Archive of Our Own ^beta

Castiel hates these things. They strip away the last vestiges of his soul, leaving him exposed and way more aware of his failures than any human being ought to be. How he let Meg cajole him into attending one in Vancouver, he does not know. Couldn’t it have been somewhere closer to home, even if it had to be over the border? What good are the coast and the mountains if he’s stuck in a hotel conference suite all weekend?

Castiel glares at his stewed tea. He forgot to remove the bag, and now even honey won’t make it palatable. He’ll drink it, anyway. Years of living hand to mouth as a child have left the “waste not want not” embedded in his psyche. Refusing to drink his tea would be wasteful and to leave a full cup on the table for the venue’s waiting staff to clear would be disrespectful to them.

Right on cue, as he’s debating giving the whole conference up as a bad job, renting a car and hightailing it up to Whistler for the week, his phone rings.

“Clarence! How’s my favourite recluse? Made any friends yet?”

“Remind me why I’m here?” Meg won’t sugar-coat the reasons that his mountain getaway is a terrible idea for his career.

“Thinking about getting lost on a hike, finding a cabin out there in the wilds and never setting foot in Massachusetts again, huh?”

“No. Not at all.”

“Liar. You were five minutes away from looking up a place that’d rent you some fancy EV no...no...one of those glamping vans and heading off up into the great True North.”

Castiel grimaces as he swallows down a mouthful of the lukewarm monstrosity passing for tea. Meg will take his silence as confirmation that, as always, she knows him almost better than he knows himself.

“Listen carefully, Castiel Novak...” It’s never a good sign when Meg uses his actual name. It’s a sign that Castiel is about to find himself caught in the middle of a whirlwind when Meg also tacks on his surname. Mentally, Castiel battens down the hatches. “You drink your tea. Put on the name badge—yes you DO have to wear it. Then, you read the schedule and memorize when you need to be social and when you can go recharge. I set it up with plenty of downtimes like I always do.”

“Why aren’t you here?” Castiel knows he sounds like a petulant child. He knows why; he just wants the reminder that Meg has a life beyond holding his hand.

“Because you’re not my only client. You may have been my friend since forever but I get paid to do a job that’s more than babysitting anxiety-riddled, functioning depressive poets. Besides, Gabriel should be with you in...” Castiel hears the clack of the perpetually red nails on a keyboard. “...Yep, barring any delays or...border issues...he should be with you in about three hours. You can manage by yourself for that time?”

Of course, this is Meg, so although it’s phrased like a question and she even raises her voice at the end of the sentence, it is not a question. It is a demand that Castiel must comply with. To be fair, he’s getting away with less of a tongue-lashing than he thought he would.

“That is supposed to make me want to stay? Gabriel? Glad to see you think so little of yourself that Gabe could replace you?”

“Drink your tea. Put the goddamn badge on and go mingle. Get your name back in the frame...oh, and Clarence?”

“Yes?” He knows what she’s going to say before she says it.

“Don’t piss off anyone important.”

~*~*~

There is a fundamental problem when you gather professional writers in one place. No one is ever present—not fully. Castiel knows he’s not alone in the struggle. A conversation with another writer is like two snipers sizing up their target. They zero on all your quirks, your patterns of speech, the way your clothes hang off your frame, how your mouth does that funny thing at the left side only, or how you can still seem confused while arching an eyebrow in disdain...or is that last one just him? Whatever. Two literary creatives talking is about being scrutinized and the details tucked away for later mortification on the page. If it’s not you, then they’re doing the same thing over your shoulder to someone they find more interesting. Despite the pages on the internet claiming that it’s because writers are students of the human condition, that is not the reason. No. The reason Castiel has concluded is that most professional writers are functioning alcoholics, under-medicated depressives, or jaded, self-absorbed, judgemental assholes with little to no grasp of how to interact meaningfully with another human being.

Every year he attends functions like this. He muddles through two of them and the obligatory personal appearances at bookstores across North America. His attendance is mandatory, written into his contract with the publishing house. However, the contract doesn’t spell out what makes up attendance. There is a loophole he’s tried to exploit about how long he must spend at the event to be classed as attending it. Yet, every time he thinks he’s managed it Meg turns up or calls, and Castiel stays like a well-trained mutt at his owner’s command. At least no one makes him look at the pictures of him that appear like clockwork in the trade corners of the internet. He doesn’t have to. Gabriel, in his role as the proud older brother, does enough Castiel Novak mention-hunting for them both.

It’s not as if anyone is interested in what Castiel has to say. No one is concerned about his growth as a poet. There are never questions about the new form he’s been playing with in the random poems published in the New York Tribune and Boston Herald. No. Everyone believes that all Castiel Novak boils down to is his second book. The stupid thing is, that book wasn’t meant to be. It should never have seen the light of day. Castiel wrote the poems as part of therapy that one time when Gabriel had gone, Meg was busy with an up-and-coming urban fantasy author’s first Lambda award, and Balthazar was...well, himself. None of them had noticed Castiel’s decline until it was too late.

Castiel has considered getting Meg to put a rider on his appearance bio, saying that he won’t take questions about it. He’s over the repetitive questioning. Castiel isn’t a hero. Nor is he a saviour whose work should be held up as a shining example of anything other than metre and rhythm. Too many people want to suggest that somehow Castiel and his work saved them. It’s ridiculous. He hardly saved himself. There are periods where he stands with more than just his toes dangling off the precipice, waiting for a strong enough gust of wind to carry him down onto the rocks below. The wind never comes though, and he can’t very well say that to the eager faces of the fans grabbing at his hand. Instead, he opts for a plastered-on smile and a platitude. “Thanks, but I think the truth is that you saved yourself.”

Castiel scans the schedule while he drinks the rest of his tea. That drink has been doomed from the second he made it. He almost chokes on it, spraying tea down his shirt, when he sees he is due to give a talk for the Modern Poetry Track on creating new poetic forms in the Twenty-first Century and he’s on two panels the subjects of which he doesn’t bother reading. If he’s lucky, he’ll find an excuse to leave before then. He thinks he remembers Meg telling him about the talk and the panels. Castiel doesn’t always pay attention to these sorts of discussions, hoping maybe Meg will forget to sign him up. She never does, and he never thinks to ask about the whole itinerary before showing up because that would mean admitting that he wants his career to “get back on track”.

Castiel finds a nearby restroom. Better to attempt a clean-up of the tea spatters on his shirt and tie than leaving them to stain. He stands a polite distance away from the only other person in the room, who is washing his hands. Castiel tries not to let his eyes linger on the tall, broad-shouldered man, with short light brown hair and the almost perfect facial profile.

As he finishes drying his hands, the guy gives Castiel the once over. He winks as he throws the balled-up paper towel in the trash, then leaves the restroom with a bow-legged swagger.

“Shit. Shit. Shit” Castiel re-focuses on the job in hand and wonders how best to dry the soaking wet spot on his white dress shirt. He didn’t glimpse the nametag he was wearing or recognize the guy’s face. If he’d seen a face like that before, Castiel would have recognized it.

He ought to stop the thoughts about what he’d do if he’d met the man in a bar back in Rockland. They’re here in Vancouver, and Castiel won’t do hook-ups with a fellow author, let alone contemplate building a relationship. His traitorous brain supplies the helpful fact that the man may not have been a writer. Castiel tries to shut the thoughts down, reminding himself that any person who is in this hotel right now is bound to be at the conference and linked to the publishing business. Besides, the guy was in designer jeans that fitted in all the right places, still wearing his aviator sunglasses inside and a purposely distressed-looking black t-shirt under a butter-soft black leather jacket. He has douchebag written all over him. Another strike against the persistent thoughts of what those luscious lips would feel like...

“Come on, Castiel. Pull it together!”

Reluctantly, he has accepted that he must stay put until Gabriel arrives. So, Castiel opts to hide in the least tedious of the options available on the schedule. He buttons up his jacket to hide the reminders of spilled tea. He already has a reputation for being uptight. Having his suit jacket done up won’t seem out of the ordinary for Castiel Novak.

He wishes he’d been more adventurous in his choice when the douchebag slides into the empty seat next to him. He should have found an obscure seminar in one of the small rooms on one of the other floors. The guy leans forward to read Castiel’s nametag. Castiel doesn’t miss the flirty look the guy shoots at Castiel from under his lashes.

“Castiel Novak! What are the odds, man?”

“At a professional writer’s conference? Rather high, I think, don’t you? Seeing as I am, in name at least, a professional writer.” Castiel shifts in his seat so now he doesn’t have to lean over to read the guy’s nametag. Dean Winchester. The name rings a bell. He knows he should know the name, but he can’t place it.

“My brother’s a massive fan of your work. He’s one of those emo types—all feelings and girly hair.”

“That’s nice. That he likes my work, I mean. Tell...”

“Sammy...that is, I mean...Sam. Shoot, he’d pitch a bitch fit if he heard me call him Sammy.”

“Right...er, please tell Sam, thank you for his support.”

“Definitely. I’m Dean, Dean Winchester.” Dean holds out a hand.

“So your nametag informed me,” Castiel says dryly, praying for the talk by Ayasha Knox to start.

Dean’s tongue darts out. Castiel has the distinct impression that in another life, Dean Winchester could have been an apex predator stalking its prey and licking its lips looking for the kill. It would make great material for some verse if Castiel wasn’t the intended target.

Mercifully, a microphone at the front of the room squeals into life with the obligatory mishandling by the volunteer host not used to dealing with AV equipment. A hush descends over the room, and after a smattering of polite applause, Knox takes to the stage.

Castiel would like to claim the speech has him enthralled, but it’s all he can do to keep his eyes open. The room is too stuffy. He feels an elbow dig into his ribs.

Dean leans over, pressing his mouth to Castiel’s ear. “I hear there’s a party at Bacchus down on Hornby tonight. You should come. I’ll get you added to the list. Play your cards right. I might even buy you a drink or three.” With that, Dean leaves. He doesn’t manage his exit as quietly as one should leave an ongoing lecture. Dean trips over wayward bags and chair legs on his way out and muttering his apologies as he goes. Castiel slinks down in his seat and hunches his shoulders up around his ears, just in case anyone looks to see where the disruption started.

~*~*~

An hour later, Castiel is sitting at the bar, nursing bourbon shot number three and cursing his brother. If Gabriel had bothered to get an earlier flight, he would have been there by now. Gabriel wasn’t the one who had to fly across the continent. He’d been in LA talking to “his people” about opening another restaurant down there. Castiel can’t count the number of times he’s told Gabriel that he ought to move to the West Coast, that he’d be happier there. Gabriel always has the same answer. “Who would be there to look out for you?”

Castiel’s fingers take on a life of their own, unbuttoning his cuff and tracing the jagged lines along and across his forearm. He knows it’s guilt that drives Gabriel to sacrifice for him. Castiel is grateful, truly he is. But he wishes he could make his brother understand things are different now. Castiel’s not better in the sense that he doubts he will ever be the stable normal that people like to proclaim is possible. But he has better coping strategies for the bad times, and all he wants for his brother is for Gabriel to be happy, not stuck looking out for his grown-up, screwed-up mess of a brother.

Castiel has the same idle thought that creeps up on him periodically. It winds its way through his brain while he downs his shot and signals for another. What if...what if...he had the courage...not the courage to...not to do that again...but to turn the tale behind it into something more? His poems in Poised for the Void didn’t tell the tale of what led up to that night in the house they all shared after college. Those poems were only the feelings, emotions, thoughts. Fragments of a time in his life that followed the tearing out of his soul and the aching chasm it left behind. He’s never discussed this idea with Meg. He supposes she isn’t the best person to discuss it with. Not in the first instance. The person to whom that honour should go is Charlie, his therapist turned friend. Castiel makes a note on his phone to speak to her when he gets back home—ask Charlie if I should write a story based on The Event. Then he could point people to the book and not have to answer the same tired questions about his poetry. It is too much to hope that if he did, people would take his newer work more seriously, but it might give him more closure.

He shifts the absentminded tracing to the other arm. He rests his forearm on the bar and stares at the tattoos. Flashes of jagged lightning splaying out from a sword with blue tendrils he likes to think of as an essential life force swirling around it that covers his inner forearm. It had seemed, unironically, poetic at the time to cover one set of scars and not the other. He told people he’d done it like that in memory of a life that was half over, half yet to be lived. He knows Charlie’s opinion that his reasoning was horseshit—he had more than half a life to live. Secretly, Castiel knows the truth. He can only live a half-life, no matter how long that life may be.

“Snap...uh...The tattoos. Shit...um...I got the matching pair, though.”

The unexpected voice from beside him startles Castiel out of his reverie.

“Sorry. Sorry. Oh crap. God, that came off as creepy. I didn’t mean it to sound that way, truly. It’s...well...it’s just that I have this...er...fascination, I guess, with tattoos...the ones that look like they come with a deep meaning attached, that is.”

Castiel looks up to the man sitting beside him. He’s taller than Castiel, sitting on the barstool, dressed in a grey V-neck T-shirt, dark-blue chambray overshirt rolled to mid-forearm and loose jeans. As expected, two sets of purple roses wind their way over his forearms with words that Castiel would need to get closer to read. Even though the tattoos disappear under his shirtsleeves, Castiel would bet his next royalty check that they’re covering up scars. He braces for the usual line of questioning.

“I’m Sam, by the way.” Sam bites the corner of his lip as he tentatively holds out his hand to Castiel.

“Castiel.”

Soft hazel eyes grow wide with recognition. “Like Poised for the Void, Castiel Novak?”

“Yes. I’m afraid that’s me.”

Sam raises his arm, like he’s about to do a fist pump, but thinks better of it and motions at the bartender for a beer and whatever Castiel’s having. Castiel shouldn’t have another shot, but he can’t drag the word “no” out of his mouth.

“So, here’s the thing. Now I know it’s you...I need to ask this.” Sam cringes. “It’s been bothering me since I first read your book at college. Man, Castiel Novak—I never thought...wow.”

Castiel throws back the shot as he watches the way Sam picks away at the corner of a thumbnail as he talks. Castiel is itching to get up and leave. However, Sam intrigues him. More than any fan of Poised he’s met to date, Castiel wants to put Sam at ease.

“I...uh...don’t need to know what the tattoo is covering up,” Sam says, then gives a half shrug and a brittle smile. “...we both know.”

“You too?” Four shots of whiskey on an empty stomach this early in the day, and most sense of civility has flown out the window.

Sam looks down and begins picking at the label on his bottle of beer. He nods, then takes a swig.

Castiel regrets not being more sensitive. The usual gushing over how his work saved people is one thing, the deep pain he still sees in Sam’s eyes—that is something else. It’s too personal, too deep for a hotel bar conversation with someone he doesn’t know at 11am. He thinks about apologizing but can’t work out how to say anything else without sounding condescending or trotting out his usual platitudes.

“What was the actual story?”

“Pardon?” Castiel swivels to face Sam fully, his head cocked to one side.

“The book was therapy, right?” Sam’s face is a picture of earnestness. Poised was...all about...kinda a catalogue of...I suppose...your emotions and shit?” Sam shoots Castiel a nervous look. “It was as if...well, to me anyway...it was the experience of watching you processing through your poetry. What’s that called?” Sam looks up as if he’s trying to recall the name.

“It’s a branch of art therapy. Pretty standard stuff.”

Castiel orders two glasses and a large bottle of sparkling water.

“Thanks.” Sam goes back to shredding the label.

Something about Sam hits him in a place he thought he’d lost over the years since...since the second time he’d tried to kill himself (The Event Part II).

“Never got any therapy beyond...you know. Couldn’t affor...Fuck. Sorry, Castiel.” Sam shakes his head and runs his fingers through his hair, pushing it back out of his eyes. Castiel sees that they’re glassy. He shoves one glass of water in front of Sam with an encouraging smile.

“No need to apologize. I understand.” Castiel nods towards Sam’s tattoos.

Sam acknowledges Castiel’s acceptance with a nod. “What I wanted to know,” Sam says, his voice sounding small, “is what the story behind it was. Why?”

Castiel allows himself a wry chuckle. His idea of turning to prose to exorcise the last of his demons may not be such a bad one after all.

“I’m sorry, Sam. I don’t talk about it for a reason.”

Sam’s face drops.

Castiel wants to kick himself. But, honestly, this kid (because Sam can’t be older than his twenties) is not Castiel’s responsibility. Probably, once they go their separate ways, they’ll never see one another again. Yet, he can’t stop the sense that he and Sam have a link. Castiel has learnt enough over the years to trust his gut when it tells him things. Not doing that started his descent into everything that led to the bathroom floor, a bottle of whiskey, and the sharpest kitchen knife.

“Or rather, I don’t talk about it with people I don’t know. You’ve got a story to tell too, right?”

Sam’s head snaps up. “I have an idea. The publishing house that prints my brother’s books is hosting an industry party tonight for authors with new books in the works. It’s at...” Sam fiddles with his phone. “At Bacchus, that’s on...um...Hornby, I think. It’d be...cool...uh...if you would...that is...um...why don’t you come along? I bet you’d like Dean. He’s a writer too.”

The lightbulb clicks on in Castiel’s head. If it weren’t for the tug in his gut about Sam’s vulnerability, he’d think he was being punked. Sam is Sammy, Dean Winchester’s younger brother. It must be the whiskey talking because Castiel’s mouth opens without permission and says, “Thank you for the invitation, Sam.” His phone vibrates in his pocket, but he doesn’t bother looking. It will be a ridiculous string of incomprehensible emojis from Gabriel.

“Awesome, I’ll make sure Dean puts your name on the list.” Castiel is about to say he hadn’t agreed to attend and that he’d be bringing someone if he did when Sam continues. “Oh, I guess I should ask this. Is there anyone you’d want to bring?” Sam’s eyes drop to Castiel’s hands. “A partner, buddy...”

Castiel quirks an eyebrow as he asks, “Older brother?”

“Right, sure.” Sam has transformed from an awkward young man to an overeager puppy dog. “Talking of older brothers, I better go find Dean before he gets himself in trouble. Great to meet you, Castiel. Thank you for Poised for the Void—it gave me the strength I needed to pull myself together again.”

Castiel watches Sam leave, marvelling at the odds of speaking to both brothers within the space of two hours. He allows himself, just for a second or two, to revel in the stirring of pride that comes from the realization that Sam got it. Sam knows Castiel didn’t save him. Sam understands he saved himself. Castiel was only a beacon on Sam’s journey because he dared to share how he clawed his way back from the cliff edge.

~*~*~

The lure of an evening on the town in a bar filled with people to entertain, not being holed up in a hotel bar, or worse, hotel room, was too great for Gabriel to pass up. Castiel regretted mentioning the Winchesters’ offers the second he saw Gabriel’s eyes light up. Who was he to deny his brother an evening of fun when Meg had commanded Gabriel to act as a babysitter in her stead?

“You do know someone here? You didn’t crash the party to give little ol’ me a good time, did you?”

“Since when have you known me to crash anything?” Castiel fixes his brother with a glare.

“Let me see.” Gabriel scrunches his nose and begins counting off imaginary scenarios with his fingers. “Nope. No. Not then either. Uh-huh.” He furrows his brow as if he is concentrating intently. “Aha. I have it! There was that one time, back in the 1990s, when you insisted that you simply had to go to see Balthazar, and mum told you that Aunt Amy and Balthazar weren’t at home, that they’d gone to this church potluck. Then you marched straight out of the house declaring you were going to the church to find Zar and make him play with you.”

“I was 6, Gabriel! A child!”

“You asked when. That was a ‘when’. All right then, I guess you must know someone, because no one questioned us on the way in. So, the real question, Cassie, is why are we sitting at this table by ourselves if you know people? How am I supposed to be the life and soul of the party if we’re the party?” Gabriel points at himself and then Castiel.

“In case you’d forgotten, partying isn’t my thing. Two people separately gave me an invitation to this event. It would be unprofessional and churlish to refuse.”

“You’re afraid of Meg using her demonic powers of perception.” Gabriel throws his head back with laughter. “You don’t want her to chew you out for turning down invitations.” Gabriel shivers. “Don’t blame you actually, she even scares me, and I’m used to dealing with Kali’s temper!”

Gabriel lets out a low whistle. “Look at that, would you? What a pair of fine-looking specimens...ooh, seems like they’re headed in our direction. Now, they would help get the party started. Please tell me that those two gorgeous examples of human beings are the ones who invited us.”

Castiel doesn’t need to look up. He can guess who elicited that whistle out of his brother. In a fit of masochism, Castiel raises his head to find Dean Winchester, with Sam hovering over his shoulder, grinning in his direction. The Winchester brothers are standing between a cluster of crowded tables, most likely trying to find a seat.

Castiel automatically turns around to see who else could be making Dean smile. There is a group at the table behind him and Gabriel, but not one of them is looking in Dean’s direction. Either Dean knows one of them and is just pleased to see them there even if he hasn’t yet got their attention. Or the other, unthinkable, explanation which has Castiel squirming in his seat like a bug under a microscope, is that he is the focus of Dean’s attention.

“We had a bet, me and Sam. I said I didn’t think you’d show, he...” Dean reaches up to mess with Sam’s hair. Sam swats Dean’s hand away. “...said you’d be here.”

“Mind if we join you?” Sam asks.

Gabriel kicks Castiel under the table. Castiel is too distracted by the pain shooting up his shin to get his answer in before Gabriel says, “Please. No one else is sitting here.”

“You’re the older brother?” Dean holds out his hand. “Dean Winchester, and this here is my brother Sam.”

Gabriel holds onto Dean’s hands a moment longer than is necessary. A casual observer would think Gabe was flirting, maybe being creepy. Castiel scrubs a hand over his face. This is one step away from giving Dean the “you hurt my brother, I kill you” speech and is ridiculously over the top.

“Older, better looking, more...shall we say...adventurous...flexible...fuller of joie de vivre.”

Castiel catches the slight wrinkle of Dean’s nose as he extracts his hand and sits down. He also doesn’t miss the surreptitious wiping off the same hand on black jeans stretched tight across muscular thighs.

Gabriel snorts into his drink. “Hi Sam, I’m Gabriel Novak, restaurateur extraordinaire, owner of the exclusive HAWKSWOOD chain now moving onto the West Coast—USA, that is.” Gabriel lowers his voice as if speaking to a bunch of co-conspirators in a major crime. “Not planning on bringing the magic across the border any time soon.”

“Oh, right. Yeah.” Clearly, neither Winchester has heard of Gabriel’s business.

Castiel sits back and watches Gabriel direct the conversation, hardly needing any excuse for shameless self-promotion. Gabriel has his patter down so well that Castiel has often wondered if his brother missed his calling. Perhaps Gabriel ought to have been in the entertainment business rather than the food business.

Castiel allows himself to be swept along by the flow of conversation. He watches how Dean swirls the ice around in his glass with a bored expression on his face. He licks his lips between sips of whiskey. Dean doesn’t speak other than to throw in the occasional quip and sarcastic comment, after which Dean always tries to draw Castiel in on his side. The assumption that he would side with Dean, especially over his own brother, grates on Castiel.

“Come on.” Gabriel grabs Sam’s elbow when everyone’s glass has stood empty for about five minutes. He shoots Sam a pointed look. “Why don’t we go join the crush at the bar and refresh the drinks for the table, eh? You can give me some California lawyer-style tips on avoiding the pitfalls I’m about to fall face-first into.”

Castiel mouths at his brother to stay. Beyond Sam’s connection to Castiel’s work, there is no link between Castiel and Dean. He dragged Gabriel to Bacchus to be polite, not interact with a man clearly far too self-absorbed to be of interest, other than as a study on how to be an asshole. That would be a fantastic title for a book or a poem, “Studies In How To Be An Asshole”. All Castiel needs now is the desire to write.

“So, was it my adorable smile or Sammy’s puppy-dog eyes that did it?”

“Did what?” Castiel knows he shouldn’t snap at Dean. The man is only making conversation to avoid the awkwardness left by Gabriel and Sam leaving the table.

“Got you all dressed up...with a change of shirt too!”

Castiel looks down at his attire. He’s wearing his dark blue suit, white dress shirt, dress shoes, and tan trench coat. This is what he always wears. The only thing missing is his tie, which Gabriel forced him to ditch. He opens his mouth to say so, then snaps his jaw shut. Dean is teasing him.

“How’d it work? Gabriel got all the charm in the family, and you got the looks? Any other siblings? What did they get, and when can I meet them?”

Castiel rolls his eyes and shakes his head.

Dean waves his glass towards the bar, signalling with his other hand to hurry the next round.

“Seriously looks like you got all the brooding angst, while he’s all sunshine, rainbows and unicorns.”

Castiel cracks a smile. There might be some truth to that observation. The smile disappears when Dean keeps talking.

“Is that part of the mystique, being as grumpy in person as you are when you write? I get it attracts the moody ones like Sam, but doesn’t it get old putting on this sour attitude all the time?”

“I prefer introspective.”

“Right, yeah...introspective.” Dean deliberately raked his eyes over Castiel’s torso. “I could help with that, you know? You, me and a quiet room somewhere.”

How did the conversation jump from assassinating his character to propositioning him? He’d come out of a sense of obligation and being polite, but maybe Dean had thought Castiel was there because he was attracted to Dean. Abort. Abort. Abort. “Don’t you have other people to fawn over tonight? This party is part of your latest publicity, isn’t it? I take it you’re one of Crowley’s great white hopes with a book out soon? Shouldn’t you be cozying up to the rest of the suckers in attendance?” Castiel had read the sign by the entrance announcing that Hellhound Literary was hosting the event. He’s not so much of a hermit that he doesn’t know that the owner of Hellhound goes by the name Crowley. It’s not that much of a leap to guess that Dean is one author Sam had alluded to earlier.

Dean’s lips thin. He nods once as he shoves the chair back. “I get the message loud and clear, Cas. I’ll leave you to your...whatever the hell it is you do.”

~*~*~

Gabriel has to pour Castiel into a cab at the end of the evening. They’d moved on from Bacchus after throwing down their shots. Damage limitation Gabriel had called it. Running away was a more apt description. Every step Dean took hadn’t felt like the relief it should have been, given Castiel was the one who was rude and pushed Dean away. The look Sam had given him from across the bar as he followed Dea made things ten times worse. Castiel doesn’t know either of them beyond what he’s seen and heard today. The Winchester brothers’ feelings shouldn’t bother him at all. Except, for some reason Castiel has no explanation for, the idea that he screwed things up cuts him to the quick. If only he understood what those things are.

Gabriel reads him like a book; he always has. They both know Gabriel should have insisted that they go straight back to the hotel, but he didn’t. Now Gabriel is back to sober, and Castiel? Well, he can’t walk in a straight line, and his eyelids are heavy, but his mouth? That wants to run.

“Shh, kiddo. Let’s get you back to the hotel room so you can sleep this off.”

“No, but seriously? Why did you leave me with that assbutt? Ok, I give you he’s handsome, got mesmerizing eyes, and an ass and bowlegs that just scream...ow! Stop it Gabe...and lips that look like they were made for...hmph...”

Gabriel slaps a hand over his mouth. Castiel isn’t so far gone that he misses the apologetic grimace Gabe offers their driver. The man had already said that he wasn’t above refusing the fare if the patently drunk Castiel caused any problems.

“We’ll talk about it in the morning, ok?”

It’s not. Castiel, or rather the bottle of bourbon, wants to know now. So, he throws the mother of all fits, complete with unnecessary flinging around of his arms and complaining too loudly about Dean.

Gabriel grabs his shoulders and lines their faces up so Castiel can’t avoid looking at him. “If you want to walk back to the hotel in this state, go ahead. Keep whining. If not, for the love of all that is holy, shut up before you get us kicked out of the cab. It is throwing it down out there!”

Castiel huffs, but the message seeps through the fog of alcohol-induced self-righteous indignation. He should be a good brother and not aggravate their means of getting back to the hotel in this downpour. That is if he wants to keep the moral high ground over that dickwad Winchester.

When they arrive back at the hotel, the lights are too bright, the muzak in the elevator too loud, and every step too jarring. If he wasn’t so out of it, he’d be embarrassed that Gabe helps him out of enough of his clothes that Castiel can curl into a ball under the covers. He hears Gabriel shuffling around the room and isn’t surprised when the bed dips beside him and his brother climbs in.

Gabe does that thing he’s always done since they were kids whenever Castiel is upset. The thing he did when he wasn’t supposed to, when Castiel was in the hospital. He sits close enough to Castiel to rest one hand on his shoulder while the other scratches gently at Castiel’s scalp.

“Why him, Gabe? Why?”

“No answer for you there, kiddo. Just because. Life’s like that sometimes. Why can’t I stay away from candy and Kali? Both are indescribably bad for me and, yet somehow, I always end up there no matter how hard I try.”

“Guess addiction runs in the family.” Castiel tries for a laugh, but it comes out wrong, bitter and angry.

“Yeah,” Gabe says in an uncharacteristically serious tone. “Substances, food, people, religions. If we Novaks can get over-attached to it, we will.”

“I’m not addicted to Dean Winchester!” Castiel has enough energy left to bristle.

“Never said you were. Although judging by that reaction, it’s a possibility you could be. You haven’t had a taste yet, have you?”

“Don’t want one!” It’s a lie that Gabriel will see straight through.

“Yeah, you do. The way you look at Winchester? I can’t remember you looking at anyone like that since Xander.”

Castiel rolls over to give Gabriel a death glare. Now is the time he chooses to bring up...the one and only love of Castiel’s life.  The man who had promised the world, and Castiel like an idiot had believed him. There hadn’t been any obvious warning signs in the beginning. Castiel had been upfront about how much of a mess he was after The Event. In return, Xander had sworn by every deity known to man that he could and would look after Castiel through the down times. They were good together, for as long as Castiel’s demons were in hiding. Which would have been great in the future that Castiel had been building for them in his head. It was unbelievably naïve to think that love alone would keep them at bay. It was a metaphoric stab to the gut when, at the first sign of Castiel’s demons rearing their heads again, Xander had left without so much as a backwards glance. That had been the tipping point for The Event Part II.

Gabriel, as expected, ignores Castiel’s scowl. He’s seen it many times before and is still alive to tell the tale. “Winchester took your brush-off personally, not like a man who’d find another pair of pants to get into for the night if that was all he’d wanted. There’s a spark there. You know you don’t get to choose when that spark happens, don’t you? Now, whether you fan that spark into a flame, eh, that’s up to you. I get he comes off as a douche canoe, but I...ok, now’s not the time to get into this. I said we’d chat when you’re sober, and we will.”

Castiel tries to swallow the lump in his throat and the excess saliva flooding it with the telltale signs that...The next thing he registers is hanging over the edge of the bed and puking into a strategically placed trashcan while Gabriel rubs soothing circles over his back until all that’s left to come up is the yellow-green acidic bile.

Gabriel hauls him back and wipes away the mess, ignoring the silent tears both brothers know aren’t caused by Castiel throwing his guts up.

“Sleep. I’ll stay in your room for the night, ok?”

~*~*~

Gabriel is gone by the time Castiel wakes up the following morning. There’s a lukewarm coffee and a bottle of water by the bed. A note scribbled on a hotel-branded piece of paper says that Gabe will be back before lunch.

Castiel isn’t clear about how he ended up here, but fifteen minutes later he’s following one incoherent thought after another down a slippery rabbit trail of how the Winchesters appear so different that he can hardly believe they’re brothers. Sam, so gentle sounding and reflective. Dean, so full of himself. It’s nonsense, of course. Many people have voiced the same thoughts about him and Gabriel although the physical differences are more striking with them than the Winchesters. This train of thought leads Castiel to a place where, against his better judgement, he’s watching paparazzi footage of a blond-tipped Dean Winchester stumbling through the streets of LA, out of his mind on whatever while the host from CFTV narrates the disaster as if it were only happening to amuse the clamouring masses. There’s shaky footage of Dean brawling outside of a bar in New York, grainy stills of him in a back alley with another man doing who knows what, footage of him being handcuffed and pushed into the backseat of a cop car. The woman lists a series of arrests for DUIs, multiple stints in rehab and rumours of clandestine liaisons with the rich and the famous. Dean Winchester bestselling author, paparazzi darling, complete fucking mess. It would be endearing if Castiel didn’t recognize the symptoms.

Another video shows a few blurry poolside stills from a vacation in Oahu with TV’s darling Dr. Sexy (aka Ollie Kidd). In the first photo, Dean’s rubbing suntan lotion onto Ollie’s shoulders, in the next Ollie has his head pillowed on Dean’s chest. A third photo shows Dean’s hand resting on the back of Ollie’s neck in a small beachside bar. To an unpractised eye, the pair would look deliriously happy. Castiel, however, is a student of hiding and presenting false emotions for the crowd. Even if that’s a crowd of one. A chill sinks into his bones and he swallows down the wave of nausea threatening to crash over him. Dean and Ollie are not “the happy celebrity couple” the media proclaim them to be. The evidence vindicates Castiel when a fourth photo shows them both turned towards the camera, frowning. A statement issued by a spokesperson for Ollie declares that Dean and Ollie are just friends. It’s followed by an outtake of a radio show where Dean says, in perfect, controlled deadpan, “It’s in my rider, man. No talking about my personal life. It’s kinda in the title, right? PERSONAL. Can we please get back to talking about my book?”

Castiel reads an excerpt of a recent interview with Rolling Stone where Dean talks about heartbreak, about hitting rock bottom, about his brother, about being told he should never have woken up from his last accident. “I get a lot of shit for my writing,” the article quotes Dean as saying. “Free will is what life is all about. Making your choices, good and bad, then sticking with them. You know, seeing it through. This series isn’t about Heaven and Hell, angels, demons or the Apocalypse. Not really. It’s about how we can learn and grow, become more human if we take responsibility and don’t hand it all over to some manipulative deity and his feathered lackeys or the dude from the other place. Ultimately, I think the series is about refusing to see ourselves as broken, helpless pawns in some immortal entities’ chess game. Not that I think they’re real or anything.

Castiel is so engrossed in researching Dean that he’s startled when Gabriel bangs on the door. The noise is still too loud for his hangover headache. The volume is how Castiel knows the person at his door is Gabriel. Gabriel always knocks like this to ensure that even if Castiel were still asleep, he’d wake up. Hung-over he may be, but Castiel couldn’t sleep until noon these days. Even at his worst, he somehow crawls out of the covers and finds his way to the coffee machine, growling at it to speed up and brew his caffeine.

Castiel doesn’t want to answer the door. Not that he doesn’t want to see Gabriel. No. Castiel would prefer no interruptions. He’s even turned his cell off. The depths of Winchester’s book are astounding. This first novel has been like the jolt of electricity sparking Frankenstein’s monster to life. All thoughts of writing his own fiction evaporated before the end of the second chapter. Castiel couldn’t hold a candle to Dean Winchester. He won’t admit it out loud, but Castiel wishes now that he’d been less surly with Sam. Another moment when he should have leaned into the revealing pull of his gut instinct. There is more to the Winchester brothers than meets the eye.

“Turn your phone on!” These are the first words out of Gabriel’s mouth when Castiel opens the door. Try as he might, Gabriel can’t pull off angry when he’s mumbling around a kid’s sucker. “I’ve had that hell-spawn of an agent chewing me out about slacking on my chaperone duties. I am, and I quote...a useless, imbecilic, waste of oxygen. All because you won’t answer your phone.”

Castiel is unrepentant until it dawns on him that Meg might want to fill him in on what exactly it was that she signed him up for seeing as she knows he wouldn’t have paid attention when they first spoke about this conference. “She’ll burn herself out and send you a box of your favourite candies as an apology.”

Gabriel smirks as he flops down in the armchair by the window. “And on the card she sends with them, she’ll demand a reservation at one of my busiest restaurants for somebody she wants to bed.”

“That’s Meg for you.” Castiel rubs at his temples. “I’ll call her soon. First, what do you know about Dean Winchester?”

“He wants in your pants, you want in his...but for some inexplicable reason, you’re holding out on him? How am I doing so far?”

“Assbutt!”

Gabriel kicks his feet up on the small table and folds his arms behind his head. “No. I’m an observant brother who wants the best for his younger brother, even when said younger brother refuses to see what’s in front of his face. Which, in this instance, is a smoking hot guy who understands all the angst of being a published author, and...”

“Has a list of issues a mile long and the rap sheet to go with them.”

That gets Gabriel’s attention. He sits up with that smug face that says he thinks he’s put two and two together and comes up with an answer of four. “Another tale of two wild children in one household. How very...Alanis Morrisett!”

“My head hurts too much for riddles!” Castiel didn’t mean to snap at Gabriel. Ok, maybe that’s not the full truth, but he hadn’t meant to sound so harsh.

“You never got to talk to Sam about the tattoos properly, did you?”

“You did?”

Gabriel holds up his hands. “Hold your horses. Samsquatch and I had a brother-to-brother chat this morning, nothing more. He’s a big fan of yours and told me about your little tête à tête at the hotel bar yesterday.”

The pursing of Gabriel’s lips tells Castiel that his brother is aware of how much he’d drunk over the entire day, not just their evening out. He makes a note to expect a moratorium on drinking for the rest of the conference.

“All I’m saying is, maybe give Dean a chance. He might not be what you think he is.”

“I’ll think about it.” Castiel has zero intention of giving Dean a chance. Even though he knows there’s more beneath that cocky exterior than Dean wants people to know, Castiel grasps Dean is on the path to a spectacular crash and burn from which there’s no coming back. He’s not man enough to contemplate putting himself in the firing line. Unlike Gabriel, Castiel falls hard and fast. No strings attached has never been in his vocabulary. That doesn’t mean he will not devour the rest of this book and the other three in Dean’s series the first chance he gets.

~*~*~

Thanks to the miracle of showers, greasy burgers, and a steady stream of coffee, Castiel makes it through the afternoon.

“Clarence,” Meg had said, after he’d plucked up the courage to return her 5 missed calls and 10 missed texts. “I shouldn’t need to point out to you that the Thing (as you so eloquently put it) in the ballroom of the Fairmont Pacific is somewhere you MUST be seen. There’s no getting away from it. Gabriel already has his orders to deliver you on time, decked out in something other than that atrocious cheap suit and trench-coat uniform of yours, and to make sure you talk to the right people. Don’t even think about giving him the slip.”

Castiel had agreed. If only to get Meg off the phone and find a quiet nook away from everyone else to analyze the meanings behind Dean’s words. He regrets not putting up a fight as Gabriel treats him like his very own Ken doll to dress. The task isn’t easy when Castiel travelled so light that all he has with him are the suit Meg hates, a couple of pairs of sweats, worn T-shirts, and underwear. Somehow, with a little help from a sneaky shopping trip before he arrived, Gabriel pulls it off. A charcoal dress shirt, a navy vest over the top, and dark denim jeans, all topped off with a worn-looking black leather jacket.

An hour and a half into the Thing, Castiel is ready to leave. He’s done his duty and spoken to everyone Meg had on her list. Time for one last shot at the free bar before heading back to the hotel.

“You missed one.” Gabriel nudges Castiel in the ribs, gently enough not to spill either of their drinks.

Castiel follows his brother’s line of sight. Dean is at the other end of the bar. “Don’t think so. Not on Meg’s list.” Castiel downs the shot and places the glass back on the bar.

“Go on! I can’t do him for you.”

Castiel wrinkles his nose as he tilts his head to one side.

“No-one’s suggesting a lifelong commitment, Cassie. Talk to the guy, apologize for being a total dick. Just maybe find somewhere classier than the men’s room to get his mouth on your...”

Castiel slaps his hands over his ears and turns back to the bar. He knows his reaction is childish, but why does Gabriel push like this? He knows Castiel doesn’t hop from bed to bed like him. It isn’t in his nature. Castiel casts a sidelong glance at Dean. He’s got his elbow on the bar, propping up his chin, one foot resting on the footrail, eyes staring down at the bar. Dean’s off-duty. No one to dazzle with his smile, or the devilish wink. At that moment, Dean looks like a little boy lost. That annoying tug in Castiel’s gut chooses that same time to reappear.

He signals for another shot of bourbon and heads down the bar, sliding wordlessly into place beside Dean.

One, two, three, four, five heartbeats. An oasis of quiet in the maelstrom of too many literary people in one room vying to be seen. Dean gives him a cursory nod before going back to examining the faint water rings and the grain of the bar’s polished wood.

“I came to apologize. I was an...”

“Obnoxious asshole?”

Castiel takes the verbal hit. Gabriel has made him aware in no uncertain times that he deserves it. “It would appear so.”

“Good. Great. Apology accepted.” Dean’s tone is terse. He pushes off the bar, obviously feeling the conversation is over.

Castiel touches Dean’s arm to stop him from leaving. He doesn’t think about what he’s done until Dean jerks his arm away. “Sorry. I...my...uh...my people skills are rusty.” Castiel searches Dean’s eyes for any sliver of a chance at redemption.

“Clearly.” Dean doesn’t move, but his muscles are tensed, ready to react to any further unwanted advances. It is a wholly different Dean from the flirtatious one or the pensive one Castiel has seen so far.

“I didn’t know...I mean...I knew you were a writer. But what you wrote. I...” Castiel searches for the words to keep Dean from leaving. “There are so many layers. It’s spellbinding. I read what you said about free will in that interview about the latest book...it struck a chord. Now I’m almost at the end of Alternate Hope and I’m hooked.”

Dean visibly relaxes.

Castiel lets out the breath he’d held, waiting to see how Dean reacted. “I am sorry for being rude and offhand, Dean.”

Neither man moves.

“It’s all good, man. No problem, ok.”

Although the words say one thing, Dean’s eyes tell a different story. Castiel catches another glimpse of a wounded young boy.

“How did you write it?” He shakes his head. That came out all wrong. “Sorry. It’s just that not everyone can write as if they have their heart on their sleeve when they’re writing a fictional character. Some authors hit a rich vein of emotion, but with Jaime, they read more like it’s autobiographical, as if you were laying your soul bare to the reader.”

Dean finally turns towards Castiel. “You know all about how that feels, don’t you? Displaying the darkest depths of the human condition for the world to examine and finding only more despair when they inevitably don’t see it for what it is.” Dean rubs at the back of his neck. “Uh, hey sorry...that was kinda deep and it...well, came out different from...”

Castiel smiles at him. “It’s ok. It’s no secret where my greatest success came from.” This Dean is the real Dean behind the mask. Oh, Castiel is certain that the bratty behaviour is in there too. But this man-child, like his books, has many layers. The fluttering in Castiel’s gut turns from an insistent and anxious pull to a softer, rippling sensation.

He sees Dean’s eyes drift elsewhere in the room. He follows Dean’s gaze. It’s Sam, sitting at a table talking to a bunch of people Castiel doesn’t recognize. Sam is engaged in the conversation, his hands flying around to illustrate whatever point he’s trying to make.

“Do you think we could try again? Forget that yesterday ever happened?”

“Drink?” Dean suggests, instead of answering directly, pointing to the array of liquor behind them. “Maybe take ‘em somewhere quieter and act like two professional writers discussing the craft or something like that?”

“Sure.” Castiel reaches for his wallet, knowing that however generous the conference organizers have been for picking up the tab, a whole bottle in one go is beyond their remit.

Dean shakes his head and stops Castiel from pulling out his credit card. “My suggestion. I’m buying.”

~*~*~

The signals got crossed along the way. In a good way. Dean has a bottle of top-shelf scotch in one hand, the other leaning against the elevator wall. They were supposed to be talking. They had agreed to be two authors sharing truths about how to get the “it factor”. The spark that keeps readers coming back to your work while leaving some parts of your soul intact, or as intact as it will ever be, once the trials of life take their toll. But, as if under the influence of some magnetic field, Castiel has gravitated into Dean’s orbit.

“Personal space, Cas!” Dean’s accompanying laugh and lack of movement signal that the intrusion isn’t unwelcome. Castiel chances another half-step forward. This time, Dean moves. Stumbling backwards into the wall; but he’s not afraid of Castiel. No, Dean’s grinning from ear to ear. Castiel arches an eyebrow and receives the tiniest nod. Castiel closes the space between them until he’s flush against Dean. The cocky, self-assured bad boy is nowhere to be seen. Castiel removes the bottle from Dean’s grasp, placing it in the opposite corner of the elevator. When he returns to Dean, Dean hasn’t moved. Castiel curls his hands around Dean’s wrists and raises them above his head. Dean’s breath hitches in his throat.

Castiel leans further in. He noses at Dean’s neck, drinking in the scent. Unable to resist wanting a taste of Dean’s skin, Castiel scrapes his teeth along the contours of Dean’s throat. His breath falters at the tang of sweat and the noises Dean makes in response.

Castiel flicks his eyes to the display, counting floors as the elevator rushes to the twentieth floor. He feels the jolt. The uptick of the numbers slows—10,11,12...The elevator jolts to a stop. Dean strains against him. Castiel needs to grind back, to keep Dean pressed against the wall. If he could, he’d jam the elevator between floors just so he could have Dean here like this in the overly bright, mirrored, CCTV fitted elevator car, for long enough to find relief.

Instead, the doors slide open, and a person dressed in workout gear puts half a foot across the threshold.

Castiel drops Dean’s hands and springs away from him, although there’s no disguising what was going on.

“I’ll...er...maybe...best if I take the next elevator...”

Dean obviously takes that as a green light and leans around Castiel to punch the button to close the doors. He presses it until the doors slide closed and the elevator lurches upwards again.

They share a half-smile, and even though it’s still only them in the elevator, they straighten their clothing, but neither moves away from the other. There’s a whole elevator car, yet two well-built men are squeezing into one corner.

Castiel’s toe taps. It’s taking too long to travel those last seven floors. His hands are itching to slide down Dean’s sides, to cling onto those hips, slide a leg between those bowed thighs and grind against him.

He follows Dean down the hallway into a suite with floor-to-ceiling windows looking out over the bay and across to the North Shore with its city lights and the merest shadow of the mountains behind.

“Crap. Need to let Sammy know he’s gonna have to find somewhere else tonight...” Dean zones in on the only closed door in the suite and bites at the corner of his lip. “Uh, I’ll just be a few.”

Castiel ducks into the bathroom to give Dean space. No need to tell Gabriel; the buzz in his back pocket suggests that his brother has already worked out what’s going on. Castiel won’t bother looking. The text will only be some crude gif or stream of innuendos.

He splashes water on his face and looks for any complimentary toothbrush or mouthwash. His eyes linger on the blister-pack of medication lying next to a glass. It is foil side up, most of the foil torn where the pills have been pushed through. It’s none of his business what Dean’s taking or why. He suspects that they’re no different from the ones he has in his wash bag over at The Auberge. Castiel rinses his mouth out, it’ll be a waste, of course, if they get straight to murdering the scotch, but minty-fresh is better than stale bourbon if they skip that part. Odds are in his favour that they’ll pick up where they left off in the elevator.

Dean is ending the call when Castiel comes back out. “Night, Bitch! See ya in the morning.”

The windows frame Dean. He looks as ethereal as the characters he writes about. The glow of the moon and the twinkling lights across the bay the perfect setting for him. If he wasn’t so masculine in the way he holds himself, Castiel might even say Dean is beautiful.

“So,” Dean says, crossing the space between them and tossing his phone down on the side table behind him. “Any preferences?”

The tension has coiled tight between them again, the space between them crackles with desire.

Castiel licks his lips. He has preferences, but they’re not for tonight. Honestly, he’s out of his depth. This thing with Dean isn’t going anywhere. How can it? The thought occurs to him that for one night he can mimic his brother and his cousin. Take his pleasure, give Dean some pleasure and then walk away as if nothing happened. His stomach drops to his shoes at that idea. It’s...it’s just not him. Never has been.

Dean strokes down the side of Castiel’s face, his fingers lingering on Castiel’s jawline. “Scotch? It’s ok, Cas. Talking is good too.”

Castiel goes to shake his head, then changes his mind and nods. Everything has moved too far too fast—from realizing he’d been a complete assbutt to Dean, to Gabriel’s teasing, to drowning in the intoxicating presence of Dean Winchester as they left the ballroom together, to wanting to take everything Dean will give him.

Dean flops down on the couch and pats the space beside him.

Castiel perches on the edge as far away from Dean as he can get.

“I only bite if you ask me to.”

“I don’t normally do this. This isn’t me. I didn’t think that asking to talk was code for, well, physical things. I didn’t think it through.” Castiel knows he’s rambling.

“Didn’t realize these things needed thinking through?”

“They do, or rather they ought to.”

Dean hands him the open bottle of scotch. “If it feels good...go with it. That’s my motto.” Dean inches closer.

Castiel takes a tiny sip, then passes the bottle back. If he has too much more, he’ll lose the last of his self-restraint.

“It’s ok, few people can resist my charm. I gotta say I thought you would be one of the few, what with that giant stick up your ass. You’re much more fun without it.” Dean has moved closer again. Now they’re hip to hip.

Dean leans forward and puts the bottle down on the table. “If you really don’t want to do anything, we won’t.” Dean nips at the shell of Castiel’s ear, one hand laying heavy on Castiel’s thigh. “Only, I don’t think all you want is to talk, Cas.”

Castiel shivers at the ghosting of Dean’s breath against his neck as Dean talks. Gabriel was right. No one in years has made Castiel think the things he does about Dean Winchester. The question Castiel needs to answer is: can Castiel live with himself knowing that he’s about to become another notch on the Winchester bedpost? If he stops things now, no matter how understanding Dean has been, Castiel doubts Dean will ever give him another chance should their paths cross again.

“You’re thinking too much.” Dean licks a strip up the side of Cas’s neck.

Castiel turns and places his hands on Dean’s shoulders, keeping that wicked mouth away from him. He looks Dean square in the eye, searching for a clue about what to do next. Should he cave, or should he walk now before he finds the path to the ledge again? It’s a rhetorical question; Castiel already knows which part of him he’s going to go along with. He nods at Dean. “Yes, I guess I am.”

Dean shrugs off Cas’s hands and stands up. He cocks one hip to the side and puts a hand on it with a flirtatious toss of his head. He holds the other hand out to Castiel.

Castiel waits a couple of breaths, then takes Dean’s hand and slowly stands up.

Time speeds up after that in a way Castiel can’t describe and soon they are stumbling into the bedroom. Dean’s hands are on Castiel’s hips, backing him towards the bed.

Castiel feels the back of his knees hit the mattress, and, on instinct, he sits as Dean’s hands move to his shoulders. It is like Castiel is watching from somewhere outside his body. They are in a movie, him and Dean, where the camera is panning in for a close-up. Right there, in the centre of the camera’s view, is renowned bad boy author Dean Winchester. Dean—the extroverted other side to Castiel’s introverted self-destructive streak. He’s there, straddling Castiel’s lap, his eyes hooded and dark with lust.

Castiel whimpers as Dean leans in to kiss him, all teeth and whisky flavoured lips. Then, when Dean’s tongue finds his own, wet, insistent and demanding, any sense of control Castiel may have felt vanishes. Castiel’s eyes slip closed, and he kisses back, ignoring the nagging voice at the back of his mind insisting that this is an idiotic idea.

~*~*~

The voice persists even when Dean slips off Castiel’s lap and kneels on the floor between his legs. He shouldn’t let Dean’s hands drift to his zipper. A sober Castiel wouldn’t allow Dean’s hands to free his erection from his underwear or lean in to kitten lick at the leaking tip. Castiel isn’t sober and he’s already decided which voice in his head wins. Naturally, it’s the voice that has been wondering what it would be like to have Dean’s lips wrapped around his cock.

“Open up for me.”

Dean opens wide, tilts his chin up, sticks out his tongue, offering his throat. Castiel pushes in slow, deep, eyes intent on Dean’s as Dean works to relax around him. Dean’s eyelids flutter shut when his nose presses against the coarse curls at the base of Castiel’s cock. Castiel’s hand on the back of Dean’s neck holds him there, gentle but firm, careful but insistent. His thumb brushes softly against Dean’s jaw with the slightest caress.

“Open your eyes.” 

Dean is the one on his knees with his mouth full, and yet the second those eyes open and he can see that there is little green left with the pupils so dilated, Castiel is the one left defenceless.

He thrusts fast, snapping his hips, pushing his cock against the back of Dean’s throat. Dean hums and swallows around Castiel—hungry and like a wet dream come true.

Castiel doesn’t hold Dean in place. He’d never want to force him to keep going, no matter how captivating the sight of him like that is. The most Castiel does is swipe a finger down Dean’s cheek or thumb away the water that threatens to spill over Dean’s lashes. It is Dean who causing his own discomfort. Dean is the one practically choking himself on Castiel’s cock, his lungs seemingly struggling for air and his eyes watering.

Right at the point that the last working part of Castiel’s brain wonders how much longer Dean can hold out, he allows Castiel’s cock to slip from his mouth as he pants for breath.

Castiel lays a hand on Dean’s head and draws him in to rest against his thigh, his fingertips making soothing circles through the short hairs at the nape of Dean’s neck. Castiel waits until Dean’s breathing evens out again before he tips Dean’s head back. Dean obediently opens wide when Castiel pushes two careful fingers past his lips. He holds Dean’s chin between his thumb, ring and little finger as the other two work their way down Dean’s throat. 

Dean doesn’t gag. He swallows around the fingers, sucking with a force that’s determined to take them deeper 

Castiel pulls back. He runs a spit-slick finger around the pink and swollen cupid’s bow. “What do you want from me, Dean?”

“Fuck my face. Come on it. Please.”

Castiel feeds his cock back into Castiel’s throat, giving him a few moments to adjust before he sets a slow, dragging pace with deep strokes. He grabs hold of the short spikes of Dean’s hair, keeping the blissful wet heat around his cock. Dean’s eyes water almost immediately. 

“Keep them open for me.”

It’s a struggle for Dean to keep them open as the water crests over the rim and droplets fall from his eyelashes. Castiel couldn’t look away from Dean’s face if he tried. He’s entrancing like this; his brow furrowed in concentration, his mouth moving as it works in time with Castiel’s thrusts. Dean is stunning in his obedience, his eyes not wavering from Castiel’s.

Castiel’s breath comes in laboured pants. His thrusts are getting increasingly erratic. He can’t stifle the moans, even though he’s biting down hard on his lip. It’s a blur of movement, the two of them working together. He feels the telltale signs washing over him. Reluctantly, he pulls out of Dean’s mouth and jerks himself off.

Dean sticks his tongue out. Greedy and begging for a taste.

Castiel paints bitter stripes across Dean’s mouth and cheek. He drops immediately to his knees, cleaning Dean off with soft licks and open-mouthed kisses. He can’t help but press his mouth against Dean’s, insistent for one more taste. Dean melts into the kiss. 

Castiel swallows down all the delicious sounds Dean makes when Castiel wraps a hand around Dean’s cock and lets Dean rut against him. It’s mere seconds before Dean is coming and slumps bonelessly against Castiel, hiding his face in the crook of Castiel’s neck.

“So good, Dean. So good for me.” Castiel traces the whorls of stubble over Dean’s Adam’s apple.

Dean goes with it until his breathing returns to normal. When it does, it’s like a switch flips and Dean springs to his feet, leaving Castiel to haul himself back up onto the bed self-consciously finding a corner of the bedding to cover himself, not entirely sure when their clothes came off. Dean rummages around in a duffel on the floor in the corner of the room.

“I told you my brother reads your work,” Dean says, almost defensively, as he takes a seat beside Castiel holding a copy of Poised for the Void and a Sharpie. “I was hoping you could sign it. Sammy don’t know I snagged it from his bookshelf.”

Castiel gets it. The connection between the brothers. He’s secure enough to know Dean didn’t invite him up here and let Castiel fuck him just so Castiel would sign Sam’s copy of Poised for the Void. He takes the book from Dean and glances at the faded photo of a younger Castiel trying to convince himself, even if no one else bought it, that he was a poet to be taken seriously. It was the same photograph the publisher had used on his first volume because Castiel refused point blank to have more headshots done for two years after the Event. “I think he’ll forgive you.”

Dean half-shrugs. “I wanted to do something to say thank you. It’s kinda hard when the tables turned, and Sammy demanded that it was his turn to look out for me...because...”

Castiel nods in sympathy as he flicks through the book. Some pages are dogeared. “Under Observation” and “Logically and Hypothetically Mumbling into Space” have notes against them, the writing in a neat blocky hand. One or two of the pages also have coffee stains and cigarette burns.

The corners of Dean’s lips curl upwards, an odd mix of pride and another emotion blooming across his face. “He’s had his shit together for a while. Wife and kid, white picket fence, grown-ass adult job, the whole nine yards. I’ve been living in his guest room for the last few months while I figure my shit out. He’s the one paying for this suite.”

That other emotion, it’s shame. Castiel knows that feeling well, even if in his life it has always been Gabriel looking out for Castiel, never the other way around. “Are you? Figuring your…I mean.”

Dean shrugs, but he doesn’t look away. “Work in progress, I guess. Rock bottom’s a hard place to get back up from.”

Castiel wonders whether some of the coffee stains and the cigarette burns on the well-thumbed pages are Dean’s, but he won’t ask. “What do you want me to write?” he asks instead, taking the lid off the Sharpie.

“Whatever you want.”

It takes Castiel a few moments to know what to write. He scribbles ‘Thank You for giving the world the chance to know the gift of Sam’ and puts the book on the nightstand before Dean can read the message over his shoulder.

“Thanks.” 

There’s a long pause after that. Dean looks around the room. 

The silence is no longer attraction charged; it’s morphed into that awkwardness of two strangers stranded in far too intimate a setting after their lust has abated. Perhaps the restroom stall would have been more appropriate. Castiel becomes self-conscious. He’s still naked and keeping Dean from whatever it is Dean wants to do now he’s got both things he wanted from Castiel He should go. Dean’s probably already given him fifteen cues to leave that he hasn’t picked up on.

“I...I’m...I ought to...” Castiel shuffles over to the other side of the bed, searching the room with his eyes for his clothes.

“What’s the hurry? Sammy ain’t coming back...unless that is you got...” Dean’s eyes cloud over and his jaw tightens. 

Castiel stops. In the dim light of the bedside lamp, he can make out the muscles in Dean’s neck cording with the tension and the blood pumping through his jugular. “No. No. I thought you’d want your space now we’re...” Castiel shrugs.

Dean’s jaw unclenches, and he lets out a slow breath. “I’d rather finish that bottle and see what’s on the pay-per-view movies.” Even in this light, Castiel catches the pink tinge that creeps up to the tips of Dean’s ears as he adds. “And I wanna do that cuddled up to you if you’ll let me.”

Castiel swallows. If he stays, he’s in danger. Not physically but emotionally and he can’t let himself think about getting attached to Dean. Dean wouldn’t want it, nor would Castiel be a good person for Dean to want if he’s trying to get his life back on the right path. Castiel is the road to nowhere. Apparently, his mouth and body have a different view of things from his brain. “I’d like that,” he says as situates himself against the headboard and pulls the covers up to his chest.

An Indiana Jones movie—they all look alike to Castiel—is playing while they sit side by side, Dean’s head resting on Castiel’s shoulder. For most of the movie, the bottle of scotch sits forgotten on the nightstand by Dean.

“Another? Guess I shouldn’t but seeing as it’s right here and all.” Dean offers the bottle to Castiel.

It was meant to be a throwaway comment. However, Castiel senses an opening. Only a crack to the door on himself that Dean keeps bolted shut, but it is there. It was earlier when Dean asked him to sign the book for Sam. Castiel let it go then; he can’t now. “You said you’re staying with Sam to sort your life out. How? Call me a hypocrite for asking, but if that’s the case why are we sharing a bottle of scotch?”

Dean reaches over for the bottle. Castiel takes a sip before handing it back without thinking about what he’s doing. “I’m not an alcoholic or anything, not really.”

Castiel tilts his head, fascinated with the similarities of their dysfunction. He’s not an alcoholic either. If you can function with or without taking a drink and you don’t get withdrawal when you don’t drink for a few days, it’s not an addiction. That’s bullshit, of course, and he knows it. Gabriel shouldn’t let him drink, but it’s the game they like to play. If having a few drinks stops other things from happening, Gabriel will play along with the charade until Castiel is ready to stop the pretense of being ‘fine’.

“It’s not the way the media portray things...”

“I get it, Dean. It’s a coping mechanism. We all have them.” Who is he to judge another man’s methods of staying just this side of alive?

“They got it wrong most of the time. It wasn’t about drying out. Just cause that place in Thousand Oaks is famous for rehab, it’s not all they do.”

“Dean,” Castiel takes the bottle from Dean’s hand. “You don’t need to tell me anything...unless you’d like to.”

Dean snatches the bottle back and cradles it to his chest. “When I go back...I’m gonna start going to meetings. Get the anger and the...other things...that get me drinking...get them sorted, hopefully for good. I’ve promised Sammy,” Dean says in a small voice that hardly sounds right coming from as large a man as Dean. He pulls the top off the bottle and pours a generous amount of scotch straight down his throat. “Once this baby is done, that’s it—until I get my shit under control.” Dean swings the bottle around.

Castiel catches hold of it. He takes his own slug of the amber liquid, then reaching around the side of the nightstand puts the bottle on the floor. Out of sight, out of mind. He is out of his own damn mind with the plan he has for making Dean forget about the rest of the bottle. It is high up the list of monumentally bad ideas of things to do at writer’s conferences...to do with other professional writers...hell to do with another human being, and it’s so out of character for Castiel. Irrespective of how stupid it might be to go back for more, he’s already committed to staying, so why not?

Castiel leans across. He slides a hand around the back of Dean’s neck.

Dean doesn’t shake him off.

Castiel mouths at Dean’s earlobe, drags his teeth along the line of Dean’s jaw, then ghosts his breath over Dean’s throat until he reaches the hollow at the bottom. He licks the sweat pooling there while his hand trails up and down Dean’s chest.

“Round two, huh?” Dean’s voice is already cracking.

“Uh-huh,” Castiel says shifting so that he’s straddling Dean’s lap. He leans closer into Dean, joining their hands and kissing him breathless as his hands explore Dean’s skin.

Dean returns the favour, skimming his hands over Castiel’s taut stomach.

Castiel grabs Dean hips gently guiding him down the bed, until Dean’s flat on his back, with Cas’s legs still either side of his hips.

Castiel doesn’t waste any time leaning in to lave his tongue over a nipple, teasing it to hardness before pinching it roughly between his teeth.

Castiel glances up to catch the look on Dean’s face, all heavy-lidded eyes and parted, spit slick lips. It sets his mouth watering. He needs to taste more. So, he turns his attentions to the other nipple until it’s hard and red and Dean’s squirming.

Then, Castiel sinks lower, his lips making a trail of kisses down Dean’s torso towards his leaking cock.

He holds tight to one hip, his tongue circling the tip, while the other hand drops lower, fondling Dean’s balls and stroking over his perineum. The little moan he gets in return tells him he’s doing the right thing.

It’s been a while since he last delivered a blow job. Castiel hadn’t even paused to think about whether it’s like riding a bike. He assumes it is. It’s not as if you forget all the little tricks that make another person fall apart under your touch. The more pressing question is, will the muscle memory kick in?

Dean brings a hand up to cradle the back of Castiel’s head and guide his mouth exactly where he wants it.

Castiel lets him. He almost preens when Dean’s fingers card through his hair, stopping every other pass to tug on the messy dark strands enough to make Castiel catch his breath and moan shamelessly around Dean’s cock.

He relaxes his throat, revelling in the way that Dean’s cock fills his mouth, all hot and heavy. Castiel hollows his cheeks as he sucks, licks and swallows until his eyes water. He delights at the little twitches and slew of curses he elicits from Dean. He’d keep going but doesn’t want Dean to come in his mouth—not tonight. So, Castiel pulls off with an obscene pop and grins up at Dean, while his hands still fondle Dean’s balls.

“Lube? Condoms?” Castiel hopes Dean’s prepared. Of course, he is! The man’s reputation demands that he’s always ready for a quick fuck. Castiel isn’t disappointed when Dean pants, “Bathroom. Wash bag.”

Castiel retrieves them as fast as possible, smearing lube on his fingers before crawling up the bed to settle between Dean’s legs again. “You, or me?” he says waggling lube-slicked fingers at Dean. Castiel will gladly give Dean a show and open himself up if that’s how Dean wants to play things, even if his preference would be to top Dean.

“Want you in me.”

It’s all the encouragement Castiel needs. He slides a slick finger between Dean’s cheeks and circles his rim, teasing Dean while his tongue runs similar circles around Dean’s cock.

Beneath him, Dean whimpers breathlessly, knuckles white where he’s gripping the sheets. His face a picture of ecstasy as Castiel’s fingers pump in and out stretching him.

When Dean is more than open enough, Castiel sits back on his haunches and rolls the condom on, giving his cock a couple of strokes as he gazes at Dean laid out before him, far more tempting than anything Castiel’s ever used to dull his pain. He wants to lock this sight away in his memory—not for use on those rare occasions he needs relief, but because Dean makes him feel something other than numb.

“Ready?”

In reply, Dean bites his lip as he rocks his hips up.

Castiel pushes Dean’s thighs up. He spends a couple of seconds teasing the head of his cock against Dean’s rim until Dean wiggles impatient and demanding. Castiel pushes past Dean’s rim, sliding into place in one smooth thrust and groans at the mind-blowing sensation. He keeps his hips still for a heartbeat, telling himself he’s being a gentleman and allowing Dean time to adjust to being full. The truth is closer to Castiel is overwhelmed from not having been inside someone for so long and needs those seconds to compose himself.

“You gonna stay there all night, or are you gonna fuck me? Move, Cas, please!”

Castiel hooks one of Dean’s legs over his shoulder and does just what Dean asked for. He fucks him into the mattress. Castiel’s forgotten how glorious and alive being with another warm, sweat-covered body makes him feel. Castiel’s brain feels like it’s going to explode.

“Fuck! Cas! Ugh!”

Castiel changes the angle of his thrust, aiming to hit Dean’s prostate. Oh, he noises he gets when he finds his target.

The squelch of lube, condom, and sweaty bodies competes with the filthy sounds neither can hold back. He slows down, determined to draw out every single sound he can from Dean’s sinful mouth. But there’s only so much of this tauntingly drawn-out pace that either of them can bear and he stops the torment, snapping his hip to a faster rhythm.

Watching Dean with his fucked-out expression, snake a hand around his own cock, swiping the pre-come off the tip and jack himself off is unbelievably hot. The excitement only intensifies when Castiel hears Dean’s aborted half-moans of pleasure. 

“Oh my God, Dean. Yes. Fuck. Yes.” It doesn’t sound like his own voice. Castiel’s low pitch is now throatier, almost a growl.

The rumbling from Castiel’s chest seems to spur Dean on and soon Dean’s coming in thick, white spurts across his chest. 

Castiel slows his pace again, fucking Dean through his orgasm, then pulls out and thrusts through his fist until he too trips over the edge, his hips shuddering with the intensity of the aftershocks.

This time, when Dean gets up, he brings back two damp washcloths and a towel to clean them up. The bottle of scotch lies forgotten by the nightstand as Castiel had intended.

~*~*~

Castiel wakes up early, still plastered to Dean’s side with Dean’s head buried in his shoulder and arm slung protectively around Castiel’s waist.

He feels warm and relaxed, and he doesn’t want to get up, but he needs to pee, drink water, and get rid of the last of the scotch. Castiel extracts himself from Dean’s grip, watching as Dean snuffles and wriggles around to get comfortable again without his Castiel-shaped pillow. 

When he gets back from the bathroom, the empty bottle of scotch is stowed in the bottom of a trash can, Castiel takes a moment to sit by Dean on the bed and look at him. Appreciate him.

His face is soft and relaxed, lips parted and breathing gently. The early morning half-light streaming in through the window reveals the freckles dotted across his nose and cheeks. If he had the time, Castiel would play join the dots with them, counting every single one. He smiles, noticing the red marks littered across Dean’s torso that Castiel made last night.

Dean is an angel, radiant and innocent-looking, the sheets splayed out around him like a full-body halo. Even like this, asleep on his side, Dean Winchester looks stunning. The thought flits across Castiel’s mind how anyone could think of this man as nothing more than a vacuous playboy and addict. With the dense protective layers stripped away, the man is a glorious, shining soul. Castiel suspects that if he found out the truth of what happened to the Winchester brother’s growing up, he’d find a truckload of damage. He knows what that’s like. Castiel and Gabriel have played cover-up too, in their own way, and neither money nor success fill the hollowness traumas leave behind. Dean deserves to have peace and genuine joy in his life. Castiel knows how much effort it takes to work through the tricks you use to cover up the pain. He understands that to grow and find what measure of peace you can, you need people around you to support you. Dean says he’s ready. Castiel hopes he is and, despite every sane voice saying it’s too soon to feel this way, Castiel would like to be there for Dean—if Dean will allow him.

Castiel draws closer, pressing a kiss under his ear. Dean doesn’t stir, breathing still quiet and even. Castiel should go. He should have showered and dressed straight away. But he didn’t have it in him to hit and run. Castiel suspects Dean has been on both sides of one too many of those encounters and Castiel would be lying to himself if he tries to claim he doesn’t want to climb back into bed and wrap himself around Dean again. So, that’s what he does.

He wakes again sometime later to Dean shifting next to him, stretching, and then, as if scalded by the heat of a boiling kettle, recoiling to the other side of the bed.

“I don’t do relationships. Not the adult kind. More of a hook-up or friends with benefits kind of guy.”

The statement comes out of nowhere. Although it isn’t as if Dean’s statement is a shock to Castiel. He’d figured as much from the footage he’d found on the internet. He raises an eyebrow as he pulls himself up onto one elbow. “Relationship?”

“Yeah. This...uh...you know. All this sleeping on top of one another, waking up together in the morning.”

“It was you who insisted I stay and who was clinging to me like a spider monkey. Seeking human contact doesn’t automatically mean it’s a relationship, or that a relationship is desired.” Castiel can hear Charlie in his words. He can also imagine the wagging finger at the false implication that he isn’t seeking a relationship.

“Yeah, well,” Dean says dismissively. “It’s not like I need any of this chick-flick, rom-com relationship crap.”

“I agree. What you need, Dean is someone to want to support you, to be with you, for who you are. A person who wants to get to know the real you underneath that front you put up to keep the world at bay.”

“Right, Dr. Phil.”

Castiel shrugs. What does it matter if Dean brushes him off? He’s already worked out that the odds are high that their demons would play too well together for any relationship to be healthy. Doesn’t stop him from wanting to try. “You were there for Sam, weren’t you?”

“He’s family. You do that shit for them without thinking.”

Castiel wishes he could quote the exact words from the book, but he’s only read it once and grabbing his phone to find it now would make it lose its impact. “Didn’t an NYT best-selling author once have one of their main characters declare that family can be found; that it’s not all about blood relationships?”

Dean purses his lips and his eyes narrow. “Low blow, Cas. I call foul.”

“Find your family, Dean. Let them help you through this time.” Castiel sucks in a deep breath. There is a way that they could be together. If they both work on their demons, if they commit to getting to know each other and to growing as people. Charlie has always said he could do with finding friends outside his brother and his cousin. Meg doesn’t count. “I’d be willing to give you my number...not as a fuckbuddy, because that’s not who I am and we live on opposite sides of the country, but as a friend. You know, maybe try to get to know the actual people behind all that awful author blurb? We could both do with a friend, at the least...” 

As if on cue, Castiel’s phone rings—Gabriel. He doesn’t answer, but he does notice the time. He’s on one of those panels Meg signed him up for in less than two hours. He needs to get back, shower, change, drink several cups of coffee, and get his head on straight again enough to work out what they might ask him at the panel.

“I’ve got to go. ‘Poetry, Accessibility and the Media’ panel at 11. I...meant what I said...about maybe us becoming friends.”

Dean unlocks his phone. “I...think I’d like that.” Dean tosses his phone across to Castiel. In another head-spinning non sequitur he says, “Tired Spirit was probably the best book of poetry you ever wrote. Don’t get me wrong, the stuff in Poised was deep and raw, but there was a different quality about Tired. ‘Roots of Poison’ and ‘Indifference’ showed maturity doesn’t always equal peace...uh...I guess you know that, right? Seeing as how you wrote it.” Dean rubs a hand across the back of his neck. “I kinda think it’d be good...what you said about getting to know one another...as friends, I mean. We should do dinner before we leave. The four of us—me and Sam, you and your brother. I’ll text you.”

“We should.” Castiel puts his details into Dean’s phone before hurriedly getting dressed.

When he is, Dean walks Castiel to the door of the suite.

The instant he’s over the threshold and into the harsh reality of the hotel corridor, Castiel turns around and presses his lips to the side of Dean’s cheek. “Goodbye, Dean.”

The million-dollar smile and the soft crinkling at the corner of Dean’s eyes as he traces the feeling of Castiel’s lips on his cheek tell Castiel everything he needs to get through the day.

As he walks through the cool morning air of downtown Vancouver back to his hotel, Castiel is not wondering how to convince Gabriel that Castiel should accompany him on his future West Coast trips. No, not one bit.