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The first time Dean met Castiel was at a wedding.
Dean stood at the back of the room with a glass of champagne in his hand and watched people dance.
He didn't like champagne very much. In fact, he didn't like it at all. But, as the best man, he was required to have at least one glass since it was the 'classier choice'. He'd promised, because this was an important day and he had to make an effort. It was okay though, he'd already bribed one of the caterers to set aside some beer for him in the fridge, he'd go get it once he finished this awful glass of champagne. Why any drink should be held in a glass he could easily crush in one hand was beyond him. But, of course, it was classier that way.
Don't get him wrong, Dean was happy his brother was happy, but he couldn't help but wish it was his new sister in law who had insisted on flower arrangement larger than his torso at every table and twinkling lights and classy champagne. No such luck. Sam got engaged to a fire cracker of a woman and then hyperventilated for four months while planning the ceremony, and who did he come to complain to when the chair cover-people sent him saffron instead of mikado yellow? Dean, that's who.
In the end, the chair covers turned out amber, the flower arrangements ended up 'overshadowing the bridesmaid dresses', the band had ties instead of bow-ties, Dean misplaced the rings (but seriously, only for, like, six minutes. Eight, tops), and Sam had never been happier.
Dean smiled into his disgusting glass of champagne as Sam embarrassed himself on the dance floor to swing music while his wife and her very large family watched.
"I enjoyed your speech."
He started and almost spilled his champagne. The previously empty spot of wall next to him was suddenly occupied by a guy roughly Dean's age, with dark hair and blue eyes. Dean vaguely recalled seeing him during various wedding-party relates crises over the last few months. He had mostly looked terrified by the whole ordeal, and, well, Dean could relate to that.
He cleared his throat, "huh, yeah, thanks."
There was a pause as the stranger gazed, unblinking, at him.
"I didn't write most of it." He added.
"It sounded very heartfelt." The man commented. His voice was far deeper than his face would have anyone believe, and Dean definitely blamed the champagne for the warmth in his stomach.
"Yeah, well…" He made a vague gesture with his glass in the general direction of Sam, who seemed to be initiating a conga line.
This particular guest didn't seem the dancing type. He was, after all, standing in a corner with the best man, rather than joining in.
There was another pause. Dean cleared his throat again. The man looked ruffled, like he'd been fidgeting. His suit jacket was nowhere to be seen. The sleeves of his white shirt were wrinkled and the top few buttons undone. Dean's gaze lingered on the end of a collarbone and the tendons of his throat. His vest had creases like he'd never heard of an iron and his hair looked like he'd been running his fingers through it – Dean wouldn't mind running his fingers through it –, but he stood very straight and very still, so silent it seemed like he was barely breathing. Calm, collected, in control, boring things like that.
"My cousin made it clear that I was to introduce myself to you." The man stated.
Dean waited for a beat. "Okay?"
"I am Castiel." He stretched out a hand.
Dean switched his glass to his left hand and shook it, "Dean. Nice to meet you."
"You too."
Castiel had very, very blue eyes.
--
The first time Dean met Castiel was at the garage where he worked.
Dean liked working on cars. He liked it, and he was very, very good at it. Sam was always on him to get a college degree, or at least a GED, but Dean never bothered. He wasn't ambitious in the same way his brother was, never had been. While Sam was fighting his way through law school to be able to make a difference in the world and help people, Dean was doing work he liked that payed the bills. He couldn't imagine ever needing more than that.
The little old ladies with cars that broke down no matter how much you fixed them up made it quite clear that he was a hero to them, and there were worse things to be. Besides, there was nothing quite like the sound of a healthy engine, and knowing he fixed it.
He was leaning over an early sixties Ford Mustang that afternoon. It was one of the perks of the job; in between the Toyota Yaris' and the rusty jeeps, a good old american classic would come through for him to get his hands on. He would never tell his boss, but he always took just a little extra time on those. Not enough that the customers would ever notice, but enough to let him sigh over beautiful machinery for a little bit longer.
This particular specimen had a problem with the fuel injection system. It was an easy fix, or it would have been, if he could just find his damn wrench. He got on his hands and knees and peered under the belly of the car.
"Dean?"
He banged his head against metal. Metal was very hard. The wrench had not ended up underneath the car, and now he had a headache. He rubbed his scalp as he looked up.
A man in a sweater vest (a sweater vest) stood straight-backed in front of a mint green convertible Fiat (a Fiat), looking slightly concerned. He had his hands in his trouser pockets and the material stretched tight over his crotch.
"Yes, please."
"Sorry?"
Dean stopped rubbing his head and stood up. "Yes, hello, sorry about that, didn't hear your car." He took a rag from his pocket and started wiping his hands, "welcome to Singer and sons, how may I help you today?" He flashed a smile.
The man still looked concerned, "is your head alright?"
"Yeah, yeah," he waved a hand dismissively, "I've got a tough shell."
"Yes, I know." the man smiled.
Dean paused in his wiping, "Sorry, have we met?"
He looked confused, "Yes. Yes, I usually– I'm Castiel? We met at your brother's wedding."
Dean wracked his mind, trying to place that ruffled dark hair and that gruff voice, then he slapped a hand to his forehead. "Of course, Castiel, sorry, I'm not usually so bad with faces. Nice to meet you again."
Castiel gave a small smile and a nod. He didn't stop looking concerned.
"Now, I see you drive a Fiat. There's not a god in any religion who can predict what might go wrong with that car, what's your trouble?"
"I– The 'check engine' light is on."
"Alright, we can fix that, bring her 'round and Jimmy will sign you in at the front desk."
Castiel looked confused again, then he took his hands out of his pockets and starting backing towards his car again. "Yes, of course. I mean– You're obviously busy so I'll just go and– yes, I– have a nice day."
"You too." Dean raised a hand. That was one attractive man in one terrible car. He shook his head and turned back to the Mustang.
His wrench lay, in plain sight, among the other tools. Dean scoffed at himself and went back to work.
--
The first time Dean met Castiel was in an ER.
Dean always disliked hospitals. Not because he felt particularly adverse to needles, he could not care less about the smell and the color scheme, and he hadn't been scared of Doctors since he was five. What annoyed him about hospitals wasn't even that they made you wait five hours before they poked at your wrist to tell you it was broken when you clearly already knew that. No, what really ticked him off was that he had to sit those five hours on a hard plastic seat with the only entertainment being a TV playing Dr. Phil and gossip magazines. Really, that was just insensitive.
He tapped his foot, glared at the clock, and sighed heavily.
"Are you in much pain?"
He looked 'round. There weren't many people in the ER. Some teenagers who seemed up to no good, a kid that seemed about eight, looking miserable and tired next to an equally miserable and tired father, two young women, of which one had her foot on a bundled up jacket on an empty seat, arguing heatedly over one of the magazines, and, sitting right next to Dean, a man in a purple button down, black slacks and carefully styled hair, looking worriedly at Dean's swollen wrist.
"Uh, thanks, I'm fine."
The man didn't look particularly injured, but there was something familiar about the way he sat, still as a statue, hands clasped primly on his lap, and he'd definitely seen those eyes somewhere before.
"Hey, you're Castiel, right?"
He looked up at Dean, eyes guarded and uncertain. "Yes." He said, after a long pause.
"Dean. We met at my brother Sam's wedding? You saved me from the conga line?"
Castiel didn't answer, just looked at him, face completely expressionless.
"Wow, okay, never mind, just trying to make small talk." He raised his hands a little and backed off, sinking further down in his seat. That's what he gets for taking Sam's advice and working on his 'nice'.
Now that he thought about it, Castiel had been a little weird at the wedding too, getting very few of his jokes and missing a heap of social cues. Like the ones where Dean was hinting very transparently that he wouldn't mind finding a hallway or a cupboard not so filled with people if-you-know-what-I-mean. It was probably for the best, if that had gotten back to Sam he'd never have been forgiven.
He could see Castiel out of the corner of his eyes, fiddling with what looked like a receipt.
A couple of minutes went by, every second of which Dean was painfully, awkwardly aware of, then Castiel said: "it was a nice wedding."
Dean glanced at him; he was staring resolutely down at the receipt in his hands.
"Sure was," he offered, "unless you had hay fever or disliked any of the way too many shades of yellow."
Castiel smiled, then he chuckled a little, and then he went very still and quiet.
Ten minutes went past in silence. Castiel now and then opened his mouth as if to speak, looking troubled, but never actually said anything. Then a nurse called Dean's name.
"That's me." He stood and smoothed out his dress pants (dress pants?). "See you around, or something." He gave a mock salute with his none-broken wrist and went to meet the nurse.
"Interrupting a date?" The nurse asked.
"What, him? No, I barely know him." Dean frowned.
"Oh," she said, "sorry, I just assumed."
She showed him through the glass doors and he saw Castiel out of the corner of his eye, one hand in a fist on his thigh, the other holding a phone to his ear.
Dude looked damn fine in that shirt. Too bad he seemed a map or two short of being 'all there'.
--
The first time Dean met Castiel was in a grocery store.
Dean loved grocery shopping. He would deny it as vehemently as he denied the porn magazines under his bed as a kid, or the fact that he occasionally listened to Beyoncé (shut up, she was stellar), or that he spent a month agonizing over his Best Man speech before their friends took pity on him and helped him write it. If Sam ever found out, he knew he wouldn't hear the end of it.
After all that time and energy Dean put into messing with him over cake tasting, he couldn't dream of getting away with spending five minutes inspecting different kinds of pasta.
He also couldn't help but take a little pride in the fact that out of the two of them, he was the only one who could actually cook.
When he turned away from the shelf, pleased with this week's taglietelle, there was a man standing by his cart. He started and narrowed his eyes. The stranger looked unashamedly back at him. Dean slowly leaned down and placed the pasta in the cart, not looking away from the man who, incidentally, also did not look away from him.
He straightened up and frowned. The guy was looking at Dean like he was waiting for something.
"Can I help you?" Dean asked pointedly.
The man inhaled sharply and took an abrupt step back, and he didn't look like he was waiting for something anymore, he looked like he had been sucker punched in the stomach.
"Dude, you okay?"
The man lowered his eyes to the floor and quickly shook his head. "I am alright." He said quietly. He didn't seem alright.
Dean shifted his weight from foot to foot. "You sure? You look a little…" He didn't know how to finish that sentence so he just made a vague hand movement of the general 'not good'-variety.
"I am fine, you don't need to worry about me." The man looked up at Dean and then quickly away again, his fists were clenched so hard his knuckles were white.
Dean took a hold of his cart and looked both ways down the aisle. It was a Sunday morning, there were barely any people around, an employee was sweeping the floor by the canned goods. "Are you here with someone?" he asked. He couldn't very well just leave him in the aisle of a Walmart when he looked like he might cry at any moment. The guy also didn't have a cart, nor was he holding so much as a packet of crisps; it seemed like he'd just wandered into the store and decided to stand next to Dean while he picked out his pasta. "Do you need me to call someone?"
For some reason, that made the guy laugh. It was a low, bitter, slightly manic sound, and it hurt to listen to. He dragged both hands through his hair and then rubbed them over his face. "No. No, thank you, that is very kind but I am quite alright. Would you mind very much if I accompanied you to the register?"
He gave Dean a small, teary-eyed smile, and well, Dean was either going to get murdered in the parking lot, or he was going to do a good deed. If he survived, he could always pick up the rest of his shopping another day. "Yeah, sure, that's fine." He nodded, and started pushing his cart toward the front of the store. The man followed at a respectable distance, casting furtive glances at Dean at regular intervals, but not saying anything. Dean unloaded his shopping, flirted with the girl behind the register, and then packed away his steaks, his pasta, his favorite beer, breakfast cereal he had never had before, organic milk he didn't know existed, and caviar. Caviar.
All the while, the strange, sad man stood next to him, looking at Dean like he was waiting for something.
--
The first time Dean met Castiel was in a hospital bed.
It was a very unpleasant experience to wake up and be immediately blinded by the bright, white lights of a hospital room.
It was an even more unpleasant experience to wake up, be immediately blinded by the bright, white lights of a hospital room and then realize he had absolutely no idea why he was there.
He jerked upright, blinking furiously. There was a sharp tug in the crook of his arm and his fingers started scrabbling with the IV before the room had even sharpened into view.
Strong hands gripped his and pulled them away from the IV. A gruff voice spoke close to his ear:
"Dean. Dean, relax. It's okay, I'm here. I'm right here. You're okay."
He didn't know why he was in this room. He felt fine, he was fine, a bit of a headache maybe but he'd just been blinded, it was only reasonable. He shouldn't be here. He had fallen asleep in his own bed, in his own room, he was fine. He stopped trying to tug at his IV and started trying to tug his hands out of the other man's grip instead, he didn't know who this was, or why he was in Dean's hospital room. Why was Dean in Dean's hospital room?
"Dean. Dean, look at me."
He did. The man looking back had short dark hair and blue eyes. Several day's stubble covered his jaw and chin, a bruise was fading to yellow on his cheekbone, and his eyes looked blood-shot and sunken. He looked terrible and he wasn't wearing scrubs or a white coat and Dean had no idea who he was. He yanked his hands out of the man's grip and suddenly they came easily.
"Why the fuck am I here? What's wrong with me?"
The man's jaw tightened and he looked down at his empty hands.
"Do you know who I am, Dean?"
Dean pulled at the sheet constricting his legs to the bed. His heart was pounding in his ears.
"No, I don't fucking know who you are. You're not dressed like a Doctor so you probably shouldn't be here. Why am I here? Why can't I remember what happened? I need to call Sam. Why won't these fucking sheets just come off–!"
Hands were gripping his again.
"Dean. Dean, calm down. You need to calm down or you're going to hurt yourself. Sam is here, he's just getting coffee, he will be right back."
"You know why I'm here– is this some kind of fucked up prank, who put you up to this? Sam? It's not fucking funny." Why wouldn't this guy just let him go.
"Dean!" And that was Sam's voice. Sam was standing in the doorway holding two take-away cups, looking scared and worried and–
Old. He looked older.
"Sam." Dean said. And it was like someone had turned the volume down; his own harsh breaths were only whispers to his ears, he could feel his heart beating in his chest but something was pressing over his head and it was getting hard to focus on Sam and he wasn't getting any oxygen, he could swear he wasn't getting any oxygen–
Sam crossed the room in two long strides, put the coffees on the bed-side table and then he clasped Dean's shoulders in his hands. The other man abruptly let go of him.
"It's okay, Dean. I'm here. You're okay."
"Sam, you look– why am I–" He grabbed his brother's neck with one hand and his fingers got caught in the hair there, and that felt a little better, he could breathe now, since when did Sam have so much hair–
"You're in California. At Mercy General Hospital in Sacramento. You've been here for three weeks."
"No–"
"It's the sixth of February 2014."
No it wasn't. "No it's not." Sam was messing with him. "It's 2011, this isn't funny."
Sam muttered a curse. "I'm sorry, Dean. I'm telling the truth. It's 2014, you're in Sacramento. You came here three weeks ago to let the doctors run some tests–
"No, Sam, what the hell–"
"Look at me. I look different. I'm not lying to you."
He looked older. His hair was hanging in his face and curling at his shoulders. He had wrinkles around his eyes and along his brow. Dean's little brother looked older than him.
"You're telling the truth?"
Sam just looked at him for a moment, eyes serious. Then he said: "Yes." and, since for some reason when his brother looked at him with those honest, brown, puppy eyes he could buy any insane story under the sun, Dean believed him.
White noise filled his ears. He could feel his lips moving but no sound was coming out, he couldn't find his vocal cords, or they weren't working properly.
"It's okay, Dean. I'm right here. I'm right here with you. We're going to figure this out. We're going to get you help. I promise."
At least Sam's voice was the same, he thought to himself. He lost three years of his life but Sam was right here, and if he just didn't look at him he sounded the same and Dean could happily pretend that everything was normal, if he just looked down at his–
There was a scar running across the back of his left hand and he had no idea how he got it– his nails were clean they were never clean– his left forefinger was crooked at the first knuckle like he'd broken it not too long ago–.
He screwed his eyes shut and took several deep breaths.
Eventually, they came a little easier. Eventually, his shoulders relaxed. Eventually, the roaring in his ears subsided into a quiet whirring.
Eventually, Sam let go of him and sat down on the side of his bed.
"Why am I in California?" Oh. There were his vocal cords.
"Every few days you… forget, and I have to be here to explain. When the nurses try, you attack them." Sam answered, and if Dean wasn't mistaken, there was a shade of disapproval hidden in the worry.
"Shit." Dean said and pressed his hands harder into his eye-sockets. "I need a drink."
There was definitely disapproval in the scoff Sam gave then.
"So, who's that guy?" Dean asks, nodding in the general direction of the stranger.
No one answered.
Dean opened his eyes.
Sam was looking at the stranger with such unrestrained pity in his eyes that it seemed to make the air heavy and difficult to breath again, like you might look at an abused puppy left out in the cold and the rain. The stranger was looking at Dean, and that look… well, the last time he'd seen that look; the 'it-hurts-like-fucking-hell-but-I'm-putting-on-a-brave-face-for-you"-look, had been in a mirror. When John had just died, and he'd suddenly been alone with a twelve year old kid brother to take care of.
It hurt something deep inside Dean's chest to see that look on this stranger.
"I am Castiel." He said. "I am your–" he glanced at Sam, who nodded encouragingly. "I'm your boyfriend."
Dean blinked.
"I saved you from a conga line." He said. "You taught me to drive the Impala, because you said it was 'a crime against nature and style for a grown man to drive a mint-green Fiat', and you came to my class for career day, and last year, we went to the Grand Canyon." He took a deep breath. "You call me Cas."
Dean looked at Sam, whose jaw was clenched tight and whose sympathetic look left Cas for a moment to glance at him. He looked at the bruise at Castiel's cheek.
"Did I hit you?" He asked.
Cas' hand flew to the bruise and then faltered. "You didn't mean to."
"But I did."
"Dean, you–" Sam started, but Cas cut him off.
"You forgot me. And I tried to comfort you. I wasn't thinking, I tried to kiss you and– well, you reacted reasonably. Under the circumstances."
There was a pause. The air still felt heavy with Sam's sympathy, and with Cas' sadness, and with Deans deep, deep confusion.
He clenched his hands in the sheets. "This is so fucked up. I just lost three years of my life. In five minutes." A warm hand covered his. Cas looked at it as if he was as surprised as Dean at where his hand had ended up and tried to pull it back but Dean, surprising himself, turned his hand and took a firm hold of Cas' fingers. They felt nice against his, and he'd just lost three years of his life, and if he wanted to hold someone's hand he was damn well going to do just that.
Cas gave him a look of such naked hope that Dean didn't dare regret it. "I'm sorry I scared you." He said.
"I'm sorry I forgot you." Dean mumbled.
"It's okay." Cas answered, "You always remember again."
--
The first time Dean met Castiel was at a wedding.
He stopped halfway up a staircase because he realised he had no idea why he was climbing it. Now, Dean wasn't a lazy person per se but he wasn't going to climb the steep ass stairs to City Hall when he had no reason to. He was pretty sure he didn't have a reason to.
He was also pretty sure he didn't have a reason to be wearing clothes this fancy. He pulled at the neck of his shirt, opening up the first two buttons. These weren't the clothes he'd put on this morning.
"Dean?"
A man wearing dress pants and a blazer under a beige trench coat stood a few steps over him, looking concerned.
"What?" Dean said, and it felt like the perfect word at that moment.
The stranger hurried to his side.
"Look in your left pocket. You will find fifteen cue-cards with your own handwriting on them, read them. Out loud."
His hand went automatically to his pocket, "what are you talking about, who are you?" he looked down and sure enough, a small pile of cue-cards lay in his hand and the topmost one read in his very own carefully formed letters: 'My name is Dean Winchester.'
"Read them out to me." The stranger insisted.
"What is this?"
"Please."
He looked into the stranger's blue eyes.
"My name is Dean Winchester." He read, and the stranger smiled and nodded.
He flipped to the next card.
"I was born on January 24th, 1979 to Mary and John Winchester."
He flipped to the next card.
"Mary died in 1983. John died in 1995– why am I reading this?"
"Please, Dean, you'll understand soon. Keep reading."
"Before I went to sleep, Mary used to say that angels were watching over me."
The cards bent under his clenching fingers. That was a secret, not even Sam knew that. He flipped to the next one.
"I have a brother named Sam Winchester, born on May 2, 1983." Dean read.
He flipped to the next card.
"I accidentally tore his favorite comic book when he was eight. He'd been saving for it for a month. I hid it and never told him." He glanced up at the stranger, who nodded encouragingly again.
"I tell everyone that my first kiss was Annie Cartman from elementary school–" these were not only secrets, they were very specifically the secrets he would never tell anyone. Why was he standing here, reading them out to a stranger in a blazer? "–but really it was David Mitcher who lived next door to us."
He flipped to the next card, and stared at it.
"Dean, read. Out loud."
"Today is July 15th, 2014." He looked up at the stranger's face, "what the fuck is this?"
"Read."
He flipped to the next card, "Today, I'm getting married to Castiel Novak, who has dark hair, blue eyes, a ridiculous trench coat, and who is the most awesome person I've ever met." he stuttered and looked up. Castiel Novak looked steadily back at him.
"Read." He said.
Dean read; "The reason that I don't remember him right now is that six months ago–" he stopped.
A warm hand touched his neck. "It's okay."
"–I was told that I have a brain tumor, located in my hippocampus."
He flipped to the next card.
"With surgery, there's a 50 percent chance of survival." and as the words passed his lips, a sense of deja-vu overwhelmed him. He recognized them – as words he's said before, as words he'd heard, as words he'd written.
He tried to remember hospital rooms. He tried to remember doctors, tests, diagnoses, tears, anger, denial, acceptance. He tried to remember 2012, and 2013, but in the places where those years should be – places that should be filled with cars and family and drinks and laughter and, apparently, a man named Castiel – there was simply empty space. Empty space that pushed against his temples and stretched and contracted and twisted and hurt and tried to find something, but found nothing.
It wasn't like he'd blinked and ended up here. It was like he'd put something down for a second and it had disappeared while he could still feel the ghost of it's presence on his palm.
He tried to remember forgetting.
He didn't read the rest of the cards. He didn't have to. It was clear now why Castiel wanted him to do this out loud: while his brain failed him, his lips and his tongue knew the motions of these sentences. His body recognized them. The empty space in his mind declared them true. He stuffed the cards back in his pocket.
He felt suddenly tired. A bone-deep, aching fatigue.
"So I'm doing the surgery right?" He asked Castiel. His fiancé.
"Yes. For the two seconds when you contemplated not doing it, I thought Sam was going to asphyxiate you."
"Sounds like him."
He didn't know what to say then. What did you say to your fiancé who you couldn't remember ever meeting? A person who stood next to you on the steps to City Hall, dressed to marry you, who knew what you had in your pocket, who knew things you'd never told anyone, who you had declared 'the most awesome', who was gorgeous, who was looking at you like you were the most important thing in the world and who was apparently willing to promise the rest of his life to a ridiculous mechanic who might and might not survive, and who forgot him. What did you say to that person?
"Conga line." He said.
"What?" Castiel asked, and his voice was suddenly high-pitched.
"I don't know, I just–"
"There was a conga line–"
"–the first time we met."
A grin grew slowly on Castiel's face. "Yes, there was."
"I wanted to ask you for a drink."
"You did. Two weeks later."
"Wanna get married?"
"Yes."
As they stood before the official-person-who-gets-to-marry-people in a simple room with a desk and a window facing a brick wall – Sam at Dean's shoulder, grinning like a fool – Dean remembered many things. He remembered laughing so hard and feeling so giddy he stepped in front of a cyclist, fell and broke his wrist. He remembered endless days of sneaking behind the garage and making out like horny teenagers with muffled moans and roaming hands and hot, hot skin. He remembered arguing over whether or not buying organic products really saved the world and giving up. Giving up. He remembered loud music and the sound of an engine and thinking that he was so, so lucky. He remembered feeling scared and wanting and not daring to ask but saying yes, yes, yes. He remembered stubble burn and arguing and dancing and slamming doors and blue eyes and bad TV and good books and nails digging into his back and rings.
He remembered going to the Grand Canyon. Twice.
While he signed the papers, he remembered being in love.
Later, he forgot.