Love Songs For Stalkers 1/2

[dime_liora]

Mixer:sailorhathor
Author: dimeliora
Artist: kymericl
Fic Title: Love Songs for Stalkers
Mix Title: Love Songs for Stalkers
Fandom(s)/Pairings: Dean/Castiel
Length: 14,776
Summary: It starts out small, really, just little love notes and presents. Dean is amused and Sam is perplexed, but that’s ok because it’s just so insignificant. Everything changes when Dean’s secret admirer starts trying to kill him. Written for the bigbang_mixup.
Rating/Warning(s): NC-17/ Violence, Expletives, Graphic Sexual Interactions
Notes: AU after “Swan Song”
Betas: The patient and kind ladies: sailorhathor and ashtraythief. Thank you so much, both of you!
Beautiful Art Masterpost: Here
Awesome Mix Masterpost: Here



Prologue:

The house is right there. Right fucking there, and Dean could reach it in seconds if his legs weren’t refusing to respond to his commands properly. Instead of a light jog, or at least the purposeful swagger he’s taught himself is so important for an intimidating aura, Dean’s taking hesitant little steps across the uneven ground.

It’s not impressive in the classical sense. Small, neglected, and set alone in this clearing with the trees surrounding and clawing their way towards it. Everything here is dead from the dry grass crunching under his feet to the twisted branches that rattle and scrape together like an army of restless bones.

Dean’s eyes are set on the rickety looking steps, splintered wood covered in a peeling and faded grey paint. The railings on the right have been removed entirely, fallen into the dead grass, and although there are still railings on the left, they promise a complete lack of support along with serious damage to anyone stupid enough to ignore the warning implicit in them.

Three steps lead up to an equally uninviting porch, and Dean’s ultimate goal, a door that looks to be set crookedly into its frame. The door is the only thing here with color, a vibrant and ominous red that screams in the dull grey and brown world. The door is the center, symmetrically framed by windows on either side that contain glass covered in a thick layer of dirt and film. There’s an impression of ratty curtains waving behind those windows, shrouds covering the house’s eyes, and Dean wonders when he started thinking in horror novel terms. The roof is half-destroyed, tiles hanging haphazardly, and topped with a crumbling stone chimney.

Something is behind that door. Something or someone that is waiting for Dean, and has been for a long time. If he could just get to the door, just lay his hand on the knob and turn it, then whatever is there will be behind it will be ready to reach and grab. Ready to kill. Dean knows with complete conviction that whatever is there will try to take his life, and there’s a certain sweetness to the thought. He’s been coming here so long, taking this journey over and over again, and the idea of having it come to an end one way or another is more temptation than he’s capable of avoiding.

Like it has so many times before, the air gets colder as Dean reaches the base of the steps. There’s a sound coming from somewhere far away, a breath of wind at first that grows louder and louder. A wail or a moan that sounds like a word Dean can’t properly understand. A language he once knew and has since forgotten, that falls on his ears plaintive and confusing.

Something about the sound stops him, as it always does, and Dean turns his head towards the dead woods and tries to find the source. Tries to properly translate the word. Something he knew, something he believed in, and in his mind’s eye there’s a flash of blue-grey intense and bright, but it’s subsumed by the red of the door. By the call of the thing that has been luring him and chasing him for so long.

Dean turns back to the stairs, ignores the railing, and lifts his boot to land on the first step. There’s a creak, a groan, but the wood holds him, and Dean is ascending towards his fate.

The wind picks up, gains volume and intensity, and the word suddenly makes sense.

Dean. His name, carried across ages and dimensions and brought to him here at the last second before Dean takes the final step to his doom. Blue-grey again, the sensation of skin under his empty hands, and Dean’s attention snaps away from the house, foot slipping on the edge of the step and sending him tumbling towards the ground in slow motion as the world shifts. A scream of despair rises from the very walls of the dilapidated house.



Story:

It wasn’t that Dean didn’t want to keep his promise to Sam. He did, really, but then again he really didn’t. It was tempting to curl up and hide, to take the easy way out, and Lisa and Ben were certainly that. To simply bury his head in the sand and take a job and be respectable. Sure, it was what Sam had always wanted, and in the pain and despair of the last few years, it had a certain appeal Dean couldn’t deny.

To be free of watching his family die over and over again in front of him, of the long nights rubbing helplessly at muscles that never seemed to unlock or trying not to scratch slowly healing wounds, and the constant belief that this was the end and there was still more to do. All of it could be discarded by him simply driving to Lisa’s house, knocking on the door, and allowing her to take him in and make him a better man.

In the aftermath of Sam jumping into the Cage, there had been nothing that would console Dean, and that had been the death knell for going to Lisa. Bobby had helped him up, slid him into the car, and Castiel had driven; Dean didn’t even know Cas knew how to drive. Dean didn’t cry, didn’t scream and rage the way he wanted to, but he couldn’t find the energy to speak. Instead, he slumped in the bench seat of his home and placed his head against the passenger window.

If he was silly and superstitious, he would say that he could still feel Sam here. That mirroring the position he’d seen his brother in for so many years brought Sam all that much closer. As if they weren’t separated by worlds and archangels. As if Sam wasn’t locked in the deepest part of Hell with the two most powerful archangels in existence ready to tear him apart for eternity.

He remembered the pain of watching Sam jump, the soft touch when a newly-resurrected Cas healed him, and the gentle lifting and placing that got him into the car. He remembered it now as if it was yesterday, but he can’t remember breaking down. Can’t remember the moment that drove him into screaming madness.

What he did know is he came back to Cas standing in front of him in some field with his face expressionless and implacable as Dean destroyed his hands striking the angel’s skin over and over again. They both knew it was punishment for Dean instead of anger directed at Cas. At some point the life went out of him again, and it was Cas who caught him, Cas who held him up, and Cas who put the shattered bones of his hands back together. They sat in the field for a long time, shoulders close without touching, and silent as the night came and then passed.

After that there wasn’t much question. Dean couldn’t go to Lisa. She wouldn’t understand, and no matter how good he was at internalizing his issues, he couldn’t bury this pain. The best he could hope for was to carry it around and simply let it fester and rot until it took him over.

Given his own way, Dean probably would have been dead in a matter of months. His first solo hunt ended with a pipe through his stomach and a screaming victim calling 911. The ambulance didn’t get there before Cas did.

All the rules his father had set into place went out the window for that brief and lonely period of time. Dean drank while working, he didn’t double-check security measures, and he rushed in without a plan or a moment’s consideration more than once. Castiel was the only reason Dean was alive, and he didn’t miss that, but he wasn’t too grateful at the time either.

Then everything changed. Instead of Cas showing up randomly to save Dean’s ass at the last second, the angel was there all the time. Which was why Dean had no idea at first how Cas figured out a way to get Sam out of the Cage. Later he would put the pieces together and decide that the first month or two, Cas had been researching, and he must have limited himself to looking for answers while Dean was asleep after he became Dean’s new partner.

It still hurt to look over into the passenger seat and see the angel instead of his brother, but the pain was something Dean had become so used to it was as natural and welcome as breathing. They had problems, a lot of them, because Cas didn’t get jokes and he didn’t understand lying. The angel dropped the ball more than once in conversations, but he was always there and always reliable.

So when Cas said, casual and inflectionless as if it was nothing, “I have found a way to retrieve Sam, but I am unsure if he will be able to heal. Even if he is not, at least his soul will be free of the Cage, correct?”

Dean thought of his time in Hell, and what it was like coming back. How the memories still came back to him in the night, or when the light was just right, and then he thought of Sam. Sam who had it so much worse and needed so much more help. Sam, his baby brother, locked in torture and pain.

“Correct. How?” It was the best Dean could get out, and he was fairly impressed with himself, honestly. Then Cas started talking.

---

The first night they had Sam back, his brother simply curled up in the corner and screamed. No one tried to touch him, although Castiel offered to put him to sleep and give his poor throat a rest. Dean wouldn’t let him. After all the time they’d been separated, it was too good to have Sam there, screaming or not.

When his brother finally screamed himself hoarse, and then silently screamed himself to sleep, Dean couldn’t help it that his brain drifted back to Sam doing the same as a baby until Dean figured out the right way to hold him and comfort him.

It was the thought that sank Dean’s strength and resolve, and Cas was there to put a gentle hand on his shoulder and stand blessedly silent as Dean cried into his hands.

After that it was all a matter of patience and understanding. In a bizarre way, Sam’s return allowed Dean to keep his promise. Hunting went on the backburner as Cas and Dean devoted themselves to Sam’s recovery. It was slow, anguished, but it was there. Sam only wanted to hear Dean, but it was Castiel that could touch his brother. Strangely, Dean never felt a bit of resentment at that. He could understand after all, because in all the time Sam had been gone, Dean had been the same way.

Between the two of them, they got Sam to uncurl, if not sit upright, and to talk, even if he wouldn’t make eye contact. Step by tiny step, they led Sam out of the Cage still present and active in his mind. It wasn’t perfect, and it no doubt was impermanent, but it was progress, and Dean was grateful for every moment.

The day he came back to the cabin to find Sam looking up at Cas with something that was almost the ghost of a smile on his taut and lean face was a minor miracle Dean thought he’d never witness. He put his arm around Cas’s shoulders without thinking and squeezed hard as he fought back tears.

----

Dean worked days in a tiny mechanic shop a town away from the little house they were renting. If trouble found him there covered in grease and oil, he wanted to give Cas as much time as he possibly could to get Sam out of it. Trouble never came though, and this awkward domesticity settled over them. In the beginning, he would come home at night to find Cas sitting silently next to Sam, or feeding his brother with a patient and calm air that spread throughout the rooms and eased the ever-present tension in Dean’s shoulders.

There was no way for Dean to properly thank Cas for that, for all the times he came home to find Cas sitting on the sagging couch with the skeleton of his once strong little brother in his arms crying softly. But after the shift, Dean would come back to find Sam talking to Cas sometimes in a husky voice. More surprising would be the times when Dean returned to find the angel leading the conversation. This was one of those days, and Dean watched from the doorway as Castiel tilted a cassette tape one way and then another with a strange look on his face.

“I am confused as to why this one is not professional like the others.”

Dean watched Sam cut his eyes up and over carefully, taking in the tape Cas held before sweeping back down. He still wasn’t great at eye contact.

“It’s a mix tape. Somebody made it for him.” Sam cleared his throat and then shifted. “As a gift.”

“You mean they recorded music for him? Is that not usually done in a studio to make money and gain fame?” Castiel never stared at Sam anymore, and Dean didn’t miss how that seemed to calm his brother down.

“No, it-she copied other people’s songs that reminded her of Dean onto a tape.” Sam’s hands clung to each other, working over and over as fingers twined and twisted.

“Why would she do that? Was she attempting to teach him a lesson via music?” Castiel flipped the tape over again, peering at it as if the plastic could answer his question.

Dean didn’t miss the tiny quirk to Sam’s lips as he dared to glance upwards again and take in Castiel’s perplexed expression. “It’s a-she was trying to make him love her. So she wanted to express her feelings with music, and she made the tape. It used to be a normal way to show someone you loved them.”

Blue-grey eyes narrowed and Castiel slowly lowered the tape back into the box with the others. Dean didn’t realize he still had the damn thing, and while he couldn’t remember the girl, he did vaguely remember the music. He’d kept it because she had found a very rare live version of “Since I’ve Been Loving You”, and Dean couldn’t part with that.

“Did this win Dean’s love?” There was something odd in Cas’s voice, a question behind the question, but Dean saw that Sam was starting to withdraw, and it was time to make his presence known so he could check to see if that was normal or the start of one of Sam’s down times.

“No. But it got his attention.”

----

With time, and effort, Sam began to become restless. He still wasn’t totally Sam, but Cas had put him on a sort of exercise regimen that added muscle to the lean frame and that, combined with the food the angel constantly shoved in him, allowed for Sam to become a good facsimile of his former self.

At night when Sam slept, Dean often found himself sitting out on the little rickety porch swing with a beer in his hand. Despite the exhaustion of the day, and there was always that, Dean often found he couldn’t fall asleep right away. Too many impressions and questions pinging through his brain for relaxation to really settle well. Instead, Dean would a sip a beer or three and watch the night settle around them. For the first time since he was four, it wasn’t a security measure. At least not consciously.

When he began the ritual, he did it alone, but with time Castiel began to join him. The two of them would sit together, a foot of space between them, and stare out into the night without a word being shared. Dean didn’t know why, but there was something about it that made the whole thing feel complete. He’d reach the relaxed state he needed faster, and go to bed shortly afterwards. Sometimes.

Sometimes he’d fight the haze that slid over him, clench his fists and tap his thigh, just so that he could enjoy the pleasant lassitude of sharing the porch swing with the angel and staring at the stars.

Which was okay, and totally not weird, because everybody liked drinking beer at night with their friends in total, comfortable silence.

Seven months after his return from Hell, Sam pushed a newspaper towards Dean hesitantly and looked up through his shaggy hair to make eye contact with Dean’s face. “I think this is our kind of thing.”

So the location changed, and the purpose, but it was still the three of them most of the time. At least at first.


----

A year later…

Dean had fairly reasonable expectations. He expected monsters to get up to fuckery, he expected civilians to get in the way, and he expected Sam to annoy him. Everything beyond that was inconsequential and easily dealt with. Diner food was bad and greasy instead of just greasy? Dean always kept Tums in the glove compartment. Part went out on the Impala? If Bobby couldn’t shoot it to him overnight, Dean knew junkyards in every state that carried classic car parts. Not enough energy or time to work up a charismatic smile for the kind of woman or man that offered an easy release of tension and frustration? Dean banged Castiel.

Well, the last one was less of a plan and more of a recent turn of events that Dean refused to analyze or consider beyond knowing that it had happened and it would probably happen again.

The first time was simply happenstance. Dean was drunk, alone, and horny. Usually he’d head to a bar, but the amount of Jack he’d already consumed in an attempt to forget the bad hunt and the equally bad fight with Sam made driving the car an idea he hazily knew was very bad. Some training just never went away, and taking care of his baby was right up there with caring for his brother and never going anywhere without a weapon.

So Cas showed up in the middle of Dean jerking it to some incredibly fuzzy porn, and of course there was no warning and no personal space involved. For a long second they simply stared at each other, Dean with his hand wrapped around his cock and Cas with his head tilted in the bird-like way he had and a complete lack of expression. It had been a joke, and Dean was pretty sure that assertion is true.

“Well help or get out, Cas. It’s not a free show.”

And Cas had helped.

After that it just sort of became a thing. Cas would occasionally show up when Dean was alone and in need, and the angel would help out. Distantly, Dean considered the fact there was something between them that went a little bit beyond normal. After all, Cas had dragged Dean out of Hell and left that handprint on him, and he’d gone above and beyond the call of duty when it came to helping the Winchesters out of their trouble with the Apocalypse. All of that paled in comparison though to Cas finding a way to get Sam out of Hell, and then helping Dean nurse his little brother back to some semblance of wholeness.

So maybe Dean was a little more pre-disposed to Cas than simply seeing him as an outlet for sexual release, but in the moment all that mattered were the clean lines of Castiel’s body, and the thick, throaty noises the angel released when Dean gripped him just right and shifted his hips at that specific angle. In the moment all that mattered was finding that peak, that incredible crest that he’d only ever experienced buried in Castiel’s ass or his throat, and that Dean was rapidly becoming a little addicted to.

If he was introspective, and he usually avoided being that way as often as he could, there was a good chance he was tanking his usual hook-ups just to have an excuse to turn to Cas. Then again, there was a good chance Dean would win the lottery or wake up as a girl, because the world was batshit insane and had been for a long time. Either way it didn’t matter, because the angel only showed up when a case went too far south or when Dean was at the boiling point. It worked for them, and Cas never tried to hang around or cuddle afterwards. And if he missed the days when it was the two of them hanging out on a porch silently watching the stars? Well everybody had to have something like the good old days and Dean didn’t have a lot of options for that.

 All of this was backburner shit at the moment though, because all Dean could notice was that he’d been zoning out to the rhythm of the road, and suddenly instead of Robert Plant wailing about his baby being a rider, Holly Knight and Michael Barres were going back and forth about how bad they wanted to own one another. Sure, Sam was only living up to the title of Little Brother by switching the station in the middle of one of his all-time favorite songs. Dean just had to be calm about it. Rational.

“Sammy, I don’t complain about your gas, or you tapping the damn dashboard, or the constant nagging, but what’s my one rule? What’s the Golden Rule, Sam?” He turned, ready to impart the wisdom his father taught him at age six regarding shotguns and cakeholes, and saw from the light of the dashboard that Sam was pressed against his window with his long legs awkwardly folded and his breath coming in deep and slow.

It didn’t take any time at all to realize the truth, because Dean knew the difference between Sam faking sleep and Sam deep in dream land. Sam’s fingers twitched under his face, and his foot jerked once and then settled. Sam was probably snoring, although the loud synthpop music playing over the speakers and the tilt of Sam’s face denied him the chance to know for sure.

Dean reached out slowly, hit the seek button, and the next station returned the proper guitar and singer combination. No more Eighties, and no more “Obsession”. For a second he really considered the possibility that something had happened. Something important.

The impression fled from him though when a sign for a cheap motel came up just as Plant hit the perfect note and Page echoed him. After all, the radio was old and things happened.


-----

It wasn’t that Dean didn’t appreciate the help his brother provided, because really, getting out of hours of slogging through birth and death records was an immeasurable gift, but shifting the placement of the fake IDs was just annoying. Dean kept everything in a specific place for a reason, and if Sam moved things willy nilly it made Dean’s job harder and risked him not being able to find something in time. It was such a little brother thing to do, because of course Sam wouldn’t consider Dean’s organizational system important.

“Sammy! The cigar box, man, where is it?”

His brother looked up from the printed data in front of him with a squint and then glanced around the room. Dean knew the look. Sam searching for patience, as if it was Dean that was holding them up.

“In the trunk, Dean? Where it always is?”

Dean reminded himself that Sam was still a little fragile, and that snapping wasn’t going to do him any good. That he needed to take a deep breath and respond calmly and sweetly, because sometimes Sam still reacted to anger like a trapped animal. Except they’ve been riding for days, this hunt was all kinds of fucked up, and Dean felt that pressure again pushing at the back of his eyes and riding him to the breaking point.

“Oh, the trunk. Too bad I’m too stupid to have checked there. ‘Cept I did, genius, and they’re not in their corner. So you wanna just admit you moved them and get it over with so we can get back to saving people?”

Sam’s eyes darted down to the research, shoulders clenched tight, and Dean wanted to apologize but the words were stuck in his throat. Instead, he stormed out of the room and headed for the car. Two hours later, he was buzzed and loose, and had Cas spread out in the backseat with the angel’s strong fingers kneading his scalp as Dean sucked him down to the root.

Cas wasn’t a dirty talker, but he moaned like a porn star and there was this little hitch in his breath when Dean did something particularly aggressive or sensational that always made Dean think of virgin territory and flag planting. This time Dean lead Cas right to the edge, tonguing the vein on his cock and stroking the tight muscle of his hole until it was loose and pliant, before he pulled back and studied his work.

Mormon clothes disheveled, tie hanging loosely over the edge of the seat, and Cas’s hair spiking up every which way as his blue-grey eyes lost color from the expansion of his pupils. Those lips, the ones Dean started this whole thing with biting, were swollen and slick as Cas licked them again and studied Dean right back.

What did the angel see? Dean didn’t know what exactly Cas got out of this. Sure, there was the incredible and rare pleasure of Dean Winchester, but Castiel had never been a terribly sexual creature before. Or at least he said he wasn’t, but he’d taken to fucking like a duck to water, so maybe that wasn’t entirely true.

Either way, Dean slipped a second finger in with the first and watched the angel’s eyes roll back as he moaned and gripped the seat. Sometimes Dean felt bad that Castiel had to be careful in his reactions, but the first time they had fucked, Cas had ripped the headboard in half when Dean licked his hole, so there was a certain amount of restraint that the angel had to show at all times.

Dean loved the way Cas responded though, loved the raw and unfiltered quality of his sounds, because without the porn dialogue Dean had become so used to, all that was left was the honest moans, the breathless whimpers, and the looks that were so intense and thick sometimes Dean got right on the edge of orgasm just from meeting Cas’s gaze.

Then there was the synchronicity, because Cas didn’t need to be nudged or directed. He read Dean’s body language, or possibly his mind, and right now was the perfect example. Muscular legs lifted, ankles landed on Dean’s shoulders as Dean surged forward in one smooth movement and buried himself balls deep in Cas’s tight ass.

The heat, the friction, and the slick muscles of Cas’s abdomen under Dean’s fingers were all he knew, and he forgot all his frustration and pain in favor of focusing on each one of Castiel’s reactions and every texture and pleasure the angel had to give him.

---

Dean found the box of IDs the next day in the wrong compartment of the trunk’s hidey hole. He thought back to the sharp turn he made as they chased the witch down the street, and figured hey, things shift. No big.

He bought Sam one of his froo-froo girly coffee drinks as an apology, and all was quickly forgotten.

---

Dean’s standing on a path, simple dirt framed by lush green grass. The air smells of ozone and freshly turned earth, and the trees bloom with life and promise around him. There’s a house ahead in the clearing, and while Dean can’t remember exactly how he got here, he does know that his destination is the homey little cottage waiting ahead.

There’s a door, red and bright in the sunlight, and lacy curtains hanging in the windows. The house itself is painted grey, and that only enhances the color of the door and the red bricks of the little chimney set into the dark black shingles. Dean imagines the way smoke would escape it in the winter, red clashing against the white of drifted snow and inviting anyone around to simply come inside.

Briefly he thinks of gingerbread cottages and wrinkled women, but there’s no sense of that here. Not really. Instead there’s a pull towards the house, an understanding that someone is waiting patiently for him behind that door. All he has to do is traverse the little path and climb the three steps onto the welcoming porch.

Instinctively, Dean knows that he will knock, and then turn the shiny brass knob. Arms will be on the other side and they’ll pull him into an embrace. All the pain and fear, the doubt and concern, all of it will melt away in that hold. All he has to do is make it there, but his legs move like he’s underwater.

The sound of birds chirping in the trees, the crashing of a deer’s gait somewhere in the underbrush, and all Dean wants is to move faster. To reach his goal. He can smell something delicious from the house, baking and love, and that makes his brain scream for speed even as his legs slow. A breeze picks up, gentle and cool cutting through the warmth of the sun, and Dean thinks he hears a voice.

Whatever it’s saying, the tone is familiar, plaintive and sad, and Dean wonders why someone is sad here. This is heavenly, and Dean’s got enough experience in that arena to say so with a certain amount of authority. He wants to turn to the voice, to call out and have it join him, but the pull of the house and its occupant is too strong. Instead he takes another step, and the cottage seems to grow brighter in response.

Almost. He is almost there.

---

When Dean woke up, Sam was staring at him, one eyebrow cocked and hands locked in his lap. “You were-uh-you were talking. In your sleep.” His brother looked hesitant, nervous, and Dean felt that old primal urge to protect and rend rear up. Although what the threat was he didn’t know.

“What was I saying?”

Sam’s head tilted to the side, and Dean thought of Castiel giving him that same look as his hands dragged up Dean’s hips. Like he was trying to find something buried under the surface. Something even Dean didn’t know he was hiding.

“Please.”

---

The first note was simple, plain, and unadorned. Most importantly, it was unsigned, and Dean stared at it for a long time. He’d found it tucked under the bill at his table when he returned from the bathroom, and Sam was in the motel room sleeping off a nasty sprain so his brother couldn’t clarify its origins any better than Dean could.

You’re my hero.

The handwriting was blocky, unisex, and for a second Dean looked at the waitress lounging behind the counter and then nixed that idea. He’d seen her handwriting when she took his order, and there wasn’t a chance she could leave the loops out long enough to write this. Plus, she was entirely too busy texting to have cared enough to leave Dean a…love note? Note of admiration? What the hell was this?

He tucked it in his back pocket and dropped cash for the bill and tip before dipping out of the building. It was a short ride back to the motel, and Dean studied the note one more time before heading through the door.

Sam was sprawled out on the bed furthest from the door, head tilted back and eyes shut as he snored his way through whatever painkiller he had taken from the first aid kit. Dean kind of wanted to wake him up, but it was so stupid that doing so seemed pointless. A note. It used to happen all the time in the schools Dad had forced him to attend. It’s been years, but Dean kind of remembered what it was like back then.

He dropped the note in between their beds, and fell asleep watching Gremlins on TNT.

---

Dean stared for a long time at the cologne. Sam was standing behind him, head tilted again, and Dean wondered how much of an impression Castiel had on Sam when he was still so pliant and delicate.

“So you’re saying you didn’t buy this?” Dean glanced over at Sam’s confusion, took it in, and saw no sign of deceit.

The plastic cylinder sitting in front of them held a glass skull, black and white gothic script everywhere, and the name Deadly overlaid on the base. Dean poked it once thoughtfully as Sam took a half step back. “Dean, I don’t think-“

“Deadly.” It popped out of his mouth without a thought, and Sam fell silent and shifted in place nervously. “That’s-well then.” He was kind of proud, honestly. First it was the note, and now this. Whoever his admirer was, they obviously thought highly of him.

“Dean what if - I mean - I just don’t know.” Sam’s hands were wringing, and Dean hesitated to touch him before clapping his shoulder gently.

“Sammy, it’s a present. How often do I get presents? I mean, I’m not silly enough to put it on or anything, but it’s a nice thought.”

Of course Sam was concerned. His brother was still twitchy, still trigger shy, and he had every right to be. If Sam couldn’t see the humor involved here then Dean wasn’t going to mock him for it, but he would remind his brother that he was as safe as he could be now, and there was nothing inherently threatening here.

And if it occurred to Dean at the time to wonder why he wasn’t concerned? Well, he forgot it as he coaxed Sam’s smile back out by mocking the fruity scent.

----

It took two weeks after the cologne showed up for Sam to offer him an opening to invite Cas in. The angel appeared as he always did, closer than was humanly acceptable and already staring intensely.

Dean reached out, threaded his fingers into Cas’s hair, and dragged him in for a kiss. Just like always, the lips were soft and dry, ready for him, and Dean licked them once to signal he wanted in. Cas opened for him, breathing deep and sure as he stretched his own tongue out to connect with Dean’s. There was that first hesitant brush, and then Cas’s fingers tightened on his forearms.

The angel pulled back and peered at Dean almost quizzically. “You smell different.”

Dean grinned and raised an eyebrow. “Apricots and vanilla. Some secret admirer left it for me. Thinks I’m deadly.”

Cas shifted once and looked uncomfortable. Dean wondered when he’d started having expressions, and made a mental note to ask Sam. “That is…nice?”

Dean ran his lips along the stubbled jaw, across Cas’s soft mouth, and then let the fingers of his free hand slide down Castiel’s side and curl around his hip. “Compliment. It’s a compliment, Cas.”

“Alright.” The husky gravel in his voice always got lower in these moments, and Dean catalogued every note of it while absorbing the feel of the rapidly hardening line of Castiel’s cock through the slacks he always insisted on wearing.

“Yeah. Alright.”

They didn’t talk beyond that, and Dean certainly didn’t feel disappointed that Cas hadn’t said anything else about him wearing the cologne. After all, this wasn’t like that. This was about getting off, relieving pressure, and Dean didn’t want anything more.


Part 2

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Love Songs for Stalkers - mixer: sailorhathor, author: dimeliora, artist: kymericl

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