The night was calling but Dean Winchester was not in the mood to listen. His highly polished, ivory-handled Colt preceded him through the shadowed forest. He wanted those howling bastards to see the moonlight sparking silver off the gleaming nickel; its silver bullets lovingly crafted with his hankering to splatter their guts. Voice full, deep and dark he bellowed, “C’mon you bitches, manwich incoming! I’m the tastiest piece of ass you’ll see for a long time.” Rustles to the rear and sides sounded maybe twenty feet away. Holding his left arm close like it was supporting his right he had his blue Taurus under the jacket with the Beretta tucked above where the sun don’t shine. “I’m all alone like you girls want it. I even brought barbeque sauce!” Heavy footsteps scratched, scrabbling closer. He could almost smell their feral stink, ready and waiting on the sounds he knew should be coming from straight onward. He muttered low urgently, not having to put on too false a show of nerves, “Someone feel free to lose it over me first. Nice scrumptious Dean Tartar on the hoof. Hell, I almost wanna eat myself.”
Breaking branches snapped from ahead in a flurry waving leaves as two of the biggest werewolves he’d ever laid eyes on sped hunched over towards him. He raised the Taurus at the same time as the Colt and shot them in rapid succession with the darker weapon. Not giving in to the fleeting urge to watch them down, he pivoted to his left, firing the Taurus again at the three advancing from a clump of bushes. Hauling ass towards their fallen bodies, he jumped over and turned when he landed, firing at the two who’d been across from his current position. One of them dropped immediately but the other still came on. Dean aimed high at what he thought were glinting teeth and let the mutt have it with both barrels. Not pausing to gloat over the headless wonder he looked sharply to his right where the ones trailing him had been. No sound of approach came but he couldn’t be sure they hadn’t stopped or doubled back while their brethren were en route to the Rainbow Lounge of Purgatory. It was impossible to tell by scent with the dual pleasures of werewolf sweat and iron-tangy blood bad touching his fine nostrils. Crossing the Colt over his left wrist he put the barrel close to his skin; relatively cool. He engaged the thumb safety and carefully jammed the barrel against his flank inside his waistband. Wincing, he held the Taurus ready, reaching back for the Beretta. He raising it up quick, growling, “No more warnin’s, puppydogs.”
Switching off the safety level he faded back into the bushes. He desperately wanted to suck in all the air he could cram into his lungs, get the full sensual feast of disgusting odor he’d gladly taste. Instead he settled for delicate, bitchy little sips through his nose. Twitching at a soft thud off to his left he stared in that direction before whipping around to snarl at the two dogs that just weren’t fricking clever enough tonight. One of them made a whining sound but that only made Dean madder. No warnings meant no warnings so he didn’t give vent to his contempt, blasting Whiny with both guns first. Hunching over to pursue Old Yeller he saved himself for another hunt when a third little bitch swiped at the air where his head should’ve been. He cocked his head aside while tsking before putting the Taurus to Whiffer’s chest and firing three times because he was feeling pissy. Old Yeller was making a last stand when he stood up, advancing on the balls of his paws. Dean shook his head, finally fed up, “Burn was right, ‘… when one don’t run, or maybe makes fight at you,” the werewolf flung himself forward, wicked claws fully extended. Dean stepped back as he fired, emptying the Taurus and firing twice more with the Beretta. Doggie down. He breathed deep to finish, ” ‘… why, you shoot him and shoot him quick.’ “
Trudging back to the Impala was a slow labor of love as he kept an ear, eye, and reloaded Taurus out for any furry reinforcements. Dean stared into her backseast before slumping in behind the wheel. “Freakin’ Mother of All dead, Cas hopped up on Purgatory Juice, and Sammy decidin’ at long last to get some action after who the frick knows how long and all these motherless bitches still think they can take me out.” He woke his baby up and got the Hell out of there before someone called the Humane Society. He kept the Taurus out, barrel facing the back door tucked just enough between the seat and backrest to not slide around. Dean checked the mirrors frequently for signs of pursuit, law or otherwise. The quiet of the night was barely liveable with only the sound of his baby’s airy purr for company. Flicking on the radio helped and he found himself drawn to the sound of a song his dad used to like when he was in a misty-eyed, drunken state. It was a bit poppy for Dean’s taste but the lyrics caught at him, particularly now:
Why, whoa oh oh
I can’t stay any longer
Why, whoa oh oh
I can’t stay any mo-ore
I got sparks when I see you
My dear, my dear
Or hear your voice on the phone
I need ya, need ya
I feel a tide risin’ in you
My dear, my dear
When we’re together, alone*
“God damn it.” He detuned the radio and raised the volume, white noise to blast out the memories of his lost lady and the closest thing to a son he’d ever get to have in this life. Chuckling darkly he raised his voice to shout, hoarse with all he didn’t want to think about, “Or should I be saying CAS dammit, you overflowin’ crapper of STUPID ASSBUTTMONKEY BASTARD?!” Careless of what was ahead on the road he turned near full around to glare at the seat behind him, fearing and hoping to see his new god. Blowing out a rush of air he grumbled, “Keep it together, Winchester,” turning back to the road, grateful to find it clear. “Who the Hell did that song. It’s right on the tip of my,” he trailed off, fervently hoping he was wrong but, no. “Aww, for crap’s sake. The fuckin’ Werewolves. Dad, if you can hear me wherever you’re hauntin’, screw you very much. Okay? Why the Hell did you have to,” he smacked the steering wheel hard, frowning sharply before caressing slowly, “I’m sorry, baby. And Dad. It’s not either of your faults for Lisa or Ben. Or Cas.” I got sparks when I see you.
There wasn’t a sock on the door or Do Not Disturb sign or whatever the Hell Sam might use these days to show he’d scored and the lights were all off. The tiny shard of paper he’d left at the top edge of the door was still at the same angle so Dean figured it was safe enough to unlock and enter. Shifting his paper bag he stuck the key away to put his hand on the pocketed Taurus before pushing the door open. Kicking it closed brought no stealthy attack but he bent his knees to set the bag down rather than stoop over, drawing out the gun as he reached behind to lock up. He flipped on the lights; one hanging over the cheap table went on fine but the one on the dresser flickered and went out in a small burst of sparks. “Crap, hope the bulb didn’t break. Not that I wanted to tiptoe barefoot across this grubby carpet but Sammy might.” Advancing steadily he ignored the problem to grab open the tiny closet. No surprised douchebag waited inside so pushed it closed loudly and lunged for the bathroom light with his empty left hand. The shower curtain was pulled back so unless someone was holding their breath in the toilet Dean was relatively safe from corporeal threats. He raised his foot to pry it open with his boot, leaning his head back while rolling his eyes down in case of ugliness of any kind. “Frickin’ sanitized for your protection. Too bad they never think to add salt.” He let the lid slam shut, the hollow plastic sound reminding him how lonely this time of night was without a monster or two for company.
Shrugging at himself in the mirror he couldn’t summon up the chutzpah for a wink so stuck the Taurus in his jacket. Without taking it off, he got to washing his hands, brushing his teeth with a look of contempt for the floss Sam was always pestering him to use. He spit loud into the sink, telling himself out loud, “It don’t matter because every time I turn around I’m getting resurrected with a brand new frickin’ set of gums and re-hymenated to where it’s not even fun to annoy Sammy with anymore.” Rinsing the stupid little brush he stuck it on one of the scraps of cloth they called a clean towel and raised his hand to smack the lights off. Right before he touched them, both the ceiling heat lamp and oversink fixture popped softly, a spray of sparks flaring out at him from both directions. “WHAT THE HELL?!” His hand had kept moving to switch them off so maybe they wouldn’t catch fire and give him another thrilling death. In a husky whisper he said, “Okay, whoever or whatever’s doin’ that, kindly kiss off. I’m beat and about to get drunk and I really don’t need this crap right now. If you’re werewolf ghosts, that goes doubleplus screw off for you.” Dean patted his hair and jacket but found no glass shards. Raising his middle finger he stalked out fully expecting the dangling table light to blow up. When it didn’t he said, “Thank you for not screwin’ with me any further. I’ll pour you out a drink if you can keep from blowin’ the bed lamp up,” he raised his hand, holding up first two then three fingers before frowning tightly and raising all five, “I freakin’ promise.”
As nothing further continued to not happen, Dean nodded once before upending his head to look at the dresser lamp. “Huh, not broken either. Guess this place is savin’ a little dough with cheapass bulbs?” Pouting his full lips thoughtfully he grabbed the two plastic wrapped glasses, warily stepping over to the table for his self-medication then proceeding to the inner side of the neatly made bed nearest the door. “Kinda nice to see these people using real glasses again. Sam really needs to get a grip and not get all teary-eyed over reusable crap.” Inhaling sharply he undid the wrappers before pulling out his reward, a bottle of Johnny Walker Gold Label. Pouring two fingers for who or whatever first, he filled his up to two fingers away from the rim. “See, there you are. I kept my part. You keep yours, all right?” Dean glared around the room as he put the cap back on, setting the bottle down beside the lamp. He cracked his knuckles and reached to push the little doodad with one eye closed. “Aah, thank … damn, thanks whoever.” He pushed himself against the wall on the lumpy mattress, not bothering to take off his jacket or boots. Picking up his glass he frowned, more than a hint of bitterness in his throaty voice, “I think I’ll just sit here, drink, and not push my freakin’ luck with the TV in case it feels like makin’ like an angel appearin’ out of nowhere.” Or hear your voice on the phone.
Resting the glass on his stomach he stared at it while thinking of his remark’s inspiration. Unable to keep the overwhelming sadness within his aching head his tone sank, “Showoff Cas and his thunderin’ showers of sparks with flashes of,” he waved his other hand, “oooh, aaah wings and lightning. Impressive as Hell but sometimes,” he pinched the bridge of his nose tightly with thumb and forefinger, “Sometimes I wish to the Old God he’d just freakin’ picked a woman to occupy.” Fury gripped him suddenly and he shouted, raising his fist towards the ceiling, “And not a child, either.” Trying to collect himself he lowered his volume to a near whisper, “Crazy, easily confused frickin’ angel.” Gulping down half his glass in one shot, he smacked himself on the chest, coughing. “Not the way to treat Gold Label, Winchester. Good thing those bastards jacked up the price of Blue or Rufus might’ve come down from Heaven to bitch at me for wastin’ it like that. Or Hell. He did his share of bad things, I have no doubt.” Raising his glass high towards the ceiling, he took a moderate mouthful sighing deep as the soothing burn distracted him.
Several minutes later, when he couldn’t feel his tongue anymore, he swallowed the sweet liquor, “That’s the ticket. I wonder if Sam’s sendin’ up flare signals yet. Frickin’ re-hymenated, re-intergrated Sasquatch. At least he’s loosened up enough to get stumblin’ drunk more than once a month now.” He shifted his whiskey to the other hand to get his cell, taking a second to move the Colt from where it’d been poking his waist. He set it on the bed close, pulling out the phone. There was indeed a text message in queue, as well as voice mail waiting but he shrugged. Lifting his chin to take a bead on the waste basket, he chucked it across. “Two points for me. Not quite a Yahtzee but I’ll take it.” Feeling pretty relaxed already he took another overly large swig, letting it numb his tongue again as he removed the Beretta from where it was trying to get fresh with his backside. Taking his time by swallowing small amounts of his mouthful he laid it beside the other gun. Swapping the glass over once more he took the Taurus from his pocket. Laying his finger along its side he squinted at the matte blue finish.
“You, my fine and worthy friend, I may leave to my brother so he can have a matched set upon my final go round in the Death lottery. God … aw Hell. O, Random Douchebag in high schoool I borrowed a girlfriend from, I really fuckin’ hope it’s soon. Just gotta get Moosehead settled up first with some non-possessed non-bitch.” He laid the pistol on his stomach and downed the rest of his glass, letting the alcohol sear his throat all the way down. Leaning over without looking he grabbed the bottle, sticking it between his arm and his chest to unscrew the cap before tossing it to keep the cell company; it bounced off the edge onto the carpet. “Guess I’ll have to take that in my first one’s row, crap. Hmmph.” Shrugging he poured himself golden to the brim, bracing the bottle against his stomach next to the Taurus. He held his mouthful this time, inhaling the fumes slowly through his nose to add to the flavor. As he was beginning to wonder where he’d left the remote both lights flickered sharply in counterpoint to the ones outside. With a series of cracks like an automatic rifle spray, sparks and fine shards of glass began falling on him from the bedtable lamp. Swallowing, he lolled his head back and forth against the wall, a small laugh erupting and growing frantic. He wheezed, a tear trickling from each tightly shut, crinkly eye.
Out of nowhere a hand smacked him so hard on the head he saw spiky stars flashing against his lids. Still laughing, he spat out, “Even when I see stars they’re sparky. If that’s you, Sammy, you’re gonna be seein’ some Fourth of July fireworks right before the lights go out.” The bottle was wrenched from his grip and the pistol fell to the floor, “Holy crap, dude, you know better than to screw around a gun with like that.” He covered his whiskey with his now free hand, holding it away to the safe side. No one spoke but the presence felt familiar to his whirling senses, “I mean screw around with a gun like that. Son of a bitch, I’m just havin’ a little nightcap and you,” he opened his eyes at last and nearly dropped his glass, “CAS?!” He turned his head away to drink steadily as if it were cool water, ignoring the fire erupting within. Tossing its empty self backwards Dean stared up at the still annoyingly smug former angel who seemed indecently naked without his trenchcoat. He’d kept the cheap suit but his blue silk tie was straightened, tied in a double Windsor knot. The comforting, dusky deep rasp was gone as Castiel spoke, smiling at him as never before, “I still may not forgive you for your refusal to profess yet it gave me immense pleasure to not smite you as you and your family deserved.” Lifting his chin in a movement Dean distantly thought like Colin Firth’s in that damned stuttering king movie, the Lord God Idiot McCastiel sat with back ramrod straight, hands curled over his knees on the other bed like it was a throne.
“I will not let you kill yourself or throw your life away. Part of my prior wish to be a better, calmer God than my predecessor.” He held up a hand as Dean opened his mouth. “Do not speak. I know you wish to remind me he was my father but that is of no import, now. He may come to seek me out or choose to continue cowering in depression and dismay at the muddle he allowed matters to come to.” Castiel looked at the whiskey glass on the bedtable and it was in his hand without interceding movement, “Thank you for your offer but I felt it important to remind you that I do care what becomes of you.” Dean stared at Cas as his head turned, looking away at last when he glanced back to see where his glass went. Not on the bed, he couldn’t see where it’d tumbled to and since he was feeling dizzy he reluctantly looked at his former friend. Castiel was holding his empty glass; leaning forward towards him it became filled as Dean took it. The entity formerly known as Cas raised his glass with a smile reminiscent of Jimmy’s when he’d finally gotten to eat his fill of burgers, “I heard you earlier but don’t begrudge your anger. It has taken me time to adapt to this immense well of power. I feel with each moment that I come closer to the time I will be able to release it once more.” Dean paused with the glass an inch from his lips. He choked, “WHAT?! I thought you wanted to save the world like Superman and be the better God. All sorts of crazy juiced up talk.” Taking a healthy mouthful he swallowed it down without a thought for how it felt. “You sound as if you wish me to continue, Dean. Are you ready to bow down and profess your love for me, too?”
Dean wasn’t sure but something felt very fishy with how Castiel was looking at him. He’d seen that look before but Johnny Walker was kicking his head’s ass with velvety-toed boots. I feel a tide risin’ in you. He stuck his finger out at His Popeiness, “You seem to like sayin’ that a whole fuckin’, er, excuse me, frickin’ lot Castiel, Lord of the angel … Lord.” The dark haired one looked at Dean with his face turned aside, squinting deeply. Very slowly Castiel turned his face the other way, vibrantly blue eyes locked to his green ones. When he did it again, ducking his chin when he paused it came to Dean, floating up through the time, muck, worry, and Golden Haze. The last time Cas had looked at him like that was when they’d stuck Dean in the panic room so he couldn’t give his vessel cherry up to Michael. Castiel made his voice huskier but nowhere near his old timbre, ” ‘Well, Cas. Not for nothin’, but the last person who looked at me like that. I got laid.’ ” Then he winked exactly like Dean had at him. “Castiel? You tryin’ to be funny? It’s like watching Sam tryin’ to be one of Snow White’s dwarfs.” He held his glass in both hands, trying to hide behind its flimsy protection. “You listen to me, Dean. All those times I watched over you. All those days I spent hiding, trying to protect you and yours, your Earth, you never once seriously considered what you so flippantly hinted at that day?” With a casual toss of the wrist Castiel drank all his whiskey, reaching over deliberately to set the glass down with a soft click.
“Well, shi, sure. I mean, all dudes do at one point. We’re dudes, random curiousity’s in the hormones if it ain’t in the DNA.” He finally remembered his drink and swallowed until the half glass was gone. Jumping when the thing disappeared from his hand, he twitched backwards when Cas sank onto the bed beside him. “It’s irrelevant to me whether this vessel is male. Of course, if Jimmy’s young daughter had become my vessel it would matter, as you rather amusingly screamed at me.” He put his hand down on the bed behind Dean’s butt, invading not only his space but his eye contact’s comfort zone, “When I first said to you that humans were works of art. Would it surprise you that I prayed then you would know I was thinking of you foremost amongst the others?” Dean tried to speak but all that came out was a high pitched garble. Castiel laughed, caressing his lower back, “Dean, it’s a fact of life and evolution that the Hunter becomes the Hunted. If I were to retain my Godhead, I could see to it that the creation process was less hit or miss yet I’d remain hesitant to disturb such a beautifully chaotic system at the same time.”
Extremely aware of the strong hand now massaging the sore muscles of his lower back Dean found his voice to protest lamely, “But I like girls, love them and all the lady parts I’m so afraid of sprouting.” He really hadn’t meant to say the lady part thing out loud but looking at Cas it seemed a piss poor thing to be worrying about right then. Alarm filled him as Castiel gave him a roguish, half-cocked grin, “Parts you already have, simply rearranged less optimally than a woman’s. I’ve always believed testicles were ill-designed, for example. You know they are analogs to ovaries, yes?” Dean squeezed his eyes shut, trying not to think about how tingly things were feeling downstairs as he mentally compared his biology to a woman’s. Or that new Castiel had just compared his tackle to egg shells where old Cas couldn’t manage to get laid paying good money in a satisfaction guaranteed bordello.
Castiel’s new voice came way too close to his ear, “It is your choice, Dean. I would never force you into something such as this. Although I may still have to insist on worship if a good reason comes for me not to give up this,” he inhaled deeply, mmming softly in his throat, “thoroughly intoxicating power. Or, if you can’t make yourself adapt, I could always give you momentary sparks like you’ll never regret with just,” Cas’s finger poked him right in the tricky muscle that never unkinked properly. Dean gasped aloud with relief and more. His eyes shot open and his heart stopped finding Castiel’s neck less than an inch from his nose; the angelord’s pale skin seemed to give off an aroma of … . “Castiel, are you smellin’ like apple pie on purpose?” Dean found himself falling the short distance in slow motion, ending up with his nose buried between the neat white shirt’s collar and whatever Cas had become’s tantalizing skin. When we’re together, alone.
“I will spare you the name of the movie but it involved the titular angel who, when in what was called ‘heat’, gave off the fragrance of females’ favorite baked desserts. It was a foolish way to describe arousal by those who created it in the first place, let alone their ommission of males’ similar reactions. However, dessert was a charming notion. So, yes, there may be some purpose but you don’t seem that unhappy. At all.” Dean only felt the hand doing ungodly, delicious things to his upper back now but how Castiel knew he was in semi boner-mode was something he was fine with not thinking too much on. Especially since his, her, its Lordliness was pressing those full, shapely lips against Dean’s highly sensitive ear. This is new, this is interesting but this is something hunting and drunkness haven’t left a lot of energy for. “Cas, uh, Castiel. How about you show me the sparks again and if Sam hasn’t gotten back after I get a little pass-out time we’ll see where we are?” Castiel ducked his head around while somehow not dislodging Dean’s nose from where it’d chosen to live. His breath blew sweet on his lips, “A deal. Sealed.”
Castiel held him tightly across his back, hand massaging the nape of his neck. The perfectly doughnut-shaped mouth surrounded his own plump lips, undulating sinuously without a trace of tongue. Dean’s eyes stayed open and crossed slightly as the sparks flew up and around them both, little starry sparkleshowers as dazzling as the first terror-filled time he’d laid eyes on the angel’s handsome vessel. And then Castiel’s fingers squeezed the back of his neck, emitting purely electric shockwaves of sparks he could feel right down to every last little capillary, his body writhing with surges of devastating, sticky ecstasy. The last conscious particle of him hoped Castiel wouldn’t let him fall on the floor as his body went limp. And He didn’t.
*The Werewolves ‘Lisa’ from the self-titled 1978 LP, RCA Records.