Beat The Devils Tattoo

Chapter2

Chapter 2 oath and covenant

Sam quietly eased the door of the mudroom shut, listening to the house around him. There were no sounds, and so when he toed off his boots and hung up his jacket and keys, all he felt was relief. Coming in at 10 AM wasn't going to win him any favors with Dean, especially since he was such a wreck at the moment. And Sam was a wreck as well, granted, but nowhere near as bad as Dean was.

He walked into the kitchen, and froze when he saw Dean sitting at the table, calmly looking at him with hard eyes. He felt pinned, and it was all he could do not to bolt.

"How's the whore?" he asked, his voice pure ice.

Sam's skin crawled, and not for the first time he remembered that Dean outranked even the oldest members of the club for a reason.

"Fine," he said stiffly, but his voice was small. "She's fine."

Dean smiled, his teeth flashing dangerously. "Good. How about you sit down and I'll make some breakfast."

"Sure," Sam said cautiously, walking over and sinking into his seat. "Uh. Dean. I wasn't at Ruby's last night?"

"Oh?" Dean stood up, padding over to the refrigerator and fetching out eggs. He looked mostly innocent right now, like every other 26 year old man. Sweats, loose and gray, and a comfortable black t-shirt were all he was wearing, and if Sam didn't know that Dean was a master at Krav Maga, then he would consider him almost delicate. "Where were you then?"

"Andy's," Sam admitted, and watched the tension slide from Dean's shoulders. Andy may have been a weed smoking, fast talking little fiend, but he wasn't Ruby and that was the important thing to take away from this. Sam let out a silent breath of relief as Dean cracked eggs into the skillet, quietly humming. Dean was a good cook, and when he was in a good mood he made almost pornographically good food.

The sound of feet on the stairs started him, and he jerked his head up to see none other than Castiel Novak sleepily stumbling down them, rubbing at his eyes. He looked like hell, his jeans shabby and torn up, his Henley full of holes. He was thinner than Sam remembered, his hair shaggier. His face was banged up as well, and when he saw Sam he froze, clearly trying to decide whether or not to bolt.

"Sit down, Cas," Dean rumbled as he grated cheese into the skillet. "Breakfast should be done soon."

Castiel and Sam kept up their staring contest, but Castiel slowly stepped off the last stair into the kitchen and reluctantly walked over to the table. Dean's eyes followed him for a moment, narrowed, as if trying to firmly insist that he sit down. Castiel did, and the two stared at each other.

"So," Sam said awkwardly when the silence stretched too thin. "You're, uh. Back in town."

"I am," Castiel agreed, his voice deeper than when he left. "You got tall."

"I did," Sam agreed. "I was what...5'6" when you left?"

"Something like that."

They stared again, and were only interrupted when Dean slammed plates onto the table. "Dig in," he said gruffly. "I'm going to work on the bacon." He stumped back over to the stove, muttering under his breath about stupid brothers and hair and possibly something about the color orange. Sam and Castiel exchanged eye brow raises, and shrugged, digging in. The food was good, after all, and while Sam knew his body would be throwing a fit later for all the cheese after he ate some of the leftover funeral potatoes for lunch, he couldn't quite give it up. Dean's cooking wasn't something to be taken lightly, after all, and he rarely made full meals anymore. He had too much work to do with the club, and more often than not they ate in the bar rather than at the house.