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Dean nodded at the weird guy from IT — Wesson, or whatever his name was — and smiled at the waitress behind the counter before picking up his forgotten cutlery. Hungry and eager to get back to his Chicken Caesar salad, he turned around, and crashed into a wall that shouldn’t be there.
The impact drove all air from his lungs. Dean staggered, yet stayed on the spot. Dazed, he shook his head, trying to stop the ringing in his ears. When the haze finally lifted, he blinked confused as the wall slowly turned out to be a body.
A very male, and very well-built body. Dean gulped, when his eyes got caught in a sea of blue.
He knew that guy.
Instinctively, Dean clenched his first, and froze. His eyes shot down, following the front edge of a trench coat.
“Son of a bitch!” he cried out, immediately feeling guilt rushing through him for cursing at work. But it quickly vanished at the sight in front of his eyes. Disbelievingly, Dean stared at the knife he was still holding in his hand. Or rather not, because although the haft was tightly closed in his fist, the blade was—
He felt sick. His stomach rebelled and he closed his eyes. Taking a deep breath to calm his racing heart, the shock and nausea didn’t subside. It only got worse when he opened his eyes again.
What had he done?
Biting his bottom lip, Dean swallowed, yet couldn’t stave meeting his fate off any longer. Hesitantly, he let his eyes trail up the body until his heart skipped several beats.
Blue eyes frowned at him, and Dean internally cursed his life. If this wasn’t an excuse to do so, he didn’t know.
“Hey, Cas—tiel. I...” Dean gulped. “Oh God, I'm sorry. I–I…” he stuttered and stared back at the place where his knife vanished into the thick thigh. Despite the shock, his mouth watered in Pavlovian response, and he licked his lips before biting his tongue — hard. This was neither the time nor the place. “Shit!”
Dean had no idea what to do. What had he done?
His breathing accelerated. Helplessly, Dean held tightly onto the haft, trying to keep his rising panic at bay. What had they said in his first-aid class about stabbing wounds? Did they anything about stabbing? Was it even mentioned? He couldn’t remember. He couldn’t—
You shouldn’t pull out the blade, or should you? That was what they told in the movies. But did it transfer to reality?
What if—
His spiralling was cut short by a gravel voice that caused goosebumps to rise on Dean’s skin.
“Hello Dean,” Castiel greeted him, and Dean bluescreened.
Gaping at the other man, Dean’s frozen mind took an endless moment to start working again.
"Hello, Dean? That’s all? Shouldn't you, uh… do something?" Dean asked, bewildered. Irritation mixed into his panic. Castiel must be in shock. He needed help. He—
But his new colleague only tilted his head, and squinted. "Why?"
“Why?” Dean squeaked. “Why?” Opening his hand, he gestured at the piece of cutlery sticking out of Castiel’s slacks.
Castiel followed the movement and his eyebrows shot up the moment he saw the knife. “Oh!”
“Oh? Oh!” Taking a deep breath, Dean focused on the problem at hand. Castiel needed help. They needed to call 911. Or their incident controller. Who was it? Dean couldn’t remember.
Oh God, what if Dean had hit an artery? Castiel might die if he moved the blade. “Don’t move. Just… Don’t move.”
“Why shouldn’t I move?” Castiel asked and stepped forward, closing the remaining distance between them.
Dean gulped, his nose an inch away from Castiel’s. “You’re hurt. You— We need to call 911.”
Castiel frowned. “Dean.” His eyes focused on Dean, and a shiver ran down Dean’s spine. “Breathe.”
Dean nodded. “Right,” he said, focusing on the words. Slowly, he breathed in. Oxygen filled his lungs and the haze in his mind cleared. Yet, the offending piece of metal was still there, laying in his hand — and stuck in Castiel’s thigh.
“That’s good,” Castiel commented. “Look at me.”
Hesitantly, Dean lifted his eyes from the gruesome piece of metal until pools of blue greeted him.
Castiel’s eyes were captivating, and for a moment, Dean lost himself in them. “Dean, I’m fine,” Castiel stated calmly. The corners of his mouth ticked up as he gripped Dean’s wrist, closed his other hand around Dean’s, and pulled.
Dean wanted to protest, but his voice failed him. A lump in his throat blocked everything. He was still gaping, when Castiel handed him back his knife, shiny as new. There was no evidence—
“I believe this is yours,” Castiel said calmly and turned around.
Blinking, Dean gazed at the blade and back at his colleague. It seemed impossible to put the pieces together. There was no reasonable explanation for any of this. He must be out of his mind. “How?”
Castiel looked back over his shoulder, the corners of his mouth ticking up. Was he smiling? Dean had never seen him smiling. Not like this. “Enjoy your chicken, Dean. It’s getting cold.”
With that he was gone.
Dean stared at his hand and the clean shiny knife he held. Maybe HR was right. Maybe he needed to take his vacation days. All of them. At once. Go on a holiday. As far as possible. Or visit the spa.
Standing in the middle of the cafeteria, Dean closed his eyes. He focused on his breathing and slowly counted to ten before walking back to his table and his salad.
No one was looking at him as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened right in front of their salad.
And maybe, it hadn’t happened at all. Maybe Dean had overworked himself with his current project. He had clocked so many hours in the last three weeks, he had lost count of his overtime a long time ago. But the upper management wanted to see results. The contracts needed to be ready to be signed. Dean couldn’t risk losing their customers, especially not after having just transferred to Sandover headquarters himself.
Sighing, he massaged his temples, shook his head and turned his attention to his plate. He stared at it for a long time until the chicken started to dance in front of his eyes. Dean sighed. Damn, he desperately needed that vacation.
***
Dean had almost forgotten about the incident. Buried deep in his mind, he had managed to brush it off as hallucinations of his overworked brain.
In response, he had scheduled two hours at the spa to allow his body and mind the chance to relax. A moment of respite that had made him feel better instantly. Moreover, he had abstained from meat and caffeine for more than a week and made sure to keep to his regular sleeping schedule, despite the huge project that still demanded all his attention.
So, the next time it happened, it came as an even bigger shock. When Dean was taking a sip from his smoothie, the reminder went off on his computer, notifying him of his next meeting. Quickly, he gathered his stuff and headed out.
Though, when Dean turned around a corner, pen in hand and his laptop and files clutched under his arm, Castiel was there. The ballpoint pen went right through clothes and into his flesh. Dean’s stomach rolled as he felt the resistance give way and the pen move in. It was nauseating. Sickness and dizziness overcame him. Dean wanted — needed — to be anywhere but there.
But he was stuck, literally. His body started to tremble. This couldn’t be. It all had been a delusion, hadn’t it? Something his stupid, overworked mind had made up.
He gulped and stared at the accountant. “Cas—” was all he managed to say before his voice died.
Castiel’s eyes lit up as he smiled, an actual smile. “Hello Dean.”
“Uh.” Dean nodded towards the item sticking from Castiel’s hip.
Tilting his head, Castiel frowned, yet eventually, he seemed to take the hint. His eyes followed the line of Dean’s arm until there was no longer any question whether or not he had noticed the mess. “I’m sorry.”
“What?” Dean blinked. He must have misheard. “Sorry? You are sorry? Why are you—”
Castiel squinted, and Dean lost it. “Okay, forget it. I’ll call an emergency.” As he rummaged for his phone, his laptop and files crashed to the floor.
“Why?” Castiel asked impassively and the frown on his forehead widened when Dean stared at him.
“Because you’re hurt, pal, goddammit.” Dean froze at the slip of his tongue. After all this time schooling himself, cursing still happened in moments of stress. “You—you must be hurt,” he added calmer. “There’s a pen. Stuck in your hip.”
“Yes, I’m aware of that,” Castiel confirmed and nodded.
“So, it’s true.” Dean sighed relieved after fearing he might have gone crazy for good.
“Yes. I’m sorry, Dean. I’ll take better care next time.”
“Next time?” Dean squeaked. His voice must have risen an octave.
“I’ve worried you. It won’t happen again,” Castiel said and, mirroring the previous incident, gripped the end of the pen and pulled it out. Smiling, he handed it to Dean.
When Dean eventually recovered himself, Castiel was long gone and his files and laptop were still safely clutched under his arm.
***
This time, as much as Dean tried, he couldn’t ignore the incident. Incidents. Plural. Because if the second time had happened, then the first—
Well, at least he wasn’t going crazy. Or he was already so far gone, that he didn’t even question it any more.
For his own sanity, Dean chose to ignore the second option. Instead, he threw himself into a rabbit hole of research, busy schedule or not. There must be a reasonable explanation for things that shouldn’t be possible.
Like a coworker who was immune to stabbing. Or maybe Castiel was simply immune to pain. According to his research, there were several hundred people on Earth with a genetic disorder that made them insensitive to pain.
If Castiel was one of those people—
That would mean bad news. Really bad news. Dean didn’t dare imagine the consequences. After all, he had hurt his colleague badly. Twice. And if Castiel didn’t feel any of it—
Dean might have hit an artery. But had there been blood? He didn’t remember any blood. What if—
He needed to make sure that Castiel treated his wounds, or turned for help to a professional. Otherwise—
Dean closed his eyes and concentrated on his breathing like his yoga instructor had taught him. Lisa was great. He definitely wouldn’t turn her down if he swung that way. Castiel on the other hand…
Despite his attempts, Dean couldn’t stop his pulse from shooting up. Those eyes. He sighed. So blue and deep. Endless. He wanted to lose himself in them. Wanted to brush his fingers over the dimple in Castiel’s chin. Trail the curve of his chest. And then his thighs…
His thighs.
Dean coughed, almost choking while shivers ran along his spine. His stomach cramped when the image of his knife sticking out of one of said thighs resurfaced. As much as he tried to forget, he couldn’t shake it. Him. Day and night, the images haunted him. They were with him every waking hour as well as in his dreams, and nightmares.
Those often felt like hell already, but now Castiel had joined them. Castiel, who was alive and well, Dean reminded himself. The guy had survived the accidents. He was fine.
At least, his colleague had seemed pretty okay the last time they met, apart from the pen poking out of his hip.
Dean retched. When the nausea had passed, he sipped some flavoured water and forced himself to breathe steadily. He couldn’t let his panic overwhelm him. There were facts he had to consider.
First, Castiel was well. He had seemed completely unperturbed by Dean’s stabbing.
Second, Castiel was aware of what had happened. It wasn’t anything like those spy stories where targets were assassinated with a poisoned bullet from an umbrella gun and didn’t notice anything was wrong, until it was. Or like Empress Elisabeth of Austria who walked on after her assassination, not realising she had been fatally stabbed.
And then there was the third fact, the one Dean couldn’t ignore. Castiel seemed to be Dean’s age, maybe even a bit older. So, if he was suffering from insensitive to pain — a big if — he had to be aware of his condition. Dean didn’t dare picture the health insurance issues that would come with such a disorder. However, no one could turn thirty without realising there was something severely wrong with you.
No. Dean shook his head. As plausible as it had seemed at first glance, insensitivity of pain was highly improbable.
Which meant, Dean might have to inverse Sherlock Holmes’ deduction: “When you have eliminated all which is improbable, then whatever remains, however impossible, must be the truth.”
At least, it felt like it because the deeper Dean’s research led him, the more unlikely and fantastical his results became. There were entire online communities dedicated to prove the existence of cryptids and other supernatural creatures. And a few went even a step further and published videos on how to hunt those things.
Dean stared unbelievingly at his screen as the Ghostfacers, or whatever crap those guys called themselves, explained how to get rid of a ghost.
Yet even they couldn’t help him with his problem regarding Castiel.
For a short time, Dean wondered if Castiel was a vampire, or some other creature of the night. The Ghostfacers website mentioned them, but nothing was as thoroughly documented as ghosts.
Dean sighed as he leant back on his chair. None of it made sense. Nothing. Castiel was just a guy. He had been at Sandover for about two weeks, and although Dean had never talked to him properly, he didn’t believe in any of the explanations the internet came up with.
Fact was, Castiel worked in accounting. He had joined several meetings Dean had attended, but apart from that, Dean came up blank.
All he remembered was that stare. That, and the head tilt when Castiel had gazed at him, accompanied by the squint that always seemed to be there. Dean had felt scrutinised by that guy. Yet, aside from that, there was nothing.
Now that Dean thought about him, really thought about it, he had no idea who that guy was or where he came from. Maybe he should talk to Julie from HR to get some background info. She still owed him after he had shared his secret cleansing recipe with her.
Having made up his mind, Dean already felt better. Needing some exercise, he made his way down to HR. Before he left, he grabbed his scissors. There was a brown leaf on one of the rubber trees in the hall that had annoyed him all week. Besides, it was on his way, and he needed to think economically, especially after all the time he had lollygagged with his research.
As Dean stepped out of the elevator, he allowed himself to breathe. There was no Castiel in sight. Relieved, Dean quickly crossed through the hall, knocked, and entered Julie’s office without waiting for an answer.
“Hello Dean,” Castiel’s gravel voice greeted him when Dean crashed into him.
“Holy crap,” Dean muttered. He didn’t even need to look to know he had done it again. Still, his eyes followed the seam of his shirt until they reached his hand and the scissor that vanished into Castiel’s white shirt somewhere around the height of his navel.
“This seems to become a recurring matter,” Castiel remarked bluntly.
Dean gulped, fighting his growing nausea. “Third time’s the charm,” he quipped, not feeling any of it. “Uh, you good?”
“Why shouldn’t I be, Dean?”
“Because there are fucking scissors buried in your stomach!” Dean squeaked. “There. Are. Scissors. Buried. In. Your. Stomach.” He laughed hollowly. “Crazy, dude. You’re crazy!”
“Dean, I assure you, I am not crazy.”
“No? Then maybe, I am,” Dean noted and stared at his coworker. “Because in my world, if there’re SCISSORS sticking from your belly, there’s something terribly wrong.”
Castiel frowned. “I doubt that,” he noted, deadpan, as he extracted the foreign object from his stomach and handed it back.
“There’s not even blood. How’s there no blood?” Dean wondered, panicked, but the door closed behind him and Castiel was gone.
Dean blinked, and realised he was alone. There was no Julie or anyone else around either. Shaking his head, he sank down on one of the chairs, staring at the spotless scissors in his hand.
While the metal whirred in front of his eyes, a plan was building in his head. He must have gone bananas for good, but there was only one way to strike at the heart of it all — to cut to the source, so to say.
Having made up his mind, Dean turned the scissors around to cover the pointy end with his palm before getting up and walking back to his office.
Though, until he could put his plan into action, there was actual work to be done. Otherwise, he would not only lose his mind, but his job as well. And he probably might have to fall back on his health insurance to get therapy when this was over.
He desperately needed it.
***
Dean smiled at their customers when the deal had finally gone through, and the contracts had been signed. Mr. Adler seemed satisfied as he nodded to him from the other side of the table.
“Gentlemen, would you do me the honour to accompany me? We need to celebrate this breakthrough,” Mr. Adler asked, and led their guests from the meeting room.
Dean stayed behind and gathered his papers. Adler probably expected him to come and Dean should go with them and socialise, but after weeks of nothing but work, the other pressing matter on his mind demanded his attention. He couldn’t wait any longer.
His hand closed around the paper knife in his jacket pocket. He had carried it around for days, waiting for an opportunity. Although Dean had hoped to see Castiel during one of his meetings, he hadn’t been lucky. After the last incident in Julie’s office, Castiel had made himself rare. Dean had spotted him here and there, but the guy had always been gone when Dean thought he would run into him. It almost seemed as if Castiel had vanished into thin air.
Which would be ridiculous. No one could do that. Dean hesitated. Or could they? After all—
He shook his head, laughing hollowly. It was bad enough he had convinced himself that Castiel was some kind of creature with superhuman powers. Believing into even more hocus-pocus was absurd.
There were no such things. Shaking his head, Dean grabbed his documents and laptop before heading out to his office.
He had just crossed into his room, when someone was behind him. “Hello Dean,” Castiel greeted him.
Startled, Dean turned around. He gaped at his coworker who was looking at him with the same scrutinising stare as ever.
“I heard congrats are in order. Why aren’t you with the others?” Castiel inquired.
“Uh, thanks.” Dean gulped. “I…” Gazing at his documents, he let them slide down on the chair next to him. His fingers played with the knife in his pocket and he fastened his grip on the haft as he pulled it out.
Castiel’s eyebrows shot up as he noticed the blunt blade. Yet he didn’t react when Dean rammed it into his biceps. It took a lot more effort than Dean had expected without the impulse of their previous impacts. “Goddammit,” he grunted.
“Damning my father will not change anything,” Castiel noted drily.
Dean blinked at him in confusion while drops of sweat ran down his forehead. “Huh?”
Castiel crooked his head even further than usually and squinted. “You have no idea who I am, do you?”
“I—” Dean started, but his voice left him and he shook his head.
“I feared as much.” Castiel nodded pensively. Frowning, he gripped Dean’s hand, still holding the handle of the paper knife, and pulled. Once again, the blade slid free.
Dean stared at the place where it had left the body, and gasped. Right in front of his eyes, the torn fabric glowed in a bluish light and mended itself until no evidence was left of the stabbing.
“Holy crap,” Dean uttered and staggered back in horror. “Oh, fuck. Shit!” He stumbled when his back hit his desk. “That’s— that’s not possible.”
“Dean, calm down,” Castiel said and lifted his arm. Two outstretched fingers reached for Dean.
“No.” Dean shook his head. “Get away from me. Whatever you are, I—” Panicked, he gripped the first best thing he found on his desk. This time, it happened smoothly. The metal fork went in easily. Dean’s stomach revolted as he hit Castiel’s collarbone and skidded down until the flesh gave way, and the tines went in even deeper.
When the nauseating motion stopped, Castiel’s fingers closed around Dean’s wrist. However, instead of extracting the object from his shoulder directly as he had done before, his gaze intensified. Dean evaded the scrutinising eyes, but Castiel tightened his grip. “Dean, look at me… Please.”
Dean licked his lips and slowly looked up.
There was a sadness in Castiel’s eyes, Dean had never noticed before.
“Do you believe in destiny?” Castiel asked, and Dean blinked confused.
“Hell no. That’s bull. I do believe in dealing with what's right in front of us, though.”
Castiel lowered his eyes, almost whispering, “Our fate rests with you. For what it's worth... I would give anything not to have you do this.”
“Do what?!” Dean all but shouted. “Who are you and what the hell do you want from me?”
“What do you remember, Dean?”
Dean frowned. “Duh?”
“Dean, who are you?” Castiel asked. The blue of his eyes seemed to become even bluer, and deeper, pulling Dean in.
“Stop it,” Dean protested, blinking helplessly to evade the gaze.
“Who are you?” Castiel repeated. “Tell me.” His voice echoed through the room, and Dean shuddered.
“I'm Dean Smith. Director of Sales and Marketing. I went to Stanford. My father's name is Bob, my mother's name is Ellen, and my sister's name is Jo,” Dean rattled off, but Castiel kept staring at him, so Dean went on. “I like beat music, days at the spa, and healthy food.”
“Do you now? What about women?”
“What about them? They’re great — as friends. I mean, Jo is wild, but she’s my best friend besides being my little sister.”
“Interesting.” The head tilt and scowl intensified, and Dean was at the end of his tether.
“Pal, I’m gay,” he snapped.
Castiel looked taken aback. “I am utterly indifferent to sexual orientation,” he stated, nonetheless.
Dean couldn’t help himself. He laughed. Sinking down on the free chair, he buried his head in his hands. Between the stress at work during the last few weeks, months even, and Castiel, he couldn’t take any more. It was too much.
“Dean,” Castiel said before touching Dean’s shoulder.
A shudder went through Dean, triggering a memory — a nightmare. There was pain and even more pain. Alastair. A bed, and Castiel, Angel of the Lord.
“Cas,” he whispered while a tear ran down his cheek.
“I can help you remember.”
When Dean looked up, Castiel’s eyes were glowing. Yet, Dean shook his head. “Will it always be like that?”
“Like what, Dean?” Castiel — Cas — inquired, his tone carrying more emotions than ever before.
“Like the dreams.”
“Dreams?”
“Nightmares,” Dean clarified, choking up.
“Yes,” Cas answered, matter-of-factly.
“Then why? Why make me remember?”
“Because that’s who you are, Dean.”
Dean swallowed. “And this? What about my life? Is it— Is this all a lie? All of it?” He searched Cas’ eyes for answers.
“I don’t know,” Cas said and knelt in front of him. “Does this feel right?”
“Dude! This is my life. I—” Dean’s breathing sped up. “I’ve worked so hard to get here. My family…” The tears were falling freely now. “It can’t all be phoney. What— What about us? I know you, right? Are we…” he trailed off.
“Are we what, Dean?” Cas’ eyes were focused on Dean, so blue, so intense. So, so…
Dean cupped Cas’ face and brushed his thumb over the angel’s cheek, causing Cas to breathe in sharply.
“Dean,” Cas murmured, but didn’t shy away.
Hope blossomed in Dean’s chest. “Is this okay?” he whispered. “Tell me, this is okay. Tell me…” His lips pressed lightly against Cas’ while his own tears wetted them.
A shiver ran through the angel and the lights started to flicker, but Cas’ fingers closed around Dean’s shoulders, pulling him closer.
“Dean,” Cas whispered in awe.
They were holding each other as they traded kisses, gentle and chaste, but there was an urge boiling underneath.
With each kiss, memories and nightmares rose to the surface of Dean’s mind, drowning him in misery. Grabbing Cas even tighter, he didn’t dare let go. “Stay. Don’t leave me,” Dean begged. “I can’t… Please,” he whispered. “This is me too. I want—” Dean’s voice gave out as the memories overwhelmed him.
He was back in a barn, terrified. Light bulbs exploded and sparks flew as the creature walked towards him, unperturbed by a hail of bullets. In his terror, Dean closed his hand around the demon knife and gripped it tightly.
“Who are you?”
“I'm the one who gripped you tight and raised you from perdition.”
“Yeah. Thanks for that,” Dean grumbled and plunged the knife into Cas’ chest, right through the heart.
Breathing heavily, Dean opened his eyes and stared at Cas as the world around him looked less colourful than a moment ago. Only Cas stood out, a beacon in the darkness, and Dean’s heart skipped a beat. “I can’t lose this. You,” he whispered his truth.
“Good,” Cas deadpanned, a twinkle in his eyes as he gripped the lapels of Dean’s monkey suit and pulled him back in.