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"Well, pardner, I reckon it's time to ride off into the sunset." Marianne propped her elbow on Castiel's cubical countertop. "You wouldn't wanna hang 'round here like a hair on a biscuit."
Castiel hid a chuckle. "You're a credit to the cowboy way."
"Me? I'm not the one who strolled in here this morning dressed for the rodeo." Marianne had chosen to wear a jersey and shorts and spent the entirety of the office costume contest at lunch throwing a basketball at their coworkers' heads.
"Yes, well." Castiel didn't have any good excuse for having spent actual money on a western themed ensemble, complete with hat and boots, bolo and belt buckle, other than that blending in with the corporate culture seemed useful if he was going to be amongst humans for forty hours a week.
Technically, he'd been amongst them for thousands of years, but only in the last two years had he needed to make rent money.
His costume wasn't uncomfortable, or at least not more so than his regular wardrobe, so it was only his footgear he changed at the park, swapping out the cowboy boots for his usual hiking boots. (He left on the hat because it was the time of year when spiders were stretching webs across every available space.) He was on the shortest of the trails within minutes of leaving work, and looking up through the canopy of oaks and beechnut he could finally take a deep breath. Blue skies up there, as clear as emerald-cut topaz. The woods smelled like dried leaves and mushroom mustiness. A jay was squawking as it dove to chase off a starling; gray squirrels raced back and forth across the underbrush, ferrying around walnuts and acorns for their winter stockpile.
It was less lonely, in the trees.
Castiel walked the first trail while stopping to pick his own pantry staples and place them in the sturdy softback cooler he carried: several cups' worth of tart crabapples for jam; two handfuls of pecans almost as big and green as key limes; spicebush berries to add to an apple pie recipe he'd found that sounded promising.
He didn't like most foods and had no real use for them; he'd learned to like apples. It felt fitting, for an angel -- quince were more Biblically accurate, yet harder to come by locally.
The sun wouldn't set for another hour. He crossed over the playground by the largest picnic shelter and set to climbing the first rooty hill of the park's longer trail. Deep within the trees he could hear kids' cheerful screams down on the swingsets and someone's dog alerting everyone to the persistent terror of chipmunks.
Another hiker was somewhere behind him. Being followed, even accidentally -- as surely it was, since no-one knew or cared he was there -- made him anxious, and he sped up. The trail, damp from recent rain, ran unevenly along the stream that fed the creek that meandered along the edge of the park. He didn't need to be careful of slipping.
He could not, he thought, fall any further than he already had.
The season's last jewelweed, in bright dappled orange and corn yellow colors, had captured his attention near a bend in the stream, when he heard an extremely loud curse word ring out.
That single swear was followed by more of the same, only in a quieter and more desperate tone.
The string of expletives -- "Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuckfuckfuckmotherfuck" -- led him back to a higher part of the trail above the stream bed. At first, Castiel didn't see the man clinging to the embankment that had given way: he saw the blood blooming in the murky water below.
Castiel's true form had not knocked against the barrier of his human vessel in many, many years. The human whose face he wore had been gone nearly as long, and he'd thought himself acclimated to this diminutiveness. He concentrated fiercely to make his senses fan out and show him the man's leg, the jagged femur speared through skin and shining with blood, the man's ghostly pallor, sweat shining at his throat as his body slipped into shock. Castiel's strong, enormous wings unfurled without his even having to think about it, and in an instant he was gathering the man up from the muddy crags as gingerly as he could.
When he had carried the man up to the path -- a blink of an eye stretched to infinity -- and laid him down, Castiel cradled the man's head in his palms, touched his forehead to his and prayed healing fire into the broken body he held. He could feel the huge bone being reknit and set right, skin closing; new blood welled up fast and clean in the stitched artery. He could feel the man's memories like leaves drifting downward in amber, emerald, and ochre hues, except… Also pain. Also violence and fear. Grief. He could feel the man's soul, its impossible density and depth of kindness; bruises, bites, cuts, strength born from loss; love that filled it to brimming over, spilling through Castiel's fingers like silken ribbons.
It felt, Castiel thought, the way a sunset appeared at an ocean's horizon, molten copper and gold flowing ever outward over unceasing waves. He had never held anything as addictively pure, and it was nothing but agony to release the soul back into the man's singular possession.
The man gasped and promptly passed out.
While the man was unconscious, Castiel whisked away the blood, dirt, and sweat coating him and his clothing and did the same for himself. Then he staggered backwards, his wings pulled back to the angelic plane, his awkward human limbs wobbly and weakened. He caught the trunk of a young nearby elm and sat on a mossy patch, panting.
There was a duffel bag spilt open several feet away. The man's, he guessed, and forced himself to drag it over and rummage through it. He found a smartphone and had just enough mojo left to override its requirement for a passcode. The one number the man seemed to call repeatedly was for someone named Sammy.
"What's up, Dean?" the voice answered.
"Hello," Castiel said, trying to sound sane, calm, and as though he wasn't about to lose consciousness. "Dean has been injured."
"Who is this?" the voice demanded. "Where the hell--"
"He slipped, but he'll be fine. Are you Sammy? We're at Silver Park, just off of Flint Street. Do you know it?”
The voice hesitated. "Let me talk to my brother. Now."
A voice that brokered no argument. An icy, dangerous voice.
Castiel squared his shoulders like someone was evaluating his performance. He was no longer at risk of fainting. "Your brother is fine and will be waiting down by the Stuart Lodge."
"I'll be there in thirty. If you've hurt him, so help me--"
Castiel punched the disconnect button, then turned off the phone and tossed it back in the duffel.
The man's hands stirred, scratching lightly at the dirt path.
"Hello, Dean," Castiel said. He crawled to his side and touched his shoulder.
As Dean's eyes fluttered open, Castiel realized he'd seen him before at the park. Multiple times, even. Seen him in the distance, ahead or behind him on trails, or sitting at the one of the picnic tables or on the hood of a large black car. A handsome man, always dressed like he might decide to camp out in the woods for a week. A man who smiled at children and gave french fries to squirrels and sometimes tapped his feet to music playing through the car's windows.
A man who'd waved at Castiel from across the grassy knolls or trail meadows once or twice, like their both being at the park often meant they knew each other, something shy in the way he held up his hand though Castiel would've wagered he was rarely socially nervous otherwise.
Dean's irises were as green as sea glass, his eyes framed with dark lashes. Castiel could sense him taking a deliberate pause between focusing on him and speaking.
"Howdy," Dean said finally. He did not look away when he smiled small and private, like he trusted Castiel would get the joke.
It was probably one of the only ones Castiel would've gotten, in truth. With relief he said, "Your brother will be here shortly."
"Who are you?" Dean asked, starting to sit up with a bitten-off groan.
"My name is Castiel." He let Dean grip his forearm for leverage. "How are you feeling?"
Dean looked at him and Castiel realized they were crowded together most closely. "Pretty okay for someone who was about to bleed to death in the world's dumbest accident." His gaze kept drifting all over Castiel's face, like he was trying to memorize it.
Castiel tried not to blush, and maybe didn't succeed. "People can get hurt doing the simplest things."
Humans were hideously breakable, he'd learned. Fragile as thinnest china sometimes.
Dean kept staring. And staring.
"Aside from cattle wrangler," he asked, "what are you?"
Castiel went still.
Dean waited.
"You're a hunter," Castiel said. It wasn't a question.
"Yeah."
Castiel spoke as plainly as he could. "I'm an angel."
He could almost see the thoughts flying through Dean's mind like shrapnel.
"Didn't think," Dean said, "there was any such thing."
Castiel raised his chin. "There is."
He could've compelled belief; it was better that Dean seemed to come to it on his own.
Dean's eyes softened. He had fifty-seven freckles across the tops of his cheeks and bridge of his nose. Castiel was flooded with gratitude that there was still light enough under the canopy to see such freckles by.
Neither of them spoke for a minute, caught up in the stare Castiel didn't know how to break free of. A flush had crept its away across Dean's face and down his throat. Castiel had to curl his hand to keep from tracing the heat of it with his fingertips.
"Guess I should mosey on outta here," Dean drawled, that smile playing on his mouth.
"I'm not usually dressed like this," Castiel blurted.
Dean's smile grew wider. "Yeah, I know." He looked away, shaking his head, and looked back, something inexplicably fond in his eyes. "Help me up?"
"Oh. Of course." Castiel stood first, legs thankfully less shaky, and grabbed up Dean's hands.
Dean stood and steadied himself but didn't, Castiel noted, let go.
"All right?" Castiel asked.
"It's getting darker, right? I'm not going blind?"
"Nighttime is real." Castiel gently, if reluctantly, pulled his hands out of Dean's. "Wanna follow me down to the lodge?"
Dean nodded. "That isn't my bag." He pointed at the cooler Castiel had thrown off between a splintery log and a stand of wild phlox before going over the edge to rescue him.
"Yes, that one is mine. Thanks." Castiel picked up his belongings.
Dean fetched his duffel.
They stood looking at each other for another moment. Castiel surrendered first, beginning the backtrack to the start of the trail. He'd gone no more than five or six steps before looking back.
The trail wasn't less damp or root-tricky than it had been. He held out his hand.
Dean took it and held on until they'd picked their way all the way back down.
The park would close in less than an hour. Castiel's hand felt very empty again as he walked beside Dean towards the lodge and the pickup truck parked by its rental info sign.
A tall man sprang out from the driver's side.
"I'm fine, Sam," Dean said before his brother could say a word.
"What the hell, man, you scared me to death." Sam took the duffel away from Dean and tossed it in the truck. "Mushroom hunting, my ass."
"I'm drivin' out of here, dude. Give me back my bag."
Sam glared at Dean. "We're gonna crash at the motel -- I'm driving us there -- and we'll come back for Baby in the morning."
Dean glared back. "If she gets towed--"
"Shut up," Sam said. He turned to Castiel and did a double-take at Castiel's hat. With some effort, he said, "Thank you for calling."
The flipped-on politeness would've thrown Castiel if it hadn't seemed so sincere.
"It was no trouble." Castiel shifted his cooler to his other shoulder. To Dean he said, "Many of the mushrooms that grow in this park are poisonous. Or at least, there would be unpleasant side effects if you chose to ingest them."
Dean gave him a long look. "Good to know."
"Well," Castiel said. He didn't have any other reason to linger. His chest ached, probably from the earlier exertions. "It was nice to meet you, Dean. Hope you have a restful evening."
He started walking towards his own car well on the other side of the jungle gym. The achy feeling increased alongside a sharp cold breeze that had been kicked up by the dwindling daylight.
"Cas. Hey, Cas!"
It took him a second to realize the name being called was a truncation of his own.
By the time he'd turned around Dean was bounding up to him, the absolute picture of health.
Castiel's powers hadn't completely left him; he allowed it to be a comfort.
"Wanted to see what you were doing tomorrow." Dean spoke like they were old pals, like they routinely met at the park and hiked through the trees together, foraging foodstuffs and talking friendly. "If you'll be in town." His bravado faltered a little and he watched his feet scuffing the parking lot pavement.
"I was going to bake an apple pie," Castiel said, as easily as anything, his stomach lifting as Dean's head rose and his eyes snapped to Castiel's. "Except, I've never made one before."
"I've made one or two," Dean said, stepping nearer.
"Any tips?" Castiel cleared his throat. "Or would you be willing to--"
"Yes," Dean said, quick as anything.
"You don't owe me--"
"Yeah, no, I know." He bounced on the balls of his feet a couple of times. "But you should know I make excellent apple pie. And I would be happy to help."
"Give him your fucking number already," Sam called from the truck.
"You can just pray to me," Castiel said without thinking that through.
Dean gaped at him. "I…will do that," he said slowly. "Tomorrow afternoon?"
Castiel resisted the urge to rub at his own blushing. "That will be fine."
Dean smiled their private smile again. "Good night, Cas."
Castiel let himself smile back, let himself hope. "Good night, Dean."