Chapter Text
Besides stilted conversation they keep strictly on the topic of Jack, Dean and Cas haven't spoken since that night in Cas' kitchen. Dean's trying to respect Cas' wishes – hurt as it fucking may – and yeah, fine, Missouri was right, Dean might have been enjoying living in the land of what-if and hope, but it was hurting Cas in ways he never even considered. That being said, Jack wants a Halloween party, and Dean's desperately scraping up all the big moments he can with his son – soon Jack's gonna age out of costume parties and trick-or-treating – which basically translates to Dean volunteering to host said party before anyone else gets a look in.
His apartment may be small – not too small though, a bargain really. One Dean picked up because an acquaintance on the homicide desk told him there'd been a recent murder in the bathroom – but Dean never really got the hang of this decorating stuff, so he's enlisted the help of the ever-reliable Charlie.
Girl's a fucking machine, shoving an overflowing box of ghoulish festoons and glow-in-the-dark movie monsters into Dean's arms the second he opens the door. “There's more in the car.”
Dean fish mouths for a moment, Charlie waiting him out. “Well I guess I better get cracking,” he quips, depositing box number one on the kitchen counter. “As you wish, your highness.” There's no real heat to it, more playful sniping than anything else, still, he does perform an exaggerated bow before exiting stage right.
Foot barely hitting the sidewalk outside his building, Dean' bumps chest-to-box into someone coming the opposite direction, barely keeping his balance, reaching out to the other person before they lose theirs but missing, getting the box instead, which basically leaves Dean holding yet another over-flowing box of decorations, and... “Gabe?” flat out on his ass on the sidewalk.
“Nice rubber impression Dean-o,” Gabriel squints up at him, Dean's eyebrows rising at the very obvious innuendo. “Maybe that application I sent to the charity calendar on your behalf was premature.”
Asshole.
The box isn't exactly heavy, so Dean tucks it under his arm, free hand helping Gabriel to his feet. “She roped you in too huh?”
In lieu of a verbal response Gabriel settles Dean with a pointed look, one that says, I-serve-the-crown-same-as-you.
Dipping his chin on a chuckle, Dean gestures his head toward the building entrance. “Come on, better not keep the Queen waiting.”
***
When Dean and Cas separated it put a lot of people in a difficult spot. Dean works with Gabriel, but Gabriel is also Cas' cousin, sooo...
The usually mischievous Gabe was in the toughest spot of all, couldn't just cut ties with Dean, refuse to be in the same room as him, and at Cas' behest wasn't allowed to even sock Dean one either. The guy white knuckled those first few months. It was obvious to everyone how much he wanted to knock Dean's teeth out, but what you have to understand is, there's a whole other layer to this for Gabriel as well. See, Dean slept with a lot of people while he was married to Cas – not a point of pride, he wants that understood, just a fact – a lot of women people. There was only one guy. One man. One moment of pure insanity. One seriously misguided blowjob.
From Jimmy.
Yep. Dean let Cas' – usually very straight it should be noted – twin brother experiment in the en-suite bathroom of Dean and Cas' bedroom, all while everyone else watched the kids play pass the parcel downstairs, blissfully unaware. At least, Dean thought everyone was unaware. Turns out Cas noted the absence of Dean and Jimmy. Confused and a little concerned – although not for the reasons he should have been – he decided to go searching, which is inevitably when he found them: Jimmy on his knees with lips swollen and red, taste of Dean still on his tongue, Dean's softening cock glistening with Jimmy's spit. Even if you ask Dean now how any of that happened he couldn't tell you, doesn't know if it was him or Jimmy that made the first move. All he knows is that – to the best of their knowledge – Jimmy has never been with a man before or since. What Dean does know is that he saw a whole new side to Cas that day.
Fuck his husband was magnificent, hauling Jimmy to his feet by his throat, choking him against the wall – couple of malicious gut punches thrown in – until Gabriel finally got curious too, stumbled in on their little drama and muscled Cas into the bedroom. By Gabriel's sheer will – and surprising strength, 'cause he ain't a big dude – alone, Cas didn't put Jimmy in the hospital that day, which would have been awkward for obvious reasons. Oh but Cas was feeling vindictive, destructive with it, sending the guests home and calling a family meeting. He barely kept it together whilst he waited for Jack and Claire to finally stop whinging about being asked to go play upstairs. The moment Jack's bedroom door clicked closed it was on. Cas told them all what he'd found, threw Dean and Jimmy straight under the fucking bus.
Nowhere to run.
Nowhere to hide.
The rift it caused in the family was so multi-layered and complex Dean's not sure he understands it all. He knows Cas disowned Jimmy (fair), knows Gabriel took a swing at Jimmy then promptly sided with Cas (fucking fair). Knows Jimmy and Amelia's marriage hit the same rocks as Dean and Cas', only they somehow managed to work through it – and okay, that stings. Not because Dean wants them divorced, but because he sees the alternate path to the one he ended up on. Cas' dad is a flaky creative type, so he kind of winced away from the whole situation. Cas' mother however...! Oh she's got warts where her feelings should be. You know who she got mad at?
Cas!
Oh yeah, Mrs Novak (senior) blamed it all on Cas. Cas' fault for being gay. Cas' fault for marrying a man beneath him. Cas' fault for bringing a cretin like Dean into the family (she may have had a point with that one). Cas' fault for letting himself be made a fool of by a cheating drunk.
You get the picture.
Somehow, Jimmy got away from their mother relatively unscathed, just a sweet little cinnamon roll led astray by someone she feels belongs in the gutter (could have a point there too). And hold up! Dean isn't justifying what he did 'cause it's shit and he'll burn in Hell, welcomes the punishment, but Jimmy too pure and innocent for this world...!? Bull-and-shit! Dean might not remember who started it, but he sure as shit remembers Jimmy crowding him against the sink, dropping to his knees like the class slut greedy for that dick! If Dean didn't know better he'd have thought it was Cas – he did know better, in case anyone's thinking he just made a grave twin-related mistake – 'cause fuck! Cas is the only other person to ever make Dean blush!
He digresses.
Point is, it didn't just tear Dean and Cas apart, it tore the family apart too. So yeah, Gabriel has more reasons to hate Dean than say Charlie, who gave him the cold shoulder to begin with because Cas is her friend, she loves him and Dean broke his heart. Thankfully, Charlie is also filled with an abundance of forgiveness, understanding and patience. Besides Sam and Jess – who were there but judgy as fuck – Charlie was the first person to really warm to Dean again, lend him an ear, provide a shoulder to cry on. It was Charlie who got Dean an appointment with Missouri, took him to his first AA meeting. Dean guesses you could say Charlie saved his life, and you know what? You wouldn't be wrong.
All this to say Dean can barely believe his eyes as he stands in the open floor plan of his apartment, handing out ghostly ornaments and pumpkin string lights as Gabriel jovially helps set up. It would be a reach of Samwise proportions to say Gabriel has forgiven Dean, that they will ever be the friends they once were, but the fact Gabe can shelve his remaining animosity enough to help Dean throw Jack an epic Halloween party is more than Dean ever could have hoped for.
***
By 8 p.m. the three of them are lounging around Dean's living room with bodies aching and guts full of pizza.
“I can't feel my right arm,” Gabriel states numbly from his back, lying on the floor squished between the coffee table and TV unit.
“I think I slipped a disc,” Dean concurs, fingers digging into his lower spine as he tries to soothe the ache.
“Babies,” Charlie scoffs, cradled snugly in the hanging egg chair abomination she bought because “A Queen must have their throne mon ami.”
On the dining table someone's cell starts ringing, eliciting groans of consternation because come on. None of them wants to move ever again.
Finally bowing to the silent peer pressure – 'cause it could be an emergency – Dean flails to his feet. “I'll get it.”
“You're a Prince among men,” Charlie toasts with her mostly empty soda can.
The apartment is open plan – as previously mentioned – which means the kitchen, dining, and living spaces are all one huge room. There are also two bedrooms (with a master en-suite) and a bathroom. Basically there aren't many walls; however, where the front door is situated between the kitchen and living rooms there is a small floor-to-ceiling partition, presumably to be used for coat hooks and a shoe rack. In Dean's exhausted and bloated state he forgets about this partition – the fact they've just spent seven hours stringing up more Halloween decorations than Elvira could stomach – and promptly gets jumped scared by the motion-activated skeleton on the other side.
“Haha! Got ya,” Charlie laughs smugly, clinking soda cans with a still prone Gabriel, free hand holding up her cell because she's hi-fucking-larious.
Eyes dark, warning etched deep in his tone, Dean declares, “Oh it's on like Donkey Kong.”
***
The following evening the party is in full swing, Dean mingles, hands out candy, keeps the – decidedly non-alcoholic – drinks topped up. The kids – Claire and a few others from Jack's school, dance and archery classes – are running around like sugar-fuelled Tribbles taking over the USS Enterprise. Charlie's shaking her thing to the monster mash, Gabriel attempting to get in the bloomers of a blonde dressed like Little Bo Peep. Sam and Jess are being sickeningly in love by the punch bowl, which leaves Dean feeling pretty damn pleased with himself as he places apples in a makeshift water trough.
“The kids are certainly having fun,” a sweet yet clipped voice points out from his side.
Dean knows before he turns his head that it's Amelia. Claire wanted both her parents here, but for obvious reasons that was never going to happen – Jack's birthday is one thing, but Halloween certainly doesn't fit the exceptional circumstances criteria – so like the grown adults they are, Dean and Amelia compromised, she'd attend the party and play nice while Jimmy stayed on candy duty at home. At Claire's insistence Jack will also be spending the night at their house, giving Dean the chance to get some well-needed rest before tackling the mess currently being made tomorrow morning.
“You did good Dean,” Amelia softens, delicate palm falling lightly against his shoulder. “Don't think we can't see how hard you're trying.” That's all she says, just one quick, supportive squeeze on the arm before she's acting the mo(u)mmy monster and sending the kids into a fit of screams and giggles.
Excusing himself to the bathroom, Dean braces his hands against the sink, bites back the prick of tears in his eyes before running the cold faucet and splashing the cooling liquid on his face. It's not like he's cleaned himself up for them. Yes he didn't want to lose Jack; wanted Cas back. Yes he wanted to prove he was more than a philandering drunk, but mostly he did it for himself. Did it so he could look in the mirror and not wanna punch what he sees. According to Missouri that's why he's succeeding, because he's not relying on anyone's approval but his own, and maybe (definitely) Cas. That doesn't mean Amelia's words don't strike a chord, that her sincere validation isn't bringing tears of relief to Dean's eyes, lungs fuller than they've been in years. If the woman he scorned can appreciate his progress enough to praise him on it then fuck! For once in his life he's doing something right.
Dabbing his face with a towel, he takes the opportunity to piss, eyes catching his reflection in the mirror as he washes his hands. His skin is bright and pink, halogen lights glinting off the deep green of his irises, lips supple and moist instead of cracked and pale, hair healthy and styled just enough, but not too much. Even the clothes he's wearing – a zombie cowboy costume 'cause Red Dead Redemption: Undead Nightmare – don't reek like a fucking brewery and he smiles, giddy and stupid he smiles at his reflection for the first time he can remember.
Back in the throes of his utterly destroyed apartment, Dean checks everyone has what they need, sets out the water trough and calls the kids for round one of the apple bobbing contest. It's about the time Thomas Brady elbows a very efficient Claire in the ribs (trying and failing to gain the advantage) that the doorbell rings.
“No cheap shots,” Dean calls as he makes his way to the door, smile dropping to slack-mouthed awe, heart in his throat when he swings it open to find Cas grinning on the other side, dressed as Dr Frankenstein.
“I'm here for body parts,” Cas states matter-of-fact, raising an empty burlap sack in one hand, eyes catching on Jack who has forsaken the game to bound over eyes wide and teeth showing. “My monster and his wife are insisting I build them a child.” Taking one of Jack's arms in his hand, Cas looks it over approvingly. “This should work.”
All at once Jack is screeching, laughing, pushing his way through the crowd to assemble his army of pre-teens, all of whom scatter in frightful excitement when Cas does his best kid-snatcher impression. Dean's just left there, gawking into his apartment, door still open in his hand.
Cas wasn't supposed to be here, not that he wasn't invited, Barty too, but they were going to take the opportunity of a kid-free Halloween to go to an adult party, spend some quality time together. Apparently Cas' unexpected arrival isn't wasted on Gabriel either, who comes to a stand at Dean's side, arms folded, equally as gormless. For a moment Dean expects Gabe to say something, instead he just idles there, coming back to life when the motion-activated skeleton makes Charlie spill her punch – karma's a bitch – shaking his head with expression unfathomable, then walks away.
Whatever, Dean's not going to pretend he's unaffected by Cas' presence – what would be the point – but there are thankfully enough distractions he can keep his promise of staying out of Cas' way. One of those comes in the form of Bela Talbot, the snooty reporter who didn't get an invitation and definitely shouldn't be here.
“Time to go,” Dean bristles, lifting her drink from her pristinely manicured hand, arm going to her back to guide her to the door. “This is a strictly skank-free zone.” And really, who even let her in?
“Well that's charming,” Bela baulks, unwillingly ushered. “Thought you'd be glad for some fuckable company in your life. Word has it,” she purrs manipulatively. “You've gone monk.”
Finally at the door, Dean reaches for the handle, faces close enough he can burn the vindictive smirk he's wearing right into her damn soul. “I heard you were hit by a bus. Guess we can't all get what we want.” With that he shoves her into the corridor with a firm palm to her spine, twinkling his fingers in parting as the door falls closed once more.
Scanning the room he notices a distinct lack of Cas or Gabriel, Charlie however has her eyes transfixed on the bedroom wall, punch held to her chest, teeth worrying at her lower lip. Dean makes his way over to ask what's wrong, halted before he gets there by raised voices coming from the aforementioned bedroom. Two cousins-more-like-brothers that are clearly engaged in some kind of argument.
Pushing open the door, Dean clicks it carefully closed behind him, watching as Cas' fists clench by his sides, Gabriel's face ruddy with the exertion of yelling. “Everythiiing, o-kaaay...?”
“Fine,” Cas snarls, eyes locked on his cousin.
Gabriel looks like he wants to firmly disagree with that statement, thankfully he opts for seething silence instead.
“Alllrighty then,” Dean click pops his hands together. “Guess I'll leave you to it.”
After his heart-shattering chat with Cas in the kitchen of his old house, Dean scheduled an emergency appointment with Missouri. He talked about what happened, how awful he felt, how selfish, that he just about held himself together with the grace of his sponsor, and Missouri made an assessment. As well as being self-destructive, she believes Dean also suffers from separation anxiety disorder (or SAD). Something that was triggered by the divorce, and the reason he's on edge pining for Cas 24/7 – like a dog barking from the moment their owner leaves until the moment they return. Missouri theorises Dean's always had SAD – the result of his mother dying when he was young and his father being a neglectful bastard who withheld his affection – and that he used alcohol as a way to ease his nerves, now the alcohol is gone, he's feigning for a new coping mechanism. Thankfully this doesn't have to be a permanent affliction, just like that anxious yapping hound, humans too can be healed of the problem through careful training.
If you think Dean's joking with that dog analogy, think again!
It's called classical conditioning – think Pavlov and his dogs – basically you have to determine the triggers, then carefully redirect and desensitise them using something else. For example, Pavlov training dogs to drool at the sound of a bell because he'd conditioned them to associate that bell with food. Dean needs to recondition his triggers, which will take time, but will (Missouri assures) heal him. In the meantime though, Missouri has prescribed medicinal Marijuana for the times he's feeling particularly self-destructive.
Times like now, 'cause amicable terms or not, Dean's not about to stand by and let Gabriel rip shreds off Cas. Problem is, Cas explicitly told Dean to stop coming to his rescue, so it's a catch twenty-two, one that has Dean hovering close to that self-destruct button, saying fuck the consequences and rescuing Cas anyway.
With a shaky breath Dean heads for his bedroom instead, grabs the half-smoked blunt from his nightstand and slips off for a quiet toke on the roof. The smoke burning his lungs doesn't make him want to intervene any less, but it does take the edge off, allows him to think rationally.
“That's earthy.”
Shit.
Of all the people to follow him up here it has to be Cas! Someone who doesn't know this shit's medicinal and will definitely think Dean's just swapped drink for drugs.
“It's not what you think,” Dean rounds on his ex defensively, eyes wide, like a former drunk found with a controlled substance (heh). “My therapist, she prescribed it.”
Brow furrowing, Cas begins closing the distance. “The therapist who diagnosed you with an addictive personality prescribed you medicinal Marijuana?”
Well when you say it like that...
Dean has nothing to say; he's telling the truth, whether it makes sense isn't really his area of expertise.
Stopping with their shoes almost touching, Cas takes the blunt from between Dean's fingers, looks it over with expression dark and indecipherable. “I'm not sure I approve of this therapist's methods,” he slides a hooded gaze to Dean. “Psychology isn't an exact science.” Then he's placing the blunt to his lips, sucking 'til his lungs are full, smoke held on his tongue as his eyes roll closed and head tips skyward. “Then again,” he exhales slowly. “I am just a butcher.” There's the devil and ruination in his eyes when he hands the joint back, smirking satisfied with himself, moving to rest his elbows on the wall at Dean's back, body stretched long.
Just what the hell kind of game are they playing here, cause there's a fucking game, Dean's sure of that. Only, he has no idea how to deal with the situation because Cas begged him, with tears in his eyes he begged Dean to let him go. None of this makes sense. Dean's thrown for a loop and not least of all because Cas enjoys a good drink same as anyone, but drugs...? Even the medicinal kind...!? Not in a thousand fucking years. If you'd have told Dean yesterday that Cas would be smoking pot today, he'd have laughed you out the fucking county!
Scrambling for something – fucking anything – to bring some normalcy back to this odd as fuck exchange, Dean asks, “Where's Bartholomew?” It's sincere, no scoffing the dick's name, no hitting the pain button for Dean. Just a genuine attempt to bring them back to reality.
Cas' head slumps between his shoulders, those blue, blue eyes sliding to Dean waiting patiently for an answer. “He got called in. Head trauma so they wanted a neurosurgeon on standby.”
“What about your party?”
“Huh,” Cas laughs, head bobbing like Dean's hit a nerve, bottom lip drawn between his teeth. “Bunch of wealthy assholes dressed like Pride and Prejudice drinking apple cider and smoking cigars to Chopin...” His expression morphs to one of mirth, sarcasm. “Really Dean? I thought you knew me better than that.”
But fuck if this isn't the Cas Dean fell in love with (minus the weed affinity). The sassy, sexy fucker that just oozes this indescribable dark sex appeal, like he's got secrets that could make Lucifer blush. To be fair, it isn't a side of himself Cas lets off leash in front of just anybody, only those he wants to see crying on his dick at three in the damn morning. Oh and what a fucking gift from the gods that would be! To experience that glorious stretch and burn again, the heavy length of it forcing Dean to mould himself around Cas' dick or be shook to pieces. Beside him Cas huffs, pleased, eyes twinkling ethereally in the orangey light pollution of the neighbourhood. Too late Dean looks down; realises he's sporting the most flamboyant of all boners.
“Cas,” he turns to face the skyline, carefully concealing the waver in his voice. “This ain't fair man,” palms braced atop the wall, savouring the rough scratch of concrete burrowing into his skin. “You can't tell me to let you go, then two months later show up like this.”
“No,” Cas agrees, voice ground rough as he collects himself, shutters coming down. “No. You're right.” Leveraging himself from the wall he begins backing away. “I'm sorry.” His words are genuine, eyes all at once dim and unfocused. “I don't know what I was thinking.” Just like that he's turning heel, purposeful strides carrying him to the roof access quicker than Dean can catch him, ask what the hell just happened.
***
Weed keeps Dean even, stops him charging a metaphorical wall every time his demons overwhelm him, but there's only one cure for being subjected to a flirty Cas with dirty hot things and the want to ruin you in his eyes.
Once Dean’s finally alone amongst what remains of his apartment, he does some cursory tidying up to make sure no one comes back looking for a left item. Satisfied it's just him and the plastic movie monsters, Dean locks up and heads to bed.
Twenty minutes later sees him sprawled on the sheets with boxers around his knees and slut-red dick fucking through a lubed fist. Head pushed into the pillows, Dean adds a twist to every up stroke, teeth digging a permanent imprint into his bottom lip. Blue eyes swim into view, Cas toe to toe with him on the roof, so close Dean could get high off his cologne, lick the pulse point on his husband's neck, taste the salt and the sweat.
Fuuuck...
The memory alone has the vision shifting, Dean's legs akimbo, held high by Cas' firm grip as the man himself eases in and out with a groan-cum-growl caught in the back of his throat. In the real world Dean's hips have begun to rise, plumy head of his cock slipping through his slick fingers on every thrust, sound obscene as every downstroke slaps off his balls drawn high and tense. Heat pools low and thick in his stomach, ass clenching, pace quickening. In his fantasy Cas is all flushed cheeks and desperation, spilling into Dean on a strangled call of his name and shitshitshit.
Dean's coming over his fist, stars in his eyes, pained sounds of pleasure escaping him unbidden. Orgasm so violent he gets his chin, his chest.
Fuck.
***
That joke Gabe made about signing Dean up for the charity calendar? Yeah, no joke. The impish fucker actually did it, Dean's finding out as he reads his mail, offending letter telling him when and where the shoot is taking place (the station house next Wednesday). He's supposed to have Jack next Wednesday, guess he'll have to rearrange with Cas – 'cause the kid's been through enough, he doesn't need that particular brand of parental trauma – of course, Dean has no intention of telling Cas the specifics. This whole thing is gonna be embarrassing enough.
***
“What's up Dean-o?” Gabriel smirks the following Wednesday, standing at his open locker knowing damn well what's up!
“You feel better now?” Dean hisses, aware this little stunt has been in the works for the last eighteen months.
Closing his locker to lean a shoulder against it, Gabriel shrugs nonchalantly. “The alternative was taking a bat to ‘little Dean’. Personally I think this is kiddie pool compared to that.”
He's not wrong, and it's not lost on Dean that instead of doing this last year when the wounds were still fresh, he waited until he thought Dean could handle it without having a fucking breakdown. Given Dean definitely had something coming he keeps his peace. In all honesty he'd been secretly considering signing up himself – why waste all that time and effort he's been putting in on the gym equipment? – then he'd chickened out, remembered the guys (read: Charlie) would never let him live it down.
Ah well, c'est la vie.
Turns out Dean’s not a natural born model – the wonders never cease – but the photographer is fond of his newly toned physique, little flush on her cheeks when she asks him to climb the truck to straddle the ladder. Dirty bitch knows she's going to get an eyeful in the process; there's no way she won't. Dean'll admit though, he is fond of the framing, him mounted atop the truck like a cowboy, prop fire hose a lasso swirling above his head. It's pretty inspired. They take pictures of more firefighters than they need for these things as well – gotta have options – so who's to say he'll even make the final cut. The competition could be fierce for all Dean knows (hopes), but watching Gabriel take his turn next (at least the guy's not a hypocrite), Dean comes down on the side of it really depending on the selector's ‘type’.