Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

June, 2005

Summers in Pontiac, Illinois are heavy. They weigh you down, the humidity enough to convince you you're drowning. When Castiel takes his first step out of the dry air conditioning of his apartment, he has to remind himself he's still able to breathe even though it feels like he's underwater. What should be a short walk to work feels more like an endless trek through a barren, desolate wasteland. Everyday, when he's still inside his comfortable apartment, he chooses not to drive his car — it's better for the environment to walk, and the machine is practically falling apart at the seams — and everyday he regrets his choice. 

Most often, Castiel spends his time with the elderly and young children. They get regulars occasionally, sometimes teenagers who are acid readers, but for the most part, he knows to anticipate patronizing the library. It is this that makes the man who walks through the door shortly after Castiel takes his place at the reference desk so compelling. 

The man is dressed in a two-piece-suit and god, he's one of the best looking men Castiel has seen in a long time. Castiel waits for a child to follow, because why else would this man be here if not to bring his own kid to peruse the children's section? The man, however, is alone, and he walks straight up to Castiel's desk. 

Castiel smiles as he does with all of the library's visitors. His cheeks are likely pinker than normal and there's a trembling in his fingers that isn't always there, but he tries to act like it's business as usual; Mabel, Castiel's supervisor and the head librarian, wouldn't hesitate to tease him if she caught on, and she's only a desk away. 

"Hello," Castiel greets. "Is there anything I can help you with?" All of a sudden, the rehearsed line that he repeats day after day sounds too forced, too plain. 

The man gives him a charming, polite smile, something that feels like it should be private — how wonderful would that be, if it was meant just for Castiel. "Agent Page," he says, reaching inside his jacket. He pulls out a badge with big bold letters, holds it up for Castiel to see, but puts it away before he has a chance to really look at it. 

Castiel, to his knowledge, has never dealt with a federal agent in any official capacity before. He's not even sure that he's met one. Pontiac isn't exactly a happening place, and before moving here, he never held any position like the one he does now. "What can I do for you?" he asks. 

Agent Page is only a little taller than Castiel, but he has a bulkier, stronger build. His shoulders are wide and his gait sturdy. He exudes a suave confidence Castiel has never been able to manage. "I need some info on the town's history. Its founders, old murders, the demographics — that kind of thing."

Castiel blinks. "Murders?"

The agent holds his gaze. "Well, missing persons cases, ideally."

"Is that supposed to make me feel better?"

In response, Castiel is given a toothy grin. It probably says something about him, the way he disregards the mention of murder in favor of getting lost looking at the pink, full lips of this federal agent and his open-mouthed smile. "So, whaddya got?" Agent Page asks. 

Castiel slips out from behind the desk. It's a tall, wooden thing, has been in the library since before even Mabel was born. It makes a wonderful barrier between Castiel and the rest of the world when things get to be a little too much for him. He's lucky that his place of employment is an oasis for him, where is in control, a master of his field, and filled with books he can escape into. 

The second floor of the library keeps town artifacts. It's a museum of sorts, something students from the high school did as a senior project a few years before Castiel moved to town. There are yearbooks dating back to the first one the high school ever published, a written history of the town, and a microfiche reader. 

"Pontiac was founded in 1837," Castiel says, leading the agent to the second floor. "There wasn't an official newspaper until the 1880s, but we have documentation of periodicals from before then, as well as every newspaper printed since it began." It is a rare occurrence that Castiel runs out of reading material; whether it be recreational or something he needs to do for his doctorate program he's on break from right now at Illinois State, there's nearly always something that he's in the middle of. However, on the rare days where he's not in the mood for anything, he'll find himself reading the town history. It has an interesting, if problematic, origin, and Castiel is fascinated by how far it's come. 

"You can sit here," Castiel tells Agent Page, gesturing to the table the microfiche sits on. The agent does as he's told, dropping down into the seat like he's at his own home, rather than a public library. Castiel clears his throat and leans forward over his shoulder to navigate the device, wishing he'd done so before Agent Page sat down. He brings up the newspaper files, pointedly ignoring the fact that Agent Page hasn't bothered to lean away, "Here you can find all the newspapers ever printed in Pontiac."

"Awesome. Thanks, dude."

Castiel watches as he starts to scroll through the very first publication, then excuses himself to scan the shelves of the room. He grabs a few books and walks them back over to the table. "These might help," he says, setting them down. 

Agent Page looks over his shoulder at him and then at the books. "This is great, man. Don't know why people say libraries are obsolete." He's talking almost to himself, as if he's so enthralled in what he's doing he's barely aware he's speaking at all. 

"Who's saying that?"

The agent looks up at him, as if realizing for the first time he's been speaking to a real person. "Oh. Uh, no one."

Castiel frowns. "I don't suppose you could tell me what all this is about?"

"Ah, I'm afraid that's classified information." He looks over his shoulder and winks. Castiel makes a point not to smile until he's turned back to the screen. 

"Is this in relation to the girl who went missing last week?"

Agent Page huffs. "Like I said," he begins. 

"Classified information?"

"Exactly."

"Well, then, I'll let you get back to work. Let me know if there's anything else I can help you with."

"I will," the agent says. "Thanks, uh —"

"Castiel."

"Thanks, Cas."

Castiel is performing the monotonous task of checking in books left in their return box outside, listening to Mabel as she gossip on the phone with a woman from her bridge club. Their conversations can be irritating at times, especially because Mabel hasn't grasped the fact that she doesn't need to yell into the phone for her friend to hear her, but sometimes Castiel likes to hear the drama. He's so engrossed in his work that he nearly misses Agent Page hurrying out the door, as if he's hoping to go unnoticed. 

"Agent?" Castiel calls, just slightly too loud a voice to be used in the library. Agent Page spins on his heel, eyes wide, and meets Castiel's eyes. "Did you find everything you need?"

"Yeah, man. I got it."

"Oh, okay. Um, have a good day."

Agent Page gives a mock-salute and hurries out the door.

---

Castiel doesn't work on weekends, but he would like to. There are a few people in this town with whom he is acquainted, yet he wouldn't consider any of them friends. 

Mabel, for example, hovers around Castiel like he imagines a parent might, but he doesn't think they'd enjoy each others' company much if they spent time together outside of work. There are the regulars at the library, and Castiel doesn't mind making conversation with them, but they probably don't even know his last name. He only knows theirs' because it's on their library cards. 

Last night, Castiel went home still thinking about Agent Page. He just couldn't forget about him or the questions he was asking. So Castiel looked into the missing girl and he couldn't find a single connection from her to the town's history. Her family moved to Pontiac a couple years ago, never having even stepped foot in Illinois before that. 

His head is still reeling with questions when he makes his way to the Pontiac Family Restaurant. He hates to be alone, especially on Saturdays when everyone is out enjoying themselves. Occasionally, on days like today, he wanders through town, pretending that he has a purpose, somewhere to be. He never does. 

He eats at the diner frequently, because the prices are good and Castiel is utterly incapable of cooking for himself. He steps through the door and is chilled by the air containing, a welcome reprieve after walking the several blocks from his apartment in the sweltering heat. 

Like most weekends, the restaurant is packed with big groups: families who have pushed tables together so they can all sit with each other, softball teams of older gentlemen who are rowdy and a bit too drunk for this early in the afternoon, children who run around the tables, giving the waitstaff heart attacks as they carry trays filled with food. Castiel hopes for a quick trip, in and out, just to order his food and take it back to his apartment to eat in quiet. As lonely as Castiel is, it's far worse to be in a room full of people who don't acknowledge you than to be by yourself. 

Castiel stands just inside the door, out of the way, waiting to speak to a server. it's unassuming curiosity that causes him to look around, but when he sees Agent Page in one of the booths toward the back, he realizes he was hoping to see him. 

There are papers strewn about his table and he's leaning his head in his hand. What compels him to do so, Castiel doesn't know, but he finds himself walking in the direction of the booth. The closer he gets, the more he can make out of the agent's face. His eye is swollen and his bottom lip split. He unconsciously runs his tongue over it, then winces. There's a concerning bruise on his cheek as well, a rainbow of colors the backdrop to a gash across the top of his cheekbone. 

"I take it the case is going well?"

Agent Page startles in his seat, hurrying to collect his papers in an attempt to hide them from Castiel's sight. "Great, actually," he says once he looks up. He squints his swollen eye, like the light is too much, and attempts a smile, only to flinch when it tugs at his split lip. 

Castiel shifts on his feet. "Are you alright?" Foolishly, he cares for this man. He knows his charm is just a part of his job, but a childish part of Castiel wishes it was just for him.

"Uh, yeah, I'm fine," he says with a frown, like he's not used to the question, thinks it absurd, even. He opens his mouth to say something, closes it, then opens it again. "Just mixed something up. It happens, you know? But I got it now."

Castiel tilts his head. "Are you sure?"

"Yeah, man. It's my job." He says this as if it's meant to be reassuring, but all it does for Castiel is make him more concerned. 

"Don't federal agents work with partners? Or in teams?" The smile Agent Page was wearing, a shit-eating, cocky grin, is gone now. Castiel doesn't know what he did to warrant such a reaction, but he instantly regrets his words. 

"I got a partner," the agent defends gruffly, looking back at his papers.

"Okay."

"He's just workin' on something else."

"I believe you," Castiel says, even though there are holes in this story. He's questioning things he wasn't before, like why Agent Page didn't bother going to a doctor for his injuries? They certainly warrant at least minor medical attention, and surely the federal government funds its agents with proper healthcare, at least while they're on the job. And there's still the fact that no matter how hard he tries, Castiel can't for the life of him figure out why the agent needed what he did from the library. 

Castiel looks around at the crowded restaurant; there isn't a single patron paying them any attention. He figures he's not going to get any answers if he just gets his food and leaves, so he sits down in the booth across from Agent Page. 

He gets a strange look in response, one of raised eyebrows and a bemused expression. "Uh —"

"Can I help?"

"Sorry?

Castiel takes a breath to gather some patience. "Look, if you're comfortable pretending like we both believe the lie you're telling, then so am I. But the way I see it, whatever it is you're doing here is dangerous, and if you get hurt, or killed, it'll be on my conscience. So tell me how I can help and I'll do what I can to make your life a little easier. Since you're a law abiding federal agent, and everything."

Agent Page just watches him for a few moments, eyebrows still raised. "No questions?" 

"No questions," Castiel agrees, wondering why it feels like he's just signed his life away, and more importantly, why it doesn't seem to bother him. Maybe it's because he's sitting close enough to see that Agent Page has freckles dotting his nose and green, green eyes. 

"In that case, you can call me Dean."

---

Dean and Castiel go back to the library. It's fine, really it is, except every so often, Dean will say something that is so profoundly disturbing and Castiel will just have to let it slide, because that was the deal. So when Dean mentions that most of his investigation will have to place after dark because no one will be in the cemetery, Castiel just nods along. When he asks where he can get the cheapest lighter fluid, Castiel tells him to go to the gas station just south of town on Route 116. 

They're sitting at one of the tables in the children's section, because Dean decided it had the most space and Castiel learned he can't argue with Dean, even if the cost is scarring some kids for life. 

"Do you know anything about a sawmill?" Dean asks, flipping through a stack of papers he printed from a website that Castiel tried to convince Dean wasn't reliable. Dean didn't seem to care. 

"The first white settlers came to town and built a sawmill in the early 1800s. It was their center of life."

"Where is it now?"

Castiel frowns. "It burned down a good fifty or so years ago. Why? Is that important?"

"Could be." He shrugs, then looks back to his papers. "You really know your stuff," he says. Try as he might, Castiel can't escape the fluttering that happens in his stomach. 

"This is what I do for a living, you know."

"I thought you were a librarian."

"What do you think I had to do for my degree, Dean, organize books on shelves?"

"Kinda, yeah."

Castiel sighs. "I studied data entry and analytics, statistical math and science, and excessive amounts of research — on top of reading books." Dean looks at him and parts his lips. "Plus, I'm in the middle of getting a PhD in anthropology."

"Dude," Dean says, a smile on his face as he goes back to reading his papers. "You're awesome."

Castiel is glad Dean is no longer looking at him, because he can feel his cheeks as they heat up and turn what is most likely a striking shade of red. 

---

Castiel doesn't see Dean the next day, or the one after that, and then he's convinced he'll never see him again. It's a disappointment that settles deep within him, because he doesn't feel entitled to have it in the first place. He's embarrassingly melancholy, so much so that Mabel keeps asking rather personal questions and trying to get him to take time off. She suggests a day to recuperate, but he's never missed a day of work and he's not going to start now just because of a naive crush on a man who is, almost definitely, a criminal. 

He spends his afternoon arranging a display of Harlequin romance novels, because it's summer and the ladies in town like to stock up on them for their vacations or long days spent by the pool. Castiel is judging one of the covers, because the woman on it could do so much better than the man drawn beside her, when he hears someone step up behind him. "I'm fine, Mabel," Castiel says, not bothering to look away from the book. "And nothing you could say would make me take that break."

"What about a bribe?" 

Castiel spins on his feet and suddenly, he's face to face with Dean. He looks a little better, his wounds having healed significantly in the past few days. He's smirking, the little thing he does that is just so Dean, and Castiel can't help the fact that he's attracted to it. He's only human, after all.

Castiel stares expressionless for a moment, then says "Let's hear it, then."

Dean raises his eyebrows and juts his head forward. "Hear what?"

"Your offer. If I'm going to take this break, it won't be for just anything."

Dean's expression shifts from one of uncertainty to one of pure and utter confidence. He wiggles his eyebrows and his mouth turns upward into a toothy grin. 

A few moments later, Castiel finds himself in the storage closet, pressed up against the door. 

"This is my place of employment," he says breathily, as much to himself as it is to Dean. He searches for some common sense, something to tell him why he shouldn't be doing this now, with Dean, but finds nothing. Castiel starts to go crosseyed, watching those pink lips that he's spent so much time thinking about as they inch closer and closer to his own. 

Dean tastes like cigarettes and beer and Castiel doesn't mind one bit. 

A few moments later, Castiel finds himself in the storage closet, pressed up against the door. 

It starts simply enough, with their lips moving together rather innocently, despite both of them knowing there's nothing innocent about this. Castiel can barely do anything but marvel at the fact that Dean initiated this — the fact that Dean sees him in a way that's worthy of this kind of affection. When Dean licks Castiel's lips, and Castiel opens his mouth and allows him in, he has to ground himself somehow, so he threads a hand through Dean's hair, the other one gripping at Dean's flannel shirt that is far too thick for this summer heat. 

There's nowhere for Castiel to go (not that he wants to be anywhere but right here, right now). His shoulders are being held against the door, so he lets Dean do with him what he wants. Dean's hands roam over his body, and it's been so long since Castiel has been touched like this, his head turns fuzzy and he can't think about anything other than the way Dean's fingertips ignite a fire beneath every inch of skin they touch. 

Dean pulls his lips away and Castiel barely has the chance to chase after them before he's pressing them to his neck. It starts out all teeth, but then Dean presses delicate kisses over the raw skin. Castiel drops his head back against the door and focuses on his breathing, because he needs to keep from falling over as Dean works his way lower and lower and eventually drops to his knees on the floor, right in front of him. 

"This okay?" Dean asks. 

"Castiel doesn't have to think. "Yeah," he sighs. "Yes."

Eagerly, Dean starts to unbuckle Castiel's belt, and after Castiel hears the sound of his zipper being undone, there's very little in his head other than the buzzing in his ears, and he sees nothing but colors behind his eyelids as Dean does wonderful, wonderful things with those pink lips of his. 

After, when Dean is standing again, Castiel moves toward him — nothing dramatic, just a step in his direction as he reaches out a hand. "Let me now," Castiel says, because it would be cruel to leave Dean hard, longing, after what he just did for Castiel, who wants nothing more than to make Dean feel good. 

But Dean shakes his head. "It's all good, Cas," he says. He smiles sweetly and presses a firm kiss to Castiel's lips. "I'll see you," he says, and then he's gone.

Chapter Text

Days pass, and then weeks. Castiel makes peace with the fact that he likely will never see Dean again. It shouldn't matter anyway, because Dean didn't seem like all that great of a person. He was at least a felon, at most dangerous, and certainly capable of breaking Castiel. Part of his brain tries to convince himself that Dean was all one big dream — something his subconscious came up with as a way to cope with the ever present loneliness that has followed him ever since he was young.

But the bruises on his neck, they're still there the next morning to remind him of Dean – how he smelled, how he tasted, and how he felt pressed up against Castiel. And when those faded, Castiel at least had Mabel to remind him of the handsome FBI agent that came into the library.

And just like last time, it's when Castiel reluctantly accepts that he was just a stop on Dean's permanent road trip, just a way for him to blow off some steam, that Dean returns.

This time he's accompanied by a man. He stands tall, sturdy, and it appears that Dean has a rod holding his spine up a little straighter than the last time Castiel saw him. They're clad in denim and flannel and leather — nothing like the professional attire Dean was wearing when he first walked into the library. Castiel is sweating in his dress shirt and slacks, he can't imagine either of them are comfortable, but they look like the American-made men that they are, and perhaps that's what they're going for.

They're standing outside the diner, Castiel leaving with a special order of cheesecake for the Seniors' Club bingo game the library is hosting this afternoon, Dean and the man on their way in. They smell like cigarettes and old cologne, the kind Castiel got in trouble for spraying when he visited his grandparents as a child. That was only the beginning, really, of the inconvenience he would become in his entire family's lives.

One look at the pair and Castiel knows he can't allude to knowing Dean beyond anything more than a professional capacity. He sees it the moment recognition crosses over Dean's face — the way his shoulders suddenly grow impossibly tense and his eyes flicker rapidly between the man at his side. Castiel has no intention of causing Dean any trouble, so he cautiously says "Agent Page," because it would be even more telling if he ignored him.

"Uh, hey," Dean says, making a show out of looking at Castiel's name tag which is, as always, buttoned on his work shirt. "Castiel," he finishes. Castiel doesn't know if this is for appearances or if he really doesn't remember his name. He's not sure which he prefers. He coughs, then says "This is my partner, Agent Plant."

Castiel nods at him. "It's nice to meet you," he says. He doesn't bother to be cordial, not with the way the man is looking at him like he knows him, like he clocked him the moment he saw him.

The older man forgoes any pleasantries, any introduction, and instead probes Castiel right: this man is the reason Dean has lost all of his charm, all of his personality, and instead replaced it with a soldier-like composure. "How do you two know each other?" he asks. His gruff exterior is evidently an accurate representation of him on the inside as well.

Castiel watches Dean, sees the switches in his head turning as he tries to formulate the proper thing to say. "Cas is —" Dean clears his throat, and his cheeks turn pink. "Castiel's the librarian. Helped me find some town records back when I was working that missing person's case," he says simply. The man doesn't falter. He raises an eyebrow.

"Go find us a table," he says."

Dean nods. "Yes sir." He walks inside without a second glance at Castiel.

"Good meeting you," the older man says, though the tone of his voice tells Castiel he doesn't mean it. It's a clear dismissal, perhaps even rude, so without another word, Castiel turns and walks to his car .

The seniors love their cheesecake and dote on Castiel, asking repeatedly if he's single because they all seem to have a granddaughter who would be just perfect for him. He doesn't mind the attention they give him, knowing just as well as they do that nothing will come from it. They'll comtinue seeing one another at Senior Club Bingo days until they don't anymore, and neither will think anything of it. 

The sun is just starting to lower in its place in the sky, casting a glow over the town that makes everything look a little less bland, when Castiel is finally able to leave for the day. He can't decide if he's surprised or not to see Dean standing with his hands in his pockets, kicking a rock aimlessly as he stands down on the sidewalk.

Castiel makes use of the fact that Dean hasn't noticed him yet, so while he still has the upper hand, he approaches him. "Didn't think I'd ever see you again," he says. Dean startles, relaxing only slightly when he sees it's just Castiel. He looks at him, face solemn, sad. "Listen, Cas," he tries.

Castiel interrupts him. "It's okay, you know. Well, to be honest, you left me a little confused. Most guys I've been with stick around at least until they finish, even if they are ashamed."

Dean's eyes widen comically, and then once he schools his expression, he huffs "Jesus," and swipes a hand through his hair. 

The thing is, Castiel really does understand. He remembers what it was like when he was a kid, never even considering the possibility that he could be happy someday, because happiness would come with loving someone but he knew there was no way he could have that and his family at the same time. And it's true, he can't, because ever since he was outed by his brother in his last year of high school, he hasn't had any contact with his family, save for a sibling every so often. So he's not angry with Dean, per se, but he is in fact deeply confused by him. 

"So what are you doing here? To my knowledge, there haven't been any more disappearances in town."

"We're just passing through. You sit right on Route 66, you know that?"

"I've noticed."

Dean nods and looks at the setting sun. Right into it too, as if he'd rather blind himself than have to face Castiel when he says "I'm sorry if I made you think this could be something more."

Castiel has to refrain from rolling his eyes. "You haven't been misleading, Dean. Just confusing." He pauses, then adds, "Though, I think you're probably pretty confused yourself, so I can hardly blame you for that, can I?"

Dean looks at him, a soft expression on his face. For a brief moment he looks helpless, and Castiel wants nothing more than to care for him, to be allowed to care for him. "I got a real messed up situation," Dean says. 

"The fraud and obsession with old murders alluded to that, yes." He says it to diffuse the tension, just some harmless teasing, but Dean exhales through his nose and looks down at his feet, eyebrows furrowed, and for the first time, Castiel is struck with the thought that whatever it is, maybe Dean doesn't want to be doing it. He's not even sure if Dean himself knows that. He decides to cut him a break and steps closer. "I don't know what you're doing now, but if you're hungry, I have beer and frozen pizza."

In an instant, Dean's expression changes. he beams. "A man after my own heart," he says. 

Castiel drives them both to his apartment, ignoring the infinite complaints Dean has about his car for the duration of the two minute drive. He's just happy it runs at all, and he tells Dean as much, but this does nothing to sway him. 

He unlocks the door to his apartment and allows Dean through, trying not to be self conscious about the state of things. When Dean isn't looking, he throws an old stack of used paper plates into the trash and moves some dirty dishes from the counter to the sink. 

"You know, for the most part, I either live out of motels or my car." Castiel doesn't answer, just waits for Dean to go on. "You got a place of your own."

"I was lucky to find it. There aren't many apartments in town."

Dean wanders and Castiel lets him as he sets about preheating the oven. "Why do you need so many books when you work in a library?"

Castiel looks back at him and sees he's scanning the stacks of books that are lined up behind the couch. He shrugs and turns back to the oven. "they make the place feel like me," he says. "I've been collecting them since I was a boy. I could donate them, but —" 

"I get it. I mean, I don't have a lot of stuff, but if I did, I think I'd be the same."

"You can take one if you want. As a loaner. Do you like to read?"

"Nah, that's my brother. He's a huge nerd, like you." Castiel grabs two beers form the fridge and brings them over to the couch. He sits with his and hands Dean the other while he continues to look at the books. "he was always wanting me to read him things when he was a kid. I never even finished high school. Just got my GED."

Dean never mentioned having a brother, and Castiel figures bringing more attention to it wouldn't be welcome, so desperate as he is to know everything there is to know about Dean, he lets it go. Instead he focuses on something else bound to make Dean uncomfortable. "GED programs are extremely challenging," he says, and it's true. Castiel spent a few summers while he was still in undergrad tutoring people for the GED test, and he had to spend several nights studying on his own, teaching himself new skills and refreshing his memory about things he hadn't thought about in years. 

Dean shrugs. "Yeah, well," he mumbles, not looking at Castiel. 

Castiel sighs and changes the subject. "Are you telling me you never read a book you liked?"

"I read what Sammy read. Wasn't anything more to it than that."

"Okay, then I'll give you one of my favourites," Castiel says, standing. Instead of going to the stack of books, he walks to his bedroom, which is really just a part of the rest of the apartment set apart by a pair of doors that usually remain open, because they're so old that Castiel is afraid they'll fall off the hinges at the slightest movement. The book is on his nightstand, an old copy of Vonnegut's Slaghterhouse-Five, and he grabs it before returning to dean. "Here," he says, handing it to him. 

Dean takes it and stares down at it for several moments. Castiel waits for him to say something, but he doesn't — he just keeps staring. "Dean?"

"My mom loved this," Dean says. 

Castiel's heart sinks at the look on Dean's face. "You don't have to read it if you don't want to."

"No, no I do. Want to, I mean. Thanks man."

Castiel nods. "I am a librarian, after all," he says with a smile, and they stand there staring at each other, stopping only when the oven beeps, signalling it's time to put the pizza in. 

Some time later, they're seated in Castiel's small kitchen table. The pizza is between them, half eaten and still being worked on. "So who was the man you're here with?" Castiel asks once he's worked up the courage. 

Dean stops, just a millisecond, and goes back to reaching for a slice of pizza. "Oh, that's my old man," he says. 

Cas watches him, hoping that somewhere in Dean's micro-expressions, he'll reveal more of himself than he intends to. "So this — this thing you do — it's a family business?"

Dean snorts. "I guess you could say that."

Cas hums. "And where are you two headed now?"

"Springfield, Missouri."

"What's in Springfield?" Dean gives him a look and Castiel knows he's not going to tell him. He makes a mental note not to stop asking questions because Dean is bound to let his guard down at some point and tell him more than he means to and only then will Castiel be able to actually begin to figure him out. "So your dad," he starts, and Dean stiffens, barely noticeable. "Do you two get along?"

Dean won't look at him. "He's my dad, you know?" Castiel very much does not know. His own father rarely bothered to look his way. Dean and his father's lives are unique, the way they go town to town, never making connections, as far as Castiel can tell — it has to take a toll on a person. That, accompanied by the sneaking suspicion that Dean is only living this way out of some absurd sense of obligation, a responsibility he doesn't deserve, and Castiel decides he doesn't really like Dean's father. 

"Well where does he think you are now?"

"Told him I was going to meet a waitress from the diner at a bar," Dean grunts. He frowns down at the table. "I'm not ashamed, you know."

"What do you mean?"

"Earlier, you said I was ashamed. I'm not. I know who, what, I am. It's just, uh, you gotta understand, things aren't as simple as they seem. Dad... he's not cool with it. I mean, really not cool with it. But I need... I love him. He's my dad."

"Okay, Dean. I understand."

Dean looks up at him, pained. He really is enigmatic. Castiel imagines if he had all the time in the world to spend with Dean Winchester, he'd still never fully understand him. So he resolves to make do with what little time he has. 

"So when does he expect you back?"

"We'e not hitting the road again until morning," Dean says absently. 

Castiel smiles. "Good," he says, and he stands. Dean watches him as he clears the table, putting their empty bottles in the sink to be rinsed out and the cardboard from the pizza in the trash. Dean's eyes are still on him when he's done, and he approaches him, leans down and presses their lips together.

Dean leans into it, moaning somewhere deep in his throat. "There are a lot of things I want to do to you," Castiel whispers. 

"Jesus, Cas, you're killing me," Dean responds.

Castiel pulls him in the direction of his bedroom, and Dean goes without any hesitation. 

---

When Castiel wakes long before his alarm, it's to an empty bed. Unsurprised but still dejected, he pulls the sheets from his bed, because the last thing he wants is to smell Dean on them as a reminder that he was here, at one point, but isn't anymore. 

Chapter Text

Castiel wakes to an incessant knocking, startling him out of a peaceful sleep. A glance out the window tells him it's the middle of the night, not a single ray of light coming through. The knocking continues, echoing throughout his quiet apartment. 

Castiel wants to stay in bed, pull his blanket over his head and pretend this isn't happening, but it doesn't stop. Frustrated and half delirious, still wondering whether or not he's dreaming, he climbs out of the comfort of his warm bed and makes his way to the door. Through the peephole he can see a face, tired and bloody. Dean, of course. 

Without a moment's hesitation, he's opening the door. Dean grimaces when he tries to stand a little straighter, yet still manages a relatively positive "Heya, Cas," before stumbling through the doorway. 

The blood on his face is perhaps the least concerning part about him, Castiel realizes. His shirt sleeve is soaked with blood, knuckles bruised, and though he tries, he can't hide the rather obvious limp he's walking with. 

Castiel stands staring after him, mouth hanging open, for just a moment too long. "Dean," he says finally, "what —"

"Can I use your bathroom?" Dean asks. 

Castiel raises his eyebrows — Dean is falling apart at the seams, and he's asking for permission? "Uh, go ahead," Castiel says. 

He follows Dean into the bathroom, a small thing filled with white tile that likely won't look as sterile as it does now for much longer. Dean peels off his flannel and undershirt, revealing bruises on his stomach and chest, but the most pressing matter seems to be the way the the skin on his shoulder is splitting apart. It's sliced straight through a tattoo, the one that looks like foreign lettering but is actually just something from a book, according to Dean. 

Dean drops his duffle bag in the sink and begins to dig through it, favoring the arm without the cut. Castiel watches, speechless, as Dean pulls out a bottle of whiskey, downs a couple swallows, and continues digging. Castiel realises what he's doing when he pulls out a needle and something that looks like fishing line. 

"Dean, you're not — you need a hospital. Let me take you to the hospital."

Dean shakes his head. "I'm good, man," he assures Castiel.

Even in his worry, Castiel finds himself to be astoundingly furious. "Are you joking?" Dean ignores him and threads the needle. He takes a single breath before shoving it into his skin, just like that. No sterilisation, no preparation, just a regular sewing needle in his arm. "Oh my god," Castiel says, walking out of the bathroom before he does something stupid like throw up or start crying. 

He tries to convince himself it's a dream. Maybe that knocking wasn't real, and he's still sleeping soundly buried under a pile of blankets. But when he goes back, Dean is still there, alternating between taking swigs of whiskey and pouring it over his arm. When he's done, he cuts the excess thread with his pocket knife, ties it off, and takes one last drink from the bottle before shoving it back in his bag with the rest of his bloody tools. 

"Alright," Dean says after he's slung his bag back over his good shoulder, rinsing his hands. "Mind if I look through your fridge?"

Castiel doesn't bother answering, doesn't need to, because Dean's already passing Castiel and making his way back out into the kitchen. 

Castiel sits on his bed while Dean explores the fridge. The doors to his room are open, making the apartment look like one big open space, so he can see Dean as he digs through the kitchen. 

Castiel nearly registers Dean saying something, a rambling he probably couldn't keep up with if he tried. But he's tired, and he's pretty sure he's in shock, even though he's not the one who is bloody and bruised. The thing is, Castiel knows what Dean does is dangerous. He knows he risks his life in some capacity, knows he has run ins with criminals and the police and who knows who else, but seeing it — the dirty, raw reality of the pain Dean faces — well Castiel can't really focus on anything else. 

What has he been doing since he was here last? Has he been with his father? Does his father know how badly injured he is? Dean is a good person, Castiel knows this, and he can't imagine what it is he's involved with that makes him live his life the way he does. Maybe it's a Robin Hood situation, a vigilante who puts himself in harm's way to protect those who need it. In the weeks since Dean's last visit, Castiel hasn't thought about much else. 

Dean pours himself a glass of orange juice, finishes it in one go, and repeats the process once more. "Sorry I woke you," he says.

Castiel stares blankly at the floor in front of him. He shrugs. "It's fine."

"I'll clean the bathroom before I go."

"Okay."

"And thanks for the juice."

"You're welcome."

Dean sets his glass on the counter with more force than necessary. He's coming closer, but Castiel only sees him from the counter of his eye, still concentrating on a piece of uneven floorboard. Dean leans his good shoulder against the doorway to Castiel's room. For a moment, he just stands there, watching. Then, "Alright man, what gives?"

Castiel looks up at him. He frowns, wondering how Dean could be so dense he doesn't know what Castiel is thinking, and says "You can't... you can't do this."

"Do what?" Dean's already on the defensive, prepared for a fight, just as he always is. Castiel sighs and rubs his still tired eyes. 

"Come through town when it's convenient, or when you need something, and disappear for god knows how long."

"I thought we were on the same page."

"We are," Castiel says, and he means it. "You show up when you want, we have a good time, I don't ask questions, and then you're gone." He might not like it, but he knows exactly where he stands. They have fun together, conversation is easy and the passion is there, but it's short lived. Neither of them have any obligation to the other.  

It's too much to hope that Dean doesn't sleep with other people. Knowing that Dean carries a gun and regularly commits felonies, his sexual history is probably a funny thing for Castiel to worry about. So his feelings might be a little bruised, because casual relationships have never been something he's enjoyed, but that's just how it is, and he knows that. "But I care about you, Dean, and having no way of knowing whether you're dead or alive until you decide to show up? You have to understand how that must feel."

Dean frowns at him, then nods, looking down at his feet. He pushes away from the door frame, standing straight. "Alright, I'll get out of here, then."

Castiel refrains from rolling his eyes. He reaches his hand out, but Dean is too far away to touch. "Dean, that's not —"

"I can't give you any more, Cas," he says, and he looks miserable. 

Castiel is quiet, at a loss of what to say. He knows they can't be everything Castiel wants them to be, but he didn't think Dean would be so affected about it. Hesitantly, he asks "Would you?"

Dean raises his head. "Would I what?"

"If you could give me more, would you?"

Castiel expects a deflection, at least some hesitation, but Dean just gets a sad little smile on his face. "Yeah, Cas, I would."

It's not enough — it will never be enough — but Castiel's chest swells and he decides he doesn't care. He reaches his hand out again and this time waits for Dean to approach him. Dean holds his gaze for a few moments before he reluctantly pushes up from the wall. He comes closer, and when he grabs Castiel's hand, allows himself to be pulled until he's straddling Castiel's lap. He wraps his arms around Castiel's neck and Castiel places his palms on Dean's thighs. 

"I'm sorry," Dean says. "I'm sorry I'm making you put up with me."

Castiel shrugs. "Don't be sorry," he says. "Just... let me take care of you, okay?"

Dean catches his eye and nods, rolling off his lap and onto bed. Castiel leans over Dean, runs a hand down his cheek and rests it on his jaw. Dean is still watching him, lips parted, heavy breathing the only sound in the room other than Castiel's own pulse pounding loudly in his head. 

He leans down, tastes the blood on Dean's lip as he kisses him. Dean sighs contentedly, reaching his hand up and threading it through Castiel's hair. Castiel lets his hands wander. He's gentle, because he doesn't want to hurt Dean more than he already is, but also because Dean deserves to be touched this way. Castiel kisses his still bare, bruised chest, his neck, his collarbones. 

Eagerly, Dean leans into Castiel's touch, squirming whenever he touches him just so. His skin is damp with sweat, despite the chill inside the apartment. Castiel leans back to unbutton Dean's jeans, then pushes a hand past the elastic of Dean's boxers, smiling as Dean hisses at the touch.

He makes delicious little noises as Castiel strokes him, gasps and moans and laughter when Castiel tells him how beautiful he looks. Every second, Dean is becoming more and more unwound, biting his lip and squeezing the bedding, pulling on Castiel's hair.  

"You should know," Dean breathes, rocking in sync with Castiel's movements. "There, uh, there've been a lot of people."

"I know," Castiel whispers. "It's okay."

Dean shakes his head and he's too distracted now, too unfocused to enjoy himself, so Castiel pulls his hand back. "Sometimes, when I need some money or a place to sleep..." 

"Dean, if you don't want to —"

"You're not hearing me, man."

"I am, Dean."

Dean puts his arm over his eyes. "I — I don't do it so much anymore, but sometimes things get tight, and I... I've been doing it since I was a kid, you know? And I don't really know that I'm clean. I'm just saying I get it, if you don't want —"

Castiel interrupts him. "What do you want, Dean."

Dean moves his hand and squints up at Castiel. "I want you inside me."

Castiel smiles and leans down to press their lips together. "I can do that," he says, pulling away just far enough to speak. 

Dean laughs. "Okay," he says. "Yeah, okay," he repeats, now grinning, cocky and confident. "Alright, big guy, show me what you got." Castiel grins and does what he's told. 

---

This time, Castiel wakes slowly, hiding his face behind the pulls to keep the sun out of his eyes. He rolls over, expecting an empty bed, but Dean is there, mouth hanging open and face pressed into the pillow. It's the first time Castiel has seen him sleep.

Castiel indulges himself, watching Dean as he snores softly. The shadows covering his face make his eyelashes look longer, lips fuller. He's especially beautiful now, when he's not fixing his posture or looking over his shoulder as if he's always worried he's being watched. Eventually, Dean cracks open an eye, face still pressed into the pillow, and then he rolls onto his back. 

"Quit starin' at me, man, it's creepy," Dean says, closing his eyes again. 

"No," Castiel replies. The corners of Dean's lips quirk upward. 

"Do you have to work today?"

"No, the library is closed on Sundays."

"Good," Dean says. He turns, sliding an arm over Castiel's waist and holding himself up with his other elbow. "I figured I could take a day or so to heal up before I get back on the road."

"Does that mean we can go for breakfast?"

Dean smirks. "Later," he says, and he leans down to kiss him. 

---

By the time they make it out of bed, it's too late for a genuine breakfast, but the diner serves breakfast food all day so they manage anyway. Castiel treats Dean to eggs, bacon, and pie ("it goes with everything, Cas"). 

Castiel ignores every sense of reason within him while Dean is still here. He's going to leave, and Castiel will go back to worrying if he's okay or dead somewhere from a bullet or worse. But he doesn't want to ruin things while they're together, so he pushes those thoughts from his head. 

After they eat, Dean demands a tour. Castiel insists there isn't much to see, but Dean doesn't seem to care. He's happy to walk up and down the plain, mundane sidewalks beside Castiel. 

They walk in comfortable silence for a while, Castiel occasionally pointing out a building or park with some significance. Dean acts like he's perfectly interested. 

"Did you grow up here?" he asks. 

"No, I was raised in the suburbs."

"You move for work?"

Castiel nods. That was partially the reason, after all. "I haven't seen most of my family in a long time, though."

"No?"

He shakes his head. "My mother told me never to come back. So I haven't."

Dean stops in his tracks. "What the hell?"

Castiel shrugs. He supposes he's had more time to process this than Dean. "I waited until college to come out to them. I figured it would be better that way. I could see them at holidays and funerals, then go home to my own place without them. I never thought she'd disown me completely."

Dean huffs. "Jesus, that's messed up."

Castiel is very aware of this. "Does your family know?"

"Dad does," Dean says. "Got the scars to show it." His tone of voice feigns nonchalance but Castiel can see he isn't as indifferent as he wants to be. 

Now it's Castiel's turn to look at him. "Scars?"

Dean is smiling like it doesn't matter, but it does, and Castiel knows Dean knows that. "He always knew, I think; he made little comments here and there. When I was in high school, though, he caught me with a guy we were workin' with at the time. You shoulda seen his face, man." Castiel is glad he wasn't there to see his face. "He got pissed, took it out on me, and we haven't talked about it since. Kept it from Sammy, obviously."

What else does Dean's family sweep under the rug? Did his father know Dean was resorting to sex work as a teenager just to eat? Did he know what Dean was doing last night to get injured in the way he did? Castiel frowns. "You know he's wrong, Dean. You didn't do anything wrong. You didn't deserve that."

Dean shrugs, a humorless laugh escaping his lips. He clears his throat and claps Castiel on the shoulder. "Hey, you haven't been in my baby yet. How do you feel about a drive?"

Castiel notes the diversion, packs it away for future reference, but doesn't push it. As badly as he wants to make sure Dean understands that the way his father treats him is wrong, he won't be able to convince him just by telling him as much. Not to mention, when a subject approaches something Dean doesn't want to discuss, he often turns it into a fight, and Castiel doesn't want to fight with him right now. Now when he doesn't know how much time they have left until Dean leaves again. 

And to be honest, he really does want a ride in Dean's car. 

---

Dean's cell rings after dinner. They're sitting on the couch, Dean's arm around Castiel as they talk quietly about nothing at all.  

Their drive lasted late into the afternoon. Dean played his music so loud the car rattled, kept the windows down, and by the time they made it back, Castiel was feeling foolishly blissed. Watching Dean argue all of the reasons why Led Zeppelin is still relevant and slap Castiel's hand away when he tried to change the radio station just to wind him up was flooring. He'd never seen Dean so free. 

Dean has an array of pop culture knowledge, far more than Castiel, and is so set in his opinions about things like Dr. Sexy, the radio's top 40, and vegetarians, he could probably argue them in court. He's strong willed, funny, and always a little bit unhinged and Castiel never wants to be apart from him again. 

Dean reaches for his phone instantly, standing to answer it. He steps away for some semblance of privacy, but Castiel's apartment is small and he can hear everything Dean says. 

He answers the call with "Hey, Padre, what's up?" Dean says something about meeting the person on the other line in Minnesota, and that no, he hasn't heard from him. He promises he'll be there as soon as possible and yes, he'll bring the stuff. When he hangs up, he doesn't turn back to face Castiel. 

"That was your father?" Castiel asks. 

"Huh? No, that was a buddy of his." Dean grabs his duffle from the floor and starts rifling through it. He comes back with a little notebook, a pen clipped to it, and finally looks at Castiel. 

"You called him —"

"Oh, yeah, he's a priest."

"Your father is friends with a priest?" With everything Castiel has come to know about John Winchester, he would not take him to be a religious man. 

Dean snorts. "They do business together," he says as if that's any sort of explanation. Castiel senses this is one of the things he's not supposed to ask questions about. He waits for what he knows is coming. By the looks of it, Dean doesn't want to say it just as much as Castiel doesn't want to hear it. "I have to go," he says finally. 

Castiel nods. "Okay."

"It's a work thing."

"Right."

Dean sighs. "Same page, remember?" Castiel is beginning to think neither of them know what page they're really on. "Listen, give me your phone number so I can check in. I can't promise you it'll be often, but at least you won't have to worry as much."

"I'll always be worried about you," Castiel says. 

"You shouldn't be."

Castiel looks at him, angry. "You don't get to choose who cares about you, Dean."

Dean smiles. "Alright, fine, worry about me, then."

"I will," Castiel says indignantly, snatching the notebook from Dean's hand. He flips it open and writes his phone number on the cover, as well as the landline to the library. 

Dean takes it back, and Castiel is careful not to let their fingers touch in the process. He's scared if they do, he'll never be able to let Dean go.

"I'll see you, okay?"

All Castiel can do is nod, because if he opens his mouth, he'll either cry or beg Dean to stay, and both would be embarrassing. 

Dean leaves him with a kiss. Castiel's eyes are still closed when he hears his apartment door close. When he opens them, Dean is gone.