Chapter Text
Her bright red hair is cropped short, and Castiel's thankful, because that's the only way he's going to be able to tell her apart from Anna. Not that he expects to see his sister and his new—well, Charlie—in the same place anytime soon. But with Anna's adamancy on his sticking with the job, maybe he should be more aware of the possibility.
“Right, so we'll find another nametag later, Cas.” Charlie pins a tag to his brand new blue smock-vest. It matches hers right down to the little scuffmark in the corner, but while Charlie's shows her name, his just reads Steve. It's going to make his life a thousand times more confusing, but he doesn't have it in him to explain anything just yet. They think he's bad with faces, so he leaves it at that for now.
“Lookin’ good, Trainee,” Charlie steps back with a grin.
Castiel stares, committing more things about her to memory. She's a little on the short side, maybe just at average, and she tends to bounce on the balls of her feet when she stands in place for too long. The shirt she wears under her vest is a garish neon yellow and he hopes it's a trend. It'll be easier to pick her out of a crowd.
Not that they'll ever have a crowd in the Parker Street Gas-n-Sip.
He doesn't particularly relish the prospect of this new job, but Anna claims it'll be good for his social skills. Castiel doesn't think she quite gets it yet though. Probably hasn't since he was first diagnosed, though it's been nearly fifteen years. But no matter how he dislikes it, it's not like he can sit around watching cartoons with Gabriel all day. Not when the kid is gone to school.
He misses the summer. The days they spent together on the couch or in the tree house in the backyard; the kitten they'd saved from the rain gutter, the ant army they'd rerouted from the garage to the garbage cans. Gabe's easier to read than anyone else, but children usually are.
“You okay there, pal?” It takes a moment to notice that Charlie is, in fact, speaking to him. Her head's cocked to the right as his is to the left and oh, he's spacing out again.
“Fine,” he says, straightening up. He can feel the heat rising on his cheeks and he looks over to the line of coolers where one old lady meticulously looks through the few cartons of eggs they have on hand. He's learned to let that be his go-to response.
“No matter, you'll be a pro by the end of the day,” Charlie announces, pulling an arm over his shoulder and leading him back to the front. They pass by Chuck at the register, hiding behind a legal pad and a sharpie marker. Castiel only knows it's him from the same blue smock. The nametag helps too.
“Now, this is your snack aisle. Remember it well, young padawan. And this right here is your pick me up essentials. Loaf of bread, jars of peanut butter—all the things you can't live without. And over here we have yards upon yards of potato chips...” So on and so on.
Once Charlie's made him memorize the layout of a store he's seen a hundred times, he's made to learn how to man the register. It's a tight fit having all three of them back there and Chuck doesn't say much of anything that's not a mumble to himself, but that's alright. He smells like alcohol and Castiel files that away for future reference.
All in all, Castiel picks up the mechanics of it fairly quickly; it's the talking to actual people part that's got him shaking, as much as he tries to hide it. With each new person, he can't help his tendency to examine, to downright stare. What's worse is that he knows he's doing it, but it's the only way he can cope.
There's the very skinny man with the bulbous nose that he just can't stop looking at long enough to ring up his Gatorade and bag of Doritos. Castiel can't quite tell why the man is smiling so widely and he panics because what if this is someone he knows? He can't just start talking like they're old friends. (“Hello, how is your family? Your mate? Your progeny? Did you have a dog?” No.). He calms, tries to remember that some people are friendlier than others.
“Have a good day, Steve!” The man cheerfully waves.
The panic doesn't subside until he's turned, face no longer visible and conveniently forgotten.
Next comes a round black woman, hair straightened back and pinned with a large red rose. Her clothes are a colorless dark gray, but the corners of her ruby-red lipstick-coated mouth are upturned and... is that a smile? Castiel can't tell unless it's very much pronounced and this woman—he doesn't know what it's supposed to mean.
“Relax, Castiel,” she tells him.
He freezes, wishes Charlie would come back from break. He'd even take Chuck at this point.
“H-have we met?” he asks, his voice cracking. He clears his throat because he's not a teenaged boy anymore and hasn't been in many, many years.
“No, honey. I'm just that good,” she laughs and it's breathy like marshmallow air. Castiel rings up her loaf of bread and when he looks up at her again, it's as though he's looking at a whole new person. The smile is gone, and he can't be sure it was ever really there to begin with. “I'm sure you'll do just fine,” she tells him before she's out the door.
Castiel knows, without a doubt, this is a bad idea.
He's sweating by the midpoint of his shift, completely soaked around the depths of his underarms, and he wishes he'd thought to bring an extra shirt for his locker. It's what he'd done in high school, and then in college sans locker, and finally the few months he'd worked as a librarian before deciding people simply aren't for him.
“How's it going, Steve?” Either Charlie's joking or she's forgotten the name on his tag isn't really his. Her mouth is upturned at the corner, but it's so subtle that Castiel doesn't know what to make of it. He frowns and stares and she slaps his shoulder. “Relax, Cas. You wanna head on to break for a while? I can cover the register.”
Sweet Heaven above, as Hester might say in exasperation. Castiel isn't able to tell his sisters apart by their faces, but he reads all too well their voices and personalities. And hair—all three have different colors—though he had been more than confused the summer Hannah cut hers from waist-length to a short pixie-bob.
Castiel nods briefly at Charlie and maneuvers out from behind the counter, leaving her behind. He heads straight for the outside world, through the glass doors and the smell of gasoline. There's an old cracked bench on the right side of the store, just behind the air pump, and he goes straight for it.
He sulks. It's only been three hours.
The worst part of it all is that Castiel hadn't been happy before this new workload, and he's not looking to be happy during it either. But then if he leaves it behind, there's no guarantee he'll be any better. He and depression are old friends and he knows the tell-tale signs, the want to stay in bed all day, all drive ripped from him like he hasn't eaten in weeks even though Anna forced him to down half a bagel and some grapes last night.
He leans down, his head in his hands, and tries to ignore the goings on around him. Cars pull up and then go—more people wanting gas than something to snack on this time of day. Around noon the lunch crowd will file in, and the kids after school at three, but they're stuck in between for the time being.
A car, loud and blaring music he's never heard before, pulls up just in front of him to make use of the air pump. Cas startles for a moment, not sure whether he should leave or just keep to himself in this close proximity. He doesn't want to face down unwanted conversation.
The door opens and closes, the engine finally silenced. Cas keeps looking downward.
“Hey, dude,” a gruff but not unpleasant voice calls. Cas sighs and lifts his eyes. The man in question stares right back. “You know how much? The sign's scratched off.”
Cas blinks twice before he realizes the man's got his thumb jerked toward the air pump.
“Baby's riding a little low in the front. Don't have time to stop off at the garage to check for damage before my shift starts.”
“Fifty cents,” Cas drones out, “or free if you fill up your car.”
The man laughs; Cas doesn't bother checking for a smile.
“Nah, did that yesterday. Don't have the time for it today, so fifty cents'll have to do.”
Cas nods and goes back to staring at the ground between his feet. There's an old cigarette butt, a gum wrapper, and an ant caught in the middle. It charges one way only to find its path is blocked and turns around to start the whole process over again. Back and forth like it forgot they were there to begin with.
It's the story of his life, he thinks sadly.
“Hey, you okay?” the man asks. Cas is caught completely unaware, and his first instinct says the man is talking to someone else. But no, his eyes, barely visible from the shadows cast by the side of the building, are staring right at Cas.
“I'm fine,” Cas says quickly. If fine means socially inept and really not good at human interaction, so please ignore the fact that I'm even sitting out here. The man hums and nods, going back to his business.
Cas can't help watching him now, unscrewing the cap on his tire, checking the pressure with his pocket gauge. Cas can't remember his face by the time he turns, but he's able to take in the man's build, the color of his blonde-only-in-the-sunlight hair. He moves with practiced hands around his car, in a way that the soccer moms and college students don't. He's probably good at fixing things, Cas reckons. He looks the type.
The man looks back and Cas is caught. His eyes go wide before he attempts to look anywhere else. It's something he's gotten in trouble for before and he has no want for a repeat.
“Dude, I know. Sometimes I have a hard time leavin’ the mirror in the morning,” the man jokes it off, softening the blow. He's finishing up now, twisting the cap back on and then dusting the dirt from the knee of his jeans.
Cas's hand shakingly goes to his pocket and he pulls out a string of rosary beads that used to belong to his mother. He's not particularly religious, but the repetitious movement of counting beads between is fingertips is a comfort. Some people have spinner rings or clacking metal balls; Cas has a rosary attached to a cross he's not sure he believes in.
“Hey,” the man says again. Cas almost can't hear him over the sound of his own rapid breathing—and when did that start? His chest heaves and he can't stop, can't calm it. In and out, in and out faster than he should be.
His vision narrows to a pinpoint, darkness floating in all around. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he knows what this is. But his breathing is too loud, too shallow and rapid, for him to think of anything else. It pains as he leans forward, hands gripping the denim of his good jeans.
“Hey, I'm with the fire department. Is it okay if I touch you?” Suddenly the man's sinking to his knees in front of Cas, his hands posed between him to show that he poses no danger. Cas wobbles a bit, the giddiness catching up with him, but somehow he still manages to nod before he falls over.
The man's hands go straight to him, holding him upright by the shoulders. “Okay, I need you to listen carefully. You're having a panic attack. We need to reset your breathing, alright?”
Cas can barely concentrate. His mouth goes dry, his hands feel clammy.
“I need you to hold your breath when I say, okay? You're gonna breathe in and hold it and then you're gonna let it out real slow.”
Cas nods. The man tells him to breathe in and he manages to hold it for thirty seconds before he just can't anymore and lets it out in one long, slow drain. He's not sure he feels any better just yet, but then the man is talking again and there's no time to dwell on it.
“Okay, you're okay. You're gonna breathe in and hold for five seconds, and then you're gonna let it out real slow, like before.” The man directs him and counts for him. “Just like that, buddy.
While Cas keeps with his instructions and comes down, he can't help looking more closely at the man. Hands are still poised at his shoulders, but one comes up next to his face, near his forehead, and brushes his hair back. “There you go,” the man says. This close, Cas can see the color of his eyes, a strange shadowed green that isn't quite the color of grass. He leans forward, toward the stranger, and it's comforting.
“You're doing great, man. Doing real great.” The man continues in his softer tones, praising Cas onward. He takes Cas by the wrist, holding two fingers over his pulse point. “Just gotta get that heart rate down and you'll be a-okay.”
Cas breathes in and out and soon enough the fog has cleared and he can think again. He doesn't have attacks often at all, if ever anymore, but something about today must have set him off with the stress of the new job and too much unwanted socialization.
“Is there someone we need to call? Do you want to go to the hospital?” the man eventually asks him. Cas shakes his head no. He just needs to rest in a quiet place, preferably for an hour or two, and then he'll be right as rain.
He blinks and it's like he sees a whole new person before his eyes. Green again.
“What do you want to do?” the man asks, a little too close.
But before Cas can answer, Charlie's out the front door and around the corner looking for him. She stops arms crossed like she's going to throw out a quip to the new guy, and pauses. “Dean?” she asks. “Why do you look like you're molesting my new employee?”
The man—Dean—one of his hands is still round Cas's wrist, and the other had been petting through his hair in a soothing motion. Purely to calm Cas down. As soon as the words leave Charlie's mouth, he's scrambling away, straightening up until he's standing at least three feet away.
Cas misses the contact.
“What are you doing working your employees to the brink of panic attacks?” Dean throws back.
Charlie moves faster than either of them anticipate, throws her arm around Cas's shoulders as she sits next to him on the bench. She pulls him toward her, until he's leaning against her shoulder. Good, he thinks. It's a different kind of contact, but not unneeded. “Shit, Steve,” she says. “Did I really push you that hard? I thought it'd be easier if it was me and Chuck here so you could just learn the ropes.”
“I'm sorry,” Cas croaks out. “It wasn't you. Wasn't the job.” He's looking at Dean again, but it's like seeing a whole new person when he can't remember the last one.
“No, no, don't say that. You've done enough today. You've done really good learning. There's not much else to show you. We'll just send you home early, okay? Do you need someone to come and pick you up?”
“I should be okay to drive if I can just sit by myself for a while.”
“Take him into the back where it's quiet, Charlie,” Dean instructs. “He should be fine in about half an hour. Maybe give him some juice. Something with sugar. He's gonna feel drained.”
“Thank you,” Cas mumbles a bit too late. He's not sure what else he should say. Or if he should get up and scurry back inside, tail between his legs. He's humiliated himself enough for one day.
“Nah, don't worry about it,” the man says with an exaggerated smile as he opens the door to his monstrosity of a car. “You just take it easy there, Steve.”
Cas cocks his head to the side, brows ever so furrowed as the strange man drives away. He only remembers the name on his badge as Charlie leads him back inside, resolved to make it the next half hour.
It's easy to tell Gabriel from everyone else, sock-monkey hat always perched atop his messy hair, even at a sweltering ninety-degrees outside. At six years old, he doesn't say much of anything, which really isn't any more odd than how at thirty-three, Castiel doesn't really say much of anything either. But where Castiel is content with his little corner of the world, Gabriel likes making a mess.
Which is how Castiel ends up mopping candy and mud from the foyer at six in the evening.
He loves his little family of three the way they are now—him, his sister, and his sister's son. They have a good thing going and who knows where he'd be without Anna's support. They still have their struggles; Anna gets too stressed, Gabe too troublesome, Cas too depressed. But they make it work. Somehow.
“You need to be more aware of your surroundings,” Anna preaches from the living room, her pointer finger held up in true motherly fashion. “Now you get in there and help your uncle clean or so help me, no dessert, no candy for a month.”
It's no surprise when shuffling little feet come stumbling in mere seconds later. Gabriel looks up at Castiel with his wide brown eyes—and it's new and honest every first time Castiel sees him—but doesn't say a word. It's probably not helped by the giant lolly he's got lodged between his teeth and tongue.
Cas'll take this image over the Gas-n-Sip any day.
Anna stomps down the hallway, muttering something about needing a bath. It's not her fault she's so stressed lately, ever since she kicked Bartholomew to the curb last year. She's taken on her brother, her mischievous son, and managed to keep up a full time production gig at the local news station. Anna deserves to complain, in his book.
“It's probably best to avoid her the rest of the day,” Castiel tells Gabriel. The kid's still standing there against the wall with every intention of helping by not actually helping. There's not much he can do with caked mud along the hem of his shorts, dried on his kneecaps, and squidged between his toes. His discarded flip-flops sit just outside the door.
So it's Castiel who helps him clean up, Castiel who gets him into the bath, Castiel who make sure he dries off and changes into his pajamas. It's a fight getting the monkey hat off his head for the duration, and it goes right back on once his hair is dry enough.
They have a quick dinner with Anna, whom seems like she's calmed down once the actual mess is gone, comprised of effort-mac with three different kinds of cheese and some steamed broccoli on the side. Gabe pushes the green around his plate until finally it's covered with enough melted cheese and then it's grudgingly acceptable to his palate. There's no dessert that night, because apparently that's his punishment, even if it bears no effect.
“I want Uncle Cas to tell me a story tonight,” Gabriel announces like it isn't already part of his routine. It's his intended kick in the face to the order of things, but not so far off course that Anna thinks anything of it.
“That's fine,” she says coolly.
Or maybe Castiel can't read her as well as he'd thought. They'll be fine come morning though, when she gets up and makes them all a big breakfast before the workday. Probably something with copious amounts of sugary syrup in her habit of spoiling Gabriel the day after a punishment.
Gabriel foregoes his collection from the little bookshelf in his room. He doesn't watch television as much as he reads picture books, and the ones he leans toward usually feature animals more so than humans. But books with more words and less pictures have him goading someone into reading to him.
Some nights though, he insists something original, and Cas seems to be the only person who can provide.
Together they sit, side by side atop Gabriel's twin-sized bed, Gabe under the covers and Castiel on top. It always hits Castiel right about now that he feels like an uncle, a father, and a best friend all wrapped conveniently in one messed up package. Gabriel probably deserves better, but Castiel wouldn't give this up for the world. “Are you comfortable?” he asks. Gabriel nods, hugging his stuffed tyrannosaurus—Gary—closer to him.
He goes for something new this time, about a colorblind cat that lives with a little old lady in downtown Atlanta. It’s better to be specific like that.
“But what does that mean?” Gabe interrupts. Cas never tells him to hush and listen. Rather, he encourages Gabriel to question everything.
“Colorblind: what does it mean?”
“It means,” Cas pauses to think. He’s not scared of an explanation too complicated, but he’s looking for something more coherent. “You see different colors, like with your crayons. And they all have different names, don’t they?”
Gabriel nods.
“Well there are some animals and even some people that can’t tell the difference between some or all colors. They can still see differences in dark and light, in the varying shades, but they can’t tell purple from blue.”
“That doesn’t’ sound like fun,” Gabe laments. “I like coloring things.”
Cas knows; their fridge is eclipsed with stick-figure animals and flowers he’s drawn for Anna.
“Well it’s not as sad when you realize that this cat, let’s call him Hank; he just sees the world differently. And he feels a lot of things: the texture of grass under his paws, the brush of flower petals against his whiskers, and the old lady’s nails as she scratches him behind the ears. All of these things are amplified for him. He sees the world differently.”
“And that’s a good thing?”
Gabe’s eyes are so wide and honest that it takes Cas aback. “Well, it can be if you find the good in it.”
Hank the colorblind cat goes on daily walks, solving animal mysteries along the way, much like a feline Sherlock Holmes. He relies on his sense of smell and touch, is a master of balance and always lands on all four paws. He has an ongoing love/hate relationship with the yappy little Chihuahua next door and the birds that perch on the power lines above find great humor in it.
Hank’s first mystery involves a lost chew toy in the park. He finds it by following the specific scent of canine drool and playing in the mud. Gabriel is captivated the entire time.
Everything in the story has a cut and dry answer, from the way Hank interrogates his suspects to the final confrontation with a field mouse named Ollie. He stole the toy after it was dropped, crushing the entrance to his hidey-hole house in the park. There’s a reason for everything.
“Why'd you do it?” Castiel asks once the story is over. He can’t not know and he doesn’t even have to elaborate.
“Because Mom,” Gabe whispers almost too quietly. He pauses, unsure how to finish. “She either gets really mad or she smiles really big. I like it when she smiles better, but the not-smile is okay too. Most of the time I don't get to see her.”
Castiel nods. He understands how lonely Gabriel has been now that she's working longer hours, making up for the loss of income when Bartholomew left. It's a trade-off for the positive, to be sure. Except the part where Gabriel acts out because he's not getting the attention he needs. Even less now that Castiel has started working. Suddenly it's no wonder that he decided to do it today, of all days.
“Get some sleep now, okay?” Cas smoothes down the top of the boy’s hair and turns out the bedside tiger lamp. “Tomorrow will be better,” he promises, only wishing that he had a guarantee.
He's not looking forward to work the next day and he lies to Anna when she asks him how it went over twin cups of peppermint tea in the kitchen. She asks if he's sure, like she can tell he's not quite telling the truth, but she'd probably be more disappointed if he said he never wanted to go back. She lets it go at that, retiring to her room, and he's left alone again.
His phone buzzes in his pocket.
Charlie: Don't worry about tomorrow. I won't tell you Chuck nearly passed out his first day or that Meg almost clawed a woman's eyes out. I know good workers when I see them. A little panic attack isn't going to get you fired.
Though really, he almost wishes it would.
Castiel: Thank you.
He goes to sleep that night with a rough, yet comforting voice coaching him in his breathing. In and out. One and two. You're okay. I've got you.