Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Only a few hours ago, Nick and Ash had walked out the precinct together, leaving behind a promise to bring back shitty burnt diner coffee for the rest of the crew stuck on night shift.

Now, standing at the edge of an abandoned subway platform, Dean watches as fresh blood drips out of a bullet hole between Ash’s unseeing eyes. Nick’s body lays nearby, face down, a dark circle of red pooling in the center of his back.

The tunnel is filthy and dark. A thick layer of stagnant humidity hangs in the air, clinging to the exposed skin above his tie and making his palms clammy. It’s loud, too. A dozen or so other federal agents scramble about, every word of their rushed conversation echoed off the arched stone walls above.

A hand clamps down on Dean's shoulder, startling him out of his thoughts and forcing his head to snap toward the source. Tired brown eyes and a thick unruly beard fill Dean's vision. His bureau partner is a small comfort in the pool of gore before them.

“It just ain’t right,” Benny says with a fraction of a head shake, a southern New Orleans accent warping his speech thicker than normal and making his exhaustion clear.

Dean silently agrees, but it's not the time to get sentimental. They have a job to do, and one they're expected to do well. There's no place for grief in this line of work. So Dean does what he does best and compartmentalizes. The sooner they get to work, the faster they can catch the sick son of a bitch who did this.

“Let’s just get this done,” Dean replies gruffly. His boots crunch against the gravel between the tracks when he jumps down. He doesn’t look back to ensure Benny follows as he closes in on the victims.

Victims. The cold, faceless word tastes bitter on his tongue as he thinks it.

“They’ve only been here an hour,” Charlie says as Dean stands next to where she’s crouched by Nick’s arm. Her natural red hair falls around her shoulders, the sleeves of her white button-up shirt rolled up to the elbows. She peels back the sticky wet layers of Nick’s suit, exposing two entry holes near the middle of his spine.

“Gimme some light,” she says, motioning toward Dean. He unhooks the small flashlight from his belt, shining it toward the wound.

With a gloved hand- and a concerning lack of hesitation- Charlie fishes into the wound closest to her, prodding as deeply as her narrow fingers will allow. Dean looks away, pushing down the bile that threatens to rise in his throat. Charlie makes a proud ‘ah-ha’ noise and pulls a metal round out of Nick’s back.

“Are you serious?” Dean says, glaring at her even if she can’t see his expression well in the low light.

“What? I’m not gonna wait a week just for the medical examiner to give it back to me,” She says as she comes to stand, raising the bullet in her palm for Dean to see.

“That is against so many protocols,” Dean grumbles but squints at the bullet anyway. The front end is bunched up from the impact, and it’s relatively small, no larger than his pinky nail.

“Looks like a .32,” Benny says, coming up behind them.

Dean narrows his eyes suspiciously. “What? Like a colt? That’s hardly standard-issue for the mob.”

“Are we assuming it’s the mob?” Benny challenges, leaning closer to the scrunched-up ball of metal.

“Who else? Two FBI agents are capped in cold blood in an abandoned subway tunnel. Seems like a valid assumption to me,” Dean says, looking down at Ash again.

He was a few years younger than Dean, barely 25. He wonders if he had someone waiting for him at home, wonders how many family members someone will have to break the news to.

Dean never thought to ask before.

He looks away.

“Maybe you’ve been working the Capone case for too long,” Benny says, raising an eyebrow at him.

“They were part of our unit, Benny. You tryna tell me a robbery gone wrong is more likely?” Dean asks. Benny shrugs, leaning back and shifting his weight where he stands.

A wind picks up through the tunnel, lifting the edges of Dean’s suit jacket. They’re nearly fifty feet underground, where the hell would a draft be coming from? There’s no running lines in this part of the city. Not anymore, at least. Not that they know of. Dean frowns and makes a mental note for later.

He glances over at the hole in Ash’s head; it’s clean, singular. A precise shot that doesn’t line up with the messy picture the gangs tend to leave in their wake. Dean shines his flashlight around the surrounding area. Other than the blood directly beneath the bodies, the crime scene looks untouched.

“They were killed here on scene. So how'd they get down here to begin with?” Dean asks, stepping around one of Nick’s legs.

“Brought at gunpoint?” Charlie suggests.

“That would suggest multiple suspects. Two against one?” Benny shakes his head, "They could've easily overpowered the culprit." Dean sees Benny crouch next to Ash in his peripheral as he strays further from the group.

Since the tunnel is so far from any light source other than the team’s flashlights, it’s hard to make out the finer details of the scene. Rows of metal tracks disappear into nothingness in either direction.

A couple hundred feet away, an abandoned subway train sits forgotten and decaying. Most of its windows are smashed, and large sections of the steel body are rusted away. The printed letters on the train's side are no longer legible. The rotting metal skeleton looms over them, keeping watch like a vulture waiting for its next meal.

Something near the edge of the tracks glints against the beam of Dean’s flashlight. Under closer inspection, a small, white, and vaguely reflective object comes into view. Maybe a marble or coin? He bends down to pick it up.

A tooth.

He swears under his breath, resisting every urge to throw the damn thing.

“You gotta bag, Bradbury?” Dean asks, already holding the bone out for Charlie. He drops it unceremoniously in the clear evidence bag she pulls out of the pocket of her slacks.

“Have the medical examiner you’re so fond of see if either of them is missing any teeth,” He says, brushing his hand off on his pants with a grimace.

Charlie rolls her eyes, “You got it, boss.”

A glimpse of movement a few yards away has Dean’s head snapping in that direction.

He only sees the reflection of blue eyes as his flashlight scans the area before the person disappears. Dean's feet are moving before his brain catches up.

“Freeze!” He shouts, pulling himself onto the ledge and taking off for the corner the man vanished behind. He follows the sound of racing footsteps, catching a glimpse of a tan coat as he clears the wall.

“FBI! Stop!” Dean yells between breaths.

He stumbles to a stop at a four-way intersection of the tunnels. The footsteps are fading fast and sound like they’re coming from every direction. No amount of frantic swinging of his flashlight reveals anything other than bottomless pools of black. Darkness swallows anything his beam doesn’t directly touch.

Several footsteps stop behind him as Dean swears in frustration.

“Who was that?” An unfamiliar agent asks, looking nervous and disheveled.

“Didn’t get a good look. But anyone sneaking around a crime scene is guilty of something,” Dean mutters, letting the arm holding his flashlight go lax.

The surrounding darkness of the subway envelops him without hesitation.

The air in the precinct is charged in a way that it hasn’t been in a very long time. Every pair of shoulders tensed and heavy with the fresh memory of their fallen fellow agents. The two empty desks near the left side of the room are given a wide berth as people pass.

Late morning sunlight bleeds orange through the half-open blinds along the back wall.

Dean rubs his eyes as he steps through the threshold of the large shared office space. He’s already on his fifth cup of coffee for the day, but even that can’t chase away the exhaustion that clouds his mind from a third day in a row with next to no sleep.

He had passed out somewhere around 3 am- only thanks to a half bottle of hooch- and woke up to the unwelcome sight of the clock hands in his bedroom sitting at 4.

Dean sighs heavily as he trudges toward his desk that sits facing Benny’s in the far corner of the room.

Out of the window next to it, Dean can see the Chicago landscape beneath them. Ten stories down, crowds of people and automobiles weave through the busy morning traffic.

Slumping into his office chair, Dean half registers that the one across from him is empty. It’s unusual for Benny to be late, but he knows last night’s call is wearing on the whole team. He sets his coffee cup on the wooden surface with a dull thud, swapping it for the case file sitting on top of the stack between their two desks.

“Winchester.”

Dean’s head pops up, scanning the room and landing on the Director’s unhappy expression staring at him from his office doorway.

“My office,” Bobby says, not waiting to spin around and fall back into the room. Dean sighs and drags a tired, heavy hand down his face. Crossing the room, Dean shuts the door behind him, stopping a few feet from the head director’s desk.

Bobby Singer is a veteran in the field with over twenty years under his belt and the bravado to back it up. He’s a calloused and no-nonsense kind of man.

And he’s the closest thing Dean has to a father.

“Yes sir?” Dean asks, trying to seem more awake than he is. The yawn that cuts through the last half of his sentence doesn’t help his case.

“Where’s Lafitte?” Bobby asks, leaning back in his chair.

“No idea, haven’t seen him since last night,” Dean shakes his head, taking it upon himself to slump into one of the two leather chairs facing Bobby’s desk.

“Well when he gets back, tell him I’m assigning you two as lead detectives to our most recent case,” Bobby says. The wrinkles around his eyes and mouth make his displeased expression more pronounced.

“But Capone-”

“The rest of the team is still working on it. Two of our agents were murdered and I need my best men to oversee it. The subway murders are now your top priority,” Bobby says.

“But-”

“I have a feeling it'll come full circle anyway. We both know how close Nick and Ash were to the Capone case,” Bobby intersects before Dean can get a word in edgewise.

Dean opens his mouth to object again, but Bobby only raises an eyebrow paired with an otherwise unimpressed face.

Dean clenches his fist but nods anyway, “Yes sir.”

Bobby mirrors the nod, “Good, here’s the info for the witness that called it in. I’m sure you and Lafitte can figure out the rest from there.”

Dean takes the file out of Bobby’s outstretched hand, shuffling through it unseeingly. With a weary sigh, he pushes himself up from the chair, heading for the door with even less energy than he had ten minutes ago.

“And Dean,”

He stills, looking over his shoulder.

“Be careful out there, son. Someone’s coming after our guys and I don’t want you in a Chicago overcoat next.” Only the slight furrow in Bobby’s brow gives away his concern, but it’s enough for Dean to understand the weight of his words.

“Yes sir,” Dean says, nodding one last time before exiting into the festering nervous tension of the main office.

The lead witness turns out to be a homeless man who lives in the alleyway between 36th and 9th in the industrial district. ‘Alfred Bendoy’ reads the scribbled name at the top of the witness report.

On the walk to the recorded location, a seemingly perpetual layer of fog hangs in the air, obscuring the buildings on either side from view. In addition, the midday sun is shaded by dark clouds that cast a slate blue light over every surface. A light drizzle falls through the air, droplets dampening the brim of Dean's fedora and the shoulders of his jacket. His boots splash against the wet cobblestone-paved path beneath him.

Benny follows on his heels, hand cautiously lingering by his holster. When he showed up around midday, eyes red-rimmed and gait a little uneven, a look of understanding passed between them, and Dean left it at that. He gets enough worry from the wife at home, Benny doesn’t need Dean doing her job for her as well.

Around them, the rush of cars and passing conversations fills in the familiar drone of the city. The distinct scent of something rotten floats through the air, something that seems to linger in every alleyway in this part of town.

Ahead, the alley looks deserted. Dean pulls out the paper in his pocket, a barely legible address written in Bobby’s chicken scratch handwriting.

They’re in the right place. Maybe the guy wanders during the day?

Dean has only just pulled his eyes away from the notes when a crashing weight to his left side knocks him off balance.

“Shit-”

A gangly man has him backed into the brick wall, his eyes unfocused, afraid. Dean can feel where the cold blade of a knife is pressed to his neck, threatening to break the skin. The rain-soaked wall clings to his back, water seeping through his uniform and chilling his skin. Benny has his gun drawn and pointed at the man, face contorted in anger.

“Drop the weapon!” Benny orders.

“Who are you? I know you were looking for me!” The man barks, eyes never leaving Dean’s.

He hesitates, swallowing thickly.

“Are you Alfred? I’m Agent Winchester. This is Agent Lafitte. We just want to ask you a few questions,” Dean says, fingers twitching at his sides, aching to do anything other than stay calm.

The man scoffs, looking between the two men unbelievingly.

Dean waits until the man’s gaze is on Benny and, in a blur of movement, kicks up at the man’s stomach. Alfred grunts, curling in on himself. Dean wrenches the knife out of his hands, tossing it further into the alley and switching their positions.

They come to a standstill again, with Alfred pressed to the wall this time, Dean’s forearm bearing down on his throat threateningly.

“Now are you gonna calm down? Or are we gonna do this the hard way?” Dean grunts.

Alfred slowly raises his hands in surrender. Dean waits for a beat before gradually backing away, anticipating resistance at any time. Benny waits for Dean’s confirmation before he begrudgingly holsters his gun again. When he rubs his neck, a dark smear of blood stains his fingerprints.

“Were you the one who called in the murders last night?” Benny asks gruffly, his eyes distrustfully darting along Alfred's frame.

“That was me,” Alfred says, his tone more hushed than it was. He looks over his shoulder as though he’s worried about someone overhearing them.

“Can you tell us about what you saw? Anything about the events that lead to you discovering the bodies?” Dean asks, shrugging his right shoulder out where it throbs from being slammed into a wall. Alfred inhales sharply, and Dean’s muscles tense on instinct.

“I was visiting some buddies, walking back home and I took a shortcut. It was stupid. Stupid, stupid. There’s places you’re not ‘posed ta be. They like it in the dark where they have the advantage-” Alfred whispers. The longer the man talks, the faster he speaks. His discomfort is evident in the way he clenches and unclenches his fists.

“Who’s they? Do you know the names of anyone down there?” Benny asks.

“No names, but you’ll know. Oh-” Alfred barks a humorless laugh, “You’ll know alright. It’s in the eyes! The eyes! Don’t look at 'em, they’re watching us. Watching us-”

“Alright, easy there fella. Calm down-”

Dean reaches for Alfred’s shoulder, but he scrambles back several feet, “No! No touch! Don’t let ’em touch ya! That’s how they win.”

Dean thinks to mention that the man touched him first when he decided to hold a knife to his throat, but he decides now's not the time to be petty. Alfred looks around shakily, eyes never staying on one thing for too long. Dean and Benny share matching concerned expressions.

Benny leans over in a hushed voice, “Should we take him back to the station? I don’t know if he should be left alone.”

“You wanna see if he’ll stab us for that too?” Dean whispers back, raising an eyebrow. Benny purses his lips together.

“Can you tell us anything more specific about what you saw last night? Did you see the attacker?” Benny pushes forward with the interview. The man pauses for a second, shuffling back and forth erratically.

“There was four people down there. They were yellin’. That’s how I found ’em, no one’s supposed to be down there. Not safe, no no no. Not safe, not safe.”

“Four? Four attackers or four people altogether?” Dean asks, his interests piqued.

“All of them, four of all of ’em. N’ they were arguing. Don’t know what about but the two with the guns were the loudest. Had to cover my ears ’cause of the echo. Gave me a headache. Not safe, no-”

“Why isn’t it safe, Alfred?” Benny interrupts before the man can get distracted.

“The monsters! There’s monsters in the shadows down there. Up here too sometimes but always… always down there. I can feel their eyes on the back of my neck,” Alfred pats down his neck subconsciously, “Watching. Hunting.”

The man closes his eyes, curling in on himself like he wants to escape his own train of thought. Dean suppresses a sigh. Who knows how reliable any of this information is. Of course, their one witness to the crime is hopped up on drugs.

Not long after, Alfred fades from complete sentences into incoherent mumbling, a faraway look in his eyes, and Dean resigns himself to not getting anything else out of the man.

“Let’s go,” Dean says to Benny, nodding his head back toward the alley's entrance.

Alfred is no longer paying them any mind. Instead, he’s pacing the alleyway and muttering words to himself. Benny nods stiffly, following Dean back to the main road.

In unspoken agreement, they head to a nearby coffee shop. The silence between them is weighted with unspoken theories and concerns.

Dean shakes his hands out as they walk. The extreme sense of paranoia from the homeless man is almost contagious. More than once, Dean finds himself casting a glance over his shoulder.

“So what are we thinkin’?” Benny asks as they cross a busy street. Dean swerves out of the way last minute to avoid running into a mother and her two children.

“Well the guy obviously had a few screws loose,” Dean says, grimacing as he recalls the slightly unhinged look in his eyes. A strong breeze sends misty cold air under his coat, and he shivers as he buttons it shut to insulate himself better.

“Aside from that though, we now have an eye witness placing two perpetrators at the scene of the crime. Multiple suspects suggests it was premeditated,” Benny says, pausing in front of the coffee shop’s front door.

He holds the door open for Dean, who steps by with a tilt of his head as thanks.

“I feel like that’s the only useful information we got out of the whole thing. Like what’s up with the eyes thing? And monsters? The guy sounded straight out of the looney bin,” Dean says, keeping his voice down as they step past other customers and stand at the back of the line for the ordering counter.

“Maybe it’s a metaphor for Capone’s goons? They might have a system down there that we’re unaware of. This could be our big break: ‘FBI Cracks Down on Underground Subway Syndicate Crime Ring’,” Benny says, holding out his hands as though he can already envision the news headline.

Dean rolls his eyes as he steps up to the counter, ignoring Benny’s antics in favor of ordering his coffee.

“That’ll be 0.30$,” The girl behind the register says, looking up at him through her lashes.

She has shoulder-length curly brown hair and red lipstick that pops against her pale skin. She looks straight out of one of the magazines in the waiting room of the precinct. Dean would consider getting her number if he wasn’t currently knee-deep in a shit-show murder case. Instead, he shoots her a small flirty smile, more on instinct than anything else.

He drops a quarter and a dime into her palm, “The rest is yours, doll.” Then, with a wink, Dean goes to stand by the big glass windows at the front of the store to wait for his drink.

Benny joins his side once again, only a moment later, “I’m thinking we should revisit the crime scene sometime tomorrow. Check to see if there’s anything we missed the first time around.”

Dean nods, looking out the window, the light rain still not letting up.

“I wanna see if Charlie can pull any old maps of the subway,” Dean says. They can always rely on her for the research side of things.

Two younger women enter the store, a gust of cold air following them in. Both are in business attire. They probably work at one of the several office buildings on this block. Looking down at his watch, Dean realizes it’s well into the afternoon. Their endeavors with the slightly crazed homeless man ate up more time from their day than he'd thought.

One of the workers places Dean’s coffee on the counter and calls out the order. When he picks it up, the warmth from the beverage seeps into his numbing fingertips. As he turns to go back to standing next to Benny, a man walks through the front door, instantly catching Dean’s attention amidst the small crowd.

He’s dressed to the nines: a tailored black suit jacket and tan trench coat barely reveal a fitted brown waistcoat that tucks into slightly tight black slacks. The only thing out of place in his well-put-together appearance is a backward tie.

Dean has a hard time seeing anything else in the room other than the man’s steely gray-blue eyes and a 5 o’clock shadow that contours his cheekbones and jawline. His dark black hair slicked back just enough to look professional while still looking soft enough to run his fingers through.

When Dean swallows, his throat feeling uncomfortably dry.

The man’s gaze meets his blatant staring, and only then does Dean realize he’s doing it. In one panicked movement, Dean rips his eyes away and rushes back to where Benny is waiting with an overly satisfied smirk.

“Someone catch your eye?” Benny asks, keeping his voice low enough the other patrons don’t overhear.

“Can it, Benny,” Dean warns with a clenched jaw. Just because his field partner is okay with Dean being into dudes sometimes doesn’t mean most other people are. And Dean is not in the mood to start a fistfight in his favorite coffee shop on this side of town.

A moment later, Benny’s name gets called, and he goes to pick up his own cup of coffee. Dean immediately uses the excuse to race toward the exit, but not before casting one last glance at the blue-eyed man still waiting in line.

The man is already looking at him, an unreadable expression coloring his face.

Dean embarrassedly swears under his breath as his cheeks heat up and keeps his head down as he shoves open the glass door and breathes in the smell of city fumes and fresh air. He tries his damnedest to shake the sight of bright blue eyes that appear every time he closes his.

The door of Dean’s apartment shuts behind him so hard that the surrounding walls shake a little. The hours at the office got away from him, and it’s regrettably well into the night.

With a heavy sigh, Dean hangs his keys on the hook bolted to the wall next to the wooden doorframe. He takes to loosening his tie as he kicks his work boots off next to the small brown rug in the entryway, relieved to be rid of the constricting footwear.

He passes the living room archway and heads to the end of the short hallway where the kitchen lives. His jacket gets thrown across the back of one of the two dining chairs at the rickety dining table that’s been shoved into the corner of the cramped space. He sets his gun and badge on the wooden tabletop next to it.

The whole room is outfitted in various shades of beige. The tiles of the backsplash and floor are all a similar tan color. Dean’s white appliances are the only thing of contrast in the room, and even some of those have begun to yellow with age. A skinny window sits above his makeshift breakfast nook, and beyond it he can see the glimmering lights of Windy City.

He bends to open the fridge, popping the cap off a beer with the silver ring on his right hand. As the bitter carbonated alcohol hits the back of his throat, he feels the day’s tension loosen fractionally from his shoulders.

He turns on the small radio next to the stove, letting soft jazz flow through the room and fill the silence of his empty apartment.

Near the back of the fridge, Dean finds leftover chicken from the other night that he can’t be bothered to reheat on the stove, so he settles for just grabbing a fork and dropping into a dining chair to eat the food cold. It’s not the best thing he’s ever had, but he learned not to be picky after a childhood of not knowing when his next meal would be.

Images of cheap peeling motel wallpaper and seemingly endless highways come to mind. An old memory of sitting cramped on the bench of his dad’s truck, his kid brother Sam sitting between him and their father with an oblivious grin on his face.

Dean's fingers tighten around the glass bottle in his palm, and he takes another swig. Sammy works for a law firm now that’s just across town, but Dean hasn’t heard from him in almost a month.

Their last conversation had ended in a blowout over something Dad said the last time he was in town. Bitching about Sam getting a real job defending the streets instead of hiding away in an office all day.

Sam had gotten rightfully pissed.

Dean instinctually defended Dad.

And by the time the whole thing was over, both of them said some things they didn’t mean, and Dean hadn’t picked up the phone since. Guilt claws at his chest every time he thinks about it.

So he doesn’t, taking another drink to dull his thoughts instead.

The streets outside his window are emptier but not completely abandoned. At least most of the noise doesn’t make it this far up.

That’s what he loves about this small piece of his in the surrounding nocturnal city; the pipes might be leaky, the wooden floors in the living room worn from use, and the radiator in his bedroom tends to break halfway through winter, but at least it’s quiet. The one and only place Dean can find peace after a grueling workday of bottomless violence and paperwork.

When Dean finishes dinner, he stops by the fridge to grab another beer before walking down the hall. He passes the open living room once more on the way to the bathroom across the way from the only bedroom in the apartment.

He sets the beer on the counter as he turns on the overhead shower faucet. Soon enough, the tiny room is filled with steam as Dean sheds his dirty work clothes.

He steps under the spray of water that’s so hot it’s almost uncomfortable, but it helps relax the muscles in his back, so he doesn’t bother turning it down. Instead, he takes his time going through his routine, pointedly not thinking about his future water bill.

Fifteen minutes and the rest of his beer later, Dean walks into his bedroom with only a towel wrapped around his waist.

The room is sparsely furnished; a wooden dresser and bookshelf are leaned against the right wall, cluttered and undusted. He's never been one for interior decorating. Dean changes into only a pair of boxers because it gets too hot in the middle of the night for much else.

His bed is centered on the left, and two windows fill out the wall farthest from him. The sheets are a little scratchy, but the mattress dips comfortably to accommodate his weight when he sits on the side closest to the door. Muted yellow light fades into the room through the slits in the blinds.

Dean rubs his face as he leans back, not thinking about how large the bed is. Not thinking about how much warmer it would be if it was shared.

Like always, sleep comes and goes unpredictably.

He dreams of when he and Nick went out to celebrate his first big promotion in the bureau.

Him and Ash getting drinks with the whole team when they finally closed the case on a trafficking ring downtown. Every slimy bastard involved got 20 years behind bars, making the alcohol taste that much sweeter.

But each dream abruptly ends the same. Darkness taints the happiness as Dean clinks his glass against Ash’s. When he clasps Nick’s shoulder with a smile that finally reaches his eyes, his hand comes away bloody.

The blood is under his feet and dripping from the walls. The smell of death is so thick he chokes on it. He can’t breathe. He can’t breathe. He can’t-

Dean jerks upright in bed, flailing to get the sheets off where they entangle his arms and legs. Stumbling to his feet, he tries to catch his breath as his heart pounds, thudding hard against his ribs.

It’s then -hands braced on his knees, standing in the middle of his bedroom, vulnerable, exposed- that Dean feels the first tears fall.

The dark shapes of the furniture in his room blur together and then disappear as he presses his face into his hands.

They’re gone.

His friends are gone.

A new layer of burden is added to the weight his shoulders carry. Another brick in the wall. Another chip in the wood. He lifts his head and finds his gaze attracted to the dim light that shines through the windows.

His friends are gone, and somewhere out there, the people who took them from him are walking free.

Blind fury curls inside his chest, making itself at home behind his ribs. His fists tighten, and his shoulders draw themselves back on their own accord. The anger calms his racing heartbeat, dries his eyes, and with deadly certainty, whispers in his ear:

His friends are gone, and someone out there is going to pay.

Chapter Text

A little less than a week later, he gets the phone call.

It’s the middle of the night when Dean finds himself stumbling down the hall, following the ringing coming from the living room. Rubbing his eyes with one hand, Dean snatches the rotary phone off its dock with the other.

“Winchester,” he answers, his voice thick and rough from sleep.

“Dean,” Bobby’s voice comes from the tiny speaker, “There’s been another.”

That was more than an hour ago. Now, shielding himself from the harsh Chicago rain with a flimsy black umbrella, Dean hovers over the body of Agent Jody Mills.

He didn’t know her well, but he knew her and Bobby were close. He knew she was loyal to a fault and pulled her weight in court. He guesses none of that matters now.

A sinking feeling bleeds through his chest.

The body was discovered in an alleyway in one of the busiest parts of town. Even in the dead of night, Dean can still hear the heavy foot traffic behind him. A rope of police tape sections off the area, but about a dozen curious or concerned civilians gather anyway, trying to see over heads and shoulders.

“Not even a week has passed and another one of us is down.” Charlie steps up beside him, grimly looking down.

Jody’s lying on her back, and Dean can easily see where her throat is slit. There are several stab wounds near her chest and abdomen. The rain spreads the blood through the white cloth of her dress, turning the center of it a dull sickly pink. It’s a crime of passion.

Her bureau-issued gun lies a few inches away from her open, reaching palm.

She wasn’t even in uniform. It looks like she was walking back home from a night on the town.

A completely different scene from the first case, but something in Dean’s gut tells him it’s related. They haven’t lost an agent in almost two years, and now three are dead, all within a week of each other?

“It’s escalating. This is more personal than a gunshot to the back,” Dean says, pursing his lips tightly.

“You think it’s the same guy?” Charlie asks, raising her eyebrow.

“I think someone is coming after our agents,” Dean says with gritted teeth.

Jody’s face is bruised near her jaw. Upon further inspection, he can see there’s blood under her fingernails. She put up a hell of a fight.

But it was too little too late. Dean’s doing too little too late. The familiar feeling of guilt-coated nausea rises in the back of his throat. He wasn’t fast enough. Didn’t put the puzzle together quick enough. And now another life is gone. And that’s Dean’s fault.

Jogging footsteps come from behind them before Benny stops a few feet away, sounding out of breath.

Charlie gives him a concerned look, “You alright there?”

“Yeah- yeah… just got the call, had to fight off the wife, but I got here as soon as I could,” Benny says, swallowing before straightening his posture.

“They got Mills,” Dean grunts, walking further into the alley and leaving it to Charlie to catch Benny up on the details.

He can’t stand to look at the body anymore. He needs time to distance himself. Get your shit together, Dean chastises himself. He’s been doing this job for too long to be acting like this.

Dean pulls out his flashlight, balancing it in the hand holding up his umbrella as he opens the lid to one of the dumpsters near the body.

It’s empty, with the exception of a few rats and a layer of decay that’s permanently molded into the sides of the container. Scrunching up his nose, Dean lets the lid shut.

Something isn’t right. Different MO, different area, but the same victim demographic. Or...

“Hey, what case was Jody working on?” Dean asks, glancing over his shoulder to where Benny and Charlie are still huddled by the body.

“She was working on taking down some speakeasy’s owned by the South Side Gang,” Benny says. “You think it has something to do with it?”

Dean shrugs noncommittally as he chews over his thoughts.

It’s then that something near the base of the dumpster catches his eye. He puts on a glove as he crouches next to it. A bullet casing.

“Look what we have here,” Dean says, holding the shell for Benny and Charlie to see.

“I don’t see a bullet wound on her,” Benny says, sweeping a secondary glance over Jody’s body.

“You wouldn’t if it belonged to her,” Charlie says, a dawn of realization flooding her face. She grabs Jody’s gun off the asphalt and pops the magazine out. One of the seven bullets it carries is missing.

“She got off a shot?” Benny asks, eyebrows raised.

“We don’t know if it landed or not,” Dean points out.

“We should canvas the area. If the suspect walked away with a bullet wound someone probably noticed,” Charlie says, putting the gun back where it came from and sliding the casing into an evidence bag.

“Let’s wrap up here and then we’ll break up,” Dean says, continuing to scan the alley for any more evidence.

The rain comes down in sheets blocking most of the light coming from the few street lights in the area.

What else is different? Different area; it’s above ground.

Dean just knows, something is screaming at him that the tunnels are involved. He knows it. The word repeats in his head over and over as he scans the ground of the alley.

“Where’d you run away to?” Dean mutters to himself, stopping when his foot lands on something that sends a heavy metallic clank through the whole passageway.

Dean takes a step back, staring at the manhole. Steam rises from the small vents on the edges, but in the darkness of night, it blends right into the stone around it. Dean narrows his eyes, searching for something to pry it up with.

He lands on a metal rod a few feet away that looks like it fell off the fire escape railing hanging above it.

Dean wedges the rod into one of the holes in the lid. The sound of metal against metal scrapes and echoes loudly. He drops the bar, squatting down to shove the heavy cover out of the way completely.

Under the beam of his flashlight, a single rusty ladder descends into the darkness before disappearing completely.

“The subway,” Charlie speaks up, appearing out of nowhere and startling Dean. He shoots her a glare before nodding. Benny’s flashlight joins his own, but it’s still impossible to see any farther down.

“But a different weapon was used. How can we even be sure this is connected to the first case?” Benny asks, still skeptical.

“We need to check out some of the speakos Jody was working on,” Dean says, standing and wincing when his knees protest. “I have a hunch but it’s nothing concrete. We need more evidence.”

Charlie snorts, “I’m sure that won’t get you shot on sight.”

“They don’t have to know who we are,” Dean says, looking over Charlie mischievously and sending her a smirk, “and a pretty face never hurts.”

“Oh no-” Charlie waves her hands in front of her, “I’m not helping you with your suicide mission. I’m not even assigned to do field work right now-”

Dean looks up, and whatever she’s saying gets pushed to the back of his mind. At the end of the alleyway, buried in the crowd of civilians: a tan coat. A flash of black hair. Dean’s moving forward before he can fully put the pieces together.

“Are you even listening to me-”

In between two men near the back, a familiar face. The guy from the coffee shop. Dean hesitates, but when the man finally looks forward and their eyes meet, the final piece clicks.

The man who was at the first crime scene.

Blue eyes must see the recognition on Dean’s face because he’s taking off. Dean doesn’t hesitate to follow chase.

Dean ducks under the tape and shoves through the crowd of people, desperate not to let the man get out of his sight again.

Buildings blur past as Dean sprints after the suspect.

He’s fast, but Dean has the upper hand this round. This time he knows these streets like the back of his hand, and he’s not in pursuit in complete darkness.

The man ducks into an alley, and Dean takes the turn just as sharply.

He’s gaining ground, closer.

Closer.

Closer.

Dean’s hand closes around the man’s upper arm, yanking him back and shoving him into the nearby brick wall.

He twists the man’s arm behind him, pressing up close and gripping the back of his neck to keep him from escaping. The cold rain pours down on the both of them.

“Who are you?” Dean grunts out, heart beating hard in his chest. Both of them are panting against the chilly night air. The sound of their breaths blends into the whirl of an automobile that chugs by.

The man’s only answer is a glare, so Dean twists his arm further. A little more pressure, and Dean knows the bone will eventually snap in his grasp.

“Agh- Alright! Alright! My name is Castiel.” So the stranger has a name. An unusual name at that.

“Who do you work for? Why are you at all my crime scenes?” Dean snaps.

“I work for The Tribune,” Castiel says through gritted teeth.

“You’re a reporter?” Dean asks incredulously, eyebrows raising to his hairline. That was the last answer he expected out of the man.

“I’m an investigative journalist,” Castiel says with a level of defensiveness that leads Dean to believe he has to make the distinction often.

“A journalist,” Dean scoffs, “that’s just nifty.”

His grip on the man’s arm loosens fractionally, and Castiel takes the opportunity to push at the wall and shove Dean off. To Dean’s surprise, Castiel doesn’t try to run again. Instead, he turns and faces Dean with a glowering expression.

“You underestimate me,” Castiel says, giving Dean a criticizing once over that has an unpleasant shiver running down his spine.

He has to resist the urge to roll his eyes. “I apologize for not being more thrilled that an investigative journalist is contaminating the crime scenes I’m overseeing.”

“I can help you,” Castiel grits out.

Dean narrows his eyes, “How?”

Castiel seems to debate something for a moment before answering.

“I have connections. Connections… with information about what’s underground,” Castiel emphasizes the last word, meeting Dean’s eyes. Dean swallows thickly, shooting a look behind his shoulder. There are footsteps fast approaching in the distance.

“Tell me,” Dean says, stepping forward.

From this distance, Dean can smell Castiel’s aftershave, and he shoves down the traitorous voice in the back of his head that notes how good it is. Eucalyptus mixed with something smoky.

“Not here,” Castiel looks around the alleyway skeptically. “Tomorrow night, meet me back here. I will show you somewhere we can talk more privately.”

Castiel is already backing further into the alley, steadily disappearing once more into the night.

“Wait!” Dean calls after him, his entire body vibrating with nerves, “How do I know I can trust you?”

Castiel turns only his head back toward him. Ashy-blue eyes bore into Dean’s.

“You don’t.”

And just as quickly as he appeared, Castiel is gone.

Perfectly late, Benny and Charlie stumble into view.

“What was that about?” Benny questions at the same time Charlie asks, “Did you catch him?” Both of them look equally out of breath and disheveled.

Dean shakes his head, looking at the spot Castiel stood moments ago.

Should he tell them? There was something in Castiel’s eyes that makes him think maybe he shouldn’t.

Not yet.

Dean doesn’t meet their eyes when he answers.

“No, he got away.”

Many hours and an endless cycle of repeating the same questions later, they discover absolutely nothing new. No one’s seen their guy, and no one saw the murder happen. The anonymous caller was long gone before authorities showed up at the scene.

Dean is currently repressing the urge to bang his head against the nearest wall.

Charlie doesn’t look much better, tiredly dragging her hand down her face.

The hour of sleep Dean got before the call isn’t treating him kindly, and given the opportunity, he knows he could fall asleep standing.

They sent Benny home an hour ago since they didn’t want to keep him from his worrying wife for too long. There was nothing for him to do that couldn’t wait till the daylight anyway. Deep down, Dean knows that’s true for him and Charlie as well.

Charlie yawns, eyes snapping open and closed as she slouches against a nearby wall. “I can’t believe no one saw him,” she complains, tilting her head back with a dull thud.

Dean snorts humorlessly. “Well, they’ve done an annoyingly good job of staying hidden so far.” Dean thinks for a second, his brain trying and struggling to process the past few hours.

“You think you could find a copy of the old subway tunnel plans,” Dean asks, leaning on the wall beside her.

“You still stuck on the underground thing?” Charlie asks, a teasing lilt to her voice.

“A lead as good as any,” Dean shrugs.

“A fixation more like,” Charlie says, slapping his arm with the back of her hand.

“Shut up,” Dean grumbles, shoving her hand away. “Can you get ’em or not?”

“Yeah. Yeah. I’ll get your damn plans. Your lack of faith is offending at this point,” Charlie complains. Dean rolls his eyes, pushing off the wall despite his feet’s protest.

“You’re shot. Go get some rest, kid,” Dean says, shoving her in the direction of her apartment to get her moving.

“Yeah, I’m going, abercrombie. Don’t blow your wig,” Charlie protests but starts moving anyway.

“See you tomorrow, Red,” Dean calls after her. She waves her hand without turning around, disappearing onto another block.

The atmosphere in Bobby’s office is tense and heavy and immediately puts Dean on edge.

He raps his knuckles on the open door frame to announce his presence before walking in.

Bobby’s head pops up from its position of leaning on his hands. The man’s eyes are red-rimmed, and his shoulders are uncharacteristically slumped. He looks smaller now than ever before, the weight of years of service barring down on him.

“Hey, how you holding up, bossman?” Dean asks cautiously.

Bobby clears his throat and doesn’t meet Dean’s eyes when he responds. “Fine as I can be.”

Dean nods, shifting his weight from one foot to the other.

“Well, me and Bradbury are gonna head out to one of the speakos that Jody was working on later today. Thought I would give you an update,” Dean says, pointing his thumb vaguely toward the door.

Bobby frowns. “Don’t take any wooden nickels. You know they’ll be packing heat and the second they think they’re compromised they won’t hesitate to torch the place.”

“We know. We’ll be careful,” Dean promises placatingly.

Bobby nods begrudgingly, clearly not happy about it but unable to object. Instead, he stares at the crowded workspace of his desk, eyes burning a hole into a file near the top as though he can will it to catch fire.

Dean sighs, rubbing the back of his neck.

“Hey,” Dean speaks up, leaning down to catch Bobby’s eyes. “You don’t have to do this on your own. I’m here if you ever wanna talk about it.”

Bobby’s lips press together as he nods. “I know, son. I appreciate the offer.”

Dean clears his throat and, with a final jerky nod, leaves for the conference room down the hall to discuss the evidence with the rest of his team.

The sun is hanging low on the horizon as Charlie and Dean enter the speakeasy. The afternoon autumn air has a bite to it that has Dean wrinkling up his nose while he tries to get some of the blood to flow back.

They stopped by Charlie’s apartment so she could change her work uniform out for an evening dress.

The red cotton material stops at her elbows and falls just below her knees in a subtle flare. It looks nice on her, if not a little strange to see her in something so casual.

Dean opted to undo his tie and the top two buttons of his shirt. He ran a hand through his hair to dishevel it and swapped the gun in his shoulder holster for a more subtle one he can carry in his boot.

Charlie gave him a criticizing once-over before nodding to herself, seemingly satisfied with the half-heartedly ambiguous disguise.

The place is busier than he expected and larger than the rundown exterior would suggest.

Velvet couches are shoved against a few of the walls, and several worn tables are scattered around, most of their stools occupied. On the back wall sits the bar, rows of moonshine and giggle juice line the shelves above it.

The entire joint is bathed in a warm, unassuming glow. Smooth jazz flows from a hidden radio somewhere. Dean would almost call it cozy if not for the pungent smell of alcohol and uneasy tension in the air.

“Keep your eyes out for anything suspicious. The second you think something’s up, let me know and we’ll dangle,” Dean whispers into Charlie’s ear.

She nods curtly, a focused look in her eyes.

They split up.

While Charlie finds her first target over by the sofas, Dean heads for the bar, casually sliding into an empty stool.

The bartender is a slim blond woman with sharp eyes and hands that move with practiced ease.

She sends Dean an easy smile when he sits, “What can I get for you, sugar?”

Dean gives her his most charming smile. “A gin rickey, please…” Dean tilts his head toward her in a silent question.

“Jo,” the woman fills in with a wink before grabbing the bottles to mix his drink.

“Thanks, doll,” Dean says when the glass is slid toward him.

Jo nods, propping her hip on the counter behind her. “You new to town? Haven’t seen you around before.”

“Passing through. Wound up out here ’cause of business,” Dean lies easily, taking a sip of his drink. The gin burns on the way down and pleasantly warms his stomach.

“What kind of business?” The man next to him speaks up.

Dean takes a second to consider the man he hadn’t paid much mind to before. He’s middle-aged, with short receding brown hair and a sinister sparkle in his eye.

“Sailing, of course,” Dean says with a wink and a boyish grin. “Just made port a few days ago.”

The man hums, eyes narrowed as he drinks from his glass.

Dean’s instincts are screaming at him to walk out then and there. He’s been made. This man knows something’s up. But he forces himself to stay seated. His brain unhelpfully supplies the memory of Jody’s motionless hand reaching for her gun, and his anxiety is replaced with determination.

Dean holds out his hand expectantly. “Name’s Eric. You are?”

The man hesitates momentarily before responding with a firm shake. “Crowley.”

“You a local, I assume,” Dean asks, leaning back in his chair.

“Born and raised. And I’ll be buried in this apple too if the devil has any say in it,” Crowley says, mumbling the tail end of the sentence.

Dean raises his eyebrow. “You make a habit of dancing with death?”

Crowley snorts humorlessly. “You could say that.”

The conversation dies off, and Dean finds himself scrambling to revive it. This guy knows something and Dean’s not about to let it slip through his fingers.

“You know any good local legends? One mate on my crew spent half the trip talking my ear off, somethin’ about haunted subways and the like,” Dean prompts. It’s dangerously direct, but the man seems unwilling to provide any details otherwise.

If possible, Crowley’s eyes narrow even further. If Dean’s career didn’t rely on his ability to stay calm, he’d be fidgeting in his seat by now.

“Don’t know nothin ’bout no subways. Except it would do you good to stay out of ’em. Anyone down there is asking for trouble,” Crowley says, his voice low, “and I don’t mean with the law.”

Crowley goes to stand from his barstool when he pauses, wincing momentarily when his arm catches to bartop.

“You alright?” Dean asks inquisitively.

“Nothin’ more than another flesh wound. I’ll live,” Crowley says, gruffly draining the rest of his glass in one final gulp. Even from here, Dean can see the red starting to pool on the shoulder of Crowley’s white button-down.

Dean opens his mouth, probably to say something stupidly blunt, when Charlie appears at his side.

“Dean,” she whispers, her voice strained.

Dean recognizes the anxiety in her voice, and he’s already on his feet. “What’s wrong?”

“We need to go, like yesterday,” Charlie grits out, looking over her shoulder.

Before Dean can ask any more questions, a loud, baleful voice booms from behind them. “There you are, you little tramp.”

A stocky man dressed in a gray button-down and suspenders stumbles forward. Even from a distance, Dean can smell the booze on his breath.

Just from the unfocused look in his eyes, Dean can tell the man is clearly half seas over and looking for a fight. So much for not raising suspicion.

“Hey, bozo. You need to lay off,” Dean says, stepping in front of Charlie protectively.

“This bitch is snooping around where she doesn’t belong,” the man scoffs, shoving Dean’s shoulder.

“What kind of hotshot do you think you are?” Dean scoffs unbelievingly, taking a menacing step forward.

Charlie’s hand shoots up to grab his shoulder, “Dean, wait-”

“Let’s see it, pipsqueak,” the man says, putting up his fists and reeling back his right arm.

The sound of a shotgun racking back has the entire establishment going still.

Dean turns his head slowly toward the noise. Jo has a sawed-off shotgun pointed at the two of them, glaring at them down the barrel.

“That’s enough! Take it outside,” she orders. Somewhere on the other side of the room, a glass clinks against a table.

“Oh my god,” Charlie whispers in a tone that sounds suspiciously like awe.

Dean glares at her.

Who’s side are you on? He mouths at her.

Charlie doesn’t even have the decency to look chastised. She just goes back to ogling at the bartender.

Dean huffs, “Let’s go.” He takes Charlie by the arm, practically dragging her outside as she refuses to take her eyes off Jo.

Dean makes a point of shouldering past Chucklehead. He lets out a threatening growl in response, and Dean just smiles pettily as he shoves open the exit.

When the sun sets, it takes its reasonable temperatures with it. It's sometime past midnight, and Dean huddles his jacket closer when a particularly harsh breeze comes through.

Dean bounces on the balls of his feet as he checks up and down the alley for the tenth time in the past five minutes. Castiel technically didn’t give him a time, but Dean figured he’d meant the same as last night.

It’s been an exhausting 16- going on 17- hour day, but here Dean is. Standing in the cold dead of night waiting for a stranger who could’ve been bluffing about the entire thing just so he could get away.

But Dean’s desperate for anything, anything, that could help with the case. He’s running low on evidence and even lower on steam. The longer he takes to crack this thing open, the better the chances are that another familiar face will end up in another shallow grave.

He has to be here for his own sanity if nothing else. That doesn’t mean he’s happy about it, though.

He should’ve downed some whiskey before he left. Maybe that would’ve kept him warmer.

He looks down at his watch again before rubbing his hands together. He regrets not grabbing a heavier jacket. He didn’t bother changing after Charlie’s and his visit to the speako. Only going as far as haphazardly throwing his leather jacket on top of the mix and heading out the door again.

His relatively thin button-down is doing a shit job at insulating well… anything.

“Come on,” Dean mumbles to himself, looking down the alley again.

He’s contemplating calling it off and heading home, where a night of restless sleep is waiting for him, when the sound of footsteps appears.

Castiel emerges from the alley's darkness, dressed in almost identical attire from the last time Dean saw him. Beige trench coat and all. Only this time, a black fedora shadows half his face from the glow of the streetlamp behind them.

“Took your time. Any longer and hypothermia was gonna come after my ass,” Dean complains, pushing off the wall to face Castiel properly.

Castiel levels him with an unimpressed glare. “I apologize for the inconvenience,” he deadpans, “I wanted to make sure I wasn’t being followed.” Castiel glances over his shoulder a final time before coming to a stop a few feet away.

Dean rolls his eyes but inclines his head. “So spill. What do you know?”

Castiel shakes his head. “Not here. We’re too… exposed. Follow me.”

Dean has half a mind to turn down the offer to follow a strange man to an undisclosed location, but he finds himself trailing after Castiel despite his better judgment.

The aforementioned location turns out to be an all-nighter down on Madison Street. ‘Betty’s Diner’ is spelled out in neon that flickers every couple of seconds. The enticing warm glow of the interior has Dean picking up his pace a little, happy to get out of the cold.

A bell chimes overhead when they enter. Dean’s hit with a sudden heat that envelops them and makes goosebumps spread over his arms. The smell of burnt coffee and bacon grease hits the back of Dean’s throat, making his mouth water after a long day forgetting meals.

Only a few other customers inhabit the restaurant, and Dean glances over some of their faces as Castiel leads them to a booth in the farthest corner of the diner.

He steals the seat against the wall leaving Dean the one facing away from the door. It sets Dean a little on edge, but he’s not about to cuddle up next to the guy just to ease his own paranoia.

A waitress appears seemingly out of thin air, and Dean forces himself not to flinch. “What can I get for you gentlemen?” She asks, looking expectantly between them.

“Just a coffee, black,” Castiel says, looking out the diner window.

“Coffee, extra cream. Thanks, doll,” Dean orders, sending her a smile when she looks up from her notepad.

“I’ll be right back.” She disappears once more into the kitchen.

From where the diner sits, he can see moonlight shine off the black reflection of Lake Michigan, stretching out past the horizon. Castiel’s eyes track a ferry that’s coming into the port.

Dean steals a glance at the journalist. His hair is more disheveled than it has been the last few times, spiked at odd angles like he’s been running his hands through it too much. The corners of his mouth are downturned, and a little line has formed between his brows.

His tie hangs loose, and his collar is popped up a little on the right side in a way that really shouldn’t be endearing. Dean barely knows the man, for god’s sake.

Dean shakes his head minutely, clearing his throat. “So how’d you find yourself wrapped up in a FBI homicide case?” Dean’s never been one for small talk.

Castiel raises an eyebrow at him. “It’s my job to write about events in the city. Most of it ends up being crime for obvious reasons.”

“It’s your job to go wandering around dangerous abandoned subway tunnels?” Dean asks skeptically, leaning forward in his seat, elbows propped up on the laminate table.

“It’s hardly the worst thing I’ve done for this occupation,” Castiel says. Dean waits for him to elaborate. He doesn’t.

“So what do you know? About the case?” Dean asks. Castiel shifts his gaze behind Dean, squinting suspiciously.

“There have been rumors-”

“Alright darlings,” The waitress chooses that moment to return, setting both their coffees down on the table. “Here’s everything for you. Pay at the register when you’re ready,”

Castiel clears his throat and nods toward her. “Thank you,” he says stiffly. Castiel’s hand closes around the mug, long pale fingers stretching across the porcelain. Dean swallows and looks away.

As the waitress walks out of view, Castiel leans back in, keeping his voice low, “As I was saying, there have been rumors of a group of individuals planning an attack against the bureau. The homicides are only a starting point, there’s been talk of it escalating.”

“Do you know who’s behind it? Is it Capone?” Dean asks, a pit forming in his stomach.

Castiel shakes his head, “I’m unsure if the mob’s involved. I don’t think there’s many in their ranks but they’re dangerous. More dangerous than your agents have been treating them.”

Dean sits back, mentally chewing over the information. A new kind of organized crime is the last thing Dean needs on his plate right now. Chicago’s order is falling apart at the seams as it is.

He takes a sip of his coffee before he speaks again, “Where are you getting this information? How can I be sure this isn’t just crazy talk you picked up off the streets?”

Dean needs to know. Needs to know this is information he can act on.

Castiel glares at him, “I have reliable contacts throughout the city. Contacts that are concerned of what might happen if this group is left unchecked.”

“Why didn’t they go to the police?” Dean asks, frowning.

Castiel scoffs, “The last time I got involved with a case like this, all it earned me were death threats and the occasional brick through the window. You can’t honestly expect them to paint a target on their backs like that.”

Dean takes a second to reappraise the man sitting across from him. Under the stark lights of the diner, Dean can see the dark circles under his eyes. The way his shoulders hunch forward and how his eyes never leave the front door for too long.

Dean bites his lip, considering his next question, “Alright, level with me. Why are you helping me out?”

Castiel squints at him, his leg shifts under the table and bumps against Dean’s knee.

“I looked into your file. You’re one of the good ones. Not to cause offense, but half of Chicago’s coppers are paying their rent with bribes.”

Dean’s eyebrows raise at that, “My files? How’d you get your paws on that?”

Castiel glances down at the table, drinking out of his cup in a slow, hesitant motion.

“Like I said, I have… connections-”

“Yeah, yeah. It’s top secret. Didn’t think you’d actually tell me, figured I’d try though,” Dean says, huffing a sigh as he sits back. “So what’s your next step? Other than lurking around my crime scenes?”

Castiel rolls his eyes, “Tomorrow I’m going to revisit the tunnels surrounding where the first two agents were murdered.”

“Wait a minute, you can’t go walking around down there on your own,” Dean says, his heart skipping a beat. His hand itches to grab onto Castiel, but he stops himself at the last second.

“I am perfectly capable of handling myself, Dean,” Castiel says defensively, crossing his arms.

“You just said not to underestimate these people and now you’re… what? Hoping to stumble into their den of operations alone?” Dean asks, glaring at him.

“I don’t see how my wellbeing is any of your concern.”

“It will be if I have to file another stack of paperwork when your corpse is found,” Dean snaps.

Castiel raises his hands in exasperation. “Then what do you suppose I do, Dean?” His voice is tight with irritation, “Wait for the calvary? I have a job to do.”

“I’ll go with you,” Dean blurts out.

Castiel’s glare slips, replaced by something unreadable. Castiel’s eyes drag across Dean’s face, searching. Dean shifts in his seat under the sudden scrutiny.

Dean watches his adam’s apple bob when he swallows, “What?”

“You heard me, Cas,” Dean says, feeling overly defensive as heat rises up his neck.

Castiel raises an eyebrow at the nickname and continues to study him for a few more tense seconds. Dean forces himself to meet his gaze, daring him to object. Several emotions flash in Castiel’s expression, none of which Dean can decipher.

“Fine.” Castiel finally says, dropping his eyes to his coffee. A strange mix of relief and loss washes over Dean at no longer being under that steel-blue gaze.

“Fine?”

“Fine.” Castiel grits out.

Dean nods, feeling inexplicably pleased with himself. Some of the tension drops from Dean’s shoulders as he speaks.

“Alright then, here,” Dean snags a napkin out of the dispenser and grabs a pen out of his pocket. He scribbles his phone number down in his best handwriting before passing it over to Cas.

“Let me know when you want to meet up.” Cas stares at the paper for a moment before carefully folding it and slipping it into his coat pocket.

In exchange, he offers Dean a business card.

Castiel Novak - Investigative Journalist for The Chicago Tribune.

Underneath, two neat little phone numbers are printed.

“The top one is my office phone. If I don’t answer, try the second one,” Cas says. Dean hums, flipping the card back and forth in his hand.

“Fancy. I don’t think the bureau’s ever bothered with business cards,” Dean huffs a laugh as he slips the paper into his slacks.

“It’s important for people to take me seriously, I suppose a pre-printed piece of paper makes me more trustworthy,” Cas says, a corner of his mouth turning up just slightly.

Warmth blooms in Dean’s chest at the sight, and he does his best to stamp it down.

Dean laughs darkly to himself.

God, he’s in so much trouble.

Chapter Text

Charlie slaps a weighty stack of papers on Dean’s desk, effectively sobering him out of his paperwork-induced daydreams.

Dean jerks back, glaring at her with all the annoyance he can muster while running on four hours of sleep.

“Wakey wakey,” Charlie teases, raising an eyebrow.

Dean sighs heavily, scrubbing his hands over his face as he slumps back into the uncomfortable plastic chair. The glaring lights of the conference room his team has taken over only add to the headache steadily building behind his eyes.

He picks up the top page, apathetically scanning it as he sips his long-gone-cold coffee. The stack of documents looks to be a history of the Chicago subway tunnels that dates back all the way to when they were built fifty years ago or so.

“Thanks,” Dean murmurs, coughing to clear some of the sleep from his voice.

“At least someone appreciates me around here. I give Benny the autopsy report on Mills and all I get is a grunt of acknowledgement,” Charlie says, rolling her eyes as she slumps into the chair across from him.

The long table they’re at is covered in miscellaneous papers and files. Photos and maps scattered everywhere with seemingly no organization. Midday sunlight streams through the half-open blinds of the large meeting room, casting a warm glow on the corkboard that stands a few feet away. Images of the crime scenes and essential details are stung up with possible connections scribbled out in red marker.

The entire room looks ransacked. An honest visual representation of how Dean feels about this case at the moment.

“Anything come of it?” Dean asks as he tiredly flips to the next page in the pile.

“Hm?”

“The autopsy?”

“Oh, no. Nothing new anyway. Cause of death was a severed jugular. She was already dead by the time the rest of the wounds were inflicted,” Charlie says, with an air of calculated neutrality as she picks at her nails.

Dean purses his lips, “that’s…good.”

Charlie nods, shifting in her seat.

“Oh! Something I forgot to mention but it turns out those bullets she was carrying?”

Dean inclines his head toward her to signal for her to continue.

“Silver! She was carrying silver bullets,” Charlie looks at him with widened eyes, shaking her head slightly.

“Silver?” Dean asks, narrowing his eyes.

“Yep, one of the evidence guys pointed it out as they were cataloging everything. So strange.”

Dean rolls his eyes, “because this case wasn’t pretzeled enough.” Those couldn’t have been cheap.

Dean knew as special agents, their salaries had most of the members sitting pretty, at least compared to the rest of downtown. But silver bullets? That just seems superfluous. Dean adds it to the bottom of the list of weird shit in this case that gives him a headache to think about.

Dean picks up a discarded map of the city, setting it up side by side with an older map of the subways. He picks up a discarded pen, crossing out any sections of the tunnels that are no longer in use. Finally, he circles the locations where all three bodies were found.

Sure enough. The manhole right next to Jody’s corpse leads to an abandoned section of track.

“I knew something was up,” Dean mumbles, sliding the paper over to Charlie and tapping it with his pen. “Look. Right above it.”

Charlie’s brow furrows as she looks over the map. “Damn. Those tunnels go for miles. There’s no way the bureau could ever scrounge up the manpower needed to search them.”

“I know,” Dean groans in defeat, leaning back in his chair. “Me and Benny checked it out last week and it took us four hours to cover only a few miles. It’s impossible to see anything down there.”

They had even split up to cover more ground, thanks to Benny’s insistence and despite Dean’s warnings, and they still found jack squat.

Maybe tonight, he and Cas could find something worthwhile. The investigative journalist- Dean thinks mockingly in his head- had called that morning to let him know when and where he wanted to meet.

Dean glances at the clock. Only eight or so hours left before their appointment. A spike of nervousness pierces his throat as he spins the pen in his fingers. He does his best to convince himself that it’s only because of the possible risks and not about getting to meet up with the infuriating reporter again.

“Hey, what ever came of that tooth at the first scene? Was it either of the victims?” Dean asks, scanning the table for the autopsy report he just saw a minute ago.

Charlie shakes her head. “Unidentified. Didn’t match either of the vics.”

“Damn.” Another dead end. Shaking his head, Dean pushes himself up and wanders over to their crime board.

“What are we not seeing?” Dean mutters, more to himself than anyone else.

Three dead agents, a missing tooth, a missing bullet, and a fuckton of empty tunnels.

Dean can harbor all the suspicion he wants, but they don’t have any actual evidence connecting any of this to the mob. So there’s got to be something he’s missing.

The ceaseless metronome in the back of his mind counts on. Tick-tock. Tick-tock. It’s just a matter of time before someone else gets clipped.

A face pops into mind as he stares at a close-up of Jody’s gun.

“Could you run our crime report databases for anyone named Crowley?” Dean asks, turning to face Charlie, who’s drawing a complicated diagram on the back of one of the maps.

“Last name?”

“Didn’t get it. I spoke with him when we visited the speako. He seemed suspicious…” Dean trails off, looking over Charlie’s shoulder, squinting at the labyrinth of lines filling her page. “What’s that?”

“Access points around the city for the tracks that haven’t been officially sanctioned off,” Charlie says casually, shrugging as though the maze of intersecting paths doesn’t make Dean’s eyes cross just looking at them.

“That’s… a lot,” Dean comments intelligently.

“Oh, they’re all over the city. Check this out, a bunch of them cross right under that speakeasy,” Charlie drops the pen, pointing to a cluster of marks near the edge of the page.

Knuckles rap against the doorframe, dragging Dean’s focus away from the paper and towards where Benny leans on the threshold.

“I’m picking up lunch. You comin’ partner?” Benny asks, tilting his head toward the exit. Dean sighs, they’re not getting anywhere staring at the chaos on the conference table, and he hasn’t eaten since last night.

“Yeah, I’m coming. Charlie?” He offers as he grabs his jacket off the back of the chair he was sitting at.

“Nah, I got something I wanna look into,” Charlie shakes her head, not looking up from the table.

“Let me know if you find anything.”

Charlie only hums distractedly in response.

It’s a nice day outside for once. The doom and gloom of the recent weather had been itching under Dean’s skin in a way he hadn’t realized until unobstructed sunlight hit his face and alleviated the feeling.

It doesn’t take much convincing to get Benny to join him in eating their lunch outside the office for once. They order their food to-go from a local restaurant and find themselves camped out on a bench near the edge of a central community park.

The sky over ahead is a crystal blue, spotted with picturesque white fluff. Disappointingly, Dean can see angry storm clouds in the distance. He doesn’t expect the good weather to hold out for very long. Dean bites the inside of his cheek, fighting off a frown.

Dean watches a man walking his golden retriever pass by. He faintly smiles at the large fluffy dog that seems so characteristically happy.

The first bite of his burger is something of a religious experience. God, he hadn’t realized how hungry he was until the greasy meat, and melted cheese hit his tongue. He side-eyes Benny next to him, eating a similar lunch.

“I thought you hated onions,” Dean says, raising a brow as Benny bites into the burger.

Benny shrugs as he takes another mouthful. “Had a craving for it.”

That’s not what he was saying a few weeks ago when he was complaining from just being in the vicinity of the onion rings Dean had bought. Dean hums noncommittally, focusing on some children playing tag in the grass.

They eat in relative silence, observing pedestrians and enjoying a moment of silence in their otherwise chaotic lives. Birds chirp from the nearby trees while the occasional business man strides past. Dean takes a deep breath, rolling out his shoulders as he takes in the scenery.

“How’s the wife?” Dean asks as he crumples up his empty wrapper.

“Good,” Benny nods, then hesitates and corrects himself. “Well, she’s been worried with the current case. Even from the limited details I’m able to tell her, she’s afraid I’m gonna be bumped next.”

“And let a perfectly good partner go to waste? Like I’d let anything happen to you,” Dean jokes, throwing Benny a side smile.

Benny huffs a laugh around the straw of his drink. “Thanks brotha’, I’ll be sure to pass along the message of confidence. That should soothe her.”

Pigeons have gathered around their bench, searching for scraps they’ve no doubt been conditioned into asking for. Dean takes pity and throws them some cold fries.

“Speaking of partners,” Benny starts. “You have a plus one for the party coming up?”

Dean groans, leaning his elbows on his knees, “I’m not sure I’m even going to go.”

He’s been trying his damndest not to think about the whole event. He should have known he could only avoid the topic for so long.

“You and I both know Bobby would have your hide if you skipped it.”

“I still don’t see how playing house with a bunch of higher ups is a good use of any of our times. I’d rather be working on the damn case, even as frustrating as it is. You know, doing my job,” Dean rolls his eyes.

Some of the most powerful players in Chicago’s law enforcement would be there, and it was mostly a show of face for the papers. An annual get-up that Dean tried so hard to get out of every year, just to get sucked into talking shop with some flatfoot from another department.

“You don’t have some Dame to bring? Might make the night more interesting,” Benny says with a suggestive smirk.

Dean scoffs. “You schmucks see me more than my own apartment does. I don’t exactly have the free time to go steady with someone.”

“Just a suggestion,” Benny shrugs. “We should probably head back before the rain breaks, though.”

Dean glances overhead. The dark clouds that had sat on the horizon are rolling in steadily.

Dean can smell the hint of smoke the second he opens the front door of his apartment.

He wavers halfway through the threshold, his hand still paused where it holds the keys in the lock. He breathes in deeply as his eyes scan the entryway for anything out of place. It makes the hair on the back of his neck stand.

Everything looks fine, everything except for that smell that Dean could place anywhere.

He slowly shuts the door behind him, pocketing his keys and replacing them with the revolver from his holster. He clicks the hammer back as he cautiously makes his way further into the apartment.

The further he goes, the stronger the smell. He passes the bedroom, the bathroom, the living room. All empty. Nothing out of place.

Then he spots it just through the kitchen’s archway.

A skinny beige candlestick sitting on his dining table. The flame burns low as the wax drips from the wick and melds with the wooden slabs.

His breath catches in his throat as his heart speeds up, staring wide-eyed and motionless as the fire burns closer and closer toward the table.

Fumbling with his gun, Dean only has enough foresight to yank the towel off the oven door before grabbing the candlestick and throwing the entire thing in the sink, dousing it with water.

Smoke plumes up from the extinguished wick, smacking him in the face. Dean coughs, flinching backward, white-knuckling the counter’s edge.

Frozen, he can’t look away from the tendrils of smoke rising in the sink. Peeling wallpaper. Groaning wood.

He has a weight in his arms as he races down the stairs.

It’s too hot to breathe, to think.

He’s choking on the air he’s gulping in. His eyes and throat burn like the flames are in him, eating him from the inside out.

He needs to leave, needs to go.

Move. Move. Move.

Move.

There’s fire spilling out the second-floor window of his house. He can still hear screaming coming from within.

What's he supposed to do? How is he supposed to-

The cold tile of the kitchen floor shocks against his palms as he falls. Dean’s frantic eyes rapidly scan the room for any source of danger, but he finds none.

There’s no fire. Nothing’s on fire. No fire. It’s fine. Everything’s fine. It’s fine. Dean promises himself as he presses his forehead into his knees. The handles of his cabinet dig into his back, but he can hardly feel it.

He doesn’t know when the crying started, but hot tears are running down his neck, seeping into the cotton of his collar. When he hastily rubs them away, his hands tremble so bad he almost misses.

Dean forces himself to take a deep breath despite his lungs burning like there’s not enough air in the room.

It’s okay. Everything’s fine.

Dean pushes himself off the ground on shaky legs, clinging to the counter as he rights himself.

Out of the corner of his eye, he spots something else on the table. It takes a few seconds for him to stand on his own. He takes another deep breath closing his eyes. When he opens them, he purposely doesn’t look at the sink.

On the dining table, in front of the circle of cool wax, sits an envelope. It takes three tries to rip it open and get the small yellowed piece of paper inside.

“Be careful where you wander.
We wouldn’t want brother-dearest to get caught in the crossfire.”

No. Not Sam. Not Sammy. He can’t-

No.

Dean drops the paper, scrambling to the living room as fast as his legs will let him. He’s panicking. He knows he’s panicking. And he can’t do a damn thing about it.

The fact that he dials Sam’s number correctly is a minor miracle. It makes no difference, though, as Dean waits on the dial tone with bated breath. It rings. And rings. And rings.

Then the line goes dead altogether.

“Fuck!” Dean swears as he slams the phone back on the hooks. Dean backs away from the phone stand, hands running through his hair.

Okay, this is fine. It’s- Dean checks his watch- it’s five o’clock now. Sam’s probably still at the office, being the known workaholic that he is.

Dean’s feet are moving before another thought can form.

The race downstairs and the taxi ride to the law firm all glaze over. He can barely hear the driver ask for the address over the heartbeat in his ears. Faces blend outside the cab window, and every blare of a car horn makes Dean flinch.

If they did something to Sam, if those murders somehow got to his brother his blood would be on Dean’s hands. He should've seen this coming. The suspects were already targeting agents. Of course they wouldn’t hesitate to go after his family.

His mind produces a horrible image of Sam’s empty sightless eyes staring back at him just like Ash’s had. And Nick. And Jody. Everyone he’s failed taunts him as Dean’s hands dig into the cloth seat beneath him.

It takes too long to pull up to the skyscraper. Too damn long. And by the time the tin can rolls to a stop, Dean’s bones feel ready to shake out his skin.

He gives the driver too much change before shakily yanking open the car door, falling into the crowd of people rushing home from work. He shoulders through the packed street to reach the long, windowed front doors.

A blast of warmth hits Dean as he enters, scanning the lobby.

He’s heading for the elevators when the receptionist's voice stops him, “Can I help you?”

He clenches a fist, glaring at her, “I need to speak to Sam Winchester.”

“It’s past office hours, can I make you an appointment for a later date?” She asks amicably.

“It’s important, he’s my brother,” Dean says, barely controlled hysteria edging his voice.

“I’m sorry, I can’t-”

“For fuck’s sake-”

“Dean?” A voice calls from a few yards away. Dean’s head snaps toward it. Sam stands right outside of the elevators, confusion marring his features. Dean’s breath is knocked out of him by the amount of relief that floods his system.

“Sammy?” Dean rushes toward him. He’s never been one for hugs, but he doesn’t hesitate to wrap his arms around his little brother. “Thank god you’re okay.”

“Dean?” Sam asks, his voice confused but returning the embrace nevertheless. “What’s wrong? What’s going on?”

God, it’s good to hear his voice, Dean thinks dazedly.

He pats Sam’s back a few times before reluctantly pulling away. His heart’s still in his throat, but it’s slowing down.

“I'm working this case, and there was a note on my table a-and a candle in the kitchen. And I had to make sure you were alright- I had to make sure, Sam. God-” It’s almost pathetic how quickly his thoughts get derailed, how easily the panic seeps back in as he reimagines his kitchen. Dean’s eyes dart around the lobby, his hand tugging at his hair.

“Woah, slow down. Take a breath,” Sam looks around them. He’s still gripping Dean’s shoulder. “Come on, let’s go back up to my office. We can talk there.”

Sam leads him back through the office building, taking him to the third floor and past a hallway of empty rooms. Dean takes a deep breath as Sam shuts the windowed door behind them, drawing the small set of blinds on it.

The room looks unchanged from the last time Dean was here.

A sturdy walnut desk in front of a windowed wall. Books line the remaining sides, and two leather couches face each other in the middle of the office. A dull warm glow fills the room when Sam leans over the desk to flick on the lamp.

“Dean?” Sam prompts when Dean spends too long staring at the view out the windows.

“Right,” Dean clears his throat, sitting on one of the couches as Sam takes the one across from him. “Um, I’m sure you’ve heard about the subway murders?”

Sam nods, lips downturned.

“Well-” Dean launches into the past few weeks' events, catching Sam up to speed on most of what led to the threat on his kitchen table.

He doesn’t talk about catching Cas in the alley or their meeting at the dinner. And he certainly doesn’t tell Sam about the hysterics he broke into on his kitchen floor an hour ago. Although Dean thinks maybe Sam knows about the latter anyway by the way Dean’s voice shakes and he stops meeting his eyes.

They sit silently for a beat after Dean’s finished talking, Sam staring a hole into the side of Dean’s head and Dean looking anywhere else but his brother.

“Wow, that’s… heavy,” Sam says finally, running a hand down his face.

Dean huffs a dry laugh, “You’re telling me. My team and I have been running in circles for weeks trying to catch the psychos who decided to turn the bureau into pawns for their own personal chess game from hell.”

Sam gives him a conflicted look, “And you? How are you holding up?”

Dean leans back, leveling Sam with an unimpressed glare, “Everything’s aces, Sam. Never better, really. Well, that was until my place was broken into, and I got your death threat.”

Sam sighs, his shoulders hunching, so his broad frame looks impossibly smaller. “You’re staying with me tonight,” Sam says, picking up his briefcase and standing from the couch.

“Oh, am I?” Dean asks with a raised brow as he follows Sam out of the office.

Sam glances over his shoulder, meeting Dean’s eyes with an expression that leaves no room for argument, “Your place is obviously no longer safe. So yes, you are.”

“You can stay as long as you need. The couch is all yours,” Sam says as they walk through the front door of his apartment.

“How generous of you.” Dean rolls his eyes as he follows Sam in. He almost means it, but Sam doesn’t need to know that.

Sam’s apartment is more homely than his own. Which maybe says more about Dean than Sam considering the countless hours his brother spends at the office. Like said office, his home hasn’t changed much since Dean was here a few months ago. Maybe a little messier since Sam wasn’t expecting a guest.

Sam disappears into the kitchen while Dean shrugs out of his jacket, leaving his holster in place. Just in case.

Sam reappears with two beers, the caps already popped off. He passes one to Dean as a silent peace offering. Dean doesn’t hesitate to take it.

They agree on Dean calling a locksmith tomorrow since most places are already closed at this hour. Dean will crash on Sam’s couch while the locks are replaced.

And maybe a few more are added.

Maybe a few more firearms as well.

Dean takes over making dinner while Sam serves as his begrudging assistant.

“Those are definitely overcooked,” Sam says, eyeing the chicken in the skillet suspiciously.

Dean scoffs as he rolls his eyes, “I don’t take instructions from the kid who spent two months eating nothing but peanut butter and cereal sandwiches.”

“I was thirteen.”

“No way. How do you think I felt spending our weekly allowance on nothing but wheaties and three loaves of bread. I could never eat peanut butter again after that.”

Sam laughs brightly, the kind that has him throwing his head back and makes creases pop up near his eyes. It reminds Dean of when they were younger, more than the memory does.

“All I mean is-”

“Nu-uh, you lost cooking privileges when you almost set the motel on fire making tea,” Dean interrupts, shoving Sam away from the stove, hiding the smile on his face.

“I wanted to make you feel better! What else is a kid to do when his older brother has the flu?” Sam’s eyes morph into something sadder, “You really worried me that time, you know? You always seemed so bulletproof to me, and there you were, coughing out your lungs like you were drowning on land.”

Dean stares resolutely at the cast iron, pushing the contents around with the spatula to have something to do with his hands. Sam sighs beside him, and Dean can tell his brow is furrowed by the tone.

“Look, I’m sorry, Dean. For the way we left things.”

Dean swallows thickly, gripping the spatula tighter. “Me too, Sammy.”

“I just- Dad always knows how to get my every last nerve-”

“I know, kid. Trust me, I do.” Dean says, shaking his head.

Dean’s transported back to when they were younger, and he’d have to reassure Sam that ‘Dad’ll be home in a few days, I promise. He’ll come back’. Because, back then, Dad had to. He had to come home. There was no other option for Dean.

“So we’re all good?” Sam asks unsurely.

“Yeah, we’re good,” Dean says, finally glancing up to meet Sam’s eyes.

Sam frowns, hesitates, then nods stiffly before clearing his throat.

“Good,” Sam says, nodding to himself, “good.”

The chicken turns out to be fine and not overcooked at all.

“Take that, Samantha.”

They spend the rest of the afternoon eating and catching up. It’s nice to get lost in comfortable banter with someone Dean knows so well after spending such a long time only talking about work with colleague friends.

But he can’t help how his thoughts drift back to his apartment. To the candle and the note. The scene is like a magnet in his brain, everytime he tries to focus on something else it’s there, pulling him back and making him relive the memories.

How did they find out where he lives? How did they find out about Sam? Dean hasn’t spoken to him since before the case started so he has no idea where they’re getting all this information on his personal life. The candle was too on the head to be a coincidence. Dean can count on one hand the number of people he’s told about the accident.

“Dean?”

“Yeah?”

“You were saying about Charlie?”

“Right-” And Dean’s immersed in the conversation once again.

As it grows darker outside, inevitably, Dean finds himself edging toward the front door again, pocketing his keys and wallet as he goes.

“I have to go take care of… a work thing,” Dean explains as Sam’s curious eyes follow him though the room.

Sam gives him a disapproving look. “Dean, I know you take your job seriously but after all the shit you went through today… you’re gonna run yourself ragged. Just take a rain check, do it tomorrow.”

“I-” It’s a tempting offer, to say the least. Exhaustion clings to Dean's eyes and shoulders from today’s episode. He knows if he were to lay down right now, he’d be out like a light.

But then Dean thinks about Cas stumbling upon god-knows-what in those tunnels, alone, with no one to back him up, “I can’t. Someone’s waiting on me.”

“Oh?” Sam’s eyebrows raise, and he fails to hide the mischievous smirk replacing his concern.

“No,” Dean says, frowning and pointing a finger at Sam, “Don’t start. I know that tone. It’s not like that.”

“What’s like then, Dean? Hm?” Sam asks, looking way too pleased with himself.

“Shut up,” Dean says maturely. He shrugs on his leather jacket. “Don’t wait up on me.”

Cas meets him at the mouth of the entrance to the abandoned tracks. Dean almost doesn’t see him as he approaches, Cas’ dark silhouette blending into the dirty, worn brick behind him.

“You’re late,” Cas says gruffly. Dean can barely make out how his eyes squint disapprovingly in the low light.

“Walked from my brother’s place. Miscalculated the distance,” Dean shrugs, digging out a flashlight and clicking it on. He keeps it pointed at the ground, but the glow lights up the edge of Cas’ fluffy black hair and the sharp edges of his cheekbones.

“Your brother’s?” Cas asks, tilting his head slightly.

“Ah-” Dean hesitates, scratching the back of his neck, “Long story short, I got a threat in my apartment and since I don’t trust the locks too much right now, I’m staying with him.”

Cas tenses beside him but the look he sends him is soft and understanding, “I’m sorry, Dean.”

Dean waves him off with an air of false confidence, “It’s fine now. Comes with the territory, you know?”

The look Cas pins him with makes Dean feel uncomfortably exposed. Like one wrong move and Cas would be able to see right through him and understand how shaken he was by this afternoon. It’s a ridiculous thought for a guy he just met, but Dean shifts in place anyway.

“Well, let’s shake a leg. This place definitely smells like mold and getting asthma wasn’t on my to-do list today,” Dean says, desperate for anything to make Cas look away.

Cas hesitates before producing a flashlight of his own, “Did you want to split up-”

“No,” Dean says too quickly. He can feel Cas’ gaze on the side of his face. “Let’s stick together, we don’t know what’s down here.”

Cas nods, and Dean feels some of the tension in his posture fall off.

After everything he’s had to deal with today, Dean’s nerves feel like a live wire just waiting for anything remotely conductive to come into contact with them, and send him into spontaneous combustion.

No, Dean thinks, he’d much rather have Cas within his sights tonight.

Bits of broken glass and the occasional stray rebar crunch underneath Dean’s boots as the pair clears the tunnels at a painstaking pace. The absolute darkness of the abandoned subways is unlikely anywhere else in the city where light pollution glows even in the dead of night.

Dean tries his best not to focus on the pitch black that presses against their backs.

It’d be so easy to get lost down here, to wander these empty halls for hours without finding an exit. Dean grips the map he swiped from the bureau tighter, glancing at the watch on his wrist compulsively.

The first leg of their investigation retraces the areas Dean already searched when he came down here with Benny. Expectedly, there’s nothing of interest. Just debris, dust, and that perpetual layer of moisture that clings to everything down here.

The only thing not adding to the tightness building between his shoulders is the reassuring rhythm of Cas’ soft breathing next to him, his steady footsteps falling in line with Dean’s.

If he listens too closely, the echoes of their footsteps sound like they’re being followed, but Dean’s checked behind them enough times to know it’s just his thinly frayed paranoia playing tricks on him.

Eventually, they stumble onto the tunnels Benny cased, but Dean has no expectations of the next hour being any more enlightening than the last. Miles of brick walls and broken concrete blend together in his mind.

Endless walking, endless footsteps, endless shuffling.

He’s butting up against the end of his patience when they take what feels like their 20th right turn. “I don’t think we’re going to find anything,” Dean mumbles, his voice too loud in the relative quiet. He drags a hand down his face, unsuccessfully trying to rub the exhaustion from his eyes.

Cas’ arm flies out, stopping Dean in his tracks.

“Look,” Cas whispers, squinting in the distance. Dean follows where his flashlight beam shines. Just at the end of it, where it begins to fade into the darkness, Dean can make out the corner of something metal glinting back at them.

What in the- They cautiously edge closer.

An oversized rusty dark green door creeps into the edge of their lights.

A yellow water-damaged ‘High Voltage’ warning label is peeling in the middle of it.

It’s imposing, ominous, and practically screams tetanus. It’s a bad omen if Dean’s ever seen one, and he just knows something unsavory waits from them on the other side.

A small part of his brain supplies the fact that this was within the field Benny supposedly cleared. But it’s so dark down here it would be easy to miss if you were distracted.

Cas breaks that train of thought by unceremoniously reaching for the handle. He yanks on it, and the metal groans but doesn’t budge.

“It’s locked,” Cas says, his eyebrows furrowing. Because, of course, it’s fucking locked.

“Well, I don’t think kicking it in would work,” Dean mumbles, eyeing the heavy industrial-grade hinges.

Cas rolls his eyes, “You agents have no finesse.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

By way of answer, Cas roots around in his pocket before pulling out two thin metal sticks. He crouches by the door, prodding at the tiny keyhole.

“You… you know how to pick locks?” Dean asks, more dumbfounded and impressed than he probably should be. Since this is probably illegal, and Cas is just a journalist, for fucks sake. He really shouldn’t be condoning this but-

But the way Cas’ eyes narrow in concentration and his deft fingers confidently pick the pins is more attractive than Dean can honestly justify. And from this angle, Dean can unabashedly admire how Cas’ trenchcoat wraps around his broad shoulders and how the lines of his neck enticingly disappear beneath his popped collar.

Alright, so his sleep-deprived brain may have some conflict of interest. Sue him.

Cas looks good in a way that’s effortless. Dean can tell he doesn’t have to try, he just is. He looks good the same way a gun looks sleek or a dagger looks dangerous. If he reached out and brushed Cas’ jaw it’d probably cut his finger like a dagger too.

Jesus, Dean needs to get some sleep.

There’s a soft final click, and when Cas tries the handle this time, the door swings open with stunted ease. Cas holds out an arm, eyebrows raised with an overly pleased expression.

Dean rolls his eyes, swiftly ruling in his expression, “I’m partnering with a damn criminal.”

“A useful criminal,” Cas adds.

Dean glares at him then glances past the door. It leads to a winding staircase, each step darker and darker until he can’t see where it leads.

“Oh great, let’s go further down. Because this layer of hell wasn’t hot enough,” Dean retorts, begrudgingly beginning the descent.

He unclips his revolver from his shoulder holster, cocking back the hammer and balancing his aim over the hand holding his flashlight.

If Dean were to fire in this narrow passageway, chances are the bullet would ricochet but it’s a chance he favors over walking down blindly and unarmed.

Cas follows close on his heels. The heavy metal door shuts behind them with a solid thud. A building sense of claustrophobia tightens in his chest. Dean’s heart pounds in his ears for the umpteenth time today, his eyes wide and scanning for any threats as they descend into the darkness.

The smell of mildew grows stronger the lower they go. Somewhere out of sight, Dean hears the slow drip of water on concrete. The stairs wrap around themselves, twisting every few steps in a contorted, dizzying shape that has him nauseous after a few flights.

They open up to a hallway that goes both directions. A singular lightbulb hangs from the ceiling every two hundred feet or so. Just enough light not to trip on the rough patches in the concrete but large expanses of darkness lurk between the fixtures.

“Where are we?” Cas asks behind him, his voice low and cautious. Dean shakes his head.

“I have no idea, I didn’t see this in any of the maps we pulled.” The realization makes goosebumps crawl up Dean’s arms. If something happens to them down here, there’s a high likelihood no one would ever find them.

“Last call to go back up and live to see another day,” Dean offers, half joking, half hoping Cas will take him up on it. Stepping down from the last stair, a wall of rot and decay hits Dean’s nose so suddenly he has to choke down a gag.

Dean buries his nose against his arm, breathing through his mouth, “Somebody forgot to pay the janitor.”

Cas huffs in annoyance as he takes the lead. “Are you always this flippant in serious situations?”

Dean rolls his eyes, falling in step behind him. “Are you always such a bluenose?”

Cas shoots him an annoyed look over his shoulder. “Generally, yes.”

As they walk, they pass a mound of… goop? Dean pauses, shifting the grip on his gun and leaning towards it for a better look. Some kind of mucus or slime?

Bits of what definitely look like hair and flesh but that- that can be true.

What Dean knows for sure, though, is that it seems to be the source of the horrid smell that hangs in the air down here. Dean scrunches up his nose, toeing it with his boot, and immediately wanting to vomit when it sticks to his shoe and stretches.

“What the fuck?” Dean’s voice is torn somewhere between confusion and disgust. Cas looks over, his expression quickly matching Dean’s.

“I don’t think we want to know.”

Dean shakes his head, scraping his boot against the floor in a futile effort to clean it. The hallway branches off into several other ones in a similar fashion to the subway tunnels above.

“We shouldn’t wander too far. If we get lost in this rat maze we won’t be able to find our way out,” Dean warns, eyeing the endless halls warily.

They’re paused at the first intersection when Dean first hears it, bumping Cas’ arm to get his attention. Distantly the sound of voices echoes off the walls. Cas meets Dean’s eyes, a look of understanding passing between them. From this close, Dean can see how Cas’ adam’s apple bobs uneasily.

“This way,” Dean whispers, waving Cas toward the left hall.

“You think I’m happy in this current meatsuit-” A displeased voice breaks through the silence.

Dean stops abruptly with Cas right behind him. Both of them press into one of the shadows between the overhead bulbs, clicking off their flashlights. The cold, damp wall digs into his back and skull. It’s a bold contrast to the warmth that bleeds into Dean’s arm from where his and Cas’ shoulders are pressed together.

“-stuck with? Spending all my time keeping them off our backs?” The voice feels unsettlingly familiar, but Dean can’t place it.

“It was you who couldn’t control yourself in the first place! Now this place is constantly crawling with gumshoes.” A second man says, his voice is gritty and loaming.

“Alright, that’s enough, boys.” The third voice is a woman’s. There’s a velvety casualness to it that sets Dean on edge. “This constant bickering is why we can never get anything done. How’s your surveillance going?”

The man with the rough voice replies, “He reacted how we thought, ran right to his brother. Everything is going to plan.”

Dean’s blood runs cold, and his next intake of breath is harsh and uneven. Cas’s hand grips his arm, grounding him. Dean’s been watched, followed, this entire time. How had he not noticed?

His mind wanders back to the paranoid homeless man they interviewed. Is it really paranoia if you’re right?

“Perfect. Update the others. It’s time for the next step.” The others? There’s more of these fuckers?

The familiar voice laughs darkly, “Soon. Soon, they will see.”

A metal chair screeches against the concrete floor, and suddenly three sets of footsteps are heading in their direction.

Shit, shit, shit.

Dean backpedals, his back hitting Cas’s chest, desperately motioning for Castiel to move. Scrambling for cover, they rush into an offshoot hallway, pressing against the wall once again, hidden in the shadows.

Dean’s breathing sounds too loud, even above the panicked ringing in his ears. He sends a frenzied prayer to whatever higher power there is for the killers to go in the opposite direction as the footsteps grow nearer.

Three silhouettes come into view. There are two larger male frames and one female, but Dean can’t make any details outside of that.

Keep walking, Dean silently pleads.

The two men continue on their straight path away from Dean and Cas.

Yes.

The woman, however, takes a sharp turn in their direction.

Goddammit.

The two others disappear from sight as the women’s heels grow louder. Dean silently passes his gun into Cas’ palm as he leans off the wall.

Dean counts down in his head as the woman approaches. If this is going to end smoothly, this needs to be quiet and fast.

The woman’s bright ginger curls flow around her as she walks, a tight purple dress clinging to her frame. She looks ready to attend a formal event, not to venture around in some musty underground tunnels.

The woman steps into the shadows they’re hiding in, and Dean lets his training and instinct take over.

He comes up behind her, one hand shooting to cover her mouth while he kicks her knees out from under her. His forearm catches her by the neck as she falls with a muffled gasp, clamping down on her mouth to keep her from warning the others. She writhes against him, elbows and fists punching and clawing at him.

Dean inhales sharply as her nails dig into his skin, drawing blood. One of her elbows jabs right between his ribs and he just barely stiffles a groan. He hears a faint fizzling and distantly notices the burning smell coming from her skin where his ring and watch touch her.

Squeezing tighter, Dean counts the seconds in his head as her grip on his arm grows slacker.

When she goes limp completely, he lowers her body to the ground, pulling her feet into the shadows with him as he retreats back against the wall. He hesitantly checks her pulse. It’s still going strong. They have maybe a few minutes before she’s awake again.

“Did you hear something?” A voice calls from where the two men disappeared.

Dean freezes. He can feel Cas go rigid from where Dean’s back is pressed against his leg.

There’s nowhere else for him and Cas to go. The men are currently blocking the way they entered, and if the men get any closer, their incapacitated partner will be obvious. Dean and Cas will be caught, and who knows what these murderers are capable of.

Dean feels Cas’ hand reach out and grip the back of his neck right where it meets his shoulder. His spiraling thoughts momentarily shortcircuit.

A painstakingly weighted silence passes before someone hums, and the footsteps continue away from them.

Dean lets out the breath he was holding.

His head falls back against the wall in a soundless thud.

Chapter Text

It’s an early Tuesday morning, early enough that the sun hasn’t dried up the dew on the grass yet, and the last night's chill still hangs in the wind. Dean’s on his usual route to work when it happens. The cup of joe he picked up five minutes prior staves off the cold that blows through the narrow crowded streets.

His eyes focused on the sidewalk in front of him, he’s so lost in thought he doesn’t notice the woman until his shoulder collides with hers, sending her books and purse flying. He only narrowly avoids covering the both of them in scalding hot coffee.

“Sorry! Sorry,” Dean exclaims, crouching to help her pick up her scattered belongings.

“No, pardon me. I’m so sorry. I’m always so clumsy,” the woman says, reaching for a stack of papers Dean extends toward her.

She has clipped blonde hair and a sharp smile that doesn’t quite meet her eyes. Something about the expression puts Dean on edge but his desire to apologize outweighs his wariness.

“I’m Meg. Meg Masters,” the woman says with a grin, offering a gloved hand out.

Dean shakes it, politely returning the smile, “Dean Winchester.” She’s dressed in her Sunday best; a black and white polka-dot dress that flares at her knees.

“Oh, I know,” she says.

Dean’s smile falls slightly. “Excuse me?”

“Dean Winchester? The FBI agent working on the Subway Killer case? Your face was on the front cover of today’s paper,” she says, her eyebrow raising and smiling widening, “Never thought I’d run into such a celebrity. Literally.”

She laughs at her own joke, and Dean forces a strained chuckle in response.

“The paper, huh? Which one?” Dean asks in a casual tone, scratching the back of his neck.

“The Chicago Tribune. Oh! I think I actually still have a copy.” Meg doesn’t wait for a response as she rummages through her purse, pulls out a rolled bundle, and hands it to Dean.

Sure enough, his face is front and center on the first page underneath the all-caps headline: ‘Chicago FBI Investigating Mysterious Subway Deaths.’

The picture off to the side is from the night of the first murders. It’s a close-up of Dean’s face in the tunnel, his face lit by the glow of his flashlight while he and Charlie stare at the bullet casing in her palm that’s just out of frame.

Underneath it, a small caption states: ‘Special Agent Dean Winchester investigates deaths of two fellow agents.’

It’s not like his profession is a well-kept secret, but there’s a difference between the occasional witness or victim knowing his name and having his face plastered all around the city in connection to the case.

The paper crinkles in his hands as anger floods through his veins.

When was this picture even taken? How have so many details been flying under his radar recently? It’s the worst kind of chess and he always seems to be three steps behind his opponent. His grasp on his control of the case feels like sand slipping through his fingers.

“It’s a nice picture, really brings out your eyes,” Meg giggles, utterly unaware of his internal panic, looking at him with a suggestive smirk. “Definitely got my attention from the rack.”

Dean gives her a humorless laugh, struggling to meet her eyes. The back of his neck prickles, and he glances over his shoulder.

“Yeah, funny that. Um, do you mind if I keep this?” Dean gestures toward her with the paper.
What else has he missed? What is he not seeing?

“Sure, you of all people deserve a copy,” she agrees quickly. “Actually, I was thinking maybe-”

“Listen, um, Meg. I have to go take care of something, but uh, it was nice meeting you,” Dean interrupts, already rolling up the paper and backing away.

“Oh, ah, okay?” Meg says, looking confused and slightly hurt over the sudden shift in Dean’s demeanor. “I’ll see you around, maybe?”

Dean nods hastily, cracking a final stiff smile before darting back into the crowd on the street, a particular destination and person in mind.

“What the fuck is this?” Dean asks, slamming the newspaper on Castiel’s desk. The man’s cup of coffee rattles against its coaster. It wasn’t hard to find him. A flash of Dean’s badge and the receptionist practically lead him to Castiel’s workspace.

Castiel startles, jerking up from where he’s hunched over a stack of papers, his eyes wide and alarmed. For half a second, Dean almost feels guilty before he’s quickly blinded by his anger once more.

“Are you trying to put a target on my back?” Dean seethes, gesturing at the page.

Castiel’s face morphs into one of offense as he recovers from his initial shock. He snatches the paper up, glaring at it.

“I didn’t write this.”

Dean scoffs. “So it’s just a coincidence that the second I meet up with a reporter for the Chicago tribune my name gets printed on their front cover?”

Castiel stands abruptly, his eyes cold and scowling. “First of all, I’m not a reporter. Secondly, I don’t even know who wrote this story!”

Dean sneers at him, crossing his arms.

Other people around the office have started to take notice. Several employees have stopped their conversations to instead watch the commotion unfold. Castiel must notice this at the same time because he’s only hesitating briefly before roughly pulling them aside into an empty meeting room.

Castilel’s hand grips Dean’s shoulder as they walk, his fingers digging into the muscle. It burns and bruises, and a small voice in Dean’s head almost wishes for it to get physical. A fistfight he would know how to handle. It would also hurt a lot less than this whirling tide of betrayal too.

“Listen. To. Me,” Castiel says, his voice ribbed with irritation and urgency as he slams the door behind them. “I did not write this. We can ask my publishing manager, I’m sure he’ll know.”

Cas shakes Dean at the end of each sentence, emphasizing his words. Up this close, Dean can see the tiny lines near the edges of his eyes and the aggressive downturn of the corner of his lips.

“If it wasn’t you, then who took this picture? I know you were at the scene of the first crime! A buddy of yours just happen to have the same idea?”

Castiel scoffs, finally stepping out of Dean's space and raising his hands in the air. “I could barely see anything that night, let alone take pictures. This was obviously taken a lot closer than I ever got that night.”

“Obviously,” Dean grunts unbelievingly.

“I don’t know what you want me to say Dean! What could you possibly think I have to gain from something like this?” Cas growls.

Dean shakes his head angrily, “A paycheck? Isn’t that your whole job? Writing whatever sells the fastest.”

“Is that what you think of me? That I would throw away our entire collaboration for a good headline?”

“I don’t know what to think anymore, Cas! This whole godforsaken case has flipped my world upside down, and I don’t know who I can trust anymore,” Dean yells. Cas glances toward the door, and Dean’s abruptly reminded that the rest of the office can probably hear their whole conversation. Dean feels like he’s going to be sick.

They stare at each other tensely, both waiting for the other to back down and look away first. The seconds drag out before Castiel sighs and squeezes his eyes shut.

His shoulders slump as he pinches the bridge of his nose.

“Just… just let me talk to my supervisor and I’ll figure out who wrote this. There’s little I can do to change the fact that it’s already been published but maybe we can stop this from escalating any further.”

And Cas sounds so weary, so tired when he says it that it has the fight seeping out Dean as well.

He’s always been quick to anger and reluctant to release it, a habit he unwillingly picked up from his father. But something about the words Cas says that seem so earnest and pleading- like he genuinely cares that Dean believes him- that he has a hard time keeping a grip on the flames that were fueling him moments prior.

“I just had my place broken into, man. I can’t afford this- this kind of attention,” Dean says defeatedly, leaning against the closest wall.

He thinks about the note. The look on Sammy’s face as Dean explained the danger he could be in. He thinks about the dead agents and Charlie and Benny. And there are just so many people in his life that could get dragged under with him. If something happened to them… Dean wouldn’t be able to live with himself.

He’s dealt with his share of attacks from criminals. Leading the Al Capone case made sure of that. But this is the first time it’s felt personal. As though the murderers could see into his head and predict his next move.

It was disturbingly exposing in a way Dean hadn’t thought possible before.

And now, with his face pasted on the front cover of the best-selling newspaper in this filthy apple. Well… Dean isn’t sitting pretty at the moment, to say the least.

“I know,” Cas says, understanding washing away any residual anger on his features, “I know. Let me talk to some of my people, and I’ll see what I can do.”

Cas’ hand lands on Dean’s shoulder again, more carefully than before, and this time he finds that the touch grounds him a little.

The one-eighty in the man’s tone gives Dean whiplash. When he came storming in here, he had expected more yelling, denial, and maybe a few well-aimed insults from Cas. Most of which he didn't receive.

He feels raw from guilt at how easily Cas deescalated the argument.

God, he’s such a dick sometimes. Everything’s spiraling out of control, and leave it to Dean to take it out on one of the few allies he has in the situation. I’m sorry, he so desperately wants to say, but every time he tries, the words get stuck in his throat.

Cas seems to pause before pulling a pen and notepad out of his pocket, scribbling something down before tearing off a page. “Here, this is- this is my address. We can meet tonight and talk more about the case and anything I find out today.”

Dean takes the paper from Cas’s offering hand, looking at it with some suspicion.

“This isn’t your way of luring me somewhere private to finish me off is it?” Dean asks while squinting, only half joking.

Cas rolls his eyes, “If I had any plans to do that, I already would have. I just… don’t trust our phone lines to be very secure. Someone is clearly targeting you.”

Dean nods, biting his lip as he folds the page, “Right. Well… see you tonight I guess.”

“Goodbye, Dean,” Cas says, with one more meaningful look and a final nod before shutting the door behind him. Leaving Dean standing in the empty, dimly lit meeting room to rack his brain for what just happened.

He arrives at the office painfully late but no one mentions it. In fact, most of his coworkers have started avoiding him like he has the plague, like just talking to him might put them on the ice block next. He thinks of the threat left on his table and decides maybe they’re not entirely wrong.

He slinks off to the breakroom, pouring a poorly made cup of joe and toasting some stale bread to substitute a missed breakfast.

He recognizes the sound of Charlie’s heels approaching before she even rounds the corner.

“Where were you this morning? I looked everywhere for you,” She asks, leaning on the counter next to him.

“It’s complicated,” Dean grumbles, stirring the beverage in his hand with a spoon.

“Oh?” Charlie asks, raising an eyebrow and clearly intrigued, “What happened? Did you have a hard time kicking out a babe? Oh, let me guess, you saved a kitten from a burning building? I know! You were so hungover you dropped your keys in a grate.” Charlie wiggles her eyebrows conspiringly.

Dean levels her with an unimpressed look, “Wow, how did you know?”

“Which one?”

“All of them,” Dean deadpans, rolling his eyes.

Charlie pouts, her shoulders slumping, “I’m your best friend, you’re legally obligated to give me the details.”

Dean sighs, taking a long sip from his mug. “Did you have something to tell me or did you just come in here to pester me?”

Charlie perks up at the reminder.

“I found something,” Charlie says in a singsong voice, leaning in. “You know that speako we visited? Well, I went back yesterday and I was talking to… a source. Apparently, something’s up with the customers, like regulars going missing and shit.”

Dean’s brows furrow, “And you heard this from…?”

“A friend,” Charlie says hesitantly, eyes shifting away.

“Right,” Dean says suspiciously. “Well, missing person reports are hardly our specialty. Your friend have anything more concrete to go off of?”

“I did get the name of a possible informant,” Charlie says, bouncing on the balls of her feet.

“Why didn’t you lead with that?”

Charlie narrows her eyes before speaking. “Her name’s Missouri. She lives on the outskirts of town. I don’t know what kind of info she has, but apparently, her name gets tossed around a lot in relation to the subways.”

Dean rubs a hand over his face as he takes in the new information. “I’ll grab Benny and we can visit her tomor-”

“What’s this?”

Charlie plucks his hand out of the air, yanking up his sleeve before Dean can stop her. Angry red scratch marks trail up his forearm from where the woman had tried to escape his grasp last night.

Any hopes of subtly bringing up the tunnels he and Cas found are promptly thrown out the window.

“Um,” Dean stalls, well aware of how this looks.

“Dean,” Charlie starts, a warning in her voice.

There’s a fine line to walk between keeping Cas anonymous and impeding the investigation. Unfortunately, it’s one Dean finds himself stumbling over with the grace of a newborn giraffe.

“I might have searched the tunnels last night and ran into these people that I was trying to eavesdrop on and things kind of went to shit so-”

“Dean!” Charlie cuts him off, no doubt alerting the rest of the office of her distress in the process. “Are you okay? What were you thinking? I can’t believe you would go down there all alone!”

Dean clutches onto the only counterargument he can form. “I wasn’t alone.”

Charlie is taken aback, hesitating before asking, “Then… who were you with?”

“I can’t say.”

Charlie scoffs, “Okay, yeah. That’s not suspicious at all.”

Dean glares at her, “What are you talking about? You have your sources, I have mine.”

“There’s a difference between a source and someone you’re taking along with you on investigations!” Charlie objects, “At least tell me they aren’t a civilian.”

Dean drops his gaze to the linoleum beneath them, unable to meet her eyes.

“Oh my god,” Charlie mumbles, rubbing her face.

“It’s fine, I have everything handled,” Dean insists.

“Yeah, I’m sure you do. That’s why you were attacked, because everything was so under control.” Charlie scoffs, faltering before continuing in a wounded tone, “Don’t you trust me?”

“Of course, Charlie. But it’s not about me. Not really,” Dean sighs.

Hurt flashes through her eyes, and her voice is clipped when she speaks next, “Well, let me know if there’s any other secrets you feel like sharing with the class. I’ll be in the archive room.”

“Charlie…” Dean weakly calls after her as she leaves.

She pretends not to hear him.

When he heads out of Sam’s apartment, it’s late enough that the streetlights have turned on. This only deepens the knowing look Sam shoots him on his way out the door. Dean refuses to read into it and instead maturely flips Sam off for meddling.

Cas’ place is a surprisingly close distance away. He’s unsure what he expected, but it wasn’t… this.

The address leads to a narrow two-story brick townhouse squished between another similar housing unit and what looks to be a multi-level bank. It almost gives a suburban impression. Warm light glows out of the windows, and the small flower bed next to the front door is well-watered.

From their interactions so far, Cas has seemed analytical and calculated. Maybe even standoffish. But Dean’ll be damned, the place looks downright homey.

It takes him a few more minutes than he’s willing to admit to gather the nerve to knock on the light blue painted door.

Cas answers only moments later, standing in a gray button-down with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. His waistcoat follows the straight lines of his stomach and hips before disappearing into trousers that fit a little too well to be legal. The leather of his shoulder holster wraps around both arms, pressing flat against the muscles there.

Dean’s breath catches in his throat, the cogs in his brain grinding to stuttering halt as he takes in the sight before him.

“Hello, Dean.”

“Uh, hi…” Dean replies very smoothly.

“Come in.” Cas steps out of the way, holding the door open for him.

The warmth of the interior wraps around him as he enters, the smell of spices and wood polish filling his nose. Dean shrugs off his overcoat, politely toeing off his shoes by the other two pairs that lie by the entrance.

“Here,” Cas prompts, holding out his hand for Dean’s coat. He hangs it on the hooks next to the trenchcoat he seems so fond of. Something stirs in Dean’s stomach.

Cas silently leads him into the apartment, turning into the living room. A plush, worn brown couch sits in the middle of the room, facing a few bookcases and a large wooden radio. Plants of various shapes and sizes cover much of the available floor space.

“Let me grab my research. Make yourself at home,” Cas says before disappearing into a door down the hall.

Dean sighs as he steps further into the room, setting down some manilla files on the coffee table and falling onto the couch against a throw pillow. A half-read book sits upside down on the armrest opposite of him. Dean smiles.

He observes the room, taking in the picture frames and vases between books on the selves. His brow quirks up when his gaze lands on a porcelain figure of a kneeled praying angel.

Cas returns several minutes later, explaining his absence with two coffee cups in hand. Dean thanks him as he takes one. The warm mug fights off where the frigid wind had bitten at his fingers.

“So,” Cas starts, sitting down next to him. He doesn’t meet Dean’s eyes when he speaks. “I spoke with Gabriel- my publisher- and he doesn’t know how the paper even got printed. Apparently he had an entirely different story approved for today, so finding out who wrote it out of the question.”

Dean’s brows furrow, “What are you talking about? How does he not know who’s writing for his own newspaper?”

Cas shrugs, but his eyes are pained, “In his words: he would never have sent it though because he doesn’t need a bunch of ‘brunos from the FBI’ making his life a ‘paperwork hell’.”

To emphasize his point, Cas mimics- honest to god- air quotes. Despite the severity of the news, Dean still has to choke back a snort.

“And we can trust this ‘Gabriel’ because…?” Dean asks with a raised brow. Cas looks reluctant to respond, chewing the inside of his cheek and fixating his eyes on the coffee table.

“He’s an honest man. He worked me out of a tight spot before when no one else was there for me,” Cas finally looks up, his blue stare hard and unwavering, “I’d trust him with my life.”

And with a look like that who was Dean to argue.

“So we’re back to square one, is what you’re saying? Your entire thing this morning was just a trip for biscuits?” Dean asks, slumping back into the couch and rubbing his forehead.

“I mean,” Dean continues, throwing his hand up, “What was even the point of the story? Just to get on my nerves?”

“Or to frame me,” Cas suggests quietly.

Dean jerks his head toward Cas, “What-”

“Think about it. Whoever printed it knew you would see the story, our papers are all over the city. So with the information you were working with, of course you thought it was the one contact you have with The Tribune,” Cas explains, glaring at the coffee table as though he could find the answers if he stared hard enough. “If someone didn’t like us working together on the case… publishing an exposing story would be a quickfire way to make us not trust each other.”

Dean blinks, staring blankly at Cas. If that was their goal, they would have to know how Dean would react. They would have to know he’d start a fight about it.

Cas was the only part of the equation that didn’t go to plan. Cas and his inexplicable ability to talk Dean down from the ledge he had been on this morning.

“I haven’t told anyone I’m working with you,” Dean counters. Cas looks surprised, then pleased. The latter of the two makes Dean’s chest tighten.

Then his face darkens, his nostrils flaring briefly. “You wouldn’t of had to if you were being followed.”

Dean already thought of that and he had his suspicions from the start. But it doesn’t make hearing it out loud any easier. Dean rakes a hand through his hair, disheveling it and pulling at it slightly. The next breath he exhales is strained and tired.

“I think-” Dean hesitates. He doesn’t want to say it. Saying it makes it real, but he has to. Has to get this off his chest before it swells and crushes him entirely. “I think someone in the bureau is involved.”

If Cas is surprised at this declaration, he hides it well. Cas takes a long, slow sip of his coffee. The silence eats away at Dean, clawing at his chest and throat like he spewed acid into the air instead of words.

To suspect one of his own people is traitorous. It’s wrong and twisted to think so lowly of the agents he’s supposed to trust with his life. The department’s done nothing but welcome him with open arms all those years ago-

“I agree.” Cas finally says, setting his cup down a little too forcefully.

Dean’s left reeling. “You what?”

“I said, I agree.” Cas looks at him then, his eyes earnest and full of determination.

Cas looks at him like he'd thought that all along and was just waiting on Dean to bring it up first.

“I know why I think so but why do you?” Dean asks, suddenly feeling defensive.

Cas sighs heavily, his shoulders slumping.

“I had my suspicions since the first two murders. Who would two FBI agents willingly follow into an underground tunnel without raising an alarm? Who do you encounter daily that would know the inner workings of your life? Your schedule? Your family?” Cas says it like it’s obvious.

His words burn against Dean’s skin, wrapping and tightening around his throat till he feels light-headed. Dean distantly wishes to go home. To take a hot shower with clanky pipes and lay down in his bed that he took for granted one too many times. Now he can’t even do that.

“Dean.” Cas lays a hand on his arm, and Dean flinches out of his thoughts. “You couldn’t have known.”

Lies. Dean thinks bitterly, scowling at the floor.

He clears his throat, shoving the pain into a neat little box for him to open later when there are less important things to deal with.

“We don’t even know if that’s true yet,” Cas says, clearly trying to soothe him. It's not working.

“So we investigate further. We scope these assholes out and shut down Murder Inc. before anyone else gets hurt,” Dean says, snatching up a file with more force than necessary.

Cas shakes his head, pressing his lips together. “I’m not sure how much help I can provide. Investigating federal officers is above my pay grade.”

Dean raises a brow, “You looked into me before we started working together.”

Cas levels him with an unimpressed look.

“I pulled a favor. Something I won’t be able to replicate again.”

Dean rolls his eyes, shoving a different file into Cas’ hands. “There’s a holiday party in a few days. You could come with and keep an eye out for anyone acting suspicious?”

It’s a thinly veiled excuse at best. Does Dean want some company for the most boring event of the year? Yes. Is it convenient timing it lines up with this investigation? Obviously. Does Cas need to know either of these things? Absolutely not.

“It won’t raise suspicion? You attending with someone from the paper?” Cas questions, tilting his head to the side. Dean purses his lips together, fighting off a grin.

“The killers already know we’re working together, everyone else isn’t a concern. As long as you don’t show up with a camera around your neck they’ll let you in,” Dean says, smirking.

“I’ll try my best to remember,” Cas deadpans, flipping open a file.

They fall into companionable silence as the night progresses. Dean alternates between cups of joe that aren’t quite strong enough and carefully documented witness testimonies collected by Cas.

It’s an impressive stockpile of information for someone not officially involved in the case. Each piece of evidence is organized and recorded with care. Cas’ uppercase handwriting is a little scribbly but still perfectly legible.

Unfortunately, the acute attention to detail still doesn’t further their investigation. Most of Cas’ evidence is in the form of statements, but just when Dean thinks he’s found a lead, some other part of the connection unravels.

On more than one occasion, someone’s alibi overlaps, people reportedly being in multiple places at once. The fragility and error of eyewitness accounts never fails to disappoint him.

Somewhere along the way, they shift to the floor to use the couch as additional surface area. Cas gets up periodically to grab a book or two from the shelves, marking the pages with annotations and bookmarks.

The radio got turned on at some point, and now smooth jazz quietly drifts through the air soothingly. Unfortunately, it’s doing nothing to ward off the sudden weight of his eyelids.

He doesn’t know how long he sits there before a waitress’ recounting of a suspicious character starts to blur in front of him, the lines of text smearing together like wet ink.

Across from him, Dean can see Cas’ head lazily propped up on his fist. His other hand loosely holds a pencil that threatens to fall from his grip any moment now. Cas’ head jerks forward, and he catches himself at the last second before his nose smashes into the coffee table.

Cas sucks in a sudden breath, dropping the pencil and rubbing his face instead. His face scrunches up as he tries to blink the sleep from his eyes, and Dean tiredly admits to himself that it’s kinda cute.

“I think I’m gonna call it a night,” Cas announces, leaning back against the couch. Dean stares at him momentarily as his brain catches up to the words.

“Hm? Oh, yeah-” Dean drops the papers he was holding on the couch cushion. “Yeah, me too.” Dean tries his best to shake the sleep out of his system, dreading the walk home.

“I should head out,” Dean mumbles, sorting through the papers to gather the ones he brought over.

“What? Don’t be daft, it’s two in the morning. You can sleep here,” Cas protests, his brow furrowing.

Dean glances at the paperwork nightmare that’s become the couch. Books, folders, and photos are scattered all over and they’ll have to organize them before moving anything if they hope to make sense of it tomorrow. Dean groans at the thought, stretching out his legs from where they were crossed beneath him.

“I’ll just sleep on the floor,” Dean says, dropping his head back against the couch, feeling paper crinkle underneath it.

“You’ll regret it tomorrow when your neck solidifies like that,” Cas warns seriously.

Dean snorts, his eyes already falling shut, “I fail to see how that’s my current self’s problem.”

“My bed is big enough to share. If you don’t mind, that is.”

Dean’s heart forgets how to do its thing for a few seconds.

He stays perfectly still, clearing his throat before he speaks, “I don’t know…” Cas huffs an exasperated sigh, and Dean can hear the coffee table creak when he stands.

“Come,” Cas says, grabbing Dean’s wrist. “Your back will thank me.” Dean reluctantly opens his eyes, glaring at Cas as he towers over Dean.

Begrudgingly, Dean lets Cas pull him to his feet. He doesn’t want to read into this, doesn’t want to overthink it. So he just stops thinking altogether, blindly following Cas up the stairs they passed earlier.

There are two other closed doors they don’t enter, but Dean doesn’t pay them much mind. He stumbles through the short carpeted hall, trusting Cas not to let him run into any furniture while his eyes drift open and shut.

The bedroom is small but just as cozy as the rest of the house. A queen-sized bed sits in the middle of the room welcomingly.

“Bathroom’s through there.” Cas points to an adjoined door that’s partially ajar. Dean hums sleepily, already popping the top button of his collar and unclasping the holster that sits against his hip. Cas searches through his dresser before producing a change of clothes.

“So you don’t have to sleep in a dress shirt,” Cas explains, extending the clothes.

Dean smiles weakly at him, disappearing into the bathroom. The loose cotton is a preferred change to the restrictive clothes he’s been in all day. Not to mention as the collar of the shirt goes over his head, the strong scent of laundry soap and Cas hits his nose.

When Dean reenters the bedroom, Cas is already changed into a pair of pajama pants and slipping under the covers. Dean hesitates at the edge of the bed, a wave of panic threatening to override his residual fatigue.

“Are you planning on standing there all night?” Cas grumbles, his back turned.

Dean sighs to himself before joining. His brain is already on its way out before his head hits the pillow.

For the first time in a long time, Dean doesn’t wake with a start.

He comes to slowly and peacefully, his limbs heavy in that comforting way that only comes with a good night’s rest. The warmth and softness of his surroundings seep into his consciousness at a sedated pace.

Sheets are wrapped around his shoulders, and the mattress gives easily underneath him. Dean sighs contently, sinking further into the sensation. Only then does he notice the smooth skin under his hand and the rising and falling of the chest his head is resting on.

His eyes spring open, suddenly very awake and very aware of the body he’s half lying on top of.

Cas’ right arm is wrapped around him, his hand resting loosely on Dean’s waist. Somewhere in the night, their legs had gotten tangled together so complicatedly Dean’s not sure where his limbs end and Cas’ begin.

His heart pounds in his chest so hard Dean’s sure the sound of it will wake Cas.

His first reaction is to flee, very far, very fast. Before Cas really does wake up and starts swinging at Dean for invading his personal space like this.

But a smaller but more desperate part of him refuses to move a muscle. It’s been so long since he’s laid with someone like this that the chemicals in his brain are currently losing their shit at the amount of skin contact going on at the moment.

Subconsciously, Dean nuzzles further into Cas’ collarbone, breathing in the comforting scent that lingers there. Dean can feel his eyes drooping already, the temptation of sleep fogging his mind and close to pulling him under again.

Cas suddenly inhales deeply, making a noise in the back of his throat, the arm around Dean’s waist tightening momentarily.

Dean freezes on the spot, the loose warmth that had settled in his muscles now replaced by frigid panic. Cas mumbles something under his breath, shifting marginally toward Dean before going lax again.

Dean waits, paralyzed, as Cas’ breath slowly evens out once more. The seconds tick by, and- Murphy’s law be damned- Cas actually falls back asleep.

Dean slumps down in relief, relaxing half on Cas’ chest, half on the mattress.

The warmth from the sunlight pouring through the cracked blinds behind him heats his back. He vaguely feels like a spoiled cat, stretched out and basking in the sun during an afternoon nap.

In this little pocket of time, Dean can almost forget about the rest of the city that’s undoubtedly already hustling beneath them. He can forget the case, the killers, and the stress. In this moment, there’s only Dean and Cas and the heady domestic atmosphere that floats around them, settling down on him like a long-lost safety blanket.

He hums, sighs, then shifts closer despite there already being no space between them, relishing in the body heat Cas radiates.

Then reality catches up with him, as it often does, and Cas yawns beneath him, extending his free arm out as he stretches.

This time Dean’s sense of self-preservation wins out, a frantic wave of fear and panic crashing over him as he scrambles away.

On par with the rest of the luck he’s experienced up until this point, his legs get tangled in the sheets as he frantically tries to put more distance between them. The next thing he knows, he’s losing his balance, and his ass is landing on the hardwood floors hard.

“Son of a bitch-” Dean grumbles, now uncomfortably sprawled on the floor and freezing.

Cas’ head pops up over the edge of the bed, his eyebrows furrowed but the corner of his lips quirking up. His black hair is sticking in every direction, and there’s a refreshed glow to how his skin reflects the morning light. The image does weird things to Dean’s heart.

“Trouble?” Cas asks, a teasing lilt to his rumbling voice that’s thick from sleep. The sound most definitely does not do weird things to other parts of Dean. He blinks up at Cas owlishly, trying to find any reasonable excuse for taking a swan dive off the mattress.

“Uh, morning pushups?” Dean asks more than says, plastering on an unsure grin. Cas pauses as he lets the words soak in before throwing his head back, laughter filling the small room.

Beautiful. The word slips into Dean’s mind before he can stop it. The sound is so contagious and unguarded that Dean can’t help how he joins in despite himself.

“I was wondering how you stayed so fit,” Cas says after briefly collecting himself.

Heat rushes to Dean’s cheeks uncontrollably as he averts his gaze to the floor. Is that-? That sounded dangerously close to flirting… No it’s definitely just Dean projecting onto the poor guy.

“You can’t tell anyone. I need to uphold my effortless reputation,” Dean jokes, trying to seem less affected than he is.

Cas just smirks and winks, “I’m good at secrets.”

Dean laughs nervously to cover up the uncomfortable static feeling thrashing around in his stomach.

It must be a priming effect of some kind, because being underground makes Dean’s nerves recoil under his skin. He’s taken this subway route countless times, but now every shuffle of the overhead handles has Dean looking over his shoulder. When the wheels of the car rattle, Dean has to force down a flinch.

Cas is pushed into Dean’s shoulder by someone rushing past, abruptly reminding Dean of his proximity that he never truly forgot. Cas has traded out his uniform of multiple unnecessary layers for a plain white button-up. It stretches around his broad shoulders in a way that has Dean’s throat going dry.

The top two buttons are popped open, exposing the edges of sharp collarbones and smooth skin that is unreasonably tanned for mid-autumn. Get it together, Dean berates himself.

He looks away before he gets caught.

He’s refused to meet the other man’s eyes since this morning’s incident, and he’s spent every second since waiting for the other foot to drop and for Cas to become aware of what happened while he was asleep.

The subway car is packed, uncomfortably so. The air is hot and sticky, and Dean can’t get a clear shot of most of what’s happening around him, let alone any possible danger. He tries his hardest to fight off the nauseating blend of paranoia and claustrophobia that threaten to choke him.

The cart jerks sideways as the brakes slow the contraption down before stopping it completely. Just five more stops, Dean tells himself, five more stops, and they can walk the rest of the way. The doors open, and people flow in and out.

When Cas steps out of the way of an older lady and behind Dean, he tries his best not to focus on the occasional huff of breath he can feel on his neck. Or the subsequent goosebumps that follow the sensation.

The doors snap shut, and the car rolls forward, jostling Dean backward, his back bumping into Cas’s chest. Is he closer than he needs to be? It feels like he’s closer than he needs to be.

A gentle hand grips Dean’s hip to steady him, and Dean can feel the heat radiating from Cas’ palm through the fabric of his shirt. This- of course- swiftly sends Dean’s thoughts and heart rate into overdrive. He will forever be grateful that Cas can’t see how his face flushes up a bright red.

He should be taking this trip with Benny, he tells himself. He doesn’t know what came over him this morning when he insisted on dragging Cas along with him for this interview. It’s not that he doesn’t trust his partner. He’s known the guy for years, for crying out loud.

But Cas is the middle ground Dean feels himself gravitating toward. Dean trusts him enough to work the case, but Cas doesn’t know enough about Dean to be a suspect in the recent attacks.
There’s that line Dean’s supposed to be walking, between Cas and the case. He can’t help but feel like he’s somehow failing it.

And god, Dean doesn’t even want to think about how much paperwork he would have to do if someone found out. The number of protocols he’s breaking by bringing Cas with him are probably enough to have his badge suspended and fuck his entire career six ways to Sunday. Dean dimly thinks if legality was truly a battle he wanted to pick, he probably should’ve done so sooner.

An agonizing fifteen-minute crawl by as Dean waits for the sign to pass by the windows announcing their stop. When it finally happens, Dean does not bolt toward the exit, and he will refute any claims that state otherwise till the day he’s six feet under.

Missouri’s house is… eclectic, to put it nicely. It’s an old farmstyle home on the city's edge, far from its neighbors.

The porch stairs creak as they walk over them. Several windchimes hang from the rafters, rattling an out-of-toon cacophony that grates against Dean’s ears. Plants cover most of the painted floor, their leaves and vines trailing in the cracks and gaps in the wood. A termite-worn bench sits off the side, the faded green paint peeling and chipped.

Dean casts a look over at Cas when he stops beside him, meeting his eyes with a confused frown. Cas raises an eyebrow questioningly. Dean tilts his head toward the windchimes skeptically, raising his hand to knock.

The door opens before his knuckles even touch the wood. A skeptical middle-aged black woman in a dark purple cardigan stands behind it.

Dean shifts back, swallowing his surprise and replacing it with an easy smile.

“Hello, Ms. Missouri?” Dean asks.

The woman looks between him and Cas suspiciously. “Can I help you?” Her southern accent smooths over her vowels and catches Dean off guard.

“Ah,” Dean fumbles, “I’m special agent Dean Winchester.”

He hesitates before gesturing toward Cas, “This is my partner special agent Castiel Novak. We were informed you might have some information about a case we’re working on and would like to ask you some questions.”

Dean can feel Cas’ gaze on the side of his face, but he keeps his trained on Missouri, gauging her reaction.

Her eyes flit between the two of them, her expression incredulous. For a brief moment, Dean thinks she'll tell them to go back to whatever corporate office they crawled out of, but then she steps back, gesturing inward.

“I suppose,” she says, narrowing her eyes. Dean inclines his head toward her in thanks and guides Cas inside with a hand on his lower back.

“Would you like some coffee or tea?” Missouri offers, shutting the door behind them. Both men shake their heads.

“Thank you for the offer, but we’re alright,” Dean says, putting on his best manners. He’s learned that older folk tend to warm up to him quicker when he does.

Missouri shrugs as she leads them toward the living room, “Suit yourselves.”

The interior of her house is unexpected but somehow mirrors the outside of it.

Everything is worn and used but in a homely way as opposed to neglected. Most of the furniture is chipped around the edges but well-dusted and cared for. Knick knacks and memorabilia cover every inch of surface area on the shelves and tables. Old photos, herbs, glass bottles, tattered books.

Every item seems- on its own- random but comes together to give an air of ‘other.’ It’s not unwelcoming, but Dean’s struck with the sudden feeling of being out of his depth.

The term 'Witchcraft' comes to mind unprompted, and Dean immediately feels ridiculous for it.

As he shakes his head to himself, Cas leans over, his lips almost brushing Dean’s ear when he speaks, “Special agent?”

“Less complicated than the truth,” Dean whispers back with a shrug.

“And if she asked for a badge?”

“I have a spare one I could have slipped you.”

“A spare one-?” Cas looks at him in mild disbelief, “Dean."

Dean smirks and sends a casual wink over his shoulder as he catches up, filling the gap where they fell behind.

“How can I help you gentlemen?” Missouri asks as she relaxes on the loveseat across from the sofa, motioning for them to sit. Cas glances around the room, expression unreadable.

Dean sits on the side closest to the woman, pressing his hands together, trying to soothe himself against the unsettling atmosphere. Cas follows suit and, despite the available space, drops down so closely that their thighs press together.

“We were told you have information pertaining to the case we’re working on; the abandoned subway murders,” Dean explains, leaning forward on his knees.

Missouri meets his gaze cautiously, “I might, but it’s up to you if you want to accept the help.”

Dean nods reassuringly, “Any information is helpful, no matter how insignificant it might seem.”

The woman huffs a dry laugh, “That’s not what I meant, boy.” Dean’s shoulders tighten at the condescending title, gritting his teeth as he tries to curb his expression into a neutral one.

“I meant,” Missouri continues, “I can tell you all the information you want but it’s your choice if you want to believe me and use it or foolishly discard it.”

Yes, that’s typically how this works. Dean thinks heatedly.

“What do you know?” Cas steps in before Dean can say something brash.

Missouri levels him with an appraising look as if just noticing him. She leans back in her seat, crossing her legs and tilting her head.

“Every mother warns her children of the things that lurk in the dark,” She starts.

Dean almost walks out then and there just on principle.

“The monster in the closet, the strangers on the street. We were all told stories of what happens if we stray too far from the school yard.”

Is there anything this woman says that isn’t a riddle?

Dean tries not to think about how he never got those warnings. He barely remembers his mother’s stories, and his father sure as hell didn’t care where Dean went. It was always watch out for Sam, look after Sam, take care of Sam. As long as Dean did that, he was free to walk into the lion’s den to his heart’s content.

“What if I told you that they weren’t just stories?” Missouri asks, raising her eyebrows expectantly.

“I’d say you’re full of shit.”

“Dean,” Cas grits out, reaching to squeeze Dean’s knee beratingly.

What? Dean mouths silently, glaring at him. Cas gives him a hard, reprimanding stare before refocusing his attention on the crazy lady.

“Please continue,” Cas says, each word carefully measured.

Despite Dean’s outburst, the woman has a satisfied smirk on her lips, like she’s aware of something they’re not.

“You’re working on the case, so I’m sure they’re coming after you,” Missouri says, carefully considering Dean. “Have you noticed the killers know too much? Maybe personal details you’ve only shared with close friends? Have you noticed the feeling of being watched? But when you look around there’s nothing there.”

“What’s your point?” Dean bites, long past pleasantries.

“My point is monsters, boy. There are monsters in those tunnels and I don’t mean the human kind,” she says.

Dean stands abruptly, “Let’s go, Cas. This is a waste of time.” Dean grips Cas’ arm, leading him back toward the path they came.

They’re halfway to the front door when Missouri calls out. “It’s in the eyes.”

Dean freezes in his spot, heart pounding, but not turning around.

She must notice because she continues, “That’s how you’ll know. They might look like your friends, your family, but their eyes glint silver. That’s their tell.”

Dean’s fingers flex where they still grasp Cas’ bicep. He stares unfocused at the floorboards while his mind reels. It’s just a coincidence. This means nothing. It’s not true.

“Dean?” Cas asks softly, snapping him out of his thoughts. Dean’s wide eyes meet Cas’. He sucks in an unsteady breath.

“Let’s go,” Dean repeats weakly, no louder than a whisper this time. Cas nods, wordlessly leading them out of the eerie old house.

Dean doesn’t look back.

Chapter Text

To say that it was unfortunate how quickly his night devolved would be an understatement. His day had actually been going pretty great. He’d even managed to convince himself that the party that evening would be less of a disaster than normal.

It's almost impressive, how wrong he had been.

Dean’s awoken by Sam’s ungodly loud snoring, which on its own would generally warrant annoyance, as it had every other day that week. But the grating sound only served as a reminder that tomorrow Dean’s apartment would be outfitted with new locks, and very soon, he would be able to sleep in till whenever-the-fuck-he-wants o’clock for the first time in what seemed like an eternity.

Which is great news, almost as much for Sam as it is for Dean because if he had had to do this routine for another week, god knows he would’ve throttled his brother in his sleep.

Dean groans, stretching into the stiff and too-small couch beneath him. Looking over at the clock that hangs over the radio, Dean’s surprised to realize he actually got in four hours of sleep.

That accomplishment alone would be worth celebrating with a beer for breakfast, but he resists that tempting slippery slope. He actually has things to do today, thank you very much.

It’s the first actual day off in a while, and he plans to take advantage of it to its fullest extent before he gets sucked into playing nice with a bunch of skeevy politicians tonight.

-

Charlie’s apartment is nestled three blocks down from the Bureau. A location Dean would be jealous of if not for someone in the area getting stabbed once a week.

Crime rate aside, the street at least looks nice in the daylight. Like he’s more likely to get coerced into raising a family of four than trying the newest strain of dope. Funny how looks can be deceiving like that.

Three flights of stairs and a noncommittal wave to a passing neighbor later, Dean’s knocking on her door. He manages to keep his nervous fidgeting to a minimum as he steps back, waiting. A woman opens the door, but not the one he was expecting.

The bartender from the speako stands in only her undergarments, her blonde hair disheveled and a grumpy just-woke-up frown on her face.

Well, shit.

“Um…” Dean says, mouth opening and closing, but no words come out.

The bartender- Jane? Jo?- narrows her eyes. “Who are you?”

Dean pulls back, eyebrows furrowing, “Excuse me?”

“Charlie!” Jo calls out, never taking her eyes off him.

“Yeah?” Dean hears Charlie ask before she appears in the doorway. “Oh..”

Dean snorts. “Yeah, ‘oh’.”

Charlie clears her throat, looking between the two of them, her eyes widening,
“Could you give us a minute?” Jo seems suspicious but nods anyway, disappearing back into the apartment.

“What’s up?” Charlie asks, leaning her hip on the doorway, her expression curious but closed off. About what Dean expected from their last conversation.

Dean holds out one of the two to-go cups in his hands, “Apology coffee, for being a dick. I even got it from your favorite joint on the other end of town.”

“Are you trying to buy your way back into my good graces?” Charlie asks with a squint but accepts the drink anyway.

“Depends, is it working?” Charlie takes a long sip from the cup, purposefully taking her time. Dean raises his eyebrows expectantly once she swallows. Charlie sighs, falling a step back into the apartment.

“Apology accepted,” Charlie says, only somewhat begrudgingly, but Dean will take what he can get.

He follows her inside, catching a glance of Jo on the couch now with the addition of slightly more clothes. Behind her are several bookshelves lining the walls of the living room, all lined with comic books. Somehow they seem fuller than the last time Dean was here.

“So the bartender, huh?”

Charlie at least has the grace to look embarrassed.

Jo, on the other hand, immediately looks more suspicious. “Do I know you?”

Dean raises an eyebrow while crossing his arms the best he can with a cup of joe still in his hand. “You don’t remember? Last time you saw me you pulled a shotgun on me.”

“Oh, you’re that palooka that almost started a bar fight.”

Dean scoffs.

“I was hardly the one who started it.”

“Anyway,” Charlie interrupts before things can escalate, “Jo this is Dean, my coworker slash best friend. Dean this Jo, my… friend.”

“Your friend?”

“Yes?” Charlie says, giving Dean an unsure look.

“Do friends typically hang out with each other in nightgowns?”

“It’s a girl thing.”

“I’m not stupid, Charlie," Dean deadpans.

Charlie looks slightly panicked at this, shifting her weight and suddenly unable to meet his eyes.

“Don’t- It’s not.. I don’t-”

Dean steps closer, hand on her shoulder, effectively cutting off whatever excuses she had prepared.

“Come on, Red. It’s alright. I get it,” Dean says as softly as he can muster, desperate to soothe his best friend’s worries. Charlie looks even more conflicted, though.

“You get it?”

“Yes,” Dean says, refusing to elaborate further. One, two, three seconds pass.

“Oh… oh.” There it is. Dean nods, looking only slightly exasperated.

“So.. your source you’ve been working with?”

Wait-

“No. That’s not-” Now it’s Dean’s turn to panic because this conversation is going in a direction he didn’t plan on confronting today. “It’s strictly professional. You’re just projecting at this point.”

Charlie gets a shit-eating grin on her face, the same one she gets when she connects two pieces of evidence in a case. “What’s his name?”

“No, Charlie. I didn’t tell you before and I’m certainly not telling you now,” Dean says, glowering at her.

She pouts, looking up at him through her eyelashes, “But-”

“Why am I here again? I suddenly can’t remember. Goodbye.”

“Wait!” Charlie shouts, grabbing his arm, “I’m sorry, don’t go.” Dean sighs, tilting his head toward the ceiling before glaring at her.

Charlie chews on her bottom lip, thinking something over before she speaks, “Does anyone else know?”

“Just Benny,” Dean says, quickly continuing when he sees the hurt look on her face, “And that’s only because the bozo walked in on me and a witness necking in a broom closet last year.”

Charlie snorts, her hand covering her mouth. “Never one for subtlety.”

“Not my strong suit, no.”

His brain unhelpfully tacks on what Cas said the other day; You agents have no finesse. Which is unfortunate because now all he can think of is the smug look on his face when the door swung open. And even though it had been infuriating at the time, Dean would be lying if he said it wasn't a good look on the other man.

Now if he could go thirty minutes without thinking about Cas, that would be splendid.

“So what’s he look like?” Charlie tries again. Dean kind of wants to strangle her.

“Why? So you can look it up in the database?”

“I would never-” Dean glares at her. “Okay maybe I would but I won’t this time! I promise.”

Dean lets out a long-suffering sigh. The things he does for friendship.

“He has black hair, blue eyes and is a little shorter than me.”

Charlie doesn’t look satisfied. “Okay but what color are his eyes really?”

Dean glares at her. This definitely feels like a trap.

“Bright blue? They’re so light that sometimes when the sun hits them they look like they’re glowing,” Dean says, still feeling highly suspicious.

“You are the worst person at describing things. You know that?”

And at this point, Dean just has a point to prove.

“He has a permanent five o’clock shadow that brings out his jawline, and he always wears this stupid tan trench coat that would look ugly on anyone else, but he somehow makes it work. And when he doesn’t understand something, he does this head tilt thing that kind of looks like a bird, but it’s kind of endearing, and god, his shoulders-” Dean realizes he’s fucked up when he sees the glint in Charlie’s eyes, and he promptly snaps his mouth shut.

“I hate you.”

“Aw, don’t be like that,” Charlie says, still grinning wildly, “It’s cute when you gush about him.”

“I was not gushing.”

“I haven’t seen your eyes light up like that since Bobby bought you that aged whiskey for your birthday five years ago.”

“I hope you’re aware that I’m wearing iron right now,” Dean threatens, but Charlie just smiles harder.

“I’m leaving. Honestly this time. Enjoy your coffee, chuckle head.”

“See you tonight!” Charlie calls after him, not sounding sorry at all.

-

“When do I get to meet her?”

“Huh?” Dean squints at Sam from where he sits on the couch, equal parts confusion and suspicion. Sam rolls his eyes.

“The girl you keep sneaking out to meet almost every night?” Sam asks, his eyebrows raised expectantly.

Dean chokes on his beer before he can swallow.

“What-” Dean coughs, smacking his chest, “No, I’m not-”

Sam looks pleased with himself at Dean’s flustered reaction, and Dean can already tell the little jerk isn’t going to be letting this go.

“I’m not meeting up with anyone,” Dean tries again, a warning edge to his voice, “I go to this same stupid party every year.”

Sam scoffs as he sits down at the dining table, casework spread out in front of him.

“Yeah, but you never get dressed up for it,” Sam says, narrowing his eyes at Dean’s neck, “and you only ever wear that green tie when you’re trying to impress someone.” Heat creeps up Dean’s cheeks uncontrollably, and he finds himself tugging at the fabric.

“Shut up,” Dean argues, glaring at his annoying kid brother, “I do not.” Sam huffs a laugh at Dean’s expense, shuffling through the paperwork before him and typing something out on his typewriter.

“Whatever you say, De,” Sam obliges, and Dean has the sudden urge to smack him upside the head.

“It’s called being professional,” Dean says bitterly, checking the time before gathering his belongings.

“Uh huh,” Sam nods, a satisfied smirk on his lips. Dean snatches his wallet off the table, checking his appearance in the entryway mirror one last time before yanking open the front door.

“Bitch,” Dean says before closing it behind him.

“Jerk!” Sam calls out through the thin wood.

-

Dean swings the taxi by Cas’ place to pick him up. Never let it be said that he’s not a gentleman.

Though when Cas opens his front door, Dean immediately reconsiders his decision. How is he meant to survive an entire car ride with this man, let alone the rest of the night?

Cas’ suit is all black, a wool fedora tipped slightly to the side, and his typical tan trench coat has been exchanged for a similar black variant. Dean tries his best not to stare. He doesn't succeed.

“Dean,” Cas greets in his staple gravelly voice. Dean swallows, pointedly ignoring the weird flip his stomach just did.

“Cas,” Dean replies with as much composure as he can scrounge up.

Charlie’s brainwashing comes back to bite him, and he finds himself trying to see what color Cas’ eyes ‘really’ are. They look a steely gray in this lighting. He hates himself for noticing.

Cas opens the car door for him, and Dean stumbles on his way in, trying to get his nerves in check. The drive to the venue is strained, and Dean spends most of pointedly looking anywhere but the well-dressed man beside him. Not even the slow jazz crackling through the speakers can calm him down when he glances at Cas and sees the moonlight pouring in from the window and reflecting off his cheekbones.

Both relief and dread come over him as the event building comes into view. Spotlights shine up at the thick marble columns holding up the overhanging roof. Most of Chicago’s law enforcement is attending alongside some of the most influential politicians in the city and Dean has no hope that tonight will be an enjoyable one.

Every year the sheer amount of budget that goes into the party surprises him.

When the tin can finally rolls to a halt, someone steps up to open the door before Dean can get to it, giving him a clear view of the red carpet that’s been rolled out and the swarm of bodies and camera flashes lined alongside it.

Dean takes a deep breath, preparing himself, before shooting Cas an unhappy look and stepping out of the vehicle. Several flashes go off at once, and it’s all Dean can do not to grimace toward them.

It's all for the case, Dean tells himself, and because Bobby can be kind of scary when he's mad. But no one needs to know that last bit.

Cas steps out smoothly behind him, laying a hand between Dean’s shoulder blades. Dean’s immediately hyper-fixated on the touch, torn between wanting him to move his hand lower or remove it altogether. He settles for an awkward stiffening of his shoulders and an unsure glance toward the other man.

Cas catches his eye, raising a brow in question. He looks away, scared that he might be able to see the panic warring within him from such a simple gesture.

The inside of the building is no less distressing than the exterior. It’s crowded with bodies dressed in their best attire, the entire lobby buzzing with anticipation and egocentrism. It’s stifling, though no more than it has been every previous year.

Despite being surrounded by people who share similar professions, Dean’s never felt more out of place. He’s almost tempted to grab Cas and hightail it to the nearest empty corner for the entire night, but that would defeat the whole purpose of him being here.

Which is not to be Dean’s entertainment but rather to look for any kinks in Chicago’s armor. Something which, regrettably, involves conversing with others.

Cas lets Dean take the lead as they go around with introductions to various other officers and agents. The crowd is full of highbinders who are notorious for doing more of their work under the table, and just being in their presence makes Dean’s skin crawl a little.

More than once, he gets a suspicious stare when he introduces Cas as his plus one, and more than once, Dean has to restrain the urge of a well-aimed hit to the jaw.

It’s grueling work, but every time Dean’s ready to throw in the towel, Cas shifts closer or brushes against him or claps his shoulder, and suddenly he’s willing to put up with just a little more corporate bullshit. It's selfish. And pathetic, really, how easily he's swayed.

“Winchester!”

Dean turns to see two figures approaching, one significantly happier than the other.

“Milligan, nice to see a familiar face,” Dean says, smiling easily once he recognizes who called for him. Adam approaches, a knowing grin on his face. He pulls Dean into a brief side hug, clapping his back before pulling away.

“Long time no see,” Adam says, still with that wide-eyed innocence about him. Dean hopes against all hope that he gets to keep it.

“We can’t all be handed our cases on a silver platter. Some of us are busy, detective,” Dean teases. It’s been over a year since Dean pulled some groundbreaking evidence on a sourdough operation Adam had been trying to crack. He still owes Dean a favor for that one.

“Winchester,” Zachariah says as he stops beside Adam. The worst part about working with Adam was his partner; a hardass senior detective they stuck him with to show him the ropes but did a piss poor job of it most days.

“Hey, Chuckles,” Dean greets with a self-satisfied smirk. The balding older man glares, eyeing Dean with distaste. Dean’s heard his name thrown around a few times, and there’s no concrete evidence against the guy, but off the record, most of Dean’s coworkers know there are some discrepancies in Zachariah’s file. The atmosphere that follows the guy gives Dean the heebie-jeebies.

Cas clears his throat, glaring at -to Dean’s surprise- Adam and not Zachariah. The hand that has been settled on his shoulder suddenly dips, Cas’ palm pressing into the small of Dean’s back almost possessively. Dean can feel the rush of blood that goes to his cheeks, and he can only hope it’s not as noticeable as he thinks it is.

“Adam, Zach,” Dean says just because he knows how much the nickname bothers Zachariah, “This is Castiel. He’s a pal of mine.”

Adam holds out his hand with an unwavering grin, “Nice to meet you.”

Castiel shakes his hand with only a minimal amount of hesitation, still looking displeased. Zachariah simply nods in Cas’ direction, unsubtly eyeing where Cas’ arm disappears behind Dean’s back. It sends a round of involuntary shivers down Dean’s spine.

They make small talk for a few minutes, but between Zachariah's constant glaring and Cas' clipped responses, the conversation doesn't get very far.

Cas leans over as they walk away, looking very serious, “I don’t like him.”

Dean snorts, glancing at Zachariah’s back and shooting Cas a sympathetic grin, “No one does, Cas.”

Somewhere between the endless shop talk and fake smiles, Dean finds a moment to steal some of the provided food and a relatively quiet corner to hide in. Now that the initial influx of people has calmed down, a lazy saxophone can be heard flowing from hidden speakers.

Between the semi-transparent room divider they’re next to, and Cas’ broad shoulders, Dean is almost entirely blocked from the rest of the guests’ view giving him a faux sense of privacy. His shoulders slump as he takes a moment to collect himself. He’s really not cut out for this kind of networking.

“Notice anyone questionable?” Dean asks, tilting his head back against the wall behind him.

Cas shakes his head, “not yet.”

Dean shrugs, stuffing some kind of biscuit into his mouth and speaking around the food in his cheeks, “bummer.”

Cas rolls his eyes at Dean’s lack of manners.

“You don’t seem very disappointed considering we’ve learned exactly bupkis so far.”

Dean looks over at him, caught up in how Cas’ hair is neatly gelled back, “well, the company’s not too bad.” Cas meets his eyes, a suppressed smirk on his lips.

“I’m partial to mine.”

Dean snorts, hitting Cas’ shoulder, “you’re a dick.”

Cas squints and does his little head tilt thing, “I thought being a detective was your job?” Dean laughs, only letting the cheesy joke slide because Cas looks so good with a genuine smile on.

Something catches his attention out of the corner of his eye, and Dean smirks to himself, leaning close to Cas to whisper, “watch this.”

He points to a woman in a bright red velvet dress, her hand wrapped around the arm of the tall man next to her.

“That’s the Board of Director’s wife, but she’s been having an affair with the Chairhead -the guy across from them- for years.”

The woman laughs at something the Chairhead says, leaning towards him with a hand on her chest.

“How do you know?” Cas whispers back, watching the interaction closely.

Dean huffs a laugh, “we stick our noses in other people’s business for a living, everyone knows. Well, everyone except for the Director, I guess.”

The woman reaches out, touching the Chairman’s bicep, loosening her grip on her husband’s arm. Even from this distance, Dean can see the Director’s neck and face getting redder.

“Why is she still with him?”

“And get a divorce instead? Man, that would make the papers. Maybe you should go ruffle his feathers a bit, you might get a good story out of it,” Dean says, snickering.

Cas turns his head toward him with an unimpressed glare, and only then does Dean realize how close they’ve gotten. Cas’ nose is almost close enough to brush against his, and his next exhale sweeps over Dean’s mouth. Dean’s tongue darts out to wet his lips instinctively, and he almost misses the way Cas’ breath hitches, and his eyes dart down to the movement.

From this close, Dean can smell that same eucalyptus scent he got a whiff of the first night they officially met. It must be his aftershave and Dean finds that he kind of wants to bury himself in it.

What color are Cas’ eyes, really? Well, right now, they’re almost black with how blown out the pupils are.

“What are you two conspiring about?” A female voice asks from only a few feet away.

Dean jolts backward, putting as much space between himself and Cas as possible and looking about as guilty as he really is because of it. Charlie smirks to herself, Benny coming up not too far behind her.

“I’m Charlie, Dean’s best friend in the whole wide world and colleague if you wanna get technical with it,” she introduces, holding out her hand.

“Castiel,” Cas says, shaking it and looking far too composed for Dean’s taste.

“Castiel, huh?” Charlie asks, wiggling her eyebrows at Dean. He makes a vague threat with a finger across his throat which only serves to egg her on.

“This is Benny,” Charlie continues, slinging an arm around Benny’s shoulders, “Dean’s partner in not crime and detective extraordinaire.”

“Hi,” Benny says stiffly, looking significantly less happy to be here than Charlie. And with a menace like her by his side all night, Dean can hardly blame him.

“Say, Castiel, what do you do for work?” Charlie asks with a raised brow.

“Don’t answer that,” Dean intervenes, holding a hand out in front of Cas.

Charlie pouts. “Why do you always have to ruin my fun?”

“Why do you insist on stalking my friends?”

“Because you don’t have many friends and when you do I like to get to know them better.”

“One of these days, I’m going to fill you with daylight,” Dean says with a glare.

“You wouldn’t,” Charlie gasps, a dramatic hand flying to her chest.

“Try me.”

“And you said you’re his best friend?” Cas asks, looking between the two of them, slightly confused.

Charlie gives him her best smile, “One and only.”

“Biggest pain in the neck, more like it,” Dean grumbles.

“You and me both, boss,” Charlie says with a wink, looking dubiously pleased with herself.

“Haven’t I seen you around before?” Benny asks, narrowing his eyes at Cas.

Cas squints right back, lips downturned, “I don’t believe so.”

If Benny remembered their brief encounter at the coffee shop all that time ago, Dean would never hear the end of it, so he swiftly changes the subject, “Hey, Charlie, you find any new comic books recently?”

This sends her into one of her tangents, but it doesn’t stop the look of recognition from flashing across Benny’s face. Benny meets Dean’s gaze, a questioning quirk to his eyebrow, and subtly inclines his head toward Cas. Dean purses his lips together and shrugs.

It’s only there for half a second but a look of disgust flashes across Benny’s face before he reigns it into a neutral one. But it’s too late. Dean already saw it.

He’s so confused he doesn’t feel the wave of betrayal hit him at first. Benny had always been okay with his thing for guys. His surprise is quickly taken over by sadness, then anger. Of all the disapproving looks he’s gotten tonight, Benny was the last person he expected to get one from.

Dean grits his teeth and takes a minuscule step closer to Cas, and Cas automatically puts an arm around his shoulders, still conversing with Charlie. Benny’s eyes follow the movement but reveal nothing this time, and Dean can almost pretend the look never happened. Almost.

His skin prickles, like he’s being watched. Dean scans the crowd, not listening to the conversation Charlie thankfully seems content to carry for all of them combined. A familiar figure suddenly turns his back and ascends the staircase in the center of the venue. A horrible sinking sensation hits his stomach.

“I- I’ll be right back,” Dean says distractedly, squeezing Cas’s arm before stepping away.

“Dean?”

Dean doesn’t hear him as he follows the man up the stairs, away from the crowd, the buzz of conversation falling away the farther he walks.

Dean quietly trails after the figure, sneaking around a corner but checking over his shoulder as he does so. Turning back around, he’s met with the unpleasant sight of a gun barrel aimed at his head.

Fuck.

“You’re too curious for your own good. A shame, really,” Crowley says from a few feet away, arm straight, steady, and pointing a revolver right at him.

“I knew you were up to something,” Dean says, slowly raising his hands. Good luck thinking your way out of this one, Winchester.

“Lot of good that premonition did you, huh? Don’t worry. It’s nothing personal, I just have some business to attend to and I can’t let you go around meddling,” Crowley says, tilting his head to the side condescendingly.

Dean rolls his eyes, “nothing like a bullet to the face to convey a message of indifference.” Crowley smirks, looking at Dean with a mixture of pity and distaste.

“There’s some big fish here tonight, I don’t know if you noticed. A bit of collateral damage is hardly a concern of mine,” Crowley says with a shrug. Dean squints his eyes, appraising Crowley suspiciously.

“What are you planning?”

Crowly laughs dryly.

“I didn't come up here to spew my plans. Actually-” Crowley looks down at his wrist, “We’re running a bit behind schedule so I’m going to have to cut this meeting short. I prefer to watch fireworks from a distance, personally.”

Crowley cocks back the hammer of the gun.

“Dean?” A familiar voice calls from the stairs, footsteps fast approaching. Dean feels his stomach drop to his feet, dread finally hitting him full force.

“Uh oh, here comes trouble. Such a shame he’ll have to see your brains splattered on the wall behind you.” Crowley draws sarcastically, kissing his teeth.

Dean ducks.

The gun goes off.

The pain burns white hot, and his vision blurs.

There’s a shout in the distance, but Dean’s ears are ringing too loud from the shot. Dean scrambles for his gun, the adrenaline making his hands shake and fumble.

Cas runs around the corner, and Crowley swings the gun toward his new target. Dean feels himself yell, but it’s no more than a vibration in his head.

Dean pulls the trigger first, the bullet planting itself firmly in Crowley’s sternum. A second passes, and nothing happens. Instead, Crowley looks down at his chest, over at Dean, then at Cas. All with a disappointed look on his face.

With a slight shake of his head, Crowley rolls his eyes and trains the gun on Cas again. If Dean wasn’t already on the floor, his knees would’ve gone weak.

Out of nowhere, a knife flies through the air, sinking into Crowley’s shoulder. Crowley’s mouth opens, his eyes clamping down as he lurches forward, clutching his arm.

Something drips into Dean’s eye, and when he wipes it away, he realizes it’s sweat. When did it get so hot in here anyway? Dean feels like his skin is burning up, and his breaths are more labored than they should be for him only being sprawled out on the tile. And that annoying ringing won’t stop no matter how much he shakes his head.

A hand clamps down on Dean’s arm.

“-ean!” Cas sinks to the ground beside him, his eyes panicked and unfocused yet centered entirely on Dean. He startles, rocking back on instinct.

“Where are you hurt? Let me see.” A hand cups Dean’s cheek, turning him to look at Cas.

Dean cries out at the motion, jerking away from Cas as pain sears up his neck and across his chest. Dean’s hand instinctively clutches at his neck, where it currently feels as though someone stuck a branding rod to his neck and won’t let off. Hot blood pools over his fingers.

Cas looks apologetic as he can through the urgency overtaking his features. He gently peels Dean’s hand away to assess the blistering graze that rips through his neck. Cas winces, sucking in a harsh breath.

“That bad huh?” Dean jokes, his voice unstable and breathy.

Cas unravels the knot of his tie, yanking the fabric from his collar in one smooth motion, and Dean feebly thinks it’d be hot under different circumstances. Honestly, any other circumstance. Dean figures it’s his luck this is one he gets to see it in.

Cas presses the fabric to his neck, and Dean groans when his muscles spasm at the contact.

“Sorry, sorry,” Cas says but puts more pressure anyway, to Dean’s dismay. Dean grips Cas’s hand holding the fabric, wanting to yank the man’s fingers away.

“It’s okay. It’s just a graze. You’re gonna be okay.” Cas is saying. Which one of them he’s trying to reassure, Dean doesn’t know.

“Crowley-” Dean mutters, but when he painfully twists his head to look around, the man is nowhere to be seen. There are some drops of blood on the white floor where he once stood though.

“Stay still, you’re making it worse,” Cas urges, his free hand coming up to hold the side of Dean’s head in place. He can barely feel the contact with the amount of pain flooding through his nerves.

Dean’s thoughts are scattered like a bag of marbles dropped on a concrete floor, but he lands on one single conclusion, “Did you- did you really just throw a knife at that guy? Where the hell did you learn to do that?”

Cas chuckles weakly, sniffling.

“Hey,” Dean mumbles, alarmingly noticing how wet Cas’ eyes are with unshed tears, “I'm fine, Cas.”

Cas furrows his brow, and one tear slips through, but he nods jerkily nevertheless. To think of Cas crying- over Dean, of all people. Well, that’s a turn of events.

One Dean doesn’t particularly like, so he reaches out to wipe the tear away, shakily smoothing his thumb over Cas’ cheek, the day-old stubble rubbing against his palm.

Cas’ breathing slows to something less like hyperventilating, and maybe Dean stares at his lips for a fraction too long, but he can always blame it on the blood loss later.

As his hearing comes back to him, Dean notices the panic downstairs. If anyone could recognize the sound of gunshots, it would be the audience beneath them. Multiple people are shouting orders over one another, but the specific words being said are lost to Dean over the noise.

“We need to go, to find Crowley. He’s planning something. We’re all in danger,” Dean says, coming back to himself. He shifts his weight to his knees, wincing when the skin of his shoulder pulls too tight.

Cas scrambles to his feet, reaching out to take Dean’s arm, his hand, his shoulder, his waist. Cas’ hands are everywhere, and it’s driving Dean crazy in ways he has no right to be given the situation.

“I’m fine,” Dean protests gruffly as his face heats up, finally upright and standing, “the bullet hit my neck not my legs.”

“Dean-” Cas starts in that trademark low warning voice of his.

There’s no warning for the explosion that erupts. The force of the blast sends Dean and Cas flying backward. Dean’s head cracks against drywall before his body crumbles to the tile floor.

The world’s axis tilts a little bit before going up in flames. Everything goes black.

-

“Dean!”

Dean’s eyelids feel astronomically heavy as orange and gray blend together before him. He can barely make out the silhouette of the person kneeling before him. Everything in him wants to go back to sleep.

“Dean, get up!” Someone yells, hands gripping his shoulders and shaking him harshly. The movement only serves to quicken how fast the world spins around him. Dean reaches out, desperately clutching onto anything to stop the jerking.

A secondary detonation rattles the walls and shakes the floor. Dean groans, trying to shove down the acid climbing up his throat from the sheer amount of pain pulsing through his blood.

If Dean’s hearing hadn’t been shot before, it certainly is now; the ringing in his head threatens to deafen him. His vision unsteadily comes back online, and he watches with a sense of delayed panic as flames lick up the rubble, waves of heat smothering him even from a distance.

He belatedly notes that Cas is grabbing at him, trying his best to get Dean off the floor despite him being dead weight. Dean cries out when he leans forward, pain flaring from his right side and arching into the rest of his chest cavity.

He pushes to get his feet underneath him, regardless of how determined they seem to be to do the opposite. The floor sways back and forth, and Dean squeezes his eyes shut so he doesn’t have to look at it.

He leans heavily into Cas’ grip, Dean’s fingers digging into his shirt for purchase, stumbling forward as Cas relentlessly drags him along.

A thick wave of smoke burns his eyes and throat, the sensation only growing stronger the more distance they cover.

From the vantage point overlooking the lobby below, it’s visible that half the building is missing.

Angry red flames lick up the columns and eat away at the wreckage. Countless bodies swarm in every direction, shoving and pushing toward the exits. The stairs are cracked, some chunks missing entirely, and the entire structure is losing integrity by the second.

A support beam groans somewhere to Dean’s left, and the floor beneath their feet rattles ominously.

The visions his nightmares tortured him with all these years? They have nothing on this. The blistering heat, the sharp, bitter smoke, the roar of the fire as it consumes wood and glass like its desperate last meal.

He always thought the memory haunted him, but now he thinks maybe his brain had actually sugarcoated the experience because he doesn’t remember it being like this. He doesn’t remember the agony and terror that threaten to close up his throat and stop his heart from racing.

Dean feels himself check out.

He’s being moved. Something is gripping his arms with a bruising force. His eyes glaze over as agonized faces and smoke float past him.

He can’t feel his fingertips or his own breathing, but he can feel the rumble of Cas’ voice against his shoulder as he yells. He’s dragged through the packed hysteric mass of people swarming the lower floor.

Dean trips on a piece of debris, and his knees numbly give out. Cas yanks him upward without a second thought, clutching Dean close to his chest. Dean can’t stop the scream that’s ripped out of him when Cas’ fingers dig into his throbbing ribs. He experiences the foreign, excruciating feeling of his bones crunching under his skin. His vision threatens to black out again.

Cas is shouting, but Dean can’t understand what about. Through his daze, he hopes it's not important.

The world blurs together before his ears narrow in on the high-pitched screaming of a woman across the room.

The first thing he sees is her long blonde hair, bloodied and tangled on the floor, and all he can see after that is his mother.

Her body is trapped halfway under the rubble, a large wooden beam pinning down the lower half of her body. Fire eats away the fuel and grows closer to her every passing second. Dean rips himself out of Cas’ arms before he can think twice, shoving against the crowd and toward the blaze.

“Dean!” Cas cries out, sounding more panicked and agonized than Dean’s ever heard him. He’s powerless to stop the way his feet rush toward the woman.

He thinks of his mom, trapped in the upstairs bedroom. He thinks of how she used to sing him to sleep and how that voice had screamed in anguish behind a door his four-year-old self didn’t have the strength to open.

He thinks of his father’s orders to get Sammy out of danger. Thinks of helplessly watching the flames spill out the windows from the front yard, his younger brother clutched tight in his arms. He followed his orders. He did what he was told. He did the right thing.

But at what cost?

Did the smoke coat his lungs then like it does now? Did his eardrums bleed like they do now?

A hand snatches his wrist, yanking him backward, his vision whirling disorientingly.

“No!” Dean screams, unable to think past the blind panic coursing through him, “Let me go!”

He knows who seized him without even looking back. The smell of burning flesh fills his head, and he chokes on it, gagging and lurching forward.

“She’s already dead, Dean!” Cas yells, dragging him away while Dean fights tooth and nail to go toward the fire.

He hadn’t noticed how the woman had stomped screaming, how she was no longer writhing. How the inferno had reached its destination.

There’s still a chance. They can’t be sure. He needs to get to her, needs to save her.

“We can’t- we can’t just leave her! We can’t…please…” Dean pleads even as he’s dragged back through the crowd, and the heat of the flames is replaced by the sharp night air.

Concrete and asphalt crunch under his feet as he’s hauled farther from the building, farther from the woman he failed.

He clings onto the lapels of Cas’ jacket now, leaning into his chest as tears and blood stream down his face, searching for any source of comfort he can steal from the hot skin pressed beneath his cheek.

“Please…”

Cas cradles the back of Dean’s head, drawing him into his arms.

“Please,” Dean whispers, even as his vision blurs with tears. Even as his face is pressed into Cas’ neck. Even as Cas gently rocks them back and forth and mumbles reassurances in Dean’s ear.

Dean doesn’t feel any of it.

All he can feel is the hollow space rooting itself deep into his core.

Chapter Text

The ride to the hospital is a kaleidoscope of pain and other people’s hands. The woman in the back with him is talking, but Dean can’t remember her last word from the next. All Dean knows is Cas is here, hovering beside him, his hand clutching Dean’s forearm.

The road underneath the meat wagon suddenly dips, jostling Dean and his fragmented ribs. Dean groans as the air is ripped from his lungs, stabbing pain coursing through him. He thinks maybe there are tears on his face, but it’s all too much to tell.

He feels too much, all he really wants is sleep. The woman tells him to stay with them and orders him to ‘keep your eyes open’, but her voice is distorted and distant. Something more final than sleep threatens to pull him under.

Something so ominous and alluring with its finality that Dean can’t quite put a name to it. It’d be so easy to give into it, to let go of the pain and fear of reality and drift off.

But Dean somehow manages to focus his eyes, and all he sees is Cas. Cas with his wrecked suit, blood dripping from his hairline, and the most perfect blue gaze Dean’s ever known. So he holds onto the pain, hoping against all odds that there’s a light at the end of this tunnel that’s closing in on him.

Dean doesn’t remember much after that. It’s an amalgamation of blurring lights and too many people yanking him in different directions. It could be hours or seconds later by the time Dean’s finally able to process his surroundings.

There are stitches in his neck, his mouth feels full of cotton, and his brain is approximately three times too large for his skull.

The doctor looks apologetic as he explains there’s not much they can do for his busted ribs other than hope they set correctly.

His left eardrum will probably never return to what it used to be. It seems like such a small thing to get choked up about, but the idea of the damage from tonight leaving a permanent mark on him almost brings him to tears as a suffocating sense of loss crashes over him.

The doctor finishes his speech by giving him some pain meds that aren’t strong enough and telling him they'll hold him another day for observation. Dean doesn’t have enough left of himself to argue or care.

The hospital room he’s given leaves things to be desired.

There’s a crappy radiator rattling underneath the window, only keeping the right side of him warm. Everything smells like rubbing alcohol and old paint. The bed is so small it barely fits his 6-foot frame, and a faded yellow floral pattern covers the sheets.

The sound of running footsteps and shouting floods in from the hallway, where hospital personnel does their best to address the sudden influx of patients from the blast.

A crack in the ceiling above his head seems to get bigger the longer he stares at it.

Dean watches it all through a pane of glass. Everything is slightly warped and out of reach. Nothing feels real. He almost preferred the overwhelming sense of panic at the venue to the numbness that coats him now.

Somewhere along the way, they hooked him and Cas up to oxygen tanks. The staff had insisted Cas get his own room so they could tend to his injuries, but he blatantly refused, shrugging off the nurse’s hand that tried to guide him away.

Instead, Cas sits in an uncomfortable-looking metal chair beside Dean’s bed, limbs curled onto themselves, shallowly breathing in through the tube on his nose.

His hair and face are covered in soot, his suit scuffed and torn, and there’s a row of stitches where the blood had been on his head. His bright blue eyes are red-rimmed from the smoke or crying. Dean can’t tell.

He dimly realizes he probably looks just as bad off, if not worse.

There’s an angry red stain covering Cas’ white collar and shoulder from where Dean had bled on him while Cas practically dragged him out of the building. The sight makes Dean feel sick to his stomach, along with a dulled feeling of guilt from ruining Cas’ nice clothes.

He needs to touch him to make sure Cas is real. That he made it out okay and this isn’t all just some fucked up hallucination to help him cope.

Dean weakly reaches for him, wincing when his stitches and ribs strain. Cas’ eyes jerk up to meet his, unsurely glancing between Dean’s outstretched fingers and Dean’s forlorn expression.

“Give me your hand,” Dean says, his voice abused and gravelly from smoke and screaming. Cas offers his hand to Dean, brows furrowed in confusion. Dean latches their palms together, intertwining their fingers.

The contact feels golden like his body is coming back to life just from the feeling of Cas’ skin. He can finally breathe properly, dropping his head back on his pillow in relief. The crease on Cas’ forehead disappears as Dean settles their hands on the bed beside him.

Cas squeezes Dean’s palm knowingly, his thumb rubbing circles on the back of Dean’s hand that he finds too much pleasure in. He lets himself believe his tiredness and the life-threatening night can excuse the neediness.

So many unspoken words pass between them in just the looks they exchange, things neither of them has the strength to say right now. Dean has the sudden urge to press Cas’ hand to his lips, but the door to the hospital room is still wide open, nurses and staff frantically rushing past, and they’re already pushing it with the gesture as it is.

Despite the shitty bed and chaos around them, exhaustion takes him under quickly as the adrenaline fades, and he’s smacked in the face with the full extent of his nervous system’s wrath. Dean watches Cas where he leans back in his chair, reluctant to let him out of sight as he dozes off.

Between the pestering nurses and an insistent Cas, Dean doesn’t get much sleep. Both parties wake him up every hour to make sure his symptoms aren't worsening. As lovely as the sentiment is, he’d almost prefer possible brain damage to how his eyes continuously burn whenever he has to open them again.

He can’t have slept for more than a few hours when he’s woken by someone loudly calling his name.

“Dean!” Dean disorientingly jerks awake, half expecting to still be surrounded by rubble and heat.

He gets halfway to a sitting position before reality comes crashing down on him, heat burning across his neck. A steady hand on his chest keeps him from going too far, though, Cas sending him a worried look. Dean groans, slumping back in the bed.

Sam rushes toward him, concern written all across his face.

“Hey Sammy,” Dean grunts, eyes half-lidded and strained.

“I got a call from the hospital, I heard there was a fire. What happened? Are you alright?” Sam asks, speaking a mile a minute and frantically scanning Dean for injuries.

“Just a bullet graze, it’s fine,” Dean mumbles, a headache steadily building behind his eyes.

“Just a bullet?” Sam half shouts, catching the attention of several staff members in the hallway. Dean shushes him.

“Shut up, Samantha. No need to alert the whole floor,” Dean says, rolling his eyes.

“Dean,” Sam says through gritted teeth, “what the hell, man? What’s going on?”

Dean sighs, rolling his head to the side to shoot Cas a pleading look. At this, Sam seems to notice Cas is in the room for the first time.

“And who the hell are you?” Sam asks defensively.

Cas glares at him, his shoulders pushing back and posture straightening.

“Be nice,” Dean hisses, “he saved my ass.”

Several emotions flicker on Sam’s face before settling somewhere between distrust and gratefulness. Cas subtly shifts closer to Dean, the downturn of his lips and tension in posture unrelenting. Dean sighs, realizing the staring contest isn’t going to resolve itself.

“Sam,” Dean motions between them, “this is Castiel. He’s helping me with the case. Cas, this is Sam, my overprotective kid brother.”

“The brother you’re staying with?” Cas asks hesitantly, glancing at Dean.

“The one and only,” Dean says, half-heartedly waving toward Sam. Sam looks displeased at this development, clearly being kept out of the loop.

“You FBI? Dean’s never mentioned you before,” Sam says, squinting his eyes.

“Investigative journalist,” Cas says curtly.

“What are you doing working with someone from the press?” Sam asks, bewildered, his volume rising again, redirecting his attention toward Dean. Cas opens his mouth to argue, but Dean cuts him off.

“Both of you can it,” Dean snaps. The headache is in full swing now, and if it weren’t for the plastic tube under his nose helping him breathe, he would be dragging his hand over his face.

“Shut the damn door, Sam. Before you get us all kicked out.”

Begrudgingly, Sam obeys.

Dean tries to take a deep breath, but it gets caught in his throat, a coughing fit forcing itself from his lungs. His chest aches, and his throat burns, and when he instinctively curls in on himself, his ribs make a fun impression of being repeatedly stabbed. The edges of his vision dim due to a lack of air and an exuberance of pain.

It takes a minute to get his lungs under control, and only then does he notice the soothing hand rubbing his back. Dean moans pitifully, his eyes squeezing shut and trying to keep in the tears of pain that threaten to roll down his cheeks.

“It’s okay,” Cas whispers, his hand still moving up and down Dean’s spine, “you’re okay.”

Dean swears roughly as he collapses back onto the mattress. Sam’s now looking between the two of them with some kind of unreadable expression.

“Listen,” Dean starts, glancing over at Sam, who seems even more concerned than before, “Can we- can we hash things out later? It’s been a long day.”

Sam nods slowly, something like guilt flashing in his eyes.

“Yeah. Of course. I didn’t-” Sam clears his throat, his tone softening, “I didn’t mean to cause any trouble. You just… you know I worry about you, Dean.” Dean waves him off.

“Yeah, I get it, kid. But everything’s good.”

“You and I have different definitions of ‘good’,” Sam says with a raised brow. Dean impassively glares at him, too tired for their usual bickering.

“So, what did the doctors say?”

Cas saves Dean the trouble and takes it upon himself to give Sam the rundown of Dean’s injuries and when he’ll be released.

The physical injuries, at least. Dean has a feeling tonight will haunt his dreams for a long time to come. Every time he blinks, he sees the woman he left behind, the flames closing in. He can still hear her heart-wrenching screams and the sound of the building falling around them.

He can see the devastated looks on her family’s faces when they’re told the news. God knows Dean’s seen those expressions enough times in this line of work.

Dean turns to Cas, searching for something else to focus on. Cas is already looking at him despite speaking to Sam. He must see the distress on Dean’s face because his hand reaches up to latch onto Dean’s, instantly grounding him.

If Sam notices it, he doesn’t say anything.

It’s pathetic how much the simple point of contact comforts him. The warm, rough feeling of Cas’ palm rubbing against his. He’s nauseous with how much he wants more of it. More skin, more heat, more Cas. The touch is simultaneously too much, and yet he’s starving for it.

“So he’ll be released tomorrow?” Sam asks, having sat down in the other chair at some point during the conversation.

“Yes, but his activity will be restricted for several weeks following that,” Cas says, nodding solemnly. Dean scoffs, finally tuning in to what’s being said.

“Yeah, right. Like a few nurses could stop me from doing my job,” Dean says with an annoyed eye roll.

Cas frowns at this, his eyes narrowing. “No, but I certainly will.”

“I can’t put this case on pause, Cas. You know that as well as anyone.”

“Maybe not, but I doubt your colleagues would agree to you running into battle anytime soon.”

Dean glares. Cas glares right back. Several seconds pass before Sam clears his throat, obviously uncomfortable with the strained atmosphere.

“You can stay longer at my place while you’re getting back on your feet,” Sam offers.

“No,” Dean objects immediately.

“No?”

“No. I want to go home,” Dean says, feeling a rush of stubbornness and determination push through his exhaustion.

Sam sighs, leaning back in his seat. “Well, someone has to look after you.”

“No one has to do shit. I’m going home tomorrow- alone- and that’s final.”

“Dean,” Cas says, concern and apprehension wrapping around the word. It’s a warning, a plea, a compromise. How he always manages to pack so much meaning into his name every time he says it is lost to Dean.

Cas’ fingers twitch where they rest against Dean’s, and something about the movement has his defenses crumbling. The fight seeps out of him.

“Less arguing, more sleeping,” Dean grumbles, unable to ignore his quickly consuming tiredness.

“We’ll discuss this tomorrow,” Cas says, matching his headstrong tendencies. Dean rolls his eyes in response.

“I guess, I’ll head home. Let you get some rest, now that I know you’re not dying from your injuries,” Sam says, standing from his chair, “You coming Castiel?”

Cas shakes his head, his grip tightening marginally around Dean’s hand. “I’ll stay here.”

Sam shoots him a confused look, then seemingly gives up trying to figure out the situation.

“Right… I’ll be in touch,” Sam says slowly, nodding toward Dean. He gives Sam a weak thumbs up before he’s out the door, shutting it behind him.

Some weird mix of relief and anxiety settles over Dean at them finally being alone. He suddenly wants to resist how his eyelids start to droop. They have so much they need to discuss what happened tonight, what it means for the case.

“Rest, Dean,” Cas says, noticing Dean’s struggle, “I’ll watch over you.”

Somehow that’s all the convincing Dean needs.

-

The water swirling in the drain is a murky grey-pink color. A few scabs of dried blood get caught in the grate. Dean swallows the lump in his throat before rinsing the soap out of his hair, the shower knob groaning unhappily when he shuts it off.

Without the rush of water, an eerie silence is left behind in the cramped bathroom. Every breath and movement he makes is magnified to an uncomfortable volume.

Bypassing the mirror with an averted gaze and stepping into the hallway with a towel around his waist, Dean is smacked in the face with the fact that he is finally well and truly alone.

He’s spent the past week aching for this moment of solitude, but now that he has it, it’s a tainted kind of quiet. It makes his ears fuzzy with the sound of his thoughts and clings to his skin like a layer of grime he can’t just wash off. Everything feels wrong. He’s been wishing to return to his slice of peace and quiet, but now that he’s here, the stillness puts him on edge.

Numbly, he drags himself to the kitchen in search of alcohol. Unfortunately, the pain meds still aren’t doing their job. Even after forfeiting his traditional scalding shower for a lukewarm one, his stitches still burn raw against the cold air of his apartment.

In the small cabinet above the fridge is a glass bottle of vodka even Sam doesn’t know about. He’s been saving it for an occasion, a good or a bad one he doesn’t know. He figures now’s as good of a time as any.

He vaguely remembers the back of the pill bottle stating not to mix with other drugs, but maybe with a bit of help, they’ll actually work.

The moonlight coming in from the window catches his eye as he tilts his head and takes a shot straight from the bottle. Goosebumps erupt on his skin as a stray drop falls down his chin and neck.

Cas had reluctantly agreed to let him leave the hospital on his own. But, most likely due to Dean’s threats to escape while the other wasn’t looking, should he try and join him.

It all circles back to the alone time he was so desperate for, but standing in the middle of his empty kitchen with a quarter of the bottle now gone, he belatedly wants to take it back.

Everything that happened feels more real without anyone else to distract him. The images in his head haunt him even while he’s awake, and the harder he tries to resist them, the more vivid they become. His mind is tinted with orange and crimson, all his thoughts blurring in a horrid collage of fear and dread.

He should’ve stayed home.

And, god, Cas. Cas was only there because of him, his injuries, his memories; they’re all Dean’s fault. It’s all a whirlpool of “if he hadn’t” s and “if he would’ve” s, and he feels sick just trying to keep up with the downward spiral.

His reflection in the window stares back at him, looking just as hollow and broken as he feels.

There’s still a ring of wax on his little dining table. Something final inside of him cracks, and for the first time in a long time, Dean cries.

-

The next afternoon, there’s a phone call. It takes all of Dean’s strength to pull himself out of bed for the first time that day and answer it.

Not even an hour later, Cas is at his doorstep. There’s a suspicious plastic bag in his hand, and he had said he was coming over under the guise of doing work on the case, but that definitely doesn’t look like paperwork. In fact, that looks a hell of a lot like groceries.

“Have you eaten?” Cas asks in place of a greeting. Dean narrows his eyes as he steps back and lets Cas into the apartment.

“Yes.” Cas doesn’t need to know that it was last at the hospital.

“What’d you eat?” Cas asks as he toes off his shoes.

“I ate,” Dean grunts, walking to the kitchen without checking if Cas follows.

Cas is clearly suspicious of his response, squinting at him as he sits at the table. Cas sets the bag on the counter, opening the mostly empty fridge to put some eggs and milk away.

“I’m making dinner,” Cas says in a tone that leaves no room for argument. This doesn't stop Dean from trying to squeeze his way in anyway.

“Make yourself at home,” Dean says, rolling his eyes and leaning back into the chair, wincing when his ribs bite him in protest.

The wax is gone now. Sometime last night, he had scraped it off with a swiss army knife, though there’s a chip in the varnish left behind. He runs his finger over the divet, feeling the wood's edge against his fingertip.

“How are you doing?” Cas asks, his back still turned, lighting the gas under the stove.

“All things considered?”

Cas hums.

“Still like shit.”

Cas sends him a sympathetic look over his shoulder, his eyes concerned and his lips pressed together.

After a few seconds of silence, Dean asks, “You?”

Cas shrugs, mixing something together in a bowl. “Physically I’m doing better, but…” Cas trails off. Dean can attest to that.

Conversation drops off, Dean quietly watches Cas work, and soon the kitchen is filled with the smell of spices and fried bacon. Only then does Dean realize how hungry he is, his stomach growling at the promise of food. Cas sets a plate of eggs, bacon, and pancakes down in front of him, sitting across from him with an identical dish.

“Breakfast for dinner,” Cas says, shoveling eggs into his mouth. Dean gives him a grateful grin before digging in with the haste of a man who hasn’t eaten in 24 hours.

It’s quiet between them, but it’s a good kind of quiet, one that’s filled with a fork occasionally scraping against a plate and the sound of Cas clearing his throat after he drinks some water. It’s nice, makes the ache in his chest dull marginally.

“Are there any updates on the explosion?” Dean asks, curiosity eating away at him and winning out the desire to keep the comfortable atmosphere.

Cas sighs, leaning back in his chair and running a hand through his hair.

“Fourteen dead, a lot more injured,” Cas says grimly, glancing at where the stitches are visible above the collar of Dean’s shirt.

Dean sucks in a deep breath, grimacing at the tabletop. Fourteen. Fourteen people. That’s… He expected a few but fourteen. God.

“That’s quite the escalation,” Dean says, crossing his arms.

“I feel like they’re building up to something. Maybe the first few murders were just to see what they could get away with, to test the limits of the system,” Cas says, his eyes flicking up to meet Dean’s.

And they got away with it because Dean wasn’t fast enough. If he had figured out their plans in time, maybe- all those people. Fourteen.

“I’m sorry,” Dean says, his voice hoarse, the corners of his vision prickling.

Cas’ eyes widen, one hand reaching across the table, “No. I didn’t mean it like that. Dean-”

Dean looks away, curling into himself even further. It doesn’t matter what Cas meant. It’s still the truth.

“Dean.”

All those people, all those lives. He wonders if he looked down at his hands if he could see how their blood coats his skin, red ink spreading into the creases of his palms, crusted underneath his fingernails.

“Dean.” Cas is kneeling in front of him, hands cupping Dean’s face. He closes his eyes against the touch. Cas makes a strangled noise, his thumbs brushing underneath Dean’s eyes, wiping away tears he didn’t realize were there.

“Hey, look at me,” Cas says, his voice barely a whisper. Hesitantly, Dean blinks open, immediately finding those blue eyes he’s grown overly fond of.

“None of this is your fault, do you understand?” Cas asks, his mouth pressed into a firm frown. Dean’s hands come up to grab Cas’ wrists, fingertips tracing over the bones beneath the skin.

“I’m sorry,” Dean repeats, leaning into Cas’ hands.

“No, you don’t get to apologize for something you didn’t do,” Cas argues, shifting forward an inch on his heels, “this is that other son of bitch’s fault and we will find him and bring him to justice. But don’t for a second think that anything that happened that night was on you.”

His words sound so pleasing, so easy, like falling onto fresh linen after a long day. It would be so effortless to believe him. It takes everything in Dean not to succumb and nod along.

“Crowley,” He says instead, still struggling to keep his voice even.

“What?”

“His name is Crowley. I think he’s the ring leader for the whole operation.”

Cas nods, “Okay. Well, whoever he is, we’ll find him. I promise.”

It’s then that Dean notices how close they are. A few more inches and their forehead would be pressed together. Only a couple days ago, Dean would have jerked away, laughed off the awkward situation, and spent the next week berating himself for being so destitute. But things have changed. Something in their dynamic has been permanently shifted, though he can’t tell in what direction.

“Are you okay?” Cas asks gently, his eyes searching and so goddamn earnest.

“Yeah,” He lies, swallowing around the lump in his throat.

Cas purses his lips, frowning even deeper, before pulling away and sitting in the chair next to Dean rather than across from him. It kills some small part of him not to chase after Cas’ hands.

“I know when we talked to that informant, her ideas seemed a little… crazy, but… I think she might have been onto something,” Cas says. Dean opens his mouth to respond, but Cas stops him with a raised hand.

“I know how it sounds but just listen, okay?”

Dean hesitates but, against his better judgment, nods anyway.

“You saw that the bullet didn’t work on Crowley, but- but my knife did and that knife was made out of silver.”

“Why-”

“Because I saw the case note about Agent Mills carrying silver bullets, and I thought maybe- It was a long shot, I’ll admit, but it worked. Now give me a reason why other than the fact that something supernatural is going on,” Cas finishes, his eyes pleading, his knuckles white from gripping the edge of the table.

“I don’t-” Dean says, but he doesn’t know what the rest of the sentence was meant to be. He just doesn’t. Doesn’t understand. Doesn’t believe it. It’s such a leap in logic, yet as the seconds tick past, the less it seems like one at all. Piece by piece, the puzzle comes together, the final picture something Dean never wanted to see.

“What the hell, Cas?”

“I know-”

“Let’s say, hypothetically, that you’re not just a few marbles short of a full bag and there’s actually something inhuman living in those tunnels,” Dean says with a raised brow, “How are we meant to take them out? I can’t get a team together and go ‘Hey, by the way, the ammo we normally use is going to do jack shit so we need to replace all of it with silver.’ The only thing that would accomplish is getting me a psych eval.”

“We need to get more information on them. We can go back to the informant and see if she knows anything else. I can check public databases for anything similar,” Cas says.

“See if there’s any similar information on the monsters, you mean. We don’t even know what these things are called. You do realize how crazy that sounds, right?” Dean points out incredulously, slumping in his chair, defeated.

“Not any crazier than the creatures taught at church,” Cas says, shrugging.

Dean levels him with an unimpressed look, “we don’t have angels and demons out in the streets murdering people, Cas. That’s different.”

“Dean,” He says, leaning forward in his seat, “I need you to trust me on this.”

Dean searches for some unhinged signal that his friend has lost it. Maybe the traumatic events of the other night pushed him over the edge, hurtling into the abyss of psychoticism. But all he can see is the determination and conviction embedded into Cas’ features.

Dean sighs, giving in, “Okay. Okay, we can do this your way.”

“Thank you,” Cas breathes, relief sagging in his shoulders.

Those few hours of ‘working on the case’ turn into Cas stubbornly spending the night on the couch when it gets too late for him to walk back home- no matter how much Dean insists they can share the bed.

Because “I don’t want to hurt you Dean.”

Dean definitely doesn’t spend too much time arguing about it, and he definitely doesn’t grumble to himself when he inevitably loses because Cas is a stubborn bastard when he wants to be.

That night turns into a day which turns into another and another. Until the better half of the week has passed, and somehow Dean’s waking up to the smell of coffee and Cas grumpily standing in his kitchen in only a rumbled gray t-shirt and a pair of boxers.

How did I get here? Dean futility wonders, trying his hardest- and failing- to hide the blush that creeps up his cheeks.

“Dean,” Cas grunts in lieu of an actual greeting, his eyes squinted and his hair spiked in every direction.

“Mornin’ Sunshine,” Dean says sarcastically, but somewhere on their way out, the words get coated with misplaced fondness.

Cas glares at him over the rim of his coffee cup, but Dean’s hard-pressed to find any actual malice in it.

“What are your plans for today?” Dean asks, sidestepping Cas to pour a cup of his own.

“Mmh,” Cas mumbles, slumping into one of the dining chairs. Dean huffs a laugh, leaning back against the counter as he sips the hot beverage. Morning light shines through the windows, backlighting Cas in all his lethargic, half-awake glory.

Dean’s feet carry him across the room without his permission, shuffling to stop before the other man. Cas looks up at him expectantly but makes no move to put the distance back between them. Dean cautiously reached out, his fingers brushing back the hair on Cas’ forehead to reveal the short line of stitches near his hairline.

“How’s your head?” Dean asks softly, letting his fingertips pet the skin right below the cut.

“Sore,” Cas says, taking another sip of his drink but keeping his forehead pressed against Dean’s hand. Dean hums sympathetically, his knees knock against Cas’ when he sways forward.

He seems so touchable in this light, his blue eyes staring up at Dean completely unguarded. In a moment of bravery, Dean runs his hand back, fingernails scratching lightly against Cas’ scalp.

Cas closes his eyes, leaning into the touch. He sucks in a sharp breath, savoring the feel of the soft strands.

How far could he take this? At what point would Cas shove him away?

Dean never gets the answer to that question, a loud knock at the door popping the bubble between them. Dean sighs, retracting himself from Cas’ space.

“Probably Charlie or Sam doing a wellness check,” Dean explains to Cas’ confused expression. Cas hums, leaning back in his chair contently.

Dean raises an eyebrow as he sets his half-empty cup on the counter, “Might want to put some pants on.”

Cas groans as Dean exits the kitchen, his responding laughter echoing through the rest of the apartment.

Dean’s first and final mistake is answering the door without checking who’s on the other side.

Any peace he’d accumulated throughout the morning is immediately ripped away from him as he catches sight of two figures standing in front of him. None other than Adam and Zachariah, dressed in full uniform.

God-fucking-damnit.

“Hello, Agent Winchester,” Zachariah greets smugly, casting a judging once-over of Dean’s sleep attire, “Late start to the day?”

“It’s seven in the morning,” Dean says with an annoyed glare.

“We’re here to get a witness statement of the events from the other night,” Adam says before Zachariah can find a retort, “If that’s alright with you.”

“And if I say no?” Dean asks, just for the sake of being difficult.

“We can come back tomorrow,” Adam offers, looking apologetic. Dean sighs, opening the door wider.

“Let’s get this over with.” Dean leads them to the living room, Cas looking up at him from his spot on the far side of the couch. Cas looks equally displeased with the turn of events as Dean. At least he’s wearing pants.

“That is not Charlie nor Sam,” Cas says with a frown.

“Thank you for stating the obvious, Cas,” Dean says, rolling his eyes and taking a seat next to Cas.

There’s not enough seating for all four of them, so Adam and Zachariah end up standing awkwardly in the middle of the room. Dean only feels bad for one of them.

“We were unaware you had company,” Zachariah says, glancing between Cas and Dean agitatedly.

“Is that gonna be a problem, chuckles?” Dean asks, tilting his head in a condescending manner.

Zachariah opens his mouth, but Adam cuts him off, taking a notepad from his pocket, “What’s the earliest thing you remember from the party, we’ll start from there.”

Dean glares at Zachariah for a second longer before speaking.

The beginning of the night is easy enough to recount, but the longer Dean speaks, the more his breath catches in his throat and the harder it becomes to get the words out. There are entire sections of the night that mission from his memory. He remembers the knife in Crowley’s shoulder, then the burning woman, and he only vaguely knows of passing out somewhere between the two events.

Most details after that revolve around Cas, but Dean keeps those to himself, strangely protective over the disorganized flashes of memory. They won’t help solve the case, so he can’t find any guilt over withholding information.

By the end of it, Dean’s nerves and vocal cords are rubbed raw, barely holding it together, but he’ll be damned before he gives Zachariah the satisfaction.

Cas is a constant reassuring presence through it all, the heat of his shoulder seeping into Dean’s. Not for the first time, Dean thinks about how grateful he is to have Cas by his side.

-

Dean dreams that his apartment block is on fire.

The hallway he’s trapped in is steadily being consumed by flames on both sides. The only exit is a single locked door; behind it, he can hear Cas’ screams.

“Dean!” Cas cries. His voice is barely audible over the roar of the flames.

Dean claws at the door handle until his fingernails are broken and bleeding, his voice hoarse from shouting Cas’ name. Just as the flames close in, inches away from eating away at his skin, Dean wakes.

Panting and covered in sweat, Dean stares at his bedroom ceiling, the vivid images of the dream bleeding into reality. Taking shape in the dark of his room and playing tricks on his eyes.

Dean glances at his closed bedroom door, scanning the gap toward the bottom to make sure he can’t see an orange glow coming from underneath it. Only pitch black is visible from the other side.

He’s being ridiculous. Cas is fine. His apartment is fine. He stares at the door for several long, drawn-out seconds before his anxiety gets the better of him. He has to make sure.

Dean swings his legs over the edge of the bed, bare feet padding across the floor. The door’s hinges squeak when he opens it.

It’s a silent trek down the hall, popping his head around the archway of the living room.

Dean lets out a sigh of relief at the sight of Cas sleeping peacefully on the couch, his arm curled underneath the spare pillow Dean gave him on the first night he stayed.

Dean takes a step back, worries subsided enough to return to his room, when the floorboards creak louder underneath his feet. Dean curses under his breath as Cas stirs on the couch, his groggy eyes meeting Dean’s in the darkness.

“Dean?” Cas asks, propping himself up on one arm and using his free hand to rub his eyes.

“Sorry,” Dean winces, feeling foolish and regretting ever leaving his room.

“What’s wrong?” Cas asks, his voice thick with sleep.

“Nothing. Go back to sleep,” Dean says, ready to retreat back into the hallway, but Cas is already sitting up.

“Come ‘ere,” Cas says, pushing down the blanket he was using.

“It’s fine, Cas,” Dean whispers, even as he walks further into the room. Closer together, it’s harder to hide the sheen of sweat on his skin and the redness in his eyes. Dean can see the exact moment Cas’ face morphs into one of concern.

“Was just checkin’ on you,” Dean explains, shifting his weight awkwardly.

“Oh, Dean,” Cas says softly, his eyebrows furrowing. If anyone else took that tone with him, Dean would instantly get defensive. But it’s Cas, and everyone knows Dean plays favorites.

Cas shifts backward on the couch, sitting upright and patting his lap where the blanket is still furled up.

“Lay down,” Cas says openly, looking up at him expectantly, sleep still fogging his eyes.

“Cas,” Dean says hesitantly, glancing back toward the archway he came in from. Cas simply pats his lap again, clearly too sleepy to care for Dean’s mental hang-ups.

He sighs, resigning himself to a future of overthinking this moment, before plopping down on the couch next to Cas. Cas reaches over, pulling Dean’s shoulder until he lays down, his head in Cas’ lap facing his stomach, the fluff from the blanket tickling his ear.

His fingers glide through Dean’s hair, pushing back the strands that were stuck to his forehead.

John’s voice wafts through his head, telling him this is wrong, that he shouldn’t be seeking this kind of attention, let alone from another man. How pathetic is it that his father doesn’t even have to be within state borders to have power over him? How pathetic. Pathetic. Pathetic. The word whips around in his brain, spiraling and dragging him down with it.

“Dean.” Cas’ voice breaks through his thoughts.

“Hm?”

“I can hear you thinking. Stop it.”

Dean laughs despite himself, pressing his face further into Cas’ leg, his hands curling up next to Cas’ hip.

“Do you want to talk about it?” Cas asks the shadows of the living room, his hand still gently ceasing through Dean’s hair.

Dean shakes his head, his throat clenching up at the thought of having to reimagine the nightmare that’s still so fresh in his mind.

“Okay,” Cas says, his voice flagging.

When he glances up, Dean can see Cas' eyes starting to close, his head falling back against the couch.

“You can’t sleep like this, Cas,” Dean says, already pushing himself off Cas’ legs.

“Hhmp,” Cas grumbles, guiding Dean’s head back down to where it was, “I could if you’d stay still.”

“Cas…”

He doesn’t get a response. The only way he knows Cas has nodded off again is because his hand eventually stills, cupping the side of Dean’s neck. Dean sighs, weighing the odds of his escape now that Cas is more fully asleep, but he doesn’t want to risk disturbing him again.

“I’m glad you’re here,” Dean quietly confesses, his eyes already drooping. It doesn’t take long from sleep to pull him under once more.

-

Dean crunches up his face against the light streaming through the curtains he swore he closed last night. When he shifts to the side, his surroundings come flooding in. Very abruptly, Dean’s reminded of the fact that he’s still in Cas’ lap, his face smooshed against Cas’ stomach, and his arms wrapped around Cas’ waist.

He realizes what woke him up as fingers brush against the nape of his neck. Dean whines, trying to hide away from the touch and go back to sleep, but there’s nowhere to go with his cheek already pressed against Cas’ stomach as far as it can be.

Laughter shakes against him, forcing him to squint open his eyes, glaring up at Cas from where he looks down at him.

Through his trademark morning indignation, fondness bleeds into his eyes, all of it directed toward Dean. Dean’s stomach does a weird flip.

“Go away,” Dean grouches, rubbing a hand against his face.

Cas laughs again, “where would you like me to go?”

“Back to sleep.”

“It’s too late. I’m already craving coffee.”

“Should have thought of that before you let me fall asleep on you,” Dean says, fighting off a smile as he unwillingly wakes up.

“I try being nice, and this is the thanks I get,” Cas says, half-heartedly glaring at him, but the fingers stroking the side of Dean’s neck take any sting out of the look.

Begrudgingly, Dean fights his way into a sitting position, reluctant to leave the warmth and comfort of Cas’ personal space. Out of the corner of his eye, Dean spots Cas rubbing the back of his neck, presumably trying to get the kinks out from sleeping on it weirdly.

Dean’s hands act on their own accord, reaching out to replace Cas’ and knead at the stiff muscles down the side of his neck and shoulders. Cas hums, automatically tilting his head forward to grant Dean more access.

Cas’ skin is soft and warm underneath Dean’s hands, the muscles beneath it firm but relaxed. When Cas makes no move to get up, Dean’s fingers slip under the collar of his shirt just to see how far he can push this until Cas stops him.

But Cas never does. If anything, he tips farther back, leaning into Dean’s touch.

A part of him is ringing every warning bell he has, desperately convinced that he’s reading into this wrong. The other half of him isn’t listening, though.

The warm, peaceful feeling that settled in his chest when Cas walked through the door and hasn’t wavered since is telling him he’s right. Telling him ‘there’s something here’ in such an enamored fashion that Dean has no choice but to follow it.

“Cas,” Dean says, barely above a whisper. Cas opens his eyes, looking over at him, sucking in an unexpected breath when he sees the look on Dean’s face.

Dean thinks back to the hardened, stern man he caught in that alleyway all that time ago. Cas, with his sharp eyes, squared shoulders, and a permanent air of suspicion.

Compared to the Cas sitting in front of him now- laid out on Dean’s sofa with the hem of his shirt tugged down to show a flash of collarbone- they don’t even seem like the same person.

Cas, a person inherently untrusting and wary, has put his faith in Dean completely.

It’s this thought that pushes Dean to close the final few inches between them, his lips gently skimming Cas’. The barest hint of a touch sends an electric shiver down his spine.

He pulls away just a fraction, heart pounding in his chest as he cautiously meets Cas’ eyes.

As though he’s being beckoned by a magnet, Cas follows after him, sealing their mouths together in a more confident kiss, setting a slow and sweet pace. Hands cup Dean’s jaw while his own cling onto Cas’ arms for support.

Dean loses himself, soaking up the adrenaline rush of finally having Cas how he wants him, pressed up as close as possible. He’s torn between how his heart rushes in his throat and the calm sense of security that settles over his bones, grounding him and making him feel safe.

They’re forced to break apart when their lungs begin to burn for air, but Cas doesn’t let him go very far. A hand on the back of Dean’s head presses their foreheads together, their heavy breaths mixing in the small space between them.

“I’ve wanted that for so long,” Cas says against Dean’s mouth, his lips quirking upward. Dean chuckles, riding high on the knowledge that his longing wasn’t a one-way street. Cas hums, effortlessly falling into another kiss as he pulls Dean closer to him, their legs pressing together, hands clutching for purchase.

There’s crackling energy building underneath Dean’s skin as the kiss grows more heated. But it’s not enough. Dean needs closer, needs more.

He doesn’t stop to question himself before moving, and in one stunted maneuver that has his ribs straining, Dean seats himself on Cas’ lap, his knees straddling him on either side. The hands that grip his thighs help distract him from the pain, Cas kissing the wince off his lips.

“Castiel,” Dean breathes against his lips, only getting a single breath in before Cas reconnects their lips. Dean feels a whine rise in the back of his throat, but Cas swallows the sound easily, sucking his bottom lip.

Dean tilts his head, using the new height advantage to deepen the kiss, opening his mouth further. Cas rewards him by licking into it, his tongue curling around the back of Dean’s teeth. Dean’s breath hitches, his fingers digging into the fabric around Cas’ shoulders.

A warm hand slips under the hem of Dean’s shirt, smoothing into the arch of his back, and rucking up the fabric as it goes, exposing his skin to the room’s cold air.

Cas breaks the kiss again, giving them both a chance to catch their breaths, but he only strays far enough to duck his head down, kissing along Dean’s neck.

He can’t tilt his head back much, thanks to his stitches, but Cas works with the room he’s given, licking a long hot stripe up the column of Dean’s throat before nibbling on the edge of his jaw.

Dean gives a high-pitched whine, tangling his fingers in Cas’ hair and pulling at the strands. His hands fall down to Dean’s hips, gripping the bones and pulling him impossibly closer until there’s not a breath of space between them.

His whole body feels alight, electricity humming through any part of his skin that touches Cas’. Arching in the gaps between them and pulling Dean closer and closer.

His eyes drift shut, honing in on the feeling of Cas spit slick lips pressing to the skin just below his ear.

“Cas,” Dean moans again, for no purpose other than to feel the name pour out of his lips.

“I know, I’ve got you doll,” Cas responds, his voice sounding utterly wrecked just from some kissing. The endearment sends a new wave of static in his stomach. Something halfway from a whine and a moan wrestles its way out of him, caught between being pleased and embarrassed.

Cas’ hands slide along his ribs, a featherlight touch, but the movement gives him a hazy flashback to the night of the blast, a foggy image of Cas gripping onto him as he dragged them both out.

“I never said thank you,” Dean says when Cas finally comes back up, his face only a sliver away, Dean’s breath dancing across his lips.

“What for?”

“Saving my life.” Cas lets out a warm chuckle that Dean can feel against his chest, his head tilting up to press a gentle peck on Dean’s forehead. Oh, he could get addicted to that.

“Anytime.” Dean seals their mouths together again, a renewed fever taking over him. This new kiss is more desperate than the last, their open mouths sliding together as Cas’s fingers grip the thick, corded muscles of Dean’s thighs, slowly pushing up further and further toward the place Dean wants them most.

Dean’s filled with a heady concoction of relief and confidence at finally being allowed to touch Cas how he wants. He’s still reeling from the switch. The transition from making sure he doesn’t look at Cas for too long to being able to run his fingers up his arms and down his chest, desperately feeling for any skin he can get his hands on. It sends all his higher brain functions out the window.

Cas sucks his bottom lip between two of his own, sending a round of shivers through his spine and causing Dean’s hip to roll down reflexively. This pulls a low sound from the back of Cas’ throat, his teeth tugging at Dean’s lip before letting go.

“Tell me what you want,” Cas says through heavy breaths. The lower octave of his voice rushes blood away from Dean’s brain and right to his crotch. He almost feels lightheaded at how quickly it happens.

“Anything. I’ll take anything you’ll give me,” Dean gasps. There’s a choked sound from Cas before his hands tighten on Dean’s legs, and in one smooth motion, he’s standing and carrying them both toward the bedroom.

Chapter Text

Cas is careful when he sets Dean down on the edge of the bed and pushes him into the mattress, mindful not to jostle his injuries. The gesture warms his heart more than Dean would ever let on. But right now, he couldn’t care less about the slight burn in his ribs because Cas’ lips are back on him, nipping at his jaw and pulling at his earlobe.

Dean struggles to shove up Cas’ shirt while he knocks Dean’s knees apart, making room for himself to settle in between them.

“Fuck, Cas, please,” Dean whines, clutching at the fabric, desperate for the warm skin underneath that he can feel but can’t see.

Cas leverages himself on one arm before grabbing the back of his collar and yanking off the shirt, discarding it somewhere on the floor behind them. Miles and miles of golden skin, muscles rippling beneath the surface as Cas leans down to return the favor, stripping Dean of his own top.

Near the edges of Cas’ shoulders and biceps, delicate ink wraps around.

“What-?” Dean mutters, fingers trailing over the art, feeling the slightly raised skin, “I didn’t know you had tattoos.” Cas pulls away from his assault on Dean’s collarbone just long enough to shoot Dean an unsure look before lowering himself once more, biting kisses down Dean’s sternum. He’s sure there will be a field of bruises covering him by tomorrow.

“Wait,” Dean says, pushing at Cas’ shoulders, “I wanna see.”

Cas sighs hesitantly but indulges him, standing and turning around, his head tilted to watch Dean’s reaction. Dean pushes himself into an upright position, feeling in awe of the expanse of lines spread out before him. Dark, ruffled feathers decorate the upper half of Cas’ back, bending at the tops of his shoulders and curling around the backs of his arms.

A set of massive wings.

The ink moves with each intake of breath from Cas, the tattoo coming alive with every shift of his muscles. They’re beautiful. And so, so attractive. God, if Dean had thought Cas couldn’t get any more appealing-

“Cas…” Dean chokes out, unable to stop himself from reaching out to touch them.

“You’re not gonna take a powder, are you?” Cas asks, clearly mistaking Dean’s expression for something it’s not.

“What? No. Cas, these are…” Dean trails off, trying to think of a word that could possibly describe the intricate imagery permanently etched into Cas’ skin, “these are incredible. They’re beautiful, Cas.”

Cas spins around, catching Dean’s still outreached hand and pressing a kiss to the inside of his wrist. Then, wordlessly, Cas encloses on his space, bracketing him to the bed with an arm on either side of his head as he captures Dean’s lips in a kiss more gentle than the previous ones. It lights something warm inside Dean’s chest, how Cas softly cradles his jaw, how his nose runs along Dean’s cheek.

Something about it feels reverent. Something about Cas’ hands on his waist, arching Dean off the bed and pulling him against his warm, soft skin, feels like worship. Every touch, every breath is hallowed.

“Dean,” Cas whispers against his lips, barely audible over the heartbeat pounding away in Dean’s ears. Cas’ fingers leave goosebumps in their wake, squeezing Dean’s biceps, elbows, wrists.

Dean trails his lips away from Cas’ mouth, kissing down his jaw and nipping at the thin, salty skin behind his ear. Cas lets out a low throaty groan in Dean’s ear as he bites and sucks the skin, a small fire lit in Dean’s lower stomach at the thought of leaving a mark behind.

Dean hikes his leg up, hooking it around Cas’ hip, bringing them impossibly closer, and with that, the heat is returned to the kiss. Cas sets a bruising pace, biting and sucking at his lips as hands slip underneath the waistband of his pants. The chill of Cas’ fingers against his overheated skin sends apprehensive shivers down Dean’s spine.

Dean has one hand clutching Cas’ hair, keeping him close, and the other gripping the sheets, desperate for something to ground him as waves of lust and arousal wash over him.

Cas yanks down Dean’s pants and boxers in one go, jerking him a few inches down the bed in the process. Then Cas disappears, and there’s wet heat wrapping around the head of Dean’s dick. Dean cries out, the breath punched out his lungs. Pleasure blooms in white bursts behind his eyelids, his hips snapping off the mattress instinctively.

His ribs burn in protest, spiking pain mixing with the pleasure radiating through the rest of his nerves. Cas pins his hips down with an unreasonably attractive display of strength, pulling off to kiss the jut of the bones.

“Shh,” Cas coos reassuringly, looking up at him through his eyelashes, “Take it easy, doll. I’ve got you.” Dean lets out a string of curses while Cas trails hot kisses back to Dean’s length, keeping just a hair’s width away from where Dean needs him the most.

“Jesus christ, Cas. Please,” Dean begs, tangling his fingers through Cas’ hair and tugging at it in an attempt to get him to move.

“You’re not gonna hurt yourself, are you?” Cas asks with a raised defiant eyebrow.

“No, I’ll be good. ‘Ll be good, I promise. Ple-” Dean’s rambling is cut off by his own choked-out moan, writhing as Cas licks a slow stripe up the side of Dean’s cock. Cas seals his lips around the tip, sucking slightly while licking up the slit before sinking another inch.

Dean gasps, using all his self-control to keep his hip still. Cas rewards this by rubbing little circles with his thumbs where his hands grip Dean’s thighs. It only serves to string Dean out further, his mind torn between the different sensations.

Cas bobs his head painstakingly slowly, pushing his hand up Dean’s abdomen, the other sinking down the hook on the inside of Dean’s knee. His mind clouds over, letting out a drawn-out groan, his head flinging back, face heavenward. Cas picks up speed and works him over with the fever of a guilty priest praying at the altar, sucking hard on every upstroke while his fingers dig into the muscles of Dean’s thigh.

On one particularly haste pass, Dean’s cock hits the back of Cas’ throat, sending an intoxicating pulse through the base of Dean’s spine. Pleasure coiling in his gut at a frightening pace.

“No- wait, don’t wanna come yet. Cas, need you,” Dean pants, grabbing at Cas’ shoulders. Cas pops off, an obscene line of spit connecting his swollen red lips to Dean’s dick. Cas’ wet eyes are half-lidded and dark, desire and want floating beneath the surface.

The sight almost pushes Dean over the edge.

“Top drawer. Oil,” Dean says breathlessly, feeling winded. Cas nods, getting up to grab it, and Dean takes the reprieve to catch his breath, his arms dropping on the sheets heavily.

Unsubtly, Dean’s gaze rakes over Cas’ near-naked form, the soft morning light pouring in from the window catching flecks of dust in its rays and painting over Cas’ tanned skin, the sharp lines of his hip bones disappearing into the pants he wore to bed last night. Cas’ hair is wrecked from where Dean’s hands have been running through it, a thin layer of sweat glistening on his chest and stomach.

Cas pauses over him, staring back just as intensely, veneration looming in his eyes.

“Look at you,” Cas says softly, dipping down to brush his lips against Dean’s ear, “all laid out, just for me. Tell me what you need, doll.” Dean’s breath hitches, his legs latching around Cas’ waist, pulling Cas closer until the bulge in his pants is brushing against Dean’s bare dick. Dean whines at the sudden rough friction.

“Let me feel you,” Dean gasps, fumbling with Cas’ waistband, “need you inside me.” Cas groans when Dean bucks up, bringing them together, his forehead landing roughly on Dean’s collarbone.

“You’re gonna ruin me, Dean,” Cas grunts, his hand tightening around the back of Dean’s neck. Cas quickly sheds the final layers and, in a swift movement that sends Dean’s head spinning, grinds their bare cocks together.

Cas captures his lips, kissing him so thoroughly the Dean doesn’t hear the pop of the cap or the shift of Cas’ weight. Only when he feels Cas’ slick fingers circling his rim does his brain return to his body. Cas swallows the needy whine Dean gives when the first knuckle breaches his hole, the all-encompassing sensation of Cas’ lips blocking out any twinge of discomfort.

The slow drag of the singular digit steadily turns to two, then three, until Dean’s writhing against the mattress and trying his best to fuck himself down on Cas’ fingers, chasing after the feeling building in his lower stomach. Dean barely catches the pleased smirk dancing on Cas’ lips, clearly enjoying the slow torture of taking Dean apart with just his fingers.

“I’m good. That’s good, Cas. Please, need your cock,” Dean moans, scrunching up his eyes, his mouth parting, “need you so bad.” The hollow feeling Cas’ fingers leave behind once they’re gone forces a whine out of Dean, his hole fluttering around the cold bedroom air.

Cas slicks up his own length, choking on a grunt, before gripping Dean’s hips and holding him still while he lines up his dick with Dean’s rim. Cas mutters soft words of encouragement as the head of his cock pushes past the first ring of muscle.

“You’re doing so well for me,” Cas says, soft lips kissing down Dean’s neck as he slowly pushes in until he’s fully sheathed. “You take me so well.”

Dean groans, caught between the hot stretch and the way his stomach tightens at the praise. As the seconds drag on, the ache fades to pleasure, every shift from Cas sending unworldly heat straight to Dean’s throbbing dick.

“Move,” Dean says desperately, clutching Cas’ shoulders, his nails dragging down his back. Cas pulls out almost all the way before snapping his hips forward, carrying a stilted moan out of the both of them.

Dean finds it hard to concentrate on anything other than the perfect meld of their bodies, his hips arching up to meet Cas’ on every thrust. Dean’s heels dig into Cas’ lower back, their lips hovering an inch apart, unable to keep them together with how hard they’re panting.

Cas grabs Dean’s left knee, hitching it up a little higher, and suddenly sparks are flying behind his eyes as Cas’ cock slams into that one bundle of nerves.

“Holy- fuck. Oh my god, Cas. Fuck,” Dean moans, eyes rolling into the back of his head, choking on his words as Cas keeps up the angle, hitting the same spot again and again.

Cas is letting out breathless sounds at every roll of his hips, a pink flush working its way down his neck, shoulders, and chest, and inching toward where they’re joined. It contrasts beautifully with the peeking ink of his tattoo.

Dean is chanting Cas’ name like a desperate prayer, over and over, his voice broken and wrecked even to his own ears. The hot, slick glide of their bodies encompasses him, and the sharp sound of Cas’ hips slapping against Dean’s ass echoes off the walls. Cas uses Dean’s shoulders to leverage himself, driving him harder and faster each time.

Somewhere in the mix, Cas got his hand back on Dean’s dick, sweat and precome easing the glide, pumping it in time with each rolling push into Dean’s hole.

It’s too much, he can’t- He’s-

“Cas, I’m gonna-” Dean stutters out, mind too bursting with pleasure and heat to form coherent sentences, “Please.”

“Come for me, doll,” Cas growls, grabbing Dean’s hand, lacing their fingers together, and pinning it to the mattress. The gesture leaves Dean raw and exposed, serving as the last push needed to snap the taught string in his gut.

Dean cries out, his vision going white, his body locking up as his orgasm rocks through him. Come shoots in thick ropes up his stomach, hot and sticky on his tensed muscles. Static and pleasure course in his veins, his skin alight with divine sensitivity.

It’s all he can do to clutch Cas’ hand, Dean’s hole spasming around his cock, and then Cas falters before coming with his own broken moan. Dean purposefully takes in his face, committing the expression of unadulterated pleasure on Cas’ face to memory.

Cas works them both through it with uneven thrusts, prolonging the high, before slumping forward in a boneless heap, smearing sweat and come over both their chests but neither notice. Cas breathes heavily in his ear, his stubble rubbing against the bolt of Dean’s jaw.

Dean breaks one of his hands free from Cas’ death grip to cradle the back of Cas’ head and press a brief kiss into his damp hair. Dean’s eyes flutter closed, his mind and muscles turning to goo, as a long-forgotten bone-deep sense of relaxation sedates him.

Cas’ weight bearing down on him settles a restless stir in his chest that he hadn’t realized was there until it’s gone, replacing it with a content floating sensation.

-

The first half of the morning is lost between Dean’s sheets, both too busy basking in each other’s body heat and the exhilaration of kindling a new relationship. It’s well past noon when Cas, having the stronger willpower out of the two of them, drags them both out of bed.

Dean relieves himself while Cas wanders to the kitchen to throw together sandwiches with whatever spare ingredients he can find in the fridge. It’s quite the sight Dean walks in on Cas, still shirtless, standing in the middle of his kitchen cutting up a tomato. The radio sings to the room while he works.

The rush of fondness that hits him leaves him reeling and stuck in the archway for several long seconds before he can enter the room.

Dean, unable to resist a golden opportunity when it’s presented to him, presses himself up against Cas’ back, hooking his chin over Cas’ shoulder to watch him cut another slice of the vegetable. Dean lazily kisses Cas’ neck, lips tracing the lines of his tattoo down his shoulder, contently tightening his arms around his waist.

If Dean could freeze this moment and live here forever, he would. Cas’ shoulder blades press into Dean’s collarbones, warmth ebbing into his skin.

He wouldn’t trade his job for the world. Saving people, solving cases. It’s what he was made for. But after a lifetime of chopping at the bit for more evidence, more information, more clues, it starts to wear on a person. An unstoppable forward momentum, constantly hurtling toward the next victim, the next perpetrator.

There’s so much corruption in this city that sometimes Dean feels like he’s drowning in it, one wrong step, and he’ll be drug under the riptide. A constant, vicious game of survival of the fittest.

But here? Standing in his tiny kitchen with his skin melded to Cas’ and his bones settled in a way they’ve never been before? The rest of the world falls away. It’s just him, Cas, and this newfound hope for something better.

He could get used to this.

Dean’s hand travels up Cas’ abdomen to his chest, fingers possessively splayed and heart still skipping a beat from being allowed to.

“Dean?”

“Yeah?” Dean asks sleepily, his lips still pressed to Cas’ skin.

“Are you trying to get us back to bed, doll? Because you’re being very distracting,” Cas says, amusement tinting his voice. Dean’s cheeks heat up as he buries his face further into Cas’ shoulder.

“No,” Dean mutters, smiling despite himself. Cas makes a noise like he doesn’t believe him but continues making their lunch anyway. Dean lets his eyes slip closed, leaning heavily on Cas and rocking them gently to the tune playing on the radio.

“Why haven’t you heard?” Dean sings softly, feeling drunk on the warmth in his chest, “I married an angel.” Dean hums to the trumpets in the background, nuzzling his nose against the muscles underneath him.

Dean hears Cas sigh and put down the knife he’s holding before spinning around in his arms and pressing a soft kiss to Dean’s lips. Dean breathes in through his nose, surprised but unhesitantly kisses back, digging his fingers into Cas’ hips.

“I’m never going to get anything done anymore, am I?” Cas asks, but he’s smiling broadly against Dean’s mouth.

Dean hums, pretending to think the question over before shrugging unapologetically, “probably not.”

“What a bummer,” Cas says, not sounding put out at all. His hands trail over Dean’s sides, pausing at his ribs, “How you feel?”

“Well they certainly aren’t doing better.”

The whole left side of his rib cage feels mildly stiff, like he worked the muscles there too hard, and they’re definitely letting him know about it, but he didn’t tear his stitches, so he’ll count that as a win.

“I’m sorry-”

Dean cuts him off with an abrupt snort.

“Can it, Cas. You don’t get to say you’re sorry for making me come harder than I have in years.” It’s Cas’ turn to blush this time, making pride swell in Dean’s chest at the sight. He put that color on Cas’ cheeks.

Cas backs him up with a hand on Dean’s hip, his other lacing their fingers together. Before Dean can question him, Cas is rocking them in time with the slow beat coming from the speakers.

A stupidly wide grin breaks out on Dean’s face before he can control himself. Cas spins them in the middle of the room, Dean narrowly avoiding clumsily stepping on Cas’ toes.

“Cas, no-” Dean cuts himself off as an uncontrollable burst of laughter overtakes him, “Stop it. You’re so corny.” A pleased smirk dances across Cas’ lips before he flings Dean a few feet out and spins him.

“Cas,” Dean whines, a fierce blush burning his cheeks. Cas catches him easily when Dean comes back around, pressing him close into his chest, effectively shielded from the rest of the room and entrapped in Cas’ embrace.

Cas smiles at him, a bright and gorgeous little thing, the expression creasing the corners of his eyes and pulling up his cheekbones. Dean cradles his jaw, leaning their foreheads together and brushing their noses, an almost kiss but not quite.

“You’re beautiful,” Dean whispers against Cas’ lips, stolen words just for them. He feels Cas’ grin widen more than he sees it.

“You’re pretty easy on the eyes yourself.” Dean hums as Cas finally, finally, presses their lips together. The kiss made infinitely more satisfying from the teasing. Their lips part open, turning it hot and slow, and Dean melts against him, relaxing in the safety it brings him to be wrapped in Cas’ arms.

It feels like coming home.

-

“I don’t like this,” Cas says, narrowing his eyes at Dean, a deep frown tugging at his lips.

“It’s just for a few hours, I can’t abandon my job forever, Cas,” Dean says, leaning into Cas’s space, hoping to soften the blow of leaving. He shudders, just thinking about the pile of paperwork that’s probably waiting for him on his desk.

“Promise me you’ll be back for dinner.”

Dean smiles at him mischievously, sliding his hands underneath Cas’ shirt, unable to keep his hands to himself.

“You sound like a nervous housewife, Cas.”

Cas glares at him, grip unwavering on his hand and clearly not letting him leave until he agrees.

With a heavy, over-dramatic sigh, Dean concedes, “I promise.”

Cas squints at him, looking unhappy about what he says next, “Fine, I guess you can go.”

“Thank you,” Dean says, grinning wildly before leaning in to press a quick kiss to Cas’ cheek and then, just because he can, another to his lips as well.

“Just don’t overdo it,” Cas warns against Dean’s lips, tugging at the back of his neck, bringing him back in again and again, the perfect mix of agitation and promise for later.

“I don’t know what you think I’m doing at the office that could possibly be any more strenuous than what we’ve been doing for the past couple hours,” Dean retorts, smiling into a kiss when Cas cuts him off.

Dean doesn’t realize they’re even moving until his back hits the wall next to the front door. He moans as Cas tangles his hand in his hair, easily working Dean’s mouth open.

“Cas…” Dean whines, barely getting the words out between breaths. Cas hums, kissing down his neck as he pushes up the bottom of Dean’s shirt.

“You can’t-” Dean moans when Cas bites down on one of the marks he made earlier, “can’t play dirty.”

“I’m doing nothing of the sort,” Cas says, smirking against Dean’s skin like the smug fucker that he is. If it takes him an extra thirty minutes to leave the house, no one has to know.

-

With a heavy heart, Dean drags himself out of the apartment and into the bitter wind of the main street. The cold has begun to set in, the dry, lifeless leaves starting to fall from their branches, a dull gray lighting settling over every surface.

Dean pulls his leather jacket closer to him as a sudden breeze rips through the street, sending goosebumps down his neck. The jacket vaguely smells like Cas from when he had borrowed it to do a grocery run earlier in the week.

It sends a wave of pleasant shivers down his arms to think about how easily they had molded into each other’s lives in the span of just a few days.

It’s perfect coffee weather. Maybe he’ll grab two cups on the way home from that shop Cas practically lives at down the street.

He’s so caught up with his plans that he doesn’t notice the woman on the other side of the pavement until she calls out to him from a few feet away. It’s the newspaper woman he ran into the other day. The reminder of the article leaves a bad taste in his mouth, and he has to fight off a grimace as she sways her way over with an amused smirk.

“Hey! I knew I’d run into you again eventually,” Meg says sickly sweet, with a tilt of her head and an easy grin.

She’s wearing a dark blue dress with puffy sleeves and a hem that stops just below her knees; a short string of pearls decorates her neck. Just as dolled up as the last time he saw her and with the same aura of danger that seemed to proceed her.

He’s barely made it off the steps of his apartment building, and he can’t help but be thankful she didn’t catch him a few minutes earlier. Something tells him this isn’t the kind of woman he wants to know where he lives.

“Yeah, what a small world, huh?” he plays along, scratching the back of his neck, suddenly very interested in a plastic wrapper that’s gotten kicked under a nearby bush.

“Or it’s fate trying to tell us something,” She says flirtatiously, stepping into his space. Dean instinctively takes one back, nearly tripping on a crack in the sidewalk. Dean laughs nervously, trying to cover up his uneasiness while trying to scrounge up a way out of this conversation. Several people are walking past them, and he weakly wishes he could join them.

“I was actually on the way to work, so I should probably shake a leg,” Dean says, riding the razor-sharp edge of trying to get rid of her without insulting her.

“Oh, I’m sure you’re very busy with all your important investigations,” Meg says, brushing a stray lock of hair off her forehead, “but I was wondering if maybe you wanted to get dinner sometime?”

Jesus Christ, this is exactly what he wanted to avoid. Dean smiles apologetically at her, bracing himself for the unpleasant reactions that always follow rejection.

“I can’t, I’m sorry,” he says. His mind unhelpfully produces an image from earlier of Cas on his knees, looking up at him, and although they haven’t sorted out whatever is going on between them yet, it serves as good of an excuse as any when he says, “I’m going steady with someone else.”

Although, instead of the look of hurt or sadness he was expecting, Meg only raises her eyebrow and makes a noise of intrigue.

“Oh? Interesting…” She says, the words curiously rolling off her tongue. Her tone makes him want to crawl out of his skin, and the look she’s directing at him is somewhat akin to how a tiger would eye fresh meat.

Something is not right here. Something is horribly wrong with this order of events, and he wants nothing to do with whatever this strange woman is getting at.

“Well,” Dean starts, itching to get out from under her critical stare, “like I said, I need to get going.”

She nods somewhat reluctantly before offering her hand out as a goodbye. Dean shakes it just to be polite, but she holds on for a second too long, her bony fingers clutching just a little too tight.

“Of course. See you around, Dean.” He unceremoniously yanks his hand away, feeling considerably unnerved.

I sure fucking hope not, Dean thinks, giving her a tight smile and narrowly resisting the urge to wipe his hand off on his jacket as he briskly walks away.

-

The bureau is in complete disarray when Dean arrives some fifteen minutes later. Paperwork is piled on every desk in the office, half of the blinds haven’t been drawn despite it being well into the afternoon, and the sight of several empty chairs puts a pit in Dean’s stomach.

None of the casualties were from their sector, but a handful of agents had been injured in the explosion. It only adds fuel to the fire under Dean’s ass to catch the bastard behind all this.

He finds Charlie and Benny camped out in the conference room, all of their evidence still strung up on the corkboard in the corner. Somehow there’s even more paper scattered on the table than the last time he was here.

He knocks on the doorframe, both their heads snapping up toward him.

“Dean?” Charlie asks, already out of her seat and crossing the room. She has a small cut above her eyebrow that hasn’t fully healed yet, but other than that, she seems unscathed.

Over a phone call earlier that week to exchange details for the case, she told him she was fine, but it settles some of the worry that was festering in his chest to see her in person.

“Surprise,” Dean says dryly, glancing over toward Benny, who hasn’t moved, and meets his gaze with an unreadable expression, “How’s it going, partner?”

Benny frowns and opens his mouth, but Charlie beats him to the punch. “There’s been a huge break in the case!”

Dean’s eyes widen, brows raising, “There has?”

Charlie shuffles through some of the papers before snatching one up with a triumphant sound, rattling the page in front of Dean’s face until he takes it. It looks to be some kind of lab screening.

“So,” Charlie starts, taking a deep breath, clearly trying to contain herself, “the explosives used in the fire were ran through a bunch of tests, right? Turns out one of the chemicals used to build them is only produced in one warehouse in the city.”

Charlie shoves another document into his hands; this one looks like an inventory sheet for a business.

“And guess what? It’s privately owned! Under one man named, you guessed it, Crowley MacLead,” She says, practically vibrating in place with excess energy.

During their phone call, Dean had explained Crowley’s connection to the case, finally giving them the manpower they needed to cover some ground on the murders now that the perp was involved in something so close to the public eye. It explains why this lab screening got processed so quickly.

“We’re getting a warrant together but it could take a few days, even with being expedited.”

Dean frowns at this, his excitement toward closing the case squashed by a sudden realization.

“And when was I supposed to find out about this?” Dean asks, gesturing toward the papers and trying to stamp down the flash of hurt that clouds his thoughts.

Charlie gives him her best ‘don’t look at me’ expression. “I wanted to tell you but Bobby gave me direct orders not to say anything. He said you needed to fully recover and you wouldn’t let yourself if you found out.”

“Damn right I wouldn’t,” Dean says, glaring at her, “this is huge, Charlie!”

“Orders are orders, Dean. You know this,” She sighs, refusing to meet his eyes.

“Has there at least been surveillance kept on the building?” Dean asks, taking pity on her guilty expression.

“Yeah, for an automated factory there’s an awful lot of foot traffic,” Charlie says, relieved for the out, looking over her shoulder before leaning and speaking more quietly, “Personally, I think it might be their headquarters.”

Dean’s head jerks back in surprise.

“I looked up the address and it’s only a few blocks away from the speakeasy. It’s sitting right on top of a hub of abandoned tracks. It would offer unrestricted access to more than half the city.”

Dean whistles lowly, taking in the new information in a mild daze. After so long of scraping up evidence from the bottle of a barrel, the ever-meticulous Crowley finally made a mistake. They always do.

“Are they planning to breach it?” Dean asks, his heart rate picking up at just the thought.

Charlie nods excitedly. “They’re pulling the whole dep together. We even have a few guys coming down from the capital for backup.”

Dean clenches his fist to tamp down the way it shakes, unable to keep the wicked grin from growing on his face.

“We’re so close to closing this case and catching those bastards. I can taste it,” Charlie says.

“That’s only if the judge approves the warrant,” Benny says, finally speaking up from his stack of papers. Charlie rolls her eyes.

“Of course they will. We’ve gotten warrants on less evidence and this is more than damning.”

Benny scoffs, glaring down at his files.

Dean shoots Charlie a confused look, and she rolls her eyes again, leaning in to whisper, “I don’t know what crawled up his ass and died, but he’s been in a bad mood the past couple days. Maybe you can figure out what’s wrong?”

She claps Dean’s shoulder before escaping under the guise of more shitty office coffee. Dean sighs, dropping into the chair across from Benny, leaning his elbows on the table.

“How’s it going? Feel like I haven’t seen you in ages, let alone had a proper conversation with you,” Dean says.

Benny raises an eyebrow at him, “I could say the same for you, partner. For someone who seems to have all the answers, you sure have been absent from this case.” Dean purses his lips.

“I’ve just been working on my own time, you know how I get with this stuff. Like a dog with a bone.”

“That hasn’t kept you from calling me at all hours of the night before. I’m starting to feel like there’s a reason you’re keeping me at arm’s length,” Benny says, narrowing his eyes, “You don’t trust me or something?”

“What?” Dean asks, mouth parting in shock, “No! Of course not. It’s nothing like that. Of course I trust you, Benny. You’re my right hand guy.”

Benny makes a disbelieving sound, chewing on his lip before speaking.

“I just wanna know that if the time comes, you’ll have my back.”

Dean’s brows furrow, and he shifts closer in his seat.

“What’s this about? Did something happen with your better half or…?”

“Do you trust me?” Benny pushes with an unwavering gaze.

“With my life,” Dean says without hesitation, torn between wanting to reassure his friend and wanting to figure out what’s actually wrong.

“Good.” And with that, Benny abruptly stands from the table, leaving the room before Dean even has the mind to call after him. Dean’s left with the inexplicable feeling of having said something wrong.

Dean finds himself staying behind a few more hours just to solidify some stray details about his encounter with Crowley with Charlie and catch up on the news he’s missed during his leave. Though, he keeps an eye on the time, careful not to get carried away with his job like he’s so often prone to. It gets to the point that even Charlie notices how often he glances at the clock.

“You got plans? Don’t let me keep you,” Charlie asks, a conspiring glint in her eyes, “You’re not even supposed to be here for another week.”

Benny is still nowhere to be found, and the three cups of coffee Charlie returned with have long since gone cold. Slowly, the noise coming from the main office space trickles down to the occasional chair squeak and ‘see you tomorrow’ as the rest of the agents clock out.

“Ah,” Dean hesitates, scratching his neck while trying to come up with a convincing lie, “you know, I gotta get back in time to take my pain meds.”

Charlie narrows her eyes. “The meds you spent thirty minutes complaining about not working the other day?” Charlie asks with a raised brow.

“Well they don’t not work-”

“Cough it up, who are you meeting?” Charlie asks, and then- because she was always too smart for her own good- “is it Cas?”

“What? No,” Dean denies instinctually, tone painfully unconvincing.

“Don’t make me call Bobby in here to pry it out of you.”

“That’s below the belt, even for you, Bradbury.”

Charlie continues to stare, her scrutinizing gaze unrelenting.

“Okay, fine. He’s been staying over the past couple days to make sure I don’t keel over and die. Happy?”

“And?” Charlie presses because she’s never good at dropping the subject when Dean doesn’t want to discuss it.

“And what Charlie? You want to hear about us bill and cooing? Is that it?”

Charlie gasps, doing a weird little dance move,” I knew it! I knew there was something up with you two.”

“Pipe down!” Dean snaps, glancing toward the rest of the office out of habit, “It’s all still fresh, we haven’t really talked anything out yet.”

“I can still be happy for you,” Charlie says in a rare moment of sincerity, looking like she wants to hug him.

Just as Dean is about to leave the sentimentality for someone else, she speaks again, “maybe now you’ll relax a little.”

Dean scrunches his nose up when she wiggles her eyebrows at him, clearly being suggestive.

“I am not having this conversation right now.”

-

On the way home, Dean ends up grabbing those two coffees from the coffee shop, and it’s only halfway back to the apartment that he realizes he’s been humming under his breath the whole time. He tries to fight off the idiotic grin on his face, but then he thinks of Cas waiting for him and ends up smiling harder.

“Cas,” Dean calls out as he shuts the door behind him, hanging up his keys and shuffling the drinks he’d been balancing in one arm.

“I have a surprise,” Dean says, grinning to himself as he toes off his shoes and glances down the hall. A soft glow flows into the hall from the kitchen light, leading Dean further into the apartment. Dean’s socked feet pad softly against the wooden floor, a dull sound that mixes with the buzz of the radio softly playing from the kitchen.

“Sweetheart?” Dean asks, slipping through the archway. The kitchen is empty, though. Dean sets both coffees down on the counter, frowning at the abandoned cutting board, a bell pepper halfway chopped. Spinning back around, Dean peeks into the living room, empty. The bedroom, empty. So is the bathroom.

“Cas?” Dean calls out, panic spearing through his chest. Glancing back toward the front door, he notices Cas’ keys and wallet still sitting on the entryway table, but more importantly, he sees something he didn’t notice before. A hole in the wall behind the door, where the doorknob has smashed into it.

“No,” Dean hears himself whisper, numbly walking closer, his throat closing up. Dark red drips from the corner of the table that he hadn’t looked at on his way in. When his fingers brush against it, they come away wet and crimson.

The realization comes crashing down on him, ripping the air from his lungs and sending an uncontrollable tremor through his hands and knees. The floor opens up from underneath him.

Cas is gone.

Cas was taken.

Chapter Text

“Cas, I really have to leave.”

Cas responds by pressing another kiss to Dean’s stomach, lips exploring every new inch of skin revealed as he rucks up Dean’s shirt.

He can feel Dean’s muscles contract and jolt at every touch, shivering violently when Cas licks a strip of skin right above his boxers.

“You shouldn’t be leaving at all,” Cas argues, thinking back to the puffy edges of Dean’s sutures when he was replacing the bandages earlier.

“You already agreed to let me go,” Dean whines, his head falling back against the wall when Cas takes a nipple in his mouth, laving at it with his tongue, “I don’t- ah- don’t know why we’re still having this discussion.”

“You’re free to leave at any time,” Cas says with a raised eyebrow, watching Dean’s pupils dilate at the challenging expression. He files that reaction away for later. Cas sinks down, his knees digging into the hardwood floor, making quick work of Dean’s belt and letting his trousers drop unceremoniously to the floor.

“Would you like me to stop?” Cas asks, mischievously punctuating his question with a hot breath over the bulge growing beneath the final layer of fabric. His hands dig into the meat of Dean’s thighs when his hips jerk forward, chasing after the sensation.

Dean looks so perfect like this, sunk against the wall, his mouth open as short, fast breaths escape, squeezing his eyes shut as he desperately tries to reason with himself through the pleasure. He’s gorgeous. Cas presses slow kisses to the inside of Dean’s thighs, nibbling little bites of flesh between his teeth before licking over the angry red skin.

“I need a response, doll. I’ll give you anything you want. You just have to ask for it.” Cas looks up at him through his lashes, mouth slightly parted, and deeply pleased by the way Dean squirms underneath his attention.

“Please,” Dean gasps finally, his hands tangling through Cas’ hair and yanking, “Please, Cas.” He trails his hands around the back of Dean’s legs, his fingers slipping under his boxers to clutch at his ass, kneading the muscles.

“Please what?” Cas asks, glancing at the wet spot beginning to form on the front of Dean’s boxers. He licks his lips reflexively.

“Need your mouth, holy- please. Cas. Castiel,” Dean moans, the words coming out in a rush, all haphazardly strung together.

“Good boy,” Cas says proudly. Cas doesn’t hesitate to shove down the fabric, quickly joining the heap on the floor.

Dean’s dick springs free, curling up toward his stomach. Cas lightly kisses the prominent vein on the underside, hungry for the tiny noises Dean makes each time. Dean groans loudly when Cas finally takes him in his hand, smearing precum from the head down the base at a painstaking pace. Dean’s knees wobble, and Cas uses his free hand to push his hip back, supporting some of his weight.

“Cas,” Dean pleads mindlessly. Taking mercy on him, Cas finally wraps his lips around the head, swirling his tongue around it before licking down the slit while his hand tugs at the base. Dean’s breath catches, his hands pulling harder at Cas’ hair than before, his hips trying to cant forward but unable to.

Without further warning, Cas breathes in deeply, loosens his jaw, and sinks down the rest of the way, hollowing his cheeks as he goes and using his newly freed hand to join in holding Dean up against the wall.

Dean whines loud and desperate enough that Cas is sure he will get noise complaints for the next few days. Cas pulls back, relishing in the heavy weight on his tongue and the warm salty taste spreading in his mouth, before sinking down again, settling a slow, brutal pace that has Dean coming apart from under him.

Cas takes one of the hands pulling at his hair, and moves it to his cheek, letting Dean feel the way it stretches around himself obscenely. This gets the exact reaction he wanted as Dean gasps, his hips stuttering while a strained curse fumbles out of his mouth.

Every strangled cry from Dean makes the space below Cas’ navel clench. He rubs a hand against his neglected cock that’s currently straining against the fabric of his jeans just to relieve some of the pressure. Cas replies in a pleased hum, knowing full well that the vibrations will drive Dean crazy.

He picks up speed, noticing Dean’s breath steadily growing more uneven, his hand shaking from where it’s slid down Cas’ cheek to clutch his jaw. Dean’s hips snap forward too far once, jolting Cas backward as he chokes a little and tries to catch his breath.

“Sorry, I’m sorry,” Dean rushes out, cradling Cas’ cheeks and wiping away the tears that had started to fall.

Cas pulls off with a loud ‘pop,’ glaring up at him as he breathes heavily, “Behave.”

“I’m sorry,” Dean repeats, looking thoroughly guilty. His fingers toy with Cas’ lips, now red, slick, and swollen from the abuse.

“Come ‘ere,” Dean slurs, tugging at Cas’ shirt until he follows, standing and easily linking their mouths together. Cas swirls their tongues together in a filthy mix of spit, sweat, and precum that shouldn’t be turning him on as much as it is.

He belatedly realizes Dean is undoing his belt buckle, shoving Cas’ jeans and boxer briefs down to the floor to join his own. Cas barely gets in a shaky inhale before Dean wraps a warm hand around his dick, his tongue still lost halfway down Cas’ throat.

Cas breaks the kiss as a spike of pleasure runs down his spine, “Dean. Fuck- Dean.” He slumps forward, pressing his forehead against Dean’s shoulder, hot fast breaths bouncing off the skin.

The raw, dry friction is almost too much when Dean grinds them together, punching startled groans out of the both of them.

Cas picks his head up, watching the way Dean’s bright green eyes follow his every move, the dark pupils threatening to swallow the final ring of color left in them. Cas lifts his hand to Dean’s mouth, his palm facing him.

“Lick.” Eagerly, Dean takes Cas’ wrist, holding it still while his tongue works over the skin coating it in spit. It sends heat to Cas’ already achingly hard cock, how easily Dean follows instructions.

Cas lines their dicks together before grabbing them with his newly slick hand, rolling his hips, and giving them both the friction they’re desperate for. Dean’s head drops back against the wall, a low strangled sound clawing out of his throat.

Dean works his hands under the thin fabric of Cas’ shirt, dull fingernails scraping against the muscles in his back, digging new marks on top of the ones Cas knows are already there. Cas rolls his hips, fucking into the tight heat of his fist alongside Dean’s dick. Cas seals their lips together in a sloppy open-mouth kiss that eventually deteriorates into them panting heavily into the other’s mouth while they rut against each other at a desperate pace.

“Dean, Dean.” Cas can barely hear the chant of his own voice over to rush in his ears, halfway delirious and lost in the pleasure of chasing after the high. Dean’s hand joins his own, closing the circle of their fists and adding to the frightening speed Cas is careening toward his climax.

Dean bites down on Cas’ earlobe, licking the thin, sensitive skin right below it. Cas’ hand cups the back of Dean’s neck, holding him against him while Cas’ head tips backward, looking toward the ceiling unseeingly.

Dean’s hand squeezes tighter around their dicks, rubbing the heads together, their conjoined precum easing the glide as the spit begins to dry. Cas lets out a low, strangled moan, slamming his eyes shut as the sensation overwhelms him.

“I got you, sweetheart,” Dean says, out of breath, his lips bumping against the outer shell of Cas’ ear, “I got you. Come for me, sweetheart.”

And then Cas is coming; hot and white pleasure burns up his stomach and chest, taking away his already short and frenzied breath. Through the hum in his ears, Cas hears Dean’s long, drawn-out groans, the stripes of come splashed against their chests barely registering in Cas’ mind.

Dean’s head drops down onto Cas’ shoulder, completely spent, the fabric of Cas’ shirt sticking to his forehead. Cas collapses against the other man, sandwiching him between his body and the wall as they both come down.

Cas’ open lips press against the side of Dean’s head, seeking closeness, not really a kiss, but the intention of the gesture is the same. Dean wipes his sticky hand off on Cas’ shirt, ruining it even further.

“You didn’t,” Cas says, playful annoyance rising in his tone.

Dean huffs a laugh, unmoving from where he’s hidden in Cas’ neck, “That’s what you get for keeping me here.” Cas scoffs, lightly tugging Dean’s hair and manhandling him into looking at him. Dean has a dazed but sly grin on his face.

“I’m gonna end you,” Cas threatens while brushing his nose against Dean’s cheek. Dean snorts, jostling both of them with the abruptness of the movement.

“Okay, Sherlock. Have fun hiding the body.”

“I’ll have you know I’m very knowledgeable of the criminal justice system,” Cas argues, his stomach swooping when Dean smiles against his lips.

Dean only hums in response, clearly indulging him, before pressing their lips together for a chaste but sweet kiss. Dean sighs into it, his shoulders relaxing into the wall behind him.

“Okay, now I’m going,” Dean says once they break apart, pushing against Cas’ chest.

“Are you sure?” Cas asks, teasingly leaning back in.

“Oh no, you don’t, Casanova,” Dean says through a laugh, quickly slipping out of Cas’ reach, “I’m 27, not 17. I am taking a shower, and then I’m leaving because I’m a responsible adult.”

Cas laughs as Dean shuts the bathroom door in his face.

-

The dull sound of the knife hitting the wooden cutting board echoes through the kitchen as Cas slices into a pepper. The kitchen radio fills the silence in between the cuts.

When he glances at the clock on the wall, it tells him Dean should be home soon, and the thought fills his chest with warmth.

Cas imagines he’ll have to return to his townhouse soon once Dean is healed, but he enjoys the peace of sleeping here while he can. The peace of knowing Dean is right down the hall, safe and within reach. Objectively Cas' place is nicer, it’s bigger and closer to his office that he hasn’t been to in over a week, but Dean’s apartment has… well, Dean. Houseplants can only fill the hole of solitude so far, and passing ‘hello’s to his neighbors hardly fills the human quota for social interaction.

The sound of a knock at the door rips him out of his thoughts. Cas wipes his hands on a towel hanging from the stove before going to answer it. He squints into the peephole suspiciously. He can’t be too careful after all the danger they’ve faced recently.

To his surprise, the person through the glass is no other than Dean himself.

Cas opens the door, a smile already working its way onto his face.

“You forget your keys?” Cas asks, huffing a laugh and stepping aside.

Dean grins at him as he follows him inside the apartment, “Something like that.” Cas’ brows furrow in confusion, glancing toward the hook near the door, but the keys aren’t where Dean would have left them.

“Did you lose them?” Cas asks, tilting his head to the side. Dean’s hands grab Cas’ hips once he’s in range. The pressure just a little too strong.

“Dean?” Cas asks when Dean doesn’t respond immediately, concern tugging at his eyes and lips, “What’s wrong, doll?”

Cas lifts his hand to cup Dean’s cheek, gently rubbing his thumb across the skin below his eye. Dean doesn’t lean into the touch like he has every other time Cas has done it.

“I just wanted to say thank you.”

“Thank you? For what?” Cas has never been more confused, but before he can ask anything else, Dean leans in, sealing their lips together, shoving Cas back and back until he hits a wall.

“Wait,” Cas tries to say, but the word gets smothered by Dean’s lips.

Cas pushes at Dean’s shoulder, trying to get enough space to talk, when his fingers brush against the area where Dean’s stitches are. Except they’re not. All he feels is smooth, unbroken skin.

Cas freezes, mind screeching to a stop as he touches the space again and gets the same result. Cas’ thoughts come back online just enough to forcefully shove Dean away, eyes snapping down to his neck. The wound is gone, not even a scar.

“Thank you,” Dean says, his eyes empty of their usual warmth and sending a pit into Cas’ stomach, “for making this so easy.”

Dean’s hand rests against Cas’ neck, fingers draped over his pulse, and as he moves, the overhead hallway light catches his eyes.

They glint an unnatural silver.

Cas puts the puzzle together a second too late, and by the time he figures it out, ‘Dean’ is tossing him across the room by his neck with inhuman strength.

Cas’ back collides with the sharp edges of the entry table as he lands on the floor. He tries to get to his feet, but fake Dean is already on him, lifting him by his collar and jerking him forward. Cas tries to wrench out of the grasp, but the other is too strong, his skin made of stone and his fingers closing around Cas’ windpipes with a force that threatens to crush.

“You’re not him,” Cas chokes out, fingers clawing at ‘Dean’s forearms, but they don’t even draw blood.

He laughs loud, cruel, and humorlessly before Cas is thrown to the side again as though he weighs nothing more than a stone. He falls through the air for a stomach-lurching second, the world slowing around him, before his head hits something behind him.

The last thing he sees is cold green eyes, and then it’s all black.

Chapter Text

Dean doesn’t honestly remember the trip to the bureau.

He’s only aware of the blood dried into his fingerprints and the unevenly cracked pavement below him. He stumbles through the double-wide glass doors on unsteady feet, letting the handles take the brunt of his weight.

He feels like he’s going to be sick. His head is pounding, and his vision is blurry. He can hear voices, but they sound far away. He tries to focus on the task at hand, but it’s difficult.

Only an hour or so has passed since he’d left, but the rest of the office has emptied considerably. The few lit desk lamps bathe the precinct in a haunting dull glow.

He stands there for several long seconds, his breathing shallow, his palms sweaty. His mind is full of so many racing thoughts that it’s hard to pluck any single one out of the whirlpool to follow through with.

Help. It’s the only thought he can hold onto. He has to find help.

He finds himself in the doorway of Bobby’s office, but the room is empty, his coat missing from the back of his chair, the man clearly clocked out for the day.

“Dean?” A voice calls from behind him. Benny stands there with a confused expression, his anger from their past conversation nowhere to be seen.

“Benny,” Dean breathes, relief flooding through him.

Benny will help. Benny will know what to do. All he needs is someone to tell him the next step because right now, all his thoughts of ‘what-ifs’ are trying to drown him, and his years of experience are useless in the face of the blind panic overtaking him.

“What’s wrong, Winchester? You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” Benny says, drawing closer, his brow raised.

“Cas’ been kidnapped,” Dean says, clenching his fists until the knuckles go white.

“Cas? You mean that guy who was with you at the party the other night?” Benny asks, his brow furrowing further in confusion.

“H-he was supposed to be waiting at my apartment but he was gone. He was taken,” Dean says, unable to keep his voice from shaking despite his best efforts.

“When was this?” Benny asks skeptically, pursing his lips.

“I don’t know? An hour ago? Listen, it doesn’t matter-”

“I don’t see how that qualifies as missing person, Dean,” Benny says hesitantly, scratching the back of his neck.

“There was blood, Benny! And damage to the wall by the door, I know he’s been kidnapped. Why don’t you trust me on this?” Dean asks, throwing his hands in the air.

“I don’t know if you’re seeing things clearly, Dean. Maybe you’re just upset because he didn’t tell you where he was going before he left.”

“I’m not upset, Benny. I’m worried!” Dean shouts. “And I know what I saw. There were clear signs of a struggle and I’m going to find him, with or without your help.”

“Dean, calm down. We can’t jump to any hasty conclusions. I mean-” Benny huffs a short, dry laugh, “The guy has only been gone, what? One hour? Two? Maybe wait it out, see if he returns.”

“I’m done talking, Benny,” Dean growls, his voice hoarse with unshed tears and frustration. “I’m going to find Cas and I’m going to kill whoever took him.”

-

He goes to the only other place he can think of for help.

When he knocks on the door, he half expects Jo to answer again, considering the late hour, but it’s a relief to be wrong when it’s Charlie who opens it. She stands on the other side of the doorway in well-worn pajamas, her unruly ginger hair pulled up in a messy updo, her finger holding her place in the half-finished book in her hands.

“Charlie,” Dean greets, a gruff, listless quality to his voice. Her brow furrows as she opens the door further, wordlessly inviting him in.

“Dean? She asks worriedly, grabbing his shoulder as he enters the apartment.

He doesn’t know how many more times he can take saying it out loud. It feels like a lie.

‘Cas is missing.’

It should be a lie. This shouldn’t be happening. Dean should’ve been there to stop it, to protect him. Dean doesn’t notice how fast he’s breathing until he feels lightheaded, leaning forward, hyperventilating.

“Dean. Dean, what’s wrong?” Charlie asks, shutting the door behind them.

“They took him,” he says hoarsely. “They took Cas.” His heart hammers in his chest. Every time the words leave his mouth, he feels like he’s reliving when he realized Cas was gone. A look of horror dawns on Charlie’s face, her skin going ashen.

“Oh, god,” she mutters, running a hand through her hair.

“They’re using him to get to me, Charlie. They took him because of me-”

“Dean, I need you to calm down and tell me what happened.” Charlie intersects, an expression of practiced neutrality settling on her face. The kind of face they use when they have to placate a grieving friend or family member. Having the look used on himself leaves a bad taste in his mouth.

Dean takes a deep breath and nods. The room spins around him unevenly.

“Right. You’re right. Sorry.” Dean roughly drags a hand over his face and slumps onto the couch behind him. Every effort he takes to collect himself slides out of place seconds later. His grasp on the world around him is something feeble and slicked with oil.

“Alright, give me the timeline,” Charlie prompts, determinedly meeting Dean’s eyes. Dean relays everything that had happened, from when he had left to when he had returned to find the apartment empty. It hurts to think about it, but at least someone believes him. At least they’re making progress.

“So, you think they took him to the warehouse?” Charlie asks once Dean’s trailed off, staring blankly at the floor beside his feet.

Dean sighs, breathing through the weight settled in his chest. “I think it’s our best shot.”

“Okay,” Charlie says, nodding resolutely. “Then that’s where we’re going. We just need to find a way to get inside.”

“And then what?”

“Then we find Cas and get him out of there,” Charlie says simply.

“But how?” Dean presses, sighing hard and closing his eyes.

“I don’t know,” Charlie confesses, pursing her lips. “But we’ll figure it out.”

It’s difficult to believe her, difficult to think there could be a way out of this. He’s seen enough of these situations between the mobs to know that this story typically has a bloody and violent ending. But when he looks into her eyes, he can see that she believes it can be done. He feels his own hope weakly flicker back to life, timid and dull but there nonetheless.

“Let’s draft a plan, gather our resources and we can attack tomorrow night.” She says resolutely. Panic surges in Dean’s chest at the thought of waiting that long.

“The longer we wait, the less chance that he makes it out of there alive.”

“If we go in there without a plan, none of us are getting out alive and what would that accomplish?”

Dean wants to argue, but even in his current state, he can recognize when his emotions cloud his logical train of thought. He can feel exhaustion tugging at the corners of his mind, slowing him down, weighing his limbs. He’s in no shape to carry out a rescue mission tonight.

Somewhat begrudgingly, Dean gives into Charlie’s plan, laying out all the information he has on the case now that he doesn’t have to tiptoe around the existence of the supernatural. He tells her everything he knows about them: normal bullets don’t hurt, there’s a lot of the fuckers, and they have a personal vendetta against the FBI. Dean grimaces as the words come out of his mouth.

Considering the odds, what they’re planning could easily be considered a suicide mission.

She takes the information with a surprising lack of resistance, and he thanks his lucky stars that she’s always been the open-minded type. He makes a mental note that drinks are on him for the rest of their lives if they survive past tomorrow.

“We can’t involve anyone else, or we risk getting thrown in the slammer,” Dean says, chewing on his lip while he thinks.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Charlie says, squinting. “Bobby, of all people, would understand.”

“We don’t have a warrant,” Dean lists off on his fingers, “We might be contaminating an ongoing investigation, and Cas isn’t even legally reported as missing.”

Charlie rubs her eyes, her head falling back onto the couch, “we can’t storm the castle with only two people.”

“We don’t have any other choice.”

She purses her lips, and Dean can see the gears whirling in her brain, but she remains otherwise silent, so he takes that as close to an agreement as he’s going to get.

The quiet takes over, the two of them sitting in a weighted silence, their thoughts the loudest thing in the room.

Dean knows he can’t go back to his empty apartment. He can’t go back to the blood by the door, the cutting board he never put away, and the sickly sweet tune he’s sure is still flowing through the kitchen. Can’t go back to his bed that smells like Cas.

He can’t, but Charlie doesn’t ask him to. A silent understanding passes between them when she disappears into her bedroom and returns with a pile of blankets and a spare pillow.

She leaves for the kitchen, and he can hear the tell-tale spin of the phone dial before her muffled voice speaks to the other end of the line. In her absence, he tiredly takes in the rest of the apartment.

There’s a half-empty beer bottle on the coffee table, Charlie’s book now discarded next to it, the page she left off on dog-eared. A candle burns on one of the windowsills, the jar three-quarters empty and getting dimmer by the minute. There’s a small plant next to it, but the leaves are dried and browning.

He can imagine the peaceful night she was having before he stormed in with the news and ruined it. It’s not his main source of guilt, but it definitely contributes to the steadily rising pile.

Dean’s eyes trail over to the cupboard beneath the radio, and the false wall he knows hides her ‘emergency’ booze. There’s only a fraction of hesitation before he crosses the room and grabs it. The liquor burns going down, but it’s a familiar feeling, one that has his posture relaxing further into the couch cushion.

He can still hear Charlie talking on the phone in the kitchen but not well enough to make out what she’s saying. He’s too tired to guess who she could be speaking to at this hour.

He’s unsure how much time passes before she returns, her voice startling him.

“Dean,” Charlie reprimands, glaring at him like a disappointed parent, “you should be trying to rest.”

“If I have to go to sleep tonight, there’s no chance in hell I’m doing it sober,” Dean scoffs, giving her a sidelong glance. She rolls her eyes but bids him goodnight quietly and shuts the bedroom door behind her, leaving him to his devices. Leaving him alone.

Staring at the ceiling fan from his sprawled position on the couch, Dean’s brain tortures him with every worst-case scenario it can conjure up.

He thinks of Cas being strung up and tortured. Cas beaten and bloodied, shouting for help, but the only answer being the echo of his own voice. Cas cold and alone in a dark room somewhere, not knowing if he’s going to die there, not knowing if help is on the way.

Dean thinks about being too late, only getting there in time to have Cas bleed out in his arms, helpless to save him.

What if Cas is already dead? What if they dumped his body in an alley already like they did Jody and any minute now, Dean’s going to get the phone call.

He can hear Bobby’s voice on the line telling him there’s been another. That it’s not another agent. This time, the victim has cold blue eyes, ruined black hair, and a set of decomposing wings on his back.

Dean takes another gulp from the bottle and doesn’t stop until it’s empty.

-

When Dean wakes up the following day, he’s disoriented and drained, but most noticeably, Charlie is gone. He has one dreading thought: maybe they got her too, before he sees the note tacked to the fridge explaining her absence.

Dean sighs in relief, his early morning grogginess returning now that the alarm bells have stopped ringing in his head. He mutters complaints under his breath as he turns on the coffee pot next to the stove, staring at it absentmindedly as the brew trickles down.

He thinks about Cas standing in his kitchen in the morning, glaring into an overly sweet cup of joe. Dean clears his throat, futilely shaking his head in a weak attempt to dispel his thoughts. Once his drink is made, he hovers by the phone, hesitating before spinning the dial.

After a short exchange with the phone operator, his brother’s voice enters the line.

“Hello?”

Dean winces. It would be so easy to tell Sam everything, to tell him what’s happened. But Dean knows, given the chance, Sam would want to help, and his brother doesn’t have the skillset for a situation like this. He’d never forgive himself if something happened to him.

“Hey, Sammy,” Dean says. His voice sounds weary even by his own standards. He prays to a god he doesn’t believe in that Sam doesn’t notice.

“Hey! How are you doing? Is everything healing like it should? You had better be replacing your bandages like the doctor said-”

Dean laughs into the speaker. The lighthearted noise sounds strange in the tensely quiet apartment.

“Yes, mother. I’m fine, just a little banged up. Haven’t torn my stitches yet so I’ve already exceeded expectations.”

Sam scoffs. “I’m sure that’s only because of Castiel keeping your ass in line.”

A strangled sound weasels its way out from Dean’s mouth before he can stop it, his chest constricting painfully.

“Yeah,” Dean says, clearing his throat and rapidly blinking his eyes, “you’re probably right about that one.”

“You okay? You sound a little weird.” Concern edges its way into Sam’s voice.

“I’m fine,” Dean replies bluntly, unsubtly changing the subject. “How have things been with you?”

Sam lets it slide, going into a spiel about his heavy workload and coworker drama. It’s a pleasant distraction to hear his brother’s voice, trading the disaster scenarios playing in his head on repeat for an animated tale of some guy named Richard breaking the office's rotary phone for the third time that month.

“I swear that greaseball is doing it on purpose. It literally fell off the wall this time. How do you even manage that?” Sam rants, and Dean can picture him throwing his hands in the air, the perfect mixture of confusion and disbelief on his face.

Dean laughs at his brother’s expense, slouching against the doorframe beside the phone with a soft grin. However, the moment turns bittersweet when Dean realizes this could be their last conversation, the last words he hears from Sam.

The smile slips off his face, replaced by a frown as he glares at the baseboard a few feet away, where some wallpaper is starting to peel.

“Dean?”

“Yeah?”

“Seriously, what’s going on with you?” Sam asks in a tone that suggests he won’t let this slide. Always annoyingly persistent in that special way only little brothers can manage.

“‘M just tired, Sammy. Don’t worry about it.”

“That’s my one gig,” Sam argues.

“What? No, I’m the oldest. It’s my responsibility to look out for you,” Dean scoffs, rolling his eyes.

“And what do you think mine is, Dean?” Sam asks, his voice growing soft.

The line goes quiet for several seconds while Dean processes.

“What?” Dean asks, his voice barely loud enough to be heard through the receiver.

“Dean...” Sam sounds sad as he says it.

“I- I gotta go. We’ll talk more later. I love you, kid,” Dean says, rushed and shakily, trying to end this phone call before he can do something stupid like cry.

A moment of concerned hesitation, and then, “Love you too, De.”

Dean presses the button to hang up, cradling the handset to his chest and leaning his forehead against the wall. Tears prick his eyes, and he takes deep breaths to keep himself from sobbing into the wooden surface.

Charlie returns with a disconcerting spring in her step, a duffle full of weaponry, and a brown paper bag of bagels. She tosses the duffle onto the coffee table with a solid thud, the zipper popping open to reveal a stash of knives and ammunition.

“Um,” Dean hesitates, confused about how she acquired all that in the hour she’d been gone. “What’s all this?” She grins at him, almost manically, like she’d been hoping he’d ask.

“Silver shells and blades, and…” She shoves some ammo boxes out of the way to reveal a mess of wires and circuit boards, “A little something to help us with tonight.”

“Where did you get all this?” Dean asks, stuck somewhere between impressed and concerned.

“The pawn shop down the street owed me a favor,” She says with a mischievous wink, tossing the brown bag toward his face, “now shut up and eat your breakfast. We’ve got a big day ahead of us.”

If they wanted to get themselves caught before committing the actual crime, this would certainly be a nifty way of doing it. At least, that’s what Dean sarcastically thinks as he sneaks his way around his own precinct, checking behind his back with the aura of someone who definitely shouldn’t be there.

He hastily dodges an intern leaving the breakroom, sliding behind a bookcase as they walk by. He takes a deep breath, closes his eyes, and tries to concentrate. They need those papers. Otherwise, they’ll be going in blind. If he and Charlie want any chance of making it through the front door without getting gunned down, he has to get to the conference room.

He opens his eyes, shaking out his hands and pushing his shoulders back. Careful not to be seen, Dean slips into the room where they’ve kept all their case information.

With stunted efficiency, he sorts through the mess of papers and files strewn across the table, belatedly cursing himself and his team on their inability to stay organized. Dean shoves down a rush of relief when he finally spots the needed pages.

The warehouse's blueprints.

He quickly glances over them before tucking them under his jacket, smoothing over the fabric so they’re hidden from view.

“Just what do you think you’re doin’ boy?” A voice freezes him in his tracks, his heart falling to somewhere near his feet. He slowly turns, meeting Bobby’s angry glare with a panicked expression.

“I- Um, it’s,” Dean stumbles over his words, feeling nauseous from anxiety.

“It’s not what it looks like,” he finally gets out, his eyes darting around the room, searching for a way out.

“Right,” Bobby starts, slow and unbelieving. This is it. Bobby already knows everything. Dean will get his badge revoked for abusing his position of authority, and Cas will die before anyone ever realizes he’s missing.

“Because it looks to me like you’re working when I explicitly gave Bradbury orders to keep you out of the office.”

Dean’s train of thought hits the brakes so hard that the whole thing derails.

“I- what?” Dean asks weakly, unsure he heard that correctly.

“I know you ain’t been cleared for work yet. So what the hell are you doing here when you should be recovering at home?” Bobby asks, frowning and crossing his arms.

“I was getting cabin fever sitting around all day, you know how it is, Bobby,” Dean says carefully, faking an exasperated eye roll.

“What I know is you’re a fool who doesn’t know how to let himself heal,” Bobby gruffs, shaking his head. “Now get your butt out of my building. And don’t you even think about coming back before Monday.”

Dean softly smiles at him despite himself, easily picking out the affection and concern buried in Bobby’s stern tone. He nods and turns to leave, the blueprints burning a hole in his pocket, but before he can go, Bobby stops him.

“And Dean?” he says, his voice gentler now. “Take care of yourself.”

Dean turns back to him and forces a strained smile.

“I will,” he says, the words bitter on his tongue. “I promise.”

-

Once the initial panic over Cas’ disappearance subsides, a cold overwhelming numbness is left in its wake. A charged static hangs in the air of Charlie’s apartment while she and Dean work in silence, finishing the last few tasks for their plans.

He cleans and loads his guns with practiced ease, letting muscle memory drown out any unwanted thoughts that try to creep up on him. Charlie sits across from him at the coffee table, tinkering with their distraction for tonight.

She breaks the silence first, snapping him out of his pointed thoughts about not thinking.

“I figured something strange was going on with this case, you know? Too many things didn’t add up. Like what about that random tooth we found at the first scene? Was that even connected?”

Dean looks up from the gun he’s disassembling as he thinks back to their hideout in the tunnels and the piles of skin-filled slime on the floors.

“I think they shed their skin,” Dean says, though it comes out as a question, “Like snakes. Maybe they lose their teeth as well.”

“So we’re dealing with bulletproof lizard people? That’s comforting,” Charlie says with a snort, twisting two wires together. Dean rolls his eyes.

“Nothing about this is comforting. We’re most likely going to get both our asses and lives handed to us,” He says darkly, detaching the slide with more force than necessary. Charlie glances up at him with a frown but doesn’t say anything.

They continue in silence as Dean methodically checks over their arsenal, reloading everything with silver and ensuring everything is clean and free of jams. He’s almost done with half of the stockpile when Charlie speaks again, leaning away from the table and stretching her back until something pops.

“What do you want to eat before we head out?” She asks casually. “You know, last supper and all that.”

Something brittle in Dean’s snaps. He drops the gun he was working with onto the table, a loud thud echoing through the living room and causing Charlie to flinch.

“Why are you doing this?” Dean asks, his voice tight, “Why are you so… okay with all this? The shitty plan, the rescue mission for a man you don’t know, the supernatural monsters living underneath the city. All of it! God, Charlie. You have to know how slim your odds are of making it out of this alive.”

Breathing unevenly, Dean’s head falls in his hands, the scent of gunmetal and cleaning oil filling his nose.

What a horrible person he must be, dragging his best friend into what’s essentially certain death. But there’s no way he could do this alone, and how would he live with himself if he let Cas die? It’s an easy answer. He simply wouldn’t.

“Dean Winchester,” Charlie snaps, and there’s so much fire in her voice that Dean’s forced to look up at her. “You are the most infuriating person I have ever known, but you’re also the closest thing I have to a brother. We’ve been to hell and back together and if you think, even for a second, that I’m going to leave you out in the cold when you need my help the most then you clearly don’t know me very well.”

Dean stares at her momentarily before answering, a burst of gratitude swelling in his chest.

“Thanks, Charlie,” he says tiredly. “I knew I could count on you.”

Charlie rolls her eyes. “Of course you could,” she says. “Now let’s go kick some lizard butt.”

A knock on Charlie’s front door interrupts Dean just as he laces up his boots.

“I’ll get it,” Dean calls to Charlie, who’s still shoveling supplies into a duffle bag in the bedroom. A familiar face stands on the other side.

“Benny?” Dean asks, confusion twisting his face.

“Hey partner,” Benny says lowly, his head slightly bowed.

“What are you-”

“You made it,” Charlie says, coming up from behind him, grinning ear to ear. Dean looks between the two of them suspiciously.

“What’s going on?” He asks, narrowing his eyes.

“Charlie told me what happened-”

“I told you what happened, and you didn’t believe me,” Dean says incredulously. Benny sighs, his head dropping even lower.

“An’ I’m sorry about that. I should’ve trusted you,” Benny says, at least having the decency to look guilty about it.

Dean has an argument poised on the tip of his tongue, so many questions and accusations begging to be spoken. But the longer they stand here, the longer Cas is unaccounted for, and if Benny is suddenly on board, then Dean is hardly in the position to turn down the extra set of hands.

He swallows his hurt, feeling it burn on the way down.

“Alright,” Dean says hesitantly, brushing off the looks of surprise on his friends’ faces. “Okay, we’ll explain everything on the way there. Let’s move.”

-

The taxi driver drops them off a few blocks away from the warehouse with little more than a curious glance in their direction as he drives off. Dean supposes the drivers in this city are used to worse.

Dean’s heart is in his throat as they carefully approach the property. Their footsteps echo louder than he’d like in the spaces between the closely packed brick buildings. Though that problem solves itself as they’re quickly replaced with shipping containers and short logging offices the closer the group gets to the pier.

The three of them hide behind a nearby building, taking a moment to survey their situation.

The massive warehouse sits right on the river, high chain link fence wrapping around the structure, sharp barbed wire twisting around the top. The three stories of glass, metal, and concrete loom over them in the darkness, setting Dean on edge. Several pairs of guards cross paths near the entrance, nodding at each other as they pass.

“You weren’t kidding about the foot traffic,” Dean says to Charlie, watching another pair of guards pass their hidden position several yards away. This is an obnoxious amount of security for a factory, and as tricky as it will be to get past them, it tells them they’re on the right track.

“There weren’t this many a few days ago,” Charlie whispers. “They increased their security.” Definitely on the right track.

“Alright time to split up,” Dean says somewhat reluctantly, his next glance toward Charlie full of unspoken meaning, “We’ll regroup once we’re inside.” Charlie gives him a mocking salute, looking far too at ease as she adjusts the straps on her backpack.

“See you on the other side, boys.” And then she’s gone, stealthily sprinting through the night, sneaking toward the back of the building.

“A little bit of insight would be nice,” Benny speaks up from behind him, “How are we getting past all these patrolmen?”

“We wait for the signal.”

“What signal?”

“You’ll know when you hear it,” Dean says shortly, still bitter about their previous argument.

“This will go smoother if we work as a team,” Benny hisses, trying to get his point across without alerting the guards.

“Just stick close to me and watch my back. We’ll be fine,” Dean murmurs, keeping a watchful eye on the building.

“Dean-” Benny’s cut off by a boom so loud Dean can feel the tremors of it beneath his feet. The guards are shouting, rushing toward the explosion’s source, leaving the nearby section of fencing unattended.

“Let’s go,” Dean says in a rushed whisper, sprinting toward the fence while wrestling a pair of bolt cutters out of his bag. It takes no time to cut a hole big enough for them to slip through, and then they’re off, racing toward a side entrance that thankfully wasn’t shut properly, the door ajar just enough for them to slip through.

In his mind, Dean speeds through the memorized hallways from the blueprints, taking in each passing corridor and matching it to the map in his head. Benny stays close, his gun searching and ready for any threats that could pop out from the halls; Dean’s own colt digs into his palms, his hands shaking but his grip fast and sure.

It’s hard to see further than a few feet. Most of the lighting in the hallway is broken or dimmed, and the flooring beneath them is cracked and settled. In fact, the entire warehouse seems to be in disrepair. Dean’s feet hastily carry him through the building, every creak and echo making him flinch as they make their way toward the rendezvous.

The halls are suspiciously empty. Why would they only have guards placed on the exterior of the building? Dean thinks.

Something about this whole process seems too easy. Dean was expecting at least one shoot-out by this point, yet he’s halfway into the building, and the muzzle on his gun is still cold.

He tries not to look a gift horse in the mouth.

Despite Dean’s expectations, it thankfully doesn’t take them very long to find Charlie again. Their agreed meeting place turns out to be an expansive assembly hall.

Mechanical parts lay still on the conveyor belts, employee stations abandoned for the night, and eerie quiet settled over the open space. The only light source comes from overhead, where the moon’s glow is pouring in through a few holes in the corrugated roofing.

Charlie waves at them from where she sits on one of the belts, her legs swinging back and forth over the edge. Her hair is more disheveled than the last time they saw her, and she’s breathing a little harder, but she seems otherwise unscathed.

“What did you blow up?” Benny asks the second they’re within range to be heard, narrowing his eyes at her.

“Nothing, yet,” She says with a smirk. “I set it off near their dock, wouldn’t want this place coming down while we’re still in it.”

She hops off the conveyor, playfully punching Dean’s shoulder. “Glad to see you guys made it in one piece.”

“We’re not home free yet,” Dean warns, leading the way back out the door they came.

“Can someone please tell me where we’re going,” Benny asks, frustration growing in his voice.

“Within the last year, the blueprints were updated to accommodate for a large room near the left side of the building.” Charlie turns to him, looking over her shoulder, “We’re going to that room.”

“But why?” Benny asks. “What’s there?”

“Well hopefully Cas,” Dean says, keeping his voice down as he reenters the hallway, “But if not, then something that will lead us to him.”

“And this guess is based on…what?”

“Call it intuition,” Charlie says with a raised brow.

Benny looks far from convinced but doesn’t ask any further questions.

The deeper into the warehouse they delve, the more it deteriorates. Cracked pipes drip mysterious liquid from the ceiling. Piles of the skin goo he saw in the tunnels are slathered across the floors making the whole corridor smell thickly acidic and musty. Dean feels like he could choke on it.

“Lizards,” Charlie whispers heinously as they pass a huge clump. Dean would almost be tempted to laugh if it weren’t for the anxious ball of nerves violently swirling in his chest.

The narrow corridor breaks open into a massive atrium. Large factory windows, separated by a multitude of grilles, climb up the west wall letting in the broken pale moonlight. The entire room is empty, abandoned with nothing but the thick layer of dust and dirt on the damaged tile floor left behind.

The tell-tale sound of work boots crunching on concrete sends a chill down Dean’s spine. Multiple footsteps echo through the open space, coming from a corridor to their right.

Dean curses under his breath, surging in front of Charlie, who was previously leading the way, to jerk down on the handle of a nearby door. Locked. The next three he tries don’t open either. Locked, locked, locked.

He glares at the keyhole in one of the knobs. If he survives this, he’s learning to pick those damn things. Cas could teach him. That is if Cas survives this as well.

The footsteps start to close in as Dean’s hands begin to shake.

Charlie is on the other side of the room now, also trying doors to no avail. The rattle of each metal knob is amplified by the blank concrete walls surrounding them.

“We could fight,” Benny suggests, watching from a distance as Dean tries another door.

“We don’t know what these things are capable of,” Dean warns.

Coming face to face with these monsters has always been something Dean considered a last resort. Although a primal part of his brain thirsts for revenge on the freaks that murdered his colleagues and kidnapped his… whatever Cas is to him, he isn’t sacrificing their mission’s success for bloodlust.

“We brought guns for a reason,” Benny argues.

“Yeah, let’s alert the whole team of our exact location. That’s a novel-”

“Guys!” Charlie interrupts with a harsh whisper. “Over here!” She has a door open and is frantically waving them in.

The footsteps are practically in the room with them, the measured thud of boots pounding in Dean’s ears. Dean slides through the doorway without hesitation, Benny and Charlie following suit. Dean can barely make out the tiny storage closet in the near darkness, which is almost too small to fit all three of them.

What’s worse is the small window on the door that Dean hadn’t noticed on his way in, allowing a clear view of them if the guards decide to get too close.

“Get down,” Dean whispers, pushing them all into a crouch and pressing his back against a shelf, as far out of the window's view as possible.

Dean puts a finger to his lips as the steps grow ever closer, praying they can see him in the low light. Charlie nods seriously, glancing up toward the door nervously. Benny’s face is hardened and nearly impossible to read. Dean holds his breath, watching shadows pass under the gap under the door.

As long as they’re quiet, they’ll be fine, he tells himself, as long as no one makes any noise-

Benny leans back too far, knocking into one of the shelves, sending a small cardboard box clattering to the ground. It’s not very loud, but Dean can hear the footsteps outside halt. Ice pumps its way through his veins.

“Someone there?” A male voice calls.

“Show yourself!” A second, deeper voice adds.

Dean breathes through his fear, rolling his shoulders and catching Charlie’s eyes with a knowing look. She curtly nods, letting him know they’re on the same page. He counts down on his fingers.

Ready, set-

He shoves open the door, gun aimed and poised to fire. He has eyes on the two guards before they even realize he’s in the room. Charlie comes up on his right, so he aims for the guard to his left, firing a shot into his leg.

The man collapses with a shout, clutching his thigh. The other guard is aiming his gun toward them, but Charlie is already on it, firing two successive rounds into his chest.

The guard Dean shot has recovered from the shock and lurches toward him, catching Dean’s jaw with the butt of his gun, his head whipping to the side. He doesn’t get to right himself before a weight tackles him to the ground, Dean’s gun skidding across the floor, out of reach.

Fists strike his cheek and collarbone, and once he comes back to himself and remembers to put his hands up, they land on his wrists and forearms, bone against bone. He struggles to throw the heavy man off of him, unable to think outside of the rapid-fire assaults raining down on him.

He brings a sharp elbow down on the man’s thigh, right in his bullet wound, distracting him just enough to lurch forward and snag a hidden knife out of his boot. Dean doesn’t hesitate to flip the blade, stabbing it into the guard’s side. One, two, three times.

Only then does the creature slump forward, crushing Dean’s chest with dead weight. He chokes out a gasp, using an adrenaline-fueled burst of strength to shove the man off.

Dean scrambles from underneath him, jerking forward to grab his abandoned gun and train it on the collapsed lump beside him. The man groans, lifting his head. Dean fires, the bullet buries in the monster’s neck, and he finally stills.

Breathing hard, Dean takes stock of his surroundings. Charlie looms over her motionless target, bloodied hands gripping her weapon. Benny lays on the floor beside them, panting, a nasty bruise forming over his eye.

Dean lets his gun fall to his side, slumping back onto his elbows with a heavy exhale. He knows he’s injured somewhere after the beating he took, but the pain hasn’t registered yet, so he tries not to focus on it, taking the blessing for what it is.

“You good?” Charlie asks, coming over and offering out a hand. Dean grimaces around the metallic taste building in his mouth. When he spits it out on the pavement beside him, it stains it red.

“Yeah,” Dean grunts, taking her hand and pulling himself into a standing position. The blood on her palms makes the grip slippery. “You?”

She laughs nervously and shrugs. “I’ve been better. Had to save Benny’s ass. You’re getting slow in your age, old boy,” Charlie teases, grinning at him over her shoulder. Benny half-heartedly glares at her.

Charlie claps Dean’s shoulder before straightening out. “Let’s-”

An ear-piercing alarm breaks through the air, overhead emergency lights bathing the room in red.

“Fuck,” Dean groans.

Dean can faintly hear shouting from outside the warehouse walls over the high-pitched alarm that’s making his vision momentarily swim.

The alarm feels like it’s drilling into his skull, the vibrations of it bouncing off his bones. He tries to focus on the shouting, but it’s difficult to make out any words. All he can hear is a cacophony of noise. He feels he'll go deaf if this goes on any longer.

Charlie’s the first to recover from the shock, pushing them forward and leading further into the building now going into total lockdown. They narrowly avoid several guards, ducking out of the way at the last second and bolting into another corridor.

Dean’s heart pounds away in his throat as the second drag on, hall after hall. The doors and red lights blur together in a hazy mess of urgency. What feels like hours sludge by before they reach their destination.

A pair of thick metal double doors stand in their way. To the side of it is some kind of number pad. Its function is self-explanatory, although Dean’s never encountered anything like it. Something important must be behind this door for them to have such a futuristic security measure protecting it.

Charlie glances back at them with a pinched expression. They don’t have time to guess the combination, not while the alarm is whaling over their heads and several sets of guards are hot on their tails.

Dean backs up, raising his gun. There’s never been a lock he’s met that can’t be fixed with a few well-aimed rounds.

“Get back,” Dean orders.

“Dean, don’t-” Benny starts.

One door stands between him and Cas, and Dean would be hard-pressed to let anything get in his way now. The two shots echo loudly in the narrow space of the hall. The little colored light above the number box blinks. Red. Red. Green. A heavy metal sound slides into place somewhere in the door.

He bursts into the room, his heart dropping as he takes it in. It’s a long corridor of cells, each faced with metal bars and separated by thick cinder block walls.

His eyes scan it rapidly, immediately finding the lump in the corner of the cell a few feet to his right.

“Cas!” Dean yells, racing to the bars, sliding to his knees. “Cas, are you hurt?”

He’s still in the clothes Dean last saw him in, though they are torn and sliced in some parts. He sits slumped, his knees curled to his chest and his arms wrapped tightly around them. Dried blood trails from a head wound hidden beneath his hair, following the line of his jaw and dripping onto his neck. He hides his face in the crook of his elbow, looking smaller than Dean’s ever seen him.

Thick, heavy shackles bite into his wrists, chained to the wall and keeping him from getting too close to the bars.

A surge of wrath floods through him. He’ll destroy whoever did this. He’ll feel their bones break beneath his fists and watch the life drain from their eyes. His hands shake with barely controlled rage.

“Cas, look at me, baby,” Dean says, trying to calm himself, and ground his emotions. He presses up against the bars even further as though that could eliminate the barrier altogether. Cas shifts, blinking wearily in Dean’s direction, his eyes not quite focused. Dean aches to reach out and comfort the other man, but he’s too far away to touch.

Cas’ eyes narrow into a weak glare, and Dean’s stomach plummets.

“Go away. I’m not in the mood for your games,” Cas mutters, turning his back to the room.

“What are you talking about, Cas? We came to get you out of here,” Dean says, frowning and glancing back toward Charlie and Benny, who are wearing matching confused expressions.

Cas laughs darkly, not moving from his spot.

“We need to circle back,” Benny says, glancing back toward the metal double doors at the corridor’s end. “I think I saw a way to disarm the locks back in the hallway.”

“You go ahead, I’m not leaving him again,” Dean says, his eyes glued to the hunched curve of Cas’ spine. A shiver racks his frame.

“We need someone to keep watch, Dean. Cas isn’t going anywhere,” Benny says. Something in his tone makes Dean’s hackles rise. Dean whips his head around and glares at him.

“Yeah, thanks for the reminder,” Dean snaps. He sighs, shifting in his crouched position and grabbing the bars, the rusty metal biting into his palms.

“I’ll be right back,” Dean says to Cas, “We’re gonna get those bracelets off you and we’re gonna get you out of here, sweetheart.”

“Don’t call me that,” Cas mutters, curling further into himself.

“Cas…” Dean pleads, his voice cracking around the name. There’s a sharp pain in his chest, his eyes watering.

“Dean?” The rough voice comes from a different cell down the hall. The thick concrete walls between each chamber obscure the person from view. Hesitantly Dean stands to his feet, head swiveling to get a look at whoever called his name.

“We need to get moving,” Benny insists from behind him, “those goons are going to catch up to us any second now.” Dean raises a finger in his direction, signaling Benny to wait as he walks further into the dungeon.

“Hello?” Dean calls out, careful to keep his voice lower than before.

“Dean,” the voice says again, stronger, more desperate. It’s rocky and muffled but familiar nonetheless. He can hear footsteps following behind him, but Dean pushes on, head turning back and forth as he checks every cell, each just as empty as the last.

He stops cold in his tracks once he sees him.

Benny is dirty and trapped behind a set of bars. His hair is matted and greasy, and his clothes are torn and stained. He looks like he hasn’t eaten in days, and his eyes are sunken and lifeless. He gazes up at Dean with a look of desperation and hopelessness.

“Benny?” Dean asks, his head spinning, his voice cracking. But-

“Dean, behind you!” Benny warns, his eyes widening. Dean spins around in time to see the Benny who came with them charging toward him, a murderous look in his eyes.

It’s as his back hits the ground that Dean dully notes he’s getting tired of being knocked off his feet today. The back of his head slams into the concrete, a burst of agony exploding through his skull.

Before Dean knows what’s happening, Benny is on top of him, pinning him to the ground. His hands like iron manacles on Dean’s wrists, effortlessly holding him in place despite Dean’s struggling. Dean bares his teeth, yanking against Benny’s vice grip.

“What are you?” Dean spits. Benny looks at him with a mixture of disdain and apathy.

“You’ve been a real pain in the neck, you know that?” Benny says, ignoring his question. “I’m going to really enjoy this.”

His hand leaves Dean’s wrist just long enough to curl into a fist and crack into the underside of Dean’s jaw. His vision cuts to black.

Chapter Text

Dean strains to open his eyes in spite of the feeling of glue sealing them together. When he manages to succeed, his surroundings swim together in a pool of colors, all the edges fading and blurring into a sea of abstract shapes.

A moan falls from his lips as the pounding in his head spikes painfully. His thoughts are jumbled, and random bits and pieces of information come flooding back at unpredictable intervals. Panic surges through him when he remembers the worst of it.

The warehouse, the cells, Benny’s clone, Cas.

Fuck, where’s Cas? Dean thinks, craning his neck to the side, ignoring the dizziness that comes with it. His hands are tied behind his back with rough rope bindings that bite into his wrist, his arms bent backward and wrapped around the backing of a metal chair. Cracked, stained concrete stretches out beneath his boots.

Ignoring the urge to panic and the heartbeat in his ears, Dean takes in his surroundings. His eyes follow the lines into the rest of the room, revealing a large open space, massive metal machines looming over parts of what he assumes to be some manufacturing hall.

The talking fades in slowly. The words are mumbled, and with Dean's left ear still mostly out of commission, it’s impossible to understand what’s being said. A crowd of four or five people-like blurs are huddled a few feet away, talking in a circle and seemingly unaware of Dean’s consciousness.

To his right is Charlie, restrained similarly, her head slumped forward and her eyes shut. Her bright red hair is crusted to her forehead with blood, and a long gash runs down the side of her face. Dean can only hope there hasn’t been any permanent damage to her sight.

Dean’s eyes land on Cas to his left, and he feels bittersweet relief. At least he knows where Cas is, Dean thinks, trying his best not to freak out despite the desperation starting to creep into the edges of his mind. Even if Cas is still stuck here, at least Dean knows where he is and that he isn’t dead.

Next to Cas is Benny, or at least what Dean assumes to be the real Benny since he’s cuffed just like the rest of them. Benny, Dean thinks ruefully, his partner who has been held in captivity for an unknown length of time. All the little changes in his friend suddenly click into place, and Dean feels incompetent for not noticing something was wrong until it was right in front of him.

All four of them are lined up side by side, the rest of the group looks just as disheveled as Dean feels. He’s the first one of the group to wake up, which he realizes is both a blessing and a curse as the man he recognizes as Crowley turns away from his little clique and focuses his unwanted attention solely on Dean.

“Together again,” Crowley sing-songs mockingly as he saunters forward. Dean scowls, wincing when a cut near his forehead stings.

“What do you want from us?” Dean asks, but the words come out uneven, catching on his dry, abused throat. His eyes flicker between the rest of the group behind Crowley that are closing in on him.

Unease sends his heart racing as he sees Benny’s clone standing amongst them, grinning down on Dean with sharp teeth and an unnatural glint in his eyes. How could he be so blind? All this time… He doesn’t even know how long it’s been. When was Benny replaced? How long has he been working with a spy? The unanswered questions make him sick to his stomach.

There’s another familiar face, although this one comes as less of a shock. Meg, the blonde newspaper girl, crosses her arms, leaning her hip against a metal support beam in the middle of the room, looking smug. He can’t imagine what role she plays in all this but he also can’t say he’s surprised she’s guilty of something.

The last person is one he only vaguely recognizes, but he does so with a sense of wary apprehension. It’s the Ginger from the tunnel that he incapacitated a few weeks ago, and telling from the hateful look in her eyes, she holds a grudge.

Dean isn't pleased to see any of them make a reappearance.

“We just wanted to have a little chat,” Crowley says patronizingly. Dean scoffs.

“You see, we had such great plans for our friend Benny here. But someone had to go snooping around where they didn’t belong. What did I tell you about that, Dean?” Crowley asks, tilting his head.

Fake Benny cracks his knuckles, grinning down at Dean menacingly, his eyes glinting silver in the jaundice lighting.

“What are you?” Dean asks, trying to stomp down the instinctual fear spiking in him.

Beside him, Cas inhales sharply, his head snapping up and frantically searching the room. Thank god, Dean prays, slouching in his chair.

“Cas,” Dean says, desperate to know he’s okay. Cas locks eyes with him, his bright blue gaze filtering through a hundred different emotions that Dean doesn’t get a chance to decipher before Meg steps forward.

“Allow me to demonstrate,” She says, smirking.

There’s no preamble to the horrible cracking and popping sounds that break through the air as Meg’s body mangles itself into an inhuman shape. She falls forward, bent at the waist, as her skin peels off the bone and pools into a slimy puddle on the floor. Dean has to look away when bile rises in his throat.

When she finally straightens, Meg is no longer Meg. Instead, she stands at full attention as a perfect replica of Dean.

Meg grins, twisting the mask of Dean’s face into an uncharacteristic snarl.

“Knock knock, sweetheart,” She says with Dean’s voice, crouching in front of Cas. “Guess who it is.” Dean’s disbelief instantly warps to hatred and disgust.

He knew Cas would have been too careful to open the apartment to someone he didn’t know, not after the heavy fire they’d been under recently. It would have had to be someone he trusted and wouldn’t have hesitated to open the door for. Someone like Meg… wearing Dean’s face.

Cas’ jaw tightens, his eyes alight with a level of anger unlike what Dean’s ever witnessed from him before.

“Cas,” Dean whispers roughly, trying to pull Cas out of whatever headspace is warring on his features before he does something he regrets, Dean’s tone bordering on begging. Cas flinches but doesn’t look over, his shoulders squared and stiff. Dean yanks against his restraints, desperate to reach out and comfort the man. Dean waits with bated breath, but thankfully, Cas doesn’t reward her with a response.

Dean futilely searches the room for some kind of exit, but it’s practically barren except for the machines and a few workbenches strewed throughout. From his facing direction, Dean can’t even see a door, let alone formulate a plan.

“How do you think the public will react when the cops find all four of your bodies laid out in front of the courthouse building?” Crowley cuts in, uncaring of the tension hanging in the air, a confident ease to his posture. “How do you think the gangs will react when they see some of the best pawns on the board have been taken out by me?”

“You flatter us,” Dean says dryly. Crowley continues as though Dean hadn’t spoken.

“Let me give you a hint: Fear. These streets belong to me. For too long we’ve been restrained to the darkness, hunted by vermin like you. Cast aside and disrespected-”

“You’re a murderer,” Dean argues.

“I’m a king!” Crowley screams, his composure shattering.

His fists shake with rage, his forehead glistens, and his eyes suggest disturbed inner workings. Even if he was human, his madness would make him dangerous. Dean surges at the opportunity, hoping to poke holes in Crowley’s unraveling facade.

“And why not just kill him?” Dean jerks his head toward Benny, who sits still unconscious. “Why would you hold him captive if you planned on killing us all anyway?”

If Crowley didn’t want to murder Benny before, maybe there’s still a chance of getting through to him. If Dean can convince him to see things their way, even for a moment, it could give them a window to escape.

The gears whirling in Dean’s brain grind to a halt when Ginger steps up before Crowley can answer. She looks down on him condescendingly, something in her eyes almost akin to pity.

“You really haven’t put it together yet?” Her voice is smooth, twinged with a European accent he’s only heard a handful of times and can't quite place. When Dean just glares at her instead of answering, Ginger sighs dramatically.

“We couldn’t have weaseled our way into your investigation if some gumshoe dug up his body. Though I guess now that’s no longer a concern.”

Sooner than Dean can respond, Ginger strikes out, her knuckles slamming Dean’s not quite healed ribs.

The pain is instantaneous when the bones recrack under her fist. Dean gags on a cut-off yell, his diaphragm spasming and sending new sharp bursts of agony through his chest. He can’t catch his breath; he can’t see. His vision is swimming, and there’s acid flooding his throat. Dean chokes desperately, gasping and coughing as he frantically tries to get his body back under control through the pain.

His wrists strain against the rope as he subconsciously lurches forward to protect his ribs. In the distance, he can hear laughter and someone shouting his name. It takes every ounce of his rapidly fluctuating self-control not to black out. His forehead digs into one of his knees, and he’s only loosely aware of the hot tears running down his cheeks.

Through the mayhem of his brain, Dean almost misses the next words out of Ginger’s mouth. “That’s for getting the jump on me in the tunnels.”

Dean only manages to grit out a mouthful of garbled curses in response.

“Rowena,” Crowley chastises boredly, the way one would a child playing a bit too rough in the schoolyard.

Rowena, the bitch, scoffs, finally turning away and leaving Dean languishing in his injuries.

“Dean,” Cas urges, pleading for his response. Dean coughs a shaky inhale, lifting his head just enough to meet Cas’ eyes.

“I’m okay. I-I’m fine,” Dean lies, despite the blatant truth. The outer corners of Cas’ gaze turn downwards, his brow furrowed in concern and sadness. Cas opens his mouth to say something but stops short, the unsaid words dangling between them, unattainable.

Dean hears Crowley take a deep breath, side-eyeing him cautiously as he closes his eyes and rolls out his shoulders before restarting his speech.

“And what about you two, hm?” Crowley asks with faux curiosity, glancing between Dean and Cas. A hole opens up in Dean’s stomach, the bottomless sensation stealing the air from his lungs.

“Oh,” Crowley breathes, an unnerving look of revelation dawning on his face, “What about… we save you for last?” Crowley focuses on Cas, strolling over and forcing Cas to look up at him with a hooked finger under his chin.

“Would you be a good little reporter and write one final column on your friends’ untimely demise? Tell the people what it was like to watch your poor little Winchester slowly choke on his own blood until there wasn’t any left to choke on. I’m sure it’d strike the fear of me even in the most devout man.”

“Leave him alone,” Cas grits. Crowley kisses his teeth in a disappointed tone, letting Cas’ head drop back to a normal angle.

“See, angel, I’m not sure you understand how this works,” Crowley drawls nonchalantly, suddenly drawing his hand back and striking Dean across the cheek. His knuckles split the skin stretched over Dean’s cheekbone, but it’s nothing more than a dull flare of pain compared to the rest of his body.

An unexpected source of pain accompanies the blow, something sharp digging into his lower back. The small silver dagger he tucked into his waistband before leaving Charlie’s apartment sits right where he left it. The overconfident fools must have neglected to check him for extra weapons.

Dean winces from the hit and grits his teeth, refusing to give Crowley the satisfaction of crying out.

“Don’t-” Cas pleads, struggling against his bindings.

“I run the show now,” Crowley finishes, twisting his lip in disgust as he shakes his hand like he’s touched something unclean, “And I do what I want.”

Unexpectedly, Charlie moans softly from her hunched-over position. She hazily blinks her eyes open, slowly scanning the room before landing on Dean and locking their gazes. Dean’s immediately relieved, not only by the knowledge that Charlie’s okay but also by the numerous doors her reawakening opens for them. A spark of hope ignites within him.

There’s a silent question in her eyes, but Dean subtly shakes his head. They’re not ready for their Plan B. Not yet.

“Oh, how nice of you to join us,” Crowley chimes in, centering his focus on Charlie and away from Dean. He barely resists the urge to roll his eyes at Crowley’s theatrics.

Sieging the window of opportunity, Dean twists his arm to slip the knife out of its sheath and into his palm. Dean works at a glacial pace, dragging the blade's edge against the rope around his wrists, layer by layer. Soon, only a few weak strands are holding it all together. Thankfully, no one seemed to have noticed him; all their interests focused on the fresh meat added to the interrogation.

It’s a step in the right direction, but they will need more than one person if they hope to get out of here alive. He needs to get the knife over to Charlie without anyone noticing.

Slowly, Dean begins to put together a plan, a reckless and risky plan, but one nonetheless. He glances over at Charlie, she’s only a couple feet away, but it’s gonna take a minor miracle for this to work.

“-wondering how long it would be before you got roped into all this,” Crowley says, most of his ramblings lost to Dean.

“You knew what would happen,” Dean says, “You planned for all this.”

“Aw-” Crowley starts, a hand over his heart, but Dean plows through whatever he is going to say.

“Too bad your plan’s a piece of shit. Do you really think taking out a few federal agents is going to get you the respect you want? If you believe-” Dean barks out a dry laugh, “that this city is going to submit to a heel like you-”

“Dean, don’t.” Cas pleads, but Dean’s on a mission now. It won’t take much to set Crowley off, being the loose fuse that he is.

“-Then you’re gonna be sorely disappointed, asshole.”

Dean sees the blow coming before it lands, but bracing himself does nothing to stop the pain rocketing through his skull as he lurches to the side, the chair beneath him tipping and clattering to the concrete with a loud metallic screech.

Dean chucks the knife in Charlie’s direction with as good of an aim as he can manage with his hands still bound. She fumbles but, by some stroke of god, catches it.

Worth it, he thinks to himself through the fog rolling into his brain. It’s the last thing Dean sees before his vision is crowded by Crowley, fury streaked across his features. Crowley yanks Dean’s collar, lifting him up and forcing him to meet his gaze.

“You ignorant, privileged fuck!” Crowley shouts, roughly shaking Dean with every word. Dean’s eyes drift shut as a rush of weightlessness hits him when he’s jostled around. He wonders how much more pain he has to endure before his brain shuts down and saves him from it.

“You don’t know what it’s like to have to hide who you really are, to only be able to exist in the shadows.” Crowley produces a gun seemingly out of thin air, pulling back the hammer and aiming it right between Dean’s eyes.

“No!” Cas shouts, raw and frantic.

Maybe it’s the agony coursing through him, maybe it’s the paralyzing fear for his friends’ lives, maybe it’s just plain stupidity, but something within Dean snaps like a broken rubber band, and then he’s laughing. Loud, unrestrained, and harder than he has in a while until his cheeks ache and joyless tears threaten to fall from the corners of his eyes.

Crowley looks taken aback, staring at him like Dean’s lost his last bag of marbles. Dean can’t say that’s too far from the truth.

When he finally quiets down, the only sound left is the echo of Dean’s meltdown ringing in his ears. All eyes are on him with varying levels of concern and anger. Even Crowley has lowered his gun a few inches, unsure how to react.

Dean chuckles lowly, spitting a glob of blood and saliva onto the pavement beside him.

All the untapped rage that’s been bubbling up inside him since this shit started comes to a head, setting his blood alight and bouncing around his skull like a firework. He looks at Crowley and sees the man who murdered numerous colleagues of Dean’s in cold blood. The man who kidnapped Cas and Benny. Who threatened his family and blew up a holiday party full of innocents just to send a message.

He looks at Crowley and sees the man for the monster he truly is.

Dean uses the last of his rapidly depleting strength to meet Crowley’s eyes as he speaks, the remains of his shredded resolve flapping loosely in the wind. “Go fuck yourself.”

Then all hell breaks loose.

The first resounding boom shakes the ground beneath him, and the metal beams lining the ceiling groan with the telltale signs of something about the snap. The floor rumbles hard enough to throw Crowley off balance, sending him stumbling a few feet away before he falls when the pavement splits beneath his feet.

Dean yanks free from the last threads of rope, swallowing a cry of pain as he shoves himself off the floor. The others are too busy shouting at each other in panic from the explosion rattling through the warehouse to notice Dean struggling to stand.

The next bomb goes off much closer than the last, the wall fifty feet to his right cracking under pressure, concrete debris starting to fall from above. Dean grapples with the overturned metal chair he was sitting on, using it to push himself upward despite his body screaming not to.

Charlie’s at his side in a heartbeat, grabbing his upper arm and yanking him into a standing position before Dean can stop her. He grits his teeth, ignoring his throbbing ribs as he balances himself.

She waves the remote in front of him with an almost manic smile.

“I didn’t know if that would work but I’m so glad it did,” she says, shoving the small plastic box into her pocket.

“You didn’t-” Dean stops himself with a disbelieving sigh. They don’t have time for this. Dean doesn’t know how many explosives Charlie’s managed to hide around the building, but he’s not about to stick around and count.

“Go untie Benny. I’ll get Cas,” Dean grunts, pushing her on. She nods sternly, racing toward the still-unconscious man.

He hears the hysteric barking of orders behind him, but he doesn’t let that stop him as he limps toward Cas, dropping to his knees behind him and struggling to undo the knots of rope with shaky hands.

“Dean, what’s going on?” Cas asks frantically, struggling against the restraints and making it even harder to keep a grip on them.

“Stop moving,” Dean grits, using all his concentration to get his fingers to cooperate. Cas finally stills, and Dean manages to slip the last twist free, the rope falling unceremoniously to the ground.

Dean leans onto his bent knees, panting heavily and trying to breathe through the pain. Everything hurts, and his head has started swimming again whenever he moves his eyes. Even the adrenaline coursing through him isn’t enough to dull the pain that's making his movements sluggish and clouding his thoughts.

“Come on,” Charlie shouts, a dazed Benny leaning heavily on her as she drags him toward a nearby door. Dean didn’t notice Cas getting out of his chair, but now his hands are wrapped around Dean’s arms, pulling him up and against his chest when Dean sways.

“Don’t let them get away!” Crowley yells behind them, barely heard through the sound of the building collapsing around them.

Cas propels them both forward despite Dean’s stumbling, somehow the stronger out of the pair despite the two days in captivity. Dean leans into him, blindly trusting Cas to lead them in the right direction while he struggles to stay conscious.

A deafening crunch splits through the room, and Dean turns his head just in time to watch the ceiling finally give out, large chunks of rebar-studded concrete falling from the sky and crashing into the room below.

An ear-splitting scream pierces the air, rattling Dean’s inner ear and making Cas stumble to stop beside him. In one of the mountains of rubble, Meg lays half-sandwiched under a pile of debris, her legs disappearing beneath the wreckage.

It's surreal to see himself like this. The entire scene feels like some horrible premonition. His vision tilts when she cries out in his voice, screaming for help. Cas looks torn, his skin turning deathly pale as he watches Dean’s clone claw at the rubble.

“Don’t listen to her,” Dean says, forcing Cas to look at him, “We need to keep moving, Cas. I promise you I’m right here.” Cas furrows his brow even further but snaps himself out of it. In a blind haste, they race across the rest of the crumbling assembly hall.

Ahead of them awaits a large archway that reaches toward the ceiling, or what’s left of it. Just through it, Charlie and Benny urgently wave them on, Benny now standing primarily on his own.

“Move your ass, Winchester,” Charlie yells when Dean and Cas are only a few yards away. “The biggest one is about to go off.”

“There’s more?” Dean asks in disbelief, breathing heavily.

“You know I like to save the best for last,” Charlie says with a winning smile. Dean rolls his eyes, readjusting his grip on Cas’ shoulder.

“Shake a leg, Bradbury. Before you get us killed bumping gums.”

Charlie mockingly mouths his words as she sets off at a breakneck pace, leaving the rest of them to rush after her.

Most of the security must have gotten taken out in the initial blasts because the hallway they step into is deteriorated but empty with the exception of two guards who immediately spot them, opening fire. Dean falls to the ground when Cas drags him down, bullets whizzing just over their heads.

Benny ducks briefly, then brazenly surges forward, elbowing one of the guards in the stomach before wrenching the gun out of his grip. In two succinct shots, Benny dispatches both men with a steady aim.

“Holy shit,” Dean murmurs, using Cas’ outstretched hand to pull himself into a standing position. What he would’ve done to have that kind of manpower breaking in to this place.

Cas quickly checks him over, cradling the back of Dean’s skull like he’s making sure it’s still in tack. Dean winces as Cas’ fingers gently probe his scalp.

“I’m okay,” he says, though he’s not entirely sure, they don’t have time to linger.

Cas looks at him with concern etched on his face, “Are you sure?”

“Yeah, I’m fine,” Dean assures him, gently pushing away his hand.

“That was the fucking bee’s knees, Benny,” Charlie says with an appreciative grin, snagging the extra gun off the second guard.

“You okay, brother?” Benny asks, glancing over at Dean. “You’re looking a little worse for wear.”

As he passes, he claps Benny’s shoulder with a shaky laugh, “All I can say is, man, is it good to have you back. Your clone couldn’t fight for shit.”

Benny chuckles as the group picks up to a sprint down the newly empty corridor.

At the end of the hall is a set of double doors, through the windows of which Dean can see the scene of the dockyard illuminated beneath the yellow glow of streetlights, the cityscape waiting for them on the other side. Dean’s never been so happy to see the grimy streets of Chicago.

They shove through the set of metal doors just as the last blast goes off, engulfing the majority of the building in flames. Dean stumbles into the night air, clutching his ribs as the group barrels toward the fence line to get as far away from the explosion as possible. Even from a distance, heat radiates from the building, angry and insatiable.

A low metal groan is their only warning before the warehouse implodes in on itself, the roof crushing the floors beneath it and the walls crumbling back to piles of brick and mortar. Clouds of dust and smoke rise from the fire-riddled corpse of the building. In the distance across the river, Dean watches as the windows of several buildings light up, their residents awoken by the resounding boom that echoed across the water.

Dean backs away from the building, never taking his eyes off it. An unsettling sense of finality fills him as the rubble settles. Surely, even with all their inhuman advantages, there’s no way the shapeshifters survived that.

Though his relief is short-lived when someone on the other side of the building hollers, the panicked sound echoing through the night.

“Shit,” Dean mutters. They should’ve known there’d be survivors.

“We can’t let them get away,” Charlie says, her brow furrowing. “Me and Benny will check it out.”

Dean spins around to face, almost tripping over Cas’ feet in his haste.

“Stay here and wait for help,” Charlie continues, pinning him with a strong look, “I’m certain someone’s already called the police with all the noise we’ve made.”

“Charlie,” Dean says, ready to argue, but she cuts him off.

“Dean, I know you love any opportunity to jump in front of a bullet but do me a favor and sit this one out for once,” She says, already walking away before Dean can respond. Benny follows behind her seamlessly, clearly in agreement.

“You better be back in ten minutes or we’re coming after you,” Dean calls after them, shaking his head.

“We will,” Charlie promises, not looking back. Dean hates watching them leave without him, but it’s useless to follow them, not when he’d only get in their way. He sighs heavily, frowning when the pair disappears out of sight.

Turning to Cas, Dean takes a moment to look him over, noting the tired slump of his shoulders and the dark circles under his eyes.

“You okay?” Dean asks softly, reaching out for him. Cas flinches when Dean’s hand lands on his shoulder.

He’s immediately reminded of the look on Cas’ face while he stared at Dean's double. It’s unthinkable what Cas must have been through, being betrayed by someone he trusted the most and hurt by someone he cares for. Dean would give anything to erase memories for Cas, to protect him from ever experiencing it in the first place.

“It’s me, Cas,” Dean says, aching to reach out and comfort Cas but not knowing if that would only make things worse. His fingers clench uselessly at his sides. “Sweetheart, it’s just me.”

Beneath the layer of grime and blood on Cas’ face, his eyes shine the same vibrant blue they always have. Their familiarity wraps around Dean like a warm blanket warding off the frosty night air. He can’t imagine ever having to second guess that instinct.

Cas hesitantly reaches to cup Dean’s cheek, and he pushes into the touch greedily, his eyes instantly drifting shut at the warmth that tingles his skin.

“I’m sorry, doll,” Cas says, his voice thick with unshed tears. When Dean blinks his eyes open, he sees that Cas’ are wet, uncertainty, and grief wavering beneath the surface. He doesn’t know what Cas is apologizing for, but he decides it doesn’t matter. Nothing matters now that he has Cas back.

“It’s okay. I’ve got you,” Dean says, pulling Cas against him, and this time, Cas goes easily, falling into his arms and burying his face in Dean’s neck, his fingers clutching Dean’s jacket. They lean against each other heavily, barely able to support their combined weight. The surge of relief almost makes Dean’s knees buckle, a rush of lightheadedness overtaking him. He kisses the side of Cas’ head, closing his eyes while he leans impossibly closer into Cas’ embrace.

“I got you,” Dean whispers, his lips brushing the shell of Cas’ ear.

He wants to keep Cas curled up inside his chest, safe and protected, where no one will ever be able to hurt him again. Instead, Dean presses his lips wherever he can reach, against Cas’ cheeks, his nose, his eyelids.

He digs into the warm, pliable skin and muscle beneath his fingertips, grounding himself through the feeling of having Cas within his touch once more. He wants to drown himself in the sensation. Cas is okay. Everything’s okay, Dean repeats to himself.

“You’re off your head, you know that?” Cas finally says with a wet laugh. Dean pulls away just enough to see Cas’ face, a weak chuckle spilling from his lips.

“I’m aware,” Dean says, pressing their foreheads together and watching the smile lines appear at the corners of Cas’ eyes. Cas takes Dean’s face in his hands, cupping his cheeks with his palms and swiping at Dean’s cheekbones with his thumbs.

His touch is gentle but firm, like he’s afraid Dean will be ripped from his grasp at any moment. And so, so, warm. Warm enough that Dean sighs, his eyes half-lidded as he relaxes. He feels sheltered here, held so dearly in Cas’ hands.

“I guess it’s a good thing I love you as much as I do,” Cas says softly. Dean’s breath gets caught in his throat, his hands holding Cas’ wrists.

“Cas,” Dean says, tears of relief blurring the edges of his vision, “I love you too.”

Cas captures his lips easily, connecting them together in a breathless kiss. It’s messy and harsh, and they’re not entirely in sync, but it’s perfect nonetheless as they both pour all the overwhelming emotions from the past few days into the touch.

After so long working on this case, it feels unreal for it all to suddenly end. It still feels like part of a dream that any second he’ll wake from, and Cas will still be missing. His only reassurance is the wet glide of Cas’ lips against his own and the pounding of Cas’ steady heartbeat underneath his rough and bleeding palm.

The crunch of gravel and the metallic click of a gun cocking behind Dean makes both of them freeze. Dean’s breath halts as the feeling of cold water being dumped over his head hits him.

Hesitantly Dean turns around. Cas’ hands remain clamped on his arms, his fingers biting into the muscle almost painfully.

Crowley is covered in soot, ash, and dirt. A large burn wound has eaten away at half of his jaw, the skin blistering and peeling away from the bone. When Crowley raises his gun, his hands are shaking.

“Y-you’ve tak..en everything from me,” Crowley chokes out, his usual bravado missing, replaced by staggering, rushed speech. Dean reaches toward his belt instinctually, only to find it empty. His heart stops in his throat as he realizes he and Cas have nothing left to defend themselves with.

“All because of a s-stupid little human. It’s all… it’s all gone,” Crowley continues, a feral look in his eyes as they dart around unfocused and crazed. Dean takes a rushed sweep of his surroundings and finds no one around to help. He can hear voices around the corner, but he’s sure Crowley would shoot them both before Dean could shout for help.

“You don’t have to do this,” Dean says in a weak attempt to keep Crowley talking. Crowley's eyes snap to his, and it’s almost more unnerving to have the madman’s gaze finally still.

This is it, Dean thinks. This is where it all ends. Subtly, Dean steps away from Cas, immediately missing his warmth. If Crowley fires, Dean doesn’t want to be pressed up against him when the bullet lands. As much as it pains Dean, he reasons that the more space there is between them, the better chance Cas has of walking away.

Crowley loosely gestures with his weapon as he talks, the firearm waving around unpredictably, ready to go off at any moment. “I just wanted to be respected, loved. Don’t we all deserve at least that?”

“Of course-,” Dean agrees placatingly.

“Shut up!” Crowley screams. It’s a cracked, winded sound that bounces off the nearby brick walls and carries into darkness. It sends goosebumps down Dean’s arms and has him tightening his hands into fists. In the dim lighting of the moon, Dean can faintly see the glimmer of tear tracks falling down Crowley’s cheeks. Something dark and foreboding settles in Dean’s chest, making it harder to breathe.

The voices from earlier are growing closer now, paired with several sets of encroaching footsteps.

“Dean? Cas?” Charlie calls, just out of sight.

Before Dean can process what’s happening, Crowley turns the gun on himself instead.

Crowley smiles darkly at him, a look in his eyes that Dean knows will haunt him.

“Goodbye, Winchester.”

Dean slams his eyes shut, whipping his head to the side as the bang goes off. Warm liquid splatters against Dean’s jaw as a rough hand yanks him away. Dean tries to look back, but Cas’ hand on his cheek stops him.

“Don’t,” Cas says, his expression pained, “Don’t do that to yourself.”

“Cas,” Dean says, clinging onto the wrist of the hand that still cradles his face.

He’s left reeling. This wasn’t how this was supposed to go. He was sure he wanted Crowley dead, but now Dean's not so confident. The revenge was supposed to be Dean’s, but with the opportunity gone, there’s only a bleeding empty hole left gaping behind his ribs.

“I know,” Cas says sympathetically, using his sleeve to wipe some of the blood away but probably only succeeding in smearing it.

Dean hears as others arrive, shouts and questions surrounding them as they realize what’s happened. Dean doesn’t answer them, instead hiding his face in Cas’ shoulder while Cas wraps his arms around Dean’s waist, keeping him close.

Sirens are closing in, in the distance, and it’s just a matter of time before they’re all taken in for questioning and have to explain why a dozen creatures are dead and an entire building’s been leveled.

The night air is humid and sticky from being so close to the river, but Dean breathes it in gratefully, trying to unravel the pent-up knot of anxiety that’s been winding tighter and tighter in his chest for the past few months.

It’s over.

It’s finally over.

“Everything’s going to be okay,” Cas whispers, his breath bouncing against Dean’s cheek.

And for the first time in a long time, Dean has enough hope to believe him.

Chapter Text

2 Months Later

Swearing under his breath, Dean rushes through Cas’ yard, shuffling around the gift bags in his hands to knock on the front door. He bounces on the balls of his feet while he waits, anxiously checking his watch for the umpteenth time.

He’s not late, per se. But he’s not as early as he’d like to be, and he promised to help Cas set up for the party ahead of time. The throngs of last-minute shoppers didn’t help matters. Chicago becomes practically untraversable the last week before Christmas.

Thick December snow coats the grass surrounding him, the small porch only protected by the slim overhang above it. When Dean sighs nervously, his breath comes out in a white fog that quickly dissipates into the dull gray sky above. He can't help but smile at the snowman stickers Cas stuck to the front window.

The door opens, and Cas waits for him on the other side causing something warm to buzz in delight in Dean’s chest.

Cas is in a thick dark blue knitted sweater that’s been shrugged over a white button down, one hand tucked into the pockets of his jeans. Dean thinks back to the all-black get-up Cas was wearing the first time they met, complete with the dark felt fedora Cas loves so much. Even with how stunning he looked then, Dean thinks he prefers this soft, colorful version of his boyfriend instead.

Dean smiles at the thought, and Cas immediately matches it.

“Hello, Dean.”

“Hey,” Dean says as he enters Cas’ townhouse, happy to escape the cold. The aroma of spiced cinnamon and nutmeg hits his nose the second he’s through the door, along with a blast of hot air from the radiator underneath one of the living room windows. Festive music floats from the large boxy radio sitting beside the couch.

Cas’ hands are on Dean’s waist before he fully sets the bags down, his palms warm even through the multiple layers Dean’s wearing. Cas dutifully brushes the snow out of Dean’s hair that’s already begun to melt in the warm apartment, grinning down at him with a tender smile that reaches the corners of his eyes.

Dean leans in with a short kiss, sneakily reaching under Cas’ sweater where he knows Cas’ body heat can warm up his frigid fingers. Cas flinches and half-heartedly glares at Dean as they pull apart, but he doesn’t move to shove Dean’s hands away.

“Merry Christmas, sweetheart,” Dean says with a grin, watching Cas’ eyes melt into a soft expression.

“Merry Christmas, Dean,” Cas says, pulling him in for another sweet kiss.

“I’m not late right?” Dean asks once they drift apart, glancing behind Cas and into the kitchen, where he suspects food still needs to be set up.

Cas shakes his head. “You’re the first one here, doll,” Cas reassures, gently pushing Dean against the front door. “Which means we still have time before everyone else arrives.”

“Should we set the table?” Dean offers, futilely trying to be the responsible one out of the two of them.

“I can think of something more fun than that,” Cas teases with a raised brow.

Dean nips at Cas’ lower lip in retaliation before kissing him properly. Cas inhales sharply through his nose, opening his mouth to deepen the kiss. Dean notices with pleasant surprise that Cas tastes like hot chocolate.

“Hm,” Dean hums happily, “you taste good.”

Cas chuckles. “Do I? There’s some waiting for you in the kitchen, if you want.”

Dean’s shoulders relax into the door behind him, sighing contently when Cas drags his thumb over Dean’s cheekbone, his hands warm against Dean’s snow-bitten skin.

“No, I think I like it better this way,” Dean says, falling back into Cas's rhythm of kisses. He takes it slow, switching between long, drawn-out touches and short playful pecks. It’s easy for Dean to get lost in the motions, content to let Cas take the reins.

“Cas,” Dean whispers, grabbing the belt loops of Cas’ jeans and pulling him closer. Cas happily obliges, easily pinning Dean’s hips up against the wood with his own, settling one of his legs between Dean’s.

“Yes, doll?” Cas asks, marginally pulling away just enough for Dean to see his reddened lips before he’s trailing more open-mouthed kisses down the side of Dean’s neck. He works his hands further under Cas’ shirt, languidly rubbing circles into the stiff muscles that grow pliant beneath his fingers.

Cas dips one of his hands down to Dean’s thigh, hiking up his leg to settle on Cas’ hip and giving them the perfect position to grind down on each other. Dean groans when their erections finally line up, his head falling back against the door as his eyes try to roll into the back of his head.

“Shit. Fuck, sweetheart. Just like that,” Dean rambles senselessly, squeezing his calf tighter around Cas’ waist, each drag of Cas’ hips leaving them both ruined in its wake.

“Right here on the front door? What if someone hears us?” Cas whispers, making sure to talk against Dean’s right ear so he can hear him. Dean shudders when hot breath bounces across his skin. Dean digs his nails into Cas’ shoulders, a pulse of heat shooting below his navel at Cas’ suggestion.

He can hear the self-satisfied smile in Cas’ tone as he speaks next, “Hm, you would like that though. Wouldn’t you, doll?” The vibration of Cas’ voice rumbles against Dean’s chest, setting his veins on fire as the soothing dark tone shakes through him.

“Cas,” Dean warns breathily, lost in the pleasure clouding his thoughts. Determined to give as good as he’s getting, Dean bites down on the sensitive skin just below Cas’ ear that makes his breath stutter. He soothes the mark with his tongue, pleased when he feels the rhythm of Cas’ hip falter. The heat in his stomach steadily grows as Cas pants against him. Not even the rough drag of his jeans against his dick is enough to stop him from chasing after the edge he knows is already building beneath his skin.

Without warning, Cas spins him around, firmly holding his hip with one hand while the other pops the button of Dean’s jeans. Dean whines at the lack of friction but quickly shuts up when Cas snags his zipper down and reaches under his boxers to grab Dean’s dick, his thumb smoothing over the underside at a painstakingly slow pace.

“Jesus christ,” Dean chokes, caught between jerking into Cas’ palm and rutting back against his hips. The smooth heat of Cas’ hand is infinitely better than the traction Dean was getting before.

“Mh, no. I’m Castiel,” Cas jokes, chuckling against the back of Dean’s neck, resuming his controlled grind into Dean’s ass. Dean moans both in exasperation at the bad pun and the rapid pleasure climbing up his stomach.

“Cas, I’m- ah- I’m gonna hit you,” Dean threatens, his head uselessly falling back on Cas’ shoulder. Cas hums noncommittally, kissing and sucking down the side of Dean’s jaw like he’s trying to leave marks for all their friends to see. Hell, knowing Cas, he probably is.

The air in Dean’s lungs evaporates as Cas picks up the pace, keeping his strokes in time with each brush against Dean’s ass. Dean lets out a strangled moan, his fist clenching and unclenching from where it props him up on the door.

“That’s it, baby. Let me hear you,” Cas urges him on, utterly uncaring that any of their guests could be walking up to the door they’re currently fucking against. Dean chokes on Cas’ name, reaching behind himself to tug on Cas’ hair just to have something ground himself. Cas rewards him with a rough gasp, his fingers subconsciously squeezing harder around the head of Dean’s cock, his precum easing the way.

He’s so close he can feel his brain fill with static as he chases after the heat coiling in his gut. Using his newfound leverage, Dean drags Cas down into an uncoordinated heated kiss.

It’s still a heady rush to touch Cas like this, to be touched by Cas like this. This is his lips and his hands and his heat. And the notion strengthens every sensation, making Dean’s nerves stand at attention.

“Please, Cas. Please, please,” Dean whines, frantically bucking up into Cas’ hand.

“Show me how good you feel, Dean” Cas pants, losing some of his rhythm as he grinds into Dean faster. “Come for me, Doll.”

With a final twist of Cas’ wrist, Dean is helplessly coming into Cas’ hand. His knees lock up, and a shaky groan falls from his lips as an overwhelming wave of pleasure crashes over him. His mind whites out, overtaken with pure pleasure. Cas’ hand slows down when Dean whines from overstimulation, but his hips keep moving, still chasing after his own high.

“Fuck, Cas,” Dean pants. “I love you so much.” Cas’ breath catches in his throat before he finally stills, shaking against Dean’s back as his own orgasm hits him. Cas moans into the side of Dean’s neck, the low timber sending shivers down Dean’s spine.

They lean heavily against each other, breathing hard and sweating. Lazily, Cas presses a kiss onto Dean’s shoulder while Dean idly rubs his thumb across the arm still wrapped tightly around his waist.

“Mh, I love you too,” Cas says into his skin.

“We should start setting up,” Dean says as the fog of arousal finally lifts from his brain, leaving behind a pleasant buzz of satisfaction. Cas snickers as Dean swivels back around, Cas’ hands still gripping his hips.

“I think we need to change first,” Cas says, glancing down at Dean’s shirt that’s now ruined with sticky, white come. Dean can imagine Cas’ underwear is in a similar state.

“And who’s fault is that?”

“Well it’s certainly not mine that you look so good in those jeans,” Cas says, pointedly palming at one of Dean’s cheeks through the denim.

“Is that the excuse you’re going to give our friends when-”

Dean’s argument is abruptly cut off by a sharp knock at the door. They both freeze.

Dean curses under his breath while Cas chuckles as Dean runs his hands through Cas’s hair, futilely trying to smooth it down but only ruining it more. There's nothing to be done about the red tint to Cas’ lips or the small bruise blooming underneath his ear. Dean stumbles over his own feet as he tries to re-zip his jeans, heading for the stairs.

Someone knocks again, more persistent this time, just as Dean reaches the bottom step.

“One second,” Cas calls as he rolls his eyes, humorously watching Dean escape as he straightens his own shirt. Even halfway up the stairs, Dean can hear Charlie’s voice after Cas opens the door.

“Oh, come on. You guys were not just doing what I think you were doing.” He hears Jo’s accompanying laugh just as he shuts the bedroom door behind him.

Dean thanks some higher power that he practically lives at Cas’ apartment now as he quickly rifles through the top drawer of Cas’ dresser and finds it half filled with his own clothes. Dean smiles to himself as he hears more laughter from downstairs, changing his ruined clothes out for something more presentable.

“And where were you?” Charlie asks as Dean comes down the stairs, finding her and Jo already cozy on the couch.

“Wrapping last minute gifts, you know how it is,” Dean lies, smiling at her with more teeth than necessary.

“Uh huh,” Charlie says with an unimpressed look. Jo gives him a conspiring thumbs up when Charlie isn’t looking.

Dean takes to pulling things out of the fridge while Cas changes upstairs. Charlie makes it abundantly clear that their switch off didn’t go unnoticed, her teasing comments still heard from the living room despite Dean’s best attempts at ignoring her.

He curls his lip when he notices a three-tiered abomination of jello already sitting on the counter. It’s neon red and green, and bits of something that look suspiciously like chunks of meat are suspended within the layers.

“Charlie, is this nightmare your doing?” Dean calls, poking it and scrunching up his nose when it jiggles a little too much. His response is a chorus of loud cackling, which is as close to a yes as he'll probably get.

“This thing looks gross,” Dean mutters, already conjuring an excuse not to try it later.

“I found the recipe in this month’s Cookery catalog. Isn’t it amazing?” She asks, still snickering.

“Maybe if I needed a surefire way to get food poisoning,” Dean says, rolling his eyes and moving on to make one of the last-minute dips Cas had mentioned making the other day.

Reaching up to the top cabinet to grab a bowl, Dean winces when his ribs twinge from the stretch. They’re almost healed enough that he can sometimes forget about them, but then he’ll occasionally find another way he’s still not allowed to move. It’s a slow form of torture.

“This is why you’re banned from the kitchen,” Cas says from the doorway, stepping up behind Dean to grab the dish for him. Dean half-heartedly glares at him over his shoulder.

“I’m perfectly capable of grabbing something off a damn shelf by myself,” Dean argues, grabbing the glass bowl from Cas’ hands.

“You’d think it was physically painful for you to ask for help,” Cas snarks, softening the statement by kissing the side of Dean’s head.

“I don’t need help,” Dean mutters, losing most of the fight from his voice.

“I’m gonna tell Bobby you haven’t been taking it easy enough,” Cas threatens playfully. Dean spins in Cas’ arms to glare at him.

“Don’t you dare,” Dean says in an affronted whisper. He’s so close to being able to go back to work again that he can practically taste it. If he has to stay on leave for another month, Dean’s sure it’ll be the end of his dwindling sanity.

“Then ask for help.”

“I don’t negotiate with terrorists.”

Cas snorts. “I bet Charlie wouldn’t have an issue with you staying home for a few more weeks if you needed the rest.”

“You’re such a snitch.”

Cas raises an eyebrow and opens his mouth to call out to her. Dean quickly slaps a hand over Cas’ mouth, stopping him before any sound can come out. He can feel Cas smirking into his palm. Cas has a glint in his eyes that says he’s about to do something dangerous, but before he can act on it, they’re interrupted by the doorbell ringing throughout the house. It’s a brief staring contest before Dean finally concedes, slowly pulling his hand away and narrowing his eyes.

“You say anything and I’ll hide your fedora where you’ll never find it.”

Cas tilts his head in faux contemplation before smirking. “Hm, I’ll think about it.”

Dean glares at him in warning, and Cas responds to it with a shit-eating grin. Peaking through the peephole in the door, Dean’s greeted with a burly beard that tells him exactly who’s on the other side.

“Is that Bobby?” Cas asks innocently from the kitchen. Dean points a cautionary finger at him through the archway.

The cold wind pours into the house as he opens the door, greeting Bobby with a grin. “Hey Bobby.”

“I called it!” Cas says.

“Shut it,” Dean retorts, not looking in Cas’ direction as he approaches.

“Well you gonna let me in, you idjit? It’s colder than a witch’s tit out here,” Bobby grumbles, shoving his way past Dean and into the warmth of the townhouse.

Dean lifts the gift bags from Bobby’s arms while Cas grabs his coat to hang in the closet by the stairs.

“Well aren’t you two cute, playing housewives together,” Bobby teases. Dean sighs in exasperation, glancing over to Cas, who’s already smiling at him, too fond to be embarrassed.

“Well you know we prepared for the princess' arrival,” Dean says, rolling his eyes. “Had to be on our best behavior so you don’t send the royal guard.”

Bobby huffs a laugh under his breath, pausing to give Dean an observant once-over. “You’re looking better, son.”

“Yeah it’s a real clam bake sitting around doing nothing all day,” Dean snorts as Cas comes to stand at his side, Cas’ arm settling comfortably around his waist.

“Good,” Bobby says, ignoring Dean’s sass, clapping him firmly on the shoulder.

“You take care of this idjit for me,” Bobby says to Cas, face suddenly serious.

Cas nods earnestly, “Of course.”

Bobby stares him down for several long seconds before giving a satisfied grunt and walking off to chat with Charlie.

“Your old man’s terrifying when he wants to be,” Cas complains, glancing toward Bobby’s back like he might come back and bite him.

Dean grins, rubbing Cas’ neck in reassurance. “Don’t worry, he’s mostly bluster.”

Cas gives him a deadpan look that says he doesn’t believe him, but Dean’s not too worried about it.

If Bobby wanted to be a hardass, he had plenty of chances to be by now. Despite all the rules Dean violated with the skinwalker case, Bobby still let him off with only a few months' suspension instead of outright taking his badge. And even then, Dean suspects the time off has more to do with Bobby wanting him to sit his ass down and heal from his injuries rather than the man actually wishing to punish him.

The rest of the group files in steadily after that. Next at the door is Sam, who arrives at five o’clock on the dot. Dean rolls his eyes as he lets him in. Seems the law firm finally hammered a sense of punctuality into his perpetually late little brother.

Though Sam's quickly saved from any teasing when he produces an expensive bottle of rum from a local barrel house. Dean whistles as he turns it in his hands.

“Damn, Sammy. Your boss know you bought this?” Dean asks, chuckling when Sam tries to hit his shoulder and misses.

“Just don’t say I never got you anything,” Sam says, glaring at him before his expression softens. “I’m glad to see you in one piece, man.”

“I’m glad to be it,” Dean says, shrugging like that’ll dislodge the soft look Sam’s aiming at him. “Give me a few months and I’ll be back to giving you headaches again.”

Sam pins him with one of his trademarked bitch-faces.

Only a few minutes behind him are Benny and Andrea. She gives him a blinding smile as she walks through the door. “Dean! It’s been too long.”

“It has. I’ve missed you,” Dean says, eyeing the casserole dish in her hands. “And your wonderful cooking.” She scoffs, playfully smacking his shoulder.

“Men.” She shakes her head. “One track minds, the lot of you.” Though her annoyance doesn’t stop her from pressing a quick kiss to his cheek as she heads toward the kitchen.

“Benny,” Dean finally greets, pulling him into a tight hug.

“How’s it been, brother?” Benny asks, clapping his back as they pull away. “How’s the vacation treating you?”

Dean grins. “If it weren’t for Cas I think I’d be crawling the walls by now. We know how I am when the line gets too quiet.”

“He must be a pretty special fellow to put up with your antsy nonsense full time.”

“Hey,” Dean protests with a glare. Benny laughs him off, following his wife’s path to the kitchen where everyone seems to be congregating, following their noses to where the smell of roasted turkey slowly spreads throughout the house.

Dinner turns out to be about as chaotic as one would expect. Sam and Charlie blabber on about new laws and procedures until Bobby threatens to lob biscuits at their heads for talking shop at the dinner table. Charlie gets in one last snide comment about the upcoming mayoral election before a roll is chucked across the table, Jo ducking just in time for the bread to hit Charlie instead.

“How could you?” Charlie wails, looking more betrayed by Jo than offended by Bobby. “Friendly fire!”

“I didn’t throw it!” Jo argues in disbelief, jerking back in disbelief.

And so starts Charlie’s next tangent, with Dean somehow getting dragged into the middle despite his best efforts.

“Dean would take a bullet for me, wouldn’t you?” Charlie asks, bumping their shoulders together.

“I-” Dean tries, glancing between the expectant look on Charlie’s face and the death glare on Jo’s.

Cas steps in, putting a hand on Dean’s knee and side-eyeing him humorously. “I thought we were talking about baked goods, not deadly projectiles.”

“The concept's transferable,” Charlie defends, crossing her arms. Dean snorts.

“You’re so dramatic, someone needs to take away your radio,” Dean teases. “You listen to too many Broadway programs.”

“You can pry it out my cold, dead hands, Winchester,” Charlie says with a pointed finger.

“And my point is made,” Dean says, rolling his eyes and stuffing a bite of turkey in his mouth.

Several loud, cheerful hours later, everyone’s finally settled into the living room, full of home-cooked food, sugary drinks, and laughter.

It’s a bit of a creative feat to seat everyone. Sam, Bobby, and Cas end up on the couch, with Dean sitting on the floor between Cas’ knees. Benny grabs the armchair with a comfortable-looking Andrea perched on his lap. Charlie and Jo snag some pillows out of the linen closet and use those to sit on the floor across from the coffee table.

They’ll need to buy more seating if they plan to hold more gatherings here. Dean catches himself off guard with the thought, warmth spreading through his chest. That’s something he’s allowed to think about now; the future. One that involves his friends and family and more meetings like this.

Somewhere amid all the flying gift wrap and scotch tape, Dean’s handed a small rectangular box addressed to him from Charlie.

Pulling the red ribbon and taking the lid off reveals a small silver switchblade impressed in velvet bedding. The ivory handle reads: ‘For my partner in crime and the best man I know.’

Dean purses his lips through a smile, ducking his head as unsolicited tears brim in his eyes. When he flips it open, the ivory plating is cold in his hands, the blade sharp and pristine. It’s gorgeous.

He looks across the room at Charlie, who gives him a knowing grin.

“Thanks, Red,” He says, his voice thick with emotion.

He feels Cas run a hand through his hair before he leans down to kiss the crown of Dean's head. Dean tilts his forehead against Cas’ knee, hiding his teary smile in the denim of his jeans.

Once a good dent in the pile of presents is made, Dean leans toward the tree, reaching for the gift bag closest to him before twisting around to shove it into Cas’ hands, anxiety steadily building in his chest.

“Merry Christmas,” Dean sings, biting his lip as Cas pulls out the tissue paper to reveal what’s inside. It’s a shiny new espresso machine that had sat in one of the shop windows near the park they visited sometimes. Cas had mentioned it before, but Dean knew he would never buy something so extravagant for himself. It’s even painted in Cas’ favorite color, a bright pastel yellow.

Cas grins, the corners of his eyes crinkling as he looks down on Dean. “Dean, you didn’t have to get me anything.”

“You like it?”

“’Course I do. I love it, doll. Come here.” Cas pulls Dean up off the floor, sitting him in his lap instead. Cas rewards him with a satisfying kiss, gently scratching the back of his neck in a way that sends pleased shivers down his spine.

“I know since you’re always running late, so maybe if I could make you coffee instead of you having to stop somewhere…” Dean explains, some residual nervous energy still bustling under his skin.

“With an offer like that I don’t know if I can let you go back to your own apartment,” Cas says, smiling as he brushes their noses together.

“Then don’t,” Dean replies simply. Cas’ eyes light up at the unsaid meaning spoken between their words.

“Mh, I love it. I love you,” Cas says in whispered words meant just for the two of them.

“Yeah? I love you too,” Dean says, both of them wearing matching grins. With one more short kiss, Dean settles back against Cas’ chest, Cas’ arms wrapped snugly around Dean’s waist while they watch the other finish unwrapping their presents.

And Dean just… soaks it all in. Charlie leaning into Jo when she throws her head back in laughter from something stupid Sam said. Cas and Sam trading teasing remarks like they’ve known each other since grade school. Bobby gruffly shoving another eggnog into Benny’s hand when his glass runs low, Andrea playfully warning him about what happened this time last year because of the drink.

He revels in the hot chocolate lingering on his tongue, sitting warm on his stomach despite the snow falling out the windows. Revels in the feeling of his entire body leaning back against Cas who’s solid and warm behind him and so incredibly real and alive and safe.

Dean doesn’t think he’s ever felt as happy as he does at this moment, watching the comforting scene of his friends and family unfold. It fills a hole in his chest that he hadn’t realized was empty until it suddenly… wasn’t.

Not long after that, Cas pulls Dean away from the group and into the kitchen just as everyone gets settled in to listen to a holiday story over the radio.

The questions on the tip of his tongue fall away as Cas closes in on his space, softly catching his mouth in a mind-numbing kiss.

Dean instinctively grabs onto the collar sticking above Cas’ sweater, happily thumbing the fabric as he melts into the slow glide of their lips. All his senses narrow down to just the two of them, the rest of the house momentarily forgotten as his fingers brush against Cas’ warm skin, the scent of a nearby candle and Cas’ cologne filling his nose and clouding his thoughts.

It’s so intoxicating that Dean doesn’t even notice Cas reaching behind himself until he pulls away, pressing a square box into Dean’s hands.

“What-”

He looks down. It’s a small jewelry box.

“Cas…” Dean whispers, unable to take his eyes away from the gift as he opens it.

Inside is a silver band, a set of engraved wings is fanned out and wrapped around the metal. They’re a perfect replica of the ones painted across Cas’ back. Only once Cas starts speaking does Dean realize how long he’s been silent, staring at the ring in awe.

“I know it can’t be official but I thought the sentiment would be nice, you know?” Cas says, looking down at his fingers where he’s begun to nervously pick at his nails. “And you don’t have to accept it, I just thought-”

“Cas,” Dean says, cupping Cas’ cheeks, the cold metal ring still sandwiched between his palm and Cas’ jaw.

“Yeah?” Cas asks, a hopeful glint in his eyes. Dean brushes his fingers against the thin scar left just beneath Cas’ hairline.

“It’s perfect.”

Cas laughs softly, his shoulder dropping in relief.

“Thank you, sweetheart,” Dean says against his lips right before he closes the distance again. Cas hums happily into the kiss, sliding a hand along Dean’s jaw and gently holding the back of his head.

“We’re gonna have to get you one. Although I don’t have any snazzy tattoos to carve into it,” Dean says, resting his forehead on Cas'.

Cas smiles against his mouth, the corners of his eyes creasing softly. “I’m sure we can figure something out.”