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"Are you fucking kidding me," Dean says into his phone, eyes still locked with those of his—apparently—former quarry.
"What, I thought you'd be happy the case is over," Sam shoots back, completely oblivious to Dean's situation on the other end of the call. Sam's voice crackles through the poor backwater phone reception, but that's definitely Sam, loud and clear. "It was a crime of passion, she turned herself in, we're done here."
"But," Dean says, only to stop when Sam doesn't immediately interrupt him.
Because Dean, Dean has no argument.
"Yeah, fine, see you back at the motel," Dean sighs before hanging up.
The incubus he's been staring at, keeps staring right on back at him.
"I told you it wasn't me," says the incubus. Castiel. His name is Castiel. "This is racial profiling."
"Okay, yeah, but," Dean tries to say. "Can you seriously tell me you don't get why 'I'm a virgin' is a really weird alibi for an incubus to have?"
Castiel's glare turns sharper. The set of his jaw grows ever harder.
As does Dean's dick, but unobtrusively.
Making a show of slowly putting his weapon away, along with his phone, Dean forces himself into damage control mode. "It was a surprise, and I'm sorry. We thought our suspect was targeting slutty jerks in general, and they were all offed through-"
"I know how they died," Castiel interrupts, standing ominously tall despite lacking a few inches on Dean. Castiel takes an additional moment or two before putting lowering his shotgun, the sort that's hardly out of place on a farm like this. "I also know that I don't have to take your suspicious or your mockery."
As if this is Castiel's very specific hill he's ready to die on, his headstone carved and grave dug already, Castiel answers, "I'm not ashamed to be a virgin, Agent."
"Okay, but-" Dean catches himself. "A, call me Dean. Two, I'm not making fun. I'm just confused how you're alive. Not starved."
"I'm a chicken breeder," Castiel says. After a small pause, he gestures to their surroundings, as if the faint but insistent clucking and chirping from the buildings wasn't a hint.
"I didn't know incubi could live on poultry," Dean counters, knowing for a fact that they can't.
For the first time, this specific incubus shoots Dean a dirty look, and not the sexy kind. "We consume the energy released at climax. We don't need to be party to that climax, only present."
Realization fighting against gravity in order to preserve sanity.
"You eat chicken orgasms," Dean says.
"Obviously," Castiel says, as if this is a normal and expected source of nutrition.
Eyebrow quirked, Castiel waits for Dean to continue, clearly already convinced Dean won't.
"How is that not weird for you," Dean says.
Frown somehow deepening, Castiel replies, "You're asking me why it isn't 'weird' for me to eat the product of chickens having sex."
"Phrasing it that way isn't making it any better, but yeah. I guess so, yeah."
"You do realize that the act of eating chicken is you eating the product of chickens having sex? It simply takes longer and involves killing an animal first for you."
Like a frozen rubber band, Dean's mind attempts to stretch around his concept before fraying, breaking, and snapping back on him in a mental assault.
Again, Castiel waits for Dean's reply.
This time, Dean doesn't have one.
He absolutely does not have one.
Clearly concluding that he has broken Dean, Castiel says, almost gently, "Would you like to see the chicks?"
"I... Y'know what. Why not. Why the hell not."
Fifteen very surreal minutes later, Dean stands inside one of the buildings—is it a barn, are they all barns?—with a tiny piece of fluff cuddled up inside his cupped hands. The little tiny feet are weird, but the baby bird huddles under his thumbs, soft and content.
"Are you feeling better?" Castiel checks, as if he has any cause at all to care about Dean's state of being.
"I think so," Dean replies. "It's weird as hell, though."
"It's just, when we decided to use me as slutty manwhore bait on this case, this is not how I figured I'd be picking up chicks."