Spoilers: General season six.

Slash: Mild.


Dean was a man with simple tastes. He liked women, beer, fast cars, and killing evil sons of bitches. There were deviations to this pattern to be sure. On occasion, he enjoyed whiskey, and on one notable instance, rum. There were also times when all he wanted to do is stop hunting and hunker down for a few weeks to work on his baby and wake up to the pounding of Ben on the door, wanting breakfast, and wanting it now.

And sometimes, those were things Dean thought he could actually manage to do, if there came a time of quiet.

But never once in his life had he reconsidered the first option. In his youth he had dabbled as all drunken college age boys filled with reckless abandon were bound to do. But those were memories filled with haze and made easy by the excuse of copious amounts of vodka.

This situation was different. And it had all started a week ago when Castiel knocked five short raps on the door of the room, waiting for Dean to open the door before walking in, dripping wet as a dog caught in a storm and blood staining his usually impeccable, if disheveled clothes.

The Angel had looked down at himself and all that showed his disdain of his state was the slight crinkling in the corner of his eyes. Dean noticed this instantly and gave a put upon sigh.

"Really dude? You get a little dirty and you can't even, you know," He snapped his fingers and waved his hands around, "zap it off?"

Castiel frowned, picking at the threadbare ends of his trench coat.

"I am usually quite capable of maintaining a state of cleanliness. However, I find myself . . . "Castiel pursed his lips, and shook his head, as if saying that this was his problem and he would have to face it.

"I find myself cut off from the powers of Heaven once again. "

Dean froze; worry gnawed at the edges of his thoughts as he snapped "What? I thought you were some kind of leader up there, a real holy Guevara."

He saw Castiel frown at the reference before he replied.

"In this case, it is not a matter of my disobedience. A siege was brought to the Heavenly gates, and I was on Earth at the time. All paths have been closed as a way to ensure a victory for either side.

"With this, my otherworldly influences on this plane are greatly reduced."

Dean smirked at him, an idea coming into his mind.

"So basically what you're saying is that you need a Laundromat, right?"

Castiel stared.

Dean brought him a change of clothes.

What Dean hadn't expected was for the Angel to begin stripping in economical motions, depositing his dripping outfit onto the bed, folded and creased neatly.

Dean knew that Angel's either had no concept of human courtesy, or ignored them just for the fun of it. As far as Dean knew, Castiel was neither. He seemed to grasp the basic concepts of society, and yet at every turn he forgot them in his complete absorption with whatever he was doing.

Dean assumed stripping in front of another dude when there was a bathroom like three feet away was one of those things.

So he looked off to the side, but not before seeing a brief flash of pale skin and dark hair in motion. A few moments later, a warm hand landed on his shoulder, not grabbing, but simply resting there, before disappearing and leaving a lingering feeling of heat.

Dean turned, and the sarcastic remark died on his tongue at the sight of the disheveled angel dressed in his clothes. Jeans that had been washed far too many times, kept only for sentimental reasons as they no longer fit Dean, worn and thin, threadbare at the knees and thigh. Above that was a simple black t-shirt that had seen better days, but was clean, and relatively hole-less. Not to say there weren't any, as the hints of shadowed, sinewy flesh showed.

Dean's eyes snapped up to Castiel's intense blue stare, blinking and trying to swallow past a suddenly dry throat.

Well, fuck.