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The last person Dean wants to see is the town deputy sitting on his porch swing like he owns the place. It’s late, horribly so, Dean is sore, and all he wants is a sponge bath and some sleep before he’s expected back at the saloon tomorrow afternoon.
“You know my hours; I’m off the clock. Now get going before Zachariah catches you off your leash,” Dean yells up to his own porch.
“Zachariah is dead,” Castiel’s voice betrays no emotion, and anyone less familiar with him may have taken his indifference as an admission of guilt. Dean knows better – has become used to the steady tone, even in moments of crisis. He remembers when that voice…
Eugh, enough with the daydreams.
“And? I didn’t kill him; come back in the morning if you want to talk so bad.”
“You’re agitated. Were your gentlemen-”
“Ain’t mine and ain’t nothing gentle about ‘em. Get off my damn porch, Cas.” Hot red shame rises up Dean’s chest like a violent wave of bile. It’s meant to be unspoken – the fact that Cas knows about his gig in the next city over. It isn’t Dean’s fault that his deadbeat father fucked off and left them with no money and no hope. It isn’t Dean’s fault that Sammy wanted to get out of the dust and make something of himself. It isn’t Dean’s fault, but it’s his responsibility, so he softens his edges, purses his lips, and bats his eyelashes at scoundrels, thieves, and worse just to scrape together a Yale tuition.
“Apologies, I’ve overstepped a boundary,” Cas squints like he’s looking through Dean’s eyes and into his soul. “For the record, I don’t think any less of you for being a whore.”
Anger flickers, flickers again, then sputters out – he’s too tired to fight. The shame has morphed from a red flush against his cheekbones to a burn behind his eyes. Fuck. He needs to sleep.
“Why are you here, Cas? What do you want from me?”
“I’m appointing you.” And with that, Castiel stands, brushes aside Dean’s riding cloak and jacket and fastens a pin to the vest underneath. His hand stays for a heartbeat too long before retreating back.
Dean stares for a minute, awestruck, before cold realization pierces through. His hands shake when he tries to unfasten the bronze star. Nausea rolls, and he finds himself a little furious.
“No. No. You can’t just fuckin’ waltz in here and appoint me to clean up your mess and be in charge. You can’t ask me to jump and expect me to ask how high. I already got two jobs, I don’t need a third. ‘Sides, you said it yourself – I’m a whore; a pin won’t make me righteous again.” He can feel himself getting close to snapping, close to lashing out at the man of the law in front of him. Anger, frustration, and shame are burning too hot to touch. Fight or flight, and the answer will always be fight. He shoves at Cas.
Cas catches his arm, twisting them around and walking him backwards into the siding of his own house. Dean’s back hits the uneven logs. His mind races, looking for a way to get away or go down fighting.
“You should learn to respect me – I saved you before and I’ll save you again. This is your ticket out. No more nights spent servicing men, no more skipping meals to save money, no more secret life in a different town. You can settle, relax.” The sweep of Cas’s thumb against the back of his hands is strangely intimate. He grits his teeth against it.
Settling – now there’s a concept Dean’s past giving up on. He’d once had dreams of quitting the saloon; shifting his focus solely to blacksmithing. He’d even tried it once – in another life, it feels like – and the results had been abysmal. He’d sulked back to the saloon with his tail between his legs; hungry, broke, and begging for his old job back. Nobody had wanted to take a chance on some nobody blacksmith who hadn’t even apprenticed under anyone.
“I’m not the man you want me to be, Cas. Nobody’s gonna be happy getting locked up by the town orphan-turned-floozy. I’ve got too many wires crossed up here and the Winchester name isn’t honorable or intimidating or worth anything anymore. It’s a damn curse is what it is,” and now he’s on a roll, now he can’t stop the words pouring out of his mouth, “Do you know what it’s like to be a mother at age four? Do you know what it’s like to sacrifice everything and have it not be enough? To have your father call you by your dead mother’s name – a woman I barely remember but one I’ve had to become so I could keep the waters calm and keep Sammy from drowning with me? Do you understand how that completely fucks up my head? You don’t, so no, you can’t save me. We’re done here.”
He shoves Cas again, harder this time, managing to break from his hold and rush inside – locking the door behind him. He needs to sleep. He needs to sleep. He needs to sleep.
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Cas is, unsurprisingly, still on Dean’s porch in the morning. Dean supposes the porch swing is big enough to sleep on, comfort notwithstanding.
“I said no.” Dean shoulders past him, making a beeline for the shed he uses as a makeshift forge.
Cas catches him by the upper arm.
“Sheriff Winchester-”
“Do not start-”
“Would you let me finish?” Cas stares through him again before flicking his gaze down to Dean’s mouth for the briefest of seconds, “As I was saying, sheriff Winchester, I won’t accept any other appointee. You may be the most stubborn, bullheaded man in this town, but you’re stubborn for the right reasons. Everything you do – everything you’ve done – you do for the benefit of others. Name one thing you’ve done for yourself.”
Dean draws a sharp, annoyed breath. He doesn’t have time for this; doesn’t have the patience to argue before a shift. It’s already put him in a bad mood, which is bad news for tonight’s tips. He’s barely making enough as is, with monsoon season hitting as hard as it has been. He’ll probably have to sell forge equipment to cover this month’s tuition payment-
Castiel tightens his grip on Dean’s arm, shaking him a bit to break the depressive spiral.
“I- blacksmithing. Blacksmithing is something I do for myself.”
Cas’s hand gentles into an almost-caress before dropping back to his side.
“Good. I’m glad. If you accept my appointment, you’ll have more time to do so. You’ll be able to improve like you want to and still provide for your brother. I won’t let you fall, but you have to trust me.”
Dean sighs; sighs again harder when he sees Cas’s eyes – impossibly blue, impossibly sincere – focused on his own. 16 years of raising Sammy and he’s still weak to puppy eyes. There’s just something about vulnerability and hope laid bare like that – it dares him to believe in a softer future.
“Okay. You win, Cas. I accept.”
_____________________________________________
Word travels fast in their small little town, especially when the word involves John Winchester’s greatest failure.
Dean was right – the townsfolk and Cas definitely had different ideas of what constituted a respectable sheriff. Not that they necessarily knew about Dean’s night job, but he had a sinking feeling they knew something was off.
“Aint been round here in months and now you think you can just be our sheriff? John must’a smacked you boys ‘round harder than I thought.”
“Look look it’s our own mystery man, out of hiding. We thought you were dead, mourning the loss of that freak of a brother of yours.”
“Ladies and gentlemen, there he is: the man too good for the rest of us. You’re not slick, sneaking about every night. Got something to hide, Dean-o?”
And that one struck him cold.
“The hell do you know about my habits, James?” Cold sweat, hot sweat, cold sweat, hot sweat, an anxiety tremor that felt like earthquakes wracking his body, “’You this much of a scoundrel when it comes to everybody, or just me?”
The man in question grins, syrup-slow and satisfied, “Just keeping tabs on the Winchester legacy. You’ve had a spectacular fall from grace, you know. Tell me, boy, what business do you have in Mesa? Can’t be the liquor, can’t be the women – we got plenty of both ‘round here. Is it money? Anonymity? Men?”
Really, Dean can’t be blamed for throwing the first punch. Fight or flight, and the answer will always be fight. In hindsight, maybe his flight response is rusted out and busted from disuse. It’s always fight; it’ll always be fight and one day it’ll be his last. Not today though. Today, he feels James’ jaw crack against his knuckles. Today, he smells the copper-sharp scent of blood as James reflexively bites into his own tongue. Today, he sees the sly smile and lit-up eyes of someone who has him figured out.
Sheriff Dean Winchester throws the first punch before panic cuts through him like a bullet. Sheriff Dean Winchester picks flight for the first time since John Winchester died.
___________________________________________________
It’s 11pm. It’s 11pm and Dean is pacing the living room floor. He’s never paced before, but today has been a day of firsts – a long day of firsts. He’s sweating, he’s shivering. He feels like he’s going to vomit. He doesn’t feel anything at all.
“You’re distressed” The voice comes from nowhere and everywhere all at once. It’s barely a whisper but it clashes like an untuned saloon piano in his head, echoing off his skull over and over and over. It’s startling, sudden - overwhelming. Heat wells up behind Dean’s eyes. He’s going to cry. He’s going to cry. He doesn’t know why he doesn’t want Castiel to see him so weak - the man has seen him at his absolute worst; out of his mind with grief and whiskey, begging for…
Goddamn it.
Instead of crying, Dean kicks at the legs of his dining room table.
“No shit I’m distressed, Cas, I told you this wouldn’t work!” He resumes his pacing.
“I’m not understanding the problem. Someone ran their mouth and you hit him. It was a good show of power without being too forceful. You’re a good man, Dean. The town will come around to see that,” and Cas sounds like he’s talking to some damn skittish animal. It’s a coaxing, gentle tone. Come here, I won’t hurt you. It’s the same tone he used the night when he first found Dean; first saved Dean.
“Cas… Cas, why can’t you just realize that nobody wants me? My momma died, my dad wanted my mom, not me. My own brother - who I raised from birth - doesn’t want me, the town doesn’t want me.” He feels like crying again, but kicking the table twice seems like the action of a crazed man. He clenches his fists, jagged nails digging into his palm to keep the tears at bay.
“I want you.” Cas tells him.
Dean shuts his eyes tight, clenches his fists tighter, chokes back the hope that dares to attempt to rise in his chest.
“Shut up, shut up no you don’t. Don’t you dare say that. Don’t you dare. You pity me, there’s a big damn difference. Congrats pal, you rescued a stray cat. There’s a reason someone else threw that cat to the street – there’s something wrong with the cat; there’s something wrong with me.” Dean’s never known how to stop his mouth from going, once he gets going, “You found me that night, drunk and delirious on my mother’s grave with my gun in my mouth. You think you did me such a damn favor – you think you rescued me – but it would have been a kindness to just let me die.”
Arms wind around him, and he finally shatters into big, ugly tears and heaving breaths. God, what a baby. What an absolute sniveling, whiny child. It doesn’t matter anyway because Cas is going to be leaving soon, walking out the door without looking back. Dean can allow himself this one weakness before he has to build his walls back up. Cas ain’t the type to spread rumors, so maybe he’ll even escape with a shred of his dignity intact.
“I want you. You’re wanted. You’re loved. I’m sorry you’ve been abandoned and neglected, but that cycle ends now. I saved you. I dragged you out of your personal hell – saw you through not only that night but the nights of withdrawal and agony. I remade you, body and soul. I gave you a new life. I appointed you as mine, Dean Winchester.” And those river blue eyes are staring directly into his soul again, intent as if they could burn a brand onto it. Dean closes his eyes again and tries to match his hitching breaths with Cas’s slow, assured ones.
They end up on the couch - it’s an old thing from Sammy’s childhood and it certainly wasn’t meant to hold two grown men at once, but they make do - Dean’s back to Cas’s chest. Cas has one hand in Dean’s hair, fingers gentle, scratching a bit behind the shell of his ear. His other arm is across Dean’s chest, keeping him held close. Dean cycles through waves of calmness, guilt, and self-hatred for breaking down in the first place; for even needing to be held like this – like a frightened child.
He needs desperately to be taken out of his head, needs a reprieve from the way his brain refuses to let him experience any scrap of happiness.
“Would you… I mean you don’t have to if you don’t want but… would you --” and this is so much easier when it’s a nameless nobody in Mesa. Hey handsome, let me take you to bed. Fuck me into the mattress. Come upstairs with me, Casanova. Let me take care of your stress. With Cas, it’s so difficult to put into words. Dean’s tongue feels like cotton and his head is no better off. The situation is fragile and breakable in his calloused hands. Regardless of how gentle he is, the shattering is inevitable.
He takes several deep breaths, trying not to spiral back into self-hatred again.
“Will you. Will you. Show me how much you want me?” God, he sounds pathetic. This was a horrible idea. He tries to push Cas’s arm off of him; tries to slip the hold to no avail. He begins to scratch, clawing desperately as panic hits him square in the chest. Fight or flight and the answer is flight for the second time today – and Dean’s sure there’s some higher power somewhere marking today as some cosmic occurrence. If he’s lucky, he’ll be able to blame it on the full moon.
Cas tightens his grip, starts making calming noises. Again with the skittish animal act, again with the coaxing a wolf to eat from his hand like a housecat. It has the opposite effect. Dean thrashes, scratches, considers biting – anything to get out. Cas moves his hand from Dean’s hair to his eyes, and his world goes dark. With sight gone, the universe narrows down to his other senses – the steady rise and fall of Cas’s chest, the beat of his heart against Dean’s back; the smell and sound of the nighttime desert air coming in through the windows. Breath by breath, he calms, until he’s nearly boneless in Cas’s arms.
“I told you to trust me. I told you I wouldn’t let you fall; I’ll catch you.”
And so Dean lets go, stares down the barrel of fight and flight and chooses neither. He chooses instead to trust-fall backwards.
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The position isn’t unfamiliar, but the softness of a real bed underneath his back is a welcome change from the shoddy excuses for mattresses on the second floor of the saloon. While Cas undresses, Dean lays back, stretching his spine until he hears a series of small pops and clicks.
Wanted. Cas wants him. Cas wants him. Cas wants him and wants to settle down. The thought makes Dean’s stomach twist into knots of equal parts doubt and glee. He tries to focus back on the moment. The moment is something he can work with -- sex is a game he’s good at and has the positive reviews -- and tips -- to prove it. He catches Cas staring and rolls his hips in a filthy invitation.
Cute. He’s never seen Cas blush before. He makes it a goal to make it happen again – as many times as Cas will allow.
Cas keeps his movements slow and deliberate, right on the borderline of teasing. When he finally, finally, crosses the room, Dean’s breath catches in his throat. Working at the saloon, he'd seen plenty of men in a variety of states of undress, but Cas was beautiful, handsome, muscular in ways Dean hadn't imagined -- what with the way Cas always hid behind layers and layers.
His eyes sweep lower, from his chest down to his arms to the vee of his hips to –
“Oh,” Dean’s voice lilts into something breathless. He’s never wanted anything as much as he wants Cas’s dick in his mouth. He wants, wants, needs. He shifts, hops off the bed and moves to kneel on the floor, hoping Cas will give him what he wants without having to embarrass himself with saying it.
“Beloved,” Cas whispers, taking a seat on the edge of the bed in front of Dean. Dean nestles close, resting his head on Cas’s thigh and pressing a secret, soft kiss there. This feels so much more intimate than anything he had done at the saloon, and the thought overwhelms him a little – overwhelms him a lot. Cas’s hands rest gently in his hair, petting the caramel locks back reverently, like Dean is something to be cherished. Dean digs his fingers into his palms, fighting back the sharp heat behind his eyes. Dean Winchester does not cry twice in a day, and he certainly does not cry during sex.
Cas never pushes or pulls like the faceless men at the saloon do. He pets, holds, and waits patiently for Dean to compose himself. Dean calms under Cas’s hands, pressing one more kiss to his upper thigh before giving into his base desires and swallowing Cas down.
“Beloved,” Cas moans, stilling his hands. Dean whines frustratedly, pressing closer in the hope that Cas will pull his hair, drag his nails along the sides of his head. Cas’s dick hits the back of his throat and he pushes closer still, laving his tongue along the underside and pulling out all the stops he’d picked up from his years of work. He feels frenzied, desperate, needy. Tell me I’m good, tell me you want me, tell me I’m yours.
Strong hands brush through Dean’s hair, tugging at the ends before smoothing out the discomfort with soft fingertips. He looks up at Cas through his eyelashes, silently begging for Cas’s blue eyes to ground him in comfortable familiarity. Cas has his eyes screwed shut in pleasure, and his mouth is moving in words Dean can’t quite make out through the haze of desire muddying up all of his senses. He redoubles his efforts, stopping only when Cas pulls his hair hard enough to push Dean back.
Dean licks at the empty air, eyes closed and trembling slightly, whining discontentedly at the loss. Give it back or fuck me his brain supplies, but he’s unable to get his mouth to focus on anything other than being wet, warm, and ready.
“I believe you wanted me to show you how much I want you. Allow me to demonstrate.” Cas moves back against the headboard, and Dean struggles to get enough coordination to join him. As soon as he’s up off the floor, he’s pulled close -- he’s staring down those brilliant blue eyes and breathing into Cas’s mouth. Cas tastes like mint and coffee, and Dean licks greedily behind his teeth for more.
Time moves slow and sticky like the saltwater taffy Sammy sends from Connecticut. It distorts like sound waves underwater, and Dean thinks that maybe he’s drowning until Cas drags his fingers over his back, over his tailbone towards his hole. Then, he knows he’s drowning. He’s gasping and moaning atop Cas. He tries to flip positions, give Cas the reins and just hold on. Cas holds him steady, thwarting his attempts to roll them both over.
“I want to see you ride me,” It’s the filthiest thing Dean has ever heard out of son-of-a-preacher, Phoenix-deputy, you’ll-call-me-my-full-name Castiel’s mouth and it only sends him slipping further and further into the haze of lust. A long, breathy string of yesyesyesyes is bubbling from his lips before his mind has fully wrapped around Cas’s words - his fingers have already joined Cas’s, twisting and crooking and stretching in ways that make Dean feel a bit floaty. He’s drowning, he’s drowning, he’s drowning and he doesn’t want to come up for air.
When Cas decides he’s had enough prep, he moves his hands to Dean’s hips -- pressing his fingertips firmly into the skin there like he’s trying to brand it. Dean takes the hint, lining up carefully before luxuriating in the cinder-hot burn and stretch as he sinks down. The feeling makes his eyes roll back and his mouth drop open wantonly. Like the women you work with, the voice in the back of his head whispers, and the thought tears a moan from his throat. He drops down the rest of the way and tries to breathe. It’s like he can feel Cas through his whole body. It’s overwhelming and comforting at the same time. Claimed. You feel claimed. He appointed you as his.
Dean feels exposed, vulnerable and put on display in the best kind of way. He rocks up a bit, watching his own fever-red erection bob with the motion. Lewd. The movement catches Cas’s attention, and he moves one hand from Dean’s hip to his cock, stroking in long, elegant sweeps and thumbing at the leaking slit. Dean throws his head back and damn near bites through his tongue.
It’s hot, slick, sticky. The air between them is heavy and electric. Dean’s legs tremor with exertion before giving out entirely, leaving him frantically rolling his hips, shaking from just how fucked-out he feels. He doesn’t want to finish first; it was an unspoken rule at the saloon to always care for the customer first, always make sure the other person was completely satisfied before you thought about your own pleasure. Dean tries to hold out, but Cas’s hands are something magical and they have him coming to the sound of his own hitched moans.
Cas keeps fucking him even as he slumps against his chest like a ragdoll. Dean feels like he’s put his tongue to the tip of a nine-volt battery -- electric current running through his veins and cranking his senses up to eleven. Before too long, Cas’s hips stutter and he pulls out, finishing across both their chests. Dean groans, halfheartedly wiping them both off with his discarded shirt before finagling the sheets and blankets over their legs.
Cas’s fingertips trace patterns over his back and shoulders, leaving a warm, tingling feeling in their wake. The pressure feels divinely intimate, like the heat is sinking through his skin and deep into his bones. He feels loved – wholly, intensely, recklessly – and he doesn’t know what to do with the feeling.
Dean is vaguely aware of Cas’s hands moving into his hair again before he’s too tired to be aware of anything. He falls asleep without a gun under his pillow for the first time since his mother died.
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