Archive of Our Own

If you asked Jo, she'd say she was his partner. Dean'd tell you she was his probie. And Bobby'd tell you they were a pair of goddamn idjits.

Thing was, Dean had had a partner and the fact that they'd stood around while what was left of Henriksen was lowered into the ground and given last rites and final honours didn't mean some kid who still had the spit-polish shine of the Academy on her was any sort of damn replacement.

Currently, she's not winning herself any points, because she's got her feet up on Viktor's desk like she owns it (the fact that technically she does in no way alleviates his irritation) and she's raising an eyebrow at him and smirking.

"No." She says, ignoring the coffee cup he's pointedly waving in her direction. "Man up and go ask Castiel out already. We all got sick of the pining months ago. Right?" She spins around in her chair to raise an eyebrow at Andy, who nods fervently, the traitor.

This is why he and Jo are just never going to make a workable pair.

"You haven't even been here for months yet." He grumbles as he stands, glowering faintly at her in a way she ignores completely.

"And I'm already sick of it." She says, calmly. "Just do it so I can get my work done."

Dean would deny her accusations if he thought it'd do anything other than confirm them, and keeps his reaction to a snort and swiping the car keys off Jo's desk, twirling them around a finger as he leaves and calling back over his shoulder as he nears the door.

"Ten minutes, probie. We got another one."

Dean smiles smugly as Jo's shriek of outrage and a thrown wad of crumpled paper follow him out of the room.

Castiel's the owner of The Station House, the establishment across the street that Dean refers to as an establishment simply because it fits into too many categories to properly pin down. Part cafe, part bar, part diner and part bakery, with a few beds upstairs for the nights when it wasn't quite worth going home by the time you finished and had to be back at the station for morning briefing, The Station House should have been a horribly unworkable mismatch. Instead, it had been all but taken over by the station cops, a quiet, private place to try and block out the world for a coffee break.

And Christ, the pies.

And alright, so maybe Dean sometimes has fantasies about how it'd be kinda nice to lick chocolate out of the little dippy bit at the base of Cas' throat, or how he'd feel pressed against Dean in the morning or on the couch or the one where Cas putters around Dean's tiny kitchen (sometimes naked, sometimes not) making him breakfast. So there's probably some crushing going on there, if Dean's being honest with himself.

Which, to be fair, is something he generally tries to avoid.

Problem is, it'd been far too hard to get any sort of read on Castiel and so Dean'd delayed and now they'd reached this point in their... Dean supposes it's kind of a friendship, even if it does mostly consist of half-arguments over Dean's coffee intake and how it's going to kill him one day, and Dean occasionally spilling way more of his guts than he was comfortable with onto the countertop because Cas had this way of listening that just... Dean doesn't even know. Anyway, point is, they've reached the point where saying "Hey do you like dick? Cause I have one" or anything along those lines is just going to be weird.

Castiel's lips turn slightly upwards in welcome when Dean pushes the door open and he can't help grinning back briefly before rearranging his features into a suitably pleading expression, holding the travel mug in front of him like a beggar with a collection bowl.

Cas regards him with a faint hint of amusement and says "No" in that voice that's whiskey over sex over gravel and always (always always) makes Dean's mouth go dry, then turns around to fill up Sergeant Wolfe's cup.

"C'mon, Cas..." He wheedles as he leans up against the counter, doing his best to look like he's working a double shift. Which doesn't actually require acting, given the circumstances, but whatever. He lays it on thick.

Castiel raises an eyebrow and just hmms quietly at him. "We're out." And seriously, Dean'd have to chalk liar up in the (very short, so far practically non-existent) list of Cas' shortcomings if he weren't so damn bad at it that you couldn't take it seriously.

He snorts, and holds his cup out. "Coffee me, Cas."

Castiel regards him levelly for a moment. "How many have you had today, Dean?"

"Two?" Dean says, hopefully.

"Plus?"

"Alright, five." He concedes, before adding entreatingly "But yours is better."

Castiel sighs explosively and Dean smiles in triumph as the other man grumbles "You have a problem." But Cas is reaching down, and produces the pot of coffee from wherever he'd stashed it under the counter, so Dean doesn't take it personally.

"I had a plan." Castiel mutters, filling Dean's cup with obvious reluctance.

"I like a man with a plan." Dean says, happily downing his cup before wiggling it demandingly for a refill.

"I had a plan," Castiel repeats, staring mournfully at the mug as though he's ticking off the hours it's knocking off Dean's heart. "You were getting decaf."

Dean, sensing a refill is not in his immediate future, leans across the counter to snag the pot and smirks slightly in triumph as he pulls it towards himself.

Castiel's fingers close around his wrist, removing his hand firmly from the handle with a reproving sigh, and places the pot back in its place before turning to look at Dean intensely.

"There was a second part to my plan." He confides with a faintly amused look at the way Dean's still leaning over his counter.

Dean glances up from staring at his now empty cup in put upon folornity and says "Oh?" quietly, and he's got the feeling if they weren't separated by the span of the counter, Cas'd be doing that thing where he gets all up in Dean's personal space like he's never heard of the concept. It definitely doesn't do anything to his pulse rate. At all.

Castiel raises his eyebrows slightly, as if he was expecting more, but simply continues. "I would like to have dinner with you, if you are amenable."

Ok, so what Dean said about his pulse rate? Total lie.

"Uh, yeah. Sure." Dean bites his tongue before he can start babbling.

Cas smiles, and refills his cup.

Dean's in a good mood, but not so good that he misses the opportunity to torment Jo by humming Can't Fight This Feeling all the way to the warehouse; by the time they pull up outside she's sniping and glaring at him in a way that suggests he'd better watch his back around the station for the next few days.

Pork Future Industries turns out to be not so much with the future if the dilapidated exterior and half rotten sign over the door is anything to go by. Not unexpectedly, no one answers when Dean bangs on the door, but much as he wants to force it open he's seen too many guilty douchebags walk on procedural errors to risk it.

This is what speed dial was invented for.

As always, the DA picks up halfway through the first ring, as though her hand's already hovering over the phone by the time it gets around to ringing and that will never stop being creepy.

"Dean Winchester."

Neither will the fact that, no matter what phone he's using, Mosley always knows who it is.

"Uh, yeah."

"Let me guess, boy, you need a warrant and you need it now."

Inside, the warehouse is in little better condition than the out. Dean can hear water dripping somewhere to the side and either the lights don't work or no one's paid the bill (he guesses both) because flicking the switch a few times does absolutely nothing to the darkness lurking inside.

Not that it's completely dark; there's thin bands of sunlight cutting the floor into uneven segments as it creeps through the gaps in the boards nailed over the grimy windows. Not that it helps much, but gloomy sub-light is better than no light, so he's not complaining.

Out loud, anyway.

The high, bare shelves block the light once they start getting deeper until there's no choice but to use their flashlights, which Dean hates because he may as well stand there, wave his arms and shout we're here, fucktards, shoot us please!

He strains his ears, trying to listen for the scuff and movement of handily-bound-felon-on-concrete, but all he can hear is the faint fall of his and Jo's feet and the steady plinking of the pipe that's dripping on him.

At least, that's what he figures it is until Jo's flashlight sweeps over him and the bright red spots soaking into the white fabric become apparent.

Fucking peachy. He liked that shirt.

Another drip, and their flashlights trace its fall in reverse, freezing on the body suspended among the pipes. Detachedly, Dean notes the ruined mess of what was once a head, the matted mess of hair and blood and bone and the fact that the corpse is still fresh enough to bleed.

Jo makes a muffled gagging noise, and when Dean turns to look at her she's white under (despite) the stiff lip she's wearing.

He pulls her attention back to him and away from the dead body with a quickly snapped "Probie." Waits until she's looking at him before he jerks his head back towards the entrance.

"Call it in, Harvelle. Tell Bobby we need Adler, goddammit, and a full Crime Scene team."

For a minute, Dean thinks she's going to protest, try to bluff it through with bravado. He snorts, turns away to put his back to her in clear dismissal and nods to himself, lips quirked slightly, when he hears the pissed off, staccato tap of Jo's shoes leaving.

Anger is definitely preferable to probie-spew on his crime scene.

Dean picks his way carefully around the area, light angled low so he can pick his way among the... he's gonna call it "organic debris" because he hasn't had his lunch yet and he'd really like to be able to enjoy it, thanks.

A few sweeps of the torch are enough to see that "debris" is far too chaotic a word for the carefully smeared lines demarking a circle of runes on the ground.

The satanic feel is only slightly lessened by the word "JERK" spelled out across the wall in blood.

"Do you think it's him?"

"What?"

"Do you think it's the vigilante?"

"I don't know."

"But do you?"

"It doesn't fit. It's not his MO."

"He led you to it."

"Yeah, but... it doesn't fit. He's barely even bruised 'em before."

"Yeah."

Dean sighs, and drags a hand down his face, staring at the traffic light in front of him until it blurs out of existence.

"Maybe he couldn't find the bastard."

There's a blue cow with a square udder on his desk when he gets back, the words Thought you should know curling brown across its rump when he warms it with his desk lamp.

Castiel 's behind the bar when Dean finishes for the day, sleeves folded neatly and precisely to just above his elbows as he pours a line of shots for a short guy with floppy chestnut hair who Dean doesn't know from Adam, which is kinda unusual in here. It's the type of place which mostly just has regulars; a new face always sticks out.

Dean slips onto a stool a few seats down and takes the opportunity to ogle Cas 'cause he's pretty sure he's allowed, now. Not that dinner couldn't mean as friends rather than a date, and he's certainly spent more time today than he should have worrying over that rather then the dead body he was supposed to have been focusing on, but he's probably allowed, he thinks.

The way Cas' eyes linger on the triangle of skin exposed at the base of Dean's throat by his popped collar is definitely a good sign.

The faint frown creasing his forehead when he drags his eyes up to Dean's probably isn't.

"Jamie is late." The obvious impatience in his tone does awesome things for Dean's ego. "I believe she is caught in traffic. She estimates another ten minutes."

Dean shrugs loosely, leaning forward to rest his arms on the polished old wood of the bar, stained and scarred by years of drinks in a way that's comforting and homelike, and can practically feel Castiel's gaze dragging over his features, eyes to mouth to cheeks and back down to his lips when his tongue flickers nervously over them, Cas' darting out briefly in response, a dirty, hot, pink slide over his lips and-

The shortstack coughs pointedly, and they both blink, a faint blush creeping up Cas' cheeks and God Dean wants him. Especially when he makes this completely irritated noise and reaches over to snag one of the shots in front of Grumpy and tips it into the sink with a pointed look, cheeks still faintly pink.

Castiel sighs softly and hands Dean a beer, brushing his fingers deliberately against Dean's before drawing away with another murmured apology about the delay and even though ten minutes turns into half an hour, Dean's fine, he's cool, just sitting here watching Cas draw beers and mix drinks with calm focus.

He reaches a few conclusions in the time it takes Jamie to arrive in a rush of blonde hair and a quick Hi Dean as she brushes past to dump her stuff out back. Firstly, he needs to add Cas' wrists to the list of places he wants to lick, along with his hipbones, the divot at the base of his throat and oh hell may as well add everywhere else for good measure. Secondly, more people need to order martinis because it means Dean gets a really great view of the way Cas' slacks pull tight over his ass when he has to bend over to get the olives. Thirdly, holy fuck he's got a date with Cas. Which, okay he kinda knew, but something about the quiet smiles he gets when Cas' gaze wanders down to his end of the bar like he's making sure Dean's still there and the brief brush of elegant fingers against the back of his own as Cas moves past really hammers it home.

One minute Dean's alone with his daydreams and an empty glass of beer, the next Castiel is crowding into his personal space (which isn't to say that Dean minds) and placing a hand on his arm that feels far too warm through Dean's shirt.

"Are you ready? I would like to leave before something goes wrong and I am required to fix it."

Apparently Cas had slipped off at some point while Dean had been uh... distracted, because he's now plus a suit jacket and trenchcoat and minus the dishcloth that'd been tucked into his belt. Dean grins as he slips off his stool.

"Hey there, Constantine."

Cas frowns, head tilting in that way that Dean will never, on pain of death, admit to find adorable.

"I don't understand that reference."

Cas' idea of a first date involves his apartment, cooking and a white apron that gives Dean ideas. Dean finds himself banished to leaning awkwardly against the opposite side of the kitchen counter because Cas, apparently, has heard tales about the time Dean almost burned down the station while boiling an egg.

He relents enough to let Dean set the table. Half of it is stacked high with books so they end up sitting on adjacent sides rather than opposite each other and it's... surprisingly intimate, hands brushing unexpectedly during the meal, sometimes deliberate, sometimes not. Dean's pretty sure the cheeseburgers Cas whipped up are probably delicious, but he's a little distracted by the fact that Cas is right there with his stupidly blue eyes and his foot nudging under the hem of Dean's pant leg to rub tantalisingly over Dean's calf.

Dean can see it before it happens, notices the oven mitt left lying on the counter as Cas bends over to get the pie out and opens his mouth to say something only to be interrupted by a small, bitten-off noise of pain. One minute he's in his chair watching Cas, the next Dean's crowding him up against the sink to push his hand under the tap, ignoring Cas' assertions that he's fine, Dean and wrapping his fingers around Cas' wrist to hold it under the water when he tries to pull it away. He's rubbing small circles over the smooth skin and it's not until he feels Cas shiver against him, all the way down his front, that he realises just how close they are, how Cas' hair is tickling his nose and Dean can smell a mix of aftershave and shampoo. He finds himself under scrutiny, blue eyes snapping from his lips to his eyes when his breath catches and then Cas' mouth is pressing, firm and demanding, against his.

Cas kisses with the same single-minded focus he applies to everything else, like it doesn't matter that they're not breathing because this is more important, like there's nothing in the world he'd rather be doing than sucking on Dean's tongue like he's fucking going to town on it. And Dean's aware he's making noises – of course he is, it's fucking fantastic –but the ones Cas is making are absolutely criminal, all need and demand and sex rolled together.

Castiel pulls away with a sudden bite at Dean's lips, leaves him gasping for breath and trying to follow, and his mouth is wrecked, all bruised and spit-slick and Dean has no idea why they've stopped until Cas just twists around so he's facing Dean and yeah, that's probably – Cas' mouth is back on his seconds later, just as insistent, and ok, so maybe it's not the most skilled kiss Dean's ever had but holy Jesus on a pogo stick he is so far from caring. He manages to draw away just enough to choke out a Cas? against his lips before Cas pulls him back down by his hair and licks his way back into Dean's mouth. Dean finally gathers enough wits together to take his hands off the counter, wrapping them around Cas' waist to lift him up onto the bench so Dean can crowd closer between his legs and the noises their mouths make when they change angles are positively obscene.

Now that Dean's got his hands on Cas, he can't take them off and if the way Cas' hands are roaming freely over Dean's torso are any indication, the feeling's pretty damn mutual. He's dragging his hands up and down Cas' sides obsessively, Cas' shirt pulling a little further out of his slacks on every upwards slide until Dean can get his hands under it, fingers just flirting under the edge when the door suddenly slams open.

Dean's mostly inclined to just ignore it in preference of continuing at this point, but Cas has stopped, one hand fisted tightly in Dean's hair and the other gripping his shoulder hard enough to bruise as he glares over Dean's head at whoever's in the door. Dean bites back a groan, closing his eyes and resting his head against Cas' ribs for a moment, hands coming to rest on the other man's hipbones as his thumbs inscribe slow circles against the smooth jut of bone.

"Why are you here, Gabriel?" And Jesus, if Cas' voice is usually sex and whiskey over gravel right now, it's, God, Dean doesn't know, but whatever it is is going straight to his pants despite the intrusion of Pervy McPerverson. Who, when Dean glances back over his shoulder turns out to be the pint-size from the bar who'd interrupted them earlier.

The guy's eyebrows raise slightly as he grins, and Dean really wants to scrub that artificially innocent look off his features with steel wool.

"Well, when a Mommy and a Daddy love each other very much..."

If it were possible to bottle Castiel's responding glare, the war in the Middle East would have been over years ago.

"Hey, Cassie , if you didn't want interruptions? You should've locked your door."

"I did." One day, Dean is going to figure out how Cas is managing to sound like he's just been thoroughly fucked and ice-cold at the same time.

The guy – alright, fine, Gabriel – shrugs.

"Then you shouldn't have given me a key."

Castiel's fingers tighten irritably on Dean's shoulder, hard enough to make him wince and try to twitch away. Cas glances down apologetically and loosens his grip before returning his attention to the intruder.

"I did no such thing."

Another unconcerned shrug and that grin is really starting to piss Dean off.

"Then you shouldn't have a lock that's so easy to pick."

Cas doesn't seem to have a response to that beside glowering pissily at the guy and his stupid floppy hair, and the guy's not even flinching under a glare that's threatening to leave him nothing but a smear of blood on the kitchen floor.

"Hey, pie!" Gabriel grins, and scoops the pie off the bench before starting to move further into the apartment.

Dean half-groans, half-growls and pushes his nose into Cas' shirt, muttering uncomplimentary things into the soft fabric - "I could remove him if you want." - and the only reason he's at all reluctant is that it means pulling away from Cas. Because seriously, the guy cock-blocked him and then stole his pie and Dean kinda hates him for it.

"You're the one molesting my baby bro, Casanova. If anyone's being removed, it's you."

Fucking peachy.

"He's your brother?"

"Unfortunately."

"Aww, Cassie, you love me, just admit it."

Either the guy's developed the ability to read signals in the last twenty seconds or he'd just come back into the kitchen to steal the whipped cream too, because he vanishes in the direction of the living room again a moment before the TV switches on.

Castiel sighs explosively and runs his fingers through Dean's hair, slowly dragging fingertips back and forth across his skull. It feels almost as good as anything else in the last several minutes and a faint exhalation passes his lips as his eyes close.

"I'm sorry, Dean."

Dean shrugs, because right now? He's pretty much happy to forgive Cas anything.

"'Sok. Family's... family."

Dean moves back a bit to let Cas off the counter, but when he shifts Cas' thighs tighten on either side of his hips to hold him in place until he glances up and finds Cas' lips against his own again, although they're softer, slower, more curiously gentle this time, almost chaste.

Cas hums softly into it for a moment before drawing away, darting in once more for another short exchange before he lets go and slips off the counter into the non-existent gap between Dean and the cupboards. Dean bites back a low moan that makes Cas smirk slightly.

Dean sighs and steps back reluctantly, dragging a hand back through his hair as he goes, pausing on his way out to press Cas back up against the doorframe for a moment until his mouth is wrecked and panting again. Cas whispers a soft good night as Dean slips out the door and Dean can feel blue eyes watching him all the way down the corridor until he steps into the lift, fighting back a stupid grin.

Castiel doesn't shut his door until the elevator doors have shut firmly on the sight of Dean and even then it's a slow moment before he allows it to swing closed. He sighs, glancing back over his shoulder towards the living room and Gabriel, hand still curved over the door handle as he hovers.

It would be so easy. There would be little challenge in beating the elevator down, not for Castiel; it is old, slow and rickety, and it would take so little effort – he could press Dean back when he tried to leave, press him backwards with kisses until he was pinned up against the mirrored wall and whisper stay, call Dean and his warmth and skin and too-bright touches back.

Dean, he is all but certain, would have said yes.

Instead, he sighs again and turns away from the door, letting the faint burn on his hand heal with a thought and a flex of fingers as he goes to find what Gabriel wants.

If the scene in his living room is anything to go by, Gabriel had broken into his apartment with the intention of watching porn on Castiel's couch and eating his pie.

Castiel makes a disgruntled noise and turns the television off at the wall, pre-emptively aborting the otherwise inevitable war of remote vs power button, and turns to frown at his brother.

"I was not aware I had cable, Gabriel."

Gabriel shrugs,and sucks some cream loudly off his fingers.

"Think of it as a birthday present."

"One that is likely to show up on my credit card, I presume?" Castiel glowers slightly. "And my birthday is not for several weeks."

Gabriel feigns a hurt look, which succeeds only in making Castiel's jaw clench further in aggravation.

"Awww, Cassie, it's the thought that counts."

"I have asked you before to refrain from calling me Cassie."

Gabriel's grin is almost predatory.

"Bet you wouldn't mind if that hot piece of ass called you Cassie. Never would have thought you'd go for the pretty-but-dumb type."

Castiel growls and glares harder, but Gabriel has always been infuriatingly unmovable.

"Dean is perfect, Gabriel." He says, because it's true.

Gabriel stares at him for a moment and if Castiel didn't know better, he'd say that look was pity.

"Will he still be perfect when you slip and hammer his pelvis into dust, little bro?"

Castiel freezes for a moment, words quiet when he eventually speaks.

"I won't hurt him, Gabriel."

Gabriel's lips thin. "You will. You have. Trust me, you have no idea how fragile they are."

Castiel's jaw tightens as he remembers the feel of Dean's shoulder shifting under his fingers, the faint involuntary whimper, and it is perhaps this that causes him to snap back.

"Dean is not Kali, Gabriel, and neither am I you."

Gabriel's face darkens and he goes from sprawled across the couch to being right up in Castiel's face, somehow managing to glare down at him despite the difference in their heights.

"Don't talk about what you don't know about, Cassie. If you have the sense God gave little fluffy kittens you'll work your way up from your own left hand and maybe some blow up dolls. Or don't come crying to me when your oh-so-perfect control slips."

And then he's gone and Castiel can sag back against the television.

Ruby yowls demandingly at him as soon as he steps into his apartment, jumping down to thread among his ankles in what Dean's pretty sure is an attempt to kill him. He's read somewhere that cats will eat human flesh if it's dead, and he wouldn't put it past the hellbitch.

Since he doesn't trip and crack his skull open for her convenience, though, she's going to have to live with biscuits for dinner.

Dean hits the button on his voicemail, just in case today is the day Sam finally remembered how to use a phone after years of silence (it's not, it never is) and pours some food into Ruby's bowl - mainly in an attempt to stop her clawing her way up his leg.

Dean's apartment is small; a snug loft over the workshop of a guy who makes and repairs old-fashioned rocking horses. The line between kitchen and living room is marked only by the kitchen cupboards and the change in flooring. There's an ironing board in front of the couch, loaded down with papers into a makeshift desk so he can watch Dr Sexy while he catches up on his paperwork, and a ladder leads up to the loft with the bed, above the kitchen and perfectly arranged so Dean can lounge on his bed and still see the tv screen. A door leads into a combined laundry and bathroom, with a window open onto the neighbouring roof so Ruby can get in and out.

Dean loves it, despite how crowded it is. He'd moved in years ago, back when he'd been a probie himself, and Pastor Jim (who hadn't been a pastor in years, in longer than Dean had known him, but somehow had never lost the title or the mannerisms) had been willing to give him a chance and low rent. He could afford somewhere bigger now, if he chose, but even if he wanted to, the thought of telling Jim (who always insisted Dean have holiday meals with him even though it was the only time he got to see his daughter and had been there without judgement when Dean hadn't been able to face driving Sam to rehab one more time) he was leaving would be enough to stop him.

Besides, it's small enough that he doesn't find himself left with the feeling that there should be someone else here, the odd gaps that had been left in his old place when he'd finally cracked, when he hadn't been strong enough to help Sam back to his feet just one more time so he could knock himself down again, the places that used to hold Sam's things bare for months until Dean hadn't been able to face them anymore, hadn't been able to fool himself that if he just stayed, Sam would come back, all whole and well and clean again, and he'd finally just left.

Not that Sam's things hadn't been slowly disappearing for years before that, pawned for drugs or cash for drugs, which was the same goddamn thing, really.

It's a long time before Dean falls asleep and when he does his dreams are a formless, disturbing mess of sharp black and red edges and screams ringing in his ears that have him jerking awake in the wee hours before he slips into a deeper sleep.

He wakes up with his nose pressed into soft hair and one arm wrapped around something soft; by the time his sleep-addled brain has processed the information and reached the conclusion that a) he's hugging a pillow and b) the hair belongs to the bitch-cat, he's already nuzzling closer, and it's pretty much inevitable that this ends with the swipe of claws across his cheek before Ruby jumps disdainfully off the bed.

Zachariah Adler may be one of the creepiest sons of bitches Dean has ever had the misfortune to meet (nobody should smile that much while feeling around inside someone's innards) but Dean has to admit the guy's pretty damn good at his job. By the time he makes it in the next morning, there's a full autopsy report - including an ID - on his desk.

Jo's not in yet, and Dean's not exactly chomping at the bit to go tell Ms. Milligan that her only son's been murdered and they don't have a single viable lead, so he rifles through the crime scene report for half an hour, familiarising himself with it before he makes a copy and drops it on Ash's desk. He scribbles a note asking for an urgent translation on the runes, briefly wondering how many cases of beer he's going to have to stretch his wallet to get this booted ahead of all the other URGENT stamped requests littering the techie's desk.

Jo's still not in and Dean almost sends her a bitchy text until he glances at the clock and realises neither of them are supposed to start for another hour. Given that Bobby's been riding his ass about the amount of overtime he's been clocking, Dean figures it's a pretty good excuse to escape across the road.

The Station House is busy, full of cops waiting to start the morning shift; Dean has to grab a hold of Cas between tables as the man moves around refilling coffee cups. Cas hesitates for a moment, resisting slightly when Dean tugs him in by his belt loops for a quick kiss before he melts against Dean in a way that's entirely gratifying.

Cas treats him to one of those small, contented half-smiles and says "Hello, Dean" as he reaches up to thread the fingers of his spare hand through Dean's hair and pull him into a much deeper, filthier kiss. It earns them a few catcalls and a handful of comments about health code ratings and acquiring rooms (and more than a few about goddamn times). Becky, Cas' morning waitress, is giving them a starry-eyed look from behind the counter, and Jesus her hands are actually – Dean can't believe he's thinking this – clasped to her bosom. Andy has the station odds book out and is waving people down to collect, the little fucker, but Cas just seems to find the entire thing amusing and pours Dean a cup of coffee without argument before he returns to his rounds.

Dean eyeballs the coffee suspiciously as he claims a stool at the counter by the simple expedient of elbowing Chuck off one, leaving the beleaguered reporter to find a seat somewhere else. Castiel shows back up ten minutes later with his sleeves rolled up to the elbows to expose some truly, ridiculously lickable wrists and carrying a plate of pancakes, so yeah, he's pretty much a vision of paradise right now.

Cas refills his coffee cup silently and vanishes back into the swirling mass of customers. Dean feels strangely left-footed, but there's pancakes and coffee and a case to solve, so mostly he just feels like his mouth's full. Cas shows back up as Dean's pulling some notes from his pocket to toss on the table, fingers closing over his wrist with a quiet "Leave it." Cas leans in to his side for a moment, presses another kiss to Dean's mouth like he just can't stop now he's allowed and adds "I gave you decaf."

Son of a bitch.

"So, was he gentle?"

"I hate you."

"No you don't. Spill it, Dean. Who topped? People demand an answer."

Dean figures this probably means the station betting pool isn't done with him and Cas and pulls up in front of the Milligan's drive more abruptly than usual, muttering an apology to his baby under his breath.

"For that? You get to tell her." It's probably not particularly right to be using their dead victim, however indirectly, to shut his partner up, but at the least it wipes the cat who not only got the canary but marinaded it in the cream look off her face.

Dean knocks on the door, raising an immediate call of "Adam?" from inside that makes his chest hurt for a moment. There's the fast, staccato clack of feet towards the door before the peephole opens.

Dean holds his badge up.

"Detectives Harvelle and Winchester, Ma'am, Edge City PD. Can we come in? It's about your son Adam."

Ten days later a note inside a green paper turtle leads them to the body of Alistair McKellar, lying with his head at an unnatural angle under the words COME AND SEE.

Dean had been intending to take Cas out for his birthday, even going so far as to make reservations at a restaurant with a tie policy regardless of how much like a monkey Dean may feel when he's dressed up, but when they stop by Cas' apartment so he can change, it turns out Gabriel's thrown Cas a surprise party instead.

As if Dean needed more reasons to dislike the guy.

It's not like they can just leave again either, so Dean shucks his jacket and tie, kisses away the look of mild disappointment that flashes over Cas' features - "I was intending to remove those myself, Dean." - and goes to find them drinks.

"Your brother's ordering hookers." He says when he gets back, handing over one of the beers he'd managed to snag before Ash licked them all. "If you don't want him spending the night back at the station, you should probably stop him." Dean had spotted both Jo and Madison on his way across the room, either of whom would be more than happy to arrest someone for soliciting, technically off-duty or not.

Cas sighs in exasperation and vanishes into the crowd. Dean knows about half the people here, mostly people from the station or the crew from The Station House, plus other people who might be Cas' friends or family or may just be random people Gabriel invited to pack the place out.

Jo and Balthazar seem to be engaged in some sort of drinking contest out on the balcony, if the line of shots in front of each of them is any indication. Dean's money is on Jo; Balthazar may tend bar for Cas, but Dean's met Ellen, and Jo's mom doesn't let anyone behind her bar who can't hold their liquor. Meg, another of Castiel's waitresses, has her hand splayed on Cas' arm the next time Dean spots him, and he narrows his eyes, moving towards them until Castiel removes her hand and steps back looking discomforted.

Dean mingles for a while, talking to people and trying not to seem too unfriendly or out of sorts over the change in plans and finding Cas every half hour or so, standing close so their hips and shoulders bump as he nods and hmms his way through the conversation, more focused on the short bursts of contact and the way he can feel Cas' heat all the way down his side than whatever the conversations are about.

Gabriel procures Singstar from somewhere and manages to get it working on Cas' ancient and decrepit TV. The thing wasn't even a flatscreen, and Dean hadn't even been sure it had video jacks and – and that's not Cas' TV. Or, well, the bow and ribbon attached to it would indicate that it was, now.

Which, on the one hand, is awesome, because it means the set of classic Doctor Who DVDs Dean has hidden in the back seat of the Impala will actually be useful, but it also means they won't have to cram onto Dean's small couch to watch them.

On the downside, it also means Gabriel is regaling them all with his personal rendition of Baby Got Back.

In an effort to avoid the off tune declarations of how much Cas' brother enjoys big butts, Dean escapes out to the balcony. Jo and Balthazar seem to have either stopped or are taking a break and woah, yep, that's Balthazar's hand on Jo's thigh.

Dean's never really gotten on with Balthazar, and it doesn't help that the guy keeps making snide comments about how he knows more about Cas than Dean, things Dean will never understand, things he knows because he's known Cas longer, will always have known Cas longer and what does Dean thinks Cas sees in another uniformed monkey anyway?

Dean's asked himself the same thing a few times, because yeah, it's pretty obvious that Cas is way out of his league, but like Hell is he admitting it to this douchebag.

"My quick wit, keen intellect and stunning good looks?"

"Your modesty is also quite attractive." Cas says drily behind Dean, which makes him jump and Balthazar snort. "Dean, I would like you to meet someone."

Someone turns out to be Michael Novak, the motherfucking mayor, grade A pervert and Cas' other brother. Dean keeps Cas carefully between them as they shake hands because the guy uses public awards ceremonies as an excuse to grope his ass, and Dean's fine without finding out what he gets up to somewhere he doesn't have to worry about cameras.

He's heard stories.

Castiel, the traitor, vanishes again to find out what the smashing noise in his kitchen was, and Dean spends the next hour attempting to stop Michael licking his neck and groping his ass between telling Dean about how much more he, Michael, could do for him.

Castiel manages to politely shoo everyone out by about 3 in the morning, Jo and Balthazar trailing out last, leaning into each other and talking about sharing a cab and Dean just doesn't want to know, if it's all the same to everyone.

Cas is standing in the middle of his living room, surveying the mess with a frown creasing his forehead, and Dean pads up behind him, winding his arms around his waist. Cas leans back into him with a long sigh and turns his head to press his nose under the curve of Dean's jaw.

"I should go." Dean murmers, reluctantly, after a few minutes.

Dean can feel the smile against his neck and tightens his arms in response.

"Will you behave if I ask you to stay?"

Dean groans and tilts his head to brush an awkward kiss across Cas' temple.

"Have done so far, Cas."

Cas humms a softly pleased agreement against his neck.

"You should stay." He says, decisively. "It will be difficult for you to fuck me if you leave."

He's pulled out of Dean's arms and is halfway down the hall before Dean's brain catches up with the apparent change in gears.

Castiel demands Dean put his coat back on. Dean's not entirely sure what the point was since Cas has it in a crumpled heap on the floor with his tie and a decent start on his shirt about thirty seconds after he walks in the room, but Cas is pushing into his personal space, pressed against Dean like if he does it hard enough they'll be able to deny physics and get closer as he sucks a hickey into Dean's neck, and he is so far past caring.

Dean tries to return the favour, works his hands under Cas' shirt so he can pull it over his head, but Cas bites at his jaw in reprimand and says "Behave, Dean" and Dean can almost hear the eyeroll accompanying that. Dean has a brief moment to be impressed with the speed at which Cas is getting him naked before the other man drops to his knees and mouths damply at the line of his cock through his briefs, smirking when Dean fucking whines.

Cas sucks him off fast and hard and dirty, slams Dean's hips back against the wall when he can't help but buck into it, sucks him off with his eyes closed and the dark half moon of lashes looking far too peaceful against his cheek when his lips are stretched around Dean's dick and he's sucking it like a lollypop he has a vendetta against. Dean's hands are in his hair, twisting and gripping and clenching, pulling and tugging while broken pleas and half formed words tumble from his lips. There's not a whole lot of technique to it, a heartstopping hint of tooth every now and then, but Jesus it's like Cas is trying to suck his soul out through his dick and Dean is scrabbling to find purchase on something as he tumbles and tumbles and tumbles over the edge, bright fireworks painted against his eyelids in brilliant colour.

It's a good thing Cas' hands are still on his hips, still pinning him against the wall, because Dean's not actually sure whether or not his bones have turned to water. He manages to gather enough brain-mouth coordination to rasp out a clumsy "Mother fucking what, Cas," and Cas is staring up at him with his mouth fucking wrecked and smears of Dean's cum on his lips and chin and his eyes all huge with surprise and blown with lust as he gives a shocked little "Oh."

Dean pulls him up and kisses him, still slow and languorous and melting boneless in the afterglow, but Cas makes an irritated noise and pushes deeper, growling into Dean's mouth as he nips at his lips, and the hard line of Cas' cock pressing against his hip is a pretty clear reminder that only one of them's gotten off yet.

Dean brings his hands up, rubs circles over Cas' hips through the fabric of his slacks and swallows down the faint whispers against his mouth, catches his nails on the skin above Cas' waistband just to hear him gasp and they're more breathing wetly against each others' mouths at the moment than actually kissing, Dean's breath still heavy and erratic and racing while Cas' grows shallower and shallower, hitches and gusts away on faint Deans. Then Dean runs his thumb hard over Cas' zipper where it's straining over him and Cas' teeth snap shut over Dean's lower lip hard enough to draw blood as he fucking keens, and the next thing Dean knows, he's struggling to prop himself up on the bed he's just stumbled backwards into and Cas is stripping his clothes off with efficient, scientific movements as he closes the distance, crawling up Dean's body and surging against his mouth, tangling tongues and sliding deep for a moment before it's gone.

Castiel's mouth is hunger-lust-Mine-worship across his skin, hot and leaving too-bright trails across his chest as it moves restlessly, possessively, starving across his torso, down to his hips to trail along the crease of Dean's thigh, drawing shivers as he mouths at Dean's stomach, tongue dipping into his navel briefly and God, Dean is not going to complain if Cas has some sort of oral fixation. It's too soon, way too soon, would be too soon even if Dean were still seventeen, but he can't help arching a little against Cas' mouth, can't help spilling filthy words and phrases into the air as his own hands run relentlessly over Cas' back, nails skidding over the smooth skin stretched across the wings of Cas' shoulderblades and there's a brief moment when it doesn't feel like flesh under his fingers but something else, before Cas growls and bucks his hips against Dean and Dean can't.

Cas, apparently, has decided to declare war on biology.

It hurts and it's too soon and Dean's breathing is harsh even to his own ears but his dick's twitching against his stomach under Cas' ministrations and Jesus he should have known Cas was the type who liked to mark his territory. His neck is going to be patchworked with bites and hickeys tomorrow and there's teeth and lips and nails everywhere, scraping over his nipples, drawing across his hips and down the crease of his thigh and then back on Dean's mouth, demanding and asking and half begging all at once and his head is fucking spinning.

Cas stops when Dean groans and arches into the hard drag of nails over a nipple, and stares down at him looking thoroughly wrecked and amazed and amazing and then he's gone, leaving Dean cold and gasping and trying to follow but then Cas is back, pressing against him with a low growl building under his ribs as he pushes something into Dean's hand.

"Dean," And Dean can hear him cracking, fracturing, coming to pieces under that collected control in his voice "I would appreciate it if you would sodomise me now."

There is absolutely no way that should be one the hottest propositions Dean's ever had, but it is, God help him, and Dean moves suddenly, flipping them over and running his hands over the clean, smooth lines of Cas' hips, mapping their near-perfect cradle with near-reverent touches.

And Cas lets him, for a few moments, lets Dean nuzzle and nip at the crease of his thigh as his breath gets shorter and shorter and hitches and catches and his hips cant upwards, upwards... Until he makes an impatient noise and twists under Dean, against Dean, caught between Dean and the bed in a space that should have been too small for the manoeuvre but somehow wasn't.

Castiel presses back against him and glares over his shoulder in an assault of imperious blue, and his voice is rough and hoarse as he scrapes out a demanding "Dean."

And then it's Dean fumbling after the dropped lube and murmuring "I've got you, baby" and "Just gotta get you ready, Gorgeous" against the smooth arch of Cas' back as he pushes back, grinds back against Dean and spills "Now" and "Please" and "I'm ready now, Dean, please" into the sheets while he's still virgin-tight around Dean's fingers , still biting his lip and gripping the sheets on every move as he pushes back regardless.

Dean bites the curve of Cas' ass when he pushes back a little too hard, too demandingly, and earns himself an incredibly indignant glare in response until he crooks his fingers and drags and Cas makes that shocked, startled "oh" noise again, forehead dropping to press against the sheets as he says "Now, Dean." and the command in that tone is only slightly undermined by the way his breath cracks through it when Dean deliberately rubs his prostate again.

Cas fucking whines when Dean pushes in and shoves back immediately, fucking himself back against (onto) Dean punishingly before he can find a rhythm until they're suddenly there, moving together instead of apart and Dean is gasping and choking out hot breaths against Cas' nape, sweat damp hair tickling his nose and his hand sliding down Cas' stomach to wrap around him until Cas shoves it away with a "No. I want - just like this, Dean, please, Dean." He's still biting his lip, eyes scrunched tight and fingers twisted in the sheets and it's hard, so hard, but Dean slows, pulls back again and drags a "You okay, Cas?" out of his hoarse throat.

Blue eyes snap open to glare at him over the curve of pale shoulder. "No." Cas says, pissily. "I need you to fuck me harder."

Jesus. Dean's starting to think this might just kill him, but Cas is making these happy little sounds in the back of his throat and rocking back into it like it's the easiest thing in the world, until he suddenly makes a startled noise and tightens around Dean without warning as he spills over, gorgeous and ethereally beautiful for a moment, all pale skin and heat and clean lines that pull Dean over the edge with him.

Dean's not sure how long it is before Cas hums contentedly under him and shifts slightly, pulling him back to reality and reminding him he really should pull out before Cas clamps back down and they're both uncomfortable. There's a brief rearrangement of limbs and bodies that ends with a still sticky Cas draped half-on, half-off him, his head tucked under Dean's chin as his fingers trace idle patterns over Dean's ribs and hip.

Cas peers up at him, strands of damp hair stuck to his forehead, and Dean manages to muster enough energy to lift his hand and drag it through the dark mess.

"Hey." He says, tiredly.

"Hello."

It takes a few more minutes for Dean to form another coherent statement, and even then it's nothing more than an emphatic, vaguely awed "Fuck."

Cas huffs in amusement, dragging a hand up and down Dean's chest. "That was the general idea, Dean." He nuzzles gently at Dean's jaw for a moment, humming contentedly, and then adds "Sex aside for the moment, I'm pretty sure I love you."

Dean laughs tiredly, the rush of air stirring the damp peaks of Cas' hair before he smoothes it down again one handed. It refuses to stay flat, bouncing back into messy tufts that tickle Dean's cheek. "Sex'll do that to you," he agrees, pressing his lips to Cas' forehead as his eyes drift closed.

Cas' own huff is decidedly less amused sounding and entirely more irritated, followed closely by his teeth nipping sharply at Dean's throat. "I am aware of the effects of sex on hormone production, Dean. My statement stands."

Dean sighs, drags his hand through Cas' hair reassuringly and pushes his nose into the strands with a muttered, half audible "Yeah..."

There's a long moment where Dean can pretty much hear Cas frowning at him while he processes that, before there's a soft sigh and the tickle of a smile against his throat.

"We can return to the sex now."

Dean pulls back to stare at him for a moment and then starts laughing, pulling Cas closer and laughing harder at the bemused expression on his face.

"Gorgeous, you're going to kill me."

Castiel does not want to do this, does not want to pull away from Dean's warmth curled into his chest or his breath on Castiel's neck, has no desire to untangle their legs and unwind Dean's arms from around his waist.

But he must.

Castiel can sense it, sense the wrongness out in his city. Michael, perhaps, would disagree, would point out that he and not Castiel, was the Mayor and that made it his, but Michael, for all his strength, can not feel the city like this, like another presence, made up of thousands of smaller ones, true, but still its own, still distinct from any of the individual minds that form it. None of his siblings can, and that makes it his.

Castiel has always been possessive of what is his.

But oh, it's hard at the moment, when all he wants is to pull Dean closer and breathe in his scent and fall asleep in a tangle of limbs.

He doesn't even need sleep, but right now he wants it.

Dean nuzzles artlessly closer against his neck when he shifts slightly, breath wetly warm against his skin, murmurs something indecipherable and Castiel's resolve is almost undone.

Between Cas' reluctance and Dean, who keeps following when he moves in a way that makes Cas' chest ache, it's some time before he actually manages to get up. Dean makes a sleepy noise of protest and stirs until Cas leans over and brushes a kiss against his temple, fingers carding gently through hair that's still slightly damp with sweat.

It takes but a moment for Cas to dress in his costume, but it is harder this time to put himself aside, to focus completely on the task and what needs to be done. Dean has curled in on himself in that brief time, huddled and seeming too small in Castiel's bed by himself, and he has to stop, standing by the bed for long minutes before he moves, climbing out the window and dropping, the familiar fall of his stomach and sudden catch of air through feathers as his wings burst free not as comforting as usual.

He keeps a light touch on Dean's consciousness as he circles, to alert him if the man starts to wake, and spirals slowly outward, attempting to find the source of the disturbance. It is difficult; the city, while definitely a presence, is not sentient per se. It is aware that something is wrong, that something doesn't fit, but it cannot tell him where or who. Usually he can narrow it down with a mix of sense and basic deduction to a limited area, can sweep individual minds.

This time, he has no idea where to start.

After an hour, when he still has no clearer a picture than when he started, he heads home, folding his wings back into his skin as he lands in his bedroom. The moonlight has crept across the bed while he was gone, silver where it slides covetously over Dean's skin, catching in his hair and caressing the teasing hint of hipbone poking over the kicked-down blankets. It silvers out the faint bruises already forming at the base of Dean's ribs too, throwing the darkness of clotting blood picking out a bite mark on Dean's shoulder into sharp relief, Castiel notices guiltily, where he hadn't quite been able to hold himself back.

Not that Castiel would call Dean's reaction a negative one.

He sighs and hides his costume again before he slips back into bed, fits himself against the gorgeous curve of Dean's back and nudges his ankles apart so he can slot his own between, hands sliding around Dean's waist as he presses his lips to the knot at the top of Dean's spine. He rumbles soothingly in response to Dean's sleep-logged query, lets him twist and bury his nose against Cas' neck.

Dean's starting to wish he could claim his shirts as a work expense because the damn things cost a shit-ton for something that's just a few bits of fabric stitched together and he goes through them like a hot knife through butter. Blood, mud, oil, other more suspicious substances – makes him wish he was back in uniform.

Or, in today's case, blood and something's he's trying not to think about too much. And dammit, he's going to have to remember to bring in another spare shirt for his locker, because this one just isn't going to be salvageable.

He turns around to find Andy and Ash staring at his chest and resists the urge to hold up his ruined shirt as some sort of shield.

"It's five bucks a minute to watch." He says tartly, pointedly grabbing his clean shirt and shoving his arms into his sleeves.

"It's not – eww, dude, seriously, not that. It's just, you okay Man?" Andy's eyes are still trained on Dean's chest and he glances down, frowning, to see what the fuck's so interesting.

"Just peachy." Dean frowns. "Seriously, what the Hell?"

"Mmmhmm, you look about ready to teach kids about not hitting on their girlfriends for TV."

Dean looks back down at his chest and then back up, feeling decidedly lost in this conversation, despite it's shortness.

"You wouldn't need make up to star in a PSA on domestic abuse." Andy translates helpfully.

"Yeah, got that." Dean glances down again, then starts pointedly buttoning his shirt in an attempt to bring an end to this conversation. "You two are insane, you know that right?"

And alright, he's got a few bruises, maybe more than he'd realised or noticed, but it's not like he's black and blue or anything and come on, they're talking about Cas here. Cas! Who makes his staff catch spiders to release outside rather than stepping on them like a sane person!

Andy and Ash are still staring at him when he turns back around from doing up his tie in the mirror, which, he thinks sourly, probably explains why Andy got shoved in his locker so much at High School.

"It's called a sex life, Jesus Fucking Christ." Dean tucks his shirt in, grabs his jacket, and slams his locker shut. "You two might want to see about getting one."

Of course, because cops gossip like teenage girls, and because this is Dean's life they're talking about, that's not the end of it.

The fact that the address scrawled inside a small teal platypus has the words I'm so sorry, Dean scrawled underneath cannot be a good sign, and Dean pulls up outside the small, white house and its overgrown garden with the feeling that something is wrong, really wrong, already gnawing at his gut.

No one answers when he knocks, but there's a smell of smoke in the air and that's enough to give them probable cause to kick down the door and fuck the warrant. Mosley'll get em one anyway. Dean coughs as he steps into the house, a thin haze of smoke clogging the air, curling in the streams of light through the open windows.

Dean pulls his shirt up over his nose, breathing through the fabric, and gestures for Jo to go left while he goes right. The bottom floor is clear, silent and empty and almost unnaturally neat and tidy, like whoever lives here decorated out of an IKEA catalogue and hasn't used it since, all white lines and overly priced chairs with unusual shapes.

Something is dripping, somewhere, the drips over loud in the silence and spaced just far enough apart that he starts to think its stopped just before the next one plinks against his eardrum. It sets Dean's teeth on edge, makes his stomach tighten further and makes him take point on their way up the stairs, guns in hand as they move.

The smell of smoke is stronger upstairs, makes Dean's chest tighten as he struggles to keep his breathing even. Fire, smoke, they're always reminders, always send him back to Dad shoving Sammy into his arms, the urgency in his tone and words - Take your brother outside as fast as you can! Don't look back! Now, Dean, go! – the heat coming down the hall and the red-orange of the flames, flickering and sending angry, changing shadows up the walls as he half-tumbled down the stairs-

The top step creaks under his weight, too loud in the still silence, and Dean curses under his breath, pulls himself back to the now as he creeps down the hallway, pushing doors open to check they're clear.

Dean can smell burned meat and hair.

The door at the end is open, and as they approach, Dean can make out fragments of bloody words on the wall, slowly resolving themselves into a question as he draws closer.

DO I HAVE YOUR ATTENTION NOW, DEAN?

Blood drips onto his face, splashing across his cheek and nose and Dean's eyes lift even as his stomach tries to crawl out of his feet and his brain starts looping on nonononononononononononononononononononono.

There's not much left, scraps of white fabric and burnt flesh, a few strands of blonde hair and beading blood, the occasional flash of white bone where the flesh had been devoured, a vaguely human shape in a large burned circle.

Dean doesn't remember much of the next few hours – vague impressions, mostly. Almost bowling Jo over as he'd bolted past, the grass under his knees and fingers and the heaving of his chest as he'd thrown up over the too-green, too-perfect lawn. Jo's mouth moving as she stared down at him, saying words that didn't register, didn't seem to make sound. Bobby peering at him with his hand a heavy weight on Dean's shoulder as he sat half-in half-out of the Impala, the words painfully sharp and jagged-edged, cutting through the roaring in Dean's ears as he says "You alright, son?" Adler and Blake going past with the gurney, the red and blue flash of police cars. A blur of faces past the cordon, excited chatter of vultures more concerned with the gossip and scandal than the fact that someone died, died horribly because he hadn't –

Jo's saying something, her lips are moving. Her brow's furrowed, something etched across her features that Dean can't figure out. There's a smear of blood on her cheek and Dean's shoulders heave and heave and heave but there's nothing left, the bitter tang of bile and sick still on his tongue as he scrubs at his face, tries to get the blood off his skin but it won't, it's too deep, sealed in.

Dean's not really sure how he got back to the station, but he must have, cause he's in his chair and behind his desk and that stain on the wall is familiar, the bright colours of the origami herd on his shelf too vivid, painfully vibrant against the pale walls. People keep stopping by to give him concerned looks, their voices muffled and far-off and they leave again. Dean can't tell if he's responded or not, if he manages to make his mouth form sounds that are coherent.

Jo pushes a cup of coffee into his hands, wraps his fingers around it when he doesn't respond and he stares at it, watching the steam blankly until it cools. Sometime later she comes back to frown at him, hands on her hips and expression somewhere between irritated and concerned, and Dean can't be bothered to figure out why.

The retreating sound of her footsteps as she leaves again is too loud, echoes oddly in the recesses of his skull. The footsteps are back too soon, send ripples through the blank calmness of his brain that cross and distort and shiver into formlessness just in time for the next foot to fall. The pattern is odd, the rhythm off, and Jo suddenly seems to have more feet than Dean recalls her having in the past.

Fingers brush against his, lightly, unwind them from around the coffee cup, rub small circles across the back of his hands, soothing patterns, brief order imposed over calm chaos. A flash of worried blue eyes slowly resolves itself into Cas kneeling in front of him, peering up at him, and Dean gives up on holding himself upright, rigid, slumping forward until his forehead lands on Cas' shoulder, nose pressing under his soft white collar.

Jo corners him at his desk to insist that if Dean needs someone to talk to about... things or y'know, if he and Cas are having issues or Dean's having second thoughts or whatever, she's there and when Dean finally figures out what the he'll she's going on about and snaps that Oh my fucking God, Cas is not abusing him, Jo just raises an eyebrow and reaches out to prod him under the ribs.

"Take your shirt off and say that, Winchester."

Which, just - fuck his life.

It's a nice weekend. Bobby has threatened to bust his ass down to parking violations if he so much as thinks he's seen Dean near the station and Cas has backed him and implied he may withhold sex if Dean violates the enforced holiday. Dean's kinda horrified at the thought of those two forming some sort of unholy alliance, but it's not like there's really a whole lot he can do about it.

Dean figures he'll just spend the weekend going over the papers he's got at home, maybe dig out the city map in his glove box and start replotting abduction sites, murder sites and victim's homes in case he can spot something he missed the other four dozen times. It turns out Cas isn't above playing dirty though, his hands slipping lower and his mouth wandering more pointedly over Dean's skin when ever Dean so much as glances towards his files, and that generally ends with them fucking themselves into some sort of sex-coma. Which Dean's not complaining about at all really, but frankly someone is out there killing people and that's probably just a tad more important than his sex life.

He points this out to Cas, but Dean's probably undermined his own point because Cas is still in him and Dean's got a leg around him to keep him there. Cas just huffs damp air tiredly against his neck and mumbles something about Dean not being any good to anyone if he works himself to death into his shoulder.

And then the bastard falls asleep on (in) him.

Dean shifts tentatively but Cas mumbles a sleepy complaint and tightens his arms possessively, uncomfortably strong, so he's kinda stuck. He sighs, breath ruffling Cas' hair, and presses his lips to Cas' temple as he manages to get snag the remote with the very tips of his fingers and drag it closer, ignoring the dark strands tickling his nose.

Dr Sexy's on to his delight and Dean cards his fingers through slightly sweat-damp hair as he watches, causing it to stick up in all directions. It's not exactly the most physically comfortable position – his thighs are starting to ache from being spread to make room for Cas – but it's comfortable in other ways he's been avoiding examining too closely.

Dr Piccolo's booty calling one of the new interns (it's not going to last, she's just rebounding from Dr Sexy, and if they don't get back together by season's end Dean will eat his badge without ketchup) when Cas stirs slightly, shifting as he murmurs something and nuzzles against Dean's neck, hips rocking minutely. Dean can feel him hardening again, expanding until Dean is full, so full, and it's not exactly pleasant but it's hinting at something; Cas just keeps rocking so gently, shallowly, without any real rhythm and Dean bites back a frustrated growl at the unfilled promise there.

Dean frowns and turns his head to peer awkwardly at Cas, but his lashes are still peaceful dark crescents against his cheek, his breath still deep against Dean's neck, despite the occasional breathy moan or hitch in his breath. Cas is more grinding against his ass than anything else, and it's driving Dean slowly crazy, these brief, teasing almost-there hints that aren't ever quite delivered on.

Dean flicks his tongue over Cas' ear, tries a Cas that just makes him murmur in response and make an odd, strangled sigh until Dean repeats it slightly louder, tugging his lobe gently between his teeth for a moment.

Cas makes a pleasantly startled oh sound that Dean knows too well and snuffle-nuzzles against his neck briefly before he starts moving almost lazily, slip-sliding in his own cum and pre-used lube and Dean's still half-loose and fucked open, so there's an ache, yeah, but it's the good sort, and Dean's always liked a bit of left over burn, a living reminder of where he got it, and it's good like this too, burn and stretch and memory mingling with the feel of Cas' mouth, all reverence-want-control down his neck, Cas' hands on his skin, carefully gentle like Dean's something precious, laced with guilt and possessiveness when they brush over the bruises and bites left when Cas had lost it a little earlier.

It's slow and gentle and easy, and Dean just lifts his hips a little and trusts that Cas will get him there.

The next body is called in by a member of the public, a woman who'd returned from a holiday with her young son to find a murdered corpse in her living room.

Dean's tense on the way over, responding with grunts to most of Jo's analysis of the call and background on the witness. It's the first body that hasn't come from Thursday and something about that isn't sitting right with Dean. His gut's telling him that something is wrong, really wrong, and after last time he's wound close to snapping point, hands too tight on the steering wheel and foot finding the accelerator and brake a little too fast and hard.

He's pissed too, pissed that this guy's good enough to kill a handful of people without leaving a trace behind, not a single shred of evidence besides the corpse and a bloody message. Pissed that he isn't good enough to catch the mother fucking bastard with all the resources of the Edge City PD at his fingertips.

The body's in a ring of salt this time, the white stained red where the pool of blood is pushing the constrains of the circle. Dean's eyes snap automatically to the wall behind the corpse, the red smears forming the words TICK TOCK, TICK TOCK over the pale blue paint, smeared indiscriminately over wall and family photo alike.

It's not until Dean rounds the circle, squatting down carefully outside the salt line to get a better look at the situation, not until after he catalogues the variety of stab wounds to the victim's chest and how none of her clothing is askew, and how she doesn't seem to have been posed so much as allowed to fall, that he looks at her face and his stomach twists.

Dean curses viciously, swearing a blue streak because that's Ava, who works for Cas on the weekends and fucking Hell, he wants this bastard's guts.

Dean goes to tell Cas by himself.

Technically, he's supposed to take Jo with him, have someone else there to make the testimony legal and all. But, as Dean tells Bobby, he's not going to fucking interrogate his boyfriend (and if he stumbles a little on the word, well, he's new at this and Cas never has to know); he's just going to be a shoulder and possibly provide some sympathy sex.

Jo's looking at him funny, like she can't believe he just said that, like she's exasperated and amused all at once. It's a look she wears a lot around him, now that he thinks about it.

Dean raises an eyebrow at her.

"What?"

"You're cute when you try to deny your Epic Gay Romance."

"I'm fricking adorable. It's a gift."

Jo rolls her eyes and throws a ball of paper at him. It's stupid and juvenile and probably all sorts of shades of inappropriate, but it's them and it's how they deal. And it's way better for their livers than drinking themselves to death .

Dean throws it back. Jo's eyes narrow as her hand nudges towards it until Bobby cuffs Dean over the back of the head.

"You two want to try pretending you’re adults for five minutes? Idjits."

"Ow," Dean complains, and gives Bobby a wounded look. "She started it."

"I don't hit girls, Winchester."

Jo smirks across her desk at him and sticks her tongue out as Bobby continues.

"And if you're planning on going to play Romeo on my time, you'd better scram before I change my mind."

Cas isn't at The Station House and Becky says she hasn't seen him all day, then tries to corral him into looking at some story she's writing. It has the word clavicle in it, and one of the characters is called Dean, which is all sorts of messed up, and Dean isn't above beating a retreat when it's called for.

There's no answer when Dean knocks on Cas' door either, but it's open, so after a moment's hesitation he lets himself in with a tentative "Cas?"

It turns out he's in the kitchen, and the proliferation of dishes on the counter suggests he's been there for some time. He jumps slightly when Dean walks up behind him and rests a hand on the small of his back. It earns him a brief glare before Cas exhales slowly and gives him a tight smile, tense around the eyes.

"Dean."

Dean frowns slightly and rubs his thumb over the knots of Cas' spine, trying to ease some of the tension out of his frame.

"Hey baby." Dean's tone is careful as he shifts to loop an arm around Cas' waist, leaning in to press a kiss under his jaw.

"You should be at work." Cas says after a few moments, fingers still gripping the counter tightly.

"So should you."

Cas makes an irritated noise in the back of his throat and pulls away, still not meeting Dean's eye.

"As you have pointed out on multiple occasions, one of the benefits of owning my own business, Dean, is that my hours are at my own discretion."

Dean's frown deepens as he leans against the kitchen island, watching Cas pull things out of the cupboards without any particular method Dean can see but a great deal of noise.

It's not until he catches another glance at Cas' face, drawn into a tense smile over a haggard, aged look that he gets it, pushes himself off the counter.

"You know."

Castiel has always been terrible at lying, like it's some alien concept he's never quite managed to wrap his head around, so Dean can read it in the way his back turns into a solid, stiff mass of knots, the way his shoulders pull tight and curl inwards and his fingers clench in the fabric of his work slacks for a moment before relaxing, can see through Cas' irritable "Know what, Dean?" without effort.

Dean's been moving without really registering it, so he's close enough to Cas to reach out and yank him around by the shoulder, force Cas to face him. It's harder than it should be, Cas too-solid and completely immovable under his hand and for a moment he thinks Cas isn't going to so much as shift before suddenly the resistance is just gone.

"Know why I'm here."

And God, there's something final in the air here, some edge that makes Dean's insides tighten and his chest feel too tight, makes it feel like there's not enough air in his lungs and there's a cliff somewhere up ahead and he should just stop but he still can't help running pell-mell towards it.

Dean doesn't want to know, can feel it in every nerve, that warning, that spidey-sense that something is lurking that's going to punch him in the gut or rip him to pieces. He has to know, now, has to know it's not, not what he's thinking, even as he knows it's not, but he needs the confirmation, needs Cas to say it, needs some explanation, some piece of logic he can apply here to make his world make sense again.

Cas' gaze flickers for a moment, then drops and either Mr. King-Of-The-Eyefuck is suddenly shy of eye contact or he's hiding something, and Dean would bet the Impala it's the latter. He ducks his head to find it again, drags Cas' reluctant gaze back up, drags it up and holds it until Cas yields, voice low and hoarse.

"Yes."

"You know?"

"I know."

"About Ava?"

"About..." Something pinches at Cas' features, draws them tighter and deepens the worn lines around his eyes and the furrows of his brow. "Yes."

Part of Dean wants to go back to Plan: Comfort and the holding and possible sex contained within, but the part of his brain that actually works, that makes him so damn good at his job and worries away at hunches until it's all suddenly clear is screaming as it puts together pieces of the puzzle – Cas knowing details about a closed murder scene, asking him out on the day they'd found the first body - the day Dean had been assigned this case, the way he'd insist Dean take time off the case, not work at it too hard...

Fuck. Fuckfuckfuckfuckingfuck.

Dean feels sick, like he's got food poisoning and been kneed in the groin simultaneously, and God he should have known, because the only time Dean Winchester gets nice things is when the Universe wants him to lower his guard so it can kick him in the balls.

"How?"

Cas says nothing, mouth tightening as his fingers grip the edge of the counter, grip hard enough to make the linoleum groan in protest. Dean startles at the noise, gaze flickering from Cas' face to his hands and back with evident unease.

"How." Dean crowds closer, puts years of interrogation room experience into getting everything he can out of his extra inch in height, looming a little larger.

Cas' eyes narrow dangerously as his lips thin, nostrils flaring angrily at the unconscious attempt to intimidate, but the truly pissed-off glare that's slowly burning through Dean's skin is at odds with the whisper that slips past his lips.

"Dean." His name is soft, pleading in a way that's got nothing to do with weakness or yielding. "Please don't."

Dean's eyes close (just for a moment), anger leeching into aching, numbing, echoing emptiness, leaving him feeling hollow and carved out in ways that are too-familiar, too-reminiscent of the cracks and fractures Sam and his drugs and his absence left behind and it scares him. That Cas is that close, is far enough under his skin to drag that back up again – that terrifies him.

His pulse is racing in his ears, too fast and erratic as he draws a breath, exhausting and strained. "Cas." His eyes are still closed, he realises, and it's hard to open them, to force himself to look at Cas, like if he doesn't look, if he can't see Cas lie, if he can't see the guilt in his eyes, then it's not there, not real. The words catch in his throat, come out with a careful control he hadn't known he possessed. "I need you to tell me how you know about Ava. We haven't... nothing about that scene's been released. I- God, Cas, you gotta give me something here, something else, cause all I can think is that you..."

Cas surprises him though; there's nothing in his expression to make Dean think he's trying to bluff, no reaction beyond a flash of hurt and a bitter quirk to his lips. Cas has always been stoic, though, able to go blank and unresponsive and icy at the blink of an eye, but this isn't that, he doesn't think.

"You think I-" His lips thin. "You honestly believe that I am capable of that?"

Every inch of Dean wants to say no, say Cas could never, would never.

But.

But.

"I-" he swallows, can't meet Cas' eyes where they're boring into his skin. "I can't see how else you'd..."

There's silence for a moment, then Castiel's fingers are resting on his cheek, calloused pad of his thumb over Dean's lips.

"I'm the vigilante, Dean." There's a faint curl to his lips, bitter and hurt and sadly fond all at once. "You called me Thursday."

Dean's mind is a jumbled, discordant mess of buts and whys and what the fuck. Cas is watching him, carefully, like he's – like he's a fucking deer or rabbit that might bolt if Cas moves so much as an inch closer, and that was really an image he could have done without, him as Bambi. Or Thumper.

They've ended up on the couch, because sometime after finding out his boyfriend has superpowers, (which makes Dean the Mary Jane of this comic, Jesus Fucking Christ) he'd felt a pressing need to sit the hell down. Unlike usual, where they end up crammed together in a tangle of limbs, chasing glimpses and hints of skin with the television ignored in the background, there's a careful distance between them, Dean squished as far as he can get against the arm of the chair, nails digging into the fabric as he sits, angled away from the other end of the couch and its occupant.

"So, what, you got bitten by a radioactive spider and it just slipped your mind?" Dean is aware that he sounds butthurt. He figures he's allowed.

The vaguely irritated noise Cas makes at the back of his throat suggests he disagrees, but frankly, Dean's still feeling put out enough that that means squat right now.

"I wasn't made- I don't have a- an origin." Castiel says the word like it's distasteful. "I'm not something from a comic book, Dean. I was born like this."

Dean eyes the large wings currently wrapped awkwardly around the other man, black feathers threaded with ripples of blue turning him into a inky shadow.

"Bet your mother was thrilled."

Castiel's glare is incendiary.

"My wings didn't... manifest immediately. I fell out of a tree when I was eight and they –" the wings flare out slightly in demonstration "My parents," the word is half spat out, like it'll burn his mouth if he takes his time "Left my brother – my twin – with the neighbours and took me to the hospital."

"Not out of any particular concern for my wellbeing, you understand, but because of the Safe Haven Law."

Dean frowns, opens his mouth to say something and shuts it again. The Safe Haven Law guaranteed that the State would take in children left at Churches and Hospitals, no questions asked. It was intended for infants, but there were still a handful or two of older children left each year with notes pinned to their shirts. The State would open an inquiry, the act of abandonment would prove the parents unfit caregivers, and the child became a ward.

Cas is glaring at him again, jaw tight and mouth drawn tight, pinched. His eyes are red, Dean notices suddenly, the lids having that rubbed raw look. Like maybe - and Dean's an idiot - like maybe he's been crying.

Like maybe someone died.

He should move closer, close the distance and wrap his arms around Cas as well as he can with those huge things in the way.

Instead, he says "Cas..." and trails off in a way even he can tell is kinda awkward, hands twisted together in his lap.

Cas' lips somehow manage to thin further as he stands abruptly, wings vanishing back into his skin with a vague woomph as air rushes to fill the newly created void.

"I can't deal with this right now, Dean. Please excuse me."

Dean sits there, watching the door Cas had vanished through for a long few minutes before he gathers himself to leave. He makes it about halfway downstairs before he sighs, turns around and follows after Cas.

Dean gets into the office early the next day, early enough that there's not too many people around. Not that the station is ever empty, or even less than half full, but it is comparatively quiet, once he gets past the bustle of the front desk and the stairs down to the cells.

Still, there's enough people around that he gets a few tired heys on his way to his desk, and enough that his pulse is fluttering rapidly as he pulls up Cas' record, printing it and quickly skimming the screen. There's nothing particularly exciting; a record of Cas' abandonment, a note that he'd been put into the care of someone named Joshua Granger a few weeks later. School and University information; scrupulous business records. He'd never had so much as a parking ticket.

It's three days later when he finds the it and the ground crumbles to quicksand under him.

Dean's spent two days poring over newspaper articles. The floor of his flat has been recarpeted in a spill of print outs and newspaper clippings, red marker circles and illegible scrawls. Ruby, after getting tossed unceremoniously off his notes for the umpteenth time, had retreated to the loft with an indignant hiss and ruffled calico fur to glare down at him from between the bars.

Dean sighs and leans back into the couch, dragging a hand down his face slowly as his eyes rasp closed, dry and burning from lack of sleep and staring at too-fine print for hours on end. Words seem to be imprinted on his eyelids, hovering over the red tracks of blood vessels in too-bright white. MURDER, EIGHT DEAD, INEXPLICABLE CAUSES.

His eyes fly open again and the words are still there, surrounding him from the sea of paper that's consumed the living room, some circled in red, some in the bold, accusing letters of newspaper titles.

He'd nearly missed it. It hadn't been in Cas' file, hadn't even been linked. Why, Dean doesn't know. Maybe standard practices were different back then, or maybe it was missed when the database was digitised. All he knows is that, somewhere in Cas' file, there should have been something about how his foster father and a handful of his foster siblings had wound up dead.

But Dean, more on a whim than anything, since there hadn't been anything in Cas' file to raise alarm, had given into temptation and had a look at Joshua Granger, the man who'd taken in the small, frightened child Cas must have been and raised him into... well, Cas.

There'd been an immediate slew of things popping up on his screen – Granger's death may have been ruled a heart attack by the coroner, but the cops had been suspicious. Not so much because of Granger's death – he'd been old, his heart stopping wasn't anything that would have been classed out of the ordinary – except that, immediately before his demise, one of his (many, multitudinal) foster children had been stabbed in the heart and six other (otherwise completely healthy) teenage wards had just had their hearts... stop.

No trauma, no poisons or drugs that the ME had been able to find. They'd just... stopped.

In the end, with no evidence of foul play on any of the victims but Tessa Mortes, the stabbed girl, and no leads presenting themselves or anything forensically viable presenting itself, the investigation had eventually been shelved, pushed aside as newer, easier crimes took its place.

The odds against someone being connected to two sets of independent murders are astronomical. Dean had taken some seminars at the FBI when he got promoted from uniform to detective, and apparently he'd completely failed to pay any attention at all, or he'd be dumping all these papers on DA Mosley's desk in exchange for a warrant.

It's all circumstantial, of course, and it's not like he could exactly put well, he can fly and apparently there's some weird thought-sensing empathy crap, so maybe he can stop hearts, too into evidence. He'd be the one committed.

And then there's the fact that it's Cas, and beyond any feelings Dean may be harbouring, it's Cas, who can't lie for trying, who's ridiculously nice even to spiders, and who gets so damn guilty every time he slips even a little and leaves another mark on Dean's (generally all too willing, if he's being honest) skin.

And Dean doesn't actually know what he's going to do. He couldn't ignore the cop side, the side that sat in those FBI lectures and took notes, the side that made him print out all those articles instead of just closing the window and pretending he'd never seen them, but he'd been tempted. So fucking tempted. He's still tempted, honestly, tempted to feed them through the shredder and burn the strips.

Thing is, Dean's just not sure he can take it. Mostly, he's gotten around by just denying to himself, and everyone else, the way in which Sam's departure had left him fractured, riddled with faults, like if you put a light on him you'd be able to see it shining through the cracks, see all the lines he'd break along if something pushed too hard.

And whichever way this goes... it's going to be like prying at the edges with a crowbar. It's not like he can exactly turn around and say whoops, sorry I thought you were a serial killer (again), we're cool right? and expect to go back to watching classic Dr Who while squished on the couch until it devolves into sex counterpointed by the electronic voices of Daleks shrieking Exterminate! Exterminate! in the background.

Dean sighs and scrubs at his eyes again, trying to push away that train of thought like his fingers can reach into his brain and rebury it. Maybe, maybe he should try and get some sleep, come back with a fresh eye in the morning, but he just keeps thinking that if he looks just a little harder, a little longer, he'll find it, that tiny little piece that doesn't fit, the grain of sand that halts the cogs of his (hopefully insane) theory.

Seven hours later, with daylight streaming through his window, Dean still hasn't found any odd pieces – or had any sleep, so it probably isn't surprising that it takes him a few moments to identify that the sound at his door is someone knocking.

Dean's actually fairly certain he's hallucinating the sight of Cas on his doorstep, battered old trench coat pulled tight around him in the cold, because he's holding coffee. He can't even bring himself to care that it might be evil serial killer coffee.

Cas surrenders the cup easily, huffing slightly in amusement and it certainly doesn't taste like hallucinatory coffee. It's hot and probably not decaf (Dean wouldn't put it past the tricky bastard) and perfect.

"You haven't been at work." Cas breaks the silence eventually, a faint crease between his brows as he raises a hand, brushing gentle fingertips over the dark shadows under Dean's eye, the rough growth of stubble on his cheek.

Dean flinches away, leaving Cas' hand hanging in the air between them for a moment before he pulls it back, gripping the fabric of his trench, eyes wide with hurt. Dean closes his eyes for a moment, swallowing against the urge to take it back. "I had to think."

When he opens his eyes again, Cas is still staring up at him, hand clenching and unclenching agitatedly in the fabric. After another drawn out moment of silence, Cas drops his gaze, staring at his own fingers twisting in his coat, tongue flicking over his lip nervously.

"Is it really so horrible? What I am? My – differences?"

It takes Dean a few seconds to figure out what Cas is talking about, to drag his mind from the papers behind him to their last conversation, nearly a week ago. He opens his mouth to say something, deny it, because no matter how many limbs Cas has, he's still gorgeous – and Dean could see himself being smugly proud of that, under other circumstances, in a my boyfriend has better appendages than yours way – but ends up shaking his head mutely.

Cas doesn't look particularly convinced, so Dean manages an awkward "It's not – it's something else." and takes a step back so Cas can enter.

Dean can see Cas sizing him up - that look that cuts right through him, the one that suggests Cas is weighing his soul and trying to decide if he's worth it - as he hesitates on the doorstep. It's a long moment before he takes the step, just brushing against Dean.

Dean shuts the door, lets his head rest against the solid wood for a moment before he turns around. Cas has halted at the edge of Dean's battered lino, staring across the sea of paper. Dean moves to stand beside him, silently, resisting the urge to rest a light hand in the small of his back, just to feel that he's there.

"Dean," Cas' voice is suddenly hoarse, tense and rough and unhappy as he stares down at a clipping – a shot of the house, Dean notices. "What is this?"

"You tell me." Two days ago, the words would have been furious, snapped and demanding and pissed off. Yesterday, they'd have been bitter and sarcastic, perhaps capped with a scathing pop culture reference that would have gone entirely over Cas' head. Ten hours ago, pleading. Now, though – now they're just numbly, exhaustedly, flat.

Cas' brow creases as he peers up at Dean, crowding closer and staring at – through – Dean in evident puzzlement. The change from searching uncertainty to intense, hurt, glaring.

"I have told you once before, Dean, that I did not do this. Do not make me repeat it a third time. Joshua was the closest thing I had to a father and one of the best men I have ever had the fortune to know; there is little I would not have given to save him, if I had had the opportunity."

Dean found himself up against the end of the counter, the edge digging into the palms of his hands where they're gripping hard.

"I-" Dean stops, catches his lip between his teeth. And – well, Cas is a terrible liar, and he rescues insects and – and he's Cas, and it's really hard to doubt him when he's this close, all wide blue eyes and pretty much dripping honesty onto Dean's floor, and it's kinda hard to think on all the reasons he had lined up in his head when Cas is looking at him like that.

The sigh that gusts from Castiel's lips is sharp edged with exasperation. "I'm not going anywhere, Dean. Go to sleep and we'll talk once you're coherent again."

And then, because Cas can be an impatient, bossy asshole when he chooses, and despite Dean's mouth opening to protest that he's just fine, thanks, Cas' fingers push against his forehead and the world goes black.

Dean wakes up slowly, warm and comfortable. There's an arm looped around his back, fingertips brushing lazily back and forth across his hip, the rise and fall of a chest under his head. It's familiar, reassuring, and for a moment he stretches lazily, feeling the drag of Cas against him before he relaxes again, nuzzling closer, half thinking about just going back to sleep and pretending, just like he does every morning, that he's not cuddling Cas.

Which is pretty much, of course, when his brain sees fit to remind him of a few pertinent facts.

Dean jerks away, suddenly, scrubbing at his eyes hard enough that they blur again, dry and sandy under his lids, as he sits up, moving to swing his legs off the side of the bed. He's still clothed, he notes somewhere in the back of his head, but mostly, mostly he's focused on the fact that Castiel used his fucking mind voodoo on him.

"You-" Dean starts, voice rough with sleep and catching in his throat. "You fucking mojoed me."

There's a rustle behind him, and something heavy settles around his shoulders in a way that is obviously supposed to be comforting, but when he glances down, the black and blue spill of feathers, ruffled messily along the top edge before they blend into a sleek blanket, is simply another reminder of Cas' differences – and, therefore, his use of them.

Against Dean.

"You needed sleep." Castiel doesn't sound particularly contrite.

"So you... magically rohypnoled me?!" Dean turns to stare at him, eyes wide. "Jesus Fucking Christ, Castiel."

"I assure you, your virtue is intact." It's snapped, sharp-edged and aching. "You obviously hadn't slept in days, you were barely awake, and all I did was calm your mind so you'd stop fighting it and look after yourself for once in your damn life."

Dean glares at Cas; Cas glares back. The tableau continues, unbroken, for long moments until Cas looks away, mouth tugging down at the corners.

"I am sorry you feel that I... crossed a line, Dean, but I do not regret my actions in any way except that they hurt you. You needed sleep." Castiel huffs in irritation and looks up, meeting Dean's gaze through his lashes and that is just not fair. "And you... you play havoc with my ability to think clearly."

The last is half a whisper, a hushed admission that just cracks through Dean's anger, leaves him slumped and raw and weary, perched on the edge of the bed and wrapped in Cas' feathers.

Dean has no idea where to go from here.

There's a faint rustle of blankets and feathers as Castiel moves, resettling next to Dean and reaching out to take one of Dean's hand between his own. He brushes his lips against Dean's knuckles with a faint smile before drawing their joined hands into his lap, staring down at them for a long time before he speaks.

"I never killed anyone, Dean."

Dean exhales slowly, drags his free hand through his hair before letting it drop; Cas' fingers tighten around his hand – possessive, clinging or reassuring, Dean can't really tell.

"I know." And he does, mostly, it's just that his head got all twisted and it had been so unthinkable that he hadn't been able to help thinking what if? "I just – you know that quote? 'Lies, damned lies and statistics?' I thinks it's Hemingway? One of those dudes anyway. It just... the statistics got me all turned around and I just kinda couldn't remember that statistics are pretty much useless in an individual case."

Cas doesn't say anything for a moment, the silence broken only by the faint rustle of feathers that accompanies every slight movement.

"It was Mark Twain." He murmurs, eventually, relaxing slightly into Dean's side, a warm line against down his arm. Castiel sighs after a moment, brushing his lips against Dean's forehead in a soft, dry kiss.

"I was out at the time." He says, softly. "Gabriel, Michael and I – we snuck out to go see a movie. When we got home... There were lights everywhere, sirens, police tape. Joshua had a lot of foster children... most of them were on the other side of the manor, some had scattered... some, of course, were..." he trails off for a moment, and Dean pulls him closer, moving them so they're lying down, Cas curled against his side and using him as a pillow, one wing spilling across the bed and floor, the other draped over Dean like a particularly affectionate blanket, holding Dean tight against Castiel.

"The police... they just kept coming back, with question after question after question... I know they were trying to do their job, but... it was hard on us. Being forced to dredge that up over and over again. Being asked to turn on each other, to say the others were troubled, were possible suspects... we were foster children, Dean, more than that we were foster children who were different. We were all troubled to some extent."

Dean doesn't say anything, there doesn't seem to be much he can say. He's always known that murder investigations were pretty much Hell on the family; but it's been something he's known at a certain distance, shielded from by his badge and formalities, apologies held before him like a warrant to intrude on their grief. No one likes it, but it's a necessary evil in the course of stopping a larger one, not one he's ever questioned before.

Castiel doesn't resume talking again for a long moment, his hand moving restlessly over Dean's torso, dragging Dean's shirt up his chest until feathers tickle at his stomach and make him squirm.

"Those of us who were old enough got ourselves emancipated. We did what we could for the others but... they went back into the foster system, became scattered... we didn't have the resources..."

"Gabriel, Michael and I... we came here. We were scared... terrified, that whoever it was, would find us... Gabriel said it had to have been one of us, one of the kids Joshua had taken in. We all had abilities – someone without one, they wouldn't have been able to cut through so many of us, he said. I hoped – still hope, that it was an outsider."

Cas makes a small noise when Dean strokes his back, fingers just brushing the soft feathers at the join of back and wing. He snatches it away at the noise, mumbling an apology as he glances down to find himself the focus of an irritated blue gaze. For a moment, Dean thinks he's crossed some line, some unwritten rule about wing-touching... until Cas arches up, pushing a wing joint against his hand demandingly and makes a pleased sound when Dean takes the hint, nudging his fingers gently among the mess of feathers.

Castiel picks up the thread of his narration after a moment. "We gave up our powers for the most part... they seemed like too much risk, when we didn't know if we were being hunted."

Dean pauses briefly in his petting, tucking his chin onto his chest so he can peer down at him.

"So, what, you went into power withdrawal and thought a gig as a vigilante was just what you needed?"

It takes a brief second or two for Cas to figure out he's teasing, which is probably inappropriate for this conversation but hell, there's only so long Dean can go in a serious conversation – or whatever this is, given that conversations tend to have two sides and this is pretty much Cas stringing more words together in a row than Dean's ever heard before.

What he's not prepared for is that after Cas huffs brief amusement into his shirt, relaxing against him from a tension Dean hadn't really noticed, he looks up to stare at Dean, that arresting, impossible-to-break eye contact that pins him in place, gives extra weight to his words until they punch through Dean's chest and make it hard to breathe.

"No, Dean. I did it for you – all of it, for you. I met you, and you were kind... and righteous... and beautiful. And if I could, I wanted to help you."

Dean's starting to see a pattern here because his comment about who the hell says righteous anymore and, y'know, he could handle his own damn job gets cut off by the sudden, insistent slide of Castiel's mouth against his, focused and determined as always, taking advantage of Dean's attempts to continue with his sentence to steal into his mouth and lick at the roof of his mouth.

And, okay, he's an idiot because he's still trying to speak while Cas is snaking a hand into his hair and tugging Dean's lower lip between his teeth but when did Cas become the guy who'd rather have sex then talk about his feelings anyway? Cas draws back after a moment, frowning at Dean like it's Dean's fault he's not quite caught up when Cas had just skipped like... twelve steps on the program without warning.

"We're done with the discussion now, Dean." Cas informs him, and Dean is totally not this whipped, but he's a guy so yeah, sex trumps talking. Especially when Cas is sucking on his tongue, making those happy little sounds as Dean hauls him more firmly on top, hands sliding down to rest in the small of Cas' back, and kisses him back more slowly, soothing the head long rush Cas seems determined on setting.

Turns out? There are serious advantages to sleeping with an empath.

Serious ruined-for-all-others type advantages.

And if the feedback loop of cascading sensation does make things embarrassingly short – well, it's not like Dean has the braincells to complain.

Ten days later, Dean's almost used to waking up under a blanket of feathers, but at ass o'clock in the morning, thrown out of sleep by loud pounding on his door, it takes him a few sleep-hazed seconds to piece his blanket together with the body pressed against his back, breathing deep and even against his neck in the way that suggests Cas has chosen to partake of sleep for once, necessity or no.

Someone bangs again, louder and more demanding this time, and he yells out a demand for them to keep their fucking pants on, he's coming already.

Cas is blinking at him from the nest of blankets when he turns around from attempting to find his pants in the dark, managing to turn up nothing more than a pair of boxers he used to sleep in. At this time of the night, they'll fucking do. Dean sighs and leans over to press a kiss to his forehead.

"You should pull these in." He murmurs, brushing his fingers against Cas' wing in explanation, because the problem with a loft apartment is that it's not like there's a fucking bedroom door to pull closed to stop random people ogling your boyfriend's wings.

He can vaguely make out Cas frowning at him in the dim light, until whoever's at the door starts pounding again, when the feather he's touching abruptly vanishes.

Dean wanders down the stairs, blearily scratching at the sticky mess on his stomach. The pounding at the door is getting more insistent, loud enough that he'd be worried about the neighbours if he wasn't surrounded on all sides by workshops.

"Winchester, if you've hauled your ass back to bed I will-"

Jo shuts her trap when Dean jerks the door open to growl a pissed off "Fucking what?" at her, before it registers on him that she looks like she's been crying for the whole drive to his apartment.

He sighs, drags his hand through his hair (and regrets it as soon as he remembers what he'd just been scratching at) and stands aside to let her in.

"Alright Probie, what happened?"

When Jo doesn't even manage to muster up her usual half-irritated scowl at the name, Dean braces himself.

"He got Wolfe, Dean."

Madison. Jesus. Jesus. Madison. Maddy if you wanted to risk a sucker punch in the shoulder that'd leave your arm numb for hours, fingers tingling with the force. Madison who'd seemed so determined and stubborn to get it all right on her first day.

He can't stop staring at Jo's fingers, turning and twisting in the end of her ponytail, the motion hypnotic and numbly fascinating.

"How?"

Dean hadn't noticed Castiel coming down the stairs, clad in one of Dean's old AC/DC t-shirts and a pair of pyjama bottoms obviously gleaned from the drawers beside the bed, so the arm that slides around his waist almost causes him to jump. He turns his head, rests his forehead against Cas' temple for a short moment, before turning his gaze back to Jo, who's hesitating.

"He – ripped her heart out of her chest, Dean. And – and he said 'Why haven't you caught me yet?'"

Cas' arm tightens around his waist, hauling him back against the shorter man as he stares at Jo for a long moment.

"We're gonna get him, Probie. We're gonna get him, and he's gonna fry." Dean's hands are clenched, and he's literally shaking. "I'm going to get ready, and we are going to go down there, and we are going to find this bastard. And he. Will. Die." It's a promise, a vow, an oath, or maybe just a statement of fact, Dean's not sure, but no one messes with his family.

Jo says something about not calling her probie when Dean tells her to get the coffee ready on his way to the shower, and as he shuts the door, leaning up against it for a long handful of seconds, he hears Cas informing her that Rufus, Dean's first partner, still calls him Probie, which Dean kinda thinks is one of things he's going to come to regret having his partner know.

Castiel almost falls out of the air with the sudden onslaught of wrongness from below. Something down there is wrong, so wrong and twisted and... and evil that there just aren't other words. Metaphor and simile are all very well but sometimes they fail. He has never been a fan of either, in any case, preferring to state things as they are to avoid confusion.

After months of searching, it should be welcome, should be something to celebrate – finally, finally he has a lead, finally he has something, finally he can stop this – but the sickening waves just make him feel sick, rotten, weak, and his landing is sloppy as a result. He almost crashes, manages to pull up at the last moment, one wing clipping against a nearby wall and making him stumble and hiss quietly between his teeth as he retreats quickly back into the shadows, wrapping them around himself until he's nothing but a slightly darker patch in the darkness.

It is difficult to get a read on the wrongness, to get any sort of direction when it's washing over him so strongly. It is not as easy to attain the necessary focus these days, harder to push extraneous thoughts from his mind, to stop his other life from intruding when he locks it away with Dean's eyes on him, when Dean sneaks in to become part of this life as well.

His head is aching by the time he gets a fix he can follow, a faint light to follow through the seedy, grimy buildings he has landed amongst. There are other tugs at his mind down here, other interactions that he would have intervened in if he had time, if he dared to lose this lead.

He moves fast, darting from shadow to shadow until he swarms up a nearby wall to get back to the rooftops, where he can move even faster, can run without detection, wings folded back inside to stop them from dragging, flaring back into existence on the jumps between rooftops and vanishing again when he lands in mid-stride, following, always following the trace.

He drops back to the streets when he gets closer, moving more cautiously. He rounds a corner, breath caught in the back of his throat, but there's nothing there, nothing in the small alley. He frowns slightly, padding closer cautiously. The alley is as empty as he had assumed, but one of the doors is ajar, enough that he can slide through without disturbing it if he is very careful.

It's dark inside, but there's light ahead, unsteady and bright in a way that makes the darkness darker, safer. As he draws closer, creeping among the exposed ceiling beams, he can see a figure in the middle, back towards him, attention on something up ahead. Male, he notices, and large, but it's difficult to get much other detail even when the man turns, his features hidden by the hood of his sweatshirt.

The man is humming slightly to himself, some song that he can't identify, but his attention is mostly on the crumpled figure chained to the wall behind him, weight dragging against the chains and head lolling in a way that probably indicates either unconsciousness or death.

She's pretty, he notices detachedly, dark skin and hair and nice features.

The man is turning back to her now, cupping her chin to lift it as he examines her.

He drops when the man moves away from her again, propelling himself forward so he slams into the man at waist height and knocks him down, rolling clear and flipping onto his feet. He spins back around, blocking a strike at his side easily and kicking at a knee cap in retaliation. His opponent jumps out of the way clumsily, and he can't tell whether he's just dazed or doesn't have training. He pushes the advantage, pressing the larger man back until he stumbles over a piece of debris and his hood falls back.

He inhales sharply, eyes wide as he takes a step back. He's seen that face, seen it often enough in the past. Mornings, evenings, days in Dean's apartment with one photo in the place, sitting on the bookshelf between Dean's record collection and his books where Dean could look at it while pretending he was looking at something else entirely.

"Sam." He says, startled into breaking his policy of silence while masked.

Something unreadable flickers over Sam Winchester's face, a brief flash of something young and innocent chased away by something dark and ancient and evil, face twisting unsettlingly.

"No." He says, coolly. "But nice try."

Sam suddenly surges forward, his fist catching Castiel in the jaw and unprepared, hard enough that he staggers backwards, head cracking sharply against the brick, which fractures slightly, fault lines radiating out around him.

When Dean wakes up, morning sun shining in through the window, his first thought is nothing more alarming than the fact that he is so. Fucking. Late. Which is followed closely by annoyance that Cas had let him oversleep, another of those high handed assumptions that he knew better than Dean what he needed.

He stretches out an arm to feel around the mattress, planning to smack the first non-vital area of Cas he finds, but when his questing fingers find nothing but the slight roughness of cotton sheets he frowns and rolls over in the empty bed. Castiel's bedroom is sparse and utilitarian, mostly for show (and now, Dean) since Cas apparently doesn't actually need to sleep at all.

The rest of the apartment's as empty as the bed, and a cold, sick feeling starts to wiggle through his stomach. Dean fights it down, fumbling out his cell phone because Cas is probably just at work or something.

...Probably at work with a customer which is why he can't answer his phone.

Which he holds onto stubbornly until he thinks to check the hidden compartment at the back of Cas' wardrobe and finds his costume still missing.

At which point keeping calm? Not really an option.

He swallows, can't help thinking that maybe if he'd pushed for round three, rolled onto Cas and pressed kisses over his torso instead of letting him hide himself inside the suit, dragging charcoal and black fabric over his skin, over the nail and bite marks already healing on his skin. If he'd kept him Cas for the night, pliant and giving under him, rather than watched him pull Thursday's stiff dark mask over his eyes, shadowed further by the deep hood that turned his features into vague impressions, dipped his face into shadow until only the line of his jaw was discernible, turned him Nameless and unknowable, then he'd still be here, still be safe, rather than lost, somewhere out in the large, sprawling city that was playing host to one of the sickest bastards Dean had ever had the misfortune to cross paths with.

He skips showering - and the only reason he puts on clean clothing is that it's actually faster to get a clean set out of the wardrobe then to fuss around getting the clothes scattered over the floor sorted and right way out - and pulls into his spot at the station in a dangerous space of time. Thank God for sirens.

Officially, there's nothing he can do.

Officially, Cas isn't missing until 72 hours.

Unofficially, he has the electronic resources of the whole Edge City PD at his fingertips - as long as no one finds out.

The first thing Dean tries, after sprinting across the road to just make entirely certain that Cas isn't at work (he's not, and Lisa gives him concerned glances from behind the counter while Becky just stares until he's convinced he looks like he's totally flipped), is putting Cas' cell phone details into the tracking program.

It doesn't so much as raise a blip.

There's no activity on any of his cards newer than last night's dinner. There's nothing when Dean checks his call log, either from the apartment or his cell phone.

Of course, his behaviour doesn't go unnoticed. Not the searches; it's easy enough to hide those, though they might show up later if anyone bothers to check. It's unlikely, unless they have cause. No, it's the twitchiness, the bursting into the Station House, the mumbling excuses when Jo tries to pin him down on what he's up to.

Bobby drags it out of him - not the whole story, of course, but enough. That Cas had gone out last night and not come back, that he gets. That Dean had fallen asleep and not noticed he hadn't returned.

Bobby sends him home with platitudes that mean nothing and promises that mean less until the 72 hour period is up.

Dean makes it exactly as far as the bar at the Station House, Lisa giving him sympathetic smiles as she passes him beers and squeezing his shoulder encouragingly as she clears the empty bottles.

Lisa drops him off at his apartment early evening, steering him firmly out of the shop when he protests that he's not going anywhere.

The next day, still without word, Dean calls Ash and bribes him into doing an in-depth electronic search. He's surprised that it only costs him a six pack of beer, but then, everyone at the station knows Cas. He's Dean's little weirdo, but he's also their little weirdo, and after Madison, no one wants to take a chance, regs be damned. So maybe the beer's more a thank you for taking the risk than a bribe.

Ash calls back around sunset to say he's got nothing, nada, nought.

Dean asks him to look up an address, then grimly makes the hike back to work to pick up the Impala.

Gabriel's apartment is overly luxuriant, sharp contrast to the simple necessity of Cas'. The seat Dean is offered, after he banged on the door for several minutes before announcing to the eye staring at him through the peephole that Cas was missing and if he didn't open up, Dean was going to kick the fucking door down, is so overstuffed that Dean would be worried it was going to swallow him if he wasn't already so damn worried he could hardly see straight.

Gabriel's watching him, eyes sharp as he waits for Dean to get through his explanation, nursing a drink he'd pulled out of thin air as soon as he realized Dean already knew about the powers.

Stripped of sarcasm, the gist of his response is that he can do nothing, nada, nought. Oh, he's got powers, sure, but nothing that'd help him find someone in a city full of people.

And he won't fight his brother.

"I'm not asking you to fight your brother," Dean gets out, irritation almost palpable. "I'm asking you to fight for him."

Gabriel raises an eyebrow. "You're asking me to do both."

Dean pauses, voice going dangerously quiet. "You know something I don't."

Gabriel shrugs. "I know a lot of things you don't."

"You know what? Bite me, Gabriel."

"Maybe later, Big Boy."

Dean's teeth grind together, almost audible, the only thing keeping him from punching the short stack in the jaw the knowledge that it would probably damage him more than the asshole.

"If you know something... Jesus Fucking Christ, he's your brother."

Gabriel is suddenly there, right up in Dean's personal space and somehow managing to tower over the taller man.

"Get your own house sorted before you presume to tell me about mine, you ineffectual, indecisive, self-loathing dick." His lips draw into a smirk. "You wouldn't even know if your brother was alive or dead, would you?"

Something cracks, deep inside. Dean doesn't even register that he's tried to punch Gabriel until after the smaller man has ducked it with a nonchalance that's just insulting, laughing mockingly at Dean.

"Keep your fucking mouth off my brother." Dean's yelling, can hear himself yelling, but it's kinda hard to hear over the white noise of rage bubbling in his ears. "You don't know anything about that. Anything."

Gabriel sneers, and flips him off.

Dean sets his jaw, curses Gabriel to all the nine circles of Hell, and makes it most of the way over to the door before he's suddenly spun around, slammed into the wall with an arm across his throat, pressing hard enough to be threatening, hard enough that each breath is sore and rasping, hard won past the obstruction.

"Listen up, you desperate, inconsiderate fuck-stick," Gabriel's forearm presses harder against his throat, making Dean wheeze for a second. "I'm going to do you a favour. One. You? You're a Source. You go charging in to be Mr. Hotshot Hero? You're just giving him exactly what he wants: you."

Dean manages to scrape a question out of his throat, rubbing at the sore muscles. It's probably not particularly coherent, but Gabriel snorts scornfully anyway.

"What, you think we get to use this shit for free because we were born this way? You think this is a comic book – what, a little sunlight's enough to keep us going? Using powers takes energy, moron. I don't choke down this much candy because I've got a sweet tooth. I have to do it."
Dean makes a vaguely derisive noise in the back of his throat, because he's pretty sure he'd have noticed Cas gobbling down half a ton of candy sometime during the last several months, if not the five years prior.

"Oh, so you've noticed there's different ways of doing this, huh? Good job. Gold star. You're right: this is all why Michael snorts enough cocaine to kill Stevie Nicks. Cassie, on the other hand, just plugs his dick into your socket. You are nothing more than an assbattery, you arrogant douche, and if Luke gets his hands on you? They'll need to invent a whole new word for just how fucked we'll be."

Dean gets home feeling like he's been hit by a truck. His muscles are aching, his throat is still sore enough to make each breath slightly painful and he just wants to faceplant into his bed and forget he ever thought dragging Cas' douchebag brother into anything was a good idea.

The assbattery stuff he's very carefully ignoring.

But Gabriel, in the middle of being a Grade A Asswipe, had given Dean a few fairly important clues. A name, and a relationship. Enough, maybe, for an ID.

Three hours and seven calls to Cas' answer phone later, Dean finishes sorting through the various folders of information about Joshua Granger that he'd collated nearly a month ago.

There's one potential Luke.

Lucas Morgenstern.

Found in a coma with the bodies, never shown even a trace of brain activity.

It's evening, two days later, when Dean's phone rings, flashing Cas across the display as it vibrates across his desk making the whooping noise of the TARDIS phasing in, because Cas was a geek no matter how much he tried to pretend otherwise.

"Cas! Jesus. Are you ok? Where the Hell are you? What-"

"Dean." Cas' voice is rough, rougher than usual, rougher in ways that don't so much speak to being thoroughly fucked so much as disuse and discomfort, possibly pain, possibly – but before Dean can repeat any of his demands for information, there's the noise of someone fumbling the phone and another voice comes through.

"Hello, Dean."

"Sammy." Dean can't even tell if that's audible it's so choked and fuck, he'd know that voice, know it anywhere, he'd spent his whole life with it...

There's a brief, audible smirk down the line.

"You remember. How touching. But I'm afraid I haven't been Sammy in a long time, Dean. We go by Lucifer now."

Dean's lost track of how many laws he's broken getting across the city, pulling up right outside the Stull Tower and flashing his badge at the annoyed rank of taxis he'd pulled up in front of, barely remembering to lock his car before he's running inside, ignoring the calls of security to halt and continuing to wave his badge like some sort of free pass.

The elevator takes forever, Dean glancing at his watch every few breaths and stabbing the button with vicious impatience every other second until the light blings on and the doors slide open, and then he's stuck shifting from foot to foot as the numbers over the door start counting upward, 5, 6, 7, but so, so far from 80.

His phone rings, shrill and tinny in the enclosed space and playing the X-files theme, which means it's Bobby, which is only confirmed when he doesn't get so much as a Hello before he starts getting chewed out.

"What the Hell do you think you're doing, Winchester? I've got reports on you from four different-"

Dean hangs up, shoves his phone back in his pocket. He can worry about his career later, once he's got his brother and his partner back alive.

27, 28, 29...

Ten seconds later, he pulls his phone out again, scrolls through his contacts, and hits dial.

"Hey, douchebag? Yeah, so that whole staying out of it thing doesn't look like it's gonna pan out. Sorry. Stull Tower. Now. Your choice whether you help me or sit around with your thumbs up your ass thinking up new words to describe how fucked we're going to be. "

Dean hangs up before Gabriel can respond, then nearly shoots two businessmen on floor 42 when the elevator suddenly stops to let them on. By the time the light dings on floor 80, he practically explodes out of the elevator, sprinting up the stairs to the roof, and Jesus he needs to hit the obstacle course more often because his sides are burning and his breath is catching as he shoves the door open, flicking the lock to keep from getting trapped on the roof out of habit.

"Sam!" Dean yells, and he can see them, over near the edge of the roof, silhouettes against the skyline, and God that's Sam, that's Sam and he's huge and his hair is still stupid and he's so much Dean's little brother that he can't possibly be the guy who'd burned Lilith Fremont on the roof of her apartment.

Sam's hand is in Cas' hair, tangled through the dark strands as he jerks his gagged head backwards, turning to face Dean, and that smile is wrong, so wrong, too wide and thin and it's not Sam's smile, not at all.

"Dean, Dean, Dean. I've already told you – Sam's gone. I'm here now."

"If you think I'm calling you Lucifer, you've got another thing coming."

Sam sighs, sounding disappointed, as something bright and shining silver sliding out of the sleeve of his douchey white suit to drop into the palm of his hand, too hard to make out in the dim light cast from below by the city lights.

"Please, Dean, don't make me do something we'll both regret."

The knife – because that's what it is, given away by the glint of starlight along the blade, strangely un-edged but still obviously wickedly sharp – comes to rest against Castiel's cheek, dangerously close to an eye and Dean swallows, throat dry because the universe can't ask him to make this choice, this not-choice because it's Sam and there's never any other choice, but it's Cas and Dean can't.

Cas is trying to lean back, away from the knife, seemingly more pissed off at his current situation than particularly worried about it, if the way he keeps glaring up at Sam is any indication.

Dean swallows again, reflexively, and tightens his hold on his gun. He can't – could never, would never – kill Sammy, who may be huge and giant now but is wearing fucking Bieber hair like he's fourteen and just discovering that girls don't, in fact, have cooties – but he can bluff.

And aim at non-vital parts.

Whatever the fuck he wanted to call whatever thing was in his brother's body, Dean 's dealt with enough hostage situations in his time to know that the best way to get everyone through one was to remain calm (not happening, given the participants) and attempt to forge a connection.

So of course what comes out of his mouth is "God, could you sound any more like a comic book villain?"

Sam smirks, runs a thumb down Cas' cheek; Cas eyes it like he's contemplating biting it off.

"Not God, Dean. Quite the opposite."

"Right. You're the Devil. I forgot."

Lucifer smiles benevolently.

"Manners, Dean, manners."

"Sorry. It's just – the hair. It's hard to take you seriously with Bieber-hair."

Lucifer sighs again, spinning the blade between his fingers as his fingers card through Cas' hair almost gently –Dean bites back a growl – before he yanks his head back suddenly, harshly cruel as the knife comes to rest against Cas' throat.

It's starting to creep Dean out, how... docile Cas is being, despite the pissed off look. Not struggling, not fighting, just... letting himself be hauled around.

"Well, aren't you feisty… Dean, correct me if I'm wrong, but… aren't I the one with the power here? So coming and trying to fight me… that sounds like the action of a suicidal person, not a hero. Of course, you're welcome to get yourself killed, if it makes you feel better. Leaves me free to indulge my little hobby… oh, how I'd love to make Castiel's wings mine. Peculiar, beautiful, useful… I could use powers like his."

Dean manages to wrench his gaze away from Cas and the knife at his throat, meeting Lucifer's – because that's not Sam, can't be Sam, he's got to believe that, no matter how crazy it seems when it looks like Sam and sounds like Sam – gaze. It's chilling, empty and hard and that faint, condescending smile and the way Lucifer just keeps repeating his name, over and over like he's trying to forge a rapport, is crawling over his skin and making him feel dirty.

"But he's not the one you want." It's a statement, not a question, because even putting aside all the assbattery stuff, everything from the Jerk on the wall at the first murder scene to Lilith Fremont being burned on the ceiling to Madison having her heart ripped out... it had all been targeted at him. And if Lucifer had been after Cas... well, he'd had him for four days. It wasn't like he hadn't had an opportunity.

"Oh, I wouldn't say that, Dean. Castiel is quite the little prize, I'm sure you'd agree." A few drops of blood bead along the blade as Lucifer pushes it more firmly against Cas' throat; drip off the end to splatter against the roof, hard to see in the dim light. "But you... With you, Dean, I could do anything."

Dean's still got his gun up, hands steady with years of practice despite the way his heart is too-loud, too-fast in his ears because while Lucifer may be the sickest of the sick bastards he's had to face down, he's not the first and if Dean has shit all to say about it, he won't be the last.

"So, Lucy-in-the-Sky-With-Diamonds, I say yes, let you fuck me dry for the rest of my life, and you let him and Sam go. That the offer?"

Cas makes a small noise of protest, bitten off by the press of the blade against his throat.

"Castiel, yes. Sam, however... he's such a good little host. The best I've had, I must say. The last one lasted hardly any time at all. Poor Nick just fell apart on me. Besides, Dean, you're just one man, and two for one... well, that hardly seems fair, does it?"

Dean's hoping that sheer bravado is keeping the shake out of his voice and hands.

"Yeah, well, firstly? You getting anywhere near my ass with my brother's dick? Not happening. Ever. And secondly? This is kinda an all or nothing type, deal, comprende? And I kinda figure, since you've gone to all this effort to get me here, you don't believe all that just one man crap."

He's got his eyes trained on Lucifer's face, still blankly pleasant, careful not to glance down, because there's a handful of things he might see in Cas' expression and any one of them could break him, could break them both.

" So, get the fuck out of my brother, let my – let Cas go, keep your mitts off them, and we got ourselves a little deal there, Lucy Liu."

It's a long, tense moment, drawn out by the scrape of breaths – Dean is absurdly aware of the fog of condensation that forms on each exhale, an irrelevant detail for some reason the clearest thing in front of him – before the knife's gone from Castiel's throat as Lucifer takes two precise steps back away from him.

"A... good faith payment, if you will."

Dean raises his gun a little, pointedly higher, and takes an involuntary step backwards when Lucifer starts advancing on him.

"Perhaps I wasn't clear enough for you. Sam's dick and my ass, my dick and Sam's ass are just never going to meet."

Lucifer smiles. Dean shudders, fighting to keep his gun steady and the sudden urge to run.

"Copulation is merely the most pleasant way to access your power, Dean. " Lucifer's almost casual stroll across the roof comes to a halt in front of him.

"You still ain't getting shit from me while you're wearing my brother like a meatsuit."

Lucifer's touch against his cheek sticks to his skin like ice, dragging and pulling at his skin when he jerks away, leaves traces of frost on his jaw when he raises his hand to wipe the touch away.

"It will take time to locate a suitable new host, Dean. In the meantime, your cooperation would be appreciated."

Dean steps away again, dodging Lucifer's hand.

"You'll forgive me if I don't take you at your word, Lucas. I deal with criminals on a 'full payment up front' scheme."

Lucifer pauses, Sam's brow furrowing into a hurt pair of puppy eyes and that look, that look, that look is so familiar it hurts, the look Dean had gotten during every argument he'd ever had with Sam.

"I will never lie to you, Dean. And your cooperation would be preferable, but it is hardly necessary."

The hand that suddenly slams into his chest, brilliant light flaring around it, is pure agony. He can feel the path of every nerve, every inch of his body, every exploding nerve ending burning in fire and acid as the intrusion pushes around in between various organs that should never be rummaged around in, searching, searching for something.

Dean screams.

It goes on and on and on until the only reason Dean's still conscious is that it hurts too damned much to let him fall into unconsciousness, until the only reason he's upright is that he's being held up by Lucifer's hand in his chest.

Something slams into him, knocking him hard into the concrete, causing newer, sharper pain to flare through his shoulder as his head cracks against the ground.

By the time Dean manages to refocus on what's happening, Cas is crouching above him, one wing curved over him like a shield, gaze flicking between Dean and something he can't see. But he can see the douchey white loafers coming nearer under the edge of Cas' wing and tries to shove himself upwards, defeated by the flare of pain through his shoulder and the firm hand pressing on his chest.

"Stay down." Cas favours him with a glare as he hisses the order at Dean. Another attempt at putting weight through his arm is enough to convince him that now is probably not the time to prove he's not whipped.

Castiel gives him another warning look from behind his mask, then stands up, feathers ruffling as he steps in between his lover and his brother.

"Step aside, Castiel. You've already seen the folly of trying to fight me. And much as I'd love to claim your wings, Dean and I have an agreement."

The slight flare of Castiel's wings, and the faint stiffening of his posture is pretty much the Castiel equivalent of a raised middle finger and a hearty fuck you.

"I believe that agreements made under duress are considered null and void."

There's a sudden explosion of air right behind Lucifer and Dean catches a glimpse of canvas jacket. Half a second later, Dean's forcing himself up and staggering forward because there's the point of a knife protruding from Sam's throat, and he's choking on blood and Jesus maybe Sam isn't calling the shots right now, but he's still in there and ...and there's white light gathering around the knife, getting brighter and brighter and brighter. Castiel notices him and pushes Dean face into his shoulder, burying his own face against Dean's neck.

There's a rush of heat over them and then silence, apart from Dean's ragged breathing into Cas' shirt. Cas lets him look up after a moment, hands moving to run carefully over Dean's torso, checking for damage, as Dean stares numbly at Sam, trying to process, trying to force his brain into catching up, how they went from Lucifer being about to fuck them the hell up to Sam being- Sam being-

"Yeah, no, keep gawking at me like that. Not like I need a hand here or anything. Totally fine." Gabriel's pretty much hidden behind the bulk of Sam. "All I have to do is pull this knife out and heal the damage as I go, no biggie."

Dean gapes at him for a moment, brain fumbling blindly at the words. Castiel still seems more interested in reassuring himself that Dean's in one piece than what his brother is staying, fingers running over his ribs, brushing lightly over the unmarked skin Lucifer's hand had gone through.

"You – you can fix him?" It's numbly unemotional, Dean's too emotionally exhausted – jerked between angry and terrified, agony and relief until he's just shut down, grief rolling around him but not yet touching him, boding and waiting.

"Yeah, moron, that's what I just said. You know, if I'm not distracted having to lug this huge yak while I do it."

Castiel resists letting go of him, like he's scared something else is going to take a grab at Dean as soon as he's out of Castiel's reach. Dean disentangles himself gently, finding Cas' hand and giving it a reassuring squeeze before he steps forward to help Gabriel.

By the time Gabriel's done, carefully pulling the knife out millimetre by millimetre, Dean's back is starting to ache from holding Sam's unconscious form in the required position, his shoulder is screaming blue murder, his insides are aching from being fondled by a supervillain and every bruise and scrape he's picked up since he walked onto the roof is making itself felt.

Castiel tries to take Sam from him at some point, but Dean pushes him away and he ends up seated next to him, one hand resting on Dean's knee, rubbing soothing circles.

When Sam draws in a shuddering breath and gasps like he's been drowning, eyes flying open, wide and brown and all Sam, Dean couldn't give a fuck about the discomfort. Sam's babbling about being sorry, so sorry, he didn't mean to, he couldn't – he didn't know, he'd just wanted – he's sorry, Dean, and Dean's got one arm wrapped around his brother, tightly, firmly as he can, spilling promises about how it's going to be ok, Sammy, it's fine, they'll work it out.
Castiel withdraws discreetly, Gabriel less so, trailing complaints about how that's gratitude for you, and by the time Bobby and Jo show up to drag Sam away in handcuffs (Dean still trailing promises about how they'll work it out, Sammy as Bobby palms him off to the paramedics) both Cas and Gabriel have vanished. Cas shows up again, just in time to finagle a ride in the ambulance with Dean, dressed now in his old trench coat and a dirtied shirt and pants (courtesy, Dean finds out later, of Gabriel), leaning out of the doors to promise Bobby that he'll answer questions later.

Dean hires Anthony Crowley as Sam's lawyer. He may loathe the guy on principal and because of all the guilty scum he's helped walk free (also that time Dean walked in and he and Bobby were... ugh) but he kinda figures someone who can play the system is pretty much the best thing, given Sam's situation.

Castiel passes on a warning from Gabriel that Lucifer's probably not gone for good, and Dean passes back a rather awkward thanks for saving Sam. They still can't be in a room together for too long without trying to rip each other's heads off, but at least there's a grudging respect behind it now.

Dean takes all the leave he's got saved up, splitting his time between working on the Impala, getting his stuff in order to move in with Cas, and turning through the evidence and findings of Sam's case, looking for anything that might be of use.

Sam's trial comes and goes nearly a year later, widely publicised. The court accepts his plea of insanity, sentencing him to confinement in a mental institution on the testimony of Dr. Ellicott. Dean's not sure how he's supposed to feel about that; it was probably the best outcome he could have anticipated, but it's still Sam locked up forever.

Sam talks, eventually, about the years after he and Dean parted; the drugs and the things he'd done to support the habit. It will be further years before he'll tell the story of how Lucifer convinced him to let him in, the promises of fixing things, of how they could make the world better, of getting Dean's attention. How it was after that, being trapped in his body without control, watching as Lucifer ripped people apart to get their powers.

He and Cas aren't as easy as they used to be, aren't as simple. Affection turned to need is never smooth, but the secrets Cas'd held back, the accusations Dean had thrown, are grains of sand in the way of their once effortless slide together, catching and clogging the gears, rubbing irritable wounds that make them snap and bicker. And for every day that Dean storms off saying he's done, there's one where Cas' mouth is ruler straight and his responses curt and too close to home, but in the end someone always bends, and every reconciliation brushes a little more of the grit out between them and the arguments get further and further apart.

Dean and Cas take to spending the holidays with Sam, eating bland overcooked cafeteria food with plastic cutlery in bare rooms, and Cas and Sam will strike an unlikely friendship, based mostly on quipping at Dean, a love of obscure literature and their geek-crushes on the Tenth Doctor. Dean will call them both nerds, and pretend to ignore them both, and sometimes, when Cas does something particularly Cas-like and weird, Sam will glance at Dean and Dean will shrug as though to say, "What? He's my little freakazoid" and Cas will stare at them both, uncertain why they're laughing but happy enough just to bask a little in the feeling of Dean being carefree for just a moment.

And when Dean wakes up most mornings, it will be cocooned in dark feathers.