Chapter Text
Rhonda checks her lipstick in the side mirror of the old, dusty Cutlass in the parking lot.
The day has been a mess, but Rhonda doesn't have to look like one. As her mama used to say, ain’t nobody gonna be there to pick you up every time you have a bad day. You gotta hold yourself and your head up high. Don’t ever let ‘em see ya fall.
Her mom had her issues, sure, most of them with names like Earl or Jimbo, but she was right about that. Rhonda doesn’t rely on anyone but Rhonda and she likes it that way.
Satisfied her lips remain a dusty rose but her teeth are not adorned with the same color, she straightens up, pulling her shirt down to let the girls breathe and to make her top just a little less “crop.”
The outfit is modest by Rhonda’s standards, at least when compared to some of the more outrageous attire she wore with youthful enthusiasm back in her wilder days, but the girl who stayed up all night in clubs has slowed down a bit.
Oh, she’d still appreciate scoring, but these days Rhonda more frequently finds herself looking for a quiet dive bar where she can hear herself think.
She eyes herself in the mirror, noting the way the leather pants hug her ass: I may be older and marginally wiser, but nobody can argue with these curves. I still got it.
Rhonda sighs as she pushes the heavy wooden door open, acknowledging it is what got her in trouble on this particular Thursday.
She planned to stay in town another two weeks, having picked up a temporary gig at the local bookshop while the owner’s wife was recovering from having their baby. The place had been deader than a cemetery and twice as dirty, but Rhonda had made the most of it.
Unfortunately for Rhonda and her plans, the owner’s wife had come in with the baby, her eyes heavy from hours of sleep deprivation and her hair a dubious nest atop her head. At first, Rhonda had felt bad for the woman, even if it was her own fault for having a kid.
Truth be told, Rhonda has never been much for kids, and certainly doesn’t see herself baking cookies as she competes for mother-of-the-year and head of the PTA, but she doesn’t judge those who want that apple pie life. She’s just more of a let-them-eat-cake kinda girl.
Still, she’s had her share of rough nights, including more than one taking care of a crying, needy, helpless person with a propensity to throw up. So even if she didn’t get it, she felt bad for the woman. That is, until she opened her mouth.
She’d taken one look at his husband’s temporary hire and yelled, “Who is this whore, Harold?”
That had been the end of her less than auspicious career at Harolds Books.
Whatever. Rhonda didn’t even like working for the guy. He smelled like old cheese and had a tendency to stand just a bit too close for polite society. Besides, he clearly had the creativity of a barely sentient clod of goo. Harolds Books? It didn’t even have an apostrophe.
She can excuse the close-talking and the mansplaining and even the boring-ass name, Harold, but it’s a bookstore. Good grammar should be mandatory for all signage.
Rhonda shakes off the day, pulling her lips from a frown of concentration to a saucy grin for Maddie, the bartender. No need to bring sour grapes with her to the bar (unless we’re talking wine).
“Hey, doll. The usual?” Maddie’s honey-soaked whiskey voice soothes the remaining hard edges of irritation in Rhonda’s mind.
“Why mess with a good thing?” Rhonda punctuates her response with a little wink, earning a smile from the bartender.
She and Maddie had a rather adventurous fling during her first few nights in town. It was fun. Apparently pulling her own kegs from the back and a full krav maga regimen keeps Maddie’s body, including the derriere Rhonda is tracking with her eyes, high and tight.
Rhonda had taken full advantage of that enviable physique. But all things must come to an end, including athletic pursuits of the carnal nature.
Maddie had asked her on a “real date,” a cardinal sin in the Gospel of Rhonda. Oh, Maddie is a delight and they’ve spent many nights talking low over the bar as the regulars fade into the darkness on the other side of the door, stumbling towards their beds, but Rhonda “isn’t looking for anything serious.”
Maddie had accepted that with a healthy dose of grace, to Rhonda’s relief. She hadn’t planned on staying in town long and she really didn’t want to have to break in a new barstool.
Besides, she likes this place with its old fashioned vinyl swivel stools and its pockmarked and stained bar. It feels comfortable. Worn. Rhonda hasn’t had a home in a long time, but this place feels pretty close.
Its siblings inhabit small towns across the country. Rhonda should know. She’s visited a lot of them. Each one has its own battle scars from thousands of drunken evenings, and its own peccadilloes - like the slightly loose toilet seat in the third stall in this one.
But even those get to be routine after a while. Colt’s could be any of a dozen places she’s been in the past five years, which is exactly what Rhonda likes about it.
You can keep your glossy martini bars, or your upscale family-friendly breweries. And she’s not the clubbing type anymore. Rhonda wants a place with some character. A bar that feels like sliding into a warm bath or spreading out on the hood of a car to watch the sunset.
Rhonda blinks. Maybe she will miss this place, just a little bit. At least until she finds the next one.
She watches as Maddie places a sweating glass in front of her. “Bourbon on the rocks with just a splash of coke and two cherries.”
Rhonda smiles at Maddie and takes a little sip, raising it towards the bartender in a little mock toast. “You really know how to give a girl what she wants.”
Maybe it’s the weird nostalgia bubbling up in her chest, but Rhonda adds, “I’ll miss you when I head out of town tomorrow. It’s been real nice knowing you.”
A flicker of something crosses Maddie’s face - perhaps the barest hint of bittersweet regret - but it fades into a small, fond smile. “Glad I could be of service. Can I get you anything else?”
Rhonda shrugs and nods towards her glass. “I got everything I need right here.”
Maddie nods and reaches for a rag, which she throws over her shoulder as she heads to the other end of the bar.
Left to her own devices, Rhonda surveys the bar, looking for anything new or interesting. Colt’s doesn’t exactly do a booming business and fresh blood can be hard to come by. Unsurprisingly, the bar is populated by the same mix of workers trying to grab some peace and quiet after a long shift and regulars trying to find respite from whatever ghosts haunt them.
Rhonda’s taken a few out for a spin. Carl, the burnt out lawyer who seems to have traded his billable hours for a bar tab was surprisingly sweet. They’d had a nice enough time, even if he’d cried in her arms after she’d pegged him. She’d worried she’d hurt him, but he confessed he hadn’t been with anyone since his divorce.
Yet another reason not to settle down . He gave up the best years of his life just to watch his love trade him in for a younger model.
Still, he’d thanked her and paid for a cab. A true gentleman. He nods at her, his face softening into a small smile. She lifts her chin, returning the greeting, then slides her eyes along the room.
Rhonda’s gaze is pulled towards a man at the other end of the bar, his own eyes pinned to the door.
Something pings in Rhonda’s brain. She never forgets a face, but she’s confident she’d remember this one had she seen it recently. He’s handsome and not just in a not-bad-for-Colt’s way.
Sensing her scrutiny, the man meets her stare and his eyes widen in recognition. He stands and Rhonda is treated to the full picture. Despite the clear crime of covering that body in layers, there’s no question the man keeps in shape.
Rhonda slides her gaze down his body, taking in his tight chest, straining against his henley. His bowlegs strike another chord in Rhonda’s brain, as do his green eyes as he closes the distance.
She knows him, but they didn’t bump boots recently. That much is certain.
“Rhonda Hurley? Is that you?”
His gravelly voice finally pulls up a picture in her mind. The same man, but at least two decades younger. The image of those legs topped by pink lace and silk dance through Rhonda’s mind.
Dave? Darren? The name pulls itself forth from Rhonda’s memory along with a flood of fond but bittersweet memories as she mentally pats herself on the back. “Dean Winchester. Look at you. Still as handsome as ever.”
She’s not just being polite either. The years have smiled upon Dean. Sure he has more crinkles around his eyes and he’s filled out a bit from the defiant kid she knew back in the day, but she wouldn’t mind going another round. Or three.
She wonders if she could get him into the cream silk panties she slid on this morning. She’s certain they would look amazing against his skin.
He'd looked damn good in her pink ones, and not just because his dick had strained against the lace. Sure, that had been hot. Really hot.
But it had been the amazed awe in his eyes when he saw himself in the mirror and the way his eyes had darkened when she rubbed the material against his straining erection that had really revved Rhonda’s engine.
Rhonda hadn't truly appreciated it then. She'd been too wrapped up in what would come next. But looking back on it now, it was his newfound confidence that stuck with her all these years.
She eyes him speculatively and he winks. “Not half as good as you.”
Rhonda remembers what a charming bastard the guy is. Some things apparently never change.
He leans against the bar. “What are you doing in Red River? Kansas doesn’t seem like it would be your speed.”
Rhonda lets loose a throaty chuckle. “As I recall, you were just as fast as me. I suppose I could ask you the same question.”
Dean shrugs. “Work. I’m not on the road as much as I used to be, but duty calls from time to time.”
Rhonda feels a little shiver up her spine, the chill banishing the warmth of bourbon and flirtatious banter. Their first meeting hadn't exactly been auspicious.
A shape-shifter had infiltrated the club where Rhonda danced for a living. Her roommate had nearly been killed.
She'd brought Dean home with her as protection. What had come after - their week-long torrid affair - had been an unexpected bonus.
Rhonda leans forward, speaking lowly, "Is there another one? Are they in the bar? I can help."
Dean’s eyes widen in surprise. "Oh God. No, sorry. Not here. We're just meeting someone at this bar. You're perfectly safe."
He pats her on the shoulder reassuringly and with disappointingly little heat.
Rhonda starts to ask who "we" is, but Dean's eyes drift to the door. He smiles widely. She turns to see a rumpled man. He looks like maybe he's a lawyer, like Carl, except his blue eyes and just-been-fucked dark hair promise a bit more fun.
He zeroes in on something behind Rhonda. Dean.
Dean is staring at the maybe-lawyer like he's the last piece of pie, and suddenly Rhonda knows that she's out of luck.
It looks like the last train to Dean Station has already departed and, from the way the man's eyebrow raises when he sees Rhonda, she's pretty sure it's a solo ride.
His loss. Rhonda's great at sharing.
The man closes the distance, pressing up against Dean. He leaves no room for Jesus. Even Harold would be asking for some personal space.
Dean looks up at the man, his face softening. “Hey, Cas. There’s someone I want you to meet. This is Rhonda Hurley.”
A hint of startled recognition at her name quickly fades into something she can’t quite read. Rhonda is surprised she made enough of an impression for Dean to have mentioned her to this guy, but their time was fairly memorable.
The two men stare at each other long enough to be awkward. Rhonda clears her throat delicately and Dean looks back at her guiltily. “Sorry, uh this is Cas. My partner.”
Dean’s eyes dart back to Cas. Perhaps he’s worried about how Rhonda will react to his new paramour. He wasn’t out or at least didn’t come out to Rhonda during their prior tryst. Or perhaps the insecurity she sees blazing in his eyes stems from the awkwardness of old partners meeting new.
Rhonda slaps on her most sparkling smile, the one that says “we’re all just pals here and I’m no Jolene looking to steal your man - but I’m not opposed to sharing.” It’s an expression that does some heavy lifting and it’s gotten her out of more than one sticky situation. And into , if she’s being honest.
“Nice to meet you, Cas. Dean and I were just catching up on the last couple of decades. It’s good to see he still has impeccable taste.” She winks and that gets a slight twitch of a smile from the man.
She marks one in the win column.
Dean’s shoulders relax and he turns back to Rhonda. She gives him an encouraging smile. “So, how long have the two of you been together?”
Dean opens his mouth, but hesitates. In his stead, Cas speaks, his voice low and gravelly. “Twelve years.”
Rhonda feels her eyebrows shoot up. The Dean she knew was not the long-term relationship type. But she supposes people change.
A memory tickles the back of her mind, those mossy green eyes staring at her with devastating vulnerability before hardening just before he turned to walk out the door. They’d been two comets barrelling through empty space, traveling together for a brief moment. She’s sort of happy to know he finally found a planet to orbit.
“And you still-” she waves her hands looking for a publicly acceptable euphemism for hunting down ancient evil beings with murder in their eyes and blood on their teeth, “work in the same industry?”
The hint of a smile ghosts Dean’s lips. “Yeah, though not as much anymore. It’s a young person’s game. But Claire - Cas’s daughter - is a hunter. Her car broke down-”
His brow wrinkles in consternation. “-because she never listens to me about basic maintenance. An hour of work now can prevent catastrophe down the road. You never know when you’re going to have to bug out quickly, especially when you’re doing something as dangerous as we do. I swear that girl has no sense of self-preservation. I tell her, ‘Claire-’”
Cas lays a soothing hand on Dean’s shoulder and he relaxes into it, catching himself mid-rant. He grins sheepishly. “Sorry. I sound like somebody’s grumpy old dad.”
Rhonda grins at him, utterly charmed by his dismay. The eye wrinkles look good on him - and isn’t that such bullshit that wrinkles on a man look so damn good - but the domestic normalcy of it all is what really suits Dean. Even if the idea of something similar makes Rhonda want to claw her own eyes out.
The same person every day always up in your business? No thanks. Give Rhonda the freedom of the open road. A parade of new faces and new places.
Still, he seems really happy and there’s something about queer love, but especially middle-aged men in love. Rhonda’s old enough to recognize the value in that and to remember a time when it would be revolutionary - two men clearly in love in a small town bar. Perhaps it still is.
She eyes Dean appraisingly, giving him a sly, sardonic grin. “Isn’t that what you are?”
He laughs. It’s an open-mouthed, surprised chuckle that lights up his entire face. Rhonda is again struck by the contrast with the serious kid she knew and it gives her a little spark of nostalgic warmth. She really is disgustingly sentimental today, isn’t she?
The laugh fades to a fond smile and he looks back up at Cas. “I guess I kinda am.”
“The grumpy part’s certainly accurate.” Cas’ voice is deadpan and for a moment, Rhonda doesn’t know if he’s teasing or not, but Dean shakes his head fondly.
“Guess we’re a matching set.” He elbows Cas playfully and then looks away as pink crawls up his neck.
Rhonda takes a sip of her drink, savoring the burn in the back of her throat, forgotten for the moment in their flirtatious banter.
Dean clears his throat, his eyes scanning the room. “Anyway, we’re supposed to meet-”
Dean trails off, the color draining from Dean’s face.
“Cas, did Claire tell you who we were supposed to meet?” The urgent words are muttered quietly. Rhonda watches horror dawn across Dean’s face and she wonders what sort of creature could possibly make this man freeze up like this.
Rhonda turns to find a gorgeous woman with long auburn hair and eyes so pale they practically glow in the dim light of the bar. The neon signs glint off her leather jacket.
The woman surveys the room, zeroing on the men behind her. She strides toward them confidently, her steps sure and decisive.
Rhonda finds herself hypnotized by the sway of her denim-clad hips. She’s pretty sure this is the person they’re meeting and not the monster, but she’s half tempted to let the woman consume her either way.
Behind her, Cas’ gravelly voice announces the name of this potentially mythical creature. “Annie Hawkins. The hunter we’re meeting is Annie Hawkins.”
Annie cooly appraises her, eyes gliding efficiently down her body and back up again to her face. She gives Rhonda a little nod, clearly sorting her into the “friend” category. Or at least the “not a threat” category.
She turns, her lips curving into a small smile of acknowledgment as she similarly scans Dean and Cas. “It’s good to see you again, Claire and Kaia. Interesting disguise you have going. I’d almost think you were two middle-aged men.”
Dean coughs out a surprised little snort, his face still frozen in a look of stunned amazement - or possibly horror.
Rhonda had forgotten that too. How fun it is to make Dean get all flustered. Rhonda finds herself wondering what it is Annie did to Dean to make him look like a middle schooler who’s note is about to be read in front of the class.
For his part, Cas recovers more quickly than his partner, holding out a hand. “Annie, I’m Cas. Claire asked me to extend her apologies. She had some car trouble but thought we might be able to assist you with your little -”
The man trails off looking pointedly at Rhonda then looking over at Dean, a question in his eyes. Dean clears his throat, his voice apparently returning from the road trip it took after seeing Annie. “Uh, yeah. We should probably get a table or something.”
He looks back over to Rhonda, smiling apologetically. “Good to see you again. Sorry to bail on you, but you know - duty calls.”
He gives her a half salute and heads to one of the dark red vinyl booths on the other side of the room, Cas trailing behind him.
Annie, doesn’t follow immediately. Instead, she eyes Rhonda appreciatively, the promise of something hot behind her gaze. “Excuse my rude friends over there. We weren’t formally introduced. I’m Annie.”
Rhonda licks her lips, looking up into Annie’s blue eyes which are sparkling with interest. “I’m Rhonda. Rhonda Hurley. I’m familiar with Dean’s brand of single-mindedness. We go way back, though it’s been awhile. We met on a case.”
Annie nods to herself, as if this confirms some sort of initial impression. “I’m sorry. Being involved in a case rarely means it was a good time.”
Rhonda shivers as the memory of her roommate lying on the floor plays in her mind, blood seeping from a wound in her head. Her heart constricts remembering the flat eyes of the paramedics who had looked right through them both as she begged someone to please help her friend.
The cops had implied it was somehow their fault. Rhonda bristles at the memory. They’d been attacked and nobody had done anything. Well, until Dean showed up and for that Rhonda is deeply grateful.
She pushes the memories aside. She isn’t looking for a shoulder to cry on and certainly not one attached to such a beautiful woman. She examines the hunter in front of her. What would it be like to spend your days protecting people? A small part of Rhonda wants to believe she could be brave too, if given half the chance.
Instead, she’s stuck working for perverts with wandering eyes and jealous wives.
Unwilling to go down that road again, she internally shakes off the day’s bullshit and pulls her lips into a lascivious grin. “Oh, rest assured I always manage to have a good time.”
To reinforce her meaning, Rhonda pulls one of the cherries from her glass and slowly pops it into her mouth, watching as Annie’s eyes travel to her lips.
Annie assesses her for a minute and Rhonda’s sure she can see the mess she is hiding just below the surface, but the look softens. Maybe Annie’s too kind to call her on her bullshit or maybe she’s calling her bluff, but Rhonda doesn’t care because suddenly the woman is leaning forward, hot breath against her ear.
“Well then, maybe you should stick around and we can see what kind of fun we can stir up.” A different kind of shiver travels through Rhonda’s body. Before she can react, Annie’s already walking away, but she looks back over her shoulder, catching Rhonda’s eye. She winks.
Rhonda smoothly downs the remainder of her drink, signaling to Maddie she’s ready for another. Maybe she can make her last night in town memorable after all.
Dean's pretty sure this isn't a Djinn dream. Even his subconscious couldn't come up with the existential horror of being confronted by two women he’s had sex with. Especially while accompanied by the star of every wet dream or fantasy Dean’s had for years.
And even more so when one of those ex-lovers is a lot more alive than you remember her.
Maybe Dean fell and hit his head in the shower and this is some horrible head trauma-induced nightmare.
Or maybe …he scans the bar but he doesn't see a trickster on a sugar high smirking at him.
Still it feels a bit like a cosmic joke. A man, the man he loves, his ex-lover, and a ghost walk into a bar…
Dean isn't sure he wants to hear the punchline. Hell, maybe he's the punchline.
Cas slides into the booth next to Dean, his body pressed up against Dean’s side. The booth’s not really big enough for two grown men, but you won’t catch Dean complaining.
Cas shifts and Dean swallows a groan, trying and failing not to picture what it would be like to have Cas’ entire body pressed against him.
But Cas has made it clear he isn’t into the whole sex thing. Well, he hasn’t said it, but the dude tried it once and never looked at another human that way again. Dean doesn’t need a roadmap.
Dean doesn’t want to let his horniness get in the way of a good thing. And what they have is a good thing. Sharing a life, a home, a family.
Ever since Cas got back from the Empty, they have been doing a slow dance towards some sort of equilibrium. Dean no longer has to wonder if Cas loves him. He says it. Frequently. And Dean even finds himself saying it back without hesitation or fear. He still isn’t sure Cas means the same thing Dean does when he says it - in fact, he’s certain he doesn’t. But that’s fine with Dean. He'll take what he can get with gratitude.
Dean takes a breath, hoping to slow the swirling thoughts in his brain. He refocuses on the hunter striding over to the booth. The last time he spoke to Annie, she was working on the case that would lead to her untimely death.
An ending all too common for folks in their line of work. Hell, an ending he’s faced down himself. Not to mention the angel whose warmth is currently seeping through - Dean pushes that thought away.
He watches as Annie slides in the booth, looking very much alive and vibrant. Assured of more privacy that the bar afforded, Dean leans forward staring her down. "We salted and burned you. Gave you the funeral you told Bobby - well, ghost Bobby - that you wanted."
The corner of Annie's lip rises in a wry smile. "Didn’t take. Apparently there's a lot of that going around these days.”
She leans in mirroring him and keeping her voice low to avoid eavesdroppers. “The new boss has been giving people killed by Chuck for plot purposes a chance to return and apparently I qualified.”
Dean feels his eyes narrow, suspicion roiling in his gut. “You’re telling me you got a brand new lease on life and this is what you chose? Seedy bars and hunting monsters?”
Annie leans back and raises an eyebrow, nodding towards him and Cas. “Sorry if I missed the van identifying your kid as an honor student on the way in. I didn’t realize you were a soccer mom with a white picket fence these days.”
Dean snorts. He has to give her that one. While they’ve slowed down, he hasn’t entirely hung up his flannel and locked away his Colt. “Yeah, okay. But, still. You shouldn’t be working alone. You died and it was only luck that we had spoken to you the night before. If you hadn’t made plans to meet us for lunch, you’d still be haunting a spooky-ass house with the ghost of a serial killer and an old timey prostitute as your companions.”
Annie gives him an unimpressed look. “She preferred the term fancy lady.”
Annie’s eyes skim over Cas. Dean feels a protective heat rising in his chest at her appreciative smirk. “Anyway, speaking of back-up, this your angel?”
Dean narrows his eyes, his suspicion returning. Annie never met Cas. There’s no reason for her to know who he is or, more importantly, that he’s a celestial being. Avoiding her question, he says simply, “This is Cas. Best hunter you’ll ever meet.”
Annie nods in acknowledgement. “High praise coming from Winchester. Your reputation precedes you, Cas, but nobody mentioned how handsome you are. Nice to finally meet you.”
Dean opens his mouth to tell her to get her own angel, but the bartender walks over, laying out three shots of amber liquid, salt glistening on the rim of the glasses.
Annie mutters over the shots before sliding one to Dean and Cas. “In the name of the father, the son, and the holy spirits.”
Dean gives Annie a skeptical look. “More of a whiskey guy myself.”
Annie scowls. “Yeah well, bartenders tend to remember if you ask for salt on a whiskey shot, so pull up your panties and drink.”
Dean feels himself freeze at the word panties, remembering the now-fresh-in-his-mind night he strutted around in Rhonda’s. Rhonda who is still eyeing their table with interest from the bar.
Mercifully, Annie seems more interested in the libations in front of her than the thinly veiled panic shooting through Dean’s veins or the angel at his side, so he considers it a win. He takes the shot quickly trying to cover his earlier hesitation, coughing as it hits the back of the throat with an unpleasant burn.
Annie slams her glass on the table with a grin. “I seem to recall you were a bit better at tequila consumption that night in Peoria.”
She looks at Cas, a bemused smile still spread across her lips. “This one had quite the mouth on him. Wasn’t afraid to take whatever came at him.”
Dean feels Cas tense up next to him, and he pats his thigh comfortingly. Poor dude is probably more out of practice than he is when it comes to cheap tequila. He may have the capacity to drink an entire liquor store, but he rarely partakes.
Cas readjusts, causing the booth to creak a bit. He clears his throat awkwardly. “Claire said you needed help on a case.”
Cas bites out the words tensely and Dean swivels in surprise at his tone. He’s met with the hard lines of a too close angular jaw spotted with stubble. Cas turns, blue eyes unreadable. Dean stares into them for a moment, mesmerized by the flecks of cerulean light.
Dean’s breath catches and, for a moment, he thinks Cas may lean in and kiss him, but Annie’s voice pulls him out of his absurd fantasy.
He pulls his gaze back to Annie who’s staring at him with a look of smug amusement.
“-the Moonlight Inn. It’s one of those fancy, romantic getaway type places. You know the ones with couples massages and mints on the pillow? Several people have gone missing in the last few months hiking in the woods around the place. Local police are claiming it’s animal attacks.”
Dean nods, acknowledging her description with a wave. “Okay, so what makes you think the folks visiting Hotel California aren’t bear chow?”
Annie shrugs. “Well for one thing, there’s no trace of them. No blood, no signs of struggle. It’s like they head off down the trail and just disappear into thin air.”
Dean nods in acknowledgement. “So, what? You want Cas and me to go up there and pull the whole newlyweds on our honeymoon schtick? See if we can’t get Yogi the Bear to go after us like a couple of picnic baskets?”
Dean hears the words as he blurts them out. A rush of warmth hits his face.
He sneaks a glance at Cas, trying to read his reaction. First he implied they were partners like they are together together and now he’s proposing some sort of pretend marriage. They haven’t even tried to define what they have and Dean is over here with a bouquet while metaphorical wedding bells ring in the background.
But Cas doesn’t seem ruffled by Dean’s pseudo proposal.
For her part, Annie snorts in amusement. “As pretty as you boys are, I’m not sure you can help.”
Cas turns, pulling at the vinyl beneath Dean and causing the booth to cave in. The entire length of Cas' thigh presses against Dean. He sucks in a small breath.
“Why not?” Dean barely hears Cas' question over the rushing pulse in his ears.
Annie sighs, looking slightly irritated. “Because, our monster doesn’t swing that way. Apparently it likes victims of a more sapphic nature.”
Dean opens his mouth to respond, but Cas practically growls next to him before he manages to utter a word. “So you planned on using my daughter and her girlfriend as bait for some sort of homophobic monster?”
Annie holds up her hands in a placating gesture. “Look, I wasn’t planning on doing anything other than giving your kid a case. I worked with the two of them about a year ago and they’re…really good at what they do. Which is hunting. If you have a problem with that, it’s not me you should be talking to.”
Cas tenses and Dean can feel that he's ready to pop over the table like a coiled spring.
It's not Annie’s fault. Not really. Claire's hunting has been a building source of tension in the Novak-Mills-Winchester family ever since Claire ended up in Ozark Regional Hospital with enough blood loss to land her in the ICU.
She'd rushed into a vampire nest grievously outnumbered instead of waiting for her back-up.
Dean, they had a kid in there. I couldn't let another kid - She'd trailed off, eyes silently begging Dean to understand, to talk down Cas and Jody, both of whom were ready to lock her in a safe room for her own good.
Dean had understood. Hell, he's been there more times than he can count. But somehow, with a quiet life nearly within reach, everything feels precarious.
Maybe they're all suffering from some Pavlovian response, the bell of hard-fought peace feeling more like a tornado siren. After all, for decades still waters have meant a giant wave is just over the horizon ready to crush their boat to splinters.
Dean had felt the same urge to protect Claire in that hospital bed, but in those pleading blue eyes he'd also recognized a hunger, a need to control a world that had done everything it could to break Claire.
So he'd managed to play mediator for once and Cas and Jody agreed not to fight her provided Claire agreed to some ground rules. More check-ins. And more reliance on back-up.
In fact, Annie is probably part of that picture. Claire could have gotten the rundown on the phone, so she must have planned to ask Annie to stick around.
Annie wasn't using Claire as bait. Claire was relying on a seasoned hunter for back-up.
Dean speaks up before Cas can go all smitey. Not that Dean doesn't appreciate his you-should-show-me-some-respect voice, but perhaps alienating Annie isn't the best course of action.
Besides, he’s having enough trouble with normal Cas over here from an appreciation standpoint.
He holds up a hand in contrition. “Regardless, Claire’s not here. She had car trouble and won’t be able to make it for a few days,” he nods his head towards Cas -”and nobody’s gonna mistake us for lesbians. So it sounds like we’re up shit creek and I don’t see any paddles. I suppose we could still check-in and do some investigating, but-”
A flash of color in the corner of Dean’s eye causes him to pause, looking up to find Rhonda casually slung over the back of their booth.
She leans in, showing off her more than considerable assets. “I could help. I’m no stranger to the allure of a good woman. Or two.”
She winks at Annie and Dean watches as the hunter gives her a sly smile in return.
Dean feels a huff of annoyance at the intrusion, combined with a flash of protectiveness. Rhonda is a civilian. He hasn’t forgotten how she shivered in his arms after he gave her ‘the talk.’ The annoyance wins out. “What, you eavesdropping on us? I don’t remember inviting you to this conversation.”
Rhonda raises an eyebrow at Dean. “I couldn’t help but overhear. Half the bar overheard. Do y’all just…discuss this kinda stuff in public? I sorta thought you would at least use a codeword.”
She sashays to the other side of the table and glides into the booth next to Annie, batting her eyelashes prettily. “I could be Thelma to your Louise. If you wanted. I’m between jobs and was already planning to blow this popsicle stand. A beautiful resort and an even more beautiful woman don’t sound like too bad of a detour.”
Annie, frowns slightly. “It could be dangerous. Are you sure you want to get involved?”
Rhonda nods, resolute. “I’m not going to let women disappear because I was too chickenshit to help. Besides, you’d be there to back me up, right?”
“Thelma and Louise died.” Dean’s outburst draws the eyes of all three people at the table. He clears his throat, shifting uncomfortably. “I just mean Rhonda’s a civilian…"
Annie shrugs, giving Dean a flat look. “Rhonda’s a grown woman and apparently one who’s already grappled with this world in the past. If she says she wants in - knowing the stakes - I’m not going to tell her no.”
Dean opens his mouth to argue but Rhonda speaks first. “Look, I’m not the kid you knew back then. If it makes you feel better, though, you could come along. Provide back-up.”
Dean looks over at Cas, who stares back as if silently trying to convey some deep philosophical message. “Claire said the part they’re waiting on will be at least a week. We’re here and available.”
Dean sighs knowing that Cas isn’t crazy about Claire taking this one anyway. Looks like he’s signed up for a deluxe Djinn nightmare package of a week away with two exes and his - well - his Cas.
He looks back at Rhonda. “Okay. If you’re sure.”
She nods, practically vibrating with an excited energy. She turns to Annie. “So what’s our cover story?”
Annie shrugs. “It’s a romantic couples resort type place, so we should say we’re girlfriends.”
Rhonda hums, mischief glinting in her eyes. “Well, if we’re going to be convincing, maybe we should practice kissing. You know. To establish our cover story.”
Dean rolls his eyes. “Dude, we're right here.”
Annie ignores him, stroking Rhonda’s face. “That’s a good point.”
She leans in and gives Rhonda a filthy kiss.
Dean downgrades himself to the deluxe hell package, because he’s fairly sure this is some sort of psychological torture. Rhonda pushes Annie back against the wall, causing the table between them to shake. Dean feels a blush creeping up his neck.
Dean clears his throat pointedly. The women glance back at him.
Rhonda grins at him. “Oh come on Dean. It’s nothing you haven’t seen before. In fact, I seem to recall one particular night when-’”
Dean jumps up, causing the table to wobble again. “Ok. Storytime’s over. We’ll call you in the morning, Annie.”
He grabs Cas’ arm, who looks up at Dean. Confusion is plastered on his face. But look, it was bad enough when he accidentally admitted to Cas that he hooked up with the Cartwright Twins. Cas doesn’t need his full sordid sexual resume. Especially from one of the former participants.
He pulls Cas sideways and Cas slides over willingly, pulling himself up with ease. They end up face-to-face, personal space reduced to mere inches.
And now Dean’s thinking about what it would feel like to lay his own sloppy kiss on Cas’ lips. He clears his throat, taking a step backwards and struggling to contain his barely controlled panic from standing at the intersection of ghosts of sexploits past and the ghost of present desire. Where’s a shotgun and a salt round when you need it?
Dean swallows thickly.
“Come on, dude. Let’s get another drink.” The request comes out as more of a squeak than Dean intends.
He swivels, hoping Cas didn’t notice.
Behind them, he hears Annie’s voice, low and sultry. “Come to think of it, maybe you should come home with me so we can build up some chemistry. We gotta make this convincing.”
A giggle and then Rhonda’s reply follows Dean to the bar. “I wouldn’t mind a little foxhole fox trot, if you’re game.”
Dean takes a long pull of his beer, eyeing Cas out of the corner of his eye, trying to read the expression on his face. He remains frustratingly inscrutable as he peers down at his phone, no doubt checking in with Claire.
Dean looks back to his beer, only now noticing that he’s picked off half the label.
Rhonda and Annie are long gone, disappearing through the door in a tangle of limbs and whispers. There was a time that he might have been jealous, or at least tempted to join them. But these days the thought of anyone in his bed - well, anyone other than Cas - leaves him cold.
“So, uh, that was a little awkward, huh? But good for them, I guess. Someone should be getting laid. I mean, not that I'm saying I need to get laid. Or you. Just, uh, someone.” Dean can feel himself rambling and he finally manages to shut his flapping jaw before he shoves his entire foot in his mouth.
Cas looks at Dean, his eyes narrowing in that way he has - like he can see straight through to the crumbled napkins held together by chewing gum Dean calls a soul.
He called it beautiful once.
Dean shakes off the thought, knowing that pathway leads to nothing constructive.
Cas tilts his head. “Do you want to have sex, Dean?”
Dean’s heart stops and for a moment, all he can hear is the sound of bees buzzing through his brain in a full panic. The promise of hard planes and soft hair, and Cas’ thighs wrapped around Dean’s head causes him to go into a tailspin. Mayday, mayday.
Dean swallows thickly, logic finally grasping the controls and pulling up from his mental dive towards earth. Cas isn’t offering to hook-up. He’s asking if Dean wants to find some bar fly to scratch an itch.
Cas loves Dean, but not like that . Sex is a messy and human thing. Cas’ love isn’t like human romance. It’s something purer. Angelic and ethereal or whatever.
Dean forces a smile, sure he looks like he just tried to eat a plate of sand. He forces out: “Nah, Cas. I’m good. I’d rather hang out with you.”
Cas must sense Dean’s tension, because a shadow passes over his face. He nods and smiles a soft smile, but it doesn’t reach his eyes.
Dean feels a stab of uncertainty. Maybe he’s wrong. Maybe Cas is trying to say he wants to have sex, he’s just too polite to leave Dean alone, especially after everything that -
And Dean isn’t going down that road either.
He thinks about April and Daphne. Not to mention the kiss he laid on Meg. Cas isn’t a complete stranger to the wiles of a woman. Maybe he wants Dean to be his wingman and is just too nervous to ask.
And isn’t it just typical that Dean is over here like the selfish ass he is, thinking about falling to his knees for an angel who has never shown any sexual interest in men, much less him.
Dean swallows his pride and ignores the bristling, sad ache in his traitorous heart. “What about you, Cas? Do you want me to help you get laid? I’m not a bad wingman.”
Cas shakes his head quickly and Dean feels an instant, undeniable rush of relief.
“No, Dean. I don’t need sex to be happy. I’d like to spend time with you too.”
Dean doesn’t know if that’s a victory or a defeat. But that’s his just dumbass horny nether regions talking. In the end, Dean was right. Cas doesn’t require physical pleasure to enjoy himself and Dean can respect that. He’s got Cas’ heart and that’s what matters.
Guilt claws at the back of his throat as another thought occurs to Dean. So far this evening he has implied that Cas is his boyfriend and offered to pretend they are on a romantic getaway and pressured him to hook up. Really batting 1000.
Dean swallows the lump forming in his throat, he stares at his picked apart beer. “Listen, Cas - about earlier. I’m sorry if I made you uncomfortable.”
He looks up at Cas, fearing censure, but there’s only confusion in his blue eyes. “I’m not sure what you mean.”
Dean looks back at his beer, wishing for a moment he could crawl over the rim and into the dark amber bottle to escape the gaze he can feel burning into the side of his face.
“Earlier I called you my partner and that’s not - well, Rhonda assumed we were together. I didn’t mean to -”
“We are together, Dean.” He says it so simply, so openly that Dean feels almost breathless with it. He swallows it, knowing that this is just another example of Cas not getting the reference, no matter how much he wants it to be true.
“I mean she assumed we were together together.” He blows out a breath, frustrated that his brain can’t seem to find the words he needs. “I just don’t want to make you feel uncomfortable. There isn’t a word for shares a life together and raises a kid together and - well, friend didn’t seem to be enough and family doesn’t really explain it and I know I sometimes call you my partner when we are undercover as FBI agents so it isn’t even like it’s that big of a deal, and - “
He chances another peek at Cas and finds a soft, affectionate smile. “Dean, I don’t really care what other people think. Do you like partner?”
Dean feels his mouth drop open, words now failing him entirely. He lets out a helpless little “um.”
Cas sighs, putting his hand on Dean’s arm and for a moment, everything stills.
“Dean, I love you and our life. That’s all that matters to me. If you like partner, you can call me your partner.”
Dean swallows thickly, his brain slowly rebooting. “It kinda makes us sound like cowboys.”
Ok, so maybe his noggin isn’t entirely back online. Before he can open his mouth and further ruin the evening, Cas clears his throat. “I’m your huckleberry.”
Dean blinks. The memory of the last time Cas said that line plays clearly in his mind. And the movie night that preceded it.
Suddenly he wants to be anywhere other than this dive bar with sticky floors and the smell of old popcorn clogging his nose.
“Okay.” He nods, repeating it more to himself than to anyone else in the room. “Okay.”
Dean licks his lips nervously. “Hey, you wanna get out of here? I was thinking maybe we could watch a movie or something.” He looks towards the door, remembering the state of near undress their hunting partners left in. “I suspect it’s gonna be a late morning. We could even watch two.”
That earns Dean a genuine smile from Cas. “Yeah, Dean. I’d like that.”
Dean signals to the bartender. “Uh, I think my partner and I are going to close out.” The word feels simultaneously like rebellion and like coming home.