Archive of Our Own ^beta

 The night is falling. The platform is almost empty now. It’s been two hours since his train arrived, and Castiel Novak hasn’t moved yet. He’s staring at the railroad, suitcase clutched in his hand. He feels…he doesn’t know how he feels. In his mind, vague words are floating away. Words he can’t quite grasp.

A gust of wind plays in his hair and he shudders, his free hand tightening on his trenchcoat. Ugly thing, this coat, he thinks idly. He doesn’t have much left now. His whole life has been thrown inside this suitcase: Some of his favorite books, his toothbrush, clothes picked randomly in his closet, the scarf Anna has offered him for Christmas three years ago. He feels a muscle jump under the skin of his cheek as he clenches his jaw. His big sister. She’s always been braver than Castiel. She ran away before they could break her.

Anna. Anna, where are you?

He doesn’t know where to go. The only thing tying him to this city, this too-big city and its skyscrapers and its billions of people and its choking smell of pollution, is a piece of wrinkled paper, a name and an address scribbled on it. Gabriel. He wonders if Gabriel will recognize him. He wonders if he’ll have the heart to offer him shelter for a while. He needs to get a grip, he needs to move on.

But Castiel doesn’t move. He can’t. His chest aches, and he still feels the urge to cry –  this bitter prickle behind his eyes. He closes them for a second. He won’t cry. He never does.

We don’t want anything to do with you anymore, Castiel. If you don’t go, I’ll make your life a living hell.

Raphael’s words still ring through his skull. Engraved under his eyelids, there’s his brother’s sneer. His oh-so-righteous brother. Castiel still feels anger, something strong and fierce burning low in his stomach, even if the bruises on his fists still haven’t faded. 

He thinks about Inias, his friend. His only friend, really, and how he won’t be seeing him again anytime soon. Never, maybe. He doesn’t know if he’ll work up the courage to come back there, one day. Los Angeles is a part of his life he can’t go back to.

So here he is, standing in the middle of a platform. His fingers find his throat, mourning the absence of his scarf. He doesn’t have the courage to open his suitcase, not yet, but the night is falling quickly and the cold is becoming a problem. Of course, he can’t stay here all night.

“Hey, man, you okay?”

The voice is young, a little concerned. He turns to face a man – boy? In the orange glow of the station’s lights, he looks no more than twenty-five. His hair is long, his face kind. He’s dressed in a well-fitting, expensive-looking suit, and Cas wonders what he’s doing on this platform. Surely, a man dressed like that doesn’t need to take the train. A man dressed like that takes a private jet. He realizes he still hasn’t answered and clears his throat awkwardly.

“Yes?” he says, and it comes out more questioning than he would like. “Yes,” he repeats, more forcefully. “I’m fine.” He really hopes the man will leave him at that.

No such luck.

“You sure? You look a bit lost.”

Castiel can’t help it. He chuckles wryly, hand tightening reflexively around the handle of his suitcase.

“I – No, I’m just a little…” his voice trails off. He doesn’t know what to say. His eyes find the tip of his shoes, shiny black leather. He hates them.

“What’s your name?”

Castiel looks up at that, suspicion growing.

“Why do you ask?”

The man rubs at the nape of his neck, a curiously juvenile gesture.

“I – Listen, dude, I’m not a creeper.  Just…you look like you could use some help. I’m Sam, by the way,” he says, holding out a hand. Castiel shakes it numbly, wondering what’s happening. He can’t think of a single reason for Sam to want to help a lonely man at night on an empty platform.

I don’t need help, I’m fine on my own, leave me alone is what he intends to say.

“I’m Castiel.” is what he hears himself utter instead.

***

One hour later, he’s sitting on a couch, trenchcoat carefully folded next to him. He’s staring straight ahead, vaguely terrified and really bewildered, while Sam speaks on the phone, too quietly for him to pick up more than a few words. Whoever it is, the person on the other end isn’t happy about Castiel’s presence, and he can understand that. Nobody in his right mind would bring home a stranger. Except Sam, apparently.

He looks around. The apartment isn’t really big, but it’s homey – warm in a way Castiel’s house never was. On the bookshelves, brightly colored comics clash with huge law textbooks.  The walls are covered with a mix of horror movie posters and framed photos. It feels lived-in, and he thinks Sam doesn’t live alone. He isn’t going to ask.

“You hungry, Castiel?” He starts at Sam’s voice and sees him smile brightly from the door. He shakes his head, even though he is hungry. He can’t remember the last time he ate.

“No, thank you.” He feels uncomfortable, but warmed by Sam’s smile.

Sam sighs a little, rubbing at his forehead in a tired gesture. “Listen, man.” He stops, seems to be looking for the right words. Castiel watches him pick nervously at his sleeve. “Just…relax. I’m not going to kill you in your sleep.”

Castiel nods cautiously.

“Why are you doing this?” he finally asks. The question has burned a tattoo in his thoughts since Sam talked to him on the platform. A strange look flickers on Sam’s face.

“You just.... You remind me of someone I used to know.” Sam says after a beat, and his voice is a little sad, but Castiel doesn’t want to pry. It’s not his business.

“Alright.”

Sam seems relieved to let the subject drop.

“Do you want me to show you the guest bedroom?”

Castiel nods again and stands, picking up his trenchcoat and his suitcase. He follows Sam down the hallway and lets him open the furthest door.

“Here,” Sam says, “Make yourself at home. Bathroom is the second door to the left.”

Castiel enters the room, barely aware of Sam closing the door softly behind him. The bedroom is nice, if sparsely decorated. There’s a little black desk in a corner, and a closet, empty except for two blankets. The bed has white and blue sheets, and Castiel doesn’t really know why that fact has his throat constricting. He doesn’t know what he’s done to deserve such kindness. He drops his suitcase on the floor, puts his trenchcoat on the chair, sits up on the bed. He feels dizzy and disorientated. He can hear his heartbeat, too loud in the silent bedroom.

I won’t be able to sleep, he thinks.

Ten minutes later, he’s curled under the cool sheets, dead to the world.

***

It’s the sound of an unknown male voice that wakes him. He starts, wondering for a second where he is. When the memories flood his mind, he slips out of bed and cracks the door open.

“Dammit, Sammy, what were you thinking?”

He wants to cross the hallway to see the face that goes with this new voice. It’s a nice voice, if a little strained. Sam’s boyfriend? His roommate? Whoever he is, he seems pissed, and it doesn’t take a rocket scientist to understand that it is about Castiel. He feels guilty, but Sam doesn’t seem to be phased.

“Calm down, Dean, it’s not the end of the world,” he says in a soothing tone.

“Not the end of the…” the other man chokes, “Dude, are you even listening to yourself? There’s a stranger in the guest bedroom, one you found at the station?”

“He’s not dangerous.”

“You don’t know that, Sam. What d’you know about this guy?”

“His name’s Castiel.”

“Ca…Dude, there’s no way that’s his real name.”

At that, Castiel can’t hold back a smile, because it’s not the first time he's heard something like that.

“Dean. Just…trust me on this one, okay? I know what I’m doing,” Sam says firmly. There’s a long silence, and Castiel starts to think the conversation is over when the other man – Dean –  sighs and says softly: “Do you?”

Another pause. Another sigh, heavier. “Not really,” Sam says. “But he just…He just reminded me of...me, okay? Eight years ago, when I got here. I didn’t know anybody, I was lost and alone and…Hell, I just…I just think, if Ellen hadn’t found me, I don’t know what I’d have become.”

Castiel closes the door of his bedroom. It’s not his place to hear that. He looks down at himself and groans when he sees the wrinkled state of his shirt. He opens his suitcase and finds an old t-shirt that must have belonged to Inias once upon a time. It’s large, soft, and smells like home.

Not home anymore, he thinks with a pang of distress.

He falls back asleep the moment he closes his eyes.

***

When Castiel wakes up, he stares at the ceiling for a long moment. His life has become somewhat strange in the course of the last twenty-four hours, he muses. There are sounds coming from the other side of the door, clatters of dishes and heavy footsteps. He yawns before jumping into his pants and padding to the door. Following the noise, he finds himself in a kitchen, where a man is reading a newspaper and sipping coffee from an ugly orange mug. He’s handsome, there’s no denying that. Regular features, long eyelashes, stubble on his cheeks. He doesn’t seem to have noticed his arrival. Castiel feels like an awkward teenager wondering what the etiquette is after his first one-night stand. That thought doesn’t help him relax, but he figures he can’t just stay here until the man notices him. He clears his throat, the sound too loud, echoing in the silent apartment. 

The man starts. His shoulders tense, his head snaps up, and Castiel’s breath catches in his throat, because holy green, this man has the most beautiful eyes he’s ever seen. They widen as they fall on him, and he wonders absently what the man is thinking. There’s an awkward moment where neither of them speaks, then the man stands slowly, pushing back his chair with careful movements.

“Castiel, isn’t it?” he says roughly, and that’s definitely the same voice he heard last night. Castiel nods, at a loss for words. The man holds out a hand.

“I’m Dean. Sam’s brother.”

His handshake is firm, his palm as dry as Castiel’s mouth.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Dean,” Castiel says. He cringes inwardly, wondering why he sounds so stilted. “Sam has been very kind to me.”

“He would,” Dean mutters. Louder, he says: “You hungry? There’s toast, and fresh coffee in the pot.”

Right on cue, Castiel’s stomach emits a loud growl, and he feels his cheeks heat. Dean just chuckles, some of the tension leaving his shoulders. He opens a closet, takes out a cup and a plate, puts them on the table and gestures for Castiel to sit. For lack of better options, Castiel hesitantly obeys. He starts piling toast on the plate, before pouring himself a healthy dose of coffee. The feeling of surreal is coming back to him with a vengeance. He’s having breakfast in New York City with a man he doesn’t know from Adam, who’s pretending to read the news while glancing at him covertly, probably in the hopes of deciding whether or not he is a serial killer.

Castiel eats deliberately slowly, trying to work out what to do when he’s done. He’ll probably try to find Gabriel, even if the mere idea fills him with dread. He hasn’t seen his brother in fourteen years. He’s not even sure he still lives at the address scribbled on the piece of paper.

“You okay?”                    

Castiel blinks when Dean’s voice interrupts his thoughts, and realizes he’s holding the cup of coffee halfway to his mouth. He’s staring at the jar of jelly. All in all, he must look rather deficient. He looks up to see Dean frowning at him with the very same look of concern his brother was sporting the day before at the station.

“Not really,” he answers truthfully, putting down his cup. He’s never been good at lying, and there’s something about Sam and Dean that makes it even more difficult.

“Anything I can help you with?” Dean asks, and it sounds absolutely genuine. Castiel shakes his head, trying a small smile. It feels forced, and probably looks so, too, judging by the deepening in Dean’s frown.

“I’ve already overstepped your hospitality, Dean. Thank you.”

He stands, because he really wants to go, now. If he doesn’t, he’ll end up spilling his guts to a stranger and making a fool of himself.

A hand squeezes his arm to hold him back as he makes his way back to the guest bedroom.

“Whoa, whoa, wait a minute, Castiel,” Dean says. Castiel tenses under the touch, and Dean quickly lets go of him, clearing his throat. “Just – do you even have anywhere you could go?”

Castiel hesitates, then nods briefly.

“My brother’s.” He digs in his pocket to find the piece of paper and gives it to Dean. Dean eyes it with attention and whistles.

“Dude, your brother lives on the Upper East Side! What does he do for a living?” Dean asks. He sounds impressed. Castiel just shrugs. Dean and Sam’s apartment isn’t miserable by any means, and from what he’s seen yesterday, the neighborhood is quite pleasant, but the almost wistful look on Dean’s face makes him a little self-conscious.

“I have no idea. I haven’t seen him in fourteen years.”

Dean’s eyes widen. “Fourteen years? Holy shit, do you even know if he still lives there?” he asks, voicing Castiel’s fears.

“He did, at least up until three years ago, when my sister gave me the address.” Before taking off and never showing again, he doesn’t say.

Dean stays silent for a moment, gaze traveling from Castiel’s face to the closed door of the guest bedroom. He rubs the nape of his neck – a gesture that reminds Castiel of Sam – and sighs.

“Listen – I’m gonna assume you don’t know New York.” Castiel shakes his head again, wondering where Dean is headed. “Well, your brother’s place is not very far from here, and it’s my day off. I could give you a lift, if you want.”

Castiel opens his mouth to argue, but Dean doesn’t leave him the time to do so.

“Humor me, please. Besides, Sam would have my head if he learned I just let you go. If your brother isn’t here anymore…. Well, we’ll find a solution.”

***

Gabriel’s building is quite impressive. At first sight, Castiel counts twelve or thirteen floors. It’s undoubtedly expensive, and Castiel wonders, not for the first time, what kind of business Gabriel does to be able to afford such a place.

“What are we looking for?” Dean asks, squinting at the labels next to each bell push-button.

“Novak,” Castiel answers, wiping his sweaty palms on his trenchcoat. He feels out of place and, judging by the way Dean shuffles nervously, he’s not the only one.

“Here,” Dean says, pointing at a label. Indeed, it says G. Novak & B. Angelus, and Castiel gives a sigh of relief. His hand shakes a little as he presses on the push-button. Dean smiles at him, and Castiel notices the little crinkles in the corners of his eyes.

“Hey, man, it’s gonna be okay,” Dean says with forced cheeriness, effectively shutting down Castiel’s train of thought. He offers Dean a trembling quirk of the lips, the closest thing to a smile he can manage.

“Yes?” The voice coming out of the intercom is too tinny and distorted for Castiel to recognize it. The only thing he knows for sure is that it belongs to a man.

“Gabriel?”

“Who's asking?”

Castiel swallows around the lump in his throat.

“His brother.”

There’s a few seconds of silence before the man speaks again, voice colder than before.

“Which one?”

“Castiel.”

Another pause. Just when Castiel thinks he’ll be refused access, he hears:

“Who’s this with you?”

Surprised, Castiel glances to his left.

“It’s Dean. He’s – a friend.”

“Fourteenth floor,” the man – Castiel doubts it’s Gabriel – says. There’s a click, a loud buzz, and Dean pushes the door open.

“You comin’?” he asks, looking expectantly at Castiel. Castiel wants to say “no” and run away as fast as he can, but he forces himself to calm down and nods. He almost trips on his way to the elevator, and only barely manages to stay on his feet.

“At least, there’s no freaking doorman,” Dean mutters next to him as they wait for the elevator doors to open.

“Thank God for small mercies,” Castiel mutters back, and is graced with a startled snort of laughter.

The doors slide open, and nervousness fills him again.

“Dude,” Dean whistles, “This elevator is bigger than my kitchen!”

Castiel doesn’t answer and steps inside, heart beating madly against his ribs. He waits until Dean is next to him before pushing the button for the fourteenth floor.

“Are you freaking out? You look like you’re freaking out,” Dean whispers. Castiel stares at the mirror that covers the door, straightens and nods at his reflection.

“I believe “freaking out” is an adequate term to describe my state of mind, yes,” Castiel deadpans, barely refraining to accompany his statement with air-quotes. He’s been told it’s disturbing.

The elevator moves in time with Dean’s laughter.

“Cas, you really are something else.”

Cas. Castiel smiles. Nobody’s ever called him Cas, but the nickname fills him with a strange warmth that has nothing to do with the overheated elevator. When they step out, Dean goes to the only door and glances questioningly at Castiel, waiting for his nod to knock.

It opens a moment later to let appear a man who is – definitely not Gabriel. He has sharp blue eyes, a – probably artfully mastered – bedhead of dirty-blond hair and his cheeks are covered in stubble. He smells like cigarette and cologne and when he smiles, it doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

“Why, hello, brother-of-Gabriel,” he says, turning his sharp gaze to Castiel. “And hello, friend-of-the-brother. Why don’t you come in?”

Dean shoots Castiel a dumbfounded look and follows the man inside. He guides them into a – well – into an immense living-room, with bay windows letting in the midday sun. It’s white and so clean it would look like an hospital corridor if it weren’t for the paintings on the walls. Castiel can’t quite hold back a soft, surprised gasp.

“Amazing, isn’t it?” the man says without a sparkle of modesty, “I designed it myself, with the help of a friend.”

Castiel feels like a stain.

“So, you’re little Castiel,” Balthazar says to him. “I’m Balthazar. Balthazar Angelus. I’m Gabriel’s partner, in business and in life.” He says the last word with a hard look, as if assessing Castiel’s reaction. Castiel doesn’t blink. It would be a little rich, coming from him. He just shakes the offered hand.

“It’s a pleasure, Mr. Angelus. Is Gabriel here?”

“Please, call me Balthazar, Mr. Angelus makes me feel like an old coot,” Balthazar says with a much more genuine smile, though it still has a sarcastic, almost bitter edge. Castiel wonders what this man knows about his family. From what he remembers, Gabriel had always been one to keep his cards close to his chest. Then again, Castiel was a teenager the last time he and Gabriel spoke. “And I’m afraid Gabriel is not here. He’s in China for a business trip. He won’t be back until the end of the week.”

Castiel has a hard time keeping a stoic façade. On one hand, his only option has just crumpled in front of him. On the other hand, glancing around this luxurious penthouse, he feels so out of place that he can’t help feeling a little…relieved. This is the life Gabriel built for himself. Stomping on it with his ugly coat and his bad memories would be cruel and unnecessary. Now, the choice has been taken from him, and he’ll have to find another solution. It’s easier for him.

“Cas!” Dean’s voice shatters his thoughts, with an exasperated edge that tells Castiel it’s not the first time Dean has tried to draw his attention. It’s a tone Castiel is very familiar with, though here it seems mixed with something like – fondness? He turns to Dean.

“Yes?”

“Balthazar was talking to you,” Dean says, rolling his eyes with the kind of familiarity Inias used to have when Castiel acted like a “weirdo”.

“I’m sorry, Balthazar,” Castiel says. “I won’t hold you much longer.”

Balthazar shakes his head, looking back and forth between Dean and Castiel with a surprised glint in his eyes.

“No problem, mate, I was just wondering.… Do you guys have a place to stay? ‘Cause it’s a long way from here to Los Angeles, and I assume you won’t be going back there today?”

Castiel tenses, licks his lips.

“I – um,” he begins. “I won’t be going back. At all,” is what he settles for, the words rushed and heavy on his tongue. His mouth is dry. “I wanted to –“ his voice trails off. Suddenly, he feels stupid. “I wanted to visit Gabriel. And ask him about my sister.”

He sees the exact moment when comprehension dawns on Balthazar, an open, concerned look flitting across his face for half a second before being swallowed by the careful, indifferent mask.

“Oh, my,” he says. “I’m sorry. I’ve been an awful host, but – Well, do you want a drink?” He gestures for them to sit down on the immaculate sofa. Dean eyes it like his jeans are going to soil it, but Castiel feels so tired he accepts the invitation gratefully. “Whiskey?”

“It’s noon,” Castiel says dubiously, and Balthazar chuckles.

“Believe me, you look like you need it.”

Castiel ponders that and nods cautiously. From the corner of his eyes, he spies Dean, who’s finally decided to sit down, do the same thing with a mumbled “Thanks.” For all his previous displays of confidence, Dean doesn’t seem any more at ease than Castiel himself is.

While Balthazar is otherwise occupied, Castiel looks around more carefully, searching for a clue of what Gabriel has become. He feels like he’s in a museum. At first sight, there’s nothing in this room that reminds him of his brother’s explosive personality but, looking more closely at the works of art, he can see reminders of the Gabriel he used to know. Here, three black-winged angels, looking thoroughly debauched, are dancing in circles with a naked demon. There, what seems to be a giant cupcake surrounded by a sea of chocolate. Castiel smiles when he remembers his brother’s infamous sweet tooth. Some things never change.

“Dude,” Dean breathes, “I feel like I’ve walked into an alternate reality.”

“Yes,” Castiel says, eyeing a suspiciously phallic sculpture. “I think I can relate.”

Dean snorts and shakes his head. Then, his face turns serious.

“Cas, did you have a back-up plan when you arrived here?” At Castiel’s confused look, he clarifies: “In case your brother wasn’t here, I mean.”

Castiel thinks about it. He isn’t poor by any stretch of the imagination. His previous job at Novak Security paid... not royally, but good enough, and he has never been much of a spendthrift. However, he knows better than to think his savings will last him long in a city like this.

“No,” he answers. “I will have to look for a place to live.”

Dean hums. He looks pensive for a moment, his thumb rubbing circles on the pristine leather of the sofa.

“Listen,” he starts, but whatever he was going to say is cut short by Balthazar’s return.

“Sorry for the wait,” he says. “I had to talk to Gabe on the phone.” Castiel straightens, but Balthazar doesn’t elaborate. He gives them two glasses filled with amber liquid. Castiel takes his with relief. He has never been one for alcohol, but he feels overwhelmed.

“So,” he says, taking a sip of his drink and relishing the slight burn it traces down his throat. “How long have you and Gabriel been together?” He’s curious. He can’t picture his mischievous brother with this sharp and sarcastic man. Though, now that he thinks about it, Gabriel had always seemed to hide a darker edge under his tricks and his easy laughter.

“Eight years,” Balthazar answers with a smirk. “We’ve been friends for twelve, though, and business partners for ten.”

Dean whistles. “That’s a damned long time.” He sounds impressed. “And what is it you do?”

“I could tell you,” Balthazar answers smoothly, “but then I’d have to kill you.”

Dean rolls his eyes, but Castiel frowns.

“It’s not illegal, is it?”

Balthazar bursts out laughing, barely avoiding spilling his drink on his armchair.

“Oh, Lord, no. It was just a joke, Cassie. Gabriel and I own a chain of bakeries.”

“Gabriel and pastries,” Castiel mutters. “It sounds about right.”

Dean leans into the couch, interested. “What’s the chain’s name?” he asks eagerly.

“Heaven’s Patisserie,” Balthazar says smugly. “Heard of it?”

Castiel shakes his head, but Dean looks positively delighted.

“Dude, really? There’s one near our place, your pies are fucking orgasms.” Castiel chokes discreetly with his whiskey. Okay, then. “Though, man, to be honest, the name is seriously corny.”

Castiel has to refrain from pointing out that insulting their host’s business choices perhaps isn’t the wisest idea, but Balthazar just chuckles.

“I know, right? It was Gabe’s idea. Now, we’re stuck with it. We all make mistakes.”

“Damn right,” Dean grumbles, hand coming to rub a spot under his shoulder in a probably unconscious gesture. The alcohol has done wonders, and Castiel feels himself relax. He still doesn’t know what to do, but it doesn’t matter. He’ll make it up as he goes.

***

After that, Castiel leaves his number at Balthazar’s request and they take leave, both breathing a silent sigh of relief when they step out of the immaculate apartment.

“Man, I’m starving,” Dean grumbles once they’re in the car. “Wanna grab a bite? My treat.” Castiel doesn’t hesitate long before nodding. The last thing he ate was a piece of toast and, before that, a soggy sandwich before taking the train in Los Angeles. The prospect of food makes his stomach grumble – it does that a lot. He would be embarrassed if the sound hadn’t been drowned by Dean singing along with his music. It’s slightly off-key, and Castiel hides his smile by staring through the passenger window.

Much like his brother, Dean is one of the most genuine people Castiel has ever met. It’s rather refreshing, offering him a much-needed escape from his memories of stilted family dinners and tense silences. Sam and Dean seem to be the kind of people who act on their impulses, who trust their own judgments. It’s something Castiel can’t help being a little envious of. All his life, he has been expected to follow orders. He has always been the type to wait silently for the bad moments to pass. Until a few days before, that is. Now his life looks like a patchwork of stolen moments and abrupt decisions. He feels like he is on the edge of a cliff:  one wrong movement and he will fall. 

Well, he supposes this is how life is supposed to feel. Something scary and huge, wondering each second what if I made the wrong choice?

The diner they eat in is called Harvelle’s Roadhouse, and though it looks a little shady, the burger Castiel gets is positively delicious. He devours it enthusiastically, and is staring mournfully at his empty plate, pondering the idea the idea of ordering another one, when Dean says: “So. I have a proposition for you.”

All thoughts of cheeseburgers forgotten, Castiel leans over the table.

“I’m listening.”

Dean clears his throat and starts playing with his straw, sending drops of Coke onto the table. “See,” he starts, “Sam and I moved into this apartment six years ago when he was still studying. At first, the rent was kinda low, because the area wasn’t as fancy as today. But, well, the prices have started to hike pretty quickly. So we – uh, we had to find a roommate.” 

Castiel frowns. He hasn’t seen a single trace of a third person in the apartment. Dean seems to sense his confusion and chuckles, shaking his head.

“Yeah, Charlie moved out a month ago to get a place closer to her new job. So I was wondering... You look like a nice guy, and you kinda need somewhere to crash, at least for the week. We could – try it? And at the end of the week, if all goes well, you could…move in.” He pauses and looks up from his straw, looking a little unsure. “What d’ya think?”

Castiel is stunned. He blinks slowly, trying to work out what Dean is asking him.

“I – but you don’t know me,” he says faintly. Dean shrugs, takes a sip of his soda and scowls when he realizes it went flat while he was talking. He pushes his glass further on the table.

“Sam wanted to put an ad in the paper. It’s the same thing. Consider this your interview.”

The questions, if unspoken, are heavily implied. Castiel tries not to tense under the weight of them, but Dean notices all the same.

“Hey, dude,” he says more gently. “Don’t sweat it, alright? I’m not asking you for your biography or some shit, I just wanna know you better.”

Castiel shakes his head. “No, you’re right. I just –“ he takes a deep breath, steels himself for the flood of memories. “I come from Los Angeles. My family is, ah, quite wealthy. We – they own a security company. My father…my father was in charge, but he passed away a few years ago.”

Dean’s straw falls, spreading a little puddle of soda on the table.

“I’m sorry,” he says, and something in his voice makes Castiel look up.

“No, my father – we weren’t close,” Castiel says, picking his words carefully. “You see, I have six siblings.” He smiles at Dean’s wide-eyed look. “Michael, Luke, and Gabriel are the eldest, born from his first marriage. Then Raphael and Uriel, from his second marriage. And finally, my sister Anna and me. His first wife left him. He divorced the second. And our mother –“ Castiel pauses, folds his shaky hands on the table. “She died giving me birth. Our father was often away on business, and when he wasn’t, the company took all his time, so Anna and I mostly raised each other. We both knew there was a place reserved for us in our father’s company. Anna tried it, she really did, but it wasn’t made for her. Three years ago, after my father’s death, she left. It – it was difficult times. Michael, as the eldest, took the reins of the company, but Luke contested it, while Raphael claimed he had as much rights as them to make the decisions. I didn’t want to pick a side, so I found myself caught in the crossfire. I was – a liability. Then, Raphael and I had several – disagreements. The last one ended with me breaking his nose, losing my job and my place in the family tree.” Castiel chuckles without humor, feeling his jaw clench at the memory of the words that were exchanged that night. Words like your fault, like shame and dishonor. Lost in his painful thoughts, he starts when Dean breathes out deeply.

“Man,” he says slowly, “and here I was, thinking my family was fucked up.”

Castiel stiffens, a knee-jerk reaction to Dean’s crude words. But on his face, he finds no mockery, only a sparkle of concern drowned in inoffensive sarcasm. No pity, though, for which Castiel is relieved. He smiles a little, willing his body to unwind.

“Yes. It would seem that we broke the record on that matter.”

An uncomfortable silence settles over the booth. On cue, a young woman arrives with two coffees and engages in good-natured banter with Dean, sending Castiel questioning glances from time to time. They’re joined by an older woman who’s less subtle in her curiosity.

“Where are your manners, boy? You gonna introduce us, or what?”

Castiel almost laughs at Dean’s sheepish expression.

“Sorry, sorry. Cas, this is Ellen,” he says, pointing in the direction of the older woman, “and Jo, her daughter. They’re family friends. Ellen, Jo, this is Castiel. He’s our – new roommate.” Castiel doesn’t miss Dean’s slight hesitation. He offers his hand to Ellen. 

“Nice to meet you.” he says. Ellen’s handshake is firm and resolute, her smile warm.

Jo laughs, loud and clear. “Dean, where’d you find this one? You don’t deserve him, he’s way too polite.”

Dean grumbles something that earns him a slap on the back of the head from Ellen, and Castiel relaxes on his chair, smiling in a way he hasn’t in years. It feels good.

***

It's past five when they make their way back to the apartment. Castiel feels exhilarated, dizzy with laughter and too much coffee. A quick glance in the rearview mirror informs him that his cheeks are reddened and his eyes bright. He looks... happy.

Chatting with Dean, Jo, and Ellen, he has learned to know Dean and his brother better. Sam is a recently graduated lawyer who had the chance to find a job very quickly. By the way Dean’s eyes shine with pride when he talks about him, Castiel can guess that the two of them are close. He also learns that Sam has a girlfriend named Jess, who was the reason Sam was at the station the day before; she’d taken a few days off to visit her parents in Pennsylvania and hates flying (one of the many reasons I like her, Dean had said). Dean is a mechanic specializing in the restoration of vintage cars – he talks animatedly about his Impala, and though Castiel cares nothing for cars, Dean’s energy is infectious. His best friend is also his former roommate, Charlie. He carefully avoids the subject of his family, but reading between the lines, Castiel can guess that the Winchesters, too, have had their share of family drama.

All in all, by the time Dean unlocks the door, Castiel feels tired and more than a little overwhelmed.

“You okay?” Dean asks. Castiel nods, because he is, and it is a very scary feeling after so much years spent feeling numb and disconnected from his own life. He takes off his shoes and sits on the sofa, only realizing afterwards that he acted like it wasn’t someone else’s place, but his own. He wiggles his toes, pensive.

Dean comes back from the kitchen with three bottles of beer and holds out one for him.

“Sam’ll be back shortly,” he offers when Castiel looks questioningly at the third bottle.

Indeed, barely five minutes later, the sound of the key playing in the lock shatters their companionable silence.

“Honey! I’m home!” Sam booms from the door. Castiel smirks a little at Dean, who shouts back: “Shut up, bitch, you’ll scare off the guests!”

Castiel hears a thump, a curse and a shuffling noise, then Sam appears, rubbing his forehead with a pained frown.

“What gue- oh.” He comes to a halt when he spots Castiel on the couch. “Hi!” he says, sounding a little embarrassed.

“Hello, Sam,” Castiel answers, trying his best not to smile, a task rendered somewhat difficult by Dean’s snickers. They end abruptly when Sam swats his brother on the head. There’s an offended squawk and a grumbled “asshole”, then Sam shuffles into the kitchen. Dean follows him, and Castiel tries to quell his curiosity about the hushed snatches of voices he can pick up. He knows it’s about him, and he also knows that Sam’s opinion on the matter is important. When they get back in the living-room, Sam is sporting a somewhat smug smile and Dean is glaring at him without heat. Sam stands in front of Castiel and extends his hand. Confused, Castiel shakes it reflexively.

“Welcome to the Winchester household, Cas,” Sam says solemnly. “And good luck, too. Believe me, you’ll need it to put up with us.”

***

Castiel learns many things in the following days. He learns, among other things, that Sam is not a morning person at all. He grumbles his way through his two cups of coffee, emitting vibes of don’t talk to me so strong it's almost uncomfortable to be in the same room as him. Dean, however, who seems to wake up in a disgustingly good mood, isn’t fazed by his brother’s glares and enjoys poking fun at him over his toast. Castiel, fortunately, has apparently been granted the status of newbie and is spared the incessant nagging.

He discovers that Dean cultivates a guilty appreciation for cheesy medical soap operas. The first time Castiel walks into the living room to find him enraptured by a noisy argument between a nurse and a doctor, Dean freezes, apparently bracing himself for a a sarcastic remark. When Castiel wordlessly sits next to him, he relaxes into the couch and starts explaining the rather complex web of human interactions in Dr. Sexy MD. And if Castiel spends more time counting the freckles that adorn Dean’s smiling face than actually listening to him, well. Nobody will know. 

There are little things, too. He learns how Sam, when he comes home from work, bends to unknot his shoelaces and inevitably bangs his head into the coat rack when he straightens. He learns that Dean always takes a shower directly after work to get rid of the smell of sweat, motor oil, and gasoline. He learns that the neighbor across the landing owns a very obnoxious dog who keeps barking every time it hears someone. He learns that, when Dean laughs, he laughs with his whole body, and that it’s quite beautiful in an odd way.

But Castiel learns one thing in particular: He is in no way a person who relishes inaction. He'd already suspected that before, but after three days spent wandering aimlessly around the apartment with growing boredom, the intuition becomes fact, and Castiel makes a decision.

He needs to find a job and he needs to find it quickly.

Which is why, when Dean calls him on Thursday and informs him that the coffee shop around the corner is hiring, Castiel doesn’t waste a minute before borrowing Sam’s computer, printing his resume, and leaving the apartment.

He gives the resume to a young woman who’s cleaning the tables. The shop is almost empty, save for two teenagers holding hands over their cups of hot chocolate. The woman scans the resume with sharp brown eyes, then turns the same look on Castiel. He feels himself squirm under the assessing stare. After a moment, she smirks.

“Okay, you’ll do.”

Castiel blinks slowly, once, then twice.

“Wh – what?”

The woman doesn’t answer, just gestures for Castiel to follow her. He does, a little numbly. She opens a door in the back of the shop and they cross a dimly lit hallway. Castiel suddenly, stupidly wonders if this is some sort of elaborate trap to trick unsuspecting job-seekers and steal all their organs. By the time they reach the furthest door, he feels a little nervous. The woman lifts her hand but doesn’t knock immediately. Instead, she seems to hesitate for a second before turning to look at Castiel with a huff.

“Read your contract carefully,” she says. “I wouldn’t put it past him to try and buy your soul.” She pauses, and Castiel can only nod, eyes wide. “And stop looking so damn jumpy,” she drawls, “He’s never killed anyone.” Then she knocks, and Castiel can only hope he imagined the mumbled “I think”.

“Come in!” a male voice booms. The woman opens the door and pushes Castiel into the room. It’s an office, he observes with a ridiculous pang of relief. He'd half expected a torture dungeon.

“I’ve found your recruit,” the woman says.

“Thank you, Meg,” the man answers. He smiles, but his eyes stay cold and calculating. “That will be all.”

Meg nods and closes the door behind her without a word. Castiel feels himself relax as he takes in the man in front of him. Tailored suit, manicured nails, shark smile. Half the members of his family share these characteristics. He can deal with this.

“Please, please, sit down, angel.”

Castiel sits and lets the man scrutinize him like Meg did earlier. Though, where Meg simply looked curious and a little bit sarcastic, the man looks at him with detached disgust, as if he were a weird stain on his pants.

“I’m Fergus Crowley,” he finally says smoothly, smile never wavering.

“I’m Castiel Novak,” Castiel says, smiling in a similar fashion.

They don’t shake hands.

After a beat of silently staring at each other, Crowley clucks his tongue and starts rummaging in a drawer. With a satisfied hum, he finally provides Castiel with two sheets of paper.

“Fill in this form and bring it here tomorrow. You’ll start at 7 AM. I’m a very busy man, so you’ll follow Meg’s orders. Sign here,” he points at the bottom of the contract.

Remembering Meg’s reluctant advice, Castiel takes the time to read each clause of the contract with attention, aware of Crowley’s impatient little coughs. Nothing seems too shady, and his pay is better than he’d expected. He signs it without a word.

“We’re very happy to have you here,” Crowley says with a tight smile, sounding anything but. Then he turns back to his papers, and seems to forget his existence entirely.

When he gets back in the coffee shop, Meg is wiping the counter, and she nods at him a little brusquely. Castiel mimics the gesture and leaves as quickly as he can without running. Though he doesn’t have much experience in job interviews, he’s fairly sure this one wasn’t by any means normal. 

***

Castiel has always been a fast learner. In Kindergarten, when his classmates were still struggling over the alphabet, he and Anna were already taking turns to read each other a bedtime story. His teacher had expressed her desire to meet his father and make him skip a class, but his father had never bothered to come to the meetings. That had suited Castiel just fine.

Therefore, when Meg shows him the ropes this first morning, it isn’t long before she declares him suitable for service. Castiel doesn’t really know how to deal with Meg. She seems to be keeping herself at a safe distance from him, helpful without being friendly. The first half of his shift is spent in silence. Castiel is a little impressed at how well he handles the morning rush, even if he fumbles a little at the beginning – Meg even graces him with a tiny smile, but they don’t talk unless necessary.

It isn’t until after Castiel’s lunch that an ice-breaker appears in the form of Crowley, of all people. Clad in his black suit and very aware of his own importance, he stomps from his office across the coffee shop and leaves without a backwards glance.

“Smarmy dick,” Meg mutters under her breath as the door closes with a bang, and Castiel’s eyebrows shoot up, a laugh startled out of him. The old lady he’s serving harrumphs, looking outraged. She doesn’t leave a tip. Meg glances at him with a smug smile.

“Oh, he’s alive,” she says in a falsely bright tone, “I was starting to worry I’d hired a pod person.”

After that, time passes quickly. Meg and Castiel chat in between clients, and he finds out she is more likeable than her cold demeanor suggests. She’s entertaining, snarky in the best way, badmouthing Crowley and warning him against the night staff (according to her, Becky is a “nutcase” and Ruby some kind of “succubus-demon”, whatever that means).

When he comes back home, he is tired and sore from standing all day long, but he also feels strangely satisfied. He unlocks the door with his brand-new key and shrugs off his coat. When he gets to the living-room, he is greeted by the sight of Sam Winchester’s bottom. A very naked bottom. His first reaction is to drop his keys, his second reaction is to screw his eyes shut.

 “Oh my god!” Sam shouts in a disturbingly high-pitched voice. Castiel hears a loud thump, a female laugh. He turns around and opens his eyes, feeling awfully embarrassed. Behind him, Sam clears his throat.

 “Are you decent?” Castiel asks faintly.

“Yeah,” Sam says sheepishly. Castiel turns slowly and is hugely relieved to note that, indeed, no embarrassing body parts are on display. Sam’s t-shirt is inside out, but he decides not to comment on it. The young blonde woman next to Sam looks like she’s wavering between embarrassment and amusement. Castiel smiles a little.

“Jessica, I presume?”

 “Call me Jess,” she says. She holds out her hand. Then she looks at it and blushes a beetroot red before waving shakily.

 There’s a beat of silence.

“Well, that was awkward,” Castiel offers.

Jess bursts into peals of laughter, and Sam seems so mortified Castiel can’t hold back a chuckle of his own.

“Castiel, I’m really, really sorry. Can we- let’s never talk about that again.”

“Yes, please,” Castiel says earnestly while Jess wipes a tear from her cheek.

After that, the conversation smoothly drifts to safer subjects. Castiel finds Jess very nice. She’s witty and smart, and reminds him painfully of Anna in the way she talks about her job. Jess is a doctor in the Neonatal Intensive Care Unit of the nearest hospital. Anna was always talking about how she wanted to help people, to do something worthwhile with her life. He wonders if she managed to fulfill her dream. The memories make something in his chest clench and ache in a way it hasn’t for months. He blinks and promptly leaves with a feeble excuse, aware of how rude he acts but unable to stops himself.

Once he is safely alone in his room, he gives in to the urge to close his eyes. He feels the gap Anna left in his life throb within him like a missing limb, like an itch he can’t scratch. He remembers Anna’s voice, hopeful and young, when she’d asked him to come with her. He’d been too much of a coward to stand against his family at the time, and the guilt threatens to swallow him whole as he recalls Anna’s sad acceptance, like she’d known all along he wouldn’t follow her.

He doesn’t know how long he stays here, eyes closed, trying to control his breathing. A soft knock on the door startles him, and he realizes belatedly that he is still standing in the middle of the room.

“Come in.” he says. The door creaks open, and Dean’s head appears

“Hi Cas.”

“Hello, Dean.”

“You–” Dean looks a little uneasy. “I was gonna go for a walk and I was wondering – wanna come with me?” It’s tentative in a way he’s never heard from Dean.

“Yes, I would like that. Give me five minutes, I have to change.”

Dean nods and closes the door. Castiel quickly slips out of the uniform of the coffee shop – a blue t-shirt and black pants – and pulls on a soft flannel shirt and a pair of faded jeans. It’s his last clean outfit, he realizes. When he goes back into the living-room, Sam and Jess are nowhere to be seen, but Dean is curled up on the couch, an open book on his lap. The sight warms Castiel in a way it shouldn’t.

“What are you reading?” he asks.

Dean looks up and smiles, his expression gentle and unguarded.

“1984. Ever read it?”

Castiel shakes his head. “No, but I’ve heard of it.”

“I’ll lend it to you, if you want. It’s one of my favorite books. You ready?”

“Yes,” Castiel says, and follows Dean outside.

It feels odd, walking next to someone. The sun hasn’t set yet, the weather in this strange phase between summer and fall where the wind cools down and the evenings take on an orange glow that bathes everything in warmth. At first they’re silent, their steps synchronized. They reach a park. It is nice, still echoing with the laughter of a few teenagers playing soccer. On the trees, the leaves are red and yellow, and soon they will fall and dry under the passersby’s shoes, leaving a crispy carpet on the concrete.

It’s Dean who breaks the silence first.   

“Sam told me you felt a little down earlier.”

It isn’t a question. Castiel, at first, says nothing. But he trusts Dean, as strange as it might seem, especially for someone like him. He’s never been known to make friends easily, nor is he one to talk about his feelings openly. But Dean and Sam are different. They have been from the very beginning. Without concerting, they sit on a bench under a huge oak, its leaves shimmering under the breeze.

“I miss my sister.” he finally says, staring at the playground without really seeing it. Dean hums, shifts next to him. Their knees brush and Castiel suddenly realizes how close to each other they are sitting. Once the thought has crossed his mind, he can’t help but wonder what it would be like, to close the small space between them and press his side against Dean’s.

“Why don’t you call her?” Dean asks, sounding genuinely puzzled. Castiel shakes his head and chuckles softly.

“She – severed all contact, so to speak, when she left. I have no idea where she is. I tried to find her address, but I didn’t find anything. It’s like she just... disappeared.”

Dean breathes out slowly.

“Dude, that’s harsh.”

A surge of protectiveness towards Anna makes his voice sound colder than he intends to. The last person who spoke ill of his sister was Raphael, and he won a trip to the hospital. “It’s not her fault. She…she’s always been someone…whole. I don’t know how to explain it. She doesn’t do things by halves, she never did. She asked me to leave with her but I – refused. She was devastated to leave me, but she had to.”

Dean straightens, licks his lips.

“Sam left,” he says roughly.

Surprised, Castiel turns, but Dean isn’t looking at him. His eyes are fixed on his hands.

“What?”

“Sam left. Little more than eight years ago, he packed up and left. He’d just gotten into a fight with our dad, about college and how he wanted to go and be normal and all this crap. Dad was a cop.” He pauses. “I was, too. For three years.”

Castiel doesn’t speak. He doesn’t dare to. It feels like something precious, this confession. Something rare.

“Dad wanted Sam to join the police, of course,” Dean goes on. He seems to be talking to himself more than anything, clenching and unclenching his fist.

“I didn't hear from Sam for two years after that. In the meantime, Dad died in a car accident. Sam never got to go to his funeral. Then, one day, just like that, he called me. Told me he was studying pre-law in New York. He’d gotten a scholarship and Ellen had loaned him money to pay the rest. He worked at the Roadhouse, part-time. And I just – I ditched everything: Kansas, my job, my friends, and I moved here. So, yeah.” He swallows, his throat bobbing nervously. “I get it.”

The sun has set, now, and above the playground the sky looks like it's bleeding, clouds tinged with a deep, dark red. Castiel tips his head back and closes his eyes.

“Thank you,” he simply says.

Dean doesn’t say anything, but his knee touches Castiel’s once more, slow and deliberate. They stay there until the night settles over them, wrapping them in cold air. Then, silently, they make their way back home.

***

Apparently, a weekly ritual dictates that every Saturday, the Winchesters' little group of friends gather in their apartment to eat pizza, drink beer and argue over movies.

Castiel, the first Saturday, asks Dean if he should make himself scarce. To this, the only answer is a pat on the back and a forceful “you’re staying”. Saturday is also grocery day, which introduces Castiel to one of the many eccentricities of Life, the Winchester edition.

At Walmart, Sam and Dean bicker over everything: the price of vegetables, the merits of frozen pizza versus delivered pizza, whether Sam’s shampoo is too expensive or not, and even who gets to push the cart. And Castiel, silently observing their strange form of brotherly bonding, finds himself smiling like a loon. While the two of them engage in a wrestling match next to the fruit display, he carefully picks apples and eyes the bananas dubiously – they’re more blackish than yellow, and smell really odd. When Sam screeches “Dean, not the hair, you asshole”, he’s moved on to the vegetables, wondering if turnip is a good idea. He decides against it. Nobody likes turnip.

The speakers are pouring corny, syrupy music directly onto their brains and in the frozen food section, Castiel decides that he hates Ke$ha from the bottom of his heart. All in all, he wonders how the Winchesters have even been able to survive without him, as the two overgrown toddlers keep exchanging ‘bitch’s and ‘jerk’s until a young father of two shoots them a warning glare. Which promptly send them into a noisy fit of laughter. Castiel wrinkles the grocery list in his fist and stares at them until they calm down.

At the checkout, the harried-looking cashier sends pitying looks his way, but he feels satisfied. He’s insisted on paying – after all, he didn’t pay a rent for this “trial period” of living with Dean and Sam – and the two brothers seem to have finally remembered that they actually are adults, and they help him take the bags.

They’re making their way back to the car, when Castiel’s cell buzzes. Surprised, he fumbles a little with the bags, barely avoiding spilling them on the parking lot. Dean and Sam stop walking to shoot him confused looks, but he doesn’t pay attention. Putting down one bag, he fishes the phone in his pocket. When he sees an unknown number, he immediately thinks Anna. It’s a stupid reaction, after all these years, but it’s one he can’t avoid.

“Hello?”

“Castiel?”

It’s most definitely not Anna.

“Yes?” Castiel asks hesitantly.

“Holy shit, what the hell happened to your voice? Last time I heard you talk, you didn’t sound like you’d gargled with gravel!”

Understanding dawns on Castiel, and he sighs a little.

“I was fourteen the last time we spoke, Gabriel.”

In the tense silence that follows, he hears Sam asking something and Dean shushing him.

“Aw, you recognized me! I’m touched, little bro, really.”

Castiel had forgotten that Gabriel didn’t do tense. He’s talking again: “Okay, so, you still at your friend’s?”

“Yes.”

“Alright, you’re coming tonight.”

Castiel frowns.

“Gabriel –“

“It’ll be cool, I promise. I mean, Balthazar made me swear not to hire a stripper. Said you didn’t look like a party-man, the old killjoy.”

Thank god for Balthazar, Castiel thinks.

“Gabriel, I’d really like to, but I have plans for tonight.”

He can vaguely hear Dean say “Cas”, and waves in his direction in an ‘it’s alright’ gesture he hopes is convincing.

“Really?” Gabriel sounds genuinely disappointed, and guilt gnaws at him, low in his stomach.

“CASTIEL NOVAK!” Dean barks.

“Hold on a second, Gabriel.”

Castiel turns to where Dean and Sam are leaning on the hood of the Impala.

“Yes, Dean,” he says, somewhat annoyed. 

 “Tell your brother to come tonight.”

“Excuse me?” Castiel asks disbelievingly.

“Tell Gabriel and Balthazar to come,” Dean repeats, and yes, Castiel heard right the first time, apparently. “The more the merrier. Especially if they bring one of their pies.”

Dean smiles when Castiel rolls his eyes and presses the phone back against his ear.

“Gabriel, what is your opinion on Star Wars?”

***

By six everything is ready, and despite Sam and Dean’s reassurances, Castiel is more than a little uneasy. He’s never done well with new people. He isn’t shy by any stretch of the imagination. Rather, he feels like he’s on another plane of reality when around his peers. He’s too blunt or too intense, too stilted or too aggressive. There is no balance, no happy medium, and people tend to be unsettled by his manners.

The prospect of seeing his brother again does nothing to calm his shaky nerves. He remembers being all gangly limbs and teenage angst when Gabriel left. He remembers looking up to his twenty-something big brother, the only person besides Anna that had managed to stir something akin to love within his confused little person. In the midst of puberty, he  hadn’t understood Gabriel’s sudden departure. It was back then. Now, he’s changed in more ways than one. His cheeks have lost their baby fat, his muscles have grown into those of a healthy man, an adult, even if he doesn’t always feel that way. The three awkward hairs that had adorned his chin have been replaced by an ever-present five o’clock shadow that no amount of shaving can deter. More importantly, he thinks he knows now why Gabriel left.

Castiel sighs and rubs his scratchy cheek. In the kitchen, Dean is humming a Kansas song while filling the fridge with beers. Sam, in the bathroom, tries to drown the sound of his hairdryer under the one of running water (Dean actually knows Sam uses a hairdryer, and Sam knows that Dean knows, but that doesn’t stop him from trying to protect his misplaced pride, all the while wasting a horrifying amount of water. Dean indulges him, and Castiel has caught him smiling fondly more than once.)

He wants to take these little things and pin them to a piece of paper like butterfly memories. Like he did when he was in college, full of dreams of evasion and rebellion he knew he could never follow through on. Writing, then, was the only thing he allowed himself, arrogant words thrown in between the dull statistics scribbled in his copybooks.

The day he graduated, he threw everything away and hasn’t looked back since. Until now, that is. He tries to think of reasons why he shouldn’t buy a notebook and start all over again. He can’t, not when he remembers the delicious feeling of forbidden, the passion he dumped in the garbage for a bland life because it was so much easier to follow orders and let the numbness spread to the marrow. Easier than getting into this frightening dance called life. Now, though, what’s holding him back?

The doorbell rings twice, and Castiel propels himself off of the couch before he can think about it further. Taking the proverbial bull by the horns, he opens the door to find himself facing the most colorful t-shirt he has ever seen. Then he realizes he’s basically looking at the woman’s breasts, and even he knows that's socially unacceptable. He tears his gaze from the rainbow-covered menace to meet her eyes. She smiles and tries to wave, but seems to realize that the six-pack she’s holding is preventing it, and promptly shoves it in his hands.

“Hiya!” she says, “Are you Cas? Dean won’t shut up about you! Can I come in? I’m Charlie, by the way.”

Castiel wordlessly takes a step back, warm with guilty satisfaction at the idea that Dean talks about him, but thrown off balance by Charlie’s exuberance. If she notices it, she doesn’t comment on it. She just sprawls on the couch with the kind of familiarity that reminds Castiel that she used to live here, too. He shuffles into the kitchen where Dean is opening a bag of chips with an unnecessary amount of swearing. He dumps the six-pack on the table and says: “Charlie is here.”

It turns out to be useless, because at the very same moment, Charlie hollers: “Winchester! Get your butt down here and give me my hug!”

Dean is out of the kitchen in a blink. Leaning against the doorframe, Castiel watches as Charlie throws her arms around Dean’s neck and pulls him into a tight hug. Dean complies happily and laughs at whatever Charlie mumbles into his neck. A door clicks behind him, and Castiel looks as Sam enters the room, takes in the scene and rolls his eyes. Apparently, this is not something new. Castiel feels a pang of something like jealousy, which is really stupid, considering that he’s known Dean for a week. They are not at the point where they can hug, if they will ever be. He wonders, a little sadly, if Dean and Charlie ever kissed, if they shared a bed, if she got to see him bleary-eyed and mussed with sleep, with the imprint of his pillow on the cheek as he slowly woke up on a Sunday morning. He dislikes this train of thought, so he shuts it off quickly.

There’s a bang against the front door, and Castiel thinks he can make out Jo’s laughter and two unknown male voices. Sam brightens, rushes towards the door to let the newcomers in with a smile. Soon the living room is filled with enthusiastic greetings. Castiel is introduced to Garth, a skinny man with a dopey smile, Andy, who smells strongly of cannabis and calls him “Cashiel” for some reason and Ash, a cheerful man with a somewhat unfortunate haircut. They’re followed closely by Victor, a handsome man who shakes his hand with a pleasant smile. They are nice enough, none of them looking twice as Castiel says hello and tries to look as normal as possible. Judging by Dean’s smile, he does well.

Finally the doorbell rings once more, and Sam jerks his chin in Castiel’s direction.

“Must be your brother, Cas. You should go.”

Castiel swallows around the lump in his throat and nods. Ignoring the curious looks the others are sending his way, he gets up and wipes his sweaty palms on his jeans. He takes more time than he should have to get to the door, walking slowly, trying to convince himself that everything will be alright.

He opens the door and, yes, it is Gabriel. He wonders how he'd ever doubted that he would recognize him.

“Hey, little bro!” Gabriel grins, two bottles and a pastry box in his hands. Despite his relaxed stance and his playful smile, there’s something in his eyes, a hint of wariness. Next to him, Balthazar eyes them with circumspection.

“You okay?” Gabriel says when Castiel shows no sign of moving. He realizes he’s being exceptionally rude. He feels himself flush with shame and opens the door wider.

“Hello Gabriel. Balthazar. Please, do come in.”

They follow him into the living room, where Ash and Jo are fighting over the last armchair. Castiel introduces the newcomers, priding himself in not forgetting a single name. Dean, when he receives the bottles – which turn out to be whiskey – nods appreciatively, and the way his face brightens when he sees the pastry box is almost comical. He shoves a beer into Gabriel's and Balthazar’s hands and unceremoniously pushes Andy off of the couch, gesturing for them to sit. Castiel hovers uncertainly in front of his big brother, who seems to be blending in just fine, already involved in a vehement conversation with Andy and Garth.

“Everything okay, Cassie?”  Castiel tears his eyes from Gabriel and looks at Balthazar. He appears a little uneasy, too tense, holding his bottle like he doesn’t quite know what to do with it.

“I don’t really know what to say to him.” Castiel says, too quietly to be heard by anyone else.

“Just be yourself, cheesy as it may sound.” Balthazar takes a sip from his bottle, a cautious look on his face. The taste must be to his liking, because he smiles a little and leans over the armrest.

“I’ll tell you a secret,” he says. “Gabe was nervous as hell after he called you.”

Castiel glances at his brother, thinking that he certainly doesn’t look so. Balthazar seems to follow his train of thought, because he chuckles and shakes his head.

“Believe me, I can tell. That’s one of the perks of living with someone for so long. Gabe is a smug little shit at best and an emotionally stunted asshole at worst, but I can read him like nobody else.”

Gabriel interrupts him by poking him in the side.

“I heard ‘asshole’. Talking ‘bout me again, aren’t we, honeybee?”

Balthazar smiles and raises an eyebrow.

“I was simply telling Cassie here what an awful man you are.”

Gabriel laughs wryly.

“Oh, baby, I love it when you sweet-talk to me.”

What a strange relationship they have, Castiel thinks idly. From a stranger’s point of view, they might seem distant and aggressive, but Castiel notices things. He notices the shared looks, the way Balthazar’s hand squeezes Gabriel’s knee when he thinks nobody is watching. He notices Gabriel leaning into the touch, and thinks that, perhaps, they’re good together.

The pizzas arrive and, for a while, Castiel lets himself relax, munching on his slice and listening absently to the cheerful chatter that fills the room.

More beers are required, and he volunteers to get them. He’s got his head in the fridge when he hears someone clear their throat behind him. Startled, he bangs his head on one of the shelves and lets out a pained grunt.

“Oh my god, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you,” Charlie says, rushing towards him to take the beers from his hand.

“It’s nothing,” Castiel says, shrugging. Charlie seems to hesitate.

“In fact, I – kinda wanted to talk to you.”

Castiel feels himself tense. It’s insane and he knows it, but the only reason he can think of to explain Charlie’s cautious expression is that she's somehow guessed that he is starting to see Dean as more than a roommate. He is still trying to wrap his head around it, and doesn’t need to be lectured. There is no way this can go well.

“Go on,” he says, his face a mask of polite curiosity.

Charlie rubs her hands together and Castiel braces himself.

“Dean told me about your sister.”

He wasn’t expecting that. Nor was he expecting the sudden, harsh pang of betrayal and hurt that makes his stomach churn. He tries not to let it show, but something must give him away, because Charlie’s face falls.

“Oh, Jesus, don’t be mad at him,” she blurts out, twisting her hands in a way that has to be painful. “He just told me because…well, because I might actually be able to help you.”

Castiel’s head snaps up.

“What?” he asks, taking a step backwards without realizing it.

“I’m kinda…good with computers?” she says, then smirks a little. “Scratch that, I’m awesome. I may be able to find her.”

Castiel is too stunned to answer right away. He opens his mouth, closes it again. Closes his eyes for a second, rubbing his temple in careful circles.

“I already tried,” he says faintly, trying to quell the absurd turmoil of hope boiling in his chest. Charlie snorts and shakes her head.

“There’s loads of stuff out there you don’t have access to.”

“And…you do?”

She shrugs, looking pleased with herself.

“I can try.”

Castiel’s legs shake. He leans against the fridge, takes a deep breath.

“I…. Alright. What do you need?”

*

* *

This night, Castiel gets drunk for the first time. Though he has, of course, experimented with  alcohol (and various less glorious substances) during his college years, he’s found early on that it does not affect him the way it affects his peers. Anna used to call it “strong metabolism”. Inias, for his part, called it “shitty luck”. Castiel, however, had not forged an opinion on the matter. Hearing his dorm-mates retch and dry-heave their excesses on morning afters, clutching their foreheads and moaning in discomfort had quelled any inclinations Castiel could have felt towards this particular habit.

Really, it’s all Jo and Dean’s fault. Halfway through A New Hope (which turns out to be far more interesting than Dean’s confusing summary had made it sound), Dean decides it is a great time to open the bottle brought by Castiel’s brother. Naturally, this proposition is met with general enthusiasm – or, in Castiel’s case, indifference. What he doesn’t expect is for Jo to talk him into a drinking game. Castiel is not one to back away in the face of a challenge, trivial as it might be, so he accepts. The movie is paused. Cheers erupt from everywhere and Dean fills ten little glasses for Castiel and Jo and one for the others (except Garth, Dean clarifies, which earns him a hurt look and a hilarious-looking pout). Facing each other, glasses carefully aligned on the coffee table, they wait for Dean’s signal. Jo goes first. Throwing her head back, she gulps the first three glasses with little more than a blink. After a pause, she drinks three more. Her hand shakes slightly when she puts down her last glass. She eyes the seventh glass, but shrugs and looks up at Castiel with a smug expression.

Victor whistles appreciatively and she winks at him, smiling coyly. Castiel doesn’t have the time to wonder about that. It is his turn to drink. He has never indulged in drinking games before, but he is fairly certain that he can drink more than Jo did without facing any uncomfortable consequences.

So he does.

He drinks, and drinks, without pausing once, until he is eight glasses in and a tiny little bit dizzy. He notices that a heavy silence has settled on the room, and glances around to see everyone gaping at him. Except Garth, because Garth is passed out on the sofa, his half-full second bottle of beer still in hand. A particularly loud snore seems to shake the group out of their daze. Sam laughs and rushes to the sleeping man to retrieve the bottle.

“Dude, you’re something else,” Dean says, voice hushed.

“I think I’m starting to feel something,” Castiel admits, setting his glass down carefully.

After that, the movie is forgotten and everyone seems to want to catch up with Jo and Castiel, drinking until half of the second bottle is gone. Castiel hasn’t touched a glass since the misguided game, but his slight dizziness isn’t so slight anymore.

However, when Dean sprawls on the couch next to him and hands him another glass, a bigger one, half filled with amber-like liquid, he doesn’t have the heart to turn it down.

“So, Cas,” Dean says. His cheeks are pink and his hair disheveled. It’s an enticing sight.

“Dean,” Castiel says inanely.

“What d’ya think of your life here? Think you’ll stick around?” He seems nervous, a little hopeful. There are butterflies in Castiel’s stomach, and it’s as cliché as it can get. He loves the feeling.

“I like it very much. And, yes, I would like to…stick around,” he answers truthfully.

Dean smiles, and it’s breathtakingly gentle (or maybe he’s just more inebriated than he thought).

“I’ll drink to that,” Dean says, lifting his glass.

Jo and Victor are slow-dancing in the middle of the room. Ash has followed Garth’s example and is trying to outsnore him. Balthazar, Gabriel, Sam and Charlie keep glancing at them. They probably think they’re being sneaky.  Andy is talking to himself and, yes, maybe Castiel is drunk, and maybe he’ll hate himself in the morning, but right now, Dean is laughing. So, well, Castiel?  Doesn’t really care about the hangover. 

***

The second week comes and goes. The third is accompanied by a pouring rain. It hits the sidewalk without interruption, raising alongside it a heady smell of wet concrete and rotten leaves.  It doesn’t dissuade Castiel from walking to the coffee shop, despite Dean’s insistence that he should let him drop Castiel off on his way to the garage. He likes walking and he likes the rain, Castiel explains Dean. Why should he deny himself this pleasure?

Meg is always here when he comes in, rolling her eyes at his yellow umbrella, drawling a “Good morning, Clarence,” and glaring at everything that happens to irritate her.  All in all, she is staying true to herself, and Castiel can’t fault her for that. He likes to think of her as his friend, even if she would probably object to that, because Meg is as stubborn as a mule and reluctant to let anyone think that she is not, in fact, a cold-hearted snake.

The customers come and go, a never-ending flow. Castiel has begun to remember the regulars, those who enter the shop every day at the same hour, come hell or high water. Frank, for example, who glares at him every time he tries to chat. Meg and a young woman named Bela are as thick as thieves, whispering over the counter like two old gossips. Castiel, for his part, finds her unpleasant and tries to steer clear of her.   

All in all, he’s fallen into a routine, in the best sense of the word. It is slow and easy instead of being mind-numbing like his life in Los Angeles had been. He gets to see the weather change, the hours tick away. He takes his break at ten, always sitting at a table near the window. Then he fishes his notebook from his pocket and writes, loses himself in the words like Dean does in his music.  

He is fascinated by the little oddities of humanity and meticulously lists the ones he sees each day. Some make him smile: the bright purple of a woman’s rubber boots, the little girl walking her kitten on a leash, the way Meg eats her muffins when she thinks Castiel isn’t watching (she always begins with the chocolate chips on top). Some are sad, though. 

A homeless man has taken to sitting under a disused bus stop across the street. Huddled up in a raincoat, he watches all day long the busy flow of people passing, never looking twice at him. One day, after a week of seeing him, Castiel prepares a second sandwich before going to work. At noon, he gathers his courage and crosses the street to give it to the man. He is young, probably younger than Castiel, and stares at him with piercing blue eyes. Then, he looks down at the sandwich, mumbles “Thanks, man,” and starts unwrapping it. When Castiel comes back inside, Meg rolls her eyes and calls him a softie, but from then on, she starts saving a little bag of the muffins she is so fond of for Castiel’s daily visits to the man. “What Crowley doesn’t know can’t kill him,” she says when Castiel raises an eyebrow at her. For her sake, he doesn’t comment. 

Friday starts like a regular day. Castiel and Dean take their breakfast together (Sam is sleeping off a flu that had Dean fussing over him for the past four days). Then, after declining for the umpteenth time Dean’s proposition to give him a lift, Castiel takes his umbrella and goes to work. The streets are empty, save for a few disgruntled passersby walking their dogs. He has spent half his night reading 1984. He always find it difficult to put down a book he likes, even if it means he’ll be tired the next day. However, the first hours of his shift pass pretty quickly. He spends them serving the customers and ensuring the coffee shop stays clean (with this weather, they have to mop the floor four times a day to get rid of the footprints). At ten, during the downtime, Castiel sits behind the counter and starts reading while Meg cleans the coffee-maker. When someone clears their throat loudly, he jumps to his feet, trying to hold back a curse and to look professionnal at the same time. He frowns when he sees that the customer is none other than Charlie. 

“Hi, Cas!” she says excitedly. Today, she wears a Harry Potter t-shirt and a shoulder bag covered in stickers. Castiel smiles. 

“Hello, Charlie. What brings you here?” he asks. His heart starts beating steadily faster. He knows what brings Charlie here. Castiel has spent the past two weeks in a frenzy of hope and terror – terror that Charlie wouldn’t find Anna, terror at the idea that something could have happened to her, anything, without him knowing. He has only seen Charlie once since her proposition, at the last movie night, and she had told him she still hadn’t been able to make a breakthrough. 

“Why, can’t a girl visit her friends?” she asks, but her gaze is warm. It drifts from Castiel to Meg, who is doing a very bad job of pretending she isn’t eavesdropping, staring at Charlie like she wants to burn a hole in the side of her head. Charlie smiles, though her pale cheekbones flush a little.

“Of course you can,” Castiel amends. “You are always welcome here.” 

Charlie laughs, and the sound of it brings a smile to Castiel’s lips. How this woman has managed to grow on him so fast, he’ll never understand, but her particular brand of sweet madness warms Castiel’s heart. 

“I’ll put you out of your misery,” Charlie says, “but before that.…” she turns to Meg and smiles again, though it holds an edge of caution. “Can I have an espresso to go, please…” her eyes flick to the name tag on Meg’s apron, “Meg?” she finishes. Meg nods, but doesn’t look like she’s going to move anytime soon. Castiel nudges her in the calf with his foot. 

“Right,” She says, then blinks. “Right,” she repeats, louder, before going to the coffee-maker. When Castiel turns back to Charlie, she has a piece of paper in her hand. She shoves it in Castiel’s direction.

“Here. I found her. It wasn’t easy, but I found her. She’s changed her name, by the way. She’s Anna Milton now.” 

“Did she get married?” Castiel asks, bemused. Anna hardly is the type to settle down. Then again, he thought Gabriel wasn’t, either. 

“Nah,” Charlie smiles. “She just changed it. Nice trick. I almost missed her. She’s currently in Rwanda with an aid convoy.”

Castiel can’t help the burst of pride he feels for his big sister. He had never doubted that Anna would find a way to achieve her goal, but learning that she's managed it to such an extent is heartwarming. 

“When does she get back?” he asks. He feels like all the air got punched out from his lungs with the realization that this is it. This is Anna. He’s found her. 

“In a month,” Charlie answers, with an all-too-knowing smile, like she knows exactly what he is thinking. Meg comes back with her coffee and dumps it on the counter without a word. Then, she scurries into the back of the shop, tripping and swearing as she goes. Castiel frowns. Meg is usually so coldly polite, it's not like her to be outright rude to a client. He opens his mouth to apologize on her behalf, but realizes that Charlie doesn’t seem all that bothered. Her gaze is following Meg’s retreating back, a small smile tugging at her lips. That is…interesting, to say the least. 

“Charlie, I cannot thank you enough,” he says, reaching over the counter to put his hand on top of hers. She looks down, and her expression softens into something like affection and amusement. Castiel takes back his hand, a little embarrassed. 

“It’s okay, Cas,” She says, taking out her purse. Castiel shakes his head with a severe frown.

“It’s on the house, Charlie. It’s the least I can do. If you need anything, just tell me.” 

Charlie starts shaking her head, but freezes mid-gesture. She looks at the door behind which Meg has disappeared, then back at Castiel. A smile spreads on her face. 

“Actually,” she says quietly. “There might be one thing you can do…”

***

After Charlie leaves, Castiel takes the time to make himself a tea before joining Meg in the back. Leaving the door open to ensure he’ll hear the arrival of any customers, he sits on the floor, facing her. They’re surrounded by boxes and packs of milk and his position is uncomfortable, but he doesn’t react, just stares at her silently. Meg is scowling at her feet, clicking her nails together. The sound of it makes Castiel want to grind his teeth, but he refrains from scolding her. 

“So,” he says calmly, taking a sip of tea. “Would you care to tell me what this was about?” 

Meg’s scowl only deepens. “Shut up,” she grumbles. 

Castiel hums. For a few minutes, he doesn’t say anything. 

Then: “My roommates and I are having a movie-night tomorrow, with a few friends.” 

Meg’s head snaps up and her eyes widen minutely, before her carefully closed-off mask falls back onto her face. 

“And?” she drawls.

Castiel shrugs. 

“Would you like to come?” 

Meg looks at him suspiciously. 

“Are you trying to get into my pants, Clarence? Because I’ve got to tell you, that’s not happening.” 

Castiel’s eyebrows shoot up, and he suddenly feels a little unsure. “Good grief, Meg, of course not. I was just asking you to come, as a friend.” 

Meg looks like she’s just swallowed half a lemon. 

“Friend?” 

Castiel rolls his eyes a little, but there’s a smile somewhere on Meg’s face, under the layers of sarcasm. He chooses to take that as a win. 

“There will be alcohol.” 

“Deal.”

***

“What’s your name?” Castiel asks as he hands today’s sandwich and a bag of muffins to the man. The rain has stopped, but he is still here, under the bus stop. He doesn’t really know what prompts him to ask that. It just feels wrong, somehow, to just call him “the man”, even if it’s only in his own head. 

The man stares at him, much like he does every day of the week when Castiel came to bring him his lunch. Like he’s trying to understand something important. At first, Castiel thinks he won’t answer the question, but then the man smiles. It’s then that Castiel realizes fully how young he is. He barely looks a day older than nineteen. 

“Alfie,” he says. “You?” 

“I’m Castiel. Have a good day, Alfie,” Castiel answers, belatedly realizing how stupid he sounds. But Alfie – whether it is his real name or not, Castiel doesn’t know – Alfie just nods and smiles again. 

“Thanks, Castiel.” 

It is the first time someone calls him Castiel since he arrived at the Winchesters'. At five, when he leaves, Alfie is still there, and waves at him from his bus stop. Castiel waves back, buries his nose in his scarf and thinks, sadly, that winter is coming, and Alfie will be cold out there.

***

When he comes home, he finds Sam curled up on the sofa, watching TV with an expression of glum resignation. He’s been mooning ever since he learned that he wouldn’t be able to see Jess for at least a week. Given her line of work, Castiel finds it logical, but it doesn’t stop Sam from pining. 

“Hello, Sam,” Castiel says, dropping his keys on the coffee table. “Are you feeling better?” 

Sam shrugs. “Not really. I guess I’ll have to wait.” His voice is raspy from disuse, and his skin is worryingly pale. Castiel frowns. 

“Have you eaten today?”

Sam closes his eyes. “Not hungry,” he mumbles. 

That’s how Dean comes back from work an hour later to find Castiel in the kitchen, an absolutely horrifying pink apron tied around his waist.

“Smells good, Cas,” he says tiredly. “Watcha making?” 

“Tomato rice soup. Sam has forgotten to feed himself today,” Castiel answers, stirring the red liquid with a concentrated pout he can’t quite hold back. He is just relieved that no one can see his face. Dean falls oddly silent, and Castiel glances over his shoulder to find him staring blankly at his back, jaw slack. He carefully puts down the spoon on the edge of the stove and turns. 

“Is everything okay? Is Sam allergic to tomatoes?” He feels like he’s done something wrong, without being able to tell what. It’s extremely frustrating. 

“No, just…”his voice trails off and he sighs, pressing the back of his hand to his forehead. He looks weary. “Thanks. It’s nice of you.” 

Turning the stove off, Castiel bites his lip. He still feels like something is wrong, but chooses not to press the subject. Instead, he fills a bowl, takes a spoon and gets back to the couch, where Sam is dozing.

Getting Sam to actually eat something proves difficult, but in between Dean’s threats and Castiel’s coaxing, they manage to convince him. He grumbles a little, but looks far more human when he puts down the empty bowl. 

“Are you still doing the movie night tomorrow?” Castiel finally asks, watching absently as a woman slaps another in some stupid sitcom. 

“Yeah,” Dean says. “Sam’s not contagious anymore. He’ll just go to sleep if it’s too tiring. It’s the only time we can see the others.” Sam mumbles in agreement, head tucked under a cushion. What an odd position. 

“I –” Castiel sighs and glances at Dean. He looks more contented than before, sprawled by his brother’s side, eyes closed. “I’d like to bring a friend.” 

“ ‘kay,” Dean yawns. “Who?”

“Her name is Meg. She works at Crowley’s coffee shop, too.”

Dean knows all about Castiel’s hate for his boss – and Crowley’s hate for Castiel. The first time Castiel came back from work fuming and swearing that he’d punch him in the face one day, Dean had looked at him like he was a ghost. Apparently, he'd had this strange idea that Castiel was unable to get riled. 

“Meg, she’s your girl or something?” There’s something in Dean’s voice that makes Castiel look up, something tight and hard. But Dean is staring straight ahead, seemingly absorbed in the cheesy make-up scene that's taking place on the screen. 

“No, she’s just a friend. Why?” 

Dean’s answer is cut off by Sam’s sleepy voice. 

“Because Dean’s jealous. Now shut the fuck up, both of you.” 

Before Castiel has time to wrap his head around Sam’s words, Dean bolts from the couch and stomps down the hallway without a word. 

“Jerk.” Sam says feebly. 

“Bitch!” Dean shouts from his room.

Castiel stands rooted on the spot. The only think he can think of is that Dean didn’t deny what Sam said. 

Interesting.

***

That night, Castiel wakes with a start. Staring blearily at the neon green numbers on his newly-bought alarm clock, he sighs, runs a hand through his hair, and flops down on his back.

It’s four in the morning.

He kind of wants to punch the sandman in the face. 

At first, his mind is blank. He has no idea why his night has been shortened in such a way. And then –

Then his dream comes back to him with a vividness that has him drawing in a startled breath. There are words, faces, colors, smells. Gasping, he fumbles for his notebook on the nightstand, not sparing a glance when his alarm clock crashes on the floor. He hated it, anyway.

He scribbles furiously, trying to keep a hold on the last crumbs of the dream. He’s filled with a sense of urgency, like he’s gripping something important, something he can’t let go of. He writes for an hour, head bent, noting every detail he can remember. When he's done, the pages are blackened with words and sketches. They’re almost unreadable, even for him. It's too early to get ready for the day, but he knows he won’t be able to sleep again.

He slips out of his room, leaving the sheets crumpled on the bed. The apartment is dark and silent. It feels almost alien, to see it so devoid of its usual life. He doesn’t bother turning on the light in the hallway – leading him to wonder when exactly he became so familiar with the place – and goes in the bathroom.

The sound of the water hitting the bottom of the bathtub is deafening. At night, everything seems more noisy, annoyingly so. He showers quickly, ignoring his morning erection. There will be time for that later.

Feeling slightly more alive after his shower, he dries off, pulls his pajamas back on, and pads into the empty den. The glow of the streetlights through the window barely allows him to see the outline of the furniture, but he knows the room by heart now. Still, it feels different, less familiar. The night gives everything a different aura, like he’s walking in an approximate memory.

That’s when he notices the ray of light filtering under the kitchen door. Frowning, he makes his way through the room, but something stops him. Hand hovering above the door handle, he hesitates and knocks twice before entering.

Dean is sitting at the kitchen table. In front of him, a steamy mug of coffee and an open bag of chips. Dean looks up at him as he enters and makes a beeline for the cupboard, taking out his own mug (Sam’s welcome gift after his first week, a white …thing adorned with a black mustache).

“Dude,” Dean says while Castiel pours himself some coffee. He sounds bemused. “Why did you knock on the kitchen door?”

Castiel shrugs and sits, cradling the warm mug between his hands. The steam hits his face, a familiar sensation, making tiny beads of sweat burst through his pores. He smiles. There is nothing quite like the smell of coffee, even when it is mixed with…

Castiel wrinkles his nose in disgust.

“Are those salt and vinegar chips?”

Dean grins and pops one into his mouth.

“Yup,” he says smugly. Castiel looks at him quizzically.

“You are a very strange man.”

It’s Dean’s turn to shrug. “So I’ve been told,” he says dryly.

For a few minutes, only the occasional crunching noises break the silence. Then Dean pushes the bag away, takes a sip of coffee and asks: “Why aren’t you sleepin’?”

Castiel heaves a sigh. “I had a dream.”

Dean’s smirk is infuriating, Castiel decides, glaring. “Not that kind of dream.”

Dean holds his hands up in mock surrender.

“Alright. Tell me.”

Castiel shoots him a suspicious look.

“You will laugh.”

Dean shakes his head earnestly. “Nah, I swear I won’t.”

“Alright,” Castiel sighs, putting down his mug and clearing his throat. “There were two women. They were sisters, and I think they were…hunters. They killed – things. Vampires, werewolves.” He’s cut off by a barely-concealed snort of laughter. Castiel’s head snaps up and he scowls at Dean, feeling an ugly flush creep across the back of his neck.

“You promised,” he snaps. He doesn’t feel guilty when his harsh tone makes Dean’s smile slip from his lips.

“I’m sorry. Go on.”

Castiel frowns. He doesn’t know if he still wants to talk about it, but starts again nonetheless.

“I don’t remember well what happens next,” he says with a frustrated huff. “I remember some kind of apocalypse looming over the world, brought on Earth by angels and demons. And an angel disobeying her orders for the sake of humanity and friendship. And…love.” Castiel’s voice trails off and he feels stupid, all of a sudden. He looks up, half-expecting to find Dean trying to hold back another chuckle. To his surprise, the eyes fixed on him are uncharacteristically serious. A pensive frown mars Dean’s brow.

“That’s a damned profound dream you had there, Cas,” he says quietly.  Castiel nods, but doesn’t answer.

The yellowish glow of the bare lightbulb is curling around Dean’s features, underlining each angle, sharpening them. It leaves Castiel’s mouth slightly dry. As much as he loves pinning his experiences onto paper, Castiel knows for certain that, no matter how hard he tries, he will never manage to freeze what Dean is into words. He will never manage to contain this man’s personality, for Dean is as paradoxical as life itself.

Sometimes it seems to Castiel that Dean is just a man, if not an ordinary one. A man who always seems to bear a weight too heavy for his shoulders. However, in moments like this one, stuck in the confusing blur between night and dawn, when the silence loses some of its solemnity to drift into awakening, Dean looks like something precious and bright. Not bright the way a diamond can be, but subtly, like Castiel imagines a righteous soul would be. Maybe it's the remnants of his dream that prompt these thoughts, but once they cross Castiel’s mind, he finds he is unable to let go of them.

“Why aren’t you asleep?” he finally asks, breaking the somewhat heavy silence. For a second, it looks like Dean’s whole body tenses, like a wildcat ready to take off at the first brusque movement. It’s gone in a blink, though, and Castiel is left to wonder if it was just a trick of his imagination.

“Dunno,” Dean answers easily. “Some nights are worse than others.”

Castiel notices Dean’s choice of words, but he doesn’t ask what he means. He tries to drink his coffee, only to find that it is cold. He grimaces. He can feel Dean’s eyes on him, but doesn’t look up. The atmosphere has shifted into something confusing, underlined with an almost electrical tension.

“When I was a child, I wanted to become a writer,” he offers out of the blue.

There’s a beat of silence, then: “And now?”

Castiel frowns. He wasn’t expecting this.

“I…don’t know. After I began working for the family business,” the words are bitter, almost a sneer. “I stopped letting myself think about it. I guess – I would like it, still. Books hold so much power over the ones who read them. They can make people dream, cry and laugh. They can make them think. I believe that words can change a person.” He smiles a little. “My first boyfriend used to tell me that E.M. Forster had saved him in more ways than one.”

It's only when Dean’s spoon falls on the table with a clatter that he realizes what he said. He looks up, a sudden burst of terror snaking around his stomach.

“Are you –you’re,” Dean starts. He clears his throat, licks his lips. “Are you gay, Cas?”

Castiel draws in a shaky breath.

“I’m –” he hesitates. “I fall in love with a person, not their gender.” He refuses to take his gaze off Dean’s face, looking for clues of what he is thinking. But Dean’s expression is unreadable, carefully so, and it fills him with frustration and dread. He lifts his chin, challenging. “Is that a problem?”

Dean’s eyes widen. “Oh, god, no, Cas. Of course not.” He’s shaking his head a little manically. “I’m not –Let’s say, I’m not picky, either.”

Castiel lets this new information dawn on him. He suddenly feels a little giddy and very awkward, unable to find anything to say. He clears his throat, wondering why it suddenly feels constricted, the oxygen in the room scratching at his nose, his cheeks warm and prickling. Dean observes him silently, brow furrowed and hands twitching around his mug.

“That’s…good,” he finally says when the silence becomes too heavy, cursing the choked tone of his voice. However, it seems to work. Dean relaxes in his seat and tilts his head, a cocky smile tugging at his lips.

“Is it?” he asks quietly, and Castiel wants to get out of there as fast as he can. He stammers a pitiful excuse and scurries out of the kitchen, wiping his sweaty palms on his pajama bottoms. He wishes he knew how to deal with this new development. The situation was easier to manage when he could envision Dean as something forbidden, something he could never have. Then he could blame his inappropriate thoughts on a passing fancy, on his eagerness to want things he emphatically shouldn’t.

Now, he doesn’t really know what to do. The few relationships he has had in his life have taught him two things: One, that he is not and never will be the romantic type. Two, that his characteristic bluntness is more than unwelcome in the midst of a domestic argument and often leads to dramatic outcomes. Since the tentative thing he had built with Rachel crumbled away into a heap of bitter insults and enraged shouts, he had decided to stick to meaningless one night stands.

So much for that.

Of course, the flirtatious note in Dean’s voice could have been nothing but wishful thinking, and he could be panicking for a big nothing. Sighing, he makes his way back to his bedroom. It’s five in the morning and everything is still so quiet. Today will be a long day.

“I hate you so much, Clarence,” Meg hisses when she catches sight of Charlie in the living room. Castiel fails to hold back a smirk at his friend’s panicked expression.

“No, you don’t,” he says, pushing her gently into the room. Meg looks positively horrified.

“What do I do?” she asks frantically, turning to face Castiel. He rolls his eyes.

“Go talk to her,” he says. “And you say I’m socially awkward.”

Meg glares at him. If looks could kill, Castiel would be long dead. He doesn’t really care.

“I’ll make you pay, Clarence. You will regret this.”

Castiel smiles and nods.

“I’m sure you will, Meg. Now, I think Charlie is coming this way.”

Meg will never admit that she squeaks like a dying mouse at that moment, but Castiel knows better.

By two in the morning, all the guests are gone. Meg and Charlie, quite unsurprisingly, have left together after spending the night glued to each other’s side. Castiel doesn’t think he’ll ever get over the sight of Meg blushing, but he couldn’t help feeling an ugly twist of jealousy in his stomach at the idea that Meg, for all her protests, had no problems obtaining the person she wanted.

Now everything is silent, and he finishes washing the dishes while Sam is getting ready for bed. Dean is nowhere to be found, and Castiel frowns. He hadn’t seen much of his roommate during the night, and it worries him. Putting the last plate onto the dish rack, he wipes his hands and goes back into the den. The sight that awaits him makes him stumble to a halt.

Dean is watching the slow dance of raindrops hitting the window. Through the water-blurred glass, the headlights of the few cars passing by at this hour cast yellow and red rays flickering across his face. It takes Castiel’s breath away, seeing Dean so open, every emotion on display. He can see something peaceful, mixed with a raw sadness, the one Dean only allows himself when he thinks he's alone. He looks so much younger now, the darkness smoothing out his features into those of a youth, but his eyes are heavy with memories that Castiel doesn’t share.

He wants to step forward and say you’re not alone. He wants to say I think I’m falling in love with you and I’ve never been so afraid in my entire life. He wants to kiss Dean’s eyelids, the fragile skin fluttering against his lips. He wants to reach out and learn the map of Dean’s body with his fingers and his sighs, until Dean is begging for more, until he’s incoherent with need.

 Castiel takes a shuddering breath, willing his thoughts to take a less risky path. He has experienced lust, has experienced his – admittedly fluid – sexuality in more ways than one, but he knows that what he is feeling runs deeper than that. It is not violent and ephemeral; it is not a storm of want. It is a soft and gentle thing, a realization of the place this man has taken in his life over the past month, filling a void he had spent so much time to bury. Biting his lip, he turns, ready to walk away down the shadowy hall. Dean’s voice stops him.

“Cas.”

He freezes on the spot, tense all of a sudden, because Dean’s tone screams ‘Very Important Talk’, and those have always filled Castiel with dread.

“Yes, Dean,” he says neutrally, turning around at last. Dean is staring at him with something like wonder, and Castiel can’t help but bask in it, because nobody has ever looked at him that way. At that moment, he knows. He knows that whatever is going on with Dean will unfurl with time. Time, he just has to give it time. This he can do. He smiles a little, watches the unspoken agreement flit over both of them, light up Dean’s eyes. Nothing else is said, but when Castiel goes to bed, his heart is filled with a new brand of joy.

With his first paycheck, Castiel decides to buy a laptop. He drags Sam and Dean to the store, arguing that he is completely unable to choose a laptop, having never had the use for one.

“What d’you need a laptop for?” Sam asks, tone curious. Castiel beams, feeling hopeful and nervous all at once.

“To write,” he says quietly, and Dean’s hand lingers a little when he claps him on the shoulder. Sam is patient during the time they spend at the store, helping him choose a computer adapted for his needs. Castiel thanks him profusely when they leave the store with his purchase. Sam brushes it aside, says, “That’s what friends are for.”

Castiel smiles.

The second month of Castiel’s new life is spent in a blur of warm colors and cool gusts of wind. The rain finally stops, but the weather turns steadily grayer, the air filled with the smell of wet concrete and pollution. In the pale mornings, walking to the coffee shop, Castiel shivers despite his coat and scarf. As the date of Anna’s return approaches, he grows restless and nervous. Despite Sam's and Dean’s reassurances, he is unsure of how his sister will react to seeing him again.

“She’s your sister,” Sam tells him one night as they drink a beer together. “She’ll forgive you, no matter what.” He sounds earnest and a little sad. Castiel, who has not forgotten Dean’s quiet confession a few weeks before, just nods and says, “Thank you, Sam.”

Every day, Castiel spends ten minutes with Alfie. He gives him a few dollars, a sandwich, and two muffins. Sometimes they chat. As the temperatures grow colder, he finds it harder to just walk away, to leave the boy in the streets while he goes back to his comfortable little life. He tries to tell himself that there is nothing more he can do, but it doesn’t prevent the choking guilt that bathes the back of his throat whenever he says his goodbyes. Alfie is so young –barely twenty, by the looks of it – and Castiel knows that he could have found himself in the very same situation had Sam not helped him when he arrived in New York City. The thought leaves him dizzy with gratefulness. He remembers Sam’s words to Dean on the first night he spent at the apartment. He just reminded me of me, he’d said, and Castiel can’t help but wonder if his attachment to Alfie takes its roots in the same reasoning. However, as he sees Alfie’s smile, shattered but unbroken, young but solid, Castiel muses that that can’t be all there is to it. He finds humanity beautiful and strong, even in its pain. There will always be something worth saving.

It is this belief that pushes him to write, that guides his hands over the keyboard. He romances his loss of faith in God, the paradoxes of humanity, and his admiration for it, flawed as it is. And as he fills pages and pages with this twisted story born from the shards of a dream, this story about grief and love and pain, he feels inexplicably happy.

The day after his sister’s return, as he takes the phone and dials the number Charlie gave him, he is filled with one certainty.

No matter what happens next, everything is going to be alright.

***

When Castiel’s plane lands in Philadelphia, the flight attendant’s voice spitting a plethora of information through the speakers, a timid sunbeam is attempting to pierce the heavy cloak of gray clouds hovering above the city.

It's the second Friday of November, and Castiel has managed to extract a day off from Crowley. For the first time in more than three years, he is going to see Anna.

Their phone conversation, much like Castiel had expected, had been a mix of awkward small talk and excited babbling. Hearing his sister’s voice had brought Castiel a flurry of long-forgotten memories, and a feeling of home like nothing ever had before, except maybe for the way he seems to fit into Sam's and Dean’s lives. When she’d suggested he visit her, he hadn’t hesitated a second before saying yes.

Now, he’s making his way through the terminal, squinting at the crowd in the hope of seeing a familiar flash of red hair. When he finally finds Anna, it’s all he can do not to drop his backpack. She looks... good. In fact, Castiel thinks, he has never seen his sister this way. Her hair is shorter than Castiel remembers and she’s wearing baggy jeans and a large khaki overcoat. She looks younger than her thirty years. Actually, Castiel suspects with a pang of horror that his two-years-older sister looks younger than him, and isn’t that an unpleasant thought?

When she spots him, her grin is blinding and Castiel can’t help but answer with one of his own.

“Hello, Anna,” he says when he finally, finally faces her. “It’s good to see y–”

The rest of his sentence is muffled by a mouthful of hair when Anna wraps him in a bone-crushing hug with a strength that reminds him that, for all her skinny frame, Anna used to kick all the boys’ asses at the self-defense classes they took during their teenage years.

“God, Castiel,” Anna breathes against his neck. “It’s so fucking good to see you.”

Castiel smiles and returns the hug, feeling all his fears disappear into thin air under the familiar embrace.

“Here, let me see you,” Anna says after a moment, voice thick. She takes a step back and assesses Castiel. She nods, apparently satisfied.

“My, my. I’d forgotten how handsome you are.”

Castiel tilts his head and peers at his sister, hand finding hers and squeezing hard, just to remind himself that she is really here, with him.

“Thank you,” he says mildly. “You look good, yourself.”

Anna beams and catches his wrist, dragging him through the terminal. She starts talking, a little breathless, without looking back.

“I hope you don’t mind taking a cab. I didn’t bother buying a car when I got here. Are you hungry? I know this little Indian place you’re gonna love. Oh, Jesus, I have so much to tell you.”

Castiel nods along, a little lost, listening to Anna’s words without really catching their meaning. She laughs and shakes her head.

“Let’s go. I’m starving.”

***

When they finally reach Anna’s apartment, it's already three in the afternoon and Castiel is drowsy from having eaten too much. Anna seems unfazed by the ginormous meal they just shared, which he finds unfair. Someone this thin should have more problems gulping down that much food. She unlocks the door with a sheepish smile.

“I’m sorry…I know it’s not really… Well, I haven’t spent much time here. It’s more like a place to crash in between convoys…”

Castiel knows that. While they were eating, Anna had filled him in on her accomplishments of the past three years. She'd told him about her work as a human resource coordinator with Doctors Without Borders, told him about the things she'd seen and the people she'd met.

“It’s alright, I understand,” he says, because he does. The apartment is tiny and, indeed, doesn’t look really lived-in. A light bulb is hanging bare from the ceiling, lighting up the room in a way that feels awfully cold. There are still boxes aligned against the walls. It's a little bleak, but Castiel doesn’t care.

“I’m thinking of moving to New York, actually. I’ve been offered a position at the DWB office there, and I don’t feel like taking the plane every day,” Anna says. She gestures for Castiel to sit on the sofa bed before shuffling through the room to open the small fridge. After a moment he manages to find a relatively comfortable position and proceeds to take off his coat.

“Don’t you want to work in the field anymore?” he asks, frowning at the ashtray on the coffee table. He hopes Anna hasn’t started smoking.

“Well...” she says, handing him a bottle of beer. He takes it reflexively. “I kinda want…” She pauses and looks at him, something odd in her eyes. “I kinda want to have a baby.”

Castiel almost drops his beer on her off-white carpeting. He blinks down at it, then looks up at his sister. She is leaning against the wall opposite him, arms crossed, eyes dark and serious. She suddenly looks very frail and lonely, hunched in her too-large clothes.

“Do you…” He hesitates, carefully putting down his beer and folding his hands on his lap. “Do you have someone?”

Anna shakes her head. Her long fingers are fidgeting with her sleeve.

“I thought I had met…the right guy. His name was Marc. I met him in Chad a little more than two years ago. He was…is…an anesthesiologist. But…it didn’t work out.”

Castiel has the feeling there is more to the story than what Anna is allowing him to know, but he also feels like asking the wrong question would test the fragile trust they are rebuilding.

“So…how?”

Anna smiles sadly. “Artificial insemination. I’m already on the waiting list at a clinic not too far from here.”

A little stunned, Castiel takes a sip of his beer.

“That was…unexpected,” he breathes, but he feels a smile creeping around the corners of his lips at the idea of a little redheaded nephew or niece. Anna’s stance become less defensive and he wonders what kind of comments she has had to endure since making this decision.

“Well, I’m almost thirty-one. I spent more than half of my life doing what our family wanted me to do. Now…I want to have something of my own. A real family.”

Castiel can understand that. For a while, they don’t speak. The silence floats around them, light and thoughtful, only disturbed by the distant buzz of the city life. Then Anna smiles.

“Enough with the self-pity. What about you, little brother?”

So Castiel tells her. He tells her almost everything, from his constant arguments with Raphael to their last fight – Anna looks like she doesn’t know whether to be horrified or amused by his retelling. He tells her about his arrival in New York, alone and resentful. About Sam’s help and his easy nature. He tells her about Meg and Charlie. Alfie and his broken youth. Gabriel, Balthazar, and their orgasm-inducing pies.

And, of course, he tells her about Dean. Not everything, of course, but she understands all the same. Even the years couldn’t erode their knowledge of each other. When he finally falls silent, she looks at him, brown eyes going soft, and crosses the room. She takes a Post-it note from her desk and writes something, eyebrows furrowed in concentration.

When she hands it to him, Castiel peers at it. Scribbled on the note, a name, Missouri Moseley, and a phone number. At his questioning look, Anna shrugs.

“I met her during my first aid convoy. She’s a social worker. She practices in New York. Tell your friend Alfie to call her, and to tell her he got the number from Anna Milton. She’s real good. She’ll help him.”

Castiel gapes at her, eyes traveling from the note to her earnest face. When he finally finds his words, she brushes away his thanks with a careless gesture.

“Hey, do you want to watch It’s A Wonderful Life? I bought the DVD.”

This night, Castiel finally finds out why Meg keeps calling him Clarence. When he tells that to Anna, she just won’t stop laughing.

***

When he comes back to the apartment, it's after seven, and he feels worn out from too much time in the plane. He doesn’t understand immediately when Dean bounces in front of him, joyous and babbling something about Sam and Jess and…

Oh.

The look on Jessica’s face is pure happiness, something raw and young, as Sam takes her hand and squeezes it. A silver ring shines on his finger, mirrored by Jessica’s. Sam is red-faced and looks a little stunned, like he doesn’t really understand what is happening to him.

“Did you get down on one knee, Sammy?” Dean asks, practically vibrating with mirth and excitement. There’s a beat of silence, then Sam mumbles something unintelligible.

“What was that?” Castiel asks, frowning. Jess stifles a giggle into her fist.

“I didn’t propose. Jess did, yesterday night,” Sam repeats, louder. He’s looking Dean straight in the eyes. Castiel half-expects Dean to come up with a fond, but sarcastic remark. However, it doesn’t come. Dean just grins, turns to Jessica, and pats her on the back.

“Well, Jess, I’m afraid you’ve chosen the wrong Winchester, but fear not, Sam will do his best,” he says, and Sam’s shoulders relax slightly. Castiel winces when Dean claps his brother on the shoulder, hard, and barks, “Tonight, little bro, we’re celebrating the Winchester way.”

***

There have been very few moments in Castiel’s life where he has felt this vertiginous sensation, where he feels like all his senses are overstimulated, trying to grasp even the smallest thread of noise, the faintest smell to store it in his memory. This feeling of being high on thin air.

This is one of these moments.

The breeze is cool and brisk against Castiel’s cheeks and they hurt from smiling too much as they leave the bar. Sam is talking, reminiscing about some old memories with his brother. His hands are restless, his voice already slightly slurred, and even in the hazy glow of the streetlamps Castiel can see that his eyes are bright with alcohol and joy. Dean bursts out laughing, loud and brash, followed closely by Sam’s inebriated giggle. Castiel feels drunk on that sound and he can’t help but follow their lead, laughing for silly reasons and firing jokes at an oblivious Sam.

“I wanna dance,” Sam yells. “I’m getting married and I fucking wanna dance!”

Across the road, a group of teenagers hoot in agreement. Dean holds up his hands, placating.

“Alright, alright, buddy. Pick a place and we’ll go.” Then, to Castiel’s surprise, Dean slips his arm around his shoulder, unprompted, his flank a warm anchor by Castiel’s side. He sighs contentedly and lets himself relax in the embrace. They walk for a few minutes, Sam muttering unintelligible things to each bar they meet and Castiel suddenly silent, basking in the feeling of being with what he has come to consider his family.

His train of thought is abruptly cut off when Dean’s hand slips under the collar of his shirt and starts tracing idle circles on his skin. Suddenly, Castiel finds it very hard to breathe. He glances sideways to find Dean staring openly at him, not even bothering to look where he walks – which isn’t really safe, and Castiel would say so had his brain not decided to take the night off. A shiver makes its way through his spine, goosebumps flowering on his neck.

“You cold?” Dean asks softly. He shakes his head, swallowing hard.

“Oh my god, I dunno if that’s cute or just plain gross.” Sam moans, bringing Castiel back to reality with an efficiency equaling a bucket of cold water. He half expects Dean to break his embrace, but it doesn’t happen. If anything, he tightens his hold on Castiel’s shoulder, palm flat over his collarbone.

“At least, we still have our clothes on,” Castiel shoots back, deadpan. Dean’s steps stutter and Sam’s blush is obvious, even in the faint lighting. Castiel smirks.

“Cas, we agreed never to talk about that,” Sam grumbles, and when Dean’s brain finally makes the connection, he bursts out laughing.

“Wait, you – you actually walked in on Jess and Sam doing the dirty?” he wheezes in between fits of giggles. “Sam, you dog, we agreed never to do anything in the shared rooms!”

Sam glowers at Cas, who just smiles sweetly back.

“Oh, that’s rich, comin’ from you, Dean. May I remind you of the incident involving you, Lisa and the kitchen ta–”

Dean stops laughing. “Alright, alright, I get the picture,” he says forcefully, shooting a worried glance sideways. When Dean sees that Castiel is too busy laughing at them to feel jealous, he pinches him rather hard. Before he can reciprocate, though, Sam comes to a decision.

“I wanna go here,” he says, pointing at a nearby club. The music is so loud that the concrete very nearly vibrates with it. Dean pales, clearly regretting his decision to let Sam choose the place, but what's done is done. The bouncers examine them with a typically stern look (and Castiel silently thanks Dean for persuading him to drop the trench coat for the night), but they pass without problem. As Sam pushes the door open, Dean doesn’t say anything, paying their cover and accepting his hand stamp with a long-suffering expression. They shuffle awkwardly inside, a task rendered inconvenient by the fact that Dean stubbornly refuses to loosen his grip on Castiel, holding on for dear life. If Castiel didn’t know better, he would say that Dean is nervous to find himself in such a place. He looks very much like a kicked puppy as he glances around. He eventually lets go of him, pushing him towards a miraculously empty booth.

“Stay here, okay? I’m gonna get us some beers.”

Castiel nods and turns his attention to the crowded dance floor. The steady thump of the bass does very odd things to his insides, vibrating around his heart like an ecstatic hummingbird. Sam disappeared the minute they entered the club, and Castiel doesn’t manage to spot him among the sea of strangers sharing various bodily fluids – mostly perspiration and saliva –under the pretense of dancing. The club smells like sweat, alcohol, and pheromones, and the music makes Castiel want to pierce his own eardrums with a toothpick. The average age of the people who frequent the place is at least five years younger than he and Dean are. Ill at ease, he shrugs out of his coat and rolls up his sleeves, feeling a bead of sweat trickle along his nape.

When a warm hand closes around his shoulder, he reacts on instinct, his own hand shooting up to grip his assailant and twist the offending arm.

“Ow, Cas, what the hell?” Dean’s voice yells over the music, and Castiel lets go of him, mortified.

“Dean, I’m really sorry,” he says, craning his neck to look at his friend. He is holding two glasses of beer with one hand, a fact that would be impressive if Castiel’s harsh reaction had not spilled half their contents on Dean’s shirt. Fortunately, after staring at him incredulously for a second, Dean chuckles and shakes his head, putting down the glasses to slide in next to him in the booth.

“That was kinda badass. Where’d you learn that?” he asks, breath grazing Castiel’s ear as he leans close to make himself heard.

Castiel smiles ruefully. “When one’s family owns a security company, one is expected to have training in self-defense. I apologize.”

Before he can think about it, his hand closes around Dean’s wrist, massaging the joint with nimble fingers. They both freeze at the same instant when the realization of what is happening hits. But Castiel remembers a warm hand splaying on the smooth skin just above his heart and figures that they can’t stay stuck forever in this strange, frustrating place where their bodies and minds yearn to join without ever meeting. That's why Castiel doesn’t try to back-pedal, doesn’t take his hand away, just gazes back and forth between the limpid green eyes and the slightly chapped mouth. He says, “Dean,” and his voice is scratchy with the things he wants to convey in this one syllable.

Dean nods a little shakily and their noses brush. The frantic beat of the music matches the one of Castiel’s heart. There are shouts and laughs, there is the ever-present smell of too many humans in too little space, but Castiel doesn’t care.

Of course, that’s when Sam chooses to flop into the other side of the booth, drawl, “Don’t stop on my account,” and promptly pass out.

***

By the time they manage to find a cab willing to take them despite Sam’s very inebriated state, the pleasant buzz of alcohol has deserted Castiel. Their driver – named Rufus, as he tells them while helping them haul Sam into the backseat – says in rather colorful language that if Sam “barfs”, they’ll pay double and help him clean up. They nod – well, Dean and Castiel nod, because Sam seems to deem the moment appropriate to mangle Heat of the Moment and profess his unconditional love for Jess. During the drive back home, Dean grumbles a lot about cockblocking little brothers who can’t hold their booze, and Castiel tends to agree, even if he stays silent.

When the cab pulls up in front of their building, Dean climbs out to pay Rufus and Castiel tries to coax Sam into getting out of the car on his own. Sam is huge, and Castiel would prefer not to cause irremediable damage to his back. Fortunately, Sam obeys without a fuss and they walk back to the apartment in relative silence.

“‘M’sorry, Cas,” Sam mumbles when Castiel guides him to his bedroom, steadying his wobbly steps with a hand on his shoulder. Castiel shakes his head.

“Don’t. You’ll be sorry enough in the morning.”

Sam is compliant while Castiel takes off his shoes for him, and he sprawls on his bed, snuggling into the pillow like a child. A few beats later, he is snoring the snore of the very drunk. Castiel goes to the kitchen, fills a glass of water, stops by the bathroom to grab two ibuprofens, and places it all on Sam’s nightstand. He takes a deep, shaky breath and closes his eyes for a second.

Then he goes into the den to join Dean. He finds him looking through the window in a position that reminds Castiel of the Saturday night, one month ago, when he realized with something akin to wonder that he was stupidly, painfully in love with this man. He joins Dean, resting his arm against the cool glass of the window. Dean shifts next to him and Castiel turns his head, observing the way Dean’s mouth opens and closes without uttering a sound, the way the arch of his cheek twitches nervously.

“Cas,” Dean says, one word that pierces through his defenses in such a beautiful way, crumbling the barriers. Castiel does the only thing he can think of, tilting his head and covering Dean’s lips with his own. The kiss is a barely-there touch, chaste and dry, but it echoes inside Castiel like something to be treasured. He doesn’t have time to worry, because Dean’s mouth is back on him, and this time there is nothing hesitant about the kiss. It's a little abrupt, a little clumsy with all the want they pour into it, but in the end it's the best damn kiss Castiel has ever had. His hands come up to frame Dean’s jaw, demanding, and Dean goes loose against him.

When they break the kiss, Dean leans his forehead against Castiel’s and just breathes, eyes shut, a smile softening the curve of his lip.

“Okay,” Dean says, “Okay.”

And he kisses him again.

Castiel doesn’t think he will ever be able to stop, but soon a yawn makes its way to his mouth and Dean laughs, fond.

“Come here, you weirdo. Let’s go to bed.”

Castiel grumbles, not quite ready to leave the comforting heat of Dean’s arms, but he follows him nonetheless. When he moves to kiss Dean goodnight in front of his bedroom door –and how cliché is that? – Dean tugs at his arm and frowns.

“Hey, where d’you think you’re going? I’ve waited for this for months, there’s no way you’re sleeping in your room tonight.”

Castiel rolls his eyes.

“Dean, I don’t think I would be of much use right now.”

But Dean doesn’t let go.

“I’m not talking about that, you moron, I’m telling you that you can sleep with me. In the sleeping sense of the word.” He clamps his mouth shut and seems to consider something. “Unless you don’t want to?” he asks, hesitation creeping in his tone.

Oh.

“Oh.” Castiel says, ever eloquent. “Of course. Let me just – yes. I’m going to get some things in my bedroom.”

He scurries down the hallway, smiling to himself. After quickly going through his ablutions and putting on his pajama bottoms, he goes back to Dean’s bedroom, noticing that Dean has taken Castiel’s place in the bathroom while he was rummaging in his closet for his pajamas.

Dean’s room is not unfamiliar, but Castiel has never taken the time to really look at it. It is…very much like Dean. A bookshelf filled with his favorite authors, a slab of cork covered in photographs; he recognizes a picture of Dean and Sam posing in front of the Impala with an older man who must be their father. They look young and happy, and something in Castiel’s heart clenches with longing. He sees Charlie, Garth, Victor, Jo, and all their little group of friends, piled around Sam on his birthday. A very beautiful woman smiling up at him, her blonde hair glistening in the sun. A bearded, grumpy-looking man that Castiel recognizes as Bobby, a family friend of the Winchesters. But what holds his attention is a picture at the right, and once he has seen it he can’t make himself look away. It's a little blurred, but it shows Dean and Castiel on the sofa, their heads bent towards each other. They look like they are in a very intense conversation. Dean is frowning at Castiel, whose hands are frozen in the air, probably in an attempt at explaining something. They look at each other like there is no one else in the room, even though the picture looks like it was taken on a movie night.

A hand skims at the nape of his neck, but this time his reaction is a good one. He smiles and tips his head back until it lies on Dean’s shoulder.

“You like the photo?” Dean asks, voice soft. The light of the bedside lamp is subdued and warm.

“Very much,” Castiel admits in the same tone. The silence doesn’t crash around them. It fills the gaps between their bodies and fits into the splay of Dean’s fingers on his hip.

“Not having second thoughts, then?” Dean asks, and though his voice is playful, Castiel knows the depths of Dean’s insecurities. He shakes his head and chuckles, low and dark.

“Never,” he says.

As it turns out, truer words have never been spoken.

Fin