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Summary: As a hunter Dean is, quite begrudgingly, forced to work with the Man of Letters Castiel and he does absolutely not feel some very weird things when he's close to the guy with the piercing blue eyes, the messy hair and the tasteless sweater vests.
He DOES NOT!
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Tags: Alternate Universe, Supernatural Elements, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Humor, Slow Burn, Fluff, UST, Hurt/Comfort
Pairing: Dean/Castiel
Author's Note: Well guys, this is a big one :D 30 chapters, about 150k words and apart from a little epilogue everything is finished and ready to go! I'm gonna keep a regular and tight schedule (depending a bit on my editing process and real life schedule), so you won't have to wait very long for updates ;)
I hope you have fun with the first chapter ^^
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"Ugh ..."
Dean grimaces like he never grimaced before in his entire life and barely dares to look down on himself and study his now quite disgusting clothes any closer.
How the fuck did this happen?
How did he end up here of all things?
The day had started so promising with a breakfast worthy of kings in a comparatively nondescript diner next to his motel, a hot waitress flirting quite spectacularly with him during the whole meal and twenty bucks he found on the sidewalk some time later.
So yeah, it had been kinda nice.
Even the bad cell reception and the partially tenacious witness interrogations didn't dampen his mood that much.
But somewhere along the way something went terribly wrong.
And now he's standing here, in an abandoned warehouse, feeling utterly miserable and absolutely gross.
Sure, it's far from the first time he's covered in monster guts – it's part of the job description, after all –, but this time it feels even more horrible than usual. Liquids he doesn't want to name or even think about too closely are dripping into his ass crack and making him shudder.
He wants to puke.
Desperately.
"Whoa, Winchester, you look awful!"
Dean glares darkly at Garth in front of him who seems unfairly unaffected and way too clean. Hell, his shoes even fucking shine as if he polished them before they set out to the hunt. He looks totally out of place at this dirty scene right next to his very dirty hunter buddy and Dean feels a sudden urge to kill him.
No one would know.
Okay, there would probably be some leeriness and suspicions, but hey, nobody would blame Dean as soon as he would tell the whole story. He's quite sure that a lot of hunters already fantasied about throwing Garth into a black hole more than once. They would completely understand Dean's short loss of temper.
"I hate you!" Dean presses through his teeth, only to close his mouth almost instantly when something horrific tries to pass his lips and reach his tongue.
It seriously appalling enough that even his shoes feel like they're swimming – he doesn't need to taste it as well.
Meanwhile, Garth simply smiles at Dean as though the other man just made a harmless joke. "What happened, man?"
Dean keeps on scowling until Garth finally finds some compassion and common sense somewhere in that complicated brain of his and offers Dean some tissues. It's not much, but at least enough to wipe his face a bit cleaner.
"Our beloved Men of Letters forgot to share some details about our monster friend here," Dean grumbles and points at the remnants of the former son a bitch they had been hunting for the last week.
The bastard turned out to be quite sneaky and hard to catch, not to mention something Dean never encountered before. At least he couldn't remember ever meeting such an ugly thing before in his life. So of course it had been fairly reasonable to contact the Men of Letters – though Dean did this quite reluctantly – and ask for their advice. In the end it didn't take that long for them to find some answers in their stupidly large library. They gave Dean a name – that he forgot almost immediately since it sounded way too exotic and long – and a way to kill it – a silver blade touched by human blood.
But for some fucking reason they didn't mention that these motherfuckers tend to explode when someone takes their lives!
"Well, maybe they didn't know?" Garth prompts. For a second it seems like he's about to step closer, maybe even pull Dean into one of his famous hugs, but in the last moment he stops himself and starts to fidget awkwardly instead. "I mean, your brother wouldn't skip that sort of information."
Dean snorts. "Yeah, he wouldn't," he agrees. "But Sammy isn't in headquarters at the moment, so I talked with Cas. And you know how much that guy hates me!"
Dean seriously wouldn't be surprised if Castiel forgot to tell the hunter about the explosion tendencies of their monster buddy on purpose.
He feels his skin crawl only thinking about the tiny hint of a smile on the other man's face Castiel always shows as soon as he spots Dean being irritated and pissed off. The bastard manages to look innocent and smug at the same time, even declared it into some kind of art form, and though he stays consistently polite and celebrates the stick up his ass like the next messiah, there is still than suspicious glint in his eyes.
And yeah, people – especially Sam – constantly tell him he's imagining things and that Castiel is a nice gentleman who doesn't even know how to be a douchebag even if someone would teach him, but Dean can't be fooled.
No, he knows exactly what's going on inside Castiel's head.
And he doesn't like it one bit.
Garth, however, merely rolls his eyes hearing Dean's accusations. "The guy doesn't hate you," he objects with so much conviction Dean even finds himself believing the idiot for a split-second. "Yeah, he's a bit strange and you two have that really weird thing going on … but I'm certain he likes you just fine."
There it is again!
It must be really nice to see everything through rose-colored glasses.
But right now Dean doesn't have the strength to come up with a heated reply and explain his very complex relationship with Castiel Novak.
The desire to burn his clothes and take a two-hour shower is way stronger.
"Let's just go," he grunts. The smell is nearly killing him and he's rather sure that he'd indeed start to vomit if he stayed at this place any longer. He would even prefer the decomposed eggs he found once in a fridge of a shady motel and which gave him some unpleasant nightmares later on over the already rotting innards of some hideous monster.
"Don't you think … well, shouldn't we clean up or something?" Garth asks, his eyes roaming over the large hall hesitantly. He doesn't seem exceptionally happy about this notion, but nonetheless he obviously felt some stupid urge to bring it up.
"Go ahead," Dean grumbles. He begins to head toward the exit and ignores the squishy sound of his shoes as best as manageable. "Get a mop and a bucket and have fun with it! But I ain't helping, I suffered enough."
Garth pauses, looking back and forth uncertainly, until he finally shrugs nonchalantly and announces, "I'll just burn the building down later."
Dean blinks confused, wondering if that was meant as a joke or not – you actually never really know with this guy –, but eventually he decides that he doesn't give a flying fuck anyway. It's not like Garth would be able to hurt anyone but himself.
"Let's go," Dean urges and leaves this goddamned hellhole without a second glance.
Stepping outside and spotting Garth's truck right next to the entrance he suddenly realizes that he's for once very grateful that he left the Impala behind at the motel's parking lot. He wouldn't have been able to live with himself if he contaminated his Baby in such a disgusting way.
And yeah, he's dripping and stinking and icky – she would have hated him for the next few weeks.
Garth, however, seems to be kinda protective of his car as well and though he doesn't reach Dean's level of devotion (meaning: leaving the dirty guy behind and fighting him to the death if he'd dare to even touch his car for a short moment), he insists on wrapping his filthy friend in several layers of blankets to keep his upholstery somewhat clean. Dean lets himself be manhandled without further complaints and climbs onto the passenger seat with a sour and simultaneously tired expression.
He could really use some sleep.
A shower and sleep.
And maybe a chance to punch Castiel in the face in the near future.
Yeah, that sounds about right.
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Even two days and eight showers later Dean feels like shit.
Sure, from the outside he looks completely clean again and Garth reassured him multiple times that the only thing he could smell was the motel's shampoo and body wash and sometimes a hint of Dean's deodorant (and unfortunately he even pressed his nose into the crook of Dean's neck one time and took a deep breath to make some kind of point), but Dean can't help feeling wrong.
It seems like his skin absorbed the monster's goo somehow and now it'll forever be a part of him. Dean finds himself scratching every inch of his body that came in closer contact with the ugly stuff and he starts to look like a serious case of flea infestation.
It's honestly not pretty.
So of course the first thing he does, after they park their cars in the garage of Lebanon headquarters, is heading toward the bunker's library in search of a very specific person.
He ignores Garth calling after him and he especially cold-shoulders Balthazar who greets them with a curly grin and a snarky comment about Dean's manners. Dean doesn't have time for dealing with any of them right now.
No, there is only one person he needs to speak to.
Though it's probably his least favorite of them all.
"You did this on purpose, right?" Dean barks and slams his hand mercilessly on the library's table, startling the man sitting across from him.
Castiel looks up from the book in front of him (and of course he's got his nose stuck inside a book – the guy doesn't seem to do anything else!) and frowns – very convincingly – in confusion.
"What are you talking about?" he asks and somehow his voice got even deeper since the last time Dean spoke with him a few days ago.
How is that even possible?
The guy already sounds as if he's gargling gravel for sports.
"About the monster we've been hunting," Dean says, gritting his teeth extra loudly. "You know … that really ugly son of a bitch … worm-thing …"
"Olgoi-Khorkhoi?" Castiel helps out.
"Yeah, that one," Dean grunts, waving his hand in a dismissive manner. "Don't expect me to remember that, it's a fucking mouthful -"
It had been big and wormy and toothy and nothing else mattered anyway.
"People call it the Mongolian death worm," Castiel continues and Dean already feels a long and detailed lecture coming his way. "The original legend revolves around the Gobi desert and -"
"Yeah, yeah," Dean cuts in. "I don't need a lesson, okay? I just wanna punch you in the face. Or kick your ass." He tilts his head, contemplating. "Maybe both."
Castiel furrows his brows and – damn, Dean's gotta admit he looks kinda adorable that way.
That's the most dangerous thing about the guy. He appears so normal with his tasteless sweater vests, the glasses, the messy hair and those eyes Dean refuses to think about too closely because that leads into risky territory. Castiel seems like the living definition of a regular, well-informed, industrious (and – well, admittedly, hot) librarian.
Only a few people can see behind that facade.
"What did I do to deserve that kind of violence?" Castiel asks, watching Dean intently and it seems like he indeed doesn't have a clue what the hunter is talking about.
Dean, however, learned quite early that Castiel possesses a powerful poker face.
And he lost a lot of money that night.
"I was covered in monster from top to bottom!" Dean explains through clenched teeth. "And you knew that the annoying motherfucker would explode right into my face, didn't you?"
Understanding dawns on Castiel's face. "Oh, so it honestly did explode?"
And naturally he sounds fascinated. As if the entire thing will be an interesting footnote in his next paper.
Fucking bastard.
"So you're not even denying it?" Dean snaps. "Have you any idea how disgusting it was? And the smell –"
"No, I have no idea," Castiel interjects, his eyes gleaming, eager for as much information as possible. "But I'd love to hear your report."
Dean is merely seconds away from climbing over the table and strangle Castiel right next to his beloved books. "This isn't some kind of fun, you know that, right? You knew and you didn't tell me –"
Suddenly Castiel's features darken visibly. "You think … I would deliberately withhold information? That I would risk a hunter's life on purpose only because he doesn't know how to say 'please' and 'thank you'?"
Dean pauses.
Castiel sounds hurt.
And that's not the reaction the hunter had been expecting.
"But … you knew." Dean's voice is less agitated now, even a bit uncertain, though he tries his best not to think about it too hard. "You just said so yourself. And when you called me a few days ago, telling me about that worm-thing, you didn't mention the danger of explosion." Dean licks his lips. "And I was absolutely clueless and didn't look for cover because who the hell would expect such shit?"
Castiel clenches his jaw. There is not that much emotion on his face, but Dean knows the guy long enough to notice even the tiniest muscle twitch. Castiel has never been overly expressive and some people think him a robot with no soul (and yeah, sometimes it really seems that way), but mostly he's just very hard to read. Obviously his mom didn't hug him enough as a child or something.
His eyes, however – they tell a whole different story.
Sometimes it's just a faint glint, nothing spectacular or even remotely noticeable at all, but Dean always has been an expert in recognizing people's moods and admittedly it took some time to figure Castiel out completely (it's actually still a work in progress sometimes), it's comparatively easy now to get a grip on the guy.
And right now Castiel is obviously not amused.
"Oh fuck, don't get angry with me!" Dean grits his teeth demonstratively and though he's quite aware that it doesn't have the same effect on Castiel as on other people (since he's a stupid idiot who doesn't know how a freaking threat looks like) it still feels kinda good. "I'm the freaking victim here, Cas! I'm supposed to be angry!"
Castiel folds his arms in front of his chest and with that teacher outfit of his he looks exactly like Mr. Morris from third grade who constantly wore this specific disappointed expression every time he talked with Dean.
Dean feels his body stiffen. "Did you know that monster might explode?"
Castiel nods immediately. "I knew it could be a possibility. A very rare possibility, but nonetheless."
"And you didn't mention that small detail on the phone when you told me all about that fucking worm, am I right?"
"Yes, that's right," Castiel admits without any kind of hesitation. Hell, that bastard doesn't even look guilty.
"So, case closed!" Dean raises a pointed eyebrow. "There is nothing more to add."
"Actually, there is."
Dean drops onto the chair right across from Castiel and glares at him challengingly. "Well, go on then."
"It's true that I didn't tell you about the possible exploding nature of the Olgoi-Khorkhoi," he confesses. "But not out of spite or in favor of some reckless revenge but because of the simple fact that I didn't know it myself back then. Our knowledge about the Olgoi-Khorkhoi is quite limited at best and it had been very time-consuming to gather as much information as manageable. I had no idea when we talked on the phone, Dean. As I didn't know that they are sensitive to loud noises or that the legends about them attracted by the color yellow are pure nonsense. I only found these information bit by bit and it took me and our whole team several days without much sleep."
Yeah, totally like Mr. Morris, sitting there and chiding Dean for making rash assumptions.
And it feels as awful as it had felt back then.
Dean is just glad his parents aren't here as well. He can already see his mom smacking his head and saying "Dean!" in that specific tone that always makes him feel like a little kid. It's never pretty.
"I tried to call you again," Castiel continues and he sounds so freaking calm, as if he were delivering some boring report. "But I couldn't get a hold on you. Obviously the cell reception in town hadn't been very stable."
Something Dean learned quite quickly when he arrived at that place. His first few phone conversations had been more static than anything else and it took a few tries until a young deputy suggested some spots in and out of town where it might work. So Dean found himself in the end next to a pigpen when he called Castiel.
"So I wrote you both an e-mail," Castiel explains in that I-hate-modern-technology-but-it-can-be-useful-occasionally-tone. "In there I listed all the things I additionally found since out last contact. And, among other things, the very rare tendency of these creatures to have a rather strong and explosive reaction to their imminent deaths. And since Garth responded to my message, I assumed you would have all the information you needed."
Dean perks up instantly.
What?
He narrows his eyes, searching for something he isn't quite sure himself what it may be in Castiel's face, before he shouts, "GARTH!"
It takes two more yells and some utterly heavy curses until the hunter appears at the doorstep. "You called, my lord?" he asks, apparently not at all intimidated by Dean's obvious mood. Instead he munches happily some kind of cookie and looks blissfully.
"Cas just told me he sent you an e-mail," Dean starts, his voice so dangerous that anyone with a tiny bit of survival instinct would have bolted immediately. Even Castiel pulls back a little although Dean's anger isn't trained on him now, for a change. Garth, however, proofs once more that he's either stupid or brave in the face of a serious threat.
"Oh yeah, he did," Garth responds, smiling contently around his cookie. "It was some info about out wormy friend. I was reading it when we heard about the boy."
Dean recalls quite vividly how they received the news about a five-year old boy being "attacked by an unidentified animal" over the police radio. He took actions instantly, dragged Garth away from his laptop and didn't waste another minute.
"When they told us that the boy was fine apart from that sprained wrist I suggested that we go back to the motel room because we got some new info, remember?" Garth says. "But you were in your big-bad-hunter-mode and didn't even listen."
Yeah, that always happens when kids are involved. He suddenly sees red and ignores everything else.
Well, and obviously he ignored some vital information this time.
Dammit.
Apparently in the end the entire mess was his own fault.
"Thank you, Garth," Castiel eventually jumps in when the two hunters keep on staring at each other, one of them incapable of apologizing despite the circumstances and the other unsure what the hell is even going on, and making the whole thing painfully awkward. "You will find some leftover cake in the fridge if you're interested. And of course you're free to use one of our guestrooms, as usual."
"Thanks, man," Garth gleefully replies before he heads toward the kitchen, humming underneath his breath.
Dean watches him leave and finds himself once again wishing that he sometimes would be more like Garth. A bit more carefree, a bit more relaxed. That would definitely be sort of nice.
And it would definitely save him some trouble.
"Dean …" Castiel's voice jerks him out of his train of thought. He closed the book in front of him sometime during their conversation (or rather during Dean's baseless allegations) and that's an utterly clear sign that he doesn't want to dismiss this whole, pointless drama and return his attention back to his beloved texts about werewolf circumcision or cultivation of turnips or whatever he likes to read about day in and day out – no, it indicates he means fucking business and he'd rather talk about it.
"Listen, Cas," Dean sighs exasperatedly. "If you want me to say I'm sorry – you can suck it! A kid's life was at stake, I couldn't risk kicking my heels."
Castiel doesn't seem like he was expecting any kind of apology for Dean being concerned about a boy's safety. "I understand your motivation, Dean. I would have done the same." He folds his – distractingly muscular – arms over his chest. "But nonetheless you should have gone back to your motel when you knew the boy was okay. I already told you on the phone that you should wait for further instructions –"
Dean grimaces. He remembers Castiel becoming all authoritative and bossy. "I don't need instructions," he hisses.
Castiel rolls his eyes, clearly unimpressed. "Information that can mean the difference between life and death then," he corrects himself. "You are far too reckless, Dean. I don't want to see you hurt someday only because of your hotheadedness."
Dean is ready to argue, to make some kind of point, but at the same time he can't be really angry with the guy when he's simply worried about Dean's well-being.
By calling him a mindless fool.
"I won't apologize for doing my job and making sure that kids are safe at home with their parents," Dean clarifies. "But …"
Castiel scrutinizes him closely. "But?"
Dean starts to fidget uncomfortably. Castiel's gaze has always been sort of super intense and for some reason he obviously never learned that it's not exactly appropriate to stare at someone else that intently for minutes at a time or even hours. Personal boundaries and sometimes even simple human behavior seems to downright mystify him so that Dean occasionally can't help wondering if Castiel maybe belongs to a whole different species.
"But …" he says, taking a deep breath, "it wasn't cool of me to accuse you of – well, you know. It's been kind of a dick move on my part and I'm sorry for that." He rubs the back of his neck. "Next time I'll check the facts before yelling at you again."
A small smile appears on Castiel's lips. "I appreciate the gesture."
Dean waves him off dismissively. "Whatever."
He rises from his chair and finds himself begrudgingly noticing that he still feels like shit. His skin is itching and driving him outright mad and on top of everything else he falsely accused someone of acting like an asshat. And yeah, Castiel might be a huge and self-righteous douche, but no one deserves to be yelled at for no reason at all.
That's really not cool.
"I have to inform you that the case isn't over yet," Castiel announces. Usually Dean would have said that he tried to change the subject to escape that weird tension between them as quickly as possible, but Castiel is highly oblivious to any kind of awkwardness and wouldn't even recognize it if it poked him with a stick. "We heard from several cases about monsters from abroad turning up on American ground. It seems that someone is smuggling these creatures over the border for so far unknown reasons. We really need to investigate the matter."
Dean nods along, not really listening anymore. He feels quite tired all of a sudden.
"Yeah, okay," he mumbles. "I'll just – need to rest for a second, alright?"
Castiel huffs. "I didn't mean right now anyway," he objects. "You clearly deserve some rest after that gigantic worm dared to contaminate you with its intestines."
Dean chuckles quietly. "Yeah, that wasn't any fun," he agrees, already turning into the direction of his room.
Usually hunters only come to the bunker sporadically and use it at a safe haven for a short amount of time before moving on once again, so the Men of Letter simply allocate them some guestrooms. Only hunters who return regularly, like Dean and a few others, are free to claim one of the many rooms in that large complex for themselves.
And it feels a bit like home, as weird as that may sound. Sure, he could have dealt with it like Bobby and his maternal family – creating some kind of home base on his own and operating his hunts from there –, but since the day Sam decided he'd rather be a Man of Letters than a hunter and moved into the big headquarters in Lebanon, it'd been out of the question for Dean to go anywhere else.
"Dean?" Castiel's voice, surprisingly soft, jerks Dean out of his thoughts. The hunter blinks a few times and realizes that the other man is suddenly standing right in front of him, once again being able to sneak up on him without making any sound whatsoever. It gave Dean almost-heartattacks the first few times until he managed to moderately get used to it.
"Um … yeah?"
"Did you get hurt?" Castiel asks. He sounds a bit clinical, like a doctor wondering where the boo boo is, but once again his eyes are saying so much more. "I know that the legends of these creatures being toxic are false, but still –"
"No, I'm fine," Dean hurries to reassure. "My skin is just a bit itchy, but –"
Castiel grabs Dean's hand before the hunter is even able to finish his sentence and studies Dean's skin very closely. "It's probably because you took too may showers and let your skin getting raw in the process. Am I fair to assume that you didn't use some kind of body lotion after rubbing yourself off again and again?"
Dean can't help the flush hearing Castiel using words like "rubbing" so seemingly unaffected.
Eventually he manages a "Uh … no" without sounding like a complete fool.
But it's a very close call.
"We've got some lotion that might help you," Castiel offers. "Though I want you to see our doctor as well, Dean."
Dean feels himself stiffen and scowls at the man in front of him. "A doctor? I don't need –"
"I beg to differ," Castiel cuts in, totally unapologetic. "You came into contact with unknown substances. We should check it out. Just in case."
Dean snorts. "You're not actually my boss, Cas."
Castiel's expression turns dangerously stern. "I know that very well, Dean. However, within these walls I have a certain authority and you'd be wise not to defy me."
Dean refuses to shiver in a not entirely unpleasant manner and scolds his own traitorous body for enjoying this.
"Furthermore, it would put my mind at ease and probably Sam's as well," Castiel says. "Or I could call your mother -"
"Damn, fuck you for abusing the mom-card," Dean complains, gritting his teeth. "Okay, fine, let your doctor have his wicked way with me."
Castiel frowns. "That's not how it works –"
But Dean already turned on his heels and heads toward the bathroom, feeling kinda pleased when he notices Castiel following him after a short pause and mumbling some words underneath his breath which don't exactly sound like singing the praises. Dean wouldn't even be surprised if Castiel used Sumerian or something like Enochian since he always loves to insult the hunter in foreign languages.
"You're a very aggravating man," Castiel states.
Dean grins brightly. "One of my many charms. You love it."
Castiel rolls his eyes in a very dramatic way, clearly done with Dean's bullshit, but the hunter can't help noticing that Castiel doesn't deny it.