Archive of Our Own ^beta

Maggie Stanton hated the metro. It was slow, overpriced, overcrowded and the schedule was just that bit off so that she invariably missed her bus and had to wait another twenty minutes in the cold for the next one. But the worst thing about the metro was the young man slouched on the bench a few feet from where she stood on tiptoes, clinging to the high metal bar which, come to think of it, was another thing she hated about the metro. She was pushing 5'3" on a good day, and though that was short, it wasn't that short. There were lots of people shorter than her. So why the fuck did they put the bar so damn high?

She took a deep breath. Get a grip, Mags, she told herself. It was just so hard to concentrate on anything with that accursed young man taking up both seats of the bench, headphones blaring an audible beat to everyone in the metro car.

THUMP-A thump-thump-thump THUUUUUUUUUMP-AAAAAA, went the bass, and GRRRRR, grrrrrrrr, GNASH, went Maggie's teeth. She glanced around at her fellow passengers, searching for a kindred spirit, and was met with the glazed expressions of automatons.

The car slammed to an abrupt halt, and Maggie flew forward, knocking into rotund man and a young professional woman, both of whom shoved her back onto her feet. She was still clinging to her high bar, not that it did much good. The car stuttered forward and stopped, twice, before the high pitch of radio feedback broke into the pounding bass, "We'll be holding here for a minute. There's a train directly in front of us servicing the platform. As soon as it moves, we will proceed."

Maggie glared down at her toes. There was no train in front of them. She'd had to wait seven minutes for this one. Seven! In rush hour! What the fuck?! And then this fucking young man and his THUMP-A thump-thump-thump THUUUUUUUUUMP-AAAAAA and why did it bother no one else? What was wrong with everyone? THUMP-A thump-thump-thump THUUUUUUUUUMP-AAAAAA -- gah! She wanted to think. She couldn't – THUUUUUUUUUMP-AAAAAA!

"Stop that fucking music!" she shrieked. The car slid back, then forward, picking up speed as she released the bar and rocked forward on the momentum of the car, straight at the young man, whose eyes were closed and head was still moving in time to his music, oblivious.

"THUMP!" she screamed, and whacked him over the head with her purse. "THUMP!" She yanked off the headphones and smashed them against the window. He wriggled on the seat, trying to sit up, confused and angry and (she hoped) really fucking scared. She kneed him in the crotch and crawled across his lap, reaching for his head.

"THUMP!" she yelled, slamming his stupid, insufferable face against the window with a satisfying thud. "Thump-thump-thump-thump-thump-thump!" she chanted, hands tight on the nape of his neck as she shoved him repeatedly into the window. The automatons bleated in protest behind her but didn't try to stop her, the young man howled in pain but couldn't get a grip on her, the metro staggered to a stop and the doors opened, the driver informing them after the fact that they had arrived and the doors were opening.

Hands finally pulled her away, lifted her up, and she caught one glance of the young man's face from her vantage point in the air. It was a mass of red. "Thump," she whispered, and blacked out.

***

Sam rolled his window up slowly. The wind through his hair felt amazing, despite the cold. Everything felt amazing now, really. He leaned his head against the cold glass, relishing the temperature and texture, and the view flying by: dead winter fields under a steel-gray sky, but there was beauty in the flash of a bird's wings, the silhouette of a lone farmhouse, standing guard on the horizon.

"You're drooling, Sammy," his brother interrupted.

He wiped his mouth and turned to face Dean, leaning his head against the window. His hair protected him from getting too cold. His body hadn't thought a haircut was important, but now that he was back, Sam intended to make some changes. When he had the time.

"Do you remember coming here when we were teenagers?" he asked.

Dean grunted, eyes flicking back and forth from the road to Sam. Eventually, Sam knew he was going to get sick of his brother's constant visual check-ups, but he was doing them himself all the time: head on the window – I can feel! Watching Dean's hands on the wheel – I have a brother! Calling Bobby on his cell – I can speak! Pinching himself – I am me! They were distractions, keeping him from worrying at that closed door in the back of his mind, but they were welcome distractions. He didn't want to open it, not really, but he kept nudging it regardless.

"A lot of monuments," Dean said. "It was pretty boring. And all this shit's been going down outside of DC. We might not even have to go into the city."

Sam smiled and watched Dean's face in the gray light. Dean looked older, harder, but his face was one of the most beloved sights in Sam's life. He'd tell him so, if he thought Dean would appreciate it.

"Dude, you're looking at me funny again."

"Sorry," Sam replied. He sat up straighter. "I think we should go into DC after the case, regardless. They've added a couple of new monuments."

Dean grunted again. They would do whatever Sam wanted, they both knew it.

"So," Dean started. "The case. You thinking demon possession?"

Sam reached between his feet and pulled the file out of his backpack. He wanted to be able to make a decision right away; prove to himself that he hadn't lost his touch. But it was weird.

"Maggie Stanton, 47, attacks David Johnson, 19, on the Red Line metro in Montgomery County and beats him so bad, he's still eating out of a straw. Because he was playing his music too loud. Doug Thims, 76, causes three traffic accidents in Hagerstown, Maryland, by running naked down a main street. When asked why, he said he needed some air. Uh, everywhere. And then we get to Roger Hamilton, 33, who burned down the town hall in Frederick's Hollow because, and I quote, 'It was fucking ugly and I could build it a lot better.'"

"Was it?"

"Huh?" Sam glanced over the top of the file. "Oh, the building?" He pushed aside a couple of pictures sitting loosely in the folder and winced. "Yeah, it was gaudy."

"So not typical demon possession," Dean mused.

"They each take responsibility for their actions, too," Sam continued, nose buried in the file once again. "According to the police report, a social worker tried to talk Thims out of saying anything, but he insisted on telling everyone clothes were too constricting and he knew perfectly well that some might be shocked by his privates waving in the wind, but he'd put up with dumb rules long enough and he would be free, dammit."

"I kind of like this guy," Dean interjected.

"Tell that to the people in the traffic accidents," Sam murmured. He sat up straighter. "Here's something. They all actually live in Frederick's Hollow. Maggie's a commuter and Doug was in Hagerstown to grocery shop, but they are all from Frederick's Hollow itself."

"A spirit tied to the land?" Dean suggested.

"Maybe, but I doubt it would burn its own town hall."

"Good point."

Sam chewed his lip, trying to think of the silence as comfortable and not slightly stilted, while Dean drove in quiet for the next few minutes. Sam's thoughts were just turning to the locked door in his mind again when Dean broke the silence.

"The Korean War," Dean said abruptly. Sam's eyebrows rose, and Dean cleared his throat. "I liked that memorial best. Remember, we went at night and it was lit from below? It was creepy, man. Only memorial for war I've seen that doesn't try to make it seem, you know, glorious or somesuch shit."

"Yeah," Sam agreed softly.

"We'll go see that one again," Dean decided.

Creepy war memorials. Perfect Winchester family vacation. Sam smiled to himself. The silence felt a bit friendlier as they neared the village of Frederick's Hollow.

It was located about five miles off the highway, on a road that twisted and turned through woods on the left side of the Impala, and farmland on Sam's side. Dean pulled up in front of the charred remains of the Town Hall and patted his pocket, checking for his FBI badge.

Sam got out of the car and squinted up and down the street. The thing about the Town Hall getting burned down was that it was hard to find –

"Dude," Dean whispered loudly, "check it out." He nodded his head at the diner across the street. Libby's Diner, the sign proclaimed. Temporary Home of the Frederick's Hollow Town Hall, Police Station and Jail. Half off the fish dinner before 5:00 PM. Free fresh pie for law enforcement officers.

"Free pie, Sammy. FREE PIE."

Dean led the way across the street. Sam shook his head. Some things never changed, and he was ridiculously happy to see that. The past few months with his brother were a total blank, but he had a feeling Dean hadn't smiled much. He was smiling now.

A little bell tinkled above the door when they walked in, and three men in sheriff's deputy uniforms, huddled around a table in the back, lifted their heads from plates of pie. Sam's eyes skittered over the other customers as they made their way to the corner. An elderly couple sat in a window booth, the woman picking at her food and the man snorfling into his fish dinner, a middle-aged man in flannel and jeans sipped coffee at the counter and a cat licked its paws on the windowsill.

"You law enforcement?" one of the deputies asked, mouth full of flaky crust. Dean looked a bit distracted.

"Nick Angel, and my partner Danny Butterman, FBI," Sam said, flashing his badge.

"Told you the FBI would come," the tallest of the deputies muttered. He had a long, twitchy nose and Sam had to drag his eyes away from it as it gave a series of stuttering crinkles.

"We were hoping they'd send Mulder and Scully." That was from the shortest deputy, the one who'd spoken first, as he leaned back on his seat and patted his very round stomach. "Libby! Pie for the FBI!" he yelled in the direction of the kitchen. "You'll want to try this pie," he added, a grin creasing his face and making his cheeks form two round, red apples.

"I'm certainly looking forward to the pie." Dean laughed his 'joking with the good old boys' laugh, and kept up the smile as he asked, "Why Mulder and Scully, exactly? Strange things happening?" Dean pulled out one of the remaining chairs and hunkered down. Sam sat more slowly, eyeing the third deputy, who was squinting at them in turn.

"You've heard about Maggie and Roger – is that why you're here?" he asked. "I don't see how that has anything to do with the FBI." He had a lazy eye, which was unfortunate as Sam knew Dean tended to stare at lazy eyes, in a way he wouldn't at any other physical feature. It was just a Thing.

"Not on their own, Deputy …?" Sam gestured with his hand and the third deputy reluctantly supplied a mumbled "Smith."

"Yes, Deputy Smith," Sam continued smoothly, "on their own we wouldn't get involved, but these don't seem like isolated incidents. Wouldn't you agree?"

"You mean like Josh Henderson running away and Alice Whitcomb's pumpkins and the crazy business with the Morgans' cows?" the round deputy asked eagerly. Sam blinked, but Dean recovered quickly.

"Good points, and I'd like to ask you more about them over some pie, my friend." Dean clapped his hand on the smaller man's shoulder, and the deputy beamed.

"Fforpe, that's me, and this here is Deputy Moss, but we all call him Rat because of his nose. See, it twitches?" Fforpe's babbling continued over Dean's choked off laugh. "And we call Smith 'Smith' because he's super touchy about his eye."

The other two deputies were glaring at Fforpe. Sam's mouth opened and closed, and then all brain function cut out as the biggest, most delicious-smelling piece of apple pie a la mode was placed in front of him.

"There you go, sugar," a plump woman about his own age with 'Libby' crocheted onto her apron said, and gave Dean an equally large and delicious piece. "I'm starting a blueberry right now if you get hungry later." She gave his shoulder a little squeeze and bustled away again.

"That's Libby. We call her Libby," Fforpe informed them. "She's been on this pie-making kick lately. Can hardly drag her out of that kitchen to wait on us!"

Sam barely heard him. He'd never quite gotten the love affair Dean had with food, especially pie, but he was willing to make an exception for this pie. This was the type of pie that was worth suffering in Hell for (not that he could remember any of that, but if he could, he thought – maybe an hour on the rack for a piece of pie like this). He spared a glance at his brother's face. Dean looked transported, in Heaven if Heaven had been anything awesome like they had thought it would be.

Fforpe was still nattering on, but Sam didn't hear a thing until his plate was clean. Dean even brought his plate up to his face and licked it.

"Um, what was that last thing again?" Sam asked Fforpe.

"Did you want to see Maggie?" Fforpe continued as if FBI agents licked their plates in front of him all the time. "She's in the basement awaiting trial, since Roger burned down the Town Hall. He's down there, too. Come on!" he bounced to his feet. "I'll take you. Rat and Smith have to get through the paperwork on the Morgans' cows."

Dean shot his empty plate one last look before following them into the kitchen. Both Winchesters stopped dead in their tracks.

Pies were stacked on cooling racks, dirty baking dishes overflowed the sink and flour was liberally spilled across the floor. Fresh fruits sat in crates on the counter, awaiting Libby's sharp knife. Libby herself was humming over a floured board, rolling out another pie crust. Everything smelled of sugar and cinnamon and love. Sam wiped surreptitiously at a ribbon of drool. Dean just let his fall to his suit.

"Yeah, see what I mean about the pies?" Fforpe called to them from a closed door. "Come on, down here." He picked up a pie, strawberry-rhubarb Sam guessed, and juggled it as he wrenched open the door and led them down a flight of stairs.

The basement was supposed to be a stockroom, but all the food had been moved to one side of the room, and makeshift jail cells were set up on the other side. A middle-aged woman was lying on her back on the bench in one cell, and a man a little older than Dean was drawing on the cement floor with a bit of chalk in another cell, muttering to himself.

"Maggie and Roger," Fforpe said unnecessarily. He sat down on the bottom step, pulled a fork out of his breast pocket, and went to town on the pie. Sam exchanged a look with Dean. Dean shrugged his shoulders. Sam grimaced. Dean jerked his head at the woman. Sam sighed.

Looks like we still have that down pat. Sam laid his fingers on the bars of Roger's cell, and saw Dean approaching Maggie out of the corner of his eye.

"Hello, Roger. That's an interesting drawing you have there," he began.

Roger snorted. "Don't humor me, kid. I know you think I'm insane in the membrane." He looked up from his chalk drawing. "Look, I wouldn't have burned the damn thing down if any of those assholes would listen to me. Do you know anything about architecture?"

"Well I – "

"Of course not. Well, I do!" Roger stood up, brushing chalk dust off his knees. "Fuck, this diner makes a better Town Hall than that monstrosity did. It even has functioning cells!"

"Mr. Hamilton," Sam interrupted. "Though I appreciate your outrage, I want to know what you were thinking when you burned the Town Hall down."

"What I was thinking?" Roger blinked at him. "That fire would get rid of it fucking fast."

"Okay. Did anyone . . . suggest that to you?" Sam watched his face, took in his posture, the movement of his eyes.

"I didn't discuss it with anyone beforehand. I'm not stupid. So obviously no one told me to burn down the Town Hall." His eyes were clear. And annoyed. He didn't look like he'd been possessed at all.

"You take full responsibility? What if someone had been inside?"

Roger's shoulders slumped a bit. "I didn't want anyone to get hurt. I burned it at night! It looked – really awesome. I kind of, um, sort of . . ." His voice trailed off.

Dean snorted. "You came at the sight of the fire, didn't you?"

Sam shot him an exasperated look as Roger turned a dusky shade of rose. "Aren't you supposed to be interviewing Maggie?"

"Yeah, it's going swell." Dean turned to look into the other cell. Sam followed his gaze and bit back a laugh. Maggie was still lying on her back, but now an arm was raised, a middle finger jutting up into the air.

The door at the top of the stairs banged open suddenly, and Rat called down the stairs, "Fforpe! Get up here!"

Dean and Sam exchanged a look and rushed up the stairs, Fforpe chugging along behind them, carrying the now-empty pie plate. Libby was placing an uncooked blueberry pie into the oven as they ran through the kitchen and out into the diner.

The elderly woman from before was balanced precariously on her booth, brandishing her fork at Deputy Smith and Rat, her scrawny arm tight around her husband's neck. The old man looked a bit shell-shocked.

"Come on, Ruth, let Bill go now. You've made your point," Smith was saying to what looked like the salt shaker, instead of Ruth.

"Fifty-six years!" Ruth screeched. "For fifty-six years I've had to listen to this damn fool breathe while he eats! I haven't had a quiet meal in fifty-six years. He needs . . . to stop . . . BREATHING!" She gave Bill's neck a good shake.

Dean shot the deputies a disgusted look and reached forward, plucking the fork from Ruth's fingers as Sam separated her from her husband. She didn't have any abnormal strength, Sam noted clinically, and as Bill drew a wheezing breath, Ruth burst into tears.

"I'm sorry, Officer," she sniffed. "I just can't stand his fool breathing!"

She made to grab for Dean and sob into his chest, but Dean leapt back and thrust Fforpe at her. "Make yourself useful," he muttered.

Sam led Bill to a separate table and helped him sit down. He looked in no condition to tell his side of the story, still gasping for breath as he was. "Bill? Do you need a doctor?" Sam asked him.

"He'll be fine," Fforpe called over Ruth's head. "He always breathes that loud." Ruth cried harder.

"What were you two doing?" Dean asked, rounding on Smith and Rat. "It didn't occur to one of you to step in?"

The two deputies scowled. "Ruth always complains," Rat mumbled.

"And the fork? The strangling?" Dean snapped. Sam winced. So much for cozying up to local law enforcement.

"It happened really fast, um, Agent," said a voice from the counter. The middle-aged man from earlier poked his head up from behind a stack of coffee cups. He'd apparently taken refuge behind the counter when the excitement started.

"Can you tell us what happened?" Dean asked. The man nodded nervously. Sam patted Bill on the shoulder and made to join his brother when a movement in the window of the kitchen door caught his eye. Libby was gesturing him inside. Dean rolled his eyes, but turned back to the guy in flannel as Sam stepped into the kitchen.

"Libby?" Sam asked. "Did you see something?"

"No, Agent Angel," she answered, twisting floury hands in her apron, "except, well, Bill is a horribly loud dinner guest. I always stay in the kitchen when they come to the diner. I'm surprised Ruth hasn't snapped long before this."

"So this has been brewing for a long time?" Sam asked, frowning.

Libby nodded. "And one other thing. There aren't any hotels in Frederick's Hollow."

"What?" It took Sam a moment to realize she'd just changed the track of the conversation. "Oh. Are there any nearby?"

Libby gave him a small smile. "No. But I have a guest room, if your partner would like to make use of it. You could have my room."

Sam paused. It'd been awhile. Was she implying . . . "Um. I'll tell him. Thank you for your, uh, generosity." He was starting to trip on his tongue. It had been much more than awhile, and the apron was rather shapeless, but even it couldn't disguise very round –

"Dude, you about done in here?" Dean asked, swinging open the door. Sam very nearly flinched. "Fforpe's going to come with us to Doug Thims's house and tell us about the cows on the way."

"Yeah, that's great, Agent." Shit, he'd forgotten Dean's fake name. If he was Nicholas Angel, then that made Dean, uh, Danny Butterman. "Libby has offered us a place to stay if we need to tonight, Butterman." His eyes told Dean that they needed to. "Let's check out what, uh, Thims has to say."

Libby smiled at him one more time before turning back to her newest pie. Dean gave him a huge smirk.

"A baker, Sam? Finally a girl I can get behind!" he whispered.

"Shut up," Sam said, the response automatic. His grin didn't even fade once they were outside the diner and were treated to the sight of Deputies Smith and Rat leading Ruth and Bill away in separate cars, Ruth muttering about nose hair and snorts, Bill breathing loudly. "Where are they taking them?"

"Ruth to their daughter's," Fforpe answered, joining them, "and Bill to their nephew's."

Sam watched, slightly disbelieving, as Smith pulled into a driveway three down from the diner, and proceeded to help Ruth out. Rat hardly went further, driving past four houses in the opposite direction before stopping and letting Bill out.

"We're a small town," Fforpe said, spreading his hands. "Doug Thims lives on the outskirts, though."

He hopped into the backseat of the Impala and immediately launched into the story about the cows on the Morgan farm. Dean drove approximately 1.3 miles, according to the odometer, before reaching the home of Doug Thims. They passed the flannel shirted man from the diner in his own driveway ("Maurice," Fforpe interrupted himself, "he grows organic flowers."), a really old tree ("This tree is really old," Fforpe said.), and a barn with a purple cow painted on the side ("Oh, that's part of the story!" Fforpe exclaimed.).

By the time Dean stopped the Impala in Thims's driveway, Sam could see the veins in his brother's neck throbbing with the need to throttle the chatty deputy. In fact, Sam noted with a bit of alarm, Dean was clenching his fists quite a bit. He eased them, frowning, at Sam's pointed look.

Fforpe bounded up onto Thims's front porch and rang the bell, whistling to himself. Sam found his gaze being drawn to the old man's garden. Maryland had just had a cold snap and was enjoying an unexpected respite from winter with a string of 50-degree days, and Thims's dead garden looked like it was holding its breath, getting ready to jump up and say it wasn't dead after all. There, in the back corner, that could be a pumpkin patch, and that cross-hatching over there was definitely meant for runner beans. Sam paused on the bottom step, mouth hanging open as he got lost in its pure potential.

"S – Agent Angel!" Dean hissed at him. "Interviewing the nudist, remember?"

"Yeah." Sam shook himself. Reveling in his brother's presence was one thing, but a dead garden? This whole reborn thing was going to take awhile to get used to. He hurried after Dean, only to run into his brother's broad back. "Oof."

"Sorry, Angel." Dean threw him an amused look over his shoulder as he pocketed something off the front porch.

"Dean," Sam whispered, mindful of Fforpe bouncing on his heels at the door, "what did you just take?"

"Relax, Duddly Do-Right," Dean muttered. "It was just a rock."

Thims opened the door then and, it turned out, he had not given up on his naked dreams. Dean looked particularly perturbed by the rolls of sagging flesh that waggled from side to side each time the old man moved his head, much to Sam's amusement.

Fforpe did a decent job of maintaining eye contact while he introduced the two FBI agents, but had to excuse himself when Thims got up to make them tea.

"So, Mr. Thims," Sam started, in a valiant attempt to keep things professional, "can you tell us what led to your interest in nudism?"

"First off, Sonny, it's Doug. Mr. Thims is my father, may he rest in peace. I may have bunions older than you two combined, but I don't need to go around feeling that way, you hear me?" Doug took a slurping sip of his tea and smacked his lips. "And first off, part B – I'm not senile." He gave first Sam, and then tried to give Dean, a piercing look. Dean blinked at the top of Doug's head.

"I can assure you, Doug, you don't seem senile to us." Sam sat his teacup down in its saucer. It was incredibly sweet.

Doug nodded sharply and his whole body wriggled. Dean stared fixedly at the tchotchkes on Doug's mantelpiece. "Just so," he declared. "See, boys, when you're young, you don't know who you are or what you want. Or maybe you just want everything." He took another long slurp of his tea, and Sam risked a glance at Dean, whose jaw was twitching. Sam hoped he could hold it together. Doug banged his teacup on the table unexpectedly. "It was inside me! Aching to get out!"

"What was that, exactly?" Sam asked. He had whipped out his most caring voice, and from the slight roll of Dean's eyes, Sam knew he could tell, and thought he'd brought out the big guns a little early. Easy for Dean to think, he was staring off into the distance. Sam was sitting face to face, and Doug Thims had a phallic-shaped mole on his collarbone, and dammit, Sam had to look at it.

"My soul, Sonny!"

Sam stilled and Dean's head snapped back until he was looking at the old man, really looking, and his voice cracked like a whip. "Your soul?"

Doug flinched. "Y-yes." He paused and seemed to grab a hold of his courage. "Haven't you ever felt like you just needed to bust free? That there was something inside of you that had to come out?"

Like a locked door in my mind, with memories of a year that was really several decades spent in the worst corner of Hell? Sam shifted in his seat and hoped that Dean was too absorbed in Doug's Lifetime Original Movie lines to look over at him.

Dean's eyes went a bit flat. "Of course I do, but I repress that shit."

Sam kicked him in the shin and Dean's mouth snapped shut. "What my partner means is that, ah, a lot of people don't ever, um, feel free enough to completely be themselves. What made you let that part of yourself . . . wander free?"

Dean quirked an eyebrow and Sam flushed a bit at his own Lifetime Original Movie dialogue, but Doug nodded seriously.

"It's a crying shame, that repression business. You should see someone about that. Then maybe you could be the man you wanted to be."

Sam laid a hand on his brother's arm to prevent him for going for his gun. Doug had a fucking death wish. He finally seemed to get the picture.

"I'm sorry, Agent, that was rather rude of me, and I strive to not be rude. Honest, but not hurtful. Deliberately." He shot Dean an apprehensive look before turning back to Sam. "To answer your question – I'd been feeling this way for awhile. But that day, I don't know, I just acted." He shrugged. "Maybe it was the oatmeal I ate for breakfast, or the flowers I saw on the way to the store. I couldn't tell you. I just wanted to be me."

"Well," Sam sighed. "Thank you for your time, Doug. I think we need to be leaving now."

"Of course, of course." He stood to show them out, and Sam could hear a low "Jesus" from Dean behind him, taking the coward's way out and forcing Sam to walk next to the naked man. Doug insisted on shaking both their hands, and stood on the porch to wave goodbye.

"I need to take a shower," Dean muttered, slamming the car door behind him. Sam followed suit, chuckling to himself.

"I thought you said you liked ol' Doug."

"Yeah, well, that was when he was being naked in front of other people," Dean shot back. "He had body parts jiggling that I didn't think actually existed." He turned back onto the main street and Sam gasped.

"Shit! Dean, we forgot Fforpe! I think he's still hiding in Thims's bathroom!"

"Relax, Sammy, we didn't forget a thing. I wanted to leave him there."

"Dean!"

"Come on, Sam, it's fine." Dean pulled into the diner's tiny parking lot and cut the engine. "You could walk through the entire town in fifteen minutes. Fforpe can survive."

"I guess," Sam agreed slowly. "Okay, so what do you think we should do now?"

"Find someone who knows the history of the town and can give us a coherent version." Dean got out of the car and stretched. "And get some more pie."

Sam's stomach gave a quiver and he told it to shut up for a minute. "So you're leaning towards something tied to the town itself, then? Whatever it is, it's mischievous as all hell." He got out of the car and followed Dean into the diner. "I'd say it was the Trickster himself, if he was still with us, but he always targeted asses and I don't see anything in Doug's past, or the others – "

He stopped abruptly as his mouth went dry. Libby was bending over a table, giving a couple of customers their check, her generous backside facing the door. Sam's blood went straight to his other head.

"Dean!" Sam whispered, rooted to the spot. He tugged on his brother's arm. "I'm really horny!"

Dean rolled his eyes. "Keep it in your pants, Romeo, at least until after I get my dinner and pie."

"Dean, I don't." Sam swallowed hard. "Dean, I don't think I can."

"What?" Dean looked at him and Sam's face flamed. "Jesus, Sammy," he said under his breath, his eyes widening as his gaze traveled down Sam's body. "On second thought, I think I've lost my appetite." He slapped Sam's arm. "Go get her, tiger."

Sam took a couple of painful steps forward. Walking with a hard-on was not pleasant, especially when he'd gone—well, his body hadn't, but to him it seemed as if he'd gone well over a year without so much as cleaning the pipes. Over a year since Ruby, and there was a nasty thought. Plump Libby with her dishwater blonde hair and pale blue eyes looked nothing like Ruby, and Sam was exceedingly grateful for it. But now he had to try to get her into bed in, oh, about a minute, before he exploded.

She turned and spotted him then.

"Agent Angel!" She beamed up at him. "I have a marvelous peach and blackberry pie that's ready to go into the oven."

"That sounds amazing," he said truthfully, "but, uh, could I speak to you in private for a moment?"

"Of course!" She had a dimple, and a smear of butter and flour on her left cheek and blackberry juice on her apron and he just wanted to toss her across the nearest table and fuck her until it broke. His face turned an even deeper shade of red, which he had thought was categorically impossible. It was all he could do to follow her into the kitchen at a normal pace instead of marching her inside at double-time. "Have you thought of my offer?" she asked.

"Uh, about that. Can I, um," he fumbled for a pick-up line. Damn, he was so bad at this, and woefully out of practice. "I mean, will you show me your room? Like right now?"

She blinked. "There's dinner . . ."

"Can it be warmed up?" he asked, sweat beginning to bead on his forehead.

She looked like Christmas had come early. "Oh my God, really? You really do want me?"

"Yes!" he almost moaned. "We don't have to wait for your bed, either."

Her eyes opened wide. "I live above the diner," she said, pointing up.

"That's too far. I want you now." Holy shit, what was he saying? He'd stop himself, except he meant it. He just wouldn't normally say something like that. And now she was grabbing his hand and pulling him towards a door. "Wall," Sam muttered, and her eyes grew as big as saucers as he fumbled for his belt buckle. He had a condom in his wallet, you did not get to be Dean Winchester's brother without carrying emergency condoms on your person at all times. "Condom," he grunted, handing her the wallet.

Her breath was coming faster and faster now, her fingers quickly tearing open the packet. "Holy shit," she murmured as he managed to yank his pants and underwear partly down his thighs. He'd preen over the reaction later, right now all his blood was pounding along the length of his dick and he needed to fuck and rut. Her touch as she fitted the condom over him almost made him come right then, but he controlled himself enough to lift her up a bit and slide his hands beneath her skirt. Her underwear was damp and he hooked his thumb through the waistband and tugged them partway down her thighs.

Her feet left the ground when he entered her, and he took her weight easily, his body still strong and toned, thankfully. Fabric rustled, Libby gasped in stuttering breaths and Sam grunted out his rhythm. He wanted this so bad, the wet heat and friction and power and her wide, wide eyes. He thrust up hard, and she let out an "Oh-oh-oh!" His body crushed hers against the wall and he could feel her breasts and there would definitely have to be a round two later, in her bed, because he wanted to suck her nipples, dig his fingers inside her, lap her up and hear her scream when his tongue played with her clit and then he was coming, still thrusting hard as she whimpered her release against his neck.

They stayed fused together for several moments afterwards. Sam blinked and tried to clear his head of its sex-fogged thoughts. He could count the number of one-night stands he'd had on one hand, and the number with human women was even lower than that. Well, that he could remember; according to Dean, his body had been fast and loose with his virtue while he was in Hell. At least it knew what it was doing.

He placed Libby gently on her feet and she reached out a shaky hand to pull the condom off him. He twitched at her touch.

"Um," he said. "I, uh." God he was eloquent. "I'd really like to do that again later, in your bed," he said, and that was it. A light bulb went off in his head. How could he have not seen it before, with his blunt demand for sex? Sam Winchester did not have sex against walls. But Sam Winchester really, really wanted to. And Maggie, Doug, Roger, even Fforpe with his inability to shut up – had they not done exactly what they wanted, consequences be damned? Sam's blood chilled as he wondered what would have happened if Libby hadn't also wanted to fuck against a wall. And if she didn't want to fuck again later, because he was already fantasizing about the weight and feel of her breasts.

"That would be awesome," she breathed. "Would you like some pie?"

He stared at her. Libby was obsessed with making pies lately. It had gotten to her, too. "Yeah," he said. "Yes. Agent Butterman will be wanting some, too." He quickly straightened his clothes. "Thanks, Libby." He hesitated a moment, then leaned down and kissed her lips. "I'll just go see how he's doing."

But when he walked into the diner, there was no sign of Dean.

***

There were some things Dean didn't feel he needed to sit through. Listening to his little brother have sex was one of them, so when Sam followed Libby into the kitchen, Dean headed outside. He thrust his hand in his pocket and closed his fingers around the smooth stone inside it.

He took a deep breath of the fresh country air and started across the street to the ruins of the old Town Hall. It was as good a place as any. As much as he'd been enjoying bouncing ideas off of Sam, he wanted to have a conversation with a bit of privacy, and besides, Sam did deserve a nice hard fuck after everything he'd been through. Though it was really weird for him to just . . .

Dean's footsteps slowed. It was really weird for souled-Sam to give in to an urge like that. And it was totally going to interfere with Dean's own urges. Just once, he'd like to talk to Cas about something normal. Not ask him for help.

"Fuck," he announced to the burnt-out remains. He closed his eyes. "Dear Castiel-in-Heaven, if you could spare a moment or two, I really need to see you. There's something weird with Sam . . ."

"Hello, Dean."

Dean's lashes fluttered open and an inadvertent smile quirked his lips. "Hey, Cas," he drawled, turning.

Cas was wearing his typical trench coat, his typical suit, his typical head tilt and his typical distracted and on the verge of annoyed expression. His deep blue eyes surveyed the ruins. "Did Sam do this? Is this the problem?"

"What? Nah, it was like this when we got here." Dean was grinning now. "You got here quickly."

Cas's eyes narrowed. "You only call to me when you have an emergency," he explained as if Dean were a bit thick.

"Ouch, Cas." Damn, he wanted to hug him. Cas looked like a little grouchy puppy sometimes and without taking a moment more to think about it, Dean moved forward and wrapped his arms around the angel.

"Dean, what – "

"Hush," Dean whispered.

From this close, Dean could see the crease between Cas's eyes and his perma-stubble, looking a bit thicker than usual. He really wanted to touch Cas's cheek, wipe away his worries. Get him to relax the ramrod set of his shoulders. Hear him laugh, and kiss his – WHAT THE FUCK. Dean stumbled out of the hug.

"Dean. You look distressed. What is going on, why did you call me?" Cas took a step forward, his hand raised, and Dean flinched back and walked into it at the same time.

"I want to give you a gift," he gasped out. Shit, he should have seen it coming. Maggie, Doug, Roger, Sam and now Dean – all gone round the bend. He was crazy, and he was about to heap a shit-ton of crazy onto Cas. He pulled out the stone.

"Here, here, take it. It reminded me of you." He picked up Cas's hand in his own and pressed the stone into it. Cas stared at him like he was one of those magic interlocking rings and Cas was going to figure it out, dammit. Dean had to look away from him, and focused on the stone – smooth, dark gray, and with one ragged vein of something else, something pure white, cutting through the middle.

"I don't understand what you mean by this," Cas murmured, shoulders slumping as he turned the stone over and over in his hands.

"I want – " Oh shit, shit, shit, he was going to say that he wanted Cas, he wanted cheesy romance with someone who knew every fiber of his being and always came back anyhow, shit, shit, SHIT. He jerked himself back with an effort, but he couldn't stop his traitorous mouth from babbling. "I want you near, I miss you. I want to solve your problems for you so you'd stop worrying and loosen up, like that night, do you remember? That night in Maine, you fucking laughed and I want to hear it again. Cas."

Holy shit, what if he meant it? What if the curse wasn't – act crazy! What if it was like their ill-fated run-in with Veritas, and everyone was just spouting the truth all over the place?

Cas was looking back up at him, lips parted like there was a question there, an important question, and he wasn't going to ask it. "That's rather illogical," he said instead, and anger flashed through Dean, hot and quick.

"Cut the Vulcan crap, Cas." His voice was harsh even to his own ears. "You always come back to me. I want to know why. Tell me why." His hands gripped the coat, pulling Cas closer, the scent of him filling Dean's nostrils – of thunderstorms and fire and the sun-warmed air of a Kansas summer – and his mouth was against Cas's neck when he whispered, "I want you to feel the way I do."

His fingers closed around empty air and his stomach plummeted. His heartbeat pumped blood to the tune of Cas, Cas, Cas. How had he managed to fuck things up so completely, so quickly? What the fuck was affecting this town? Shit, he hadn't asked Cas when he had the chance, so intent on declaring his – what?

He sat down heavily, unmindful of the ash that was staining his suit pants. The sick feeling in his stomach was growing, and it wasn't mere lovesickness. He groaned. He needed some of Cas's logic now. Fforpe wanted to talk, so he talked; Ruth wanted her husband to stop breathing, so she tried to strangle him; Thims wanted to run around naked, so he flapped in the wind. Sam wanted to get laid – Dean fumbled his cell phone out and glanced at the time. Hopefully Sam had rung the bell already. Dean hit the speed dial.

"Dean!"

"I really hope you're done." Pain clutched at his heart, a physical ache for Cas, and he whimpered, his vision going dark for a moment. When he opened his eyes again, it was to the sight of Sam's feet, running closer.

"Dean!" Sam called again, his voice sounding tinny from Dean's dropped phone and reinforced by Sam in the flesh. Dean watched through bleary eyes as Sam dropped to his knees next to him. "Dean, what happened? Were you attacked?"

"Just thinking about what we're up against here, and I wanted something I couldn't have," Dean mumbled. "Though I feel a bit better now that you're here." He blinked, his vision clearing. "Shit, it must be because I want you to be happy, and you just got laid, therefore, you're happy. What the hell is this, the Hallmark Curse?"

"I don't know," Sam replied, his cheeks a bit pink. "But something is definitely making the people of this town, at least some of them, do whatever they want. Dean, what did you – "

"So 'want' is the connection? And I'm the asshole who wanted the impossible," Dean muttered. His brother was watching him with his head tilted like Cas usually did, and his stomach flip-flopped. He tried to muster a smile. "I'm screwed, Sam. I want to teach the world to sing in perfect harmony."

"Very funny, Dean. Tell me what you wanted, maybe I can help you." He reached out to grab Dean's shoulders, but Dean shrugged him off. "Come on, man, tell me."

Dean laughed. "I don't want to."

"Fine!" Sam rubbed his hands together briskly. "Let's try to narrow this down then. What do we know about this thing? It seems to be focused only on the inhabitants of Frederick's Hollow, temporary and permanent. Is it malevolent, benevolent or neutral? On the one hand, you have Maggie, Ruth and Roger. On the other, you have Libby, Fforpe, Doug and the Morgans with their colorful cows. Though I think we could agree that the pies, at least, are benevolent."

He looked like he was just getting warmed up, but Dean wanted to back up. "Dude. Do you hear yourself? You want to be on the case again, don't you? You really want to be a hunter."

Sam's mouth opened and closed. "Yeah, Dean, I do," he said with a sigh. "I like . . . solving stuff. This whole – " he gestured with his arm, waving his hand back and forth between their bodies " – figuring stuff out with you. It's what I want to do. That and get laid again tonight."

"Well, please, don't hold back on my account. I'm only suffering horribly over here." Dean's stomach lurched and he closed his eyes. He needed to think about something else, want something other than Cas. Wanting his brother's happiness had helped earlier, and he concentrated on him as Sam continued listing the facts they knew. Sam had begun to pace and his fingers twitched a bit, itching to punch things into a computer and pull up information. God, he was a dweeb. The pain in Dean's stomach eased up just slightly.

"Go back to who hasn't been affected, that we've come in contact with," Dean interrupted. Sam gave him a pissy face, but started in on another list.

"Rat and Smith, Ruth's husband Bill and your witness in flannel. What was his name again?"

"Maurice," Dean supplied. "Sam. It has to be him. Rat and Smith had their police headquarters burned down, and Bill was almost strangled. Nothing's happened to Maurice, and we were both in close proximity."

"But what – "

Dean could see the idea bloom in Sam's head. Whatever he thought, it was good.

"We need to call Cas," Sam said. The pain in Dean's stomach flared up to volcano proportions. All he could see was Cas, next to him in the Impala, telling him he had got exactly what he wanted, and then disappearing. But he had dared to want so much more since then, and it was killing him. "I need to ask him – Dean! Oh my God!"

Sam knelt on the ground next to him as he vomited up all his pie. There was a ringing in his ears and his eyesight was dimming again, but he could make out Sam's lips moving. It looked like he was saying 'Castiel.' Dean closed his eyes tight as the air stirred around him and a hand gripped his shoulder.

His stomach stopped roiling. There was no ringing to drown out the sounds of Cas and Sam talking, but he couldn't hear them anyhow because Cas was there. Dean shifted, pulling Cas down until the angel had no choice but to wrap his arms around Dean. Dean buried his face in Cas's white shirt and breathed in, his lips brushing Cas's neck, hanging on until his breathing and heartbeat stabilized.

The ruined Town Hall was completely silent by the time he looked up again. Dean glanced over at his brother. Sam was wearing the face of a pole-axed bullfrog.

"You can see why I didn't want to tell you," Dean muttered.

"Get up, Dean." Cas stood himself, and pulled Dean easily to his feet. "I was just telling Sam – I have discovered who is causing you to act this way."

"A spirit? A witch?"

"No – an angel!" Sam had found his voice again. "I was thinking it could be some kind of rogue angel, and Cas confirmed – "

"What would an angel get out of this?" Dean directed the question at Cas, and watched his face as he replied. He was kind of beautiful. Dean felt his cheeks heat and he tried paying closer attention to Cas's words, but he loved his voice, too. Shit, shit, shit, shit, SHIT.

"Balthazar is not the only angel to decide to spend more time on Earth since the start of the civil war," Cas was saying. "There is a cupid here. And why he is playing with humans and their wants instead of arranging romantic matches, I could not say."

"Why don't you ask me?" A new voice joined them in a complaining whine, and Maurice stepped into view, standing in the doorway of the burned-out building. Cas raised his arm, and the hairs on the back of Dean's neck pricked at the surge of power. Suddenly Maurice was on his knees in front of them, his arms held over his face in a protective stance. "Wait, wait, wait!" he pleaded. "Hear me out!"

Cas glowered down at the lesser angel, and Dean had to wipe the drool from his bottom lip. Fuck.

"I want to ask him a few questions, Cas, can I?" Sam asked, stepping forward eagerly.

Cas tore his gaze away from Maurice to look at his human companions. His eyes widened at the look on Dean's face, and Dean wanted to die to save himself from the mortification. His heart stuttered and he fell to his knees. His last sight before his vision blacked was the panic in Sam's eyes and the furious set of Cas's mouth as he turned away from him.

When Dean came to, he was lying in a corner of the ruins, Cas's trench coat tucked around him, Sam sitting cross-legged beside him, looking across the room.

"Hey," he managed to croak, and Sam's head whipped around, a grin blossoming across his face.

"Hay is for horses," he said back, and Dean groaned.

"Where's Cas? Ripping that asshole cupid a new one?" he asked, struggling to sit up.

Sam nodded his head in the direction of the other side of the room. Dean followed his gaze to see the two angels, Maurice still on his knees, with his palms outstretched. Cas stood before him, hands clenched at his side and brow furrowed. He looked different without his trench coat. More assertive.

"They've been talking in Enochian," Sam told him. "After Maurice released us all. Cas was the angriest I'd seen him. It was kind of . . ."

Hot. Dean frowned. "Wait, he released us?"

"Yeah, Dean, you were dying. But Cas checked and Maurice's marks aren't on us." Sam was already schooling his face in preparation. Dean had to nip that in the bud.

"Dude. We're not talking about it."

"Dean – "

"Sam, I will get into the Impala and drive away and leave you here, I swear."

Sam rolled his eyes and leaned back against a half-wall. "Fine. We won't talk about that."

Dean watched him carefully for a moment, then leaned against the wall, too. They could see Cas and Maurice doing their angel ritual or whatever. It seemed to entail a lot of stillness.

"Cas let me yell at him while you were passed out," Sam said.

"Oh, yeah? What'd you say?"

Sam fiddled with the hem of his jeans. "I told him it was irresponsible of him to just let people do whatever they wanted."

"Papa Sam. I'd tell you to stop being such a fucking killjoy, but we did have to drink tea with an old naked dude earlier today, so."

Sam snorted. "Yeah." He left Dean's near-death experience out of it, thankfully, but shot Dean a very serious look. "You know how I was so – you know – earlier? He hadn't thought of what would happen if I couldn't, well, find a willing partner. He thought everyone would be happy just doing whatever they wanted. But what if he had turned me into a rapist? I wouldn't be able to live with myself like that, Dean. I wouldn't."

Dean squeezed his shoulder. "You would've stopped yourself, Sammy. I know you."

"Would I have? Dean, you were dying because you couldn't have what you wanted. Maggie, Ruth? Roger? The things they wanted to do were violent. No one died, but that's no thanks to Maurice."

Dean looked back over at the rogue cupid. He wanted to knock some sense into his idiot head and rage against the moron for making him admit something to himself that he'd had no intention of revealing. Fucker. And making Sam doubt his own intentions! He'd just got his brother back and he'd like to keep him, thank you very much. Speaking of which . . .

"Was there anything else, Sam? That you wanted, I mean?"

"I wanted to be working the case, Dean. I already told you that." Sam gave him a completely innocent look, which meant he was totally lying.

"And?" Dean asked.

"What?"

Dean raised a brow and Sam sighed.

"I don't want to know, Dean. Am I curious? Yeah. But I didn't want to know enough to break down that door. Hey, I'm still sane, right?" He gave what Dean suspect Sam thought was a reassuring smile, but he could see right through it. Sam had thought about it. Was probably still thinking about it. But they had put it off this time. They just had to keep putting it off and putting it off until the itch faded.

"Dean." Both brothers looked up at Cas's voice. The angels had approached soundlessly, damn them. Dean had wanted just a few more minutes or lifetimes to prepare to meet Cas's eyes again. "This cupid has something to say to you."

Maurice cleared his throat. "I'm sorry," he mumbled.

"What was that, space cowboy?" Dean needled him.

"I'm sorry, okay?" Maurice said a little louder. "I was just trying to help."

"Do us all a favor and don't help next time."

"I gave you a gift! You humans are always asking for free will, and I let you do whatever you wanted!"

"No," Dean corrected him. "You made us do whatever we wanted. Where's the choice in that?"

Cas gave him an inscrutable look. "I'm taking him with me. I'll be in touch, Dean. Sam."

They vanished in a whoosh of air. Dean's hands clenched in the fabric of the trench coat, still sitting in his lap. He ignored the pang at Cas's disappearance and turned to his brother. "I'm hungry. Shall we see if Libby wants to get rid of some of her pies?"

***

Dean stared up at the ceiling, wishing he had a little Metallica, or anything, to drown out the sounds of Sam and Libby in the room next door. Turned out they were both still game for a night of wild sex, much to Sam's relief, even without the influence of Maurice. He shoved one of his pillows over his face on one particularly loud squeal. Fuck my life.

His bedsprings creaked and a weight settled across his thighs. Dean sat bolt upright, or tried to, ripping the pillow away and reaching for his gun.

"That won't be necessary," Cas said. The angel was straddling his thighs, the suit coat folded neatly over the desk chair where Dean had thrown the trench, shoes by the door. Dean's brain had a little trouble processing the visual clues.

"You're sitting on me," he said stupidly, and Cas pushed him back against the pillows, nodding.

"Yes, I am. I wanted to know something, Dean." His head tilted and his eyes narrowed as he leaned down, his tie falling forward to brush against Dean's thin t-shirt. "Do you still want me here?"

Dean swallowed hard. "Cas, I – I . . ."

"I see." No trace of disappointment or anger leaked into Cas's voice, but his eyes were hooded and he stood abruptly. "I'll be leaving now. I'm sure you will be in contact if you have need of my help."

Dean caught his wrist before he could take another step. "Wait. Wait, please. Give me a minute."

Cas stared back at him, the moment stretching out between them, while Dean's heart raced and fluttered like a trapped bird.

"I have no idea what to say, Cas," Dean said finally. It was fucking awkward, him sitting up in bed, holding the angel's wrist, but only because Cas allowed it. He dropped the wrist, stood up, and that inch or so of a height advantage helped, never mind that Cas clearly knew why he was doing it. "I want you to stay. I like having you around," he offered, which just sounded lame. Cas barely shifted his shoulders, but Dean could tell that he agreed on the lameness.

Dean rubbed at his neck. "I hate this navel-gazing shit, you know that. And come on, you're the only friend I have! What if I want, what if you don't . . ."

They were back to staring at each other, a look that was equal parts challenge and reassurance, warning and longing, inquisition and knowing, as it'd been from the first time they'd met. Dean licked his lips. His height advantage was worthless when Cas met his eyes, enough power lurking in Cas's blue depths that he could extinguish Dean's life with a mere thought.

"I shouldn't want anything from you, shouldn't ask anything of you," Dean said. "What do you want?"

"You to make up your mind," Cas growled, and it was as if the question had opened the floodgates and Cas was determined to let it all out. "I have already told you I would prefer being in your presence. What is your reticence to ask for what you truly want?" He crowded into Dean's personal space, pushing, and Dean took a step back, Cas taking a step forward. "You have asked me to go on countless suicide missions, Dean, and I have always done so. How can you possibly think you could want something I would not be willing to give?"

The backs of Dean's knees hit the mattress and he sat down heavily. Cas immediately slotted into the space between his knees, one hand gripping Dean's shoulder and the other going up to tangle in the hair at the back of his neck. "Tell me, Dean. Tell me you want me."

Dean stared up at him. He had a terrible beauty, addictive and powerful, and Dean should be scared shitless. He was scared shitless, but more from the clawing need and want he felt than from Cas's otherworldliness. It was enough to burn him to a crisp before he even reached the raging inferno that was Cas.

And then Cas tilted his head, and very nearly smiled. "Be not afraid," he said.

A startled laugh burst from Dean's throat. "Yeah, I love you, Cas," he said before he could tell himself not to. "I want you."

Cas did smile then, and Dean just had to reach up and tug him down, pulling on the tie that hung at a perpetually crooked angle from his neck. Cas was an aggressive kisser, and Dean found himself accommodating the angel before he even thought of it, shifting on the bed until Cas was straddling him again, Cas's weight forcing him back against the pillows. Cas's tongue kept thrusting into his mouth. Dean felt he should protest the intrusion, but then Cas started in on the moans and tiny surprised gasps, and who was Dean to protest being the cause of such delicious noises? He slid his hands around Cas's waist, pulling the dress shirt out and spreading his hands over the warm skin.

Cas pulled back with a grunt, his eyes wide, and Dean immediately let him go. Shit, had he messed it up again? Had he wanted too much?

"No," Cas answered. "Stop thinking that. I just want fewer barriers."

He fumbled for his own buttons and Dean grinned. "I got that, you fucking mindreader."

"You have a very foul mouth, Dean," Cas said, frowning at him as he made short work of the tie and dress shirt.

"Oh, yeah? What're you going to do about it?"

Cas answered with a growl, pushing him back until he was flat on the bed. Dean chuckled under his breath until Cas shoved at his t-shirt, sliding it up so he could nuzzle at Dean's stomach.

"Fuck!" he gasped, his hips lifting of their own accord when Cas bit into his flesh, swiped his tongue experimentally into his navel.

"More," Cas said, and hooked his thumbs into Dean's waistbands and pulled, dropping clothes over the side of the bed. His lips and tongues and fingers went everywhere, along Dean's hipbones, thighs, knees, cock, balls, ass as Dean writhed and moaned beneath him.

"Cas, Cas, Cas," he babbled. "How are you – oh fuck, do that again, please, Cas, Cas!" His fingers tangled in Cas's hair as Cas went down on him. His hips thrust up, shoving his cock deeper into Cas's mouth and the angel took it easily. Dean began to laugh. He'd forgotten that technically, Cas didn't need to breath. But Cas did like licking and sucking and swallowing and Dean lost himself in the sensation. Someone was keening and whimpering and begging and it took him a minute to realize it was him. He came when Cas looked up at him, the flash of blue beneath thick lashes demanding it of him.

He lay back against the tangled sheets, catching his breath, as Cas moved off the bed. He watched lazily as Cas took off his socks and rolled them up, his pants and folded them over the coats, and finally his underwear, leaving them on the floor. Moonlight and shadows played across his skin and Dean wanted him to step closer so he could see.

"Tell me, Dean," Cas said, kneeling by Dean's duffle bag. "Tell me you want me."

"I want you," Dean mumbled hoarsely.

"Tell me again." He located the lube and pulled it out, frowning down at it.

"I want you," Dean repeated. "Now get over here."

Cas raised an eyebrow, but walked back to the bed and finally Dean could see him, the way his skin glowed, the lean muscles of his chest and legs and arms, and his cock erect and eager.

"Um," Dean started. "My muscles are like water now."

"Dean. You are with me." Cas waited until Dean met his eyes again. "Tell me."

"I want you," Dean whispered and swallowed. Shit. "I want all of you."

His cock twitched as if thinking about joining in the festivities sooner rather than later when Cas slid a lubed finger inside of him. Dean grunted at the feeling, unsure until Cas lay next to him and kissed him, and kept kissing him as another finger joined the first and they found his prostate. His brain ignited in pleasure again and he began to babble as Cas moved on to kissing and sucking his neck.

"Want you, Cas, want you. Cas, Cas, Cas." It was fucking embarrassing, but he'd babble and beg as long as Cas lavished that kind of attention on him. "Please, Cas, please. Want you to fuck me."

He almost wept when the fingers disappeared, but then they were replaced by something much larger and he forgot to breathe.

"Dean!" Cas's voice snapped him out of it and he gasped for air.

"Okay, we're good, okay. More." Cas slid all the way inside and Dean closed his eyes at the sharp burn of pain.

"Dean, look at me," Cas commanded him and he opened his eyes. Cas's skin was flushed with excitement, sweat curled his hair on his forehead and his eyes blazed with lust. Dean's jaw dropped as Cas began to lose control before his eyes, moaning low in his throat and thrusting in with no sense of rhythm.

The rhythm-less thrusting suited them, though, and Dean began to pant and moan as Cas consistently hit his prostate. The mattress shook and the headboard whacked the wall with sharp cracks. Dean just hung on and let Cas do the majority of the work. He lost track of time, his world narrowing down to the pleasure Cas was providing and the sight and sound of Cas himself, and the feel of Cas inside him and against his skin. He shifted on his back, angling his hips, and Cas gasped.

Dean could see the orgasm paint Cas's face with wonder even as he felt it inside, on and on, but he didn't have time to be jealous at how long it lasted as his second orgasm of the night crept up on him. He moaned through the aftershocks.

"Dean," Cas panted, pulling out with a groan only to drape himself over Dean's chest and press his lips to Dean's neck.

"Yes, I want you," Dean murmured, and Cas laughed. Dean stared at him, brought his hand up and ran his thumb along Cas's jawline. "Especially when you do that."

Cas kissed the palm of his hand. "You've had me since the moment I first saw you. Now rest, Dean."

"We're messy," Dean said. His jaw was going to break from smiling so hard. He'd turned into a lovesick fool, that's all there was to it.

"You're with me," Cas reminded him again. "Rest."

Dean fell asleep, clean, with a smile on his lips.

***

Sam blinked the sand out of his eyes. The morning light was just starting to poke its way through Libby's blinds, but that's not what woke him up.

"Oh my God," he groaned. "Round three? I'm going to kill him."

"Still," Libby said, coming into the bedroom from her connected bathroom. "You've got to give them points for stamina. Where is Danny's boyfriend from again?" She rooted through her jewelry box on the bureau, looking for the perfect pair of earrings. "I swear he's pronouncing 'Dan' wrong."

"Harder, Cas, harder!" Dean's voice wasn't muffled enough by the shaking wall. Libby raised her eyebrows.

"I don't fucking care where he's from," Sam muttered. "Can I help you start cooking for the breakfast crowd?"

"All four of them? Sure, sugar." She sat back on the bed and kissed him. "And if you fall asleep in a booth, I won't blame you."

Dean and Cas didn't make their way downstairs to the diner until ten o'clock. The breakfast crowd had long since cleared out, and it was just him and Libby playing cards in a booth by the door, and Rat and Smith in the corner.

"Morning, partner, Ms. Libby," Dean greeted them without the slightest trace of a blush. As if Sam and Libby hadn't heard him get spectacularly fucked on three separate occasions the night before.

"Good morning, Agent Butterman," Libby responded, flashing her dimple. "I didn't hear your lovely boyfriend arrive last night."

"Seriously?" Dean asked. God, he truly had no shame.

"She means at the diner, Jesus, De – Danny." Dammit, Dean. "Libby, this is Cas. Cas, Libby."

Of course Cas paused before shaking her hand, but at least it wasn't too noticeable, and he even managed a half-smile. In fact, Sam noted, eyeing him critically, the angel looked more relaxed than Sam had ever seen him. Looser, somehow. The effect of three orgasms after hundreds of years of nothing, most likely.

"Well," Libby said, sliding out of her side of the booth. "Why don't I leave you gentlemen to talk while I get some breakfast together for you?"

Dean took her place across from Sam, and Cas slid in next to him.

"Sooooo," Dean started.

"No, shut up, Dean. First off, we are never getting adjoining rooms. EVER. Okay? And second," he continued, scowling, "why didn't you tell me about this? You said my body was getting laid, and we met fairies, and all the shit about Mom's side of the family, but you neglected to tell me that you and Cas were – you and Cas?"

"Dean and I did not copulate until last night," Cas said calmly and Dean's face immediately went red. "I apologize that you could hear me making love to him. I will be certain to construct a sound barrier in the future. I was too distracted by my amorous desires to do so last night. It won't happen again."

Dean's face was now purple.

"Um, that's okay, Cas," Sam managed to get out despite an overwhelming desire to laugh at his brother. "I accept your apology."

Cas inclined his head.

"So, then, are you guys – ow!" Dean had kicked him in the shins, the ass.

"Are we what?" Cas asked, tilting his head.

"He's asking about our feelings, Cas, ignore him," Dean muttered. "Here comes coffee."

"I love him and he loves me," Cas stated as Libby put two cups of coffee down on the table. Dean started violently, and coffee spilled across the table, just narrowly avoiding Sam's lap.

"We are not discussing this further!" Dean hissed furiously as they frantically mopped up hot coffee. "That's final!"

And it was, through the rest of breakfast. Dean ate, Cas watched him eat, and Sam filled them in on the aftermath of Maurice releasing everyone from his influence. For starters, Libby was done with pies for awhile. Roger was working on a deal to rebuild the Town Hall, paying for as much of it as he could, but able to use his own designs. Doug was wearing clothes in public again, Ruth and Bill were back home together (Ruth with earplugs), the Morgans' cows were back to normal, and Fforpe was talking about half as much. Maggie was still awaiting trial, though. Sam hadn't told them they'd been interfered with by a rogue cupid, and Fforpe was chalking everything up to a full moon. But not everything could go back to what it was before.

"Maggie's still planning to plead guilty. She talked to me, about an hour ago when I went down to see her," Sam said as Dean mopped up the last of his runny eggs with a piece of toast. "She said she didn't regret hitting that boy. So I don't know. Maybe she would have snapped at some point anyhow."

Dean grunted and gave Cas a sidelong glance. Sam doubted even Dean had a clue as to how long he would have repressed his feelings for the angel without Maurice's nudge. Which led to . . .

"What did you do with Maurice, Cas?" Sam asked.

Cas grimaced. "Recruited him."

"The angel who almost killed me? You want him in your army?" Dean's fork clattered against his empty plate and he would've stood up, had Cas not been sitting in his way.

"Maurice, as he called himself, went rogue because he was enamored of the idea of free will. He took it to the extreme. None of us here knows anything about that," Cas said with an irritable twitch of his shoulders. Sam had to stifle another laugh at his brother's face. Teach an angel sarcasm, you should be prepared for him to use it. "Believe me when I say that I, too, was furious at Maurice for his lack of forethought, and what his good intentions could have done to you. And Sam. He is learning now. But I cannot afford to destroy an ally. Not one who is fond of humanity, and would fight against it suffering from another apocalypse."

He held Dean's gaze for a long moment, before Dean gave in with poor grace and nodded. "Fine. Just keep him away from us."

"Of course, Dean. I would not want you hurt." His hand snaked around Dean's neck and pulled him in for a kiss. Sam's eyes bugged a little. It was one thing listening to it through the wall, but seeing his brother deepen the kiss, and now there was definitely tongue involved . . .

"I'm going to pack up our things, say my goodbyes to Libby," Sam said hurriedly. "You guys take your time."

Half an hour later, it was just the two of them, hitting the road with Libby's final two pies. Libby had smiled her dimple, and asked if he would be coming back. He had thanked her for everything, and kissed her, and said he never knew what the future held. He could still see her dimple in his mind's eye when they were ten miles down the road, heading southeast. He frowned.

"Dean? Where are we going?"

"Korean War Memorial, remember? I asked Cas if he wanted to meet us there."

Sam nodded thoughtfully.

"Uh, Sam? My eyes are on the road. Was that okay with you?" Dean's knuckles were white around the steering wheel and a flush was traveling up his neck. Their dad had been the same way, the few times Sam had seen him nervous. Sam tended to go bug-eyes and stammering when he was nervous. He wasn't sure which was worse.

"Sure it is, Dean. It's all okay with me."

"Good," Dean grunted. "Now none of that touchy-feely crap. How much you wanna bet you still wet your pants when you see the statues in broad daylight?"

Sam rolled his eyes and looked back out the window, a smile ghosting his lips.