.

Chapter Eight:

Time for a Bar Fight

Music thrummed as Dean slugged another shot. The whiskey burned its way down his throat, searing even through the numbness, but he barely registered it. His thoughts were little more than hazy blurs, each unconnected, none important enough for him to bother focusing on.

The bartender walked past and poured Dean another glass, not pausing long enough for the barest of acknowledgements, too busy for civilities.

Fewer patrons crowded the bar tonight, which wasn't to say that business wasn't booming. Plenty of people still mulled about downtown, but not as many as last night. At least a third had gone and found greener pastures, but Dean didn't want to consider what or where those pastures were. That concern was a problem for another day in his book.

He downed the next shot and was slamming his cup onto the water-stained counter when a voice behind him said, "Hello, Dean."

He didn't need to turn around to know who stood there. No one else had a voice that low-pitched and gravelly, a touch too deep and rough to be human. Cas slipped onto the barstool next to Dean's but didn't relax into it. His posture remained straight and stiff like a cat flicking its tail—he was pissed about something.

"I tried to call," Cas said after the bartender did another drive-by and filled Dean's shot glass to the brim.

"My phone died." The words came out clipped, not quite a snap but close enough that Cas turned his head to stare at Dean, who kept his gaze stubbornly glued to the amber liquid in front of him. Cas kept on staring, and even though Dean couldn't see them, he could feel those blue eyes burrowing into his soul. He shot back the whiskey and asked, "How d'you know where to find me? By picking up on my longing?"

He flinched at the words, cursing the alcohol for making him say them aloud.

Longing came in a bunch of shapes and sizes; it wasn't just the romantic cliché that chick-flicks made it out to be. It could be anything from wanting to reveal a secret to just having a sit down with someone. Cas got a vague sense of people's deepest desires, but he wasn't privy to the specifics. Forgetting all of that, though, mentioning 'longing' still sounded touchy-feely, like a confession that had slipped out before he could figure out what to make of it.

Cas mustn't have seen a problem with it. "No," he said. "I went to your motel first, but you weren't there. Then I drove around town. This bar is the only one left open."

The whiskey sloshed and squirmed in Dean's stomach. Cas had found him because the angel knew him that well, which somehow felt worse than thinking of Cas as a longing-fixated-Bloodhound.

"I dropped the ingredients off with Sam," said Cas. "Sophie says that the spell will be ready by morning."

"Super," Dean muttered.

He gestured for the bartender, but as the guy walked over, Cas slipped his hand over Dean's glass and gave the bartender a look that sent him scurrying away. Dean watched as the whiskey bottle got farther and farther out of reach and turned to Cas with a complaint on his lips, but Cas was already glaring at him, and Dean got caught in the web of those eyes, unable to move, unable to look away. Trapped.

"The spell won't be of any use unless we find the source of the potion and make sure it's no longer being administered," Cas said. "Sam told me that you were taking care of it."

Dean's jumble of alcohol-soaked thoughts cleared just enough for him to remember that he was on a job and that there wasn't any room on the agenda for self-pity. Guilt seeped in, leaving a bitter aftertaste crawling down his throat, and he grumbled, "I am taking care of it."

"Really?" Cas didn't glance down at the empty shot glass, but the domineering arch of his brows made his point perfectly clear. Dean didn't appreciate the way it made the guilt tighten in his stomach.

He spotted the waitress from last night passing by and sent her a wave, calling her other. She smiled and veered his way as he leaned into Cas and whispered, "I am working."

"Hello again," said the waitress. She eyed Cas then glanced back at Dean. "Where's your other friend?"

Dean swivelled on his stool to face her and swayed a little too close to the edge. Cas was quick to steady him, strong fingers wrapping around Dean's elbow and keeping him still. The guilt from earlier made Dean's stomach flutter uncomfortably, and he moved out of Cas's grip with a stab of annoyance as he said to the waitress, "He couldn't make it."

"Well, three's a crowd, right?" She turned to Cas and held out her hand. "I'm Jessie."

Cas extended his own hand and shook hers, participating in the action mechanically, as though he still couldn't understand why humans considered this necessary. The annoyance lightened, and Dean started to smile.

Jessie grabbed a notepad and pen from her back pocket and looked up at the two men. "What can I get for you?"

Dean didn't bother glancing at the menu. "A burger and beer for me, same as yesterday."

Jessie jotted it down then turned to Cas, but he shook his head. "Nothing for me, thank you."

"Get him a beer too," said Dean.

"Dean—"

"You're not making me drink alone," Dean interrupted, adding a light thump to Cas's arm to soften his words.

A protest hung on Cas's lips, but it vanished with a heavy sigh, and Jessie smiled at the two of them and said, "Coming right up."

Dean quickly brushed his fingertips against her shoulder, stopping her in her tracks. "Hold up," he said. "Were you working on Sunday?"

She turned back to him. "Sure. We had a huge crowd in after the game."

He pulled a picture of James Aaron and Joyce Delaney from the folder, which was still stuffed in his coat. "I don't suppose you remember seeing these two here, do you?"

Jesse had to squint at the photo in the low light, but it only took her a moment before she nodded and said, "I remember. James was in here nearly every night before his accident, but it was a first for Miss Delaney."

Dean slipped the photos back into his pocket. "You took their order?"

Jessie nodded and pursed her lips. "They had a few beers—way less than what James usually has, but he was always more of a vodka and lime kinda guy. They didn't order anything else and were only here for a few hours. I went to give them refills, but Miss Delaney had already left, and James didn't stay long after that. It was the first time I hadn't had to mop his ass out of here at closing time."

Dean nodded and made a mental note to add a little extra to her tip. "Thanks," he said, and when she left with their order, he turned to Cas. "See: working."

Cas didn't look impressed or even mildly apologetic. "What did that line of questioning achieve?"

"I don't know yet." He edged out of his stool, and Cas followed suit as Dean led the way to a table in a darker, more secluded corner of the bar.

They'd barely sat down when Jessie arrived with their beers. Dean was quick to grab his, but he paused, the cold glass pressed against his lip, as Cas lifted his own pint and drank, Adam's apple bobbing with each long gulp until the large mug was empty.

Dean's eyebrows rose, and he stared at the frothy remains that lingered at the bottom of Cas's glass. "Take it easy there, Barney Gumble."

Cas took a napkin from the dispenser and wiped the foam from his upper lip. "You know that alcohol doesn't affect me."

Dean scoffed into his pint, "Show off." He gulped down a far less impressive swallow than Cas's and set the mug back down. "How's Jack?"

Dots of beer speckled the small table, and Cas started wiping them all away, one by one, with his napkin. "He hasn't left his room."

Cas's gaze stayed fixed on the table as he went about his task meticulously, with such an intense focus etched into his features that it made him look older. It wasn't just his frown giving that impression. The past few years had worn Cas's vessel in a way that no amount of healing powers could fix, and now this situation with Jack had him looking strained and tired.

"He defeated an archangel," said Dean, trying not to wonder how an angel, who didn't need sleep, could have bags hanging heavily beneath his eyes. "It's gonna take him a while to recharge his batteries."

Cas's hands stilled. Dean was sure he saw them twitch, but before he could comment, Cas folded them in front of him, fingers clasped together. "And if his batteries cannot be recharged?"

That was the million-dollar question without an answer, and it made Dean shift in his seat, his gaze dropping away from Cas's. The uncertainty wedged itself into him like a gallstone, but he pushed past it. "He can survive without a soul. Donatello does."

"Donatello is human. Jack is a Nephilim. As human as Jack seems, he is more powerful than either of us can comprehend, and if he truly no longer has a soul…" He trailed off, and his knuckles turned white. "But, as you said yesterday: there's nothing we can do about it, so we should stop worrying."

"True that," Dean said, and he raised his pint a little higher in salute before downing half of it.

Cas watched him, eyes unblinking and head tilting to the side in that unnerving way he had of studying people as though he were unravelling the very essence of their being. "Are you disappointed that there's no monster here for you to hunt?"

Dean wiped away the beer foam with the back of his hand and shrugged. "There's always gonna be a monster to hunt somewhere—if not here, then in some other town. Just gotta wrap things up in this one, and we can hit the road by tomorrow afternoon."

"So you don't plan on bothering Sophie?" Cas leaned back in his chair and untangled his fingers, laying them out flat on the table. "She seemed nice, but Sam said that you didn't like her."

Heaving a sigh and cursing his brother's big mouth, Dean shook his head. "It's not that I don't like her. It's just that…" But the right words wouldn't come. He bit down on his lip, and his eyes fell to Cas's splayed hands. "This morning, I sat down and had tea with a witch. If you'd told me a few years ago that something like that would happen, I would have laughed in your face."

Cas nodded as though that explained everything. "You've grown. That isn't a bad thing." The way he said it—the gentleness of his voice and the softness of his words—made the tension that had been plaguing Dean for hours ease away in a wash of warmth, but the warmth was quick to vanish too when Cas added, "Is that why you're upset?"

Dean's gaze snapped to Cas's, and every one of his muscles went rigid. He couldn't hold the angel's eyes for more than a second, and he quickly looked away, muttering through a clenched jaw, "I'm not upset."

Cas didn't blink or move. His gaze bore into Dean like a freight train, slamming through every wall Dean could put up.

He knows.

But that wasn't possible because no one knew—no one had ever known—not Sam or Dad or Bobby. Dean had never told a soul, and no one had ever come close to guessing, no one had ever dared to suspect. Only those men knew, the ones who had bought Dean's services all those years ago. Yet the venomous voice in his mind continued to whisper, 'He knows', and it filled Dean with feelings of filth and impurity. Tainted, that was what he was. An uncomfortable heat spread through him, burning as it went, and the smoke that clung to the air stung at his eyes and caught in his throat.

He pushed up suddenly, knocking his chair backwards where it banged against the floor, and muttered, "I gotta take a leak."

His gaze stayed on his feet as he pushed his way to the bathroom, and more than a few outraged cries and complaints rang out after him, but he barely noticed.

The restroom was no bigger than a broom closet, but Dean didn't care. He slammed and locked the door behind him before stumbling over to the sink and all but falling against it, leaning so heavily on the cracked porcelain that he felt sure that it would rip from the wall. His gaze rose to the dirty mirror, where he saw his pale skin and bloodshot eyes. It wasn't a surprise that Cas had known that something was wrong—a total stranger would probably have noticed the same thing, and Cas knew him much better than that.

You're being an idiot, he told himself. Cas couldn't possibly know, no matter how well he knew Dean. He wouldn't understand that this wasn't the kind of thing that men ever talked about and would have brought it up by now. Dean's dirty secret was safe. And even if it wasn't, so what? Cas probably wouldn't bat an eye anyway.

Dean's stomach twisted.

Cas wouldn't judge him, but the sight of sympathy flooding into those down-turned eyes as pity and regret carved deep furrows into the angel's brow would feel worse than any amount of disgust or judgement ever could.

Dean let out a shaky exhale and splashed cold water over his face. He tried to get his breathing back to normal, intent on forcing his panic into a dusty little box in the corner of his mind where it belonged.

He stayed in that tiny bathroom long enough for people to start banging on the door, the noise barely making its way to him through the haze. Only when one particularly loud knock sent the door rattling on its hinges did Dean push himself away from the sink. He barrelled through the door, ignoring the glares, and set off back to the small corner table where his burger and Cas waited for him.

Cas had picked up Dean's fallen chair before sitting back down in his own seat, where he reclined, sipping at another pint of beer and sneaking fries from Dean's plate.

That last part might have made Dean grumble if it were anyone else, but the oddity of seeing Cas—100% angel, everything-tastes-like-atoms Cas—eating had him slowing down. Cas only ate when something was wrong, when his grace was taken from him or when Famine was in town.

Dean inched over to the table. "You're eating."

"Yes," said Cas as he stole one last fry. He grabbed another napkin from the dispenser and wiped the grease and salt from his fingers. "I miss the taste of food. I know I can no longer experience it, but I do sometimes wonder if I might be able to trick myself into remembering what things taste like as I eat them."

Dean kept on staring and asked slowly, "So you had an urge to test that theory?"

"I—" Cas's eyes widened. "Oh."

Dean's gaze swept over their small table, pausing on the half-empty pint next to Cas's hand. "It's in the beer." He spun on his heels and spotted Jessie across the room. He made it to her in record time, and she gave a startled jump when he darted in front of her. "Have you had to change beer barrels since Sunday?"

"Uh, no?" she said with an uncertain smile. "The owner has a deal with the brewery a few towns over. He gets maxi-sized barrels that can last us up to a week. A new one is set up every Saturday."

"I need you to give me that barrel."

She frowned and shook her head. "Look, you seem nice and all, but—"

He took his badge from his pocket and flipped it open, and the words died in her throat. Her head jerked in a nod, but before Dean could feel any sort of relief, someone slammed into him, and he stumbled backwards.

"The lady's not interested," the guy who'd body-checked him slurred. He couldn't stand up straight, and his eyes wouldn't focus, but he was maybe twice as wide as Dean was, and none of it was extra body fat.

Jessie put a restraining hand on the guy's forearm while her other hand balanced a tray of empty glasses. "It's okay, Roger. He wasn't bothering me."

"No, it isn't right," Roger bellowed, sounding like a wounded bull right before he charged like one.

Jessie's tray went flying, and Dean distantly heard glass shattering and shouts ringing out as he dived out of the way. Roger bowled past and ploughed into a table. The woman sitting there screamed, and a man yelled as Roger and the table crashed to the floor in a mess of splinters and limbs.

Dean rolled to his feet and spun to check on Jessie, but a fist caught him in the jaw. Pain exploded in a flash of bright light followed by star-dotted darkness. He fell onto a chair, which crumpled beneath his weight and momentum. Someone jumped on top of him, landing hard on his stomach, and the air was forced from his lungs with a searing woosh. Splintered wood dug into his back as punches and kicks rained down upon him. The shadow obscuring his sight faded away in time for him to grab at the foot that was heading for his face and twist it hard enough to send the guy tumbling. He blocked the hits to his sternum while twisting and bucking trying to throw off the man straddling his chest.

The weight pressing down on him suddenly vanished, and he gasped for air, swallowing it greedily as a hand reached down and yanked him to his feet.

"You appear to have upset the locals," said Cas. He stood tall and firm like an anchor in a stormy sea while the bar brawl raged around him.

Dean wiped a trickle of blood from a cut on his chin, feeling the adrenaline burn through his veins, filling him with jittery energy that had him throwing a blazing grin Cas's way. "I gotta work on my social skills."

The corner's of Cas's lips tilted upward in a lopsided smile that had Dean feeling like he could take on an army. But first, they had a job to finish. He grabbed Cas's hand so they wouldn't lose each other in the melee and pulled him along as they ducked and wove toward the bar counter.

Fists flew, and punches beat down all around them as the bar devolved into chaos. It didn't matter who hit who or why. No one needed a reason. The air felt electric with escaping tension, and the hairs on the back of Dean's neck and arms stood on end. He wanted to join the fray, wanted to feel the high that came with a no-consequences, no-objective brawl. Fights that pure didn't come around often, and the urge to take part tickled through him, begging to be itched, but the firm grip on his hand stopped him.

Cas's breath puffed against the back of Dean's neck, and it made Dean's heart race all the more.

The pair swerved around a rowdy group of fighters and banged through the door next to the bar, barging into the too-bright kitchen.

A large man wearing a stained apron barrelled toward them. Dean's fists flew up, but the cook stopped several feet away. "What the hell is going on out there?"

Dean lowered his hands, one of which still held on to Cas, and he reached into his pocket for his badge. "FBI investigation," he said. "We're here to confiscate every barrel of beer you've got in stock."

"What the hell for?" the cook asked, his voice loud. His grease-splattered forehead furrowed so deeply that he looked like an angry bulldog.

"We believe they've been contaminated," said Cas. His shoulder brushed against Dean's, and Dean's gaze slid over him. He had to admit that the angel passed for a better fed than he did at the moment.

Cas looked calm and collected, his eyes missing that fever-bright gleam Dean was sure was all too noticeable in his own. The hunter was running high on energy like a little kid left unattended at the dessert table, but Cas stood stoically still, dripping with control and authority. It made Dean's stomach squirm, and he had to force his gaze away.

The cook grumbled some more, but when two other people tumbled through the steel door, hitting and kicking at each other, he went a funny puce colour and stomped over to them.

Grabbing the newcomers by the backs of their collars, he heaved them out, then turned and pointed a thick finger at Dean and Cas. "I don't know what's going on, but I want it to stop. Right. Ruddy. Now."

Dean nodded with a 'Yes, sir,' on his lips, but before he could get it out, the cook barged out the door, hollering like a drill sergeant and shouting curses loud enough to make the walls shake.

"I wouldn't want to be out there," said Dean, and he puckered his lips to let out a low whistle.

Cas chuckled, squeezing Dean's hand as he did so and drawing Dean's attention back to him. The fluttering in Dean's stomach returned, and his mouth went dry. He felt, inexplicably, like a twelve-year-old on his first date.

A soft smile curved Cas's lips as he leaned in and asked, "So, beer barrels?"

A/N: Cas finally shows up, and all secrets are revealed! I hope everyone's enjoying the story so far, and well done to everyone who guessed ahead of time where this case was going!