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mattzerella-sticks · 5 years

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Idle Hands Are an Angel’s Plaything by mattzerella_sticks

Three cases - man kills wife. woman steals from where she works. employee kills their boss. They shouldn't have anything in common. Except all three suspects claim they have no memory of committing the crimes they're charged with. Sounds exactly like a case for the Winchesters.

Three days investigating, however, and they're drawing blanks. Nothing adds up in any way that makes these crimes align into a neat box. Dean's ready to call it quits, but humors Sam and Cas by agreeing to interview a few more people. However he soon starts to believe this town has something pertaining to their expertise when he suddenly finds himself its next victim.

Will they manage to defeat the monster without Dean doing something he'll regret? Or will the only way to free himself is to let go of the chains he forced himself into long ago?

For the @supernaturaltropecelebration and their amazing Halloween Challenge!

Kevin grunts in his sleep, trying to wake up from the strangest nightmare. Blinking into consciousness he finds himself in a different position than when he fell asleep. Instead of his eyes adjusting to see his beige ceiling, he stares into the bloodshot stare of his wife Darla. His hands at her throat, grip slack.

“Darla?” he whispers, hands moving to her shoulders. Shaking, he asks again, “Darla?” More panicked, twitching fingers returned to check for his wife’s pulse. A sob crawls from his chest as he realizes nothing beats against his touch.

“No, Darla,” he whispers, rolling off her and collapsing back onto his side of the bed. “How did this happen…”

His hands stay frozen at his sides until he works through his shock and calls the police.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------

The Impala pulls into the diner parking lot, fitting in between a rusted truck and a Prius. Dean sneers at the latter car as he gets out, “Fuckin’ douche mobiles…”

“Dean,” Sam sighs from the other side, “focus.”

“Why? We have jack shit anyway.”

“There’s got to be something tying these crimes together!”

“Yeah, humanity ,” he scoffs, leaning against his Baby’s hood, “Listen, I’m not sure if there's anything happening here that falls under ourjurisdiction, okay?”

Sam rolls his eyes, dialing up the softness in his features. Resembling more labradoodle than man, he asks, “Can we go over it all one last time?”

Dean tries to resist, but he succumbs to his brother’s masterful manipulation. “Fine. But let’s at least grab a booth before it gets too crowded, okay?”

Nodding, Sam moves away from the car and over to the diner. Dean turns to Castiel, the angel perched on the hood as well. A silent observer to their bickering. “You think there’s any foundation under the house Sam’s building?”

Head skewed to the side, Castiel squints at him. “While these events are muddled and pedestrian… you two have had less to go off of.”

“Yeah,” Dean sighs, tapping Baby’s roof twice, “we have.” He pushes himself off, stuffing his hands into his coat pockets. “Come on, otherwise Sam’ll order us all salads.”

“I’d like some fries.”

“Well you can order your damned fries when we get inside.”

They walk together, barely an inch of space between them. Castiel’s arm brushes against his with each step, each time making the blush burning his neck to grow hotter. He could move away, but Dean chooses to stay on his path. Reasoning that Castiel should be the one to do so, finally learn about the personal space bubble he frequently bursts. Eleven years, countless battles, and all of pop culture downloaded into his mind in the span of a second and Dean still has to tell him how if he can feel his breath when he talks Castiel isn’t far enough away.

Sam arches an unimpressed brow when they enter, handing them their menus. “Took you long enough?”

“Bite me, Sammy.”

“I’d rather the food. Less calories.”

Dean exaggerates a frown, Sam copying him. Castiel elbows him in the side, glancing between the two. With a sigh he drops the argument, burying his head into the menu. Keeping silent when his brother and angel carry on the conversation. Only surfacing when the waitress swings by asking for their order.

As expected Sam orders a salad, while Dean opts for a BLT and Castiel asks for his fries. Once the waitress is out of earshot, Sam looks to him. “So,” he starts, “can we go over the case now ?”

Tamping down his comments, Dean nods wordlessly. He fiddles with one of the napkins, bending and crumpling the edges before smoothing them. The urge to tear them up spikes, but Dean ignores it. Not in the mood for one of Sam’s lectures about wasting napkins.

“Now the reason we came here over going home was because of the first incident, where a woman was arrested for murdering her co-worker. Although from how she told it to the press, it wasn’t her.”

“Except,” Dean cuts in, “while Cas and I interviewed her, you checked the footage and didn’t see her eyes flash.” What Sam saw, and related to them, was how Kristie twisted the oxygen valve in the storage shed enough that its contents would hiss open. So when her boss, Mark, went for a quick smoke break, the tossed match would ignite the canister and obliterate the shed, everything and every one in it.

“And from our conversation,” Castiel adds, “she didn’t seem too regretful of her co-worker’s death.”

Kristie confided that bad blood existed between her and Mark. That he offered to help her with her diving suit near constantly, made suggestive comments and harassed her often for a date. “I mean why should I be blamed?” Kristie asked, “He was the idiot who kept smoking near oxygen tanks even when Larry told him again and again to find somewhere else to take his breaks! All I was doing was counting our inventory… sometimes I’m just on autopilot, y’know, it’s so boring… anyone could have made that mistake!”

“But then there were the others,” Sam continues, swiping around on his tablet. He shows the articles he pulled. “Banker who transferred over a hundred thousand into her own account and the man who strangled his wife in their bed.”

“Doesn’t mean there’s a shifter though.”

“Three instances where people claim they have no memory of committing a crime?” Sam scoffs, “Might not be a shifter but it’s something .”

“What else could it be, Sam?” Dean rolls his eyes, “Cursed object? All three of the perps didn’t mention buying or finding anything strange, and I doubt one of those could travel so far in a few days. Especially since none of them travelled in the same circles. Witches? There’s no pattern - usually it’s either murder or theft, they don’t do both!”

“So maybe we need to work harder,” Sam growls, slapping Dean’s hands, “and quit it! I thought I told you how much I hate when you do that.”

Dean frowns, following Sam’s gaze to see the sprinkling of napkin shreds all around him. He drops the rest of it, whipping wide eyes up at his brother. “Sorry,” he says, “must have lost focus or something…”

Sam sucks in a sharp breath, judging him silently through his pointed expression. Feeling guilty, Dean ducks his hands under the table.

“As I was saying,” Sam says, “There’s probably something we’re missing… or we’re not considering. Usually we’ve at least spoken to a witness or a family friend at this point, but with how every day there seems to be a new crime we hadn’t had the chance to.”

Dean snorts, “They should really change their town motto. Most exciting hamlet on the bay…”

“I agree with Sam,” Castiel says, “we’ve learned nothing from simply combing through crime scenes or questioning the suspects.”

“At least we’re all on the same page about that,” Dean hums, eyeing the waitress as she sways closer with their food. “Case talk over with, now’s time to eat!”

The waitress arrives as Sam readies an objection. Unable to raise a protest, Sam swallows back his words to make room for his salad. She hands each boy their order, taking extra care when giving Castiel his. “Now would you like anything else?” she asks them, eyes trained on his angel.

Castiel smiles at her. “No thank you, we’re good.”

“Are you sure?”

A tornado whips up in his stomach, upending the trailers of his emotions settled there. His jaw tenses, fingers flexing as he watches her flick her ponytail to the side. A voice whispers for him to trail fingers through Castiel’s hair and repeat what his angel said, to glare at her until she walks away.

He doesn’t do any of that; instead hissing a breath out his nose and digging into his sandwich.

She leaves soon enough, with a promise to return at a moment’s notice. Dean sulks into his burger, cheeks puffed up as he eats.

The others at the table discuss their plan while they eat, every few beats looking to Dean for his input. With his mouth almost always stuffed Dean didn’t talk. Each time Sam found him with gnashing teeth and crumbled foodstuff his lips curled ever downwards. Castiel seemed confused at Dean’s sudden mood shift, unknowing to what caused him to withdraw.

Unfortunately the sandwich, as large as it was, couldn’t last forever. And his voracious appetite meant he finishes far faster than everyone else. Sam still has half his leaves on his plate, speaking more than he ate, while Castiel picked at his fries.

Now without any sort of shield, his brother expects him to participate. Dean nods and answers when needed, but completely checks out of the conversation.

It’s not like him to do so on a hunt. However it’s their third straight one after a salt n’ burn and a harrowing ghoul hunt. Where Dean was almost intimately familiar with what a spike tasted like, if Castiel hadn’t burst in at the eleventh hour. White shirt sticky with sweat and stained with dirt, hair damp against his forehead. Apparently the ghoul tricked his angel, smothering him under six feet of dirt at a play to take him off the field.

“I dug myself free and came straight here,” Castiel explained as he untied Dean, “I couldn’t waste a second, especially on something as mundane as appearances.”

At least, that’s what Dean thought he said. His mind was too focused on the image of Castiel kneeling in front of him, chest heaving and glistening, fingers dancing around the rope. He only started paying attention when Sam rushed in, gun aimed at thin air.

“Nice of you to show up,” Dean barked, shoving the rope off of him and stepping away from Castiel with a blush, “What were you doing? Thinking about what you could turn my room into when you became an only child?”

Neither Sam nor Castiel laughed. Which made for a very awkward ride back to the motel. The atmosphere so stifling between them Dean escaped to the bathroom. Washing away the ghoul stink and rubbing one to the earlier scene. Imagining if Sam hadn’t burst in.

As good as it felt he regrets it only because it gave the others space to find another hunt and overrule his whining.

“Dean?”

He surfaces from his memories and into the present, blinking at Castiel. “Yeah?”

“Is everything okay?”

Dean studies the furrowed brow on his angel’s face. Mirroring the expression, he asks, “Why shouldn’t it be?”

Castiel’s frown deepens, and his head skews to the side again. “Because your hand has been on my knee for quite some time.”

Blanching, Dean whips his gaze to where Castiel claimed his hand rested. Like he said, it lays on Castiel’s knee in a picture of innocent affection. He flicks his eyes up to Castiel, and then to Sam. His brother watches with amused interest.

“Of course my hand’s there,” Dean says, thinking quick, “I - uh… I’ve been trying to get you to scoot over so I can go to the bathroom.”

Face smoothing immediately, Castiel sighs. “Why didn’t you say so?”

“Because,” he jerks a thumb at Sam, “didn’t want to interrupt this one while he was on a roll.” With Sam’s bitchface in the background Castiel moves so Dean can stand. He winks with fake mirth, “Won’t be long.” Then Dean speeds away to the bathroom, hands buried in his pockets and face stoic.

The diner’s bathrooms are single occupants, and Dean finds both the men’s and gender neutral bathroom locked. Sighing, he sags against a nearby wall and plays with his phone. Trying not to focus on the feel of Castiel’s knee in his hand.

Why it was there Dean couldn’t answer, nor did he need an answer. Otherwise Dean will have to confront a host of problems he isn’t in the mood to face. Not wanting to think about it any longer, he chalks it up to exhaustion. Dean then distracts himself by pulling up a game, hoping with each row of Tetris he clears he can believe his excuse.

While deciding where to shove a T-piece, Dean overhears a nearby conversation.

“Can you believe how sad Tony sounds in this caption?”

“I know, but can you blame him? Broken up like that…”

Dean pauses his game, interest piqued. Shuffling to the side, he spies their waitress conversing with another girl at the last booth. Taking a break from working, she chats with her friend with no fear of being found by her boss.

“Who would’ve guessed Felicia was faking it all this time…” her friend says, taking her phone back. “Like did you hear from Jessica?”

“No, why? What does she know?”

“From what she told me - and this is from what Bea told her - that they were having this sleepover. Bea woke up to Felicia spooning her, and her hands were… y’know .”

“ No! ”

“Which, you’d think Bea would’ve woken up screaming!”

“I know I would’ve,” their waitress says, “y’know Creepy Josh tried something like that with me during a party the other night? Lucky I wasn’t too wasted to stab my key into his hand.”

“So that’s why he wore that bandage throughout the show,” her friend says, “I thought it was a character choice.”

“No, that dildo has no character.”

“Anyway, Bea was super into Felicia’s touch. Has had the hots for her for awhile, apparently. Her own best friend .”

“And Felicia felt the same?”

“Apparently…” her friend glances behind, Dean watching as she extends her neck as far as it can go. Whipping around, she smirks, “Speaking of hands and feeling up … who are those two snacks in your section.”

Dean tracks where she looks, shuddering as logic points to only one table - his . “I know,” their waitress gushes, “you don’t see faces like those in this crummy town.”

Her friend nods. “When I walked in I nearly dropped to the floor at the sight of the guy with the long hair.”

“Sure he’s nice,” their waitress says, “but did you not see the daddy in the trench coat?”

“Really? A trench coat?”

“What! He makes it work,” she defends Castiel’s fashion, “Besides, he has this air about him like… he could take real good care of me…”

Rolling her eyes, her friend grabs for her soda. “I doubt he’s gonna be the sugar daddy of your dreams, Monica.”

Monica sighs. “A girl can dream can’t she…”

Dean glares at her from his hiding spot. A girl cannot dream, he thinks, especially if that’s what her dreams are about. His grip tightens on his phone, the plastic digging into his skin. The bathroom door opens and startles him from his spiraling.

Faced with an empty bathroom, Dean remembers what he came to do. He shakes off the annoyance and hurries into it, going through the motions as he calms his racing heart. Stands in front of the mirror as he repeats to himself, “It’s stupid… don’t let it bother you.”

The voice from earlier returns, whispering again. “It’s not stupid… allow yourself to feel…”

His hands squeeze the porcelain sink as Dean wonders why his inner voice decided to take on a grating southern twang.

“Dean?” Castiel knocks on the door, “Dean? Are you in here?”

Broken from the spell, he turns to the door. He opens it, his angel on the other side. “Yeah?”

“You were gone for a long time,” Castiel says, “Sam’s paying… we’re heading out.” Castiel’s hand twitches at his side, reaching out to him. “Are you okay -?”

“Peachy, Cas,” he says, stepping around the concerned touch, “Police station coffee just hitting s’all… let’s hurry and clear this mess up so we’re not stuck here another night.”

Castiel nods, guiding Dean from the bathrooms and towards the exit where Sam waits. On their way there they pass Monica, cleaning their table. She leers at Castiel, obviously raking her gaze over him.

Impulsively Dean presses his hand against Castiel’s lower back and pushes him forward. “Pick up the pace,” he says loudly, “can’t keep Sam waiting, angel.” Ignoring Castiel’s look of confusion, Dean focuses instead on the bewildered expression Monica creates. Holds his head up a little higher.

“Isn’t that… better…”

“Isn’t what better, Cas?”

“I… I didn’t say anything, Dean,” his mouth thins worryingly, “are you sure you’re okay?”

Unconvincingly Dean mutters, “Like I said, Cas… damned peachy .”

--------------------------------------------------------------------------

Dean loses his footing almost immediately after climbing onto the fishing boat. He stumbles forward, nearly falling on his face. If it weren’t for Castiel’s firm hold on his arm he would have known what poopdeck tastes like.

“Rough waters today,” Jim, the captain, tells them, “if you ain’t got your sea legs than you won’t stand much of a chance, son…”

“I’ll manage…” Dean huffs, flattening his suit jacket with nervous hands. He glances at Castiel, pouting at how unruffled he seems by the waves. “How are you not affected?”

Castiel smirks, “Angel grace is a good substitute for ‘ sea legs ’.”

“Whatever,” he says, “you can let go now.”

The fingers around his bicep tighten, a rush of pleasure shooting up his spine. “I think it would be best if I help steady you.”

Blushing, Dean snaps his mouth shut with a click. He looks to the waiting captain, pinched dimples on full display. “So, about your crew member, Kevin Johannsen?”

“Johannsen was a real good fisherman,” Jim starts, leading them towards a pile of nets. Jim picks one up and begins folding as he talks. “Had this uncanny ability to guess wherever the most fish were in an open sea. One day he pointed to a patch and said ‘cast there’ and we nearly capsized from the amount of fish we hauled in! It’s a real shame to hear what happened…”

“Yes, well, that’s why we’re here,” Dean says, “We just wanted to see if Kevin had been acting strange in the last couple of days.”

“Strange?” Jim asks, “What do you mean strange?”

“Exhibiting unusual behavior,” Castiel clarifies, stepping closer. “Doing or saying anything that might have seemed out of the ordinary… maybe he found something while fishing that he kept for himself?”

“No,” Jim answers, “no, can’t say that he has. Any garbage we dredge up gets tossed back into the sea where we found it… and as for Kevin himself he was as normal as he always was. Cursing out the Patriots, drinking the same amount of beers he always did, telling the same jokes …”

Dean arches a brow, the word like a dangling string he felt drawn to pull. “Jokes? Kevin was a regular comedian?”

“Well, he weren’t a Jerry Seinfeld or a Sam Kinison, but he knew how to make us all chuckle every now and then,” Jim says, turning to his crew, “isn’t that right boys?”

There’s muddled agreement. One man, made burlier by his fleece-lined denim jacket, gives them more information. “Kevin liked repeating what he saw on TV, stole a joke or two from Family Guy. Liked doing that Borat thing…”

“Borat thing?” Castiel asks.

Dean rolls his eyes, “It’s this actor… ‘My wife’?”

“Yeah,” the man says, “he liked that one a lot.”

“Although,” another crewman speaks up, “he sounded more and more like the Honeymooners in the past few months.”

Dean latches onto that, hackles raised. He explores it further, hoping the dark rock sinking in his gut was right. “Kevin having problems at home?”

“Not anymore than the average guy,” Jim shrugs, “Complained about Darla more than ever, though…”

“How so?”

The burly man explains how Kevin found his marriage growing stale, and had taken to flirting with one of the girls who sold their fish. “Kept saying how he wished he didn’t marry Darla right out of high school, had more time to sow his seeds,” he tells them, “That if he could he would get rid of Darla and immediately go after Michelle. Pretended to call up hitmen or asked questions about how fast a person could sink to the bottom of the ocean…”

“And,” Dean rubs at his forehead, pressing against the growing headache, “you were all surprised to hear that this guy murdered his wife?”

Jim scowls. “He wasn’t like any of those disturbed people you see on the news. Kevin was normal, like one of us. It was just jokes between boys.”

“Jokes that led to a woman’s death,” Castiel growls, barely containing the venomous glow dripping from his glare.

“Hey!” Jim objects, “We didn’t tell Kevin to do what he did -”

“No, but you allowed him an open forum to discuss it,” Castiel says, “treated his very obvious threats as silly make believe. In what way could joking about murder be acceptable in any work space? You should have fired him and, at the very least, alerted Darla to what her husband was saying.”

“Why would we have done that?” Jim asks, “We all thought it would blow over. He wasn’t the first man to wish he wasn’t married, we’ve all been in that position once or twice.”

“Yet Kevin was the only one who took extreme measures,” he challenges, “If I were you I would think long and hard about the learned behaviors of how women are treated, especially how easily violence towards them is overlooked.”

Each member of the crew wore a mixture of shame and anger, all directed at Castiel.

Sensing the turn of the interview, Dean lays a hand against Castiel’s chest and pushes him backwards. “I think this is where we’ll take our leave,” he chuckles, “thanks for your time.”

Ignoring his angel’s protests Dean hurries them off the boat, waiting until they’re far enough away on the docks to talk.

“I can’t believe those men,” Castiel huffs, “treating those threats as something harmless like a joke -”

“Hate to break it to you Cas,” Dean says, “but that’s all men.”

“That doesn’t mean we have to accept it. Why did you make us run away like that?”

“Because as much as I hate what they said,” he sighs, “I know when to pick my battles.”

“No you don’t.”

“Fine, I know how to pick your battles.”

“They wouldn’t have been able to hurt me,” Castiel tells him, “But I could have taught them a lesson or two…”

The hand still glued to his arm clenches tighter, Dean wincing in pain. Underneath that, though, a current of heat stings his lower body. His dick stiffens and rises somewhat in his pants, adding to the already intense blush coloring his cheeks.

Noticing Dean’s pained expression Castiel cools his anger and releases him. “Sorry,” he says, “I… I forgot my hand was there.”

“S’okay, Cas,” Dean chuckles, “Next time take your frustrations out by writing your local representative…”

“Do we have one? I thought since we don’t vote…”

“...Never mind, Cas. Let’s just go call Sammy and tell him it was a bust.”

They shuffle over to the Impala, at a distance uncommon to their friendship. Dean wants to reach over and calm his angel, express further how unsettled he was by the others’ callous remarks. Remind Castiel that even in all the whirling madness there are a few voices of sanity trying to help others listen to reason. Only some people prefer having their ears stuffed up, comfortable with the silence. And most don’t want to rock the boat and mess up what already works.

Like Dean. Because as much as he wants to hold his angel all he uses his hand for is to open Baby’s door, start the engine, and call his brother.

He picks up on the third ring. “I was just about to call you.”

“You find anything?”

“No,” Sam sighs, “I think you might be right about this one…”

Dean tempers his grin, only allowing a tiny fraction of it show. “What makes you think that?” he asks.

Sam explains what he managed to uncover while snooping around the bank. How Linda was on the fast track to unemployment, her boss showing him the letter of termination they planned. Her co-worker Sandy told Sam how Linda complained about having issues with money. “Apparently she was buried deep in debt after some serious online gambling,” he says, “So we have a motive.”

He reigns in the ‘I told you so’, instead saying, “Same here. Ol’ Kev talked pretty heavily about not wanting his wife around anymore…”

A surge of warmth rocks over him from the thought of wrapping up the case quickly. While it’s an odd feeling to have when discussing murder, making him sound so flippant, he doesn’t care. Picturing his bed in the Bunker gives him tingles, especially when his imagination adds the perfect cherry by placing Castiel atop of his covers.

In the fantasy Dean drops his bags and glides in, kneeling at his bedside. Gently caresses Castiel’s face, the feel of his stubbles so real under his fingertips. As if the welcome relief of a case closed hit him now, while they tie up their loose ends. His angel would then flutter his lashes and whisper.

“...Dean?”

He bites his lip, “In a second, Cas - I’m on the phone.” Adjusting himself in his seat, Dean focuses on the conversation with his brother. “Sorry, you were saying?”

“That I’ll meet you at the motel and we can hit the road as soon as you want -”

“ Dean !”

“ What ?”

He whips around to face Castiel, a hush heavying his tongue. Instead of firing the command Dean chokes on it while taking in the scene.

Castiel stares with wide eyes, Dean’s hand softly cupping his chin. Thumb brushing the cleft, visible beneath the stubble, and his fingers press against his firm jaw. His angel’s plush lips part slightly, as if too stunned to attempt another sound. Dean mimics him, as he cannot understand how his hand got there nor why he hasn’t pulled away.

Sam’s on the other end, asking for Dean again. Wondering what’s happening. A yell, louder than all the rest, cuts through the static playing in Dean’s mind. He jumps, hand flying from Castiel’s face like it burned.

“Seriously, Dean,” Sam huffs, “what the hell is going on over there?”

He wonders the same thing. Suddenly Dean remembers how his hand found itself onto Castiel’s knee in the diner, and the way he pressed it possessively against Castiel’s back. Then the suspects’ testimonies filter their way in as well, all boiling to the same point.

Dean rubs his hand across his forehead, dimples flashing at him from the rearview mirror. “Looks like the road’s gonna have to wait another day, Sam.”

“Dean? What do you mean?”

“Turns out this case is exactly in our wheelhouse.” He ends the call, promising to explain more when they meet at the motel. Signing off, Dean drops his phone onto his lap and tightens his grip on the wheel. Dean speaks to the windshield, not trusting himself to look at his angel. “You good?”

“I am fine,” Castiel starts, concern bleeding through his gruff voice, “But are you…?”

“I didn’t mean to do that,” Dean rushes out, neck hot.

“Funny. You sound exactly like everyone else we’ve come across.” He doesn’t need to see to know Castiel arches his brow while he talks, the sass translating perfectly.

Dean rolls his eyes. “I’m not lying. I… it was like my hand had a mind of its own.”

“I believe you.”

“Because I wouldn’t do that,” his mouth won’t shut up, “unless you wanted me to, it’s kinda creepy and -”

“Dean,” Castiel cuts him off, hand laid across his thigh, “it’s okay.”

Throat dry, he roughly swallows against the heart that jumped up there. Faced with either addressing the problem or ignoring it, Dean relies on where he has the most experience. He shifts into drive and speeds away from the docks. Silent the entire ride to the motel.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------

Sam shifts his gaze between the two, expression wrinkled with suspicion. He glowers at them, hunched over on the chair. “Explain to me again why you changed your mind on this?”

Dean glances at Castiel briefly, his angel sitting next to him on the bed. “I just,” he starts, wringing his hands, “I think that we might have missed something important.”

“Which is…?”

He huffs, physically withdrawing from the conversation so he can think.

Even with how fast Dean drove, Sam beat them to the motel. Waiting for them with twisted brows. Hoping they could shed some light on the stilted and urgent ending to the earlier conversation. Unfortunately Dean could only give half-formed answers, bathed in vagueness. He relied on trust to get Sam to accept the bull he force-fed him.

Sam knocked away every spoon.

“Dean?”

“Dean seems to be suffering under the effects of possession.”

He glares at his angel, lips trembling. Castiel returns a softer gaze, smiling with his eyes. “All of those arrested admitted to not remembering what they did, yet each had motives for doing what was done,” Castiel says, “Either they were filmed committing these actions or had their fingerprints found at the scene of the crime… we believe it must be a ghost forcing people to act on impulses or desires they usually ignore. And Dean is the ghost’s next victim.”

“Really?” Sam says, turning to Dean, “Is that true?”

Dean’s head bobs side to side before sighing. “Yeah, discussed it in the car,” he lies.

“So you’re possessed?”

“Looks like it.”

“What’d the ghost make you do?”

“What?”

Sam crosses his arms, straightening to a more imposing level. “You’d have to have done something you wouldn’t have done. Acted on an impulse… what was it?”

Once more he skirts the truth with his brother. Grinning wide enough his teeth nearly jump out of his mouth, Dean says, “Saw something really sexy down by the docks and started rubbing my junk like no tomorrow… almost got caught for public indecency.”

It’s a gamble that works in his favor. Sam’s nose scrunches in disgust and he cries, “Gross, Dean. God!”

“Hey you wanted to know!”

“Ugh,” Sam stands, spinning on his heel, “Whatever. Go wash your hands, pervert. Then you’re gonna help me and Cas with research.”

Dean nods, pushing off the bed. He looks to Castiel and mouths a quick thanks. His angel winks in return, sending Dean off to the bathroom to wash his hands and will away the blush staining his cheeks.

When he comes back Sam won’t look him in the eye and Castiel moved further up the bed, scrolling through his phone. Dean digs around for his laptop and sits by his angel’s feet. Close enough to not raise Sam’s suspicions but far from any temptation his hands might succumb to.

A healthy dose of fear bubbles inside at the image of his hand creeping, without his knowledge, over to Castiel to play with his feet. He shudders and shifts so his legs dangle off the side, face turned even further away. It doesn’t stop him from being very aware of his hands. Jumping with each twitch and worrying whether it was him or the ghost that wanted him to click a link or scratch an itch.

He wasn’t much help in terms of research.

In the third hour of Dean staring more at his hands than his laptop, Sam cries from nearby, “I think I got something!”

Dean breathes a sigh of relief. “What is it?”

Sam beckons them closer, “So get this…” He waits until Dean and Castiel are hovering behind before continuing. “Apparently the town was the home base for this motivational speaker in the 80’s. Really weird guy by the name of Benjamin Moreley.”

“A motivational speaker?” Castiel asks, “What’s that?”

“They get paid through the nose to shout a few words and come up with catchphrases,” Dean tells him, “All in an effort to get people to ‘ change ’. It’s a real racket, especially these days.”

“And back then, too,” Sam says, “over the years Moreley’s messages became some kind of movement, real cult-like. Anyway… listen to this clip from one of his speeches and see if it strikes a nerve.”

Sam unmutes the video, starting it from a minute in. He hits play, allowing Moreley to live again. Benjamin walks across a makeshift stage, soaking up the applause. Dean uses those few seconds to scan and judge the conman. Takes in the ruddy face, sweating profusely under the heavy lights. A hankey with a rich, purple color held tight in his fist, matching his shirt. His suit was white and stained in certain areas. The crowd watching him didn’t find Moreley as pathetic as Dean does, fawning over him loudly.

“Because it is when we take hold of what we want,” Moreley says, southern twang grating but unfortunately familiar, “fight against all the brainwashing society has forced upon us, to fit into their perfect little boxes, that we can truly be happy. The Id is our most basic part of ourselves - fundamental to our needs and desires. Why should we ignore it when doing so makes us miserable. We should be waking up every day with a goal of making each day better for yourself than the last. Looking at every opportunity, asking ourselves ‘does this make me happy’? And if it does, great… go for it. If the answer’s ‘no’... then don’t do it! Somebody else will!”

“Wow,” Dean snorts, “guy sounds like a grade-A douche…”

The laptop snaps shut without warning, Dean’s hand flat against it.

“Dean, what the -?” “I didn’t do that,” Dean says, “I didn’t mean to…”

Castiel huffs, “I guess this answers our question.”

Dean draws his hand to his chest, rubbing it. He frowns, “How’d the bastard die?”

“In all his speeches about giving into your impulses,” Sam says, “he forgot to mention the consequences. He was sued by a few followers for the expected - lost jobs and spouses leaving. Moreley’s defense was that they were happy in the moment, and that’s all that mattered. Halfway through the trial, though, his wife burst in with a gun and shot him while he was testifying.”

He whistles, “Damn…”

“Apparently Moreley was giving into his own temptations,” Sam shrugs, “sleeping with a few of his followers. When his wife found out she decided to lean into his teachings. Took her revenge then swiftly shot herself, too. It was all detailed in this comprehensive article they wrote following the case, even had copies of the wife’s suicide note.”

“If Benjamin Moreley’s ghost is haunting people,” Castiel asks, “where is his body buried?”

“Close by.” Sam re-opens his laptop, scrolling towards the end of the article. “In this huge mausoleum at the center of the Joseph M. Whorly Cemetery. It’s an hour outside of town.”

“Then what are we waiting for?” Dean asks, “Let’s get a move on!”

“Dean…”

He bites his lip at his brother’s tone, not caring for it one bit. “Sam,” Dean sighs, “come on -”

“You shouldn’t be going,” Sam rushes, “if you’re possessed then you’re a liability.”

“I’m not gonna let a damned ghost stop me from doing my job!”

“We all saw what happened, Dean!” Sam drags a hand across his face, wiping away the aggravation. “Listen, what if it were me who was possessed? Would you want me coming along on this hunt, doing whatever the ghost is doing to you?”

His mind runs away with the prompt, painting a scene that makes Dean’s blood boil. Sam’s hands on Castiel’s knee, caressing Castiel’s face. Fingers that weren’t his carding through his angel’s hair or tiptoeing down his chest. Finally catching up to his thoughts Dean sneaks a peek at his hand to find it drifting towards Castiel.

Dean shoves it into his pocket, face hot with embarrassment. “I’d want you far away,” he mutters, “so, so far away.”

Sam arches a brow, worried by this display. Dean prepares for his brother to ask another question, saved only by Castiel clearing his throat.

“As much as I agree not having Dean on this hunt,” he starts, “what if the ghost hurts Dean in our absence. Who knows how much his power has grown since the first attack, he could seriously hurt himself.”

“Yeah,” Dean nods, “what do we do about that?” Dean isn’t worried the ghost will hurt him, confident in his own control against the wannabe Manson. But he doesn’t want to sit on the bench for the rest of the case.

Sam thinks for a moment, grin unfurling when he finds an idea. Dean’s skin crawls at the gleam lighting up his brother’s eyes.

“I think I have the perfect solution…”

--------------------------------------------------------------------------

“Stupid motivational speaker ghost,” Dean mumbles, knocking his head against the motel divider for the umpteenth time, “why’d you have to latch onto me? Wasn’t there some other unlucky sucker you could’ve found?” His arms sag overhead, wrists pulling against the silver cuffs as far as they can give.

Sam’s solution was simple and made the most sense. Dean still complained the entire time.

“Listen if this all works as planned, we'll be freeing you in no time,” Sam said. After testing the cuffs above Dean’s head, making sure they wouldn’t break the divider, he hid the key. Ignorant to Dean’s protests all the while.

“You better hope so,” Dean huffed, “If this isn’t the right ghost then I think the next impulse I’ll have is shaving your head while you sleep!”

Sam hitched the bag over his shoulder, looking to Castiel. “Ready to go?”

Castiel, who stood at the wayside watching Dean’s imprisonment, finally tore his gaze away from Dean. “Yes.” They left without glancing behind, especially when Dean whined about how his nose itched.

A quarter of an hour later, Dean only had himself for company and his nose continued to irritate him. He shifts, ass numb from the awkward angle he was stuck in. “Couldn’t they have left me with a pillow to sit on or something…?”

Suddenly the sound of the doorknob turning cuts across the room. Dean whirls around to face it, confused as to who it could be. Sam and Castiel should still be driving to the cemetery. If it was housekeeping, which Dean hoped weren’t the case, then Dean better have a good excuse to use.

Luckily Castiel is on the other side of it.

Dean relaxes slightly. “Cas,” he says, “What’re you doing here?”

“Well, Sam and I were a couple of blocks away from the motel when I realized this wouldn’t be the most preventative measure,” Castiel explains, shutting the door behind him, “The ghost could use its strength to break the chain, or worse, your bones in such a way to slip your hands free and hurt you. So I suggested one of us staying here, with you, while the other goes to the cemetery. Since it’s a mausoleum we won’t need to dig… Sam agreed.”

“And he let you take babysitting point?”

Castiel shrugged, smiling. “If the ghost does have abnormal strength, then at least I will be able to match it.” He carries a nearby chair over to face Dean, sitting on it. “As we all know, I’m very powerful in my own right.”

The wink sets off a chain reaction. Reminds Dean of the earlier display on the docks, and the effect it caused within him. His dick stiffens again as he pictures Castiel pinning his wrists in one hand and using the other to squeeze his crotch. Dean’s hands spasm against their chain, twitching for freedom and Castiel.

Things became much more complicated than they were when Dean was alone.

Dean lapses into silence, trying to regain control over his hands. The longer Castiel stares at him, unblinking, the less his hands listen to him. Castiel’s presence produces a hypnotic orbit, where every time Dean thinks he’s free his eyes get sucked in again.

Suddenly Castiel leans forward, elbows perched on his knees. “Y’know, I rather prefer you like this.”

He wets his lips, voice raspy. “Like what?” Dean asks.

“Cuffed,” he says, foot tapping rhythmically, “can’t run away… can’t distract… cannot hide, like you usually do whenever a situation becomes too… intimate .” His hands slowly slide down his thighs and rest on his knees, Dean tracking the movement. “If I wanted to I could ask you a question - any question - and you’d have to answer it, wouldn’t you?”

Dean neither confirms nor denies.

“You are patient, though. Could probably wait out the awkwardness until Sam returns…” Castiel chuckles, “Funny, how of the three of us only youwere possessed. Like the ghost knew you had these... hidden desires. Do you have them, Dean? Would you like to touch me?”

He spasms, weak enough that a groan eaks past his lips.

Castiel grins, gaze darkening. “Your hand on my knee… on my back… my chest… as brief as they were, they all felt rather… nice .”

Startled, Dean’s jaw drops at the admission.

His angel carries on, straightening against the chair. “I could’ve asked you to keep them there, told you it was okay. Except you wouldn’t have responded well at all. You’d panic and then make a joke, act as if your affectionate gestures were anything but - especially in front of Sam. Keep up appearances… you can’t do that now, can you? The ghost has removed all pretense - for your hands at least. Your mouth, however, can still deny. But do you want to? Is it worth denying any longer?”

Dean struggles to laugh away Castiel’s suggestion. Except with the intensity of his angel’s stare and the heavy words he spoke, Dean finds little will to carry on the charade. Unburdening himself from his doubts and fears, he shrugs, “I guess it isn’t. It’s… tiring.”

“Would you like to touch me?”

“... Absolutely .”

He attempts to reach for him, only can’t get far with the cuffs still on. Castiel sighs, clucking his tongue at Dean.

“You can’t do that right now, unfortunately,” he says, stretching his leg until his foot is pressed against Dean’s crotch, “But there are other… pointsof contact .” Castiel steps down on Dean’s crotch, lightning flashing behind his eyes as Dean’s legs spasm. The rattling of the chains against the divider gets drowned out by heavy breathing.

Dean bucks against Castiel’s foot. “More!”

“In due time,” Castiel tells him, dragging his foot away, “We’ve been through so much, though… so many years of pining behind closed doors… why should we blow it all in fifteen minutes?” He drops to the floor on his knees, kicking the chair away. Crawling until barely an inch of space exists between their faces.

Castiel’s breath ghosts against his lips. Dean tips his head to capture them, only for Castiel’s thumb to dig into his chin. “No,” he whispers, “not yet. Only when I say so, understand?” When Dean doesn’t respond Castiel pinches a nipple. “Understand?”

“Yes!” he yelps, blood rushing to his dick.

“Good.”

Pulling away from his face and chest, Castiel rests on his haunches as his hands trace the seams of his jeans. “This must not be comfortable for you, can it?” he asks, smirking, “I can take it off if you desire?”

Dean nods, not trusting his voice. Except Castiel pinches him again, on his thigh. “Please,” he pants, “Please, Cas.”

“It is no problem…” He unties his boots, pulling them off to spend more time removing his socks. Peeling each one off slowly, scraping his blunt nail up the soles of his feet as the black fabric comes off. Once more his legs jump and dance uncontrollably. “Ticklish,” Castiel notes, “I’ll remember that…” Moving on Castiel drifts up to the belt, playing with the buckle. He unbuckles and re-buckles the accessory so many times Dean feels lightheaded from the bloodloss. Satisfied, finally, Castiel whips the belt off and snaps it. “Later,” he promises, setting it off to the side.

His fingers deftly unbutton his jeans, tugging them and his boxers away until Castiel exposes his ass and legs to the motel carpeting. Folding his jeans allows Dean the chance to gasp in as much air as he can before Castiel shoves him under again. He glances at his bare legs and exposed crotch, notices how his heavy dick rests in the middle of his bramble-like pubes. With only his shirt on Dean resembles Winnie the Pooh, and his knees scoot closer as if to shield himself.

Castiel guides them to where they were, frowning. “Why are you trying to hide again, Dean?”

He bites his lip, blushing. “Cause I look -”

“Amazing.”

“What?”

Castiel places his hands on Dean’s thighs and splays his bowlegs while dipping close to Dean’s face again. “You look amazing,” he places a kiss to Dean’s chin, “gorgeous,” another to his cheek, “awe-inspiring, lovely,” two to his eyelids, “miraculous,” pecks his nose, “and sexy .” Finally Castiel embraces Dean’s lips, tongue immediately poking past them for a taste.

Dean’s wrists burn from how the cuffs cut into them, keeping him from tugging Castiel’s hair or squeezing his biceps. His angel enjoys Dean’s struggle, though, breaking the kiss to laugh.

“This isn’t your time to touch,” Castiel says, “When it is, I will let you know. Until then… allow me to explore .”

They must have different understandings of what the word ‘explore’ means. Because to Dean it feels like torture . Unable to participate, passively watch Castiel comb over every piece of his body. Moan while Castiel nibbles his ear and tugs at his hair. Vision dizzying while Castiel twists his nipples and laves at his navel. His cock, stiff like a frozen popsicle, leaks precum without being touched at all. Castiel circles it: scratching his thighs, squeezing his balls, and breathing on its tip. All Dean can do is jerk forward, except he never makes contact. His angel tips backwards every time.

“Nuh-uh,” he shakes his head, “good little hunters are patient .”

“Patient?”

“You can wait a little longer, can’t you?” Castiel asks, brow arched devilishly, “Especially since I’m making this so good for you.”

“Too good,” Dean whines, “Let me… please, let me…”

“Let you what, Dean?” he asks, “Like I said, you cannot touch -”

“N-no,” Dean interrupts, “Let me… let me…”

“I’m waiting.”

“ Come .”

Castiel considers the request, thumbs kneading the skin under his thighs. Hums a maddening melody that sends shivers racing up and down Dean’s spine. “You have had a rough day, haven’t you,” he says, “It's not easy giving up control… I guess you may come. But -” his left hand slips into Dean’s asscrack and presses against his hole, “Allow me to help you along.”

“Of course, Cas,” Dean sighs, fluttering around Castiel’s thumb, “Wouldn’t have it any other way. Please…”

“I didn’t think Dean Winchester would be the one to beg…”

“Only for you, angel,” Dean babbles, “I want to be the only one for you… so bad.”

“How bad?” Castiel asks, right hand squeezing his dick, “How long ?”

“Don’t know,” he answers, “One day I blinked and-and all I wanted to do was have you near me. Have you on me. You told me once that you built me from the ground up? Well I want you to tear me the fuck down - up - whatever . Crash through my walls like a fucking wrecking ball until there’s nothing but debris. And then build me again.”

“Are you always this demanding with your partners?”

Dean chuckles, “Only the ones who’ve kept me dangling at the edge for far too long.”

“Then stop talking,” Castiel commands, “and let me push you over.”

He dies there, bare assed and on the cusp of an orgasm. At least, that’s what it felt like. Because one second he was staring at a glowing Castiel and in a blink Dean floated over his own body. Saw how glazed over his eyes became, barely a ring of green around the overly black pupils, and the specks of drool dripping from the corner of his mouth.

Compared the nakedness of his own body to how clothed Castiel still was. Lost in the immense pleasure, Dean barely noticed how Castiel hadn’t removed his layers. Yet with his entire being one delightful static he could take in the little details. Dean floats on a cloud of pure delight as Castiel pumps his dripping dick with abandon. Giggles while Castiel kisses against his chest, rucking up the sweaty shirt he wears.

Soon the static turns into a lightning storm, the cloud he rests on darkening. Dean is struck by a stray bolt, piercing his spirit and waking him from his spell. His body groans with the need for release. His wrists bleed from how they’ve rubbed the metal cuffs. Huffing, Dean begs his angel, “Can I… Oh please, please, please, Castiel, can I…?”

Castiel nods, “Of course.”

The divider snaps in two, Dean’s hands raking through Castiel’s hair. His fingertips twitch with newfound freedom. Overwhelmed by the different choices, Dean feels drunk. His nails scrape against Castiel’s scalp, down his neck and across his trench coat. He grips the jacket as the giddiness fades into his riptide-like orgasm.

Come shoots from his dick without warning, ripping a roar out from a primal part of Dean’s being. His legs bounce and his vision dangerously fades for a moment. Dean shuts down, sagging onto Castiel’s shoulder. In the next beat his systems reboot, and he gasps for breath.

“Cas,” he breathes, “ Casssssss … CasCasCasCasCasCasCasCas-”

“I’m right here, Dean,” Castiel whispers, stroking his head, “You were so good… so good.”

Dean chuckles, chains rattling. “Don’t know ‘bout that,” he shrugs, “I touched you…”

“I said it was okay, didn’t I?”

He sighs. “This is all really okay with you?”

Castiel halts, the suddenness scaring Dean. Makes him fear he said something wrong, especially when his angel draws back and cups his hands in his face. “Dean,” Castiel says, “There are no words to describe how okay I am with all of this. I am post-verbal, completely. Nothing in English, Enochian, or any other language can come close to describing the fire that burns inside for you. I only…” He ducks his gaze, sheepish for the first time since he entered, “I only hope that whatever… this was… it wasn’t an ending, or a means to an end. It’s a beginning . Is that… what you want?”

Dean’s face hurts from how wide his grin stretches. “You kidding?” he laughs, “I’m not going anywhere . Chuck himself couldn’t write me out of your life, or vice versa. What we did now, it ain’t no ‘Once Upon a Time’... but I’ll be damned if we don’t get the ‘Happily Ever After’ we deserve.”

Their foreheads knock into each other so Dean can only see Castiel’s face. Studies the gentle blue waves of his eyes, peaceful enough to lull him to sleep. His blinks slow and lengthen, lids heavier each time.

Castiel huffs. “You’re tired.”

“No I’m not,” Dean yawns, straightening against the divider. “I can still go. I have to…” he glances at Castiel’s crotch, “it’d be selfish if you did all that and I konk out like some pillow princess.”

“I won’t mind, Dean,” he tells him, “Don’t feel obligated. Besides… we have the time.”

Dean startles, lips parting. “Yeah… yeah, I guess we do.”

“Lay down, Dean. Relax…” Castiel guides Dean’s head to the side, laying it on the jeans he folded earlier. Then his angel follows, wrapping his arm around Dean. Castiel’s chest blanketed his back, easing Dean into unconsciousness.

Before his eyes closed, Dean wrapped both his hands around Castiel’s, squeezing it. “I’m so happy…”

“As am I. Now rest… I’ll be here when you wake up…”

Dean sleeps the easiest he has in years.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------

He wakes with the slam of the front door, a frightful breath rushing into his body. Dean jumps to a sitting position, staring wildly at his brother.

Sam gapes down at him, bag plopping beside him as his grip slackened considerably. Skin pale, his brother’s hazel eyes fade to grey as he processes the sight in front of him. Dean uses the time to take his still shackled hands and pulled his shirt over his junk. “Cas,” he hisses, “Cas, wake up!”

Castiel growls from behind him. “I’m not asleep, Dean.”

“Yes, you are.”

“Angels don’t sleep.”

“Oh, then you chose to let Sam walk in without warning me?”

His angel perks up, squinting an eye open to see the younger Winchester standing in front of the still open door like a zombie. Flying to his feet, Castiel stumbles over to the bed. “Sam?” he gasps, “What are - what are you doing back so soon?”

Watching Castiel panic sets Sam off. Realizing what he walked in on, he claps a hand over his eyes and spins on his heel. “This isn’t what I had in mind when I left you two alone!”

Dean rolls his eyes. “Sorry, Sam, but how else were we supposed to pass the time?”

Sam splutters, shoulders tensing. “I can’t believe you two were here… while I had to salt ‘n’ burn all by myself!”

“I apologize for the deception, Sam,” Castiel blushes, “if you had known exactly what impulses Moreley made Dean act on, then you would have seen how prudent it was that I stayed here.”

Curiosity piqued, Sam cranes his neck to the side and peeks in. He won’t look at Dean, still pantless. Instead he focuses on Castiel. “His impulses?”

Dean sighs. “Cas here was more magnetic than usual… my hands couldn’t stay away?”

Sam’s eyes rolled heavenward, the hand hovering nearby steeples at his temple. “Could you please put on pants if you’re going to be an idiot?”

“It’s kinda hard when you’re handcuffed…” Dean bites his lip, faltering somewhat. “This… you’re not upset, are you?”

“Kinda,” Sam admits, terrifying Dean, “I mean I was worrying the ghost was gonna make you hurt yourself when all it wanted was for you to fool around with your best friend? I could’ve left you two in the car if that were the case… at least I wouldn’t have been alone.”

Dean’s heart calms at the confession. Glancing over at Castiel, however, he sees his angel’s expression dim. Sensing what needs to be done, Dean clears his throat. “Actually,” he says, “we weren’t… fooling around.”

Sam turns to him, shocked. “What?”

“Me and Cas,” Dean continues, smiling, “it was more than that, Sam. Deeper and… shit. Like, you might see me holding his hand without needing some wackadoo ghost prompting me. So I’m asking again… you’re not upset, right?”

“Dean, I…” Sam offers him a smile, “no, I could never… I’m happy for you two.” He looks between them. “Happy, but also traumatized… I didn’t need to see your dick.”

Dean pulls his shirt further over his junk. “There were more important things than getting dressed… at the time.”

“If you give us a few minutes,” Castiel says, “we can have this place as clean as you left it -”

“Nope,” Sam cuts him off, groping around for his duffle, “you could bathe this entire place in a blacklight and there wouldn’t be a bright spot, I still won’t be able to sleep. I’m gonna see if there’s another room or… sleep in the Impala. You two can have this room.”

He almost leaves until Dean calls for him. “Where’d you put the handcuff key?”

“Bedside drawer!” Sam shuts the door behind him, Dean and Castiel alone again.

Dean stands, moving towards the drawer. Finding the key, he makes quick work of unlocking them. He chucks them to the wayside and rubs his ruined wrists.

Castiel glides over, gently bringing Dean’s wrists close. He lightly brushes his lips against the skin there, a rush of electricity crackling against it. The tiny wounds and cuts heal themselves, the red skin fading into its usual color.

“Nice.”

“So?” Castiel says, “How are you feeling? Are your hands your own again?”

Dean shrugs, laying his hands against Castiel’s shoulders. “Kinda hard to tell… I don’t have any other impulses I’m ignoring at the moment?”

Castiel raises a brow. “Really? None?”

“Okay… maybe one.”

“What is it?”

He shoves Castiel against the bed, scrambling on top of him. Legs spread wide to straddle his angel. “Yeah,” he whispers, “I chose to do that.”

Castiel chuckles, “Was that it?”

Dean kisses him, rolling his crotch so it rubbed against his angel’s tenting slacks. “Not even close… I’ve got a lot of pent-up frustration I need to work through.”

“Well we have the time, Dean.”

“We do, don’t we?” Dean sighs, “We finally do.” They kiss again, Dean’s hands sliding away from Castiel’s wrists to cup his jaw. The stubble scrapes delightfully against his palms, reminding Dean that as fantastical the chain of events were, it’s all real. He and Castiel actually came together and the world didn’t end.

Rather, it felt like his world was only beginning.

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