Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Castiel decides to take Dean to dinner after Aaron's funeral, which sure is fucked, but as long as Dean gets a greasy cheeseburger in return, he can overlook this blatant disrespect. He even lets Castiel drive Baby, a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity for most people if he permits it at all. But, honestly, it is a primarily selfish decision because Castiel, behind the wheel of his beloved muscle car, does things to him, especially in that all-black formal wear. His tendency to shift a little too much in his seat caught Castiel's eye and earned him an enraging smirk and a not-so-innocent palm on his thigh for the duration of the ride. 

One hand on the wheel, one hand on your boyfriend's (with whom you also murdered someone) thigh. 

It shouldn't be so hot looking at Castiel's hands and the Russian ink on his knuckles and be so turned on by the mere thought of seeing him wield an ax on his unsuspecting (ex) husband. Like...what else could those hands do? But, just before he is about to give voice to that question, Castiel speaks first.

"What are you smiling about?" Castiel tightens his hand's grip into a loving squeeze, and then he releases it to lower the Metallica music blasting on the stereo. "Nothing good has come out of one of those smiles." He pauses as if to reconsider, the slightest quirk on the corner of his mouth. "Well, not usually." 

"Nothin'," Dean responds, his smile widening, earning him an exasperated huff from Castiel. 

"Fine, don't tell me. But if you start being a little shit tonight, I'm taking you somewhere that serves their food on white tablecloths," Castiel threatens, his glare evolving into a look of triumph upon the look of sheer horror that crosses Dean's face. 

"Me? Being a little shit? Never," he quips with a hand flat on his chest and a tone of mock incredulity interwoven in his words. 

To be totally transparent, Dean is just bored as fuck being in this car for as long as he has today. 

The cemetery where Aaron now rests for eternity is a long drive from Seattle, which was Dean's intention. Yeah, he doesn't quite believe in the supernatural, but his husband wrote several books about it, and with his luck, he will be the only widow in the history of forever to be haunted by their deceased spouse. Perhaps Aaron had some sort of supernatural connection, which explained why he loved writing those books so much. The point is, the greater the number of obstacles Dean creates for ghost Aaron to overcome to reach their old apartment, the better. Sure, he doesn't know the logistics of ghost travel, but he likes to think that the physical miles between him and the cemetery would be at least some kind of hindrance.

"Do you believe in ghosts, Cas?" 

They stop at a red light once they reach downtown, and Castiel visibly relaxes into the bench seat of Baby as he peers at the raindrops cascading down the window, eerily similar to all the tears Dean saw today. He recognizes Castiel's thinking face as he taps his finger on the steering wheel, still not answering his question. The squinted eyes and the slight head tilt on an otherwise relaxed face give away that he is mulling over the question. 

"Yes," Castiel says once the light turns green and they begin moving again. "But not in the way you think of them. Ghosts are memories, thoughts, regrets, so you could say that most of us are haunted." 

"Huh," he replies, staring out of the window and watching the various skyscrapers of downtown pass by in the darkness of the night, the majority of them dim and empty. "I meant more like do you think Aaron is about to go full-on The Conjuring, Poltergeist, or Paranormal Activity on our asses? Because if so, maybe we should move." 

Castiel looks heavenward, his face blank and the back of his neck now in contact with the top of the bench seat behind him. Then, as if speaking through gritted teeth, which is a considerable possibility whenever Dean amuses himself by trying his damndest to get a rise out of him, he says, "Perhaps I should let him. Encourage it, even." 

"First of all, rude. You wouldn't dare give up this amazing piece of ass," Dean responds and holds up his hand with his index finger sticking up as if counting. He holds up another finger beside it as he makes his following—excellent—point. "Second of all, I like to think that he wouldn't listen to you in death like he didn't in life. Less to lose this time around."

In lieu of responding to Dean, Castiel pulls into their favorite diner's parking lot, and he loosens his tie, removing it with finesse, along with his blazer that he unceremoniously rolls up and tosses into the back seat. As he unbuttons the top few buttons of his shirt, he glances sideways at Dean and smiles, his face softening and his eyes transforming into deep, cerulean pools. It's the same kind Dean has repeatedly delved into over the past seven months. He loves Castiel with every interlaced fiber of his being. 

Castiel leans forward and places a delicate hand on Dean's cheek, smoothing his cheekbone as he searches Dean's face, feasting his eyes on it as he has so many times before. 

"If Aaron comes back to haunt you, I will kill him again," Castiel replies as if it is the simplest thing in the world. He straightens up and steps out of the car while Dean follows closely behind. Although, before they enter the old-fashioned diner, its neon lights reflecting off Castiel's exposed skin around his collarbone in a way that has Dean unconsciously licking his lips, he adds as if it were an afterthought, "I will get rid of anyone who tries to stand in my way of being with you."

It is anything but a mere afterthought, though. Castiel has demonstrated it. Verified that he is beyond devoted to their relationship as if Dean is worth throwing away morality for, worth going to prison for the rest of his life if it meant just being with him those intoxicatedly, irredeemable six months. 

And, really, that's what Dean likes to call romance . 

They spend most of their meal together in companionable silence. An ease Dean appreciates that they have developed so early in the relationship. In contrast, most couples need to wait years before achieving that level of familiarity. 

This is normal. Because sure, Dean wouldn't call their relationship or even their day 'normal,' but sitting down enjoying dinner with the hot ass man in front of him is the type of experience he wants for the rest of his life.                          

The moment of calm, however, is subsequently shattered by someone who really ought to have minded their own fucking business. A moment after Dean is sated (well...for food) and feeling real happiness for the first time all day, Castiel grabs his hand across the diner table when one of the detectives from the crime scene at the cabin interrupts them. He's an average-looking man—brown hair, brown eyes, with a forgettable face—which seems to translate into Dean also being unable to recall whatever fuckface’s name is.

"Dean Winchester. It's Detective Victor Rogers," the man says, an iciness in his tone that makes Dean shiver. The clasped hands in the middle of the table have not gone unnoticed by him. "It was Aaron's funeral today, correct? I'm sure that must have been difficult." 

Slowly, guiltily, he slides his hand across the dirty table back to himself while Castiel, truly giving no fucks, keeps his hand open and waiting on the table. Castiel isn't even sparing a glance at the detective, opting to give the subtlest of glares in Dean's direction. 

That's great. Now both men looking at him are doing so without one iota of positivity. Dean wouldn't consider himself a positive person, but this day has already sucked, and his night is following suit.

"It was," he responds, trying his hardest to sound dejected while the back of his neck breaks out into a cold sweat due to Detective Rogers' presence. He's no expert on human psychology or whatever, but the current picture that he and Castiel are painting in this diner is most likely unwise for a grieving husband. "I'm just having some dinner with my friend, Cas, over here. I haven't eaten a lot lately, just been so upset, ya know?"

Then, as if noticing Castiel for the first time, the detective moves his scrutiny over to him. Dean is grateful it’s no longer on him anymore yet he just hopes that he didn’t see the way Castiel's nostrils flared at Dean when he referred to him as a 'friend’. 

"Ah, yes, Castiel," the detective replies, enunciating Castiel's name as if he were tasting it on his tongue. Detective Rogers must not have liked the mouthfeel (Dean really can't relate) because his face slightly scrunches up, as though he put something too sour in his mouth. "It seems as though he is such a good friend, Dean. I've noticed him staying at your apartment every day since Aaron's death."

Who knew funerals brought out the asshole in everyone?

"Yes, well, Dean has been having a hard time sleeping, as I'm sure most widows who have their husbands murdered by the people they're having affairs with would, detective ," Castiel replies, narrowing his eyes in that dangerous way that spells trouble for whoever is on the receiving end of it. Or like…a mindblowing fuck if Dean is on the receiving end of it. 

There follows an epic staredown between Detective Rogers and his boyfriend that has Dean sweating profusely. The sheen of it on his skin must be noticeable from the fucking moon, and Dean is currently done with this bullshit. Not today, Mr. Rogers.

Dean clears his throat like he just took a massive load down it and instantly draws the attention of the two men. 

"I'd like to go home, if y'all don't mind," he says and attempts to keep the strain out of his voice. The sheer panic that's starting to come over him is almost overwhelming. 

Despite his best efforts to protect Castiel, he's going to get taken away anyways. All because of some Benedict Cumberbatch lookin' fuckwad that can't mind his own business. Sure, maybe detectives shouldn't mind their own business, but if it's anything involving Dean and Castiel's business, he will do anything to protect. That. Shit. 

"I'll leave you to it," Detective Rogers says, a fakety fake smile on his face as he nods to them and then strolls towards the exit, the bell on the door ringing out when he pushes through it towards the parking lot. 

"Cas—" 

"Don't," Castiel interjects, holding up his finger that has the subtlest tremor to it, something barely perceptible to the average eye or someone that hadn't memorized every single tiny detail of him like Dean has. It breaks Dean's heart, seeing the strong man next to him suddenly scared. Castiel is supposed to be the confident one. The one so sure of himself that he never once regretted any single one of his impulsive actions, of which there have been many . 

Castiel's chair scrapes against the floor when he stands up, attracting curious glances from other diners. Fantastic, this is just what he needs—an angry Castiel. 

Their ride back to Castiel's apartment (because apparently Mister-Fucking-Rogers is watching his apartment and not in a sexy I’m-going-to-strip-in-front-of-the-window way) was spent in silence. Occasionally, Castiel veered into the other lane as he focused intensely on whatever thoughts are swirling around in that fucked up brain of his.

Castiel did not even give him a chance to lock the door before pouncing on him upon entering his apartment. Castiel pushes Dean against a wall and aligns his body, so they are flush with each other, pressing their lips together. It is done with such enthusiasm that their teeth clank against each other, but this doesn't stop Castiel, who ignores it and licks into Dean's mouth as Dean stands there and tries to match his energy. 

There is an element of desperation in this. Desperation that Dean thought was behind both of them after Aaron and Henry took their last breaths. 

Castiel's hands are everywhere, and when he gets frustrated that there isn't more of Dean's skin on display, he grips either side of his shirt and rips it open, the buttons that were sewed on it subsequently falling and clinking onto the floor. Okay, so it was an expensive shirt, but it was also pretty hot. 

Castiel looks utterly debauched when he finally pulls away from Dean so he can strip and maintain delicious eye contact with him. Castiel's hair is unkempt, his cheeks are flushed, and he has a fire in his eyes.

Upon reuniting, they stumble their way to Castiel's bed, and he wastes no time in grabbing the extra-large lube bottle with a pump (thanks, Costco) and shoveling a finger into him. Dean hisses at the very sudden, unexpected intrusion, but Castiel pays it no mind, obviously off in his own world where he needs this like he needs air. He needs Dean, and Dean will always be there to satiate that need. No matter if Castiel isn't quite in the right frame of mind to ask nicely. 

A few minutes later, the lack of prep and accompanying burn of Castiel's cock breaching him is almost too much. That burn and mild pain gradually grew into pleasure as Castiel grinds into him, his body draped over Dean's back and his teeth biting down on the sensitive flesh of his neck. 

Amid a deep grind, Castiel whispers in his ear, "No one is going to take you from me. Say it." 

"Yeah." Dean is on the verge of an intense orgasm with the way Castiel is hitting all his spots just right and the way his cock is trapped between himself and the mattress beneath him. So, just to appease Castiel, he vocally agrees with him. "No one, Cas." 

 "No." Castiel halts his movement and grabs a handful of Dean's hair, pulling his head up so that they are more eye-to-eye than they were before. "Repeat it."

Dean just groans in return when Castiel begins moving once more, trying so hard to focus, but it's fucking hard, in more ways than one. Then Castiel puts his hands on either side of Dean's head, hoisting himself up so he can properly pump into him.

"Say it, say it, say it," Castiel chants. "I'm not going to let you come until you say it." 

Then, Castiel sits up, falling out of Dean. But, before Dean can protest the unexpected departure of the really awesome cock inside of him, Castiel is pulling him up and manhandling him until he's standing and facing the wall. He shoves himself back into Dean, his breath hot on the back of his neck, where his forehead is resting, undoubtedly watching the way his dick is thrusting in and out of him. 

Just as he is about to reach his own hand down to finish himself off because, at this point, Castiel is driving him crazy, he slaps Dean's hand away. The audacity.

"Say it and you can come," Castiel growls, placing his hand on the base of Dean's dick and squeezing, entirely in control of him. 

"No one is going to take me away from you," he cries out, relief and euphoria flooding through his body when Castiel proceeds to stroke him in earnest, panting and smiling against his skin. 

"Good boy," Castiel murmurs, his hips stuttering to a stop while he moans and comes, never letting up on stroking Dean to his completion. The way any proper gentleman would. 

Dean's orgasm hits him like a freight train, and if the wall weren't there, he'd be doubling over in ecstasy.

Half a minute later, he feels a chaste kiss being pressed to his neck and a mumbled, "I love you," as Castiel pulls out and collapses onto the bed next to them. 

"Love you too," he says, nodding to himself and then curling up next to Castiel. He cuddles up close and presses his own tender kiss to Castiel's chest, on top of his tattoo of a raven. 

Hopefully, what Castiel said wasn't just in the heat of the moment. 

Dean wouldn't survive without him. 

He'd do anything to prevent that. It's called self-preservation. 

Chapter Text

Dean wakes before Castiel the following morning with the consuming desire to get away and just  think  for a second. Alone. Without the devil on his shoulder by the name of Castiel Novak. To be honest, he's also feeling helpless and strange, like at the drop of a hat, he could have a breakdown that'll make a doctor 5150 him, and he'll be wearing those grippy socks for the next month. Something that he can't allow. Especially after everything he has sacrificed to get where he is now—with Castiel.

Quietly stealing some sweats and a jacket out of Castiel's closet, he freshens up in the bathroom before he embarks outside, aiming to go to the quaint little coffee shop across the street from his apartment building. Since it's a weekday, there is a morning rush of people, which should have given Dean more anxiety than he was already experiencing, but the added anonymity relaxed him. Once he receives his coffee, he exits the shop to stroll down the cold, wet sidewalk. He vaguely wishes he thought to take one of Castiel's beanies once the chilly air hits him again, so he pulls the hood up in an attempt to keep his ears semi-warm. 

There are two things that Dean knows for sure. One, Detective Victor Rogers knows that Aaron's death was not a murder-suicide and more a murder-murder. Second, there's no fucking way in hell that either he or Castiel are going to prison. No, sir. 

Yet, for everything he knows as fact, he has at least triple the questions. Does anyone else know other than Victor? Every single other detective on the scene seemed to buy his story, even going so far as to send him a card with their condolences, as some were fans of Aaron. So, Dean can deduce that, most likely, Victor is the only one that has the inkling. Among the dozens of other questions to mull over, one stands out above the rest of them. 

What the hell does he do about it? 

It's one thing to kill his spouse's pretty, little twink. But killing a police officer is a totally different matter that Dean doesn't think even Castiel could possibly commit and then think his way out of. 

The only logical conclusion seems to be to stay away from Castiel for the moment. After all, it is widely known that Dean-Winchester-logic is impeccable and infallible. This is clear-cut reasoning that  never  backfires.

As he wanders the streets, he doesn't pay too much attention to where he is going. His phone rang a few different times, but he just turned it off, still not in the mood to talk to Castiel right now. There is no denying that communication is the backbone of any relationship. Dean was with a man for almost 15 years. He  knows  that, but he can deal with the consequences later. 

A little while later, Dean realizes that his feet subconsciously guided him to Charlie's apartment building. While at the funeral yesterday, he briefly saw her, but if he's being honest with himself (which is not a Dean Winchester specialty), he has been avoiding her. Dean fears what she will think about everything because she is the only one who knows about his affair.

There is only one way for him to find out. 

Using the stairs to get up to her third-story apartment unit, because the elevator would have gotten him there too fast, he currently stands in front of her door and stares at it. The gold-plated number nine which is screwed into the door's wood reflects the gleam of his self back to him, but he can't seem to make eye contact. At this point, drinking one of Sam's homemade wheatgrass shots would be preferable to looking in the mirror. 

Finally, he raps his knuckles against the door with as little force as possible in a half-hope that Charlie might not hear, or at least won't be home.

As Dean hears the sound of the door opening, he considers whether he could make it around the corner down the hallway before Charlie makes it to the door and sees him. 

But he stays put. Charlie opens the door and tries to hide her surprise, but the minuscule widening of her eyes betrays her. 

"Dean." She straightens a bit and steps aside to let him in. "You feeling a bit better today?" 

He doesn't even consider answering her until he sits down at her tiny dining table, the chairs only large enough to fit about half of his ass on them, and he shifts uncomfortably a few times before giving up with a huff. 

Providing him with a hot mug of coffee, she sits across from him and looks at him with an expression that rivals Castiel's and Sam's puppy dog eyes. 

"I'm sorry I haven't been talking to you as much," Dean says, his shoulders slumping inwards and his chest tightening. A telltale lump appears in his throat, indicating he is about to cry. As he feels a droplet of liquid on his hand, he realizes that it has already begun.

"Oh, Dean," Charlie murmurs, springing to her feet and taking large strides before she can wrap her arms around his shoulders, allowing him to melt into her comforting touch. "I am proud of you for showing your sadness. It is okay to be hurt and to express it." 

And that is exactly what Dean did. The tears flowed. All of them. 

Initially, he wept over how simple his old life was and how it had changed since then. While not better by any means, his old life was safer--boring yet so simple. He shed tears for Aaron, who deserved better than to die despite his imperfections or mistakes. As he cried, he reflected on the reality that he literally killed a man a week ago for no other reason than to save Castiel. Finally, he cried the most when he realized he would repeat all of it, over and over, as long as Castiel was on the other side. 

Thankfully Charlie, bless her heart, stood there and waited until he finished, running her fingers through his hair and shushing him like he deserved it. 

"I think I'm done being a baby," he says, still sniffling but done with the waterworks for the next, say, ten years or so. 

"Okay, good. Because this position is starting to make my back hurt," Charlie replies, straightening up and stretching her arms above her head, groaning in relief when she is finally able to reposition her back. "I was beginning to worry about you. I haven't seen you cry at all and that's just not normal, Dean. Not after the past couple weeks."

Before his brain has caught up with his mouth, he asks, "Do you think I'm a bad person?"

Charlie is taken aback by the question, her mouth agape until she notices it and snaps it shut. She tugs at the ends of her shirt and shifts from foot to foot before she can make direct eye contact with him again, sudden confidence on her face. 

"I know you're feeling guilty about having that affair. But Dean, you couldn't have known what was going to happen. You're  not  a bad person." 

"What if," he begins, pausing to lick his lips and figure out how to phrase his question. "What if I was somehow responsible?" 

Eh, not the best way to have phrased it, but it'll have to do. 

"Dean..." Charlie pinches the bridge of her nose and sits back down on the other side of the table, one of her eyebrows cocked. "You weren't. None of this 'what if' bullshit. Life is full of what if's, it's best not to fixate on them." 

She stands up and grabs the coffee carafe, refilling both of their mugs with steaming hot coffee. The smell of it makes Dean's mouth water, and he relaxes minutely for those few seconds, forgetting everything that is wrong, wrong, wrong. It's just him and Charlie hanging out on a weekend morning, like the old days. 

"Maybe you should take a break from Cas, for the time being. Just a little one. So you can grieve and sort your shit out."

"I've felt both true to myself in a way I've never been before and also unlike myself in a way I've never been before since the beginning of my relationship with Cas. It can be so confusing." He idly picks at a lone napkin on the table, ripping off tiny pieces of it and rolling them up with his fingers until Charlie replies to him. 

"Hmm, it sounds to me like you need some  you  time. Self-care, baby. Let's talk on the phone and play Minecraft like we used to do all the time months ago. We haven't done that in a while. I miss it."

Although Dean's freshly formed smile is small, and even though it might appear out of place on his puffy face with bloodshot eyes, he feels better. 

"Thanks, Charlie. I'm going to do exactly that."  

xxx

Dean decides to walk home and pick up his car at Castiel's apartment next week. He knows that if he ran into Castiel right now, it would break his resolve to take some space, and he'd most likely end up face down-ass up on his bed, with a very pissed Castiel behind him, considering which ways he wanted to torture him. 

Except maybe 'pissed' is the wrong word because Dean doesn't claim to be a therapist, but he is aware that Castiel's anger is a manifestation of his deeply rooted fear of abandonment. Despite not getting Castiel to open up about his youth in Minnesota or why he moved, he is confident that his childhood was fucked. It is disconcerting because his natural reaction when he perceives that someone might threaten his claim on Dean is to eliminate them.   In his development, there must have been something, or rather many things, that went wrong to lead him to impulsively commit the most illegal, unethical crime as one of his primary solutions.

It would be fascinating if it didn't simultaneously raise concerns for Dean's and Castiel's safety and general ability to stay out of trouble with the law. Yet, as he already pointed out, orange isn't his color, and he won't be doomed to drink only prison hooch for the rest of his life.

As soon as he enters his apartment, he closes all his blinds, even those in rooms he will not be in. Detective Rogers has admitted to Dean that he has been keeping an eye on him. While he doesn't intend to do anything that would be interesting or noteworthy for an investigator, he would rather not have someone watching him without his consent. 

Castiel included. 

While making himself lunch, he checks his phone and notices that he has twenty-two missed calls from his boyfriend. So yeah, he's cognizant that he may be playing with fire and that fire is rapidly growing into a potential source of combustion. In any case, perhaps it wouldn't be a good idea to be talking to Castiel on the phone due to Detective Dickwad. Isn't it easy as fuck to tap a person's cellphone nowadays? He'd rather not risk it. 

Dean is having an incredibly relaxing post-cry nap when he is awoken by a knock on his door a few hours later. The moment he is thrust into the world of waking again, he groans and says, "Gimme a sec."

He knows who is behind the door before he opens it. 

The initial glimpse of Castiel on the other side of the door still makes his heart thump heavily, and a warm tingling spreads throughout his body, from his fingertips to his toes. Little droplets of rain hang off the messy strands of Castiel's hair, in tandem with his flushed cheeks, as though he just ran here, causing Dean's heart to flutter and then skip a beat.

In his typical gravel-toned manner, Castiel says, "Dean." Then, he pushes past him and looks around the apartment with a suspicion that makes Dean raise an eyebrow. Once Castiel has been pacified by the ordinary appearance of his apartment, he turns towards him and wraps his arms around him. "I thought something happened to you. I was worried." 

How sweet. 

However, Dean is supposed to be making a point as well. This isn't the time to do this. They can't continue this while all that bullshit is pressing in on them and Dean is feeling so suffocated he might stop breathing at any moment. It's possible that Castiel can since he seems to be totally flourishing, regardless of external pressures.  

"But also," Castiel begins, looking at him as though seeing him for the first time tonight. His eyebrows furrowed, and a frown marred his face that  Dean  put there. His blue eyes harden while a fire burns within them as he studies Dean, trying to find something in him that Dean's not sure he can provide. "Why did you leave me?" 

In response to Castiel's soft voice, Dean pauses, questioning all of his decisions and actions today. He can't abandon him. He  loves  him too much.

However, sometimes we must hurt our loved ones to keep them safe. It'll only be for a little while to get the detective off their asses. 

"There's a detective who is so far up our asses I can practically taste him on my tongue. We should stay apart for now, Cas. I can't lose you." 

Castiel grimaced at the image, which is, well, sort of gross, but it's true. They will get straight and dirty fucked if they don't do this. And sure, Dean might like that from time to time, but not from anyone except Castiel.

"Who told you that?" Castiel demands, a familiar strain in his voice that makes Dean fidget and stare down at his shoes. 

"I, uh, went to a therapist this morning. Obviously, I didn't tell them that you killed Aaron, though, so don't worry," he lied, unwilling to throw Charlie under the bus to his boyfriend, who is as unhinged as he is beautiful. 

" Who ?" The word is severe and harsh, and Castiel takes a step back from him, his body warmth vanishing from Dean's skin. 

"Therapist-patient confidentiality, Cas. Look it up, maybe," he replies, dodging his question with what he likes to think is precision and skill. However, the tilted head and squinting of Castel's eyes suggest another kind of reality. 

"Fine. If this is what you want," Castiel says with clipped words. Although it somehow resembles more of a warning—a threat—rather than an agreement of any sort.

Then Castiel leaves. 

Dean cries even more over the fact that the one person he knows could make him feel better is also the one putting him in this position in the first place. 

He mopes around his apartment for a few days, allowing everything to hit him, and it does hit him, over and over and over again, until he is emotionally bruised and battered. 

He didn't emerge from the land of the dead (although that might be a lousy metaphor given the circumstances) until 72 hours of maximum self-hatred and depression had passed. But hey, that's kind of a specialty of his. 

After a few heart-stopping moments of thinking someone had stolen Baby from his apartment, he realized he had left his car at Castiel's place and resigned himself to walking a mile over there in the cold and rain to retrieve her. All that fresh air may be just what he needs to get himself out of his slump.

The genuine feeling of relief he feels upon catching a glimpse of Baby's black paint, even if it is not quite enough to smile, at least shoves his residual guilt to the side for now. 

"Hi, Baby," he murmurs, and once he's within reaching distance, he strokes her hood lovingly. "Let's go home now." 

The short drive back to his home is enough to have him singing along to his favorite Led Zeppelin songs, a marked sign of true joy for Dean. He parks Baby in her coveted, covered space because she deserves nothing less, then he gets out and walks to the trunk to retrieve his dirty funeral clothing from it. 

The first thing he finds when he opens the hood of her trunk is most definitely not dirty clothing. After slamming it back down, he takes a few unsteady steps backward, his chest tightening. A combination of nausea and shock brings him to his knees, where he stays for a few minutes, attempting to catch his breath. 

As he crawls forward on hands and knees toward Baby, he is thankful that he is currently the only one in the garage. His shaking hands make it difficult for him to open her trunk again, yet once he does, he can peer into it and see two dead bodies thrown haphazardly inside. Their blood has seeped through their clothing and is smeared all over the inside of Baby's trunk. There's one man and one woman, both middle-aged and plain-looking, a relatively common kind of human that someone would find in Seattle. This all begs the question of why the fuck are they  dead  and in his Baby's trunk?

Their eyes are open yet gazing at nothing, just lifelessly mocking Dean from where he is standing over his trunk.

Several stab wounds are visible on each of their stomachs, and the man also had several shallow slashes on his chest, suggesting he may have resisted. A tiny piece of the woman's intestine can be seen poking out of one of the particularly brutal stab wounds on her stomach, likely from being squeezed out when she was carried.

He really could have gone his entire life without seeing someone's insides on their outsides like this. 

Dean has no doubt about who is responsible for this.

Fucker.

He's going to pay for making Baby all dirty like this. 

Chapter Text

It’s kinda sad how prepared Dean felt this time around when Castiel decided to give him unwanted offerings and blatant statements in the form of dead bodies. This time around, however, he’s confused as to what these two people ever did to earn the terrifying wrath of Castiel Novak. 

Dean decides that instead of cleaning up Castiel’s messes, once a-fuckin-gain, he is better off forcing him to deal with it himself. No more damn bailouts. If Castiel wants to kill someone he can also do the rest himself, too—which includes less fun things like body disposal and detailing Baby’s trunk afterward. 

Especially Baby’s trunk part, though. Otherwise, his actions might be bordering on unforgivable. 

All this while they have a cop up their ass, as well? Castiel better think of a good fuckin’ explanation for this shit because Dean is one corpse away from entirely losing it. 

He slams Baby’s trunk closed and doesn’t even wait until he’s in the elevator in his apartment building before dialing Castiel’s number. It only rings twice before he answers. 

“Did you get my gifts?”

Straight to the point, then. Yeah, Dean can do that. It saves him from the small talk shit. Hard to ask someone how their day is while he knows they killed two people this week and left them in his car like Baby is a hearse . 

“Yes,” Dean grinds out, literally feeling a potential aneurysm coming on sometime in his future. “Would you like to explain why you decided to give me these particular gifts ?”

“Oh, so, now we can talk on the phone when it’s on your terms. Interesting,” Castiel replies, although he sounds anything but interested. 

“You realize there are better fucking ways of getting your point across about our communication pitfalls than putting—,” Dean pauses and pinches the bridge of his nose, stopping himself from becoming too loud. “—two dead fucking bodies in my car, right?”

“What, like hanging outside and throwing rocks at your window while a boombox plays soft rock on my shoulder? Or how about sending you an expensive flower arrangement from our local florist? I’m sure that would have stopped your childish silent treatment then.” Castiel spat the last few words, and Dean knows him enough to recognize that he’s not angry, just deeply hurt with a shitty way of showing it. 

Still, Dean is not allowing his conversation to be sidetracked. Cas needs to step up because Dean is quite frankly fragile as fuck after this awful week, and he can’t include ‘disposing of two dead bodies’ on top of his growing list of bullshit he has to deal with. 

“I can’t believe you’re accusing me of being childish, Cas.”

Dean walks off the elevator once it gets to his floor and struggles with unlocking his front door since all he can do is just angrily attempt to shove the key in the lock. 

“I thought we were in this together,” Cas murmurs, his voice barely distinguishable from how soft he spoke those words. Yup, here comes the Dean Winchester guilt full fuckin’ force. 

He can finally get his door open and sighs when he hangs his keys on the wall next to it. Maybe he is being childish. There are situations and worlds out there where Dean could be appropriately accused of such a thing, and maybe, possibly, this is one of them. 

“Just come over after work, okay? It doesn’t matter who’s right or not. We are in this together, Cas—always. I love you.”

“I’ll be over tonight. I love you too. Bye.”

Dean hangs up and looks around his apartment, thinking of any supplies he has that might make body disposal easier, but he realizes that he doesn’t even have any large trash bags. Would he need those? Fuck. 

He could probably go down to his local hardware store and buy some supplies—cash only, of course—but what if that detective is watching him more closely than he initially thought? There’s a mom n’ pop store downtown that is a bit further than the others that doesn’t use cameras in their store. That’s probably a safer route to go, as well—total anonymity when he buys, well, his tools . 

So, he makes the half-hour trek over to that particular store, smiles politely at the old lady behind the counter who has owned this shop for decades along with her husband and stands there staring at the rope, considering ways that this might not look bad. Separate transactions? Go to different hardware stores for other things, perhaps? 

Here he is, cleaning this mess up even after he promised himself that he wouldn’t. No fucking way. Dean’ll buy the rope and the trash bags, but Castiel can get fucked with the rest of this shit, and Dean texts him precisely that.  

After he acquires his questionable purchase of trash bags, dozens of feet of rope, and lye because he saw that on a crime show once, the eighty-year-old woman on the other side of the counter didn’t even bat an eye at his purchase, and he looked at her with more than a bit of suspicion over it. 

Since he is out and about, he goes to his favorite deli and picks up a sandwich because even thinking about burying a body makes him feel starving. It’s fucking difficult to dig up a six-foot hole that is big enough for a grown man’s body to fit into, or so Dean assumes. After his sixth hour or so of watching Law and Order , because research is important , Castiel finally knocks at his front door. Dean glances down at his chest and wipes away the remnants of chips and crumbs from it as he gets up and walks towards the door. He might have been a little bit of a slob today. Sue him.

Castiel is on the other side of the door, obviously, but he’s blazerless and in Dean’s personal favorite uniform that consists of the top three buttons of his shirt undone and the shirt sleeves rolled up to his elbow. It shows off inches of tanned skin that are covered with ink, and for just a moment, Dean allows himself to be enamored and not pissed at the man standing on the other side of the threshold.

Castiel is lookin’ at him in nearly the same way, which is funny considering Dean is in a pair of old sweatpants that definitely have holes and a faded Led Zeppelin tee that he’s had since high school. It’s hilarious just how much love blinds you to things. 

“Dean,” Castiel breathes, and he takes one long stride in his apartment, nearly slamming into Dean while he wraps his arms around him. Castiel pulls away after a few seconds and caresses his face with both hands, planting wet kiss after wet kiss on Dean’s neck, cheeks, and lips. Dean’s heart proceeds to do this annoying little thing, where it finally eases up on the aches he withstands while being away from Castiel. 

It takes half a minute longer than it should have for Dean to gain his senses back, but when he does, he pushes Castiel away and shuts the door behind him. 

Castiel’s eyes narrow as he gazes at Dean, not talking, just waiting. 

“You gonna explain who’s in the back of Baby now?” Dean asks, his brow raised and his arms crossed across his chest. 

Castiel sighs and walks further into the apartment, and Dean follows him until they’re resting on the couch in his living room together. 

“They’re therapists,” Castiel finally answers, and his chin juts out while he looks at Dean like he’s daring him to be angry. And really, what the fuck is that type of shit? Yeah, he’s mad. Dean is livid . 

But Dean is also a bit too shocked at this point to do anything other than ask, “What?”

Castiel grips Dean’s chin with his fingers and leans in closer to his face until they are almost nose-to-nose. 

“I will murder every single therapist in the city of Seattle until I find the one who told you to stay away from me,” Castiel says, pausing and gazing thoughtfully at Dean for a second. “Unless you just tell me who they are, of course.” 

Dean opens his mouth, and his brow furrows, unable to form a single intelligent sentence for a few moments. 

“Don’t you think that’s a ‘lil fuckin’ extreme, Cas?” Castiel shakes his head in response, and Dean grabs the hand holding his chin in both of his own. “You can’t do this. Do you hear me? Fucking listen to me, Cas. You’re going to get caught.” 

Castiel rolls his eyes and blows out an exasperated huff of air. 

“And you listen to me , Dean. I don’t think you get it, baby. I wasn’t lying or joking or whatever you might think when I told you I would get rid of anyone who stands in my way of being with you.”

“You did say that, huh,” Dean breathes, closing his eyes when Castiel bends toward him and kisses his cheek. It is chaste and sweet, and when he opens his eyes, Dean is greeted with Cas’ eyes gazing intently, unabashedly back at him. Then Dean leans back and clutches Castiel’s shoulders to keep him from following him. “But we need to get rid of Mr. and Mrs. Therapist, and you’re going to clean Baby because that was bordering on unforgivable, Cas. You mess with Baby’s interior one more time like that? You’re gonna regret it—big fuckin’ time.” 

Castiel nods—solemn—and Dean smiles. 

“We should drive out to Olympia and bury them in the forest there,” Castiel suggests. 

“Is that the best thing to do?”

Castiel shrugs. 

“I don’t know. But we haven’t had a road trip in a while.”

That aneurysm Dean thought about earlier? Yeah, that feeling of permanent brain damage and possibly death is coming back full force with the words coming out of Castiel’s mouth. 

“Let’s make one thing crystal clear,” he says as he wags his finger in Castiel’s direction, which obviously helps make his point even more crystal and even more clear. “This isn’t a road trip, and I can’t believe I even have to tell you that.” 

With that, he stalks off to his bedroom to begin packing a spare set of clothing. While Dean is rummaging around in one of his dresser drawers, he can’t seem to get one moment of peace because Castiel’s arms wrap around his waist from behind, and his hot voice is right in his ear. 

“Think about it: you, me, a nice hotel room. Perhaps a Bed and Breakfast we find in one of the quaint towns surrounding the forest? In the morning, we could take a hike.”

Dean sighs and turns around, his lower back pressed against his dresser and Castiel’s arms wound tight around him. The setting sun’s rays cascade into his bedroom and onto Castiel, causing his skin to glow even more golden than usual, while a tiny halo of light adorns his head. 

Because sure, Castiel’s behavior and thought processes are concerning. There is no doubt or argument there. But then in turn, Dean’s behavior and thought processes are concerning, too, considering how much he allows it to continue. That’s why it works between them, though. Castiel would do anything for Dean, and Dean has always wanted to be the person that someone would do anything for since he spent the vast majority of his life bending to the will of others. Now, he bends and twists (literally) for a much higher power—Castiel.

“It’s not a no, and it’s not a yes. Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. And don’t think you’re getting out of a serious conversation about this bullshit you just pulled, capiche?” 

Castiel purses his lips into a tiny pout, but he offers no argument in response, and for now, that can satisfy Dean. 

Although Castiel tries his damndest to distract him before they can finally go to the car, Dean keeps his wits about him and pushes away every single one of his advances. Those bodies could be days old now. And even though Baby’s trunk usually stays cool, there will undoubtedly be bloating and rot in them, which Dean was too freaked out by to spot initially. 

It takes a few hours to find an out-of-town hardware store open at that time of the evening. Then, a few more to also acquire a shovel and search for an adequate gravesite that is deep enough in the woods that the therapists probably won’t be found right away—or hopefully ever. 

“You’re not going to help?” Castiel asks, his hands resting on the top of the shovel sticking out of the ground. There’s a glisten of sweat covering his face and neck even though it’s chilly out in the forest, and regardless of the hefty trash bags lying on the forest floor between them, Dean wants to taste that sweat. 

Dean remains leaning against the tree behind him instead.

“Oh, I’m sorry. Did I kill those people?”

Castiel halts mid-dig and flicks his eyes up to Dean’s face, his mouth in a hard line. Castiel appears like he’s about to say something, but he seems to think better of it and continues his digging. 

Good. 

Dean is the fuckin’ boss tonight. 

Turns out it takes a hell of a long time to dig a grave that is at least six feet deep. In fact, Dean even broke and dug the last foot and a half himself because watching Castiel suffer in any capacity is something he cannot do, even if Castiel’s face was a bit too smug when he did it. 

The worst part of the night comes when, before they push the bodies into the grave, Castiel stops him with a hand on his shoulder and looks at him way too earnestly for what he then says. 

“We should cut their fingers off and pull their teeth out.”

Dean can’t help the gag reflex that statement triggers, and Castiel uses his phone as a flashlight to grab a pair of pliers and a knife out of his backpack that he threw to the side earlier tonight. 

Castiel holds the pliers in one hand and the knife in the other. 

“Fingers or teeth?”

“Neither,” Dean grumbles as he grabs the pliers. Literally pulling teeth is probably the lesser of two evils in this situation; probably still like pulling metaphorical teeth, though. 

Thankfully, their bodies were already breaking down, so he thinks that pulling the teeth out of their gums is an easier task than if they were freshly dead. However, the smell coming from their mouths is also fucking rank, and Dean has to spend the majority of the time holding his breath until he is on the verge of passing out. 

“Fuck, I can’t get some of these back teeth. It’s so slippery, and their breath fucking reeks, Cas.” 

Castiel lifts his head from where he is focusing on sawing through the woman’s right index finger, and he blows upwards to get the hair off his forehead. 

“Here,” Castiel says, grunting when he pushes himself up onto his feet. He rifles around in his backpack before he makes a little ‘aha’ sound and thrusts the hammer behind his back towards Dean. “Break them and pull out the pieces.” 

Dean raises the hammer, but before he can bring it down on the woman’s mouth, he falters. 

“I don’t know if I can do this,” he murmurs. 

Castiel cocks a brow and finishes the last of the fingers. He drops it in a garbage bag, ties it, and then tosses it in the direction of their other stuff. 

“Yes, you can,” Castiel replies. He dusts off his hands on his pants when he stands up and then walks over to Dean. Then, he crouches down behind him, using Dean’s back to keep balance. 

Castiel places his hand on top of Dean’s hand as he plants a soft kiss on the skin behind his ear before he uses more pressure to lift Dean’s hand, and subsequently, the hammer, guiding it down onto the back molars of the mouth. The teeth splinter and break with a crack, tiny shards of it go down the body’s throat. Castiel encloses Dean on both sides by picking out the larger pieces of teeth with his other hand. 

Dean can do the other body with Castiel’s gentle guidance and soft words of encouragement he whispers directly in his ear. It’s not Dean’s fault that he can’t resist doing anything that will earn him a tender ‘good boy’ by Castiel. 

When the teeth are collected and put into bags and the bodies now covered by six feet of dirt, extra ferns and branches, Castiel stands next to Dean, placing his arm around his waist as they survey their handiwork. Castiel presses another chaste kiss behind his ear, and Dean can feel the resulting smirk against the sensitive skin. 

So, they trek the half-mile back to Baby in the Olympia National Forest while the sun is beginning to slowly rise over the horizon. They’re both covered in dirt, grime, and blood, and Dean’s muscles ache with the exertion of last night’s activities. And not in a fun way. 

When they slide into the front seat of Baby, Castiel takes Dean’s hand into his, brings it up to his mouth, but he seems to think better of putting his mouth on it because he halts before he does. 

“How about at least a motel until we can check in somewhere nicer?” Castiel asks, his blue eyes half-lidded with exhaustion while he grins at Dean. 

Dean closes his eyes and rests the back of his head against Baby’s seat, taking a moment to collect himself. 

When he reopens his eyes, Castiel is still smiling at him and staring at him as though he hung the motherfuckin’ moon. 

“Yeah,” Dean answers, mirroring a smile back at him. “That sounds nice, Cas.” 

Chapter Text

Cas and Dean have a couple weeks of peaceful relaxation before Dean gets a knock on his door one evening after his first day back at work. Jo tried to insist that he stay away from work longer, but after having his little tantrum and ignoring Cas, he felt more or less good—great, even. That is until Detective Victor Rogers is on the other side of that door, his face stuck in a permanent frown which only deepens when he scrutinizes Dean for those few seconds it took for his shock to subside. 

To be totally frank, Dean forgot about the dude. At least Cas is down in Portland for the rest of the week and not using Dean as some kinda cockwarmer while they watch old Leonardo Dicaprio movies. The Titanic is surely an elevated cinematic experience while he has a cock up his ass. 

“Hey, Detective. How uh,” Dean starts and then clears his throat, glancing upward toward the ceiling as he mentally berates himself over how fuckin’ guilty he manages to sound whenever talking to the guy. “How can I help you? It’s sorta late to be working though, don’t cha think?”

“Maybe for you,” Victor replies, a smile that’s more of a sneer replacing the previous frown. “I happened to be in the neighborhood. I thought I’d drop by for a little chat if you’re amenable.” 

Weighing how suspicious it would look if he refused versus the fact that he just popped a pizza in the oven and is starting a new campaign in Oblivion, he does the adult thing (no matter how difficult it might be), and nods to Victor as he moves out of the way for him to enter the apartment. 

Victor walks in slowly, scanning the entrance and the kitchen immediately, his hands clasped behind his back as he inspects a couple framed photos Dean has kept of him and Aaron at the lake cabin. 

“Happy couple there,” Victor murmurs, raising a brow in Dean’s direction as though daring him to disagree. “I wonder what happened to them.” 

“Well, one of them is dead for starters,” Dean deadpans and crosses his arms over his chest, debating whether he should motion to the kitchen so Victor would stop practically jerking it in his entryway. “Would you like coffee, water, beer? I recently bought a pack of local IPAs and they’re bangin’.”

“No, thanks,” Victor replies and follows Dean to the kitchen, taking a seat at one of the bar stools. For a few moments all Victor does is stare out of the floor-to-ceiling windows down onto the street below, his eyes narrowing with each passing second. “I was hoping you could tell me again what happened that night.” 

The flare of annoyance in Dean is understandable given the fact he told his fucking made up story at least four separate times. Nevertheless, he responds, “I thought I’ve already done that plenty of times. But if you insist—“

“I do insist,” Victor interjects, tapping the island between them with his finger. 

“Alright,” Dean says and blinks once, super slowly, collecting his thoughts and attempting to recall whatever he told the police in the past. “I was planning to surprise Aaron by visiting him, brought Cas along with me because we were all supposed to go fishing, walked in on all that bullshit and called y’all. There. That’s it.” 

Victor continues tapping his finger, gazing straight into Dean’s fuckin’ soul as he does so, the only sound echoing around the room is his fingernail going ‘tap, tap, tap’ on the marble countertop. While Dean stands there, he grips the half empty bottle of beer he forgot about on the countertop, wondering if it’d be a bad idea to drink in front of a police officer, even if it’s in his own home. 

Minutes pass and Dean takes tentative sips of the liquid, grimacing at the stale, warm beer every time it passes through his throat. 

Finally, Victor says, “I don’t believe you.” 

Dean is mid-drink at that point, and he would have done a gnarly spit take if it wasn’t for the liquid being inhaled down the wrong hole, probably entering his lungs as he sputters and coughs. The hoppy aftertaste remains on his tongue as he catches his breath, getting rid of that itchiness in his throat.

“What?” Dean asks lamely, licking his lips unconsciously as he avoids eye contact with Victor, like a guilty ass bitch would do. Fuck. 

“I said, I don’t believe you in the slightest. I know you or Castiel Novak killed your husband and Henry, I just don’t know which one of you did it. Care to enlighten me?”

Dean stands there, his mind blank except for the thought that maybe he should consider burning down his apartment complex. Yeah, it’ll affect the dozens of other people paying an arm and a leg to live in this building, but when it comes to their livelihood versus his own, well…let’s just say he’s only human. Apartments are replaceable, prison or the electric chair is forever as they say. 

“Dude…” Dean says, trailing off as his brain does a proper reboot. This guy is ballsy, like, looking to fucking die ballsy. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. It’s a pretty cut and dry murder-suicide. I wasn’t even there when Aaron died, the coroner confirmed that.”

Victor shrugs, unbothered by the fact that Dean is next to many sharp objects—like his plethora of kitchen knives stored in the drawer next to his hand, his tendons and muscles flexing and unflexing in his hand as he grips the handle, thinks better of it, and pulls his hand back toward his hip, only to cycle through that action indefinitely. 

He shouldn’t.

But he should. 

For himself—for Cas. 

Not the best person to kill when it comes down to the probability of him getting caught or not, but he did manage to be an unwitting accomplice in his husband’s murder and get away with it. And the first person police ever suspect is the spouse. Perhaps his luck will continue its run. He deserves it for unknowingly putting up with his bitch of a husband cheating on him for years during their marriage, while he stayed the ever constant, loyal husband, ready to suck his dick whenever he came home those two or three days out of the week. 

Fuck. This. Guy. 

“I think you should leave,” Dean grits out before Victor can say anything else. 

Conclusions have been reached, decisions have been made, and all those revolve around the man sitting across from him dying. Either Victor stays alive, exposes what happened, and Dean goes to prison for the murder of Aaron and Henry, or Victor dies and Dean might go to prison for the rest of his natural life. It’s an easy choice when faced with those two outcomes. 

“If you insist,” Victor echoes from when Dean said that to him earlier.

So, Dean responds with a resounding, “I do insist.” 

Victor snorts, amused at the way he has affected Dean, like some kind of psycho. A psycho who needs to be put the fuck down. When Victor passes by him, too close for comfort and basically nicking Dean’s shoulder with his own like some stereotypical high school bully, Dean grips the neck of the beer bottle he was drinking, following the Detective toward the entryway.

Waiting until Victor has his hand on the doorknob, Dean raises the bottle high above his head, mentally picturing himself bringing it down on Victor’s cranium before he actually does so, the thick glass shattering upon impact with his skull. Victor slumps forward, hitting his face on the front door with a loud ass ‘thump’, 

A grunt escapes Victor’s lips, and Dean immediately can tell he’s not knocked out, at which point he takes the pointy end of the bottle and stabs it into his back, further shattering the bits of glass in his skin. It kinda sets Dean’s teeth on edge, and he yanks the bottle out of the flesh, only to shove it four times more in various spots on his back, each stab forcing a yelp and a groan out of Victor as the door keeps him mostly upright. 

Victor’s legs, which were previously holding him up, collapse just as Dean positions the bottle to plunge into his tender neck with a simple flick of his wrist. The element of surprise was definitely on his side throughout this entire interaction because Dean is confident he wouldn’t have been able to best an experienced man like Victor without it. 

Blood spills out onto the floor while Dean’s hand shakes, the bottle joining Victor on the floor in pieces when it falls out of Dean’s loosened grip. 

“Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit,” Dean mutters, nearly slipping on the rapidly expanding pool of crimson liquid in his haste to wash his hands in his kitchen sink and grab his phone to call Cas. 

The phone only rings once before Cas is picking up with a, “Hello, Dean.” 

Not tryna waste time, and also scrambled as fuck in the brain now, Dean blurts out, “I killed Victor Rogers.” 

“You did what?” Cas hisses, a door slamming in the background of his end of the line, like he just moved to a different room. “What the fuck, Dean. Where and how?”

Dean clears his throat, opening his mouth and then glancing at Victor’s cooling corpse, the blood puddle somehow getting larger. Dean had no idea there was so much blood readily available to just spill out onto the floor without it soaking into the floor, like at the lake cabin. 

“I, uh, he came over to chat. Accused me of killing Aaron and Henry. I—fuck—I just did it. With a bottle. Bashed him over the head and—and—stabbed him…a lot. Point is, he’s dead. I killed a fucking cop and now I’m going to prison.” 

Dean wraps his fingers through his locks of hair and then tugs—hard—the follicles causing his scalp to sing in pain, temporarily distracting him from the rising panic in his chest. 

“Calm down. It’s going to be okay,” Cas thunders smoothly and like some kind of balm, Dean already senses his pulse decreasing the tiniest amount, so he’s no longer in heart attack territory. “I’m coming back and we’re going to deal with this problem tonight. Then I’m going to go back to Portland for the rest of the week and we’re going to pretend like I was never back in Seattle during my trip.” 

Dean nods before realizing that Cas can’t see him do that, so he responds with a weak, “Okay. Hurry, please.” 

“I will. I’ll be there before you know it,” Cas promises, the other end of the line going dead. 

xxx

It’s true—Cas is there before he knows it. Mainly because Dean spends the next three hours dissociating in his kitchen, glimpsing back and forth between the reflection of himself in his windows and Victor’s body. Rather than forcing Dean to get to work right away when Cas lets himself in and surveys the crime scene. 

“Let’s take a bath, Dean,” he murmurs into his ear, warm fingertips trailing down his body as Cas guides him into the bathroom and runs the water, helping him into the tub. 

Neither of them talk throughout the rest of it and Cas cleans him, even going so far as to drain the water then refill it a few times until it’s clear of pink. The scalp massage that Cas gives him while he gently washes his hair, taking special care to ensure shampoo doesn’t run into his eyes, is heavenly—so much so that Dean asks himself whether Cas is an angel. 

Dean comes to the deduction that Cas is an angel—Dean’s angel. 

Cas lays Dean down on the couch with a lingering kiss on the forehead before he rolls his sleeves up to his elbows and gets to work on packing up Victor. There’s sighs intermixed with sounds of plastic unfolding, rope being tied, and finally a wet mop repeatedly wiping the floor—the sweet, rusty scent of blood slowly disappearing throughout the process. 

Cas looms over him afterward, bits of blood on his once crisp, white shirt, his hair standing upward in dozens of different directions, and his cheeks are slightly flushed, an adorable red tint to them. 

“Are you up for digging tonight?” Cas asks, his hand coming down to gently cup Dean’s face, and his thumb traces tiny circles on his cheekbone. “Or do I need to take care of it? There’s no wrong answer.”

“I can help,” he responds, giving Cas a wobbly smile because he’s dealt with dead bodies before, sure, but actually stabbing someone? That’s a whole ‘nother type of real he is not accustomed to. “What’d you have in mind?”

“We’re going to bury him underneath a readied gravesite at a cemetery outside of the city. I happened across a Facebook event for a funeral occurring tomorrow. I’m sure we can just bury him a foot deep and then let the funeral tomorrow do the rest,” Cas explains, helping Dean up off the couch and wasting no time in marching over to Victor, who is squeezed into an extra large trash bag. 

Dean is thankful it’s so late at night right now because this is gonna look suspicious as hell. 

Nearly running into someone on the way down, but quickly turning a corner just in time, Dean and Cas are sweaty by the time they make it to Cas’ rental car. Victor almost falls out of the bag two separate times, including when they have to heft him three feet or so into the trunk. The car shakes from the impact of the body hitting the bottom of the trunk and Cas gives him a quick peck on the cheek before sliding into the driver’s seat. 

The journey to the cemetery is filled primarily with Metallica and work-talk from Cas as he explains how it’s going in Portland on their current project. Dean nods along mostly, occasionally humming after something particularly interesting, but his heart isn’t in it. 

It isn’t until Cas clasps his hand with Dean’s, looks to the side, and says, “I’m proud of you for defending yourself, me, and us,” that Dean actually begins to feel better about the murder. Not to quote something a Pinterest mom would post on Instagram, but with Cas, everything will always be okay, and if it’s not okay, then it’s not over. 

The hour drive out to the cemetery is familiar, and it takes Dean an embarrassing amount of time before he turns to the side and asks, “Are we going to Aaron’s cemetery?”

“Well, you haven’t visited since,” Cas replies with a smug grin, not taking his eyes off the road. It’s perfect timing, really, since the sign to the cemetery is now within eyeshot, and a wave of annoyance washes through Dean. 

“So now we’re gonna have two people we killed buried here?” Dean questions with an exasperated huff, rolling his eyes as he also accepts the fact that Cas definitely chose this on purpose. 

Cas may be hot, yet he’s also a fuckin’ asshole. 

Dean wouldn’t want him any other way. 

When they pull up to the gravesite after twenty minutes of circling around the perimeter of the graveyard in an attempt to find it, Dean is just about to point out that they forgot to bring shovels until Cas reaches behind them into the backseat and pulls out two brand-spankin’-new ones, tags still attached. 

“You really think of everything, don’t cha?”

“One of us has to,” Cas says, raising a brow at Dean as he stares right into his soul. 

“Life and love is really just someone who’ll think of everything before it happens and finding someone who never thinks of the consequences of anything before it happens,” Dean says as he gets out of the car, grabbing the shovel when Cas tosses it to him over the car. “Maybe others would disagree, but I’m a better man since I’ve found you, Cas. I hope you know that.”

Cas shakes his head while he also responds, “I do.” 

“Good. Now let’s get to burying our last body.”

“Sure, Dean,” Cas agrees, a tinge of something like fraudulence in his voice. 

Dean doesn’t mention it—there’s no point. Whatever the future brings, they’ll get through it.

Together.