Short drops, sudden stops...

Supernatural 5x22

2010-05-14T06:51:47Z

No spoilers. I'll have more thoughts tomorrow after I take time to ruminate.

However?

I seriously am finishing The Five Year Plan.

Post underneath if you've seen the episode, and wish to yammer with me.

Uhm. D'OH!

2010-03-24T13:05:32Z

So does everyone remember when I started 'The Five Year Plan' and then STUFF HAPPENED?

Yeah. I'm going to get back on that now. There's no excuse after the hiatus we've had. *starts the scribbling*

Help Haiti Fanfiction? Why yes, you can has.

2010-02-27T02:36:32Z

Title: A Little Respect
Author: Commodoresexual
Rating: PG-13 (for language, sexually transmitted diseases, and violence. Yep, violence.)
Pairings/Characters: pre-Sam/Gabriel, Dean, Castiel
Word Count: 1773
Warnings: This is a story that involves slightl m/m action, cursing, and I'll say it again, violence against major characters, but in a loving, funny Kripke-way. Spoilers up to 'Changing Channels', and I don't own any of the characters. Sadly, still Kripke's playground.
Author Notes: Written for crimsonquills for my help_haiti entry, this bugger has been giving me problems. I'm not primarily a Sam/Gabriel writer, but she asked, and I bumbled on through. The title comes from the song from Erasure, and yes, I mean it in the comical and not the smoopy. Well, mostly, anyways. I sincerely hope I've met requirements, and this doesn't suck ass. *crosses fingers*
Summary: Sometimes, little boy archangels like to tease little boy-half-demon junkies.

The first time Sam met Gabriel, he was a janitor and a Trickster, and he nearly drove Dean and Sam to kill each other from sheer sibling rivalry and aggravation. He popped Dean's tires, he broke Sam's computer, and he nearly sawed Bobby in half, when it was all said and done. So Sam felt absolutely no guilt whatsoever when the Trickster took a blood tipped stake to the heart, because damnit – Sam and Dean had enough problems on their own without a supernatural being stirring them up. Style or no.

Plus, he really loved that laptop. He didn't have many things that were his on the road, and losing that stung. Getting a new one was only satisfying only because Dean bought him one as a silent apology for accusing him of popping the tires on his beloved Impala, and Sam wisely had returned the favor, once more bringing peace to the land of Winchester.

At least for one whole week, anyways, so that was a miracle within itself. Sam later wondered if Gabriel had anything to do with that, and then dismissed the thought as ridiculous. Why the hell would the archangel do him any favors?

*******************

The second time Sam met with Gabriel, Gabriel killed Dean one hundred and seventeen times.

One hundred, and seventeen times. On a Tuesday.

In increasingly disturbing and violent ways, no less.

To say that Sam was irked with the guy was a vast understatement.

When Gabriel killed Dean for the very last time, Sam went on a three month hunting binge. Killing every single bad thing in sight, with little sleep, little food, little of himself left. He was a machine, built on revenge and grief. He lost sight of anything else besides facing the Trickster, and having his revenge.. He understood his father so much better in those days – what it cost him to lose the one person that mattered the most in the world to him. He finally understood why nothing less mattered, besides vengeance, because when you took away that, you took away everything.

So much that Sam had, after sticking one bloody stake into Bobby's back to prove it was in fact the Trickster, he had no problem begging the creature to bring Dean back. Even when the whole point of the violent and murderous after-school special was, in the Trickster's words, to teach Sam that he had to learn to live without Dean.

He didn't care. He didn't care. All he wanted was Dean back.

And the Trickster granted his wish.

It didn't occur to Sam until much, much later that maybe the Trickster really was trying to help him. He just for the life of him could not figure out why.

***************

The third time Gabriel and Sam met, he trapped Sam and Dean in TV Land, forcing them to live out shows of all different kinds and varieties. Sam gritted his teeth through things like Doctor Sexy, MD, and some CSI rip-off, and god knew what Gabriel was thinking, turning him into Kit. Playing roles was one thing, but he wasn't sure what being the Impala was supposed to prove. Besides annoying the hell out of him.

In fact, the entire exercise seemed to be one step after another in personal Sam humiliation. Sex diseases, uncomfortable car situations, and getting slapped right across the face by the most dysfunctional female surgeon ever. Dean got shot, after all, and that was horrifying, but that at least had some dignity. Sam got slugged in the balls.

That wasn't just personal. That was downright private.

Which was new and interesting, and something Sam let himself dwell on. When he had a few spare moments from contemplating the Devil wanting to, well, make him his personal Kit, that is. Gabriel, an archangel, had decided that he wanted to help/annoy/harass Sam. Question was - why?

It could just be that Gabriel felt a kinship, sort of a brother-to-brother connection. Except Dean would never give Sam herpes – well, at least not in the kind of context that Gabriel implied Sam had, and really Ruby was – well, RUBY but she wasn't carrying anything like that … right, off-topic.

It could be that Gabriel decided that in this, alone, he was going to act like a real angel. Except being a real angel in this case seemed to be acting like a complete and total douchebag, and Gabriel was a complete and total douchebag ...except … except...

He seemed to like Sam. In his weird, twisted, slightly stalkerish way, at any rate. The only problem with Gabriel liking him was 1.) He was trying to force Sam, like everyone else with the exception of Dean and Cas, to accept Lucifer as the right thing to do. Sam Winchester was a lot of things -- but he never, ever let anyone tell him how he should do 'the right thing'. Especially douchebag archangels of any variety, and 2.) Uh, well, it was Gabriel. The Trickster. Did Sam want Gabriel to like him?

More importantly, did Sam want Gabriel's undivided attention? Anything that Gabriel might just be offering?

Surprising answer to that question, yes. It just had to be on Sam's terms, for once. That was hard, considering the fact that Gabriel was the archangel in this particular relationship – was Sam comfortable with the word relationship?

Huh, guess so. Anyways.

Sam, while still the demon-blood sucking recovering junkie with powers, really? Couldn't match Gabriel in the power arena.

In pure Winchester duplicity, however …

Giving himself a little time to really prepare, Sam felt confident he could come up with something to grab Gabriel's attention and respect.

Hopefully, before he got sucked into another crap police procedural.

***************

The fourth time Gabriel appeared without warning, it was in the middle of the Winchester brothers hotel room. Dean and Castiel had taken over the room's small table, and were pouring over various lore books for their latest monster of the week, a particularly vicious mystical creature called a naga. Sam, naturally, had his laptop perched on his long legs, doing all his research from his bed.

It was a relatively quiet and typical night for Sam and Dean – occasionally only punctuated with Dean grumbling about how boring this was, adding in some sort of pop culture reference, Castiel being confused about said reference, and another ten to fifteen minutes of research time going down the drain because of Dean's insistence on educating Castiel on the wonders of human trivia.

Sam was smirking behind his screen as Dean was trying to explain to Castiel what 'shaking your money maker' meant, when Gabriel appeared in the middle of their room.

The archangel looked around disdainfully, stating in that annoying, drawling way of his, “Y'know, if you all wanted to stay hidden, maybe you numbnuts should start using more original names on your hotel registers. I mean, c'mon. Eddie and Alex Van Halen? With your cousin Wolfgang? You don't exactly have to be Sherlock Holmes to figure that out.”

Three things happened instananeously.

Dean yelled, “Mother Fucker!”, and went for the Colt.

Castiel moved faster and flew towards Gabriel, only to be held in mid-air with Gabriel raising his hand with cool and impassive glory, hand curving Darth Vader-style around Cas's throat.

The third and final thing, however, was Gabriel's eyes widening with surprise as Sam rose to his feet, pulled a Louisville Slugger baseball bat literally covered with Enochian symbols from underneath his bed, and proceeded to clock Gabriel upside the head with it.

Gabriel dropped to the ground with a whump, and Castiel tumbled from mid-air and to the carpet, dazed. Dean stopped his mad scramble for his gun, in favor of making a mad scramble towards his angel, and hauled Castiel to his feet. The angel wavered as he leaned on Dean a little and they both slowly twisted their heads as Sam's bat rose again, taking Gabriel's feet out from under him.

After a moment, and one 'gurgle' from Gabriel, Dean said slowly. “Okay. So. This? Is an unexpected turn of events.”

Castiel's response was an apt, “Indeed.”

Dean made sure Castiel was settled on his feet, before he called out, “Ah? Sam? What … what is that thing?”

Sam stopped, and slung the bat over one shoulder. It was, unsurprisingly, clean of blood even though Gabriel lay moaning on the floor, holding his hands between his legs. Sam eyed the blunt object, then looked over at Dean and answered calmly, “It's an object lesson.”

Dean looked at Castiel. Castiel looked back at Dean, and they both met Sam's gaze as Castiel said slowly, “A ...object lesson. With an object that can physically harm archangels?”

Sam nodded, as he knelt down in front of Gabriel, brown eyes bright, and smile beautiful and so, so sharp. “Oh yes. One carved with Gabriel's true name, and blessed with a gallon of holy water, and tainted, just enough, with my own spit.” He looked down at the archangel, into those pain-filled and angry amber eyes. Sam's smile, if possible, widened. “So Gabriel would get to the point, finally.”

Dean slowly nodded his head, while Castiel's head slowly tilted to the side. They met each other's shocked gaze once more, and asked, almost on top of one another, “And the point … is?”

Sam kept his gaze on Gabriel, his voice low and even. “He can stop pulling on my pigtails, any time he wants.”

Gabriel stared at Sam for another moment, silent and heavy, his eyes burning a bright shade of gold briefly before he disappeared from the room completely, in a rush of wind and lightening.

Dean stared at the spot where Gabriel had been, thirty seconds ago, and then looked at his baby brother, "Seriously, dude. What. The. Fuck?"

Sam inhaled slowly, as he tucked the bat underneath his bed, "Well Dean, you see, sometimes, when little boy archangels pick on little boy-half-demon junkies, it means they like them."

Dean stared at him for a moment, before responding slowly, "Okay. I think I was less disturbed when you were beating on him with the baseball bat."

Castiel tilted his head the other way, then responded once more with a heartily felt, "Indeed."

Sam smiled to himself, grabbing his laptop, his coat, and the Impala's keys, before his brother could properly recover. He was at the door before he called out behind him, “Going out. Don't wait up!”

As he was heading out the door, he could hear Dean mutter, “Okay, seriously, can't he attract anyone normal any more? First Meg, then Ruby, then Lucifer, and now Gabriel?! C'mon!”

Castiel's response, once again, was terribly apt, as the angel replied thoughtfully. “Some people can't resist a bad boy, Dean.”

Sam was proud of Castiel. He was understanding more about humans, every day.

************

Twenty minutes later, Sam was sitting in the diner he, Dean and Castiel had gone to for lunch, his laptop on again, and a plate of fries at his elbow. He was not surprised to hear the distinct sound of Gabriel arriving, and his only response to Gabriel leaning over and stealing a fry was to look over the top of his laptop.

Gabriel met his gaze, and again the gold glimmered as he popped the fry into his mouth, chewed, then swallowed. And then the archangel smiled.

Sam found himself returning it.

Help_Haiti! Or how I'm poor but I'm doing my part.

2010-01-15T13:37:31Z

help_haiti is - People are offering up all kinds of fandom goodies (fanfics, icons, music, FOOD) to raise money for charity to help the people of Haiti.

And yes, dear readers and friends, I am too.

I'm also tearing a page out of tracy's page, and asking anyone who does decide to donate on me for fanfic, please send it to Misha's Unicef fund!

I'm out to change the world, one fanfic at a time.

Epilogue, Live As If

2009-12-26T07:28:31Z

*********************

If someone had asked him later, Dean wouldn't have ever been able to tell you what the hell he and Sam talked about that afternoon. There was a sort of vague outline of events - talking about their parents, Sam being eager for any detail Dean could remember. Exchange of life stories, horror stories. Girls they had loved, girls who had never loved them. He sort of remembered about the way Sam lit up whenever he talked about Jo and Mary, and he kind of wondered if he looked the same way when he was talking about Castiel.

Gabe rejoined them, told them Cas was out of surgery, that he hadn't woken up yet. Again, the details were vague in Dean's brain - Gabriel talking about his life being a book agent for one of the most paranoid little hobbit writer in the world, something about Jo and Sam both being really big fans of the hobbit writer ... eh. It was talking about life - real life - and Dean kind of had the feeling he had been hit with so many frigging shocks, surprises and miracles that his brain just couldn't take anymore. Three in one day was quite fucking enough.

Or at least, so he thought.

It was well on three in the morning when Dr. Garrison reappeared at their little circle in the waiting room, his smile broad in a way that just made Dean feel fucking good about the world. He leaned back against his chair, shoulder brushing against Sam's, looking up at the doctor hopefully, "Well Doc, what's the prognosis?"

"He's going to make a full, and uncomplicated recovery. We got to it, just in time." Dr. Garrison said, and Dean could have kissed him for that. He might have offered him a blowjob afterwards for the next words out of his mouth. "He's awake, and he wants to see you, Dean. He asked for you, very specifically."

Gabe joked from his spot right across from Dean, relief clear in his tone and cheery gaze. "Oh, I see how it is. Hey Dean, when you see my little brother, tell him just because you taught him complicated hand signals to spell out your name -- "

"You want a hand signal?" Dean flipped him the bird, smirking. "There's your hand signal."

Dr. Garrison was looking from Dean to Gabe with a puzzled look, speaking a little carefully, "I don't see why he would - there wasn't any damage to his vocal cords from the fever. He did sound a little rough, but I'm assuming he just has a normally low voice -- did I say something wrong?"

For a moment, it took Dean a moment to organize his thoughts enough to speak words that made sense outside of his own brain. "He - he spoke. He actually asked for me, by name, with his own voice?"

He couldn't blame Dr. Garrison for looking at him like he was a complete loon, but Dean sincerely hoped he overlooked that shit and just gave him a goddamned answer. The doctor finally spoke, a little more suspicious than before. "Ye-es. Now what - "

"What room?" Dean said sharply, already moving for the stairs, not looking to see if anyone was following him or not.

"He's in room 2074 -- I really want to know what's going on, here..." Dr. Garrison's voice faded away as Dean pushed open the door to the stairs and took them two at a time. He really, seriously tried not to run all the way there, but it was a fast walk down the hall to Castiel's room. He pushed open the door, breath harsh in the back of his throat, as his gaze fell on the dark haired man lying in the hospital bed, looking out the window with a faraway look in his eyes. He wet his lips, and said, almost fearfully, "Cas?"

The change was instantaneous - Castiel turned his head, his expression becoming softly warm and attentive as he looked back at Dean. Then, almost bashfully, his lips curved up into a small smile, he spoke in a quiet, gravely voice that reminded Dean of cold nights and rough sex, of whiskey with a touch of smooth bourbon, and all he said were two little words.

"Hello, Dean."

Dean felt his control slipping away from him, as his face burst into a brilliant smile and his entire fucking body lit up like someone set off a firecracker in his chest and well ... well.

Seriously, what else could he do at that moment, but close the space between them, and kiss Castiel - his Crazy Sexy Sneaky Roof Guy, all his, right back against the mattress, until they were both breathless, hard and hungry? Until Castiel growled at him him to lock the door in that voice? Really, did he have any kind of choice?

So that was exactly what he did.

----------
FINIS

Continued, Live As If You'll Die Today

2009-12-26T07:24:00Z

Story continues

So naturally, the one day Sam needed everything to be perfect, the one Sunday dinner that needed to be run-of-the-mill, state of normalcy, was the day everything went straight to the diaper pail.

He had figured on a simple family dinner - he made a mean meatloaf and even Ellen approved highly of his garlic mashed potatoes - something Dean could appreciate, being a down-to-earth kind of guy. Apple pie to finish, thanks to Ellen. Jo was going to take care of Mary while he cooked - giving her quality motherhood-zen time to soothe her nerves for dealing with people she didn't particularly like in her home. Ellen and Bobby were firmly on 'Making Sure Dean Got Here' duty, and Ellen put it succinctly, "If I've got to hogtie both of them and tie them to the roof, Sam honey, they're coming to dinner."

Then it was getting enough beers into Dean, and if Sam was being honest enough, getting a few beers in him too. Maybe butter up Castiel ... but Sam had no idea how to do that. Admire the zen way he was redesigning Ellen's garden? How the roof tiles finally looked straight and not crooked, unlike Ash's rather sad attempts in the past? Didn't matter - just as long as the dark haired man who had a hold on his estranged brother felt like he belonged. So Dean would feel like he belonged. That he was a friend, that Sam was willing to make friends with Castiel too if Dean was willing to bury the hatchet with Jo.

And ... and ... somewhere in the planning of that was blabbing about how Dean was his long lost brother and he'd been looking for him since he was fifteen years old and found out he wasn't really his parents kid, and why that was a relief. Why he had left California to Kansas after he graduated college to find out where he came from. How he found Bobby, and Ellen, then Jo and made himself a real family here. Not once though, not for a single moment, did he stop looking for his roots. How it had taken him working his ass off for that jackass Zachariah to get his hands on the files that would give him his family's history, what happened to their parents and eventually what happened to Dean. How he worked, bled, and put in every single favor to get Dean's case. Overturned it so he could have his big brother back after twenty-six years.

Just, you know, less supercilious. Like Dean owed it to him to be his big brother. It wasn't mandatory. Except where it was, as they had the same mother and father, the same blood and once had the same last name.

All right, so he hadn't quite figured out all his closing statements yet.

None of it mattered, though, because Sam's simple family dinner had taken a detour. Straight into a ditch, filled with mud. Jo had gone with Ellen into Hutchinson for the afternoon, only to have car problems that had stranded them. Jo swore up and down it would only taken twenty minutes to fix - that had been two hours ago. Since Jo was trapped in Hutchinson, Sam hadn't been able to go to the grocery store and buy what he needed for meatloaf, not to mention the simple fixings for mashed potatoes. Normally he wouldn't have thought twice about putting Mary in the car and running into the store with her, because she was good as gold and loved car rides besides, but for some reason today she couldn't be put down for a minute. Nothing he did seemed to make her happy, or at least to stop her crying unless she was cradled right next to Sam's chest, both of his arms around her.

So when the doorbell rung at five, Sam was staring balefully down at two pounds of frozen hamburger, cradling his daughter against his chest, his sweatpants and Stanford t-shirt sticky with baby drool, baby tears, and the various baby foods Mary had decided to spit on him. He was somewhere between defeat and utter bafflement. How did everything go so wrong, so fast? It couldn't possibly get worse, could it?

The answer to the latter question was on the other side of the door, looking at him with critical green eyes, hands stuffed in his jeans, plaid shirt neat, and his solemn faced, blue eyed companion peering over his shoulder like some sort of insanely attractive male owl. Both men blinked at him with surprise, then to each other, before looking back at Sam's disheveled state.

Finally, one corner of Dean's mouth lifted upwards, and then the other, as he drawled impishly, "Y'know, Wesson, I've seen bedraggled kittens out in the rain that have looked less pathetic than you."

Sam scowled, and rocked his baby, while behind Dean, Castiel rolled his eyes and gave Dean a shove to the shoulder. Dean looked over his shoulder, muttering, "What? He looks like someone ran over his pony, or something." Castiel gave him this Look, and Sam had seen that look on Jo's face enough times to know it translated to, 'This jackass attitude better stop now or someone will not getting naked fun time.'

Which, ugh, made him think of Dean and Castiel having sex, and while two guys getting it on didn't perturb him? His brother having naked fun did.

Dean rolled his eyes and turned back to Sam, and Sam tried not to blush about thinking about Dean having sex and how frigging gross that was. So it was a good thing the next thing Dean did shocked him right out of that particular train of thought, as Dean held out his hands and wiggled his fingers. "Baby. Gimme."

Sam blinked, and without thinking handed over Mary. Who opened her eyes, then scrunched up her face so tight that Sam nearly grabbed her back in parental alarm. Dean just shifted her weight, holding her right over his heart, his grip firm but not tight, and Mary settled again, curling her tiny hand into Dean's shirt. Dean nodded his head with approval, before lifting both eyebrows at Sam. "Well? You gonna let us in or stand there catching flies, man?"

Sam out and out stared, closed his mouth with a snap, and with wordless shock stepped aside to let them in. It wasn't until he closed the door behind them, and realized he was, in fact, trailing them into his own kitchen that he found his voice again. "I just - what - I can't - how did you do that?"

Dean shrugged as he looked around the kitchen. "Foster care. Kind of just became a habit, you know, looking after the little ones. Sometimes there was no one but me there who cared."

Sam felt his lips curve upwards, tired smile as it was, and his heart sang a little as the rest of him growled in faint jealousy for all those little brothers and sisters out there who had Dean, but he didn't. He quieted those dark voices, and said instead. "I can see that."

"Yeah, why am I not surprised by that?" Dean snorted softly, as he cradled the baby up against his chest again, looking around. "What I don't see is dinner."

"Uhm. Yeah. About that. It kind of got sidetracked with Jo and Ellen - " Sam started to say, but Dean cut him off with a wave of his hand.

"We know that part - stranded. Bobby dropped us off on the way to go get them." Sam tried not to wince under Dean's intent gaze, "So ... there's nothing to eat and they'll all be home in like, probably an hour?"

Sam sighed softly, running one hand through his too-long, messy and now grimy hair. "Yeah ... that's the long and the short of it. God, am I going to get read the riot act?"

Dean looked at him intently for a moment, before arching an eyebrow at Castiel. It struck Sam, again, at how in sync they were, because Castiel stopped his own perusal of the kitchen to meet Dean's gaze at exactly that moment. Sam watched the dark haired man eye the hamburger, then nod at Dean silently. Dean's smile was quicksilver fast, "Awesome, Cas. You're the best." Dean's gaze shifted back to Sam's. "Okay, go upstairs get yourself clean, Wesson. We got this."

"Get myself - got what?" Sam said, completely bewildered as Castiel started going through his cupboards, blue eyes sharp and keen as he pulled down a few cans of soup with interest.

Dean snorted softly, "Well, all things considered - apparently everything." He shifted Mary enough so he could put his hand on Sam's shoulder, giving him a crooked smile. "Relax, Wesson. Your silverware sucks, and your baby, while cute, is kinda smelly."

"Mary." Sam said, as he started to move out of the kitchen. "Her name's Mary."

Dean's eyebrows rose together, and Sam watched as Dean looked at the tiny infant in his arms with a lot more interest. "Yeah? No kidding. That's my mom's name."

"Really?" Sam said out loud, and decided now was time to make his cowardly retreat, "Now what are the chances of that?"

He was ten minutes into a hot shower, still berating himself, when it occurred to him that he had just handily given Jo her worst nightmare of all time - he left Dean and Castiel downstairs, in their kitchen, in charge of their daughter. He gnawed on his bottom lip as he sluiced his tall body clean, hands moving over tight skin and muscle in an almost skin-scrapping rhythm. It would be fine. It would be. Dean was a good person and he wasn't going to do anything to Sam's daughter, his niece. Castiel, while quiet, really wasn't that creepy and he seemed too nice to be a serial killer.

Still, Sam didn't relax until he was at the top of the stairs, and he could smell food cooking, and could hear Dean in the kitchen, and the sound of Mary's happy gurgles, a mere step away from a laugh. He straightened the cuffs of his plaid shirt, smiling as he went downstairs again -- and found the living room roundly straightened, if not completely clean, but that was near impossible with a baby in the house anyways. Delicious smells continued to emanate from the kitchen, and Sam followed his nose.

What he saw stopped him dead in his tracks, again, for the third time today. Castiel was at the stove, an apron covering his neat blue plaid shirt and jeans, stirring what looked like noodles and something grey and meaty in a saucepan, while he eyed another boiling pot. He looked completely at home, and comfortably domestic, that utterly peaceful expression on his face that he got when Sam saw him gardening, or doing something else with his hands. Suddenly, it wasn't so hard to see why Dean liked Castiel. The man was a well of peace, when he wanted to be, doing the most ordinary things.

Dean, on the other hand ...

Sam couldn't help the snort of laughter that left his lips as he watched Dean push Mary around the kitchen in her little walker, running commentary the entire time while Mary giggled, "Aaaaand it's Mary Wesson on the far corner of the track, vrrrooooom, she's closing in on the leaders, vroooooom, shreeeeeeeik, taking that sharp corner by the dangerous Castiel's Legs turn!" Dean bumped the walker lightly into Castiel's legs, who looked turned to shoot Dean a fond smile that Sam was pretty sure had nothing to do with just 'mansex'. The crinkle of Dean's eyes in turn was brighter than Sam had ever seen it, unexpected from the man not a month ago was glowering at him in that prison parking lot.

He almost didn't want that look to go away, but he had to make himself known. So he cleared his throat, making Mary look towards him and then bang on the white plastic of the front of her walker in glee. Both men looked towards him, surprise flickering over their faces, and while Castiel's retreated into friendly reserve, Dean's face exchanged intimate warmth for a friendly nod, and an evil little smile as he pushed Mary forward and, ".... and Mary Wesson makes the turn, only to be faced by Saaaasquatch, the impentrable human wall!" He rolled the walker into the front of Sam's legs, "Eeeeek, the brakes are squealing, aaaah no! Too late! Boooooom!" Dean straighted, and tutted as he looked down at Mary. "Gone too soon the way of James Dean. We'll mourn you, kid."

Mary tilted her head back and smiled at him, drool dribbling down her chin.

Sam gave Dean a wry look, as Dean picked up his daughter. "I love these habits you're teaching her - fast driving, car racing through kitchens, and of course, running into me."

"Every kid needs to have their teenage rebellion, Wesson. Be glad I'm getting her past hers at the tender age of six months." Dean said with a straight face, as he curled his arm around Mary, letting her whack him in the chin with her small hand. Then, apropos of nothing, he turned around, eyed Castiel's back and stated, "You were the man-nanny for three adorable children."

Castiel let out a soft snort, before shaking his head 'No', quite firmly. Sam blinked, baffled, as Dean sighed and held out Mary to him, who Sam noted was in a clean jumper and smelled like fresh baby powder. Dean lifted the walker out of the way, and said over his shoulder. "This had to be a tough one, didn't it?"

One eyebrow raised in amusement, Castiel turned back to the stove, and Dean turned back around to meet Sam's bemused look. Sam lifted his daughter up on his shoulder, just looking at Dean, then Castiel. Dean cleared his throat, "It's, ah. It's a game we play. He's got so many weird talents - I like to guess where they came from. Like cooking, for example. Fry cook for a bunch of monks?"

Castiel's answer was another snort, and another negative head shake. Sam felt his lips quirk upwards as he answered honestly, "It smells great, whatever it is."

"Poor Man's Stroganoff." Dean answered, as he tilted his head towards the fridge. "Beer?"

"In the fridge - and please, grab me one, and Castiel is more than welcome to one." Sam sat himself down, putting himself down in a kitchen chair, nodding in thanks as Dean cracked open all three beers and put one in front of him. "Thanks. Seriously. I owe you two."

Dean flopped down into a chair, letting out a snort. "Don't be too grateful. Half of this is because I'm starving, and the other half is because Jo promised horrible things would happen to us if dinner went bad."

Sam's smile widened, as he turned Mary around and bounced her on his knee. "Here that, baby girl? Mommy loves Daddy."

"Yeah she does - sweetly promising violence for you, where ever she goes." Dean said dryly, taking a sip off his beer bottle.

"Ah, well." Sam smiled down for a moment, before he met his brother's gaze again. "Don't take it too personally. Jo's just very protective of people hurting me. She thinks I'm too trusting. To her credit there have been a few people I've tried to help in the past, who haven't turned out that great. Not to mention my adoptive parents."

"Well, she's got good instincts - not about Cas and me - but at least I get where she's coming from. You are too trusting." Dean waved his beer bottle, before he tilted his head back, a curious look on his face. "You were adopted?"

Sam slid his eyes away from Dean, and put them on the baby riding his knee. "Yeah, when I was just a baby. The Wessons -- they aren't ... bad people, just not very loving. They had a child because having a child is what's 'done', and they couldn't naturally conceive so of course the right thing to do is adopt. They raised me, fed me, sent me to best schools -- because that's what you're supposed to do. I think they just had this basic outline of what parents were supposed to be and they just stuck with it. Hell, I didn't even know anything was wrong with that until I got to school, met other kids with happier families. It was only then that I understood what was so fundamentally wrong with our relationship. I wanted parents and they wanted, in essence, an awarding winning creature that looked good in photographs and brought home lots of trophies that they could point to and look smug about."

"Huh. Sounds like they would have been better off with a poodle." Sam grinned wryly at Dean's comment, as Dean smiled back and continued to look at him curiously. "So ... how did you end up here, of all places? Haven, Kansas?"

"Well, I was born here. Not here in town, but in Kansas." Sam adjusted Mary on his knee, so he could keep her balanced and drink from his beer. He looked up to find Castiel had turned away from the kitchen with interest, and he flushed a little under the extra attention. "My adopted parents literally did what I've heard called a drive-by adoption. They came from California, swooped me up, and then took me back to Orange County. When I turned fifteen I was, I don't know. Lonely. Looking for a connection, tired of feeling like a freak with the fucked up family. My parents were gone to some charity weekend, on my birthday, and while they left me a hefty gift card to spend on whatever I wanted -- I don't know, it wasn't what I needed. I started going through our family albums, just trying to find some sort of connection between us - I didn't even look like either one of them, which really just made me feel more alien ... and when I found out that there weren't any pictures of me, before six months old, I just ... I just knew.. I wasn't really their kid. I was someone else's son, and it's weird, but it made my life so much easier to deal with."

Dean's eyes slid over to Castiel, who staring at Sam with something like sympathy, mixed in with a peculiar understanding, and then Sam felt Dean's eyes on him again, his eyes a mirror of the same emotions. After a moment, Dean cleared his throat, "So - ah - I guess you went looking for your real family?"

"Not until years later - I wanted to look for my parents on my own terms, without my parents trying to forbid me or stop me in any way. I wanted to make some changes in my life, and pushing them too far ... well, it wouldn't have worked with my plans." He smiled, remembering those first heady days of emotional freedom. "My Grandfather - and I'm always going to think of my grandfather, adopted or no - left me a trust fund I couldn't touch until I was twenty-one. So the day I graduated from Stanford, instead of getting on a plane and heading off to Harvard Law School, I told my adopted parents that I was leaving, took my bags and headed off to Kansas to find my real family." He smiled at Mary, who looked up at him with loving, happy wonder. "And I did, sort of. Through a little bit of internet wrangling, I found Bobby, who knew my real Dad and Mom. I met Ellen, and I met Jo .... and Jo became my whole world, that summer. Nineteen years old, acted twice that old and knew my number, from day one. I asked her to marry me the first week we knew each other. But she didn't say yes until she finished her criminal justice degree, about the same time I was finished with Kansas State law school. She never wanted to the person who held me back, and she wouldn't let anyone hold her back, either. After we got married, well, Bobby and Ellen had already adopted me in. Then we had Mary and ... well, I was happy. I've tried to invite my adoptive parents out to see me, maybe close some of those old distances between us - but, well, nothing doing."

Dean was sitting back in his chair, a contemplative look on his face, a face that Sam could tell held the traces of both their parents, from the scant pictures Bobby had been able to give them. Castiel was looking hard at him, as if Sam was a particularly interesting puzzle he hadn't figured out yet, arms folded over his apron, a wooden spoon in one hand. Like a solemn, blue eyed Egyptian prince.
Silence held for moment, only broken when the front door opened and Jo called out from the front door, easing the tension in Sam's chest, "Baby? I'm home! God, I am so sorry about today -- you would not believe what blew on the car ... what smells so good?"

Sam turned to answer over his shoulder, "Poor man's Stroganoff. When you get in here, be sure to thank Castiel." That would give Jo a few moments of surprise, so he rose and handed Mary back to Dean, who still looked thoughtful. Sam was halfway to the kitchen door before he heard Dean asked, "Hey - wait - how does this fairy tale end? What happened with your real parents?"

Sam stopped, his gaze narrowing in on Dean, even though he felt Castiel still watching him. "They died, shortly after I was born."

Dean's expression fell a little, and he hugged the baby to him. "Wow, that sucks. That makes you the last of your real family, huh?" Sam watched Dean flicker a rueful smile, as he lifted Mary to his shoulder, "Well, more or less, I suppose."

Sam felt his heart lurch in his chest, thinking this was the moment, the final argument ... but all that came out of his mouth when he spoke was, "More or less."

Then he fled back towards the front door, mentally slapping himself in the forehead, and hoping that Jo felt bad enough about today to not give him a hard time about avoiding telling Dean the truth, for one more day.

********************

Sunday rolled on into Friday, and it was with a lot of trepidation and hope that Dean approached Bobby about getting out early. Bobby arched an eyebrow at him as he wiped his hands clean from putting an engine back together, his voice rough but kind, "No need to look like I'm about to cancel Christmas, boy. Sure, you can take off early." The older man chuffed. "What, you got a hot date?" Dean cleared his throat, rocked from foot to foot, and Bobby blinked. "Oh. Oh ... well, all right. Yeah, definitely. You two boys... have fun, then."

Dean smiled then, then felt stupid about the rush of relief that went through him. For fuck's sake, it wasn't like he and Castiel were in high school anymore. This wasn't a big fucking deal. So what if he had finally decided they needed to get out of the damned house. So what if he made sure to shower twice that day, or that he actually put on aftershave, something from the Axe line. Who gave a damn if he checked to make sure there was a movie playing that Castiel might actually like, or found a diner on the far side of town. So what if he broke down and asked Ellen if he could borrow her truck, because he didn't want him and Cas to hoof it all over the place.

Wasn't a big deal. Mostly.

And it didn't help that he wasn't actually sure how this Not Important First Date was going, either. Castiel had seemed more than glad enough when the idea came up, but when Dean came back home Castiel looked wane and restless. He still made it emphatically clear that he wanted to go out, even when Dean and Ellen both asked if he was really feeling up to it. Dean gave Ellen a sideways glance, but she just shrugged as Castiel went upstairs to grab a shower and change himself.

Now that they were at the diner, though, Dean was the one making most of the conversation. Well, more of the conversation than usual. Searching for something to say, he found himself on Wesson, and Sunday dinner. "He's not a bad guy, Wesson." Dean said, as he dipped his fry into ketchup, swirling it around as he looked up at Castiel. "I mean, for a weird ass lawyer who lets criminals into his life on a constant basis. He's good people. Like the rest of his family."

Castiel nodded his head in agreement, and Dean watched as the man pushed his food around his plate. He frowned, pointing a fry in Castiel's direction. "Y'know, if you didn't want it, you shouldn't have ordered it."

Castiel looked up at him, blue eyes large and sad, before he took a deep breath and then stuck his fork into his mashed potatoes. He wrapped his mouth around them, swallowed, and smiled briefly at Dean -- before he turned even paler and got abruptly up from the table and ran for the bathroom. Dean sighed, and flopped back against the booth, completely at a loss. He was nervous too -- but Castiel seemed downright washed out. Pale, faintly sweating, and even looking at food made him sick? That was either a superior case of nerves or --

His thought trailed off abruptly when a group of burly men banged into the diner, making Dean narrow his gaze on them distrustfully. Fantastic, just what he needed, a group of 'good ole boys'. They didn't give him much of a second look, except for the tall bearded guy the waitress address as 'Al', who gave a Dean a, 'What the fuck do you think you're looking at, asshole?' look. Dean let his eyes narrow and then worked on ignoring them, although it was hard. Where-ever they had been before, it had a lot of beer, and it showed as they started hooting, making grabs at their waitress, who skirted out of the way with a nervous look in her eye.

Dean made himself a fucking mental note - get Cas out of here, and then call the mother fucking cops, before those drunken idiots did something everyone would regret. However, all thoughts of them flew from his brain when he saw Cas come out of the bathroom, his blue eyes wide and his cheeks flushed bright red. He leaned against the door frame and pressed a hand against his stomach, grimacing slightly, before he moved towards Dean, who was already out of his seat and heading towards him. He caught Castiel by the arm and pressed his palm to Castiel's burning forehead, before letting out a harassed breath. "You dumb shit - why didn't you tell me you weren't feeling well?"

Castiel looked up at him with a truly pathetic expression, resting one hand gently on Dean's chest, before he tilted his head down, looking embarrassed. Obviously, tonight had been as important to Castiel as it had been to Dean - he could see the smooth, shaven lines of Castiel's face, smell toothpaste and something faintly spicy and definitely male. Something warm surged in Dean's veins, and he leaned into the other man, lowering his voice, "Cas ... it's okay. We can go out again - we will. But how about we just call it a night? You look like crap, and if I break you, Ellen's gonna have my ass."

Castiel sighed, noisily, but he nodded, letting himself lean on Dean so far that Dean put his arm around Castiel's waist and lead them back to the table. He took little notice of the Good Ol' Boys staring sideways at the two of them, and muttering amongst themselves, Al being the bastardly loudest. Instead, he just focused on their waitress, who hurried over to them with a nervous look. He was five seconds away from asking for the bill, when she blurted out, "You're Ellen Singer's boys, aren't you? The ones at her boarding house?"

Dean blinked for a moment, before sharing a baffled look with Castiel, who furrowed his brow in confusion. Dean answered slowly, "Ah - yeah - that's us."

The waitress - Sarah - her nametag said - nodded her head fervently. "Okay. Good. Here's your check." She met Dean's gaze, and held it. "Be careful going out to the parking lot. It's dark out, now. All manners of critters out there."

Dean felt his gaze flick over to the Good Ol' Boys, then he looked back to Rachel, nodding slowly. "We will. Thanks."

He put down an entire twenty, and wrapped one arm around Castiel's waist, as he looked up at her again as she moved away from their table, and towards the backroom. "Hey? Keep the change?" She nodded at him, before disappearing, and Dean kept Castiel leaning on him, leaning over to whisper as soon as they hit the door to the diner. "Those assholes inside are looking for trouble. We need to book, Cas." Castiel met his gaze, and nodded his head, but when they got to their parking space, he suddenly grabbed the bumper of the truck and tilted over, puking again. Dean let out a curse and stepped back quickly, but one hand went to the back of Castiel's neck, even as his eyes shifted to the front of the diner.

God, his luck was shit. All of them decided they wanted to have themselves a little gay bashing fun, and Dean was looking at five or six drunk hicks, who were picking up things from the parking lot like bottles and bits of brick. Dean sucked in a breath - and felt that old feeling settle over his skin. The 'yard' feeling, the one where you always watched your back and if you got into a fight, you made damn sure you were the only one walking out of there in one fucking piece. Some dim part of him realized that he was going to be completely fucking up his parole on these shits, but the larger part didn't care. They were threatening what was his, and that was not happening.

He focused in on the leader, Al, who was tossing a bottle up in the air with all the playful smile of a sociopathic killer. Al grinned meanly and drawled out, "Looks like we got ourselves a pair of faggots here boys. Goddamned motherfucking faggots."

Dean wrapped his hand into a fist, coldly meeting Al's gaze, not flinching for a moment at the man's tone. He was icy, frost-covered and far away, as he said evenly, "You come near either one of us, and I will fucking make everyone in this little hate circle bleed."

Al paused, so the rest of the men paused, and all of them looked around with some trepidation. Dean's smile was thin-lipped, yeah, this wasn't in their little circle-jerk handbook, was it? He didn't have a weapon, but who gave a fuck? A weapon was only as good as long as you were still holding onto it, after all. He stepped further away from Castiel, putting himself between the Ol'Boys and the man trying to heave himself upwards.

It took old Al a moment to get his composure back, and he lifted the bottle in his hand threateningly. "Listen you faggot, I'm going to smash this damned bottle in your face! Then I'm going to take the broken pieces and fuck your pretty ass boyfriend up the ass with them! What do you think of bleeding like that, huh?"

"I think it lacks the originality of what I'm going to use that bottle, when I get my hands on it." Dean said, almost silkily, "And carve my boyfriend's initials into your goddamned forehead."

Al's brotherhood of gaybashers started to look nervous, and Al himself swallowed once or two, before shouting at them. "What the hell are you waiting for, assholes? There's five of us and just him! The other one's too goddamned sick of the come in his belly to fight. We can take him."

There was the pop sound of a revolver going off, the bottle in Al's hand shattered into a million pieces, and the man dropped it with a surprised yelp. Dean felt all that cold anger rush out of him in a surprised sort of panic - what kind of ridiculousness was all this? He jerked his chin to the direction where the shot had come from, and for the first time, his jaw dropped open in shock. Jo stood there, both hands wrapped around her service revolver, dark eyes flat with anger. She was driving Wesson's car, but was wearing her uniform. Dean had no idea why she was here - but he had never been so glad to see her in all his days. Especially when she started to talk, "Alistar Perkins, does your father the Reverend Perkins know that you're out here, making a damned bigoted fool of yourself and about to get an solid ten years for assault with a deadly weapon?"

Al's eyes were big as he looked from the shattered bottle in his hand, and then over to Jo standing in a loose, comfortable shooting pose. He swallowed, and shook his head, "No ma'am."

"Well then, before I need to start filling in some messy ass paperwork about discharging my firearm to stop a possible hate crime - maybe you, and your boys, should get the Hell out of my sight." Jo spoke clearly and crisply. "Right now."

'Well,' Dean thought dimly, as all five men scurried out of there like the rats they were, 'That's one way to sober the fuck up. ' He looked at Jo, Jo looked at him, and whatever he was going to say - thanks or otherwise, was lost to Dean's lips when he heard Castiel groan behind him. Automatically he spun around, pulling a miserable looking Castiel to his feet, cursing harshly as he took in Castiel's pasty, sweat-damp skin. He looked over to Jo, and he didn't know what was in his face, but he was sure it was alarming because Jo looked alarmed. He croaked out, "Hospital - we need to get him to a hospital. He's burning up, and he's been throwing up everything."

Jo's brown eyes went wide, and she jerked her chin towards the car. "Come on - I've got my extra police light in the glove box. Leave the truck, Daddy can come and pick it up later."

Dean nodded his head gratefully, before he angled both himself and Castiel into the back seat of the car. Castiel lolled against him, and Dean wrapped one arm around his chest, the other one around his waist, holding him in place. Jo climbed into the driver's side, slammed shut the door, and Wesson's responsible vehicle jerked from park into drive so fast that Dean felt some vague sympathy for the gears. He kept stroking Castiel's hair, away from his forehead as he muttered. "I don't even know how we'll pay for this."

"We'll find a way, Dean. We'll manage." Jo said soothingly, as she pulled her police light from the glove box and put it on the dashboard of the car.

Dean nodded his head numbly, just holding Castiel tightly to his chest, and wondered bleakly if he was going to have to face another person he cared about deeply dying, right before his very eyes.

*******************

Life, sometimes, came at you sideways. No one knew that better than Joanna Beth Singer-Wesson.

If anyone had told her seven years ago she'd meet the love of her life while he was searching for his dead parents at her father's small auto shop, she would have asked if they had regular appointments with their head doctors. She never expected Sam, so she never expected her life with him would be the fullest and most complete she had ever known, and that life without him would have been unbearable.

She didn't expect Mary, and what a wonderful addition to her life her daughter had been.

She didn't expect a million things.

Like today, she didn't expect to find herself saving her unknowing of his status as her brother-in-law - brother-in-law, from a group of back-country bastards. She didn't expect to be driving him, and his erstwhile hobo mute lover to the hospital soon after that.

After all that, though, the thing that shocked her the most was the fact that Castiel, of all of them, had an insurance card for a fairly major insurance company, nestled innocently in his wallet next to a ten dollar bill and some receipt . Sam and Jo had good insurance - Sam insisted on it for Jo and Mary, and he carried that insistence over to Bobby and Ellen. Dean would be on it soon enough - but Castiel? Castiel had the Platinum Edition insurance - which baffled Jo to no end. How did a wandering mute man afford that? It was under his real name - Jo had checked that much - and it covered everything, according to the nurse who took the filled in information packet that Jo had carefully filled out from the information she had gotten out of Castiel's wallet.

When she handed the clipboard back over, she headed over to where Dean was seated. She opened her mouth to tell him the insurance angle was fine - more than fine - but at the look on his face, she abruptly let it drop. His arms were folded over his chest, legs stuck out, and his face was closed off in a way she hadn't seen - well, not really since the first time she met him. She dropped in the chair next to him, her voice quiet. "He's all checked in. The nurse said they're taking him straight back, and a doctor will be out soon to talk to us."

Dean nodded his head silently, and without thinking about it too hard, Jo put a hand on his arm, and kept it there, as they both stared at the ER surgery door in silence.

After about five minutes, Dean spoke roughly, "Two years ago, I stole a car. When the judge asked me why I did it, I lied and said it was a stupid, drunk act. "

Jo jerked with surprise, but there was something in Dean's eyes that said the answer was going to be like him, like Castiel. A constant surprise to her. She wet her lips, then asked quietly, "Why did you take the car?"

"It was a 1967 Chevy Impala." Dean said softly, "Do you know what kind of car that is?"

She certainly did. Her father and John Winchester had put that very car together, piece by piece, a promise made between two war buddies from Vietnam, years ago, before she was born. Her father had put the engine together himself, a wedding present for John and his new bride Mary. It was the car that allowed Sam to Google search his way into her life, using the old vin number. It was the car sitting in their garage, old and unused, but it was one of the two things Sam had left from his real parents, the other being the stony faced man sitting next to her. She swallowed, hard. "Got a passing acquaintance to it, being a grease monkey's daughter."

"Two years and some change ago, I saw one. In crap condition. The guy in the bar where I was at drove it up into the parking lot outside, and he slammed the door so hard the frame shuddered. The paint job was shit, the chrome was all rusted - and man, that engine -- it was groaning." Dean shook his head, his voice going softer. "It could have been this beautiful machine, but this jackass had gotten ahold of it and just ... treated her like shit. I was in a bad way - my foster mom, Missouri, had just died from ovarian cancer. She was the last family I had, outside a little brother I knew for six months before they took him away from me. I was drunk, and suddenly I was drunk and angry, because this stupid shit car ...it was just this fucking metaphor for my life. Other people with their hands all over it, or Fate, or God or whatever, and doing what they liked with it."

Her voice was soft when she answered. "So you took the car, trying to take control of your own life."

"Yeah. And how stupid am I, huh? Committing a major felony to change my life around. " A bitter snort left Dean's lips, his green eyes crinkled with dark humor. "Most people just go and take a fucking yoga class." He rubbed his mouth, his voice going rough. "And that was it - one speedy trial and shit lawyer later, I'm in the pen for two years with guys who reminded me of every crap foster dad I had ever had. And I had to fight, from day one, and keep fighting because ... well, like the car. They wanted things from me that I didn't want to give. I seriously thought that was all my life was gonna be - fighting, with the world, to keep the air in my own fucking lungs. And then ....and then your crazy ass, shaggy-headed Gigantor of a husband came along. Gave me my freedom, then your parents gave me a second chance - and you ..."

"I gave you a fucking hard time?" She said, her tone rueful and just a touch sardonic. At herself. At Dean.

"Yeah - but ... more important you gave me perspective." Dean waved his hand around in the air. "This - all this - everything I had gotten ... I couldn't take it for granted. Not the roof over my head and the food in my belly. Not my freedom. It's a gift, and you gave me gratitude." He paused and smirked gently at her, "And attitude."

She swatted him, gently, but couldn't help to ask, "And Castiel? What did he give you?"

Dean's eyes darkened, a little, and they drifted over to the ER doors again. "Everything. He ... gave me everything. First moment I met him, he pulled me up, and out, and just made simple shit - like sitting on a roof looking at stars -- new, and interesting. I lost a lot of - I dunno - life? Joy de fucking vivre? In prison. He sat on a fucking roof and stared at me, and I ... I started to get it all back again." His voice went a little hoarse, but he didn't cry. "He pulled me out of my own personal Hell, and now I don't know how to do this without him."

Jo gnawed on her lip, before she tucked her arm under his and put her cheek on his shoulder. "He's going to be fine, Dean."

"Yeah? Who told you that? God?" She winced at the harshness and the bitter disbelief in his tone. "I'm not counting on God for any fucking favors. I'm not one of his fucking faithful. Not now. Not after all this shit."

The doors leading into the ER swung open, and Sam came running through, his gaze wide as he looked around and spotted Dean and Jo together. Relief and then worry came over his face, and he moved towards them quickly.

Jo watched some relief slide over Dean's face, and she herself exhaled, releasing some of the tightness in her body. She squeezed Dean's arm again, hard, as she murmured. "That's okay. We'll have faith for you." Dean looked over at her with surprise, as she started to rise up to her feet. She gave him a warm smile. "That's what families do."

************************

"Dean Winchester?" A man in a white lab coat said out-loud, and Dean sprung to his feet abruptly out of the hospital chair, ignoring the scream of agony his stiff legs and back gave. Wesson and Jo rose to their feet with him.

"That's me." He swallowed, stuffing his hands into his jean pockets, to keep them from twitching too much. The man seemed to take that into account, because he offered a smile first. "I'm Dr. Garrison - I've been treating your ... boyfriend?" Dean nodded once, curtly, "Boyfriend, Mr. Novak. Now, normally we're not allowed to give out this information to anyone but family --"

"We are his family, Dr. Garrison." Wesson said firmly from his elbow, and Dean seriously could have hugged the guy.

Dr. Garrison paused, and his smile grew. "Good. First, the bad news. We had to sedate Castiel, because he's going to require emergency surgery."

Dean flinched. He spoke quickly, his voice tense. "What happened? Is he all right?"

"He's got a case of acute appendicitis. In men of his age, it can be fatal if not treated immediately -- " Dean felt the blood rush out of his face, and Dr. Garrison quickly added, "But that's not what happened here. I understand you caught the first warning signs - fever, vomiting, and brought him right in?" Dean nodded his head numbly, and Dr. Garrision spoke calmly, "Then I have to let you know that you saved his life. If you hadn't brought him in immediately - his appendix could have become even more infected, would have released infection into the bloodstream, and he could have died."

Dean nodded his head fervently, his hands still clenching, "So he's going into surgery - or already has been?"

"We've been waiting for an open OR - but they're prepping him now and he'll be going in shortly. We'll go in, remove his appendix and .... barring any complications, he'll be fine." Dr. Garrison offered them a hopeful smile. "You should see him up and on his feet in a few weeks."

At that, Dean's heart started whooping and hollering inside of his chest, and he smiled, relief making it almost blinding as he turned to Wesson and Jo, who held similar looks. He turned swiftly back to Dr. Garrison. "Can I see him?"

"You can, but like I said, he is sedated for the pain so he won't be able to respond to you." Dr. Garrision gave Wesson and Jo sympathetic looks. "I'm sorry, you're not on Castiel's emergency contact list, so you'll have to stay here."

"That's fine." Wesson answered quickly, waving his hand. "It's all right, we'll just hang out here."

"We'll run down to the cafeteria while you're visiting, Dean. Get us all some coffee and some sandwiches." Jo added, giving Dean's arm a squeeze.

"Thanks." Was all Dean could manage, a paltry kind of thanks for staying with him all this time, but he didn't have time to add more now. He'd find a way to thank them both properly, later. Right now, he dogged on Dr. Garrison's heels, right through the double doors he'd been staring at for hours, and into curtained-off area, right outside the surgery room doors.

Dr. Garrison nodded to the drawn curtain closest to the window. "Castiel is right there. I have to scrub up for surgery - we'll be bringing him back in about fifteen minutes."

Dean nodded, and headed over directly to the curtained area, ducking behind it to find Castiel lying there, blanket pulled up to his chest, looking pale but without that ugly red flush to him. Dean let out a long, soft sigh and moved up towards the head of Castiel's bed, putting one hand into that thick dark hair, his voice quiet. "Well, doesn't it figure. They put you in the ugliest garment known to man - even uglier than that stupid trenchcoat - and you still manage to make it look hot. Must be some kind of ... magical Crazy Roof Guy power." He smiled a little, as he shifted his hand, brushing his fingers over Castiel's forehead, and closed eyelids. "Just in case you didn't already know? You pull this shit on me again and I'm going to be the one who puts you in the hospital .. .or you just get pinned to the bed for the rest of your life. Your choice."

He was silently wondering how Castiel could already be sporting two days worth of stubble, that he didn't really heed the coming rush of footsteps until the curtain was dragged quickly back, and a short man in a very expensive looking suit was staring at him, blurting out angrily, "Who the fuck are you?"

Dean took in the suit, the brown hair that swept off the guy's head in an expensive haircut, the narrow face and too sharp nose, brown eyes radiating anger. A brief, sick thought was this was one of Castiel's former lovers - or still one - and he stepped closer to Castiel's bed and growled, "I'm Dean fucking Winchester. Who the fuck are you?"

The man blinked, surprise rolling over his face, as he put a hand to his chest. "Gabe. Gabe Novak."

It was Dean's turn to look shellshocked. "Gabe ... you're Cas's older brother."

Both corner of the man's mouth lifted up, and he could see a hint, finally, of Castiel in Gabe's smile. "The one and the same. And you're the famous Dean, or as I've taken to teasing my baby brother - the Second Coming." He held out his hand to shake.

Dean exhaled, stuck out his hand and shook it warily as he asked, uncertain, "Cas ... talks about me."

Gabe's happy expression fell a little, and he looked down at his prone brother, "No ... no, Cas hasn't really talked since Jimmy died. But, y'know, older brother prerogative. Since he checked himself out of the hospital, I've made him write me postcards, letters, in exchange for not getting on his wandering Kung Fu vibe." Gabe sighed as he came closer to the bed, and Dean watched as Gabe carefully smoothed out Castiel's blankets. "Not like I could stop him - Castiel ... Castiel has always marched to his own drummer."

"Hospital?" Dean said, his voice a little sharp, and he looked down at Castiel, his jaw working a little. Was Castiel - well he always called him Crazy Roof Guy ... but he didn't think Castiel - his Cas was that sick in the head.

Gabriel nodded his head, and looked at Dean, before comprehension passed Castiel's brother's face and he waved his hand, "No, no. Nothing like he hears the voices of angels in his head, or anything. Just - when Jimmy died -- he went mute. Again. I was worried, thought it might have brought up some old memories from the past --" He stopped, giving Dean a considering look, "Probably ... a past he hasn't told you much about, I'm guessing."

Dean swallowed, and without even realizing it, his hand was in Castiel's hair. "He told me about, you know, you. What happened with Jimmy, Andrea, and Claire. But stuff from your childhood -- no. Never." He inhaled, deeply, before looking at the other man steadily, "If he's worried what I'll think of him..."

"Castiel - Cas, that's ... interesting -- no, never. He thinks the sun rises and sets out of your tight little ass." Gabe gave him a considering look. "Me, I'll reserve my judgment until you hear the whole story."

Dean felt his chin tilt back up in challenge, but that was the moment that Dr. Garrison arrived with the nurses to take Castiel back for surgery. He and Gabe walked together, side by side, right next to Castiel, and while Dean just stayed silent and held Castiel's hand tight until the moment they rolled him into the operation theater, Gabe leaned over and whispered the whole time. Things like, "You're going to be fine, kiddo." and "When you wake up you can bitch at me for being such a worrywart that I flew all the way from Chicago."

Then the doors closed, and he and Gabe were left in the hallway. Gabe let out a long sigh, and ran his fingers through his hair, and tilted his head towards Dean while still staring at the door. "Seriously - best idea ever - getting him health insurance. Other brothers probably get their brothers iPods for Christmas, and imagine how fucked we'd be if I had given into that impulse. Big brothers ahould look after little ones."

Dean nodded his head, slowly, thinking briefly of Sammy, before he shook his head a little. He put his gaze back on Gabe, his voice deceptively mild. "So - what exactly are you protecting him from now?"

Gabe slowly turned his head towards Dean, giving him a long, considering look. "You know ... I'm not really sure. I thought it was bullshit lust bunnies, the way my brother talked about you. Now I'm not so sure." Something in his expression changed, tightened and grew more fierce. "But let me tell you, Dean, if I'm right about you, and you hurt my brother because you can't handle our family shit?"

Dean's jaw tightened, and he jerked his chin up a little. "Benches. Right over there. Because I can handle any and all kinds of shit." He marched over there, anger simmering through him, dropped himself on the bench and the moment Gabe sat down, he gave the other man his hardest stare. "Start talking."

Gabe took a deep breath, and set his hands in front of him, before he met Dean's look. "My father is - was - a good man - but a very religious and upright Catholic. To that end, he followed all the tenants of that particular religion - married before sex, church every Sunday and every holiday, and he was ... very fruitful and multiplied. First there was our eldest brother Michael, then Raphael, me - all of us named after angels, my sister Anael, but everyone called her Ana, and the youngest - Castiel, named after the angel of Thursday, and James, who was named after - well. James. In the Bible. You getting the picture?"

Dean slowly nodded his head. "Very uptight, very strict rigid family."

"Exactly - we followed all the rules. Don't swear, don't eat meat on Friday, keep family business within the family." Gabriel's mouth twisted, bitterly. "Yeah, that one came around to bite us in the ass ... anyways, Mom died not long after the twins were born - she already had a delicate sort of health and giving birth to six kids, two years after another? It had it's toll on her. Well, Dad kind of ... he kind of cracked, when that happened. Didn't go crazy, exactly, more like just became more focused on religion and less on our family. Which was why when our Aunt Lillith came to help raise us, Dad just sort of abandoned us into her .... not so tender care."

Dean could feel the pit of his stomach drop. "When you say not so tender ... "

Gabe's eyes looked past to Dean, into a past he clearly didn't want to go back to. "Every living nightmare you've ever heard of. If Dad was in a religious fervor -- God. Lillith was a fucking religious psycho nutbag, and worse. She'd make us sit on our knees, for hours, and if we move even an inch -- she'd beat us about the head and make us all stay there longer. She'd starve us, at random. Called it cleansing fasting, and we needed it to save our damned souls. Then, of course, there was her 'special confession time'." He looked at Dean, his face bleak, "Open only to us boys -- and only at a certain .... tender age."

That pit continued to drop into a yawning abyss, and Dean swallowed his own anger and horror. "So you -- "

"It was Michael first - but she got bored with him when he started being less like a boy, and more like a man. Raph next, and then me. From the ages of ten to twelve - God, so much therapy. So much therapy and I can still feel her breath on my neck.... " Gabriel's lips twisted, eyes dark. "But whenever I think of her, I think of Castiel, and it gets better. You see, what you have to understand is that Castiel ... Castiel was different from all of us. He always was. Sure, he'd follow us when it came to following the day to day rules - but he always questioned what he didn't think was right. He was just that kind of kid -- and because of that, Lillith hated him. Besides the fact that Castiel was constantly protecting Jimmy from her, and there wasn't a thing she could do about it."

Dean's eyebrows rose, together. "Protected Jimmy? Protected Jimmy how?"

Gabe sighed, and looked at his hands. "I'm not proud saying this - about any of us - but ... not one of us would lift a hand to help the others, when it came to Lillith. We were all too scared of her, and too scared that she'd tell our father we had disobeyed, and he'd kick us out, curse us to Hell, or worse. Not Castiel, though. He didn't give a damn. He'd take his lickings, and then he'd go back and take Jimmy's too. Lillith could never tell them apart, you see, and it drove her crazy. She had some sort of ... weird obsession with Jimmy, what with him being the baby of the family and all, but Castiel was there, every single turn. Keeping her away from him. It got so bad that he just stopped talking about it - closed himself off , went completely mute. The only person who could understand him was Jimmy, so Castiel became Jimmy's shield, and Jimmy became Cas's voice. Jimmy knew he wasn't strong enough to be brave for himself, but for Castiel? In a heartbeat. And Castiel? God - was and still is the bravest kid I know."

Dean felt a surge of fierce pride at those words, for Castiel, Still, he held off his appalause, or whatever else, until the end of the tale. "So -- what happened? Did she ...to Cas? And Jimmy?"

Gabe's brown eyes suddenly flashed, a little embarrassed, and a little proud. "No. Because, well, a week before they turned ten ... I convinced them to run away with me. I was fourteen, just out of her range finally -- and that should have been enough for me. Michael had left as soon as he could, Raphael had one foot out the door and Ana wasn't far behind him. I could have turned my back - we all had for years - and we all knew Cas could take whatever Lillith threw out and throw it right back." He paused, mournful, "When you're fourteen, and stupid ... you only think of 'well it could be worse.' But I couldn't. I could see, every day closer to their birthday, Lillith's sick, disgusting looks when she looked at Jimmy. I saw Castiel go waner, and yet stronger and more determined each day for every new beating he got -- as if that would make him strong enough to deal with what was going to happen. And ...I heard Jimmy crying. Our little Jimmy, still sweet, still pure... I couldn't. I just couldn't. So late one night I came into their room, told them to pack their bags and to keep quiet - that they were coming with me. Jimmy just sat in his bed and stared at me - but Castiel grabbed two old army duffel bags from the closet, packed for both of them, and all but shoved Jimmy out the second story window of our house."

He exhaled, slowly, "We left and we never looked back. Not once. Six months later we were living in Chicago on our own. I worked whatever hours I could after school, so we'd have food on the table. Jimmy had a head for math, so he kept all our accounts and made sure we had money when we needed it. Castiel ... well, he took care of us. He made the food, he cleaned the shitty little apartment. We were safe, and that's when Castiel started to talk again. Not a lot - but enough to keep teachers from looking after us worriedly. That should have been it, really. The happy fucking ending - with the three brothers making a new life, growing up, moving on. I grew up, went into Communications for school. Castiel took up Landscape Design, when he entered collge, and Jimmy went with Accounting. We grew up, grew apart - well, at least I did from the twins. I'd still call them once a week, or they'd call me. But Jimmy and Castiel had been inseparable in the womb, and they were right until Jimmy died."

"Then Castiel went mute again, because ... well. He lost the only person who understood him, right?" Dean asked quietly.

Gabe blinked at him, nodding his head slowly. "Exactly right. I put him in the hospital - for what I thought was his own good -- but he left a week later, with the same damned old duffel bag, and a note telling me not to look for him, that he was lost and he needed to find his own way back home again."

Dean folded his hands in front of him, nodding his head a little, absorbing all this. He looked up to find Gabe's piercing look at him, and slowly Dean's eyebrow rose, before realization hit, and he snorted softly. "Oh, I'm sorry, did you think a little traumatic childhood and later adulthood are seriously going to fucking scare me off your brother? Jesus, Gabe, have you met him? He sits on fucking roofs and stares at people. He steals books. Hell, he wants me. I knew there was something wrong with him the first day I met the nutso roof stalking bastard."

Shock flooded Gabe's face, followed by a sudden, sharp laugh. "Yeah - well - Castiel doesn't let a lot of people inside. I guess ... I guess you really understand him."

Dean felt heat flood his face, and he shrugged again. "Guess it helps that he really knows me, too." He took in a deep breath, before looking at Gabe seriously. "I don't care if Castiel's broken from his past - I am too. Maybe all that's left of either one of is jagged around the edges. What that means to me is that we just ... fit better together now."

Gabe's smile was lopsided, but warm, and he leaned back against the bench with a content sigh. "I like you, Dean. You're refreshingly blunt and yet unbelievably understated. I bet your brother has a hard time telling you're in love, too."

Dean was about to make some sort of protest about being 'in love' - sure, it would be weak and paper thin - but then his mind caught on the rest of the words, with a snap-grab from his synapses. "Wait brother? How do you know my brother?"

"Sam? He's the guy in the lobby with his wife, right? He pointed me back here, told me about Castiel's condition ... what?" Did I say something wrong?" Gabriel's voice seemed far away, as Dean's ears suddenly pounded with blood, and his hands started to shake again with the power of the tension in his body.

He stumbled to his feet, staring at Gabriel. "My brother. Sam. In the lobby."

"Ye-eah ..." Gabe's eyes widened, and he gestured with his hands. "You know, super tall guy. Has your eyes, but in brown, and kind of the same smile? He called himself Sam Wesson."

Dean nodded his head slowly, a million and one thoughts pounding through his head as he focused in on Gabe again. "I'm going to -- I have to talk to him, actually, about something. Something very important. Could you come and get me when Cas is out of surgery?"

Gabe nodded his assent, although Dean could still tell that the other man was confused, and he wasn't the only one. Suddenly, a million little things started making more sense. Why Wes - Sam fought so hard to get him out of jail without some sort of bump in her career. Why Jo had been wary of him, why Bobby and Ellen kept on giving him searching looks, as if looking for someone they has lost a long time again.

Sam.

Sam.

Baby brother Sam sitting his crib, sucking on his foot and grinning at Dean.

Adult Sam sitting there , sharing his beer, telling Dean about his own past.

He wasn't sure what emotion he was going to be overwhelmed with first, with this revelation of the stupid. Anger, disappointment, confusion - all of those were pretty nasty indicators that he didn't want any kind of fraternal relationship with his goddamned lying lawyer brother.

Would he be sort of ... happy? Relieved? Excited to have Sammy back in his life?

Or would he lose his temper and pound someone's face in. Hopefully not Sam, although it was very tempting. At the end of the five minute bitchfest in his own head, he decided that he'd just go with whatever emotion he was feeling first when he saw Sam's face in - well, thirty seconds.

He pushed open the doors, back into the lobby, and searched around for Sam - Sam - with a quick, sharp sweep of the room. Wasn't hard to miss him, as he stood up the moment he saw Dean. Dean marched over to his little brother - Sam, Sammy, Samuel - and the first thing that went through his head was a good punch to the jaw. Considering the fact that he was on probation, and Jo, and security guards? He settled for getting right up to into Sam's space, grabbing his shirt and giving him a good hard shake that still got Jo on her feet, but he stopped her dead in her tracks when he growled at Sam. "I've got one fucking thing to say to you, Sam Wesson, about fucking knowing you were my brother for an entire fucking month, and never saying a word to me. One thing."

Sam's expression went from shocked, straight to dismayed, then slipped behind a stoic mask that was leaking hurt and rejection all over the place. "I'm ... I'm sorry. I meant to tell you. I - just ... never mind. I guess it's not important now." He swallowed, hard, "One thing. What is it?"

Dean glared at him for another minute, before stepping up, wrapping his arms around his little brother - baby brother Sammy - holding on tight with all that was in him, rasping out harshly. "if you ever lie to me again about anything this big - ever - I'm taking the older brother prerogative and kicking your ass from here to the Kansas border, and back again. You understanding me, Samuel Wesson ... Winchester?"

From the direction of his shoulder, he heard a muffled noise. It could of have been a snort, it could have been a sob. He wasn't looking, but he did hear when Sam said softly. "I hear you."

"Good." Over Sam's overly large mammoth shoulder, he could see Jo actually beaming behind him, and he gave her a half-hearted glower, before he turned his head a little and gave Sam another squeeze before stepping back and pointing a finger in Sam's blotchy, tear streaked face. "Bitch."

Sam's smile was watery, but as bright as the sky, as he said back with heartfelt and what Dean considered awesome brotherly affection. "Jerk."

*************
Epilogue is here.

Finally, FINALLY. Have the rest of this beautiful, huge thing.

2009-12-26T07:18:21Z

Title: Live As If You'll Die Today [2/2 of the Con!AU]
Author: Commodoresexual
Rating: NC-17,
Genre and/or Pairing: Dean/Castiel, Sam/Jo, Ellen/Bobby, Gabriel
Spoilers: It's an AU, written for the AU!Challenge at deancastiel, but this might make more sense if you have seen 5.10.
Warnings: Man on man loving, cursing, and contains allusions to child abuse. I own none of this, thank you and good day.
Word Count: 23,400
The Prophet (Author's) Chuck's Notes: So here, finally is the second part of that AU I started in - what? September? I don't even remember. All I know is that through a LOT of personal crap, I kept going on this story because I promised some sort of conclusion in this universe, and God Damn does it feel good to finish, and right on time for Christmas. Well, mostly. It's still Christmas in California, right? Er - Happy Boxing Day, everyone else! Have some goddamned fic.
Summary:AU #19: Cas hasn't spoken a word to anyone in years and is a drifter who works various odd jobs to finance himself. Dean is a guy with a violent temper who grew up in foster care and has just gotten out of prison for a stupid judgment call. The two cross paths in a pay-by-the-week boarding house run by an eccentric older couple (Bobby and Ellen). Part One is here; Dream As If You'll Live Forever.
Dedicated To: My awesome editor sadsadmonkey, ALL my girls over at yo_gotham - Sil, Allie and Suzi especially, the always supportive tracy who NEVER let me get out of a conversation without bugging me about this, and the erstwhile work of the amazing bauble, who's Oz series made me feel so damned sad, I was determined to post something happy in reply, that's the kind of feeling she evokes. She is brilliance personified, and her work continues to inspire.

Friday had come and gone, tucked away to Saturday morning, and Dean opened his eyes. Opened them to a perfectly white painted ceiling, to sunshine sliding over his face, and a warm fluffy comforter tucked under his chin. He closed his eyes again, quick as he could, then opened them again. Yep. Still here. He pushed himself up, feeling goosebumps rise on his bare chest as he looked around. Still the room in the Singer's house, brightened in the morning. He eyed the wallpaper, a simple design of thin blue pinstripes and he guessed that the Singers decorated their entire house this way. Simple, but beautiful.

Not that he was a fashion fucking designer, or whatever. He owned two pairs of jeans and a bunch of ratty ass t-shirts and flannels. Queer Eye for the Straight Guy would weep, to a man, for him. He snorted at the thought and pushed himself out of bed, pausing only long enough to grab one of those ratty ass t-shirts to throw over his sweatpants, before padding down the hall.

He stopped, dead stopped at the door only five feet down from his own, on the other side of the hallway. A door that was slightly open, to a room darker than his own. Where there was probably a very similar bed, and possibly a very warm body of one very Crazy Sexy (yeah he was adding that now) Roof Guy or as everyone else called him, Castiel. Of course, if he went in there and he found out it was all some sort of insane dream that his dick had concocted, he was going to be embarrassed.

And horny, but that was kind of secondary.

He sighed, took his hand away from the door and climbed down the stairs, the thoughts of sex sliding off of him as he smelled something that was – yeah. That was bacon. Honest to God flesh of the pig. He tried to run down the steps, because he wanted to get there before – before what? There were no meal lines here. He stopped, suddenly, breathed deep, and walked the rest of the way downstairs into the kitchen.

The Singers were already there – Bobby was finishing up his breakfast and Ellen was scooping out eggs and bacon onto plates for himself and Castiel, it looked like. They glanced over at him as he slid through the kitchen door, and he felt that strange feeling again, like he was being scrutinized for some kind of reaction. He shifted his bare feet on the kitchen tile, before asking roughly, “There coffee?”

Ellen nodded towards the coffee machine, and he nodded his head in turn with a quiet, “Thank you, ma'am.”

He watched the corners of Ellen's lips curve upwards, “Someone was raised right, it seems. Your momma teach you such good manners?”

There was a question inside a question there. Dean didn't turn around from the coffee machine, just stared into the depths of his mug and felt a heaviness in his chest as he answered quietly, “My mom – both of my parents died in a fire when I was four. My mom was trapped upstairs, and my dad went back to get her after making me run outside with my little brother.”

He finally made his hand wrap around the coffee pot handle, to pour himself a full cup, as Bobby cleared his throat. “I … we're sorry to hear that. So it's just you and your brother?”

“Nope. Just me.” Dean poured a generous amount of sugar into his cup, and finally turned to look at the Singers, his face tight. “Sammy was six months old. I went into foster care and he got adopted – because people lo-ve babies. Me, I kicked around with foster families until I found one that stuck. By that time, I was old enough to find Sammy, but … eh. He had a whole new family, y'know? And all things considered, with me? He's probably better off never knowing his ex-con of a big brother.”

Ellen and Bobby exchanged a look that couples had, where they were having some sort of conversation that Dean just wasn't following. Finally, Bobby grunted into his coffee, while Ellen gave him another one of those looks that made him feel like she was trying to dig into his skull and see his thoughts. When she spoke, her voice was quiet, “Family's family, Dean. I'm sure your brother would want to know you.”

“Yeah, well. I haven't had a family in a long time.” He said, grabbing the plate she had put aside for him. Putting his attention firmly on the food, and not on whatever else these two wanted to say in their secret-married language.

After a moment, Bobby cleared his throat. “Since tomorrow's Sunday, and Monday you're going with S – with our son-in-law into the county seat, figured today I'd take you into town, show you around the shop. Sound good?”

Dean nodded his head, forking a mouthful of eggs into his mouth and determinedly not looking at either one of them. “Sounds good.”

“We'll leave you to enjoy your breakfast, then.” Ellen said, and there was something in her voice that finally made Dean look up, but they were already up – Ellen right next to Bobby, who was putting his mug down on the counter, grabbing his cane from behind the door. They walked out of the kitchen, and as the door swung out, and then in, he could see them in whispered conference with one another. Over what, he had no fucking idea – but there was that jolt of worry. Like they might kick him out. Like he might have just blown this all to hell.

He sighed into his coffee cup, closed his eyes and drank deep. When he opened them again, Castiel was leaning on the counter opposite him, dressed in jeans with a hole in the knee and a faded looking black button-down shirt, and Dean nearly snorted coffee up his nose. He managed to swallow, and gasped out, “Jesus Fucking On A Pogo – the hell did you come from?”

Castiel gave him an eyebrow of faint confusion, and he nodded towards the kitchen door, which was swinging with new intensity again. Oh. Well. Dean cleared his throat. “So, ah, hello.” He fiddled with his fork. “How much of that did you hear?”

Blue eyes rested on him, steady and serious, his expression gently saying, 'Enough'. A slight head tilt forward, 'Do you want to talk about it?'

Dean shook his head. “Not really. I mean, tragic fucking early childhood aside, my life wasn't that bad, before I went to prison.” He swept his fork along in his food, his voice going rough. “Okay, well, the two months before I got arrested were pretty fucked.”

There was the sound of a chair scrapping across the tile, and Castiel was now seated across from him. He didn't do anything weird, like reach for Dean's hand, or go all doe-eyed. He just looked at Dean like he was listening with everything in him. There was no false sympathy, no 'oh you poor thing'. Just … quiet. Thoughtful. Waiting.

Dean found himself answering that look, the words slow and dragged out of him reluctantly. “There were a lot of … bad places, when I was in foster care. Nothing seriously nasty, just, people who were in it for the money. People who didn't really care. I was hungry a lot, didn't sleep well, and I learned not to trust these people who smiled when the social worker came and threaten to put me in the basement, in the dark, when the social worker left. And I went through that for three years, until Missouri.”

One corner of his mouth lifted up, remembering Missouri. “I mean … she was this mass of contradictions, y'know? Tough as nails black woman who believed in New Age crap and made extra cash on the side by being a Tarot card reader. She'd always say I ate like a horse, then give me another slice of pie. She was … well, she was the first parent I had in years. She made me do my homework, go to bed on time, wash my mouth out with soap if I cursed in front of her. She'd ground me if I missed curfew.”

He leaned back in the chair, rubbing his mouth. “When she got sick, the first time with cancer – I dropped out of school to take care of her. She let me – but when she was back on her feet, in remission … she kicked my ass to finish my GED. Sent me to community college, after that. I took some classes, to make her happy, finally dropped out when I told her what I really wanted to do was fix cars. She got it. She was the only person who ever did get me.” He stopped, and met Castiel's gaze, and swallowed. “Well … y'know. Then.”

Castiel's lips curved up at the corners briefly, and Dean felt something in his chest go warm at that. He looked back down at his plate, stabbing at his food with his fork. “Stop that. Don't go trying to make me like you.” He looked up when Castiel got out of his chair abruptly, and he tried to ignore the lurch in his chest as Castiel walked behind him. Maybe the man had just decided to ignore Dean's little outburst and get his breakfast. Or just leave the kitchen altogether.

What he did not see coming, and maybe he should have, was Castiel's hand sliding around his shoulder, to his neck, tilting Dean's chin upwards so he's looking up into intense, so blue eyes and framed with the most amazing eyelashes Dean's ever seen on a man, and that mouth that Dean kind of hoped, maybe, to drag kisses out of again. Though it seems he doesn't have to wait, because Castiel leaned over him and pressed their mouths together, lips moving over his so lightly – so tantalizingly slow – that the heat that had pooled in Dean's stomach from earlier came back with a hard and heavy jolt.

He wasn't entirely sure what happened next, but when he heard Bobby Singer come back towards the kitchen, calling his name, he has his hand in Castiel's hair, Castiel's hand was sliding under the neck of his shirt and Dean's sporting the biggest hard-on that ever existed. It's not unlike his pants suddenly became three hundred times too small, which makes all the harder to let the other man go so he can pick up his coffee cup and try to look normal, like he wasn't trying to get his tongue as far as he could down Castiel's throat as he could, or if Castiel wasn't going to try and strip him naked in the kitchen.

Surprisingly harder than it looked, as Bobby came banging into the kitchen, “Hey have you seen – oh. There you are, Castiel. Ellen was wonderin' if you'd help her with the gutters today.”

Dean, somehow, managed to turn and look at Castiel without wincing, and found the man calmly eating his breakfast, fork sliding through eggs and bacon as if all that was happening in here was two guys sharing a meal and not saliva. The man had some sort of amazing talent of nonchalance as he nodding agreement to Bobby's question, and seriously, Dean needed to figure out how the fuck he did that. Maybe ask him to give Dean a few pointers, because he was pretty sure he's starting to look a little crazed, still staring at Castiel like Castiel's done something and Castiel was looking as smooth as butter in comparison.

Bobby's voice finally cut through Dean's distraction, and he turned back, pulling his expression into something not like a startled deer, as he answered gruffly.“Yessir.”

Without, you know, not actually knowing what he agreed to.

“All right – I'll see you in fifteen minutes by the car, then.” Bobby nodded his head. “You boys enjoy your food. Castiel, when you're done, go find Ellen. She'll be in her office.”

Dean blinked after him, and then let out a soft curse as he realized that he just agreed to get his ass in gear when his brain was going one way and his dick wanted to be in the man behind him. He wolfed down the rest of his food, slurped his coffee and hoofed it for upstairs, stopping at the kitchen door to glower back at Castiel, who was still eating breakfast as if without a care in the world. Dean glared at him, and Castiel just lifted a piece of bacon to his mouth and gently – carefully – slowly crunched down on it.

And then the bastard licked his lips.

Dean looked at Castiel. Looked at the time. Let out a sharp growl as he jabbed his finger in the other man's direction, “You … sonnvabitch. I'm getting you for that. Later.”

Castiel gave him a serene smile that Dean would have gladly wiped off his face, but now he had to run for the shower, and some clothes. It didn't occur to him until he was tying up his boots that Castiel had gotten him to confirm their 'date', with nothing more than a kiss and a smile.

Looked like he was going to have to add 'Crafty' to Crazy Sexy Roof Guy title.

********************

Haven's bigger than a one horse town in the middle of podunk-nowhere, but it was also not exactly kicking it up the level of say, Hutchinson or Wichita, when it was all said and done. The economy wasn't great around here, but better than most – Haven seemed to be a town now of bigger city folk wanting to live in the country and commute to their offices rather than try to find a perfect piece of suburban Heaven.

Dean noted the location of the McDonald's, the local watering holes, the grocery store and the pharmacy, figuring since this was his new place of residence he'd need to know the basics. He also noted where the sheriff's office is, and made silent plans to avoid it like it was on fire. He's done with trouble, done.

Singer's Garage was a modest establishment – and Dean got why Bobby hasn't gone out of business when so many other car places probably did. Bobby Singer has a blunt honesty, a simple way of explaining why such-and-such a repair is going to cost so much, and how he was willing to negotiate. He seemed to know all his customers, and he wasn't afraid to call them 'idjits' for letting their cars get in the wrong way.

Dean was worried about being the stranger in a town that seemed to be in each other's pockets, and he did get a number of wary glances. Until, weirdly, they asked him where he was staying and he answered that he was staying at the Singer's boarding house. Like magic, he could almost see their shoulders relax, and the smiles that flashed over their faces were genuine. It was fucking baffling, and he had got to wonder about Ellen's reputation in this town. Either they fear her or they trust her implicitly. Or ...both. He wasn't not sure – he just hoped the protection lasts.

He was up front at the cash register, trying to figure out all the function keys, when the door leading to the outside and not the garage jangled open. He tilted up his head just as he's figured out how to pop open the cash register, and found himself staring at a police officer.

She was wearing the atypical glasses, blonde hair pulled back into a tight bun and her hands crossed over her very nice chest. Something in Dean's stomach tightened at the sight of her, because he could tell that whoever this woman was, she doesn't approve of him sitting behind the counter. Which of course is the moment the drawer clings open and he's faced with law enforcement and a drawer filled with money.

Seemed like a good idea to close it, clear his throat, and get off the stool. Meet this particular problem head on. His voice was rough and distrustful, “Can I help you, Officer?”

She arched one eyebrow, put her hands on hips somewhere between slender and nicely rounded, and yeah – that does it – she was hot and intimidating, which meant Dean was watching himself two-fold around her. Her oval face was about as welcoming as the rest of her stance, so that helps. “You must be the new tenant out at the Singers.”

“Yes ma'am.” Dean allowed, watching her warily as she stepped closer.

“Well, you aren't the one who doesn't talk, obviously, so that must make you the ex-con.” She doesn't move towards him – she doesn't have to and she knew it. “They're good folks, the Singers. You'd best not make them regret their decision to help you.”

Dean felt his jaws twitch, his hands going a little tighter. “Wasn't planning on it.”

A soft, distrustful snort, and Dean imagined if he could see her eyes behind the glasses, they'd be outright suspicious. “Yeah, people like you never do.”

'People like you' sparked his temper, and he was about thirty seconds from asking this short piece of ass just where she got off talking like she knew him – knows his life and knows his own personal sins – when the door leading from the garage opens and Bobby limped in. He blinked at Dean, then at the officer, back and forth for just a second, before his eyes narrowed in on the girl and he gruffed out sharply, “Joanna Beth Singer-Wesson, what the hell do you think you're doing?”

The change in the officer's – Joanna Beth Singer-Wesson's face was classic little girl getting caught, as her sunglasses came off her face and Dean saw for the first time, Ellen's brown eyes. Then her gaze went down and guilty, before she put on a quick and bright smile. “Oh, hi, Daddy.”

“Don't you 'Oh hi, Daddy' me, Joanna Beth.” Bobby grunted at her. “I've seen that look when you broke your Momma's lamp and I've seen it when I caught you coming in after curfew. Just what do you think you're doing in here, with Dean?”

“I – uhm – we're just talking. Shooting the shit, that sort of thing.” Joanna's hands were off her hips and she was playing with a golden band on her finger, and it slapped Dean sideways to realize, that was Wesson's wife. Suddenly he had a lot more respect for the man's balls.

It was also why he had no problem drawling as offhandedly as possible, “Yeah, just talking in a vaguely threatening way. That kinda thing.”

Joanna Beth was giving him the dirtiest look and Bobby was giving her one of his – and now Dean couldn't help but wonder how he didn't notice the two are related. They both have the same 'don't make me kick your ass' look about them, hands down. He wasn't not sure where the blonde hair came from, but he guessed Ellen's side of the family.

Oh, right, Joanna Beth, and he was kind of liking the perverse and childish thrill of calling her by her full name, was still glaring at him. “I'm just trying to see what kind of man is staying with my family, Daddy. I don't want another Ruby.”

“Your Momma said he's all right, I got him working at my store – and you know damned well what your husband will think of you coming in here and trying to strong-arm his client.” Bobby poked a finger in his daughter's direction. “Now you scoot on out of here and leave poor Dean alone. Man's got a world of work to pick up on and you're distractin' him.”

Joanna Beth sighed, walked over to her father and placed a kiss on his bristled cheek. “Yes, Daddy. I was just on my way to work anyways. I'll see you tomorrow for dinner?”

Bobby nodded his head, and even though he looked gruff, there was affection crinkling the corners of his eyes. “Now scat.”

Joanna Beth gave Bobby a warm smile, before she shot a warning look over to Dean. “Goodbye, Dean.”

Dean couldn't help the smirk on his face, just as much as he couldn't help the almost mock-cheerful tone of his voice. “You have a good day there, Joanna Beth.”

The look she gave him back was pure piss-and-vinegar, and despite it all, he felt kind of good about that. At least there seemed to be one person in this family with their head on straight. He gave Bobby a sideways glance, and said as he went to sit back on the stool and work on the register again, “Your daughter's one tough woman.”

“Yeah, she gets that from her mother. Takes a lot to handle a Harvelle woman, I'll tell you that much.” Bobby said dryly, and when Dean looked up he found Bobby's eyes on him. “You seem to handle her all right, all things considered.”

He nearly hadn't, but that was neither here nor there. Now he knew what to look for, well, it'd be a lot easier holding his tongue and his temper. He shrugged, in response. “Well enough, I suppose. But I sure as Hell got a lot more respect for Wesson. Man's got to have steel ones in his belt.”

Bobby gave him an odd look, and a warm sideways smile. “Yeah – that runs in his family.” He jerked his chin. “When you're done, we've got a tricky fuel line problem. Thought our new expert might want to take a peak.”

Dean got off the stool, and in about twenty minutes forgot all about what perturbed him about Bobby's smile, and how it seemed the older man knew something that Dean just didn't.

********************

Long hours later, and Dean was tired but it was the good kind of tired. He worked a long day, earned his keep and that wasimportant to him, after getting out. Not going to take something that's not his, not going to keep something he hadn't earned with his own two hands. He hasn't been really proud of himself for the past few years, and that has got to change.

Bobby mentioned something about dinner – it being soon or now or something, and Dean grunted in the affirmative but first he was going to get himself another shower. Habit from childhood still clinging on, even through two years in the pen, but hey, he always had to be clean before he eats. He kicked his door shut behind him and starts stripping off his clothing, and he'd gotten his two shirts off when he finally notices.

One of his books? Was gone.

He glowered as he stomped over to the bookshelf, anger rising through his veins quickly. Couldn't been Ellen, Bobby was with him all day so that just left Crazy Crafty Sexy Thieving Roof Guy. Son of a bitch just waited until he was gone to start stealing his stuff - his only fucking possessions - and thought an orgasm and a kiss were going to cover that? No fucking way – no fucking way and he'd settle that shit with his fist in that fucking pretty –

What was that?

There was a folded piece of paper where the book had been – old and faded around the edges. When he pulled it out, Dean saw the creases were deep, and set in with age. He frowned, anger being replaced by confusion, because if it was a written note, he'd expect the man to write it on a fresh sheet. It did chill some of the rage in his veins – the guy had just borrowed, not stolen and seriously how did Dean expect the guy to ask for the book anyways? He didn't talk.

He held the folded square in his hand for a moment, letting that one soak in. He was engaging in highly physical and – he squirmed when he thought this – getting to be emotional shenanigans with a guy who never said anything. That he was communicating with purely through looks and gestures and really hot sex. Could you seriously build any kind of connection with someone when you didn't know thing one about them?

What the hell had he gotten into, again?

With that on his mind, and a frown curving his lips, he unfolded the paper.

He blinked at the picture on the page of a beautiful blonde woman, and a pretty blonde girl a few years old, and – well, Castiel. A formal sort of family setting picture – Castiel was standing behind the woman, the woman had the adorable little girl in her lap. It was a family shot. They were all smiling.

Then Dean took a closer look and the second he realized - that's not Castiel - was the same time he realized it was a goddamned obituary.

Pontiac Family Dies Tragically In Drunk Driving Accident

James T. Novak (age 30), his wife Amelia (age 29), and his daughter Claire (age 5) were killed last Sunday coming home from their local family church, St. Andrews, from a potluck dinner. James and Amelia were considered pillars of the community - James spent time mentoring troubled youth at St. Andrews, while Amelia was food and supply supervisor for the local homeless shelter. Claire was a light in their lives, and the lives of all their family and friends. They will be sorely, and sadly missed. Amelia is survived by her loving parents June and Davis Carpenter, and her sister Megan, her nieces and nephews. James is survived by his elder brother Gabriel Novak, and his twin brother Castiel L. Novak....

Twin brother. Castiel.

“Jesus fucking Christ.” Dean muttered softly, as he smoothed the paper out carefully. Brother. He was only four when Sammy was taken away, and that was a hole that gnawed at him some nights, staring at his ceiling as he wondered what happened to the kid, if he was doing better than Dean was. He couldn't imagine what it was like, having a brother with you like that, a twin brother who looked like you and probably had that weird freaky as shit twin connection... suddenly be gone.

Probably messed you up, real bad. Probably did things, like make you go completely mute from grief.

Dean looked at the date on the obituary.

Mute for six years. Jesus.

Suddenly, he got it. The taking of the book, the leaving of this piece of paper. It was, in no small way, Castiel reaching out. Offering something of himself. Trying to earn Dean's trust, by showing him that Castiel was trying to trust Dean.

Trying to earn Dean.

One corner of Dean's mouth lifted, unexpectedly, as he carefully folded the paper back up. He slid it gently back into place, and gave it one last brush of his fingers, feeling … well, feelings. Things he hadn't felt since Missouri had died.

He breathed deep, letting that soak in. Letting himself feel that warmth that someone wanted him, someone actually was making the effort to – well – care. He grabbed some clean clothes, fighting off the smile that kept trying escape, all the way through his shower, and on his trip to the dining room. Ellen and Bobby were making regular married conversation, around Castiel's bowed head. Ellen said something in greeting, Bobby grunted, but Dean's attention was on that dark head, bowed over the plate.

He wasn't even sure what he was going to say, or hell, if he was going to say anything at all. Only thing he was sure of was he wanted Castiel to look at him. He was starting to think that maybe he'd just have to do something drastic like pour gravy all over himself, when Castiel suddenly slid his gaze upwards, and man, did those eyes say so much.

Fear, worry, hesitation, and the faintest glimmer of hope in those impossible blue eyes.

He smiled. Softly, hesitantly, just a curve of his mouth, putting as much 'Hey, I get it, and I'm cool, and we're cool, and wanna make out later?' in his own eyes as he could.

He knew they were good when Castiel's expression lost it's solemn air, and then that smug bastard ate the mashed potatoes off his fork like it was food porn, slowly, working his lips over tines as if they were something else.

There was going to be revenge for that later, Dean swore that silently, and tried to squash down that stupid, happy feeling about using the word, later, and meaning it.

********************

A Sunday passes, and a second one, and Wesson, but he preferred to go by Sam, still hadn't told Dean the whole truth of why he had taken his case. Ellen and Bobby were understanding but they've started to look the strain of not saying anything, and if Sam got another look of 'What the hell are you doing?' look from Jo after he tried and failed to tell Dean the truth about them, again he was pretty sure he might be catching some couch 'no naked funtime' time. Jo was a lot of wonderful things, but patient had never been one of them.

“This is not from any sort of viciousness, mind you.” Sam sighed, as he carried his daughter around the house after she's eaten, burping her against his back. Speaking to her as if she was an adult and not a small infant that had his eyes and Jo's smile, somehow made talking about it easier. “You have to understand, baby girl, Uncle Dean's been through a lot. He didn't have a good childhood. Not that Daddy's was much better." He kissed the top of her soft head, gently and lovingly. "We're going to do much better by you.”

Mary Ellen Singer-Wesson burped, and wiggled against her father, putting her hands on his face with soft, baby affection. Sam smiled, twisting enough to kiss her tiny hand, and kept walking her around the kitchen. "Uncle Dean was in foster care, and Daddy's parents ... well Grandfather and Grandmother Wesson are going to be very supportive of you - if you go to Harvard and marry the right man, and basically do everything that your Daddy didn't do. I, for one, will cheer like a soccer hooligan if you, like your Daddy, make your own way. I've been doing that since I found out I was adopted, and look where it got me? It got me Grandpa Bobby, and Grandma Ellen, and it got me your Mommy. Best college graduation present ever."

There was a soft and amused snort from the kitchen doorway, and Sam turned to find Jo there, a dishtowel thrown over her shoulder, blonde hair lovely and loose around her shoulders as she gave him an affectionate yet aggravated smile, She looked at her daughter. "Baby girl, when you grow up, you're going to learn your father has a silver tongue. Especially when he's trying to talk me around to something damned stupid."

Mary beamed and blew bubbles at her mother.

Sam arched an eyebrow in turn and walked over to her. "See? Mary agrees. We should give Uncle Dean a chance. Especially since he saved Daddy's life."

Jo rolled her eyes, but she did kiss him warmly, and nuzzled Mary's soft baby cheek, before turning back into the kitchen, where Sunday dinner was cooking merrily away -- spaghetti with Jo's famed meat sauce. She picked up her wooden stirring spoon and waggled it in Sam's direction as he leaned against the doorway, Mary snug in his large grip. "He saved your life when he was four years old, Sam. A lot can change a man in twenty-five years."

Sam sighed as he came into the kitchen, folding his tall frame into a chair, settling Mary on his knee to bounce. "Saving your baby brother when you are four years old is pretty frigging phenomenal, Jo. And besides, have you even bothered to look over his case file?" Off of Jo's scrunched up look, he smirked. "No, didn't think so. He had some minor trouble when he was a kid and then nothing - absolutely nothing for seventeen years, Jo! And what did he do? Did he hold up a bank? Did he-- rob and murder a little old lady? No. He jacked a car. A really crappy car. Jacking a car does not make him the Devil, Jo."

"Yeah, well, sharing the same genetic make-up as you does not make him a saint either, Sam." Jo retorted, turning with one hand on her slender hip. "And frankly I think you must feel the same way, because you still haven't told him who you really are."

Sam sighed, and turned Mary around to face him. "Mommy doesn't appreciate how nervous Daddy is about talking to Uncle Dean about this. The man might bolt on us, baby girl. We have to handle this with kid gloves, so he'll want to get to know Daddy, and you, and even Mommy when Mommy isn't being downright suspicious."

"Mommy's suspicious because Mommy is a cop, and Mommy knows ex-cons." Jo said tartly. "Like Ruby. Or Meg. Or shall I even bring up that creepy guy with the weird yellow eyes?"

"Jo, his eyes were hazel, not yellow, and I honestly thought I could help those people. Just because I was wrong doesn't make the impulse bad." Sam looked up at her, earnestly. "And just because they weren't who I thought they were -- doesn't make Dean the evil, criminal mastermind than you think he is. Just give him a chance, Jo."

Jo sighed, again, and leaned on the kitchen counter, her lips moving in a frown, but not before the front door opened and Ellen called out, "Hey, where are you kids at?"

"We're in the kitchen, Ellen!" Sam raised his voice in answer, feeling a grin stretch across his face as Ellen and Bobby came in, large as life and arguing as only two people who had been together as long as they had could.

"... you know damned well what the doctor said about taking too much weight on that damned knee." Ellen came in, carrying most of the groceries, putting one bag down on the table and the other next to Jo on the counter, sneaking a kiss to her daughter's cheek. "Jo, honey, please go relieve your father of his stupidity, and his bags."

"Daddy." Jo let out a harassed sigh, very much like her father was, as she took the last of the bags from him. "You know what Doc Jensen said about --"

"Enough already - right now the only thing I'm holding is my wounded male ego." Bobby said tartly, as he limped over to the kitchen table and clapped a hand on Bobby's shoulder. "Heya Sam."

"Heya, Bobby." Sam grinned, as he lifted up Mary to get kissed. "Have some sweet smelling baby, to soothe that."

Bobby smiled quietly, pressed a soft kiss on the top of Mary's golden head, and Mary reached out to grab ahold of her grandfather's beard, but Sam smartly pulled her back and cradled her against his chest. Ellen leaned over, and kissed the top of Mary's head next, then Sam's, before shooting a knowing look between them. "Now, what were you two arguing about - oh wait. Let me guess. Dean."

Jo shot her mother a warning look, as she started to unpack the groceries - ice cream in the fridge, pie on the counter with the bread - her tone going wry. "Well if you want, Mom, we can start arguing about the merits of your own personal sanity, what with you bringing the crazy silent man into your house, instead?"

Ellen gave her daughter one of her famed Looks in response, before saying sternly. "Joanna Beth, I know you're not calling your mother crazy for showing a little charity to a lost soul."

Bobby muttered softly, "And on that note - I'm gonna get a beer. Sam? Jo?"

Jo snorted at her family as she put a bowl in front of her mother, who went into another grocery bag to pull out the lettuce automatically. “Beer, yes please, Daddy, and yes Mom, I am calling you crazy. In fact, I've nominated myself as the 'sane' member of this family. Especially when my husband takes in criminals right out of prison, and my mother adopts hobos from off the street.” She half-glowered at Ellen. “Who. Don't. Talk. And don't tell me you don't find that creepy.” `

“I find it creepy.” Bobby said, as he handed his daughter a beer. At his wife's pointed look, he shrugged helplessly. “But ... it's no creepier than the fact that Dean seems to understand every thing Castiel's not sayin', so there you go.”

“Well, this makes me feel so much better. The criminal and the mute hobo have their own private language – I can't wait to see how they translate, 'rob my parents blind and then horribly murder them'.” Jo said smartly, as she stirred the sauce again and then checked on the pasta.

“I imagine there will be a lot of hand signals. Complicated ones.” Sam said dryly, earning a chuckle from Bobby, a downright smug grin from Ellen and a dirty look from Jo. He grinned at her unrepentantly, before he turned to Ellen and waggled Mary on his knee at her, “Ellen – I don't think Castiel is a crazy murdering hobo. He seems … he seems like a guy who's had it rough, and is just looking for someplace safe.”

“Thank you, Sam.” Ellen held out her hands, and Sam put Mary Ellen in them. Ellen curled her granddaughter close to her, and said, “And your brother may be an ex-con, but I think he's just looking for a place of his own.” She gave her daughter a sideways look, “And I think any of us should be casting stones, when we don't know the full story. On either one of them.”

Jo sighed, and waggled her fingers expressively, before grousing, “When you're looking for the murderous hand-signals? Look for something like that. Here, give me Mary, I'll make sure she doesn't need a change. Sam, honey, keep an eye on the sauce?”

“Sure.” Sam turned back to Ellen, “I'm sad they didn't come to dinner. Maybe if certain people got to know them better?” He gave his wife a wry look, and she stuck her tongue out at him as she walked briskly out of the kitchen, “There wouldn't be so many trust issues.”

Ellen gave Sam a faintly baffled look, “I … can't argue with that, but when Jo didn't call me back, I assumed you took the better part of not getting into a fight, and decided not to let them come.”

“What are you talking about – I asked Jo to ask you to invite Dean –“ Sam stopped, and his eyes narrowed at the same time Ellen's did with abrupt realization.

Together, they called out, “Jooooooooooooo?”

The only answer they got was Jo's footsteps moving swiftly up the stairs.

Sam looked at Ellen. Ellen looked at Sam. They both looked at Bobby.

Bobby sighed and pulled himself to his feet. “I'll just watch the sauce while you two go gang up on her, shall I?”

******************

Another Monday, another drive into Hutchinson with Wesson, and Dean finally had a paycheck so he put on his, 'We're not discussing this' look when Wesson protested him buying him gas and coffee. Fuck that shit – Wesson may be a lawyer sent from Heaven or Paradise or maybe just Stanford but Dean would be damned if he didn't start kicking in his share. Wesson didn't have to drive him back and forth, he could have just put Dean down at the bus stop and called it a fucking day, but Wesson was there, for a month now, giving Dean rides whenever he asked for him.

So Wesson got Starbucks and he got gasoline and he was going to shut up and like it, damnit.

They're on their way into Hutchinson proper, and Dean was shifting uncomfortably in his seat because Jesus, as much as he liked Sundays and how he and Castiel christen almost every room in the house with fantastic fucking sex while the Singers were at church then Sunday dinner, Monday always feels like he's been rung out like a rag. A well-sated rag, but still.

"So." Wesson says slowly, dressed neat as a pin in his dress slacks and white shirt and red tie. His suit jacket was hanging in the back, as organized as the rest of this scary sensible automobile.

Dean expected this so. It came up a lot, while Wesson tried to find something to talk to him about. Usually he grunted and ignored the string of hopeful little 'So' segueway intros -- but he was in a pretty good mood. He had money in his pocket, coffee next to him, and an impressive hickey from Castiel on his inner thigh. Besides, Wesson was a damned good kid, all things considered. Dean looked sideways at him, and kind of hoped Sammy had turned out as well. Steady, happy, healthy, with a good heart and generosity so bountiful, it was almost stupid.

He let out a mocking annoyed sigh, before he quirked up a half-smirk in Wesson's direction, drawling out, "So -- how was your weekend, Wesson? Sunday dinner all right?"

Wesson's eyebrows raised, and a pleased smile slipped over his face. "Yeah, actually. I mean - it was the usual family craziness." His eyes were on the road, but they slipped sideways towards Dean. "You probably think with a family as small as ours, it can't get that crazy."

"I've met most of your family, besides your baby girl." Dean said dryly, kicking back his feet. "I can say I don't find it that much of a stretch."

"Well, heh, fair." Wesson's smile became wry, and there was silence for a moment. Dean watched as the other man wet his lips nervously, twice, and try to say something to him, but fail. Twice. Finally Wesson cleared his throat and said with a forced sort of cheer, "So, ah, how was your Sunday? What did you and Castiel get up to?"

"Well, we did what we usually do. Got up, made ourselves breakfast. Spend the first part of the morning doing the chores Ellen leaves us." Dean paused, and out of one half out of curiosity - the other half out of pure perverse attitude - added innocently as Wesson picked up his coffee cup for a sip, "And when that's done, we have lots of rampant man-sex together."

He had to give it up for Wesson. Man knew how to keep his gag reflex under control. He only choked on the coffee instead of spitting it all over his windshield. Dean was feeling generous, so he leaned over and patted the other man on the back firmly so the coffee finally went down the right pipe.

Wesson swallowed, gasped, muttered, "Son of a bitch!" under his breath before he glared over at Dean, "You know, you're kind of a jerk, Dean." Dean tilted his head back and laughed, and Wesson glared at him another minute before he started snorting a few chuckles through his nose. Wesson put his eyes back on the road, but he did slide a look back to Dean, and his gaze was curious but not condemning. "Really? You and Castiel, huh? I guess it makes sense."

Dean gave him a wary glance, but eased at the openness of Wesson's expression, the bright look in the other man's eyes, "It's not like I'm taking Cas to prom, Wesson. We just ... uh, heh." He cleared his throat and smiled leeringly. "Do some work around the house, and then some on each other. It's no big thing."

"Okay, one, TMI, man! Seriously!" Wesson made a face like he was sucking on a lemon, again, and Dean grinned widely. Wesson arched an eyebrow at him. "Two - 'Cas'? I think it's a bigger thing than you realize."

"What? From a nickname?" Dean said - but suddenly he wasn't so sure himself. Wasn't that sure when he said it either - fuck? What was this?

"Dean." Wesson gave him a sideways look of, 'come the fuck on, man.' "Seriously. You call Bobby, 'sir', Ellen 'ma'am'. You call my wife, to her utter frustration, 'Joanna Beth'. Hell, man, you won't even let me tell you my first name." Was that a wistful sigh coming from Wesson's lips? "Anyways - you gave him a nickname. A nickname, I might add, you say with considerable affection?"

Dean tapped his fingers on the armrest, brooding on that for a minute, and then decided, fuck it. "Yeah? So ... it's more than casual fucking."

Wesson suddenly broke out into the most evil smile possible, "Admit it. He's your boy-friend. There might be spooning in your future, and possibly, dates." His longer fingers wiggled on the steering wheel. "Ooooooooh."

Dean gave him the dirtiest look in his collection, but he couldn't help the smile curving around his face. He snorted, shaking his head, "You are one immature little bitch, you know that? What are you, thirteen?"

"Aw, Dean, does this mean you won't come over on Sunday and have a sleepover?" Wesson smirked, but after Dean chuffed a snort, the younger man's face became a touch more serious. "Really though - did you want to, you know, come over for Sunday dinner?"

Dean stared at Wesson for a long moment - thoughts flooding his brain. Things like, are you seriously the most decent human being on the planet? to Holy crap you really are trying to be my friend?, but what finally blurted out of his mouth was, "Won't your wife be pissed as Hell?"

"She wants you to come to dinner!" Wesson protested, and it was weird, but Dean could tell the guy was lying just by the way his gaze shifted down, and to the right.

"She does not. She thinks I'm a fucking thief, and that Cas is a fucking weirdo." Dean snorted, feeling a burst of anger for Castiel. Yeah, Dean was a carjacker, but she shouldn't be judging Cas just because he didn't talk... he internally winced. 'Cas' again, and what the hell was he jumping to the man's defense for? Just how deep was he in here, anyways?

Wesson's eyebrows suddenly furrowed, and he gave Dean another sideways look, but this one was more calculating. "So ... if Jo invited you, you'd come."

"In the extreme unlikelihood that that ever would happen... yeah, sure, why the hell not?" Dean said, suspicion rising again as Wesson started to smile.

"And you'd bring Cas?" Wesson added, as his eyes shifted from Dean to the road again.

"As what - a date?" Dean shifted uncomfortably. "Uh - only if she invited him too. I'm not leaving him hanging because your wife is - " He just managed not to say a bitch, because Wesson's eyes narrowed and his lips thinned, and he finished off with a, " - nervous about a guy who doesn't talk for his own goddamned reasons."

"Fair enough." Wesson said, a smile curving across his lips. "You're only coming if she invites you - and your boyfriend. I consider that an equitable agreement between two parties."

"Uh. Yeah." Dean gave Wesson another hard look. He knew Joanna Beth Singer-Wesson would sooner pull out her own fingernails then have him, or Cas - tiel in her house. What made Wesson so damned sure?

Dean was damn fucking curious to know.

*************************

"Got your note ...yeah, we're not having sex in here." Dean announced firmly, the moment he stepped into the Singer's barn that had been converted into a gardening shed slash mini-garage. He eyed all the sharp gardening implements, and equally pointy everyday tools, along with a few interesting tools he used himself in Bobby's garage, all hanging on fairly pointy looking hooks. The floor was hard-packed dirt, rocks, and small pebbles. Even the hayloft was absent of soft, kind of scratchy hay for messing around on. In fact, this entire place was more, 'You shall not have sex' than a church. At least in a church you wouldn't have to worry about something sharp going into something soft.

He flicked his gaze over to Cas - who sat straddling the Singer's riding mower, in snug, torn jeans, a blue plaid shirt Dean was sure the man had 'borrowed' from him, rolled up to show off strong arms and narrow wrists, buttoned up to the center of his chest. His dark hair was mussed, and sweat clung lightly to his throat, down the hollows of his throat. He was stubble free, blue eyes bright and curious on Dean, and Dean swallowed, then regained his composure as he pointed with one finger towards the other man. "And most definitely not on the mower. I don't know what you think will happen on that thing, but those blades are fucking dangerous to my anatomy. Especially my favorite part of it."

Cas stared at him for a long moment, before he leaned down and pulled up the toolbox that was sitting at his left side, just out of Dean's view. He hauled it up, put it in his lap, then looked pointedly from the toolbox, then down to the mower. One eyebrow arched up.

Embarrassment flushed Dean's face, right to the tips of his ears. "Oh." He rubbed the back of his neck, and moved over to the other man, taking the tools from him and mumbling, "Well, you could have just wrote you were being mechanically deficient again."

Castiel gave him one of his flat, disgruntled looks - brow drawn in, lips pressing in a firm line, looking like he'd like to give Dean a good thwack upside the head for his mouth. Those deep blues flashed, clearly stating, 'I am not mentally deficient, just because I don't know about engines.'

Dean smirked as he popped open the hood to the engine, "You just keep telling yourself that, Cas, and all I'm gonna keep thinking is 'toaster explosion'."

Cas waved one hand in irritation, and of all the ways Dean had seen that hand in motion - coaxing vegetables to grow, easily and competently nailing new roof tiles into place, flipping the pages of one of Dean's books slowly, or possessively sliding up Dean's bare thighs - Dean had to admit, he liked how Cas's hands talked best.

Now they slid dismissively through the air, with Castiel's aggravated (and kind of adorable) expression, as if to say, 'The toaster doesn't count. That was an anomaly of the highest order. Pop-tarts are stupid.' Then Cas paused, tilted his head as he mouthed a surprised and silent, 'Cas?'

The ears that were starting to cool down immediately burned bright red again as Dean suck his head over the motor and mumbled, "Yeah, Cas. Just a nickname. Y'know, something short and ... personal."

He worked in silence for a few embarrassed moments, but stopped when he felt Castiel's fingers threading through the hair at the back of his neck. He turned towards the other man, where he found those eyes on him. Soft, warm, filled with a quiet kind of wonder. Not unlike when Castiel came with a silent sigh - as if disbelieving something so great just happened to him. His dark head canted a little further, his entire body a hopeful question of, 'Personal?'

Dean found himself swallowing and nodding his head like an idiot. "Yeah ... personal like -- personal." He shrugged, looking at Castiel's knee, then up again, almost defiantly. "It's not that, you know, important. Or anything."

Castiel looked down himself, before looking deeply into Dean's face, his gaze peering intently as if looking for an answer to a question he hadn't asked yet. After a moment, Castiel's expression filled with hope, trepidation, a touch of fear and sadness, and a fire that almost made Dean say 'Screw It' to the 'no sex near pointy sharp things' rule.

Which of course was when the barn door banged open, and Dean nearly called Joanna Beth Singer-Wesson a name that would have gotten his mouth washed out with soap if Missouri had anything to say about it. For her part, Jo walked in slowly as if she was approaching a shoot-out, her arms crossed tightly over her chest, her voice more tart because she seemed nervous, "Oh, I'm sorry, did I interrupt your marriage proposal?"

Dean exhaled an annoyed breath as he pushed himself to his feet and brushed off his jeans with one brusque motion. He felt off-kilter, from going almost marshmellow at Cas to immediately hostile with Jo. He countered his confusion by glaring fiercely in the young woman's direction. "Is there something that you wanted, Joanna Beth?"

Jo's lips pressed thin, and her gaze slid from Dean to Cas, who appeared at Dean's side, a solid line of heat. She stared at them for a long, tense moment before she let out a breath of exasperation and stared at the high beamed ceiling of the barn. She spoke flatly, forcing the words out in an unwilling cadence. "Would. You. Two. Like. To. Come. To. Dinner. On Sunday?"

Dean felt his eyebrows raise and he looked over to Castiel - whose expression made those eyebrows raise even further. Castiel was outright glaring at Jo, and he had shifted so now that he was standing a little in front of Dean, a stance that screamed outright protectiveness. Dean felt surprise ripple through him, but he had to deal with one weirdass thing at a time. So he cleared his throat, and when the man turned towards him, Dean lifted one eyebrow in silence, then tilted his chin towards Jo. Castiel's full mouth scrunched up, but finally he sighed and shrugged in a, 'Why the hell not?' gesture.

Dean quirked up one corner of his own mouth in a faintly amused smile, that he allowed to shift to a smirk when he put his attention back on the nearly wary Joanna. He let that smirk grow as he drawlled. "Shouldn't you be adding a 'please' on there, Joanna Beth?"

Castiel made a noise. and Dean caught the hint of a smile. Jo, on the other hand, looked like she had just swallowed a lemon dipped in bleach, but she put on a huge sugar-fake smile as she clasped her hands together. "Oh pretty please, come to my party?"

Dean couldn't help it, he let out a quiet chuff of a laugh, to all of their surprise. He sighed heavily and waved his hand. "Yeah, fine. Tell Wesson he wins. We'll do dinner."

"Great." Jo sighed herself, heavy with both relief and aggravation. "I hope, sincerely, not to see the two of you before that." She turned to leave.

Hearing that, Dean couldn't stop himself. "Wait." When she stopped, he folded his own arms across his chest, giving her a piercing look. "Why are you doing this? You've made it pretty clear you don't like me - us, at all, and you trust us even less."

She paused, her brown eyes flooding with a sort of weary sadness, "Because my husband wanted me to."

Dean shook his head, his skeptism clear. "Man ... I seriously don't get that. At all. Okay, so Wesson's the nicest guy that ever lived and your parents are right behind him -- you don't trust us and with kinda good reason. So why? What makes Wesson right about us and you wrong?"

Jo tilted her blonde head, her mouth moving into a wry expression. "Probably doesn't make a lick of sense to you, does it?" She met Dean's gaze, her brown eyes suddenly glaring. "Well, when it does ... you'd better not let him down, Dean Winchester. You'd just better not." She pointed a finger at Dean, then at Castiel. "And the same goes for you, Castiel Novak, and my trusting mother.. Either one of you hurts my family, I swear -- the fires of Perdition will be a toasty comfort to the thunder I will bring down on you for hurting my family. There will be Hell to pay. I mean it." She strode towards the door, calling out behind her, "And don't you even think about being late to dinner!"

The door banged behind her, and Dean sighed as he looked back at Castiel, who was finally starting to un-tense. "Y'know, I keep thinking this place can't get any weirder." Cas gave him an unreadable look, before moving swiftly for the barn door. He left without looking back, leaving Dean in the stillness of the barn, gaping at his abrupt departure.

Dean stared after the other man for a long moment, before he sighed and rubbed his face. "For once, I'd seriously fucking like to be right."

*********************

It was hours later, when Dean finally got up the balls to put himself in front of Castiel's bedroom door. The repairs on the lawn mower had taken up the better part of the afternoon and Dean had been glad for the distraction. It gave him the chance to clear his head as only working on something complicated and mechanical could. If he couldn't figure out any of the crazy people around him, at least he could figure out why the engine wasn't engaging. Fuel-line problem solved, he decided it was time to tackle his, well, personal ones. He didn't know what the fuck had happened in the barn, but he was going to find out.

Shit, he was tense. More often than not, the two of them had simply met like the magnets you find on fridges - drawn inexplicably towards each other with the power of their attraction. Colliding with naked skin and want. Rarely did Castiel seek him out today like he had with a note - business before pleasure apparently - and Dean had never knocked on Castiel's door, looking for entry.

This was different, though. This was those waters Dean had feared to tread before, and now found himself sinking in, more and more by the minute. He wasn't sure what made him more edgy - the fact he let it happen, or the fact that he wasn't planning on stopping any time soon. Maybe, at all.

Ah, fuck it.

He knocked on the door, three times, then leaned on the door frame with one hand, the other stuffed into the pocket of his jeans. He studied the weard crosshatch pattern of enamel on the wooden floor beneath his feet until the doorknob started to turn, and Cas's face appeared. His gaze, first guarded, shifted to startled, and then a mixture inbetween. Dean felt all the spit in his mouth dry at that wary expression, and it was almost enough to for him turn around and walk away with a muttered, 'Nevermind'. Except Dean Winchester had never pussied out on anything - foster care, school, Missouri's death, even jail time. He hit it straight on and kept going. So he set his shoulders, looked almost defiantly back into that guarded look, his words blunt. "Can I come in?"

Castiel's lips moved together briefly, before he stepped backwards and slowly opened the door, just wide enough for Dean to come in, and then Castiel closed the door directly behind him. Dean looked around with a sort of shocked interest. He had, in all the time they had their 'thing', never been allowed inside of Castiel's inner sanctum. It felt important, in that way it felt important to come to Haven, Kansas - to accept Wesson's hospitality, or following Castiel that first night. He wasn't sure what to say, at a loss for words.

Not that there was much to comment on, but maybe ...maybe that was the real point. Castiel's room was just that - a room. He hadn't put anything on the shelves, no pictures of his family smiling at him. Nothing of his twin brother, his sister-in-law, his niece. Nothing of the older brother who still lived, or at least Cas hadn't said otherwise. In fact the only two things taking up space were in the closet - where a lone, beat up trenchcoat hung forlornly by itself, and a dufflebag that was bursting with clothes and other items. Everything Castiel needed to leave, put together and ready to go at a moment's notice.

Something Dean's stomach lurched, and twisted painfully.

He turned turned sharply toward Cas, his voice sharp, "You're not going anywhere, are you?"

Castiel frowned, and looked away for a moment, before he shook his head slowly. Which was a clear sign for 'No', but the underlying sense of it was, 'Not yet'. The feeling in Dean's gut churned, like an engine running on clogged oil.

He swallowed, hard, and stepped towards Castiel, his gaze never moving from the other man's bent head. "You .. you can't leave leave. Not yet."

Castiel titled his chin up, the light from the room's single lamp catching the shadows on his face, the dark blue hue of his conflicted gaze, and the lines of his body. All of him asking, almost fearfully, 'Why?'

Dean's teeth clicked nervously together ans he tried to find an answer, that wouldn't give away the fucking farm, even if he knew what kind farm he was worried about in the goddamned first place. Something that wouldn't sound like Dean was a step away from getting a vagina transplant, or like one of those girlyass CW shows. Something good, something real. How the Hell did people in books do this shit? He couldn't fucking imagine Sydney Carlton getting tongue-tied. Hell, he must have seen a million stupid fucking films in prison about this shit - how could he forget every single one of them in half a second?

"You still have my book." He said awkwardly and swiftly, making Castiel's eyebrows raise. Dean felt his flush coming back on again, but he pushed on. "I mean, dude, s'just rude, taking off with a man's book." His mind rolled as his started to pace around the small bedroom. "And ... and you can't just read one Vonnegut book. It's the same damned thing as potato chips - you can't just have one. You'll miss the whole ...flavor thing." He turned suddenly, and jabbed a finger in Castiel's direction, "Also, you've never lent me a single book. Not a fucking one. How about a little return action there, friend?"

Castiel was staring at him, his expression intent in that way that almost made him seem like a really hot Vulcan. Minus the ears, naturally. Like any moment, Dean expected him to mutter 'Fascinating' under his breath and break out one of those little scanner deals ....

Castiel took two steps towards Dean, closing the distance between them so abruptly that Dean almost yelped, 'Whoa, Cas, personal space!', but he didn't have the time because Castiel's mouth was colliding with his like a car crash. In giddy relief, all Dean's thoughts turned away from edging away from the slightly smaller man to pulling him closer, flush against him. He slid his hands to his favorite - well, third favorite - place to grab Cas; his hips. He dug his fingers in and held on as Castiel pressed up against him completely, body warming up considerably under his clothes. That full mouth Dean liked to kiss, to suck, and to even fuck with his tongue was even hotter.

He pushed back with his entire body, angling them both towards Castiel's bed, his hands moving off of Castiel's hips, up his sides, down his arms, to circle around his wrists, as he teased Castiel into those soft, growling moans, with the movement of his lips, the arch of his body over the body in front of him. The back of Castiel's legs hit the bed and Dean nudged him downwards, following as he lifted Castiel's hands above his head and pinned him to the bed. Cas's chin bounced briefly off of Dean's mouth, causing him to swear against Castiel's skin. It didn't stop him from ducking his head against Castiel's jaw, earning another appreciative sound, and he loosened his grip on Castiel's wrists, letting the other man know he could get loose whenever he wanted. He wasn't sure how he knew Castiel might start to struggle if pinned down too long -- but then again, how could they understand each other so fucking perfectly? Like now.

It looked like Castiel was always running. Made sense that he was always moving away from something permanent -finished room, finished life. What didn't click was why? Or why Dean cared if Castiel ran from him.

Suddenly the words came out, easy as pie, as he pressed his mouth up to Castiel's ear. "Stay." He slid himself over Castiel completely, then tilted his head back so green eyes could fix plaintively on blue. "Stay ... with me."

Castiel's eyes flickered, emotions warring within briefly. Then he softened, all of him, his entire body going to liquid heat as he nodded his head slowly at first, but with more fervent promise. He craned up his neck, stealing Dean's relieved sigh with a slow kiss, awkward at that angle and still sexy as fucking Hell, as teeth and stubble scraped over Dean's mouth. Dean muttered approval, losing himself in the rough and ready passion of the man underneath him, and determined to give Castiel something amazing. Something that would blow his mind with pleasure and need.

Something worth staying for.

*****************
Continues here...

Oh FANDOM.

2009-12-20T05:06:31Z

fandomsecrets fills me with SO MUCH CRAZY 'what the fuck is wrong with you?' it is amazing.

It has in fact EARNED the Simon Tam Icon of WTFBBQJAYNEBEAR?

Okay kids, let's sit down with Aunt Wren, and I will tell you not How I Met Your Parents, but rather, a very simple fact of life.

Just because I prefer to watch a man angel, and a man hunter, have awesome crazy interspecies sex ... does not mean that I do not have a serious femalewood problem when Sam Winchester goes around without a shirt.

Just because I write - A LOT - about a man and his angel and how their love is so non!verbal, does not mean I sit there and think of ways for the Sasquatch to die in a horrible death that involves fireants, Ruby's left teat and ... I don't know, penguins.

I'll admit it. I'll say RIGHT HERE OUTLOUD.

I'm a Dean/Cas shipper.

And I fucking love Sam.

I love that kid. I love his Hellproblems and OHGODIENDEDTHEWORLD problems and his dirty!demon sex and his floppy hair and his struggle with his humanity. I love the fact that he still needs Dean's approval, even when he's pretending he doesn't. I love how he's trying to be a man, instead of a victim. I love his puppy face, and God Damn It, one of my favorite moments in Supernatural is STILL Sam with his one sock and loss of a shoe face. Classic.

Dean!girl that I am, I love Sam fiercely.

So I'm going to use his icons. I'm going to write him in fanfic. I'm going to read Sam/Gabriel and Sam/Chuck and Sam/Sarah and every single Sam/Jess AU. Why?

'Cuz I like Sam.

And? AND?

Just because I don't see Dean/Sam? Does not mean I am out for Wincest blood. Some of my best friends are Wincesters. We taunt each other with Dean/Sam/Castiel sandwiches of lurve. Why? Because we're cool, and we remember the number one commandment of Shipping.

1. Thou Shalt Not Be A Douchebag about OTP.

So stick that in your 'ocean of feelings' icon!failure?

And smoke it.

Well ... I was going to post some fanfiction in thanks...

2009-12-13T18:10:56Z

But I have yet to have a laptop available to me, SO...

THANK YOU FOR THE LJ COOKIES, WONDERFUL FRIENDS!!

I'll have some fanfiction posted soon, promise.

<3<3<3<3.

HUH! Hidden Gold!

2009-12-08T04:47:57Z

So awhile back I wrote a series of stories based off the Doctor Who universe and the ever awesome Master/Lucy Saxon pairing. It was fun, it was awesome, and I loved writing a relationship based on THREE FRIGGING EPISODES. They were, after all, Epic Messed Up OTP.

Well, what with my laptop being broken, I had to go back to ye old desktop, and you know what I found? Another story in that universe - for the Saxons - That I never, ever posted. It's even finished! All the way.

My mind, it is boggled.

So, here's my question. Any DW fans out there still reading this thing want me to post it, or shall I simply keep it to myself and hug it because it was a damned fine addition?

Cast your vote now!

Y'know...

2009-11-28T05:44:20Z

So a few days ago, my poor laptop crapped out on me. The fan was overloaded with nasty stuff, and it succumbed to pure on gross. I got a new fan, I'm having it replaced but it'll take about a week to get here from Hong Kong and I'm sadly on borrowed interwebs.

Now while this means I can't get a lot of done - my resume being one of them, GRRRR, this means I can't do things that I enjoy. Namely, finishing my AU!Dean and Cas story, and working on the last part of Plan -- and of course, working on my new crack Supernatural fic for December. (Super, super crack. I blame gembat.)

Why is this aggravating to me? WELL, because the Supernatural fandom has become recently saturated with a lot of really dark, angsty stuff. And don't get wrong, I like angsty stuff as much as the next girl -- I watch Supernatural, remember? Still, it's around Christmas - our hiatus is a long one - and I was looking forward to writing something cheerful for all of us.

It didn't become a burning desire though, until I read a fic recently that just ... it made my blood boil. I was literally angry, which is weird, although I do love a good emotional response -- the characterizations were so off they just made my teeth grit together.

SO. Suffice to say. When I return to the land of the Writing fulltime? Expect a lot of happy-funny-good-time endings, folks. I kind of need them to get the Acid Taste Of Hate out of my mouth.

Ahahahhahahah.

2009-11-22T07:35:09Z

So I'm wandering around tracy's friends page for shits, giggles and fanfic, and I come across rogueslayer452's ChicagoCon report. Read it here - I don't know the girl personally but she's the kind of fan I LOVE to hear about. Cool, excited about our SPN boys and super, super nice. Plus, she wrote down her questions and back-ups? Winner.

However, not the point of this entry, teehee.

The point is, as I'm scrolling down and contemplating leaving a quick little note, saying, 'Hey, not sure if we know each other, but blah blah, you're cool', I suddenly spot an icon. And I blink. And I blink again.

And yes. tracy is sporting an icon of her MILKSHAKE DATE with Misha, and proclaiming it to be her OTP.

Seriously? After seeing that icon and reading all about it and SEEING the con video?

I'm on-board that OTP train.

Misha/Tracy/milkshake is next, kids.

Heart you guys. You make me happy in my happy place.

And my brain keeps revolving around and around...

2009-11-17T07:21:30Z

Seriously, don't tag this unless you're in that fangirl part of Supernatural fandom, or you just won't get it.

So Chicago Con was this weekend - and it looks like my flist had a good, if not a dramatic time of things. The boys (Jared, Jensen, Misha, Richard, Rob, and Jim) were apparently gentlemen of good humor beyond compare and the ladies all kicked much ass. I was sad I couldn't afford to go -- but there were so many awesome convideos that I feel like I haven't missed a moment, really. The interconnectness of the world now makes it possible for me, sitting in my room in Lansing, MI, to be there in Chicago while the panels were running and the pictures were flashing. It's a weird and bittersweet sort of experience, but I don't begrudge any of my friends it. I'm glad they had a great time.

The problem I'm having now, though, is the thought that Misha Collins is (might be?) gliding his way through our fandom world, like a ... well, like a feather on the wind. I don't even know if he does - or if he knows what goes on really, but there's just that feeling of tooclosetooclose. I don't want to say Misha can't walk around in our world - but there are parts of it where it's like ... it's like the teacher you've had a crush on for years finding that note where you said he was hot and you want to have his babies.

It's innocent, it's lust without real intent, but still ...embarrassing.

I've got a crush on Misha Collins. I know I'm not alone. I know I don't mind him knowing. I do know that me writing fanfiction about his character is like - having another crush on someone who is not real, which I understand. I just feel like - I don't know ... like he doesn't get it. It's not that we're ashamed of what we write, or say. It's just fiction, or artwork, or sheer admiration -- but it's pictures on the wind. We're not getting paid for it, we're not garnering fantastic jobs because of it, it's just something we love to do. I don't think he'd understand that we're not out there to be - well - Becky. We just want to show love in the only way we know how.

I don't know - would he get that? He was a total sweetheart to tracy. But he's just one guy, one actor. What about Jensen or Jared or anyone else? I feel like fandom keeps being misinterpreted - not sometimes without merit, but still. Those of us out there who love our actors and our actresses because of the roles they play. But those wise enough know that it's not a real sort of love, a love that can bind and hurt. Just an innocent flirtation between friends.

Well, there, got that out of my system. I'd friendslock this, but eh. Let it be said out in the world. Maybe now I can focus.

Yeah, more Supernatural fanfiction

2009-11-14T23:36:32Z

Title: The Five Year Plan [4/5]
Author: Commodoresexual
Rating: PG-13 for cursing and male/male action.
Genre and/or Pairing: Dean/Cas, Sam, Chuck, MC/MC
Spoilers: AU! of 5.04, spoilers for 5.08
Warnings: Language, blasphemy, male on male, and , where I give a nod to one of my favorite authors, entangled_now. Trust me, if you know her stuff, you'll know which one. I salute you, my friend!
Word Count: 27,000 + and still going...
Summary: It was the worst year he had never lived.

After four years, it was starting to become obvious to Sam and Cas that Dean was hiding something from them. There were all the usual tells, of course. Glaring at them silently when they asked. Drinking a lot more than usual. Abrupt changes of topic – Dean's favorite way of derailing Sam's, “What is with you?” with a side of Castiel's narrowed suspicious eyes - was still, “Hey, did I ever tell you about the time I took Cas to a whorehouse?”

That had Sam choking on air and Castiel actually turned the cutest fucking shade of pink. Then Dean just sat back as Sam put his hands over his ears chanting, “TMI! TMI!” while Castiel was blushing and growling at Dean, “Stop threatening to tell such a lurid tale!”

It was fucking awesome, and it worked every single time.

That was of course, when the years were young and fresh, practically virginal. When he could get away with embarrassing the hell out of his baby brother and his angel for a distraction because he honestly didn't need that many of them. Coming on to the fourth year, though...

Ye-ah.

2013. The year the angels decided to finally pack it up and leave. The year Castiel lost his Grace, broke his foot and began the long slide into drugs, booze, and slutty ass woman because faith in God and Dean wasn't enough. The year that Sam finally broke down, and took the Devil as his own personal angel dick to his meat-suit condom, let the Devil take him and use him. It was, as far as Dean was concerned, the worst year of his life that he had never lived. Worse than the year before the Deal. Worse than the first year in Hell. Worse than the year following of the Sixty Six seals.

Because as shitty as those years had been, at the end of them there was still Sam, still loving him, still being his little brother. Even if Dean had to dig deep to find the stupid little shit, even if he had almost lost him to Ruby and the Devil, Sam managed to stay back, to hold on, to find himself again. Because he was Sam Winchester, and he loved Dean so much he was willing to toss himself into a Plan he didn't totally believe in, befriend an angel that he had hated, apologize for mistakes made, and mean it.

He had Sam, and now, he had Castiel too. But at the end of that year, that year that didn't exist, he'd lost them both, and he was sorry, but that was not fucking happening. He wasn't above admitting to himself, at least, that he was a needy son of a bitch. He needed his people. If he couldn't keep them safe, couldn't keep them sane and not broken in the way they could end up – shattered to fragments, then what good was he? He suddenly got his other Older self a lot better, in the first month of the fourth year. He wasn't sure what was worse, the anticipation that he could fail, or the sick worry that maybe - he already had.

To say Dean was a little stressed was kind of understating it by like a million fucking degrees, and unfortunately, that led to a series of, well, he could only call them 'stupid fucking idiot Dean moments'. He'd had a few of those over the years – rushing in when he shouldn't, saying things that ended up getting him slammed into walls or giving him stage four stomach cancer, making decisions based on pure Winchester stubbornness than anything else. Some of the moments he'd regretted sorely and others he knew if he had to do it all over again, he'd still do them, without hesitation, because it was the right thing to do.

Castiel would tell him that it was because he was Righteous. Sam would tell him to stop trying to be Batman.

What he was doing, though, certainly wasn't good. Some of it could be classified as funny, but honestly? The day was coming when the joke was not going to hold up, and with each passing moment, Dean was sure the questions were coming. He could see it in Sam's increasing bitchier bitch faces, and the further tilting of Castiel's head. He was going to have to tell them the truth, about the future that could happen, despite all his best efforts.

He just wasn't sure what the truth was going to do for them, besides tear them apart again and he couldn't deal with it. Not now. Not this year. So he kept his mouth shut, and in typical Dean Winchester fashion, started making bigger and better fucking mistakes that were just bright flares in the proverbial sky that something here just wasn't right.

*****************

Huge mistake number one was just downright embarrassing. Word had come in from the Inner Circle – there was something particularly divine going down at St. Mary's Parochial College. Dean was heavily disappointed to find there wasn't a single plaid skirt'd co-ed to be found, but considering the fact they needed to blend in? Yeah, probably for the best. The only problem was Cas, and while Dean had finally managed to get him into comfortable clothing for when he decided he was staying over with them, the suit and the trenchcoat remained. Dean had no problem with the coat, but the suit was going to get them all kind of questions they didn't need, and while normally they'd just leave Castiel on the sidelines for the 'talking normal to people' part – Castiel was their holy radar. So after four years, Dean and Sam took the angel shopping.

Well, more like Goodwilling it – they just needed to get Cas a pair of jeans that fit, a shirt and maybe some boots. Goodwill was cheap and more importantly, since both he and Sam shopped their regularly, Castiel would fit in with them perfectly. Besides, even Almost-Not-Quite-End-Of-The-World time, Goodwill remained open. There were shortages, sure, amongst other crazy shit, but Heaven and Hell couldn't really get the party started without the Winchesters, and the Winchesters were sending along their regrets with both middle fingers extended. The world continued on, suckier than normal, but the lakes weren't boiling over and cats and dogs weren't doing it. It wasn't the end, and they still had time.

Goodwill was a little barer than normal though, but Dean was used to that shit. He was rifling through men's jeans, trying to find something slightly smaller than his own size, while Sam led Castiel through shirts. Stood to reason, with jeans, Castiel's hips were more slender than his own. Except jeans were all different styles, so Dean had to curve his hands around the jeans themselves, seeing if they would fit close to his approximation for where they would hang if, say, Dean had his hands around Castiel's waist, hips, or, ah, ass and groin.

Christ, he was spending way too much time visualizing Castiel's lower regions.

He was saved from further contemplation of anything below Castiel's waistline by the hilarious conversation Sam and Castiel were having, one aisle over.

Sam was laughing at something he had found. “Oh man – this suit – this suit is seriously straight out of the disco ball era. I have to show Dean, he is going to crack up ...Cas, what the hell is that?”

“It is a shirt, Sam.” Castiel said seriously, as seriously as he would have told Sam about a impending demon attack.

“Uhm – yeah – Cas? That's a woman's shirt. You can't wear that.” Sam said firmly.

Dean grinned – he could almost see Castiel's head tipping to one side, blue eyes confuddled. “Why, Sam?”

“Well – because – ah … unless you're a cross-dresser? Guys don't wear women's clothing.” Dean held in another snort of laughter. Give Castiel ten seconds ...

“I am not a man. I am an angel.” Yep, saw that one coming from a mile away.

Sam sighed, and Dean felt a twinge of sympathy for his brother. “Yes – but you're a man-shaped angel and men-shaped-angels don't wear – you know what? We'll show it to Dean and see what he thinks. Dean!”

Dean cleared his throat, still flipping through jeans, feeling himself grin despite his best efforts. “One aisle over, Sammy.” Straight face, he had to remember a straight face.

He listened to the clomping of Sam's monster sized feet – amazing how Sam could sneak up on anyone with those boats at the end of his legs, and the gentle patter of Castiel's loafers coming around the aisle as they approached him. He only looked up from the jeans when Sam said, “Dean, would you please help me? He's your angel – I don't know how to explain gender appropriate wear to divine beings.”

Dean grinned, but that grin slipped away fast when he looked at the suit, hanging innocuously off of a heavy wooden hanger that Sam held, that perfectly white suit that looked like it belonged to some tele-evangelist...

I like you, Dean. I see what the other angels see in you.

His stomach twisted, and his heart fell as he slid his gaze reluctantly over to Castiel's shirt – an ugly, baggy pale blue thing, that looked like it had been kidnapped from a Renaissance fair, or a hippie commune...

I thought you'd gotten over trying to label me.

“Dean?” Castiel's voice snapped him out of his fugue, because he could hear the concern in it, and he tore his gaze away from those clothes to meet his angel's eyes. His angel's still clear and steady blue eyes.

“Are you okay?” Sam's voice sounded cautious, and Dean looked over at his brother, still mute as he stared into Sam's - Sam's brown eyes, that were going wide with worry. “Jesus, Dean, you look like you're going to be sick. What's wrong?”

Dean didn't answer right away, just swallowed his panic and grabbed both pieces of clothing out of their hands and tossed them away without caring where they went. He turned back to find Sam and Castiel staring at him like he had suddenly gone insane – which was kinda true and leaning more towards it with his next actions – which were to point a finger at them and growl, “No white suits! No hippie girly shirts! Ever! You two hear me? Fucking never... ever!”

Sam looked at Castiel, who looked back at him, and finally they both looked back at Dean. Castiel spoke slowly, “Very well, Dean. We will find other clothing, if that is what you want.”

“That is exactly what I frigging want, Cas. Yes. Follow the angel, Sam.” Dean exhaled, heavily. “Just … no woman's clothing. Seriously, Cas, we're trying to fit in. Plaid will work. Or a different colored button-down. Just … nothing … like that other stuff. Please.”

“Yes, Dean.” Castiel said, and damn the man if he wasn't speaking in what Dean could only describe as a soothing tone. He took Sam by the arm, who was still looking at his brother warily, “Come on, Sam. Help me find plaid.”

“Yeah. Okay. Right.” Sam said quietly, and he left with Castiel, but he knew that look on Sam's face. He saw the intent way Castiel was watching him, like the days when he woke up from nightmares of Hell. Watchful, caring, sympathetic.

And he knew, the moment they got into the car after this little shopping trip gone bizarre, the first words out of Sam's mouth were, “Dean – what the hell was going on back there?”

So he fixed one quick hard look on his brother, then to the angel just in case he thought of jumping in, and said, “Nothing at all. I just hate disco-hippy-shit clothing.”

Then he turned the volume on the tape-deck as high up as he could, to drown out any further conversation.

********************

The second Huge Ass Mistake was downright hilarious, and even if Dean had to laugh at himself, hell, at least it was actually funny.

It was about four months in, and after a week-long bout in Trickster – no, no, the Archangel Whinyass Gabriel's latest fun-house of terrors, or rather one stupid ass television show after the next which the brothers had to endure. Add into that big brother Gabriel had some kind of issue with Castiel? So he kept throwing the other angel into walls and duct taping his mouth shut and wouldn't let Castiel get them the fuck out of TV Hell.

Altogether, it was a suckyass fucking time of it. Hell, they didn't even figure out the Trickster was an angel until Dean had taken a wild guess about how he knew Cas, and captured Gabriel in a circle of holy oil. Right in the middle of an episode of The Magician, and man, as much as he hated crime shows and stage magicians? The guy who played the Magician was a frigging magnetic personality. He liked him almost as much as he liked Dr. Sexy and hooboy, did he love -

Uh. Yeah. Not the point.

Point was, he captured the Trick – Gabriel, gave him the good verbal bitchslap he deserved, with his 'Stop beating us up because you're not willing to man up to your family, and PS, leave my damned angel alone!' speech, and got himself, Sam and Castiel out of that abandoned warehouse as soon as possible. Looking over the other two as they all but collapsed into the Impala, Dean made up his mind. They were taking a week's hiatus from all this End of the World crap. They were tired, emotionally battered and in Cas's case? Physically owned as well. They needed to recharge, reorganize and take a few days to sleep and lick their wounds. Metaphorically speaking. If Dean was going to lick Castiel, he wasn't going to lick wounds.

...or not. Lick. At all. He was not licking Castiel. Ah Hell. These days, Dean was having serious problems getting his brain to make the right connections when it came to the angel.

At any rate, safest place they could think to go was the one place the angels or Lucifer wouldn't look for them, and that was with Chuck. It was one hellva drive, but Dean drank a lot of coffee. Castiel didn't sleep, so he sat up front while Sam attempted to curl his huge body in the backseat. After a minute or two of shifting around, Sam slumped out, dead to the world.

It was a quiet, and from Dean's perspective, tense drive for the first few hours. Castiel didn't say a word, just stared out the window, which was pretty normal, but it was the sort of silence that made Dean wonder what was going on in the angel's head. So, in typical Dean blunt fashion, he decided to just come right out and ask. “Hey – Mr. Smiley. How about you slide some of that oh-so-obvious cheer my way, tell me what the hell is going on in that divine head of yours?”

He flicked his gaze sideways as Castiel turned slowly to him. After a moment, the angel finally spoke, “That makes two brothers – two archangels – who have told me my Father is dead.”

Ah. Aaaaaaaah. Dean sighed softly, before looking back at Castiel, his tone wry, “Cas, please tell me you're not listening to Mr. Feathery Whinypants. The guy is a douchebag – almost a big a douchebag as Zach, or Raph.” He shook his head as he put his gaze back on the road, “I don't know what's worst about your family – that the fact that they all seem to have the genetic trait of Asshole – or … no, really, the worst is that they really are entire Host of Heavenly Asshats.” He snorted, “Don't hear that verse in the 'Hallelujah' chorus, tell you that much.”

“... You either are trying to make me laugh, or punch you in the nose, Dean.” Castiel observed, and Dean could hear the wryness of his tone, and a sideways look told him that the angel was fighting off a smile.

“Does that mean you do want to hear the verse I just made up? Well duh, of course you do.” Dean said, putting cheer in his voice as he sang in a low tenor, “May the douchebags stay on their fat ass-es in Hea-ven, for-ever, and ev-er....”

“Dean.” Castiel hissed at him, but the angel's eyes were lighter and his mouth was definitely curved into that smile of his – that sly thing Dean liked to call 'Dean Winchester's personal angel smile'.
After five years it wasn't just a lifting of the corners of the mouth, nope. Fully evolved brilliant smile – elusively there for ten seconds, then gone again.

Dean grinned back, unrepentant. The drive became silent again, after that, but a familiar and comfortable one. If Dean was being honest with himself, it was the only real peace he ever felt these days – these long, still moments with Cas. Two hours later they finally reached Chuck's place, and Dean was so damned tired he was fucking certain when Chuck opened the door and greeted them with his familiar sheath of papers, he was looking at three Chucks, which was why his comment of, “Dude, three books at once?” probably only made sense to him.

Sam's broad hands were pushing him firmly through the door, and to the nearest sofa, and his voice sounded miles away, “He'd been driving for nearly 15 hours straight, Chuck. He just needs sleep.”

“I'll keep watch.” Castiel's voice swam towards Dean, and he turned towards it automatically, but Sam still had him, was still steering right towards the softness of a long sofa, and he fell into it, face first with a happy groan. He felt his shoes slide off by powers beyond his control, and something warm covered his shoulders. After that, he surrendered to sleep.

He was brought near wakefulness only twice – once he heard Sam, Cas, and Chuck talking about something, and Sam and Chuck talking amongst themselves. There was the sound of the front door opening, then closing again, and it was silent once more. Dean let himself drift back into dreams.

The second time came with the front door opening and closing again, Castiel's soft voice briefly. Dean shifted, and the blanket covering him shifted as well. He turned to face the kitchen, and saw Castiel, leaned against one counter, looking out the window into the late morning sunshine. The sun was kind to his angel, marking each sharp line with light, softening the man's features, the lines of his body that were free of the traditional trenchcoat and even the suit jacket today. The white shirt gleamed, for Christ's sake.

The angel shifted, slightly, and something rattled. He tilted his head, careful as any deer, and plucked up something that had been laying by his hand, and lifted it up into the light. It was an orange prescription bottle, and Castiel tilted his head back and forth, apparently fascinated by the pills within.

Dean was on his feet before he even realized it, and across the kitchen just as Castiel looked up and said his name. He grabbed the bottle out of Castiel's hand and swung over to the sink, growling, “The hell is the matter with you, angel?”

“Dean – I do not think -” Castiel began to say, but Dean turned around and cut him off with a gesture.

“No, you seriously don't think! I know you haven't been around for inclusion of the afterschool special, but c'mon Cas! Some time in the past five years you've been wandering around in Jimmy's meatsuit, someone must have shown you a 'Don't Do Drugs' commercial! They're thirty seconds long, and there are a lot of frying eggs!” Dean grunted as he tried opening the bottle.

“Frying … eggs? I do not understand what that has to do with anything about narcotic abuse, Dean.” He could practically hear Cas's frown. “Which this is not.”

“It has to do with the brain, and how drugs makes them all, fried-like and looking like breakfast.” Dean grunted as he twisted the cap. Stupid … childproof ...ah-hah! He huffed out a breath of triumph as the cap came off, and he started dumping the pills down the drain. “And if it isn't, well then, I guess I got here just in time before you started down the path of hippie shirts and orgies! And there's not going to be orgies, Cas!”

He turned on the faucet, and for good measure, the garbage disposal to face a surprised Castiel at his elbow. Dean breathed out, and grabbed the angel by the shirt. “That's not the way to go, Cas. Never. I know it's hard right now – I know we've been looking for God for years now and there's still jack and shit, but don't lose hope. Jesus, not you. Not you.”

Castiel looked startled, like a bird that just banged into a window that he didn't know was there, and his rough voice was gentle, “Dean ...”

“No, Cas, listen to me. I don't care what those jack-off older brothers of yours say. I don't care how many times Sam gives me bitchface for all this crazy. God is out there – finding him is part of The Plan and you're going to find him, we're going to find him. You believe that, and I believe it because you believe. You're … you're my fucking faith here, man. I may not believe in your Dad but I've always believed in you.” Dean gripped that white shirt, that immobile body, hoped his words sank in.

Castiel wet his dry lips, voice quiet, “You believe in me?”

“Yes, you stupid feathery sonnvabitch.” Dean searched Castiel's face, gave him another shake. “So don't do this. Don't walk out on me. I'm not - I'm not walking out on you. Not ever.”

Castiel nodded his head slowly. “I will not, Dean. I will stand by you.” The angel's hand slipped to his shoulder, “I will not leave.”

Dean let out a breath he didn't know he had been holding in. “Good … good.” He stepped back and rubbed his mouth, full to the fucking brim on relief.

“Dean?” Castiel's voice was hesitant. “I do – one question?”

“Yeah, Cas?” Dean looked back towards his angel, who had his head tilted at him, and then at the empty pill bottle by the sink.

The angel seemed to struggle for a moment, before he looked up at Dean with an almost regretful look, “What are we going to tell Chuck about you destroying his allergy medication?”

Dean stared at him for a moment, struck completely silent, before he let out a, “Sonvabitch!” and grabbed at the empty pill bottle. Claritin. Prescription strength allergy medicine. For fucking hayfever and he had thought the angel was going to get high off of this stuff? All this shit would do would be to keep the angel from getting fucking congested. He groaned. “...Chuck is going to kill me.”

“That seems unlikely. Chuck lacks the muscle mass to be a serious threat to you.” Castiel walked over to his side, and they both peered down the drain. “Unless of course, one of you let him have a firearm again.”

“Mother Fucking Son of a Bitch.” Dean sighed, rubbing the back of his head, and jerked as the front door opened, Sam and Chuck's voices echoing through the house.

Chuck was the first one Dean could distinguish, his tone soothing, a gentle note Dean noticed he had for Sam and Sam alone. “Sam, the fans don't hate you. It's just – every woman you're with dies.”

“So – as far as the fanfiction community is concerned, the only two people I'm allowed to sleep with is my brother, or Lucifer. Seriously, Chuck, there's got to be other options.” Sam retorted, and Dean had to wonder about Chuck and Sam if the only conversation they could have since getting back from nearly a year worth of adventures and the Gabriel Debacle, had to deal with internet porn. Written porn, no less.

“Well, sometimes … they let you sleep with Castiel.” If Dean wasn't struck dumb with horror over what he just did, he might have been stuck dumb with horror over Sam getting horizontal with the angel, instead. He wondered dimly if this situation could get anymore awkward as he looked over to Castiel, who met Dean's gaze with his 'Oh God not breasts! expression.

“Yeah – if Dean's dead or the Devil makes us do it – God I hate that non-consensual stuff. No thank you -” Sam walked into the kitchen with two bags of groceries and he blinked as he looked from Castiel, and back to Dean. “Hey! Guys! What's, ah, up?”

...When it doubt, go for the cheap shot. Dean put on his best mocking smile, even as he grabbed Cas, and started to edge around the island, “Apparently, not you?”

Sam's cheeks flushed, his face tightened into his 'bitchface' and he rolled his eyes. “Shut up, jerk.”

“Whatever you say, bitch. Or should I say – Lucifer's bitch?” Dean said in an overly-cheerful voice, still pulling Castiel along with him. He spun around, and nearly ran into Chuck, similarly loaded down with food. “Chuck! How you doin' there, Chuck?”

“I'm – ah – fine, Dean.” Chuck blinked, as Dean dragged Castiel behind him like some goddamned doll. “You?”

“I'd be a lot better if you and Sam weren't talking about porn. In fact, all this porn talk has made feel the need for a constitutional. Outside. Away from the pornography. I'm taking the angel with me so you don't corrupt him with your dirty talk.” Dean tugged again, “C'mon, Cas.”

Castiel let himself be pulled towards the front door without protest, but they both stopped when Chuck's voice called back, “Oh hey, Castiel, did the pharmacy drop off my prescription?”

Castiel looked at Dean. Dean, for his part, looked kind of desperately back at Castiel. The angel lifted both eyebrows and called back over his shoulder. “It is … on the counter, somewhere, Chuck.”

“Uh, all right, 'somewhere' is not really specific ...” They could hear Chuck mutter, and Dean gave Castiel a grateful look before he hustled him towards the door. Castiel's sly, almost fey look in turn had him grinning.

“You're getting so many pancakes for that.” Dean promised him, as they walked quickly to the car. “Right now, in fact.”

They had just made it to the Impala when they heard the first of Chuck's angry, squeaky bellows, but they weren't around to hear the rest of the horrible names Chuck started calling Dean, because Dean practically threw himself in the car. Sam did tell them later, though, when they came back later.

Dean hadn't heard his brother laugh like that in a long, long time. It was almost worth getting that plunger upside the head from an angry, congested Prophet.

*************************

The final mistake – the culmination, if Dean was going to use some Sam-worthy vocabulary, came not months later. Hell, not even weeks, but mere days. Three fucking days later and Dean screwed himself up so hard he wasn't entirely sure how he ended up back on his feet again. It was the kind of mistake that should have lost him a friendship or two, at least gotten him in deep with Sam for a long while. Enough for Sam to have taken off again.

It was exactly five hundred and twenty one days since Sam had held his tongue, at that breakfast so long ago.

Something he should have done well to remember when he walked into Chuck's house three days after he spattered hope all over his angel, alone and lost in his own thoughts. He'd left earlier that morning, just to get in a drive and clear his thoughts. Castiel had gone off again – some of the girls thought they had a strong lead on where God might have been last and he wanted to follow up on it as soon as possible. Sam had wanted to get some research done, Chuck had been writing. So Dean had climbed into the Impala, blasted some Led Zepplin, and hit the road. Just to try and settle himself down. He was far too twitchy by half, these days.

He opened the door quietly, and didn't think to announce himself as he closed it behind him with equal amounts of care. He wasn't sure how Chuck was when he was writing, but Sam could be in a right snit if Dean came stomping in, in the middle of one his research hours.

Dean looked in the living room.

Sam was not researching.

In fact, it sort of looked like Sam was trying to see just how far his tongue could go down Chuck's throat. And Chuck, good friend that he was, was letting him.

Dean let out a noise that for years after-wards he would swear was not a girly scream, and Sam and Chuck flew apart like magic, like the spark between them just electrocuted them backwards. Sam's mouth was pink, swollen and he was gasping out, “Dean – oh God – listen, I'm sorry, this just – pwah!”

The heavy splash of holy water to Sam's face didn't help what was probably Sam's bisexual panic coming to the fore, but Dean didn't care. Because his brother was making out with a guy, and his brother didn't make out with guys. So he had to be possessed by the Devil.

He'd worry about how that made no damned sense later.

Sam spat water out, and sighed, “Dean … I'm not possessed.”

“Yeah, and you're not gay either.” Dean growled, as he threw another splash of water into Sam's face. “So if Lucifer is in there – I'd really like him to get out of my brother Right The Fuck NOW.”

Sam spat out more water, and his tone hand gone straight over to pissed. “Considering all the fucked up things I did when I was possessed, the first time, you think the worst thing Lucifer could do to me is make me kiss Chuck. Really, Dean?”

Dean's hand paused in mid-splash, and he eyed his brother in brooding silence, which was the moment Chuck decided to, well, step in. “Listen – Dean – seriously – it just … kinda happened. People in close quarters, y'know, and Sam was looking for some affection and I don't know, I get that. Because I've been writing him, and I just wanted to him have something that wasn't creepy or incestual but with someone who liked him – apparently liking him is also going out of my sexual comfort zone but that's bleeeeaagh!”

Dean really didn't care if Chuck didn't like the holy water bath he had just gotten. Chuck didn't want to get hit in the face with the rest of Dean's holy water? He'd stop talking emotional and crazy and possessed-like. As it was, Dean was already reaching for the Knife on his belt, growling, “So I guess that would make you the current Lucifer condom, then?”

“For the love of – I am not Lucifer! Do you honestly think my Archangel stalkers would that shit happen to me?” Chuck muttered as he wiped water out of his eyes. “And for another, holy water? On a former angel? C'mon, Dean. Now can we please talk about this – like adults?”

Dean stared at Chuck for a long, long moment, before casting his gaze around the room. He stopped when his eyes fell on a box of crackers and without another word he plucked them up and ripped open a package. Salted, excellent. Dean wasn't sure if this would work any better than the water – but at this point? He was just mad as Hell and wanted to throw stuff at Chuck's goddamned head.

Salted crackers seemed as good a projectile as anything else. Especially since he got to yell, “Christo!” while doing so. The cracker shattered across Chuck's forehead, and wet crumbs stuck to the writer as he yelped and ducked behind the secure bulk of Sam.

Sam, to his never-ending credit as a mature adult, grabbed the package away from Dean and yelled, “The fuck, Dean? What in the name of Hell is – stop eying those books! You're not throwing Chuck's own books at him.”

“I don't see why not. He wrote 'em. I'm sure he can handle taking one or two of them to the throat.” Dean growled in response, but he didn't pick up a book. He did start looking for more snack foods, though.

Sam was shaking his head in disbelief, and making sure to keep himself between Dean and Chuck. “What the fuck has gotten into you?”

Dean suddenly realized two things, as the anger in his veins melting and he looked at his brother protect Chuck with dimly realized 'ohshit' horror. One, he was pretty sure what had gotten into him was hysterical panic about the future that might or might not happen, and now he looked like a dick who thought his brother being bisexual was worth knifing the guy Sam decided to have his manlove with.

Secondly, maybe he shouldn't have pissed off the only guy in the room who wrote down his life for a living, and knew every single thing he thought, before he thought it. Right down to the last detail...

He didn't even have time to mouth, 'No, Chuck, Don't!' before the short bearded man bellowed, anger radiating off of his small body, “I'll tell you what's gotten into him! He thinks this is some kind of forerunner to that God Damned Apocalypse Sucks future Zachariah showed him!”
`
Sam turned so fast, Dean would have been surprised if the kid didn't get whiplash. “What – Apocalypse – when did you see Zachariah?”

“Oh, this happened years, ago, Sam.” Chuck growled as he tried to get all the sticky-wet cracker crumbs out of his beard. “About four and a half years ago, to be exact. Y'know, the day you told him Lucifer was waiting to wear you like a fashionable Sam cardigan? Zachariah dragged him to the future – where he saw you give into Lucifer and Castiel turn into a fallen angel drug addict! It's kind of why he's been acting like a douchebag for the past six months.”

Sam went stiff and still, back as straight as an arrow as he turned to Dean, eyes wide and shocked. “Dean – is this true?”

Dean felt sick, at the look on Sam's face. His protesting voice was weak and tired as he tore his gaze away from his baby brother and put it on Chuck, “God Damnit, Chuck.”

“This is what you get for cockblocking a Prophet of the Lord! Not to mention – ugh – trying to assault him with crackers, for God's sake ….” Chuck seethed, but the man finally managed to look up from his beard, to Sam, and his face fell, “Oh. Oh God. Oh Sam. I'm sorry. I didn't mean it – it's not going to happen that way! I haven't seen it yet, but, but, you have all been kicking serious ass and – ”

“Chuck.” Sam's voice was quiet, so very quiet. “I … appreciate the apology, but right now, I really need to talk to my brother about all this. Do you mind?”

“No, no, of course not. I'm just going to go .. . comb this stuff out of my beard. Slowly.” Chuck mumbled, and he shot such an apologetic look in Dean's direction that Dean felt like a complete and total ass for trying to kill him with crackers.

He rubbed the back of his head, shrugged at Chuck in his own version of a silent apology, which Chuck nodded at him in acceptance, before hurrying up the stairs. Leaving Dean to look at Sam – a Sam gone pale and scared but who was holding himself up, brown eyes meeting Dean's without flinching, and a voice that was soft but strong. “All right. Tell me everything.”

So, Dean did. He told Sam about Croatoan spreading across the world. He told him about Palin as President, and the whole-scale world wide destruction. He told him about finding Bobby's wheelchair filled with bullet holes. He told him about the camp – about meeting himself and realizing how much of a douchebag he let himself become. He told him about Chuck, and toliet paper.

He told him about Cas – and he felt his voice go rough and scratchy as he recalled the women surrounding the angel, the drugs and the liquor. The dead look in Castiel's eyes, the anger in the way he said 'fearless leader'. He told Sam about the angel losing his Grace, losing his hope, and losing everything that made him special – and how it was all Dean's fault.

Then, hands folded so tightly over each other than he thought he'd break his own fingers, he told Sam about the end. About Detroit, about Sam giving in, about the angels leaving. About Lucifer wearing Sam's face, that white suit and the sound of Lucifer cracking the other Dean's neck. He told him of Lucifer's parting words, words that were more haunting than any of Dean's nightmares of Hell.

Whatever you do, you will always end up … here. Whatever choices you make, whatever details you alter, we will always end up here.

I win, so... I win.

See you in five years, Dean.

There was silence, a long silence, when Dean finished. They had both sat down on Chuck's couch, and Dean had spent the last two minutes just staring at his hands. He only looked up when Sam said quietly, “Dean, I'm sorry.”

Dean blinked, and sat up a little, and looked over at Sam's strained profile, “Ah – okay – I'm pretty sure I'm the one who kept this from you for years, though.”

“Yeah – and I'm pretty fucking pissed about that.” Sam's lips twisted upwards, but his face slipped back into one of his more serious expressions as he looked back at his brother. “But I'm not apologizing for that. I'm apologizing for ever thinking you weren't strong enough to handle all this. I think – no, I know. You were the only one ever strong enough in the first place. I never came up with a plan – The Plan. I just jumped in, with my powers, and, thinking I was right because I've always thought I was right...”

“You really are like Dad.” Dean commented softly, and earned himself a sideways look and a soft chuff of amusement from Sam.

Sam sighed out, his large hands flexing. “Yeah, I guess I am. But you were the one who was strong enough to bring us together when we needed to be. And you were the one strong enough to keep going, even knowing – even knowing the price we'll all have to pay, if we fail. You kept going, man. I don't know how you do it.”

“Well ...” Dean said slowly, and one corner of his mouth lifted upwards in response. “I guess I'm just too damned stubborn to let anyone tell me what I'm going to do. Not Zach. Not even the Devil, wearing your ugly-ass mug.”

Sam smiled then, before looking at his brother calmly. “He's wrong, but I don't have to tell you that. It's not changing the details that are going to make the difference here. We changed our choices – and nothing is certain anymore. You did that, Dean. By making Cas sit in a coffee shop and wait for us – by calling me on the phone. You made different choices, so, there's going to be a different outcome.” He swallowed. “But … you knew that. That's what The Plan is all about, isn't it?”

Dean shrugged, lifting his shoulders. “I wouldn't call myself that fucking clever – but – yeah. More or less.”

Sam nodded his head, flexing his fingers, before he put a hand on Dean's shoulder, his eyes warm and earnest. “It's a great plan, Dean.”

“Thanks. Sammy.” Dean said softly, smiling at his brother. Then he winced as Sam's hand came up to smack him upside the head, “The fuck!”

“That's what you get for not telling me for four and a half years.” Sam said, glaring again. “Keep anything like that from me again and I'm kicking your ass through your Impala.”

“Like you could.” Dean grumbled, rubbing the back of his head. He watched his brother move towards the stairs. “So – ah - Chuck?” A pause, and a disbelieving, “Really, dude?”

Sam paused at the foot of the stairs, his expression shifting into something gentle. “Yeah – it's weird … but it's nice to be with someone – who knows it all. Knows every last bit of it and doesn't think it's heroic or insane, or evil, or anything else but one sad, fucked up life. Who understands, because their life is wrapped around mine, and that's pretty fucked up too.” He lifted one eyebrow at Dean, “But then again, why am I telling you this? You got Castiel.”

Dean shifted on his seat on the sofa, and he'd deny it later, but he was squirming. “Cas and I aren't like that, man.”

“Yeah. Right.” Sam shook his head, as he started to go up the stairs. “Do yourself a favor, Dean, Hell. Do all of us a favor.” He paused, and looked dead on his brother. “Think about it. Just … think about all of what you just told me about our future, which is practically our present.” He let Dean sink that one into his thoughts, before continuing gently, “Then … ask Cas where your amulet is.”

With that, Sam headed up the stairs, and left Dean to do just as he was told.

He thought about it.

***********************

He was still thinking about it a day and a half later, a cold beer in his hand, watching the sun dip down beyond the horizon. It wasn't something he did, normally, but he's been thinking for thirty six hours straight. His brain needs a fucking break.

So there's steps leading to the back door to Chuck's house, there was a shit-ton of beer in the fridge and Sam and Chuck were – well, bonding or emoting or just being really frigging bisexual with one another, and while Dean had thirty-six hours to think it over and be happy that his brother might be sleeping with the one person Heaven wouldn't let die or turn into a horrible monster or both, it's still Chuck. And his brother. So no, he wasn't going to think about what's going on upstairs. As far as he was concerned, they were knitting sweaters or some such shit. Fluffy, warm sweaters.

Naturally, when he has finally managed to get his mind on nothing – pure and blissful nothing – that was when he heard the fluttering of wings on air, and he didn't even need to turn around to know Castiel was there. Dean sighed, squared his shoulders, and shifted the beers next to him over so Castiel could join him on the steps, and after a moment, he heard Castiel climb down until he was even with Dean, and took a seat beside him.

“Hello, Dean.” The angel said, and Dean could feel his breath – his unnecessary breath because angels didn't need to breath, but the flesh did – against his cheek.

“Hey, Cas.” He couldn't help it. He smiled, and that involuntary flexing of his face muscles really just sort of boiled it all down for him, after thirty six hours of grinding it around in his head. The goddamned angel made him happy. Fuck. Really wasn't much else to say, after that.

Except, of course, to enjoy his own bisexual freak-out in silence.

They sat in silence for a few minutes, Castiel letting off a low feeling of warmth next to him, like a holy space heater. Wordlessly, Dean handed over his beer, and after a moment, Castiel took it. His tone was faintly surprised. “I thought I was not allowed alcoholic beverages.”

“It's a special occasion.” Dean said slowly, still staring off at the sun-touched sky. He sighed, and leaned forward a little. “Besides, we'll both probably need it.”

He could almost hear the frown over, “I see … “ but then there were a few quiet swallowing noises that Dean most definitely did not crane his neck to see. After a moment, the angel spoke again. “Where are Chuck and Sam?”

“Oh, they're upstairs.” Dean snorted softly. “Probably exploring the wonders of mutual … geek love, or something. That I am not talking about.” Seriously, he was not talking about his brother's sex life. Possibly ever again.

“Ah. So they have finally succumbed to their mutual passion.” Castiel answered with such gravity that it took a moment of Dean nodding his head in agreement, before he did a double-take.

“Wait – what? How did you know – what?” He sputtered out, and damn it to Hell, how did the angel manage to look so damned calm saying stuff like that?

Like he was now, expression impassive, the bottle between his hands only about a quarter down. The angel took another swallow of beer, before saying without a flicker of emotion. “Sometimes, Chuck asks me to proofread. It is a pleasure to read something, before everyone else.”

Dean stared at him for a full minute, before he slapped a hand to his forehead, and that grin slipped over his lips once more. “Yeah, how could I forget? You're the biggest 'Winchester Gospels' fan around. Own all the books, yadda yadda.”

“And the promotional poster.” The angel answered so seriously that Dean had to look at him warily until he realized Cas was joking, his lips curved up into the faintest of smirks as he looked back at the hunter. “The artwork really does you no justice.”

Dean let out a soft laugh, took another drink of beer. “Awww, you think I'm pretty.” He smiled down at the bottle, before he added, quietly, “That's okay. I think you're kind of ...pretty, yourself. Y'know. For a guy. For an angel.” He cleared his throat. “For an … angel guy.”

The angel was silent for a long moment, before he asked quietly, making it more of a statement than anything else. “You find me attractive.”

“Yeah.” Dean took a deep breath in, then out, and put his bottle of beer aside before he spoke, his voice going rough. “Cas – can I ask you something?”

“You can ask me anything, Dean.” And wow, that answer sounded layered. The kind that Dean sort of wanted to pick apart until it was bare and naked and …

Christ, he wasn't even thinking about that frigging answer, was he? Focus, boy. He swallowed against a dry throat, putting his eyes on Castiel, keeping them there. “Cas … where's my amulet?”

The change over the angel's face was something to behold. First surprise, lifting those eyebrows, and then … of all things, the angel looked flustered. One hand went his neck, where he rubbed the dark hair almost curling over the collar of his white shirt. He looked to Dean, swallowed, then his fingers went to his tie. Dean watched, fascinated, while Castiel slipped it loose of the knot, and tugged it loose, putting it aside on the step between them. Then those long, strong fingers started unbuttoning that still crisp white shirt, until Dean was seeing pale chest, lean and strong, and ...a small, almost ugly little golden charm, hanging on a long black cord. Resting a little further down Castiel's chest than it was when Dean wore it, riding dead center against his breastbone.

Well, seriously, what could you do when an angel of the Lord was wearing your amulet like it was your class ring? Only answer Dean could come up with, the only answer that made any sense was to slid one hand into Castiel's dark hair and tug his mouth over to be kissed.

His mouth was dry, chapped in places, and Castiel himself was stiff and unresponsive, unmoving under Dean's fingers and lips. Dean pulled back, frowned, thought to himself that perhaps he had gotten wrong, because as first kisses went, that kind of sucked ass.

That was when Castiel let out the softest of sighs, wrapped his fingers into Dean's shirt and pulled him back over. Dean remembered, abruptly and gleefully, that Castiel had a learning curve like no-one's business. Later on down the line, he was going to remember the second kiss over the first, because Castiel warmed under his lips, sweet and firm and undeniably male but other and for some reason that did not hit Dean's 'ohshitkissingaguyameter'. Only Castiel could taste of books and honey, of coffee and maple syrup, of something old and ancient and awe-inspiring, a combination of tastes that made Dean want to crawl inside of his mouth and live there. The angel's lips slid sideways, drawing Dean's into his own, as if marking them like he marked Dean's shoulder, tattooing himself on Dean with lips, heat and want.

It was weird, cool, utterly awesome, fucking sexy as anything and Dean kind of wanted to keep doing it for awhile. A nice long while.

However, first things first.

He pulled back, and held Castiel back by his shoulders when the angel tried to go after his mouth again, blue eyes dark and hungry for more kisses in a way that sent a delighted shiver down Dean's spine. The hunter cleared his throat, and gave Castiel a stern look that made the angel relax against Dean's fingers, listen with that intent way of his. Dean nodded his silent approval, his voice rumbling. “Ground rules for this, Cas. First, Sam always gets first dibs. On the front seat, on where we sit in diners, on the first donut out of the box. He's just first.” The angel tilted his head, mouth all red and kissable, before nodding once. “Good. Now, what he doesn't get – at all - is to have is awesome mind-blowing lip suckage from me, amongst other amazing things I'll be glad to show you, and beyond you get first dibs on the backseat with me when we gotta sleep over in the car.”

The angel's lips quirked at the corners. “That sounds acceptable.”

Dean smirked faintly back, before going serious again. “You don't get to leave – and when I say that I mean you can't suddenly decide my life wigs you out, or this was just a wild angel human fling, and I am one hundred percent fucking not arguing this part -- you don't get to die. Which means you can't give in to despair, drugs, or orgies. Unless they're with me – and a really hot brunette with matching doe eyes and an amazing rack. I'll be glad to share in that kind of orgy, because … yeah, your mouth and hers ...” He got lost on that thought, because Hell to the Yes, watching Castiel's lips move down some fantasy girl's body would be so damned sexy...

Er. Getting distracted, and mostly in his pants. He cleared his throat, “The death thing though, is non-fucking-negotiable. You died once, and you're done while we're together. You get me?”

“I do not do drugs, or die, and I am only allowed sexual access to you, unless under very specific … circumstances.” Castiel said slowly, “I am also not allowed to leave in any way, shape or form.”

“Nope, not at all.” He looked at the angel, hard. “You still find the terms – 'acceptable'?”

Castiel seemed to consider everything, his blue eyes serious in their consideration, before he nodded his head and offered his hand gravely. “I do.”

After mentally pumping his fist in the air, Dean shook his head, tutting softly. “Cas, Cas, Cas. And you being such a big frigging fan of the Gospels. That is not how I settle deals, man.”

He slid his hands down off those firm, slender shoulders to Castiel's wrists, sliding the angel into his lap, making him half-kneel on the steps as he slid his hands around the angel's stubbled face and kissed him until Castiel was curling into him, nuzzling his mouth with sharp, pleased noises. Kisses that continued when Dean dragged Castiel off to the Impala, pulled him into the promised back seat. Kisses that lasted the entire night, and well beyond.

********************

So in the end, Dean seriously approved of making deals with angels. For one there was none of that losing your soul and going to Hell business. For another, the perks were cool. Like someone who never got aggravated about cuddling because they rarely slept. Someone who loved diner food as much as he did, and was always up for breakfast for dinner. And even though there wasn't sex – like honest to God, yes-this-is-happening-sex for another year and a half, it was still … awesome.

Totally and completely awesome.

That was why Dean shouldn't have been surprised that was when everything turned on it's goddamned ear. He really should have seen it coming. Seen it coming from a mile away.

Because the second Dean let himself get happy, God finally decided to return his messages.

Supernatural 5x09

2009-11-13T04:15:50Z

But, yeah. I'm sorry.

I have to.

I was half-creeped out, half amused, and then for the last half flabbergasted. Thanks, Kripke, you just Joss'd my ass.

I thought there would be creepy girls. There was Becky and I guess she's the SUPER FAN of creep, like those SUPER voters where their votes count for like twenty votes or something.

I thought I'd feel like Kripke was sort of looking down my shirt. He did, but it was more in an affectionate way than the LEER.

I thought I wouldn't like this. I was glad to be wrong - because the fans were the right amount of 'we thumb our nose', and AWESOME. Demian? Barnes? Heroes for the night? Hellsyeah. Chuck? Always win but really ... Becky? Dude. Seriously. You could have hot glasses publisher chick.

This episode was so many things that I can't say if I hated it or liked it outright. I found it ... interesting. It played around with a lot of things that I wasn't sure it would. Like the boys confronting their fandom. Like the fandom meeting the real spirit world. I just ... I came away from it going - 'Well that was actually pretty cool! ... I think.'

AND THEN THEY SHOW THAT PROMO, and MY HEART SCREAMED OUT FOR JO!

Fucking Kripke. So what -- it's DEAN'S turn to lose the girl to horrible violence? God. Damn. It.

And for all of you going, 'Maybe it won't be Jo!', I ask you, name one Dean romance that ended with happy fluffy flowers and not them thinking he was great in the short term but long term just wasn't happening -- and then Tell Me Jo Will Survive.

Yeah.

Damn it.

My DeanCastiel AU!Fusion Fic

2009-11-03T07:11:32Z

Title: Dream As If You'll Live Forever [Part 1/2 of the Con!AU]
Author: Commodoresexual
Rating: NC-17
Genre and/or Pairing: Dean/Castiel, Bobby/Ellen, Sam/Jo
Warnings: Written for the AU!Fusion challenge at deancastiel. Boys are owned by Kripke, and alas, even in an Alternate Universe I do not own them. EDIT: Now properly beta'd, for your viewing pleasure.
Word Count: 5,999 words.
The Prophet Chuck (Author's) Notes: I'll admit it, I banged out this over the weekend, because I was having such problems with writing this when I wanted to be writing more Plan. So I ended it at part one and figured, 'Hey, if people like it I'll keep going because I have part two plotted if not written. If not, no skin off my nose!' EDIT: Due to surprisingly popular demand, there will be a Part 2! Look For, 'Live As If You'll Die Today' later on this month.
Summary: AU #19: Cas hasn't spoken a word to anyone in years and is a drifter who works various odd jobs to finance himself. Dean is a guy with a violent temper who grew up in foster care and has just gotten out of prison for a stupid judgment call. The two cross paths in a pay-by-the-week boarding house run by an eccentric older couple (Bobby and Ellen).

Welcome To
Haven, Kansas

Population, 1746.

The man stared at the sign for a few moments, standing there of the side of Route 12, before he turned towards the direction of the town. Looking at the road ahead as if it would say something about Haven – whether to enter it or pass it by. After a moment, he turned and brooded on the sign again.

Ellen had been watching him do that for five minutes – this dark haired stranger in the trench-coat that looked like it had seen better days, jeans and button-down shirt that was rumpled from probably sleeping on the bus. The bus that had dropped this stranger off, just up her driveway. She wiped her hands on her dishtowel, and made a decision.

She was known for that. People in Haven always said, Ellen Singer would take one look at you and know whether or not you could be trusted carry the church offering or if Sheriff Carlyle should be escorting you out of town. She made decisions, just like that, snap of the fingers. And she'd go through every single one of them, no matter how insane they looked at the time, because later on, they were never crazy at all.

Some people called that psychic. Ellen called it good common sense. Same common sense that had her running the cleanest boarding house in all of Reno county, hands down, for seven years now.

Her boots scuffed up pebbles as she reached the end of the drive, the wind flattening Bobby's old work shirt against her back. She looked at the young man, who kept looking at the sign, and she said with rough warmth, “Hey, kid.”

The dark haired man looked over at her, blue eyes fixing on her brown ones, sad and distant. He didn't say a word, just waited for her to speak again.

That was when Ellen knew she had herself a new boarder.

'''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''

Hutchinson Correctional Facility, Kansas, One Week Later

“Winchester!” Bill the guard ambled up to Dean Winchester's door, fluttering an envelope at him. “Up and at 'em, son. Get your stuff together.”

The green-eyed man on the bed, dressed in the solid blue uniform of all prisoners, put down his Vonnegut book long enough to give the guard a flat, suspicious look. This had better not be this shit with Gonzales. Man came after him with a weapon after … well, Dean was well within his rights to punch his lights out. He'd done a lot worse to the others who tried that, once he had gotten his feet underneath him. He picked the book back up, growling out a short, “Why?”

“Don't get your pink satin panties in a twist, son. You got an early release.” Bill waggled the letter at him. “Your lawyer got you sprung, early, on a technicality.”

Dean rose from the bed slowly, putting the book down in a way he knew was hurting the spine, taking the letter and staring at it like it might bite him. “My lawyer was a disinterested pro-bono asshole who couldn't even plead down a first offensive down to the minimum for wiring a car. I'm doing a solid five, Bill, because that guy was a dick.”

“Nah, this is the work of your new lawyer. Who is waiting outside for you, with all your papers, as soon as you get off your lazy ass.” Bill arched an eyebrow. “Unless you wanna stick around. I hear Gonzales is looking forward to talking to you after you had yourself a little temper tantrum and pushed his head through that window.”

“Everyone saw him come at me with that shiv.” Dean muttered, running one hand through his short, light brown hair. “Guy's got a worse temper than I do, and that's saying some shit.” He finally cracked open the paper, and read it. Early release. Apparently they never found the car he stole, and without it there wasn't a crime, yadda yadda. He frowned as he eyed the letter, where it was signed at the bottom, 'S. Wesson, Esq.' “Never even heard of this guy.”

“He's heard of you. Now are you coming? We've got guests who need this room.” Bill drawled, looking bored.

Dean waved the letter at Bill, even as he moved to grab his beloved collection of books, and the odds and ends that two years in prison had garnered him. “This doesn't make any sense. Who'd give a fuck about me?”

“Guess God's got something bigger on his plate for you.” Bill opened the cell and tossed Dean the duffel bag he'd been carrying.

Dean's eyes flashed, but it didn't seem wise to get into a fight with a guard on the day he was getting out. So all he muttered was, “Yeah, well, after thirty years it's nice to see he cares.”

'''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''

Bobby Singer sighed as he stared out the window, leaning on his cane and glowering at the young man in the garden, pulling up weeds with the thoughtful meditation of a Buddhist monk. He turned that glower to his wife, as she came out of the kitchen with a pitcher of lemonade and three glasses, saying gruffly, “That boy some kind of idjit?”

Ellen gave her husband a flat look, as she put the pitcher down on the table. “That's the third time you asked me that, Bobby, and for the third time I'm telling you, no.”

Bobby huffed, tugged on his cap, and stared out the window again. “We sure he's not a serial killer then?”

“Robert. Singer.” Ellen said, her tone tart as she put her hands on her hips. “I think you'd better apologize to me for saying I'd let an insane killer into our home without as much by-your-leave.”

Bobby grunted, pushing the living room curtain aside again. “He doesn't talk, El. You didn't think that was mighty peculiar behavior when you introduced yourself?”

“Sure I did. Then I saw the world of hurt in that boy's eyes, and I knew this was a soul that needed tending. Besides, I don't know what you're bitchin' about, you've been after me to rent those rooms out for near a month now, ever since Ash and Becky moved out to get their own place, so we could get some help around the place. What with Jo being too busy with the new baby and her promotion to come down and help me with the gardening, and her 'sweet baboo' husband of hers, finally getting that break he's been waiting on, and not able to clean out the gutters and such.” She nodded towards the window, to the slow and careful weeding of their newest guest. “Room rented out. Help around the place. Ta-dah.”

Bobby ran one hand over his rough beard, and sighed. When his wife had a point, she had a point. “Well, I'd feel better if I knew his damned name. I can't be calling out, 'Hey You' when I'm telling him grub's on, El.”

“Call him by his God-given name, then. He registered with us using a valid state's ID and everything, another reason you shouldn't be giving me guff.” Ellen said primly, as she headed back into the kitchen. “It's in my accounts book, if you're curious to know.”

Bobby was. He limped from the living room to Ellen's office, to the desk where she kept all their neat ledgers, for going on twenty-five years now. He flipped open the guest book and sighed as he read the name printed in neat, blocky, male-patterned handwriting, “Now what the hell kind of name is Castiel, anyways?”

'''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''

Dean doesn't breath out a sigh of relief until the prison gates are shut behind him. Two years – two years of living through one stupid ass mistake and he'd made himself this promise but he makes it again to himself, his work boots crunching the gravel under his feet – never again. He won't go back to prison, won't sit in a twelve by ten box just feeling his soul shrivel up. He'll mind his goddamned temper. He won't take what's not his, especially when he's not minding his damned temper. Which isn't going to be a problem anymore, anyhow.

There's a car on the lot. A responsible looking car, that probably had oil changes when the car needed it and not a moment before, was probably washed within an inch of its responsible, Japanese manufactured life once a damned month. Dean's lips pressed together and this had to be 'his lawyer', and he was prepared for just about anything. Some gorgeous young woman who fell in love with his pretty face, some old retired codger who took these kind of cases because he was bored. What he didn't expect was the tallest motherfucker he'd ever seen step out of that car – what was that anyways, a Camry? – dressed in a black suit and a red tie, and sunglasses on his face.

Dean stared at the young man, with the scruffy dark brown hair, whose mouth was curved into something close to wonder. Mentally flipping the gorgeous young woman with okay-good-looking young man, Dean spat out a simple, “Dude, if you did all this to get laid, I'm telling you right now I'm not your type. Save it for the gym.”

Then he started to walk towards the bus stop as the young man's mouth dropped open in shock, because no way was he getting into a car with a creepy stalker driving a Japanese car. Especially not a damned Camry, for fuck's sake. He'd hitch first.

“Damnit … Dean! Wait!” Ah-hah, Mister S. Wesson's brain seemed to have finally caught up with his mouth, and Dean heard shoes shuffling over the pavement quickly after him, and he found himself in the shadow of the looming young man who spoke so very earnestly. “I swear I'm not here for any kind of – uhm – no – see I'm married?” He held out his hand, with a golden wedding band, and Dean slowed to look at it. Well-worn. Probably a ring of pale skin under it, someone who never took the damned thing off, not even to shower. He stopped, and gave S. Wesson a long, hard and distrustful look, but stopping was enough to get the young man to start talking again, “I just made full associate at my law firm, and my boss, Zachariah -”

Waitaminutehere. “Tall guy? Balding? Fishy eyes?” Dean's lips twisted as S. Wesson nodded his head in acknowledgment. Ah-hah, suddenly this made a lot more sense. S. Wesson, new lawyer, worked for Zachariah, former lawyer. “Yeah, I know him. Great guy. If he's your boss I feel strongly you're gonna be promoted soon. 'Cuz the man's not only a dick, he's a Godfuckingawful lawyer too.”

One corner of S. Wesson's mouth lifted up. “I know. That's why I asked for your case, well, one of the reasons. He agreed to let me take on your appeals. I've been trying for eighteen months to get it overturned, and finally, I did!” He smiled like the sun, and Dean felt a twinge in his chest. Like maybe he wanted to return it. He doesn't. He stopped smiling a long time ago, when there was nothing to smile about.

“Well, congratulations. I'd be bullshitting if I didn't say I wasn't grateful.” Dean said slowly, “And I'm out now, so good work there, lawyer boy. But … what the hell do you want from me now?”

S. Wesson stood motionless there for a long few seconds, inhaled deeply, before he pulled off his sunglasses. Brown eyes, flicked with green, and suddenly that twinge in Dean's chest is a full-on choke hold. I know you, but how? S. Wesson pressed his lips together, and then he grinned in this lopsided way that almost, almost made Dean smile back. Two times in ten minutes. Who the hell was this kid? He looked at Dean, eyes imploring. “What I want now … is to give you a ride. Make sure you get settled right. That okay?”

Dean's eyes flickered to the car, and then to S. Wesson's face, then back to that damned Camry. He sighed, deeply, before he shouldered the duffel. “Sure, lawyer-boy. S'not like I wanna hang out here anyways.”

S. Wesson breathed out, a happy sigh escaping his lips. “Okay. Good. And, ah, my name's not Lawyer Boy. It's -”

“Dude, stow the chick-share. I know your name. It's Wesson. We'll leave it at that.” Dean shook his head, as he headed over to the passenger side of the Camry. “All I want to do is get the fuck out of here.”

He looked over his shoulder. Wesson had his lips pressed together – and with that face Dean knows Gonzales would have lo-ved Wesson on Cell Block A – then sighed. “Right. I imagine the last two years have been Hell for you.”

Dean felt his lips curve into a bleak smile in answer.

''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''

“He's on the damned roof again.” Bobby observed dryly as he limped back inside, using the cane to pry open the door and then to slam it shut again. “He was there when I left for the garage, and he's still up there. If he's tryin' to learn how to fly, he's doing a pisspoor job.”

“Oh for God's sake, Bobby. So the boy's a little unusual.” Ellen said dryly, as she set the table for dinner. “You build custom cars for giggles. Jo likes REO Speedwagon. Our son-in-law loves lost causes. We don't exactly have the patent on normal, 'round here.”

“Meybe not, but we're not sitting on the roof, mooning off at the horizon.” Bobby grunted, then looked at the plates. “We expecting company for dinner?”

“Our son-in-law, and one of his special 'guests'.” Ellen rolled her eyes, as she went back into the kitchen.

“Oh for the love of – another former con?” Bobby sighed. “Doesn't he know he can't help everyone? And most of the people he wants to help are downright ...evil?”

“Yeah, well, he thinks he can save 'em, and God knows I'm not going tell the boy he can't try.” Ellen came out with a steaming tuna casserole, and Bobby breathed in appreciatively.

“Oh, so I guess we're both forgetting Ruby then – all smiles and sweet talk and trying to get our stupid son-in-law alone in some closet somewhere and when that didn't work she made off with my mother's china and our good silver?” Bobby snorted softly, going to pour everyone iced tea, five glasses.

“The sheriff caught her before she got out of town.” Ellen reminded him, before nodding towards the door. “Besides, you want to talk him out of having another con here for us to try and coddle? There's his car.”

“Gladly – maybe this time the damned boy will listen to some sense -” Bobby finished pouring the last glass, and limped towards the door. He opened his mouth as his idiot son-in-law opened the car door, but those words died when he saw the man stepping out of the passenger seat. Tall, hard looking, and the late day sunlight caught the glint of wary green eyes.

Bobby let out a long exhalation. Well Hell. There was no way Bobby was going to say anything now. Not when it was plain as the nose on his face why their idiot son-in-law had gone through all this trouble. He'd finally saved the right soul, the one he'd been looking for nearly fifteen years.

*******************

Dean had to admit, when he got out of prison he didn't think he'd be staying anywhere as nice as Ellen Singer's boarding house. He figured some scummy walk-up apartment with bugs and a sucktastic mattress. He didn't expect the sprawling two story house sitting right on the inside of the Welcome to Haven, Kansas sign, lots of grassy open land and a far distant barn, with a gravel driveway that stopped with a beat-up old truck and sweet-as-pie refitted 1977 Camero. He barely registered what Wesson was saying, and made himself clue in again.

“ - so you'll be staying with my in-laws – they're good people. Ellen runs the boarding house,” A comment Dean refused to do anything but roll his eyes to because the sign kind of made that obvious, “And Bobby runs an auto repair shop in Haven. I'll stay long enough to make sure you're settled in, but then I gotta get back to the office after that, then back home. On Monday I'll come by, drive you to meet your parole officer.” Wesson said as they stepped out of the car.

Dean wanted to ask him why the hell he cared – what the hell was it about this particular petty car thief that some kid lawyer needed to save personally – but that was pretty much when he looked over the house again and his gaze caught on something he hadn't registered before.

Namely, the man sitting on the roof.

The man who was looking right back down at him. Dark, almost black hair sticking up carelessly. Big blue eyes, face pretty enough that Gonzales would have been chomping at the bit. Hell, Dean had only swung that way once or twice, and he found himself suddenly wondering what those lips would feel like on his skin – as full as a woman's, with a man's force and heat.

Then he shook himself out of it, because for God's sake, there was a crazy man on a roof staring at him, and even if Dean had been in prison for two years, the first thing he was jumping like a horny teenager was not going to be Crazy Roof Guy. Even if he did have fucking gorgeous blue eyes. Even if they had gone from dreamy to sharp with interest when his gaze met Dean's.

Nope. Not having sex with Crazy Roof Guy.

Didn't keep him from missing half the damned conversation, again, with Wesson, who finally asked, “Hey? Dean? Are you even listening to what I'm saying?”

“Hm? Ah. Yeah.” Dean decided that assent was better than anything else. “Golden, man. Whatever you want.”

Wesson gave him a long, hard look, shook his head a little and chuffed a laugh. “Okay then … I'll go inside and talk to my in-laws. I'll be right back, and you're going to stay right here?”

Dean looked at Wesson, felt his mouth twist ever so slightly. “Man – where the hell would I go?”

For some reason, that relaxed the set of Wesson's broad shoulders, and Dean wasn't sure why, but he was glad to see it. Hell, he was definitely not sure why that eased him. So he ignored that confusing problem for the one on the roof, namely the gorgeous blue eyed crazy man he was not going to sleep with.

Who was gone.

Dean stared at the empty spot, said “Fuckingfuckfuckityfuck,” and then he rubbed his face a little. Obviously, he was losing his damned mind. Had he even asked Wesson if there was some crazy guy who liked to sit on roofs, here? Had Wesson even seen Crazy Roof Guy?

Maybe prison had driven him nuts, and this was all some surreal dream that any minute now, he was going to wake up from. He'd wake up in his tiny box of a cell, to the peeled and cracked white paint above his head and be filled with that helpless rage of his own stupidity.

He stared at the sky above his head, late-day blue, waited to see if it would morph. It did not, and instead, a throat cleared itself. Male, and Dean tilted his head to see a gruff man in his late fifties, baseball cap firmly on his salt and peppered dark hair, dark eyes looking out from a sea of crinkled skin. The man looked up at the sky, then at Dean, before saying curtly, “You talk?”

Dean felt his eyebrow raising again, before he retorted, “On occasion. If there's something worth saying.”

Apparently sarcasm would not get you glared at in the Singer household, because the man, who had to be Bobby, suddenly smiled. “You, I like. C'mon in, boy. Dinner is on the table.”

Dean exhaled, shouldered his bag and headed up the porch stairs. If dinner went like the rest of this day, it was going to be damned weird.

*****************

He was not wrong.

Second he stepped into the house, he found himself on the end of the most assessing stare he'd ever seen, from Mrs. Ellen Singer, the lady of the house. After she spent a long moment lazering his skull with her eyes, she nodded, told him to drop the bag by the stairs because she'd show him his room later.

If that wasn't strange enough, he sat down at a table set for five people, and while he only had his GED, he was pretty sure that there were only four people in the room. He gave his hosts an odd look, and then Wesson, but eh. Like this day could seriously get any more left field. Besides, the woman was feeding him casserole that tasted like it came directly from Heaven.

Seemed wrong to almost choke on it, when Crazy Man From The Roof suddenly appeared at the dining room door, stopped abruptly and looked as startled as Dean did. Dean stared at him. Crazy Man, true to form, stared right back and there was challenge in that gaze. Just not the kind where he wanted to pound in Dean's face. No, not that kind of pounding at all.

“Oh, there you are, Castiel.” Ellen turned towards the Crazy – Castiel, and the young man looked at her and lifted his eyebrows questioningly. Ellen tilted her head for a moment, “Honey, if you got a question that needs asking, you know you can speak your peace here."

“Which requires talking. Y'know, with words.” Bobby muttered into his plate.

Dean looked from one, to the other, then over to Wesson who looked a little freaked out himself, then Dean shook his head a little. “He wants to know if he can join us for lunch. I guessing since they are five plates, that yeah, that was kind of the idea.”

Castiel's gaze zoomed towards him, as well as everyone else's. Wesson looked impressed, “You got all that from a look?”

Dean shrugged, balancing a mouthful of delicious tuna and noodles on his fork, “You can learn a lot from a look.” What he didn't expand on was that in prison, it was a necessary form of survival. You didn't know what the man next to you was thinking by just looking in his eyes? You could end up with a mouthful of broken glass in your next meal.

Ellen was looking at him, those brown eyes almost as piercing as Crazy – Castiel's, as she murmured, “You surely don't.” She smiled, and popped a mouthful of noodles into her mouth. “Welcome to Haven, Dean Winchester.”

******************

Everyone, excepting the still silent Castiel, walked Wesson outside to his car to wave him off. Dean wasn't sure himself why he did so, but it seemed like the thing to do. So he lifted his fist in the air and pumped in a half-mocking way, before he turned to find both Singers looking at him. He met both of their intent stares, cleared his throat, and let his eyes fall to the Camero again. “Great car. Classic. Don't see many like this anymore.”

The Singers exchanged a look, and Bobby answered. “Thanks …guess you know about cars, huh?”

Dean's expression softened, and he sighed as he looked at the Camaro. “Yeah, I did, once upon a time.” Two years ago, working full time at a Jiffy Lube and trying to put himself through a trade college so he could put cars together, for real, maybe go into business for himself. Independent at last. Hah. “Know more than most people who say they do, anyways.”

Then Bobby's lifting an eyebrow at him, and this time it's the kind of challenge that makes Dean want to hit something, but instead he just lifted his chin, and nodded to the car again. “You let me crack open that hood, and I'll even show you.”

That was how, twenty minutes later, Dean Winchester found himself with a job down at Singer's Garage.

Yeah. Really weird day.

*****************

The room he was in is down the long hallway away from the Singers, and it was everything he could have wanted, and since all he wanted was a frigging bed without bugs in it, this big soft bed next to this window that looked out to long, stretching fields and endless horizon is pretty much … awesome. Yeah, awesome. It has a chest of drawers, for the pathetic amount of clothing he owns, and bookshelves for his almost-totally-complete collection of Kurt Vonnegut books and a few other odds and end novels he has. Like Dickens Tale of Two Cities. He has always had a soft spot for that fucking tragic Sydney Carton, giving it all up for love and for principle. He liked to think that if he had prison to do over again, and he never ever will, but if he did, he wanted it to at least mean something this time.

Not in half-assed sentimental and drunken rage over some guy who can't take care of a good car.

He doesn't want to think about that tonight, though. Tonight he just wanted to enjoy the first shower he's had by himself for two years. He wanted to enjoy knowing that while he was washing himself he doesn't have to watch every single damned minute for a knife or a come-on glance he's not coming on to. It was nice putting clean towels to his naked skin, to wrap one around his waist. Nice to shave himself in a bathroom of clean white tile and blue accents. He wiggled his toes in the soft plush blue carpet, and ran a hand through his damp hair. He liked the feeling of unlocking the bathroom door and stepping out into the cool hallway, the breeze wafting through the air slapping his bare chest and upper body like a hard kiss.

He was not thinking of Castiel. He was not.

He was so steadfastly not thinking about Castiel when he was done pulling on his sweatpants, and grabbing one of his books to pretend to read, that he nearly jumped out of his skin when he saw the man at his window. Looking at him curiously, like a bird in deep contemplation. Dean swallowed a yell, and growled at the man as he moved to the window, “Are you out of your fucking mind?” He stopped and sighed, rubbing his face. “Of course you are – you hang out on roofs for kicks.”

Castiel leaned on the window frame, late night wind sending his dark hair flying this way and that, and the light from Dean's lamp gave him this kind of full body halo. His face shifted into an silent expression of, 'Are you coming, or what?'

He was not going to do it. He was not going follow this madman, dressed in jeans that hug slender hips, a gray t-shirt that set on strong slender shoulders, the color bringing out the glow in his blue eyes. He was not – ah, the hell with it. He sighed as he propped open the window all the way, and started climbing out as he grouched at Castiel, “I just want you to know, I'm not entirely sure you're not a figment of my imagination.”

Castiel stepped back, in a way that that almost made Dean curse at him to watch out for the edge, but Castiel apparently has the balance of a cat, and he just stood there, waiting. Dean paused long enough to grab a flannel out of his bureau, and toss it on over his sweats, not bothering to button the shirt up. He climbed out the window, just in time to see Castiel scale his way along the edge of the roof, and he hurried to catch up. Wind slid across him, chilled his skin a little, but he kept doggedly following the other man, until they came onto a little side porch, obviously only accessible from the attic itself. Castiel sat himself down on one side of the porch – damn it was tiny – so Dean eyed the other man and took the other half.

He glared at the other man, who just looked at him intently, before pointing upwards, and then to the darkened horizon, then back to Dean, his entire face saying, 'See? This was completely worth it.'

So Dean looked up to the sky, the real honest to God night sky with more stars than he can count. He looked outwards, towards the darkened fields, to the houses far distant that twinkle lights back at him. He felt something rest in him, a quiet he hadn't known was possible. It was probably the first time he had ever felt at peace in … well, ever. He breathed in, deeply, and it sort of settled in his skin. This was all real. All of it. He was not waking up in his cell; he was sitting on a house, with a room, a shower, real food and a job. There was a warm person next to him, that he had actually decided to spend time with instead of being locked in without his consent.

He let his lungs fill with night air, once more, and turned towards Castiel, towards the man who is a solid line of heat next to his body. He looked into that delicate face, into the blue eyes that are just a few shades lighter than the horizon itself. Dean breathed out, watched how that made Castiel's mouth part, tongue flickering out to lick his lips. Which was … Jesus, that was damned hot. For a guy. For this guy.

“I'm not sleeping with you.” Dean said, his voice drawn low.

Castiel simply lifted one eyebrow a fraction of an inch, and Dean knew that look instantly. That was the look that said, 'Do you want to bet?' and he huffed out a laugh, before he stopped in surprise. He hadn't laughed, not really, in over two years, and the sound of it actually shocked him to silence. That was when he felt Castiel's hand slip across his neck.

That was when Castiel's mouth closed over his, and he forgot to breath for a moment, even to move. He sat still like that, unblinking, before he shifted his lips ever so slightly, not sure if he was going to move closer or away. But the slide of lips against lips dragged a sharp breath out of the other man, and it was the first time Dean heard the man make a noise. Suddenly he wanted to hear more - more helpless little noises dragged from this quiet man's mouth. His lips parted, and his tongue slipped over Castiel's lower lip, looking for entrance and then finding it a few delicious seconds later.

Oh, then there was warmth and heat and Castiel's tongue moving over his. Suddenly, the man wasn't beside Dean but in his lap and that was just fine with him except he can't remember if the man climbed over him or if he dragged Castiel over. Doesn't matter, because Castiel's hands were on his bare skin and his mouth was some kind of welcoming oven that tasted of mint and pure want.

He pressed his hips up, Castiel pressed down and ahgodyes, there it was. Him hard and practically begging against friction and it felt so damned good. His hands slid up under that light cotton t-shirt to stroke over over nipples already peaked and waiting to be tweaked, then back down over a flat stomach, to Castiel's waistband, unbuttoning, un-zippering, and he growled as Castiel sat up but he realized it was just so he can get those jeans down over Castiel's hips.

A greedy push down, where he can feel warm, too hot flesh. Castiel was pushing him down on the cool wood of the porch. He saw dark sky and then he saw Castiel's face over his, framed in stars. He felt Castiel's mouth on him, demanding, and he surrendered to the sharp teeth and soft lips. He could feel Castiel's hands – oh, slender delicate fingers moving over his chest and then over his stomach and his sweatpants are shoved down. His boxers as well and he was diamond hard now – Castiel was sliding over him, shifting, moving and yesfuckyes,

Castiel's cock slid over his tantalizing and he leaned up, closed his lips and teeth around Castiel's Adam's apple and just sucked because he still wanted to hear that throat make noise. Castiel's breath was fast and sharp against his skin, and he could feel Castiel's stubble curving beard-burn into his cheek. He pumped up, fingers digging into the other man's hips to drag their cocks even faster against one another, feeling them slip in sweat and pre-come and Jesus, was that moaning? Yes, that was Castiel moaning as he slamned his mouth back into Dean's, and sweetfuckingchrist, he was coming all over Dean's abdomen and cock, while he was still fucking Dean's mouth wholeheartedly.

And that was it, that's all because God Damn, Dean has been in prison for two years. He was coming so fucking hard he was seeing white flashes behind his eyes and his entire body was jerking from the pleasurable pull of it. In two years, Hell, in all the years he has had sex, he never had an orgasm so fucking intense. He wasn't sure if it had been the wait or the oh random sexy of it all, or maybe it was the man who had stopped mauling his mouth and was now just sliding soft, sated kisses across his lips, before taking off his t-shirt to wipe them both clean. He gently tucked Dean back into his boxers and sweats, gave him another smoldering kiss that left Dean weak-headed and weak-kneed. He got to his feet, tossed his shirt silently over his shoulder. His upper body was surprisingly wiry – tight, lean muscle that Dean kind of wanted to devour.

That look must be on his face, in the dim light, because Castiel smiled at him, and then tilted his head at him questioningly, as if asking, 'Here? Again? Later?'

Dean surprised the fuck out of himself by nodding his head yes, and watched Castiel's smile reappear, grow brighter. Then Castiel was gone, a shadow moving towards the bedroom window lights, and probably back to his own room. For his own part, Dean kept smiling for a full minute and a half – before he realized just what the fuck happened.

He groaned as he covered his hands over his face, and fell back flat against the porch again, muttering to himself. “I had sex with Crazy Roof Guy. On the roof.”

Surreal. This entire fucking day was too surreal to be believed. He had to be dreaming. He had to be. He put two fingers on his arm and pinched himself hard, just to be sure. But no, he was still wide awake, staring up at the stars, his heart still pumping hard from orgasm, not to mention all the possible orgasms in the future.

He snorted as he finally pushed himself up to his feet, to climb back to his room. Fuck it. If he needed ruby slippers to get out of this messed up situation, he'd worry about that tomorrow. Besides … all things considered?

Maybe living in this crazy dream world with dorky lawyers and gruff married couples and houses in the middle of nowhere with a insanely hot insane blue-eyed sex god wasn't going to be as bad as he thought. Maybe, just maybe, for once he could be optimistic.

Maybe.

He'd see what tomorrow would bring.

*****************
Part Two is here

Moar SPN fanfic

2009-10-28T16:19:36Z

Title: The Five Year Plan [3/5]
Author: Commodoresexual
Rating: PG-13
Genre and/or Pairing: Dean/Castiel, Sam. AU/AR
Spoilers: All aired episodes of Supernatural, through Season 5
Warnings: Male on male sex, blasphemy, cursing, and Dean!whump.
Word Count: 18,493 and still going...
Summary: You would think after three years of traveling together that Dean's brother and Dean's angel would have gotten past some of their more sticky issues.`

Many, many thanks to sadsadmonkey for her awesome beta'ing!

Year Three

There was something about the start of the third year that meant Sam and Castiel had to go at each other like bitch teenagers on one of those retarded mock-real tv shows.

You would think after three years of traveling together that Dean's brother and Dean's angel would have gotten past some of their more sticky issues. Apparently, there was just some chick shit that both of them avoided like the plague. Dean wasn't sure if it was the mileage, or they just couldn't be subtle about not liking each other anymore, but whatever it was, it started to boil over.

Maybe it had to deal with stress. Sam wasn't good with stress as is – if it hadn't been the demon blood thing Dean was sure Sam would have suffered from ulcer related issues long ago. Castiel was now slightly less angel and a lot more human, so this his first time at the stress rodeo. Made sense, under the circumstances. They were running hard, fighting harder, and hadn't really had a break in three years – thanks to both sides of the frigging war. Being your own side was fucking exhausting. They'd blow off steam by fighting each other.

Except, of course, they were only fighting each other and not him.

Sam would start off with something sharp, poking at Castiel – whether it be if Castiel should be trusted, allowed to spend this much time with them because he put them in danger, whatever. Sam always made the first move to the dance.

Castiel stepped right up, though. Gaze sharp with anger, voice filled with gravely flatness as he poked at Sam's demon-blood addiction, or his tendency to do what he thought was right when all it was hubris.

Sam would retaliate that Castiel once threatened to put Dean back in Hell, because he was an arrogant son of a bitch.

Castiel would return that Sam had abandoned Dean for Ruby, because he was an equally arrogant son of a bitch.

And just when Dean thought he'd have to step in, just when he was sure there was going to be Sam nursing a broken hand, or Castiel tossing Sam across the room, they both just stepped off. Left the field of battle before blood was spilled. There was the dizzing rise of rage from both of them and then nothing. Zip. Zero.

But not before they both shot him guilty glances, and both of them muttered something and disappeared for a few hours, in different directions.

The most frustrating part of it all was the fact that it was the same fight – different day, different topic. Sam and Cas had The Fight over who got to sit where in the Impala as they did over when they found the Antichrist – except the seating arrangements had been a lot less heartbreaking than Jesse's fate had been. Sam and Castiel had been fighting the Fight – Sam wanted to save Jesse, Castiel wanted to kill him, and fuck Dean if he didn't agree with both sides. Jesse was half human, half demon, and as he went into his teenage years who knew what might provoke his powers in anger, or need? Jesse deserved to live, but how could he, when the Devil and the Angels walked the earth?

Dean sighed and turned away from Sam yelling at Castiel that he wasn't human, to find Jesse there, looking so scared, his blue eyes bright. Jesse, who told Dean, “Please tell my parents I love them.”

Thirteen year old boys who wanted to do nothing more than smile at Helen Grisby and maybe ask her to the school dance, ride their mountain bikes and dream about surfing in Australia, shouldn't have to decide to unmake themselves so the Devil couldn't get his hands on them. Dean never hated himself so much when the last of Jesse wafted in ash across his face. He breathed out, choked, tears in his eyes from the dust and pain when he turned back to Sam and Castiel, who to their credit looked like they were both about to be sick.

Dean pointed one finger at them, and said softly, his voice filled with rage, “One of you says a word, and I swear, I will fucking knock your ass out.” He stalked out of hotel room, climbed into the Impala and just drove off, mindless of the danger he was putting himself in by doing this. He ended up at a bar, swigged down a few beers, ignored the invitations of some truly warm and lush ladies to silently snarl at his brother and his angel, the Devil, and Heaven. God got a few choice phrases as well.

When he drove back into the hotel parking lot, hours later, he was surprised to see the hotel light still on. He glowered at it, because if Sam thought they were going to talk this shit out – if Castiel looked at him once with that sad, sorrowful look in his eyes, Dean wasn't sure what he'd do, but someone was going to be nursing broken bones. He stalked inside, green eyes blazing, but it was a fire that sputtered when he saw the two of them. Sam was sitting on the bed, cradling his head in his hands and Castiel was standing, leaning on the low counter of the kitchenette, his expression compacted in something that Dean recognized as grief.

They both looked towards him while he stood in the doorway, and Sam's voice caught, strained. “We thought. We didn't think you'd be back.” What wasn't said was, ever again. Sam looked like he had been fighting off tears and Castiel's fingers were curled so tight into the counter-top Dean thought it might crack.

“Well,” He cleared his throat, giving them both a quiet 'seriously?' look, “That's kinda stupid. I mean, for one, all my shit's here.” He gestured to his laptop, his duffel before he sighed as he ambled into the room, “For another, this is my damned room. I paid for it. If I was that pissed the fuck off, I would have kicked your two sorry asses to the curb.”

Sam flinched and Castiel's mouth drew into a line so thin Dean couldn't catch the hint of those full lips at all, and he mentally kicked himself in the ass. Isn't that what happened, in that other life he was trying so damned hard to keep from repeating? He left Sam behind, and then at some point he abandoned Castiel even though Cas had stayed right there with him. Then Sam was the Devil and Cas was a fucking drug addict. He sighed, “But see, that didn't happen.” He made sure they were both looking at him, “And tomorrow, we're all going to Jesse's parents and telling them what happened to their son. Tonight, though, all I want to do with the rest of tonight is try to sleep. All right, guys?”

Sam nodded slowly, his gaze understanding but his jaw set in that way that meant he had Shit On His Mind. Castiel fixed his solemn blue eyes on Dean, and gave him the briefest of head tilt. Then he and Sam shared a look, before Sam started to get ready for bed and Castiel disappeared where ever he went while they slept. Dean felt some of the tension drain out of him, and he hoped the temporary peace would last.

And it did.

For something like, a month.

To be fair, in the month itself, all of their tension levels had been turned up to eleven, because they kicked up their hunting for bigger fish. After Jesse, Dean was determined to take it to the Devil. He wanted to kick that bitch so hard in his evil face that every demon under him had to feel around their mouths for loose teeth. So he introduced the next part of The Plan, which was simply, 'Fuck Up Lucifer's Day', and that? That involved taking out the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse.

Well, okay, more like Three Horsemen... and Dean doubted they had really destroyed War, but they did kick his ass back to whatever parallel dimension these guys hung out in. It only made sense to gack the other three. The fact that it was one more step away from the End Of The World that the angels wanted as well? Just a great perk.

They caught up with Famine right before he was about to take out the Belt, that luscious stretch of land that fed most of goddamned America. Famine had started small, and that was his problem, and the rest of the world's salvation. The arrogant asshole was content to take his time slowly depriving people of food, take out one farm at a time. He had managed two small homesteads, completely run them into the fucking ground, by the time the Winchesters and the angel got their hands on him.

Needless to say, Famine went down like a bitch, a crying, sobbing frustrated as Hell bitch, as Castiel held him down, Sam threw his whole body against him and Dean hacked off his wrist, where the bracelet Famine had been using to slowly poison the land, the animals, even the people, hung snugly around the Horseman's wrist.

Dean wasn't subtle about it either - he used a chainsaw, just like his man Ash. Maybe it was a little overkill, but c'mon. As far as he could tell, all Heaven and Hell did was overkill. Time to return the favor. He wanted to send a message, he wasn't fucking around anymore and the other sides in this war had better be ready to take whatever he was gonna dish out.

The hand vanished under a spray of blood, Famine screamed last one time, and bam, a bloody bracelet fell to the ground, spun a few times and went tink, a completely innocent sound coming from such an evil object. Famine was gone, not even a whiff of sulfur to mark his passing. Dean leaned over to pick it up, and grunted as he twisted it this way and that. He eyed it, then Sam and Castiel, and quipped lightly. “I think it's just the bling, but now I could seriously go for a bacon double cheeseburger.”

Sam gave him his best bitch-face for that, before he rolled his eyes and muttered. “Of course you would.” He eyed the spot where Famine's car had been, some sort of gas guzzling SUV that killed ozone and plants just by turning it on. “You're the only person I know who gets the munchies when covered in ectoplasm.”

“Mm. Deaaad Cooow.” Dean smirked, just to bring out more of a bitchface on Sam's face. He hooked the chainsaw over one shoulder. “Dead bloody cow. C'mon, dinner's on me.”

Castiel fell into step beside Dean, and tilted his head at the hunter, frowning faintly, “You will have them cook the cow first? Raw meat is unsafe.”

Dean paused briefly to give a look to Castiel. Even after all this time, there were still moments when Castiel would say something so innocuous that it literally made Dean want to ruffle his hair, keep him close and protect that gentle naivety with all that was in him. His expression softened, a flicker of warmth, “Yeah, Cas. The cow, and the pig too, just to be safe.”

He didn't miss the warmth in Castiel's own expression, and he sure as Hell didn't miss the sudden twinge in Sam's face. Had he given more thought to it, he would have figured out all this endless shit right then and there, but he was too distracted by the glow to Castiel's face to notice the shadows in Sam's.

That ended the month of peace. At dinner Sam started in on Castiel again, and Castiel spared Dean one guilty look before he plowed right back into Sam. All Dean could do was sigh, eat his fries, and wait for the two of them to back off again. They did, but each fight became more and more brutal. He could see the wounds that Sam gouged into Castiel, without knowing why, and he could see where Castiel slid the proverbial knife in between Sam's ribs, but didn't understand how Sam looked like he was bleeding all the damned time. There was some level, some sort of connection none of them were making. For three weeks Dean had front row seats to a verbal sparring the likes of Jon Stewart and Stephen Colbert, except it wasn't fucking funny at all.

Three weeks, and then it all came to a nasty clusterfucking head.

************************

Bobby may have been wheelchair-bound, but the man could get intel from a paperback romance novel and a rock, and he was the one who gave them their first solid lead on Pestilence. They were in an abandoned hospital somewhere outside of Bear, Delaware and Dean had promised himself two things as they moved along the hallways of the hospital. One, if he got out of here in one piece he was going straight to the best cheeseburger in the damned world and two, after that and on a full and satiated stomach he was going to beat the crap out of Sam and Castiel. He didn't even know how he was going to kick the shit out of an angel, but he'd start by dunking a baseball bat in demon's blood and go from there.

When they started The Fight from moment they walked into the goddamned building, Dean shot them both an exasperated look of, 'Not the time for this, guys.'

Ten minutes later, when Sam was asking Castiel if he was actually, “Looking for God or have you finally giving up your futile need to resolve your Daddy issues?”, Dean gave him his, 'Sam, so help me I will jump-kick the top of your sasquatch head in' expression.

The final straw however, was hearing Castiel say in that low, intent and angry way of his that made Dean shiver, “Why? Are you so afraid to face my Father's Wrath for choosing so unwisely?”

Dean stopped so suddenly in the hallway that before Sam could respond, he thumped against Dean's back. Dean turned, his temper scraped to the last nerve, and he was glad it showed in his face. Sam's face fell a little and Castiel looked at him, and then away to the floor. Dean stared at both of them, his eyes flat and hard as he said. “We're leaving.”

“I – what?” Sam looked at his brother, the gun in his hand dropping to his side with surprise. Castiel looked like a startled bird next to him.

“We're leaving. Right now.” He shifted his gaze to Castiel. “Take us back to the hotel room.”

Castiel looked at him, his expression twisting this way and that, but finally he nodded and stepped forward, dropping one hand to both brother's shoulders. Dean gritted his teeth at the shift of perception, but more in anger. He clicked the safety on his favorite gun, put it on the bed so he wouldn't be tempted to use it, and then turned on the two of them, who looked so much like Bambi's mother that he almost - almost didn't say anything, but no. Enough was fucking enough. He snapped at both of them, “What the fuck is the matter with you two?”

Sam's eyes widened, before he glared defensively in turn. “What's wrong with us? What the hell is wrong with you? You pulled us out of the middle of a hunt! For a Horseman!”

“What hunt?” Dean snorted. “I wasn't on a hunt – I was on another fun-filled hour of the Sam and Cas show – where you two spent more time ripping each other apart than actually paying attention to what the fuck was going around us? Pestilence could have been waiting around any damned corner, henchmen aplenty, and you two would still be snapping at each other like goddamned children!”

Sam stiffened and looked away. Castiel lifted his chin, blue eyes blazing, answered sharply. “We would not have failed you. We know how important this part of The Plan is.”

Dean could have easily loved Castiel for that – the angel was the only one who took The Plan with the same seriousness he did. Right now though, he was mad and he didn't want to soften; he wanted some goddamned explanation for their behavior. He wanted them to get past whatever shit this was.

So he lifted himself, glowering at the angel like he had a million times before when they were on opposite times – from the first time they met in that barn, to now. “Yeah? I can depend on that? When you two take any opportunity you can throw insults at one another? Jesus H. Christ, I feel like I should just leave you two behind --” He meant to finish with, 'in the room with a fucking babysitter and an Xbox', but he stopped dead.

Because Sam looked up at him as all the blood drained out of his face, horrified beyond all reason, his large hands clenched at his sides, like when he was little and waiting for Dad to punish him.

Because Castiel's eyes were an ocean of pain, terror, and a tired resignation that said he had been waiting for this, looking as broken and lost as he had that day in the Green Room, so many years ago.

Because suddenly, he got it. He got it on Sam's level, on Cas's level, and it was so fucking stupid he felt like hitting them or hugging them. Maybe both.“You think I'm going to leave you.” He watched as Sam and Castiel shared a wary, angry look, and he continued, “No … you think I'm going to leave one of you. You're both fucking jealous of each other? Over me?”

Their silence was answer enough, and he threw his hands in the air. “What the fuck for?” Neither one of them were looking at each other, but they weren't looking at him either. He growled as he stepped towards them, “What the fuck for?”

“You want to know? All right - fine.” Sam spoke quietly, his tone angry, and he looked at Castiel, frustration clear on his face, “He's one of the … the dickless feathery bastards that let one of the end of the world happen, and you trust him and you care about him, and you just forgave him all that bullshit from before! You forgave him and you won't ever say you've forgiven me! You just say it's 'okay' and 'let's not talk about it, Sammy', and God, Dean! I'm your brother. How can I not feel like you're replacing me, with him? I was gone three months, three fucking months and in that time he just moved right in and … and ...” He swallowed and choked a little, before glaring back at the angel. “And he's lying, about something. He betrayed us – betrayed you in some way. I know it. Every single time we fight, he's the first one to back off, and he's the one who always looks guilty.”

Dean worked his jaw tightly, his entire expression tensed as he looked to Castiel, and sure enough, as hot as Castiel's eyes blazed with anger, there was guilt there. He didn't know how he had gotten to read the angel so well, but obviously it was well enough for any possible betrayal to hit him like a ton of bricks to the stomach. He swallowed that, and said tightly, almost too softly, “Is it right, Cas? Did you?”

Castiel looked away, and then at Dean, his voice quiet and pained, his shoulder slumped with silent defeat. Like he had entered another battle he couldn't possibly win. “Yes, Dean.”

Dean closed his eyes, tight. Breathed out slowly. Tried to ignore the vise his chest had become, tried to prepare himself for the worst. He opened his eyes to find Sam staring at Castiel in shock, as if he couldn't believe he had been right about the angel, and Dean had to resist the urge to put his fist in his brother's face, as futile as that would be. Instead he looked at Castiel, and didn't look away, “What did you do?”

Castiel met his gaze, without flinching, but after a moment he tore his gaze and looked at Sam, his voice measured. “I am the one who followed the orders of Zachariah, and released you, from Bobby Singer's basement.”

Silence rang loud in Dean's ears, like bells, as he gaped at the angel. At all the confessions he expected – Castiel working with Heaven again, Castiel working with Lucifer - he never saw that coming. But really, it made sense, didn't it? Of course the angels let Sam out – they needed the end of the world to bring about 'Paradise' – and of course they sent Castiel. The only angel close enough to the Winchesters to know where Dean and Bobby would lock up Sam. He shook his head slowly, because understandable or not … “You fucking asshole. You fucking, sheep-faced asshole. How could you follow that order?”

Castiel lifted his chin, his eyes bright with pain, but he didn't flinch and he didn't make stupid excuses. He just said, “Because, at the time, I thought it was the only thing to do. I followed orders, even if they were not orders I believed in my heart to be right.” He hung his head, his voice going soft. “Because … I was weak. Weak in the face of the Host.” He looked up, and put his gaze on Dean, “But that is all. Whatever decisions your brother made after that, I had no say in.”

“You brought on the Apocalypse.” Sam spoke softly, before he growled and put his hands into the lapels of Castiel's coat, attempting to shake the angel, but all he could do was shake Castiel's coat back and forth, “You son of a bitch! You could have stopped me! You could have fucking stopped me with a thought, but no! A twist of your goddamned wrist and you let me do it!”

“Sam. Get your hands off of him.” Dean snapped, and when Sam didn't stop, he stepped forward and physically yanked his brother away from the angel, standing between them. “We want to start up that blame game, Sam? You really want to go there? Cas wasn't the one who made you walk out of that panic room. Cas didn't make you shack up with Ruby. Cas didn't make you betray me, for her.”

Sam shrunk in a little further on himself, and Castiel looked like he was about to flee, but Dean? For once Dean was having none of this emotionally repressed bullshit. He all but snarled, “You two look at me when I'm yelling at you!” They both looked up, penitent and lost, and he jerked his chin back and forth at them, “You two wanna play the 'who started the end of the world', game? Great, how about we blame me?” Two stricken looks met his raging angry one, “Yeah, me. Remember me? Guy who broke the First Seal? Made a deal with a demon to get my brother back, went to Hell and had to have an angel come and bust me out, but not after I broke down and tortured people for ten goddamned years. But why stop there?”

He got right into Sam's face. “Why don't we just blame Dad for making that damned deal to save my miserable hide? He could have just let me die and we'd be done with it! No end of the world, just me in a proper grave and you and Dad weeping over my ashes!”

He twisted around, jabbing a finger into Castiel's startled expression. “Or we could just blame my mother! My mom, who believed in angels but made a deal with a yellow-eyed demon to keep her lover alive! Who ended up on the ceiling, bleeding and burning, but you know what? Why not just point the finger and yell and scream, because that sure as Hell is going to make things different, right?” He glowered. “Oh wait. It's not.”

Sam looks at him pleadingly, his expression filled with aching sadness. Castiel's entire face was a lesson in graceful sorrow, right down to the marrow of his ancient bones. Dean breathed deep, before he grabbed Sam by the front of his shirt, and dragged Castiel over by his tie, and Castiel let him. He gripped them tight, as tight as Castiel ever did pulling him out of Hell, his voice pitched low. “Now listen to me, you fucking morons. We made bad choices. Every last one of us, right on down the line. But you know what? In the face of the end of the world, I'm willing to bend a fucking little.” He took a step back, and put his hands up, looking at his little brother in angry earnestness. “Sammy, you want me to forgive you? Ask me to forgive you for the right Goddamned Thing. Ask me to forgive you for forgetting that I'm your family, and that should have come before anyone else, least of all Ruby. Ask me to forgive you for leaving me behind, in the worst possible way.”

He looked at Castiel, feeling that tightness in his chest. “And Cas … God, Cas. You should have told us. You should have told me. You should have trusted me to forgive you, no matter what. Because despite what my idiot brother might think he knows, he doesn't know why I trust you. He doesn't know that look on your face when you were betting it all on me in that fucking Green Room. He doesn't know the feeling I get in my stomach, when I think of you in Chuck's kitchen, yelling. 'I'll hold them off, I'll hold them all off!' He wasn't there the night Raphael tried to break your heart, man.” He slapped one hand against his chest. “That was me.”

“Dean...” Sam spoke, softly. Hoarsely. Putting a million emotions into just one word, sounding like his Sammy and not the drugged out demon blood junkie who whispered, 'I'm sorry' over Ruby's dead body.

Castiel didn't say his name, but he mouthed it, silently, and Dean wondered if that was the look on Castiel's face when he turned his back on him in that silent, dark room, after Dean said, 'We're done'. So afraid, and so alone.

He let out a sigh, a heavy one, pulling his gaze away from them both as he rubbed his mouth and paced a little. Gathering himself up, because he'd walked this mile, he knew the guilt and the fear of being left on the wayside because he didn't deserve forgiveness, so he'd never sought it. He swallowed, holding out one hand, as his eyes flicked between them. “Mistakes … mistakes were made. And I won't lie, you told me this shit then, I'd be pissed as Hell. At both of you. But that was three years and fifty thousand miles ago. That is crap that is so fucking far behind us, I can't even see it in the rearview mirror. And beyond that – Jesus … Sam, you're my brother. Castiel, you're my friend - my best friend. What do you think I'm fighting so hard for? Not Heaven, not Hell, but my family – and my family is you. Both of you. You're all I've got.” He breathed, deeply. “You want my forgiveness? Fine. Then you gotta forgive each other, and you've got to forgive yourselves.”

Castiel looked up, then to Sam, who looked back at him. Castiel didn't look away from the younger Winchester, but his words could only be directed to Dean. “Then … you will not leave me, us, behind?”

“Christ, no, you moron.” Dean shook his head, putting his hands on his hips. Sam and Castiel glanced at him, and he lifted one eyebrow, “I was never going to leave you. Not like that. Not ever. I need you guys. But I need you here. Past is past. Time to let this shit go.” One corner of his mouth finally lifted up. “Which I know will be hard for the two of you, considering you are the biggest two carriers of vaginae I have ever met.” Sam blinked, and he added with a smirk, “And yeah, Sam, I know the Latin plural word for vagina.”

Sam gave him one of his best bitchfaces for that, but suddenly burst into laughter when Castiel muttered, “And yet he can't get through one simple prayer without going, 'Blah Blah Blah Latin, make with the praying, Cas, so I can get out of here'.”

Dean rolled his eyes, but he felt the corners of his mouth lifting upwards as he moved towards the door. “That's the spirit. Crack jokes at my expense. While you two have a touchy feely moment, I'm gonna grab some dinner.” He grabbed his keys off the bedside table, “And when you're done? We'll get back to what we were meant to be doing today.”

He pulled open the hotel room door, and came face to face with two demons, and a chick who looked like she just got thrown out of Black Sabbath tour, her hair dyed a lurid shade of red, her skin the sort of sickly pale one expects from those who liked the stupid sparkly vampire movies. Or people who were dying of some sort of horrible disease.

Pestilence bared rotting, infested teeth at him, and hissed, “Hello Dean Winchester – I heard you've been looking for me. Is Sam around? We wanted to know if he'd like to come out and play.”

Dean felt the pit of his stomach drop out and he wrenched his head around to scream, “Get out of here, now! Cas, get Sam -” And then came the push that sent him flying across the room, and the last thing he remembered clearly was hitting the opposite wall with a thud as Sam screamed his name.

******************

He didn't remember much after that. There wasn't the smell of blood, and he was grateful for that, but there were other smells. Vomit, piss, other bodily functions. The smell of a body when it wasn't clean -- and Dean knew, dimly, it was his. He heard Pestilence cooing over him at one point, but it was washed away under fever and delusion.

He hurt, but because of how high his fever was, he wasn't sure where or how.

He wasn't really sure what was real, anymore.

Especially when he saw the wings. Bright and glorious, stretching across his vision, all colors of the rainbow. Not just the reds, greens, the yellows, blues, but all the millions of shades in between that Dean used to think they all looked alike, but now he can see the difference in each feather.

Then there was the voice – the rough, deep voice that said his name, softly and gently, as if it was part of a prayer, or a beloved hymn – and arms as strong as the world lifted him up. He looked away from the wings, and up to the face that was nothing but eyes of endless gorgeous blue.

He might have said something about the eyes, because they looked startled, and Dean was afraid the beautiful thing would let him go. But no, it simply held tighter, and then there's a jumble of noise and flesh and brown eyes. Browns, greens, and tans – something made of Earth, just as the other creature is made of reflecting Light. He smiled at both glowing set of eyes, accepted their soft assurances that all would be better soon, and wondered if he should ask about the nubile virgins at the end of this road. Because seriously, if he was punching out this time, he wanted the whole naked women bit.

Then it stopped aching, hurting and he could breath. For the first time in minutes – hours – weeks - Dean breathed deep, breathed clean. He breathed in, again, and laughed with fucking giddy delight at the sensation. He could feel those arms, those arms that held him like he was the most precious fucking thing in the fucking world, squeeze softly, and warm fingers brushed over his forehead. He slipped into a clean, pain-free sleep.

*******************

He woke up on the broken down sofa in Bobby's study, feeling like he hasn't slept near enough, and his mouth was so cracked and dry he wondered if at some point he swallowed sand. He sat up, groaned as his body creaked in a way that told him it'd be a long time healing, pushing aside the blanket and wondered why it felt like he was being jabbed with a needle in his fucking arm.

He looked down, blinked at the IV stuck in his vein and mouthed a silent, 'Ooooh', before he followed the line up to the banana bag hanging over one of Bobby's standing lamps. He eyed it, shook his head and tugging the needle out without a wince. He looked around, but the house was strangely quiet. He didn't hear the creak of boots, or the roll of Bobby's wheels, and he wondered if he had just be dropped here like a sack of wounded potatoes while Sam and Castiel went off to win the Apocalypse for him, and without explaining what the fuck happened..

He stood up, hissed at the bruises that pulled the muscles on his back from where he hit the wall, and walked – slowly – to Bobby's kitchen. He needed a glass of water right-the-fuck now, because only then would he be able to yell for one of those sonnovabitches who would hopefully answer him. He plucked the glass off of the counter, turned on the faucet and turned his head to the door.

Where he found Bobby sitting at the door, staring out into his yard. Dean frowned, downed his glass of water, and poured himself another. It tasted so damned good. He walked slowly to the other man, croaking softly, “Bobby?”

Bobby twisted in his chair, and his gruff face brightened, but his tone was just as rough as always. “You idjit – 'bout damned time you woke up.”

Dean smiled wearily, putting his hand down on Bobby's shoulder. “Yeah, well, I felt like a nap.” He peered out into the yard, drenched in late afternoon sun, then he squinted. Sam and Castiel were seated on the hood of a rusted out Lincoln Cadillac – Castiel was listening intently while Sam gestured with his hands. Dean took another drink of water, swallowed, then shook his head in disbelief, “Oh God. It's the end of the fucking world. Sam and Cas appear to be having a civil conversation.”

“They've been out there for about three hours – said you probably wouldn't let them in until they 'talked it out'.” Bobby shook his own head a little, “At first I thought you'd wake up from all the shouting – but that lasted twenty minutes. Then it was an hour of Sam pacing back and forth while your angel just talked. Then Sam started yabbering … and here they are.” The old hunter twisted his head up at Dean, nearly taking off his cap in the process, “The hell you standing up for, boy? You just got yourself whupped by Pestilence. Go sit your ass down.”

Dean was still feeling a little wobbly in the knee area, so he walked back to the living room table and dropped himself down. He drank more water, watching as Bobby rolled across the kitchen and ignored the pang in his chest. Instead he said, “How long has it been, since Pestilence took me?”

“Two days. One of those days was you sleeping.” Bobby said, rolling back over to Dean with orange juice and Advil in hand. “Here, take those. You gotta keep your strength and immune system up.”

Jesus Christ, he slept the entire damned day? He swallowed the asprin, chased it with juice, and shook his head. “What the hell happened, Bobby?”

Bobby shook his head, “All I know is that one minute I'm enjoying two fingers of bourbon and then there's a frantic Winchester and a frantic angel in my kitchen and they're yelling at each other and they're yelling at me that they need a map of the Delaware area you all ended up going to hunt Pestilence. After that, they're yelling at each other again, trying to remember some spell Sam knows to track people, I don't know where he got it.” Bobby looked towards his kitchen again, as if he could stare through the wall. “And then ...y'know what, I'll let them explain the next part. They disappeared again – and an hour they were dropping your ass on that sofa... and you looked like death warmed over. Apparently Pestilence pumped you with every disease she could think of, and a few that just sounded like fun for her.” Bobby's expression tightened, “And the cherry on her sick-ass plan was making you the first to be infected with Croatoan.”

Dean's chest tightened painfully at those words, even as he filed 'next part' away to be probed at later. Flickers of memory of a past that had never existed came through his mind. Dirty, broken down streets of Kansas City, the smell of rotten things and that little girl, dirty-faced, silent and as predatory as any wild animal, and those letters spray painted on a dingy brick wall. He remembered the look on his Other's face as he shot one of his men for having even been exposed to that much blood. He swallowed, drank more water, then chased it with more juice, “I take it by the word 'first' that Sam and Cas saved a lot more than just me?”

Bobby nodded his head slowly, “They surely did, boy. Whole parcel of folks, trapped so they could be 'experimented' on. I can't even imagine what would have happened if that crazy Hellbitch had gotten away with it.”

I can. Hell, I have seen. Dean breathed out slowly, and he could feel the hints of a smile curling on his lips. Hot Damn. It's working. The Plan is actually working. He believed, he worked for it, he planned for it, but this was the first time The Plan had been more than an outline – a set of instructions on how to save the world. This time, this time, Dean could feel Fate shifting a little more to their side, and at that thought, he really did smile.

Bobby was giving him an odd look, tilting his head if he wasn't sure if Dean was still feverish or just being an 'idjit', when the back door banged open and they could hear Sam and Castiel talking – not yelling – but talking. Dean lifted his smile to them, feeling like he wanted to share this rightness with everyone, but most of all them. Sam stopped in the doorway, Castiel at his side, and when they saw his smile – well. Sam smiled back, bright as any candle, and Castiel's eyes burned into Dean, alight with happiness.

Dean looked from one, to the other, and drawled out slowly, “My heroes.”

That day, he meant it from the bottom of his heart.

********************

They spent another night at Bobby's, but Dean didn't like to spend much time in one place. Putting down roots made them sitting targets. He wasn't yet ready to set up some wilderness camp, wasn't yet ready to become the Fearless Leader that Future Castiel had so willingly mocked and yet respected. So the next night he determined that they would be on the road, and if he was still too weak and tired to drive – well – that was why he trusted Sam.

He found himself in the backseat – a place he'd only been for nights on empty roads with no motel in sight, or no money in his pocket – or when really phenomenal sex was about to happen. But Bobby had glared, Sam had puppy-eyed him, and Castiel had just said, “Dean.” in that way that made Dean to bend over backwards. So he'd agreed to the backseat, so he could rest, sleep, let his body get itself back up to peak again.

It was different in the car, but familiar, like it was that first time they traveled together. Dean fell asleep to the strains of Led Zepplin and Sam talking to Castiel about where they were going next.

He awoke hours later, Sam's hoodie folded under his head, something tan over his shoulders, and he found his nose buried in the collar of Castiel's trench-coat. There was a song playing that sounded familiar, but it was now sung by a guy – two guys – instead of that little emo blonde. He nuzzled the coat, breathed in and smelled old books - fresh, green things and the scent of coffee and syrup. He smiled, briefly, pulling it closer to him. Then he almost pushed it away, because that was so damned girly he could could almost smell the perfume.

Probably wasn't helped by the girly-ass wanna be punk-rock singers from girly-ass wanna be cover band of Avril Lavigne, for Christ's sake – wait a minute. He sat up a little, just enough to see Castiel's profile. Yep, that confirmed it.

It sure was the angel singing, 'Keep Holding On'.

That sure was his brother singing along with him, too.

Well. Dean was glad to know he wasn't the biggest sentimental pansy in the car. And damn, could his angel sing.

He waited until there was some kind of instrumental lull, and cleared his throat, sitting up more. The coat, though, stayed firmly tucked around him as he spoke sarcastically, “I'm so glad my car has become the practice space for the first human-angel-all-girl glee club. Seriously.”

He caught Sam's eyes in his rear-view mirror, and Sam smirked at his brother, “Morning. I see you got up on the right side of the Impala.”

Castiel turned towards the backseat, his face soft in the dim streetlights that kept whipping by them at sixty miles per hour. His eyes looked like the deep, dark blue of water, looking over Dean as if he was worried Dean would disappear like smoke. A trace of warmth, as he spoke, “Hello Dean.”

Dean resisted the urge to lean over and rub the throat those two words came out of, to brush the eyelids of those blue eyes with his thumb, gentle as the look on the angel's face. Instead, he let one corner of his mouth lift up, “Hey Cas. I'm still here, no worries.” He did not, in any fucking universe, clutch the coat closer to him. He just settled it more over his shoulders, because it was fucking cold in the backseat, after all. He cleared his throat, again, “Where are we?”

“About fifty miles out of Denver.” Sam glanced out the window to the road signs, and then looked at Dean again through the rear-view. “Figure we'll stop before the city limits, for Pie Time.”

Dean frowned even as he watched Castiel nod his head once in approval, “... Pie Time? The Hell is Pie Time?”

“Well, Cas and I talked it over – and we decided that we needed a mutual bonding. Since you won't let him, for whatever reason, join you and I for Beer Time and since I get glowered at if I join you two for Breakfast Time? We decided to create Pie Time – where the three of us have pie, and … y'know. Just be.”

Dean fought the smile that suddenly wanted to appear, and instead rubbed the back of his hand over his mouth instead. “If you two expect me to get all fucking emotional and weepy over cherry pie? You are out of your fucking mind. Cherry pie is for eating, not for sharing our collective … male … emo.”

He could hear Sam rolling his eyes, “Yeah, okay Dean. But still, Pie Time is a go?”

“Pie Time is a go.” And because Dean remembered shit like this, he arched an eyebrow, “So … what else did you guys talk about?”

His gaze narrowed as Sam and Castiel shared a quick glance between them, and both of them made non-committal noises. They both glanced at each other and Sam cleared his throat, “We talked about stuff.”

“Things.” Castiel chimed in, and then they both fell silent, staring forward. As if they knew if they looked at one another they'd start spilling their guts like a demon faced with an exorcism.

Dean looked between them and snorted, “Oh, you two don't expect me to just accept you talked about 'things and stuff'. That's complete bull--”

“I think it's time for more music.” Castiel said suddenly and firmly, looking over at Sam, before thrusting the iPod at him.

“You're using the iPod? For music? So not only is there shit you two are not telling me, but I have to listen to more whiny girl rock?” Dean said disbelievingly.

Sam glanced over his shoulder briefly, and there was a smirk on his face that if Dean was honest with himself, he seriously missed on his little brother's face. Sam scrolled through his music, saying in too cheerful tone, “We'll cover one thing I told him – hey Cas? What's the number one rule about the car?”

Castiel's eyes suddenly lit up, lips curving into that almost smirk of his as he responded with mock gravity, “Driver picks the music. Shotgun shuts his cake-hole.”

“And with that in mind?” Sam smirked at his brother in the rear-view, as he flipped it through, stopped, and hit play, “A Katy Perry Classic.” He started to sing, and Castiel's lips tipped up a little more as he chimed in as they sang together, “This was never the way I planned, not my intention. I got so brave, drink in hand, lost my discretion...”

Dean groaned, and flopped back against the smooth leather of his seat, pulling Cas's trenchcoat over his head as he yelled over Katy Perry's throaty tones, “I hate you so fucking much!”

This time, he didn't mean it at all.

Supernatural Fanfiction

2009-10-19T03:53:28Z

Title: The Five Year Plan [2/5]
Author: Commodoresexual
Rating: PG-13
Genre and/or Pairing: AU after 'The End'. Dean/Castiel UST, Sam
Spoilers: Up to 5.04.
Warnings: Male on male sex, religious blasphemy, language. I like my sins big.
Word Count: 10,600 total
Summary: "Can you do it? Can you talk to God?"

Year Two

Cas, of course, was on board. This had been his focus ever since he got back from being splatted all over Chuck's kitchen, and if there's an image Dean never wanted to think of again, it's that. He had a few nightmares over the next year of hippie Cas offering him chips and bowl of something dark, red and pulpy. There were teeth in the bowl and hippie Cas was just laughing about letting it go, banging the gong, and 'having yourself some angel salsa.'

Dean always woke up before he could clock that damned smiling sonnvabitch.

It was Sam who had the problem. Sam who argued with Dean for three hundred and sixty four days straight about how this Plan was a lousy Plan. He argued with Dean about it in the car. He argued with Dean about it in the motel rooms they stayed in. He argued with Dean while they're fought monsters. He argued while they trekked to every holy and religious place they could think of in North America, looking for God – Sam was especially bitchy the day Dean gave in and they drove down to New Mexico to look for the Holy Flatbread. He argued before they went to sleep, and when they woke up. He argued at every damned meal, and if Dean hadn't started to lock the door, he'd argue with Dean while Dean was on the goddamned toilet.

After three hundred and sixty-four days, Dean had parsed Sam's objections to The Plan into a top five list.

1.They can't spend all their time running around the country trying to find God. God is God. God probably doesn't want to be found. He is not playing skee-ball, he is not talking to beloved country music star, and he's probably not talking to some teenage girl in Arcadia.

2.They should have a more proactive plan. Like finding the Colt. Finding the Colt is a solid plan, where they would be doing something with real effect and at the same time, they would have a weapon to kill the Devil. Kill Devil Good. Wandering Around Bad.

3.They can't keep hiding forever. Sooner or later the angels will find them or Lucifer will find them or something else bad with sharp teeth and a bad attitude will find them, but they will be found and they probably still wouldn't have spoken to God.

4.Man had been trying to get God to answer back for centuries. Yes, Dean was Michael's vessel and Sam was Lucifer's, but that didn't mean they got a free pass to communicate with God. Not even Cas got that, and Cas rebelled against Heaven and Hell. What made Dean think they were so special?

5.What the hell were they going to say to God, anyways?

Dean took Sam's arguments in stride. He knew there was in fact another Sam Winchester underneath the angry super-analyst who was coming fresh off a demon blood addiction, getting betrayed by his demon girlfriend, and bringing Lucifer to Earth. Why in the name Hell would Sam want to talk to God? God was probably going to smack his bitch ass for bringing about the end to all of God's good work. Dean could see that hint of fear every single time Sam brought up one of those tired old arguments. Sam was scared to find God, scared of what God would do to him, even more so than Lucifer. Dean, all things considered, couldn't blame him. That was why he manfully resisted the urge to shove a pillow over Sam's face and kill him in his sleep.

Still, it was starting to become touch and go by the time the end of the first year rolled around. Dean was starting to look at sticks, rocks, even ketchup bottles fondly as blunt instruments he'd use the moment Sam said, “Dean, if you would just listen … “

On the three hundredth and sixty-fifth day though, everything changed.

********************

The start of the second year was when Castiel had the Idea.

They were in a diner, and it was already turning out to be a lousy start of a lousy day. Lucifer, in typical, 'I'm a big evil whiny douchebag' behavior, had razed a town to the ground when he found out he had yet again been given the slip by the Winchesters. In response, Zachariah and the angels had flooded another town supposedly filled with demons in 'We're a bunch of feathery dicks' fashion.

Sam was tense. Dean wasn't much better, but that morning Castiel finally hooked back up with them after spending two weeks wandering around Florida, searching for a supposedly blessed fountain. He found it, but not God, and met with the brothers back in Denver with a gallon of water so holy it would turn a demon into what Dean could only call 'evil jelly'.

So not only was Dean glad to get his hands on something that turned demons into steaming piles of liquid badness, he had to admit it, he was glad to see Cas.

Truth of it all, it took everything in his manly power not to walk over and hug the feathery bastard, and cling on him like a frigging weed when Castiel appeared early that morning in their hotel room. Although Dean's face lit up, and he smiled like the sun for a whole three seconds, he was aware that it was 1. Way too homoerotic, and 2. Sammy was right there, and would pick up on the way too homoerotic.

Dean really needed to get laid, if hugging the angel was on his top ten list of sexually inappropriate things not to do in front of Sam.

So instead of touching, or getting touched by the angel, he took Castiel out for breakfast. It was their 'thing' – while Sam did his research, Dean would drag Castiel out to the nearest diner. It started off as lessons in making Castiel more accessible, but not too accessible. Dean spent a number of mornings glaring at waitresses who looked into Cas's blue eyes a little too long.

But … at some point, it just became the quiet moment Dean needed, every once and awhile. Just two hours, sipping coffee, talking to Castiel about all kinds of random shit. Like his favorite movies. Or the waitress who reminded Dean of the girl who told him he was a sorry loser when he was seventeen. Castiel, in turn would talk to him about the places he'd seen – the forests where God had touched down, the empty deserts and the churches overrun with roots and trees and time.

It was good – no, it was the best. Almost as good as all those hours driving along with Sam in his baby, singing songs at the top of their lungs. Just him, and Cas and the smell of fried things, and if Dean had to think of porno magazines while watching Castiel eat, well ...

That day it was pancakes. Blueberry pancakes. They were a serious favorite of Castiel's, and Dean made sure to order enough for the both of them. The angel's eyes gleamed, and one of those almost-not-quite-there smiles appeared. Dean met it with one of his own, and damn if just sitting down and having breakfast with his angel would have made the day not a total fucking wash – but Sam, for the first time in an entire year, joined them and fucking started arguing from the moment his ass hit seat.

It took a lot to ruin blueberry pancakes for Dean. That day, Sam did his damnedest.

It was about halfway through the meal, where Sam was fiercely on Argument #3, and Dean was looking at his butter knife and idly contemplating sticking it into Sammy's eye, when Castiel's fork poised in mid air over a mouthful of blueberry deliciousness. The angel looked thoughtful and said, perfectly timed when Sam took a breath, “Why don't we just ask Chuck Shirley?”

“I – what?” Sam stopped, altogether, brown eyes gone wide. Dean was so surprised by Sam's sudden silence after three hundred and sixty four days of bitchery, that all he did was blink between him and Castiel. The angel, sensing the pause, continued.

“Chuck is a direct mouthpiece of the Lord, our Father. It seems reasonable to assume that if anyone was to get a message to God, it would be the Prophet.” The fork finally dipped down, slid a piece of pancake through the syrup, and the angel raised it to his mouth.

Dean looked over to Sam, to have Sam look at him, both of them shocked into the, 'why didn't we think of that?' silence. Sam was the first to break it by scrubbing his hand through his hair, his voice slow as he thought of the first and only argument he could give an Angel of the frigging Lord, “I don't know, Cas. I mean, isn't Heaven feeding Chuck all the cues?”

Castiel slowly sucked his bite of pancake of his fork, chewed, swallowed, and licked his lips. Dean suddenly wondered if the latest issue of Fine Indian Beauties was available on-line. He licked his own lips and added, “Far be it from me to bust on the one decent idea we've had lately – but – yeah Cas, what about that shit? I don't want to go looking for God and walk right into a Heaven trap, full on Scooby Doo style. Y'know, 'I could have gotten away with it, if it hadn't been for those pesky angels and that Prophet!'”

Castiel frowned in confusion as his fork dipped down again, but decided that continuing was obviously the better part of valor. “Heaven can turn such visions to their own advantage, but as I have told you before, it is from God's mouth to Chuck's mind.”

Dean tapped his fork on the table, considering it all. “And it goes from Chuck's drunken little mind onto the page.” He looked over at Sam, arching an eyebrow.

Sam seemed to be gnawing it over his own mind, then glanced over at Dean. “It's … a solid idea. I mean – at least we'll be going to the one place - one man – who can give us,” and here he rolled his eyes, “Honest to God answers.”

“Then it is settled.” Castiel said in that voice, as if it was written in stone. He looked over to Sam, his gaze intent. “Now may Dean and I enjoy our Breakfast Time?”

Sam had lifted his coffee to his lips, and was sucking down a slurp. He choked a little. “What? Your … what?”

“Breakfast Time. Where we enjoy many delicacies of the diner variety in peace and tranquility.” Castiel answered, his tone a little scolding. “You are killing our pancake buzz, Sam.”

“Your pancake -” Sam stared at the angel, then at Dean, who trying not to snort syrup up his nose. Sam scowled. “Dean. You're corrupting the angel through ...breakfast food?”

“What? No! Get your red silk panties out of their twist.” Now Dean was the one who glowered. “Breakfast just so happens to be me and my angel's meal, where I teach him that the innocent, pure joy of pancakes, sausage and eggs over hard.”

Sam's eyes narrowed, “Don't you mean, over easy?”

Dean frowned, “Isn't that what I said?”

“No you said -” Sam sighed, shaking his head a little. “Nevermind. Anyways, you two should hurry up and finish we can ...” Dean wasn't sure what kind of look Castiel was giving Sam, but he knew his was nothing more than a flat, angry scowl. Sam trailed off, looking from one to the other.

Dean gestured, pointedly, with his knife. “Did Cas not say that we're having our pancakes?”

“Yes, but-” Sam started to say, but Castiel cut him off.

“Did Dean not say that this is our time to bond?” Dean could hear the faint thunder in Castiel's voice, and he felt a measure of happiness about that.

“But the Apocalypse-” Dean watched through narrowed eyes as his brother looked helplessly from him, back to Castiel, who had a steely look on his face and a tilt to his jaw. Sam sighed and waved to the waitress. “Can, ah, wait. Apparently. Because it's pancake time.”

Dean smiled, put his knife to his pancakes, and nodded his approval. “You're learning, Sammy. You're learning.”

And for the first time in three hundred and sixty five days, Sam didn't say a single damned thing. Had Dean known that in five hundred and twenty seven days that would come around to bite him in the ass, he might have welcomed a discussion on Argument #5 with open arms.

************************

There was a short argument, post breakfast, about how they were going to get there. Dean wanted to take the Impala. Sam pointed out that if they wanted a fast getaway from any possible angel interference, the Impala was fast but Castiel was faster. They compromised in the end – the Impala got left just outside of town and Castiel would take them the rest of the way. To that end, Dean insisted Castiel travel with them in the car. As a show of trust, and brotherly love, Dean let Sam drive, while he spent the better part of the trip showing Castiel what good music was. Castiel listened aptly, and Sam chimed in a few times with bands he liked that Dean didn't, or music they both agreed was phenomenal.

Some time in the future, Dean would look back on this short trip as some kind of turning point – the beginning of a strong team that would go forth together, united under any circumstances. Right now though, his thought was that this, right here, was home -- with Sam at the wheel, a smile on his face that Dean hadn't seen in months, and Castiel leaned over the front seat, arms folded, chin propped up over his hands as he listened gravely to Led Zeppelin. Dean himself was half turned on the front seat, grinning as he switched tapes, singing along at the top of his lungs. His baby hummed at his back, and the road stretched on smoothly, not a traffic jam in sight. He had everything he needed, right in front of him.

They left the car, as planned, and Dean braced himself for the stomach-clenching-bowel-not-moving shift of space and time, knowing the moment he heard the flutter of feathers he could open his eyes and look forward a week of constipation meds. He expected all that, it was part of the angel program. He opened his eyes, knew that Castiel brought then directly into Chuck's living room, and he'd have to do with a yelping Prophet of the Lord.

What he was not prepared for is to be looking down the barrel of a .45, and Chuck yelling at the top of his lungs, “I TOLD YOU DICKS OF THE LORD – Oh hi, Dean.”

Dean swallowed slowly, looking at the wide black opening where the very deadly bullets came out. “Hi Chuck. Could you point the large firearm away from my face?”

“Oh, yeah, right.” Chuck swiveled the gun away from Dean, gestured it in Sam's direction vaguely. “I wasn't expecting you guys for hours!”

“Chuck. Gun.” Sam said sharply, as he tried to move his taller body away from the swinging barrel. Apparently Sam was as nervous as Dean to see a gun in Chuck's way too inexperienced hands.

“Oh, don't worry Sam, the safety's on. See?” Chuck pointed, pulled the trigger, and then proceeded to put a slug right through Castiel's chest. There was a moment of silence where all four of them stared at the smoking hole in the angel's jacket. The tiny writer stared, swallowed, then finally found his voice. “Ah … that … wasn't supposed to ...sorry?”

Dean sighed heavily, grabbed the gun away from Chuck and flicked the safety on. He glared down at God's Prophet.“Good work, dumbass. You shot the only angel on our side.” He looked over his shoulder “Cas, you okay?”

The angel stuck his finger through the new smoking hole in his coat and wiggled it for a moment, before glowering at the writer, “Chuck Shirley, you realize the only thing shooting one my brothers will do is annoy him? Briefly?”

Chuck cleared his throat, rubbing the back of his head. “Well, I was kind of hoping it worked like birds? Y'know, bang bang! And they flutter! Maybe I'd have to deal with some angel shit on the carpet afterwards?”

Sam, who Dean had handed the gun over to and who was wisely unloading it, raised an eyebrow. “...Chuck, if you shoot at a bunch of angels, they're not going to scatter like pigeons.”

“They're not?” Chuck asked weakly, looking from Sam, to Dean who nodded in furious agreement, and then over to Castiel, who merely flashed the hole in his shirt and lifted both of his eyebrows. “Oh. Well, that's good to know. Maybe I should get a bigger gun?”

“No!” Both Winchesters and the angel shouted, and Dean growled. “That is the bad idea of bad ideas – anyways! You said you were expecting us later? How could you be expecting us at all?”

Chuck gave him one of his own, 'are you stupid' looks, before holding up a sheaf of type-written papers. “Should I read you the argument you guys had over Sam interrupting your blueberry pancake date, or should we just get why you're here? And yeah, Sam, we probably don't have a lot of time. You guys are hidden from the angels but Cas? Still has a giant 'Kill Me' target on his back.” He pointed a finger at Castiel, “No more angel on my curtains. Seriously, the things I had to do to get this place clean again-”

Dean did not want to hear any of Chuck's cleaning, so he said gruffly. “Can you do it? Can you talk to God?”

Chuck heaved out a breath, one hand in his hair as he walked back towards his kitchen. “I'll be honest – I don't know. I mean, it's not like God's sitting down here and having a beer with me, while we chat about plot. For the longest time I just thought all this crazy shit in my brain was my brain not .. you know, you guys?” He exhaled. “Now I'm a Prophet – I'm your Prophet – angels are assholes, no offense Cas, Lucifer's wandering around for a year trying to climb into Sam the unpleasant way, and God's still jamming stuff in my brain and not really explaining why. God and I are not buddies. Most of the time it feels like God's raping me with a sandpaper condom – sorry, Cas, metaphorically speaking.”

Castiel looked about two seconds away of tempting Fate and archangels again, so Dean stepped between the angel and the Prophet, looking at him. “Chuck. You keep saying you want to help us – one way or another. Well, here we are, man. The way, the path before us, means we gotta see if the Big Wheel in the Sky is Turning. If we're going to be doing this on our own, I wanna know. If we're not, then I wanna know that too. And we're not asking you to do anything but … try. That's all. Try.”

He wasn't sure what was in his face, or in his voice, but suddenly Sam looked at him with a smile, Castiel looked a lot less like smiting and a lot like he was ready to put Dean on the 'Best Human Ever' pedestal again, and Chuck … Chuck was nodding his head, his voice soft, but getting stronger. “All right … okay. Yeah. I'll try. What information I can get you, from God? I will.”

“All right. Good.” Dean put his hands on his hips, and breathed out. Another piece into place. Another step forward. It wasn't all there yet, but it was forming, slowly.

Sam cleared his throat, and Dean dragged his gaze over to his brother. Automatically, Sam held his hand up, “Now before you, Cas, or even Chuck waves some chapter at me and calls me out for being the doomsayer – how are we even going to get this information? We can't keep popping in here – we're already putting Chuck in danger.” Sam's eyes slid over to Castiel. “Not to mention Cas. They find him here …”

Dean looked at Castiel, who was grim-faced once more, as he met Dean's eyes, and kept them there. Dean long ago realized the risk to them, if Castiel spent too much time with them. It hadn't sunk in how much danger Castiel was putting himself at, especially here. In the place that Dean suddenly realized, the angel died. Died.

It was only Chuck's cough that dragged Dean's eyes back to the prophet. Chuck gave him a strange look, and sighed, his face shifting through varying shades of fear, and a touch of shame. “I have a solution … but … you have to promise not to kill me.” He pointed a finger at Sam. “You too.” That finger swung back to Castiel. “Especially you. No smiting.”

Dean felt his jaw tighten, and he shot a look over to Castiel, whose chin had raised, blue eyes sharpening. He felt his gaze slide over to Sam, who hadn't taken his gaze away from Chuck's guilty expression. Sam's head tilted forward, and he moved towards the smaller man. “Chuck … what did you do?”

Chuck shifting his weight nervously, before he took a few steps back. Dean's suspicion rose, as the writer started to speak. “Listen, you guys have to understand – I live here, this is my home, and when the archangel came down … well, I'm not insured against acts of Heaven? And the house! The house was a mess, broken windows, and let me tell you? Macs may be the more reliable computer but those things are frigging expensive, man!” He swallowed, and took another step back, into the kitchen, as Dean, flanked by Sam and Cas, followed after him, “So I, uh, had to sell my talents... fruit of my labors … y'know ...”

Oh Fucking Hell. Dean closed his eyes, and closed them tight, gripping one hand at his side. “Chuck. You are not about to tell me that there are new Winchester books out there. You. Are. Not.”

He heard Chuck's nervous laugh, “No, no. Not books. Not … you know, hard cover, with paper books.” A pause. “But e-Books?”

“You … you .. you published the Winchester Gospels. On-Line.” Sam's voice rose sharply, “Refresh my memory, Chuck, but isn't that where our scary fangirls live?”

“Hey, heeeey, Becky isn't that bad. She sent me marzipan, after all. And she helped you!” Chuck protested, and Dean opened his eyes to find the writer flailing his hands a little.

“Chuck, she grabbed my nipple! I am not okay with – just how many copies of the new stuff has she bought?” Sam asked, eyebrows narrowed.

Chuck swallowed again and he was looking away as he muttered, “Twenty, or more, and some other merchandise from my store – but that's not the point, guys! The point is – you have an entire resource out there you can now be using. Here, let me show you.”

He went over to his Mac, obviously new, hit a button and opened a browser. He flipped over to one of his forum boards. “Look at this, guys. Links on lore, all kinds of lore, stuff about studying the End of Days … they discuss it, they argue it, they come up with all kinds of things.” He arched an eyebrow at Dean, “And they are all over the United States. One hellva underground network for a pair of hunters and a renegade angel, looking for God, right?”

“Huh...” Dean said, leaning over Chuck's shoulder to peer at the long list of subject topics. “Y'know, Chuck has a good point – I mean, these fans of ours do know our story inside and out, makes sense they'd do their homework on local legends and the like -” He paused, frowned, then grabbed the mouse from Chuck, “The hell is this – wing porn? Wing porn? They're giving us wings now?”

Chuck let out a strangled noise and Dean looked at him sharply. “Not, uh, exactly. More like – they're writing, talking, discussing … people who might have wings already. Y'know. Like angels. Like maybe one very specific angel.”

Dean stared at Chuck, then at his brother who is now on the other side of the prophet, his expression tightly bitch-faced. Both of them met eyes, then slowly turned towards Castiel, who had the most baffled look on his face. The angel's head bobbed to the side. “They write … pornography? About me?”

“You're a surprisingly popular character, Cas.” Chuck said, looking like he did not want to be having this conversation at all. He quickly closed the page before Dean could see who they were tossing Castiel into bed with. “You're the only angel that people seem to be empathetic to. I mean, c'mon. You pulled Dean out of Hell. You think Good Things should happen to him. You want Dean to have faith. So it makes sense that the fans want to get a closer look in your head …. and want to strip you naked and tie you to things so you can have sex. With people.”

Dean had to wonder why Chuck wasn't looking at him. Or why Sam was suddenly avoiding his gaze. He decided it was better to focus on Castiel, holding up his hand. “It's just fiction, Cas. It's kind of creepy, some of it, but they don't know us. They think we're not real.”

“But now, that's got to change. On a small scale, at least. Because let's be honest – I don't know if angels check my email but probably some religious guy at the CIA might. We need go-betweens, and no one else is gonna believe me but my readers.” Chuck slumped a little in his chair. “I mean,seriously, sometimes I don't even believe this crap, and I'm living it.”

Dean made a face, but the man was right. They needed people who weren't connected to the Winchesters personally – not hunters, definitely not Bobby or Chuck. Which meant, and man as funny as it was, he hated doing this to Sam, but - “Becky. One of them has got to be Becky. She already knows the score.” He pointed a finger at Chuck, “But the others gotta be vetted by me, Sam,” he glanced sideways, “And Cas too, if you're going for one of his … heh, fangirls. No more marizpan making crazies.”

“She's not crazy – she's just … really enthusiastic – and a devout fan who buys every book that comes out. Twice. Besides, she switched to brownies.” Chuck waved towards the cupboard. “She always makes extra, for you guys, if you wanna grab some.”

“She felt me up, Chuck.” Sam said sharply. “Felt me up and I know she squeezed a little too. I am not Charmins.” There was a pause, and Sam sighed as Chuck looked at him imploringly. “But … fine. Dean's right. We need her. Find us the others, Chuck.” His gaze meets Dean's, and Dean's heart swells because even Sam's, “It's part of the Plan,” is not as sarcastic as it could be and until this point, had been.

For that reason, Dean lets Sam have first pick of the brownies on their ride out of town. Castiel gets the second, because apparently starring in porn makes the angel all contemplative, and Dean's half terrified and half intrigued of what's going on in Castiel's brain.

He got the last pick, but was downright gleeful when he looked into the heart-shaped Tupperware container to see they had both left him the biggest, most moist brownies. That, in Dean's humble opinion, was nothing less than pure love.

*********************

A month later, after a rather brutal encounter with some vampires, the profiles from Chuck started flooding in.

Five months after that, Dean, Sam and Castiel had chosen their – well – chosen ones. They then spent a month chasing after the Colt when they got a solid clue from Bobby, so that gave Chuck more than enough time to plan a group meeting. By agreement, it was in a diner, and by silent agreement, all three of them came armed. Dean had of his favorite pistols, Sam had the Knife and Castiel had, well, Castiel.

Dean wasn't really sure what he could expect from fangirls. He kind of thought, with the kind of luck he'd had his entire fucking life, that they'd all be like Becky. Kinda nice, but weird. Really weird. And there might be some inappropriate touching going, which he'd let Sam handle on his own, because he was a big boy and he could disengage easily, but one of them started pawing at Cas and he was not going to be happy.

He had expected he would know them when he saw them – and he did. They were a large group of all women, of all different ages. Most of them were dressed in jeans and t-shirts, one or two of them was wearing something that made Dean's heart skitter sideways. Like one shirt that looked almost but not quite Sam's favorite flannel. One girl was even wearing his amulet - his amulet – and in what was obviously a prized possession, one of the girls at the end of the table had an exact replica of Cas's coat.

Dean thought, How the hell did they get this stuff?, and then he thought, Fucking Chuck!, then he sighed. Chuck told him this would happen. He knew to expect this. What he didn't expect was that they, well, they looked normal. One or two of them were even smoking hot, and he had to admit if he had run into them anywhere else he would have had a smile and a wink and maybe an invitation. The Asian girl with Cas's coat on was downright fucking adorable, for fuck's sake.

What he also didn't expect was that they would be fighting, laughing, chattering at each other. Like friends – but Jesus-fuck, of course they would know one another. They probably exchanged a million emails, had a million chats, probably got together and had fucking Supernatural bookclub conventions or other things that fans did. In fact, as they approached, he could hear them arguing logistics, for fuck's sake, on what would work better at keeping a demon at bay, line of salt or holy water to the face. A few of them were arguing the merits of a holy water gun. A holy water gun? Seriously?

He nearly told them he wasn't going to lug around a frigging Supersoaker filled with divine h20 when Becky shot up from her seat, eyes bright, braces gleaming, as she said in an awed voice, “Sam!” She glanced at Dean, “And your brother!” Then she stared, “... and the … and the angel.”

The women all fell silent, and Dean found himself staring at more than a half a dozen expressions of skepticism, distrust, faint hope, and awe. The women all exchanged looks with one another, before the one in the middle, who kinda looked like Reese Witherspoon's distant cousin, nodded them towards the table. “Take a seat … guys.”

Dean shot a look over to Castiel, then to Sam, before he sat himself down in a chair. Sam and Castiel took seats on either side of him, and there was a long moment of uncomfortable silence, before one of the older women, the one with a blue streak in her hair and the kind of look on her face that reminded Dean of his Dad, spoke in a crisp tone. “Listen up, boys. We've all talked about this, and while Becky may be all, 'Oh yes, Winchesters!', we are a little more that leery of three guys – two of them claiming to be the coolest hunters of all time, and c'mon, some guy crazy enough to claim he's an angel of the Lord. Not to mention our favorite author claiming he's a Prophet? You can see why we're kind of saying, I don't know, bullshit.”

Dean shared another look with Sam, and then over to Castiel, and then sighed. “Yeah, Ch- Carver said you might have this problem.” He nodded to the two of them, and all three of them pulled out sheets of paper that Chuck had set them up with. He nodded at Sam first.

Sam cleared his throat, and looked at the woman with the streak of blue hair, his brown eyes meeting her own, his voice that low, calm drawl he used when explaining something complicated in a easy-to-understand manner, or to someone who had gone through a terrible shock. Gentle, knowing. “Your name is Meg. When you were twenty-two, you were a bartender in Louisiana, and you sneaked out of your apartment in the middle of the night, so you wouldn't have to pay rent.”

Dean nodded, flipped open the piece of paper in front of him, and looked at the dainty redhead in front of him, the one with the extended earlobes, “Your friends call you MeL. Capital M, lowercase e, capital L. When you're scared, you bite your tongue. What most people don't know though is that for awhile, you were kinda afraid you were going to bite your tongue off.”

He glanced to Castiel, who neatly and methodically took out his piece of paper, focusing his gaze on the small Asian girl, his voice low and level. “Your name is Tracy, and you have girl wood for the Aston Martin Vanquish.” He frowned, then continued. “Which, if I am to be understood, is some sort of automobile.”

“That's a nice ride.” Dean leaned over to the sheet of paper, his eyes sweeping over the lines of one fine-ass vehicle. “For a Brit-car, anyways. It's kind of girly but it's got power under the hood.”

“How does a car give someone part of a tree?” Castiel's expression slid into the faintest of frowns as he looked over at Dean.

“Ah, heh. No, Cas, that's like ah, like a euphemism.” Dean grinned wide. “Y'know. For being …happy, down in your -”

“Dean.” Sam said sharply at his elbow, and Dean twisted around to face him, “You are not teaching the angel about -”

“Oh for chrissakes, Sam, he knows about that shit. He's frigging millenia old. I mean, mostly. He just doesn't know the slang.” Dean huffed, before he looked over his shoulder at Castiel, “Seriously dude, help me out here. Tell my super-prude brother that you know what happens when a guy gets … ” He trailed off when he remembered they had a table filled with women, skeptical women.

Who, except for Becky, stared at them. One of the girls, a curvy looking Amazon said slowly, “Oh. My. God.”

“See?” Becky looked downright smug. “I told you I wasn't having paranoid schizophrenic delusions!”

All the girls looked over at Becky, and as one said with an annoyed tone, “Becky.”, which seemed to be some kind of code for Becky to settle on down. Then the flock's head swiveled back to the Winchesters and the angel, so in time that Dean was almost unnerved to ask all of them if they wanted a sip from his holy water flask.

Then all at once, they exploded into a flurry of excited and bright-eyed questions at all three of them, rapid fast and some of them just downright disturbing; “Dean, what's the scariest thing you've ever fought? Scary for you. Like wad up your boxers, scary.” “Castiel, do you really not understand 'personal space' or is that just an excuse?” “Sam, what ever happened with those Barbies?” “Dean, what would you have done with your life if your father hadn't raised you to be a hunter?” “Sam, what kind of physical regime do you and your brother keep up with to stay in the shape you're in?” “Castiel – did you rebel for yourself or did you rebel for Dean?” “Dean, Sam, seriously, how do you feel about the angel?”

He tried raising his hands against the tide, but that did about as much good as duct tape on a leaking fucking dam. It was Castiel who got them under control, his voice like rough steel and his blue eyes blazing. “Ladies. Enough.”

They fell silent, some of them blinked at Castiel in total shock and scared amazement.

True diplomat that he was, Sam leaned forward, looking around with that 'oh gosh you know I'm an empathetic puppy-dog'. “We understand you have … a lot of questions, but those are going to need to be shelved. As, ah, you all know from your reading – we're trying to stop some seriously nasty things from happening, and we don't really have time to answer your questions - we've got too many of our own. Right now though, we're asking – hell, we're begging for your help.”

They grew quiet, these very different women from all over the country, and finally Mel spoke, her blue-green eyes shifting shades as she asked quietly, but with more firmness than Dean expected. “What do you need us to do?”

“Pass information.” Dean said firmly, putting his hands on the table, folded together as he looked at all of them. “We need information on what visions Ch – Carver sees. He'll pass it to you, you pass it to us. We'll work out a system as needed.” He inhaled, deeply, “We need information on what's going on where, and how, if possible. And … we need you find us the holiest place in the United States. Somewhere you can communicate with God. Literally.” He swept his gaze around them, swallowing a little, “I know it won't be easy – that it'll be pretty fucking hard -”

The curvy Amazon spoke then, cutting him off with a simple, “You know what's hard? I'll tell you what's hard. Finding the exact specs for how to rebuild a '67 Impala. That's hard, Mr. Winchester.”

Mel's mouth curved up into a knowing grin. “Trying to find the right phrase in Hebrew for an angel of the lord to say, that's hard.”

Reese Witherspoon's cousin piped up with a, “Trying to figure out what level of smart is a 174 on the LSAT? Hard.”

Meg smiled, tucking that dark hair behind her ear, that shining streak of blue hair that gleamed in the diner's light. Dean would remember the color of that streak for the rest of his life – electric blue. Meg's streak was electric blue, the day he met her – met all of them – the group that would be called the Inner Circle by the jealous fangirls. Who never really knew what the Circle were about, what they were really doing with all their conversations with Chuck, why they researched so hard and stayed up late nights and called Dean in the middle of the night, or Sam, or Castiel with a quiet, 'Hey, we think we got something'.

That's in the future. Days, months, years in the future. Right now there was only Meg's smile, as she pulled her laptop up; again, reminding him of his dad as she said firmly, “We're gonna get this started, because we already know hard and research. You guys do your thing. We got this.”

Dean sits back, watching them, because it's like fucking magic. A field of laptops fucking appear out of thin air like Castiel and just like that, they're working. Without another question, without another doubt. There's the murmur of quiet voices talking to one another, geeking out, and he saw that they were an intrusion more than they were a help. So he jerked his chin at Sam, tapped Cas once on the knee, and they all rose together, and moved silently towards the door. Dean looked back once, at the cluster of girls working hard, arguing logistics, and he felt it. The Plan. Clicking into place.

It felt good. Really fucking good.

They were halfway to the Impala, when one of the girls, Tracy, called out to them. She stood at the doorway to the diner, and when Dean turned around she got her balls up to walk across the way to them. Dark eyes behind solemn scholar frames looked up at him, at all three of them. He watched her swallow, then gather up her nerves to say, “You're real. You're really real – and that means …. this is the end of the world, isn't it? All that stuff that's happening in the news, that's not random. That's the Apocalypse.”

Dean couldn't say a word – not into the scared eyes of a young woman barely in her twenties. What could you say to that? So he just nodded his head, silently, back stiffening, jaw tight.

She looked at the ground, hugging herself, scared to Hell and Dean couldn't blame her. And right before he looked to Sam, to Cas, for something comforting to say, she looked up at him again. Her own jaw was set, and her expression was fierce, “You're going to stop it. Because you're Dean Winchester, and that's what you do.” She took a step back, looked hard at all three of them. “That's what you all do. You're the good guys.”

Dean swallowed himself, and the words just came to him. Simple, unvarnished words, gruff but true. “You're damned right it is, and we will.” He searched her face, repeating himself, for her benefit. For his own. “We will.”

She exhaled, nodded, then turned to walk back into the diner, her arms wrapped around her stomach but her small frame straight and certain. She believed him. They all believed him, and that weight hung on his shoulders like the world.

Beside him, Sam exhaled. “God, Dean, I hope you know what you're doing.”

“Have faith, Sam,” Castiel spoke then, low and intent, and when Dean turned to look at him, he found those blue-blue eyes on him, steady and true. The angel tilted his chin up a little, never looking away from Dean once as he finished with, “I do.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Author's Note: Every fangirl portrayed here is someone I know who is a Supernatural fan - tracy, brynwulf, bears_place, and many of my friends over at yo_gotham. This is my nod and thumbing of the nose at Kripke, all at once. We're not all Becky, sir, and I hope you remember that.

More Supernatural Fanfiction

2009-10-12T18:39:04Z

Title: The Five Year Plan (1/5)
Author: Commodoresexual
Rating: PG-13
Genre and/or Pairing: Dean/Castiel UST, Sam too.
Spoilers: Supernatural up to 5.04, and pretty much AU after that. This is my own interpretation of 'what could happen?' in five years.
Warnings: Cursing, blasphemy, and man on man action. You HAVE been warned. I also don't own any of this, sadly. Kripke still wins.
Word Count: 3,389
Summary: It was, and it would be called after that with great irony and some affection and dead seriousness a time or two, The Plan.

In the minute, in the very moment that the first year began, Dean Winchester found himself on the side of the road with Castiel right behind him, instead of a breath away from one very pissed-the-fuck off Zachariah. In that moment, that perfect crystallized moment in which he would never complain about being constipated, and for the first time since this shit storm started, he knew exactly what he had to do. Simple, and clear, just like when he was hunting and it was the knife in his hand and the demon in front of him.

It was, and it would be called after that with great irony and some affection and dead seriousness a time or two, The Plan.

That was later, though. Right here, and now, Dean blinked, turned, and focused on Castiel, standing there, and all he could think was, 'Damn, you are the most beautiful thing I have ever seen.' Two seconds after that he realized how gay that sounded, and two more seconds after that he was filled with relief to see the angel and to have not said what was going on in his head out loud, for once.

What he said instead was, “That was pretty nice timing, Cas.”, his voice rich with thanks.

The angel smiled, that faint curving up of lips, and those blue eyes – clear, looking straight to the heart of Dean - those gorgeous fucking blue eyes met his. Cas's voice – gravely, measured, but affectionate and not tinged with drugs or bitterness - said quietly, humorously, “We had an appointment.”

'God,' Dean thought, 'Yes. This is my Cas.'

He wasn't even sure where those words came from, but he knew the almost smile on his face, filled with the same warmth and affection, said it all. This was his Cas – this straight arrow, couldn't tie his own damned tie, quiet soul – not that hippie druggie who laughed too much and hit too many bottles and looked at Dean like he had broken his heart on the hunter a million times over and hated him for it, but couldn't leave.

In that moment, seriousness set in, and The Plan flared for a moment across his brain pan. He wouldn't let that happen to Cas. He wouldn't let that happen to Sam. Not his people. Not ever. He stepped forward, and put his hand on Castiel's shoulder, making sure the angel saw him, saw how serious he was when he said, “Don't ever change.”

What he didn't say was his promise, silent, in his own head. I won't let you change into that.

Cas tilted his head, clearly wanting a less vague answer, but Dean was already patting himself down for something, so Cas wisely changed gears, “How did Zachariah find you?”

Dean grimaced, thinking of that earnest faced young man, who sure as fuck wasn't in on the God-hotline if he thought the angels were on his side. “Long story.” He glanced up at the angel, “Let's just stay away from Jehovah's Witnesses from now on, okay?”

There, hah, phone. He started flipping through the numbers as Cas frowned at him, asking, “What are you doing?”

“Something I should've done in the first place.” Dean said simply, and hit the 'Call' button over Sam's number. He waited for it to dial through, and before Sam could get in a voice-cracked 'Dean?', Dean spoke, “Sam. I'm in Kansas City. Meet me at the usual place. We should talk.”

There was a moment of silence, where Dean wondered if Sam had heard him at all or if he had and Sam was just going to hang up on him and start this horrible cycle all over again, when Sam spoke. Quiet, small in a way that just made Dean want to hug the sorry bastard, “Are you sure?”

Dean looked at Cas, who met his gaze curiously, and said quietly, “Damned sure. See you in a few hours, Sammy.”

He clicked off the phone, not looking away from Cas for a long moment. The angel met his gaze, and held it, shifting his head to the side, concern slipping over the angel's features like quicksilver. “Dean? Are you all right?”

Dean breathed deep, and then ran his hand over his mouth, actually considering his answer. “Not yet, Cas. Not even close. But I think … I think I will be. Eventually.” He flicked up one corner of his mouth again. “Okay. First part of The Plan. You fly us back, I get the Impala, then I drop you off somewhere while Sam and I talk. Ah, where were you while I was sleeping?”

The angel looked around, then back at Dean. “Here.”

“Here?” Dean frowned, before he looked around, then stared at the angel. “You mean – here here? You stood at the side of the road for four hours?”

The angel looked around himself, at the empty wet road and the underbrush on this middle of nowhere road, his coat moving with him, before looking at Dean again. “Yes.”

Dean gaped at him, and then rubbed the back of his neck. “Right. Okay, well, that changes now. I am not going to feel right about you standing out here like a frigging trench-coat wearing target. I mean, Jesus, Cas! Anyone could get you out here. Forget angels and demons – what if you run across some creepy characters who, you know, wanna do … creepy things to you?”

Castiel's head tilted to the side, and he frowned faintly. “I would ...stop them?”

Dean opened his mouth, considering what Castiel might do to some perverted truck driver. The images were both awesome and disturbing as fuck. “... Yeah, I bet you would. Okay. Today I'm teaching you the importance of a diner.”

Castiel's eyes opened with curiosity, before the faintest of 'smells bad' looks came over the angel's face, “This will not be anything like the brothel, will it?”

Dean's mind flashed over those four women surrounding, all touching one drugged out hippie Castiel, and his tone was sharp, “No! In fact, brothels are out of your future vocabulary. Like, forever.” He felt embarrassed by the angel's surprised look, then said gruffly, “Diners are better than brothels. Now, take me to the car. I've got a wayward brother to fetch.”

************************

It's quiet there, waiting by the trestle bridge, as the world slowly wakes up. The metal of the Impala is cold against his ass, but that's fine. Dean wasn't thinking of the cold. He thought about Sam as a baby in his arms, soft and small. He thought of Sam as a little kid complaining for his cereal. He thought of Sam as a slip of a teenager, looking at Dean and just asking him to be normal. He thought of Sam grieving Jess, grieving Dad, grieving him. He thought of Sam punching him through some goddamned decorative railing, and Sam clutching his shirt as Lucifer rose.

Finally, he thought of Sam in that white suit, and that thing that is Sam no longer.

His jaw moved, his eyes gleamed and he said to himself, Never gonna happen.

It's the sound of a car wheels on gravel that has Dean lifting his head towards the dirt road, and when he saw the piece of crap Sam's managed to get his hands on, he inwardly sighed. You leave baby brother alone for five damned minutes, and he starts the Apocalypse, has Lucifer sweating his gigantic man-body and of course, he picks the lousiest shit car he can find. Dean seriously doesn't know what he's going to do with Sam, some days.

Today, though, he knows exactly what to do.

He pushed himself off the Impala, and with all that hunter's training, makes sure they're really alone before he moved towards his brother. Sam parked the car, and stepped out, his steps wary, his eyes a mixture of despair and hope. Dean looked back, and girded his loins, so to speak, because there's no way ever he's gripping his junk in front of his brother. There's close and there's just weird.

Right, he needed to get his head in the game. He took a deep breath, and met Sam's eyes without fear, or censure, and spoke a simple, “Sam.”

There's a lot of trepidation in Sam's gaze, and he leaned ever so slightly away from Dean, as if he's not sure what to expect. The look in his eyes when Dean reached into his jacket to pull out The Knife shifted briefly to a sort of shamed 'yes I know why you might have to kill me but I can't believe you would', that shifts again when Dean flipped the knife around and offered it to him to a, 'you really do trust me?'

Dean answered that question by wiggling the knife a little, his voice grave as he looked to the blade, and then to Sam, “If you're serious, and you want back in … “ He held it out to Sam, meeting those eyes, making his meaning is clear. “You should hang on to this.” The faintest of tired smirks curved over his face. “I'm sure you're rusty.”

Sam took The Knife, and stared at it like Dean just offered the most fantastic thing ever, and Dean can't not go on, “Listen man, I'm sorry.” He watched the emotions flow across Sam's face, Sam's expressions of pain. Dean swallowed, and said quietly. “I'm, ah, whatever I need to be but I was … wrong.”

God, was he ever fucking wrong. Not about not being able to trust Sam – because that'd take time. But he never should have left Sam alone. Not for a minute.

Sam's finally worked through whatever was going through his head, long enough to ask brokenly, “What made you change your mind?”

Dean's jaw twitched, and he huffed out a breath. “Long story.” God, such long stories to tell. He took a deep breath, plunged on. “The point is – maybe we are each others Achilles Heel, and maybe they'll find a way to use us against each other, I don't know.” He remembered the cold distance in his future self's eyes. He remembered the despair in Cas's, and that sweet, empty blankness in the eyes of the Devil who wore his baby brother's face. “I just know that we're all we got.”

He makes sure Sam felt the weight of these words, makes sure he knows he's not just speaking of Sam's issues, but his own as well, as he finished with, “More than that … we keep each other human.”

“Thank you.” Sam's voice was broken, grateful, and those eyes brighten with unshed tears and relief. Dean can understand that Sam is scared – he just didn't realize he was that scared. “Really. Thank You. I won't let you down-”

Dean interrupted him, his tone momentarily hard. “Oh, I know it.” He's trusting Sam with this. Trusting him. Then he softened, a touch, putting the humor in because he's Dean and there's not a damned thing in the universe you can do that won't make him crack wise. “You are the second best hunter on the planet.”

Sam dropped his head, and he looked halfway between a sob and a laugh, and Dean hopes he doesn't sob because Jesus, are they not done on chick-moments? Sam lifted his head, squared his shoulders and asked with a steadiness Dean's proud of. “So … what do we do now?”

Dean thought about the future Zachariah had shown him, and his voice came out quiet, and certain.“We make our own future.”

Sam breathed deep – his Sam, his baby brother who had to grow up now that he let the Devil out of his playpen – his voice quiet. “I guess we have no choice.”

Dean's answer was to remain quiet for a moment, because damn, Sam didn't have the visions anymore but that was damned near prophetic. He didn't say that though. What he did say was, “Right. Well, get your stuff, and let's go get Cas. We got a lot to talk about.” He added, for good measure, “Seriously dude, when are you going to jack a car with some style?”

Sam looked back over his shoulder at Dean and there's that slight eyeroll as he responded. “Maybe when I want to get caught and thrown into jail.”

One corner of Dean's mouth lifted. His little brother was such a bitch, and Cas's asshole family could fucking bite Dean's hot little ass, because Dean was going to make sure Sam stayed that way.

**************************

Dean knew something was slightly off the moment he walked into the diner and found three of the waitresses staring at Castiel with something close to amazement. He eyed them, and then eyed the angel who seemed to be doing nothing more than drinking coffee. He and Sam exchanged a look, then moved over to the booth where Dean had plopped down Cas about two hours ago. The angel looks up from where he's sitting, and Dean's not sure what the problem is until he sees the sugar container is damned near empty.

His eyebrows jacked up, as he greeted Castiel with a low, “Dude, please tell me you did not dump all that sugar into one frigging cup of coffee.”

Castiel tilted his chin towards Dean, the angel's eyes tracking him as he slid into the booth and Sam after him. “No, I have had several cups, waiting for you.” The angel's eyes shifted. “Hello, Sam. It's good to see you.”

“Hey Cas.” The nickname rolled easily off Sam's tongue, but the expression on his face was troubled. Probably was worried what Castiel would do with the knowledge of Sam being Lucifer's vessel. Hell, Dean would be surprised if the angel didn't just know already. Sam cleared his throat, shifting in his seat beside Dean, making old plastic creak. “So, how many cups is 'several'?”

“Ten.” Castiel proclaimed quietly, and that frown appeared as he looked from Dean to Sam. “That is … not a good thing?”

Dean sighed softly, putting his elbow on the table and lifting his arm so he can wrap his hand around his jaw and just stare at his angel. “Cas. You sat here for two hours, drank ten cups of coffee, and I bet not once have you gotten up and gone to the men's room.”

“Is that … part of the diner experience?” Castiel asked slowly.

Dean grumbled as he elbowed Sam to get his gigantic frame off the bench. “Right. Okay. Next part of the diner training process is that you need to go to the bathroom.”

Castiel's frown grew larger. “But I do not need to defecate or empty my bladder.”

“Yeah – but the locals?” And Dean had gotten to his feet and vaguely waved towards the staff of waitresses that finally seemed to realize they had customers and shouldn't be staring at the guy in the trenchcoat. “Don't know that. Remember, we don't want to make waves. Sammy, order me the biggest breakfast they have.” A pause, and a firm decision. “Cas too.”

Sam's eyebrows rose up, almost in time with Castiel's, even as he slid into the seat. “Oh-kay, but since when do angels need to eat?”

“We don't-.” Castiel started to say, but Dean cut him off with, “Yeah they do, when it's been four months since we've seen Jimmy and I'll be honest, I'll feel better dragging him along for the ride if we're making sure he's getting a few square meals when he needs them.”

He pushed Cas in front of him, smiling at the waitresses, “We're ready to order – my friend's so doped up on meds he's been not peeing because he's too embarrassed to ask where the bathroom is. E'cuse us, ladies.”

Castiel frowned, kept frowning even as Dean closed the bathroom door behind them. “I am not ill, Dean. I am never ill.”

“I know, Cas, but since you're gonna be hanging around more often in human places? You gotta take a few cues from us. And one thing any human will do after ten cups of coffee? Is go to the bathroom.” Dean said as he washed his hands in the sink. “The human bladder cannot hold that much joe, dude.”

Castiel tilted his head in confusion, before he looked down at his own crotch, “There is no man named Joseph in the bladder, Dean.”

“Coffee, Cas.” Dean's lips curved up a little, and he couldn't help glancing down as well. Then right-away-immediately back up again. He cleared his throat. “Joe is a slang word for coffee.”

“Ah.” The angel digested this, and moved on, “ …so I will be spending more time with you.” Castiel spoke slowly, then looked at Dean. “I find this acceptable – in between my mission and your hunts. But, why?”

Dean exhaled, smoothing one hand through his hair, a bitter flicker of a smile crossing his face. Five years in the future, here and now, and his hair still looked good. “I'll explain after breakfast. Which you're going to eat. You can't be leaving Jimmy hungry, man. You got to feed the beast.” He paused, then glared as he pointed one finger at the angel in the reflection of the mirror. “But only that beast. You feed that beast, and not … others.”

Castiel tilted his head slowly, “There are other beasts?”

Dean looked at Castiel in the mirror, rumpled trenchcoat, biggest blue eyes Dean's ever seen and that mouth that Dean swears he's going to get some Chapstick on, one way or another, and he can see that other 'Cas' in his mind, wearing that fucking girly teal shirt and those sandals, pupils blown to Hell and smelling of goddamned patroulli.. He can't speak for a moment, but when he does his words are quiet, and tight. “Yeah, there are. And fucking Your Dad as my witness, you go near them and so help me Cas, I will kick your fucking feathery ass. You hear me?”

Castiel tilted his head a little farther, as if contemplating the utter fucking ridiculousness of Dean threatening him with violence, when the last time Dean hit him he nearly broke his goddamned hand. But then there's that look, that the angel seems to save just to Dean. Warm, affectionate and it kicks Dean's ass a little, how much he's come to depend on that look, need it. The angel speaks quietly, “I hear you, Dean.”

“Good'. C'mon. Time to get our grub on.” Dean says firmly, “Then I explain everything.”

Castiel follows him out, and this time Dean pushes Castiel into the seat next to Sam. The two exchange a wary look – Dean gets Sam's nervousness but he's not sure what's up with Cas – then both of them look at him. For his part, he doesn't say a damned thing until he's eaten – he's made sure Cas has eaten and when he gives Sam a look, his brother rolls his eyes and digs in appropriately. Dean sits back in his seat, satisfied that his Elder Brother Glower still works well.

When he's done, he wipes his face with his napkin once, and clears his throat to get their attention, which he has in seconds, and with kind of unnerving intensity. His fingers tap against the table briefly, before he breaths out, looking from his brother, to his angel, and back again. “I've got a Plan.”

Sam looks puppy-dog hopeful, and Castiel seems to be poised, waiting between one breath and the next. Dean finds this all kinds of hilarious, and appropriate at the same time.

He breathes in, breathes out, and states simply, “We need to find God.”

Damn Supernatural Anyways - Or, why I'm writing fanfiction because Season 5 ate my damned brain

2009-10-09T17:44:10Z

Some of you might remember some time ago I started a pretty awesome little series called 'Conversations with Angels'. I loved it, it was awesome, and it pretty much wrote itself.

That is, until the end of Season Four where I ran into the problem where with the exception of Castiel and Anna? Angels are Dicks. Like, serious fucking DICKS. Even I can't AU enough to get past that.

So I finished the Christmas story, and thought, 'Okay. Done for now. If I get any call for more, I'll write more. Otherwise, let sleeping stories lie.'

Then season five started - and while I wasn't bitten by the writing bug, I was interested in fanfiction again. Reading what everyone was coming up with was heavily satisfying all my SPN cravings.

'The End' dropped on my head like a ton of bricks, and without thinking about it, I wrote two pages of post-5x04 fic called 'The Five Year Plan', year one coming to this livejournal, sometime soon. After that, deancastiel put up a Fusion/AU challenge, and I'm sorry, I can't resist a good AU Supernatural story. Especially one with Dean and Cas.

So now, A Mere FIVE weeks after the show started ... I'm writing fanfiction again. TWO, no less.

Damn this show, anyways. It's lucky I love it so damned much.

Wasting Time On The Interwebs

2009-10-06T23:51:47Z

Whoever is left? HI. You all know who I blame for this. That's right. dutchesschaotic, technosage, and silensy. They're evil, but so sexy ... cannot resist ... their siren call...

And for the record, my characters for this meme are - Molly Carpenter, Tyrion Lannister, Castiel, Kyle Rayner, Patrick Jane and from the future - Nate Ford and Hannibal King.

A. "Has my portrayal of a character(s) changed the way you think of him/her?"

B. Pick one of my characters and I'll answer the following questions about him or her.
1. What would your character kill for? What would they die for?
2. What would they refuse to do under any circumstances? Why?
3. What do they dream about?
4. What’s their biggest fear?
5. What single object would they be most hard pressed to part with? Why?
6. What is their fondest memory?
7. What is their worst memory?
8. What or who was were their most significant influence? Expound.
9. What do they believe makes a successful life?
10. What makes them laugh?
11. What are their religious views?
12. What is their greatest strength?
13. Do they have a fatal flaw? If so, what is it?
14. Who is the most important person in their life?
15. If they died, who would miss them most? How would they die?

C. Pick a fandom, any fandom I'm in. I will tell you:
1. One True Pairing Ship:
2. Canon Ship:
3. "If this happens I'll stab my eyes out with a spork" Ship:
4. "You are one sick puppy" Ship:
5. "I dabble a little" Ship:
6. "It's like a car crash" Ship:
7. "Tickles my fancy but not sold just yet" Ship:
8. "Makes no canon sense but why the heck not" Ship:
9. "Everyone else loves it but I just don't feel it" Ship:

commodoresexual @ 2009-07-07T19:32:00

2009-07-07T23:33:02Z

10. On The Tenth Day of Christmas

“Are you positive you don't just want to come in with me?” Johnny asked for the third time, and Sam sighed, for the third time, before responding.

“I'm positive. It'll be fine.” Sam said, as he glanced away from driving to flash the other man a comforting smile. “It's nothing personal – I just don't think me going into a church right now is going to score me any brownie points with the man Upstairs. Especially after what Dean and I did to the last church we were in.”

Johnny sighed, and Sam could hear him shifting around on the seat. “Sam, I don't think anything is going to happen to you, if you walk into a church-”

“I agree. I don't think God will strike me with lightening, or anything like that.” Sam glanced upwards at the slightly overcast sky through the windshield. “In fact I'm willing to bet right now – God and I are a 'pause' in our relationship.” However scary that thought was.

“That's not what I meant.” Johnny's tone was tart. “What I mean is that I don't think that anyone is going jump out around the corner of the vestibule and come at you like some hokey black and white monster, or something.”

Sam sighed, as he shook his head. “Oh, it could happen.” His lips curved into a sardonic smile, and he spoke wryly,”After all, it's Thursday.”

He could hear the frown in Johnny's voice, “What does that have to do with anything?”

Sam shrugged, as he headed down the main drag of Johnny's town, nicknamed by Dean, ButtfuckofNowhere, New York. “Trouble likes us on Thursdays, for some reason.”

“You know, I would call you on stupid superstitious behavior … but you're fighting for your soul against blood put into your veins by a demon, your brother was brought back from the dead by the Heavenly Host – you're both hunters – and you're with me. A vessel for the Angel, Castiel.” Johnny's voice, already amused, broke into a soft laugh, “Which, if now I recall, is the Angel of Thursday.”

“So you see where I might be a little cautious.” Sam said, his lips quirking up around the edges, before pointing to the public library, that sat across from the church Johnny wanted to take some time to pray in. “I'll be there.” He parked the car, giving Johnny a comforting slap on the shoulder, before opening his own car door. “And you just come and get me when you're done.”

Sam climbed out of the Impala, jumping a little when Johnny practically materialized next to him, bringing to mind every single time Castiel just appeared out of nowhere. Even though he knew the other man had been in the car with him, and just came around the back while Sam was setting the parking brake – he still had to stifle a yell. He glared half-heartedly down at the other man, “Jes – Jeez, Johnny! Did Castiel imbue you with angel-ninja techniques?”

“Yes. It's part of the vessel package.” Johnny said wryly. “Along with free dry-cleaning and a healthier than normal diet.” Sam felt brown eyes sweep over him, tinged with worry. “Are you sure you're going to be okay?”

“My abnormal height and considerable muscle mass assures me that whatever happens in the next hour? I'll be okay.” Sam smiled, waving Johnny off as he nodded towards the church. “I'm fine. Seriously. Say 'hi' to God for me, all right?”

Johnny offered a smile – it was a small one, but still enough – and sauntered up the steps to the church doors. Sam waited a beat to make sure the other man had entered, before exhaling, turning in a slow one eighty, and headed across the street to the library. He didn't even make it all the way across the street before he felt her, and half-turned, to find Ruby there waiting for him.

He sighed, and stuffed his hands into his jacket as he walked towards her, because of course she had followed them here. It was Thursday, and apparently, it was time for Sam to deal. With practicality, and hopefully without him and Ruby getting into a knockdown, slap-around fight. “Hello, Ruby.”

She sauntered up to him, dark-haired, dark-eyed, beautiful and tempting, and angry as Hell she had escaped from. She put a hand out and shoved him backwards, hard. “Hello, Sam.” Another push. “How have you been, Sam? What have you been up to, Sam? Seen any angels lately, Sam?”

Sam held out his own hand, a little surprised to see Ruby flinch backwards. He shook his head, and put his hand down, “I'm not the one who ran away in Michigan, Ruby.”

“What did you expect me to do, Sam? Stick around while that place became Angel Central?” He watched as she snorted, and started to pace the street in front of him. “Don't tell me – they gave you the big hallabaloo about getting your hand slapped if you go after Lillith on your own.”

Sam's eyes narrowed. “It'll be a little bigger than that, Ruby.” He shook his head, “They told me I don't have the right to judge, who lives and who dies. That's God's job.” He quieted a little. “...They told me they would finish me, if I kept down this path.”

Ruby shook her head, pacing back and forth, “And you're going to let them tell you what to do? What about Lillith, huh? What about the end of the frigging world that she's bringing about? Just going to sit back and let the angels handle that one? Because they've been doing a spec-tac-ular job so far, Sammo.”

Sam felt his jaw tighten, as he followed her movements. “Listen, just because you don't agree on which way this is supposed to pan out, doesn't mean the same result isn't going to happen. This is the End of the World, Ruby. I'm pretty sure the angels aren't heading down to Disneyworld!”
All right, except where they sort of were. If Heaven could be considered the funnest place on Earth, which he sincerely doubted.

“Really? So they're out there, fighting the good fight? Then why does the world seem light on that angel-fresh-smell?” Ruby countered.

Sam swallowed – had the other demons noticed that? - but kept his voice curt. “It's Christmas time, Ruby, what do you think they're doing?”

“Apparently, harp playing while the world burns.” Ruby smiled, and it wasn't a pleasant one. “Are you going to honestly tell me, you, Sam Winchester, are just going to wait around while people are dying?” She took a step towards him, her eyes wide and pleading. “Sam, you're the only one strong enough to do something.”

He could feel the conflict rising in him, felt the tension tightening in his jaw, but finally he shook his head. “... No, no. I … can't do this. I'm not the one. Dean's the one. And Dean … Dean's strong enough to stop this.” And if he wasn't, then Castiel would ensure that he was. Well, him and Cas. Together. He clenched his fists together, looking at Ruby with a tight, and can feel it in his throat, everything in him begging her to understand, “I've got to have Faith, Ruby. I've got to.”

Because he had so little else, at this time. He was so broken down and tired – he had to believe in something. He had to believe that Dean would be the warrior Heaven and his little brother always thought he was. He had to believe that stepping back wasn't going to hurt Dean, but help him. He had to have faith that a distant God and his band of kind-of-mostly-assholish angels knew what they were talking about.

Ruby's lips thinned, and she straightened that slender body of hers, the one that Sam had lost himself in when all else was lost. Her eyes are hot and angry, and something else. “Fine, Sam. Just fucking fine. How about you call me when you decide to get your head out of the angels proverbial crotch, and stop sucking their metaphorical dicks?”

“Ruby ...” Sam called after her, and when she turned, her face still filled with none-too-subtle anger, he almost took back the question. He set his shoulders, manning up. “You said you had something to tell us, in Michigan. What was it?”

Ruby's eyes flashed, and he tried to think he didn't see the black there, but he knew he did. “There are rumors going around. Angel got offed, and no-one knows who did it. But it wasn't Lillith, and it wasn't her friends. People are saying there's a new game in town.” Her mouth twisted. “So tell your feathery friends to watch their backs. They might find a knife stuck there, one of these days.”

With that, she stalked off, her boots stomping down the sidewalk. He watched her go, and something in him lurched and wanted to follow her. He could find the thing killing the angels – he had the power to stop this. Ruby could help him. They could do it together. He could still be with her, and not have to sacrifice everything, right? Right?

The one thing that stopped him was that he wasn't sure if it was him thinking those thoughts, or the demon blood still in his veins.

The world seemed to fall quiet, waiting, as Sam stood in the middle of the street. Finally, he lifted his head to the sky, sweeping messy bangs from his forehead as he said out-loud, “Okay. So this is me. Having faith. Waiting on you guys.” He was silent for a moment, before he whispered, “Don't make me regret it.”

He sighed, and started back across the street towards the library, his eyes shifting down the street, where Ruby had disappeared. Maybe she had been right. There were six billion people on this planet, and the angels didn't seem to be taking this war seriously. Or at least, most of them didn't. Christ, if the fight for the rest of humanity came down to him, Dean and Castiel … what the hell were they going to do?

“What I need is a sign.” Sam muttered, hands stuffing into his jacket, as he walked into the library. “Dean always gets signs. I'm not asking for much. Not even a burning bush. Maybe like a burning weed, or something. Maybe just let me know what you want us to do.”

That was when his cellphone went off, stopping Sam in his tracks. The librarian behind the desk gave him a dirty look and he swallowed and smiled sheepishly as he backed out of the library again to pull it from his jeans. There was a waiting text message, and Sam swallowed as his fingers fumbled to click it open.

It said simply; When you're done being HOLY, get me DONUTS.

Sam frowned, and then checked the sender. Dean. He snorted and shook his head. Not exactly divine intervention, but his expression became thoughtful. Maybe God's little way of telling him to let it go, just for a few more days. Just get lost in a few more days of laughter, and Christmas, and donuts.

Because if angels were getting murdered, the days ahead were going to be dark.

He stared at his phone for another moment, before turning around and jogging over to the church, opening the big wooden doors, and found Johnny praying in one of the back pews. The man looked over at him, brown eyes wide, as he whispered, “I thought you weren't feeling religious?”

Sam shrugged, as he went down on his knees, folding his hands in front of him, whispering as he put his eyes to the cross behind the altar. “I'm not. But I sure as hell am feeling talkative.” He looked up to the church's ceiling, muttering, “I just hope someone up there is listening.”

11. Again, Way Too Early On the Eleventh Day of Christmas

“I knew I should have gone shopping by myself.” Johnny sighed, as he turned his cart around the corner, eying the Winchester brothers. “Seriously, what is your combined mental age right now? Ten?”

Dean and Sam looked at each other, and then at the toy swords they were cheerfully beating each other up with. He knew he should have known better when they said they wanted to go to Walmart with him. He needed some last minute things and this was the only store open at 2 in the morning. He should have known by Sam's smile, quickly repressed, or the gleam in Dean's eye. Really, he should have known by the way they both ran off and abandoned him the moment they got into the store. He could see them running all the way to the toy department, leaving him to do his shopping all on his lonesome.

Right now, both of the guilty parties looked at him, looked away, scuffed their heavy work boots on the linoleum. Both of them cleared their throats, and both of them sounding sheepish as they said, “Sorry, Johnny.”

Johnny gave them both a mock glare, before rolling his eyes, “You wouldn't do this to Cas … all right, all right, stop looking at me with those puppy-dog eyes. Go pick out some toys.” He amended that after the gleam in Dean's eyes doubled, “Two! Two toys each!”

Dean slapped a hand against Sam's chest and gleefully clutched the sword in his hand. “Number one, down. Nerf guns, here I come.”

Johnny let out a heavy sigh, looking up at a still sheepish Sam. “I am giving you the money – with the clear understanding that whatever weapons he gets – he's going to use them on you.”

Sam's lips curved into a grin, and then his face changed. Something between a frown as as if Sam was sucking on a lemon. “Understanding noted.” He turned on his heel, raising his voice, “Dean! No guns!”

Johnny shook his head, grinning as he wheeled the cart backwards, and then headed back to the food aisles. He caught sight of his reflection, rolling along, looking like he was a moment away from a laugh. He grinned at himself, and pushed the cart forward, along this long aisle of mirrors, his reflection cast back at him. Castiel would be glad to have the vessel back, and in such good shape. Well-fed, happy, and … at peace, he finally realized. Not to mention, weirdly enough, looking forward to Castiel's return. For all that it was him being dragged along for the most Hellish ride of his life – Johnny enjoyed it. It was purpose. It was, as Bryan would like to say, 'one fucking good adventure'.

Maybe it was the thought of Bryan that made him glance at the mirror, and realize that he was being followed.

Fear swam through him, and he thought about cutting back around and getting Sam and Dean – but no – the men were closing in on him. Like jackals. Just far enough not to draw suspicion from the security cameras, but close enough that they were definitely herding him. He breathed out, slowly. Damn, what if these were demons? There was too many of them for him to outrun. He might be able to take out a few of them with the holy water flask he had in his pocket, but that would just buy him time. At least he'd be able to call out for help, before they descended on him.

Oh-ho, great. They were herding him into the bathroom. Where there were no cameras. Johnny's lips pressed together, and he looked skyward as he whispered simply, “Cas … Help.”

And then he was rushed, one of them grabbing him by the arm and shoving him into the bathroom, a surprisingly large room. He was pushed towards the far wall, and he spun around to face his attackers, all five of them. He had his flask out in an instant, and tossed the contents over the two by the door who … blinked, and looked confused. And damp.

Johnny blinked in turn, and then he let out a laugh, a high and shaky relieved laugh. “Oh Thank God! You're just prejudiced assholes!”

The five of them had gone from grimly pleased to utterly confused, and one of them asked, looking like he'd like to take a step away from the 'crazy man', “And just what the fuck did you think we were, fag?”

“Demons.” Johnny answered promptly, “I mean, you guys aren't much better – but seriously, five demons? Just me? I'd be seriously ...well, fucked, pardon the word.”

He held up as one of the men opened his mouth to speak, quietly relishing the befuddlement that made all five men stop and eye him warily, “Before you go on your diatribe, and your sexual innuendos, and try to get me to beg to save my life – let me tell you something. I know you guys. I know what you'll do. I know that you're going to walk out of here and think yourselves men, but all you'll be? Are monsters. The five of you – you took my lover from me. You beat him to death with your pipes and your fists and your hatred. And I hated you right back – I did . I hated the whole human mess for creating men like you. But after this year? I've gotten a lot of perspective, and now... I just feel sorry for you.”

One of the men, a gruff looking guy in a red trucker's cap literally spat in his direction, “You? Feel sorry for us?”

“Weird, huh?” Johnny felt something in him loosen, and finally float away. The last remnants of
resentment, of anger, perhaps. Leaving his soul free to feel sympathy, even pity again. “But to be honest – you guys just don't get it. You're so wrapped up in your petty little injuries and fears of what you don't know, you don't realize that there's bigger things out there. Bigger than you, bigger than me. There's more evil – more unbelievable evil than what you're trying to commit here. And there's more beauty, and grace, and – and love, than you'll ever have a chance to feel.”

He exhaled, thinking of Castiel. Thinking of how a creature of grace could love a man like these; rough-hewn and simple in his tastes and his beliefs. He dropped his gaze to them, and hid a grin while they all looked at each other nervously. This wasn't part of their plan. He wrecked it by being a whack-job. He added with gentleness. “Maybe because I've seen these things, that I'm willing to let this go. That I'll tell you, right now, that you want to walk out of here.”

The man in the red cap was the leader, and he was evidently trying to get this party back on track because he flicked out a knife, his dark eyes bright with confused anger, “Oh do we? And why the fuck do we want to do that? You protected by some fucking higher power?”

“Well, yeah.” Jimmy said, with a touch of sarcasm. “But seriously, I was just trying to keep you from getting your asses kicked by them.” He nodded his head to a spot behind them, where the Winchesters stood waiting.

The five men turned, and that was when Sam smacked two of them in the face, head on, with two red rubber balls that reminded Johnny of days of high school gym, and then the taller Winchester stepped forward to put his fists where the balls had landed. Dean had a wiffleball bat that he grimly and efficiently used to beat the crap out of the two men in front of him, the plastic bat swinging around and cracking fingers and knees brutally. The man with the knife was so started that he didn't see Johnny heading right for him, so all he could do was let out a surprised 'oooooof' noise as his back slammed into the sink. He dropped the knife, but looked like he would just kill Johnny with his bare hands.

Well he would have, if the light fixture above his head hadn't, inexplicably, suddenly fallen loose from its bindings and landed right on the man's head, knocking him right to the floor.

It took them all but ten minutes to finish the fight. Then there were five men down, one through angelic assistance, and the bathroom looked like the floor of a UFC match. Dean looked around with satisfied smirk, and then shot an exasperated look at Johnny, “Seriously dude. Five minutes. You were out of our sight for five frigging minutes.”

“Your talent for trouble seems to have rubbed off?” Johnny panted, catching his breath as he glanced at the ceiling, smiling. “Thanks Cas.” He nodded at the Winchesters. “Thanks, guys.”

Sam shook out his fist, wincing as he prodded it for bruises. “Thank us later, when we're out of here.”

“Yeah, seriously, let's scatter before we have to answer too many goddamned questions.” Dean sighed as he looked at his wiffle-bat. “Aw, damn. I got dumb, ignorant hick blood all over it. No way am I buying this now.” He tossed it over his shoulder as he opened the door for all three of them. Which was what made Johnny, on their way out, grab Dean another wiffle-bat. Along with two state-of-the-art remote control cars for Dean and Sam, as well. The very least he could do was, he thought, was to ensure they both had three toys. The surprised and pleased expressions on their faces was thanks enough.

At the register, the cashier handed him his credit card, while Sam and Dean started pushing the cart out to the Impala, half riding on it, and while she eyed them with disgruntlement, she asked Johnny curtly, “Anything else you need?”

Johnny cocked his head back at the question, and suddenly smiled, dark eyes bright, peaceful and clear. “Not a thing. I'm totally good.” He started to walk towards the banks of double doors, and looked over his shoulder, “Oh yeah – the bathroom in the back? You might want to have someone go and clean that up. It kind of looks like someone dumped trash all over the place.”

His smile brightened, at her vaguelly confused expression, and he offered a cheery, “Merry Christmas!” before he walked out of the doors, leaving more than Wal-mart behind him in his wake.

12. On The Twelfth Day Of Christmas

“Dude, we've been together for nearly two weeks. We ate your food, slept in your beds, dragged your drun ass out of depression. - Johnny, I let you take me to a gay bar, where guys bought me more beer than I've ever bought a girl I wanted to bang – and now you're having 'trust issues'?” Dean scoffed, loudly, in Johnny's face, “Quit your bitching, and just put on the damned blindfold.”

Johnny gave him another leery look, that Dean met flatly, and continued to stare at the blindfold in his hand. Dean rolled his eyes as Sam spoke up from behind them both, his tone a lot more gentle and reasonable than Dean's had been, “C'mon, Johnny. You don't want to ruin our surprise, do you?”

“So this surprise isn't going to be another inadvertent cold shower?” Johnny asked dryly, but he finally lifted the blindfold to his face, tying it into place.

Dean rolled his eyes at Sam, as he took Johnny by the shoulders and steered him towards the front door, muttering grumpily, “I should, for the amount of bitchin' I've been getting.”

Sam smirked back at him, tossing him Johnny's coat, slipping on his own. “Don't worry, Johnny, no one gets drunk-dunked on Christmas.”

Dean finished slipping on Johnny's - Cas's - coat, and pushed him gently towards Sam as he pulled on his own. “Listen to Sasquatch. He speaks truth.” He watched Sam make sure that Johnny was well and truly snug in the coat, and the blindfold was on straight, before nodding his approval and opening the door for the both of them. Watched while Sam said something to make Johnny laugh, before pulling a wool hat over the dark hair that actually behaved for Johnny, where it never had for Cas.

He ignored the ache in his chest. Not much longer, until the angel came back, and not much longer until Johnny left. Weird, how your heart could pull in two different directions. However, if he was going to be honest with himself – yeah, the angel was preferred. His lips twisted, as he thought to himself, Castiel, preferred in a taste-test choice by 9 out of 10 hunters named Dean Winchester. His soft 'Heh' earned him a narrow-eyed look from Sam, who he flashed one of his more innocent looks in response.

He was fiercely happy that Sam finally got Johnny out the door, and that neither one of them could really see his face after he followed them out, making sure to lock up the house behind them. He was on board for the warm and fuzzy crap today – after all it was Christmas. But he'd be damned if he let his brother see him looking like a soft-eyed, lovesick moron. The angel made that look be there, the angel was the one who got to see it.

It was a good time for a drive, though. The sun was starting to drop down on the horizon, the road was smooth, and he and Sam were fighting over Aerosmith or Christmas tunes, and he could hear Johnny snorting laughs from the backseat. The car was warm, running slick, and there was snow on the ground and not a single monster in sight.

It was the best Christmas Eve Dean could remember in 27 years, although the one last year with the porn mags and just Sam was pretty damned good too. Even with almost getting eaten.

He followed the directions he and Sam had taken the day before, and slipped the car up the long and silent hill, until they reached their destination. He met Sam's gaze, who nodded at him solemnly, before they both got out of the car together, and Sam fetched Johnny from the backseat. They made their way carefully along the path, until they stopped, and Dean tugged off Johnny's blindfold, letting the other man open his eyes.

Sam pressed lightly against Dean's side, a source of warmth, as they both waited quietly, as Johnny looked over the grave – squared away and clean, as vigorously as Dean could manage. All the leaves and debris swept away, dead weeds pulled away, revealed the simple black marble headstone that simply read Bryan and the dates of his life and death. The red roses that Sam insisted on stood in their tall matching vases, flanking it. Dean watched Johnny's shoulders rise, and then fall, a little shakily, before the man turned to look back at them. Brown eyes met theirs, and they were wide and wet and Dean felt like looking away because he never dealt well with men crying.

Himself, most of all, but that was neither here nor there.

As if Johnny sensed it, he swallowed, and wiped his face clear, and managed a quiet, “Thank you, boys.” Anything else seems beyond the man.

Sam's smile answered for him, and Dean just scratched the back of his neck and shrugged at the same time, his words a little stiff, “S'nothing. You know. Uhm, we'll leave you to, y'know, commune. Or whatever.”

Johnny looked like he wants to hug them both, and Dean was relieved when all he did was nod his head gratefully, and turned to press his hand against the top of the grave. Sam nudged him with his elbow, and they walked back around the gravestones, their boots crunching in the snow as they approached the Impala.

“So, you want your present now, or you want to wait until later?” Sam asked, and Dean arched his eyebrows up at his brother, watching as Sam shrugged, a grin lighting up his brother's face, “I might have just given in to the sentimentality of the season, and brought it with me.”

“I always knew you were a soppy bitch.” Dean's lips curved into a smirk, before he squinted up at the swiftly darkening sky, “I might have brought along something for you too.” He can see Sam smirking at him out of the corner of his eye, and he pointed a finger at him. “This does not make me as girly as you, though.”

“No, of course not. You're the 'manly' Winchester. Any day now I expect you to start wearing a cowboy hat and spit tobacco.” Sam rolled his eyes good-naturedly. “Where's my present, jerk?”

“Cowboy hat might cool.” Dean popped the trunk, “Chewing tobacco though dude? And ruin these gorgeous white teeth?” Which he flashed for Sam, as he tossed a awkwardly wrapped in plain brown paper package at him. Sam looked at it oddly, lips quirking up in a way that made Dean ask suspiciously, “What?”

Sam shook his head, grinning, before he went to the passenger side door of the Impala. He pulled it open, and then popped open the glove-box, to pull out a much neater wrapped package, with Santas dancing merrily over a background of dark blue, the same size and shape as the gift he'd just given to Sam. Dean eyed his brother, and started to open the package, his tone mockingly conversational,“So, there was this store in the mall.”

Sam smirked and started to open his own package. “Small little place? Might have a sign up there about 'make your own t-shirt'?” Dean watched, grinning a little, as Sam opened the wrapping, then read what Dean had inscribed on the front of the plain black t-shirt in blazing white print. His brother snorted, “'#1 Angel Fanboy'. Cute, Dean. Reaaaaal cute.”

Dean snorted a delighted laugh, until he unwrapped his own shirt and read aloud, “'Pervy … Angel Deflowerer'.” He made a 'hnngh' noise in his throat, before shooting his now smug brother a dirty look, “Hi-lar-ious, Sammy.”

“You're welcome.” Sam smarmed, snickering even as Dean slapped him hard in the chest with one hand, before he shook his head, “Thank God Cas isn't here to see these.”

Dean shook his head and cracked up, “Oh damn, can you imagine trying to explain these? The look on his face? I would not stop laughing. I'd die friggin' laughing, at that look.” He glanced sideways at Sam, his smile suddenly going fey, “You know, he's going to be here in a week...”

“Dean, you are not even suggesting we wear these when Cas is here for New Years.” He looked at his brother's gleaming eyes, and held up the t-shirt like a shield against Dean's mischievous grin, “No! Noooooooooo. He's an angel of the Lord, Dean!”

“Are you saying God doesn't have a sense of humor?” Dean said archly. “I refuse to believe that of the apparent deity that gave me The Three Stooges can't enjoy a good chuckle.” He snorted softly, looking over the snow-covered graves. “Just look at our lives. Comic drama don't come any better than us, Sammy.”

Dean felt the long, quiet, look of Sam's, and then a heavy, mocking sigh. “... If he decides to smite us, I am using you as a human flesh shield, Dean.”

Dean grinned, his eyes gleaming a little. In one week, he'd be seeing Castiel, touching Castiel, tasting him, doing a multitude of dirty and wonderful things with him. Add to that he'd get a few laughs out of the heavy levels of confusion on Castiel's face, and it looked like the best New Years ever was coming right behind Christmas.

Johnny emerged from the path – his breath was heavy and his eyes were still looking a little damp, red around the rims. Dean looked at Sam, and Sam looked back at him. Silently, they both held up their individual t-shirts solemnly to their chests, the crinkle of plastic almost loud in the stillness of the cemetary. There was a moment where Johnny stopped, and his look of befuddlement was almost, almost a match for the angel's, but then Johnny did something Dean was sure he would have to coax, carefully, out of the reserved angel.

Johnny laughed. He laughed good, and hard, and maybe a little louder than necessary, but it's ten times better than the grief that was there a minute ago. Maybe he wasn't Castiel, Dean suddenly though to himself. Maybe this isn't the guy Dean wanted to be with more than anything else in the world. Right now, though, with his brother beside him and Johnny – good ole Johnny – grinning at him – Dean finally got it.

Johnny was family – like Bobby was family, and Ellen and Jo and a score of others who they had lost along the way. But there Johnny was, tucked into the circle. Castiel drew them together, and now Dean was bonded. They were in this war together; he, Sam, Johnny -- and Castiel. Castiel, in his own way, was showing Dean that he was never going to leave him.

Dean was going to give the angel some kind of Hell, for playing him so well. He just wasn't sure if it was going to be before or after he managed to find a way to thank the holy bastard.

Preferably, with his pervy-angel-deflowering-mouth.

Epilogue – And A Partridge, In A Pear Tree...

Johnny finished tying his tie, looking at himself in the mirror, neatly pressed and solemn again in his dark blue suit, the lighter blue of his tie bringing out the warmth his eyes. He fixed the cuffs of the crisp white shirt, then the jacket, looking down to make sure he was neat, tidy, and otherwise put together.

He glanced at the clock beside his bed – 7:25 a.m, December 26th. He gave it a little curt, acknowledging nod. It was time. He reached for the trenchcoat, slipping it over his shoulders before sliding the gloves on over his hands. The angel would forget about the cold – hopefully he'd figure out the use of the hat so Johnny wouldn't lose his ears. He cracked a wry smile at the thought of Castiel struggling to figure out how to pull a hat on his head, as he walked out into the hallway, and closed his bedroom door behind him.

He walked down the long hallway, pausing as he looked first into Sam's bedroom, and then over into Dean's. Both of them slept soundly – Dean snorting softly as he rolled over on his side. Johnny's smile went soft at the sight of them, then he set his shoulders, and kept walking. Had to keep moving, now. He paused at the small table beside the door, and pulled out the short letter for the boys, putting it next to the Impala keys. As an almost afterthought, he dug out his own ring of keys, slid off the one to the house, and nodded. They'd take care of his place, if he never came back.

The air outside was crisp and sharp, just like a winter morning should be. He breathed it in, breathed out again, sending a cascade of white air through the beginning flickers of light coming from the east. Dawn, the time for new beginnings. Starting over. Johnny smiled, as the sun lifted, and he could hear Castiel's mind whispering to him, first faint, now getting stronger. The angel was coming.

Like the first time, Johnny opened his arms wide, and looked up to the sky. He didn't know how rough this ride was going to get. He didn't know where this particular road was going to lead him. Heck, he didn't even know if he was going to live to see the next day – much less the start of a new year, the war, any of it.

He knew, though, that no matter what happened, if his time came, the two men would bring him home, one way or another. And the angel descending on him, would keep all his promises. He closed his eyes as the light from above nearly outshone the rising sun, and he whispered as Castiel cascaded into him, purity and Grace flowing into him like a heavenly waterfall, “Welcome home, Cas.”

~~~~~

“He gone?” Dean's voice was gruff, catching Sam's attention as he looked up from reading the brief note Johnny had left them. His brother's face was a little closed off, even as he rubbed his bare chest and yawned. Even just waking up, Dean could have his personal shields up in a moment. Sam nodded his head, flipping it around so Dean could read it as well. Dean's eyes skimmed over the few words, his lips twisting around the edges, before hazel eyes lifted to meet Sam's, “Well, we're burning daylight. Let's pack it up, and get going.”

He headed back up the stairs, grumbling, “S'not like the end of the world's gonna wait for us while we have brunch.”

Sam's lips quirked up at the bleak humor, and he went to put the note down and follow Dean upstairs. He paused, however, and then palmed the key Johnny had left them. Later on, when he locked the front door with it, Dean didn't say a word as Sam slipped the key, not under the mat, but in his own pocket. Then they were on the road again, but the key was a comfortable press against Sam's leg, and occasionally, he would reach down to his pocket to touch it, and make sure it was still there. That the past ten days had happened, and all those bright memories were actually his, and Dean's, to keep.

The key remained, a solid reminder. Sam smiled every time he took his fingertips off it again.

~~~~~~~

The note said this; You two made this a home again, so I want you to consider it yours. Thank you, for everything. – Johnny.

~~~~~~~

Thunder growled in the distance, but the storm was still weeks off. It would hold, for a little while longer.

Conclusion to 'How Dean, Sam and Johnny Spent Their Christmas Vacation'

2009-07-07T23:32:01Z

Title: How Dean, Sam and Johnny Spent Their Christmas Vacation (2/2)
Author: Commodoresexual
Disclaimer: Spoilers through 4.11. I don't own Supernatural, Dean, Sam, Castiel, or Castiel's possible vessel.
Rating: PG-13, warnings for violence, hate crimes
Genre/Pairing: Dean/Castiel, Sam, Castiel's (AU) Vessel
Warnings: As per usual, my view on religion is probably not the conventional one, so you have been warned!
Notes: Part of my Conversations with Angels universe - taking place after Part 5. This is Part Two, after a HUGE OMG hiatus. BUT IT IS FINISHED. REJOICE. I know I did. Part One is here.
Also, yeah, the vessel here is not Jimmy Novak. No worries, I have an idea on how to work him in later into my little AU verse.
Summary: On the last six days of Christmas...

7. On The Seventh Sad Day

Sam wouldn't tell Dean this, but since agreeing not to use his powers, he sort of felt like Willow from Buffy; The Vampire Slayer. Sixth season, to be precise, where Willow ended up being dumped by Tara for using bad magics and she realized she was an addict and had to be cut off for the safety of all. Then there's that one episode where Willow is old school and uses her computer and logic and saves the day, instead of magic, and it makes her feel better about herself. Sam felt that way every single time that he took over the research end of things – see, God, he's useful and he's being good – and it takes the sting out of knowing that in the end he might be the thing that slows Dean down.

He tried not to think of what happened to Willow, corrupted again and mourning, at the end of that season. He really, really did.

Especially since now he's got something so much more disturbing to deal with, as he pulled up the details of Bryan's death. The kitchen that the dead man built is deceptively warm and inviting as he reads, the coffee Dean made still sitting at his elbow, ignored as he feels his guts turn. He couldn't drink it now, no matter how good it smelt. He's pretty sure it would taste of bitter hatred and disgust.

The kitchen door swung open, and Dean slid in, a light dusting of snow on his hair. “Coast is clear – he's still down at the market. Man, am I glad he can't drive stick.” Sam wasn't sure what was on his face, but the second Dean looked at him, his brother's expression went tight. “Bad?”

Sam put his hands to his face, and rubbed it, before letting his fingertips rest against one another. Sort of a silent attitude of prayer. “According to the reports that - that Johnny and his friends made - Bryan was walking away from McDermott's, alone, to the convenience store down the street. Nothing major – he apparently went to buy some gum, and he picked up a package of those Hostess cupcakes. They found the bag with his body.”

He wet his lips, looking away, for a moment, just to compose himself, before he looked back to Dean. “Five guys cut him off before he got back. They didn't know him – just knew he was gay – and they were drunk and ignorant...” He clenched his hands into fists, forced them down. “They had pipes, and bats, and lighters... Dean, they dragged him into an alley and beat him. Just …beat and tortured him, to death. Not more than a block away from the pub.”

He swallowed. “Someone passing saw them leaving the alley and went to investigate. She called 911, tried to get help, but ...it was too late. He lost too much blood, took too much internal damage. He died on the table, at St. Mary's, not an hour later.”

“Jesus.” Dean's disgust was thick, and Sam watched his older brother stand up, anger riding in every line. “People, man. People. Biggest fucking monsters I know.”

Sam nodded his head slowly. People. They would do the most outrageously horrible things to one another, to their next door neighbor or one of their own relatives, and not blink twice. Hell could take lessons. “The woman made sure to give her statement to the police – the five sons a'bitches are rotting in jail as we speak, Thank Christ.” Otherwise … he didn't even know. Darker impulses ran through his mind and he squashed them. He didn't do that, anymore.

Dean leaned against the counter, his expression mirroring Sam's divided feelings – half like he wanted to hit something and the other half resisting the urge. He squeezed the counter-top with his fingers, and exhaled. “Okay, so, what do we do now?”

Sam opened his arms wide in a helpless gesture of, 'I have no clue', when the back door opened, and Johnny burst through, exclaiming, “Okay, have I mentioned how much I love short...” Sam jerked to action a touch too late in closing the computer screen, and he saw the way Johnny's eyes widened, and then became knowing as he lamely finished his sentence, “...cuts.” He put the bag of groceries down, facing away from them, as he continued speaking softly. “Because they save time, getting home so you can see the crime scene photos of your dead lover. That's always pleasant.”

Sam shot Dean a helpless look, as his older brother stood up, “Johnny – we just ...”

“You wanted to understand. Wanted to know why I invited you home, when I barely knew you, wanted to know why I dragged you to a bar, half-way across the state. You wanted to know what was going on because obviously, I'm acting a little crazy, even by your generous standards.” Johnny interrupted, as he started to rifle through the bags, looking for something. “So you did what Winchesters do. You decided to stick your nose into my business.”

Dean sighed, and looked at him directly, even though Johnny was not meeting Sam nor his brother's gaze. “What do you want us to say? That we weren't worried? That we decided to look up how your boyfriend died because there was nothing on cable?” He stood up straight, his eyes boring into the side of Johnny's head. “We're not like Alex or any of those guys. We don't have the history you got with them, and we never knew Bryan, never knew about your life together. Hell, to be fucking honest, we don't know much about you. But we're trying. We're opening up here. Might be nice, if you did the same.”

Johnny jerked a little like he'd been hit across the face, and Sam winced in sympathy. When Dean got honest, he didn't pull any punches, and Sam wondered if Johnny just felt like he got a good right cross to the guilt center. Johnny ran one hand through his hair, a gesture that suddenly sang of the angel, and stopped what he was doing as if he realized it. He stared at his hand and sighed, “I … I really wish Castiel was here.”

Dean looked over to Sam, and Sam rose to his feet, moving to stand by Johnny's side. “Why, Johnny?”

Johnny lifted his head, and there was something so sad, so lost in his eyes. He sighed. “Because he understands. Without me having to say. It's so easy, when all my sins and faults are laid out bare and he doesn't care – because I'm just a good man – or at least he thinks I'm a good man...”

“Johnny … what could you have possibly have done that would have been so bad?” Sam asked, not touching him, but making his presence known. He didn't dare look at Dean right now – between the two of them they had racked way too much self-recrimination and guilt. He couldn't look in Dean's eyes and see the same look he was getting in Johnny's.

Johnny pressed his hands to his face, his voice low and pained. “I didn't go after him.”

Sam frowned, but then comprehension settled in. “Outside of the … bar?”

Johnny nodded his head, and he wasn't crying, but his entire upper body trembled. “We had a fight. A … a really bad one. Yelling, screaming, complete and total blowout. It was so ...so stupid. He was jealous, I was tired, it got out of hand and I said something I shouldn't have. He walked out, said he was going to get some gum and talk to me when I wasn't being such a .. an asshole.” He looked up, and stared at the wall opposite. “He walked out the door, and the next time I saw him he wasn't Bryan anymore. He was just this bloody … pulpy mess. The man I loved, the man I was going to spend the rest of my life with, and he was just … gone.”

Dean's voice was soft, “Johnny – that's not your fault...”

“He was jealous. He thought I was cheating.” Johnny whispered, almost as if he hadn't heard Dean at all. “I let him walk out into the not-great part of town because he thought I was cheating and he deserved to wander around in the dark alone. I could have gone – should have gone. He'd be alive today if I hadn't.”

“And what were you gonna do, huh, against five armed guys?” Sam knew that tone in Dean's voice – felt glad it was going in another direction than his for once. Worry and over protectiveness translated straight into anger, and Sam glanced over to see Dean pointing a finger at Johnny. “Flutter your big, brown eyes at them? What the hell could you do?”

Johnny stepped forward and roared into Dean's face, his fists clenching at his sides, “I COULD HAVE DONE SOMETHING, ANYTHING! BUT I DIDN'T AND NOW HE'S DEAD! DEAD AND GONE! AND I'M ALONE, ALL ALONE! ”

The smaller man abruptly stopped yelling, as if shocked at the sound of his own voice, and silence filled the kitchen, broken only by the sound of his silent panting.

Suddenly it's like there was claw around Sam's heart, reaching in and curling tight, piercing it, because that's how much it hurt to remember Dean's death – Dean lying dead in his arms. Dean being torn apart and Sam, helpless against the wall while Lillith laughed at him. Just laughed. He closed his eyes tight, and whispered. “And you're helpless, when it's taken out of your hands like that. Then all you can do is stand there, and hold tight, even though there's nothing left to hold onto.”

He opened them to find Dean and Johnny staring at him, Dean's heartache naked on his face and Johnny … Johnny looking like he and Sam were speaking in their own perfect language.

So Sam continued, “And you're holding on to grief, and you're holding onto anger, and self blame, and you hate yourself. You hate yourself, so damned much. So you give up things. You give up – your job, your loved ones, your sanity. I tried to give up my soul.” He paused, feeling his eyes sting, but he didn't cry, and he was silently proud of how steady his voice was. “What did you give up, Johnny?”

“People.” Johnny's voice is tight, his face contorting briefly. “You'd think … as much as I believed, as hard as I did, it would have been God, right? But – but God didn't make those men hurt my Bryan. They were just people – angry, ignorant people, and I couldn't … I couldn't stand to be around anyone. I hated humanity – I hated everything about them. I hated their fear, and their ignorance, I hated their fake sympathy at the funeral home and I hated their sincerity.” His voice went soft. “I couldn't work, after that. I couldn't go into the grocery store, for goodness's sake, without being filled with rage. I had a meeting, with Bryan's lawyer, about signing papers? I sat there, as he said nice things, comforting things, and all I wanted to do was throttle him. Beat his head into his desk because – because he was alive and Bryan wasn't and he was part of the whole damned universe that had taken my Bryan from me.”

Sam stared at Johnny as he exhaled again, looking down at the ground, his voice softer. “That was the day I decided I had gone too far. That I had to stop this downward slide of hatred, or I would be completely lost. I came out of that meeting, and went to the nearest church. I fell on my knees, and I begged, I pleaded, for a direction, a purpose, something that would tell me what to do … and Castiel came. He came down, and offered me a choice, and I took it without a moment's hesitation. Because God had answered my prayers.”

He finally looked up, and met Sam's eyes, and his brown eyes welled, “But now, knowing you two, knowing what you've gone through … and that you fought to stay, the both of you, I've got to wonder. All this, all this craziness is just me, wondering.” He let out a sigh, looking to the ceiling. “Wondering if I actually chose this, or I just saw a way out, and I'm just running away.”

Again, Sam found himself without words as Johnny turned and stepped past Dean, out of the kitchen, leaving the two brothers alone in a silence that seemed to seep the brightness of the kitchen with it.

8. On The Eighth Day Of Christmas

The first thing Johnny realized was that he was not waking up on the floor where he was pretty
he passed out last night after consuming an entire bottle of amaretto, but in fact was being jostled up and down from the very firm shoulder of one Dean Winchester.

The second thing he realized that he was in fact staring down at Dean's very nice jean-covered ass, and he wondered briefly what Dean would do if he leaned down and goosed him.

The third realization was that he was still pretty drunk, if that seemed like a good plan.

The fourth realization was if he was drunk, being held upside down and bouncing was going to be a bad idea sooner than later. He closed his eyes and willed himself to not throw up – for Dean to put him down – and for it to be someplace cool so he could rest his head against it. As if Dean could read his mind – and if he could Johnny was definitely putting him up for the coolest superhero ever outside of Spider-man – Johnny felt himself being lowered into something cool, and hard, and he pressed his face happily against the side of the … wait. This was the -

Cold water sprayed down on him from his perfectly pressurized shower head and he yelped and floundered at the bottom of his bathtub, “Aw Jeez Darn CRAP! DEAN! SAM!”

Dean was leaning against the wall on one side of the tub, and Sam was sitting on the toilet, and both of the smug jerks were smiling as if nothing was wrong. Sam leaned forward, elbows on knees, his expression completely innocent, “Good morning, Johnny. Glad to see you're up!”

“Good idea, best thing in the world after an all out-amaretto bender. Nice, cold shower. Really gives your system that jolt it needs in the morning.” Dean added, his lips curving up in one end.

“I loathe you both, and I want to set you on fire!” Johnny snarled, but rather ineffectively since all he could do right now is flail around the bottom of the bathtub. “Lots of fire! Burning fire! Hot, flaming, painful fire!”

Sam looked solemnly over at Dean, “He's cranky when he wakes up.”

“Pity party hang-overs are never pretty, Sammy.” Dean answered with equal mock seriousness. “So we should let him turn on the warm water, strip off his wet drunk clothes, probably puke? Then we'll drag his grumpy ass out shopping.”

“That sounds like an awesome plan, Dean.” Sam looked over at Johnny and his thundercloud expression. “Not sure how well Johnny is going to like that, all things considered. He might just get stubborn.”

“Yeah, yeah, I figured he might put up a fight once he was a little more with it.” Dean said, nodding his head, before he smiled perkily. “That's why I figured on dragging him out as naked as a jaybird if he puts up too much of a fuss.”

“Wow, dragged out naked in winter. Ingenious.” Sam said slowly, widening his eyes comically wide.

“And pretty smart, too.” Dean waved his hand in the air to an invisible crowd, “Thank you, thank you, No, thank you.” Then he smirked down at Johnny, “Soooo, we'll see you downstairs in what, twenty, thirty minutes?”

“Fire.” Johnny growled in response. “Lots and lots of it.”

Dean smiled at Sam, who grinned back at his brother and got off the toilet. Sam called out over his shoulder. “We'll put clean clothes outside the bathroom door, and coffee will be ready when you hit the kitchen. See you in thirty.”

Johnny snarled again, without anything really behind it, and sighed as he leaned across the space to turn on the hot water. His soppy wet clothes were tossed out of the shower itself, and he made himself stand under the spray. His muscles started to un-knit, and he groaned in silent relief. What was it about a warm shower that made facing the rest of the day easier?

It was a saner, cleaner, and slightly less groggy Johnny that made his way into the kitchen to find one of his travel mugs waiting for him, and a half full coffee pot sitting next to it. He poured himself a full measure, added milk and sugar, and stumbled out of the house into surprisingly bright December sunshine. Had to be the hangover, he told himself, as he moved towards the Impala, crunching through snow. The car was already purring and blaring out some old hair rock as Johnny opened the passenger door. Sam smiled cheerfully up at him, to which Johnny responded with leaning down, pulling the handle that released the front seat and shoving it forward to send Sam's face solidly into the dashboard.

Johnny climbed into the backseat to Sam's howls of protest and Dean's snorted laughs, put his coffee down on the floor and leaned across the front seat. Then he smacked Dean solidly upside the head, knocking the elder's Winchester's sunglasses off his face, snagging them up with his free hand. Dean let out a yelped, “Ow! Hey!”, but Johnny silenced him with one raised finger as he slid the sunglasses on his face.

He waited until both Winchesters were sitting there, gaping at him, and he slowly lowered his finger as he picked up his coffee and said softly. “Fire. Burning, vengeful FIRE. I hath brought it, and you shalt take it.” He slouched in the backseat and muttered softly. “Thank you.”

Sam touched his nose gingerly and Dean rubbed the back of his head, as they both looked at one another, then back at him with a silent nod of acceptance. The Impala started as Johnny grabbed his coffee again and settled back against the leather seat, wincing at the sun again. The rising sun, if the tilt of the sky meant anything. He pushed his sunglasses further up his face and slumped a little more, squinting. Early start, indeed. “Where … exactly are we going shopping, anyways?”

“There's a mall around here. Best to get there before the Christmas crush starts, you know.” Sam was lounging back against the seat, and when he turned the morning sun turned his face and hair into a halo. Johnny briefly wondered how Heaven could even doubt that Sam was one of their own creations, and he felt a stab that they could lose him. Through their machinations, through Hell's, maybe even through Sam's.

He doesn't say any of that, though. The only thing that comes through his muddled brain is, “But Dean hates malls.”

“Eh. I'll deal.” Is Dean's curt reply, and it's a stunning reminder of how hung-over Johnny that he can't even drudge up an argument or a curious comment to that statement. Instead he worked on making his head not explode or his stomach turn itself inside out in protest. He winced as they reach the mall, wondering where they would end up, but Dean pulls the Impala way out by the Sears, and all three of them hoof it the seeming mile or so to its doors. Johnny finds himself book-ended and speed-walked between the two Winchesters, until they reached the center of the mall, where one of those nature-in-fountains were, and Dean pushed him firmly down on the cool, flat marble surrounding the thing. “Sit. We'll be right back.”

Johnny didn't even have the energy to protest, because he was never a drinker, and this hangover was literally kicking him right in the butt. He put his head in-between his knees and breathed out through his nose, willing his head to stop aching and the bile to stop rising. He listened to the tinkling water from the fountain, to the murmur of voices all around him, and just tried to get himself back into balance. Liquor hadn't chased away the aching pain inside, so now he felt his heartbreak and sadness, topped by all this physical misery.

He didn't know where Castiel was in Heaven, what the angel was doing right now, but he had a feeling that where ever he was, Castiel would be disappointed in him.

It's the sound of a little girl laughing that made him look up. He hadn't realized how close they were to the Santa pavilion, and it was still early so there weren't that many people crowding about. Still, there was a sizable line of children and parents. Little boys and girls, smiling, laughing, some crying but most of them looking a little excited and scared. Some of them were clinging to their parents, who looked loving and exasperated, but excited themselves. There was a joy there, that settled into Johnny's bones, and he slipped off his borrowed sunglasses, looking around more intently.

There was a young man on a cellphone who paused in his conversation to hold open the door for a much older woman, with a smile on his face when she thanked him.

There were two teenage girls chattering over a bag as they passed him, one of them saying, “She is so going to DIE when she sees this, totally worth the money ...”

There was a couple walking arm in arm, bags in their hands, pausing to admire furniture. He felt his heart squeeze, and then, surprising himself, felt it let go.

Someone cleared their throat close to him, and he jerked his head back to find Dean and Sam standing there. He blinked at them, confusion filtering into gratitude as Dean handed him a McDonald's bag and Sam handed him a smaller brown one with one of those small aspirin packets in it, before they flopped comfortably on both sides of them. He swallowed the aspirin down, took a hit of orange juice, and started in on the greasy breakfast, feeling his stomach settle.

And while he did this, Sam and Dean sat silently. All three of them watched the mall start to fill up, then Santa appeared to the cheers of children, and around them, people passed by on their way to doing this thing and that thing. Christmas music, cheery and tinny, could barely be heard over the bright hum of humanity.

They sat still and watching, while life kept moving on.

Johnny started to smile knowingly, a smile he shared with the Winchesters. He was unsurprised when they returned it, with the same nods from before. The silent 'you're welcome' hung in the air like the carols blasting through the mall speakers, and for the first time that Castiel had left, Johnny felt at peace.

9. On The Ninth Day Of Christmas

“Jesus Christ!” Dean grunted, and off of Johnny's harassed expression on the other side of the tree, he sighed and added wryly, “Was about due to be born at this point – or six months ago? Was a carpenter? Is awesome?”

Through the branches he could see Johnny rolling his eyes good-naturedly, and the other man sighed. “Just hold the tree in place, Dean?”

“I'm holding it, I'm holding it.” Dean shifted his grip, bit back another curse as the branches tried to attack his face again, and let out a huge sigh of relief when the tree was secured firmly into the base. “This isn't a Christmas tree, it's a goddamned -” he paused and rolled his eyes as Johnny gave him another look. “Gosh darned attack fir. I am frigging spitting up needles here, dude.”

“Whining about malls, gay bars and holding up Christmas trees.” Johnny smirked as he stood up straight. “Are all super-hunters big sissy girls?”

Dean glared at him, jabbed a threatening finger at Johnny while the man's smirk just widened. He upped his glare as he yelled out-loud. “Sam! How are those lights coming?”

“Well, I think I got all the bulbs replaced...” Dean turned towards the kitchen door, where Sam emerged, and he felt his lips quirk up as he saw his brother, covered in Christmas light strands – they were draped over his shoulders and dangling all around his impossibly tall form. Sam didn't see his look, because he was frowning at the string he was running through his fingers, “But frankly I'm still not sure I didn't get the colors all messed up.” He looked up, and then frowned deeper at Dean's grin. “What?”

Dean responded to the question by leaning down, and plucking up one of the socket ends of the lights. He found the nearest socket, and pushed in the connector, suddenly lighting up Sam like he's the Vegas strip. He grinned wide and wicked at Sam's confused look, turning that smile to Johnny as he hooked a thumb towards Sam. “All we need to do is to drape some tinsel over him and stick him in a corner, and I think we're done, dude.”

Sam's eyes widened as he looked down at himself, and the Little Brother Glare to end all Glares followed that, while Johnny coughed-laughed, and finally cleared his throat as he walked over to Dean and grabbed him by the arm. “All right, down to the entertainment center with you.”

“Me? What did I do?” Dean mock-grumbled, even as Johnny maneuvered him down the hallway, and away from still-glaring-and-might-possibly-jump-him-later-Sam.

Johnny snorted and lifted one eyebrow. “Tree mishandling and suggesting we up and decorate your brother? You're so twitchy that you're starting to make me nervous. You go downstairs, watch some cartoons and if you're a good …. largely sized demon hunter, we'll let you help us make baked goods later on.”

Dean sighed heavily, even as he was silently thrilled to be out of the decorating side of things. Bunch of fluffy nonsense. He didn't mind the tree-chopping or even the lugging around of decorations and shopping bags, but decorating was right out the fucking door, as far as he was concerned. “Fine, fine. But there better be Christmas cookies involved, that's all I'm saying.”

He climbed the last landing of stairs into Johnny's ridiculously large 'entertainment center', and dropped on the sofa, flicking on the TV with a touch of the remote control, letting out a sigh of relief. Finally, down to the man part of this holiday – sitting around on his ass and watching TV. He flipped until he found a channel playing Warner Brothers cartoons, and kicked off his boots as he settled in to watch. Within minutes, he was slumped backwards, fast asleep.

And somewhere in sleep, someone was calling his name.

He opened his eyes, and found himself staring at the ceiling of the Impala, and there was a hand on his shoulder and for a moment he wondered if he had drifted off in the middle of a stake-out and how many embarrassing pictures had Sam taken before he had woken up – when the gravelly voice registered and he twisted his head quickly.

Castiel nodded at him, expression solemn but his blue eyes gleaming in the faint light coming from outside the Impala. “Good evening, Dean.”

Dean rubbed one hand across his eyes, before letting his gaze rest hungrily on Castiel again. “Dream?”

Castiel tilted his head in assent, the hand on Dean's shoulder going to run through his hair almost tentatively. “It is the only way we can communicate at this time, without my vessel.” The angel's blue eyes shifted from the top of Dean's head to Dean's face. “Thank you, for taking care of John.”

“Well, it's kind of a mutual thing.” Dean shifted, just making himself more comfortable, not at all moving into the warm touch of an angel, thank you very fucking much. “He's a good guy. Really good. Kind of beats himself up a lot. But, really … a decent man.”

There was that soft noise, an exhalation that almost sounded like a noise of an amusement that meant Castiel was laughing. The angel responded, his gravely tones soft. “Mm. I wonder who exactly that reminds me of.”

Dean snorted himself. “Gee, I wonder m'self.” He smirked at the angel, knowingly. “What is it with you and lost causes, Divine One? You just like us broken ones that much?”

Castiel looked off out of the side window, his fingertips still rubbing into Dean's scalp. He nearly purred in pleasure, but he bit his tongue as the angel sat and contemplated the statement. Finally, those blue eyes found Dean's again, as Castiel responded slowly. “A good soul cannot be broken, Dean, not permanently. No matter how battered it has become.” Those fingers twisted into his hair slightly. “Even if I have to drag you kicking and screaming to the realization, Dean Winchester, one day even you will accept the truth of that.”

Dean sighed, pressing his rough cheek again the leather, taking some comfort from it's familiar smell. “I'm not broken. I don't need to be saved.” He didn't say he didn't deserve to be, but from the look on the angel's face, he didn't have to.

“Because there is never anything wrong with Dean Winchester?” Castiel's voice was soft, but not gentle. Saying with few words that the angel thought differently.

Dean looked back at him, feeling his jaw tense, but those blue eyes would not accept any lies. He huffed out a sharp breath, keeping his answer vague.“Maybe. Maybe... not.”

Castiel's eyes glimmered in the darkness, “Kicking and screaming, Dean Winchester.”

Dean felt his chest twist tight, a hard lump suddenly letting go and warmness filling him, and it took everything in him not to ask for … well. Everything. To ask Castiel to stay, to ask him if Dean was what this angelic being really wanted. Feeling like a lost little boy, looking into a safe, warm place and just waiting for the door to be shut in his face, like it had before.

As much as he thought about it, as much as he wanted to believe, he couldn't. Maybe it was just the fear in his belly; Hell, maybe it was pure hunter instinct. He just knew that God couldn't offer him something this good without there being a catch. So, he was either paranoid, or God was playing the biggest Charlie Brown vs Lucy and the football moment of all time. 'Here you are, Dean! You can have your life and salvation and Castiel too! All you have to do is kick the football. I swear I won't pull it away.'

No, Dean had been around the block one too many times here. You didn't get to come back from the dead, and get your soul saved, not even mentioning getting to eat your angel food cake too.

So instead, he closed his eyes and muttered with a snort, “I don't scream. Screaming is for girls. And for Sammy.”

“You're impossible, Dean Winchester.” Castiel's voice is that mix of frustration and affection, and again the angel makes that noise that sounds like a laugh, but not quite. Dean opened his eyes, hoping to catch the angel in a smile, or maybe just a glimmer of it – but all he saw was the ceiling of Johnny's rec room.

Ah. Fucking great. He was awake, alone, and the damned angel hadn't even said 'Goodbye'. He grumbled as he sat up straight, pushing his hand down on the sofa cushion, “Typical. Fucking typical. I don't know how many times I've told that fucking winged bastard – don't leave without saying ...”

He trailed off, as he turned to the spot beside him on the sofa, where his hand rested. It was warm, as if someone had been curled up next to him, and had just gotten up to go. He traced his fingers up along the back – yep – same feeling of warmth. The impression of a body, next to his, close enough to touch.

One corner of Dean's mouth lifted upwards, and then the other. He glanced towards the ceiling, and said quietly, “Goodbye.” He looked at the sofa, then up again, his voice quiet and knowing, “I miss you too, Divine One.”

Continued here...

Supernatural Finale

2009-05-15T02:10:32Z

*steeples her fingers, ala Mr. Burns*

There's only one thing to say to this episode.

OMGWTFLUCIFERISRISINGANDSAMANDEANAREATLEVELZEROANDCASHASTOGETTHEREANDSAVETHEMBUTIHAVENOFUCKINGIDEAHOWHEISGOINGTODOTHATWHENHEISHOLDINGOFFTHEHOSTOFFUCKINGHEAVEN.

That is all.

Urrrrrrgh.

2009-05-13T01:14:08Z

I just watched five episodes of Supernatural back to back to back to back to BACK.

My brain, she is fried.