Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/880720.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage, Graphic_Depictions_Of_Violence
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Supernatural, The_Americans_(TV_2013)
  Relationship:
      Castiel/Dean_Winchester
  Character:
      John_Winchester, Sam_Winchester, Jo_Harvelle, Ellen_Harvelle, Meg
      Masters, Ruby_(Supernatural), Castiel, Dean_Winchester, Jimmy_Novak,
      Bobby_Singer
  Additional Tags:
      1980s, Alternate_Universe_-_1980s, Alternate_Universe, Cold_War, Coming
      Out, Destiel_-_Freeform
  Series:
      Part 1 of Works_on_Hiatus
  Stats:
      Published: 2013-07-12 Updated: 2014-01-03 Chapters: 7/? Words: 19546
****** My Heart Beats Dull from this Foreign Soil ******
by i_amtheoutlaw
Summary
     They say all's fair in love and cold war.
Notes
     This has all been beta-ed by Diana
***** Introduction Time *****
Chapter Summary
     Introducing Castiel. Dean Winchester. And Jimmy Novak.
                     [Image and video hosting by TinyPic]
-C-
Right now he finds himself in a bit of a predicament, standing in the house of
a man named George Guttenburg, most likely staining the man’s carpet with his
loafers. His assignment was to come and question this man about the top secret
design of a nuclear missile shield and find out where he kept the blueprints,
but . . .
Dear old George here isn’t talking. Now, normally, they’d send in a lady
officer instead; to fuck it out of the poor bastard, but, unluckily for George
here, these blueprints seem to be of grave importance. Thus, Castiel. As much
as he sometimes resents the label, Castiel’s always been the hammer. They call
him in when something needs to be done fast and messy; like getting urgent
information and killing the informer. So he supposes their choice is
acceptable. Besides, Castiel's most likely saving Meg from a horrible Gutten-
fuck. Castiel could save that woman from a thousand fat pig's and their
American cocks without a thanks, though.
George has both hands tied behind his back and his feet tied to the chair.
Since he’s not going anywhere, Castiel takes his time scoping the man’s office.
Finding a brief case under the desk, he realizes this fool was probably about
ten minutes away from selling the blueprints to somebody. Oh well, easier for
me, Castiel thinks, snapping the case shut, and striding back over to a
pathetically frantic looking Mr. Guttenburg. He sighs.
After gagging the man, Castiel knocks him out silently. He drags the dead
weight into the dark of the night and stuffs the limp body in his trunk. After
driving for about thirty minutes, he finally reaches the alleyway where Meg
said to drop the body. Pulling up, he avoids the street lights as much as
possible and, after clearing every viewpoint and checking for signs of life,
exits the car. Castiel drags the body from the trunk and into the alley.
Propping the heavy weight up against the wall, he holds the body upright with
his forearm. The dead weight begins to stir just as Castiel pulls his knife
out. However, the gag keeps the man silent the whole time as Castiel shoves the
knife in, piercing the man’s heart. Taking off the gag, Castiel steals the dead
man’s wallet and watch, then turns and walks away.
How rude, he should have introduced himself. The name’s Castiel Krushnic, KGB
officer stationed in Philly. He’s never really liked using guns, blades were
always his thing.
-D-
Right now, he’s driving down the highway in the passenger seat of his dad’s
‘baby.’ The trees are passing by in a green blur and the wind whisking in from
the open window is smacking him in the face.
Dean’s never once been to Philly, and he’s not exactly excited about it, but
Uncle Bobby did say they have this awesome burger joint about four miles from
the neighborhood he’s moving into and that’s a huge plus.
The new house is awesome and when he says awesome, Dean meansawesome. If his
expression was anything to go by, Sammy might of actually pissed his pants a
little when dad slowed down and pulled in the driveway.
For one, it’s huge. It’s bigger than any house they’ve ever lived in. It even
has two whole stories. Secondly, it actually looks homey; instead of broken
brick, broken wood, and scummy, failing paint jobs, this house is prime. It’s
all brick with white trim, and it even has a little flower bed in front.
Lastly, Sammy will actually get his own room, and at age fourteen he should
have his own damn room.
In all honesty, Dean wasn’t expecting this at all. Normally this isn’t the type
of house his dad goes for, hopefully this means dad is planning on staying
longer than a couple of months. Dean, inwardly, hopes this means his dad will
be around more too. Maybe the new suburban house will turn John into a new
suburban dad. Dean’s not putting too much hope in that though.
They arrived around nine a.m., and now it’s about eleven a.m. Sammy’s inside
messing with the new radio, and Dean and his dad are dragging the last of the
living room furniture out of the moving truck and into the house.
Over the past three hours they’ve had a total of four neighbors stop by and
bring them food, which is just plain rude if anyone wants Dean’s opinion.
Honestly people, at least wait until they get all their shit inside or offer to
help out. Damn. Although, Dean’ll admit, he probably wouldn’t be mad if these
people would bring something appetizing, like anything other than veggie dip,
veggie mush bull shit, and meatloaf. Hmmm, something like pie, Dean thinks,
Yes. That sounds perfect.
They finally get the last of the furniture inside, and Dean yells over the
sound of the radio to let Sammy know he’s hopping in the shower. Dean starts
towards last doorway on right, he can practically feel the cool tiles under his
swollen, over-worked feet already, and slight prickle of steaming water
flushing away the sweat covering his skin. Continuing his day dream down the
hallway, Dean’s already unbuttoning his shirt, but he’s stopped by Sammy
shutting off the music.
Within the new found silence of the house Dean hears voices, they sound like
they’re coming from the front door. Damn, Dean thinks, inwardly groaning, more
friggin’ neighbors? Honestly? How friendly do these Philly people need to be?
He supposes that’s just the price they have to pay for living in a decent
neighborhood now—putting up with boring, practical, and eventless families
living next door—which he will admit, is a lot better than explaining to Sammy
why the new neighbors are drunker than skunks and pissing on the garage (this
happened twice, actually).
Buttoning his shirt back up, Dean heads back towards the steps just as Sammy
yells up, “These are all mine!”
Smiling, Dean yells back, “as long as it’s not meatloaf you are sharing!”
Reaching the midway point on the steps Dean sees a guy standing alone in the
doorway across from Sam. Since when do wives just send their husbands to bring
food to the new neighbors? Dean wonders. Everyone else who's stopped by today
brought the whole dang family, one couple even brought their nasty little mutt
co-co.
When Dean reaches the bottom, his feet find the still unfamiliar wood floor,
the man finally becomes completely clear and damn—he is—um—
This is where Dean’s life takes a tricky turn, and he should probably introduce
himself now. The name’s Dean Winchester, he likes classic cars, rock music, and
frisky women. Oh yeah, he can’t forget to mention the part about sometimes
swinging that way.
***** Fuck Your Whiskey, Mr. Winchester *****

                     [Image_and_video_hosting_by_TinyPic]
                               "That's awesome."
-C-
Waking up the next morning he goes straight downstairs to find himself a huge
glass of water. He’s not getting any younger and all these damn late hours are
really starting to get to him. He guides his foggy body down the staircase, and
on the last step something catches his attention from outside. Making his way
through the living room, he stops in front of the window to check it out.
Everything on the block seems normal, except the large moving truck in the
driveway across the street.
The Mullen’s and their annoying little dog moved out three months ago, and the
house has been empty since. New neighbors are no big deal really, Castiel has
dealt with many over the past sixteen years. Knowing it’s customary in America
to go and be friendly, Castiel sighs.
Nothing is welcoming about his appearance right now, and it’s usually customary
to bring some sort of food. Better get to work, he thinks, already making his
way to the kitchen.
Pulling out the bowls from the cupboard, he selects the largest one. Brownies
always sound good to Castiel, so that’s what he’s going with. After preheating
the oven to 350 degrees, he starts mixing together the ingredients.
Adding the cocoa powder, butter, two eggs, sugar, milk, and baking powder, he
mixes until the contents are one smooth texture. These new neighbors are lucky
he doesn’t just say screw it and eat all the batter; but he doesn’t. Instead
Castiel pulls out a pan and slowly pours in the chocolaty contents, letting
them flow evenly, meeting all corners. He shoves the pan in the oven and heads
up stairs for a quick shower.
The bathroom tiles are cold on his feet, but the spreading heat steaming from
behind the curtain instantly warms him. Pulling back the plastic-y fabric, he
steps in, washing until the hot water has completely reddened his skin.
Wrapping the damp towel around his waist, he returns back downstairs to check
on the brownies. The heat from the oven smacks him in the face and he has to
squint while he reaches in and pulls the flakey brownies out. A chocolaty aroma
fills the house. Mmmm, Castiel inwardly moans, he knows today is going to be a
good day from the mere fact his house will smell like this for the rest of it.
Letting the brownies cool, Castiel retreats back upstairs to find something
decent to wear. He decides on plain black jeans and a grey Hawkwind shirt.
Back downstairs, he cuts the brownies into perfect squares and lines them up on
a platter. After covering them in saran wrap, he starts the waiting game.
Sundays are always boring for Castiel, no work—KGB or radio sales, his
‘daytime’ job —just relaxing.
Becoming restless, he turns the radio all the way up and starts cleaning.
The house is spotless by the time Castiel makes his way back over to the
window, and when he notices the moving truck is finally gone, he smiles. Now
another car that’s parked in the driveway is visible. It looks like an older
impala, way too flashy for Castiel’s taste.
Grabbing the plate, he heads out the door.
Approaching the door, Castiel hears music playing loudly and voices singing
along.
He gives the wood two loud knocks and the music quickly stops. Dropping his
hand, he anxiously waits for an answer. The door swings open, revealing a young
teenage boy; smiling widely and tucking his brown, shaggy hair behind his ears.
The boy can’t be more than sixteen, going by his pudgy cheeks. Although he does
have a good five or six inches on Castiel already.
“How can I help you?” The boy asks, never letting his smile fade.
And this, this right here, is where Castiel’s life gets tricky . . .
He joined the KGB at fifteen years old. First he learned self-defense, and by
the time his eighteenth birthday came around, Castiel was skilled in what they
call убить или умереть, translation: kill or be killed combat. This combat
includes an extensive knowledge in firearms, explosives, and pure fighting
skills. After mastering all the physical requirements a KGB officer must have,
next he studied American culture for two years. These studies included learning
how to speak English without any type of accent.
The last year he was in Moscow was spent preparing for Castiel’s life as an
undercover spy in America. They gave him a whole new identity to study and
learn, and as soon as they assigned him, he was told that he was never allowed
to speak of his previous life ever again, and Castiel hasn’t, besides the brief
remarks sometimes passed between he and Meg. They gave him the name Jimmy
Novak.
Jimmy’s a radio salesman from Bradford, who moved to Philly for a job and
stayed ever since. His father died in a car crash when he was nine, and his
mother lives in Bradford (really it’s just an elderly KGB officer placed there
to help Castiel look less suspicious). Jimmy lives a boring life in a square
stack of bricks, on top of a square stack of bricks, on street full of square
stacks of brick.
Upon arriving in America, Castiel was barely twenty one and the year was 1965.
He was just old enough to drink by their standards and it seemed like all that
the men around him were concerned with was getting drunk and finding women to
sleep with. At first, the total lack of efficacy and inner power the everyday
American man proves himself made Castiel sick, although he got used to their
pathetic behavior after a year or so.
The year is now 1981 and, as the war heats up, things are progressively
intensifying for spies. Although his life as Jimmy never changes, he goes to
work and sell radios. Comes home, eats, sleeps, showers, and feeds Arlo, the
cat.
Castiel used to worry about being here without a family, and not being able to
engage with the Americans correctly; because when they taught him to fit in
they specifically said, “you will be friends with the Americans because that’s
the American way and they will find it suspicious if you don’t,” and most other
operatives were paired with another officer to start a new life together.
Although when Castiel expressed his concern to Meg she laughed and said,
“Castiel I knew you would never fit in with the Americans, but its okay because
even the Americans have their misfits; and as long as no one catches you,
you’re doing your job. I wouldn’t have sent you here if I didn’t think you
could do it.”
And he has been doing it, and doing it damn well. So Castiel answers smoothly,
letting the long-told lie slide off his tongue:
“I’m Jimmy Novak, I live in the house across the street,” Castiel announces as
he gestures towards his house. “And I’ve come to welcome you to the
neighborhood,” he adds while offering up the brownies, which the boy quickly
snatches up.
“Mmmmm,” the shaggy haired boy hums as he pulls off the wrapping. Then turning
to yell over his shoulder he screams, “These are all mine!”
At the boys words, another man comes hurtling down the stairs, Castiel can hear
him saying something like, ‘hell no. As long as it’s not meatloaf I’m getting
some Sammy.’
The man comes into view once he reaches the bottom of the stairs, although he
isn’t really a man. His voice is deep and made him sound a lot older than he
actually looks. He’s wearing beat up old jeans, covering his bowed legs, and on
top he’s wearing a dark blue cotton button up. His hair is sandy brown and his
eyes are a shade of green Castiel’s never seen before—on anyone—in Moscow or
the US.
-D-
This guy is handsome, and Dean’ll say that for sake of the little
heterosexuality he has left. Finding men attractive isn’t necessarily something
Dean always does. Sure, he occasionally, well, a lot more recently, will catch
his eyes lingering a little more than they should on . . . let’s say the blonde
bag boy named Tim who works at the grab and go in Indy, their last town.
But this, this guy is different. Dean finds him very smokin,’ yes, but there’s
something else about him that attracts Dean. A darkness which surrounds him. A
sort of un-tangible baggage buried deep that only someone like Dean could be
attracted to.
And his eyes. His eyes are blue, so blue. If Dean was a poet, he’d compare them
to the deep waters of the ocean; highlighted by the frozen icebergs that float
on top of the salty waves. And he would say his brown hair is so dark and deep
it could almost be mistaken for black if the sun wasn’t lightning strands,
fading them into milk-chocolaty highlights that find their way through his
messy tuffs. But Dean’s not a total sap. So. Yeah. He’ll just stick with
admitting that the combination of bright blue and dark brown is a unique look,
one Dean’s never quite seen before.
Eyes wandering as he walks closer, he tries not to look obvious, but Dean’s
definitely checking this guy out. He can’t help it, the guys sharp features are
drawing Dean in. By the time he reaches the position next to Sammy, Dean has to
abruptly cut his thoughts short, before he can finish imagining his hands
exploring every inch of the man’s smooth skin. Because he honestly might just
pop a boner if he keeps that up.
As Dean attempts to ignore the hotness in front of him, he directs his
attention to the plate of little brown squares Sam has. Grabbing the plate from
Sam’s hand, Dean brings it up to his face, letting his eyes find the stranger
again as he gives the brownies a drastic whiff . . . and damn do these brownies
deserve some dramatic sniffling, they smell delicious.
Breaking his eyes away again, to look at Sam, Dean speaks, “Yeah, you are
definitely sharing these.”
Dean shoves the plate back at Sam, eyes finding the stranger again.
After what feels like five minutes of long, blank, trying not to look totally
turned on, staring, Dean finally realizes he needs to speak, “I’m Dean, and
this is my brother Sam.”
The stranger sheds the blank expression he’s been wearing since Dean entered
and lets a half smile part his lips. Dean can see the tip of his teeth peeking
from underneath the thick pink flesh and they’re pearly white. His mind almost
floats away, along with the best of his composure, as Dean starts thinking
about those smooth bones and soft gums nibbling their way down his neck.
Regaining control of his imagination, Dean notices the man’s eyes again. This
new found expression illuminates his eyes in a new, and vibrant light.
Although, unlike most people whose smiles tend to warm the air around them,
this smile, these eyes, they’re misleading. Sure, Dean can feel the presence of
warmth and happiness pulsing around the far edges but it’s only masking the
downright cold aroma swelling around the man.
“I’m Jimmy Novak, I live . . .”
Oh God, sweet angels. His voice, Jimmy’s friggin’ deep raspy sound waves are
music to Dean’s ears.
Sam cuts Jimmy off as he’s about to explain which house he lives in by leaning
out the door and pointing to the house directly across the street.
“Right there,” Sam squeaks.
“That’s awesome,” Dean says, mostly in lack of a better remark.
Dean never knew one word,awesome, could create so much distress so fast.
Jimmy’s half smile is gone instantly and replaced with a wide, lifeless glare,
searching Dean for an explanation. His tightly sealed lips, completely
scrunched brow, and a small tilt of his head to the right might be the cutest
thing Dean has ever seen though.In a totally normal way, of course, Dean tells
himself.
Trying to hide his amusement, Dean explains, “We got a neighbor who can cook
some kick ass brownies.”
The confused look slips from Jimmy’s face, taking up a wide smile instead.
Although the smile, same as before, is somewhat cold.
“Why thank you Dean . . ?” Jimmy questions.
“Winchester, Dean Winchester.”
“Well nice to meet you Winchesters,” he adds, and Dean can tell by Jimmy’s tone
that the other man is about to retreat back home.
Normally he would already be thinking of a million excuses to get the neighbors
gone as fast as possible, although now Dean finds himself racing through a
million excuses just to get Jimmy to stay longer.
One hits him fast and sharp, and before Dean even has time to think it through,
he hears himself blurting it out, “do you wanna come in? I’m sure my dad would
love to meet you.”
Dean really didn’t need one of Sam’s quick what the hell do you think you’re
doing bitch faces to realize that might not have been the best idea. But of
course, he gets one.
His dad is . . . well, John Winchester isn’t one who can much be described. But
he has a tendency to scare people away. Dean’s not quite sure if it’s the whole
F.B.I. agent thing that freaks people out the most, the alcohol, or just his
Dad’s personality in general.
Oh well,Dean thinks, still smiling. It’s too late to take it back now anyway.
“Sure,” Jimmy says with a casual smile.
The excitement of Jimmy’s agreement allows Dean to ignore the death stare he’s
receiving from Sam. Sammy is clearly just as worried about losing their newly
found brownie connection, to their dad’s intimidating behavior, as Dean is
about losing Jimmy’s beautiful face to stare at.
“Great! Sam go get Dad.”
-C-
Following Dean into his house, he gestures for Castiel to sit on the couch.
“Dad’s great, I bet you guys will get along good. I know he’ll love your
shirt.” Dean explains.
Before he can answer, Castiel hears heavy footsteps falling behind him and
turns around to find a man both way wider and taller than Sam and Dean
combined.
“Hello Mr. Winchester, I’m Jimmy, I live right across the street.”
“Jimmy, huh?” The man has a rough and broken voice, “well you can call me John,
cut all the Mr. bullshit.”
“My apologies.”
“Don’t be sorry,” John says as he walks around and grabs the bottle of
Seagram’s that’s sitting on the table in the corner, “you drink, Jimmy?”
“I am, if you are.”
Dean and John both laugh at that and Castiel really doesn’t understand what’s
funny, but of course he smiles along with them.
John finds the lounge chair to the left of him while Dean runs into the
kitchen, emerging back in the room with three glasses, which is very strange,
because Castiel could swear the drinking age in Philly is twenty-one, and he
had only pinned Dean to be, at oldest, nineteen.
John takes the glasses and lets the liquor flow evenly into all three then
distributes one to Dean and one to Castiel.
Waiting until they both drink, Castiel then sips his. Ugh. Nasty-ass whiskey,
he thinks, inwardly cursing a bit, but he swallows it without any distress all
the same.
“So Jimmy, tell me about yourself? How long have you lived in this
neighborhood?” John asks.
He’s learned over the years that there is no reason to fret when Americans
question him. John’s simply trying to make conversation. So Castiel answers
smoothly, “too damn long, sixteen years. I moved here for a crappy radio
salesman job and haven’t discovered anything better to do with my life yet.”
“Damn, sixteen years? We’ve never lived anywhere for more than sixteen months!”
Dean exposes.
“Oh yeah?” Castiel asks, “how come?”
John answers for Dean, voice rough as ever, “Cause of me, my job moves us
around a lot.”
Sam’s higher pitched voice cuts in before Castiel can even respond, “Dad’s a
FBI agent, he’s real important.”
What the fuck did he just say? Castiel thinks, his mind reeling, F.B. what?
F.B.I?
Castiel’s really sitting here drinking this dirty liquor with an officer of the
American federal bureau of intelligence? My luck? Of course I am, why wouldn’t
I be? He inwardly curses. He tries not to let the shock show on his face.
Although his heart beats a bit faster.
“Oh Sammy, I’m not important, my jobs just a bunch of paperwork,” John adds,
and Castiel really fucking hopes it’s just paperwork.
“Don’t lie Dad,” Dean counters while he sips his drink again and Castiel can
tell by his voice that Dean’s more than proud of his dad. He looks right into
Castiel’s eyes, but points at his father as he explains, “Dad went undercover
for five months last year . . . he took down a whole group of white
supremacist.”
Dean’s eyes burn into Castiel’s skull and he tries his hardest to stay calm;
while having his face seem “American interested” which is kind of a mix between
excitement/concern. This guy, John—his new neighbor—is a fucking F.B.I. agent.
A F.B.I. agent who just happens to be the kind that goes out and lives with
fucking crazy ass white supremacists for five months at time. Paper work my
fucking ass, Castiel thinks.
Sam’s voice doesn’t sound as excited now, Castiel suspects it’s because he
misses his father while he’s away, “Uncle Bobby says Dad’s gonna catch all the
commie spies next and then he’ll be there to ship their asses back home to get
tried.”
Castiel’s insides are instantly bursting with rage. Commie spies? They’re going
to catch us? Haha.He laughs to himself, because that’s fucking funny, and this
Uncle Bobby character thinks he’s going to get us to talk? Like any of the KGB
would ever commit treason to please a piece of shit F.B.I. agent. They’d rather
die. But Castiel keeps his cool, because that’s his job; and if they tempt the
Motherland, then they’ll take every one of those smug sons of bitches like John
down, one by one, before the war can even start.
***** Better Luck Next Time, Regan *****
                     [Image_and_video_hosting_by_TinyPic]
  "Meg has always complained about his hatred for dressing up. Disguises just
            make Castiel feel silly, although Meg refers to masking
                             yourself as an art."
-D-
Jimmy and John actually hit it off, well, they did as much as Dean’s dad is
able to hit it off with anyone. Jimmy was able to keep up with drinking dad’s
whiskey without a sour face, which was definitely a good start.
Honestly, Dean was a little disappointed that Jimmy could sip the whole glass
without one flawed entrance of liquor. He wanted to see Jimmy’s sharp
cheekbones pucker under the swift jerk of muscles beneath his skin and Jimmy’s
Adam’s apple bob relentlessly. And there he goes with the friggin’ poetry
again. Watching him sip slowly and effortlessly was almost as good, though.
Lord help him. What is wrong with me? Dean wonders. Here he is, still lying in
bed at—hold on—seven in the morning, and his mind is already filled with
thoughts of the new neighbor. In Dean’s defense, Jimmy is gorgeous. And
mysterious. And interesting.
Man, Dean swears he wasn’t always this gay. Man, I swear I’m NOT that gay, Dean
thinks, inwardly cursing himself.
Jesus, if his dad was able to read Dean’s thoughts, he’d be friggin’ toast.
But his dad will never find out, because Dean doesn’t just go around screwing
every guy he finds attractive. Honestly, he’s never actually had sex with a
man. Although, Dean has had several oral experiments with a few, and hot damn,
were they good!
Which brings his thoughts spiraling back to Jimmy and how his pink plush lips
would slide over Dean’s skin, and . . . yep, there goes my dick, Dean sighs to
himself, half way hard already.
Of course as soon as Dean starts thinking dirty would be the exact time he
hears footsteps hurtling up the stairs.
Wait for it—
“Dean!” He hears Sammy’s voice ring through the closed door.
Throwing the covers back, Dean sits up fast. Something in Sammy’s voice doesn’t
sound right, “Yeah, Sam, come on in,” Dean yells back.
The door bursts open and reveals Sammy wearing the wide eyed, scared shitless
look he gets when Dad’s on one. But honestly, could John be drunk already? It’s
seven in the freaking morning and a work day!
“Dean, it’s the president, he’s been shot . . . it must be a big deal Dad took
off in a hurry before it was even on the news.”
Jumping off the bed, Dean pushes past Sam and into the hallway, completely
forgetting about pants. When the president’s been shot you don’t take time to
put on clothes, this is America.
Downstairs he finds the TV, Sam already has the channel on, which is good,
because this TV is way newer than their old one and it probably would have
taken Dean a year to figure it out.
A women in a—more than alarming—red dress suit is explaining the situation,
“early this morning Regan was sent to the hospital with a gunshot wound. The
shooter has yet to be found. . .”
Friggin’ communist, I swear to God, Dean thinks, groaning out loud.
A selfish idea in the midst of all of it hits Dean. Running back up the steps,
Dean starts to change.
He stumbles while getting his jeans on and he has to search through two
different drawers before he finds a clean white undershirt. Now where’s that
damn flannel? Dean wonders.
Out of the corner of his eyes, Dean sees Sam by the door. Although Dean’s
moving too fast to really catch his expression he imagines Sammy’s face is
scrunched up, expressing his harsh questioning of Dean’s weird actions.
Ah hah! Dean smiles upon locating the dang thing. Jo always tells Dean that he
looks good in this shirt, she said the red makes his eyes stand out or some
shit.
Rushing past Sam without a word, Dean hears his brother’s sigh of frustration.
So he calls back to Sam, while still making his way to the bathroom, “shoes on
Sammy,” because Sam’s already dressed considering his bus is supposed to be
here in . . . damn it, Dean thinks, he’s lost track of time again!
This bathroom is still foreign to Dean, and Sam put away all the easy
things—like hygiene materials and kitchen supplies—so it takes Dean a minute of
searching through drawers before he locates his toothbrush and the toothpaste.
Squeezing the bottle until the waste paste covers the bristles, Dean begins to
brush vigorously. The suds instantly fill his mouth and slaughter any bad
breath he may have had.
After turning on the sink, Dean spits.
Rinsing his mouth out and his face off for good measure, he heads downstairs.
Dean finds Sammy already by the door, shoes on and waiting.
“Where are we going, Dean?” Sam asks while Dean’s busy lacing up his boots.
-C-
Waking in the morning, Castiel finds himself fully rested. Apparently, even the
grossest of the liquors can bring soundless sleep. He’s honestly just lucky Meg
didn’t call him randomly last night with orders. Castiel hates and is already
terrible at ‘acting,’ and being tipsy while mastering a disguise just seems
like too much work.
Meg has always complained about his hatred for dressing up. Disguises just make
Castiel feel silly, although Meg refers to masking yourself as an art; as most
officers do. Despite feeling dumb when pretending to be someone he’s not—even
though he technically does that all the time—Castiel feels it’s unneeded for
him. Unlike some of the other agents living here, like Meg for example, who are
sent off to mingle with government officials at parties and such, Castiel does
most his work at night. He lets the darkness of the sky mask him and his swift,
soundless movements from years of training be his disguise.
Dawning on him suddenly, Castiel burst from his warm place under the covers.
John, he thinks, groaning into his empty bedroom. That smug prick is going to
seriously deflate Castiel’s chances for nighttime missions now. As soon as Meg
discovers, that is, if she doesn’t already know Castiel’s new neighbor works
for the F.B.I, she will fear letting him leave in the middle of the night. It
makes sense, Castiel supposes, he really shouldn’t be prancing around in the
middle of the night for no reason. He could always lie and claim vampire-ship.
Castiel lets the complete shock of yesterday take hold as he sags back down
into the mattress, and rests his head on his fluffy pillow.
Great, Castiel sighs, things are going to get progressively more tough now that
he’s constantly within the eyes of the F.B.I. Although, Castiel has yet to meet
a challenge he couldn’t beat. Even back in Moscow, Castiel never backed down
from a challenge. Whether said challenge was a boxing match with Ermolai, the
beefiest trainer in the KGB, or the challenge of learning how to speak English
without an accent. So Castiel, this time, will certainly not let one little
John Winchester stand in the way of serving his country.
After finding out John worked for the F.B.I, Castiel did a rather good job at
hiding his distress, even though his insides were churning with lava at the
utter disrespect of being so nonchalantly disregarded as commie and having all
his brothers and sisters of the KGB labeled as traitors.
Keeping the talking to a minimum, Castiel simply found out as much as possible
about this new, American-born family. He learned Sam plans to be a lawyer and
Dean—though he hasn’t graduated—will not be returning back to school here in
Philly. Castiel had to bite his own tongue to keep from spilling out, ‘well
maybe if you didn’t let your high school son drink in front of you, like its
legal, he’d still be interested in school.’
The more John talked, the more Castiel started hating him. Griping about
Communists and their godless government, John really was working Castiel’s
nerves, but for some reason Castiel couldn’t find the words to leave.
Okay, so maybe couldn’t isn’t the right word.
Castiel found that every time Dean spoke, despite how misguided and foolish the
boy was, he couldn’t take his eyes off of the glowing buzzed smile that had
become Dean.
Didn’t want to, seems more, let’s say, fitting.
He even found himself sad after John declared ‘he had to go shower or he was
gonna miss his hot date.’
He was sad because he had to leave Dean’s presence. Now, thinking back on it,
Castiel realizes it really was quite strange. The feelings he had,
disappointment, shyness, and altogether desire are ones he’s never felt. Never,
again, being a bad choice of words, he has felt feelings like that before. Only
never here, never for an American.
Declaring, despite his true wishes, the he too must leave in order to feed his
cat, Dean walked Castiel to the door.
Before Castiel made it through the doorway, he felt a warm firm hand land on
his shoulder, turning he found Dean and every ounce of his warming green eyes
staring at him.
“Don’t be a stranger,” Dean said, “as you can see it’s really just me and
Sammy, we don’t have a mom to make us brownies or a dad to take us to soccer
practices. And honestly we’ve never lived in one place long enough to make any
good friends, so don’t just run away and never come back because my Dad’s a
federal dick, okay?”
Willing it not to, despite his efforts, Dean’s story hit home. Not with Jimmy,
but with Castiel. Remembering back to his childhood in the motherland, Castiel
thinks of his struggling mother and his absent father. Suddenly, wishing for
nothing more than to comfort the halfway grown, American boy, Castiel
explained, “I enjoyed the company, and don’t worry I’m not running anywhere,
this has been my house for the past sixteen years and it’s going to stay that
way, and if you and Sam need anything you know where I’ll be.”
Despite their different backgrounds, Castiel already sees himself in Dean—not
like that—he just means that he and Dean are alike in many ways. Thoughts of
Dean’s smile, and caring eyes instantly warms Castiel’s stomach. Only real men
respect their ignorant, clearly drunk fathers all while stepping up and taking
their place as a dutiful guardian for their sibling. Castiel can tell now,
despite Dean still being young, that one day the teenager will make a
remarkable man.
Before he fell asleep last night, Castiel sent a signal to Meg requesting they
meet soon.
Which brings him back here groggy brained and over rested, rolling out of bed
and stumbling into the bathroom for a hot shower.
Rushing his morning, Castiel quickly deals with his hygiene, first brushing his
teeth, then showering.
Dressing is easy for him on weekdays considering Castiel always wears the same
get-up to work. Black suit that’s not too fancy, white button up, and a blue
tie. Quickly tightening the silky fabric, Castiel adjust his already-tied tie.
With one last do-over, Castiel ruffles his drying dark hair and sighs at the
mess he made. Walking away, he thinks,screw it.
Breakfast, like always, is half a bagel and coffee.
As he spreads the thin layer of cream cheese onto his bagel, Castiel hears a
faint knock at the door. Dropping the bread, he makes his way through the
living room and swings the door open.
Before he can even greet them, Dean is pushing past Castiel and into the house.
Sam follows close behind, looking apologetic.
“Hello Dean.”
“Have you not watched the freaking news today?” Dean huffs as he rushes past
and locates Castiel’s television.
Dean finds the power and the news channel. Reading the words on the screen—The
President’s been shot—Castiel tries not to let the excitement he’s feeling take
over his face.
Despite his gratitude for whoever shot the dumb son of a bitch, Castiel
realizes this is not good. This is really, really isn’t good because he’s
almost ninety-nine percent positive this wasn’t the KGB. If they were going to
send someone to take out Regan, Castiel’s positive they would send him, and the
idea its one of them on their own command is even less likely.
So who was it that shot the President? And who’s the blame going to fall on, is
the question.
“Someone shot the damn President!” Dean adds suddenly, like the news anchor
isn’t blaring through the television explaining the situation.
“I see, have you heard his condition?” Castiel asks, because if he’s dead, as
much as Castiel dislikes Regan, whoever takes over for him could be way worse.
“He’s not dead, but he’s in critical,” Dean clarifies.
“At least that’s what they’re telling us,” Sam re-clarifies.
Dean shoots Sam a disapproving older brother glare and Castiel has to mask his
smile. Because Sam’s got it right, American media is used by the government to
make the everyday American believe what they want them to believe. All the KGB
knows this, it’s not like it’s a secret, the citicens here are just too stupid
to see what's happening.
Dean finishes watching the news lady talk until a less attractive man gets on
and begins telling the same story with a little more detail.
Finally clicking the power button, Dean turns around. His lean body seizes
Castiel’s eyes, and, fuck, yes. Lean is the only way Castiel can describe him.
He’s not quite stocky yet, but he’s definitely not too boney or thin either.
Dean also is dressed way differently today, yesterday he was simply wearing an
old cotton button up and ripped-up jeans. Today, however, he’s sporting a tight
white undershirt, a red and navy blue flannel, slightly-less ripped jeans, and
a brown leather jacket; that frankly looks about three times too big for him.
Letting his gaze shift to the only place he hasn’t soaked in—Dean’s
face—Castiel has to hold back a gasp.
Dean’s eyes are tumbling down Castiel’s body, intensely taking in every inch of
him. As Dean reaches Castiel’s feet, his eyes snap back up and find Castiel’s
face. Unable to break the connection, Castiel lets himself stare.
-D-
When Dean’s eyes leave Jimmy’s attire, they find his face next, and , to Dean’s
surprise, Jimmy’s already staring at him. And when Dean says staring, he means
friggin’ staring. A flush instantly warms Dean’s cheeks and he breaks eye
contact to study the floor instead.
“You look like a tool,” Dean wrenches out, while finding Jimmy’s eyes again and
letting a huge smile cover his face. Hopefully it’ll hide the redness he knows
has taken up home on his cheeks.
“I’m going to work Dean, I can’t wear jeans and a t-shirt all the time,” Jimmy
argues, and was that a whine I just heard? Dean wonders, smiling even wider,
was Jimmy actually whining? Maybe the attraction isn’t as one sided as Dean
first thought. Jimmy continues, “It wouldn’t be acceptable.”
“Acceptable-shmeptiable,” Dean spits out and a grin finally finds Jimmy’s face.
-C-
Later at work, Castiel gets the signal for a meet. He’s guessing he’ll be
meeting Meg like usual.
The meet is set for six and on a road called Ronyet.
He exits work at 5:43. The car drive over is traffic-y and slow, especially
compared to Castiel’s racing thoughts. He has no clue how Meg is going to react
to this unfortunate situation.
He arrives at the spot at 5:59 exactly.
Spotting Meg, who’s already getting out of her silver town car and walking
towards him, Cas braces himself for the worst.
She reaches Castiel’s car with in seconds and is suddenly sitting down next to
him and slamming the door shut behind her.
Meg breaks the silence first, gloved hands resting in her lap, “I suspect
you’ve heard.”
“Yes,” Castiel turns to face her, “was this us?”
“If it was, it didn’t come from Moscow,” Meg’s voice is calmer than it normally
is, which means she’s more on edge than usual.
If this wasn’t an order from Moscow, then it was probably just some random
American, although that won’t stop the United States government from blaming
the KGB.
“Are they going to pin this on us? Is this what it’s all about?” Castiel asks
next, because he doesn’t think it below the American government to plot this
whole thing in attempt to find a reason to hit the motherland with a nuclear
bomb.
“I’m not sure, but I do know we need to find out. I have orders to set
operation gorilla in play,” Meg answers.
“You think it’s that serious?”
“It doesn’t matter what I think, Clarence, you know that,” she directs her
attention away from him and gazes out the window. Clarence is a name Meg only
uses when she’s trying for a lighter note.
“Right,” Of course, Castiel sighs. Meg receives direct orders from Moscow,
Castiel knows she doesn’t decide anything.
“You understand what this means?” she questions.
“Yes.”
“Good, I’ll see you soon, keep me informed on all progress,” Meg says as moves
to leave the car but Castiel stops the movement by touching her shoulder.
“Is there something else, Jimmy?” Meg infers, dark brown eyes scanning every
inch of him.
“Yes,” Castiel starts, “it’s about my new neighbors . . . the father . . . he
works for the F.B.I.”
“Oh, I know, Clarence.” She smirks, “just be a good boy and don’t get caught .
. . I don’t worry about you, you’ve always handled yourself.”
At that, Meg pulls her dark chocolaty curl behind her ear, exits his car, looks
both ways, and strides gracefully back to her car while lighting a cigarette.
Operation gorilla is for emergencies only. Someone in Moscow must feel very
threatened. Operation gorilla is a move where they are assigned to take out all
of the potential candidates that will take over (or even anyone who could
possibly have a crucial decision making position on the war front) if the
president dies or is too sick to continue.
Now with Regan only in critical position it seems rushed to set it in action.
Although Castiel doesn’t make the decisions, he just does what he’s told.
Instead of heading home, he heads east.
***** Mysterious Dirt Stains *****

                     [Image_and_video_hosting_by_TinyPic]
"Unlike the openness of the street, being in the woods casts a shadow over his
                               field of vision.
    It reminds him of the thick woods growing by his first home in Moscow.
   The way the breeze nibbles at his neck, the way he hears the green leaves
                           rustling all around him.
     Only this isn’t the motherland, and he can’t begin to pretend it is."
-D-
Jo came to visit today and, well, that girl always, somehow, gets to Dean; and
when he says gets to him, Dean means she looks at him seductively until he
can’t take it anymore and is forced to push her up against something to kiss
that look off her face.
He managed to keep his lips to himself all day and, despite Dean’s track
record, he’s actually never had sex with Jo. He’s really not planning on it.
She’s more like Dean’s little sister, whether she wants to believe that or not.
Although after a whole day of her visiting, Dean’s willpower finally evaporated
and left him thirsty for just a little bit of Jo’s soft lips.
Jo’s looking at him with those damn puppy dog eyes, her bottom lip hanging
slightly out from her top one, and Dean knows exactly what she’s trying to say,
kiss me Dean I’m not going to be able to see you for another couple months so
please, and of course he has to kiss her.
It starts as a peck; Dean lets his lips barely press against hers and gently
pulls away again. Although his retreat lasts about two seconds before Jo’s
swinging her arm around his neck and pulling him back down. Their lips crash
together and soon their mouths are moving in one steady motion. He feels her
slip her arm roughly around his waist.
The way Jo slipped her arm around his waist sends slight chills down Dean’s
spine. She is so aggressive; it used to scare him—it really did—because it
would throw him off. Jo was Dean’s first kiss and even at the age of . . . Ten?
Dean thinks, she was the one to ignite it. As they got older and things were
learned, she would always be the one to push things to the next level. Dean
always felt like he was the one who should be aggressive, not her, but by the
end of middle school Dean realized that Jo was just overly-aggressive for a
girl. It’s probably due to the fact that her mother is a total badass who owns
her own bar and raised Jo all by herself.
Feeling her tongue scarcely run over his bottom lip, Dean lets his eyes drift
shut.
-C-
He pulls up next to the heavily wooded area and puts his car in park. Rotating
the resistant key, the engine abruptly sizzles to silence. He adds the keys to
his pocket, causing the loose change to jingle around. Opening the door, he
stands, adjusts himself and exits.
The woods are thick, and he’s only been to this forest once since arriving in
America, to plant the sniper rifle he’s about to retrieve.
The smell of dewy grass replaces the smell of worn leather. The silent breeze
sends a row of goose bumps down his spine as he strides over the small patch of
shiny wet grass to meet the entrance of the woods. Pulling his trench tighter,
he crosses the threshold of trees.
Unlike the openness of the street, being in the woods casts a shadow over his
field of vision. It reminds him of the thick woods growing by his first home in
Moscow. The way the breeze nibbles at his neck, the way he hears the green
leaves rustling all around him. Only this isn’t the motherland, and he can’t
begin to pretend it is. This, this place, is nothing like the motherland.
Castiel was made in a place where accepting charity is an unacceptable option.
A country that was made by strong individuals. A place that taught him, in this
life, someone will always want something in return for their kindness and any
weak enough to fall prey, well, they will find that out the hard way.
Veering off the main trail, his steps become quicker because he really needs to
acquire a thicker jacket; Meg tells him he looks like a flasher, although
Castiel has always loved his tan trench coat. Looking up, he sees the Alaskan
cedar and knows he has about fifty more feet.
Spotting the shine in his right peripheral, he approaches the box cautiously. A
relieved sigh, that he didn’t know had been building inside, slips out. The
whole walk he half expected to find a hole blown in the ground.
Kneeling next to the titanium, he drops his head low enough to view the
underside of the brim.
Nope, other side, he thinks, standing up and completely ignoring the few muddy
leaves clinging to his pants, he loops around to the other side and mirrors the
actions he did before. This time he sees it, the tiny black square and two
wires connecting it to the box. He opens the little black box and types in the
code, eight, six, five, two, eleven, six, three, and enter. A red, blinking
light meaning ‘disarmed,’ blinks to life.
Opening the box, another relieved sigh seeps out because he didn’t get reduced
to a hole in the ground. Although looking at the sleek black sniper grinning up
at him, he instantly has to smile back. Even though guns aren’t really his
thing, he’ll admit, sitting 100 to 200 feet away and taking someone out is just
one of those things that’ll make anyone feel bad ass. Placing the sniper in the
black bag underneath it, he heads back to the car.
Castiel’s feet find the hard concrete as he searches his pocket, with the
intentions of dislodging the keys from the spare change. Unsuccessful, he
causes a few of the coins drop to the ground with a small bing. Ignoring the
money, he drops to open the trunk.
Gently, he places the bag inside. With one last smirk, he slams the trunk shut.
Driving home, Castiel turns onto Rodeo Dr. He can see the Winchester’s driveway
and two shadowy figures lurking around it.
As he rolls down the road the figures start to become clearer. Making one of
them out as Dean, Cas smiles. As he gets closer, Castiel sees Dean push the
other figure against the car. When Castiel’s about twenty feet away from both
of their driveways, he slows down to a creep; by now he can see Dean and the
figure—a blonde girl—quite clearly. Dean’s got his mouth on her neck and her
thin arms are coaxing down his back and reaching around his waist.
Pulling into the driveway, he tries to move swiftly out of the car without
glancing back at Dean and his, uh, lady friend. Inevitably, Cas’s eyes are
caught in the current that is Dean Winchester, and drift to the two bodies
pressed up against the painted metal.
Castiel swings the car door shut. At the sound Dean’s eyes spring up and find
his instantly. Castiel almost blushes, but then Dean is grinning, and pushing
off the girl a bit.
-D-
Although instead of his closed eyelids bringing blackness and thoughts of Jo;
the darkness instead brings images of vibrant blue. It doesn’t take long for
Dean to realize his mind is instantaneously being overtaken by blue eyes and
clumps of dark, messy hair.
He doesn’t stop the thoughts from flowing, even though he really should.
A sparkle of bright light breaks through the thin skin of his eyelids. Letting
his eyes part slightly, creeping headlights appear in Dean’s line of vision.
The lights dim as they pull into a driveway across the street.
Quickly breaking free from Jo, at the chance it may be Jimmy, Dean looks across
the street, and for someone who doesn’t believe in fate, Dean finds himself in
shock, because it is Jimmy.
Dean can see his frame from here, he can tell Jimmy’s still wearing the suit,
but what’s this? A trench coat? Dean questions, laughing out loud. He looks
back at Jo, who gives Dean an odd look, probably because he just stopped their
intense make out session to creep on his strange neighbor, who looks like a
flasher.
“Jimmy!” Dean yells, a bit too loud, as he pushes off Jo all the way, “out late
partying in the work clothes, so much for tool.”
Dean sees Jimmy’s ear to ear grin from here but he doesn’t answer Dean and he
starts heading towards his house.
“Hold on real fast,” Dean tells Jo, and leaves her pressed up against the
impala.
Moving swiftly across the street, Dean thinks he may not catch him in time.
Luckily Jimmy is taking his sweet old time getting to the door.
Arriving about five feet away from him, Dean notices Jimmy’s already on his
porch and turning around to look at him. Jimmy’s eyes stand out from the dark
of the night and Dean’s breath actually hitches a bit as he absorbs the full
state of Jimmy’s appearance. For some reason Jimmy has small dirt stains around
his knees, which could have been caused by multiple things. Although Dean’s
mind instantly turns the discovery into something much dirtier than just having
to kneel in a muddy parking lot; all he can picture is Jimmy down on his knees,
deep in some forest, looking up at Dean with those damn eyes while he runs his
fingers through Jimmy’s soft, thick hair, and it really isn’t helping that
Jimmy’s hair is stuck up in every direction possible.
And the damn trench coat! What the hell is that about? Dean wonders. Normally
the trench coat would make most men look like flashers, although Dean finds
that Jimmy can, more than, pull off the mysterious jacket flapping in the wind
look. The tan material hangs loosely around him and Dean can’t help but think
Jimmy looks like a total badass.
“Hey are you tired?” Dean asks as he’s finally able to break his horny thought
process and form words.
“No, not really—” Jimmy begins to explain, but that’s all Dean needs to hear.
“Good me either, I’m about to run Jo home then I’ll be back. Mmk?” Dean asks,
and because he’s a little—okay, a lot—frightened that Jimmy might say no, Dean
turns and starts walking back to the car without an answer.
Reaching the impala once again, Dean slides in on the driver’s side. Since Jo’s
already waiting on the passenger seat. Placing the keys in the ignition, Dean
thrust his grip forward until baby rumbles to life.
“What the hell was that about?” Jo asks as Dean pulls out of the driveway.
“What do you mean?” he quickly asks back, because honestly, is it really that
weird to talk to your neighbors?
“Since when is Dean Winchester friendly?” Jo questions as her explanation,
although her tone is light and playful.
“Hey, I’m always nice!” Dean spits back, even though he know she means since
when is Dean Winchester nice to some random, suburban-living, twenty plus year
old, trench coated man?
“Sure,” Jo says and Dean spares a glance at her, then focus his eyes back on
the road. She doesn’t look mad, she’s actually smirking.
Not knowing what to say, Dean lets silence fall through the car.
After a couple minutes of silence, Dean hears Jo rustling in the seat next to
him.
“I know you’re queer,” Jo whispers in a small, low voice.
Dean’s mouth physically drops and he’s unable to close it.Did she really just
say that? Dean questions himself, mind reeling, no friggin’ way!He must have
heard wrong, this has to be his imagination fucking with him; warning Dean to
stay the fuck away from Jimmy.
Although as he turns to look at Jo, he can tell by her scared, gaping eyes that
she really did say that and is waiting for a reply, and by the look for it
she’s expecting some kind of screaming.
Keeping quiet, he lets his eyes fall back on the road ahead.
How the hell does Jo know that? Dean wonders, he’s never told anyone or
anything.
“It’s not a big deal,” she adds, “at least not to me.”
“What in the hell? I’m not—” Dean tries to argue.
“Don’t lie, Dean,” Jo cuts him off, “the only person who’s known you longer
than me is Sammy, and I can tell.” She smirks again and her sly grin is really
starting to bother Dean, “and besides you remember the bus boy from Georgia?”
Dean’s eyes automatically widen in response. Of course he remembers the bus boy
from Georgia—Cody—he was the first guy who ever sucked Dean’s dick.
“Well, when we were at that party with him I saw you guys in the bedroom,” Jo
explains.
Fuuuck, Dean mentally groans. Jo isn’t lying, Dean remembers the exact party
she’s talking about. Although that doesn’t mean he has to admit it. Everyone
was drinking at that party; Dean can blame it on the fact he was only fifteen
and took like twelve shots of whiskey.
Keeping his eyes focused on the road, Dean tries, hopefully Jo won’t know he’s
lying, “that was definitely a one time, way too drunk—took twelve shots of
Ellen’s best whiskey—thing.” He doesn’t look at her expression, but hopefully
she buying this, “plus I was like fifteen!”
He doesn’t let his eyes leave the road, but as soon as Jo smiles Dean can
practically feel her grin pulsing through the car.
“Okay, well then there’s the fact that we just made out for like five minutes
pressed up against a car you call baby that can probably turn you on all by
itself and not one time did I feel you hard against my leg . . . although when
you come back from talking to creepy flasher dude across the street, I can see
your tent from twenty feet away.”
“Come on, Jo,” Dean tries again, “I’ve gotten hard for you plenty of times.”
“Does that explain the tent?” Jo asks, words full of sarcasm.
Dean opens his mouth to speak but Jo cuts him off before he can even begin to
give more excuses, “look Dean, I’m sorry I brought it up. You’re obviously not
ready to talk about it and I completely understand why; it just always upsets
me that you won’t talk to me about it or anything! I was just hoping we could
maybe acknowledge that fact that we’re family and I’m going to be here for you
no matter what. You can tell me anything, I love you for who you are and
whether you lie about it or not won’t change a damn thing.”
He lets the words hang in the air for a second because he knows Jo’s right,
she’s always fucking right, and he really should tell her, or at least talk to
her about his problems. But for some reason Dean’s just having a really hard
time spitting it out. Dean gathers up all his courage. Here goes nothing . . .
“Okay, well first of all I’m not queer. At least not all the way, I mean you’re
right about Cody, the bus boy. I definitely was enjoying, ugh . . . that, and
it definitely wasn’t the first or last time” he coughs a little, imagining the
images in Jo’s head right now; although she’s smiling again.
“I knew it!” Jo’s excitement is hard to miss, “why didn’t you just tell me?”
“That’s not just something you go around telling people,” Dean completely
ignores the fact that Jo is smiling and speaking lightly, he goes for using a
darker, rough tone, “even your best friend.”
Because honestly, being a queer isn’t something you talk about, at least not in
Kansas or any of the other places Dean’s been so far. Now, he’s not one to be
ashamed about himself, but Sammy needs Dean in one piece. If he goes around not
giving a flying fuck about who knows he sucks cock, plenty of people—including
their dad—would find that worthy of a beating.
“You honestly think I would care, or tell anybody?” Jo asks letting her anger
ring through her words.
“It’s not like that Jo,” Dean wants to explain, but words won’t come, she won’t
understand, “I’m sorr—”
“So . . .” Jo cuts him off, drawling out her question, meaning she’s about to
ask something he won’t want to answer, “This mysterious, trenched neighbor?”
“What?” Dean asks and unconsciously cough a bit, thinking,God, I’m so obvious.
She laughs, “Are we really doing this again, Dean?” She points to his pants, “I
saw your little issue . . . there must be something going on in that perverted
head of yours. I’m just wondering if it’s a mutual thing or what?”
“His name’s Jimmy, and there’s is nothing going on at all!” Dean assures,
trying to make that as clear as possible, “He’s just nice, and he just was a
little . . . um . . . ruffled and had some very mysterious dirt stains on his
knees.”
She actually burst with laughter, and after a minute of high pitched screeches,
she calms herself and says, “Only you.”
That’s all she says on the subject, and Dean’s grateful.
Pulling off exit eight, Dean sees Ellen’s truck down at a gas station.
Dean pulls the car over and hops out. Ellen’s already out and embraces him in a
huge hug. As soon as Ellen lets Dean go, Jo’s there gripping him again.
“I’ll come back as soon as I can,” Jo promises.
She’s walks around to the passenger side of the truck and jumps in.
Ellen smiles, “come visit us soon too, it won’t kill you to come to your
hometown for a little while . . .” She hops back in the driver seat, “and tell
your daddy to call me please.”
The ride back is slow. Dean’s nerves are building up more and more with every
mile he drives.
Letting his mind drift to Jimmy, and the night to come, Dean tries to imagine
all the possibilities of what could happen.
After about fifteen minutes of daydreaming the ‘what ifs,’ which mostly end
with Dean getting kicked out in every scenario, he sees the exit zero sign and
merges off the highway. By the time Dean reaches the house, he concludes this
night isn’t gonna happen without some liquor.
Opening the door slowly, Dean tries desperately to be quiet. Although his
attempt quickly falters as he trips over Sammy’s big ass sneaker. Dean looks
around but nothing stirs, which means his dad must be passed out already
tonight. Normally, John has ears like a hawk.
Proceeding to the kitchen, Dean seeks out the whiskey, but it’s nowhere to be
found. Taking take a leap of faith, Dean checks around the corner by the
trashcan. Of friggin’ course, Dean thinks, sighing, and mentally cursing his
father. There stands the empty bottle next to the full trash can, which
confirms Dean’s suspicions of his dad being hammered. John just went to the
liquor store today, which means he drank that whole fifth and—hold on, he’ll
check the fridge—a whole twelve pack of beers!
Dean almost starts to get mad, but then he remembers the vodka his dad brought
home the other day from work. He said Dean could drink it with his friends
‘cause he ain’t drinking no dirty commie vodka.’ Apparently this stuff is like
super good shit over there, though. So why the hell not? Dean thinks, Jimmy
won’t care. At least, Dean hopes Jimmy doesn’t have a problem with a little
commie Vodka.
Dean’s looking down at his boots, the dew managed to turn them into soaking
messes. Although, his wet shoes are the least of his problems. Dean’s been
standing at Jimmy’s door for the past five minutes contemplating knocking. He
didn’t even let Jimmy answer, Dean doesn’t even know if Jimmy wants to see him.
Either way, Dean’s here, and there’s no going back now. He pats the vodka,
stashed in his jacket, for support.
Bringing his hand up, Dean makes contact with the solid wood. One thud, two
thuds, three thuds; and he’s left waiting.
***** Forty-year-old Virgins *****
                     [Image_and_video_hosting_by_TinyPic]
                   "Dean doesn’t understand what he’s done,
           but it’s okay, because Castiel still can’t stop smiling."
-C-
Having no clue as to how long Dean was planning on taking, Castiel used the
time to take a quick shower.
He gets out and is dressed before Dean is back. Cas decides on jeans and a
plain black T-shirt.
He hears a knock at the door.
Dean, Castiel thinks, already smiling.
Heading down the steps, Cas rushes through the furniture to answer the door.
Dean’s grin is mysterious as always and Castiel can see he’s holding some kind
of bag under his jacket.
“May I come in?” Dean asks, and his smile only grows wider, his eyes only grow
crinklier.
“Since when do you ask?” Cas jokes.
“Come on, that was one time,” Dean says, although he pushes past Castiel and
into the house again, “and pretty rare circumstances if you ask me.”
Following Dean, Cas replies, “I suppose.”
Castiel’s expecting Dean to sit on the couch, instead he flaunts around the
whole living room, eyeing everything. He must get that from John, Castiel
decides, watching Dean inspect his home. Next, Dean heads to the kitchen.
Dean rolls his hands against the smooth countertop, “You know, this is pretty
impressive for a single guy who sells radios.”
Cas wants to say one of the million excuses he had planned, but instead the
truth bubbles up, “I love to clean when I’m bored.”
“How come? Seems boring.” Dean implores and Castiel is about to answer until
Dean pulls the black bag out of his jacket.
As soon as Dean pulls the bottle out of the bag, Castiel knows, automatically,
what it is. Placing it on the counter, Dean asks, “You know what this is?”
“Yeah, its vodka right?” Castiel questions, although, he really knows
everything about it. It’s fucking Imperia vodka for Christ’s sake, Castiel
thinks.
“Not just any vodka,” Dean explains, “Apparently, this stuff is like gold to
the commies.”
“Really?” Castiel asks as he reaches for the bottle. He always wanted to try
some back home, but they never had enough money; and when he came here, ‘Jimmy’
was never allowed to buy it himself, too suspicious.
Dean hands over the bottle and the bumpy glass massages Castiel’s hand. It’s
beautiful—he looks up at Dean for a second then back at the bottle—it really
is.
“Yeah, my dad confiscated it from this asshole commie working at a stereo
shop,” Dean says and retreats to the other side of the counter to join Castiel.
Dean’s heat lands on his side, and Castiel can’t even think, let alone be mad
about the “commie” remark.
Nobody has ever made Castiel feel this special. Nobody has ever brought him
expensive vodka in hopes of sharing with him, and Dean, he’s . . . he’s not
even trying! He honestly has no clue what this means to Castiel. Dean just
stole some random liquor from his dad, he doesn’t even know Castiel’s
communist. Dean doesn’t understand what he’s done, but it’s okay, because
Castiel still can’t stop smiling.
“What’s wrong?” Dean asks, his eyebrows scrunching into one concerned brow.
“Nothing . . . I mean, I’m just smiling, what’s wrong with that?” he asks.
“Yeah, but I’ve never seen you smile like that before, it’s different.” Dean
explains.
“I guess I’m just happy,” Castiel says, seeing no point in making up excuses.
“How come? Over some shitty Soviet vodka?” Dean questions with a smirk.
Ouch, Castiel thinks, grinning despite himself, that hurt. “No Dean, not
because of the vodka, just, I don’t know . . . you’re being nice, nicer than
most people.”
Dean’s head drops for a few seconds, and Castiel can see the smile trying to
peek up the corner of his lips. Bringing his head back up, Castiel meets his
eyes, they’re soft and he could swear Dean’s freckles are glowing.
Eventually, they retreat back to the living room after Dean locates Castiel’s
glass cups and the soda from his fridge.
Dean sits on the loveseat, and though he’s probably planning on Castiel taking
the larger couch across from him, Castiel can’t help but sit on the cushion
next to Dean. Everything seems to be warmer around Dean and he loves it.
Castiel feels like he can’t pull himself away.
Dean pours the liquor in both their glasses and takes the first drink of his.
Dean croaks, “Damn, I’m definitely more of a whiskey man.”
Ew, Castiel thinks, but he lets himself laugh about Deans little choke.
Castiel knows he really, really shouldn’t, but he tips his glass back and chugs
all the clear liquid, anyway. Dean watches with wide eyes.
After downing the whole glass, Castiel slams it on table, resulting in a sharp
clank. His belly instantly warms and sends a tingling sensation throughout his
limbs.
Licking his lips, Castiel savors the last little taste that’s still clinging
on.
“Damn, you really can drink, huh?” Dean asks with a gaping, impressed stare.
“I can,” Castiel answers, shifting in his seat. He really should be more
careful around Dean, but he can’t help himself for the good of anything. A
tight grip is pulling him on the inside and Castiel realizes he wants Dean,
more than anything, to know the real Castiel for some reason. “Besides, this,”
Castiel explains further, pointing to the bottle, “is gooood.”
“Well I’ll have to learn to like it then.”
Castiel smiles. And Dean smiles.
After the third or fourth glass, Dean’s already spoken about all the possible
current events he can think of, and starts getting to the personal stuff.
“Sammy is such a great kid, I want him to get to know you. You seem like a good
role model for him . . . strong, nice, funny, smart, and mostly around,” Dean
shifts, and it pushes him closer to Castiel, he can practically feel Dean’s
heat radiating and prickling his side again.
The way Dean’s eyes light up when he talks about Sam warms Castiel’s belly more
than the vodka ever could. Dean is such an amazing person, so caring and
loving.
“He seems like it,” Castiel points out, letting himself lean closer to Dean,
and to his surprise, Dean doesn’t back away. Instead, he smiles and leans
across Castiel to pick up his glass off the coffee table.
“Enough about Sammy,” Dean declares as he brings the glass up to his mouth and
sips. Then he adds, “Tell me more about you.”
Ah shit, Castiel inwardly curses. For some reason Castiel finds it’s difficult
to even think of his fake life right now, despite living it for the past
sixteen years. Quickly, willing himself, Castiel begins telling, “Well, I grew
up in Bradford and then—”
But he’s taken by surprise when Dean’s hand suddenly finds his thigh causing
him to let out a gasp instead of completing the sentence. But Dean’s hand
doesn’t move, his long fingers continue to warm Castiel’s leg.
The whole time Castiel’s been in America, he’s never had another male touch him
like that. Women, sure. That’s understandable, women are generally touchier
than men, but this touch doesn’t feel the same as when the librarian’s hand
finds Castiel’s shoulder while helping him search for a book. Dean’s touch is
intense, his hand is heavy and definitely squeezing a little bit.
Eyes shooting up to find Dean’s, his green eyes hit Castiel like lasers. He
even can’t think; let alone finish the completely made up life-story.
“Uhhh,” He tries to speak, but nothing comes out.
Dean’s expression instantly changes from giddy and smiley to scared and
nervous, clearly Castiel losing the ability to speak has upset him.
He removes his hand quickly, “Sorry man, didn’t mean to freak you out,” he
shifts in his seat, and the movement pulls him further away. Losing Dean’s
warmness is not agreeing with Castiel’s body, “I get a little, you know, touchy
sometimes when I drink too much.”
“You didn’t, it’s just . . .” After trying for the right words, he has to trail
off, having no clue what to say because really, “I don’t understand.”
“What do you mean you don’t understand?” Dean asks.
“No other male has ever touched me like that, it was just different.”
It was different, very different, Dean’s touch made him feel funny inside.
Back in Moscow, someone might accuse them of being homosexual for a touch like
that, but Castiel has to remember, this isn’t the motherland, and Dean’s not a
communist. He’s a laid back, young, American teenager.
Dean blushes, and the redness makes every tiny brown freckle on his cheeks
stand out.
So Castiel decides to touch Dean’s leg, because if that’s what’s okay for
Americans--though no other American male has ever touched him like that, but
Castiel truly has had little experience with American men, besides killing
them, that is—then it must be okay for him to do it back.
Dean’s eyes spring up and find Castiel’s once again.
Keeping their eyes locked, Castiel lets himself smile as wide as possible, “it
wasn’t bad though.”
Dean smiles back, and Castiel know he’s done something right, because Dean’s
new soft, happy look sends tingles all over his body.
One thing they never taught him when he was learning about America and his new
identity was sex. Castiel always assumed it was the same everywhere, so he
figured he could just rely on what his mother taught him while growing up, when
a girl and a boy love each other, they have sex.
Considering he was fifteen when he joined the KGB and his life has been
dedicated to it ever since, Castiel’s never had a chance to meet a girl in
Moscow and have sex; and when he got here, Castiel never found any woman
attractive in the right ways.
Secretly, Castiel always had a crush on Nadheska, another spy stationed here in
Philly who goes by the name Elizabeth now. She is the replica of what Castiel
wants in a woman. Strong, smart, tough, dedicated, doesn’t take anyone’s shit,
and most of all, lives for the Motherland. Although, she was paired with Misca
when they were sent to America; and no American woman could ever compare to her
utter beauty and strength, inside and out.
So, when Dean touched Castiel’s leg, and he touched Dean’s back, he had no clue
that Dean springing forward and pressing their lips would be what happened
next.
But it is.
Dean launches forward, and his pink lips smash against Castiel’s frozen ones.
He’s literally stuck in shock for a moment unable to pull away, unable to do
anything.
The moment’s over as soon as it starts, and Dean’s pulling away from Castiel
and retreating as far back on the couch as possible. His lean frame smashes
into the pillows, and his eyes are wide with fear.
“Oh, god,” Dean barely lets out, his breathing is at maximum overdrive and
Dean’s next words are coming in fast confused patches, “I—I thought that was .
. . I—look—I’m sorry please don’t tell my dad,” Dean pleads.
Castiel wants more than anything to answer and, in his defense, he does open
his mouth to speak, but suddenly his throat is squeezing tightly together and
no words, no matter how small, can slip through.
Beginning to rock back and forth, Dean slumps forward, hands hiding his face.
No matter how shocked and confused Castiel is, seeing Dean like this is
unpleasant and making his stomach knot. Without realizing it, Castiel has been
labeling Dean in his mind. Now when thinking of Dean, Castiel thinks of faith,
passion, and strength. Or in other words, he’s been unconsciously thinking of
Dean as an officer in training. Dean is the only young man Castiel’s met in
America who he’s believed faithful enough to make it as an officer. Even though
Dean’s blind faith lies with his father’s beliefs, and theirs must only lie
with the motherland. Still, seeing him curled, slumped over, and looking so
weak is not appealing.
Unable to form words, Castiel reaches out, finding Dean’s shoulder, and tries
soothing him for a minute by letting his fingers run across the tense muscle
connecting Dean’s neck and arm. At the touch, Dean lifts his head, and their
eyes met again.
He still looks so frightened and Castiel really hates that. Gripping his
shoulder tight, Castiel raises Dean up so he’s sitting straight.
Words finally come.
Still gripping his shoulder, Castiel speaks to him, “Don’t be ashamed and, if
you are, certainly don’t slump about it.”
Dean blinks, eyes now full with confusion, more than fright.
And Castiel can’t help thinking, even in this tense moment, that Dean really is
a sight. He doesn’t quite know why, but Dean’s suddenly the most beautiful
thing Castiel’s ever seen.
“It’s unattractive,” Castiel adds, offering a slight smile, wondering what the
hell he’s getting himself into.
Then something clicks as Dean slowly starts smiling back.
It’s different, Castiel thinks, and the discovery nearly knocks the air from
his lungs.
With Dean, everything is different, and Castiel sort of likes it. Really likes
it.
When dealing with other Americans, Castiel finds himself contemplating
situations for how he should react, and when to react. He searches his mind for
the right way to smile or frown, but with Dean, it’s like the rational part of
Castiel’s brain shuts down and hands the decision making over to his emotions.
He doesn’t think about his duty, instead he thinks only of Dean. Wonders what
Dean is thinking and feeling, wishing he could just know somehow. He should be
able to read Dean, like he does everyone else, but he can’t, which is beyond
dangerous and something a trained spy like Castiel should have control over.
Suddenly, he thinks of Johnny and what happened to him, simply from falling in
love with someone. It’s scary, but then Dean’s smiling again, flickering relief
through Castiel, and easing the tension in the room.
“So. . .” Dean decrees and after a brief pause he continues, “You’re not into
guys I guess, huh?” He asks and further adds, “Which is totally cool, but you
know, I just thought . . . I don’t know, the way you were looking at me just .
. .”
Dean falls silent.
To be honest, Castiel’s never really thought about it. Back in the motherland
the scare of HIV was too high for anyone to openly be homosexual, but of
course, there were surely a few people who chose to do it in the dark.
Sometimes, people would even be arrested if they were found to be both sexually
active with men and women, which is completely for the women’s safety of not
contracting HIV.
“And you like guys?” Castiel asks, avoiding Dean’s question because he doesn’t
know what to say; Castiel’s never been with either, man or women. “I mean,
aren’t you scared of AIDS?” The question comes out nastier than he expects it
to, but he can’t help it. “And I saw you with that blonde girl out there, you
didn’t seem like you liked guys then.”
Castiel can tell Dean’s surprised by his first questions, but his face lightens
a bit when Castiel asks about the girl.
“What? Ya jealous, Jimmy?” Dean jokes and Castiel doesn’t know why, but hearing
Dean call him ‘Jimmy’ is very displeasing all the sudden; he just wants to hear
the way Castiel rolls off Dean’s tongue.
Castiel’s about to answer, but Dean continues (he makes a mental note that Dean
seems to ask a lot of questions he doesn’t care to find the answer to).
“I’m not picky, and Jo’s an old friend who was visiting to check out our new
place,” Dean explains, “and I’ve never actually done it with a guy,” he
clarifies. “Now stop avoiding my question, are you into me cause you look at me
like . . . wow . . . I don’t even know, but its intense.”
“I don’t believe you asked me that,” Castiel quickly clarifies while blushing,
because he really hadn’t meant to stare at Dean in a sexual way, “you asked if
I was into guys and no, I’m not, but I guess you could say I’m not really into
women either.”
Dean crinkles his face in questioning and Castiel has to smile, because Dean’s
drunk confused face is really adorable. Oh god, now he’s adorable, Castiel
thinks.
“What do you mean?” Dean asks.
Knowing that Dean’s going to find it weird that he hasn’t had sex before,
Castiel pauses, thinking over his next words. He can’t think of any reason a
man his age would still be a virgin. Well, besides the obvious one of
dedicating his life to becoming a soldier at age fifteen. Well, he can’t say
that, but he can’t lie either; not after Dean has been being so open with
Castiel:
“I’ve never had sex.”
Dean laughs and Castiel just sits there until he gets it out of his system.
“Wait . . . you’re serious?” Dean asks after a minute of giggles.
“Yes.”
“But you’re like thirty . . .”
***** Things Might be Getting Complicated *****
-C-
The bed is warm and he really doesn’t want to move. If Castiel moves he might
remember. Damn it, too late, Castiel sighs, he just did. Everything comes
crashing back. The memories flicker across the front of his mind and play over
and over again. Scrunching his face, rolling on his back, and pulling the
closest pillow tightly across his face, Castiel groans. Dean kissed me last
night, Castiel thinks, Dean Winchester, F.B.I. agent’s son, Dean Winchester.
Why the hell did he do it is what Castiel really wants to know. Dean said it
himself, I’m like thirty.
Thirty, Jesus, Castiel mentally curses. If only Dean knew Castiel is already
thirty-seven. Dean shared his age last night, eighteen, eighteen fucking years
old, Dean is still a child.
Castiel just. He was just so convinced that Dean had no idea bringing over that
vodka meant something to him. He was convinced that he was letting his
emotions, as well as his ability to read others emotions be affected by
sensations of the motherland, bad jokes, laughter, and green eyes.
Although, it seems while Castiel was caught up, trying not to let his own
emotions take over, because of a few warm feelings, Dean was caught up in,
well, Castiel.
And that is strange. It’s not strange because Dean’s a man anymore (Castiel got
over that discovery last night), it’s really not too strange that Dean’s
nineteen years younger than Castiel either, and it’s not even that strange that
his dads in the F.B.I.
It’s just strange because Dean’s American, thoroughbred, and Castiel’s a
communist from The Soviet Union.
Huge difference.
Oh yeah, and did he not mention, Castiel’s not just a commie, he’s a fucking
spy, who steals and kills people to get a hold of all America’s precious little
secrets. Spies don’t fall for the Americans, they play them.
Like he’s said before, Dean may have the faith and inner strength that’s right
for communism, but his faith points in the opposite direction. I mean, Castiel
thinks,if you cut him, he might just bleed red, white, and blue.
They’re from two totally different worlds. Dean may as well be a completely
different species, like the fish in the sea and the birds in the sky.
If he knew the real Castiel, there is no way in hell Dean would’ve tried to
kiss him then. If he knew how many of his people Castiel’s killed, probably
some of John’s friends, he might add. If Dean found out Castiel is one of those
asshole commies, the boy would turn around and never look back.
That’s why Castiel had to send Dean home last night.
He’ll admit, he wants Dean, but Castiel wants Dean for who he is, and Dean will
never want Castiel for who he is.
Dean just wants Jimmy, the radio salesman.
But Dean still looked . . . well, disappointed, is the emotion closest to the
one Dean sported as he left last night. Seeing Dean’s eyes lose some of that
spark that keeps them burning bright, saddened Castiel. It’s better like this
though, his mind needs to be clear the next couple of days, he has lots of work
to do.
He has a meeting with Meg today.
Castiel needs to quit whining in bed and prepare for that.
They meet at a park bench about twenty minutes out from the city. Meg’s sitting
up straight and casually has a cigarette resting between her index and middle
finger. Like always, Castiel thinks, grinning to himself. Sitting on the bench
next to her, Castiel watches as the smoke bellows from the cherry. She takes
one long drag of the cigarette and then throws the burning tobacco down on the
patch of grass to the left of her.
The last of the smoke streams out of her mouth as she speaks, “Have you found
your targets?” She asks.
“Yes,” Castiel answers, because he spent all day finding them. He’s planned it
out very carefully, he chose Marty Denhue and Peter Barlow who both maintain
minor roles at the federal bureau office. He decided working his way up is the
best course of action, because maybe they’ll think it’s just random acts of
hate until one of their agents gets blown up—
Oh. Fuck.
At that thought, a small singe begins burning in Castiel’s chest and it catches
him off guard. He almost gasps aloud, but manages to keep his emotions
contained.
Suddenly, all he can picture is that damn hunk of metal—what is it? An Impala?
Castiel thinks—getting blown up, and Dean and Sam being taken out of existence
at the blink of an eye as collateral damage. Of course, Castiel would never do
that, make a careless mistake that would lead to the death of two innocent
kids. Although, he can’t speak for everyone in the KGB, and he knows others
have been assigned the same task as him and—
“Good. Do you need anything else?” Meg grabs Castiel out of his thought process
by asking another question.
He’s about to say no, when something completely different and off-topic bubbles
to the surface and slips through:
“I think I’m gay, Meg.”
At the words, Meg turns to look at Castiel for the first time all day. Her eyes
burn into his skin and his eyes, he supposes, are wide and blatantly shocked
because he seriously can’t believe he just said that. What in the hell is wrong
with me? Castiel wonders.
Meg’s face lightens all the sudden and then she’s reaching up, clasping her
fingers around his chin. She stares at Castiel with soft eyes for a second and
then begins to laugh.
“Oh Castiel, what will we do with you,” she chuckles out, the use of his real
name is foreign, but so very pleasing none the less. Her hand stays attached to
his face, “So, does that mean Jimmy’s gay as well? Because they aren’t too kind
to queers here either, you know.”
“There is no Castiel anymore, Anzhelika, there is only Jimmy,” he points out as
she begins rubbing her thumb gently back and forth along his jaw. “I haven’t
even heard that name in thirteen years, you haven’t called me that since the
news about Johnny.”
Meg stays silent, and Castiel doesn’t say anything else along those lines
because he knows Meg must miss her old identity as well. He’s not going to
whine about it.
Placing her hand over his, she causes Castiel’s palm to lie flat on the warm
dry wood. She squeezes tightly and even though she hasn’t really helped with
any of his issues, it’s always reassuring to know Anzhelika will be there for
him.
As he loses the warmness of her hand, she gets up without another word and
strolls down the path leading to the parking lot. Leaving Castiel to watch her
until she’s out of sight.
Thoughts of Dean have been pressing at the edges of Castiel’s mind this whole
time. He desperately wishes he could make them stop.
The park bench is hard and cold, but he doesn’t want to move. Bits and pieces
of that earlier day nightmare are still trying to cling on and overtake his
thoughts. Finally, pushing the pesky images towards the back of my mind, he
stands and walks back to his car.
By the time he pulls in the neighborhood, thoughts of Dean dying have been
washed away by stop lights, road hazards, and squirrels running across the
road. Taking a right towards home, Castiel’s house comes in to view and he
tries very hard to keep his eyes focused on the brown bricks, but before he
knows it, his head is whipping towards Dean’s driveway.
Oh God help me,Castiel inwardly pleads, because Dean’s outside. Dean’s outside
working on the impala. Dean’s outside working on the impala topless. Castiel’s
eyes are glued. He can see the sweat forming along Dean’s back, and the way a
shine has taking home around Dean’s brows. Castiel continues to stare at the
way Dean’s muscles constrict as he messes with something under the hood.
Dean pulls back and spots Castiel’s car. He doesn’t smile. He doesn’t wink. He
doesn’t even look at Castiel for too long. He simply picks up the dirty blue
towel laying on the concrete next to him and wipes his face. The blue cotton
accidentally catches the edges of his blonde hair, making the strands around
his forehead stand up.
Pulling into the driveway, Castiel finally looks away, even though he finds
himself really wanting to watch. He looks back in the rearview mirror, and
Dean’s retreating back into his house anyway.
Instead of going back inside, he sits in the car. His ears are hot and there’s
a ring sounding throughout his whole body. Closing his eyes, Castiel moves a
hand towards the front of his pants, already suspecting what he’s going to
feel. Damn it, Castiel curses himself. His hardness does, indeed, press back.
Castiel can’t fathom why.
Why, after sixteen years of doing his job perfectly fine, does he suddenly have
these feelings?
Opening the door, Castiel gets out and slams the metal shut behind him. What
pisses him off the most is the fact that he should be thinking about the work
he needs to do before tonight and forgetting about Dean, but of course the only
thoughts that seem to slip up are of Dean.
Passing the couch without a second glance, Castiel heads straight towards the
bedroom.
He plops down on the mattress, falling on his backside. Castiel can feel his
hardness now pulsing under the restraint of his jeans. The full grown erection
isn’t getting any smaller, and he can’t seem to think of anything other than
Dean.
Undoing the button and zipper, he quickly pulls down his jeans. Castiel’s dick
still trapped by boxer’s but it springs up as much as possible.
He gives it a few long strokes through the fabric then skittishly pushes his
boxers down. Castiel feels the wetness of precum slide down his thighs as his
cock’s freed.
He’s never jacked off thinking about a man before, but this is necessary.
Closing his eyes, Castiel pictures Dean back in Moscow at first, but something
quickly feels wrong. He changes the scape to a quiet farm with the closest
person living miles away. Next, Castiel pictures Dean, just as he was today,
topless with jeans sagging a little lower than they should, glaring at
something under the hood of that damn black car.
Taking a minute to remember exactly how Dean’s muscles were moving as he
fidgeted with the instruments beneath the hood, he then reaches into the drawer
beside his bed and grabs the small container of lotion.
After apply a small amount to his hand, Castiel grabs his hardness and gives
himself two long strokes, allowing the lotion to spread around the tightly
pulled skin.
The next thing he thinks about is him appearing next to Dean. Castiel imagines
it’s easy. In this fantasy, he doesn’t even have to speak, doesn’t have to
explain anything. Castiel can just touch. He places himself behind Dean, and
effortlessly runs his fingers down the boy’s back. Dean doesn’t look at Castiel
with wide eyes, nor he does he say stop. Instead, he leans into the touch and
arches his back.
Beginning to find rhythm in his strokes, Castiel imagines Dean slamming the
hood and turning around to meet his eyes. His green eyes are filled with lust,
just as they were the other night before their kiss. He pulls Castiel close and
they both fall against the cold metal of the impala. In the fantasy, their lips
meet finally, and Castiel can practically feel the press of Dean’s lips against
his own—just as they felt when they really did kiss—his skin is soft and
smooth, but the actual kiss is rough and strong.
As they deepen the kiss, Castiel can feel his dick starting to pulse. So he
let’s the daydream move forward, dragging his lips down Dean’s unguarded neck,
and placing small bites along the way. Castiel moves down to his chest and
nibbles at Dean’s pert nipples. Dean lets out a gasp and grabs on to Castiel’s
arms.
He keeps kissing all the way down, until Castiel reaches the denim. Pulling
down Dean’s jeans and boxers, Castiel finds Dean’s dick, pulsing and hard,
ready for him.
He’s forced to slow his strokes at that thought, because he almost spilled
right then thinking about Dean getting that hard from Castiel’s kisses.
Continuing on, Castiel goes back to his original pace, and thinks about Dean’s
hard cock bobbing in front of his face. They’re so many dirty thoughts racing
through his head. Although, Castiel chooses to let his lips find Dean’s
hardness. He imagines Dean making all sorts of dirty noises as his lips find
their way down the shaft.
Castiel imagines his lips and mouth are overtaken with spit as he slides up and
down Dean’s dick as fast and as tight as he possibly can. He imagines Dean’s
hand finding his hair, helping Castiel move up and down on his dick.
With his dick harder than it’s ever been, Castiel can feel the heat building
inside. He knows that he’s not going to last much longer. So, Castiel strokes
rougher and faster, picturing Dean losing it. Bringing his hips up off the hood
and shoving his dick further into Castiel’s mouth. He does this motion several
times and then Castiel imagines a hot wetness, different from spit, filling his
mouth.
At this thought, Castiel body’s brought overboard, and the muscles in his legs
contract as he strokes down a few hard times until he’s bursting.
The warm white liquid stains Castiel’s belly, and lands in a few of the hairs
around his dick.
Stroking effortlessly a few more times, Castiel sends himself into a twitching
frenzy.
He waits for the regret and shame to come, but it never does. All he feels is
light. Castiel’s body glows like lava as it moves around the lamp.
All he feels is accomplished, despite not really touching Dean.
Eventually, he has to get up or Meg is going to kill him. Simple as that, and
completely serious. Tonight is date night. It’s something he and Meg have been
doing since 1975. It was her idea, because Castiel was concerned about a
neighbor who had moved in next door and commented on how he thought it was
weird Castiel never brought any girls home; so Meg decided she would be the
girl Castiel brought home every once in a while. They usually go out to eat
then she comes back to his house. Usually, they come home and make a ruckus so
the neighbors will think Castiel has friends. She stays the night sometimes,
but he always takes the couch when she does. Meg is a good friend, and Castiel
has a lot of respect for her, but he’s never thought of her in that way.
Apparently, she’s not my type, Castiel thinks, snorting to himself.
***** Soviet Women and Their Evil Plans *****

                     [Image_and_video_hosting_by_TinyPic]
      ". . . with him being a teenager and her being the highly trained,
                        highly lethal spy that she is."
-C-
He picks up Meg from some apartment complex that isn’t hers. She looks
beautiful; she’s wearing a knee length black dress and a black leather jacket.
Typical Meg, Castiel thinks, smiling to himself. Seeing Meg as dressed as
herself is a rare and special thing that Castiel cherishes. Its not because he
thinks she looks bad when running around wearing the clothes of an American
housewife, but because these few occasions where Castiel catches her decked out
in black, looking sixteen again, gives Castiel hope that he might have some of
himself left as well. Although, her heels are new tonight Castiel notices,
instead of her normal black ones, these are bright red.
“Who are you trying to impress?” Castiel asks after she gets herself seated
comfortably, both as a compliment and true concern.
Laughing, Meg pointedly tilts her foot to show off the shiny red pumps.
“You like?” She asks. “I have someone particular in mind . . .”
He questions her response by letting his brows furrow and tilting his head. But
then, Castiel turns, looking at the road ahead, and pulls away.
“Who?” he finally has to ask when she doesn’t elaborate.
“Well, first of all, you misunderstand my motive, Jimmy. I don’t wish to
impress anyone. I am hoping for a jealous reaction.”
Not knowing what to say, he lets his brows scrunch more.
“Well I thought, just maybe, the F.B.I. agent’s boy might be up around the time
we get home,” she explains, and the realization hits him fast and hard.
Fuck, he thinks, already dreading it. Dean will be home. Castiel’s so concerned
he almost doesn’t catch it for a second:
“How in the hell did you figure that one out?”
She merely laughs.
Fucking Soviet women, Castiel mentally curses. The night with Meg is coming
close to an end, and the moment Castiel’s been dreading is creeping closer.
Dean is going to see him with Meg; the night after Dean came over and kissed
Castiel. She seems to think it will somehow work towards his advantage.
However, Castiel doesn’t see how. All he can picture happening is Dean seeing
them together, thinking Castiel’s straight, and believing he hated the kiss,
which he really didn’t hate the kiss, and he really doesn’t want Dean thinking
that. The kiss may have been rushed and needy, and he might have been shocked
at the time but after seeing Dean today it’s clear what he was feeling last
night . . . that kiss was everything Castiel needed and more.
Slowly, Castiel makes his way back home, avoiding the highway in hopes of
stretching time. Meg is in the passenger seat, and she knows exactly what he’s
doing. Although she chooses to keep her mouth shut. She’s still sporting the
bright red heels and every time she shifts he catches a glimmer from the
reflections moving around the shiny plastic.
Castiel trusts Meg, and her manipulating skills; she once convinced a whole
nation she’d been beaten and raped by their prime minister, when she was the
one who had drugged him! So if she thinks the new heels and her appearance will
be good for Castiel’s chances with Dean, then he sees no other choice than to
go with her plan. That doesn’t mean he has to act happy about it, though.
They pull into the driveway around ten. Meg opens the passenger door with a
loud creak and clanks her way out. She finds her balance and then dips down to
look at Castiel. She winks. Next thing he knows, her door’s being slammed as
loud as possible.
Quickly exiting, he shuts his door as lightly as possible. Castiel meets Meg at
the front of the car as she starts to walk towards the house. She throws her
arm around him.
They’ve been inside for over ten minutes now and no sign of Dean. I suppose,
Castiel thinks, that could be a good thing. Maybe he didn’t hear them. He and
Meg decided to watch TV, she picked something out, he hasn’t really been paying
attention. Castiel’s mind wandering across the street.
These feelings are new and frightening. He’s always had one mindset: Do
whatever the motherland asks. But today, when talking with Meg, he had a
realization. He’s planning on blowing up F.B.I. agents, and the man Castiel’s
assigned to next could be John. For the first time he felt doubt, because
honestly, if they sent an order for Castiel to kill Dean’s dad, well, he
doesn’t know if he could do it.
A few more minutes pass, he’s not exactly sure how many, but eventually Meg
gets up to go pee, leaving him alone with his thoughts when a soft knock at the
door startles him.
Castiel tries to stay calm, although he finds himself racing towards the door
in hope that it’s Dean.
Swinging the door open, Cas sees two bright green eyes staring back. He can’t
hide his excitement, and he’s pretty sure he’s grinning like a child in a candy
store. God, I love Meg, Castiel thinks. Castiel can always trust that her evil
plans will come through.
Dean warily smiles back. He looks as handsome as ever, wearing a nice blue
button up; it reminds Castiel of an old western get up. Although, he’s wishing
he could make Dean smile completely; watch how Dean’s youth and happiness
shines through his ear to ear grin. That’s Dean’s best look, not this half
smile.
“You busy?” Dean asks and Castiel can practically see the sarcasm dripping off
him.
“No, not at all,” Castiel answers quickly, “come in.”
He waits for Dean to take a step forward, then Castiel proceeds towards the
couch.
As soon as he and Dean get settled—this time they’re both sitting on the big
sofa, a cushion in-between each other—Meg enters the room. She’s still got on
her damn heels, Castiel thinks she was specifically waiting for this moment to
take them off, because as soon as she plops back down on the loveseat Meg kicks
them across the room like their on fire.
Dean eyes the new addition in the room. And what Castiel said before about
Dean’s best look, well, scratch that, this is definitely Dean’s best look.
Dean’s intense glare only deepens as Meg smiles over at him. It’s pretty funny
seeing Meg get stared down by Dean. You know, Castiel thinks, with him being a
teenager and her being the highly trained, highly lethal spy that she is.
“Dean, this is my good friend Meg.” Castiel explains, hoping to ease some of
the tension, because exhilarating as it is, he does wish for tonight to end
happily.
Dean softens his stare but doesn’t speak. Meg’s still smiling and, by the look
of it, she has something mischievous on her mind.
“Hi Dean, it’s nice to meet you,” Meg sweetly says, too sweetly Castiel thinks,
“Jimmy has told me all about you. I didn’t think we’d be meeting so soon
though! What brings you over tonight?”
Oh damn it, Meg. Make it awkward why don’t you? He inwardly groans. Castiel
doesn’t want Dean to think he’s been gossiping about him, like a twelve year
old girl or something. I mean, Castiel thinks, it was only one kiss, and to a
guy like Dean that’s probably not even noteworthy.
Dean stutters, “I, um, I was just bored. My younger brother’s staying the night
at a friend’s, Dad’s passed out. Just wanted to see what Jimmy was up to.”
“Oh,” Meg gives way to her most demonic smile yet, and Castiel knows this is
going to be disastrous, “I was really hoping you had ‘take Jimmy’s virginity’
on your to do list.”
Dean’s mouth drops. If this was a cartoon, his mouth would be scraping the
floor. I mean—Jesus—Castiel thinks, he trusts Meg not to screw up his life, but
does she honestly have to embarrass the shit out of him the whole time?
Dean actually laughs, well cracks up is more like it.
“Oh honey,” Dean looks at Meg light and flirty for a minute. “That’s at the top
of my list,” Dean adds, lustfully, as his eyes find Castiel.
Meg proudly grins over at Castiel, “Well, I don’t want to interrupt any—you
know—cock sucking that may be going on tonight, so I’m gonna hit the sack. I’ll
take the guest bed tonight.”
And with that, Meg’s heading up the steps. Leaving Castiel here to clean up the
mess she—and well, Dean—just made.
Before he can speak, Dean breaks the silence, “Your friend’s really cool, most
girls freak out about this sort of thing.”
“Two men having sex? That’s nothing to her . . .” He jokes. “I’ve known her for
years, so I doubt there is much I could choose to do to make her hate me.”
Dean parts his lips and lets one of the best smiles yet find his face. Watching
Dean is amazing. Before Dean, Castiel saw all the people here in an orderly
fashion. He arranged their emotions and their facial expressions all into
categories. But with Dean, Castiel can’t. It’s like every time Dean smiles,
there’s a new spark behind it. Every time he glares, Castiel can actually feel
a new heat building inside Dean radiating the air around them.
Before Dean, there was no color, just black and white, but now, everything
Castiel sees is full of life, full of color.
Nervousness thrums through his body as silence once again overtakes the room.
Dean’s looking directly at him, Castiel’s eyes, however, find the floor. He
doesn’t understand how Dean can be so . . . ready. Castiel’s twice his age and
he still feels like his heart is going to burst through his chest. Castiel
feels Dean’s weight start to shift, and he brings his eyes up to find Dean
moving closer. The couch dips under his weight as he settles in. Castiel keeps
his eyes fixed on Dean the whole time.
“You know, we don’t have to do anything if you don’t want to,” Dean says, the
words are calming and smooth, but Castiel’s having problems forming an answer.
Dean throws his thin arm around Castiel’s shoulders and squeezes gently before
he speaks again, “Matter of fact, I wouldn’t mind just sitting here getting to
know you all night.”
Dean’s firmness at his side comforts Castiel, but his words are nothing but
alarming. Sure, Castiel would love for Dean to get to know him, but he’s not
quite sure how that would be possible. Castiel doesn’t want to spend the whole
night lying to Dean, especially when Dean would only be honest in return.
An explanation seems harder, so Castiel pinches his eyelids closed and throws
himself Dean, aiming for his lips. At first, Dean’s smooth lips are pulled
tight and the kiss is awkward, but a few seconds later Dean loosens up and
Castiel thinks it might be the best feeling he’s ever felt. Their lips fit
together in the most wonderful ways, every time Castiel gives, Dean takes.
Dean slides his tongue between Castiel’s pliant lips and interacts with his
scared tongue; Dean bites Castiel’s bottom lip as he pulls back to look at him.
Suddenly, Castiel’s mind is flooding with questions, how many times has Dean
done this? With a ton of girls? And with how many guys? Will he even want to
talk to me after this?
“Can I just ask you a few things?” Castiel asks, out of the blue.
Dean grins and backs off a bit, but keeps his arm looped around as he answers,
“Sure.”
Hesitantly, Castiel asks, “Have you done this a lot? I mean with girls, or
anything?”
Dean removes his arm now, only to lay his head on Castiel’s shoulder.
“I’ve made out with more than I can count, from age thirteen to around my
sixteenth birthday, I got myself in some really bad places, so I couldn’t tell
you the exact number cause I don’t remember,” Dean sighs, and grabs Castiel’s
hand, entwining their fingers as he continues, “but I’ve had sex with nine
girls, it’s not something I’m proud of. And like I said before, I’ve never done
it with a guy, but I’ve have done some sexual things with a few.”
Castiel has to hide his disappointment, because honestly nine? Castiel must be
nothing to him.
“But hey,” Dean adds as he squeezes Castiel’s hand tight, “I’ve never been
sober with any of them, well actually, one of the guys, but still, I’ve never
felt like this. I mean the other night, I just, I couldn’t stop myself. I kept
telling myself to stop because it was going to end in disaster, but I couldn’t
stop—I had to.”
Noticing how Dean looks at Castiel’s lips as he says this, he takes his first
turn at squeezing Dean’s hand.
Dean lets go, and before he can even process what’s happening, Dean’s jumped on
top of Castiel and is straddling his legs. Castiel instantly blushes, realizing
that Dean can probably feel his erection.
He cradles Castiel’s head in hands and gazes into his eyes. At first, Castiel
thinks he sees lust again, but quickly he realizes it’s something else,
something softer.
“You are so amazing, Jimmy. Everything about you. I know it’s crazy because I
just moved in the other day, but as soon as I saw you I was so strongly
attracted to you. And when I heard your voice, I knew it was something I could
listen to for hours. Then that night, I felt like I finally got to know you,
and I liked you even more . . . and I thought that since you rejected me, you
didn’t feel the same. But now I see that you were just scared.”
Dean calls him Jimmy, and Castiel wants to scream right then, ‘fucking call me
Castiel please’ but he knows he can’t, because then Dean would want answers. So
Castiel ignores it, and focuses on Dean’s others words.
Before he can reply, Dean swoops down and places a chaste kiss on Castiel’s
lips, “We never have to be scared again, okay? Let’s just be honest.”
Honest. Castiel cringes. He can’t just be honest, however much he wants too.
Johnny proved that for every KGB officer. Being honest, even for love, gets you
nowhere but dead.
Castiel feels so selfish, letting Dean fall for Jimmy, letting Dean think he’s
kissing Jimmy, when really Castiel is a mere stranger to Dean.
But Castiel wants.
Oh god, does he want.
The feel of Dean’s legs cocooning his own, the added weight from Dean’s body,
the chill of Dean’s hands on his neck, and the taste of Dean lingering on his
lips is a whole new high. A whole new emotion. And Castiel, suddenly, doesn’t
care about being selfish.
He grips Dean’s waist and flips their positioning, sending a surprised Dean
into the soft cushions.
-D-
There is something new about it this time. It’s the way Jimmy feels on top of
him, heavy and hot, completely wanton in a way Dean’s never made anyone before.
Shamelessly licking the thick line of his red lips, inches away from Dean’s
own. Jimmy’s fluttery set of lashes, dark and thick just like his hair, aren’t
doing much to hide the emotions flickering through Jimmy’s hooded eyes either.
Sure, Dean’s had some boys drooling over him, but this, God, this is different.
Jimmy is different. Dean can feel the want sparking the air around the other
man, bordering on need, and he can’t do a thing but surrender under its power.
Jimmy kisses him then, perfect and messy, like he can read Dean’s mind. Like he
was waiting for the exact second that Dean would give in. Jimmy kisses him
fiercely, and Dean can tell that the other hasn’t had much practice, but style
doesn’t matter right now. No, God no. Dean already knows this event is going to
be better than any that’s come before it. Dean can’t tell what it is exactly
that’s making these new feelings buzz beneath his skin. It could be the way
Jimmy’s solid weight is pressing him into the cushions, letting Dean feel the
heavy mass on top of him, and showing Dean bulks of hard muscles he never even
knew existed. Or, it could be the way Jimmy’s thick shadow of stubble is
lightly scratching Dean’s cheek with each of his needy advances to lick his way
further into Dean’s mouth, making Dean moan out loud like a friggin’ whore or
something, and nothing like the tickle of thin stubble he’s used to feeling.
But it’s probably both of those things, combined with the way Jimmy’s pawing at
Dean’s shirt--just pawing, not making any move to tear it off, just needing it
like a happy fucking kitten--and moaning into Dean’s mouth right back.
And, suddenly, it’s too much. Dean realizes he’s panting and sweating - notices
that they both are. And Dean’s not going to just lay here and let their first
time together--Jimmy’s first time ever, he reminds himself--to be short lived,
and he is definitely not going to let them cum in their pants like teenagers or
something. So, he breaks the kiss, and latches on to Jimmy by grabbing to the
messy tuffs that’s become the back of Jimmy’s head somehow. Dean tugs lightly,
and Jimmy breaks the kiss to look down at him, confused little knit playing
along his brows. Dean can’t help but smile, remembering back to just a few days
ago when Jimmy showed up at their doorstep.
“Less clothes,” Dean huffs out as an explanation, watching as Jimmy’s brows
unfurl themselves in understanding.
“Yes. Right,” He grins, eyes roaming the expanse of Dean’s body beneath his
own. Then, growling in a completely new tone, he shocks Dean by hissing out,
“God, yes.”
Jimmy quickly takes care of his own shirt first, and Dean’s whole body,
unwillingly, heats at the sight of firm muscles that make up the other man’s
torso. And Dean has all of two seconds to wonder, how the hell has he been
hiding those puppies, before Jimmy’s hands are finding Dean’s shirt and pulling
it off of him in the same rushed manner.
Then, its the kissing again, wet and wonderful. This time their skin rubs
together, quickly slicking up the skin in between both of their sweating forms,
and Dean’s already about to burst again. So, he quickly fumbles with his own
jeans, inching them down past his waist, and does the same for Jimmy’s suit
pants. They both groan loudly as he does this, watching how Jimmy’s cock
springs free from the confines of his boxer briefs - red and dripping,
practically aching for release. Then Jimmy snaps, completely fucking debauched,
and gives a strangled moan as warning as he latches down, falling on Dean’s
hips, and fucking grinding.
They don’t start kissing again, but Dean doesn’t care about that. Not when
Jimmy’s head lays right next to his, and Dean can see the way his eyes are
screwed shut, and hear every dirty sound that’s falling from his lips. Nor,
does his body seem to care that this is probably the awkwardest attempt at sex
he’s ever had. Well, with Jimmy rutting on top of him, and their cocks barely
touching--Jimmy seems to like how Dean’s pubes feel, rather than his cock--but
Dean likes it. God help him. It’s still so fucking good. So much fucking
better.
Dean’s about to make an attempt at licking his hand, and taking them both in,
stroking them to climax, but Jimmy has different ideas, and right as Dean
begins to move his arm, Jimmy squeezes his sides, crying out. His body
stuttering above Dean as he cums. Dean watches as Jimmy finishes off, just from
the friction of their dry skin alone, and groans, continuing his rutting
against Jimmy, even as the other man falls pliant--and rather heavily--on top
of him. And he’s fucking humming. Again, like a fucking cat.
But Dean can feel the smeared mixture of Jimmy lining their stomachs, and cums
not five seconds later, letting out an embarrassingly high pitched groan.
The room is silent for a while, the only signs of life being their sounds of
heavy breathing, until Jimmy lets out a loud snort--with eyes still closed--and
asks, “Did you just squeak?”
“Shut it, I’m not the one purring right now, am I?”
-C-
Castiel just had sex. Well, not real sex, obviously. But a type of sex all the
same.
And sex, well, it's completely fucking wonderful. He now understands what the
big deal is, and he really just wants to cry. He can’t move either, he’s stuck,
completely blissed out and laying ontop of Dean’s warm form.
He couldn’t stop smiling right now if someone offered him a hundred dollars.
Castiel looks to Dean, who’s smiling as well, but also looking a bit
breathless. So, Castiel maneuvers them around so they’re beside each other on
the couch. Their bodies pressed together at every angle. Castiel can feel from
Dean’s toes, to the soft hair on his thighs, to the mess of cum on his belly,
to the lean form of his breathing chest. But their faces don’t touch, they’re
just inches apart, and Castiel stares into Dean’s eyes, wondering what the hell
he’s going to do now.
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