Chapter Text
Dean woke slowly, sleepily puzzled as to where he was and why the alarm wasn't ringing. He felt heavy and well-rested, but not hungover; there wasn't even an aftertaste of bourbon. Soft light filtered down on him through the blinds of an unfamiliar room. No, not unfamiliar: just not his. He rolled on his side, and there was Cas, half-smiling in his sleep through bruises much less livid than they'd been the night before.
Warmth unfurled in his stomach, spreading throughout his body like he'd downed a cup of mulled wine. Cas lay half on his side, the blankets coiled enticingly around his hips, a lock of hair hiding the cut over his eye. Hesitantly, Dean reached out and brushed it back behind his ear, then snatched his hand away as Cas murmured and stirred. He tried to lie still, irrationally scared that if Cas woke up, then he would, too, the moment revealed to be nothing more than a particularly cruel dream, but when Cas's eyes flickered open, the world remained the same.
'Hey there,' Dean said, tentatively.
'Hey,' yawned Cas. 'What time is it?'
'I don't know.'
'There's a clock on the dresser.'
'Oh. Uh, quarter past seven.' Dean blinked, sure he must have read it wrong. 'Is that thing right?'
'Yeah. Why wouldn't it be?'
'No reason. I just don't usually wake up this early, is all.' Or this easily, either .
'Well, we did get an early night.'
'I guess,' said Dean, though by his recollection, it had been at least nine when they'd stepped into the shower, and after ten before they'd come to bed. Cas had fallen asleep almost instantly, but Dean had stayed awake for much longer, holding his lover until, with a boneless sigh, Cas had rolled away onto his stomach. It was Dean who'd quietly risen and tidied away the food from the bedside, checked the soup on the stove – and added a few last-minute ingredients, hoping to balance the salsa taste – and turned out the lights. He ought to have been exhausted, or groggy, or just plain passed out, but instead, he felt almost refreshed.
Cas frowned up at him. 'You look worried. Is something wrong?'
'No, not at all. Just the opposite.' And because it was easier than explaining, he leaned across and kissed Cas good morning. He'd meant it to be a simple conversation-stopper, but the second Cas responded, reaching up to stroke his jaw, Dean forgot about everything else, completely lost in the moment. God, it was ridiculous how much kissing Cas affected him; he almost felt like a teenager again, but even when he was seventeen, he'd generally been more interested in where he could put his hands than in what his mouth was doing. But with Cas, everything felt so much more intense than usual. It wasn't just that he was good – although, sweet hell, he was certainly that – but something more electric and indefinable, like he was setting Dean's blood on fire. He leaned into the kiss, weight shifting onto his forearms as Cas pulled him down, their bodies pressed flush together, his arousal so sudden, it left him gasping.
Cas shifted beneath him, sucking Dean's neck, his teeth and tongue working almost hard enough to bruise. Dean dropped his head, trailing kisses down Cas's collarbone to his chest, flicking playfully at his nipples – Cas gasped, gripping the bedsheet – and then down further still, over stomach and hip, until he reached his goal. Glancing up the length of Cas's body, he paused, taking a moment to enjoy the naked look of desire on his face, then slid his mouth down over his cock. Eyes shut with pleasure and concentration, Dean licked up the underside of the shaft, savouring the taste of him, stroking the inside of Cas's thighs with his thumbs. Cas bucked his hips, his fingers digging into Dean's hair, but never abusing the privilege of control, guiding his mouth with gentle pressure. Briefly pulling free, Dean licked his fingers, wetly teasing Cas's ass and perineum, then taking him as deep as his gag reflex would allow, on and on, until his lover was shaking.
'Oh god, Dean.' Cas groaned and came, and Dean swallowed, the sharp taste somewhere between salt and umami, trailing warmth down his throat. He straightened, wiping his mouth on his hand, and was taken completely aback when Cas sat up and kissed him. He pulled away, confused. Man or woman, he'd never been kissed by a partner after he'd gone down on them – in fact, the few times he'd tried it, the response had been universally disgusted, and he'd long since assumed it was something nobody wanted.
'You don't... you don't have to do that,' he said, awkwardly. 'I mean, I can go wash my mouth out first, or –'
Cas kissed him again, his use of tongue both deliberate and, as a consequence, wildly arousing. When they broke apart, he grinned, one hand curling possessively around Dean's erection.
'Don't be ridiculous. Now, what am I going to do with you?'
'Whatever you want,' said Dean, hoarsely.
'Good,' said Cas. He put a palm to his chest and shoved; Dean fell back onto the blankets, eyes wide as Cas reached under the bed and pulled out a bottle of lube. Breathing fast, Dean lay back and watched as his lover squeezed the clear gel onto his hands. Smiling, Cas knelt between his legs, widening his stance until Dean was forced to do likewise. He felt totally exposed, and as Cas reached for him again, he realised he was whimpering.
'Eyes open,' said Cas, when he went to close them. 'Look at me. I want you to look at me.'
As he spoke, he gripped Dean's shaft in one hand, two fingers of the other working expertly at his ass, first teasingly, then pushing inside. Dean groaned, utterly overcome; he wasn't going to last long, and even as he writhed and tensed, his gaze never wavered, pinned in place by that beautiful blue stare.
In the shower, Cas had worked on him with a devastatingly slow burn, arousal building until Dean could barely see straight; by contrast, what he did now was hard and fast, but no less skilled, a series of buttons pressed with perfect synchronicity. His climax hit him like a lightning strike; he arched his back and cried out, pushing himself onto Cas's fingers, and then lay gasping, covered in sweat and semen.
Heedless of the mess, Cas stretched out along his length and kissed him again, resting his head lightly on Dean's chest.
'That's... that's quite a way to wake up,' said Dean.
'True.'
'We should probably get up at some point, you know. Shower. Open the shops.'
'Also true.'
Dean put an arm around Cas's back, pulling him close, and for some minutes, they just lay there, breathing in and out. Then:
'What does Crowley want from you?' Cas asked.
Dean stilled. 'It's complicated.'
'Simplify it, then.'
He sighed. 'Basically, he wants me to bodyguard some guy called Teddy, because this other chick, Ruby Blue, wants Teddy dead. Ruby thinks I'm there to make her job easy, but Crowley wants me to make it hard.' And then, because Cas deserved to know, 'Crowley never loaned my brother anything. He made it up so I'd agree to help, because the real truth is, he gave Ruby my name, and she wants me there, and if I don't show –' He broke off, unable to bring himself to repeat the threat against Cas. 'Well, you get the idea.'
'And you believe him?' Cas asked. 'I mean, he's lied to you once. Who's to say he isn't lying now?'
'It's possible,' Dean admitted, remembering the look on Crowley's face as he'd held him over the railing, 'but not likely. And anyway, as much as this pisses me off, I'd rather not take the chance he's bluffing.' He tried for a laugh. 'Hey, at least he's paying me, right?'
Cas was silent for a moment. 'Will you have to kill anyone?'
'God, I hope not.' Briefly, Dean shut his eyes, and in the black behind his lids, he saw bodies: bloody men and women in Basra, dying soldiers, that poor kid with his cellphone, and a half dozen others he'd been too late to save. He blinked the images away, or tried to, and though he didn't say anything, Cas stroked his side, and kissed his jaw, and said, 'I hope so, too. But, Dean?'
'Yeah?'
'If it's ever a choice between you or them, pick you, OK? Come home to me.'
A lump rose in his throat. He pulled Cas close, kissing his hair, and blinked until the threat of tears had passed. I don't know what home is, but maybe it's this.
'Sure,' he managed. 'I promise.'
*
They showered together again, and even though they'd already taken care of each other, still they wound up covered in soap and necking, laughing at their own helpless lust. Only Cas's injuries kept things from going further – his ribs were tender, but his face throbbed, and anyway, they'd dallied enough that, despite their early wake-up, there was now some need to hurry. This time, at least, Cas had had enough forethought to grab a spare towel from the cupboard, and once he was dry, Dean hurried back to his own flat for a change of clothes and a toothbrush.
Cas dressed slowly, taking care to test the limits of his ribs. Upright, he was fine; it was only when he bent down suddenly or twisted too far that the pain returned. Heading into the kitchen, he was surprised to see the soup still bubbling away, and even more surprised by how good it smelled. He lifted the lid, inhaling the steam, and helped himself to a spoonful. Cautiously, he blew it cool. The salsa taste had gone, transmuted overnight into something richer and more savoury, though still with a hint of tomato, and far superior to the thin, tinned stuff he usually bought. Smiling, he replaced the lid and turned the stove off, pleased by the idea that Dean might turn out to be a good cook, after all.
But when he caught sight of the TV, his good mood vanished. He was trying so hard not to think about the Fellowship, about the siege in Nevada and all its terrible implications, but he could only compartmentalise so much while the thing was still ongoing. Or what if something had happened overnight? What if everyone was dead already? He gripped the bench, trying to get himself under control, too frightened to switch on the news but knowing that, sooner or later, he'd have to face the truth.
His phone rang, the sound incongruously loud as it buzzed against the tabletop. Cas stared at it, momentarily unsure of what he was meant to do. Should he let it go to voicemail? Pick up? The phone kept ringing, oblivious to his distress, until he snapped back into himself and answered.
'Hello?'
'Mr Novak? This is Sergeant Harris from the Southwall police station.'
'Yes?'
'I was just wondering if you'd be able to come in today, give your statement about the mugger. I know there's not much chance of us catching him, but still, I'd like to be able to get a description circulated sooner rather than later.'
'Yes. Yes, of course.' He ran a hand down his face. 'Is lunchtime OK? Around 12:30?'
'Sure, we can work with that. Just ask for me at the desk.'
'I will.'
'I'll see you then.'
He hung up. Cas stared at the phone, then slowly set it back down on the bench. He was still staring when Dean returned, dressed in a different pair of jeans, a Bad Company tee and a brown jacket.
'Who was that?' he asked, shutting the door.
'Oh. The police.'
His distress must have showed on his face; Dean walked straight over, stroking his thumb over Cas's cheek.
'Hey, hey, it's all right. If they call again, just give me the phone. I'll talk to them.'
'No, it's not that. It's the other stuff, you know. Nevada.'
'Oh.'
'Yeah.' He leaned into his lover's touch, shutting his eyes as Dean cupped his face and kissed his forehead. 'I don't know what to do. I don't want to watch the news, but if something bad happens, and I miss it –'
'Same deal, then. I'll watch it for you.'
'What?'
'Let me watch it,' Dean said again. 'Look, I've got my computer set up in the store; I'll pull the news up in the background, keep an eye on things, and if something happens, I'll come and get you. Or, no, how about this: I'll just watch, and I won't say anything unless you ask me. Any time you're worried, you just come and ask for an update, and we can decide together if you want to see the video or read the details. All right?'
'Thank you,' Cas whispered. His chest still felt tight, but some of the weight had lifted: he could breathe again. 'About the police, though – they want me to drop by the station today, give my statement over lunch.'
'You want me to drive you?'
'I don't want to be any trouble –'
'Cas.' Dean looked at him, into him, green eyes wide and serious. 'You are the exact opposite of trouble. Anything I can do, OK? You only have to ask.'
Cas forced himself to smile. 'OK.'
'All right then. So, you come get me whenever you're ready to go, and we'll grab lunch on the way back.'
'Actually,' said Cas, 'I thought we could have your soup. It's turned out really well.'
A faint flush turned Dean's cheeks pink. 'You don't have to –'
'Dean. I promise, I'm not just pretending to be nice to you. If I say I want the soup you cooked, then yes, I want the damn soup. And in the event that you put your mouth to, ah, creative uses –' he grinned, tracing a finger across Dean's lips, enjoying the way he shivered, '– then yes, I'll want to kiss you afterwards. I'm enjoying you, not doing you a courtesy, so stop apologising like you're racking up a debt.'
Dean gulped. 'Sure.'
'OK, then.' Cas pecked his cheek. 'Now, let's pretend we're actual working adults and go open the stores. I'll come get you when – if I need anything. Otherwise, I'll see you at lunch.'
*
Dean made his way downstairs in a daze of happiness. Logically, he knew his life was far from perfect, but just at that moment, he was hard-pressed to remember why. Cas was just – it was Cas , all of him, even with the triggers and scars and everything else going on. The way his eyes crinkled up when he smiled, and that teasing, serious look he got right before he took control; god, and the sex was amazing , but that wasn't even the best part. He knew he was being mawkish, sentimental in exactly the way his father had always hated, but even the memory of John Winchester's disapproval couldn't ruin the moment. He had a lover, and chicken soup, and a house that was his for as long as he wanted, and not even Crowley could take it away from him.
He unlocked the shop door, and found himself face to face with Anna.
'Huh?' he said, stupidly.
Anna rolled her eyes. 'You really do have the memory of a goldfish, don't you?'
'What did I do?'
'It's what you didn't do,' she corrected, sailing past him as if she owned the place. Today, she wore a colourful, patchwork skirt, a white cotton blouse and a fringed brown jacket whose leather almost exactly matched her boots, her springy red curls contained by a green silk scarf. 'You never texted your email address, so, here.' She proffered a sheet of paper – no, several sheets stapled together – which Dean accepted reflexively. 'My resume,' she said, exasperated at his confusion. 'Remember? You, me, phone-talkie, job? Any of that ringing a bell? You didn't call me, either.' She snorted. 'Usually, I have to sleep with a guy to be this ignored.'
'Oh. Right. Right! Shit, Anna, I'm sorry, I just got, uh –' he grinned, '– distracted.'
'Distracted. Right. You – are those hickies ?' She was staring at his neck, a look of scandalised delight on her face. Quick as a flash, she hooked a finger under his collar and yanked it sideways, exposing his shoulder. 'Oh my god, they are! You vixen !'
Dean felt himself turning red. 'I have hickies?'
Anna raised an incredulous eyebrow. 'You didn't know?'
'I, uh, didn't exactly look in the mirror this morning.'
' Vixen ,' she repeated, eyes bright with humour. 'I salute you, sir!'
Too embarrassed to form a reply – and a little too excited by the idea that Cas had physically marked him – Dean hurried over to the counter, putting its comforting solidity between him and Anna. Setting down her resume and starting up the computer, he fumbled for a safer conversational gambit and managed, 'So, tell me – do you actually like music, or are you just looking for a job? No judgement either way; I'm just curious.'
'I'll bet you are,' she said, lips twitching, but graciously allowed the change of topic. 'I like music plenty – I mean, I'm not a musician or anything, and I've got a pretty broad taste, but yeah. Music is one of the good things in life.'
'Agreed.' As the system booted up, he flipped on the store lights, trying to decide what music to play. 'Any classic rock in your broad taste, by chance?'
'Possibly. It depends what you mean by classic.'
Dean looked up at her, realising belatedly that Anna was probably younger than him. 'Not wanting to be rude or anything, but how old are you?'
Happily, she didn't seem offended. 'Twenty-four. It's all right there on the resume.'
'OK, so classic to you means – ?'
'Pretty much anything prior to 1990.'
Dean considered the answer. 'I can work with that. Name me some names.'
She frowned, crinkling her nose. 'Uh, The Who, Joan Jett, Jimi Hendrix, the Stones –'
'Yeah, you can stay.' He grinned at her, but the smile faded as he brought up the latest on the Fellowship raid: two officers had been shot, one fatally, while trying to attempt entry into the compound overnight, while an unspecified number of Brother Tiberius's congregation were believed to have been injured when a flashbang grenade was misfired into a crowded room.
'What's up?' said Anna, coming over.
'Nothing.' Dean minimized the window before she could get a look, deftly slotting Back in Black into the CD player. As the opening chords of Hell's Bells filled the store, he turned to Anna, clapped his hands, and grinned.
'All right, new employee. Let me show you the ropes.'