Chapter Text
Dean likes to think that he has a pretty good imagination. After all, he spent almost four long-ass, pathetic, piney months imagining various scenarios where he and Cas were getting jiggy with it. And boy were some of those scenarios inspired.
There was one that made Cirque Du Soleil look like amateurs, even though Dean knows it’s not physically possible, nor is he even close to being that flexible, even in his youth. Another that involved a rather inventive use of orange segments.
But never in all of his trips through the porno looking glass had he imagined this.
In fairness, that’s probably because it’s less dirty-hot spank bank material and more the perfect picture of happy domesticity that Dean never actually hoped to imagine, because it would’ve just been too ridiculous, too much like everything he wanted from a man whose life is shadowed by violence and blood.
Dean’s sucker-punched with the mouthwatering sweet and spicy aroma the second he opens the front door, but it’s not until he’s approaching the kitchen doorway that the scent really starts to take the shape of delicious things, and whatever lame quip he has about Ben lighting up Dean’s Christmas Yankee candle without him dies on his tongue.
Ben is standing at the kitchen island, flour sprinkled in his dark hair and little prints of it here and there all over his clothes, smears of ghostly white a stark contrast against the navy denim jeans and black hoodie that he wears so damn often, Dean’s worried that the thing has now grown enough sentience to be considered under the Animal Welfare Act.
Next to him is Cas, equally disheveled from this angle, and when he turns from the sink to face Dean standing uselessly in the kitchen doorway, keys still in his palm, Dean catches sight of the tie flipped over his shoulder as he stirs some kind of mixture in a large stoneware bowl, the shirt sleeves rolled up past his elbows, and perhaps most importantly, the soft streak of flour smudged like warpaint across Cas’ left cheekbone.
His blue eyes are bright and happy, his hair’s got that ‘just-fucked’ kind of artful messiness to it, and Dean absolutely does not want to drop to his fucking knees and thank God or Satan or whoever is responsible for this disgustingly domestic scene ripped right out of a shitty rom-com that Dean would never watch.
Sam’s a lying liar who lies when he says that Dean cried during Love Actually .
“Hey guys,” Dean says as conversationally as he can manage whilst his throat is strangling his heart, “What’cha doing?”
“Castiel is teaching me how to make pie,” Ben replies, a beaming grin on his face in Dean’s direction before he turns to look up at Cas like he hung the moon. Dean knows exactly how the poor kid feels.
“Yeah?” Dean asks, switching his attention to Cas once Ben has decided that’s all the exposition he’s offering by wandering over to the refrigerator with purpose. Dean leans across the island on his forearms, watching Cas’ muscles bunch beneath his shirt as he stirs, “What flavor?”
“Apple,” Cas says, watching Dean watch him.
“Ooh,” Dean murmurs, eyeing the dough discs that Ben lays out on the counter, “I love apple pie.”
“So I’m told,” Cas replies with a knowing smirk and Dean thinks he might actually love him more.
Cas hands off the bowl to Ben, who continues stirring what Dean can now see is what looks to be some kind of cinnamon-cornstarch-apple-cider concoction. Cas fetches a ceramic pie dish - one that Dean knows for a fact he himself doesn’t own, and his stomach flips over at Cas bringing his baking stuff over here, like he’s leaving a toothbrush or something - and starts greasing the dish with butter.
Watching Cas work really shouldn’t be as erotic as it is, especially not with Dean’s kid present, but Cas is just so damn proficient and capable that’s it hard not to marvel at his long-fingered grace as he deftly transfers one of the discs to the dish, cuts off the excess around the crimped edge with practiced ease.
“Ben, do you want to pour the mixture in?” Cas asks kindly, and Dean starts, so transfixed on Cas’ hands that he’d momentarily spaced out.
Yeah, Dean has a serious problem.
Ben tips the bowl and Cas smooths the filling out with the back of a spoon. Between them, they rest the other disc of dough on top of the pie, crimp the edges with a fork, brush an egg wash over the top and then shove their creation into the oven. Cas sets the timer for fifty minutes and gives Ben a genuine, gratified smile, tells him, “Good Job,” and actually means it.
Fuck.
***
Pie in the oven, Ben disappears off to his bedroom to wash up and finally change his clothes, so Dean takes the opportunity to sidle over to Cas, who’s by the sink washing his hands, “So don’t get me wrong, it’s totally hot seeing you go all Nigella and whilst the way you look right now is really making me want to find out about the lubricant properties of sunflower oil, I gotta ask, Cas, what the hell are you doing here?”
Cas side-eyes him as he rinses off the soap, mouth twitching up into a smile, “The oil would break down the latex in a condom.”
“We don’t use ‘em and so not the point, Cas.”
Castiel turns, wiping his hands on a dishtowel, leans his weight against the counter, shoulder to shoulder next to Dean, solid warmth and earthy cologne a reassuring presence. The flour on his cheek is only a minor distraction at this point, perhaps secondary to the light sheen of sweat in the dip of Cas’ tattooed throat, “I need you to do something for me.”
Uh oh.
It’s not gonna be anything sexy is it? It’s never anything sexy.
“Yeah? What?”
Castiel tosses the dish towel onto the countertop behind them, angles his body towards Dean, “The drug run across the border is tomorrow afternoon and I’m a man down--”
“--Why are you a man down?” Dean asks, pretty sure of the answer, but needing to hear Cas say it all the same. Sometimes, when Dean feels himself sinking into this too deep, he needs the reminder of what they’re actually doing here.
“I shot him and dumped his body in the wetlands,” Cas says matter-of-fact, with his eyebrow raised - ‘can I continue now?’ - and Dean swallows hard around nothing, manages a jerky nod of his head.
Yep, that’ll do it.
“So I only have enough men spare to drive seven out of the eight cars.”
Dean doesn’t point out that maybe Cas should’ve considered this before he shot the wretched fucker, ‘cause this is just poor planning, really.
“Why?”
Cas squints at him, slivers of blue glinting in the artificial kitchen light, “What do you mean, why ? I’ve just explained it to you; it’s simple math, Dean.”
Asshole.
“No, I mean why’d you--” Dean affects Cas’ low timbre, “-- ’shoot him and then dump his body in the wetlands ’?”
Castiel cocks his head, “Why do you think? He deserved it.”
That’s pretty vague reasoning as far as Dean’s concerned. Lots of people probably deserve a bullet to the face and don’t get one, and there’s a fair number of people who don’t deserve a bullet to the face, yet get one.
Surely there has to be a better sorting criterion than that.
“Yeah?”
Cas’ smile is razor-sharp, “Never shot a man who didn’t.”
The implication is clear.
Dean waves a dismissive hand, "Yeah okay, Gangsta’s Paradise . So if you’re angling for me to drive the eighth car then you need to be fishing somewhere else, Cas. Even if I wasn’t busy tomorrow - which I am - then the answer would still be ‘ hell to the fucking no’ . I’m not getting cavity searched for drugs whilst you sit here with your fucking feet up, baking pies. That’s not my idea of a good time,” Just for clarity, as he eyes Cas’ hands, he feels obligated to voice his initial thought aloud, “Unless you’re doing the cavity search. I’d be willing to give that a go.”
Could be another kink to add to his repertoire.
Sadly, Cas ignores him, “What are you doing tomorrow that supersedes your obligation to our partnership?” and really it sounds like Cas is asking for a sick note or some shit; ‘ Dear Mr. Novak, Dean cannot play gangster today because he sprained his ankle on Monday.’
“I have plans with Ben and Lisa’s away, so there’ll be nobody to look after him whilst I’m getting lovingly fingered by an overeager CBP agent. What do you have in your calendar that’s stopping you from getting to third base at the side of the road with a burly border agent named Geoff?”
“I have an important meeting downtown,” Cas replies distracted, “Why are you so obsessed with cavity searches?”
It’s a good question.
Dean doesn’t answer it, “Don’t kink shame, Cas. Don’t be that guy,” At Cas’ raised eyebrow, Dean sighs, “Look, I wish I could help you--” he doesn’t, but it sounds good, right? “--It seems like a jolly good day out, fun for all the family even, but I just can’t. And even if I could…” He trails off, lets it hang in the air between them.
“Dean,” Cas starts, impatience settling in around the edges of his glare, thunderclouds behind the blue, and Dean’s dick twitches; practically a Pavlovian response at this point, “You wanted to be equal partners in this. That means sometimes you have to take one for the team--”
“--Why do I feel like a girl at a frat house about to get gangbanged for the first time--”
“--and pick up the slack. These drugs have to get to where they need to be or we’re all that girl in the frat house about to get gangbanged for the first time.”
For fuck’s sake.
“I can’t Cas.” He won’t. Cas is always harping on about drawing the line, well this is the one Dean’s drawing in permanent marker.
In a last-ditch attempt at reasonableness, and Dean’s gotta hand it to Cas for not just shoving a gun in Dean’s face - netting him a solid B+ for effort - Cas says, “If you’re so worried about who’s going to look after Ben - even though he’s almost twelve years old and more than capable of being left alone for an entire afternoon - why don’t you take him with you? Like you said--” and in a move that Dean would be amused by if there was a single drop of mirth left in his body, Cas finger quotes,” -- ‘fun for the whole family’ . Make a day of it.”
Definitely an F for execution. As in Fffffffuck no.
‘Make a day of it…?’
It’s said so casually, like Dean’s got his dates mixed up and accidentally double-booked himself in for both a crocheting class and a mani-pedi, that Dean actually performs a jerky double-take.
Fucking what.
“Oh yeah, sure, Cas. We’ll go on a father-son drug smuggling day - I think you can get a Groupon for those!”
Cas’ expression shutters, patience well and truly vaporized and something akin to hysteria tries to claw itself out of Dean’s chest, " Dean ."
" Cas ."
They stare each other down in Dean’s kitchen, leaky faucet a steady, rhythmic drip-drip-drip onto the dirty baking utensils in the sink, all Chinese water torture and it only seems like Dean breaks first, because suddenly he’s reaching up to rub the smear of flour off Cas’ cheekbone, mostly just to fuck with him.
Cas catches him around the wrist, grinding the fine bones together as he squeezes, and the small flare of pain sets Dean’s blood alight in his veins, “Sometimes, I think you forget who you’re dealing with.”
Never , but Dean did promise that he’d never stop giving Cas a hard time, in every possible way. He intends to keep his word.
He cants his hips, slides a thigh between Cas’, “Why don’t you remind me, Cas?”
A muscle tics in Cas' clenched jaw and for a scrap of a second Dean’s honestly not sure which way this is gonna go - whether it’s gonna be sex or violence tonight, but then Cas is forcing him backward with his body, crowding him into the corner of the kitchen, cut edge of the granite worktop digging into Dean’s asscheek.
Dark eyes trained on Dean like a laser point, ire written into every tense line of his body, dick a hot, hard line against Dean’s own, Dean wants to push just that little more, always in search of the source of Cas’ control, desperate to see it unravel, so like an asshole, he winks, says, “Cas, not for nothing, but the last person who looked at me the way you’re looking at me right now... I got laid.”
The fact that that person is Cas himself apparently makes no difference at all to the sentiment, because then Cas is letting out a sound that can only be described as a growl, pressing in impossibly closer, scent of cinnamon and cologne, tang of salt, and he’s so goddamn beautiful that Dean’s not really all that concerned about his imminent demise. He’s always found the wetlands peaceful.
Cas’ eyes are nothing but blue haloed around black and Dean shifts just enough to have his erection rub tantalizingly against Cas’, heat pooling low in his stomach, willing Cas to either hit him or fuck him. The moment between them stretches on, pulled taut without snapping, before on a wild, frustrated sound, Cas drops Dean’s wrist, steps away, regains a hold over his temper and Dean releases the breath in his lungs on a painfully stuttery exhale, wills his dick to calm the fuck down, acutely aware now that he can think beyond Cas and wantwantwant , that Ben could have walked in on them at any moment.
Probably just as well that one of them is thinking with their upstairs brain for a change.
Cas is only mildly more composed than Dean when he drags a hand through his already fucked up hair, says with forced politeness, like he’s trying it out and already doesn’t like the taste, “It would be nice if just this once you could do as I ask --”
That’s not really fair.
“--Oh fuck you, Cas. I do shit for you all the time---
“--and stopped being such an insouciant, insubordinate smartass--”
“--Just the other week I helped out, and hey wait a minute, we’re fucking partners, how can I be refusing to obey orders --”
“--When you bartered your way into this partnership, I thought you would be prepared to actually do some work --”
Oh no. Oh, fuck no. Dean works his goddamn ass off. “...fuck you twice , man,” Something flickers in and out of Cas’ eyes, murderous, but Dean’s on a roll and keeping a close eye on the sharp objects near the draining board, “You think I’m sittin’ on my ass over there, just waiting for the money to roll in each week? You think I’m not spending every goddamn hour I have making sure that your cars don’t get caught?” The murder glare fades to a felony grade aggravated battery scowl, “You think that I’m not checking all possibilities, all nooks and crannies so that the drugs aren’t gonna get found by nosey border agents?” Cas takes it down another notch, now in misdemeanor assault territory, “You think that I’m not switching up the VINs at just the right freakin’ time so that it’s not too suspicious either way?”
The I’m-about-to-take-it-out-of-your-ass-and-not-in-a-sexy-way look behind Cas’s eyes dissipates and is replaced by one of those devious, self-satisfied smirks, like he’s ensnared Dean. Maybe he has, the fucker.
Dean’s pretty sure that he prefers the murder glare.
“If you’re doing such a good job, then you won’t get caught, will you? You’re going to all that trouble, like you yourself said--” dick “--so that the cars will pass through border control without getting pulled. You trust your own work, right Dean?”
Fuck. The logic is flawless.
Asshole.
“And who better to go across and supervise the whole operation than the one person who knows the cars inside and out?” Cas asks reasonably and in his mind’s eye, Dean sees himself reaching for the blunt butter knife and laboriously sawing into Cas’ neck.
That shit would chafe like a bitch.
Double Fuck.
Really, Dean should’ve expected this kinda crap from the same man who pulled the whole, ‘ I normally pay thirty ’ power move, but it’s been a while since he’s tried anything like that, so Dean was lulled into a false sense of security and complacency.
That doesn’t mean that Dean isn’t already thinking about exactly how he’s gonna make Cas pay for this. With interest. After all, Cas may have won this battle of wills, but there’s a fucking war going on, don'tcha know.
“For fuck’s sake, fine,” Dean agrees, down but certainly not out ‘cause there’s nothin’ sweeter than revenge, He jabs a finger in Cas’ face, “But you owe me, Cas.”
Castiel smiles serenely, and Dean might be a bad loser, but Cas is an even shittier, smug asshole of a winner, “Of course.”
***
Luckily for Cas and un luckily for Dean, Charlie just happened to be free, so Ben’s invited to a sleepover at her and Dorothy’s place, and Dean’s only slightly concerned that Charlie might be making Ben play dress up for Dean’s wedding party outfit. He’s yet to see it, but Sam assures him it’s definitely special .
Since Ben is covered all day and overnight, Dean demanded that Cas turn this into a two-day thing, because the long journey is a whole lotta miles and Dean’s not as good behind the wheel as he used to be. Certainly not in anything less than his Baby, let alone a shitty box on wheels without fully-functioning airbags.
Sam’s here for moral support, but Dean’s not sure his brother got the memo because he’s been bitching since Omaha like it’s his fucking job and for once, they're actually in complete agreement; this is indeed tedious, insane, tediously insane, and risky as fuck, yes.
And yet they’re still driving towards the border in a drug mule Honda convoy and Dean’s not really sure how to allay his brother’s fears, because he’s merely vocalizing Dean’s, albeit in a whinier, more annoying voice.
"Why are we doing this, Dean?"
Why indeed.
“Do you want the long or short answer to that, Sammy?”
On the radio, some country musician is warbling about her man doing her wrong and Dean feels that shit right down to his bones.
Fucking Cas.
Only an abstract concept up until now - drugs driven in from Canada and distributed thereafter - the reality of it is a logistical nightmare; surely there has to be a more efficient/streamlined method for getting these drugs to Dean’s shop, rather than driving a million miles there and back a couple of times a week.
Maybe Dean can figure out a way to fit a larger number of drugs in the cars to make each trip more worthwhile. He gets now why Cas was simply taking his chances and just stuffing the cars full. There has to be some sort of mid-point between that and this though.
He’s gonna have to talk to Cas about it when they get home.
Dean presses the heel of his hand to his eye, rubs. Fuck, he can’t remember the last time he drove this long and far in one go. Probably when he and Sam were teenagers.
They’re just coming up on the offramp for route 75, when Sam speaks again, “You okay?” he asks from the passenger seat, evening beginning to settle in around them.
“Yeah,” Dean replies, “Just fuckin’ tired, man.”
He’d barely slept at all the previous night, spent most of it checking and rechecking everything on the cars was in order, mind playing through all possible scenarios, all the ways that this could go wrong.
Nearly all of them end up with Dean’s pants around his ankles and not in a fun, consensual way.
The radio re-tunes as they drive through Sioux Falls, some soft rock station playing the Divinyls.
“Do you love him?” Sam asks quietly and Dean doesn’t have the energy to perform the comedic double-take that he would be dramatizing the shit out of otherwise.
Apparently today’s the day that they’re resurrecting the parking lot argument. Such. Fun.
“Who?” Even though they both know who Sam’s talking about.
“Ben,” his brother deadpans, “You know who, Dean.”
So much for moral support, eh?
Dean makes a left turn at the command of the sat nav. The next couple of cars behind him follow.
“Why are we talking about this?”
“Because we have to.”
Nope, not strictly true. In fact, Dean would argue that the opposite is the case. It’s an easy mistake to make though. Benny made it too.
“Sam--”
“--You do, don’t you?” Sam says and it’s accusatory, angry , “You’ve fallen in love with him! Are you stupid or something Dean?”
Or something.
“So what if I have, Sammy?” Dean turns to him, betrayal written in every line of his brother’s face, “What fucking difference does it make - to you or to the situation we’re in right now?”
Sam slumps in his seat, wind taken out of his sails and Dean turns back to the road, “All the difference in the world.”
Dean’s beginning to think that his brother might be right about more than the tediousness of this car journey.
***
During their formative years, Dean and Sam shared a fair few motel rooms. They managed because they were a pair of gangly teenagers with fuck-all else other than each other. It was undoubtedly shitty, but Dean does have a few fond memories that stand as a reminder of everything they’ve been through together, whilst also serving as a deterrent for the days when fratricide materializes itself at the forefront of Dean’s mind as a very attractive option.
Days like today for instance.
“Sammy, if you don’t get outta this bathroom in five seconds flat, I’m gonna bust the motherfucker down!”
The door finally opens mid-pound of Dean’s fist and Sam emerges on a billowy cloud of steam, hair all fluffy and swishing like he’s in a fucking Whitesnake video.
“Any chance you could take even fucking longer in there?”
“I could try,” Sam snipes, venomous and really? What the fuck is his problem?
With an aggravated grunt, Dean barges his stupid sasquatch brother out of the way, closes the door behind himself with a slam. Realizes once he’s locked in the fog of steam that Sam’s most likely used all the hot water and that he’s left his phone in the main room, so he can’t text Cas or Charlie.
Fuck.
***
They don’t talk as they eat takeout in the room, Sam chewing his noodles with a little more aggression than is really required to consume strings of dough, but at least he’s not giving Dean shit, so there’s that.
Dean isn’t quite sure what’s crawled up his brother’s ass and taken root, but he figures it has something to do with Cas. And sure, the two of them have never exactly been close; Sam’s always found Cas’ particular brand of intense mind-fuckery just a little beyond the pale, and he’s probably figured out - even through Dean’s intricate web of deceit - that Cas is involved in, if not responsible for, Benny’s little gun incident, but still.
They both fall into their twin beds pretty soon after food. It’s been a long day and they have to be up early in the morning to drive to some secluded cabin in the woods, where they most assuredly aren’t going to get murdered and cannibalized by a bunch of over-friendly hillbillies chattering about Timmies, kilometers, and Canucks.
If he lives through this he’s gonna make Cas’ life miserable .
Dean’s rather invested in some pretty creative revenge - putting that excellent imagination to good use - which means that he’s mostly still awake, thoughts just beginning to mingle with dreams when Sam speaks again.
"Do you ever miss Benny?" He asks into the darkness and Dean should pretend to be asleep, pretend he didn’t hear, because there's a lot of things Dean could say about him and Benny, “Like, I know he cheated and everything--” and Sammy doesn’t know, couldn’t know that the cheating and the mortgage bullshit is the least of it really “--but you guys were together a long time. It must be weird without him around?”
So apparently this trip isn’t about picking up a bunch of prescription drugs from bumfuck, Canada, it’s actually all about every fucker taking advantage of Dean and trying to crowd him into shit he doesn’t wanna do.
Because really, aside from getting pulled over at the border and fingerbanged for someone’s angina meds, this right here is the thing Dean wants to be happening least.
Though, Dean’s gotta hand it to Sam; sasquatch sure does know how to pick his moments because it’s not like Dean’s been forthcoming in recent months. Sam’s best chance at cracking Dean wide open and getting him to spill all of his juicy secrets was always going to be when they were trapped together for over twenty-four hours with no freakin’ way out.
Crafty Sammy.
Dean sighs, instinctually tries to formulate a bland answer that’ll satisfy nobody, but for some reason that he doesn’t inspect too closely, he needs Sam to understand this , even if he never understands anything else about Dean. Cas isn’t going anywhere and so if a little emotional vulnerability is all it takes for Sam to quit with this weird hate-on he has for Cas, then Dean’s mostly willing to break his self-imposed rule about chick flick moments.
"I miss the misery," Dean replies after a while, "It's kinda easy to lean into feeling like you maybe earned some of the shitty things that have happened to you, y’know? Like, Benny cheating on me - man, I put that on my own shoulders for a long time without fully realizing it. I figured that I wasn’t engaged enough in the relationship, that I resented him too much for forcing me back into wanting a normal life in the suburbs…” Dean swallows, dry throat clicking, “Um, I guess it’s a lot more difficult to accept that you deserve better. So sometimes I miss the security of feeling like crap,” He drapes his forearm over his eyes, “It was easier.”
It’s the most honest he’s probably been about anything in his entire life. Shame then, that his sudden urge to be candid is being wasted on this right here, ‘cause if it’s gonna be another thirty-two years before this Halley’s Comet of sentiment happens again, then there are probably better uses.
Sam's quiet for a long moment, "You really felt like that, Dean? Like you didn't deserve the world? Like it was all your fault?”
"I guess so," Dean responds, and he’s pretty much figuring out this shit as he says it, “A lot of the time, I felt like I was somebody else wearing my face, man. Like I’d brought it all on myself, so I had to just suck it up and try to make shit that didn’t fit, fit.” He licks his lips, tries to think through the sudden onslaught of emotion, “Like I was trapped, I think.”
His chest is starting to feel a little tight, so they need to wrap this shit up pronto.
"Cas makes you feel free?"
"Yeah," Dean says without hesitation, "Yeah he does, Sammy."
“Huh,” Sam says and that’s it apparently. For now at least.
Thank Christ.
***
The next morning, Dean and Sam drive up to a cottage in the woodlands ripped straight out of Grimms’ Fairy Tales and Sam fidgets nervously in the doorway while the little old woman - who definitely-probably isn’t cooking children in her cast iron oven - totters off to get the drugs that likely weigh more than her.
There’s one of those weird cat clocks on the wall, y’know the ones with the creepy eyes that move back and forth?
Yeugh.
“He told me you’d be coming,” Canada’s answer to Baba Yaga beams when she returns, piling the baggies into Sam’s arms, with perhaps-not-surprising child-shoving-into-oven strength and efficiency, “But he didn’t tell me how handsome you are. I bet you make such a lovely pair together.”
At this point, Dean’s not sure if she’s gonna ask for a prom photo of him and Cas or whether all this sweetness is an attempt to fatten him up for when she feasts on his tender flesh later.
Her giant fluffy ginger tomcat on the window sill swishes his tail, unimpressed.
Sam shoots Dean the same look he did when Dean mentioned off-hand that he had an idea of how they could pay Maddy’s medical bills and Dean’s mortgage debt off in one fell swoop.
Ah, memories.
“Err, thank you?” Dean says, bemused. So far, this whole thing has not been the experience he had anticipated.
“You’re welcome, dear,” She turns away, pottering towards the kitchen, calls out over her shoulder, “Would you like some gingerbread?”
Sam and Dean exchange glances.
“Sure!” Dean says brightly, because why the fuck not.
***
Arms full of gingerbread and drugs, they barely manage to make it outside before they burst out laughing, shoulders bumping together, practically falling down the crumbling stone steps.
***
By the time they get back to the motel parking lot, it’s mid-morning and Dean’s munched his way through two-thirds of the stash of gingerbread.
It’s entirely possible that the old broad poisoned the batch or something, but it tastes so good, that after the first mouthful, Dean’s made peace with the fact that it might kill him.
Seems to be a recurring theme in his life.
The rest of the cars are still in the otherwise empty lot as they pull in, with the gangsters gathered around in a loose formation, talking amongst themselves, all hipster convention and familiarity, and Dean is really not looking forward to this. He cuts the ignition, sighs, rests his forehead against the steering wheel.
So. The bunch of criminals that Cas has palmed off on Dean for this elite operation is basically a rogues gallery of Dean's least favorite people: Michael, Balthazar, and that fucking jailbait kid is here, because Cas is an asshole and apparently punishing Dean for something.
Maybe that little scene in the kitchen yesterday?
Dean’s lips twitch against a smile despite himself.
The kid is Gabriel’s nephew or some shit, and supposedly a nice boy, but Dean’s a petty man - never professed to be anything else - so, for now, he decides to ignore jailbait and instead plans to direct all conversation to the least worst of them, Balthazar. Apparently he and ‘Cassie’ - yeah like fuck Dean isn’t using that little nickname at the most inopportune moment - go way back, like way back, so Dean knows he can be trusted if nothing else.
Dean gets out of the car and leans against the closed door, trying to look a lot more casual than he feels. Behind him, Sam mutters something about breakfast which Dean acknowledges with a grunt. He catches Balthazar’s eye, beckons him over.
Balthazar strolls over like they’re in some sleazy club and he’s teasing a love interest, all rolling hips and casual charm. Dean reluctantly admits that the guy is handsome in a British kind of way. Though he dresses sorta douchey.
No preamble, Dean gets straight down to business once Balthazar and his teenage-boy cologne are within spitting distance, “So all your guys know how to dismantle the airbags, right?” He’s taught enough of them over the past few months, so surely the information has been disseminated through the ranks by now.
“Eh,” Balthazar holds out his hand, makes a ‘kinda’ motion, “We’re pretty short-staffed at the moment. Cassie didn’t exactly have time to assemble the A-team here.”
Dean would’ve settled for the B-Team; these guys are barely hanging on to the alphabet, “Okay, fine. If I show you, you can show them.”
Balthazar holds up his hands, genuinely horrified at the prospect of being useful, “Cas didn’t say anything about manual labor.”
And really ? Dean is beginning to wonder if this is another teachable moment that Cas has deliberately manufactured to make Dean a better criminal. Dean gets to collect his drug smuggling badge at the same time as his leadership badge or some shit.
Either way, he’s not going to prison for this bunch of pricks, so they’re all gonna have to learn fast and buckle under.
“It takes at least twenty minutes per airbag and that’s with me - someone competent - doing it, so we need all hands on deck. You’re gonna have to get dirt under that pretty manicure of yours if you wanna get home before nightfall.”
Balthazar stares at Dean, considering, “Hmm, admittedly I’m beginning to see it now.”
Dean flashes him his winning smile, used to that look , “Good, I’m super glad that you seeing me as fuckable is imperative to you being able to do your job, because otherwise, we might be standing here having a very difficult conversation, right?”
Balthazar smiles, all mischief and assholery, “Fuckable? Sorry, you have me confused with the other angel. You know, the trigger-happy one with the anger management issues who’s in love with you .”
Dean’s traitorous heart absolutely does not perform a somersault in his chest, all amateur gymnast and hopeful Harlequin romance.
“Michael?” He quips, instead of begging Balthazar to tell him everything - how he said it, when he said it, where they were and what they were doing when he said it - whilst they braid each other’s hair and drink marshmallow gin.
Balthazar touches his nose with an index finger and points the other at Dean, “Ah, you’re quick.”
“And you’re annoying. Just do as you’re fucking told, and make sure that the others fall in line, yeah?”
***
By the time Sam returns from Narnia or wherever he’s been to procure them breakfast, everyone’s working diligently, listening to Dean’s instructions. Dean swipes a coffee out of the quad cup holder, takes a sip as they walk back to their car, immediately hands it back to Sam.
Ugh.
The sooner they’re back in the good old US of A, the better.
Dean slides into the driver’s seat, releasing the lever and pushing against the footwell to give himself room to work.
Sam stands there in the space of the open door, shifting his weight uncomfortably, takeout bag in one hand, coffees in the other.
He looks nervous and Dean gets it, but unfortunately, he doesn’t have time or energy to walk his brother through an existential crisis today, not when he’s barely keeping his own under wraps.
Dean switches the ignition on, unlocking the wheel.
Michael appears next to Sam, who flinches when the douche snatches a coffee, then says to Dean all bored indifference - like he’s just so above all this and that he’d totally rather be pistol-whipping some poor bastard who owes Cas money, (whatever, Dean’d rather be getting his cock sucked, so apparently they’ve both been metaphorically screwed over by the same conniving dick that they wish they were with) - “I’ve got the wheel in the correct position, but I can’t find the mounting bolts.”
Without looking away from where he’s digging a screwdriver into a retainer clip, Dean replies gruffly, “There’s an access slot behind the wheel. You’ll need a screwdriver to release it.”
“Alright,” Michael says slowly, a little put out at the dismissal. Dean successfully loosens the first of the bolts, turning the wheel 180 degrees to get to the next one.
Michael leaves and Sam watches him go, then turns back to Dean, “You’re good at this,” he says in a tone that Dean can’t quite place.
“Been doing it a while now, Sammy.” Dean mutters, right as there’s a yelled “ Fuck! ” from one of the other cars, “Go find out what the problem is?”
“Uh, sure,” Sam says, placing the food and coffees on the roof of the car.
Dean continues his work, carefully pulling the assembly away from the steering wheel. Sam returns just as Dean’s disconnecting the wiring connectors, “Uhh, that Jack kid says that he popped the front bit loose and loads of wires came out with it.”
Idiot.
“That’s just the horn and the airbag deployment controls. Nothing too bad, should be fine. Tell him I’ll have a look at the end to make sure he’s not yanked out anything more serious.”
Unfortunately, it’s not like he could pull the brake lines.
Yeahhhh, Dean’s not holding a grudge or anything.
Sam dutifully plays messenger, going back and forth between Dean and the other cars. An extremely frustrating forty-five minutes later sees nearly all of the cars done, the drugs safely stashed away, and Dean needs a time-out, so he sends everybody off for a bathroom break and food whilst he inspects every single car and takes a breather from the incessant, “Dean which color connector does Bartholomew need to remove first?” , “Dean, Uriel is having problems with the little orange thingy…”
Jesus, it’s like having kids. Except Ben and Claire don’t have a gun license.
Dean just hopes that this lot are better at gangster-ing than they are at mechanics.
Or that the guys Cas normally sends are at least a little more competent than this, otherwise everything Dean’s doing at the other end is for naught.
And yeah, what’s with the whole short-staffed thing? Cas never mentioned anything about any problems - he shot one of his men the other day, now he’s sending a bunch of guys who don’t normally do this? Something is clearly going on and it creates a small pit of unease in Dean’s stomach.
He and Cas really need to have that talk.
Done with the final car, and satisfied with the job that they’ve all managed to cobble together between them - definitely earned the shit out of that leadership badge - Dean straightens up, muscles unwinding as he stretches.
“It’s kind of cool,” Sam says when Dean returns to their car. He’s sipping on coffee that was pretty gross to begin with, but by now must be unbearable, “How they’re all following your orders without complaint.”
Dean repositions the seat, making it comfortable for the long, long, looooooonnnng drive home, “Perks of fucking the boss, I s’pose.”
Sam’s eyebrows hit his hairline, “No Dean. Believe me, that out there,” He gestures to the rest of them getting back in their respective cars, with a half-eaten gingerbread man. He’s bitten the head off first, the psychopath, “That was all you today.”
Dean switches on the ignition, “Gee thanks, Sammy. D’you think if we stop to buy a pair of pants, that they’ll magically fit us all and we’ll be bestest friends forever?”
Sam rolls his eyes, turns to the window, “Always gotta ruin it.”
Dean grins as they peel out of the lot, “You’re definitely a Lena.”
“Fuck you, Tibby.”
***
Border control is a lot of something and nothing. Michael’s car gets pulled once Dean’s, Balthazar’s and a couple of others are already back on US soil, and Dean almost wants the agents to find the drugs, just so Dean doesn’t have to deal with Michael anymore.
They thankfully don’t bring out detection dogs, nor do they find any drugs in Michael’s car, and the rest of the cars - including jailbait’s - get through okay.
Fuck. They made it and with Dean’s virtue intact too.
He exchanges a relieved grin with Sam.
Jesus.
***
The drive home is simultaneously the longest and shortest few hours of his life.
***
They stop for a break just outside of Beresford. Whilst Dean’s in a garage getting some road snacks that don’t contain freakin’ gingerbread, his phone buzzes in his pocket.
CAS: Apparently I’m not the only one who is good with his hands.
***
Drugs in a hold-all over his shoulder, Dean gets home just after six in the evening. Which isn’t too bad all things considered. Ben’s due home from Charlie’s any time now, so Dean’s looking forward to just kicking back and getting his ass handed to him at whatever game his kid wants to subject him to today.
Just in case Cas is lurking, he calls out, “Anybody home?” to an apparently empty house, which is confirmed when nobody answers.
Duh.
He dumps the bag on the bench, tosses his keys onto the sideboard.
All in all, he supposes that the trip hadn’t been the absolute worst thing ever. Apparently he’d managed to garner a small amount of respect from Cas’ guys, which he knows counts for a lot in their world, and he and Sammy seemed to reach some kind of truce regarding Cas, which is a relief.
And Dean didn’t get any of his orifices forcibly probed by a megalomaniac with a federal badge so that’s a definite win right there.
He’s much more into megalomaniacs on the other side of the law anyways.
Dean saunters into the kitchen, intent on snagging himself a nice crisp beer from the fridge, but he’s immediately halted in his tracks by the abnormally squeaky clean kitchen - even the trash has been taken out for fuck’s sake - and that’s before he sees what’s waiting for him on the kitchen island.
He approaches it like Indiana Jones at the beginning of Raiders approaching the Golden Idol, not daring to take his eyes off it for a moment, lest it turn out to be a figment of his imagination.
Nope, most assuredly not a figment of his imagination.
There on the island, surrounded by sparkly clean surfaces, is a perfect-looking homemade apple pie; golden crust and glinting grains of sugar.
Dean’s mouth is already watering and yeah there’s no way he’s not gonna be eating this fucker in one glorious sitting.
Because he’s so focussed on the glorious pastry and all the ways he’s gonna enjoy it, it takes him a couple of lovelorn seconds to even notice the folded sheet of paper with Dean’s name in Cas’ familiar scrawl, one corner tucked under the pie dish.
He carefully slides the note out from under the dish, unfolds the paper, and reads.
I owe you 1x cavity search.
And yeah, Dean kinda definitely loves him.