Chapter Text
There are few things in Dean’s life that are predictable. He’s not gonna say that it’s complete and utter pandemonium, but it is perhaps best described as organized chaos.
Cas is the organized bit, Dean himself is the chaos. Or so Cas would have you believe, but before he came along, Dean was managing quite well, thank you very much (aside from the grocery store robbery, the failed marriage, the whole getting-his-young-girlfriend-pregnant thing… so yeah, maybe Dean’s the fucking chaos, alright).
From one day to the next, Dean’s never quite sure where the upcoming hour is gonna lead him. And it’s kinda fun . For someone who spent the entirety of his twenties painfully safe and bored shitless in middle-class suburbia, Dean’s relishing the freedom that being with Cas affords him.
If they’re not setting fires, they’re putting them out, and it’s a hell of a lot more appealing than pretending to be interested in Mr. Williams’ petunias or whatever flower he’s perpetually killing through too much over-watering or serenading with the wrong song.
Really. Apparently fuchsias are partial to classic rock, petunias not so much.
So yeah. Each day is like a mixed grab bag of Halloween candy and Dean just has to hope that his doesn’t contain any Necco Wafers.
Ugh.
However, one thing that can always be relied upon in Dean’s (organized) clusterfuck of a life is Lisa’s buckle cake. She makes it for every single bake sale - without fail - and what with this being the first one of the new school year (fuck, Ben’s very nearly a teenager ) she’s made an extra wonderful example of the species.
Species?
That’s what types of cake are, right? Species? Breed?
Linnaeus probably didn’t have much to say about the taxonomy of baked goods.
There’s all the usual fare here too; Pinterest-perfect red velvets, buttercream pound cakes, sponges with billows of multi-colored frosting. And really? Who makes all this shit?
People with too much time on their damn hands, that’s who.
Still - and Dean’s open to the possibility that he might be biased here - there’s something to be said for the understated, yet perfect pecan pie, sitting further down on the trestle table, next to what looks like an attempt at a chocolate hedgehog(?)
Behind Dean, there’s a couple of pearl-clutchers discussing the awful business of the city-wide arson from last month, and how have they have not found them yet, what is that police chief doing--
Dean could answer that for them, but he’s supposed to be on his best behavior - Cas’ orders - so he just stares at the hedgehog-cum-Clive-Barker-fever-dream-slash-nightmare, kind of relieved that there might actually be a parent at this school who’s a worse baker than him.
He glances down at his cell, afraid that if he keeps looking into those angry white-chocolate-button eyes, they’ll steal his soul, or tear it apart, and he’s not ready to go to hell yet. He’s got a wedding to plan and a council meeting to attend.
The clock on his phone informs him that it’s 11:56 and Cas was supposed to have been here eleven minutes ago.
Just as he’s thinking about shooting off a text reminding his fiancé - yep, that’ll never get old - that this stupid fucking bake sale was his idea, a body appears in the space next to him, and Dean’s almost hit with a strong sense of deja vu, before he realizes that said body doesn’t smell half as good as the one he’s grown intimate with over the past year.
“Hey.”
Dean shoves his cell back in his pocket, turns to face the guy fully. He’s handsome, no doubt; tall with blond hair and blue eyes, and before Cas, yeah he probably would have.
Problem is, it’s not before Cas and this guy is barrelling on like Dean’s given him an in, “You looked lonely standing here all by yourself, so I thought I’d come over and keep you company.”
Still. Dean can be polite, but just as he opens his mouth to say, ‘Hi, that’s nice, but I’m not interested,’ the guy interrupts, clearly a bit nervous and not used to hitting on random men at bake sales. “I’m kinda new around here and you look like someone worth knowing, so would you be interested in showing me around? We could get a cup of coffee, maybe? But obviously, you’d have to recommend me somewhere, because of the whole being ‘new’ thing…”
O-kay.
“Err,” Dean hedges, awkward in the face of the stranger’s verbal diarrhea and hopeful smile, “Maybe you should speak to one of the teachers, I’m sure they’d be--”
An arm snakes around Dean’s waist, hand coming to rest on the wing of his hip, casually possessive, “I’ll get coffee with you--” Cas offers, all thinly veiled threat, misplaced jealousy, and cologne that makes Dean’s dick twitch, “--Show you the sights, give you the full tour.”
Cas’ ‘full tour’ is probably less Museum of Art and Clinton park and more his body dumping ground in the wetlands and gun range behind the warehouse, but still.
The wetlands are beautiful though.
New guy has been stunned into mystified silence, and Cas is just letting his threat hang in the air like the asshole he is - this is why they have zero friends - and the guy was only being friendly, right? Sure, he might’ve been barking up the wrong tree with his pick up line, but it was an innocent mistake.
Dean can be nice. It has been known to happen.
“Um, this is my-- Cas. Cas this is...” He waits for the guy to fill in the blank.
“Oh!” The guy says, eyes wide as he stares at the place where Cas’ palm is practically a brand through Dean’s clothes, “I’m Nick.” To Cas he adds, “I’m really sorry, I didn’t realize.”
Uh-huh.
Apologizing to Cas for daring to speak his possession ? Is that what’s happening here? Like Dean’s a chick at a bar whose no doesn’t mean no until her boyfriend shows up?
Yeah, Dean’s not having it.
“No need to apologize,” Dean dredges up his flirtiest smile, turns it right up to eleven, “I can still show you around if you want. I know a really nice coffee and bakehouse near the university.”
Cas’ grip tightens.
Nick looks between them, must see that Cas is one exchange shy of putting on some kind of R-rated display to make him back the fuck off, and so Nick does precisely that.
“No, that’s okay,” He flashes a quick smile as he almost bumps into a couple of scandalized Karens. “I’m sure I’ll see you both again though.”
It comes across as vaguely ominous; a Schwarzenegger-esque, ‘I’ll be back’, but Dean’s almost definitely reading too much into it - he’s spent too much time around Cas and his weirdo read-between-the-lines-of-everything-I-say-rather-than-just-saying-it bullshit.
“Sure,” Dean nods, but Nick’s already gone, beating a hasty retreat into the clouds of floral perfume and entitlement.
Alright then.
Dean slants Cas a look out of the corner of his eye, “Now was that necessary?”
“Necessary, no. Fun? Yes.”
***
It's interesting how nobody's considered why a private school taking in hundreds of thousands of dollars per year in fees even needs to run a bake sale in the first place. The red brick building is in good shape; well maintained and the grounds are landscaped as tastefully as you could expect from a self-important institution that thinks croquet is an American pastime.
The first time he and Lisa had a tour of the place, Dean had been utterly astounded to discover that not only was the ‘sport’ the Heathers utilized as a form of social jockeying actually a real thing, but that it was taken seriously AF at the school his ex wanted their son to attend.
Luckily for Dean, as with all other forms of physical activity, Ben has proven his genetic lack of sporting inclination in the field of croquet. Though he did like the big, dangerous mallet.
His propensity for wielding sporting equipment as weapons (because Dean’s definitely counting the baseball-bat-to-Simon-Weebler's-shins incident) might also be genetic, though admittedly it’s lain dormant in Dean until he met Cas. But now Dean’s eyes have been opened and there’s no denying that household items and sporting equipment are so much more interesting in a fight than a gun.
The school isn’t raising money for the aforementioned sporting equipment though, because that’s yet something else that the parents are expected to dig deep for. Same with field trips and pretty much anything else.
Which begs the question: just what are they raising money for?
The couple hundred bucks they make at each go-round must surely just be a drop in the ocean of whatever they’re going for. Not even enough to buy donuts for the teacher's lounge for a week.
So. It’s either a scam of some kind and they’re just piss-poor criminals, or it’s a front for some kind of keys in the bowl thing.
Dean’s honestly not sure which theory he’d be more delighted in being true.
Still, he's nothing if not a team player - suburban orgy or piss-poor criminals be damned - so he digs deep - a lot easier these days now that practically all of his transactions are in cash for obvious reasons - and drops a crisp (genuine, he’s not a jerk) twenty into the honesty box, musing whether to go for a slice of lemon drizzle or bundt cake.
Cas is dressed to impress - or devastate - and making nice with some of the teachers over by a different row of trestle tables, no doubt offering to volunteer for shit that Dean wants no part of, but will be roped into anyways, because ‘we need to be present in the school community, Dean, blah blah blah.’
Yeah, yeah.
Cas makes a point of glancing over at Dean from time to time, as he feigns interest in whatever the headmistress is gesticulating excitedly about, and if Dean wasn’t standing with Lisa, he’d be making up the conversation in their respective voices, like the mature adult he is.
He is with Lisa though, so he refrains, instead making sure to pay attention to their actual conversation, even as Cas makes eye contact, tries to communicate his intentions through nothing more than sky blue intensity and the amused tilt of his plush mouth.
Dean’s not entirely successful, because Cas is thoroughly distracting. The navy suit he’s wearing is one of Dean’s favorites; tailored as fuck with a jacket that fits a little too well and pants that hug his thick thighs.
Fucker.
“...and then I told Ben that he could smoke crack if he wanted to, because I’ve heard it’s much healthier than meth--”
Huh.
Oh.
Dean flashes a sardonic smile at Lisa, “Yeah, yeah. You’re very funny.”
She grins, pleased with herself. “It’s good to know that you draw the line at our son doing drugs, because I talked about my underwear drawer for at least five minutes and that got no response.”
“Really?” He says, only exaggerating his disappointment, rather than making it up entirely. “Wanna run it by me again?”
Dean has never felt so lucky to have her in his life. After the shit went down with Cas getting shot, he’d gone to her just before they moved, explained as best as he could without telling her everything. Understandably, she’d been skeptical, but after some assurances that nothing like that night would ever happen again - Dean will make damn sure of it - she’d been surprisingly okay with things going back to normal.
The implication being that Ben’s had enough upheaval with losing Benny. He can’t lose Cas too.
Something in Dean’s chest constricts when he thinks about how close they both came to losing Cas.
Even as the bastard shoots Dean a deliberately heated glance from where he’s over by the arched entrance of the school, flirting with Ms. Hayes now.
Cas might’ve survived that shooting, but he’s not gonna survive Dean if he carries on.
“You’re scowling.”
Dean munches aggressively on the brownie square he ended up choosing, “Am not.” He muffles through a mouthful. It’s not bad, but now he’s wishing he’d been brave enough for the lemon drizzle.
She laughs, a light sound, “He’s marrying you , dumbass, there’s no need to be all jealous. Though it is pretty cute.”
Dean’s not jealous. He’s not .
And even if he was, it’s not cute . It’s manly rage.
But he’s not.
Ms. Hayes places a palm on Cas’ shoulder as she laughs - neighs - at something he’s said - pithy and scathing, no doubt - then trails it down over his chest, resting it on the lapel of his suit jacket. It’s overfamiliar and unmistakably flirty, and Cas - the absolute fucker - looks past her, to Dean. He smirks at him, that arrogant asshole smirk, then nonchalantly turns his attention back to Ms. Hayes, like he knows exactly what he’s doing.
Bastard.
Dean wipes the crumbs off his hands, wonders loosely if he can find that dude - Nick - from before. Just to mess with Cas right back.
Could be fun, but would almost certainly end messy. Plus, Dean’s just been itching for an excuse to get back at Ms. Hayes for all her shitty behavior the last couple of years.
And here it is.
He pecks Lisa on the cheek, “I’ll catch up with you later, yeah?” And he’s off across the neatly mowed grass before his ex can respond or tell him to stop being such a jealous, pig-headed idiot.
It’s not like he’d listen anyways.
The aforementioned arrogant smirk - the one that always has Dean wanting to punch him or fuck him - spreads wider across Cas’ full mouth, completely contrived and Dean knows he’s being played like a fucking tutorial level, but still can’t quite stop himself from responding, ‘cause Cas just has that incendiary, blood-boiling effect on him.
But. Cas isn’t the only one adept at this game by now, and Dean knows exactly how to get a rise (in oh, so many ways) out of Cas in return.
“Hey, babe. ” He plants a sloppy, chocolatey kiss on Cas’ jaw, slides an arm around his broad shoulders. He pretends to catch sight of Ms. Hayes out of the corner of his eye and starts, “Oh, hello Ms. Hayes - Rosalind - I didn’t see you there.”
See? Shoulda been an actor.
Her expression is incredulous, Cas’ humored, as Dean asks, “It is still Ms ., right? Not managed to nail anyone down yet?”
Dean’s feeling particularly unforgiving today.
She’s always had a problem with him and by proxy, Ben. Thankfully, she’s not Ben’s teacher anymore, which means the shit she gave him last year simply for having Dean as a dad is gonna come due right fucking now.
With interest.
As for Cas, well. This is payback for so many things. Least of all whatever the fuck that was with Nick before.
Two fuckheads, one insincere Dean.
Cas’ hand situates itself on Dean’s lower back, most likely a warning rather than encouragement, but Cas can’t just throw the gauntlet down and not expect Dean to pick it up. Not anymore.
“Mr. Winchester,” She’s too shocked to be at her full, bitter, judgy self, brown-almost-black eyes wide and disbelieving as she looks between them, “What on earth--”
“Hmm?” He asks, faux innocently, trying not to wince when Cas digs a pointy finger into Dean’s kidney - definitely a warning , “Oh, me and Cas? Yeah, we’re getting married.” The finger jabs deeper and Dean has to actively fight against squirming away, his own hand slipping down to palm Cas’ ass, “Hashtag blended family, hashtag blessed , am I right, Cas?”
He receives a bruising pinch for that one. Fucking worth it.
Her face and entire posture just sort of crumples. “Married?”
Oh wow. She actually thought she had a chance.
Fair play to her though, she recovers quickly, pulls herself back together and glares at Cas like he’s been stringing her along only to friendzone her, right as she was about to invite him around to her home for cheese pasta or something equally whitebread and uninspiring, “ Married? ”
Oooh, Cassie, you got some ‘splainin’ to do.
“Uh-huh,” Dean confirms before Cas can get a word in, enjoying this far too much, “He got down on one knee and everything, ain’t he a peach?” On a small adrenaline rush as his words hang in the air, really hamming it up, Dean adds, “He told me that I’m the only one for him. That no matter how many people he flirts with--” He leans in to Ms. Hayes and her powdery perfume like he’s sharing a secret, “-- and it’s a lot believe me, ‘cause he’s very popular if you know what I mean,” He winks salaciously, leans back, makes a show of squeezing Cas’ ass, “it’s me he loves.”
He stops short of pinching Cas’ cheek, figures his fiancé is probably one false move away from bludgeoning him to death.
Ah, but what a way to go.
Ms. Hayes seems as though she’s wavering between fainting or slapping Cas.
Dean’s experiencing the same dilemma.
He really wants her to slap Cas, but if she faints then they can sneak off to the school restrooms and Dean can live up to the graffiti that a 13-year-old Sammy discovered written in a Connecticut bathroom stall about his older brother.
It’s not like Cas would say no either; he’s practically vibrating with the need to take it out of Dean’s ass, and it’s a cheap thrill but Dean’s pleased that he can still rile Cas up like this. Even though - according to Cosmo and all those girly magazines that Dean has never ever read - they’re in the dying throes of the honeymoon phase of their relationship.
If all it takes to keep this crazy train rolling is some expert-level provocation and annoyance, then Dean’s got this shit covered .
“Well,” She says primly, smoothing out the invisible creases of her perfectly buttoned blush cardigan, “I suppose congratulations are in order.”
“Aw, thanks,” Dean coos, laces his fingers through Cas’, brings their joined hands up to his mouth and presses a kiss to Cas’ knuckles. “We would have invited you, but we only want people we actually like there.”
The look on her face is perfect. It’s everything Dean’s ever dreamed of when he’s imagined getting his simple revenge on this bitch for being so utterly foul to him all this time. He doesn’t care if Cas edges him until he cries - it wouldn’t be the first time - this is going straight to the top five of his revenge realizations, slotting nicely below Crowley and above Benny.
Her mouth is a shocked O, coral lipstick fading in the corners of her lips, “I’ve just got to…” She gestures vaguely over her shoulder, dazed, like she can’t quite believe what’s just happened, “Ummm, yes.” And then she’s finally fucking off, practically running away from them.
Dean sighs happily. Cas hasn’t let go of his hand.
If Dean wasn’t such a dick, he’d probably feel a teeny bit sorry for her. But he is, so he doesn’t.
There’s nothing but crime and punishment in Cas’ tone when he asks lowly, “Now was that necessary?”
Dean grins, “Necessary, no. Fun? Hell yes.”
***
Unfortunately, they have a meeting to attend before they can go home and Cas can try his hand at making Dean regret it, (and Dean can pretend that he does for the five minutes required, before he’s back to smart-mouthing Cas again).
Cas doesn’t speak to him on the way over to the casino. Just turns his music up and pretends Dean doesn’t exist as Dean sneaks glances at him from the driver’s side, interprets the near unintelligible lyrics in his own style, reimagining the words to this particular Devildriver song. At the top of his voice of course, because maybe if he annoys Cas enough, he’ll get fucked so thoroughly that he can’t walk and then he won’t have to attend the stupid council meeting tomorrow.
Admittedly, the plan has holes (heh) but he’s enjoying the fuck outta himself.
Cas switches the song off with an irritated flick of his wrist, right as Dean’s yelling out, “Let the chaos reeiiiiiiignnn!” which are the actual lyrics, so Cas is just being a grumpasaurus, really.
The look Cas shoots him promises retribution; the blue of his eyes so vivid and alive that it sends a shiver from the base of Dean’s skull to the tip of his dick.
Cas turns away again to stare out the window like a moody emo from the early noughties, and murmurs something that sounds an awful lot like, ‘karma’s a bitch, ’ and Dean laughs, thoroughly pleased with himself.
Chaos - 1, Organization - 0.
***
It is a truth universally acknowledged that gold and white are fucking tacky, okay? White and silver, fine. Gold and black, fine. White and gold? Nah. Not unless you have oodles of money to pour into making it not tacky.
For all the money Crowley had, he lacked taste - as evidenced by literally everything in his house and this casino.
Luckily, the place is mostly charred to crisp, which means that any remaining gold is paired with black.
Result.
Cas has acquired a crowbar from somewhere and either he’s considering the merits of bashing Dean’s brains in or he’s feeling especially extra this afternoon. ( Probably both ). ‘Cause really, it’s perhaps a little over the top for an introductory meeting with a relatively small local gang who want in on Cas’ protection racket, but Dean’s not the intimidation expert, so he’s happy to just offer support where necessary.
Because he can be a mature adult and menacing gangster when called upon, even though Cas isn’t making it easy to maintain their temporary time-out, what with his semi-successful attempts to slowly and methodically kill Dean with his filthy looks and ass-hugging pants.
But Dean perseveres, because they’re professionals after all, and this is the 1914 Christmas game of soccer in World War 1. As soon as they’re done here, all bets are off again and Dean cannot wait .
“So, remind me. Who are these guys?” Dean asks, strolling between the rows of melted slot machines, lit only by the narrow streaks of light slanting down through the ceiling. The whole place holds the smolder of fire and burnt manmade materials. It’s pretty unpleasant and Dean’s mildly concerned that they may never get the stink out, but that’s mostly Gabe’s worry for the moment.
This is the first time that any of them have been inside, as they’ve only recently been given the go-ahead by a fire inspector that this place is safe (enough). The bodies that could be removed were taken away along with any hazardous debris. According to the police report though, the fire burned so hot that there was barely anything left. Mostly charred remains and ash.
Just like Crowley.
“A bunch of rookies,” Cas replies from somewhere to Dean’s left. Over by the ex-poker tables, Dean suspects. He hears the clang of metal, the splintering of wood and Cas’ voice is slightly less even when he adds, "It’ll be good to take them under our wing for now. We’ll need some fall guys in the near future. They’ll be perfect.”
Absolutely ruthless. Dean loves it.
Loves him.
“You’re gonna outsource to them?”
More sounds of machinery being torn apart, followed by a low grunt from Cas, then something metallic clattering to the floor. Cas is most likely imagining Dean’s head in place of whatever he’s busy destroying further, as he finishes off what the fire didn’t.
Dean nudges a large piece of debris - could be a piece of roof? - out of the way with the toe of his boot. There used to be a fiberglass bar along the far wall of this place, with kitschy lanterns above it. The bar has barely survived - softened into an even uglier hunk of junk - but the lanterns succumbed. The stairs leading up to the private rooms - both sets - are malformed and unusable, the entire upper floor completely lost to them for now.
Gabe and the bisexual anti-hero Constantine certainly did a number on this place.
Cas appears at the head of the row of destroyed slot machines, directly in front of Dean, crowbar over his shoulder, suit immaculate as always, despite the impromptu construction work, “Yes. We are.”
“Huh,” Dean says, going to his fiancé, sliding his hand up his chest, resting his palm over Cas’ heart, counting the beats. “Let me make sure I’ve understood this correctly. You--” At Cas’ look , he corrects himself, “-- We are gonna set this gang up to take the fall for the arson because the police chief needs someone to pay for it and of course, he has to be seen to be doing something. Otherwise they’ll fire his ass and he’ll get replaced with a cop not on our payroll and that’ll be bad for everybody, because then we’ll get someone competent.”
“Or even worse,” Cas says, deadpan, “Someone who can actually play tennis.”
62.
“You’re an arrogant fucker, anybody ever tell you that?”
Cupping Dean’s jaw, Cas drags his thumb across Dean’s bottom lip, seemingly fascinated with the way the skin catches, “And you’re marrying me, so what does that say about you?”
That arrogant fuckers make my dick hard?
Dean’s pretty sure Cas just pulled the gangster equivalent of ‘you are rubber and I am glue’ .
Before Dean can act on impulse and suck the tip of Cas’ thumb into his mouth, Cas is drawing back, putting distance between them like he knows what’s about to happen and is keen to avoid it at all costs.
It’s probably wise. Not super professional if they get caught with their pants down by their new subordinates.
Not exactly hygienic either.
Dean watches Cas walk away, murmurs, “Carly Simon wrote a song about you, y’know.”
Smoothly, Cas ducks under what was once some kind of light fitting, says, “I only thought it was about me. Glad to have the confirmation.”
“Dick,” Dean says without heat. He turns back the way he came, a weird sort of claustrophobia creeping in the further into the casino he glimpses.
“Mmmm,” Cas agrees from somewhere behind him, “Oh by the way, when we get home, remind me to book the hotel and airfare.”
Dean doesn’t stop, keeps forging his way back to the ostentatious entrance, “For what?”
There’s a short pause, then:
“I didn’t tell you?” Cas’ voice is scarily closer than Dean would’ve expected. Something close to anticipation trips up his spine.
“Cas, you know damn well you didn’t.”
Are you going to tell me now, you shithead?
A couple of beats pass and then Dean’s shivering as Cas’ warmth breath ghosts over the back of his neck. He turns his head enough to catch Cas’ eye, only inches between them and Cas is watching him through those thick, inky lashes, “Our honeymoon. I’ve decided where we’re going.”
Oh.
Dean’s pretty sure that it was Gandhi or some wise old dude that said: ‘An agreement made in the throes of passion is probably going to come back and bite you in the ass.’
He might be paraphrasing a bit, but it’s the sentiment that counts. He promised Cas free reign over their honeymoon destination and itinerary in exchange for letting Dean come after four hours of brutal teasing.
It made sense at the time.
Now? Not so much.
He’s about to ask where, when, how, but of course Gabriel chooses that moment to let them know that Tyrus is here.
All business and smugocity™, Cas gestures for Dean to go first, so with a final glare over his shoulder, Dean does, following Gabriel to a thankfully less dingy part of the casino near the doors.
“Castiel,” Tyrus, a man who does not look like he should be part of a gang (he’s more Home & Garden Television than Crime + Investigation ), let alone leading one, steps forward to shake Cas’ hand. Cas obliges, but then makes a point of bringing Dean in on the introductions.
“This is my partner, Dean.” He says and there’s an edge to his voice, like he’s just waiting for Tyrus to make something of it. Dean doesn’t miss how his hand tightens around the crowbar, ready to fuck the plan all to hell simply because somebody disrespects Dean.
And they say romance is dead.
Luckily for Tyrus, he barely even blinks, just shakes Dean’s hand as well. “Nice to meet you, Dean.”
“You too,” Dean responds honestly. Guy seems alright; it’ll kinda suck to send him down for some shit that he didn’t do, but if it’s him or them? Dean will happily make that choice all day long.
“To what do we owe this visit?” Cas asks, sliding the crowbar onto the edge of the mutated bar, apparently content with his rolled intimidation check.
Tyrus sighs, “Well, we’ve been having some trouble over the water with the Kansas City lot and we want to boost our presence. We figured that offering our security services once you’ve got your gambling establishments up and running would be a good place to start.”
It’s a serious gamble (so at least they’re in the right place) for Tyrus and co. Cas ain’t exactly little league and he’s obviously going to have his own security. Still, they’ve got balls coming to him and Dean admires that.
“It’s going to be months before that happens,” Cas tells Tyrus, “What about in the meantime?”
He already knows the answer though, because he’s Cas and he doesn’t do anything without thinking it through.
Dean’s already considering the possibility that him not shooting Benny was actually part of his master plan to take the whole fucking kingdom, rather than the slip-up that everyone assumed it was. Cas is a devious fucker, adept at playing the long game. Dean certainly wouldn’t be surprised.
“We were hoping you’d let us in on your protection racket.”
Ah . They knew this was coming, but still. It’s a tricky situation.
Cas shrugs faux-casually, “That ‘Kansas City lot’ across the water is what’s left of the midwest Sicilian mafia. We don’t want to be treading on their toes by helping you. I’ve kept out of their way all these years. What’s in it for us to get involved now?”
Tyrus catches sight of Gabriel moving to his left, gets distracted momentarily, but then he’s back on Cas and Dean, “You wouldn’t be getting involved - just giving us work to pad our CV.”
“I dunno,” Dean interjects, “Sounds a lot like us getting involved. You know how these old school gangsters are, right? They ain’t gonna take kindly to us meddling in their affairs. And us helping their enemy? The very definition of meddling in their affairs.”
Thank you Goodfellas.
Tyrus looks pained, “So you’re not gonna help me?”
Cas and Dean exchange meaningful glances. “I tell you what,” Cas says, magnanimous but dangerous, all spider-to-the-fly, “We’ll let you take over some of our protection jobs in the interim between now and the casino getting finished, and in exchange, you keep quiet about your involvement with us until then.”
Win-win. Well, except for where it’s a win for Cas and a loss for everybody else.
“So you expect my men to work for you with no acknowledgment and no payment? That defeats the point somewhat, no?”
“No,” Dean says, “You’ll still be getting paid. We just need you to keep it on the down-low that you’re working for us. If any of your men get picked up by the cops, they can’t spill who they’re working for, no matter the charges.”
Which will be federal-level arson. Whoops.
“It’s just until we build the casino. And then you can scream it from the rooftops.” Cas adds with a sharp smile.
Well, not quite, ‘cause the last thing they need is a fucking RICO case, but the gang will be long gone before then anyways.
“Why do you need us to wait?”
Of course, they’re not going to tell him the truth, but they can tell him a believable half-truth. “We’ve just finished a war,” Cas explains, “Until the casino is sorted, we can’t afford to potentially start another one. Least of all with the dregs of the local branch of the mafia. If it gets back to them before we’re ready, then it could spell disaster. For all of us.”
Tyrus seems to debate this for a couple of moments. “Alright. You gentlemen have got yourselves a deal.”
Too fuckin’ easy.
***
As Cas firmly steers Dean into their house with a splayed palm on the nape of his neck, like he’s controlling an errant dog - which Dean kinda sorta really likes - two things quickly become apparent.
One: Cas has got violence in his eyes; it’s that look he gets just before he kneecaps someone or beats them to death with a paperweight that their friend brought them back from Antigua. Dean put that look there and he can’t wait to reap the rewards.
Two: Dean’s not gonna be reaping much of anything any time soon because of their fucking cockblocking kids.
Words he actually very nearly yells aloud when they reach the end of the snack-based trail in the kitchen and finally see the full extent of the teenage-induced chaos. There’s food strewn about all over the countertops and Dean’s really regretting dragging his heels about hiring a professional, because now he’s the sucker who has to clean this shit.
There’s chips and candy scattered everywhere, bags torn asunder and the cupboards are all open like a tornado or a bunch of stoned college kids ripped through the place, and Dean’s fucking furious .
Dean raised Ben better than this and Cas sure as shit raised Claire better.
Dean picks up a decimated bag of chips. The remainder spill out onto the floor, “Who the fuck has opened this bag of Fritos like a bear at a friggin’ campsite? Fucking animals!”
“Language,” Cas scolds in that offhand, uptight way he gets when there either are or might be other people’s children within a five-mile radius. It’s kinda cute.
Cute, but redundant, because the word fuck is the very least of Ben and Claire’s worries right now.
The pair of them had asked if they could have some friends over for a pool-slash-slumber party over their couple of days off during fall break. Cas and Dean had said yes, because why not?
Well, apparently this is why not.
Dean risks a glance at Cas, hoping for some solidarity here, some kind of united front that they can put to the kids when they get grounded for the rest of their natural-born days.
Except Cas is completely indifferent to the disaster zone that is their kitchen. He’s much more interested in trying to burn his thoughts into Dean’s brain with nothing more than some serious willpower and the kind of unfathomable, bottomless stare that never fails to make Dean whimper and roll over for it.
Oh shit.
“Cas,” Dean warns, palms up as he backs away, maize-based snacks crunching underfoot until his ass hits the island countertop and he has nowhere else to go.
Cas boxes Dean against the counter, hands braced on either side of his body to quash any escape attempt. Dean’s raised palms press against the firm swell of Cas’ chest as he leans in, attempting to eradicate any remaining space between them. “Dean.”
Dean swallows hard around nothing, already hemorrhaging his advantage and losing the ground he’d worked so hard to gain today. “Kids, remember?”
“Mmmhmm,” Cas’ eyes drop to Dean’s lips, voice a dark rumble, “I think they've earned themselves a bit of parental trauma, don't you?"
It's a difficult point to argue, especially when Cas drags his mouth along Dean's jawline and down the tight tendon of his neck, sharp points of his teeth nipping as he goes. Dean clings to Cas' back with both hands, twisting his fists in Cas' jacket, jerking his hips up as Cas grinds down, lightheaded with the rush of blood south, their rapidly hardening cocks rubbing together through the rough fabric of their pants.
“Fuck,” Dean murmurs, already lost to this, to Cas .
Cas huffs a laugh against Dean’s cheek, stuttered drag of stubble and skin, and then they’re trading breaths as Cas murmurs, “Watch your mouth,” right before Dean chases those words with his own lips, licking his way into Cas’ mouth, kissing him deeply.
They’re both breathing raggedly by the time Cas pulls away; pink, plush slick of his mouth, and fevered brightness of blue eyes rapidly giving way to the blackness of pupil, as the desperate stilted, rhythm of their hips aligns their erections together over and over again. Dean dives in for another filthy-hot kiss, chasing Cas’ tongue, pleasure winding tight around his nerve endings, Cas’ mouth hot and open under his and it’s good, so fucking good , like it always is.
Dean jolts against Cas when his phone vibrates in his pocket, startling him into thinking through the hazy pleasure and the immediate need to drop a hand between them and palm Cas’ cock.
Well, fuck.
“Don’t answer that,” Cas’s breath is warm and moist, curling around Dean’s ear.
Dean fumbles his phone out of his pocket. It takes a couple of attempts, because Cas is being less than fucking helpful and his brain is stuck on a loop of ‘fuck me cas, fuck me cas, fuck me cas’.
It’s Sam.
“Don’t answer that,” Cas repeats in a thick growl, snatching the phone out of Dean’s hand and slamming it down onto the island behind Dean. He rocks his hips up, grabbing a handful of Dean’s ass, dragging him in harder and Dean makes a helpless noise, already close to being undone.
The ringing stops.
Cas’ nimble fingers go to Dean’s belt, yanking the leather free.
The ringing starts again.
Dean slaps blindly behind himself, reaching for his cell. Before Cas can punt it into the nearest fountain, Dean answers, breathlessly, “Sam, what’s up?”
Cas maneuvers a thick thigh between Dean’s, and his mouth falls open when Cas drags his zipper down, shoving at his jeans and boxers until he can get a hot palm around Dean’s dick.
“You need to get down here.”
Pretty sure that’s not what I need, Sammy.
Dean tilts his head back on a silent moan, fucking up into Cas’ touch. Which is a mistake because it only gives Cas more access to Dean's skin and he takes advantage fully, sucking a hickey into the hollow of his throat. Dean barely manages to squeak out a shaky, “Why?”
There's a short pause and Dean's pretty sure even Sam isn't so sexually uptight that he can't figure out what's going on at this end of the phone. He must've had sex at some point in his life, right? He has a kid for Christ's sake. Unless Madison spawned asexually like an amoeba or some shit.
Apparently , because Sam just sighs that hard done by sigh and says, “Benny’s here, with a shipment of some kind.”
Oh for fuck’s sake.
Cas slides his arm around Dean’s waist, holding him steady as his hips buck, Cas’ clever fingertips fluttering over the crown of his cock, “What?”
“Yeah,” Sam says, doesn’t follow it up with a ‘I know, what the fuck’ but Dean can tell it’s there, “Apparently he’s some kind of delivery driver now?”
Interesting career shift.
Yeahuh. This ain’t exactly kismet.
The solution, however, seems fairly obvious - even to Dean’s sex-addled brain - and Sam cannot be this dumb, “Well, just take the delivery and I’ll be there tomorrow.”
Unimpressed and no doubt pulling an epic bitchface, Sam responds, “He’s asking for you. Well , the owner. Says he’s got instructions to make sure that you sign for it.”
Because of course he has.
Dean exhales on a sigh, patience for this fuckery at an all-time low as Cas trails sharp nips and soothing kisses across his collarbone, pulling the neck of his shirt wider to get at more skin, the hand on Dean’s cock slowly pumping, dragging out the pleasure, rhythm easy and loose like they’ve got all the time in the world, “Just forge my fucking signature, Sam. It’s not like DHL, UPS or who-the-hell-ever is gonna know who signed.” Because he’s feeling bitchy, he adds, “Fuck, if it comes to it, just get Benny to forge my signature. He got really good at it when he pulled that stunt with the mortgage.”
Cas' mouth and hand slow and Dean knows he's listening intently for what comes next now that he-who-shall-not-be-named has been mentioned.
There’s a rustle at the other end and he can hear Sam speaking to someone - presumably Benny if the muffled Southern lilt that responds is anything to go by - before he’s back, talking directly to Dean again, “Benny says he’s working for a private courier and it absolutely has to be your signature.”
Suspicious now, Dean asks, “What is it, Sam? The delivery.”
“I don’t know.”
“What do you mean, you don’t know ?” Dean says hotly and there must be something coloring the tone of his voice because Cas is no longer trying (and succeeding) to drive Dean out of his mind, instead, he’s staring at Dean, head tilted, hand a barely-there caress on Dean’s erection.
God-fucking-dammit.
Frowning and squinty, Cas mouths, “What’s going on?”
Dean shakes his head in reply just as Sam says, “He won’t tell me, but there’s a haulage truck and a driver outside the shop.”
Well, this isn’t going to be anything good, is it.
Taking a second to mourn the life-altering sex session that almost was, Dean snaps, “Fine. Fuck’s sake. I’ll be there in half an hour.”
***
Not I’ll be there. We’ll be there.
Because where Dean goes on Benny-related bullshit, Cas follows. Or more accurately, where Dean goes on Benny-related bullshit, Cas leads with murderous intent and hands poised, ready to strangle.
Still, if nothing else, this should be one hell of a dramatic scene.
Sam’s all hand-wringy on the edge of the forecourt as they pull up and exit the Impala. There is indeed a huge hauler truck complete with bored driver leaning out of the cab, so at least Sam’s not having a particularly lucid hallucination like that time he accidentally purchased magic mushrooms at a new agey farmer’s market.
Serves him right for only buying organic.
Dean stops to find out what’s going on from his brother, while Cas storms on ahead, despite Dean yelling his name repeatedly, and when that fails, he goes for a last-ditch, “Don’t do anything stupid!”
Ironic advice really, considering who it’s coming from.
Sam looks like he’s one incident away from unionizing and Dean doesn’t need the extra paperwork, honestly. Things are a bit manic right now (an understatement on par with Dahmer’s ‘I really messed up this time’ after he was caught), and there’s no guarantee that he wouldn’t mix up Sam’s request for safer working conditions with the wedding seating chart, and accidentally tell him that the solution is to switch Donna and Missouri around so that Gabriel isn’t within flirting distance.
It’s a strategy to live by, but it’s not going to help Sam when he’s concerned about bombs in trucks rather than a handsy mischief catalyst.
Even so, Dean makes a mental note to reconfigure the seating arrangements anyways, because Gabe and Sam could be fun to watch. As long as he remembers to remember, something he’s not been super great with lately. He only just realized on the way over here that he was supposed to call back one of the vendors and ended up having Cas leave an overly stern voicemail. Which is great when they’re trying to negotiate prices on a limited stock of Barrett anti-tank rifles (yes, really, and Dean is undoubtedly looking forward to that delivery) but not so great when he’s trying to butter up a little indie stationer who has the cutest designs. Dude might be charming as fuck in person, but over the phone, particularly when leaving voicemail messages, he just comes across as somebody who crash-landed to earth five minutes ago and isn’t sure of the etiquette.
So, yeah. Last thing he needs, “What the hell, Sam?”
His brother shrugs, as lost as Dean is. Perhaps even more so, which is a first, “I don’t know.”
Still. It bears repeating, “No, seriously, what the hell?”
Sam sighs like his life is one big shitshow and Dean is the ringmaster (he’s not; at best he’s a low-level clown). “Benny turned up about ten minutes before I called you. Everything I said over the phone is all I know. He’s refusing to take it back. Said his boss wouldn’t like it.”
Dean’s pretty sure that Benny’s boss would like what Cas is probably doing to his employee even less, but that’s neither here nor there.
“He say who his boss is?”
Head shake, hair everywhere, “Just that it’s important you receive this delivery personally.”
Because that doesn’t sound ominous at all .
Seriously. Entire Criminal Minds story arcs have been built on flimsier premises.
“Alright,” Dean says, checks the time on his phone. It’s only just after four, but as far as Dean can remember, there’s nothing else scheduled for today, illicit-business-wise, so they can take the hit. “You should send everyone home for the day.”
If this is even close to what Dean is worried it might be, then it’s probably safer that they get everybody else clear. Plus Bobby is shooting him a DEFCON level three glare over Sam’s well-defined shoulder and he just is not in the mood.
Dean receives a brow crease for that, “Really? What’s going on?”
As established, Dean has no idea, but he’s not about to find out through the endangerment of those around him.
He claps his brother on the shoulder, “Soon as I know, you will.”
It’s a lie, but Dean’s becoming as proficient with them as everybody else around him now.
He leaves his brother standing there catching flies and follows after Cas, working his way to the office through the forecourt, past the cars Jo and Bobby are working on, and up the stairs. The blinds are pulled shut and he can hear Benny’s panicked Cajun and Cas’ tight responses from outside the door.
And here we go.
He barges in, only a little afraid of what he’s gonna find. Cas (hopefully) has the good sense not to make Benny bleed, but that doesn’t exactly mean it’s gonna be a tea party.
Yeahhhh, definitely not a tea party.
Cas doesn’t pay his entrance any mind, effortlessly holding Benny in place against the desk, one hand around his throat, the other pressing a gun to his forehead, expression life-threatening and avenging, fury written into the tautness of muscle and the tic of his jaw.
Dean’s mesmerized, distracted by the sure-fingered grip of Cas’ hand as he flexes, the deceptive strength of him being one of Dean’s biggest kinks; how easily Cas manhandles people bigger than himself, forces them exactly where he wants them.
God.
Maybe once they’ve gotten rid of Benny, they can have a repeat performance of their first sexual encounter in this office, ‘cause Dean’s dick is very much interested and this little display is certainly not helping.
Focus.
Cas’ attention may not be on him right now, but Benny’s is; just-the-wrong-shade of blue falling on Dean as he enters the small space. He looks good. A lot better than the last time they saw each other, even with the way his cheeks redden and his heels kick up, flailing for purchase as Cas cuts off his air. He’s not wearing any kind of recognizable courier uniform, which pretty much confirms Dean’s suspicion that this isn’t going to be that stereo system they ordered for the media room.
“Cas,” Dean murmurs, half-hoping his fiancé doesn’t hear him, but needing him to all the same.
With a disgusted growl, Cas slams Benny’s temple against the desk once more for good measure, before he releases his hold, situates himself on the narrow window sill opposite the desk. He rests his gun across his thighs, a super hot threat and warning, and Dean reins it the fuck in, tries to play it cool even though it’s not a concept he’s intimately familiar with.
He closes the office door behind himself, folds his arms across his chest, “The fuck are you doing, Benny?”
“The fuck is he-- ” he flings a careless hand in Cas’ direction as he rears up like Dracula, the other rubbing at his sore neck, “--doin’?”
Oh, so we’re playing this old game.
“Attempting to corral you, apparently.”
For once Dean isn’t thinking with his dick, because his thorough annoyance (at not currently thinking with his dick) is winning out.
“That’s what you’re callin’ it, huh?” Benny sounds betrayed, which is laughable .
“Call it what you want, but if you don’t start telling me why you’re here and what’s in that truck then I’ll throttle you myself.”
He probably won’t. It’s much more fun to watch Cas do it.
Benny considers Dean for a long moment, eyes roaming down and up his body, stuttering over the bruise Cas sucked into the skin over his carotid, finally coming to rest on his face. Dean doesn’t react, but Cas makes a warning noise low in his throat, “You’ve changed.”
“Yeah?” Dean asks, part sarcasm, part venom, “I’m so pleased you noticed.”
Benny jerks his chin in Cas’ direction, “What is it about him, huh? Sure, he’s pretty--” To Dean’s right, Cas cocks his gun, and Benny is either supremely stupid or suicidal, “--but you could have anyone, Dean. Literally anybody --”
Suicidal it is.
And apparently playtime is over, because Cas’s fraying patience has finally gone the doomed-to-fail-from-the-start way of Crystal Pepsi and before Dean can blink, Cas is back across the office, pressing the barrel of his gun to Benny’s forehead.
Oooh, deja vu.
Except this time, the only reason Dean will be stopping Cas from killing his ex is for a venue change. Can’t be getting blood and brains all over customers’ receipts. That’s just bad for business.
“Why are you here?” Dean grits out, “I’m not playing this game with you, Benny. I don’t have the time.”
Or the inclination, but that part is probably obvious.
Swallowing hard, Benny’s eyes dart from Cas to Dean, “You love him, cher?”
Oh for fuck’s sake.
Cas’ mouth twitches into a smile and Dean knows what’s going to happen even before it does. This time though, he has absolutely zero problem with it.
“I should hope so, or that’s going to make things really awkward on our wedding day.”
Benny’s reaction to Cas’ revelation is even better than Ms. Hayes’ to Dean’s. His eyes widen and his fists clench and he looks a combination of furious and stricken. He doesn’t even spare Cas or the gun currently indenting his skin a glance, “You’re marrying him?”
“Don’t worry,” Cas deadpans, “We’re not expecting a present from you. Though, I suppose if you’re so inclined, there’s a coffee machine I’ve had my eye on.”
Dean groans inwardly. That fucking coffee machine. It’s expense for expense’s sake. They have a perfectly decent one that does the job. There’s absolutely no need to be spending upwards of twenty-five grand on a coffee machine that’s compatible with all sorts of software and comes with a ‘coffee warming area’. Whatever the fuck that is.
Just no.
Benny’s attention snaps to Cas, “Is this a joke to you?”
Cas arches a brow, all ‘does this look like a joke?’ but because Benny isn’t fluent in Casinese, Cas has to elaborate, which he does with a roll of his eyes and on a long-suffering sigh, “I’ve been patient with you up until now --” And yeah, he kinda has, actually, “-- but the last time we did this, you still had some of Dean’s pity protecting you. That’s long gone now, so I’d advise you to choose your words wisely and stop wasting our fucking time. ”
Hot.
They stare each other down, Benny foolishly stubborn and not quite cowardly enough to admit when he’s beat, Cas darkly amused and deadly. At one time, Dean would’ve been impressed by Benny's tenacity, now he’s just irritated.
“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” Dean mutters, reaching for the clipboard on the floor at Benny’s feet. It’s not one that belongs to the garage and so his ex must’ve brought it with him. “This yours?” Dean checks, before he flips through a couple of pages of what looks to be a standard invoice.
He doesn’t hear a response, so he glances up. Benny nods. Cas uncocks and lowers his gun, but stays by Benny, an unspoken warning as Dean reads.
He scans the columns, instantly recognizing the numbers and descriptions.
What the fuck?
He flicks the top sheet back down, “Car parts?”
Seemingly shaking himself out of whatever funk hearing about Cas and Dean’s impending nuptials put him in, Benny pastes on a shaky grin that gets more and more real the further he settles into it, far too pleased with himself, like he’s somehow pulled off the coup of the century. “My boss wants to sit down with you and break bread. Figured this was the way to your heart. I might have helped him with that.”
Of course.
There’s over a hundred grand’s worth of stock listed.
Dean moves closer to Cas, pointing out the costings listed in the far right column to him, “Dude,” he says to his fiancé, “There’s stuff here for classic cars that’s appallingly difficult to get ahold of. You’d have to be pretty fucking devoted to getting your hands on this stuff.”
And then to give it all away? Hell of an introduction.
“Who’s your boss?” Cas asks Benny in a tone that brooks no argument.
To his credit, Benny doesn’t argue, instead leveling a look at Dean, “He wants to sit down with you. Reckons you and he have a lot to discuss.”
“Me?”
“You.” Benny confirms, switches his gaze to Cas, “Not you .”
A form of bribery?
Or power move. Especially if he doesn’t want Cas there.
“Who’s your boss?” Dean asks, an echo of Cas.
Benny eyes him, like he’s deciding which way to play this and it makes Dean’s skin crawl, “C'mon, I’ll show you.”
Dean exchanges a meaningful glance with Cas, before shrugging and following his ex out of the office, tossing the clipboard onto the desk as they leave.
The rest of the staff are long gone, but Sam’s still hovering around. They make brief eye contact and Dean shakes his head minutely, communicating silently with his brother to stay away.
This is Dean’s clusterfuck to deal with.
Outside, Cas falls into step beside Dean. Together, they wordlessly trail behind Benny, though Cas is still holding his gun at his side, ready to soothe his itchy trigger finger.
As they approach the truck, Benny nods at the driver who hops down from the cab and comes around the side to meet them at the back. He yanks up the rolling shutter, presses a button on a relay switch to activate the hydraulic liftgate.
Once it’s safe, Benny steps up into the cargo area, and Dean and Cas follow cautiously.
Inside, there really are stacks of rare restoration parts (as opposed to a bomb or tigers or some kind of torture device like Dean had been suspecting). Some are wrapped in cellophane, others are in labeled boxes.
Holy shit.
Dean runs his fingers reverently over a differential for a Bentley Mulsanne. This part alone is easily worth several grand.
“Your boss did all this...for a meeting?” Dean clarifies, staring down a custom chrome fender for a Firebird. There’s stuff here that he couldn’t have hoped to get his hands on in a million years.
It’s kinda amazing.
Benny grins and shoves a Tupperware container into Dean’s hands with a little more force than strictly necessary, drawls, “Yep. He’s pretty keen on makin’ a good impression from the off.” He shoots a pointed glare in Cas’ direction and Dean almost laughs, ‘cause if Benny thinks that Dean wasn’t smitten from the very first time he saw Cas - good impression or not - then he’s a bigger idiot than Dean thought.
Which is a pretty tall order.
Cas’ palm curves around Dean’s bicep, ignoring Benny entirely, “Open it.”
Dean gazes down at the container in his hands. He can see that there’s a note taped to the underside of the clear lid, so he unclicks it, pulls it off.
Inside, there’s a slice of lemon drizzle cake. Undoubtedly from the bake sale.
Which is both creepy and weird. Did someone send out a fucking bulletin letting all local criminals (‘cause obviously this guy is a criminal) know about his love of baked goods when he wasn’t looking?
Or was it Benny again? Exactly what has his ex been saying about him? And to rival criminals?
Yeah, there’s no way Benny’s gonna be walking away from this with all the digits he sauntered his way into the garage in possession of.
Dean flips the lid over to read the note.
How about that cup of coffee? - Nick
Well, fuck .