Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Dean cracks a beer, drops into a chair, lets out a sigh after the first pull. Things’ve been good lately—too good. Makes his skin itch.

No angel crap. No vamps sniffin’ around. Even the were-pups’ve been quiet.

Peace. He winces, shakes his head. Scratch that. Walk it back, Winchester. Don’t jinx it.

Still—him, Sam, cold beer. Almost perfect. Only thing missing is pie.

And a night that lasts more than ten damn minutes. 

“Dean, check this out.” Sam waves him over. Dean ignores the gnaw in his gut. He knows that tone. Case tone. Never once meant anything good.

He gets up anyway, leans over his shoulder. 

“You ever heard of a lightning strike on a clear night?”

“Maybe Zeus got the hiccups.” He can hear Sam’s eye-roll. “So what? Weather ain’t our business card, Sammy.”

Sam makes the noise. The one that means yeah, actually, maybe it is. Bye-bye, afternoon.

“Look at this.” Sam zooms in on a grainy photo. “No scorch marks. Big open field like that? Doesn’t add up.”

Dean rubs his face, yanks out a chair, takes another swig. So much for ten quiet minutes. Always so much for.  “What’s that say?” He points.

“Locals heard thunder. No lightning.” Sam tilts his head—translation: spooky, and you know it.

Dean wants to shrug it off. Wants it bad. 

“Weather glitch?” he tries. Sam frowns. Dean shrugs. “I dunno, Sam. But I’m gonna need more than a busted sky projector to call it our gig.”

Sam scrolls again, eyes lighting on something fresh. Guy can’t even finish his damn beer.

Leaning back, Dean props his boots on the table. Sam clicks, highlights a passage.

“Drone enthusiast swears he caught a figure standing in the clearing.” Sam turns the laptop. “Still think it’s not us?”

Dean squints at the shadowy blur. Figures. Always figures. And not the good kind.

He wants to argue. Say it could be some drunk who missed his exit. But not even he thinks that.

Screw it.

He drains the bottle, wipes his mouth.

“Go get your coat, Samantha.”

Dean pulls Baby to a stop at the site. Nothing looks out of the ordinary. Big-ass field. No scorch marks like Sam said. Dawn’s creeping in. Baby’s purring like a cat, and Sam’s safety just clicked off. Guess it’s time to see what Zeus dropped on their doorstep.

He cuts her engine, hand lingering on her wheel. He gives her a soft pat, like a promise. “Be back soon, sweetheart. Don’t miss me too much.”

They peel out. Dean strokes her roof. She knows it means they’ll be back soon. Her doors click shut in sync. They move, light on their feet toward the hill’s  edge. Dean throws a hand left, two fingers sharp. Flank. Then a squeeze of his fist—keep it tight. Sam nods, falls into step.

It’s quiet. Too quiet.

Until it’s not.

Thud.

Great. Some wannabe G.I. Joe just dropped out of a tree. No denying it’s their deal now. Boots hit grass, cigarette hanging from his mouth, puffing away like it’s Sunday brunch.

Dude looks like he couldn’t be more relaxed. If Dean had a nickel. Party’s over though, so lets fix that. Dean trains his gun on him, steady. Sam’s ready, too. Can’t be too careful.

Can’t say for sure he’s a threat yet. But everyone is until proven otherwise.

“Are you two fuck-nuggets gonna stand there all fuckin’ day?”

Dean blinks, sharp. Element of surprise—gone. Not that it matters. Ain’t their first rodeo.

“You’re a little overdressed for a Sunday stroll, pal,” Dean says, steps, flashes steel. If there’s any sudden movements, he’ll see them.

Dude takes a drag like he’s got all day. Smirks. Smug bastard.

“Says the one wearing a fuckin’ jacket in the middle of summer.”

Dean will give him that. That was smooth. A little too smooth.

Guy stops puffing long enough for Dean to get a closer look. Dean’s stomach does a fuzzy twist. That jawline. That nose. That smug look like the world’s a punchline just for him.

It’s like looking in a warped mirror.

Terrific. Another him. Can’t catch a break with this crap.

Dean rolls his eyes, lets the weight of it slide off. Sarcasm’s easier than thinking too hard.

“It’s all the rage these days. You know what the kids say,” Dean replies, cutting his eyes sideways for one beat—steady, this one’s trouble. Sam answers by planting his feet. “So what timeline did you crawl out of? The one where Earth’s an active war zone?”

Armageddon’s poster boy quirks a brow, starts strolling up the hill. Shadow stretching out like King Kong on a bad day.

“You’re feisty. I like that,” he says. Dean twitches. Feisty is right, pal. And he’s about to see why. Dean cocks his gun.

“I promise you, Kitten, what you’ve got in your hand there won’t do shit.”

Kitten. Kitten?

Dean flicks his wrist. Bastard doesn’t even flinch. Zero hint of flight reflex. Either he’s cocky as hell or he wasn’t lying.

Dean swallows, jaw tight, waves the gun sharper this time. Takes a half-step forward, makes it clear he means business.

“Back. Up,” he grits, heart thudding as this unit stops right in front of him, staring down like Dean’s an ant on the sidewalk. “I said back up!”

Big guy’s chest meets the muzzle. Eyebrow quirks like go ahead, I dare you.

To his side, Dean catches the faintest gasp from Sam—like he can’t believe it, either. 

“Cute pistol,” the guy says, calm as Sunday mass. Dean’s jaw grinds. Calling a Smith and Wesson a damn pistol is like calling her majesty a hand maid. His eyes widen when the bastard flicks up a hand and bends the barrel like it’s a drinking straw. “Still think you can take me out?”

For a few beats Dean just stares at his gun, still warm in his hand—like it just flipped him the bird. Then he snaps his eyes back up, tracks the bastard’s gaze sliding toward Sam.

Over his dead body. 

Dean shifts sideways, puts himself between them, half a shield without thinking.

“What the hell are you?” His fingers twitch toward the knife at his belt. Gun’s a joke now, but he’s not standing here barehanded.

The guy doesn’t answer. Just stands there, smug as all get out, eyes locked on Dean. Neck’s already straining from having to crane up—dude’s a damn skyscraper. Taller than Sam. Broader, too.

And he smirks, like he knows exactly what Dean just realised.

Son of a bitch.

“Name’s Ben,” he finally says, dragging deep on his smoke and blowing it right in Dean’s face. Rude as hell. “What’s yours, Kitten?”

Figures. Not gonna answer the real question. And Sam’s standing right here, too. Not that this asshat cares.

Kitten again. Terrific. Crowley and this asshole would get along like a house fire.

Sam sneezes into his jacket. Fake name time. Checks out.

“I’m Rick. This is Ashley,” Dean says, smirk tugging when Sam clears his throat hard. Yeah, yeah. He knows what he said.

Ben tilts his head, smoke curling out of his nose, flashing white teeth. “Bullshit.”

Great. A human lie detector. Just his luck.

“All right. You got me,” Dean says, eyes narrowing. “I’m Dean. This is Sammy.”

“It’s Sam.”

As if Sam said nothing, Ben rolls Dean’s name over his tongue—then grins wider. “Still prefer Kitten.”

Asshole.

“So, Ben,” Dean says flat, like the name tastes sour. “Where you from?”

“New York.” He drops it casual, tucks a hand in his pocket like they’re not even worth the effort. He’d usually think that’s a big mistake. But his gun says otherwise. “Does the fact I woke up in a fuckin’ field have something to do with you?”

Dean cuts his eyes away for a beat—just to breathe—but when he looks back, those steel eyes are right there again. Locked on. Not just locked. It’s weird as hell. 

“Not with us, no,” Dean says, jaw tight. Sam, anytime you wanna step in…

Sam does. Starts explaining about the space-time continuum going screwy, the usual nerd stuff. He worded it better than he could’ve. Maybe with less flare.

Ben licks his lips, eyes never leaving Dean. “But you know about it. So what are you, huh? The clean-up crew?”

Dean’s got no comeback for that. If they are, they’re failing at the job already. This tank bent his gun like Play-Doh—God knows what he’d do unsupervised.

Sam must be on the same page, ’cause Dean catches the tap of his finger on his gun. Shorthand: we can’t leave him alone.

“Look,” Dean says, forcing calm. “We don’t really know why this keeps happening. Not yet. But we’re working it. And Sam—he’s real happy to answer all your questions back at base.”

It’s the last damn thing Dean wants, his jaw ticking like a busted lighter, but weapons are out. Gotta use words.

Ben just sizes him up, then flicks his cigarette over Dean’s shoulder like it’s nothing. Lazy smirk back in place. Sam’s boot crunches it out behind him—such an eco warrior.

Finally, Ben waves a hand. “Lead the way, Kitten.”

Yeah. That’s one too many. It’s gonna stick just like Squirrel.

“Car’s this way,” Dean says, jerking a thumb. Except Ben’s already striding past them like he owns the road. Dean counts three deep breaths before moving, telling himself not to strangle him.

And then he sees it—Ben reaching for Baby’s handle. Passenger side. Dean’s mangled gun still heavy in his palm, reminder that metal means squat to this guy.

He better not hurt her.

“Careful,” Dean snaps. “She’s delicate.”

Sam’s hand lands on his shoulder before he does something stupid. He doesn’t even argue when Ben slides into shotgun like he’s claiming a throne. Sam just folds himself into the backseat, and Dean feels like screaming.

He gives Baby a soft pat on her wheel—sorry, sweetheart, it’s just for now—before he slides in and fires her up. Cassette clicks in, Back in Black roars to life, and Dean grins. Finally, something normal.

Nothing like a classic to calm him down.

Thirty seconds later, normal dies.

“Turn this shit off,” Ben says, like he didn’t just insult the Holy Grail of rock.

Dean’s blood pressure spikes. “This is AC/DC.” Should explain everything. He’ll bet his damn life on that.

“And what’s that stand for? A Colossal Dragon Crap? ’Cause that’s what it fuckin’ sounds like.”

Dean almost swerves them into a tree. This guy. “Christ, man—I’d love to hear what your music sounds like if you think this is crap.”

Dean’s tongue tastes bitter even saying that. He’s gotta play the track ten times over to make up for it.

Ben pops the tape out and tosses it into the back. “Pick something else.”

Dean’s life flashes before his eyes watching Brian Johnson get treated like scrap. Relief only comes when Sam scoops it up in the backseat. Dean nods thanks in the mirror, then slams in another tape—Motörhead.

Ace of Spades kicks in. No way this one’s getting ganked. Dean’s hands start tapping the wheel, grin aimed at Sam’s don’t-you-dare face.

Whirr. Tape ejected. A flat, “Nope.” Dean swallows the how dare you loaded in. 

Sam snorts into his jacket, and Dean clocks it. Don’t make this worse. They’ll be having words later.

Grinding his teeth, Dean plugs in Kansas. If Ben doesn’t like this, he’s inhuman.

“Carry on—”

Whirr.

Did this asshole just… Kansas? Really? Dean doesn’t have words.

His heart sinks. Palms sweat. Throat’s as dry as Sam’s vagina. He chokes out, “Fine. Guess we’ll sit in silence.”

Ben stretches, boots up on Baby’s dash. If Dean didn’t have the reminder of his screwed gun in his lap, he’d knock his teeth out. Mr. Belvedere doesn’t seem to care, though. Lighter pulled from his pocket, cigarette between his lips, flame burning.

No way he’s giving his girl cancer.

“Works for me,” Ben gruffs, taking a drag.

Not on his watch. 

Dean barks, “Window. Window!” Rolls her left down and glares at Sam until he does the same.

Ben exhales smoke, eyes lazy, voice smooth. “Ask nice and maybe I’ll consider it, Kitten.”

Dean’s jaw locks. Pride’s screaming don’t you dare, but Baby’s air is sacred.

He can’t risk it. Not for her sake. She means too much. 

“…Please.”

Ben rolls her down. Lets the silence breathe just long enough before adding, low:

“Good boy.”

Dean’s knuckles go white on her wheel.

They roll into the garage. Ramp swallows Baby, concrete echoing under her tires until she purrs into their bay like she owns the joint. Dean lets her engine rest, nose twitching at the faint whiff of smoke clinging to her upholstery. Already making mental notes for a full scrub-down once they send Captain Dickhead back to whatever comic-book panel he crawled out of. No corners cut. She deserves his best.

Passenger door creaks open, and Dean braces for Baby to scream bloody murder. Doesn’t come, thank God. Small mercy. He still winces, though.

Ben climbs out slow, all long legs and no shame. Doesn’t say a word about her, which is somehow worse than an insult. Like she’s beneath notice. Dean’s teeth grind.

Sam and Dean follow him out, closing her doors with reverence she deserves. Sam tries diplomacy, offering to give the guy a tour. Either this asshole is deaf or Sam’s mute ‘cause Ben’s already striding ahead, peeling the bunker open like it’s his second home.

Dean’s heart stutters when the first door handle snaps off in Ben’s fist. That was solid iron. SOLID. Ben tosses it aside like cheap plastic.

“Where’s the beer, Kitten?” Ben calls back, not even looking.

Dean’s jaw ticks. “We’re all out.” Lie. Fridge is stocked, but he’s not giving this guy squat.

Crap. He spoke too quick. Rambo’s gonna think he’s accepted the nickname. Oh well. No going back now.

“Uh-huh.” Ben grunts, taking a corner sharp, eyes already scouting like he smells the stuff.

Another hallway, another corner. Dean’s eyes catch on the stairwell banister at the landing—bent down in a slow, ugly arc like someone tested its limits for fun. His gut goes cold. The guy’s not just strong—he’s adjusting. Testing. Every step through this place is a stress test.

Jesus Christ.

Sam mutters the same at his side, both of them rattled.

Then, from the kitchen—snap. Fridge door swings open, rattles, clanks. Bottles shifting. Dean knows that sound like his own heartbeat. His stomach drops. The one time he buys the good stuff, too.

Sure enough, Ben’s already parked at the table by the time they walk in. Beer in his hand, cap nowhere in sight. Dean follows the sound—coin-toss trajectory—and yep. There it is. Embedded in the ceiling like some permanent fixture. Guess it lives there now.

Ben tips the whole bottle back in one long drag, throat working like he hasn’t touched liquid in years. Dean would’ve at least savoured the damn thing. Ben slams it down empty. Grins.

“You two must have some wild sex parties in this place,” Ben says, kicking back like he’s on vacation.

Dean’s brain stalls for half a beat — you two. First time the bastard’s even bothered to include Sam in anything. Bout friggin’ time.

Sam makes a noise caught between a throat clear and a huff. Indignant, probably. Or just clocking the same thing Dean did. Either way, it’s a first.

Dean waves off Ben’s assumption, aiming for casual. “It’s strictly business.” What if the old timers did used to throw parties here, though? Dean’d dig it.

Ben leans back farther in the chair, lazy as sin. Dean’s eye twitches. They’re metal legs, but he wouldn’t put it past him to snap those too. If this bastard breaks their furniture, he’s billing him.

“So what’s this space-time shit?” Ben asks, like he’s ordering a burger. “Space fuckin’ sneezed and I landed here?”

Dean jabs a thumb toward Sam. “Sam’s your guy for the nerd stuff. Ask him.”

Ben doesn’t even glance at Sam. Not even a flick. His eyes stay locked on Dean, heavy enough to pin him to the spot. “I’m not asking the nerd. I’m asking you.”

Dean bristles. Now that’s crossing a line. First he acts like Sam is a ditchable prom date. Now this? Only Dean gets to call Sam that. “Don’t call him that.”

Ben doesn’t blink. Just watches him, like a trainer waiting for a puppy to quit yapping. Smirk fades into a line that makes Dean’s chest squeeze tighter than a vice.

The thought of keeping the peace gives him a headache. But Dean doesn’t wanna know what Ben’s like when the gloves come off.

That in mind, he backpedals a little, jaw ticking. Still looking out for his little brother, just different. “He is a nerd. But that’s not a bad thing.”

Smirk slides right back on like it never left. Definitely dodged a bullet there. Ben takes another drag. “Noted.”

Dean hates how much like a test that felt.

Ben exhales smoke toward the ceiling, then levels him with that stare that won’t take the day off again. “So where the fuck am I?”

Dean swallows, more bite in his voice than he can swallow back. “Lebanon. Kansas.” If he thinks Dean’s forgotten about the disrespect earlier, he’s dead wrong.

Ben blows a stream of smoke at the ceiling, casual as ever. Unbothered. What an asshole. “Lebanon, huh? Guess you’re gonna need to stock up on a fuck load more beer and smokes.”

He says it to Dean. Not Sam. Always Dean. Sam might as well be a an actual Sasquatch for how little he exists to Ben.

Ash drops onto the table. Dean glares at it like it insulted his mom. He clears his throat, sniffs. Not gonna let Sam be alone in the same room with this jackass. No way. Sam clicks his tongue. More annoyed about being an errand boy. Dean gets it.

“If this bothers you, get me an ashtray, Kitten.” Ben says. Eyes still on Dean. Does this dude ever blink?

Dean folds his arms. “Use the bottle.”

Ben’s smirk widens a touch. Smugger than ever. Just taps the ash onto the table, deadpan: “Table it is.”

Dean’s ready to snap, maybe actually chew him out, but Sam reappears with a random bowl from somewhere and drops it in front of Ben with a clatter.

“Wasn’t so fuckin’ hard, was it?” Ben mutters, stubbing out in the bowl like he won anyway. He adds, then. “You trained him well.”

The hell he just say? Sammy’s not a damn dog.

Dean’s nails bite into his palm. Sam’s jaw tightens, but he says nothing — just throws Dean a look like he could use a breather anyway and slams the door behind him on his way out.

And just like that, they’re alone.

“Just you and me now, Kitten.”

Dean doesn’t like the way he says it. Doesn’t like the way it lands in his gut, like Ben’s been waiting for this moment.

“You don’t throw sex parties here, fine. Then what does that make the two of you?” Ben thumbs the cap off another beer, neat flick, like a magician’s trick. This one doesn’t stick in the ceiling. Adapting. Always adapting. “Are you lovers?” He’s so sick of people assuming crap about them.

Dean blinks hard, like the bastard just swung at him with a brick.

“We’re brothers.” Short. Sweet. Should be the end of it.

Ben snorts, smoke curling out of his nose. “Sure you are.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Dean grits. What’s he gettin’ at?

Ben shrugs, takes a long pull, lets the bottle thud on the table. “Brothers don’t look at each other the way—at least you—look at Dan.”

At least him. That’s what he said. And he has the nerve to get Sam’s name wrong. Unforgivable. Screw him.

Dean’s jaw ticks harder. “It’s Sam—”

”I don’t fuckin’ care, Kitten.” He didn’t throw his hand up. Sure felt like he did, though. “So this is, what, some Flowers in the Attic type of shit?” He has got to be kidding him. And Dean has never wanted to cave someone’s teeth in more. Ben leans back in his chair, easy as breeze. “Look, man, I’m not judging or nothing. You don’t exactly strike me as fuckin’ vanilla.”

Dean’s head spins. One second the guy’s alpha posturing, the next he’s talking like they’re two schmucks in a dive bar shooting the shit. Tonal whiplash.

“It’s not like that,” Dean says, sharp. Let it end. 

Ben barks out a laugh. “That, Kitten, does not sound like a fuckin’ no.” Another cap flicks, hits the ceiling, ricochets. His grin widens. “So if it’s not like that, what is it then? Because from where I’m sitting? Wife comes to mind.”

Now Sam’s his wife. Great. Dean breaks for the fridge, breathes deep as he opens it. Enjoys the moment of peace away from those focused eyes. He stares at what was his six pack. Only two left. Good thing Sam’s getting more. He’s gonna need it. One more breath and he circles back, twists the cap off, slams back half, wipes his mouth. “He’s not my wife. And you don’t know the first damn thing about us.”

Ben tilts his head, eyes narrowing like he’s cataloguing him. “So you’re co-dependent. Interesting.”

Dean twists the cap off another bottle, gulps heavy, trying to drown the heat rising in his chest. Why the hell does it feel like he’s on trial here?

“This what you do?” Dean snaps, chin lifting, glare steady. “Sit there like a king on your metal throne, act like you’ve got the whole world figured out?”

Ben smirks, slow and sharp, like a blade sliding free. “Try to be less fuckin’ predictable, sweetheart.”

Sweetheart now. What’s next—darling?

Dean takes a long drink, knuckles white around the glass.

“I’ve faced bigger sons of bitches than you, sweetheart.”

Ben doesn’t react. If anything, he leans back further, long legs stretching like a predator settling in.

“Oh yeah?” He stands, rises to full height, one hand tucked lazy in his pocket. He leans in, voice low, dangerous. “Why am I still standing then?”

Dean cranes his neck, locks eyes with him. Defiant. He’s stared down death, stared down Lucifer. He’s not folding for this asshole.

Even if—yeah. He’s terrifying. Eyes say he bathes in blood for fun. Jaw says he’s the monster under the bed. And not the kind Dean can waste. He’s the kind that can’t be.

Still not giving him one solid inch.

The door creaks. Just the distraction Dean’s been waiting for. Ben’s attention flicks just long enough for Dean to duck out and make a beeline for Sam.

“Traffic?” Dean blurts, too fast, grasping at normalcy.

Sam gives him that weary side-eye, like he knows exactly what Dean’s doing. “It was fine. No issues.” He pauses a beat, pensive. Then adds, “She’s fine, Dean.”

Dean perks up at that, clings to the she. Sam won’t say it, but he noticed the disrespect she received earlier, and he’s not happy about it, either. Dean knows he loves her, too. She’s their anchor in all this.

“Awesome. That’s awesome,” Dean says, already wincing at how awkward he sounds. “Park those on the table for Cornell Chuckles in there, then we’ll talk.”

Sam heads in, disappears a beat too long, comes back out looking like he crossed a minefield. He can guess why, so that checks out.

Dean steers them both away, eyes still locked on the door. “So, uh. Big Scary Giant. Thoughts?”

Not even a snort. Dean’s wasted here.

Sam rubs his face. “Far as I can tell? We’re stuck with him, Dean. At least until we can figure out how to send him back to wherever he came from.”

Dean grimaces. “Count me out of that universe.” Half a lie. Truth is, he can’t stop thinking about what else like Ben might be out there. “Why are we always the babysitters?”

Sam shrugs. “Uncanny, though. How much he looks like you.”

“Certainly an upgrade from Captain Prep School.”

“We could’ve locked him up. Wouldn’t call this an upgrade.”

Hate to admit it, but he’s right.

Dean’s fingers snap, thought landing hard enough he almost stomps his foot. “What about the holding cell? Warded against every last pain in our asses. Should keep him in there too.”

Sam hums. “Yeah. Maybe. Question is, how the hell do we get him in there?”

Dean rubs his hands together. Smirk locked and loaded. “Don’t worry, Sammy. I got this. Asshole won’t know what hit him.”

SKREEE-KRRRNN!

The bunker rattles. Wards sputter and die. His heart punches his ribcage. What the hell was that? 

Dean and Sam lock eyes—then bolt.

Ben’s standing there with the holding cell door in his grip like it’s a goddamn paper plate. So much for that idea. Dean swallows. No denying it now.  He definitely can’t waste this one. Ben lets it fall to the floor. Huge bang rings out—don’t flinch. He dusts his palms, turns around, eyes back on Dean. Like they never left.

“Thought this was the John.” He says it with a pointed look. What does he want ‘em to do, hold it? Screw that.

Sam swallows, gestures like a butler. Rattled as hell.

Ben strides toward them, stops just by Dean’s shoulder. Lowers his voice, deadly soft. “You can’t cage me, Kitten.”

Dean grits his teeth, eyes locked on the iron door. Dead weight. Takes ten men to lift easy.

He wants to say watch him. But he can’t. The proof’s on the floor, telling him this isn’t a fight he can win. 

Ben leaves him there without another word.

Why does he feel like the one trapped? 

Son of a bitch.

Chapter Text

Heat licks at the back of Dean’s neck. Like a Glock that just won’t quit after ten rounds—hot, steady, digging in. Makes him feel like prey.

Nope. Not prey. Never.

Why the hell’s he staring at his neck for?

He folds his arms tight, pretends he’s listening to whatever lecture Sam’s spinning. Shrugs off the itch.

“There aren’t any more reports of thunder without the lightning, so I think whatever brought Ben here is closed.” He darts his eyes to the guy. “For now.”

“Shame. Could’ve started my own personal entourage,” Dean says, wry. “So why didn’t your Marvel knockoff do a crossover? Ain’t that usually how this stuff works?”

Dean’s neck must be the damn Mona Lisa for how that smug bastard’s eyeballing it.

Eyeball all you want, douchebag. Not sweatin’ over it.

Sam scratches his head, shrugs, rubs his eyes. Guy’s one click away from passing out at his screen. He’s been at it for hours. No breaks. Don’t know how he does it. Poor sap.

“You tell me.” He stands up, scans Ben again. “Probably for the best that he didn’t, though.”

If Sam’s jacked up mirror is anything like their unwelcome house guest, he’s damn right.

Dean nods, fixes his cuffs—casual as hell, all good—thinks about cracking one more beer before crashing. Day he’s had? He deserves it.

“Looks like you’re stuck with me, Kitten,” Ben says.

Hell was a nightmare. Purgatory was an endless brawl. But Dean got through it. Sam and him will get through this, too. Like they always do.

Neck’s not a damn steak, pal.

“Unfortunately,” Dean bites, sighs through his nose.

Sam yawns, wasted. Shoots Dean a look. Dean shoots it right back—he’ll live. For a beat Sam hangs around, yawns again and heads for the stairs.

Dean watches him go then heads to the kitchen. Totally nailed it. Unshaken. Cool as ever. Now it’s beer o clock.

“Grab me one,” Ben barks. Dean wrenches the door open, grabs two. Wants to throw Ben’s words back at him. Tell him to ask nice, but he doesn’t. Can’t stop hearing the sound the door made when it dropped like a damn meteor. His heart thuds just thinking about it. Heavy. Like the friggin’ door should’ve been.

Dude’s puffing away again when Dean gets back. Ashtray full as hell. Bottles on the floor, table, knocked over. Dean’d be impressed by the sheer amount Ben can drink if he didn’t know he was built different. Guess cancer isn’t a thing in his usual playground.

Dean tosses the bottle with more force than needed, but Ben catches it easy. Cap number Dean’s-lost-count bounces on the floor ‘til it stops somewhere.

To prove a point, Dean twists his own, parks it on the table. Neat. He’ll trash it later. Takes a swig, closes his eyes for a few secs.

“Good beer,” Ben says, kicks back. If it’s good, try savouring it. “How old’re you?”

That was weird. How old is he? Maybe he thinks Dean’s younger ‘cause he doesn’t have a beard. Checks out… Even if Dean feels way older than he actually is. Always has done. Run-ins with all the ugly mothers that go bump in the night do that to a guy. And—

Not touching that.

“Twenty-two,” Dean says. Smirks into his beer, sips. “I know, I know. Don’t look a day under nineteen.”

Ben snorts. “And the real answer?”

Truth is, Dean doesn’t ever really give his age much thought. Can’t remember the last time he celebrated. Or, hell, was celebrated. Dean tried to make the effort for Sammy when it was his. Made as big of a deal as he could without being soft. Some gifts. A card if you could call a napkin with Dean’s chicken scratch one. But Sammy smiled… When he was a kid.

Dean shakes off the thought. If Sam turned thirty-seven—tack four on and bing, bang, boom, that makes him forty-one. Christ. Getting old.

“Last I checked, I’m a spicy forty-one,” he answers, stiff, takes a neat gulp. “So, what, you’re a decade older?” Dean grins, smug.

Ben doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t move. Just stares. Like he has zero other plays in his book. Dude’s worse than Cas. Even if he’s not staring through him like it feels with Cas sometimes.

Dean takes another swig, lets it sit in his mouth.

“I was born in 1919.” Dean spits, beer spraying the table, chair. He wipes his mouth, brows tight.

Excuse him? 1919? Holy crap. So he’s strong as hell. Smug as sin. Tall as crap. And now… Immortal? Don’t tell him that. Can’t be. Everything is killable. There’s always a way. Loophole. Trick. No way this asshole has more lives than a cockroach.

“Yeah, first of my kind, actually,” Ben says, smirks wider. Drains the rest of his beer, gives Dean a look. His kind? The hell’s that mean? “You’re looking at the fucking original, Kitten.”

Dean barks a laugh, forced. “The O.G what? Massive dickhead?”

The bastard gets up, zeroes in. Dean stands his ground. Doesn’t show fear. Winchesters are built different, too, and this asshole will find out one way or another.

He huffs a small laugh, rubs his beard. “For a guy that looks like me, you’re oddly fuckin’ pretty.”

Dean grits his teeth. Oh now he’s pretty? Like he’s a flower. Or a damn pearl.

“Not like Marilyn Monroe. She was a tasty snack,” he says, shakes his head. “Wish I’d gone there.” He licks his lips, eyes heavy as hell. “But you’re still pretty, sweetheart.”

Dean forces himself to not bristle. Ben’s right about one thing. Marilyn Monroe was smoking hot. Can’t shrug that off. Wouldn’t want to.

“Yeah, she was.” He’s trying for causal, smiles like Ben’s giganticism doesn’t make him feel small. “Guess you missed your shot.”

“We were never in the same room together.” Ben bites his lip. “If we had been, though, I’d have given her the night of her fuckin’ life.”

Dean snorts, sips, raises his bottle. “Talkin’ like a guy that’s probably every woman's biggest mistake.” Dean’s met men like Ben. Ego bigger than Texas. Just as flawed. Just as cocky. No way he knows how to please a woman right. Dean’d take that to the bank.

“No, Kitten.” Ben leans in, breathes on his ear. Dean grinds his teeth harder. “I’m the one they wish would call back or come knocking.” Dickbag says it with so much confidence Dean almost buys it. Almost. Ben leans back, shoves his hand in his pocket, stares harder, tilts his head. “You’ve got these… What do they fuckin’ call them in this era?” Ben squints, snaps his finger.

Dean rolls his eyes, takes a sip, bored. He still talking?

“Oh, that’s right. Disney princess eyes.”

He nearly chokes on his drink, nearly does another damn spit take. Stops it. Swallows normal. Meets him with a glare. He’ll show him he’s dead wrong about that. He does not have eyes like a Disney princess. Don’t get defensive. Play it off. Move on.

“Yeah, Rapunzel’s got nothing on these babies.” Sam’d be impressed by how hard Dean rolls his eyes.

Ben smiles, shows teeth. “I’ve never watched that shit. But isn’t that the one with the dame with the really long fuckin’ hair?” Brows jump. Asshole’s finding this way too funny. “That makes you and Dan a two for one combo.”

Dean’s teeth crunch.

“He got the girly hair. You got the girly eyes. Symmetry in motion.”

See how he feels when his teeth crack. Bloody knuckles be damned. Girly. Said so sure. Like he knows him. Like Dean’s a pinup tattoo. Worst part? He’s been lining up this mother’s eyes with guns. Deadly. Predatory. Hard as steel. But how he sees him? Same as a delicate little ballerina.

Only thing he got right is Sam’s mophead.

“This might work on everyone else. It won’t work on me. I’ve seen every twisted thing in this big, wide, popsicle stand. You’re not any different. And you’re not special.” Dean keeps his gaze revved up to a hundred. Not backing down for nothin’. Even if this smug wannabe Captain America ain’t flinching. “You gonna sleep here? Smoke another pack? Or are you tuckered out?”

Ben grins. Dean feels like he sees real fangs. Had enough run-ins with vamps to clock the bite.

“I’ll take a bed,” he says, juts his jaw. “Finish your beer, Kitten.”

Dean’s jaw feels like it’s gonna snap. He takes his time on purpose. Gives a few satisfied gasps as he drinks. Swills the bottle for extra bite.

“You’re not the boss of me. No one is,” he says, sniffs. “Not even God himself can order me around, asshole.”

Ben’s eyes flash, squint. “Feisty. Like I said.” He leans again, lips way too close. If he thinks they’re making out, he’s got a sandwich filled with knuckles to chew on. He takes Dean’s beer, knocks it back. “Time for bed.”

There was only a couple of pulls left, but still. That’s low.

He slams the bottle down, turns. Dean’s mouth tastes sour. Ben strides to the stairs. Dean watches the bottom of the rail, covers a wince when it doesn’t bend.

“You coming, Kitten?”

Dean glares at his back.

Dean rubs his eyes, knocks back coffee. Ignores Sam’s prying eyes.

“So that was a bust,” he says, flat, checks out the waitress. Cute. Petite. Has that freak in the sheets energy.

“Bobby’s contacts were always weird.” Sam looks off left. “Remember Megan? Bobby said she was legit, but…”

Dean does remember her. Crazy. Probably had thirteen cats and fed them from her mouth. He shudders.

“Remind me never to ask her if she’s good again. Damn near clawed my eyes out.” Dean drains the rest of his coffee. “Can’t believe this crap. Stretch Armstrong lands in our neck of the woods and we’re stuck with his smug ass.”

Sam nods, plays with the green stuff on his plate. “How did you convince him to hang tight?”

Dean blinks hard, jaw clenched. “Told him I’d get some top shelf whisky. The fancy stuff.”

“Do you even know what the ‘fancy stuff’ is, Dean?”

Fair question. Probably not. It’s booze. The dude doesn’t even taste his beer. Won’t know the difference.

“Jack Daniel’s?” Dean jokes, waves a hand. “He’ll take what he gets.”

Sam snorts, clears his throat. “Sure, Dean.”

Dean wants to snap. Wants to flip the table, make Sam take that back. But he’s right. He’s heard enough sure, Dean’s in his life from Sam to know what’s what. That’s the if that makes you feel better one. And it sits in his gut. Like a blade that keeps sinking in. He hates it.

No more words said, Dean stands and heads for the door. Sam follows like he always does. Dean throws a wink over his shoulder at the waitress as he leaves. He’ll get her later if he has time.

Outside the street is swamped. People bustling. Cars passing. Birds chirping. Dean’s nose twitches as some dude passes, cigarette smoke heavy. Like Ben’s here with them.

Dean stops himself before he lays the guy out. Not his fault. Innocent in all this. Wouldn’t take the edge off anyway.

Not the right face.

Sam’s lingering. Looks like he wants to ask something. Twitchy.

“What?” Sam hedges, stares at the road like it’s a Stanford text book. He would find that fascinating. “Sammy—what?”

“You gonna tell me what happened?” He takes a breath, uncomfortable. “After I left?”

“Nothing,” Dean says, ending it. “We braided each others hair. Made each other friendship bracelets.” Throws up his wrist, points to nothing. “Anyway—let’s hope Worlds’s Biggest Asshole with a Chuck Complex hasn’t sneezed too hard, or the bunker’s as good as rubble.”

Well the bunker’s still standing so Dean’s putting that in the win column.

Top of the stair rail still looks like a rollercoaster for a bug, but it’ll live. No smoke in the air. No sound of caps bouncing.

Quiet.

…Not good.

Dean bolts, bag swinging in his hand as he leaves Sam high and dry, checks the war room. Hears the burn of paper and stalls before he walks in to the kitchen.

He freezes. Eyes on the ceiling. Not moving. Sam bumps his back, laughs like a virgin and sighs under his breath.

“You get the good shit?” Ben asks. Butt-ass naked. Puffing away, relaxed as hell. Beer in his other hand.

Dean sighs through his nose so hard he feels like a steam engine. “Okay. I’m only gonna say this once. Clothes stay on in the communal areas, Magic Mike.”

“Cute. But no,” Ben says. “What’s the fuckin’ matter, Kitten? It’s just flesh.”

It’s a lot of flesh. Dude’s shoulders are wide as a canyons. Chest looks like it could stop a truck. Probably could. Dammit. At least with clothes on it wasn’t as damn obvious.

“Okay, I’ll bite. Why are you naked?”

Sam clears his throat like he’s trying to force out a swallowed tooth.

“Trip was one way,” Ben says, cigarette burns. “I’ve got nothing to wear.” Rises to his full height, closes in like last night. “You scared of a real man, sweetheart?”

Dean bristles, clenches his fists. Drops his eyes. Scans. Holy—no way. No. Uh-uh. This is a joke. And not a funny one. Thing could be the length of Dean’s forearm.

Soft. He’s soft and he’s thicker than Dean at full tilt on his best day.

Be cool. Don’t let him see anything.

Dean sniffs, feigning casual. “Don’t see any real man standing in front of me, asshat.”

Asshole has the balls to scratch his…. balls. Even they’re huge. Like baseballs.

Stop. Looking.

Focus on his eyes. Dean’s nothin’ to sneeze at. He’s packin’ heat himself. It’s all good.

“That right?” Ben smirks, blows smoke in Dean’s face. Only time he’s welcomed it. Covers the thing standing in front of him for a beat. Not long enough, though—scratch that. No size talk. Ben grabs the bag out of his hand, checks it. “You don’t know shit about whisky, do you? The fuck is this?”

“You got eyes, don’tcha? Bottle’s right there, chief.” Dean folds his arms, grits.

Ben shrugs, breaks the top off and gives it a sniff. “Smells like shit. How’d you two afford this place if your taste in beer and whisky is working class at best.” Not asking. Backhanding. Dean’s not rising to it. “Whatever. It’ll do.”

“If you’re done swinging your dick around, Sam’s got some crap that should fit.” Dean turns his head, gives Sam a look. May as well be Roadrunner with how fast he breaks for the stairs.

“No. I’m good like this.” Ben takes a swig, swallows, glares at the bottle. “This is fucking foul.”

Should be. Dean stops a smirk before it comes on. “Sorry. Guess I don’t know my stuff. But like you said. It’ll do, right?”

Dean thought Ben would twitch. Not… there. A muscle. His lips. Nose flaring. None of that happens. Dean feels naked for a beat and he fights his instinct to take a step back.

“Don’t test me, Kitten.” Ben grins, dark. “Not if you can’t handle it.”

Deflect. Shrug it off. Dude, remember the damn door—

Screw it. He’s in the trenches now. No turning back.

“I can handle anything you throw at me, cupcake,” Dean says, eyes hard, jaw set. “I’m not like every Tom, Dick, and Harry that you push around daily to feed your huge ego.”

Dude. Stop mentioning length.

Ben gulps down half the bottle, throat working overtime. Shakes his head after. Steps in closer. Dean pulls his hips back a touch, glares up at him. Expects to have a Mexican stand off with Ben’s eyes, but they’re somewhere else.

Wait—no. God no. Yep. They’re on his mouth. Not good. Not good. Keep calm. Don’t show you know.

“l’d rather feed something else.”

Sam bumps Dean’s back again. Dean braces so he doesn’t give an inch towards Ben—inch? Get it together, man! Not thinking about it. Didn’t happen. Wasn’t said. Not a big deal.

Dean’s fine.

“Found some stuff that should fit.” Sam blindly thrusts a bag over Dean’s shoulder. Ben’s face turns mean. Scary as hell. Like he’s one wrong word away from blowing the roof off. “Could go to the store and get you some,” he offers, wanting to flee again.

“You two are such pussies.” Eyeroll. “Are you those types of pussies that fuck with the lights off?”

Dean takes the bait, shifts focus. “Sam’s practically the Virgin Mary,” he says, ignores Sam’s offence.

“What does that make you?” Ben finishes his cigarette. “Helen of Troy?”

Sam snorts into his sleeve. Traitor. Dean remembers Sam banging on about some book with a chick in it who had a face that launched a thousand ships. Must have got around in her time. Jokes on him. That’s a compliment.

“You might say I’m a heartbreaker.” He smirks. “Motion of the ocean, right?”

Sam drops the bag. Takes his hand back. Can’t blame him. Been holin’ it for two minutes tops.

“Yeah fuckin’ right,” Ben laughs, scratches his chest. “You want me to wear clothes. I want something out of it.”

He better not regret this. Dean chews the inside of his cheek.

“What do you want?”

Ben falls back into his seat, sparks up, takes his damn time. “Weed.” Dean’s seen more of this bastard’s face than he has his own this year. But that’s better than looking down. “I’ll know if it’s shit, so don’t fuckin’ try me. Get the best you can, bring it back, and I’ll throw on a pair of pants.”

“Guessin’ you’ve got nothin’ for his top half?” Dean whispers to Sam. His silence is answer enough. Ben would just Hulk his way through ‘em anyway. “Fine. It’s a deal. We’ll be sure to pick you up some shirts from Giants R Us while we’re out.”

“Sure. If that helps you sleep better, Kitten. But you’re staying fuckin’ put. Bookworm over there looks innocent enough to not get arrested. You don’t.”

“Sweet of you to care about Sammy’s police record,” Dean says, deadpan.

He doesn’t even know if he can be pissed at that. He does get flagged as suspicious all the damn time. Sam could be holding the literal murder weapon and the cops would still cuff Dean instead. It’s his face. His looks like he volunteers at the local soup kitchen face and rescues dogs in his spare time face, and teaches bad youths to read face.

Ben’s right on the money, and that’s what’s grinding his gears.

“I don’t give a shit about his police record.” Ben sounds bored even saying it. “This is just an area where his altar boy presence comes in handy. And I want it done right the first time.”

“I’ll keep myself out of sight then. He’s not goin’ alone.” Sam can handle himself. Dean knows that. Can never be too careful, though. Some people are worse than the things they hunt. They’ve learned that the hard way one too many times. “But just so you know, I can handle myself just fine.”

Dude doesn’t know squat about what Dean can do. This is bullcrap.

“No, you’re staying. Your junker is a dead giveaway.”

Did he just call Baby a—reel it in. Don’t give this asshole anymore ammo.

“Why are you still here? Get it fucking done.”

Old Sam would never have taken that sitting down. He’d argue. Rage. Throw a bitchfit. Not this time. He’s gone before Dean can even call out to text him when it’s done.

He’ll be fine, man. Just go wait in another room. Any room in the bunker is better than this crap fest.

Dean nods, decision made.

“Well, uh, I’m gonna go kick back for a bit,” he says, turns. Then.

“Pull up a chair, Kitten. You’re drinking this dog shit with me.”

“Nah, I’m good.”

“Sit.” Dean’s neck burns again. Hotter than before. Ben didn’t shout. No bark. No bite. But that drop… The threat underneath it makes Dean swallow. “I won’t ask again.”

He wants to brush him off. Walk out. Prove he’s not making him squirm, but Dean doesn’t have a death wish.

He’ll play it off, though. Has to. He’s sitting ‘cause he’s thirsty. All this is.

Dean turns, grabs a glass from the cupboard. Breathes.

“Can’t handle your whisky, man? You get used to the burn eventually,” he says, parks it on the chair furthest away. Blocks the view underneath. So, bonus.

Grabs the bottle, pours two fingers, sips. Yeah, it’s ass. But after three Dean won’t care anymore.

“You think you’re hiding it well, but your eyes don’t fuckin’ lie, sweetheart,” Ben says, smirks. “Should’ve got the good stuff.”

Dean’s jaw ticks. “Live and learn, right?” Should start wearing sunglasses everywhere. See what he says then.

“You don’t learn lessons.” Can’t deny that. Heaven and Hell would agree. Glad he recognises that. “But like they say: every dog has his day.”

Ain’t that supposed to mean something good? He straight up reinventing meanings now?

Whatever. Ben’s not the first to think he can bend Dean to his will. Won’t be the last either. Always gonna be assholes with way too much ego swinging their dicks. Law of the land and all that.

Dean yawns. He’s tired, but this one’s for show. Wants Ben to know he’s boring him.

Wasn’t expecting him to just hone in on the back of his mouth like it’s a target painted red.

Dean shuts his trap, takes a long sip, scratches his ear.

Ben turns, chair squeaks. He leans in, smirk full of something Dean can’t name. “Am I boring you, Kitten? Because I can think of several fuckin’ things we could be doing right now that would keep us both entertained.”

Oh boy. That’s one too many. Dean counts them out in his head. Marks them off as he goes.

Ben called him Kitten and feisty from the get. Completely ignores Sam’s existence, yet seems to be friggin’ allergic to not tracking Dean’s every damn move. Called him pretty—twice—and now this.

Dammit. Dammit. Dammit.

This ain’t just throwing weight around or circling the alpha of the bunker—which Dean is.

Ben wants him.

Like that.

Holy crap! What’s he supposed to do now? Wear a damn chastity belt for his ass? Do they make those?

Probably wouldn’t stop this jackass anyways. Holding cell door didn’t stand a chance. Belt won’t, either.

Dean swallows, clears his throat, takes a longer sip. Don’t show fear. If he wanted to, he’d of done it already. Be cool.

“This whisky really is ass,” he says, eyes on the glass. “Cold in here? Your nipples are twin peaks.” Laugh it off. Atta boy.

“It’s not cold, Kitten,” Ben says, sparks another cig. “I run hot. Everywhere.”

He better not be pitching a tent under the table. Dean scans to see if it’s lifted at all. Would make sense that Ben’s dick could jack it up. It’s level. Dean relaxes a little.

Maybe he’s just trying to get a rise outta him after all. Or he’d be hard right?

Okay. More whisky time. No more dick thoughts. Dean pours three fingers this time, knocks back one on the first go. Hurry the hell up, Sammy.

“How hot are we talkin’ here? Engine hot? Can you roast marshmallows on—never mind.” Awkward. This is so damn awkward. Think of Baby’s hum. Always calms Dean down.

“Your answers aren’t at the bottom of that fuckin’ glass.” Ben huffs a laugh, chair squeaking. “What happened, sweetheart?”

Nothing happened. Dean’s not sweatin’. Not thinking about Ben’s words or how stacked he is. Or how Dean wouldn’t even have a chance to slip a condom on him before he—

No! Don’t panic. Keep your cool, Winchester. Sam’s not here to hear you scream. It’d be over by now if this jackoff wanted that.

Ben knocks back the rest of the bottle in one long drag, sets it down, leans back.

“Dude, relax,” he says, shakes his head. “Fear isn’t attractive. Especially not coming from a fuckin’ man.”

Dean’s jaw grinds. He is not scared. Not one bit. Nope. What’s fear? Never heard of her.

He downs the rest of his whisky, swallows hard. Feel the burn. All of it. Like a real man. He pops his lips, glares, ready to snap back—

Sam stills in the doorway, like a deer in headlights. Bag dangling from his hand, head down. ‘cause of him. Floor must be the fountain of damn youth Sam’s staring at it that hard.

“I got what you wanted,” Sam says, puts it on the table. Careful. Like it’s a mine. “The guy said it’s, uh, really good quality.”

Ben takes the bag, opens it, takes out Mary Jane and gives it a sniff. No thanks given. He stands, picks up the bag Sam dropped earlier, fishes out some pants.

Dean assumes. Not watchin’. Not looking. All guess work.

Dean hates how much Sam looks like he’s waiting for a good job that’ll never come. Ben breezes past him, stash in hand.

Asshole.

“What’d I miss?” Sam asks, eyes on the seat that just had Nudezilla’s bare ass all over it.

What a fuckin’ day.

…

Dean shakes his head, hard, rubs his eyes. Just a fluke. Not getting to him at all.

Opens the door, yawns, blinks.

You’ve gotta be friggin’ kidding him.

“Hey, Kitten. Bed’s all warm.” Uh-uh. No way is this mother on his bed. Stretched out. Casual as a sleeping lion. Asshole taps the bed, smirks. “Just gonna stand there?”

Dean sighs through his nose, lips thin, jaw tight. Time to nip this in the bud. Keep it light, treat him like a skittish puppy that might snap. He’ll walk out. Everything will be peachy.

“Look, I’m flattered. Really.” Stall the eyeroll, keep cool. “You picked the handsome brother.” Small laugh, let it sit. You’ve got this. “But I don’t swing that way. I appreciate your… interest, but it’s not my bag. So, we good?”

There. See? Nailed it. Whole thing was solid. Ten outta ten.

“You’d be fucking amazed by how many times I’ve heard something similar to that,” Ben says, scratches his chest, smirk wide as hell. Dean swallows the fact he’s not denying his assumption—hates that he was right. “But every single one of them sang a different tune before I was even halfway in.”

Just more talk about his sexual prowess. Means squat to Dean. He’s not impressed. Dude’s never gonna get there with him, so it don’t matter.

He grits his teeth, laughs like Ben said something funny. “Yeah? Well, good for you. Real happy for you. Truly. But you’re wasting your time here.”

Ben climbs off the bed, crowds him in the doorway—again! What is it with this asshole and doorways?

Dean stares up at him, jaw ticking, fists clenched, eyes spitting venom.

“I don’t think I am,” he says, smug.

“Think what you want, douchebag. I’ll never yield.”

Ben leans in closer. Dean’s heart thuds. He shakes it off, keeps his eyes hot and hard as hell.

Breath warm on Dean’s ear. Throat tight. A beat.

Another beat.

Jesus, just spit it out already—

“Challenge accepted, Kitten.”

Chapter Text

Challenge accepted, Kitten.

Dean snorts, shakes his head, gnaws the tip of his tongue.

He’ll show Double Stuff a damn challenge, all right. Can’t believe that asshole sized him up like that. Said he doesn’t think he’s barking up the wrong tree. The hell does that even mean anyway? His jaw ticks.

Dean sighs, peels out of Baby, closes her door soft. “He’s not gettin’ to me, sweetheart. Not ever.”

He locks her doors, strokes her roof, strides to the bar. One or two won’t kill him before he hits the road again.

Stops, fingers twitching. Should he?…

Hell yeah. Sammy’ll be fine. Ben doesn’t seem to notice if he’s in the room anyways. Yeah, exactly. And if that bastard thinks he’s got a snowballs chance in Hell of gettin’ at Dean’s ass—not saying that he does—ganking Sam would be the dumbest move he could make.

Dean nods to himself, enters and makes a beeline for the bar. A quick scan reveals some potential hunnies he could have a good time with, but he ain’t gonna overstay his welcome. He doesn’t think that Ben will hurt Sam in his absence. Not sold on Ben not throwing a tantrum that his favourite new chew toy isn’t around for him to play with.

He holds up two fingers when the bartender catches his eyes. Pays, grabs a seat.

Nice to be alone with his thoughts. Nice to have some alone time. Well, not alone. But going solo so it still tracks. Not the point. The point is babysitting duty has been riding him. Sam made the annoyingly solid argument that Ben only has eyes for him, so he shouldn’t have to clean up after him.

Dean couldn’t argue. Can’t expect Sam to collect beer tops or empty ashtrays, or clean the ass stains off of seats when he’s been running errands for the guy without complaint.

Bitchface screams otherwise.

All came to a head the other day. Ben directed the question to Dean: get me more smokes, peasants. Okay, that’s not how he said it. Just how it sounded. Dean shot Sam a look. Sam rolled his eyes, made a scene of storming off, and later told Dean he’s not playing errand boy to someone that can’t even be bothered to remember his name.

Damn near backed him into a corner with his argument. Stanford would’ve been proud.

So now the responsibility falls on Dean. Every beer, smoke run, maid duty, and entertaining Ben’s bullcrap.

Dean takes a long swig, swallows hard.

Doesn’t wanna think about it. But he can’t not because it’s driving him crazy. What’s that smug asshole mistaking when he looks at him?

Nah. Can’t be that. Then again, there was that thing that Sam said way back when about overcompensating. Yeah right. If that’s the case, Dad and Bobby were doing the same. People don’t pick their family.

Didn’t see him throwing his own hat in the damn ring either considering Dean asked why do people think we’re gay?

Sure seems like deflection if you ask Dean.

Forget that. That’s low. Sam’s not here to defend himself in Dean’s head.
Worth noting, though.

Dean drains the rest of his first beer, wipes his mouth.

Maybe it’s got nothin’ to do with which way he swings. Hulk Hogan’s God Child said Dean’d be amazed by how many times he’s heard someone tell him they don’t bat for his team, and how he broke them anyway.

Yeah well, difference is Dean’s made of stronger stuff. The mark didn’t break him. Michael couldn’t hold him. Ben’ll be no different.

“Damn straight,” Dean says, clears his throat and stares at the label on his bottle. No one heard that. He’s in the clear.

He’ll take his time with this one. He’s feeling better. No matter what Ben throws at him, Dean will be fine. Like he always is.

No one would ever say he’s a patient man, but he’s as stubborn as Sam’s refusal to cut his damn hair. He smiles, takes a sip. Ain’t that the truth.

Shoulders relax, jaw loosens. Dean’s got this in the bag. Not his usual arena to fight in, but he’s a warrior. And warriors adapt on the fly.

Dean doesn’t even get a chance to shrug his jacket off fully before Sam is speed-walking towards him. Checking his six like the boogey man is on his ass.

“Dude—“ He freezes, half spins and spins back. “He’s not in a good mood. I’ve heard ‘where’s Dean’ more times in the past eight hours than that time you snuck out and Dad was freaking out.”

Not Kitten? Or… sweetheart? Dean covers a sneer.

Sam huffs. “I get a ‘hey, Dan, right?’, and zero indication that he heard me correct him, but for some reason your name—instant recall.” He’s clearly more pissed about that than he’s willing to admit. “Not important. Anyway, apart from that, the bunker’s been peaceful. Hasn’t come out of his room other than to glare at me for not knowing when you’re coming back.”

Should have had that third beer.

Dean sighs.

“Don’t let it get to you, Sammy. He’s not worth it,” Dean says, hand on Sam’s shoulder. Gives a tight squeeze. “We’ll live, right?”

Sam drops his head, shoulders shake a little. He huffs a little laugh, and Dean smiles. It doesn’t reach his damn eyes, but he’s got a gut feeling what’s coming when Ben clocks that he’s here.

“You’re right.” Sam swallows, straightens his head and nods. “How did it go?”

How did what—oh. The hunt.

“No sweat. Vamp nest went the way of Old Yeller.” Dean grins. “Felt weird doin’ it alone, but…”

“You needed some space.” Sam smiles small. “I get it, Dean. Really.”

“A’right,” Dean says, takes his hand back, deep breath. “Time to pay the piper.”

They’re not even at the stairs before Ben comes out of his room, thankfully wearing a shirt for once.

Dean got so many odd looks shopping for 3XL Tall. Side eyes that said he’s not fooling anyone. One store clerk asking if they’re for his overgrown son, which Dean snorted at before saying actually they’re for this Michael Myers knockoff in his reluctant care. He rolled his eyes at their sour face that screamed they think he’s being harsh.

Sister, if only they knew.

“I’m going for a walk. This place is fuckin’ claustrophobic,” Ben says, and Dean’s blood pressure skyrockets.

There is no friggin’ way he’s letting this walking nuke out in public.

Damage control time. And get it done quick.

“Hey, uh… Ben, what’s the hurry?” He laughs, nudges Sam like he’s in on a joke.

“I’m bored.” Translation: you weren’t here to spar with, and I’m throwing a hissy fit. “I’m not your prisoner. You can’t fuckin’stop me. So I’m taking off.”

Dean bristles, clenches his teeth.

“Listen, if you think that threatening to leave is somehow gonna get you what you want, you’re dumber than you look.”

Nice going, Dean. Real smooth.

Ben smirks, eyes locked and loaded. “You think that’s the only thing that could stop me from walking out, Kitten?”

Sam’s eyes dart between them, suspicious as hell. Dean pays him no mind. Ben gets what he means. That’s all that matters right now.

“So you do want something?” He fake laughs, teeth bared in a cruel smile. “Why am I not surprised?”

Ben’s eyes flash danger, but Dean’s already ditched diplomacy, so screw him.

“What is it this time, Goliath? A pipe? Pre-war skin mags—“ Dean waves off Sam’s audible choke. “A friggin’ fidget spinner?”

Ben shakes his head, laughs like Dean just said the funniest thing in the world and shoves his hands in his pockets.

“That’s fuckin’ adorable, sweetheart,” he says, flashing teeth. “You’ve got the bark, I’ll give you that. How is that going to help when I decide to walk out?”

Dean stills himself. He’s right. Sam knows it. Dean knows it. There’s nothing he can actually do to physically stop this tank from walking out. Dean’d be like a toddler clinging to their Dad’s leg dragging them out of daycare.

Dammit.

“Okay, Chuckles, what’s it gonna take? Not that.” Dean doesn’t want anyone in harms way, but he doesn’t owe them his ass.

“You’re jumping to conclusions, Kitten. We’ll get to that. Don’t you fucking worry,” Ben says, like the smug son of a bitch he is. “For now, I want a phone. And I want your number put in it. I don’t need yours, Dan.”

Don’t make a joke. Don’t make it worse.

“Why stop there? Let’s just put a GPS tracker in the back of my damn neck and call it a day, huh?” Dean’s teeth grind. Just can’t help himself. “Don’t get ideas. So, phone. My number. You stay put.”

Ben licks his lips.

“Only up until you fuckin’ bore me,” he says.

Great. So now Dean’s entertainment value is the bridge between Ben terrorising the locals.

Peace keeper wasn’t on his doomsday bingo card, but life always finds a way to screw him over.

“Guess I need to update my Rolodex of snark then. Can’t just keep recycling the classics.” Dean folds his arms tight. “Wouldn’t want you to get bored.”

For a beat, Ben stands there, smirk doing all of the work to make him look like the smuggest walking hazard known to man.

“It’s cute that you think that’s why you’re entertaining.” He scans Dean’s body. Dean wrestles with the urge to swing. “Dan can go get the phone.”

“We have spares—“

Ben cuts Sam off. “I don’t want a fucking spare. I want it top of the line. Haven’t figured those things out yet, but in time, I’ll master it.”

Dean snorts.

“If that’s you saying you’ll learn the ropes in your own time, why the hell not, Juggernaut.”

He cuts Sam a look, makes sure he’s okay with running the errand after his annoyingly convincing argument about how it’s not fair for them to split the workload.

Sam shrugs, twitches his lips like it’s not worth the fight and walks off to throw a jacket on.

“You happy now? Crisis averted?” Dean doesn’t wait for an answer.

He needs a damn beer after all that. His liver is the least of his problems. Heart’ll give out way before the rate his blood pressure’s climbing around this asshat.

He clears the steps easy, turns, breathes a little lighter when he reaches the fridge. Opens, bends, hooks two between his fingers.

Come to Papa.

That shadow wasn’t there before…

Dean braces, shuts his eyes tight for a beat. Stands, turns. Ben’s eyes flick up.

Up? From that angle. Dean works out the trajectory, eyes wide.

That was his ass. Dean’s grip tightens. He knows Ben’s fairytale ending is his backdoor, but he never thought the meat around it mattered.

He stalls a swallow. Can’t sweat in front of him. Gotta stand ground, sidestep, make a clean break.

“At least the Candy Man gives a guy a warning before he comes up behind him.” That was awkward as hell. Dean can do so much better than that. And why did he mention behind? Not that it isn’t true. It’s what happened. Pint Sized Big Ben’s lighter on his feet than Dean gave him credit for.

He didn’t even hear him.

Got nothin’ to say? Suddenly he’s the Silent Giant? No way. There’s an angle here.

“Okay… Good talk,” Dean says, walking off like he isn’t rattled.

He’s watching him. Don’t be weird—does his ass jiggle? He haulin’ extra cargo back there? Does he friggin’ mince?

Dude, be normal. Play it cool. There’s no way he’s smuggling hams back there. Ben’s just trying to get under his skin.

Lighter clicks, long inhale, smoke blows over Dean’s shoulder.

Oh crap. He is looking!

Chair. Don’t make it obvious. Just sit.

Dean drops with a sigh. See? Normal. Peachy. Everything is awesome.

Twists the cap off, sips, wipes his mouth. Ben stalks in, takes the seat right next to Dean. Does he gotta be that damn close? All those other chairs to choose from, and he picks that one.

Dean drinks more, fidgets.

Since they met this asshole always had something to say. And now what? Dean’s stuck with Anton Chigurh’s dickhead understudy?

Ben blows smoke in Dean’s face. Dean’s nostrils flare. Not breakin’ the silence. Got nothin’ to say to him. Not a damn thing.

Paper burns. More smoke. Tap, tap into the ashtray. Twist. Ben sips. Shifts in his seat.

Bladder, not now, man.

Dean’s not as young as he used to be, but hell if he’s leavin’ this seat before Sam gets back.

Just gotta take smaller sips. Easy peasy.

Oh yeah. Dean has a phone. He can just go on that. Smokey can sit with the quiet all by himself.

Dean pulls his phone out, unlocks it. Checks to see if Sam text. He didn’t. No big deal. Sam’ll be fine. Opens YouTube next. Dean loves this app. So many videos that have him belly-laughing.

Not the new stuff. That stuff is ass. The classics every time.

He clicks on his favourites, thumbs ready to fire one up—

“Well that’s just fuckin’ rude, Kitten,” Ben says, drags on his cigarette, exhales. “Here I was thinking we were both enjoying a comfortable silence.”

“I was enjoying the silence until you opened your damn trap,” Dean says, ignoring the spiral he had earlier. How dare this mother call that a comfortable silence. They are not close. They’re not even friends.

Ben stubs out his cigarette, leans back. “If that’s true, why’d you take out your fuckin’ phone?”

…

Crap! He got Dean there. Can’t even lie.

“My bad. Guess I forgot you were here for a sec’.” Dean rolls his eyes.

“Bullshit.” Ben smirks. “You were sat there practically praying that I’d say something to break the silence. That’s why you took your phone out, sweetheart.”

Is Dean that readable? Can’t be. No way. All he did was sit here and drink his damn beer. Unless this dickbag can read minds, too?

Dean stiffens.

Can he? If he can, does that mean he heard it earlier when Dean was panicking?…

Test it. Think of something shocking and see if his face changes at all. Something like… a skinless cat. Those things are ugly as hell.

Dean almost sneezes just thinking about it.

“I’m not telepathic,” Ben says, snorts. “You’re just a lot fuckin’ easier to read than you think.”

“Yeah right. You don’t know crap, man,” Dean bites, ignores the squeeze from his bladder.

Ben stands, looms over him, breath hot on his ear. “I know you’re nursing that beer instead of drinking it because you’re trying not to piss your fucking self.”

Bladder betrays him. Squeezes again like it’s agreeing with the smug bastard.

“Back off.” Dean’s getting real tired of these personal space violations.

Ben steps back right away, takes his seat back, drains the rest of his beer. “No problem, Kitten.”

That was weird. Dean wasn’t actually expectin’ Ben to literally back off when he said it. He did want him to back off, and all, but he also didn’t have anythin’ to counter with. Ben’s read on him was solid.

That’s scarier than his enormous size. ‘cause that means he’s not just physically powerful or overgrown—he’s also tactical, whip-smart and keeping track of every little thing Dean does.

“Is everyone like you in your universe?”

Yeah, yeah. He’s curious. Okay? Needs to know if what Ben is is normal. He said he’s the original, but the hell does that mean?

“Like me? No,” Ben says, shrugs. “I can’t shoot lasers out of my eyes. Can’t conjure lighting or other shit. Can’t fuckin’ fly. But I was the first human to be tested on, and this is what I got.”

He says it so casual. Like he’s describing what he did this morning. Dean stops a smile that’s fighting to break out, stuck on people shooting lasers out of their eyes or flying around the globe at the speed of light.

It’s not cool. Obviously. Stupid, is what it is. Dean’s an adult.

“So you were the original lab rat?” Dean smirks. “They get you chasin’ cheese, too?”

“I was scouted. They chased me. Not the other way around.”

So he was hand-picked ‘cause he was already impressive? Figures.

“Did they, uh, give your kind names, or what? Captain Asshole would have been my personal choice.” Dean grins, proud of himself for sayin’ it.

Ben’s face doesn’t change.

“They call me Soldier Boy.”

Soldier Boy? Soldier Boy?

And just like that Dean’s gone. Grin breaks. Shoulders shake. Laughs spillin’ out all over the place. Head tipped back.

He can’t believe it. Big hulking dude like Ben and they call him Soldier Boy.

This isn’t helping his bladder situation at all, but he can’t help himself. He’s this close to pointing a finger in Ben’s face, or falling off his damn chair.

He hears a lighter flicking. Ben calmly lighting another cigarette. Unphased.

If Dean’s about to be roadkill, at least he’s goin’ out laughing.

After a couple of beats he calms himself, whooshes air through his mouth and clears his throat, takes a sip when he’s certain he won’t spit it back out.

“Yeah, I didn’t choose the name,” Ben says, when Dean’s pulled himself together. “The point of it was to soften me so my sheer size wasn’t as fuckin’ intimidating. And it worked, so I’ll give credit where it’s due.”

There’s quiet again. Dean doesn’t know what Ben’s thinking. All Dean knows is that if he was a civilian being introduced to Soldier Boy, he’d have laughed at the irony and never stopped.

“That mean that when you talked to people you were like a Boy Scout?” Dean pretends he doesn’t care about the answer, but inside he’s picturing Ben talking like a little goodie-two-shoes and trying not to burst out laughing again.

Ben scratches his stubble, thinks. “Kind of, yeah. Did one of those say no to drugs campaigns once. Fucking ridiculous, right?”

Dean laughs again. Oh crap. He shouldn’t, but this is gold.

“Do you—no, never mind.” He had to stop himself. Can’t seem like he’s interested. That looks weak.

“Do I what, Kitten? You can ask.”

Dean’s fingers twitch. Sips his drink, bites back a grin.

“Do you remember what you said in it?”

Ben shifts in his seat, puts the beer down, speeds his legs, leans in. Dean finds himself leaning in, beer in hand, like he’s at the movies.

He starts.

“Hello, I’m Solider Boy.”

Dean snorts. Tone’s totally different. Way more reserved, softer like he said, but still demanding.

“Did you know drugs and drug related crime have become a nation wide problem?”

Dean barks a laugh, winces because his bladder is on fire now. He can almost hear the old-timey, grainy sound distortion in his head.

“All across America drugs are destroying people’s lives,” Ben says, with an eyeroll. Dean snorts harder. “but you don’t have to be a super hero to fight back.”

Dean nods along, like he’s watching this on TV. Thinking of the lives they’ve saved, all the shit they’ve done through nothing but grit and being too damn stubborn to quit.

“Because your super power is just saying no.” Ben shakes his head. “So when someone offers you drugs, you tell ‘em Soldier Boy said taking drugs is not cool.”

The finger point took Dean out. Had to throw his hand up for Ben to give him a damn minute.

“And anyone who does is a loser.” Harder eyeroll, fingers clench. Guy had to call himself a friggin’ loser. That’s hilarious. “Remember: real heroes don’t use drugs.”

Damn. Dean can’t remember the last time he laughed like that. Not even when Sam looked like he fellatioed Ronald Mc’Donald. And that was priceless.

Felt good, though. Nice.

…Needed.

It hits Dean then that they just had a normal conversation. He called him Kitten, sure, but they… talked. Like normal people.

Weird as hell. Dean can’t figure this guy out for nothin’.

“Did you have to cut all the crap in public?” More questions. Like he wants to know. And maybe he does. Whatever. Ben doesn’t have to answer. People normally ignore him anyway.

“Not really,” he says, takes a neat gulp. “I’m a pretty fuckin’ good actor. They never knew the difference.”

Dean swallows. That mean he’s acting now, too? Nah. That’s stupid. What’s he gonna get out of answering questions? Nothing that Dean can think of. Hasn’t asked any back, either.

Okay. Bladder has entered Defcon One now. Keep it together. Sam should be back soon.

Just ‘cause they’re talkin’ don’t mean the second Dean stands up his ass ain’t gonna be open season for Ben’s peepers.

“Somethin’ tells me you hated being nice to people.”

Ben nods, licks his lips. “Every fuckin’ second. People are boring.” He locks eyes with Dean then. “Well, most are.”

Door shuts from somewhere. That means Sam’s back. Dean shifts in his seat, casual as you like, beer in hand, half glare on to show he’s annoyed.

“Cool story, man—“ Clipped, bored, totally wasn’t enjoying the conversation. Gotta sell this bit or Sam’ll feel even more invisible than he already does. “Sammy! You get the phone?”

“Yeah!” Sam calls back, working on the stairs. “Latest one, whole nine yards.”

Ben doesn’t say anything. He’s staring at his beer like it owes him money, other fist clenched.

“There, see? Happy now, Big Guy?” Dean’s head thrusts back a touch. Damn that look is terrifying. “You need one of us to show you how to set that bad boy up?”

Ben drains the rest of his beer, smirks. “I can read, Kitten.”

Dean’s never been more relieved to be called Kitten. That look could’ve melted paint. Now Dean can breathe normal.

Sam comes into sight carrying a bag, tosses Dean the keys. Dean catches them easy, one-handed. Ben doesn’t look impressed. It’s fine. Doesn’t matter anyway.

For a beat, Sam’s eyes stick to where the two of them are sat. Next to each other. Dean shakes his head, like don’t ask. Sam shrugs and comes around the table.

As soon as he hands over the bag and Ben opens it, Dean breaks for the bathroom, like hell hounds are on his ass.

He snorts at that. What’s an expression to most was a damn reality for him.

Chapter Text

Ah… Kitten.

Ben grins, lighting his next smoke. He breathes it in deep, like a personal fuck you to the chemicals that should erode his lungs, but don’t. He breathes out. Slow, controlled. Imagines Dean’s barely contained annoyance as it hits his face.

The glare pointed at him every time is nothing short of fucking delectable. Baffling, too. Ben’s been around a long fuckin’ time. Watched different eras die out. Watched countless men and women die. Watched their grandkids die.

Never in all his life has anyone ever dared to stare him down like Dean does. Well, that’s not entirely fuckin’ true. Others have. They never maintained it. That’s the difference.

Ben doesn’t know for sure why he got dropped on that fuckin’ field. One minute he was falling from a window. He overheated. Exploded. And then he was here, lying face first on grass that smelled fuckin’ dry.

He got up, saw a tree. Hopped up there, and waited. For what, he doesn’t fuckin’ know. He just couldn’t be fuckin’ bothered to do anything after that shit.

Then, lo and behold, he heard footsteps. Light. He thought they must be the welcome wagon. And at that point, he was fuckin’ pissed off, so part of him was thinking he’d crack some skulls, channel the aggression—wouldn’t have mattered who got caught in his crosshairs.

Just like that—with zero fuckin’ warning, Ben’s aggression shifted without his permission. To something different. Something primal. Damn near threw him for a fuckin’ loop when he heard Dean answer him back, holding his little pistol up, demanding that he back up.

Ben’s cock stirs.

And then he was pressed right against the tip of his gun. Towering. Dwarfing. Blocking out the fucking sun itself—that little midget’s eyes burned with righteous fury.

Ben bent the gun. Made it completely fuckin’ useless. Cut his eyes to the taller weakling for a beat. Dean played his hand immediately. Stepped in the way. Challenged Ben. Said with his whole fuckin’ body that Ben would have to go through him first, even when Ben could have punched a hole through them both without breaking a sweat.

He only looked at Sam to see if their eyes matched. They didn’t. Sam looked like he was about to shit himself. Was he hiding it well?

Yes. But Ben can see through bullshit.

Ben didn’t go with them because they had a convincing argument. He doesn’t fuckin’ care why he’s here. Dean’s the reason he tagged along.

Fascinating. Resilient. Fucking. Reckless.

Just the kind of thing that excites Ben more than he can begin to explain.

Ben spreads out further on his bed, pops the cap off a beer with his thumb and takes a long pull.

He’s met men like Dean. But none that are actually like Dean. They folded way too fuckin’ fast. Whether through fear or recognising they were lesser is of no interest to him.

They were boring. Tight holes, sure. Big guys that thought they were the shit, but they weren’t.

Boring. Dull.

Ben started breaking guys because of the sheer size of his cock. Women couldn’t take the whole thing. Ben didn’t want to fuck a faggot, so he, let’s say, seduced straight men. Guaranteed tight hole that could take his entire length.

Twelve inches. He smirks. A blessing and a curse sometimes.

One pussy compared his cock to a Pringle can, after he got his breath back. Ben spat on him and walked off.

He never comes back for seconds. It’s one and done. Can’t have them thinking they’re fuckin’ special.

This one cock sucker—can’t remember his name. He was this real piece of work. Thought he was God’s gift. Strutted around like he owned the place. He didn’t. Ben did. And he soon figured that out.

He walked up to Ben with a smug face, challenged him to a fuckin’ drink off, would you believe it. Tapped out after the ninth pint.

That wasn’t the end of it. Ben folded that cunt the second time he saw him. Had him gargling his balls. Had him sniffing his sweaty, raw ass. Had him crying like a bitch from Ben’s cock stretching his throat out.

The pole smoker loved it. Begged for Ben to fuck him. Practically screamed the alleyway down. Fingers bled from clawing the fuckin’ walls. Pathetic cock staining it.

Ben sighs, drains the rest of his beer. Those memories used to excite him. Even if just a little.

Not anymore.

Not since Kitten entered the equation.

When they were in Dean’s junker, Sam did what Ben expected. He stayed quiet. He didn’t argue when Ben took shotgun. He rolled with it.

Typical. Fucking boring.

Dean, though? Oh, Dean!

That little firecracker acted like everything was normal. Played his tapes. Nearly ground his teeth to paste every time Ben rejected them.

Honestly, his music was probably fine. The reaction was the banquet—

Ben swallows, clenches his fists.

Good boy

Mmm. Fuck yeah. That surrender. The submission. And all over his fucking car’s interior?

Beautiful.

Dean didn’t say a word after that. But his knuckles looked like they were going to rip through his fuckin’ skin.

Then they got here. Ben’s first thought was that they’re a fuckin’ covert spy duo or some shit. All those cars. Underground. Secluded. Hidden entrance. Ben thought it was fuckin’ impressive.

He didn’t play it that way. If he did, Dean wouldn’t have been so fuckin’ sore.

Dean tried to pretend they didn’t have beer. Which was fuckin’ adorable. But Ben found it. Dean’s face said the brand was a privilege. It was good beer, Ben won’t lie. Seeing Dean progressively get more fuckin’ enraged as he knocked the whole thing back?

That was the money shot.

Ben growls low, thinks about disgusting shit to stop himself from getting a fuckin’ bitch of a boner.

And then that little fucker snapped at him when he called Sam a nerd. Ben revelled in watching his face cycle through the evidence that Ben left behind in his wake. The broken doorknobs. The bent stair rail. The bottle cap wedged in the roof.

Dean dialled it back. More worried for Sam than himself.

That’s the kind of thing that fuckin’ fuels him. Drives him wild. Dean wasn’t concerned about Ben snapping him in half like a twig. It was all about his little brother.

That’s why Ben thought for a minute that they were fucking. Dean looks at Sam like he’s something precious.

Disgusting.

That loyalty is wasted on Sam.

Loyalty is meant for leaders. Leaders like Ben. Not a fuckin’ pussy-ass brother-wife.

Ben rolls his eyes, cock completely soft now, so at least Sam is useful for something.

Point is—thankfully his suspicions were disproven.

They’re codependent. For now.

Ben doesn’t know the history. Doesn’t need to to know it’s carved in blood.

Interesting, is the word he used. Didn’t fuckin’ mean it, though.

All it is is an obstacle he has to destroy. And he’s good at that.

Really fucking good.

Ben grabs his phone. Top of the line just as he requested. He sends Dean a message. He’s double digits now. Dean’s not answering.

The longer you ignore me, Kitten, the worse it gets.

That’s what makes it fun.

Ben told Dean he has Disney princess eyes. Compared him to Marilyn Monroe. Emasculated him in every sense of the word.

What did he fuckin’ do?

He said Ben ain’t special. After he revealed that he’s the first of his kind, been around for nearly three of Dean’s fuckin’ lifetimes, and this impudent little fuckin’ brat looks him dead in the eye—

Patience. He’ll have him. Fucking settle.

—and he tells him to his face that he’s not worth a lick of fuckin’ spit.

The things Ben wanted to do to him in that moment… Fuck. It took everything he had not to bend him over the table, rip his jeans off, spit on his hole and mount him there and then.

Make him swallow those words. Make him claw and buck and fucking shatter from Ben’s cock filling his guts.

Cocky little fucker had the nerve to nurse his beer after Ben told him it was bedtime.

Ben thought about that later when he was stroking his cock. He made a note of where Dean’s room was. For later.

The next day Dean went out with Sam somewhere. They were gone a while.

Ben saw that as the perfect opportunity to strip off. He doesn’t feel the fuckin’ cold so it don’t bother him none.

Kitten’s face when he walked in was a sight to see.

Zero attraction, but that’s not an issue. A minor setback, is all it is. There was no mistaking his oh shit reaction at seeing a cock likely longer than his hard.

Ben’s seen that more times than he can fuckin’ count. The shock. The awe. The mental comparing.

And damn fucking right he did everything possible to keep his cock swinging when he moved.

Dean’s eyes were on the ceiling, though. Like they lived there. Pity. Sam kept staring at his cock with hunger, but Ben ignored that.

His mouth’s not worth shit to him.

Ben checks his phone. No reply.

He sends another message.

Thinks about calling again. Nah. Kitten keeps sending him to voicemail.

This is Dean. You know what to do.

Ben knows what he wants to do. But that will come later.

Sam eventually left to get him weed. Boy Scout. No one would suspect him because he comes across as a fuckin’ nobody.

Perfect for that kind of thing.

And then there was just him and Dean drinking that piss water whiskey. Ben was secretly impressed with how Dean handled it. The slightest strain in his throat gave him away. But that was it.

The Kitten can fucking endure.

Stubborn as they come. Delicious.

That’s the hook. The pull. The drive. The want. Because even after all that, when Ben was half naked on Dean’s bed, and he told him he doesn’t play for his team—he’s not gay, so that was adorable—but the surety that that would close the fuckin’ door, when Ben already decided Dean was gonna be his, was priceless.

He doesn’t just want his hole. He wants Dean to crave him.

Piece by piece. Step by step. Until his mind is consumed with Ben. Ben. Ben.

Dean said he’d never yield. Ben accepted his challenge. Means he can’t force it. Not that he would—with Dean. The victory wouldn’t taste as fuckin’ sweet if he did.

No. This time. This time, Ben will do things differently. He’ll take his time. He’ll savour every small win. And when Dean finally submits to him. When he throws his fuckin’ pride aside and let’s a real man take him apart, Ben will be satisfied.

But only then. Not before.

Only reason Ben got this fuckin’ rectangular computer is ‘cause he threatened to go for walk. On the one hand, he wanted Dean’s contact information. That was the primary goal, and like the tactician he is, he saw opportunity, and he ran with it.

The other hand… Well, he was pissed. This place is the same as pulling fuckin’ teeth without his little Kitten to play with.

Ben remembers walking outta his room to see if Dean had come back. Sam was there. Pissing his fuckin’ pants every time Ben came near him. Ben asked him when Dean was getting back. Sam looked at him like he was two seconds away from falling to his knees and begging for mercy.

Pussy. How the fuck is Dean cut from the same cloth as that wet fuckin’ blanket?

He said he didn’t know. Ben walked off straight after.

Then Kitten returned. Kept up the fuckin’ act of placater for a minute.

One fucking minute.

But then—then the eyes came back. The fire. The defiance.

And Ben’s cock threatened to spring. He stopped it, though. Can’t have him seeing him hard just yet. That will come.

Things is… Ben made a point of making his eyes sound girly.

They’re not. Yeah, they’re green. More than that, they’re an overgrown forest. Burdened. In need of fuckin’ deforestation.

Ben will take great pride in mowing it all down. ‘til it’s nothing but ash. When those eyes are blown. Dilated. Surrendered.

His.

After all that shit, Sam went to go and get the phone. Dean? He walked off like he was in control.

How wrong he was. Ben can still picture it. His jeans stretched over his ass. Spine curved like a typical man. No arch. Ben supplied the rest with his imagination. Crotch almost pressed up against Dean’s ass. He held back. Not a good idea to scare the prey this soon.

Dean noticed where his eyes were. His thighs shook. His spine snapped. Turned and faced him dead on. Threw out a joke that meant shit to Ben. Who the fuck is the Candy Man?

Then he walked off looking like a baby doe who don’t know how their legs work.

The thing Dean didn’t realise was that that gave Ben more of a picture—not less. Ben saw how his ass curved. How it hardened. Coiled tight, sure. The beauty is in how his restraint painted a perfect picture of how it’d look when Ben drives in—balls fuckin’ deep.

He can see it now. The pure muscle from his bent knees. He’ll take it all. Eventually. Ben’ll have to rethink his positioning.

On his lap’ll do it. Yeah. On his lap. Sunk down to the base.

Fuck. Stop. Right now.

Would be hot… His tight hole gripping his cock—his mouth wide open. Eyes rolled back. Fingers digging into his—

He said stop. He meant it.

Almost sounds like he wants more than a fuck from him. Which is out of the question.

Once he’s had him, Ben’ll take off.

Fuck me, Ben. Please.

No!

That is hot. Can’t deny that. Dean’s cheeks flushed, like a dame all buttered up from his silver tongue… moaning… gasping… begging for more—harder, deeper—

So after Dean was cataloging his own ass like he was the prized pig, he popped a squat on a seat.

Ben joined him. Decided to weaponise silence. See if that shook anything loose.

It did. Dean hated silence, more than he was willing to admit. Ben saw it all. The jaw doing all the work. The shifting in his seat. The little breaths he thought were inaudible, but weren’t to Ben.

Kitten got his phone out. Loaded up something with pictures on it. Ben didn’t get it but he wasn’t gonna sit there being ignored.

He knew what would pull Dean back. A challenge. And he played into it beautifully.

Curiosity got the best of him, and he asked about Ben’s past. Ben thought he could ignore it. Make him seem like a fucking pussy just for asking.

He didn’t. He went along with it. Dean laughed.

Laughed.

Damn near fuckin’ fell out of his seat. It spurred Ben on. Made him remember every fuckin’ nuance of that shitty ass PSA ‘cause Dean was revelling in it.

Leaning in. Engaged. Right where Ben fucking wanted him.

And then—then, Sam showed up and crashed the fuckin’ party.

Dean disengaged instantly. Afraid Sam would be angry that he had fun with Ben.

Fuckin’ sorry sack of shit is pussy-whipped without the fuckin’ benefits.

Ben would say what a fuckin’ shame. But he doesn’t wanna think about Sam being a hole Dean can fuck.

Maybe it’d satisfy him. Not in the way that Ben can, though. Not in the way that counts.

Even if Dean got to stick it in that pathetic bitch, it wouldn’t compare none to how Ben could have him praying to the God himself he flapped his gums about when he’s fucking him hard enough that he starts babbling gibberish.

Ben’s cock throbs. Angry. Demanding attention. These tight pants don’t do shit to contain him.

Fuck. Nnmghharg. God fucking dammit.

That man. That fuckin’ man.

Ben growls, checks his phone. Nothing. Again.

He breathes. Deep. Like the monks taught him. Those pussies said patience is always rewarded to those who wait, and Ben is gonna treat that like divine word.

Sam came in, dropped Ben’s new phone in his lap and Dean ran off to piss. Ben didn’t stick around after. Didn’t thank the starving-for-approval dipshit either.

He got Dean’s number later on. Revelled in every eyebrow tick Dean revealed as he put the numbers in. The tight lipped scowl aimed at him when he told Ben to keep it to realistic requests only.

Fuck that.

There he is.

Ben springs out of bed, throws the door open. It bangs. Who cares.

He strides along the corridor, clears the steps two at a time. Dean’s there. Finally.

Ben approaches, taps his shoulder. Dean shrugs him off. Doesn’t look at him.

Hmm. Fire is blazing but not like it normally does. Ben even caught a faint, tight, don’t touch me—but he didn’t register it ‘til now.

Ben bites his teeth, grabs a beer, pops it so hard it squirts. Dean don’t look back.

He follows him out, sees him slam a thing on the table. What is that? How does it bend like that? Fuck it. It doesn’t matter.

Dean parks his ass on his seat, chugs a quarter of his beer and starts tapping away on something.

Ben sits opposite. Observes. Takes in the movement of his eyes darting around the flashing screen.

Is this fuckin’ cunt pretending he’s not fuckin’ here?

Ben slams his bottle on the table. Dean doesn’t flinch. Smooth, Kitten. He’s got guts, that’s for fuckin’ sure.

Actin’ like he’s a fuckin’ gnat buzzing around his head.

“Hey.”

No response.

“Kitten.”

Still nothing. He’s really pushing Ben now.

“Look at me, Kitten.”

There it is. The tick. The tell. The swallowing glass that ain’t there as those eyes focus on him. On Ben.

Where they fucking should be.

“The hell’d you just say to me?”

Table slam. Yeah. Get angry Kitten. Show me that fuckin’ rage.

“Screw you. Screw you,” Dean spits. Scrubs his face. Looks up, then grits his teeth.

“You text way too much.” Slams his hand, tries to contain it. “Over and over it’s I need this, I need that—when are you coming’ home. What are you? My damn—“

He breathes in deep, lets it out. Gets up like it’s done. Finished. Buried. The shake of his hands say fuckin’ different. His shoulders, too.

Ben’s not gonna say anything.

“Stop friggin’ callin’ me!” Dean runs a hand through his hair, glares. “You don’t know crap about what I do. You don’t get the sacrifices that I make every damn day.”

Ben smirks, lights a cigarette, breathes out like he’s at a speakeasy.

“This ain’t a nine to five, jackasss—“ Dean swallows, reins himself in. Maybe Dean’s job is more than Ben anticipated. Still don’t know shit about what it is.

“I’ve got more important things to think about than your fuckin’ nicotine fix.” Ben leans in at that, sees the heavy weight on Dean’s shoulders, the doubt as he next opens his mouth.

Ah. That’s it. Dean doesn’t get to rage. Because he’s the strong one.

Noted.

“And then there’s the constant demands for more beer, more whiskey. Do you think money grows outta my damn ass?” He pauses, regrets his question. Bristles. Turns around to take a breath.

Dean turns back, eyes lit up like a bonfire. Just the way Ben wants him.

“First of all, I’m not your damn maid. Clean up after yourself. You throwing your hat into the ring for beer bottle cap contemporary art ain’t gonna sell well, Chief.”

Ben’s not gonna do that. He’ll file that under something Dean finds fuckin’ annoying, but not something he’ll go to war over long term.

“Secondly, Captain Asshole, learn Sam’s damn name. If you know mine—then you know his. So say it—“

Dean glares at the wall to his left. Conveniently, Sam would come into view right now. He doesn’t stay long. Good. This ain’t your show, pussy.

Dean stiffens for some reason. What the fuck is that about? He looks… confused.

Oh. Right. He would have been reined in by now, so he doesn’t know what to do.

Ben taps his ash into the ashtray and waits. Picture of composed.

Dean clicks his tongue and glares at him.

“I’m never gonna yield. Not now. Not ever. So get it through to your thick fuckin’ skull.” Fuck. So much blood is going to his cock. “You—you’re a piece of shit that we have to babysit ‘til we sort things out. Once you’re gone? You won’t be our problem. And your little challenge won’t mean crap then, will it?”

Ben leans further back in his chair, takes a deep drag.

“Screw this,” Dean says, grabbing the metal thing in front of him, tucked under his arm. He stomps to the stairs, halfway up before he says anything else. “You keep blowin’ up my damn phone, I will grind it under Baby’s wheel.”

Ben listens as he treats the steps like his personal punching bag. The swing of his door. The pause before it closes.

Quiet.

A simple click.

He thinks he’s not giving Ben the satisfaction, but he revealed more in that little tantrum that he wants to reckon with.

Still. Why did that seem… Cathartic? For Dean. He kept muting himself. Breathing through it. As if he’s not allowed to go off the handle without hurting someone.

Pathetic.

Ben wants him to lose his fuckin’ rag. It means his attention is singular.

As it should be.

He mashes his cigarette out. Gets up. Climbs the stairs and bursts into his room.

Crawls onto the bed, kicks his offending pants off and grips his hard, dripping cock.

Fuck.

Those eyes. Burning into him. Angry. Deep green. Like scorched trees.

Ben strokes his meat.

Sees it. Dean. On this bed. Ass up. Face down. Biting the fuckin’ pillow.

He’s behind him. Watching that little tight, untouched hole clenching. Wanting. Ready.

Ben bites his lip, thrusts up into his hand.

Fuck me. Please. Fuck my hole.

Ben groans, beats his meat. Sees himself shoving his cock all the way inside that heat.

The stretch… The gasp—fuck!

He breathes through his nose, palms the dripping head. Grabs it. Holds off.

Ben sees himself fucking Dean’s hole. Sees himself admiring the stretch. The ripple. The curl of the sheets as Dean cries out and grasps for anything to hold onto.

Sees Dean drool on the pillow. Sees his hole relax. Surrender. Let Ben in all the way. Sees Dean groaning deep, throwing a hand back to spread his cheek—invite Ben deeper.

Ben snarls, bucks up, stares at the space between the fuckin’ walls where Dean is.

Wait—what?

Now he sees Dean on his back.

What the fuck? Fuck is this shit—

Dean’s on his back, eyes burning. Hot and heavy. Unrelenting.

Ben throbs. Strokes his cock.

Dean’s teeth grit, body meeting his with all he’s fuckin’ got. But those eyes…

Those fucking eyes—they tell Ben even if he’s on his back, even though Ben’s cock is spreading him out, he doesn’t have him.

That he’ll never have him fully.

Arghhh. Nnnnghaagh.

Those eyes.

Ben doesn’t own them.

Not yet.

But he will.

Fully.

Ben’s not gonna be done with this until those eyes look at him like he’s a fuckin’ God.

Ben’s breath staggers. Fuck. Shit. His come is fuckin’ everywhere.

No matter. One day—one day, it won’t be on his chest. It’ll be deep in Dean’s fuckin’ ass.

Ben just has to bide his time. But it’ll happen.

And when it does?

Ben doesn’t even know. He just knows that it’ll be his magnum opus.

Chapter Text

Dean opens his eyes, yawns, scratches his chest. Can’t remember the last time he woke up feeling this damn refreshed. The thing he’s not gonna do is let this rare as hell feeling go to waste.

He gets out of bed, grabs his robe, ties it. One good thing about Ben being a lazy piece of work is that he keeps his hands off Dean’s bacon.

Dean’s stomach growls thinking about it. Easy, pal. Food’s on its way.

Hallway’s clear. No sounds of life, so Sammy’s either sleeping in or somewhere with his nose buried in a book. And Ben? Hopefully that asshole bit it whilst he was asleep.

Yeah right. Guy can dream, can’t he?

Dean clears the steps like a kid on Christmas Day. Excited. Wide smile. Teeth out. Hands raised and ready get into the fridge.

“Ha-ha. There you are.” Dean grabs the bacon, eggs, bread, butter. Pauses. Thinks. Nah, this should be good enough.

On the side they go. Now then. Cupboard. Pan. Some oil. Nice. Stove on, and we’re ready to go.

Let that baby heat to a sizzle.

Dean can already smell the bacon cooking. It’s not. But the smoke? The beautiful little tang? He can smell it.

Damn. When was the last time it was like this? Just him, a sizzling pan—coffee.

Yeah… He normally pours a cup as soon as he gets up. But he didn’t even think about it ‘til now.

Huh. Super weird.

Dean leans his hands on the counter. He doesn’t want to think about last night, but he is. He let it all out. The constant texting. Calls. Insults about his damn job.

And Ben—he took it. All of it. Smug smirk not letting up for nothing, as per friggin’ usual. But he didn’t say anything. Didn’t stop Dean. Didn’t defend himself, tell him to cool it—just let him yell.

Is that why—no.

He’s not giving that asshole credit.

Dean was waiting for someone to jump in. Tell him to take it easy. Calm down. Stop being so hard on him.

Didn’t come, though.

Made Dean feel all types of weird.

It felt—doesn’t matter how it felt.

Where the hell did he come from?

Dean swallows. Ben’s hand folding over his. Gentle. No weight all. Huge. Like a god damn frying pan.

He can’t see his hand. Fingers? Gone. Wrist? May as well be a fuckin’ amputee.

A’right, man. Stay cool. Why is he so goddamn warm?

Christ. It’s like his hand is being slow cooked.

Dean breathes slow, tries to move his hand. It won’t budge. Not even an inch. How does that even work? There’s no pain. No weight. No pressure at all, but he can’t. Move.

It’s fine. Everything is cool

He tries to use his left hand to pry him off. Arm shakes. Jaw tightens. Shoulder nearly pops. He stops. Breathes through his nose.

“Get your paw off of me.”

Ben… does just that. Dean moves his hand to check it’s not fused to the damn counter. It isn’t.

He turns, ready to chew him out—show he’s not afraid. Not one bit.

Ben says, “You look like you slept like the fuckin’ dead,” after scanning Dean’s face.

Dean doesn’t say anything. He steps out of Ben’s space and checks the pan. Relieved it’s not burning. Which means Ben’s hand wasn’t there that long. Just felt that way.

He tears off a couple strips of bacon. Puts them in the pan. Turns his body. At least if he’s got eyes on him, he can see what he’s doing.

Again. He didn’t hear him coming. Again. Didn’t sense him at all.

He knows he’s gettin’ old, but not that old.

“What’re you making?” Ben asks. Dean ignores him. “Kitten, I’m sure you’ve figured out by now that I don’t like to be ignored.”

Dean loads a snarky reply. Then he looks at the frying pan and remembers that Ben’s hand is the size of it and swallows it.

“A sandwich. You gonna stand there and bitch if I don’t make you one?”

He hasn’t met hangry Ben yet. Doesn’t wanna either.

“I’ll take a sandwich,” he says, smirks. “About last night. Your little fuckin’ rant—I’m not gonna pick up after myself. I’m not gonna learn Dan’s name. But the other shit? Okay.”

Dean sears the bacon, flips it.

“Cool,” Dean says, dead pan. “You done?”

Ben’s teeth flash.

“From where I was sitting, that was a big… moment for you.”

“I dunno what you’re talking about.” Dean cracks an egg, splits it into the pan. “I do sunny side up. You want something else, do it your damn self.”

“I don’t know how to make eggs.”

Dean snorts.

“So you were born with a silver spoon up your ass. Figures.”

Ben laughs, dry.

“Silver spoon? Guess you could call it that. I wouldn’t.” He falls into a chair. Dean thinks. He’s not looking. “I’m guessing you learned to cook for him, right? ‘cause Daddy wasn’t fuckin’ around to provide for you?”

Dean pauses. Flips the egg. Cracks another one. Checks the bacon.

How did he know that?

“Lemme guess—you didn’t have the heart to keep feeding Dan cereal or some shit, so you stole a cook book and taught yourself.”

Asshole asked like it wasn’t a question. And the worst part is he’s fuckin’ right. Hit the nail on the damn head.

It was a case back in Minnesota. When Dean was that young, his innocence opened a lot of doors so Dad could scan the place without anyone sniffing about. Dean talked to the lady. Put the charm on.

She made him eggs. He watched. Ate ‘em. Remembered the taste. How they looked. And when she wasn’t looking, he stole her cook book.

How many damn eggs did he even crack before he got it right? He doesn’t know. But Sammy ate all of ‘em. Didn’t spit a thing out.

He didn’t say thanks. Winchester’s don’t do that. But he smiled a little wider. Eyes lit up. Cheeks kinda red. It was cute.

“Keep guessin’, Goliath. I’m not tellin’ you crap.” Dean smirks to himself. No way Ben sees through that.

“That’s a yes.” Ben’s chair creaks. “Even from behind, you’re easier to read than you fuckin’ think, sweetheart.”

“No I’m not,” Dean says, casual. He grabs a plate, butters a couple slices in two shakes. Bacon. Eggs. Top it off with the bread. Done. “Here’s your breakfast.” He puts it down rough.

Ben doesn’t say anything. Dean rolls his eyes and plates up his own.

He’s about to take a bite when he sees Sam through the door. Body moves before his mind does. Stops in front of him.

Hand goes up, lays over Sam’s. Sam moves to pull off. Dean stops him. Holds still.

He knows his hand is smaller than Sam’s. Guy used to be the biggest dude Dean knew. Not now.

“Son of a bitch.”

Sam’s looking at him like he’s lost his damn mind. Dean ignores it. Takes his hand back, goes back to his breakfast.

He’s being followed. Of course he is.

And here it comes. The harsh whisper.

“You wanna tell me what the hell that was, Dean?”

Dean shrugs. “Thought I’d try my hand at palm reading. Turns out? Not for me.”

He hopes Sam will let it go. But this is Sam.

“That’s not how you read palms, dude.” He’s at Dean’s back. Doesn’t need to look to know he’s running a hand through his hair.

“Didn’t say I was an expert, Sammy.” Drop it.

Dean takes his seat. Picks up his sandwich. Pauses. Ben takes a bite out of his second. Half the thing disappears.

“And I thought you had a big mouth,” Sam says. Dean glares at him. “What? Just an observation.”

Dean tucks into his sandwich. Savours the salt. Tang. Heat. The mix of egg and yolk. It’s damn good.

Ben’s is… gone. Is he gonna—nah. Screw him. Dean doesn’t need applause or whatever.

Ben sighs, pulls smokes out of his pocket. Lights one.

“That was fuckin’ delicious, Kitten.”

Dean shrugs, takes another bite. Ben drags on his cigarette. Slow. Like he’s got all day. Thumb dwarfs the thing. Looks tiny.

Shakes it out. It don’t matter. So he’s big? Who friggin’ cares? Not Dean. Not even a little.

Ben stands. Dean swallows. His shoulders are like canyons. Biceps like damn speed bumps. Thighs as thick as cuts of mutton.

Being tall is one thing—but the dude’s mass is—

No. Shut up. Stop thinking about it.

Dean wasn’t lying when he said he’s faced bigger assholes than Ben. Sort of. They’d probably explode from one fuckin’ punch—

Dude. Stop.

Just focus on your sandwich. Dean does. Finished by the time ash is sitting all over Ben’s greasy plate.

Sam’s still standing there. Not doing anything. Well, other than fidgeting.

“Sam, what is it?”

“I found a case. Not too far. Hour away. You want it?”

It’s a lifeline. Which means Sam can tell how rattled he is. Dammit.

Oh well. Might as well take it. Gets him gone from here for a while anyway.

“What’s the case?” Dean slips into hunter speak. Turns himself fully. Engaged. Focused. Not on Ben.

“From what I gather? Simple salt ‘n’ burn. Mentions of the smell of rotten eggs. So, sulphur. Little girl died six years ago in a hit and run off the side of a dirt road. Cars have been turning up there. No sign of life—collision. Still running the tank out.”

“Where do you get salt ‘n’ burn from sulphur?”

Sam leans in, pauses. “Something tells me demons are involved in this one. Not sure how, exactly, but—“

“Wouldn’t put it past them. Right.”

“Hang on a sec’. Ghosts and shit are real in this universe?” Ben snorts. “And you’re the Ghost Busters?” He laughs. Jackass. “Don’t tell me you walk around with those fuckin’ vacuums.”

They both ignore him.

“Text me the address. I’ll bring the angel blade with me—“

“Angel blade? No fuckin’ way.”

Shut. Up.

“I won’t need back up.” Dean stands, puts his plate in the sink. “I’ll grab a quick shower. Be gone in ten.”

Turns out, Sam was dead right. Demons. Scumbags, were using this poor dead girl to lure people that drove over that dirt road into a demon deal. Told her they’d bring her killer to justice if she did.

Didn’t tell her that the dude had already died years ago. Drove drunk, right into a tree.

Dean doesn’t like icing children. Hates it, actually. What makes it worse? She was scared she’d go to Hell for what she did.

She wasn’t vengeful. Despite what happened. Dean could tell. Caught her in the act of luring another schmuck into the woods where some asshole was waiting for them to offer them a deal. One they wouldn’t refuse.

She didn’t know what she was doing. Christ, she was only eight.

What gutted him was how brave she was. She told him after he laid it all out that she was okay with it. Simple as that. She said she didn’t wanna hurt anyone else. Said she was tired. Said that—that she couldn’t even leave the road to see her family. Her mum. Dad. Kid brother. Older than her now. Dean found that out.

He found her grave. Dug it up. She appeared next to him.

Hugged him. Tight. Said can he pretend to be her Dad.

Dean nodded. Didn’t have words. He held her, closed his eyes as he chucked the match in. Didn’t let go ‘til she disappeared.

He doesn’t pray often. But he damn well prayed that she got through to heaven. Those motherfuckers ain’t clean themselves, so they should turn the other cheek. For once.

Dean sniffs, takes a swig of his beer.

Hard enough telling her mom what happened. She had to relive her dying all over again. When she got herself together, she thanked him. For praying. ‘cause he told her he did. To calm her down, maybe? Dean don’t know. But it worked.

Her dad weren’t around. Bailed after she died. Said her mum reminded him of her too much.

Before, Dean would think the guy was a grade A asshole. Not now, though. He’s seen that himself.

From his own Dad.

“Hey. This seat taken?”

Dean turns his head.

“Not here with anyone,” he says. Tries to smile, but he can’t force it. Not this soon.

“Okay.” She takes the seat. “Are you okay? I couldn’t help but notice you seemed a little down. And—well, where I’m from, we don’t let anyone drink alone.”

Dean takes another swig.

“That mean you’re by yourself, too?” Dean takes a longer look. Wow. She’s pretty. Too pretty for a dive like this. “Listen, I appreciate your concern—but I don’t wanna ruin your night.”

“Isn’t that up to me?” She pauses, stirs her drink. “I mean—no, you’re right. If you want me gone, I’ll go. I just thought it would be better… if you’re, y’know. Going through something, to have someone with you.”

Dean cracks a smile. Not to hit on her. That was nice. Needed. Care. So rare for him, but here’s this random pretty woman looking at him like she wants to fix his problems.

“Sweetheart, you’re something else. In a good way. But I just buried a young girl, and I’m not doing too good.”

Dean expects her to make an excuse to leave. Say her friends are waiting for her. Say she’s getting a call that isn’t coming.

She doesn’t.

She gasps, places her hand over his. Leans in. Says, “I’m so sorry. That’s awful. And I understand if you want don’t want to talk about it. But can I just sit with you?”

Dean pounds back the rest of his beer. Before he can do anything, she’s already held up a finger.

“This one’s on me, honey,” she says, with a smile. “I can’t imagine. If any of my kids—“ She breathes. Deep. “That’s a nightmare I’d never wake up from.”

Dean can tell she’s a mother. Even without that. Her touch switched from wanting to comfort so fast Dean’s head spun.

Chances are he’ll never see her again. Couldn’t hurt, right?

“It’s never easy.” He shakes his head. “Burying a kid, that is.”

She rubs his knuckles. Barely covers the whole thing.

“But it’s part of the job.” Dean catches the beer slid his way. “The worst part.”

“How long have you been doing this?” She blinks. “Oh my god. That was so forward. I’m sorry.”

Dean waves his hand. Takes a neat gulp.

“It’s fine. Too long. Way too long.” He stares at his bottle, thinks about all the kid’s graves he’s burned. “Never gets easier.”

Is this okay? Can he do this? Should he do this?

“I know it’s not my place. And please tell me to shut up if I’m overstepping.” She rubs his knuckle again. Her voice is warm. Soft. Like Mary’s—his mom’s—should have been. “But you being there… giving them their rest, and not only that, caring enough that when the job’s all over, you’re here—you’re grieving children you didn’t even know, means you’ve got a big heart. And if—God forbid it never happens, but if you were the one burying my kids—“ She stops. Cries. Wipes her eyes. “At least if it was you I’d feel like someone cared.”

Damn. That’s heavy. In a way that sits in Dean’s gut. ‘cause it’s true. He does carry them with him. All of ‘em. Everywhere he goes, they’re there. Pushing him to keep going and try and prevent the next one.

“Her name was Kelsie.” Dean sallows. “Eight years old. Life—gone in a fuckin’ blink of an eye.”

She takes her hand back. Hands shake as she takes a sip of her own drink.

“I can only hope your prayer found her peace.”

Dean raises his bottle.

“To Kelsie,” he says.

“To Kelsie.”

Dean ended up staying for a couple more beers. It was nice. Good company. A friendly smile. He got her name at some point.

Jessica.

He smirks. Yeah, that would have been weird as hell if he slept with her.

He didn’t. Her company was enough. Sure, he didn’t tell her the complete truth. Just the important bits. And she took it well. Didn’t run. Didn’t hide. Just stayed.

Dean’s not used to that.

On the way back, he stocked up on some more beer for Jack Daniel’s Petulant Nephew. It was the one thing he texted about the whole time Dean was gone.

So maybe he wasn’t full of shit when he said he’d listened.

Dean snorts. Imagine what would have happened if Sam had gone off on him like that? He’d still be shovelling him off the floor right now.

Then again, he still might have to. He’s been gone a while.

Dean breathes. Shuts his eyes for a beat. Opens the door.

Okay. Sam’s not waiting to pounce. That’s good. Dean closes the door and walks down the steps.

Sam’s reading a lore book. Coffee in one hand. Finger on the page.

Damn. Almost feels like normal again.

“Hey,” Sam says, lifts his head up.

“Hey.” Dean jabs a thumb behind him. Sam nods. Dean clicks his tongue. “He didn’t magically disappear back to anti-hero con while I was gone, then.”

“Afraid not.” Sam scratches his nose. “He left me to it, though. So I’m not complaining.”

Sam’s face says what Dean’s unfortunately thinking, too.

And the damn door creaking open confirms it.

Dude’s like a fucking dog that just heard the car pull into the driveway.

Dean sighs and walks into the kitchen. Puts the beer in the fridge. Grabs two. Both for him this time. Ben can get his own.

Yeah, he slams the door. And yeah, he speeds the hell out of there and drops into a chair before Andre The Giant clears the steps.

Feet up. Twists the cap off. Right as damn rain.

Sam shifts in his chair. Straightens his back like the friggin’ Captain just walked in.

“You get the—“

“Fridge.” Dean takes a long pull. Sighs. Ben snatches his other beer and twists off. “All that strength, and you can’t even open a door.”

“Yours was closer,” Ben says, sits.

Dean peeks at him. And yep. Sure enough, the bottle can barely be seen in his giant ass paw.

Sam clears his throat.

“So, the case?”

Dean frowns. “You were right. Salt ‘n’ burn. Demon dealing.” He picks the label. “Corpse burned. Imps ganked. All in a days work.”

He doesn’t wanna talk about it beyond that. Sam’s eyebrows say he’s gonna push for more. Then his lips twitch. So Dean dodged a bullet.

This time.

“You find out if this is happening anywhere else?”

Dean shakes his head.

“You know they don’t tell us crap no more, Sammy. If there are any, we take care of ‘em as we go.”

“You’re right.” He sips his coffee. “How long did it take then?”

How long? Dean thinks about that. Tilts his head. Squints. Must’a been…

“Five hours. Stopped at a bar after. Met this smoking hot woman. And we got to talking. I was charming, as usual—“

Sam rolls his eyes, but there’s a little smile there.

“We went back to hers. I slowly peeled off all of her clothes, and—“

Tsshhk!

Dean snaps his eyes to Ben. He’s covered in beer, picking glass out of his hand like a monkey picking ticks. Face meaner than Dean’s ever seen it.

Whatever.

He turns back to Sam. Where was he? Gotta sell this bit, even if he’s talking out of his ass.

“Anyway. So once she’s all nice and naked, I—“

Chair scrapes the ground. Hard. Ben storms past. And—holy crap! He took a chunk out of the damn wall.

Concrete.

What is he—Hulk’s meaner cousin?

Dean swallows, gets up, follows him in there. Ignores the rubble at his feet.

“What the hell is your damn problem, asshole?”

Ben’s back’s to him. His shoulders are rising and falling. Then they just… stop.

He turns. Smirks. Pulls his cigarettes out, lights one.

“No problems here, Kitten.” Like Dean’s the crazy one for even thinking it.

Dean waves his hand at the concrete rubble on the floor.

“This is fine to you?” He rolls his eyes. “Bottles just, what, smash when your temperature spikes?”

Ben shrugs, blows smoke in Dean’s face.

Dean drops his head, huffs a dry laugh.

Of course. Dean’s not used to being pursued by a goddamn man, but he knows jealousy when he sees it.

In this case, it’s cranked to a thousand ‘cause the jackass ain’t your average, pathetic Joe.

“Envy is an ugly color, man,” Dean says, smiles fake, arms crossed. “What’re you gonna do, huh? Nuke the joint if I say I slept with her?”

Ben’s fists clench. That hit a nerve.

“You can sleep with whoever you fuckin’ want, Kitten.” He’s smirking, but that tick under his eye don’t lie.

“Thanks. ‘cause I needed your damn permission.” Dean glares. “How ‘bout next time you get your little feelings hurt, you walk it off.”

Ben licks the back of his teeth, crushes his cigarette on the ground.

“Anyone ever tell you that you’ve got more confidence than sense?” Ben gets in his space. Dean stands his ground. Bring it, Jonestown.

Dean tips his head back. And back. Neck’s being a real bitch about it.

“Anyone ever tell you you’re not God’s gift?”

Silence. Nothing. Just endless staring. Eyes cold as steel. Dean’s one wrong move from losing his damn head, but he’s not letting Ben see him sweat.

“You must have some fuckin’ insane amount of luck to have lived this long, sweetheart.” Ben bites his lip. “Then again, if you were boring, we wouldn’t be having this conversation.”

Ha. Luck. What a joke. Dean’s lost count of how many times he’s bit the damn dust.

“If I was lucky, you would’ve landed somewhere else.”

Ben smirks wider, somehow.

“Then I guess I’m the lucky one.”

Dean’s jaw ticks.

“If you say so, pal.”

Ben moves forward. Dean backs up, tightens his arms. Grits his teeth when his back hits the counter. Ben’s stupidly big hands flank him.

Dean fights a swallow.

If he feels something press against his stomach, he will swing.

He’s way too close. Way too hot, too. It’s normally cold as all get out down here, but Ben makes it feel like Dean’s sat around a roaring camp fire.

Dean can’t see anything behind Ben. Dude’s mass blocks everything out.

He wants to tell him to back off. Shove it where the sun shines.

Wants to push him the hell away, but knows he can’t even if he put every bit he’s got into it.

Why does he have to be so friggin’ stubborn? Yeah, he doesn’t wanna seem weak by making it clear he’s uncomfortable. But who knows how long this asshole is gonna drag this out

Just when Dean’s about to make a joke about making out or what, Ben leaves him standing there. Thank God.

Dean makes sure he’s out of sight before he breathes out. He scrubs his face, sniffs. He’s gotta be running out of lives.

There’s no way he can keep this up without Ben peacing him out. Won’t even have a corpse to burn.

Dean shakes his head. Nah. Ben may be a son of a bitch, but he meant it when he marked Dean.

Sucks the meat, no question about that. It keeps Dean breathing, though.

For now.

Dean tosses in bed, shuts his eyes tight. Guess he’s on the sand man’s naughty list ‘cause hell if he’s caught a wink yet.

He keeps thinking about Kelsie. Her mom. How they never got to say goodbye to each other.

Eight years old. Whole life ahead of her. Sweet as pie, from what Dean saw.

He did think, that at least she kept her innocence. Even as a ghost. She stayed…

Pure, is the word.

“You better let her in the gates, you feathered dicks.”

Chapter Text

Dean sighs. Another one.

He rolls his eyes, drops to his knees, grabs it from under the table.

Could build a tower if he wanted. He pauses. Tilts his head.

Could get some glue. Do some real arts and crafts.

Dean scoffs. Yeah right. Like he’s got time for that.

Would be cool, though. Hell, he could make a bottle-cap Baby.

“Whaddya think of that, sweetheart?” He grins, thinking about his beautiful girl. “She wouldn’t replace you. Don’t worry.”

Anyway. In the trash it goes.

He gets up after a quick scan. Now for the other side of the damn room.

Picking up after Ben is like what Dean imagines the aftermath of a frat party would be—bottles, crumbs, socks, and no remorse.

Except, Ben is one giant pain in the ass.

Oh look. Sticky line on the floor, too. He shakes his head, crouches, grabs a bottle—thing was lying on its friggin’ side.

Plus side, it wasn’t smashed. So that’s something.

Bag clinks as he drops it in. Getting heavier by the minute.

Dean stands, ties it, drops it on the table. Dusts his hands, sniffs.

That oughta do it.

Footsteps. Fantastic. Couldn’t leave it another hour to ruin his morning, could he?

He knows they’re not Sam’s. Hell, he can only hear them ‘cause the asshole loves to make his presence known.

“Hey, Kitten.”

Dean’s jaw grinds.

He wants to ignore him. Keep his damn back turned.

But this asshole likes him that way—screw him.

He turns, deadpans. Laundry basket. Like Dean’s his mother. Or his—

Nope. Not going there.

“Leave it on the table,” Dean says, arms crossed tight.

“Of course, sweetheart.” Smug smirk. Face that’s asking for a punch. “I was beginning to fuckin’ think Mary Poppins appeared at night to set the place right.”

Dean rolls his eyes. He done?

Apparently not.

“Didn’t think it was you.” Said it like he’s not sure how to react. “I thought you were the man of the house. Not the fuckin’ nerd.”

Sam does most of it. But it’s a big ass bunker. They don’t have a maid, so they gotta deal with it themselves.

Like adults.

Difference is, Ben don’t fall into the every day maintenance.

Just Dean’s maintenance.

Which—okay, so Sam does do even more now than he ever did since Ben takes up a lot of Dean’s time.

Way too damn much.

But Sammy ain’t complaining about the extra load, so that’s a win for Dean.

Not too many of those these days. Gotta grab ‘em where he can.

Dean grabs the basket, breaks for the laundry room. Ben’s hot on his heels, as per friggin’ usual.

Should teach him how to use it. Talk real slow so that he gets it.

He snorts. If he did that, he could end up in the damn thing.

Dean parks the basket on the floor, opens the washer. Ben’s standing there. Taking up space—a lot of space.

Dude looks focused. On what?

He shrugs, grabs the first thing off the top of the pile. Freezes.

What… is that?

Warm. Why is it warm? Is that—is that piss?

Dean swallows.

No. It wouldn’t be thick if it were piss, man.

He hates that he looks. Hates even more that he knows damn well he couldn’t beat this on his best day.

Not even if he edged the whole time.

Dean drops it, shoves past to get to the sink.

Son of a bitch follows him there, too.

“Relax, Kitten. It’s just jizz,” Ben says, and Dean can hear the smirk in his voice. “You expect me not to fuckin’ masturbate?”

Ignore him. Wash your damn hands.

Dean flips the tap. Never sang happy birthday in his life while washing his hands. Today is a new day.

Hallelujah.

He hums it in his head. Soaps his hands up. Lathers. Like he’s going into surgery.

Why was it warm?

Warm.

That don’t mean that he did that right before he came down, does it?

Dean shudders.

“I know what you’re thinking, and you’d be wrong.” Ben leans on the side, grins. “I told you I burn hot. Everywhere.”

Yeah but—that’s insane.

Now Dean’s no scientist or whatever. He’s not got a Arthur’s Grant—Nobel-something-or-other, but he’s pretty sure that liquid cools.

“It does cool. Eventually.” Ben lights a cigarette. “My body heat keeps it hot.”

Dean flips the tap off, dries his hands. Thinks about grabbing rubber gloves.

Would that be overkill?

Probably. He’ll just flip the basket in. Easy-peasy.

“You’re disgusting,” Dean says, throws the rag on the side. “Next time you come to me with sheets like a porn set after a fuckin’ orgy, I’ll light ‘em up, Orgasmo.”

He keeps his eyes hard. Angry. Unyielding. Cold as Lapland.

“You are such a prude.” Ben shakes his head. “Anyway. My room could use a good tidy. Getting real fuckin’ messy in there.”

Dean grits his teeth.

“Here’s a thought—tidy it.” He gives him one last glare and breaks for the laundry room again. Throws his crap in.

Powder. Liquid. Boom.

Simple as that.

The hum of the machine kicks in—white noise.

“Y’know, if you want me to leave, I can just go.”

His words make Dean’s skin crawl. He keeps forgetting that he’s the only thing keeping Soldier Boy from making the world his bitch.

Dammit.

“I’ll tidy your damn room, but I want you out of there while I get it done.”

Ben scratches his cheek. “You think I’m gonna do something to you if we’re alone in there?” He laughs. “Okay, Kitten. Have it your way.”

It’s not that. Maybe a little.

The tiniest bit. Hardly worth mentioning at all, really.

But yeah.

But not really—

Shut up. It don’t matter anyway.

Dean nods, goes to the kitchen, grabs a few more trash bags. Grabs the vacuum, too.

He gets to Ben’s room. Stops at the door. Breathes.

Can already smell the smoke.

Like a damn Marlboro factory.

Dean sighs, opens the door. He coughs.

“Christ.”

It’s a pit. Bottles everywhere. Ashtray full as hell. The ones that made it, that is. Clothes all over the floor.

Just a huge mess.

Oh well. He’s smelled worse. Lived in worse, too.

Dug his hands in worse.

He keeps it up as he goes, tossing bottles and wrappers in.

Been elbow deep in corpses.

Loads the ashtray in, picks the strays from the bedside table.

How many times has he been drenched in Ghoul guts? Lost count.

Dean pauses. Checks the ceiling.

Huh. Well, at least the asshole didn’t try his hand at contemporary bottle-cap art.

Yeah, he knows he wanted to make a bottle-cap Baby model, but that’s different.

That’s real art.

This guy eats too much. And that’s coming from Dean. But the amount of candy and crap Ben shoves down his throat is a diabetics one-way ticket to the ICU.

He sighs. Thinks of the texts he gets.

They don’t make that brand anymore, Dean tells him.

Why the fuck not?

Every. Single. Time.

He gets it, okay? Dude’s from a different era or whatever.

Things change. You adapt.

Dean ties the bag, tosses it out the room. He plugs in the vacuum and goes to work.

Incoming Sam in three, two, one—

“Dean!”

Dean pretends he can’t hear him. Funnier that way.

“Why are you cleaning Ben’s room?”

Dean keeps playing the fool—reaching for the hard-to-get spots and humming a classic.

Sam’s next line has that sassy bite to it that makes Dean smirk.

“You’re not that deaf, Dean. I know you can hear me.”

He can hear him. Sam knows he can hear him, but he’s still getting pissed off anyway.

It’s the little things.

Dean shuts the vacuum off. Fights a smile, turns, acts surprised to even see him.

“Sammy, you been standing there the whole time? Could’ve offered to help.”

Sam gives him that look. The one that says: really, Dean?

“You heard me, and you know it,” he says, lips tight.

“Vacuums are loud, dude.” Dean waves a hand. “Whaddya want?”

Sam sighs through his nose. Never gets old.

“So this is new.” He points to Ben’s room.

“He asked me to tidy his room.” Dean shrugs.

“Asked, or told?”

Dean’s jaw ticks.

“Well, you’re not gonna do it, are ya? So… it is what it is,” he says, flips the vacuum back on.

End of discussion.

Dean’s got his back to him. He knows his brother like he knows his girl.

Right now he’s standing there, hands on hips, head lowered, eyes struggling to pick a damn lane.

He’ll walk off in a few shakes. When he’s sure Dean’s not interested in talking further.

Which—he ain’t.

He finishes up in silence, save for the vacuum. Unplugs it, wraps it, hauls it out with Ben’s trash and heads back downstairs.

Ben’s sitting at the table, smoking like normal. Beer in hand.

Dean snorts. Not even lunchtime.

Sweet irony.

He would join him for one but Sam would probably bitch about it.

At least have lunch first, Dean.

Have you had any water today?

Don’t even say it’s 4PM somewhere.

Your liver can’t be too happy with you, the way you’re treating it. Take care of yourself, dude.

And brow-beaten schmucks think they’ve got it hard.

He doesn’t always listen. But he does sometimes. It’s those damn eyes.

Like a kicked puppy.

Dean sighs, tosses the trash bag next to the other one. He’ll take ‘em out later.

He sniffs his fingers. Yuck. Gotta deal with that real quick.

Washes his hands again. Sniff tests ‘em after. All good.

“C’mere, Kitten.” Dean glares at the sink. “Don’t keep me waiting.”

Might as well have a damn bell. Dean takes a couple breaths. Whatever sent this asshole his way, you can take him back now.

“Kit—“

“A’right, I’m coming. Keep your damn pants on.” Dean thumps the door as he passes. Slows his walk. Pretends he’s fine. Refuses to acknowledge he responds to that friggin’ nickname without even thinking. “What the hell do you want now?”

Okay. So that was less fine than he wanted to pull off, but whatever.

He’s pissed.

Ben’s cool as you like. Cigarette dangling from his mouth, leaned back like he owns the damn place.

Dean hates this guy.

“Now that my room’s been cleaned up all nice, I think it’s missing something,” Ben says, takes a drag. “How about you march on outta here and go get me a TV.”

“You’re pushing your luck, pal.” Dean’s not talking about the request. “I ain’t marching anywhere. Not for you.”

Ben laughs.

“You fuckin’ sore ‘cause I didn’t kiss your ass for cleaning my room?” He shakes his head. “Don’t be such a pussy.”

Dean’s not asking for thanks. A little damn respect wouldn’t hurt.

“Screw you.” Dean grits his teeth. “You’re not gettin’ a TV. I don’t care if you threaten to walk, I’m not doing it. Not this time.”

Ben nods. Smug. Completely unbothered.

He gets up. Dean braces, plants his feet. Expects Ben to come in close. He doesn’t—bastard walks into the living room…

Crap.

Dean bolts after him, jumps in front of the TV like he’s eating a bullet for it.

“No way, Jackass.”

Ben snorts.

“You think you can stop me from fuckin’ gettin’ to that?” He takes a step. Dean leans onto the TV—daring Ben to get between them. “This won’t end the way you think it will, sweetheart.”

“You’re not having it,” Deans says, swallows. “You’re gonna have to go through me first.”

For a couple seconds, Ben stands there, one eyebrow raised like this is the funniest shit he’s seen in his life.

Yeah. Dean’s a punchline.

“You’re not this fuckin’ stupid. Stop pretending you are.” Ben goes to grab him. He tenses. Ben clicks his tongue. “I’m not gonna hurt you. Get out of the fuckin’ way.”

“No.”

Dean stands his ground. Hell if this asshole’s getting through.

Then Ben’s close. Way, way too close. Dean can smell his breath, feel that weird ass warmth this dude gives off.

He’s not doing anything. He’s standing there. Staring down at him. Daring him. Challenging him.

Dean can hear his own pulse in his ears.

Dammit. Why is he so nervous? Oh yeah. He’s got nowhere to go if Ben decides—

He’s not gonna do that. It’s fine.

“Your move, Kitten,” Ben says, and Dean doesn’t like what his tone says. But his voice dropped. There’s a roughness to it—danger.

Dean shrinks a little.

Shrinks.

That’s embarrassing. Winchester’s don’t shrink. Especially not Dean.

He rises back up. That’s what matters. Always get back up, no matter what.

The smoke clinging to Ben’s clothes crawls up Dean’s nose.

Disgusting.

He doesn’t wanna give in. Not again. Not this soon, but is this the hill he wants to die on?

What’s going out and getting a TV gonna cost him? Other than money, of course.

Shut up. Not important.

“What TV do you want?” Dean rolls his eyes. He’ll do it. But not with a damn smile.

Ben pats his cheek. Dean deadpans.

“Now there’s a good boy.”

Dean walks into Best Buy like a Dad that got a text on his way home from a long-ass shift reminding him that his daughter’s birthday is tomorrow and they promised her the latest iPad.

Tired. Irritated. Done with the whole thing, but knows he’s got a job to do.

Should get My Sweet Sixteen one of those old VHS ones. He asked for whatever’s good. Those are still good.

For some.

Probably don’t sell those here.

Ah well. Keep it pushing.

If he came back with one of those, Ben might turn into into scrap metal in one clench of his fist.

Or punch a hole through it. Take down the whole bunker with one swing—could he do that?

Maybe not in one swing…

Why are the TVs always at the back of the store? He stops, thinks, nods. Harder to rob that way.

Gotcha.

Man, is it empty in here. Sam said something about online companies killing the manual shopping experience.

Guess he wasn’t wrong.

They can’t have stuff dropped at their door. Dean snorts thinking about it. Some man or woman trying to find the entrance. Going round and round ‘til they give up, hide the package somewhere and come up with theories about who lives there.

Yeah, best to stick to stores.

Sam wants to get one of those drop boxes. Says it’s safe. Can’t be too careful, though. Never know who’s watching.

And yeah, anyone could follow him back. That’s always a risk. Difference is, how often is he gonna be at this exact location at this exact time?

Drop boxes? Now that’s a pattern.

Something that can be exploited.

Dean’s not taking that risk.

So, sorry Sammy, but you’re gonna have to go to the farmers market for your rabbit food.

He shakes his head out. Remembers he’s here for a reason.

Okay, so what’ve we got? There ain’t one for the size of Ben’s ego. So that’s out. What else is there?

Dean squints.

You’re outta your damn mind. He wouldn’t wipe his ass with a 32 at that price. He don’t care if the friggin’ Pope blessed it himself.

Why is it—oh. It comes as a package deal. Still not worth crap.

He’s gonna have to wall-mount it. Unless there’s furniture in there that can handle a standing one.

Is there?

Looks up, blinks at the fluorescent lights. Overkill, much?

He rubs his eyes. Been running on fumes since dawn, but now he’s planning interior design for Captain Sunshine.

If Ben moves that thing, and then makes space over there… Dean sweeps his hand to the right. That would work.

Should work.

Or he can just wall-mount it. Save the headache.

Screw it. If he gets him a 72 there’s no way he can complain.

Dean grabs one, breathes, and heads to the checkout.

He stops. What if this keeps happening? Ben sees something he likes or wants to try out, and Dean ends up back here time after time.

What more could he want than a TV, dude?

The jingle on the radio perks his ears up.

What if he suddenly wants a boombox? A laptop? Tablet? A damn drum kit?

Dean doesn’t wanna become Best Buy’s customer of the month. Or know the store clerks by name. Or walk through this place like he owns it because he’s helping keep the damn lights on.

He’s not looking to be a damn investor.

He knows what he’s gotta do.

Better to have it and not need it than deal with his mouth later. That’s what he tells himself.

Cart. TV in. Wheels squeak.

Let’s wrap this bitch up.

New tablet? In it goes. A stupid Alexa so he can play music if he needs to? Drop that in.

Not bothering with headphones. Ben’s the type of guy that wants you to hear his bullshit. Luckily for him they have songs from all walks of life on that self-talking microphone.

Dean stops. Ben could have good taste. He’s still bitter about Ben rejecting Kansas.

Always will be. That’s his anthem. You don’t disrespect that.

Pretty sure his taste in music is the same as his taste in manners.

Dead on arrival.

He snorts. You gotta laugh. Just… gotta laugh.

Anyway. What else is this jackass gonna want?

He’s not gonna need a DVD player. Or Blue Rays. Dean’ll just set him up on his streaming accounts under the user: Napoleon, and restrict his access to change it.

Wonder if he’ll get it.

Sam’ll get it. He nods. And if Ben asks, Dean’ll tell him they’re randomly generated or whatever.

Throw in that laptop. In case Solider Baby wants to journal. Or make a food blog about the disgusting amount of candy he consumes.

All in his room. Weird, that.

Guy’s built like a tank. Will wolf down a burger in seconds flat, but hoards candy like a dragon.

Weird as hell.

You know it’s bad when Dean’s appetite struggles to wanna play ball.

Sam takes his food elsewhere most days.

How long’s it been now? Dean thinks as he grabs a cordless mouse and chucks it in.

Gotta be coming up to a damn month. He sighs. So much has changed since then.

Things are so—

Forget that.

All he’s gotta get now is a mousepad and he can blow this popsicle stand.

He heads for checkout. Young dude in a blue polo is sat there. Name tag says Ricky. So clearly his parents didn’t want him.

“Good afternoon, Sir. How are you today?”

Polite. Well spoken. Smile actually reaches his eyes.

“Fine,” Dean says, loads his shit on the converter belt.

Ricky starts scanning them.

“New house?” He asks.

“No.” Dean rolls his eyes. “Unwanted house guest that’s higher maintenance than my last wife.”

Ricky laughs. “Understood. How’d you end up with ‘em?”

“If only I knew, pal.” Dean gets his credit card out. Thanks, Jonathan Kwenton. This one might max you out, buddy. He swipes when Ricky rings him up, grabs the bags and the TV. Nods his thanks.

“Have a great day, Sir.”

Good kid. Not a lot of those these days.

Dean sits for a few minutes. Engine still running so he can hear her gentle purr. Always calms him down, no matter what.

He might have gone overboard. Did a u-turn and hauled ass to a gas station, stocked up on beer, cigarettes and enough candy to make Augustus Gloop jealous.

Seriously. Kids don’t score this much on Halloween. Not that Dean would know. Wasn’t old enough to Trick or Treat before his world went screwy.

And Sammy never liked Halloween. Not one bit.

He sighs. “Sorry about the crap, sweetheart. It won’t be here too long, I just need a minute.” He pats her wheel, bumps her with his forehead. “Wish me luck.”

Dean’s not ready to go back in, but life hasn’t been fair to him since—forever, so why would it be any different now?

He looks at her passenger seat. Beer. Cigs. Candy. There’s a six pack in there he hopes Ben doesn’t notice. It’s going straight to the back of the fridge, behind the mustard.

Got himself a pie too, as a treat. If Ben touches that one, he will snuff him. Doesn’t matter how many hits it takes.

Or bullets.

And if he gets his head crushed in the process? So bet it. Story of his damn life.

Two bags of candy should be enough, right? He shakes his head. Fact he even has to ask himself is ridiculous.

Dean powers her down, gives her one last pat and gets out. He grabs the bags out, sets them on the ground. Grabs the TV, and the beer. Decides he’ll come back for the rest.

The TV’s not heavy, just in the friggin’ way of his sight lines.

Door opens when he kicks it. Still need to fix that. And the next one—dammit Ben.

He turns the corner, bags rustling, TV making walking a challenge, how it slides over his legs.

Steps. Snags.

Oh crap!

Dean braces for impact. Can already hear glass shattering. Cans splitting. The TV thumping on the hard ground. Splitting.

Wait… What?

He blinks. Blinks again. Looks down.

Why are his feet off the floor? Did he astral project? Where was this when he had to listen to Sam drone about public bylaws?

Maybe he hit the ground. Blacked out—and this is the final screw you before he’s tossed into the empty.

That tracks.

If he’s dead, why’s he still carrying the TV? Dean looks around, freezes when he sees Ben in front of him, hand on Dean’s chest. Other one holding him up like he’s a coat hanger.

“You tripped,” Ben says, and Dean tries and fails to bite back.

“Thanks, Captain Obvious.” He rolls his eyes. “You can put me down now.”

Ben does, takes the TV from him. Bags, too, like Dean’s incapable. His jaw ticks.

First time this dude lifts a finger, and it’s to make him feel like frail old lady who needs help crossing the street.

“I can carry it—“

“Shut the fuck up.” Ben clears the steps, dumps everything on the table. Dean stays behind for a few beats, saving what’s left of his dignity. Can’t take many more hits. “What’s all this?”

“Hopefully, enough to keep you quiet for a few days.”

Dean joins him at the table. Gotta grab the one with his six pack in it, but he’s gotta do it subtle.

Ben picks up some Jolly Ranchers, Skittles and a Mars Bar. Squints at them.

“I dunno what the fuck most of this shit is, but I’ll eat it,” he says, tosses them on the table, twists the cap off a beer. “So. That’s my new TV, huh? Man, technology has advanced.”

“Wait ‘til you learn about Netflix,” Dean mumbles.

“The fuck is that?”

Dean hides a smile. Knowing something Ben doesn’t feels good.

“You’ll find out, Big Guy,” Dean says, grabbing his bag and walking to the kitchen. Totally casual. Nothing to see here. Ben’s distracted by the TV. For now. “I couldn’t find one for the size of your ego. Whole planet’s probably not big enough for that.”

He smirks at his own joke. See? He’s not afraid to say it to his face. Or, well, the fridge. Same thing.

“So, what—does it hang in mid air? I hold it somewhere and it stays where I fuckin’ put it?”

Dean imagines Ben doing that and getting more and more irritated that it won’t work. He nearly encourages his guess, but he likes having a roof over his head.

And what’s left of his sanity.

“That really how you think it works?”

“How else is it hanging in mid air?”

Dean clears his throat, stows his six pack away, grabs one for now and his pie and sits at the table.

Oops. Can’t eat pie without a fork, dummy.

He grabs a fork, sits back down. Ben’s staring at the TV box like it will start floating just from that.

Twists the cap off his beer, takes a sip. Ahh. Just what he needed.

“You sayin’ that earlier, you thought—“

Ben scrubs his face. “I dunno this shit. My phone can talk to me. A floating TV doesn’t seem that fuckin’ far removed.”

Dean tilts his head, scoops his pie, bites. “They do have these projectors, too. Come to think of it. That’s kinda like floating.”

Ben just stares at him. Unimpressed.

“You wall-mount it.” Dean swallows. Scoops. “Or, in this case, I’ll wall-mount it. Don’t trust you with tools.”

They go quiet. Dean eating his pie. Ben drinking his beer. He lights a cigarette. Watches Dean eat.

Because that’s not uncomfortable.

He doesn’t let it ruin his appetite. He deserves this treat. Busted his ass all day. This makes it worth it.

Sort of.

This is missing something. Dean licks his lips. Ooo—he’s got some chocolate syrup in the cupboard.

He goes to grab it, comes back, pours it on thick.

Takes a sip of his beer. Recoils. Tastes… Different. Could be the beer mixed with the pie. It’ll be fine.

As he thought. So damn good with the chocolate syrup. Sweet on his tongue. The pastry. How it blends.

It’s wonderful.

“Can’t say I’ve ever been jealous of a fuckin’ pastry before,” Ben says, blows smoke.

Dean pauses mid bite. Blinks. Is he chewing loud? Oh god, is he moaning? He does do that sometimes. Pie’s too damn good not to.

Dial it back, man. Chew slower. Savour it. But don’t express it.

How is this sexy? His face is probably covered in chocolate. Pie’s probably caked around his lips. What’s hot about that?

No point thinking about crap he don’t understand.

Dean finishes his pie. He wants to scoop the rest up with his fingers, but he’s not doing that with Ben in the room.

And he’s an adult.

He stares at it for five whole seconds, carries it with him to the kitchen and scoops it up. Sucks it off his fingers. Licks the bits he missed off his hands.

So good.

He cleans his hands and his face, tosses the box in the trash.

Ben hasn’t moved. There’s heat in his eyes, though. Jaw’s a little tighter than usual. Ash nearly burned down to the end of the cigarette.

Dude forgot to flick the thing.

Dean grabs his beer, takes a couple big gulps. Wipes his mouth.

“A’right, I’m gonna go set your TV up.” He reaches—Ben beats him to it. “I can carry it myself, asshole.”

Ben, apparently fully back in the room now, says, “And I can carry you with it. Don’t fuckin’ make me, Kitten.”

Dean remembers gravity just giving up its job a while ago, and that stops him from poking the bear.

He likes having his feet on the ground, thanks.

He follows Ben up to his room. Thing’s untouched. Like Ben hasn’t been in here since Dean cleaned it.

Dean didn’t do the bed, so that’s still a mess. Everything else, though? Dean did a good job.

“Let’s see what we’re working with here,” he says, when Ben puts the box on the bed.

“Don’t you need tools?”

Dean cuts the box open. Always have a knife on hand—never know when you’ll need it.

“Slow your roll, man. It’s a process.” Dean takes the TV out, unwraps it carefully, checks the parts. All there. “What’re you gonna do with this anyways? I think they stopped making silent pornos.” He smirks.

“You get porn on this?”

Dean shakes his head.

“No. That’s what your phone is for.”

“You get porn on that?”

Oh, you sweet, summer child.

“You can find anything on the internet. If you know where to look,” Dean says, sniffs. “Gonna need a bracket for this. Lucky I’ve got spares, ‘cause I ain’t going to Screwfix now.”

Dean turns, looks at Ben. He’s got that face. The fuck are you talking about, boy? one.

“It’s a place you go to get supplies.”

“Weird fuckin’ thing to call it,” Ben says, sits on the bed.

Dean leaves him there to go grab the spare bracket and his drill. He did get it in case something went wrong with the one downstairs. But he can always get another one.

When he gets back, Ben’s lit up a cigarette—so that’s fantastic.

He sighs and gets to work after a few more neat gulps of his beer. That weird taste is there again. Tainting it. He hopes it’s not bad beer, but he’s had worse.

Dean drills it in quick. Checks if it’s steady. It is. He turns to grab the TV but Ben’s already holding it up like it’s a damn basketball on the palm of his hand.

Dean takes it, mounts it, plugs it in, and sets it up on the end of the bed. Ben sits next to him. Casual as anything. Like this ain’t weird at all. Like Dean’s the crazy one for shuffling his ass away so their knees don’t touch.

It’s Ben’s bed. Not like he can tell him to sit on the damn floor. And the son of a bitch wouldn’t do it anyway.

“Now this—“ Dean taps the Netflix button so Ben can see it clear as you like. “—this is the only button you’re gonna need if you wanna watch movies.”

Ben nods. “So I press that button and movies just magically fuckin’ appear?” He tilts his head. “That’s fuckin’ cool.”

“No, you find one.” Dean logs into his account, smirks at the Napoleon avatar. Set that up in his car earlier. Totally worth the time he spent selecting the one that best fit Ben, at least to him. “Here, you can use this one.”

“Who’s Napoleon?”

Dean clears his throat. “It’s just the guest account.”

“Okay. What should I watch first?”

“Whatever you want,” Dean says, gets up. “You’re all set.”

“Pick one. I figure you watch a lot of these.” Ben hands him the remote. “Just no pussy shit, sweetheart.”

One thing they can actually agree on. Who’d of thought?

“If you’re serious, then sure.” Dean punches in what he wants. “I’ll start you off with The Untouchables. Can’t go wrong with Kevin Kostner.”

It starts.

“Stop it,” Ben says, sprints out of the room like his ass is on fire. Comes back with his bag of candy and a few beers. “Okay, go.”

Dean clicks play, chucks the remote on the bed.

“Hit the middle button to stop and start. The rest is up to you.”

Ben opens a bag of Haribos. “Thanks, Kitten. Close the door behind you, yeah.”

He leaves the room. Door clicks shut.

Should of got him a TV from the start. Would’ve kept him off his ass whole lot longer.

Thanks.

He actually said it. Dean shakes his head, huffs a laugh.

Dude, you are not starting to—

Nope.

Shut up, brain.

Chapter Text

Definitely should’ve gotten him a TV sooner.

No bottle cops on the floor. No beer stains to mop or wipe up. No cigs or ash to deal with.

Guy must’ve spent all night in his room.

Peace has been restored?

Dean snorts, shakes his head. Don’t jinx it again, man.

Still, this is nice. Just him, making breakfast. He’s got his morning coffee. Black. Burns just right. The bunker’s quiet. Not even a peep.

Every day should start like this.

He smiles into his coffee. Now that’s wishful thinking.

Bacon’s looking dee-licious. Dean sets his mug down, cracks a few eggs right into the pan. Not gonna waste the grease—that’s where the flavour’s born. He smirks, watches them sizzle and pop.

After he left Ben to it last night, he went back to Baby, carried his haul in bit by bit, stashed them in one of the storage rooms. Big Guy hasn’t gone exploring yet. He’s not worried he’ll stumble on ‘em.

If Sam finds it, Dean’ll probably get a: you wanna tell me what that’s all about? And Dean will shrug, casual as a lion and say: insurance, Sammy.

He can see it now—Sam’s lips pinched, hands on his hips, head tilted like he’s trying to make sense of Dean’s mind.

Not his problem, so he don’t feel the need to fill him in.

Yeah. Now we’re cookin’.

Dean flicks grease on top of the yolks. Mm-mm-mm. He knows Sam’s gonna tell him he’ll bite it before he’s fifty, but hell—at least he’ll die happy.

Might add some links to this. Skip the tomatoes. Do they have hash browns?

Screw it. Some other time.

Dean tosses a few links in, sears them up. He’s made enough for two.

. . .

Guess he doesn’t even think about it anymore. Now that’s a scary thought. Sure, Sam’d eat if Dean put this in front of him—after complaining about it being a heart attack on a plate. Least Ben’ll appreciate it for what it is.

Real food.

Way he sees it, this saves him the job of having to cook something up when his ass decides to grace Dean with his presence, anyway.

Yeah, exactly. That’s what we call in the business a preemptive strike—probably. Dean thinks that’s the right word.

Thanks word of the day app.

He turns the links over, sears the other side for a beat. Scoops the eggs on the plates.

Huh. Even set two out.

Don’t think too hard about that.

Okay, bacon’s nicely seasoned. Eggs are a wet dream. Toast’s about to pop. All that’s left is for the links to cook a little longer, and breakfast is ready.

Dean rubs his palms together, sips his coffee and sighs.

Weird that Ben hasn’t interrupted the quiet yet. Maybe the TV worked too well. Dean can’t blame him. If he didn’t have responsibilities, he’d probably spend most of his time with his TV and enough pizza boxes to build a fort.

Links are done. Nice.

Dean rolls them on the plates, butters the toast. He likes a lot of butter on his. If Ben don’t, well that’s his problem.

He’ll eat it anyway. Can’t think of a damn thing he put in front of him that Ben didn’t inhale.

Sam actually said once that he’ll never judge him for the way he eats again.

So miracles do happen.

Dean shuts off the burner, lays the plates on the table. Grabs utensils, tosses them down with a clatter.

CREAK!

Too far to be Sammy. Definitely Ben. Dude’s like a friggin’ blood hound. Except for bacon grease.

There he is. Strolling in like he owns the joint.

“Hey, Kitten,” Ben says, eyes clapping on the food and lighting up.

Dean grunts, tucks into his food. Ben drops into his seat and wastes zero time picking up a strip of bacon and dropping it into his mouth.

Dean smirks.

“Well, I did make that for Sam, but he’s still getting his beauty sleep.”

Ben talks with his mouth full. “That nerd would never fuckin’ appreciate food this good.”

Don’t smile at that. Don’t matter if he’s right.

He cracks a smile.

Dammit.

“Big talk coming from the guy that doesn’t even taste what he eats,” Dean says, scoops egg into his mouth. The yolk is perfect.

Ben licks his lips, watches Dean’s mouth. Don’t make it weird now.

“Careful, sweetheart. You’re starting to sound like you care.” Ben flashes teeth and winks.

Dean ignores him.

He does not care. Just saves him the headache. That’s all it is.

He gonna mention the movie?

Maybe he didn’t watch it. Sam fell asleep through it every time. Dean started using it as a tool to get him stop bitching when they were younger.

Not your conventional lullaby, and insulting as hell, but it worked.

Dean frowns. Thought that would be Ben’s kinda movie.

Oh well. He asked. Dean delivered. It wasn’t his thing. Case closed.

If he asks for anymore, Dean’s gonna recommend Suicide Squad.

He nods to himself, shovels more egg into his mouth and savours it.

“Kitten?” Dean’s ears perk up. Heart does a little flicker. Did he write him off too soon? He lifts his head, raises a brow. “What the fuck’s on top of the eggs?”

Never mind. Add Twilight to that list. Dean’s never seen it himself, but Ben’ll probably blow his top seeing a female lead.

He swallows down a laugh, stabs a link and says, “Bacon grease. It’s how I do it. Not for you? Make it your damn self.”

Oh, that’s right. You don’t know how. So keep your mouth shut.

“Don’t be a pussy. This is fuckin’ incredible.” Dean lifts his head, tracks the yolk dripping off Ben’s chin. “Finally, someone who knows how to make real fuckin’ food.”

No, his stomach did not warm up after hearing that. That’s just gas.

Maybe he won’t recommend Twilight.

Yet.

“I’m no Gordon Ramsey, but I make a mean egg,” Dean says, hiding a grin as he sips his coffee.

Ben deadpans, eyebrow twitching.

“Who the fuck is that?”

Dean keeps forgetting this dude was born when the dinosaurs were still running the joint.

And that he’s from a different universe. Can’t keep forgetting that, man.

“Some hot-headed chef.” He waves him off. “Don’t worry about it.”

Ben tucks back in, unbothered. Rather that than have to explain pop culture. Dean’s certain Ben’d pick it up faster than Cas ever did, but there ain’t enough time in the day.

They finish their breakfast.

Their. Like they’re conjoined twins or some bullcrap.

Dean shakes his head, knocks back the rest of his coffee.

“I missed a lot of things when I was in captivity, but food like that—“ Ben points. “That’s what kept me up at night.” He thins his lips, tilts. “That, and sex. You ever been with a mature woman, Kitten?”

The hell’s this going?

“How mature?” Dean doesn’t know why he’s got a bad feeling. Something about the way Ben said it.

Ben smirks. “Grandmas.”

Dean chokes on air.

“Excuse me?”

“Like fine wine. Older they get, the more delicious but the drier,” Ben says, smirking. He pulls his smokes out. Lights one. Dean tries to burn the image from his head. “Young women are hot, yeah. But the grandmas? They’re desperate for it. And when you’re hot like me. A big, strong man—the floodgates are open.”

Listen, Dean’s not a prude. If old ladies wanna get their rocks off? More power to them. Hell, if he met a woman, got married and they were still bumping uglies into their 70s, 80s, he’d be thrilled.

But to think… Nope. That train’s leaving the station. And it’s a one-way trip.

“I’m gonna pretend you didn’t just say that while I’m digesting eggs,” he almost spits, picking up his plate and mug and putting them in the sink.

So he can talk about preying on little old ladies, but he can’t take a second to say movie was good.

Not that it matters.

Shut up.

Dean should recommend Teeth to him. He shudders just thinking about it.

Smoke crawls up Dean’s nose, and he almost sneezes.

“Only thing better is a virgin asshole.” Oh great, there’s more. “Thing’s fuckin’ ruined after one night with me, but there’s nothing like it out there.”

He makes a noise. Dean knows that noise. It’s the kind he makes when he’s really, really horny and even one of those joke pens where the woman’s clothes disappear when it’s dipped in water can give him a chubby.

Thank God he’s not that desperate anymore.

“You still talking?” Dean rolls his eyes. “If I find out you’ve defiled one of my pumpkins, you won’t have to worry about any type of hole again.”

Yes, Dean tried it. Once. It was incredible. But he’s a changed man now.

And it’s do as I say, not as I do.

Ash burns. Chair squeaks.

“Only one thing I wanna defile here, sweetheart.” Dean can hear the smirk. “Your brother die or something?”

Dean turns, frowns.

“The hell’d you say that for?”

Ben shrugs.

“He’s normally here by now.”

“So you do notice him?”

Ben licks his top teeth.

“I notice when he ruins the fuckin’ moment.”

Dean deadpans.

“It’s his Bunker, too, man. You’re the guest.” He clenches his fists. Fuck this. “You know you don’t have to say everything you think. It’s healthy to have a damn filter.”

There’s that thing called irony again.

“You want me to lie and pretend I give a fuck about him?” Ben stubs his cigarette out. “Grow up, Kitten. Not everyone likes everyone. Pretending to is just cowardice. Real men don’t hide who they are to please everyone else.”

Dean bristles.

“The concept of restraint not exist in your universe?”

Ben huffs a laugh.

“I know how to restrain myself. And I do, where it matters.” He yawns. “Pretending I give a shit about Dan isn’t a priority for me. If it were really that much of an issue for you, we wouldn’t even be talking, now would we?”

His eyes are full of challenge. Is he right?

Dean has let a lot of crap slide.

Why?

He’s not a physical threat to him, all jokes aside.

He’s made it clear he’s not Sammy’s number one fan. Or a fan at all. Expecting him to even try really is. . . Pointless.

Still, that’s his brother.

“Whatever, man. You just keep being an asshole. Seems to have worked out real well for you so far,” Dean says, ending it.

If that’s that, Dean’s gonna go do anything that gets him away from here. Might even go for a damn walk.

A giant hand curls around his hip. Turns him, like he’s a flip phone.

“The movie was good,” Ben says, and Dean explodes internally, ‘cause Ben would choose now to bring the friggin’ movie up. “That bit with the bat? Now that’s cinema. Little too much talkin’ beforehand, but great payoff.”

Of course this psycho went full tilt at the sight of brain matter.

“You watched it then?”

“Congratulations, sweetheart. You’ve got good taste.”

Dean shouldn’t feel proud about that. Not when the guy’s bar for good cinema is skull fragments on tile. First time Ben’s said he’s got good taste in anything, though.

First time anyone has.

He blinks, backhands Ben’s wrist when he feels warmth spreading down his thigh from where his hand was.

Ben takes his hand back, says nothing.

Dean pretends his fingernails aren’t on fire just from that.

Use words next time, Dean.

“Figures that would be your takeaway from it,” he says, dry. “What’d you watch after? Inglorious Basterds?”

“What’s that about?”

“It’s real violent.” Probably nostalgic for him. “You’d love it.”

It hits Dean, like a shot to the chest he didn’t ask for. Ben pointing out the bat scene ain’t no damn coincidence. It’s the most violent part of the movie. Which means he relates most to it.

The only reason Ben’s not literally painting the town red is ‘cause for some bizarro reason, Dean’s enough to satisfy the monster.

He shudders to think what Ben would be like if he bore The Mark.

There wouldn’t be a planet left.

“You ever dress up like Elliot Ness for Halloween?” Ben cuts through Dean’s brain fog. For the best. Looks like he’s picturing it.

“Maybe.” Half lie. He did meet the guy, so he did dress like him, but not as him.

Ben smirks. “I knew it,” he waggles his finger. “You got anymore recommendations? Most of the shit on the—“ He thinks. Snaps his fingers. “Home Screen looks like it’s for pussies.” Hard eyeroll. “Saw one fairy in full make up.” He sneers. “This world.”

Yeah, that figures. Ben hasn’t reached the evolutionary phase of to each their own, yet. He’s a boomer in a tank top. So if he don’t like it, he’s gonna say it.

Kinda funny how much it gets under his skin, though.

Ain’t Dean’s thing either, but it’s not gonna ruin his morning.

“Ironic you say that, considering what you want from me, pal.”

Ben snorts like those two things are completely different. If they are, floor’s all yours to explain how, Big Guy.

“You’re not like them,” he says, eyes full of heat that makes Dean brace. “You’re a challenge.”

And there it is. The real reason he talks so much. Why he follows Dean around. Why he takes up all the air and space in the room.

Dean’s a challenge. An investment. A trophy he hasn’t lifted yet.

Never will.

“Lucky me,” he says, tight. Poors himself another coffee—best damn purchase he ever made. Keeps it nice and hot, perfect, unlike this conversation. “You want recommendations? Look up GLaDs top ten lists on YouTube. Go nuts.”

“That sounds like a trap.”

He’s learning. Fantastic. Dean sighs.

“I’ll think of some things. Later. Not now.”

Weird as it all is, Dean can’t help but respect Ben’s brutal honesty. Yeah, it’s flawed. Downright backwards, like he got stuck in time and never evolved with the rest of the world.

Anyway, you don’t see that much these days. Hell, he used to be pretty unfiltered himself. Would run his mouth off about anything. Didn’t matter who was standing in front of him.

Well, other than Dad.

How things have changed that now he’s the one thinking someone else could do with a filter.

But then again—at the same time, he’s not saying it to them. Just about them.

And he’s not seeing sunlight as long as Dean can help it, so that’ll never be his problem.

People don’t tolerate that. They’ll talk back. Ben will pound them into paste.

Dean’s protecting them by keeping Ben housebound, really.

What a hero.

Dean went for a drive in the end. He had crap to do. Baby needed new wheels—supposed to’ve done that weeks ago, but three guesses why it’s taken this damn long.

Now she’s cruising like a Queen along the highway. Purring like a cat, and just as feisty.

“Don’t worry, Baby. They’re all just jealous of your beauty,” Dean says, revving to piss the assholes eating her dust off more.

Baby growls back. She gets it. She knows she rules the friggin’ road.

He doesn’t know where he’s headed next.

Oh wait. Yeah he does. Sam text him about a lead on a case two shakes from here.

“Should we blow it off and go for a cruise?” Dean pats her wheel. “You’re right. Can’t do that. Sammy could be right.”

She hums, and he laughs, drumming along to Radar Love, the beat thudding in his chest like a second engine.

Sam once droned on about the song being about reckless obsession—claimed it wasn’t even romantic. Just a guy losing his mind on the road.

Yeah, well, maybe the guy just really loved his car, Counsellor.

“No more speed, I’m almost there—gotta keep cool, now gotta take care.” Dean switches gears tenderly. “If obsession with my car is wrong, I don’t wanna be right, sweetheart.”

She rumbles like she agrees with him. His grin hurts—lips stretched that wide. She’s the only one who truly gets him.

“I love you, too, honey.”

Sam throws carophile around a lot. Autosexual when he’s had one too many and Dean’s caressing her sides. As any man should.

She gets him home safe. She’s always there when he needs her. And she’s never let him down.

Why wouldn’t he treat her like a princess?

Dean snorts. “Sam just doesn’t get us. I feel for him. I really do.” She groans. “You’re right. He loves you in his own way.” She hums, setting him right. “Okay. So he doesn’t have to show it all the damn time. I know, I know. Don’t pout.”

Dean doesn’t care that he looks like a lunatic. That’s everyone else’s problem.

Not his.

. . .

He brings her to a stop. What was it Sam said again?

Something, something she’s already convinced she’s crazy. Something, something highly religious.

‘cause that’s gonna be fun.

Well, he hasn’t had to dress like a priest in years. If she’s expecting scripture, she can take a walk.

Unless it’s in Latin. Weirdly, that one sticks

Okay. Quick change of clothes and he’ll knock on the door.

He changes. The street’s quiet, so that helps. Slides his fingers along Baby’s hood, walks down the street to her door.

Knocks.

A middle-aged woman answers. Eyes wide. Wild.

“Hello, ma’am.” Dean smiles. “Hope you don’t mind me dropping in unannounced, but the parish told me you needed guidance.”

She lets Dean in. Makes him a coffee.

He listens. Checks the EMF whilst she’s pouring him another cup. It’s a bust.

Poor girl can’t accept that he blew town without her.

He does a small prayer for her. Tries not to be awkward about it. She wishes him a lovely afternoon, and he makes his way back to Baby.

Checks the street. A couple walks past. Two guys, pushing a pram. They nod as they pass. Dean nods back.

Cute kid. Looks happy.

A while back, Dean’d be uncomfortable just seeing that. Probably think where’s the mom. Or tell himself it’s just friends taking one of their kids out for a walk.

Not now, though. He’s grown. More than he thought he ever would before.

Jesse and Cesar helped with that a lot. Dean smiles. He thought they were brothers. Put his foot in his mouth with that one.

But they weren’t. Just two guys that happened to make out when the lights were out.

No biggie.

Ben wouldn’t’ve known the difference either. Maybe then he’d get it.

Dean shrugs. Changes. Reverses out.

Good Fellas would be a good shout.

Dean makes a mental note of it as he burns rubber to the nearest bar.

Ben doesn’t appreciate classics. Or cars at all. So Knight Rider’s out.

Even though that movie is awesome.

Dean parks her, gets out, pats her hood. “Be back soon, sweetheart.”

Bar’s alive enough. Some dude’s are playing pool. Dean can see one of ‘em’s relaxed, playing like muscle memory.

The others, not so much.

He orders a beer, sits, observes.

Could win some beer money. Been a while, but it’s just like riding a bike. If he knew what that was like, anyway.

Would Ben like Ocean’s Eleven?

He’ll keep that one in the back pocket. Heist movies are cool. Ben might not get it, though. Or think it’s too…

Whatever the word is.

Sam would know. Friggin’ nerd.

Dean looks over. One dude lines up a shot. Misses.

“Gotta get your elbow up, fellas,” Dean says, raises his bottle.

They won’t talk back yet. It’ll stick with ‘em, though. Always does.

An elderly lady walks in, husband dragging behind her. Dean’s stomach squeezes, Ben’s words buzzing in his damn ears from earlier.

What’s the guy’s limit? He see an oxygen tank and instantly get a stiffy?

Dean winces. Something’s seriously wrong with that Giant.

He snorts. Should recommend Big Mommas House.

Guy sinks the ball into the pocket. Smooth. Controlled. He’s gotta be semi-pro.

Dean can take him. Everyone makes mistakes. Just gotta push the right buttons.

And bruise the ego.

“Missed a real chance there to sink two, pal.” Dean sips, flashes teeth when he looks over.

Guy’s jaw ticks. Bingo.

Dean eggs ‘em on bit by bit. Halfway through his second beer when they finally bite.

“No one asked you for your fucking opinion, buddy,” Guy says, jaw tight.

“It’s a free country, buddy,” Dean winks. Guy grinds his teeth. Perfect. “Why don’tcha lose the dead weight and face me, Hot Shot.”

Dean cleaned the guy out.

Dude nearly cried, he swears. He wanted a rematch. Dean told him you only get one chance, pal.

So he left 200 bucks richer.

Baby purrs all the way home, proud as he is.

He walks in the bunker with extra swagger. Grabs a cold one from the fridge, some jerky to snack on and rips a page out of Sam’s notebook.

“A’right.” Dean sighs, spins a pen between his fingers. Writes down Good Fellas at the top.

He twists the cap off his beer. Sips.

Jaws is a good one. Ben’s a predator in his own right. Probably relate more to the fuckin’—friggin’ shark.

Ooo! Predator. That’s going on the list for sure.

Supernatural psychopath? Can’t think of anything more appropriate.

The Godfather might be too long. Dean’s not sure Ben’s attention span’ll last.

He crosses it out.

Apocalypse Now. War film. Gritty. Ben’d dig that.

He stares at the title for a beat too long, tongue running over his teeth. Yeah. Ben would really dig that.

Dean tilts his head. Chews the end of the pen. Kinda nice thinking about movies. Even if it is for an ungrateful son of a bitch.

Still, this’ll keep him quiet for a bit.

So, worth it.

Die Hard. Bruce Willis. The original tough guy. Before Jason Statham.

Or Liam Neeson.

Sam walks in. Dean screws up the paper and pops a strip of jerky in his mouth.

Nothing to see here.

“Hey,” Sam says.

“Hey.” Dean fidgets, takes a hearty swig. “You good?”

Sam frowns. “Yeah.” So they don’t normally say that unless the other looks like they’re about to keel over. It’s not suspicious, Sam. Move on. “So it was a bust?”

Dean nods. Got away with it. He hides a smirk. “Dude blew town. Cars don’t drive themselves out of the garage, but she swore he’d never leave her.”

Sam shakes his head, swallows. “What an asshole.” He grabs a bottle of water from the fridge, sips it. “You seem like you’re in a good mood. What’s that all about?”

“Can’t a guy just be happy, Sam?” Dean chews more jerky.

“Well, I’m glad. It looks good on you,” Sam says, runs a hand through his hair. “Ben’s been in his room whole time you’ve been gone. It’s been oddly peaceful.”

Dean smirks. “The power of Netflix.” He raises his bottle. “There’s no way to send him back, dude. I know you know that, ‘cause your face is doing that thing.”

Sam does that little huffy sigh. The one where it’s all coming from the sides of his mouth. Means Dean’s right, but he don’t wanna admit he caught ‘im.

“What do we do now?” He wiggles his chin.

Dean twists the bottle on the table. “We keep doin’ what we’ve been doin’. Making sure Patrick Bateman don’t go AWOL.” He chuckles at this own joke. Sam side eyes him. “Way I see it—as much as it pisses me off, he’s staying put ‘cause of me. Long as I don’t poke the bear too much—shuddup, Sammy—everything should be fine.”

Sam chews on that. Let’s it marinate.

“How you doing with that? I mean, it can’t be easy, constantly having to put up with his crap.” There it is. Brows tucked together. Classic guilty Sam face. Dean hates that look. “I know I haven’t—“

“Stop.” Dean pins him in place with a hard look. “It is what it is, Sam. Nothing we can do about it now. I’m fine.”

Sam lingers for a beat too long, shifts his foot.

“Okay, Dean.” He pauses, sips. “Okay.”

As soon as he walks off, Dean unscrews the list and writes down Mad Max.

Dean’s not sold on Ben getting it. But it’s a dystopian universe with different laws. Kinda like what Ben’s dealing with now.

John Wick. Will he get it? Will he care about the vengeance?

Dean chews his lip.

It’s violent enough. Yeah, add it. Why not, right?

We’ll round it off with Man on Fire, 300–manly as hell. He’ll love that. And…

Scarface.

If he doesn’t appreciate that, he’s simply not human.

Which, he ain’t.

He’s a super human.

Dean rolls his eyes.

Super dick more like it.

Dean checks the list twice over, straightens it out, grabs his beer and heads to Ben’s room.

Knocks. Waits.

“Yeah?”

Opens the door, wrinkles his nose at the wave of smoke.

“Here you go,” he says, tosses the list on the bed, ready to walk right back out.

Ben picks it up, scans it, makes a face. Dean wonders which title caused it. Probably Predator. Or Jaws.

“Jaws?” He squints. “The fuck’s that about?”

Dean sucks his teeth. “Watch and find out.”

Ben backs out of the film he’s watching, types it in, presses play.

Shifts.

“Wanna watch with me, Kitten?” Ben cuts him a look. Low lids. Softer than he should be capable of. Makes Dean swallow nervously.

Not nervously.

Just weird seeing him look genuine or whatever. It don’t mean a thing.

Dean thinks about it. Him, Ben, a bed. His head fills with potential outcomes he doesn’t want, and he slams the breaks.

“Nah, I’m good.” He grabs the doorknob. “I think you’ll like this one. So… yeah.”

He shuts the door before he can sound more awkward.

Would’ve been cool to see how he reacts to it. The timeless CGI. The scene with the girl swimming alone. The surly Captain.

Ben’s never crossed a line before, yeah. Guy’s been solid on that. But still. . .

Don’t wanna give him ideas.

Chapter Text

I’m going to say this now. And I will not say it again.

My passion is character voice. I’ve done heavy prose in the past — there’s nothing wrong with it when it’s necessary — but my drive comes from writing as if I’m seeing the world through the character’s eyes.

It’s my process. I envision the scene through their perspective, and I write whatever they see and hear. Like a conduit. I’m not exaggerating when I say that. The freest I ever feel is when I’m transcribing what they want.

It’s their story. I’m just there to facilitate it. I won’t write something if I don’t believe the character would say or do it, because I respect their agency and their truth.

So, yes — Ben is going to be an asshole. He’s going to be backwards. He’s going to have opinions that are flawed. Because he is flawed.

He was frozen in time and never got to experience cultural shifts. Would he have adapted? Maybe. But that wouldn’t be growth — that would be conformity. A façade to get clicks.

The point of this fic is to realistically show Ben’s metamorphosis. Shouting people down, labelling them, or moral grandstanding doesn’t change minds. It just breeds resentment, silence, and performance.

That’s not change — that’s survival.

Changing someone’s mind takes time. It takes exposure. It takes a reason. People are stubborn; they believe the first thing they were told, and fear being naive if they question it later.

Ben was frozen in an era where his views were the norm, not the exception. But he’s going to grow. Organically. Realistically.

And if that makes you uncomfortable, I understand — but that discomfort is the point. This story asks you to sit in it with him, to observe how he learns.

Because Dean’s the only one who could make him.

I’m not here to hold anyone’s hand. I’m here to tell a story worth telling: two men healing each other in the end.

If you can’t stomach realism, my writing isn’t for you.

I’ll never sacrifice character integrity to appease others.

It’s their story. Their agency. Their playground.

The needle will shift, as they shift with it.

To those who stay — I love and respect you, whoever you are and however you identify. There will be light at the end of this tunnel. The growth will be earned.

—Kieran

ALSO: I’m a gay man who’s been out for 11 years. And in that time I have helped MANY people stop seeing gay as something that is a threat to them. Not through being preachy. Not through shouting them down. Not through grand standing. But by them simply not even knowing I was gay to begin with. Relating to me through different means and understanding that my sexuality isn’t my identity or my personality. It’s a FACET of who I am. 

Conditioning is a powerful tool. And when someone has been taught to believe that gay is a disruption to them, even when it isn’t directly affecting them, they’re going to generalise it as something bad. But it can be unlearned. It’s far more powerful to stand in front of your enemy and understand where they’re coming from so you can deconstruct their conditioned belief and show them that the only thing that separates us is who we choose to go to bed with. We can still find common ground. 

Sorry—it’s just deeply upsetting to even be implied that I’m glorifying or coddling homophobia when I have literally lived through this shit most of my life. 

Chapter Text

Ben stares at the wall.

Dean said no. He wanted to watch the movie. His eyes flashed interest. Steady, familiar interest.

So that’s one of his fuckin’ favourites.

What stopped him?…

Ben hums. Right. Proximity. His little Kitten isn’t ready to be that close to him yet.

Ben rolls his bottom lip. He will be. Eventually. Just gotta be patient. Can’t rush it or he’ll fuckin’ spook.

He’s getting somewhere. No fuckin’ doubt about that. Dean’s not responding to his touch. Not in the way Ben wants.

No arousal. No interest. No desire for escalation.

The important distinction is that he’s not immediately telling him to fuck off.

Ben lights a cigarette, inhales.

And why? He smirks. ‘cause Ben is a fucking genius. All he’s gotta do is retreat the moment Dean tells him to. No hesitation. No talk. No implication that Dean’s the one that’s being a fuckin’ nun.

If he keeps doing that? If he keeps lowering Kitten’s defences—proving that Ben is—

He snorts, rolls his eyes.

—safe. Then Dean won’t have a fuckin’ reason to reject his touch.

Ben drags on his cigarette, leans back, stares at the ceiling.

He’s never had to work this hard for anything. Can’t say he even put this much effort into earning one glance of approval from his father.

Guy looked right fuckin’ through him.

And even when Ben became the first supe, what did dear old dad say?

You cheated.

Ben stubs his cigarette out, clenches his fists.

He pissed on his grave when he died. More than once. Nearly shit on it, too. But that would fertilise the fuckin’ ground and make his grave look pretty.

Ben smirks. Asshole don’t deserve shit.

Literally.

You’re not special.

Now that is worth shit. That excites him as much as it makes him fuckin’ furious.

That is worth his time. His investment.

His… patience.

His dad is dead, so Ben doesn’t give a fuck about his opinion.

Dean is alive.

He doesn’t know it yet—Ben scratches his cheek—but he’ll take those words back someday.

Ben smells cooked food.

Time to eat.

He leaps out of bed, leaves his room and sprints down the stairs.

Dean is the most stubborn human Ben’s ever met, but he cooks exactly how Ben likes.

Greasy. No fat waste. Good amount of protein. Spiced fuckin’ right.

Dean’s spine stiffens. Interesting.

Ben pauses. Assesses.

He’s coming in too hot. Dial it back.

“Hey, Kitten.”

Dean grunts, shakes the pan. Not the reaction he was hoping for, but it’s not about him.

He takes a seat, spreads his legs. Dean’s shoulders are tense, jaw tight. Not angry. Not annoyed.

Tired.

“Get back late last night?” Ben probes, keeps his tone neutral. Watches for tells.

“Yeah,” Dean says, sounds irritable.

Still not at Ben.

“What—did one of your little creatures of the night give you a hard fuckin’ time?”

He’s grinding his teeth. Either Ben hit the right nerve or now Dean’s directing his annoyance at him.

Ben does a small exhale. Not one that Dean would pick up on.

“You’re good at this, right?” Ben smirks at his back. “And you look fine.”

Dean turns his head. Finally.

“Sam got hurt.” He looks away. “Not that you’d give a damn.”

Ben stops an eye roll.

“That bad?”

“No, he’s fine.” Dean shuts the burner off. “Just…” Shoulders go right up—way too high. “Forget it.”

Ah. Ben sees. Sam could get a fuckin’ paper cut and Dean would fret about it.

This eyeroll he doesn’t stop, but Dean’s not looking at him.

“You blame yourself.” It’s not a question. Dean doesn’t want to talk about it. Ben gets that. Sees a lot of himself in that respect. Ben doesn’t give a monkey’s ass that Sam got hurt. He wouldn’t care if he died. But Dean cares. Probably too much—

—definitely too much. And if Ben wants access to Dean, he needs to prove to him that he understands him.

Dean meets his gaze for a breath. Scanning him. Ben holds steady, raises his brows just so. Just enough to invite, not pressure if Dean wants to acknowledge that he was right.

Which he fuckin’ was.

“I made omelettes,” Dean says. “If you’re expecting rabbit food on the insides, Sam can cook those up.”

Ben grins.

“Oh, sweetheart—“ Ben winks. “—I’m dying to try ‘em.”

He can try and hide that little proud smile with a tactical throat clear, but not from Ben.

“If you’re that desperate, eat,” Dean says, waves his hand at Ben’s plate.

Ben slices a clean line, pops it in his mouth. Remember—savour it. Taste all of it. Don’t watch him while it’s done. He wants the anonymity of not knowing he’s being observed observing.

It’s not even fuckin’ hard to make a pleased noise because this shit is fuckin’ good.

Now then. This is the part to pay attention to.

The little proud smile? Now it’s reached Dean’s eyes as he takes his own bite.

Time to seal the deal.

“It’s delicious, sweetheart. Best omelette I’ve ever had.”

Dean swallows. Harder than necessary, which means that landed beautifully.

He takes a long pull of his coffee.

Overwhelm. He’s probably fuckin’ beaming into that cup.

Fuck me. I never thought I’d give the nerd credit, but his lack of compliments to Dean is working so well in my fuckin’ favour.

There’s not a chance he’d react like that to something so minuscule otherwise.

“I had eggs I needed to use up,” Dean says, staring at his plate.

He’s not looking for a thank you. What Ben said was more than enough.

They eat the rest of their food in silence.

Bacon, mushrooms, tomato, cheese, pepper, that green spice Ben’s seen Dean use before—name escapes him.

Seriously tasty.

“You really know the way to a man’s heart.” Ben pats his stomach. Dean rolls his eyes—not insulted, amused. Which is perfect. “You really self-taught?”

Dean nods.

“You should see me behind a grill.” Dean grabs both their plates. “Sammy wouldn’t let me put one in the bunker.” He snorts. “Said it’s a fire hazard.”

Ben wants to say Dean should do whatever the fuck he wants—who gives a shit what Sam says, but Dean won’t like that.

No… He’d get his panties in a wad. Sam’s opinion matters to him. Annoyingly. And since Sam is his platonic wife—Ben rolls his eyes—Dean doesn’t get to have his fun.

Compromises. Avoids Sam bitching at him.

Ben sucks the roof of his mouth.

He should smack him, tell him to shut his fucking mouth.

“I bet you make some mean steaks.” Ben leans back, licks his lips. “I’m excited just thinking about it.”

Dean opens the fridge harder than needed, grabs two beers. He twists both off and hands Ben one.

This is fantastic. Ben didn’t have to ask.

Dean takes a long pull. Ben watches his throat bob as he swallows. He stops, wipes his mouth, exhales.

“We’ve got a grill.” He throws a thumb back. “Me and Sammy have gotta go out soon. Could pick some steaks up. Cook ‘em up. No sweat.”

Dean’s eyes are beyond Ben’s shoulders. How he responds to this is fuckin’ vital.

Ben takes a long sip, mirrors Dean’s exhale and mouth wipe. Dean doesn’t notice ‘cause he’s already forgotten he did it a few seconds ago.

His subconscious is what Ben’s targeting.

“Sounds good, Kitten,” Ben says, makes it softer with a wink. Dean doesn’t bristle. Not even a fraction. “What time you gonna be back?”

Ben only gives a shit about Dean’s return.

Dean chews his bottom lip.

“Depends if the lead checks out.” He picks the label. Puts the beer down. “Gotta check if Aurora’s ready.”

Ben lets Dean go tend to his delicate little princess. If they’re both going out later, it can’t be that bad.

That’s not the point. Sam being injured is a fuckin’ failure to him as his overly burdened protector.

What a fuckin’ pathetic wimp. Nerd should take care of himself. Not expect brother-dearest to kiss his booboos.

Ben scoffs, grabs Dean’s beer and takes a small sip. Places it exactly where it was.

That marks number five. He can stop doing that now. Unless this takes longer than he’d fuckin’ like, that is.

Ben gets up, grabs some more beers from the fridge and goes back to his room.

He sits on his bed, light a cigarette. Turns on the TV. Presses the button for Netflix.

Something catches his eye on the recommended panel thing. Looks old. Familiar.

Ben clicks on it.

Let’s see what you’ve got Blind Faith.

It sounds fuckin’ stupid. Cheesy. Religious maybe?

Ben watches.

Young man. A kid, really. Running to a house. Probably his house.

He needs to dial back the enthusiasm, unless his mom’s cooking is worth that amount of effort.

Ben sips his beer, drags on his cigarette.

Kid runs up to his dad. Fat, balding, looks like a loser.

Kid tries to get his attention. Fat guy ignores him.

Ben snorts.

What’s that in his hand? Oh, it’s a drawing.

Fat guy tells him he’s busy. Kid pushes back—

—and gets hit in the face for it.

Ben yawns, drinks more. Drags more.

Kid leaves the house with his drawing, cries on the porch.

“What a pussy,” Ben sneers, shakes his head. “He didn’t hit you that fuckin’ hard.”

Ben keeps watching. Stop fuckin’ crying. No wonder he clocked you.

Some old man appears. Watching the kid. He asks him if he’s okay.

This is where he should dry his fucking eyes, say he’s fine and man the fuck up.

Good. Dry ‘em.

Old man asks about the drawing. Kid hides it.

Yeesh. Ben frowns, picks at the fabric on his knee.

Kid eventually shows it to the old timer after being a pussy about it for way too long.

This is the part where he says it’s amazing, right? Calls him a genius to make him feel better.

Ben flexes his fingers on the bottle.

Old timer says it’s good.

Fair. It’s nothing special. Ben likes this guy.

He’s honest.

Old timer tells him where he could improve. Ah, so he’s an actual artist. Got it.

Then he asks about the mark on his face. Kid lies. Good. That’s none of his fuckin’ business.

Old timer offers to give him some lessons.

. . .

Kid gets better over time. Ben doesn’t know fucking squat about art, but he has eyes.

Kid’s getting more confident. Doing better.

Ben pops the cap off his next beer.

. . .

Kid’s older now. Ditched the art. Joined the wrong people.

At least they toughened him up. He’s got muscles now.

He’s got money. Multiple women on his arm. Kid’s living the dream.

Ben smirks.

. . .

Kid sees the old timer selling his own art. Walks up to him. He tries to talk to him, but the old timer won’t look at him.

Won’t acknowledge him.

You cheated.

Ben swallows.

Old timer’s disappointed. Yeah, well, who fuckin’ cares. So the kid traded in art for a life of luxury? That’s not cheating. That’s ditching a pipe dream and focusing on what fuckin’ matters.

Ben pauses it. Drains the rest of his beer.

The difference is—Ben closes his eyes—the old timer actually cared enough before to mentor the kid.

He watched out for him. He cooked him meals. He was at his fuckin’ graduation.

Unlike the fat guy.

Ben grits his teeth.

The kid deserved it.

Ben presses play.

. . .

Kid ditches the gang he joined. Goes to college. Gets an art degree.

Goes back to the old timer.

Offers him something he drew. Old timer takes it, looks at it. Really fuckin’ looks.

Then he looks at him.

Kid asks why he wouldn’t look at him before.

Ben sits up.

Old timer says I had faith you’d find your way back to who you were always meant to be. It hurt too much to see you before that.

Ben laughs. So that’s why it’s called Blind Faith?

He shakes his head, wry smile.

Weird way to say he knew what was best for him.

Kid hugs him. Ben looks away.

Looks back.

Movie ends.

What a fuckin’ waste of time. Only good thing about it is it killed a couple of hours before Dean gets back.

Ben could text him. But he won’t. Dean laid down a fair boundary, and if Ben wants him to not look like someone peed in his fuckin’ cereal when he gets back, he has to pretend that he respects that.

He’s got some time to kill, so he lowers his bottoms and grabs his cock.

Strokes it. Not too hard. Not too soft. Just right—feels like it’s someone else.

All the way from base to tip, measured squeeze at the top.

He lets his fantasy roll back to that moment a week ago when Dean was eating that pie.

The sounds he made. The unfiltered enjoyment. The bliss on his face. The fucking erotic sounds coming out of his mouth.

Ben was jealous of that pie. He wasn’t lying when he said that. Not even slightly.

He wants those sounds to be because of him. His taste. His influence. His dominion.

“Yeah… Fuck…”

He sees it so clearly. Dean not retreating to the kitchen. Staying exactly where he was. Sucking the pie filling and chocolate off his fingers.

His eyes glazed but not submissive. The sounds joyful but not exclusive to Ben.

That’s the challenge. The hook. The drive. The unwavering force that has him analysing every movie recommendation for hints of reciprocity.

One day, Dean will look at him with the eyes that he’s seeing now. Unfiltered. Expressive. Full of depth and clarity ‘cause Dean fucking chooses Ben.

When he no longer needs a pastry to express his disgustingly misplaced loyalty.

There are few men with that level of loyalty once it’s earned.

That’s why Dean is fascinating.

Sam has it. And he abuses it constantly. He doesn’t appreciate it with the recognition that it fucking deserves.

But Ben does. And Ben wants it.

“Glare at me, Kitten. Fuck! Show me I’m not worthy yet.”

Ben strokes. Ramps up. Sees Dean’s burdened eyes so clearly boring into his own as he sucks the tip of his finger to the bone—telling him he hasn’t earned it. Telling him he’s not good enough yet. Telling him he’s got work to do.

“Yes… Ugh, fuck—“

Ben thrusts up, narrows on the picturesque image of Dean’s war torn eyes—the cognitive dissonance crippling him as he shoots like a fucking geyser, spasming, grunting, laughing and gritting his teeth at the same time.

“You will be mine, Kitten.”

Ben grabs a dirty shirt from the floor and wipes himself off. He’s gonna have to shower before Dean comes back. He comes more than most. More than the average human. And Dean’s reaction to his soaked sheets was in the category of someone that would have thrown him in the washer if he could, so Ben knows that Dean isn’t ready for that.

Yet.

Ben hops out of bed. Goes to the shower. Washes. Dries. Returns to his room. Dries. Gets changed.

Waits.

His ears perk the moment he hears chatter.

Yes. Kitten is back.

Ben controls his approach. No sprinting. Quiet steps like Dean is apparently fuckin’ used to. Not too eager.

When he sees Dean, he’s already looking after Sam.

“I’m fine, Dean. Really. It was just a scratch,” Sam says.

Dean rolls his eyes, postures.

“Okay, Sasquatch. Way to make a big deal out of a guy opening a door for you.” Dean keeps pace behind him, checks to make sure he’s steady.

Disgusting.

“I got a graze, Dean. I’m not bleeding out. A door isn’t going to put me in the ICU,” Sam replies, taking the steps two at a time.

Dean hangs back. Watches him go.

Ben sees it all happen before Dean’s even noticed him ‘cause he’s so focused on the leech that doesn’t deserve his loyalty.

Dean stops, watches Sam’s every step, tenses at every footfall, eyes tight—jaw compressed harder than anything Ben’s ever seen. Hands itching to stabilise. Support. Take the weight off.

Ben watches him take a deep breath, eyes still focused on Sam before he exhales.

Only then does he follow him down.

Ben grits his teeth. Clears the steps.

“Hey, Kitten. Did you get the steaks?”

Dean freezes. Shoulders tense. Legs lock. Ass has no idea what it’s doing to Ben.

“Yeah, we got ‘em. Forgot to grab ‘em out of the back,” Dean says, posturing into that fuckin’ character he puts on.

Ben touches his shoulder. Dean turns. Ben lets go when his eyes dart to his hand.

“Gimme the fuckin’ keys. I’ll grab ‘em. You’ve got no idea how much my stomachs been clipping me round the ear since you mentioned it.”

Dean scans Sam again with a neck turn, fishes his keys out of his pocket and hands them to Ben.

“Yeah. They’re in the back, like I said.” Dean shakes his head out, frowns. “If you hurt her, I swear—“

Ben snorts. “Don’t worry, sweetheart. I promise I won’t show her a real man.”

Dean’s neck turns. Fully engaged. No wall.

“You don’t know how to make her tick.” He levels his gaze. Yes. This is perfect. “Grab the supplies only. If you mess with her, I’ll know.”

Ben believes this. That car is Dean’s safe haven.

For now.

Ben takes the keys without comment. Grabs the bag, shuts the door.

Returns.

Sam is sitting at the table. Waving Dean off. Focusing on a dusty tome.

Dean’s sat next to him. Pretending it’s boring. Pretending he’s not fuckin’ focused on every tell Sam’s willing to give and doesn’t realise he’s broadcasting.

Ben chucks the steaks on the table, grabs a beer and steals a chair far enough away that he can observe without being detected.

He thumbs the cap off. Dean doesn’t look towards the bounce. He’s too busy playing caretaker.

“I still think we’re dealing with a Shtriga,” Sam says, scanning the page. “Only I think this one might be from a different corner of the world than usual.”

“You sayin’ it hopped a plane—got a one way ticket?” Dean leans back. “Ain’t they from Albania or something?”

Sam stares at him.

Clearly he doesn’t have any faith in Dean’s intelligence.

That Ben can definitely make use of later.

“Normally, yeah.” Sam rights himself. That caught him off guard. Dean rubs his chin, eyes dart.

“Look at that,” Dean says, forcing a grin. “After all these years, I’m bound to get something right.” Shrinks, then expands. “Don’t go expectin’ lightning to strike twice, though, Sammy.” He looks away.

He wants Sam to show some kind of fuckin’ belief that lightning will strike twice, but Sam acts as if he said nothing.

“So what I’m thinking is that this Shtriga is ancient in origin.” He points to something. “And my money is on this being the key to figuring out which type we’re dealing with.”

Dean swallows, sighs through his nose.

“Didn’t know Shtriga’s had personality types. Should I dust off the Supernatural Guess Who?”

Ben snorts, sips his beer. Pretends he doesn’t see Dean glance over.

That’s right, Kitten. Puff your chest out. You’re a funny guy.

“Dean, please.” Sam’s lips thin. Eyebrows go up. Dean glances at him, darts his eyes again, drops his head, fake smiles. “Can you pull up your translator app. I’m gonna try and read this, and with any luck, we’ll know what it says.”

Dean’s eyes light. A joke’s coming. He hesitates a second too fucking long. Already got his phone out.

“Just make sure you get it right. We don’t want the NSA on our asses if you accidentally say something that would make even the Silk Road blush.”

Dean looks to Sam for a smile. He doesn’t get one.

So many unmet needs.

And so many angles for Ben to worm his way in.

Keep making this easy, Sam. Makes Ben’s goal inevitable.

“Говорят… маленький город…”

Ben freezes. Head spins.

Heat. In his ears.

Buzzing.

“дети умирать начали…”

He stands up. Wobbles. Grips the back of the seat.

“Sam, stop.”

“What?”

Ben covers his ears, squeezes his eyes shut.

Fuck. No.

Hands all over him. Voices. Gas. Can’t breathe.

Burning. Burning. Hot.

BZZZZZZZ.

“Dean, no!”

“Cram it, Sam!”

Bubbling. Boiling. Getting hotter.

Shit. Fuck. Stop it.

“Hey, Big Guy, stay with me.”

Ben grits his teeth. Ears ring too loud. Head too heavy. Muscles taut.

“Dean, get away from him!”

“Shut up, Sam,” Dean snaps. Blurry. Stepping close.

Don’t, Kitten. This isn’t something you can fucking handle.

Stay the fuck away. No good to me dead.

“Look at me, Ben.” Hand out. Steady. “I’m right here. Stay with me. I know it’s loud right now, but keep your eyes on me.”

He’s insane. He has a death wish. What is wrong with this human?

Throat clicks. Mouth dry. Exhaling too fucking hard through his nose.

“Is my hand gonna melt if I touch you?” Wry smirk. Hand touches Ben’s shoulder. Relieved sigh. “So I’m not a rotisserie chicken. In my field we call that progress.”

Grin. Heart clearly pounding out of his fuckin’ chest but he’s acting like this is a normal day.

Burning climbs. Chest glowing.

“Look, Big Scary Giant, if you wanna win your challenge—which is never gonna happen but here we are, you’re sure as hell not gonna win if I’m a wall stain, now, are ya?”

He’s right. Fuck, he’s right.

If Ben explodes right now, Dean will be an outline on the fuckin’ wall and Ben will never get to make him take those words back.

You’re not special.

Ben reaches. Touches Dean’s chest. Dean doesn’t flinch away.

He leans into it, smiles.

The burning starts to fade. Buzzing lessens. Vision clears.

“You back with me, pal?”

Ben stares. Hard. Dean holds it.

Mine.

Dean takes his hand back the moment Ben’s calm. Goes to Sam. Pulls him into a hug. Fucking squeezes him.

Absorbs every bit of tension, worry—all with a smile and an it’s okay, Sammy. I’m fine.

He always has to swallow his own emotions to keep Sam from spiralling.

Dean was the one standing in the immediate blast radius of Ben’s power. He would have been erased. But he stood strong. He stood his ground like a real man.

He barely shook. He barely even registered his own fear.

Now he’s soothing the fucking nerd like he was the one that nearly became dust.

It’s ridiculous. It’s absurd. It’s the stupidest shit Ben has ever witnessed in his life.

And yet…

It’s why Ben wants him. It’s why he needs Dean to want him. It’s why he wants that level of devotion.

Not because he needs to be comforted. That’s for pussies.

He wants Dean to look at him the way he looks at Sam. Except with heat that isn’t I would cut my arm off if it meant you didn’t have to suffer, and I wouldn’t even bother to cauterise the wound.

It’s bone deep. It’s disgusting. It makes Ben sick.

Because that nut gobbler doesn’t deserve it.

Ben watches the hug break. He rolls his eyes. Sam breaks it first, sniffs. Dean holds him at arms length.

“I thought you were gonna die,” Sam says, shoulders heaving. “Why do you do that? What am I gonna do if you—“

“I know, but look at me—handsome as ever.” Dean smiles, squeezes his shoulder. “Why don’t you take that to the library. Translate the rest, yeah?”

Sam nods, looks away. Dean holds steady, leans in.

“Yeah, okay,” Sam says, looks at Dean for one second too long for Ben’s liking. Grabs his shit and goes.

Dean watches him retreat. Tracks his leg. Oh he’s limping? That’s what the graze was about.

What a fucking drama queen.

“So, steaks?” Dean grins. He rubs his hands. “Dunno about you, but I could eat a horse.”

This man…

Absolutely. Unequivocally. Irrationally.

Intoxicating.

Ben smirks.

“I’m not hungry, Kitten.” Ben turns. “I’ll be in my room.”

He doesn’t wait. Lost his appetite after that fiasco.

Ben goes to his room, drops on his bed and switches the TV on.

There’s a knock at the door a few minutes later.

“Yeah?”

Door opens. Dean’s standing there with some beers.

“You watch 300, yet?” Dean fidgets, forces a smirk. “If you haven’t, I’ll join ya’. Be funny to see your face when—“ he waves his hand, invites himself in. Shuts the door. “I won’t spoil it. Scooch.”

“The fuck is this?” Ben hardens his eyes. “You fuckin’ pitying me?”

Dean scoffs, kneels on the bed and hands him a beer.

“I need the company,” he says. “You wanted me in your bed, right?” He raises one eyebrow, all cheek.

Fuck, he’s perfect.

“If you fall asleep, I’m throwing you out, sweetheart,” Ben says, making room.

Dean rolls his eyes.

“Not gonna happen, Goliath. Wouldn’t wanna give you ideas.”

Chapter Text

Dean, no!

Glowing. Ben’s nostrils flaring. Jaw tight. Eyes squeezed shut.

Humming. Buzzing. Dean feels the heat.

Flash.

BOOM

Dean snaps awake, sits right up. Chest tight. Heart hammering in his chest. His breathing’s ragged—raw, like he’s below zero and the eskimos denied him room at the igloo.

He places his hand on his chest. Calm down, heart. It’s not a big deal. He didn’t die. Sam’s safe. The bunker isn’t Pompei.

It’s all good.

Dean breathes in deep through his nose. Counts to five, thinks of Baby’s engine rumbling. He grabs his wrist.

Squeezes. Hard.

Grunts.

Breathes out.

He’s fine. Not like he needed to sleep much more tonight anyways.

Dean nods, gets up. He chucks on his robe, slippers—leaves his room.

He cracks Sam’s door open. Smiles softly, pulls it shut and heads downstairs.

He grabs himself a beer. Snorts. 4AM somewhere is the new 4PM.

“A’right,” he says to the beer. “Bottoms up.”

He sips, wipes his mouth, closes his eyes for a beat.

. . .

Guns. Gotta keep ‘em clean. Gotta keep ‘em safe.

Can’t have ‘em recoiling in Sam’s face. He’d look like Elmer Fudd in Looney Tunes after Bugs Bunny messed with his rifle.

Dean sets his beer on the table, grabs the guns, sets them out neat.

He always starts with Sam’s first. Double checks them.

“Oo-hoo, little brother. You might understand law or whatever, but your gun cleaning?” Dean shakes his head.

The metal feels good in his hand. Steadying. Makes him feel stable, yanno?

Dean checks the sight. Little too much gunpowder in there.

He rolls his eyes. If Sammy’d turn that big brain of his off, maybe he wouldn’t miss so damn much.

Dean cleans in silence. Sips his beer as he goes. Keeps his gaze steady. No shortcuts.

No thoughts. Just work. Exactly how Dean likes it.

That is until he hears Ben’s door open and shut.

Dammit. Not now, man.

Dean takes a few hearty pulls. Clenches his jaw.

Shakes his head. Come on, that’s not fair. He don’t know he just made a guest appearance as an Atom bomb in Dean’s nightmare.

He swallows, switches guns, bites the inside of his cheek when his hands start auditioning for Shakes, the sequel.

“Hey, Kitten.” Dean doesn’t look up. Just grunts, fights the tightness in his chest. He doesn’t know, dude. Don’t be an asshole. “We fuckin’ day drinking?”

Dean scans him as he goes to the kitchen, grabs himself a beer. He looks away before he comes back out.

Ben sits two seats away. Dean feels eyes on his hands.

“You still got the one I bent in half?” He laughs to himself. “How long ago was that?”

“Too long,” Dean says, cocks the gun to test for friction.

“Want help?”

Dean freezes. Cuts him a look.

Ben shrugs.

“I don’t just use my hands, sweetheart.” He winks. “Guns are my target practice.”

Why is Dean not surprised?

“Your bullets shoot through steel?” Dean snorts. “I’ve got it handled.”

Ben’s throat clicks.

“Bullets don’t have Compound V.” Ben sips. “My aim, though?” Dean looks at him. Ben smirks, leans in. “One hundred percent accuracy.”

Dean raises his eyebrows.

“You’re full of it.”

He doesn’t know if he believes that. But he has to have something over this behemoth.

Ben snatches the gun Dean’s already cleaned. Dismantles it in seconds flat. Then reassembles it like a Rubik’s Cube is a joke to him.

Dean glares.

“Fuck, Kitten.” Ben stares. “This is fuckin’ flawless.”

Did he just—

Whatever. It’s not a big deal. Dean’s been doing this since colouring books shoulda been his norm.

He scoffs, snatches the gun back.

“What do you know,” he says, refusing to acknowledge the heat behind his damn eyes. “Don’t touch anymore guns. Can’t have you gettin’ trigger happy and putting a bullet in Sam.”

Ben rolls his eyes at the mention of Sam. Takes a long pull of his beer. Dean can feel his annoyance.

He’s not gonna pretend that Sammy can’t be a gigantic pain in the friggin’ ass, but he can’t think of anyone that hates him more than Ben.

Sam sneezes wrong, and Ben is ready to write his obituary.

Dean smirks at his own joke.

Dark humour. Really calms the soul.

“Trust me, sweetheart. I would.” Dean tenses, bristles, glares. “But I wouldn’t.” Dean blinks. “Cause you care about him or whatever. Don’t wanna see a grown man fuckin’ cry.”

Dude just said he’d waste Sam in a damn heartbeat—but wouldn’t for Dean.

Why did his stomach jump? Why are his ears hot?

That shouldn’t be comforting. But it is.

Maybe Sam’s right. Maybe Dean does need therapy.

Or a stiff drink. And keep ‘em coming.

Ben won’t hurt Sam. Ben won’t harm Sam.

Ben won’t kill Sam.

‘Cause of Dean.

‘Cause he wants to screw him.

Dean’s jaw ticks. He picks up another gun.

“Not icing Sam ain’t gonna get you what you want, pal,” Dean spits, hates himself for it. Ben don’t have to kiss Sam’s ass. Just not. . . Hurt him. And he said he wouldn’t. But what if he—and then it’s open season on Sam…

Ben sighs.

“Kitten, look at me.” Said soft. Weird. Dean turns his head. “I’m not gonna pretend I don’t wanna rearrange your spine.” He licks his lips. “And I do…” He leers, mind probably in the damn gutter. “But men like you? Real men. They’re hard to come by. And I wouldn’t wanna fuck that up.”

He grins, finishes his beer and leaves to grab more.

Dean exhales.

Nope. Not gonna think about that.

His face isn’t hot. Ben’s weird ass body heat is just keeping the bunker toasty.

Exactly. Yeah.

Ben comes back, hands Dean a beer.

“How the tables have turned.” Dean twists the cap off. “Didn’t know you had it in ya’.”

Ben sits down, shakes his head.

“You earned it.” He tilts his head. “So I watched that Predator movie.” He leans back. “Whole thing would of been fuckin’ over in minutes without the unnecessary drama.”

Dean abandons the gun like a cheap date.

“What did you just say to me?” He turns, swigs his beer. “That movie’s a classic. It’s horror done right.” He waves his hand. “I don’t know what counts for good in your neck of the woods, but Predator was horror before it became—“ He sneers. “What it is now.”

Ben laughs. “Fuck off. That thing has heat ray vision. There’s not a fuckin’ chance that he don’t kill the girl in five minutes, at max.”

Dean huffs.

“How dare you.” He shuffles in his seat. “This ain’t some YouTube short. This is a whole ass movie. It’s supposed to have peaks and valleys. It’s the—“ He bites back a smirk. “Motion of the ocean. You don’t pass go on the first try.”

Ben snorts.

“I do. Every time.”

Dean leans back, stalls a laugh.

“Shuddup. No, you don’t.”

Ben can brag all he wants. No way this overconfident jackass hits the right spot. Dean prides himself on getting the woman’s oh every time. He won’t finish without it.

‘Cause he cares. Ben doesn’t. So he’s full of it.

“Whatever helps you sleep at night, sweetheart.” Ben pauses, tongue between this teeth. “You got shots?”

Dean laughs. “What are we—teenagers? We goin’ to an Evanescence concert?”

Ben barks a laugh, white teeth flashing, but still dangerous.

“You gotta have something we can shot.”

He’s got Vodka. Sam don’t know about it. And what he don’t know won’t trigger a bitch face.

“Wait here.” Dean goes and grabs the Vodka from the pantry. Hidden behind the white bread, which Sam won’t touch ‘cause it’s not good for him. He comes back, slams it down between them. Dean’s eyes widen. “This ain’t gonna set you off, is it?”

Ben looks at the bottle. Looks at Dean. Those gun-metal eyes darken.

Dean fidgets. “Not pitying. Just—“ He forces a grin. “Don’t want you going all… Hiroshima on me.”

Ben cocks his head, twists the cap off. “You figured that out?” He smirks. “Smart boy.”

Dean doesn’t really know how he got it so fast. He just saw Ben do something he don’t normally do.

He saw him shake. He saw him stumble. He saw him hold onto a chair like a lifeline.

And then he connected the dots. That’s why he told Sam to stop talking.

Why he… stepped into the blast radius.

‘Cause this weren’t normal Ben. Normal Ben probably wouldn’t flinch if the sun blew up.

But that Ben? He was…

Dean remembers The Mark. He remembers fighting Michael for control.

That’s what that looked like. And Dean—sure, Sam’s safety was priority number one. He won’t deny that. Seeing Ben like that, though? Dean didn’t like it.

It reminded him of himself.

And if Ben’s anything like him, he don’t want old wounds or fresh wounds dredged up.

“I don’t have any shot glasses.” He gets up. “But I’ve got some tumblers. You want ice?”

Ben stares at him like he just said water ain’t wet.

“Vodka’s a pussy drink.” He smirks. “Don’t make it worse.”

Dean sighs through his nose. He was supposed to break into this with Charlie when she got married.

He snaps his fingers instead, swallows that down. Even if it hurts.

He grabs the tumblers, sets them down. Ben pours the shots.

Not even two fingers worth.

“Don’t want you to fuckin’ pass out.” Ben cuts him a challenging look. “It’s a pussy drink, yeah. But you can barely handle your fuckin’ whiskey.”

Dean stills. Grabs his tumbler. Knocks it back like it’s nothing. What burn? There’s no burn. That’s just his throat revving like Baby doing 90 on the highway.

“You think you can drink me under the table?” Dean pours another shot. “Hope you like sleeping on the floor.”

Ben knocks his back. No flinch. Not even an eye tick.

Pours himself another.

“Sweetheart—“ he knocks that one back, too. “Don’t make promises you can’t keep.”

They drink.

They laugh.

Ben talks about Netflix like it’s Water Gate, and Dean laughs so hard his stomach hurts.

Shots keep coming.

Dean tells Ben he’s like a grandpa who ain’t hauling around a granny frame mid sip, and Ben chokes, swallows it down and warns him not to make him horny right now.

Right. ‘Cause he mentioned grannies.

“You’re wrong about Indiana Jones. That man is the epitome of masculine,” Dean says, pouring another shot, eyes heavy.

Ben scoffs.

“He carries a fuckin’ whip.” He rolls his eyes. “Not to mention the faggy theme tune.”

Dean’s next shot burns for a different reason.

“What, ‘cause it’s dramatic?”

Ben nods.

“Exactly.” He knocks another shot back. “Absolutely fuckin’ stupid.”

Dean sighs. “I swear—if you insult the Jaws theme tune, your next shot won’t be Vodka.”

“Poison don’t work on me, sweetheart.” He flashes teeth. “Nice try, though.”

Dean’s drunk enough now that his lips are loose.

“There’s something I just don’t get—“ Dean refills their tumblers. “If you’re, you know, homophobic—why is my ass your white whale?”

Ben leans back, holds his tumbler on his lap, narrows his eyes.

“Men are for fucking.” Ben looks to the side. “When the women ain’t playing? When it’s hard to get. When their pussy just ain’t wet enough? That’s what men are for. But nothing else.” He pounds his shot back. “Look, Kitten. My size ain’t something most can handle. Most women scream. Run for the hills. Crumble before I’ve even gotten between their legs.”

He clenches his jaw.

“Crimson was different.” He sniffs. “And a few other dames. But straight men.” He closes his eyes. “They see my size? Game over.”

Dean huffs a laugh.

“I’ve seen it. Unfortunately. Not my thing.” Dean sways a little, coughs. “So you don’t—“ He circles his finger. “Screw gay dudes?”

Ben’s head juts back.

“No. There’s no challenge in that.” Pointed look. “That what you wanna hear, Kitten? That you’re special. ‘Cause you are. And it eats at me every single fuckin’ day.” He closes his eyes, looks like he’s got amateur porn projecting into his horned up brain. “That’s why you’ll be worth the wait.”

Dean doesn’t really know how to handle this. Like it’s weird. Ben wants him. For whatever reason. And he’s not lied about that.

Probably should have. But there’s something oddly comforting about knowing someone’s intentions, and—Dean don’t know—seeing that they’re not forcing their will.

Or some poetic crap like that.

“You’ll be waiting ‘til the next ice age, dickbag.” He knees the chair between them. Ben flicks it out of the way, steadies him with a hand. “I’m fine. Not gonna face plant or nothin.”

Dean leans back, blinks a couple times. Shakes his head out.

“I’m a very patient man, sweetheart.” Ben knocks back the shot. Chases it with beer. “When I wanna be.”

Dean pours him another shot. Raises his glass. Clinks with Ben’s.

“You don’t know crap ‘bout movies. So you should just never speak on ‘em again.” Dean grins, lazy. “Not unless they’re silent ones—oh! You’d get a real kick outta Laurel and Hardy. Or Charlie Chaplin skits.”

Dean laughs just thinking about the ladder scene.

Ben grins like he actually gets it for once. “Now you’re speaking my fucking language. That bit—you know the fucking one—“

“When his hat keeps falling off and the—“

“The fuckin’ spade keeps hitting him in the face!” Ben barks, laughs long and loud. “Heh. Retards.”

Dean sighs.

“Idiots, yeah. Comedic as hell, though. Don’t make ‘em like that anymore.”

Ben nods along, opens his mouth like he’s about to say something else—

And then.

“Dean?” Dean stiffens, straightens up, tries to focus on Sam standing there. He was gonna smile. But Sam’s looking at him like that again.

Ben turns, scoffs and rolls his eyes at Dean.

“I bet you never got invited to parties.” He leans in, smiles at Dean. “Captain fuckin’ buzzkill.”

Dean laughs.

Dammit.

Shouldn’t’a done that.

Can’t fight the smile. Stop it. It’s not funny.

But it is.

No, it’s not.

It is, though.

Gah.

Sam’s looking at him. Dean can feel it. Wants him to come to his defence.

Maybe he would if he weren’t fuckin’ looking at him like—

Sam could always stand up himself for once.

Dean huffs, raises his tumbler. Ben raises his, too.

“To not being a wall stain,” Dean says, forces a grin and cuts Sam a look.

Dean’s head is heavy as hell.

Ben sure can drink.

What time is it?

He checks his watch. Looks like the damn thing is under water.

6PM.

Christ.

Leave it to Dean to think he can drink a friggin’ giant under the table.

Hell, he barely made it up the stairs without eating tile.

Ben laughed. ‘Course he did. Kept offering to carry Dean, but he refused.

Point blank. Not happening.

Dean does not wanna get up, but his stomach don’t care.

So he gets up. Drags his feet out, leans against the door.

Sighs.

Ben appears from nowhere. Like a ghost that built an immunity to rock salt.

“You good, Kitten?”

“Fuck you.” Dean’s stomach squeezes. “How you standin’?”

Ben smirks.

“Trade secret, sweetheart.” He winks. Totally unnecessary. “Want me to show you?”

“You know that whole cures a headache crap was just an excuse to—“

Ben cuts him off.

“Not that.” He shoves a hand in his pocket. “I’ve got the hangover cure of hangover cures. Think you can make it downstairs, princess?”

Dean’s spine shots.

“Stairs ain’t nothin’ to me, asshole,” he grits. Refuses to hold the wall as he walks. He pauses. Curses. Snaps his head to the side and suffers for it. “Sam…”

“Fuck Dan,” Ben says, annoyed. “He didn’t give a shit about why you were day drinking. All he cares about was that you weren’t being—I dunno, an adult or what the fuck ever.”

“Didn’t have to call him a buzzkill.” Dean lurches. Ben steadies him. “Fuck off.”

“Yeah, I did, actually.” He straightens Dean up, takes a step back. “You sure you’re good? Don’t want you busting that pretty face up.”

Dean tries to glare but it’s weak. He feels like he’s gonna throw up.

“I’m fine.” He grabs the stair rail. “What’s this magic hangover cure made of?”

Ben walks backward down the stairs, blocks him.

He making sure he don’t fall? What’s with this guy.

“Coke—not that kind. And milk. Trust me. Sounds crazy, but it fucking works.”

Even if it’s… Uh.

Dean thinks.

. . .

Come on, man. He knows this one.

He grips the stair rail harder.

Placebo!

Even if it’s that, Dean’ll try it.

This is Hell.

And he’s been there.

“Move out of the damn way,” Dean snaps, when Ben’s enormous chest is too close to his face. Ben does. “Okay. Just a few more steps.”

“You’re doing great, Kitten.” Ben laughs, and Dean stomps the rest of the way down, splitting head be damned. “There you go.”

“If I didn’t know my fist would be dust from one punch, I would sock you right now.”

Ben sucks in a breath.

“Talk dirty to me, sweetheart.” Dean groans. “You’ll be fine in five minutes. Sit.” Ben gestures to the seat. Dean drops on it like he’s ninety years old.

He hears the pop of a can. Pouring. Bubbles. His head spins. Aches. He lays it on the table top. Sighs.

“Drink this,” Ben says.

“No.” Dean closes his eyes. “Don’t wanna lift my head.”

Ben’s fingers fold him back. Dean would fight but it’s so gentle. He barely felt it.

His brain reboots enough to grab the glass himself before things get more embarrassing—like Ben tipping it to his lips.

Dean takes a small sip. Winces. Takes another sip. Then some more. Stops halfway down.

“You seen Sam today?” Dean asks.

“I don’t give a fuck about Dan, Kitten.” Dean can hear his teeth crunch. “But no. He hasn’t left this fuckin’ room. Probably crying into his pillow. And if you ask me? Let him.”

So he’s avoiding him. Great. How many weeks of this is Dean gonna have to put up with?

He sighs. Drinks more. Wipes his mouth.

“I should check on him—“

“Fuck that.” Ben snarls. “He hasn’t checked on you. Why should you check on him? I know you care—“ Hard eye-roll. “He’s your brother. I get it.” That’s a big fat lie. “But it’s not on you to manage his fragility.” He says the word like it tastes disgusting.

Dean guesses he can always check in later. His legs say he’s not getting off this seat at least for another hour.

Or more.

Probably more.

Scratch that.

Definitely more.

“When is this ‘sposed to magically make me feel fresh as a daisy?” Dean groans. “God. My head.”

“Soon, sweetheart.” Ben sits. “You wanna take a nap? My chest is real warm.”

“Fuck. You.” Dean gives him the finger for extra bite.

So when Sam eventually decided to come out of his room, there was a burger waiting for him as a peace offering. Just the way he likes it.

Dean thought even the smell would make him hurl, but Ben’s hangover cure actually did the trick.

He cooked ‘em up. He and Ben ate theirs. Ben told Dean to marry him after the first bite, and Dean told him to take a hike.

It wasn’t that good.

Okay, they were delicious. Dean can’t deny that.

Not the point.

Sam walked past it. Gave Dean a flat hey when Dean said hey, and then acted like the coffee machine was a damn lore book he couldn’t not focus on.

Ben snatched the burger. Said if the nerd’s not gonna eat it, he’s still hungry. Told Dean Dan’s missing out, with one of those totally unnecessary winks.

And Dean…

Smiled. Kinda.

Not really. Could barely class it as a smile.

Just a slight lengthening of the lips or whatever.

For a beat it made Sam’s brooding shoulders hurt less.

Dean tried to talk to him. Said his name in that way he does. Where he’s hoping it says what he’s not great at communicating.

Sam knows the tone. It’s the buffer. The in. The are we good one.

All Dean got was a cold what. And Dean just said nothing. Stared at the table like it had answers.

Sammy walked off. The silence ate at him.

Then Ben snorted, told Dean his brother is fucking pathetic, lit a cigarette and dragged on it.

When Dean woke up the next day—bright-eyed and bushy-tailed—at least, that’s what he told himself even though he felt like ass—he found a case on his phone over a hot cup of joe.

He figured now that Ben’s no longer threatening to leave, that he and Sam could do another case together again. Like they haven’t for a long stretch—where they’re not constantly checking their watches and rushing the whole damn thing.

Anyway. Sam didn’t say no. So they hopped in Baby. Dean let Sam drive. Another peace offering. Sam did.

No music.

So the silence was way louder.

Dean tried to talk about the case. Ask for theories. Sam answered like a friggin’ doctor who’s been gutting people for so long he forgot they were human.

That hurt.

A lot.

A hell of a lot.

It was Gadreel all over again.

Just because Dean was day drinking with the enemy.

—and laughed when he insulted Sam. But he wasn’t fucking wrong.

So they worked the case. Dean ordered Sam’s favourite at the diner. Got a clipped thanks. Sub zero eye contact.

Dean flirted hard with the waitress. Wanted to pull a laugh or even a damn eye roll from Sam, but he got nothing.

They closed the case. Dean backed every single one of Sam’s plays without push back. Sam acted like he was entitled to it.

Dean’s jaw clenches. Just a grunt, right? He tips the bottle back. He knows he said it himself. Said it proudly even. Sam’s the brain. He’s the brawn. Sam’s the thinker. Dean’s the doer.

And that worked… For a long time.

Right. Case. Yeah. It closed. They got back. Rode in silence again. Sam fled the second they got in.

Ben walked up, told Dean to let him sulk. Told him Dean’s done nothing wrong.

But it’s Dean’s job to fix it. If he loses Sam, then—

He don’t wanna think about it.

Sam can survive if Dean bites it.

Dean can’t.

Not in any kind of way that would ever be… living, anyway.

He swallows, closes his eyes, breathes out.

The next day, Dean tried to show Sam he was listening. He hadn’t drank since that night. He was trying. He even made one of Sam’s disgusting shakes.

And what did Sam do? Well, Dean wouldn’t know ‘cause he didn’t come out of his damn room again.

Dean clenches his fist.

Ben took one look at it. Asked him if he had the shits and didn’t make it to the bathroom in time.

Dean busted a gut. Literal tears were in his eyes from laughing so hard.

Christ, he nearly blacked out.

Dean told him it’s what Sam drinks. Ben said he’s never hated him more, chucked it down the sink and grabbed them both a beer.

Twisted ‘em off, said drink.

And Dean’s only human.

When Sam came down that night, saw him and Ben watching old Laurel and Hardy sketches on YouTube, Dean heard the throat click.

He turned. He smiled. He was happy to see him…

Until he wasn’t. ‘cause Sam was gone before Dean’s smile could land.

Ben tapped his shoulder, pointed at the screen. Said now this is comedy, and Dean forced a snort.

The sketch just didn’t hit like it usually did.

Dean drains the rest of his beer, slams the bottle down. It tips. Rolls. Lands on the floor.

After that Dean gave Sam his space. They worked in uncomfortable silence. Dean stopped letting Sam lead, and just did what he wanted.

Solved the case in two shakes.

Dean smirks, wry.

Ben said yesterday that the one thing that pisses him off about Dean is that he lets Dan undermine his intelligence to make the nerd feel special.

“Maybe he’s right,” Dean says, scrubs his face.

Dean references a book, and Sam’s eyebrows take up temporary housing in his hairline.

If he remembers the origin of a monster, Sam looks at him like he recited pi to a hundred friggin’ places.

If he paints wards without thinking, Sam’s breath catches.

If he recites Latin without an eye flick, Sam acts like he’s the one being ridden to prom.

Dean squeezes his knee.

Ben’s the only son of a bitch that’s called him smart in his life and actually meant it.

He built his own EMF reader. For the job. ‘Cause he needed one for himself.

Didn’t think it meant he was smart…

Just—useful.

Dean sighs, thinks about another beer.

It’s weird. He kinda actually wishes Ben would show up. Stop him from being a chick about this.

Ain’t that pathetic?

“Hey, Kitten,” Ben says, like he heard Dean’s brain. Jury’s still not out on Rambo’s less silent brother not being a telepath. “Want a beer?”

Dean shrugs, like he doesn’t care that he showed up.

But he does want another beer. And Ben hands him one without comment.

“You’re angry.” Ben smirks. “Good. You should fuckin’ be. Martyrdom isn’t your identity, sweetheart.”

Dean stares at him. Unblinking.

Ben shakes his head.

“You don’t have to run yourself ragged just to make—“ The disdain on Ben’s face is unlike Dean has ever seen in his life. “—Dan fuckin’ care whether you live or die.”

Dean flinches.

“He would care. Don’t say that to me,” Dean says, but it’s weak. He doesn’t believe Sam would be happy if he died—that’s not what he’s thinking at all. Just… he doesn’t like to be reminded that Sam wouldn’t immediately chug a load of pills or rot in a bar if Dean was gone. “It’s different.”

“I’m not saying he doesn’t love you.” Ben pauses, nostrils flare as he exhales. “But the way you look at him?” He grinds his teeth. “Now that is fuckin’ different.”

Crap. He’s right.

Dean does look at Sam different. ‘cause he’s not just his brother. He’s his kid. His… reason for—

“I’m the big brother. ‘course it’s different,” Dean says, tanks half his beer. “You wouldn’t know.”

Ben sits, leans in.

“You’re fuckin’ right about that.” He sniffs. “But if I did have a kid brother, or even an older one, I wouldn’t put him on a fuckin’ pedestal he didn’t earn.”

That cut deep. Deeper than Dean wants to admit.

Hell, he feels like he’s drowning.

He keeps coming to Sam’s defence. Even now. But Ben keeps on shoving rocks in his pockets.

“Maybe I’m not worth—“

“Shut the fuck up,” Ben snarls. “Don’t let him do that to you.” He shakes his head, bottle smashes to splinters. “Fuck. Look, Kitten—I’m a patient man. I meant that. But this? What you’re doing? You’re only punishing yourself—when you were the one that almost fucking died.”

He stands up, goes to the kitchen. Grabs another beer, comes back.

“You knew why I was cleaning guns?” Dean asks, hates how small he sounds.

“Of course I fucking did, sweetheart.” Ben snorts. “I told you you’re not as hard to read as you pretend you fuckin’ are.”

How does this man know him better than his own brother, when he’s only known him for, give or take two months?

Dean sighs.

“Sam didn’t know.” He closes his eyes. “If he did—“

“If he did, Kitten—he wouldn’t be making you sleep on the fuckin’ couch.”

Dean pounds back the rest of his beer. Taste’s sour.

His jaw ticks. His throat feels tight.

From behind, Dean hears a huff.

The why am I not surprised one.

Dean looks at Ben. Ben holds his gaze steady, takes a sip.

Anger.

Rising up.

Getting higher.

Sam’s footsteps feel like gun shots.

Throwing the fridge door open—dramatic as hell—makes Dean grit his teeth.

Swear to God if he slams it—

SLAM!

Was that the fridge or Dean’s fist hitting the table? He don’t know. He don’t care. Enough is enough.

“Sam! Get in here. Now.” Dean’s chair skids and falls over. “I don’t wanna do this in front of the coffee maker.”

Sam appears in the doorway, holding a stick of celery. Dean rolls his eyes.

Boots hit the busted glass Ben left on the floor. Crunch. Dean don’t even look. Just thinks, yeah, that tracks.

“What do you want, Dean?” Sam looks at him like he’s got two seconds to spit it out.

Oh, Dean is about to spit. He’s about spit a whole damn lot.

“Sit.” Dean waves at the seat. Sam puts his hands on his hips, looks down at him. “Sit. Or I’ll make you sit.”

Ben snorts, chair squeaks. Probably leaning back. Dean would rather do this in private—but after all Ben’s done—he’s earned his right to the show.

Sam swallows, can’t keep eye contact. He’s not used to this. He’s used to Dean tearing him a new one for going off the beaten track. Like when he drank demon blood. Or slept with Ruby. Or—no, Dean. He couldn’t help that he was Soulless.

Lisa wasn’t his fault.

Stick to what’s important.

Sam darts his eyes to Dean’s right, freezes, drops into a chair.

He clears his throat.

“All right, Dean. I’m sitting. You gonna tell me what this is all about?”

Dean has never felt more like Dad in their life when his first thought is that he doesn’t like that tone.

“The fact that you have to ask that, Sam—when you’ve been icing me out for a whole damn week, is exactly why we’re about to have this conversation—“ Sam goes to speak, Dean slams the table. “I said conversation. What I meant was that you’re going to shut your damn pie hole and listen, for once.”

Sam does the sigh through his teeth. Means he’s swallowing his response. Good. Keep it in there, champ.

“I’m the one that nearly died.” Sam flinches. “Not you. I dunno what He-Man here is capable of. I saw him glow and I knew the bunker was gonna be rubble.” Dean clenches his fist, nightmare flashes. “You think I did that for me? I did that for you. I always do it for you. Because you’re my job. My responsibility. And I don’t want you to die.”

Dean looks away, shuts his eyes for one damn beat. Ben’s bottle taps the table. Sam’s chair squeaks.

When Dean levels him again, Sam’s skin’s a little pale.

Dean fights the instinct to ask if he’s okay.

“And you know what happened when I went to sleep that night?” Dean tenses. “I had a nightmare. Ben went off, and my body painted the whole room red.” He grabs his wrist. “Last thing I saw was you drenched in what was left of me.”

Sam fidgets. His eyes soften. Too late.

“And then you give me that look when I’m just, what? Having a drink? Trying to survive? Trying not to fucking think.” Dean snarls, slams both hands on the table. “You never understood. Not once.” He drops his head. Ben’s bottle taps the table again. Sam’s spine straightens like he just got a neat shock. At least he’s actually listening. “‘Cause my coping is an embarrassment to you, right?”

Sam shifts. He’s uncomfortable. Good.

“Wanna know when it started?” Dean laughs, dry as dirt. “It started when you died for the first time. ‘cause the difference is—I know it. I didn’t wanna say it, but it’s the truth. And your hypothetical law degree loves the damn truth now, don’t it?” Sam swallows, makes himself small—still holding that dumb stick of celery like its emotional support produce. Dean’s instincts lay into him, tell him to fix it.

He tells ‘em to shove it where the sun shines.

“Difference is, I can barely keep myself standing when you’re gone, Sammy.” Dean swallows, fights the tears. “But you? You latch onto the next best thing. And then you’re fine.” He bears his teeth. This is a long time friggin’ coming. “Whole time I was in the pit? Where were you? Balls deep in a fucking wench. The same wench that marched me to my death.”

Sam freezes, chin raises. Knee-jerk to Ruby talk. Ben picks a nail—Dean thinks. ‘S’what it sounds like anyway. Sam lowers his chin.

Finally. Maybe he’s accepting it for once.

That was dirty.

“He really did that?” Ben says. “Wow.”

“Yeah, he did.” Dean glares at Sam. “And he drank demon blood from her. Before you ask—yes, demons are real here, too.”

Ben laughs like that’s the funniest shit he’s heard this week.

“This world just gets funnier and funnier.”

“And then there was all the lies. Not looking for me when I was in Purgatory. Acting like a bitch when you met Benny ‘cause you couldn’t measure up.” Dean sighs. “He showed more loyalty to me in one year than you have your whole damn life.” Jaw clench. Tight swallow. Dean didn’t wanna say that. He really didn’t.

Ben whistles.

“Wants you only when someone else is doing his job better.” Dean looks at him. Ben smirks. “Not much of a fuckin’ contest, though, is it?”

Sam’s forehead vein throbs, but he stays quiet.

“You were the one that was playing house while I was knee deep in monster guts every day. Fighting for my life. Fighting to get back to you.” Dean shakes. Stop it. “—I was abandoned the second I got there. Cas left me for dead. If it weren’t for Benny, I would have died.” Dean turns, shakes off the memories of that little corner of Hell. Ben’s bottle taps the table, again. The hell’s with that? Dean turns back, stares into Sam’s shell-shocked eyes, like he finally crawled out of the trenches and experienced the damn war. “And then to come back and find out that you abandoned me as well? And then made me choose between you or Benny—when you always knew I’d choose you—, ‘cause your feelings were hurt…”

Sam looks away. In shame.

Finally.

“But when you were in Purgatory? First thing I did was the thing I didn’t wanna do, but I had to because I needed to know you were safe!” Dean blinks the tears back. Not now. “Benny didn’t even need to hear me ask. He just knew. ‘Cause he was loyal. ‘Cause he cared. ‘Cause he wasn’t the monster you made him out to be.”

Sam stares at him. Stunned. Unblinking.

Dean’s chest rises. His breath shakes. Dammit.

“This is not me saying that I wouldn’t do it all over again, Sam.” He pauses, swallows. Like glass sliding down his throat. “What I am saying—what I’ve been afraid to say all these years, is that I don’t think you’d do it for me.”

Fuck. There they go. Hot and wet and treating Dean’s cheeks like a damn slide.

Dean wipes his eyes, sniffs. That was hard. But it needed to be said. And he…

He feels lighter for finally saying it. Even though it hurts like hell.

Sam gets up, rounds the table, fidgets.

“Don’t touch me right now, Sam.” For a beat, Sam looks like he’s gonna pull him in anyway, but Dean’s stance says back the fuck off. “I’m done. If you’ve got anything to say, now’s your chance.”

“Make it quick, nerd. I’m starving.” Ben says. Dean glares at him. “You’re so sexy when you’re mad, Kitten.”

Dean wants to taste Ben’s teeth with his fist, but his face is amused, so Dean shrugs it off—he’s on thin ice, though. And he better believe it.

“Dean, I—“ Sam lowers his head. “I’m so sorry. I wish you—“ Dean’s look could melt steel. “No, that’s not fair. You’re right. I should have paid more attention. Should’a listened. I am really sorry, though. I’m not gonna make excuses.” Good. Don’t. “I am gonna go to my room. Not to avoid you. To give you space after you got all that out. Is that okay?”

Dean nods, stiff.

“This ain’t one of those time where you wake up tomorrow and suddenly everything is peachy, Sam.” Dean gnaws his lip. “Go on. Walk away.”

For a few breaths, Sam stands there, like a deer in headlights trying’ to decide if it’s actually a damn Moose, and then tucks his tail and disappears up the stairs.

His door clicks shut. No slam.

Dean exhales.

“We doin’ shots?” Ben asks.

Dean drops his head, smiles. Why was that just what he needed to hear?

“I’ll grab the bottle.”

Chapter Text

Coffee.

No thoughts ‘til then.

Dean sips, closes his eyes.

Not finishing the bottle was the right call. He didn’t have nothin’ to prove this time. Already knew Ben could drink him under ten times over.

So he called it quits at half. Went to bed. Slept.

Better than he has in a while. Dean stares at his coffee. Swallows.

He’d been holding onto that for a long time. He feels a little guilty for saying it. Not ‘cause it ain’t true. Just, not used to seeing Sam so small.

Can’t believe he took that stick of celery with him to his room.

Dean rolls his eyes. Thing really was his emotional support produce.

That was a big moment for them. He hates to even call it that. But it was… needed.

He’s been lying to himself all these years. Hoping that one day Sam would just get him.

Now, that’s a pipe dream. Sam don’t understand his humour. He don’t appreciate how he deals with hard times. He don’t—

Dean hates this. Can’t even pretend it was easier not knowing ‘cause he knows how much it was eating him alive not to see it.

And it’s not the ugly truth that Sam don’t need him. He does. But not in a healthy way. Maybe it never was.

Healthy…

If he thinks about it—really thinks. If Yellow-Eyes never burned Jess on the ceiling, Dean would’a been lucky to get a smug family Christmas letter.

Sam and Jess both posed in front of a tree. Two kids between ‘em. Sam’s smile begging to be anywhere else ‘cause he never had a normal Christmas.

Dean sets his mug down, sighs.

Sam was ready to go back to school. After one case.

Just one.

Didn’t matter that Dad was AWOL.

He was done. Mind made up. Focused on school. On a relationship.

Family didn’t mean a thing to him.

Maybe it never did.

And to think—

Dean grabs his cup. Takes a few long pulls.

—to think that Dean sat there. In Baby. Scared.

He sighs through his nose.

Dean was scared that Sam wouldn’t be happy to see him at all. That he’d tell him to get gone or get dead.

That he’d put a name to his one fear…

“Hey, Kitten.”

Dean grins, waves his cup at the fridge.

“You want feedin’, you’re gonna have to wait.”

Ben drops into a seat, like he owns it. Legs spread wide. Shoulders relaxed as hell.

“You always know when I’m hungry,” he says, smirking. “You need me to whip up my hangover cure?”

Dean frowns.

“I went to bed early.” He drops into his own seat. “Maybe you’re the one that needs the sludge.”

Ben stares, those weird ass gun-metal eyes taking in everything at once.

“You seen Dan yet?”

Dean flinches.

“Does a Dan live here? Not sure I know ‘im.”

Ben drums his fingers like he’s Mozart.

“Still trying to fuckin’ defend him after all that.” He clenches his jaw. “Thought you said last night that was a long time coming?”

Why does this dude remember every little thing Dean says? Does he keep track of his sneezes, too?

“I had shots then. That don’t mean crap.” Dean stonewalls. “Don’t want him to think…”

“Think what? That you hate him?” Christ, is Dean that friggin’ obvious? “He handled it well.” Ben scoffs, jaw ticks. “Nothing more for you to do, sweetheart.”

Dean hates that he’s right.

He laid down the law. He told Sam the truth.

All the shit he’s been burying came to the surface. And not ‘cause of some spell. Or cursed object. He told him the truth.

Worst part is, he probably never would’ve said it if it weren’t for Ben.

Can’t tell him that, though, so he cooks them up some breakfast instead, gives him the bigger piece of bacon.

If he don’t know, he don’t know. If he does, he’s not calling it out.

Which is what Dean likes about the guy.

Feels weird. Thinking that. Couple’a months ago, if someone told Dean that he’d one day be thinking of his weird-ass-smug-double-with-a-god-complex-no-one-asked-for-unfortunate-houseguest as a friend, he’d throw holy water on ‘em on principle.

Slice a clean line of silver without consideration.

Spray ‘em with bleach.

Put a friggin’ angel-warded kick me sign on their back.

And when all of that fell through? He snorts. He’d still call them crazy.

Friends are rare in Dean’s world.

They come and go. They die. They let him down. They leave. They depend on him. They care too much. They love too hard. They make him weak.

Dean throws his fork down. It bounces.

Ben’s immortal…

He can’t die.

He never—

“If you couldn’t breathe—“ Dean leans in, darts his eyes. “If oxygen wasn’t a thing, would you die?”

Ben leans back, fork still in hand. Just dangling between his fingers.

“You been smoking joints when I’m not looking, Kitten?” He shakes his head, teeth bared in a full grin. “Still think you can kill me?” Lip bite. “You want rid of me that fuckin’ much?”

Dean frowns, swallows, stares at the table.

“No—I—“ Crap. Did that upset him? That’s not what he meant, he was just curious. “Uh… Bunker’s quiet today, am I right?” Forced smile, tone flat as cardboard. “Forget I asked. It was stupid.”

Ben leans forward, fork forgotten—like this conversation should be, hands in his lap. “No, not even I would survive that.” His jaw ticks. “No one would. I probably don’t have to worry about that for a long, long fucking time.”

Dean fidgets. Way to ruin the whole damn day, dude.

“If I didn’t need to fuckin’ breathe—“ Ben grits his teeth. “Those Commi assholes wouldn’t have been able to keep me under.”

Yikes. That’s about the panic attack thing, ain’t it?

Quick. Say something funny. Anything—

“When I was, uh…” Dean clears his throat. “Tortured. In Hell. One of the worst was—he would wrap my face, and—“ He scratches his ear, rights himself. “—poke this tiny hole in the centre. Less than the width of a—“ He huffs a laugh, tongue at the roof of his mouth. “—a penny. I’d take being sliced over and over any day of the week to that.”

Ben’s staring. It’s not the usual one. Dean scratches his ear again, adjusts in his chair, thinks about pouring another cup of coffee.

“You said Hell.” Ben squares his shoulders, chin pointed down, eyes cold as frost. “Where is it?”

Dean leans back, casual.

“It’s not an air BnB, man. You can’t just walk up there.”

“He still there?”

No. He’s not.

“Not anymore, no.”

Ben relaxes like noting happened. Weird.

“Good.” Ben pulls smokes out of his pocket, lights one. “You working today’ sweetheart?”

Good. Something normal. Dean can handle that.

Is he? He don’t know, honestly. Depends on—

“Hey,” Sam says, from the bottom of the steps, shrunk like a pair of jeans on a boil wash.

Dean don’t like seeing him like that. Hates that he’s so skittish. But he can’t go back.

There’s no going back from what he said.

So he just says, “Hey.”

Sam scans Ben, breathes through his nose. Ben’s puffing away like he’s got nothing but time. Ain’t even turning his head.

“I found a case. Not far from here.” Sam gives a small smile. The one that says: I wanna make this work. Dean bites back the urge to tell him everything’s fine. ‘cause it’s not. And Dean owes it to himself to stand by that. “Figured me and you could check it out. See what’s what.”

Dean nods his head.

“Sure. Gimme ten?”

Sam’s eyes light like he thought Dean was gonna tell him to get gone. Stings like hell. But that’s what he’s been dealing with for over a decade.

So. Earned.

“Sure. Yeah—“ Sam throws a thumb behind him. Hanging there like he’s a runaway hitch-hiking on the highway. Probably how he would’a got his ass to Palo Alto if he didn’t pay for a bus ticket. “We’ll leave in ten, then.”

He climbs the steps, shoulders telling Dean he’s lost.

“Guess you are working, then,” Ben says, stubs out his cigarette.

“Yeah.” Dean grabs his plate, stands. “Don’t miss me too much.”

He blinks.

Shakes his head.

Baby eats grit down the highway. The road knows who’s the real Queen.

Dean’s tunes are blasting. Skies are clear. Sam’s tucked into the corner, hands in his pockets like that somehow makes him the Invisible Woman.

If Dean knows his brother. And he does. Kind of the problem here—the lack of reciprocation—Sam’s keeping his cake hole shut to keep Dean happy.

Did the same damn thing ‘bout a year or so ago.

Can’t be sure, so Dean switches tracks to one he knows grinds Sam’s gears.

Ratt. Round and Round.

Sam hates this one. He’d definitely attend a mass CD burning of this exact track if someone was stupid enough to organise one.

It starts.

Dean spots Sam’s lips twitch. Fingers flex a second later. Shoulders tense. Shuffle, shuffle. Tick.

Yep. He thinks staying quiet is somehow gonna fix, what, their whole damn life?

Dean sneers, grits his teeth.

No. Fuck this.

Dean pulls Baby into a hard shoulder—rolls her window down to cuss the asshole out that almost clipped her.

Turns to Sam, shuts the track off.

“You hate that song.” That should say it all. Sam fidgets, sinks down like he got stuck on a slide halfway. “You know you hate that song. I know you hate that song.”

“Dean—“

“No, Sam. Don’t Dean me. You think not complaining about hair metal is gonna, what, smooth things over? Just like that? There a case, or were you hoping the drive was enough? Cause that’s what it looks like.”

Sam frowns, shuffles again and fists his hands in his pockets.

“There is a case, Dean.” He taps his foot. “And you’re right. I’m sorry. I thought I’d—I dunno, extend the olive branch.”

Dean can’t help but smile. He pats Sam’s arm, folds one arm over Baby’s wheel.

“By torturing yourself?” His little brother. Christ. “Even I can’t hear that song without hearing your endless rants about the lyrics—or the base, or-or how it offends you personally. Whydya think I don’t play it so much no more?”

Sam cracks a smile, like a beer just staring to hiss after the ring pull.

“Guess I ruin everything.”

Dean pulls them back onto the highway.

“Not like that.” He switches gears. “And I know. Before you say you let me drive last week, Dean—isn’t that the same thing?” Bitch-Sammy voice, nailed. “You were being a passive aggressive little bitch.” He holds a finger up. “Not being an asshole. Just calling like I see it.” He looks at him, holds it for a beat. “Not anymore. This is the new us. Okay?”

Sam rights himself, swallows.

“What the hell was in that drink Ben made you?” He shakes his head. “I saw coke and milk left out on the side.”

Dean smirks.

“That’s exactly what it was.” He pushes her to 70. “No idea how he thought of it. Don’t need to know. All I know is, it made me feel normal after five or ten minutes.”

Dean closes her trunk. They’re both dressed in their fed get-up. Fake IDs have been picked. They’re ready to go.

“So what kind of witness we walkin’ into here?” Dean walks ahead. “The come-to-Jesus kind, thirty-cats kind, or the can’t-believe-this-is-happening-to-me kind?”

Sam catches up, tilts his head.

“The fourth kind.” Dean snorts. “Not a reference, Dean. Not everything is a reference.” He pulls his phone out, scans it. “This is the my-life-is-a-lie kind.”

Oh great. Just what they need.

“Existential crisis kind of crap?”

Sam nods, reads something.

“Yeah. Hasn’t left her house in four months since the accident.” Dean cringes. “Exactly. Pretty sure what we smell in there won’t be sulphur.”

Dean stops, wrinkles his nose.

“If I was eating then, I woulda clocked you for that.”

They get to the house. Looks normal from the outside. Inside, though? Chernobyl.

Probably. They haven’t gone in yet.

It’s what Dean’s imagining.

Dean knocks, rights his cuffs. They wait.

About seven different locks un-catch before the door finally opens. A crack. Stuck on the chain.

“Hello?” Voice is quiet. Scared. Makes sense.

Sam does his not-here-to-hurt-you voice. It works. She lets them in.

Okay. It smells. But not as bad as Dean thought it would.

They both sit on the couch—Dean imagines a dust cloud puffing up from his ass hitting the seat.

“So, Jane, right?” Sam asks.

She nods. Plays with her hair.

Sam does the thing, the lean forward, eyes soft, high school councillor with way too much empathy, one.

“If you’re okay with it, we’d like to hear what happened.” Sam clears his throat. “You’ve had issues with the police on this—which is why they passed it along to us.”

Jane takes a long time to get to the actual point. The seven locks things makes sense now. She said Joe Public didn’t believe her. Accused her of murdering her brother. Which, harsh. So she got locks installed to protect herself.

One good kick would make that a fools errand, but Dean’s not gonna risk making her even more paranoid by telling her that.

Anyway. So after she’s done yapping ‘bout all that, she gets to the meat of it.

“And then, I don’t even know how to explain it. It’s just—my brother ran a red, passed some old man, and then suddenly this car comes out of nowhere and takes the front part of the car off, and my brother—“ Tears. Dean nods, softens his eyes a touch. “with it.”

Sam hands her a tissue.

Ran a red light. Passed an old man. Car came out of nowhere…

Dammit. A friggin’ Trickster.

Dean sighs, covers it with a cough.

“Well, ma’am. Thank you for your time, but I think we’ve got all we need,” Dean says, gets up, walks out without looking back. He hears Sam stammer a little, hand off a business card, and then he’s speed-walking up to him. “Move it or lose it, Sammy.”

“Dean—“ Sam catches up, runs a hand through his hair. “—would you slow down?”

Dean ignores him, strides to Baby’s trunk, opens her up. He lifts a few things out of the way, feels around. Bingo.

“A’right.” He holds it up, inspects it with a smirk. “Let’s go hunt us a Trickster.”

He tosses it back in, shuts Baby’s trunk, and rounds her to get into the driver’s seat. Starts her up.

BEEP.

“Gawk in your own time, Samantha. Day’s wastin’.” Sam snaps out of his daze, folds himself into the passenger seat, looks at Dean like he’s the second-friggin’-coming. “What?”

Dean guns her engine, pulls off.

“How did you know—“

“Ran a light. Old man. Car out of nowhere?” Dean rolls his eyes. “I didn’t want it to be. But that’s Trickster 101.”

Sam goes quiet, fidgets a little.

“So what’s our next move?”

“Find a diner with good Wi-Fi.” Dean grins. “Before that, get your phone out. Start checking social media. Look for things—recent things that sound hokey.”

They pull into a diner a few minutes later. Dean grabs the laptop out of the back, half-listens to Sam reading off tweets while they walk up to the joint.

Bell rings. Nice and quiet inside. Perfect.

“…and then there’s this one about a cheerleader who fell off the top of the pyramid.” Sam scans for replies, Dean guesses. “A lot of people are saying that there’s no way she would have fallen.”

Dean stops, turns. “She die?” Sam shakes his head. “Then keep looking. I dated a few cheerleaders in my time. Only takes one to mess up somewhere for the whole thing to collapse.”

They take a booth at the back. Dean sets the laptop up.

“Yeah, that makes sense.” Sam folds himself in, clears his throat. “So you actually listened to them?”

Dean smirks. “Trust me, Sam, you let a cheerleader bitch and moan about the rest of the team? You’re in.” He loads up the feed of the accident, Charlie helping them in spirit like always. He smiles, waves down the waitress when she comes over. “Coffee for me, please, honey. Sam?”

Sam asks if they do smoothies. Dean rolls his eyes. The waitress puts their order in. Back to work.

What was it Jane said? Uh… 3-3:30PM. Okay. That’s the window.

Dean swipes to 3PM, skips 10 seconds at a time, keeps his eyes sharp.

“Oh, here’s something,” Sam says, tapping the laptop. “A post about missing teenagers. All of them mysteriously vanished. All were last seen leaving the Union Station Plaza.”

“That’s not far from here.” Dean chews his lip. “Got any names for the missing teenagers?”

“Yeah, they’re all listed here.” Sam shows him. “Teenagers aren’t normally Trickster’s MO, Dean.”

“Not normally, no. Thanks.” Dean sips his coffee. “Read ‘em out to me.”

Sam does just that. Dean checks each one. Teenagers aren’t in the data base. But their parents are.

After some digging, Dean keeps seeing the same fountain. Same homeless guy. And a cane that means he’s blind.

It’s petty, he’ll give ‘em that. Icing teenagers just ‘cause they’re trying to get five minutes of fame?

“You seeing what I’m seeing?” Sam shows Dean his phone. Dean spins his laptop.

“That’s our guy.”

As soon as Dean got a hit on the licence plate, they set up the ambush. Tracked his car. Lied in wait for the son of a bitch.

You only get one shot at a Trickster. So if any other causalities happened today, well, hopefully knowing that the bastard’s gonna bite it ‘ll make ‘em feel better.

It’s quiet as hell. No one else around. Could hear a pin drop.

Sam knows the plan. The timing’s gotta be tight, or it’s game over.

Crunch.

Show time.

Dean keeps an eye on his wallet, left on the ground. It’s bait. If this dude’s as greedy as Dean thinks he is, he’ll bend to pick it up.

And when he does… Now, Sam!

Sam grabs him from behind, squeezes him like a friggin’ boa. Dean walks up, stake in hand.

“Kids? Really?” He shakes his head. “That’s what you use your powers for? Pathetic.” Dean presses the stake to his chest. “I’m gonna do this real slow. For each and every one of them.” The guy looks confused. Ain’t that cute. “Wondering why you can’t snap to the Bahamas?” Dean pushes the first inch in. Dude grits his teeth. “Melted sugar. Good thing you got to it before the ants did.” Smirk. Couple more inches. “Well, I lost a wallet, but it was damn worth it to see your stupid, ugly face realise the mistakes you’ve made.”

Dean’ll give him one thing. He died quietly. Didn’t beg. Didn’t monologue. Didn’t cry.

Just grit his teeth, stayed silent ‘til he’s dust.

Dean kicks his wallet over, empty, of course. Picks it up. Tosses it on the roof of the car.

“Let’s light it up and get out of here,” he says. Sam grabs the gasoline, douses it. Lights the match.

They get in Baby, peel off.

Sam keeps looking at him. Like he can’t believe it. Dean’s face turns sour. This is the point. This is what Ben was talking about. Sam’s known Dean his whole damn life. Always believed he was just a joke.

Dean’s jaw ticks. He slams the music on and drums the wheel to calm himself.

Ben saw it… Somehow.

“Dean, uh… You wanna grab a beer?” Sam asks.

Normally, he would. They would. Couple of beers after a hunt. Relax a little. Maybe hustle some pool if they’re up for it.

But not tonight.

No. Tonight, Dean is gonna have a drink. Just not with Sam.

He sent Ben a text earlier. Told him he was posing as a whisky expert, and needed to know what was good. Figured if he did, Ben would give recommendations of what he likes.

Which was the plan.

Ben sent him back a few options. Left it at that.

“Not tonight, Sam.”

“Oh. Okay.”

They drive the rest of the way in silence. Dean pulls into a gas station, picks up a bottle of whisky and some smokes, since Ben said he was running low again.

Hops back in Baby, and speeds the rest of the way home.

Sam pauses for a beat at the stairs, shuffles. Awkward as hell.

Then.

“You’re not just the muscle, Dean,” he says, claps Dean on the shoulder. Squeezes. “Good night.”

Dean watches him walk off, breathes out when he’s out of sight and smiles to himself.

Okay. Now then. Yeah. Whisky.

Dean clears the steps, sets the bag on the table. He shrugs out of his jacket, tosses it. Grabs one tumbler from the kitchen, sets it out in front of him and waits.

Nothing to see here. Just one guy having a drink after a hard day. Not weird at all.

He takes the bottle out. Inspects it, looks towards the stairs.

There he is.

“Hey, Kitten. You get the smokes?” Ben folds himself into the opposite seat. Eyes the whisky. “You sharing that?”

Dean fishes out the smokes and tosses them. Ben picks ‘em up. “Do I have a choice?” He sighs like this is a huge pain in the ass, but gets up anyway to grab another tumbler and slides it across the table. “We’re not shotting this. I mean it.”

Ben smirks.

“You seem happy.” He leans back, puts a cigarette between his lips. “Hunt go well?”

More than well. Dean finally got to prove he’s not just—

He grunts instead, pours himself two fingers then slides the bottle across. Ben catches it easy.

“I don’t wanna talk about work.” Dean raises his glass, sips. Tastes it. Nice. Real nice. “It’s not poisoned. I promise.”

Ben sips, nods his head, impressed.

“I told you poisons don’t work on me, sweetheart.”

Yeah, but Dean was making a joke ‘cause of earlier when—never mind.

“The more you know,” he says, waves a hand. Ben blows a ring of smoke. “This is good.”

They’re quiet for a while. It’s nice. Not awkward. Not weird. Just nice.

Two guys sipping whisky, passing the bottle back and forth.

Appreciating the little things.

“You and Dan kiss and make up?” Ben asks, randomly, eyes on his whisky.

Dean snorts, shakes his head.

“Sort of.” He swills the liquid. “It’s a start. A good start. I think this is good for us.”

Ben makes a noise in his throat, scratches his cheek. “You know I don’t give a shit about Dan. But it’s good to see you happy, Kitten.”

“Shuddup,” Dean says, hides a smile. “Drink your whisky.”