Chapter Text
Top left.. 3.
Castiel held the morning newspaper across his lap, pen in hand, filling in the Sudoku like a man who had nothing better to do and no intention of finding anything either. The grid was nearly complete. Number 5 in the top right block. Easy. Too easy. Everything was too easy these days.
His house smelled like old pizza boxes, stale beer, and the particular kind of stale dust that only accumulated when a person had stopped caring about three years ago. The living room was a shrine to neglect - takeout containers littered every flat surface, some stacked like sad modern art, others still half filled with former food substances he no longer bothered to identify. The couch sagged in the middle from too many nights spent exactly where he was now, sprawled in threadbare sweatpants and a faded black t-shirt. The television droned in the corner on low volume, showing some nature documentary about deep sea creatures that glowed in the dark and ate whatever wandered too close. Castiel understood them perfectly.
Outside, rain tapped against the dirty windows, inside, the only sounds were the occasional drip from the leaky kitchen faucet and the soft scratch of pen on newsprint. Castiel didn’t mind the quiet. Quiet meant no one was asking him for anything.
Jack’s name hadn’t been spoken aloud in this house in over nine years, and Castiel intended to keep it that way. He took a long pull from his fourth beer of the evening, thumbing at the peeling label. He didn’t remember buying this brand but he didn’t much care either way. Retirement suited him, in the way a comfortable coffin might suit a man who’d already died once. He was unbothered, unmoved, he had his routines - Sudoku, bad television, lukewarm beer and takeout, sleep that came too late and left too early. They weren’t happinesses, but they were his. No one got to take them away.
A floorboard creaked somewhere in the back of the house but he didn't even look up. Old houses made noise, this one especially. It had settled into the same weary rhythm he had.
He penned in another number. 4 in the centre column. The grid was almost done, which pulled the tiniest twitches to the corner of his lips.
There was a sudden loud smash as glass and splintered wood sprayed across the room like shrapnel from a cheap fireworks show. Something dark and cylindrical punched through the wreckage and embedded itself deep in the couch cushion, inches from Castiel’s thigh. It blinked, a small red light pulsing once, then flashing, then began a rapid, high pitched beep.
He stared at it for half a second with his pen still hovering over the Sudoku grid.
Fuck sake.
He launched himself toward the hallway door as the beeping accelerated into a frantic whine, and he made it about three steps before the device detonated with a concussive whump. The blast lifted him off his feet and hurled him through the flimsy hallway door like a ragdoll. Wood cracked and splintered around him, and he hit the opposite wall hard enough to dent a hole in the drywall before sliding down in a shower of dust and debris.
His back throbbed faintly, the healing factor (lazy bastard that it was after years of overuse) had barely started knitting the worst of it when a silver flash cut through the air. Castiel jerked his head aside and a dagger thunked into the wall where his eye had been a moment earlier.
At the far end of the hallway stood a figure in a red suit and mask, outlined against the ruined living room. The intruder gave a cheerful little wave, gloved fingers wiggling like this was a social call.
“Evenin’, partner,” the masked man called out in a warm and bright voice. “Hope I didn’t interrupt anythin’ important.”
Castiel pushed off the wall with less grace than he would have several years ago. “You did.”
The figure was tall and broad shouldered, moving with the easy confidence of someone who probably healed faster than physics allowed. He lunged, drawing a katana, slicing in a wide, enthusiastic arc aimed straight for Castiel’s midsection.
♫ Castiel threw up his left arm and the blade bit deep, slicing through skin and muscle with a hot, stinging pain that lingered far longer than he would've liked. Blood welled instantly. His healing factor grumbled along, sluggish and reluctant, like an old engine turning over on a cold morning. With a grunt, Castiel shoved forward, and the force of it ripped the sword from the intruder’s grip and sent the blade spinning end over end until it buried itself in the hallway plaster with a solid thunk.
The red-suited idiot staggered back two steps, and Castiel followed with a heavy kick to the chest that lifted the man clean off his feet and launched him backward through the thin bedroom wall. Drywall exploded in a cloud of white dust and broken lath, and the intruder crashed into Castiel’s unmade bed, sending the frame screeching across the floorboards. Castiel stood in the hallway for a moment, breathing through the slow burn in his arm while blood dripped from his fingertips onto the dusty floor. The cut was already closing, but it itched and stung like a fresh paper cut dipped in lemon juice. He hated how long it took these days.
He turned, eyes scanning the debris for the newspaper, and found it half buried under a chunk of exploded doorframe, the edges singed and curling from the blast. Castiel limped over and picked it up, shaking off plaster dust. The Sudoku grid was still visible. One square left. He patted his pockets for the pen.
Gone.
Castiel stared at the empty space, then at the ruined hallway, then at the hole in his bedroom wall where cheerful grunting and the sound of someone climbing out of wreckage could be heard.
He exhaled through his nose. “You’ve ruined my evening,” he said flatly. “And now I can’t find my pen.”
From inside the bedroom came a bright, unfazed laugh. “Sorry about that! I’ll buy you a new one. A whole pack! Maybe with little superheroes on ‘em. You seem like the type.”
The red suited figure burst forward again, launching himself from the bedroom like he’d just woken up from a nap instead of being kicked through a wall. Castiel met him in the middle of the hallway and they crashed together. The first punch Castiel threw caught the intruder square in the ribs and he felt bone give under his knuckles with a satisfying crunch. The bastard grunted but didn’t fold, instead he drove a knee up hard into Castiel's stomach, forcing the air out of him in a sharp wheeze. Castiel retaliated with a heavy shove that slammed the man back against the hallway wall, cracking the drywall behind his shoulders.
“Fuck, you hit like a goddamn truck,” the intruder laughed, voice bright and warm even as he likely tasted blood. “Built like one too. I like it. Name’s Dean, by the way. Dean Winchester. Huge fan. You’re even hotter up close, big guy.”
What the fuck is wrong with these kids..
Castiel didn’t answer. He grabbed Dean by that ridiculous red suit and headbutted him hard enough to split skin over the brow. Blood bloomed through the suit’s mask as Dean’s head snapped back, but the idiot only laughed.
“Ow. Worth it,” Dean said cheerfully, then drove an elbow into Castiel's temple that made the world tilt for a second.
They traded blows like two pit bulls. Castiel landed a solid kick to the side of Dean’s knee and the joint buckled with a wet pop, but the loudmouth was already shifting weight and firing back with a punch that connected clean with Castiel's jaw. The crack was loud enough to echo down the hallway and the pain flared white hot. Castiel tasted copper and felt the bone shift out of alignment.
He reached up with both hands and wrenched his own jaw back into place with a grinding pop, then spat a wad of blood to the floor. The healing factor finally started kicking in, slow as it grudgingly stitched the fracture together with all the enthusiasm of a hungover intern.
“Damn, that looked like it hurt,” Dean said, the grin audible in his voice as he circled. “You’re sexy when you’re angry, you know that? All broody and grizzled. It’s honestly doin’ things for me.”
Castiel felt a vein throb in his forehead. For fuck’s-
He lunged again. This time he got hold of Dean’s left arm, twisting hard, and snapped it with a sharp crack. Dean squealed but the sound turned into another sunny laugh almost instantly. Without missing a beat he grabbed his own wrist, yanked the arm straight, and rolled his shoulder like he was shaking off a minor cramp.
“Typical,” Castiel muttered under his breath, watching the bones crack back together far too quickly. “Fucking healing factor, of course you have one.”
Dean bounced on the balls of his feet, completely unfazed. “Aw, come on, don’t be like that. I brought snacks. And enthusiasm. Ok, mostly enthusiasm, but you look like you could use both.”
Castiel answered with a brutal shove that sent Dean staggering back into the bedroom doorway. The red suited menace caught himself on the frame, then charged right back in, slamming a shoulder into Castiel's chest and driving him against the opposite wall where plaster dust rained down. Castiel drove his knee up into Dean’s gut, then followed with an elbow to the back of the neck that dropped the younger man to one knee. Dean looked up, his mask askew, and gave Castiel the most obnoxious head tilt he’d ever seen.
“You’re really sellin’ the whole ‘retired and done with everyone’s bullshit’ look. Has anyone ever told you how hot that is? Big time DILF vibes.”
Castiel stared down at him, chest heaving, arm still stinging where the earlier sword cut was finally closing. The house was trashed, his Sudoku was singed, his jaw still ached, and this walking ray of sickening sunshine in spandex was flirting with him while they tried to murder each other. He was profoundly, bone-deep exhausted by the entire concept of Dean Fucking Winchester.
“Get out of my house,” he said, voice flat and final.
Dean pushed himself back to his feet, rolling his freshly healed arm like Castiel had merely grazed it. “Can’t do that, Cas. Mind if I call you Cas? I’m gonna call you Cas. I feel like we’re bonding.”
Castiel levelled Dean with a look, one that hopefully conveyed the concept of murder, and Dean took a step back, raising his hands in placation.
“Look, I’m actually here ‘cause I need your help. One job. That’s all I’m askin’. Then I’ll vanish like a gentleman. Scout’s honour.” He paused, then added with a wink that was somehow visible even through the fucking mask, “Unless you ask me to stay. Then all bets are off, handsome.”
Castiel pinched the bridge of his nose, feeling the slow throb of an incoming headache that had nothing to do with the fight. He really didn’t have time for this, Jeopardy was on in ten minutes..
“You’re asking for my help? You’re fucking crazy.”
Dean brushed plaster dust off his red suit like it was lint. “Probably. But why should that stop us from teamin’ up? Crazy’s basically a job requirement in this line of work.”
Castiel sighed, the kind of sigh that had been building for at least three years. He turned and shuffled back into the ruined living room, glass crunching under his bare feet. The carnage was impressive in its thoroughness. The sofa had a blackened, burnt hole in the middle where the explosive device had gone off. The coffee table lay cracked clean in half, one leg sticking up like a broken bone. The window was a jagged maw letting in cold night air and the distant sound of sirens. Plaster and rubble covered the floor like snow, and the television had been knocked off its stand, lying face up with half the screen flickering in broken pixels.
He surveyed the mess with an air of exasperated yet weary contempt. “Pretty sure you went about this the wrong way. Trashing my place.”
Dean bounded in after him, stepping over a pile of shattered glass like a golden retriever who’d just discovered a new tennis ball. He looked around, tilting his head. “Eh, I don’t see much of a difference. Place already looked pretty lived in, if you ask me.”
Little shit. Castiel did not like him.
“Fuck off and leave me alone,” said Castiel, already turning toward the kitchen for another beer. Or maybe a whole six pack. He needed something to wash the taste of this conversation out of his mouth.
But Dean wasn’t done. He planted himself in the middle of the debris like he belonged there.
“Can’t do that, Cas. I need you. I’m tryin’ to get in with Team Free Will. They only recruit the absolute best of the best. Figure if I roll up with a legend like you fightin’ at my side, they’ll actually take me seriously instead of laughin’ me out of the lobby.”
Castiel lowered himself onto the burnt sofa, and what was left of the springs groaned in protest under his weight. The charred cushions smelled like smoke, one of them having almost melted completely. He’d heard about Team Free Will. Some big league superhero initiative filled with insufferable, sanctimonious posers playing dress up.
“You’ve got the wrong guy. I don’t do that anymore. Been out of the game too long.”
Dean sidled over without invitation and perched on the arm of the sofa, close enough that Castiel could smell the faint metallic tang of blood on his suit mixed with something annoyingly fresh, like cheap soap and worse - optimism.
“Yeah, but once upon a time you were the best. Saving cities, taking down syndicates solo, you were the whole hero package.” He reached into the back pocket of his suit and pulled out a phone. The screen was cracked in a spiderweb pattern from the fight, but it still lit up. The lock screen was a picture of a smug looking frog sitting in a teacup like it was a pin-up posing in a martini glass. Cas thought it was ridiculous, but it kind of tracked perfectly with the rest of Dean’s personality. Dean unlocked it and scrolled straight to a folder labelled Castiel - The Hunk’s Greatest Hits & Why He’s Still the Bestest.
Dozens upon dozens of old photos and news articles filled the screen. Castiel in his prime - leather jacket over the old suit, body looking strong with purpose as he pulled civilians from wreckage or dropped villains with brutal efficiency. He looked.. good. Heroic, like someone who still gave a damn..
Dean kept scrolling until he landed on another image - Castiel standing shoulder to shoulder with Jack, both of them smiling faintly, the younger man’s hand resting on Castiel’s shoulder.
Castiel went cold all over.
Dean’s voice stayed light, but the words landed like another knife. “Of course that one’s from before Jack went darkside-”
Castiel’s hand shot out and wrapped around Dean’s throat, slamming him down against the back of the sofa. “Do not say his fucking name,” he growled.
Dean didn’t fight back. He rasped out a choked “Okie-dokie,” with his hands raised in surrender.
Castiel released him and sat back, shutters slamming down hard. The room felt smaller, the air thicker, and he stared at the broken television. Jack was a topic he had vowed to never speak of again. A failure he couldn’t face in the daylight.
Dean rubbed his throat, but his posture softened into something gentler, more earnest, the golden retriever energy dialled back just enough to show the real thing underneath.
“Look.. I’m just tryin’ to do right by my little brother, ok? I just.. I need one big break. One job. Help me and I’ll be out of your hair, never to darken your doorway again. Promise. Unless, of course, we match on Grindr or somethin’..”
The mention of family tugged at something small and rusty in Castiel’s chest. He stared at Dean who was now somehow giving him the full pleading puppy eyes treatment through the mask.
“You’re annoying as fuck,” Castiel said blunt as a brick.
Dean laughed, seemingly unbothered, head tipping back. “I can be way more annoying than this. Watch me. I’ll keep showin’ up and being annoying until you say yes.”
Castiel sighed again, rubbing a hand over his face. The headache was definitely here to stay. He looked Dean up and down, taking in the ridiculous red suit and the mask still askew on his head. “You look ridiculous with that fucking mask on.”
Dean reached up and pulled the mask off in one smooth motion. Messy dark blonde hair tumbled out, damp with sweat, framing a face that was.. god fucking dammit. Actually, annoyingly, objectively handsome. Sharp jaw, full lips still bloody from the fight but the split had already healed, bright green eyes sparkling with that same relentless cheer. Dean was young, vital, had the kind of face that belonged on billboards, not in Castiel’s demolished living room.
Castiel of course didn’t let any of that show on his face. He scoffed. “I understand why you wear the mask.”
Dean’s grin widened, like Cas had just paid him the world’s best compliment. “See? We’re already bantering. This is great. Teamwork.”
Castiel stared at the broken TV, the singed newspaper lying on the floor with its unfinished Sudoku, and felt the last remnants of his quiet evening slip away.
“What’s stopping me from just killing you right now?” he asked flatly. “Seems like the best option to get some peace and quiet around here.”
Dean threw his head back and laughed, utterly unbothered, like Castiel had told a funny joke. “Good luck with that, big guy. I’m remarkably hard to kill. I just keep comin’ back, like a fungus. Or a really persistent rash.”
Castiel’s eye twitched.“Why the hell would I want to team up with a walking personification of an STD?”
Dean posed coquettishly, hands tucked into his thighs, chest puffed out in that ridiculous red suit. “Because I’m also strangely endearing.” He batted his lashes, and Castiel stared him down with the blankest expression he could muster through flat, exhausted silence.
Dean kept smiling sweetly, completely undeterred. Then he reached down and stroked a gloved hand along Castiel’s knee. “Come ooon,” he said, voice dropping into something almost coaxing. “One job. You know you’re bored out of your mind in this place.”
Castiel shoved the hand away like it had burned him. “Don’t.”
Dean chuckled, not even slightly offended, and stayed exactly where he was. Castiel rubbed a hand over his face, feeling the slow throb of the headache that had definitely settled in for the long haul.
“Have you even thought this through?” he growled. “‘Big superhero breaks’ don’t just present themselves. They-”
The broken television on the floor crackled, cutting him off mid sentence as an emergency broadcast took over. Red banners flashed across the damaged screen and grainy helicopter footage showed downtown in chaos, a thick swarm of small, rubbery gremlin-like monsters, vicious things the size of large dogs, pouring out of a shattered warehouse. They scrambled over cars, bent streetlights, and screeched in high pitched voices while civilians ran screaming. One creature latched onto a bus, rocking it violently, while another climbed a billboard and tore it in half with surprising strength. Smoke rose in black columns and sirens wailed in the distance. The banner at the bottom read:
BREAKING: UNKNOWN SUPERVILLAIN UNLEASHES MONSTER SWARM IN DOWNTOWN DISTRICT – MULTIPLE CASUALTIES REPORTED
Castiel glanced sideways at Dean to see the younger man leaning forward, wide eyes sparkling with pure, unfiltered delight. A slow, eager grin spread across his face, the kind that said Christmas had come early and brought explosives with it.
“See?” Dean breathed, practically vibrating where he sat. “Perfect timin’. Destiny. Or at least really good luck.”
Castiel looked back at the flickering footage of screaming gremlins destroying downtown, then at the hopeful golden retriever face beside him.
God fucking dammit.
“Are you really serious, you’re not going to leave me alone?” he asked, feeling mostly resigned. The fight earlier hadn’t been the worst he’d ever had, but the thought of dealing with this level of chaos every single day if the kid was serious about being persistent made something in his gut twist with pure dread. There’s no way the foundations would hold.
Dean’s grin didn’t falter. “As serious as a nun in a strip club. You’re stuck with me either way, Cas. Hope you’re a heavy sleeper, ’cause I talk in my sleep. Sometimes I even sing.”
Castiel growled, the sound rumbling deep in his chest. “We’re not having any fucking sleepovers.”
Dean pushed himself up off the sofa with easy grace and started wandering around the ruined living room, stepping through rubble completely unbothered. “Au contraire, my grumpy friend. I’m practically prepared to move in. We should get bunk beds, make it fun, like we’re kids again. Can you remember that far back?” He wandered toward the kitchen, calling over his shoulder, “I’ve got dibs on the bottom bunk, if you know what I mean.”
Castiel gritted his teeth so hard he heard them creak. He could hear Dean rummaging through his fridge now, drawers opening, bottles clinking. Fucking hell, this was his life now? Another fight right this second honestly felt more tempting the more Dean talked, but the slow healing wounds and bruises from the first round were still throbbing, and the idea of going another round just to evict one over enthusiastic weirdo sounded exhausting.
Dean sauntered back into the living room a moment later, one of Castiel’s last beers already open in his hand. He took a long, satisfied pull, throat working as he swallowed, and Castiel bristled, eyes narrowing at the casual theft.
Little fucking shit.
He decided it really wasn’t worth dragging this out any longer than necessary.
“One job,” he said firmly, tone flat and final, brokering no room for negotiation. “That’s it. Then you disappear.”
Dean’s face lit up like he’d just won the lottery. “You won’t regret it, Cas. I swear.”
He bent down and scooped the singed newspaper off the floor. He pulled a pen from the back pocket of his ridiculous red suit, clicked it, and filled in the last empty square with a confident 7. He tossed the paper onto the broken coffee table with a triumphant little grin, like he’d just solved world hunger instead of a newspaper puzzle.
Castiel stared at the completed grid, then at Dean’s stupidly pleased face.
He had regrets already.
*