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Fools Rush In

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When Dean was finally done with him, Cas lay gasping, covered in sweat and trembling with the aftershocks of an orgasm he hadn't thought attainable, but which had nonetheless steadily overtaken him, as inexorable as a king tide. He didn't know how long Dean had worked on him; only that the combined ministrations of his mouth and hands had elevated him almost beyond consciousness, out of time and thought, until his plea that he be fucked into forgetting his own name had ceased to be a metaphor and become reality. Only now, as Dean collapsed against him, sucking the salt skin of Cas's throat, did he realise he'd near screamed himself hoarse with pleasure; that one leg was cramping, he'd held his muscles so tense against his climax; that threads of Dean's hair were snagged between his fingers, pulled out when he'd gripped and gasped, oblivious to everything but his own need.

'You – ah – oh, god, Dean – fuck, I –' He bit his lip, unable to form a coherent sentence. Pausing for breath, he tried again. 'I owe you something for that.'

Dean chuckled. 'No, you don't.'

'I mean, I really owe you something.'

'No, you really don't.' And before Cas couldn't protest further, Dean said, 'Do you have any idea what you looked like just now, how you sounded? Cas, I came just from watching you.'

'I – what?' Cas thought he must have heard wrong; he blinked at Dean, mouth hanging open. 'Seriously?'

'Seriously.' He kissed him, lingering and slow, and Cas felt his heart turn over. Had anyone ever wanted him even a fifth as much as Dean did? Had he ever wanted anyone so badly in return? He pressed himself up against his lover, astonished that any part of him could still crave more, but electrified all over again by the mere possibility of finding out. Surely, four times in a single morning was pushing it. Surely.

The phone rang.

They broke apart, frozen in place by the sudden noise, by its implications. It was Dean's phone, and suddenly, Cas was shaking for a different reason entirely.

'Answer it,' he whispered, and Dean obeyed, half-diving off the bed to rummage the thing out of his jeans pocket. Cas forced himself upright, kneeling in the middle of the bed like a penitent child.

Finding the phone, Dean sat himself on the edge of the mattress, looking straight at Cas as he picked up.

'Hello?'

Cas couldn't hear the caller's voice; but then, he didn't need to. The way Dean stilled, and the sudden widening of his eyes, was identification enough. After what felt like an eternity of listening, Dean finally spoke.

'All of them? Are you sure?'

Cas felt his heart stop. Oh god no. No no no no no –

'Sunrise Hospital? Let me get a –' Dean cast around as if for a pen, then seemed to realise the search was futile. 'Never mind, I'll remember it. Anything else we should know?'

A moment of agonising silence. Then: 'Right. OK. I'll, uh, I'll tell him that. And Sergeant? Thanks. I really appreciate it. If I can ever return the favour, just let me know. All right. Take care.'

He hung up. Cas couldn't even speak. Dean reached out and took his hand.

'She's alive, Cas. Critically injured, but stable.' He took a deep breath. 'But she wasn't the only one hit. The cameras all cut out because the Fellowship opened fire on the barricade; they aimed for your mother first off, but after that, it was pretty indiscriminate. No fatalities this time, but a cameraman and a reporter were both shot, along with a two of the officers who laid down covering fire, and... and your sisters.'

His throat was so tight, he could barely get the words out. 'How bad is it?'

'Not very,' Dean said quickly. 'Clarity was only grazed, but Evidence took a hit to the leg. She'll be fine, though; they'll all be fine.' He hesitated. 'The, uh, the other kid, the one they were carrying with them? He's at the hospital, too – not physically hurt; they just don't have anywhere else to put him yet. The girls aren't saying much – waiting for your mother to wake up, the cops think – but at best guess, he's four or five. His name's Balthazar.'

'He's hers, isn't he.' It wasn't a question.

'Yeah. Yeah, Cas. He is. I'm sorry.'

'Don't be. It's not your fault.'

'It's not yours, either.' Dean hesitated. 'There's one more thing. The FBI are involved now, Harris says, and they're going to want to talk to you. He doesn't know when or how, but they will.'

Cas nodded dumbly. Dean moved back to him, pulling him against his chest. 'You're freezing. C'mon. Let's get cleaned up, have some of that soup.'

'Then what?'

'Hey, one thing at a time. Food and warmth, Cas – they make everything better. That's why they're right at the top of that, that pyramid thing.'

'Pyramid thing?'

'You know. Coleslaw's hierarchy, or whatever.'

Despite himself, Cas cracked a smile. 'You mean Maslow. Maslow's hierarchy of needs.'

Dean grinned. 'Yeah, that's the one. I mean, I'm not gonna force you to eat the soup, but we're both pretty, uh – well.' He waved a hand to indicate their bodies. 'We need a shower, is what I'm saying.'

It was true enough, and the weight of the phone call heavy enough, that for once, the shower was really just a shower. Dean got out first, drying himself off, then ducking back to the bedroom to dress, while Cas shut his eyes and rested his forehead on the glass, and wished that guilt could be rinsed away as easily as soap.

Your mother was shot, the blank voice whispered, and what were you doing? Screwing your neighbour.

'Stop it,' he whispered.

But the blank voice had its hooks in him, and refused to relent. He stumbled out of the shower, scrubbing the towel at his bruises until tears sprang to his eyes, trying to fight pain with pain, and failing. You're a whore, Castiel. You sold your whole family for a quick fuck, and now you're trying to pretend like it doesn't matter, because you're a coward, too. You've always been a coward.

'Cas?'

He turned, slowly. Dean stood in the doorway, fully dressed, the lovebites Cas had given him as bright as blood. He rubbed sheepishly at the back of his head.

'I, uh, I really should go down and check on Anna, make sure she's all right. I'll be right back, though. Promise.'

'Thanks,' said Cas. 'I might just lie down again, if that's all right.'

'Sure,' said Dean. He hovered on the threshold, suddenly awkward. 'You'll be OK?'

Cas forced himself to smile. 'I think I can cope for five whole minutes.'

'All right. But if, uh, the kitchen catches fire or something, you know where to find me.'

'Yeah, I do.'

'OK. OK, good.' And as though that decided something, he crossed the space between them, planting a kiss on Cas's forehead. 'I'll be right back,' he said again, and when Cas nodded, Dean smiled and left.

He stood in the bathroom, listening to the front door open and close, followed shortly after by the answering thump as Dean entered his own flat, vanishing down his internal stairs to Impala Records. Only then did Cas open the medicine cabinet, pulling out a small, white bottle of pills. Six months ago, his nightmares had become so bad that he'd finally cracked and gone to the doctor, desperate for something to help. The GP had taken one look at the state he was in – shivering with exhaustion, red-eyed, flinching – and given him a script for Diazepam. Mercifully, it had worked: until this week's incident, which he still didn't fully remember, his last nightmare had been five months ago. Cas had been back to the doctor only once since then, by way of a follow-up when his supply ran out. Frowning, the GP had listened to his worries about a relapse, but hadn't refilled his script until Cas had sworn up and down to use the pills only when necessary, and never continuously for more than a week or so at a time. They weren't a crutch, she said: he needed to deal with the underlying problems causing his anxiety and bad dreams, not become dependent on something that merely erased their symptoms. So far, he'd kept his word.

Now, though, he palmed three pills – a 15 milligram dose, which was technically more than he was meant to take at once, but not meaningfully so – and dry-swallowed them, because if ever he'd needed a bit of extra help to get through a day, then this was it.

He staggered back to the bedroom, stripped the bed, shoved the dirty sheets in the wash, changed the linen, and then climbed into bed, heart pounding.

Coward, the blank voice whispered. Miserable fucking whore-freak, why do you deserve to be happy? Why shouldn't you have nightmares? Cry to your lover all you want, it still doesn't change the truth. You should've died in the desert.

Cas muffled his face in the pillow and screamed until the pills kicked in.

 

*

 

As Dean alighted the stairs to the shop, he felt perversely like a teenager trying to sneak home after curfew. Not that he owed Anna any explanation as to where he'd been for the past – he glanced at the wall clock, wincing slightly – three hours, but even so.

As he entered, a customer was leaving; the cowbell clanged as the door swung shut, and suddenly Anna whirled on him, arms crossed over her chest, though the stern effect was somewhat spoiled by the quirk of her lips.

'That was some long lunch.'

'Yeah, well, there was a big line at the police station. Lots of drug dealers, you know.'

'Oh, riiight. So that wasn't you and Cas doing the dirty out in your car earlier?'

Dean went red. 'Ah. So you –'

'Caught the show? Yeah. Pretty much the whole street did.' Anna chuckled, raising an eyebrow. 'Not that I want all the gory details, but was that as hot and heavy as it looked? Because if so, goddamn .'

'Hotter,' said Dean, before he could stop himself. Anna whistled appreciatively. And then, because he desperately needed to get it off his chest, 'God, Anna, this is so fucked up. I mean, I'm neck-deep in some serious shit right now, and as bad as it is, it's Christmas next to what Cas is dealing with – I mean, hell, instead of a third date, we just went to the police station. Who even does that? I should be passed out in a bar two states away, and he should be catatonic, or failing that, running flat out in the opposite direction.'

She smiled wryly at him. 'And instead?'

'And instead, he just took me upstairs, and – oh, god.' The memory made him shudder; his jaw still ached, though in the best possible way. 'You know the sex you have in dreams, the way everything feels about a thousand times more intense, but real life never matches up to it?'

'That good, huh?'

'Better. I mean, it's like I'm working from a whole new scale, here, and believe me when I say the old one was hardly inadequate. Either he's psychic, or I have a seriously messed up kink for bad situations. Or both, maybe.'

'Or you're just in love with him,' Anna said, teasingly.

Dean opened his mouth. Shut it. Stared at her. He was frozen in place, and as the awkward seconds ticked by, he saw her expression change from amused to puzzled to outright worried. When he remained silent, she actually waved a hand in front of his face.

'Dean? Hello? Earth to Dean!' He flinched, and she laughed, though there was more concern in the sound than humour. 'Jeez, did I break you or something? That wasn't meant to be a stumper.'

He dropped his gaze, unable to meet her eyes, let alone process that simple, four-letter word and what it might mean, or ask himself why he couldn't so much as think it.

'Dean?' Now she really did sound worried. 'Hey, you're kind of freaking me out, here. Say something.'

'Sorry.' He forced himself to look up. 'I, uh –'

To his infinite relief, he was saved by the cowbell: someone entered the shop, and Dean took three steps towards the door before he was even conscious of having moved.

Then he saw who the customer was, and stopped, scowling.

'Hello, darling,' said Crowley. His smile was an oilslick full of dead penguins. 'I brought you a present.' He held up a briefcase.

'Crowley,' Dean growled, so glad of a target, he could almost have kissed the man. 'Y'know, it's funny – I have this vivid memory of telling you to stay the fuck away from me, yet here you are.'

'Easy, precious. I'm not here to bother your blue-eyed boy. Just wanted to pay my respects, is all.' And he shook the case meaningfully.

All at once, Dean realised what Crowley was carrying: the two thousand dollars he'd asked for up front, which of course would come in cash, complete with a fake betting slip for a real winning horse at a real racetrack, backed for exactly the right odds, because that was how Crowley worked. Just because he didn't like money being traced back to him didn't mean he thought it should appear to come from nothing.

From behind them, Anna coughed meaningfully. Dean jumped – he'd managed to forget her completely – while Crowley looked like someone had just presented him with an unexpected gift.

'And who is this lovely creature? Gracious, Dean, I know you like to switch-hit, but still, I 'd never figured you for a two-for-one man. Or does the left hand not know what the right is doing? And by left hand, I mean –'

'Back off, Crowley. She's got nothing to do with this. She just works here.'

Crowley's brows went up. 'That so? And does she know what kind of man she's working for?' He flicked his gaze to Anna, tutting sadly. 'Trust me, love –' and even from Crowley, Dean flinched at the appellation, '– you're better off keeping clear of this one. He's like a rich man's bidet – pretty to look at, but still full of piss.'

'Thanks,' said Anna, flatly. 'Your concern is touching.'

'Careful, careful.' Crowley's smile was all sharp teeth. 'I'm not as cuddly as I look.' He turned away from her, proffering the case to Dean as though nothing had happened. 'Take it,' he said. 'With my compliments. I've even included the guidebook.' Which meant the details for next Friday were in there, too.

Dean snatched it from him, hating the necessity of it. 'That all?' he snarled.

'Almost.' Crowley folded his hands like a congressman whose many extramarital affairs had never been conclusively proven. 'The event in question is black tie – properly so, though I doubt you'd know the difference if it sat up and gave you a lap dance. I'll have something sent along for you to wear after the weekend. And no,' he added, voice dripping contempt, 'I won't be coming in person again. I'll send a courier.'

Dean smiled sarcastically. 'Small mercies.'

'No, just common sense. Don't want you getting an inflated sense of your own self-importance, do I?' Not waiting for a response, he bowed to Anna. 'A pleasure to meet you, miss –?' He left the question hanging, and when neither Dean nor Anna answered, he shrugged. 'Ah, well. It was worth a shot. See you on Friday, Winchester.'

'Can't wait,' said Dean.

Crowley just laughed, reaching up to slap the cowbell as he exited.

Dean watched him go, the briefcase burning in his hand. He could feel Anna's eyes on him even before he turned to face her.

'What,' she said, 'the actual hell was that?'

Wearily, Dean rubbed his face. 'The actual hell is right.' And then, because he figured he owed her something, 'You know I said I was up to my neck in shit? That would be the man who dumped me there.'

Anna glared, her expression caught between anger and fear. 'Should I be worried about this? Are you in bed with the mob, or something?' She put her hands on her hips. 'Goddamit, is this shop a mob front, Dean? Because if it is –'

Dean laughed, which wasn't exactly the most helpful response; accordingly, Anna smacked him hard on the arm. 'This isn't funny!'

'Ow! I know, all right? I'm laughing at it, not with it.' He paused. 'I think.'

'Yeah, well, I'm not laughing, period. That guy was creepy , Dean.'

'Gotta agree with you there.'

'Do I want to know what's in that case?'

'Probably not.'

Anna sighed, slumping back against the counter. 'You know what? Screw it. I'm not even going to ask. But if the cops come by with a bunch of questions about disreputable Brits and dead bodies, or whatever the hell kind of racket it is you're involved with, I'm not going to lie for you.'

Dean winced. 'Fair enough.' He fidgeted, shuffling his feet. 'You, uh... You still all right working the rest of the shift? You don't need a break or anything?'

Anna rolled her eyes. 'Do I look like I've won the lottery since lunch time?'

'No?'

'Then yeah, I can finish the shift.'

He was relieved, but still felt obscurely guilty. 'Want me to pick you up some food?'

Her expression softened. 'Thanks, but no. I ate while you were out. Home-made leftovers. Yum!' More gently, she added, 'You go look after Cas. He seems to need it.'

'Yeah.' Dean gulped. 'He really does.'

Anna's look pierced right through him. 'You do, too, I think.'

Almost, Dean asked which thing she meant – that he needed looking after, or that he needed Cas – but didn't, afraid of being told it was both. Instead, he laughed weakly, and said, 'I told you. Men don't like perceptive women.'

'You did,' she acknowledged. 'I guess I'm just cursed with not giving a shit. But if you ever need to talk, you know where to find me.'

'Thanks. And, you know. The same to you, too. Speaking of which, any word on that guy of yours? What's his name, anyway?'

Anna sighed, wistfully tucking a red curl back behind her ear. 'It's Gabe, and no. He's kind of a jerk.'

'I hear there's a bit of that going around. The good news is, it's not incurable.'

'Oh, like you'd know.'

'Touché.'

But she grinned all the same, and this time, it was a real smile, one that transformed her whole face from being merely pretty to astonishingly beautiful. Whoever he was, and whatever his reasons, Dean decided there and then that Gabe was a grade-A idiot.

'You go on up,' said Anna, nodding towards the stairs. 'I'll call if I need something, and if you don't show by closing, I'll come up and get you.'

'Fair enough.'

'Just promise me you'll be wearing pants, OK?'

Dean laughed. 'I'll do my best. Thanks, Anna.'

'It's what you're paying me for, isn't it?' He felt oddly deflated at that, but then she grinned again and added, 'And, you know. We're friends. Which is clearly a sign of terrible judgement on my part, but whatever.'

'Hey, terrible judgement is a valid life voice. It's made me the man I am today.'

Anna groaned. ' Go .'

Throwing her a mock-salute, Dean obeyed, and was halfway up the stairs before he remembered the weight of the case in his hand, and what he was going to do with it. Tomorrow was Saturday: unless he went now, which was desperately unlikely, he wouldn't be able to bank the cash 'till Monday. The thought of keeping it in his flat all weekend made him edgy – which was, he suspected, exactly why Crowley had delivered it today – but he'd held bigger sums for longer and to far worse purposes, and besides, it wasn't like he didn't have Cas to keep him busy.

Entering his bedroom, he was momentarily confused as to why the bed was stripped, until he remembered washing the sheets – and what had made it necessary. Smiling to himself, he set the case aside, pulled the now-clean linen out of the dryer, and remade the bed; not that he planned on sleeping there tonight, but it would be a shame if he finally inveigled Cas over to his flat and the thing was still uninhabitable. With that done, he turned his attention back to the case, clicking it open on top of the covers. As predicted, it contained two thousand dollars in cash, handily bound in several small bundles of twenties; he left one where it was, then divided the rest into two piles, and stashed them in the back of the freezer and in a plastic bag in the toilet cistern, respectively.

The case's other contents were pretty much what he'd expected: a Glock (no serial numbers), two clips of ammo, a side holster, and a set of handwritten instructions that said, simply, 'Friday, 4pm, the Lucifer on Bone Street. Ask for Dorothy at the back door.' Dean scowled at the last detail, which was Crowley down to a tee. Introduce myself as a friend of Dorothy. Nice. Subtle.

Scrunching the paper into a ball, he carried it through to the bathroom, pulled out his lighter, and burned the note in the sink. Then, once the ash had rinsed away, he went back to his room, closed the case, and shoved it under the bed. Out of sight, out of mind.

On his way to the front door, he stopped for long enough to hunt out his remaining, unopened bottle of bourbon: cough syrup sherry was fine in a pinch, but in the mean time, Cas's need – and his – was clearly for something stronger.

Leaving his door unlocked, he slipped back across to Cas's silent flat. Setting the bourbon on the counter, he put the soup on a low simmer, took of his jacket, shoes and socks – he felt weird, wearing them inside – and finally went to the bedroom.

Cas lay face down, naked between clean sheets, the scars on his back just visible under the covers. At first, Dean thought he was asleep, but when the floor creaked under his tread, those blue eyes blinked slowly open.

'Hey,' Cas said. 'You're back.'

'I'm back.' Dean smiled. 'You want some company?'

'Depends. Do I have to get up?'

'Not if you don't want to.'

'I don't. Get up, that is. Want to.' He chuckled. 'Comfy.'

Dean frowned. There was something off about Cas's voice, a muzziness that hadn't been there earlier. 'You feeling OK?'

'Feeling? Not feeling. Drifting.' A brief pause. 'Hungry.'

'I put the soup on.'

Cas smiled. 'Soup is nice. Very... soupy.'

Dean stared at him, not knowing whether to be amused or appalled. 'Are you... are you high ?'

'Something like that. 'S nice.' With visible effort, Cas rolled onto his side. 'Why? Does it matter?'

Dean thought guiltily of the bourbon he'd brought. 'That depends. What did you take?'

'Pills.'

'You what ?' Panicked now, Dean knelt at the bedside, reaching out to feel his lover's forehead. 'How many? What kind?'

Cas snorted. 'Worrywort. That's what you are. Sounds like a flower. Some flowers have wort after them, y'know. Mostly the witchy ones.' And then, as if he'd only just registered Dean's concern, he sighed and said, 'Medicine. Just medicine. Anti-anxiety stuff. I've got a script. S' OK! Right dose. Just needed... calm.'

Dean relaxed a little. 'Promise?'

Cas smiled widely, holding up a hand that lolled from his wrist like a drunk spider. 'Pinky swear.'

'What are we, nine?' But he did it anyway, just happy that Cas wasn't in pain, even if that meant he was temporarily stoned on prescription meds.

'On the phone, before,' said Cas, after a moment. 'They're really alive?'

'Of course they're alive. I wouldn't lie about that.'

'I'm going to have to go back there, aren't I.' It wasn't a question, and there was a weird, blank dreaminess to his tone that raised goosebumps along Dean's arms. 'Back to Nevada. See them. Talk to the feds. Talk about... about why I left.'

'You don't have to do anything you don't want to –'

'Not about what I want .' Cas clicked his teeth. 'What they need . What I owe .'

He fell silent for a moment, frowning slightly. His bruises were closer to brown today than purple, which was a good sign; with any luck, they'd yellow over the weekend, then fade away. Reaching out, Dean gently ran his hand over Cas's good cheek, stroking with his thumb.

'Tell me about your mother,' Cas said, suddenly.

Dean flinched, snatching his hand back as though he'd been bitten.

'What? Why?'

'Why do you think?' And then Cas blinked, some of his usual clarity returning with the distress in Dean's voice. 'I've said the wrong thing haven't I?'

'No, no.' Dean swallowed, forcing himself to extend his hand again, inordinately relieved when Cas took hold of it. 'No, it's OK.' He looked away. 'She died when I was four, is all. There isn't much to tell. I mean, I remember her, but... faded.'

'Oh.' Cas squeezed his hand. 'I'm sorry. I didn't know.'

'How could you have done? It's not like I've mentioned it before.'

He fell silent, suddenly lost for words. His heart was a snarl of knotted strings; whatever he did to pull one free, another one always snagged, always hurt. He was sick of it. God, could he maybe set his own problems aside for five fucking seconds and actually help someone else? He should have just told Cas what he remembered of her, left the harder truth for later. His lover didn't need more pain.

'Dean?'

He looked up. Almost shyly, Cas asked, 'Get in with me? Please? I don't want to do anything, I just... it would be nice to hold you.'

Dean nodded, his throat suddenly so tight with unshed tears, he couldn't speak. Pulling off his clothes, he climbed in, putting his back to his lover's warm chest, and wondering, as Cas snuggled close, which one of them was really comforting the other.