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The Last Resort

Summary:

When Sam finds a case where guests at a gay resort are mysteriously aging decades overnight, Dean and Cas pose as a married couple to investigate. Dean's looking forward to a luxurious beach vacation, even if it means working harder to conceal his feelings for Cas. Only, after they've begun spreading their cover story, they realize they aren't at a couples' resort at all—in fact, Araucaria Resort is a popular hookup spot. Now there's nothing to do but adapt their story, posing as a couple looking to invite a third into their bed, all while trying to track down any kind of lead.

Notes:

I always love Pinefest season, and I'm pleased as (tropical) punch to share this fic with you. Many, many thanks to Mittens and Cass for running this wonderful event every year, and extra thanks to Cass (thevioletcaptain), who I was lucky enough to be paired with for the second year in a row, for the wonderful artwork embedded here. Go check out the Art Masterpost and leave some love on it! <3

Thanks also to MalMuses for beta-ing, but especially for egging me on when I came to her and said, "I have the worst fic idea."

Araucaria, of course, is a genus of evergreens, many of which are called pines.

Enjoy, and please consider reblogging the Masterpost!

Chapter Text

title card by thevioletcaptain

Cody groans as he blinks himself awake. It must be close to noon, because the sun that streams through the sheer curtains of his room is already high in the sky.

What a night!

What a night of mind-bendingly intense, practically transcendental sex.

Okay, there might have been drugs involved. Almost certainly were, because no matter how good the sex is—and it was very, very good—it doesn’t usually feel like being transported to a higher plane. 

He wishes he could remember what he took. He’d like to experience that again. Whatever it was, his head feels surprisingly clear, especially when he takes into account the number of drinks he had at Araucaria Resort’s dance club even before any other substances got involved. He doesn’t have even a hint of a headache.

His body, on the other hand, feels surprisingly stiff and achy, and not just in the places he’d expect it after a night of vigorous sex. He hopes he’s not getting too old to enjoy a night of dancing, followed by a marathon romp between the sheets. He’s only twenty-six for fuck’s sake, and he works out regularly at the gym on 8th Ave.—the one with the hottest guys.

Come to think of it, that’s probably the problem. He’s been skimping on workouts since he arrived at Araucaria, too focused on making the most of his vacation. That’s fixed easily enough. The resort boasts a world class gym.

Satisfied, he stretches, spread-eagling himself across the giant bed. His fingers brush only empty sheets, with no lingering trace of body heat from his bedmate. That’s not too surprising, though. He did sleep late.

In fact—he leans further to grab his phone from the bedside table—what time is it?

His finger slips as he goes to swipe it on, and instead of the clock, he finds himself looking into the front-facing camera.

He blinks in horror at the unflattering image it shows him of his own face. He needs a new phone. This one always makes him look so old. 

He closes the camera and checks the time. 12:06. All his friends will have headed down to the beach without him hours ago. He might as well join them.

With one last stretch of his stiff muscles, he rolls out of bed and pads towards the bathroom, ready to wash off the evidence of last night.

He flicks on the bathroom light and glances into the mirror in passing, then glances again, then freezes, staring at himself in horror. 

Not at himself. That’s not his face.

Yes, it is. It’s his, but— 

“How the hell did I get old?”

Somehow, overnight, he’s aged at least twenty years.

Cody screams.

~

 

"It's fascinating," Sam says when Dean stumbles across him in the library, already buried in a thick tome, with several others cracked open around him, and searches running simultaneously on both his laptop and his phone. "I've never heard of them acting quite like this."

Dean had been searching for Cas—what better way to spend their downtime than a movie marathon with his best friend?—but allows himself to be sidetracked by a potential case. "What's fascinating?" he asks, scooping up Sam's phone to take a look at the open page. 

"Gays Age on the Bay," blares the headline.

"Huh," says Dean. "Cute rhyme. So, what's the deal? Gay retirees aren't that weird. Haven't you seen Grace and Frankie? You sure this is our kind of strange?"

Dean knows he could read the article himself, but why deny Sam the chance to lay it out there? If Sam's already this deep in the research, it means he's already parsed through the sensationalistic pap for the nugget of truth within. Dean waits.

"You watch Grace and Frankie?" Sam asks, momentarily distracted. He shakes his head. "Not the point."

"Hey, it's a good show. Jane Fonda and Lily Tomlin, what's not to like?"

Sam gives him a look like he can’t tell if Dean’s messing with him or if he’s actually this dense.

Dean rolls his eyes and gestures magnanimously for Sam to go on.

"Right," Sam says. "So, there's this resort—a gay resort, I guess—and a number of the guests have aged, like overnight."

Well, that is starting to sound like their kind of strange. “How much are we talking? Like, ‘I need a vacation from my vacation’ or—”

“Decades,” Sam interrupts him. “Someone will go to sleep in his twenties and when he wakes up, his partner is gone and so is twenty years.” 

“Partners gone, huh? Are we talking a missing persons case, too?”

Sam shakes his head. “I don’t think so. There’s no mention of anyone missing. Just that the guys this is happening to are waking up alone.”

“Well, that’s something at least.” Dean gestures at Sam’s piles of research. “You’ve obviously got a working theory already, so let’s hear it.”

“I think it’s a succubus,” Sam says.

“Wouldn’t it be an incubus?” Dean asks. “I mean, gay resort, so dude sex demon, right?”

“Actually,” Sam says, “that part’s really unclear. The usual belief is that incubus are male and succubus are female, but other sources say that incubo means to lie upon and succubare- means to lie beneath, so it could depend on…” He waves a hand in the air, looking uncomfortable.

“Who’s taking it and who’s giving it,” Dean finishes for him. “How do you think that would work if you were doing reverse cowgirl?” he asks, just to see the bitchface Sam always gets when Dean talks about sex. “Or do sex demons only do it missionary style? That would be kind of ironic.”

“Do you ever listen to yourself?” 

It’s a rhetorical question, so Dean doesn’t dignify it with an answer. Instead, he asks, “You said succubus, so do we know that our sex demon is bottoming?”

Sam groans. “No, we don’t, but the point is that, names aside, succubi and incubi are pretty much interchangeable. Same origins, same physiology, same sensitivity to iron. What’s interesting is that they usually stick with one victim, draining them night after night until they die. But this one isn’t killing. It’s taking twenty years, here and there, but each time from a new guest.”

“So he found himself an all-you-can-eat buffet, and he’s sampling every dish.”

“They can shapeshift, so I think he must be transforming himself to look like his victims’ partners—”

“And then banging them silly and stealing their youth, got it. How do you think he’s keeping the actual partners away?”

“I’m still working on that part,” Sam admits.

“Well.” Dean leans his hip against the side of the table, so he can get a better look at Sam’s notes. “Killing his victims or not, twenty years is still a lot of life for a person to lose, so we need to find it and stop it somehow. What’s our in? CDC?”

"We could try that angle too, but actually, I think our best bet is to go in as guests. That way we have an excuse to be there at any time, and to talk to the staff and the guests."

Dean thinks about white sand, wide, luxurious beds, maybe even some kind of fancy spa, and is tempted, but— "I'm not going to pretend to be banging you."

Sam's face scrunches up in equal disgust. "Ugh, no, of course not. You could pair up with Cas, pretend to be married, and I'll stay nearby and do the CDC thing."

Dean’s heart stutters in his chest. Married to Cas. Pretend married at least. Would they have to share a bed? Probably, Dean concludes. And they'd have to show affection—hold hands, maybe kiss. All part of the act. A pang of wistfulness strikes him.

Can he do it? Dean hides his swallow. Can he do all the things with Cas that he secretly dreams of, knowing they're not real?

"Of course," Sam says, "if you're uncomfortable, I could do it instead." The expression on his face is pure understanding, and Dean narrows his eyes at him. 

"What are you implying?" 

Sam thinks he's so smart, Dean grouses internally, thinks he's got Dean's number when it comes to Cas, but Dean can handle his feelings. He's been doing it this long.

"I'm not implying anything," Sam says, but Dean can see right through him. "I just know that you—"

"I'm doing it," Dean bites out.

"Are you sure?" Sam sounds so concerned.

"Yes, I'm sure. Stop asking stupid questions, Sam, and make the reservations."

~

 

Dean leaves the details in Sam's hands and disappears to find Cas before Sam can get any more gooey and starry eyed over Dean's feelings. Dean’s plans for a movie night with just the two of them might be scrapped, but he might as well give the guy the heads up about the case. If Cas has got any objections to being fake married to Dean, well, better Dean hears them now than later in front of Sam.

He finds Cas in the bunker's dated but functional gym, working his way through a set of pushups. Since Chuck was defeated and Cas gave up his grace to avoid being taken by the Empty, he's taken to regular workouts, something about "taking care of the gift of this mortal body"—and what a gift it is, Dean thinks, though that feeling might be as much about Cas as about the body he inhabits. 

On occasion, Cas has even managed to persuade Dean to join him, despite Dean's complaints. Of course, unbeknownst to Cas, the true torture isn't the grueling workouts, it's trying not to watch Cas while he does the same. If there were anyone left to pray to, Dean would send one up, praying that Cas never discovers weight training and calls Dean in to be his spotter. There's only so much a man can take.

Like right now. There's sweat beaded along Cas's hairline and sticking the back of his shirt to the wings of his shoulder blades. Dean clears his suddenly dry throat, averting his gaze.

In one smooth move, Cas rolls over and gets to his feet. "Hello, Dean. Do you want to join me?"

“Hey, Cas.” To keep his eyes and hands occupied, Dean stoops down to pick up Cas’s bottle of water from the edge of the mats and holds it out to him. “I actually came down to let you know about a hunt.” 

“Oh, of course.” Cas lifts the hem of his t-shirt to wipe his forehead and takes the water with a grateful quirk of his lips. “Go ahead.”

Dean quickly outlines the case and Sam’s theory on what it is, while Cas nods along. “And, uh, we’re going to have to go as guests.” He pauses to rub a hand over his face. “As, uh, a married couple. If that’s not, y’know, too awkward for you.” He attempts to arrange his features in a way that shows Cas how totally okay it is if Cas does find it too awkward, though he expects it comes across more as a grimace than anything else. 

“It doesn’t bother me,” Cas says. He hesitates a moment, then asks, “It doesn’t bother you?”

“No,” Dean answers quickly.

Too quickly.

“No,” he tries again. “I mean, could it get weird? Sure.” He laughs awkwardly and stops himself with a wince. “But we’ll just be two buddies enjoying a vacation. Plus, we’ll be staying in a fancy-ass resort while Sam’s off in one of our regular motels. More than makes up for it, right?”

“Right.” 

Cas still looks a little troubled about the eyes, so Dean tries again, unexpectedly desperate for Cas to be on board. 

“Come on, man, you deserve to experience some luxuries in life. I promise I’ll show you a good time. Being married to me won’t be that bad.”

Cas’s tiny smile when he says, “I never thought it would be,” will be the death of Dean.

~

 

Sam will need his own set of wheels while he does his CDC thing, so they make the drive up in two cars. Dean and Cas take Baby, naturally, and Sam, the nondescript sedan that Cas had been using before Chuck's defeat and his fall finally gave Dean the chance to convince him to stop gallivanting off trying to stave off the latest crisis and stay.

Dean still has a hard time believing it's true—that tomorrow won't be the day Cas tells him he needs space and heads out on his own. If and when that time comes, Dean hopes he won't give in to his selfish wants and beg Cas to stay. Cas, of all of them, deserves to be free. If that means Dean keeping his mouth shut forever, well, he has a lot of practice, so be it. 

Right now, though, Cas looks content. He's settled into the bench seat, aviators tipped down over his face, a small smile playing on his lips as Baby eats up the miles and the Creedence croon on the tape deck. He looks so touchable like this, so human, clad in jeans that fit tight around his (incredible) thighs, and a simple, deep blue t-shirt that, when he’s not wearing sunglasses, brings out his eyes in a spectacular way. 

When Cas had first fallen and needed to change his clothes every day, Dean had gone out and bought him a couple of six-packs of the shirts, to supplement the clothes he was borrowing from Dean. Dean had figured he'd take Cas out shopping to pick out something more to his personal taste once he had settled into humanity a little more, but it turned out that Cas preferred the soft, stretchy fabric of those shirts to just about anything else, and when Dean did take him out, he'd simply ended up tossing a couple more packs of them in the cart. Dude knows what he likes, and that's good enough for Dean.

The tape ends and Cas hits eject, retrieving it. He replaces it with one he produces from somewhere Dean doesn't see, and leans down to stash the first tape in the box in his footwell while the opening strains of Travelling Riverside Blues fill the car. Good choice. Dean flashes a grin in his direction and sings along, his mood high.

It isn't until the song ends and Thank You begins that Dean realizes which tape this is. He's only made one mixtape with those songs in that order.

He cuts his gaze away from the road, over to Cas. "I didn't know you still had this tape."

The look Cas gives him return is impossible to read behind his shades, but his voice is serious and earnest when he says, "Of course, I do. It was a gift."

It's a good thing Dean is driving, because otherwise, he might have thrown caution to the wind and kissed Cas then and there. "Damn right," he says instead, his heart erratic in his chest as he turns his gaze back to the road.

You keep those.

In his younger days, Dean might have done the drive from Kansas to Florida in two days, or even one, switching out with Sam, but these days, he prefers not to push his body that hard if he doesn't have to. Besides which, they had to make their reservations a week out anyway, so they give themselves a good three days to make their way to the resort.

"Hey," Dean says, half-jokingly, as they cross over into Tennessee. "Want to take a detour and go see Dollywood?”

Cas gives it a surprising amount of thought. "Another time," he concludes, "when we're not on a hunt and can enjoy it properly."

That sounds an awful lot like Cas wants to take a vacation—a real vacation—with Dean. And Sam, Dean reminds himself, before he can get too into his head about it. Though, Dollywood doesn't really seem like Sam's scene. Is Cas counting him in?

"Didn't know you were a Dolly Parton fan," Dean says, just to say something.

"When I had my truck, the radio was set to a country station," Cas says. "And her commitment to promoting literacy for underprivileged children, among other causes, is very commendable," he adds.

"Huh," says Dean, then, "That's settled then. Next time we get some downtime: Dollywood."

He basks in the light of Cas’s smile.

When they stop for the night, Cas opts to stay in the motel and take a shower while Dean and Sam head out to find takeout to bring back for the three of them.

Sam has apparently been waiting for his chance, because as soon as they pull out of the motel's parking lot, he remarks, "You know, it's not too late to switch roles for this hunt."

Dean scoffs. “Got your eye on a high-class mattress and poolside lounge? ‘Cause it’s too late now if you think I’m gonna give those up.”

“I’m serious, Dean,” Sam protests. “I know I give you flack for being invested in being this big, manly guy, but I don’t want you to be too uncomfortable to play the part. Whoever does it needs to be convincingly gay, after all.”

At that, Dean slides a side-eye in his brother’s direction. Sam is giving him his puppy dog stare, as if anything he just said makes any sense. “Dude, of the two of us, I’m the one who sleeps with men, so if one of us is going to be convincingly gay, I think it’s going to be me.”

Sam blinks at him long and hard. “I’m sorry, I thought I just heard you say that you sleep with men.”

“Yes?” It’s Dean’s turn to be incredulous. “You knew that. You walked in on me and the doublemint twins more than ten years ago.”

“You told me yourself that ‘It’s not gay if it’s in a three-way.’”

“What about Aaron?” 

“Aaron?” Sam echoes. “Your gay thing ? I didn’t think you were serious.”

“Dude, I had a ‘summer of love’ with Crowley.” Dean makes a face. “What did you think I was doing?”

“I don’t know, murder ? You were a demon. You really slept with Crowley?” Sam scrunches up his nose.

“Hey, I didn’t say I was proud of it.” Dean gives an exaggerated shudder and turns his attention back to the road. They drive in silence for a minute or so, before he chances another glance at his brother. “You seriously never knew?” He shakes his head. “You called me out on overcompensating years ago.” And okay, maybe at one time Dean had taken great pains to hide this side of himself—even from himself—but still. “Nothing tipped you off? Not even the Cas thing?”

“The Cas thing?” Sam repeats and Dean immediately regrets his words. “What about the Cas thing?” Sam’s eyes narrow. “Did you—are you telling me you slept with Cas?”

“What? No! I never slept with Cas,” Dean protests before his brother can launch into whatever well-meaning lecture he might have about daring to sully an angel’s virtue. Dean’s gone over all of them, many times, all on his own, thanks.  

But Sam, of course, is like a dog with a bone. “You never slept with him,” he deduces, “but you want to.”

“Shut up, Sam,” Dean says.

“You do, don’t you?”

“Shut up, Sam.”

“You have feelings for him.”

A long hard glare.

“You’re in love with him. How did I never see it? It’s all so obvious when you think about it.”

Dean groans. “For the love of—Shut up.”

~

 

They arrive at the resort around mid-day. Sam and his sedan already peeled off the highway an exit ahead of them to head for the motel where he’ll be holed up. He’d spent the last two nights shooting Dean smug little looks anytime Dean and Cas interacted, but thankfully had refrained from actually saying anything when Cas was in the room. Brotherly teasing has its limits.

Dean parks the Impala near the edge of the hotel's lot, under the shade of a tree dripping with Spanish moss. He and Cas emerge, blinking into the bright sun. The main building of the resort stands before them, white walls gleaming, at the end of a palm tree lined walkway. The wide main entrance is framed by bright hibiscus and cheerful-looking, tropical Norfolk pines. Past the hotel they can see the stretch of white sand and turquoise ocean, like something out of a postcard.

Case or no case, fake marriage awkwardness or not, Dean's looking forward to this. 

He sings under his breath, a few lines of Kokomo, as he unlocks the trunk and retrieves their bags. Maybe they should have bought suitcases, he considers as he looks back at the fancy facade, but he dismisses the thought. Their beat-up duffle bags are hardly enough to give the game away.

What might give it away is Dean's reaction when, halfway down the tree-lined corridor, he feels Cas's strong hand slip into his. He feels it like a jolt through his whole body and accidentally comes to a halt.

"Are you okay?" Cas stops too, but doesn't release Dean's hand. "This is what married couples do, isn't it?"

Dean takes a breath. "You're right. Sorry, buddy, you just startled me. But, uh, since we're doing what married couples do"—he untangles his hand from Cas's and reaches into his shirt pocket, pulling out a pair of round metal bands. Catching Cas's left hand in his again, he slips one onto Cas's third finger, then the other onto his own. 

For a long moment, Cas doesn't move, staring down at the ring with the oddest expression on his face. Dean clears his throat. "It's, uh—it's iron. So, if you touch the incubus, you'll know. But, uh, they also make it look like we're married, so—" He can feel his face heating.

Cas bites his lip. Still looking at the ring, he lifts his other hand, rubbing a finger slowly over the smooth metal, back and forth. Dean feels a frisson down his spine. At last, Cas raises his head, meeting Dean's eyes, even if there is something unspoken deep in his gaze. "Thank you, Dean," he says. "This was a good idea."

Dean swallows. "Sure thing, Cas. Just you wait, I'm gonna be the best damn fake husband you've ever had."

The thing about human Cas that absolutely wrecks Dean is that he laughs more often, and he does now. It's a quiet little thing, but it makes Dean's heart stumble even more than seeing Cas wearing his ring.

This time, it's Dean who reaches out and laces their fingers together, giving Cas a gentle tug. "Come on, let's get checked in."

The hotel lobby is bright and airy and well air-conditioned, with wide archways leading to wings of rooms and resort amenities and outside to a massive pool deck that overlooks the perfect beach. There are a few men in the lobby—a group of three finishing up at the reception deck, a few singles heading to or from their rooms, a boisterous pack of five emerging from one of the hotel’s restaurants. Something niggles at Dean’s attention and it takes him a moment to realize what it is—he sees no obvious couples.

Before he can do more than idly note the observation, the trio of men peel away from the front desk, key cards in hand. They retrieve their luggage and head off, presumably in the direction of their rooms, while the desk clerk waves Dean and Cas forward.

“Welcome to Araucaria Resort. How can I help you?” The clerk has wavy brown hair and a wide toothy smile. He wears a nametag that reads “Juan.” 

“Hi, Juan.” Dean gives the clerk his most charming smile as he slides the appropriate credit card across the front desk. "Checking in. I'm Dan Ponderosa and this is my husband, Christos." They'd chosen the name deliberately, on the chance that they could flush out their sex demon with a well-timed introduction. He wraps an arm around Cas's waist, tugging him in.

"Oh, you're married?" There's no flicker of black eyes from Juan, just mild curiosity, and no hiss of pain when he brushes against Dean’s ring as he takes the card. He begins tapping at his keyboard. Dean mentally crosses him off their list of suspects. That's one down. "That's unexpected. We don't get a lot of married couples here. I mean, uh, congratulations. I hope you enjoy your stay." 

Dean and Cas exchange a glance, but Juan is already handing them a little envelope, and a line is forming behind them. "There are your keycards. You're in room one-fifteen. The fastest way is past the pool." He points through the archways to a long wing that juts out, lined with tropical bushes separating little private patios. "The Wi-Fi password is written inside. And here." He passes them a pair of wristbands. “Your food and drinks are included as long as you're wearing these."

Dean whistles. “Sounds like a pretty great deal, huh baby?” he says to Cas, loud enough to sell their cover story to the men around them, but the pet name feels strange in his mouth. From the look on Cas’s face, he found it equally jarring.

Well, whatever. Dean shrugs to himself. He’ll just have to call Cas what he’s always called him. Ain’t no reason a guy can’t call his husband buddy. They say you should marry your best friend, right?

There’s no call for the wash of wistfulness Dean feels at that thought, and he swiftly shoves it down.

“Thank you,” Cas says to the clerk, accepting the items. To Dean, he says, “Let’s go find our room and get settled in,” and then he—of all the things he could do—slips a hand into Dean’s back pocket and steers him poolward while Dean’s brain is still busy throwing out an error message.

Dean’s brain has started recalibrating as they step out into the sunshine. This is fine, this is normal, Cas’s hand is on his ass. They’re supposed to be a married couple. He can do this. 

Their path takes them past a wide patio area with a bar and hightop tables, then along past the massive pool deck, lined with lounge chairs and yet more palm trees, complete with cabanas, a multi-level abstract-shaped pool and two more bars—deck side and swim-up. At the far end of the area, a sparkling, clear railing overlooks the drop-off to the beach. Loud music pipes out over the deck. 

A wing of rooms lines the left side, with the patios Dean saw from the lobby, and two more storeys with wide balconies above, while across the pool area is the entrance to the resort’s nightclub, and beyond that, another wing of guest rooms and amenities and a row of luxurious “cabins” for those really willing to shell out the big bucks. Dean and Cas’s room is near the far end of the near wing.

As they walk, Dean takes note of more things, the niggling doubt he’d had in the lobby becoming more and more insistent as he observes scantily-clad guys flirting, laughing, tanning, playing. A number of guys notice Dean and Cas right back, giving them a frank, assessing once-over or a flirtatious smile. Sure, here and there they see a couple guys who look like they’re getting awfully hot and heavy for a pool deck, but one thing becomes clear to Dean: none of these guys seem to be an established couple. No one looks like they’re here enjoying a romantic getaway. The whole atmosphere is of one big party, and everyone’s here for one reason.

With dawning certainty, Dean knows: somewhere along the way, they made a mistake.

Cas stops in front of the second room from the end and retrieves the keycard to unlock the sliding glass doors. They enter into a sea of white and sea green. With a quick look around the room, Dean notes a comfortable-looking couch, a table and two chairs, a credenza with a minibar and a large TV, and dominating the room, a massive bed swathed in white linens. The door to the bathroom is ajar, and Dean spies the corner of what looks to be a jacuzzi tub inside. At the far end of the room, there's another door, leading to an indoor hallway. In contrast to the heat outside, the air is refreshingly cool and smells faintly of sweet sea breezes.

The door shuts with a soft click, and Cas steps further into the room. "Dean," he says, sounding grave. "I think pretending to be married might have been a mistake."

Dean lets out a dry, humourless chuckle. "You don't say." Even though he knows Cas is only talking logistically, it still makes his chest ache to hear it. He paces briefly, lips pressed together in thought, then blows out a breath.

“Okay.” Done pacing, Dean tosses his duffle bag towards the head of the bed and sinks down onto the corner of the mattress. It depresses just slightly beneath his weight, firm and plush, a far sight better than their usual digs during a hunt. “Okay. We can fix this.”

Cas hovers just outside of touching distance of Dean’s knee. It’s an awkward distance, putting his chest—and the soft t-shirt stretched over it—directly in Dean’s line of sight. His own bag is still slung over his shoulder.

“I could go,” Cas offers. “I can stay with Sam and help with the research.”

“Oh sure, that wouldn’t look suspicious.” Dean snorts. “Checked in less than an hour before my husband disappears, and I spend the rest of the week flirting with anything that moves. Best case scenario, I look like an ass. Worst, the monster gets tipped off and skedaddles. Not gonna work. We're just going to have to fake our way through this, too." Well, at least he has someone he can blame for this mishap. "Fucking Sam.”

While Cas stands helplessly by, Dean punches the numbers in his phone. It rings three times.

“Sam, you dumbass,” Dean says without preamble when his brother picks up. “It’s a hookup resort. And Cas and I already told them we’re married.”

~

 

Less than two hours after checking in to the resort, Dean and Cas find themselves in Sam's shabby motel room, polishing off greasy burgers and fries. They'd stuck around the resort long enough to unpack, not wanting to draw attention to themselves by rushing off too soon after arriving, and had swung by a fast-food joint to pick up a late lunch—burgers for them, a sad looking grilled chicken wrap for Sam—before coming here.

Seated at the table with his brother, in one of the motel room's hard plastic chairs, Dean balls up his wrapper and tosses it in the direction of the trashcan, cheering when it goes in. Cas, who is perched on the hideous mauve bedspread, still nibbling more politely on his burger, rolls his eyes, though Dean tells himself he sees a fondness in it.

"I'm really sorry about this, guys." Sam sets down his half-eaten wrap. "It didn't even occur to me that it could be a single's resort, and I was so wrapped up in the lore, I didn't think to look into it further. Get this, did you know that the Gilgamesh might have been fathered by an incubus?"

“That’s true,” Cas confirms. “His name was Lilu.”

Sam perks up like a dog that’s heard the word walk, a thousand questions clearly on the tip of his tongue.

Dean clears his throat. "Think we're getting a bit off-track, fellas. Cas and I are stuck playing a married couple at a single’s resort, remember?"

"In my defense," says Sam. "You could have checked out the resort, too, Dean."

And okay, yeah, that's fair. Dean could have done the legwork, especially since it turns out that Sam hadn't been needling him about Cas after all—he'd genuinely thought Dean might be uncomfortable playing gay. Which is ridiculous. But admitting to that comes dangerously close to admitting why he had left the hotel arrangements to Sam, and Dean's not about to do that with Cas in the room. 

Instead, he changes the subject. "Well, what's done is done, so now let's manage the fallout."

Cas swallows the last bite of his burger. "What do you suggest?" 

"Well." Dean spreads his hands. "How do you feel about hunting a unicorn?" 

He receives twin glowers of confusion. 

"We're hunting an incubus, Dean," Cas says slowly, as if Dean has lost his marbles, "not a unicorn."

Dean can't help his snort of laughter. "Okay, yeah, I didn't think you'd know what I was talking about, Cas. But c'mon Sammy, you don't know either?"

He's amused to find himself on the receiving end of Sam's most long-suffering look. "Why don't you enlighten us?"

"We're looking for a third," Dean answers plainly. "A married couple trolling for threesomes."

“Really?” says Sam. “Isn’t that a little skeevy?”

“Hey, don’t judge.” Dean smirks at his brother. For all he’s been known to indulge a time or two in the past, Sam is remarkably predictable when it comes to talk about casual sex, especially where it involves Dean. “As long as everyone’s a consenting adult, there’s nothing skeevy about having a little fun. Cas?”

“I think it’s a good idea,” says Cas, a pleasant surprise, though now Dean is wondering whether Cas would be into something like a threesome. 

Bad thoughts, Dean. Bad thoughts.  

“It gives us a good reason to be talking to many different men,” Cas continues, “as well as frequently checking in with each other, while still maintaining our cover.”

Dean shoots a smug look at Sam, who rolls his eyes, but for lack of any better ideas, concedes. They spend the next hour hashing out the final details of how they’ll pull this off, and then Dean and Cas take their leave, headed back to the resort and their investigation, leaving Sam to the dubious comforts of the Tropicobana Motel.

As they back out of the parking lot, Dean rests a hand on the seatback, behind Cas’s neck. “Thanks, buddy,” he says, “for having my back in there.”

“Of course, Dean.” Cas is smiling behind the shades he wears against the Florida sun. “Always.”

~