Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

2001, Pontiac, Ohio

Castiel wakes in a cornfield.

He lays on his back, staring up at the stars. It’s strange, seeing them without the ultraviolet wavelengths and bursts of radiation that he’s accustomed to. They seem so small, viewed through human eyes. Nothing more than little pin pricks in the firmament.

When his lungs begin to burn, he remembers he has to breathe now. How strange.

This is it then; he’s really human. The conclusion, which would have been unfathomable for most of his long existence, is confirmed by a sharp pain in his back where a corn stalk is digging into his vertebrae. He groans and rolls over. Out of habit, he reaches for his grace to heal the ache in his back and soothe a stinging cut on his face. He pulls again, harder, before realizing with a gasp of despair that of course, there will be no answer. Where he expects warmth, self, and comfort, he’s met with a void.

The reality slams into him with a torrent of sensations. A slight itch on his left hand. A pain in his right ankle. His eyes are beginning to sting; he needs to remember to blink. And to breathe. His throat is dry, is he thirsty? His heart is beating too rapidly; he needs to calm down. There’s a twist of panic in his stomach, and it feels so physical. Is that normal? Are emotions supposed to be this visceral?

When his breath and heart are finally reasonably under control, he is then confronted next with a deafening silence.

The symphony of prayers, the murmur of his brothers and sisters, it’s all silent. Even as the pain is sharper and more acute in this human body, other senses are dulled or completely gone. He tries to use his grace to calm his mind, like he’s done thousands of times during battle, and the complete vacuum where his powers should be only serves to panic him further.

He still hasn’t moved from where he’d landed. Another breath, another round of heartbeats that pump blood through his newly human body. He blinks. Even the small movement takes a conscious effort as he continues to take control of this body that feels so foreign to him.

He needs a plan. Grace or not, he’s still a soldier. Time to pull it together. Another three deep breaths, like he’d seen Dean Winchester do on many occasions when his emotions began to overwhelm him. It helps, and he starts to take stock of the situation.

Based on this position of the stars, he’s somewhere in Midwest America. That’s good. The Winchester’s spent most of their lives in this region so the customs he observed during his time as their guardian will help him. He should be careful, though, as he knows human language, manners, and cultures can shift amazingly fast.

He slowly flexes each of his muscles and moves each joint. No major injuries from the fall. Some minor pains here and there, but nothing that will prevent him from seeking food and shelter.

Next, he tentatively probes his memories. This, more than any damage to his physical body, is what he truly fears will be compromised.

It is, after all, the reason he fell in the first place. Discovering that, for millennia, Heaven had been tearing out his memories and warping his thoughts. Realizing that he’d tried to rebel and follow a conscience he hadn’t known he had over and over, only to have it ripped from his mind and replaced with blind obedience. Anna had tried to tell him before she fell. Maybe she even had, maybe he’d believed her and tried to follow her to Earth a decade ago. He’d never know for sure. Despite his best efforts, he never did piece together all his stolen memories.

Anna’s wish had been to live her life as a human, with no memories of her time in Heaven, and Castiel would respect her wishes. He would not seek her out to ask her any of the pressing questions crowding his mind.

At the heart of Anna’s choice to fall was her desire to experience humanity in its purest form. She shed her memories as she fell, ripping out her grace and throwing it aside. She was reborn with a family that would love her, allowing her to experience the highs and lows of humanity without millions of years of memories to stand in her way.

Castiel, as he fell, had clung to his memories with a death grip. Even as he’d felt them trying to spiral away, unwilling to stay in a mind no longer designed to hold them, he’d prayed to anyone still listening to please let me keep them. After finally fighting free of Heaven’s hold on him, the thought of losing this knowledge all over again was unbearable. He needed to remember what they had done to him, and to all the Angels. He needed to remember who he was and why he had chosen this. Castiel fell for his freedom, and he had fought every inch of the way down to remember.

It’s all still there, and this is such a tremendous relief that Castiel is able to stand. There’s a rush of blood to his extremities accompanied by an unpleasant dizzying sensation. He nearly falls back down as his vision whites out and the world spins around him. He had spent years quietly observing the Michael and Lucifer vessels and never once heard either of them mention this phenomena. Perhaps they’d discussed it during Anna’s shifts and he’d missed it. He wishes he could find Anna and ask her. He won’t. He can do this on his own.

He’s a soldier, alone in a possibly hostile land. That means he should take stock of his assets and assess the terrain.

His vessel (is it a vessel? Or should he start calling it his body now?), is adult, based on its stature and musculature. A quick pat down reveals that it’s male. It’s wearing jeans, boots, a shirt, and a jacket. The style is all very similar to what he’d seen the Winchester’s wear while hunting. Comfortable and practical. His pockets are empty, save for a wallet in the zipper pocket of the jacket. Around his neck is a cord tied to a vial. His breath catches, for inside the vial is a tiny drop of his grace. The warmth of it comforts him more than he would care to admit. He has no idea how he could possibly have kept it.

Hoping for clues, he opens the wallet. Inside the wallet is five hundred dollars cash, an Ohio driver’s license, and a note.

The license is for a “Castiel Novak”. Castiel quirks his head. That’s the surname of a family that serves as his vessels. Based on the birthdate, Castiel Novak is twenty years old and lives in Pontiac, Ohio. Castiel is entirely perplexed by this, until he unfolds the note.

Hey little bro,

Heard your prayers on your way down. Sorry about that, by the way, things must have gotten bad if a tight ass like you made the dive. I took the liberty of making you a little present, hope you like it. I didn’t have much time (you were really moving fast there!), so I stole the design from your latest vessel. Sorry for the lack of creativity, and maybe avoid your hometown so you don’t freak out your doppelganger. In order to keep your memories intact, I snagged a little bit of your grace and kept it around. Keep it safe. Don’t expect to see me around- I’m pretty deep underground and don’t want to risk our big bros finding me. Enjoy humanity!

XOXO
Gabe

Castiel stares at the paper. Then, much to his surprise and slight alarm, he laughs.

Gabriel is alive, and saved his memories.

Castiel spends another moment staring out into the dark cornfield. He can do this. This is what he asked for, after all. He has a chance to live with true freedom. He’s lost his powers, but he has enough of his grace to maintain his memories as long as this human vessel will last. He’s watched the Winchester’s do far more with far less.

Yes, he can do this. He will be frugal with the money that Gabriel has gifted him, then make more the same way he saw the Winchesters do. He spent years shifting on and off with Anna as their guardians, and while it had been dull at the time, he’d seen enough to know how they survived as hunters. He will find a way to make a difference in this world, and he’ll do it on his own terms. He won’t be beholden to the machinations of Heaven, which, after recovering his stolen memories, he no longer trusts.

With a slight smile on his face, Castiel begins his journey as a human.

Chapter Text

2007- Nashville, Tennessee

At first, Castiel has no idea why the scrap of grace that he wears on a cord around his neck is insistently dragging him towards a second-rate bar on Lower Broadway. While it’s usually nothing more than a piece of decorative jewelry (and a way to maintain his Angelic memories), it has saved his ass a few times over the years with flashes of intuition and little nudges in the right direction, so he gives it a chance and follows its lead. It’s right at the back of his subconscious, low enough that it feels like intuition. A turn here and keep going when he tries to stop.

It had started the moment he set foot in downtown Nashville. At first, it’s a nagging feeling, like he’s forgotten something. He shakes it off as he tries to con his way into the coroner’s office to read the case reports (no luck, but he lays the groundwork that he hopes will gain him access the following day), but then instead of subsiding, the nagging escalates into a near physical pull in his navel. It’s the most insistent this little bit of grace has ever been. He hopes it knows something about the case that he doesn’t, because he’s thoroughly stuck and could use a lucky break.

He follows its lead until he’s swept up in the droves of cars, pedestrians, and stretch limos all pouring towards the brightly lit stretch of Broadway; the legendary “Honky Tonk Highway”. Castiel lets the sea of humanity and the pull of his grace lead him down the street. He could go for a drink anyways, after the day he’s had.

The weather is nice, so there’s a singer or band performing in every open window. He catches a few bars from each song from each one as he passes, little snippets of country music and folk tunes. Some have full bands with drum sets pounding out baselines under their voices. Others sing solo with no other accompaniment but their own guitars. Neon signs flash above each bar. It’s loud, bright, and crowded. A few years ago, it would have had Castiel curled up on the ground with his hands over his ears. Now, he knows how to tune out the din and appreciate these unique places where humanity has carved out a shared experience of music and lights.

Near the end of the street he stops in front of a generic bar. The “H” on the halogenic sign reading “The Roadhouse” flickers and clicks. Its narrow entryway is overflowing with people ducking in for a drink while others are leaving to rejoin the chaos on the street. Castiel nods to the bouncer, then slips into the bar.

At first, he can’t fathom why his grace had been so insistent that he have a drink at a shitty bar with the music cranked up too loud. It’s a typical honky-tonk, long and narrow with tables along the wall opposite the bar. There’s a few sets of darts at the back wall. The air is thick with acrid smoke. There’s a man with a guitar sitting in the window singing “Good ol’ Boys” to an enthusiastic bachelorette party. All the same, his grace calms. Whatever had it all worked up, it’s now humming contentedly. Maybe it just really wanted him to take a night off. Castiel takes a stool and orders a shot of well whiskey. It’s nothing special, yet all the same, his grace calms.

It’s all so unremarkable, in fact, that it takes Castiel until the end of the song to realize that the singer on stage is none other than Dean Winchester.

++++

The last time Castiel saw Dean Winchester, he was a wiry nineteen year old in the backseat of his father’s car.

Castiel sat beside him; indivisible and watched John Winchester cut the Impala through the dark highways of middle America. Even as a teenager, Dean was already a formidable hunter in his own right. He was everything Heaven could have hoped for; ruthless, fiercely loyal, physically gifted, and pathetically desperate to win his father’s approval. Dean’s path had seemed so clear, to Castiel and to Heaven. The Prince of Hell, Azazel, had marked Sam Winchester as Lucifer’s true vessel. Lilith was ready to begin breaking the sixty-six seals. Dean Winchester was well on his way to being the perfect Michael Sword. The stage was set for the final battle between good and evil.

Of course, none of that had come to pass. About a year ago, Castiel had a very informative night with a lovely reaper named April. How she’d come by the information he didn’t know or care, but she’d happily filled him in while lying naked in a motel bed in Montana.

John Winchester had stalled the apocalypse for another generation by killing Azazel a few years too early. He had been killed for his efforts, and Heaven and Hell had lost interest in the Winchester brothers and left the two men to live their lives undisturbed.

Castiel wasn’t entirely sure why he’d even asked the reaper; he wasn’t Dean’s guardian Angel anymore. Even a year ago, his time as an Angel had already felt like a different life. The creature that had diligently watched over the Michael Sword for two decades was unrecognizable from the hunter Castiel Novak. Five years as a human had given him distance from that mission and a dedication to his new one.

All the same, he’d asked her if she knew where the brothers had ended up. Call it human curiosity. Last she’d heard, Sam Winchester was an immigration lawyer in California and Dean Winchester had, as April put it, fucked off to nobody knew where. He’d wondered, idly, where his old charge would go if given the free will to choose.

Well, now Castiel knows where. Dean Winchester is lounging on a barstool on a stage in Nashville. He winks gratuitously at a bachelorette party at the table to his left. He strums the guitar and croons into the microphone, letting his lips brush against it. The bride-to-be fans herself with her hat and Dean tosses a smile her way.

He’s nothing like Castiel remembers. He can’t tell if Dean has changed, or if his eyes and perspective are so different now as to render the face Castiel had known so intimately after years of observation almost unrecognizable. Dean has filled out; the almost gaunt hollow of his cheeks have rounded and the lithe whipcord of his muscles have been smoothed over. His voice is deeper. He’s loose and relaxed on stage in a way Castiel never remembers him being when at his father’s side. He still wears the amulet his brother had gifted him around his neck, rings on his fingers, and bracelet on both wrists. Perhaps some things don’t change.

There’s also the fact that he is, objectively, fucking gorgeous. Castiel doesn’t remember that particular detail at all, but it’s impossible to miss now. Another thing that had taken quite some time to adjust to, as a human, had been acclimating to the hormones. Dean, who is now rubbing a thumb over the head of the microphone, is testing Castiel’s hard earned control over his bodily reflexes.

The vial of grace around Castiel’s neck pulses warmly at the sound of Dean’s voice. Castiel pulls out the necklace and stares for a moment at the blue light glowing inside the vial. It’s warmer to the touch than usual. Castiel rolls his eyes. While he has long since let go of his role as Dean Winchester’s guardian Angel, apparently his grace has not. It had drawn him here, to this bar, with little nudges to the back of his subconscious. It makes sense, in a way. The last command he had been given by Heaven was to watch over Dean Winchester, and it had soothed his grace then to serve that mission. It seems to still have the same effect.

Castiel takes a shot of whiskey and flags down the bartender for another. His grace may want to take a break from hunting to listen to Dean Winchester sing in some smokey bar on Broadway, but that doesn’t mean he has to let the night be a total waste. He may as well have a bit of fun while his grace swoons over the man currently flirting shamelessly with a woman in a sparkly pink cow-girl hat.

It’s entirely possible that both Castiel and his grace have equally bad taste in men, because he’s swooning a little too as Dean begins to sing I’d just love to lay you down.

He tucks the necklace back under his shirt before sauntering over to the dart board. He’s short on cash and Nashville is shockingly expensive. It’s not looking as though he’s going to solve this case anytime soon, so he needs money if he’s going to stay in this tourist trap of a town and save it from whatever monster is skinning said tourists by the dumpsters. He runs a hand through his naturally messy hair and lets his gait stumble slightly on the way over. He throws a few darts and lets them land on the outer edge of the circle and has another drink (which is admittedly more for him than for the ruse). Soon enough, he’s playing a few rounds with a tall man in brand-new boots and a hat, who’s entire personality screams ‘tourist’. He puts down ten on the first round (he loses), and twenty on the next (he makes it close).

“One more round, let’s make it a hundred this time.” He slurs the consonants and takes another shot.

The man laughs ruefully. “If you say so, buddy. Sure you don’t wanna cut your losses?”

“You worry about you. You got the cash?”

With a shrug, the man puts the money down on the table.

Ten minutes later, the man is threatening a fight, but leaves without one, his wallet a hundred dollars lighter. After he’s gone, Castiel pulls the darts out of the bullseye and puts them back in their holder. Turns out, two million years of knife-fighting experience gives one a certain set of skills. He’s also excellent at pool and can count cards like a shark.

Not to say the first few years hadn’t been rough; they had. He’d been hungry, homeless, lost, lonely, desperate, and everything in between. The only thing he’s rarely been is happy. There had been more than a few culture shocks along the way. It transpires that the Winchester’s lifestyle he had observed for all those years was far from typical. For example, learning that hustling pool is frowned upon and hot wiring cars is flat out illegal had both come as unpleasant surprises. But he’d learned and adapted, and he knows how to live as a human now. Not just as a human, but a competent enough hunter that he can sleep at night knowing he’s making the world a better place.

Castiel collects his money and uses a ten to order a burger and fries before they close the kitchen. He drinks a glass of water while he waits, hoping to avoid a hangover in the morning. He’s on a hunt afterall, this is just a detour to appease what’s left of his grace.

He finishes his meal and walks back to his motel. He’s staying a few miles off Broadway to avoid the highway robbery rates charged to tourists; he doesn’t mind. It’s a nice autumn night. Castiel enjoys having an excuse to let his mind go silent as his body carries him through the crowded streets. He’s slightly buzzed from the drinks at the bar, just enough to take the edge off the constant onslaught of sensations and worries that come with being human. It had taken him a few years to learn how to balance drinking enough to feel good, but not so much as to end up throwing up in a gutter. Some amount of trial and error had been required.

It’s a nice night. He’s made enough money to pay for the next few nights in his shitty motel, his stomach is full, and his bit of grace has finally stopped tugging at him to visit Dean Winchester.

Tomorrow, he’ll crack down and figure out what’s been abducting women as they’re leaving the bars, skinning them alive, then leaving their bodies in the alley. Tonight, he’ll sleep.

+++++

Castiel spends the next day at the coroner’s office. The photos of the bodies are as gruesome as the tabloids had made them out to be, explaining why the families had been encouraged not to see them prior to cremation. As an Angel, he’d seen far worse carnage on far larger scales. As a human, his stomach turns even from the photos. Still, he carefully and methodically goes through each file, since he knows there’s a reasonable chance he won’t be able to get back in for a second day with his fake IDs.

He doesn’t learn much he hadn’t already gleaned from the news reports. All six bodies were found dumped in alleys behind the bars. All were women, aged twenty-two through thirty-five. All of them had been found without an inch of skin left on their bodies, but no other signs of trauma or obvious causes of death. He forces himself to look at all the photographs in evidence in case there’s a clue that’s not immediately obvious. By the time he’s done, it’s well past supper time, but the idea of dinner is completely off the table. He means to walk back to his motel, but lets his mind wander and finds that his feet carry him back to the bar from last night. He shakes his head and laughs a little as he raises a hand to fiddle his necklace.

“You got me. You can see him again, I suppose,” he mutters under his breath. He doesn’t really mind, Dean has a lovely voice and he would be alone back at his motel. There are worse ways to pass an evening.

He finds a seat at the bar with a good view of the stage and orders a beer this time. Dean’s set must just be starting; he’s still tuning up his guitar and adjusting his mic. Castiel thanks the bartender for his drink and opens a tab with one of his more reliable stolen credit cards. Castiel doesn’t have anywhere else to be, so he settles in. He doesn’t think, instead slipping into old habits. It’s comforting, in a way, having his old charge so close. Watching Dean Winchester was his job for so long that the hours slip away the same way the years had as an Angel. Before he knows it, he falls unconsciously back into his role as a sentry. His grace pulses contentedly over his heart.

Somehow, in the blink of an eye, it’s closing time. Castiel starts when the bartender shouts out last call. Has he really been here nearly six hours? He’d sat through Dean’s entire set and couldn’t name a single song he’d sang; he only knows that Dean Winchester is safe.

Castiel shakes himself out of his trance and gestures to the bartender for his check.

“Got time for one more?” A rough voice comes from behind him.

Castiel jumps embarrassingly as Dean takes a seat on the stool next to him and slides him a beer.

Castiel considers his options. He could do the prudent thing and politely say no, solve the case, and never see Dean Winchester again. He knows Dean is intelligent and prone to violence, a combination that could easily lead to trouble for someone whose entire identity was faked by a rogue Archangel. As soon as he gets clear of the city his grace would forget about Dean. It was really only a weak spark pulling Castiel towards him, and wouldn’t continue to hold much sway. His mild curiosity about where the older Winchester brother had ended up is already quenched, so he really has no need to risk any further interactions.

It’s the sensible thing to do, walking away.

“I supposed if you’re offering,” he says instead.

He can’t tell if his grace influenced him while he was distracted, or if he actually wants to have a drink with Dean. Likey a bit of both.

“Cheers,” Dean said, raising his own shot of whiskey to Castiel’s bottle.

Castiel takes a sip, and nearly spits it back out. It’s sickly sweet. He splutters, but just in time, he recognizes the unmistakable flavor of holy water and chokes it down. Spitting out holy water will get you stabbed in the wrong company.

All the same, the damage is done. He locks eyes with Dean, and takes a long, slow swig from the bottle. He deliberately finishes the whole thing. Dean doesn’t speak, only watches him wearlily.

Castiel is a strategist, and weighs his options. Nobody born human would have been able to taste the few drops of holy water mixed into the beer, and Dean had seen his initial reaction. He could try to lie, but that could end bloody. He’s not sure for who, given that Castiel is unparalleled with a knife, but he would put money on Dean having a gun somewhere on his person. He could tell the truth, but the chances of Dean believing that he’s a fallen Angel who had once been tasked with watching over him seems slim.

“You gonna tell me what you are, or are we gonna have a problem?” Dean asks, his voice low.

Castiel considers his options.

Oh well, in for a penny. Castiel has always had a flair for the dramatic, and enjoys a good shock value when he can get it.

“I’m a fallen Angel. Your guardian Angel, in fact.”

Of all the answers Dean was expecting, that clearly that wasn’t it. It’s worth the risk to Castiel’s safety to see Dean’s jaw drop before he gains control of his expression.

“Get the fuck outta here,” Dean growls. Then, so quick Castiel doesn't have time to pull back, Dean whips out a small knife and knicks Castiel’s hand.

Castiel doesn’t flinch. Dean’s expression registers slight surprise.

Dean’s brow furrows. “You can taste holy water, but drink it down no problem, and you don’t react to silver. I’ll ask one more time; what are you?”

Castiel imagines Dean is used to getting his way when he asks like that. His voice is a low pur and he’s leaned in close enough for Castiel to feel the heat of his breath. Castiel, however, used to face down the legions of Hell, and is not so easily intimidated. Perhaps it's the alcohol in his blood, or the singing of his grace, or simply the fact that he’s spent six years as a human now and is more than a little amused that this ex-vessel who he watched take his first steps is now trying to intimidate him.

“And I’ll tell you one more time, I could taste the holy water because I used to be an Angel. Neither silver nor salt will harm me, because I’m now as human as you are.”

Castiel leans even further into Dean’s space, till their noses nearly touch. Dean’s eyes widen as they meet Castiel’s, and Dean seems to lose his footing. Though he refuses to show it, Castiel is equally thrown. Dean’s eyes are exactly as he remembers, and somehow look no different now that he’s human. It’s as though his Angelic senses have returned to him and he can see all the colors of the spectrum again, reflected there in bright green. They look the same, yet he doesn’t remember finding them so beautiful before.

There’s a cough from behind the bar. The bartender gives them a knowing and somewhat amused look.

“Hey, Dean. I’m headed out, you lock up for the night when you’re done, yeah?” The bartender appears entirely unsurprised to find Dean nose to nose with a strange man at the bar after closing. Perhaps it’s not an entirely uncommon occurrence.

“Will do, Chad, see you tomorrow.” It’s clear Dean is aiming for casual, but his voice breaks and his eyes dart back to Castiel even as he takes the keys.

Chad snorts. “Sure. You two have fun now.” He leaves through the front door with a wave over his shoulder, leaving Dean and Castiel alone in the dark bar.

“So,” Dean says, “Fallen guardian Angel. That’s what you’re going with? Give me one reason I shouldn’t figure you’re the thing that’s been taking apart those women and end you right now.”

Castiel tilts his head and squints. “You’re aware there’s a monster in your area? You’re a hunter, why haven’t you done something about it?”

This is irreconcilable with the Dean that Castiel had last seen. It’s remarkable how far Dean strayed from Heaven’s plan, as soon as he was given the free will to do so.

“Hard to miss when something is dropping bodies practically in my backyard,” Dean shot back. “
So, aside from whatever Angel bullshit you’re trying to feed me, you’re telling me you’re a hunter?” The explanation appears to put Dean more at ease.

In hindsight, Castiel realizes he probably should have led with that. It’s not untrue, even if it isn’t the whole story. Perhaps the holy water incident could have been explained away as a trick developed by a well seasoned hunter. Ah well, what’s done is done.

“Yes, Dean. I suppose you would call me a hunter now. I do track and kill monsters. Without my powers, it seemed the best way to use my unique knowledge to help right the wrongs of Heaven and Hell. Though my contributions may be minor, I do what I can.”

Dean’s face goes through a series of inscrutable expressions, as though he’s preparing to start several sentences but none of them make it past his teeth.

Eventually, he says, “So you’re gonna kill it then? Whatever this thing is?”

Old habits must die hard, for in that moment all Castiel can think of is comforting Dean. Despite having no leads whatsoever and having hit nothing but dead ends since arriving in this city, he wants to ease the obvious strain in Dean’s posture. Though he may have given up hunting it’s clear that Dean has not fully abandoned his sense of responsibility.

“Yes. I’ll kill it.”

Dean nods and points to the door in a clear dismissal. It’s better than sticking around and risking getting shot, so Castiel leaves without a word.

++++++

Castiel spends the next day working his way up and down Broadway, showing pictures of the victims to civilians on the street. Pre-skin removal, of course. He’d learned the hard way that showing pictures of mutilated bodies to civilians causes some amount of distress and does not lead to useful interviews. This is the part of the job he struggles with- the part where he has to connect with people. Especially people who have just experienced some sort of trauma. He never knows what to say to put them at ease when he’s unable to tell them the truth. It’s always a relief when it’s time to finally kill the monster. That, at least, he excels at.

People are generally friendly, but not particularly talkative. Nobody remembers much.

They all get hundreds of customers a day in a revolving door of tourists who rarely come back more than once. A few people recall seeing the victims, but none remember anything that could lead him to the killer. The only real win is that one establishment offers a “Recession Special”, which gives him a PBR, grilled cheese, chips, and moon pie for only five dollars, so he treats himself to lunch. He’s never had a moon pie before, and while it doesn’t much resemble the moon, he likes the marshmallow filling.

He doesn’t stop at the Roadhouse, though the vial containing his grace bounces on his chest each time he passes. Dean clearly doesn’t know anything, and he’s presumably already asked his co-workers. There is really no reason to stop back there. There’s no new clues to be uncovered. Really, there isn’t any reason at all he needs to see Dean again before leaving town.

At the end of yet another day without any fruitful directions on the case, Castiel turns to return to his motel. He fully intends to go to bed early and alone. It’s sheer coincidence that he has to pass Dean’s bar on his way. The weather has been unseasonably warm the last few nights, so the front window of the Roadhouse is open. Dean’s voice drifts out to the sidewalk like a damn siren’s song. Castiel doesn’t recognize it, but he leans in to hear the lyrics.

“You take my hand and drag me head first, fearless.”

It’s a slow song in Dean’s mouth. He’s picked up more of a southern twang than he’d had at nineteen. It suits him.

“And I don’t know why, but with you I’d dance in a storm.”

He really does have a good voice, and the song is enchanting. One drink can’t hurt, Castiel reasons, especially since the bar had taken his scammed credit card.

Dean’s whole body seems to tense when he sees Castiel walk in, but he doesn’t miss a beat.

“So baby drive slow, till we run out of road in this one horse town.”

Chad is working the bar again and he gives Castiel a genuine smile as he sits down.

“Surprised to see you back again. Three nights in a row? Gotta say, that’s practically a long-term relationship for Dean,” he says with a laugh.

Castiel has no idea how to respond. Instead, asks for a beer. Chad shakes his head good-naturedly, and hands him a glass.

“On the house, because I haven’t seen him look at anybody like that since he started singing here.”

He points to Dean, who is, in fact, glancing sporadically over to Castiel as he sings. He’s trying to be subtle, which makes it all the more obvious.

Castiel really does mean to stay just for a single drink, then turn in for the night. Dean finishes his song and starts another. Then another. Chad keeps Castiel’s glass full, alternating water and beer. He’s overcome with such a sense of calm and rightness, a stark contrast from the usual crippling fear and insecurity that accompany every moment of humanity.

He’s fulfilling the mission; Dean Winchester is safe and Castiel is watching over him.

He’s therefore taken entirely by surprise when Chad gives him a knowing look and says he’ll leave the two of them to close up alone. Castiel glances around to find that the bar has closed down, and somehow he’s alone with Dean again.

“Bold of you to come back again after I didn’t shoot you last night,” Dean says, his words tempered with some amusement.

Castiel tosses him a smile. He can’t recall how much he’s had to drink. That might be trouble later, but for now he’s feeling pleasantly calm. His grace has gone cool and soothing over the past few hours, content to watch over Dean as he sang.

“Bold is a prerequisite for being a fallen Angel, or there would be more than two of us on this Earth,” Castleil replies, then adds thoughtfully, “ And perhaps also a certain lack of self-preservation instincts.”

This startles a laugh out of Dean, and the sound seems to surprise Dean as much as it does Castiel. His expression goes serious again, and the moment passes.

“You kill the monster yet?” Dean asks.

Castiel shakes his head. “I’m afraid not. You’re a hunter, why haven’t you caught it yet?”

Dean looks away and sips his drink. “I told you before, I’m not a hunter anymore. In case you missed it, I’m a singer now.” He doesn’t elaborate.

“I did notice the singing. You have a lovely voice.”

Of all the things, this seems to push Dean over the edge into relaxing and choosing to believe Castiel. As though no monster would go so far as to compliment his voice. Dean turns his back to Castiel (a gesture that does not go unnoticed) to go around the bar, pulls out a full bottle of whiskey, and serves them both a healthy pour.

“What did I ever do to deserve a guardian Angel in the first place?” Dean asks as he pours, “I mean, checks out they’d give me a fallen one who hangs out in bars taking shots and hustling at darts, but still.”

“That’s hardly a fair assessment. I received the assignment as a reward. It was a coveted position,” Castiel says, not without indignation. Dean laughs wryly with a half-smile.

“Alright then, Angel. Let’s assume I believe you, which I’m really only doing because I ain’t got much to lose if this is an elaborate scheme to skin me alive. What’s your name?”

It only then occurs to Castiel that, of course, Dean doesn’t know his name. He’d spent years with this man, his grace calls to him like an old friend, but Dean doesn’t even know his name.

“Castiel.”

He doesn’t bother with his fake last name, he thinks they’re past that at this point.

Dean reaches out a hand. “Nice to meet you, Castiel.”

Castiel reaches out, and shakes the hand of a man who he’s known for nearly thirty years. It’s warm and lined with guitar string calluses. At the touch, Castiel’s grace heats to almost burning. He reaches up, snatching it out of his shirt before the heat sears his skin.

“What’s that?” Dean asks.

“My grace. Or, rather, what’s left of it. It’s really only enough for me to maintain my memories of my time as an Angel.” Castiel pauses, “It’s quite fond of you.”

Dean raises an eyebrow, “Me?”

“I told you, I was your guardian Angel for most of your life. It remembers you. To be honest, it’s been rather inconvienet. A bar charging tourist prices for mediocre drinks isn’t where I’d have chosen to spend the last three nights.”

Dean looks torn between taking offense and laughing.

“You’re honestly telling me you were spying on me for years? I still don’t understand why God would care what I’m up to.”

Castiel is brought up short. He looks at Dean, who is now casually shooting whiskey out of a boot-shaped glass, and wonders how to tell the Righteous Man about his destiny that never came to be. Should he begin with Heaven sending a garrison of Cupids to arrange the union of John and Mary? Ought he go back further to the founding of the Men of Letters and the long tradition of hunting in the Campbell family?

“I doubt now that God had anything to do with it, but yes. I was there. And as for why, that’s a long story.”

Dean tilts his head thoughtfully. Then, he simply says, “Prove it.”

Castiel laughs. “Prove what? How? And more importantly, why? What does it matter to me if you believe me? After I kill this monster, I’ll leave Nashville and never see you again.”

Dean looks wrongfooted for a moment, then regains his composure. After a moment of consideration, he says, “If you prove it, I’ll help you with this case. I know the people around here. They’ll answer your questions if I’m around. Tell me something only I would know. Something you saw that I wouldn’t have told anyone.”

Castiel thinks through all the long years of silently observing Dean. Which memory would Dean have never shared with another soul?

He grins wickedly.

“You were nineteen. Your father was away on a hunt, and Sam was staying with a friend for the night, studying for an exam. You used a fake ID to get into a club, and you met an older woman. Her name was Rhonda Hurley.”

Dean’s face goes bright red, but Castiel continues.

“She took you back to her apartment. Even as an Angel, I had some sense of what humans would feel shame about, so I turned my back when she got out the pink–”

“Okay! Okay, Jesus, man, I believe you.”

Castiel shrugs. Dean had asked for it.

“That doesn’t answer the why.” Dean tugs at the hem of his flannel, then locks eyes with Castiel again. “Why did Angels put a stakeout order on me in the first place?”

“I already told you. It’s a long story.”

“I’m off tomorrow, I’ve got all night. I’ll even pay for the mediocre drinks at this shitty tourist bar.” Dean offers Castiel a smile, and his green eyes light up. He’s stunning, when he smiles.

“Alright, then, if you insist.” Castiel takes a deep breath, “Several million years ago, Lucifer was imprisoned in a cage in hell…”

Part of the problem, Castiel reflects, is that he can’t recall how much he’d had to drink during the several hours while he’d sat and listened to Dean sing.

The whiskey bottle Dean had produced is now empty, along with several other glasses that had contained fruity drinks with names like ‘I’m your huckleberry punch’ and ‘watermelon ranch water’, which Dean had insisted on making to prove that not all the drinks were mediocre. Castiel had lost count, which was something he’d learned early on not to do.

Something about Dean makes him forget all his hard earned lessons in humanity; like falling all over again. They’ve solidly crossed the line from night to morning. The first rays of sunlight are already starting to filter through the highrises of the city as they stumble into the street.

“Dean?”

“Yeah, Cas?”

“That song you were singing last night, when I walked in.. what was it?”

“Dunno,” Dean admits with a shrug, “Heard some chick singing it at the Bluebird a few years ago. She was pretty good, I wonder if she ever made it. I cover a few of her songs. Change the girly lines, of course.”

Castiel begins to stagger in the direction of his motel. Without permission, Dean follows behind him.

“I liked it. Fearless I used to be fearless, nothing but blind obedience to the mission. There’s no room for fear when you’re a soldier of Heaven. Being human, though.. it is nothing but fears, isn’t it?” Castiel contemplates the state of humanity as he dodges a puddle of vomit on the sidewalk.

Dean interrupts his musings. “I’ve never been fearless. Maybe that’s why I liked the song. I’ve always been afraid of so many things. Mostly for Sammy. I’ve never stopped being afraid for Sammy. Even after he left, and then I left, I still wake up at night wondering if he’s okay.”

Castiel nods. He can relate to waking up at night, never sure if the fears are rational or simply his mind playing tricks on him. It had taken him nearly a year to learn how to fall back asleep after such episodes.

The nodding makes his vision go double and he nearly trips over a trash can.

“Hey, Cas, you ain’t never gonna make it back to your place like this. I live above a shop a few blocks away.. come crash at my place till you sleep this off.”

Dean had started calling Castiel “Cas” around four in the morning. Castiel is fairly certain it’s a term of endearment, and he finds he likes it. He’s going to start using it. He’s not really iel, ‘of God’, anymore, is he? He’s just Cas now. It feels right.

After his feet nearly fly out from under him when he steps on a plastic beaded necklace strung with cowboy hat charms, Cas agrees with Dean’s assessment. He gestures for Dean to lead the way.

True to word, Dean’s apartment is close by. The trip up three flights of stairs is harrowing, but soon enough they tumble into a well-kept studio apartment. There’s a small kitchen, a sofa, a bed tucked into a corner, a TV on a stand, and very little else.

“You can take the bed. I’m good on the couch,” Dean offers, like a true gentleman. Castiel knows he’s probably meant to disagree and give Dean his own bed, but he’s too tired to care. He collapses fully clothed onto the bed.

“Bathroom is over there if you need it,” Dean says as he leaves through a door to the left of the bed. Cas hums an affirmative and buries his face in the pillow. He’s going to be incredibly hungover in a few hours.

Still, he can’t say he regrets it.

This is the first time he’s told his story, unabridged and honest, to anyone. It had taken hours. Dean had sat, for the most part quietly, and let him speak. He’d explained his choice to fall, his desperation to keep his memories and sense of self, then Dean’s original role in Heaven’s plans. Dean had drank steadily throughout the whole saga, only interrupting to ask clarifying questions. It had been cathartic.

A toilet flushes from the bathroom, followed by the sounds of the sink running, then Dean’s footsteps to the edge of the bed. Castiel turns his head and sees Dean standing next to him. He wonders if this is a subtle plea for him to get out of the bed and move to the couch. Cas has no intention of doing so, as he knows his back won’t forgive him if he does.

“I’m not moving to the couch” Cas declares into the pillow, “We can share if you want, but I’m not getting up. I could have made it back to my motel,”

Probably, he adds silently.

“Nah, you’re good. Just thinking.” there’s a pause. “I had a nice time with you. Just wanted you to know. I don’t…talk to people much. Not since I stopped hunting. So..”

Castiel waits for more, but it doesn’t come. Dean turns and lays down on the couch.

“Me too.” Cas says softly, then, too late for Dean to hear. “Thank you.”

+++++

Castiel wakes to a splitting headache in a strange bed. From the afternoon sunlight streaming through the window, he’s wasted another day on this hunt. His mouth tastes awful and his stomach flips as he sits up. He closes his eyes and decides to never open them again.

“You awake over there, Angel?” an all too chipper calls from the kitchen.

“No.”

“You drink coffee?”

“Nnnggg.”

“I’ll take that as a yes.”

A warm mug is pressed into Castiel’s hands. He cracks open an eye to see Dean’s amused face leaning over him.

“You alive?”

“Unfortunately, it appears so,” Cas deadpans, grabbing the coffee mug like a lifeline, “How are you so very conscious?”

“I’m a singer in Nashville. If I couldn’t shake off a night of drinking and still be presentable, I’d have been out of a job a long time ago.”

Castiel drains his coffee before even considering a response. It’s too hot, but the burning in his throat distracts him from the throbbing in his head. It settles his stomach somewhat.

Finally, he’s feeling human enough again to ask, “What time is it?”

“Almost four. You slept about eight hours. I’d started to worry you’d died over there.”

Dean produces a handful of pills and a glass of water. Castiel takes them gratefully, not sure if he’s hoping they’re hard narcotics or simple Tylenol. He’d take either at this point.

“There’s a towel and clean clothes by the sink, if you want a shower. I’ll cook you up some good hangover food.”

However much Cas wants to curl under the blanket and never leave, he needs to pee. He’s not sure he’ll ever adjust to that particular reality of having a human body. It’s so terribly inconvenient.

A hot shower does wonders for his state of mind. Whatever meds Dean had given him kick in, the caffeine hits, and the steam clears his head. He’s absently scrubbing shampoo out of his hair when the fog of the hangover finally dissipates enough for his common sense to reemerge. He tilts his head in confusion.

He’s in Dean Winchester’s apartment. Naked in his shower, in fact. After having spent the night in his bed (albeit alone). Dean made him coffee, and is cooking him breakfast. Last night, he told Dean everything. Everything, from the start of creation through his fall. By the end, he’d been drunk enough to not censor his stories. At all.

He’d told Dean about sleeping on park benches, when his initial cash from Gabriel ran out. How he’d prayed and begged for Gabriel to come back and save him again, with only silence in response. He’d told him the embarrassing bits; how off putting it had been to do so many tedious things just to keep his body functional, like going to the toilet and brushing his teeth.

Oh god, he’d drank enough to tell him how unsettling the testosterone had been at first. He’s fairly sure has a vague memory of asking Dean how he’d learned to regulate his erections when so many humans were so very attractive when one has human hormones.

He gets out of the shower and towels off. He looks out the window, wondering if he can climb his way down a handy fire escape and skip town. Dean can handle the monster without him.

They’re three stories up with nothing but sheer faced brick the whole way down. He would almost certainly break an ankle or not worse if he jumped. There’s no way out that doesn’t lead him past Dean.

Once dressed in the clean jeans, t-shirt, and flannel Dean had considerately provided, he slinks out of the bathroom and attempts to make it to the door without notice.

“How do you like your eggs?” Dean asks.

Castiel sighs and resigns himself to whatever humiliation is coming at breakfast.

“Scrambled, please.”

Dean points to a chair at the small table in between the sofa and the kitchen. Castiel obediently sits.

Dean sings softly while he cooks.

“Yes, there are two paths you can go by, but in the long run, there's still time to change the road you're on…”

“That’s not a country song,” Castiel comments absently.

Dean gives him an amused look. “You know Zep? They got classic rock in Heaven?”

“I always liked it when your father played it in the car. I liked how you and Sam would sing along. I never did.. but sometimes I found I wanted to.”

Dean flinches at the mention of his brother. Cas realizes too late that it could be rude to bring him up. He hasn’t yet asked about his absence, though he has noticed it. When he’d left them at nineteen and fourteen, they’d been inseparable.

Dean smooths his expression in an instant.

“Yeah. Me too. I never listened to much country anyways, before I landed here. Dad never liked it.”

Castiel wonders if that isn’t part of why Dean sings it now. It’s so far removed from the rock and roll he’d been raised on. He’d put as much distance between himself and his forgotten destiny as he could.

Dean drops a plate on the table in front of Cas. Eggs, bacon, toast, and grits. How very southern.

Castiel is starving and starts shoveling it down. A rule of being a human without a real income stream, he’s found, is to never refuse free food when it’s offered. It’s perfect and banishes the last remnants of his hangover.

Dean watches him silently as he eats his own meal at a slower pace. Castiel can’t place his expression.

“You need any more?” He asks, after Castiel cleans his plate.

Castiel pauses to evaluate this offer. He thinks about how Dean has not only chosen to trust that he is who he says he is, but take him in, give him a place to sleep, then clothe him and feed him. He wonders idly if the food was poisoned and this is all an elaborate trap. Nothing to be done now, if it is.

Never one to mince words, he asks, “Why are you being so kind to me?”

Dean doesn’t look surprised by the question. “Seems like you’ve had a rough go of it.”

Ah, so it’s pity. That makes sense. Castiel nods. He’s been the target of pity many times. It kept him from starving on several occasions. Still, he doesn’t like the feeling. He’s able to survive on his own now, and the thought that Dean thinks he needs to be fed and housed, like he had when he’d first fallen, rankles him. He’s surprised to find that he very much wants Dean’s respect and approval.

Dean must notice his distress, because he moves to clarify.

“Not like I’m trying to make you a charity case or anything, or that I’m saying you need it or whatever. Just… I got to thinking last night. About you, leaving everything you’d ever known to do the right thing. You left your family, your brothers. You were lonely in a new place. I’m saying I get what that feels like.”

“Do you speak to your brother much?” Castiel asks. He knows it’s prying, but there’s so much pain in Dean’s voice when he says the word brother.

“No. I mean, sometimes. He calls every few months, I think mostly to make sure I’m still alive and haven’t drunk myself to death yet. He’s got a girl, a good job, a nice place. He’s busy though, and California’s far from here. He’s happy, so that’s what matters.”

Castiel tilts his head and locks eyes with Dean. “What about you, Dean, are you happy?”

“Jesus, man, you don’t just ask a guy that!”

Castiel shrugs. “I met Jesus. He asked many people that very question.”

Dean’s jaw drops, then he laughs. “You’re fucking something else, you know that, Cas?”

“I’ve been told. You didn’t answer my question.”

Dean stands and begins to clear the dishes into the sink.

“I’m fine. I got a good gig where I can get paid to sing, and I got this place. I’m fine.”

“You miss your brother.” Castiel is still reconciling the idea that Sam and Dean Winchester are anything other than attached at the hip.

“Yeah, of course I do. He’s my brother. But he’s happy, and he’s out of the life. That’s the most important thing.”

“You don’t hunt anymore either. I’ll be honest, that was surprising to me. When I left you, you were firmly committed to that path.”

Dean begins to fiddle with a dishcloth. HIs hands don’t stop moving, even as he begins to speak in a rapid, low voice.

“You weren’t there, when Sammy left for college. You said you left when I was nineteen, right? We were all still together then, as a family. Things changed after that. Sam walked out, and Dad…he lost it, man. I thought he was bad before, obsessed with getting the thing that killed mom, but he fucking flipped after Sam left. He was either hunting, or he was drinking. I’m not sure he remembered I existed, outside of when he could use me as an extra gun or as bait. But I guess it paid off, ‘cuz in the end, he got yellow-eyes, didn’t he? Did that reaper tell you how he did it?”

Castiel shakes his head. Nobody he’s run into over the years had any idea how John had thrown them all off the plan by killing an unkillable Prince of Hell.

“Didn’t think so. Nobody was there to see it but me, and I haven’t told a soul. He goaded yellow-eyes into possessing him, then got back control long enough to shoot himself with the colt. He was fucking strong, no matter what else he may have been. I wanted to stop him, but honestly, I think he’d have shot me too if I’d gotten close enough to try. So there I was, Dad was dead, Sammy was getting ready to graduate and go to law school, the thing that killed mom was gone, and I was….I was alone.”

Dean trails off. He scrubs a hand across his face.

“I don’t know why I’m telling you all this, man. I’ve only known you three days and I spent two of them thinking you were skinning people in the back alley. Feels like longer, somehow.”

“I’ve known you for far more than three days. Though, it was a short time, relative to my long life. I wonder sometimes. Knowing you, though you did not know me in return, it changed me. I hadn’t questioned my orders for millenia, until I watched you. Your loyalty to your brother, your dedication to making this world safer, despite there being no chance for recognition. Your freedom, most of all, in the face of what I thought was a Heavenly destiny. Without even knowing I was there, you changed me.”

Dean rubs his face again, this time turning away. Castiel sees the shine in his eyes before he can hide it.

“Fuck man, you can’t say shit like that to a guy you just met.”

“Like I said, I didn’t just—”

“I know, I know,” Dean interrupts, like he can’t bear to hear it again, “You’ve known me for years, you’ve been perving on me since I was a kid. I get it.”

Castiel disagrees with Dean’s turn of phrase, but lets it go. Dean is being remarkably kind, given the circumstances. He doesn’t speak, instead he lets Dean regain his composure. It’s strange, this thing they’re doing. They’ve known each other somewhere between three days and forever. They’ve both been stranded, in different ways, from their families, and now they find themselves together, hungover at four in the afternoon eating eggs in Dean’s kitchen.

“Well,” Dean says with an abrupt change of subject, “We had a deal, and that means we’ve got a monster to kill. I haven’t done anything like this since Dad…did what he did. Didn’t want to risk dragging Sammy back into the life. If I got into a tough spot I just know he’d drop everything and try to save my ass. But I guess I’ve got my guardian Angel to watch my back now, right?”

The wave of satisfaction from his grace whites out Castiel’s vision. Yes, he can watch over Dean Winchester. There’s nothing else in the world he ought to be doing. It’s a divine truth that he will always watch over Dean. When he comes to, he’s clutching his necklace and Dean is waving a hand in front of his face.

“You alright?”

“Yes. Apologies. My grace hasn’t forgotten its last order from Heaven, before I tore it out and fell. It’s quite insistent about it.”

“Yeah? What was that?” Dean already knows, and Castiel knows he knows. He finds it petty that Dean needs to hear it, but he says it anyways.

“To watch over you.”

Dean flushes, and fuck, but it’s adorable. Castiel likes to think he doesn’t have a type, he’s been fairly indiscriminate in his sporadic sexual encounters of the years, but the color painting Dean’s cheeks as they lock eyes might be it.

The moment draws out, tense. Dean’s eyes are the perfect shade of green, and the blush makes the brush of freckles over his cheekbones prominent. Castiel knows this is too long to hold eye contact without saying something. He’s been told many times that he has a tendency to stare. He doesn’t care, because Dean’s eyes make his grace flare and it reminds him of Heaven and home and humanity all at once. He leans forward, and Dean doesn’t pull back.

Dean clears his throat and twirls the amulet around his neck. “How about you fill me in on what you’ve got so far, then we hit the pavement and see if we can get more info with me around. I’ve been here a few years now, so I’m practically a local. Maybe the bar owners will open up to me and give us something.”

Castiel wants to go back and regain that delicate energy between them. He wants to push it further and explore where it could go. Instead, he follows Dean’s lead and grabs his jacket from where it had been unceremoniously dumped next to Dean’s bed. He digs a map out of his inner pocket and smooths it out on the table. If they’re getting down to business, he can be a professional.

“Six bodies so far. Two found here, another one here, and then the last three here. The coroners had nothing when I visited. They hadn’t even written down a real cause of death, just that all the skin was removed.”

“When you say all, you mean…” Dean asks uneasily.

“All. I mean all. With more precision than you could do with a knife. Cleaner than a surgeon with a scalpel could do. The bodies had been cremated by the time I got there, so I couldn’t check for EMF. I only saw the pictures and reports. All were women here with their partners, none of whom were harmed. I tried to interview them, but only one would speak to me. He was distraught. He claims he doesn’t remember anything besides leaving the bar, then waking up on the ground next to the body. There’s no indication that any of the partners were involved, none are suspects. It doesn’t look like werewolves, since the hearts were still intact. Not djinn or vampires, since they weren’t drained of blood. That leaves ghost or cursed object, but I don’t have much beyond that.”

As Cas speaks, Dean’s demeanor transforms. He leans in close, his face intense and thoughtful. He no longer looks like a bar singer, instead he’s every inch a hunter.

“That’s great, Cas, it’s a nice start. Now let’s get out there and kill this son of a bitch.”

++++++++

It’s around six when they emerge from Dean’s apartment. The Honky-Tonk highway looks entirely different in the daylight. The neon signs are dim in the early evening sun. The sounds are the same, dozens of drums, guitars, and singers blasting through amps out onto the sidewalk. The crowd is already picking up with the dinner rush.

Making his way through the Broadway bars with Dean is a much more pleasurable experience than doing it alone. Most the bartenders, waitresses, and store owners know Dean and do their best to answer his questions. While they had seemed unconcerned by the deaths when speaking to Castiel, their fear is palpable when speaking to Dean. They’ve been talking, and they’re frightened, but none of them have any idea who (or what) is behind the murders. Their livelihoods rely on tourists not getting spooked, so they’re trying not to let their fear show.

They get their first real break at the fourth bar they visit. The owner, Melissa, comes out of her office to speak to Dean. They huddle at a table in the back, farthest away from the three women on stage singing “Independence Day” to an enthusiastic crowd. The second round of bodies had been found in the alley behind this bar.

“I’m sorry, Dean, I wish I knew more. My girls are all scared as Hell. I had cameras out back, but they both shorted out somehow when it happened. I put up a few extra lights after. It doesn’t seem like enough.”

Dean isn’t looking at Melissa. He’s staring at a banjo hung on the wall. It’s an unremarkable decoration, surrounded by other cliche country themed paraphernalia. Castiel will have to tell him after they leave that it’s rude to not make eye contact when someone is speaking. Dean should know that. He was born human, after all.

“Is that new?”

Melissa startles at the abrupt change of topic. Castiel almost apologizes for Dean’s rudeness (he’s had extensive experience in that area, as he used to often finds himself accidentally violating some social convention or another), then sees the serious furrow of Dean’s brow. This is something more than a social misstep.

“Um, yeah, I guess it is. I got it from Dave, he works at The Dusty Road. His grandma died and they cleared out her old house and found a ton of antique stuff. He didn’t have room for it all, so he let a bunch of us pick through it. I got that old map of Tennessee, too.” She points to a framed map next to the banjo.

“Did you take anything else?”

Melissa looks at him like he might be crazy, to be asking about her bar’s decorations in front of a supposed FBI agent on a murder investigation, but humors him all the same.

“Yeah, I grabbed this neat old-timey knife in a display case, too. But then Annie, you know, from the Saddle Bag? She saw it and thought it was awesome. It honestly fit with her decor better than mine, so I let her take it. Why?”

Dean and Castiel share a significant look.

“No reason. Sorry, I guess I’m just shook up too. Looking for things to distract myself with,” Dean says. It’s convincing.

Melissa buys it and responds with sympathy. “I know, me too. Sorry, I really do wish I could be more helpful.”

“You’ve been great. I know it's not easy to talk about. If you need anything, you know where I’m at.”

Castiel stays silent until they’re out of earshot.

“Could the knife be a cursed object? Or the anchor for a ghost? She linked it to all three crime scenes, her bar, the Saddle Bag, and the Dusty Road. That’s not a coincidence.”

“No,” Dean says gravely, “It’s not. We should find it and burn it, we can figure out the details later.”

They agree to lay low until the bars close, then break in, steal the knife, and burn it. Castiel feels immediately lighter, knowing that by morning the people in this city will be safe again.

“So, Cas, what do you wanna do for the next few hours while we wait?” Dean hesitates, then adds, “I could show you around. I’ve got the night off. Unless you wanna go back to your motel and rest, then meet back here around four?”

Castiel thinks of his empty motel room. He does need to grab a change of clothes. He should also gear up in case this is a ghost and it shows when they try to burn its anchor. On the other hand, despite having spent the last six years either alone or with one night stands here and there, the prospect of a night without Dean is utterly unappealing.

“I need to go get my bag. I have salt rounds and iron. We may need them. I should also change so I can give you your clothes back.”

“Oh. Yeah, that makes sense. Ok, then we can meet back up at four at my bar.”

Castiel almost walks away, but he thinks he caught a hint of disappointment in Dean’s voice. He won’t forgive himself if he doesn’t at least try to see where this unmistakable chemistry between them goes.

“I could go get my things, then meet you back here in an hour, if you’d be amenable to showing me around while we wait.”

Dean brightents. “Sounds good. What’re you up for? We probably should lay off the drinks if we’re gonna be doing a smash and grab later, but we could hit a few bars early on if you want.”

The very thought of alcohol makes Castiel’s stomach turn. “No drinks, please. Maybe forever, after last night.”

Dean laughs. “Fair enough. I’ve got some ideas. Meet back at my place when you’re ready, and I’ll take you out.”

Has he just been asked out on a date? Castiel has mistaken people’s intentions on this front before. He had once mistook a woman’s request for him to babysit as her asking him out. On another occasion, he had thought a man was interested in him who had in fact been very straight and trying to sell him insurance. Conversely, he had mistaken April’s initial advances as an attempt on his life. Suffice to say, he does not have a stellar history when it comes to correctly interpreting intentions towards him, sexually.

Given that the reason they find themselves free for a few hours is because they’re waiting to break into a bar to steal a cursed and/or possessed knife also makes him think twice about the possibility of romance.

All the same.

“It’s a date,” Castiel says, tentatively.

Dean grins, winks, and they part ways.

+++++

Castiel has spent his entire human life either homeless or sleeping in shitty motel rooms. In fact, he’d spent long enough that the shitty motels still feel like an upgrade. He’s aware they aren’t luxury living, but it’s never bothered him before. It’s a sacrifice he makes to have his memories, a scrap of grace, and the knowledge that he is making this world a better place.

It’s dead depressing, though, after spending twenty-four hours with Dean, returning to his motel room. The key sticks in the door, there’s a slight unpleasant smell when he enters, and he can hear shouting through the thin walls. He picks up his duffel and shoves in his notes from the case, a change of clothes, and his toiletries. He ruffles through his clothes in search of anything that’s not a worn-out flannel. Eventually, he settles on his nicest shirt (a brown sweater that hugs his shoulders and biceps) and a pair of jeans that are slightly too tight around his thighs and ass. It can’t hurt. He walks to his junker parked outside (a Honda Civic he stole a few years back), and retrieves his sawed off shotgun, salt rounds, a few iron chains, and a crowbar from his trunk. Parking is so atrociously expensive within the city that he locks the car up and opts to walk back to Dean’s apartment despite the now weighed down bag.

He’s sweating by the time he makes it back to Dean’s apartment. Not enough to make it worth negotiating downtown traffic and paying the highway robbery parking fees, but enough that he does duck into an alley and reapply his deodorant before ringing the buzzer. Another lesson learned early on; if one does not wear enough deodorant one will struggle to make friends.

Dean meets him at the door. The jeans decision is immediately validated when Dean’s gaze lingers on Cas’s ass.

“You ready? I was thinking we could get off Broadway a bit; it’s Friday night now which means it’ll be a shit show.”

“Has it not been a shit show the last three nights?” Castiel asks in horror. Since arriving, he’s been flashed twice, vomited on once, and seen more bachelorette’s than seem statistically possible.

“Nah, you ain’t seen nothing yet. It’s like the Vegas Strip and Bourbon Street had a baby and put it in a cowboy hat.”

“Then yes, perhaps it’s best if we give that a wide berth. Show the way.”

They walk in companionable silence away from the din of Broadway into a quieter area. They cross the Cumberland River on foot. The lights of the city reflect off the water in the darkness. It is, objectively, quite romantic. Castiel lets his hand brush against Dean’s as they walk, and Dean doesn’t pull away. They wind their way through a few side streets until Dean stops at an unmarked door and holds it open.

“After you, Cas.”

Curious, Castiel enters the building.

It’s an open space, with only a dozen or so people scattered in couples at tables around the edge of the room. The women wear big skirts and everyone is in cowboy boots. Strings of fairy lights hang along the ceiling and dangle along the back wall. There’s a makeshift stage with metal framework holding up large speakers, containing only a microphone on a stand. On close inspection, the dark hardwood floor has been scuffed and repolished in several layers.

Cas still has absolutely no idea where they are. Dean leads him into the room and sits them down at one of the small side tables.

“This is where I started singing, when I first got here. Dad had just died, and I was running from city to city, not even after cases or anything. Just to keep moving, I guess. If I stopped, I knew I’d call Sammy and tell him everything. I’d ruin the good thing he’d been building, he’d have come to try and rescue me if he knew how bad off I was. He was interviewing for law school back then, and I didn’t want to pull him away from that. Anyways, I found myself in Nashville for the night. I met a girl at a bar, she gave me her number, I asked her out, and she said she loved square dancing at this place. Thought I might get laid, so I showed up. Well, she stood me up, but I waited around long enough to see a few people pick up the mic and sing a bit. They all seemed so relaxed. They seemed happy. I don’t know what came over me, but I put my name down and sang “Whole lotta love”. I’m sure it was terrible, but people clapped, and it was the best I’d felt in a long time. So I kept coming back, and Chad heard me one night, and offered me the gig at the Roadhouse.” Dean gestures widely around the unassuming room.

Castiel doesn’t miss the significance of Dean bringing him to this place. They could have gone anywhere, but Dean chose to take him somewhere that means something to him. He chose to open up and tell Cas more about his life. Perhaps it’s fair turnaround for their first night together, when Castiel had spilled his entire life story in a drunken flood. He appreciates it all the same.

Dean is starting to look uncomfortable.

“We can go somewhere else, if you don’t like it. We don’t gotta dance or anything, and you don’t gotta sing. You know what, this was stupid. I’ll take you somewhere else.”

“Dean, it’s lovely. Are you going to sing?”

Dean relaxes considerably. “You got any requests? There’s a half hour till the next dance class and the mic is open.”

Castiel thinks through his limited knowledge of music. Most of it is from his time in the Impala on open highways, hovering invisible between the Winchester brothers. Then, of course, the last three nights he’s listened to Dean sing.

“You pick. Something you wouldn’t normally sing.”

This makes Dean smile, and he saunters up to the mic. A few people seem to recognize him, and give encouraging cheers. Dean punches something into the little karaoke machine tucked behind one of the metal scaffolds, and a twangy guitar line picks up.

“Loving you, isn’t the right thing to do.”

Dean holds out a hand and pulls Castiel over to the stage area with him.

“How can I ever change the things that I feel?”

Dean relaxes into the music and throws an arm over Castiel’s shoulder.

“If I could, baby I’d give you my world. How can I, when you won’t take it from me?”

Castiel’s grace sings in harmony with Dean’s voice. It’s intoxicating, exhilarating, and he’s falling all over again. This time he thinks maybe he’ll be caught. Dean sings, and Castiel lets his whole world narrow to this room, to this man. Tentatively, he reaches up to hold Dean’s hand that’s slung over his shoulder. The touch lights his grace brighter than it’s been since he left Heaven. He feels it behind his eyes.

“You can go your own way.”

The song ends, and there’s scattered applause from the other side of the room. Dean extricates himself from Castiel, then sets the microphone back on its stand. They take a table in the corner as a woman queues up her song on the karaoke machine.

“That was beautiful, Dean. Thank you.” He means it, more than he can express.

Dean waves him off.

Castiel spins the grace around his neck between his fingers. It’s pulsing soft white-blue light in time with Dean’s breath. He considers his words carefully before speaking.

“Dean, I want you to understand something. Before I fell, I had enough grace to level cities. I could fly from here to the moon in an instant. I wielded more power than you can comprehend, and I do not mean that in a disparaging way, it’s simply a fact. I tore it all out and fell when I realized that all that power meant nothing if I didn’t have my free will, and if I couldn’t trust my own memories. Being human was terrifying at first, and I only got through those early days because I remembered watching you and your brother survive worse as children. Though I have only been human for a matter of years, I thought that I had experienced all that it has to offer. I’ve been alone and hurt, but I’ve also found solace in brief companionships. I’ve been hungry and fed, drunk, high, and everything in between. And yet, I find that I did not truly understand the allure of humanity until these past few days with you.”

Dean stares at him, then buries his face in his hands and exhales hard.

“Jesus fucking Christ, what the fuck, Cas?”

Castiel knows he’s overstepped. He’s not so socially inept as to be unaware that it’s not normal to express such intensity of feeling so early into a relationship, however unusual their circumstances are. He doesn’t care. His human life is a mere blink of an eye, wasting time not saying how he feels doesn’t make sense. He waits in silence for Dean to respond.

“Yeah, man. I mean, me too. Not the…massively powerful divine being stuff, obviously, but the feeling…different. I get that. Since I got here, since Dad died really, I’ve been…aimless. I stopped hunting, because I knew if I didn’t I’d drag Sam down with me. I’ve been singing, which is great, don’t get me wrong, but I stopped helping people. I miss that. It’s almost like you walking into my bar woke me up for the first time since Dad died.”

Dean hesitates, then leans forward across the table. His amulet swings like a pendulum around his neck. It’s hypnotising. He reaches across the table to take Castiel’s hands in his, and tilts his head. It takes Castiel a full three breaths to realize what’s happening, which is perhaps a testament to how little intimacy he’s had in his life.

He closes the distance between them and their lips meet in a soft kiss.

For the first time since he fell, Castiel feels grace light behind his eyes and tingles in his finger tips. It’s nothing like the tsunami that used to flow through him when he was still connected to Heaven, but it courses through him like a cleansing fire.

Oh, so this is why Anna had wished to fall. To experience love and lust and chocolate cake. Every moment of desperation and misery is worth it now, with Dean’s lips on his.

They pull apart, breathless.

“You wanna get out of here?” Dean asks.

“We only have a few hours until we need to go burn the knife. We are still on a case, remember.” Castiel reminds him, even as his libido is screaming at him to shut up and take the win.

“Couple hours is a long time, Cas. And if I remember anything about hunting, it’s that you’re supposed to carpe diem and all that shit before you throw yourself into danger. You need me to pull the end of the world line on you? I’ll do it, see if I won’t.”

“I’m torn, because I don’t want to waste another minute getting back to your apartment, but I also want to hear your pickup lines. I imagine they’re very effective.”

Dean grins. “You have no idea. I’d tell you about how tomorrow isn’t promised, not in this line of work. Any hunt could be your last, and you gotta make sure you’re living life to the fullest. No sense in delaying pleasure, when tonight could be your last. I’d tell you about how fleeting life is, and how all we’ve really got are these moments in between the danger, and each other.”

“You make some very good points.”

They both stand at once. Castiel is confused to see the other couples standing too, then realizes they’re arranging themselves for a dance. His urgency to leave doubles, as there’s a real chance that if Dean sees him dance he may rescind his offer to take him home.

This time, they hold hands as they cross the bridge. The warmth that lit inside Castiel burns like a hearth at the center of him; an entirely new feeling that he wonders if all humans have felt. It would explain how they manage to keep going day after day, year after year, when things can feel so desolate.

Broadway is still roaring when they close the door to Dean’s apartment to shut out the neon lights and thumping baselines. The case is all but solved, and they have hours stretched out before them.

Castiel has had sex a few times here and there during his tenure as a human. The first time had been with a somewhat rouge reaper named April. She had known who he was, and that alone had been refreshing after years of lying about his identity. She’d been wonderfully bossy in bed, then kind to him the morning after. It had been an overall pleasurable experience, though later Castiel had reflected that it had really been more about the companionship than the physical act itself. After that, he’d discovered that he overall prefers men, but not so strongly doesn’t enjoy encounters with women when they come his way. Men, however, he’d discovered, are much more easily offended if he misinterprets their intentions. He’s learned to be cautious with them.

There is no misreading Dean’s intentions, though. As soon as the door to Dean’s little unit closes behind them, he pushes Castiel against it and kisses him. It’s deeper and more filled with promise than the short kiss they’d shared earlier. His hands settle on Castiel’s hips and he hooks his thumbs into the waistband of his jeans. Castiel forgets to breathe, which he hasn’t done in years.

“Bed?” Dean asks, when he has to pull away or suffocate.

“Yes,” Castiel answers.

Dean pulls on the bottom of Castiel’s sweater with a questioning look. He gives Cas time to say no, but Castiel nods and lifts his arms. His vial of grace bounces down onto his bare chest as Dean throws the sweater to the ground. Dean then takes off his own red jacket and undershirt. His amulet mirrors Castiel’s grace; both mementos of families they’ve lost.

Cas reaches out and holds it in between two fingers.

Thoughtfully, he muses, “I was there when your brother gave this to you. Even before I truly knew what emotions were, I knew I wanted to shower you both with gifts. At the time it was an odd impulse. Neither of you were in mortal peril, I had no reason to care that your father hadn’t come back for Christmas nor bothered to give you anything. And yet, I did.”

“Cas, man, that’s a great sentiment, but please don’t mention my brother or Dad while you’re taking my clothes off.”

Castiel mentally adds this to his list of things to avoid during sex.

“May I mention that I’d like to get the rest of your clothes off and get you into bed as soon as physically possible?”

“That’s more like it.”

Castiel is glad to find that he hasn’t truly ruined the mood, as Dean pulls off his shoes and strips off his jeans. Castiel enthusiastically follows his lead. Dean sits on the edge of his bed, wearing only his rings, bracelet, and necklace. He lifts an eyebrow and crooks a finger for Castiel to follow him. Castiel happily settles between his legs. He leans down to kiss him again, this time with miles of bare skin to explore with his hands. He runs his hands over Dean’s chest, his back, his neck, his legs. He feels for every scar that he knows about, then discovers new ones.

Dean kisses along Castiel’s jawline, then nips his way down his neck. He buries his face in Castiel’s shoulder and sucks at his collar bone.

“Your necklace is getting hot, should you take it off?”

“It won’t hurt us. It’s just pleased to have you this close. As am I.”

Dean tugs Castiel down onto the bed next to him. Castiel lays down and lets Dean prop up on an elbow next to him and reach down to touch his grace. It jumps and pulses happily in the vial at the touch. Its light is reflected in Dean’s green eyes and casts a glow over his freckles, and Castiel has never seen anything so beautiful in his whole existence.

Dean reverently sets the vial back down on Castiel’s chest. Cas traces an anti-possession tattoo on Dean’s chest that he must have added in the years since Cas left him. Cas hates thinking about what must have precipitated it, knowing he wasn’t there to protect him. It mirrors the block of Enochian on Cas’s chest. He sits up to remove his own shirt, putting it on display.

“What’s this do?” Dean asks, running a finger along the lines of text. The touch makes Cas shiver.

“Same as yours. This also keeps the Angels from finding me. I’m not sure if they would ever try to, but I’d rather not find out.”

Dean lays his hand flat over it, then pushes it down lower, over Castiel’s hip. Again, he pauses and waits for Cas to nod permission before he undoes Castiel’s belt and zipper. Cas raises his hips to let Dean pull them off.

There’s a moment, both of them naked in the bed, Castiel’s grace leaping around its vial like raindrops with anticipation, where they breathe in sync before Dean swings a leg over Castiel’s hips and leans down to kiss him again.

The contact is explosive and makes Cas’s hips cant in rhythm with Dean’s tongue in his mouth. Dean’s skin is hot and everywhere all at once. Before he can stop himself, he grabs hold of Dean’s ass and pulls him closer. Dean doesn't seem to mind, as he moans into Cas’s mouth at the friction. Castiel nearly comes at the sound alone, and has to pull back from the kiss. He’s not nearly ready for this to be over.

“You ok?” Dean asks, pulling back only just enough to speak.

“Yes. I’m trying to avoid this ending embarrassingly early. We still have nearly three hours until we have to get back to work, it would a shame if I wasted them.”

Dean appears quite pleased with this answer. He smiles, somewhat wickedly,, then settles with his head on Cas’s shoulder. “It’s been awhile?” He snakes a hand down between them and takes Cas into his hand.

Cas gasps and thrusts into Dean’s hand. “I rarely have the occasion,” he grits out, even as he feels his grasp on the English language fading behind the pleasure of Dean’s hand and the feel of him stretched out naked beside him.

“Well, I suppose I better make it good then.” And with that, Dean lithely slides down between Castiel’s legs and takes him into his mouth.

Nothing, in all his time in Heaven or on Earth, remotely compares to the feeling of Dean sucking him off. God himself could walk through the door and offer to restore his grace and take him home to a rebuilt Heaven, and Cas would tell him to get the fuck out.

Dean rests a hand gently on Cas’s hip. He pushes down just hard enough to keep Cas’s thrusts in check.

“Dean.” Cas tangles a hand in Dean’s hair and holds on for dear life.

Castiel can’t tell if Dean is exceptionally talented, or if it’s the warmth of his grace, or the sense of home that he’s felt since meeting Dean that makes it so transcendent. Likely a mix of all three. Regardless, it isn’t long before Castiel is squirming on the bed, completely undone.

“Dean, I’m close.”

Dean responds with a swirl of his tongue and a dip of his head to swallow Castiel to his base. With a choked moan, Castiel spills into Dean’s mouth. Dean doesn’t pull off until he’s completely spent, and even then he simply rests his chin on Cas’s hip with a self-satisfied smile.

“Good?” He asks.

“I used to be able to see your soul, back when I was an Angel,” Castiel responds.

“I’m gonna let you elaborate before I take offense.”

Castiel takes Dean’s hand and tugs him up, then pulls him close. He’s pleased to find that Dean is rock hard and leaking when he wraps a hand around his cock and thumbs over his head. Dean moans, that completely wonderful sound, and Cas sets a rhythm with his wrist. He can feel Dean’s breath on his shoulder. Every muscle along his body as he tenses and sighs.

“When I was an Angel, I could see your soul. It was the color of your eyes, though mixed with gold and colors you cannot perceive with human eyes. I thought it was beautiful, from the moment you were born. I can’t see it anymore, but I can imagine it. I would like to think that it remembers me, after I spent so long watching over you.”

“Fuck, Cas,” Dean moans, “I’m gonna come. Was close from blowing you.”

Castiel stops to unceremoniously spit into his hand, then goes back to work. They don’t speak for a while, as Dean throws his head back on the bed and arches his back. He stretches out sinuously beside Castiel. They lose time, like that, with Dean’s eyes shut and Cas’s wide open; taking it all in and banking every memory in case he doesn’t get to do this again. He hopes, though, that he will. Eventually, Dean’s thrusts into Castiel’s hand go uneven and desperate, and Dean’s done. He buries his face in Cas’s chest as he comes.

They lay there until the mess starts to get sticky and uncomfortable. With a groan, Dean extricates himself and stands next to the bed. He stretches, with his arms above his head, and Cas considers dragging him straight back into bed.

Instead, he lets Dean retreat to the bathroom to clean up. Only once Dean is out of sight does Castiel allow his eyes to drift closed. His body is loose and satisfied; it really has been far too long. When Dean returns, he’s still naked but has rinsed down in the shower. Cas holds out an arm and lets Dean curl back into him.

“What you said. About my soul. Was it true, or was that a line?” Dean says, and Cas can feel his lips move as he speaks.

“All true. Except, I suppose I really have no idea if it remembers me. It probably doesn’t. I knew you, but you didn’t know me. You hadn’t met me until a few days ago.” The thought is still off putting, that Dean hadn’t even known his name despite Castiel having been by his side most his life.

“It does,” Dean says, then pauses. “Or, I mean, I don’t know for sure. But it seems like something in me knows you. No offence, but I trusted you way too fucking fast. I’ve felt…different since you got here. Something like being back with Sammy and Dad. Like I’m not alone anymore.”

A warmth bubbles in Castiel’s chest. At first he thinks his grace is about to finally explode from all the Dean contact, then he realizes it’s happiness. He’s feeling happy. Interesting. He’s not sure he’s ever experienced it before. He hopes he can feel it again.

“I’m glad,” he says, and it’s such an understatement, but he can’t begin to find the words. He thinks Dean knows.

“Me too.”

Dean inhales deeply, then closes his eyes again. This time, they lay together in quiet contentment, soaking in these moments for themselves before they go back to serving others.

Castiel, for the first time in his life, begins to think of a future that is more than a penance, one where he finds happiness and even love.

++++++++

It’s nearly impossible to convince himself to rouse Dean from where he’s dozing against Castiel’s shoulder, as this will lead to them both having to leave the oasis of Dean’s bed and go hunt a monster. He could spend the rest of his life here in this bed in this tiny apartment listening to Dean breathe and die happy. The past few hours have irrevocably changed his threshold for joy. He can barely remember how he’s managed to spend the last six years doing nothing but hunting and hustling for enough money to avoid starvation. All the same, they do have a job to do. He shakes Dean’s shoulder.

Dean grumbles and rolls out of the bed. Together, they find their clothes scattered around the studio apartment and dress in companionable silence. Castiel gives Dean an iron chain and a shotgun loaded with salt rounds. He keeps the crowbar for himself, as he’s still more comfortable with close hand-to-hand combat rather than gunfire. Dean weighs the weapon in his hand with an uneasy look.

“I don’t like going after this thing when we still don’t know what it is,” Dean says.

“It’s either a cursed object, in which case burning it will destroy it, or it’s a ghost, in which case we’re as armed as we can be and burning it will also destroy it.”

All the same, Cast doesn’t truly disagree. He has a nagging sense they’re missing something important. Usually by the time he’s ready to burn an object, he has some idea of its history. If it’s a ghost, he knows who the spirit is and why it’s holding on. Here, they have no idea what the knife is or who might be clinging to it.

“It has to be the knife though- an antique out of some attic that was at all three crime scenes? No way that’s a coincidence.” Dean sounds as though he’s trying to convince himself more than Castiel.

“Yes, you’re right. Let’s end this before it can hurt anyone else.”

The streets are bright but silent. The neon is almost eerie now that the chaos of the crowds have dispersed. The temperature has dropped in the hours since the sun went down and it’s chilly with a light breeze that blows discarded flyers, plastic cups, and bits of garbage on the street. Castiel picks his way around the apparently standard pools of vomit that dot the sidewalk.

“Do they do this every weekend?” He asks as they pass an abandoned bra on the sidewalk.

Dean laughs, and it echoes in the quiet. “Afraid so. People come here to party, and what can I say, we deliver.”

They reach The Saddlebag all too soon. They both pause.

Castiel has stormed into many vampire nests, werewolf packs, wendigo dens, and every other unimaginable horror regularly since he fell. He doesn’t think twice about it; he has the knowledge and skills to help people, so why hesitate? He’s always been abstractly aware that what he does is dangerous, and in this fragile body made of flesh and bone there’s a decent chance that every hunt could be his last. It’s never bothered him much. He’s lived a million human life-times as an Angel, and humanity has more often felt like penance than anything else. He doesn’t want to die, but also isn’t terribly frightened of the idea.

Now, though, with his mind full of memories of Dean, the prospect of charging into danger isn’t as appealing. Dean, with his head tipped back in ecstasy. Dean, with miles of skin stretched out on the bed. Dean, kissing him like he’s someone who matters. Castiel finds he wants more nights like that. It’s a new feeling, looking forward to the future. He wants to take Dean’s hand and run from this place. To shelter him from danger.

“Dean, before we do this, in case things go wrong, I wanted to say that–”

“No,” Dean cuts him off, “I may have been out of the game for a while now, but I remember that no speeches is a rule. You can say whatever you gotta say when we’re both on the other side of this celebrating over a drink.”

Without another word, Dean stalks forward and begins to expertly pick the lock on the door to the bar. Either Dean has been moonlighting as a petty thief, or muscle memory takes over because the lock pops open in a matter of minutes.

It’s all too easy, which really should have tipped them off. The knife is mounted in a little shadow box on the wall, unassuming amongst other bits of Southern antiques. The decor is so busy it’s entirely possible the owner won’t even notice it’s absence. Dean pulls it off the wall and they silently make their way back to Dean’s apartment.

They decide to burn the knife by the dumpster outside Dean’s building, because, as Dean put it, “The landlord is used to dumpster fires, one more won’t hurt anything.”

Without further ado, Castiel carefully detaches the glass cover from the wooden display box. It’s surprisingly well made, with the corners thatched together rather than glued. The wood is old, with a solid, fine grain. There’s a thin layer of paper along the back, and it’s also old enough that it fragments under Castiel’s hands as he pops the knife off of the nails holding it in place. He tosses the frame into the dumpster and sets the knife on the ground. He douses the knife in lighter fluid, and glances up to make sure Dean has taken a step back before flicking open his lighter.

Things go sideways from the moment he moves his thumb to strike the flame.

An invisible force slams Castiel into the brick wall and the lighter flies from his hand. Even after all these years, the pain is viscerally real in a way that takes his breath away. He tastes metallic blood and his vision blurs around the edges. He clings to consciousness through sheer force of will.

He fights his way back to standing to see Dean level his shotgun at a handsome man dressed in a suit that was likely very fashionable in the mid-twentieth century. His curly brown hair gives him a boyish charm, but the smile on his lips has a vicious twist to it. Dean fires, and the man disappears with a wisp of smoke.

“Ghost, then,” Castiel says as he picks up his iron crowbar.

“Seems that way,” Dean replies. The shotgun is settled in his hands like an old friend. He holds himself in much the same way he had while on stage singing, with a loose limbed confidence that speaks of thousands of hours of practice.

Cas opens his duffle and retrieves his flashlight. The knife remains where he’d left it, and his lighter had landed near Dean. As Dean lowers the shotgun to pick up the lighter, the ghost reappears. This time it’s flickering between the handsome brunette and a monstrous image of muscle pulled tight over bone, completely skinless. The viscera is shiny with blood that drips off his fingertips. Without skin, his eyes are wide and unblinking. With a scream, the image settles back into that of the man.

Castiel swings the crowbar with the full force of his limited human strength. It cuts through the ghost, who reappears in an instant directly behind Dean. Dean is fumbling with the lighter, trying to light the knife. With a cruel laugh, the ghost steps directly through Dean, as though he’s no more substantial than air, and picks up the knife.

Castiel was a soldier back in Heaven. A strategist, even. He spent thousands of years training to gauge the relative probabilities of any outcome in a battle. It’s made him one hell of a poker player, and, more importantly, given him the ability to read a fight three moves in advance to take calculated risks to avoid undesirable outcomes.

He knows he has no time or space to waste movement. His lifetime as an Angel also made him adept at judging trajectories, angles, and forces. This has given him a real edge in pool, and it means that he is able to throw his whole body at just the right speed and angle to allow the knife to sink into his own shoulder, rather than Dean’s heart. The man plunges it in, then pulls it out and rears back for a second blow. Castiel manages to roll to the side and avoid it, but the fight is draining out of him and he doesn’t think he’ll be able to fend off a third attempt.

The pain is bright and vivid. The knife edge must still be sharp because it splits through his flesh like butter. Warm blood soaks his shirt even as he scrambles to get his hands over the wound and apply pressure. He tries to stand, to find and protect Dean, but darkness threatens to take him so he collapses back to sitting. In a habit that he may never break, he reaches for his grace to try and heal himself. As always, he’s met with nothing but a sucking void.

Dean opens the lighter, ignites the flame, and drops it onto the knife.

The ghost turns to Castiel, winks, then disappears without a trace.

Dean immediately drops to his knees next to Castiel. He bundles up his overshirt and presses it hard into the wound. Castiel cries out, then grits his teeth.

“Hang in there, Cas, I’ll call 911, we’ll get you taken care of.” There’s an edge of panic in his voice.

“No ambulance,” Cas manages to say. “It’s fine. I saw you stitch up worse on your father many times.”

“Cas, that was years ago.” Dean says, the panic veering into hysteria. “And fucking stupid, we need to get you to a hospital.”

“No! I’ve been hurt before, you’ve seen the scars. It’s fine. If you don’t stitch me up, I’m doing it myself.”

Dean must hear the steel in his voice, because he tenderly wraps an arm around Castiel’s shoulders and helps him to standing. Together, they make their way up the three flights of stairs to Dean’s apartment. Once inside, Castiel makes straight for the bathroom and sits on the closed toilet seat. He was serious about doing his own stitches (he’s done it before), but sincerely hopes Dean won’t make him. He doesn’t think he will. Dean produces a suture kit from the bathroom cabinet. Castiel refrains from commenting on how perhaps Dean hasn’t gained as much distance from the hunter lifestyle as he’d like to think, as civilians don’t keep full medical kits around. He refrains for fear of Dean revoking the offer to do the sutures for him.

Dean helps Castiel remove his shirt, with a sharp inhale when he sees the damage. The knife dove straight through the muscle in his chest; he’s going to be in a sling for at least a month. It hadn’t hit his heart, though, and that’s what really matters. Dean’s expression is stoic as he cleans the wound and begins to carefully stitch the flesh back together. Tiny, immaculate, little loops that he ties off one by one with practiced surgeon's knots. Castiel focuses on his breathing to avoid flinching and jerking. Finally, Dean wraps layers of gauze and bandages around Castiel’s shoulder. He focuses on Dean’s face, pale and close. His freckles stand out like constellations in the stark light of the bathroom. He’s still beautiful, even with the blood drained out of his face and his expression tight with concentration and worry.

“Alright, all done. Here’s some tylenol, you should take a bunch. Sorry I don’t have anything stronger around. I’ll take the couch,” Dean says, all in a rush.

“Oh. Alright.” Castiel realizes that he had thought they’d share the bed, after their interlude before the hunt. He understands that this relationship is inherently unbalanced; he’s known Dean his whole life and Dean has only known him a matter of days, but he had felt them connect, there in that bed together. As though Dean’s soul really had remembered him, like he’d said.

“Ok,” Dean says gruffly. He avoids meeting Castiel’s eyes and throws himself fully clothed onto the sofa. Castiel isn’t sure what to make of this, and isn’t in a state to be figuring it out as the sharp pain of his stab wound steadily dulls out into a persistent throb. It’s remarkably hard to think through pain. The first time he’d been badly injured had given him a profound respect for humans who manage to function despite chronic pain.

Castiel settles carefully into the bed. He lays on his uninjured side and closes his eyes. He knows he won’t sleep much. Sleeping is challenging enough, even without a fresh injury that jolts him awake every time he moves the wrong way. He wishes Dean would join him. He can’t help but think it would help ease his suffering, somehow.

For a long time, Castiel listens to the sounds of Dean’s breath and the hum of the city outside. Eventually, he drifts into a fitful sleep, waking frequently as he rolls in his sleep and agitates his shoulder. He thinks he hears light snores from Dean, hours later. The sound helps him finally fall into a real restful sleep.

Castiel wakes to the sound of sirens and flashing lights filtered through the shades on the window. By the time he sits up to identify the source of the ruckus, Dean is already standing next to the window and pulling aside the curtains to look down into the alley. His expression is grim.

“Looks like we didn’t get the ghost, after all.”

+++++

Until they can buy a real sling for Castiel’s arm, there’s no posing as an FBI agent. The makeshift one they’ve pulled together with a cut up sheet is functional, but somewhat diminishes his authority. Instead, Dean shakes his head and pulls a full go-bag out from under his bed, complete with professional grade binoculars and a camera.

“I’m out of the game, not stupid,” he says, without meeting Castiel’s eye.

They set up surveillance of the alley out Dean’s window. It doesn’t take long to confirm Dean’s initial assessment; there’s been another victim. The profile is the same. A woman in her twenties, skinned alive, then left for dead. Her boyfriend sobs behind the crime scene tape.

They convene at Dean’s kitchen table with cups of coffee. Castiel tries to sit close to Dean, close enough to touch, but Dean scoots his chair away. Castiel reaches with his uninjured side to try and take Dean’s hand. Dean pulls back again. Castiel’s grace nearly whines like a puppy at the rejection. Castiel suspects there’s more to it than the typical morning after regret, and resolves to figure it out just as soon as they’ve solved the mystery of the spirit returning even after they burned the knife.

“Were we wrong about the knife?” Dean speculates, “It would be a helluva coincidence if it wasn’t involved. And the ghost disappeared when we burned it.”

“It disappeared, but it didn’t burn. It didn’t seem right at the time, but I was somewhat distracted with not bleeding to death. It disappeared like it was transporting or going back into the veil, not like it was being burned. Usually the spirit goes up in flames when we burn the anchor.”

Dean drains his coffee cup without waiting for it to cool. It must scald his throat, he doesn’t show it. He sets it down, stands, and takes a large step away from Castiel. His back is to the counter, as far from Castiel as he can physically be without sitting in the kitchen sink.

When he speaks, he looks at the air above Castiel’s head. It’s a stark contrast from the intensity of the previous night. “We should go back a step. We jumped straight to the knife, because it seemed like an easy solution. We should do the legwork to figure out who this ghost is and if there’s something else holding it here. The knife has to be involved, or it wouldn’t have manifested like that when we threatened it, but there’s clearly more to the story.”

They agree to go pay Dave from the Dusty Road a visit and ask him about his grandmother’s heirlooms.

++++++

“I already asked Chad if he wanted anything, it’s all gone now. If y’all wanted anything, you should have said earlier,” says Dave, when Dean asks him about the inheritance.

“I know, I’m just curious. Was there anything special or valuable? Any old antiques?” Dean presses him. Castiel sits to the side trying to look inconspicuous, which is challenging given that he’s bleeding through his shirt a little.

“I don’t think so. Me Maw was a bit of a pack rat. Crazy as a bat, sometimes, with what she held onto. She was real into Appalachian history. Creepy stuff, you know? I had to toss a ton of stuff right off the bat. There was a whole box labeled ‘Big Foot’ full of bits of fur and some sticks,” says Dave, his voice layered with affection.

“I saw a knife hanging up at the Saddlebag, she said it was from you. You know anything about that piece?” Dean asks.

“Not much. I know it was real old. 1800’s, I think. Me Maw had it locked in a box with a bunch of other weird stuff. Some necklaces, a few rings. I kept the box, actually, it had some real neat engravings on it.”

“Anything else? Where it was from, who gave it to her?” Dean presses.

Dave looks askance. “Why do you care? You think it’s worth something?” He brightens at that.

“Nah, like I said, just curious.”

From the bar, there’s a loud harrumph from a woman nursing a healthy pour of whiskey. Castiel, Dean, and Dave all turn to stare at her.

“You got something to say, Bertha?” Dave asks, amused. He smiles at Dean. “One of our regulars, she ain’t never heard a conversation she didn’t have two-cents to add to.”

“I’ve got more than two-cents on this one, boys. Which is good, because you all ain’t got a dollar’s worth of sense between you, so you’ll be needing it.” She’s white haired and wrinkled, perhaps in her seventies. It’s 10 AM on a Sunday, and she’s not on her first whiskey. Still, Cas has had cases broken by less likely individuals.

“Let’s hear it then,” Dave says with a smile. “I’ll give you a free drink if it fills Dean’s curiosity and gets him out of my hair.”

“All these killings, I knew straight away what it was. Then you come in here, asking about a knife from his Me Maw who lived out in the mountains….it doesn’t take a genius to work it out.” She looks between the three men, as though waiting for one of them to produce the answer. Dave seems to be on the edge of cracking up laughing, Dean is looking incredulous, and Cas continues to try and fade into the background as to avoid questions about his recent stab wound.

She shakes her head and gestures widely with her glass. “No respect for old things, you young people. No idea what lives out in the mountains of Tennessee, once you’re clear of the city lights. The Appalachians are full of things most people don’t want nothing to do with.”

“You gonna tell us your story or not?” Dave prods. “I’m interested now, don’t leave me hanging.”

She grins at him and holds out her now empty glass. Dave rolls his eyes fondly, then fills her glass and waves his hand for her to continue.

“These murders are the work of Skinned Tom, of course.” She pauses, then seems to realize that she has a genuinely interested audience and continues on with enthusiasm. Her voice drops, like they’re all around a campfire as kids, telling ghost stories. “Tom was a real charmer, back in the day. We’re talking small town, rural Tennessee. Typical one horse town in the Smokies. Tom worked his way through every woman around with that handsome face of his without a second thought, till finally he ran out in that small town of his. So he started showing his pretty face in nearby towns. One day, he found himself with the wrong girl. Her husband found out and was none too pleased to find Tom kissing his wife. He skinned Tom alive. The police found nothing but a pile of skin and a bloody knife. They burned the skin, but one of the cops took the knife as a momento. Now, anyone who knows anything about ghosts knows that’s a mistake. That cop turned up dead from causes nobody could puzzle out, the knife disappeared, and Tom’s spirit hung on in his blood. Now, y’all done and hung that knife up like a cheap decoration and Tom’s spirit has been seeking revenge ever since.”

She laughs and has another drink. “Or that’s the story at least, if you believe it. I saw stranger things when I lived in the mountains, so I wouldn’t doubt it.”

Castiel doesn’t doubt it, not one bit. From the look on Dean’s face, neither does he. Dave, of course, is less convinced.

“Bertha, it’s truly a pleasure that you chose my bar to camp out at every day and get drunk. Now you let these two be on their way, unless you’ve got any other ghost stories to try and spook them with.”

Bertha grins. “I’ve got a lifetime of ghost stories. You’ve got another hour before the lunch rush, you settle right on in and I’ll tell you a few.”

Dave shakes his head and returns to his place behind the bar. “You two get anything useful out of that? Sorry I don’t know more. Me Maw wasn’t as talkative as this one here.”

“This was incredibly helpful, thank you for your time,” Castiel tells him. He means it; the conversation has sparked a theory.

As soon as they’re out of the bar, he turns to Dean. “A bloody knife. Did you catch that? Blood. The box I took the knife out of was as old as the knife itself. It could be the original.”

Dean catches on immediately. “It wasn’t the knife at all, it was the blood on the knife.”

“Yes. You can imagine it; the police officer decided to keep the knife as a memento of a gruesome killing that probably made headlines for years in a town like that. He wasn’t at all careful when he cleaned the knife before mounting it in a display box, and if even a speck of blood was left in the box, Tom’s spirit could use it as an anchor. We need to go back and burn that box.”

Without another word, they run for Dean’s apartment. This time, they know what they’re hunting and make sure they’re ready for it.

They retrieve a bottle lighter fluid and Castiel’s zippo from upstairs. When it comes to who has to climb in and dig through the dumpster to find the box, Castiel shamelessly points to his injured shoulder with wide eyes and a sad look. Castiel means it as a joke, but Dean’s face is serious and he doesn’t say a word as he clambers into the dumpster. A few minutes later, Dean hops out with the frame in hand. He sets it on the ground, where Castiel douses it in the lighter fluid.

Unsurprisingly, Tom’s spirit manifests. This time, Dean and Castiel are more prepared. The spirit lunges at them, then stops short as he slams into an invisible wall.

“Fool me once,” Dean says as his eyes drop meaningfully to the salt circle they’d laid out before retrieving the frame.

Tom’s expression turns vicious as he rams over and over into the barrier created by the salt. As he gets more distressed, his appearance becomes more erratic, flashing between the handsome playboy and the terrible skinless monster.

Castiel drops his lighter onto the frame. The paper backing catches quickly and crinkles in the flames. Tom’s spirit screams as it disappears in a swirl of flame and smoke.

“I wish we’d done that in time to save the last victim,” Castiel says softly.

“You can’t save them all. I remember that from my hunting days.”

Castiel knows, but it still haunts him when he knows that had he been just a little faster, a little smarter, that lives could have been spared. He feels helpless and powerless, and never wishes for his powers more than when he knows that with them, innocent victims could have survived.

“I know. Logically, I’m aware that I’m only one man now. I find that knowledge doesn’t help with the guilt.”

Dean’s hand twitches, like he wants to reach out to Castiel. Instead, he flexes his fingers and shoves them into his pockets.

“Yeah.”

The silence is awkward, nothing like the comfortable companionship of only a night before. Dean is avoiding Castiel’s eyes. He kicks a rock with one foot and shifts his weight back and forth. Cas has no idea how things have chilled over so quickly, and therefore has no idea how to fix it.

“I guess you’ll be getting on your way then. I think we really got it this time, so no sense in you hanging around.” Dean says.

“Oh.” It feels like the breath has been punched out of his chest. It’s so nearly physical that he tenses his shoulders, causing a wave of pain to crash through his wound. He winces, and, to his intense mortification, feels tears prickle around the edge of his eyes. He fully plans to blame it on the knife wound if questioned, but the reality is he truly thought that he and Dean would spend more time together, even after the case was solved. He’s aware that their short relationship has been wildly onsided, with Castiel’s grace and memories, but this? Dean is dismissing him from the alley with the embers of the ghost’s anchor still smouldering on the ground between them.

Castiel wants to say something, anything, to let Dean know how much he has appreciated these last few days together. How he hasn’t really understood how humans spend nearly a hundred years on this Earth without sinking into depression until he held Dean’s hand. He wants to demand to know why Dean had kissed him, held him, and shared such pleasure with him if he intended to turn away and never see him again the moment the case was solved. It hadn’t felt like a one night stand, but again, Castiel has misread these things in the past. Perhaps, he thinks, he was right all along, and he isn’t meant to enjoy humanity. He’s meant to serve out his sentence, helping as many as he can along the way, until his luck runs out and he’s allowed to die and go wherever fallen Angels go when their time is up.

Cas says none of it. His grace has gone icy enough that he has to pull it out and place it over his jacket. He means to walk away, silent, but as he turns away a rough sob escapes his throat. He takes a quick pace, on the edge of running, and tries to put space between him and Dean before his resolve breaks and he bursts into tears in front of Dean.

A hand catches his shoulder.

“Cas….”

Castiel rubs his eyes to clear them before he turns to face Dean. He can do this; he knows how to keep emotions from ruling him now. He focuses on the physical pain in his arm to distract himself.

“Did you need something before I go?” He tries to keep his voice even. He hears it shake all the same.

Dean sighs and finally meets Castiel’s gaze. Something softens when he sees the glisten in Cas’s eyes and the tightness of his posture. “Jesus, Cas, come on. Let’s go upstairs and talk.”

Castiel thinks about saying no. The whiplash is disorienting. He hates this feeling, when he knows he’s missing something crucial in a social interaction. This one is particularly confusing, and he’s fairly sure Dean is the problem.

He doesn’t walk away. He follows Dean back up to his apartment. Dean closes the door behind them and puts on a pot of coffee. He sits at the little table and points for Cas to take the other chair.

“You’ve got some damn good puppy eyes, anyone ever told you that?”

Castiel hasn’t the foggiest idea what that means, so he shakes his head. Dean pours two cups of coffee and hands one to Cas.

“You know I don’t actually want you to leave, right?” Dean says in a hushed rapid voice as he fiddles with his coffee cup.

“I’m not sure how I was meant to know that, as you asked me to leave the moment I was no longer useful to you.” Cas can’t help the sharp edge in his voice. While he’s feeling primarily confused, hurt is a close second.

“Were you there when Sammy almost got killed by the Shtriga?”

This clarifies nothing, but yes. Castiel remembers the incident well.

“I was. I would have stepped in before either of you were actually killed. Though I suppose you had no way of knowing that at the time.” He remembers waiting, his grace crackling in his fingertips, prepared to smite the monster in a heartbeat if John hadn’t crashed through the door in time. He also remembers the quake in Dean’s arms as he lifted the shotgun. Dean had curled up alone on the floor next to Sam’s bed that night. He hadn’t slept for a second, and had only shut his eyes to blink when they began to water from trying to keep them open.

“No. I didn’t. I thought I’d gotten Sammy killed because I wanted to play some stupid arcade game. I fuck up, and people close to me get hurt. Every damn time. Dad’s already dead, Sam’s safe with Jess in California, and I haven’t been selfish enough to get close to anybody else. The only girl I ever really loved thinks I’m a raving lunatic and is safe in Ohio. Then you come along, and before I know it you’ve got me feeling things I haven’t felt in years, maybe ever. I let my guard down, I let you in, and within hours you’re taking a knife for me.”

Ah. That explains it. No thanks to Dean, who, even by Castiel’s limited estimation of human expression, not handled this well.

“You idiot, you’re trying to protect me.” Castiel could laugh with relief. Self-sacrificing martyrs are something he can deal with. As a fallen Angel, he’s intimately familiar, in fact.

“Literally the first thing to happen to you after sleeping with me is to nearly bleed out in an alley. Yes, I’m protecting you. And Sam, and Bobby, and Pastor Jim, and Cassie, and Lee, and anyone else dumb enough to care about me. Like I said, I’m ok here. I’ll keep singing, Sammy will keep sending Christmas cards and calling on my birthday, and you’ll get the hell out of here before I can get you killed.”

Castiel is smiling, he can’t help it. Being put on the same list as Dean's brother, father figures, and former lovers gives him butterflies. Dean doesn’t want him to leave. Dean cares about him.

“I’m millions of years old, I can choose for myself what risks to take.. You should show me some respect.” He means for it to be intimidating, but he can’t keep the warmth from his voice.

Dean has drained his coffee and jumps up to rinse the cup. He keeps his back to Cas and his shoulders hunch as he leans on the sink. Castiel, now feeling much more sure of his standing with Dean, follows him and puts a hand on his shoulder. Dean doesn’t retreat from the touch.

“Dean. For much of your life, you were under Heaven’s thumb. Though you did not know it, I wonder now if you felt it. It might have felt like you were cursed, without knowing what force was meddling to keep you on a certain path. I promise you, that is gone now. You are truly free. You have been for some time now. Sam, too. You’re both free.”

Finally, Dean turns to face Castiel. His lips are parted and his eyes are shining. Castiel feels like a messenger of Heaven, delivering a memo (a few years too late) that Dean Winchester is no longer at the behest of forces beyond his comprehension. The curse has been lifted.

Dean finally turns to face him. His expression belays a cautious hope. Castiel takes another step forward. He reaches up with his uninjured arm to take Dean’s chin in his hands. He tilts it up so their eyes meet. Beautiful, he thinks. And so very deserving of good things.

“I’m not going anywhere, if you’ll have me,” Cas says.

Dean swallows, then nods. Castiel takes this as permission, and leans in for a gentle kiss. Dean’s lips are soft as they part under his. Dean is careful not to agitate Cas’s arm as he breaks the kiss in favor of an embrace. Dean takes a ragged breath against Cas’s shoulder.

Another thought occurs to Castiel.

“You should call your brother.”

Dean barks out a startled laugh. “Man, I’ve never met anyone who swings between smooth as fucking butter and completely killing the mood as quick as you do.”

“No, I mean it,” Castiel continues. “I promise you, you’re not cursed. You’re not a danger to those around you, no more than any other man. You’ve been putting distance between yourself and your brother out of a misplaced desire to protect him. I imagine he misses you as much as you miss him. You should call him.”

Dean stares at him for longer than humans are supposed to stare without saying something. Cas considers telling him this, but he has such nice eyes that he opts to enjoy it instead.

“You’re worried about me and Sammy. I just tried to kick you to the curb after sleeping with you and getting you stabbed by a ghost, and you’re not only going to stay with me anyways, but you’re trying to help me reconnect with my brother? Because you know how much I miss him?”

Castiel tilts his head and squints. It seems peculiar to be summarizing things, as they were both there. Still, he humors Dean. “Yes, that’s all true.”

“You really are an Angel,” Dean says, and kisses him again, this time with force.

They can’t let it get too far, as every time Cas tries to grab Dean properly it jolts his arm and Dean pulls away in a series of distressed apologies.

“We may have to wait a few days before picking things up where we left off last night,” Cas says.

“Does that mean you’re gonna be around for at least a few days?”

When Castiel looks at Dean, his Angelic grace pulses pleasantly. His very human mouth smiles before he can stop it. He can’t imagine anywhere else he’d rather be.

“Yes. Yes, I think I will.”

Chapter Text

2009- Palo Alto, California

Sam Winchester makes a handsome groom. His long hair is combed back, his black suit accentuates the long lines of his tall body, and the expression of pure love on his face as he catches his first glance of his bride lights up the room. Jess is a vision in her own right in a simple, white, A-line gown. Her golden curls tumble artfully around her veil and her smile matches Sam’s. They’re a lovely couple, but, in Castiel’s opinion, neither of them hold a candle to the best-man.

Dean catches Cas staring and winks. Cas answers with a mouthed, “I love you.”

It’s the first time Castiel has been in a church since he fell. He hadn’t been entirely certain he wouldn’t burst into flames or something equally dramatic as he crossed the threshold, but he is, sitting in the pews, watching Dean’s brother marry the love of his life. Dean stands beside him, looking every bit as happy as Sam.

Reuniting the brothers hadn’t been a challenging task. As soon as Cas had given Dean a little nudge, the two had snapped back together like magnets. Castiel has been correct in his assumption that Sam was just as unhappy with their estrangement as Dean, and as soon as he’d understood that it was due to a misplaced desire to protect him, he’d shouted at Dean for a good ten minutes, then immediately scheduled a plane flight to Nashville. For the past year and a half, they’d enjoyed weekly phone calls, daily texts, and several visits. Sam and Castiel had hit it off and rapidly became fast friends. Dean and Cas had been there when Sam told Jess about the things that go bump in the night. Sam had insisted that he do it before he proposed, and the added pressure of not wanting to make Cas lie about who he was had provided further impetus.

The ceremony passes in a blur. Cas can’t take his eyes off Dean, and Dean can’t take his eyes off Sam, as though he still can’t quite believe that not only does he have his family back, but that family is growing. Sam’s side of the church is considerably less crowded than Jess’s, comprised of a few friends, Bobby, and Cas. Dean occasionally looks down at them, and his visible joy makes Cas want to kiss him. Next thing he knows, Dean is pulling him up to walk out with the recessional.

There’s champagne at the reception, which perhaps explains how Castiel finds himself on the dance floor. He’s glad their relationship is well cemented at this point, as he feels his body go inexplicably tense at the mere idea of dancing.

“Cas, man, I’ve seen you knife fight your way through a nest of a half-dozen vampires without breaking a sweat. I know you’re graceful and coordinated, what the hell happens as soon as it’s labeled dancing?”

“I’ve been knife-fighting since the dawn of creation,” he replies darkly, “I’ve managed to avoid dancing quite successfully until we met.”

Dean shakes his head and puts his hips on Cas’s hips. Cas lets his arms settle around Dean’s neck as Dean takes the lead. Cas forcibly relaxes enough to allow Dean to sway him a bit. Dancing is probably a liberal term for it, but it’s the best Castiel can muster.

“Still can’t quite believe this is all real,” Dean says, for about the tenth time this weekend.

“It does seem unlikely, doesn’t it?” A fallen Angel turned hunter and the Michael Sword he was once assigned to guard, dancing at Lucifer’s vessel’s wedding. It’s so wonderfully far from the plan Heaven had for them all.

“I’m glad,” Dean says, simply. He doesn’t need to elaborate, Cas knows. Dean had been lost and adrift. He’d given up hunting and his family, and the only thing keeping him going had been singing. Castiel hadn’t been much better off; hunting with a death wish and no hope for happiness.

They now go on local hunts together, fulfilling their mutual desire to help people. Castiel has been nearly adopted into the makeship family that was Dean, Sam and Bobby. Not to mention, they’re deliriously, deeply, irrevocably in love.

Dean still sings, though. That had perhaps been the only good thing to come from his time isolating himself from everything that made him Dean.

“I’ve got a surprise for you,” Dean whispers into Cas’s ear.

“A back at the hotel room surprise, or a now surprise?” Castiel would happily take either.

“A now surprise,” Dean replies with a heated smile, “What we’re gonna do back at the hotel room probably won’t be a surprise.”

The song ends, and Dean walks to the stage. Whatever it is, he’s planned it. The band’s singer hands Dean the microphone and leaves the stage. Cas looks to Sam, who grins widely and gestures for Cas to keep his eyes on the stage when he looks askance.

“I want to dedicate this song to Castiel. I don’t usually do original stuff, but I wanted to make sure you knew how I felt. I love you, this one’s for you.”

And god damn it, Cas starts tearing up before the band has finished the intro. Because Dean wrote him a song, got Sam’s permission to sing it at his reception, and has apparently rehearsed it with the wedding band. He has no idea how he got so lucky.

“Lay it on
Now that I can see
Couldn't barely talk
Without the will to breathe
Didn't hear the strength within your words
And what they mean
You were watchin' over me.”

Cas tries to listen, but he’s so swept up in it all he misses most the lyrics. His grace, his humanity, and most of all, Dean Winchester. He’s sure Dean will sing it for him again when they’re alone. Hell, he’ll make Dean sing it every night at the bar once they’re back home. They’ve got their freedom, each other, family, and all the time in the world.

“You were watching over me.”