A/N: So I don't own Supernatural, I just want a lot of the characters to have a lot of sex. Hope you guys like the new story, feel free to comment if I'm going OOC because this is my first Destiel. No porn this chapter but there will be later on so if that's not your thing then… well… you're probably a mentally healthier person than I. Nevertheless, if you don't want to see two dudes graphically doing the deed, this isn't the story for you. Also I am Australian, so if there are any strange Australian concepts that don't translate over the Pacific ocean, just let me know. Cracking on…
xXx
The flare of the sun was unforgiving, a hot yellow glare that pierced the glass of the Impala and shone mercilessly in Dean's face, and for some damn reason that made him sad.
Sad, like actual girly tears shining in his eyes that he was valiantly attempting to blink into submission.
"God damn it," he whispered to himself, roughly smearing the tears across his cheeks as he brushed them away, thankful he was in the car by himself.
It was strange, being alone after spending so much time with other people. He was recently returned from the war, still Afghanistan-brown with a whole new constellation of freckles on his arms and cheeks.
He had been raised a soldier along with his brother, but he was the one who ended up going to the hell of it all – straight in the goddamn middle of the fighting. He felt as though he had been ripped apart and put back together, and here he was, sitting behind the wheel of his car like he might have been doing eight years ago before the sand and the heat and, well, fucking everything.
Dean was glad Sammy had rebelled against his father's wishes, Captain John Winchester (Killed in Action, 2005). Sam had become a lawyer instead, a damn good one if the letters Dean received while away were true.
A fresh wave of tears almost surfaced at the idea that he was finally going to see his brother, but Dean absolutely refused them any purchase against his eyes, pushing the emotion angrily down into the pit of himself where anything too serious went. He focused instead on the road ahead, the steady feeling of his baby beneath him.
His Uncle Bobby had kept his car in perfect condition, for which Dean was eternally grateful. He even gave the rough old man a hug when he had shown him the car, still all shiny black and beautiful. Dean had nearly purred along with her when she started up, that low rumble being one of the things he had missed when he was over east.
The rumble was slowing now, easing into a lower timbre as he swung the front of the car into the driveway of his younger brother and turned her off, taking a few deep breaths to steady himself.
The car doors creaked as he exited, locking them and then striding to the front door, his feet feeling lighter in his non-army issued boots, his stance falling into a relaxed position that was somehow still straight backed as he rang the doorbell and waited.
"Doors open, Gabe!" his little brother's voice was rougher, older, but so damn familiar that Dean almost swooned before righting himself.
"Sammy?" He called, his voice catching embarrassingly. There was a racket inside, the noise of something being dropped and something being knocked over. A few loud footsteps, and then his brother was in the doorway – taking up the whole damn thing, Jesus he'd gotten tall – staring down at him with an incredulous expression.
"Dean?" he replied, those puppy eyes going into overdrive as he took in his brother. The smile broke across his features violently as he lent down and swept Dean into his oversized arms, hugging him so closely that Dean got the absurd notion of fighting him off, before remembering it was his goofy little brother that was currently crushing him, and then his arms were constricting around Sam's chest, pulling a breathless laugh and a muttered, "can't breathe" before they finally separated.
"You got tanned," Sam said, grinning.
"You got taller." Dean replied, feeling the corners of his eyes crinkling. "Who's Gabe?"
Sam ducked his head, hiding a blush. "Friend," he muttered, awkwardly gesturing towards the interior of his house. "Coffee?"
"Love some." Dean nodded, rocking on his heels before entering, following his brother through the hallways of his house. "Is Jess in?"
Sam faltered slightly with his step but kept walking, clearing his throat slightly and not turning to face Dean until they were both in the kitchen.
"No, Jess and I are… uh, we broke up." He said ruefully, shrugging.
"Oh… sorry, dude." Dean offered.
"Ah, it's cool." Sam shot back, turning to switch on the coffee machine and picking two mugs out of the cupboard. "It means I got the place to myself, which reminds me, where are you staying at the moment?"
"Not sure," Dean said blankly, looking around the kitchen and absorbing the photos placed here and there, the picture of them as kids that was stuck to the fridge, a picture of their parents on the mantle.
"You're welcome here if you want to, Dean, I have a spare bedroom and the place is big enough for two." Sam grinned, dimples flashing, and Dean found himself agreeing for the simple pleasure of knowing he was allowed to stay. He was allowed to settle down, he didn't have to go back to war again…
"I'd like that," he said, accepting the mug of coffee that Sam held out to him.
"I'd like it too, I missed you, man."
"Hey," Dean held up his hand, warding off the end of his brother's sentence. "No chick flick moments."
Sam ducked his head and let out a huff of breath, dimples resurfacing.
"Is your stuff still in storage?" He asked.
"Most of it, yeah. I've got some stuff in the car." Dean replied, making an offhand gesture towards the front door.
"Need some help getting it in?"
"There's not a lot there, I should be ok." He shrugged, his shoulders shifting underneath this worn leather jacket.
"Cool. I'll show you to your room and then I've got to head in to the office for a bit." Sam said apologetically, coercing a nod out of Dean as he sipped his coffee.
He was somewhat grateful that Sam knew him so well, knew that emotional reunions weren't really his forte. As it was he felt like they had fallen back into the pattern of their childhood, relaxed in each other's company.
They finished their coffees and then Sam helped Dean get his stuff out of the car, ignoring the protests, insisting that he put the impala in the garage next to his – Dean almost wept – silver hybrid car.
It was ten minutes later that Sam was out the door in his monkey suit with his flashy mobile phone and Dean was alone again.
Deciding to check out his new temporary neighborhood, Dean threw his wallet and phone into his pockets and swept out the door, taking a few minutes working out the locking mechanism with his new spare key that he deposited in his back pocket.
The air was still warm, a chill breeze occasionally making itself known by kicking over leaves and creeping underneath Dean's collar, but the sky was obscenely blue and the sun obscenely bright.
He had been walking perhaps fifteen minutes when he came to what was evidently the shopping district, stepping carefully as he found himself suddenly immersed in a crowd. The streets were lined with pedestrians, making their way in and out of bakeries and banks, clothes stores and grocery shops.
Seeing the latter, he veered left and made his way inside, remembering the empty milk carton that had been on the counter when Sam had left. He figured he may as well begin pulling his weight, now that his little brother was taking him in.
A few stares followed him when he entered, a cluster of people near the smoking counter drawing his attention as he unthinkingly assessed the danger of each person.
"Civilians, Dean." He told himself, making his way to the dairy section. "You're one of them now."
He grabbed the brand of milk that he remembered Sam liked from his childhood and made his way to the front of the shop, pausing when he saw the group of people were still at the smokes counter.
Telling himself that he needed to buy cigarettes and he wasn't, in fact, just nosy, he walked over to them.
"-burned down the nursery, the mother inside and everything. They say the kid died in the fire as well, but his remains were never found." An older woman was saying, leaning in conspiratorially.
"That was over 19 years ago, Olive, I don't think it's connected at all." The guy behind the smokes counter was saying, he looked to be in his mid-thirties and had the kind of stance that Dean recognized anywhere: he had served their great country as well.
"All I'm saying is that who could have killed that poor Jim Lyon if it wasn't a complete psycho, and the only complete psycho we've had in this town was that one – nineteen years ago!"
"Alright Olive, that's enough." The man next to Olive took her arm in his, "Let's leave these people to their day and get back home."
The old couple left, leaving a group of three or so standing there, parting easily for them to depart and inevitably catching sight of Dean, his eyebrows raised, milk clutched in his hands.
"Um." He gave a small wave, "Hey."
The guy behind the counter narrowed his eyes, his gaze flicking over Dean's upright shoulders and the powder burns on his shifting fingers.
"We don't get a lot of soldiers in town," he said finally. "You must be Sam Winchester's brother."
"Yeah, um. Yes sir." He shuffled forwards and placed the milk on the counter. The man grinned widely.
"Haven't been called 'sir' in ten years, boy. Can't say it brings back pleasant memories. Now, how can I help you?"
"How did you know I was Sam's brother?" Dean asked, fishing his wallet from his pocket and gesturing as well to the cigarettes behind the man's head.
"Oh, everyone knows Sam." The man replied, turning to grab the smokes and placing them on the counter. "He's pretty much the town lawyer – if you've got trouble in Lawrence, you go see Sam Winchester, and if you go see Sam Winchester you can pretty much bet he'll tell you a story about his older brother who's off getting shot at in Afghanistan."
Dean laughed easily, placing a few notes on the counter. "I'm flattered," he said. "So is Sam handling anything to do with this… psycho?" Dean asked, turning then to face the other three members of the circle.
One of them was a petite blonde woman, gorgeous and thin with a no-nonsense kind of vibe. The only thing stopping Dean from attempting to sleep with her was a reminder in his brain that he hadn't tried to pick up in over four years, and the fact that the woman standing next to her looked like she was
a) Blondie's mother, and
b) The kind of mother who wouldn't think twice about kicking his ass.
Next to them was a man with a mullet and wide eyes, dressed in a stained singlet and an easy smile.
"God, look at that Rufus, you've got the whole town gossiping now." The blonde one said, rolling her eyes.
"Dean, this is Jo, Ellen and Ash." Rufus said, pointing to them each in turn. "They can't abide my gossiping, but let me tell you this: something weird happened in this town few weeks back, and things still haven't calmed down."
"What kind of weird?" Dean asked, accepting the plastic bag of his goods from Rufus.
"Ah, your standard American psycho." Ellen said. "Murder and the like."
"Not standard in this town," Rufus debated, wagging his finger. "We ain't had a murder since Sebastian Lyon back in 1993."
"Sure thing Rufus. Anyway, we gotta get back to the roadhouse. Dean Winchester, you ever feel like a drink you head right on over to Harvelle's, alright?"
"Yes ma'am." Dean nodded as the three of them left. "Nice talking, Rufus." He added quickly, making to leave as well.
"Good to meet you, Dean."
"Back at you," he replied, exiting back into the outside world, thinking to himself that he didn't want to be an old ex-soldier working in a goddamn grocery store in ten years. Which begged the question of what the hell he was going to do now that he was home: a question he had been avoiding ever since making the decision not to do another tour.
"Jim Lyon," Dean muttered out loud, tasting the word on his tongue and wondering why it was slightly familiar. He resolved to ask Sam about it later, and concentrated on finding his way back to his new house.
Which was an excellent plan, and may have been an invigorating activity. Dean never found out due to a gravelly voice, a flurry of movement, and a lifetime of army training.
"Uriel, that's our guy!" That was the gravelly voice, oozing command. Dean almost snapped to attention hearing it, that bark of power.
Next was the swirl of body odour and dirty clothes that pushed passed him, a man that couldn't have been older than 20 shoving him to the side as he ran along the street, clearly trying to escape and clutching something that glinted in the unforgiving reflection of the sun: a knife.
"Right." Dean muttered, and that was when the army training forced him to abandon his milk by the door of the supermarket and launch himself at the new attack.
He'd never been the fastest at running, he had bow legs and a stronger upper body that meant moving swiftly was a chore, but he supposed that 'running quickly' by army standards was a lot different to 'running quickly' by civilian standards.
It was five strides before the kid was in his reach, two more seconds before the knife was skitting into the middle of the road, and only a breath later that Dean had caught the guy's arms and pinned them behind his back, shoving him with more force than necessary into a nearby post box to emancipate him entirely.
It was then he looked down at his clenched hands, his military stance, and almost recoiled. Instead he drew his gaze to two police officers that were jogging towards him, one of them was bald, African American and strong looking, he grabbed the knife from the middle of the street before coming over to where Dean was.
"Looks like we got ourselves a tag-in police officer, hey Cas?" he remarked, grinning widely and then holding out his arms as if the 20 year old was a baby being handed back to its mother. The man jerked a little when Dean loosened his grip and let him go, only to be manhandled against the post box again, this time with the metallic click of handcuffs and the bored recitation of Miranda rights.
"Sorry," Dean breathed, his heart rate slowing, taking in the other police officer. He was less obvious, somehow unassuming in a long beige trench coat and suit, blue tie haphazardly loosened and twisted – probably from their chase.
Then he met his gaze, and strategically had to take a moment to reassess his sexual orientation as he took in the piercing blue eyes, the stubble lined jaw and unruly dark hair, pale lips chapped and currently stretched in a smile that seemed so innocent that Dean almost wanted to cover those blue eyes so he couldn't see the bad man being put in the police car that had pulled up at the curb on the opposite side of the street.
"No apologies necessary, that was extraordinary." The man said, and Dean recognized the deep, rough voice as the one who had shouted. "I'm Officer Castiel Novak, this is my partner Officer Uriel Milton."
"Dean Winchester." He said with a tight nod
"Sam's brother?" Uriel asked, rejoining them where they were standing. "That makes sense, your take down of that guy screamed military."
"Guilty." Dean said with a shrug and an awkward smile.
"Thanks for your help, Dean. You've assisted us in catch a suspect in a murder case that has been slipping us for the past week." Castiel said, his tone measured and slow, as if he were weighing each word before saying it and making sure it was absolutely necessary.
"So this is the psycho who got that Lyon guy?" Dean asked, his eyes flicking to the back of the police car where the dirty looking man was sitting, his head bowed. He had a widow's peak and heavy looking eyes, his hair looked like a few washes might make it blonde and his frame was scrawny.
"You've been talking to Rufus, then?" Uriel replied with a low laugh. "Yeah, this is our guy."
"We think it might be." Castiel interrupted. "And we need to verify this, so we should probably head back to the station."
"Ok, cool. Nice meeting you officers." Dean said
"Likewise, Dean. You're handy to have around." Uriel joked.
"We'll be seeing you, Dean." Castiel added, and Dean couldn't help but hope that he was right.