SAM

It had been a week since Anna disappeared. In that span of time, Sam and Cas had led a relatively easy life—there were two small cases they ran into, but they didn't turn out to be anything serious. Just a couple hauntings that were quickly cleared up. Other than that, it had been life on the road: classic rock, hours of driving, diners, bars, and cheap motels.

Sam found himself in a local library doing some research when someone sat down across from him. It was a moment before Sam realized the man was staring at him intently and another still before he recognized who it was. He scrambled backward in his chair, his hands gripping the edge of the table in white-knuckled shock. "You!"

The Trickster smiled back at him with that trademark smirk of his, slightly lopsided and oddly flirtatious but all-around irritating. "Good to see you again, Sam. You're looking much better since I last saw you. Is that a new hairdo?"

Sam swallowed, his mouth suddenly dry. If the Trickster was here, then one of his tricks was sure to follow, and Sam didn't doubt it would be as torturous as the last one. "What are you doing here?" And why now? Couldn't they just have a break for once?

"Just checkin' in. I can do that, can't I?" He reclined back in his chair with a falsely good-natured smile. "So how've you been, Sam?"

"You're lucky I don't have a stake on me, or it'd be in your heart."

"Are you flirting with me?"

"Fuck off." The snarled phrase earned him a stern look from a woman sitting a table over.

"What, no love for an old friend?"

Sam leaned forward and, as though attempting to spell it out, said slowly and clearly, "You're a dick."

The Trickster's eyebrows arched in an expression of mock hurt. "It pains me that you only appreciate me for my largest asset." He broke into a grin again. "See what I did there?"

Sam chose to ignore the jibe. "Since when are you ever here just for small-talk?"

The Trickster shrugged. "Since today. Go on, humor me."

"No." Sam snapped the laptop shut. He was willing to risk whatever the consequences would be for walking away. "Look, I appreciate whatever rare display of humanity made you bring back my brother before, but you're not my therapist. And I swear if I see you again, I'm gonna kill you."

He felt uneasy turning his back on the pagan god, his laptop in hand and his shoulders rigid, but the Trickster neither followed nor attempted anything harmful. To Sam's surprise, he survived the rest of the night without enduring anything dangerous, humiliating, or emotionally traumatizing.

Another two weeks passed after that. Sam hadn't seen Ruby since the fight with Alistair, and he avoided searching for her purely on Cas's behalf. He knew his brother still had reservations against the demon, even after everything she'd done, but he could respect that. They'd come pretty far regardless. The craving to be with her, though, to feel her and to taste her, was constantly present. It niggled at the back of his mind, an ever-present reminder that he'd been depending on her for four months, and suddenly, with the return of Cas, she'd been stripped away.

Sam had been worried about his brother; Cas had been acting strangely ever since Dean went grace-tripping in Washington. It was a subtle change, but noticeable nevertheless. Being ignorant to Cas's experiences in Hell was killing him—he knew he wouldn't want to hear it, whatever it was, but this aching wonder was too much. He kept his curiosities to himself only because he knew Cas would tell him when he was ready.

One night, because there was time and they hadn't done it in a while, Sam parked the Impala and they sat on the hood, cracked a couple beers, and watched the stars. Normally when they did this kinda thing, they didn't talk—for hours, they'd sit there in silence, just looking, enjoying the dark quiet of the country and the brightness it lent the cosmos above them. But this time, Cas laid back flat on the hood, his gaze more contented than Sam had ever seen it since Hell, and he spoke a single word: "Beautiful." So Sam lay down too, his head on the windshield and his legs dangling over the fender. There was a childish innocence in the way Cas reached up, his fingers stretching as if hoping to brush the stardust glittering above them.

After about an hour had passed, however, he took a deep breath and launched into everything that had happened to him in Hell. It was surreal to hear all the abuse Cas had gone through recounted slowly in such a calm, low voice, as though it had been years since he'd pushed his way out of his own grave and he'd long since come to grips with it. Something about it felt off to Sam—up until a couple weeks ago Cas had seemed… well, scarred, he supposed. There'd been a slight brokenness to him that Sam had noticed, something rough and raw hiding under the surface of his sometimes cold exterior. Sam didn't blame him; if he'd had to go through what Cas did, he'd probably need therapy. But now Cas seemed fine. Whether it was a good thing he'd wrapped up his emotional baggage so quickly, Sam didn't know.

It did make him think, though. Lately, Cas had been… forgetful. He had to be reminded of things periodically, like where the keys were or that he shouldn't do or say particular things around strangers or what certain signals meant in the thick of a hunt. He also seemed to suddenly be lacking in such skills as driving or cooking—one time, Sam even caught him trying to microwave raw eggs. In anyone else, his streak of ignorance might've been endearing, but in Cas, it was nothing short of worrying. It made Sam wonder if perhaps his grief and guilt from those four months—forty years, he corrected himself—were manifesting as some form of memory-loss or psychosis. Maybe Cas wasn't as "fine" as he seemed. Maybe he was losing his grip.

With Cas, it seemed like Sam was constantly chasing answers, and each one he caught only spawned another question. Cas had always had a roundabout way of talking about his feelings—he'd give Sam a little bit, just enough to make him wonder and speculate, but rarely ever the whole story until Sam demanded it in an angry outburst. It was frustrating sometimes. Sam wanted to talk to him, to help him. Even just the option of comforting him would've been enough. Sometimes he thought he could feel Cas hurting underneath it all, and all he wanted to do was rub his brother's back like he did when he was nine and say it'd be okay. But then, if that was all it took to soothe the sear of hellfire, the world would be a much kinder place.

Unable to stand it any longer, Sam had given in and called Bobby. After explaining his predicament, the old hunter's advice had been, "Well, God only knows what Hell did to his melon. Just keep an eye on him, Sam. Don't let him hurt himself. Otherwise… Not much I can offer for you. I'll look into it, but there hasn't been any other case of hunter's amnesia, far as I've heard. Assuming that's what it is, 'course. You ever considered the fact that maybe he's just gettin' over it?"

"He's Cas, Bobby."

"Yeah, s'pose that's true enough… Well, you give a call if anything serious happens, ya hear?" And so concluded their brief discussion. Bobby never found anything definitive, but Sam felt better anyway just from sharing his worries with someone else.

Dean, meanwhile, was practically a permanent fixture. Wherever they went, the angel followed, whether he was lurking in the background, pretending to be asleep in the backseat, or helping Sam clean the guns. He showed up and disappeared at random, yet it seemed as though he was constantly present due to the fact that they rarely noticed when he left. As the days passed, he seemed to have fewer qualms about leaving them alone, but Sam still got the feeling he was trying to watch them like an anxious mother. Sam didn't mind the angel hanging around so much anymore—he'd gotten used to it, he supposed, though Dean's sudden change in behavior still baffled him. Anyway, Dean rarely intruded on their privacy unless it was to say something snarky. And, he'd stopped calling him "Sammy," though he was still weirdly overprotective of Sam in particular.

Watching Dean and Cas interact was becoming more interesting by the day. Ever since Alistair, they'd seemed more relaxed around each other, and the feeling of ease between them seemed to grow into a strange sort of bond—probably even something more than that. In some instances, if Sam didn't know any better, he'd say the angel was flirting with his brother. It wasn't anything Dean said that gave Sam this impression; just a general feeling he got from the angel, a sort of teasing appreciation that was directed solely at Cas. Then there was the fact that Dean had once spent a whole conversation staring at Cas's mouth.

Dean had even begun showing up, sitting down next to Cas, and placing his finger to the center of his brother's forehead. Cas's eyes would lose focus, as though he was listening intently to something. It took three instances of Sam catching glimpses of this and hearing murmured snippets of conversation before he realized Dean was allowing Cas to listen while the choirs of Heaven sang. They would sit there for minutes at a time, wordless, peaceful, just listening. Sam timed them once and reached five minutes and thirty-four seconds before Dean finally shifted, pulling his hand away.

Cas, as it turned out, wasn't any better with subtleties: when Dean wasn't looking, Sam had noticed his brother looking at the angel with this subtle expression on his face like he was awed by Dean's very existence. He also seemed constantly worried about the angel, wondering where Dean was today or what he was doing or how many seals had been broken. Not to mention the entire exchanges they had with their faces alone—Sam would even say it bordered on eyefucking…

For Cas, he supposed he wasn't all that surprised—his brother had never come out as gay or bisexual, but Sam, personally, had always considered it a possibility. And Dean, as an angel, was an androgynous being; the fact that he had chosen a male vessel probably meant nothing to him. Even so, Sam tried to avoid thinking about his brother's potential love life, especially with someone like Dean. They could sort that out between themselves.

Sam's eyes skimmed over an article he'd dug up, his interest piqued by the headline. "Hey, I think I found something."

Cas had just finished spreading peanut butter on a slice of toast. He'd recently taken a strong liking to peanut butter. Once, Sam even found him sitting in front of the TV with a jar of it, eating it straight-up with a spoon. He'd gotten halfway through the jar before Sam confiscated it. He could've sworn his brother's breath smelled like the stuff for two days straight. "What is it?" Cas took a seat across from Sam at the tiny round table with a large bite of his toast.

"Stratton, Nebraska," stated Sam. "Farm town. A man gets hacked to death in a locked room inside a locked house. No signs of forced entry."

Cas's eyes narrowed slightly. "Ghost?"

"That'd be my best guess."

-x-

Honestly, Sam had been reluctant to let Cas on this case—if there was something wrong with his brother's head, then the last thing he wanted was for the guy to be putting himself in danger. He had hinted as much when they were preparing to leave, insisting that he could take care of it on his own if Cas wanted to take a breather. But his brother had refused to let him go alone, no matter how trivial the case appeared on first impression. Sam relented mostly because Cas had proven himself, for the most part, capable so far.

His worries, however, had turned out to be completely justified. Cas had been showing signs of mental regression all day, and Sam imagined it was getting worse, though that could've just been because this was their first real case in a while. Even so, nearly blowing their cover by forgetting which fake identities they were using was at the top of his list of worrying indications.

As they'd expected, the case hadn't turned out to be quite as straightforward as it seemed. There were, in fact, no spirits involved at all (Cas found out the hard way when the thing they thought was a ghost stepped over the salt line, holding a knife); instead, what killed the victim had turned out to be a human girl who had literally grown up inside the walls of the house. She had been locked up in the basement for so long that, as far as Sam could tell, she hadn't even seen daylight. In his eyes, she was barely human.

Now he was standing at the top of the house's dumbwaiter, anxiously shining a flashlight down the shaft while he waited for some clue as to what was going on below. The family moving into the haunted house hadn't taken the hint to stay away, so now their son had been kidnapped and dragged to the basement where Cas had volunteered to go to retrieve him. They'd fashioned a makeshift rope out of sheets and curtains, which was currently lowered down the shaft. The boy had been pulled up, but there was still no sign of Cas.

"Just keep an eye on him, Sam. Don't let him hurt himself." It had been almost a week since he'd talked to Bobby, but the words echoed again in his mind. He should be the one down there right now, not Cas.

Suddenly, Sam heard a gunshot.

Apprehension built in his chest as silence ensued down below. "Cas?"

A moment later, his brother shuffled into view, pain-dulled eyes turned heavenward as he grasped onto the knotted curtains. Sam could tell he was hurt, but how badly, he didn't know. The realization sent a shot of adrenaline through his veins and he heaved on the rope.

Cas appeared unable to pull himself out of the dumbwaiter, and Sam saw why as soon as he got close enough to hoist his brother through the opening by the arms: there was blood on his shirt and a hole torn in the fabric over his abdomen, where Sam could see the shape of a deep stab-wound in his skin. Cas sagged against the support of his brother, leaning heavily into Sam's embrace as he was lowered slowly to the floor.

"Cas—whoa, hey, Cas, come on, look at me. Can you hear me?" Cas's eyelids fluttered, his eyes rolling back in his head as he blacked out. Sam clamped his hands over the wound and pressed down as hard as he dared, clenching his teeth as blood continued to leak between his fingers. "Shit—Cas—I knew I should've made you stay home…" Where the hell was Dean? The angel always seemed on hand with any of their other cases. "Dean—Dean!" called Sam desperately. Praying to the angel would summon him, wouldn't it? He seemed to recall it working before. "I need your help! Please, it's Cas, he's—he's…"

There was no answering call, no flap of wings, no gruff voice saying "I got this." Dean, apparently, was busy, too busy to come patch up his friend.

God, what am I gonna do?

It was bad. Any hunter worth his salt could see that. With as far as they were from the city and all the tires slashed, there was absolutely no chance he could get his brother to a hospital before he kicked the bucket, not with the way he was bleeding. "Come on, Cas, come on. Cas. Cas." He spared one of his hands to give Cas's shoulder a panicked shake, but to no avail. His brother was dead to the world—and would literally be so if Sam didn't figure something out. What could he do, though? His options out here weren't just slim; they were nonexistent.

He squeezed his eyes shut and bore down harder on the wound. "Come on, Dean, where the hell—"

Before he even finished speaking, he felt two rough hands prying his own off the warm, wet patch of Cas's skin. He opened his eyes in time to see blindingly bright light shining from the wound, which closed itself. A moment after the light faded, Cas stirred, groaning. Relief flooded Sam. Cas's eyes opened and found first Dean's, then Sam's; gratitude was plain on his face as he reached up a hand. Sam clasped it and pulled his older brother, wincing, to his feet. Without hesitation he threw his arms around Cas, the fading panic making him feel warm and hollow. It was the only kind of hug the brothers ever shared: desperately tight, clutching as though this was the last chance they'd get to touch each other, as though they'd never see each other again. Cas was frozen in his grip for a moment, caught by surprise, but then Sam felt his hesitant arms completing the embrace.

"Thank you, Sam," Cas muttered in his ear.

Why Cas was thanking him instead of Dean, Sam didn't know, but he didn't question it. He pulled back, looking Cas over to make sure there were no more injuries.

Dean clasped Sam on the shoulder, forcing Sam's attention away from his brother. "You okay?" the angel asked gruffly.

After a brief hesitation, Sam nodded. "Yeah, thanks. I mean, for everything. Really."

Dean inclined his head once, stiffly. There was something fragile under the angel's otherwise stony expression, something barely noticeable but nevertheless betrayed by the slight tension in his brow and roundness of his eyes. He stayed by their side for the rest of the night, speaking barely a word.

Cas's attacker, it turned out, had been the brother to the girl in the walls—a second child that no one had been aware of. The brother had managed to sink a blade into Cas's chest before Cas got a shot off, killing him. Cas seemed really bothered by the outcome of the whole thing—Sam would even go so far as to say he was shaken by it. Whether it was a bit of Hell shining through or something else, Sam didn't know, and he doubted he'd get a straight answer from the guy if he asked.

They were back on the road as soon as they could, taking turns at the wheel to catch some sleep while they put as many miles between them and that house as they could before dawn. Sam took the first shift, driving for hours through the black, lightless landscape of the two-lane country road. Aside from the rumbling engine, it was almost silent inside the car. Cas was sleeping soundly, as made evident by his breath steaming on the window from out of his half-open mouth.

Sam's gaze flicked to the rear-view mirror, where he could see Dean gazing morosely out the window. "You alright, Dean?"

He seemed caught by surprise at the query. "Yeah."

"Hey, uh… thanks."

"For what?"

Was he really asking that? "For saving my brother, dumbass," replied Sam, but it was in a feebly teasing tone. He sighed, serious again. "I know you've got all that… angel business. Saving seals, I mean… It's pretty important. I get that. So, thanks."

Dean snorted. "Well, someone's gotta keep an eye on you guys." There was a pause. "I'm just glad I got there in time. Uriel was giving me hell."

They both fell silent for a while. The question was on Sam's tongue, waiting to form itself into words, but for a few minutes, he wasn't sure he could. Dean didn't seem to be much in the mood to talk—not that he ever did, of course. "Why do we matter so much to you?" asked Sam finally. "I mean I know you had orders to save Cas, but—this is different. I saw the look on your face back there. You care."

"'Course I care. You're—" Dean cut himself off. "I dunno. Guess I've had a change of heart." His voice was dry, and once again Sam got the feeling he was making a reference to something unknown to anyone but himself.

-x-

A couple days later, Sam was woken from a peaceful night's rest by Cas shaking him awake. They were staying at a motel at the edge of a small town in Missouri for the time being, since they needed to take a break and get their hands on some cash. Dean hadn't been around when the two brothers went to sleep (as far as Sam was aware, at least), but one look at Cas's face and he could tell the angel had visited in the middle of the night. He would've laughed if it wasn't so early.

Cas's entire face was slathered in shaving cream, some of it smeared down his neck or in his hair or on his shirt. Spots had been wiped clean over his eyes, nose, and mouth so he could see and breathe, making him look like some oozy white monster out of a low-budget horror film. His hand, too—the same hand he'd used to wake Sam—was covered in the stuff.

From his days at Stanford, it was easy enough for Sam to distinguish the signs of a classic shaving cream prank. Cas, understandably, having just woken up in this condition, seemed very disoriented and possibly a little panicked as he unintentionally smeared a handful of white on Sam's blanket, fumbling fingers clutching at the folds. "Sam, what's happening? I just woke up and—"

"Relax, Cas, it's just shaving cream." Sam glanced at the clock. It was six in the morning. Hell if he was gonna bother getting up just to watch Cas wash his own face. "Just go rinse it off, you'll be fine. The maids'll take care of the mess in the morning."

Cas turned hesitantly, as though not entirely sure where the bathroom was. Sam wasn't worried; he'd find it eventually, once he woke up completely. Then Sam's head hit the pillow again and he was out.

Three hours later, Sam was pleased to have woken up of his own accord. He checked his phone to find that Dean had taken a picture of a sleeping, shaving-cream-covered Cas and set it as the new phone background. He couldn't help a huff of laughter. Cas, meanwhile, was reading a book at the table, but he quickly shoved the novel back into his dufflebag when he noticed Sam was awake. His face was clear of shaving cream, but he looked troubled.

"So I take it Dean paid a visit last night?" Sam guessed with a bleary smile.

"He's been 'messing' with me lately."

Sam didn't need to be told this. Only a week ago, he'd woken up to find Dean sitting on the edge of Cas's bed, adding a few details to the elder Winchester's face with a sharpie (including a mustache, a goatee, some accentuations on the eyebrows, and half of a badly-drawn flower). Another time, Cas had taken a seat for a meal only to have the action met with a loud raspberry as he sat on a whoopee cushion. Then there was the time Cas had woken up to find his toenails painted bright green, or the time Dean had super-glued Cas's hands to the steering wheel of the Impala, or the time he'd replaced Cas's body spray with spray-paint and switched the labels so Cas ended up with a bright yellow armpit…

"If you're willing to help, I'd like to… 'get' him back," said Cas hesitantly.

Sam grinned. "Absolutely." Play a prank on an angel? How could he say no? He sat down at the table, clasping his hands as though about to forge dastardly plans to rob a bank. "So what did you have in mind?"

-x-

A few hours later, Sam found himself in a local craft store hunting for a few of the items necessary for their plan. Cas was back at the motel room, making preparations for when Dean showed up. His side of the deal had taken a disgruntled conversation with Bobby and quite a bit of digging to rustle up, but eventually they got what they were looking for.

Sam, meanwhile, had just plucked a canister of glitter from the shelf when someone behind him remarked, "Glitter, huh? Got a new secret side hobby you're not telling us about?"

Sam whirled, glitter still in hand, to see the Trickster standing behind him. He was wearing his usual smirk, which didn't falter under Sam's glare. "You're one to talk. Stalking me now?"

"I find your life… amusing." The Trickster nodded his head towards the canister in Sam's hand. "Especially as of late."

Sam snorted. "You find my life 'amusing'?"

The Trickster didn't answer that. "If you're looking for the dye, it's in aisle twelve."

"How did you—"

"Please, I'm the god of mischief. Do you really think two boys can pull a prank like this without me knowing about it?" Before Sam could answer, the god produced a small package seemingly out of thin air and handed it to the Winchester. "Since you're clearly still being territorial, consider this a peace offering. You might find it a useful addition to your… embellishments."

Sam glanced down at the package; it contained a few garishly sparkly hairclips in the shapes of various flowers and butterflies. When he looked up, the Trickster was gone.

-x-

CASTIEL

Castiel had had no idea what kind of prank to pull on Dean; that kind of thing wasn't exactly his forte. Sam, thankfully, had been able to supply where he was lacking. The younger Winchester had provided most of the planning portion, and Castiel had to say he thought it was brilliant. In order to pull it off, they'd need flamboyant pink dye, a good amount of glitter, and the ingredients necessary to make dream-root tea.

Castiel was quite proud of himself for coming up with the idea of using the dream-root. Lately he'd been reading through the works of the prophet, Chuck, and he had to say the information he'd gleaned from them so far had come in handy. Following the Trickster's "alterations," even Chuck's literary perspective was changed so that Castiel was written as Sam's brother instead of Dean. It was as though he was reading a portion of his life that he'd forgotten. Anyway, they needed something to knock Dean out for a short amount of time, and while Castiel wasn't entirely sure the tea would fully sedate an angel, they both decided it was worth a shot. So, once the tea was prepared, he mixed an adequate amount into a bottle of whiskey and left it sitting inconspicuously on the table.

It had worked perfectly. Dean had shown up, drank some of the whiskey, remarked that it "tastes like ass," and promptly collapsed, out cold. Sam and Castiel wasted no time breaking out the dye and glitter; Sam even produced a couple ostentatious-looking hairclips that he'd found at the store. The first thing they did was dye Dean's wings. The stuff Sam had brought home sprayed on, and while it didn't turn them entirely pink, it definitely lent the feathers a very flamingo-esque look. Then, snorting with laughter, they sprinkled as much glitter over the feathers as they dared. The sparkling flecks clung to the wings like flies to honey. As a finishing touch, Sam attached a hair clip—one shaped like a Hawaiian flower—just behind Dean's ear. The rest were clipped to the ridges of Dean's wings.

They had just shoved everything back into the bag and hid it away when Dean groaned and began to stir. Sam clamped a hand over his mouth to suppress a snicker as Dean's pink, glitter-strewn, hairclip-adorned wings twitched slightly, sending a puff of glimmering dust in either direction. The angel didn't even appear to notice as he looked around, dazed and obviously disoriented. Castiel had to admit there was something hilariously comical about seeing Dean—normally so butch and masculine—sporting a pair of wings you'd expect to see "on a tranny lap-dancer," as Sam put it.

Sam crouched down next to Dean, acting as though the angel had only just passed out. "The hell happened?" asked Dean, sounding genuinely puzzled, and Sam told him he'd collapsed.

Dean's eyes landed on Castiel's and they stayed fixed there for an unusually long time, even for Dean. Castiel was having trouble placing the emotion that seemed to be reigning over Dean's features, but it became easier to read when he noticed the angel's feathers fluffing up, apparently of their own accord. It was a common automatic emotional response that angels displayed, similar to a human blushing. Castiel could still remember, as a very young angel, first asking Balthazar what it meant. "Well, Cassie," the other angel had explained, "When an angel's feathers stick up like that, it means either they're pissed enough to want to shove a blade through your throat, or they're scared enough to shit their pants. Or—and this option is far less likely—they're horny enough to want to fuck you senseless right there on the floor."

If Dean had any idea yet of what they'd done to his wings, Castiel wouldn't put it past him to be angry, but so far he seemed genuinely ignorant of their elaborate trick. But there didn't appear to be any fear in him, either—he might've been confused, but scared? Dean had more guts than that, Castiel knew.

That left the third option.

Castiel knew Dean had always been very carnal when it came to sexual desire, and often openly so, but he'd never before directed such passions towards Castiel. He almost asked Dean outright if that was indeed what it meant, but before he could form the question into words, Dean looked away quickly and said he had to go. Without even getting up, the angel spread his shimmering pink wings and disappeared.

-x-

DEAN

All Dean had wanted was a bottle of whiskey and a chance to relax for a minute. He'd had a rough day—well, a rough few weeks, if he was being honest. This whole angel-business-thing was way more taxing than he'd care to admit, and finding time to babysit Sam and Cas in the middle of it was no picnic, either. It seemed like whenever he wasn't around, they put themselves in danger—Cas proved as much when he got himself stabbed and almost killed the first time Dean decided he could leave them alone for one case. He'd tried, he really had; the Trickster had told him to let them be independent of his assistance, and he'd told Cas he'd let them solve that case on their own, but it seemed there was no avoiding it. Uriel—the bastard—had tried to keep him from returning to his brother's side that night, and only relented when Dean told him (well, actually he yelled it at him) that Cas was in danger.

Up in Heaven, things were getting a little better—he was starting to see more of the good side of the angels, at least, and would even go so far to say he was beginning to look at them as an extended family (except Uriel). They might all have poles up their asses, but the friendly ones were nice enough, at least. Tensions between Dean and Uriel's followers had only grown over the past few weeks, though. None of them approved with his more-than-casual relations with the "filthy wingless folk." Most of them were okay with Cas, being the Righteous Man, but they all seemed unanimous on drawing the line at Sam, the "abomination." He didn't listen to any of them, of course.

"This tastes like ass," he complained, setting the bottle back down on the table. And weirdly familiar…

Sam didn't seem to be paying attention. His gaze was focused intently on his laptop.

"Earth to Sam. Come in, Sam." Dean still had to constantly remind himself not to call his brother "Sammy."

Sam didn't answer other than to roll his eyes. A moment later, he closed his laptop and stood, tucking it under his arm. "I'll be back in a bit, I've gotta check something out."

Dean watched as Sam left, the door clicking shut behind him. When he turned back, the bitter taste of the whiskey still on his tongue, he was faced with a shock. Cas was suddenly standing by the table, only feet from him, and was inexplicably back in his customary suit, trench coat, and blue tie. He was staring evenly at Dean as he usually did, but this time there was something in his expression, something Dean couldn't initially identify, something that made him freeze where he stood.

"Dean."

That was all it took. He heard it in that one word, dark and hungry and full of want, and right then he recognized why Cas's gaze had rooted him there, why just his spoken name was enough to make his legs stop working. The blue-eyed man stepped up to Dean, two hands curling into the front of his jacket, and suddenly his back was against the wall.

Their faces were inches apart. Dean could taste Cas's breath for a moment, feel the tension crackling between them, watched longingly as the man wet his lips as though in anticipation. He should be asking questions, he knew—why was Cas doing this, where had it come from, what if Sam came back, why was he enjoying this so goddamn much—but all his worries flew out the window when Cas leaned forward those extra two inches and their lips met. He was an aggressive kisser, his mouth firm against Dean's and his tongue pushing itself into Dean's mouth. Dean didn't even think about it. He let his lips part, let Cas's tongue press against his own, and then he couldn't taste the whiskey anymore, all he could taste was Cas.

Dean's hands were in Cas's hair before he knew it, fingers curling into it, holding Cas there because he didn't want this to end too quickly. It felt twenty degrees hotter and he needed to have less clothes on and as though Cas had read his mind, hands were hooking under his leather coat, pushing it away from his chest, and Dean had to pull his fingers out of Cas's hair until the coat hit the floor. Cas broke away for a moment and they were both breathing faster, staring into each other and there was something unbelievably sexy about seeing Cas like this, his hair mussed and his eyes dim with lust.

"Cas, what the hell—"

"Don't ask stupid questions, Dean."

He could hear the heat in Cas's rough, low voice. Within a second Dean's shirt was off, too, because he still felt like he was going to break out into a sweat. Then Dean was tearing off Cas's overcoat with unparalleled urgency, and the suit jacket underneath it, and he had Cas by the tie and had yanked him back into him and they were kissing again. Dean felt teeth close teasingly around his bottom lip and that wrecked him, felt a huff of Cas's breath against his cheek, felt Cas's splayed fingers running through his hair. And then Cas was dragging his tongue up the side of Dean's neck and his other hand was sliding down Dean's stomach and he made an embarrassingly needy noise in the back of his throat as Cas started to unbutton Dean's pants and oh God we're gonna do it right here against the wall and I don't even give a fuck—

Dean woke with a jerk and was confused (and, honestly, really disappointed) to suddenly find himself lying on his stomach on the floor.

"Dude, you okay?" It was Sam. He had knelt down next to Dean and was peering concernedly at him.

Dean wasn't sure he could answer that question. Physically, he supposed he was fine, other than the unexpected boner, but mentally he had no idea what was going on. "The hell just happened…?"

"I dunno, man, you just collapsed." Dean looked at Sam again. It might've been his imagination, but he could've sworn the guy was trying not to laugh.

Collapsed…?

He started to sit up and looked to the clock to see that about an hour had passed since he'd arrived, though the steamy make-out session had only lasted a minute or so at most. Cas was standing a few feet away, his gaze as indifferent as it ever was, as though whatever just happened hadn't happened at all. Dean stared at him for a second. In his mind's eye he could still see that expression on Cas's face, the desire burning in his eyes, but it was all gone now. What the fuck…

Suddenly he understood. It had been a dream, all of it. The touching, the kissing, the up-against-the-wall, it had all been some frighteningly realistic, tripping-balls porno-fantasy. What the hell was wrong with him? He had to get his shit under control before he stood up and one of them noticed the bulge in his pants that hadn't fucking gone away yet—not that it could, with that still fresh in his memory. God, where the fuck had that even come from? He tried to tell himself it was just a dream, some weird-ass way of his brain telling him he needed to get some, but he couldn't get rid of the craving he still felt for it. He wanted it to happen again, in the waking world this time, wanted Cas to shove him against the wall and kiss him like no tomorrow and—

You need to fucking stop, he yelled at himself, because he realized he'd been staring at Cas this whole time, and there was a questioning crease line that had appeared between the man's eyebrows.

"Seriously, are you okay?" Sam looked genuinely worried as he placed a steadying hand on Dean's shoulder.

Dean couldn't answer. He really couldn't. After all these years of lying and saying "I'm fine," to his own brother, this time he just couldn't manage it. His salvation, ironically, came in the form of Uriel. The angel, apparently unable to reach him during the time he'd been Brokeback-dreaming, yelled his name with a sternness that would make the most unruly schoolboy cower in fear. Dean cleared his throat, hoping his voice wouldn't come out two octaves higher. "Gotta go. Angel business."

He was still lost in thought when he appeared in the dorm room he mentally referred to as "garrison headquarters." There were other angels there—other members of the garrison, he assumed—but he didn't pay much attention until he heard a snicker fracture the silence. He looked up to see Hester and Inias staring at him in shock, Balthazar clearly trying not to laugh, Uriel curling his lip in disgust, and Andy with an expression of amused disbelief. Eremiel had been the one who made the noise; there was a nasty sneer on his face. They all seemed to be looking over Dean's shoulders.

"Well, look at you, Sparkles," said Balthazar.

"Sparkles"? "What?" Dean turned, thinking someone was standing behind him pulling faces or something. All thoughts of Cas momentarily left his mind. "What is it?"

That was apparently the last straw for Balthazar, who nearly doubled over laughing. Even Andy made an unattractive noise trying to hold back his own laughter, and both Hester and Inias broke into smiles. Uriel, as ever, was the only one maintaining a stone-cold disposition.

Dean turned again, his wings unfurling slightly in his indignation, and saw something flash in the corner of his eye. It was a moment before he realized that the shiny thing that caught his attention was his wing. He stretched them both out to their full glory and was astonished at what he saw. "What the hell…?" He reached out to touch them, horrified to find that they were real—his feathers had actually been tinted a violent shade of pink, had been coated with a considerable amount of glitter, had been adorned with sparkly butterflies and flowers… Just looking at it was cringe-worthy.

It wasn't too difficult to put two and two together: he had fallen asleep, had some crazy-ass dream, and woken up with sparkly pink wings. "Son of a bitch," he muttered, remembering how Sam had looked like he was about to laugh. "I'm gonna kill those two bastards…"

Uriel, apparently having heard him, sounded absolutely affronted when he said, "You let two humans lay their dirty hands on your wings?"

Balthazar seemed to find this even more hilarious. "Do you mean those buffoons pulled one over on you? They did that—" He gestured at Dean's wings, unable to say anything else for laughing so hard. Andy had leaned in closer and was touching one of the butterfly clips in fascination. Dean, irritated and embarrassed as hell, jerked his wings back, folding them as tightly against his back as he possibly could.

"Go clean yourself up. You're filthy." Uriel's tone was disdainful. He was still the only one who wasn't smiling. "Don't come back until you've washed all that trash off of you."

-x-

It felt good to take a shower. It was his first, he realized, in weeks. Cleaning his wings, of course, was much more difficult to do by himself, but all the other angels in his garrison were apparently busy and he didn't think he'd be able to handle Cas touching him at this point. Still, the dye and the glitter washed off easily enough, and as the water pooled pink and sparkly around his feet, his mind focused on the thing he couldn't stop thinking about.

There was no point sugar-coating it: he'd just had some kind of crazy sex-dream about his closest friend. Sam and Cas confessed when he returned to the motel room that they'd spiked his whiskey with dream-root, so that accounted for how amazingly realistic the whole thing had been, but the cause of his dream only worried him more. Dream-root gave a person the ability to control or, at the very least, manipulate dreams. He hadn't realized he was dreaming at first, which meant that his brain was on some kind of autopilot or something. It wasn't just weaving together some kind of whacked-out vision from bits and pieces of his memories; it was basing itself on something he wanted, grounded in desire. Was it trying to tell him something? Was his own sex drive trying to communicate to his conscious brain that what he really wanted under the Christmas tree this year was a horny blue-eyed angel?

To say he hadn't seen it coming would be a bit of a lie. Recently he'd been catching himself doing things like staring at Cas's mouth when he talked or just watching him move sometimes. And he'd swear those eyes would be the death of him. But up until now it had just been habits, changes. Signs their friendship was developing, maybe. He never gave it any thought because he didn't think it required any. He could admire another guy for being good-looking, couldn't he? Because goddamn, if Cas wasn't an attractive son of a bitch…

Honestly, the fact that Cas was a dude didn't bother him so much as the fact that Cas was Cas. The guy might not be an angel for the time being, but in Dean's eyes, he was still… pure. Innocent. Uncorrupted. Dean felt as though making any kind of advance on the guy would completely ruin that, and who was he to claim that authority?

And then he had to reconcile with the fact that Cas was, in fact, a male. Dean had to stop scrubbing his feathers for a moment as he realized: I just had a fantasy about making out with a dude. A dude. That wasn't to say Dean never noticed when a guy walked past with a smooth jawline or a tight ass or bright blue eyes, but… well, this was different. Before, he could dismiss it as something casual. But now his own dreams had taken it to the next level, and he was forced to acknowledge it as something more than just aesthetic appeal.

But then, the fact that he felt… that way about Cas didn't mean Cas felt the same about him. The optimistic side of him remembered all the times he'd imagined seeing something reciprocated in Cas's face when they looked at each other, but it was nothing next to his doubt. Who was he kidding, anyway? It wasn't like he could say he was in love with the guy. It was just a fantasy, after all—a crush. A physical attraction, no more. With time, it'd pass, and they could go back to whatever weird friendship they'd had before, couldn't they?