2016's Dean POV

Most people in the bars in and around Lebanon know Sam and me pretty well as the Campbell brothers—meaning they'd probably have questions if I suddenly showed up with a Xeroxed version of myself. So, just to be on the safe side, we head to a place on the border of Missouri. It looks like it was last decorated 15 years ago and smells like fried cheese—so it's practically a home away from home.

"I'll grab us a table," Cas announces, while Sam, young Me, and I head up to the bar to place our orders.

"So, how's it going with the mind meld stuff?" I ask the other Dean, casually popping a peanut in my mouth.

He snorts.

"What?"

"We're talking shop? I thought this was our night off."

"When do we ever stop talking shop? It's not like any of us have any water cooler gossip to share or caught the football game lately. And I'm not gonna ask you what your favorite kind of pie is 'cause, guess what? I already know."

Other Me shrugs out of his jacket. "It's going fine. We're moving pretty slowly because Cas says my pathetic human brain can't take too much of his angelic consciousness or something—so I'm up to the part where he threatened to send you back to hell after the whole Witnesses thing."

He smiles a little. "You know, right before he showed up in Bobby's kitchen, he and this other angel named Uriel fought a volcano spirit that almost destroyed an ancient church. It was pretty badass."

"No, I, uh, didn't know that." I throw back another three peanuts.

"Uriel's a dick though," I can't help but add.

"Yeah, Cas doesn't seem to like him that much either. I mean, he respects him, but his grace pulls in tight when he's around—like it's trying to stay away."

"He's that aware of his grace? I thought it was like blood or your soul—you don't really notice it until it's missing," Sam interrupts, eagerly.

I am stopped from calling him a dork when the bartender appears.

She's hot—with dark, straight hair that falls to her collar bones and a leather crop top that zips up at the front, almost begging someone to drag it down with their teeth. "Whatcha boys in the mood for?" she asks with a smirk in her voice.

"Whatever drink comes with your number written on the napkin," my other self replies, just as confidently.

"You think you're enough to handle me?" she raises her eyebrows and leans forward across the counter to provide us with an even better view.

"Oh, I know I am."

"Mmmm, not sure. Maybe if you and your twin are interested in some double trouble, we can work something out."

I point at myself and she nods.

"Uh, yeah, gonna pass," I say, ignoring my other self's glare and Sam's horrified expression all at once. "Can we get four beers and four Fireballs? Please," I tack on for good measure.

She frowns like I just told her that her cat was ugly. "No problem," she says, with a tight-lipped smile, before turning away from us to reveal the rose tattoo on her shoulder.

"Dude, what was that?" Other Me punches my bicep the minute she's gone.

"Right, 'cause I'm the weird one for not wanting to be in a naked sandwich with myself."

"You act as if we've never jerked off in the shower."

A peanut gets lodged halfway down my throat. "Not together," I sputter.

Mini Me frowns, drawing lines on his face that will become permanently etched on my forehead and I wish I could tell him to stop it. "It's not like we haven't been in threesomes before," he points out. "Or that fivesome with Lee."

"Dude," I say, feeling my ears heat up. "We don't talk about that."

"I also vote you not talk about that," Sam begs and, at last, other Dean shuts up.

And yet, somehow, he's regained enough confidence a minute later to ask, "What's Cas's deal by the way? Do angels pluck each other's harps or whatever?"

I wish I had a drink already. "He doesn't really…I mean, he has, but, er…" Feel free to interrupt any minute, Sam. "Lightly used. His harp is lightly used, OK? Doesn't help that he couldn't tell if someone was flirting with him if they wrote it in Enochian on their forehead."

"That's not exactly true," Sam grumbles under his breath.

I think about saying, Now, he speaks, but what comes out is, "What does that mean?"

There's a furtive look in my brother's eyes—the same one he's had the last few times I've caught him talking quietly to Bobby. And yet, right as I'm about to comment on it, he seems to reach some decision and the look vanishes.

"I'm just saying, Cas has been on Earth for almost a decade now. He's not as clueless about things as he makes himself out to be. He always knows when you're flirting with him, for one."

My mind shudders to a stop like it's a subway car that just lost power. When it starts up again, I'm genuinely worried about Sam's mental health. "Are we sure those Brits didn't do some permanent damage to your head? I do not flirt with Cas."

"So, saying, 'The last time someone looked at me like that, I got laid,' doesn't count as flirting?"

"That was…" I trail off. "I tell demons to 'blow me' all the time, but it doesn't mean anything. And what the fuck is wrong with you that you remember that word for word?"

"All I'm saying is that someone could flirt with Cas and he'd rebuff them while pretending not to know what they're doing. You say the exact same thing or touch him in the exact same way, and he doesn't seem to mind as much."

"Are you trying to tell me you think Cas has the hots for me? Dude, he's straight."

Sam rolls his eyes. "He's an angel. Angels don't have genders—or care about them. Just look at Balthazar. Or Raphael. Or God, for that matter."

I spot my other self looking like a deer caught in the headlights. "Quit the crap, Sam. You're scaring the kid. Cas isn't in to me and that's final."

Sam doesn't say anything; he just taps his fingers against the fake hardwood counter. Somehow, that does nothing to relax me.

"Let's make a bet then," he says, at last.

"A bet? A bet over what?"

"For the rest of the night, every time someone flirts with Cas, you or Other You has to do the same thing. If he's really oblivious, he won't notice anything's up."

"No!" I announce, emphatically. "What would I even get out of that?"

"If he doesn't respond differently to you, then I promise I won't bring up the subject again. And I'll buy whatever you want from the grocery store for the next month without trying to substitute healthy alternatives. I won't even ask for anything in return."

"I'm not manipulating a friend just so you'll buy real bacon. Bitch."

"Sounds to me like you're scared I'll win."

A throat clears. "How can we even be sure Cas is going to get hit on tonight?" Other Dean speaks up for the first time this conversation. I wonder where his head is at, I think, using the distraction he's provided to pull my collar away from my neck, where I've grown uncomfortably warm.

"Somehow, I don't think that's going to be a problem," Sam insists, turning around on his stool slightly and nodding in Cas's direction. A slight blond woman in a green dress is standing over our reserved table, talking to Cas. His returning smile is polite, but his posture is straight; if anything, he's almost leaning backward. Almost as if he feels us watching him, he suddenly looks over his shoulder and our eyes catch. Those eyes have seen the universe—and I, once again, try to suppress my bitterness that the other Me gets to see some of what they've seen.

"Drinks!" The bartender announces her return with the sound of two plastic trays hitting the countertop—one containing the beer and the other, the shots.

"So, are we on?" Sam asks as he scoops up the one nearest to him.

"Fine," I mutter, darkly. "But only 'cause I love proving how dumb you are, Mr. Full-Ride-to-Standford."

/

It's awkward as hell walking over to the table—though cursing Sam out in my mind helps. The blond is still there, giggling a little—which must be an act because Cas never says giggle-inducing things. "I hope you don't think I'm being too forward, but, um, you're really hot, so-"

Cas tilts his head to the side. "My temperature is well within normal bounds for the moment."

"Oh, I-" There's another giggle and then she's putting her hand on his arm, squeezing softly. Meanwhile, Cas just looks down like there's a strange spider on his coat sleeve.

"Are we interrupting something?" I question from behind the girl, causing her to jump slightly. I hand Cas a beer, cursing Sam again for the way I notice our fingers brushing when he grabs the handle.

"I, um-" the girl looks at Cas, hopefully, but visibly deflates when he doesn't seem to notice. "I guess not."

I give her a smile that conveys, Better luck next time. Although, Cas does wish her, "Good night," as she's turning around and leaving.

"Sorry for keeping you waiting, Buddy," I tell Cas, sliding into the seat beside him. Sam gives me a pointed glare—but what can I say? It's habit. Because we're friends. Family. Not whatever Sam thinks we are.

"No problem," he responds, easily. "Melody was just telling me that I reminded her of someone named Peter Densen."

"Dude! That's the guy who plays Dr. Sexy." I take in his messed-up dark hair and stubble, combined with the way his trench coat resembles doctor's scrubs. "I guess I can see it." Sam's eyes are on me and I cover my neck with my hand where I feel his gaze the most. "You're, er, both kinda hot. You know, for dudes."

The corner of Cas's lips quirk up. "Thank you, Dean. Although I'll remind you, I'm actually a wavelength of celestial intent."

My mouth hangs open for a second too long. "Right," I hear myself mutter, as I take a gulp of beer. "How could I forget?"