Disclaimer: I do not own Supernatural, nor am I anyone with the official capacity TO write Supernatural. However, I'd like to think this particular idea was mine (not likely, but one can dream). Anyway, on to what I came up with literally on the way home.
WARNING! A rape is attempted, so turn back now if you don't want.
A/N ...I hate formatting. The end.
Dean Smith met the love of his life three separate times, each one on a Thursday. Okay, chick flick moment OVER. Not that it wasn't true or anything. It's just one of those things no one's supposed to talk about. Really, I shouldn't even be saying anything to you, but…
...
The first time Dean Smith met Castiel Milton was at some social gathering where men of their particular profession were all mixing and mingling. It was a convention of sorts; a good place for guy looking for work, or looking to setting up a crew for a job.
Castiel was in typical Garrison garb (black suit, white shirt, blue tie, you get the picture) with a ridiculous tan trench coat to top everything off. The Garrison had been hurting somewhat after the Archangels started going their separate ways. Lucifer had carved himself a niche in Detroit; Gabriel was doing god knows what (no really. Only God would know); Raphael was playing shadow king in New York; and pretty much anyone in the know knew Michael was holed away somewhere in Minnesota. Anyway, the Garrison was hurting for Angels (Michael's idea, calling them 'angels.') so they were there for recruiting.
Dean Smith was there with John Winchester and Sam Wesson. John was the one who raised and trained them in, what you might as well call, the family business. This was before Wesson pulled his Lazarus act, before Yellow Eyes got to Winchester. At this time, they were in their prime, fresh off of a job and hungry for more.
John had a talk with Zachariah about a potential job while his 'sons' shook hands with the rest of the Angels, forgetting their names as soon as they said them. At the end of the day, Dean thought the Garrison was full of dicks. One of them was a little interesting (he had blue eyes and a gravelly voice) but he was still a dick. Castiel thought that Winchester and his boys were reckless, and a danger to everyone, including themselves. As tools, they weren't hammers but they did bear a disturbing resemblance to dynamite.
...
The first time Smith met Cassandra was at a club. This was after John had died, and Sam was out of the picture. Dean was on his own, so when the Garrison knocked, he answered. Zachariah was there, with body guards and two Angel eye candies to sweeten the deal. Anna, the red head, kept staring intently at Dean the entire time he and Zachariah were negotiating. Not to say that she was the only one (all Angels must be trained to stare intently or something), but she was definitely giving him the come-fuck-me eyes. Which he would have done, if not for her companion. She had the Angel laser eyes too, but when she looked at Dean, it was as if to say "take her not me. You know you want to." Never one to go for the obvious, reverse psychology was always strangely effective on Dean. So, instead of Anna, it was Cassandra that he locked eyes with. He knew he had seen her somewhere before, if only he could remember. Dean made his move once the contract was settled and they were all getting ready to move out.
"Hey," Dean said, just about brushing Cassandra's ear through her long hair, "Can I interest you a drink?"
She paused in her preparations to leave, looking back at Zachariah to confirm whether or not this was okay. Once she got the all clear, she turned those amazing baby blues on Dean and smiled. It was only once they were at the bar that Cassandra said in a seductively low voice,
"Anna will be so disappointed," she looked at him through her long eyelashes, "You were supposed to fuck her tonight, not me."
"You Angels thought you had me pegged, huh?"
"Well, she is your type."
He leaned in close once more, catching her eyes with his own hypnotic green, and whispered,
"You're my type too." He rubbed a hand on Cassandra's knee, toying with the hem of her dress. She straightened up and flicked her dress out of his grasp and smoothed the wrinkles, her brow furrowed.
"You don't want me, Dean."
"What makes you say that?" Dean leaned in once more, his head tilted boyishly successfully catching her averted gaze.
"Because, these breasts you've been admiring, and this ass you'll try to watch as I walk away are faker than Zachariah's smile. And Dean with your history, I know," and now her voice dropped an octave into its true rumbling register, "you're straight. And you would never forgive me in the end." And so she left, sashaying out like the lady she was while Dean stared in shock, trying to connect the dots between her and the man at the party whose name suddenly came back to him.
Castiel.
...
The first time Dean met Cas was after a botched job, a failure on the part of whoever was gathering intelligence. They got caught in a firefight at the end, and Castiel took a bullet that was meant for Dean. Suddenly, it no longer mattered that there could end up being blood stains in the car. Castiel, the perfect little soldier, was babbling now, hazy from blood loss, more human than Angel. Dean drove haphazardly to Bobby's, alternating between praying and cursing god; and threatening Castiel with the consequences of dying. Once Bobby had patched Castiel up, Dean stayed by his bedside, ready to get him whatever he asked.
"Dean." A tight grip took Dean's hand, and blue eyes opened to him pleadingly, "Dean."
"I'm right here, Cas."
"Dean, don't forget to clean the car."
Not the most romantic introduction on earth, but that was typical of Cas, as Dean later found. Cas, so raw, more real than the soldier, more seductive than the lady. Later that night, in a moment addled by fever, Cas kissed Dean; awkwardly, and with a clacking of teeth; and promptly passed out, leaving Dean in shock and more confused about his friend than ever.
...
Later, months and months later, Dean kissed Cas. Cas blinked back at him, eyes wide with disbelief.
"What?" Dean asked.
"It's just," Cas bit his lip, "You always seemed to like Cassandra more than me."
Dean grinned wolfishly, and leaned in for a kiss once more.
"I like all of you."
...
Castiel was leaving the Garrison. After weeks of planning with Dean and negotiations over his own contract with Zachariah, he was finally free to go with Dean. Dean drove him up to the office in the Impala, and Cas leapt up the steps, calling for Dean to wait outside while he got the last of his things and his signature silver knife. He was just about to open his desk drawer for the knife when the click of a door being shut echoed through the room. He turned around to see Zachariah there, leaned against the shut door.
No. No, no, no.
"Castiel, I can't believe you're leaving us. We're practically family." He came close, invading Cas' space and cupping Cas' face in a hand. Cas shuddered.
No, no, no.
A hand snaked its way under Cas' t-shirt, the smell of soured breath filling his nose. Desperately, without thinking, Cas tried to break away, tried to get to the door, outside to Dean. He tasted blood when he hit the ground, his arms pinned behind his back, Zachariah's weight pressing down on him. He bucked and struggled, but nothing worked. He couldn't get free.
"You think I don't know what's going on, Castiel? You think I don't know you're sucking Smith's cock? Is this how you like it? Huh?"
Dean. Dean. Dean.
Suddenly the door burst open. In the span of a second, Dean took in the sight of Zachariah over Castiel, Castiel's blank eyes, the look of shock in Zachariah's face, the state of Castiel's clothes. And then Dean took his handgun and shattered Zachariah's collar bone in one shot. He shoved the older man off of Cas, ready to drag Cas away.
"Wait." Castiel finally took his knife out of the drawer, removing it from its velvet and wood box. Before Dean could ask, Castiel began to slit Zachariah's throat in one long, drawn out stroke,
"Never. Touch. Me. Again." Each word was punctuated with the slash of the silver knife now stained red. Dean took a look out the door into the hall. Someone had to have heard the gunshot.
"Let's go, Cas."
...
And Dean Smith and Cas Milton became the duo no one dared discuss. Because if Dean didn't put a bullet between your eyes, you might just find Cas' knife cutting you a new trachea. But this is between you and me. Right?
I always forget to ask. Reviews anyone? (Well, reactions really, but anyone?)