A/N: So this is actually two separate drabbles that I posted on tumblr in the past couple of days. My sn is the same over there, so if you've seen this before, it was probably (hopefully geez) me. Since they are the same verse and both at the bar, I decided to couple them for here. They aren't necessarily on the same night or anything tho. Also, I do not have a beta so all mistakes are my own. Please enjoy. :)

Disclaimer - I do not own Supernatural and I make no money from this.


Dean likes bars. He always has. Go out, have a few drinks, get lost in a crowd that doesn't know the terrible things you've done or how horrible you are as a person. That's Dean's ideal night. He loves the anonymity – that he could be anyone here around strangers. Some nights he likes to pretend he's a fireman, just off-duty but always on call. Other nights, he's an elite chef traveling around the country to find new ingredients because, yeah, okay, Dean Winchester likes to cook.

Very rarely is Dean himself. Though tonight, with a confused yet curious Castiel sitting beside him, Dean finds it much easier to lose the tough mask that so often disguises him. He pats Castiel on the back, accidentally spilling the fallen angel's beer onto that brown trench coat, and Dean laughs when a blue-eyed glare is cast his way. The look softens when Dean laughs; Cas never stays mad at him for long.

Castiel sips the foam off the top of his glass. His gaze shifts in suspicion as Dean stretches, but instead of more jostling, Dean simply slides his arm around the back of Castiel's chair and leaves it there.

A hint of mischief curls Castiel's lips, and he leans back. Dean's surprised how easy it is to let his arm move forward onto coat-covered shoulders.

Castiel smiles into his beer. Dean just smiles.


Dean was only in the bar's bathroom for two minutes and sixteen seconds – tops. Apparently that had been time enough for some jack to steal his seat and lean into Castiel's space like he belonged there. Um, excuse you, but Castiel's space is Dean's space and not some random dickwad's. Cas and Dean share this thing called a profound bond. Dean bets this stranger hasn't heard of it.

Dean can't hear what they're saying, but he doesn't need to. Castiel shrinks away from the guy who just keeps moving closer. The fallen angel glowers at him. He'd probably smite him if he had any grace left.

When the guy's arm wraps around Castiel's shoulders, gripping that brown trench coat between his grubby fingers, Dean's walk picks up into an ungraceful trot. Social propriety be damned; Dean isn't about to stand there gaping while some jerk gropes his angel, fallen or not.

"Come on, beautiful," the man says with a smirk and a leer. He looks like he wants to eat Castiel up with a spoon and some whipped cream. Every nerve in Dean's body bristles.

"No, thank you," Castiel says, infuriatingly polite. Dean wishes Cas would just punch the guy.

"Come on," the man says again, like a new emphasis will change everything.

Before Castiel can reply again, Dean finally arrives at his side. He takes the fallen angel's hand in his and, keeping his glare on the imposing jerk, places a soft kiss onto each one of Castiel's fingertips.

"Dean." Castiel smiles with obvious relief. "There you are."

"Hey, babe," Dean says. He growls "mine" into the corner of Castiel's palm when he leaves a kiss there. "Miss me?"

"Yes," Castiel replies. Pleasure blooms in Dean's chest at the simple admission.

Castiel takes one of Dean's hands into both of his and mirrors Dean's affections, brushing his lips across each of Dean's calloused fingers.

"Cas," Dean says in a sharp breath when Castiel murmurs "mine" into his palm.

Somewhere beyond their world of two, the stranger retracts and moves on. Dean doesn't really notice when it happens, only that it does. The offending arm disappears and Dean replaces it with his own, removing any lingering trace of that stranger.

Dean rests his forehead on Castiel's, and a simple smile passes between them.

3.3.13