Chapter Text
Castiel sighed, putting down the gun on the ledge before him as he stared at the slightly off centre shots on the target.
“Close, but no cigar, huh?” Dean said, suddenly appearing in the doorway of the shooting range.
Castiel squinted at the target on the opposite wall before turning to Dean. “What are you doing here?”
“Way to make a guy feel wanted.” He held up the phone he was clutching. On closer examination, Castiel realised it was his. “Darla was blowing your cell up.”
“Yeah… I haven’t responded to her last couple of calls. I suspect she’s annoyed about that.”
Dean raised an eyebrow. “What, she want you back or something?”
Castiel rolled his eyes, turning his attention back to the frustratingly off centre shots marring the target. “As I have repeatedly told you, we only had sex once. We were never romantically entangled.”
“She tried to jump you when you went suit shopping.”
“She was merely expressing her appreciation for the fit of the suit,” he said absently. “I don’t think she was actually propositioning me.”
Dean snorted. “Sure.”
Castiel ignored him. Perhaps it was the firearm he was using. He had thought the 9mm suited him best, but while he considered it easy to use, it was clearly doing his accuracy no favours.
Dean moved to stand beside him, sliding the phone into Castiel’s back pocket. He tilted his head as he regarded the target. “You’re doing pretty well.”
Castiel shot him an incredulous look.
Dean rolled his eyes. “So, it’s not a perfect headshot – it’ll still take down damn near anything that dies when you pump it full of lead. Or silver.”
“I realise that,” Castiel said. “It’s just… frustrating. My accuracy with my chosen weapon has always been, well, it would be hyperbolic to say my technique was without flaw, but” – he shrugged – “I was satisfied with my level of ability. However, guns are less precise. I can’t control the course of the projectile, nor can I estimate the path of the bullet the way you are so remarkably adept at doing.”
“Wait,” Dean said, straightening from his comfortable slouch against the pillar he’d been leaning against. “This is an ego thing?”
“What? No.”
Dean stared at him, a slow grin spreading over his face. “You’re pissed that I’m a better shot than you are.”
“I’m not –“
“Hey, I get it,” he said, moving to stand behind Castiel, one hand sliding down to grip Castiel’s hip as leaned over to pick up the gun from the ledge in front of them with the other. “I’m pretty awesome.” He fired off three shots in quick succession, each of them striking directly at the centre of the target, his hand tightening on Castiel’s hip with each discharge.
He could feel Dean’s smirk, lips almost brushing his neck as he murmured: “I’m sure it’s kinda intimidating.”
Castiel kept his face carefully blank. “Do you trust me?”
“What?” The cocky smirk fell off Dean’s face as his brow furrowed in confusion. “Uh, sure.”
“Good. Do you see that board over there?” Castiel pointed at the thick piece of plywood propped up in the adjacent lane, inordinately grateful that he managed to keep his voice even.
“Yeah?”
“Go stand in front of it.”
“Uh, what?”
Castiel turned to face Dean. They were close enough that he had to tilt up his chin to look up at him. “That was a very impressive demonstration of your skills,” he murmured, watching in satisfaction as Dean’s gaze flickered to his mouth before meeting his eyes again. “I would like the opportunity to demonstrate some of my own.”
“Spread your legs further apart, please.”
“You know I have a Pavlovian response when you say that to me, right?” Dean said with a smirk, though he complied with the request nonetheless.
He was leaning against the thick plywood board that was standing in the shooting lane to the left of the one Castiel had been practicing in. Castiel had found the board in the store room beside the shooting range and had dragged it out to use whenever he felt like he needed to blow off some steam and firearms weren’t providing the required catharsis.
He unrolled the leather case holding his knives on the ledge. He’d begun collecting them after he’d started hunting again, and he’d built up a rather impressive collection. Most of them he’d discovered in pawn shops, and Jason had given him a beautiful ornate blade with a mother of pearl handle for Christmas.
Then there was the drop point blade that Dean had given him.
(Dean had been watching him clean his collection one evening in his motel room. “You’re creepily into those,” he’d said. “I’ve fucked people who looked at me with less lust in their eyes than you’ve got when you’re fondling your blades.”
Castiel had raised an eyebrow. “Somehow I doubt that,” he’d said, not looking up from his knives.
Dean had mumbled something incoherent before quickly changing the subject, but later when Castiel had been about to put the blades away, he approached the table.
“Wait,” he said, putting his hand over one of the leather sheaths Castiel had been about to return to the bag. Dean reached down into his boot, and pulled out a small pocket knife, flicking it open to reveal a drop point blade and holding it out to Castiel.
Castiel took it, looking up at Dean quizzically. Dean shrugged. “These are great, very fancy,” he said, gesturing towards the blades, his gaze lingering on a stainless steel stiletto with an engraved gold inlay on the handle. “But if you ever get caught and they take all your weapons, seven times out of ten, they forget to search your shoes. Monsters could stand to learn a few lessons from the TSA.”
Castiel looked over the small pocket knife. It was the perfect size for concealing in a boot. “Thank you, Dean. That’s good advice.” He held the blade back out to Dean. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
Dean waved him off. “I’m giving it to you, dumbass. If you insist on going out there and playing Bruce Wayne, you might as well have the right toys.” He fixed Castiel with a stern glare. “And I swear to God, Cas, if you get yourself killed again, I will find a way to resurrect you, kick your ass, and chain you to the bed in a padded room till you learn your fucking lesson.”
Castiel stared at him. “That sounds like a plan you’ve put an unsettling amount of thought into.”
Dean had shrugged. “Don’t test me.” He’d turned around before he could see the smile Castiel couldn’t quite suppress. “So,” he’d said rifling through the take-out menus he had taken from the drawer in the kitchenette. “Pizza or fried chicken?”)
Castiel ran his fingers over the knife with a smile, but decided against using it. It wasn’t particularly suited to his current purposes. He picked up another one, a twelve-inch stainless steel blade with a bevelled tip, and flipped it over in his hand. He could feel Dean’s eyes on him as he balanced it carefully in his palm. He held it up just above his shoulder and adjusted his stance slightly, not taking his eyes off of Dean’s body splayed against the board.
A slight flick of the wrist was all it took. The blade spun through the air, the centrifugal force it amassed shaking the board behind Dean as it landed with a loud thunk in the space over his shoulder.
Dean let out a ragged breath, eyes drifting to the blade before flickering back to Castiel again. He raised an eyebrow, arms and legs spread wide against the board, and da Vinci would have wept if he saw him now; Vitruvius had nothing on Dean Winchester.
“That all you got?” Dean asked, his voice low.
The next blade flew towards him before he could even blink, landing perfectly equidistant to its counterpart over Dean’s other shoulder.
The next few followed in quick succession, and Castiel couldn’t help the thrill that passed through him when Dean gasped as the blade landed close to his hip, but stood still in his position against the board, never once tearing his gaze away from Castiel.
“You’re doing very well,” Castiel murmured, feeling his mouth quirk at how Dean’s eyes darkened at the compliment.
Castiel put down the blade he was holding, reaching instead into the waistband of his jeans to pull out his angel blade, the sleek silver glinting conspicuously under the scant halogen lighting of the room,
He flipped it over, the smooth, cylindrical hilt a comforting, familiar weight in his hand. Dean’s eyes tracked the movement, and he shifted slightly against the board.
“Now, I’m going to reiterate my previous request,” he said, fixing Dean with a piercing look as he flipped the blade over in his hand and held it close to his waist. “Don’t move.”
With that, he released the blade and watched it sail through the air, towards the space between Dean’s legs. Dean’s eyes fell shut as the blade landed with a heavy thud exactly three inches below the crotch of his jeans.
Dean let out a ragged breath, his head falling back against the board with a thunk. “I can’t say that’s what I had in my mind when I was thinking about you impaling me, but Jesus fucking Christ.”
Castiel paused for a moment to admire his handiwork, before climbing over the ledge. He walked up the aisle until he was standing in front of Dean.
Dean's eyes flickered at the pattern around him. “Son of a bitch,” he murmured, clenching his fist and looking down at the ring he was wearing. “You were marking your name around me, weren’t you? In fucking Enochian, no less?”
Castiel shrugged, not quite managing to hold back a grin.
Dean shook his head. “You’re so weird. What’s next, you gonna tattoo it on my ass?”
“Well –”
“Nope!” Dean held up a hand. “Forget I ever said that. Jesus.”
“Okay.”
Castiel cast one more glance at the board, before reaching over and closing his hand over the blade between Dean’s legs. He pulled it out of the board, the room silent apart from the sounds of their breathing and the scrape of metal against wood.
Castiel tucked the blade back into the waistband of his jeans. “I’m very impressed,” he said softly, reaching for the blade embedded in the wood above Dean’s shoulder.
“You’re impressed?” Dean opened his eyes, and Castiel froze with his hand still on the hilt. He stared into those green eyes, and he wondered if he’d ever be able to build up an immunity to the way Dean looked at him. “I think that’s supposed to be my line.”
“You didn’t move,” Castiel said. “No matter where I threw them.”
Dean shrugged. “I trust you.”
Castiel felt his hand slip from the hilt of the blade and grip the collar of Dean’s shirt without any conscious knowledge of having made the movement. Dean swallowed, eyes darkening. He shifted against the board, breathing hitching slightly when Castiel stepped closer, pressing their hips together.
“You’re remarkable,” he said before grabbing both of Dean’s shoulders and kissing him. Dean locked his fingers over the back of Castiel’s neck dragging him in closer and deepening the kiss.
Castiel broke away, hands moving to the front of Dean’s jeans. Dean rested his forehead against his cheek, breath ghosting over the side of his face. “This wasn’t exactly what I expected when I came to find you here,” he breathed.
Castiel reluctantly stilled his hand. He supposed he had gotten a little carried away. Technically this was a communal space. “Maybe we shouldn’t–“
Dean grabbed his wrist before he could move it away. “Don’t you dare stop. Not gonna lie, I’ve had this dream,” he said, his voice low and rough. “About time someone christened the gun range.”
Castiel didn’t need to be told twice. He moved his hand back, almost losing focus entirely as Dean groaned and let his head fall back against the board. “Always happy to oblige,” he managed before Dean’s responses became far too distracting for something as trivial as rational thought.
“Hey, Cas, you in here? So, I was looking into that spell again. I’m not certain, but if there’s any of your grace left, I think it would be able to track it. I mean, if it can track the angel by using their grace, I figure it should also be able to use the angel to track their grace.”
Castiel heard Sam’s voice as if from a distance, but it barely registered, lost as he was in the pleasure of the moment, of his hands twisted in Dean’s hair, green eyes looking up at him as he–
“Cas?” Castiel vaguely thought the voice was getting closer. “So, what do you think abou – Jesus fucking Christ!” Sam yelled, his voice finally breaking through the daze. Castiel blinked. “Nope, no. No, this is not okay.”
Castiel looked up as Sam crashed into the door as he rushed out of the room, letting out a loud yelp as he tripped over his feet. “Not, cool, guys. What the actual fuck?”
“Sam,” Castiel said weakly, though Dean had made no move to stop what he was doing, and Castiel quickly forgot whatever it was he was going to say.
“Fuck you both – I am not doing this,” he heard Sam call out, his voice getting further away. “I’ll talk to you later.”
“That was unfortunate,” Castiel said some time later, when he finally was able to think rationally enough to consider what Sam had just been forced to witness.
Dean leaned back on his heels and looked up at Castiel. “I didn’t hear you telling me to stop.”
Castiel sighed. “Yes, I should probably feel more guilty about that. Though I do regret that Sam had to see that. He was just trying to help me.” Castiel slid to the floor, jeans still undone, and leaned his head back against the board.
Dean shifted off his knees, wincing slightly – the concrete floor wasn’t exactly conducive to kneeling on for any significant length of time – and moved to sit next to him. “He’ll get over it,” Dean said, nudging Castiel’s shoulder with his own. “He’s even started talking to me again. I got almost a whole sentence out of him yesterday.”
“You’ll get through it,” Castiel said with a small smile. “We all will.”
“See, you say that, and I actually believe you,” Dean said, tapping his fist over the back of Castiel’s wrist. "How do you do that?”
Castiel shot Dean a look and reached up to briefly cup a hand over his jaw. “I learned from the best.”
“Shut up,” Dean muttered, though he leaned into the touch, his ears turning endearingly pink. “We better get back up there and find out what he was talking about. It seemed like he was onto something.”
“In a minute,” Castiel said, tugging him back down. “I just…” he trailed off, uncertain about what exactly it was he was asking for.
Regardless, Dean understood. He sat back down next to Castiel, pressing close against his side. “Yeah, man, of course. As long as you want. I ain’t going anywhere.”
That felt like a loaded statement, if he’d ever heard one, but neither of them acknowledged the implications out loud. They didn’t need to. For the first time in a long time, they both knew exactly where they stood with each other.
And, that? That was more than enough.