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Dean Winchester and the Goddamn Kill-Steal

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Weeks of tracking.

Long nights of prep, long days of confirming hunches.

All leading up to this.

Shoulder against the outside of the door frame, Dean looks to Sam. Salt? he mouths.

The lines are in place, long loops of cable emptied of wire and filled with salt, easily wound back up and easily wrapped around even a building of this size. The wind won’t blow it away, but that doesn’t mean they don’t double and triple check the doors and windows.

Sam nods back.

Dean holds up three fingers.

Sam does the same.

They count down together, silently. On three, Dean kicks the door in and takes the lead, gun in hand, a devil’s trap etched into every bullet. Sam follows close behind, flashlight in one hand, enchanted knife in the other.

“Clear!” Dean declares, drawing a salt line across the threshold into the offices themselves. Sam takes over the unoccupied receptionist’s desk, quickly hijacking the PA system to blare exorcisms all through the building.

They move quickly, efficiently, and encounter no resistance.

Something is wrong.

They keep going, checking, clearing.

Finding nothing.

All the way into the building, up the stairwell, blocking off every level on their way up. Any demon trying to exit inside a host body will have to head out the fire escape, and there’s already a devil’s trap spray painted all the way beneath to keep them there.

They get all the way up, because these sons of bitches are always self-important, always at the very top. Dean kicks open the door, more agitation than tactics, and he already knows what he’ll see even before Sam flicks the lights on.

“Sonuvabitch!” Dean shouts, kicking a waste basket. “That fucker!”

Behind him, Sam thunks his head against the door frame.

A pile of corpses cools on the office floor, all of their eyes burnt out.

Dean kicks another basket. “Motherfucking kill-steal!” 

Forehead still against the door frame, Sam sighs. After rummaging through his pocket for a second, he clicks off the remote on the PA system, and the exorcisms cut out. “Let’s go, Dean.”

Throwing his head back, Dean groans through clenched teeth.

“Dean.”

“I hate this guy,” Dean complains. 

“I know.”

“I hate him so much.”

“Yeah, I know. I do too. Now let’s get out of here and get our stuff packed up before someone else shows up.”

Dean grumbles the entire way back down the stairs.

Still in their FBI suits, the pair of them soon slump at a bar.

“So much wasted work,” Dean mutters into his beer.

Sam rolls his eyes. “Like you were the one researching.”

“I didn’t say it was all my wasted work.”

“Yeah...” Circling the lip of his glass with his forefinger, Sam sighs. “I mean, at least the job’s getting done?”

“Yeah, but they’re always...” Dean points to his own eyes. 

“Yeah.”

They glower into their beers.

“We could’ve pulled some of them out,” Dean says. “I know we could have.”

Sam nods. “They didn’t look that broken. Always hard to tell what’s happened on the inside, but...”

Again, they silently consult their beers.

“You want wings?” Dean asks. 

“No.”

“I’m getting wings.”

Dean gets buffalo wings. Sam eats the celery.

“I fucking hate this guy,” Dean says for the thousandth time. 

“Might not be a guy,” Sam reminds him.

“You mean that in the girl way, or...?” Dean raises his eyebrows. 

“Both,” Sam says. 

“I’m thinking option B,” Dean says. “What with...” He indicates his eyes. 

“Yep,” Sam says. 

Dean eats the last of the wings. Sam pulls the basket over to mop up the rest of the sauce with his green stick of tastelessness. Dean sucks off his fingers.

“Gross,” Sam complains. 

“You’re gross.”

“People are staring.”

“‘Cause you’re gross,” Dean shoots back, but he follows Sam’s gaze, and yeah, okay, there is one case of definite staring, down around the corner of the bar.

The guy in question takes a second to realize Dean is looking back at him. The guy takes even longer to look away.

Dean pulls his finger out of his mouth slowly.

The guy looks back.

Very, very attentively.

Not a bad looker either. Business suit, maybe a little better quality than their Fed get ups, but not as well fitted. Sex hair and stubble on a face a few years older than Dean’s, not a bad combo.

Dean wipes his hand on a paper napkin, promptly shredding the thing with stickiness. “Maybe I should go say hello.”

Sam shrugs, crunching away. “Don’t bring him back to the room, I need to sleep in there.”

“Yeah, no, it’s still red string city in there,” Dean agrees. 

He picks up his beer and makes his way over with a swagger and a smile. The other man sits up straighter in his bar stool, but that’s the only thing straight about his reaction. The man’s face flushes, his eyes darkening as he inhales. Dean slides comfortably onto the seat beside him, “accidentally” knocking their elbows together. Keeping a confident smile, Dean sustains the contact, and the other man completely fails to pull away.

Hell, he might have even stopped breathing.

“Hey there,” Dean says. “What’s a guy like you doing out all alone without a date?”

The man blinks, visibly thrown off. Most guys are idiots when it comes to being hit on, Dean’s found. As long as Dean charges in full of confidence to even a vaguely interested party, it’s hard to go wrong.

“I’m... normally out alone,” the man says. 

“That’s a shame,” Dean says, voice low, leaning in with a grin. “How ‘bout we change that for a night, you and me?”

The man’s nostrils flare. His eyes drop to Dean’s lips before descending even lower.

In a hilariously involuntary tick, the man licks his lips.

“I’m Dean,” Dean says smoothly. Well, maybe not so smoothly, giving his real name, but he doesn’t backpedal. He simply offers his hand, and the other man shakes it with, fuck, a frankly gorgeous hand. Strong and firm, just like the man’s jawline. 

“Castiel,” says the man. 

Dean’s eyebrows rise. “Hell of a name for hell of a guy.”

With the timbre of a private joke, the man replies, “Not really.”

“You a goody-two-shoes?”

“Something like that,” Castiel admits, which does explain the stiff posture and the easy blush. “Aren’t you here with...?” He tilts his head back toward Sam. 

“Business partner,” Dean replies. “Had a late meeting today, heading back home in the morning.”

“I see,” Castiel says, no longer paying attention to Sam. 

“The company only comped us the one room,” Dean continues. “Two beds, no privacy.”

Castiel looks at him blankly.

Dean leans in, bumping shoulders. “In case that’s relevant.”

Castiel’s eyes slowly widen.

Dean keeps a calm smile even as his heart beats fast. “Is it?”

Again, Castiel looks at Dean’s mouth and licks his own lips. “I... have a room.”

“You here on business too?” Dean asks. It’s not that surprising, this bar wedged in between the hotel on one side, and the long strip of motels on the other. 

Castiel nods. Nervous but eager: the combo looks good on him.

“We don’t need to talk shop,” Dean continues, “but if you wanna talk somewhere a little more private... you do have that room.”

“I do,” Castiel says, still staring at Dean as if pornography has come to life before him. And the good shit, too, the high quality stuff. “Do you... want to talk...?”

His deep voice tilts upwards on the final word.

Dean smiles. “Had a bit of a rough work day, honestly, but any way you could help me take my mind off it... I’d sure be grateful.”

Castiel swallows.

Dean leans in. Just a touch. Just a hair more pressure in his arm against Castiel’s. “What do you think?” he asks, voice low.

His eyes fixed upon Dean’s face, Castiel bobs a quick series of nods.

“Awesome,” Dean says, his smile growing wider. “Another drink first?”

Castiel keeps nodding.

They sit. They drink. Castiel knocks his foot against Dean’s beneath the bar, and Dean eyes him in return.

Castiel drinks fast.

When Dean goes to close his own tab, Castiel picks it up for him.

“Chivalry ain’t dead, huh,” Dean remarks. 

“It’s... customary, isn’t it?” Castiel asks, like he needs to check. 

“Only if you’re a gentleman,” Dean says. 

Castiel nods very seriously. Dean walks him out of the bar, looking back to Sam long enough for a quick wave and to wink at Sam’s rolling eyes.

They head across the parking lot, across the street, and into the hotel. Castiel’s room is up on the third floor, and the guy has no idea what to do with himself in the elevator after punching the button. He fidgets and looks at Dean, somehow unaware of the unspoken agreement that everyone stares at the door. No, Castiel focuses directly on Dean the entire time, looking at once scared and elated.

“Don’t do this so often, huh?” Dean asks. 

“No,” Castiel admits. 

The door dings open.

Dean gestures Castiel out first, the better to eye him. The long trench coat obfuscates the potential excellence of his ass, but it’s the principle of the thing. Castiel walks around the first corner and stops at the door after the ice machine. He jams a key card into the slot above the door handle. He does it twice more before flipping the card upside-down, and then the little light finally turns green.

They step inside.

Castiel hangs up his trench coat and suit jacket. He holds out his hand, picking up another hanger with the other. Dean passes him his own suit jacket, but not before removing the strip of condoms from the inner pocket. Hoping for a good night out, Dean may have swapped his gun for supplies back in the motel. After a slight pause, Castiel hangs Dean’s jacket up too before simply standing there, not flicking on any other lights besides the one in the tiny foyer between closet and bathroom, between front door and bedroom. Just a tiny box of an entryway with one overhead light.

Dean reaches for the other light switches.

Castiel touches his shoulder. “I... Lights off is better,” Castiel says.

“I dunno,” Dean says, looking him up and down. “Think it might be good to see.”

“Please,” Castiel adds. 

“Yeah, okay. But, for the record?” Dean leans in. Wraps his arms around Castiel’s neck. Brings their faces close. “What you got going? Is worth showing off.”

Castiel’s face pinks.

Dean leans in that last gap, and Castiel meets him hurriedly, clumsily. They fumble at each other, untying ties, tugging closer. Dean shushes him with soft soothing noises when Castiel jumps to too fast, too hard. The guy’s nervous in a way that feels brand new, feels familiar. Dean remembers his first few times with guys, and immediately decides to make sure Castiel has something amazing to remember instead.

“S’okay,” Dean promises, pulling Castiel back half an inch by his thick, soft hair. He rubs their noses together. “We got all night, buddy.”

“I don’t want to wait all night,” Castiel replies, a fair point. 

“Yeah, okay.” Dean drags one hand around front, starts unbuttoning Castiel’s shirt one deliberate pop at a time. “Doesn’t mean we gotta rush.”

“I want,” Castiel says, and stops, like he doesn’t even know how to finish that sentence. Instead, he looks at Dean, just into Dean’s eyes, and clearly changes his mind about what he’d meant to say. “You’re such a beautiful soul, Dean.” 

“You’re gonna make me blush,” Dean teases, continuing his way down Castiel’s shirt. 

Castiel hits the lights off and pulls Dean toward the vague outline of the bed. They tug their way out of their clothing, pulling off shoes, stripping out of pants. They lose the condom strip for a minute. Dean finds it by accident, his hand landing on it on the bed’s comforter as he works his way orally down Castiel’s chest. Castiel’s hands stay atop Dean’s head, urging him to linger. Castiel lets out a hoarse, choked shout as Dean dips his tongue into Castiel’s navel, but, maybe overstimulated, Castiel soon pushes to flip them.

The turning is firm but gentle, as if Castiel thinks himself stronger than Dean, or merely thinks Dean fragile or precious. “Let me try,” Castiel urges him, barely a silhouette in the darkness.

Dean tugs off his undershirt and tosses it aside. For once, there’s no discussion of his tattoo, absolutely no notice taken. Instead, there’s warm lips tugging at his nipple, the tip of a tongue flicking across it, and Dean ruts up against Castiel’s leg.

“Ah, fuck,” Dean swears. “Fuck, man, I didn’t bring lube. Tell me you got something.”

“I don’t,” Castiel apologizes. “Is that all right?”

“For blowjobs.” 

“I’d like that.”

Risking the faux paus, Dean asks, “Do you know what you’re doing, or...?”

“Teach me,” Castiel orders, and Dean gets the condom on in record time. 

Cas, as it turns out, is a fast learner.

For a guy who’s clearly just figuring his way out around men, Cas sucks dick like a champ. No biting, but no choking either. He holds his breath like a swimmer, and that would explain a lot of the muscles, too. He pets Dean’s legs as he sucks, and it’s not long until Dean’s instructions devolve into dirty talk, plain and simple.

“Fuck, you got me, got me, I’m there,” Dean warns, and Cas pins his hips down hard. Dean’s body tries to buck, the motion more spasm than intention, and it must be the least coordinated move in the world, because Cas keeps him in place with ease, still sucking hard as Dean spills into the condom. When the sensitivity grows too great, Dean has to push him off, has to pull the condom off before he goes nuts at the absurd contrast between amazing orgasm and gross latex. 

“You liked that,” Cas says with obvious pride. It’s in his voice, in his muscles. 

“You’re gonna like this more,” Dean boasts, rolling another condom on Cas. Two down, two more left on the bedside table for a second round, or maybe even a little morning exercise. 

Dean goes down, and he stays there a long time. Way longer than normal. He knows what he’s doing, he knows tricks that feel better than they look, the shit porn can’t teach a guy, and yet, even though Cas has been riled up this whole time, Dean can’t seem to push Cas over the edge.

Figuring he’s maybe overstimulated Cas, Dean plays around other spots instead. Back to the belly button lick. A bit more attention to the nipples, even coming back up all the way for deep, off-tasting kisses while Dean fondles his balls down below.

Cas holds onto him all the way through, groaning low and twisting closer for more contact.

“You like that?” Dean mutters, wondering if this is gonna be a dirty talk thing. “You feel all that come in your balls, waiting to fill up my mouth?” 

Cas only groans in reply, but judging by the heat of the face pressed against his own, the guy’s gotta be blushing hard.

“That what does it for you?” Dean asks. “Or maybe coming on me. Coming in me? Fuck, if we had lube, babe. Make you see stars.”

“I want,” Cas gasps, limbs stiffening. 

Dean works his way back down, quick about it. He gets Cas back in his mouth. He knuckles up behind Castiel’s sack, feeling those balls tighten against the side of his hand, feeling that dick harden between his lips even through the condom. He hums his approval, hums his smug accomplishment, and Cas groans loud and hard.

Through the wall behind the headboard, there comes an horrendous popping noise.

Dean startles, pulling off to use his hand instead.

“The fuck was that?” he asks with admittedly horrible timing. 

Lying at once limp and stiff beneath him, Cas doesn’t seem to care, too busy filling up the condom. “Mm?”

“Sorry, there was, uh. A noise?”

“Ice machine,” Cas grumbles, pulling at Dean. “It does that.”

“The fuck?” Dean’s grown up in motels. He knows what noises ice machines normally make.

“It crushes ice,” Cas adds, now tugging Dean down a bit more firmly. “It could be bubbles in the ice?”

Dean lets himself be pulled back down, all the way down. Cas rolls over to remove the condom, and there’s a plastic crinkly noise like the lining in a waste bin before Cas turns over again.

“Will you stay?” Cas asks. “Until morning. I know you’re leaving then, but...”

A kiss shuts him up nicely.

“Yeah, okay,” Dean says. “We can have more fun.” Staying the night isn’t something Dean normally does, but fuck it, this bed is loads better, and the promise of sex in the morning doesn’t hurt either. 

“I’d like that,” Cas says. 

Eyes fixed on the vague outline of a man, Dean reaches down and pulls up the discarded sheets. Cas pulls Dean closer in return. They flip and flop this way and that until finding something comfortable, Cas taking on the pillow positions of cuddling without complaint, claiming his arm isn’t falling asleep no matter how long Dean drifts, lying on it, on him.

At what has to be very early in the morning, Dean wakes up with a boner against his ass. He rolls over, plants a kiss against Cas’ shoulder, and instructs Cas to roll over too. In that hazy twilight of the nearly sleeping mind, the handjob lasts for-fucking-ever, Dean’s arm wearing out, his wrist aching, Cas finally simply guiding him, fucking Dean’s hand.

In the actual morning, Dean wakes up with absolutely no ache in his arm or hand, and there’s not enough of a mess for that to have been real. Cas hadn’t gotten out of bed either, from what he could remember.

Dean laughs about it. “Dreamed about jerking you off. Seriously, you’re something else.”

“You are,” Cas counters. “Dean, you’re radiant.”

Totally not blushing or anything, Dean shoves at his shoulder... or at least his upper arm. “Oh, so that’s why it’s so fucking dark in here.” 

Somehow, despite his inability to see the motion, Dean knows for a fact that Cas just rolled his eyes.




They blow each other again before having breakfast downstairs in a little dining room off to the side of the lobby. Dean slides no fewer than two bananas and three granola bars into the inner pockets of his suit jacket before feasting on freshly made waffles. Cas is also big on the waffles, and he fails to comment on Dean’s breakfast heist.

All through breakfast, Dean’s undershirt sits a little weird, presumably a side effect from getting dressed in the dark. It’s probably on backwards. Cas himself is also on the awkward side, seemingly uncertain if he’s allowed to look at Dean, or for how long, or with what intentions.

Finally, once Dean’s mopping up the last of his syrup with the final corner of his waffle, Cas clears his throat.

“I know we’re both traveling,” Cas says, “but we could have a destination in common again someday.”

“You asking for my phone number?” Dean asks. 

“Please,” Cas says, like he’s more grateful for Dean coming out and saying it than he would be for the actual digits. 

Dean runs through his mental list of phones, latches on one where the voice mail is in his own voice and uses his own name. “Sure,” he says, holding out his hand for Cas’ phone.

Smiling in clear relief, Cas takes Dean’s hand.

In the middle of the busy breakfast room.

Holy shit. For a guy brand new to gay shit, Cas ain't fooling around. 

Dean clears his throat. “I mean, gimme your phone.”

“Oh,” Cas says. Without looking at all embarrassed, he fishes it out of his jacket and hands it over. Dean types the number in, sends himself a text, and passes the phone back to Cas. 

“I should probably get going, though,” Dean adds. 

“One minute,” Cas says, sliding back into a more take-charge persona. 

“Okay?” Dean agrees, mostly out of curiosity. 

Instead of replying, Cas gets up and goes back through the breakfast line. Dean plays with his own phone, saving Cas’ number into his contacts and texting Sam to let him know he’d be back soon. When Cas returns, it’s just with an apple in hand, totally a waste of waiting through that line.

“Let’s go,” Cas says, and walks Dean outside, stopping before the parking lot. 

“See you when I see you, I guess,” Dean says, uncertain if Cas is angling for a handshake, a hug, or a public kiss. It’s not the most liberal of states, but not bad enough that he’d been afraid to pick Cas up in the first place. 

Cas responds with a quiet smile and reaches into his trench coat.

He pulls out three travel boxes of cereal, two apples, and a few more granola bars.

“I noticed you getting food for the road,” Cas explains, carefully transferring the pile into Dean’s arms. 

That cements it.

“You’re the fucking best,” Dean tells him. 

Cas grins wide.




Sam munches his way through granola and bananas as Dean drives, neither of them quite as irate about last night’s stolen job as before. By the time they stop for gas, Dean has two texts from Cas. One is, of all things, to ask what TV shows Dean watches. Figuring nothing will come of it, Dean answers honestly for once.




By that afternoon, he’s letting Sammy drive, the better to carry on their conversation.




The next month, they show up a full week after another batch of demons get slaughtered. Less research invested, but still annoying, and still an unnerving mystery.




Two months after that, they mop up a seriously pathetic coven of witches. While the four witches have some spellwork down through good old ingredients, they’re seriously lacking in power. One blames their demon abandoning them. One blames the others for somehow breaking their deal.

Sam and Dean wipe them out regardless, but Dean’s willing to bet the missing demon is also missing its eyes.




It happens fucking again, the fourth time just this year, and the whole thing has them stumped. There’s damn few things that can kill a demon, and nothing else they’ve found burns the eyes. Sam’s knife has a bit of a lightning zap to the enchantment, but only around the puncture wound.

It’s driving Dean nuts.

“This should be good news,” Sam says, mostly to himself. 

It’s driving Sam nuts too.

Had another rough day at work, Dean texts Cas as he and Sam sulk in their motel room, watching crappy TV shows on an even crappier TV. How you doing?

Very productive week, Cas texts back. Unlike Bobby, Cas never minds when Dean hits him up just to complain in vague euphemisms. Plus, Cas can sometimes be goaded into sending Dean very nice pictures. I’m sorry yours has gone differently.

Biting his lip, Dean considers his phone. Considers his life.

You going on any trips soon? he asks.

I might be in Colorado next month.

That’s not that far off from where they are now, both in time and geography. Dean pries Sam’s laptop away for his own use, swearing it’s not for porn reasons. It doesn’t take him terribly long to find an excuse. Less than an hour, and that’s plausible cause for a demon investigation.

What part of the state? Dean texts back, all casual.

Cas answers in the best way possible.

Fucking score.




That goddamn kill-steal motherfucking son of a bitch beat them to it.

Again.

“How,” Sam asks, the pair of them standing outside a crime scene, having insinuated themselves this far, but no farther. 

Dean just shakes his head.

Back to the drawing board.

Still. While they’re in the area...

One text and five minutes later, Dean pats Sam on the shoulder in passing, jacket in his other hand. “Taking the car, don’t wait up.”

There’s a grumble that means an eye roll as Sam’s chair scrapes back from the stained motel desk. “At least bring me along for a drink.”

“Not going to a bar,” Dean answers, pulling on his jacket by the doorway. He winks. “Already got something lined up.”

“Seriously?”

“Yep,” Dean says, and completely refuses to elaborate with anything beyond graphic hand gestures that have Sam covering his eyes in self-defense. 

It’s barely a twenty minute drive to reach Cas’ hotel, but Dean makes it there in thirty instead. He meets Cas in the lobby, returns a hug with a surprised squeeze and a pleased smile, and follows Cas into the elevator. Clearing his throat, Cas looks at the pharmacy bag in Dean’s hand. 

Dean grins. 




They don’t have any leads, and their motel is cheap enough, especially since Cas thinks Dean’s ability to hustle pool is both amazing and extremely attractive. They stay in town a couple days. More to the point, Sam stays in the motel and town library a couple days, and Dean leaves Cas’ hotel in the morning to “go to work” alongside Sam before coming back for another night of fucking. 

Luckily, Cas makes a point of not wanting to talk shop. His time with Dean is clearly relaxation time, and Dean can only encourage this. The closest they come is complaining about commuting, about the smells of travel, and the mind numbing boredom of traffic. They both agree that driving, actually moving, is awesome, though.

Each evening is unending foreplay. Lingering looks over dinner. Dumb jokes about whatever’s on the hotel TV. Cuddling on Cas’ king-size bed, Cas encroaching on Dean’s space as gradually and inevitably as a glacier cutting through a mountain. 

They kiss a lot. Sometimes, Dean gets the urge to press his thumb into Cas’ mouth, and the time he gives in, his dick nearly dies from how hot it is. Cas’ lips, closed around the digit. Cas’ cheeks, gently hollowed. His eyes, happily crinkled and half-closed. 

They fuck a lot. Intercural, some nights, when they’re eating bad. Anal one night, but many times. Cas’ staying power is absurd, ridiculous to the point where Dean would almost want to ask if Cas isn’t into it, except for the part where Cas is constantly pulling him closer. 

The night they do anal, Dean opens Cas up, surprising the guy with a round of rimming through a condom barrier. Cas presses hard back against Dean’s face, those gorgeous thighs tense and thick beneath the touches of Dean’s hands. Cas takes to the fingering even better, and he’s leaking hard by the time Dean’s got him on his back, legs spread wide. 

Dean fucks him until he can’t anymore, coming hard even as he tries to keep pulling on Cas’ dick. Cas waves away a handjob or even a blowjob, asking if Dean would allow a full reversal. 

Dean groans through the proceedings, at once post- and pre-orgasmic, his body sprawled, his muscles loose. It’s not something he allows to happen often, this kind of treatment to his ass when he spends most of his life driving, but fuck, it’s good. It’s relentless. 

Again, Dean fucks him until he can’t fuck anymore, but Cas just keeps pumping into him. “Let me keep going,” Cas begs, as if Dean had even half a mind to stop him. “I’m close, let me, let me...”

Dean drifts into a strange state, his body burning hot, his skin drenched with sweat. The sheets stick under him, and whenever Cas shifts them, Dean can’t help but imagine the wet outline of their bodies left there. With the lights off, always off with Cas, it’s hard to tell by anything other than feel, but all Dean can feel is Cas, Cas Cas Cas, pushing hotly back into his body, filling him, holding him, pressing down against him. If not for the occasional pause for more lube to punctuate the fucking, it would feel almost endless.

With Cas at once draped across his back and pounding into his ass, Dean groans, cheek to mattress, pillow beneath his chest. If there are aftershocks, it’s impossible to tell, each echo lost amid a new cry. 

When Cas finally comes, Dean’s mind is somewhere he doesn’t entirely know the way back from. His first instinct is no, keep going and his body’s response is thank god, stop. His ears register some vague, distant popping noise. 

Cas pulls out of him, but not off him. “Dean,” Cas gasps. “So good. Dean.”

“Oh my god,” Dean groans, and he’s ruined, he’s completely ruined. Cas uses his dick like a dildo, and Dean’s been pegged by enough chicks to know. It’s in the giving angles, in how the motions and methods change based on Dean’s reactions. 

Dean flounders around limply before Cas slips himself up against Dean’s front. As gently as he can in his fucked-out state, Dean grabs Cas by the dick. Somehow, it feels just like, well, a dick. A normal dick. 

“How are you like this?” Dean asks, too exhausted and blissful to articulate it better. 

“This is all I know how to be,” Cas answers far more intelligibly. 

“Well, uh. Keep it up,” Dean says. 

There’s a pause. 

Dean snickers. 

Mouth pressed against Dean’s neck, Cas laughs silently against him. 




Each night, Dean heads to the bathroom first, grabbing his t-shirt and boxers from their spot beside the bed. By the time he exits, sometimes after a shower, Cas has the lights and the TV back on. Dean stays for more TV, which means more cuddling, then more making out. He stays each night, the whole night through, and it’s kinda stupid, how happy this little sex vacation makes him. 

Cas has to move on before Sam and Dean do, and Dean is legitimately sad to see him go. 

“I don’t get a lot of advanced warning, but we gotta keep comparing schedules,” Dean tells him. 

Cas nods very seriously. Or maybe he’s just bobbing his head, what with the whole Blowing Dean Against a Door thing. He pulls off only once he’s done, and he peels Dean out of the condom too, while he’s at it. 

“Such a gentleman,” Dean says, and it somehow doesn’t come out as a tease. “You sure you don’t want me to...?”

“I should get going,” Cas replies, keeping Dean up against the door, first with a look, then with his body. They kiss for a long time anyway. 




From then on, it’s like Dean can only have one of the two: successful hunts, or an awesome sex life. They take down a pair of werewolves, and have four successful salt-and-burns in a single month. But no Cas. 

They show up on the trail of another batch of demons, these rising to fill the power vacuum left by their dead brethren, only to find them dead as well. Burned out through the eyes, every last one. 

At least on those occasions, Dean typically gets to treat himself to some amazing sex. Literally the one drawback is the whole lights out deal, but they’ve learned their ways around each other’s bodies despite it. Plus, Dean’s okay being a gentleman and putting his undershirt and boxers back on before the lights come on, what with Cas being weirdly shy that (one) way. Not to mention, Dean never has to explain away his anti-demon tattoo, all while in or a near a city where a crapload of demons just had their eyes burned out. 

The demons and the amazing sex line up often. Almost suspiciously often, the paranoid part of Dean’s brain insists, but it’s not like these demons are targeting rural areas. These are cities, and Cas is a business man, bounced across the country from meeting to meeting. 

And, to be fair, Dean might have started focusing their searches in the areas Cas lets Dean know he’ll be heading toward. 

Don’t get there before me, Cas always texts him, complete with a winky face. 

Dean’s paranoia is apparently contagious, too, as once when they meet up for the fourth time in as many months, Cas asks, “Is there a reason you’re around so often?”

“I might be requesting certain assignments,” Dean admits. 

“Based on where I’m going?” Cas asks, looking more concerned than pleased. 

“Not in a creepy way,” Dean swears. 

Cas shakes his head. “It’s not creepy if I want to see you. But it’s... I don’t want these trips to be detrimental to you.”

“Trust me, babe, they’re really not.” 

Even when they show up to find demons wiped out, that’s still information they need. And maybe eventually, their mystery demon hunter will slip up and leave a clue as to their identity. 




For the first time in a long while, Sam hits upon two potential demon hunts at once. They’re a fair distance apart and potentially big enough that splitting up would be an awful idea. 

“What do you think?” Sam asks. “And please don’t tell me you have to text your boyfriend first.”

“He’s not my boyfriend.”

“You don’t have to text your fuckbuddy, then.”

“I don’t have to,” Dean shoots back. “I just, uh. Wanna check the time.”

“Uh-huh.”

Dean keeps it short, just asking if Cas is going to be in Cleveland this week. No need to give the guy the entire itinerary.

He gets a text back within ten minutes. By the end of the week. Why?

Why do you think? Dean answers, complete with winking emoji. 

Cas’ response is almost instantaneous, and far from flirty. Tell me you’re arriving next week. 

No, this week. 

Can you delay your trip?

Dean frowns at his phone screen, but yep, that’s still what it says. 

Nope. Gotta head over tomorrow morning.

Dean, IF AT ALL POSSIBLE, DELAY

Okay, that one’s going down as a big pile of what the fuck. 

I’ll try to stick around until you get there, okay? Dean responds. The going there part really can’t wait

Travel safe, Cas replies an hour later. A whole hour, after so many immediate responses. 

Weird. 




Once they get to Cleveland, Dean gets his mind in gear and focuses. They narrow down their leads, cross-referenced with omens and eye witnesses. They work out where they can take potshots and where they might need to pull out the big guns and do a full raid. 

The initial potshots work out. Dean separates individual demons, gets demonic confirmation, and, where possible, they try an exorcism. The ticking clock starts from the very first exorcism: while this one person is free, they only have three or so days before the demon finds its way back from wherever it’s been flung to and tells its friends who’s hunting them. 

The next couple potshots don’t go so hot. They get demon confirmation, but the devil’s traps get vandalized (literally, with graffiti) and Sam ends up having to use his knife to keep them from running. Two demons dead, and two hosts along with them. 

And then they have to swoop in for the raid, or be entirely found out. 




The raid goes even worse. 




“Nice wall,” Dean tells the ringleader, a black-eyed bastard occupying an otherwise ordinary looking elderly accountant. “Not exactly comfy, though.”

“Hold them there,” Demon Accountant tells his cohorts, nodding to a pair of college students who continue to extend a hand each, keeping Dean and Sam annoyingly off the ground. Demon Accountant tisks and tuts, pacing in front of them, fucking complaining about having his crew picked off. 

Dean refuses to be distracted. They laid a lot of groundwork on their way in here, however poorly the final stretch went, and if they can find an opening here, they might still get out alive. 

The demons being able to turn the PA system off and kill the exorcisms, that was a biggie. Button’s over there, very much out of reach. Dean can’t even throw something, pinned as he is, and while Sam managed to keep hold of the knife this time, despite being tossed against a wall, there’s little Sam can do either. 

Okay, think. 

Watch the over-confident bastard pace and grandstand, and think. 

Dean thinks so hard, his head starts to hurt. 

...Except, no, that’s his ears. A vague, annoying sound, almost more like pressure. 

The PA system crackles back to life. 

Distorted, breaking up to nearly the point of being unrecognizable, Sam and Dean’s recorded voices stutter and blare their way through exorcisms rendered ineffectual by the delivery. 

But it’s definitely enough to distract the bastards. 

Dean slides down the wall a couple inches, but before he can grab hold of a desk to try to pull himself all the way free, the far door bursts open, flying clean off its hinges, smacking one of the other demons right in the face as she turns to see. 

Through the doorway, there steps a man with glowing blue eyes, a silver blade, and an outstretched hand. 

He’s also wearing a trench coat. 

“Holy shit,” Dean says. 

Cas spares him a glance with eyes full of white-blue fire, and then the slaughter begins. Sam and Dean both get dropped to the floor as the demons turn their collective power on Cas, but Cas barely budges, let alone flies into a wall. 

Holding out that one hand and walking towards them as if fighting a strong wind, Cas grabs hold of one demon by the face. 

She screams, white light blazing out her mouth, and collapses. 

Cas takes down the rest within thirty seconds, all to the garbled background noise of the recorded exorcisms blaring on the PA. Sparking ceiling lights render the sight both terrible and dreamlike, more like a music video than reality. 

The last body falls. 

Blue light glowing where his own eyes should be, Cas turns to face them, turns to face Dean. Slowly, that light dims, and Cas’ once familiar eyes take their place. 

“Are you all right?” Cas asks. “I know you must be confused, but-”

The lights stop flickering. The PA plays normally. 

What is unmistakably Dean’s voice chants a Latin exorcism overhead. 

Cas’ normal, human-seeming eyes widen. 

“You’re the fucking kill-steal,” Dean says, the words clear even as the notion can’t yet fully register. “You’re the fucking kill-steal.”

“Dean, is that your boyfriend?” Sam asks, pointing with his knife like he’s forgotten he’s holding it. 

Cas waves a hand, and the PA system cuts off. 

“What the fuck are you doing?” Dean demands, because while he sure as hell checked Cas for being a demon, it looks like something got left off his list. “What the fuck are you?”

“That’s your boyfriend,” Sam repeats, still pointing at Cas. “Dean, that’s your boyfriend.”

“I know that’s my boyfriend!” Dean shouts at Sam. 

“I’m your boyfriend?” Cas asks, also pointing at himself with a knife. Dumbass is contagious tonight. 

“I don’t know what you are,” Dean states. 

“Annoyed,” Cas says, as if he has any right to be. “I was concerned enough about you being here before I could clear them out, but that was before I knew you’d be running into danger on purpose.”

“Me?! What about you!” 

Cas levels a look at him. “I’m an angel. I’m fine.”

“Wait, what?” Dean says. 

That’s when the sirens start. 

Sam clears his throat. “Maybe... continue this somewhere else?”

They all look at each other. 

“Yeah, okay,” Dean says, and they book it. 




“This is nuts,” Dean says, somehow crammed back into their shitty motel with a six pack, his brother, and an alleged angel. 

“I’m not pleased either,” Cas counters. “You have an extremely dangerous profession, Dean.”

“Uh, yeah,” Dean says. “Kinda got that.”

“We’re a little more concerned about how you keep killing the hosts,” Sam interrupts. 

Both Dean and Cas look at him. 

“We try to save people,” Sam continues, addressing Cas. “It’s not just the people the demons could be attacking, it’s also about the ones they already have.”

“Do you have a better idea?” Cas responds. “Because I did arrive to find you helpless against a wall.”

“Yeah,” Sam says, as if his better idea is an obvious one. “We work together. Simple.”

“Simple,” Dean repeats, eyebrows raised high. 

Cas looks at Dean. 

Dean looks back. 

Cas clears his throat and says to Sam, “That wouldn’t be... objectionable.”

“Why the lights?” Dean demands. 

Cas blinks at him. 

“The lights, always off. Why?” Dean straightens his stance, no longer leaning against the desk. “What wasn’t I supposed to see under all that?” He gestures at Cas, still bundled up in his trench coat. 

Incredibly, Cas flushes. He nods pointedly toward Sam, but Dean refuses to budge. Finally, Cas sighs. In a low voice, he explains, “If nearby lights are on, they can explode. When I...”

“Ohhhh,” Dean says. He mentally reconfigures a few things while Sam clearly wishes for some brain bleach. 

“What do you think, Dean?” Cas asks. “Of your brother’s plan.”

“Save more people, have more sex?”

“That’s not part of my plan,” Sam interjects, but Cas simply nods. 

“And you’re seriously an angel?” Dean says. “Seriously?”

Cas nods again. “Some of us are demon hunters. As are humans, apparently.”

“Okay, so that’s a whole conversation for later,” Dean decides. At least a few more beers, or maybe some hard liquor. “But you sticking around...” Dean glances at Sam. 

“Dean kinda likes you,” Sam tells Cas, like an asshole of a seventh grader. 

Very seriously, Cas replies to Sam, “I kinda like Dean too.”

Somehow, impossibly, Dean doesn’t cover his face or hide. His cheeks and ears get really hot, though. 

“So I should stay,” Cas asks, looking back to Dean. Looking hopeful. 

“Yeah, okay, fine,” Dean mutters, having nowhere safe to look. 

With a joy as serious as his confession, Dean’s new angel boyfriend smiles.