like he’s got a cold. “They were fightin’ gangsters. Gotta bring out the big guns.”
“Realistic guns are much more satisfying,” Cas says solemnly, and Dean coughs again, causing him to cock his head. “Do you have a cold?”
“No.” Dean takes a hasty step away from Cas and slams the hood of the car shut, just for something to do. He stares at the dark silver of the hood for a minute before running a hand through his hair and glancing over his shoulder at Cas. “So, uh. How’s the detective work been going?”
“Very well,” Cas tells him, smiling slightly. “Especially since I started wearing this suit.”
“Yeah, I bet,” Dean mutters, turning to face him fully. “Got the women falling all over you, huh?”
“Yes,” he says seriously. “But that’s the only way I know that I’m doing it correctly.”
Cas’ eyes are boring right into him, shadowed under his hat as they are, and Dean wonders what his hair would be like if he took it off. If it would be back to the ruffled, messed up look that Cas used to constantly sport when he could still fly. He’s almost curious enough to see, except he really doesn’t want the hat to come off, because Cas currently looks like every fantasy he’d never allowed himself to have. He’s so distracted he almost doesn’t register what Cas said, and he definitely didn’t notice him stepping closer.
“Correctly?” he questions when his brain finally manages to translate. He feels hot in his skin, tight, and he shifts subtly, trying desperately not to notice the way Cas’ eyes darken or the way his eyes drop to trail down his stomach. “What d’you mean?”
He wants to touch, fuck does he want to reach out and touch. Grab the lapel of the coat, pull the tie tucked neatly into Cas’ waistcoat out and reel him in. His hand twitches.
“In all of the movies I watched and the books I read, there were always women after the main protagonist,” Cas explains, and for some reason he looks skeptical. “I didn’t understand it, since it seemed to me that the detectives were uninterested, but they always got the information they wanted, and there were always women after them. It stands to reason they go hand in hand.”
Dean hates to admit that it makes a weird sort of sense, and he doesn’t doubt that it would most definitely make sense to an angel who’s never played law enforcement before in his life and who barely understands the intricacies of human socialization on top of it all. “I got it,” he nods. “That’s why the clothes. And, ah, the voice.”
“The voice,” Cas repeats, regarding him closely.
“Yeah, you know,” Dean makes a vague gesture. “When you were in Agent-mode. You had a voice.”
Dean realizes this isn’t a route he should have gone down when Cas takes another step closer. He looks genuinely curious, like he’s not sure what Dean is talking about, and internally Dean is freaking out, because if Cas gets close enough Dean will touch him, and just how the fuck is he supposed to explain running his hand over the shoulder of Cas’ coat?
“I may know what you’re talking about,” Cas says, still sounding pretty unsure. “Was I using it when we were speaking to Tracy?”
“Yup, think so,” Dean says quickly, backing away a step and feeling the bumper of the Mustang at the back of his legs.
“I’m not sure I remember exactly how it went,” Cas’ eyebrows furrow like he’s concentrating, a prelude to a frown. “Do you?”
“No, sorry buddy. I’m crap at remembering.” Dean forces out a laugh as his last line of defense. Of course he remembers the fucking voice. He’s got nowhere to fucking go, with the car at his back and Cas casually advancing on him effortlessly eliminating personal space in a way that’s very familiar yet not.
Cas stops just in front of him, studying him. If Dean jerked forward, to get away from the car, he’d be pushing their groins together. His look is so intense that Dean is finding it impossible to look away.
“Don’t play games with me, Winchester,” Cas says quietly.
And there it is. Cas’ voice, one of Dean’s only comforts and constant for the past eight years, but rougher, lower. It’s the voice of someone who’s seen some shit and refuses to let it affect him anymore, authoritative and demanding and hard, and it should be off-putting but this is fucking Cas, who Dean trusts with his life and whose eyes he’s been looking for on every girl he’s fucked in the past three years and who would die for him, and Dean really had no fucking choice but to dig his hands into the wide lapels of Cas’ coat and yank him forward into a kiss.
Anytime Dean had let himself vaguely think of how Cas would kiss, he’s pictured that time in the warehouse with Meg, what seems like a million years ago now, when Cas had backed her into the wall and shoved a hand into her hair and had taken everything he wanted. This was a little like that, and not at all.
When Dean’s lips crash against Cas’, Cas makes a noise Dean can’t even begin to decipher, and his hands go instantly to Dean’s hips, pulling himself closer and pressing Dean even harder into the metal of the car behind him.
Dean responds by licking into Cas’ mouth, because why the hell not at this point, and Cas makes a noise deep in his chest again, the vibrations running through Dean’s body. Cas tastes like cold open air, and when Dean clenches tighter at his coat and tries to draw him closer so he can taste more, Cas nips at his lip.
His hand has been creeping down to Dean’s ass as one of his own hands has dropped its fistful of Cas’ coat and is threading up through his dark messy hair. Dean manages to knock the fedora of and finally get his hand buried into the soft strands at the same moment Cas has his ass fully cupped, and then to his surprise he’s being lifted to sit fully on the hood of the car.
“Jesus, Cas,” he gasps, breaking away. He fucking forgets how strong Cas is. Cas seems unbothered by Dean’s surprise, trailing his mouth along the line of his jaw instead, to the sensitive part of his neck just behind his ear.
“Tell me how to make you feel good,” Cas rumbles when he gets there, the shape of his lips and the words he’s making brushing against the lobe of Dean’s ear.
All of the blood in Dean’s head has seemed to rush to his groin, so he really only has the brainpower to continue clutching both Cas’ coat and hair as he stupidly asks, “what?”
“Tell me how to make you feel good,” he repeats, and when Dean can’t seem to find an answer, his tone gets demanding. “Dean. Tell me now.”
“Blow me,” Dean manages to grit out. “Fucking Christ, just blow me.”
Cas finally pulls away from Dean’s neck, his eyes glinting. Dean can see his erection, the dark gray slacks he’s wearing hiding nothing, and he wonders briefly if he’s being selfish about wanting Cas’ mouth on him, wrapped around him, when Cas drops to his knees in front of him.
“I want you to feel good,” he says sternly, eyes boring into Dean like he knows exactly what Dean is thinking. And fuck, he probably does. There are some times even Sam can’t read him as well as Cas can, and Dean’s not entirely sure that’s just due to him having an angelic advantage anymore.
“Shit,” Dean says. “Shit, ok.”
That seems to be enough for Cas, who reaches for Dean’s waist and pops the button of his jeans, tugging at his fly until it’s unzipped all the way. There’s no way he’s getting the jeans off with Dean’s ass on the car like this, not without his help, so Dean wriggles until they’re down at the ankle with his work boots. Cas seems unconcerned with using the same care with his underwear, instead just shoving them down far enough for Dean’s dick to spring free.
Dean stifles a groan, biting at his lip when Cas encircles it with his hand, giving it a curious stroke. He’s now half naked, in nothing but a grease stained T-shirt, while Cas has still got everything on, even his overcoat, as he kneels in front of Dean on the garage floor. It’s all so ridiculous that Dean suddenly laughs, and Cas’ hand pauses.
“What’s so funny?” he asks, but he looks amused rather than annoyed, and Dean grins at him.
“We’re finally doing this, and I don’t even get to see you naked,” he says. “At least take your coat off man.”
Cas squints at him. “Get it off of me yourself,” he says simply, and then his mouth is wrapped around the head of Dean’s cock.
Dean swears and slaps his palm flat against the hood of the car as Cas works his way down Dean’s length and then back up, varying pressure as he goes. He’s not very experienced, not like Dean expected him to be (and Dean’s not even sure how he would have felt if Cas were used to sucking cock) but he’s definitely into it, and Dean can feel pressure building low in his stomach when Cas comes back up a second time and starts circling the head of Dean’s penis with his tongue. He’s tempted to come like this, all over Cas’ fucking suit, but he wants more, and there’s no way he’s not getting Cas out of those clothes, so with some effort he gets ahold of the hair at the back of Cas’ head and tugs.
“Cas, stop, stop,” he manages to get out. Cas pulls off reluctantly and Dean bends at the waist to kiss him before he can say anything, sweeping his tongue through his mouth and tasting himself as he works to shove the heavy wool coat off of Cas’ shoulders.
It falls to the concrete floor with a soft muffled thump, and then Cas’ hands are on his thighs, thumbs brushing close to his balls. Dean groans and bites his lip again, sliding his hands down Cas’ collar until they reach the knot of his tie. He yanks, and Cas pulls abruptly back, quickly shedding the vest and deftly slipping nimble fingers through the knot in his tie until he can yank it from his neck, the sound of silk against cotton making a satisfying noise.
Dean leans forward once again to mouth at the stubble on Cas’ neck, pulling at the shirt tucked into his pants as Cas struggles to undo the buttons. Cas is muttering his name, a litany of “Dean, Dean, Dean,” filling the silence until finally the last button is undone, and Dean is helping him push the shirt of his shoulders. The undershirt, shoes and slacks are much easier, and suddenly Dean finds himself being pushed onto his back on the hood of the Mustang, all six feet of bare flesh covering his own.
He almost whimpers with the full contact, and Cas actually does, burying his face into the crook of Dean’s neck as he shifts his hips, working a hand in between them.
“Dean,” he mutters again, so Dean circles his arms around Cas’ waist.
“I got ya, Cas.”
Cas finally gets his hand around both their cocks, and Dean bucks, causing Cas to grunt in response. His hand is dry as Dean fucks into it, his dick rubbing against Cas’ own, and the friction feels good and hurts all at the same time, so he uses one of his hands to pull Cas’ own up to his mouth, where he licks at his palm thoroughly before letting him have it back again.
After that, Cas goes to town. His hand jerks swiftly over their cock as he thrusts down, Dean coming up to meet him. The car is rocking beneath them and Dean is sure they’re killing the suspension, but it doesn’t really matter with Cas’ bright blue eyes looking down at him and his hair falling in his face. The pleasure is building rapidly again, heat pooling low in his stomach, and he’s left with nothing else to do but kiss Cas fiercely as he finally comes.
Cas lasts maybe two more strokes before he’s coming as well, his body slumping heavily onto Dean’s as Dean continues to kiss him and pushes a hand through his sweaty, messy hair.
“I got a question,” Dean says hours later, when they’ve managed to make it through the bunker without Sam seeing them and onto Dean’s bed. His head is resting on Cas’ chest, and maybe later he’ll give a damn that he’s in the girl position, when he’s not so comfortable.
“Mmm?” Cas hums.
“Why’d you watch all those movies and read all those books? Metatron put all that shit into your head ages ago.”
Cas is quiet, but it’s a thoughtful quiet, so Dean waits it out. “It’s hard to explain,” he finally says, “What it’s like knowing all the things Metatron has made me know without experiencing them myself. I suppose you could say it’s like knowing the punchline to a joke without fully understanding the joke itself.”
“Alright,” Dean says. “But you didn’t have to watch the movies at all man. It was just a suggestion.”
Cas shifts, and Dean realizes what he’s doing right before he’s managed to get Dean looking at him. Cas is frowning, his forehead creased and hair messy. “I did it because you suggested it,” he says, lips pursing a little. “I take all of your suggestions into high consideration, Dean.”
Dean laughs, because it sounds ridiculous. “Why’s that, Cas?”
“Because I love you.”
Dean stares at him. He guesses maybe he’s always kind of known this, somewhere in the back of his head. That no guy gives up the things that Cas has without loving them deeply. But he’d always had the thought that maybe Cas was confused, or wasn’t able to handle love in the same way humans can. There were certainly times when he didn’t act like Dean thought someone in love should – there was a reason he was terrified the angel would leave and never return.
But Cas says it so matter-of-factly, that right here, in this moment, Dean believes him.
Cas doesn’t seem concerned by Dean’s lack of response. Instead he smiles slightly and cups a hand over Dean’s cheek. “Here’s looking at you, kid.”
It startles Dean into another laugh. “Casablanca isn’t crime noir, Cas.”
“Ah,” Cas looks embarrassed. “I may have developed a slight affinity for Humphrey Bogart.”
Dean reaches up to circle the wrist of the hand Cas has on his cheek. “Cas,” he says seriously. “I love you too.”
The pleased eye crinkles are worth it.