Summary: FBI legend Dean Winchester's got it all: supportive friends, snarky colleagues, a boss who has his back and a job he's too good at to get fired. The one thing that would make his life even better would be for things to work out between him and Cas, a hot guy with ridiculous taste in movies that Dean may or may not be falling in love with.
[Actually, the one thing that would make Dean's life a hell of a lot easier would be for Cas to not be Castiel Novak — the infamous Archangels' alleged arson specialist. But that's a story for another time.]
Warnings: Organized Crime, Mentions of Sexual Crimes Against Children (because Dean's task force specializes in it), FBI agent!Dean, Arsonist!Castiel, Alternate Universe, Crack With Plot, Surprisingly Small Amount of Angst.
Part 1
Dean doesn't mean to notice the guy. He really, really doesn't.
It's not that the man isn't handsome. He's got dark, windswept hair and bright eyes that are either green or blue — hard to make out the correct shade in the flashing lights — and a very pretty face, from what Dean can see. Not as pretty as Dean's own, but a very nice second runner-up. And anyways, it's not like Dean's that picky when it comes to his one-night-stands.
He isn't.
[Shut up, Meg, nobody asked you.]
The thing is, Dean's not a club person. He hates the dim lights, hates how hot and heavy the air is, hates the sensation of sweaty bodies pressing against his own. The feeling of unfamiliar hands touching him. Not being able to see a threat coming until it's too late. And yeah, that includes guns and knifes and other fun stuff. But it also goes for thrown beer bottles and wasted partygoers throwing up over his favorite shoes.
The only reason why Dean Winchester occasionally visits a club out of his own free will is because of the music. Not just any music either because when it comes to his rare night out, Dean's definitely picky.
[Meg can make fun of him all she likes, she's got terrible taste anyways. Although Dean's eighty-seven per cent sure she just keeps on humming the Barbie Girl song to piss him off. Joke's on her though. Thanks to Neal, Dean has to endure classical music on a regular basis. He's grateful for any tune with an actual song text — and nope, operas don't count, what the fuck, Caffrey — no matter how cringe-worthy the lyrics are.
It's actually Lisa who hates that song the most. She once spend two hours lecturing Meg on the societal evil that is the barbie doll and the patriarchal, misogynistic power structures she reproduces. Unsurprising, this led to Meg preparing an inspiring defense speech for their next quarterly budget review meeting — Barbie's YouTube videos on mental health issues included — and long story short, Dean's desk is now home to Barbie, Ken, Kelly and a Barbie-edition of the Frozen sisters, curtesy of Meg's Secret Santa gifts. Lisa offered to mutilate them, but Dean's pretty sure her plans would give all of them nightmares. Not to mention give their colleagues the wrong impression. They're supposed to hunt psychopaths, not become them, and playing voodoo with a children's doll seems like like it might be taken the wrong way.
Half the bureau is already convinced their division is criminally insane. And most of them don't get to sit in on those late-night emergency meetings, where the deadly combination of Neal, Meg, Dean and life-threatening amounts of caffeine comes up with their best ideas.]
When it comes to clubs — or rather to dancing — Dean has very clear preferences. It doesn't matter what type of music it is, so long as it's loud. Loud enough to almost turn Dean deaf. Oh, and bass-heavy. Can't forget about that. Dean needs to feel it, every note vibrating through his bones. Needs to feel the beat rippling over his skin until it's flushed and tingling. Until he can't hear the sound of his own ragged breathing anymore, can barely see anything in the colorful flashes of light. Until the world — too bright, too full, too terrible — has shrunken down to nothing but the music ravaging through his very core and the pounding of his heart, running wild in his chest.
Letting go like that, so completely and absolutely, is one of the biggest highs Dean knows. Better than catching a monster in human skin — because there's always a bitterness attached to that, the face of the victims you couldn't save, the underlying fear of being too late yet again, the terrible realization in the survivors eyes that it's over but now they have to live with it — that taints that joy.
Better than sex even, though Dean wouldn't admit that out loud. He's got a fairly good idea what Meg would say to a statement like that and there's a limit of how many 'Then you're not doing it right' jokes Dean's willing to endure in a week. Doesn't change the way he feels though.
The problem with sex is that it involves another person. And don't get him wrong, Dean likes sex well enough and he likes people even more. But his job makes a steady relationship difficult and with one-night-stands there's always that uncertainty, the unfamiliarity of your partner. It's fun, sometimes it's even fantastic, but Dean can't let himself go. Not completely. Not the way he does when he dances.
[They don't train the trust out of you at Quantico. The files of yet another missing child, yet another case gone cold, yet another serial rapist that smiles way too kindly do that all on their own.
Not that Dean's been good with trust even before that, but that's a different story.]
That's probably one of the reasons why Dean rarely indulges. Letting go like that, going away even though he's fully conscious, is scary when he allows himself to think about it. And that's without considering how many people he's arrested in clubs similar to this one. How many bodies he's pulled out of the backrooms.
With a scowl, Dean pushes that thought down. This is the problem with his job: You can't just leave it at the door when you leave the bureau at 5pm sharp. Okay, 4am sharp, if you want to be precise. Needless to say, their last case was hell.
Bad enough that Jody gave them the rest of the week off to recuperate and get their heads straightened out. So Dean staggered home like a good little agent, passed out in his bed for twelve hours straight, wolfed down two portions of Mac'n'Cheese and caught up on the new Dr. Sexy episodes he'd missed. None of which managed to settle the itch under his skin. The restlessness. Emily Sanders lifeless body, eyes wide open and face frozen in an expression of horrified terror, even in death.
[At least they found the body this time, the cynical voice in the back of Dean's head murmurs. At least her parents have that closure. Which is true, but it's a cold, analytical truth that doesn't actually make it better. And it's not the worst case Dean has worked, not by a long shot. But burying a fourteen-year-old girl is the kind of thing that doesn't get any easier to bear with repetition.]
Hence the downtime. And the dancing. It's that or a psychologist and while the bureau would cover the cost, even recommends trustworthy specialists, Dean really doesn't plan on opening that can of worms until he can no longer avoid it. Psychological clearances are a bitch to get in their line of work — staying sane takes a lot of fucking effort — and the regular check-ups are already messy enough.
Besides Tessa would just tell him to get his ass off the ratty couch and go dancing. She knows Dean too damn well.
["It's better than some of the coping mechanisms I've seen over the years," she's told him with a shrug during that first year when they'd still been feeling each other out, trying to settle into a dynamic that worked for the both of them.
And Dean isn't an idiot and he isn't blind. He knows Benny drank himself into a coma after that fiasco in Denver. He knows Meg goes through ammunition on the shooting range like crazy when a case hits too close home. He knows Ash pulls three all-nighters working on his digital farm in Stardew Valley because shooter games and battles are too close to reality to him. He knows Neal paints copies of famous paintings when he's stressed and that he gives most of them to someone on their team after he's done. Dean's never asked him what happens with the other ones.
Not our division.
Point is, they're all a little fucked and they all have their own way of dealing with the shit show that is their day job. Comes with the territory.]
So, one day into his mini-vacation, Dean had given in and asked Charlie for a recommendation. He doesn't make a habit of coming to the same clubs regularly. The predictability of it makes him itchy. Plus, Charlie's fantastic taste isn't limited to women. She knows exactly what Dean's looking for when he wants to let loose and makes it happen.
[Dean would totally hire her as his PA if he was important enough to require a PA. And if Charlie didn't enjoy dancing back and forth on the line of legality too much to settle down and work for the FBI.]
Because Charlie is awesome and Dean's best friend, she's also warned him that the clientele of B5 leans more towards to opposite site of the law. Apparently the owner is friends with someone high-up in the local criminal food chain and the the club is considered neutral ground by the two street gangs with the most say in this area. It also has a strict no-drugs policy and zero tolerance for troublemakers.
[From what Charlie has implied, Dean suspects B5 is as squeaky clean as Charlie swears it is because it's a cover for some other, much less legal business. He hasn't asked though. Charlie wouldn't have recommended anything with even a hint of sex trafficking ties, and everything else really isn't Dean's problem. He's off the fucking clock.]
B5 also has a DJ who favors techno a bit too much if you ask Dean, but all in all it delivers everything Charlie promised. The music is turned up loud enough to make conversations impossible, Dean hasn't noticed a single drug deal before he's shut his brain off and the room is crowded enough to get lost in the masses, but not so full Dean feels like he can't fucking breathe.
[Panic attacks in public are no fun. Panic attacks when surrounded by drunk strangers even less so.]
Getting lost is good, easy even. Dean can literally feel the tension seeping out of him and though he knows he probably looks ridiculous, he doesn't allow for that thought to linger long enough to sour his mood. This is for him and him alone.
Dean doesn't know how long he's on the dance floor, lost to the world around him, completely in the zone. It's a bit like working on a case. That single-minded focus that doesn't allow for hunger or exhaustion to be more than a footnote in Dean's mind, but it's also not because like this, Dean isn't required to think. He's blind and deaf to the world and yet he's a part of it, right in the middle of a crowd and he belongs here, with these strangers, in a way he doesn't — can't — once he puts on a suit and flashes his badge.
It's freedom and running away at once, entwined so tightly, it's impossible to tell the two apart.
Then the DJ switches from that techno shit to something closer to soft rock and even though the music is much more up Dean's alley, the shift is jarring enough to break his haze. Dean blinks a couple of times, his body slowing down and comes to a halt, not quite ready to fall into the new rhythm just yet. With the way his mind becomes more aware by the second, Dean is acutely aware of his sweat-drenched clothes sticking uncomfortably to his body. Of the welcome ache in his muscles, the way he struggles to catch his breath.
He rolls back his shoulders, stretches his back a bit. It's a good feeling. A soothing burn. As tempting as it is to fall back into the song though, Dean should probably get something to drink first. Dehydration is no fun and his body is practically screaming at him. Loudly.
With a sigh, Dean pushes his way through the crowd towards the bar. The only part of the room that's clearly illuminated in cold, blue LED-light. The drama aficionado in Dean definitely appreciates the style, although he personally would've gone for more green. Or violet maybe. Less lightsaber, more devil's lair.
He's almost at the bar when Dean catches sight of him for the first time. The guy is leaning against the bar with his back, elbows propped up on the black wood, facing the dance floor. He's not watching Dean in particular — Dean's not that egocentric, okay — but their eyes definitely meet for a moment. And, well, Dean means it when he says he doesn't mean to notice the guy. He's not here for that type of distraction tonight. Dean usually isn't in the mood for sex after a bad case. Go figure.
But the bartender is hopelessly overwhelmed — Dean's never seen anyone mess up a Caipirinha three times in a row, come on, it's not rocket science — meaning that Dean's got nothing but time, bobbing back and forth on his feet, waiting his turn. And the guy's literally right there. And still looking at Dean. Staring, actually. Looking sounds way too subtle for what the guy's doing.
He's gorgeous, that much Dean can tell even in the bad lighting. Around Dean's height, angular face, wearing a tight, white shirt with the top three buttons undone and a smirk on his lips that screams the sort of self-assured confidence Dean considers his number three major weakness. Right after a good burger and crying children. Yeah, there's no way around it: The guy's definitely Dean's type.
And because the bartender is still fumbling his way through a Sex on the Beach that isn't supposed to contain rum, and the part of Dean that makes good, reasonable decisions is pretty much saved exclusively for work-related choices, Dean sends an equally confident smirk over his shoulder, complete with an inviting wink.
Hey, just because he doesn't intend to get laid doesn't mean he's not going to flirt. There's no mode of Dean Winchester that doesn't flirt.
While Dean is distracted by an internal argument with his inner Lisa over whether or not he can differentiate between appropriate and inappropriate situations for his special brand of charm — Lisa doesn't know what she's talking about, Neal would one hundred percent agree with Dean on this — the pretty stranger slides up next to him. He moves into Dean's line of sight before he leans in close enough that Dean can feel his warm breath against his ear and he doesn't presume and actually touch Dean. Both are two strong points in the guy's favor.
"Want something to drink?" the guy yells over the music. His voice is surprisingly deep, and okay, that's point number three. Damn it.
Dean hesitates for a moment. Shrugs inwardly. It's a drink, he won't owe the guy anything. And besides it might be nice to spend time with someone who isn't a work friend or an ex-work friend.
He moves back a little, lets his shoulder brush against the guy's own as he leans over and yells, "Just a water," over the noise.
Pretty Guy raises his eyebrows.
Dean shrugs, utterly unapologetic. He's not getting black-out drunk in a club where he doesn't know anyone and has no back-up close by. And if he starts drinking right now, black-out drunk is the only way this night — or early morning — is going to end. Dean's got no illusions about that.
To Pretty Guy's credit, he accepts Dean's non-answer without protest. Simply turns around and waves the bartender over. The poor guy knocks over a glass in his eagerness to respond — Dean's kinda insulted he hasn't gathered the same reaction, but he feels bad for the clearly over-worked guy, so he's not gonna be an ass about it — and a moment later Pretty Guy hands Dean two water bottles.
Definitely earning point number four in the process. Dean decides to worry about that later though. He's too drowning the first bottle without so much as taking a breath in between swallowing. Fuck, he hasn't realized how thirsty he is.
It's only after Dean drops the empty bottle down on the bar that he remembers his manners and accepts the second one Pretty Guy hands him with a sheepish smile and a very heartfelt "Thanks". He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, pretty sure that he's spilled more water than can be considered attractive. Not that his shirt isn't already drenched with sweat, so that's probably a lost cause.
"I'm Dean," he yells because he's starting to feel almost human now and should probably act like it.
Pretty Guy grins, looking honest to God delighted and copies Dean's motion. Rests one hand on Dean's shoulder, to keep his balance maybe. Shouts what is either a Cassidy, Castel or possibly Casper. Not that Dean's distracted by the warmth of the guy's hand that he can feel through the thin fabric of his shirt or anything. Nope. Not at all.
Deciding to take the easy way out, Dean leans closer into the guy's personal space so he doesn't have to shout and says, "Very nice to meet you, Cas."
"It's very nice to meet you too, Dean," Cas drawls back, his throaty voice curling around Dean like a tantalizing cloud of smoke and yeah, okay, this may not be what Dean was looking for, but there's no harm in opening yourself up to new opportunities.
[It's got nothing to do with the fact that Cas looks even better from up close than he did from a distance.]
"Wanna dance?" Dean asks because Cas is looking at him with burning eyes and Dean likes what he sees but he hasn't prepared for this and— he's not sure he's ready to face the implications of the tension building between them just yet.
["Don't be a coward, Dean." Meg snorts in the back of his mind. "You could do with a little harmless fun, stop overthinking this."
"Oh, shut up!" Lisa growls back. "He doesn't need to have sex if he doesn't want to and he definitely doesn't need to feel pressured by you or Blue-Eyes over there."
"Those are some pretty blue eyes though."
"Fuck you, Meg."
"Nah, you're too high-strung to be my type."
Sometimes, Dean wishes his subconsciousness wouldn't do such a great job at impersonating his friends.]
Cas' grin turns rueful. "I can't dance."
It's such a stereotypical response that Dean can't help but roll his eyes. "Sure you can't," he mutters, though the comment is probably lost in the noise around them.
"Come on," he yells louder, grabs Cas' hand and pulls him towards the crowd. "I'll teach you."
Dean's not so far gone yet that he can't read the hesitation on Cas' face. But before he can decide whether he's pulled a Meg and gone too far, crossed whatever line there is to cross between spontaneous club acquaintances, Cas' is smiling again, an edge that slides right into teasing to it. "Your funeral."
The thought that Emily will have a closed casket burial hovers dangerously close to the surface for a moment and so maybe when Dean throws his head back as he laughs, it's half because of genuine amusement and half to escape that burning gaze for a second.
"You wish."
As it turns out, Cas hasn't exaggerated. He really can't dance. Under different circumstances, Dean might have been annoyed by that. It's not Cas' fault, he realizes that, but Dean doesn't get the chance to let loose like this very often. [Doesn't allow himself the chance to let loose like this very often.]
And dancing with a partner who doesn't know a thing about how to move and has the rhythm of a drunk mermaid caught out of water is trickier than it sounds. Certainly makes falling into the zone impossible. If only because every time Dean's about to sink back into the music, Cas steps on his foot or digs an elbow into his side or almost makes him lose his balance.
Dean would suspect Cas of messing up on purpose, but there's just no way any of the guy's awkward motions are on purpose.
And maybe that water was spiked after all because Dean should be pissed and ditch Cas — or at least get him off the dance floor before he hurts anyone besides Dean and himself — but he just can't stop laughing.
"I'm glad you find my inability to dance amusing," Cas shouts at one point and somehow gets his dry, unamused tone across perfectly, despite the volume needed for Dean to even hear him. But it's the annoyance visible in the downward tilt of his lips and the slight narrowing of his eyes that tells Dean he either has to blow the guy off and continue with his night as planned or give him a real shot and cut his dancing short.
It's not as hard a decision as Dean expected it to be. Clearly, he's spent too much time with Meg.
"Sorry! It's just— you're a terrible dancer." Dean smiles winningly, two thirds of an apology.
Cas' raises his eyebrows at him. "As advertised."
Which, fair enough.
"Touché." Dean slides his arms around Cas' waist and leans in, not for a kiss but enjoying the feel of the other man's body against his own. "How about I buy you a drink in the bar across the street to make it up to you?"
Cas turns his head, soft lips brushing against Dean's cheek. The gentle touch leaves a fiery trail in its wake that doesn't send shudders down Dean's back at all.
"Lead the way."
Tommy's is a tiny, local-friendly place that's closer to a pub than a bar. A fact that Dean appreciates. The homey atmosphere helps him relax, calm his racing heart a little. On the other hand, although the lights are dim and there's soft music playing in the background, Dean can see Cas clearly now — the way his shirt clings to his broad shoulders, the quiet confidence in his movements, the blue of his eyes that feel like they cut right through Dean's usual bullshit — and truly appreciate the hot-ness of his maybe-date. And his voice.
Fuck. He's still half-deaf from the club music, but that warm, deep voice gives Dean all kinds of feelings that he doesn't know what to do with.
They take a corner seat — the place is only half-full — and Dean swallows down his instincts and lets Cas take the seat with his back to the wall. Not that the man will appreciate the gesture for what it really is, but really, it's as much a concession to Cas as it's a reminder for Dean: This isn't a job. He's off the clock. There's no need to vigilant twenty-four-seven and while there's also no reason to be stupid, the day Dean finds himself unable to turn his back on a room full of peacefully beer-drinking pub regulars is the day his work will have officially ruined him for good.
[He's afraid that day looms closer than he likes to admit. But it's not here yet, so Dean pushes that thought back together with all the other crap and focuses on the blue in Cas' eyes instead.]
Their order — whiskey for Cas, a beer for Dean — arrives within moments, thanks to their waiter who nods at Cas in greeting before he moves on.
"Old friend?" Dean asks, mostly because he can't think of anything to say.
"More acquaintance than friend." Cas raises his glass in a wordless toast and takes a sip. He leans back, looking for all intents and purposes completely at home, and Dean kinda envies him for that calm. He doesn't usually struggle to fit in, but that's his job and it's different. Right now, Dean isn't on a race against time to find a missing kid, isn't trying to trick a suspect into revealing his true nature. He's not Dean Winchester, he's just Dean. Just himself. And the way Cas is watching him, all intent and burning fire, makes him nervous.
He takes a sip of his beer. It really has been too long since Dean's done something like this. Least of all with someone as intense as Cas.
"So you can't dance," he finally says. Clears his throat because the words come out less humorous than he's intended. "What can you do?"
Luckily, Cas seems amused rather than offended.
"Oh, all kinds of things that would blow your mind." He winks, but his smile is razor sharp and Dean probably shouldn't find that so hot.
"Yeah?" Thank fuck Dean manages to insert some of his patented cockiness into his tone instead of doing something cringe-worthy like starting to stutter. "'Cause I should warn you, I'm pretty hard to impress."
"I figured." Cas sets his glass down with a soft click, smirk widening. "That's what makes it fun."
It should probably be awkward — they're complete strangers who've exchanged about twenty words so far, awkward is unavoidable — and it is, but it also isn't. Dean makes a joke about Cas' dancing abilities, which backfires when Cas looks at him with a smolder that isn't supposed to exist outside Disney movies and tells Dean in a voice dripping with sex than he can demonstrate his moves anytime, anywhere. The comment comes so unexpected and heavy with innuendo that Dean chokes on his beer like he's freaking fifteen and has his first crush.
Thankfully, Cas just grins in accomplishment and they spend the next few minutes arguing over the advantages of beer over whiskey, which helps Dean regain some of his footing. Of course then Cas looks at Dean from under his eyelashes and murmurs "You could always show me the error of my way," and they're talking about drinks, for fuck's sake, how does Cas manage to make it sound like the intro to a cheap porno?
That silly thought turns into a very serious discussion on their favorite movies. Cas thinks The Untouchables is an overly romanticized pile of crap because everyone's corruptible, which leads Dean to recount everything he's ever learned from Meg's rants about the development of group dynamics and how under those specific circumstances and with such a tightly-knitted group it's entirely possible that their determination to take Capone down was stronger than the temptation of money.
That leads them to The Godfather, another freaking classic that Cas clearly hasn't learned to appreciate. Although this time it's the criminal lifestyle he considers both, portrayed too romantic and too tragic at the same time.
"Sofia's death is the most pointless death in the history of cinematic climaxes and an utter letdown besides," are his exact words. Along with an, "And what kind of self-respecting gun for hire would shoot an eighteen-year-old girl instead of the head of a crime syndicate?" that has Dean laughing despite himself. Maybe it's not that funny and maybe there are three way to counter that statement Dean can think of at the top of his mind, but that's not really the point. The point is, Dean enjoys this. Sitting here, sipping his beer, arguing with Cas about movies. He feels alive and light in a way he hasn't in a long time — never does in the bureau because he loves his team, he does, they're awesome, but every second of levity between them is something they have to fight for tooth and claws — and until this very moment, Dean hasn't realized how much he's missed it.
When he calms down, it's to find Cas staring at him — again — unblinking and intense. "Your laugh is beautiful," he says, completely unashamed and sincere, like that's the kind of thing you can just say to a guy. Like it doesn't knock the air out of Dean's lungs and leaves him scrambling, cheeks flushing, fingers restlessly tracing the condensed water drops on his half-empty beer bottle.
And maybe Dean should've shrugged it off or turned it into a joke or flirted right back, but somehow when he opens his mouth and looks into Cas' dark blue eyes, all those light-hearted words crumble to dust and what comes out instead is an awkward, "Alright, what about Frozen?"
There's a gleam in Cas' eyes that has Dean shifting in his seat, not uncomfortable exactly but not comfortable either. Then Cas drops the intense stare-off and launches himself into a rant on everything wrong with a children's movie that has one total asshole romance interest, a suicidal snowman that doesn't even realize he's suicidal, and a completely overblown sacrifice play between two sisters that could've been avoided completely if only they'd communicated properly, and Dean is more grateful for the brief reprise than Cas probably realizes.
That doesn't stop him from defending one of the few Disney movies where the main character sacrifices himself for family instead of the aforementioned asshole romance interest though. It's the principle of the thing.
"Is there any movie you even like?" Dean finally asks, somewhere between sarcasm and genuine curiosity.
"I like many movies." Cas smirks devilishly. "I just like arguing with you more. You get all determined and huffy, it's adorable."
Dean— gapes.
He's not proud of it, but there's no denying the fact. It takes him a couple of precious seconds to work through that twist and throw himself back into his chair with a huff, arms crossed in front of his chest and narrow eyes glowering at a completely unapologetic Cas.
"You're an asshole." It's not great as far as retorts go, but it's all Dean's got right now. He doesn't understand how Cas is able to get under his skin so easily, how he keeps flustering him when Dean's usually pretty good of going with the flow of the conversation. But somehow Cas' weird combination of genuine intensity just keeps tripping him up.
"I know." He's also way too self-satisfied.
Dean does the only thing he really can at this point: He pouts. It's a cheap shot he usually doesn't pull before the third date — because it's juvenile and Dean's better than that, except he apparently isn't — but to his satisfaction it works just fine. Cas' gaze is drawn to his lips and there's no missing the way his eyes darken.
"How about we settle the bill and then I make it up to you?" Cas asks slowly, the words heavy with intend.
That's point number five in his favor. Because the thing is, Cas really asks. There's no pressure, no assumption that would've undoubtedly ended with Dean running into the opposite direction, just a question that Dean doesn't for a moment think he couldn't answer with an honest No and have Cas nod and walk away, no harm done.
Dean swallows. His palms feel clammy and Cas' gaze makes him feel uncharacteristically skittish, but not necessarily in a bad way. He's attracted to Cas, there's no denying that, but he also likes him and that's more than Dean's felt for anyone in ages.
[Don't overthink this.]
"Sounds good to me." And then because Dean is still Dean, no matter what, he allows his genuine smile to twist into a smirk that's all I dare you and only half false bravado. "Should warn you that I've got high expectations though."
"Good." Cas matches him smirk for smirk. "I do well with a challenge."
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