proud husband // dean x ketch // M; dark //  2,8k // AO3

warnings: torture // written for @spndarkbingo square ‘detective au’

_

As he finally pulls up to the driveway, Dean dreams of nothing more than to slide under warm covers next to his husband and not wake up until his alarm goes off in the morning. But that’s not happening—not with the tons of papers he’s still got to go through. Contracts, tax statements, even freakin’ phone bills. It’s the most tedious and annoying kind of work and it’s definitely not what Dean became a consulting detective for.

That’s what happens when the only eye witness of the so-called accident has a little too much loyalty for the perp and won’t let a peep out of his mouth. So Dean has to find something—anything—that will make him talk despite whatever feelings or arrangement they have going on. Even if it takes staying up night after night and ruining his eyesight with miles of tiny print.

Dean’s not terribly worried about the results. CEO snakes like Brady couldn’t function—let alone hoard as much—without a few skeletons in their closets. The only concern is time. The “don’t leave the city” won’t keep Lucifer Shurley grounded forever. And once he’s gone, with his resources, there’s no catching him.

And that’s another unsolved case, another family never seeing justice, only grief.

“I thought you’d be home later,” Dean hears as soon as he enters the living room.

He finds Ketch sitting in his armchair, a glass of scotch in his hand, like he’s been there all day. And he’s telling Dean he’s home too soon, at ten freakin’ pm?

Dean scoffs. “I missed you too,” he says pointedly, lifting his bag full of papers. “I brought work home to spend more time with you, Arthur.”

Ketch rolls his eyes, setting the glass on the table. Right next to a newspaper that looks suspiciously like a prelude to an anonymous threat. Or a preschooler’s homework. One look at his own face on the picture in the carefully cut out article on top tells Dean everything—Ketch is a freakin’ sap who collects all of Dean’s wins.

“You know that’s not what I meant,” Ketch says, reaching forward to take the bag out of his hand. He drops it on the floor, before taking Dean’s hand and bringing him closer. “I’m glad you’re home.” His strong grip moves to Dean’s thighs, long fingers grazing Dean’s ass, pulling him down. “I missed you a ton,” Ketch coos, as the armchair squeaks under their joint weight.

With his knees on both sides of Ketch, Dean leans down to kiss that stupid faux-deadly-serious pout off his face.

“That’s more like it.”

Keep reading