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“I’m sure it’s nothin’, I just wanna take a look around first…” He disconnected the call just as Sam was inhaling to reprimand him again about thinking things through before he acted. He settled back into his seat, grin still on his face.
It was raining just enough to necessitate the windshield wipers, just enough to annoy you without making your shirt wet. There weren’t many cars on the road, most people heading home from the late shift and he changed lanes effortlessly, eased to a stop at an intersection and made a U-turn back the way he’d come, fingers drumming on the steering wheel, images of Barbara Eden belly dancing in his head.
It was a factory complex of some sort, most likely steel works or iron judging by the size and age, graffiti covered some corners and walls, some of the windows were covered in soot and dirt and grime, others were broken out and water dripdripdripped off slanted roofs and sagging gutters. It was a testament to the Midwest, industry lost to decay, the American Dream of yesteryear left to rot by its children.
Dean found it strangely appealing and pulled in, ducking his head to peer up through the windshield at the buildings and high windows darkened in neglect. A stray cat with glowing green eyes darted across the alleyway ahead of him into the darkness but he paid it little mind and parked in a wider area shielded from view of the highway on three sides, drivers wouldn’t see him unless they were looking for him and with the lights off, in this weather he’d be completely invisible.
It wasn’t hard to get inside, places like this had their locks broken years ago by teenagers, or squatters or drug addicts so it was no surprise or concern when the door opened with a gentle push. Nothing looked out of the ordinary, considering where he was and what he was doing. Just an abandoned warehouse. Old desks overturned, papers yellowed with age, rat chewed and scattered. Heaps of rat crap and a few decaying leaves blown or brought in by the wildlife. A mouse scurried across a shelf and disappeared into a crack in the plaster. Cobwebs hung like drapes from the corners, wafting gently in the breeze from the rain. Chairs sitting in corners, eerie but nothing he hadn’t seen a hundred times before.
It was vaguely warmer inside than out, the air stale and smelling of dust and despair. There were a few leaking places in the roof, ceiling tiles that had fallen in, too sodden by decades of rain, swollen and fibrous, Dean wondered if maybe there was asbestos in them and gave each moldering pile a wide berth as he scanned back and forth with his flashlight, knife held lose but ready in his other hand.
At first glance it didn’t look like anything was there, but the farther into the building he ventured the quieter it seemed. Usually abandoned buildings like this were filled with quiet, hidden life. Mice and bats and feral creatures of the sort. Hell, even spiders and moths and birds. Aside from the cat outside and the lone mouse he’d seen upon first entering, there had been no other movement. No plump small furry bodies shifting out of sight between boxes, no fluttering of wings over his head, no crawling spiders in webs… The place seemed… seemed dead.
Cold.
Something was here, be it the Djinn or some other spirit or perhaps the shadow of old magic, something was here.
At first it was just the silence, eating away at him as unnatural, but then it was something else, a tingle, like that feeling in the air before a lightning strike—the hair on the back of his neck stood on end, muscles in his jaw twitching and the knife shifted in his hand, simple and easy as breathing, elbow up, grip firm.
He inhaled and held it, coiled tightly, ready to lunge, stance even, ready to spring back into defense if the blow didn’t kill instantly and turned, flashlight low but trained upward, to blind his assailant, side forward to present the smallest target possible—
The hallway was empty, just a shadow flicking out of existence against the glass.
The constant musical drip of water was everywhere, from all sides, dissonant, no rhythm or reason. Dean swallowed the tightness in his throat and breathed through the adrenaline, pushed it down, eased his foot forward slowly, rolling his steps to silence them and cocked the fist holding his knife out, ready to swing, eyes flicking back and forth, ears strained.
If this was the djinn and not just some animal, he had to make the first blow count because he may not get a second. There were so many places in here to hide, so many nooks and hollows Dean may never see it coming—
The grip around his throat was cold, stone like but he struggled anyway, light tilted up into electric blue eyes, staring at a face that was all too human under patterns like tattoos. The markings gave the djinn a sinister appearance even while its expression remained passive, indifferent. He was lifted bodily off the ground by his neck and thumped back against the wall hard enough to rattle his teeth—not enough to injure but enough to knock the breath out of him.
BANG left wrist, the flashlight clattered away—BANG the knife was gone too—
Instinct took over, kicking, bringing his knees up, gasping for air, pinching the thing’s wrist in an attempt to cause an involuntary muscle contraction. There were distant thoughts of Sam, of helplessness, wondering what this—this THING was going to do to him, carry him away perhaps like some fucking damsel, but there was no malice in its eyes, simply serenity, blue and shifting like the ocean, pulsing light, flickering like a flame—a hand lifted and touched, strangely gentle against his brow, like he remembered his mother doing when he’d been three, her stomach had just started pushing out her shirt a little—they hadn’t told him why yet… A virus, a fever and her hand had been so cool, brushing his hair back—
He woke in a cold sweat, heart beating frantically in his throat a sick ache in his head.
The TV was on. It looked like Creature from the Black Lagoon or something like that, it was vaguely familiar, there were dozens of movies made like that in the forties; A big grotesque monster waddling through the underbrush with the pale golden beauty swooning in its gnarly arms, dragging her away to do unspeakable things to her.
Dean blinked at it stupidly, everything between his ears stuffed with cotton and a strange chemical-sweet taste clinging to the back of his throat.
It was warm, comfortable, smelled clean. Not like cleaning products or a room hastily and halfheartedly disinfected before new occupants arrived, but actually clean. Care and routine kept cleanliness. There was a lingering scent, pizza and popcorn with butter and parmesan, an undertone of something else, familiar but unnamable.
Dean’s mouth was dry and his tongue roved over his lips, searching for moisture.
The room came into focus slowly, as if melting out of the darkness. Hardwood floors, a pair of sneakers in the corner, a t-shirt and jeans left crumpled in front of the dresser, socks flung haphazardly nearby. There was a mirror attached to closet door and Dean saw himself in it, painted ashy grey in the light from the TV, all wide eyes and mussed hair. He was wearing a strange T-shirt, too big, gray with blue lettering, a big UK on the front— his mind didn’t have the capacity to translate what that could mean, at the moment he was confused and wanted to lash out. His face was puffy from sleep, how long had he been here? Long enough to take a siesta apparently, his eyes continued on, scanning the room.
There was a doorway, open and leading into a hallway, dimly lit by some lamp or something left on in another room, glowing amber. The hardwood continued into and Dean could see the back of a chair and his jacket draped over it.
The wall to his left was nothing but shelves, most of which filled with books, there were a few knickknacks, an antique looking miniature bust of what Dean was sure was a samurai, beside a really awesome looking sword, a jar filled with seashells, a few scattered photos of people. Dean recognized his own in a few of them, there were three larger frames with something like certificates in them and one of the Impala with the hood up and Dean leaning over the engine streaked with grease.
The lump in the bed beside him was unexpected. A body curled and half hidden in the quilt, a long pale arm poking out from under a pillow, a pair of glasses dangling from the limp grip of long fingers.
Dean swallowed again, his mouth dry and leaned over, peering down at the stranger beside him.
He saw wild dark hair and the person grumbled in a low rough voice, rolled halfway onto their back and Dean was on his feet because that—THAT was a guy.
Oh, yes. That was a dude. A dude in bed with him. A DUDE. Holy sweet baby Monkey Jesus, Dean Winchester was in bed with a man!
He snatched up the clothes from the floor relieved his phone was still in his jeans pocket and left the bedroom as quickly as he could, stuck one leg through the denim then the other, yanked them up as he walked, leaned his shoulder against the wall as he pulled on his socks and shoes and pulled his phone from between his teeth, holding the power button down until it rebooted.
The hallway lead into a small kitchen/dining/living room thing, he flipped on the light switch and looked around warily.
It was a nice place, really it was, conservative, but classy at the same time. Guitar in the corner beside another large shelving unit stacked with old vinyl records, CDs, cassettes, an impressive stereo system and more photographs Dean didn’t take the time to stop and examine. There were his keys, in a bowl on the end of the countertop that extended into the main room beside a set he didn’t recognize with a large yellow foam fish keychain, one of those floaty ones that were supposed to keep your keys from sinking if you drop them in water.
There were a few magazines nearby, one or two with cars on the front, a copy of Modern Architecture, a cooking magazine with some sassy looking Latina on the front and a stack of letters. He ignored them for the time being, ground his teeth and punched in the last digits of Sam’s phone number as he snatched up his keys and held them tightly in his fist.
It rang once—
“Dean?”
His heart jumped and he spoke in a low hushed tone, feeling the walls closing in on him, uncomfortable and nervous in this strangefamiliar place. “Sam?”
“What’s goin’ on?”
“I don’t know—I don’t know where I am.”
“What? What happened?”
“Well, the—uh—the djinn, it attacked me—“ He could still feel that deceptively calming touch to his brow and he pushed the sensation backward toward his hair in an effort to ease the itch of it.
“The gin? You’re drinkin’ gin?”
He could hear amusement in Sam’s voice and bared his teeth, the near overwhelming urge to put his fist through something chewing at the base of his mind, curling his fingers into his palm. “No, asshat—The DJINN, the scary creature, remember? It put its hand on me and then I woke up next to some dude!”
“You mean Cas?”
“Who?”
Sam huffed in amusement. “You’re drunk… You’re drunk dialing me.”
“I am not drunk! Quit screwin’ around!” He was going to punch Sam in the face when he saw him again, no holding back. BAM! Right in the kisser.
“Look it’s late, just get some sleep, man and I—I’ll see you tomorrow, okay?”
“Wait, SAM—“
But the line clicked and even when he hissed his brother’s name again in his best authoritative voice, there was no answer. He ground his teeth and looked left and right, between the exit and the hallway, sweat beading on his brow. He stared down at the phone in shock and barely withheld rage, ground his teeth and snatched up one of the magazines off the countertop, glaring at the name and address printed on the label. If Sam wouldn’t help him, at least he could figure out where he was…
Castiel Edlund 53 Barker Ave. Lawrence, KS…
“Lawrence?” He swallowed a knot in his chest; “What the hell…”
“Dean?”
He bit his tongue, clamped his jaws together and turned, arms coming up defensively, eyes wide and staring.
There was that guy—awake now wearing oversized sweats and a floppy t-shirt that drooped off one pale slim shoulder. His hair was a mess, eyes squinted, nose wrinkled up. He yawned like his jaw may come unhinged and scrubbed at one eye with blunt fingertips; “What’re you doing up?”
Dean swallowed and pressed his tongue up into the roof of his mouth willing the pain away. He forced on a smile, fond, practiced—he’d smiled at hundreds of people like this before and it won them over every time. “Hey… Cas—Cas…” He swallowed again, still tasting something cloying and sweet on the back of his tongue, he squared his shoulders and cleared his throat, scrambling for something believable. “I—I just—uh.”
Cas blinked at him, shoulders loose, hands bumping his thighs. “Can’t sleep?”
He smiled, placating, apologetic; “Yeah, yeah… uh—“
Cas yawned again, stifling the cave of his mouth into his fist and shuffled forward, numbly butting his head against Dean’s sternum, arms circling around his waist.
Dean stood rigid, staring at the ceiling, arms up and curled into fists in shock. He could feel his heart beating a mile a minute against his ribcage. There was a strange dude hug him. A strange dude who knew his name and had been fucking sleeping beside him in this weird ass place— Cas shuffled his feet, scuffing his prickly cheek against Dean’s t-shirt and Dean nearly shoved him away when the smaller man pressed his hips into Dean’s with sleepy intent. “Come back to bed?”
Dean swallowed, felt ice water in his veins, tried to ignore the fact some guy was pressing his dick suggestively into his thigh—“Yeah—“ His voice sounded high pitched, awkward like it had when he was going through puberty; “Yeah, just—uh—just give me a minute, okay?”
Cas nuzzled his chest again, pressed his lips to the dip of muscle over Dean’s heart and tilted his chin up blue eyes glazed with sleep and want; “Don’t take too long—“ He pushed up without warning and Dean couldn’t do anything about it—couldn’t with a clear conscience knock the poor guy away and instead let himself be kissed—If he could ignore the grate of stubble against his chin or the fact that the guy’s mouth was just a little off center and sleepy, he might have said it was OK for a kiss, but aside from a very convincing tax accountant in drag back in Tampa once—just the once— years ago, Dean had never kissed or been kissed by another man. It rattled him a little that he wasn’t freaking out about it more than he was. He didn’t think there was anything wrong with someone liking the same sex, just had always KNOWN he was straight, he’d been physically attracted to women since he was nine years old for crap sake, had jerked off the first time to reruns of Gilligan’s Island—Ginger in that fuckmedress, was the greatest thing ever.
Cas smiled against his lips and Dean’s mind reeled because the sensation left him tingling and he forced on a tightlipped smile as Cas’s hands dipped into the back pockets of his jeans for a little squeeze before he pulled away and shuffled back toward the bedroom, a definite tent in his sweats.
Dean smiled until the other man was gone, then scrubbed his mouth furiously with the collar of his t-shirt hoping to scratch away that weird warm sensation, did a shivering jig of confusion and discomfort across the room, then absolutely froze in his tracks when he caught sight of a frame in the corner above an extensive collection of religious texts.
He stared at it, gave his head a shake, blinked and felt himself drawn forward like a moth to flame, disbelieving even as he snatched it up in trembling hands and brought it close to his face to stare at it because sometimes things looked like one thing when they were something entirely different.
That…
He didn’t feel the frame drop from his fingers, didn’t hear the glass break, just turned and moved. Nothing else mattered, nothing else existed. Not even the thought of being kissed and groped by a strange man worried him in that moment. He felt four years old again. Felt angry and shocked and a little scared beyond his wits. He tripped going down the stairs, grabbed the banister and slid onetwothree on his behind before he forced himself up again, breath sawing in and out of his throat, heart beating like a bass drum.
A gray haired man with a goatee stared at him disapprovingly as Dean shoved past him on the side walk and into the street. He almost started running, his mind wasn’t working, was an empty sucking void through which there was only one constant, what that picture had shown him changed everything and nothing else mattered but that. His hands shook as he jabbed the key in the lock, slid behind the wheel and had the ignition turned before he’d even shut the door.
It had stopped raining sometime between the djinn touching him and waking up, but passing under trees left big fat drops on the windshield and Dean gave the wipers a flick, eyes scanning street signs, ignoring blaring horns when he cut off someone in a minivan and kept on going, mumbling to himself directions he only vaguely remembered. He glanced at his watch, thirty minutes. He’d lost thirty minutes and his whole world had changed.
His heart beat in his ears, the sweet taste in the back of his throat seemed insignificant and the minutes crawled by like years until he found himself pulling to a stop, breath coming out in quick jerks as he turned off the headlights and wipers then killed the engine.
The tension was palpable, a weight in his stomach and an ache behind his eyes, burning sensation in his sinuses and fingertips as he climbed out of the car, took a slow shuddering breath and started across the street, keys clenched tightly in his fist until he was sure the ridges had cut into his sweaty palms.
He stood outside the door, just breathing and shivering for a five count, hand lifted to knock but in the same moment afraid to do so, the image burned into the backs of his eyes.
Come on, man, just do it. DO IT!
He shifted on his feet, wetted his lips again and pounded his fist on the door. When nothing happened he stabbed a finger at the bell, shielded his eyes and went on tiptoe to peer into the glass insert on the door, hopeful, afraid to hope. Wary because this could all be a trick. He could be waking up some stranger—
The porch light flickered on—Dean stared at it, thought of the ocean and lightning and hot flames, the buzz of electricity and naked bulbs with water dripping on them, wafts of steam as the heat slowly boiled the moisture away— felt his heart race in something akin to panic. The sweet taste in his throat turned slightly bitter and he felt the sudden need to vomit, to choke it out because something wasn’t right.
His hands shook, fingertips tingling. His hands were shaking and his wrists ached… He rubbed his palms on the legs of his jeans, took a slow breath and turned back to the door. A light clicked on inside and he nearly started pounding his fist on the wood again, the same words bouncing around in the blackness between his ears.
Please, please PLEASE!
The door opened before he was ready for it and he was sure, in that second that his heart had burst in his chest and he was about to die. A violent cold jolt went through him and all thought stopped.
Everything stopped.
Nothing else mattered but this.
Nothing.
“Dean?” She blinked in surprise.
“Mom?”
“What are you doin’ here?” She reached out with her hand—Her HAND and Dean felt himself flinch back instinctually, adrenaline shooting into his veins telling him to defend himself, that this had to be a trick, a dream, while at the same time he was sure his knees were going to give out and he’d collapse—fucking swoon like a starlet.
She was warm. Oh, Jesus, she was touching him—
“Are you alright?” Her eyes scrunched at the corners in concern and her fingers clamped onto his arm a little more tightly.
His vision swam and the words were out before he even knew he was speaking, brain on autopilot, voice pulled thin and weak; “I don’t know.”
Her brows pinched together and Dean thought of Sam, how his brothers did the same thing when he was concerned and confused. He wanted to say something about it, wanted to laugh and—and do something other than just stare at her. Then she pulled him forward; “Well, come inside.”
He followed, powerless. Watched her, couldn’t look away, everything she did, everything she was burning into his brain. Her hair was messy, makeup a little smeared where she hadn’t got it all off before bed. There was a coffee stain on the collar of her robe and a little crust of sleep in the corner of her eye. As she passed him he caught a hint of her perfume, the scent of her shampoo.
The warm fact of his mother was just inches away, alive and whole and annoyed that he’d woken her up at two in the morning made everything else seem pointless.
“Castiel just called and said you just took off all of a sudden.”
“Castiel?” Who was that? Did he know someone named Castiel? It—it couldn’t be real. He had no memory of this, the burgeoning dreamlike haze at the back of his mind was trying to tell him he did, but everything was too unfamiliar for him to believe it. Too alien and perfect. There had to be a catch, there was never not a catch— His chest tightened and he had to swallow again just to think, had to dig his fingers into the flesh of his thighs to force himself to think, to push down what he was feeling enough for everything to come back into focus. “Right…” It hurt, scared him that this may be false, that it may be real, that the Djinn may have done this. It was more likely that this may be some twisted shadow of his deepest desire. Waking up next to a guy was the first clue that something was up, but this—this was the icing on the preverbal cake and he forced the feelings down into the pit of his stomach, forced it away from himself because it’s what he’d been raised to do. Djinn were evil, all the lore said so—He didn’t know much about them, just what he and Sam had been able to dig up. Vague things from TV or stories he’d heard from other hunters, but they had to be evil—right? They fed on people… they didn’t really grant wishes… did they?
He had to know… Even if it hurt, even if it killed him inside, he had to know. “Let me ask you a question… When I was a kid—what’d you always tell me when you put me to bed?”
“Dean, I don’t understand—“
“Just answer the question.”
Her face was so hurt, so confused and his gut twisted, but he had to do it. This could just be some creature with his mother’s face and he HAD TO KNOW.
She flinched, sighed tiredly and shifted on her feet, expression warming as the edges of her lips curled upward and without hesitation she spoke; “I told you angels were watching over you.”
He felt it like a gunshot, the tension in his body became absolute and that was the only reason he remained on his feet. His breath escaped and he sucked it back in, “I don’t believe it,” and moved forward with his heart in his throat.
She grunted in surprise and her hands came up, her hair catching on the bristles of his chin, breath warm against his ear, the solidity of her against him overwhelming, small hands sweeping the breadth of his back and neck checking him over like she’d done when he was a child, looking for hurts; “Honey… you’re scaring me, just tell me what’s going on,” Her fingers were like a vice on him as he withdrew.
“You don’t think—you don’t think that wishes can really—“
Her eyes narrowed, expression indulgent even though she was clearly wishing she were still asleep and his world had not been disrupted by whatever internal cataclysm had brought him to her door; “What?”
In his dreams she was always so happy to see him, always so ready to hold him and listen and open, young and perfect… but here she wasn’t. She was concerned, worried, irritated and her jaw smelled like cold cream. “Just forget it,” He pulled her in again, “Forget it, I’m just… I’m happy to see you is all…” He smiled into her hair, remembering how big and powerful she’d felt when he was little, holding him to her chest when he’d been hurt or sick, the vague memories of her hand soothing a fevered brow, or the lull of her voice to ease his nightmares.
She smelled like oranges and ginger and vanilla ice cream— He’d forgotten how she smelled.
His breath caught in his throat and everything burned, pulsed, constricted painfully, so tight and hot and his vision blurred as he pulled back; unable to continue the contact, unable to continue inundating himself with the subtle citrus scent of her so close and so real because part of him just wanted to sink into nothing between her arms and weep.
He stepped back, hands on her arms and even though his fingers wrapped around them she still felt so big, so invincible; “You’re beautiful.”
Her eyes rolled and a flush filled her cheeks, Dean remembered her giving Dad that look a few times when he came home smelling a little too much of scotch and got flirty— she laughed, tired and indulgent. “What?”
He looked away, cheeks burning, vision watery and scrubbed his palms on his jeans, eyes searching the room for something to distract himself with, something—ANYTHING because he had to get control of this situation. Had to get control of these weird confusing emotions.
Books, yeah, books. He could read! Pictures too! Yeah, that sounded like a plan. He rubbed the stupid grin off his face, glancing at her over his shoulder; “Hey—Hey, uh—when I was young, was there ever a fire here?” He turned to her nervously and watched as she crossed her arms, rubbing a chill from them as she stepped close, curious and worried.
“No, never.”
He turned back to the shelf and stared, heart jumping voice wistful; “I thought there was.”
There were photos of himself, little and scrawny sitting on a blanket with plump drooling baby Sam, parties and grinning faces under Christmas trees, laughing around the kitchen table with Easter Egg dye on their fingertips; John looking tired but grinning with little Sam standing on his knees, tiny white teeth shining. Little League Baseball games, soccer uniforms and muddy cheeks, family pick-nicks and sleeping on the couch; John leaned back with his head on a cushion, Sam on his chest, Dean with his head on his father’s thigh. Mom and Sam standing on the curb, Sam looking doubtfully at a school bus Dean was already climbing onto.
“I guess I was wrong.”
Dean chuckled and plucked one of the frames up; “Dad’s on a softball team?”
His mother’s expression was pinched, her lips thin, eyes sad, confused.
“Dad… Dad’s softball team, that’s funny to me,” he looked away quickly.
“He loved that stupid team,” Her voice was quiet, a whisper, perhaps a little resentful.
Dean looked at her, the tilt to her brow, the creases around her mouth and the words came out more in surprise than actual intention; “Dad’s dead.”
She tilted her head, a little vein standing out on her brow.
“The uh—the thing that killed him was…”
The indulgence was gone, replaced by worry and she took a step forward, fingers tightening on the sleeves of her robe; “A stroke.”
Dean took a slow breath, wetted his lips again compulsively.
“He died in his sleep, you know that.”
He nodded, looked away, swallowed the taste in his throat; “That… that’s great.”
“Excuse me?” He knew that look too, remembered it from the time he’d got mad at dinner once as a kid and thrown his water glass at the wall with a screech of indignation and his heart lurched.
“That-that’s great that he… went peacefully,” He sounded like a jerk to his own ears and cleared his throat, “Sure beats the alternative,” He exhaled and carefully set the picture back on the shelf.
When he turned around again his mother was looking at him critically, almost sadly.
“You’ve been drinking.”
“No, mom, I haven’t,” It hurt a little, to think that this… that she’d seen him drinking, seen him drunk and stupid and reckless, “Mom.”
“I’ll just call Castiel and have him come pick you up, OK?” She looked disappointed but resigned as she reached for the phone.
He’d already put his hand over hers before he’d thought about it. “No, nonono, don’t do that, don’t do that—“
She looked at him, commanding but perhaps a little scared, little hand curling up— and he mentally flailed. He was scaring her but he didn’t know how to stop. He didn’t know the rules here. Didn’t know what had happened in that twenty-two year gap between his old world and this one. “I wanna stay here.”
She shook her head again, eyes narrowed; “Why?”
He stuttered, sweat building on his palms again; “Because I—I miss the place.”
She cocked up an eyebrow uncomfortably and her hand was still curled into a fist.
“It’s OK, it’s OK,” He rubbed his hands dry again, “You go to bed, OK?” He couldn’t keep from brushing his fingertips on her arms, reassuring himself she was there, was real. He stepped away when her eyes dropped to his hands and took a seat on the sofa to put distance between them or he may wind up just wrapping his arms around her and not letting go. He took a moment to just stare around at the wall paper and the photos reverently, cementing himself in this new reality.
She hesitated, watched him until he’d settled with his elbows on his knees, then shifted closer and formed her hand to his brow. “You sure you’re alright?”
He looked up at her, little wrinkles and stained collar and grey hairs all and thought she was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen. “I think so…”
She smiled and pressed his cheeks between his hands, just like she’d done when he was little, laughing playfully that he was her little cabbage patch boy and dropped a kiss to his forehead. His eyes practically crossed as she closed in and his heart chugged in his chest. He watched her go, the shuffle of her slippers on the floor, the tired smile on her face; “Get some rest… I love you.”
Funny, really, how three words changed everything, “Me too.”
And she was gone up the steps, clicking the light off after herself.
Dean stood and went to each wall in turn, taking in every picture in every frame, in every album set lovingly on the shelves. Filled his brain with images of years of a life he’d always dreamed about, he sat there staring with his hand over his mouth at each picture of Sam and their mother, put together a story in his head built of Kodachrome. Laughed and bit back tears and stared in shock and horror at others. Dear Christ was that his hair? What the FUCK was dad wearing!
He fell asleep sprawled on the sofa with a photo album on his chest and woke slowly only a few short hours later, at first he was unsure where he was, shocked a second time by images of his family together and whole when his memories told him otherwise.
The djinn. He had to tell Sam about the djinn. He sat up quickly, scrubbed a hand over his eyes and quickly dialed his brother’s number.
Voicemail, dammit.
He took a few slow, steadying breaths and forced himself to think. He needed answers, needed research. Sam usually did the research but Sam wasn’t answering so he had little choice but to do it himself. He had to know if this was real. Had to know what was happening.
Right, okay. He pushed himself up off the sofa, patted down his pockets for his keys and wallet, paused at the foot of the stairs to listen for the sound of his mother moving around then slipped quickly out the door. He was halfway across the street to the Impala when he felt a hand clamp down on his wrist. He turned with his fist raised, jerking free of the grip, eyes wide—and saw an unwelcome, but familiar man standing there. He was dressed in baggy jeans and sneakers and a t-shirt under a jacket Dean knew was his.
“Dean, stop—What—what happened?”
“Cas…” Dean didn’t lower his fist immediately and Cas just stared at him with his eyebrows pulled down and his head cocked to the side. He didn’t blink and it was a little weird, but Dean tried to ignore it. Everything about this was weird.
Cas took a deep breath and stepped forward again hand cupping against Dean’s elbow; “Your mother called me back last night, told me you stayed over… That you were acting strangely. She asked me if you’d suffered a head injury. What’s wrong?”
It twisted something in his chest, it wasn’t this guy’s fault, his concern was real, the emotion was real but he—Well, that was it wasn’t it, HE. Dean had never been attracted to a man before. He’d not even given one more than a passing glance.
Dean shrugged from under his hand as gently but quickly as he could; “Look, I—I just need some space.”
“Space?”
“I have things I need to think about, important things and I need space.”
Cas’s head tilted a little more. “What kind of important things? Maybe I can help.”
Dean sighed, “I’ve really got to go… Things I have to do—“
“I’ll come with you—“
“NO!”
Cas stopped and his expression became plainly disgruntled. “This is it, isn’t it.”
Dean turned away quickly and headed toward the car.
“This is your big homophobic ‘freak out’ everyone’s been warning me to watch out for,” He actually made quotation marks with his fingers.
Dean’s teeth clacked together and a bitter drill went up his spine; “Dude—“ I’m not gay!
Cas scowled, shoved a hand into his pocket and stomped forward.
Dean shut his door and purposefully smacked the lock on the passenger side, slid the key into the ignition—Cas stooped and glared at him through the window and the next thing Dean knew the door was unlocked and the other man was dropping into the seat, expression sober, blue eyes locked on Dean.
“What the hell—How’d you—“
Cas held up the key chain with the floating fish on it. Now that it was dangling in his face Dean could see there was more on there too, a little silver Swiss Army knife and three keys. One of which was a replica of Dean’s. “You gave it to me, remember? After you locked yourself out in the rain three years ago and had to call a locksmith.”
Dean gaped at him.
“You were under the influence.”
That seemed unlikely… maybe.
Cas faced forward, hands on his knees, waited a few seconds and spoke; “I believe you had important business?”
Dean swallowed with a measure of difficulty and started the engine. They drove in silence for a few minutes, Dean tapping out a rhythm on the steering wheel Cas just watching the scenery fly by.
“Did I do something wrong?”
“What?” Dean glanced at him warily.
“Last night… It—it was just supposed to be my turn and I—”
“Christ—“ Dean leaned his brow into his left hand, face scrunched uncomfortably.
Cas sighed and didn’t quite look him in the eye; “You know it doesn’t matter to me either way, you could have just said you wanted to top—“
“Can we not talk about this?”
Cas looked at him; “Did I not please you last time?”
Dean felt nauseated.
Cas’s expression pinched and twisted and he snaked a hand across the seat, brushed his fingers against Dean’s thigh and jerked back as if he’d been burned when Dean flinched.
He sat in silence for a few minutes, hands folded between his knees and when Dean stopped at a red light Cas took a slow breath and started speaking; “Are you suffering an existential crisis?”
Dean snorted; “I don’t even know you—”
Cas looked at him and his voice was forceful. “What?”
Dean ground his teeth; “—All that well… How—how long have we been,” He swallowed around the word; “Together?”
“Romantically or platonically?”
Christ.
“Years, Dean… It feels like my whole lifetime.”
Well, shit.
“And your family’s OK with you being—with you being gay?”
“My family is too engrossed in its own internal conflicts to care. I haven’t spoken to anyone but my older sister in a long while, so the point is moot.”
“Well, what if my family isn’t OK with it?”
Castiel snorted; “Your mother gave me her lasagna recipe.”
Dean’s jaw dropped. He remembered as a kid the neighbor asking and asking but Mom had kept saying no, that it was secretspecial and nobody knew it but her.
“She stood up to your father when you told them you were bisexual… She made him apologize.”
Dean couldn’t look at him. Something was tight in his chest. The very idea that Dad—DAD would have apologized to him for anything was absurd. He could just hear his father in his head, ranting at him, the anger and disappointment in his voice. ‘Jesus, Dean, what were you thinking!’
Dean sucked his lower lip between his teeth and chewed on it.
“He held it against you, but he didn’t kick you out. She wouldn’t let him…”
Dean flexed his fingers on the steering wheel, still unable to meet the other man’s eyes or even speak to him.
Cas let out a breath, “Are you breaking up with me?”
Dean tongued the backs of his teeth. How could he break up with a guy he had absolutely no memory of ever asking out?
Cas looked at him, looked away and looked at him again, then politely punched him, quite hard in the shoulder. “I asked you a question! The least you can do is answer me! After everything I think I deserve an answer you jerk!”
Dean stared at him, mouth open in a wince, eyes wide, hand on his bicep. “Jesus Christ! What the f—“
Castiel’s fist raised again, not a threat. A promise; “I know you. I’ve known you for years! You did this to your first boyfriend and you do this every time when you think too much on what your father said to you. You feel guilty for wanting something different, so you cut and run. You push your feelings down and you brush it under the rug. You throw lovers aside because you don’t have the courage to stop and let yourself become attached! Don’t you dare do that to me. Don’t you DARE!”
He just stared. The truck behind them tapped its horn and after a moment swerved around them.
“If my gender suddenly offends you then at least have the balls to say so, don’t just bite your lip and pretend you didn’t hear me. Don’t insult me by ignoring my presence. If you’re having a crisis you tell me. We can work through it together. We’ve worked through worse and I will not tolerate your indifference now, or ever!”
That worked.
“You’re really bossy!” Yeah, great comeback, Dean.
Castiel seemed to take it as a complement and lowered his fist; “Someone has to be, otherwise you martyr yourself… I’ve cared for you too long and too deeply to just brush off, Dean Winchester. If you’re going to do it at least respect me enough to say it to my face.”
Dean took a deep breath and carefully checked the intersection before he crossed it, foot pressing slowly on the accelerator.
Cas took a slow deep breath; “Where are we going.”
Dean glanced at him warily; “I need answers.”
“To what questions? I am quite knowledgeable on a number of subjects.”
Dean snorted; “Know anything about djinn?”
“You drink it in tonic—it makes you flatulent.”
Dean rubbed his brow with a wince; “Thanks, Cas.”
There was a slight tilt to his lips. “You’re welcome.”
Dean’s fingers tapped out a nervous beat.
“Dean?”
“What?”
“Have you had breakfast?”
“Later.”
“You’re irritable, you always get irritable if you don’t eat.”
“After—“
“Please…”
Dean looked at him critically.
Cas was about his height, thin, pale, a little untidy but in a flattering way—Dean couldn’t help but look at his mouth. The guy had kissed him, it was kind of a distraction, alright? But the most surprising things were his eyes. They’d looked just run of the mill blue at first, but now they didn’t. He couldn’t put his finger on it, but there was something more there.
They weren’t that bright electric blue of the djinn, weren’t quite like the sky or the sea, those colors always made him feel cold and distant anyway, this was something different.
Cas’ mouth tilted up again and one eyebrow raised; “Watch the road.”
Dean blinked, glanced forward and slammed both feet onto the brake, tires squealing as they came to a stop barely six inches from the rear bumper of a large truck. “Jesus!”
Cas hummed quietly under his breath; “Glad to know I can still distract you… I didn’t even have to have my head in your lap this time.”
Dean turned slowly and stared at him without blinking.
Cas looked at him innocently; “So, breakfast?”
0-0-0
Cas took his coffee black with four packets of sugar. He had oatmeal with cinnamon and brown sugar, sausage and two eggs—sunnysideup—and half a piece of toast.
Dean had bacon, two eggs— scrambled—hash-browns and the other half of Cas’ toast when he pushed it over on a saucer.
Dean drank his own coffee in silence, watched Cas eat, didn’t say anything and tried to find a reason to leave without the other man.
Cas spoke evenly, said Sylvia—some woman he apparently worked with—had invited them out for drinks on Saturday. That Maurice would be there too so Dean didn’t have to worry about a lack of conversation. He grinned again, that little half cock of his lips. “We could decline, pick up a couple six-packs, stay home and watch that monster movie marathon they’ve been showing every evening,” He took a drink of his coffee and met Dean’s eyes again, slow, purposefully. “Or… yanno.”
Dean cleared his throat and poked at some crumbs on his plate with the tines of his fork. “Listen… Cas—“
The server reappeared and asked if they needed anything else. Cas glanced over at the counter; “A piece of pecan to go…”
Dean paused, watched the woman leave and opened his mouth again—
Cas was reading over the check; “They didn’t have apple… I hope that’s fine.”
“What?”
“The pecan… It’s not your favorite, but you always get a piece to go,” His brows pull together as he flips through his wallet; “Do you have a five for the tip? I’ve only got my card.” He slid out of the booth and went to the register without another word.
Dean followed him with his eyes, gave his head a curious shake and fished out a five from his pocket, leaving it peeking from under his coffee cup. He made it to the register just as Cas was taking the Styrofoam container from the cashier, lips compressed politely. He turned and held it out, “About your important business… How can I help?”
Dean gingerly took the box; “Uh—“
“Is it secret?”
“Well—“
“I’m very good at keeping secrets.”
“No doubt… But I can handle this on my own.”
“I don’t mind. I like helping you.”
“Cas, man, really—“
“Dean,” It wasn’t the tone, it was the fact his voice dropped half an octave and the look in his eye. Calm and cool and plainly matter of fact. “I’m not leaving.”
Dean stared at him, trying to glare him down, intimidate him into backing off… But Cas just stared back as if he didn’t quite grasp the concept of dominating someone with your eyes. Or maybe he just didn’t care… Maybe it didn’t work on him or something—who cared.
Dean mumbled profanity under his breath and backed quickly out of the parking lot.
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