On the day he'd died, Dean had put St Louis at the top of the list of towns he would never step foot in again. Against all odds, he was back. He maneuvered his car into a visitor's parking spot in the shadow of a swank brownstone mid-rise. He turned his nose up at the building, hands shoved into his pockets, watching Cassie hoist bags out of her silver Miata. Sam cleared his throat.

"What do you want now?" Dean rolled his eyes, fed up with his little brother's meddling ways, even if they had been effective.

Sam jerked his head toward Cassie as she closed the luggage compartment. Dean sucked his teeth and shuffled over to her side. Her grip didn't even loosen when he reached to wrest the handle of the suitcase from her hand. "Let me help you with that."

"It's okay. I got it." Without thinking about it, she poked out her elbow to keep him from taking the bag.

"No, let me…"

"Dean. I have it."

He threw his hands in the air and stepped back to make space for her to pass. Silently, he pumped a fist at his brother. Sam grinned, shrugged and followed them inside.

As they stepped into Cassie's apartment, Dean sniffed at the earthy sweet aroma. "What is that, laundry soap?"

Sam brushed his hands over the thin, dried, purple-tipped stalks that jutted up from a vase by the door. He held his fingertips in front of his brother's nose. Dean shoved him away, clearly expecting to smell something gross. Sam chuckled and shook his head. "It's lavender, dude."

It certainly didn't smell like a motel room. Those usually came in scents like musk, sweat, sex, vomit and, on a good day, artificial pine disinfectant.

Cassie hung her keys on the hook by the door and her jacket on the wooden tree rack. She briefly pointed out the kitchen to the left, suggesting they help themselves to anything. In the center of the living room were a black leather couch and a glass coffee table: housewarming gifts from her parents. A hall off to the right led to the bedrooms. She shrugged. "It's not much."

"Very classy, Cassie." Dean spun around, taking in the place and amused at his own rhyme.

Cassie rolled her eyes light-heartedly and grinned at Sam, who held back an apologetic snicker.

"Is that a Basquiat?" He gestured toward a painting on the wall.

Cassie's eyebrows lifted, clearly impressed. "Not an original. Obviously."

Dean eyeballed his nerdy little brother and shook his head at the embarrassing amount of useless information in that overgrown skull.

Sam shrugged, "What? I took modern art."

Cassie passed between the entertainment center and couch to point out a blue door. She glared at Dean. "This is the little girl's room. Respect that."

He threw his arms up in surrender. "What?"

"Toilet seat," Sam filled him in. "He hasn't lived with a woman since he was four," he explained to Cassie.

"Whatever." Dean gave him the finger and wandered over to pore through Cassie's massive and alphabetically ordered CD collection. A pained frown split his face as he pulled down a Kenny G record. "No, no, no. You have to be kidding me. Your taste has actually gotten worse."

Groaning, he chucked that hull and a few others over his shoulder. Cassie planted her hands firmly on her slender hips. "Are you crazy!? Pick those up!"

Sam tried, unsuccessfully, to contain his laughter. Cassie shook her head as she traipsed down the short hallway and opened a door. "And this, Sam, is actually my office. But as you can see there's a futon in there that I hope is big enough." She looked over his towering frame with a shred of doubt.

He entered the room and dropped his duffel on top of the Ohio State Bobcats blanket. "I'm sure it'll be fine."

Dean draped an arm over Cassie's shoulder. "If not, Sasquatch sleeps on the floor."

"I'm actually thinking I should just get a motel room. Let you two have some privacy." Sam searched Dean's eyes for a response.

It was Cassie who scoffed. "Don't be ridiculous. After everything you've done, you both are welcome to stay here until …"

Dean heard the question implied by her sudden silence, but had no answer. Cassie tore herself away and headed for the kitchen. "How about some tea?"

As the water collected in the electric kettle, the front door lock clicked open. Out of habit, both Winchesters reached for the weapons holstered in the back of their jeans. Cassie glanced over her shoulder. Her face instantly lit up as a strikingly handsome young man with olive skin and jet black hair entered the apartment. His dark eyes immediately narrowed when he saw Dean.

"Hey!" Cassie rushed over and stood on her tiptoes to kiss the visitor's cheek. "Bryce. You remember Dean Winchester. And this is his brother, Sam. You guys, this is…"

"Bryce." Dean spit out the name, slinging the guy's palpable animosity right back at him.

Dean Winchester was the last person to get jealous or to be intimidated by some overly clean, gel wearing asshole in bright green pants and half a gallon of cologne. Still, the corner of Dean's lip curled into a sneer at the perfect part on the left side of this loser's scalp. He ignored the way Cassie's hand lingered on the well-muscled arm and gestured to the tidy rows of lime-colored frogs hopping along Bryce's white polo. "Nice shirt."

This jackass looked like he had fallen out of a Brooks Brothers catalogue.

Equally unimpressed, Bryce regarded Dean with an expression generally reserved for dog shit on the sole of his shoes. His eyes flitted over the amulet at Dean's throat and he growled something under his breath.

Dean narrowed his eyes, too, feeling a lot like Eastwood at high noon. "Do I know you?"

Cassie looked between them, sincerely hoping the stupid testosterone showdown was coming to an end. "Bryce was there the day you and I met. Remember?"

Dean remembered the day very well, but not this particular pain in the ass.

Bryce nodded bitterly, still scowling sharply at Dean, "Yeah. That was the day I told you that this guy was a degenerate and a waste of your time."

Dean took an almost imperceptible step, curling his fingers.

"Bryce. Please." Cassie struck his chest and urged him to back off.

He never stopped sneering at Dean, though. "He's nothing but trouble, Cass, and you know it."

Dean cracked his neck, ready to show this jackoff just what kind of trouble he was.

"Dean." Sam spoke up, quietly. He had been holding his ground by the sofa, watching the scene unfold. A fight wouldn't be fair and the last thing they needed was for this guy to call the cops in a city where Dean had, supposedly, gone through the mortuary.

Dean glanced over at Sam and back to Bryce before giving, what appeared to be, an effortless smirk. "Good to see you again, Bryce."

Cassie stroked Bryce's arm, as if she was calming an uneasy tiger. "I'm making tea. You want some?"

Reluctantly, Bryce trailed her into the kitchen and leaned back against the counter. She added a fourth mug to the line of cups on the counter.

"What is he doing here?"

Dean and Sam were in the living room, completely within earshot. Cassie lowered her voice. "They needed a place for a little while. I didn't want to be in my mother's hair anymore. She's dealing with enough right now."

"How long?" he hissed.

"As long as they want, Bryce." She practically hurled spoons into the mugs before shoving one towards him.

He leaned close to whisper. "This doesn't end well, Cass."

"Hey! You know what..." Finally fed up, Dean stormed into the kitchen.

Before he could reach Cassie's side, Bryce stepped between them. "It didn't end well before. It won't now."

"That's enough, pal." Dean practically pressed his chest into Bryce's. If this guy wanted to tango he was fine with that.

Bryce slowly wiped a drop of Dean's spit from his face and rubbed the fluid between his fingertips. "I'm not your pal, Winchester."

Sam's nostrils flared, but he didn't move. It would be so much more practical if Dean didn't give Cassie's friend a beatdown, but even Sam could admit that the guy was begging for it.

"Cool it, Stretch." Bryce barked in Sam's general direction. Then, he turned to Cassie. "I promise you, there is no happy ending with this guy."

He left the apartment without another word.

With his heart still pounding in his ears, Dean closed an arm around Cassie's waist and practically pulled her close. She rested her forehead on his shoulder. He kissed her hair. A hundred questions burned on his tongue, but he left them unspoken. What was he going to say if he found out the guy was Cassie's favorite fuck buddy? If that were the case, Dean wouldn't love it, but he'd figure out how to deal. What he hated was all the evidence suggesting that the guy was actually somebody important to her.

Rather than let on how agitated he was, Dean grinned. "Nice neighbors."