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Diamonds and Guns

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It's the third time in fifteen minutes Cas has glanced at his watch, and Agent Adler is still going at it, bug-eyed and red-face, screaming about Cas' incompetence. How Cas can't trust Dean and Adler can't trust Cas. How much shit the FBI is in now that Ruby Williams' multi-million dollar diamond-studded necklace has gone missing.

Of course they're going to throw Dean under the bus.

It's Cas' exaggerated yawn-and-stretch that finally cuts off Adler's diatribe. His stunned expression is something to be proud of, but Cas can't think about that now. He needs to get out of here. To question Dean before someone else does.

"Don't even think you're going down there," Adler says, hands sliding into his pockets. He has his shirtsleeves rolled up and Cas can see the tendons in his forearms tense and release.

Cas rises from his chair, hooks his suit coat under the collar with two fingers. "You know he won't talk to anyone else," he says, taking a step toward the door.

Adler shifts with him, lips curling up into a smug grin. "You are not a stupid man, Novak. You know there's no way we can allow you to question him."

Cas shakes his head, holding in a wry chuckle. "You know we have a history, Adler. I can read him better than anyone else in this building." Cas narrows his eyes and takes a step closer. "Even you."

"How do we know you weren't in on it?" Adler asks, leaning into Cas' personal space. Cas refuses to give him the satisfaction of shying away. "You've been in each other's back pockets for over a year now. You're supposed to be his baby-sitter. Know what he's up to. Where he's going and who he's talking to. How do we know you aren't an accomplice?"

Cas straightens to his full height, shoulders squared, free hand tucked into its pocket. "Because I'm the only reason we ever caught Dean in the first place, remember? I know exactly what and who he is. And I wouldn't be stupid enough to throw my career away for someone like him." The words almost catch in his throat, but Cas is good at this. He knows he can't show any weakness. Not now, not yet.

Adler gives him a long, measured look that Cas waits out. He doesn't hold his breath, doesn't look away, doesn't even flinch And, once Adler nods on a long, indrawn breath, Cas is sweeping out the door.

: : :

Cas watches Dean through the two-way mirror with his arms folded across his chest. To anyone who doesn't know him, Dean looks completely at ease. A king holding court in a ten-by-ten room, all the furniture bolted to the floor. His hands are clasped together on the table, chained there by handcuffs, but he sits straight up, his posture perfect, while he hums Metallica with his eyes closed, fingers tapping against the table.

It's hard to believe there is any place on earth that Dean is uncomfortable, least of all an interrogation room, where he's played many a cop and agent before. But Cas can see the strain at the corner of his eyes, knows the humming for the nervous tic that it is. He wants to knock on the window to let Dean know Cas is there, but Adler is in the room before Cas' fingers can twitch, and Cas reminds himself that he has to make this interrogation look good, or both he and Dean will regret it.

As Cas enters the room, Dean's head tilts toward the door, but he doesn't open his eyes. He still has a few bars left to hum and Cas is generous enough to let him finish. It's a small thing, but Dean's grateful expression makes it worth it.

"Hello, Dean," Cas says, consulting the file in his hand. In it are several pictures of the missing necklace in question, both on Mrs. Williams and not, as well as insurance paperwork and screen grabs of surveillance video. It is a stunning piece of jewelry, Cas can admit. Understated, for all that a multi-million dollar necklace can be modest. "Did you enjoy the party tonight?"

Dean doesn't even pretend to not know what Cas is talking about. Dean's known about this party almost as long as Cas has. Has known for just as long that he wasn't supposed to be there. Cas isn't surprised Dean didn't listen. Disappointed, maybe, a little bit, but not surprised.

Dean shrugs one shoulder. "It wasn't bad, as far as society Christmas parties go. The food was edible, which was a pleasant surprise."

"Really?" Cas says with a curious tilt of his head. "I thought the chicken was dry."

"Chicken is always dry. Never order the chicken."

"I'll make a note for next time," Cas says, nodding. "So, care to tell me what you were doing there?"

Dean shrugs, somehow managing to make even that seem elegant. "Layla wanted a night out. How could I say no?"

"And how is Ms. Rourke feeling?" Cas asks honestly.

"Better and better every day. You should really stop by. She'd love to see you."

Cas flushes. "We've been a little busy, as you well know."

"All work and no play makes Cas a dull boy."

"Tell her I'll stop by as soon as I can."

"She'll like that," Dean says with a soft smile.

Cas echoes the smile, fingers toying with a corner of the file folder. He takes a moment to appreciate stretch of Dean's pinstriped shirt stretched across his chest, but is brought back to the room, and the point, by an obvious thud against the two-way mirror.

"So," Cas clears his throat. "How'd you do it?"

"Really, Cas? That's the angle you want to take?" Dean's lower lip juts out in a slight disappointed pout.

Cas flashes him a grin. "I've found that direct is the best course of action when it comes to you."

"But where's the fun in that?"

"Trust me Dean, this is never fun. No matter the angle."

"That hurts, Cas." Forgetting he's cuffed to the table, Dean tries to lay a palm on his chest. He knocks his knuckles on the table instead.

"They say that about the truth. Are you going to make me ask again?"

"You know how much I love to hear your dulcet tones."

"How did you do it? It'll be easier for you if you're honest with us."

"Easier, maybe," Dean admits, "but less fun."

Cas sorts through the folder, stopping on the insurance paperwork. "That necklace was worth two-point-four million dollars."

"Two-point-six," Dean corrects.

Cas nods, brows arched. "With your history--"

"Alleged history."

"And your acrimonious relationship with Ms. Williams--"

"Also alleged."

"Even you have to admit, you should be our primary suspect."

"Which is why it is so obviously not me." Dean presses, flattening his hands out on the table.

Cas darts a glance at blunt, squared fingertips and neatly manicured nails. "Do not try to use reverse psychology on me, Dean."

"I'm just trying to save everybody some time." Dean leans back in his chair, swallows deliberately to draw Cas' attention to his throat. Cas refuses to take the bait, instead rifling through his file.

"You want to save us some time?" Cas asks, pausing to flick Dean a dismissive look, "Tell us where the necklace is."

"C'mon Cas. Why on earth would I want a necklace like that? What would I even do with it? It's not like I have a girl to give it to."

"Perhaps in retaliation for what Ms. Williams did to your brother?" Cas regrets having to say it, but at least it's coming from him and not some other heartless FBI automaton.

Regardless, Dean stiffens in his chair, his face losing the smile lines around his eyes and mouth. His hands curl into fists on the tables, the knuckles stark white.

"Drug addiction, theft, murder, insanity." Cas rattles off, trying for gentle, but each word feels like shards of glass on his tongue. He has to remind himself of who's watching him and what will happen if he doesn't make this look good. Authentic.

Dean lets out a long, quiet breath, his eyes dark and hooded. His back and shoulders are painfully tight. "If she did all that to my brother," Dean says, his voice low and dangerous, "do you really think I would stop at stealing a fucking necklace?"

Unable to look him in the eye, Cas focuses his gaze on the hollow of Dean's throat, where the skin is sheened in sweat. "All I know, Dean, is that half of your arrest records have something to do with her. And that you're nothing if not an opportunist."

Dean huffs a laugh and leans back in his chair. He shakes his head and licks his lips and there's even a smile lurking at the corners of his mouth, but Cas notes the tension in Dean's shoulders. The way he sits with both feet flat on the floor, his hands tight fists.

"Face it Cas," Dean says, his voice dark and brittle. "You don't have anything on me. I was in plain sight all night."

"There's no such thing as plain sight with you, Dean," Cas says, even as he looks at the video captures from the Williams' security cameras. For a half an hour window, Dean can be seen dancing with Layla, buying her drinks, mingling with society people that have no idea who he is. The only thing they can prove Dean stole that night is one clueless old man's Breitling watch. Which is currently wrapped around the gearshift of Cas' car.

The fact is, unless Dean can teleport, he was nowhere near the Williams' bedroom suite. Or that necklace. Not that the FBI cares about video proof.

"Let me go, Cas. You know you can't hold me." The sweet, lilting way he says it makes Cas want to lash out. To make Dean wilt, if only a little bit. But Dean's right. And worse, Dean knows he's right. Which only makes his grin that much wider.

"You've already got the ankle bracelet on me. You can monitor me from the comfort of your own home. C'mon, Cas." He shakes his cuffed hands for effect.

Cas sighs, rubbing at his temple. It's Adler's call, ultimately, and Cas prepares himself for another hour of pointless screaming.

: : :

The lights are off in Cas' brownstone, but he can see the blinking LED of his alarm's keypad through the window and he sighs, making a mental note to change the code again in the morning.

Inside, Dean's sitting in living room, sprawled out on the two-seater sofa, away from the front of the house, nursing a beer. Two empties sit on the table next to him, glinting in the moonlight. Dean doesn't have his jacket on anymore, at least. Has lost his tie somewhere, too. His dress shirt is unbuttoned and untucked, revealing a ribbed white undershirt, the flat of his belly.

"Are we good?" Cas asks, slipping out of his shoes. He hangs his coat on the coat rack, picks up Dean's to do the same. He looks back at Dean for an answer, and follows the vague flailing of his hand at the pile of scrap wiring on the coffee table.

"I don't know why they even bother if they know we know," Dean grumbles, keeping his beer away from Cas' outstretched hand.

Cas gives it up as a loss and heads into the kitchen to get his own. "Did you go see him?" His drop into the couch is inelegant, ending with a bounce, but it forces Dean to tilt into him, and Cas wraps an arm around Dean's shoulders, pulling him closer.

Dean grunts a reply that Cas reads as a yes and yawns, rubbing his face against Cas' chest.

"How is he?"

"The same," Dean sighs. "Ranting about Lucifer and angels. Being possessed."

"I'm sorry I had to bring him up."

Dean scrubs a hand over his face, then downs the last of his beer. "Fucking Zachariah."

Cas hums in agreement.

They sit quietly like that, listening to the sounds of the night outside, Cas' thumb sweeping back and forth over the skin behind Dean's ear. Each accidental scrape of his nail sets off a shiver that rolls through Dean, into Cas, and back again.

Cas pulls Dean closer, so they're pressed together all along their sides, and brushes his mouth against Dean's temple. "Do you think this'll work?" Cas says, low and quiet.

"What d'you mean?" Dean slurs, drunk and tired and probably a little emotional.

Cas tilts Dean's face up to look him in the eye. "Are you sure this will draw Alistair out?"

Dean smiles, wide and honest, and slings a leg over Cas' thighs, sliding neatly into place in Cas' lap. He looms large and pale in the moonlight, his teeth a stark white against the dark inside of his mouth and the shadows of his face. "I'm positive, Cas. You know him almost as well as you know me. You know he can't resist a challenge like this."

He kisses Cas, then. Something they've both wanted to do since Cas first walked into the interrogation room. It starts out slow and warm, sweet, but soon escalates to needy and demanding. Hands in hair, tilting heads.

"Where is it?" Cas asks while he still can, before the haze of lust hits him and all he can think about is skin and sweat and Dean.

Dean doesn't hear him, though, too intent on tracing Cas' collar bone with his tongue. Cas lets him, if only because the warm, slick slide feels really fucking good, but then Dean's hips start moving and Cas wants to fall into the same rhythm. He fists his hands in Dean's hair before he can lose control, pulling sharply until Dean's nose bumps into Cas' and they're looking each other in the eye.

"Where is it?" Cas spits out, more than a little desperate to move.

"Cas, oh my god," Dean gasps. "Do you see where I'm trying to suck a very dirty mark into your collar bone?"

Cas pushes at Dean's shoulders, shoving Dean into the couch cushions. Dean's got his hands wrapped around Cas' biceps, though, pulling Cas with him until he fits snug between Dean's legs. Cas takes advantage of his position, grinding down with a slow roll of his hips. Dean throws his head back, neck arched, and groans.

"Tell me where the necklace is," Cas growls out, hands tight on Dean's hips, skin to skin where the undershirt rides up.

Dean lets out a breathless chuckle, clutches tighter to Cas' arms. "You're hot when you don't trust me, y'know that?"

"Dean," Cas says, pressing closer

"Ah, ah! Ash! Ash has it!" It's part laugh, part gasp, and Cas can hear the smile in it.

Cas lets up on the pressure, hand sliding over to fiddle with the button of Dean's slacks. The skin there is warm, the hair rough against Cas' knuckles. He drags them against the grain a few times to see Dean tremble.

"Cas, Cas, Cas," Dean whines, high and breathless, arching into Cas' touch. It presses their cocks together, and Cas can feel the heat even through their layers of pants and underwear.

Dean starts chanting, "Off, off," at the same time he grabs for Cas' shirt. Their limbs tangle together, getting in each others' way, until Cas rears back suddenly, goosebumps rising along his front where he was warmed by Dean's body. Dean's fingers fumble with the buttons until Cas steadies his hands, slim fingers wrapped around shifting tendons. Dean looks at him, then, eyes dark and glassy, but serious, too. Soft around the edges where the corners crinkle.

Together, they get Cas' shirt open and off, the undershirt, too, and Dean's reaching for his pants as Cas reaches for Dean's. They're both clumsy with buttons and zippers, Dean too eager for Cas' mouth to lay back and give them room to work in. It's okay, though. Cas wants Dean, too. Clutches tight to his shoulder to hold him in place.

Dean sighs into Cas' mouth once he gets Cas' pants open and pushed down, and grabs Cas' hips to steady him, fingers splaying wide over bare skin. Once Cas finally gets Dean's pants open, they fall backward together, Cas landing on Dean's chest with a soft rush of air. He rides out Dean's wriggling by gripping Dean's biceps and rolling with it. Each thrust of Dean's hips an awful tease.

"You are ridiculous," Cas says on a gasp when their dicks brush together. His hands skim over Dean's belly and chest to push Dean's undershirt up and off.

Dean flashes him a wide smile and finally stops his wiggling. "You like that about me."

"I really don't."

Impossibly, Dean's grin widens and he bucks up, arms wrapped around Cas to keep him in place. Even though their pants and underwear are tangled somewhere below their knees, the move slots their dicks together and Cas groans, a sound Dean echoes.

With one hand on Dean's hip to guide him, Cas sets the rhythm. Slow and careful at first, smoothing out into something better, easier as Cas leans down to kiss him, mimicking the movement of their bodies with his tongue.

Dean growls when he gets it, hands palming Cas' ass to bring him closer, get more pressure. And it's good, so good, Cas devolving from trying to kiss Dean to mouthing clumsily at Dean's jaw and neck, his shoulder. All Cas wants is skin, and Dean has plenty of it.

Too soon, Dean's little hitching breaths let Cas know he close, but they haven't done fumbling teenage frottage on the couch in a long time. The glide of skin on skin isn't enough to get them off.

Cas slips a hand between them, fingers dragging through the mess of their precome to wrap around them both, thumb seeking out Dean's slit. The first touch makes Dean gasp and ruin their rhythm, fingers clinging to the sweat-slick skin of Cas' hips.

Together they find a new pace, faster and harder, Cas' fingers a tight, slick circle for them to fuck into. Cas gets his wet open mouth on Dean's nipple, scrapes it with his teeth. Dean yelps Cas' name and comes, hot and sticky over Cas' hand, Cas working him through it until Dean has to still him with trembling fingers.

Cas waits, orgasm banked low in his gut, for Dean to recover. It doesn't take him long to get a hand around Cas' cock, fingers slotted together. Dean grins up at him with soft eyes and a red mouth. He teeth are sharp on Cas' lower lip, but it's exactly what Cas needs to balance the light weight of Dean's hand on his back.

He has to let go of himself to get more leverage; braces his palm on the arm of the sofa, above Dean's head, and uses the angle to fuck harder into Dean's warm hand. Dimly, Cas hears himself grunting Dean's name with each thrust, his other hand clutching Dean's shoulder, his bicep.

His orgasm is a rush when it hits, all white light and stuttered gasps. Dean coaxes him along with his filthy words and clever tongue, the sweet softness of his mouth. Cas can't hold himself up any longer, arms quivering from exertion, and he melts into Dean with a sigh.

"That was..." Dean says after a while, fingers tracing lazy patterns through the sweat on Cas' back.

"Disgusting?" Cas supplies. Their groins stick together and he's less than amused to realize they never really did get their pants off.

"Hot," Dean finishes.

Cas hums, licking at the sweat on Dean's neck. "Perhaps."

Dean laughs and pulls Cas closer, squirming into the cushions underneath him.

"We're not going to sleep on this thing," Cas says. "This sofa wasn't built for six foot tall men."

"I'm comfortable enough," Dean says, the words muffled by Cas' hair.

"You still have your pants on." Cas looks down. "Mostly."

Dean is silent for a long minute, then starts to wriggle around. Cas has to hold onto the back off the couch to keep himself from falling.

"Ha!" Dean says, and Cas looks down to find Dean's pants in a wrinkled pile on the floor. His socks are still on.

"Want me to do yours?" Dean murmurs, mouthing at Cas' jawline.

Still clinging to the couch, Cas manages to work his way out of his pants, too, though it only serves to heighten the mess of come between them. Cas still gives Dean a smug look; at least Cas managed to toe his socks off.

Dean sees it and laughs, hard enough that his hand comes up to cover his eyes. Cas takes the opportunity to stand. The stretch feels good. Not being pressed against Dean's warm skin does not.

Eventually, Dean blinks up at Cas, one hand reaching out for Cas' knee. He gets ahold of it and tries to tug Cas closer, but Dean's as weak as a kitten just after sex. Cas finds it equal parts adorable and ridiculous.

Cas thumbs at Dean's pouty lip, crouching low to bring their faces together. It makes the drying come on Cas' skin tug and crack, but he's able to ignore it long enough to say, "If you come upstairs, I'll let you ride me."

Dean doesn't need to be told twice.