Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“Antarctica has this mythic weight. It resides in the collective unconscious of so many people, and it makes this huge impact, just like outer space.
It’s like going to the moon.”
– Jon Krakauer

“‘I just got back from Antarctica,’ I would say to people.
They were curious, and would ask me what I did there, and how did I get a job there, and how cold it was. I told them I scraped ridges of turkeyloaf from baking pans while listening to Bob Seger.”
– Nicholas Johnson

Someone was in Castiel’s bed. Well, strictly speaking, they weren’t IN the bed yet, but the traveling trunk and three standard-issue duffle bags stacked up on the bed made it clear that he wouldn’t be moving into his bunk any time soon. Not wanting to risk upsetting the mountain of bags, Castiel piled his own luggage in front of the wardrobe in the cramped room and went off in search of the Housing Office. Whoever else wanted to claim the room would simply have to wait until he got back.

Castiel wasn’t the only one having a rough first day in Antarctica and the halls were busy with people trying to move their belongings around. People going home, people going to the Amundsen-Scott Station for the season, and people like him who just arrived at McMurdo Station. Castiel scooted politely around a woman whose duffle had apparently exploded and almost ran into a man with a mullet wearing a sleeveless plaid shirt over cutoff jorts. However, he did appear to know where he was going and Castiel had never been one to look a gift horse in the mouth.

“Excuse me,” all his mother’s training about first impressions washed over him as the man turned to eye him. “Do you know which way the Housing Office is?”
The mulleted man muttered something that sounded like “fuckin fingee” before telling Castiel, “Yeah man. End of the hall take a left and a right then turn left at the door with the UFO peppers and it’s right there.”

Before Castiel could clarify, write some of that down, or ask him what, exactly, a UFO pepper was, the man had vanished into one of the many identical dorms and out of sight. Castiel shrugged and made his way to the end of the hallway, took a left, took a right, and then, sure enough, came upon the door in question.

It was just a normal dorm door, but someone had covered it in butcher paper upon which was a colorful mural of an alien spaceship piloted by hatch chile peppers with slanted black eyes flying over the desert. On the top portion of the mural, a message was scrawled: THEY CAME FROM NEW MEXICO! This was one of many doors across the base that were decorated, but Castiel had to admit that it was certainly among the most eye-catching.

Across from the door was the Housing Office. It was a mess. Castiel had thought that the hallways were crowded, but the lobby space in front of the office was crammed with bodies in bulky, red Carhartts. People milling around. People arguing loudly. People lounging on every available surface. In the chairs, in the laps of other people, against the walls, on the floor, there was even a young woman weeping while perched precariously on top of the filing cabinet. As Castiel picked his way across room, careful not to step on anyone, he saw a bit of open space next to a thin young man sitting on the floor ricocheting a bouncy ball against the wall.

“Is there some sort of a line I should be waiting in?” Castiel asked, as he stood next to the young man. The faint strains of “Karma Chameleon” echoed over the din and he wasn’t even sure the kid could hear him. He had ended up right next to the Housing Office door and had a good view around the lobby, but there wasn’t much of a method to the madness.

“Nobody’s gone in or out as far as I’ve seen,” the young man stopped throwing the ball against the wall and looked up at Castiel with a surprisingly bright smile, considering the circumstances. “And I’ve been sitting here for half an hour.”

Castiel tilted his head, debating for a moment, before sliding down the wall next to him and offering him a handshake. “Castiel Novak. Did everyone here get assigned the wrong room?”

“Jack Kline!” he was basically beaming now. “I have no idea. I was never assigned one.”

Castiel looked at Jack incredulously. “They didn’t assign you a room?”

Jack shrugged. “I’m just excited to be here. I graduated last year and my professor said it’ll be a good experience for me to maybe start a career with the NSF. I’m the only applicant from my school that got chosen. I’ll sleep in the hallway if I have to.”

Castiel nodded. The NSF was the National Science Foundation; the federal agency that managed the US Antarctic Program. When he was little, his mother had been thrilled with his passion for the Antarctic Program. That excitement dimmed when she realized his passion stemmed from the historical instead of the scientific or managerial side of things. That may have been the last time they had something in common.

Castiel was about to ask Jack what his specialty was, but he was interrupted by a sudden clatter of feet approaching from the hall.

A man stomped into the lobby, the sea of legs parting for him as he made an angry beeline for the door of the Housing Office and banged on it with all his might.

“Open up, Zachariah! What the hell is this?”

From his spot on the floor, Castiel looked up at the loud man, still banging determinedly on the office door. Unlike everyone else in the lobby, his red jacket was conspicuous in its absence. Instead, he wore a casual jacket, jeans, and work boots.

‘If he wasn’t scowling so much,’ Castiel thought, eyeing the man’s green eyes and sharp jaw, ‘He’d be quite good-looking.’

His analysis of Scowling Man was halted by the slight opening of the Housing Office door. The entire room froze before most people scrambled to their feet. Even the woman on top of the filing cabinet ceased weeping and gave a hopeful sniffle.

A small, balding man poked his head out of the office and grimaced at Scowling Man. “All policies and procedures are clearly outlined on our bulletin placards, Mr. Winchester. My email is on them if you have any questions.”

“That’s bullshit and you know it!”

Zachariah the Housing Coordinator quickly moved to pull the door shut, only to look down in surprise when it failed to close.

Castiel’s foot was firmly wedged in the doorframe.

Castiel gave Zachariah an apologetic smile, but did not remove the offending appendage. “It appears someone else has been assigned to my bed. I’d like to clear this up and get out of your hair.”

Nervously eyeing the crowd that was rapidly closing in on the office door, Zachariah gave the door one last experimental tug, but the foot remained wedged in place. “Yes, alright. Come in.”

Castiel slipped inside the door and, to his surprise, Scowling Man managed to make it inside as well. Zachariah sighed.

“Dean. It isn’t personal. It’s everybody,” he protested.

Scowling Man–Dean– wasn’t having it. “I’ve been here for years, Zachariah. Roommates for winter-overs with less than a week’s notice? Since when is that a thing?”

Zachariah was immovable now that the office door was securely closed behind him. “Since now. Comes from up the chain. No exceptions.”

“But Sammy’s at Pole this season,” Dean scrubbed at his hair, exasperated. “I’ll lose my room. I don’t have anybody to-”

“Not my problem. Now-” he turned to Castiel, leaving Dean sputtering. “You said your room was double-booked? Terribly sorry.” His face adopted an oily smile. “What did you say your name was?”

“Castiel Novak.”

Zachariah looked Castiel up in the computer while Dean continued to stew by the door, sending what looked like increasingly desperate messages with his phone. When Zachariah stopped typing, he looked up in surprise. “You have a surprising amount of Ice Time, Mr. Novak. I didn’t realize-” Now he looked… almost nervous? Castiel tried to look as mild and unthreatening as he could, which wasn’t difficult given that he had no idea what was going on. He didn’t understand how he could possibly have any “Ice Time” at all, seeing as he’d been in Antarctica for less than a day.

“But yes. I see now you are double booked. You can’t stay in Dorm 202…Are you sure you want to stay in the Lowercase dorms?”

It was like he was speaking a different language. All Castiel could do was shrug and say “Whatever you think is best.”

“I’ll take him.” Dean’s voice cut across the room.

Castiel turned to give the man a confused look. “You’ll take me where?”

“Take you as my roomie,” Dean answered. He walked up next to Castiel and clapped him on the shoulder. A shiver ran through Castiel’s body at the touch. Even through his thick jacket, the other man’s grip felt grounding in some indefinable way. “That way you got a place to crash and I don’t get kicked out of my dorm, right?”

Zachariah’s mouth twisted like he’d bitten a lemon. “Right, but Mr.-”

“Great!” Dean beamed and Castiel could see he had been right. He was a damn handsome man when he wasn’t scowling. “211,” he said to Castiel, firing a finger gun in his direction.

Castiel felt like he’d been left behind at some point. “211?” he repeated dumbly.

“What, is there an echo in here?” Dean grinned but he was already backing out the door to avoid whatever sputtering objections Zachariah seemed to be working up. “Yeah. Dorm 211. In Lowercase. See you there.”

With that, he winked one of those incredibly green eyes at Castiel and was gone before Zachariah could say anything.

Well, that seemed like trouble.

Chapter Text

Lodging at McMurdo Station is similar to college dormitories, with a community bathroom down the hall. Linens, blankets, and pillows are provided, but towels, slippers or shower shoes, and toiletry containers are not. Participants are assigned at least one roommate. Roommate requests, including spouses or significant others, may not be honored for temporary McMurdo residents. […] Due to round-the-clock operations, roommates may arrive at any time of the day or night. 

-Antarctic Program Participant Guide 2016-2018

Dean had decided not to move into the Uppercase dorms last year.  Uppercase was where all the hoity-toity top brass and bureaucrats spent their time in the frozen land. The key to getting a good dorm was Ice Time. Ice Time was mostly just what it sounded like. Time spent down in Antarctica, calculated along with an opaque job point system that Charlie swore up and down had something to do with tarot cards. Dean had been in the Program for 6 years.  That was 12 uninterrupted seasons with next to no time spent on the mainland except for that one time he got a concussion when some asshole fingee pegged him in the noggin with a can of frozen orange juice concentrate. And he had worked as a mechanic for all that time.  Gearheads might not be worth a lot of job points, but nobody could deny that he'd served more than enough time to be moved into Uppercase to rub elbows with all the muckety-mucks. Still, he didn't need that kind of aggravation.

Technically speaking, all the dorms were supposed to be identical. Some of them looked bigger because of the way the furniture was laid out, but otherwise, it was all supposed to be the same old dorms. But Dean knew better.

Dorms 210 and 211 were both designed by some fancy schmancy architect from Hawaii so they had higher ceilings and windows with a great view of the ice shelf. That's why Dean and Sam had bribed the Housing Office staff with their cigarette rations to get this plum room assignment. Until Sammy had to go and ruin things with his big brain.

In all honesty, Dean was very proud of his little brother. Getting his Ph.D. in climatology and being asked to join the research team at the Pole was a big deal, but damn if it didn't put a crimp in Dean's living arrangements. Dean only asked that random guy to bunk with him out of desperation.  He had also been distracted by the guy’s blue eyes.  He hadn’t been at McMurdo last year.  Dean would’ve remembered eyes like that. Also, shit, he didn’t even remember that dude’s name.  With his luck, the man would probably end up being in waste management or something and their dorm would spend the rest of the season smelling like hot garbage juice and diesel fuel. Awesome.

Dean glanced at his phone.  His friends were only now answering the desperate texts he’d sent out in his hour of need. Of course they’d respond after he no longer needed them. Those traitors.

From Dean

To: Jo, Benny, Charlie

911! need roommate and fast. sammy left for pole so i’m boned. gonna lose the room. Who’s free?

From: Benny

To: Dean 

No can do, brother.  I’m all set up with Andrea.

From: Charlie

To: Dean

Sounds rough! But I don’t know if they’ll let us do coed roommate transfers.  Plus, my new roomie is a total Betty XD.  Good luck on the search, though!

From: Jo

To: Dean 

[Read]

Son of a bitch.

The guy from the office didn’t seem so bad, but Dean had only seen him for a couple of minutes.  Still, anyone willing to bodycheck the door of the Housing Office had to be a guy worth getting to know.  Either the man was born with 50 pound nuts or he had friends in high places.  

Speakin’ of the devil, he walked in the door right as it occurred to Dean that he probably should have tidied up a little before inviting guests. Oh well. In for a penny, in for a pound.

“Hey! There he is!” Dean winced. Greeting someone with “there he is” is a dead giveaway that they’ve forgotten your name.  The guy seemed to take it in stride. “Yes.” Nothing else.  Just “yes”.  Either the man had the driest sense of humor that Dean had ever heard, or 

Dean leaned subtly back to try and grab a look at the nametag hanging off of the mystery man’s duffel.  Cast-something? Castopher? Castimir? Casthew? Well, Dean couldn’t see his name but he did get one hell of a view of the dude’s sweet ass.  He turned around and Dean tried to make like he'd been reaching over to grab a mug off his desk. “Y’know you’re really saving my bacon, movin’ in here with me.  I figured Junkless back there just wasn’t gonna budge.”

Castiel wasn’t sure how to respond to that.  It wasn’t as if he’d been given much of a choice.  “Junkless- oh you mean the man from the Housing Office?”

Dean grimaced.  “That’s not a man, Cas.  That’s a combover with legs.”

Nobody had ever given Castiel a nickname before that hadn’t had a mocking edge to it, but he found this one suited him.  Dean gave him a friendly slap on the back and Cas could feel his skin warming where they made contact through his shirt, and he had to restrain himself from leaning into the sensation.

“Do you need help moving your shit?”

Pulled out of his reverie, Cas squinted at him. “What?”

Dean gestured aimlessly around the room. “Like, your shit, dude. Your stuff. Do you need help transporting all your shit here?” He half laughed, scrubbing a hand over his hair. “I feel like we keep having the same conversations over and over again because you’re a dumbass at listening.”

Castiel was, in fact, listening to him, but he found his new roommate to be somewhat unfathomable at times.  He glanced at the large duffle bag and briefcase and tilted his head.  “This is all my… shit.”

Dean gave a low whistle.  “Packing a bit light this season?  Alright. I can respect that.”

Castiel put his bag on top of the empty bed.  He’d unpack his things later, but for now, he just wanted to get the layout of things.  There was the main living space with a couch, a table, chairs, and a wardrobe built into the walls on each side.  The sleeping spaces just had beds and small desks separated by a thin wall and had privacy curtains to cordon them off from the living space if they chose.

The door had a poster of a black classic car on it that Castiel had noticed when he walked in, but otherwise, the room was quite spare.  It seemed that Dean had very few personal effects.

“You and I are in a pretty sweet situation.”

Castiel tilted his head in confusion and the tips of Dean’s ears turned red.  “I mean,” he coughed, “because of the bathroom.”

He gestured behind one of the wardrobes and Castiel noticed a door that did seem to lead to a small en suite that he had somehow missed.

“So you don’t have to tote your shit down the hall to use the head,” Dean was fully facing away from him now, but Castiel could see the blush across the back of his neck.

“Anyway!” Dean clapped his hands. “So have you been staying at Pole or Palmer?”

Cas squinted his eyes. Sometimes, it was like Dean intentionally talked in code and he was beginning to get a bit frustrated.  Presumably “Pole” referred to the Amundsen-Scott Station at the South Pole, and he knew that Palmer Station was the other American research station in Antarctica, but he couldn’t imagine why Dean would think he had visited either of them before arriving at McMurdo.  “...I just got here.”

“No, I mean last season.” Dean said this like that clarified anything about his previous statements.  “Junkless said that you had lots of Ice Time.  Did you get it at Palmer or were you at Pole?  I know I’ve never seen you here before.  I would’ve remembered you.”

He blushed at this admission, but Castiel didn’t notice.  “This, today, is the first time I’ve ever been to Antarctica.”

Dean looked gobsmacked. “You’re a fingee?”

“A what?” Castiel meant for Dean to clarify, but Dean steamrolled past him.

“Are you down here from Denver?” he demanded.

Castiel didn’t see how he could possibly have known that information, but he saw no reason to hide it.  “I am, as a matter of fact.”

When Dean stood, an aura of coldness had taken over him.  The change was so sudden, it caught Castiel quite off guard.  “Too good to work for your Ice Time like the rest of us?”

Cas had no idea what Ice Time was, but he wasn’t about to let someone abuse him for no reason, no matter how green his eyes were.  “If you have a problem with me, you’re going to have to get over it because it looks like you’re stuck with me for the rest of the season.”

“We’ll see about that.” When Dean slammed the door, the thin wobble of the laminate was the only sound left in the room.

What the hell had all that been about?

Chapter Text

When not eating their sled dogs and ponies, explorers ate hoosh. Otherwise known as "meat stew of the ravenous," Anthony writes, "hoosh is a porridge or stew of pemmican and water, often thickened with crushed biscuit." But anything, really, might get tossed in the pot – seaweed to bulk it up or, if Fortune smiled, brains, livers, and kidneys of various Antarctic animals to boost its nutritional value. Anthony notes one rather exotic hoosh made of penguin flipper and rope treated with Stockholm tar.

-Christine Baumgarthuber, The Art of Antarctic Cooking

Castiel had applied to the Antarctic Program with multiple degrees in accounting. It had never been his life's passion, but he had always been good with numbers and pattern recognition. His brother Gabriel had joked that it was because numbers couldn't point out the mustard stain on his tie. Castiel never deigned to respond to such an obvious joke. Besides, arguing only ever encouraged him.

Unfortunately, although perhaps not unsurprisingly, there wasn't much of a call for accountants in Antarctica. So he had been assigned to the graveyard shift of the Food Production department. Apparently, the overnight shift was colloquially known as midrats, which, from what Castiel could gather, was a portmanteau of the phrase "midnight rations". Possibly, this was a leftover from when the Program had been run by the Navy. He had also been assigned a mentor to help him transition into his new role smoothly.

Charlie was sunny, friendly, energetic and Castiel found her frankly terrifying. The first time they met, she had been wearing a monstrous synthetic blend cardigan made out of a material that seemed to be bursting with fuzz. It was impressive in scale, size, and the fact that she could stand to wear it in the mess hall, which tended to remain somewhere around the high 70s in temperature. The rainbow pride flag emblazoned across the front stood out against her austere surroundings like a drop of blood on snow. She was also a hugger.

Castiel had been told many times that he wasn't a good hugger and he knew they were right. He never knew where to put his arms, and this was no exception. Charlie had greeted his so warmly, and here he was with his arms hovering vaguely around her back. He felt like a fish with arms. She didn’t seem to take this personally, though. When she released him from the hug, she gave him a punch on the arm that he understood in a cerebral sort of way was intended to be friendly and said, “Hey there mentee!”

He tried not to wince in too obvious a way from the emotional whiplash of being hugged and punched in quick succession, and parroted back, “Hello, mentor.”

Charlie seemed to find this response appropriate and clapped her hands together in a gleeful way. “This is my first time being a mentor, and I’m a little excited about it. It’s kind of like having a younger brother!”

“So!” Charlie smiled, “I’m gonna start with a tour, I guess. If you've got any questions, don’t worry about interrupting me. I can really get on a roll sometimes. Anyway! This is the galley! I know you probably know that already, but I figured it couldn’t hurt to start with the place you’ll be spending a lot of your time. It’ll be good to get some fresh blood back in the kitchen. Y’know, besides the normal kind.” Her wink did nothing to alleviate his worry.

"Come on back and meet the gang. The rest of us are all winter-overs, so we've had plenty of time to get bored with each other. Don't take it personally if they give you shit about being a fingee. Especially Kevin." She rolled her eyes. "Kid spends one summer on the ice and thinks he's Randolph Scott."

Castiel’s ears perked up at the familiar slang, and he finally found his opening to speak. “Actually, I did have one question. I keep hearing this word ‘fingee’?”

She raised an eyebrow at him. “Oh that! Nobody’s told you about that yet?”

“I haven’t found the opportunity to ask, but several people have called me that.”

Charlie had, up to this point, seemed relatively unflappable, but to Castiel’s astonishment, she started to blush. “Well, technically, it’s just a term for someone who is in their first season on the ice, but… umm… fingee is actually FNG.” The blush clashed with her hair, and the overall effect was somewhat comical. “Which stands for fucking new guy.”

Castiel digested that for a moment. It was unlikely that this was an endearing term, considering the circumstances in which it had been used, but he didn't see what was so bad about it. Charlie refused to let him stew it over and essentially shoved him into the kitchen to meet "the gang".

Two of the other members of the midrats crew were Benny and Kevin. Benny was a Cajun bear of a man who introduced himself with a wink that Castiel had no way to interpret, and Kevin was quite the opposite, vanishing as soon as he noticed Castiel entering the room. Charlie led Castiel through the responsibilities of the job and where the supplies were.

Castiel could feel a sweat breaking out on his brow. "This-" he pointed to a dish labeled 'grilled mahi mahi with papaya salsa', his voice rising with panic, "This is what we'll be making?"

"You won't be making shit, cher." Benny didn't even turn around from the grill when he spoke to Castiel. "You're not allowed anywhere near the cooking."

Charlie turned, eyes narrow, hands on her hips. "Benny, what the hell? What is this, like, a macho thing? You let Kevin cook!"

"Kevin does fine, but he-" Benny pointed a spatula over his shoulder in Castiel's direction. "Is a terrible cook."

"How could you possibly know that?"

"I can smell it on him."

Charlie gave Castiel a searching look, and seemed to find him wanting as well, although Cas wasn’t exactly sure how they could tell just by looking at him. However, she rallied with considerable aplomb. “Be that as it may, you’re still a member of this team so you’re gonna be a dishwasher.”

Charlie went through which brand of soap was best and how to work the spayer. She even took the time to warn him about what horrors might lie in wait when cleaning the soft serve ice cream machine known as the "Frosty Boy". It was fairly easy to grasp.

Or at least, it seemed easy until midrats mealtime ended and all of the dishes got brought to the back.

"Well, you know where everything is now, so have fun!" Charlie waggled her fingers, and to Castiel's alarm, she made her way to the door.

"W-what? All this?" he gestured weakly to the mountain of dishes that now surrounded him.

"Well, yeah, man! We cooked all the food." She shook her head. "Don't worry, you have until 5 a.m."

He tried to keep the panic out of his expression as he took in the dozen black plastic bins, each piled high with plates, utensils, and assorted detritus.

"She's messing with you," a nervous voice came from his left. Castiel whirled around to come practically face to face with Kevin.

"Aww come on K-von!" Charlie whined. "I never get to prank people!"

"That's because you're no good at it."

Charlie, deciding that the only winning move was not to play, stuck her tongue out at him.

Benny turned the radio on his way out, and the dulcet tones of Dolly Parton made the task seem much more manageable.

Cas rolled up his sleeves and started rubbing dried papaya salsa off the side of a plate using a Magic Eraser. It seemed like he would be working until the wee hours of the morning, cleaning everything, and, while he found the repetition to be somewhat meditative, he had to admit this was not what he had been expecting when he signed up with the Program.

The last of the dishes was done, or at least scrubbed to the point of plausible deniability. Castiel leaned against the sink, blinking soap out of his eyes. His shirt clung damply to his back, and he suspected his fingers had permanently puckered.

A sudden sound came from the cafeteria, beyond their view.

"Intergalactic! Planetary!"

Charlie responded at a frankly alarming volume. "PLANETARY! INTERGALACTIC!"

A gust of cold air swept in, along with the scent of grease and diesel.

“Charlie?” a voice called. “Tell me there’s still something edible back there.”

Castiel stiffened. He turned toward the door just as Dean stepped inside. He wore a Carhartt over grease-stained coveralls, and his hair was damp from either snow or sweat. His eyes flicked toward Castiel, then paused.

“You’ve got to be kidding me.”

Castiel blinked. “Hello.”

Dean looked around the kitchen like he might have accidentally walked into an alternate dimension. “What’re you doing here?”

“Working,” Castiel said, in a tone that dared Dean to challenge the concept. “I’ve been assigned to midrats.”

Dean let out a huff that was somewhere between a scoff and a sigh. “Figures.”

Before Castiel could respond, Charlie emerged from dry storage holding a bag of marshmallows and a spatula like twin weapons.

“Dean!” she chirped. “You here to beg for food or just to grace us with your shining personality?”

“Bit of both,” he muttered, still eyeing Castiel suspiciously.

Charlie’s eyes flicked between them and immediately narrowed in on the static. “Wait. Do you two know each other?”

“We’re roommates,” Castiel said coolly.

Dean snorted. “Don’t remind me.”

Charlie raised her eyebrows, clearly not expecting that. “Ohhhh. Oh. So you’re Cas.”

Dean gave her a betrayed look. “You knew?”

“Everyone knew, Dean. You complained about him all day yesterday like a guy who lost a bet.”

Castiel glanced at her. “He complained?”

Dean suddenly looked very interested in the marshmallow bag.

Charlie, without missing a beat, handed Dean a paper plate piled high with what looked like fried rice and what might once have been chicken. “Look, you two are gonna be living together until the last C-17 leaves the Ice, so unless you want me breaking up slap fights in the laundry room, maybe ease off the tension.”

Dean took the plate, muttered a thanks that sounded more like “t’amkph,” and leaned against the counter. He kept his eyes fixed on the food but spoke after a moment, quieter.

“I didn’t know they’d stick you on nights.”

“Neither did I,” Castiel said. He hesitated. “It’s not a punishment.”

Dean grunted. “Didn’t say it was.”

An awkward pause stretched between them. Charlie, sensing it might strangle someone if left unattended, slapped a spatula against her palm.

“Okay!” she said brightly. “Group bonding time is over. Dean, you’re fed. Cas, you’re done for the night. Go be antisocial somewhere that isn’t my kitchen.”

Dean gave a half-smile. “Yes, ma’am.”

Castiel moved toward the exit and paused when he was level with Dean. There was a beat where neither of them looked at the other, and then Dean, without quite meeting his eyes, said, “Nice job with the dishes, by the way. The Frosty Boy didn’t even scream.”

Castiel blinked. “Thank you.”

He stepped out into the hallway, and as the door swung shut behind him, he heard Charlie say, “He’s a nice guy, really. Just shy. And he’s a cutie!”

Dean’s reply was muffled, but Castiel was pretty sure it included the words “shut up” and “fingee.”

And yet, his mouth quirked up as he walked back to the dorms.