Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

May, 1936. Thursday.

Cas fiddled with the tuner on his kitchen radio as he sipped his morning coffee. He liked to listen to the broadcast each morning to hear what was happening in the world; the radio was often much more reliable than the newspapers. Cas also listened in order to hear other news, the news that the papers wouldn’t report. More specifically, any news that was not Nazi propaganda.

The small resistance group that Cas had been a part of had long since disbanded, having split shortly after the “Night of the Long Knives” in July of 1934. Cas had become mostly disconnected from the resistance after that, only staying in touch with a few other former members. He would occasionally help relay a message or two, but nothing life-threatening. Cas felt that, if nothing else, it was his duty to stay informed about what was really happening in his country and around the world.

Cas wished there was more he could do to help the people the Nazis were persecuting. As a closeted homosexual man himself, he empathized with the struggles that German homosexuals were facing. It was a large part of the reason Cas had joined the resistance in the first place.

It was just after the first concentration camp, Dachau, was established in 1933 that Cas had enlisted in the group. Around that same time, the Nazis had started arresting homosexual men and the Gestapo had compiled lists of “confirmed homosexuals” in Germany. Two years later, the expansion to Paragraph 175 had criminalized thousands more homosexual men for “crimes” like sending another man a love letter or “exciting desire” in another man, and more men were imprisoned every day.

Ever since the group had split up, Cas had felt useless, like he wasn't doing his part to help the people in need of assistance. The idealist in him wished he could do something bigger, like housing prisoners, but he couldn’t risk getting caught. He had managed to stay off of the Gestapo’s lists thus far, and he knew that getting caught would invariably result in his death. Whether it would be death by Nazi, his family, or suicide, Cas didn’t know, but he did know that he mustn’t be found out.

Despite his idealism, Cas wasn’t about to give up his life for people he didn’t even know.

Cas lived alone, miles away from the rest of his family. He had a large extended family, comprised mostly of Nazis and Nazi sympathizers. Cas’ cousin Lucifer was a high-ranking SS officer in close proximity to Himmler himself, and, despite being a few years older than Cas, the two had been practically inseparable growing up. Lucifer, despite some of his faults, had always been good to Cas, keeping him safe and consistently having his back. Once they had matured into adulthood, the cousins hadn't had the opportunity to hang out as frequently, but Lucifer did come over on occasion to catch up. Cas appreciated Lucifer, even if he disagreed with most everything his cousin stood for.

This morning was like any other in Cas’ house; after his coffee and breakfast, he got ready to go to work at the small bakery that he owned in town. Cas enjoyed his work at the bakery. He liked seeing the various people come and go from the shop each day, he liked the feel of soft dough beneath his palms, and he absolutely adored the smell of freshly baked bread that filled the air at all times.

Cas picked up his hat and tan trenchcoat from the stand by the door and walked outside, locking the front door behind him before beginning his short trek to work.

As far as towns went, Cas’ neighbourhood was quite an idyllic one. One could almost forget about the imminent threat of war that lingered in dark corners and amongst frightfully whispered rumors while walking past the other men, women, and children all going about their daily business in their small German town.

Cas didn’t have many friends in the town, so to speak, but he didn’t have any enemies either. He generally preferred to keep to himself. In the past, Cas had found that drawing attention to himself never ended well. That wasn’t to say that Cas was impolite to his neighbours, though. Cas tipped his hat whenever he passed an acquaintance in the street, and he made small talk with the nice old lady next door if they ever happened to be outside at the same time. He’d even brought her fresh bread one time when he heard that she had sprained her ankle climbing the stairs.

Castiel Novak prided himself on his manners, but he didn’t feel a need to form relationships with people, platonically or otherwise. He had lived on his own for all of his adult life, yet there wasn’t any gaping hole inside of him that craved a companion. Cas didn’t mind being alone; in fact, he sometimes preferred it. Anyway, he interacted with people all day, every day at the bakery. He did occasionally mourn his lack of a sex life, but the Nazi regime made it kind of hard to get any sort of action beyond his right hand. Yes, it was best that he was alone.

As Cas entered the bakery, bells jingling as a way of a welcome, he made his way into the back room of the shop, swapping his hat and coat for an apron and hairnet. Cas checked his pocket watch; it was eight-thirty in the morning, which gave him half an hour to begin baking before the bakery officially opened at nine. He poured some flour on his workspace and rolled up his sleeves. Time to begin.

As the time neared seven in the evening, Cas began closing up shop. He served the last few customers in line and began wiping down empty tables, hoping to get home as quickly as possible after closing. At seven o’clock exactly, the last customer left with her toddler in tow, the latter clutching a large, chocolate chip cookie. Finally done for the day, Cas locked up the bakery and began his walk home.

When he arrived, he began fixing himself dinner on the small stovetop in his kitchen. The sky was darkening outside Cas’ front window as he drew the shades and picked up the day’s newspaper, settling down to eat. He started to read of the country’s preparations for that summer’s Olympic games in Berlin. Cas looked forward to listening to the games on his radio, but he was rather jealous of his brother, Gabriel, who would be attending. It wasn’t every day that the Olympics were held under 300 kilometers northeast of your house.

Cas sat in the kitchen, eating and reading as the world outside transitioned into the quiet lull of nighttime. Soon, the only noises were the soft sounds of the occasional passing automobile or pedestrian. Although it wasn’t especially late, Cas was exhausted and soon found himself beginning to doze off at the kitchen table.

It must have been an hour or so later when Cas was abruptly woken from his rest by a hasty rapping on the front door. Out of impulse, Cas quickly rose to answer the knocks, blearily wiping sleep from his eyes with the heel of his palm as he walked. As he approached, alarm bells began to ring in his head, a little voice in the back of his mind immediately assuming the worst.

Who would be visiting at this time of night?

Cas cautiously opened the door to find a man standing on the doorstep in dirty clothes, looking around furtively with wide, scared eyes. Wide, scared eyes that just happened to be the most striking shade of green that Cas had ever seen. Cas was certain he had never seen the man before, but he looked to be in trouble. It quickly dawned on Cas that the man might have been a Jew or someone else hiding from the Nazis. That didn’t, however, explain what he was doing on Cas’ doorstep in the middle of the night.

“Cas-Castiel Novak?” The man’s voice was hoarse, sounding as though he hadn't spoken in days.

Wide awake now, Cas nodded, still confused. “Please, step inside, Mr..?”

“Winchester . . . Dean Winchester?” the green-eyed man supplied. The questioning tone in which Dean said this made it seem like Cas should recognize the name, but Cas was drawing a blank. Was this man famous? Why would Cas know who he was?

Cas stepped back to let Dean enter the house, then quickly shut and locked the door behind them. He was glad he had closed all the shades earlier. If this man was on the run, it wouldn’t do to have neighbours looking in on them.

Cas motioned Dean over to the kitchen table where the former had been sitting before Dean arrived. Both men sat in silence, Cas considering Dean and Dean looking uncomfortable under his unwavering stare, until Cas addressed Dean again.

“Uh, sorry, Mr. Winchester, but what are you doing here?”

Now it was Dean’s turn to look confused, a hint of fear evident in his eyes. “I was told I could come here? You’re part of the resistance, right? An ally?” Dean seemed to tense up further at his own words, wrapping his arms over his chest in some semblance of a hug.

Cas nodded jerkily, still not understanding. “I was part of the resistance, yes, but I didn't agree to hide you at my house. I don't hide people; I think there’s been some sort of a mistake.”

Dean looked down at the table, crestfallen. “Oh,” he said to the tabletop. “Um, well, could I at least stay here tonight? It's really late, and I don't really want to spend another night in an alley…” Dean trailed off, a haunted look in his eyes. “I don't want to impose, but you won't have to do anything; I’ll sleep in the basement, contact someone in the morning, and get out of your hair. You won’t even know I’m here.”

Cas looked Dean over, considering it. Dean seemed to be, beneath the layer of grime, a handsome and respectable young man. He had dirty blond hair, freckles, full lips, those bright green eyes, and Cas could tell that despite being underweight at the moment, Dean had a strong, muscular form.

No. What was he thinking? Castiel Novak didn't hide the hunted; it was his one rule! Cas opened his mouth to turn Dean down, to politely tell him that no, he couldn’t stay there, but it seemed that Cas’ mouth had a mind of its own.

“Yes, of course you can. Feel free to stay here as long as you need until you find a more permanent place,” Cas heard himself say. Wait, what? “Go shower and I’ll make you something to eat. You’re terribly underfed and I can practically smell you from here. Bathroom is right there—first door on the left. Towels are on the rack.”

Dean sat there without moving, staring at Cas incredulously. Honestly, Dean’s expression was one that Cas would have made at himself in that moment.

What had he just gotten himself into?

Cas prompted the other man again, firmly but not unkindly, “What, should I say it in Spanish? Go!”

Dean slowly got up, not breaking eye contact with Cas as he backed away from the table. Dean then ripped his eyes away and headed into the bathroom, closing the door carefully behind him. Cas didn’t move, didn’t even breathe until he heard the water running, and only then did he exhale, rubbing the back of his neck in distress. What would he do with this man? Cas was already breaking his one rule, letting Dean in his house. Allowing him to stay, even just for the night? Feeding him? Cas had to get back in control. He wasn’t about to sacrifice himself to save a man he only just met.

Cas decided not to worry about the future just yet. Right now, there was a hungry man in his house whom he had just offered to feed. Cas was about to slice up some salami to serve with a side of fresh whole-grain bread, but he quickly realized that he still did not know anything about the man. If Dean was Jewish and kept Kosher, Cas wouldn’t want to offend him by offering him something he couldn't eat.

Returning the salami to the icebox, Cas instead spooned some vegetables and cheese onto the plate with the bread before adding half of a baked potato left over from his own dinner earlier. It wasn’t much, but it would have to do. Germany was still suffering from the Great Depression and there wasn’t a large excess of food to be found anywhere.

Cas resolved to ask Dean about himself over dinner and find out if he was, in fact, Jewish. It would make mealtime easier, at least.

Cas heard the water shut off and the tell-tale sounds of Dean getting out of the shower. The door creaked open as Dean came out of the steamy room, his hair spiked with water. He looked cleaner, but he was still wearing the soiled outfit he had arrived in.

Cas jumped to his feet. If he was hosting, he was going to do it right. Amelia Novak didn’t raise her boys to be ill-mannered. “No. You're not wearing that! The clothes are the dirtiest part. Wait here, I'll get you something better to wear.”

The host walked past Dean and entered his bedroom, heading straight for his wardrobe. Thankfully, it seemed like he and Dean were about the same height. Cas figured that Dean could wash and dry the outfit that he arrived in, but he would need a pair of sleeping clothes for that night. The host chose a simple, striped sleep shirt and matching pants for his guest, as well as a pair of boxer shorts and socks.

When Cas emerged from the bedroom with the selected outfit, he found Dean standing exactly where Cas had left him in the doorway of the bathroom, now wrapped only in a towel. Dean seemed to be holding himself taller now that he had showered, but he stood defensively, almost like he was trying to hide his body from view. Cas didn't know why—Dean had (from Cas’ perspective) an impressive body, tall and muscular. Standing straight, Cas could now tell that Dean was about an inch or so taller than he was.

Despite his stature, Dean still looked timid and unsure as he stood in the bathroom. By the looks of him, the poor man had probably gone weeks, if not longer, without a hot shower, and Cas felt badly for him. Blame it on his Novak manners, but even if he was only staying for a few days, Cas wanted his guest to feel as comfortable as possible.

Cas kept his gaze firmly above shoulder-level as he handed Dean the clothing. “Let me know if it fits,” Cas requested.

“Wow, thank you,” Dean replied quietly, taking the small pile. He retreated into the bathroom again and shut the door.

Cas made his way back into the kitchen and brought Dean’s plate to the table. He realized that he should probably offer his guest a drink, so Cas hurried down to the basement to grab two bottles of beer. To be fair, Cas also needed a beer after the evening’s surprises.

When Cas returned to the kitchen, Dean was once again hovering outside of the bathroom, looking awfully out of place. Dean looked quite endearing in Cas’ clothes, his hair still drying from the shower. Cas was reminded of a scruffy puppy. He smiled warmly at the taller man, raising the beers and motioning Dean over to the table.

Dean shuffled over in his socks and sat down lightly in the same chair he had occupied before. Cas took the seat adjacent to Dean, handing him a beer and his plate of food before popping the lid off of his own bottle and taking a long sip. Dean simply sat there, eyes wide in disbelief as he stared at the food in front of him.

Finally, Dean spoke, his expression wary.

“Why’re you being so nice to me? You aren’t going to hand me over to the Gestapo, are you?”

Cas tilted his head at Dean, his brow furrowing slightly. “Of course not,” he replied. “I’m your host, Dean. You look hungry, so I gave you food. It’s what anyone would do.”

“Not anyone,” Dean muttered, mostly to himself.

“What?” Cas inquired.

“Nothing,” Dean said quickly. “Thank you, Mr. Novak, really. This is really unnecessary.”

Cas waved off the thanks. “Call me Cas, please, and eat the food before it gets cold.”

As Dean ate his dinner and Cas drank his beer, Cas asked the freckled man questions about himself. He learned that Dean had grown up in Berlin with his father and younger brother and had apprenticed as an electrician, but that he ran away in 1933 when the purge of homosexuals had begun. Dean knew that he was on the list of confirmed homosexuals, as he had occasionally visited the Institute of Sex Research in Berlin before it was seized by Nazi Youth in May of that year. Tensions had been running high for a while, so when Dean had seen the Institute’s contents burning in the opernplatz, or city square, he quickly realized what was happening. Returning home only to grab an extra pair of clothing, some food, money, and a photograph of his family, Dean bid his father and brother farewell before disappearing.

It had been almost three years, and Dean hadn’t seen his family since he left. From what Dean had told Cas, he’d bounced from barn to basement all around Germany for two years, never staying in one place for too long. The one exception, he explained, had been the house immediately before Cas’, and Dean had stayed there for over a year before leaving. Dean didn’t seem to want to elaborate on this, so Cas didn’t push him.

Overall, the night went pleasantly. Cas led the conversation for the most part, but the two men got along well, and before either of them knew it, it was past midnight. Though Dean had relaxed slightly, settling into the chair he had originally perched on, he was clearly still tense and seemed afraid of making a mistake or angering Cas. Dean let Cas make every decision for him, as though he had forgotten what it was like to have free will.

Both men were beginning to doze off, so Cas decided to get Dean situated and hidden away. Cas had almost forgotten that Dean was on the run and felt it was a shame to make him sleep in the cold basement. There was a growing part inside of Cas that just wanted to wrap Dean up in blankets like a human burrito and put him in his own bed. If only the circumstances were different . . . but as it was, they could take no risks. It would be deadly for them both if they were caught.

Cas brought a mattress and as many warm blankets as he could find down to the basement and made up Dean’s bed in the space beneath the stairs. The area could be easily concealed by moving several large boxes, and the large number of blankets made the makeshift bedroom feel rather cozy.

Dean expressed his gratitude towards Cas once again, thanking him shyly for all his generosity, and the two exchanged “goodnights” before Cas returned upstairs to his own bed. This was not how Cas had expected his day to go when he had woken up that morning, but he couldn’t honestly say that he was displeased with how it had turned out.

Chapter Text

Friday morning Cas went to work as usual, but not before bringing Dean a cup of coffee and a roll of bread for breakfast. He informed Dean that Dean was welcome to come upstairs to take whatever he needed during the day, and that Cas would be home shortly after seven in the evening. Cas made sure to keep the window shades in the kitchen closed to prevent any nosy neighbors from seeing something they shouldn’t.

As Cas walked to work that day, he realized that they had not washed Dean’s dirty clothing. He decided to do it that night after dinner, but until then, Dean could wear Cas’ pajamas. If he was being completely honest, Cas enjoyed the sight of Dean in his clothing, clean and comfortable. Maybe he wouldn’t rush the wash.

Cas couldn’t help but smile, remembering how Dean had looked that morning when Cas had come down the stairs. The shower and meal the night before had really done a world of difference for the sandy-haired man. Dean’s company was slowly growing on Cas; his presence sure made Cas’ life a lot more interesting. However, there was a time and a place for thoughts of Dean, and work was neither of those. Cas put the thoughts out of his mind as he prepared the bakery for opening.

Despite his determination not to, Cas found himself incapable of keeping his mind off Dean all day. Wanting to return to the man as quickly as possible, Cas began closing up earlier than usual and was out the door as the clock struck seven.

Upon arriving at home, Cas prepared two plates of food for his and Dean’s dinner. Cas had brought home a fresh loaf of bread from the bakery, and he quickly prepared a meal of salami (now that he knew that Dean was not Jewish) and thick slices of hearty bread filled with nuts. Once again, it wasn’t anything extravagant, but Cas was sure that Dean would understand.

Cas carried Dean’s plate down the stairs into the basement where he found Dean sitting on his mattress, reading a book. Cas recognized the novel as one of his own and he was glad that Dean had let himself into Cas’ extensive library. Dean was intensely absorbed in the story, his brow crinkled endearingly as he read. He had yet to notice Cas’ presence.

As he suddenly noticed Cas standing in front of him, Dean jerked his head up from the book. His eyes widened in fear when he saw Cas looking at the book in Dean’s hands.

“Sorry—I’ll—I didn’t mean to mess anything up, I was going to put the book back before you got home, I swear, I didn’t expect you to come down here,” Dean spluttered.

“Dean, you’re rambling. It’s totally fine that you took a book, I don’t care,” Cas assured Dean. “In fact, it’s good. I rarely give those books the attention they deserve anymore.”

Dean looked unsure, his cheeks reddening. “I should have asked, though. I apologize.”

Cas rolled his eyes. “I told you this morning to help yourself to anything you needed. Whatever’s mine is yours, Dean, for as long as you’re here. Now, eat. I don’t know about you, but I’m famished.”

Dean didn’t look convinced, but he took the plate that Cas was offering him anyway. Cas bade Dean goodnight and retreated upstairs to eat his own supper.

Cas supposed he could have stayed downstairs and eaten with Dean, but he didn’t want to intrude. Cas laughed to himself. How strange was that? It was his house, yet he didn’t want to intrude on the man who was living (temporarily) in his basement. This was coming from the man who, just over twenty-four hours ago, would never have allowed a refugee to take shelter in his home. What was it about Dean that changed things?

Cas got into bed, still thinking about Dean. He wondered why Dean was so afraid of Cas, of messing up. He assumed it was a product of Dean’s years on the run. Dean can’t have had too many interpersonal relationships in that time. Perhaps he and Cas just needed to get to know each other better. Cas hoped that Dean would relax. He was beginning to really like having Dean around.

Over the next week, Cas continued to bring food to the basement for Dean’s breakfast and supper, but did not stay down to eat with him. Part of Cas didn’t want to get attached to Dean at all. It would make it easier when Dean inevitably left, leaving Cas alone once more.

Cas usually ignored these thoughts, instead attributing his hesitation to spend time with the man to Dean’s seeming discomfort whenever they interacted. Dean would avoid Cas’ gaze, blush when he was spoken to, and answer as succinctly as possible when Cas asked him a question. Cas couldn’t understand it. He thought they had made strides in their relationship that first night, but Dean seemed to only have gotten more uncomfortable since then.

Whatever Dean’s problem was, Cas wanted to give him time to adjust and get comfortable before forcing his presence onto him. Much to Cas’ dismay, it seemed as though Dean had ignored Cas’ reassurances and had not gone to take any more books while Cas was at work.

Come the following Friday, Cas decided it was time to eat with Dean. Cas couldn’t say for sure what prompted this change of heart, but there he was, walking down the rickety basement stairs with two plates of food in his hands. Cas handed Dean’s food to him as usual, but instead of retreating back upstairs, Cas took a seat on one of the boxes opposite Dean’s mattress, causing the green-eyed man to stare at him strangely. Cas met Dean’s gaze, taking a bite of his food as he did. For once, Dean didn’t look away. The men just stared at each other, neither speaking, as Cas ate bite by bite. Dean just sat, not touching his food, as if he was afraid to eat in Cas’ presence.

After a few awkward minutes of this, Cas tried to get Dean to eat by joking, “It’s not getting any warmer, Dean.”

Dean jumped at this, apparently surprised at being directly addressed. Cas chuckled. This man was truly something else. Dean considered his plate for a second, his eyes flicking up momentarily to meet Cas’ before returning to the food. After a moment—what was going on in his mind, Cas would have loved to know—Dean took a hesitant bite of the food. Satisfied, Cas continued to eat his own dinner.

Once Cas was convinced that Dean would continue eating, he began to make small talk with the man. After a few stilted exchanges, Dean began to open up a bit more, better resembling the man Cas had first met the week before. It seemed, Cas noted, that all it took to get Dean comfortable was to get him talking. Once engaged in conversation, Dean’s inhibitions seemed less prominent. Cas wondered how to get them to go away entirely, but that was a project for a different day.

Cas and Dean talked for hours, discussing everything from favorite books to hobbies to the strange shape Hitler’s mustache. Cas learned that Dean loved nice automobiles, though he had never owned one of his own. Growing up, Dean’s father’s friend had been the first in their neighbourhood to own a car, and Dean had spent hours riding in it, inspecting it, and learning enough about it to make minor repairs when necessary. He had even been saving up to buy a car of his own before he was forced to run away. In all, Dean was good at anything requiring manual labour.

Cas was happy to hear this, because he himself was absolutely hopeless when it came to household repairs. Dean told Cas that he would be happy to do any repairs Cas desired, and that he accepted payment in the form of baked goods. Cas laughed heartily at this, absolving Dean’s momentary panic that he had crossed a line by asking for payment.

When Cas went to sleep that night, after hours of banter between the two men, he couldn’t remember the last time he had smiled that much. It wasn’t perfect; Dean was still on edge, and he switched from comfortable and joking to apologetic and cautious in an instant, triggered by seemingly nothing at all. It was as if there were two Deans; one carefree, joking young man, and one older, broken soul. As he lay in bed, Cas realized he wasn’t going to leave the green-eyed, freckle-faced man until he figured out what had broken him in the first place. He knew Dean wasn’t leaving anytime soon.

June 1936.

It had been over a month since Dean had shown up on Cas’ doorstep, and Cas couldn’t remember what life had been like without him. They had fallen into a routine: each day, Cas would bring breakfast and a mug of coffee down to the basement, then leave for work. Dean would spend the day reading his latest selection from Cas’ collection. When Cas returned home in the evening, he would prepare a dinner that the men would eat together, sitting on boxes in the basement and conversing amicably. Dean was getting more comfortable every day, his bursts of self-doubt becoming less and less frequent as time passed.

As each day passed, Cas found himself rushing home to get back to Dean as quickly as possible. Their conversations each night grew longer and longer, lasting more time than any pretense of “dinner” would explain. Cas found himself reluctant to leave Dean’s company at night, wanting to stay by the other man. The two could talk about anything, even content to sit in silence when topics of conversation ran out. Neither man wanted to point out that Dean had long overstayed his original welcome at Cas’ house.

That night found Dean and Cas having dinner as usual in the basement. They discussed the upcoming Olympic games (“They took down all the anti-Jewish propaganda in Berlin, did you hear?”), the continued abuse against Jews, homosexuals, and Roma throughout the country, and the ever-growing possibility of war. Cas told Dean of the messages he had relayed that week; the network was trying to find a man to pose as a husband for a homosexual woman named Charlie who was fleeing Berlin to live in the country. Though homosexual women weren’t persecuted as much as men, it still wasn’t wise for a woman to be openly homosexual, especially in the cities. Therefore, many women had taken to finding a “beard” to conceal their sexuality and avoid conflict with the police.

Dean and Cas talked late into the night, long after they had finished eating. At some point, they had moved to sit on Dean’s mattress, as it was more comfortable than the hard boxes.

Cas mentioned his correspondence with Balthazar, the rebel who had accidentally given Dean Cas’ address to begin with. Dean blanched slightly at the name, a reaction which Cas did not overlook. Cas inquired what was wrong and Dean answered hesitantly.

“I was actually also talking to Balthazar this week,” Dean began, “and he mentioned that there is a safe house a few miles away that I can go to if I choose—”

“Why would you go? Are you unhappy here?” Cas desperately hoped his voice was calmer than he felt inside. Why did Dean want to leave?

Dean looked slightly taken aback at Cas’ abrupt interjection. “Well, I just assumed—I mean, you said I could stay for a few days, and obviously it’s been much longer...” Dean was rambling again. Cas had come to find it adorable. “I didn’t want to impose on your hospitality, that’s all. You’ve done so much for me this past month.”

“You’re not imposing on me, Dean,” Cas reassured him. “I really, truly like having you around.”

Dean smiled almost imperceptibly and lowered his head shyly, examining his pants as if they were the most interesting things in the world. “I like being here, too,” he told his lap, “but I don’t want to be a burden.”

“Dean, you’re not a burden. I’ll contact Balthazar tomorrow and tell him thanks, but not to bother. You can stay here until this whole situation blows over, as far as I’m concerned. No need to leave.”

Dean’s smile grew wider, like he was truly allowing himself to believe Cas’ words. He turned to face Cas. “You’re like my guardian angel, Cas, you know that?”

Cas noticed how close he and Dean were sitting on the mattress and felt his face heat up. He blushed. “Come on. I’m nothing special.”

“You’re incredible,” Dean murmured, inclining his head closer towards Cas. Cas’ breath hitched, immediately aware of where this was going. He closed his eyes, awaiting the inevitable, but it never came. Opening his eyes questioningly, Cas found Dean, frozen in apparent terror, not two inches away from Cas.

Something must have clicked in Dean’s brain as he recoiled from Cas, horrified. “I am so, so sorry,” Dean began, “I don't know what I was thinking—I wasn't thinking—I'll leave first thing tomorrow morning—”

“Dean. Dean!” Dean stopped talking, focusing on Cas. “It's alright. Please, calm down.”

“I crossed a line. It won't happen again, I promise.”

“What if I want it to happen again?” Cas asked quietly, not quite sure of the answer himself. Did Cas think of Dean like that? Did he want their relationship to take that next step?

Dean looked taken aback at that response, obviously not having thought of it. “Uh,” he responded, ever the eloquent one.

Cas decided to go with his gut—or, at least, lower-body—instinct. “I want this, Dean. Do you?”

Dean nodded nervously, not trusting himself to speak.

Cas leaned in once more, stopping to look Dean in the eyes. “Relax, Dean,” he said in an undertone.

Cas tried to relax himself as he leaned all the way in, his lips meeting Dean’s. Cas kissed Dean softly, breathing in the delicious scent of his (really Cas’, he supposed) shampoo, and Dean reciprocated, kissing Cas back slowly but intently. Cas’ hands found Dean’s shoulders, his fingers gripping at the short hairs at the base of Dean’s neck. He and Dean fit so perfectly together, like two adjoining puzzle pieces. It was a weird feeling, Dean’s stubble brushing gently against Cas’ jaw, but it felt so right. Logistically, it wasn’t really that different from kissing a girl, but Cas knew that no kiss with a girl could ever feel as good as this one did.

When they finally broke away for air, Dean and Cas simply stared at each other, their breathing labored and their foreheads pressed together.

“Wow,” Cas exhaled.

“Uh huh,” Dean concurred, smiling.

“I feel like this was a long time coming.”

“Yeah, ‘bout a month or so, I’d say,” Dean joked.

“What does this mean for us?” Cas asked, the conversation taking on a more serious tone.

Dean shifted uncomfortably on the mattress, his timidness clearly returning. “Well, if you were serious earlier, then I’d like to keep hiding here. If not, of course, I can tell Balthazar and be out by next week—”

Cas cut him off with another kiss. “You’re not going anywhere,” he growled. “If you ever leave me, there will be hell to pay.”

Dean hummed in agreement. “As long as you'll have me, I won’t go,” he promised.

Nothing had changed between them, and yet everything had changed. Cas knew there was no turning back from this. Dean was there to stay.

Chapter Text

August 1936.

...this springboard dive had a difficulty of two-point-oh. He clearly nailed the take-off, but the entry had just a tad too much splash...we’ll see what the judges say shortly...

“Scoot over, I want to listen, too!” Cas nudged Dean playfully as he sat down on Dean’s mattress. The Summer Olympics in Berlin had begun and Cas had brought his table-top radio down to the basement. It had taken a while to set up, but Dean’s apprenticeship as an electrician had clearly paid off and he was able to get the radio running in no time at all.

...the diver from Germany lines up to get his execution scores...we have four eights, two nines, and one nine-point-five, giving this diver a final score of fifty. Not a bad way to start Germany off in this year’s Olympic diving competition.

Dean and Cas cheered. They weren’t rooting for any one country in particular; they were simply enjoying the spirit of the games, cheering for all the teams from the comfort of their safe, cozy alcove in the basement.

Cas no longer felt jealous of Gabriel for being there in Berlin. He much preferred his current spot, snuggled up against Dean, to a crowded stadium full of people who would arrest him in a heartbeat if they knew about them. If they knew how Dean and Cas spent all their free time practically intertwined on Dean’s mattress. If they knew how much Cas loved running his fingers through Dean’s hair, counting Dean’s freckles, and kissing Dean’s perfect mouth. Why would he want to be with them when he could be here with Dean?

At this thought, Cas rested his head on Dean’s shoulder. They were close enough that Cas could feel Dean’s heartbeat reverberating through him as they sat there, listening.

Dean would still tense up when Cas touched him unexpectedly, but it was less and less each day. Their kisses were still soft, hesitant, and exploring. Though they never had discussed it, Cas understood that Dean didn’t allow people to touch him all that often. Cas knew how lucky he was to have gained Dean’s trust in that regard.

The two men sat there for some time, listening to the radio broadcaster describe the Russian diver’s perfect form and execution. After a while, Dean began to doze off with Cas’ arm around him, the latter man still tracing shapeless patterns over the former’s arm.

When Dean was fully asleep, Cas got up slowly as not to disturb him. Cas turned off the radio and pulled the blankets over Dean, tucking him into the bed as best he could without waking him. “Goodnight, my love,” Cas whispered softly, before heading upstairs to his own room.

Cas knew that there was no such thing as perfect, but he’d be damned if this wasn’t pretty darn close.

January 1937.

They usually were more careful about Dean being upstairs. He was still a wanted man, after all. Therefore, it was out of the ordinary when one January evening found both Dean and Cas in Cas’ bed upstairs. It was bitterly cold outside, as January in Germany tended to be, and the basement had little in the way of insulation. It felt cruel to make Dean sleep down there while Cas got to sleep in the warm confines of his bedroom, despite Dean’s protests that it really was fine, that he was used to the chill. He’d stayed in much worse conditions, he insisted. Nevertheless, Cas was adamant.

That night, after dinner, both men retreated upstairs to Cas’ bedroom. They got into bed, Dean on the left side, Cas on the right. Dean let out an involuntary sigh of relief as he sank into the fluffy blankets. He would never dare complain, and he was beyond grateful for what Cas had done for him thus far, but the mattress on the basement floor could not compare to the warm expanse of Cas’ bed.

Cas snuggled up next to Dean so that their noses were almost, but not quite, touching. “Hi,” Cas grinned.

“Hi,” Dean smiled back at Cas, intertwining the other man’s fingers in his own.

“You’re so cold!” Cas exclaimed. “Dean, keep your hands off of me, you’re an ice cube!”

With a devilish look in his eyes, Dean pulled his knees up to his chest so that his cold feet were suddenly pressed against Cas’ unsuspecting stomach. The other man let out a muffled shriek as he recoiled from the freezing feet, falling off the bed ass-first in the process. Dean almost wet himself laughing at the sight.

Cas popped up from behind the bed, looking like a disgruntled, messy-haired kitten tangled up in the bed sheets. Dean was still howling with mirth at Cas’ expression as he fell, so he wasn’t watching when Cas grabbed a pillow and whacked Dean as hard as he could in retaliation. Dean stopped laughing abruptly, staring at Cas for a few seconds in shock. Cas matched his gaze, trying to look as intimidating as possible while standing in his bed clothes with an awful bed head, holding a pillow in a fighting stance. Dean grabbed his pillow and jumped to his knees on the bed. “Oh, it’s on,” Dean declared.

After that, it was chaos. Cas and Dean were running around the room, smacking each other with pillows as hard as they could, all while roaring with laughter and trying not to trip over the bed or slip on the sheets as they scurried around the room. The two grown men were acting like a couple of children at a sleepover party, and neither of them could remember the last time they had this much genuine fun.

Cas and Dean must have been fooling around for a full half hour before Cas finally tackled Dean to the bed, falling on top of him. They lay there for a moment, both breathing heavily as their heart rates slowly returned to a normal speed. The tension in the room was palpable, but neither man made a move. It was only when Dean began to protest that Cas was suffocating him that Cas rolled off, returning to their original, pre-pillow fight position nose-to-nose. Cas reached over the side of the bed to pull the sheets back over their bodies, less than a foot of space separating them.

“I’m not cold anymore,” Dean remarked.

“No, I suppose you’re not,” agreed Cas, and he pressed himself against Dean so that they were connected from head to toe. With anyone else, this close proximity would likely have been too intimate to maintain without becoming hopelessly aroused, but somehow, Dean was different.

It wasn’t that Cas wasn’t attracted to Dean, because he most definitely was. It was just clear to them both that, though they hadn’t explicitly discussed it, neither of them were ready to take that next step in their relationship, and they were both okay with that.

For now, Cas was incredibly thankful to who or whatever was watching over him that allowed him to be safely in bed with another man; a man who he seemed to fall more in love with every day. With all the horror stories that seemed to come every time he turned on the radio, Cas knew how lucky he was to be safe at home with Dean Winchester in his bed, not even hiding in the basement. Cas could only hope that fate allowed him to stay this lucky for a while longer. Cas pressed a kiss to Dean’s forehead before turning the bedside lamp off. “Goodnight, Dean.”

“Goodnight, Cas,” Dean yawned, rolling over so that they were spooning, Cas’ arm draped over Dean’s side protectively. Nobody would take Cas’ Dean away from him.

March 1937.

Cas came home early to a delicious aroma wafting through his house. He followed the scent to the kitchen, where he found Dean bent over the oven, apparently removing some dish from inside. Dean seemed to be humming to himself as he worked and hadn’t noticed that Cas was home, so Cas simply stood there, watching Dean work.

Cas was surprised to see Dean upstairs during daylight hours, as that was not something they normally did. Dean would occasionally come up during the night, sure, but not the day. It was too dangerous, they had decided. Anyone could happen upon the house and find Dean there, and then where would they be? Cas didn’t want Dean to feel like a prisoner in the basement, but he also didn’t want them to be found out.

Cas strode over to Dean, putting his arms around Dean’s waist and his chin on Dean’s shoulder. “What’cha making?”

Dean stiffened for a moment in surprise, and Cas silently cursed himself for scaring Dean like that. He knew that Dean had an aversion to unannounced physical contact, but Cas sometimes forgot and touched Dean out of habit. He figured the aversion was another product of Dean’s past as a refugee but, as a private person himself, Cas was not one to pry about other people’s backstories. He just tried to be as accommodating as possible.

Dean relaxed a bit when he recognized Cas’ form behind him. “You scared me, Cas,” he chuckled nervously.

“What are you doing upstairs? It’s not the night, you know,” Cas joked.

“I know, I’m sorry,” apologized Dean, wringing his hands and looking down at the tile floor. “I wanted to surprise you and make dinner, but you came home before I could finish.”

Cas felt his heart melt. What had he done to deserve such a perfect man in his life? “It’s okay, we’ll finish it together.”

Dean quickly caught Cas up on what he had been preparing until then, and together they continued to make the meal. If Cas happened to reach across Dean unnecessarily a few times, bumping their hips or shoulders together, well, that was his business.

When the meal was complete, Dean and Cas washed up and took their regular seats at the kitchen table. Cas spooned large portions onto two plates, sliding one over to Dean, and they dug in.

The food was delicious, and it tasted even better knowing that they had made it together. Dean moaned around his first mouthful, the noise sounding entirely too hot for dinnertime. Cas’ dick perked up at the sound, seeming to agree. Cas glared at his lap, willing the rapidly forming erection away. Dean wasn’t ready for that, Cas knew, and he was going to respect Dean’s space. No matter what delicious noises Dean made at dinner time.

May 1937.

It had been one year since Dean had shown up and changed Cas’ life forever, and Cas wanted to celebrate. This was why Cas was running late on his way home from work; he had stayed extra-late to make a pie especially for the occasion. Dean loved pie, a fact Cas had learned early on in their relationship. Cas was excited to see Dean’s reaction when Cas walked in with a freshly made apple pie. He wondered how long it would take the sandy-haired man to smell it and come running.

Cas opened the front door, balancing the dessert on his hip as he worked the keys into the keyhole. He stepped inside, shutting and locking the door behind him, and waited a beat for the smell to waft down the hallway. No response from Dean. Walking into the kitchen, Cas set the pie down on the kitchen counter and shrugged off his trenchcoat, waiting for the man.

Cas heard the patter of Dean’s feet on the wood floor, getting louder and louder as Dean got closer to the kitchen. Dean burst into the room, looking wildly around for the source of the aroma. “Pie?”

Cas laughed at the sight of Dean, all disheveled, wide-eyed in excitement at the prospect of the sweet pastry. “Yes, Dean, pie.”

Dean’s eyes lit up as he strode over to the baked treat, inhaling deeply to capture the delicious smell. He turned to Cas, admiration clear in his expression. “You are the best person ever. You—you’re an angel.”

The aforementioned “angel” cuffed Dean on the shoulder good naturedly. “Just eat your pie,” Cas laughed.

Dean was happy to oblige, taking a pie cutter from the cutlery drawer and cutting himself a large slice. Cas chuckled. The man could never have enough pie. Cas took a considerably smaller piece for himself and they sat, enjoying the baked good in relative silence, punctuated only by Dean’s occasional pornographic moans. Dean really, really liked pie.

Dean finished his slice quickly, taking another without hesitation. Before long, the entire pie had been devoured. The surprise on Cas’ face when he noticed this must have been clear, because Dean noticed Cas’ expression in his post-pie euphoric daze. Dean looked slightly guilty, muttering, “Oops.” Then louder, “Sorry, Cas.”

Much to Dean’s apparent confusion, Cas burst out laughing. “Dean, Dean, it’s fine, it’s totally fine. Oh, Dean, what would I do without you?”

Feeling better, and now giggling a bit himself, Dean let Cas lead him into the living room. They sat on the couch, Cas’ head in Dean’s lap. Cas smiled up at Dean, seeing the other man upside down. His freckles were especially prominent at this angle. “Read to me?”

Dean loved to read, as Cas had learned soon after he came, and Cas loved when Dean read out loud. His deep (but not as deep as Cas’) voice made each story come to life, and the two liked to spend their evenings reading, Dean’s hand tangling through Cas’ perpetual mess of hair as he read.

This night was no different. Cas let Dean choose the book, and he relaxed as soon as Dean’s fingers began to massage his scalp, making his bed head even worse. Dean began to read, and Cas tried to listen, but the large amounts of pie in their stomachs found both men quickly dozing off on the couch, Dean’s hand still tenderly nestled in Cas’ hair. Dean had fallen asleep first and Cas followed him not long after, closing his eyes and breathing in the smell of Dean. The familiar scent calmed Cas, and he was able to fall into a pleasant sleep filled with dreams of pie and Dean. They slept there until morning, both too tired and comfortable to move to the bedroom.

June 1937.

Dean rarely used his basement mattress anymore. Why would he? Dean and Cas spent pretty much every night together in Cas’ bed, and they felt safe enough in the house to have Dean upstairs during the day. The basement was dark, cold, and uncomfortable compared to the rest of the house. Cas had also become rather accustomed to sharing his bed and living space with another person, and it wouldn’t feel right if that stopped.

Cas had been kept late at work that evening putting the finishing touches on a wedding cake that a wealthy couple had ordered to be picked up the next day. Cas was quite proud of the finished result, but he was exhausted nonetheless. All Cas wanted at that moment was to get home to Dean.

Cas entered the house quietly, not wanting to disturb Dean if he was already sleeping. “Dean?” Cas whispered. When he got no response, Cas assumed he had fallen asleep. Oh well, at least he’d see him in the morning before work. Cas went to his bedroom, ready to collapse in his bed. He entered the room, changing into his sleep clothes, and got into bed. It was only when he lifted the covers that he noticed the man curled up, deep in sleep, already in Cas’ bed.

Cas felt his heart swell with pride as he realized the situation. Cas had been late, and Dean, rather than going down to the basement to sleep on his mattress, had felt comfortable enough to fall asleep in Cas’ bed without Cas’ explicit consent. It was such an improvement from when Dean had first arrived; Cas almost couldn’t believe this was the same man standing (or, rather, lying) before him. Cas was so proud of how far his baby had come.

Cas lay down next to Dean, wrapping his body around him in the “big spoon” position. If he was awake, Cas was sure Dean would object vehemently to being cuddled in this way, but Cas knew better. Deep down, Dean enjoyed being taken care of, and Cas was always happy to take care of his little spoon.

July 15, 1937.

The news came one hot summer’s day. The bakery had been full of rumours, of course, but nothing was confirmed until the news came through the network that night. The Nazis had established a third concentration camp right outside the city of Weimar. Weimar was less than fifty kilometers south of Dean and Cas, making this news even more real for them. This camp was called Buchenwald and prisoners were being transported there immediately.

The network noted that the majority of the prisoners being taken were political prisoners; homosexuals, communists, Jehovah’s witnesses, and other groups deemed “asocial” by the Nazis were on their way to the camps at that moment.

Cas found Dean in the basement that evening when he returned from work. It was a testament to how much the news of this camp had affected them; Cas hadn’t set foot in the basement in weeks, except to grab a beer or something else stored down there. Dean’s few belongings had slowly but surely made their way upstairs over the course of the year, so there really wasn’t much left down there except a mattress. Even the radio had been moved back to its original place on the kitchen table.

Dean was sitting on the mattress looking utterly distraught. His eyes were red-rimmed, his nose puffy, and Cas’ first impression was that he looked like a kicked puppy. The fear reflected in his wide, green eyes was too much for Cas to handle as he took a seat next to Dean on the mattress. Even broken like this, Cas couldn’t help noticing that he still looked so beautiful. Still his Dean Winchester.

“What are we going to do?” croaked Dean, his voice broken.

“Nothing,” Cas replied simply.

“What?” Dean turned towards Cas in disbelief.

“There’s nothing to do,” Cas explained. “They haven’t found us, haven’t heard anything about us, so why would they start now?”

“I’m sorry, did you hear the news?” Dean shot back angrily.

“Yes, they’re sending people to the camps. Yes, many of those people are like you and me. This isn’t news, Dean, it’s just closer to home this time.” Cas sighed, letting his eyes close for a moment before he met the other man’s gaze. “Dean, when will you realize that you’re safe here? We’ll just have to be a bit more careful, that’s all. Spend more time down in the basement. They want you to be scared, love. If you show them your fear, then they’ve won,” Cas soothed.

“Easy for you to say. You’re not on their lists.” Dean turned away from Cas. Cas tried to reach for Dean’s hand, but Dean pulled his arms in, folding them over his chest.

“Is that something to be angry at me about?” Cas inquired, feeling a bit hurt.

Dean’s shoulders loosened, and he turned back towards Cas apologetically. “No, Cas, of course not. You know I didn’t mean it like that—”

“I know,” reassured Cas. “I love you, Dean, and I would never let anything happen to you. Please, let me help you.”

“My guardian angel, always rising to protect me.” A small smile played across Dean’s face, the first one Cas had seen all evening.

“Your angel,” Cas repeated.

October 1937.

“Does your hair ever lie flat?”

Dean was combing his fingers through Cas’ hair as Cas lay with his head in Dean’s lap. It had been a long day at the bakery, and all Cas had wanted to do when he came home was listen to Dean as the other man read a book out loud.

Cas laughed. “Never. Gabriel, always the mature one, called it my ‘sex hair’ when we were teenagers.”

“It’s attractive,” Dean informed him matter-of-factly.

Cas chuckled dismissively.

“I’m serious! I swear, when I first saw you, I was sure you were going to kick me out purely because I was staring at you so creepily. I couldn’t keep my eyes off you, remember?”

“You’ve got to be kidding me. Did you see yourself? It was all I could do, not to stare like an idiot. Standing there in a towel, dripping water like some Greek god; it should be illegal to look that good.”

Dean blushed. Cas particularly enjoyed it when Dean blushed; the color in his cheeks made his freckles even more prominent than usual.

“Your freckles,” Cas murmured affectionately.

“What?” Dean asked.

“Your freckles,” Cas repeated himself, louder. “They stand out when you blush. It’s adorable.”

Dean’s face flushed an even deeper shade of red. “The other kids always made fun of me for my freckles as a child. Apparently, freckles are not ‘Aryan’ enough for Germany.”

Cas leaned in to press feather-light kisses over Dean’s freckles. “They’re beautiful. You’re beautiful.”

Dean moved his head in order to capture Cas’ lips in a kiss, and Cas knew he would never tire of this. Dean was still running his fingers through Cas’ hair, which now stood in every direction possible.

“I like your sex hair,” Dean decided.

“I like you,” Cas countered playfully.

“And I, you.”

June 1938.

“Teach me how to make pie.”

It wasn't a request, but the tone with which Dean demanded this of Cas was anything but authoritative. Nevertheless, Cas caught this slight display of confidence and smiled, remembering the shaking, broken man who had appeared on his doorstep two years earlier. Two years. It seemed like a lifetime had passed since that fateful night, but at the same time, the whole thing was like a brief flash in Cas’ memory.

“Of course, Dean,” Cas said, smiling.

And that was how Cas found himself, hours later, covered from head to toe in flour and grinning at the equally flour-covered man in front of him.

It had started in an organized fashion. Cas was a professional, after all. Cas showed Dean how to properly form a crust, rolling it out onto the counter. Dean pretended to have trouble with it, and Cas played along; he sidled up behind Dean, taking his arms in hand and working him through the motions. It was cheesy, but they had fun.

Most of the pie-making process passed without incident, other than Dean's inability to leave the pie filling on the counter without eating it. He thought he was being sneaky, but Cas caught every spoonful.

Cas was distracted, creating the lattice of pastry dough for the top of the pie, when Dean called him over. "Cas?"

Cas turned, eyebrows raised, his focus still on the lattice. Before he could react, Dean reached out to bop him on the nose with a flour-coated finger. Dean began to laugh loudly at the startled expression on Cas’ face, so he wasn't paying attention as Cas calmly took a handful of flour and spread it around the palm of his hand.

“Boop,” Cas said evenly, pressing his hand firmly on Dean’s left shoulder to create a handprint.

Dean met Cas’ gaze, a devilish grin slowly spreading across his face. “Oh, it's on.”

All attempts at serious pie making were abandoned at this point, the two men instead trying to get each other dirty with flour and other baking ingredients. At one point, Dean had smeared a streak of apple filling across Cas’ cheek, only to immediately lick it off with one broad stroke of his tongue. Despite himself, Cas idly wondered what else that tongue was good at. Maybe he would find out one day.

Once they had tired themselves out with their impromptu food fight, Dean and Cas sat in the carnage that had once been a neat and orderly kitchen. Exhausted, Cas pulled himself up just enough to put the pie in the oven and shut the door before collapsing back to the floor.

It may not have been the prettiest pie Cas had ever made, but he couldn't remember ever having that much fun while baking. And though the recipe hadn’t changed, baking it with Dean made it taste that much better.

Early September 1939.

It was official; they were at war. It was only because of his familial connections that Cas hadn’t been drafted to the German army like most other young, able-bodied men. Nothing had really changed for Dean and Cas since the announcement. Cas still went to his job at the bakery every morning, and he and Dean still ate dinner every night at the kitchen table, making sure, of course, to keep the shades closed. Cas had made it a habit to always keep the shades closed so that Dean could roam the house as he pleased during the day.

Only a few days after the war began, Dean and Cas were eating dinner as usual, making small talk as they ate. It wasn’t a fancy meal, but they spent a long time at the table, too engaged in their conversation to notice that they had both finished what was on their plates. They were so engrossed, in fact, that they didn’t hear the first knock on the door.

The knocking sounded again, this time catching both men’s attention. Dean and Cas fell silent, staring at each other. Cas tilted his head in confusion, wondering who would be knocking at this time of night, but Dean looked petrified. Cas came to his senses a split second later.

“Go!” Cas whispered, hurrying Dean towards the basement door. Cas stopped Dean before he descended with a kiss to Dean’s cheek. “I love you,” he murmured, his mouth brushing against Dean’s skin.

Dean squeezed Cas’ hand and went down the stairs. Cas closed the door in his wake, turning back to answer the door.

Cas opened the door to find a blond haired man standing on his doorstep in full military uniform, his arm raised as if to knock again. The man smiled toothily. “Castiel! Long time, no see, cousin!”

Chapter Text

Cas stood in shock, staring at the man on his doorstep. The man considered him for a moment, then stage whispered, “Are you going to let me in? It’s awfully rude to leave your family out on the doorstep, you know.” He chuckled at himself.

Cas shook himself out of his trance, stepping to the side to let the man in. “Of course, where are my manners? Please come in, Lucifer.”

Lucifer followed Cas inside to the kitchen, making himself at home immediately. The men sat at the kitchen table, Lucifer’s back to the basement door. After a minute of awkward silence, Cas cleared his throat.

“Lucifer, I don’t mean to be rude, but what are you doing here?”

Lucifer laughed. “What do you mean? A guy can’t visit his lonely old cousin when he wants?”

“I’m not lonely,” Cas rolled his eyes, grumbling. “And I have no problem with you visiting, it’s just that you haven’t been to my house in, well, years.”

Lucifer nodded seriously. “Exactly, there’s no time like the present.”

“Why are you here, Lucifer?”

Lucifer sighed, as if Cas was causing him great difficulty by asking his question. “Fine, we’ll skip the small talk. Castiel, as you know, I’m pretty high up in the army right now.”

Cas rolled his eyes again; Lucifer was very proud of his military status. Lucifer continued, “I was able to pull a few strings to keep you out of the army, but you have to be careful. They’re suspicious already, and you wouldn’t want them to come asking more questions. Just don’t do anything stupid. Okay, Castiel?”

Cas sighed, tired of Lucifer treating him like a small child. “Yes, Lucifer, I won’t do anything stupid,” he emphasized the last word.

Lucifer grinned, ignoring the sarcasm. “Great! Now that we’ve got that cleared up, I’ve got one more question for you.”

“Yes?” Castiel asked, his eyebrows raised.

“Wanna tell me why the table’s set for two?”

Cas froze, his eyes wide like a deer’s in the headlights. Shit. How could he have been so stupid and forgotten about their dinner? He tried to think of a way out, but Cas had never been a particularly good liar, especially when caught off guard.

“I—well—you see—” Cas stammered, rubbing the back of his neck. Lucifer just sat there, his arms folded. Cas sighed, his shoulders slumping in defeat. He just had to have faith that Lucifer put his family before his party allegiance. “Okay, I’ll tell you the truth, but you can’t tell anyone.”

Lucifer remained silent, waiting for Castiel to explain himself. Cas uncrossed his legs, unconsciously leaning towards Lucifer. “I—” his voice broke off, afraid to continue. Cas took a deep breath. “There’s someone in my basement.”

Lucifer’s eyes widened in horror. “There’s what?” he whispered. “Castiel, you must know that this is—”

Cas cut him off. “Please don’t tell anyone, Lucifer. I beg you. Keep this between us. Do it for me, your family.”

Lucifer looked like he was in physical pain, trying to decide what to do. His morals were colliding, everything he had been taught contradicting everything he felt deep in his heart. Lucifer and Cas sat at the table for a minute in total silence, the only sound coming from the steady tap tap of the leaky bathroom faucet. Cas needed to get that fixed; maybe Dean would know how to do it.

Dean.

Cas felt his chest seize up. He was going to die, he knew it, and he had failed Dean as well. Lucifer was surely going to turn them in and that would be the end. Cas waited with baited breath for Lucifer to speak the news of Cas and Dean’s fate.

Lucifer finally broke the silence, clearing his throat. “Castiel, you know I value family. I value family over everything else. I—I won’t tell my superiors about this.”

Cas felt lightheaded. This was too good to be true. “Lucifer, I—”

“Wait,” Lucifer held up a hand. “I don’t want to hear anything about this person. I don’t want to know about it. We will pretend this conversation didn’t happen. I won’t ask, and you won’t tell. Understood?”

“Yes, yes, of course, thank you so much, Lucifer. Thank you, thank you,” Cas babbled, unable to profuse his thanks enough.

Lucifer waved off his thanks, reminding Cas that it was only because they were family. Lucifer stood to leave, wishing Cas much luck and telling him to keep in touch. They exchanged a short hug at the door, and then Lucifer was gone. Cas collapsed against the door as it closed behind the other man, utterly exhausted. There was no way of knowing if Lucifer would keep his promise or not, but Cas hoped to any and every god in the heavens that he would.

When Cas closed the basement door behind Dean, the freckled man decided to eavesdrop on the conversation by sitting against the door, his ear pressed firmly against the wooden surface. Dean listened as Cas welcomed the visitor inside and they made their way to the kitchen table. Peering through the keyhole, Dean realized with a pang of fear that their dinner plates were still on the table. Neither Cas nor the other man seemed to have noticed. As the men took their seats, Dean got his first glimpse of the strange man. He had short, blond hair, was dressed in full Nazi uniform, and seemed perfectly at home reclining comfortably with his back towards Dean.

Why was Cas talking to a Nazi? Was he friends with a Nazi? Was all this just a setup for Cas to hand him over? Dean’s mind began racing with worries. He put his ear to the door again, trying to make out what the men were saying. He listened just in time to hear Cas’ words: “There’s someone in my basement.”

Dean’s blood ran cold. His heart began thumping loudly in his ears, drowning out all other noise. He felt like he was going to vomit. Dean staggered down the stairs, having heard enough. He couldn’t listen anymore.

Dean sat on his mattress, beating himself up for falling for Cas’ charm. How could he have been so foolish? It was too good to be true, right from the beginning. Dean wasn’t worth anyone’s time. Why would Cas have given two shits about him?

Dean knew he was going to be taken away. He had accepted it. That was his punishment for letting his guard down, for opening up to Cas. Dean cursed himself for ever thinking a Nazi like Cas could be good.

Contemplating it further, Dean realized that Cas never touched him if he could help it, always waiting for Dean to initiate the contact. He didn’t care about Dean; he was stringing Dean along until he could turn him in. Dean felt the hopelessness in his gut solidify and crust into something sharper—rage. He hated Castiel Novak, hated everything about him. Dean lay there, seething, waiting for Cas to dare to come downstairs.

Eventually, Dean heard the basement door open as a single set of footsteps made their way down the stairs. He heard Cas’ familiar, deep voice cut through the dark. “Dean?”

Cas held up his lantern to see in the dark of the basement. There, on his mattress, leaning against the wall, sat Dean, shadows bouncing around the walls behind him. The lighting made the green-eyed man look menacing as he sat there, cross legged, trembling with equal parts fear and rage.

Taking a few steps towards Dean, Cas spoke again. “Dean? Baby, it's okay, it's me. Lucifer's gone.”

“Get away from me, you Nazi lover. I never should have trusted you,” Dean spat, turning his shoulder to deflect Cas’ touch.

Cas stood in shock, not knowing what to say to that. What was Dean on about?

Dean turned back towards Cas, addressing him sarcastically. “So, when are they coming for me? How long do I have to live?”

“Dean, what? Who’s coming for you?” Cas’ brow was furrowed with confusion and concern.

“I was gonna ask you the same thing. Is it one of your friends, or are you bringing your family to see what a great job you did, capturing a homosexual? I hear they're pretty rare around these parts, kudos to you for getting one of your own!” Dean's voice had gotten more and more hysterical as he spoke, rising in pitch and volume.

“Dean, I’ve no idea what you're on about. Nobody's coming for you, that's the point. You're safe here.”

Dean snorted in obvious disbelief. “Don't lie. I heard you and that disgusting, filthy Nazi talking. You didn't have any problem telling him all about me, did you?”

Cas began to understand what had happened. “Dean, did you hear the whole conversation?”

Dean rolled his eyes, folding his arms like a petulant child. “I heard enough.”

“Dean, Lucifer is my cousin. He's a Nazi, yes, but he cares about his family above all. He saw our plates, I had no choice but to tell him. But he promised me. He's not gonna turn you in; on the contrary, he swore he'd keep us safe.”

Dean remained silent, unconvinced. After what was probably just a few minutes, but felt like hours, Cas sighed and retreated upstairs. Dean would get over it; maybe he just needed some time to process what Cas had told him. Both men lay in their respective beds for hours, each plagued with the same question: what now?

Thursday.

It had been two days, and Cas was beginning to seriously suffer from a lack of Dean. He was addicted to the adorable man, and said adorable man had been avoiding him since Lucifer’s visit. Cas didn't want to force his presence upon Dean. He would give him space for a few more days to let him cool down.

On the fifth day after Lucifer’s visit, a Sunday, Cas decided that enough was enough. Nothing was going to get better unless he talked to Dean and they worked it out.

Cas went down to the basement, not knowing what he would find when he reached the bottom. Would Dean be happy to see him, or angry like the last time Cas saw him? Would Dean ignore him or feign sleep? More importantly, would Dean be there at all?

All of these possibilities swirling in his mind, Cas was relieved when he reached the bottom of the stairs to find Dean, awake, sitting on his mattress like any other time Cas had ventured downstairs. Looking into Dean’s eyes, Cas felt his heart break a little. Dean stared at Cas fearfully, submissively, like a puppy who expected to be kicked. Cas hated that look on Dean’s face, and he hated himself knowing that he was the reason Dean looked like that.

Cas tried to approach Dean, an arm outstretched to grasp Dean’s shoulder, but Dean shied away from his touch, practically trembling with fear. Cas was forcibly reminded of the first few days after Dean arrived, when Dean had expected to be punished at any given moment.

Message received, Cas took a few steps back from Dean, arms raised in surrender to show that he would not touch Dean without Dean’s consent. Cas took a seat on the box, still staring intently at Dean, but Dean wouldn't look at him. The haunted look in Dean’s eyes as he stared into space scared Cas. It was like something had snapped inside Dean’s mind. Cas didn't want to push to find out what it was, but he wanted his Dean back. Selfishly, Cas wanted someone to cuddle with again.

Cas spoke. “Do you, uh, want to talk about it?”

Dean jumped at being addressed, and looked towards the source of the noise. Dean was looking where Cas was, but Cas got the impression that Dean was looking right through him, as though he wasn't there. The man was so deep in his own thoughts and Cas needed to pull him out of the whirlpool of despair inside his head.

Out of nowhere, Dean began to speak, still not focusing on Cas. “What do you want from me?”

Cas was taken aback. “What?”

“I assume you’ll want something, right? In return for putting yourself in danger?”

“No, Dean, you're my guest. I wouldn't let you stay here unless I wanted you here, I thought that was clear, why would you think anything different?”

“Because I'm a burden and I'm not worth anyone's time or effort,” Dean recited, as if the words were a lesson he had memorized for school. Cas’ heart, already broken, was torn to pieces as he saw how Dean actually believed the words he was saying.

“I’ve never heard something so false before in my life. Who would tell you such a thing?”

This was, apparently, the wrong thing to say. Dean’s eyes widened, terrified, and his face ran pale. “He's gonna find me. He told me he would find me, no matter what.”

“What? Dean, you’re not making any sense.”

“I knew he would find me, I knew it. He’s going to find me, he’s going to be so angry.” The freckle faced man seemed to have forgotten that Cas was there at all, hyperventilating as he sat, tears running down his face, on the mattress. Cas didn’t know who “he” was, but there was clearly some detail that Dean was leaving out.

“Dean?” Cas asked gently. It took a few minutes, but Dean’s breathing slowly returned to normal and he looked up, his red-rimmed eyes meeting Cas’. Cas decided to test the theory that had been germinating in the back of his mind for a short while. “Is this really about Lucifer?”

Dean shook his head once, side to side.

“Do you want to tell me what it’s about? I can help you, Dean.”

Dean spoke haltingly, his voice quavering. “He told me not to tell. He said he’d hurt me if I told.”

“He can’t get you here, baby. Please, you’ll feel better if you talk about it,” Cas pleaded.

Dean stopped, seeming to consider it. He sighed resignedly, looking back down at his lap as if he were ashamed. “Alright,” he finally conceded, and Cas took a seat on a box facing him.

Chapter Text

July 1934.

Dean never intended to stay at Alastair’s house. It was 1934, and Dean was still bouncing between shelters, never staying in one place for too long. A barn here, a cellar there; whatever could be arranged by the rebels’ network on short notice. The conditions were often substandard, but Dean didn’t really mind. All he wanted was to get as far away from Berlin as possible.

Dean was walking through the streets of Leipzig one warm night, following the directions he had been given to his next safe house. Dean made sure to travel only at night as to minimize the number of people with whom he interacted. He kept his head down and walked, when possible, through alleyways and on streets cloaked in darkness, trying to look as inconspicuous as he could.

It was in one of these alleyways that Dean, having walked all night, decided to rest his eyes against the cold brick of the neighboring building, mostly hidden by the dumpsters and garbage that littered the narrow pathway. The stench was extraordinary, but Dean hoped that this would keep passersby away and conceal Dean until the following nightfall. Dean drifted off into a fitful sleep, uncomfortable and smelly against the rough, cool surface of the brick.

Just a few hours later, Dean was awoken by the creaking of the rusty dumpster lid. He peered around the edge of the bin enough to see a man with a pointed nose and chin tossing his garbage inside, a scowl on his face. This unknown character must have been in his forties or fifties, judging by his receding hairline, and held himself with the military precision of an army officer. Dean quickly realized that this man could likely have Dean arrested and killed before he could utter a single “Heil Hitler” in his own defense.

Dean scrambled back against the wall at this realization, his heart rate increasing rapidly. There was no way out; he was blocked by garbage on one side and the dumpster on the other. Dean closed his eyes and prayed to whichever deity was up there that the man would go away and Dean would get out safely.

As it would happen, God hated Dean Winchester.

Dean had his eyes closed, trying to keep perfectly still, when he heard a loud thud and a stream of muttered curses. The mysterious army man had accidentally missed the dumpster, sending a pile of rubbish to the ground right in front of Dean. Eyes wide, Dean braced himself as the man rounded the corner of the bin.

The man didn’t notice Dean at first, bending down to retrieve his garbage. It was as he straightened up that he locked eyes with Dean, not comprehending at first. Dean watched the recognition flit across his face as the man stood up, garbage forgotten, striding closer to Dean until he was leering over the dirty, terrified man with a slight sneer playing at the corner of his mouth.

“Well, well, well, what do we have here,” he asked in a nasal, malicious voice. “Are you a dirty Jew? No, you’re much too pretty. So what are you doing, lying in this filth like a dirty pig?”

Before Dean could protest, the man grabbed Dean’s chin, tilting his head up to examine his mouth. The man’s fingers were rough and calloused, his grip firm as he held Dean’s face before releasing him abruptly, letting Dean fall to the ground at his feet.

“I know what you are, homo. Lips look like they’re made for sucking cock. Disgusting schwanzlutscher, you cocksucker,” he spat.

Dean flinched at the derogatory name but did not say anything. He had never felt more powerless in his life and he had no idea what would become of him within the next few minutes.

The man continued, “Would you look at that! I caught myself a little fairy! What should I do with you, fairy?” he mused to himself. “I could turn you over to the Gestapo, but where would be the fun in that?

“Let’s see if you’re good at what you do, faggot.”

The man took Dean by the collar, forcing him back against the wall and onto his knees. Dean could feel the chill of the concrete through the thin material of his pants, and he tried to focus on that instead of the man in front of him, who was now undoing his belt at Dean’s eye level.

“How about this,” the man proposed, though Dean knew there wouldn’t be a choice. “Suck me off, then maybe I’ll see what I can do to keep you hidden. You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” he laughed, removing himself from the fly of his pants, already semi-hard. “Disgusting schwanzlutscher.”

The man grabbed a handful of Dean’s hair, pulling him forward with one arm as he used the other to guide his dick to Dean’s mouth. “Open wide, faggot.”

Dean had no other choice but to open his lips, allowing the other man to enter his mouth. The man, however, had no intention of letting Dean adjust to the uncomfortable feeling of having a cock in his mouth. The man groaned, pushing his hips forward, sending his cock down Dean’s throat.

Dean choked, eyes watering at the burning sensation, but the man didn’t seem to care. He continued to fuck into Dean’s face, one hand still twisted in Dean’s hair. One particularly violent thrust sent Dean’s whole head backwards, smacking painfully into the brick wall. Bright dots now sparkling behind his eyelids, Dean tried to relax his throat muscles and become lax, waiting for the whole thing to be over.

The man continued to use Dean’s mouth, thrusting roughly and without pause for what felt like hours. Dean tried to focus on his breathing, in and out through his nose, as his throat was repeatedly stretched wide by the hard length of the other man. Tears continued to form silently at the corners of Dean’s eyes as he knelt there on the cold, solid ground, held firmly in place against the brick wall.

Why had he chosen to rest here? Why hadn’t he kept walking?

After what seemed like an eternity, Dean felt the familiar signs of release building in the older man. His thrusts became irregular and more shallow—much to Dean’s relief—and his breathing laboured. With one final, deep thrust and a tug of Dean’s hair, the man spilled his load down Dean’s throat, forcing the young man to swallow it all. Once the man was finished, he pulled back sharply and released his grip on Dean’s hair as he tucked himself back into his pants and re-fastened his belt. Dean coughed, trying to regain his breath, as he lay motionless on his knees, slumped against the brick.

The man fixed him with a devilish smile, looking fully sated amidst Dean’s immense discomfort. “I like your mouth, Schwanzlutscher,” he decided. “I think I’ll keep you.”

The man pulled Dean to his feet by the collar of his shirt and looked him up and down contemplatively, as though Dean was a prime slab of meat at the butcher shop. “Yes, you’ll make a good toy, won’t you, you little twink?”

Dean couldn’t answer, his throat was so raw and abused. The man seemed to take his silence as assent, though, because he dragged Dean inside the building he’d been resting against. It turned out to have been the man’s house.

Just Dean’s luck.

The next year was the worst in Dean’s life. Dean had stayed in some rather unpleasant accommodations, living among rats and barn animals, but the Nazi officer’s house took the cake. It wasn’t that his home was dirty or inherently unpleasant, in fact it was actually one of the fancier places Dean had stayed. No, the cause of Dean’s trouble was the officer himself. The man, whose name was revealed to be Alastair, used Dean as a sort of a slave in return for not turning him over to the other officers.

While Alastair was out, Dean was locked in his room, empty spare for a cot, bedpan, and water bowl. Although this was a miserable and rather lonely existence, Dean could have handled it. It was when Alastair was home that Dean wished he could take his own life to save himself the suffering.

Alastair made Dean clean up after him, doing all the chores to keep the house spotlessly clean. Dean washed the dishes, did Alastair’s laundry, scrubbed his boots, and pressed his uniform to keep it in perfect condition between uses.

Dean didn’t think that Alastair bothered to learn his name throughout the whole year he spent at his house. Alastair simply referred to his slave by a series of derogatory nicknames, the most prominent of which continued to be schwanzlutscher. Cocksucker. This wasn’t just a casual nickname, either. Dean may have been a slave in terms of the household chores he performed, but he was primarily a slave in regard to the acts he performed for Alastair’s pleasure. Dean was, essentially, Alastair’s sex slave.

If Alastair had had a good day, he would likely have Dean under the table during dinner, warming Alastair’s cock in his mouth as he ate. When Alastair had finished his meal, Dean would be expected to finish Alastair off with his mouth, blowing him as best he could. If Alastair had had a bad day, however, he was prone to bending Dean over the kitchen table as soon as he came home, fucking him roughly and without preamble until Alastair climaxed.

Dean had no say in these situations, any and all power was taken away from him. He never dared utter a word of complaint, knowing that Alastair would turn him over to the authorities without the slightest hesitation if prompted. Dean never once spoke in his defense: not when Alastair split him open without preparation or lubricant, not when Dean was left on the table to deal with his own neglected erection, not even when Alastair continued to fuck, hard, into Dean’s overstimulated hole after Dean came, a result of Alastair hitting Dean’s prostate dozens of times in a row rather than any genuine arousal on Dean’s part.

Sometimes Alastair would talk to Dean as he fucked him. “You’re mine,” Alastair would growl in Dean’s ear. “My disgusting, slutty faggot. Nobody cares about you, faggot, you know that? I could have you killed tomorrow, just like that—” he thrusted once, hard, “—and nobody would know the difference. You are nothing but a worthless set of holes, eager to be filled up by my cock.”

Dean screwed his eyes shut and tried to tune out Alastair’s voice, but the message was clear. Nobody did care about Dean, and surely nobody would blink twice if he was suddenly gone. Who would even notice?

The year passed by, albeit slowly, as Dean’s once tight hole grew looser and his pain tolerance higher. It still hurt each time Alastair fucked him, but Dean grew accustomed to it. To Dean, sex was no longer an act of pleasure, of love. It was purely pain; a punishment for being a dirty, slutty homo.

March 29, 1936.

Dean could sense Alastair’s good mood from the moment the Nazi walked in the front door that evening, but it seemed different than usual. Alastair seemed almost manic in his excitement.

“Honey, I’m home!”

Dean stiffened. Alastair was never like this. What had happened?

“Where are you, Schwanzlutscher? I’ve got good news!” Alastair chuckled, entering the kitchen where Dean sat. “Well, good news for me. Terribly awful news for faggots like you.”

Alastair approached Dean, bending him over the kitchen table with his ass in the air. If Alastair was having a good day, why was he fucking Dean like this?

Alastair pulled Dean’s pants down to his thighs and spit on his own fingers before shoving two inside Dean at once. “You see, Schwanzlutscher, I got promoted today. Yes, that’s right,” he continued, replacing his fingers at once with his cock, bottoming out on the first thrust. “I’m going to be the head guard at one of the new camps that they’re building. I’ll be in charge of thousands of faggots like you. That will be fun, won’t it?”

Dean just lay there, head pressed against the firm tabletop as usual, his teeth gritted as Alastair continued to pound roughly into him.

After about ten minutes, Alastair pulled out abruptly. He stood behind Dean, apparently considering the latter’s back. Dean heard, rather than saw, the clicking of Alastair’s boots on the tile floor as he moved around the kitchen to retrieve something. Having retrieved whatever it was that he wanted, Alastair returned to his position behind Dean. Instead of re-entering Dean as Dean expected, Dean felt something cool trace over his back, and a sudden prick of pain. It was almost like… a needle?

Dean turned his body enough to look over his shoulder. Alastair was standing there with a tattoo gun in his hand, still contemplating Dean’s back sinisterly. Dean could just barely make out the black of the ink where the needle had pierced his lower back.

“I didn’t tell you you could move, Schwanzlutscher. Wait until I’m done with you.”

More scared than he ever remembered being before in his life, Dean obeyed and put his head back down on the table. What was Alastair doing to him?

Alastair brought the needle back down to pierce Dean’s skin and Dean had to make a conscious effort not to scream out in pain. Ignorant, or perhaps uncaring, to Dean’s immense pain, Alastair continued with no explanation, focused on his task. It was only when he deemed himself finished that Alastair laid down the tattoo gun in front of Dean’s face and spoke.

“You’re my little schwanzlutscher, aren’t you, faggot? Suck me until I’m hard again.” With that, Alastair wrenched Dean around and pushed him unceremoniously to the ground, shoving his length into Dean’s mouth. Dean tried to conjure up as much saliva as possible to wet Alastair’s length before he was inevitably opened up again, but his mouth had gone pretty dry. After fucking himself down Dean’s throat several times until he was hard, grabbing a fistful of Dean’s hair, Alastair yanked Dean back up and flipped him over, breaching his entrance once more.

“You’re mine, Schwanzlutscher,” he growled into Dean’s ear. “Now everybody will know it.”

Alastair kept fucking Dean as hard as he could until Dean felt the telling signs of his impending orgasm. Alastair’s thrusts lost their military precision, becoming more and more erratic until Alastair pulled out at the last second, coming all over Dean’s lower back.

The come hit right on the part of his back on which Alastair had been working. It stung the wounded area so badly that Dean couldn’t help himself; he screamed in pain as the hot fluid made contact with his skin.

When he was finished, Alastair used the clean part of Dean’s back to wipe any excess come off of his cock before tucking himself away and buttoning his pants. He then walked out of the kitchen, whistling, leaving Dean to catch his breath on the kitchen table.

After laying there for a few minutes, Dean forced himself to get up. He took a damp rag and went to the bathroom mirror, twisting around as best he could to clean himself up. The cloth stung as well but Dean hardly felt the pain. Once he had cleaned the majority of the dried semen, Dean was able to clearly see the word that Alastair had so carefully etched into his skin. Schwanzlutscher.

Dean saw white at the edges of his vision. He felt light-headed and dropped to the toilet, retching over the bowl. He was disgusting. He was a schwanzlutscher. Nobody would ever love him. Dean’s life was completely worthless.

Who would care if he was dead? No one even knew that he was alive.

Dean could imagine the next few years of his life, serving as Alastair’s toy until he died, and the thought brought tears to his eyes. He had barely managed being a slave up until now, but this night had been a whole new level of sadistic cruelty. Dean was totally and utterly broken. He wanted—no, needed—it to end.

What if he left? The idea didn’t seem so crazy anymore. Even if Alastair caught him, what’s the worst he could do? Kill Dean? Dean no longer cared if he lived or died; he just needed to get out of Alastair’s control.

Dean finished cleaning himself and retreated back into his room, pondering this new option. If he escaped, he would be free, but he didn’t have anywhere to go. Dean wasn’t even sure where he was, exactly. It had been so long since he had contact with the outside world. Dean figured he could run and find a way to contact the resistance once he was away from Alastair. That was, if the resistance still existed. Dean wasn’t sure how much time had passed; though it had likely been mere months, it felt as though he had been in this hell for forty years. For all Dean knew, the resistance could have been long since wiped out and he would be out of luck.

Luckily, Dean didn’t care.

Looking around his empty room, Dean wondered how he would pull off the initial escape. He didn’t have anything to take with him, so he could leave at any time. Lying down on the bed, Dean hissed as he agitated the wounds on his back. He rolled to his side, forming his plan for a short while longer, until the exhaustion of the day overtook him and he drifted into a fitful sleep.

The next morning, Dean woke up to the sound of Alastair closing the front door on his way out. He got out of bed as usual, not bothering to make up the covers or do any of his usual morning chores around the house. Dean stopped by the icebox on his way through the kitchen to get something to eat. He might as well take something, since he didn’t know when he would get food next. Dean decided that a hunk of cheese, part of a loaf of multigrain bread, and some sausage would keep him going for a few days at least. He wrapped the items in a clean rag and fastened it with a short length of string. Sitting down at the kitchen table, the same one on which Alastair had defiled him the previous night, Dean went over the steps of his plan in his head. If all went well, he would be out of town before Alastair came home from work. If it didn’t work, well, Dean had accepted the consequences.

Dean waited a short while before leaving the house, letting the other inhabitants of the area leave for work before he ventured out into the unknown. Dean knew it was risky to leave in broad daylight, but he’d weighed his options and had decided that it was better to risk that than to face Alastair again.

When he deemed it as safe as it would get, Dean made his way into the front hallway of the house and peered through the peephole in the door. Nobody seemed to be outside. Cautiously, Dean opened the door and stepped over the threshold, closing and locking the door behind him.

He was out.

Heart racing slightly, Dean walked into the alleyway next to Alastair’s house. It looked mostly the same, save for a few new bins and, obviously, different garbage. He grabbed a discarded newspaper to check the date. Over a year had passed since Alastair had found him. Dean kept going. The alley let out onto a smaller, empty street and Dean continued walking, darting through alleyways whenever he had the chance.

Dean tried to move as fast as he could away from Alastair’s house. He knew of a man who lived not far from Leipzig, Balthazar, who Dean knew was part of the resistance and could perhaps help Dean find a place to stay. Days passed with Dean doing little other than walking and sleeping only when his body felt it was going to collapse at any moment. The small amount of provisions that Dean had brought with him had run out, despite Dean’s careful rationing.

Dean knew Alastair would definitely have noticed that Dean was gone by now, and he wondered idly if the Nazi had bothered looking for him at all. It wasn’t like Alastair had particularly cared for Dean in any way; he only liked using Dean to resolve his sexual frustration. After all, to Alastair he was simply a schwanzlutscher.

After a few days of walking, getting directions from the occasional street sign, Dean found himself in the city where Balthazar was supposed to be. Dean made his way to the British man’s neighbourhood, waiting until dark before knocking on his door.

Balthazar opened the door after Dean knocked the second time, his eyes narrowing in confusion as he took in Dean’s bedraggled appearance. “Dean?”

“I need help,” Dean spoke, his voice like gravel.

1939. Sunday night.

Dean finished his story, unable to look Cas in the eye. “You probably think I’m disgusting, doing those things.”

Cas was in shock, not knowing how one person could hold that much weight on their shoulders and still function in everyday life. When Cas finally spoke, it was in a hushed, almost reverent voice. “Disgusting? Dean, you are the bravest man I’ve ever met. I’ve known that since I met you, and this only reinforces my belief. Dean, you are so pure, so good! Never let anyone tell you otherwise.”

Dean squirmed, not expecting the praise. “I sold my body in exchange for a place to stay. I made those decisions. Alastair gave me a choice, and I let him use my body. He was right, I am a dirty slut.”

“Dean, Alastair raped you. He tortured you. You knew there was no other option; it was either submit or die. Alastair is evil, Dean, and you were the victim. Don’t blame yourself for what he did to you, because it doesn’t define you. I still love you, no matter what.”

“I will probably never be a normal lover to you,” Dean warned. “I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to have a ‘normal’ relationship. I have days where I can’t even tolerate any physical contact whatsoever. I’m broken, Cas. I’m not the man for you.”

“You couldn’t be more wrong, Dean. There is nobody I could ever want more than you. I don’t care if we never touch, Dean, I just want to be around you. I love you for you, Dean, when will you understand that? Will you let me be there for you?”

Cas watched as Dean’s face cycled through emotions, incredulity, disbelief, questioning, and finally, hesitant acceptance. “Yeah—yeah, okay,” Dean exhaled.

Cas moved to sit on the mattress next to Dean, careful to leave a safe amount of space between them so as to not startle the other man. “Dean?” Dean turned to look at him. “We’ll work through this, won’t we?”

Dean met him with a small, sad smile. “Yeah, we will. We always do.”

November 1939. Saturday.

Cas felt badly for Dean; Cas got to go outside everyday, coming and going from the house as he pleased, while Dean was cooped up without even an open window to provide a glimpse of the outside world. Dean didn’t seem to mind, and Cas knew it was for both of their own goods, but he wished there was a way he could get Dean out of the house without arousing suspicion.

An idea hit Cas one day as he was walking by the auto dealership to run some errands in town. Dean had a penchant for automobiles, Cas knew that, and he also knew that Dean had never gotten one of his own. What if Cas could change that?

On his way home, Cas decided to make a stop at the dealership. It couldn’t hurt to look, after all. Walking into the lot, one car in particular caught Cas’ eye: an old BMW, slightly worn but just waiting to be fixed up and driven off into the sunset. Or, to Cas’ driveway. Whichever worked.

Without a second thought, Cas bought the old car along with some parts and tools to fix it up, and drove it home. He couldn’t wait to tell Dean.

Cas kept quiet about the automobile all night, wanting to surprise the man early the next morning. When morning came, he could hardly wait.

“What’s got you so excited?” Dean asked, amused, as they sat down for breakfast. His curiosity wasn’t unfounded. Cas could be known to be pretty grumpy in the morning before his first coffee.

Cas smiled, unable to stop himself. “I have a surprise for you,” he grinned.

Dean certainly looked surprised. “For me? What?”

Cas strode over to the front window in the kitchen, peering out of a crack in the blinds. “Come see for yourself.”

Dean tripped over himself in his excitement, hurrying over to the window as if taking longer would cause his surprise to disappear. Cas moved so that Dean could look outside. From the kitchen window they had a perfect view of the automobile sitting in Cas’ driveway.

“Is that your car, Cas?” Dean asked, not taking his eyes off it.

“As of yesterday, technically, yes. But I got it for you,” Cas explained.

“Huh?”

“You said you liked automobiles a while back, and as I was passing a dealership yesterday, I thought, why not? I mean, if you don’t want it, I’m sure I could get a good price for it...” Cas was rambling. Dean cut him off with a kiss, his eyes shining like stars.

“Cas, Angel, you’re the best. I don’t know what I did to deserve you,” Dean said, amazement in his voice as he kept taking peeks out at the car in the driveway.

Cas blushed at the praise and changed the topic. “Of course, we’ll have to be extremely careful. I got some supplies, so today you are my mechanic, tuning up the new automobile that I purchased. Okay?”

Dean was practically bouncing on the balls of his feet, he was so eager to get outside and to the car. He nodded enthusiastically as Cas explained his idea of how to get Dean outside.

Dean tinkered with the car, posing as a mechanic, as Cas sat on the front stoop watching his progress. To an outsider, it would look as though Cas was simply making sure the worker didn't mess up. Only a practiced observer would recognize the soft, loving look that Cas gave Dean and the overjoyed grins that he fired back at Cas every once in a while. Cas didn't think he'd seen such a big smile on the man's face the entire time he'd been with Cas.

An idea was forming in Cas' mind, but he knew it was very dangerous. When Dean walked towards the stoop, having finished his "work", Cas couldn't resist the temptation. Dean was too cute, streaks of black oil on his face and in his hair, looking as though Christmas had come early.

Thanking him for his services, Cas tossed the keys to the car in Dean's direction. The look of incredulity on Dean's face as he caught them reflexively was something worth photographing. "For real?" he whispered, not believing.

Cas responded loudly, "Take her around the block, Sir, make sure she's working."

Dean got into the car, turning the key in the ignition shakily. The car rumbled to life and Dean looked up to meet Cas' stare, his smile saying everything he couldn't. He backed out of the driveway carefully and drove down the street. Cas felt his heart pang as Dean turned the corner out of sight, out of Cas' protection.

Not two minutes later, Dean came back into view, turning onto the road and then pulling into the driveway. It hadn't been long at all, but Cas felt himself sigh with relief at seeing Dean again.

Dean turned the car off and jumped out, his hair mussed from the wind and his eyes blown wide with excitement. He looked like he had just had sex, not driven around the block in an old car. At that moment, Cas didn't care about the mechanic act. He wanted to lean Dean over the hood of the car in broad daylight and kiss him until neither of them could breathe. Dean looked downright edible.

Composing himself, Cas thanked Dean again as Dean returned the keys. "How much do I owe you?" he asked, pulling out his wallet for the sake of their act. Cas handed Dean a handful of coins. "Thanks again, Sir. Can I offer you a beer?"

This was their plan for how to get Dean back in the house inconspicuously. It wasn't uncommon for people to offer their hired help a drink or small snack, and Cas was known for being polite. They just had to cross their fingers and hope nobody noticed that Dean never left.

When they were safely inside, Dean crowded Cas against the door, peppering him with kisses. "Thank you, thank you, thank you," he breathed between kisses. "That was the nicest thing you possibly could've done for me."

"I love you, Dean. I just want to see you happy."

"Well, you succeeded," Dean smiled, a twinkle appearing in his eye. "Now, I believe you offered me a beer?"

Chapter Text

January 1940.

It was a new year, the start of a new decade, and the world was just getting worse every day. At home, however, things were looking up.

Now that all Dean’s cards were on the table, it was easier for Cas to make accommodations regarding touch and intimacy. Slowly but surely, Cas regained Dean’s trust. The broken man was on the road to recovery. With the new decade came new hope, new trust, new things. Cas still wasn’t going to push Dean into anything he wasn’t comfortable with, but intimacy seemed like it might be on the horizon.

Cas’ suspicions were confirmed one night while the two lay in bed together, the darkness of the room providing a cover for Dean’s embarrassment.

“Cas? Are you awake?”

Cas moved to prop himself up on his side. “Yes, Dean, what's up?”

“I’ve been thinking, and, uh, I think I might be ready to, you know, do it.”

Cas chuckled, amused at Dean’s phrasing. “Do it? You mean, have sex?”

Dean squirmed, obviously uncomfortable. “Well, I’m not sure about sex yet, but maybe something?"

“This is a big deal, Dean. Are you sure?”

“Yeah, I'm sure,” Dean replied softly. “I love you, Cas.”

Cas drew in a rattling breath, thinking. “Wow. So, uh, when do you want to do it? Like, now, or…”

“Uh, maybe not now, but soon? In a few days?”

“Soon. Yeah, okay, soon works. Soon is great,” Cas confirmed, still not believing that they were really discussing this.

“Okay, awesome,” Dean said shyly. “G’nite, Cas.”

“Goodnight, Dean,” Cas replied, rolling back over to fall asleep. It wasn't his fault that his brain kept him awake for at least another hour, staring at the wall by his bed. He had never stopped to imagine that this day would ever come.

Predictably, Cas found it very difficult to focus on his tasks over the next couple of days. Every normal thought was instead replaced with “Oh my God, I'm finally going to be intimate with Dean.” As much as Cas loved the thought, it got quite annoying when he was trying to work as a professional. Popping a semi while making a child’s birthday cake was anything but professional.

It was funny; before it was an option, Cas had no burning desire to sleep with Dean. Sure, Dean was an attractive man, and Cas loved him, but he had accepted that their relationship would probably never be sexual in nature. Now that it was on the table? Cas might as well have been a teenager again.

Cas’ libido was up, causing him to experience things that he thought he had left behind when he finished puberty. Random boners in public were one of those things. Just thinking about Dean made Cas horny, and thinking about what they were going to do turned him on to the point where he would see stars. Ignoring his erections was not easy, but Cas wanted to save himself.

If Dean held to their plans, Cas should’ve been getting some action within a few days. He was prepared; Cas had gone out to purchase some essential supplies for the occasion, specifically, a tub of vaseline gel for lubricant. Cas knew how important lubricant was, and he hoped Dean would appreciate Cas’ preparations for their night.

Arriving home on the second evening since they had had their little talk, Cas and Dean ate dinner as usual, chatting politely. Cas tried not to let his sexual frustration show too much; he didn't want to rush Dean at all. Luckily, Dean seemed to have had just as frustrating of a time, crowding Cas against the sink when the blue-eyed man rose to clear the table.

“I think we should go to bed now,” Dean growled in Cas’ ear, pushing his hips into Cas’.

Instead of answering, Cas surged forwards to kiss Dean messily, immediately tangling his fingers in the other’s hair. Cas could smell Dean’s soap on him; Dean must've showered before Cas came home. That meant he would be clean and perfectly ready for Cas.

Breaking the kiss regretfully, Cas grabbed Dean by the collar and maneuvered them to the bedroom. It took a while for them to reach the room, what with the two men not managing to keep their hands off each other for more than a few seconds, but they eventually made it. Dean took control as they crossed the threshold, pulling off their shirts and pushing Cas so that he fell onto his back on the bed as Dean stood above him. They were really doing this.

Dean kissed Cas tenderly, moving to straddle him on the edge of the bed. The kiss started out slow, but began to heat up as Dean pressed his hips against Cas’, thrusting delicately. They shifted, each trying to get more friction through their layers of clothing. Cas tilted his head back, moaning softly, and Dean took that opportunity to leave a trail of kisses along his neck.

Cas lay back on the bed, letting Dean set the pace as they continued. Cas didn’t want to move too quickly and scare Dean off. Dean seemed fine at the moment, but Cas had seen him get triggered with barely any visible provocation. Cas just wanted to make sure Dean was absolutely comfortable with advancing this aspect of their relationship.

Dean knelt over Cas, his knees bracketing the other man’s sides as he contemplated him. Dean smiled good naturedly, the tent in his pants very visible from Cas’ angle. “I’m not going to break, you know.”

“I know,” Cas said hastily. “I just want to make sure you want this.”

Dean bent down to kiss Cas again, making sure to rub his erection against Cas’ stomach as he did so. “I want this,” he whispered as he pulled away. “I really, really, really want this.” Dean emphasized each “really” with a roll of his hips, each harder than the last.

With that, Dean began unfastening the buttons of Cas’ slacks and removing them, taking the time to remove his own as well. Unable to wait any longer, he rutted against Cas, the thin cloth of their boxers barely doing anything to conceal their want.

Cas spoke up. “You know what would feel even better?”

Dean grunted, unable to think straight as he searched for friction against Cas’ fabric-clad erection.

“This would be even better if we didn’t have,” he paused, tugging at the cloth of their underwear, “these in the way.”

Cas put his hands on Dean’s hips to stop him from thrusting, though it took Dean’s brain a few seconds to catch up. Cas unbuttoned Dean’s boxers, pulling them out of the way before taking Dean’s erection in his hand and stroking slowly.

Dean let out a deep groan at the feeling, his eyes fluttering shut as Cas stroked up and down his hard length. It had been so long since someone had touched Dean like that, and he’d be damned if he wasn’t going to enjoy the feeling.

Reveling in the feeling of Cas’ warm touch, Dean reached into Cas’ shorts and began to stroke in tandem with the hand on his own cock. He swiped his thumb across Cas’ slit, spreading the precome around and eliciting a moan from the man.

Cas suddenly released his grip on Dean, causing him to buck his hips involuntarily, looking for a replacement. Cas wasted no time removing Dean’s boxers and his own before taking both of their cocks in his curled fist. The room quickly filled with the sound of skin meeting skin, slapping together in a delicious rhythm. Their hands worked together, jacking them both off, moving faster and faster as they both got close. Cas felt his release coiling in his gut and stopped their movements, detangling their hands. He didn’t want to come, not just yet.

Cas moved down Dean’s body, placing himself between Dean’s thighs. Looking up at him devilishly, Cas licked a bead of precome off the tip of Dean’s cock. Dean let out an unholy noise at that, his hand immediately tangling itself in Cas’ messy hair. Taking that as permission to continue, Cas licked a stripe along the underside of Dean’s length from the root to the head.

“Stop teasing, Cas,” Dean gritted out, the sensations frustrating him.

Cas cocked an eyebrow at that, considering teasing Dean for longer, but decided to oblige. He placed his full lips around Dean’s head, looking disgustingly innocent for someone with a cock in their mouth. Cas didn’t move, just sat there with Dean’s cock warming in his mouth, staring through his eyelashes at the man above him. The sight was overwhelming.

Just as Dean was about to open his mouth to urge Cas to move, Cas opened his. He began to bob up and down on Dean’s erection, taking more and more into his mouth with each try. Soon enough, Cas was taking Dean’s entire cock. Cas could feel Dean hitting the back of his throat, and it looked as though Dean was using all the self-restraint he had to not buck forward and fuck Cas’ mouth.

Cas continued to suck Dean off, bringing him right to the edge of completion over and over. Each time Dean got close, Cas would pull off, loosely stroking Dean’s cock as he rose to place soft kisses all over his body.

Finally, Dean stopped Cas mid-bob, tugging him back up to meet Dean’s face. He saw Cas’ face, his pupils blown wide with lust, and pulled him into a kiss. Dean could taste himself on Cas’ lips and he loved it.

“I wanna make you come,” Dean breathed in Cas’ ear. Cas shuddered in anticipation.

“So do it.”

They lay down next to each other, each taking the other’s cock in hand and stroking rapidly. Cas was already close, despite not being touched; sucking Dean off made him more aroused than he could ever remember being before. He didn’t know how much longer he would last like this. He and Dean fell into a rhythm, quickly bringing each other over the edge. It only took a few more strokes before Dean was coming, coating their stomachs and the bed with his release.

Cas followed not long after, adding to the mess with white stripes of hot come. As they came down from their highs, Cas traced his fingers over Dean’s stomach.

“I love you, Dean,” Cas whispered, the exhaustion setting in quickly.

“Mhm,” agreed Dean, nuzzling closer to Cas as he fell asleep.

As tired as he was, Cas got up from the bed and headed to the adjoining bathroom. He dampened a rag and wiped the semen off his stomach before returning to the room where Dean still lay on his back, smack in the middle of the wet mess on the sheets. He looked perfectly at peace, drifting in and out of sleep, his beautiful body on display for Cas to admire.

Cas wiped the cloth over Dean’s stomach, cock, and balls, cleaning the dried fluids left there. Dean relaxed into the motions, not awake enough to pay any attention. When Cas had finished the front, he nudged Dean gently, asking him to please roll over so that Cas could clean his back. Dean complied, rolling onto his stomach without a second thought. Immediately, Cas took a sharp intake of breath. He had forgotten.

On Dean’s lower back, just above the swell of his ass, lay the remnants of his time with Alastair. Clear as day, Cas could see the inked letters spelling out that awful word, schwanzlutscher.

Not wanting to disturb Dean from his rest, Cas swallowed hard and continued his ministrations, wiping the dried come from Dean’s legs and balls. Finally, he ran the cloth gingerly over the letters, cleaning the mess that had transferred from the sheets. Placing a soft kiss to the tattoo, Cas got rid of the rag and moved Dean enough to cover the wet spot on the bed with a towel. They'd deal with that in the morning. For now, Cas wanted to cuddle with Dean and show him just how much he was loved.

October 1940.

Cas had had a hard day at work. When he first arrived at the bakery in the morning, it was to find that the delivery of sugar had not arrived. Cas understood that it was nobody’s fault, due rather to wartime rationing and shortages, but it forced Cas to adapt his baking for the day to ration the little amount of sugar that he had left.

The whole day had only gotten more stressful from there, between the usual rude customers and one particularly persistent older lady who could not, for the life of her, understand what a strapping young lad like Cas was doing in a bakery while there was a war going on. Once she left, with a “Heil Hitler” no less, Cas let out a breath he didn’t know he had been holding and began to close up for the day.

Arriving at home at last, Cas shut the front door and collapsed against it, utterly exhausted. Dean, having heard the sound of the door opening, ventured into the front hallway. Cas acknowledged his partner with a chaste kiss on the cheek, wanting nothing more than to relax with a hot shower. And his lover. A hot shower, then his lover. Or . . .

“I’m going to go take a shower,” Cas told Dean.

Dean nodded. “Good idea. I’ll get supper ready.”

Dean began to walk towards the kitchen, but Cas stopped him, a half-formed idea in his mind.

“Will you,” he faltered, almost embarrassed to ask. “Will you come with me?”

Dean looked at Cas, surprise etched in every line of his face. He nodded again.

“Great,” Cas smiled, relieved.

The two men made their way to the bathroom, all thoughts of supper forgotten for the moment. They got undressed and Cas noticed Dean trying to shield his naked body from view. Cas pulled Dean into a kiss, touching their foreheads together to look into his eyes. “You’re beautiful, Dean. Promise me you’ll remember that.”

Dean didn’t respond, but Cas could feel him relaxing into Cas’ touch. Cas turned on the shower, hot steam beginning to fill the bathroom. They got in, neither knowing quite what to do next. Dean smiled at Cas shyly. “Can I wash your hair?”

Cas agreed and turned to give the freckled man better access. Dean’s freckles, much to Cas’ delight, weren’t limited to his face; there were little brown spots all over his body. Cas loved it. Dean washed Cas’ hair thoroughly, and Cas wiggled around to lather Dean’s body up with soap. They cleaned each other lovingly, worshipping each other’s bodies in a purely non-sexual way. Neither man had any expectation for this action to devolve into sex; they just took care of each other with love. The hot water was bliss; it felt to Cas like it washed away all the pain and realities of the world around them. No old ladies, no Nazi sympathizers could touch him under the protective shield of the hot shower water. He was invincible.

When they had finished their shower, Dean and Cas donned matching towels around their waists and stood in Cas’ (theirs, Cas kept insisting) bedroom, contemplating each other adoringly. This silence was broken by Cas’ stomach rumbling, reminding them both that they still hadn’t eaten supper. They laughed and quickly dressed before heading back to the kitchen to find something to eat.

Chapter Text

July 31, 1941.

Dean knew he had to leave. It was too risky to stay any longer. The Nazis had begun their “Final Solution,” evacuating all remaining Jews from Germany. SS officers were raiding towns like Cas’ daily, meaning they could be caught any day now.

This wasn’t a sudden decision; Dean had been thinking about it for a while now. He didn’t want to leave Cas. Nothing and nobody had ever made him feel as comfortable and loved as Cas did. The thought of living without the man, even temporarily, devastated Dean. But that was why he needed to go.

Dean knew Cas would be upset at first but he hoped he would come to understand. It was for Cas’ own good; Dean didn’t know if he himself would survive the war, but he sure as hell was going to make sure Cas would.

It was going to be okay. It's not like Dean was leaving permanently. He'd arranged the whole thing with Balthazar; Dean would leave for a little while, hiding somewhere safer until the main raids were over. When Cas gave Balth the all-clear, and only then, Balthazar would find Dean and help him get back to Cas.

The plan was in place, ready to be executed whenever Dean was ready. There was just one problem: Cas didn't know about it yet. Dean knew Cas would never agree to Dean leaving, putting himself in danger like that, but Dean knew what he had to do. It was much easier to leave a note explaining everything to Cas, so that he could understand without trying to stop Dean from going. Cas had done so much for Dean over the past few years, more than Dean could ever repay him for, but it was time to try. It was Dean’s turn to protect his guardian angel.

He put it off for a few days, curling up each night next to the love of his life and feeling like complete shit. The knowledge that their time was almost up was weighing heavily on Dean’s heart. He had to go.

Finally, Dean couldn’t delay any longer. The news that morning had reported raids in the towns next to theirs. Cas had let him know that he would be home late that evening, dealing with a large order at the bakery. It was like a sign from God—Dean had to act then or not act at all.

Cas left for work, placing a kiss on Dean’s head as he went out the door. “Love you, see you later, bye,” Cas called, as was his habit. Just like every morning, Dean parroted the words back. Love you. See you later. Bye. Each were true, in their own ways. Dean was adamant that he would see Cas again. It just might take a while.

Draining his coffee, Dean washed and dried the mug, placing it back in the cupboard. No reason to leave a mess behind for Cas. He gathered his few belongings, securing them in a rag to carry with him. He didn’t need much; Dean would be back before he knew it.

The day went by all too quickly for Dean, as days tend to do when you’re dreading something. When the cover of darkness fell over Cas’ street, it was time.

Then came the hardest part—writing the note. Dean dug around for a spare piece of paper and a pen, leaning on the counter to write the note. He didn’t want to sit down. Dean was half certain that if he took a seat at that kitchen table, he wouldn’t be able to convince himself to get back up.

Shaking with nerves, Dean began to write the note. He explained the plan, where he was going, and when he would be back. Signing off, Dean folded the note once and ventured into the basement one last time to place the note on his mattress. It was out-of-sight enough that a snooping Nazi would miss it, but visible enough that a (inevitably) grieving Cas would notice it.

Returning upstairs, Dean took one last look around the house that had become his home over the past few years. A lot had changed since then, that was for sure. Before he could wallow in nostalgia and talk himself out of it, Dean stepped outside and shut the door. He heard the click of the lock and knew there was no going back.

Dean hurried into the shadowy cover of the trees behind Cas’ house, beginning his trek to the temporary safe house. He knew it would be a few hours until Cas got home, and probably a little longer before Cas realized Dean was missing and found the note. Dean hoped the raids would be over soon. He missed Cas already.

When Cas came home from work late that night, he was already in a bad mood. All he wanted was some dinner, maybe a hot shower, and some time with Dean. God, what would he do without Dean? Cas assembled the fixings of a small dinner, tinkering around the kitchen for a few minutes. Dean wasn’t anywhere to be found on the main floor, but Cas didn’t think anything of it. He was probably asleep, having known that Cas was coming home late. Cas would find him once the meal was ready.

When his food was ready, Cas began to look for Dean. There were no dishes in the sink, so Dean clearly hadn’t eaten yet. Cas first checked the living room, to see if Dean had fallen asleep reading a book on the couch. He hadn’t. Cas then ventured into their bedroom. It wouldn’t have been the first time Dean had fallen asleep before eating. One quick sweep of the room, however, told Cas that Dean was not present.

Cas furrowed his brow, puzzled. That only left the basement, but why would Dean be down there? He opened the door that led downstairs. “Dean?” he called questioningly.

There was no answer. Starting to get worried, Cas slowly walked down the stairs. Each step sounded louder than usual in the silent house; the quiet was almost deafening. Peering around the stairs at the alcove underneath, he asked again. “Dean?”

Again, nothing. Panic settling in his mind, Cas began to look around the basement rather frantically. His hyperactive imagination started drawing all sorts of conclusions, fueled heavily by the news reports he had been hearing as of late. One thing was certain: Dean was not in the house. What had happened? Had the Nazis come? Cas cursed himself for not getting Dean out earlier, and for staying late that night. Maybe, if he had come home just a few hours earlier, he would’ve been able to stop the Nazis. How could Cas have been so selfish?

Cas tried to think logically, breathing deeply. Who could have sold them out to the Nazis, alerting them as to Dean’s presence? He and Dean had always been so careful, hadn’t they? Cas went through his mental list of people who knew about him and Dean. Only two came to mind—Balthazar and Lucifer.

Of course.

Lucifer.

That double-crossing, Nazi-loving, son of a bitch.

Cas was going to give his cousin a piece of his mind. Or maybe a piece of his fist. What had happened to “family first”? Having dismounted the train in his cousin’s neighborhood, Cas stalked towards Lucifer’s house in a fit of rage. He could feel the adrenaline coursing through his veins, clouding his judgement, but he really didn’t care. Cas wanted to take his emotions out on someone. He wanted to cause someone else the amount of pain that he felt.

Cas banged on the door three times in quick succession. Lucifer answered almost immediately, confusion lining his face as he opened the door to see Cas. “Castiel? What are you—”

“How could you?! I trusted you!” Cas screamed at his cousin, slapping him across the face. Lucifer recoiled, his hand finding his cheek as Cas continued to yell. “You dirty, disgusting joke of a man! I’m your family! You promised you would keep him safe!”

Lucifer bristled; if there was one thing the Nazi hated more than anything, it was being yelled at. Though he didn’t quite understand what Castiel was talking about, he wasn’t going to stand for being spoken to that way.

“What the fuck are you talking about? It’s not my job to take care of your faggot pet,” Lucifer spat at Cas. “The Führer is doing the right thing, weeding out the undesirables. My father was right about you; you always did have a crack in your chassis. People like you should be eliminated. It’s not natural.”

There was no rage in his voice. Lucifer didn’t even raise his voice, but it was somehow worse that way. The cold fury in his words would have made even the bravest person tremble in their boots.

Cas was too angry to think rationally. He lunged at Lucifer, trying to cause the other man as much pain as possible. Lucifer reacted automatically with years of military training, striking Cas across the face. Cas fell to the ground, all sense of dignity lost.

Cas knelt on Lucifer’s doorstep, tears flowing freely down his face. Lucifer nudged Cas with one polished toe of his boot, much like a hunter regarding an animal corpse that might or might not be dead. Cas didn’t respond.

“Get out of here,” Lucifer told Cas, and Cas could hear the ice dripping from his voice. “As long as you stay away, I won’t say anything to Himmler, do you understand me? I don’t ever want to see you again.” With that, Lucifer turned on his heel and went back into his house, slamming the front door behind him. Cas picked himself up, dusted off his trenchcoat, and walked away without a second glance, tear tracks still visible on his cheeks. That visit had been a mistake. Cas didn’t feel any better after confronting Lucifer; if anything, the altercation had left him feeling even worse than before.

A few days later.

Cas had to go back to work eventually; it would look suspicious if he was out of the bakery for too much time. He could only claim to be sick for so long before people started asking questions.

Cas had spent the last few days in bed, unable to bring himself to do anything productive, let alone go to work. If he hadn’t stayed late that day, if he had stayed with Dean, maybe Dean would still be there, safe at home. It was all Cas’ fault. Without Dean, Cas was left completely empty.

“What can I get for you today?” Cas asked the customer, a polite smile on his face. It didn’t reach his eyes.

“One apple pie, please,” the customer requested.

It was a simple request, one that Cas got rather often, in fact, but Cas suddenly felt dizzy. Hands shaking, he managed to let out a croaked “coming right up” before rushing into the kitchen.

Cas stood at his workstation, clutching the counter to steady himself. He could do this. He had to do this. Cas started shaping the pie crust, hands kneading the dough almost automatically. His mind started to wander again. Dean loved apple pie, Cas thought. Cas remembered the feeling of working with Dean in their kitchen, teaching Dean how to properly lace the pieces of dough that covered the pie. It was something out of a cheesy romance film; Cas pressed up against Dean’s back, guiding his arms through the process. Dean was having a good day; he was letting Cas stand in close proximity to him and was still completely relaxed, laughing and joking around. God, Cas missed him so much.

Cas felt tears welling up in his eyes. He was unable to see the dough anymore. Against his will, he began to cry in earnest, sliding to the ground against the workstation in defeat. Cas sat, alone, sobs wracking his body as he cried into his apron. All he wanted was for someone to hold him, tell him it would all be alright, but the person he wanted to comfort him was the reason he needed comfort in the first place. Cas had never felt more alone.

Cas came back to his senses what felt like a few minutes later, still sitting against the counter. He felt a bit better; perhaps that cry was just what he needed. Cas took a deep breath to pull himself together, burying any lingering feelings deep down. He stood, ready to return to work. Dean was the past, and Dean wasn’t apple pies. Apple pies do not have striking green eyes and freckles, sandy-blond hair against perfectly tanned skin . . .

Cas shook himself, clearing those thoughts before he overwhelmed himself with emotions once more. He needed to work on burying those memories, ignoring those feelings. Taking three seconds to compose himself, Cas shifted his mind into work mode and continued shaping the pie crust. He had to focus on the present, and the present was making his customer the best apple pie he could. There was no time for thoughts of Dean.

December 1942.

The worst part of it all? There never actually was a raid. Cas had waited and waited, day after day, for the inevitable knock on the door, but it never came. The German soldiers had completely skipped over Cas’ town in their search for Jews. There was no reason for Dean to have left. It had all been for nothing.

Cas tried not to spend too much time at home. Home was full of memories; memories that Cas would rather not think about. As a result, Cas found himself working longer hours at the bakery, throwing himself completely into his work. His time at home was limited to eating and sleeping, trying to avoid the rooms that he and Dean had spent the most time in. Cas ate in his rarely-used dining room at first, unable to bring himself to sit at the kitchen table. He didn't even drink beer anymore; it wasn't that he didn't want to, but the bottles were stored in the basement. Cas was not venturing down to the basement again. He thought it might kill him if he did.

Along with avoiding home, Cas avoided all the people who had known about Dean, which was pretty much just Balthazar. At first, it wasn't anything specific to Balthazar. In the early days after Dean left, Cas had withdrawn from everyone. He couldn't bring himself to maintain other relationships or be close to people. Balthazar called a few times, but Cas let it ring out each time. Eventually, Balthazar stopped calling.

Even once Cas had gotten back on his feet, he didn't contact Balthazar. The British man was too much of a reminder of what once was. Besides that, Cas knew Balthazar would have questions; questions that Cas didn't want to answer. Cas didn't really want to talk about Dean anymore.

September 1943.

Cas had never caved to the antisemitism of Nazi Germany. Perhaps it was his strong sense of justice, or simply his stubbornness, but Cas remained friends with Jews well into the war. He didn't ban Jews from his bakery despite most other establishments doing so. It was, of course, a risky move. And maybe he lost some customers because of it, but he hadn’t been arrested yet. Cas considered that a win.

As Cas threw himself into his work at the bakery more, he found it harder to keep up with customer demand. He soon realized that he needed an assistant to help him with the menial tasks while Cas focused on the bigger projects. Cas drew up an advertisement to put in the bakery window: “APPRENTICE NEEDED: ASK INSIDE FOR DETAILS”. He wouldn’t admit it, not even to himself, but having someone around would be a nice change. It was lonely, working at the bakery every day. Cas didn’t like the solitude anymore.

Not two days after he put the sign up, Cas was interrupted from his thoughts by a soft knock on the back door of his bakery. The back door led straight into the workroom, where Cas prepared the food, and it was seldom used. Cas wasn’t even sure what was out that door.

Opening the door just a sliver, Cas saw a person huddling outside, a gaunt expression on their face. Cas closed the door, then his eyes with a sigh. He hoped he was hallucinating. Not this again.

Counting to five, Cas opened the door a little further. The person was still there. Damn.

His teeth gritted, Cas invited the person inside. She was small, blonde-haired, and looked much younger than Cas himself. She was, objectively, an attractive young woman. Years ago, Cas would have been wondering what she was doing outside his back door, looking dirty and malnourished. Now, he had a few guesses. Why did the universe keep doing this to him?

Once inside, the woman spoke up, tossing her hair over her shoulders. “I saw you put up a sign for an assistant. Still need one?”

Cas did a double take, caught off guard. That was not what he was expecting from this young refugee. “Uh, yeah, sure. Do you have any qualifications?”

The woman pursed her lips, looking around the back room. She gave off an air of confidence, the kind that idealistic young people have before they get crushed by the realities of life. Cas remembered when he was that way. “Well, no,” she admitted. “If you couldn’t tell, I’m kinda on the run here? I figured a job at a German-owned bakery would be nice, and the word on the street is that your place is the most Jew-friendly shop in town.”

That statement worried Cas a bit. Was he building up a reputation? The last thing Cas wanted was a bunch of Nazis in his bakery, asking uncomfortable questions. Cas looked back at the woman standing before him, torn. Once again, Cas had to choose between his safety and his morality.

Taking a deep breath, Cas put on a fake smile and addressed the woman. “Happy to help. From now on, you’re an employee here. What’s your name?”

At his words, the woman bounced on the balls of her feet excitedly, making her look even younger than she was. “My name’s Joanna Beth, but everyone calls me Jo,” she said.

“Jo,” Cas confirmed. “Jo sounds less Jewish. Welcome to the bakery, Jo.”

Jo proved to be a good worker, quickly learning all that she needed to know to pass as an actual bakery assistant. After just a few weeks, no one would have guessed that she was anything other than a young, German girl training at the local bakery. Cas soon warmed to the concept of having an assistant, even though their circumstances were not at all traditional. Jo slept at the shop, converting a part of the bakery’s back room into a makeshift bedroom. The sleeping area was cordoned off with curtains, and was not visible from a customer’s point of view. She was good about it; by the time Cas got into work every morning, Jo was up and about, her bed neatly tucked away and the curtains closed. They interacted amicably throughout the workday, conversing briefly but pleasantly. Cas had nothing unkind to say about his assistant, but he couldn’t say that he knew much about her personally. That was how he wanted it.

It was nothing against Jo; Cas liked her a lot, actually. It was just that Cas needed to keep this relationship purely professional. He didn’t want to let himself get close to Jo, lest she get taken from him too. Cas wasn’t going to open himself back up only to get hurt again.

February 1944.

February 1944.

“A dozen Berliner, please.”

Cas put the warm jelly donuts into a small paper bag and handed it to the customer with a smile. “That’ll be three Reichspfennig.”

The man dug around in his pocket before placing the bronze coins on the counter. He took a seat near Cas, opening the bag immediately. Cas could see that this man was a Nazi soldier, which made it all the more amusing to see him with powdered sugar around his mouth. Much to Cas’ delight, the Nazi seemed to be enjoying the baked treats a lot. Jo had made that particular batch of Berliner that morning, and it gave Cas joy to see how well she had learned the trade.

The Nazi finished the dozen and stood up, coming back over to Cas. “These are very good,” he informed Cas. “My compliments to the chef.”

“That’s great to hear, sir. I will definitely pass your remarks on to my baker,” Cas responded, beaming with pride on Jo’s behalf.

“Actually, you know what? I’d like to speak with him myself. I need a baker for an event I have coming up and I think he’d be perfect. Where’s the back room, through here?”

Cas spluttered, trying to stop the man to no avail. No matter how much he liked the donuts, Cas had a feeling the Nazi would not like to see that the baker who made them was a Jewish refugee. Despite his weak protests, the Nazi pushed his way into the back room, where Jo stood, frozen.

A beat passed before the Nazi spoke. “Who’s this, your secretary? Where’s the baker?”

Cas spoke next, clearing his throat awkwardly. “This is my baker, sir. She’s the one who made the delicious Berliner this morning.”

“Oh,” the Nazi remarked. Another beat. He shrugged and turned away, starting to poke around in the back room. Cas and Jo made eye contact, a silent conversation ensuing between them.

Why is he back here? Get him away!

How??

I don’t know, but distract him before he finds my things!

Cas jumped into action, calling the Nazi’s attention back towards him. “Um, Sir, my baker here would be happy to make more Berliner for your event, how many do you need?”

Ignoring Jo’s confused expression, Cas led the man back into the front of the bakery to place his order. After confirming the order, he thanked Cas and left. Cas sagged against the counter as soon as the door jingled shut. Whew. That was a close one.

“What the hell was that about, man?”

Right. Cas had almost forgotten that he’d signed Jo up to make lots of donuts for people who wanted to kill her and everyone she held dear. He turned to her, chuckling nervously.

“Yeah, so, I kind of need you to make ten dozen Berliner for a Nazi event next week...”

“What?”

“Yep, thanks. You’re the best!”

Cas thought that was the end of it. They had had their brush with danger, but it worked itself out, right? Jo’s donut-making had saved the day. Granted, Jo’s donut-making had gotten them into the situation as well, but that was besides the point. They were safe. Or at least, so Cas thought.

That encounter was definitely not the end of it. As it would happen, the attendees of the event were all big Berliner fans, and they wanted more. Cas’ bakery was suddenly flooded with soldiers from all over the country eating endless amounts of jelly donuts. Cas had never seen such a thing. He was just waiting for the day when one of the Nazi officers grew suspicious and started asking more questions. Why wasn’t Cas drafted to the army? Who was his baker?

Luckily, if any of the officers thought something was suspicious, they kept to themselves. It would seem that their love for jelly donuts was prioritized before their duties to their Führer. The officers wouldn’t want to make trouble with their suppliers and jeopardize their access to delicious baked goods. Thank God for Jo and her amazing donut-making.

Eventually, the Berliner craze died down and fewer and fewer Nazis frequented the bakery every day. However, the effect was in place. So many officers had eaten at Cas’ bakery that none of them were going to make any trouble with him. In their minds, he was a good guy, a fine gentleman. All it took to win over some Nazis, it seemed, were some freshly-made Berliner.

October 1944.

Germany was gonna lose the war. Civilians knew it, soldiers knew it, even the Nazi leaders knew it. Hitler and his men, facing disaster, were trying to kill as many people as possible in the little time they had left. There were no more delays, no more excuses.

There was a new sign in Cas’ shop window, right above the “OPEN” sign: “NO JEWS ALLOWED.” He hated it, but what else was there to do?

Jo and Cas discussed the situation and came to an agreement. Jo would flee the town for the nearby mountainside and join the small Catholic church there. Jo had family who had done the same, or so she said, and the Catholics kept their identities hidden. If all else failed, hopefully the mountains would provide enough cover for Jo to wait out the rapidly waning war.

Jo left under the cover of darkness one night. Cas saw her off, sending her with a bundle of baked goods and best wishes for her security. As the door shut softly behind her, Cas realized with a pang that he had never even learned her last name.

Chapter Text

April 11, 1945.

It seemed like just a few days earlier they had heard the news that Buchenwald had been established, yet all of a sudden, it was over. The American troops had liberated Buchenwald, sending the survivors to displaced persons camps around Germany. The war seemed like it was coming to a close.

Cas still wondered if he would ever see Dean again, though he tried not to think about it too often. It had been a rough few years, and Lucifer had been no help. He had been serious when he told Cas to never contact him again. Though he used to stop by once every few years to catch up, Cas had not heard from Lucifer since their altercation almost four years earlier.

Gabriel, on the other hand, had been great to Cas. As the older brother closest in age to Cas, Gabriel had always felt a strong sense of responsibility for his little brother. Gabe, like Cas, had never bought into the Nazi propaganda spouted by their parents and family members. Gabe, unlike Cas, was better at hiding it.

Cas hadn't asked Gabe to come visit in a while, at first because Dean was there, and later because Cas was so distraught at Dean's sudden disappearance. Therefore, it was probably the abrupt break in radio silence that prompted Gabe to show up so soon after Cas called him, inviting his brother to come over as soon as he got a chance.

Cas wasn’t sure what he wanted to tell Gabriel when he invited him over. He trusted Gabe implicitly, but Cas could barely think about Dean without breaking down. He’d pushed the worst of his feelings deep down years ago, but he didn’t know if he’d ever fully heal. Nevertheless, he felt like he wanted to tell Gabe.

When Gabe showed up at Cas’ door the next morning, Cas let him in wordlessly and walked to the kitchen, trusting that Gabe would follow. Cas could see the worry in Gabe's face, the unasked question clear on his face. Are you okay?

Sitting down at the well-used kitchen table, Cas took a deep breath. He opened his mouth to begin to talk, and all of a sudden the words wouldn't stop flowing. Cas spilled his guts, telling Gabriel all about Dean: how he had come to Cas, how Cas had hidden him, how happy they had been. Cas didn't stop to let Gabriel get a word in until he was done telling his tale.

When he finished, Cas looked over at Gabe, trying to gauge his reaction. Much to Cas’ surprise, Gabriel started to laugh. A small chuckle grew into a full blown laugh, Gabriel wheezing as he wiped tears from the corners of his eyes. Cas failed to see what was so funny, and he told his brother as much.

“Castiel, Castiel. Falling in love with a homosexual on the run. I’d expect nothing less, honestly.”

Cas didn't know what to say to that. Was he really that predictable?

“This has always been your problem, Castiel. You let your feelings get involved in your beliefs. It makes you a target. You know how Mom was, growing up.

“Seriously, though, Castiel, I'm sorry about Dean. It sounds like what you two have is really special.”

“Had,” Cas muttered bitterly. He hadn't intended for Gabe to hear, but Gabriel heard.

“Are you seriously going to give up hope, just like that? Maybe I was wrong about you, Castiel. The Castiel I know wouldn't give up on the man he loves so easily.”

“It's been four years, Gabriel. What am I supposed to think?”

“All I'm saying is, from what you've told me, I don't think he would give up on you.”

Cas saw Gabriel’s point and felt a rush of affection towards his older brother. Gabriel wasn't always helpful, but when he was, he was a great person.

His visit effectively over, Cas walked Gabe to the door as he left. Gabriel promised to check in on Castiel more often, and Cas had a feeling Gabe would stick to that promise.

Late September 1945.

“What if you went to look for him?”

“Oh, come on, don’t be ridiculous,” Cas scoffed at his brother.

It was nearing the end of September, and the war had officially been over for almost a month. The news was full of reports of the horrors of the camps, the survivors returning to their families, and the German population generally feeling rather terrible about the whole situation.

Gabriel had come to visit once again, and the two men were sitting in front of the radio as reports of missing persons played one after another, families trying desperately to reunite with their loved ones.

“No, I’m serious,” Gabe said, popping his sucking candy out of his mouth. “You hear the news. People are finding their families, Castiel. You could find Dean!”

Cas waved him off, the very idea seeming ridiculous. His brother backed off of the topic for the rest of their visit, not mentioning it again. Cas was grateful. It had been years since Dean had left, and Cas was just beginning to heal. He didn’t need Gabriel ripping the scab off, reopening the wound that had pained him for so long.

Nonetheless, Gabriel’s suggestion had planted an idea in Cas’ mind that he couldn’t quite shake. Conflicted, Cas found himself entering the basement for the first time since that fateful night when Dean had gone. Upon seeing the room, Cas sucked in a breath. Everything was exactly how he had left it four years before. Not wanting to touch anything and mess it up, Cas sat on a box and considered his options. What if he did go to look for Dean?

Not knowing quite what to do, Cas took another look around what had been Dean’s living area for those few, glorious years. It was all exactly how he remembered it, except . . . wait, what was that piece of paper?

Cas stood to open the folded paper and realized, with a sharp breath, that Dean had written it. Dean must have left that note for Cas when he left, and Cas had been so hysterical in his search that he had missed it while looking for Dean. It had then sat for years, forgotten, waiting for someone to stumble upon it.

Cas began to read the letter. Hey, Cas, it began. Cas smiled sadly, hearing the words in Dean’s voice as though he was standing right next to him. I hope you’re not too worried right now . . .

Cas continued to read, his eyes welling up with tears as he finally understood the reasoning behind Dean’s leaving. They’re coming for a raid, but I don’t want you to get hurt, too . . . Don’t worry, babe, we’ll be okay.

When he got to the next paragraph, however, Cas let out an audible sob. I’m just going to wait it out, Cas. Wait a few days, maybe a week, until they’re gone . . . contact Balthazar and he’ll let me know to come back. I’ll see you later, angel. I love you.

It was too much. At the final words, a single tear fell from Cas’ face onto the page in his hands. Cas could see the spidery trails of ink beginning to run in the droplet, smudging Dean’s final words: I love you. Dean loved him. What had Cas done?

Cas sat down on the box behind him, his face blank in shock. Dean hadn’t meant to leave for good; he was waiting for Cas to tell him it was safe to come back. Cas finally understood and he felt terrible. It was all his fault. Whatever situation Dean was in at that moment, it was because of Cas.

Cas realized what he had to do; what he owed Dean. He had to go look for the man, at the very least. Cas hoped Dean would forgive him. At least there was hope that Dean was still alive.

Contacting Gabriel, Cas arranged to go the next day to the nearest displaced persons camp to begin his search. This camp, a short train ride away from Cas’ neighbourhood, happened to be home to many survivors of Buchenwald Concentration Camp as well as various survivors from surrounding cities. Cas wondered idly what state he would find Dean in upon arriving at the displaced persons camp. No matter what, Cas knew he would recognize those sparkling green eyes from anywhere. He couldn’t wait to see them again.

The next day.

Cas stepped off the train, every inch of his being wanting to turn around and go home, but he knew he had to do this. Taking a deep breath, Cas began walking towards the entrance of the makeshift camp.

As Cas approached the displaced persons’ camp, his first impression was of the smell. The air smelled sharply of thousands of unwashed bodies and human waste, and it took all of Cas’ willpower not to close his nose or gag at the horrendous stench.

Entering the chain-link fence that surrounded the camp, Cas’ eyes widened in horror as he saw survivors milling about. Cas almost couldn’t believe what he saw. To put it simply, these people didn’t look human. Translucent skin stretched over prominent ribs, arms, and legs; sunken features staring out of shaven skulls; whatever clothing they wore hung off their bodies like parachutes billowing in the wind. Cas could feel their eyes on him as he walked, head down, through the camp. He needed to find someone to talk to. Cas had assumed that when he came for Dean, they would just find each other, but he was beginning to have some doubts. What if he didn’t recognize Dean?

Cas walked over to the edge of the nearest building, standing next to a man who was exactly his height. It was hard to tell, but this man seemed to be around Cas’ age, though just a fraction of his weight, with blue eyes and the hint of a beard threatening to grow back. The man wore a ragged cap and was staring at Cas distrustfully like all the others. It seemed that this would be as good a place to start as any. “Hello,” began Cas. “My name is Castiel Novak. What’s your name?”

Cas extended his arm for the man to shake, but the man just stood there silently, glaring at Cas’ hand. Cas cleared his throat awkwardly and took his hand back, but continued. “Um, I know it’s a long shot, but I was wondering if you knew where I could find a man named Dean Winchester?”

At this, the skeletal man looked up at Cas, his haunted eyes wide as if he had seen a ghost. “Who did you say you were?” he asked in a thick Russian accent.

“Cas—Castiel. Novak.”

The man paled even further, if it was possible. “Cas? The Cas?”

“Uh… I suppose so?”

The bearded man turned away, exhaling slowly. They stood there for a moment, neither knowing what to do or say, until the man broke the silence. “You’d better come with me.”

Cas followed the man to a nearby bench and sat across from him, still not sure what to say. How do you interact with someone who went through such hell while you sat, comfortably, at home? Cas was suddenly filled with guilt. This man must hate him; they all must hate him.

Cas’ thoughts must have been evident on his face, because Benny spoke up. “Don’t go looking at me like I’m some charity case, boy. I’ve seen enough of that from all the soldiers that come ‘round here.”

“Sorry,” Cas apologized hastily, trying to pull a straight face.

“No problem, brother. Anyway, my name is Benny Lafitte, and I’m assuming you’re Cas, Dean’s angel.”

A million unanswered questions raced through Cas’ head. Who was this? How did he know Cas? How did he know Dean, for that matter? Speaking of, where was Dean?

“You’re probably wondering who I am,” Benny began.

Chapter Text

Late September, 1941.

Dean couldn’t believe he’d ended up here. He knew he should have probably been scared, or at least nervous, but all he could feel was disbelief. All that, and he was being taken to Buchenwald? It was like God was out to get him.

Just one day ago, Dean was a free man, waiting in hiding for the call that would allow him to return to Cas. It had been five days since he left, and there had been complete radio silence on Cas’ end. Balth had tried calling a few times, but nobody had answered. Dean had hoped Cas was okay, but he knew his Angel. Cas was probably just waiting out the raids, making sure it was completely safe before Dean came back. He wasn’t worried.

That was then. It was funny how so much shit could hit the fan in just twenty-four hours.

When they arrived at the camp, forced off the cattle cars, Dean let himself be hustled into the line of those who were well enough to work. After being stripped of his clothing, valuables (not that he had any), and hair, Dean donned the blue-and-white prisoner’s outfit without a word. It was 1941. Dean knew where he was. He knew what happened to prisoners here. It went without saying that Dean wasn’t going to make it out alive. He just wished he had gotten to say a better goodbye to Cas.

In a daze, Dean was led into a barrack with the other new prisoners. He found himself sharing a bed pallet with five other men. Dean sank onto the bed (if you could even call it that) and put his face in his hands.

“Hey, brother, you alright?”

Dean looked up at the prisoner standing over him and felt a sudden rush of anger that he didn’t realize he had been bottling up. “Of course I’m not alright,” he snapped. “We’re in Buchenwald, of all places.”

Contrary to Dean’s expectation, the man chuckled. “Good observation, brother. That we are. But you’re still alive, aren’t ya?”

Dean still glared at the standing man. How could someone be so optimistic in such a hellhole? Dean didn’t respond, hoping his silence would prompt the other man to leave him alone.

“I’d best introduce myself. My name is Benny Lafitte, and I’ll be sharing your bed.” The man stuck out a hand. Dean didn’t take it.

“Dean,” Dean mumbled.

“What was that? Sorry, didn’t catch it.”

“Dean,” he spoke clearer now, looking Benny straight in the eye to assert himself. “Dean Winchester.”

“Well, it’s a pleasure to meet you, Dean Winchester. I hope we’ll become fast friends. If we’re going to survive this purgatory, we might as well do it together.”

Purgatory. Dean liked that. It wasn’t heaven, that was for sure, but it wasn’t hell either. At least in hell you have a purpose. You know why you’re there, how long you’ll be there, and what you’re supposed to do. No, they were in purgatory, stuck in limbo between the living and the dead, battling monsters daily with no knowledge of how long they would remain there. Benny was right. A man did need a friend to make it through.

Despite himself, Dean stood up to stand with Benny. “Okay, Benny, show me around this purgatory.”

Benny grinned, revealing pointed teeth like vampire fangs. “That’s more like it, brother. Let’s go.”

Dean outed himself to Benny within just a few days of knowing each other. There was no point in keeping his sexuality a secret; the inverted pink triangle on Dean’s armband would tell anyone who saw it everything they needed to know. Dean tried to hide the symbol at first, but he quickly realized it wasn’t worth the effort. Dean knew the guards would kill him just as readily whether or not they knew where he liked to put his dick. That was why, during one late-night conversation, Dean told Benny, “I’ve got an angel waiting for me at home. Gotta make it home to my angel.”

Benny hummed sleepily in peaceful understanding. “What’s her name?”

Dean shifted uncomfortably. “Castiel,” he said carefully, trying to gauge Benny’s reaction.

Dean felt Benny shift to face him and could hear the confusion in his voice as he whispered, “Castiel? That’s not a girls’—oh.”

Dean tensed up, looking at Benny defensively and sadly. “I bet you’re re-thinking being friends with me, right?”

Benny scoffed. “Nah, I don’t care about that. We’re in this together, you and me, till the very end.”

Although Benny did not care who Dean slept with, the other prisoners were not as open-minded.

It was a funny thing, really. One might think that, while being unfairly persecuted and judged themselves, people would overcome their own prejudices towards others. As time would tell, that was not the case. Wearing his pink triangle proudly, Dean found himself at the bottom of the metaphorical pecking order among the prisoners, with only Benny by his side.

Benny, as a Soviet prisoner of war, was a level above Dean in the camp. The guards picked on Benny, but the other prisoners mostly left him alone. That was, until Benny made it clear that he was at Dean’s side and that anyone who crossed Dean would have to cross Benny as well.

Dean and Benny became close friends as the days turned to weeks and the weeks turned to months. It was unavoidable; neither of them had anyone else. Benny had arrived just under a month before Dean with a group of Soviet POWs. The Germans had shot almost all of the POWs upon arrival, but Benny had been separated from the group. According to the guard who saved him, Benny was useful. For what, he was still not certain, but he was thankful nonetheless.

As much as Dean didn’t want to form attachments in a place where life had no meaning, being around Benny gave him the smallest fragments of hope. It was the small things, like Benny’s constant declarations of “after the war…” that made Dean feel like there might be something after the camps. Maybe he would make it home; home to his family, home to Cas. Each morning, Dean woke up with these feelings of hope, and each day, they were totally crushed by the everyday life that was Buchenwald Concentration Camp.

The day was hot. Dean and Benny sat in the shade, their backs against the large stack of cement blocks they were meant to be moving. The stack shielded them from view of any patrolling officers, so the two friends had taken to hiding there for short periods of time while they worked. The two men sat in silence, each trying to enjoy the relaxation for as long as they could. It had been a hard day; a new train of prisoners had arrived that morning—the first since Dean himself had arrived. The acrid, sickly-sweet smell of burning flesh filled the air along with a cloud of dark smoke, an ever-present reminder of the horrors that were promised to each prisoner.

Dean was content to wallow in his own misery and lack of motivation, but Benny had other ideas. Turning to Dean, he began, “After the war, when we get out…”

Dean groaned. “Today, Benny? How can you possibly think of the future after seeing those poor people?”

Benny clapped Dean on the shoulder. “Brother, let me finish. When we get out, after the war’s over, you’re gonna introduce me to Cas. We’re gonna have a grand old time; you, me, Cas…”

Dean smiled despite himself, imagining it. “Cas will make us an apple pie, fresh from his bakery, and we’ll eat it on the front lawn, picnic style. We won’t have to hide in the basement or behind closed curtains. Everyone will see us and think, ‘Damn, they’ve got the best apple pie I’ve ever seen.’”

Benny chuckled. “That’s the spirit. Life will be pretty damn good.”

Dean hummed in agreement, eyes screwed shut to remain in his utopian dreamworld. Of course, at that moment, Dean heard the clicking of polished boots on stone. The polished boots of a German guard.

Dean and Benny exchanged frightened looks and jumped to their feet, each lifting a heavy stone block to act as though they had been working the whole time. The guard click-clicked his way around the pile and rounded the corner, bringing him face-to-face with Dean.

“What are you two fags up to back here? Needed a convenient place to make out?” The guard laughed derisively, pushing past Dean to cause him to drop the stone block, which broke in two. Dean looked in fear at the guard, a young man with blond, straw-like hair and cruel features. “Go on then, pick it up, you worthless piece of garbage.”

Dean bent over to retrieve the broken pieces of stone, but stumbled forward as the guard used Dean’s vulnerable position to whack him across the ass with his baton, hitting his face on the stone instead. “Come on, fag, I thought you liked it in the ass. You liked that, didn’t you?”

Dean didn’t respond, afraid that the guard would punish him further for talking back.

“You disgusting queer. I should send you to the doctor, have him try to fix you. I’m not sure they have a cure for being a fairy yet, though. You’d probably be most useful down there,” he motioned over to the field, where black smoke still smoldered from the pit of corpses. “I hear fags make great fire-starters.”

Dean flinched at the words, not yet accustomed to the cruel speech that he still associated with Alastair. Dean and Benny kept their heads down, avoiding looking the guard in the eyes. Dean found himself staring at the guard’s shiny, polished, black boots. The stark contrast between the high-quality boots of the guard and the ill-fitting, wooden shoes given to the prisoners seemed fitting, Dean thought. His mind brought him back to the other person he knew who had those boots—Alastair. So much of this place reminded Dean of his time with the sadistic Nazi. The terrible part was, Dean couldn’t decide which experience had been worse.

The guard spoke again. “Get moving, pigs, I don’t want to see you back here again!”

Dean and Benny did not hesitate to get away from there, moving as fast as they could without dropping the heavy blocks. When they were a safe distance away, out of the guard’s earshot and line of sight, Benny put the block down and put a hand on Dean’s shoulder, stopping him from moving any further.

“You okay, brother?”

Dean sighed, lowering his block to the ground as well. Luckily, they were near enough to other blocks that it would look like the blocks were meant to be there. “I can't do this anymore, Benny. I just can't,” Dean whispered, having reached his wit’s end. "I'm nothing more than a shape. A pink triangle. That’s all that I am anymore."

“Yeah, Dean, you're a triangle. You're a pink triangle, sure, but you know what? That's how I know you're going to survive. The triangle is the strongest shape, Dean. It's almost unbreakable. As far as shapes go, a triangle is a pretty great one to be.”

Dean couldn’t help it; tears began to fall from his eyes, landing one by one on the smooth surface of the stone at his feet. “I miss my angel so much, Benny. I love him.”

“I know, brother, I know. And you’ll get back to him; I promise you that. We’ll both get back to him.”

Dean cried harder at this, his head falling onto Benny’s shoulder as the shorter man comforted him.

Dean wanted to have faith, but it was so hard. He would have given up already if it hadn’t been for two things, or rather, people: Cas and Sammy.

Cas was the given. Everything Dean was doing, he was doing for Cas. Dean needed to get home to his angel, tell him how much he loved him. Dean regretted not telling Cas that at every possible moment. Now, in the camps, Dean would whisper it to himself, hoping that somehow, Cas would hear him. I love you, Cas. I love you so damn much.

The second motivator for Dean’s survival was Sammy. Not his brother, Sammy, though Dean did hope to reunite with him one day. This was Sammy Bruderman; a short, brunette, Bar-Mitzvah-aged boy who arrived at Buchenwald in the spring of 1943. Sammy had first entered Dean and Benny’s barrack looking terrified and out of place, completely alone in the world. One glance at the boy and Dean knew; he was going to protect the kid with everything it took.

Benny had been less willing to adopt a small, pre-pubescent child into their motley crew, but Dean was adamant. There was something about the kid that kick-started brotherly instincts in him and these feelings were only heightened when Dean learned the boy’s name. Sammy. Since Dean wasn’t around to protect his own Sammy back in Berlin, he had to try with Jewish Sammy.

Jewish Sammy warmed quickly to Dean, imprinting on him like a duckling and its mother. It prompted jeering from the other men in the barrack, (“Fags can have kids now? Watch out, boy, the homo is gonna turn you!”) but neither Dean nor Sammy paid them any attention.

Sammy was a quiet boy, though that might have been due to their circumstances. Dean learned that Sammy was the eldest of five children, three girls and one other boy, and that they had been raised by their grandparents (Saba and Safta, as Sammy referred to them) after the Nazis had taken his parents to Auschwitz in 1941. Sammy’s youngest sister had been a newborn at the time, and only he and one sister, aged eleven, remembered their parents at all.

When the Nazis raided Sammy’s town, the whole family had been put on a train to Auschwitz. His Safta and two youngest sisters, aged two and five, had not survived the trip. When the train arrived at the Birkenau absorption center, guards had separated Sammy from his Saba and remaining brother and sister, placing them in different lines. Sammy hadn’t understood at the time as he stood with the other men, watching his grandfather walk down the tracks towards the red brick buildings with his siblings in tow. How would he have known that he would never see his family again? How did you explain to a barely-teenaged child that his siblings had been gassed and burned, never to play with him again?

Sammy had spent several months in the Auschwitz work camp before being transferred to Buchenwald. Despite his small stature, Sammy proved capable of keeping up with the men’s work in the camp. His prisoner’s uniform was much too big on him, pants held in place by the belt that was supplied and the fabric rolled up many times at the ankles. Luckily, his shoes fit, so he wasn’t tripping over himself like some less fortunate prisoners. Dean and Benny kept an eye out for the kid, helping him wherever they could. They hid him from the guards’ cruel gazes when possible, standing in front of the boy as a shield at the daily roll call, or Appellplatz. At mealtime, the men made sure Sammy had something to eat (no matter how little) each day, and they traded jobs with him when it was clear that the boy would not be able to complete his given task. With the combined efforts of Dean and Benny, who quickly realized how important this was to Dean, it seemed like Sammy might survive the purgatory of Buchenwald.

Winter in Buchenwald was, as one might imagine, unimaginable. The prisoners were expected to complete their tasks just as efficiently in the cold, despite the slippery layer of ice that seemed to coat every surface. It didn’t help that most of the prisoners were nothing but skin and bones at that point, with no fat to give them extra warmth.

Dean and Benny had it bad, sure, but it was nothing compared to Sammy. The thirteen-year-old was small to begin with, not to mention after almost a year in the camp. The two older men were constantly worried about Sammy’s well-being, giving him their extra food whenever they could spare a bite and helping him with his work when possible.

It was snowing quite heavily but that didn’t stop the Nazi guards. Sammy and Dean had both been assigned to manual labour that day, while Benny was tasked with factory work. After a long day of back-breaking labour, Dean could see that Sammy wasn’t looking too great. The trio collected their evening ration, a roll and some watery soup, and found a place to sit by a snowdrift that had collected on the stoop of a building. Concerned about the young boy, Dean ripped off a small portion of his own roll and gave it to Sammy, who accepted it gratefully. Sammy had learned not to refuse Dean and Benny’s kindness, as it was probably the only thing keeping him alive.

Unbeknownst to the three men, a kapo had seen this exchange and was quickly approaching them. This kapo, an older Jew, was known amongst the prisoners to be quick to turn over misbehaving prisoners to the Nazis. In return for his watchful eye and traitorous actions, the man was supplied with some extra food and nicer clothing.

“What are you doing?!” Dean looked up to see the kapo towering over him. “Is this food not good enough for you?” Dean stood quickly, opening his mouth to defend himself. The kapo kicked his shin, seeing the pink triangle on Dean’s armband for the first time. “No! Don’t speak to me! I have nothing to discuss with the likes of you, homo!”

Dean ignored the man’s insults, clamping his mouth shut. He began to turn his back on the kapo when he felt a rough hand on his shoulder, yanking him around to face the man.

The kapo’s eyes were wide with fury as he punched Dean squarely in the nose. Dean doubled over, his hand flying to his face. Head facing the ground, Dean watched as the warm blood began dripping from his nose, bouncing as it hit the cold expanse of snow.

The kapo leaned towards Dean’s ear and Dean could feel the man’s sour breath warm on his neck. The fine hairs on the back on Dean’s neck prickled with fear in a way he had not felt since Alastair. “I could have you killed, homo, remember that. One word, and bam,” he clicked his tongue for emphasis, “you’re just a burn mark and a pile of ashes. Or maybe a nice new lampshade for Miss Ilse; I think those freckles would make a pretty pattern. Either way, you should show me some respect.”

Dean kept his head bowed as a sign of submission, waiting for the kapo to be done. The man seemed satisfied, convinced he had scared Dean straight. Well, not straight. That was kind of the whole reason Dean was in Buchenwald to begin with. Either way, the kapo had walked far enough away to be out of earshot by the time Benny broke his silence.

“That son of a—” Benny growled, censoring himself for the child present.

The child in question piped up. “Are you okay, Dean?”

Dean looked at Sammy, smiling to appear brave and unshaken. “Yeah, Sammy, I’m fine. It takes more than a big, bad kapo to defeat me!” Sammy giggled as Dean imitated the kapo’s walk dramatically for Sammy’s benefit. “Now come on, Sammy, eat your dinner before any more hungry wolves try to come for it.”

Sammy obliged, taking another bite of the piece of bread that Dean had given him. Benny ruffled the kid’s buzzed hair, chuckling. It was moments like this that it seemed like maybe, just maybe, they would all be okay.

Chapter Text

They weren’t okay, but at least they were together. Dean and Benny were together, surviving their purgatory until the moment Dean took his last breath, his eyes glazing over as Benny held him in his arms.

“People say that the dead look peaceful,” Benny told Cas. “I wish I could reassure you, tell you that he died peacefully, that he looked like he was sleeping . . . but I don’t want to lie to you. You deserve better than that.”

There was no time to mourn Dean, Benny explained, camp life didn’t permit it. He couldn’t even give Dean a proper burial. Benny did his best to make Dean comfortable, but how could the dead be comfortable in a place where there was no reason, there was no comfort? They were in purgatory; a place where the living were treated as dead and the dead were even less.

The most Benny could do was keep Sammy away from Dean’s corpse until the guards cleared it away. The young boy had seen enough trauma in his short life, Benny decided. After that, it was just Benny and Sammy. Benny kept his word to Dean and took care of the kid until the camp was liberated. It was the least he could do for the man.

“That was a little less than a year ago,” Benny finished.

“Thank you,” Cas said genuinely, tears streaming silently down his face. “Thank you for taking care of him for me. Thank you for telling me what happened. I really do appreciate it, Benny.”

Benny inclined his head in a way of a salute. “Of course, Cas. I’m glad I finally got to meet you; Dean spoke the world of you, you know. He really loved you.”

“I know,” Cas smiled, misty-eyed. “I loved him, too. I still do. I wish I had gotten the chance to say it more often.”

“He knew,” Benny reassured Cas. “He knew.”

And somewhere deep inside Cas, he had known as well; talking with Benny had only confirmed his worst suspicions. As much as he hadn’t been able to come to terms with it, Cas had known that Dean was gone. Call it a bond, call it a random guess, but some part of him had accepted the loss of his lover years before. He had already gone through his period of mourning.

It didn’t seem fair that a person like Benny made it all the way through the war only to spend his life in a displaced persons’ camp. Cas wanted to do something for Benny to thank him for all he had done for Dean in Buchenwald.

“Do you have any family to go to?” Cas asked Benny that evening, as they sat and ate the dinner that the camp had provided.

Benny made a noise of affirmation around his large mouthful of food. Benny ate like every meal might be his last, which, Cas supposed, made sense after the horrors that he had gone through. Benny, like all the others that Cas had seen in the camp throughout the day, was still sickly thin but seemed to be slowly returning to his normal weight. Benny swallowed and answered, “Yeah, they’re all back in the USSR, but I can’t get to them. They don’t know I’m alive and I don’t have the money to go back there.”

“I’ll pay for your train ticket,” Cas said automatically. It seemed right; even if he couldn’t reunite with his loved one as he planned, maybe Cas could help Benny reunite with his.

“What? No, no, I couldn’t—” Benny protested.

Cas held up a hand to silence the other man. “Benny. Let me do this.”

Benny put up a small fight, but eventually agreed to let Cas give him the money. As Cas stood to leave, he fished a handful of Reichsmarks from his pocket and pressed them into Benny’s palm, closing the man’s fingers over the money. Cas could see tears of gratitude forming in Benny’s eyes as he thanked Cas over and over again.

“Keep in touch, Benny,” Cas bade the other man farewell, scribbling his address onto a loose scrap of paper. “Feel free to contact me if you ever need anything.”

Benny nodded, too overcome with emotion to speak, and Cas waved one last time before heading out of the camp, leaving Benny standing with the handful of Reichsmarks and a single address.

Once he had reboarded the train that would take him home, Cas lay back in his seat, closing his eyes. Going to the camp had been good. Cas finally felt a little more at peace with the world; peace with himself.

Chapter Text

August 1950.

Cas was sipping his morning coffee as usual, reading the newspaper, when a sharp series of knocks on the door broke the quiet. Cas stood to answer, his chair scraping against the floor as he pushed it back. Cas wondered who would be knocking this early in the morning.

Cas opened the door to find himself face-to-face with a tall, young boy, no more than nineteen years old with tanned skin and dark features. They made eye contact, the boy’s face brightening in recognition as Cas’ tilted in confusion. Who was this boy?

Before Cas could ask, the teenager launched himself at the older man, enveloping him in a crushing hug. Cas stood, stock-still, on the doorstep, not responding to the embrace. The boy finally pulled away, still smiling.

“Cas, right?” the boy spoke excitedly. Cas noticed his accent; a mixture of German and something else that Cas couldn’t quite place.

Cas eyed the boy warily. “Who are you?”

The boy quickly became more solemn, looking Cas in the eye as he spoke. “I’m Sammy,” he said. “Sammy Bruderman.”

Sammy Bruderman… Why did that name sound so familiar? The wheels turning in Cas’ brain must have been evident on his face, because the boy added, “Benny sent me.”

Cas stared at Sammy in shock, the pieces clicking into place. “Sammy. Come in, Sammy, please, come in.”

Cas ushered Sammy into the house, sitting the boy down at the kitchen table and offering him a drink. Sammy accepted a cup of tea, blowing on the mug to cool it before taking a small sip.

“It’s nice to meet you, Sammy. Benny told me many good things. Didn’t you move to Israel after the war?” Cas was trying to find a way to politely ask Sammy what he was doing back in Germany, five years later, showing up on Cas’ doorstep though they had never met before. Cas wasn’t aware that Sammy knew who he was, and yet, here they were.

Sammy set down his mug. “Yes, I live there now. Helped found a kibbutz, finished school, and started my life over. I even met a girl.”

Cas hummed appreciatively, wishing he had something more interesting to say. Sammy didn’t seem to do well with silence, so he kept talking to fill the quiet.

“You’re probably wondering what I’m doing here. Hell, I’m wondering what I’m doing here, to be honest. But I recently got in touch with Benny and he gave me your address, so I came here.” Sammy took a breath, then continued, “Thank you.”

Cas was taken aback. That was not what he had expected Sammy to say.

“Thank you, Cas, for Dean. I know Dean is the only reason I’m talking to you right now. Without Dean, I would be dead for sure. And he . . . well, he might be alive. So I thank you, Cas, for every moment of Dean’s life. I’m sure he’s watching over you up in heaven at this very moment.”

“Wouldn’t that be something,” Cas mused, “Dean watching over his guardian angel.” Addressing Sammy in a more joking manner, Cas chuckled. “I bet he’s eating all the angelic apple pie he can get.”

Sammy laughed, but Cas could see the lingering sadness in his eyes. It looked something akin to pity; Cas hadn’t seen anyone look at him that way in years.

“Don’t look at me like that,” Cas scolded the younger boy. “Don’t pity me. I loved Dean—hell, it’s been nine years since I’ve seen him and I still love him. I miss him every goddamned day.

“I struggled with Dean’s death for a long time. Even long before I knew he was dead, back when he had just left home, I think part of me knew. I didn’t want to accept it, but part of me knew I would never see my love again. And that hurt. It hurt real bad. I couldn’t understand why the world—God, no God, whatever—would take someone so perfect; what I had done to deserve him being taken from me. There’s no way to justify a death as unnecessary as Dean’s. How do you come to terms with something like that?

“It took me many years, but I think I understand now. I realize now, Sammy, that Dean did survive the war. He survived through you, and through Benny, and through me; through everyone that he touched throughout his life. Dean’s legacy will live on through all of us, so you shouldn’t pity me. Live your life, do something that you are proud of. Do it in Dean’s memory. If you can do that, then I will finally be at peace with the world.”

By the end of his little speech, both Cas and Sammy were in tears. Sammy stood to embrace Cas once more and this time Cas reciprocated, clutching the younger boy tight in his arms. “Dean would be so proud to see how you grew up, Sammy,” Cas whispered in his ear. Cas felt Sammy nod, understanding, before pulling away.

“Thank you again, Cas. It was great to finally meet Dean’s angel.” Sammy and Cas exchanged farewells and then Sammy was gone. Cas went back to his newspaper, but he couldn’t focus on the words. Sammy’s visit had stirred up feelings that had been lying dormant for years.

Almost out of habit, Cas started towards the basement door. He paused with his hand on the doorknob; did he really want to do this? Pushing away his doubts, Cas turned the handle and descended the steps into the basement. It was dark down there, the only light coming in stripes from the small windows at the top of one wall. The rest of the room was cast into shadow, as usual.

Cas sat down on the mattress under the stairs, unmoved after almost ten years. There was a healthy layer of dust on it, and it no longer smelled like Dean, but the familiarity was comforting nonetheless. Cas lay back, closing his eyes as he did. If he imagined just right, he could almost feel the warmth of another body around his.

“I love you, Dean. See you later. Bye.”